It's been an average year.

It seems like every time I walk outside, that hint of cool air gets stronger and stronger. In just a few days, summer will be over and autumn will begin. This means nicer weather, the beginning of preparations for the year’s biggest holidays, and, of course, good movies. I typically refer to the last few months of the year as the second half as far as movies go, because studios typically save their best films for the fall and early winter, in the hope of being remembered come award season. Whether or not you care about all the silly lists and ceremonies that fill up the first few months of the year, the simple truth is that it’s more fun going to the movies every week when most of the movies are actually worth seeing.

 Therefore, at the end of every year, film critics are so busy praising all the new stuff that they forget about most of the first nine months. This year has not been deprived of memorable movie experiences. In fact, it’s been a fairly decent year, considering that I’ve only truly hated five of the forty-six movies I’ve seen. There were also only six I truly loved. That leaves thirty-five that were in-between, which isn’t really a bad thing, but if a movie is simply average, that means it is unfulfilling in one way or another. I think I was in the same boat as most film-goers when I didn’t feel very strongly either way about most things I saw.

The Hunger Games had very little to offer those who weren’t already members of the book’s enormous cult. Brave was a charming, but rather dry new attempt from Pixar that was almost overshadowed by the dark joviality of ParaNorman. Other animated movies fared far worse, with high-grossing clunkers like Madagascar 3 and Ice Age 17. Oliver Stone’s Savages was strangely captivating for falling so flat. Action adventures like Premium Rush and Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter were simultaneously engrossing and empty. Die-hard action fans got the maddeningly pointless Bourne Legacy and the frustratingly sincere Raid: Redemption. Comedy fans got equally pointless, varyingly amusing pictures like 21 Jump Street, Ted, and The Dictator. Horror fans ate up The Cabin in the Woods, an interesting idea that wound up not knowing what to do with itself, while ignoring the scary and atmospheric Woman in Black. Even serious movies like The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and Hope Springs turned up empty-handed.

“Good golly, Beaux!” you may well think. “Was there anything you did think was worth bothering with? Tell me, please!” If you were to ask almost anybody else, their answer would be alarmingly bad. As of right this minute, the imdb top 250 holds three of this year’s movies. Two of them are The Dark Knight Rises at number 28 and The Avengers at 100. Everyone I know loved both of these movies and would heartily agree that they rank among the best ever. I am all for people having their own opinions and don’t even have a problem with them enjoying movies I don’t, but these people could not be more wrong. The Dark Knight Rises is not one of the best movies of the year, much less of all time. I’ll concede that it is a decent enough picture, but it’s popularity is incredible considering what a failure it is. It is successful in its familiarity with Nolan’s first films, but packs none of the same punch. The fans of the deserving originals are so passionate, they can’t stop and think about how tiresome the movie really is. I expect it will go the way of Spider-Man 2: critical blockbuster today, unexplainably hated tomorrow. (I agree with most people that The Amazing Spider-Man was a good movie, but I also have nothing against Sam Raimi’s trilogy.)

Even though I didn’t like The Dark Knight Rises, I left it with the same “blah” feeling I had towards the other movies listed above. I didn’t hate it like I did The Avengers, which I must confess made me quite angry. I was so annoyed with it and its rabid fans, that I wrote a ranting post about it in addition to my extremely negative review. That is one of the most unpopular things I’ve ever done, since I have yet to find anyone, in person or on the internet, who thought it was a remotely bad movie. This unanimous blindness isn’t making me as angry as it did a few months ago, but I beg the Avengers fans to let it go. I’ll stop saying bad things about it if you’ll stop shouting its non-existent qualities at me. Thank you.

The movies I really did like included Ridley Scott’s magnificent return to outer space with Prometheus and Steven Soderbergh’s surprisingly grounded action movie Haywire. My other favorites were a bit more controversial. I loved the little dramatic comedy Bernie, featuring an incredible performance from Jack Black, which somehow escaped mainstream attention. Lawless was an enjoyable tale of hillbilly vengeance, which seems to have rubbed most viewers the wrong way with its historically correct cruelty. The most shocking thing I wrote all year was a nine star review of Dax Shephard’s good-hearted comedy Hit and Run (Of all the nerve!). This was a wonderful movie that was widely hated, mostly because viewers expected an actual action movie, despite the advertisements clearly indicating its ridiculousness. Those people just need to see Expendables 2, which, by the way, is no less silly.

The best movie moment of the first half of 2012 was when Wes Anderson blessed us with his latest masterpiece, Moonrise Kingdom. I thought so much of this movie that I called it the best of the year back in July. Right now, it still is, and I doubt it will be topped as my favorite. I could, and very well may, write an entire book about its seemingly endless charms. I saw it a total of four times in theaters, a personal record, and will certainly watch it again before the year is out. It is such a miraculous thing that it remains fresh, inspired, and very funny even after so many viewings. I will not be surprised if it eventually holds out as one of my all-time favorites. My guess is it will. This probably would have been a generally unmemorable year if not for Mr. Anderson. However, there are still plenty of other things to look forward to in the coming months.

My past reviews can be found here.

Shoot an owl. Go to jail.

I work with some weird people. On Friday, one of my co-workers was in a particularly odd mood. She spent a lengthy bit of time discussing the various pros and cons of different styles of execution and how much she would prefer the gas chamber to the electric chair (Wouldn't we all?). She also relayed her desire to be a bonafide witch, although she seems more interested in just plain having mind control than having to learn a bunch of fancy-pants spells.

Apparently, if she woke up with magic powers, she would continue living her life as she always has, but with the added benefit of forcing people to do embarassing things. Making people trip on nothing and fall on their faces is one example of the tortures this woman would enact. Others include having them say things like, "I eat poop," at inopportune moments and eating their own boogers. My office partner's imagination obviously knows no limits. And she's only a decade older than me!

I am not being serious. If I was handed unlimited supernatural abilities, I would pull money out of thin air, go back in time, make myself invisible, or teleport. I would not spend all day using them to trip people in the halls. That's what string is for. Moreover, I don't see much use in keeping it a big secret. Yes, logically, if I awoke one day with superpowers, someone else also probably got similar ones that they will now be determined to use for evil. At that point, the evil magic person would most likely get busy committing acts of mass terrorism, while I busy myself visiting Groucho Marx. My indifference to the sinister goings-on and the fact that I'd, like, never be around should keep me pretty safe.

This brings up many ethical questions. Would it be wrong of me to ignore the pain of my fellow era while I enjoy myself seeing the great sights of history? One of the most popular time travel scenarios is going back and shooting Hitler. Well, if I did that, what kind of lesson would I be teaching the kids? No, it is my belief that history should be left unscathed by my whims. If I could travel through time, I would do so with the utmost respect for the true outcome of events. If I could pull money out of thin air, I'd give at least thirty percent to charity. If I could teleport, I would still recommend airplane travel to my friends. Statistically speaking, it's still the safest way.

All of this talk is pure buffoonery, and I know it. Sometimes, though, asking these questions is a way to test our own strength of character. What would you do with a million dollars? If you answer pay off all my credit card debts, you're a selfish person. If you had only one wish, what would it be? If you answer a million wishes, you're a cliched person. Which animal would you most like to be? If you answer owl, you're an awesome person. Nobody hunts owls for sport. There's something to think about.

I'm not dead. I'm just resting.

Obnoxiously enough, I started a blog to write about stuff and then failed to do so with any regularity. I was called out on this yesterday, and told that I was an enormous failure. In this case, not just to myself, but to my readers as well. As it stands, I have let down no less than twenty people by my internet absence. What a depressing thought. And it's not for lack of things to say.

I could have written about my fool-headed puppy who bit off a chunk of my face. I could have commented on my disgruntled annoyance with the fans of Christopher Nolan. I could have expressed my overwhelming gratitude to Wes Anderson for making his film Moonrise Kingdom, which I have seen four times now and could gladly see it again. I could have perused the latest top ten movie selections made by the British Film Institute's Sight and Sound critic and director's poll, something that is only done every ten years. In fact, I have more to say about movies than anything else, because they are one of my two primary releases. The other is writing.

Truly, I feel that my gift in life is being able to combine words into comprehensible sentences and place those sentences into a logical pattern that becomes a complete thought. I can spell good too. I also genuinely enjoy writing about whatever may be interesting at the time of the writing, but typically only during the actual writing itself. Does that make sense? During and after a typing session, I enjoy what I'm doing, but before I ever write anything I don't want to. That's why it takes me so long between posts. I practically have to force myself to do it.

I suppose laziness is the only real excuse for that. There are few things I can do easier than what I'm doing right this minute, and it's hardly time-consuming. It just seems before-hand like something I don't feel like dealing with, which is a monstrous falsehood. I have therefore made a resolution to myself. I will write on this blog two or three times a week, and not let this instrument fall silent. It doesn't matter what I say, so long as I say it. I know I'm not one for chit-chat in day-to-day situations, but none of that applies here in the digital world. Besides, if I was mauled by a bulldozer tomorrow, nobody would have any idea how I feel about all those movies I haven't talked about yet or about, you know, politics and stuff.

Also worth mentioning, my series covering the ten classic movies being shown at the Saenger theater this summer will be interrupted by my skipping the 1951 Show Boat, because it just isn't that good. There's another one down.

Sincerely and with best wishes for your health and acheivement of aspirations,

Mr. B. Travis T.

It's the stuff that dreams are made of.

The Saenger Theater in downtown Pensacola has a series going on right now where they are showing a total of ten classic movies through the summer. If you haven't been, I suggest you pick at least one of the remaining films to attend (Show Boat, Citizen Kane, My Fair Lady, Fiddler on the Roof, The Music Man, Casablanca, and The Wizard of Oz). Each showing is Saturday at 7, with tickets costing $5. The experience of seeing these classic movies in a theater with an audience is really something. During the first movie, On the Town, which I admittedly don't like, the theater was packed with what I call a "reaction audience." They let out enormous reactions at every little thing. Somehow, they're enjoyment of the movie made me like it a bit more than I ever have, but also made me realize how much the same audience would have enjoyed something much better, like Singin' in the Rain.

Last week, they showed The Maltese Falcon, one of the great masterpieces of American film. I mean, it created an entire genre, for heaven's sake. It is generally considered the first of the movies that can be referred to as film noir, and once again judging by the audience's enthusiastic response, it still packs a punch. The movie stars Humphrey Bogart as a private detective whose partner is mysteriously killed. He finds himself involved with an assortment of criminals who are looking for a statue of a falcon said to be worth an awful lot of money. The movie co-stars Mary Astor, Sydney Greenstreet, and Peter Lorre, and they are all together a very eclectic bunch. This is one of the movies that I really have seen a countless number of times, but which never loses its effect, and which also reveals new things with each viewing. For example, I noticed more visual allusions to prison besides the stripes on Astor's nightgown and that famous shot in the elevator. I also was aware that the Lorre character was gay, but watch his first scene and the positioning of that cane with the long handle.

Above all else, seeing the film in a theater opened my eyes to how amusing it is. For some reason, I have never thought of The Maltese Falcon as being funny, but a lot of people, possibly seeing it for the first time, were struck with giggles at various points throughout. I actually appreciate the movie even more now because it has proven to be a more rounded entertainment than ever. The exact same thing went for 42nd Street, which was shown yesterday evening, and which inspired loud laughter from all through the audience. I had never thought of it that way. However, everyone seemed to be in unanimous awe of the film's musical climax, which remains an impressive acheivement eighty years later. The movie itself is not a musical, but a sometimes dramatic, sometimes humurous, documentation of the production of a musical play being put on by a director played by Warner Baxter who knows he won't be around long enough to make another. Ruby Keeler also stars in her first feature as the plucky, if a little weak-headed, youngster who becomes a star.

The first two-thirds of the movie are light and entertaining, but that finale is sensational. The extended musical number that closes the film was directed by Busby Berkeley, who also lent his hand to other popular musicals like Footlight Parade and Gold Diggers of 1933, which contained a number where the girls wear aluminum bathing suits and the guys are equipped with can-openers. Similarly, 42nd Street has more legs than you can shake a stick at (Remember that it was 1933 and the strict production code hadn't been introduced.), causing one woman-chasing financier to remark, "After three weeks of this, a leg means nothing to me but something to stand on." The most famous shot of the film is when the camera pans through a line of girls with spread legs, which, along with the spinning circles of limbs forming geometric shapes, made Berkeley legendary. These scenes were also incredible for how mobile the camera was, since in previous years, the introduction of sound forced the camera to sit stable behind a glass wall, whereas it could now move freely through the action.

In short, movies were meant to be seen on the big screen and, in some ways, seeing movies with an audience can increase the enjoyment and understanding of the film. Next week, the Saenger is showing the 1951 version of Show Boat for some reason, but I would most recommend Citizen Kane, My Fair Lady, or Casablanca, if you haven't been and want to try it.

"New York, New York;" it's a terrible song.

Just for the record, the Saenger Theater in Downtown Pensacola is showing a series of ten classic movies, one a week, for ten weeks starting July 14. Each movie will be shown on Saturday at 7, and the movies are On the Town, The Maltese Falcon, 42nd Street, Show Boat, Citizen Kane, My Fair Lady, Fiddler on the Roof, The Music Man, Casablanca, and The Wizard of Oz. Tickets are $5 each, or $40 for ten. The selections were apparantly made based on public opinion polls at some point, which probably explains why seven of the ten movies are musicals. Why the first was On the Town was a bit of a mystery to me, until I saw it in a packed theater of all kinds of people who loved it, from families to couples. Everybody wildly enjoyed it, and the experience, a few technical difficulties aside, was wonderful. It will probably be amplified by some of those better movies they'll be showing later on, because the great setting didn't make this movie any better.

On the Town was directed by Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen a couple years before they made Singin' in the Rain and, though it may be a bit unfair to compare the two, it is far inferior to its successor. I suppose I could understand someone loving the movie if it was one of the first classic musicals they had seen and didn't know any better, but I can't see it as anything but a lame stepping stone on a path to actual greatness. The whole movie is the very definition of corny, with the songs being largely bland and forgettable, the staging of the songs being very awkward, and everything in-between the songs being a bunch of stupid jokes that go nowhere. The whole point of the movie is that three sailors, Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra, and Jules Munshin, have one day of shore leave in New York City, and they pretty much just want some G-rated musical sex. One of the biggest reasons for the film's popularity must be all the innuendo, with songs like "Prehistoric Man" and "Come Up to My Place," having surprisingly racy lyrics for 1949, though it's all very tame now.

The sailors inevitably each end up with a woman, Ann Miller, Betty Garrett, and Vera Ellen. Miller is probably the highlight of the whole movie, with a significantly more vibrant personality than anyone else present, or maybe it's just that outfit she probably specifically picked out just in case she ended up tap-dancing. Garrett and Miller fail to make an impression as likeable or even appealing characters and you wonder why the sailors go so crazy for them until you realize that they're just as uninteresting. Each character has one thing they do: Kelly desperately searches for Ellen, Ellen pretends to be high-class (but that's just a lie), Sinatra tries to see all the sights he can, Garrett frantically tries to show Sinatra the sights in her apartment, Munshin jumps around like a mental patient on a bad sitcom, and Miller smiles and looks pretty and probably wishes she had gotten into a better movie.

Yes, my dislike of this film is almost entirely based on the fact that it's not as good as others, but why settle? The most inspired moment in this movie is also the most unnecessary, a ballet recap of the entire thing, not un like the climax of An American in Paris, which is a million times better. I've seen On the Town twice and neither time did I enjoy it or feel that it was a notable acheivement in any way. I guess the one thing it does have going for it is some sort of longevity, which would explain the hundreds of satisfied customers at the Saenger last night. Oh well, next week is The Maltese Falcon, and that is well worth going out of your way to see.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Film fans like to debate what the greatest film of all time is. I don't really see the point in tying down just one movie and saying it's the greatest ever. In most cases where people offer the typical selections, like Citizen Kane, The Godfather, or Casablanca, I just sit back and agree. It's easy to praise great movies like those. Sometimes, though, greatness seems too easy. Where's the point in being a film critic if you do nothing but agree with everyone else? Now, I'd be the last person to say we shouldn't praise great movies and criticize bad ones, but there are times when the line is hard to draw. I believe that great movies can't be judged alone, but there are also bad movies that become great through necessity. So, if I say that Pink Flamingos is the greatest film of all time, who's to say I'm wrong?

I've only seen John Waters' infamous underground comedy, that he himself deemed "an exercise in bad taste" once, and I'm not likely to revisist it anytime soon. It is probably the most revolting thing I've ever laid eyes on. The plot was concocted to make room for all manner of disgusting activity, from bestiality to cannibalism to incest. It all is part of the main character's desperate attempts to earn her title of "filthiest person alive," and ultimately leads to the infamously vile climax, in which cross-dressing star Divine actually eats a handful of turd fresh out of a puppy's bottom. Some theaters provided barf bags for this scene, and it's not even the most sickening thing that happens.

The movie was made as cheaply as possible, which results in some laughably atrocious visuals that somehow manage to enhance the seediness of the content. The acting is beyond egregious, with all of the stars being close friends of John Waters, who wrote the script while seriously stoned, but insists he was sober while directing. That didn't stop the accidental on-screen murder of a chicken, which is a moment far less ridiculed then I would have thought. It seems like everything that touched the movie turned into filth, but as Divine screeches at one point, "Filth is my politics! Filth is my life!"

One good thing I can say about the screenplay is that it's strangely endearing. (I was unaware that "Babs Johnson" is an All-American name.) For every revolting moment, there is an equally charming one, usually from poor Edith Massey. She is one of the most hideous women I've ever seen and is constantly asked to wear revealing clothing and spout lines about her character's obssession with eggs. Did I mention Pink Flamingos is gross?

It's also an essential part of the fabric of cinema. It is a great movie because Waters knew that somebody had to go farther than anyone else dared, and he had just the nerve to do it. How could we know the limits of good quality if the outreaches of bad taste hadn't been breached? For the movies to survive, it is a requirement that there be as many bad movies as good, which allows plenty a bad movie to access the greatness their existence requires. So, for every Citizen Kane, there is also a Pink Flamingos, and they both have equal claim as the greatest movie ever made.

Never go canoeing in the near vicinity of hillbillies.

What makes a movie a classic? Some seem to believe that the definition applies to every movie they saw in their college years, as in, "Dude, Last Action Hero is classic!" Some would argue that it applies to every movie made before the 70s, as in, "Don't say anything against Cat Ballou, it's a classic!" I say the term can be applied to any movie new or old that is truly great in every way, as in, "Moonrise Kingdom is a modern classic. Go watch it now."

A lot of people really do subscribe to this last version of the definition, which by all accounts is the correct one, but sometimes a movie that doesn't deserve the title somehow slips through the cracks and gets it anyway. I sat through Deliverance for the second time in my life last night and again wondered to myself, "How in the world did this movie ever become a classic?" No, for the most part, I don't like it. It tries to be thrilling and important, but it's just slow to a fault. It also is much less important than it thinks it is, as better movies had been featuring similarly shocking content for a few years prior.

Despite all that, I can't call it a bad movie, criticize it at any length, or even think of it without respect. If someone mentions Deliverance to me, we don't discuss it, I just nod in solemn understanding. The movie is a nightmare to get through. I can't imagine how awkward it must be to watch it with anyone. It is bewildering and frustrating and an emotionally scarring experience. You can't watch it and not think about it. In many cases, I suspect people watch it and wish they hadn't. If you joke about it, you're a heartless creep. A friend of mine once said she accidentally saw it for the first time as a pre-teen. That's more disturbing than anything in the movie.

It is incredible to realize how enormous the movie really is. If you just google the word deliverance, every result except for the definition is about the movie. It seems like everyone has seen it or knows what it is about. It's like some sort of American tradition. I know people who have seen Deliverance who have never heard of Casablanca. I guess I won't spoil it for those who haven't watched it, but the impact of the film stems entirely from that scene about halfway through. Yes, the scene in which a main character is requested to squeal like a pig. Before the movie was released in 1972, everyone pretty much knew what would happen from all the controversy surrounding the book on which it was based. The movie probably couldn't have been a success without it. People like to be horrified.

That's what it all boils down to. The scene is handled with a disturbing silence, a realistic discomfort that makes everyone squirm because there isn't anything fake about it. The scene hangs over the rest of the movie like a guilty conscience, and everyone runs out of the screening to tell their friends how positively shocking the movie they just saw was. It still works today. There are certain things that can never be watered down.

So, the one scene is so effective and the second half and ending so manipulative that the movie has become history. The fact that it is boring and dated doesn't factor into it. The fact that it isn't remotely fun to watch is technically the whole point. The movie wants you to soak it in and ponder questions of morality and so on and suchlike. It is a classic movie that skips over the stage of actually being a good movie. It simply did too much damage, leaving a permanent blotch on American cinema that can't be ignored now. The influence even reaches people like me, who can barely stand it. No matter how much I roll my eyes during the viewing, I still think of it every time I hear a slow banjo strum, see a wrecked vehicle in the middle of nowhere, or am asked to do anything out in nature.

"Are you kidding? I'm not going anywhere near the woods! Have you seen Deliverance?"