Didn't put an emotional wrecking ball through my heart, but it came close! Ten points, earnest, oppressed Cambodian citizenry.
THE BAD:
- A tendency to descend into pure glurge. The story is already a resounding one, so why the urge to cheapen it with over-acted, and frankly hilarious, teary-eyed sentiment? The Killing Fields is at its best when it's at its bleakest and quietest, see: long-shots of grim faced men, and lightning-quick, unannounced acts of brutality followed by radio-silence[1]. Akin to the snake's legs. If the snake's legs were gangrenous and slowly poisoned the rest of the snake! Dooming said reptile to slow, painful death. I-it's exactly like that.
- A highly emotional and excitable soundtrack. Intrusive and quite frankly? Hideous. Like nails on a chalkboard and rape in your ears. Because god knows, the Cambodian jungles and paddyfields are alive with the sound of screeching, atonal synth beats and thrumming tom-toms.
- That opera sequence. See glurge. See also, please assassinate Pavarotti.
- The most unlikeable reporter on the surface of the earth. Because Sam Waterson's reporter[2] is at once snide, condescending, self-righteous, and unwavering in his confidence in himself. True, he stumbles, but no worry! His faith in Sam Waterson is quickly restored! Glory. Blindsided by devotion to The Truth, and insufferable in his inability to adapt and/or conform -- even temporarily -- to a situation. But there are upsides! See crushing of Sam Waterson's bloating self esteem for further details.
- Uncomfortably warped political leanings. While (happily) not a major theme throughout the movie, the movie does exercise its Soap Box muscles -- and not always to good effect. It's entirely possible that at the time, the movie's condemnation of the role of American foreign policy in the rise of the Khmer Rouge was a novel theory. And a theory in need of emphasis. However, looking back more than two decades later, the movie's speechifying about American policy seems a bit hollow compared to the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge, which are never explicitly described in full.
- Botched narration. Not necessarily the fault of the movie so much as the projector, but trying to understand the subtleties of an already complicated situation isn't really helped by a (a) THICK CAMBODIAN PATOIS, (b) old, scratchy voice track, (c) LOUD BLASTS OF GUNFIRE AND/OR HEAVY DUTY EXPLOSIVES. A note to all the prospective viewers out there: watch this with subtitles. Cambodia under fire and under the Khmer Rouge is a swiftly changing and terrifyingly confusing world. Navigate with a narrator who you can understand and don't panic.
- At its best, The Killing Fields is a sucker-punch to the gut. Violence is common, often casual, and pointless but instead of coming off as excessive, it underlines the bleakness of the situation. And the situation can get very, very bleak. Whoever said that you couldn't make a good fifteen minutes of a bunch of hardbitten journalists failing to make a fake passport was dead wrong. When conveyed correctly, all that frustration and panicky fear is overwhelming. Just like it is supposed to be.
- Crushing of Sam Waterson's bloating self esteem. Because when you are saddled with an insufferable dick for two-plus hours, the greatest pleasure in life is seeing him wet his panties in front of a rebel firing squad. Or seeing his soul writhe in agony from torturous guilt, deserved or not.
- And on the opposite end of the spectrum, Dith Pran. All the intelligence and determination of Sam Waterson (and then some) without any of the cloying pretense and self-absorption. Armed with an at-times incomprehensible Cambodian accent, Dith Pran is the most achingly sincere survivalist who ever walked the earth. The perfect sympathetic protagonist without any of the self-indulgent, smothering emotional baggage that accompanies the usual crowd of heroes.
- Beautiful, understated cinematography. Rich blues, greens, yellows painting an already lush Cambodian country-side. I prefer to call it God's Palette.
- Similarly, the credits. Yes, millions of people getting slaughtered, devastating exploration of the human condition, etc, etc, but also! A work of some beautifully understated but sophisticated typography in the beginning. I KNOW, I AM A BOURGEOIS PIG WHO LISTENS TO WEEZER AND JACKS OFF TO TYPOGRAPHI.COM. BLOW ME. I AM SERIOUS.
- The Holy Shit, Is that Sam Waterson? Effect. Allow me to demonstrate: Holy shit, is that Sam Waterson? And more importantly, is he going to jail a cold-blooded killer with the help of plucky Lenny Briscoe?
[1] OKAY. So not my most eloquent description! Not actually meant to be a snide, back-handed compliment. Lack of follow-up shows restraint! Not sloppiness! It also shows a certain amount of confidence in your audience's intelligence, a nod towards conciseness, and a host of other things that are good and holy in the world. AMEN.
[2] Heretoforth known as Sam Waterson. Not actually Sam Waterson, who could very well be a saint, but instead his alter-ego, a flaccid nutsack!
Sex, Lies, and Videotape (1989)
STARRING Andie MacDowell's bloated FUPA and invading gums. In which Steven Soderbergh confuses long shots, eye-roll-inducing stilted dialogue, hilariously acrobatic and unappealing sex-scenes (featuring, no kidding, a potted plant), and WHIPLASH character development with beautiful enlightenment and touching humanity.
Spent most of the two hours thinking that, by god (A) FROM ONE TO SEXY, THIS MOVIE IS A DOUBLE-BAGGER. WHY IS SEX EVEN IN THE TITLE. UGH, NO MORE CLOSE UPS ON JAMES SPADER'S LEIF-GARRET STYLE MULLET. ANDIE MACDOWELL, ARE YOU PREGNANT? NO. DON'T WEAR THAT. I'M SERIOUS. (B) Wh-why did she do that? What does that even mean? (C) It has to get better. I'll just stay for five more minutes. (D) That's. It. What.
EMERGENCY!; Mark Brown
Doctors and nurses in emergency rooms around the United States phone in their greatest hits. A word of advice: don't quit your day job, honey. None of the contributors have exactly been honing their narrative skill and it shows. Lots of gushing, sanguine B-grade melodrama. Lots of overly pleased arch-irony, with enough wink-wink, see-I-subtly-did-there nudging going on. The sole redeeming factor? The stories. Skip the ones about the gruesome emotional trauma of losing a child and go straight for the anecdotes about sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Lurid and loving it.
