Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me (1999)

HE'S BACK, HE'S EVEN BIGGER AND HE'S UP FOR IT!

Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery was a pretty big deal. Although its theatrical take is generally regarded as modest (apparently making $68 million from a $16 million budget is modest), it found even greater success on the rental market, and its cultural impact was massive. For those of you who weren’t there for it, after the film came out you couldn’t turn a corner without someone firing off one of the dozens of catchphrases at you. It was huge. Given that this was the case, a sequel was guaranteed to arrive, giving the world another crack at the abundantly toothy spy. Two years after the first, that sequel arrived – Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me.

Austin Powers (Mike Myers) returns to action after he discovers his wife Vanessa Kensington (Elizabeth Hurley) is a fem-bot, created by Dr. Evil (Mike Myers) to assassinate him. When Powers survives, Dr. Evil travels back in time to 1969 and he steals Austin’s Mojo. Travelling back to 1969, Austin teams up with CIA agent Felicity Shagwell (Heather Graham) to recover Austin’s mojo and stop Dr. Evil from wiping out Washington DC with a moon-based laser gun.

By now, we’re all aware of the rules regarding sequel escalation, where the follow-up to a successful film has to be bigger, give more, be more outrageous. Hell, just look at the tagline up there. That is most definitely the case with The Spy Who Shagged Me, in which even the title is allowed to be more risqué. The title itself caused something of a stir in the build up to the film’s release. Adverts and posters were somewhat censored, hoping to avoid offence at the carnal suggestion. It was also changed in various countries, some looking to downplay or alter the meaning (Finland’s version translated as The Spy Who Bumped Me), whilst some seemed to drop the pretence altogether (Norway’s version translated as The Spy Who Ejaculated on Me). Regardless, it’s a pretty obvious indication that the film was given a freer hand to try and recapture the old magic.

The inspiration for the film still comes from the various Bond movie's tropes and clichés, all geared towards making the film bigger and wackier. Dr. Evil now has a base inside a volcano, as well as a secret base on the Moon. He now also has a huge destructive laser cannon, with which he plans to hold the world to ransom once more. As with the first film, there are other sources for comedy here. For example, a highly suggestive game of chess parodies the one from the original 1968 film The Thomas Crown Affair. Also, a number of jokes refer directly to Star Wars (Death Star, Dr. Evil’s claim that he is Austin’s father, some design elements of the Moon base). All of these shows a distinct eye not just for the 60s era in which the film is predominantly set, but also for the year of the film’s release. The Thomas Crown Affair was remade and released in 1999, being released two months after The Spy Who Shagged Me. Also, the much-anticipated Star Wars prequel The Phantom Menace got its release in 1999, leading to many publicity jokes. One of the trailers announced, “If you only see one movie this summer, see Star Wars. But if you see two movies, see Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me.” Myers clearly still shows some talent for parody.

The actual film itself does, if we’re honest, suffer a little bit from this newfound licence to be bigger. The introduction of time travel, which will allow Austin to travel back to the 60s, is always a thorny thing to introduce, simply because it can automatically destroy the logic of the film. Also, it can feel a bit cynical to use it at times (“What do we do to make this new film better?…… uh, time travel?...... Okay.”). Myers and co. are obviously aware of this, with Austin trying to follow the potential paradoxes offered before Basil Exposition tells him not to think about it, and then informs the audience to do the same. Yes, they know that pretty much none of what we’re about to see makes any sense, but they want you to just enjoy the ride. I’m often very wary of films that do this, but if it’s a fun ride, then I can get over it.

New things to come from this film are the introduction of three new characters. Taking the place of Miss Kensington as Austin’s partner is Felicity Shagwell, played by Heather Graham. Given the respect Austin developed for monogamy in the first film, as well as him being Mojo-jacked, it's a good reversal of relationship as Felicity is everything that Vanessa wasn’t. She’s as highly-sexed as Austin, and always ready for a proverbial tumble. In fact, she introduces herself as Felicity Shagwell, “Shagwell by name, shag very well by reputation.” Another new face is Dr. Evil’s clone, Mini Me, played by Verne Troyer. Mini Me is another fine comic creation from Myers, with the two playing of each other very well, and serves to appropriately further disrupt the relationship between Dr. Evil and his son Scott, which continues to be strained (a great scene at the beginning has both of them appear on an episode of Jerry Springer, which inevitably ends in a massive fight). The third is another character that Myers plays himself, the enormous and appropriately named Fat Bastard, a disgruntled Scots Guard who works for Dr. Evil. As much as Myers is an anglophile, he is also rather obsessed with Scotland. As such, Scottish characters have a way of surfacing fairly regularly in his work (So I Married an Ax Murder, Shreck). Fat Bastard is a grotesque individual, weighing a metric tonne and claims to eat babies, hence some carnivorous intentions towards Mini Me.

Everyone in the cast does well, with Myers giving just as much to his roles here as he did the first one. Heather Graham is a bit more convincing than Liz Hurley was in her role, but there are still moments that you see her drop character. There is a great turn from Rob Lowe, who returns here in a more substantial part, as Number Two circa 1969. Effectively playing a young Robert Wagner, he gets everything right, from the walk to the precise timbre of Wagner’s voice, though he still makes it his own.

The film itself is still a lot of fun, and the jokes still fly with a great regularity. The two sequences where people describe Dr. Evil’s rocket ship (“What is that? It looks just like an enormous... Wang! Pay attention.... Sorry, I was distracted by that giant flying... Willie!... Yeah?... What’s that?... Well, that looks like a huge... Johnson!... Yes, sir?”) is very funny, even though you feel like it shouldn’t. The moment with Dr. Evil losing control of his chair is great, as is his Mojo-fuelled seduction of Frau Farbissina.

However, there is a little less of the wit that shone through the original. There isn’t really anything like the scenes exploring the life of an evil henchman. Also, many of the jokes here are repeats of the originals, with just a slight tweak to make them work. It’s rather splitting hairs to come down against them, but it’s still indicative of a less intelligent take on the genre. Other jokes rely on more crude humour, such as the tent scene (although that’s still pretty funny.) or the whole character of Fat Bastard. The Spy Who Shagged Me seems to have lowered its standards a bit in order to capitalise on having a wider audience than the first film. As it is, it worked. This film made more money in the first weekend than its predecessor did in total, seeing it through to a final take that was over four times that of the last one. That’s some pretty good business.

Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me is about as funny as the original, although it does lack much of the cleverness that showed up in the first film, and the story isn’t as tight as it should be (something most time travel films must deal with). Nevertheless, there is still a lot of fun to be had, with more parodic swings at the spy genre, new absurd comic creations and a freer sense of whimsy about it. I’d rather it held to the shrewdness of the first, but it’s still some fine entertainment.

Audition (1999)

SHE ALWAYS GETS A PART

We’ve dealt with Takashi Miike before. The last time, I looked at his 2001 Yakuza flick Agitator, a fine crime thriller concerned with the bonds of brotherhood and loyalty. However, two years before this, Miike released a film that got him an incredible amount of notoriety. When it was shown at Rotterdam, there were a record number of people who walked out, including a female audience member who called him “evil”; and when shown at the Swiss premier and at the Irish Film Institute, some audience members passed out, with some reports of people being taken to hospital. An adaptation of the novel by Ryu Murakami, the film was Audition.

Shigeharu Aoyama (Ryo Ishibashi) is a lonely Japanese widower, whose son believes it’s time for his father to find someone new. When Aoyama tells his friend and fellow producer, they come up with the idea of holding auditions for a non-existent film, whereby Aoyama can select a potential bride from the girls that respond. He becomes fascinated by one particular young woman, Asami Yamazaki (Eihi Shiina). Things start out well enough, but gradually devolve into a hideous nightmare.

Considering that the original novel of Audition was written by Ryu Murakami, and the script written by Daisuke Tengan, there is the feeling of two separate influences guiding the film. The first is, of course, Miike, running with his occasional predilection for the show of extreme cinema. The other is one that comes through Miike by proxy, the influence of another well-known Japanese director, Shôhei Imamura, under whom Miike served as apprentice. One of the preoccupations that Imamura held in his work was to provide a more counter-culture perspective of Japan. He presented a view that punctured the traditional image that many had (and still kind of have) of Japan, the one of tea ceremonies and kimonos other such time-honoured ideals. A great part of this was Imamura’s disgust with the idea of the traditional Japanese woman, subservient and meek, present only to support and attend to the man. Imamura’s work was littered with strong and resilient female characters, shown in films like Nippon Sengoshi - Madamu onboro no Seikatsu and The Insect Woman. Considering Imamura’s desire to present women who represented a different picture of Japanese femininity, and his direct influence on Miike as a filmmaker, it’s perhaps easy to see part of the inspiration here.

Despite the woman who denounced Miike as evil when she walked out of the screening in Rotterdam, and Miike’s own insistence that there was no intentional attempt made at social critique, there have been many that have read Audition as something of a feminist text, with Asami representing a counter to the traditional image of a Japanese woman. Both Aoyama and his friend Yoshikawa’s ideas of the ideal woman are based on somewhat antiquated notions of subservience and presentation. Before they first discuss the idea of holding an audition, they sit in a bar talking about women, which is sparked by their dislike of the group of young women sitting at one of the tables. The women are loud, laughing, making a spectacle of themselves in the place, even though it’s almost deserted. The two men call them stupid, think they are unbecoming because of their lack of demure restraint. From here, the conversation eventually winds its way towards what kind of woman Aoyama would like to find. He says he wants a woman of accomplishment, but who hasn’t had any real success. He’d like someone who can sing or play an instrument, someone who can entertain him. Youth is not necessarily a requirement, nor even good looks, but rather just the ability to hold a supporting role in his life. Aoyama isn’t really a reprehensible person, but these views are pretty loathsome. Hell, even the camera doesn’t want to get too close to him when he talks like, often sitting in another room entirely. Primarily this is to highlight his loneliness, but part of it is about keep a distance from this kind of disquieting sentiment.

When the auditions actually take place, it’s presented as a fun montage, actually the kind that we’d normally see taking place in a standard Hollywood romantic comedy where the main character tries on a variety of dresses to see what she’ll wear on her big date. And it is rather funny, with thirty women having been pre-selected for an interview, running the gamut from awkward frump to cheerleader in full uniform. It’s made more bizarre by Yoshikawa’s rather inappropriate questions (“Would you work in the sex industry?”, “What kind of men do you hate?”, “Could you just… walk around a little?”). And we are right there with them, watching this amusing montage of women dancing, walking, stripping for the two men. However, Aoyama hasn’t said a word the whole time. He’s waiting on a particular girl, whose application essay, about training to become a ballerina before injury destroyed her chances, caught his eye for its maturity - Number 28: Asami Yamazaki. When she enters, dressed in white, quiet, demure, polite, it’s clear Aoyama has already fallen. For the first time, he speaks. He speaks so much about how much he liked her essay that she says almost nothing. The tables seem to have turned somewhat. In fact, the camera now sits behind Asami, with Aoyama now up for critique. Now, he’s being auditioned.

The film progresses with Aoyama sticking to the plan, contacting Asami later to ask her out, which she gladly accepts. Indeed, things go so well that the first half hour of the film has the distinct flavour of the romantic drama about it, any hints of any form of psychosis far from anyone’s mind… but then things start to shift, very subtly at first, but with a gradually building sense of relentlessness. Yoshikawa doesn’t really trust Asami, though he can offer nothing by of concrete reason, there’s just something not right about her. Of course, Aoyama is in love, so he pays little attention. He’s currently unaware of the brief glimpses we get of Asami in her home, patiently kneeling, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring. As the relationship between Asami and Aoyama grows, the small glances at something very dark become more regular, more pronounced, more unnerving. Aoyama has his share of emotional baggage, with the feeling that he never really got over the death of his wife, which is perfectly understandable. However, not only does Asami have some serious emotional baggage, with a history of abuse at the hands of her aunt and father, but she’s got some literal baggage to go with it, and the first time you notice it is a chilling moment.

When Asami disappears in the middle of the night, Aoyama begins a difficult journey to track her down. In doing so, he gets into a heated argument with Yoshikawa; he hears stories of disappearances and brutal murders; and he meets a monster of a human being in the form of a crippled old man who abused Asami as a child. When he returns home after a day of searching, he hears the message that his son is spending the night with a friend. Aoyama pours himself a drink and tries to relax… but then his vision blurs, his body twitches and goes awkward, and he falls to the ground and can’t move. From the floor, he sees into the other room, where Asami is had donned a black apron and long gloves and is reaching for a bag. From here on, the film goes from dark and unsettling to downright nightmarish and horrifying. Asami has completed her transition from the quiet and modest woman to unmitigated psychopath.

The film itself is incredibly well made. I’ve often said that one of the most difficult things a director can attempt is a gradual tonal shift over the course of a film, trying to maintain the initial mood of the piece and slowly changing into something completely different without any early reveals or grinding gear changes. As such, Miike does a spectacular job of controlling this picture, dropping only vague hints about the horror to come, but still managing to make things light enough that you can forget them if he wants. In fact, it speaks to the power of the film that the actual torture scene is, surprisingly, not particularly graphic. Don’t get me wrong, you do see something, but for the most part, it’s presented in such a way that implication takes most of the weight. However, the fact that the film is well made can be only part of the equation. Indeed, many would, rather understandably, refuse to acknowledge such skill if the film proffered an ideal that they found disagreeable. To this, we have to consider what this film is really saying, if anything?

As I’ve mentioned, Miike has stated that he was not trying to make any statements about society or Japanese culture. However, there is invariably something that comes through from any film, whether or not there was any kind of intended subtext. Obviously, the biggest question is in regards to what the film is saying about women? Some claim it as a feminist text, but to what end? Is the idea that Asami, as a victim of abuse, is striking back at her male aggressors? Is she some kind of personification of a Japanese female identity, tired of being subjugated and ignored, taking up arms against the old ways? I can certainly see the point behind this idea. Asami is initially presented as, at least in Aoyama’s view, the ideal woman. She’s quiet and polite, dressed plainly in white and doesn’t clamour for attention. However, with her gradual shift in mental state, she reveals that beneath that reserved exterior, there can exist something unbelievably dangerous and frightening.

However, from this, we can sort of see a counterpoint to this. Is the film more anti-feminist than anything? The film effectively presents two kinds of females: the attractive and strong, but utterly psychotic figure (Asami); and the plain, subservient and very safe figure (Rie, and Aoyama’s secretary). The only other female to figure into Aoyama’s life strongly is his dead wife, who seems to be only one free of either definition. Is it being asserted that only the attractive can afford to be strong-willed, even to the point of lunacy? Are the less attractive amongst the female gender expected to be dutiful and submissive because that’s the only way they’ll find a man?

Then again, perhaps treating it as a feminist text is incorrect, at least in the above such ways. Maybe the focus should be placed on Aoyama, and the film seen as a punishment laid out onto him for his sins, like betraying his wife’s memory and holding such appalling views on women. After all, Aoyama isn’t simply some sort of sexist, but a legitimate user of women. He makes some mention of being lonely, being without female companionship, but he doesn’t deny himself sexual gratification. In his mental guilt trip just before Asami begins her gruesome attack, we hear that he had sex with his secretary once, but that was it. She expected it to go somewhere, and still kind of does, but he regards her with all the intimacy and warmth as anyone else who works for him. Clearly, this causes her some pain, but he doesn’t even notice it. In this way, Asami is not any kind of model for femininity, rather just an agent of vengeance that doles out retribution on those deemed bad. And even then, does Aoyama, for all his faults, really deserve this?

Of course, if we are to believe Miike in his claims that there is no such social commentary implied, then what are we left with? If it exists purely as something to horrify and shock, has it gone too far? Surely people passing out at screenings and needing trips to the hospital is something to consider. Is it really worth the effort if there’s nothing behind it? Could it just have existed as a study of a lonely man and a damaged young woman, without the trip down viscera lane?

Overall, I do like Audition, though I think it’s impossible to say you enjoy it. The actual manner of production and the expertise in filmmaking is undeniably effective, creating something with a genuinely bold and disturbing punch. Where things get murky is when you try to pin down any kind of meaning behind it all. I find Miike’s assertion that there is no social commentary intended a little distasteful, primarily because I don’t like the idea that all of what I just saw would, ultimately, be for nought. If I’m going to have an image of a guy getting needles put under his eyes entering my head, I would at least like for there to be a point to it… no pun intended. Given that I’m less okay with such a potentially harrowingly hollow experience, I’m then forced to try and identify what I think the point it was.

Whilst the notion that pretty women can get away with more than non-pretty women has existed before this film, and could be applied quite easily, I don’t think that’s what the film is really saying. Females in the film are presented in a somewhat stereotypical fashion, but then so are the men, with almost all of them resting somewhere on the Abusive Bastard-o-Meter, either through callousness or twisted pleasure. So, I don’t think I can align myself with the anti-feminist camp.

As for the feminist notion of a previously corrupted image of womanhood being turned on its abuser, I can see this as more convincing. Asami could have been a perfectly normal, and attractive, woman were it not for the hideous abuse she suffered at the hands of men. However, she does mention that she was also abused as a child by females, which rather short-circuits this notion, too. And whilst I do think that Aoyama’s views on women were repugnant, and caused him to unknowingly cause some hurt to the women in his life, he was never malicious in his intent, really being more a product of an outmoded manner of thinking. Therefore, I can’t believe that this was a justified action of vengeance against a mean-spirited male, because he wasn't… I just don’t know where I stand on it.

But then, maybe that’s really it. Perhaps Miike intentionally made something with no easily extracted answers, just to see what people would come up with. For every interpretation that could be drawn or considered, the film holds something that could counter it or overturn it, even if only in a small way. And then, just to compound the effect, he then tells us that there is no other meaning, there’s nothing intended beyond the cheap thrill of a disturbing horror film. It may sound weird, but we all know that if you tell people that there are no answers buried in a box under that tree over there, you’ll only get more people showing up with shovels. Maybe the real point is that Takashi Miike wants us to agonise over what it all means, trying to understand our position better, and then he can just sit back and watch the chaos ensue…

… god damn it, Miike.

Any Given Sunday (1999)

PLAY OR BE PLAYED

Oliver Stone is often regarded as something of an enfant terrible in filmmaking. He’s driven, talented, opinionated and confrontational. He wants to say things about what’s happening in the world. Indeed, this is sort of the right kind of temperament you want from an artist. Someone who wants to engage, challenge, comment and discuss various topics important to him or herself within society at large. He regularly takes swings at war (Born on the Fourth of July, Platoon), politics (JFK, Nixon, W.), the media (Talk Radio, The Doors, Natural Born Killers) and corporate America (Wall Street). In 1999, he selected a new subject for his own brand of scrutiny and dissection – professional sports.

Tony D’Amato(Al Pacino) is the head coach of the Miami Sharks, and is driven by the legacy of the game. Christina Pagniacci (Cameron Diaz) is the owner, and is driven by profit. The team’s in a bad way when, after a four-game losing streak, the star quarterback Cap Rooney (Dennis Quaid) gets injured, bringing in third stringer Willie Beamen (Jamie Foxx), a relative rookie whose ego starts to become a problem in his new role. It falls to D’Amato to try to keep the team from imploding.

If there is a regular concern and focus that Oliver Stone returns to time and again throughout his film choices, it’s the corruptive and corrosive influence that these various topics have on the individuals involved. With Any Given Sunday, Stone considers the world of American football and the effect it has on the various people involved, from the coaches to the owners to the players to the doctors to the families. What makes it especially interesting is that it takes in all of those topics I mentioned before and considers them in the context of this world. There’s the internal politics of the team’s management, with D’Amato and Pagniacci constantly butting heads over the best way to run things, with D’Amato having to argue with players and other coaches on how to run a simple play, with players arguing with each other over differing plays. There’s the business side of things, with Pagniacci trying to strong-arm the mayor into getting a new stadium and promising a bright future for the city, with Julian Washington (LL Cool J) trying to make big endorsement deals. There’s the influence of the media on how things are run, with John C. McGinley’s obnoxious sports reporter Jack Rose shining a light on every bad call and flaw in the team’s play and management, forcing everyone to affect a media-friendly persona for the sake of the money and politics side of things. And as for the fourth one, well, they do say that sport is preparation for war. In fact, the film opens with a quote from legendary football coach Vince Lombardi: “I firmly believe that any man’s finest hour - his greatest fulfilment to all he holds dear - is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle - victorious.” These are more like the words of a general, not a sports coach.

Well, such is this world that they are one and the same. Several times throughout the film, Stone compares the players on these teams, both directly and by implication, to gladiators, the warriors of old, pitching battle against one another for glory and honour and the entertainment of the baying crowds. In this context, the need for a strong leader is great, someone who can command such respect that their followers will literally risk life and limb for their leader. People seem to be aware of this need in the film, with everyone demanding that someone step up, take charge, be a man. Pagniacci wants D’Amato to show himself as a leader, but brings in someone to hang over him and question his plays and decisions; D’Amato needs a leader on the field, but his go-to guy, Rooney, is on the way out and his replacement, Beamen, may have the playing skills, but he’s too egocentric to learn how to lead. This is a complicated world, with complex relationships, and not just with those on the team. Everyone has an influence on how things could go. There’s even a minor nod towards Macbeth when Rooney confesses to his wife that he wants to step back, but she harangues him into pushing further, reaching higher. Granted, it’s not exactly done with the same great delicacy or punch, but it’s there.

The script is a wide-spreading creature, acknowledging the various aspects at play in each character, with motivations and influences hanging over their heads, pushing them in on direction or another. It really has tried to include everyone in its meditation on the nature of where the drive and desire to win comes from in each character. It does a fine job in defining each role well, so you never really get anyone confused with anyone else, which is a quite a feat when several of them wear the same uniform. It’s also done a rather good job in being able to sum up a few of these characters with a choice phrase, something that acts as their personal motivational mantra. Pagniacci - “Whatever it takes.” D’Amato - “On any given Sunday you’re gonna win or you’re gonna lose. The point is - can you win or lose like a man?” Beamen himself carries a line that is something of a paraphrase of another sporting legend (albeit one from golf), Walter Hagen - “No one remembers who came in second.” Strong words for people that need to be able to motivate quick and hard. It’s not something lost in the film.

Oliver Stone’s direction is, as those of you familiar with his work will know, about as subtle as a charging tackle. There is some subtlety to the writing, but Stone wants to really drive home his point. He’s not one to leave an ambiguous impression. This is achieved often by Stone and his team of four editors, Stuart Levy, Thomas J. Nordberg, Keith Salmon and Stuart Waks. When Pagniacci are arguing over the best way to run the team and make the rights player calls, footage of the team practicing are occasionally ghosted over them, punctuated their clash of words with the clash of bodies. Like I said, it’s not exactly subtle, but it goes beyond simple metaphor. It’s also to drive home the point that what these two are arguing about go beyond a difference of opinion. What these two are talking about has very real and physical repercussions on the team, that D’Amato wants to protect, but Pagniacci just wants to bring in ticket money and good media attention. The comparison between the old times of the Coliseum and the new times on the Gridiron are also nicely played to further D’Amato’s building sense falling out of step with the game he loves, that it long ago moved on without him. His regular run-ins with Beamen are scattered with references to the big age gap between the two, though it sometimes runs a little clichéd (they actually briefly discuss their differing music tastes: Beamen likes rap; D’Amato likes jazz). Stone’s heavy use of metaphor is strewn throughout the whole piece, with clouds and weather being a regular signifier of trouble, either on the horizon or clearing. Again, it’s not subtle, but neither is Stone.

The casting is somewhat interesting, though it’s amazing looking at it now (hell, back then, too) just how many very well known people are in it. Al Pacino, Cameron Diaz, Dennis Quaid, James Woods, Jamie Foxx, LL Cool J, Matthew Modine, Jim Brown, Lawrence Taylor, Bill Bellamy, Lauren Holly, Ann-Margret, Aaron Eckhart, Elizabeth Berkley, John C. McGinley… Christ, that’s a cast. And some of it is great. Jamie Foxx is on fine form, as is Dennis Quaid, LL Cool J, Jim Brown and James Woods. Hell, even Lawrence Taylor, a former NFL star himself, does some excellent work here. There’s even a brief cameo from Charlton Heston, another nod to gladiators, since we see clips from Ben-Hur, in which Heston starred.

Cameron Diaz is okay, but not exactly great as Pagniacci. She’s always had much better luck with roles of a more comedic nature, since she is a gifted comedienne. The lack of assurance occasionally even works for her, since Pagniacci is someone that you feel like shouldn’t really be running this team, so it is awkward fit to the character. However, most of the time, she comes across as genuinely struggling with some moments. Then, there’s Al Pacino. Pacino is a giant in the film world, we know this. That said, I will be honest and say that his D’Amato is pretty good, but hardly the classic work we know he’s capable of (he’s way better in …And Justice For All, as mentioned not long ago). It’s certainly not that he’s bad, because he’s not. He’s just occasionally outshone by others. Again, this rather fits with the idea that he’s a coach struggling to maintain his stance as the leader of this pack, but it just feels like a resurgence of Classic Pacino at the end would have given more kick than is there. Not to mention that, in an Oliver Stone movie, rarely is anyone a bigger star than Oliver Stone.

So, Any Given Sunday is richly conceived, written and directed with the usual gusto of metaphorical swings from Stone, and certainly holds performances of a good enough standard to be convincing for the most part… then why do I feel I little cold about the whole thing? I’m still not sure where to pin this feeling down. It could be that I have no interest in the game itself, and therefore have less of a chance to connect to the material being discussed, simply because I don’t know what they’re talking about sometimes. However, that’s a bit of a cop out, since I should be able to lose myself in the rather effective human drama of it all. Honestly, I think it has to do with the games themselves. Though well-shot and visceral enough, there’s a distance to it somehow. The world in which these games play out seems to so small, so remote, so trivial. If we’re to believe that so much rides on these games and this world, I need to feel the weight of these games. It could all stem from the fact that we see relatively few shots of the crowds, or that there’s little in the way of establishing a tense and passionate atmosphere at the games. It just so rarely feels like they’re playing in big expensive stadiums. It feels smaller, like these are just college games, instead of the big national leagues.

I don’t know, perhaps you’ll feel different.

Any Given Sunday is a fine film, with obvious effort put into the conception of the project and consideration given to the sprawling nature of the game. I didn’t quite get the real rush of what I think they tried to convey, but it certainly still got some punch as an intriguing human drama in a high-pressure world of sports.

American Pie (1999)

THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR FIRST PIECE

Teen movies were big in the 80s. They became big business because of films like Fast Times at Ridgemont High and pretty anything John Hughes made. At some amidst this, a sub-genre took a spike as some filmmakers wanted to focus more on a specific aspect of teenage life – Sex: The Quest to Get Laid. This was an element present in Hughes films and Fast Times, but it was only part of them. Lesser titles were pretty much just cheap T&A flicks set to titillate, but in the end were rather disposable. Stuff like Private School, Losin’ It, Valley Girls, Hamburger: The Motion Picture or the more lasting Porky’s. At some point, maybe because of the whole AIDS scare thing, sex took a bit of step back from the teen flick. However, by the later portion of the 90s, the tradition was revived, assembling an attractive young cast and seeing what hormonal hi-jinx they got up to, with the film American Pie.

Jim (Jason Biggs), Oz (Chris Klein), Finch (Eddie Kaye Thomas) and Kevin (Thomas Ian Nicholas) are four friends who make a pact that, before they graduate high school, they will all lose their virginity, with prom being the deadline for them to reach their goal.

The script by Adam Herz, his first, is clearly a rather fond throwback to the likes of Porky’s (Herz wrote his dissertation on Porky’s in university). As such, it’s really more of a collection of gross or awkward scenes. Not that there’s no story. There is, although it does feel somewhat episodic because of the focus on the Pale Ale scene or the Stripping scene or the Pooping scene. These scenes are quite pronounced and they are the thing you’ll remember long after the film ends, but they’re used as part of a trade-off with the audience. The scenes of gross-out humour are what bring the youngsters in, but the reason it wants to talk to them at all is to talk about sex.

What separates American Pie from other sex comedies aimed at young folk, like Porky’s or Slackers or even National Lampoon’s Animal House, is the frank and actually rather considered approach to the character’s attitudes towards sex. Yes, they talk about it a lot and can’t wait to do it, and the film takes great fun in dragging out their hormonal exploits, but there is some actual growth in these characters. Towards the end, they begin to consider the idea that being in a rush to lose their virginity may not be as high priority as they think. And even if they do, it’s still no one’s business but their own. Pressure to get it done, whether from friends or yourself, will just end up making you hate sex before you even have it. There’s also genuine conversation about love vs. lust, which goes beyond just the tokenism displayed in other teen comedies.

Further to this careful discussion, American Pie holds a cast of really rather well drawn characters, defined from each other and all holding some aspect of familiarity with the audience. In your school years, you know people like Jim or Stifler or Michelle. That we are already so familiar with these types of people means that the message of the film is presented in a far more approachable manner. It wouldn’t work if the characters were too abstract or too flat. They do seem real and so their thoughts and feelings do, too. What’s actually very refreshing for this type of film is the care taken with the female characters. So often are they nothing more than The Goal, and so tend to be one-dimensional and unrelatable. In American Pie, the girls are just as confused by their hormones as the guys, they just handle it a bit better. None of the girls in our immediate range are bitchy or dumb or a target for our spite. No one is. Even a dick like Stifler is still strangely likable.

The cast all pull their weight admirably. Jason Biggs is a great nervous presence as Jim (and Eugene Levy is superb as his lovable, repressed dad); Seann William Scott simply is Stifler; Natasha Lyonne’s Jessica is great; and Alyson Hannigan steals the whole film with a performance carefully controlled and geared towards a single line of dialogue. Even Tara Reid is good.

American Pie is a deceptively sweet film, which nimbly offers the standard gross-out gags along with a surprisingly mature perspective on sex as relates to teenagers. The premise is sufficiently simple to allow an easy flow of humour, the characters are defined and the performances are good all round. The franchise may have been somewhat devalued by the subsequent straight-to-DVD sequels, but the first time out is certainly worth the watch.

American Beauty (1999)

... LOOK CLOSER

There’s something about the notion of the perfect American family living in the perfect American suburb that has made it be the regular focus of plays and novels and films. Blue Velvet, Happiness, Revolutionary Road, The Stepford Wives, Safe, even The ‘burbs… they all proffer the idea of suburban living as something unsettling, a fragile veneer covering a dark secret, that there’s something ugly beneath that perfectly manicured lawn. Well, what happens when the people living there simply can’t take it anymore? In 1999, writer Alan Ball and first time director Sam Mendes had their crack at the subject with American Beauty.

Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey) is a depressed suburban father who is completely ignored by his wife Carolyn (Annette Bening) and daughter Jane (Thora Birch). When Lester enters a mid-life crisis, brought on by feelings for his daughter’s friend, he decides to turn his life around and try to recapture whatever it was he lost in his life.

I’m a big fan of Alan Ball, and I would feel pretty happy saying that even if all I’d seen of his work was True Blood. Working in sitcoms through the 90s, American Beauty was his first feature film script, and it is an excellent start. It’s a black comedy that’s really very funny, it’s a poignant drama musing on the human spirit, it’s a satire with elements of a mystery, and it’s a love story. Several, in fact. Far from being an unfocused story, swinging wildly at multiple genres for lack of real structure, it’s also incredibly concise and literate. There is so much that can be drawn from or discussed in the film - the apparently hollow nature of suburban life; the crushing sense of being trapped in one’s job or life; the meaning of beauty; the benefits of crime; the importance of conformity; the implications of sexual repression. These are classic themes and, to those that know his work, pure Alan Ball. The characters are also treated with great care, free from judgement or any crude lack of depth. One of the film’s great strengths is the courage it has to let the characters be alone. Seriously, have a look at just how often they are just left by themselves doing nothing, where they can let their mask slip away. It’s a less common practice than you might think.

Like Alan Ball, this was Sam Mendes’ first film. Already a very well-respected theatre director, he took great care in selecting the script for his debut. American Beauty was his selection and he directs it with a superb visual style and a great sense of meaning. Mendes was clearly very aware of the subtext of the piece, and brings them to life with ease. For example, just look at the first time we see Lester at work. Look at the drab surroundings, recognisable to all of those who have worked in an office. Then there’s a shot showing Lester reflected in his computer screen, where the columns of numbers seem to create an image of Lester behind bars. Then there’s the moments when he’s in Brad’s office, with Brad the supervisor appearing giant and powerful and Lester looking positively tiny in his chair. There is an absolutely superb level of dexterity going here and throughout. The sense of colour in the film is also excellent, where bland walls and furniture of greys and whites are punctured by small shards of red or blue or green, inviting you to notice the small glimpses of life in the lifeless world. Conrad L. Hall’s cinematography here is equally rich and solid.

I’m also a big fan of Thomas Newman’s music. He’s got a very distinctive sound, and always manages to capture a kind of soft ache, a longing wistfulness in his work. Here, his echoing piano, gentle woodwind and eerie strings beautifully capture the nuanced play of the characters and overall feel of the film. Just listening to it on its own is enough to lull you into an introspective mood.

Performances throughout are excellent. Kevin Spacey is on top form. His face is one that just exudes the kind of humour and sadness and disappointment that characterises Lester. The look on his face when he looks across the room at a party to his wife laughing wildly at a joke just encompasses everything he’s feeling about her, himself, this party, their life. He also has, and this is kind of important, a particular smile that creeps in at specific moments as Lester rediscovers his old self. Annette Bening is superb as Carolyn, who has invested so much of herself in an image that she finds it difficult to live up to and tries so hard not to let the cracks show. Her reaction to another day of an unsold house is both heart-rending and a little unnerving. There’s great support from elsewhere in the cast, too. Mena Suvari brings out every inch of the moderately Lolita-esque nature of Angela Hayes. She’s vampy and trampy, but she is so clearly still a child covering a supreme level of low self-esteem. Thora Birch and Wes Bentley give wonderfully understated performances as Jane Burnham and Ricky Fitts, respectively. Jane begins so placid, so used to being ignored, but slowly comes out of herself as the film goes on. Ricky is equally unassuming, but it’s an affect grounded in a great self-confidence. He knows how to handle himself, illustrated by his manner of dealing with authority, especially his father. Listen to the way he says what his dad wants him to say, firm and yet without conviction. He says it because he knows it’ll get his dad off his back. Speaking of Fitts Senior, Chris Cooper is a menacing presence in the role, an overbearing bully, tough and severe. His is a way of discipline, doled out by force if necessary. Allison Janney’s Barbara Fitts is perhaps the most saddening character of all. Someone so utterly strangled of life that she is a ghost in her own home. Janney is more familiar to many in more vibrant and outgoing roles (she is superb in The West Wing), so to see her smothered like this gives a real glimpse as to how worn down the character really is.

American Beauty actually reminds me a great deal of a poem by Elizabeth Bishop called Filling Station. It’s a wonderfully vivid description of an ordinary filling station that Bishop once happened upon. She describes the dirt and oil that marks it all, the rather dull visage it makes, the overall lacklustre effect of its initial impression… but then she notes the small details that stand out from it - an individual plant, a single doily, a small taboret, the specific arrangement of the oil cans. From these peculiarly delicate additions to the otherwise gruff and boring surroundings, Bishop notices the small graces that someone has put into the scene to make it more pleasant for others. It may be an ordinary and rather dreary place, but if you look closer, you’ll see the little glimpses of beauty and heart in it. This is exactly what rests at the heart of American Beauty. It’s not about simply looking into the American Dream and satirising it for its iniquity and spiritual malaise. It does see these things, but it goes that extra step and sees through even that to the flashes of life and colour and love that rest beneath that. Other films are content with showing the life of the suburban family as being secretly dark, ugly, or even crazy; American Beauty wants to show what lies beneath even that.

For all of its moments of tension, cynicism and frustrated anguish, American Beauty really is a gorgeous, gentle and rather uplifting film. It’s a wonderfully subtle blending of genres, both sad and funny, and carries itself with a superb artistry and elegance. It doesn’t shy itself from elements of bitter darkness and despair, but it ultimately rests with its firm and sincere belief that there is just too much beauty in the world to ignore.