Der Baader Meinhof Complex

(*2 Stars*) During my years playing college basketball, I had a teammate that I shared a locker with who would tirelessly coax me into sniffing his tremendously odorous sneakers after each practice. Following a bombardment of insults and gender-threats that would cause even the Macho-Man Randy Savage to quiver in his florescent, knee-high, corset-laced wrestling boots, I would eventually concede to inhaling the repugnant scent. Now while there is a moment of exhilaration while smelling something so perverse, I end up leaving the contest not with a new profound appreciation for rancid aromas like I’m some kind of fart aficionada (let’s see, two parts bean and could that be a hint of asparagus that you blow my way?), but more or less depart just as stupid as I was prior to my nasal maltreatment.

This stimulating yet unenlightening experience very much parallels the 2008 German film by Uli Edel, Der Baader Meinhof Complex. The movie, which stars Moritz Bleibtreu, Martina Gedeck and Johanna Wokalek, and is written and produced by Bernd Eichinger, was adapted from a German best selling non-fiction book and was selected as the official German submission for the 81st Academy Awards in the category Best Foreign Language Film. Aside from the fact that the Academy is about as competent at selecting best pictures as the guy who opted for Sam Bowie over Michael Jordan during the 1984 NBA draft, the film bolsters an impressive resume and is crammed with 2 ½ hours of semi-gripping entertainment (including an opening scene on a nude beach!…who would ever have thought reading subtitles could be so difficult…like playing a game of vertical Pong). However, similar to a baby with a wet diaper full of poo-poo surprise, you feel bogged down when leaving the theater, contemplating as to why did I just see that?

For those of us who stopped paying attention in history class after World War II and whose only correlation to Germany is Hitler, Heidi Klum, bratwursts, and techno music (what? You never learned that the Nazis were highly trained in glow stick warfare?), the film does an appropriate job of acclimating the audience to Germany during the 1970s: a horrendous period when bomb attacks, the perils of terrorism, and the alarm of enemy infiltration are shaking the groundwork of the still fragile German democracy.

The movie focuses on the fanatical offspring of the Nazi generation commanded by Andreas Baader, Ulrike Meinhof and Gudrun Ensslin (a terrorist trio that lack a harmonious makeup like three testicles or Yin and Yang and Wang; with a pair of them overcome with rage typified by momentary outbursts like they have Terets, while the character of Meinhof possesses the charm and intrigue of a dead hamster). These founders of the militant group the Red Army Faction (RAF) have declared war against what they perceive as the new face of fascism--American Imperialism--and all those who sustain it, namely the German government, the majority of whom have a Nazi past. The movie tracks their efforts to fashion a more humane society through the use of terror and bloodshed, which eventually leads to their own loss of humanity.

What gave me goose bumps during the film was the director’s ability to conceive a storyline from the terrorist’s point of view that causes you to tear at your morals like Hulk Hogan dismantling his shirt. This inward skirmish may be attributed to the phenomenal acting displayed in the movie, but one cannot help but empathize with the factions honorable beginnings to take action to change what they believe in, opposed to rambling incessantly to no avail. However, one’s sympathetic stance dissipates as quickly as it began like an adolescent erection, when one witnesses the atrocities, brutal savagery, and hypocritical lifestyle that overload the screen. The film effectively portrays a terrorist group’s ability to lose sight of their cause while amassing so many killings.

By the conclusion of the movie, you feel inclined to strap a bomb to your chest (and bladder) and detonate the device due to the overwhelmingly praiseworthy tribute the film seems to be giving to the terrorist group. As the botched attempts accrue to secure their freedom and endless debates endure to advocate better prison living conditions for their posse (while in the scene previous they decimate victims at close range with machine guns), you try to refrain from screaming out like you always wanted to do to that kid who burped the alphabet in elementary school: “ENOUGH!” Finally (and I do mean finally), the film abruptly ends and you sit there examining your peers as they stare back at you, as if you are having a telepathic conversation asking one another “Is it okay to leave now?”

Although I believe this film’s acting, script, and cinematography are unmatched, I sit here perplexed by the meaning of it all. Is there some overall message I can abstract from the picture? Or is this some obscure documentary about uprising of terrorism in Germany during a time when I was still hanging out in my dad’s testicles? If so, what can history teach me that may be applicable today? All in all, if you plan on seeing the film, do not expect to leave changed or even in a good mood. And if you are looking for mindless entertainment…well…you could have found that at home sniffing around in your smelly shoes.

9

(*3 1/2 Stars*) Whenever I go to see an animated film in the theater, I feel inclined to dress with the same amount of discretion as if I am sauntering into a sex toy store. One can usually find me sporting a large hat (the larger and more obtrusive, the better…so I usually wear my Chevy’s birthday sombrero), a pair of substantially bulky sunglasses that lack all but the word “Censored” on them, and a trench coat (but since I don’t own one, I usually borrow my mom’s teal pea coat), so by the time I hand my ticket to the usher, it looks as if a homosexual mariachi player sent back in time to terminate Sarah Connor has entered the theater (I’ll be ay ay ay ay ay ba-ack! Don’t forget the hand flip). Once locating a seat amongst a vast sea of sugar-crazed munchkins, I then try to enjoy the animated flick while the child next to me laughs at everything on the screen with the same ferocity as a chimpanzee getting his foot stuck in a bear trap (is it inhumane if I feel the urge to Judo-chop the kid?). But for all you overly paranoid adults who dread the animated experience as much as I do, there is now a film for you!

The new animated sci-fi/action film 9, directed by Shane Acker and produced by Tim Burton and Timur Bekmambetov (the director of Wanted), is a movie as mysterious as my grandma’s persistent wedgie attacks whenever we go out in public (she couldn’t be wearing a thong, right?) and causes you to leave the theater pondering your own moral values (like whether or not I should pick her wedgie for her). With a star-studded cast that includes Elijah Wood, John C. Reilly, Jennifer Connelly, Crispin Glover, Martin Landau, and Christopher Plummer, the film 9 revolutionizes the warm, cuddly animated productions that we are so used to seeing on the silver screen, and instead causes us to depart introspectively with that Harrison Ford grin whittled onto our faces (Oh crap! Terrorists have hijacked my plane…but everything’s going to be alright). This is a definite must-see movie this fall.

The film is set in the not-too-distant-future, where an invention known as the Great Machine (which resembles a sinister-looking Magic 8-ball armed with a myriad of hostile robotic limbs like something you might find in a gynecologist’s tool box) has summoned the world’s machines to turn on mankind, annihilating the human population before being deactivated. While the human species is being slaughtered, one scientist sets out on the mission of salvaging the legacy of civilization by creating nine small “stitchpunks,” flaccid gingerbread men/women-looking innovations woven entirely of Hillbilly underwear and flies on people’s pants (kind of like McGiver trying to replicate Wall-E). Powered by the spark of life, these stitchpunks must call upon their individual strengths well beyond their miniature frames in order to outfox and destroy the still-functioning androids.

Now while most viewers may feel inclined to confer about the out-of-this-world graphics that are infused with Geppetto-like wizardry that seemingly breathe realism into the inanimate; or the apparently straightforward plot that gradually intensifies in complexity like the removal of the female bra; or the movie’s infamous Tim Burton-esque darkness that looms overhead throughout the picture as if we were watching a film about Dolly Parton’s bellybutton; what truly captured my attention were the character’s unique and distinguishing personalities. Whether it was being repulsed by 1’s (Christopher Plummer) stubbornness and knack for being as unsympathetic as a Vietnamese bikini-waxer, or being drawn to 7’s (Jennifer Connelly) heroics and death-defying antics that demasculated her fellow stitchpunks like a guy with a bellybutton ring, the audience feels a connection with each and every character.

This ability to identify with each character is a tribute to the clever revelations about human nature the movie carefully weaves into its plot. As we uncover in the end, the number 9 represents 9 parts of the human soul, which the benevolent scientist appropriates to each stitchpunk from his own being. What I feel is fascinating is that even though we may feel attracted to certain characters and repelled by others, all of their personalities (bravery, fear, compassion, indifference) are aspects of who we are as people and possess within us. The movie then indirectly proposes the question to the audience: when the going gets tough, what section of our soul will we rely upon to lead us out of harm’s way? Will we make decisions based on fear or be piloted by our unconditional compassion?

Because, in essence, this is what separates us from being alike the killer robotic kitty we see in the film with soulless eyes that emanate the same blinding light you experience when you walk in on my grandpa naked in the bathroom when he forgets to lock the door. Robots, although efficient, are deprived of the fundamental human capability to personalize and empathize, and instead dehumanize situations and make calculated decisions devoid of any heart or feeling. Thus, why it is so effortless for them to kill without expressing any guilt or grief. The film concludes by reminding us that the future is in our hands, and while there may be uncertainty, we have a choice of how it transpires based on how we elect to live our own lives. So leave your homosexual mariachi alter-egos at home and make sure to get a refund for your Judo-chopping karate lessons as soon as possible, because there is finally an animated film for adults to enjoy.

Inglorious Basterds

(*1 1/2 Stars*) After two-and-a-half constipatingly long hours of sitting through Quentin Tarantino’s newest World War II revenge “masterpiece,” Inglorious Basterds (starring Brad Pitt, Christoph Waltz, Melaine Laurent, and Eli Roth), I left the theater feeling as if someone farted in my mouth. Now although that might have something to do with the fact that I tried satiating my thirst caused my ingloriously buttery bag of popcorn with a bottle of Ensure (watch it! I was with my grandpa and doctors say it’s never too soon to start prepping for Osteoporosis), the sentiment I consequently felt after witnessing Tarantino’s production was one of depression and abhorrence for the senseless violence that incessantly splatters across the screen scene after scene. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good action flick (the day Bruce Willis talks down a terrorist into joining his Bikram yoga class instead of yippee-ki-yaying him to the grave is the day I yippee-ki-yay my own testicles), but Taratino’s World War II escapade misses the mark.

The movie begins in Nazi-occupied France in ____ year (your 6th grade history teacher would be ashamed of you), where German Colonel Hans Landa (portrayed fabulously by Christoph Waltz, who won best actor at the Cannes Film Festival for this role) interrogates and massacres a Jewish family being hidden underneath the floorboards of a French dairy farmers home. This heartless butchery sets the stage for 1st lieutenant Aldo Raine aka “Aldo the Apache” (Brad Pitt) and his band of ‘Basterds,’ a team of Jewish-American paratroopers whose mission and goal is to produce panic and havoc within the Third Reich by viciously killing as many German servicemen as possible.

While we monitor the ‘Basterds’ slayings and scalpings (who, realistically, strike as much fear into you as the 7 dwarfs or the pimple-faced, yamaka-wearing kid at my local Jewish Community Center who bicep curls 2 ½-pound weights with the same intensity as the Incredible Hulk giving birth to octuplets), we are introduced to another subplot involving Emmanuelle or Shosanna or, let’s just call her the Heidi Montag look-a-like, and her plot to seek retribution for the murdering of her family by setting ablaze a small cinema crammed with high-ranking German officials and officers at a film premiere. The movie is then concentrated solely on the events unraveling at this small cinema (which take you by surprise like a Janet Jackson nip-slip), while Tarantino takes the liberty of constructing his own devious version of how World War II concluded.

Although the film as a whole falls flat when it comes to entertainment value, there are bright spots that glisten in the movie. First—dialogue. Tarantino’s script boasts a confidence and witty swagger that is a staple to all his films. Characters elegantly ramble off on a tangent then strategically make their point with the seemingly-imprecise precision of a professional bowler’s hook ball.

Second—casting. Christoph Waltz’s depiction of Colonel Hans Landa (a character who radiates a unique blend of feminine masculinity, like a 300-pound Gold’s Gym bodybuilder asking you to spot him while he kegels) was superb. His despicably evil nature and masterful interrogation techniques where he seems to tango with his prey even though he already knows the answer (similar to when my girlfriend cross-examines me on whether or not I tooted in bed when it is just the two of us lying there). Certain scenes cause you to cringe and your stomach to do flips as you watch powerless victims get grilled by the charming and flamboyant Waltz. One also cannot overlook Brad Pitt’s performance as the pitiless and hard-nose ‘Apache,’ and Pitt’s ability to contort his face to resemble mine in the bathroom on Taco-night (tell me certain scenes he doesn’t look like he needs his diaper changed?).

One issue my mind has trouble wrapping itself around is why, with such wonderful character build-up, does Tarantino insist on killing off all of his troupe quicker than the Ebola virus? Is this some weird, tragic-Shakespearean initiation technique that all great directors must embark on to solidify themselves amongst the ranks of Scorsese and receive Oscar glory? I remember playing pretend when I was little in our neighborhood, and nobody ever wanted to be the “dead” person…”Bang, bang, I shot you…no you didn’t…yes I did…” (except for my chubby younger brother who relished make-believe death so he would not have to exert any more energy than required and go back to the house and open a bag of Cheetos…who would have thought he would be up for an Academy Award? ”That’s not cheese on my fingers, it’s blood!”). All in all, while Tarantino’s Basterds may render you at times to the brink of your seat, my final conclusion of this unusually distinctive take on World War II is that while most war epics leave you with simple morals like “War is bad” or cause us to reflect upon our own morals and values by depicting the enemies point of view, Basterds purely glorifies war and revenge--two things we could do more without in today’s day and age. In that sense, this film in comparison to previous WWII endeavors is much like a transvestite: because while you may initially be captivated by what you see, nothing beats the original.

District 9

(*4 Stars*) The science-fiction film District 9, directed by Neill Blomkamp and produced by Peter Jackson, is not a movie for the faint of heart (as my girlfriend and step mom can attest to, with particularly graphic scenes rendering my girlfriend’s face to my armpit as if she really fancied my deodorant selection, while my step mom two seats over appeared to be reading an imaginary book in her hands with the precision my grandpa does when he has misplaced his glasses). But if one can manage to see beyond the violence, he or she will have the pleasure of sitting back and marveling at the best, and most creative, movie of the summer.

The film begins in the late 20th century, where an alien spaceship that is similar to but lacks the disco ball appearance of the mother ship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, stalls directly above the most unlikely of places, Johannesburg, South Africa. Reports presume the lost ship became stranded after a command module separated from the ship and disappeared somewhere in the city (however, my GPS the other day had me driving in the San Francisco Bay, so I understand that it is not always that easy to get home). A team of humans breach the interior of the vessel to discover a massive group of malnourished and leaderless criket-esque aliens (commonly referred to as “prawns”, and whose physique looks more or less like a combination of Wilt Chamberlain and Mahatma Gandhi with faces obscured by tentacle-like features or as if someone tried to suck an entire package of spaghetti in one eating). The aliens are removed from their ship and are confined to a government camp inside Johannesburg called District 9, which is like an alien version of Boyz in the Hood. Decades later, a private military contractor is placed in charge of policing and relocating the alien population to a new Porta Potty-like camp outside of Johannesburg called District 10.

The movie gets interesting when Wikus van de Merwe (played terrifically by Sharlto Copley), a bureaucrat who gives you as much confidence as Steve Urkel wielding a machine gun and saying, “Come with me if you want to live,” or my grandpa in the ring with Mike Tyson (“Forget the left hook Pa, just use the walker…don’t let him bite your hearing aid!”), is assigned the arduous task of serving eviction notices to the alien species and having them transferred to District 10. After being sprayed in the face by an alien-like substance in a canister that alters his DNA (perhaps an intergalactic prank, like an alien Whoopi-cushion?), Wikus must combine forces with the aliens to help them escape the planet and save his own humanity.

What makes this film so remarkable are not only the intense action sequences that triggered my dad in the theater to jump out of his seat and bellow out “Woo-Hoo!” as if he had an inflamed hemorrhoid on his toosh, but also the subtle insights about human nature the movie reflects in its storyline. For example, the method we process the unknown and unfamiliar--as seen through the way we give names to the aliens like “Christopher” to make them appear not as foreign to us. This lack of comprehension can naturally lead us to feelings of fear and anger, causing us to push the mysterious beings as far away as possible, disassociating ourselves with them completely. Now I make note of these diminutive observations not because I want you to go adopt a baby from Zimbabwe or because I want you to lose hope in humanity (which at times in the film you may feel like doing), but because although this may be a far fetched movie about strange Praying-Mantis-like creatures landing in South Africa, the film reminds us that many of the character’s responses to the aliens are not much different from our own unconscious reactions to things in our everyday lives that we fail to take the time to understand. But then again, you may just like watching people’s heads explode like water balloons, and that’s fine too. Whatever your purpose for seeing the film may be, please remember to enjoy, be aware, and most importantly…don’t forget to wear some deodorant!