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Posts Tagged ‘Jamie Foxx’

(A Brief Interlude In An Ongoing Series)

any-given-sunday-original

You find out life’s this game of inches.  So is football. Because in either game – life or football – the margin for error is so small. I mean, one half a step too late or too early and you don’t quite make it. One half second too slow, too fast, and you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us.

Tony D’Amato (Al Pacino)

Even a Year In Movies as transcendent as 1999 saw its share of forgettable phantoms and rancid stinkbombs.  The purpose of Sick Desperation In Your Laugh, however, is to spotlight the standouts rather than dump on the duds.

But there’s a big game this Sunday, and over the past ten-or-so years of Super Bowls, the compelling football games are generally interrupted by bloated, clueless, click-worthy Halftime Shows.  So in honor of this Grand American Tradition, let’s take a brief intermission from the good stuff to whale on Oliver Stone’s Any Given Sunday.

I’ll spot the movie a field goal for its audacity.  At least it has the drive to attack the senseless greed that grapples players and owners alike, greed that often leads to things like life-shattering brain injuries, and has run even more rampant so far in the 21st Century.

Problem is, Any Given Sunday‘s attempts at penetrating such issues tend to crash and thud harder than a Mark Sanchez Butt Fumble.  The characters spout clunky ideas instead of thought-provoking dialogue. Jamie Foxx is basically My new school 21st Century shit is all about winning my way!  And Al Pacino’s all You’re a goddamn quarterback, kid!  You gotta lead with old school 20th Century teamwork and listen to more jazz!  And Cameron Diaz is like Fuck you, Pacino!  I’m the greedy bitch who owns this team and I have to eclipse my dad, who, if I haven’t mentioned 35 times already, used to own this team before he died!  (If you dare, you can sample some of the actual script by watching the ponderous, cornball motivational speech excerpted at the top.)

It doesn’t help that the movie’s an audio/visual headache.  The action’s shot in a skull-rattling style that I’m sure captures that line-of-scrimmage sensation, but I think I’d rather suffer another concussion than endure another viewing of this movie.  It’s funny how Oliver Stone keeps inserting all these shots of vintage gridiron leatherheads, because I kept wishing he would’ve drawn more inspiration from those graceful, tastefully epic NFL Films of yore.  Also, what’s with all the desert lightning and American Indian singing?  Is that supposed to be like FOOTBALL: AMERICA :: MYSTIC INDIANS : JIM MORRISON?  Meanwhile, the soundtrack’s zig-zagging all over the field, adding little more to the experience than “In 1999 we listened to lots of Moby and Fatboy Slim!”

OK, I’ll give Any Given Sunday three more points in garbage time: I did get a kick out of the touchdown celebrations.  They’re the only things in this movie I wish I’d see more of in real-life football.

“On any given Sunday,” says Coach Pacino, “you’re gonna win or you’re gonna lose. The point is, can you win or lose like a man?”  Well this movie doesn’t just lose, it loses like a washed-up, coked-up linebacker losing his train of thought while ordering lunch at America’s loudest Buffalo Wild Wings.

Enjoy the game this Sunday, if that’s your thing.  Now stay tuned for the second half of Sick Desperation In Your Laugh…

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No, slavery is not a Spaghetti Western, so it’s a good thing Django Unchained is also a Horror-Comedy-Bromance-Blaxploitation-Myth.  And since American Racists have been extra mouth-foamy post-Obama, Django‘s also a very-necessary 165-minute assault on their heinous idiocy.  Not that the racists are gonna watch and learn, or anything.  If they do watch, they’ll probably root for the slave-drivers, then walk out before things get real messy, and convince themselves The South Will Rise Again.  But maybe, just maybe, some seeds of dread will take root.

Of course Django is appalling and uncomfortable.  I’ve rarely squirmed so much in a movie theater as I did during the Mandingo fight scene.  (Mandingo fighting may be pure fiction, but as metaphor, it’s apt.)  The movie’s funny as hell, too, and frequently goofier than typical Tarantino.  Some may think those wacky proto-Klan members create tonal whiplash, but I think the ridicule nestles perfectly beside the raging vengeance.

Sometimes the violence does go so far as to undermine the drama, like during the clusterfucky first climax.  So much blood’s a-poppin, danger practically loses all meaning.  And for as long as Django is, it feels like a couple of key scenes have been deleted- scenes that would make Django’s journey that much more emotionally satisfying.

In the end, though, it’s still incredibly satisfying: as entertainment, as catharsis, as meta-folklore. “We are what we pretend to be,” Vonnegut said, “so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” Django Unchained could add something to that.  (Just another one of the many things Tarantino movies have said, in case you’ve been too lazily dismissive to notice.) “Be careful about who you really are as well,” the movie seems to say.  “Because someone might pretend to be just like you… right before they get antebellum on your ass.”

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