It’s entirely possible the movie is a dud—admittedly, I haven't sat through it myself. And frankly, I don't believe you need some fancy film degree just to enjoy a flick. It just reminded me of this one girl from my college days who, after watching a certain triumph of willpower, turned to me and said, "This director seriously has no clue how to edit. She's cutting like a maniac." Something along those lines.
It’s simply not the masterpiece the critics would have you believe. To be honest, Jack falls short whether you view it as a comedy or a study of an existential crisis. The film's atmosphere is inconsistent, and the focus feels scattered; it hits its stride during those melancholic stretches and moments of biting satire involving a low-level bureaucrat, but it completely loses its way when it reaches for cheap mockery—especially in the second half. That said, Kathy Bates is absolutely fantastic playing that eccentric, unfiltered matriarch, though some of the emotional "revelations" lean dangerously close to pure melodrama. I've always been skeptical of voiceovers as a narrative crutch, even if it makes some sense here given we're following a protagonist who lacks any genuine connection to the world around him. Jack Nicholson is solid, but you can't shake the feeling that he’s just revisiting his role from As Good as It Gets, albeit with significantly more restraint. Three out of five. Has anyone else sat through this?
Susan Booth42 said:stacey q paul young samantha fox jennifer rush men without hats baltimora sinitta sonia tiffany Debbie Gibson debarge rockwell (every single time I see that 'somebody's watching me' video, thank God they play it relatively often on VH1 Classic) patrick swayze ('she's like the wind') don johnson ('heartbeat') 🙂 😁 chesney hawkes cutting crew go west
duran duran.. but that's already alternative and actual quality compared to the lot above. 😍
You really know your stuff! 😁
Unfortunately, the eighties will never be funny to me. There was simply too much musical trauma inflicted by radio waves and pure peer pressure. By the time I hit puberty and my mom finally let me head out to the local disco—on the condition that I was home by 10:30 PM sharp—the golden age of New Romanticism had long since passed, its musical legacy having mutated into a sort of Eurotrash hyper-production that truly soured that innocent period of my life. As for specific atrocities, I’d point to Big in Japan—that pretentious, anemic hit that didn't even belong, despite being the catalyst for an entire generation of schoolgirls' erotic fantasies—and then, toward the end of the decade, Sade with her Smooth Operator or whatever else. I honestly can't decide what was worse: the kitschy eighties or the "quality" eighties. All I know is that at the very first notes of Girls Just Want to Have Fun, Material Girl, or Radio Ga Ga, I break out in a cold sweat and start getting palpitations.
The bright spots (total clichés, but I don't care): The Human League - Fascination Spandau Ballet - To Cut a Long Story Short Depeche Mode - I Just Can't Get Enough Blancmange - Living on The Ceiling Gary Newman - Cars Soft Cell - Tainted Love Bow wow wow - I Want Candy Style Council - Walls Come Tumbling down Madonna - Into The Groove Michael Jackson - Billie Jean queen & Bowie - Under Pressure dead or Alive - You Spin Me Round (even though I hated it back then, I'll insist now that it's a hundred times better than Blue Monday) 80s Pop Hits
The most hilarious part was when, about three quarters of the way through, they realized they had run out of time to actually follow the characters, so they just started frantically jumping from one storyline to the next like they were being coached by Russ Meyer on how to edit. Honestly, though, the dresses look better than those in The Stepford Wives.
Album of the week, once again, is Get Happy by Elvis Presley. Whenever I find myself at a crossroads, I turn to Elvis. Most often, it’s this specific record. It brings back memories of better days—not with nostalgia, but with a sense of zero regrets. Song of the week: i Can't Stand up for Falling down (that alternative version from the bonus CD). Song of the week number two: Frank Sinatra, Mexico (1956). One day, I’ll actually make a movie just so I can use this track in the opening scene. For now, it serves perfectly as my "facing the sunlight" soundtrack instead of some obnoxious alarm clock. Something else that takes me back to the good old days: The Classical. Advice of the week: Feeling indecisive? Change your hair, sign up for a foreign language class, try needlepoint, or go out and get some stitches. Clean out the garage, tear up the garden, or invite the neighbors over for lunch. Just listen to Elvis! Or Frank Sinatra!
If someone were trying to interrogate me into a full confession using nothing but music, Radiohead would be an absolute knockout. Mercury Rev would definitely do the trick, too. But honestly? It’s Radiohead—especially if you pair them with one of those music videos where you can see every ounce of angst etched onto Thom York’s face in all its glory. They could probably squeeze a confession out of me about stealing a Hershey's bar back in fourth grade. That guy basically just rants, and those miserable sound effects completely drown out what might actually be interesting music if it wasn't so repetitive and overlong.
redcrane28 said:Grace Jones, Island Life. :surprised: I have absolutely zero desire to elaborate.
Pull up to the bumper, babe!
My unexpected hit album of the week—largely because I had already resigned myself to the fact that it was permanently lost in the mail—is London Calling. Even after fifteen years since I last gave it a full listen, it sounds even better now; in fact, it sounds its absolute best! It looks like it might just be my hit of the month, too. Though, I’m actually a bit terrified to listen to the Vanilla tapes. Honestly, that Clash demo is strictly for masochists.
My seasonal anthem: Train in Vain Song of the week, number two: I'm not down Song of the week, number three (exclusively playing in my head while on the subway): Baby Lemonade Favorite time of day: late morning. Fashion items of the week: gloves and a hat.
Look, Shipko, I’m not going to take offense at you patronizing me with your little movie recommendations. I view it as nothing more than well-meaning advice that I am perfectly free to ignore as I see fit. Nor will I take Sophia Evans76’s comment literally and indignantly protest that I’m somehow obsessed with Bush. However, I find it quite fascinating to observe that none of those who enjoyed this film—especially those who reacted so aggressively to my post—have bothered to actually explain or deconstruct their positions. That is, of course, with the curious exception of HellaBud, who was the only one interesting enough to actually do so. Being dazzled by a beautiful film doesn't actually prove anything—unless, of course, you believe that such an emotional reaction is a foolproof guarantee of objective artistic merit. It implies one possesses a sensibility so refined that mere feeling equates to truth. If that isn't the case, then I truly see no reason why I should be judged based on my personal response. Mine. Emotional reactions—or, more accurately, the complete absence of them. I’m going to take this opportunity to bid farewell to this thread, which has started to feel less like a discussion and more like a massive group therapy session. Without wanting to pick sides or join any specific camp, I’ll quote Mark Hughes36, who managed to articulate my exact grievance with this film:
It’s just that nagging sensation you get—that feeling that the director was genuinely aiming for a masterpiece.
I didn't care for the film.
P.S. By grouping women, Black people, and homosexuals all into one single sentence, Shipko, you’ve actually just handed me the perfect proof for one of my arguments.
rapidskiper9, It is entirely possible, though I fail to see how that correlates with low intelligence—a point I have already addressed. How else can one explain my complete lack of comprehension regarding certain members here who feel the need to morally and intellectually tear apart anyone unfortunate enough to criticize a universally acclaimed masterpiece or a personal favorite of our "esteemed" members? Honestly, even one of the moderators engages in this regularly. That kind of personal attack simply doesn't sit right with me. First off, I see zero reason to swap actual arguments for personal insults, which usually boil down to claiming that anyone with a differing opinion is simply incapable of grasping the depth of a film—as if those who deal with cinema professionally (or the angry replicants in this instance) hold some monopoly on understanding, making any further explanation of the obvious totally pointless. And just to be clear, I am not presenting my critiques as objective arguments, but rather as impressions, as I previously stated; however, I don't expect to be personally attacked just because my approach is subjective. Secondly, this is a forum. The whole point is discussion and the exchange of diverse perspectives. It seems somewhat ironic to label someone an intellectual snob just because they deviate from the consensus of mainstream critics and festival juries. Thirdly, if we are actually having a discussion—and if people are willing to engage in one—it is vital that the person responding actually reads what the previous poster said instead of misrepresenting it. It is true that I didn't go into exhaustive detail in my post, but you still managed to misrepresent my position. Furthermore, I believe the lack of representation and the clichéd nature of the female characters in the film is a perfectly valid observation. Which makes these religious connotations seem even more reactionary to me. To ensure there is no misunderstanding, let me summarize my take on the film: it is very elegant, technically flawless, excellently acted, and the subtle interaction between the three leads is wonderful. However, the overall impression is that the stylistic tools have become an end unto themselves; there is simply too much "good taste" and too many aesthetic aspirations. I had a similar reaction to Deep end—the psychological motives and characterization were completely overshadowed by the technical and stylistic elements, leaving a result that feels somewhat superficial. As for my comparison to Amelia, I was referring to the way national clichés were handled through the directorial approach. My critique of the film being one-dimensional and superficial refers specifically to that.
Weekly Longplay: Bringing It All Back Home, a revisit to Bob Dylan—because, honestly, one owes Bob a certain level of respect, even if we ignore decades of mutual antipathy and strained relations which, looking back through a lens of absolute euphoria, seem a bit sudden. This isn't just an album of the week; this is the album of a lifetime and the entire animal kingdom! And what is one supposed to listen to after such a thing? Ah! I know! Elvis Costello revisited—weekly longplay number two—My Aim Is True. God, it’s good. Seriously, why wasn't there some sort of medal, a military pension, or at least a title of Lifetime Honorary President of the local neighborhood association awarded when he first arrived? And to think, it's just a country album! Played with such economy, yet brimming with soul and elegance. Track of the week: for the seventeenth week running, Hank Williams' You Win Again. Track of the week number two: You Shook Me All Night Long, this time revisited and revised by Hayseed Dixie. In my estimation, it's the only track that actually works on that album. Even Cowboy Rajk could sing it. Track of the week number three: Baby I'M-a Want You by Bread. This feels more like an atavism compared to last week, when my collection of the aforementioned band's greatest hits was a hit. If you don't know this group, you're missing out. This is the kind of music they play when you arrive in paradise. Meal of the week: a McDonald's MacTasty large meal. Sometimes, one simply must indulge in a bit of decadence. Drink of the week: Strawberry, give me cherry juice. Pear, give me carrot juice. Transport of the week: public transit. Garment of the week: cashmere. Recurring theme of the week: Christmas, New Year's Day... Tech gadget of the week: a pocket calculator.
Sometimes I wonder if I have some kind of neurological disorder—maybe a mild case of autism—or if I’m just plain unintelligent. It feels as though I lack the capacity for symbolic interpretation and metaphorical understanding. Honestly, I was the only student in my class who didn't see the subtext at the end of that Mark Twain story we were assigned as required reading; I didn't see it as the flame of revolution, but merely as a melodramatic climax. A crude realist, I suppose! To get back to the topic at hand, I didn't see any of that intense religious undertone in this movie at all. It never occurred to me, much like how I failed to catch all those cinematic references and nods that others seemed unable to miss. Ah, Mother Russia and all that nonsense... I suppose I should probably rush off to re-read Fyodor Dostoevsky, Mikhail Bulgakov, and the rest of the Russian classics, though I suspect that given who I am, I’d almost certainly end up a nihilist after all that! And since that obvious allegory escaped me—and since I'm currently beating myself up over it and slapping my forehead in frustration—perhaps I should mention what I actually perceived with my prosaic, analytical mind. First off, there was that stylistically forced photography in every shade of green, which initially tricked me into thinking it was naturalism—especially with that great opening scene depicting the hopelessness of American youth in their modern homeland—but over time, it increasingly felt like a habitat catalog from around '94 when Polaroids were all the rage. Everything in the film was incredibly stylish and tasteful. Modestly furnished rooms. The weary, beautiful face of the mother dressed in simple clothes. An intellectual three-day beard and piercing black eyes, worthy of our very own Radeta in a Hollywood setting. Then I noticed that most of the action boiled down to people getting in and out of cars. Slamming doors in every possible variation. Stilted dialogue. Sudden outbursts of repressed emotion. And then, total silence. Not to mention the complete marginalization of female characters. A grandmother gnawing on bones, a mother smoking wistfully on the balcony, and then lying in bed in a silk jumpsuit, finally finding refuge after years of waiting. Just like ninety-five percent of female characters in Slavic, Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, Far Eastern, and North American cinema. So, what is this film telling me, as a woman? Is it about redemption, sacrifice, and faith, or is it about patriarchal authority and political power? Does it visually evoke Sinai and Golgotha, or is it marble, stone, and iron amidst the modern American socio-economic wasteland? If you ask me, it's all just pure abstraction and pseudo-mysticism, relevant only within a specific cultural context. To me, this film is an American Amelia, a victim of its own clichés and aesthetics—competently made, but ultimately one-dimensional and superficial.