23°
Topping 2006 amounted to a Sisyphean task in ’07. It was a year of bloated tri-quels, stripper-penned little indie films that could, and mindless retreads with the soul of a politician. While there’s no comparison to ’06, this year certainly etched itself into history as the highest grossing year in box office history.
But the moneymakers weren’t the best. Most of my selections are genre films which may prompt my few readers to query, “where’s the arthouse/foreign dribble, cretin?” My response: here’s what’s new and original. No, they’re not all Oscar winners, but they’ll likely join your ever-growing DVD library.
A barrage of mixed reviews overwhelmed the colorful, pop-inflected epics Across the Universe and The Darjeeling Limited. In the hands of an inept director the material would feel clichéd; but Julie Taymor and Wes Anderson infused their revolutionary styles keeping the stories (one, a glorious homage to Beatles’ music, and the other, a whimsical road comedy through India) fresh and invigorating.
Even the misanthropic flicks impressed me. In Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street — homicidal barber (Johnny Depp) croons and skimps on aftershave while slitting throats. In There Will Be Blood: ruthless oilman (Daniel Day Lewis) despises competition and humanity. Layered thicker than Mel Gibson’s arrest record while navigating a winding emotional labyrinth, these films feature astounding performances by two iconic actors supporting palpable worlds birthed from the minds of two cinematic hurricanes (Tim Burton and P.T. Anderson).
2007 also established Judd Apatow as Comedy Overlord with his producer/director/writer moniker prominently featured in this year’s hysterical Knocked Up and Superbad. Uncannily combining raunchy humor with a heart, pregnancies and high school misfits never looked so funny.
Unlike this year’s gold, there was also
a lot of crap. Un-bearably forgettable,
these “attempts” at enter-tainment failed miserably for Bratz, Norbit, and The Number 23. Neither thrilling nor heartfelt, they averted audiences and unwittingly spawned
a new generation of drinking games.
Heavy alcohol consumption might have made planetary “documentarian” Michael Moore’s skewering of the American healthcare industry bearable. His carefully chosen facts, info distortion, and victim exploitation to elicit sympathy was misguided and irritating. All in all: fantastic fiction, but not so much a documentary.
Speaking of megalomania, Eli Roth expunged any creativity in mimicking his torture-porn sequel, ingeniously titled, Hostel: Part II. Basically repeating the original with chicks instead of dudes delved into some perverse S&M fantasy leaving me to contemplate similar torture instead of swallowing this bombastic gore-fest.
Sometimes we should celebrate what’s different. So, no; Keira Knightley pompously carousing in Atonement won’t see the light of day; and neither will the Coen Bros.’ sometimes thrilling, mostly uneven neo-western, No Country For Old Men; and no, cartoon rats preparing crème brûlée are neither cute nor impressive.
The best films are quotable, colorful — in a word — memorable. And they’re going to stay with us long after scores of period dramas and foreign films depart, not only the podiums with little golden guys in hand, but also our
collective conscious.
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