It is my contention that in the English speaking world no one mixes light and dark, funny and nasty, brutal and playful better than the Brits. Sure, there are lonely practitioners of the art form in isolated outposts in the far flung colonies but they all receive their instructions in such creative alchemy from a template printed in the United Kingdom. There wasn’t a better example on display in movie houses this decade than English playwright turned filmmaker Martin McDonagh’s In Bruges.
Laced with an abundance of violence and profanity, somehow In Bruges manages to be hysterically funny. Much of that has to do with the sparkling performances from actors you don’t normally expect to be sources of comedy. As the reluctant tourist, Ray, Colin Farrell is such a joy to behold that you can forgive him for every other piece of shit he’s ever been in. Ralph Fiennes -- normally too studied for my tastes -- elicits more laughs as the crazy but oddly principled Cockney crime boss, Harry, in this movie than he probably has in his entire film canon combined. And don’t even get me started about Brendan Gleeson, the Irish John Goodman (which is a full-fledged, unmitigated compliment, btw). The heavy, noble soul of his killer for hire, Ken, is the twisted, erudite conscience of In Bruges. While his role is nowhere near as showy as either Farrell’s or Fiennes’, he still manages to steal the show with his perfectly executed understatement. The fact that a prissy Canadian character kicks the tragedy into its final act is only one more reason for me to love In Bruges.
I’m including an extended hunk of dialogue from the movie. Gleeson’s Ken has taken Farrell’s Ray out to do some very obligatory site seeing around Bruges. It’s not the funniest bit but it best epitomizes the movie’s exquisite, charming crassness.
Ken: Up there, the top altar, is a vial brought back by a Flemish knight from the Crusades in the Holy Land. And that vial, do you know what it's said to contain? Ray: No, what's it said to contain? Ken: It's said to contain some drops of Jesus Christ's blood. Yeah, that's how this church got its name. Basilica of the Holy Blood. Ray: Yeah. Yeah. Ken: And this blood, right, though it's dried blood, at different times over many years, they say it turned back into liquid. Turned back into liquid from dried blood. At various times of great stress. Ray: Yeah? Ken: Yeah. So, yeah, I'm gonna go up in the queue and touch it, which is what you do. Ray: Yeah? Ken: Yeah. You coming? Ray: Do I have to? Ken: Do you have to?! Of course you don't have to. It's Jesus' fucking blood, isn't it?! Of course you don't fucking have to! Of course you don't fucking have to!!
Missing (or ignoring) the sarcasm, Ray then turns and bolts from the church leaving Ken agape, wondering how he ever wound up in Bruges with such a doomed dunderhead.
#3) Napoleon Dynamite (2004)
In January of 2004, a friend of mine returned home from his first ever Sundance Film Festival experience. Still in a fog of networking and non-stop movie going, he said that the one thing that stuck with him was this low budget feature, Napoleon Dynamite. “I can’t explain it, Daren,” he admitted. “You just have to see it for yourself.”
I did see it for myself and, like my friend, I can’t explain it either. You either get Napoleon Dynamite (and get it a lot) or you don’t. I have baffled and alienated friends and family alike with my love of this movie. They sit through 10, 15 minutes, growing increasingly agitated and aggravated, before turning on me, exasperated. What are you thinking?!
For me, this is the anti-John Hughes movie. Patched together in pieces on a shoestring budget, Napoleon Dynamite, in its own weird way, is a far more realistic portrayal of life in high school than anything Hughes produced. The losers and dweebs that inhabit the movie are full fledged, bona fide losers and dweebs, getting shoved up against lockers for the simple reason of merely existing and mocked at every turn.
Even its carefully plotted out upbeat, happy ending is tinged with the knowledge of being ever so fleeting and ephemeral. Chances are that no matter how triumphant Napoleon, Pedro, Kip or Deb feel at the moment of victory, they are all going to wind up living the same life of regret as Uncle Rico. A second string high school QB, Rico cannot get over the fact coach didn’t put him into the Big Game at state finals so that he could lead his team to the championship. If he had, his life would now be different, better. Sitting on the porch, eating steak (all he ever ate was steak) with nephew Kip, he bemoans his lot in life that all came down to not getting into the Big Game in high school. Rico gazes at the distant mountains and tells Kip that he could throw a football over them. As his hated nephew, Napoleon, rides up to the house with Pedro, Rico grabs the unfinished steak from Kip’s plate and hurls it at Napoleon, hitting him smack in the face as if to prove his point.
What point is that? Who knows. That’s the beauty of Napoleon Dynamite.
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In January of 2004, a friend of mine returned home from his first ever Sundance Film Festival experience. Still in a fog of networking and non-stop movie going, he said that the one thing that stuck with him was this low budget feature, Napoleon Dynamite. “I can’t explain it, Daren,” he admitted. “You just have to see it for yourself.”
