Movies into Film.com
Originally published in Willamette Week, August 2007.
Arctic Tale
Possibly the worst nature documentary ever made. The movie sentimentalizes the predatory relationship between polar bears and walruses, yet that's the least of its problems. Adam Ravetch's footage of walrus pods impresses, but director Sarah Robertson trivializes both the critters and the photographic achievement by scoring shots to such insultingly bad pop clichés as "We Are Family" by Sister Sledge and Kool & the Gang's "Celebration." (Hasn't she heard any black music since the '70s?) In Robertson's quest to condescend to her audience, there's non-stop narration by Queen Latifah that resonates with the counterfeit warmth of an Aunt Jemima on corporate welfare. I think I'll just skip the interminable scene devoted to walrus flatulence. As the end credits roll, "ethnically diverse" snaggle-toothed kids with high-pitched voices (and smiles as frozen as Arctic tundra) read instructions off cue cards on how we can curb global warming by using less electricity, washing laundry in cold water, etc. I cringed with embarrassment for these children, these little pawns in eco-pornography, some of whom may grow up to be conservative Republikinz one day and resent how obnoxiously they're used here. I didn't like March of the Penguins either, but it had a kind of dull integrity: Arctic Tale is cynical PC smugness in overdrive. G. N.P. THOMPSON. Cedar Hills, City Center, Fox Tower. Guests from the Oregon Zoo (including Arctic insects) will appear at Fox Tower from 4 to 6 pm Saturday, Aug. 18.
I walked in thinking that I liked Julie Delpy (Before Sunset was my favorite film of 2004). By the time 2 Days in Paris ended—well before then, actually—I had reassessed my opinion: She's an embarrassment. Delpy, in her directorial debut, shows the poise, aplomb, and savoir-faire of a typical YouTube auteur. Free from the guidance of Richard Linklater, Delpy outs herself as the sort of smut-obsessed hipster whose sense of entitlement lies in direct proportion to her trust fund. She's made a dumb culture-clash comedy in which a French girl and an American boy visit her parents, a scenario that's merely a ragged framework for scoring cheap and easy pseudo-political points. There are running gags about Parisian cabbies as wife-beating, homophobic racists. A right-wing character turns out to be a pedophile, yet is Miss Delpy really so advanced? Her palpable smugness makes her as creepy as what she complains about. She relies on voice-over too much, rather than allowing a story or even an observation to unfold visually. As a writer, she has no ear for dialogue; her grotesque jokes aren't funny, her timing terrible. At least Adam Goldberg is around, showing off his tattoos, biceps, and ability to chain-smoke. Second only to Jindabyne, this is the most offensive movie I've seen this year. R. N.P. THOMPSON Fox Tower
©2008, N.P. Thompson
npt [at] moviesintofilm [dot] com