Review: Hobo with a Shotgun
B+: An all-or-nothing gambit from the title on down.
Like last year’s Machete, Jason Eisener’s Hobo with a Shotgun originated from a fake trailer created for 2007’s Grindhouse. Unlike Machete, Hobo feels like an honest-to-goodness exploitation flick unleashed from the grimy depths of the ‘70s and ‘80s, as opposed to a post-post-modern wink-fest. Better yet, this terrifically mean-spirited and ultra-violent piece of schlock finds itself surprisingly well-anchored by Rutger Hauer’s performance as the titular vagrant.
Our homeless, nameless anti-hero rides in on the rails to Hope City, home to anything but. The streets are crime-ridden, the cops corrupt, with everyone under the thumb of The Drake (Brian Downey) and his two obnoxious sons, Ivan and Slick (Nick Bateman and Gregory Smith). The Hobo is a pacifist with only a lawnmower in his sights and the domestic bliss it represents on his mind, but once he saves golden-hearted hooker Abby (Molly Dunsworth), the Hobo is harassed by first the police and then the hair-slicked villains. By the time he can finally buy himself that lawnmower, he finds himself in the middle of a robbery and forced to take action with an equally priced firearm …
Eisener nails the neon-bright, nigh expressionistic color scheme of Karim Hussain’s cinematography, the synth-heavy score, and the general air of sleaze and nihilism that defined so many exploitation films that served as an influence; Hope Town here exists in the same universe as The Warriors’ vision of NYC and anything released under the Troma banner. The depravity on display is boundless, the one-liners are corny as hell, the splatter sure is plentiful, and the entire ensemble delivers performances worthy of the film’s exuberant tone.
But what really puts this over-the-top extravaganza over the top is Hauer’s ferocious and oddly sincere performance. Whether he’s warning a nursery full of infants away from lives of panhandling or imploring that Abby follow her dream (well, his idea of her dream) of becoming a schoolteacher, he manages to earn sympathy in a film that has little interest in it. As one headline reads, “Hobo Stop Begging, Demands Change;” he wants a better tomorrow for a town that doesn’t want him, even if he won’t live to see it.
Regardless of Hauer’s terrific turn, this is pretty much an all-or-nothing gambit from the title on down. If the concept alone doesn’t do anything for you, then go ahead and get your kicks elsewhere. If the novelty hasn’t worn off, though, then rest assured that, over 86 minutes, Hobo with a Shotgun will deliver enough bang for your buck.
Hobo with a Shotgun is currently in limited release and is also available on demand.
Grade: B+
Source: film.com
It plays out like a fantasy camp for Wilson, with Gertrude Stein offering to read his novel, Dali stopping him for a chat in a bar, Cole Porter tickling the ivory for his listening pleasure. A cornucopia of intellectual enchantment is at his disposal, and he savors every moment. Marion Cotillard plays Adriana, muse to Picasso and Hemingway, the latter of whom asks her, “Do you know what it’s like to shoot a charging lion?” Whimsy city, but in a pleasant way.
One day George is taking photos with his adoring fans, when a girl catches is eye. The photographers go crazy for the pairing, her name is Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo) and they make the front cover of Variety with the headline “Who’s That Girl?” As you can imagine, George’s wife is none too pleased. But it’s just another charmed day in the life of the silent film star, and he dutifully reports to work the next day … only to find Peppy has been cast as an extra! She captures the attention of a producer (John Goodman) who immediately berates her for stealing the thunder of the film he’s releasing, as George and Peppy’s impromptu photo session stole the front page from him. George intercedes on her behalf, and they film a scene together. They are clearly smitten, the chemistry palpable, and as he leaves the set she attempts to arrange a liaison with him in his dressing room. He’s her hero, you see, and she wants to be near him, in the manner of all initial and overwhelming attraction. George happens upon her, gives her some friendly advice on her career, and then the chauffeur interrupts.
The Artist unfolds in the typical silent film fashion, as George and Peppy head in disparate career trajectories, and by 1931 George has become a husk of his former self. The film has a few central themes running through it, how change comes to us all, how our pride interferes with matters of the heart, how stubbornness masquerading as strength can sap one’s vitality. But most of all it’s the story of George and Peppy. Can they make it work? Are they star crossed? Could George’s little Jack Russell Terrier be any cuter? And so on. The Artist conjures a time of happiness without subtext or irony, when what you saw was essentially what you got at the movies. Mugging for the camera was the only way to truly get over with a story, but things were bound to change, and commerce waits for no man.
Early on in Tree of Life the basic framework for the piece is established. It’s nature vs. grace, conflict vs. cooperation, creation vs. destruction. Tree of Life asks all the big questions, which means it really only asks one question over and over. Why? Why do we die? Why are we here? Why should we be good to each other? Why do parents lie? The questions come furiously, generally presented in minute-long vignettes, and Tree of Life at times feels like about 150 majestic postcards in a row. Some are spoken word, some feature voiceover, and some show off incredible imagery. There’s a twenty minute portion of Tree of Life where Malick simply breaks down all of creation, from the beginning of time, including the dinosaurs and the “ecosystem killing”meteor. And yes, Malick still adores his shots of roiling water, fully realized soft blue chaos. These are not shots that your average director could pull off with such style, and the ambition of Tree of Life is sweeping and robust.
The main characters of Tree of Life are a family living in Waco, Texas. Mr. O’Brien (Brad Pitt) and his wife (Jessica Chastain) have three young sons. They also have parenting styles which are reflective of the central themes. Mrs. O’Brien is all harmony and grace. She believes in loving everything, she’s willing to take abuse, she wants to please. Mr. O’Brien is nature, survival of the fittest. He believes in never quitting, seeks to please himself, and he wants to dole out abuse. They each educate and raise the children in their manner, and neither is completely effective. Tree of Life strives to point out that balance of force is required, but that nothing can truly insulate you from the hard lessons of life. Simply loving without discipline doesn’t get you anywhere, nor does working tirelessly without passion. The kids are strands of each of these arguments. The older one is just like his father, a scrapper, while the younger boy is sweetness and light, the spitting image of his mother. The third son represents a flaw with the film, as he’s not well established. However, the conundrum of this complaint is that this might very well be a stylistic choice given the events that transpire. We simply can’t know what we don’t know, which of course Malick is fully aware of.
The O’Briens, for all their faith and coping techniques, keep sliding, inch by inch, degree by degree, toward the brink and a crisis of faith. The children are followed from birth to early teens, first being taught objective concepts, here is how you read, here is how you you kiss, before the parents make the transition to subjective human frameworks like boundaries, respect, and fear, items that only exist as a shared human consciousness. The children are versed in the world, but they start to see the hypocrisy, they start to question parental authority, they start to question how God works. Tree of Life is filled with some truly lovely discussion points, all based on that “why” paradigm. Why does God send flies to wounds he should heal? Why must we keep trying? Misfortune befalls the good as well as the wicked, and as the children mature they certainly lose their innocence. Near this juncture the film plays as completely stunning … and massively quixotic.
It’s true, and yet in the next breath Tarantino happily lists a number of films and actors that he references in Inglourious Basterds — The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Operation Amsterdam, International Lady, and so on. And he’s unapologetic. “But what happens is that it becomes my scene with my actors and my way of telling the story and I feel like I somehow make it my own.” And he does. The opening of Inglorious Basterds may happily lift from Monte Hellman, Sergio Leone, and John Ford, but it does become pure Tarantino, and an organic part of the film. None of his films feel like a cut-and-paste job. They’re akin to a good research paper, where sources are subtly noted and woven into a sweeping, encompassing argument.
Yes, that’s a very dry metaphor, but it’s an apt one. As a young academic, I anguished about building my arguments on the shoulders of others, until a kind professor pointed out that what I did was an art. Anyone can plop in a chunk of text; a real researcher had to weave it into his or her picture and that, he insisted, was what I was doing. Tarantino’s best films work on the same principle. They may borrow a mood here, a bit of lighting there, a costume idea or a posture from that, but they all end up being a cohesive and original whole. It’s worth noting that the scenes people remember — Shoshanna striping her face to Cat People, Mia and Vincent in the ’50s restaurant, the opening dining conversation of Reservoir Dogs — are original, even if they’re framed around some pre-existing pop culture. (I don’t consider namedropping Douglas Sirk or Madonna a homage. It’s simply a reference. Plenty of films old and new have them. It’s a touchstone of the time or the talent behind it.)
The film that’s latest on the homages, Jackie Brown, is nevertheless more effective because it is one giant love letter to Pam Grier and Foxy Brown. It’s difficult to deny the man his “junk cinema” when it results in something as mature and wistful as Jackie’s speech about growing old. The riff on blaxploitation extends beyond a mere nod and wink, and into territory that is human, heartfelt, and — dare I say it — historic because of the place Grier occupies in American culture. (And I’ll admit, I’m someone who wishes he would return to the more subtle and mature style of Jackie Brown. Basterds was a step forward; let’s hope Django Unchained is another. Early script reviews suggest it might be.)
Many directors repeatedly shove references and homages at us; few are lambasted as hard as Tarantino. This year’s Rango was one giant pastiche of Western references (Gore Verbinski’s Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy also did it to a lesser extent), and audiences ate it up. I was left a little cold by it, and when pressed for why, I couldn’t really explain it except that I’d already seen Once Upon a Time in the West, and I didn’t need to see it with a lizard. Yet I could easily say the same of Tarantino (how many times are you going to rework Angel Eyes’ vicious dinner scenes, Quentin?) but I don’t come away feeling as cranky. As a lover of spaghetti Westerns and serapes, I’m at once desperate to see them referenced and yet weirdly protective of how such nods are used. Rango felt off, yet Tarantino feels right. One can tell he loves the little things about those films, and he’s also aware of the wider mythology they encompass. All mythologies borrow; be they creation myth or cinematic pulp, but the trick is tapping into our instinct with the image instead of rewarding us for “getting it.”
