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  • The Screengrab Highlight Reel: April 25-May 1, 2009

    Hi, it’s Vince with Screengrab and you’re gonna be in a great mood all day cuz you’ll be grabbin’ your troubles away with Screengrab. Ya like lists? We got lists. How about Great Beginnings: Screengrab’s Favorite Opening Scenes of All Time? We got Parts One, Two and Three. But come on, that’s not good enough. Tell ya what, we’ll throw in Parts Four and Five, no extra charge. Now you’re cookin’ with gas.

    How about reviews? Everyone likes movie reviews, right? We got Winnebago Man. We got The Limits of Control, how ‘bout that? You throw your Eldorado in there, you mix it with your Perestroika – come on, you’re not gonna get this at Ain’t It Cool News, am I right?

    I’m just getting started here, folks. Watch this – you’re gonna love my posts:

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  • Screengrab Review: "The Limits of Control"



    Having already combined samurai and noir cinema in Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai, Jim Jarmusch begins his latest, The Limits of Control, with none-too-subtle nods to Jean-Pierre Melville’s crime-saga masterpiece Le Samouraï. Shot with gliding, hallucinatory grace by Christopher Doyle, Jarmusch’s film fixates on the preternaturally stoic countenance of a nameless loner (Isaach De Bankolé) as he lies silently in bed (the day turning to night as his eyes remain open), practices his morning Tai Chi, gets a business assignment from two unidentified men in an airport terminal, and travels to Spain, where he follows a schedule of sitting at an outdoor café each day and ordering two espressos. The ritual is the thing for this mysterious agent, whose comportment suggests a criminal vocation but whose motivations remain doggedly opaque, obscurity which Jarmusch, working from his own script (which begins with a Rimbaud quote), amplifies by lacing his set-up with import-heavy declarations like “Everything is subjective” and “Reality is arbitrary.” The mood is Point Blank by way of Jarmusch’s own Dead Man, the action quickly taking on the guise of a dreamscape in which every action, every gesture, every utterance seems a telling, emblem-laced clue.

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  • Precursors: Dead Man (1995)

    Better off Dead.

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  • Taxing Time: A Screengrab Salute To Beat The Clock Cinema (Part Six)

    SYNECDOCHE, NEW YORK (2008)



    Caden Cotard believes that he is dying. In a way, he is right. This is as true of him as it is of anyone who's ever drawn breath. Time slips away in a very special way for Cotard, though. He awakes one morning in September, but by the time he gets coffee, there's kids in Halloween masks running around. His wife takes his daughter to Europe for a short trip. His crush is flirting with him later, trying to get him to come home with her. He can't, he says, his wife is only gone for a week. "Caden, it's been a year!," she tells him. Some around him age at a startling rate, while others never seem to get a day older. Time is cheating Cotard. It's hard to describe how slippery time is in this movie, because it's utterly different than any other movie I can recall. I sat breathlessly waiting for the movie to start for a good hour, not realizing that this anticipation is itself the point. Life slips away while you focus on the future or the past. You are in a race against time - we all are - but how can a person get his or her head in the race when there are so many issues that need handling elsewhere? Dylan sang that he not busy being born is busy dying. Cotard is in a constant state of trying, and failing, to be born anew. With a grant from the MacArthur Foundation, he sets out to prove that he's worthy of the money and prestige, launching an enormous production that seeks to mirror life itself. But time pulls away at him here, too. Years pass with startling swiftness while we watch the production grow. Cotard keeps suggesting new names, new ways to launch his play. But the future he looks towards is always holding hands with the past, as his life is constantly popping up in his production, actors speaking his inner thoughts to each other, and Cotard no closer to understanding that his life is happening now, right there, not in front of his eyes, but in him. The play he is staging at the beginning of the movie is Death Of A Salesman, the great 20th century play about a man who cannot live his life because of his dreams. Synecdoche, New York is the 21st century answer, a retelling of Death Of A Salesman with the classic Charlie Kaufman Borgesian mindfuck. But it's also one of the most nakedly emotional movies of his - or anyone's - career. I thought he would have trouble again scaling the heights of Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, but Synecdoche, New York goes right over the top, taking Eternal Sunshine's bittersweet mix of love and frailty and adding the sure knowledge that time is the enemy, indifferent to heart and soul and fair gamesmanship. Time will win in the end, and all that will be left of us are the structures we build, real and metaphorical. Leave something worthwhile. (HC)

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  • Trailer Review: The Limits of Control

    Woohoo! A new Jim Jarmusch movie!

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  • OST: "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai"

    If you've been following the "OST" feature here at the Screengrab for a while, or even if you're just familiar with the kind of chicanery that goes on in the music business under the guise of protecting intellectual property, you'll know that an astonishingly large number of movie soundtracks present you with a product that's wildly -- even borderline fraudulently -- different from what you encountered in the movie.  The difficulty and cost of obtaining clearance rights to music, especially for small, cash-poor independent films, and the greed and short-sightedness of record companies (or just their willingness to butt heads with equally greedy movie companies over the size of their slice of the pie) has sunk many a soundtrack.  Jim Jarmusch's inventive, compelling Ghost Dog:  The Way of the Samurai ran afoul of this very problem, but with a curious endgame:  there are, in fact, two available records affiliated with the movie -- one best described as a soundtrack, and the other a score.  Both are extremely worthwhile, but neither is completely successful on its own; both are very different in character, although they were written by the same person; and both feature material from the film as well as material that never appeared in it, though only one is available in the United States.

    It should come as no surprise that Jarmusch's 1999 pseudo-remake of Jean-Pierre Melville's fantastic Le Samourai features a terrific soundtrack.  As befits his image as a New York hipster filmmaker, Jim Jarmusch's movies have always placed music in a prominent position; from the haunting, unnerving guitar wails of Neil Young that formed the basis of the soundtrack to Dead Man to the exotic, emotionally powerful jazz-funk of Ethiopian composer Mulatu Astaque that was featured in Broken Flowers, Jarmusch is one of a handful of directors -- others include Quentin Tarantino, Wes Anderson, and Sofia Coppola -- who can be counted on to take as much care with the soundtrack as they do with the film itself.  After reading that Italian-American mafiosi were fond of gangsta rap, and consulting with his star Forest Whitaker, Jarmusch decided to bring in the RZA, producer and mastermind behind the hugely influential Wu-Tang Clan, to write both the score and the soundtrack to Ghost Dog.  This began a collaboration between the two that became deeper and more profound than either had anticipated; the RZA ended up consulting with Jarmusch on some of the language of the street hustlers in the film, helped out with the design and costuming, and even appears briefly in the film (as do Timbo King and a handful of the Wu-Tang Killa Bees auxiliary).  The movie and the music are gorgeously integrated on every level, reflecting a realness that couldn't have come about if any other director and any other musician had been behind it:  scenes are perfectly broken up by the intrusion of killer hip-hop tracks (all of which the RZA wrote, produced, or both); the scenes themselves feature gorgeous nighttime driving shots of Whitaker's lethal but loyal assassin, accompanied by evocative, skeletal beats also made by the RZA.

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  • Fitting Farewells: The Top Ten Great Final Films (Part Two)

    Desmond Llewelyn, THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH (1999)



    Despite a pretty decent theme song, The World Is Not Enough hardly qualifies as a great film (or even a particularly great Bond film), but it earns a spot on this list for one perfect scene. Desmond Llewelyn first appeared as the cranky go-to guy for state-of-the-art British spy paraphernalia in 1963’s From Russia With Love and returned in every subsequent 007 installment (except for 1973’s Live and Let Die) thereafter, outlasting Sean Connery, George Lazenby, Roger Moore and Timothy Dalton before finally teaming with Pierce Brosnan for three late ‘90s adventures. In his final big screen appearance, the aging Q is seen schooling his protégé (and eventual replacement) R, played by John Cleese, before disappearing from view with the classic exit line, “Never let them see you bleed, and always have an escape plan.” Sadly, Llewelyn died shortly after the production wrapped, not of old age (he was 85), but in a car crash, on his way home to his beloved wife of 61 years after dinner with a friend...not, as my dad pointed out, the worst way to go, especially after spending your life as a beloved cinema icon (who once said he’d play his signature role “as long as the producers want me and the Almighty doesn't").

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  • When Good Directors Go Bad: Year of the Horse (1997, Jim Jarmusch)

    For almost three decades now, Jim Jarmusch has been one of the heroes of American independent cinema. The deadpan humor and multicultural vibe of his best works have influenced directors worldwide, and his maverick sensibility has practically defined the term “independent filmmaker.” While this sensibility hasn’t endeared him to the Hollywood bigwigs (his insistence that he retain the rights to the negatives of all his films would be a dealbreaker for most studios) it’s made him something of a hero to followers of indie-film, because he’s a director who gets away with making whatever he damn pleases.

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