I love Thanksgiving! It's a national holiday, so we're all included, and it integrates well with any religion (or lack of one -- you can always thank a person, after all). Plus, it taps into our American desire to eat to excess! Brilliant!*

As an added bonus, Thanksgiving involves catchy national mythology, featuring some touching interplay between Pilgrim and Indian. It tries hard to convince us that we were freely offered maize/this continent in exchange for smallpox/a romanticized portrayal once a year in November. I think at this point, most of us are uncomfortably aware of how shady a deal that was and even more uncomfortably aware of how little we can really do about it. Because of this, we've constructed an almost mystical reverence for the wise, proud people whom we (irreverently) dumped from their homelands and channel it into the arts whenever possible.**

I don't know about you, but I'm pretty damn grateful for the sacrifices they made. I mean, what have I done anyway? I sit around, think thoughts about movies and buy clothes online [this post is my official entry into ModCloth's Thanksgiving Thank-a-thon contest]. It's pathetic.

Unfortunately for my conscience, all that post-colonial romanticizin' has resulted in some Hollywood portrayals that are pretty difficult to resist, especially when you're crammed full of mashed potatoes and unable to get out of your dad's recliner. The following are four movies with which to indulge yourself and one that'll help you reclaim a measure of your self-respect.

Pocahontas

Get this one in before the kids go to bed! It's a surprisingly enjoyable Disney animated feature in the old style that suffered much due to criticism that the history is almost 100% inaccurate (although the animals in this film don't talk, so obviously some attempts were made to keep things realistic). Try to ignore the fact that this pretty musical doesn't quite fit in with Disney's usual line of dry, historical documentaries and instead focus on hearing the wolf cry at the blue corn moon.

Dances with Wolves

If there's one thing the 90s were good for it is sweeping epics. If there are two things...I don't know what the second one is,*** but I know it's not Kevin Costner. Nevertheless, that toneless man really put some excellent movies together, did he not? If you haven't seen this film in awhile, it's time to refresh your memory. Don't pretend it's just your mom who loves that sentimental John Barry score -- you'll have a tear in your eye as the drums play while Lieutenant Dunbar forges a relationship with Stands with a Fist. She's not only sassy, she's white! It's the choice with which everyone can feel comfortable.

The Last of the Mohicans

Rumor has it that the noble Mohicans and the rest of the Native American actors and actresses experienced less-than-favorable conditions on the set of this movie. I try and fail to make my indignation overpower the heart palpitations I experience when Daniel Day-Lewis tells Cora that he will find her. I hate being manipulated! I love this movie!

The New World

I recommend this not because it is any good but because knowing what you know now, you can use your viewing of this movie as a post-turkey game to keep your mind sharp. Give yourself points every time a white man helps a hot indigenous babe learn the ways of civilization. Give yourself extra points every time she teaches him something about the ways of nature in return. Down an entire bottle of wine every time a woman's fate bodily passes from one male to another.

Dead Man

I threw this one in last in case your colonial guilt is starting to flare up beyond all reckoning and you crave some relief. One of my favorite films by one of my favorite directors and starring an actor I think about at least once a day, Dead Man will remind you that a colonist can indeed portray the colonized in a thoughtful and respectful manner. Not only that, it's still a kickass movie that will provoke all sorts of emotions, even if no one jumps into waterfalls.

*This is an argument for another time, but Fourth of July might be better, since it taps into our American desire to drink in someone's backyard. Also, the revolutionary ideals of the founding fathers are a whole lot more fun to celebrate than those of the Puritans. Just saying.

**For real, it's a real thing. To read more about it, check out this article about aboriginal representation in media, and this one about the "noble savage," and this one about Squanto, just for kicks. That guy had a rough life.

***That's a lie. I do know what it is, and it's Pearl Jam.

In the last month or so, I have seen two bloody, gory, sickeningly violent movies, one of which I loved (Inglourious Basterds) and one of which I hated (District 9). I spent a good amount of my theatre-going time buried in my husband's shoulder, and during both films I briefly considered Walking Out.* Then later I made a solemn vow which came back to bite me in the ass. Won't you read on??

The violence in Inglourious Basterds is typically Tarantino - gratuitous and shocking-on-purpose - but underneath it was such a pretty, clever story that I forgot about a lot of it, like it was limp lettuce and a mealy tomato before an excellent dinner. I try to hate Tarantino. It's not clear to me why, unless it's because I can't stand listening to him talk, but I usually end up being all captivated and whatnot. It's the isolated quirky elements that end up bugging me almost more than somebody beating someone else's head in with a baseball bat in a sequence that is two minutes longer than it needs to be. He's always throwing in titles and narration where they don't belong, in an effort to show how much he treasures his influences, I imagine. Sometimes it works for me, sometimes it doesn't. In Inglourious Basterds, it doesn't work, but I'll put it aside with the lettuce and tomato - a too-thick slice of yellow onion. It was there, and I bit into it hopefully, but my disappointment with it was forgotten when I tasted the main course. These onion moments ALMOST bother me more than the grossness, but not quite. Well, I should say, not as much as the miggles** that erupt all around every time someone's head explodes in a shower of brain and skull and scalp. They even laughed during the scene in which Hitler laughs at a violent movie (though inwardly, I'm sure, they were dealing with some really troubling self-comparisons that are sure to have kept them up late that night.)

District 9, guys, was stupidly the exact opposite. The film began with a neat allegorical premise (aliens, deposited in Johannesburg through no fault of their own, are hated by everyone else, who think they're pretty gross, so they get stuck in their own ghetto, aaand we have Apartheid.) (Although you gotta wonder about the implications of this - the aliens, except one guy who has big Wall-E eyes and is therefore acceptable, are pretty much made out to be worthy of everyone's hatred and disgust). Half false documentary, the film could have been something special, but instead it leaned farther and farther into the action/thrills genre until it stumbled over the line and became a sci-fi action flick.

So anyway, after all the chunks of alien/human meat flying around all the time, I swore off violent movies for awhile. Instead, I've been devoting every spare second to watching the BBC television phenomenon, Monarch of the Glen. It's a sprightly show about a young Scottish guy who is sort of thrown into managing his family estate. Every episode ends satisfyingly, there are one or two seriously good jokes, and I enjoy the rampant sexual tension between just about everybody. Plus I get to see beautiful highland scenery (every scene is shot before some kind of fantastic waterfall, it feels like), beautiful highland guys, and hilarious archetypes of old, rich aristocrats. Best of all, nobody's body explodes before my eyes! Win/win!

Unfortunately, I watched about ten episodes in a row this weekend while I struggling with some sort of stomach illness. As a result, the cheerful saxophone theme song and the garish lines of plaid that intersect the opening titles now fill me with Pavlovian nausea. Bitter irony?

* It's so liberating to do that, but also constricting because you want to save that insult of all insults for only the truly despicable boils upon the face of cinema. Not to mention that so many terrible movies are so terrible that one enjoys feeling gleeful contempt and wants to see it through so that every drop of suck that can be wrung from it will be duly appreciated and mocked. But sometimes things just blow, and when it not only blows but murders Beatles songs, I'm outta there.

**Noun, man giggles. Made up by my sister last week. Sooo much more useful than you might think.

Australia, which clocks in at close to three hours, is a film in about 75 acts. You got your love story, your war story, your racism story, your mystical aboriginal story, your coming of age story...it's Last of the Mohicans, Braveheart, Dances with Wolves, Out of Africa, Empire of the Sun, and Titanic combined! Sarah, played by the predictably solid Nicole Kidman, is an English noblewoman who comes to rough ol' dry Australia to see about her husband's estate. Soon, a convenient conflict comes up, and she and the Drover, played by the predictably "solid" Hugh Jackman, have to team up despite their differences and persevere. Also, there's a little boy. Also, a wise old guy. Also, some stuff about pride and honor and tolerance and freedom. All it needs is a John Barry score and a time machine, and Australia would trounce all of its competitors.

Well, maybe. I said Luhrmann had toned down his stylizing, I didn't say he'd gotten rid of it entirely. There's some choppy camerawork and surprising timing in certain parts of the film that don't jive later on with its ethereal Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow quality. And there are some parts that you think are going to slip you the old-fashioned Baz whimsy but instead deliver bland epic-movie resolutions. But as inconsistent and irrelevant as the film is, it ends up nearly satisfying you.

Bear with me, here. The reason I say this is because it's seasonal! What's better than going to a nice big family Thanksgiving dinner and then escaping as quickly as you can, hauling off the cooler siblings and cousins, to get to the movies? Some of us have been doing this for years! And judging by the crowds at the movie theaters, we're not the only ones. Australia has obliged the turkey-laden crowd this year by coming out on a Wednesday, just in time for you to settle in a cushy seat, digest your huge dinner, and possibly fall asleep. Who cares! It's an easy to watch blockbuster that requires little thought, and if you snooze a little, it doesn't matter because you've predicted all of the events in the film anyway! Plus, its premise turns from "dated" to "nostalgic," with the help of a little holiday sentimentalism (provided by you), and in the end, you'll be glad you didn't see a thinkpiece. No one wants to be accosted with discussion about the film you just saw while you're having a midnight turkey sandwich snack (or by your (grown) sister climbing into your bed in the middle of the night because you've both just seen The Ring and can't sleep. Damn you, Gore Verbinski!).

So don't be afraid to climb out of your well and hang out with Baz Luhrmann this holiday weekend. I can promise you at least one chair-gripping moment and at least two glimpes of Hugh Jackman's muscles. And I don't know about you, but I can't get that sitting around my mom's house washing dishes.

*An adorable film that I used to think was the poor man's Dirty Dancing, but upon a recent rewatching of that undeniable 80s classic, I've realized it's the other way around. Rent it immediately. A life lived in fear is a life half lived!!

Let's make it quick, though, because I have a couch to sit on. I could probably wrap this up lickity-split with a link to my review of Tamara Jenkins's The Savages but I think I'll try to spice things up a bit and make some stompy pronouncements, seeing as how it's Election Day and all.

IN THIS ECONOMIC CRISIS, guys, do you want to go see a movie about awkward, painful family interactions or do you want to see Zack and Miri Make a Porno? I wanted to see the latter this weekend, but something told me to go experience Rachel Getting Married instead. If only because playing an obnoxious recovering drug addict and insecure sister is almost certainly going to launch Anne Hathaway into the Oscar spotlight (which she would deserve). So I went and I sat there and I writhed in embarrassment. I contemplated walking out, decided against it, and was rewarded later that night with a vivid and terrifying nightmare, during which my family sat around a dinner table and hollered at each other for what seemed like hours. It's not that this shakily filmed slice of realism wasn't a beautiful, compelling picture. It actually really, really was. It's that I don't need my nightly stress dreams about work replaced by stress dreams about family interactions.

Is that coming off too selfish? Well, tough. Like The Savages, Rachel Getting Married is moving and powerful -- a three day emotional ride, centered around sister Rachel's (Rosemarie DeWitt) wedding, to attend which sister Kym (Hathaway) has been released from rehab. Everyone wants Kim there, but nobody WANTS her there, seeing as how her crazy drug days resulted in the accidental drowning of their younger brother. In an attempt to relieve some of the pressure of the elephant in the room, Kym acts like a complete idiot over and over and over again. Fights ensue, siblings and parents cry...it's the kind of roller coaster I'd think I'd be super susceptible to, especially since I fear family drama. But something about this movie lacked punch. The best way I can attempt to describe it is that, while the acting all around was outstanding and unforgettable (especially Hathaway, DeWitt, and Bill Irwin, who plays their faither, Paul), Demme doesn't seem to be riding this particular roller coaster. The elements are all there, though. The aforementioned acting, the handheld camera, the jump cuts, and the music, which is generated entirely from within the film. All of these help to create a very realistic weekend, but like I said, if I'm going to have stress dreams because of your movie, I want it to also leave some lasting waking impression.

But it just didn't. I didn't leave the theater wanting to call all my siblings and insist that we all start hugging more, and ever since Away from Her, I have these high standards. If a film is going to kick us when we're down, it should really kick, like with all its strength. To the face.

*Which is why my campaign didn't really take off.
Rating: 3 out of 5 stars

Ladies and gentlemen, Transsiberian finally made its way transamerica (whoa, another movie) to Richmond, VA amid accolades and fanfare and a Rotten Tomatoes rating of like 5000. And I could not be more excited about it!* Yes, this whimsical romp is about two American tourists, Jessie (Emily Mortimer) and Roy (Woody Harrelson),** merrily chugging their away across the cheerful wasteland of Siberia on the railroad that might be more aptly named the "TranSMILEberian Express." Director Brad Anderson is no stranger to lighthearted amusement -- you may have had the pleasure of catching his earlier film, The Machinist, which chronicles Christian Bale's quest to lose some excess poundage via the somewhat unconventional diet of pure guilt!

The folks in Transsiberian are no exception. Chasing the bliss that is their marriage, Jessie and Roy meet a delightful young couple, Abby (Kate Mara) and Carlos (Eduardo Noriega), and the four develop a strong relationship that is sure to deeply affect the rest of their lives... for the better! Though they don't know it, gruff police detective with a heart of gold, Grinko (Ben Kingsley) is about to catch up with them and kick off a classic comedy of errors during which no one ever tortures young girls. Things quickly escalate from good to great, and, as you sit in the theatre, you will feel your soul expanding with unadulterated joy as the film progresses.

You know those movies like You've Got Mail or She's All That? Movies about people who start off sad and a little bit lonely who finally find another person who appreciates them for who they are (and who they are is a really neat, creative person who are unlikely to traffic drugs or attempt rape). Transsiberia isn't like those movies at all! It's even more cheerful! It's so cheerful I had to literally sit on my hands to keep from waving them in the air like I just don't care! I even looked around the theatre at one of the most side-splitting parts, and all I could see was light reflected off grins and eyes filling up with appreciative tears. Not one person lurched towards the exit swearing never to travel anywhere ever again, and hardly anybody whispered to their neighbor "If this doesn't stop soon, I will find a way to commit suicide in this theatre."

Watch out, Wall-E! You're no longer the feel-good film of the year. Transsiberia is hot on your tail! Gosh, the way that Russian police disregard the law, endangering the inherent security that we feel because of our automatic trust in authority figures still makes me laugh out loud when I think of it! What a gas to be alone and friendless, surrounded by absolutely indifferent and borderline hostile faces. How romantic to be at the mercy of the below-zero-degree elements in just a thin sweater and no shoes! That airhead Jessie! Tossing her warm jacket and gloves just because of some little bloodstains! What will she do next!?!

You'll find out when you hop on board Transsiberia - the film that definitely will not cause you to slump your shoulders over with dread and dig your fingernails into your palms! Make sure you don't forget your one way ticket to fun!

*It's not that this movie wasn't well-made (although with a cheeseball ending and some really overt themes), but please, if you are sensitive like I am to movies like A Simple Plan and Very Bad Things, where everything goes from awful to difficult to watch, and stupid decisions inevitably lead their makers to their doom, skip this film.

**Terribly fine acting, for real. In fact, the directing was good too. And even much of the writing. I'm actually pretty sure that the bad taste that this movie left in my mouth has mostly to do with the fact that I am in general annoyed both by films that cause me to cringe for two hours and by films that have to keep repeating their themes to you so that you really and truly get them. It's almost like they're repeatedly smacking themes into your head with a club from a fence and leaving your corpse to be covered by the snow. That's actually not a bad description of how it felt to experience this solid slice of filmmaking -- head, club, corpse, snow.***

Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

(from my review at RVAnews)

I’m upset because it’s probably not feasible to watch Atonement every day.

Seeing it in theaters, certainly, is impractical after three or four times. I mean, I have to eat, after all. Then I guess I could buy it on DVD, but even then I could probably only watch it ten or eleven times before those others who live in my house start complaining. Plus, my Netflix queue would languish, and I’d fall way, way behind in my goal of seeing every movie ever.*

My recourse, therefore, is to try and remember as much as possible of Joe Wright’s painstakingly crafted film. It’s not difficult to do. The lush world of British aristocrats of the Thirties is the setting of the first third of the film, and within its sunlit idleness, tension sparks. There’s Briony Tallis (Saiorse Ronan), the thirteen-year-old little sister who struggles to be taken seriously, and it is partly because we remember the painful confusions of pre-adolescence that we are able to understand, if not sympathize with, the actions that end up cementing three fates. You see, her older sister, Cecilia (Keira Knightley in the most amazing dress of her career) is awkwardly in love with the housekeeper’s son, Robbie (James McAvoy). Briony happens to witness some poorly-planned moments during their brief romance, misinterprets their meaning, and, presto! All of a sudden it’s five years later, Robbie’s struggling to stay alive in World War II, Cecilia is alone and penniless, and Briony has a guilty conscience.

Get over yourselves, right? I mean, Robbie’s case is a sad one, but it is a war, after all. Surely there would be a good chance he’d have ended up fighting anyway, and even if he hadn’t, what makes his own story any more tragic than any other soldier stripped from his family, homeland, wife, and mother? Robbie himself reminds us everything between him and Cecilia boils down to just a few illicit moments in a library. When the entire world is being ripped apart by a war, is this really something to cry about?

But suddenly you realize that Wright isn’t trying to aggrandize the plight of his characters. He represents the gruesomeness of World War II as vividly as he does the peaceful idylls of the Tallis estate. In a magnificent sweeping shot that seems to last for hours, Robbie is shown as just a tiny part of a horrific bloody mess, and Cecilia is just one among hundreds of nurses trying to eke a living while helping the cause in London. It’s Briony that this film is about — how even in the midst of such chaos, human nature can be overwhelmed by guilt. And is it guilt that makes Briony so self-absorbed or is it self-absorption that makes her so guilty? For the film calls her reliability both as a witness and as a narrator into question. Briony didn’t commit the crime for which Robbie was accused, she didn’t withhold evidence that would prove his innocence as some characters did, she didn’t write the incriminating letter, she didn’t start the war or force him into enlisting, yet her sister and her sister’s faithful lover spent the rest of their lives despising her and suffering because of her actions. Or did they? Isn’t it possible that the two forgot about each other in the face of real tragedy and that Atonement is just another of Briony’s tales?

I’ve seen a number of films lately, but it’s still Atonement that I keep going back to, asking these questions and marveling at the film for filmmaking’s sake. It’s this year’s Notes on a Scandal, in both its elegant structure and its insistence that, yes, British people DO behave badly once in awhile. Who knew?

*Don’t try and test this goal by gifting me The Santa Clause 2. Tim Allen is so retired it’s like he barely even existed in the first place.