By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Calum Marsh
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Inkoo Kang
By Voice Film Critics
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
Actors are the eight-track tapes of the New Hollywood; they had a good run, but the industry no longer seems to need a pulse. With Shrek and the oncoming Final Fantasy, George Lucas's technocratic scheme to outmode human performers sees its first volleys fired. Will audiences buy this weirdness? Shrek is not in essence a cartoonit's an Umberto Eco-style hypercinema, stuck between being drawn and being photographed as Disney's Celebration U.S.A. is stuck between life and entertainment. Spectacle this islike a Grucci blastoff, impressive for having been manufacturedbut Shrek is at the same time witheringly cynical. Desperately avoiding the risk of even a half-second of boredom, the movie is wall-to-window-to-door noise, babbling, and jokes (the first minute sees the first fart gag), and demographically it's a hard-sell shotgun spray.
Producer-DreamWorks honcho Jeffrey Katzenberg has made the movie something of a personal statement. If DreamWorks is his market revenge upon Michael Eisner for not forking over $580 million in shared profits (after he had already doled out a $100 million parting gift), then Shrek is Katzenberg's most juvenile affront. The hair-trigger Disney lawyers are dared to man the ramparts at every turn: Ethnically persecuted "fairy-tale creatures" (Pinocchio, Peter Pan, the three tri-colored Sleeping Beauty pixies, etc.) are rounded up by evil supremacist Lord Farquaad (John Lithgow) like European Jews and sent off to "designated resettlement facilities," and though the character designs are generically non-Disney, the gags are spiteful. Farquaad's sprawling kingdom is quite Magic all on its own, replete with roped-off waiting areas, turnstiles, souvenir shoppes, cheap Tudor facades, over-manicured town square ("It's very clean," somebody compliments the tyrannical lord), and staffers in giant character heads.
Juliet of the Spirits
Directed by Federico Fellini
Written by Fellini, Ennio Flaiano, Tullio Pinelli, and Brunello Rondi
May 18 through 31
Directed by Jerald Intrator
Written by Alan Bodian
Opens May 18
If these bons mots hit pay dirt, they're also a bit callow coming from Katzenberg. Ruefully, little is done with the Holocaust parallel outside of a torture session with the Gingerbread Man, who has the nerve to spit a sprinkle at Farquaad and squeak, "Eat me!" The interface with William Steig's modest, 32-page children's book is minimal, beyond the primary tribulations of the titular ogre (voiced by Mike Myers). Shrek is compelled to quest for the title-hungry Farquaad's princess bride only after the displaced fairy refugees are dumped on his property. A fearless, pea-green misanthrope in Tor Johnson's body, Shrek carries out a Bogart scenario, enduring his Walter Brennan-ish sidekick (a talking, corgi-shaped donkey named Donkey, spoken by Eddie Murphy) and rescuing the maiden (Cameron Diaz) while pretending to care only about himself.
Four screenwritersand 27 credited "additional dialogue" writers and "story artists"toiled here (Steig must be roaring), and the result is hyperactive cliché. Song interludes further distend the materialthough the inclusion of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah," sung by John Cale, over a lost-love montage seems like a move that slipped by the marketing department. By and large, Murphy is the movie's only plugged-in source of amperage, and Donkey is drafted for maximum expressiveness. But Shrek is a lumpen cipher unleavened by Myers's indistinct delivery (trotting out again that soft Scottish burr), and Diaz's go-girl Fiona is, by mortal standards at least, an awful actress. CGI movies can limn the sunlight on butterfly wings all they want, but the characters had better hum.
As littered with arbitrary anachronisms as A Knight's Tale and as beholden to the WWF as The Mummy Returns, Shrek never broaches the miniaturist lyricism and snapping-rubber-band wit of the Pixar films, but it hardly tries. The driest irony is that for all of Katzenberg's potshotting, Shrek cannot shake the Disney paradigmmocking old movies and theme park absurdities doesn't mean DreamWorks can defy the most ubiquitous and powerful entertainment formula of the last 100 years.
Visual bedizenment taken to its own particular Euro-plateau, Federico Fellini's Juliet of the Spirits (1965) rocks, rolls, upchucks, and offers a spittle-flecked grin. Fellini's first film in color, and still so symptomatic of his style that it merges in the memory with his other films, Juliet is both a festooned grotesquerie and a film of its moment. Seesawing between monstrous faces and contrived vanishing points, decked out with polyester, lacquer, feather boas, green eye shadow, and ivory, shimmying to Nino Rota's self-amused, faux-jazzy xylophone scat, it's a movie as bad-taste time capsulewhich was surely part of the maestro's scheme. Few films get lost in their own excesses as this rococo orgy does, and few filmmakers muddle psychosocial critique and fashion lampoon as fecklessly as Fellini. Interpolated often enough with symbolic Fellini-isms and tableaux out of an Artaud theater piece, Juliet takes no prisoners among middlebrows primed for a little Significance with their freakshow tour.
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