The 100 Best Movies You've Never Seen (7 page)

P.T. Barnum would have loved Steve Mann. The pitch would have gone something like this: “Step right up ladies and gentlemen! Have we got a FREAK for you! Half man and half machine, this
un
biological creature is one of the wonders of the world!” Barnum met his reward many years ago, so it has fallen to Canadian documentarian Peter Lynch to introduce us to the weird world of Mr. Mann, the planet's first cyborg.

Lynch has a knack for finding unusual subjects for his films. His last feature,
Project Grizzly
, focused on Troy Hurtubise, who built a suit so he could wrestle grizzly bears. Before that was
The Herd
, featuring Andy Bahr, who wanted to drive reindeer across the top of the world. As eccentric and compelling as those characters might be, the director struck pay dirt with Steve Mann, the subject of
Cyberman
. Mann, a University of Toronto professor, has spent the last 20 years outfitting his body with a variety of electronic gizmos that are linked to a computer. He is rarely seen without his wearable PC, even in the company of family and friends. Think of Mann as the bastard child of Bill Gates and Inspector Gadget. His electronic get-up gives new meaning to the term “personal computer.”

Ideologically Mann is a cybergeek Michael Moore, an anti-establishment figure who is distrustful of big business and almost everyone else. One of the functions of his contraption is to keep an eye on the hidden surveillance cameras in stores. There are several scenes showing Mann accosting retail employees, questioning them about hidden cameras in their shops, while at the same time secretly recording their meetings. Therein lies the contradiction of Mann's work: he rails against hidden surveillance in franchise retail outlets while simultaneously violating the privacy of the store's employees. Mann doesn't acknowledge this conundrum, as if his academic ideas take precedence over the rights of the very people he claims to want to protect.

That said, Mann doesn't exactly try to blend in. His thick black glasses, equipped with eye cams, give him a mutant fly-like appearance, like a character from a Philip K. Dick novel. We see him wandering the streets of Toronto and New York, shooting a video diary of his life that he uploads to a variety of Web sites. While he attracts attention, he seems awkward and confrontational when dealing with non-techno hipsters. He maintains that his work will actually forge a stronger bond between people, but by its very nature it isolates him from real human contact. By acting as the director of an elaborate cyber-reality show he puts a layer of equipment between him and the rest of the world, preventing any real interaction with others. Not even Mann's wife, who has worn a similar personal technology for 15 years, is immune to his constant electronic observation. Mann claims that by monitoring her at meal times she was able to improve her table manners. It seems a rather elaborate way to teach etiquette.

There is a creepy element to Mann and his constant detached observation. He doesn't look at things, he inspects them. His mother reveals that Mann and his brother kept the family under secret surveillance for three years. College friends mention a hair fetish. This behavior isn't explored in the film, but doesn't exactly endear Mann to the viewer.

Mann is not a likeable character, exuding an “I'm-much-smarter-than-you'll-ever-be” vibe that could become obnoxious when presented by a less capable filmmaker, but Lynch handles the material with subtlety. Mann isn't treated like a sideshow attraction, a Lobster Boy or Bearded Lady. Lynch allows Mann to spout his unusual ideas while including several scenes that humanize him, including footage of the adult Mann taking his first swim. True to form, he learns the ins-and-outs of swimming from books and movies, rather than from the more direct experience of simply jumping in the water and moving his body.

We meet his mother, a woman resigned to the difficulties inherent in raising the world's first cyborg. As he sits next to her in full cybernetic regalia, she looks at him, and in a world-weary voice says, “This is Steve.” The implied feeling is one of a long-suffering parent who can't quite get a handle on her own flesh and blood, but also of unconditional love.

In another sequence Mann recalls a story of a childhood friend who was forbidden to play with him. The boy's mother was concerned about the six-year-old Mann's “influence” on her son. Shot in close-up, it is the first time we see past the darkened glasses and into the soul of the subject. Mann appears vulnerable, his guise of superiority dropped as he momentarily steps out from behind the wall of technology.

Lynch wisely resists portraying Mann as a one-dimensional techno-nerd. Without these illuminating scenes he would seem to be a damaged person only able to deal with real life by creating his own reality. Lynch's unblinking camera manages to smooth Mann's rough passive-aggressive edges, which may be the film's greatest achievement. Mann is difficult to like, but through Lynch's camera viewers are engaged, even fascinated by a character they only get to meet through the screen. Observing the observer. Engaged but removed. I imagine that is the kind of cool detachment that Mann would admire.

Based on the Darby O'Gill short stories of Herminie Templeton Kavanagh, this movie is arguably Disney's best-ever live-action film. Uncle Walt tried to bring the story of Darby O'Gill and his tall tales to the screen for almost 20 years, but had to wait until 1959 to be able to create the sophisticated special effects necessary for the film's visual success. Technicians needed to create an effect that blended full-sized actors with tiny leprechauns. Using mattes was an option, as was optical patching, although both methods would have left the film with a grainy appearance that would have taken away from the story. The answer to his f/x problem was found in the art of optical illusion — forced perspective. Large-sized actors are placed in the foreground, while smaller ones are moved to the back. When lit properly, one achieves the desired illusion of leprechauns and full-sized people interacting in the same scene. It is this technology that lends
Darby O'Gill and the Little People
so much of its wonder.

The story is simple: devious old O'Gill (Albert Sharpe) learns that he is about to be replaced by the younger (and much better looking) Michael McBride (Sean Connery in one of his first film roles) as caretaker of Lord Fitzpatrick's estate. He stumbles down a well, only to discover the kingdom of the leprechauns. Thinking quickly, O'Gill captures Brian Connors (Jimmy O'Dea), the leprechaun king, and holds him captive until he agrees to grant three wishes that will secure a future for himself and his daughter Katie.

The screenplay, although serviceable, has a loose feel to it, mainly because it had been cobbled together from a number of stories. It isn't the script however, that makes this movie so enjoyable, it's the wonderful special effects and rambunctious performances of Sharpe and O'Dea, who turn in boisterous portrayals of O'Gill and the leprechaun king.

At the beginning of the film Disney added a title credit sequence thanking “King Brian of Knocknasheega and his leprechauns, whose gracious cooperation made this picture possible.” He wanted kids to believe that this world really existed, and once they'd gotten an eyeful of the sprite kingdom with hundreds of leprechauns cavorting and racing around on horseback in front of a colossal O'Gill, I'm sure they were convinced.
Darby O'Gill and the Little People
is a solid action-adventure film, topped off with some great fantasy sequences.

The title,
The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys
, sounds ripped from the headlines, but is actually taken from a 1994 novel by the late Chris Fuhrman, who died of cancer before the book was released. The story of four boys in Catholic school was based on his experiences as a child growing up in Savannah, Georgia. The Catholic Church will be relieved to discover that there isn't a single pedophile priest in sight.

Set in the early 1970s, the film revolves around a group of teenage boys who are obsessed with comic books. Their ringleader Tim (Kieran Culkin) is a prankster who schemes to get revenge on Sister Assumpta (Jody Foster), the joyless, strict nun with a prosthetic leg. Learning most of what they know of the world from the superhero adventures written by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko, they believe there are only two types of people — heroes and villains. Sister Assumpta falls into the latter category, and becomes the subject of a “blasphemous” comic book drawn by the boys featuring the evil motorcycle-driving Nunzilla. The guys imagine themselves as the heroes who do battle with Nunzilla's sisterly minions.

In their real lives they are careening towards maturity with varying degrees of success. Francis (Emile Hirsch) falls in love for the first time with Margie (Jena Malone), a girl with a sad and surprising secret. As his relationship with Margie intensifies his friendship with Tim becomes strained, and life becomes complicated for the first time.

Once the comic book is discovered the boys are expelled from school, with the grave assurance from Sister Assumpta that not only are they not welcome at the school anymore, they likely won't be welcome in Heaven either. Tim concocts a plan to kidnap a cougar from the zoo to give her a fright, but like many of his schemes, the plan has unforeseen consequences for everyone involved.

The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys
is a darkly comic, touching coming-of-age story that could easily have turned into by-the-book teenage drivel, but is rescued by the performances of its teenage leads. Kieran Culkin, who made his acting debut at age eight in his brother Macaulay's film
Home Alone
, shows real range and subtlety here. His line readings are good, no doubt helped along by the strong dialogue of first-time screenwriter Jeff Stockwell, but it is his body language that really impresses. He's reckless, but with a world-weariness the others don't have. In one scene we see Tim watching television, ignoring a knock-down-drag-out scream fest between his parents. His posture says it all. He's been in this situation too many times to show concern, but deep down the fighting and mayhem are slowly crushing him.

Emile Hirsch makes his big screen debut as the artistic Francis. Years of guest spots on
ER
and
NYPD Blue
seems to have taught him a thing or two about acting. His Francis Doyle is a normal kid caught in the throes of self-discovery. His childhood is slipping away, only to be replaced with a reality that he can't quite understand. He's not sure how to make this transition into adulthood, and his reactions to his evolving world keep his performance compelling.

As Margie, Jena Malone exhibits a torment that lies just beneath the surface, waiting to bubble over at any time. It's the kind of deeply layered performance that she hinted at in 2001's
Life As A House
.

The film's biggest stars play small but pivotal roles. As a priest and a nun Vincent D'Onofrio and Jody Foster play the theological good cop/bad cop routine with the boys. D'Onofrio's chain-smoking Father Casey is a firm but benign influence, while Foster's Sister Assumpta spits hellfire in every sentence. Foster plays the sister as a strict disciplinarian who truly believes she is doing the best to save her students from damnation. Her peg leg is just a physical manifestation of her rigid personality. It's new territory for Foster, who pulls it off with aplomb.

The rich inner lives of the boys are represented by the spectacular animation of
Spawn
creator Todd McFarlane. McFarlane's animated interstitials are Francis's inner thoughts shown in the form of the Nunzilla comic book come to life. It's a clever and entertaining way to weave extra character information into the story without resorting to needless verbal exposition. The scenes are dazzling and entertaining.

The movie isn't faultless — the pacing is a little slow in places, the climax is played for shock value — but whatever this film's devils may be, its angels more than compensate.

The French are world renowned for their cuisine, so leave it to iconoclastic directors Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet to set their first movie in post-apocalyptic France where there is very little food and no meat. Well, almost no meat.
Delicatessen
is a high voltage variation on
Sweeney Todd
, set in a time when people will eat just about anything . . . or any
one
.

The time is the near future. Louison (Dominique Pinon), a down-on-his-luck clown, answers an ad in the
Hard Times
newspaper and earns a janitorial job in a crumbling apartment building. His boss, Clapet (Jean-Claude Dreyfus), also runs a deli. Louison is grateful for the work, and tries to ingratiate himself to the tenants of the building, who for the most part seem to like him. But they'll like him even more in a few days when they are eating him with mint jelly or a béarnaise sauce.

You see, a catastrophic meltdown of some sort has left thick toxic yellow smog hanging over the city, and killed almost all the animals in the world. With lots of mouths to feed people had to seek out alternative forms of animal protein. This is where Louison comes in. The residents of this particular building have come up with an interesting way to procure meat: they hire it. Louison is the latest in a string of superintendents whom the tenants plan to butcher and eat. Clown stew, anyone?

A romance with the butcher's myopic daughter keeps him off his neighbor's dinner tables for a time, but as their hunger grows, his chances of survival get slimmer. To ensure Louison's safety the butcher's daughter betrays the cannibals to the Troglos, the subterranean vegetarian revolutionaries who actually live underneath the building.

Delicatessen
's apartment building is populated with many memorably grotesque comic characters. First there is Louison, the ex-circus performer whose best friend and partner, a chimpanzee called Dr. Livingstone, was recently attacked and eaten by a ravenous circus audience. Then there is his paramour, the nearly blind butcher's daughter Julie (Marie-Laure Dougnac), who is so clumsy she buys two of everything so she will have a replacement when she inevitably breaks one. There are two men who spend their days making toy cylinders that moo like a cow when turned upside down. A man in the basement has turned his apartment into a snail farm, while a woman upstairs hears voices telling her to kill herself. She tries, building elaborate Rube-Goldbergesque suicide devices that always fail. The man next door patches his condoms with a bicycle repair kit, and most of the alienated tenants only communicate with one another through an old pipe that runs through the walls.

In their feature film debut co-directors Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet show a great deal of control, keeping this disparate group of characters intriguing and captivating, while grounding a story that seems ready to take tangential flight. Their sense of comic pacing is dead on, particularly in a scene that starts off with the butcher and his mistress in bed, the motion of their lovemaking causing the mattress springs to squeak rhythmically. Soon, as the camera cuts from one apartment to another we are treated to a symphony of household sounds playing in concert with the squeaky springs. The toymaker's drill keeps time, as do the grandmother's knitting needles. The piece builds with the addition of a bicycle pump, a cello, and a metronome. Louison paints the hallway ceiling to the beat, using his suspenders as a bungee cord so he can reach the awkward parts. It is a beautifully realized sequence, expertly edited and paced, that ends with a frenzy of action.

Stylistically
Delicatessen
owes more to music videos and animator Tex Avery's feverishly wild Bugs Bunny cartoons than to other post-apocalypse movies like Richard Lester's fantasy
The Bed Sitting Room
(1969) or the Luc Besson end-of-the-world epic
Le Dernier Combat
(1983). Shades of Terry Gilliam and David Lynch shine through the motivation and execution of this film, but Caro and Jeunet are such mavericks that every camera move, every scene in this film feels fresh and alive. Cinemato-grapher Darius Khondji, who created the look of David Fincher's menacing
Se7en
, helps put their dark vision on celluloid.

The script, by famous comic book author Gilles Adrien, constantly keeps the viewer off guard. The basic story is bizarre but fairly simple, but it is his eccentric vision of the dystopian future that confounds and amazes. He has created a dark and moody world worthy of any serious science-fiction movie, but at the same time filled it with belly laughs. While being propelled through this crazy world it is impossible to guess what will happen next.

As good as the direction and script are, it is the lead actors who really sell this film. The wonderful Dominique Pinon — a prolific French actor who is probably best known in North America as the bald hit man in 1981's
Diva
— uses his rubbery face to great comic effect, but can also pluck at your heartstrings with just a slight move of his eyes. Playing opposite him as Julie is Marie-Laure Dougnac who projects sweetness and likeability, particularly in the afternoon tea scene. Julie is so myopic she can barely see, but she doesn't want Louison to see her wearing her ugly glasses. She rehearses everything for their lunch so she can literally do it with her eyes shut, but when he sits in the wrong seat, her plan backfires, and their date becomes a comedy of errors. She is the lone beacon of sanity and innocence amidst the film's madness.

After the success of
Delicatessen
, Caro and Jeunet teamed up once more for the bizarre but entertaining
The City of Lost Children
(1995) about a scientist in a surrealist society who kidnaps children to pilfer their dreams, hoping to slow down his aging process. That was Caro's last film, although Jeunet has had international success with 1997's
Alien: Resurrection
and the enchanting
Amelie
in 2001.