The Fall
Directed by Tarsem Singh
Tarsem Singh’s lasting renown comes from his 1991 REM music video “Losing My Religion,” an irresistibly rhythmed compendium of art school icons, evoking styles from Caravaggio to Russian Constructivism. It was a high point of music video’s once-radical ability to make postmodern theory accessible to mainstream culture. Tarsem’s quasi-religious imagery blended with the regional inflections of Michael Stipe’s disillusioned pleading. It linked art-consciousness with existential mystery, all to the tune of a piquant mandolin.
Since “Losing My Religion,” it’s been impossible for Tarsem to match that landmark. His 2000 feature debut, the horror film The Cell, with Jennifer Lopez as victim/artist’s model, lost the commercial bet of its serial killer plot due to art-school overload. (It was a virtual one-man Whitney Biennial, appropriating styles from Damien Hirst to Joel-Peter Witkin.) The Cell was appalling partly because of Tarsem’s baroque, grotesque abundance (things you didn’t want to look at twice) but also because the postmodern moment had passed. A cornucopia of historical images no longer provokes audiences; they’re used to gaudy, sophomoric effects as in the films of Guillermo del Toro whose fatuous, creepy Pan’s Labyrinth unfortunately inspired Tarsem’s new movie, The Fall.
Like del Toro’s fairytale of Spanish Civil War Fascism, The Fall retells history through the eyes of a little girl. Alexandria (Catinca Untaru) is a fat-cheeked urchin at a Los Angeles orphanage during the early days of silent movies. She befriends Roy Walker (Lee Pace), a wounded stuntman, in the adjacent hospital. Fascinated that Alexandria has never seen a movie, Roy makes up stories about her lost parents, about Innocence’s struggle against Corruption (“the Odious”) that involve—well, not the history of the world but Tarsem’s history of art movements. It’s all grandiose and overwrought—Pan’s Labyrinth with a museum-lecture, rather than grindhouse, tone.
Presented by both David Fincher and Spike Jonze, The Fall angles to be a major event. It represents that artsy realm of music video by the generation of classy imitators who owe an unmistakable debt to visionaries Tarkovsky, Fellini, Ken Russell, Derek Jarman, Paradjanov. It’s meant to crown what should rightly be called the post–music video era (vets like Jonze, Marcos Siega, Michel Gondry having gone on to make some of the most distinctive movies of the past decade). But given his catalog of styles, Tarsem works like a surrealist without political bona fides. Alexandria, Roy and the surrounding doctors and staff are all emotionally distant—like fashion models. The only reason for watching their stories is to peruse Tarsem’s portfolio. (He shot the film in South Africa, India, England, Bali, Fiji, Italy, Spain, Prague, Romania, China, Argentina, Chile, Brazil, Turkey, Egypt, Paris and Dubai.)
Despite his exotic locales, Tarsem needs a great Third World plot (say, Thornton Wilder’s The Bridge of San Luis Rey) to galvanize his decadent tourism: scenes of an elephant swimming underwater, a desert of orange sand, towering castle gates, medieval troops, awesome ancient temples where ambushes and escapes take place. Yet these elaborate images never attain dream logic or the power of myth—a problem furthered by the diminishing effect of post-sync dialogue and little Alexandria’s mumbly baby babble. Alexandria’s search for the butterfly named “Americana Exotica” relates to Tarsem’s multi-culti assemblage—something to do with the confluence of world cultures into commercial cinema. But Tarsem has that David Fincher problem of creating TV-flimsy imagery that lacks the spatial and emotional weight of true cinema. In the final sequence, Tarsem connects Alexandria and Roy’s wishfulness to silent film heritage and the mass audience experience. Yet The Fall remains remote and unengaging.
Directed by Tarsem Singh
Tarsem Singh’s lasting renown comes from his 1991 REM music video “Losing My Religion,” an irresistibly rhythmed compendium of art school icons, evoking styles from Caravaggio to Russian Constructivism. It was a high point of music video’s once-radical ability to make postmodern theory accessible to mainstream culture. Tarsem’s quasi-religious imagery blended with the regional inflections of Michael Stipe’s disillusioned pleading. It linked art-consciousness with existential mystery, all to the tune of a piquant mandolin.
Since “Losing My Religion,” it’s been impossible for Tarsem to match that landmark. His 2000 feature debut, the horror film The Cell, with Jennifer Lopez as victim/artist’s model, lost the commercial bet of its serial killer plot due to art-school overload. (It was a virtual one-man Whitney Biennial, appropriating styles from Damien Hirst to Joel-Peter Witkin.) The Cell was appalling partly because of Tarsem’s baroque, grotesque abundance (things you didn’t want to look at twice) but also because the postmodern moment had passed. A cornucopia of historical images no longer provokes audiences; they’re used to gaudy, sophomoric effects as in the films of Guillermo del Toro whose fatuous, creepy Pan’s Labyrinth unfortunately inspired Tarsem’s new movie, The Fall.
Like del Toro’s fairytale of Spanish Civil War Fascism, The Fall retells history through the eyes of a little girl. Alexandria (Catinca Untaru) is a fat-cheeked urchin at a Los Angeles orphanage during the early days of silent movies. She befriends Roy Walker (Lee Pace), a wounded stuntman, in the adjacent hospital. Fascinated that Alexandria has never seen a movie, Roy makes up stories about her lost parents, about Innocence’s struggle against Corruption (“the Odious”) that involve—well, not the history of the world but Tarsem’s history of art movements. It’s all grandiose and overwrought—Pan’s Labyrinth with a museum-lecture, rather than grindhouse, tone.
Presented by both David Fincher and Spike Jonze, The Fall angles to be a major event. It represents that artsy realm of music video by the generation of classy imitators who owe an unmistakable debt to visionaries Tarkovsky, Fellini, Ken Russell, Derek Jarman, Paradjanov. It’s meant to crown what should rightly be called the post–music video era (vets like Jonze, Marcos Siega, Michel Gondry having gone on to make some of the most distinctive movies of the past decade). But given his catalog of styles, Tarsem works like a surrealist without political bona fides. Alexandria, Roy and the surrounding doctors and staff are all emotionally distant—like fashion models. The only reason for watching their stories is to peruse Tarsem’s portfolio. (He shot the film in South Africa, India, England, Bali, Fiji, Italy, Spain, Prague, Romania, China, Argentina, Chile, Brazil, Turkey, Egypt, Paris and Dubai.)
Despite his exotic locales, Tarsem needs a great Third World plot (say, Thornton Wilder’s The Bridge of San Luis Rey) to galvanize his decadent tourism: scenes of an elephant swimming underwater, a desert of orange sand, towering castle gates, medieval troops, awesome ancient temples where ambushes and escapes take place. Yet these elaborate images never attain dream logic or the power of myth—a problem furthered by the diminishing effect of post-sync dialogue and little Alexandria’s mumbly baby babble. Alexandria’s search for the butterfly named “Americana Exotica” relates to Tarsem’s multi-culti assemblage—something to do with the confluence of world cultures into commercial cinema. But Tarsem has that David Fincher problem of creating TV-flimsy imagery that lacks the spatial and emotional weight of true cinema. In the final sequence, Tarsem connects Alexandria and Roy’s wishfulness to silent film heritage and the mass audience experience. Yet The Fall remains remote and unengaging.
anonymous
