Fetishism is the first word that comes to mind when considering Rob Marshall’s newest musical film, Nine. Take your pick of which element is fetishized: Europe, the 1960s, cinema, Penélope Cruz, etc. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s actually quite an accurate read of how we now view the work of Federico Fellini and his peers. The filmmaker, on whose 8 ½ the 1982 musical, and by proxy this film, is based is known not only for his mastery of film language but for his keen eye for style. Of course, Fellini’s film was not a musical, but a backstage circus in the life of a woebegone director. Converting it to a stage musical must have been daunting enough, but bringing it back to the screen is something of a chore.

Daniel Day-Lewis is Guido Contini, the Italian director whose next film is sold as being his return to his glory days. The problem is that he hasn’t written it yet, and from the outset we learn he begins shooting in ten days. He is also a womanizer, haunted by the dream versions of the real women in his life. Though he is surrounded by men, it is the women who serves as his muses, for better or worse. Day-Lewis brings not only his uncanny abilities of vocal interpretation but also an incredible physicality to the Italian auteur. Gliding across the screen, he feels ten feet tall atop legs made of feathers. Sure, he’s no Fred Astaire, but if someone asked him to he could probably pull that off too. Read on…

I’m sorry, but I am going to have to hike up my crotchity old man pants and whip my suspenders; it’s time to do a little ranting about the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (AMPAS).

Recently, outgoing President Sid Ganis announced that next years Oscar ceremony will feature 10 Best Picture nominations instead of 5. This unprecedented (at least in 60 years) announcement was followed by a few lesser publicized changes. The rules for Best Original Song are now such that there may not even be an award every year and supplemental awards, such as the Thalberg or the Honorary Oscar, will be distributed at a separate event. It is great to see AMPAS blow the dust off of the arcane rule book they have been following for nearly a century, but other changes are needed. Like what, you may ask? Good thing you came to the candler blog.

Axe the Best Animated Feature Category, and Fast

Part of the thinking behind expanding the Best Pic pool is to give films that rarely make it into the running a fighting chance. Comedies, summer blockbusters and animated features are rarely nominated, but only one of those genres has been pushed out of the running completely. Instituted in 2001, with the first award going to Shrek, the Best Animated Feature award was meant to get gold into the hands of animated filmmakers whose work accounts for an incredible amount of box office grosses yet is rarely honored at the annual ceremony. Instead, it has pigeonholed all animated films into one giant lump that is out of the running of the Academy’s top honor.

Over the last decade, Hollywood and audiences have taken note of animation auteurs. So many people are required to make an animated film, the makers often get lost in the shuffle. However, Brad Bird has now become a marketable name, as have Andrew Stanton and John Lasseter. (These are all Pixar guys, I know, but hey, they’re the major studio) As films become more closely linked to specific names, they start to feel more like works of art rather than DVDs to keep the kids happy in the back seat. With a bigger Best Pic pool, there is no longer a need to push animators into a corner with this useless, offensive award. Read on…

The folks at Pixar are an eclectic group. Over the years they have moved on from their roles as technological pioneers to animation revolutionaries of sorts, trying to boldly bring the form back into maturity after it has long been relegated to the stuff of Saturday morning television. It is no surprise then that Up does everything in its power to subvert our preconceived notions of the animated film. The main character is neither young nor cuddly, the themes are complex and layered, and death is a very real possibility in the world of the film. Still, this is a Disney film so it hits most of the marketable requirements.

Up is the story of Carl Fredrickson, and elderly widower who decides to float his house to South America, fulfilling a wish he and his late wife have shared since childhood. After takeoff, a young boy scout named Russell is discovered as a stowaway and becomes Carl’s unwanted sidekick. The team makes it to their destination, running into some new friends: Kevin, a giant bird with a knack for trickery, and Doug, a cheerful dog equipped with a collar that allows him to speak. These new visitors set up a mad-cap adventure for the two city-dwellers, and we are invited along for the ride. Read on…

If you have never seen another Terminator film, the franchise’s latest installment, Terminator Salvation, will be utterly baffling to you. The good news is that if you’re a fanboy well-versed in the series’ robotic lore, you’ll leave the theater just as confused and dissatisified as all the noobs. In other words, it is an equal opportunity snoozer replete with lumbering action sequences, misplaced character development and an unrealized love subplot. Ahhh, summer.

The film opens in a jail cell in 2003 as Marcus Wright, played by a dialect-confused Sam Worthington, signs his body over to Cyberdyne systems before his lethal injection. Flash forward a decade and a half and we find the world in ruins after the internet-induced nuclear holocaust we know of from the previous film, Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. Whatever humans are left spend their time fighting robots, which are just angry, steely machines; not quite the androids we have come to know over the years. John Connor, whose performance is phoned in by a grizzled Christian Bale, now holds some form of prophetic role in the world as a radio preacher. Read on…

Angelika Film Center On the surface, Soho’s Angelika Film Center’s great location, phenomenal programming, delectable café and the weight of a national theater alliance to throw behind riskier fare make it seem like the perfect art house cinema.   Unfortunately, the auditoriums in this Manhattan mainstay are too close to the earth’s core to allow for a decent screening. Tucked away dangerously close to the nearby subway stop, you’ll have to wait for a transit strike if you want to watch a film uninterrupted.

When you walk up to the box office of the Angelika, it doesn’t take long for the building to enchant you. Perched on a massive corner at Houston and Mercer streets, the hand changed “Now Playing” sign evokes a simpler time in cinema, wholly analog in nature. An eave over the box office has art deco inspired lettering emblazoned on it, with stairs leading up into the ticketing vestibule; it is like walking up a tongue into a mouth, a warm place to rest. Read on…

If you were wondering how oscar winning director Ron Howard spends his weekends, you will find the answer in his latest film, Angels & Demons, which appears to have been conceived and produced in his spare time. Cobbled together from a thin plot by pulp sensationalist Dan Brown’s novel of the same name, the story follows Harvard symbologist (semiologist, no?) Robert Langdon on a winding mystery through the annals of Vatican history. While the material is fascinating, the film suffers mostly from whiplash, trying desperately to keep your attention on the winding streets of Rome but forgetting to build any kind of relationship with the players involved.

After the kidnapping of the four cardinals favored to replace the recently deceased pope, Mr. Langdon, played by an unusually stolid Tom Hanks, is called to the Vatican to consult for the Church, who believes the Illuminati, a cabal of scientists and scholars supposedly killed off in the 17^th century, have returned for vengeance. Upon arrival, he meets Vittoria Vetra, a sultry physicist thesped by the wondrous Ayelet Zurer. She was called in when antimatter stolen from the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) in Geneva turns up hidden somewhere in Vatican City. Suspended between two magnets in a battery powered canister, the mysterious antimatter will ignite should it lose power, which will happen at the convenient stroke of midnight. Read on…

I was in the basement of a Manhattan bookshop when I was forced to purchase Jack Cardiff’s memoir, Magic Hour: The Life of a Cameraman. A cinematographer friend of mine refused me a ride back to Philadelphia unless I purchased it. “But don’t you own it? Can’t I borrow it?” I pleaded. “Trust me, you’ll need a copy for yourself”. He was right.

Mr. Cardiff, who passed away earlier this week at the ripe age of 94, was a cinematographer and filmmaker whose most well known claim to fame was being the first British cameraman to shoot with Technicolor. His autobiography, published under the prolific Faber & Faber film moniker is an incredible read for film geeks and cinema civilians alike. While so many other memoirs are drizzled in name-droppery, fluffy anecdotes and grandiose “I-pioneered-that” ego-centricisms without any semblance of an actual story, Mr. Cardiff’s tale is one of adventure, invention, and discovery.

For us film folk living in a competitive and advanced 21^st century, it is often hard to remember the early wonder that was the cinema. In Mr. Cardiff’s heyday, the motion picture was still a young art trying to find equal footing with its established brethren: painting, photography, theater and the like. Of course, without the introspection we have now looking back on olden times, Mr. Cardiff approached these advancements in stride.

In 1936, Count von Keller and his wife hired Jack Cardiff to film their world travels in glorious Technicolor. As a young man relatively new to the business, he was given an opportunity like no other, to not only see the world but to record it as had never been done before. Romantically, the artist describes his world travels in great detail in his book. These are the parts that will astound any reader, film buff or not.

Embarrassingly, the only film of his that I have seen in its entirety is Black Narcissus. Watching it, you can see Mr. Cardiff’s worldly influence. Even today, there is a certain amount of magic in the sheer expanse of the colorful film. Directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger put together a film that we well ahead of its time in both form and content. How fitting it was to have a look that would influence generations to come.

I have had very little exposure to Jack Cardiff, yet what little I know of him has greatly influenced the way I approach film. You can look up a list of his films on IMDb and, like I will be doing, pop them on your queue. But for a real treat, you should check out Magic Hour. Either way, bringing more Cardiff into one’s life is a very good thing.

Ed. Note: The YouTube video above will spoil Black Narcissus if you haven’t seen it.

AMC Loews Lincoln Square 13Plenty of time is spent critiquing movies, but the films themselves provide only part of the experience. Much of how you take in a work is related to your surroundings, namely, the movie theater. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be writing up some detailed info on New York’s best and worst moviehouses in hopes of helping locals and tourists alike make informed venue choices. Enjoy reading and feel free to add your own experiences in the comments.

By all accounts, including programming, the AMC Loews Lincoln Square 13 is the best movie theater in New York City. The gilded interiors invoke the movie palaces of a bygone time, while the technical standards of each screen remains unmatched. The upstairs lobby is home to black and gold palm trees as well as goofy sketches of old time movie stars. There used to be shrines to particular films (a glass encasement used to house props from Legends of the Fall, for example), adding an almost religious aire to the place; something of a temple to the gods of cinema. Read on…