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Ray Pride

By Ray Pride Pride@moviecitynews.com

Garrulous claptrap: Day Watch (2006, ** 1/2)

tarkovskian_607.jpg (Denevnoy dozor) With Day Watch, Russian writer-director Timur Bekmambetov accelerates the garrulous claptrap of the first entry in his post-Soviet vampire trilogy, Night Watch Imagine the carnage of the climax of Joe Carnahan’s Smokin’ Aces, but for over two hours. Imagine Moscow laid waste to destruction more nihilist than Roland Emmerich’s 1990s dreams of ruin like Independence Day. Bekmambetov’s visual and storytelling flourishes are beyond baroque, as furiously inventive as Guillermo del Toro, but with less control and lyricism. Yet this slab of magical miserablism, of moral and literal verdigris, also functions as synecdoche of sorts for Putin-era mayhem of a decaying, decadent society of grime, slime and cash, a time of authoritarian chaos that sees the wanton imprisonment and even murder of oligarchs, journalists and motley adversaries? The only answer: burn it to the ground, siege Moscow like a latter-day Leningrad. Another culture, another capitalism: it’s plain that the movie is very Russian, and surely holds more resonance back home with its growls, barks and muttering of dialogue, or the identity of famous guests at a party, and the relentless product placement. (A slightly more esoteric reference: the incomprehensible battle between the two vampire factions is adjudicated by a pair of Andrei Tarkovsky look-alikes who lean on canes with mirroring gestures.) While Bekmambetov repeats his oft-inspired, always amusing play with the English subtitles—a hard knock at a door causes a word to shake; when someone yells “Bastard!” while breaking a plate, the letters shatter—his willingness to be full-tilt incomprehensible may be his greatest strength. The end credit sequence is terrifically bold. (The Russian trailer is below.) [Ray Pride.]


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It shows how out of it I was in trying to be in it, acknowledging that I was out of it to myself, and then thinking, “Okay, how do I stop being out of it? Well, I get some legitimate illogical narrative ideas” — some novel, you know?

So I decided on three writers that I might be able to option their material and get some producer, or myself as producer, and then get some writer to do a screenplay on it, and maybe make a movie.

And so the three projects were “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep,” “Naked Lunch” and a collection of Bukowski. Which, in 1975, forget it — I mean, that was nuts. Hollywood would not touch any of that, but I was looking for something commercial, and I thought that all of these things were coming.

There would be no Blade Runner if there was no Ray Bradbury. I couldn’t find Philip K. Dick. His agent didn’t even know where he was. And so I gave up.

I was walking down the street and I ran into Bradbury — he directed a play that I was going to do as an actor, so we know each other, but he yelled “hi” — and I’d forgot who he was.

So at my girlfriend Barbara Hershey’s urging — I was with her at that moment — she said, “Talk to him! That guy really wants to talk to you,” and I said “No, fuck him,” and keep walking.

But then I did, and then I realized who it was, and I thought, “Wait, he’s in that realm, maybe he knows Philip K. Dick.” I said, “You know a guy named—” “Yeah, sure — you want his phone number?”

My friend paid my rent for a year while I wrote, because it turned out we couldn’t get a writer. My friends kept on me about, well, if you can’t get a writer, then you write.”
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