Not that I've had a blinding revelation or anything, but I might have been too hard on 3:10 To Yuma when I mentioned it yesterday. It didn't do much for me, but it's certainly a well-crafted piece of work. Director James Mangold is clearly no Delmar Daves, much less Anthony Mann, but then again, those directors worked in an era when audiences were more patient, not expecting constant action or motion every five minutes.
Additionally, 3:10 To Yuma is fraught with the weight of expectation. So few westerns are made these days, any new one seems to carry the future of the genre on its shoulders, and you can feel the strain here, as the film wants to be an old-fashioned oater, a modern ADD-edited action epic and an ironic comment on filmic traditions, all at the same time.
Recent musicals have been victims of this tendency, as well. Dreamgirls tried so hard to be all things to all audiences, it felt as though its negative was processed in flop sweat. On the other hand, Hairspray didn't try to be anything other than what it was, and was wonderfully entertaining.
And Hairspray, for which I had incredibly low expectations, turns out to be my favorite movie of the year so far. How the hell did that happen? There are movies I know are better--Zodiac, say, or Sicko--and movies I liked a great deal, like Bug. And Ratatouille, for crying out loud! That's a movie to fall in love with, expertly realized, a near perfect combination of humor and pathos. Yet somehow, I felt detached, disconnected. I didn't take it to my heart.
Maybe it's me. These last couple years have been a bit of a rollercoaster, emotionally speaking--I believe I've written about that here occasionally, yes?--and even though movies used to provide succor in times of need, lately they feel more like a hollow distraction.
Or maybe it's the movies themselves. After all, I was in the mood to be entertained when I saw 3:10 To Yuma, so I wanted to enjoy it, but it just didn't deliver on anything more than a basic level. Zodiac was undeniably well-made, but so self-conscious in its echoes of seventies cinema it couldn't even breathe. Sicko was a well-made film about an important subject, but Michael Moore fell into his familiar schtick too easily. And Ratatouille--well, no, the problem with that is me, because there was nothing wrong with that movie.
I should go see it again. Perhaps I'll fall in love with it this time, and my faith in the movies will be restored. It'd be nice if I could at least believe in something.
