Silly Kissers
Terry Gilliam gets intimate in scary, scary ways.
BY GREGORY
Midwesterner and movie director Wes Craven has spoken of horror movies being “a boot-camp for the psyche,” and
although that’s reasonable in theory, something about his arrogance therewith has always put me off. Bootcamp for
whom? By whom? See? Annoying. But then fellow Midwesterner and movie director Terry Gilliam comes along and, to
paraphrase that child-enslaving athletic shoe company, he just does it.
The result is Tideland, which is this year’s best film. Why? Because it smartly and succinctly blends the machinery of
Fairy Tales with the fanciful blur of Real Life, stirs in more fetid, juicy taboos than you could grab in a dozen elective
classes, boldly depicts the whole kit and caboodle with more pizzazz than most people probably muster for their most
staggering dreams, and adds some nice accordion flourishes at just the right moments. Oh, and Jeff Bridges spends most
of the movie looking like Leonard Cohen. To hell with the big glut of pre-programmed Oscar bait in December – I’m
calling it now: Tideland. Go.
“But,” asks the concerned consumer, “is Tideland really ‘Horror’?” -- well, that depends upon your perspective.
Apparently, given his rave, David Cronenberg thinks so, but David Cronenberg keeps making the same movie over and
over again (to wit: We Have Monsters Inside; Oh, And Sex Is Weird! -- Thanks, Dave), so I’m going to suggest instead
that Tideland is Domestic Melodrama For Extremely Smart People. (Obviously, this will limit its audience considerably,
but there you go.) There’s absolutely nothing like it this year (even though, technically, the movie was made last year),
and although, yeah, I am usually keen to jump in with the Gilliam jamboree, Tideland really is a powerful work of art.
Here’s how I know this: Gilliam takes great delight in making people uncomfortable (in The Hamster Factor, the making-
of doc for 12 Monkeys, he’s even caught explaining to his talent that as long as they’re uncomfortable, “it must be
right”) -- but this mild sadism alone is of little interest to me. Tideland constantly emits whiffs of this rankling tendency
just as Jeff Bridges’ character “floats air-biscuits,” but this time the director is in full control, and his rather immense self-
confidence allows for measured assaults of cynicism from the viewer, absorbs them, wangles the next unexpected twist,
and dives headlong for the title of Inappropriate Masterpiece. Lots of people make wild slop (and are celebrated for it;
et tu, Lynch), but Gilliam’s alchemy transforms the Slop Of Human Existence into very, very weird and disturbing gold.
Now, just to show I’m no total fanboy and am generally on the level -- brace yourself! -- here: Brazil is not my fave
Gilliam flick. It’s enjoyable, and my affection for it grows annually. But frankly, I’m all about Time Bandits and The
Fisher King. Why? The writing. Exemplary! I’m not sure if any of the other minions have said this already or not, but
when Gilliam -- as with many visionaries -- applies his knack to great, very human material (often stretching beyond his
own cozy theme: Hey Everybody, Bureaucracy Is Bad; Dreaming Is Better!), then we’ve got magic. Tideland is magic.
Dark, bleak, gorgeous, scary magic.
Apparently we can thank Santa Fe-reared author Mitch Cullin for writing a book Gilliam describes as “Fucking Brilliant!”
-- which the director and his regular collaborator Tony Grisoni have very ably adapted. (Gilliam has also dubbed this
movie, “Alice in Wonderland Meets Psycho,” and if movie reviews were five words long, those five would sum up
perfectly. Terry, wanna trade jobs?)
What goes on? Well, Neil Gaiman (Coraline, MirrorMask, Wolves in the Walls, etc.) and Peter Jackson & Fran Walsh
(Heavenly Creatures, soon The Lovely Bones) may take mild umbrage at their territory being overrun, but this is the
story of A Little Girl Whose Imagination Is Full Of Weird Things. And why wouldn’t it be? In the opening minutes, we
observe young Jeliza-Rose (Jodelle Ferland, more in a bit) being raised by a failing, flailing wannabe rocker and total non-
saviour ironically named Noah (Bridges) and his amplified Nancy Spungen-Courtney Love groupie-catastrophe named
Queen Gunhilda (Jennifer Tilly). As if the secondhand smoke and boudoir disco-ball weren’t bad enough, both parents
are wanton junkies (Daddy in particular refers to his heroin trysts as “deep-sea divin’” in “t’place ‘ere dreams’er made”
and especially as “vacations.”), and it sure isn’t long at all before Jeliza-Rose is motherless -- and, tellingly, while Noah
attempts to burn the body, “Viking-style,” she's already forcibly inheriting her mommy’s chocolate stash.
What happens next, and after that, and after that, is poetry -- and some people don’t like poetry. (But I do.) Attended by
her four creepy little doll heads (Baby Blonde, Glitter Gal, Sateen Lips and the ever enigmatic Mystique -- all quite
brilliantly voiced by Ferland), Jeliza-Rose hops a bus with her very, very ill-prepared father back to his mother’s very,
very non-Ingalls-Wilder little house on the prairie. And talk about one’s Oedipal complex swallowing one whole! For
viewers who enjoy surprises, we’ll leave that at that.
Once out there, though, in the remote fields of “Texas” (Regina, Saskatchewan -- which it much more convincingly
resembles), things get weirder…and weirder…and weirder. Partly influenced by her daddy’s delusions of “Yoot-land”
(Jutland) and its creepy bog-men, partly haunted by the wild Dutch angles of her new environs (applause for the D.P.,
Nicola Pecorini!), and especially impacted by her disturbing new neighbours -- dark, witchy Dell (a stunning Janet
McTeer) and her semi-lobotomised, sexually-challenged brother, Dickens (Brendan Fletcher in the strangest breakout of
the year), li’l J.R. takes us on her trip in a big, startling, satisfying way.
Also last week I watched a new movie about an abused child escaping into strange fantasies -- La Guerra di Mario
(Mario’s War), by Antonio Capuano -- and while it features impressive performances (especially from child-actor Marco
Grieco and the increasingly dynamic Valeria Golino), the thing is this: That movie slows down to grainy slo-mo and the
kid simply narrates his weird fantasies. Not so Tideland -- and I say if you’ve got the budget, give us the goods. The
talking squirrel and the brain-transplant go by too quickly for my taste (and/or could have been excised altogether), but
otherwise Gilliam gives us the goods: the frights, the doll-heads seizing screen-time, the junk-culture that always
fascinates him (coming from a Minnesotan, this movie almost reads as personal exorcism), and especially the aquatic
metaphors made literal. Having been a child not so long ago, and being an uncle right now, I can vouch that the child’s-
eye view here is remarkably accurate.
And in service of what, exactly? Well, out there in the scariness of Middle "America," where an imagination is generally a
badge of scorn, this tale seems to serve the plight of the Dreamer who doesn’t wish to be dismantled by Soullessness.
Seldom are cinematic hats so enthusiastically tipped to the specific genius of Ray Bradbury.
(One character also mentions “Eskimo Pies an’ old men dancin’ with bears.” That’ll do, too.)
Are there weaknesses here? Well, yes -- and alas, they’re mainly to do with our leading young lady. Since Gilliam goes to
town about how tough and resilient kids are, I don’t mind telling you that she’s the weak link in an otherwise terrific
production. But -- not because she’s bad. Rather, the kid is simply too good; technique eclipses soul. The caprices she
uses as antidotes to the atrocities assaulting her are delivered just a bit too coolly, too professionally. Young Ferland is too
well trained to know when to pull back and play “real” for a moment -- to pause for pain -- and it’s equally Gilliam’s fault
that he didn’t dissuade her from employing all of her (or her stage-mother’s) glammy tendencies, that she may have
achieved something more truly transcendent and heart-rending. The entire movie works directly, except for Ferland's
performance, which must be processed symbolically, even theoretically: The Dreamer Kid. It is, admittedly, an odd fit.
Otherwise: Splendid. Mr. Gilliam is one of the few creative forces working in an almost entirely non-creative industry
(with terrible dullard "critics" on the payroll) who acknowledges that to candy-coat a childhood is to profane it, and also
that to render a child a martyr for adult causes is to sully a psyche that doesn’t even know yet how to get dirty. This
problematic representation presents one tough rope to walk, but Gilliam and his crew here practically dance along it,
deftly detailing the sweet and creepy stuff of which dreams are made.
Tideland
Entertainment Value: 11/13
Style: 13/13
Philosophical Insight: 12/13
-Gregory Weinkauf, 11 October, 2006
Terry Gilliam gets intimate in scary, scary ways.
BY GREGORY
Midwesterner and movie director Wes Craven has spoken of horror movies being “a boot-camp for the psyche,” and
although that’s reasonable in theory, something about his arrogance therewith has always put me off. Bootcamp for
whom? By whom? See? Annoying. But then fellow Midwesterner and movie director Terry Gilliam comes along and, to
paraphrase that child-enslaving athletic shoe company, he just does it.
The result is Tideland, which is this year’s best film. Why? Because it smartly and succinctly blends the machinery of
Fairy Tales with the fanciful blur of Real Life, stirs in more fetid, juicy taboos than you could grab in a dozen elective
classes, boldly depicts the whole kit and caboodle with more pizzazz than most people probably muster for their most
staggering dreams, and adds some nice accordion flourishes at just the right moments. Oh, and Jeff Bridges spends most
of the movie looking like Leonard Cohen. To hell with the big glut of pre-programmed Oscar bait in December – I’m
calling it now: Tideland. Go.
“But,” asks the concerned consumer, “is Tideland really ‘Horror’?” -- well, that depends upon your perspective.
Apparently, given his rave, David Cronenberg thinks so, but David Cronenberg keeps making the same movie over and
over again (to wit: We Have Monsters Inside; Oh, And Sex Is Weird! -- Thanks, Dave), so I’m going to suggest instead
that Tideland is Domestic Melodrama For Extremely Smart People. (Obviously, this will limit its audience considerably,
but there you go.) There’s absolutely nothing like it this year (even though, technically, the movie was made last year),
and although, yeah, I am usually keen to jump in with the Gilliam jamboree, Tideland really is a powerful work of art.
Here’s how I know this: Gilliam takes great delight in making people uncomfortable (in The Hamster Factor, the making-
of doc for 12 Monkeys, he’s even caught explaining to his talent that as long as they’re uncomfortable, “it must be
right”) -- but this mild sadism alone is of little interest to me. Tideland constantly emits whiffs of this rankling tendency
just as Jeff Bridges’ character “floats air-biscuits,” but this time the director is in full control, and his rather immense self-
confidence allows for measured assaults of cynicism from the viewer, absorbs them, wangles the next unexpected twist,
and dives headlong for the title of Inappropriate Masterpiece. Lots of people make wild slop (and are celebrated for it;
et tu, Lynch), but Gilliam’s alchemy transforms the Slop Of Human Existence into very, very weird and disturbing gold.
Now, just to show I’m no total fanboy and am generally on the level -- brace yourself! -- here: Brazil is not my fave
Gilliam flick. It’s enjoyable, and my affection for it grows annually. But frankly, I’m all about Time Bandits and The
Fisher King. Why? The writing. Exemplary! I’m not sure if any of the other minions have said this already or not, but
when Gilliam -- as with many visionaries -- applies his knack to great, very human material (often stretching beyond his
own cozy theme: Hey Everybody, Bureaucracy Is Bad; Dreaming Is Better!), then we’ve got magic. Tideland is magic.
Dark, bleak, gorgeous, scary magic.
Apparently we can thank Santa Fe-reared author Mitch Cullin for writing a book Gilliam describes as “Fucking Brilliant!”
-- which the director and his regular collaborator Tony Grisoni have very ably adapted. (Gilliam has also dubbed this
movie, “Alice in Wonderland Meets Psycho,” and if movie reviews were five words long, those five would sum up
perfectly. Terry, wanna trade jobs?)
What goes on? Well, Neil Gaiman (Coraline, MirrorMask, Wolves in the Walls, etc.) and Peter Jackson & Fran Walsh
(Heavenly Creatures, soon The Lovely Bones) may take mild umbrage at their territory being overrun, but this is the
story of A Little Girl Whose Imagination Is Full Of Weird Things. And why wouldn’t it be? In the opening minutes, we
observe young Jeliza-Rose (Jodelle Ferland, more in a bit) being raised by a failing, flailing wannabe rocker and total non-
saviour ironically named Noah (Bridges) and his amplified Nancy Spungen-Courtney Love groupie-catastrophe named
Queen Gunhilda (Jennifer Tilly). As if the secondhand smoke and boudoir disco-ball weren’t bad enough, both parents
are wanton junkies (Daddy in particular refers to his heroin trysts as “deep-sea divin’” in “t’place ‘ere dreams’er made”
and especially as “vacations.”), and it sure isn’t long at all before Jeliza-Rose is motherless -- and, tellingly, while Noah
attempts to burn the body, “Viking-style,” she's already forcibly inheriting her mommy’s chocolate stash.
What happens next, and after that, and after that, is poetry -- and some people don’t like poetry. (But I do.) Attended by
her four creepy little doll heads (Baby Blonde, Glitter Gal, Sateen Lips and the ever enigmatic Mystique -- all quite
brilliantly voiced by Ferland), Jeliza-Rose hops a bus with her very, very ill-prepared father back to his mother’s very,
very non-Ingalls-Wilder little house on the prairie. And talk about one’s Oedipal complex swallowing one whole! For
viewers who enjoy surprises, we’ll leave that at that.
Once out there, though, in the remote fields of “Texas” (Regina, Saskatchewan -- which it much more convincingly
resembles), things get weirder…and weirder…and weirder. Partly influenced by her daddy’s delusions of “Yoot-land”
(Jutland) and its creepy bog-men, partly haunted by the wild Dutch angles of her new environs (applause for the D.P.,
Nicola Pecorini!), and especially impacted by her disturbing new neighbours -- dark, witchy Dell (a stunning Janet
McTeer) and her semi-lobotomised, sexually-challenged brother, Dickens (Brendan Fletcher in the strangest breakout of
the year), li’l J.R. takes us on her trip in a big, startling, satisfying way.
Also last week I watched a new movie about an abused child escaping into strange fantasies -- La Guerra di Mario
(Mario’s War), by Antonio Capuano -- and while it features impressive performances (especially from child-actor Marco
Grieco and the increasingly dynamic Valeria Golino), the thing is this: That movie slows down to grainy slo-mo and the
kid simply narrates his weird fantasies. Not so Tideland -- and I say if you’ve got the budget, give us the goods. The
talking squirrel and the brain-transplant go by too quickly for my taste (and/or could have been excised altogether), but
otherwise Gilliam gives us the goods: the frights, the doll-heads seizing screen-time, the junk-culture that always
fascinates him (coming from a Minnesotan, this movie almost reads as personal exorcism), and especially the aquatic
metaphors made literal. Having been a child not so long ago, and being an uncle right now, I can vouch that the child’s-
eye view here is remarkably accurate.
And in service of what, exactly? Well, out there in the scariness of Middle "America," where an imagination is generally a
badge of scorn, this tale seems to serve the plight of the Dreamer who doesn’t wish to be dismantled by Soullessness.
Seldom are cinematic hats so enthusiastically tipped to the specific genius of Ray Bradbury.
(One character also mentions “Eskimo Pies an’ old men dancin’ with bears.” That’ll do, too.)
Are there weaknesses here? Well, yes -- and alas, they’re mainly to do with our leading young lady. Since Gilliam goes to
town about how tough and resilient kids are, I don’t mind telling you that she’s the weak link in an otherwise terrific
production. But -- not because she’s bad. Rather, the kid is simply too good; technique eclipses soul. The caprices she
uses as antidotes to the atrocities assaulting her are delivered just a bit too coolly, too professionally. Young Ferland is too
well trained to know when to pull back and play “real” for a moment -- to pause for pain -- and it’s equally Gilliam’s fault
that he didn’t dissuade her from employing all of her (or her stage-mother’s) glammy tendencies, that she may have
achieved something more truly transcendent and heart-rending. The entire movie works directly, except for Ferland's
performance, which must be processed symbolically, even theoretically: The Dreamer Kid. It is, admittedly, an odd fit.
Otherwise: Splendid. Mr. Gilliam is one of the few creative forces working in an almost entirely non-creative industry
(with terrible dullard "critics" on the payroll) who acknowledges that to candy-coat a childhood is to profane it, and also
that to render a child a martyr for adult causes is to sully a psyche that doesn’t even know yet how to get dirty. This
problematic representation presents one tough rope to walk, but Gilliam and his crew here practically dance along it,
deftly detailing the sweet and creepy stuff of which dreams are made.
Tideland
Entertainment Value: 11/13
Style: 13/13
Philosophical Insight: 12/13
-Gregory Weinkauf, 11 October, 2006
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