野孩子的英文观后感 如题真的急你们也知道快要开学了

野孩子的英文观后感
如题
真的急
你们也知道快要开学了

1
Wild Child is one of those guilty pleasures, a bit like Mean Girls and Thirteen Going On Thirty, which cuts through all acquired patinas of sophistication and go straight to the inner twelve year old girl inside.
Poppy (Roberts) is a fairly typical LA teenager, self-obsessed, vacuous, spoiled and utterly sheltered. After the death of her mother, she and her father (Quinn) have been increasingly distant; he makes up for it by showering her with material goods and money while failing to give her the attention she craves; when a prank finally goes too far, rather than dealing with her properly he packs her off to an English boarding school – worse, an all girls’ English boarding school - where she is expected to learn lacrosse, wear a hideous uniform, and hand her mobile phone over to Matron (Henderson, in the second of two roles this week). Her father, and the headmistress (Richardson) hope that some discipline will turn Poppy into a lady.
And of course it works. After some initial – and frankly not too naughty – acts of rebellion (these girls don’t even smoke, let alone do drugs), Poppy is won over by our British charms. She discovers that her dorm mates, including ‘Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging’’ Kimberly Nxon and ‘Atonement’s’ Juno Temple won’t tolerate her brattish ways and, realizing that her friends in LA have forgotten her, decides to knuckle down and get on with things. And though she makes an enemy of the dominatrix-lite head girl Harriet (Georgia King) she discovers there are compensations in the form of Freddie (Pettyfer), the Head’s cute son, who is forbidden to date the girls.
Wild Child is about as deep as a mug of hot chocolate and just as enjoyable. It’s the classic poor little rich girl redeems herself story and while there’s nothing particularly new about it girls will love it. Poppy is never so bad that we don’t side with her; she is mostly ridiculous with her sanitizer spray and her shrieking, which is soon beaten out of her by England, plus we have already realized that she is actually lost and lonely, grieving for her dead mother, and needs real friends who will give her a hard time when they realise she is behaving like an idiot.
The romance with Freddie is a bit soppy; it’s never terribly clear what Freddie actually does or where he lives. He is totally set up as boyfriend material for Poppy and it doesn’t really matter about his personality; he exists simply as an object of desire, and to be the cause of Harriet’s jealousy – he is a plot device pure and simple. And pretty with it, if you like blonds. But actually where the story is much more interesting is where it touches on that old and almost forgotten idea of a woman’s film. Poppy leaves her world of boys and flirting for what almost amounts to an enclosed order, and she learns to bond with other girls. Their friendship, and not Freddie’s clumsy kisses, are what causes her emotional growth and ironically, this is where Wild Child is very old-fashioned. Poppy dies her blond hair brown, buys a party outfit from a charity shop and leads the lacrosse team to victory, embracing the uber-English values of fair play, thrift and teamwork. There is even a sort of homage to ‘Spartacus’ when Poppy is accused of a crime she didn’t commit. And this at a time when WAGs and conspicuous consumption is all the rage? Maybe Wild Child was anticipating the credit crunch?
2
‘That’s the final straw, you are going to England!’ belts out Malibu dad Aidan Quinn as he sends his brat daughter Emma Roberts across the Atlantic for yet another film set at a British boarding school. Roberts’s roller-coaster accent of rising vowels and spoiled ‘be-atch’ attitude don’t go down well among the jolly hockeysticks crowd, but those girls, led by uppity head Georgia King, aren’t so palatable either. It takes Roberts’s level-headed roommates to pesuade her of the benefits of a more agreeable approach to life.
Adult co-stars Shirley Henderson and Natasha Richardson struggle valiantly as a matron and headmistress and Daisy Donovan and Nick Frost have amusing small roles as a teacher and a hairdresser, but young Alex Pettyfer (‘Stormbreaker’) as the headmistress’s dishy son is as wooden as Gordon Brown at a Southwold photocall. The directing by Working Title’s longtime editor Nick Moore (‘Notting Hill’, ‘Love Actually’) shows little knack for comic timing – but the script offers few gags beyond fart jokes and the basest of cultural-clash observations. This celebration of mid-Atlantic compromise is one for the youngest and most forgiving of teenage girls.
3
Here is another girly-tweeny movie on which I suspect I am about as qualified to pass judgment as on variant patterns of weather on the moons of Saturn. It is about a spoilt 16-year-old LA princess called Poppy, played by Emma Roberts, whose cross dad (Aidan Quinn) sends her to a posh English boarding school to straighten her out. The script is by Lucy Dahl, daughter of Roald, though the production company website originally listed two more writers: Kate Kondell, author of Legally Blonde 2, and Britain's Daisy Donovan, who here plays the Grenfellish PE mistress. (Their credits now appear to have vanished.) Inevitably, Poppy finds friendship and real values with her new British pals, and has a crush on the headmistress's improbable hottie son, played by Alex Pettyfer. All amiable enough, but still a bit tame compared to, say, Clueless, or Lindsay Lohan's Freaky Friday remake.
4
This teen romp has Emma Roberts(niece of Julia) as Poppy, an out-of-control Malibu princess who is sent off to an exclusive private school in England where her now dead mother was put on the right path in life. She hates it at first, since iPods and mobile phones are not allowed and the uniform makes her look distinctly uncool. Added to that, the snooty head girl (Georgia King) takes an instant dislike to her.
However, Kate (Kimberley Nixon) extends an olive branch and soon Freddie (Alex Pettyfer), the handsome son of Natasha Richardson�s headmistress, takes a fancy to her. She begins to get into the swing of school life, survives the perfidy of the head girl, and a nasty fire which she is thought to have started, before encouraging the school to do better than ever before in the lacrosse competition.
Wild Child is the directing debut of Nick Moore, editor of Love Actually, About a Boy and Notting Hill. It may be manna for teen girls but any kind of critical eye will find it about as convincingly made as the last St Trinian�s movie. It is played, though, with lively abandon.
5
"Shit" is the first word spoken by Wild Child's 16 year-old heroine Poppy (Roberts), and rarely has an opening line been such an accurate assessment of what's to follow.
A ghastly teenage comedy written by Roald Dahl's daughter Lucy, Wild Child makes 2007's St Trinian's look like an Ingmar Bergman film. It makes you pine for the days of John Hughes, when he gave us Ferris Bueller's Day Off and the crew from The Breakfast Club.
The film proper begins after Poppy's long-suffering father (Quinn) sends her packing from their flash Malibu pad to an English boarding school, Abbey Mount. Faster than you can say 'whatever', Poppy makes herself unpopular with her roommates by refusing to adhere to the school's rules. She makes a particular enemy of haughty head-girl Harriet (King), who has a thing for Freddie (Pettyfer), the handsome son of the school's headmistress, Mrs Kingsley (Richardson).
Distraught without her LA trappings - therapist, iPhone, and Jimmy Choo shoes - Poppy comes across like an extra from Mean Girls. At mealtimes she utters Buddhist chants while everyone else says grace, then refuses to eat the food on offer, claiming she's vegetarian, pescatarian and fruititarian. With the help of her roommates - who take pity on her when they discover Poppy's mother died in a car crash when she was 11 - our girl resolves to leave the school by getting herself expelled.
6
Like others who toil in the classroom (I’m a long-time film-studies professor at Suffolk University), I constantly fret over whether all those semesters of teacher talk have made a bona fide dent in students’ lives. Thousands in my charge have graduated to the real world, but did I inspire them with my passion for cinema? Do they watch more classic movies, independent and foreign-language works, difficult art films, because of the exposure to such in my classroom?
On a bad day, I doubt it all: my ex-students have reverted to mainstream Americana. They’ve forgotten Kurosawa and Bergman. They’re blissed-out at the multiplex. Maybe that’s why I’m such a sentimental sucker for movies that see the classroom as a transformative, magical place where determined teachers make their mark and those in their tutelage are better and wiser for having sat at their desks. Recall earnest Jon Voight and his motivated black pupils on a South Carolina island in Conrack (1974). And in To Sir, with Love (1967), Sidney Poitier’s caring teacher in East End London taking his rowdy blue-collar kids on a class trip to the city’s great art museums.
I can abide even that drippy old pedant lecturing to æons of prep lads in the Hollywood fossil Goodbye, Mr. Chips (1939). Recently, we’ve been blessed with Nicolas Philibert’s tender 1992 documentary, To Be and To Have [Être et Avoir], which shows a real-life teacher doing wonders in a one-room classroom in rural France.
I don’t endorse every celluloid classroom movie. The most popular of them all, The Dead Poets Society (1989), is downright embarrassing. That’s not exemplary teaching that Robin Williams does, just the opposite. He showboats by climbing on desks. He bullies his worshipping students, in the name of non-conformity, into believing what he believes. Fie on his fascistic methods!
But forget Dead Poets — two sublime French movies about the teaching experience are very much alive this week at the Kendall Square. There’s a must-see 35mm revival of François Truffaut’s 1970 classic, The Wild Child [L’enfant sauvage]. And there’s the much-honored nominee for Best Foreign Film at the upcoming Oscars, Laurent Cantet’s The Class [Entre les murs].
Was there ever a more persistently autobiographical filmmaker than François Truffaut, who died at age 52, from a brain tumor, in 1984? His celebrated series of Antoine Doinel films, from The 400 Blows (1959) to Love on the Run (1979), are fictionalized stops at stations of his own dramatic life, with Jean-Pierre Léaud’s Doinel standing in for Truffaut. The Wild Child, which is dedicated to Léaud, has Truffaut’s markings everywhere. He cast himself as the benevolent doctor, Jean-Marc-Gaspard Itard, who takes in the Wild Child, a screeching, filthy human animal found in the woods. In part, Truffaut conceived his Itard as an homage to his mentor, the legendary film critic André Bazin. In the early 1950s, Bazin allowed into his flat an unhappy, undisciplined Parisian child and encouraged the boy’s passion for moviegoing and heavy books. That semi-civilized boy, ignored by his own feuding parents, was François. He was a love-starved auto-didact feasting on Balzac and American genre movies. What Flaubert said of Madame Bovary, Truffaut could assert of The Wild Child: “C’est moi!”
Truffaut’s film is based on long-ago events. A “Wild Boy” was captured in 1798 in the French countryside and brought into Paris to be ogled. Was this smelly, howling being “the noble savage” that Jean-Jacques Rousseau had rhapsodized about? Dr. Itard rescued him from the urban mob and took the Wild Boy to his country estate to befriend him. But far more important for Itard was to study him and to civilize him. The Wild Boy, who was given the name Victor, would be less wild with Itard’s determined guidance. Soundly rejecting Rousseau, Itard would prove that rigorous education elevated humankind instead of corrupting us. The Wild Boy would ascend the chain of being if he could be taught to see and to hear instead of sniffing at the world, if he could sit at a table and eat with silverware. Victor had to be taught to speak, to read, to obey. Ultimately, he was to learn morality, a sense of justice.
A truly remarkable man, Itard published a simple-to-read 50-page tract, The Wild Boy of Aveyron, that’s a potent declaration of humanism at a historic time when charity barely was invented — it’s an amazing text! Truffaut’s movie stays close, in fact and spirit, to its source. The year 1798 is translated visually in black and white by Truffaut’s great cinematographer, Nestor Almendros, and shot in a classic style reminiscent of silent cinema. Most prominent, both for transitions and to frame the culture-shocked Wild Boy, is the free use of archaic “iris in” and “iris out,” a prevalent device in cinema through the 1920s. The extreme long shots of D.W. Griffith seem a source of visual inspiration. The tough-love dynamic between Itard and Victor must have been inspired by Arthur Penn’s The Miracle Worker (1962), by Annie Sullivan’s tug-of-war efforts to educate the obstinate, seemingly deaf-and-dumb Helen Keller.