FARCE FILM

"The Woman in Black" Review

2012-02-03T12:11:00.003-05:00

Recipe for a Hollywood horror flick: pick a screenplay with a vaguely creepy-sounding title like The Woman in Black. Be sure the writer included one or all of the following: portraits with the eyes scratched out, little kids' drawings, antique toys, etc. Next, shoot everything at half exposure. Then pick a quiet weekend to release and collect your fifty million dollars. Repeat. It's a racket that works like a charm, and isn't going away until the audience does.

The Woman in Black stars 'Arry Potter 'imself — Daniel Radcliffe — as Arthur Kipps, an adolescent English estate lawyer bound unluckily for a haunted house in the boondocks. Kipps' job is on the line, which accounts for his eager beaver attitude upon arrival, and dogged insistence on seeing the property, even against the behest of, oh, everyone in town. You know where this is going.

Once inside the isolated island manor, Kipps can’t seem to get any work done. A typical sequence of scenes plays out with the protagonist sitting down to study a stack of documents and being immediately distracted by some foreign sound or supernatural happening. And then the investigation's afoot; jump scares abound, though they fall too formulaically to conjure much anxiety or subsequent shock. After all, scares by appointment aren't very scary.

The screenplay is particularly disappointing given its author, Jane Golden, who spun genre into gold with Kick-Ass and X-Men: First Class. Too dour to pass as a throwback haunted house flick, and too clichéd to surprise anyone, The Woman in Black is caught in the nebulous nowhere between fun and frightening. Even if her writing were stronger, however, there's no guarantee it would be spared the blunt hand of James Watkins, a director with the finesse of a steamroller.

He brings not an ounce of aesthetic originality to the table, imbuing the movie with the same ugly, washed-out palette of six dozen other studio horror failures. The technique is intended to foster a mood, but it's a cheap substitute for good old-fashioned filmmaking. Mood isn't achieved in camera — it's an aggregate of art direction, camera placement, performance, music, etc. The obvious digital look of the film also hampers the believability of its period setting — the turn of the century never looked so bland.

Performances add little life to the landscape. Daniel Radcliffe manages not to embarrass himself, and that's being generous. Frankly, it's tough to buy the Hogwarts alum as a dad when he's been playing a teenager for ten years. It's equally tough to imagine him a widower, as he broods with all the emotional turmoil of an Olsen twin. Ciarán Hinds plays Kipps' sole confidant in the haunted hamlet, and fittingly enough, delivers the film's sole compelling performance. Still, his character never goes anywhere, a waste of Hinds' talent.

Effective horror is contingent upon a willingness to take the audience outside its comfort zone, and The Woman in Black is too creakily formulaic to creep us out. Because Hollywood is a business, it's more desirable to greenlight a derivative script and hire a yes-man director than to risk something edgier that might not pay off. The cycle continues. The Woman in Black follows that recipe to a T, but there's something lost in translation. Maybe the recipe wasn't all that good to begin with. Maybe the whole cookbook needs to go.

2/5

"The Grey" Review

2012-01-26T14:09:00.006-05:00

So it's come to this: Liam Neeson, a pack of wolves, and a filmmaker with delusions of grandeur. The Grey might have passed as merely a second-rate survival flick had it laid off the pseudo-intellectual grandstanding and quickened the glacial pace. Unfortunately, its shepherd, Joe Carnahan, knows no such restraint. Bloated, juvenile, and absurd, the movie attempts to pass off a few cheap thrills as an ode to humanity. Oh, and according to Carnahan, it may return to theaters to make an Oscar run in October. Give me a break.

Neeson plays Ottway, a professional wolf hunter with a penchant for internally reciting corny poems written by his deceased daddy. "Once more into the fray/ Into the last good fight I'll ever know/ To live and die on this day," he rasps. Hey, how that's poetry elective going? It might seem profound as a beer hall anthem to rally spirits in the fourth quarter, but it's embarrassingly maudlin as the emotional crux of a movie. But enough about poetry — let's talk about wolves.

A plane crash strands about half a dozen men in The Middle of Nowhere, Alaska. Hounded by a pack of edgy predators, the crew must literally fight for their survival. Never mind the practical how-tos like sustaining an expedition without potable water — they've got man-hungry wolves on their tail! The biggest, nastiest wolves special effects can conjure, though they're mostly relegated to chasing everyone from one tired setpiece to the next.

Here's the problem — with riveting wilderness docs like Touching the Void and Encounters at the End of the World streaming online, there's no excuse to settle for such a stagey drama. But Werner Herzog is obviously beyond these morons; someone in The Grey paraphrases Grizzly Man as that movie about "The fag and the bears." Are these guys from Alaska or a college fraternity?

I don't demand that any character be likeable — but I ask that they be interesting. Not a one in Ottway's ragtag group of "fugitives, drifters, and assholes" brings a single compelling trait to the table. Ottway wins the likability contest by default, even though his character might as well be the Wikipedia page on wolves for all he contributes to the conversation.

And it's a shame we're stuck with such shallow people, because their trek is often atmospheric, and the many perils they face might mean something if we actually cared about who they are. Writer/director Joe Carnahan can get by on keen visuals, but he writes like an emotionally stunted 19-year-old. His ceaselessly abrasive, hollow characters engage in dialogue with all the wisdom and wit of a whirring garbage disposal. Their pointless, profanity-laden bickering and eventual, manufactured camaraderie play stilted, not uplifting. Just die already.

The Grey is a mangy, flea-bitten excuse for an epic with an obnoxiously inflated self-image. Nowhere in its unwarranted 117 minutes does it possess a shred of the intellectuality it pompously aspires to, nor does it achieve a badass nirvana despite its consistent, cocksure projection of masculinity. Carnahan succeeds in scoring a few cheap thrills, but he ought to leave the philosophizing to the artists. End rant.

2/5

"Haywire Review"

2012-01-22T12:31:00.005-05:00

Haywire is a lot like last year's Drive. What both lack in substance, they make up for in style. Likewise, both could be dismissed as pulp dreck if their respective directors hadn't classed up the material. Haywire isn't as riveting as last year's sleeper hit, but the way Steven Soderbergh stages and choreographs the action elevates it from generic genre fare; especially apparent in contrast to its opening weekend competition: Underworld Awakening.

Punctuated by terse life-or-death scuffles between a badass black ops agent and her would-be assassins, it's no wonder Soderbergh hired martial artist slash actress Gina Carano (not to be confused with Carla Gugino). Of her handful of big screen credits, Haywire is by far the biggest deal; her casting is a move reminiscent of another recent Soderbergh flick — The Girlfriend Experience, which marked the dramatic debut of porn star Sasha Grey.

Both actresses fit well in the roles Soderbergh picks for them, but I question how well either would come off when working with a director less versed in coaching non-actors. Perhaps the most impressive thing about Carano's performance is that she holds her own in such formidable company: Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, Michael Douglas, Bill Paxton, Antonio Banderas, etc. Channing Tatum. The list goes on.

Their collective effort is in large part what makes Haywire such a breezy watch. 93 minutes soaking wet, the film flashes backwards and forwards in its narrative to keep the momentum from faltering (and also, I reckon, to gussy up a simplistic espionage tale). The IMDB synopsis says it all: "A black ops super soldier seeks payback after she is betrayed during a mission." The film's final moment perfectly reflects the entirety: cheesy, cheeky, fun, and ultimately, forgettable.

Famous for his Hollywood haggling to get passion projects off the ground ("One for me, one for you"), Soderbergh is blurring the line between his studio pictures and personal films. With Haywire, the lack of marketing oomph and no-name lead suggest it might fall into the "One for me" category, especially after his crowd-pleasing Contagion. But if the audience I saw it with was any indication, Haywire is no less accessible.

Nor does it feel as obligatory as, say, an Oceans sequel. For the most part, Soderbergh brings his A-game, although I do take issue with the cheapo aesthetic. The harsh digital look he seems fond of works in low-key experiments like Bubble, but feels out of place in a fast-paced action flick. Dim, bland interiors with overblown light sources lend to the film's overall disposable vibe.

But while it lasts, Haywire is an enjoyable January actioner. Though it pales in comparison to Nicolas Winding Refn's excellent Drive, they have a lot in common: a bare bones story spearheaded by a brutal and ruthless protagonist, and a director who knows how to play them to maximum effect. Drive skews operatic while Haywire skews goofy, but both provide more compelling action sequences than any of last summer's blockbusters, Contagion included.

Plus, this time of year empirically means slim pickins for the discerning cinephile. It's either this or Underworld, folks. I'll give you a minute.

3/5

"Shame" Review

2011-12-09T17:59:00.003-05:00

Sex without the pleasure — and you thought starving to death in an Irish prison was rough. Following Hunger, director Steve McQueen's new collaboration with Michael Fassbender is a similarly self-destructive character study. Shame stars the latter as Brandon Sullivan, a sex-addicted New York businessman whose explicit lifestyle is threatened by the surprise arrival of his orphaned sister (Carey Mulligan). Loaded with full-frontal male and female nudity and graphic depictions of sex, the NC-17 rated flick may not be coming to a theater near you.

Far from crass or exploitative, however, McQueen's film succeeds in making Brandon's many lascivious liaisons feel obligatory rather than erotic. Shame is Requiem for a Dream for sex. A gorgeously shot but emotionally upending orgy late in the film drives home the utter desperation of the act in a prolonged close up on Brandon's contorted face. Excited yet?

McQueen's flirted with minimalism before. Smack dab in the middle of Hunger is a seventeen and a half minute static shot in which Fassbender's character dialogues with a priest. While it showcases two terrific performances, such laissez-faire filmmaking techniques do little for me. Shame likewise features long, deliberate takes, but McQueen's evolution as a director is apparent from his dynamic use of the frame.

For example, during a dinner date between Brandon and his coworker (Nicole Beharie), a subtle camera push-in (from the wide restaurant interior, bustling with the comings and goings of patrons and waiters, to an intimate two shot) keeps the emphasis on the performances without needlessly drawing attention to the process. It's the rare circumstance where more is actually less. Conversely, the extreme close up of Carey Mulligan's face when she performs a heart-wrenching rendition of "New York, New York" works because she fills the entire frame. By comparison, the aforementioned sequence in Hunger is visually flabby, full of superfluous space.

But Shame isn't just a technical triumph — even more compelling is what's in the abstract. Fassbender's alluringly enigmatic portrayal of his volatile character is the centerpiece of a complex, cerebral story. Brandon carries his addiction like a ticking time bomb in his breast pocket, and things get particularly uncomfortable with his vulnerable (and oddly familiar) sister around. Their relationship adds a grimy layer of squeamish tension to the film.

Unhappiness manifests itself in many shapes in Shame, from Brandon's insatiable carnal appetite to the loneliness of the women in his life. Incapable of transcending their physical connections, the characters share sex or blood, but don't understand each other or strive to communicate better. The result is intercourse that frequently comes across dehydrating, disgusting, or dehumanizing. Sometimes all three!

Shame isn't without its moments of levity. McQueen's subtle humor saves him from slipping into the mire of downbeat melodrama. James Badge Dale plays Brandon's wingman (or is it the other way around?), whose paper-thin personality and repeated drunken strikeouts never fail to conjure a smirk. Also, I'm not sure there's a world where getting caught masturbating isn't at least a little funny. But leave it to Steve McQueen and Michael Fassbender to make it captivating too.

The culmination of lesser successes, Shame sees both actor and director at their best. Fassbender makes Brandon's incongruities flesh (so to speak), and McQueen strikes the perfect balance between minimalistic staging and cinematic artistry. Shame is an ambitious, ambiguous film that ranks easily among the year's best. Plus, you get to see Michael Fassbender naked. There's also that.

4/5

"Hugo" Review

2011-12-06T15:53:00.004-05:00

Who's the audience for Hugo? With roots in the fantasy/adventure genres and a comfortable color palette for the Harry Potter and Twilight crowds, "preteen" seems a safe bet. But it undergoes a metamorphosis around the midpoint that fixed my posture and put the kids to bed. Not that I'm complaining.

The two halves of Hugo are at odds. In the first hour, we meet Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield – the spitting image of a prepubescent Malcolm MacDowell), an orphan and wee tinkerer living behind the walls of a Parisian train station circa 1930. He lives only to wind the clocks and scavenge parts for his prized automaton – a wrecked robot with sentimental ties to his late father (Jude Law). A chance encounter with a young girl (Chloë Moretz) may be the key to unlocking the secret of his antiquated android.

In the second, Scorsese taps his inner film buff. Enter French silent filmmaker Georges Méliès, whose spectacular oddball A Trip to the Moon features prominently. Hugo posthumously honors the artist's underappreciated oeuvre, complete with stunning recreations of his avant-garde genre flicks. The also-underrated Michael Stuhlbarg plays film historian Rene Tabard, a champion of Méliès' lost legacy.

Somehow, the story of a boy and his robot and the redemption of a brilliant, misunderstood artist mesh, if reluctantly. I can't feign complete enthusiasm for Hugo's by-the-numbers fantasy beginning, but loved the playful manipulation of art history it preceded. Conversely, I imagine the general audience will go for the "Once Upon A Time," but neither know nor care who Méliès is. Some may walk away none the wiser to the elements of nonfiction.

Unifying Hugo's disparate halves are gorgeous storybook visuals bolstered by inspired use of 3D tech. Action sequences up the gee-whiz factor, but Scorsese's most compelling use of the gimmick is also among his most subtle; touches like adding the effect to Méliès' films has the revelatory effect of making history come alive. And it doesn't carry the stink of desperation that accompanies Disney and Star Wars' conversions. As a magician who embraced every trick in the book, Méliès would have loved 3D.

Another constant is the caliber of the performances. The principals are solid, and Hugo is packed with veteran character actors who breathe vibrant life into their world. Folks like Ray Winstone as Hugo's Drunken Uncle, Ben Kingsley as a shopkeeper with a secret, Christopher Lee as a kindhearted librarian, and Sacha Baron Cohen as the bumbling station inspector help even the one-dimensional roles shine.

Pushing himself while pushing 70, you have to admire Scorsese's dogged tenacity. The director won his long-belated Best Director Oscar in 2007 for The Departed, which seems to have freed him from falling into an Eastwood-esque downward spiral; first with the psychological thriller Shutter Island, and now with the unabashed fantasy, Hugo. That jarring juxtaposition is just one factor in obfuscating who its audience is supposed to be.

Diplomatically, the new Martin Scorsese picture aims to please everyone, but divides more than it unites. Parents may be left twiddling their thumbs during the first drama-lite hour, and kids may nod off during the second half history lesson. However, for a particular breed of cinephile, Hugo is magic – a love letter to film from a master of the medium. Scorsese's adoration is tangible – not for Georges Méliès specifically – but for artists both great and small. It's sublime. It's beautiful. But bring a pillow.

3.5/5

"The Descendants" Review

2011-11-18T12:15:00.003-05:00

Alexander Payne paints a different picture of Hawaii. In the opening montage of his new film The Descendants, the director not so gently reminds us that the island "paradise," with its little-photographed cities and suburbs, isn't exactly the Eden we've been sold. The sequence perfectly reflects Payne's no bullshit pragmatism, seen last in 2004's excellent Sideways. For gluttons for Payne, The Descendants has been a long time coming.

Based on a novel by Kaui Hart Hemmings, the film follows George Clooney as Matt King, a wealthy lawyer with hereditary ties to Hawaiian royalty, and the sole trustee of his family's thousands of acres of untapped land. As King circles a buyer for the valuable property, his wife falls off a jet ski and into a coma — but there are no saints in an Alexander Payne movie. Even the comatose Mrs. King has her share of skeletons.

Few filmmakers walk the line between comedy and drama so effortlessly. The Descendants finds a happy middle ground in Payne's oeuvre, somewhere between the amusing introspection of About Schmidt and the droll wit of Sideways. And if the subject at hand seems too heavy or dry, never fear — Payne's world is colored by conflicted, flawed, funny, but singularly endearing people.

Take King's daughter's dopey friend Sid, a character with shades of Election's all-heart-no-brains jock, Paul Metzler ("You Betzler!"). Or better yet, take King himself, who bares all the familiar scars of an Alexander Payne protagonist. From his casual narcissism to his angered impulsiveness, King's foibles are many, brought vividly to life by George Clooney.

Payne has a history of stranding his actors outside their comfort zone. Clooney isn't as malleable a leading man as Paul Giamatti, but there are sides of him in The Descendants that I haven't seen before. He plays King with an empathetic weakness many of his past roles have lacked. Clooney characters tend to overcompensate for their flaws with charisma, with interest. Under Payne, Clooney doesn't have the luxury of playing up that strength, and the results are revealing.

This isn't the first time Payne has deliberately subverted audience preconception, either. No doubt he had Ferris Bueller in mind when he cast Matthew Broderick as a high school civics teacher in Election. He got Jack Nicholson (Chinatown's Jake Gittes!) to play a curmudgeonly widower in About Schmidt. In The Descendants, George Clooney, Sexiest Man Alive twice over, cries.

Alexander Payne's films have been accused of being callous and misanthropic, but The Descendants highlights his earnest side as well. It isn't sentimental, and it earns it moments of sentimentality. Early on, the film teeters on the precipice of becoming a tacky father-daughter Movie Of the Week. The tropes are there, but Payne stylishly navigates a minefield of clichés in which most directors would eventually misstep.

A near perfect combination of comedy and catharsis, The Descendants is an impressive film from a director who's been dormant too long. Seemingly, not much has changed for Payne since he released Sideways seven years ago, but the hiatus has made him no less confident in his unique American perspective. Welcome back, Alex.

4/5

2011-11-04T13:38:00.002-04:00

Everyone's excited for the new Brett Ratner movie, right? Jonesing for another marginal action-comedy in the vein of Rush Hour 2? You're in luck! Tower Heist fits the bill, and despite its allusions to 2011 Wall Street turmoil, the familiar flick feels very much of that era. The Rat-man's latest is cookie-cutter entertainment at its most transient, but everyone likes cookies. Right?

In Tower Heist, Ben Stiller plays subservient chief of staff at a ritzy Central Park apartment complex — but when a tenant (Alan Alda) swindles him and his workforce out of their pensions, it's no more Mr. Nice Josh. He masterminds a robbery with the help of his concierge (Casey Affleck), an elevator operator (Michael Peña), a downtrodden former resident (Matthew Broderick), and a Jamaican cleaning woman (Gabourey Sidibe). Unschooled as they are in the art of the steal, Josh also employs the aid of petty criminal "Slide," (Eddie Murphy) who gives the crew a crash course in crime.

The cast of Tower Heist, anchored by Stiller, Alda, and the under-appreciated 'other' Affleck, is its greatest asset. Gabourey Sidibe pulls a Melissa McCarthy in a similar big girl supporting role, and as for Eddie Murphy — it's good to know that there's still a funny guy beneath the Norbit prosthetics. Granted, nobody's working with AAA material here, but their comic chemistry makes for some laugh out loud moments.

Conceived and written by Ted Griffin of Ocean's Eleven and Matchstick Men, Tower Heist strictly adheres to caper convention. Assemble the team, unfurl the plan, set said plan into motion, and wait for it all to come undone. It's a tried and true formula, which is ironic considering the risk its characters incur. There's even a heavy-handed chess metaphor about sacrificing one's Queen, but Griffin is a decidedly defensive player.

Then there's the Rat-factor. Poor Brett's an easy guy to hate. Called "Hollywood's Ad Impresario" by Businessweek, he's the dude who wants to make a Guitar Hero movie. He's a purely commercial filmmaker who's helmed competent but inferior follow-ups to beloved franchises like X-Men and Silence of the Lambs. And let's face it, he's kind of ugly. With Tower Heist, the director isn't flexing any artistic muscles, but he's got the mechanics down pat.

Plus, he's got the good sense to hire performers who probably don't need much direction. Guys like Stiller, Murphy, and Broderick are so well practiced that they're entertaining even when they're resting on their laurels. Similarly, Ratner's worked with cinematographer Dante Spinotti enough times to not have to concern himself with the visual aspects of filmmaking. Though the credits suggest otherwise, Ratner's role is nearer to producer than director.

Consequently, Tower Heist feels impersonal and even a bit disingenuous. After all, what could Brett Ratner, the privileged son of a Miami socialite turned blockbuster director, have in common with the working stiffs he portrays? It's easy to hate Ratner, but unfair to channel that negative energy at his work. With a good cast and decent material, Tower Heist is an amusing, inconsequential diversion that entertains and evaporates in the span of 100 minutes. And with a family friendly PG-13 rating, this cookie-cutter action-comedy is poised to make loads of dough.

3/5

"Paranormal Activity 3" Review

2011-10-20T17:09:00.005-04:00

Reigning king of the "Gotcha!" moment, Paranormal Activity is back – and though the premise may have worn thin, (how many compulsive videographers can one extended family have?) its minimalist scare tactics are as effective as ever. Scream for scream, the theater experience is without rival; hushed gasps, nervous tittering, and shrieks of surprise are empirical evidence of the films' effectiveness. Hence the backlash when Paranormal Activity hit home video: these movies cater to a crowd.

A prequel of sorts, Paranormal Activity 3 rewinds the franchise to 1988, illuminating the origins of the Presence that ran amok in parts one and two. Helmed by Catfish directors Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman, the flick treads familiar territory, but keeps the audience on its toes. One of the major criticisms leveled against Oren Peli's original was its predictable cycle of daytime exposition and midnight scares. Rinse and repeat.

Screenwriter Christopher B. Landon, who also wrote the underwhelming Paranormal Activity 2, does a better job this time of pitching the odd changeup. With an omnipresent atmosphere of unease, no moment feels entirely safe. And it goes without saying that the freaky stuff is much more explicitly freaky. Rest assured the Rey family doesn't own a pool, let alone a cleaning robot.

Probably the single most brilliant technical addition to the Paranormal Activity repertoire is the oscillating camera. Panning ominously between kitchen and living room, the simple mechanic works like a suspense machine. Joost and Schulman certainly get their money's worth out of the gimmick, milking it for some of their whitest white-knuckle moments. Fashioned from a tabletop fan, the device is a perfect metaphor for the franchise itself: cheap, homemade, effective.

But for ingenuity and inventiveness, the original is still tops. For all its merciless suspense, Paranormal Activity 3 falls back on a few too many false alarms ("Gotcha!") and bad payoffs, and offers no real innovations in imagery. From Poltergeist to The Exorcist, it's easy to tell where the directors pulled inspiration, almost copy-and-pasting classic moments into the found footage aesthetic.

Then again, anyone expecting real innovation from the third Paranormal Activity film is barking up the wrong tree. Part of the fun is how loosely defined the abilities of the otherworldly antagonist are. It possesses, communicates, and manipulates. But wait, there's more! Paranormal Activity 3 plays like a grab bag of horror ideas and iconography. Like any grab bag, not everything inside is interesting.

For one, handheld footage plays a more prominent role than ever, which strains the believability of some key sequences. Then there's hokey filler like the "Bloody Mary" urban legend, which squarely fills the vacancy left by the Ouija board on the Paranormal Activity blueprint. And who could forget Randy (Dustin Ingram) and his transparent, annoying attempts at comic relief?

Paranormal Activity 3 doesn't reinvent the franchise. It's not even the best Paranormal Activity film. It doesn't need to be. Its aim is to refine the series' mechanics and reinvigorate audience interest, and it succeeds. So what's next? Likely what keeps Paramount executives up at night is how to squeeze the supernatural saga for every penny it's worth. Long live the reigning king of "Gotcha!"

3/5

"50/50" Review

2011-09-30T13:43:00.003-04:00

50/50 is the anti-MOW. Hot off the festival circuit as the much buzzed-about "cancer comedy," its hype doesn't tell the whole story. Directed by Jonathan Levine (The Wackness), 50/50 is a dynamic blend of offhand humor and compelling character study. Just don't go in expecting one or the other.

Loosely based on his own experiences as a twenty-something cancer survivor, screenwriter Will Reiser assembles a flawed cast of characters for his retelling – himself most of all. Adam (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is not a take-charge kind of guy. He greets his diagnosis with cynicism and reclusiveness, and at his age who can blame him? Holding his life at arm's length, he severs ties rather than strengthening them.

It's a notion that Levine actually undercuts. Whether it's his direction or just the conventions of a hero-narrative, Adam frequently comes off better than he deserves to. His cancer gives him carte blanche to abuse and ignore his friends and family, and it's important that those unflattering traits get their due. The cathartic climax is about tearing down those walls.

Levine is more forthcoming with the foibles of other characters. Seth Rogen plays Adam's pal Kyle, a predictably crass and outgoing foil to Gordon-Levitt's narcissistic introvert. Adam's girlfriend (Bryce Dallas Howard) comes away looking particularly ugly, and is admonished by Kyle in one of 50/50's funniest scenes. Anjelica Huston and Anna Kendrick play Adam's overprotective mother and fledgling therapist, respectively, and Philip Baker Hall makes an appearance as a fellow cancer patient with an affinity for pot.

Rounding out the cast is Serge Houde as Adam's Alzheimer's-afflicted father. Unlike Adam however, his condition seems superfluous, occasionally lending 50/50 the maudlin air of an issue film. Which is odd, because elsewhere the filmmakers strive to remove sentimentality from the equation. In fact, the nitty-gritty of Adam's treatment is relegated almost entirely to off-screen action. The film focuses instead on the impact it has on his life. Consequently, and in the interest of levity, the threat is diluted.

In that respect, 50/50 isn't even about cancer. The common storytelling mistake, as Reiser sees it, is treating the disease as subject; Reiser's subject is himself. Cancer is just the shitty thing that happened to him. The film begins like any other buddy comedy, and initially feels stilted because of it. Even the obligatory reveal and diagnosis of the disease comes across awkward. But it gradually builds into something significant.

The beauty of 50/50 is in the way its characters behave and bounce off each other. There's no bromance a la I Love You, Man – the friendship portrayed by Gordon-Levitt and Rogen is subtler. Adam's eventual turn from reticence to reliance makes his transformation as a character more compelling than his struggle with cancer. After all, it's not about that.

I don't envy the marketing team tasked with selling 50/50 to the general audience. Cancer isn't exactly a crowd-pleaser, but you can't bill it as a comedy without being at least a little disingenuous. Resier and Levine's film delivers a unique hybrid of emotion and entertainment that tries, not always successfully, to pave new territory – which is admirable in and of itself. Whether 50/50 is remembered more as a cavalier drama or dark comedy remains to be seen, but you can bet it won't go down in history as another after school special.

3.5/5

"Moneyball" Review

2011-09-21T15:43:00.005-04:00

Take my review of Moneyball with a grain of salt. Its two-and-a-quarter-hour running time probably rivals the aggregate amount of professional baseball I've watched over the past three years – which is to say, not much. I'm not the target audience for any sports flick, but a great cast delivering an Aaron Sorkin script put me in the seats. On that level, Moneyball delivers.

Sorkin has a knack for finding the humanity in black and white statistics. It's in part what made his telling of Facebook's success story (last year's brilliant, brainy The Social Network) so remarkable. A fitting – if inferior – follow-up, Moneyball is as much about business as it is about baseball. In fact, the thesis of author Michael Lewis, upon whose book Sorkin and co-writer Steven Zaillian sculpted the screenplay, is that victory on the field can be reduced to mere mathematics.

Enter Brad Pitt as Oakland A's General Manager Billy Beane. After being creamed in the playoffs, many of his star players pick up contracts with teams with deeper pockets. The truth as Beane puts it is that baseball is a fundamentally unfair game. Affluent teams can afford the best players, and subsequently win the most games and the most championships. But rather than accept the status quo, Beane hires Yale grad Peter Brand (Jonah Hill), and cooks up a way to build a team around underrated but undesirable players, like a pitcher with unorthodox form and a ex-star pushing 40.

"We're card counters now," Beane explains to his mystified staff. Moneyball plays almost like a heist – and cheating any flawed system is exhilarating to watch. The problems stem from elsewhere; the movie drags in its second half, lacking the concise narrative momentum of fiction. It's a problem from which many biopics suffer, and though Sorkin fares better than most, he doesn't have a David Fincher behind the lens this time around.

Granted, director Bennett Miller is no slouch, having made his Oscar-nominated Hollywood debut with Capote in 2005. With Moneyball, Miller faithfully photographs Sorkin and Zaillian's script, but never elevates it. Pitt and Hill are empathetic underdogs, and their performances convey admirable depth. Still, even in their best moments, it's hard not to wish that more weren't going on onscreen.

Moneyball also gets bogged down by superfluous subplots like flashbacks to Beane's fizzled pro baseball career and his relationship with his twelve-year-old daughter. The sequences give insight into the inner workings of the character's mind, but seldom feel relevant to the main thrust of the plot. Especially when they beget a string of false endings that has the audience on the edge of their seats in the worst sense of the term.

Those scenes don't sink Moneyball, but they somewhat stifle its potential for greatness. The fascinating premise, that computers can pick winners better than we can, is partially buried under content far less novel. I've seen enough strained father/daughter relationships, thanks. The film would likewise run thinner and healthier without Beane's trips down memory lane.

But it still works. Probably the best indication of the film's merit is that it appeals to viewers with no vested interest in the sport. At its finest, Moneyball is about the deconstruction of baseball romanticism, with a straightforward exchange of ideas that feels almost documentary at times. Surprisingly enough, it's the conventional storytelling devices that feel sluggish, unexciting, and repetitive. Not the baseball.

3/5

"Drive" Review

2011-09-15T14:59:00.005-04:00

After a summer of cheap thrills, Drive delivers thrills on the cheap. With a budget Michael Bay might have allocated for a single effects sequence in Transformers 3, Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn made one of the best movies of the year. Following Bronson and Valhalla Rising, Refn crafts his most polished, commercial work yet, while retaining all the ambiguity and unbridled aggression of his tough-as-nails art house pictures.

Bearing thematic resemblance to Darren Aronofsky's recent output, Drive is like Black Swan in overdrive. The film pins its headlights on the dark implications of unchecked obsession and good intentions gone haywire. That dangerous duality – humanity on the razor's edge of animal brutality – is played to unnerving perfection by Ryan Gosling.

Rightly among the most reliable names on the Hollywood marquee, the star of Drive plays a crucible of a character. A friendly, fatherly figure to his neighbor (Carey Mulligan) and her young son, he's decidedly less so when the two are threatened. A sort of oblique, ultraviolent superhero, the driver leaps to defend the innocent with bloody determination. If the first half of Drive plays as drama, the second is straight up revenge fare.

Playing on the juxtaposition of calm and calamity, Refn keeps us on our toes throughout. Quiet moments stretch into suffocating silence, and the explosive violence that inevitably shatters it practically tears the frame in half. The audio is expertly mixed; you'll want to see Drive loud. From its roaring engines and visceral blows to its curt dialogue, the film is an altar to the power of great sound design.

In truth, Drive isn't pervasively violent, though its most excruciatingly effective moments leave a memory trail like tire streaks on a sunbaked highway. At the heart of the story is a compelling, surprisingly tender romance. Carey Mulligan has proved herself a similarly reliable talent to Gosling, and has worked in recent years with the likes of Michael Mann, Oliver Stone, and Mark Romanek.

Her fragile character's relationship with the driver is subtle and nuanced in a manner atypical of thriller convention. They're not family, they're not even sleeping together. Drive is not a sexy film. Refn fetishizes neither cars nor women; if The Fast and the Furious is the sleek exterior curves of an automobile, Drive is the greasy, undulating pistons. And it's utilitarian at a lean 100 minutes.

The rest of the small cast also impresses. Albert Brooks plays against type as a cutthroat crime lord, and a note-perfect Ron Perlman plays his meathead partner. Bryan Cranston of TV's Breaking Bad has a small role too, as employer and confidant to Gosling's character. Their relationships shuffle as lines are drawn and redrawn, but none of them comes away unscathed by the film's end.

Drive is either the explosive end to a lukewarm summer movie season or an early autumn adrenaline rush. In machismo, it far outpaces its hundred million dollar competition, leaving overwrought tales of lesser heroes like Thor and Green Lantern in the dust. Its troubled characters, and the bonds of desperation that link them, elevate the film above its genre trappings and shield it from disposable entertainment status.

Nicolas Winding Refn's Drive is an anomaly. It's like a 1200 horsepower hybrid. And it's one of the best movies of 2011.

4.5/5

"Don't Be Afraid of the Dark" Review

2011-08-26T13:18:00.006-04:00

Horror is kind of like porn. Either it's convincing and effective or it's embarrassing and laughable. Don't Be Afraid of the Dark is the latter, and there isn't even any nudity. This haunted house of clichés shepherded by Guillermo del Toro brings nary a new idea to the table, and doesn't even execute on old ones effectively. Chalk that up to first time feature director Troy Nixey, who does suspense about as well as Jenna Jameson does acting. And in the end, it's the audience that gets screwed.

Stop me if you've heard this one. A family at odds moves into a charming old mansion with a (gasp!) terrifying secret. If, during Don't Be Afraid of the Dark, you find your mouth agape, it's more likely your letting loose a yawn than a scream. Guy Pearce and Katie Holmes play parent and guardian respectively to Sally (Bailee Madison), a sulky Los Angeleno forcibly relocated to Rhode Island and relinquished into her father's care. While exploring the nooks and crannies of her lonely new home, Sally awakens a long-dormant evil, and yada yada yada.

Where it isn't derivative, Nixey's film is asinine. Even the title makes no sense. Don't Be Afraid of the Dark is a movie that validates fear of the dark. The characters don't surmount their supernatural oppressors with courage; they fight them with light. That is, when they think to. Somebody ought to propose an "all lights all the time" policy in this house, because the amount of time spent fumbling for flashlights is entirely unnecessary.

Del Toro co-wrote the screenplay with Matthew Robbins, and there isn't a fresh idea between them. A thematically faithful remake of the 1973 TV movie of the same name, 2011's Don't Be Afraid of the Dark is haunted by logical fallacies, dull stereotypes, and uninspired scare tactics. Has del Toro become so ensconced in his producorial duties that his writing has irrevocably lost its creative spark? I hope for The Hobbit's sake it hasn't.

Don't Be Afraid of the Dark is so uniformly sloppy, however, that no one person can shoulder the blame. The acting is subpar; I can't remember the last time I saw an entire cast deliver such a collectively mediocre performance. Whether fault lies with the actors themselves or the inexperienced director is debatable, but that the film suffers is undeniable.

If a paltry few circumstantially effective jump scares are your measure of success, then by all means plunk down your 11 bucks for Don't Be Afraid of the Dark. Just don't expect to be afraid. Every year we get a few great dramas, and one or two good comedy and action flicks. What gives? Why should horror have the lowest success ratio, and its fans the lowest standards? When was the last time a film genuinely scared you?

Audiences shouldn't settle for Don't Be Afraid of the Dark. Like a bad porno, we're left bored by its expository sequences in anticipation of the action. And then the action arrives and underwhelms. We can't even fast-forward. The whole dim, dumb movie is an exercise in textbook tedium, created as though by combining at random items from the approved horror glossary, 666th edition. Horror, like porn, leans on the believability of its flimsily constructed reality. When that spell is broken, it's only too apparent that you're staring at some guy's bare ass. In this case, del Toro's.

2/5

"30 Minutes or Less" Review

2011-08-10T17:11:00.007-04:00

Jokes are overrated. The best comedies cull humor from character flaws, and while the cast of 30 Minutes or Less has those to spare, human foibles have little bearing on the way these people behave. Instead, it's about one-liners and crass one-upmanship in a string of exponentially less believable scenarios. First time screenwriter Michael Diliberti (previously credited as executive assistant to producer Scott Rudin) blunders his way past a great premise to lowest common denominator comedy.

Nick (played by Jesse Eisenberg of The Social Network) is a pizza delivery boy who gets jumped by a pair of goons (Danny McBride, Nick Swardson), and strapped with a bomb and an ultimatum: rob a bank within ten hours or face the explosive consequences. Sounds exciting, right? Wrong.

Zombieland director Ruben Fleischer ignores the inherent tension. The homemade bomb should be a volatile, omnipresent threat, but there's never any indication that the device will actually explode. Granted, I'm not expecting Hitchcock here, but if I can't have suspense, even logic would suffice. With a whole ten hours on the clock, Nick and his buddy Chet (Aziz Ansari) idiotically ignore every safer stratagem at their disposal while playing ball with the crooks.

Part of the problem is that McBride and Swardson are portrayed as such inept villains, and occupy so much screen time. 30 Minutes or Less, at 90 minutes or less, prominently features these characters out of necessity to fulfill its own feature-length ambitions. Dramatically, it makes no sense — is Nick really the type of guy who would steal $100,000 at the behest of stooges like these?

A better 30 Minutes or Less would have ditched its emphasis on the antagonists and focused instead on Nick's foiled attempts to extricate himself from his predicament. As it stands, he seems all too willing to make himself an antihero: not just in robbery, but in voluntary crimes like grand theft auto and threatening a cop. It would have been more believable and exciting if the character complied only as a desperate last resort. That his roommate accompanies him on the heist is more asinine still.

As always, if 30 Minutes or Less were funnier, it would be easy to forgive the injustice done to its premise. The humor is hit-and-miss leaning toward the latter, and even my eager audience was rendered deafly silent by many of McBride's big moments. It isn't expressly his fault — his character just doesn't belong in the movie, and there's not much character there to begin with.

To draw a comparison, Tropic Thunder ranks among my favorite action-comedies of recent years because its characters instigate the plot, not vice versa. In that film, dramatic tension is elevated by the conflicting egos of its cast. In 30 Minutes or Less, narrative devices as lethal as Nick's bomb vest routinely hold the story ransom.

But the real robbery isn't a bank job — it's the shameless adoption of modern comedy's worst habits by Diliberti and Fleischer. From their casts of emotionally stunted man-children to their disposable pop-culture jabs and gratuitous bawdy dialogue, the irony of these R-rated comedies is that they cater to a PG-13 crowd. 30 Minutes or Less had an opportunity to distinguish itself with action beats, but the nearest it comes to Die Hard and Lethal Weapon is mentioning them. Even in a summer with little competition, Fleischer's film is light on laughs and even lighter on character. Now there's a commodity that's underrated.

2/5

"Cowboys & Aliens" Review

2011-07-27T21:26:00.006-04:00

Cowboys & Aliens sticks to its guns. Symbolically, that might suggest a certain strength, but in truth it means the filmmakers couldn't have played it any safer. The story is a weak hodgepodge of ideas riding past the point of homage clear into Cliché County. The crisp, colorful visuals likewise present an unmemorable wallpaper of established western and science fiction iconography devoid of individual vision.

It's a clear case of too many cooks. Credited to a screenwriting seven, their conglomerated output is anything but magnificent. With a cast of caricatures that includes an amnesiac outlaw (Daniel Craig), a bumbling medicine man (Sam Rockwell), and a grizzled cattle rancher (Harrison Ford), Director John Favreau's crack team of creatives had their bases covered with western stereotypes. Their failure is in their unwillingness or inability to add anything beyond extraterrestrials to the mix.

Stripped of its sci-fi gimmick, the world collapses. These people aren't compelling in their own right, and their predictable reaction to an otherworldly threat negates the period setting. The titular visitors are off-handedly called demons, but the unique perspective of a society that hasn't yet read H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds is absent. Explaining the invasion using Christian ideology might have helped set Cowboys & Aliens apart, but it subsists instead solely on the novelty of combining its constituent genres while doing neither justice.

Presumably because the audience is expected and even depended on not to think, the screenplay circumvents such ambiguity at every turn. Instead of allowing our turn-of-the-century protagonist to make sense of the ordeal on his own terms, religious or otherwise, the writers employ an expendable, expository character to do it for him. Do we really need to know the back-story and endgame of the antagonists? It used to be enough just to know they're here and they're dangerous.

And then there's the aliens themselves. It seems almost unjust to criticize the creature design given how low Hollywood has set the bar, but Cowboys & Aliens' take is particularly uninspired. Bearing resemblance to the grasshoppers from Pixar's A Bug's Life, these cartoony insectoids feel completely at odds with the gritty western setting. Granted, dichotomy is the name of the game, but when they share screen space with our human heroes, the result is more Who Framed Roger Rabbit? than was likely intended.

But far more important than its intellectual and stylistic shortcomings is the fun factor. Cowboys & Aliens has a handful of decent set pieces, though its climactic battle is too helter-skelter to impress. Aerial assaults in the aliens' mechanized dragonfly drones prove most entertaining, though remain too few and far between. Their unannounced arrival is especially memorable and chaotic, but as the scale escalates, the stakes never ante up.

Cowboys & Aliens is a hopelessly average blockbuster. Big stars, bigger budget, and zero staying power. Much has been made of the "risk" associated with Favreau helming such an unproven franchise. After all, where are the wizards, the superheroes, and the vampires? This is not a brave film, nor the work of a brave filmmaker. Universal Pictures inherits the slim financial risk that this oddball mash up won't recoup its hundred million dollars; Favreau himself takes none.

In other words, he sticks to his guns. He fulfills his contractual obligation to bring the offbeat Cowboys & Aliens comic to the screen, but traverses cautiously over the safest possible path to deliver it. Call that what you will, but cowardice has a nice ring to it.

2.5/5

"Captain America: The First Avenger" Review

2011-07-26T00:56:00.003-04:00

The sorry state of comic book movies is laid bare in Captain America: The First Avenger. The star spangled superhero hurdles higher than many of his peers, begging the question how he ended up last in the rotation. With the cinematic landscape cluttered with Hell-sent motorcyclists and Norsemen from outer space, could it be that Marvel sought to save the best for last? Nah.

The studio's lack of faith in the character is apparent in the caliber of talent they put behind the lens. Director Joe Johnston (once of The Rocketeer fame) boasts a career blemished by Jurassic Park III and the toothless 2010 Wolfman reboot. Still more disconcerting is the track record of screenwriting duo Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, best known for Disney's disastrous Chronicles of Narnia adaptations. If I were a betting man, I'd be out a few bucks this weekend.

Fortuitously, Johnston's strengths cover Markus and McFeely's weaknesses, and vice versa. The authors offer a fertile narrative, and the director plants personality. He's summoned great actors for even his weakest efforts, and the cast of Captain America shines. An earnest Chris Evans takes the lead, supported by talents like Hugo Weaving as the villainous Red Skull, Tommy Lee Jones as himself as a general, and Stanley Tucci as a mad scientist in military employ. They obviously had a blast.

But the captain's greatest boon is simply having been born a century ago. Set against the backdrop of WWII, the twentieth century aesthetic goes a long way in instilling the adventure with the magic most modern superhero pictures lack. It's somehow easier to suspend our disbelief when the storytellers rustle history's hair à la Indiana Jones. And when it comes to sense of humor, the fewer opportunities for Facebook jokes the better.

Yet Captain America succumbs to its own set of shortcomings. For starters, Johnston's action is inarticulate. Many of the fight scenes suffer from klutzy choreography or are stylistically gimped by passé techniques like speed ramping. Markus and McFeely share equal blame for many of these uninspired sequences, which recast the captain as a personality deficient nobody shooting his way through dim corridors.

But the most glaring flaw is Captain America's irksome link to the inevitable Avengers movie. There's nothing interesting about Marvel's obligatory nods to their other franchise properties — they come off like commercial breaks. And can we get a moratorium on Stan Lee cameos? It was cute the first half-dozen times, but by now their sole purpose is to uphold tradition and to farm further nostalgia for the work of the studio's once golden boy.

Marvel evidently loves taking its audience out of the experience. They'd rather have people whispering to their neighbor than glued to the screen. This is especially annoying in Captain America, because for the first time since Iron Man, the audience is being treated to an origin story worth telling. And instead of letting that story shine in its own right, Marvel literally ends it with an ad.

It doesn't upend the preceding two hours, but it does leave a bad taste in the mouth. If the studio weren't so interested in franchising, Captain America might be remembered as more than a mere prequel to The Avengers — and it might very well be better. The movie has a rare lightheartedness that's absent from the rest of the Marvel's autonomous efforts, and likely will be from their blockbuster crossover.

Regardless of how it ended up last in the rotation, Captain America outshines even some of the higher seed heroes — pity it got ambushed by Marvel's marketing department. The film succeeds in spite of their routinely poor creative decision-making, but a more important question lingers. Did their ploy succeed in selling me The Avengers? Nah.

3/5

"Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2" Review

2011-07-18T21:59:00.009-04:00

"It all ends." So reads the succinct tagline for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2. Capping a decade and eight blockbuster adaptations, Warner Bros. and director David Yates have finally put the franchise to bed. This is Potter's final hour, but is it also his finest?

Depends on who you ask. It's a criticism J.K. Rowling superfans may never understand since the Potter films are tailored to them, but the franchise is neigh impenetrable to the layman. Creative sovereignty is secondary to providing a faithful if mechanical visual companion to the source. Consequently, Deathly Hallows: Part 2 isn't even half a story. There's no beginning or middle — the entirety of the two plus hour runtime is one drawn-out ending.

Often that's an exciting feeling. Deathly Hallows' upbeat action sequences outpace many of its predecessors' — a magical bank heist and a Peter-Jackson-sized skirmish at Hogwarts Castle broaden the scope of the series. Others disappoint. What should be the climactic culmination of a 20-hour epic arrives without the exhilarating catharsis its audience deserves. Standing at 10 paces, Harry and his nemesis cross wands, sans emotional stakes. The archrivals spar simply because they're destined to, and the outcome will surprise no one.

Sandwiched between action and more action are dense expository scenes. When we last left Harry, he was hunting horcruxes ("Pieces of Voldemort's soul," he helpfully reminds us). With three of the elusive artifacts still left to unearth, he, Ron, and Hermione have plenty of scrounging to do before their much-advertised and inevitably underwhelming confrontation with the dark lord. The way that series screenwriter Steve Kloves artlessly espouses these crucial bits of info is telling — he could care less whether we follow him because he's following a blueprint.

Still, Deathly Hallows: Part 2 is superior to its predecessor if only because it contains the bulk of the book's action and the characters' overdue closure. There is likewise little fluff, especially compared to the middling middle Potter flicks — but at least Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire didn't ask anyone to cough up extra to see the ending.

Dividing Deathly Hallows into two films was a brilliant marketing strategy, but one bereft of creative merit. All of the Potter films suffer to an extent from their unwillingness to embrace a fundamentally different storytelling medium, hoping instead to appease fans by cramming in as much exacting detail as will fit. And that's fine if you view the two billion dollar movie franchise as a visual supplement to the novels, but their standalone worth is negligible.

Hollywood's Potters do a good job of making flesh Rowling's beloved characters and their ever-evolving universe. Removed from the cultural phenomenon of her writing however, they are shallow, mediocre fantasy films cluttered with unnecessary detail. Some would utter an unforgivable curse at this suggestion, but Harry Potter would have made a better trilogy — there, I said it. I just hope you witches and wizards appreciate the irony of burning a Muggle like me at the stake.

Much of the positivity toward Harry Potter can be traced directly back to J.K. Rowling's writing from the generation that grew up reading it. None of the adaptations are bad enough to undo the goodwill she accumulated, but none of them stands independently either. Deathly Hallows: Part 2 stumbles with the right idea — to send the franchise out with a bang — and it does rank among the more enjoyable installments for sheer leanness. Whether or not it's Potter's finest hour is irrelevant; when it all ends, the films are only secondary.

2.5/5

"Cars 2" Review

2011-07-07T12:11:00.003-04:00

Cars 2 is all about Mater. Mater is Larry the Cable Guy. You do the math. Where Pixar's other efforts feature uncommonly compelling cartoon leads, the sequel to Cars revels in giving a shallow, annoying character the spotlight. With a laser focus squarely on the kiddie set, this washed up fish-out-of-water spy flick is bereft of the adult inclusive humor the animation giant is known for. Toss in a nonsense plot about NASCAR espionage, and — Oh, just go ahead and shoot me now.

Cars is widely considered the black sheep of the Pixar oeuvre. Taking place in its own bizarro universe wherein cars are surrogates for human beings, it tampered with the "Secret life of ________" formula the company perfected with toys, bugs, fish, and monsters. Cars was a curveball — a charming curveball that six year olds fell in love with. The grinning faces of Lightning McQueen and Mater now adorn bedspread, dinner plates, backpacks, and lunch pails. Sequel wise, there was clearly money to be made.

Unfortunately, Cars 2 makes Cars look positively nuanced. What little personality shined through in the original has been syphoned from the sequel's gas tank. Justly Pixar's first critical flop, there is little evidence that the celebrated company was even behind it. No humor, no heart — if it didn't say "Pixar" on the poster, I'm not sure I would have believed it myself.

At least it started well. Cars 2 opens with an exhilarating action sequence set on an oil rig in the dead of night. Michael Caine plays a sporty British Intelligence car by the name of Finn McMissile, who's scoping out a shady transaction when his cover is compromised. With visuals that reaffirm Pixar's unparalleled mastery of medium, McMissile makes his narrow escape by sea with enemies burning rubber in hot pursuit. Cut to black.

Oh no. Oh God no. We're back in Radiator Springs. Cars 2 would have been better off ditching its predecessor's cast and starting anew with a new set of cars. Instead, Lightning McQueen and Mater reunite after the former's most recent racing conquest, amicably agreeing to take on the next together. Like in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (a comedy in which none of the aforementioned vehicles are alive), their journey is soon sabotaged by the idiocy of the latter.

Naturally, the pair become embroiled in an international gasoline conspiracy, with Mater somehow being mistaken for an American spy incognito. Hold on. Imagine for a moment that Cars 2 was a live action film. Can you picture a suave secret agent mistaking Larry the Cable Guy for a spy? That's some direct-to-video shit right there. Just because they're cartoon cars doesn't make it any more believable, and yet the film routinely expects us to swallow similarly stupid scripting.

Cars had a comparably lucid plot. Its sequel falls victim to a problem that plagues so many unwarranted follow-ups in Hollywood — it's bigger for the sake of sheer one-upmanship. There isn't a compelling reason to tell another story about these characters, especially when the characters weren't particularly compelling to begin with. Owen Wilson is lifeless as Lightning McQueen, and Mater is a one-note sidekick who the hero's cape just doesn't fit.

But then, what do I know? Cars 2 is made for someone a quarter my age. From an objective storytelling perspective, however, it's Pixar's first bad film. It would be unreasonable to expect the studio to maintain a flawless record forever, and after the unchecked adulation their previous few films received, it might even help keep the company on its toes. With a sequel to Monsters, Inc. penciled in for 2013, and early talk of a Toy Story 4, they could use a little criticism.

1.5/5

"The Tree of Life" Review

2011-06-28T13:32:00.003-04:00

Terrence Malick's existentialist experiment The Tree of Life triggered walkouts, exasperated sighs, and confused chatter. I loved every minute of it, but it's easy to sympathize with an unprepared audience. Imagine it: half an hour into an otherwise grounded '50s family drama, the universe is born. Their confusion was understandable, but their rudeness was less forgivable — I had to tell two whispering women behind me to curb their incessant chatting. With the shuffle of shopping bags, they not only obliged, they left.

Though not particularly fair, it's easy to defend Tree of Life and condemn their reaction in the greater context of Malick's body of work. I don't know what contingent of the crowd had had exposure to the filmmaker, or consequently arrived as preconditioned to his introspective narrative stylings as I had. I'd venture a guess that a few of the least satisfied patrons likely hadn't even seen the trailer. But if Tree of Life is only a great film if you've already seen Days of Heaven and The Thin Red Line, then it isn't a great film.

The Tree of Life is great, but it will bewilder and bore an audience unwilling to entertain Malick's bizarre tangents. I don't pretend to understand exactly what the filmmaker is suggesting with each visual cue, but at their most visceral level, the images are appreciable as pure visual poetry. And written in the firestorm of newborn planets, Malick finds awesome beauty in the smoldering foundations of Earth, and the burgeoning life of our progenitors.

Opinion will doubtless hinge on this outstanding segment, but in truth Malick's trip to the planetarium isn't an especially significant aspect of the story. The birth of our world is an important prologue, but the director is more interested in comparably recent history. Sean Penn plays a modern man. Stuffed into a business suit and entombed in a monolithic glass office, he reflects on his upbringing with his parents and two brothers. With no conventional narrative to speak of, he's left grasping at an odd assortment of memories and feelings.

First steps, family suppers, neglected chores. The genius of Malick's film is playing these little moments on a galactic scale. Consider it this way: we meet a family with all the requisite triumphs and tragedies. Been there, done that. By pausing their story to illuminate the incalculably vast and random series of events that made possible their microscopic lives, the filmmaker gives us a new perspective on the size of even their shortest shortcomings. Juxtaposed with the unending expanse of the universe, the infinitesimal experiences that chip away and eventually shape their characters are monumental.

And then you've got the nuts and bolts of Malick's filmmaking. Gorgeously shot by Emmanuel Lubezki and backed by Alexander Desplat's emotive score, The Tree of Life deftly marries sight and sound with a Kubrickian flair that recalls the director in top form. It remains to be seen whether Malick's oeuvre will have the lasting impact Kubrick's did, but the two are alike foremost in their uncompromising commitment to their craft.

Tree of Life, like 2001: A Space Odyssey, is a big film. Its ideas are expansive, provocative, and timeless. As was demonstrated at the Cannes premiere and in my theater Saturday, the price of that intellectual ammunition is accessibility. This is not a film for everyone. It's not a film that conventionally entertains. What Malick attempts to elicit from his viewers is infinitely more valuable than endorphins — a reverie for life itself and empathy for mankind. It must have worked, I feel sorry for those walkouts.

4.5/5

"Super 8" Review

2011-06-13T19:26:00.004-04:00

It's getting harder and harder to make movies like Super 8. Without the marketing muscle of a comic book superhero or a million dollar mug to slap on the poster, director J.J. Abrams gave the Hollywood bean counters dangerously little to count on. Even after Star Trek proved Abrams could direct the hell out of a summer blockbuster, the budget allocated for his pet follow-up is as diminutive as its young cast.

There is one megaton name Abrams drops on the Super 8 one-sheet: Steven Spielberg. But then, even his involvement means little when stinkers like Transformers and Eagle Eye regularly reappropriate his reputation for their own nefarious purposes. Fortunately, Abrams' connection to Spielberg is more personal.

Super 8 is a tribute to the early accomplishments of the famous filmmaker, and to his ilk who fell under the Amblin Entertainment banner in the 1980s. Abrams draws thirstily from their well, and precedes his film with that iconic E.T. over-the-moon title card. His contribution isn't quite the missing masterpiece many might have hoped, but it is a fun sci-fi throwback with modern flourishes and plenty of heart. Imagine that.

Like Richard Donner's Goonies, the pint-sized protagonists of Super 8 are kids. Not the angsty teenage set that Twilight has cornered, but kids. Cute, flawed, and endearing, the cast and casting director deserves a lot of credit. Two of the youngest stars make their debut here, including Joel Courtney as Joe, a boy dealing with the untimely death of his mother, and Riley Griffiths as Charles —Joe's (token big boned) friend with directorial aspirations.

Hence the title, a love of filmmaking permeates Super 8 — not just in Abrams' confident, informed direction, but among his characters as well. Set in the summer of '79, our heroes sneak out by night to shoot scenes for Charles' schlocky zombie detective short, The Case. Anyone who's messed around with a camcorder as a kid or endured an amateur film festival will immediately recognize the beats. Armed with approximations of professional equipment that would put my friends and I and our Mickey Mouse operation to shame, these characters are seriously creative. But then, being written by J.J. Abrams doesn't hurt.

It's no real spoiler that Super 8 is an alien flick, and Charles' little project takes a dramatic turn when he records something he was never meant to see. A loosed extraterrestrial menace stirs up trouble in the close-knit community, but with the subsequent government invasion, the first act's micro-focus begins to blur. Spielberg's own E.T. benefited from an exclusively adolescent perspective. By comparison, Super 8 wanders.

Though we're never parted from Joe long, the unfolding alien drama rarely meshes with the human story. Creature characterization should be married to his coming-of-age, but instead, exposition usually amounts to an isolated attack on a tertiary character. The scenes play well with suspense and camera trickery, but in hindsight, the plot is pretty much paused for action.

Super 8 is still a summer movie to aspire to. Like Inception, it defiantly forgoes franchising in favor of an as-yet untapped creative reserve. Of course, Abrams draws from the same wellspring that Spielberg, Donner, and Dante drank from, but even when he borrows, he reminds us why so many films made for triple the price aren't half as enjoyable — heart. Call Abrams overambitious, but his is a story of love, reconciliation, and friendship. How exactly do you quantify that?

3.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 93: X-Men First Class

2011-06-04T19:03:00.004-04:00

00:00 - Intro
02:10 – Main Review: X-Men First Class (2011), dir: Matthew Vaughn
(SPOILERS)
31:30 – Additional Review: Kung Fu Panda 2 (2011), dir: Jennifer Yuh
43:07 – WMD
(Tremors, Snakes on a Train, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, My Best Fiend Klaus Kinski, The Straight Story, Paranoid Park, Indiana Jones Trilogy)
01:25:18 – Outro

X-Men First Class
Colin:
Ben:
Laura:
Micah:

Kung Fu Panda 2
Colin:
Ben:
Laura:

"Cave of Forgotten Dreams" Review

2011-06-01T12:00:00.007-04:00

No one shoots 32,000 year-old cave paintings like Werner Herzog. First off, they're not allowed. The storied German filmmaker was recently granted unprecedented access to Chauvet caves in south France, which house the earliest known human paintings. Cave of Forgotten Dreams is the latest in his library of offbeat and mostly fascinating documentaries. Of course, Herzog's unique perspective is as much a draw as the subject matter itself — the man could make a movie about dirt and I'd be the first in line.

Fortunately, he's dealing with no such handicap here. The paintings that line Chauvet are beautiful, perfectly preserved, and enigmatic. But it's their technique that's most impressive. The conception that early man doodled only rudimentary stick figures and geometric animals is a fallacy, as the craft on display in Cave of Forgotten Dreams is staggering. So much so that early analysis doubted the authenticity of the drawings. Sealed beneath a thick layer of calcite, however, carbon dating proved them genuine.

In truth, there are no depictions of man on the walls of Chauvet. Instead, most panels appear an altar to the animal kingdom, with awesome recreations of bison, horses, lions, and now extinct wooly rhinos. Painted from memory in a dark recess of the cave, the images could only be seen by firelight. Art historians speculate that in those flickering flames, the drawings might have appeared to take life, which Herzog equates to a sort of "proto-cinema." Also of special interest to the director is a bison with a woman's body painted onto the curvature of a stalactite.

Complete with bizarre metaphors, inner musings, and tangential conversation, there can be no mistaking the author of Cave of Forgotten Dreams. At times, the filmmaker even seems aware that he's being Werner Herzog. Not every one of his digressions proves equally illuminating, but you can't really complain about Herzog being Herzog in a Herzog documentary.

Funded in part by the History Channel, his input is infinitely more valuable considering the sterile TV special this might have been. His knack for compelling autobiography proves one of the most intriguing aspects of the film, and rather than work around his crew and equipment, Herzog mines drama from their creative difficulties. The team was permitted inside for just a few brief hours per day, and restricted to two foot wide metal walkways once there. The many precautions and restrictions protect the integrity of the cave floor, and the still fresh footprints and animal remains that have survived there for so long.

Cave of Forgotten Dreams isn't Herzog's best work by any stretch of the imagination, but at almost 70, it's amazing he's still up for the Indiana Jones routine. From the Peruvian rainforest in his youth to Antarctica and now some light spelunking, Herzog is one of the most traveled filmmakers alive. That he can still churn out progressive, stimulating entertainment is a rarity among artists his age.

And as obtuse as it may be, Herzog's ideology is invaluable. Through his eyes, Chauvet cave is a wonder to behold; he captures the transcendent beauty of the paintings and ruminates on the lives of their anonymous creators. Though sometimes he overstates his own eccentricity, the through line of art as an essential human quality circumvents his digressions. Our ability to appreciate the creative output of a society millennia removed from our own is a powerful concept. Here's hoping folks from the year 34,000 appreciate Herzog as much as we do.

4/5

"Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides" Review

2011-05-23T23:43:00.003-04:00

Pirates of the Caribbean debuted atop a cresting wave, but after a hat trick of subpar sequels, this rickety franchise is all but shipwrecked. The fourth installment, On Stranger Tides, cements a downward spiral of diminishing creativity with Captain Jack Sparrow's most shallow adventure yet. Gone is director Gore Verbinski, whose surrealist sensibilities were the saving grace of Dead Man's Chest and At World's End. His leftfield replacement is Rob Marshall, the man behind the Academy Award-winning musical, Chicago.

Action is obviously not Marshall's forte, but it doesn't seem unreasonable to have expected better choreography. Marred by shapeless large-scale skirmishes, On Stranger Tides lacks the series' signature spunk. To that effect, personality walked the plank prior to the opening titles.

Granted, the characters of the Pirates universe have always been archetypes enlivened by smart performances, but even the novelty of Johnny Depp as our ne'er-do-well antihero is wearing itself thin. Likewise, Geoffrey Rush trotting out his Barbossa doesn't deliver the same impact four times over. Other familiar faces appear throughout this overlong narrative, but On Stranger Tides is better defined by its absentees and new recruits.

Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley are the most obvious examples. Axing their dull relationship is no great loss, nor is the omission of squid-faced antagonist Davy Jones. Pity their replacements are less interesting still. An aloof Penélope Cruz might be the most boring woman on the seven seas, and her romance with Sparrow is dead in the water. Don't even get me started on the courtship of the cleric and the mermaid, which sounds like the setup to a bad joke. Deadwood's Ian McShane turns in a compelling interpretation of the legendary pirate Black Beard, but is criminally underused.

Weaving a tale that involves three factions pulling anchor to find Ponce de Leon's fabled fountain of youth, On Stranger Tides plays out like the world's most expensive snail race. And the audience ain't getting any younger. No epic is as simple as point A to B, but Pirates revels in getting sidetracked. Silly business like voodoo dolls, mermaid tears, and magic compasses needlessly postpone the endgame; "It's not the destination so much as the journey," Sparrow quips. I'd be inclined to agree if either were any fun.

Of course it wouldn't be a Pirates of the Caribbean movie without CGI sea creatures and mystical trinkets, but both serve merely to inflate the plot — it's like catching a glimpse of the director backstage gesturing stretch, stretch! Or perhaps it's proof of weak characterization that the inanimate objects prove just as interesting as our heroes.

With a gray-brown pallet and precious few postcards to remember it by, On Stranger Tides is inconsequential even by popcorn standards. The franchise has become increasingly inaccessible, and while this fourth installment stands better alone than At World's End, there is little incentive for viewers not yet familiar with the wily charms of Jack Sparrow to care. Accordingly, attendance for the Pirates films continues to drop, though the 90 million Marshall raked in over opening weekend is nothing to sneeze at. Word is a fifth installment is already in the works.

Realistically, Pirates won't stop until Disney runs it aground or Depp says no — and like any good captain with a multi-million dollar check in hand, he's going down with the ship.

2/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 92: Pirates 4

2011-05-23T01:27:00.004-04:00

00:00 – Intro
04:25 – Top 5
08:46 – Main Review – Pirates 4 (2011), dir: Rob Marshall
32:37 – WMD
(How Do You Know, The 400 Blows, The Experiment, Badlands, The Killing, The Fifth Element)
58:32 – E-mails and Outro
(Favorite Apocalypse Movie, Opinions on Armond White)

Pirates 4
Colin:
Maggie:
Laura:

"Bridesmaids" Review

2011-05-17T14:31:00.002-04:00

It's clear "Bridesmaids" got greenlit as "'The Hangover' for chicks," but to condemn it as such would be a disservice. The latest Judd Apatow Family Production is a savvy, character-driven comedy worthy of commendation in its own right. SNL's Kristen Wiig stars, having co-wrote the screenplay with actress Annie Mumolo. In a culture with great reverence for the pomp and circumstance of marriage, the pair dispenses a generous allocation of banana peels along the length of the aisle.

It may not make for the most intellectual humor, but "Bridesmaids" thrives on broad comedy by way of endearing characters and vibrant performances. Wiig plays Annie, the broke proprietor of a failed bakery whose best friend (Maya Rudolph) is engaged. Named maid of honor at the upcoming wedding, Annie is soon overwhelmed with all the inherited responsibility. She spars with bitchy perfectionist Helen (Rose Byrne) over bridal shower themes, bachelorette party locales, and naturally, bridesmaid dresses.

Though the cast is rounded out by Wendi McLendon-Covey of "Reno 911" fame and Ellie Kemper from the American "Office," the real standout is "Gilmore Girls'" Melissa McCarthy as Megan, the 180-degree antithesis of class. Heavyset, hilarious, and not the least bit demure, she easily walks away with the movie. Whether she's accusing a seatmate of being an air marshal incognito, or bent over a sink in a compromising situation, the funniest moments in "Bridesmaids" are almost exclusively hers.

Not that "Bridesmaids" has any shortage of funny moments. Some scenarios work better than others however, and at two plus hours, it's hard not to notice where it could use a trim. For all the positives Apatow doubtless brings to the production, he is a poor role model when it comes to maintaining an appropriate run time. Director Paul Feig is more directly to blame for not axing the most superfluous and least funny bits; Annie's portly English roommates spring to mind as characters whose absence might make the film leaner in more ways than one.

The lack of focus keeps "Bridesmaids" from achieving real staying power. Subplots like Annie's relationship with an Irish cop (Chris O'Dowd) — amusing though they may be —consume too great a slice of our time, and dilute what makes the simple premise so strong. Feig and Wiig are firing on all cylinders during the ensemble scenes, and I'm confident a better 90-minute cut exists somewhere in the folds of this wedding comedy, which has as many frills and puffs as even the gaudiest bride to be.

"Bridesmaids" may not be one to have and to hold until death do you part, but it's still a saucy affair. Wiig plays a loveable loser and surrounds herself with some seriously funny ladies. Their performances alone carry most scenes. Coupled with a refreshing refusal to cater exclusively to the sense of humor of teenage boys, the film suffers only in setting itself too high a standard and failing to continually exceed it.

Though the output is sadly less than the sum of its parts, there is enough great, boisterous energy on hand to make "Bridesmaids" worth checking out, gender regardless. It's leagues ahead of the competition when it comes to personality, and its savvy, character-driven comedy could actually teach a thing of two to those clowns behind the "'Bridesmaids' for bros."

3/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 91: Bridesmaids

2011-05-15T23:10:00.003-04:00

00:00 – Intro
01:36 – Top 5
03:22 – Main Review: Brides Maids (2011), dir: Paul Feig
23:06 – WMD
(Priest, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, Monsters, Dirty Dancing, Wet Hot American Summer, The Thin Red Line, In Bruges)
46:58 – E-mail and Outro
(Source Material vs. Adaptions, Favorite IPA)

Bridesmaids
Colin:
Kevin:
Jon:

FARCE/FILM Episode 90: Thor, Fast Five

2011-05-12T14:38:00.000-04:00

00:00 – Intro
01:50 – Top 5
05:51 – Main Review: Thor (2011), dir: Kenneth Branagh
21:44 – Additional Review: Fast Five (2011), dir: Justin Lin
28:24 – WMD
01:04:30 – E-mail and Outro
(Thoughts on Piranha 3DD)

Thor
Colin:
Kevin:

Fast Five
Colin:
Kevin:

"Thor" Review

2011-05-12T10:15:00.000-04:00

"Thor" operates under the mistaken assumption that Thor is cool. Marvel's unsolicited film adaptation makes no attempt to entice an audience that may yet be unfamiliar with this benchwarmer hero. Peter Parker was a dweeb; Bruce Wayne lost his parents; Clark Kent was abandoned at birth; great comic heroes have compelling origin stories. Our introduction to Thor is as a spoiled warmonger about to ascend to kinghood. Why are we rooting for this guy, again?

Pitting your audience against the protagonist is something a filmmaker the caliber of a P.T. Anderson can pull off, but I'm pretty sure we're supposed to like Thor. Maybe we're supposed to sympathize when daddy takes away his mallet, but once the eponymous meathead is booted from his cushy Asgardian throne, he crash lands on Earth as a colossal buffoon. See Thor get tased. See Thor smash a coffee mug while a glib teenager uploads a photo to Facebook and you'll have an idea just how low the comedy here is flying. Watch your heads.

"Thor" treats Thor with such undeserved adulation that reducing the thunder god to a punch line in the second act comes like a bolt from the blue. Following a foundation of pretentious melodrama set in a Seussian CGI metropolis, even the more successful attempts at humor later on play foreign and weird. And just to keep the audience on its toes, the tone wobbles wildly to and fro like a pair of burly Norsemen on a teeter-totter.

I've got nothing against flawed heroes. Thor's arrogance might have helped make his story worth telling. Instead, the filmmakers (with credit to no less than five writers) waste two hours attempting to redeem him in the audience's eyes. Still, the real problem is that the character is uninteresting. It's more than possible some of the nuance of the comic books has been lost in translation, but I can't think of a single trait that makes Thor (Chris Hemsworth) appealing.

The same goes for the rest of the cast. Natalie Portman plays a scientist who ought to be studying the mysteries of her missing personality, and Stellan Skarsgård plays her mentor, an equally pale placeholder character. Rounding out their misfit team is Kat Dennings, whose character description might as well read: "Social media junkie; loves her iPod, and whatever else those damned teenagers are into nowadays."

The aesthetic of "Thor" is as bland as its players. Director Kenneth Branagh, best known for his Shakespearean endeavors, takes a 'broken tripod' approach to directing this summer tent pole. He has cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos frame half his shots diagonally in lieu of investing in a coherent visual style. Branagh is elsewhere absent as the shepherd of his cast — otherwise proven performers mumble their way through the movie.

As if Thor didn't have enough shame to contend with as a D-list superhero, his big screen debut is similarly underwhelming. Instead of making a case for the character, Branagh and a gaggle of screenwriters cement his lame duck status in this bludgeoningly boring popcorn flick. Even undiscerning cinemagoers looking for little more than a two-hour refuge from the summer sun have better choices available to them. Comic book aficionados likewise have no shortage of spandex to look forward to in the coming weeks.

After years of warming the bench, Thor finally got called into the big game, only to slip up and sustain a career-ending injury on his first play. That's gotta hurt.

2/5

"Fast Five" Review

2011-05-04T10:55:00.005-04:00

Forgive my ignorance of the "Fast and Furious" films. Believe it or not, this fifth installment is the first I've seen in its entirety. I could generally care less about car culture and only just learned how to change my own oil. The closest I come to drifting is in "Mario Kart." I am not the target audience. But as the producers have apparently exhausted street racing tropes, they've pimped the franchise out to the masses. Color me impressed, it actually works.

"Fast Five" may be brainless action, but at least it's the type that revels in its own ridiculousness. The genre has lately fallen into a self-serious slump, teeming with stern-faced heroes who don't enjoy saving the world one bit. Conversely and to all appearances, Vin Diesel and company couldn't be having a better time tearing up the streets of Rio de Janeiro. Sometimes a fast car and a toothy grin is all you need.

Director Justin Lin obviously appreciates the simple and satisfying marriage of physical stunt work and compelling cinematography. Granted, it's no master's course in action filmmaking, but his use of the camera to transfer momentum is undeniably effective. Particularly impressive are his opening and closing chase sequences, in which he employs CGI sparingly in favor of real vehicles and visceral wrecks. Smartly favored in the trailer, "Fast Five" is bookended by an hour of easy escapism.

The problem is everything in between. No one was expecting Shakespeare, but Lin and screenwriter Chris Morgan should have at least dog-eared the bit about brevity being the soul of wit. At two hours 10 minutes, "Fast Five" is longer than it has any earthly business being. The bloated running time allows for some presumably obligatory street races and more tiresome exposition than you can shake a stick shift at.

Hours seem to wither away in a dimly lit garage where story beats are spoon-fed to the audience. Get on with it; "Fast Five" is a "one last job" heist film with few surprises. Whole swaths of the story could be cut—they exist solely to justify more drag races, fistfights, and shootouts. Morgan also relies on cheap, microwavable drama in his peripheral storytelling: an unexpected pregnancy and leftfield romances add little depth to the proceedings. Having his characters emote plays to nobody's strengths.

Thankfully, the charisma of the cast buoys any less than Oscar-worthy performances. Diesel comes off surprisingly empathetic as the muscle-bound mastermind of the hundred million dollar heist. Along the way, he spars with a gargantuan federal agent played by The Rock, and calls in help from a colorful cast of returning characters, including an ex-rival (Paul Walker), his sister (Jordana Brewster), a smooth-talker (Tyrese Gibson), and a safecracker (Ludacris).

Despite its lulls, "Fast Five" kicks the summer off right. With more judicious pacing, it might have been the perfect Saturday afternoon snack, but junk food necessitates a conservative serving size. Lin's overlong film is fortunately punctuated by the sort of tangible high-octane action that has become a rarity in the age of CGI superpowers and spell craft. Even if you're as unfamiliar with the franchise as I was yesterday, you'll likely find this fifth installment immediately accessible and intermittently fun. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with my 2001 automatic transmission Toyota Camry.

3/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 89: Super, African Cats

2011-04-24T22:12:00.004-04:00

00:00 – Intro
01:42 – Top 3
03:23 – Main Review: Super (2010), dir: James Gunn
(spoilers)
29:28 – Additional Review: African Big Cats (2011), dir: Alastair Fothergill
39:04 – WMD
(Four Lions, Howl, Hanna, Police Academy, Dead Poet’s Society, Matinee)
52:09 – Outro

Super
Colin:
Kevin:
Jon:
Danny:

African Cats
Jon:
Danny:

FARCE/FILM Episode 88: Scream 4, Rio

2011-04-20T02:06:00.003-04:00

00:00 – Intro
01:30 – Top 5
04:15 – Main Review: Scream 4 (2011), dir: Wes Craven
21:52 – Additional Review: Rio (2011), dir: Carlos Saldanha
29:51 – WMD
(Game of Thrones, 127 Hours, Police Academy, Glee, The Kingdom, Black Hawk Down)
56:17 – E-mail and Outro
(Favorite Road Trip Movie, The Future of 3D)

Scream 4
Colin:
Laura:
Jon:

Rio
Colin:
Laura:

"Rio" Review

2011-04-19T16:31:00.003-04:00

"Rio" is one for the kiddies, so you'll have to forgive this childless twenty-something for feeling at odds with the target audience. The theater was stuffed with tykes with mouths agape—whispering, screaming, and coughing. I have no idea if that means they were enjoying it. From an adult perspective, this anthropomorphic epic isn't necessarily a painful endurance test, but unlike Nickelodeon's "Rango," there isn't a single compelling reason to recommend it to anyone over the age of 12.

The voice cast is unsurprisingly stacked with actors in vogue looking to score an easy paycheck. Jesse Eisenberg channels his innermost neurosis as Blu, our fine, feathered protagonist with a fear of flying. Leslie Mann plays his owner Linda, a bookish Minnesotan who is coerced into schlepping her beloved pet to the eponymous South American city in order to have him (ahem) mate with the only known female of his kind.

If you've ever been subjected to children's programming, you may know the cadence that most of the cast adopts. Sentences delicately spill from animated lips with careful annunciation of each syllable, lest anyone fall behind. There are a couple of legitimately impressive performances, including Jemaine Clement of "Flight of the Conchords" fame as a conniving cockatoo, and Tracy Morgan from "30 Rock" as an oversensitive bulldog. Rounded out by the likes of Will i Am and Jamie Foxx, "Rio" draws from a pool of veteran vocal performers.

And if the above talent didn't tip you off, I regretfully inform you that "Rio" fancies itself a musical. Doubtless spurred by the success of "Happy Feet," every so often the characters break into exuberant song, which is even more grating than their unhurried dialogue.

The archetypical adventure plays out predictably. Blu doesn't exactly hit it off with Jewel (Anne Hathaway), his undomesticated mate—but the two are birdnapped and find love as they find their way home together. Granted, it's a proven template, but to use the oeuvre of Pixar as a counter-point, there's plenty of wiggle-room to establish identity within the stringent confines of a narrative 'sure thing.' Even when Pixar isn't pushing boundaries, its creative shepherds generally recognize the chasm that separates the kiddie crowd from general audience.

Not that there's anything wrong with catering a cartoon to children, but even under those auspices, I can only recommend "Rio" to, what, 15% of the population? Probably none of whom are reading this review. Parents have my condolences if they're dragged to this utterly uninteresting animated flick, though history is fraught with worse cinematic prison sentences.

It's hard to outright hate "Rio" given that I am almost two decades the elder of its target audience, and childless to boot. Thus, my window into its appeal is either long-since closed or not-yet open. As a fan of animation, however, I can safely assert that grown ups need not apply. If readymade heartstring pluckers like lost pets and orphans get you all gooey-eyed, maybe "Rio" will speak to you—but my sense is that most of us are calloused to such obvious emotional exploitation.

As for the twelve and unders—their reaction was tough to gauge amid the chorus of whispers, shrieks, and hacking coughs. They all pretty much sat still and watched the damn movie. That must count for something.

2.5/5

"Scream 4" Review

2011-04-18T20:30:00.005-04:00

Self-referentiality is the soul of the "Scream" series, but its fourth installment carries so much franchise baggage that director Wes Craven never really gets around to making a new movie. "Scream" and its sequels skewered then-modern genre tropes—a decade later the mind reels to imagine how the modern horror landscape might lend itself to parody. From the proliferation of "torture porn" to the endless deluge of remakes, one would think the 21^st century meant easy pickins for satirists. But if "Scream 4" is any indication, the barbs are only as sharp as their inspiration.

To be fair, the savvy deconstruction of cliché is still present in this addendum to the trilogy. Unfortunately, it's marginalized in favor of enriching "Scream" fiction. Instead of constructing a self-sufficient narrative, writer Kevin Williamson unfairly forces a cast of up-and-comers to contend with familiar characters that have a lot of catching up to do. As an audience, it's never quite clear who "Scream 4" is about.

Naturally, Neve Campbell returns as Sidney, on tour with her New York Times best-seller when a flash of fatalities crops up in her home town. Instead of gracefully passing the torch to a new generation of snarky high schoolers however, she flimsily becomes embroiled in the bloodshed and subsequent media frenzy and police investigation. Enter Courteney Cox and David Arquette, reprising their roles as Gale Weathers and Dewey Riley respectively, and you might as well cut the new characters altogether.

Which is a shame, because "Scream 4" might have worked better had the newbies been trusted with the spotlight. Williamson should have at least left his veterans more on the periphery of the story. Instead, he jumbles their reunion with the new tale he's attempting to tell and neither plays out satisfyingly. It feels like an eternity before the plot gains traction because our focal point is perennially being adjusted.

Even once the masked antagonist shows up in earnest, "Scream 4" is an exercise in redundancy. Not only because it follows three prior "Scream" films, but because internally it fails to up the stakes. Encounters with Ghostface play out virtually identically from beginning to end, with a volley of phone calls, the inevitable bait and switch, and a gruesome death. Scares were never the series' primary concern, but at least the original never lost sight of the punchline. In "Scream 4," I'm not even sure there's a setup.

Part of the problem is that Williamson's stab at modern horror is tethered to an outdated formula. "Scream 4" is still a slasher, and Ghostface is a less topical villain then ever, especially when his would-be victims are dissecting Jigsaw. Several scenes manage to smartly pinpoint new clichés, but they have little bearing on the clockwork of the narrative, and you've already seen most if you've seen the trailer.

Missed opportunities abound in "Scream 4," which pitches new material but ends up trotting out a tired routine. Though it scores easy points with in-jokes, its hokey humor quickly grows stale. Instead of fostering a conversation that might prove why the franchise is still relevant, Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven seem content to remix their smash hit for a new audience. They make tiny modern concessions, but it's apparent the pair hit an artistic plateau back in the '90s. If this is their indictment of 21st century scares, our modern perverted sadists and Japanese ghost children got nothin' to fear.

2.5/5

"Your Highness" Review

2011-04-11T23:42:00.010-04:00

Well, that was disappointing. "Your Highness" turns out to be a juvenile letdown of epic proportions. You needn't look further than the title to glean the intellectual extent of its pothead-pandering humor, which wholly lacks the tragic undercurrent that made co-writers Danny McBride and Ben Best's equally crass HBO endeavor "Eastbound and Down" such a success.

The pair's medieval genre mashup fails by comparison. Even doled out to a stacked cast that includes McBride, James Franco, Natalie Portman, and Zooey Deschanel, the jokes often read like fairytale MadLibs filled in by a gaggle of stoned teenagers. If your idea of incisive comedy is the suffix "motherfucker" to a line of dialogue, or hearing the Oscar-endowed Ms. Portman say the word "beaver," then ready your funny-bone for one gut busting adventure.

For the rest of us, "Your Highness" only occasionally tickles. Lowbrow humor has its place, but Best and McBride make it the star attraction. Their focus clearly isn't on the plot, which serves only to carry our reluctant hero from one set piece to the next, each accompanied by a handful of easy gags. First we meet a pedophilic puppet (har har) and later a minotaur with a third horn, if you catch my drift.

Thanks to some welcome practical effects, the fantasy characters and locales actually carry audience interest better than the one-note humor. Director David Gordon Green borrows from a stable of genre classics, and "Your Highness" features shades of Jim Henson and Ray Harryhausen, among others. Given that aesthetic acuity, it's a shame so much of the running time is eaten up in a nondescript forest. The most absorbing visuals end up being somewhat few and far between, and at over 100 minutes, that leaves plenty of lulls.

And yet "Your Highness" is rarely an outright bore. It has a tendency to drag, and though the jokes often skew to the lowest common denominator, it's easy enough to fall into its dumb rhythm. I'd be remiss not to mention that Best and McBride elicited a handful of laughs from me, though batted well below 500. "Your Highness" isn't a strikeout for the pair—it's more of a foul tip. McBride's is a career treading water, and instead of expanding upon the emotional facet of "Eastbound," he merely transplants his Kenny Powers persona to the middle ages.

Don't get me wrong—I'm usually the one to defend comedians accused of role redundancy, and I'm far more disappointed in McBride the writer than I am in McBride the actor. But where elsewhere he blends his crudity with offbeat social commentary, in "Your Highness," he and Best aren't even trying to be edgy—comedically or otherwise. The laughs are cheaply won, and the plot doesn't elevate its archetypical underpinnings. Naturally, the intention was to create an unobtrusive framework for the gags, but then when the gags fail, the audience is left with no backbone of appreciation for the protagonists or the quest at hand.

"Your Highness" isn't a terrible comedy, but it is a disappointingly transient one—especially given the aggregate talent on hand. Everyone involved has been funnier elsewhere, though blame ultimately lies with Best and McBride. Their stab at adults-only fantasy earns its R rating, but without challenging a single convention or bringing one genuinely new idea to bear. That is, unless you count plugging profanity into an otherwise nondescript conversation. Motherfucker.

2.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 87: Your Highness

2011-04-10T23:24:00.003-04:00

00:00 – Intro
01:22 – Top 5
06:13 – Main Review: Your Highness (2011), dir: David Gordon Green
26:38 – WMD
(The Wire, Catfish, Glee, Dexter, Brick, Assassination of a High School President)
01:10:16 – E-mail and Outro
(Guilty Pleasures, MPAA ratings)

Your Highness
Colin:
Laura:
Crawford:
Micah:

"Insidious" Review

2011-04-06T14:36:00.005-04:00

Hollywood horror films draw from a grab bag of assorted Halloween party favors, but amidst all the cheap plastic spider rings, director James Wan inserts a tarantula or two for good measure. His latest, "Insidious," takes a see-what-sticks approach that can sometimes be as frustrating as it is refreshing, but in a cinematic climate where scary movies are becoming an increasingly on-rails experience, every goose bump is worth its weight in gold (and I imagine it adds up).

"Insidious" has plenty of genuinely chilling moments, and makes better than average use of the oft maligned 'jump scare.' The technique doesn't always deliver the desired impact, but that such instances are uneven in effectiveness is in a way an incredible asset. Emotionally, we're on our toes. Wan puts convention in a blender and the audience is often left reeling from the topsy-turvy inertia. That familiar horror guardrail is gone and we're left groping in the dark.

Taking a page from Sam Raimi (not to mention title work more than a little reminiscent of his 2009 flick "Drag Me to Hell"), Wan keeps us off-balance with unpredictable emotionality. Not every bizzaro changeup he pitches lands squarely in the strike zone—a bumbling pair of paranormal investigators falls flat on the comedy front—but by constantly upsetting our expectations, "Insidious" picks a cerebral scab and burrows under our skin. A particularly inspired and disorienting soundtrack choice is the use of Tiny Tim's "Tiptoe Through the Tulips," proving perhaps definitively that nothing is more terrifying than a ukulele.

Little unconventional details help too, and with credit to "Saw" screenwriting veteran Leigh Whannell, "Insidious" makes some subtly interesting choices. For once, our parental protagonists, Josh and Renai Lambert (Patrick Wilson and Rose Byrne), are not the progenitors of an only child. Creepy kids are a genre staple, but by diffusing that cliché with siblings, Whannell opens himself to some less-traveled roads. Unfortunately, one of his most glaring oversights is underplaying that idea; in the inferior second half of the film, the other offspring essentially disappear.

Or take, for instance, the critic's ace-in-the-hole: "Why don't they just leave the house?" Like in "Paranormal Activity," Whannell explicitly explains that the demonic presence is attached to his characters rather than their homestead, but they hightail it out of there all the same. I can't immediately recall another example of haunted protagonists rationally raising stakes in the middle of the second act.

It may seem insignificant, but it makes a big difference in a genre as delicate as horror, where the element of surprise is everything. If "Insidious" were comprised entirely of offbeat innovations, it would be a perfect film. But just as often, Whannell lets convention get the better of him, or he piles on too many sub-genres—what starts off in "Poltergeist" country winds up closer to "A Nightmare on Elm Street," if you can imagine that. The disparate elements clash and complement each other in equal measure.

Spearheaded by Wan and Whannell, the "Saw" franchise pushed horror in a new direction. "Insidious" nudges it back. Inspired by classic seventies spook-outs, the filmmakers crafted what feels like Hollywood's most synonymous effort in years, imperfect though it may be. There are no hidden camera gimmicks, and absent is the also oft maligned 'torture porn' the pair popularized eight years prior. Instead, expect to be treated to the unexpected. True, the beats and "Boos!" are familiar as can be, but when "Insidious" jumps the rails, it's one hell of a ride.

3/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 86: Insidious, Source Code

2011-04-05T14:42:00.005-04:00

00:00 – Intro
01:51 – Top 5
03:42 – Additional Review: (spoilers) Source Code (2011), dir: Duncan Jones
26:30 – Main Review: Insidious (2011), dir: James Wan
43:41 – WMD
(Minority Report, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, Laura, Never Let Me Go)
59:34 – E-mail and Outro
(Favorite Clint Eastwood role and Whiskey)

Source Code
Colin:
Kevin:

Insidious
Colin:
Jon:
Suman:

"Source Code" Review

2011-04-01T20:22:00.006-04:00

"Source Code" isn't even vaguely plausible. I try not to overthink sci-fi spitballing, but even the most preposterous premises should adhere to an implicit rule set. Based on a screenplay by Ben Ripley, who previously authored two direct-to-DVD "Species" flicks, this lazy follow-up to director Duncan Jones' understated 2009 character study "Moon" is a major disappointment.

Steeped in pseudo-science, "Source Code's" biggest fault is its failure to adequately explain the parameters of the titular alternate reality experiment. Through vague governmental computer wizardry, Army Capt. Colter Stevens (Jake Gyllenhaal) is uploaded into the body of a civilian aboard an ill-fated Chicago-bound commuter train and tasked with locating a rigged explosive and its owner. To complicate matters, he only has eight minutes until impact and it's back to start.

So begins a trial and error rescue mission—not to save the train itself, but to identify the culprit and avert a looming second attack. If you're already confused, don't sweat it—Stevens is too. After every botched attempt, he finds himself back in a dank isolation room harnessed into an enormous machine with a video link to his commanding officers. As he probes them for more information on his mission, he also pries out the requisite exposition about the tech.

Long story short, Source Code isn't time travel. It merely relocates Stevens' consciousness into the lingering memory trail of the recently deceased. Cool, right? The problem is that such a heady concept immediately opens itself to a thousand potential plot holes. For instance, if Stevens is reliving the terminal eight minutes of someone's life, why can he exit the train at random when the body and mind he's sharing has no frame of reference for it? How does he even know what the passengers two cars over look like?

Even if you buy into the flawed logic of "Source Code," the filmmaking just isn't up to snuff. Jones throws subtlety to the wind for this antithetical take on the genre he seemed so passionate for two years ago. He imbues the proceedings with a nondescript glossy veneer and achieves unanimously stilted performances from his cast. Character actor Jeffrey Wright comes away looking especially bad, but Gyllenhaal is also mismanaged in the lead.

It isn't their fault; Jones lacks vision and Ripley lacks talent. The latter in particular seems incapable of executing on even his better ideas interestingly. By his hand, Stevens' lame bomb-sniffing stratagem boils down to blindly badgering suspicious-looking commuters and eventually lucky guesswork. Maybe some will respond to his common sense approach, but I much prefer watching characters more clever than myself weasel their way out of trouble. For all his military training, Captain Stevens might as well have been Joe Average Passenger.

A far cry from the careful construction of Duncan Jones' offbeat debut, "Source Code" is a discouragingly impersonal film shellacked with Hollywood disinfectant. Worse, it's plain bad science fiction. It's a halfhearted amalgam of films like "The Matrix" and "Inception," hold the fresh perspective. Still, I'm not ready to count Jones out. The young director had a hand in fleshing out "Moon," and will hopefully creatively contribute more to future projects. However, as it stands, his first two features couldn't be more at odds. Taken alone, "Source Code" is a misfire; given that it's the sophomore effort of so promising a talent, it's a major missed opportunity.

2/5

"Sucker Punch" Review

2011-03-28T21:09:00.004-04:00

If the filmography of Robert Rodriguez were projected onto the wall of Plato's cave, the fever dreams of its sorry inhabitants might come out something like this. "Sucker Punch" is an asylum for every unoriginal impulse that strikes director Zack Snyder's attention deficient mind. It is an unmitigated disaster of storytelling—thematically diarrheic with visuals to match. This hopeless post-"Inception" melodrama isn't based on a comic book like either of Snyder's previous efforts, but every genre cliché carries over tenfold.

Like a pockmarked teen with an anime fetish, Snyder's convoluted revenge flick plays out with a cast of buxom babes who look as though they might bleed mascara when cut. Stuffed into absurdly tight-fitting outfits, gals with names like Rocket, Baby Doll, and Sweet Pea unload thousands of shells from their semi-automatic rifles and leap columns of flames in when-exactly-was-this-cool-again slow motion.

The tiered fantasy worlds of "Sucker Punch" might be exciting if they corresponded in any way to the next reality over. Probably the most asinine aspect of Snyder and Steve Shibuya's screenplay (I say probably because competition is steep) is that while our protagonist is fighting a 20-foot tall sourpussed samurai or fleeing a castle from an apoplectic dragon, we are meant to believe she is really—how should I put this—doing a sexy dance. A major structural component of "Sucker Punch" is Baby Doll's escape from incarceration, a feat that necessitates trinkets such as a map, knife, lighter, and key, all of which are obtained by distracting their male overlords with… exotic dancing.

For every item on the checklist, Baby Doll gyrates—though while she cuts loose, she imagines she is annihilating clockwork Nazi soldiers in the trenches of a steampunk World War II, or tearing apart an android army on a futuristic bomb-strapped bullet train. The latter is set to a cover of the Beatles' "Tomorrow Never Knows," in which John Lennon once sang, "Turn off your mind," and "Lay down all thought." Snyder seems to have appropriated that message quite literally.

The bigger problem is that Snyder throws dramatic tension out the window by creating a fantasy world where nothing is at stake. The laws of these alternate realities are unclear at best, and the sequences themselves are purely masturbatory given that whatever happens is only loosely tied to the story we're supposed to be following. I might be more forgiving of that conceit if Snyder really wowed, but "Sucker Punch" doesn't bring a single idea to the table that hasn't been done to death in movies or video games. Snyder does so much recycling that he ought to receive special commendation from Greenpeace.

It's equally hard to muster up sympathy for his characters outside of their imaginary adventures. Snyder has a bad habit of using trauma as a binding agent between them and the audience; other than that Baby Doll fell under the shadow of an evil foster-father before imprisonment, there isn't a single reason why we should care about her. She is as devoid of genuine personality as the rest of the cartoon cast.

"Sucker Punch" might have been a blast if the tone was more in line with "Scott Pilgrim" or even "Kill Bill." Gratuitous action can be fun—just don't ask me to take it seriously. The worst of Snyder's misconceptions is that he can simultaneously blow shit up and pull our heartstrings. That he directs schlock under the pretense of style is laid bare in this, his first original work. "Sucker Punch" is not only brain dead, it's contagiously stupid. It's a high school sophomore's juvenile doodles on an 82 million dollar budget. If Snyder's filmography were projected on the wall of Plato's cave, I think those poor bastards would welcome the first disorienting rays of sunlight and their freedom with open arms.

1.5/5

"Paul" Review

2011-03-28T14:10:00.003-04:00

"Paul" is innocuous extraterrestrial fun, but should have been funnier given the caliber of its cast and crew. Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, the British bosom buddies who previously collaborated with Edgar Wright on genre send-ups "Shaun of the Dead" and "Hot Fuzz," pen their first screenplay, which lovingly pays tribute to a half century of science fiction moviemaking.

The target audience for "Paul" is old enough to appreciate an homage to "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" and will recognize odd dialogue torn from "Star Wars" and "Aliens," and yet much of the humor skews juvenile. For every gallon drawn from the cultural lexicon, there is a runoff of infantile attempts at comedy—Kristen Wiig as a Jesus Freak spouting tin-eared strings of mismatched expletives is one of the worst offenders.

Thankfully, with a brisk pace and a stacked cast—bit parts are filled by greats like Jeffrey Tambour and Jane Lynch—the momentum rarely falters. Pegg and Frost play the leads, a pair of English geeks on holiday to Comic-Con, one RV rental away from a tour of America's kitschiest UFO tourist traps. While on an otherwise deserted stretch of moonlit highway however, they witness an epic car crash and meet the genuine article—an E.T. colloquially called Paul, voiced by comedian Seth Rogen. Less sci-fi parody than offbeat road film, the trio become fast friends on the lam from Paul's governmental pursuers. Jason Bateman of "Arrested Development" fame makes a convincing turn as a badass man in black.

And yet for all the talent on board, "Paul" is short on funny. It's an easy hour and forty minutes, but the laugh out loud moments are few and far between. In addition to being the weakest Pegg/Frost flick, "Paul" is an equally underwhelming effort from director Greg Mottola, who previously helmed the hilarious high school comedy "Superbad" and the surprisingly poignant self-authored "Adventureland." Mottola brings a visual acuity to the proceedings, including an earnest prologue that recalls the Spielbergian charm of yesteryear, but such stylistic flourishes are ultimately abandoned in favor of conventional comedy over-lighting.

"Paul" never really feels like Mottola's film. He does manage to elevate Frost and Pegg's material from a directorial standpoint, but too often it's all too apparent that the authors are but fledgling storytellers. Occasionally, their lack of traditional screenwriting experience works to their advantage, and their offbeat sensibility is part of what makes the film endearing in spite of its flaws. Rather than embrace their status as Hollywood outsiders however, Frost and Pegg attempt to emulate American studio output. The result is an unusual comedy worth seeking out, but one with a serious identity crisis on its hands.

Hit and miss high jinks and bipolarity aside, Frost, Pegg, and Mottola are having too good a time to harp incessantly on where they went wrong. Gifted creatives all, even their lesser successes are more amusing and original that the lion's share of their competition. Science fiction diehards should be especially satisfied with "Paul," which taps the nostalgia spigot for all it's worth with a plethora of in-jokes and surprises. The film may not rival the early work of any of the constituent creators, but it's still worthy of their legacy. It's just hard not to wish this extraterrestrial outing was more, well, extraordinary.

3/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 85: Sucker Punch

2011-03-28T10:20:00.002-04:00

00:00 - Intro
01:36 – Top 5
04:27 – Main Review: Sucker Punch (2011), dir: Zack Snyder
(SPOILERS)
31:02 – WMD
(Jane Eyre, Limitless, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus)
44:37 – E-mail and Outro
(Episode 84 redux)

Sucker Punch
Colin:
Jon:
Suman:
Kevin:

FARCE/FILM Episode 84: Paul

2011-03-25T09:03:00.003-04:00

00:00 - Intro
01:06 – Top 5
04:13 – Main Review: Paul (2011), dir: Greg Mottola
20:22 - WMD
(Bad Lieutenant, The Assassination of a High School President, All the Real Girls, The Naked Kiss)
40:32 – E-mail and Outro
(Favorite Historical Inaccuracies, Highest Proof You’ve Consumed)

Paul
Colin:
Jon:
Suman:
Kevin:

"Battle: Los Angeles" Review

2011-03-17T23:48:00.003-04:00

It's tough to hear yourself think over the racket of "Battle: Los Angeles"—not that you'll need to do any thinking. The film is an affront to the senses: loud, ugly, and coarse. It's the kind of brainless would-be summer blockbuster that might be fun if it were willing to ease up on the melodrama, but gloom and doom with an extra helping of hopelessness is the only item on the menu. Cooked up in the same tepid crockpot as a decade's worth of mediocre extraterrestrial epics, "Battle: LA" is unfit for human consumption. Call the health inspector.

Welterweight director Jonathan Liebesman ("Darkness Falls," "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning") tries way too hard to champion this as science fiction's answer to modern war classics like "Black Hawk Down" and "Saving Private Ryan." He lets the all the faux-grandeur go to his head, and simply doesn't have the money or the talent to make a movie on the scale he envisions. Despite impressive imagery like military helicopters flying in formation against a silhouette skyline or meteorites impacting the coast, "Battle: LA" feels budget.

Maybe because the camera is mostly tethered to a squad of marines who creep through narrow alleyways and take shelter in dim supermarkets. Liebesman conspicuously avoids visual effects wherever possible, though it's just as well; his armor-plated invaders are hopelessly bland bugs. Then there's the nauseating overuse of close-ups to hammer home the cheap and dirty aesthetic. By my recollection, over half the movie is recorded sans tripod, and "Battle: LA" is a sea of buoying heads. That its color palette barely ventures beyond brown doesn't help.

The shoddy craftsmanship might have been forgivable were there at least a compelling cast of characters—but these marines, led by an earnest Aaron Eckhart, are as unimaginative as their otherworldly opponents. Watching them fight skirmish after identical skirmish wherein no one dies and nothing is at stake, the ceaseless ratatat of gunfire and tinkle of spent shells became like so much white noise I was actually lulled into a short-lived nap.

I couldn't have missed much. After all, "Battle: Los Angeles" teeters on one of the most under-thought premises in the history of under-thought invasion movies. Of course, the prosecution will always win in the case of The People Vs. Outer Space, which necessitates some critical flaw in the stratagem of our alien aggressors. Even so, the tactics of this space-faring species makes you wonder how they even got airborne. In a bid to liquidate Earth of its precious H20, these idiots show up to fight us on land. I'm no George S. Patton, but wouldn't it make more sense to drop anchor in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and set up a defense perimeter while you suck our planet dry? Well out of range of our tanks and troops and fuel-guzzling helicopters? I'm just some guy and I thought of that.

But the truth is I don't even really care that "Battle: LA" makes no sense, or that its characters are cliché and its aliens dull. Almost instantly disengaging, the film scarcely evokes any emotion at all. I frankly couldn't care less about the carnage on screen after 10 repetitive minutes of it. 'Non-stop action!' often reads as a compliment, but it's the fatal flaw of this colossal misfire. On top of everything, Liebesman even has the nerve to hint at a sequel using some half-baked breakfast analogy. If this is indicative of the swill he'll be serving, I think I'll skip lunch. Check please.

1.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 83: Battle: Los Angeles

2011-03-15T14:29:00.003-04:00

00:00 – Intro
01:15 – Top 5
04:31 – Main Review: Battle: Los Angeles (2011), dir: Jonathan Liebesman
38:20 – WMD
(Battle of Algiers, Grown Ups, Rango, The Adjustment Bureau, The Purple Rose of Cairo, Tropic Thunder)
01:15:46 - Outro

Battle: LA
Colin:
Jon:
Suman:
Tyler:

"The Adjustment Bureau" Review

2011-03-11T13:05:00.008-05:00

"The Adjustment Bureau" is preposterous, and before you counter with "Well, duh, it's science fiction," allow me to elaborate. I'm down with the premise that mankind is safeguarded by an invisible shadow organization that dictates the paths we follow and the decisions we make—what baffles me is that they achieve these means through (spoiler alert?) magic hats. I wish I were joking.

The single biggest misstep in this bungled Philip K. Dick adaptation is that the mystique of our antagonists is dispelled almost instantaneously. We get to know our aggressors who, as it turns out, are anything but aggressive. To compare genres, there's never been a great thriller where the detective in pursuit of a killer is 'just doing their job.' Passion breeds compelling cinema, and the paper pushers at the heart of "The Adjustment Bureau" are supremely uninteresting.

And despite the fact that they are explicitly "not human," a very human error sets the plot in motion. An Adjustment Bureau agent oversleeps (these guys sleep?), thus congressman and senate hopeful David Norris (Matt Damon) catches an early bus, bumping into a familiar comely Englishwoman (Emily Blunt) whom he was never supposed to see again. The film's saving grace is the pair's believable rapport, but after the forces that be repeatedly pull them apart, with sometimes years lapsing between meetings, it gets harder and harder to believe either is still carrying the other's torch.

Then you get into the contradictions and lapses in logic so heady a concept lends itself to. The law that governs the Adjustment Bureau is foggy at best, and though they evidently think nothing of freezing time to manually alter the opinion of Norris' political advisor, they seem incapable of preventing the divergences Norris himself so frequently propagates. Why not squelch Norris' irksome infatuation through similar tactics? Elsewhere, the Bureau threatens him with a memory wipe, but repeatedly chooses to reason with him rather than to take more effective action. For as much as they make of their supposedly infallible plan—which looks a lot like the animated Marauder's Map from "Harry Potter"—and the omniscience it grants, these celestial shepherds are about as dumb as sheepdogs.

In the belated final act, Norris races toward the mother of all movie climax clichés—the eleventh hour wedding intervention. With his unrequited love set to marry another dude, Norris exploits "The Adjustment Bureau's" two most ridiculous plot devices in order to intervene. First, he scores a magic hat, enabling him to access the subspace network that provides a series of shortcuts throughout New York. Second, he cloaks himself in a rainstorm, which like all water, inexplicably clouds the Bureau's ability to chart movement.

It's a shame that "The Adjustment Bureau" hangs its own proverbial hat on so many ludicrous details. The big questions it poses, while far from new, are well suited for a love story, and the directorial debut of screenwriter George Nolfi shows some promise. Unfortunately it's the writing that's at fault here, and while I can't speak to the source material, Nolfi's adaptation is rife with questionable choices. Potential squandered, "The Adjustment Bureau" is cast adrift in sci-fi no man's land between good intentions and their eye-rolling realization.

"Trust no one with a hat," Norris is melodramatically advised. "A Yankees cap, even a yarmulke." No joke, if you can swallow a line like that—hat's off.

2.5/5

"Rango" Review

2011-03-09T13:12:00.005-05:00

Anthropomorphic animals are the bread and butter of the animation industry. Ever since Walt Disney found a cash cow in Mickey Mouse, the medium has tickled audiences with talking critters that span the breadth of the animal kingdom. But Rango, the titular chameleon of Gore Verbinski's cartoon western, is something of an anomaly. The gangly, photorealistic bipedal lizard didn't graduate from the "Bambi" school of cuddly creature design. Voiced by Johnny Depp in rare comedic form, the character is defined by beady eyes, a sharply crooked neck, and a gaudy Hawaiian T-shirt.

Refreshingly, Verbinski doesn't constrain himself to Pixar's particular reality. The brilliant Disney-owned studio has set the gold standard for computer animation over the last 15 years, capitalizing repeatedly on an effective storytelling formula that put a magnifying glass over insects, fish, and rats, among others. Any of those films could be retitled, "The Secret Life of _______." Competitors followed suit, with "Madagascar," "Bee Movie," and a slew of other me-too efforts.

"Rango" turns the overcrowded genre on its ear. Despite being gaspingly more realistic-looking than your average doe-eyed Disney endeavor, Verbinski's flick doesn't stage its critters in a cartoon facsimile of the real world. Instead, the film takes place in some skewed dimension wherein humans exist, but might as well not save for their ever-present eco-footprint. The film is scaled to fit its characters and can't be bothered to stop and explain the origin of its windswept desert town in miniature. It's easiest to think of "Rango" as a modern (comedic) western in which the constituent players just happen to be scruffy rodents and scaly reptiles.

The world and its inhabitants may be grimy, but what makes "Rango" such an endearing experience is its irreverent and offbeat sense of humor. Verbinski, who cooked up the story alongside screenwriter John Logan, borrows a page or two from the Coen brothers; Rango's faux eloquence is reminiscent of Nicolas Cage or George Clooney's character from "Raising Arizona" or "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" respectively. It shares their dry wit and a surrealist dream sequence reminiscent of "The Big Lebowski" too.

Those qualities highlight that "Rango" is not a movie especially geared at children. From its litany of literate film references including "Apocalypse Now," "Chinatown," and "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" to its seriously scary baddies, the film rejects kiddie convention outright. Younger or more sensitive viewers may be frightened by Rattlesnake Jake (Bill Nighy), a venomous villain with a six shooter for a tail, and parents might object to the mild swearing.

But by my estimate, "Rango" is a near-perfect kids' film. Looking as far back or further than the Grimm brothers' macabre fairy tales, the impulse to shield children from potentially off-putting content is a relatively recent development. Verbinski runs the entire emotional gradient here, exploring moments of loneliness and fear as well as adventure and jubilation. Important themes all in the human psyche. Of course, much of the humor will go over the heads of young audience members, but the copious slapstick certainly won't. In the end, it should play well to just about everyone.

That is, everyone who's in the market for a conceptually challenging cartoon. "Rango" is unwieldy, occasionally unfocused, and also the first great film of 2011. The anthropomorphic animals that comprise its world are less a reflection of the Mickeys, Bambis, and Nemos of years past than of the Waynes, Eastwoods, and Fondas. Verbinski, who famously teamed with Disney for their "Pirates of the Caribbean" franchise, steps out of their shadow for one of the most clever, fun, and original animated epics of the 21^st century. And with the sequel to Pixar's least loved film on deck for this summer, our favorite Hawaiian shirt-wearing Chameleon may need to don a tux this time next year.

4/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 82: Rango

2011-03-06T23:54:00.004-05:00

00:00 – Intro
01:54 – Main Review: Rango (2011), dir: Gore Verbinski
25:35 - WMD
(Waking Sleeping Beauty, Lars and the Real Girl, Raising Arizona, Pan’s Labyrinth Winnebago Man, The Warriors, Michael Clayton, Insomnia, A Serious Man)
55:32 - E-mail and Outro
(Podcast Hosting Site)

Rango

Colin:

Jon:

Laura:

FARCE/FILM Episode 81: I Am Number Four, 2011 Academy Awards

2011-03-01T02:56:00.005-05:00

00:00 – Intro
02:45 – Top 5
06:05 – Main Review: I Am Number Four (2011), dir: DJ Caruso
24:51 - WMD
(The King's Speech, Dexter, All About Eve, F for Fake, The Quick and the Dead, The Kingdom, Futurama, Fire in the Sky, Deliver Us From Evil, Frankenstein)
48:51 – Oscar Predictions and Outro
55:38 – Post Oscar Discussion (chat room audio)

I Am Number Four

Colin:

Kevin:

Jon:

--Discussion Question--

This week on the show, our hosts break down the winners of the 2011 Academy Awards. Were you satisfied with the winners? How important are the Oscars to the cultural lexicon nowadays?

"I Am Number Four" Review

2011-02-28T18:57:00.007-05:00

"I Am Number Four" is Number Two. A cheap joke, but it's just what this adolescent stinker deserves. Granted, nigh unwatchable cinematic misfires haunt the calendar's early months, amongst whose company D.J. Caruso's latest foray into teen actioners is admittedly a god among insects. Copping a Michael Bay aesthetic (Bay produces), "Number Four" does "Twilight" by way of "Transformers." The film is slick, glossy, and absolutely uninteresting.

Never mind that these characters are extraterrestrials from the planet Lorien, it's their blatant lapses in logic that seems most alien. After all, the good guys are identical to human beings (the bad guys have facial gills) in all but one key way. Cue our hero's warrior guardian with this hilariously hokey line: "When we love, we love forever." And that's "Number Four" in a nutshell: bleating sentimentality in the guise of a hip sci-fi thriller.

The set-up is compelling enough. You have a persecuted alien race taking refuge on Earth, with nine bastions of hope for their civilization being systematically sought and destroyed by the evil (wince) Mogadorians. The movie opens with an effective prologue in which an ill-fated Number Three is chased down by his aggressors. But following that breezy and exciting sequence, the threat dissipates. Enter a gangly Alex Pettyfer as Number Four, Ohio-bound under the tutelage of his protector Henri (Timothy Olyphant) and the brilliant alias, John Smith. Four has grown weary of his pull-up-stakes lifestyle and wants to settle into an average human existence; he, by choice mind you, wants to attend high school.

At just shy of two hours, the majority of "Number Four" has little to do with the role our hero will come to play in what studio executives are surely salivating to call the next big franchise. This lame origin story is as much about cookie cutter bullies and teen angst as it is intergalactic war. Probably even more so. Between romancing his love interest ("Glee's" Dianna Agron) and befriending a George McFly-esque dweeb, there are all the requisite puberty metaphors; at one point, Four's humiliating ability to shoot blue light from his palms prompts him to flee class for the comfort of a custodial closet.

It does, however, grant the audience time enough to reflect on how flimsy the premise is under any scrutiny. Why is this would-be savior staking his life on integration with human teenagers? Why anyone over the age of 16 should care if he has a girlfriend is equally mysterious. Bring on the alien bloodshed! We glimpse the (cringe) Mogadorians in pursuit of Four throughout the film, but that they pull stunts like scaring children in adjacent cars on the highway make them laughable villains. They eventually steward some middle of the road action for "Four's" finale.

Though the film is prettier than many mid-February releases, it ultimately earns its place among the calendar's infamous early months. Adapted from what, to all appearances, is a "me too" young adult fiction series, the big-screen version of "I Am Number Four" fails to distinguish itself in the company of "Harry Potter" and even the equally vapid "Twilight" saga. As little as I'd like to dwell on the latter, the characters are at least better realized. "Four" is populated by walking clichés and led by one of the most emotionally vacant action heroes in recent memory. They are the dull cogs that turn reluctantly beneath a shimmering veneer. "I Am Number Four" is a faulty piece of cinema, and a piece of something less pleasant still.

2/5

Episode 81: Recording LIVE! TONIGHT!!

2011-02-27T13:33:00.002-05:00

Tonight's Line-up!

6:00 PM EST - Join Colin, Jon, and Kevin as they discuss LIVE this week's Top 5, the latest box office hit "I Am Number Four", and their WMDs

8:00 PM EST - The camera is off, but the chat will stay open for a live discussion of the 2011 Academy Awards
12:00 AM EST - FARCE/Film logs back on to wrap up episode #81 with a LIVE discussion of this year's winners

Podcast Episode 81 Needs a Bailout

2011-02-22T20:54:00.004-05:00

The best laid plans of mice and men and all that. Episode 81 of the FARCE Film podcast is being postponed until next Sunday, February 27th. Look forward to incisive reviews of I Am Number Four and our analysis of the 2011 Academy Awards.

Be sure to join us before the ceremony as we attempt our very second LIVE recording over at Ustream at 6:00 PM EST. Jot down your burning Oscar queries and stay tuned to the site this week for more info.

In happier news, Episode 82 will still follow 81.

"Biutiful" Review

2011-02-15T15:02:00.003-05:00

I'm glad I went into "Biutiful" blind, which if you're reading this review may mean I'm robbing you the opportunity of. I'll try to give away as little as possible, suffice it to say the film isn't just your garden-variety drama. In fact, variety is the name of the game. If there is a criticism to be had of Alejandro González Iñárritu's new film, it's that the Mexican writer-director of "Amores Perros" and "Babel" is simultaneously juggling enough content for two or more films—at two and a half hours, "Biutiful" could almost be two films.

Here comes the spoiler warning. Of course, it may only be a spoiler if you knew as little about the film as I did going in. "Biutiful" contains elements of the supernatural; Javier Bardem plays a terminally ill psychic medium, but it's no tired rehash of "The Sixth Sense" or Clint Eastwood's recent melodrama, "Hereafter." We glimpse these otherworldly moments seldom and fleetingly. Some may find the stark contrast between them and an otherwise very grounded reality jarring, but I applaud the choice. That Bardem sees dead people is just one of the many facets of his character, no more important than his strained relationship with his children or his shady business dealings.

The creative impulse is so often to cater to extremes. "Biutiful" could have scrapped its allusions to the afterlife and been one among many well-made but virtually indistinguishable dramas. Or, it might have squelched its heart in favor of a tried-and-true ghost story. What Iñárritu attempts is so much meatier than those alternatives. He forces us into the unique world of the film, utilizing genre conventions as the story dictates rather than vice versa.

That's not to say there isn't extraneous content. Cinéma vérité is the modus operandi, and Iñárritu explores moments that "Biutiful" could truthfully live without. Nevertheless, the portrait he and Bardem paint of protagonist Uxbal is vivid and empathetic. Watching the character work, think, stumble, and succeed rarely bores, but that it does even occasionally is admittedly a problem. The pacing is aided by the brilliant cinematography of Rodrigo Prieto, who adds as much visual variety to the film as it has thematic.

And it would all be for naught if Bardem didn't deliver in the lead role. The actor has elsewhere proven himself in Woody Allen's "Vicky Christina Barcelona" and the Coens' "No Country for Old Men," but his performance in "Biutiful" is flawless. He doesn't have a shot at the Oscar he's nominated for alongside favorite Colin Firth, though in my opinion he's more deserving. The emotional gradient he undergoes is genuine and impressive. Uxbal is neither entirely good or all bad, and Bardem breathes life into an uncommonly realistic tragic hero.

Like it's protagonist, "Biutiful" is not perfect, but it has the ever-important spark of originality—a blaze by comparison to mainstream (and curiously beloved) dramas like "The Blindside." Alejandro González Iñárritu takes risks that will surely alienate some audiences; he toys with the rigidity of his reality without devotion to structure—those looking to stick to the typical two-hour itinerary will be wading through some deep waters. Viewers blessed with a modicum of patience will be rewarded with one of best-acted, most visually accomplished, and appreciably atypical films of the last year. Maybe my perspective skews high from lack of expectation, but one thing is certain: the less you know up front, the more opportunity Iñárritu has to surprise you.

4/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 80: Biutiful

2011-02-14T13:51:00.003-05:00

00:00 – Intro
01:47 – Top 5
05:50 – Main Review: (spoilers) Biutiful (2010), Dir: Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu
35:26 – WMD
(Black Swan, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Manda Bala, Mortal Kombat, The Larry Sanders Show)
E-mail and Outro – 49:59
(Podcast File Size, Appreciation of Commercial Directors, Favorite Alcohol Marketing Campaigns)

Biutiful

Colin:

Kevin:

Laura:

Micah:

"The Roommate" Review

2011-02-11T18:14:00.003-05:00

Not every horror film can have us on the edge of our seats, but there was a point in "The Roommate" where I actually lifted my armrest to support a better slouch. I think that was somewhere around the climax. The Hollywood debut of Danish director Christian E. Christiansen is a relentlessly uninteresting endeavor from a filmmaker with a name to match. At barely 90 minutes, it's an eternity of ineffectual clichés filmed through an ugly, charcoal-tinted lens.

I'm not going to sugar-coat it—"The Roommate" is irredeemably awful, and not just because character motivation is out the window from Jump Street, or because it couldn't scare a six year old, but because it isn't even fun. From the belabored exposition to the clumsy, unmemorable finale, first-time screenwriter Sonny Mallhi (credited executive producer of "Shutter" and "The Strangers") fails outright. He's either in the wrong line of work or trying to make a quick buck—I'm not sure which is worse, but neither paints a very flattering portrait.

As someone used to hearing two-sentence synopses before consulting his checkbook, Mallhi knows a good premise. It isn't as if "The Roommate" was predestined to fail; there might have been something interesting here had he or Christiansen taken a few risks. The adolescent-friendly PG-13 rating isn't even a suitable scapegoat, though it's indicative of both the movie's content and its intellect.

Last year, Aaron Sorkin and David Fincher made a PG-13 movie about college students that treated the constituent twenty-somethings like adults. The characters in their film had adult motives and relationships, and spoke above an eighth-grade level. Granted, "The Roommate" is a very different type of movie, but there's no reason its cast should be this inarticulate and oblivious. It's almost as if Mallhi underwrote everyone else in order to make his bi-polar antagonist seem further off her rocker.

Blind to her roommate's glaring personality disorder, Sara (Minka Kelly) might as well have swerved past a flashing neon sign of dysfunction. She and Rebecca (Leighton Meester) become close friends despite their many expressed incompatibilities, and things go from weird to worse when her other acquaintances come between them. Meanwhile, Sara's Muppet-faced suitor Stephen (Sam Gigandet) squints and smirks his way through every scene like a constipated Jack Nicholson. Needless to say: not terribly compelling characters.

"The Roommate" represents just about everything wrong with the way modern Hollywood approaches horror. Produced as lesser entertainment by lesser artists, the genre thrives on bilking admission from just few enough patrons to recoup substandard budgets. Unimaginative showbiz bean counters like Sonny Mallhi penning screenplays is a creative travesty, and wooden directors like Christian E. Christiansen are exponentially lowering our expectations for what these types of movies should provide. His first English-language film is devoid of suspense, nuance, or even an intentionally funny joke. He treats each beat with undue gravity, slathering his scenes with listless grays that'll make you long for a nice teal or cyan hue.

There may be less competent films to pick on than "The Roommate," but even those have at least a modicum of personality, which this lifeless pseudo-psychological thriller lacks. Released within a week of last winter's equally indistinguishable "Wolfman," its most frightening implication is that I might have a lifetime of early February horror films to avoid. If I haven't yet convinced you that "The Roommate" isn't worth your time, at least see it in a theater with opposable armrests. You may need to slouch.

1.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 79: The Roommate

2011-02-11T02:30:00.028-05:00

00:00 – Intro
01:05 – Top 5
02:56 – Main Review: The Roommate (2011), Dir: Christian E. Christiansen
33:26 – WMD (17 Again, Glee, Deadwood, The Black Death, Party Down, Life of Brian, The Kingdom, Psych)
57:26 – E-mail and Outro

(Favorite sports movies and beers)

The Roommate

Colin:

Kevin:

Ben:

-- Discussion Question --

This week our hosts discuss The Roommate, which critics hated, but some audiences enjoyed. When you see a scary movie, would you rather be frightened or entertained?

"The Way Back" Review

2011-02-08T22:45:00.003-05:00

In an age where the bankability of an adventure film is measured in gallons of oil exploded, Peter Weir's somber trek "The Way Back" is something of a revelation. Unlike his last film, the rousing but decidedly Hollywood nautical yarn "Master and Commander," Weir dials back star power and technique until all that's left is an uncommonly naturalistic interpretation of the supposedly true events that led political prisoners encamped at a Siberian gulag to walk 4,000 miles to India and their freedom.

First, a complaint: I don't mean to come off as a dick, but the fact that Weir preemptively dedicates this film to those men irks me. Not only because so much doubt has been cast on the validity of the story itself, but also because conventional wisdom would be to place that placard on the last spool rather than the first. It strikes me as a little self-serving to presume respect from an audience upfront for a struggle they haven't even seen yet, or on a baser level, to disconnect them from the story before it's even begun. I realize I may be belaboring a very minor point, but as with the superfluous historical preface and dodgy title card, "The Way Back" and I got off on the wrong foot.

Thankfully, there's no arguing with Weir's visuals. From the moment he drops us into the oppressive wind-swept Siberian winter, the director creates unparalleled atmosphere. From the suffocating soot of a hellacious mineshaft to the steep sea of dunes that comprise the Mongolian desert, Weir absolutely captures the mercilessness of his environments. That characters freeze and bake to death, or are reduced to near madness by hunger, underscores the mortal gravity of their journey better than most filmmakers manage.

But what really sets "The Way Back" apart is its humanity. Where many would settle for stifling melodrama, Weir finds a way to eke out a joke. Our companions are a good-humored lot in spite of the ubiquitous peril their mission entails. It keeps them sane and keeps the movie watchable. Jim Sturgess takes the lead as an almost naively optimistic outdoorsman, followed in tow by a battle worn pragmatist (Ed Harris), and a lone wolf with a knife to match—Colin Farrell in a surprisingly funny and endearing performance. The characters are our only recourse from the barren landscape, and they provide much needed color.

In spite of their contributions, "The Way Back" is still a long film. Perhaps even purposefully overlong; the way Weir depicts the cruelly relentless terrain would lose its impact under more constrictive narrative pacing. My only gripe is that the tempo Weir employs isn't always consistent. By comparison to our stint in the Siberian wilderness, the hike over the Himalayas feels like a disappointingly anti-climactic cakewalk, especially given that it represents the final threshold into India. The looming 133-minute run time doesn't make for 100% great cinema, but what Weir attempts is admirable despite the occasional missteps.

"The Way Back" represents an endangered species of storytelling, and it's no surprise that it went largely unseen in its sparse theatrical release. The film is definitely not your typical thrill-a-minute actioner, but it delivers on the ever-important human element. Weir continues to solidify his status as one of modern cinema's most unjustly unsung heroes, and his latest towers above many of its more popular contemporaries. It may not measure up in terms of barrels of oil exploded, but those sick of fireworks may actually want to see a show.

3.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 78: The Way Back

2011-02-04T02:24:00.019-05:00

00:00 - Intro

01:09 - Top 5

06:29 - Main Review: The Way Back (2010), Dir: Peter Weir

25:59 - WMD
(Drag Me to Hell, Frozen, Teeth, Timers, Gutterballs, Sunshine Cleaners, We Were Soldiers, Family Guy: It's a Trap!, Help!, Fargo, The Fugitive, Singin' in the Rain, The Man with Two Brains, Taking of Pelham 123)

01:10:51 - E-mail and Outro

The Way Back
Colin:
Jon:
Suman:
Micah:

"No Strings Attached" Review

2011-01-30T17:25:00.006-05:00

Romantic comedies need a good kick in the pants, and an aging Ivan Reitman ain't the guy to do it. "No Strings Attached," the first of at least three 2011 films about non-committal sex (with "Friends with Benefits" and "Hall Pass" in hot pursuit), is only sparsely amusing and never insightful. Big surprise. Who would have guessed that a 64-year-old director would be the wrong choice for a movie about hip people half his age? "No Strings Attached" might have been a decent film had it followed through on its premise, but that it falls victim to just about every romcom trapping negates the most potentially interesting thing it has going for it.

Everyone involved has proven themselves elsewhere. Reitman directed legendary '80s comedies "Stripes" and "Ghostbusters" before churning out a string of stinkers, including "My Super Ex Girlfriend" in 2006. Stars Natalie Portman (Emma) and Ashton Kutcher (Adam) are similarly defenseless against the lousy script. For my money, Portman still put on the best performance of 2010 in "Black Swan," and by comparison her turn here is particularly disappointing. Kutcher is the weakest link, but has consistently proven he can hold his own in otherwise lame duck comedies like "Valentine's Day."

But between the bad direction, worse script, and lazy performances, "No Strings Attached" is a triple threat. Its worst blunder is that Emma and Adam's relationship is unbelievable, and their chemistry is nonexistent. Fledgling screenwriter Elizabeth Meriwether posits a female lead that flip-flops her stance on monogamy every two scenes, and Portman doesn't even attempt to sell it. Emma comes off pragmatic one minute and off her rocker the next. It makes less sense still given that her relationship with Adam isn't anything special to begin with. The B-romance between Greta Gerwig and Jake M. Johnson, friends of our principle couple, is actually markedly more naturalistic and compelling. It's a shame they're onscreen so infrequently.

Meriwether's script is also criminally overlong. Two-hour comedies need to die a slow and painful death; there's just no reason "No Strings Attached" should exceed the 100-minute mark. What's worse, the audience has little expectation for when the film will end. More than once, a picturesque finale will align only for Emma to inexplicably get cold feet. Or Adam's father to take ill. The bait and tease might work if the better-late-than-never conclusion defied expectation, but in all likelihood you already know exactly how it will end. The biggest surprise is how much melodramatic filler we have to wade through on the way.

"No Strings Attached," like last year's mediocre "Love and Other Drugs" articulates the pressing need for innovation in Hollywood's romantic comedies. Depicting a relationship built on causal sex isn't especially progressive, and Ivan Reitman isn't one of the directors I'm especially interested in seeing discuss sexuality. Then again, he barely clears his throat on the subject; for a film about sex, "No Strings Attached" is pretty much sterile despite its R rating. Intellectually, the film is a solid PG-13. Our characters generally don't behave with the nuance expected of two 30-year-olds, and Meriwether relies on decrepit genre archetypes rather than cause and effect to progress the plot.

All told, Reitman's latest is unworthy of recommendation despite falling short of being an outright waste of time. It does feature a few genuinely funny moments that help excuse its crippling formula, but it never asserts itself or challenges the classic romantic comedy blueprint as much as its premise might indicate. Reitman deserves a kick in the pants every bit as much as the genre.

2/5

"Somewhere" Review

2011-01-27T09:11:00.004-05:00

"Somewhere" is a polarizing film, which makes it all the stranger that I find myself precisely in the middle of debate. Some hail it as a minimalistic masterwork, while others leave the theater rubbing sleep from their eyes. The latest film by Sofia Coppola isn't for everyone, and stands so structureless that it threatens to liquefy at any moment. With few cuts and most scenes playing out in even fewer angles, it's easy to grow impatient or frustrated with the director. What I admire about her film however is its commitment to capturing complete moments even at the expense of the audience.

"Lost in Translation" this isn't. "Somewhere" isn't anchored by as charismatic or immediately recognizable an onscreen pair as Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson. The world of the former film is also more vibrant and alive than the Hollywood Coppola depicts. She dials back everything until "Somewhere" is essentially an exercise in simplicity. Many have found that quality refreshing, but I was left somewhat cold by the purely surface-level examination of the tedium of stardom.

I absolutely admire Coppola's intentions. Probably my biggest gripe with "Somewhere" is that it employs plot-bombs out of necessity. After 45 minutes of casual observation of our protagonist, burnt-out actor Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff), Coppola inelegantly drops 30 seconds of expository dialogue into a phone call that sets up the rest of movie. It rings immediately false and seems out of place in an otherwise drifting film.

And there are some beautiful sights along the way. Coppola manages to transcend her sedentary camerawork with occasionally brilliant choreography. A pair of pole dancers performing a hokey routine springs to mind, as does a gracefully executed figure skating sequence. The director has a knack for using characters rather than set-ups to color our experience, but my problem with "Somewhere" is that not every scene is equally fascinating. Some merely communicate an idea and a feeling, but drag on for far too long. Admittedly, to truncate her moments would be to rob them of their intended impact, but as a moviegoer it's hardly thrilling to watch characters lounge poolside for the better part of a minute.

Coppola is at her most successful when she's able to wring the irony out of a scenario. When Johnny arrives in Italy to accept an award, we get a clear sense of the dichotomy between the hoopla of the entertainment industry and a jaded entertainer. That everyone around him is speaking in a foreign language completes the metaphor and makes for one of film's best sequences. Watching the character play "Guitar Hero" is comparably flat. That scene serves only one purpose: to demystify celebrity. While I wouldn't go so far as to call it boring, it doesn't offer any additional insight into the character.

But then "Somewhere" isn't just a portrait of a movie star but a portrait of a father, and Dorff and Elle Fanning deserve recognition for the flawlessly naturalistic relationship their characters share. Considered opposite her countless melodramatic peers, Coppola is in a league of her own. The people who populate her films never fail to impress with their nuance, but in this case I'm not convinced the filmmaking does them justice.

"Somewhere" is a film I find equally hard to love or hate, though I sympathize better with its detractors. Nevertheless, it posits compelling characters, great performances, and enough smart and amusing scenes to make worth recommending. Whether you leave the theater rubbing sleep from your eyes or having witnessed a minimalistic masterpiece, you have my blessing. Much like Marco himself, I'm neither here nor there.

3/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 77: No Strings Attached, Somewhere

2011-01-26T09:46:00.005-05:00

--> Episode 77: 01/25/11 <--

Hosts: Colin George, Kevin Mauer, Suman Allakki

Intro – 00:00

Top 5 - 03:56

No Strings Attached - 07:21

Somewhere (spoilers) – 21:44

WMD - 58:50

(Social Network, Black Swan, Green Hornet, Skins, The Right Stuff, Caligula, A Boy and his Dog)

E-mail and Outro - 01:14:12

(Favorite Catch Phrases and Brown Ales)

"No Strings Attached"

Colin:
Kevin:
Suman:

"Somewhere"

Colin:
Kevin:
Suman:

-- Weekly Discussion --

This week, our hosts discuss Sophia Coppola's Somewhere. Does the film push the boundaries of minimalistic storytelling too far? How little story can a storyteller get away with telling?

"The Green Hornet" Review

2011-01-23T15:17:00.007-05:00

There are worse ways to waste 108 minutes than on "The Green Hornet." Thinking back to last January's tepid slate of releases, I can already think of a few. Low expectations might be one reason I found indie spirit Michel Godry's foray into franchise filmmaking a worthwhile distraction, but so long as you aren't in the market for a straightforward, solemn superhero affair, it offers enough disposable entertainment to earn commendation in its own right.

Seth Rogen is not a superhero. That's an important fact to understand upfront. The role is not a transformative turn for the comedian and screenwriter, and his take on the material is to form fit the character to himself rather than vice versa. The result is a goofy, inarticulate comedy about an over-privileged slacker and a jack of all badass trades (Jay Chou as Kato in his American debut) clumsily stabbing at genre convention. It may not make for great storytelling, but as comic heroes the pair provide more than enough laughs.

And "The Green Hornet" is funny. The core relationship between the protagonists provides an amusing parody of the unspoken homoerotic tension in so many machismo-driven actioners. The Green Hornet and Kato are a less-secure dynamic duo, and they lead a cast of misfit characters that embody the skewed reality of the film's world. Their nemesis is played by Christoph Waltz of "Inglourious Basterds" fame—a gangster toting a double barreled handgun with the tin-eared pseudonym, 'Bloodnovsky.' Waltz manages to juggle a threatening presence and broad slapstick rather well, and his delivery of the line, "I'm ungassable!" deserves special recognition. In short, the humor de jour is delicious, aromatic cheese.

Much of the negative response to "The Green Hornet" comes out of two unfair criticisms. The first stems from the current societal expectation that superheroes necessarily deserve straight-faced screen adaptation. Christopher Nolan's Batman films have had a considerable impact on the tonality of comic book fare, to the point where this lighthearted alternative is already fighting an uphill battle for public acceptance. To my mind, even a mixed bag of successful barbs and Saturday morning hijinks are preferable to another depressingly grandiose and self-servicing stab at dramatic credibility.

The second criticism is even less fair. Many have whined that "The Green Hornet" is unimpressive by comparison to Gondry's other creative wellsprings. Granted, his latest doesn't represent the innovative visualist at the top of his game, but the French auteur achieves everything he set out to. For better or for worse, Gondry is satisfying studio expectations, asserting style only when the story allows him to do so. "The Green Hornet" is a mainstream superhero film first and foremost, and well integrated flourishes like a multiplying split-screen sequence distinguish his version over most imagination-defunct Hollywood jobbers. Where problems exist, they seem to have seeped in through the cracks in Rogen's screenplay.

I wouldn't argue that Gondry's "Green Hornet" is a great film, but it deserves defense when a double standard sees tripe like "Iron Man 2" receiving high marks. It isn't the reinvention of the wheel you might expect from a music-video director turned art house favorite—nor is it the hilarious comedy you might expect from Rogen—but it does offer a unique interpretation of the tired superhero origin story, an increasingly rare feat as companies award third and fourth tier comic book characters their undeserving title shots.

"The Green Hornet" is the product of many talented people having fun in tandem. Sounds like a perfectly good way to waste 108 minutes.

3/5

"Blue Valentine" Review

2011-01-20T21:11:00.005-05:00

There's not a whole lot happening with the relationship film. From annual Jennifer Aniston comedies to requisite art house dramas, there hasn't been a real innovation in far too long. "Blue Valentine" takes a crack at it, employing a unique combination of techniques and a back and forth bittersweet narrative, but it still falls squarely into the latter camp.

Tremendous credit is owned first and foremost to its cast. Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams play characters at the beginning and end of a relationship, and the difference couldn't be more stark. The pair is essentially pulling double duty, and the juxtaposition between past and present is what makes "Blue Valentine" unique. We meet the pair now: Gosling with a cigarette crutch and Williams with a defunct imagination. The spontaneous and affectionate couple of years past are unrecognizable at first glance.

Perhaps the most interesting byproduct of the flashback gimmick is that it exists solely for the benefit of the viewer. The irony of its implementation is that the characters themselves are incapable of retrieving the euphoric memories. Resultantly, the further we dip into the past, the more poignant their present unhappiness becomes.

To conclude analysis there, "Blue Valentine" would be just about perfect. The problem is the filmmaking doesn't live up to the premise and performances. I can't overstate how good Gosling and Williams are, but they're getting no help from the camera department. The single most irksome quality of the film is that it's shot often in extreme close up, at times overusing and even cheapening the otherwise effective cinematic tool. Of course "Blue Valentine" is meant to be an intimate portrayal of two strong characters, but shooting entire sequences as dueling heads seems like the easiest and most obvious way to communicate that. Gosling and Williams sell the naked intimacy of their relationship on a performance level alone; the jarring directorial decision to focus solely on their faces is not only superfluous, but it robs the audience of their peripheral nuance.

A minor gripe, maybe. Director Derek Cianfrance clearly understands that the movie is about a relationship, first and foremost. The script he wrote with Cami Delavigne and Joey Curtis is a good one, and is brought to cathartic life by his actors. His impulse is correct that the film is about them, not him, but the technique backfires by drawing attention to itself with its on-the-nose minimalism. The result is that "Blue Valentine" feels like a small picture. Admittedly, it is a small picture, budgeted at a paltry million dollars—but be it a function of the time constraints or a carefully calculated creative choice, the claustrophobic ambience imbued by the tight shooting style plain didn't work for me.

The feeling that eventually seeps in amid the warm, ephemeral glimpses of the past and the shipwrecked future is that much like its characters, "Blue Valentine" is spoiling its potential. Admirable in many ways, and I'd still venture to say the film ranks somewhere among 2010's best. Compared to storytellers like David Fincher, Darren Aronofsky, and the Coen brothers, however, what Cianfrance communicates with his visuals is muddled at best.

Fortunately for him, he got everything else right. In a way it's revealing that the greatest complaint I can leverage against his film is that it's ugly. "Blue Valentine" certainly shakes out better than average in the greater spectrum of romance films, and though it may not be the innovation the genre sorely needs, it does shake off some of the cobwebs. Beneath the grime, there really is something.

3.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 76: The Green Hornet, Blue Valentine

2011-01-17T00:09:00.001-05:00

--> Episode 76: 01/16/11 <--

Hosts: Colin George, Sonic Kim, Kevin Mauer, Matt Kaufhold

Intro – 00:00

Top 5 – 01:08

The Green Hornet – 08:41

Blue Valentine – 30:56

WMD – 48:29

(17 Again, Apollo 13, Knight and Day, Alien, The Town, The Social Network, The Iron Giant, All the Real Girls, The Kids Are All Right)

E-mail, Top 5 of 2010, and Outro – 01:16:30

(Best drunks in film)

"The Green Hornet"

Colin:
Kevin:
Sonic:
Kaufhold:

"Blue Valentine"

Colin:
Kevin:
Sonic:

Weekly Discussion:

This week, our hosts discuss the MPAA's initial NC-17 rating for Blue Valentine. Is there a double standard for the depiction of violence and sexuality in film? Do we really need an NC-17 rating?

"I Love You, Phillip Morris" Review

2011-01-14T14:17:00.007-05:00

The battle to bring "I Love You, Phillip Morris" to the screen was a curious one. Originally set to bow in early 2010, the film was shelved for six months by its distributers. A vague legal battle postponed the second scheduled release last summer, and the film finally limped to my local art house in December. There was widespread speculation that one of the reasons for its initial delay was—how should I put this—its gayness.

Honestly, that was one of the primary reasons I was interested in seeing this docudrama, which casts Ewan McGregor and Jim Carrey as penal lovers (pardon my French). Distinctly different actors, the idea of the pair performing together proved an interesting proposition, especially if the tone required Carrey to display a modicum of gravity. Unfortunately, a modicum is about all we get.

Instead, Carrey and the film deliver a caricatural portrayal of homosexuality in a bizarre dramatic farce that struggles with an unfocused story and amorphous style. "Phillip Morris" leans toward comedy, and does feature some very funny moments, but the drama sticks out like a sore thumb. McGregor is naturally empathetic as the title character, but Carrey is the protagonist. Enter Steven Russell, a "Catch Me if You Can" esque con man, whose corporate hijinks, subsequent jailing, and repeated successful prison breaks provide the film's narrative backbone.

Like many biopics, "Phillip Morris" struggles structurally. Unlike Aaron Sorkin's brilliant "Social Network" screenplay, "Morris" is more or less a laundry list of notable events rather than a properly paced story. A cloying title card during the film's opening reads: "This really happened. It really did," and I'm forced to assume its proud adherence to actual events is in large part the problem. The first act, ostensibly about Russell's life as a straight man, has nothing to do with the love story to come. That Russell lived a lie for decades prior is interesting biographically, but completely inconsequential to the story at hand.

It's no coincidence then that things pick up when Russell lands himself in jail. It's the real start of the movie. Regrettably however, the problems with the first act are echoed throughout, and by the 90-minute mark it's still not clear where "Phillip Morris" will end. I'm not usually one to play the rigid structuralist, but in this case, there's no denying its importance. "I Love You Phillip Morris" is a plodding, messy film.

But it isn't a complete loss, either. The core relationship between Carrey and McGregor is as interesting as I had hoped. Though Carrey's performance matches the atonality of the film—bridging mortal revelations with his signature dopey shtick—he does manage to sell the relationship dynamic during its surprisingly brief duration onscreen. McGregor is terrific as always, bringing vibrant life to a character that might otherwise have been a blank slate. It's just a shame that his performance is wasted on as mediocre a film as "I Love You, Phillip Morris."

Uneven, but well acted and occasionally amusing, the directorial debut of the screenwriting duo behind "Bad Santa" shows promise but lacks polish. In hindsight, the content probably wasn't the primary concern in its distributers delaying its release—after all, it boils its gayness down to comfortable stereotypes. More likely, the advertising battle was fought over how to sell the story rather than how to sell the characters' lifestyle."This really happened," killed the movie. It really did.

2.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 75: I Love You Phillip Morris

2011-01-10T23:11:00.006-05:00

--> Episode 75: 01/10/11 <--

Hosts: Colin George, Kevin Mauer, Jon Mauer, Laura Rachfalski

Intro – 00:00

Top 5 - 01:13

I Love You Phillip Morris – 05:46

Top 10 of 2010 – 22:54

WMD – 49:40

(Year One, Julie and Julia, Best Worst Movie, Skins, South of the Border, Paris, Texas, Viridiana, Live Free or Die Hard, Lost in La Mancha, Them!, Roger & Me, Toy Story 3, Best in Show, Teeth)

Outro – 01:18:40

"I Love You Phillip Morris"

Colin:
Jon:
Kevin:

--Weekly Discussion--

This week, our hosts squabble over their favorite movies of 2010. What films are you most looking forward to in 2011?

Colin's Top 10 of '10

2011-01-07T23:47:00.005-05:00

There's been lot of talk recently about 2010 being a subpar year for film. While the summer notably lacked the same impressive slate of blockbusters 2009 offered, I'm not convinced there is otherwise a whole lot to complain about. "Inception" was a pretty unifying crowd-pleaser and "Toy Story 3" became Pixar's highest grossing film. The fall and winter produced a handful of impressive dramas, and unlike last year, there's still a few indies I'm desperate to see expand.

Below are my personal top 10 films of the year, with one disclaimer. I strove to recognize a diverse collection of films, and my honorable mentions are worthy in their own right. As always, hyperlinks to my original reviews are provided. Enjoy, and please feel free to post your own thoughts and lists!

10. Easy A

9. The American

8. Enter the Void

7. The Ghost Writer

6. Greenberg

5. True Grit

4. Catfish

3. Toy Story 3

2. Black Swan

1. The Social Network

Honorable Mentions:

Life During Wartime, The Fighter, Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World

"The King's Speech" Review

2011-01-06T13:40:00.006-05:00

It's easy to shrug off awards films when the season rolls around, and on the surface, "The King's Speech" shows all the symptoms of shameless Oscar bait. It's a period drama loaded with stiff English accents, led by a cast of previous Academy Award winners and nominees. In all honesty, the average moviegoer doesn't have a whole lot to be excited about in Tom Hooper's new film, but those compelled by the idea of a character study detailing the relationship between King George VI (Colin Firth) and his impertinent speech therapist, Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush) will find this an often lively and effective drama.

The speech angle is an interesting distinguishment. Unlike many of the films that helped lend the genre its dry reputation, authentic atmosphere doesn't substitute for drama here. "The King's Speech" works not because we watch a historical personage overcome a debilitating verbal ailment, but because we watch a human being do so. Colin Firth has received much kudos for his performance, but it's likely many honored him for the wrong reasons. Firth is excellent because he humanizes George VI—making him rounder than some haughty profile—not because he can act with a stammer.

Rush plays his counterpart with absolute authority. We get a sense of the coddled life George leads as a prince, and the implicit respect he garners from the countless instructors he's worked with before. Logue, who operates out of the basement of his shabby apartment building, is the first to deny George (or Bernie, as he presumes to call the future king) special treatment. His cheeky remarks and irreverent lessons occasionally offend, and the nature of their relationship is often antagonistic. The one thing His Royal Highness can't argue with, however, is the results.

The greatest filmmaking fault then, out of necessity, is that "The King's Speech" must divide its time between these enlightening lessons and more typical period drama affair. The impending death of King George V and a scandal between Prince Edward and an American divorcee play major roles in shaping the narrative arc, though are significantly less interesting to watch. In merely retelling history, Hooper loses the character-driven force that makes the one-on-one therapy segments so special. Outside of Logue's office, "The King's Speech" becomes just another stylistically restrained biopic.

The speech lessons, by comparison, free the director up. Probably there is no official record of what was said between George VI and Logue, and the scenes are infinitely better for it. "The King's Speech" is almost a different film when released from the short reigns of history. The two characters come alive, as does the camerawork, exclusively in these instances. The difference isn't jarring enough to make the film feel disjointed, but there is scarcely a memorable moment that doesn't involve Logue.

On the whole, "The King's Speech" goes above and beyond most uninteresting but extravagantly decorated period films. The performances elevate the material beyond biography regurgitation, and by focusing on his characters above the historical events they instigated, Hooper avoids the most popular pitfalls of the genre. Ultimately, his film is still one caught between two worlds, and the balance struck between them isn't always perfect. The great atmosphere he creates within the context of the speech lessons is his own antagonist—he can't match that energy elsewhere.

But even being intermittently captivating, "The King's Speech" is absolutely worth seeing. It's not exactly what I would consider award-worthy, but that seems to be the only context in which such a film will be seen by most. In all honesty, you'll be better off ignoring the hype and seeing the movie simply because it features an unusually intimate portrait of a king, and a compelling story of personal triumph. Oscar who?

3.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 74: The King's Speech

2011-01-05T02:38:00.004-05:00

--> Episode 74: 01/04/11 <--

Hosts: Colin George, Sonic Kim, Kevin Mauer

Intro – 00:00

Top 5 - 01:23

The King’s Speech - 12:21

WMD - 33:49

(17 Again, Exit Through the Gift Shop, Head Case, My Left Foot, Dead Man Walking, Teen Wolf, Batman, Batman Returns, Dogtooth, Total Recall, Larry Sanders, Lost Highway, Citizen Kane)

E-mail and Outro - 01:08:44

(Actors Better Than Their Roles)

"The King's Speech"

Colin:
Sonic:
Kevin:

"True Grit" Review

2010-12-31T11:38:00.006-05:00

It makes perfect sense for the Coen brothers to direct a period western. They've danced around one for years, with modernist takes on the genre like "Fargo" and "No Country for Old Men," while tirelessly exploring the early side of the twentieth century elsewhere in their work. "True Grit," however, is their first giant leap into the past. In fact, outside of a vignette that opens their 2009 film "A Serious Man," the winter of 1878, where "True Grit" begins, is a frontier for both the characters and the filmmakers.

I'm of the mind that the Coens, who have now impressively released four films in four consecutive years, benefit from occasionally stepping outside their comfort zone. "True Grit" is a fascinating experiment in that regard, though in adapting Charles Portis' 1968 novel for the screen (and mindful I'm sure of the John Wayne adaptation to which their film would inevitably be compared), Joel and Ethan Coen contribute less of themselves than might be expected. Granted, the dark humor and caustic irony that run throughout are distinctly Coen brothers additions, but perhaps more so than any of their other films, their latest is a mostly opaque effort.

Still, the pair have some interesting notes on the genre, and perhaps what's most remarkable about "True Grit" is its characters. Westerns are typically full of cookie-cutter cowboys and predictable protagonists, but the Coens go almost out of their way to avert any and all cliché. From the brilliant performance of newcomer Hailee Steinfeld as Mattie Ross, a fiercely intelligent 14-year old, to Jeff Bridges' stiff, guttural take on Wayne's oscar-winning role, it's clear the importance the brothers place on character, and the care they take in realizing them.

Probably the most immediately recognizable 'Coen-esque' personage is Matt Damon as a flamboyant Texas Ranger too big for his britches. The duo love ironic dichotomy, and from the misguided entitlement Damon provokes as the ludicrously named La Boeuf, to his silly cowboy getups, ceaseless boasting, and general ineptitude, Damon rounds out a classic Coen archetype.

When you strip away the characters, what remains of "True Grit" is a fundamental but effective western revenge tale. If the film at all disappoints, it is because the Coens' stories are usually multi-faceted affairs with layer upon layer of nuance. Their most famous works are so busy that the utter simplicity of "True Grit" comes as something of a surprise. Taken on its own, however, the film more than holds its own among the many other revivalist westerns released over the past few years.

And come to think of it, a tale loaded with heavy themes like vengeance, redemption, and justice doesn't need to be artificially inflated with subplots to support them. In fact, one of the reasons the western genre provides such viscerally satisfying experiences is precisely because it tends to wear its motifs on its sleeve. Part of our fascination with that era too comes from the simplicity it entails.

But beyond the mechanisms of its success, the most important triumph of "True Grit" is that it delivers on its promise of six-gun badassery with a heart. Jeff Bridges is awesome as a decrepit Rooster Cogburn, and the begrudging respect he develops for Ross gives the gunfights weight. The last fifteen minutes of the film are beautiful and unforgettable.

"True Grit" doesn't rock the boat as much as "A Serious Man" or offer the same fascinating level of character complexity as "Fargo," but it is nevertheless an important landmark in the Coen brothers' career. They've conquered yet another frontier, and it's as exciting as ever to imagine which they'll turn to next.

4/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 73: True Grit

2010-12-29T09:40:00.003-05:00

--> Episode 73: 12/28/10 <--

Hosts: Colin George, Brian Johanson, Laura Rachfalski

Intro – 00:00

Top 5 - 03:36

True Grit – 08:21

WMD - 25:25

(Driving Miss Daisy, Scrooged, Lethal Weapon, A Christmas Story, Easy A, Love Actually, King of Kong)

E-mail and Outro - 47:42

(Critical reaction to There Will Be Blood)

"True Grit"

Colin:
Brian:
Laura:

-- Weekly Discussion --

This week on the show, our hosts discuss the career of the Coen brothers. What are your favorite films by the pair?

"Tron: Legacy" Review

2010-12-23T10:39:00.003-05:00

“Tron: Legacy” is a beautiful mess. Packed with state of the art visuals, from the striking blue and orange neon oasis of a computer world to the disquieting de-aging of Jeff Bridges, it’s just a shame that a decent script hadn’t been hammered out beforehand. “Legacy” could have been a stunner. Instead, it’s merely supermodel entertainment—gorgeous but vapid.

You’d think a movie about a brainiac hacker would be a little smarter. Granted, there’s enough techy gobbledygook to choke a computer processor, but it has the opposite of the desired effect. Incomprehensible and long-winded expository scenes make clear that “Legacy” is the worst breed of hand-holding blockbuster—characters formulate and execute plans in ceaseless sequence until they reach end protocol. Structurally, the film is like a bad sonnet.

Probably the single most egregious problem with “Legacy’s” screenplay is its entirely uninteresting characters. Reluctant hero Sam Flynn (Garrett Hedlund) is the son of Bridges’ character from the 1982 original. Perhaps it’s fitting that the character is cast adrift in an artificial world, because he’s the least dynamic human being on Earth. A living soul should stick out like a sore thumb when compared to anthropomorphized computer programs, but though Sam gawks and cracks wise, the truth is that his character is as lifeless as a filing cabinet. I can’t think of three adjectives to describe him.

Bridges doesn’t have much to work with either as the elder Flynn; the man is a bottomless well of exposition peppered with antiquated colloquialisms (“dig,” “jazz,” “man,” e.g. “I don’t dig that jazz, man”) leftover from his overzealous performance in “Tron” prime. Olivia Wilde plays Quorra, the last of a super-advanced cyber species with whom personality certainly died. And then there’s Martin Sheen as Zuse, who has enough eccentricities for the four of them combined. He plays the role of an opportunistic bartender like a Greek bohemian, giving a bizarre and unrestrained performance that feels more than a little out of place. He’s in the movie maybe a combined six minutes.

Unfortunately, the story that binds these characters together is just as forgettable. Even as they bolt through its interminable second-half, it feels as though nothing is happening. Their motivator is literally “Get to the portal,” which means “Legacy” is essentially a chase film. The only method employed to break-up the razzle-dazzle action sequences are paunchy bouts of dialogue that beget subplots that beget more chase. There is never a moment to stop and admire the world around them, or even to understand it. The universe of “Tron” never feels alive—it is merely an eye-candy coating over the bland events that comprise this tasteless narrative.

I do not mean to undersell “Tron: Legacy” on a visual or technical level. The production design is superlative, and the digital wizardry (re: the ‘Curious Case of Jeff Bridges’) could be revolutionary. “Legacy” is a beautiful film, but none of that changes the fact that its screenplay is a disaster. It’s never a good sign when you have six writers attached to the same piece of material, and the sequel to “Tron” is an open and shut case of too many cooks.

Outside of the aesthetic artistry and a memorable soundtrack by Daft Punk, there is little to remember “Tron: Legacy” for. Its characters are cardboard and its plot is paper-thin. And without substance, all the cosmetics in the world can’t save you. Sorry, supermodels.

2/5

"The Fighter" Review

2010-12-20T19:01:00.005-05:00

It’s easy to take a film like David O. Russell’s “The Fighter” for granted around award season. It’s minus the panache of the year’s other heavy hitters, and fills a comfortable ‘sports drama’ niche. O. Russell’s film may very well be among the ten best picture nominations announced next month, but it doesn’t have a shot at the title—which is a shame, because it earns greatness in its own right.

“The Fighter” isn’t the best film of the year, but it features some of the best characters and performances of the year, wrapped in a familiar but accessible underdog story with plenty of fresh hooks. Much attention has been paid to Christian Bale as boxer “Irish” Micky Ward’s crack-addicted brother, and rightly so. Even among so talented an ensemble, Bale shines in his transformative turn, once again whittling himself down to little more than a human wireframe.

Bale probably receives too much credit for his wild weight swings, which have the tendency to upstage merely passable performances, but his talent as showcased in “The Fighter” is incontrovertible. This is best Bale has ever been, juggling pathos with a sense of humor I presumed lost after “American Psycho.” If “The Fighter” takes home one award, it’ll have Christian Bale’s name on it.

Bale is so vibrant in his role that it’s easy to forget to mention the strength of the rest of the cast; Mark Wahlberg contributes his best performance in years under O. Russell, whom he’s collaborated with before on “Three Kings” and “I Heart Huckabees.” As an artist, Wahlberg may be guilty of poor taste more than anything else, as he has consistently proven more than capable a performer in the right hands. The same boyish naivety that made him a perfect fit for P.T. Anderson’s “Boogie Nights” shines through in “The Fighter,” which along with his physical formidability make him both believable and easy to get behind.

If I have a gripe about the casting, Amy Adams might actually be a bit too attractive as Ward’s love interest—a small town bartender and college dropout—but her performance sells it. Also fine are Ward’s destructive family, including Melissa Leo as the totalitarian matriarch, who’s followed in tow by a gaggle of her fiercely protective daughters, and Jack McGee as the working-class dad who seems consistently out of his element among all the aggressive estrogen.

“The Fighter” is a terrifically acted film, but its real strength comes from the way its characters drive the story. Much of the drama comes from Ward’s poisonous relationship with his mother and brother (his manager and trainer, respectively), and his having to break free of their manipulation and neglect is a decidedly unorthodox angle for a sports flick. Those relationships motivate the narrative, and the result is a drama that runs like clockwork. “The Fighter” is engrossing, unpretentious, and an immaculate crowd-pleaser.

O. Russell and cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema (“Let the Right One In”) deserve recognition as well for giving the film its distinctive visual flair. Of particular interest is the style and method by which the pair chose to shoot their fight sequences, which achieve some of the best faux-broadcast mimicry I’ve ever seen. The effect is initially so convincing that I assumed actual footage had been integrated from Ward’s fights—until Wahlberg stepped into the ring. From there, the camerawork is kept tight and effect is satisfying and visceral.

Buzz films like “Black Swan” and “127 Hours” will likely dominate much of the awards dialogue in the coming months, but “The Fighter” deserves a fair shake as well. Unlike last year’s condescending “Blindside,” David O. Russell’s sports drama isn’t exploitative, nor is it only receiving praise in the context of its Oscar-caliber performances. “The Fighter” is absolutely worth seeing, and not just for Christian Bale. It could be a contender.

4/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 72: Tron: Legacy, The Fighter

2010-12-20T14:06:00.004-05:00

--> Episode 72 - 12/19/10 <--

Hosts: Colin George, Sonic Kim, Laura Rachfalski, Ben Wong

Intro – 00:00

Top 5 – 01:02

Tron: Legacy (spoilers) – 08:44

The Fighter – 38:07

WMD – 52:25

(The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, Restrepo, Bad Santa, Risky Business, Black Swan, 127 Hours, Speed, Point Break, The Walking Dead, The Tourist, Bubba Ho-Tep, Ace in the Hole, Who's Afraid of V. Woolf?, Serpico, Die Hard 2, Die Hard 3, The Green Mile, Superman: The Movie)

E-mail and Outro: 01:22:34

(Favorite Films Featuring Marine Life)

"Tron: Legacy"

Colin:
Sonic:
Laura:
Ben:

"The Fighter"

Colin:
Sonic:

-- Weekly Discussion --

This week on the show, our hosts discuss the incredible Jeff Bridges de-aging technology on display in Tron: Legacy. What are some of your favorite films that broke new ground with their visual effects?

Oops! No FARCE/Film Podcast This Week

2010-12-13T19:03:00.005-05:00

Due to scheduling conflicts and the unappealing room-temperature smorgasbord of early December releases, FARCE/Film is once again forgoing its weekly podcast, with eyes to return Sunday, December 19th. Never fear: when we miss a week, we come back twice as strong. In the meantime, feel free to read my review of "The Tourist" below, and look forward to reviews of the highly anticipated "Tron: Legacy" and "The Fighter" from Podcast Alley's* number 3 film-related podcast next week!

*Now defunct?

"The Tourist" Review

2010-12-13T17:11:00.015-05:00

2010 has been a year glutted with mediocre spy fare. “The Tourist” joins the dubious ranks of “Red,” “Knight and Day,” and “Killers”—and that it might be the best of the lot isn’t saying much. Anchored by arguably the strongest cast, including stars Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp, “The Tourist” moves at a more relaxed pace than its blockbuster brethren. Then again, “Red” was plenty slow, but still wound up nigh incomprehensible.

I understood “The Tourist,” which is a complement, unfortunately. The Venetian caper keeps its audience in the loop, with a story thankfully straightforward enough to follow. Jolie plays Elise Clifton-Ward, the squeeze of a master criminal who's lifted two billion pounds from a no-nonsense English gangster (Steven Berkoff). In order to keep the identity of her mysterious lover secret, she employs the aid of an unwitting proxy, American tourist and self described “math teacher,” Frank Tupelo (Depp).

Maybe the most impressive part of Depp’s performance is that it feels like the first human character he’s portrayed in years. Leapfrogging from roles like Willy Wonka to Sweeney Todd to John Dillinger, surely nobody doubts Depp’s ability to consistently transform himself. After watching him ham it up as Jack Sparrow in three consecutive “Pirates of the Caribbean” movies however, I was surprised by how charming the man can be without his usual flamboyancy. He’s hardly brilliant in “The Tourist,” but by scaling back the theatrics and focusing instead on playing an actual person, he reminded me of something I had since forgotten—I actually really like Johnny Depp.

Jolie is less interesting as his seductive captor. The actress has recently whittled herself down to little more than a skeleton with full lips; her sharp inset cheekbones and sickly pipe-cleaner legs make many a male head turn in “The Tourist.” Thanks but no thanks, the double-digit weight doesn't do much for me. Jolie is playing beautiful, elegant, and sexy, but she just looks malnourished.

Her physical appearance doesn't detract from the performance, however, and her chemistry with Depp is what makes “The Tourist” sail, though the plot is eventually blown in an unexpected and unwelcome direction, after which the film struggles to stay afloat. The silly twist undoes a lot of the goodwill the film has going for it, and its final minutes feel as though they’re unraveling rather than unifying what came before.

Directed by German filmmaker Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck (“The Lives of Others”), “The Tourist” is a decidedly marginal success, but a success nonetheless. It makes a few interesting decisions to distinguish itself from its middling colleagues—unlike “Knight and Day,” von Donnersmarck casts Jolie, his female lead, as the savvy spy and Depp as the smitten Joe Average instead of subjecting them to more conventional gender roles.

This review may be full of half-compliments, but “The Tourist” is played so down the middle that there’s next to nothing to say about it to begin with. It was admittedly a pleasant surprise keeping in mind the critical reaming it received via Rotten Tomatoes. In competition with any of the other mediocre to outright terrible espionage films mentioned above, I would recommend “The Tourist” without hesitation—taken alone, it receives a significantly less enthusiastic endorsement.

There is, however, one 2010 spy flick to which “The Tourist” doesn’t hold a candle (and coincidentally, another film about traveling abroad): Anton Corbijn’s “The American,” which arrives on home video December 28^th. Until then, I suppose we’ll have to make due with von Donnersmarck’s sometimes compelling, occasionally painful action/romance. I suppose you could also rent “Knight and Day” or “Killers” if you’re a real glutton for punishment.

3/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 71: Tangled, Megamind, Love and Other Drugs

2010-12-06T12:27:00.004-05:00

--> Episode 71: 12/05/10 <--

Hosts: Colin George, Kevin Mauer, Jon Mauer, Suman Allakki, Laura Rachfalski

Intro – 00:00

Top 5 – 04:25

Tangled – 08:03

Megamind (spoilers) – 21:03

Love and Other Drugs (spoilers) – 31:41

WMD - 44:50

(TMNT, Louie, The Running Man, I Can Do Bad All By Myself, Eat Pray Love, Charlie St. Cloud, Fringe, Winnebago Man, Aliens, Assassination of Jesse James, Hot Tub Time Machine, 2012, Adventureland, Surrogates, Mother, The Cove, Man on the Moon, Play Time, Lost Highway)

E-mail and Outro - 01:31:15

(Favorite Adult-themed Animated Films)

"Tangled"

Colin:
Suman:
Laura:

"Megamind"

Jon:
Suman:

"Love and Other Drugs"

Colin:
Kevin:
Laura:

-- Weekly Discussion --

This week, our hosts discuss 2010’s two most recent animated films: Megamind and Tangled. What are your favorite animated films of the year? What are your all-time favorites?

"Tangled" Review

2010-12-01T12:13:00.003-05:00

This is what you get for not seeing “The Princess and the Frog.” Disney eschewed its revitalization of traditional animation for this forgettable CG adaptation of Rapunzel, which goes by the nondescript nom de plume: “Tangled.”

If the recent announcement that the animation giant is placing a moratorium on fairy tale films should come as a surprise to anyone, their position on the matter is telegraphed plainly into the first five minutes of their latest and last: modern audiences won’t sit for straight-faced fantasy. The name-change alone underscores the corporation’s feelings on the commercial viability of a tradition it once held proud.

That willful dissolution of magic is a slap in the face to “Snow White” or “Sleeping Beauty.” “Tangled” begins with striking imagery, but buries it beneath a sour, smarmy voice over by this year’s prince-not-so-charming, Flynn Ryder (Zachary Levi). As narrator, he cracks jokes at the expense of the archetypical framework—as if he doesn’t, and we shouldn’t, treat the story with one modicum of seriousness. Being cavalier about your own film isn’t a great way to hook your viewers.

Thus “Tangled” is a disengaging experience from the outset. It downplays its fairy tale roots, but then never defies them. It disinterests us in its world, and then asks us to spend ninety minutes there. Worse, it suffers from sloppy characterization, including one of the single weakest antagonists in Disney history. Donna Murphy plays Mother Gothel to Mandy Moore’s Rapunzel, and neither has a lick of personality. The irksome Flynn is practically the only other human character, with the rest of the world being populated by nameless thugs and townspeople. When so much relies on so few, you’d think more attention would be paid to making them distinct.

Essentially, Repunzel's sole remarkable trait is her magic hair, a plot device that is curiously ignored throughout the film. There are plenty of early gags visualizing how she manipulates it (for instance, in order to lift her mother into the tower), but it's clearly an afterthought as her adventure is set into motion. To illustrate, the princess emerges from a stream without any indication of the added water weight. She never once has her locks stepped on, snagged, or caught in a door. I thought this movie was called “Tangled!” Having hair that long would be a major inconvenience, people!

Maybe I’m splitting hairs (ouch); I probably shouldn’t have expected anything more from “Tangled”—it’s the near unanimous praise I don’t understand. The songs are lousy, the characters are dull (save for one spunky chameleon), and the story merely suffices (but then it’s tough to break something that’s survived hundreds of years). The film is so clearly catered to a younger crowd that my curmudgeonly opinion is somewhat irrelevant, but with Pixar managing year after year to satisfy the storytelling needs of both adults and children, Disney’s “Tangled” is an immediate relic. It’s a film made for twelve year olds who need to be convinced that fairy tales aren’t stupid and boring.

“Enchanted” and “The Princess and the Frog” were classic Disney films despite their flaws. Their creators clearly understood what made the studio in its prime so successful. “Tangled” is a harmless children’s cartoon, but it doesn’t recapture any of the magic the company is known for. Instead, it takes a snide approach to the Rapunzel story while simultaneously contributing nothing to it. I may not be the target audience, but to quote an old friend, “If this is where the monarchy is headed, count me out.”

2.5/5

"Love and Other Drugs" Review

2010-11-29T16:51:00.006-05:00

“Love and Other Drugs” has an immediate leg-up on its romcom competition in that it actually has a halfway decent premise. Set against the backdrop of the nineties pharmaceutical boom, and with a charismatic Jake Gyllenhaal shucking Zoloft and Viagra for the umbrella company Pfizer (drugs which today are so commonplace that Microsoft Office automatically capitalized them for me), there is the tantalizing potential that “Love and Other Drugs” may do more than play it safe.

Now consider Anne Hathaway as an artsy early-onset Parkinson’s victim and the hard R for nudity, and it feels as though the filmmakers are genuinely determined to take a few risks—and they do, but not necessarily in the right places. Much of “Love and Other Drugs” feels frustratingly formulaic, and conflicting ideas (presumably the amalgam of multiple drafts and authors) lend the film an unkempt, atonal quality. A surplus of half-baked ideas suffices in the place of one strong one, and this nearly two-hour endeavor never amounts to more than the sum of its disparate parts.

Its most interesting aspect is surely the pharmaceutical angle, and one of the greatest shortcomings of “Love and Other Drugs” is that it fails to take a definitive stance on the industry. The rock-and-roll Pfizer presentation Gyllenhaal is treated to early on is a great scene with irony to spare—the theatrics and sexiness with which the company presents itself is as humorous as it is overlooked later on. The satiric edge that marks a strong beginning is then dulled on narrative millstones that impede its momentum.

Eventually, the film skirts or ignores politics wherever possible. Maggie (Hathaway’s character) is totally reliant on expensive medication to offset the effects of her first-stage Parkinson’s, but she never expresses contempt for the system despite chartering a regular bus trip from Chicago to Canada to land cheaper meds. Strangely, she seems to hold no grudge against Pfizer or its representative, Jamie (Gyllenhaal). If anything, she seems as staunch a supporter as the salesman himself.

But once their relationship begins in earnest, the romantic comedy autopilot kicks in, and what made “Love and Other Drugs” even somewhat unique is left high and dry in favor of straight up archetype. But what’s even more annoying is Jamie’s slovenly live-in brother, a Jonah Hill-esque 'comic relief' character who serves no purpose to the plot whatsoever. He exists purely for comedic potential—a potential that is not once realized. His existence in this world is tacked-on and transient.

Still, as far as romantic comedies go—and I can’t profess to being an expert on the genre—you could do worse than “Love and Other Drugs.” Half the battle is establishing likable characters and a compelling scenario, both of which the film manages admirably. Gyllenhaal and Hathaway are fine together, and both have the opportunity to play off of some interesting character actors (Hank Azaria, Oliver Platt). The real shame is that the film never comes together in spite of everything it has going for it. Medical malady drama one minute, sweet romance the next, and lame duck comedy after that, “Love and Other Drugs” is ultimately the median between its successful peaks and deep, disappointing troughs.

Though the film multitasks poorly and muddles its message, it isn’t the disaster it might have been. Even in botching its potential it has spurts of creativity, which is more than can be said for most of its uninspired kindred. Having fun and playing it safe aren’t always mutually exclusive, after all.

3/5

Gobble gobble! FARCE/Film takes a Thanksgiving Breather

2010-11-28T17:31:00.006-05:00

While the FARCE/Film crew adjust their belts and ease themselves back into the horrible work week, there will regrettably be no new podcast. Look forward to one of our signature "Super Shows" next Sunday, featuring reviews of "Tangled," "Love and Other Drugs" and much, much more! There may even be an appearance by America's favorite erotic clown: Suman!

"Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1" Review

2010-11-22T10:44:00.013-05:00

Even having read every “Harry Potter” book and seen every “Harry Potter” film, I still hesitate to call myself a fan. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy the world J.K. Rowling invented or the characters she created, but rather that my enjoyment of the series has always been transient. With sometimes years between each subsequent release, my memory of the litany of events preceding them is often shaky at best, and I've never felt particularly inclined to re-visit.

Inasmuch, every “Harry Potter” has been almost an insular experience for me. I enjoyed the film series as pure Hollywood spectacle, but have always felt their independent merits were questionable at best. In that regard (taking into account I haven’t seen “The Sorcerer’s Stone” since I was in high school) “Deathly Hallows: Part 1” may be the weakest in the series. Curiously, in others ways, it’s the best.

I love that director David Yates pumps the breaks for this adaptation—that he actually gives the material breathing room, allowing it to be more than a feature-length amusement park ride. On a technical and artistic level, there is a lot I admire about his team’s work on this penultimate adventure. But at two and a half hours, covering only half a book, there’s no getting around the fact that “Deathly Hallows” is perhaps the least exciting and inherently least complete-feeling film in the franchise.

I get it, Warner Brothers. Splitting the final “Harry Potter” into two parts was a brilliant marketing decision. It’s hard to lie down and watch a cash cow die, and I’m sure many consumers will even relish the grandeur of a two-part finale. From a creative perspective, however, Rowling’s “Deathly Hallows” might be the worst book in the series to divide.

The bloated first half of her novel features a few action sequences peppered in out of necessity, but Rowling’s authorial stalling is what translates most clearly in this film. Painfully little transpires, rendering probably the most faithful adaptation of her work as the weakest cinematically. Of course, Potter portrayer Daniel Radcliff and co. do as admiral a job as always in breathing life into the characters and humanizing the often absurd plot developments and plethora of plot-holes a magic world entails, but nothing can save “Deathly Hallows: Part 1” from feeling like half of a story—or more precisely, one eighth of a story.

Unlike prior “Potter” outings, “Deathly Hallows” also over-relies on the hunting of mystical artifacts. Major story arcs and characters are ignored in favor of horcruxes—trinkets imbued with pieces of Voldemort’s soul that Harry must seek and destroy before their climactic confrontation. The titular deathly hallows are then yet another collection of requisite magic items; between the hallows and the horcruxes, “Harry Potter 7” feels like one tedious fetch-quest.

That may be enough to satiate some Pottermaniacs, but even having read every book and seen every film, I’m not devoted enough to the franchise to overlook that “Deathly Hallows: Part 1” is a shameless cash-grab. It's a film almost inappreciable when considered on its own, and unexciting when compared to its prequels. There is no reason Rowling’s last “Harry Potter” book (which is not the longest in the series) couldn't have been concisely and effectively wrapped up in two and a half hours, and asking audiences to pay twice for one film strikes me as more than a little unfair. “Deathly Hallows: Part 1” is a colossal tease—crippled on its own and treading water in context, its never more than half a film. It's only fair it gets half a score.

2.5/5

FARCE/FILM Episode 70: Harry Potter 7, Charlie St. Cloud

2010-11-22T01:01:00.004-05:00

--> Episode 70: 11/21/10 <--

Hosts: Colin George, Brian Crawford, Kevin Mauer, Laura Rachfalski

Intro – 00:00

Top 5 – 01:04

Harry Potter 7, part 1 (spoilers) – 04:02

Charlie St. Cloud (spoilers) – 44:56

WMD - 51:28

(For Colored Girls, Before Sunset, The Thin Blue Line, Party Down, The Girl Who Played with Fire, The English Surgeon, Natural Born Killers, Alice in Wonderland, Lady in the Water, The Running Man)

E-mail and outro – 01:24:31

(Favorite Bond and Bond Films)

"Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 1"

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"Charlie St. Cloud"

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Crawford:

-- Weekly Discussion --

This week, our hosts discuss Harry Potter and disagree on its independent merits. Does Deathly Hallows Part 1 work as a stand-alone film? Should franchise filmmakers strive to create insular experiences, or is the impetus on the audience to keep up?

"Unstoppable" Review

2010-11-16T13:38:00.002-05:00

With a capable cast and the right script, Tony Scott has made terrific movies. Lately however, he’s taken on a string of lousy screenplays and contributed little to them. In “Unstoppable,” it isn’t initially clear whether he’s working for or against us—irksome stylistic choices threaten to derail his momentum at every turn. But like Triple Seven, a ghost train towing a half-mile of hazardous chemicals, the breakneck energy he builds vaporizes any obstructions in its path. “Unstoppable” is a fun, effective film.

Anchored by charismatic performances by Denzel Washington and Chris Pine, Scott’s latest is refreshingly straightforward: a seasoned engineer (Washington) and his trainee (Pine) are on a routine delivery when they unwittingly become the last, best hope to stop an unmanned locomotive from jumping track in a highly populated Pennsylvanian town. Silly though the characters’ transitions from blue-collar workers to action stars might be, the premise is simple and stays that way, and the plot builds not in scale but in intensity. Of course, there’s plenty of railyard jargon and engineering exposition peppered throughout to create a veneer of complexity, but “Can’t stop the train” is about all you’ll ever need to know.

And what more do you need to know? “Unstoppable” is one of the most viscerally exciting Hollywood spectacles this year, and a welcome relief in the action spectrum from the ceaseless deluge of military and mercenary films. An action movie sans combat is all but unheard of in this day and age, but never fear; Scott squeezes in enough explosions and speedometer-snapping trucks, helicopters, and trains to keep even the most attention deficient spectators docile. That he does so without relying on conventional violence is just the icing on the cake.

Still, “Unstoppable” is a far from perfect film, and the fun had comes only after a mandatory adjustment to Scott’s ugly shooting style. His carousel dollies, unmotivated snap zooms, and bland color palette are all major distractions. Either Scott doesn’t care whether his images have an independent artistry, or he has terrible aesthetic taste. Even his coverage feels inadequate in certain instances—key moments are muddled because we aren’t sure of Triple Seven’s spatial relationship to its surroundings. For an action director, that’s a significant oversight.

Yet ultimately, it barely matters. As ugly and unpolished as “Unstoppable” often looks, it’s hard to deny the base effectiveness of the imagery. The sense of constant motion is no accident, and that the photography manages to vilify Triple Seven as our inanimate antagonist is an accomplishment in itself. The integration of faux newscasts into the narrative is an interesting choice as well, though does little to elevate it on a visual level.

“Unstoppable” is an unambitious action film, but one that succeeds beyond its own meager expectations for itself. It’s a goofy, gimmicky movie that will likely play on basic cable years from now, watched and enjoyed by its audience simply “because it’s on.” There is a certain timeless appeal it shares with the likes of Scott’s own “Top Gun,” and “Unstoppable” does for trains what it did for jets.

Tony Scott is rarely the sole determiner of his successes, and the stars aligned for “Unstoppable.” A marriage of performance, material, and realization, the director has hit his first Triple Seven in years. The effectiveness of the equation was audible; even in a half-full screening, the crowd gasped and applauded at all the right moments.

If you don't have the opportunity to see this worthwhile thriller theatrically, fear for your evenings when “Unstoppable” makes its way to basic cable.

3.5/5