Full disclosure: I’ve never read Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax. I understand if that precludes any readers from respecting my review. But untainted by the overindulgent fantastical memories of my childhood, I watched Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax with an objective eye. Looking back on it now, I wish I hadn’t. If only I had walked in reciting Seuss rhymes, I may have walked out with a shinier review. Unfortunatel, none of the witty lines or adorably drawn characters were able to push it past anything more than a cutesy, fluff piece for the environment.
The Lorax tells the story of an idealistic boy named Ted who discovers the history “Thneed-Ville”, now a closed-off city with artificial trees and vegetation. Jumping between two time lines, the film traces the dangers that corporate greed has on nature. If I didn’t know any better, Michael Moore wrote and direct the film. I have nothing wrong with a film promoting a social agenda. Many films do. But when a social agenda is at the forefront and the actual heart of the story is pushed to the wayside, all of it gets a little too stale for a children’s movie.
What’s missing most of all from The Lorax is cleverness — a quality that was probably the most vibrant and consistent through all of Dr. Seuss’ books. It lacks the cleverness to touch controversial subjects with a innocent graze. It lacks the cleverness to create sympathy for characters across the moral spectrum. And it lacks the cleverness to realize audiences desire more than a noisy, clunky, ADHD-induced animated film neither for child or adult. All we get are lazy stereotypes of Dr. Seuss’ mind. And for that, it should honestly change its name to just The Lorax. Because there is nothing quite Dr. Seuss about it.
There are a hundred ways to describe John Carter and there is no way to describe it at all. It has a little bit of Avatar and a little bit of Dances with Wolves. It has sprinklings of Clash of the Titans with Star Wars Episode 1 mixed in. But despite all the remnants of the familiar, Andrew Stanton’s Carter really is something from another world, on a class of its own. And it’s a class made up of delinquent children who can barely speak or act, walk or direct. Everyone involved is this project, I assume, attempted to drum up some heart or soul or at least some old-fashioned fun in the drawn-out, uneven-paced 131 minutes. The end result has barely any of that. Hell, I’m not even sure it has a plot.
Here’s what I made out of it. Carter (Taylor Kitsch) is a Civil War veteran who magically transports to Mars, only to find himself in the middle of warring factions. He escapes as prisoner, but he realizes his uncanny leaping ability and brute strength (and overexposed 10-pack abs. Hey! Mars is hot) — He realizes all these “gifts” can help him save a princess and a people. Fine. I’m not going to make fun of the narrative because it already makes fun of itself. But beyond that, plenty of absurd plots have gone on to find critical and mainstream success. Look at Inception (a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream) or Midnight in Paris (Owen Wilson meets artists of yesteryear). It’s never the plot itself that dooms a movie. It’s the execution.
And it’s in that execution that is most frustrating. Stanton has been one of driving forces behind Disney Pixar’s success, writing and directing films like Finding Nemo and Monsters, Inc. Granted, all these films were animated. But good storytelling is good storytelling, whether it be animated or live-action, black-and-white or color, silent, or a talkie. In fact, Stanton’s most recent film WALL-E was considered by most as one of the most sophisticated films in the history of animation. This is why I was excited to see this film. This is why Disney granted John Carter with a loose $250 million budget. And this is why the final feature was all the more disappointing.
Ultimately, it’s the storytelling that was the most off-kilter. Maybe Stanton was too distracted by his own CGI characters that he forgot the basics to filmmaking. Beyond all the bright colors and sweeping landscape shots, the audience will get bored quickly. Forget what the marketers tell you. Shiny, new objects get old, real fast. We need to understand more of Carter’s past. His brief, cloudy flashbacks do not offer enough clarity. We want to sympathize with the native people of Mars. A voiceover does not suffice. We deserve to be treated as an audience of intellect. Beyond the wow (there’s not many anyway), we need to know the more important questions of why or how.
Maybe I was wrong in my talent evaluation all along, and not just about Stanton. If I didn’t know any better, I thought the casting director pulled men and women off the street of Los Angeles. But I do know better. Kitsch was a mainstay in one of the finest television series in recent history, Friday Night Lights. Dominic West was a lead actor in arguably the finest television series of all time, The Wire. Add in fantastic character actors — Thomas Haden Church, Willem Defoe, Mark Strong, Bryan Cranston — and this should have been at the very least a showcase for acting. Instead, the characters were skin-deep and the acting didn’t help.
That’s the story of John Carter — could’ve should’ve would’ve. Visionary director. Check. Capable actors. Check. A healthy budget. Check. But as they say in sports, that’s why you play the game. And in this case, that’s you they make the movie. Unfortunately for me, I had to watch said movie. Don’t make the same mistake.
The Grey may have the blandest title in recent movie history, but the film itself is anything but dull or sapless. Led by Liam Neeson (the new king of better-than-expected January films), this survivalist tale between man and nature is captivating, thoughtful, and probably the most pleasant surprise to hit theaters in months.
The film follows an oil drilling team whose plane crashes in the Alaskan wild. With only seven survivors, Ottway (Neeson) leads the group out of the wilderness while a pack of wolves hunt the humans one by one. It’s a little bit like Into the Wild meets Taken, except the European kidnappers are now ruthless dogs that don’t have a penchant for young women.
It’s not all man vs. animal fist fights as the trailer might have you believe, however. Much of what elevates The Grey beyond your run-of-the-mill thriller are the lofty goals by filmmaker Joe Carnahan. Using flashbacks to the survivors’ past ala Lost or The Tree of Life, The Grey acts as an existential exercise between fate and choice, God and man, man and animal. It doesn’t answer many of those questions, but it’s a nice twist for what would otherwise be the same old, tired and banal survivalist movie.
Thanks to cinematographer Masanobu Takayanagi, the film is also breathtakingly beautiful. He embraces the magnificent glory of Alaska’s rivers and mountains without dumbing down its naturally harsh essence. Tied in with Marc Streitenfeld’s haunting music, The Grey keeps you engrossed from the start…a hard feat for a movie that essentially has a bunch of guys running around in the snow. Fortunately, Carnahan makes it more than that and Neeson has his usual Irish charisma to pull off that vision.
January never disappoints when it comes to spouting out forgettable movies. Less than 12 hours after watching Man on a Ledge, I can barely remember what A Man on a Ledge was about outside of a man…well, being on a ledge. What I do recall? I gasped a few times, my palms were sweaty, and I left the theater not completely loathing my experience. And when it comes to January film expectations, that’s all I can sadly ask for.
The film follows Nick Cassidy (Sam Worthington), an ex-cop who stages a suicide attempt as a diversion for his brother pull off a diamond heist and prove Cassidy’s innocence. A little convoluted for its own good, Man on a Ledge tries to be a mix between Spike Lee’s Inside Man and F Gary Gray’s The Negotiator without the sleek direction, original plot, or capable acting. No matter how many times Hollywood tries to throw Worthington in our face (Terminator Salvation, Avatar, Clash of the Titans), he does not have the charisma to hold our attention; he personifies bland as the new decade’s Paul Walker, only with an Australian accent.
The plot itself remains oddly confusing and predictable all at once, with the twists coming from a mile away. Random plot devices like a homeless man saving the day seem straight out of an Adam Sandler movie. But no one’s laughing…intentionally. The action sequences are a rehash of the Mission Impossible series with one little caveat. None of them are actually spies, so where did they get all those expensive gadgets and learn those Navy Seal techniques? Call me when you know.
If you can forgive Ledge for all its plot holes and a blah of a leading man, you will have two hours of pure escapism. It’s unmistakably laughable throughout, but it also does build that old school B-movie style of suspense. And for the moviegoer who has had a rough week at work and just need a film where they don’t have to think, Man on a Ledge may be the perfect prescription. For the rest of us, save some money and watch Jersey Shore.
Here’s a puzzler for you. How do you make a mediocre film when your cast is filled with A-list talent? Just ask Steven Soderbergh. In his latest clunker, the Ocean’s 11 director lays all his bets on the non-actress MMA fighter Gina Carano. Despite a supporting team of Michael Douglas, Antonio Banderas, Michael Fassbender, Channing Tatum, Ewan McGregor and Bill Paxton, he tones down their talent, dumbing down their potential to stoic performances played alongside his patented jazzy piano drones. Instead, we get Carano who does not have the charisma or quite frankly, the grade school ability to play the badass renegade CIA agent. She’d have trouble playing a tree at a middle school play.
Marketed as Jason Bourne with tits, Haywire tells the story of a super soldier who seeks revenge on the agency that blackmailed her. Sounds awesome, right? Don’t be fooled. There are less then 15 minutes of legitimate action in this plodding, yawn-filled movie. Most of it is incomprehensible, overdrawn plot line explainers that make no difference because I’m too busy trying not to laugh at Carano’s “acting”. It’s like she won a national sweepstakes to star in a movie with actors featured on GQ. And then it’s like Soderbergh went to each of his beautiful, talented stars and said “Look guys, she’s just a kid. Ease it up on her, okay? Forget about the awards you’ve won. This movie isn’t about you.”
There is one piece of silver lining I can offer. The 15 minutes of action, albeit short, are incredible. The fight scenes are sleek and smooth, sensible and realistic — the complete opposite effect that the rest of the film had. But this is the result when you hire an MMA fighter to do what she does best: umm, fight. But when you hire her to act, you might as well hire Tracy Morgan to do your lighting.
People may be tempted to compare this film to last year’s Drive or 2010’s The American, both personal favorites that that were likewise mis-marketed as action movies only to prove far slower and indie and artsy than anyone could have ever imagined. But here’s a difference between those near-masterpieces to Haywire. What Drive and The American lack in action, they make up for in character development and relational buildup (led by the equally brooding Ryan Gosling and George Clooney). What Haywire lacks in action, it makes it up with drawn-out dialogue from a woman that makes Sasha Grey look like an Oscar contender. O wait.
Underworld: Awakening is the latest installment of a series for adults still shrouding their Twilight fandom in the closet. There are vampires and werewolves and silly humans who try to get in the way. But above all, these types of movies are made for moviegoers who desire no sound narrative, any credible acting, or an inch of direction. The entire film is tinted with a dreary, vampiric blue — a fitting background for a soulless 90-minute experience.
We pick up where we left off in Underworld: Evolution, finding Selene (Kate Beckinsale) and Michael escaping “the purge” from the humans. Caught and trapped in cryogenic suspension, Selene wakes up a dozen years later alone in a foreign world. In an attempt to find the truth (and score another box-office-success story), Selene is straight kicking ass leather-clad and all. Directors Mans Marlind and Bjorn Stein collaborate to send Beckinsale driving her spear one way and her teeth another way. It’s all non-stop action to divert us from a few truths. This movie is nonsensical. This movie is unnecessary. And worst of all, this movie is boring.
Awakening is not complex or confusing in the least. But whatever the plot is, I’m not sure I care anymore. Some vampires are good, some bad. Some werewolves and humans too. The one constant is our lead. It’s a game of follow the bouncing Beckinsale without the catchy music or audience participation. She throws a punch here. Yawn. She makes a roundhouse kick there. Snore. She struts her stuff and wins. Zzzzz.
Beckinsale and the rest of the players here always look unenthused, panting at the screen as if they were saying “Look, I really need the money here, okay? And thanks for the extra 3D cash.” But can I really blame them. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me four times….DAMMIT.
It’s a Mark Wahlberg movie. If you understand that five-word sentence in all its complexity of meaning and consequence, you do not need to finish this review. Mark Wahlberg is Mark Wahlberg, a charismatic and highly-entertaining A-list Hollywood star who carries crappy movies to become watchable escapist material on a lazy Friday night. Once in a while, he’ll surprise you with gold when he teams with award-winning auteurs (The Departed, The Fighter). But for the most part, Wahlberg will headline these mid-level action flicks that were seemingly made for the 90s Walmart bin starring Keanu Reeves. And you know what? There’s something to be said for movies that meet our expectations 10 times out of 10. Contraband is a prime example.
The film follows Chris Farraday (Wahlberg), a former prodigy of the smuggling business who went clean to start a family. He has to go back into the business, however, when his brother-in-law gets caught up in a botched smuggling job of his own. It’s a fairly predictable storyline with laughable plot twists and several caricatures. But this B-movie actually has higher aspirations. The most foremost compliment to Wahlberg’s charm is the supporting cast, and most notably Ben Foster. Already receiving critical acclaim for his roles in The Messenger and Rampart, Foster delivers another powerhouse performance as an overly protective best friend with secrets of his own. Where Wahlberg is the heart of Contraband, Foster may be the brains. And as a one-two punch, they make Contraband engaging and nerve-wracking in the best of ways, making it one of the better January releases I’ve seen in a while.
There may come at time when having the tagline “Based on true events” will no longer have any influence on box office sales. But as The Devil Inside shows, that time is far off in the future. The film has already made over $41 million, even though it was produced for only $1 million. And it shows. The story is a bore, the acting is laughable, and the camera work is amateur. There isn’t much to like about The Devil Inside. In fact — the only entertaining part of my experience was laughing at the pre-teen screaming at the predictably “horrifying” spots.
Think of a mix between The Exorcist and Cloverfield minus their originality and professionalism, and that’s what The Devil Inside is. Using “real-life” 9-11 dispatcher calls, the movie follows Isabella Rossi, the daughter of a possessed woman who killed priests at her own exorcism. In some non-sensical attempt to gain closure, Isabella teams with a couple of rogue priests (that’s right, I said “rogue priests”), to perform another exorcism on her mother. It doesn’t take much to figure out what happens next.
As much as the script needs a jolt of freshness, blandness is not this film’s ultimate failure. After all, the majority of Hollywood’s wide releases are remakes or rehashes of something we’ve seen before. The difference with The Devil Inside is there is a lack of care and respect from the filmmakers. The camera is jolty, the lighting is suspect, and the transitions are uncomfortable. The film being a faux-documentary is their excuse. But audiences are smarter than that. We are not being treated to a first-hand account of newly-uncovered footage hidden in the archives of the police department. We are instead forced to watch bad art under the guise of competent investigation.
All this can be forgiven, however, if there was an inch of fright within the scenes. But laughs abound, and none of them are intentional. A old lady who speaks in a weird English accent is not possessed; she lives down Mulberry Street. A rogue priest who almost drowns a baby is not shocking; he’s just not believable. A woman who gets a little bat-shit crazy is not the devil; she’s called an ex-girlfriend. But hey — what do I know? I’m not one of the guys sitting $40 million richer. In fact, I helped them get that way.
Cave of Forgotten Dreams begins with a sweeping shot of southern France, a beautiful panoramic take on the region’s mountains, vineyards, and communes. But filmmaker Werner Herzog settles his camera and his interest on what’s hidden behind the rocks, beneath the depths and the darkness of a limestone cliff high above the Ardeche River. On the other side of what seems like a misplaced steel door, we not only discover the breathtaking Chauvet Cave; we literally get an inside look at the cave’s prehistoric paintings that date back 32,000 years.
The French government gave Herzog rare access to the perfectly sealed artwork and by extension, we are his benefactors. Described as “frozen flesh in a moment of time,” viewers are treated to an almost glorified museum tour with the eccentric Herzog as our guide. Though he’s almost 70-years old, Herzog’s voice is full of childlike giddiness as he describes his uncensored look into the depictions of bears and panthers against the cave’s preserved walls. The film is at its most spell-bounding, however, when Herzog or anyone else, for that matter, doesn’t speak. The star of Cave of Forgotten Dreams is the artwork and its creators, so its best when we’re allowed to absorb the sketches amid soft music or no music at all.
The documentary doesn’t stay quiet for long because it is after all a Herzog film, a movie that examines the filmmaker’s abstract thoughts as much as it does with the untapped cave. Under his proverbial microscope, Herzog imagines the cave as the place where the modern soul is awakened. And in an introspective twist, he laments in our curse of being stuck in time while studying the timeless. He wonders of his own place in human history when all is said and done, if he is just another caveman making sketches with his own paintbrush of a camera.
While Herzog’s free-form thoughts are certainly entertaining, he often gets overboard with the speculation and the conjecture, losing track of the documentary’s focus. In an attempt to investigate how the prehistoric artists lived, he devotes almost a quarter of the film to how they may have hunted or mated. The detour in the documentary’s narrative can feel like long-winded, purposeless stream of consciousness. But if you bear with Herzog and all his little oddities, Cave of Forgotten Dreams will give you an appreciation for not only the ancient paintings, but the importance of art itself.
As we crouch upon Oscar season, A Separation will surely gain a ton of mainstream traction for all the wrong reasons. It will be marketed as a great Iranian film, but that would diminish the power and the merit of Asghar Farhadi’s work. It is first and foremost a great film, that happens to be Iranian. Set against a backdrop of foreign Iranian religious and social divisions, A Separation is ultimately a familiar movie about family division set off by a set of unfortunate circumstances.
Nader and Simin are a loving, married couple who face a difficult decision on whether to improve the life of their child by moving out of the country or to stay and look after a deteriorating parent suffering from Alzheimer’s. What begins as a simple, heartbreaking divorce story, however, evolves into a much more thought-provoking, complex narrative. The moment Nader and Simin separate, the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan, eventually pitting their modern middle-class family against a religious lower-class family. Through the courts, jails, and classrooms of Iran, A Separation quickly becomes a cross between Hitchcock’s suspense and Lumet’s social realism.
The perfectly-cast ensemble creates a world of little right and wrong, where the lines of justice and responsibilities are blurred. Through the eyes of four parents and their two children, each character offers a unique set of justifiable values that make it impossible to compromise on their collective conflict. Similar to what Roman Polanski tried to do with Carnage, Farhadi actually succeeds here in revealing flawed individuals (no matter the regional, social upbringing), whose motivations and decisions can tear apart a family, a community, a country.
Despite the 2+ hour running time with subtitles, A Separation never feels long, taking us on a roller coaster of familial emotions. By the end, we’re back to where we began — a potential, inevitable separation. Like all great works of art, A Separation can and will mean different things to different viewers. On one level, it is a heartbreaking tale of two spouses who must separate. But on another level, the spouses do represent schisms within a broken country’s political, religious, and social structure. Like the veil that covers our female leads, A Separation gives us just enough of a hint to what it is trying to say without actually saying it. What you hear is entirely up to you.
Oskar Schell is an inventor, a computer consultant, astronomer, historian, lepidopterist, and extremely, incredibly annoying. Stephen Daldry’s first film since The Reader is meant to be a poignant post-9/11 film that deals with guilt and denial, discovery and acceptance, all told through the eyes of a child. So forget about a phenomenal supporting cast (and performances) that includes Tom Hanks, Sandra Bullock, Max von Sydow, and Viola Davis. This movie is for first-time actor Thomas Horn to own. But his quirks are more irritating than cute, his tantrums are more grating than realistic. Thomas Horn is hard to fall in love with, and by extension, so is Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
Based on the novel by Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud tells the story of Oskar who loses his father in the 9/11 attacks. Still reeling from the unexpected passing, he finds a key his father left behind. Oskar doesn’t know what the key could open, but the possibilities are endless and he sets off on an expedition to find the answer. The film’s shortcomings are admittedly not completely Horn’s fault. Even in the book, Foer created an unrelatable, uncute child to narrate the story. But even he had the wisdom to break up Oskar’s voice with two other narrators (his grandparents). When Daldry and screenwriter Eric Roth adapted the story to the screen, however, gone were the other voices and other narratives. This was to be a purely 9/11 film, a purely Oskar Schell film — a mistake on a couple of levels.
Like most 9/11 films, Extremely Loud, fall into a hokey, overly-sentimental trap of togetherness and pain, a concoction made from the depths of a Lifetime movie. It’s not that the events of September 11th are too soon to feature on the silver screens; it’s that so few films capture the essence and the mood of a city that went through so much. Instead, these films appear as neatly-wrapped packaged enclosures that tell us what we did feel and how we should feel, plucking out our tears and our emotions through fabricated and cluttered voicemails amid the rubble. We as New Yorkers and as Americans, do not mind and often invite a cathartic experience, but we just cannot accept a manipulating one.
Maybe it all could have worked if Thomas Horn pulled off a performance of a lifetime in his first role. All he needed to do was surpass the irritating shortcomings of the original character, outplay the manipulative and tiring screenplay, and encapsulate the mood of post-9/11 New York on his back. Sounds like an impossible task? Undoubtedly so. Then why make him the center of your film? That fault falls on the shoulders of the adults who made Extremely Loud.
Grey’s Anatomy is far from its heyday of the first few years, when it clocked in 15-20 million viewers a week…frequently popping up in entertainment news and water cooler conversations. But even as the cast changes and creator Shonda Rhimes ups the ante on the shows ridiculousness season after season, there is no denying that the show’s voice is clear, its writing is impeccable, and its knack for suspense on network television is unrivaled. When it comes to primetime soap operas, Grey’s is on a class of its own. The only difference between then and now is that it’s no longer cool to like Grey’s.
In the spring premiere, “Suddenly”, Grey’s literally picks up where it left off in the heart-throbbing fall finale. Christina was unable to save Henry’s life, but no one informed Teddy so she could finish her surgery. Stuck in a torrential downpour, Meredith and Alex were involved in a horrendous car accident that left a family battered and injured. The writers did not push reset on the tension and the suspense like so many other shows do coming off of a holiday season hiatus.
Instead, “Suddenly” never missed a beat…as Christina’s overwhelming guilt stood toe-to-toe with Teddy’s innocence to her reality. The most poignant moment of the episode came in Christina’s reveal to Teddy, a confrontation of two strong female characters. Would they fight or justify, cry or delusionally laugh it off? No. They went about their business, with a momentarily gasp that accompanied a single tear. The beauty of this show is that despite the absurdity of its storylines in one hospital, the creators are never far off from the doctor’s personality and character built upon itself for the better part of the decade. Grey’s is masterful in its tightrope walk between introspective strength and inevitable breakdowns, rarely giving way to the melodramatic even though the situations lend themselves for it.
Without a major death (see: O’Malley) or unnecessary character additions (see: interns), Grey’s may for the first time be hitting its stride in a collection of hospital staff we fully trust and are not completely annoyed with. Make no mistake about it. Everyone still talks in the ranting off-the-wall type way alongside indie acoustic lullabies, but they’re each injected with a sense of individuality and trust its taken years for the viewer to build. With the ratings continuing to dip, I’m not sure how many more years Grey’s has left. But if this spring premiere is any sign for things to come, I’ll welcome a prolonged stay.
The problem with remakes of books and of films is they often prove themselves unnecessary, superfluous to the process of understanding and digesting the source material. If anything, remakes often muddle and disrespect the original concepts and motivations. On a related note, the problem with reviewing remakes of books and of films is we often compare them like one would compare a copy of the Mona Lisa. Criticisms are often not given based on the merit of the film, but on its accuracy to the plot points of the original. This sort of critique is more than unfair; it encourages mindless rehashes and thwarts original thinking. Fortunately for Stieg Larsson (and for the viewer), David Fincher’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is not bogged down by the details of the best-selling thriller, but instead, it plays slave to the novel ideas behind it.
For those unfamiliar to the narrative, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo follows disgraced journalist Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) and unorthodox investigator/hacker Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara), who team up to solve a mystery surrounding a serial killer of women. From a superficial popcorn moviegoer point of view, Dragon Tattoo is just as thrilling and methodical as the book. From the opening credits (where USB cords look sexy and threatening), the tone of the film is never off-centered. Using another addictive score from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross as his backdrop, Fincher paces the film to perfection, allowing the music to carry Lisbeth through the streets of Sweden and Mikael through the rickety rooms of his cottage till we reach its high-powered conclusion. The result is a slick film that makes you think and cringe through the entire process, whether you know the ending or not.
Fincher’s greatest achievement, however, is not for his direct, visual adaptation from page to screen. Niels Arden Opley already did that with his Swedish version two years prior. And some have already (rightfully or not) argued that it was a truer, more satisfying film in respect to the storylines and details of the book. But Fincher knew this wasn’t only about depicting the costumes and the beatings and the revelations we imagined in our head. Ultimately, Fincher created a film that spoke from the intent of Larsson when he first wrote it. Dragon Tattoo is fundamentally about the power of women, personified in Lisbeth. Unlike any other film in recent memory, Lisbeth is another type of female superhero. She doesn’t have flowing hair that accompany pouty lips or a busty chest. She does not have the charm of your upper-class socialite or the sense of humor that makes you feel comfortable around her. She is who she is — a heroine confident in her identity, professionally and sexually. (Hell, Lisbeth even screws AND saves James Bond). It’s a character that till now, no author and director have pushed so blatantly into the mainstream. This is a recapture of the feminine soul, a release of a woman’s power. That was the original purpose of Larsson’s Millenium trilogy. And in this remake, Fincher makes sense of it all and gets it right.
Carnage is proof that making a movie is more than placing a handful of talented actors in one room, and letting them “act”. There needs to be some kind of structure, some semblance of plausibility and relatability. But the modern-day cinematic maestro Roman Polanski infuses none of his patented subtlety or discretion to build suspense in this 79-minute wash of a film. Instead, the four leads quickly evolve from annoying to unbearably annoying in what becomes an expose of First World Problems.
In the aftermath of a schoolyard fight, two sets of parents come together to resolve the matter. The Longstreets (John C. Reilly, Jodie Foster) and the Cowans (Christoph Waltz, Kate Winslet) start off remarkably polite and chum, acquiescing to each other’s wishes the way you would imagine modern yuppies would on a weekday afternoon. When delicate small talk turns to more serious matters, however, all hell breaks loose. One mother pukes. Another mother gets drunk. One father curses. The other hangs out with his phone. Through it all, every character is revealed to be questionable parents and more importantly, questionable human beings.
Polanski’s goal is apparent — he wants to explore the silliness and the evils of human nature within a claustrophobic setting. And for that, he succeeds. We are stuck in the theater with four characters who don’t want to be around each other. And yet they still hang around — for coffee or dessert’s sake. I don’t understand it. But then again, a packed theater joined me to hang around too. Why? I’m not sure. Like the Cowans, I wished I never set foot in that room either.
When the previews are over and the dim lights turn black, check any semblance of plausibility and logic at the door. Forget that the media-proclaimed crazy guy Tom Cruise is your leading man, and put aside any reservations you have for Pixar director Brad Bird. When all these precautions have been made, take a seat and strap on for easily the most fun, heart-throbbing action film of the year.
Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol is the fourth installment of the of the series, but outside of a few mainstays (Ethan Hunt, premise), this film is remarkably different in its direction and vision. The aforementioned Brad Bird makes his live-action debut after stamping his fingerprints all over three animated classics (The Iron Giant, The Incredibles, Ratatouille). And much like his previous work, there is an unrivaled poetry in the action sequences: foot chases amid a sunset-inducing sandstorm and fist fights through car escalators mark two scenes where our heart pounds while smiles on our faces. For most of Ghost Protocol, I honestly felt like I was watching an animated film. Its colors are stark and vibrant, a breathtaking visual masterpiece (and even more so in IMAX).
The plot itself is a messy, implausible one. Ethan Hunt (Cruise) is brought out of a Russian prison to intercept nuclear codes that has predictably wound up in the wrong hands. But after a bombing at the Kremlin, the U.S. is forced to disavow the IMF and place the blame on Hunt’s team. Now running rogue and without backup, they embark on clearing their name and finishing their mission. How does a team of four caricatures (badass leader, vengeful woman, computer geek, wild card) break into the Kremlin, scale the walls of the Burj Khalifa, and stop a nuclear war? If you’re asking these questions, you’re watching the wrong movie. A more accurate portrayal of secret intelligence is the splendid Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy released earlier this month. Suspense in Ghost Protocol is not built through revealing conversations in a gray room; they’re built in a car chase in the streets of Mumbai. Plot twists are not told through subtle hints in the screenplay; they’re given through a closeup of masks being taken off. Ghost Protocol doesn’t try to be anything than what it is — something ridiculous, something absurd, something preposterous. But their trump card? It’s always something fun.
It’s only when Ghost Protocol takes a breather from its chartered path of stunts and explosions and comic relief that it begins to falter. It suffers when it becomes uneven in its pace and tone, when Hunt’s team is locked in a room to discuss their backstories and their next move. The character payoff is disappointing all across the board, and we’re screaming for them to get back into the now. Fortunately, these moments don’t last for long and Hunt is back in the present mission, and we’re back to munching on our popcorn and gasping when our stars makes a near-death leap to save the world. Mission Impossible:Ghost Protocol is what summer and holiday blockbusters are supposed to be. And for that, I approve.
War Horse looks like an Oscar movie and it sounds like an Oscar movie. But for all the dazzling cinematographic sweeps of Europe’s rolling hills and the familiarity of John Williams’ epic score, do not be fooled. While the concept is promising and its execution garners respect, the new Steven Spielberg film falls flat into mediocrity.
Based on the children’s novel and stage play of the same name, War Horse chronicles the unexpectedly adventurous journey of a horse named Joey during World War I. It may be told through the eyes of a colt, but it is ultimately a narrative Hollywood knows by heart. Joey is introduced as an untamed underdog, acting both as a punchline for the townspeople and an object of affection for the young boy who raises him. But when Joey is sold to the calvary, their love story is torn apart, set for an uncertain future with lingering hopes that they would meet again.
For anyone who has ever had a pet, War Horse will hit home and undoubtedly cause a symphony of sniffles when it opens Christmas Day. Spielberg is manipulative in the most obvious of ways, using his whole playbook of thumping music, picturesque scenery, and horses that eskimo kiss just to elicit rehearsed reactions from his audiences. You may grab your tissues, say “aw” when Spielberg prompts you to say “aw”, and not care one iota for its predictable (and by extension, condescending) nature. But for the rest of us, we will logically resist the sentimental tugs. Blame it on the lackluster first act or suspect acting, but I find no reason to remain emotionally attached to our protagonist (outside of it being, you know, an adorable horse). Once we sift through the tedious start, War Horse begins to pick up its pace and settle into a more compelling tone before culminating into an annoyingly convenient end.
Sure, War Horse has plenty of redeeming factors. In many ways, this was Spielberg’s best work since Minority Report, though that’s not saying a lot. He has a remarkable vision for shooting a war on the frontlines and has accomplished an impressive feat in centering his story around a live-action mammal. There are few other directors who can explore the grandeur of a setting while focusing on a singular, specific emotion. That being said…so what? So what if I witness a film’s grandiosity and imagination if I cannot drown in it. I remembered sweating with Corporal Timothy Upham (Saving Private Ryan), running scared with the Murphy siblings (Jurassic Park), and enduring the weight of responsibility with Oskar Schindler (Schindler’s List). But in War Horse, I always felt at arms length apart, with Spielberg and its British actors and even the horses screaming at me “Hey, you! Care!” But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not sure many could either.
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is arguably the most well-made, well-produced film of the year. The writing is masterful, packing in what was previously a multi-part miniseries into a sleek two hour feature. The acting (Gary Oldman in particular) is nearly flawless and my personal pick for Best Ensemble Cast of the year. Director Tomas Alfredson recreates the world of London espionage set against the Cold War with realistic ease. Tinker Tailor is smart, smooth, and different from the usually loud Hollywood flare. But with two men snoring beside me, I’ll admit it’s not for everyone. Heck, I’m not even sure it’s for me.
Based on John le Carre’s novel of the same name, Tinker Tailor tells the story of George Smiley (Oldman) who comes out of retirement to search for a Soviet double-agent atop MI6, the British secret service. For the casual moviegoer, it’s Jason Bourne with more intrigue, but without the action — a two-hour whodunit based on interview revelations. Not surprisingly, the film gets really confusing though not the fault of its creators. The story itself is more properly made for a miniseries (which it was). And while it was an enormous feat for the writers to compact the narrative, I’m not sure it was necessary. If you’re a fan of the original series or spy stories, this is beyond your cup of tea. Tinker Tailor may be your Citizen Kane. But for the rest of us, there’s a lot of Huhs at best and snores at worst.
It’s a film I completely respect and liked very much. And while it was a film I wanted to love, it unfortunately was not. I wish it was spread out more. I wish the film was a little more accessible. I wish the casting decisions didn’t make the plot twist so predictable. But these are not factors that go against the masterful tone, beautiful script, and impressive acting that pegs Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy as one of the year’s finest.
We Need to Talk About Kevin opens with a blurry aerial view of a splattering of red. In its ambiguity, Eva (Tilda Swinton) emerges in what is Tomatina — a large tomato fight festival in the small European town of Buñol. Eva is euphoric, alone and free of responsibility, living in a state of unabashed independence. And it would provide one of film’s few haunting moments of Eva’s joy.
Based on Lionel Shriver’s novel, the film tells a story of a woman who never wanted to become a mother. When Eva gives birth to Kevin, nothing changes. She performed her motherly duties without complaint, but her maternal instincts always felt unnatural. And Kevin, even at a young age, knew that. The mutual lack of love for one another ultimately lead to something more terrifying. It’s a nightmare on two different levels, and Eva is the only one that must deal with the consequences.
The back-and-forth tragic narrative is reminiscent of Blue Valentine, except there are no glimpses of hope and happiness in Kevin. It’s a sliding, messy downhill slope towards mass murder with few opportunities for redemption. Director Lynne Ramsay puts our protagonist straight in the crosshairs of the town’s parents and the audience. And we must face the controversial and possibly irrelevant question human nature asks: Who is to blame? The answer will be argued inside and outside of the theaters, but Ramsay poses the question in a masterfully emotional way.
Ultimately, the film’s success lay at the work of Swinton. Already an Oscar winner, Swinton deserves her second nomination and dare I say it, a win. Spread throughout varying timelines, Swinton actually plays several characters that neither deserve sympathy or respect from the audience. But her portrayal is so authentic and raw, soft and painful that we give it to her. At the end of the day, we’re left talking about one name: Tilda.
Tom Hansen was described in 500 Days of Summer as the guy whose belief in true love stemmed from a total misreading of The Graduate. Mavis Gray (Charlize Theron) in Young Adult is the female version of Tom. Except director Jason Retiman and writer Diablo Cody added two spoonfuls of bitch.
Soon after a messy divorce and stalling book sales, Mavis believes the solution to her problems lies in finding true love, specifically in her high school sweetheart, Buddy Slade (Patrick Wilson). There’s only one problem: Buddy has a wife and a newborn baby. But that doesn’t stop Mavis, and why should it? Raised on a “take-what-you-want” mentality, Mavis has evolved into a terrible person. She questions a volunteer’s motivation, she calls young children “it”, and she refuses to pay for a pet deposit. What’s a little adultery. Like the young adult demographic she writes for, Mavis’ world revolves around her own happiness — a mode of regressive thinking that left her shattered and lonely.
Mavis is, of course, someone familiar to all of us — the grown-up “mean girl” who we mutually loathed and admired. And it’s in this relationship, the town’s love-hate response to Mavis that leaves her in a vicious cycle of self-destructive behavior. In her battle for Buddy’s heart, Mavis inadvertently befriends old-classmate Matt Freehauf (Patton Oswalt). And while he (and others) attempt to steer her in the right direction, their juvenile admiration for Mavis ultimately thwarts their attempt to raise a child. So with all her beauty and her talent, Mavis remains who she was — a selfish, navel-gazing adult trapped in her own adolescence.
Theron is flawless in her portrayal of the awful, coldblooded and sour to the point of hilarity. Reitman is decidedly patient in savoring the awkward tension of Mavis in her original habitat. And Cody shows a maturing control over her voice, replacing the pop culture-heavy references with a more personal account. Where the film comes off flat, however, is Mavis never seems to come off human enough. Young Adult had the potential to create one of the most tragic characters in film. But Mavis always seemed like our re-imagining of what a bitch would act like, not the bitch inside us all.
The only character that doesn’t keep us at arms length is Matt. Oswalt gives an honest performance that fully taps into the complicated nature of revisiting past relationships and old demons. In many ways, I left the theater hoping Young Adult wasn’t a cross-section, a character study into the anatomy of a bitch. I left hoping there’d be a spin-off on the anatomy of the more believable Matt FreeHauf.
The Sitter is one of the year’s worst movies and the shame is too many people won’t know it. Do not be fooled by all the early symptoms of a rousing Judd Apatow comedy: heavy cursing, illegal drugs, and a plump Jonah Hill. Take away the fleeting intrigue of the film’s premise, and this Superbad-Pineapple Express hybrid copycat will lack the heart, the laughs, or any sign of a competent script. The only audience this David Gordon Green movie can appease are those juvenile at heart, looking for a cheap laugh at an expensive cost.
The film stars Hill as Noah, a college student who is baited into babysitting the neighbor’s three children: a stern adolescent with an early liking for other boys, a foul-mouthed princess, and an exchange student with Tony Soprano-like tendencies. Can’t you see it? A bunch of studio wigs in Hollywood plotting together these characters like a Family Guy episode. What starts out in a suburban home winds up in New York’s most dangerous pool halls and fanciest nightclubs. Absurdity and hilarity are supposed to ensue. But it didn’t.
For the makers of The Sitter, there is nothing funnier than a fat guy taking care of three naughty kids with stereotypes stronger than a Carlos Mencia standup routine. None of the characters offer any real soul or personality. But the worst part — they’re not funny. Slater (Max Records) is a grown-up version of Max Records in Where the Wild Things Are, except he’s no longer cute. That’s the problem with child actors. Hit puberty, and adorable evolves into annoying. Blithe (Landry Bender) is like Betty White — someone unexpected that cusses up a storm. It’s too bad Bender doesn’t have decades of comedic experience to nail her comedic timing. And Rodrigo (Kevin Hernandez) has the potential to take back racial relations several years.
As for Hill, he admittedly does his best to deliver the few laughs he can with the superficially thin script. But without a suitable supporting cast to develop an engaging mode of chemistry, Noah comes off as an unlikable character who baffles the audience with his decisions (see: take kids on a joyride to find cocaine). In previous Apatow comedies, absurd plot lines are forgiven when there’s enough charm and likability with the main duos — Seth & Evan (Superbad), Peter & Sydney (I Love You, Man), Ben & Alison (Knocked Up). There’s no such tandem here, just a one-man show — a sad, forgettable going-away party for the frighteningly obese version of Mr. Hill.
mrsubjective 