Hairspray is in every way the antithesis of Grease, and the reason is not solely because it’s named after a different hair product.
Randy Kleiser’s 1978 smash Grease is justly remembered primarily for its songs (“Summer Lovin’”, “Greased Lightnin’”, etc), which are infectiously toe-tapping and performed with exuberance. But what makes the film detestable is its plot, which casts a gleefully nostalgic eye over issues that would be considered downright serious to real-life teenagers. Most offensive is the plight of Sandy (Olivia Newton-John), who’s so smitten with cowardly greaser Danny (John Travolta) that she transforms her sweet, moral persona into that of a scantily-clad drag-smoking slut. Only then does Danny openly accept her as his girl. No wonder I wanted to shoot their flying car down with a bazooka. The film couldn’t have sent a worse message to its young audience.
Ten years later, John Waters directed the campy comedy Hairspray, set three years after Grease, and featuring a plump yet plucky protagonist determined to be accepted for who she is. The film was turned into a hit Broadway musical, which is now brought to the big screen by director/choreographer Adam Shankman, the same man responsible for Bringing Down the House (2003), The Pacifier (2005), and Cheaper By the Dozen 2 (2005). There is no reason why this film shouldn’t reek of mediocrity. And yet, the film’s message is so powerful, its music so jubilant, and its performances so wonderful that it actually manages to be the most uplifting cinematic musical of the decade.
Hairspray counters Grease’s conforming anthem “that’s the way it should be” with the giddy proclamation “you can’t stop the beat.” It’s the beat of conviction, of tolerance, of change that rumbles through the town of Baltimore in 1962. While the characters in Grease obsessively plastered their hair with the titular faddish goop, this film’s heroine Tracy Turnblad simply shrugs when her hairdo deflates, while uttering, “it was just a sign of my conformity to the Man.” Hairspray is a celebration of those who dare to preserve their self-identity within a society hell-bent on suppressing it. It’s no mystery why this material attracted the talent of two gay directors (Waters and Shankman).
Homosexuality is not technically dealt with in Hairspray, though the character of Tracy’s mother Edna has been traditionally played by a man, thus allowing for a dance involving the male married couple as they sing, “You’re timeless to me.” In this year’s single most stunning bit of casting, John Travolta—the immortal image of masculinity in Grease—plays Edna, not as a drag act, not as a fat joke, but as a real 60’s-era housewife, reportedly modeled after his own mother, in a performance as remarkably grounded and touching as it is uproariously funny. His dance with husband Wilbur (the incomparable Christopher Walken) is one of the film’s several melodic tour-de-forces—it manages to be hilarious, poignant, and genuinely moving all at once.
Though Hairspray is enormously fun entertainment—thankfully not taking itself a fraction as seriously as last year’s self-important Dreamgirls—it’s themes of racism, segregation, and prejudice are treated seriously, without any of Grease’s careless froth. When record shop owner Mouthmouth Maybelle (played by Queen Latifah, matching her Oscar-nominated work in Chicago) sings “I Know Where I’ve Been” during a civil rights march, the moment reverberates with a power that has nothing to do with cuddly nostalgia or cheery escapism.
Unpopular kids like Tracy (newcomer Nikki Blonsky), and her friend Penny (Amanda Bynes) find acceptance with the school’s black population, most of which seems to be concealed within the classroom used for detention. Tracy’s dreams of appearing on a local musical variety show, featuring teen idol Link (played by High School Musical’s teen idol Zac Efron), are thwarted by racist station manager Velma von Tussle (a perfectly wicked Michelle Pfeiffer). The rest of the plot is better experienced than described.
Nothing in Shankman’s career—not even the sole bright spot of A Walk to Remember (2001)—could have prepared audiences for the energy, wit, and exhilaration he delivers here. Casting a teenage unknown in the lead role proves to be a stroke of genius—Blonsky’s wide-eyed excitement is pure and palpable every moment she’s onscreen. The strength of her spirit alone makes the film work, though she’s supported by an impeccable ensemble.
Catching Penny’s innocently lustful gaze is Seaweed J. Stubbs, played by the electrifying Elijah Kelly, who blows fellow hunk Efron out of the water. The sizzling intensity of his portrayal more than justifies Penny’s classic line, “I’ve tasted chocolate and I’m never going back.” Bynes has never been more adorable, while Allison Janney (as Penny’s fiercely conservative mother) has never been funnier. The film is jam-packed with laughs, including jokes that are so small and subtle you could miss them by merely blinking—such as when the eternally straight-faced Janney is seen rigidly reading a book entitled “Laughs and Giggles.”
Sure, Hairspray is broad and over-the-top at times, but that’s the nature of the genre it’s bringing back to life. It’s a throwback to the golden age of musicals, which didn’t feel self-conscious about letting their characters spontaneously break into song. It’s a joyous, uninhibited technique, and it’s great to see back on the big screen, in such a clear-eyed, buoyant, and lovely film. Hairspray is now officially the word.
Rating: ****1/2 (out of *****)
Friday, August 10, 2007
Talk to Me
“Talk to me/so you can see/what’s going on”
-lyrics from Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” (1971)
Ralph Waldo “Petey” Greene Jr. refused to talk about anything other than what was going on. He was one of the few true “men of the people,” who in the mid-to-late 1960’s, revolutionized the radio medium by bringing uncensored issues of race, politics, and prejudice to the airwaves. His wild success as a Washington D.C. disk jockey offered him enough fame to keep him set for life. Yet Greene never desired to be anything other than the voice of a community that needed to be heard.
This briskly entertaining biopic pays tribute to Greene’s courage, while also capturing his humor and charisma. As played by Don Cheadle, one of the nation’s most versatile and engaging actors, Greene comes across as an irrepressible force of nature, whose considerable vulnerabilities only gradually come into view. What drives the film is his growing friendship with WOL-AM program director Dewey Hughes (Chiwetel Ejiofor, every bit Cheadle’s match), the brother of an inmate the ex-convict Greene befriended in prison. Now a free man, Greene literally talks himself onto the air at Hughes’s station.
They’re the perfect odd couple—Greene criticizes Hughes’s “Sidney Poitier”-style cooperation with the Man; Hughes counters by slamming Greene’s recklessness, and devotion to the persona of a black caricature decked out in a “clown suit.” Their partnership at first seems unthinkable, yet as they slowly gain respect for each other, it becomes apparent that either man cannot succeed without the other.
The film’s first half-hour unfolds with giddy excitement, as Greene approaches the microphone for the first time. Yet as the film continues, its pacing seems almost too rushed for its own good, even at a running time of 118 minutes. The film moves at such a delirious pace it practically flies off the screen, and at times threatens to be overly broad (too many emotional encounters devolve into fistfights).
What makes the film resonate are the altogether marvelous performances from the principal duo, as well as Cedric the Entertainer (as “Nighthawk” Bob Terry), Taraji P. Henson (as Greene’s devoted love Vernell Watson), and a wonderful Martin Sheen (who breathes life into the would-be one-note white stereotype of station head E. G. Sonderling). Though Talk to Me falls short of being a great film, it certainly is a terrific one, and director Kasi Lemmons (along with screenwriters Michael Genet and Rick Famuyiwa) succeed in depicting Greene as a complex man whose virtues at times limit his achievements.
In the film’s single best scene, Greene is offered the greatest possible platform to communicate, and he lets the opportunity slip from his grasp. Why? He wanted to talk about reality. The audience just wanted to hear some black jokes.
Rating: **** (out of *****)
-lyrics from Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” (1971)
Ralph Waldo “Petey” Greene Jr. refused to talk about anything other than what was going on. He was one of the few true “men of the people,” who in the mid-to-late 1960’s, revolutionized the radio medium by bringing uncensored issues of race, politics, and prejudice to the airwaves. His wild success as a Washington D.C. disk jockey offered him enough fame to keep him set for life. Yet Greene never desired to be anything other than the voice of a community that needed to be heard.
This briskly entertaining biopic pays tribute to Greene’s courage, while also capturing his humor and charisma. As played by Don Cheadle, one of the nation’s most versatile and engaging actors, Greene comes across as an irrepressible force of nature, whose considerable vulnerabilities only gradually come into view. What drives the film is his growing friendship with WOL-AM program director Dewey Hughes (Chiwetel Ejiofor, every bit Cheadle’s match), the brother of an inmate the ex-convict Greene befriended in prison. Now a free man, Greene literally talks himself onto the air at Hughes’s station.
They’re the perfect odd couple—Greene criticizes Hughes’s “Sidney Poitier”-style cooperation with the Man; Hughes counters by slamming Greene’s recklessness, and devotion to the persona of a black caricature decked out in a “clown suit.” Their partnership at first seems unthinkable, yet as they slowly gain respect for each other, it becomes apparent that either man cannot succeed without the other.
The film’s first half-hour unfolds with giddy excitement, as Greene approaches the microphone for the first time. Yet as the film continues, its pacing seems almost too rushed for its own good, even at a running time of 118 minutes. The film moves at such a delirious pace it practically flies off the screen, and at times threatens to be overly broad (too many emotional encounters devolve into fistfights).
What makes the film resonate are the altogether marvelous performances from the principal duo, as well as Cedric the Entertainer (as “Nighthawk” Bob Terry), Taraji P. Henson (as Greene’s devoted love Vernell Watson), and a wonderful Martin Sheen (who breathes life into the would-be one-note white stereotype of station head E. G. Sonderling). Though Talk to Me falls short of being a great film, it certainly is a terrific one, and director Kasi Lemmons (along with screenwriters Michael Genet and Rick Famuyiwa) succeed in depicting Greene as a complex man whose virtues at times limit his achievements.
In the film’s single best scene, Greene is offered the greatest possible platform to communicate, and he lets the opportunity slip from his grasp. Why? He wanted to talk about reality. The audience just wanted to hear some black jokes.
Rating: **** (out of *****)
Rescue Dawn
A decade ago, Werner Herzog directed the extraordinary documentary Little Dieter Needs to Fly, about U.S. fighter pilot Dieter Dengler, whose plane was shot down minutes into its first mission during the dawn of the Vietnam War. Dengler crash-landed in Laos, and was quickly captured. At the prison camp, he befriended a small group of POWs, with whom he planned a daring escape attempt.
It’s a survival story for the ages, and an ideal one for Herzog to tell. His films have always centered on men struggling to survive under extreme conditions, with insanity and death always looming overhead. Dengler is among the few Herzog protagonists who managed to survive, and though his story is ultimately inspiring, the uncensored detail of his suffering (as well as that of his fellow prisoners) is what continues to haunt viewers long after the credits roll.
Now Herzog presents Dengler’s story in narrative form, with Christian Bale capturing the man’s optimistic spirit, if not his essence. This is not at all the fault of Bale, whose unwavering dedication to the role caused him to drop a dramatic amount of weight (similar to his even more jaw-dropping transformation in The Machinist). Bale acts the hell out of the role, but the script never quite manages to get inside his head.
I’ve always felt Herzog’s filmic artistry worked stronger in the documentary format rather than the narrative. That is not to say Herzog is better at nonfiction. He willingly admits that his documentaries are full of fabrications—often used to heighten the film’s dramatic impact. Some of the most unforgettable elements in Little Dieter (his paranoid habits, his repeated encounter with a hungry bear) were entirely fictional, yet allowed the audience to truly delve into the emotional (if not literal) reality of Dieter’s experience.
The psychological complexity conveyed so well in his documentaries often vanish from view in his narrative work. For all the jaw-dropping scope of Herzog’s revered Aguirre: The Wrath of God (1972), its characters always seemed to emerge as hollow caricatures. Similarly in Rescue Dawn, the action has a gripping reality, while Dieter remains a two-dimensional curiosity. His stubborn patriotism and almost cheerfully simplistic mindset can only carry the audience so far before they start wondering what’s under the façade. Though Herzog wisely refuses to politicize the story, his seeming indifference toward Dieter’s childish philosophy runs the risk of being flat-out maddening.
Yet as a pure suspense picture, Rescue Dawn is riveting from beginning to end. Dieter’s plan for escape is followed with nearly as much detail as in the documentary, and it’s still fascinating. Herzog effectively reuses period footage of war carnage and an amusingly cheesy military training film, both also included in the documentary. What makes Rescue Dawn truly worthwhile is its uncompromisingly stark atmosphere, utilizing de-saturated cinematography and impeccable locations to make the audience feel the prisoner’s own claustrophobic confinement.
The ensemble cast of fellow POWs is uniformly superb, including a horrifically gaunt Jeremy Davies (channeling Dennis Hopper from Apocalypse Now), and an utterly heartbreaking Steve Zahn as Dieter’s most dedicated friend, the ill-fated Duane. Zahn, best known as the goofy comic relief in fluff like That Thing You Do!, steals the film from his more famous co-stars, proving himself to be a remarkable dramatic actor. A mere hopeless glance from his sunken face is enough to draw tears.
Though Herzog nearly botches the ending with an extended, and surprisingly hokey, military celebration, Rescue Dawn is a solidly satisfying adventure yarn from one of the world’s greatest filmmakers.
Rating: **** (out of *****)
It’s a survival story for the ages, and an ideal one for Herzog to tell. His films have always centered on men struggling to survive under extreme conditions, with insanity and death always looming overhead. Dengler is among the few Herzog protagonists who managed to survive, and though his story is ultimately inspiring, the uncensored detail of his suffering (as well as that of his fellow prisoners) is what continues to haunt viewers long after the credits roll.
Now Herzog presents Dengler’s story in narrative form, with Christian Bale capturing the man’s optimistic spirit, if not his essence. This is not at all the fault of Bale, whose unwavering dedication to the role caused him to drop a dramatic amount of weight (similar to his even more jaw-dropping transformation in The Machinist). Bale acts the hell out of the role, but the script never quite manages to get inside his head.
I’ve always felt Herzog’s filmic artistry worked stronger in the documentary format rather than the narrative. That is not to say Herzog is better at nonfiction. He willingly admits that his documentaries are full of fabrications—often used to heighten the film’s dramatic impact. Some of the most unforgettable elements in Little Dieter (his paranoid habits, his repeated encounter with a hungry bear) were entirely fictional, yet allowed the audience to truly delve into the emotional (if not literal) reality of Dieter’s experience.
The psychological complexity conveyed so well in his documentaries often vanish from view in his narrative work. For all the jaw-dropping scope of Herzog’s revered Aguirre: The Wrath of God (1972), its characters always seemed to emerge as hollow caricatures. Similarly in Rescue Dawn, the action has a gripping reality, while Dieter remains a two-dimensional curiosity. His stubborn patriotism and almost cheerfully simplistic mindset can only carry the audience so far before they start wondering what’s under the façade. Though Herzog wisely refuses to politicize the story, his seeming indifference toward Dieter’s childish philosophy runs the risk of being flat-out maddening.
Yet as a pure suspense picture, Rescue Dawn is riveting from beginning to end. Dieter’s plan for escape is followed with nearly as much detail as in the documentary, and it’s still fascinating. Herzog effectively reuses period footage of war carnage and an amusingly cheesy military training film, both also included in the documentary. What makes Rescue Dawn truly worthwhile is its uncompromisingly stark atmosphere, utilizing de-saturated cinematography and impeccable locations to make the audience feel the prisoner’s own claustrophobic confinement.
The ensemble cast of fellow POWs is uniformly superb, including a horrifically gaunt Jeremy Davies (channeling Dennis Hopper from Apocalypse Now), and an utterly heartbreaking Steve Zahn as Dieter’s most dedicated friend, the ill-fated Duane. Zahn, best known as the goofy comic relief in fluff like That Thing You Do!, steals the film from his more famous co-stars, proving himself to be a remarkable dramatic actor. A mere hopeless glance from his sunken face is enough to draw tears.
Though Herzog nearly botches the ending with an extended, and surprisingly hokey, military celebration, Rescue Dawn is a solidly satisfying adventure yarn from one of the world’s greatest filmmakers.
Rating: **** (out of *****)
Transformers
Now that Disney has used one of their ancient theme park rides as the inspiration for their Pirate trilogy (which grossed well over a billion dollars in the US alone), why not use an outdated toy to inspire the next gargantuan summer blockbuster franchise?
Such is the mentality of Michael Bay; the most successful (and self-satisfied) hack in our present American cinema. His sole interest in “getting butts in the seats,” has led him to create films that are visually dazzling yet achingly empty. From hokey action crap like Armageddon and Bad Boys 2, to the offensively cartoon-like Pearl Harbor, Bay has proven himself to be the worst kind of director—one who revels in emphasizing mindless spectacle over character, especially in films like Harbor that truly need to be character-driven. His casual celebration of bull-headed macho Americanism in the face of impending global catastrophe isn’t just stupid…it’s downright despicable.
And yet, with Transformers, Bay has finally found material that is the equal of his style, and in the process exposes himself for what he really is—a boy who simply likes to play with toys, and refuses to grow up. Anyone who grew up in the early 80’s would remember Transformers as the phenomenally popular action figures of the moment. Men love cars as much as boys love robots, and Transformers found a crudely simplistic way of combining both male obsessions: they were alien robots that could transform into cars.
That’s about it, as far as character goes, though there is a whole Pokemon-like plot connected to them, further perpetuated by an animated TV show and film (tragically featuring Orson Welles in his last role). The “plot” is still present in Transformers, though only to the extent the plot is ever present in a Michael Bay film—and for once, that’s a good thing. This is the dumbest, loudest, most unnecessary film of the year, and that’s exactly as it should be. The infectious silliness of the entire production marries perfectly with Bay’s prepubescent preoccupations in such a way that the film feels like it was made by the most creative five-year-old on the block.
Deflating any trace of bloated self-importance from the screen is Shia LaBeouf, the ridiculously charismatic star on the rise, who has always reminded me of a young John Cusack. Here he plays the hero role of horny teenager Sam Witwicky with a comical detachment to rival Bill Murray’s in Ghostbusters. As one Transformer observes, Sam’s pheromones are directed at classmate Mikaela (a nearly immobile Megan Fox), whose midriff is objectified nearly as often as the cars and robots. And wouldn’t ya know it, the car Sam chose to pick up girls with turns out to be a Transformer, and the kids find their lives transforming into absolute chaos.
The film’s first half is actually quite funny as it focuses on LaBeouf’s uneasy friendship with the towering outer-space mechanisms, led by Optimus Prime (whose dialogue doesn’t even try to sound less geeky than it is). It isn’t until the second half that Bay finally caves in to beating the audience numb with dizzying action sequences in which the incredible digitized detail of the robots is often obscured by incoherent fight choreography (there are times when the battling transformers simply look like hunks of scrap metal banging off one another, while writhing and contorting).
This is, in the final analysis, the ultimate Michael Bay film—a shameless orgy of testosterone, best summarized by a scene toward the film’s midsection, when Sam’s drunken mother bursts into her son’s room and asks pointedly, “Are you masturbating?” There is no nice and clean way to put this—Transformers is, in essence, two-and-a-half hours of compulsive masturbation. It’s mindless, relentless, indulgent and mechanical…but it gets you off. Ewww…boys are gross.
Rating: *** (out of *****)
Such is the mentality of Michael Bay; the most successful (and self-satisfied) hack in our present American cinema. His sole interest in “getting butts in the seats,” has led him to create films that are visually dazzling yet achingly empty. From hokey action crap like Armageddon and Bad Boys 2, to the offensively cartoon-like Pearl Harbor, Bay has proven himself to be the worst kind of director—one who revels in emphasizing mindless spectacle over character, especially in films like Harbor that truly need to be character-driven. His casual celebration of bull-headed macho Americanism in the face of impending global catastrophe isn’t just stupid…it’s downright despicable.
And yet, with Transformers, Bay has finally found material that is the equal of his style, and in the process exposes himself for what he really is—a boy who simply likes to play with toys, and refuses to grow up. Anyone who grew up in the early 80’s would remember Transformers as the phenomenally popular action figures of the moment. Men love cars as much as boys love robots, and Transformers found a crudely simplistic way of combining both male obsessions: they were alien robots that could transform into cars.
That’s about it, as far as character goes, though there is a whole Pokemon-like plot connected to them, further perpetuated by an animated TV show and film (tragically featuring Orson Welles in his last role). The “plot” is still present in Transformers, though only to the extent the plot is ever present in a Michael Bay film—and for once, that’s a good thing. This is the dumbest, loudest, most unnecessary film of the year, and that’s exactly as it should be. The infectious silliness of the entire production marries perfectly with Bay’s prepubescent preoccupations in such a way that the film feels like it was made by the most creative five-year-old on the block.
Deflating any trace of bloated self-importance from the screen is Shia LaBeouf, the ridiculously charismatic star on the rise, who has always reminded me of a young John Cusack. Here he plays the hero role of horny teenager Sam Witwicky with a comical detachment to rival Bill Murray’s in Ghostbusters. As one Transformer observes, Sam’s pheromones are directed at classmate Mikaela (a nearly immobile Megan Fox), whose midriff is objectified nearly as often as the cars and robots. And wouldn’t ya know it, the car Sam chose to pick up girls with turns out to be a Transformer, and the kids find their lives transforming into absolute chaos.
The film’s first half is actually quite funny as it focuses on LaBeouf’s uneasy friendship with the towering outer-space mechanisms, led by Optimus Prime (whose dialogue doesn’t even try to sound less geeky than it is). It isn’t until the second half that Bay finally caves in to beating the audience numb with dizzying action sequences in which the incredible digitized detail of the robots is often obscured by incoherent fight choreography (there are times when the battling transformers simply look like hunks of scrap metal banging off one another, while writhing and contorting).
This is, in the final analysis, the ultimate Michael Bay film—a shameless orgy of testosterone, best summarized by a scene toward the film’s midsection, when Sam’s drunken mother bursts into her son’s room and asks pointedly, “Are you masturbating?” There is no nice and clean way to put this—Transformers is, in essence, two-and-a-half hours of compulsive masturbation. It’s mindless, relentless, indulgent and mechanical…but it gets you off. Ewww…boys are gross.
Rating: *** (out of *****)
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Interesting that the longest book of the “Harry Potter” series is the one in which the least amount of action occurs. The fifth novel in J.K. Rowling’s phenomenally popular seven-book series finds its titular hero awash in adolescent angst, unaided by the relentless series of obstacles he’s forced to face. Nearly upstaging the malevolence of the central villain—that reptilian face of illusive evil, Voldemort—is a corrupt government whose tyrannical structure ends up assisting the enemy instead of vanquishing it. There are undeniable political parallels at play here, especially during scenes involving the pompous, short-sighted Ministry of Magic head Cornelius Fudge, whose belated moments of slow-witted discovery may remind some muggles of their current commander-in-chief.
The government is sinisterly brought to Hogwarts in the form of Dolores Umbridge, one of the most reprehensibly self-satisfied characters in literary history. What makes the “Potter” series endure is Rowling’s insistence on allowing her books to mature along with her aging character. Gone is the gentle whimsy of the early adventures (when little Harry’s pure nobleness was enough to burn holes into the faces of his enemies). As Potter grows older, things become a whole lot more complex, with Harry finding unnerving parallels between him and the phantom who wishes to bring about his death. Now, in Order of the Phoenix, Harry’s beloved mentor Sirius informs him that “we have all got both light and dark inside of us. What matters is the power we choose to act on.”
Yes Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber of Secrets were much more magical and fun, yet the later stories reach for something deeper, darker, and ultimately more rewarding. The problem with Phoenix as a film is the fact that its story is inherently anticlimactic. The story is all build-up to an ultimate pay-off that won’t be fulfilled for another two books. This makes the film far less dramatically satisfying than Prisoner of Azkaban (the most cinematic film adaptation) and Goblet of Fire (the most successful). And Phoenix as a book was at times a trial to read—Harry’s own frustration compelled me to sporadically throw the book across the room, which in this case is about the equivalent of throwing a bowling ball.
The film, however, is easily the most briskly watch-able and the most economical (clocking in at the shortest running time of any Potter film). The director David Yates (whose work includes mostly low-budget made-for-TV fare) is the first of the Potter series to effectively utilize montage sequences to condense the action—while allowing breathing space for the more important scenes. If anything, Phoenix moves at the best rhythm of any previous Potter installment, and it’s probably a good thing Yates has been brought back to direct the sixth film (which may emerge as part two of this compelling yet strangely incomplete picture).
Still, several plotlines are left disappointingly underdeveloped—particularly Harry’s first romantic fling with Cho Chang—whose much-hyped kiss is further undermined by actor Daniel Radcliffe’s sexually-charged onstage nudity in last spring’s Equus. Most regrettably, Harry’s relationship with Sirius isn’t allowed nearly enough screen time to give the final act the punch it deserves. And it’s still a shame to see so many wonderful actors used as walk-ons, particularly Emma Thompson, Maggie Smith, and Helena Bonham Carter (at her most deliriously diabolical as Bellatrix Lestrange).
Yet on the other hand, the performances have never been stronger. This is Radcliffe’s finest hour—once and for all proving himself to be a layered, intensely passionate actor equal to the material he’s been given to play. As Harry’s pal Hermione, Emma Watson has always been a pro, and here she captures the exhilaration of a well-mannered student finally discovering the value in breaking the rules. And as Ron—who’s been portrayed as a seemingly one-dimensional dunce with a gaped mouth in previous installments—Rupert Grint has never been better. While Hermione’s line berating Ron for having “the emotional range of a teaspoon,” seems to be a real-life playful jab at Grint’s acting ability, the frog-faced tyke-turned-subdued thespian finally manages to never overplay a note, and handles his scant amount of scenes with gracefulness and sharp humor.
While Michael Gambon’s portrayal of Dumbledore has been accused of being overtly gruff in previous films, his work here is absolutely perfect—proving that even the most angelic figures are allowed to have a rugged humanity. Alan Rickman, a favorite of the series, is nothing short of sensational as the ever-ambiguous Professor Snape—eliciting laughter, fear, and compassion without ever having to raise his voice. There are also some delightful new additions, including newcomer Evanna Lynch as enigmatically dreamy student Luna Lovegood, and Imelda Staunton as Umbridge. Staunton’s performance in Vera Drake proved she’s capable of being as great a performer as anyone, and in the seminal role of Umbridge, she doesn’t disappoint—she’s as icily scary and as hilariously convinced of her own goodness as Louise Fletcher in One Flew Over the Cukoo’s Nest. And George Harris as senior Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt is memorable if only for delivering the film’s best line: “Dumbledore’s got style.”
There’s also some viscerally dazzling action during the film’s fiery showdown, as well as some glorious anarchic mischief (courtesy of the Weasley twins) in the face of Umbridge’s tyranny that is sure to get audiences cheering. Though Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix ultimately functions as a bridge between films, it is worlds more entertaining and rewarding than the various final installments of this summer’s lesser film franchises. Now that’s magic!
Rating: ***1/2 (out of *****)
How the other Potter films match up…
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone ***1/2
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets ****
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban ****1/2
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire ****
The government is sinisterly brought to Hogwarts in the form of Dolores Umbridge, one of the most reprehensibly self-satisfied characters in literary history. What makes the “Potter” series endure is Rowling’s insistence on allowing her books to mature along with her aging character. Gone is the gentle whimsy of the early adventures (when little Harry’s pure nobleness was enough to burn holes into the faces of his enemies). As Potter grows older, things become a whole lot more complex, with Harry finding unnerving parallels between him and the phantom who wishes to bring about his death. Now, in Order of the Phoenix, Harry’s beloved mentor Sirius informs him that “we have all got both light and dark inside of us. What matters is the power we choose to act on.”
Yes Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber of Secrets were much more magical and fun, yet the later stories reach for something deeper, darker, and ultimately more rewarding. The problem with Phoenix as a film is the fact that its story is inherently anticlimactic. The story is all build-up to an ultimate pay-off that won’t be fulfilled for another two books. This makes the film far less dramatically satisfying than Prisoner of Azkaban (the most cinematic film adaptation) and Goblet of Fire (the most successful). And Phoenix as a book was at times a trial to read—Harry’s own frustration compelled me to sporadically throw the book across the room, which in this case is about the equivalent of throwing a bowling ball.
The film, however, is easily the most briskly watch-able and the most economical (clocking in at the shortest running time of any Potter film). The director David Yates (whose work includes mostly low-budget made-for-TV fare) is the first of the Potter series to effectively utilize montage sequences to condense the action—while allowing breathing space for the more important scenes. If anything, Phoenix moves at the best rhythm of any previous Potter installment, and it’s probably a good thing Yates has been brought back to direct the sixth film (which may emerge as part two of this compelling yet strangely incomplete picture).
Still, several plotlines are left disappointingly underdeveloped—particularly Harry’s first romantic fling with Cho Chang—whose much-hyped kiss is further undermined by actor Daniel Radcliffe’s sexually-charged onstage nudity in last spring’s Equus. Most regrettably, Harry’s relationship with Sirius isn’t allowed nearly enough screen time to give the final act the punch it deserves. And it’s still a shame to see so many wonderful actors used as walk-ons, particularly Emma Thompson, Maggie Smith, and Helena Bonham Carter (at her most deliriously diabolical as Bellatrix Lestrange).
Yet on the other hand, the performances have never been stronger. This is Radcliffe’s finest hour—once and for all proving himself to be a layered, intensely passionate actor equal to the material he’s been given to play. As Harry’s pal Hermione, Emma Watson has always been a pro, and here she captures the exhilaration of a well-mannered student finally discovering the value in breaking the rules. And as Ron—who’s been portrayed as a seemingly one-dimensional dunce with a gaped mouth in previous installments—Rupert Grint has never been better. While Hermione’s line berating Ron for having “the emotional range of a teaspoon,” seems to be a real-life playful jab at Grint’s acting ability, the frog-faced tyke-turned-subdued thespian finally manages to never overplay a note, and handles his scant amount of scenes with gracefulness and sharp humor.
While Michael Gambon’s portrayal of Dumbledore has been accused of being overtly gruff in previous films, his work here is absolutely perfect—proving that even the most angelic figures are allowed to have a rugged humanity. Alan Rickman, a favorite of the series, is nothing short of sensational as the ever-ambiguous Professor Snape—eliciting laughter, fear, and compassion without ever having to raise his voice. There are also some delightful new additions, including newcomer Evanna Lynch as enigmatically dreamy student Luna Lovegood, and Imelda Staunton as Umbridge. Staunton’s performance in Vera Drake proved she’s capable of being as great a performer as anyone, and in the seminal role of Umbridge, she doesn’t disappoint—she’s as icily scary and as hilariously convinced of her own goodness as Louise Fletcher in One Flew Over the Cukoo’s Nest. And George Harris as senior Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt is memorable if only for delivering the film’s best line: “Dumbledore’s got style.”
There’s also some viscerally dazzling action during the film’s fiery showdown, as well as some glorious anarchic mischief (courtesy of the Weasley twins) in the face of Umbridge’s tyranny that is sure to get audiences cheering. Though Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix ultimately functions as a bridge between films, it is worlds more entertaining and rewarding than the various final installments of this summer’s lesser film franchises. Now that’s magic!
Rating: ***1/2 (out of *****)
How the other Potter films match up…
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone ***1/2
Chris Columbus’s generic approach is solidly enchanting.
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets ****
Columbus darkens the tone and strengthens character.
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban ****1/2
Alfonso Cuaron’s vision is brilliantly artistic if flawed.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire ****
Mike Newell’s smooth approach is the most cohesive overall.
Ratatouille
After the opening short Lifted—an intergalactic driver’s ed comedy that is sound extraordinaire Gary Rydstrom’s ingeniously funny directorial debut--comes perhaps the most unusual and sophisticated film Pixar has yet released. First of all, I have three words for those detractors who predicted that a rat would be too disgusting a star for a children’s film: get over it! Rats (at least those that are domesticated--and especially animated) are adorable creatures, and make for far more engaging screen characters than the goggle-eyed vehicles of Cars. The film is so conscience of its questionable appeal to American audiences that one character even makes fun of the title (“it sounds like ‘rat-patootey’”).
Written and directed by Brad Bird, whose last film for Pixar was the Oscar-winning The Incredibles, Ratatouille further illustrates the filmmaker’s ambition to delve into more audacious—and decidedly adult-centered—waters. Though only rated G, the film’s content may at times lose small viewers in its overt maturity. Comedian Patton Oswald voices Remy, a rat whose love of gourmet food has labeled him an outcast among his garbage-chewing family. Aided by the (imagined?) ghost of his idol—deceased chef Django (Brian Dennehy), author of “Anyone Can Cook”—Remy sneaks his way into a famous Paris restaurant, and befriends hapless scullery boy Linguini (Lou Romano). Together, they become an unstoppable cooking machine, with the brilliant Remy manipulating Linguini’s arm movements by pulling on his hair ventriloquist-style (this is one of the film’s few annoyingly inexplicable elements).
Yet no bare-bones description of the plot can hint at the glorious texture and razor-sharp wit given to every creature onscreen. The rat’s passion for gourmet ingredients and the cooks’ desire for five-star ratings probably won’t interest young viewers, though they will be tickled by the infectious culinary slapstick, as well as the flat-out delicious animation (an astounding blend of old-school Disney style—circa Lady and the Tramp--and eye-popping photorealism).
However, Bird has admitted that children are not the majority of viewers he’s intending to reach with his films. Indeed the character dynamics and dimensions are so complex that they could easily engage viewers of any age. Not only does he throw in some decidedly edgy one-liners—Linguini says of his dead mother: “she believed in heaven, so she’s covered—afterlife-wise”—but he also injects flawed, messy humanity into the most seemingly clear-cut character relationships. Even the romantic attraction between Linguini and chef Collette (a fiery Janeane Garofalo) unfolds in a way that is delightful in its unpredictability.
Though the film lacks the universally engaging spark of something like Finding Nemo (still Pixar’s best film), Bird uses his film to illustrate a message with the ability to move audiences of any age. Remy’s improbable quest to make his unlikely dream come true mirrors our own desire to accomplish what surrounding critical eyes deem impossible. There’s even a villainous critic in the film, Anton Ego (exquisitely voiced by Peter O’Toole), who at first comes off as a grotesque (albeit hilarious) caricature. Yet the way the film uncovers his own humanity (in a breathtaking moment toward the end) may be the film’s greatest moment of genius. Thus, the film becomes a celebration of art itself, and those who aspire to create it…and in the case of the critic, admire and champion it.
Although I’m not giving Ratatouille the coveted five-star rating, I admire its audacity and champion its message all the same. This uniquely satisfying dish proves that change is nature, and yes, anyone can cook.
Rating: ****1/2 (out of *****)
Written and directed by Brad Bird, whose last film for Pixar was the Oscar-winning The Incredibles, Ratatouille further illustrates the filmmaker’s ambition to delve into more audacious—and decidedly adult-centered—waters. Though only rated G, the film’s content may at times lose small viewers in its overt maturity. Comedian Patton Oswald voices Remy, a rat whose love of gourmet food has labeled him an outcast among his garbage-chewing family. Aided by the (imagined?) ghost of his idol—deceased chef Django (Brian Dennehy), author of “Anyone Can Cook”—Remy sneaks his way into a famous Paris restaurant, and befriends hapless scullery boy Linguini (Lou Romano). Together, they become an unstoppable cooking machine, with the brilliant Remy manipulating Linguini’s arm movements by pulling on his hair ventriloquist-style (this is one of the film’s few annoyingly inexplicable elements).
Yet no bare-bones description of the plot can hint at the glorious texture and razor-sharp wit given to every creature onscreen. The rat’s passion for gourmet ingredients and the cooks’ desire for five-star ratings probably won’t interest young viewers, though they will be tickled by the infectious culinary slapstick, as well as the flat-out delicious animation (an astounding blend of old-school Disney style—circa Lady and the Tramp--and eye-popping photorealism).
However, Bird has admitted that children are not the majority of viewers he’s intending to reach with his films. Indeed the character dynamics and dimensions are so complex that they could easily engage viewers of any age. Not only does he throw in some decidedly edgy one-liners—Linguini says of his dead mother: “she believed in heaven, so she’s covered—afterlife-wise”—but he also injects flawed, messy humanity into the most seemingly clear-cut character relationships. Even the romantic attraction between Linguini and chef Collette (a fiery Janeane Garofalo) unfolds in a way that is delightful in its unpredictability.
Though the film lacks the universally engaging spark of something like Finding Nemo (still Pixar’s best film), Bird uses his film to illustrate a message with the ability to move audiences of any age. Remy’s improbable quest to make his unlikely dream come true mirrors our own desire to accomplish what surrounding critical eyes deem impossible. There’s even a villainous critic in the film, Anton Ego (exquisitely voiced by Peter O’Toole), who at first comes off as a grotesque (albeit hilarious) caricature. Yet the way the film uncovers his own humanity (in a breathtaking moment toward the end) may be the film’s greatest moment of genius. Thus, the film becomes a celebration of art itself, and those who aspire to create it…and in the case of the critic, admire and champion it.
Although I’m not giving Ratatouille the coveted five-star rating, I admire its audacity and champion its message all the same. This uniquely satisfying dish proves that change is nature, and yes, anyone can cook.
Rating: ****1/2 (out of *****)
Evan Almighty
Few mainstream films have ever been more mechanical than Evan Almighty, a comedy in which every line is recycled, every gag is forced, and every story surprise is stupefying in its obviousness. What’s strange is that it stars one of the least mechanical comic actors of the moment. Steve Carell was a “Daily Show” regular when he got his big break sending up Jim Carrey’s rubbery mannerisms in the mediocre Bruce Almighty. In just one scene, Carell was jettisoned to stardom, delivering uproariously funny and refreshingly three-dimensional performances in contemporary comedy classics—The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Little Miss Sunshine—as well as headlining a hit TV sitcom—“The Office.” Unfortunately, God—er, I mean Hollywood—has summoned Carell to meet his movie star destiny—that is leave indie film heaven for a bloated money-making enterprise designed to sell tickets as opposed to deliver real laughs.
Long-time Carrey comedy director Tom Shadyac displays very little faith in his own project, copying nearly shot-for-shot scenes from old tried-and-true hits like Oh God!, The Santa Clause, and even his own (vastly superior) Liar Liar. Shadyac apparently thought audiences wouldn’t notice his utter lack of imagination if he distracted them with lots of animals (the most in film history) and lots of special effects (sending the film’s budget soaring to nearly $200 million…a sum it is doomed never to make back). He casts wonderful comic actors like John Michael Higgins, Wanda Sykes and John Goodman, and gives each of them exactly one note to play until they become quickly insufferable (Sykes’s wisecracks are funny until one realizes that her character’s sole function is to provide nothing but wisecracks).
Everything in the film is so forced that Shadyac even tries to create (as he did in Bruce Almighty) a Carrey-style catchphrase (a la “Alllrighty then!”) designed to “spontaneously” become a household name among audiences. In this case, it’s “The Dance,” a constipated joy-fueled frolic Carell is made to do repeatedly throughout the film, as if the filmmakers are sure it will eventually get a laugh. Every element in the film is delivered like a product on an assembly line, all the way down to the final climactic ark sequence, tailor-made to inspire an Evan Almighty ride at a theme park near you!
Oddly enough, this film is an inferior version of The Astronaut Farmer, a similar family film that tanked earlier this year. They have identical premises—dad is called to build a device that will take him on a profound journey, while his family reluctantly helps, neighbors shoot befuddled stares, and government heads twirl their villainous mustaches. Yes, the message of Astronaut isn’t as noble as that of Almighty (follow your dream as opposed to God’s plan), but it’s ten times more funny, original, and provocative.
What saves Evan Almighty from being an utter disaster is Carell himself. No actor, however miraculous, should be sentenced with a role like this, and he plays his character inconsistencies (he’s a jerk one moment, a family man the next) and embarrassing physical comedy (shaving his nostrils) with a skill and wit that is totally delightful. His performance is so earnest, especially in the late dramatic scenes, that it’s clear he made the film for his kids, and this is one family film that provides passably silly entertainment without falling into the depths of vulgarity and cynicism (take that, Shrek 3!).
Other actors also manage to emerge unscathed, such as “Gilmore Girls’” ever-misused Lauren Graham (who brings a delicate touch to her maddeningly thankless role as Evan’s wife), Morgan Freeman (phoning in George Burns-style cuteness, yet still managing to charm), and the truly hilarious Jonah Hill (the scene-stealing young member of Judd Apatow’s ensemble, whose seemingly improvised riffs as a White House intern provide perhaps the only real laughs in the movie).
These performances, joined with the truly remarkable cast of animals, make this abominable sequel more tolerable than it has any right to be. It may go down as a notorious bomb, yet undiscriminating family audiences will find themselves more or less entertained (or at least the really small kids). And considering Carell’s next project—About a Boy writer Peter Hedges’s Dan in Real Life co-starring Juliette Binoche, Dane Cook, and Dianne Wiest—it’s clear the film gods have bigger and brighter plans for their chosen king of comedy…and it’s not starring in Evan Almighty 2.
Rating: ** (out of *****)
Long-time Carrey comedy director Tom Shadyac displays very little faith in his own project, copying nearly shot-for-shot scenes from old tried-and-true hits like Oh God!, The Santa Clause, and even his own (vastly superior) Liar Liar. Shadyac apparently thought audiences wouldn’t notice his utter lack of imagination if he distracted them with lots of animals (the most in film history) and lots of special effects (sending the film’s budget soaring to nearly $200 million…a sum it is doomed never to make back). He casts wonderful comic actors like John Michael Higgins, Wanda Sykes and John Goodman, and gives each of them exactly one note to play until they become quickly insufferable (Sykes’s wisecracks are funny until one realizes that her character’s sole function is to provide nothing but wisecracks).
Everything in the film is so forced that Shadyac even tries to create (as he did in Bruce Almighty) a Carrey-style catchphrase (a la “Alllrighty then!”) designed to “spontaneously” become a household name among audiences. In this case, it’s “The Dance,” a constipated joy-fueled frolic Carell is made to do repeatedly throughout the film, as if the filmmakers are sure it will eventually get a laugh. Every element in the film is delivered like a product on an assembly line, all the way down to the final climactic ark sequence, tailor-made to inspire an Evan Almighty ride at a theme park near you!
Oddly enough, this film is an inferior version of The Astronaut Farmer, a similar family film that tanked earlier this year. They have identical premises—dad is called to build a device that will take him on a profound journey, while his family reluctantly helps, neighbors shoot befuddled stares, and government heads twirl their villainous mustaches. Yes, the message of Astronaut isn’t as noble as that of Almighty (follow your dream as opposed to God’s plan), but it’s ten times more funny, original, and provocative.
What saves Evan Almighty from being an utter disaster is Carell himself. No actor, however miraculous, should be sentenced with a role like this, and he plays his character inconsistencies (he’s a jerk one moment, a family man the next) and embarrassing physical comedy (shaving his nostrils) with a skill and wit that is totally delightful. His performance is so earnest, especially in the late dramatic scenes, that it’s clear he made the film for his kids, and this is one family film that provides passably silly entertainment without falling into the depths of vulgarity and cynicism (take that, Shrek 3!).
Other actors also manage to emerge unscathed, such as “Gilmore Girls’” ever-misused Lauren Graham (who brings a delicate touch to her maddeningly thankless role as Evan’s wife), Morgan Freeman (phoning in George Burns-style cuteness, yet still managing to charm), and the truly hilarious Jonah Hill (the scene-stealing young member of Judd Apatow’s ensemble, whose seemingly improvised riffs as a White House intern provide perhaps the only real laughs in the movie).
These performances, joined with the truly remarkable cast of animals, make this abominable sequel more tolerable than it has any right to be. It may go down as a notorious bomb, yet undiscriminating family audiences will find themselves more or less entertained (or at least the really small kids). And considering Carell’s next project—About a Boy writer Peter Hedges’s Dan in Real Life co-starring Juliette Binoche, Dane Cook, and Dianne Wiest—it’s clear the film gods have bigger and brighter plans for their chosen king of comedy…and it’s not starring in Evan Almighty 2.
Rating: ** (out of *****)
Ocean's Thirteen
The key moment in Ocean’s Thirteen occurs when Danny Ocean, the head of a suave robbery crew, finds himself tearing up while watching an episode of “Oprah.” At first his pal Rusty mocks him, until he too joins watching the legendary talk-show host giving a downtrodden woman a luxury house. The macho friends each become misty-eyed, and the scene ends up later culminating in the film’s best gag. Yet it also illustrates the seemingly true feelings of both celebrities.
Danny is played by George Clooney, who has donated the money raised from screenings of this film to fundraisers for Darfur. Rusty is played by Brad Pitt, who has adopted several kids from different poverty-stricken areas of the world--his partner Angelina Jolie has even tattooed her children’s locations of origin on her arm. Both men also happen to be close friends of Oprah. All of this would seem irrelevant if the film were about anything other than the celebrities onscreen. Alas, it is not. Clooney even blatantly winks at Pitt’s fatherhood, quipping, “You should really settle down; have a couple kids.”
More to the point, these actors are much closer to their paper-thin characters as one would think. While Danny’s crew morphs into modern-day Robin Hoods, stealing from corrupt casino owner Willy Bank (who screwed over one of the 13), and granting average Joes a taste of the good life, Clooney’s crew is snagging money away from unassuming American moviegoers (who are under the false impression they are seeing an actual film), and graciously giving segments of the film’s profit to the poorer nations of the world. It’s all a funny scam, and the joke is on us.
That’s not to say the film isn’t pleasantly diverting, with Steven Soderbergh’s stylish 70’s style direction, vibrantly colorful cinematography, and a top-notch cast as self-satisfied as they are underutilized. It’s rather off-putting watching great actors work together and forced to do next to nothing, such as ever-befuddled Eddie Jamison (who was so charming as Adrienne Shelly’s boyfriend in Waitress), sexy tough girl Ellen Barkin, and the great Al Pacino (whose fiercely brooding presence is a marvelous delight in and of itself).
The film succeeds on the most basic possible level—it allows the cool, likable cast to act cool and likable, while providing them with a ridiculously complicated plot that intermittently generates amusement and interest. Yet while Thirteen is certainly better than the notorious dead zone of Twelve, it doesn’t hold a candle to the original, terrific Ocean’s Eleven, which actually managed to create palpable tension that led to a glorious final twist.
The utter lack of suspense or surprise in Thirteen makes it somewhat of a bore, albeit a watch-able one. Soderbergh’s work here is even worse than the most self-absorbed, star-studded films of the equally talented Wes Anderson—who at least bothers to center his films on uniquely intriguing characters. Thirteen can only coast on its stars one-note personas, and that can only take it so far. There’s more to chemistry than simply acting cute and finishing each other’s sentences, as this ensemble does repeatedly, with little entertainment value.
It’s like Soderbergh assembled some of the greatest chefs in the world, and asked them to cook up a cream-cheese bagel. Might be a tasty bagel, but only as tasty as a bagel can be. And does he really expect the summer’s salivating moviegoers to actually be grateful for such a cheap dish? At the very least, Ocean’s Thirteen isn’t bloated with self-importance like this season’s exhaustive string of third-part franchise cappers from Spiderman, Shrek, and all those insufferable Pirates. Yet in a way, the cast and crew’s indifference in these comic capers has become equally insufferable. If no one on the screen cares about being there, why should we care about watching them?
I admire everyone involved in these films, from the great talents of the present—Don Cheadle and Matt Damon (whose false nose appears to have been ripped off Nicole Kidman in The Hours)—to the seasoned veterans of the past—Elliot Gould and Carl Reiner. It admittedly is a pleasure to simply watch them all interact, yet in the future, I suggest that if Clooney’s crew truly want to swindle America’s heart (and cash), they have to actually try to make a film worth watching. Anyone’s friends could put together an equally funny heist picture—minus the multi-million dollar budget. That’s a crime even Danny Ocean would wince at.
Rating: **1/2 (out of *****)
Danny is played by George Clooney, who has donated the money raised from screenings of this film to fundraisers for Darfur. Rusty is played by Brad Pitt, who has adopted several kids from different poverty-stricken areas of the world--his partner Angelina Jolie has even tattooed her children’s locations of origin on her arm. Both men also happen to be close friends of Oprah. All of this would seem irrelevant if the film were about anything other than the celebrities onscreen. Alas, it is not. Clooney even blatantly winks at Pitt’s fatherhood, quipping, “You should really settle down; have a couple kids.”
More to the point, these actors are much closer to their paper-thin characters as one would think. While Danny’s crew morphs into modern-day Robin Hoods, stealing from corrupt casino owner Willy Bank (who screwed over one of the 13), and granting average Joes a taste of the good life, Clooney’s crew is snagging money away from unassuming American moviegoers (who are under the false impression they are seeing an actual film), and graciously giving segments of the film’s profit to the poorer nations of the world. It’s all a funny scam, and the joke is on us.
That’s not to say the film isn’t pleasantly diverting, with Steven Soderbergh’s stylish 70’s style direction, vibrantly colorful cinematography, and a top-notch cast as self-satisfied as they are underutilized. It’s rather off-putting watching great actors work together and forced to do next to nothing, such as ever-befuddled Eddie Jamison (who was so charming as Adrienne Shelly’s boyfriend in Waitress), sexy tough girl Ellen Barkin, and the great Al Pacino (whose fiercely brooding presence is a marvelous delight in and of itself).
The film succeeds on the most basic possible level—it allows the cool, likable cast to act cool and likable, while providing them with a ridiculously complicated plot that intermittently generates amusement and interest. Yet while Thirteen is certainly better than the notorious dead zone of Twelve, it doesn’t hold a candle to the original, terrific Ocean’s Eleven, which actually managed to create palpable tension that led to a glorious final twist.
The utter lack of suspense or surprise in Thirteen makes it somewhat of a bore, albeit a watch-able one. Soderbergh’s work here is even worse than the most self-absorbed, star-studded films of the equally talented Wes Anderson—who at least bothers to center his films on uniquely intriguing characters. Thirteen can only coast on its stars one-note personas, and that can only take it so far. There’s more to chemistry than simply acting cute and finishing each other’s sentences, as this ensemble does repeatedly, with little entertainment value.
It’s like Soderbergh assembled some of the greatest chefs in the world, and asked them to cook up a cream-cheese bagel. Might be a tasty bagel, but only as tasty as a bagel can be. And does he really expect the summer’s salivating moviegoers to actually be grateful for such a cheap dish? At the very least, Ocean’s Thirteen isn’t bloated with self-importance like this season’s exhaustive string of third-part franchise cappers from Spiderman, Shrek, and all those insufferable Pirates. Yet in a way, the cast and crew’s indifference in these comic capers has become equally insufferable. If no one on the screen cares about being there, why should we care about watching them?
I admire everyone involved in these films, from the great talents of the present—Don Cheadle and Matt Damon (whose false nose appears to have been ripped off Nicole Kidman in The Hours)—to the seasoned veterans of the past—Elliot Gould and Carl Reiner. It admittedly is a pleasure to simply watch them all interact, yet in the future, I suggest that if Clooney’s crew truly want to swindle America’s heart (and cash), they have to actually try to make a film worth watching. Anyone’s friends could put together an equally funny heist picture—minus the multi-million dollar budget. That’s a crime even Danny Ocean would wince at.
Rating: **1/2 (out of *****)
Knocked Up
With his much-beloved, cancelled TV show “Freaks and Geeks,” 2005’s surprise box office smash The 40-Year-Old Virgin, and now this near-masterpiece of mainstream comedy, writer/producer/director Judd Apatow has created a small phenomenon in American filmmaking. Working within a system that only cares about opening weekend returns and profitable formulas, Apatow seduces the target demographic of teens and young adults with a title and formula that promises nothing more than mindless raunchy hi-jinks. Yet his actual films are less about gags than about human characters, and Apatow succeeds in uncovering the humanity within the most seemingly two-dimensional comic caricature.
Every person in an Apatow film is flawed, yet no apologies are made for them, and they are instead observed with a wealth of compassion and insight. The fact that his films are also funny as hell is a credit to the exceptional cast he assembles, whose seemingly spontaneous interactions generate the film’s most uproarious moments. There’s also a genuine heart lying beneath each of Apatow’s films, suggesting less of a built-in moral code than simple human decency. That is what makes his comedies so refreshing, and in the end, uplifting.
Take Knocked Up, for example. Its posters supply a massive close-up of its star, burly 25-year-old Seth Rogan, beneath the tagline, “What if this guy got you pregnant?” This is tailor-made to make the film’s target audience laugh and recoil at once. When they go to see the film, they may undoubtedly find themselves surprised at just how much they end up caring about the people onscreen.
Rogan (who stole scenes in much of Apatow’s previous work) is endearingly raw as Ben, a geeky yet good-hearted slacker who journeys with his clueless buddies to a bar one night, and becomes smitten with beautiful career-girl Alison (the delightful Katherine Heigel from “Grey’s Anatomy”). They hit it off famously, and in drunken ecstasy, decide to have sex. The next morning, they wake up regretting their impulsiveness, and quickly part ways.
But eight weeks later, Alison finds herself pregnant, and Ben finds himself faced with newfound responsibility. They decide to commit to each other, and give their relationship a real shot, as Alison prepares to go through with the pregnancy. They’re supported by Alison’s friend Debbie (played wonderfully by Apatow’s wife Leslie Mann), whose marriage to husband Pete (the ever-hilarious Paul Rudd) has hit a rocky patch. Some of the film’s best moments center on their family life with two girls (played by Apatow and Mann’s own girls, the adorable Iris and Maude Apatow).
The film is rather brilliant in how it dissects the lives of its characters with such scathing humor and blisteringly accurate details, while finding their inherent humanity to be quite moving. The sole flaw in Apatow’s technique is also his greatest strength—the fact that most of his comic set-pieces seem to be built largely around improvisation in order to create the hilarity of human spontaneity. While this leads to the film’s best moments, it also allows some scenes to drag on longer than they need to be, and through slightly tighter editing, this film could’ve easily been twenty minutes shorter than it is now. That being said, the film is so funny, so real, and so extraordinary that I can’t think of any other film now in theaters I’d rather see run on too long.
Knocked Up is a gift from cinematic heaven, and here’s hoping it will lead to a revolution in mainstream American filmmaking—where audiences and studio execs alike will be tricked into endorsing quality entertainment, and then end up loving it. Who knows? Maybe Apatow has started to find a cure for our national arrested development.
Rating: ****1/2 (out of *****)
Every person in an Apatow film is flawed, yet no apologies are made for them, and they are instead observed with a wealth of compassion and insight. The fact that his films are also funny as hell is a credit to the exceptional cast he assembles, whose seemingly spontaneous interactions generate the film’s most uproarious moments. There’s also a genuine heart lying beneath each of Apatow’s films, suggesting less of a built-in moral code than simple human decency. That is what makes his comedies so refreshing, and in the end, uplifting.
Take Knocked Up, for example. Its posters supply a massive close-up of its star, burly 25-year-old Seth Rogan, beneath the tagline, “What if this guy got you pregnant?” This is tailor-made to make the film’s target audience laugh and recoil at once. When they go to see the film, they may undoubtedly find themselves surprised at just how much they end up caring about the people onscreen.
Rogan (who stole scenes in much of Apatow’s previous work) is endearingly raw as Ben, a geeky yet good-hearted slacker who journeys with his clueless buddies to a bar one night, and becomes smitten with beautiful career-girl Alison (the delightful Katherine Heigel from “Grey’s Anatomy”). They hit it off famously, and in drunken ecstasy, decide to have sex. The next morning, they wake up regretting their impulsiveness, and quickly part ways.
But eight weeks later, Alison finds herself pregnant, and Ben finds himself faced with newfound responsibility. They decide to commit to each other, and give their relationship a real shot, as Alison prepares to go through with the pregnancy. They’re supported by Alison’s friend Debbie (played wonderfully by Apatow’s wife Leslie Mann), whose marriage to husband Pete (the ever-hilarious Paul Rudd) has hit a rocky patch. Some of the film’s best moments center on their family life with two girls (played by Apatow and Mann’s own girls, the adorable Iris and Maude Apatow).
The film is rather brilliant in how it dissects the lives of its characters with such scathing humor and blisteringly accurate details, while finding their inherent humanity to be quite moving. The sole flaw in Apatow’s technique is also his greatest strength—the fact that most of his comic set-pieces seem to be built largely around improvisation in order to create the hilarity of human spontaneity. While this leads to the film’s best moments, it also allows some scenes to drag on longer than they need to be, and through slightly tighter editing, this film could’ve easily been twenty minutes shorter than it is now. That being said, the film is so funny, so real, and so extraordinary that I can’t think of any other film now in theaters I’d rather see run on too long.
Knocked Up is a gift from cinematic heaven, and here’s hoping it will lead to a revolution in mainstream American filmmaking—where audiences and studio execs alike will be tricked into endorsing quality entertainment, and then end up loving it. Who knows? Maybe Apatow has started to find a cure for our national arrested development.
Rating: ****1/2 (out of *****)
Paris, Je T'aime
This collection of eighteen short subjects, each filmed in the city of love, offers moviegoers the unique experience of a miniature Cannes Film Festival. While conveying the atmosphere of France, these shorts allow audiences to view the same town from the different cultural perspectives of eighteen directors who are celebrated worldwide (or at least at Cannes—where this film premiered in 2006).
While Paris, Je T’aime is billed as a giddy romance, many of its segments are more emotionally complex than that. Nobuhiro Suwa’s Place des Victoires offers a heartbreaking performance from Juliette Binoche as a mother grieving the loss of her son. In Loin du 16eme, co-director Walter Salles (whose short film stole the show in To Each His Own Cinema) simply observes Catalina Sandino Moreno gently singing lullabies to newborn babies. Gus Van Sant’s deceptively simple Le Marais depicts a chance encounter that builds to a delightful twist.
Some films, such as Isabel Coixet’s enchanting Bastille and Tom Tykwer’s breathtaking Faubourg Saint-Denis, successfully summarize entire relationships within the span of their brief running time. Others reflect affectionately on the nostalgia of past relationships, as in Richard LaGravenese’s amusing Pigalle, and co-director Gerard Depardieu’s Quartier Latin, which arranges the glorious onscreen reunion of Ben Gazzara and Gena Rowlands. In one brilliant shot, Alfonso Cuaron’s Parc Monceau beautifully paints the relationship between a father and daughter.
Following up Vincenzo Natali’s morbidly dazzling Quartier de la Madeleine (in which Elijah Wood falls for a ghostly vampire), Wes Craven surprises his horror fans by offering one of the film’s few pure romantic comedies (Pere-Lachaise)—set in a graveyard no less. Bend it Like Beckham director Gurinder Chadha once again follows an Indian girl finding love in Quais de Seine, a lovely work despite its obvious conventionality.
Some segments fail to work on any level, such as master cinematographer Christopher Doyle’s awkwardly bizarre Porte de Choisy. After directing one of the low-points of this year’s Cannes Festival (the atrocious Boarding Gate), Olivier Assayas delivers another dud with the hopelessly dull Quartier des Enfants Rouges, wasting the talent of star Maggie Gyllenhaal, while further displaying his obsession with the aimless lives of drug addicts. And there isn’t really anything wrong with Bruno Podalydes’s opener Montmarte, except that it’s instantly forgettable.
On the flip side, Oliver Schmitz’s Place des Fetes memorably depicts how a romantic chance encounter leads to a tragic downward spiral. And what would a film festival about France be without mimes, as Triplets of Belleville director Sylvain Chomet’s Tour Eiffel so hilariously proves? Even funnier is Joel and Ethan Coen’s Tuileries, with Steve Buscemi wordlessly portraying a disgruntled tourist with such sublime physical comedy that he might as well be the first American mime.
Saving the best for last, this cinematic compilation ends with the deeply moving 14th Arrondissement, in which director Alexander Payne affirms his gift of truly empathizing with his flawed characters, even while tweaking their quirks. As Payne rests his camera on Margo Martindale’s lonely tourist, who narrates in a wildly imperfect French accent, the audience is allowed to share the exhilaration of her newfound enlightenment…the kind one can only get while visiting a foreign country. Using Emmanuel Benbihy’s exterior shots of Paris as transition points, these vignettes often flow into one another effortlessly. And in the final, magical moments, they begin to come together as one. Paris Je T’aime is a wonderful celebration of romance, France, and cinema itself.
Rating: **** (out of *****)
While Paris, Je T’aime is billed as a giddy romance, many of its segments are more emotionally complex than that. Nobuhiro Suwa’s Place des Victoires offers a heartbreaking performance from Juliette Binoche as a mother grieving the loss of her son. In Loin du 16eme, co-director Walter Salles (whose short film stole the show in To Each His Own Cinema) simply observes Catalina Sandino Moreno gently singing lullabies to newborn babies. Gus Van Sant’s deceptively simple Le Marais depicts a chance encounter that builds to a delightful twist.
Some films, such as Isabel Coixet’s enchanting Bastille and Tom Tykwer’s breathtaking Faubourg Saint-Denis, successfully summarize entire relationships within the span of their brief running time. Others reflect affectionately on the nostalgia of past relationships, as in Richard LaGravenese’s amusing Pigalle, and co-director Gerard Depardieu’s Quartier Latin, which arranges the glorious onscreen reunion of Ben Gazzara and Gena Rowlands. In one brilliant shot, Alfonso Cuaron’s Parc Monceau beautifully paints the relationship between a father and daughter.
Following up Vincenzo Natali’s morbidly dazzling Quartier de la Madeleine (in which Elijah Wood falls for a ghostly vampire), Wes Craven surprises his horror fans by offering one of the film’s few pure romantic comedies (Pere-Lachaise)—set in a graveyard no less. Bend it Like Beckham director Gurinder Chadha once again follows an Indian girl finding love in Quais de Seine, a lovely work despite its obvious conventionality.
Some segments fail to work on any level, such as master cinematographer Christopher Doyle’s awkwardly bizarre Porte de Choisy. After directing one of the low-points of this year’s Cannes Festival (the atrocious Boarding Gate), Olivier Assayas delivers another dud with the hopelessly dull Quartier des Enfants Rouges, wasting the talent of star Maggie Gyllenhaal, while further displaying his obsession with the aimless lives of drug addicts. And there isn’t really anything wrong with Bruno Podalydes’s opener Montmarte, except that it’s instantly forgettable.
On the flip side, Oliver Schmitz’s Place des Fetes memorably depicts how a romantic chance encounter leads to a tragic downward spiral. And what would a film festival about France be without mimes, as Triplets of Belleville director Sylvain Chomet’s Tour Eiffel so hilariously proves? Even funnier is Joel and Ethan Coen’s Tuileries, with Steve Buscemi wordlessly portraying a disgruntled tourist with such sublime physical comedy that he might as well be the first American mime.
Saving the best for last, this cinematic compilation ends with the deeply moving 14th Arrondissement, in which director Alexander Payne affirms his gift of truly empathizing with his flawed characters, even while tweaking their quirks. As Payne rests his camera on Margo Martindale’s lonely tourist, who narrates in a wildly imperfect French accent, the audience is allowed to share the exhilaration of her newfound enlightenment…the kind one can only get while visiting a foreign country. Using Emmanuel Benbihy’s exterior shots of Paris as transition points, these vignettes often flow into one another effortlessly. And in the final, magical moments, they begin to come together as one. Paris Je T’aime is a wonderful celebration of romance, France, and cinema itself.
Rating: **** (out of *****)
Waitress
Writer/director Adrienne Shelly was murdered shortly after completing this romantic comedy. She has left behind a small, impeccable gem of indie filmmaking that works on the viewer like a sumptuous pie: it sweetens the heart while enriching the soul. Behind all the folksy quirks and playful laughter is a real story about flawed human beings that is more complex and unpredictable than one might expect.
Keri Russell gives a star-making performance as Jenna, a lonely “pie-genius” waitress who’s married to a childish, self-absorbed husband (Jeremy Sisto). He gets Jenna drunk one night, which leads to her becoming pregnant (making this the second refreshing comedy about unwanted pregnancy now in theaters—alongside Knocked Up). She begins having an affair with her charmingly befuddled doctor (a wonderful Nathan Fillion), and her life suddenly becomes awash in unbridled passion, moral dilemma, and peachy-keen tarts.
One of the countless delights of the film is how Jenna spontaneously thinks up pies that hilariously reflect a given moment of her life. Her friends, played by Cheryl Hines and Shelly herself, emerge not merely as comic relief, but as strong-willed individuals themselves. Andy Griffith also shows up, giving a magical performance as the crotchety owner of Jenna’s restaurant. Throughout the film, Shelly makes wise observations about human nature without ever becoming heavy-handed. She plays each note of the film with such a delicate hand that the audience simply becomes enraptured within her symphony of the heart. The film has a more genuine heart than most contemporary films combined, and its final moments are pure perfection. It leaves one feeling well-fed, yet with a craving for seconds.
Rating: ***** (out of *****)
Keri Russell gives a star-making performance as Jenna, a lonely “pie-genius” waitress who’s married to a childish, self-absorbed husband (Jeremy Sisto). He gets Jenna drunk one night, which leads to her becoming pregnant (making this the second refreshing comedy about unwanted pregnancy now in theaters—alongside Knocked Up). She begins having an affair with her charmingly befuddled doctor (a wonderful Nathan Fillion), and her life suddenly becomes awash in unbridled passion, moral dilemma, and peachy-keen tarts.
One of the countless delights of the film is how Jenna spontaneously thinks up pies that hilariously reflect a given moment of her life. Her friends, played by Cheryl Hines and Shelly herself, emerge not merely as comic relief, but as strong-willed individuals themselves. Andy Griffith also shows up, giving a magical performance as the crotchety owner of Jenna’s restaurant. Throughout the film, Shelly makes wise observations about human nature without ever becoming heavy-handed. She plays each note of the film with such a delicate hand that the audience simply becomes enraptured within her symphony of the heart. The film has a more genuine heart than most contemporary films combined, and its final moments are pure perfection. It leaves one feeling well-fed, yet with a craving for seconds.
Rating: ***** (out of *****)
Capsule Reviews from the 2007 Cannes Film Festival
These reviews are in order from best to worst film seen at Cannes:
1.) No Country for Old Men ***** -- After several flat-footed attempts at slapstick farce, Joel and Ethan Coen have reworked elements from their early feature Blood Simple into the ultimate comeback. This adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's novel is the brothers' best work in a decade. Channeling Peter Stormare's sociopath from Fargo, Javier Bardem stars as a killer on the loose who can chill blood just by flashing his bottomless saucer-like eyes. Tommy Lee Jones is the sheriff on Bardem's trail, while the ever-engaging Josh Brolin plays a good-hearted countryman who decides to take matters into his own hands. The impeccable cast moves organically within Roger Deakins' foreboding cinematography, while the Coens' marvelously poetic dialog includes endless quotable lines. Before Brolin leaves to investigate a mysterious crime scene, he has the following memorable exchange with his young wife, beautifully played by Kelly Macdonald:
Brolin: If I don't come back, tell my mom I love her.
Macdonald: But your mom's dead.
Brolin: Well then I guess I'll have to tell her myself.
There's one scene between Bardem and a store owner that is so well-written and acted that it generated applause at Cannes. The Coens' mastery of their craft has turned what could have easily been a routine crime drama into a hypnotically haunting masterpiece that manages to be insanely funny, mind-bogglingly suspenseful and searingly heartbreaking--sometimes all at once. This is an exhilarating return to form for the filmmaking duo, and is easily their best film since Fargo. Many festival-goers were shocked when this film lost the Palme d'Or to 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, Romanian director Cristian Mungiu's stark portrait of a botched abortion.
2.) The Diving Bell and the Butterfly ***** -- Painter-turned-filmmaker Julian Schnabel won the Best Director award at Cannes for this astonishing adaptation of Jean-Dominique Bauby's memoir. After suffering a stroke, magazine editor Bauby found himself paralyzed, with his undamaged mind trapped within a body over which he had little control. The blinking of his left eye was the only mode of communication Bauby was able to utilize. For much of the film, Oscar-winning cinematographer Janusz Kaminski allows the audience to literally look at the world through Bauby's eye, while his internal thoughts are heard in voice-over. Rarely has a film ever allowed audiences to experience the world so thoroughly and intimately through another's skin. This was the most extraordinarily unique moviegoing experience I had at Cannes. With riveting performances from Mathieu Amalric and Max von Sydow, and a true story as uplifting as it is devastating, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a film absolutely not to be missed.
3.) Sicko ***** -- Michael Moore's health care documentary is his best work since Roger and Me and the most humble film he's ever done. Better yet, Moore himself scheduled a special screening for our group of students, followed by a Q&A with him. He's my hero of the fest.
4.) I Served the King of England ****1/2 -- Closely Watched Trains director Jiri Menzel's sublime study of innocence in the face of sexual awakening and political corruption offers exquisite imagery from Menzel's longtime cinematographer Jaromir Sofr.
5.) Never Apologize: A Personal Visit with Lindsay Anderson **** -- A regular visitor at the American Pavilion during this year's festival, Malcolm McDowell is a supremely intelligent and fiercely funny individual who deserves to be remembered as more than "Alex from A Clockwork Orange" or "that guy from Heroes." The iconic actor emerges as a singular force of nature in director Mike Kaplan's impeccably edited recording of McDowell's riveting one-man stage show. For two hours, the charismatic performer pays tribute to his dear friend, the late filmmaker Lindsay Anderson (who directed McDowell in If... and O Lucky Man!). His stories are alternately hilarious, chilling, and ultimately moving
6.) Death Proof **** -- Stripped from the Grindhouse double-feature format, and stuffed with additional scenes, Tarantino's latest work becomes immensely improved (just in time for overseas distribution). Though his subversion of genre cliches and gender depiction comes off more as a brilliant stunt than a cohesive narrative, this version is vastly more entertaining and rewarding than the US release. Look for it on DVD!
7.) Paranoid Park ***1/2 -- More of a floundering mood piece than a focused work of art, this is Gus Van Sant's latest experiment in observational minimalism. Gabe Nevins leads the cast of unknowns as Alex, a young skateboarder who becomes racked with guilt after accidentally causing the death of a security guard. While not as dramatically satisfying as Van Sant's masterful Palme d'Or winner Elephant, this meditation on drifting adolescence offers several moments of abstract brilliance and on-target insight. While garnering less praise than other American films at Cannes, Paranoid Park nevertheless resulted in awarding Van Sant a special prize commemorating the festival's 60th anniversary.
8.) Death at a Funeral ***1/2 -- A game British cast and a darkly zany script highlight director Frank Oz's triumphant, crowd-pleasing return to screwball comedy.
9.) To Each His Own Cinema *** -- Short subjects by Alejandro Gonzalez Innaritu, Walter Salles, Lars Von Trier, and Roman Polanski highlight this hit-or-miss series of films made especially for the festival's 60th anniversary.
10.) Smiley Face *** -- Billed as the first-ever female stoner comedy, this goofy spectacle by Mysterious Skin director Gregg Araki is certainly a step above Dude Where's My Car? It's an ideal vehicle for the airhead shtick of Anna Faris, who proves herself here as a gifted physical comedian. The aimless plot follows Faris through a series of mortifying adventures. She's aided by a terrific ensemble including John Krasinski and Adam Brody, who each give hysterical comic turns. Unfortunately, the final act derails the film entirely, plummeting a potentially first-rate satire into a jumbled drug haze.
11.) The Banishment **1/2 -- Spectacular-looking yet spectacularly dull infidelity drama that wallows in its impending tragedy the way an elephant might wallow in a puddle of tar.
12.) Boarding Gate * -- Watching this uproariously awful thriller in the Lumiere theatre is like watching a William Hung concert at the Albert Hall. Michael Madsen should be ashamed.
1.) No Country for Old Men ***** -- After several flat-footed attempts at slapstick farce, Joel and Ethan Coen have reworked elements from their early feature Blood Simple into the ultimate comeback. This adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's novel is the brothers' best work in a decade. Channeling Peter Stormare's sociopath from Fargo, Javier Bardem stars as a killer on the loose who can chill blood just by flashing his bottomless saucer-like eyes. Tommy Lee Jones is the sheriff on Bardem's trail, while the ever-engaging Josh Brolin plays a good-hearted countryman who decides to take matters into his own hands. The impeccable cast moves organically within Roger Deakins' foreboding cinematography, while the Coens' marvelously poetic dialog includes endless quotable lines. Before Brolin leaves to investigate a mysterious crime scene, he has the following memorable exchange with his young wife, beautifully played by Kelly Macdonald:
Brolin: If I don't come back, tell my mom I love her.
Macdonald: But your mom's dead.
Brolin: Well then I guess I'll have to tell her myself.
There's one scene between Bardem and a store owner that is so well-written and acted that it generated applause at Cannes. The Coens' mastery of their craft has turned what could have easily been a routine crime drama into a hypnotically haunting masterpiece that manages to be insanely funny, mind-bogglingly suspenseful and searingly heartbreaking--sometimes all at once. This is an exhilarating return to form for the filmmaking duo, and is easily their best film since Fargo. Many festival-goers were shocked when this film lost the Palme d'Or to 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, Romanian director Cristian Mungiu's stark portrait of a botched abortion.
2.) The Diving Bell and the Butterfly ***** -- Painter-turned-filmmaker Julian Schnabel won the Best Director award at Cannes for this astonishing adaptation of Jean-Dominique Bauby's memoir. After suffering a stroke, magazine editor Bauby found himself paralyzed, with his undamaged mind trapped within a body over which he had little control. The blinking of his left eye was the only mode of communication Bauby was able to utilize. For much of the film, Oscar-winning cinematographer Janusz Kaminski allows the audience to literally look at the world through Bauby's eye, while his internal thoughts are heard in voice-over. Rarely has a film ever allowed audiences to experience the world so thoroughly and intimately through another's skin. This was the most extraordinarily unique moviegoing experience I had at Cannes. With riveting performances from Mathieu Amalric and Max von Sydow, and a true story as uplifting as it is devastating, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a film absolutely not to be missed.
3.) Sicko ***** -- Michael Moore's health care documentary is his best work since Roger and Me and the most humble film he's ever done. Better yet, Moore himself scheduled a special screening for our group of students, followed by a Q&A with him. He's my hero of the fest.
4.) I Served the King of England ****1/2 -- Closely Watched Trains director Jiri Menzel's sublime study of innocence in the face of sexual awakening and political corruption offers exquisite imagery from Menzel's longtime cinematographer Jaromir Sofr.
5.) Never Apologize: A Personal Visit with Lindsay Anderson **** -- A regular visitor at the American Pavilion during this year's festival, Malcolm McDowell is a supremely intelligent and fiercely funny individual who deserves to be remembered as more than "Alex from A Clockwork Orange" or "that guy from Heroes." The iconic actor emerges as a singular force of nature in director Mike Kaplan's impeccably edited recording of McDowell's riveting one-man stage show. For two hours, the charismatic performer pays tribute to his dear friend, the late filmmaker Lindsay Anderson (who directed McDowell in If... and O Lucky Man!). His stories are alternately hilarious, chilling, and ultimately moving
6.) Death Proof **** -- Stripped from the Grindhouse double-feature format, and stuffed with additional scenes, Tarantino's latest work becomes immensely improved (just in time for overseas distribution). Though his subversion of genre cliches and gender depiction comes off more as a brilliant stunt than a cohesive narrative, this version is vastly more entertaining and rewarding than the US release. Look for it on DVD!
7.) Paranoid Park ***1/2 -- More of a floundering mood piece than a focused work of art, this is Gus Van Sant's latest experiment in observational minimalism. Gabe Nevins leads the cast of unknowns as Alex, a young skateboarder who becomes racked with guilt after accidentally causing the death of a security guard. While not as dramatically satisfying as Van Sant's masterful Palme d'Or winner Elephant, this meditation on drifting adolescence offers several moments of abstract brilliance and on-target insight. While garnering less praise than other American films at Cannes, Paranoid Park nevertheless resulted in awarding Van Sant a special prize commemorating the festival's 60th anniversary.
8.) Death at a Funeral ***1/2 -- A game British cast and a darkly zany script highlight director Frank Oz's triumphant, crowd-pleasing return to screwball comedy.
9.) To Each His Own Cinema *** -- Short subjects by Alejandro Gonzalez Innaritu, Walter Salles, Lars Von Trier, and Roman Polanski highlight this hit-or-miss series of films made especially for the festival's 60th anniversary.
10.) Smiley Face *** -- Billed as the first-ever female stoner comedy, this goofy spectacle by Mysterious Skin director Gregg Araki is certainly a step above Dude Where's My Car? It's an ideal vehicle for the airhead shtick of Anna Faris, who proves herself here as a gifted physical comedian. The aimless plot follows Faris through a series of mortifying adventures. She's aided by a terrific ensemble including John Krasinski and Adam Brody, who each give hysterical comic turns. Unfortunately, the final act derails the film entirely, plummeting a potentially first-rate satire into a jumbled drug haze.
11.) The Banishment **1/2 -- Spectacular-looking yet spectacularly dull infidelity drama that wallows in its impending tragedy the way an elephant might wallow in a puddle of tar.
12.) Boarding Gate * -- Watching this uproariously awful thriller in the Lumiere theatre is like watching a William Hung concert at the Albert Hall. Michael Madsen should be ashamed.
Spiderman 3
This third outing for America’s favorite web-slinging hero is a movie of moments—some funny, some cheesy, some cool, and some just plain dumb. It’s a goofy grab-bag seemingly designed by studio executives who are maddeningly intent on bowing to the demands of the comic book’s fan base. This is a major letdown, considering the first Spiderman was terrific popcorn entertainment, and Spiderman 2 soared to the ranks of a pop masterpiece. All three are directed by the delightfully inventive Sam Raimi, who was apparently bullied by producers to assemble such a crowded cast of characters. There’s simply too much plot here, and not nearly enough depth to justify all its 140 minutes.
The entire franchise has always had the ring of camp, yet it worked because the characters were solidly believable and engaging. Not so here—where everyone is reduced to a two-dimensional mechanism manipulated by an often laughably awful screenplay (helmed by the usually reliable Alvin Sargent and Sam & Ivan Raimi). There are more bad laughs in this film than most any major summer blockbuster in quite a while. The most jaw-dropping sequence occurs when Maguire, after being consumed by an alien dark side (I won’t even try to explain), becomes a swinging ladies man (in an obvious variation on Spiderman 2’s vastly superior nerd transformation montage), thrusting his pelvis while bouncing off the walls of a jazz club and seducing women with excruciating one-liners like “love that little giggle.” This is where it becomes most inevitable that Spiderman 3 was not ready to be released, and is still a messy work in progress.
That said, it’s still uproariously entertaining, although not in ways the filmmakers may have intended. Yet unlike the recent Star Wars trilogy, and last summer’s dismal Superman Returns, Spiderman mercifully doesn’t take itself too seriously, which is probably the only thing that saves it from becoming a complete disaster. James Franco, from the Hayden Christiansen-school of damp rag acting, gets to act cute for a while, even adorably ruining an omelet, in a scene that is in the picture solely to make the audience remember that he is an alright guy when he’s not seeking revenge for the death of his homicidal father. Kirsten Dunst is hopelessly bland, mangling “I’m Thru With Love” in the process (the lovely Bryce Dallas Howard fares no better). Scene upon scene seems intent on embarrassing its actors.
Thus the film is only enjoyable in parts: Danny Elfman’s ever-rousing score; the elegant transformation of Flint Marco (the sublime Thomas Hayden Church, given nothing to do but scowl) into the Sandman; some priceless scene-stealing bits from the always welcome J.K. Simmons and Bruce Campbell; some exciting (yet never extraordinary) action sequences; and Topher Grace’s nice turn as an evil version of his smug In Good Company character. On the other hand, what is James Cromwell doing here, how did a naked Peter Parker get from a church to back home (someone in the packed audience suggested he may have swung in the nude), where did the Sandman float to at the end (did he resign to live a peaceful life on the beach?), and why did the filmmakers allow every underutilized character to become hopelessly caught in the tangled web of the plot? Nothing connects this web—it’s just a bunch of disconnected, misplaced strands.
Rating: **1/2 (out of *****)
The entire franchise has always had the ring of camp, yet it worked because the characters were solidly believable and engaging. Not so here—where everyone is reduced to a two-dimensional mechanism manipulated by an often laughably awful screenplay (helmed by the usually reliable Alvin Sargent and Sam & Ivan Raimi). There are more bad laughs in this film than most any major summer blockbuster in quite a while. The most jaw-dropping sequence occurs when Maguire, after being consumed by an alien dark side (I won’t even try to explain), becomes a swinging ladies man (in an obvious variation on Spiderman 2’s vastly superior nerd transformation montage), thrusting his pelvis while bouncing off the walls of a jazz club and seducing women with excruciating one-liners like “love that little giggle.” This is where it becomes most inevitable that Spiderman 3 was not ready to be released, and is still a messy work in progress.
That said, it’s still uproariously entertaining, although not in ways the filmmakers may have intended. Yet unlike the recent Star Wars trilogy, and last summer’s dismal Superman Returns, Spiderman mercifully doesn’t take itself too seriously, which is probably the only thing that saves it from becoming a complete disaster. James Franco, from the Hayden Christiansen-school of damp rag acting, gets to act cute for a while, even adorably ruining an omelet, in a scene that is in the picture solely to make the audience remember that he is an alright guy when he’s not seeking revenge for the death of his homicidal father. Kirsten Dunst is hopelessly bland, mangling “I’m Thru With Love” in the process (the lovely Bryce Dallas Howard fares no better). Scene upon scene seems intent on embarrassing its actors.
Thus the film is only enjoyable in parts: Danny Elfman’s ever-rousing score; the elegant transformation of Flint Marco (the sublime Thomas Hayden Church, given nothing to do but scowl) into the Sandman; some priceless scene-stealing bits from the always welcome J.K. Simmons and Bruce Campbell; some exciting (yet never extraordinary) action sequences; and Topher Grace’s nice turn as an evil version of his smug In Good Company character. On the other hand, what is James Cromwell doing here, how did a naked Peter Parker get from a church to back home (someone in the packed audience suggested he may have swung in the nude), where did the Sandman float to at the end (did he resign to live a peaceful life on the beach?), and why did the filmmakers allow every underutilized character to become hopelessly caught in the tangled web of the plot? Nothing connects this web—it’s just a bunch of disconnected, misplaced strands.
Rating: **1/2 (out of *****)
Grindhouse
Every fan-boy’s wet dream—that is if you’re a fan of 70’s exploitation trash, and more specifically, if you’re Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez. Any connoisseur of cinema would become easily enthralled by the sheer childlike love both filmmakers feel for the medium, and the entire double-feature experience is a brilliantly retro time-travel trip that had me glued to the screen (yet most American audiences obviously weren’t in on the joke—making the whole cinematic experiment a box-office bomb).
Though most critics sneer at Rodriguez’s utter obsession with spectacle, I’d argue his half (Planet Terror) is far and away the more successful of the two: it’s an exhilarating satirical homage that makes an art form out of Grade-Z moviemaking—every filmic jump, scratch, hair, blur, and missing reel is so lovingly painted on the screen that it left me feeling gloriously high on the sheer thrill of the cinematic experience.
This is usually the feeling I get from Tarantino’s work, yet his segment (Death-Proof) doesn’t subvert the grind-house genre so much as re-create it. That’s a decided letdown, considering Tarantino has made a career out of subverting trash genres—breathing innovative life and human complexity into heist pictures (Reservoir Dogs), pulp fiction (Pulp Fiction), blaxploitation (Jackie Brown), and every revenge genre you can name (Kill Bill). Yet Death-Proof simply assembles the elements of a sleazy exploitation flick like I Spit on Your Grave, such as mind-numbingly dull dialogue passages, cardboard personalities, and inexplicable shifts in character motivation.
Yes, it’s a successful recreation, but it bears the question, “What’s the point?” None of the characters are remotely involving, with the exception of Kurt Russell, having a blast playing a variation of his iconic badass role. There’s an excellent car chase, an unforgettably brutal car crash, and a few laughs and thrills to be had, yet it’s a damned shame that Tarantino couldn’t have done more with it.
Probably the greatest highlight of the Grindhouse experience is the archival footage of advertisements and other footage book-ending the films. There are also some wonderful fake trailers of other exploitation pictures, which probably generate the biggest laughs of all. There’s Rodriguez’s explosive Machete, Rob Zombie’s sloppy Werewolf Women of the S.S., Edgar Wright’s marvelous Don’t (a satire of breathlessly incomprehensible trailers, narrated by Will Arnett), and Eli Roth’s Thanksgiving (a pitch-perfect parody of slasher films that’s arguably the best of the bunch). Overall, this is a flawed yet supremely enjoyable ode to the junky beauty and one-of-a-kind thrills only found in a Grindhouse theater.
Rating: **** (out of *****)
Though most critics sneer at Rodriguez’s utter obsession with spectacle, I’d argue his half (Planet Terror) is far and away the more successful of the two: it’s an exhilarating satirical homage that makes an art form out of Grade-Z moviemaking—every filmic jump, scratch, hair, blur, and missing reel is so lovingly painted on the screen that it left me feeling gloriously high on the sheer thrill of the cinematic experience.
This is usually the feeling I get from Tarantino’s work, yet his segment (Death-Proof) doesn’t subvert the grind-house genre so much as re-create it. That’s a decided letdown, considering Tarantino has made a career out of subverting trash genres—breathing innovative life and human complexity into heist pictures (Reservoir Dogs), pulp fiction (Pulp Fiction), blaxploitation (Jackie Brown), and every revenge genre you can name (Kill Bill). Yet Death-Proof simply assembles the elements of a sleazy exploitation flick like I Spit on Your Grave, such as mind-numbingly dull dialogue passages, cardboard personalities, and inexplicable shifts in character motivation.
Yes, it’s a successful recreation, but it bears the question, “What’s the point?” None of the characters are remotely involving, with the exception of Kurt Russell, having a blast playing a variation of his iconic badass role. There’s an excellent car chase, an unforgettably brutal car crash, and a few laughs and thrills to be had, yet it’s a damned shame that Tarantino couldn’t have done more with it.
Probably the greatest highlight of the Grindhouse experience is the archival footage of advertisements and other footage book-ending the films. There are also some wonderful fake trailers of other exploitation pictures, which probably generate the biggest laughs of all. There’s Rodriguez’s explosive Machete, Rob Zombie’s sloppy Werewolf Women of the S.S., Edgar Wright’s marvelous Don’t (a satire of breathlessly incomprehensible trailers, narrated by Will Arnett), and Eli Roth’s Thanksgiving (a pitch-perfect parody of slasher films that’s arguably the best of the bunch). Overall, this is a flawed yet supremely enjoyable ode to the junky beauty and one-of-a-kind thrills only found in a Grindhouse theater.
Rating: **** (out of *****)
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