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 *****)
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