"Vegas" (IMDb listing) is abrasive, needless, and unpleasant. Just like the real Las Vegas. It's an old-fashioned star-driven comedy that is gliding on the charm of the two leads, yet there's no story here, no recognizable emotions. The film is a crass collection of dreadful slapstick, deafening performances, and a romance that, even by loose screen standards, makes no sense whatsoever. "Vegas" is junk food: you'll forget it the minute you step out of the theater. Perhaps even earlier than that.
Because so much of the film is carried on the backs of Kutcher and Diaz, one would think director Tom Vaughan would take better care to protect the characters from becoming completely toxic; instead, Joy and Jack are insufferable morons and it's a chore to watch Diaz and Kutcher attempt to cozy up to these hostile roles. Mostly, the actors yell and fall, and then yell some more, all because some Hollywood boob told Kutcher a long time ago that screaming is hilarious. The two bop all over the frame, frantic to sell the anguish of forced marital bonding, while pushing ahead with eye-rolling pranks (most concerning the toilet) and sitcom coincidences. Vaughan is hopeless here, and he does nothing to temper the ear-splitting performances. With Kutcher hamming it up and Diaz in full pinched-face mode, there isn't a single thing to embrace here. Perhaps this is why the leads are frequently shedding their clothes.
There are two capable people in the background much more interesting; comedian Zach Galifianakis and actress Lake Bell hold up the best friend delegation (along with Rob Corddry) and are severely underutilized in the final product. Both actors are far more entertaining than Kutcher and Diaz, and would provide a more motivating, combustible relationship for the director to work with. But then again, you'd probably pass on seeing them without clothes. Well, maybe just Galifianakis.
Because the screenplay by the execrable Dana Fox ("The Wedding Date") is not in the mood to sample anything new, "Vegas" runs on autopilot in the final act, where…get this: Joy and Jack actually develop feelings for each other! As a boldfaced cliché, it's deplorable, yet I was sucked into this segment of the film if only because "Vegas" finally gets quiet. The performances are suddenly dialed way down, and the burden of laughs is thrust upon the supporting cast. Hey, when a film is this obnoxious, I'll take all the silence I can get.
Filmfodder Grade: D+]]>
Ever since he was a child, Speed Racer (Emile Hirsch) has always wanted to join the family business and become a car-racing competitor. When the death of elder brother Rex pushes Speed into the driver's seat, he shows amazing ability on the track, making his family proud. When the ruthless owner of Royalton Industries (Roger Allam) makes Speed an offer to join his aggressive driving squad, Speed refuses, putting him in the crosshairs of corporate thugs. With the help of the mysterious Racer X (Matthew Fox), Speed partakes in several hazardous contests, hoping with each opportunity to further understand his brother's legacy and show up those who question his talents and threaten the livelihood of his family.
A live-action aping of the cult 1960's Japanese anime television series, "Speed Racer" has been exhaustively expanded to fit big-screen needs. Written and directed by Larry and Andy Wachowski (their first since sealing off "The Matrix" with a double helping of provocative sequels in 2003), the brothers literally lunge into a kaleidoscopic realm of colors and cuts with this picture, taking the audience into the tight folds of animation and sensory overload. It's meant for families, but "Speed" will surely beguile stoners for years to come.
"Speed" is an intricately constructed movie, with every blinding detail imaginable up on the screen. Blanketed by CGI, the film's color scheme resembles a tipped bowl of Skittles, with all sorts of garish colors fighting for camera time. This blizzard of hues and extensive green-screen work acts to construct the cartoon world for Speed (think "Spy Kids" mixed with "Dick Tracy") as he puts the pedal-to-the-metal and zooms across twisted tracks of certain doom; not unlike a potent Hot Wheels fever dream. The Wachowskis don't just want Speed to speed, they turn the race sequences into acts of "Car-fu," as the vehicles cartwheel, flip, and battle each other for the lead, similar to the pod racing sequences from "Phantom Menace," only with a more pronounced cartoon glaze, if that's even possible.
The race sequences are the highlights of "Speed," if only because the directors possess a radiant gift for kinetic energy. Speed skidding around day-glo roads is the ideal venue for the Wachowskis to flame on their imaginations and smear the screen with a gloss of eye-crossing car choreography and distinct inspiration reference points, presented by two minds clearly in love with the source material.
However, that blinding devotion to "Speed Racer" is tricky to sort out, and the screenplay is a numbing jumble of allegiances and poor characterizations. In short: the film is a bore. The swirling opening titles and tease of the famous "Speed Racer" theme are quickly replaced by stifling racing legacy overtones, a horde of ill-defined villains, corporate financial jockeying (because nothing says "summer entertainment" quite like stock price bargaining), and uninteresting Racer family dynamics.
Not a typo here: the film runs 130 minutes, which is about 50 minutes too long for bubbly fun like this, but the Wachowskis are unwilling to scrape out any of the fat, and it hurts the film. What should've been Speed in danger, the question mark of Racer X, and heaps of flamboyant car racing is turned into an obese, exposition-heavy creation that fatigues easily. There's no emotional pull to any of it, and it puts Speed into the focal backseat for most of the feature.
Again, stock prices. There's this ungodly-looking world of towering loops and impossible jumps ready to smack the audience in the face, and there's a sequence where the bad guys hammer out the details of stock prices.
In retrospect, perhaps it's best that Speed isn't handed prime screen real estate, since Hirsch's performance barely shifts out of neutral. He's a cardboard standee here, physically embodying cartoon Speed nicely, but lacking any charisma to properly 3-D the icon. Better is John Goodman as Speed's father Pops, Korean star Rain as Speed's dubious ally, and Fox, who grits his teeth pleasingly as Racer X (not to mention pulling off the film's most absurd costume with panache). Unfortunately, the film's feminine contingent, Susan Sarandon (as Speed's mom) and Christina Ricci (Speed's love Trixie), are shuffled off to the corners of the movie in a hurry, and the absence is felt.
To counteract the thundering wall of artifice and adult-themed intrigue, the Wachowskis have activated the characters of Spritle (Speed's kid brother) and chimpanzee sidekick Chim-Chim to speak directly to the children in the audience (often literally). Practically existing in their own separate movie, the mischievous duo provides ear-piercing slapstick and broad comedic displays to the film, and every moment with these two clowns is catastrophic. Granted, the filmmakers have zero experience in family entertainment, but that doesn't excuse the aggressive pinch of these scenes or the eventual use of fecal matter and groin-hit sound stingers to get a laugh. Even worse, the Wachowskis direct young Paulie Litt to assume the cocktail-hour stance of an obnoxious borscht-belt comedian for Spritle, turning his every eye-bulging, neck-craning move into pure torture. 10 minutes in, I wanted Speed to run over the character with the Mach 5.
"Speed Racer" sure is pretty to look at, and the Wachowskis have accomplished amazing optical feats bringing the viewer into the living anime world of visual layering, spastic cutting, and bold coloring. However, the film is an inert sleeping pill; an anti-event movie that spends an inordinate amount of energy trying to drum up extremity, only to completely botch the results by permitting such cringing indulgence.
Filmfodder Grade: D+]]>
A womanizer who lives by a series of strict rules of feminine engagement, Tom (Patrick Dempsey) can't wait to spend quality time with his long-standing best friend, Hannah (Michelle Monaghan). When Hannah heads off to Scotland on an extended business trip, Tom comes to the realization he can't live without her. When she returns, Tom is ready to admit his attraction, only to find Hannah has found a fiancé (Kevin McKidd) and wants Tom to be her maid of honor. Accepting the responsibility only because it offers a shot to disrupt the engagement, Tom faces a huge speed bump in his plan when it's revealed that Hannah's new love is just about perfect in every way.
Actual human characters are in short supply in "Honor," and heaven knows this material could use any speck of unpredictability it could locate. It's a mechanical romantic comedy, meant to trigger wedding day goosebumps and leading man heart palpitations in the audience, but there's no pizzazz to "Honor," and it features a complete absence of inspiration. It's a lazy picture, and, even worse, it's difficult to sit through. A simple love story shouldn't feel like a prison sentence.
Perhaps equating "Honor" to jail time is an inch too harsh, but watching the filmmakers lead the material through every possible cliché is discouraging. There are some jewels to be mined in the film, especially scenes with Tom's gender-confused role as maid of honor. The concept swings open large comedy doors that should rightfully exploit the situation for every last bachelorette party faux pas, but "Honor" only wants to make sexual preference jokes and take whorey bridesmaidzilla jabs. Dempsey is breezy enough in the role and appears ready to jump off the page and liven up the proceedings, but he's held down by director Paul Weiland, who has some strange ideas of what makes for a giggly, romantic night at the movies.
Let's just say that glow-in-the-dark anal sex toy sight gags fail to conjure up a desired mood of friendly, good-natured fun.
Much like "27 Dresses," the predictability of the material is exasperating. Weiland is terrified to challenge anything in the script, and he gives himself over to the most moronic ideas of conflict, chipping away at basic (and needed) relationship logic to make it all fit together. Traditionally, cliché can be subdued by some fragment of imagination, but once Tom finds himself off on a horse to stop a wedding in the finale, all hope is lost that anyone associated with the production was interested in elevating the material to either funnier or more emotional ends.
Again, Dempsey is good here, and shares pleasing chemistry with the adorable Monaghan, but it's hard to isolate their obvious allure when "Made of Honor" remains such a blinding display of loathsome formula.
Filmfodder Grade: D]]>
A brazen war profiteer overseeing his own weapons industry, Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) is pushed to reassess his life when violently taken hostage in the Middle-East and fitted with a powerful magnet-like device to keep shrapnel out of his vital organs. Hoping to abandon the mass-death game, Tony turns inward, creating an intelligent suit of armor that he trusts will assist him in reclaiming the world he's helped tear apart. With the help of faithful assistant Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) and military pal Jim Rhodes (Terrence Howard), Stark works to perfect his suit; however, when business partner Obadiah Stane (Jeff Bridges) learns of Stark's ambitions, he sets in motion a plan to harvest the playboy's new powers for himself.
Downey Jr.? Paltrow? Bridges? Howard? A voice cameo by Jarvis Cocker? Well, director Jon Favreau was certainly doing his homework when stitching together his fourth filmmaking effort, "Iron Man." Easily the best ensemble to hand-hold a funny book to the big screen, the cast makes all the difference in the world between "Iron Man" sinking into medium-awareness mediocrity and smashing ahead as a top-tier adaptation, capable of big summer-movie thrills and sharp, sarcastic laughs. It's a strange brew, but Favreau is an ideal cook, and takes impressive command over this strange superhero property, pulling together an unexpected film that intends to play by caped, hands-on-hips standards, but has a much better time messing around with convention.
Stark isn't the typical character for a comic book metamorphosis, and Downey Jr. is certainly not the first actor that springs to mind when considering the tenets of truth and justice; yet the crooked casting works in favor of "Iron Man." Downey Jr. is a scream here as the blithe Stark, lording over his empire with a boozy grin; a womanizer with impeccable publicity and a constant circle of yes men, Downey Jr. does an impressive job humanizing Stark beyond the frown lines. His character arc is an intriguing one, taking Stark from a coin-hungry jet-setter to a man concerned with his legacy of violence, and willing to reach beyond himself to right his extensive wrongs. Stark is no saint, and his ballooned ego is a plot point Downey Jr. tees up with brilliantly, playing off his cast with rat-pack ease, and sharing touching chemistry with Paltrow. He's perfect in this role.
Because "Iron Man" is an origin tale, Favreau tries to unearth any moment of goosebumpy goodness he can find between exposition sequences, but the pickings are slim. Following Stark through his incarceration in Afghanistan, his renunciation of industrialism, and the creation of the famous red and gold suit, the picture is allowed short bursts of excitement and, heavens, they are tremendous moments. Watching Stark test his various suits, getting used to their spastic capabilities are the highlights of the picture, merging special effects and generous actor beats into an entertaining whole. Trouble only arrives when Favreau becomes too enamored with this world, which leaves the 125-minute running time too sludgy in the midsection of the film, rendering the climactic fight between Iron Man and villain Iron Monger stunningly ineffective. Perhaps Favreau, a gifted director, didn't realize how sharply executed Stark's earlier scenes of trial and error were, leaving the end of the film a payoff letdown, but still worthy of a few superb metal-crunching money shots.
If the enthusiastic crowd I caught "Iron Man" with was any indication, there are plenty of obscure comic book references packed into the picture to please long-standing fans, while the overall film remains more accessible than I was expecting. "Iron Man" is a high-quality entry in the superhero genre, and while it doesn't scream sequel at the end, Favreau is generous with dangling plot threads, and with all that origin nonsense out of the way, Tony Stark is poised to continue on into one heck of a sequel.
Filmfodder Grade: B+]]>
Requisite billionaire and tech genius Tony Stark (a nicely buffed Robert Downey Jr.) has created highly complex and advanced weaponry for our U.S. military. With all that money and intelligence comes a level of arrogance and a layer of snarkiness, so it’s no surprise that Stark is ambushed by insurgents when he goes to Afghanistan to demonstrate his wares. Held hostage, he is ordered to create a new weapon for the rebels. Of course, Stark ends up creating a suit of armor, essentially, putting the kibosh on the insurgents’ well laid plans and escaping but not before they use a secret cache of Stark weapons to kill U.S. soldiers.
Back home and seeing the world in a whole new light, Stark shuns his arms-dealing ways and tinkers away at the suit, perfecting the “Iron Man” image. Along with Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow), his ever faithful assistant and love interest, Stark goes through some of the film’s most enjoyable moments as he fine tunes the technology on the suit. Add a dash of Superman (flying), Batman (Stark’s Iron-Mancave), and Robocop (jazzed up suit of armor) and perfecto – Iron Man is born.
What makes Iron Man/Tony Stark likeable is that he’s not a mutant and his superhero status doesn’t come from a radioactive spider or a special ring, it’s all technology and smarts and a lot of ingenuity. His character is flawed, just like everyone is and that makes him seem more amenable.
Downey Jr. is well cast as Stark with his protein-packed physique and boyish good looks. He’s having a resurgence a la Patrick Dempsey. I liked both in my youth as well as New Kids on the Block – soon to go on tour! Have I died and gone to heaven? Is a Kidd Video return far behind? Director Jon Favreau, channeling his inner Hitchcock, makes a brief cameo. Rest of the cast is one-dimensional and comic bookish, which may have well been the intention.
It’s rare that I pay $10 for a film these days and think I actually got my money’s worth, but Iron Man is the exception. Opening ahead the rest of the superhero pack, film should get a nice jump on this summer’s box office receipts before Indy, Hancock and Speed Racer take it away. I’m already anticipating Iron Man 2.
Filmfodder Grade: A+]]>
Kate (Tina Fey) is a business woman trying to pull together the opening of an organic food store and fulfill her lifelong wish to have a baby. With her own reproductive system in disarray, Kate turns to a surrogate named Angie (Amy Poehler) for help. A trashy, childlike imp, Angie is the exact opposite of Kate, which horrifies the eager mom-to-be. As the pregnancy starts to ramp up, the two bond in unique ways, starting a friendship that is put to the test when Kate finds an unexpected romance (Greg Kinnear) and Angie reveals a demoralizing secret.
I laughed a lot at "Baby Mama," because, really, how could I not? With two of today's brightest comedy stars firmly planted in the lead roles, the picture is assured at least some level of hilarity, and writer/director Michael McCullers is wise to step aside and let the ladies lead the laughs with ideal execution and friendly interaction.
The plot is strong enough to let the actresses play around with their broad opposite roles, with Fey getting the uptight neat freak end of the stick and Poehler playing dumb, or at least unmotivated. These are two wonderful performances that drip with comedic chemistry, bolstered by some fine additions of absurdity and improvisation into the film. Clearly these two are comfortable working together (the years of "SNL" camaraderie show) and remain the bright spots of the movie, which, towards the midsection, doesn't need any melodrama to remain a successful and fluffy charmer. However, McCullers disagrees.
With paternity issues creeping into the plot, along with a cold fish romance between Fey and Kinnear, "Mama" starts to slow down, padding itself with dramatic nonsense to get the film to a contractual running time. This is McCullers's first feature directing gig, which shows when the film drops dead in the final act, looking for a heart when all it needed was a laugh. The performances stand their ground, but the film quickly becomes labored and needlessly complex, letting the jokes disappear while McCullers robotically tries to pluck heartstrings. Syrupy sentiment and Fey just aren't an easygoing couple yet.
"Baby Mama" is a funny comedy and absolute catnip for those in the market for a child of their own. I liked its spirit and occasional desire to treat stupidity as a gift, not a crutch. It's not a perfect film by any means, but as a debutante ball for Fey and Poehler as big screen leading ladies, it's a dream. Hopefully these two are embarking on a long career as a comedy pair. "Baby Mama" would be nothing without them.
Filmfodder Grade: B]]>
Off on a special trip to Amsterdam to chase after a loved one, Harold (John Cho) and Kumar (Kal Penn) board a plane and settle in for the nice, long trip. Impatient, Kumar whips out his smokeless bong in the bathroom, which onboard security mistakes for a bomb and swiftly arrests the duo on severe terrorism charges. Sent to Guantanamo Bay by nightmarish government agent Ron Fox (Rob Corddry), the duo manage to escape quickly, only to find help in America scarce as they creep along the backwoods of the country getting into all sorts of scrapes and racially-charged situations.
I'd assumed I would never have to write this, but I miss the confident directorial touch of the guy who made "Dude, Where's My Car?" The reigns of "Guantanamo Bay" have been passed down to the writers of "White Castle," Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg, and the transition is a sloppy one. I wasn't too enamored with "White Castle," but it had some faint charms and the good sense to quit while it was ahead. "Guantanamo Bay" is nonstop procession of grim material, hinged on the sweaty prayer that the target demo will be too high to notice they're being fed nearly the exact same jokes.
Remember how awesome it was to see Neil Patrick Harris as himself, only himself with raging substance abuse problems and a penchant for risky sex? How funny Kumar's anthropomorphic bag of weed love interest was? Well, they're back in "Guantanamo Bay," along with a horde of conventional pot jokes and shock value nonsense that's marinated in desperation. Hurwitz and Schlossberg don't actually have a story for their sequel, so they bury the material in disorganized ideas, one of the larger ones concerning some swipes at Bush's America and the overzealous, clueless means of patriotic defense after 9/11. Coming so soon after Jenna Jameson's left-hook "Zombie Strippers!," "Guantanamo Bay" is another silly comedy that attempts to sneak in big-boy political ideas about governmental corruption under the guise of oral sex jokes and Corddry's obnoxious performance, which is so frantic and unfunny, it's nearly mime-like in execution.
The other unfriendly angle of "Guantanamo Bay" is the picture's slathering of racial humor. I realize the jokes are meant to be harmless by their obvious pronunciation, but it doesn't take long for the bits to wear down the intended joviality of the film. The directors are looking to flabbergast with sight gags like Fox using grape soda to make an African-American suspect talk, or spilling a bag of pennies to make two Jewish characters sweat during an interrogation; it all comes off as childish, even for a juvenile film like this. I always thought the idea of a sequel was to try and top the original film, but "Guantanamo Bay" is even more careless than "White Castle."
The rest of the film is the stuff one would expect walking into a "Harold & Kumar" sequel: gratuitous nudity (the pair stumble upon a "bottomless" party), over-explained jokes, massive ADR sweetening of humor, Penn and Cho further developing their comedic infertility, and lots of tiresome gay panic situations. What's less expected is an extended riff with a makeup-enhanced George Bush lookalike; a gag that would've been better sold if the actor looked less like Freddy Kruger and more like the President. You can add it to the alarming pile of misfired satire left to rot in the sun by the filmmakers.
Of course, getting upset with "Guantanamo Bay" is fruitless, since most fans couldn't care less about actual scripted quality as long as Kumar passes gas at inopportune times, Harris downs a mouthful of mushrooms and rides a unicorn, and the occasional joint is worked over. If I laughed a handful of times during "White Castle," I found myself without a single solitary chuckle during this painfully slapdash and uninspired sequel.
Filmfodder Grade: D-]]>
The new "Prom Night" (IMDb listing) has very little in common with the 1980 Jamie Lee Curtis slasher footnote, instead just pilfering the title and the concept of a killing spree at the most important social gathering for the average high school student. The earlier "Prom Night" wasn't an elegant achievement in suspense, but it's amazing how much the new production fails to offer the audience in the way of chills. The new "Prom Night" is insistently lifeless, which I think is worse than simply being awful. At least awful has some personality to it.
Charm, pace, and suspense are all in short supply for this brainless remake. Director Nelson McCormick comes from a long history of television work and it shows, for his "Prom Night" is too cautious, too gutless to make a psychological dent; a one-way ticket to dullsville, fueled by absurdly toothless PG-13 fright sequences (boo scares aplenty here) that will make this forgettable one-weekend-wonder a DVD dynamo on the sleepover circuit. I'm sure there's an audience for implied stabbings, but set loose in the thickly-padded script by prominent genre hack J.S. Cardone ("The Covenant," "The Forsaken"), and "Prom Night" has nowhere to go but right to sleep.
The cast, led by Snow's irritatingly teary performance, couldn't be more vanilla if they tried; along with Schaech, who makes evil about as cinematically enticing as a tax audit. Where's the fervor for fright in this debacle? McCormick just elongates the whole process, assuming the audience will have a ball watching teen characters natter on about their tedious lives between knifing sequences, or observing actor Idris Elba (here in the concerned cop role) give in to every smell-the-fart acting itch he's ever dreamed of exploring. It's rare to come across a film that simply gives up, but "Prom Night" is lazy, spending long stretches of the running time accomplishing nothing. It's just odd.
The finale of the picture should be this grandiose showdown between good and evil, but not on McCormick's watch. No, he likes to make even the simplest acts of behavior last about 900 years, constructing a conclusion that is absent even the slightest blip of tension and conflict. It seems unfair to blame PG-13 standards for the continual gutting of the horror genre, but when a stinker like "Prom Night" shows up to bleed teenagers of their allowance, it's hard to ignore the warning signs. The defanged slasher movement once again lays a rotten egg.
Filmfodder Grade: D-]]>
Tom Ludlow (Keanu Reeves) is a burned-out, alcoholic vice cop who specializes in bending the law to suit his crime-solving needs. Under the care of Captain Jack Wander (Forest Whitaker), Tom's sins have been covered up for years, keeping him tight with his fellow officers (including Jay Mohr and John Corbett) and allowing him a lawless existence that's turned into a prison. Now, when his former partner-turned-informant (Terry Crews) is killed in a vicious convenience store attack, it instills Tom with a newfound twitch of moral fortitude, and he sets off to hunt for the killers with the help of a young detective (Chris Evans) who's eager to partake in a clandestine investigation.
I'm having trouble classifying "Street Kings" as a "good" film, but it sure is persuasive. A violent, gritty citywide journey into the dark brotherhood of L.A. cops, the film won't win any awards for originality, yet the execution of the feature rumbles with a convincing rage. Director David Ayer has spent most of his career working around police thrillers (writing scripts for "< href="http://www.filmfodder.com/movies/reviews/training_day/">Training Day," "," and "S.W.A.T."), and the history informs "Kings" with a fascinating level of detail, paying specific attention to police shorthand and procedural frustrations. Ayer understands how L.A. moves, but finding a suitable screenplay to match this wealth of knowledge is where "Kings" cracks its crown.
The screenplay, credited to three writers including the great James Ellroy, is a juicy selection of intrigue and paranoia, placing Tom in the middle of a tornado of evidence tampering, the attention of internal affairs, and his own self-loathing, which has thickened his skin to such a degree that he barely comprehends injustice anymore. The script is ripe with tongue-twisting dialogue and rotating motivations, and it's too much for Ayer to handle at times. Outside of the fact that giving Reeves platefuls of complex technical language is a mistake (he's a fine actor, but needs to be wielded carefully or his limitations are revealed quickly), "Kings" doesn't know how to unwind itself; it prefers an excruciating "Bond villain" explanation in the third act to untangle the complex plot, severely undercutting the labyrinthine structure of the earlier scenes.
By the end of "Kings," Ayer hands the material over to operatic sways of spastic melodramatic acting (I think Whitaker is convinced he's in a silent film) and semi-believable turns of logic. The network of corruption that "Kings" itemizes is compelling groundwork for something more intellectually explosive than the action film clichés of the final stretch, and the film loses much of its zest when Ayer scrounges for an ending that can both satisfy and stimulate.
"Kings" is far from perfect, and perhaps I was too caught up in the forked-tongued ballet of facial-haired machismo to notice the picture failing to connect the dots in a secure fashion. However, it does provide a compelling, edgy ride around the underbelly of life, worth the trip to bask in the tough-guy bloodshed and bullet-riddled nightlife of Los Angeles.
Filmfodder Grade: B]]>
Lawrence Wetherhold (Dennis Quaid) is an English professor at Carnegie Melon University, where he lords over his students with intellectual might. At home, things are worse. Still reeling from the death of his wife, Lawrence barely interacts with his resentful son (Ashton Holmes) and overachieving daughter Vanessa (Ellen Page), and considers his adopted brother Chuck (Thomas Haden Church) a total disgrace. When Janet (Sarah Jessica Parker), a former student with a crush, reenters Lawrence's life, the two begin a tumultuous courtship, opening the professor's eyes to his cantankerous, pretentious behavior.
Not surprisingly, "Smart People" was written and directed by two individuals who have never made a feature film before. The lack of experience shines throughout the picture; a character study of damaged folk who wield intellect as a means to prop up their shattered lives, providing comfort when basic human interaction fails them.
The script by Mark Poirier is a sprawling tale of familial misery, perhaps more suited for the literary realm, not a 90-minute movie. While remaining modest in intention, there's still a mouthful to chew on with "Smart People." It doesn't take long for the subplots to slip out of director Noam Murro's control, since he can't locate the intricate tones required to pull off complicated acts of desire, regret, and disillusionment without the entire film wobbling uncontrollably, threatening to crumble at a moment's notice. However, it's possible Poirier and Murro may not be the true culprits of artistic failure here, since the film feels chopped to smithereens from a longer, more patient cut by someone not associated with the production from day one.
The edits suck the spirit right out of the film, leaving substantial character arcs and general motivations unfinished. There's a critical absence of coherency in the pairing of Lawrence and Janet, who embark on a relationship of confusing agendas and even more befuddling resolution. Even more cloudy is the bond between Vanessa and stoner Chuck, which kicks off as a standard "she's a young Republican, he's got Peter Pan syndrome!" odd couple scenario, but quickly moonwalks into elusive sexual attraction. To leave a plot-thread this complicated with only a moment's discussion is maddening, but again who is to blame: the butterfingers of Murro or Miramax editorial butchers who apparently cleaved away 100 hours of character minutiae to make this thorny picture "sellable?"
It comes as a relief that the acting isn't affected by the aimless story, with special attention paid to Dennis Quaid and his superb aura of collegiate arrogance and suburban anesthesia. It's a complicated character of potentially exasperating quirks made interesting by the actor's distance and disheveled body language. Thomas Haden Church also gets in some satisfying screentime, though his role as a shiftless smart-aleck is nothing revolutionary. However, Church finds something of a soul within the traditionally robotic Ellen Page, here playing a tightly-wound cross between Juno and Alex P. Keaton a full decibel lower than her typically piercing air horn delivery.
"Smart People" doesn't actually have an ending, it just trails off, making vague attempts at closure and clumsily passes out happier futures for all involved. It's frustrating to witness, as the film certainly feels like it had more to say with these complex characters, only to be gutted by an undefined entity more interested in infuriating brevity than fulfilling storytelling.
Filmfodder Grade: D+]]>
Walter Vale (Richard Jenkins) is a widowed college professor trying to connect with his late wife through failed piano lessons. Sent to live for a short time at his neglected New York City apartment for a conference, Walter finds Tarek (Haaz Sleiman) and Zainab (Danai Jekesa Gurira) have already made a home there. At first startled, Walter soon reaches out to the frightened couple and allows them to stay. During this time, Walter expresses curiosity with Tarek's skills playing an African drum. Tarek, surprised by Walter's offer of friendship, begins to teach the shy professor the concept of rhythm and the joy of performance. However, the relationship is cut short when Tarek is arrested and revealed to be an illegal, locked away in a detention center while Walter and Tarek's mother Mouna (a wonderful Hiam Abbass) hope to find a way to free him.
Writer/director Thomas McCarthy's previous feature film was 2003's muddled drama "The Station Agent;" a clunky debut production that, while lacking any surprise, at least showcased the filmmaker's gift for mood and allegiance to patient storytelling. "The Visitor" inches McCarthy's skills further; a courteous, unexpectedly absorbing drama that continues McCarthy's fascination with how relationships are formed and ultimately tested.
While a satisfying picture, "Visitor" has a difficult time overcoming its vanilla introductions. McCarthy isn't a forceful filmmaker, instead preferring the audience simmer in the moods and locales of the picture. The approach only really enhances the performances, which expectedly excel through a combination of talent and McCarthy's preference of emotional space, allowing the cast to feel around for reactions. Jenkins and Sleiman make for a swell odd couple, eschewing international adversarial stances to lock hands in more subtle expressions of kindness. The moments of their drumbeat bonding are exquisite sequences of restraint and unspoken connection, and both Jenkins and Sleiman commit to the premise whole-heartedly, making McCarthy's plot sing with a realistic outline of benevolence.
9/11 fingerprints dot the backdrop of "The Visitor," and the film eventually deals with immigration rights and the general exclusionary tone of New York City due to strict citizenship requirements. McCarthy doesn't belabor the point, instead weaving the issues carefully into the script and the cinematography. "The Visitor" doesn't preach, but it doesn't ignore the harsh reality of the new world order either, using that anxiety of faceless opposition to help squeeze some tension into an otherwise leisurely motion picture.
"The Visitor" eventually complicates as Walter's sympathy extends to Mouna, who fills the lonely man with a long desired piece of female companionship. McCarthy negotiates these certain narrative wrinkles successfully, but rarely does the film demand more than a tempered assessment.
Filmfodder Grade: B]]>
Nim (Abigail Breslin) is an adventurous pre-teen girl, living on an isolated South Pacific island with her scientist father, Jack (Gerard Butler), passing the time reading her favorite books by author Alex Rover. In San Francisco, Alex Rover (Jodie Foster) is an agoraphobic novelist currently stuck on her latest work, e-mailing Jack for information on the local volcano. When Jack finds himself stranded at sea, Nim is left alone on the island to fend for herself against storms and tourists. Fearful, she e-mails her hero Alex to come help her, sending the violently phobic writer out into the big scary world of germs and human interaction with the help of her Indiana Jonesesque literary alter-ego (also played by Butler).
Based on the book by Wendy Orr, "Nim's Island" is an unruly family film tied to the idea that restless direction and a blaring soundtrack will keep the antsy kids in the audience glued to the screen. What directors Jennifer Flackett and Mark Levin are pursuing with "Island" is a dreamlike quality, where fantasy and reality intermingle on a colorful scale. The filmmaking embraces cartoon qualities by giving Nim animal friends with human characteristics, or the island setting itself, which is a McDonald's Playland of volcanoes, zip-lines, and Talking Heads dance parties. I can understand the temptation of such material, but Flackett and Levin sell the whimsy of it all with a jackhammer, playing to the rafters any chance they get. They seem more interested in elaborate transition shots and other showoff camera tricks than finding a flexible, working tone for the picture.
The result is a headache-inducing film that grows more obnoxious as it plays, but the most piercing element of the movie is Foster. It's not that she's terrible in the frantic role of Alex, but the actress is trying with every fiber of her being to be funny, and bless the multifaceted Foster, but clowning around just isn't in her DNA. Alex is supposed to be a complete pill, but the squeaky way Foster plays the anxiety is difficult to watch. Flailing about like a puppet, Alex spends the entire picture confronting her fears (a major theme of the picture), but the situations provided by the screenplay consist primarily of Alex horsing around or plugging Progresso Soup and Purell, not really making inroads on her list of uncertainties.
"Island" is really three stories in one, following Nim, Alex, and Jack as they fight separation in their own comical ways, but it never ties together. "Nim's Island" isn't dreary, just miscalculated by filmmakers too eager to please and a lead actress much too willing to be the butt of a joke.
Filmfodder Grade: D+]]>
Scorsese's involvement here is maintaining the blueprint of the show, from the stage design to the battery of cameras arranged throughout the intimate theater ready to capture every inch of the performance. Scorsese is only a character in the film for the opening ten minutes, hustling at full "Marty" speed through preparations and openly nervous about receiving a copy of the set list before time runs out. His thumbprint is all over the picture, simply in the energetic atmosphere created through editing and shot choice. Mick Jagger's serpentine moves are impressive, but Scorsese's cameras blow this band up to mythical proportions, lending the group big-screen density and collaborative harmony (especially in IMAX presentations) in the same fashion found in previous concert documentaries, such as 1978's seminal "The Last Waltz."
At this point, the Stones are a well-oiled machine, tearing through the hits and catalog obscurities with a precision that could only come from decades of repetition. Perhaps "Light" isn't the definitive band time capsule, but that doesn't suggest Jagger, Keith Richards, Ronnie Wood, and the original Silent Bob himself, drummer Charlie Watts, are lacking a full tank of mojo. At its best, "Light" depicts the band in an affectionate, relaxed manner, confidently performing in front of a collection of rabid fans. In fact, things are so comfortable, Richards's playing sounds incredibly sloppy, yet the grizzled gunslinger is so assured of his hippy charms that it doesn't really matter. By this time in Stones history, the actual guitar sound is eclipsed by the small community of musicians on stage, and, of course, by Jagger's tireless prancing.
Mr. Mick is in top form here, busting out all the popular Jagger moves, acting as the ringmaster for the evening. Granted, two solid hours of the man gyrating around the stage can make "Light" feel endless, but the sheer physicality of his presence is hard to discount. Jagger sells every last note as if a grenade was shoved down his pants and he's shakin' his booty to stay alive. Some of the best parts of "Light" are when other stars come out to share the stage. The guest list includes Jack White, Buddy Guy, and Christina Aguilera (also, look fast for Bruce Willis in the audience), and they all try to keep up with the sprightly Jagger. Guy succeeds, launching into a house-on-fire version of "Champagne & Reefer" with the band that is incredible to behold. Aguilera's moment is just as fun, but for reasons that have less to do with her golden throat and more about watching Jagger dry hump the poor woman while she tries to keep her game face on. It looks nearly incestuous.
Of particular interest are snippets of interview footage pulled from over the years, cut into the film as a reminder of history and youthful whimsy. The common question posed to the men is one of future plans and how long they see this band lasting. It's fascinating (at times, hilarious) to watch the group unable to contemplate playing rock music in their 60s during the 60s, only to fast-forward through the years to reveal Mick and Keith becoming more comfortable with the notion of riding out their popularity for as long as they can.
Personal taste will decide if it's more satisfying watching the Stones slink around some unusual offerings ("As Tears Go By," "She Was Hot," "Just My Imagination") or come out swinging with the hits ("Sympathy for the Devil," "Brown Sugar," "Shattered"). It's an agreeable mix of the obvious and the experimental, and the crowd laps up every sweaty spoonful. There's no reason movie theater patrons should feel excluded from the glitzy experience; "Shine a Light" is an infectious marathon of bluesy rock from the men who helped kickstart the genre, and nobody is left out in the cold when the Rolling Stones hit the stage.
Filmfodder Grade: A-]]>
On vacation in Mexico, four college students (Shawn Ashmore, Jena Malone, Laura Ramsey, and Jonathan Tucker) meet a German tourist (Joe Anderson) looking to break away from the grind of perfect beaches and bottomless margaritas. Their adventure destination is a lost Mayan temple located in the middle of a dense jungle, and once arrived, the group tragically learns they are not welcome by the vicious locals. Trapped on top of the temple, the students quickly grasp they are not alone, finding the flowers and vines that surround them have a taste for blood. Toying with the group, the flora waits patiently as injury and madness soon settles in, leaving the hapless youngsters with no means of escape.
Adapted by Scott Smith ("A Simple Plan") from his own novel, "The Ruins" is governed by one rule: razor-sharp simplicity. There's no undercurrent of absurd social commentary, no extraneous subplots vying for screentime; "The Ruins" is a straightforward exercise in endurance and disturbing imagery. Not having personally experienced the novel, I didn't sense any gaps in the storytelling, which is a credit to Smith, who overhauled his original plot to streamline the agony. It's a triumphant piece of scripting, securing the tension to the front burners at all times and staging sequences not for their jump-scare potential, but for more gut-wrenching results that will surely leave weak-kneed audience members sprinting for the exits.
Director Carter Smith ("Bugcrush") is game to go where Smith leads and he rarely breaks the film's constant haze of dread. "Ruins" dabbles in psychological torment, yet the heart of this beast lies in old-fashioned displays of gore, with the characters digging around in their own bodies with knives in a pathetic attempt to keep the vines literally out of their system. Certainly this isn't high art, but "Ruins" is near-perfect at manipulating its audience, emphasizing physical threat and consequence, with a profound admiration for armrest-squeezing bodily harm on a level few recent horror productions would dare explore.
The acting by the young leads is better than expected, especially the work committed to the screen here by Laura Ramsey, who is the only member of the cast to reach the next level of despair as the vines attempt to find a warm home under her skin. Smith wisely keeps the actorly hysterics to a minimum, preferring visual communication of suffering that's incredibly more effective riling up the audience than bad actors allowed free reign to act badly.
It could be the steady diet of numbskull horror offerings lately, but I was with "Ruins" for the entire ride, delighting in the merciless direction and fantastical botanical twists with eyes wide open. It's one of those strap-in-and-ride-it-out experiences that are all too rare; forgoing elaborate strands of exposition to settle on more direct lunges of terror. It's a marvelous nightmare machine.
Filmfodder Grade: A-]]>
Playing professional football in a post-WWI America, Dodge Connelly (George Clooney) is trying to keep his ragtag team, the Duluth Bulldogs, from going broke. To find instant success and media appeal, Dodge hires college star Carter Rutherford (John Krasinski) to join the squad, bringing with him fast feet and serious war hero credentials. On the Bulldogs' tail is newspaper reporter Lexie Littleton (an alluringly tart Renee Zellweger), who's under orders to tear down Carter's account of battlefield heroics, but finds herself drawn to his boyish charm and Dodge's boozy sensibilities.
"Leatherheads" is a cross between a classic George Roy Hill picture and something the Coen Brothers would dream up to entertain themselves. Directed by Clooney, the feature is a throwback to the screwball comedies of the 30s, executed with finger-snap timing and photographed with a golden glow befitting a tale of apple-cheeked, black-eyed Americana. Clooney helms with a particular zeal, resembling a kid in a candy store as he gets to play around with eye-bulging slapstick scenarios, lightning-bolt repartee, and comical period set-pieces. Even with a few missteps in the pacing department, "Leatherheads" remains a whole heap of appealing fun.
What I'm positive will surprise potential viewers is how little a part football plays in "Leatherheads." Clooney doesn't entirely ignore the gridiron action, having a ball showcasing the sport's bruiser origins in the cleared woods and cow-populated farmlands of the Midwest; yet, the film is more of a character piece than a sporting comedy, with subplots extending to Carter's military shame and the hopscotch flirtations between Dodge and Lexie, which eventually trickles down to begrudging admiration.
Of course, all of this is executed with a fizzy bang that Clooney pulls off with a prohibition stupor and some knee-slapping generosity; the man knows how to stage a bar fight and a game of verbal chess with the best of them, inhaling large, billowy cinema-god smoke to craft his own cartwheeling comedy. Just don't be shocked when there's not much time given to football theatrics.
The plots collide in the final act when Clooney stages a wild "big game" to balance out the maturation of his characters. Even with all the mayhem of the playing field to keep the film eventful, the screenplay spends some time eulogizing the death of football. With rules soon implemented that steal away the unpredictability and entertainment value of the game, "Leatherheads" underlines the changes football endured to become the passive experience accepted today. It's a fascinating footnote on an incredibly engaging comedy, showcasing Clooney's gifts as a comedic actor, not to mention a director in constant pursuit of increasingly cockeyed stories plump with genuine surprise and executed with marvelous visual dexterity.
Filmfodder Grade: B+]]>