The year is 1987, and Precious (newcomer Gabourey Sidibe) is a morbidly obese, illiterate 16-year-old girl suffering abuse at the hands of her violent mother, Mary (Mo’Nique), and expecting her second child, impregnated by her own father. Kicked out of school, Precious is sent to the “Each One Teach One” GED education center, where she meets sympathetic teacher Ms. Rain (Paula Patton). Trying to survive her daily punishments and humiliations, Precious starts to put her life in order through her educational efforts, engaging slowly but surely with counselor Ms. Weiss (Mariah Carey), who attempts to adjust the young lady’s sense of self-worth. Emboldened by her accomplishments and newfound friends, Precious realizes she isn’t free from her mother’s wrath, with even more severe turns of fate waiting around the corner to smash her confidence to pieces.
There’s a special low-to-the-ground quality to “Precious” that pulled me into the story almost completely. Narrated by the title character in a thick-tongued, stream-of-consciousness ramble, mumbling her every thought as though the audience should not be allowed to hear her hopes and dreams, “Precious” feels properly intimate. It’s almost voyeuristic in a way. The screenplay by Geoffrey Fletcher seeks to provide a balance between the character’s horrific reality and the shelter of her mind, where dreams of red-carpet stardom and the romantic attention of cute boys whisks Precious away from the cruelty that’s toughened her exterior and sent her heart into a coma. The film preserves its literary foundation by capturing Precious’ conflicted core, performed with stupendous clotted discomfort by Sidibe, whose fearlessness in appearance and emotional availability gives Daniels a miraculous canvas to work with.
With such throbbing swells of misery portioned throughout the film, it’s a miracle Daniels never accepts a less aggressive route of misery for his heroine. The option is there, but Daniels (last seen with the eye-rollingly bizarre 2006 thriller, “Shadowboxer”) ducks temptation, preferring to tackle Precious’ grueling world with authentic malice and irritation, showing equal parts love and frustration for the character. Daniels takes an unfortunate off-ramp with his visual style, which arrives as clichéd as can be, using zooms and fractured editing to artificially breathe for the story. The effort is distracting and entirely worthless when the cast is harmonizing superbly. Even Mo’Nique, not normally known for her graceful screen presence, contributes volatile work as the demonic mother, cursed with feelings of irrational jealousy that have made her daughter the enemy. She’s pure malice, and a nice contrast to the work of Paula Patton, who steals the film as the exhausted, supportive beacon of hope for Precious, refusing to accept her excuses, nudging the terrified girl into literacy and communication.
“Precious” is more concerned with the first steps of empowerment, not an overall cure, leaving more of a lasting impression than outright closure allows. The story of Precious hits several staggering low points, but the humanity is never far from view, and while uncomfortable to process at times, the film retains an impressive dramatic grip through unimaginable horror. Tyler Perry could learn a thing or two from this approach.
Filmfodder Grade: B+]]>
A Midwestern journalist with heavy domestic troubles, Bob Wilton (Ewan McGregor) heads over to Iraq to cover the war, looking to challenge himself and prove his worth to his cheating wife. Needing a specialist to help cross the border, Bob meets Lyn Cassady (George Clooney), a former diamond soldier of the New Earth Army (NEA), a military unit dedicated to nurturing psychic powers, under the command of new age enthusiast, Bill Django (Jeff Bridges). Learning more about these self-proclaimed “Jedis,” Bob is sucked into Lyn’s history, learning about wondrous mental feats of strength and the bitterness of Larry Hooper (Kevin Spacey), a rival who desired his own position of leadership. Traveling into the heart of the war, Bob and Lyn bond as they dodge trouble, trusting in the ridiculous powers of the mind to help them stave off certain doom.
“Goats” is a tightrope act without a safety net, requiring a sense of adventure from the viewer as screenwriter Peter Straughan and director Grant Heslov depict the waves of tomfoolery while satirizing rigid military behaviors and ferocious ambition. “Goats” is a comedy and a zany one at that, highlighting the birth of the psychic warrior, trained by Django to be sensitive souls willing to express themselves through dance, deviating from the military norm -- a generation of flower children for the 1980s, with Lyn the star pupil. Finding his true calling in life as a member of the NEA, Lyn sharpens his untested mental skill while discovering himself in ways never allowed in stricter setting of instruction.
Through Heslov, the concept of psychic warfare is left in a gray area of belief, using Bob as the surrogate who initially doubts Lyn’s explanations, but eventually fully immerses himself in the NEA world, becoming a true believer the more Lyn divulges state secrets in the middle of the Iraq desert. Summoning the miracle of a classic rock soundtrack and trusting the power of careful, considerate framing, Heslov sells the insanity with amazing results, allowing the movie to chase pure goofball splendor, giving in to the slapstick and exaggerated reactions, creating a festive atmosphere where every actor contributes superbly to the eccentricity. Dealing with psychedelic drugs, mind games with goats, and wild stories of unorthodox training, Heslov shows an incredible flair for finger-paint comedy, allowing the picture to gracefully soak up nonsense, sharply performed by the outstanding cast.
Moving into darker, treacherous corners for the last act, endeavoring to tie something madcap into sobering Iraq War history, Heslov extends the conclusion past the expiration date. He stops the party, and the energy is noticeably lacking from the final reel, which feels uncharacteristically severe. Thank heavens the rest of the picture stuck with the silly. Heslov has shaped “The Men Who Stare at Goats” into a lively romp; an indescribable satiric lunge that’s big on laughs and puzzlement, making it a constantly engaging sit despite some potentially off-putting material.
Filmfodder Grade: B+]]>
Ever since her childhood in Kansas, Amelia Earhart (Hilary Swank) wanted to fly. Using the publicity skills of publisher George Putnam (Richard Gere), Amelia found fame as a passenger on a 1928 transatlantic flight, catapulting her name into the history books. But Amelia wanted her own glory. Eventually marrying Putnam, the couple built Amelia into a brand name, sending her into the skies and on the lecture circuit, even finding a romantic dalliance with admirer Gene Vidal (Ewan McGregor) along the way. Against Putnams wishes, Amelia desired a transatlantic solo flight, eventually looking to take on the impossible: a flight around the world. With navigator Fred Noonan (Christopher Eccleston) in tow, Amelia took off in 1937, sailing into the skies for the last time.
I suppose theres some expectation for Amelia to focus intently on the airborne accomplishments of its heroine, seeing how her name was built on incredible leaps of skyward faith and instinct. It certainly came as a surprise to me to see that the film isnt always interested in Amelias gifts, but her bedroom proclivities. Director Mira Nair searches to unearth Amelias heart, investigating the passions that found her bouncing between men as she craved freedom from limitation. It seems Amelia wasnt always driven by honor, more often pushed into opportunity by the men who attempted to run her life.
Nair handles the domestic disturbance with heavy melodramatic hands, pressing Gere and Swank into a heightened state of emotion, keeping in line with the cinematic offerings of the era. The homage is clear, but the delivery is trying, especially under the tight bondage of the films PG rating. The picture depicts Amelia Earhart as a bisexual adulteress with a soaring heart, easily susceptible to male control. Nair handles the subplot cautiously, but it feels distracting, especially placed next to the aviation material, where the films heart truly lies.
Wielding exaggerated accents (Geres comes and goes), the leads fail to generate much heat, instead only encouraging painful pockets of overacting, trying to compete with cinematographer Stuart Dryburghs amazing aerial footage by broadly overstating desire. The performances are awkward, made worse by Nairs indecision, caught between Amelias legacy, built through endorsements and media curiosity, and her innate need to be in the air. The two elements of her personality never gel properly into a convincing feature.
Ill give Nair this, she does make history exciting again. The final act, where Amelias fate is sealed somewhere over the Pacific, is a harrowing sequence of miscommunication and acceptance, generating astounding tension. Here, the merging of wonder and panic creates a strong brew of suspense, taking a conclusion widely documented and making it feel sickening all over again. Amelia couldve used more of this inspired manipulation.
As I walked out of the screening, I tried to assess what I learned about Amelia over the course of the feature. What the film offers is melodrama, more interested in the aviatrixs bedroom activities than her spirit. The picture doesnt track her heroism or her elevated determination, soon reflected in the eyes of millions of impressionable young women. Amelia hunts for complexity, but it only achieves a tedious middle ground. Amelia Earhart left behind an amazing legacy of accomplishments and exited the world creating one of historys most enduring mysteries. Her story is a mighty creature, but Amelia can only muster a dull roar.
Filmfodder Grade: C]]>
In Metro City, a metropolis hovering high above a polluted Earth, Dr. Tenma (voiced by Nicolas Cage) is preparing to experiment with a pure energy source intended to enhance the citys overflowing robot population. When wicked President Stone (Donald Sutherland) assumes control of the energy, an accident occurs, killing Tenmas son (Freddie Highmore). Racked with grief, Tenma decides to use the special power to fuel a robot replica of his beloved child, but the boys artificiality only deepens the doctors depression. Cast down to Earth, the boy, rechristened Astro by a gang of pre-teen salvagers and their makeshift guardian, Hamegg (Nathan Lane), grows to love treatment as a human, but when Stone rises up again to claim power, Astro must embrace his robotic roots to save humanity.
Astro Boy comes from Imagi Animation Studios, who last gave the world the wonderful TMNT CG update. If there are any absolutes about this film, its the striking animation. Granted, Imagi doesnt have the budget or the manpower to compete with Pixar and Dreamworks just yet, but their minimal-coin work on Astro Boy is nicely futuristic and clean, with expressive body language and outstanding kinetic energy for the action sequences. The picture is fun to watch, and director David Bowers (Flushed Away) builds a few exhilarating sequences to show off the CG work, the highlights being the flying excursions where our hero learns of his rocket-feet gifts.
While Bowers can assemble superhero wonderment, managing the numerous moods of Astro Boy proves to be an impossible task. Heres a film that opens with the death of a child, yet insists its this wide-eyed, banana-peel cartoon, ushering in a series of wacky characters and slapstick to offset the potential emotional starkness of the material. The additions are poorly selected, ranging from a group of communist robots intent on leading a synthetic uprising to the squad of surface kids Astro befriends, who live in a semi-Dickensian wonderland under Hamegg, with one of the group admitting illiteracy. Of course, in the grand tradition of good taste, this leaves Bowers with no choice but to make fun of their inability to write.
Astro Boy settles into a routine of the awesome and the awful quickly, though its disappointing to see the bad decisions win out in the end. The President Stone character is a prime example of the lousy screenwriting. A Bush-era, war-crazy baddie whos on a fear mongering crusade to secure re-election, Bowers turns the menace away from horror to comedy, trying to lighten up the picture by urging Sutherland to ham it up (always a rotten idea), making obvious and spastic jokes when a nice coating of subtlety mightve brought the film interesting dimensions. By nudging the picture into primary colors, Astro Boy loses a shot at an intriguing personality. A little sustained darkness never hurt anyone.
A colorful voice cast (including Bill Nighy, Charlize Theron, Kristen Bell, David Alan Grier, and Eugene Levy) offers something to savor while the film struggles to find its footing, but this update of a classic animated character lands with a thud. A promise of a sequel at the end of the film (where our now shirtless boy-hero tears off into the sky) remains an unlikely prospect, but if there must be further Astro adventures, lets hope the filmmakers stick to heroic feats of strength and aerial ballet over awful stabs at comedy.
Filmfodder Grade: C-]]>
16-year-old Darren (Chris Massoglia) is an average teen with good grades and a love for spiders. Finding a flyer for the Cirque du Freak sideshow, Darren decides to attend with impulsive best friend Steve (the limited Josh Hutcherson), finding the evening of oddities to their liking. Discovering the main act, Mr. Crepsley (John C. Reilly), is actually a vampire, a situation arises where Darren needs Crepsleys help to save Steve from doom. Vowing to become his assistant, Crepsley fakes Darrens death and ushers him into the Cirque family (including Salma Hayek, Orlando Jones, and Patrick Fugit). Educated in the ways of the vampire, Darren is troubled to learn that Steve has aligned himself with the nefarious Vampaneze and is dead set on revenge for all the humiliations hes endured.
Its not that Assistant is confusing, because Im convinced that with ample time and patience, one could piece together the tale Weitz is desperate to sell here. My displeasure with the film comes from the velocity of the facts and figures. Condensing three books into 100 minutes is just asking for trouble, and Weitz isnt the man for such an arduous job; how Weitz even nabbed the directors chair is the most interesting mystery about this film. After In Good Company and the execrable American Dreamz, its odd that the producers handed the keys to a filmmaker without any previous work in the horror/fantasy genre. Hoping for a wry take on unconventional neck-biting shenanigans, Weitz offers the moneymen a joyless, verbose picture fiercely consumed with packing every last subplot into the script. Theres barely a moment to breathe before the next random act of Shan is introduced.
Assistant looks funky enough, with great attention to ghoulish moonlit graveyards and campsites. I also enjoyed the Cirque troupe and their variousahem, gifts, sold well by the special effects. Theres just something inspired about Salma Hayek as a bearded lady. Reilly is a joy as Mr. Crepsley, moving away from his normal thick-tongued dopey guy routine to play a character with some menace about him and a little panache. Theres just not enough time spent on the freaks in the picture. With the focus on the teen characters and the hazy nonsense of the Vampaneze (a name that provoked waves of laughter from my screening audience), Assistant doesnt chase the most exciting tangents, instead weighing itself down with bland subplots that never reach a fever pitch of enthusiasm the way Weitz hopes. With so much here to digest, the viewing experience is one of constant education, rarely allowing an opportunity to enjoy the vampiric fireworks.
In a ballsy move, Assistant ends with a cliffhanger of sorts, failing to seal the story shut in an effort to drag this anemic saga into a full-fledged franchise. Its an ambitious gamble, and one wasted on a dreary exercise in Harry Potter franchise money tree dreams.
Filmfodder Grade: C-]]>
Round after round, they kept coming back, encouraging the producers to churn out product on a yearly basis (the filmmaking equivalent of a Twinkie). Who cares if the series makes only a modicum of sense anymore? Who cares if the screenplays have run out of ideas for shock value? Saw brings the pain; a comfy sweater film series for those who crave displays of agony. And now, my dear readers, were up to chapter six. An impossible number. Freddy went out in a hail of 3-D and goofy celebrity cameos at this point. Jason folded into a cartoon for his sixth adventure. But Jigsaw? He still has something to prove. As long as the box office returns flood the Lionsgate bank account every Halloween, nothing is going to kill Jigsaw. And Saw VI (IMDb listing) is further proof that the producers of this franchise are running on fumes, flailing hysterically to keep the momentum going, still beating a premise that was bled dry long ago.
Agent Strahm is dead, leaving Lieutenant Hoffman (Costas Mandylor) free to continue the sadistic work of Jigsaw (Tobin Bell), setting death traps and teaching lasting lessons of morality. For Jigsaws widow, Jill (the always welcome Betsy Russell), a box containing the final instructions of punishment from her dead husband has been opened, with orders to target William (Peter Outerbridge), an insurance executive who has denied important health coverage for the needy for years, including Jigsaw. Setting William up in a sophisticated obstacle course of traps and time-sensitive judgment calls, Hoffman is ready to initiate his own reign of terror, only to find the unfinished fragments of Jigsaws past coming back to thwart his new direction.
Yes, for the first Obama-era Saw picture, the producers have decided to take on the health care industry. This has to be the most ridiculously perfect timing ever encountered in the horror industry. Of course, this means Saw VI is less of a torture chamber and more of a medieval town square confrontation, where the wicked insurance ghoul is brought before the paying audience to be pelted with vegetables and scorn, leaving director Kevin Greutert the honor of a slow cinematic dismemberment. Now hows that for a public option!
The health care angle for Saw VI is a wild one, but in the grand tradition of these sequels, the filmmakers havent a clue what to do with the eency weency spark of creativity theyve stumbled upon. Instead, they smother the topical subject in familiar monkey business, literally retracing the previous pictures, retelling the same old story of withered, cancer-stricken Jigsaw and his craving to scare the life back into his victims. Saw VI hints at a drive to tie up dusty loose ends and tender some closure to those whove stuck around this long. However, a swan song this film is most certainly not.
Shamelessly repetitive, Saw VI reheats old conflicts, brings back an old character to panic Hoffman, and simply feels old all around. Five sequels in, and the producers are still milking Jigsaws message of redemption? What was once comfortably tedious is now deadly dull, and Greutert is no help, blindly sticking to the franchise formula to make it out of his directorial debut alive. Its lazy filmmaking all around.
The second half of Saw VI pits William against his vicious challenges, allowing the audience to root for the traps as they aim to chomp the money mans limbs away. The extremity of the violence here is more cartoonish than ever before; the production is desperate to stay one step ahead of the audience by mounting more outlandish traps that necessitate the worst acting imaginable. The bloodletting is grandiose in Saw VI, but strangely uneventful. You know youve seen one too many of these films when the sight of man hacking away at his own engorged stomach with a rusty knife elicits a yawn and a quick check of the wristwatch. It seems vile of me to even suggest it, but the intensity of Saw is gone, replaced by predictability for installment six. The work of the devil now feels like senseless padding to make a feature-length running time.
While declarations of finality are tossed around liberally by the characters, Saw VI ends with another cliffhanger, assuring that the Jigsaw train will make a future stop come Halloween 2010. Would it kill these producers to take a few chances for the next adventure? Its easy to loathe a Saw picture, but to be utterly bored by one seems an unpardonable offense.
Filmfodder Grade: D+]]>
Fresh from his latest domestic murder, David Harris (Dylan Walsh) has come to Oregon to start over, targeting single mom Susan (Sela Ward) and her family, including eldest son Michael (Penn Badgley), fresh home from a juvenile military camp. Slipping into a fatherly role, David attempts to make the best out of the uncomfortable situation, pushing himself as a grand paternal figure, much to the disdain of Michael. Trying to convince his mentally challenged girlfriend, Kelly (Amber Heard), that David is nothing but trouble, Michael sneaks around the house, hoping to gather enough clues to prove his theory. David, sensing he wont find the idyllic life he craves with Susans family, becomes increasingly violent to protect his fragmented identity.
I suppose there wasnt much to expect from The Stepfather, seeing how it ended up in the hands of director Nelson McCormick, who tore the cult legacy of Prom Night apart last year with his moronic second take. McCormick is studio-controlled puppet, not a director in the artistic sense of the word, and his stillborn pass on the material is unsurprisingly dismal. The 1987 picture wasnt the most refined production, but it retained a dazzling ambiance of suspense, twisting the traditions of the slasher genre to discover fresh areas of psychological troublemaking. McCormick doesnt share the same sense of adventure, instead piping in the stupidity once David spots Susan.
With a restrictive rating, McCormick cant stretch out his imagination to depict Davids homicidal appetites. The films limited to vague menace and neutered acts of violence, most featuring David suffocating his victims in various ways. Since the feature isnt permitted to play rough, McCormick gives up the hunt early and aims the film toward teen viewers, filling the soundtrack with tuneless emo-rock snoozers and keeping Heard and Badgley in various states of undress. Hey, if actual suspense cant be summoned, cheesecake will always do the trick.
The flagrant and crude manipulation would digest easier if the two young stars could act. Instead, Badgley looks and sound like a heavily sedated version of Mark Wahlberg (Jill Schoelen was a much feistier teen killjoy), and Heard is atrocious in a role that requires nothing more from her than the ability to tie a bikini top. These two werent hired for their acting gifts, I understand, but theyre in charge of nurturing the mystery. Without a pair of lively, believable spoilers stepping in Davids way, theres no reason to invest in the nonsense.
Walsh gives the killer dad role the old college try, but a plausible menace he is not. McCormick has an annoying habit of thickly underlining all of Davids misdeeds and predatory glances, making Stepfather more of a brazen cartoon experience, confusing Walshs concentration. It leads to a whopping bit of absurdity reserved for the standard-issue final showdown, which promises a sequel as our reward. With this cast and crew, it feels more like an act of intimidation.
Filmfodder Grade: D]]>
Having witnessed the murder of his wife and daughter, Clyde Shelton (Gerard Butler, destroying an American accent yet again) is ready for justice to be served. Up and coming D.A. Nick Rice (Jamie Foxx) is in charge of the case and eager to make a deal with one of the brutes to send the other to death row. Clyde, witnessing his dreams of justice expire, walks away, allowing Nick to carry out his plan. 10 years later, the two killers end up murdered in gruesome ways, with Clyde the only possible suspect. Instigating a psychological war with Nick, Clyde demands a new type of justice, mysteriously reaching out from behind bars to systematically torment everyone associated with his case (including Leslie Bibb and Bruce McGill). Nick, fearing for his life, races against the clock to crack Clydes master plan before he targets his wife and child.
When Law Abiding Citizen feels comfortable enough to be a blunt object of suspense, it comes together splendidly. Pitting the harsh realities of the modern justice system against the suburban cry for blood from a soccer dad, Kurt Wimmers screenplay nurtures a pungent odor of injustice that sets up the plot in an exhilarating manner. Morally frozen lawyers? Tired, careless judges? Wimmer manipulates audience reaction superbly, bringing the story to a wonderful boil as Nick stands firm to his case-winning percentages and Clyde sulks away, beaten down by the system that was supposed to heal his aching heart. Now theres a proper set-up for a bracing thriller that respects the fine art of revenge.
Unfortunately, Citizen doesnt follow through with its corker of a first act. Director F. Gary Gray toys with the audience for fair amount of the running time, building the characterizations of the two men as they disagree on what the punishment should be. Staying put with Nick the ladder-climbing opportunist and Clyde the meek idealist provides the film with a sensational, unfussy pulse of tension. Wimmer and Gray dont trust that simplicity, and they overreach to contort Citizen from a solid thriller to a surprisingly violent thrill ride.
You see, Clyde has a secret. All men do. Yet, Clydes secret scrubs away the films sense of realism and suggestion of fair play. By turning Mr. Rogers into Jason Bourne, the sensation of surprise is smothered. Suddenly everything is larger than life, and Clydes symphony of revenge plays out like a typical action film, not a sinister pageant of dark justice. Wimmer dreams up one whopper after the next to keep the film rolling, enthusiastically turning Citizen into a sci-fi film of sorts with its extreme sequences of comeuppance. By the time a robot shows up in a graveyard to mow down the greater Philadelphia D.A. office, itll take a heavenly force to keep most eyes from rolling.
By the final reel, Citizen has shed all of its thought-provoking material, morphing completely into a contrived thriller that doesnt fully understand how to close on a satisfying note. Instead of a wicked game of mental chess, we get fireballs. Law Abiding Citizen takes the easy route out, assuming that flagrant manipulation requires a cartoon hand. All it really needs is confidence, patience, and someone to boo.
Filmfodder Grade: C+]]>
Young Max (Max Records) is facing the end of his innocence, with an older sister moving on to teen concerns, an education that promises the end of the world, and his mother (Catherine Keener), whos trying to make sense of her job and love life. A moment of violent rebellion takes Max outside of his home and into the wilds of his mind, where he imagines a boat trip to a far away land inhabited by neurotic monsters. Meeting behemoths Carol (voiced by James Gandolfini), Judith (Catherine OHara), Ira (Forest Whitaker), K.W. (Lauren Ambrose), Douglas (Chris Cooper), and runt Alexander (Paul Dano), Max makes himself the king of the land, joining the monsters as they play and argue. However, leadership has its price, and the longer Max stays with the bickering monsters, the more he comprehends his misbehavior at home.
Long thought to be an unfilmable book, Where the Wild Things Are doesnt strike me as something that required a silver screen conquering, providing a succinct exploration of juvenile anger and remorse on just a handful of magnificently illustrated pages. However, Jonze is a determined man, and through a meandering screenplay (co-written by Dave Eggers), the filmmaker has managed to stretch the material to a size befitting a motion picture event. Im impressed with Jonzes commitment to the scope and design of the film, but to find the filler that plumps up the sliver-thin narrative, the filmmaker reaches into his bag of gloom and oddity, molesting Sendaks simplicity with winded pathos.
While Max is our guide to the outer realms of this expansive dream world, the monsters are the centerpiece, and the characters Jonze is most fixated on. A blend of Henson Creature Shop bodies and CG faces, the enormous inhabitants of Maxs subconscious are miraculous creations that respect the art of the tangible while engaging in seamless computer wizardry to lend the monsters divergent personalities. The creatures are all details and worry, with a magnificent voice cast providing a tender core to the herculean visual effort. Eschewing dynamic visual trickery in favor of roly-poly, wobbly puppet outfits, the monsters are rendered as real as monstrously possible, allowing Jonze to provide a certain threat for Max as he looks to win over his tempestuous friends. Acting more like Jackass cast members as they punch through trees, rubber-ball bounce around the wilderness, and enjoy a good dirt-clump fight, the monsters are easily the most technologically impressive screen effect of the year. Jim Henson would be proud.
Now, what Jonze does with his special screen achievement is another story. Maxs arc of rage to regret is a brief journey in Sendaks book, and the screenplay is careful to maintain the role-reversal twist of the tale, where Max finds himself in a parental role with his persistent monster pals. Moving past Maxs responsibility proves to be more difficult for the picture, which seeks to fashion the furry co-stars as uniquely tormented souls who need the boy for enlightenment and reassurance. Instead of a joyful romp, Jonze aims his sniper rifle toward the heart, strumming the nostalgic strings of lost childhood and strain of friendship to build up some drama to pad out the running time. The monsters as individuals with hopes, suspicions, and fears is a wonderful idea, but the execution comes off labored, often showcasing the characters yelling at each other, a few moments hitting Carnal Knowledge levels of relationship ferocity. The monsters love and alienate easily, but theres no real pull to their contention, wallowing in sadness, turning Sendaks book into an emo beacon. The author celebrated the feral passion of youth. Jonze positively mourns it.
Boasting an outstanding production design, Where the Wild Things Are is a feast for the eyes. Its magical in spurts, snatching the highlights of the book and making some terrific make-believe with jaw-dropping technical achievements. The substance between the marvel is another matter entirely. Spike Jonze obviously has his heart in the right place here, but extending something so perfectly concise, so willingly brief, to an absurd length invites more trouble than triumph. The rumpus runs out of steam quickly.
Filmfodder Grade: C+]]>
Hundreds of years ago, a young boy named Tiens (Tony Jaa) was the son of a powerful nobleman, who pushed his son to learn the art of dance over the boys choice of martial arts. When trouble invades Tienss village and his parents are killed, the boy takes off into the jungle, only to be captured by slave traders. Proving himself useful in a fight, Tiens is trained by his captors to become a powerful warrior, joining a team of pirates as they tear across the land. Losing himself to immorality, Tiens struggles to sort out his past, targeting the new king for death.
I think.
2003s Ong-Bak was Jaas debutante ball, introducing the young limb-snapper to a global audience blown away by his incredible Muay Thai skills, making the picture more of a martial arts demonstration reel than a feature film. Still, the limber eruption was gold, developed to a finer point of melodrama in Jaas berserk follow-up, The Protector. While plagued with more behind-the-scenes problems than you could shake a broken femur at, Ong Bak 2 has been seen to completion (more or less), and while the story is a blur, the action remains in a state of euphoria.
A rather involved period piece, Jaa (along with co-director Panna Rittikrai) angles for a romantic mood of royal betrayals and stolen innocence. The film is gorgeously shot and imagined, with sweeping Thai vistas and hefty set pieces of destruction, acting as an ideal catalyst for the eventual path of revenge. Ong Bak 2 is a far more ambitious film than its predecessor, purposely wiggling away from modern day heroics to set a primal tone, permitting the action a more volatile backdrop to work with. The film isnt completely incomprehensible, but it jumps around needlessly, losing sight of proper velocity. Jaa doesnt want to offer his fans junk food, and thats a respectable goal; however, Ong Bak 2 is a thinly constructed film, with a few changes in focus crippling the intended spark of spiritual punishment.
As much as Jaa tries to inch away from a straightforward routine of action beats with this picture, his way of the fist is something truly magical. Ong Bak 2 lets loose a few times during the show, the best being Tiens and his severe takedown of a swarm of marketplace baddies. The Muay Thai moves, with blunt leg kicks and soaring bodies, remain a perfect martial art for the medium, displaying an unreal splendor beneath the bone-cracking mayhem. The picture isnt wall-to-wall action as hoped, but when it does decide to crack its knuckles and start rumbling (the swordplay is equally as wild as the hand-to-hand action), the fight sequences are as thrilling as anything Jaa has committed to the screen before.
Its been a few years since Tony Jaa last made a cinematic appearance, so Ill accept the often baffling execution of Ong Bak 2 (which ends with a strange cliffhanger for the next film) as long as it keeps Jaa moving forward in the industry. Hes a talented guy, even revealing a strong visual sense here that needs some more development, but feels only a few films way from greatness. Messy, but always convincing, Ong Bak 2: The Beginning offers Thai cinema basics with the proper Jaa trauma, and its a delight to have him back.
Filmfodder Grade: B]]>
Nearing divorce, Jason (Jason Bateman) and Cynthia (Kristen Bell) are hoping for a week-long getaway to the therapeutic island of Eden to engage in a marriage workshop, run by the enigmatic Marcel (Jean Reno). To help split the cost, Jason convinces married pals Dave (Vince Vaughn) and Ronnie (Malin Akerman), Joey (Jon Favreau) and Lucy (Kristin Davis), and Shane (Faizon Love) and his 20-year-old girlfriend Trudi (Kali Hawk), to join them in paradise. Once arrived, Eden reveals its not about jet-skis and buffets, but intense couples therapy, leaving the crew stunned and vulnerable to the resorts probing methods of self-discovery.
Really, its shocking how unfunny this picture is.
It seems like such a sure bet on the outside: Vaughn, Favreau, shimmering Bora-Bora locations. However, Retreat is a bust, a nearly laugh-free comedy written by Vaughn and Favreau (with help from Dana Fox) and handed to their pal, Billingsley, to mark his directorial debut. So much for favors from friends.
Its easy to nail Billingsley to the wall for this misfire, and his pedestrian direction reveals his amateur status all too easily, with a clockwork routine of uncomfortable close-ups and sitcom effects to help him set the scene. The editing is uncommonly rough as well, looking as though the film was cut with a hacksaw. Billingsley is enormously sloppy here, and combined with an improv-heavy cast, Retreat often rambles itself into a coma, indulging the bursting cast until theyre rosy-cheeked and making Applebees references. The characters are drawn thin and shrill, with the final cut favoring Dave and Ronnies story for no plausible reason. The Eden situations seem like crude Groundlings audience shout-outs, getting the cast into uncomfortable positions without any decent jokes to help elevate the emotional tempest; Retreat feels blindly made-up. Its bad jazz, rambling and unfocused, and with so much comedic real estate in play here, the fact that the film never gets out of first gear is flabbergasting.
If youre thinking to yourself, why make a comedy about bickering couples to begin with? Youre not alone. A strange premise that requires the audience to sit through long passages of characters whining and yelling, Retreat ultimately wants sympathy for the caricatures, hoping to impart lasting wisdom on marital commitment. Its a nice sentiment, but fits awkwardly, especially on the likes of Joey and Lucy, who embark on a strange tango of infidelity thats never successfully introduced, but the script lays on the horn as if its unearthed something profound. Other subplots chase obvious routes of bedroom disinterest, dipping into flat-out dramatics here and there that make the film feel impossibly heavy. Its bad enough that Retreat cant deal a decent hand of jokes, but to care about these motormouth people armed with only a page and a half of reasonable backstory? Billingsley is dreaming.
The films indulgences also annoy, including a late-inning Guitar Hero duel where video game producer Dave challenges one of the Eden staff to a Billy Squire war. The sequence is embarrassing, with cheesy split-screen and strange Bonanza references to buffer the icky product placement whoredom factor that lingers long after the film ends.
Its frustrating to watch Retreat sleepwalk around, assuming its very presence is enough to provide laughs. Thats a lazy way to make a movie. The cast deserves better. Billingsley deserves better. Heck, the insanely pristine beaches of Bora-Bora deserve a better big screen treatment than what the labored, ugly Couples Retreat submits. Its a mess and a humorless one at that, making it one of the years most egregious missed opportunities.
Filmfodder Grade: D]]>
The world has been wiped out, with zombies scattered around the globe on the hunt for human flesh. Only a few survivors remain, and one of them, Columbus (Jesse Eisenberg), has his own set of rules to help him survive the daily harassment. Meeting up with Tallahassee (Woody Harrelson), a fearless zombie killer of the redneck kind, the two hunters head eastward, desperate to return to whatever is left of their homes. Hindering their progress are Wichita (Emma Stone) and Little Rock (Abigail Breslin), two grifters on their way to visit a beloved theme park in California. At first combative and distrustful, the gang begins to bond, only to find the friendship put to the test when the zombie nation rises up for another round of attacks.
Its pretty much known throughout the geek world that Edgar Wrights 2004, Romero-approved picture, Shaun of the Dead, was the ultimate word on the strange marriage of zombies and splatter comedy. I dont think the crown is in danger of being stolen here, but Zombieland offers its own successful take on the same raw materials, only here director Ruben Fleischer comes well armed with a crisper, more CG-manipulated take on matters of the living dead, boosted by a sociable tone of laughs and shocks that will easily charm the gorehound crowd, but might win over a few naysayers as well.
Opening with a brief recap of zombie events and an overview of Columbuss rules for survival (Rule #1: Cardio), Zombieland kicks into a combative title sequence where the living dead literally burst through the credits, scored ingeniously to Metallicas bruiser, For Whom the Bell Tolls. Its made clear in the opening five minutes that Fleischer is reaching for something more visceral than witty, and hes got the visual tools and budget to drag the material into some fierce areas of engagement. His weapon of choice is slow-motion, and its used superbly to monitor the zombie horror in painstaking detail, as the innocent run for their lives, only to be overcome by flesh eaters who are faster and more determined. Zombieland is at least 50% screen detail, offering a frightfully zany zombie apocalypse where every death is decelerated to help relish the pure strains of irony and terror.
Thing do grow very silly very quickly, especially in the second act where the team hits the deserted streets of Beverly Hills to hide out in their pick of abandoned celebrity homes. The playful star cameo included here I cannot reveal, but the sequence represents the best and worst of Zombieland, taking a considerable amount of time away from the undead to make wink-wink jokes that come off as indulgent. Hilarious, for sure, but the attention is directed away from what counts. Its not a deal breaker, only a lull in the action to give Fleischer a breather to develop his goofy characters -- a transparent move too late in the movie to matter.
Still, the material is wonderfully interpreted by the cast, with Harrelson having a ball shooting off machine guns, painting Earnhardt numbers on every found automobile, and beating down zombies with a crude range of weapons. Tallahassees also on the hunt for a Twinkie to soothe his soul, fueling his interstate rage as he finds only Snowballs left behind by cruel Hostess drivers. Zombieland also gives something constructive for Eisenberg to do. While still a fantastically one-note actor, Eisenberg puts his neurotic shtick to good use here, narrating the rules and regulations of a world gone mad. Stone and Breslin provide solid backup, but wield shotguns with a threadbare badass panache similar to Don Knotts.
The finale of Zombieland takes the action to a theme park setting, and Fleischer isnt afraid to abuse the neon-lit carnival iconography to backdrop the mounting, snarling body count. Its a terrific closer on an unexpectedly inspired film. Perhaps losing the box office clout to all things vampire these days, zombies retain a distinctive screen presence, and Zombieland knows just how to treat the plague: roughly and uproariously.
Filmfodder Grade: B+-]]>
In an alternate universe, Mark Bellison (Ricky Gervais) lives in a world where everyone tells the truth. Its usually horrible news, including the revelation that Marks dream girl, Anna (Jennifer Garner), wont embark on a relationship with the sad sack screenwriter due to an obvious genetic mismatch. Fired from his job, lacking a romantic future, and about to lose his mother, Mark discovers he alone can lie, which allows him freedom to do whatever he wants. Winning over his co-workers and topping his rivals (Rob Lowe), Mark eventually uses his powers of untruth to console his dying mother, inventing a comforting paradise beyond death that catches the attention of the community. Hounding the magic man to learn more about this splendor, Mark devises his own commandments to placate the masses, figuring out a way to pin all the glory and misdeeds of the world on a bearded man in the sky.
Admittedly, its a fine concept. Being something of a satiric wizard, it makes sense for Gervais to go after ripe targets of religion. Co-directing and screenwriting with Matthew Robinson, Gervais positions Lying as a piss-take on the bible, using Mark as a figure of deception wielding his power to keep the trusting population in line as he builds himself the ultimate lifestyle of power. Hardly fanged, Lying is a send-up taking the slow-pitch softball route, leading with Gervais and his stuttery allure as it leisurely maneuvers into place.
While a comedy, Lying doesnt put forth the bellylaughs one might expect from the premise. Gervais and Robinson step back and let the absurdity sink in, with a smattering of worthless celebrity cameos hanging around to wake the film up (Tina Fey, Edward Norton, Christopher Guest, and Jason Bateman are a few that make appearances). If that doesnt work, well, the filmmakers go broad, turning pizza boxes into Marks commandment tablets (shades of Mike Judges Idiocracy) or literally dressing the character up as Jesus in the last act of the story, just to keep every viewer on the same page. Its meant to be cheeky, but true edge or wit never shows up. Instead, Lying hovers a few inches off the ground waiting for something to send it into orbit; Gervais leaves behind an assortment of unrealized ideas centered on a gullible populace receiving an unprepared salvation education that is curiously left unsullied.
Ultimately, Lying is about love, with Gervais and Robinson scripting a lazy McConaugheyesque wedding break-up scenario for an ending (cue the Supertramp!), which plays it awfully safe considering the rest of the film has the seeds to noogie organized religion. Of course, the ending would be more deeply felt had the audience been allowed to understand what Mark sees in Anna in the first place (her constant criticism of his looks clouds the intended twinkle), and their relationship, of primary concern to the plot, is a baffling one. Its all nicely performed by Gervais and Garner, but holds no consequence in the finished film.
The Invention of Lying skips around with a rusted blade, swinging it more wildly as the film moves along. Its more obvious than expected, especially from a sly dog like Gervais, who seems unafraid of the dark on television, yet pulls his punches on the big screen. Oddly, the best moments of the picture are Mark at his most vulnerable (the explanation of paradise scene is stunning), showing a wellspring of dramatic potential in Gervais thats far more compelling than his comedy these days.
Filmfodder Grade: C-]]>
Bliss Cavendar (Ellen Page) is a small town teen from Texas dealing with her mothers (Marcia Gay Harden) nagging efforts to turn her into a beauty queen. Feeling more comfortable in combat boots than heels, Bliss finds her bliss when she happens upon a roller derby league in Austin, meeting the ladies of the Hurl Scouts, including Maggie Mayhem (Kristen Wiig), Bloody Holly (Zoe Bell), Smashley Simpson (Drew Barrymore), Rosa Sparks (Eve), and their coach, Razor (Andrew Wilson). Underage, Bliss lies her way onto the team, though her unexpected speed quickly wins her fans and the Hurl Scouts a few games. Leading a double life to keep her parents (also including Daniel Stern) away from her roller skating passion, Bliss (rechristened Babe Ruthless on the track) soon gets mixed up with a singer (Landon Pigg), alienates her best friend, Pash (Alia Shawkat), and finds the sanctity of her beloved sisterhood of brawlers threatened by Iron Maven (Juliette Lewis), a rival out to destroy the young star.
Written by Shauna Cross (adapted from her own 2007 novel), Whip It holds the raw materials to shape itself into a rousing statement of empowerment. In a year that has seen nearly every female-driven picture lose itself to mind-numbing romantic submission, Whip It promises early that its going to be different, that it will allow Bliss to locate her emotional core without the need to cloud the bright blue sky of potential with formulaic drivel. In her feature-length directorial debut, Barrymore seizes true inspiration right out of the gate, building the first act of the film into a tingling journey of closeted rebellion finding a glad hand on the track. I adored how Barrymore carefully situated Bliss on the edge of maturation, finding the needs of her parents falling behind her as she comes to develop her own voice among her battered teammates, along with a claim made on her burgeoning sexual confidence.
It isnt long before Barrymore cant make up her mind what to do with Bliss. While punctuated with roller derby game footage (along with a much needed primer on how scoring works), Whip It doesnt seem fascinated with the sport, only the residual effects of the mascara-heavy revolution. I wanted more time with the Hurl Scouts, as only Maggie is allowed a life beyond the track to explore. Bliss interaction with her teammates is nominal, regulated to training, locker room banter, and a food fight, leaving Barrymore room to delve into clichd events that help harden Bliss, including a romance with emo star boyfriend, Oliver.
Conceived and photographed like a Mentos commercial, the romantic subplot strips away any value Whip It held as iconic clenched fist of empowerment. Hustling a boy in to complicate Bliss world is a lazy device to congeal the drama, a pain doubled by Piggs Carol Brady appearance and lousy acting chops. Oliver could be completely stripped out of the film without hurting Blisss arc, and Im disappointed that Barrymore felt she needed to spend so much time on such obvious storytelling mechanics. Theres so much with Bliss parents, teammates, and friends to explore that easily account for the emotional development requirement of the feature. Bringing in a cute guy who cant act needlessly stops the film cold, revealing Barrymores limitations as a filmmaker. In a story that appears to encourage the birth of individuality, adding a toxic dollop of contrived crush hysterics poisons all the good will.
Whip It rebounds with a familiar but compassionate finale that reinforces the fine, understated work from Page, who reveals a vulnerability I never knew she was capable of expressing. Shes a wonderful human foundation for the punches, ironic heavy metal t-shirts, and hyperactive soundtrack cuts. The pleasures of Whip It outweigh the disappointments, but its a photo finish. Barrymore has the eye and moxie to deliver screen delights with a considerable amount of flair, but she needs some encouragement in the bravery department.
Filmfodder Grade: B-]]>
The topic here is capitalism, that ivory spine of the American Dream, helping to build a strong and prosperous country. But what if capitalism soured? What if the very concept turned from something intended to benefit the many into a private gold mine for the few? Fueled by the fallout that shadowed the financial collapse of the last year, Moore found his curiosity piqued by the unnerving nationwide turbulence that greeted the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008 and various other financial indignities. The divide between the rich and poor was growing wider, leaving Moore to question just what was running the Washington machine, the politicians or Wall Street.
Before the torches are lit and the anti-Moore matter is poked into a rage, keep in mind that Love Story is a comedy, bred in the same fashion as the rest of the directors filmography. Its the infotainment hes built a brand name upon, and the mix of finger-pointing, streetwise shenanigans, and cooing pander makes for terrific cinema. Love Story deviates from previous Moore carnivals with its timely fashion, hoping to lasso an argument and an explanation for current financial woes while the griddle still burns, tapping into the rage thats seeping into the national conversation. Its a smart play by Moore, but it blunts his body blows some, scattering his arguments in so many directions, its hard to keep up. Of course the confusion is appropriate, what with a convoluted financial system built to exclude the masses (creating a plutonomy, much to the delight of the money men), but it makes for a long 125 minute sit when previous Moore films have flown by with exquisite fluidity.
Opening with the juxtaposition of ancient Rome with modern America, Love Story seeks to explore the rise of capitalism, from its peak in the 1960s to its current bloodied state today. What was once a semi-golden ride of prosperity and middle-class unity hit some rocky road in the late 1970s, but the tires blew out in the 80s, and Moore aims his crosshairs at the man responsible: Ronald Reagan. A president who bonded financial control to Wall Street tycoons, Love Story starts tugging at a thread that snakes through the Clinton administration and ends up tied to the doorstep of Bush Jr. Its a blizzard of secretive plans, corrupt politicians bought off to encourage deregulation, and fear mongering that set most of America up for failure, but not before unreasonable profiteering could be carried out. Its capitalism unleashed, with humanity, or even the slightest bit of compassion, bled out of a system increasingly loyal only to a select few, not the necessary many.
Moore has always developed his finest points by reducing hysteria to focus on the common man. Love Story is ripe with heartland emotion, and while the numerous shots of teary eyed men and women read as a step too manipulative, the salient points remain. Caught in the web of greed and predatory promises, families are losing their houses, low-paying jobs, and faith in government. Its an epidemic, reducing human beings to piles of cash for the plundering. Moore is careful to underline the invasive practices, including one pungent subplot that exposes major corporations taking life insurance policies out on their employees, making them profitable even in death.
Moore looks to end on a beat of hope, though even he seems tired of the war. As always, Moore hopes to challenge viewers with his vision of deception, using broad comedy to sweeten the poison (the director runs around Wall Street asking for the bailout money back and quizzes employees on the purposely complex financial system), but he ultimately aims to rile up the masses. Capitalism: A Love Story works skillfully as a battle cry, and while the fatigue shows, the feature presents a subject matter that needs to addressed and exhaustively discussed as much as humanly possible.
Filmfodder Grade: B+]]>