The Cynic's Notebook

The Artist Review

2011-12-31T12:41:00.001-05:00

The Artist

Directed by Michel Hazanavicius

Released in 2011

If you knew nothing of The Artist and sat down in a theater as it started, it would take a good five to ten minutes until you realized it was a silent film. The classic, Powerpoint-goes-analog titles might tip you off, but the protagonist, movie star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin), relies on his body to speak. He watches his newest film from behind the theater’s screen, where on the other side a packed house of suited men and bourgeois women sit, gasping and laughing as if on cue. Valentin enjoys watching himself and his ability to yield such physical emotions from his audience. When the film ends, he jumps onto stage to bask in the applause. His female costar fumes in the wings as he delays her entrance by recognizing the film’s animal actor, his multitalented Jack Russell Terrier. He throws his arms in the air, makes sweeping bows and even tap-dances under the spotlight, all with that winning smile that says not a word.

We can tell this man is obviously full of himself, for one, but also that his talent, voice and, alas, image lie in his overwhelming, eloquent physicality. Only when Valentin negotiates with the jowly, cigar-chomping studio executive (a magnetic John Goodman) does he talk with any sort of regularity, the dialogue of which we see through interpolated text cards. The people love him, and he scoffs at the prototypical demoes of “talkies,” a noisy bazaar that would surely ruin the spirit of cinema. His alluring protege, Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), who personifies the American Dream that looks, dedication and even better looks will take you anywhere, catapults overnight to stardom by committing to the new technology. The talkies take over Hollywood in only a few bustling years starting when The Artist does, in 1927, and, with Black Tuesday and the subsequent Depression slamming the country simultaneously, George Valentin falls on hard times.

Director Michel Hazanavicius stays true to his goal and delivers - and through the Weinsteins, actually distributes - an actual silent film in our ever loud 2011. Iris and wipe edits and a consistent, throwback score by Ludovic Bource are what we see and hear. Thankfully he acknowledges his contemporary audience by playing with silent film conventions, adding sound or tricking us with intertitles that may have more than one meaning.

Watching a silent film, in a theater (truly the only way it can be experienced) reveals small but crucial differences. For instance, only at the most defined moments do sound films ever drop to complete silence, and we usually feel quite awkward when the coughs of the audience or yells from the exterior hallway’s Icee-fueled children echo in these excruciating seconds. Bource’s score pulses underneath for nearly the entire runtime, but it is not a heartbeat, and there are little moments of aural blankness that may frustrate modern audiences but, if anything, just emphasize the eminence of images.

Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo fill these images with pleasing features and irrefutable likability that will win over all movie lovers accepting of a little change. Dujardin channels silent film icon Douglas Fairbanks as a swashbuckling, thinly mustachioed gentleman with the screeching echoes of fawning fans derived from his namesake, Rudolph Valentino. Bejo’s Peppy Miller boasts elegance and spunk, and both of these actors work tremendous chemistry with one another, as it is this relationship that serves the crux of the film. Well, those two and that miraculous dog.

The Artist soars when it stays closest to the ground, in the smallest of moments. The delicate relationship between Peppy and George grows during the multiple takes, all spliced together, when he must dance with her for just a moment but fails to keep his composure after they both drift out of character and into each other’s arms and minds. Or when George sees an attractive set of dancing legs under a curtain and he mimics her moves until their barrier disappears and they recognize one another again. This comic foreplay champions the silent film format, and the two rise above any need for the stilted flirtation that Judd Apatow’s crew has brutally bludgeoned us now for five years running.

The film has such a good heart, and when it tries to prove to us otherwise it almost loses its wings. Hazanavicius milks the melodrama with bipolar sobriety to disrupt the pacing and overarching mood, message. For just another victim to the Great Depression, George should cherish the fame he held compared to the lonely starvation that 99% of artists suffer on the street. Because while George may be immensely likable, what with that grin of gold, he remains self-absorbed and reluctant to change until the most extreme circumstances brought by those he shunned. Not necessarily a role model, but a model at least for the power of fortuitous friendship, whether from his loyal dog, butler (James Cromwell) or Peppy.

This year’s Hugo studied the same era, as well as similar themes like lost fame and unrecognized talent, from the opposite end, with sound, color, CGI and digital 3D. Scorsese knew his subject, French film pioneer Georges Méliès, well and could relate. Michel Hazanavicius here does not make such profound connections, yet nor does he ever fall back on unremembered nostalgia. He has his own story to tell, crafted for an audience in the 21st century. It is Jean Dujardin, though, who connects with his character, and thus the audience, so completely that you may just sift through your brain wondering what old films you saw with tortured star George Valentin. They were black and white and without sound, but alit with a smile fused from the stars.

Final Verdict:

3.5 Stars Out of 5

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo Review

2011-12-26T13:00:00.001-05:00

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Directed by David Fincher
Released in 2011

David Fincher’s films center not around story but a mood. An off, hopeless, gnarly mood that about represents where Travis Bickle’s head would be in the 21st century. There are no clean bathrooms in these movies. Longtime collaborator, cinematographer Jeff Cronenwoth, captures the visual aesthetic of this bleakness with jet-black color saturation and disturbing digital clarity. The two could frame a mid-July, Florida sun and make you doubt its warmth. On the other side lies the audio, where sound editors and mixers - led by Ren Klyce and Mark Weingarten, respectively - sometimes muddle the dialogue yet crank up the ambience to build suspense. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross scored The Social Network and return here for The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo to embarrass all directors who did not approach these two sooner. They channel paranoia and betrayal through this draining din that may as well resonate from the recesses of a aluminum honeycomb, with atonal keyboard strokes over it all.

I say all this to commend both Fincher and these individual artists who collaborate every time to realize these troubled visions. But I also want to emphasize that all these people are not here to tell a story as much as develop this mood and strip raw its meditators’ humanity, or complete lack thereof. The story they tell here has been told twice before, with Stieg Larsson’s original novel and the 2009 Swedish film adaptation hits already. They all return, Fincher leading it all, for more than an American touchup.

Larsson’s original story remains mesmerizing and incredibly gripping, no doubt. I had not experienced the story in any complete form yet so the Steven Zaillian-adapted plot provided its own wonder (thus, this review has no prior bias, e.g. my laziness brings objectivity). If Agatha Christie wrote for the heroin chic era and admired the BTK Killer over Professor Moriarty, the resulting potboiler would end up close to this.

Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) has just been hired by a retired mogul, Henrik Vanger (Christopher Plummer), to investigate the mysterious disappearance of his daughter almost 40 years ago. Blomkvist, an investigative journalist, is good at his job, but not great, shown by his loss in a high-profile libel case against a businessman, Hans-Erik Wennerström. Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara), however, is great and nearly supernatural in her computer hacking abilities (not unlike last year’s Fincher subject, Mark Zuckerberg), if brought back down to earth by some severe social problems (ditto the Zuck). The two join - through some awkward serendipity, of course - to pin down who they believe is a serial killer of women, one of Se7en-level brutality.

Lisbeth directs all of her attention to the case on the premise alone, for sexual violence is tied to her own past. If her bisexuality did not already set her apart, her black leather jackets, grotesque piercings and aversion to words certainly do. Her new legal guardian exchanges sadistic rape for the money she needs, and the revenge she takes is almost so sick we feel bad for the scum. Almost. An early scene where a thug swipes her laptop in a train station, only for her to viciously fight back, throws the weak woman stereotype out of the window. Not the crazy woman one, though, for she unleashes a primal roar in the goon’s face that the sound editors wisely masked with ambient train squeals. This freight train will flatten you.

Blomkvist occupies the other side of the coin. It is precisely his slaving to manners that nearly kills him, as he comes face to face with the bad guy yet will not decline a drink in his isolated, dark house. “It's funny that people have a greater fear of offending others than the fear of pain,” the villain sneers, a critique of the genre’s tropes that lead to the audience screaming at the screen, “Don’t go in there!!”

Daniel Craig as Blomkvist signals a shift in character, one not in control of the situation though more eager than ever to be so. For once, Craig appears weaker than both his enemy and accomplice, and he handles the demotion in stride. The dark palette to the shots even makes that chest that once drove Internet message boards wild only above average.

Though that role does not scream Oscar in any way, Mara’s Lisbeth Salander does through silence. But we all saw her in the opening sequence of The Social Network as Zuckerberg’s offended girlfriend, and she was so flustered and innocent there. What happened between then and now? The contrast makes her transformation that much more impressive. For such a pretty, delicate-looking girl, her nude scenes bare a rugged, beaten and very sexed though not necessarily sexy canvas. The strange relationship she develops with Blomkvist uncovers real feelings, with hard stares of affection rather than contempt. In a day where stars only grace magazine covers with an army of Photoshop airbrushers, it takes dare and real talent to own a role so punk and unglamorous and find a wounded heart beneath it all.

Christopher Plummer deserves recognition this year, for he won accolades in Beginners and proves again to show talent, or dash, have no boundary. First of all, look at the man (to your right), and tell me you would want to look any other way at 82 years young. Bravo, sir. But nonetheless, he continues to expose his underrated talents that should soon not go Oscar-less. Actors cry all the time in the movies, but only the best can make you believe it. His character breaks down in one, quick shot with such a rush of feeling that it reminded me acting can not only shock but swoon, even amongst such venomous company.

That Plummer’s reaction was cut so abruptly contributed to the shot’s punch, letting the emotion exit the screen and finish in the viewer’s imagination. Film editing, the “invisible art” as it is justly called, can go through the motions or turn a decent film exceptional. Kirk Baxter and Angus Wall achieve the latter, cutting a movie that runs a troublesome 158 minutes into a breeze without filler. They throw in those graphic match cuts - i.e. someone closes a window; cut to someone closing a door - but the mastery barrels forward in any of the montages. Investigative work flies by as both Lisbeth and Mikael shuffle through old newspapers and find clues in zoomed photos while Trent and Atticus’ score builds and falls. They work apart from each other as per Lisbeth’s isolated demeanor yet, in two sequences, one of them falls into mortal peril while the other puts together the pieces to save them. Their dependency on each other never finds words but the cross-cutting of images, even when they are a train ride apart, ties that bond.

I now recall an earlier 2011 film, The Green Hornet, directed by Michel Gondry. The film was mediocre at best, but featured this cool sequence where the camera followed an assassin only for the screen to split in two and follow two new assassins simultaneously, and then four, eight and so on. The montage provided fleeting fun, but aside unmemorable scenes on either side it stood out as rather outstanding in this otherwise forgettable movie. Gondry and Fincher share a similar lineage, as two of the three famous 90s music video directors who later hit it big in Hollywood (the third being Spike Jonze).

Fincher does not use these “showstoppers.” Instead, he creates a seamless stream of image, sound and music where every piece, at every frame, holds purpose, but conviction only when viewed alongside its appendages. A scene of Mikael nestling with a cat feels as critical to his character as when someone strangles him with a plastic bag over his head. Take a second and picture that latter image. It is as disturbing as you cannot dare to imagine. For while Fincher cannot ultimately escape the pulp that is Larsson’s text, the often ludicrous story keeps us afloat among such unremitting brutality. Otherwise, we might just sink into that starless, unsmiling mood.

Final Verdict:

4.5 Stars Out of 5

Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol Review

2011-12-19T22:00:00.000-05:00

Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol
Directed by Brad Bird
Released in 2011

Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol blasts through all the clog and tedium of the ailing action movie genre with enough dare and bombast to get the blood flowing once again. This ride is so wild you may overlook the faults at the foundation. I would say I am willing to give it the benefit of my doubt.

Brad Bird’s live-action directorial debut (he was behind The Iron Giant, The Incredibles and Ratatouille) finds real thrills in real places, sometimes really high places like Dubai’s Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world. Superspy Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) scales seven stories of window panes, some 140 floors into the sky, with only these adhesive gloves that, of course, are reliably unreliable. Cinematographer Robert Elswit mortifies the acrophobes in the audience with a slow, peering shot over Hunt’s head as he gazes down to see the aphid cars and Monopoly houses captured with IMAX cameras. Bird admires the power of these cameras, noting how, when Hunt presses his hand against the pane, “you actually see the glass warp slightly because of the pressure of his hand.” You see it alright, and ask your gut too because you can feel it.

Ethan Hunt and his team of deadly, attractive agents - played by qualifiers Paula Patton, Simon Pegg and Jeremy Renner - are teasing physics in Dubai to find some launch codes that could result in nuclear war. It is the Cold War paranoia cow Hollywood has been milking since long before Dr. Strangelove. The “Ghost Protocol” in the title refers to the government’s official disavowal of IMF (the romantic “Impossible Missions Force”), leaving its agents in the dark and branded as terrorists if caught.

Why all of this happened points back to the film’s early sequence where the team infiltrates the Kremlin to lift a dangerous scrap of intel. A gadget that would make Q proud - a screen that hides the agents by simulating a hallway’s length through detecting an onlooker’s visual focal length - is one piece of this suave heist, an operation that goes astray when the bad guy sets off a bomb simultaneously and pins the disaster on the Americans. Villain and motive established in one, loud bang.

All of these action scenes - from Hunt’s prison escape at the tune of Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” to the final standoff in a shuffling parking garage - transcend their gimmicky concepts with Bird behind the camera. Recall The Incredibles and the fight in the lava pit between Mr. Incredible and the globular Omnidroid. It was swift, thrilling and even funny when you didn’t expect. Anticipate a similar style here, like when Agent Hanaway (Josh Holloway, forever enshrined as Lost’s “Sawyer”) cuts through a train station crowd to casually inject a target with tranquilizer, sit him down on a bench and push his hat over his eyes. Now this shady courier is no more than a bum. The film opens with Hanaway jumping from a roof, spinning around in mid-air and popping off just two bullets into his two pursuers leaning over the edge. He breaks his fall with a instantly-inflatable mattress, worn like a backpack.

Suspension of disbelief is obviously required. Tom Cruise, who does nearly all of his own stunts (or so says the press release), smacks his head into so many car roofs, window beams and other uncushioned surfaces that the story could morph into the ending of Million Dollar Baby. But the Energizer Bunny keeps going and going, running and falling and running once more. While James Bond may be a debonair gentleman with an edge, Ethan Hunt is a bullet train barreling towards some foreign notion of peace. There is little development in his character, or in any of them for that matter. Each “set piece,” as the critics love to call it, is so front-loaded with its own individual risks and objectives that the overall stakes are lost in the pulsing mass of it all. The madness reaches a point where these scenarios could be shuffled and the story’s sense, or lack thereof, would be about intact.

Tom Cruise and company pick up the pieces from Josh Appelbaum and André Nemec’s weak script to bring life to characters that clearly defy it. Benji, played by Simon Pegg, who filled a similar role of “geek-in-action” as Scotty in 2009’s Star Trek, laughs off Hunt’s orders in disbelief: “Ha! I thought you said the Kremlin.” Pegg provides comic relief in a genre that has lost it (Cowboys & Aliens and Battle: LA, Exhibits A and B). Cruise tackles this role with the full body commitment of Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones. There is a startling physicality to every movement, even as he swipes across files on a flashy touchscreen that lets the visual effects team show off for a moment. Ethan Hunt may not have the depth of humor or feeling of, say, Indy, but Cruise lights him up and makes it impossible to look away.

The action is so inspired, the pacing so slick and the thrills so visceral (your stomach drops as Hunt slips, your heart races as he sprints down the exterior of Burj Khalifa) that this film reaches an uncanny valley of greatness held back by its own story’s clichés and incoherence. I do not work in the movie business, but I find no sense in piling the finest directors, movie stars, editors and cinematographers onto a script that obviously needs improvement. I speak only out of affection, for I feel this movie could have been a modern action classic. What we have instead is only an IMAX spectacle of brilliant action and undying spirit framed as popcorn art by one of our country’s greatest living directors. Poor us.

Final Verdict:

3.5 Stars Out of 5

Hugo Review

2011-12-08T20:55:00.001-05:00

Hugo

Directed by Martin Scorsese

Released in 2011

I always ramble on in my reviews about how Movie A loves the art of film (Super 8) and how Movie B stands as an all-out assault to the craft (Transformers 3). Somehow I even managed to testify how The Muppets comments on the nuances of filmmaking. This college freshman is just hopped up on too many film history courses to realize that not everyone makes movies with that meta-theory, this-next-one-goes-out-to-André-Bazin approach. Relax. But now one of the greatest storytellers in film history as well as its most vocal advocate has gifted us Hugo. Those gunho instincts are rushing back. Martin Scorsese did not just want to make this film; he needed to.

Marty, who has dedicated his career to stories about mobsters, psychopaths and mobster-psychopaths, loosens the knuckles for once to write this loveletter to cinema. Hugo can be labeled “family-friendly” but it speaks strongest to those who have a history with the movies. The darker color palette, 2-plus hour length and deliberately slow pacing may bore kids raised on flashy visuals and simple narrative substance.

With that said, Robert Richardson’s cinematography and the visual effects department’s work stun from the opening shots where busy clock cogs transition seamlessly into an aerial view of an equally busy Paris. The set design of the train station, where Hugo lives, glorifies the era while still uncovering its grime. Scorsese, who loves tracking shots a la Goodfellas, coasts the camera across train platforms and through steam pipes with precision and purpose. The 3D lends a dimension to help us appreciate it all. Instead of the typical Eraserhead approach equating new technology to a loss of humanity, these beautiful strokes of bustling industry praise the wonder of human progress. The celluloid reel itself was a new step in progressive ingenuity.

Georges Méliès, visionary behind the ubiquitous 1902 classic A Trip to the Moon, explored film’s potential when it was still shunned as a passing novelty. Méliès, the man, lives in the world of this movie. But first he must be found, and orphan Hugo Cabret toils to reunite the spirit of the artist with the current pessimistic shell left of the man. The years between the end of Méliès’ career, brought by World War I, and the early 30s setting of the film have not been kind. His films are, to his knowledge, all extinct in physical form and memory, and even historians write him off as dead. He has grown bitter with the world and shuts himself and his family off from his former profession and eternal passion. With the help of Méliès’ goddaughter, Isabelle (Chloë Moretz), Hugo tries to reach the neglected director to show him that his work has not been forgotten.

The movie spends time detailing the biography of Méliès, but its heart lies in young Hugo. More so than any other protagonist in the Scorsese canon, Hugo reflects the man behind the camera. Social outcasts as children, they find solace at the movies. There is a great scene where Hugo takes Isabelle, who has never seen a movie before, to the theatre. Safety Last!, inspiration for the film’s poster and clock tower scene, is screening and Isabelle finds the suspense of a man nearly falling from a building rapturous. You can imagine this scenario as Marty’s perfect date. After the death of his father, Hugo goes to extreme lengths to fix the mysterious automaton connected to film history. Even Hugo’s dreams are shot and cut with the omnipotent visuals of a silent movie. Despite the pressures of his largest budget and targeted demographic, Scorsese answers only to his heart.

Asa Butterfield hits the pathos that a role of such Oliver Twist lows and highs demands. Chloë Moretz swore obscenities in Kick-Ass, but she speaks with a more dignified maturity here. Both of these young actors have potential to crossover to successful careers as they are already catering to adults more their own peers. The rest of the cast list contains some big names that should be left unseen until the end credits roll. Look for a little romance between two Harry Potter actors, one in a distinct change of form. I will mention Sacha Baron Cohen, agent provocateur in Borat and Brüno, who plays the grouchy station inspector eager to send any stray children to the orphanage. His service in the Great War, where he sustained a crippled leg, has left him cold and lonely over the years, but a lovely flower saleswoman reignites that dormant tenderness. His character is played for laughs in his bumbling chase sequences - where Marty’s soaring camera captures crowd-pleasing physical gags with rare grace - but he surpasses this caricature to become, like most of these characters, a real person.

The Inspector and Méliès both lost their way with their loss of innocence, so it takes an innocent soul like Hugo to put them back on track. Brian Selznick’s acclaimed novel, the basis for John Logan’s screenplay, insists humans are inherently good and great art will never die. A heartwarming notion, if a little idealistic. Scorsese’s spin advocates for the preservation of film, something he has long championed. Almost all of Méliès’ reels were melted down to plastic for the heels of women’s shoes, and he thought no one would care. Only by a streak of good luck pursued by Hugo’s goodwill were the remaining works found.

This is not how things happened in real life. The story of Georges Méliès is largely factual, but the boy Hugo is a manifestation of a very creative mind. No, Marty is not urging you to drop your pursuits and become a lab rat at The Criterion Collection. He wants you to appreciate the significance of art’s most vulnerable medium, and not just its aesthetic value. Only film can bring dreams to life, in one place, where children and elders can watch together and await the adventure ahead or nod at the superimposition of image with their own past. This truth reaches all ages and all years, from film’s invention to this day. And with more kids like Hugo - perhaps even those watching this film - the future will be safe, too. Children are the future, after all, even in the past.

Final Verdict:

4.5 Stars out of 5

The Muppets Review

2011-12-06T00:32:00.001-05:00

The Muppets

Directed by James Bobin

Released in 2011

There is a classic scene in the French film Amélie where the protagonist sits in a movie theater and says her favorite thing is to “look back and watch people’s faces in the dark.” The camera pans to the side and reveals faces of content, captured by the screen and lost in its world. It is great commentary on the power of cinema, but it is also the same image you would find at a screening of The Muppets. Grins stick from start to finish in this ode to happiness. This is a film that reveres the spectacle of classic Hollywood, when a physical set or stirring musical number needed no excuse.

“Life’s a Happy Song,” penned by Flight of the Concords half Bret McKenzie, opens the film and signals the return of those elaborate music breakdowns against a proud soundstage. Gary (Jason Segel) and his Muppet brother Walter sing about the joys of life by rhyming “life’s a leg of lamb” and “with someone there to lend a hand.” The opening number alone features cameos from Feist to Mickey Rooney. The game of celebrity I Spy that has served as a constant in all Muppet features resumes in a shower of green. A partial list of guest stars includes Jack Black, Neil Patrick Harris, Sarah Silverman, Dave Grohl and even James Carville for good measure. James Bobin, the director, and writers Segel and Nicholas Stoller stuffed so many guest spots in here that they had to leave some on the cutting room floor. Those they axed? Only Ben Stiller, Ricky Gervais and Lady Gaga. Big money flowing through this one.

Even Chris Cooper, one of our era’s greatest supporting actors, fills in for the one-dimensional villain with a paycheck likely dwarfing his award-winning work in American Beauty and Adaptation. Cooper knows this character does not call out for recognition in Oscar season, so he steps back and has fun with this meta-caricature as he directs his goons to “maniacal laugh” when the sinister music they all hear starts. He plays the subtly-named Tex Richman who plans on tearing down the classic Muppet Theatre to dig for oil. (Why do I see oil wells smack in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard not sliding with the world's most powerful liberals?). Of course, it is only up to Walter and his new friends - Kermit, Mrs. Piggy and all, though the inexplicable absence of Rizzo upsets my 90s Muppet film diet - to put on one more show to raise enough money to save the place. A little suspension of disbelief is required for a film that insists a felt frog maintains a Beverley Hills mansion all by himself.

Therein lies the wonder of the Muppets, as it refuses to shun the ridiculousness of its premise and instead wield it as its greatest strength. Why waste time with establishing shots and introductions when you recruit the whole Muppet gang with an American montage? That’s right, call it a montage, don’t fear its name; it has been shamelessly pummeled to death by those who hold it close as their stock narrative technique. Why travel by car when it takes ten seconds by map? And everyone knows you can only clean a filthy room when 80s workout music pumps on the soundtrack. The film does not just parody but champions the cliches of the medium, which is needed more now than ever as 3D action flops and flashy comedies try to pass off their formulaic dreck as inspired (looking at you, Immortals and The Hangover Part II). This labor of love from Jason Segel and Stoller embraces the art of film, its own beloved namesake, and you, goddammit. The Muppets speaks with love and laughter, somehow balancing innocence and self-aware reflexivity to cut through maudlin artifice and believably arrive on a happy note. And with the way things are going right now, don’t you just need a hug?

Final Verdict:

4 Stars out of 5

The Descendants Review

2011-11-27T12:04:00.001-05:00

The Descendants

Directed by Alexander Payne

Released in 2011

If movies provide the ultimate escape, the success of writer-director Alexander Payne raises some questions. His films depict the frustrations of life through a witty, but unapologetically honest, lens. Election admitted that the selfish prevail over the selfless. The two men in Sideways sipped fine, aged wine when their own aging lives descended to mediocrity. Payne’s latest film, The Descendants, ends on a note of optimism, but the hilly way there is littered with uncomfortable situations and harsh truths that carry loss, anger and ignorance. We have all lived in one of these scenes, whether as victim, aggressor or bystander. Perhaps the deserved distinction of this film and all of Payne’s works lies in how he captures moments we all know and feel, and without adorning the script with fake eloquence or resorting to caricature, sympathizes with both sides and reconciles them.

George Clooney has worked towards the role of Matt King in The Descendants for his entire career, but his arrival no less defies the suave bachelor archetype synonymous with his name. Clooney is a dad, and one with little confidence on how to raise his children or himself. The roles he played beforehand certainly offered no fathering tips. Passive and blind to his family’s needs, Matt must adapt his detached mentality to deal with a twofold crisis in his family. For one, a large parcel of virgin land on the island of Kaua’i in Hawaii faces settlement and calls of support from real estate brokers and outcry from island natives clash. The product of random acts of dissemination, Matt has the final say if the land of his ancestors, dating back to Hawaiian royalty, will sell for a large sum. His comatose wife, thrown from a motorboat during a race, presents more pressing issues. Not only does the injury throw his wife’s fate into question and himself into the parenting spotlight, but other sources leak to him that she was not faithful.

The curious question as to how any woman would cheat on George Clooney withstanding, Alexander Payne uncovers the rawest of feeling in realistic situations, just like us. In a breakout performance that may open doors for Oscar, Shailene Woodley, as daughter Alex, cries in a pool, and the camera follows her under water as she unleashes a primal scream. Alex’s boyfriend Sid (Nick Krause) tags along as the family visits Matt’s in-laws to discuss serious matters, and he laughs in disbelief at the painful dementia of the grandmother. You just want to punch the kid; Robert Forster, playing the dad, kindly provides the knockout.

Heavy the film hits, it still aims to be a comedy. Like his dramatic scenes, Payne mines for laughs in the most banal of circumstances. Payne finds the way people run funny, as seen when Paul Giamatti sprints down a hill in Sideways and here when Matt awkwardly sprints through a neighborhood. Matt’s youngest daughter Scottie (Amara Miller), the last remnant of (rapidly fading) innocence in the family, interjects with out-of-place comebacks and dirty words beyond her comprehension. Scottie turns depressed from her family’s troubles and instead of offering words of comfort, her teachers and peers’ parents scold Matt for not containing his daughter’s pain. They say she scares their own children. When ignorance passes as wisdom, sometimes laughing at the fool is the only option. Ask Michael Scott from The Office.

These quirks and flaws of character either change or prove endearing as a method to cope. Sid’s initial idiocy may just be his bewildered tact after his own substantial loss. Alex’s verbal fistfights with her whole family slacken as she directs her rhetoric to those who have wronged her loved ones. And Matt, all bottled-up and ready to explode, lets loose at last on just about everyone, including his unconscious wife. He feels a catharsis in expressing how he actually feels, but evolves to control this outlet by leading an open life with the important people he has left. He takes ownership of what he never had, similar to his dilemma regarding the land entrusted upon him, the land of the family he appreciates but does not know.

If there is any place for some soul-searching, Hawaii is it. Cinematographer Phedon Papamichael keeps the camera at eye level, capturing beautiful scenery with beautiful shots that immerse but do not canonize. These characters have lived here all their life, and love it they do, it is not a vacation vista but home, imperfect as any. Urban strips of Honolulu, while a far cry from South Central, are not tour brochure-material, grounding the land of paradise with locations that could be anywhere. In one of the many, nonintrusive voiceovers, Matt asks the rest of the world if they think “our cancer is any less fatal?” Pain knows no boundaries, in gorgeous places and to gorgeous people.

This film lacks a certain drive in the beginning, and takes a few plot points to start to congeal into the film I admire. It is nothing I can exactly place my finger on, but the dialogue picks up its wit and the actors truly explore their roles once they are given space to breathe. The slow setup puts the pieces in place, and only then can the artists on and off-screen form the melancholic portrait. It’s curious how this film escalates in form and precision alongside the characters as they mature from imperfect souls to as close to perfect as they have ever been. Both the film and the characters, one in the same, hit their peak right before the credits roll, and you wonder if - and really, really hope - they will continue to improve even after we have stopped watching.

Final Verdict:

4 Stars out of 5

The Mill and the Cross Review

2011-11-17T23:22:00.001-05:00

The Mill and the Cross

Directed by Lech Majewski

Released in 2011

The unlikeliest of outlets introduce classic art to the world today. Spongebob acquainted the pajamaed youth with Nosferatu. A football spectator holds up a sign “John 3:16” and Google breaks with queries. The work of 16th century Flemish painter Pieter Brueghel the Elder received a revival of sorts with the success of the indie folk band Fleet Foxes and their eponymous debut album, which featured Brueghel’s chaotic Netherlandish Proverbs as its cover. Contemporary exposure to antiquated art through these casual mentions and jabs resurrects what may have been forgotten and makes it, dare I say it, fashionable. This all operates on the surface level, however, and cannot be substituted for modern analysis. The Mill and The Cross elevates the conversation and literally steps inside Brueghel the Elder’s work for a beautiful, haunting, and very perplexing study of a genius.

That being said, this film sides more on the side of art appreciation than evaluation. Tracking Brueghel’s process on one of his masterpieces, The Procession to Calvary, the film takes a minimalist approach. Director Lech Majewski tosses potent images onto the screen and lets them speak for themselves. The camera views its many actors from a distance, not unlike the broad, noisy works of Brueghel. Beloved cineaste techniques like deep focus give the audience the choice of where to pay attention. This detached style evokes the artist’s own and stirs awe in the vast amount of details Brueghel pained over on his vast canvas. It eschews didactics as a result - not a poor choice - but manages to focus more on the aesthetic brilliance of Brueghel’s work rather than its broader implications.

Or perhaps it does. The film lacks a typical narrative, so no value can be gleaned from the plot or character progression. Brueghel the Elder was affectionally known as “Peasant Brueghel” for his attention and glorification of his own social strata, and the filmmakers know this. There is little to no dialogue for periods as long as 25 minutes at a time. These durations, which are not a bore but more a hypnotic curiosity, depict the mundane, cruel and even goofy lives of the peasant through beautiful lens. It is not unfair to say that the beginning, which follows many families slowly waking up and starting their day, moves lethargically and tests the patience. Stay with it.

The pure beauty of these scenes, captured by cinematographers Adam Sikora and Majewski himself, speaks on a more intimate level, in a way justifying the film’s aesthetic priorities. The opening scene, in which Brueghel - played by the immensely talented Rutger Hauer from Blade Runner and, yes, Hobo with a Shotgun - walks through a tableau of his painting with his patron (Michael York), stuns. Brueghel approaches a woman, frozen in place, to adjust the train of her dress. There is no apparent motive for this action, but he feels it necessary and continues to tweak the trivial as he sees fit. Brueghel cared about the smallest of details even when his range presented so many. There are two scenes where the action halts like this, stepping back to appreciate the meticulous craft of the artist. They stand as the most impressive, searing into the memory, and support Majewski’s distant study of Brueghel, raising questions to his art but not providing answers. No one has them, after all.

Christian imagery serves as the director’s language of sorts; don’t forget the subject of the film is a painting called The Procession to Calvary. Scenes of shocking brutality appear suddenly and disturb more for the apathetic viewpoint the camera takes than the actual violence. It is not that a man being whipped dozens of times pours buckets of blood, but that the heinous act is really not a big deal. This reflects the minuscule presence of Jesus himself in the painting, easily glossed over on a casual glance. Strong visual metaphors will resonate personally with those who have a passion for art history or Christianity.

The windmill towering above the subjects of the painting, and inspiring half of the film’s title, finds its way into many shots. Whether Brueghel studies a valley of peasants below or a woman mourns the loss of her son in her own home, the windmill stares across fields, through windows and under arches. Brueghel comments that instead of showing God staring from the heavens, in his painting he wants a mortal - the miller, framed with such commanding, vertical shots reminiscent of the religious drama Black Narcissus - perched atop his windmill to be the all-seeing eye. The characters cannot hide from judgment, just as the film cannot escape Brueghel’s own influence.

Lech Majewski tackles this subject through little more than visuals, moving portraits. Taking on a genius at his own game will not end well. In that sense, The Mill and the Cross does not analyze art but praises the artist’s dreams and the admirer’s dedicated struggles to decode them. Brueghel’s painting comes alive and Majewski invites us to marvel at the detail and heart an artist infused on a scene so sad.

Final Verdict:

4 Stars out of 5

This review was originally written for The Cornell Daily Sun and can be viewed at its original location via this link.

The Beach Boys' The Smile Sessions Review

2011-11-15T13:44:00.001-05:00

The Smile Sessions

Artist: The Beach Boys

Released in 2011 (Recorded 1966-67)

I am not sure what the act and art of writing can achieve - my young mind has seen much yet so little to conclude: “a lot” - but to communicate the perfection of “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys is out of its grasp. Yes, the lyrics are as central to its wonder as any other detail. The language is so simple and honest, with its pledge to love’s vitality only that much stronger by surviving past that questionable opening line, “I may not always love you....” But those surging horns and harpsichords, that abrupt transition to the bridge resolving into wordless chants of euphoria, the layered calls to god that might as well repeat forever ... every element equals the other to an effect that can only be expressed through song. That I contradict myself to attempt to describe it just underlines my fawning admiration. At the time, “God Only Knows” was praised for its unique arrangements. It speaks today for the value between those lines. The Smile Sessions, recorded 45 years ago but properly released just this month, bears both sides of praise.

The struggles leading to this day are legendary, for Smile was the album that never was. When The Beatles released Rubber Soul in 1965, their American counterparts, or more accurately bandleader Brian Wilson, summoned all their might to top them. Pet Sounds was the result, and in the opinion of many, including yours truly, they succeeded. Well, in response landed Sgt. Pepper, which threw plans for their followup Smile, at least to Wilson, in chaos. Wilson’s mental collapse - he believed his music was responsible for a number of local fires - cancelled the ambitious project. In 2004, Wilson finally completed the album as a solo act, though about 40 years past his prime. But now the remaining Beach Boys have agreed to release what they did record all those years ago, mixing and mastering the tracks after the fact, but the long lost work is here.

The Smile Sessions may not contain Wilson’s exact, original vision, but it is the closest anyone will ever hear. “A teenage symphony to God,” Brian calls it, with adolescence and faith as the two dominating themes. “Our Prayer” opens, an a cappela hymn rift with beautiful harmonies and a divine presence. A far cry from the “Fun, Fun, Fun” days of the past.

That is not to say Smile lacks those innocent, fresh-faced ditties, for they are here and many. The difference is in perspective, a much more somber tone and experimental approach. The titles are blatant and playful: “Wind Chimes” contains more shifts in instrumentation than the simplistic name would suggest, and “Vega-Tables” sounds like The Beatles’ “Piggies” on acid --- or I guess even more acid (McCartney apparently chomps celery into a mic here for the sound effects; wouldn’t surprise me if he was tripping). Tracks like “Child Is Father of the Man” though, with lyrics simply repeating the title over and over and ominous trumpets setting a rather frightening atmosphere, suggest Wilson and writing partner Van Dyke Parks have reached a new, serious appreciation for the youth they have passed. The scariest rendition of “You Are My Sunshine” I have ever heard attests to this. Many young bands dedicate an album to looking back at what they have left behind. Perhaps it is due to the liberal LSD use, but never has a tribute to youth sounded so solemn and, even, desired. Wilson was battling some demons of his own at the time.

While many of these tracks never saw a proper release until now, when the studios saw single potential, they released the best of the bunch independently. Thankfully, this release contains extended, rare versions of even these hits. “Heroes and Villains” still churns like a baroque candy assembly line, but with an added verse endorsing good ol’ inebriation. The original single now feels rushed - and with too few drunken verses - compared to the flow of this version. “Good Vibrations” closes the album, and its avant-garde style sounds at home amongst such odd company.

“Surf’s Up” stands tall as the best song on Smile, and among the greatest of the band’s entire catalog. Written in one night on the piano Wilson situated on a sandbox, “Surf’s Up” moves freely from one sound to the next, grand pauses here and there to best even the madness of “Good Vibrations.” How serene the song is really, with Brian’s beautiful falsetto - admirable but lacking in his 2004 effort - peaking on the equally gorgeous but ambiguous line “Columnated ruins domino.” Decoding all the images of Van Dyke’s aesthetic lyrics takes the insight of a Heraclitus scholar, and even then you’re throwing darts at a dictionary. Enjoy the song like a natural wonder, grateful to witness and bask in the grandeur beyond your cognizance. As Wilson swoons, “I heard the word/wonderful thing/a children’s song” (I believe we have struck a theme!), and descends into a fading “na na na” spiral, even he fails to find words for its beauty.

You will never be this happy.

You ~~can~~ will purchase The Smile Sessions in two main formats. The first is a two CD collection that contains all of the above and much more. The other option is an exhaustive five CD collection, complete with an additional two LPs and 7 inch singles, each. The latter befits its high asking price with a unique look into the creative progress of The Beach Boys’ most notorious effort. Hear Brian Wilson cut into the harmonies of Mike Love when his line was off, or ask his fellow Boys, “Do you feel the acid yet?” before kicking into song. The later tracks are rough, stopping irregularly for Brian to instruct or improvise. It makes for an atypical listening experience, but shows the creativity, and struggles, of Brian Wilson uncensored, uncut. When choosing between the two different versions, though, ask yourself if you need a full CD of “Good Vibrations” demoes. If not (I don’t know where even I stand), go for the basic edition. There are plenty of behind-the-scenes tracks even for the average consumer.

There reaches a point in every music lover’s career when the surprises and hidden gems hit less and less. Little ground is left to cover. How pleasing, then, to hear a bonafide classic for the first time in 2011. The direct sincerity of Smile’s lyrics may be lost in our postmodern and ironic outlooks on the past, present and future. Be humble; The Smile Sessions presents songs dripping with equal cheer and melancholy. Wilson and Van Dyke’s compositions progress untraditionally even for a modern day Sigur Rós and Flaming Lips fan. But it is that awe, that inner essence behind the bar lines that resonates to this day, still defying words. The mythical Troy you heard from blogs, books and bards does exist, and it is downloadable through iTunes.

Final Verdict:

5 Stars out of 5

This review was originally written for The Cornell Daily Sun and can be viewed at its original location via this link.

A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas Review

2011-11-08T22:05:00.000-05:00

A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas
Directed by Todd Strauss-Schulson
Released in 2011

I guess I am just not yet in the Christmas spirit. Mere days after Halloween arrives the latest, and likely last, chapter in the adventures of our favorite New Jersey potheads, now draped in holly and a shameless gimmick. A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas aims to instill some good-hearted holiday cheer while simultaneously upping the raunch factor. The 3D, smack in the title, is overused and shallow in its implementation, but, at the very least, has fun with the three dollar ticket surcharge. This clash of goals results in an uneven film that takes the easy way out at the end, though there are some fleeting festivities on the way there.

The film opens, of all things, with Kumar nut-tapping a mall Santa and buying reefer from him- in that order. Santa (a regrettably short cameo from Patton Oswalt) and Kumar (Kal Penn) promptly light up with a yuletide pipe in slow motion as the pot smoke from their mouths wafts into the audience and glistens in 3D, all over glorious church bells and sweeping choral surges. Cut to title. It’s overproduced, excessive and still delivering the laughs.

It takes too long to reach those highs (don’t even...) again, for Harold and Kumar have grown apart. Harold (John Cho) married his love Maria (Paula Garcés) since the picture-perfect ending of the last film and left his pot habit and Kumar on the curb. Kumar found a new tool of a friend in Adrian (CollegeHumor’s Amir Blumenfeld), while Harold did not fare better with white collar punching bag Todd (Thomas Lennon). A magical blunt appears and reunites the two estranged buds, and the festivities truly commence.

Placing the two protagonists in random, dangerous situations and settings is a hallmark of the series. These are the dudes who crashed into George W. Bush’s ranch and blazed with ‘ol Dubya back in Escape from Guantanamo Bay. Or the guys who reached White Castle by hang glider and cheetah. This constant game of escalating, self-applied lunacy still runs the proceedings, but the stakes are not set as high as they have been, nor are any of the precarious circumstances as outlandish or impressive. A bloodthirsty Ukranian mobster - played by Elias Koteas, likely filling in for the notable absence of Chris Meloni who stole scenes in the previous films as Freakshow and the Grand Wizard of the KKK - serves as the catalyst for much of the mayhem. His Eastern European background and complementary violent behavior are traits used to death in the last decade; the character is generic and goes nowhere. Another questionable character is the WaffleBot, a Hitchhiker’s Guide-esque robot that can deliver a stunning haymaker or incapacitating shot of boiling syrup to an enemy’s face ... and cook up a mean batch of waffles. It is a plot device that is decidedly unfunny and yet another example of the robot deus ex machina also seen in this year’s Horrible Bosses.

But perhaps I am too tough on this film. It is, after all, a Harold & Kumar movie, and stupidity and hilarity go hand in hand. Neil Patrick Harris no longer sneaks in for a clandestine cameo but is centered prominently on the poster, a full asset to the feature. That being said, he only appears in one scene, but an elaborately staged production it is. A Rockettes style Christmas dance with Harold and Kumar decked in nutcracker garb, this sequence stands in stark contrast to the everyday surroundings of the first film. NPH plays on his own gay image by suggesting that he is actually straight and uses his assumed sexuality to get creepily close to unsuspecting girls. It is borderline homophobic and certainly offensive, but it would not be a Harold & Kumar film without such blatant, unapologetic cheek.

Such casual bigotry, racism and otherwise culturally insensitive jabs carry the film when other devices fail. Rosenberg and Goldstein, the latter now (incompletely) converted to Catholicism, serve as the Jewish stereotypes with which writers Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg clearly have fun lampooning their people. An encounter with two Christmas tree salesmen masquerading as hoodlums functions as humorous racial commentary, a staple of sorts in the series. Danny Trejo, Machete badass now tucked in a festive sweater that cannot hide that scarred mug, drops offhand remarks at Harold’s Korean heritage as Maria’s protective father. Pedophiliac priests, promiscuous nuns, female rapists, a bloody Santa, a sexually incompetent Jesus Christ, giant clay penises and feces-flinging Wall Street protestors (timely!) are all thrown into the mix. Add in the running gag that involves exposing every drug in existence to a baby, to the point where it is literally bouncing off the walls, and you have about the whole spectrum of vulgarity covered.

Saying all that, it still saddens me to label this film as a disappointment. The few clever moments of situational comedy work in isolation. The predictable, sappy ties to the story do not. The 3D, so unabashedly unironic, so artistically trivial, stands in the middle. Yes, a beer pong ball hurtling towards the audience, or a flaming Christmas tree thrown out a window, all milked in lethargic slow motion and glossed over with a CGI finish, are enticing, playful visuals. 3D-ing every swift movement or action, however, just for the eye candy of it, cheapens and leans towards artificiality. With the inherent draining of colors 3D glasses provide, the viewing experience grows dull and fake; the gimmick fades.

At the heart of this movie, behind the visual dressing and uninspired setpieces, lies a good heart. It is a story of reconciling friendship and loving family. How counterproductive, then, that throughout the whole duration I wondered whether this would be more enjoyable whilst high. The rather vocal roars of guys in front of me spoke to this silent understanding. A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas will likely close the series, for John Cho is nearing 40 and Kal Penn has graduated to the White House, onto fairly serious matters (there is a rather glaring, but necessary, joke at his tenure here). Once this movie hits DVD and cable, stripped of 3D, richer in color, the last Harold & Kumar, just like the first, will survive through repeated viewings by giggling, very happy stoners.

Final Verdict:
2.5 Stars out of 5

This review was originally written for The Cornell Daily Sun and can be viewed at its original location via this link.

The Thing Review

2011-10-18T22:52:00.002-04:00

The Thing
Directed by Matthijs van Heijningen Jr.
Released in 2011

Hollywood’s current state can be summed up with the 2011 version of The Thing: it is a remake, of a remake, of a film, based on a novella, about a replicating ... thing. The recycling program in the movie industry that prefers to shun inspiration for silver screen adaptations of such winning comic books as Jonah Hex has made a remake of a remake, folks. Technically, it is a prequel. Reused scenarios and exact shot compositions speak otherwise. Director Matthijs van Heijningen Jr.’s (this recent flood of Northern European directors tests even the eloquent) modern take on the horror staple borrows so liberally from John Carpenter’s 1982 classic that there are bound to be moments of near-greatness. Not only is the genesis of these segments lifted, however, but the entire film lacks the sparse, humanistic touch that made the original remake (did I just say that?) the gritty masterpiece it is to this day.

The source material, traced via carbon dating to John W. Campbell Jr.’s 1938 novella Who Goes There?, remains one of the strongest in the horror canon. Part of its continued appeal lies in its setting, at an isolated scientific base located in Antarctica. Chances are you or I will never set foot anywhere near the ice continent, so a film focusing on a group of scientists holed up in a base there provides an odd source of exoticism. The inclusion of a highly advanced alien lifeform only compounds such interest. Frozen in a million-year-old block of ice, this thing is uncovered from its gigantic spaceship and brought back to the base, where it obviously wakes up from its long sleep to wreak havoc (if Terminator 2 taught us anything, it is that cold = stubbornly alive and hot = dead as dead). By that measure, the humans wield flamethrowers to torch the beast, or, more accurately, the many disposable humans it infects.

A bloody witch hunt ensues, with the monster revealing its tentacled, shrieking self reliably for maximum gore and minimum wonder. Carpenter’s film utilized models, puppets, and animatronics that shocked and nauseated because they were undoubtedly on the same plane, there on the same soundstage. The CGI sheen of this film robs much of the realism for more elaborate, and in turn less believable, Thing-flailing, impaling, and face-morphing effects. There is a sequence where flamethrowers roast a series of Things that cascade from one person to the next. Such liberal violence, and on-screen depictions of it, desensitizes the audience to a point where it simply becomes an action movie.

An action movie loaded with cheap scares, that is. Van Heijningen exploits the jump scare to its last cliched leap. You likely will be able to predetermine the exact moment the bogeyman appears through the submergence of ambient sound and the familiar cadence that follows. The terror of the film exists moment by moment and does not pervade, live in the atmosphere. No dread constricts the narrow, monotonous hallways; the psychological trickery Carpenter played by never assuring anyone as safe is absent. The windy Antarctic wasteland surrounding them does not look cold enough. And the journey into the flying saucer comes across as just unnecessary. The design of the ship’s interior combines Cowboys & Aliens’ generic hallways, video game Prey’s organic, fleshy walls and an inexplicable fountain of pixels into one anachronistic, needless sin of feng shui.

Van Heijningen (the director if you’re losing track) can be blamed for the superficial scares, but screenwriter Eric Heisserer (A Nightmare on Elm Street, Final Destination 5 ... this is making sense now) attempts to mend the gap by emulating the 80s version to a fault. Scenes that copy from its inspiration build suspense effectively for they have done so before. When Kate (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) organizes a test to determine who’s human and impostor, anxiety indeed grows. There is something much less badass, however, with shining a flashlight into someone’s teeth to check for fillings (the alien cannot replicate inorganic matter, blah blah blah) than jabbing a flaming rod into a dish of each person’s blood only for the infected one to literally scream when touched. Last time I checked, dental checks do not belong in any horror film not called Marathon Man.

R.J. MacReady is a name any horror buff will recall. Kurt Russell’s legendary beard in the 1982 version may be responsible, but the film built a strong protagonist who thwarted the menace with ability and genuine frustration. The characters this time around lack any distinguishing qualities. In fact, I do not even recall their names. Lost’s Mr. Eko - that is what I called him - played by Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje is tragically underused. The script feeds Eric Christian Olsen’s character such needed lines as, “It’s inside,” after an exterior window breaks off-screen. Mary Elizabeth Winstead from Scott Pilgrim exceeds the laughable standards now set for females in horror films, but she is no Ripley either. Eric Heisserer’s jumpy script can be held accountable, which raises the question as to why a better writer was not chosen.

I step back and ponder why they made this Thing. John Carpenter updated Howard Hawk’s 50s Marxist allegory for modern audiences 30 years ago. What else needed to be said? It does not offer a modern take on the worn story aside from updated computer effects. I enjoyed some of it, yes, particularly the end credits sequence that, rather heavy-handedly, tied this prequel’s story to Carpenter’s universe. It roused the few Thing fans there were in the audience. Universal is learning the tough way that this franchise is not a money earner. That both the 1982 and new films share in common. The former was released just two weeks after E.T., and no one wanted to see an alien that they thought loved Reeses Pieces feast on human flesh. Which reminds me: E.T. ... we’re due for an update on that cash cow by now aren’t we?

Final Verdict:

2 Stars out of 5

This review was originally written for The Cornell Daily Sun and can be viewed at its original location via this link.

Björk's Biophilia Review

2011-10-11T22:05:00.000-04:00

Biophilia
Artist: Björk
Released in 2011

Iceland needs your help. Their economy is in worse shape than ours and their most recent export was a volcanic plume that managed to piss off the entire volcano-less Western world. Sigur Rós, pioneers of music existing beyond the infinite, should have ended their hiatus and released another album of spacey extraterrestrial speak to get their country back on track. Jónsi and co. won’t budge. We thus turn to the most popular statesman in Icelandic history: Björk. The proprietor of the swan dress that your mother remembers from the Oscars returns after four years off with a eclectic LP that consists of individual iPad apps for each song, and they are, according to her, expressions “of the music, the story and the idea.” The entire project is one potpourri of science, nature, technology, geology, love, bedlam and the bizarre from one crazy mind. Uh-oh.

Well, I build up the insanity of the album yet forgo mentioning its much-deserved qualifier: it works. Björk is an agent of chaos as well as beauty. She deftly clashes the two to find that beauty shines within chaos and chaos boils underneath beauty. Her peculiar (a platitude of a word here) 90s hit, “Hyperballad," consisted of lucid, intimate lyrics of a girl dreaming of throwing all she owns - and even herself - off a cliff only to find solace in her lover’s arms upon waking up. Not a typical approach to love, but more than effective with her puling delivery and the internally resonating bassline. The instrumentation of her songs always contains curiosities, and especially so on Biophilia. Four harpists layer the gentle opener “Moon," and demented spurts of church organ haunt “Hollow." She even customized a Tesla coil (the dramatic lightning generator David Bowie walks through in The Prestige) for additional sound effects in the aptly-titled “Thunderbolt." Better yet, she - or, more accurately, her poor roadies - is lugging that mad device around for her tour.

No matter how many machines creak underneath, her voice still reigns as her supreme asset, a beautiful instrument unleashed with her polarizing manipulation. Björk has gotten flak for decades now from those who do not care for her pipes, and this album will not convert the disenchanted. At the very least, you must admire the craft she endows in every syllable or hushed utterance. She sings dynamically, moving up and down the register and dipping into perfect harmony or shocking dissonance as quickly as she pulls away. Peruse pictures of Iceland, and her take on vocals may even resemble the oscillating terrain of her homeland. She scales icy mountains like the wind only before plummeting off a plateau the next moment. Her venomous rebuke of a lover, rift with such winning geological images as “as fast as your fingernail grows/the Atlantic ridge drifts," “Mutual Core” harbors a contempt best emoted through her triumphant delivery of “you didn’t know I had it in me.” That voice which sounds so grand also feels tender, vulnerable on other tracks as “Moon." In a harsh landscape of cold, she is alone wishing to “once again be reborn.” She receives her wish, finding warmth in the multiple dubs of her own vocals she cushions around herself, declaring herself “all birthed and happy.” Bizarre yes, though beautiful in its abstract confessional style that doesn’t self pity but throws all on the table, daring the listener to digest it all.

Compounding such an idiosyncratic style is Björk’s curiosity with the cosmos, a theme in every track here. She whispers gibberish in the nonsensical “Dark Matter,” composed in free time to convey the struggle of codifying that elusive medium. “Cosmogony," the title of which refers to the study of how existence came to, well, exist, is a very Björk track, as she sings without much accompaniment. Some may not dig, but her connection between being, faith and music as the ultimate source of all makes for a heartfelt study. This all culminates to the standout track of Biophilia and front-runner for Song of the Year, lead single “Crystalline." Innocent xylophone strains prance underneath a vocal line that sounds like it is sung from a solitary confinement cell until reaching the limitless expanse of the universe, and returning back again for the microscopic fury of an atom splitting. The jaw-dropper of an ending packs its punch from the machine gun barrage of beats and out-of-sync moments of silence that are the fitting moments of calm before the firestorm. Show me a dubstep artist who matches this euphoria.

I twiddled with the iPad app and played a surprisingly intuitive game built on the beats and vibe of “Crystalline." It is solid and even fun, like some psychedelic inverse of Tempest. As for advancing the theme of the album, I am not sure if that is apt, but the focus is already clear. Björk gazes at the stars and marvels at the unseen expanse of it all. Not unlike this year’s Terrence Malick film The Tree of Life. She wonders aloud of the truths that evade us all, only through eccentric, occasionally kick-ass music. Iceland, your hero has returned! Good luck finding the answers to your worldly problems though. We just want to stare into space.

Final Verdict:

4 Stars out of 5

This review was originally written for The Cornell Daily Sun and can be viewed at its original location via this link.

Janelle Monáe Concert Review

2011-10-04T22:18:00.004-04:00

Janelle Monáe

At Barton Hall, Cornell University

On Sunday, October 2, 2011

Sometimes it is not just the music, but the atmosphere that makes the night. With a closer stage than usual and a respectful crowd filling the ranks, Janelle Monáe tore down the usual barriers to become one with the audience at Sunday night’s intimate, energetic set. It was a comfortable antithesis to B.o.B’s crowded and sweaty concert at Homecoming, with a smaller crowd that knew exactly where they wanted to be. Prelims and the rush before fall break likely kept many holed up in their dorms. Their loss. Monáe, a soaring rocket of talent and class, ignited Barton Hall with an incendiary performance.

The neo-soul darling has played shows for nearly a decade, but with the success of her first album, The ArchAndroid, last year, she is finally giving it all for the crowds she deserves. As a result, Monáe navigates the stage with the grace of a veteran, yet absorbs the rapture of her audience with gratitude the jaded have long forgotten. Decked in a tight tuxedo shirt and exaggerated black necktie, the fashionista blended singing, dancing and performance art (the term used quite literally in this case) into a stylish conglomerate of experimental R&B and funky, retro throwback. It is fitting she covered two classics from her heroes, with Prince’s 80s hit “Take Me With U” and the Jackson 5’s immortal “I Want You Back.” The original singers’ voices already bordered on the effeminate, and Janelle captured the youthful yearning with her soaring lines and stunning range. Certainly no one in the crowd was expecting the pitch-perfect delivery of “All I want ... All I neeeeed!!” in the Jackson standard, but she met the challenge.

Her command of voice is thoroughly impressive, as she juggles a myriad of styles without struggle. “Locked Inside” could be a lost Off the Wall cut, with bass slinking underneath bars that allow for plenty of vibrato improvisation. Really, you wonder where Quincy Jones was hiding on the production credits. The cut staccato of “Wondaland” stands in stark contrast, and she held the microphone close as she screeched and ridiculously instructed, “Take her back to Wondaland/ She thinks she left her underpants.” Trust me, she could stick any absurd phrase in this refrain and you would still end up singing it to yourself on the way home. “Dance or Die,” which opened the festivities, basically blends hip-hop, funk and afropop into a groovy chant that allowed for her to pace across the stage and survey the fans she will entertain for the night.

Janelle’s two huge hits, “Cold War” and “Tightrope,” received enthusiastic hoots and hollers upon the initial measures alone. Following her sensational performance at the Grammys this year, “Cold War” has entered the playlists of millions due to the fact that it is ... well, awesome. “Tightrope” wears its influence on its sleeve, with that James Brown enunciation of “sceeene” and even numerous dance breaks as horns blast behind. You have to appreciate the stamina of this girl. No synchronized moves were defined; she fell into the groove. A dance-savvy individual could list all her techniques better than me, though the whole crowd witnessed gliding redolent of the late King of Pop.

When interviewed by the Sun last week, Monáe pitched her show as “not just a concert” but a “full experience.” Behind this 25-year-old Vessel of Soul a huge backing band laid the foundation. Not only one enthusiastic guitar player but assorted percussion, strings, backup singers and a full horn section. The James Bond brass punches and sweeping violins in “Sincerely, Jane” added a layer of class to a track aspiring to be a 60s Burt Bacharach composition. She regularly interacted with her musicians in crime, conducting the band with her giant winglike cloak for appropriately epic endings. Cyclops shades, Victorian masks and black robes made for a bizarre costume rack, and don’t forget the black and white balloon orgy throughout “Tightrope.” Monáe even stopped to paint her “Insanity Painting” — to which she gifted to one lucky birthday girl after the show — which consisted of angry swipes of paint on an innocent canvas.

Artists of Janelle’s caliber are not always so spot-on live. I saw Cee-Lo at Lollapalooza this summer and it was terrible. He had the audience — easily numerated in the hundreds of thousands — in his hand, yet lost them through awkward, extended banter and distant stage presence. It was a dreadful performance. Yet when Janelle silently asked for a hand wave, back and forth, with a heart cusped at the hands, the audience hypnotically obliged. It was natural, not forced, and more than deserved. In the final song of the encore, “Come Alive,” she engaged all of Barton Hall in repeat-after-me scatting before literally having them all descend to the floor. And when she broke the spell by screaming “I came alive!” before flipping over a mic stand, we, just for a moment, shared that collective rush as one.

This review was originally written for The Cornell Daily Sun and can be viewed at its original location at the this link. The header picture above was taken by Tina Chou, Staff Photographer for the The Sun.

The Machine Who Knew Too Much

2011-09-30T14:20:00.002-04:00

The following is a paper I wrote for my films class. Not exactly a great pitch to entice the reader, but I formed the argument in a way only lightly abiding to scholastic format and tried to have fun with the structure. This paper is a scene breakdown of the classic 2001: A Space Odyssey, directed by Stanley Kubrick. The scene in question is when astronauts Bowman and Poole meet in the pod to discuss the problem of HAL, the suspicious supercomputer. Naturally, there are spoilers to the film inherent to the discussion.

The Machine Who Knew Too Much:
Misplaced Power and Humanity in Kubrick's 2001

It is not so much a question anymore whether or not you have an iPod, but how much music it holds, whether it is also a phone, and what bird-soaring games are installed on it. We are sucked into screens when other human beings surround us; pixels and electric currents are just about preferred lanes of communication as any. The more advanced technology becomes - by our own innovations no less - and the increasing degree to which we rely on it sets up irrevocable dangers. Cinema loves to scare us with such apocalyptic scenarios, ranging from nationwide network blackouts in Live Free or Die Hard to a full-on robot revolution in The Terminator series. However, film’s most memorable depiction of technology’s influence and mastery might belong to a soft, comforting voice you would welcome into your home. The supercomputer HAL from Stanley Kubrick’s 1968 opus 2001: A Space Odyssey presents itself as trustworthy and dependable, with near empathy for human feeling. The powers behind the camera form this initial image, only to progressively shift the audience’s perception through faint hints and both the revealing and withholding of certain information. The memorable scene in which we finally discover HAL’s true power and motives features not a single word spoken by it, but light, enlightening cues Kubrick feeds us as the human astronauts attempt to escape HAL’s grasp. Kubrick underlines technology’s omnipresence and mutinous superiority over man through subtle directorial tactics as camera distance, the inclusion of HAL in nearly all shots and voyeuristic camera movement.

The lens of the camera are effectively the eyes of the audience, and Kubrick gauges the distance between subject and viewer to emphasize man’s inferiority. The previous scene ends and transitions to the next with an extreme closeup on HAL and its cascading, unwavering red-orange eye. Astronauts Bowman and Poole sit up from their chairs to move to their presumed safe location and their action reflects across the screen-filling eye of HAL. The computer knows something is awry, and will see to the problem, most literally. After the pair enter the pod bay and ask HAL to rotate the pod, Bowman requests for the door to open. This shot is framed awkwardly, from a low angle and at quite a distance. Their heads only reach halfway up the screen, with the vacant top filled with the artificial light emanating from every ceiling of the spacecraft. Low angle shots can often entrust power upon the subject, yet the opposite is achieved in this case. The off-focus rotating pod to the right and the reliably white apparatus to the left barricade the humans between, and the full exposure of the immaculate ceiling above them surround man with science. Bowman and Poole are the test objects to HAL watching behind them, and they appear insignificant in the face of such omniscient circuitry. That wary gaze they exchange briefly uncovers true fear and mistrust, a revealing action they believe goes unnoticed. The camera in almost every sense acts as an extension of HAL’s purview even where a physical extension lacks. HAL’s mastery of interpreting body language and maintaining aural control compensates when vision may lack. The machine sees this exchange precisely how the audience sees it: full of doubt and scheme. The subsequent shot reaffirms the suspicion through framing and placement alone. A 180 degree reverse shot covers the previously unseen perspective. The angle is high, looking down on the backs of Bowman and Poole as they enter the pod. Their two helmets evenly surround them, this time squeezing two human subjects between the technological representations of themselves. The distance is far, with the helmets dwarfing the humans; both space helmets will act as part of the gambits HAL later acts upon to kill each human. HAL will succeed with one, poor Poole, as the computer seeks to cut the ties with the technology that man has become so dependent on (it is also fitting it kills the rest of the crew by simply deactivating their complex life system). Therefore, Kubrick inserts clever foreshadowing in this shot in addition to the visual representation of man’s growing insignificance to his own creations surrounding him.

The inclusion of HAL in almost all shots accents its ubiquity and wit. The aforementioned extreme closeup recurs often and editing splices it into sequences for the viewer to wordlessly comprehend HAL’s active cognition. After the helmet shot, Kubrick and editor Ray Lovejoy insert that intimate image to disclose HAL’s quiet attentiveness to the unfolding events. The most memorable shot of the scene quarters Bowman and Poole in the small confines of the pod as they face each other akin to men sitting across one another at a dinner table. Between them, however, about on center of the clear aperture of the pod, HAL watches. The two express their doubts on the robot, and conclude they may have to shut it down for its unprecedented miscalculation. Bowman (slowly and methodically) switched off communication channels with HAL before they started their conversation - at the same pace in which Bowman engages the final switches later - so they believe their conversation remains confidential. Yet HAL still watches. This entire shot appears uninterrupted until editing interpolates a lone image of HAL, as viewed from inside the pod, through the window, staring back. If the audience did not believe HAL was playing an active role in the scene, little doubt now rests. Cut back to the same shot of them talking, as they get to the meat of their discourse in their doubts of the computer’s performance. Now editing thrusts us right into the eyes of the beholder once more, through the same extreme closeup used before, yet this time with much more consequence; its knowledge spells doom. Such wise editing and placement of HAL within shots stresses technology’s omnipresence around man.

The optical grace of Kubrick’s camera movement establishes connection between the machine’s perspective and the viewer, and in the process humanizes the robots. The first shot of the pod bay contains one of the two instances of dynamic camera placement in this scene. In both cases, the lens of the camera acts as well as the lens of an eye. The first instance starts on a long shot of Bowman and Poole descending a ladder with HAL to the far left, stationed on the wall maintaining watch. As the two enter the bay, the camera swerves as to be in line with HAL’s field of vision, which in case views the wide window in the pod bay. The camera then gently nudges forward until the edges of the window disappear from view. This subtle trick lets the viewer see through the eyes of HAL without perhaps realizing it, granting a voyeuristic view of the two astronauts, even zooming in on them, as they are aiming to flee from the computer’s jurisdiction for just one moment. The only other shot with an active camera holds the true twist in the film. The directing and editing have built up the suspense, hinting at HAL’s dishonest machinations. The final reveal unfolds without any sound, through the “eyes” of HAL, as this point of view shot is also an extreme closeup on both Bowman and Poole’s lips. Without the dialogue we hear before, we are thrown into HAL’s seemingly deaf perspective. Yet it is that aim on the lips that shows us the computer can translate lipreading to flawless effect. HAL knows. This shot not only reveals its true nature, but also grants it humanlike qualities. The absence of any overlaying, digital interface to survey the landscape present this robot as a rather simplistic one. Once it starts to flick back and forth between talking lips, however, we realize this could be a human’s point of view we are witnessing, with the visual appearance and mobile fluidity of a human eye. The scheming HAL is more like us than we would care to think: dishonest, and also curious, seeking answers to questions those it trusts will not tell it. Perhaps HAL is simply emotionally hurt to learn that its only “friends” are planning on killing it. A bombshell of that magnitude would tear you apart, too. Kubrick’s spare and soulful use of moving camera shots wordlessly conveys empathy with HAL and thus edifies the supercomputer.

Through camera distance, movement and focus on HAL, Kubrick cautions of technology’s omnipresence, and, in turn, grants humanlike qualities to the machines themselves. The works of man reach a point where they can evolve past their fundamental constraints, not unlike God’s own creations. A film may show us a montage of years and years of technological development and incorporation to stress this point, or an indulgent display of pyrotechnics to showcase the machines’ real strength. Yet, when a film grants machine the most human of qualities as curiosity, wordlessly displaying its range of feeling and thirst for knowledge, it, or shall I say he, is one of us.

Drive Review

2011-09-24T04:25:00.001-04:00

Drive

Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn

Released in 2011

Quentin Tarantino did not reach his unique plane of influence or popularity from his looks or people skills (his best interviews evolve into glorious exercises in sibilation and gesticulation). No, he just knows how to wield a camera well, and how to implement bold post-production techniques to realize his crazy vision. It's all about style, baby. Hailing from Denmark is a man who lives these truths. Nicolas Winding Refn directs Drive with an eery amount of confidence and talent to back up the chutzpah. Sure, Ryan Gosling may be behind the literal wheel in the story but it is Refn doing the steering.

With all that said, Drive is a different beast. Such a title conjures up images of Vin Diesel and Paul Walker piloting sports cars in kinetic chase sequences over a story geared for sequential exploitation. Nothing of the sort here. Sure, the few driving scenes are superb, but they aim for suspense rather than stimulation, achieved through that age-old adage "less is more." The film takes its time. Editor Matthew Newman scales back transitions more than you would expect, to the point of discomfort. The first thirty-odd minutes move with little energy or seeming motive, but it effectively establishes a mood, almost hypnotic, that cushions the viewer into false security. At the point when all gates come crashing down, the film still moves with lethargy, but a new flame burns in its eyes. To quote Leo DiCaprio from The Departed, "Your heart rate is jacked. And your hand, steady."

Plot summary for the sake of plot summary will not acquaint you with the workings of the film. Just know there is a man with no name, blessed with divine driving skills and thus known to us as Driver, played by a nearly mute Ryan Gosling, and he gets himself into trouble. He wants to protect a married woman (Carey Mulligan), and their love grows from lengthy stares into each others' eyes. There are angry folks, such as gangsters played by Ron Perlman and Albert Brooks, the latter whose temper rivals Joe Pesci's on poker night. There are nice guys, like Bryan Cranston, but I've never seen the Breaking Bad actor so feeble since he had Jane Kaczmarek for a TV wife. These auxiliary characters serve roles of plot stimulus and, in the end, not much more. Of course, there are moments of acting brilliance - Brooks has never been this delightfully menacing, and Gosling conveys bliss to fury with nothing more than his expressions - but the characters are not the devices that carry this film.

Everyone behind the camera contributes to the aura - perhaps the word is "mystique"? - this film congeals. Cinematographer Newton Sigel works wonders with lighting in the elevator scene that, from Hossein Amini's script, progresses so atypically it may put the audience into shock. The costumes, designed by Erin Benach, are attractive as well as appropriately symbolic. That scorpion design on the back of Driver's jacket speaks volumes when the character does not. Sound design crafts ultimate suspense as Driver sits in his car, waiting, as a constant ticking noise steadily ties your stomach in knots. Cliff Martinez's score lends a spacey ambience to the drama, and Refn's choice of obscure 80's synth and disco cuts underline the retro style that is certainly the influence. Pink, gaudy font for the opening credits may remind gamers of Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, as will the police-evading car chases.

Much like the GTA series, this film is violent. Shockingly brutal, even. Gunshots, stabs and especially stomps enact devastating carnage upon those in contact. The minds behind the camera wisely cut away from the most gruesome sights quickly to let the viewer fill in the rest of the image. It may be a more unsettling technique than letting us stare. The violence, in its context and intensity, escalates this from a standard crime film to a strangely calm, mesmerizing B-movie. The term is not to undermine the film; it is not unlike Korean classic Oldboy and its use of slick technique and brutal violence to hold up a pulp premise. (Also, both protagonists wreck hell with a hammer). However, it is lacking a quality to rank it with the greats. The greatest films that contain gratuitous violence also talk about it, ask the unheard question: why? Why must it be this way, to this degree? Pulp Fiction, Fargo, even the recent In Bruges all tackle this question. None have an answer. But its that ability to propose those inquiries, adding intellectual weight under the hood, that place them in that higher pantheon.

It's action, revenge, romance, thriller, drama yet none of those genres. It is simply Drive. Gosling excels in expressionist acting (the anger he communicates with his clenched fist in the strip club scene is shocking), but Refn grants this film its greatest gifts. Style, when slick and innovative, can hypnotize and reel in the audience. As a result, due reason or philosophical depth may lack. But when a scene formed so well, wholly - such as when Driver confronts Nico (Perlman) in the dead of the night, with a Riz Orlotani opera piece solely accompanying, lighting faint, shots haunting yet oddly calming - that you reach a level of ineffable emotional transcendence ... well, I guess not much else matters.

Final Verdict:

4 Stars Out of 5

This article is from The Cornell Daily Sun and is published here from the text of this original article.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes Review

2011-08-17T02:43:00.002-04:00

Rise of the Planet of the Apes

Directed by Rupert Wyatt

Released in 2011

A little over a month ago I visited the Bronx Zoo with my family for the first time in almost eight years. It was a tradition to see the toucans, sea lions and exotic mice as a child, so the visit was a little childhood send-off. As exciting it was to see the Egyptian Spiny Mouse once more, I was taken back during the visit to the outdoor primate exhibit. One gorilla sat upright, against a stump, seemingly indifferent to the visitors and conditioned to their presence. He gazed not at children beating on the glass, nor even his own kind, but upwards. He could have been daydreaming in the clouds above. I do not think a fish knows it is a fish, cognizant of its own existence. But I am confident (as are scientists as a quick Google search will show) that a gorilla, and all great apes for that matter, are capable of existential reflection, aware of their own existence. They boast qualities of humanity, a trait, surprisingly enough, almost exclusively reserved for humans. They are also capable of extreme brutality, as that horrifying story of the woman whose face was literally ripped off from a supposedly tame chimpanzee will attest. With strength that overshadows our own and a sense of purpose, monkeys kept in captivity makes for a risky game. With modifications to intelligence that allow comprehension of the injustice they have been served, we face a significant threat. Such thought provides conflict for Rise of the Planet of the Apes.

Why studio executives decided to reboot a franchise that had no winners since its inception in 1968 - and the abysmal Tim Burton/Mark Wahlberg remake still leaving a bad aftertaste - is beyond me. But that they did so with unsuspecting feeling and humanity leaves me surprised. That the filmmakers utilized computer effects as the primary vehicle to engage the audience emotionally shocks me even more. There are pleasant surprises to behold as Rise enfolds; they taper off by the end but this blockbuster still boasts a higher IQ than the norm, like our protagonist Caesar. James Franco's name has been attached to this title but even the release poster only displays Caesar, the chimp created by computers and a very dedicated Andy Serkis. Make no mistake: this primate of pixels is the star of the show, and an incredibly convincing one at that.

An alternate version of a prequel to the Planet of the Apes saga, the story explains, well, the rise of the apes over the humans who have controlled them for so long. A chimp with superior intellect - inherited from his mother who was applied an allegedly Alzheimer's-curing drug before turning rabid - becomes the harbinger of this revolution. But under the care of soft scientist Will Rodman (Franco), Caesar is as sensitive as a child and similarly seeking answers. He defies the classification of "pet" but still cannot meet the next true level. Frustration boils underneath his tender exterior, a genius wanting bigger and bolder things. But he genuinely cares for his family, and devotes much time to comfort Will's ailing father (John Lithgow), whose severe onset of Alzheimer's may be a more powerful motive for Will's tireless research. Caesar is one with the family until an extreme circumstance forces him out of the house (the brunt of which the incredibly unlucky neighbor receives). As he lives in a zoo he begins to communicate with other apes, notably a very wise orangutan, and exercises his intellect over the rest. The "prison" scenes, if you will, are akin to Shawshank Redemption in a sense: abused at first, a man uses wit to win over the heavies and wields intimidation and persuasion to unite those who wish to rever him. We have seen it before, but not like this.

Unfortunately, the story loses steam as the fight turns physical, escalating to a brawl on the Golden Gate Bridge. What once was a fresh meditation on the nature of humanity turns to Roland Emmerich fodder. It stops asking those moral, existential questions, and the script seems to side with the apes when there is still so much grey area. When human law prevents a father and son (Will and Caesar, respectively) from being together, is it right for the son to take out so much anger on the father? Is this catalyst a fitting reason to believe your cause for species dominance is just? It is a small, personal reason, and these struggles appear so miniscule in the larger picture, yet so overwhelming to the individual. As an audience, we both sympathize and empathize, as we know how that feels, so it may be a wise choice. But, in the larger picture, the apes' cause is portrayed as the absolute right one - for dramatic effect - when the sensible approach would be more objective.

This is a story of man - or in this case a monkey - and his loss of innocence. In this case, his genius intelligence amplifies this already significant revelation, for while he mopes after realizing his species' true stratum against humans, he takes action. It is sad to see Caesar make such a choice, for most of the film Will nurtures Caesar out of selflessness, though Franco's occasionally stiff acting not always communicates this. Nonetheless, we care about their bond, and it is this relationship that occupies the majority of the film's runtime. This is great, because the mandatory though unoriginal action scenes are as short as they can be. And this is not say those scenes are bad, for chimps and orangutans playing a life-or-death game of monkey bar under the Golden Gate Bridge makes for great entertainment. But it does not tread the abstract pavement much of the film so boldly dares to walk.

The equally risky decision to make the protagonist a digitally rendered monkey that is not an anthropomorphic cartoon reaps unforeseen rewards. Here is a full-bodied, expressive, fluidly-drawn character that we believe. Avatar laid admirable groundwork in the field of advanced computer, erm, avatars. However, Caesar carries more emotional nuances and without saying a word (!!). Bliss, melancholy, mirth, anger, love, and envy all pour from this marvel of computer and acting wizardry. Andy Serkis is the greatest proponent of this technique, and while fellow chimp Kong and cinema icon Gollum, especially, were fascinating works of his, Caesar represents even more advanced leaps in technology and a deeper, dominating role. If no other aspect of this film appeals to you (which I can understand given this series' track record), see it for Serkis' performance alone.

Other actors fascinated, in varying ways. John Lithgow steps into the shoes of an Alzheimer's victim, one slowly fading away and aware of his tragic descent. The eyes, he nails the eyes, for they wander and wander until they affix on your own, and there is the sinking feeling that they do not recall the history both pairs have shared. My grandfather spent the last years of his life afflicted with the terrible disease, the leech that sucked away even the most powerful memories of love. For the record, five added years of not just life, but full neurological function and ability to recall all moments with loved ones and still be able to create more is not a failure, as Will states of the drug trial of his father. It is an incredibly immature conclusion to make, and another example of the film's frequent moments of jumping to resolutions far too eagerly and decisively. There is much grey area in the real world that this screenplay does not seem to acknowledge.

On a lighter note, the other casting choice worthy of note is Tom Felton, playing Draco Mal-uh Dodge Landon, the abusive monkey handler. There is little difference from this role to Draco Malfoy, which suits a Potter fan like myself just fine, and I swear he delivers that trademark Draco sneer at least once. After all, "monkey" and "Mudblood" sound awfully similar. This Dodge Landon kid seems to have every job at this facility: he feeds, locks up, tases, and shoots darts at the apes, and even guards at the outdoor post. He is the son of the owner (spoiled, privileged son? Tom Felton??? No!) but you'd think he would not handle every aspect there. But I digress. It is great to see Felton, even if his role is not original in really any way. One of the cheapest shots in the screenplay but also most downright fun is the regurgitation of Charlton Heston's immortal line from the original film. It is there, all glorious nine words. And Felton delivers it well, as badass as he could, I think. Where this man's career will go I do not know, but if he is destined to play pseudo-Draco roles for the rest of his young adult life, I will be there to observe. Until the novelty wears off at least.

Anyway, back on track, Rise of the Planet of the Apes is a blockbuster film really unlike that I have seen before. The special effects are as crucial to the storyline and theme as they could be, and even when director Rupert Wyatt and the FX team wants to have fun, as in that mesmerizing tracking shot of young Caesar navigating through the house, it does not feel thrown in, but purposeful. Serkis' portrayal of the chimp fuses primality and vulnerability in a character more alive than any other actor on the screen. The distinct flaws fidgeting under the surface are there, though do not detract as much as annoy. I did not even touch upon the vestigial Freida Pinto character who serves little purpose. But the film seems to get away with these defects for, with all the grade-A computer alchemy, it is a B movie, albeit one of the few in existence with such philosophical ideas as the cognizance of animals and the just treatment of sentient beings. The sometimes brilliant, sometimes banal direction, irregular pacing, and predictable but alluring screenplay all point to mindless fare. But that it is so much more than that is where this film's pleasures unfold. It asks us to consider our place in the world among those we coexist with, sometimes too briskly, but that it treads this ground at all far surpasses the expectations it set for itself. A viewing of Rise will garner entertainment, thought, and maybe even some apprehension at the ape exhibit next time at the zoo.

Final Verdict:
3.5 Stars Out of 5

Cowboys & Aliens Review

2011-08-10T02:13:00.004-04:00

Cowboys & Aliens

Directed by Jon Favreau

Released in 2011

A movie's title should communicate not only the concept of the film but some of the tone as well. We should determine whether or not it is a comedy, drama, action film, etc just from the name. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a crazy title; fitting then, huh? Snakes on a Plane, on the other hand, sounds so self aware that it must be drenched in irony and camp. Cowboys & Aliens carries so little conviction that it should follow the same path. However, the filmmakers attempt to fuse two genres, western and alien invasion, and fail to fulfill either's potential or even basic principles.

The first shot consists of a sprawling desert landscape, panning right until our hero Jake Lonergan (Daniel Craig) bolts upright into the shot, gasping and searching around for his bearings. He has no memory of who he is or why he is so vulnerable. A promising start. From there the driving Morricone-esque score by Harry Gregson-Williams kicks off as Jake strolls into the local town. The town looks like that Western town we have all seen before; it is believable but without distinction. Same can be said for the costumes: good work, yes, but nothing we have not seen countless times before. It all works, but lacks consequence.

Jake arrives just in time, for as the local gang leader's mess of a son (Paul Dano, further establishing himself as the subservient coward character actor of his generation) accidentally shoots the deputy sheriff out of carelessness and pulls Jake into the whole mess too. Just as they board the carriage to take them to the federal marshal, Jake's mysterious wristband begins to buzz and flash as lights in the sky do the same. In the dead of the night a flight of extraterrestrial spacecraft launch a guerrilla attack on the town, plucking several men and women from the ground, conveniently providing reasons for a crew to then set off to find those aliens and, of course, their loved ones. Paul Dano, unsurprisingly, is abducted, so Harrison Ford, his grizzled father Dolarhyde, sets forth beside his former rival, who now sports that curiously powerful wristband. There is no explanation, ever, as to why the aliens abduct those hapless humans. It is just an evil thing for them to do, providing conflict and fulfilling the stock alien invasion type. Equally unfulfilling is their reason for invading Earth; it is painfully unoriginal.

Such issues can be whittled down to one reason: there are too many writers. The credits place nine different screenwriters/story developers/comic book writers as the creative force behind the script. No natural character development or restrained story arc will survive after encountering so many hands. The first half follows the Western progression of new tough man in town, unwillingly messing the place up, and then vowing to fix it and embarking across the desert with those he affected. In fact, such a worn plot was breathed new life in the excellent Rango earlier this year.

Not only does this film lack such inspiration, it does not complete the journey our protagonist should complete. The aliens reveal their true form far too early (Spielberg is attached to this, you'd think he would oversee the cinematic lesson that is literally taught in film school today), and the film begins to switch its gears to alien takedown flick in the vain of Independence Day. A multi-cultural band of enemies unite in order to take down the greater threat; this group includes Jake and Co., Jake's former deadly gang he now disowns, and a surprisingly inoffensive troop of Native Americans. The latter thankfully have some depth in their image, not overly barbaric or unremittingly tied to the spirits around them but somewhere comfortably in between. With the help of those who traveled with him, Jake unites these factions and they all collectively overthrow the intruders. Not enough attention is placed upon Jake, however, as we feel that he only solves the issues from a "shoot the baddies" perspective while the moral choices and reconciliations are left to the love interest, Ella Swenson (Olivia Wilde). By the end, Jake has changed, but it is not his choices that got him there.

The casting contains curiosities, both good and bad. As great as it is to see Harrison Ford in 2011, the man immortalized through the space gunslinger Han Solo has since lost that drive. His performance has some highlights, particularly as he confesses to his right-hand man (Adam Beach) how he wished his son had half his goodwill and courage, and as he finally reunites with his son in the end we feel for him. But we never care for him before these moments, and while that may be by conscious choice, it is not a smart decision for us to barely think of the character when he is off-screen. It takes far too long for us to feel effect, and far too late. After playing the futuristic model of a woman in Tron: Legacy, it feels grossly anachronistic for Olivia Wilde to strap on cowboy boots in the 19th century. She lacks abilities as an actress, specializing in that glazed, seductive stare she exercises so often. Hollywood has been forcing Wilde onto screens lately and I am not sure why, besides the obvious (and I believe overstated) reason.

The actors who stand out hint at what could have been if the acting ensemble was tighter and script much more focused. Sam Rockwell, unsurprisingly, excels even with his limited material and admittedly bland character. But he has mastered quirky comic delivery as well as an effective state of emotional distress when his character calls for it. His physical struggle to shoot a gun pays off when he finally saves his comrades and takes control of his manhood. And the best character is the short-lived preacher played by Clancy Brown, the prison guard from The Shawshank Redemption. His down-to-earth spirituality lends weight to the film's thematic potential, suggesting that faith will heal the wounds left by those who harm. But his death (yes I spoil, it is not a big deal) arrives so soon, and this theme, fleetingly touched upon again in the Native American camp, never truly finds its footing.

I respect that Jon Favreau and the whole outfit of screenwriters approached this film as more than a campy panache. But they take themselves too seriously, and are reluctant to inject any comedy into a product that demands it. The plot wanders, rife with holes and stumbling aimlessly for theme. Much like Jake in the beginning frames. With added levity and, let's say, a Western story arc with alien elements added more naturally and less intrusively, this action film from the director of Iron Man could have been a witty, engaging summer flick. And for godsakes the title is not helping.

Final Verdict:
2 Stars out of 5

Horrible Bosses Review

2011-07-26T15:58:00.001-04:00

Horrible Bosses

Directed by Seth Gordon

Released in 2011

Michael Scott may be an ineffectual business negotiator, or even a social debacle, but he is a caring man at heart. He considers his employees family, in the way Papa Bear looks after his young. Not the same with these bosses. Made and set in a time when our country's economic outlook could be equated to a partisan, agonizing sinkhole, Horrible Bosses offers a dream scenario for those cubicle sheep out there sick of their employer but not willing to bite the hand that feeds. Three buds take aim at the source of their unyielding misery, and with hilarious results.

Jason Bateman, Jason Sudeikis and Charlie Day comprise the hapless trio. They, for different reasons, loathe their bosses so much they conceive an idea, while drunk of course, to kill them in order to return to happiness. Kevin Spacey slithers with a deadly bite as Dave Harken, the bane of Nick Hendrick's (Bateman) existence. He is brilliant, brilliant in his methods of manipulation that confound and humiliate his reluctant man-servant Nick. And evil as well, with a dark side that reveals itself verbally until physical introductions. Kurt Buckman (Sudeikis) leads a content work life, with his boss a loving father figure (a warm Donald Sutherland). That is, until the unexpected happens and his soulless tool of a son tacks his name on his daddy's desk. His depravity is not so self-aware, but part of his blood; he does not know how to not be offensive and shamelessly covetous. His addiction to cocaine only exacerbates such qualities. The last of the three differs, drastically. Dentist Dr. Julia Harris, an alluring Jennifer Aniston never acting or looking better, targets her assistant Dale (Day) as the object of her sexual desires. All would be fine if Dale was not engaged to be married to a loving fiancé. Dale's struggle is looked down upon by his friends, but Dale has the right moral center even as Julia yearns to corrupt it.

The three leads and their evil counterparts define the film in its unrelentingly comical, raunchy glory. But a number of other familiar faces appear for amusing moments. Modern Family's Julie Bowen is Harken's wife, polar opposite in affection and faith to her husband. Jamie Foxx surfaces multiple times as the hitman the three consult. His name itself is unfit for print and he makes for amusing racial commentary. Even Mr. Fantastic himself, suave British bloke Ioan Gruffudd, appears for a cameo that is as confusing as it is priceless.

But it is the leads here that excel. Bateman is the best "straight man" in comedy around, and while that is the core of his role, he surpasses it in moments like while cleaning up the mess Charlie Day made. Day is the real standout of the film. In this scene in particular, the manic, fumbling style he shines with in It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia has quite the literal stimulus, but all induced by Day's acting alone. He possesses a distinctive, shrill voice that makes for laughs even when he isn't delivering winning lines. The always-solid Jason Sudeikis has, much like the characters in the movie, for years filled small roles without much recognition. But with Hall Pass and now (and more notably) this film, he is gradually making his way to a leading man. His character usually is the overly confident, but strong-willed dude who gets into trouble but seeks for redemption. It is not an original role for him but he makes it work.

Colin Farrell's tenure could have been more fleshed-out; this is after all the actor who mixed mirth and tragedy to brilliant effect with In Bruges. And his American accent is nowhere near as fun as his natural Irish quaver, really. He makes the clichéd cocaine-fueled businessman role not feel too stale, however. Spacey is the most convincingly evil of the bunch, but as a two-time Academy Award winner can likely achieve, he brings a little more to it. He is psychotic, a devotee to schadenfreude. He feeds on the pain of others, and, as he says, "it feels good". Aniston may be the surprise of the whole film. She has slummed it in so many romantic comedies we forget she is a winning comic item, not to mention a very sexy one as well. Her seductive thirst for men feels voluptuous but genuinely creepy, just what the script is aiming for to reach equality amongst the three. I cannot imagine anyone else filling this part, at least more effectively.

Horrible Bosses does not seek to inspire or enlighten, and it really does not want to comment on the current state of employment other than repeat that, hey, bosses suck. The meditation on the inability of three middle-class men to carry through with such a heinous task is all too short; tears don't have to be shed but the psychological effects could have been addressed to greater, and campy, extent. Oh, and what a deus ex machina of an ending. But such qualms do not detract from the enjoyment, which, as box office numbers so far have shown, many have experienced. It moves at that "laugh a minute", and often greater, pace, not losing steam. And while directed without much style or distinction, there are some clever touches here and there, especially the well-timed overhead shot of the three leads awkwardly pulling out of a parking lot. The maladroit dexterity the characters hold on their own ludicrous premise is in the end why the film's premise prevails.

Final Verdict:

3 Stars out of 5

Captain America: The First Avenger Review

2011-07-24T17:50:00.003-04:00

Captain America: The First Avenger

Directed by Joe Johnston

Released in 2011

When the good guy is a little guy, you know he will use his wits to defeat the big bad guy and win in the end. When the good guy possesses such mindful tactics and is still jacked up with super soldier serum, the bad guys have no chance. Once comic books were recognized as more than just pulp entertainment but a tool for propaganda, Timely Comics (precursor to Marvel) bolstered Captain America as a hero for all of us, especially the little guy. With his red, white and blue tunic and indestructible shield, Captain America - whose real name is the comfortably normal Steve Rogers - was an incredibly effective symbol of patriotism in tough times. It is not so much the "punching Hitler in the face" gambit that maintains the Captain's image today, but his bravery when forces beyond his control hold him down, as well as his substantial, though not ordinate, powers. He can throw a punch like no other, but he is ultimately mortal and modest with his powers. The 70 year old hero finds new life, and a new audience, in this satisfying, polished 2011 reboot.

The Nazi menace threatens the freedoms of all in the world, and millions are enlisting to help. Unfortunately, short, sickly Steve Rogers cannot make the cut. Asthma is just the first of his ailments. But determination runs through his blood; he would rather spend the night volunteering for what surely would be another failed inspection than spend a night on the town. Stanley Tucci, as Dr. Abraham Erskine, takes notice, running Steve through a training course where he and Colonel Chester Phillips (Tommy Lee Jones, never more grouchy or entertaining) pick the worthiest soldier for an experimental enhancement procedure. Steve's selflessness and gallantry wins out, and what was once a gaunt, petite "boy from Brooklyn" transforms into a buff, nimble symbol of American offense and science. Nazis are not even the main enemy; that would be the anarchic branch, HYDRA, within the Third Reich in charge of weapons so powerful its leader, Johann Schmidt (Hugo Weaving), deems der Führer unworthy of harnessing the might of the gods.

Preparing for the role with an exercise program fit for the gods, Chris Evans balances his action star looks with genuine down-to-earth humility. Captain America has the strength that perhaps his entire country is relying on to bring peace, but he remains likable by never abusing it and always looking out for others. It makes for an almost too perfect protagonist: there are little flaws in the Steve Rogers' character, leading him to remain about the same throughout the film. Same can be said about the love interest Peggy Carter (Hayley Atwell), who sees an admirable figure in Rogers before the transformation and only likes him more as he proves his abilities (and sports washboard abs to boot). It is better than a woman only interested in the protagonist's newfound looks and power, but it makes for a rather uncommon arc for romance. All that aside, it takes painfully long for "the kiss" so the payoff manifests in typical, overdue fashion.

The numerous actors filling the supporting roles are talented and well-suited. Tommy Lee Jones channels not No Country for Old Men's solemn meditation but more Men in Black's deadpan. Never content and always discouraging the risky route (read: the right route), Col. Phillips gradually gains respect and confidence in the Captain over the course of the film. Jones has winning lines but it is his worn, grizzled mug and demeanor that bring wit and charm to a archetypal character. Stanley Tucci excels, as always, whether he regales through clever banter or cautions Rogers to never lose the charity he so embodies. While the time on-screen is awfully brief, Dr. Erskine does not create as so secure the ideology Captain America sees the world through.

Dominic Cooper is a young Howard Stark, looking nothing like the John Slattery middle-age version that is seen in Iron Man 2. However, it is an excellent character, one I found to be a great, rather unlikely addition that does not only tie together the Marvel universe but sheds light on some truths the movie aims to reach. With short-skirted dames beside him, he unveils a prototype flying car at New York's World Fair early on for an eager, scraggly Steve Rogers to see. The playboy persona appears untouchable, of another lifestyle and class. But as he affixes his (stylish) lab goggles by the super soldier machine, little Steve Rogers' mouth drops that such an illustrious figure would help him reach his potential. Stark's aid does not end there, for he flies, experiments, builds, scavenges, fabricates, does science, fondues, and so forth throughout his generous tour. Such a character comments on the idealistic image of the most privileged sacrificing so much for the cause of war. Very admirable, and unfortunately not too true, Howard Stark's benevolence certainly carried over to his like-minded son and champions such figures.

The rest of the crew alongside Captain America, as seen through a well-placed kick-ass montage, looks out for one another and can inflict some serious damage, even when beside a cellularly enhanced beast of a man. Rogers' best bud throughout, Bucky Barnes, played by Sebastian Stan (most likely remembered as "that guy from the bar" in Black Swan), strengthens the heart of his friend and reveals in the mighty Captain what matters most. Band of Brothers' Neal McDonough sports a classy bowler and burly mustache as Dum Dum Dugan, a soldier who clearly revels in enacting revenge upon his former captors. And there is clever social commentary with Kenneth Choi's character Jim Morita. An Asian-American, Jim exasperatedly sighs "I'm from Fresno" when he receives a few skeptical glances from the others in his squad. That is all they need to hear.

Heath Ledger spoiled us, for we expect so much from our comic book villains now. Remember that it was our own Tommy Lee Jones who played Two-Face before The Dark Knight. But when expectations are higher, quality must improve as well. For this reason I found the antagonist here underwhelming. Not Toby Jones' Dr. Arnim Zola, however. A brilliant scientist aiding Johann Schmidt out of fear more than loyalty, Zola is given gravitas by Jones. He watches from the sidelines as what he creates destroys so much, perhaps an analogy to Einstein. But Hugo Weaving's Johann Schmidt aka Red Skull chews the scenery relentlessly, and with a faux German accent. Weaving's greatest success was at a villain who purposely embodied a flat stereotype in the Matrix films; that is not to speak down on the actor but only that his bad guy persona is fairly one-dimensional. He brings menace to the megalomaniac but not much more. The blame can be pointed more to the visual effects department, for he suffers a Hulk effect in which, no matter how good the actor is, once the face morphs into CGI, a human connection is lost.

The connection between the audience and Captain America, however, never falters. Chris Evans always stole the show in other action flicks like Fantastic Four and The Losers, and in his first title role he leads with reserve and revelation, as a man in many ways adolescent discovering himself and the world around him. He does not instantly jump into the battlefields of Europe, but tours the country first in a War Bonds promotion, gaudy tights strapped on and shield in hand. The story flows with an easy energy, not rushing to get to the next set-piece, and certainly absent of any kinetic editing that we are used to with Zack Snyder and Guy Ritchie's wacky fare. It is deliberately old-fashioned, with an old-fashioned aesthetic and old-fashioned characters. They kick and punch in impressive action scenes with special effects that do not override the human story at the heart of the film. Director Joe Johnston does not possess gifts to prevent the choreography and action, however, from getting stale in the final battle, nor do he or screenwriters Christopher Marcus and Stephen McFeely provide much of a journey for the characters, where they learn, adapt, convert. But in that sense it is fit for the serialized comic book influence it so directly aspires to be (and tailored for sequels no doubt). It is an underdog story with extreme modifications, slick and built to please.

Final Verdict:
3 Stars Out of 5

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 Review

2011-07-17T16:32:00.017-04:00

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2

Directed by David Yates

Released in 2011

So long, childhood. I’ll miss ya, but I would be hard-pressed to think of a better way to end. There is no product of the imagination in our time, in any medium, that resonated with more youth, and even adults for that matter, than the Harry Potter saga. J.K. Rowling’s scripture – which created an exhaustively detailed, unique universe to promote such lofty morals as love and loyalty in the face of adversity, and ultimately overcoming such forces of evil – ended four years ago. It is now time for the film series to follow suit. What has been a remarkably consistent streak (what other series of four, five, let alone eight, films maintained such a level of quality?) has now reached its peak in the final film, showcasing inspired filmmaking and harboring more than ample affection for the millions of fans who made the series the literary, cinematic and cultural touchstone it was.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 faces Harry against ultimate evil, Lord Voldemort, in one final battle. Or two, or three, or ten, because this film is effectively a war movie. As fate may have it, Hogwarts serves as the final battleground, laying waste to what was once beautiful in the bedlam of war. Significant life is lost, as fans already know, plus an added minor – and particularly gruesome – death that may catch you by surprise. The comedy that cavorted so freely with our adolescents before is still present, but notably relegated to the backburner for the somber emotional ties to reveal themselves and the plot strands unravel. With the exception of a trip to Gringotts Bank that, while very well-done, felt more like a preview for what surely will be ride at Universal Studios’ Wizarding World of Harry Potter, the action feels grounded, real, even as colorful spells whiz across the screen. Director David Yates and screenwriter Steve Kloves set the stakes for this violent conflict high. Perhaps even more effectively than Rowling’s material, the filmmakers illustrate what, or mainly who, hangs on the precipice of death and destruction. Much of this can be attributed to the wonders of editing, wherein images of others can be easily interpolated with Harry to establish connection. The soulful, purposeful special effects (the anti-Transformers effect) actually raise our empathy as well; when the invisible, dome barrier disintegrates to smoldering embers, a true sense of fear instills. Or as the camera sweeps over an army of Death Eaters charging the school – in what surely is a fraction of the actors actually physically present, a nod to Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings style of visual effects – we loathe the intruders, full-aware of the evil they have already committed and what they can further destroy. Here, the effects, directing, story, and acting intersect in such a deliberate, artistic way that is rarely witnessed in blockbuster action films.

And what diverse, numerous acting wonders are on display here. The three leads have shown such steady improvement over the years, and to start from what was really no more than a children’s movie to this film – which in content, theme and execution is certainly not – it is fortunate they grew into their roles so well (and didn’t age awkwardly for that matter, either). Rupert Grint abided to the narrative's details by growing exponentially over the years, to the mountainous presence he is now. From cute little girl to Vogue cover girl, Emma Watson matured with class into a role that demanded a vessel of it. The long-brewing romance between Watson and Grint's characters works here with that final payoff even non-readers knew was approaching. And both actors work familiar chemistry with the main star, Daniel Radcliffe, surely because they are the best of friends in real life after all these years. Notably, Hermione's tears when she comes to terms with a long-time truth of Harry's is heartbreaking. Such heavy material is what all of the actors have to make their own, and Radcliffe delivers his best performance as he translates Harry's pain, strife and ultimate heroism to the screen. Perhaps in part due to the media's proliferation of Dan's image, but it is indisputable that Daniel is Harry. A role that once espoused such lines as "There's no Hogwarts without you, Hagrid", Harry Potter has grown to one of the strongest leads in movie franchise history. As Dumbledore astutely notes, the "brave, brave man" that is Harry sacrifices all while wielding the most powerful weapon, love, against the surrounding fog of evil. Radcliffe has proven the choice surrogate for such a powerful and inspirational character of our times.

Ralph Fiennes personifies evil in haunting style. Previously the terrifying Amon Goeth in Schindler's List and In Bruges' infuriated hitman, Fiennes possesses a proclivity for such roles of poor moral stature, but acting can be at its best when depicting humanity's worst (Daniel Plainview and The Joker for our recent times). His face, with those reptilian slits of a nose on skin resembling palish green cartilage, contorts in fury, euphoria and even laughter. With phenomenal special effects making his mask the sickly sight it is, the sinister, soulless creature Fiennes uncovers still rumbles beneath. Note his hand gestures as he elegantly waves a wand, treating his weapon as an extension of himself. Or as he awkwardly embraces Draco, showing compassion while genuinely showing none. Or as he, with a blasé flick of the wrist, kills his own obsequious kin. As the Horcruxes protecting his soul are destroyed with rapid efficiency (a notable difference from the last film), we feel the fear of a god turning mortal. A villain for the ages, Voldemort bears a venomous bite but, an extant, though long-rotten, heart. Those stubborn Academy voters should take note of one of our time's most consistently impressive actors, Mr. Fiennes.

Or better yet, recognize the strongest character of the saga, not only due to Rowling's prose, but the tour-de-force portrayal Alan Rickman gave all for Severus Snape. Certainly the most complex and perhaps most tortured of Rowling's creations, Snape surpasses the grossly intolerant but admittedly shallow character that enunciated such memorable lines like "Page three-hundred and ninety four" (though his scene-stealing pronunciation is made light of in an early scene). What he is here is so much more. In what may be the greatest passage of the entire series, Snape's backstory is revealed, turning him from a slithery source of dry humor to a great figure of modern literature. The film's interpretation fulfills the lofty expectations readers held, and then some. The amusing lines of the text are stripped, making for a solemn sequence of tragedy. Edits flow seamlessly and logically, and any cuts made by Kloves from the source material are sensible and unworthy of debate. But it is Rickman's acting here that makes for the emotional apex of the film, and perhaps the whole series. We watch, stunned, as he oscillates between lust, fear, anger, and ultimately loss. The use of Nicholas Hooper's score from Half-Blood Prince (this film is actually composed by Alexandre Desplat for the most part) establishes a connection to previous events and successfully, thought not overbearingly so, wrings emotion from the audience. Snape's tears become your own as you form sympathy for the devil, or someone who may not be after all. It is a beautiful scene with so many wise choices, but anchored first and foremost by only Rickman.

This film series has served as a modern British acting powerhouse - such a weird phrase to use to what will likely become one of the highest grossing films of all time - and the wealth of great actors populating the wizarding universe provides for a blockbuster on such a rare plane of quality. Maggie Smith returns as Professor McGonagall, and she is no longer a passive observer of the horrors taking place at her school but a leading force in relinquishing them. Her role as maternal figure to Harry is visited again, telling him "It's good to see you again" in a way only a mother could deliver. And her giddy excitement to exercise one of the most powerful - and coolest! - spells in her arsenal is a comic highlight. This occurs when the film really kicks off, as the allied teachers, Order of the Phoenix members and students arm Hogwarts' defenses. It is both nostalgic and quite fitting to see all of the faces reunite for the final battle, as those who aided Harry on his path are there with him until the very end. Jim Broadbent's Professor Slughorn is shown all too short; he owned his intrinsic role in Half-Blood Prince with drunken antics covering a guilt-ridden conscience. His role in the final book was slightly larger (only a few added lines really). It would have been great to see more of him. Time is given to others though, as Robbie Coltrane's Hagrid returns, Harry's original portal into the magical world. His role appears late but still completes an emotional circle. Actor Warwick Davis works overtime as the useful but scheming goblin Griphook and the charming (pun certainly intended), powerful Filius Flitwick. Such disparity in the morals of both characters proves Davis as a nimble, graceful actor. Even Filch makes one last appearance, and his miserable demeanor thankfully subsides in such testing times (his job, however does not).

Molly Weasley is back (!), as is most of the Weasley clan (no Percy redemption, sorry). Molly's final duel is as satisfying as action scenes go. Matt Lewis slips a cheesy one-liner here or there as Neville Longbottom, and while some may view his St. Crispin's Day's speech as overly sentimental, it contains themes so tied to the story I empathize with its inclusion. And, besides, his killing blow in battle casts a memory modification spell on those who recall him as an awkward, forgetful youth. Evanna Lynch's Luna Lovegood isn't caught up in the clouds as much as before, and as she rebukes Harry for ignorance, we see, and hear, both a character and actor who have come a long way. Tom Felton tosses and turns in the mind of Draco Malfoy, a closet good heart being pushed to the dark side. He redeems himself besides his mother, played by Helen McCrory, whose powerful facial expressions speak louder than words. Meanwhile his father, the true source of his inherited hardship, flees unloved by any side. Bellatrix Lestrange, of course, stays evil to the end. Helena Bonham Carter absorbs the darkness in a way that would cause even the Dark Lord to bat an eye. It is a delight to then watch her play Hermione play her own character in a doomed-to-fail disguise. Good girl Hermione cannot meet such levels of vileness. And Ciarán Hinds, almost unrecognizable, plays Aberforth Dumbledore, the brother. He casts a shadow of doubt over the prospect of victory, but, again, redemption is such an integral theme to these stories that his progression is very satisfying.

A nice surprise apparates with Michael Gambon's Albus Dumbledore in a short, but crucial, scene. Steve Kloves wisely kept nearly all of Rowling's original lines for this exchange, and the lighting and design likely matches what many readers visualized. Sticking close to the source material works wonders here, as there are some really brilliant quotes. And how welcome is it to see Dumbledore before not just his prize, but closest friend, Harry, one last time.

David Yates marks his fourth time in the director's chair with this one, more than any before. Order of the Phoenix was poorly paced and lacked the drive of all the previous films. Thankfully with Half-Blood Prince he was able to show his talent that was apparently muffled from exterior sources for his first endeavor. At least according to him. Nonetheless, the last three films (including the Deathly Hallows Parts 1 and 2) have been the strongest consecutively, and he focuses all of his strengths for the final hurrah. The pacing, thanks to Kloves in part, shoots by with nary a dull moment, yet does not feel too short (though it, at 130 minutes, is the shortest film by far). Occupying that many characters on the screen, yet still prioritizing the leads and finishing their story, must be the secret.

Action flows with an energy that can only be described as exhilarating. As Hogwarts' defenses are set - not even one "Stupefy!" or "Expelliarmus" cast yet - excitement and anxiety builds for what happens once those barricades break. A skyset camera captures the crystalline, clear dome as it is built, and while the entire shot is likely all CGI, a united spirit radiates from the screen. We believe real people are enacting a fortress to fight for their lives. Since when have computer effects and green screens done that? Thoughtful direction makes all the difference.

While books describe images to be interpreted individually by the reader, film is a visual medium. Yates is aware of that. Voldemort's undoing is achieved with shots of artful composure, occasionally with the bare minimum of audio and no dialogue whatsoever. The silent prologue shows the last scene of Part 1, as Voldemort exhumes Dumbledore's grave to retrieve the Elder Wand. His silent depiction of requited lust is chilling. Even more so, later he drifts through a shockingly bloody pile of corpses, looking down at those fallen beneath him, a madman at the monarch. And the scene at the boathouse is immaculately staged; Yates has a future in stage direction if he so chooses. Once Voldemort turns desperate, failing again and again to slaughter the boy who brought upon his downfall, we see whatever man there is slowly disintegrate to nothingness. As he flies through the air with Harry (a noted addition not in the book), slashing and gnawing, all primal fury expels and his collected composure dissipates. This strange, but wisely included, encounter leads to their final faceoff, both stooped, taking aim. Yates believes in the dramatic significance Rowling prescribed this battle, and even takes it up a notch while maintaining thematic consistency.

It is so worth to recognize all the forces that make the film's setting so convincing, who add their artistic touches in each frame. Cinematographer Eduardo Serra knows that the devil is in the details, and, with Yates direction, turns a group of students entering school into a Hitler Youth rally. He utilizes this fictional England they create - with ravines and hills more representative of, say, Switzerland - to utilize depth, as in that final leap of faith Harry and Voldemort make. Nick Dudman, supervisor of make-up, transforms an actor (Warwick Davis) into two different characters, each convincingly lifelike. Stephenie McMillan, Barry Wilkinson and Stuart Craig - set decorator, property master and production designer, respectively - fill the Room of Requirement with knick-knacks and all sorts of fascinating bits of magical "trash". You feel bad for the ultimate fate of the room. The vivid, numerous costumes led by Jany Temime are among the best in Hollywood. John Richardson helms special effects, including the stunning dragon at Gringotts. Its pause upon breaking free, taking in the air and land it has long been deprived of, makes the collection of pixels and rendered models into flesh and blood.

As I have already noted, screenwriter Steve Kloves makes many wise choices when translating the book to film. No matter what length the film would have been, content would have to be cut and fans would demand blood. I understand such thinking; everyone has a favorite scene that they want to see on screen. And there are a few curious absences: no follow-up with Peter Pettigrew? Perhaps a subtle nod to the cloak? (it's in the title, after all). We all have our individual gripes, and it is this reason that shows how much we care about the characters, the original text. The films have served as a companion to the books; it is in the pages we read for the first time where are imaginations served scenes of Hogwarts in its most intimate form. The films flesh out what we already are close to, occasionally offering a different interpretation. Britain's finest fill the roles, bring life to the characters on-screen. Alan Rickman's portrayal of Snape is even more stately, sad than the book's version. How magical that the books and films can coexist, crossing each others boundaries yet ultimately stay separate artistic entities. Anyone who has not read the novels gets much less from those who do; even knowing all that happened beforehand offers rewarding surprises in watching your vision realized, or perhaps tweaked. Even butchered, it offers a personal experience. The script caters to those who read the book: for instance, a mention of Lupin and Tonks' child late in the film comes as common knowledge. However, the child was never acknowledged in the movies previously; only in the book. Those who stuck with it for the longest get the most out of it, in the end.

The last entry in the highest grossing film series of all time has no obligation to be good. In fact, a montage of the best moments from the previous films might have even broken records. But, in such a rare instance of filmmaking and production, in a time when robots, lustful vampires and comedy remakes passed as sequels rule, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 marks the highest artistic achievement of its creators yet. All the aspects mesh together just as the story's jigsaws fall into place. Most humbling of all is to watch the actors, those dozens of grade-A stars and child actors that grew up before our eyes, surrender all for a story they believe in. It is a story of one boy, and so many others beside him, using love to defeat irreconcilable evil. I cannot think of a more heartwarming theme. Now, it is time for us to shelf our collection, hang our robes. I will revisit my childhood; there is no question I will. The books and Blu-rays have more wear and tear to come. But eventually little hands will wonder of such a story their parents have long kept on display, a light film of dust beginning to settle. We will be more than happy to satiate such curiosity. And so the cycle begins again.

Final Verdict:
4.5 Stars Out of 5

Midnight in Paris Review

2011-07-04T15:47:00.002-04:00

Midnight in Paris
Directed by Woody Allen
Released in 2011

We all wear our rose-tinted glasses when looking back at the past. When time cements itself in history, only captured through the technological and cultural means of yesterday, it codifies the events, making our present look featherweight in comparison. Such literal backward-thinking frames the characters of Midnight in Paris. It fittingly serves as the folly for them as well.

Woody Allen's 41st feature length picture strolls through fantasy while still lightly harnessed by reality. There is surprise in the very nature of the story, in how it deviates from what is likely expected from a film billed as a "romantic comedy". Paris, a character of such pronounced beauty, wonderfully captured by cinematographer Darius Khondji, housed the great intellectuals throughout history. Their contributions and spirits have left an imprint on the city to this day, as if their aura still lingers in the air. And in Midnight in Paris, not only does their ambiance remain, but their flesh and blood as well. See, the main character Gil Pender (Owen Wilson) transports back to a 1920s version of Paris by midnight, via an antique Peugeot. He freely interacts with them, and they with him, until the night is no longer young. The science behind such time-travel is never explained, and it does not need to be, for the audience's suspension of disbelief is willfully checked in with the coat hanger from the start.

Gil is visiting Paris with his fiancée, Inez (Rachel McAdams), and her two parents, played by Kurt Fuller from Wayne's World and Mimi Kennedy, the nagging Karen Clark from In the Loop. Gil falls in love with the city (who doesn't?), though Inez does not share such a passionate bond. It does not help that Inez's two old friends appear without invitation, dictating their trip's events from then on. They are Paul (Michael Sheen) and Carol (Nina Arianda), the former "didactic" and a "pseudo-intellectual" espousing trivia of such obscurity to cover their falsity, and the latter simply fawning over her prize. It is no surprise Gil and Inez take notice, but for different reasons. Paul's arc from insufferable hack to something more stands by as nothing more than a minor subplot but is both entertaining and interesting as it is not hard to imagine Allen's critics labeling him the same in the past. The company Gil finds himself with Paris by day is rather dull, and certainly by conscious choice.

But of course everyone will look unappealing when put beside Paris. Yet, Allen proves us wrong. He fills The City of Light with an equally bright set of faces. Tom Hiddleston (also in Thor this summer) perfectly embodies F. Scott Fitzgerald, as does Alison Pill as his wife, Zelda. Corey Stoll's Ernest Hemingway speaks with such profound formality that either serves to prod at our current lack of eloquence or perhaps reveal the romantic view Allen himself regards these subjects. Perhaps it is neither, but rather a parody (he is basically drunk the whole time) that remains completely unironic and respectful. Kathy Bates actualizes the strong-willed Gertrude Stein whose Paris years are so storied. There are so many other familiar costumes donned, hair styles recognized, names dropped that threaten to push this film into a cameo circle of famous flappers and sheiks. But Allen directs the nods so respectfully and with enough restraint, and the actors fill their respected roles so brilliantly, that it never sinks into a panache but remains a loveletter to a place and time. To reveal any more names would rob a sense of surprise (do not look at a cast list for your own good), but I will say to be ready for a lively appearance from Adrien Brody.

There probably is not another actress alive who better personifies the elegance, maturity, and, of course, beauty of Paris than Marion Cotillard. Her grace and looks do not belong to our time it seems - filmmakers have taken note by casting her in period pieces like Nine, Public Enemies and her Oscar-winning La Vie en Rose - and she turns in a dignified performance as the mistress of the arts that eventually catches Gil's eye. Her character, Adriana, is similarly stuck idolizing a past she knows not much of like Gil. Their shared infatuation for the yesteryears forms a special bond, one that ultimately faces conflict as they face reality. There is an endless longing for what came before throughout mankind that ultimately inhibits progress if pursued to action, or inaction. We must face the realization that the history books are not written until after our time, at which point the longing to return to a time before the most recent stretch of progress, technology and life seems so enticing. Allen explores this theme with interesting results, both heralding the past yet not declaring it the be-all and end-all.

Owen Wilson fits into the Woody Allen mold remarkably well, handling such lofty themes and variable moods with ease. Watch The Darjeeling Limited for proof of the skills of the Drillbit Taylor star, and then this film will cast aside any lingering doubt. The lines, of course written by Allen, are witty and quick, filled with references to pop culture yet not to the point they are esoteric. Gil's first midnight stroll produces hilarious reactions of disbelief and stunned silence, and Allen creates realistic situations (as realistic as they can be in a fantasy really) that Wilson handles with subtlety that never turns outrageous. A successful but shallow screenwriter searching for depth as he struggles with composing a novel, Gil encounters the dream scenario when he hands his manuscript to Stein. His story, about a man who owns a nostalgia shop ("what's that?"), and the insightful critique Stein offers, helps him reconcile with his true self and his own time.

There is so much to admire in Allen's direction; you would think after 40 films he would take the easy road but that is not his style. The early scenes when Gil, Inez, Carol and Paul stroll through Versailles display Allen's talents as equating blocking to power. Paul leads and dominates the frame, for he craves the reverence. Gil is a stronger man than he, and when he calls Paul's bluff on his lack of knowledge (with a piece of info acquired through a rather humorous circumstance), he simply walks out of frame, leaving Paul to answer to the two cheerleaders who may raise doubt. Allen provides such careful coverage of the party scenes as well, surveying the scene with purpose, showing key faces, hiding others to find out later of their presence. He is an undisputed master, and Midnight in Paris may as well be his 21st century triumph showing his skills have not faded but only aged like the wine they drink so liberally here.

I love Midnight in Paris. It is one of the more charming films to arrive in some time, reminding me much of the aforementioned The Darjeeling Limited in its respectful treatment of such a beautiful locale, transferring to a rich celluloid feel that is best seen in a cinema. The dialogue is witty and lacking pretense, and offers a new look - and perhaps renewed interest - in such critical figures of our Western culture. It digs even deeper, however. Its mediation on love, of its weight and potential for eternity, ties with its views on the past, for both must be carefully considered before diving into. The initial glamor can wear off, for only time can tell what is true. Only time...

Final Verdict:
4.5 Stars Out of 5

Transformers: Dark of the Moon Review

2011-07-02T19:40:00.004-04:00

Transformers: Dark of the Moon

Directed by Michael Bay

Released in 2011

There are movies that can change your outlook on a social issue, inspire you to pursue a career in an unexpected field, speak to you on a wavelength that no person ever has. Suddenly the field of speech therapy, or even the seedy favelas of Rio de Janiero, feels acquainted, familiar. They stick with you and remind you of the boundless potential cinema has in its past and future. Transformers: Dark of the Moon is not one of those films. And it does not try to be. That is the problem. Its highest ambitions are to serve the lowest denominator. Mindless, loud, turn-off-your-brain entertainment. How should one who analyzes the artistic merit of film approach one that purposely has none? The faults of such a film like this do not make as much of a dent in its box office performance (in fact, it is these faults that make it so commercially appealing). So my job here is utterly pointless. But, stubborn I am, I will break this movie down nonetheless.

The third installment in this billion dollar plus franchise once again centers around Sam Witwicky, the fast-talking, short-tempered, incredibly lucky early twentysomething played by the talented but often misused Shia LaBeouf. Megan Fox is nowhere to be found, with only a few brief allusions to her cultural shockwave of a role voiced through Sam's robot sidekicks Wheelie and Brains, seemingly serving as Michael Bay's mouthpiece ("I didn't like her. She was mean."). Rosie Huntington-Whiteley now occupies the role of impossibly beautiful love interest. Bay frames her at such exploitative angles that the Victoria's Secret model's lack of acting experience is irrelevant. So, in a sense, Fox's absence is barely felt.

In a form of revisionist history, the Transformers universe collides with our own in the third. The pre-title sequence devotes itself to fabricating a plot in which the 1969 moon landing was actually a cover-up to explore a crashed Autobot ship containing very precious cargo. Fake Kennedys and Nixons are used, along with clips of Walter Cronkite spliced in between for an attempt at verisimilitude. There is even a curious inconsistency in HD quality picture and 8mm filters that seem to be carelessly edited together to communicate the 60s style while simultaneously promoting the opposite. NASA finds their objective in the form of a crashed spaceship, and Optimus Prime later retrieves several teleporting pillars (if you are not following me by this point, you are not insane) and the former Autobot leader, Sentinel Prime, voiced by the sci-fi god himself, Leonard Nimoy. Even poor Buzz Aldrin himself saunters in to espouse such lies about his famous mission. It is a ludicrous plot rife with holes, inconsistencies and unexplained tangents. It is simply perfect.

From the basic plot summary, the film branches in dozens of directions that make any essay analyzing it equally confusing (Mr. Bay may be a genius after all...). The rest of the cast is a good place to continue. Josh Duhamel returns as the Army solider Lennox; his character, over the course of three films, has never been more than the handsome, skilled soldier that always seems to be in the midst of the action. We are only acquainted with him because he has been on screen for so long, and we do not know why he fights, or what makes him tick. A halfhearted attempt to flesh out the other soldier, Air Force Chief Epps (Tyrese Gibson), at least is present yet still keeps the audience remarkably distant from a character they have seen for three films now. John Turturro returns as the outlandish Seymour Simmons. Bay handles his entrance well, throwing Bill O'Reilly in the mix and lampooning both actors in the process. His blocking and moves are cut quickly, building upon the psychotic Turturro seen in The Big Lebowski and the other Transformers films. Barely a third into the movie, however, a random event physically restricts his character and any humor or personality instantly dissipates.

New characters hit, miss or completely fail. Seymour's assistant succeeds as played by the diverse and always talented Alan Tudyk, from Firefly, 3:10 to Yuma, and, yes, Dodgeball as Steve the Pirate. His mysterious - and of course unexplained - past struggles with his soft German demeanor for comic moments. Ken Jeong randomly appears as a colleague of Sam who holds secrets. Jeong is hilarious, but milks (no pun intended) his bizarre role in the Hangover films to a point of self-mockery. I will not deny the undeniable laughs I got from his peculiar performance in the elevator scene, however. A disturbingly tan John Malkovich kicks and punches as Sam's gung-ho employer. His off-kilter style shines briefly before inexplicably dimming to darkness. In an unseen transfer of power, the once power-hungry boss morphs into nothing more than a court jester before the mighty Sam. It is a sad, pathetic scene that embodies the problems with this film so aptly.

Two new antagonists fall flat from their lack of dimensions. Frances McDormand - Best Actress winner from one of my favorite films Fargo - is relegated to a myopic, nagging National Intelligence Director. The slight arc in her character in no way atones for the relentless obstacles she throws in the way of any sensible progress (hey, I end up rooting for Sam, look at that). Her Bush-era security paranoia reveals political judgment on the part of Bay and a little too heavy-handedly, too. And the worst of the bunch stands tall and debonair as Patrick Dempsey's laughable villain Dylan Gould. The boss of Huntington-Whiteley's character, Carly, Dylan takes uncomfortable interest in his employee, leading Sam on anger tantrums. Of course, there is a bigger plot at hand and it is here that his character falls apart. Dylan never has control over the situation and Dempsey lacks any hold on his role as well.

Oh, and the robots. I have neglected to mention the namesake of the series much as of yet, and that could be a wonderful thing. Do humans take the main role this time around, leaving the mechanical fighters to perhaps fill the role of metaphor of technology on today's society or an even more insightful theme? No, I simply do not have much to say about them. Optimus Prime once again waves the American flag as the pinnacle of our patriotic values. Bumblebee sits on the sidelines for the most part; the first film actually portrayed the bond between Sam and his robot protector well, but the last two films have muddled such connection. Sentinel Prime makes for an interesting new character with a distinct set of values, ones put to the test. Megatron, this time around, holds little importance and erratically shows up to show his influence that is never proven (and even disputed at one point). The special effects powerhouse Shockwave rips through matter with devastating ease, such as collapsing a skyscraper that houses Sam and the soldiers in one of the more outlandish, yet equally impressive, scenes of destruction I have seen. His chaos carries no motive or purpose, and in an interview with USA Today, Bay claimed Shockwave is a main antagonist. No indications in the film prove that, despite the gratuitous special effects.

The main actor in Transformers: Dark of the Moon is not Shia LaBeouf or Peter Cullen but that man himself, Michael Bay. With a nearly $200 million budget, I must say it is impressive Bay maintains such creative control on his work. It is not surprising, however, since his MO coincides with the proletariat's desires more than, say, Darren Aronofsky. James Cameron, Tony Scott and Paul Greengrass all approach the action scene differently but successful in their own individual way. A sense of space (or lack thereof in the last one's case) establishes itself naturally along with subtle indicators of who to root for, and if that matches or breaks from who is winning at the present moment. This artistry is missing in Bay's scenes. The stellar visual effects and audio design (which still may be the franchise's strongest suit) exist with no motive behind their form or implementation. A key moment about an hour, fifteen minutes in, involving both significant death and betrayal, feels off. It takes a few seconds to realize what happens on the screen, and the blame for the audience cognition rests on the director's shoulders alone. A closer shot, not so detached and pointlessly broad, could have communicated such a significant character choice much more effectively.

Bay does not resolve who is the ultimate protagonist, leaving the field hazy and unclear. We follow Sam the most, yet hear narration throughout from Optimus. The humans at one point are utterly hopeless, yet, in a nice touch, conquer an enemy alone, steel versus blood. But just after, Optimus slays a main antagonist by himself, Sam nowhere to be found in the crucial final moments. The mystery may be unraveling? Unfortunately no, since the victorious soldiers stroll in slow motion with no real gratification given to the Autobots. It makes the ultimate theme unclear, a rather notable flaw in any film.

There are fewer scenes than the last film that contain such unintentional hilarity, but those that are here are winners. Try not to laugh during Dempsey's last scene (and the inexplicable plot hole it presents) along with Huntington-Whiteley's entrance (following such a serious story montage). And the slow motion (used so liberally in this movie) meditation of Huntington-Whiteley in the midst of entropy may be the best shot in the series.

Hate Bay we all, or at least I, might, I can see he is trying a little harder. There are some choices here and there that are admirable. A POV shot through a gas mask immerses you rather well. A quick cut to black and back - a blink, if you will - is a wise editing choice that saves time as the edit itself implies the quick duration of time that passed between the two scenes. And his comic timing and capture may lack much creativity but always works. He incorporates some imagery that does not always succeed. The easy task of Star Trek allusions are there, if a little pointlessly. The much more difficult trial of the Challenger explosion is not handled as well. The image is thrown in, but the emotional weight that stays with such a rough event is not conveyed to the audience. It is a requirement to not just incorporate an image but to explore the meaning within.

After all this, I realize everyone who will see this film will do so unquestionably and the wiser ones will simply stay away. All of the above is quite redundant in the end, isn't it? But what had to be done was done. And, if I may partake a secret: I did enjoy Transformers: Dark of the Moon. Most of it at least. The last hour fell apart but the first hour was entertaining in its many stupid ways. It was in this first hour that characters were introduced or perhaps fleshed-out so slightly; it was then in the last hour and a half (yes, this is a whopping 157 minutes long) that this did not continue. But it does not induce headaches or bitter anger as the second installment did in its never-ending, maddening stupidity. And that, slyly and sincerely, is a compliment. Perhaps the existence of such films like these leeches on the collective intelligence of our country. But its brilliance in creating the perfect anti-film, in all its logic-defying, product placement-heavy, jingoist glory, makes any artistic statements Bay attempts seem like blatant and unforgivable accidents. And his potential is there!! I will continue to shake my head and wag my finger all the way down here, where I am but a harmless mite easily whisked away. But he does not notice me anyway, for he is too busy playing with his gold-plated toys.

Final Verdict:
2 Stars Out of 5

Super 8 Review

2011-06-16T23:55:00.000-04:00

Super 8
Directed by J.J. Abrams
Released in 2011

I have not written any movie reviews for almost a year now. It was a pastime I loved but, well, let's just say things got in the way. One of those things was making not one but two movies myself, working with a group of other talented filmmakers my age. I saw Super 8 with these friends and, alas, I am back.

Super 8 loves the art of film, and anyone who shares the same passion will love this movie. The title itself refers to the affordable 8mm film cartridges that fueled the amateur films of young filmmakers, many now accomplished artists themselves. J.J. Abrams, the director of Super 8, clearly spent his childhood committing his fantasies to film, and it is commonly known that his mentor, Steven Spielberg, did the same. Quite fitting then, that in Abrams' attempt to create the E.T. of his time, the master sits besides him in the producer's chair. Abrams emulates the tone and aesthetic of Spielberg's early films, and does so while adding his own (sometimes literal) flair.

The film opens in rural Ohio, 1979. The date is never explicitly mentioned but you will definitely catch it with the liberal references to "My Sharona", the new Walkman, and Three Mile Island. Young Joe Lamb (newcomer Joel Courtney) has just lost his mother in a tragic accident and is now under the solitary care of his distant father, the deputy sheriff of the town, Jackson (Friday Night Lights' Kyle Chandler). A fortunate distraction presents itself through his friend, Charles (Riley Griffiths) and the Super 8 zombie film he is making with his friends. They film a risky nighttime scene by the railroad tracks when a traumatic crash occurs, letting loose a secret government project. The army sweeps in and tries to cover it up but the kids luckily caught it on film. Extraterrestrial mumbles crescendo, leading to an explosive symphony by the last third of the film.

And the perspective stays in the eyes of the children. In a move that surely concerned the studio execs behind the funding of this picture, Super 8 focuses on its young actors, none that well-known. For a sci-fi film set as a summer blockbuster, that is a risky move (and one that did not totally succeed from gross reports so far). However, Abrams made the right artistic choice. The banter between the youth crackles, consistently witty and grounded to the age of the characters. Cary (Ryan Lee), the pyro-cameraman, steals every line as the immature, garrulous adolescent we all knew. His lines are fewer than other characters but you will remember each wise-cracking remark. The other characters probably fit a mold of someone you know or used to know: Preston (Zach Mills) acts tough but lacks the backbone when tested, and the lead actor of Charles' film, Martin (Gabriel Basso), tends to break under pressure. Such lack of facility reveals the vulnerability of adolescence, while also providing a humorous venue to display such naivety. So, when the surrounding state turns to bedlam, the natural responses of a teenager - liberal (though PG-13) profanity and comical disbelief - are thrown around, which, while immature out of context, totally fits the characters.

And the chaos sure looks good. Abrams nailed an attractive, rich aesthetic with Star Trek, and, while there are less colors to work with this time around, he and cinematographer Larry Fong (who worked on stunning works like 300 and Watchmen) breathe life into such a banal setting. The image affords a greater clarity than most other films today, and reveals the finer details of both the characters and the perfect time capsule of a town they found to film at. Dolly and crane camera movements dominate over the handheld style of that other recent alien invasion movie District 9. The cacophonous train crash mixes computer animation and setpieces deftly well, creating ultimate carnage while preserving reality. As the children run through a deserted town later, with only tanks and guns blasting all around them, we see the expanse of their environment: there is no green screen and the old-school approach to Hollywood action lives on. It is classic Spielberg, and clearly Abrams is learning from the master.

No one remembers ET for any action scenes, however. While Super 8 is a different beast, one that features destruction prominently and more than ably, it does not let the visual eye candy become the crux of the film. Abrams clearly aims for a childhood parable the same way Steven did almost 30 years ago. Joe is as alien to his father as the mysterious creature outside. He finds comfort in the misfits who run around in zombie makeup, and his father does not agree with his son's choices. The dad downright condemns any interaction with Alice (Elle Fanning), the dream girl Charles hooked to play the female role in his film. Turns out her father has an unfortunate history with his own family. But the Montague-Capulet flame of tension burns stronger as love. Alice may have the looks to attract the guys but she bears the emotional scars of a loveless past. Joe understands her, and the burgeoning romance evolves maturely and nary a gimmick. Elle Fanning scales taller dramatic heights than her sister did in Spielberg's own 21st century alien film, War of the Worlds, and displays so much potential for an excellent career to follow. Joel Courtney - without any previous acting credentials in Sophia Coppola films unlike his counterpart - shines as the cute, sensitive protagonist. He cares about his friends and sees the good in the world, and Courtney achieves the delicate pathos the role requires. Much like Henry Thomas as Eliot in ET, a newcomer was chosen for the main role, and this tactic succeeds to preserve such unadulterated innocence in his character.

The coverage of the father and son relationship lacks consistency, but the payoff works despite a missing link in their dynamic bond. Not only does Joe find love in a girl of his dreams, but in the solemn man he never connected to in his life. Kyle Chandler delivers in the emotional intensity of a man on a mission to connect. His son sees the good in him that his sandpaper heart has concealed for too long. Joe's final "test" will prove his beliefs, and his father is there to grasp what he has been missing for so long. Over the emotional interchange, and the whole rest of the film, exists Michael Giacchino's beautiful score, reaching levels of John Williams-esque opera in broad shots, while still resorting to that delicate solo piano known from Lost in the most intimate scenes. Giacchino has, unarguably, been a main factor in the emotional resonance of any film or television show he has touched.

Super 8 exposes the creature behind all the carnage in due time, but it should be commended for revealing the alien we all harbor. We all carry our passions that seem ridiculous to others. Above all, the level of time spent studying, watching and visualizing the art of film puts it at odds with other activities many deem more important. Yet film, the language Abrams and so many of us speak, communicates truths unlike any other medium. Its prevalence grows while the influence remains intact; the visual fidelity and means of distribution in 1979 are lightyears from today's benchmark but the connection remains the same. It is rather perfect I saw this film with those I created alongside as well. We saw each other in the characters on-screen. We had a back-talking, know-it-all Cary. The butt of jokes in our own Preston. And, as I was reminded more than once, the bossy, idealistic director seeking the best "production values" in myself.

Final Verdict:
4 Stars out of 5

The Modern Age - Music Reviews

2010-07-30T23:33:00.004-04:00

2010 has been a phenomenal year for music. If you are still operating under a false, hidebound mindset that music created since the inception of this new millennium is not worth your time, then you are missing out (and simply behind the curve). Below are my reviews for a number of exceptional albums that have been released over the past 12 months and, with the exception of the first, all of them are from this year, 2010. All of these are worth listening to, but it is safe to say that some rise above the rest, so typical ratings will be assigned.

Phrazes for the Young
Artist: Julian Casablancas
Released in 2009

I have not found a proper venue to really proclaim it yet but let me say it: I love The Strokes. As far as modern rock bands go, there is no better, and they successfully found a way to evolve the rock sound while maintaining its garage rock roots. The brains behind the band is Julian Casablancas, a rich kid with rich parents raised in a rich part of New York City. He did not rest on his laurels for long, however, as he was the chief songwriter for The Strokes as well as the iconic voice behind it all. While the band plans on releasing a new album by next year, Julian was busy during the hiatus they have had since 2006. This solo album, Phrazes for the Young, named after an Oscar Wilde work, shows that this time was put to good use, as this album puts a greater emphasis on the man's voice while exploring a different sound.

The rough garage rock style of The Strokes is eschewed in favor of a more pop-oriented record that has some political undertones in its lyrics but really just wants to provide a pleasant listening experience. That it provides. On the opening track, "Out of the Blue," smart, witty lines like, "Somewhere along the way, my hopefulness turned to sadness/Somewhere along the way, my sadness turned to bitterness" provide a humorous progression of connecting ideas that seems to touch upon the basics of human communication: love, politics, afterlife, etc. His voice ranges from a sardonic baritone in the verses to a higher, clear sustained pitch during the chorus ("Sooo-ooo-ooo"). It may not contain the original brilliance of "Last Nite", but "Out of the Blue" may be Casablancas' best showcase of his voice, undoubtedly one of the best pipes in modern music. "Left & Right in The Dark" and the hit single "11th Dimension" also continue this rock/pop sound with some more political lyrics (11th Dimension's "Where cities come together to hate each other in the name of sport/America, nothing is ever just anything") and both showcase his songwriting. In particular, I liked the syncopated rhythms of "Left & Right" that culminate in its great outro. There is some 3/4 country swagger on "Ludlow St." and a Sam Cooke-inspired R&B gospel with "4 Chords of the Apocalypse." The sweeping "Glass" seems to be a tribute to his newly-married wife, Juliet, and a vow to protect her from harm (Paparazzi, jealous fans) as well as to always care for her. This song in particular is quite beautiful, and stays personal while still serving as a grand vocal showcase. The same can be said about basically the whole album in the end. It may not be as conceptually brilliant or innovative as Is This It? but this is Julian's most personal album yet, and with lyrics and vocals like this, this will please fans and bring plenty more to the cause.

Final Verdict:
4 Stars Out of 5

Contra
Artist: Vampire Weekend

Released in 2010

"Ivy League, Afrobeat indie rock" is as sensible a phrase as the words Shaq tries to play in Scrabble, but this style has been precisely the draw of Vampire Weekend. They suffered no sophomore slump with their second album, and it ends up more polished and tighter than their excellent debut. The album starts innocently enough with "Horchata," a quintessential Vampire Weekend track, capturing their strange mix of eclectic auxiliary percussion and Ezra Koenig's diaphanous tenor (echoes of Paul Simon's Graceland can be felt throughout). "White Sky" and "Holiday" both feature some high notes sung by Ezra (really high in the case of White Sky), while the lyrics seem to offer disparate outlooks to the jovial melodies, which in this case clandestine sex and war seem to be the topics, respectively. The polarizing track here is "California English", featuring Auto-Tune and furiously fast verses. It is my favorite track on the album but is as nontraditional as their songs come. "Giving Up the Gun" and "Cousins" are the two singles built for radio play, and for a band as original and talented as this, it is comforting to see them enjoy this overwhelming commercial success on top of their critical acclaim (Contra debuted at #1 on the Billboard charts, a rare feat for an independently-released album). "Diplomat's Son" is another favorite of mine, as Ezra tells the story of a girl who falls in love with a boy while also attempting to use him for personal gain. The varying "oh-oh-ohs" that run throughout this album are particularly defined in this track, almost angelic in a way. The lyrics on this track are the best the band has composed yet, and it shows there is still much substance in their music once the initial curiosity of their anomalous sound dissipates. Vampire Weekend is two for two, and they are only getting better.

Final Verdict:
4 Stars Out of 5

Plastic Beach
Artist: Gorillaz
Released in 2010

The Gorillaz are safely the most successful cartoon band of all time, but, as the previous work by former Blur lead man Damon Albarn shows, they are more than a cheap gimmick. Their latest LP, Plastic Beach, is a motley collection of songs that try to unify themselves under some anti-materialism theme. That does not succeed. What does work, however, is supplying the listener with a whole batch of new, groovy, polished tunes. "Stylo" is a bass/synth-heavy track that is far from the best on the album but just what the iTunes singles crowd is looking for. Two other songs, "Empire Ants" and "Glitter Freeze," are not, but are ambient, rich tracks that may lean too heavily on their circuitous loops but nonetheless have an intriguing sound. My personal favorite on the album is "Some Kind of Nature," sung by the Master of Cool himself, Lou Reed. He pronounces most of the words with a jagged, rough conviction that he has mastered over his long career, and the robot-like beat makes this one of the few songs on this album that achieves the environmentalist message in both the music and lyrics.

All of the aforementioned tracks feature guest artists, and this somewhat makes this less of a true Gorillaz album and more of a "Gorillaz Plays With...". Tracks like "Superfast Jellyfish (feat. Gruff Rhys & De La Soul)" and Snoop Dogg's intro make good use of their talent, while "White Flag" and "Sweepstakes" feel nothing like the Gorillaz and could easily belong on each respective artist's own album. "White Flag" in particular is an irritating, clawing song that I always skip. Perhaps it is the bombastic vocals or overly political lyrics, but it should never have been included on this disc. The Gorillaz tracks sans-guests are all bright, though "On Melancholy Hill" and "Rhinestone Eyes" are the strongest. Rhinestone's instrumental bridge, with female backing vocals, is Gorillaz at their best, and ideal played real loud. Melancholy's lyrics live up to the name, as they are about someone fantasizing about an absent love in depressed solitude. This song in particular has the most staying power (you gotta love that synth opening) and 2D's vocals have a heartfelt soul that is not present in the rest of the album. It is a disparate collection of songs, some fantastic, some less so, but Plastic Beach is still an album that goes above and beyond the necessary standard of quality for an "animated band."

Final Verdict:
3.5 Stars Out of 5

Congratulations
Artist: MGMT
Released in 2010

With Oracular Spectacular, MGMT opened to both critical praise and huge sales, and their hits "Kids", "Electric Feel" and "Time to Pretend" immediately formed a wide fanbase. Their debut was excellent in its own right, but the fame and stardom that they experienced as a result of it, the exact life they poked fun at in "Time to Pretend", seems to have captured them by surprise. Their new album, Congratulations, is a radically different sound, more reminiscent of "Weekend Wars" and their core 60s and 70s psychedelic influences than the hits that made them favorites of college radio and soccer moms alike. And they are only better as a result. "Pretend" was one of the greatest songs of last decade, and there are no hit singles of the sort here, but this is a complete, mature album that is a significant step forward in the careers of these talented musicians.

I have listened to this album over a dozen times now, and each time I am appreciating it in one or two more ways. They delve into humorous tribute (hey it's "Brian Eno"!) and the weird ("Lady Dada's Nightmare" is the bizarre equivalent of David Bowie's "Warszawa" from Low), but the focus is mainly lyrical.

Still, they are becoming better musicians as well, as Andrew VanWyngarden's voice has a wider range in this album, peaking at upper registers in "Someone's Missing" while solemnly muttering verses about the misunderstanding in life with "Siberian Breaks." The latter track, a 12 minute plus monster, is "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" meets Yes' "And You and I", where a bunch of incomplete song ideas come together in a prog rock epic that, in this case, focuses on the consequences of fame. It opens with an acoustic guitar ostinato behind some of the most harmonic vocals the band has recorded yet, where Andrew is describing a hazy reawakening and ultimate rebuttal of the fame they have received ("Wide open arms can feel so cold, so cold"). A muddled critique on American society ("Vote to decide who'll advance" is a jab at reality television) follows at a faster pace, and expresses a feeling of entrapment ("Running away isn't rough, but it's not enough"). An echoing segment with snare shots similar to Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer" is next, and then a beautiful, dreamy string sequence abruptly follows. A reworking of the infamous line from "My Generation" reads as "I hope I die before I get sold" in the nearly inaudible lyrics over this section that take sharp aim at the music industry. A straightforward rock beat emerges from this, then a reprise of the opening acoustic style as Andrew accepts his fate to create more music but reminds he "can always go into hiding." A psychedelic outro closes this track, which is safe to say the best on this album and the most impressive piece of songwriting the duo has achieved yet. They are not interested in catering to dance parties or arena games as much as a core group of fans who can appreciate them more for their talents and creativity. They achieve that here. "It's Working" aims for a similar theme (the overrated drugs are "working in your blood/which you know is not the same as love/love is only in your mind and not your heart"), as does "Congratulations", which is a tongue-in-cheek pat on the back for their previous success, as they believe they rose to fame for the wrong reason ("I save my grace with half-assed guilt"). All in all, Congratulations is a significant step forward for this enormously talented duo. They are attempting to hide from fame, but with stellar albums like these, their attempts to conceal themselves are totally failing, with us, the fans, to gain.

Final Verdict:
4 Stars out of 5

High Violet
Artist: The National
Released in 2010

A large margin of art today seems to appeal to the inner child in all of us. Both film and music, as Toy Story 3, Where The Wild Things Are, and Arcade Fire will attest, capture the innocent emotions, bewilderment, and just vibrancy that runs through any adolescent. The National aims for the complete opposite. If "Wake Up" is a charged celebration of youthful vigor, of the incandescent sun shining over the shadowed valley, The National's "Sorrow" is the casual nod to the gloom of the world, the pragmatic, grounded knowledge that life is not all rainbows and plastic smiles. This dark, gloomy record, High Violet, is an adult work of art, not idealistic in any way but totally and, shockingly, self-aware. It is also a modern masterpiece, written and executed with near perfection, and, in a doubly ironic twist, the best album since Arcade Fire's own Funeral.

Matt Berninger's defined baritone is the focus here; the instrumentalists are all fantastic but the distinct vocals give this band its appeal. "Anyone's Ghost" has Berninger croon about mad, twisted love ("I had a hole in the middle where the lightning went through it/told my friends not to worry") that affects his social and emotional life, over guitars heavy with reverb. Even when in a relationship, love is difficult to interpret, the message seems to speak. This F. Scott Fitzgerald-esque disillusionment about love, the world around us and our place in life seems to permeate the lyrics in most of these songs. In "Lemonworld", Berninger seems to be the only gloomy soul around, as "you and your sister live in a Lemonworld/I want to sit in and die." As he describes a world of anguish and violence around him ("Living or dying in New York it means nothing to me"), he comes across as either an enlightened, apocalyptic harbinger or just a sad, pessimistic soul. Either or, he is not in the best mood, and the lyrics reveal a solemn, tortured soul.

However, taken with all the aspects together, High Violet does not come across as an emo confessional. The marching drum beat that propels my favorite track, "Afraid of Everyone", balances with the dark subject matter and creates, strangely, great summer music. "Sorrow" has a rolling acoustic part that accompanies the patterned drum beats with an almost enthusiastic air, despite the lyrics' theme. Berninger is not afraid to inject some humor as well, even if they are mainly metaphors to the images he is trying to convey. On "Conversation 16", easily one of the best songs on the album, he says "I was afraid/I'd eat your brains/Cause I'm evil." Zombies? This man is having too much fun. But he does not want to become an emotionally broken "zombie" in a society that takes control of his life, happiness and desires. I could run down the brilliance of each individual track but is best to listen to this album, listen to it a few more times, then read the lyrics along with it, and then listen to it for countless months, possibly years, to come. The members of The National are all older than what is usually seen on the indie scene (they are all in their late 30s or early 40s), and considering they are hitting their peak now, it makes them a different, refreshing success story. The years they all hold above most of their peers brought them a firmer understanding of life, something no 21 year old can even come close to grasping. High Violet is a masterpiece. Not of epic, earth-shattering proportions, but of the wise, harmonious honesty that bleeds through every second of this album.

Final Verdict:

5 Stars out of 5

This Is Happening
Artist: LCD Soundsystem
Released in 2010

LCD Soundsystem has nothing to prove, considering James Murphy (the sole key member) has already produced two superb albums, his eponymous debut and Sound of Silver. With tracks like "Losing My Edge" and "All My Friends", Murphy has blended his extensive knowledge of musical history and his quirky, uncool nerdy personality to create something, well, cool and a consistent standard for quality. He appeals to the rock kids, he appeals to the indie kids, he appeals to the techno kids. Murphy is a beloved asset to the music industry for his merging of genres and totally original approach to all the work he does. So, considering This is Happening is apparently the last album by the middle-aged maestro, fans may be downtrodden, but everyone should feel satiated because this is his finest work yet.

Quiet, pattering bongos behind muted vocals opens the album in "Dance Yrself Clean", a 180 degree turnaround from the sonic blasts of energy kicking off "Daft Punk Is Playing At My House", the first track from his debut. The repeating lyrics, plus some winning lines like "Talking like a jerk/Except you are an actual jerk/And living proof that sometimes friends are mean" add an ironic wit to the initial, almost droning first minutes. Once the 3 minute mark rolls around however, incendiary bursts of synthesizers and, what else, cowbell turn this peculiar novelty into a irresistible dance track that comments on everything from nagging girlfriends to Marxism. Or how about "Drunk Girls", the frat life send-off that is simultaneously parody and yearning tribute. "Drunk girls are unusually mild" he confesses, though he paradoxically states they are also "boringly wild." "I Can Change" is a humorous track that seems to comment on a man's desperate quest of love for a woman that seems to have nothing in common with him. While he believes "Love is a murderer" he also quickly appeals, "I can change if it helps you fall in love." The David Byrne-inspired "Pow Pow", with Murphy's always amusing spoken word lyrics, is a carefree track that is a hilarious commentary on his current state in life ("from this position..."). A mainstay in albums these days, the industry exec flipoff, is "You Wanted a Hit", not surprising considering the title. While the marketing heads are saying they "want it real," he asks, "Can you tell me what's real?". This 9-minute piece is layered over a pseudo-Far East keyboard part and driving bass line, and while the message is driven home often ("We won't be your babies anymore"), it remains a slow-jam dance track.

The best song on this album is "All I Want", designed in the same vein as "All My Friends" (which in turn was unmistakeably influenced by Bowie's "Heroes") in that the vocals slowly build to culminate in a emotional, dynamic ending. It is a song about longing, though for what is unsure. He seems to be after the one that got away, though by the conclusion he says "let's do it different/cause I just want what I want", and wails "Take me home!" over and over as the band around him crashes in whining guitar licks and dying synthesizers. Murphy is neither content nor totally dissatisfied by the end, only accepting what he has, shrugging, and moving on. The final reaction to this album is nothing of the sort. LCD Soundsystem's past albums have been consistently excellent, and this is his most complete, flowing record yet. Murphy may be 40 going on 41 but he's not losing his edge anytime soon.

Final Verdict:
4.5 Stars out of 5

Before Today
Artist: Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti
Released in 2010

Bizarre, confusing, and strangely evocative of some unremembered past, Ariel Pink's Before Today is, like its title suggests, a time capsule of an era long ago, dripping with obscure nostalgia that few today will recall. The aim is 70s AM radio, and those songs, which Ariel Pink has dubbed part of the "chillwave" genre, feature a heavy use of filtered vocals, thick keyboards, and psychedelic, blurry guitars. On top of all this, the recording sounds as if it was printed on a cassette, transferred to a VHS audio track, and then finalized on an 8-track cartridge. These recordings are rough and unpolished, but the incredibly unique sound is achieved.

Instead of focusing on the lyrics of these songs like the rest of these albums, it is best to focus on the styles and musicality present. The lyrics are not total nonsense (though the perverse "Menopause Man" certainly qualifies), but they are clearly not the main area that Ariel Pink stressed over. The album opener, "Hot Body Rub", throws screeching automobile sound effects over a spacious saxophone solo that feels completely anachronistic on a 2010 record. This album takes you back to a time you may not be sure even existed. Case in point, the second track, "Bright Lit Blue Skies" is a cover of a 1960s deep cut from a garage rock band called The Rising Storm. This song, with its driving beat and harmonious chorus, is the most straightforward track on the album, and, thus, a good place to start on. Everything gets stranger from here. The apocalyptic "Little Wig" and the raucous opening chords to "Butt House Blondies" (yes, that is a name to a song here) draw influence from artists like The Velvet Underground, Stooges and R. Stevie Moore (apparently a mentor of Pink), but the songs all have their own, warped psychedelic sound to them. "Can't Hear My Eyes" is an Alan Parsons-esque, keyboard-driven track that oozes nostalgia. The standout song is "Round and Round", a brilliant track with alternating time signatures and a somewhat prog rock feel that culminates in the sing-along chorus (the sustained "Hold onnnnnn" at the center of the song has now entered my everyday vernacular when I delay a chore or task). This album can sometimes be too eccentric for its own good, but "Round and Round" is a perfect example of what Ariel Pink can achieve, and in a way no one else can emulate. Before Today is peculiar but nonetheless an engaging listen. Often bands aim for the weird and end with a product that is completely unlistenable. No such problem is had here; that in itself is an accomplishment.

Final Verdict:
4 Stars out of 5

The Suburbs
Artist: Arcade Fire
Released in 2010

With college admissions coming up, I have been told that, no matter previous academic history, admissions offices love to see an upward trend in grades. A logical viewpoint, as a steady improvement in one's studies displays maturity and growing intellect. Now, how about hitting the highest standard, and then sustaining it? Not many can hold claim to display that trend. Arcade Fire, Canada's greatest gift to the world since Wayne Gretsky, or maybe even Neil Young, released their first album nearly six years ago. Its name was Funeral, and it was a shockingly profound, yet an ebullient and cheerful, meditation on the importance of family. The album was near perfect in every regard; I, as well as countless fans and critics, consider it one of the best albums of the last decade. Their anticipated follow-up, Neon Bible, did not match the immaculate quality that was their debut, but it came very close, and proved this was a special band that was here to stay. Now, in 2010, their third album, The Suburbs, is released. It is a departure in both theme and style to its predecessors, yet, in some inconceivable way, it matches the brilliance of their first album in an instance I can only call a miracle.

Upon the first listen, however, the reaction was not so laudatory. With 16 songs, the album felt almost too long, and it lacks any bring-down-the-house epic track like "Rebellion (Lies)" or "No Cars Go". After at least 15 listens, that opinion has drastically altered. The energy that this band is known for has in no way diminished, and it maintains for the full duration of this album. The approach to The Suburbs is not as stylistically uniform as their previous works; instead, it is constructed in a White Album manner. Creativity runs wild, even if some may nitpick that it is not consistent in tone. They are missing the point; Arcade Fire is here to provide us with stellar music, a goal they reach, and then some.

The album bursts open with an exultant piano riff in "The Suburbs", even if the song turns out to be a cry for a normal life ("I want a daughter while I'm still young...Before the damage is done"). The Suburbs, as an album, is actually a hipster takedown, bashing the pretentious nature of countless modern folks ("with their arms folded tight" as in the song "Month of May") who also happen to be Arcade Fire fans. They might not look to fondly on this twist, but this is just another reason for me to love it. Anyway, about the music. The opening lines "In the suburbs I, I learned to drive/People told me we would never survive/So grab your mother's keys we leave tonight," are repeated again in "Suburban War", a great song with a guitar riff that sounds like 90s Kirk Hammett and R.E.M.'s Peter Buck blended together. These specific lyrics, however, seem to give weight to the yearning desire for Win Butler, Arcade Fire's frontman, to break out of his devil-may-care attitude about life and finally settle down. The particularly doleful line, "All my old friends, they don't know me now," reveals a weary, melancholic Butler who finds the innocence of his youth absent, as well as those he shared it with. What he did to separate, we do not know, but these songs show how the title, The Suburbs, is not just a ploy at some concept album. It is more than a location as well; The Suburbs is a state of mind that the band is looking back at today with a certain nostalgia, yet also a conscious understanding that they are adults who may have to - the word that Liz Lemon despises so - "settle."

As the members of Arcade Fire go through their realizing-they-are-in-their-middle-life crisis, they still produce a killer set of eclectic, beautiful songs. "Modern Man" is an excellent track with a Cars-esque guitar riff that is a biting critique at the conformity of today's society ("Like a record that's skipping/I'm a modern man"). "Ready to Start", the second track of the album and the real kick-off, has lyrics akin to a Bob Dylan song ("Businessmen drink my blood") with a low chorus that sounds like Let's Dance Bowie. Influences from other artists like Springsteen can be felt in "City With No Children", which seems to fit perfectly with the sunny summer weather despite its gloomy lyrics. A fan favorite already, "Rococo", is a venomous slam against the Pitchfork hipsters of the world, as they "use big words they don't understand" (I enjoy some of Pitchfork's criticism and features, but there is no doubt a thick layer of arrogance runs throughout that site). The repeating "rococo" provides an epic ending in only the way Arcade Fire can bring it. The furious violin intro to "Empty Room" sets the stage perfectly for Regine Chassagne, Butler's wife and second key member of the band. Her beautiful voice, which melted hearts and faces simultaneously on Funeral's "In The Backseat", supports some of the strongest tracks on the album. "Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains)" has a surprising, heavy synthesizer part that, with Regine's aggressive voice, is redolent of a Blondie cut. Nonetheless, this song is a graceful ode to running from your troubles and living in bliss with your love. It is simply beautiful in every way; I keep coming back to this song and believe it may be my favorite on the album.

This "fleeing your problems" theme runs through plenty of these songs, as "Half Light II" will attest. These problems are more than trivial personal conflicts, as lines like "When we watched the markets crash/The promises we made were torn," show Butler has a worldly concern for the terrible events of today. And while the foreboding fade-out of "The Suburbs (Continued)" suggests that he would give anything to return back to adolescence ("If I could have it back/All the time that we wasted/I'd only waste it again"), Butler has realized that those gray hairs on his greasy top are rapidly approaching. This reflection on childhood and reluctant adulthood forms the core of The Suburbs, an album that I may dare to call as flawless as Funeral. That debate will rage endlessly between fans, so I will step my foot out of the ring; my mind has been made up. I never feel comfortable awarding perfect (or to be PC, "near perfect") ratings, and no less in the same blog post, but The Suburbs, along with the rest of the albums above and countless others (shoutout to King of the Beach), show that 2010 has been one of the greatest years for music in ages. With Arcade Fire's spotless track record, they would make even the most-hardened Ivy League admissions officer faint in awe.

Final Verdict:
5 Stars out of 5

Inception Review

2010-07-17T20:49:00.003-04:00

Inception:
Directed by Christopher Nolan
Released in 2010

Your day is going well. Shockingly great, even. That band you wanted to see, you know the one whose closest show was located three hours away, has just revealed a new date in the town adjacent to yours. Why anyone would play in Closter, New Jersey, is besides the point, because they also resurrected Jimi Hendrix from the dead and he will be jamming at this show as well! The opener is Radiohead. Winston Churchill and Marilyn Monroe have speaking engagements on top of that. Wait. You begin to question the origins of this situation. You do not remember necessarily how you were confronted with this joyous news, only that it seemingly came to be. The patterned, hardwood floor snaps to black nothingness. As your eyes fly open, only to find yourself lying on your disheveled bed with its tousled sheets, disappointment pours over you as you realize it was merely a dream, a fantastical figment of your subconscious. This was a pleasant dream, but there were undoubtedly some dark secrets hidden deep within. The line between reality and fantasy becomes increasingly blurred, leaving us wary of where, or who, we really are. Such is precisely the concept of Inception, Christopher Nolan's latest mindbending thriller with huge setpieces and an even larger imagination.

It is not easy to condense Inception's storyline to a mere few paragraphs, as well as leaving out any spoilers, so it is best just to provide the bare synopsis. Dom Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) is a master at a very specialized form of espionage: entering the subconscious of those his employer specifies, and then stealing critical, secret thoughts. Cobb is estranged from his children and his mysterious wife, Mal, whose fate is left in the balance until the end of the film. He is given a chance to reunite with his children if he accepts the job the wealthy Japanese magnate Saito (Ken Watanabe) offers him. Fittingly, the task is near-impossible. Known as "inception," it is the process of implementing new thoughts into a person's subconscious, as to make it seem that the subject thought of them himself. The subject is Robert Fischer Jr., played by Cillian Murphy, who is the son of an ill energy tycoon and Saito's main competitor. The job, and its rewards, seem straightforward enough for everyone to agree. Obviously, as in any dream, nothing every works that easily.

The film opens with a spectacular action sequence, which this film is full of, as Cobb and his partner, Arthur, a suave Joseph Gordon-Levitt, invade the mind of Saito in order to extract an important piece of data. The "rules" of subconscious engagement start to materialize. For instance, the sleeping Cobb is kicked into a bathtub, while the Cobb in the dream is surrounded by a world that suddenly fills with water. The opening hour or so focuses on exposition, which may seem to be a slogging introduction to some, but I equated it to a tutorial for a video game. Before you can master an action game, you must learn the basics. Same goes with this original, very different take on the human dreamscape. The film introduces the rules of this unique form of combat, such the need for an architect, or someone who builds a complex dreamworld in order for the subject to have difficulty realizing that this world is a foreign creation. Other neat ideas include the fact that the "dream invaders," let us call them, experience pain inflicted in the dream upon their true, grounded self, though a death will simply wake them up (the exceptions to this rule prove interesting). The different levels of a dream (yes, they dream within dreams, and continually stack them), are given different standards by which time is measured, though pounding music with a defined cadence will apparently resonate equally. A recurring motif that plays a critical role in the movie is the totems that these agents use to ensure them that they are back in the real world. Arthur has a red die, while Cobb has a silver spinning top. This mechanic is an original way to explain the realities, or lack thereof, of the dreamworld.

It is not often for a movie to have such an intriguing premise, yet deliver on nearly all counts. Inception does this, and, while it is not completely flawless, it is the most refreshing, intelligent sci-fi film since Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I found myself grinning and shaking my head in disbelief when plot strands would tie together so well, or just at the genius behind many of the mechanics. The interesting thing is, this film spells out so many rules and details about the laws the world occupies that it makes the viewer believe they conquered all the small storytelling nuances. Of course, by the ending (and what an ending it is), as one analyzes the bigger picture, many questions are left unanswered. Some are left up to your own interpretation, while the established fiction can answer the rest. Naturally, the whole process of subconscious extraction is never fully explained, which is perfectly fine. A suitcase filled with cryptic lights and circular dials holds a number of tubes that, presumably, are inserted intravenously into each dreamer, who then are left unconscious and free to bob around without much resistance. Explaining the science behind the whole process is about as necessary as revealing the true nature of the Force in Star Wars (and don't you dare bring up midi-chlorians).

A number of different influences run throughout this film. An obvious pick is The Matrix, where the worlds are built upon unreal creations of people's minds as well. A liberal use of slow motion is shared between the two films, though it is integral to the storytelling of Inception in a sense. There is also, somewhat shockingly, an "Architect" in both, though the roles are reversed. The Architect in The Matrix seemingly knows all the answers, while Ariadne (Ellen Page), the architect in Inception, is the audience surrogate, new to the practices of these agents and as initially bewildered as the viewer to the process. The heist and spy nature of the film can be traced to Ocean's Eleven or James Bond (the ski sequence is an obvious throwback to Spy Who Loved Me), both involving a wide range of diverse, wisecracking characters. Traces of Blade Runner can be felt, as the uncertain nature of certain characters hangs in the balance. And of course, Christopher Nolan's greatest film (which may still hold the title, though only time will tell), Memento, is the lifeblood for the script itself. It is worth noting that Memento, which chronicles its events backwards, is dwarfed in complexity by this film and its limitless intricacies.

In the same way as The Matrix, this film is paving new ground in its special effects. Every visual trick is incredible, such as when Paris folds in on itself and Cobb and Ariadne nonchalantly walk vertically, upside-down, and every which way on the circuitous grid. However, Nolan does not garner all the respect just for the computer wizardry he accomplishes but for his steadfast commitment to live-action effects, with limited digital tampering. A freight train storming through the city streets is something that could only occur in a dream, yet the scene was actually filmed on a expansive stage, not on high-processing computers. The most stunning feat is the zero-gravity hotel scene, in which Arthur fights and flies through long, spinning corridors. This is not the first time that actors have ran, or danced, on spinning setpieces; Fred Astaire dazzled audiences in 1951 with his Royal Wedding ceiling dance. However, nothing of this scale has been done before, and the added fact that the actors are floating the rest of the time is simply stunning. I should give a shoutout to the sound design as well, which, like any Nolan film, is impeccable. Notice the crisp "clank" sound when the taxi runs over an assault rifle on the ground, or the cacophonous shattering of glass. Hans Zimmer's pounding score is sometimes overwhelming, but it fits the epic feel with heavy brass and bass. In the end though, it is the visual feats of wonder that resonate. Neo's first bullet time scene, or Terminator 2's mix of computer and physical effects were revolutionary for their time, and this is the modern equivalent.

No amount of special effects can counter a bad script (ask a bare, DVD version of Avatar) or flat acting, but Inception encounters no such problems. The screenplay, penned by a likely exhausted Christopher Nolan, is imaginative and rife with emotional conflict. That's not to say that it is without fault (a few events at the end could qualify as deus ex machina), but few screenplays have dared to venture in such risky, complex territory as this one, while simultaneously aiming for huge audiences. While it is the mind of Fischer that the specialists invade, the story ultimately belongs to Cobb. DiCaprio impresses once again with a demanding role that calls for action hero antics on top of perpetual psychological dilemma. His character is deeply flawed, as his relationship with his wife can attest. The memories he holds of his wife are of questionable authenticity, and once the answers are provided by the conclusion, the ending proves even deeper than initially expected. Many parallels can be drawn between the mind-centric roles of this film and Shutter Island, another Leo DiCaprio vehicle, but it is safe to say that he has been in two of the best films of the year and supports them with ease.

The rest of the cast is varied but no less impressive. The youthful Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who balanced elation and melancholy perfectly in (500) Days of Summer, is an ideal partner to DiCaprio. He plays the sane(r) man to Cobb's rapidly spiraling mind, and this is the first blockbuster for the young man that will surely launch a career of many more successful films. He exchanges entertaining banter with Eames, played by Tom Hardy, the typical British bloke. The two provide most of the comic relief in the film, which is not terribly often, but humorous when it appears. Ellen Page, who narrowly missed an Oscar for Juno, excels in her role that begins in perplexed naivety to end as the only one besides his wife to truly understand Cobb's psyche. Her genius draws her to Cobb's attention through Miles, played by Michael Caine, who stops by for only five minutes total. He apparently is one of the main minds behind this "subconscious security" process, so when he sits behind a desk in a 19th century lecture ampitheater, it does not really meld with his character's reputation. Still, there is no harm in Michael Caine, and I would have welcomed more screentime. Avatar's Dileep Rao is the chemist behind the operation, supplying the sedatives for the subjects. It is strange, however, that these complex chemicals are simply stored in some dusty old store, which seems a bit off the mark. Nonetheless, Cillian Murphy plays his extremely critical role with an apt blend of wealthy elitism and frightened disorientation. A larger Tom Berenger, somewhat similar in complexion to Mickey Rourke nowadays, is the righthand man to the Fischer family, and proves to be a key point in successful inception. A scene when Eames, who is a "forger," alters his appearance to become a physical manifestation of Berenger's character is clever as the sparse editing makes the effect seem lifelike.

Letters From Iwo Jima's Ken Watanabe, one of the greatest English-speaking Japanese actors in Hollywood, is excellent as the wealthy, occasionally quite humorous catalyst to the whole operation. He not only assigns the operation but proves to be a vital figure in the mental unraveling of Cobb. The chief figure in Cobb's life, however, is undoubtedly his wife, Mal, played by the beautiful Marion Cotillard. Her performance is never consistent because Cobb's projection of her constantly vacillates to fit his mental state. Cotillard, who won an Oscar for La Vie en Rose two years ago, nails the emotional nuances of this complex role no matter the situation. She can be frightening, romantic, philosophical, or just smooth like the best Bond girls. Cotillard has not had a bad role in her career, and the transition to blockbuster films has not mitigated her talent at all. If anything, she is getting better with each new movie.

As much as I would like to call Inception perfect and close shop with that, it is not. No film is really, but there are a few qualms I should note. Mulholland Drive this is not, and while that will please most viewers who do not want to be savagely assaulted by perverse images and jagged storylines, it is almost too straightforward for a dream world. Dream logic is, well, devoid of any real logic, so the ease at which the agents move around the world and control themselves does not really align itself with the true science of dreams. The one problem that was notably apparent, however, was the bland nature of the dream worlds. As my opening paragraph attests to, dreams are supposed to be discordant, senseless and fantastical scenes that center around an impossible notion or ideal setting. Instead, the settings of these dreams are just city streets, hotels, and snowy fortresses without any conflict. The straightforward nature of these dreams is the only way a mainstream audience would be able to digest them, and there is already enough abstract content to deal with, so I understand where Nolan is coming from with these alterations. These minuscule flaws have little to no impact on the final product, but I feel obliged to express my thoughts.

Inception is a rare beast. The visual effects are astonishing and unlike anything you have ever seen before. Better yet, its wholly original and brilliant story qualifies every action scene as intrinsic to the progression of the plot, and not merely pedestrian eye fodder. Christopher Nolan may be the greatest filmmaker of the new millennium, as he combines the old, traditional ways of making classic films - huge soundstages, stuntmen, and, most important, a limitless imagination - with the technology of today, and, never leaning too heavily on either, crafts a product that is irresistible to every form of audience. In Inception, your dreams are never safe. But this film proves that the Hollywood dream is alive and strong.

Final Verdict:
4.5 Stars Out of 5

The Antithesis Of Twilight

2010-07-07T22:34:00.007-04:00

With high-priced dreck currently filling the theaters, and unfortunately making enough money to assure the continuation of said trash, what can a poor boy do? The Last Airbender and Grown Ups are just slow, agonizing trainwrecks condensed to a film reel. Same with almost everything else out there, with Toy Story 3 as the only, very notable exception. So, what is left? Another installment in the Twilight series, this one called Eclipse, was just released to a critical beating, but that did not stop the lines of eager teenage girls from making this film another commercial smash. What gives? This franchise does not capture the real essence of vampires and werewolves, so I instead watched two films that did. These two were Daybreakers, an interesting take on vampire mythology, as well as The Wolfman, a modern retelling of the classic "werewolf" story. The results were mixed, though I am sure I enjoyed them much more than a sparkling Robert Pattison.

Daybreakers:
Directed by Michael & Peter Spierig
Released in 2009

What if vampires ruled the world? Now calm down, we are not speaking of dreamy boys who are willing to fight to the death over a pretty, disillusioned girl. This is the real deal: pale, cold creatures with fanged teeth who fry upon sunlight, disappear in mirrors, die when struck by a wooden stake to the heart, and, of course, drink human blood. Their real, sole advantage is that they can live forever (as long as not encountering an aforementioned obstacle), which entices the majority of the world to convert to Transylvanian ways. Well, it is 2019, and humans, the vampires' irreplaceable life source, are running out. The majority of them are "farmed" in grotesque machines that slowly harvest blood from their bodies, while the rest are constantly on the run from the vampire hunting squads, in a fashion not dissimilar to the Nazi's Einsatzgruppen. Well, Edward Dalton (Edward, really?), played by Ethan Hawke, has found a way to cure vampires of their condition completely, but how does a world so entrenched in their sinister ways switch back to normalcy? Many lives must be sacrificed as a result.

And, boy, do those people die in fantastic, shocking ways. Countless vampires and humans alike are torn apart, impaled, exploded, burned alive, decapitated, disemboweled, or otherwise bloodily disposed of with frequency. This violence is not going to be seen in an Edward/Bella love story (little girls would be scarred for life), and a scene of mass chaos at the end more resembles a blood orgy than the furtive, "I vant to suck your blood" style of Bela Lugosi. Any reason for watching this movie will center around the action and, while it takes awhile to actually occur, the ending will more than suffice any gore junkie.

However, while the action starts slow and ends in full, bloody glory by the end, everything else seems to start promising and just end an incoherent, sappy mess. The intriguing premise of the film is wasted by a vapid, slogging middle section that tries to insert uninteresting and failed character development in favor of any appealing action. Apparently there is romantic tension between Edward and human Audrey Bennett (Claudia Karvan), but the pair's acting is usually too stilted and wooden to achieve any emotional resonance. Hawke is a curious Hollywood case as he does not fit any real mold. That is fine, as his performances in Gattaca and Training Day can attest to his range of talent. But here, he is neither truly tough or the underdog you root for, leaving his character bland and unremarkable. For instance, he insists on not drinking any more human blood to account for his growing sympathy for the dying race. When did he have this epiphany and why exactly? These questions are not explained, a fault to the script, and it seems that Hawke is unaware of what his character is supposed to be feeling as well. Sam Neill appears as the dark, soulless antagonist and Willem Dafoe is entertaining as the human with a mysterious past. They both suffer from laughable lines but, hey, you have seen these two actors before and they fill their parts just fine.

Daybreakers, as a whole, fails to meet the expectations I had for it but it should appeal to anyone who is just looking for a gorefest and nothing more. These are not high standards by any means, so that is why I raise my benchmark for quality. The writing and acting is just subpar, while the ending is plain ridiculous, as if the screenwriters ran out of paper and did not feel like refilling their printer. It's not that it leaves lingering questions, which it does and is still a fine ploy in my book, but it fails to deliver any closure and comes out of nowhere. This film shows how easy it is to come up with an enticing premise, but also how tortuous it is to devise the most important part: your final impression.

Final Verdict:
2.5 Stars Out of 5

The Wolfman:
Directed by Joe Johnston
Released in 2010

If you think about it, Hollywood has not devised a memorable, original monster for years now. With the exception of Heidi Montag, when was the last time a new creature shocked audiences? Most of today's supernatural monsters are ripped from comic books or simply retouched versions of Hollywood classics. The latest in this cycle is The Wolfman, an updated version of the 1941 horror classic. Basically, a werewolf terrorizes a Victorian England town and infects the protagonist, causing him to undergo a grotesque transformation from man to beast. This story has been told millions of times before, but because the original Wolf Man was one of the first to do so we should give the modern update free reign to stick with its ancient formula, right? Well, that is what the screenwriters, Andrew Kevin Walker and David Self, believed and the result reflects this unoriginality rather slavishly.

The star of the film, Benicio del Toro, plays Lawrence Talbot, the ill-fated "hero" whose quest to kill the beast ends up, literally, biting him in the neck. He sets out to dispose of the werewolf after it brutally kills his brother, leaving him and his brother's widow (Emily Blunt) alone, while also bringing them together, if you get my drift. Lawrence's father, Anthony Hopkins as total fromage, has a complicated history with his surviving son, so the events between them after the infection are mysterious, to say the least. The bloody death of his mother during his childhood allows Lawrence to start to put together the pieces of his strange family.

There's nothing wrong with exposition, especially well-crafted character development, but sometimes it is better to get to the hard-boiled fight scenes. Unfortunately, this film, just like Daybreakers and countless other mediocre action films, dabbles far too long in tedious scenes of characters conversing in bars or walking through Victorian streets. By the end, Lawrence was waltzing through London with a tophat and cane; I was too delirious to make any sense out of it. It makes me wonder: do the writers and director really refuse to believe that anything in their film may be flawed? With some editing, this could have been a tighter, more succinct film. Or with better screenwriters, every verbal exchange could have had some more biting wit or philosophical punch with it.

Saying all of this, there are reasons to watch The Wolfman. Sure, the story moves along at a plodding pace and the script is laughable, but it is worth mentioning that this film is beautifully shot. The cinematography (led by Shelley Johnson) may be the film's brightest aspect, as the foggy pastures and villages of Victorian England come alive with the right blend of cinematic precision and grim obscurity. The Bluray release will please any visual connoisseurs, as will Benicio's fur coat, made with a mix of involved makeup application and computer effects. I am not a fan of most CGI in films nowadays, as I feel most of it looks cheap and detracts from any sense of realism or grittiness, and while this film suffers from exactly that at times (digital bear? why?), the Wolf Man's look is strong and captures the raw essence of the character without too much ostentatious visual flair. The violence is your typical bloody, R-rated fare. Expect more decapitations, disembowelment, the works as the werewolves in this film do not simply kill their enemies but destroy them. Some of the bloodshed is unnecessary (ripping out livers is a little...much), but it should appeal to the horror film junkies this is aimed for, even if the film itself is devoid of any real scares besides one or two closet jumps.

As for the acting, which should be high considering the talent at hand, do not expect much. Benicio del Toro plays his role well, though there are certain scenes where he lacks any enthusiasm or emotion whatsoever, such as his first appearance where he listlessly performs Shakespeare. Forgivable, but, then again, this is the Oscar-winning actor from Traffic and Sin City. The same can be said for Anthony Hopkins, who hams it up in this role that was clearly just another paycheck. He looks much more Saint Nicholas than Hannibal Lecter this time around, and his penchant for staring blankly into the camera and delivering prolix speech without much conviction makes his performance less than remarkable. Emily Blunt, on the other hand, fits her role well, as she already showed in The Young Victoria that she can excel as beautiful, privileged Victorian women. The script sloppily attempts to jam in a romance between her and Benicio, and it basically fails on all accounts, but her performance remains solid. Hugo Weaving (Mr. Smith(s) from The Matrix) is a London investigator, with an interesting fate, while Max Von Sydow stops by for a scene to give Lawrence a deadly cane. The acting vacillates from pure cheese to satisfactory, if unremarkable, efforts; it is neither below nor above the average expectations.

The Wolfman is basically mediocre: not terrible nor is it that impressive, it rests comfortably in the middle. It has a half-decent story, with half-decent acting to accompany it, along with impressive werewolf effects that are balanced with a terrible script. It suffers from many of the same problems as Daybreakers, as its strong opening quickly tumbles to the ground due to the screenwriter's incompetence to create a complete, compelling product. Certain parts of The Wolfman will appeal to classic horror film fans, but it is nothing worth howling about.

Final Verdict:
1.5 Stars Out of 5

Toy Story 3 Review

2010-06-24T23:22:00.002-04:00

Toy Story 3:
Directed by Lee Unkrich
Released in 2010

As the final scene of Toy Story 3 faded into black, I was bombarded by a deluge of emotions and thoughts. First off, what a phenomenal film, I said to myself. Everyone around me seemed to unanimously agree. Then, I realized how relieved I was that Pixar, the master at animation with an impeccable lineup of feature films and digital shorts, has been channeling their power into good instead of evil. Because if this studio, which has achieved the impossible by making not only an excellent, but the best entry in a beloved series with the third installment, focused their powers on the diabolical then we would all be hopeless. I would gather that I was alone in that sentiment. No matter. The mad geniuses at Pixar have created what, dare I say it, may be their best film yet with Toy Story 3. They take everything they do well - humor, adventure and, of course, tear-jerking sentimentality - and ratchet it up to the tenth degree.

Everyone knows the general premise of the Toy Story films: a diverse collection of toys come to life when humans are not around. It is a brilliant concept, something everyone as a child must have wondered. It worked for the groundbreaking first film, as well as the sequel which held its ground and then some. Now for the third and supposedly last entry in the trilogy, the toys' owner, Andy, is moving off to college, leaving the expressive pieces of plastic to an uncertain fate. Andy's favorite, and the rightful protagonist, Woody tries to rally the crew to take refuge in the attic, where Andy assigned them. However, the idea of "Sunnyside" Day Care sounds much more enticing, and here the rest of the toys happily spend their time until they realize this is not the synthetic nirvana they hoped for. The story flows seamlessly, even if it is broken into a number of "acts," per se. There is a surprising variety of settings and conflicts the toys get themselves in, but the true scope of the film does not come into perspective until post-analysis, as the movie just rolls along uninhibited.

Like any Pixar film, the voice talent is stellar. In Toy Story's case, however, it is has always been a degree above the rest. Tom Hanks returns with wit and soulful longing as Woody. His character has been a premier example of the emotional depth animated characters can hold since the series' inception, and this time Woody is even more conflicted, more layered, more multi-faceted. He has learned not to expect Andy's attention anymore, but to nobly surrender his arms and face his doubtful fate, akin to a discharged soldier. By his side is Buzz Lightyear, Tim Allen once again, though more subdued than before. A few malfunctions and some romantic tension keep Buzz in the spotlight, though he shares it with the rest of the cast to a greater extent this time around. Among those around him are cowgirl Jessie (a spirited Joan Cusack), sarcastic Hamm (Pixar staple John Ratzenberger), the dim but sweet Rex (Wallace Shawn) and the finest casting decisions of all, Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head, voiced by the Master of Venom himself, Don Rickles, and Estelle Harris of Seinfeld fame, respectively. These returning favorites all provide inspired performances, and prove once more to be lovable, vivid characters.

Joining the established cast is a new band of superb characters. Leading is the strawberry-smelling Lots-o-Huggin', or Lotso for short. His chill Southern drawl and penchant for bear hugs means he can only be good, right? Voiced by a hearty, impassioned Ned Beatty, Lotso is the ringleader of the day care's toys, and his warm facade hides a dark past. This backstory is beautifully told through a narrated flashback (by a memorable Chuckles The Clown no less), and establishes Lotso as one of the richest characters in the Pixar canon. Some of his cohorts include a glittery octopus with Whoopi Goldberg's voice, a freaky baby doll, and Ken from Barbie. Ken, played by Michael Keaton, consistently reveals himself to be the feminine fashionista he is, even when adopting a tough guy attitude. He melts at the first sight of Barbie, and awkward scenes such as this and the bookworm (Richard Kind) encounter make his character nowhere near as psychologically complex as others but a key figure for comic relief.

And much comedy there is to be had. Toy Story 3 is surprisingly hilarious; one of the funniest movies I have seen in some time, in fact. The laughs remain G-rated but will probably appeal to adults more than kids. Of course, there are some clever sight gags, including a brilliant scene involving Mr. Potato Head and a tortilla, but Hamm's unexplained, precise musings on technology, and allusions to classic films like The Great Escape and The Exorcist make this film comical to a nearly universal audience. Apparently a portion of this audience is located in Spain and Latin America, as Buzz has a moment with the Spanish language, complete with subtitles. This scene is both respectful to the Hispanic culture as well as completely priceless, dance moves and all. Coming from a different culture is the thespian, high-brow Mr. Pricklepants, voiced by Timothy Dalton. It is amusing as he believes he is "acting" when his owner plays with him, and tries to stay in character even when said owner is absent. The laughs in this film come at a constant pace, and make for the funniest Pixar film yet.

What is perhaps most impressive about this film, however, is how well it balances all of the emotions it stirs. The frequent moments of hilarity do not in any way mitigate the impact of the suspense or sadness this film presents. Tender, touching scenes have been a skill of Pixar's, seen in the near-perfect intros to both Wall-E and Up, and this film once again reaffirms their prowess. The general premise of physical atrophy and mental maturity present far more austere dilemmas than in the previous Toy Story films. The toys can save the day and make it back to Andy's house, but instead of being greeted by a youthful boy's grasp, they face a dank attic, or worse. The main reason I believe this film affected me so deeply is because, in a sense, it is presenting my story. I am just a little younger than Andy on screen, and I spent my youthful days absorbed in imagining preposterous scenarios, or playing with an overwhelming multitude of toys. Now, I am faced with circumstances that are anything but quixotic dreams: SATs, college admissions, declaring a major, and deciding what I really want to do with my life. Andy and I shared those innocent days together, but now we mutually have to move forward, to grow up. Anyone in my age group will draw the same parallels, and suddenly the massive time gap between the second and third Toy Story does not seem like an unnecessarily prolonged wait but, simply, aging. It is so basic yet so beautiful in a way; this film arises both the most progressive and nostalgic senses in me.

There is no doubt that the timing of this film's release is perfect for me, but the emotional resonance will strike anyone. Parents will be wrecked, as shown in that scene of pure simplicity involving Andy's mom and his empty room. There is also a scene near the end, which I will not spoil, that may catch some off-guard, as it may initially seem immature. But, just like a somewhat similar film Where The Wild Things Are, this scene captures the inner child in all of us, showing the immortality of imagination. The introduction montage to Up may be a more condensed, beautiful scene of emotional perfection, but a number of scenes in this film rival anything Pixar has done before. As a whole, it may be their most affecting movie yet. And it is also the funniest! Again, the balance between the two is flawless; neither side is adversely affected by the other. Anyone with a pulse will be somewhat moved by this movie, some more than others, and it is truly an outstanding feat that this remarkable depth of the human psyche is conveyed through computer animation alone.

It is also worth mentioning the traditional digital short that precedes the feature film. Called Day + Night, the short is, unsurprisingly, superb as well as extremely innovative. Combining 2D, hand-drawn animation and 3D Pixar animation, this film is set on a blank, black backdrop with only two mute cartoon characters. The inside of their bodies is filled with a CGI day or night setting, and all of their actions are performed through natural actions. For example, urinating is sensibly conveyed by a running river (complete with a blissful face expression), and quacking ducks symbolize laughing. The short is merely about these two, disparate beings interacting with each other, and the end result is a touching, humorous experience that is unlike you have ever seen before. The short's appearance is so shocking, in fact, that it may take a few seconds to even realize what it is going on on-screen. Day + Night is an original, charming short film, and a fitting lead-in to the main attraction.

So, Pixar has done it again. Toy Story 3 is an achievement in animated storytelling, and a laugh riot in itself. Third installments in movie series, especially animated ones, are typically a sad occasion, when the quality and reputation of the previous episodes are thrown out the window. Not so for Toy Story 3: everything that made the first two films modern classics is improved and polished. This is a seriously funny film, one that will make anyone of any age, race or creed laugh throughout. This is also a thrilling film, filled with suspense and that rolling sense of adventure that makes the Toy Story films so appealing to adults and children alike. This is also a sad film. Not in the lugubrious, doleful sense but in a bittersweet manner. Because beneath the animated guise and entire premise about walking, talking, independently-minded toys, lies something real. It is the most intrinsic concept in our human existence: growing up. Every single human, living creature, even cell in the world goes through this process, yet a computer-generated, 3D, $190 million budget film captures it beautifully. Toy Story 3 will stick with you, occupying your mind as you stroll down life's finite road yourself.

Final Verdict:
5 Stars Out of 5

The A-Team Review

2010-06-20T09:33:00.004-04:00

The A-Team

Directed by Joe Carnahan

Released in 2010

When walking into a theater to watch the latest summer blockbuster, your standards for enjoyment are set much differently than they would be if you were seeing, say, Doubt. An explosion or two, or three or four, and a familiar cast of macho men and pretty ladies are all that is really necessary for a hit. Audiences love it when this plan comes together, to paraphrase Col. Hannibal Smith, but critics usually do not. I like to think of myself as not too snobbish in my opinions (I took Iron Man 2 for the glitzy fun it was), but I have to side with the evil pundits on this one. The A-Team is a reasonably fun time with a few particularly sharp action sequences, but it is drowned in many flat attempts at humor, a ridiculously predictable plot, and, most shocking of all, a lack of real excitement.

To paraphrase Hannibal Smith again, the plot is so banal and predictable that you can always see three steps ahead. That being said, it is serviceable for this brand of brainless cheese. As we all know, this movie is based off the absurd television show of the 80s. The premise of that series, in which four Vietnam veterans are charged of a crime they did not commit and subsequently fight for peace through covert means, is used here. The only edit here is, instead of the Vietnam War, these soldiers served in the Iraq War, which actually ends near the beginning of this movie. Let's bring that detail to life, please. Nonetheless, the A-Team is comprised of four members: the leader, Hannibal (Liam Neeson); the philanderer, Face (Bradley Cooper); the brawn, B.A. (Quinton "Rampage" Jackson); and the deranged, Murdock (Sharlto Copley). Throughout the film, their status oscillates between heroic acclaim or unjust ostracization by the military. This fluctuation of stature provides a constant conflict, on top of defeating the antagonists, but, in the end, there were one too many double crosses for a senseless flick like this to handle properly.

As trailers will attest to and the cast alone shows, this is a man's film. At least, that is what I believe. For every scene of B.A. piledriving a fool, you get about five minutes of shirtless Bradley Cooper. This puzzled me, perhaps more than any other aspect of this movie. Sure, the guy is in great shape and is, to quote Hannibal for the third and hopefully last time, "really tan." But, unless you are a bodybuilding monster like an 80s Stallone or Schwarzenegger, a topless male lead will not appeal that much to the masculine crowd this film is meant for. If it is trying to reel in (Steely Dan references are incessant in this movie as well) a female audience, every other aspect of this film, such as Jessica Biel's near useless role as nothing more than eye candy, screams otherwise. The wise middle ground? Try the guinea tee, a la Bruce Willis in Die Hard, for a mix of muscle and moderation.

Digressions aside, there is still enough masculinity to appease the average action junkie. Liam Neeson chows on enough fat cigars to make J. Jonah Jameson blush, and the ridiculous stunts (assisted by a nagging presence of CGI) are so bombastic that they will appease anyone who only values spectacle. There are many ludicrous explosions, more so than necessary, but that was the point of the original series in the first place. The special effects and action could be better, as all the hand-to-hand fight scenes are shakily filmed in a way that aims for Greengrass' Bourne films but fails to achieve that sense of palpable grit. It should not be this way, as the director Joe Carnahan also did Smokin' Aces, a movie with a more outrageous storyline but some really innovative, spectacular action sequences.

There are a few noteworthy scenes to mention, however. It will send any physicist to an early grave, but there is a part in the movie when the team is "piloting" a military tank...in the sky...freefalling...reaching terminal velocity......by shooting the cannon at certain degrees. Hannibal barks the angle placements with such timed certainty that you cannot help but laugh at the preposterous premise this scene holds. Their solution is to land in a small lake, where an old couple is using dynamite to fish no less, so learning to accept the nonsensical science, or lack thereof, is mandatory to get through the film. Less egregious is a Dark Knight-esque skyscraper assault in which the A-Team truly fulfills its potential by incorporating grapple hooks, flashbangs, and a low-flying helicopter into one shocking attack. This scene is the one that sticks out in the end as what the film could have been if everything was done with such care.

Unfortunately, said care was not paid to most of the film. The finale throws (literal) fireworks at the audience with its large setpiece and liberal amount of fiery detonations, resulting in an ostentatious display of soulless action. It adds insult to injury when the screenwriters underestimate the intelligence of the audience when they constantly throw a barrage of flashbacks on the screen just to make sure the viewer knows how certain plot twists relate to previous events. It infuriates me when a sleight of hand maneuver that was furtively done five minutes before is interpolated between the unfolding action, only with an added video filter or two to exclaim, "HEY, REMEMBER THIS? Well...you didn't see that move coming did you?" Sorry, but everyone did. Everyone.

The team of four leads are all fine actors in their own right (though I am not too acquainted with Quinton Jackson's acting career), but the material that they are given does not make them particularly compelling or even comical. The mentally ill pilot, Murdock, is positioned to be the key comic relief for the film, but some of his lines simply fall flat. This is no fault to the magnificent actor filling his role, District 9's Sharlto Copley, as he takes bad lemons and attempts to make fine wine. There are welcome instances when his character is legitimately hilarious, such as his Braveheart parody or any teasing badinage between him and B.A.. When the main antagonist, Pike, not only watches but offers assistance to his own bumbling supposed executioner as he struggles with attaching a pistol suppressor, a successful scene of hilarity is made. But a lack of real laughs is an Achilles heel for any popcorn action film as self-aware as The A-Team, and considering some bad lines even repeat themselves (Enough with the toast points, B.A.), it is obvious more effort could have gone into the script.

Speaking of Bosco "I ain't gettin on no plane!" Baracus, the UFC fighter slides into the vintage mohawk rather well, but he is still a perplexing character. Mr. T's original portrayal of the character included a fear of flying, which is humorously explained in the [very, very long] intro, but this film takes it farther by attempting to make him a pacifist as well. This leads to an odd character progression in which he starts as a cold blooded killing machine, reforms to an enlightened student of Mohandas Gandhi, but then returns to his bloody ways at the end. This makes him a pretty weak character in a sense, and he is not on screen as much as one would expect anyway. I would be lying, however, if I said I did not grin at watching Jackson kick a hapless, capoeira-twirling enemy into a wall about seven feet away. Now that is why I went to see this movie in the first place.

Bradley Cooper is mildly nagging in his dominant role, perhaps usurping Hannibal for on-screen facetime (sorry, could not resist the pun). He was a great fit for The Hangover, but this dude is not cut out to be the Tom Cruise that seems to be the aim here. On the other hand, Liam Neeson continues to put forth so much effort in roles that demand so little, as he did with Taken two years ago. The delightfully tacky line, "I love it when a plan comes together," is repeated a few times, and Neeson continually delivers it with such defined authority that the perpetually delayed Spielberg biopic, Lincoln, in which Liam plays the eponymous president, seems like the best idea of all time (seriously, get on that).

Overall, The A-Team is a superficial, fun time at the movies that always feels like it is failing to meet its real potential. Explosions ring left and right, but there is nothing between the ears. In the end, you may feel shocked that you were not actually shocked by any particular scene or plot twist in the movie. We have all seen it before; these are not the droids you are looking for. Adjust your expectations accordingly, for enjoyment can be had here in more than a modest degree, but I pity the fools behind this who did not deliver on all cylinders.

Final Verdict:

3 Stars Out of 5

Iron Man 2 Review

2010-05-09T21:13:00.005-04:00

Iron Man 2:
Directed by Jon Favreau
Released in 2010

"Style over substance." This complaint is often lodged at films that sacrifice an intelligent narrative structure, or even a basic plot, in favor of flashy, eye-catching effects. It is not a compliment for a movie to be described as such, but it is the approach to use when trying to reel in huge audiences. After all, look at Transformers 2: millions of dollars spent on visual overload while pennies reserved for a senseless story. Now this phrase does not apply to Iron Man 2 but a variation of it: Style over too much substance. That definitely sounds preferable to the former, and it is. The cluttered, unfortunately underdeveloped character plot lines are ultimately just distractions from the energy the fantastic actors and director present. This approach works perfectly fine, and Iron Man 2 ends up a more entertaining, absorbing package than the first.

This sequel picks up exactly where the last left off, when Tony Stark, played with the charisma and attitude that only Robert Downey Jr. can muster, declares to the world that he is, in fact, Iron Man. He becomes a national icon, beloved by the American public and, lacking any modesty whatsoever, believes that this attention is deserved. After all, as he so tersely states, he successfully privatized world peace. In no surprise whatsoever, Stark faces a few new adversaries, both at home and abroad. The United States government is seeking to get Stark's weapons in, supposedly, " the people's hands," to which Tony is vehemently opposed not only because it violates his rights but because no other country is even close to equaling Stark Industries. Cue Whiplash. This Russian brute, whose real name is Ivan Vanko, seeks to destroy the Iron Man due to possibly shameful incidents that haunt the Stark family tree. A failing arms tycoon, Justin Hammer, in an enjoyable, slimeball performance by Sam Rockwell, enlists the help of Vanko to execute the common goal they both share.

On top of this, Tony deals with the stress of physical atrophy from the machine that is, ironically, keeping him alive, as well as the detachment he is facing from his steadfast support and love, Pepper Potts, played with domineering confidence by Gwyneth Paltrow. Meanwhile, Lt. Col. James Rhodes cannot tolerate his best friend's self-destructive attitude and decides to make his own decked-out Iron Man after a scuffle. Yet even stacked atop this is the foreboding emergence of S.H.I.E.L.D., a superhero group led by Nick Fury, the badass motha himself, Samuel L. Jackson. Scarlett Johansson, Stark's new assistant, turns out to be a member of this group under the moniker Black Widow. Obviously, due to the size of this synopsis and the incoherency of it all, the story could have used improvement in editing and less character overload.

The sole flaw of this movie is not necessarily a discordant plot, because it does make sense if you pay attention, but a lack of character development besides the main stars. Iron Man obviously takes centerstage, and there is no lack of the typical superhero sequel middle section in which the protagonist has to overcome emotional and psychological problems, a la Spiderman 2 or The Dark Knight. Whiplash is also prominent throughout, his story being one of pain and vengeance. We see the pain in his character, plus a humorous faux-Russian accent as well. However, other characters like Lt. Rhodes are not as developed as they could have been. Nick Fury appears in merely two scenes, and by now it seems as if the filmmakers are just teasing us to his future involvement in an Avengers movie. Natalie Rushman, Scarlet Johansson in top, sexy form, does not have much prominence to the plot and serves more as eye-candy than anything else. Fine by me, but I will admit it is wasted potential.

The botched character progression is disappointing- because that is something the first did very well- but it is far from fatal. In fact, the movie is so fun overall that these problems are easily overlooked. The reason why Iron Man 2 succeeds so well is because it is full of fantastic, talented actors who are all over-qualified for their roles. Take Mickey Rourke, aka Whiplash, for example. Rourke, who gave one of the finest acting performances in years with The Wrestler, goes beyond what is required, or even expected, for this performance as Ivan Vanko. His Eastern bloc drawl is definitely cheesy, especially as he croons for his bird one too many times, but he brings an emotional depth to the character that is not necessary in a big budget action film like this one. His character seeks to destroy Tony Stark as a personal vendetta, and Rourke conveys this bloodthirsty pain with an energy that only a gifted actor can convey. Pair him aside the star of the film himself, Robert Downey Jr., and you have two actors that are surprisingly alike. Both were hot commodities in Hollywood years ago, but then had a self-destructive period where they disappeared into obscurity. Only in the last four years have these excellent actors, as Tony Stark says of himself in the beginning of this movie, risen from the ashes in "the greatest phoenix metaphor the world has ever seen." The first Iron Man takes the credit for Downey's true return, but now that the sequel contains both him and the other comeback hero of recent Hollywood history, we can enjoy the talents of yesteryear at their top form, today.

Downey Jr. carries the film on his shoulders with ease and grace. His conservative, playboy character stands in sharp contrast to a more noble hero like Bruce Wayne, but Stark is engaging because he loves himself as much as everyone else does. The opening scene, in which Stark is questioned by a United States Senate committee, shows how Tony believes he is above all others. Senator Stern - a hilarious, sordid and scarily plastic Garry Shandling - demands that the Iron Man suit be transferred to government hands, but Stark associates himself with the observing audience and turns the tables on the interrogators. Downey is a unique, gifted actor who can play with his food before eating it, and all the while with a sly smile. The script, written by Mulholland Drive star and Tropic Thunder co-writer Justin Theroux, gives him some winning lines, but the spot-on delivery is all attributed to Downey. When Tony Stark goes through his internal conflict in the middle of the movie, Downey bares a melancholic spirit, like one who is flying too close to the sun. This performance may not be as shocking or classic as his controversial turn as Kirk Lazarus in Tropic Thunder, but it may as well contain some of his finest acting yet. There's an energy pulsing through the screen when Robert Downey Jr. is on it; the film plays it wise and refrains from taking him off it.

The rest of the cast is stellar, by no means a necessity for a movie of this type. Thankfully, this is a different type of beast. Gwyneth Paltrow is a commanding, occasionally cold, yet commanding figure who, if absent, would leave Tony Stark helpless. Pepper Potts is no longer the naive, bewildered assistant that she was in the first: she actually bosses Tony around this time. By her side is Happy Hogan, the lovable yet bumbling bodyguard, played by Jon Favreau, also the director. Watching him struggle to subdue a goon while Black Widow easily clears a room of thugs is an interesting juxtaposition, to say the least. Black Widow, aka Natalie Rushman, aka Natasha Romanoff, is underutilized in her role but nonetheless provides to be a...pleasant sight on the screen. As Stark observes, she is unreadable in her motives, making her an intriguing character. "Rhodey," previously Terrence Howard but now played by a superior Don Cheadle, is given an imposing physical presence and is less of a pushover than the first. In fact, his strict, militaristic demeanor proves to be a main conflict in the movie. However, he still knows how to have fun, and Cheadle, who proved his acting prowess in Hotel Rwanda, is a winning actor. There is no dispute to the mastery of Samuel L. Jackson, who is painfully absent from most of the movie but a scene-stealer when on the screen. John Slattery, the boss from Mad Men, is an insightful father for Tony, revealed in old footage, and Clark Gregg plays a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who tries to control Stark but learns that trapping a lightning bolt is not a facile matter. The last lead actor is Sam Rockwell, who was so robbed of an Oscar nomination in last year's Moon, and will play a character well even when he is an annoying prick. Justin Hammer, his arms manufacturer persona, is a pathetic individual in all respects but given a humorous, pitiful edge by Rockwell. Summer blockbusters often have a large list of high-profile names on their poster, but rarely do all the actors fulfill their potential and deliver winning performances such as this film.

Typically, the star of the show for many will be the action. The acting is where this focus should be directed but the fight scenes are filmed with confidence and filled with visual wonders. Favreau, who also directed the first, is an excellent director who can balance the demands of action with the quality necessity of character development, even if the screenplay does not deliver on all fronts. The explosions look expensive, but do not carry a moronic aura when surrounded by an absorbing plot and cast of winning players. Michael Bay should take a hint here. This film actually outdoes Bay's vapid Transformers movies with the typical "flashy assembly of armor" scene. In the middle of a French speedway, Tony Stark uses the "Iron Man suitcase" (which curiously is light enough for Gwyneth Paltrow to carry without struggle) to put his metallic exoskeleton on. There is a ridiculous sense of detail and liberal use of clanking sounds, as well as the ludicrousness of the situation, that makes this the key scene for the visual effects crew behind the film. Favreau and the team behind him craft a dynamic, truly badass spectacle of what is really pieces of metal scraping against each other. Again, Michael Bay, take note.

Iron Man 2 may not bring that fresh, vivid guise that critics praised for the original, but it delivers with excellent acting and tons of more fun. What more is there to ask for a huge blockbuster like this? This may not be an equal to The Dark Knight as far as superhero sequels go but it ups the ante in every department, usually all to the film's benefit. It is unfortunate that Theroux's screenplay does not contain enough room for all the characters to properly flesh out, but Favreau and the actors take what they have and make something genuinely magnetic.

Final Verdict:
3.5 Stars Out of 5

Kick-Ass Review

2010-04-25T21:00:00.005-04:00

Kick-Ass:
Directed by Matthew Vaughn
Released in 2010

Ever wish to fill in the shoes of your favorite superhero? Imagine holding the ability to swing from building to building like Spiderman or using your wealth and intellect to fight crime like Bruce Wayne. Well, after a viewing of Kick-Ass, these wishes may wane as this somewhat realistic take (note the somewhat) on superheroes is unforgiving in its depiction of vigilante crime fighters. From the first scene to the last, Kick-Ass delivers a unique, hilarious, violent and occasionally shocking take on the often-cliched superhero genre.

Ironically, the film starts out with perhaps the most routine high school plot out there: an unimpressive, though handsome and compassionate, teen named Dave Lizewski (Aaron Johnson) has the "superpower" of being invisible to girls as he deals with hormones, bullying and awkward situations. His lame friends are Evan Peters and the new Jonah Hill, Clark Duke, from Hot Tub Time Machine. He has a crush on the pretty girl - Lyndsy Fonseca, also from Hot Tub - but it does not help that she thinks he is gay. Thankfully, this does not remain the main storyline for long as Dave decides, for almost no emotional reason at all, to become a superhero. He buys a green and yellow scuba costume online and seeks to help those who are ignored by bystanders when they need help most. His moniker? Kick-Ass.

So begins the kinetic, and sometimes disturbing, riot this film becomes. Dave becomes an Internet sensation as a video of him sloppily fighting a few thugs becomes a hit on YouTube. He begins to take requests by those who need help, but he has one particular target held above the rest. When trying to "kick ass" in order to impress the girl of his dreams, Dave runs into the real stars of this movie, Hit Girl and Big Daddy. Hit Girl, the remarkable Chloe Moretz who will be recognized from (500) Days of Summer, viciously - and really unnecessarily - slays a room of goons with a double-edged sword after dropping the C bomb. All the while, a childish chanting tune plays in the background to provide a queasy juxtaposition. Big Daddy provides support from afar, and the character is captured by none other than the brilliant Nicolas Cage. After this particular event, a millionaire crime boss, played by Mark Strong, perceives these misfit heroes as legitimate threats to his drug ring. His spoiled son, Christopher Mintz-Plasse - forever McLovin' - dons a costume himself and tries to get Kick-Ass on his side in order for his father to dispose of this nuisance. The plot dips and dives from this point to the end, making for an entertaining, if thematically inconsistent, ride.

The content at hand may shock some with its dark tone and liberal use of violence, not to mention pervasive language. Completely inexperienced and naive Kick-Ass tries to fight off some gangsters only to end up in the hospital. The film does not portray it too comically either; you are left feeling somewhat nauseated. The equally stupid gangsters are portrayed in a different light, as every misstep of theirs usually ends up in a bloody mess but is played off for worthwhile laughs. The actions of Hit Girl and Big Daddy lay somewhere in between. Every time they take the screen, awesomeness is guaranteed to unfold. Sometimes it is comical, such as the first appearance of Hit Girl, or sometimes it is a brisk, well-choreographed slice of action that can be seen when Big Daddy disposes a group of mobsters in record time. The violence is certainly exaggerated, but not over-stylized a la Kill Bill, to provide a proper, concrete disconnect between the viewer and the action on-screen. These scenes all oscillate in tone and purpose, making the movie a rough, bumpy wooden roller coaster instead of a smooth, comfortable steel one. That is fine for a young, blasé youth like myself, but this practice tends to polarize viewers, the Coen Brothers' Burn After Reading as an example. Wanted, from 2008, pulled off this style better than most, blending comedy with ruthless violence, but it lacked the charm of either of these two films. Take one, leave the other, apparently.

The greatest point of contention for many in this film is the star of the show herself, Hit Girl. The adorable Chloe Moretz steals the show as the foul-mouthed, guiltless killer who was raised by a loving father who forgoes Barbie dolls for butterfly knives. She is a riot in every scene, and though much of her draw comes from the shock value of what she is doing on screen, she certainly has talent on her own. She has the ability to be simultaneously menacing and cute at the same time, and I am sure she will headline her own film very soon. Nicolas Cage, the actor who is great even when he is terrible, is the obsessed, troubled father who cares for his daughter, even if the two only talk about the obscure names for famous firearms. When he dons his Batman-like costume, he speaks with an indisputable Adam West cadence that is both hilarious and a reminder that, no matter how kick-ass these superheroes may be, they are ultimately a bunch of comic book geeks. Truly, the film is alive with these two stars on the screen.

The rest of the cast is solid, if unremarkable. Kick-Ass himself, Aaron Johnson, provides an uninteresting narration but delivers a worthy performance. His trials and tribulations, both with and without his costume on, are overbearing throughout, and he convincingly conveys this deep pain. While his pseudonym is the film's name, he is not really the leading character, instead acting as the vehicle to fit in every other character's story around him. The antagonist, Frank D'Amico, is a soulless villain who is hard to root for, but the performance by Mark Strong is certainly better than his super cheesy turn in Sherlock Holmes. He does not cease to chew the scenery, but a more interesting character, one who is intertwined with Big Daddy's past, makes this a far better performance than the bland Lord Blackwood. Christopher Mintz-Plasse, who will never live up to his immortal role of McLovin, disappoints as he barely has any notable lines, nor is he too interesting as Kick-Ass's wealthy counterpart, Red Mist. Kick-Ass is an entertaining package, but upon analyzation, it is not hard to notice that the film nearly grinds to a halt when Cage or Moretz are not on the screen.

Kick-Ass will, and already has, offended many and been condemned by family groups and critics alike. Roger Ebert himself stated that this film is "morally reprehensible." Nah. The film relies on shock value, certainly, and can get very, very dark at times, but the only problem that this ultimately creates is a constantly vacillating shift in tone. Hit Girl, near the end, gets brutally beaten by D'Amico, making for another disturbing scene, but this just reveals the film's haphazard pacing, not the demonic intentions. There is no reason to castigate the ethics behind the movie (named Kick-Ass by the way) because I can state with 100% certainty that no one without a severe preexisting mental condition will turn into an abhorrent cursing maniac, or a perverse, bloodthirsty killer. We Americans are a jaded bunch. With the Internet, we can see anything we want, free of charge. Kick-Ass should not prove too disturbing to a generation that can watch the uncensored 9/11 attacks on YouTube. To those complaining about the "morals" behind this film, lighten up. Kick-Ass may have problems of its own, but it is too much fun to be blacklisted by a cranky few.

Final Verdict:
3.5 Stars Out of 5

Hot Tub Time Machine Review

2010-04-03T19:44:00.001-04:00

Hot Tub Time Machine:
Directed by Steve Pink
Released in 2010

Simplicity is underrated. Films with titles like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or Precious: Based On The Novel Push By Sapphire can be clumsy and lead to confusion. Confusion leads to thought, and who wants to think when seeing a movie? Thankfully, the film with the best name in years, Hot Tub Time Machine, is here and allows you to turn off your brain for about 100 minutes and revel in the mindless hilarity.

The story is, as one would think, fairly self-explanatory. Four dudes (John Cusack, Craig Robinson, Rob Corddry and a newcomer, Clark Duke) are experiencing a nadir in their once-rich lives. John Cusack is Adam, whose girlfriend just dumped him, Craig Robinson is Nick, a hopeful musician who settled down too quickly, Clark Duke is Adam's geeky nephew, and Rob Corddry is the reckless alcoholic, Lou, who shows a surprising disregard for his own, as well as his friend's, well-being. They decide to take a weekend off at a ski resort and have a crazy party in a mystical hot tub, which, to the audience's complete surprise, transports them through time. The new year is 1986, and the guys, with the exception of Clark, who was not born yet, realize that they have to replicate the exact events they did over 20 years ago in order for the "space time continuum" to remain intact and....actually, nevermind, this information is not necessary. Too much thought. Anyway, they first try to adhere to the past but realize that doing so took them to their miserable current existence, so they decide to change things up as a result. The writers do not even attempt to logically explain the science behind the time travel and it is better off because of this. Quantum physics is not what one should expect when going to see a movie called Hot Tub Time Machine.

To put it in layman's terms, this movie is funny. The opening has a eclectic Hangover vibe before it eventually develops as a crude cross between Superbad and Back To The Future. Speaking of that time travel classic, Crispin Glover (the dad from Back To The Future) makes a welcome appearance as the hotel butler Phil. In the present day he is missing an arm, leaving him a vile, offensive brute, but mysteriously has the appendage in the past. The group witnesses Phil run into several close encounters that could result in an avulsion. Lou's disappointed reaction when Phil turns out to be safe is one of the best parts of the whole movie. The laughs come quickly and rank in the upper echelons of recent R-rated comedy fare.

The cast shows a dynamic comedic range that may provoke thoughts of The Hangover's leading men. Cusack is the straight man, Robinson is the troubled married man, Duke is the nerdy, spineless geek, and Corddry is the outrageous, mentally-troubled buffoon. The combination works wonders, thankfully, as they all have a share of hilarious scenes. John Cusack is, and has always been, a terrific actor and he seems to be overqualified for this role. There are scenes when he convincingly emotes the deep melancholy of his character, and he may follow with a winning comic line delivered with sharp cadence. This role certainly also seeks to remind the audience of Cusack's role of teenage icon in the 80s with such films as Say Anything and Better Off Dead. It succeeds.

The rest of the cast is equally bright. Craig Robinson, the often-harassed Darryl from The Office, shines as a noble yet weak-willed married man who must cheat on his current wife with a girl in the past. Technically, that is not cheating is it? Chevy Chase literally pops out of nowhere for a few scenes as the prophetic "Repair Man" who seems to be the Doc Brown to the group's Marty McFly. Chase, whose physical appearance and movements have made him as much of an icon as his extraordinary comedic timing, does not have many memorable lines but his mere presence only helps the film in the end. Crispin Glover is a pleasure to behold as well, and, with his other recent film Alice In Wonderland raking in hundreds of millions at the box office, it is great to see such an interesting and, daresay it, forgotten actor back in the spotlight. That leaves us with the star of the show, Rob Corddry. I have been a huge fan of Rob since he started on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, so it is great to see him get a big role that shows the world his superb talent. "Lou" is eccentric throughout, whether it be resorting to hiring hookers upon stepping into the room or shooting projectile vomit at peaceful squirrels. Lou also seems to be the one character to take advantage of their situation and current knowledge by placing inordinate bets on obscure events or trying to impress others with his forebodings of the future. At one point he drunkenly shouts "John Lennon will get shot" before realizing that has already happened.

Considering it takes place in the 1980s, there are countless references to that decade shown throughout. The way these clues stack up to the initial revelation of a time switch is rather ingenious, but, for the rest of the film, some of these nostalgiac tidbits seem tacked on. As Adam walks into a room to meet his smokin' girlfriend in a tight, furry jumpsuit (and it is worth mentioning that, like any R comedy nowadays, there are handfuls of hot women, clothed and topless, here), David Bowie's "Modern Love" plays (an interesting song choice considering the title) and a Duran Duran Rio poster is seen briefly afterwards. This scattershot piling of references actually makes for a superb soundtrack, led by Motley Crue's "Home Sweet Home", but does end up feeling disorganized. This is barely a complaint, however, as anyone who lived through the 80s or appreciates the decade will notice the liberal allusions placed within.

In conclusion, Hot Tub Time Machine is not original or groundbreaking in any way besides in that it embraces its inherent simplicity. The scientific plausibility of the events that occur is briskly ignored, as it should be. The title itself eschews metaphors or romantic imagery and gets straight down to business. What is here is a hilarious, raunchy time warp with an excellent cast of characters. The script is strong for the most part, though The Hangover and Anchorman can lay claim to more "classic" nonsensical quotes. Do not expect the rapid-fire, witty screenplay a la In The Loop either. Nonetheless, feel free to join the dudes in the glowing hot tub. The time will be eventful and you'll ache from laughing. Just do not drink the water. There's no way it can be good for your health.

Final Verdict:
3.5 Stars Out of 5

Alice In Wonderland Review

2010-03-15T19:12:00.003-04:00

Alice In Wonderland:
Directed by Tim Burton
Released in 2010

Who can possibly create a reimagination of Lewis Carroll's beloved Alice's Adventures in Wonderland story and the subsequent 1951 Disney animated film? Tim Burton, of course. It seems etched in stone. Atop Mount Sinai there is probably a lost tablet foretelling the day when Burton would direct a new Alice. Look at any of Tim's previous work, whether it be Edward Scissorhands, Big Fish, Beetlejuice, or even Batman, and traces of Lewis Carroll's tale can be found. So why do I feel disappointed by Burton's latest work? I share an inordinate love for the man's catalog of films, more than most. However, like 2012 on the Mayan calender, not every event God portends is meant to be great.

Now, comparing the new Alice in Wonderland to the apocalypse is harsh. This movie is good. It is a solid entry in the usually-disparate month of March, and its huge box office draw so far is encouraging for the director whose last big success was the shoddy Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (this movie is better than Charlie, rest assured). It is not as impressive as I hoped for, however, and that can be blamed on a few aspects. I am going to break into list format, a first for a review of mine, and list the 3 problems with this movie:

3D. What used to be a juvenile accessory to add incentive to see such masterworks like Fly Me To The Moon and Open Season in theaters is quickly turning into the norm. After the most successful film of all time, last year's Avatar, showed the world how to properly make 3D work, every movie now believes throwing 3D glasses on their patrons will equally throw butts into seats. Avatar was beautiful; the 3D helped enhance the experience by adding depth and never relied on cheap cliches like tossing hats at the screen to remind the audience that this was not something that could work (at least not yet) at home. In contrast, Alice In Wonderland is a 3D film with no use for this extra dimension. The added dimension desaturates the color, lessening the impact of the excellent work gone into the art design, shown by the not-so-bright foliage of "Underland" (that is what the world is actually called). Unless studios are going to go all out, scrap 3D.
CGI. Computer animation is a wonderful thing. Look at the beauty Pixar has been able to capture time and time again with this colorful, advanced medium. The Harry Potter and Lord Of The Rings films have also successfully merged live action with digital effects, crafting a believable, though fake, world. Similar to recent George Lucas and Steven Spielberg works, Alice suffers from an over-reliance on CGI. Beautiful environments are rendered unfortunately prosthetic as seams in the animation show. As the film progresses, it becomes apparent that the only real objects on the soundstage are the actors themselves.
A lack of focus. In a movie like Alice in Wonderland, the first true acid trip in cinema form, this complaint may come as elitist and unnecessary. Nevertheless, this film straddles between an adult psychedelic tale and a children's action film, as the final action scene will attest. Watching Alice wander around Underland, encountering all of the strange citizens and dangers, is entertaining to a point. There is a lull in the middle that should not be in a story of such hypnotic energy, or else one that is under 2 hours long. Then a final battle scene comes out of nowhere to inject some energy, but does it fit in context? I am not so sure.

Thankfully, everything else I have to say about this film is positive. First off, the cast is stellar. Johnny Depp is the Mad Hatter, the signature Wonderland resident who will slip from a soft accent with a lisp to a rich Scottish accent depending on the level of aggression he is aiming for. Depp is a consistently excellent actor and watching him act, literally, insane is a pleasure. Helena Bonham Carter, who has been in nearly all of the recent Burton (her husband) films, works for her slot as she plays the Red Queen. More silly than menacing, the Queen has a huge, "bulbous" head and is obsessed with cutting off every enemy's head. A bit dim-witted herself, the Queen is an entertaining character and given a fair treatment by Carter. Anne Hathaway is the peaceful White Queen, and perfectly acceptable in her role. Nothing amazing from her but it is hard to draw up any legitimate complaints. The elusive Crispin Glover plays the Knave of Hearts, basically the Knight to the Red Queen. Glover is a fascinating actor considering he is known for his quirky behavior and strange cadence but, like many unusual actors, he is an excellent performer. Let's see more of this smart, yet creepy, dude.

The voice talent behind many of the digital characters also draws from the finest in the English crop. Everyone loves Alan Rickman, and he is the prophetic Blue Caterpillar who usually reminds the audience that this film had a drug-influenced motif all the way back to the 1951 animated film. Stephen Fry, the Brit with that very memorable voice, lends his pipes to the role of Chesire Cat, the diaphanous feline whose floating face will always haunts children. Timothy Spall (Peter Pettigrew from Harry Potter and The Beadle in Sweeney Todd) is the loyal dog Bayard, and Michael Sheen is the expeditious White Rabbit. Matt Lucas, the raunchy, baby-faced English comedian, is both Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and the CGI that powers his appearance is both hilarious and disturbing. Last but not least, Alice is played by a relatively unknown actress, Mia Wasikowska. Mia is beautiful and really looks like Alice; the casting was perfect in that sense. She could have been more emotive, but I enjoyed her grown-up take on Alice.

The story itself is technically a sequel to the original story, as an older Alice revisits the land that she visited as a young girl. In the Victorian world she calls home, she is currently forced to marry a lord on status, and not love, alone. The charming recreation of Victorian England starts the film out strong, and, of course, she falls down that rabbit hole one more time. Her destiny is told to her outright, as she must slay the vicious Jabberwocky (voiced by a booming Christopher Lee). What follows is very similar to the original tale, such as the various character encounters and trippy aesthetic feel. Tim Burton could have gone farther with the vibe of Alice's original tale that was caught in song by Jefferson Airplane's famous "White Rabbit." Whether it is the PG rating or focus on a younger audience (again, this is in 3D), the mature feeling of the original is somewhat lost.

In the end, we all knew that Tim Burton was going to do Alice In Wonderland. Some of us just believe it could have been done better. Style reigns over substance, and while that could be acceptable in this story that relies so heavily on visuals, the 3D ends up spoiling the artistic merit. Perhaps a viewing of this film in two dimensions would cure this feeling, but it certainly leaves a bad aftertaste. Still, after saying all of this, I enjoyed this movie. Any fan of the story or just Tim Burton himself will find something to like here. The cast is solid and, deep under the artificial layers, there is a beautiful world of flora and fauna. To add to this, last night I rewatched Where The Wild Things Are. This update on a children's classic combined deep symbolism and its fascinating visual style to create the equivalent of a graphic poem. Alice has its attractive aesthetics, crippled as they are, but is missing its lyrical core. I just wish Alice's fall down the rabbit hole was, ironically, deeper.

Final Verdict:
2 Stars Out of 5

Shutter Island Review

2010-02-24T00:05:00.002-05:00

Shutter Island:

Directed by Martin Scorsese

Released in 2010

For five decades now, Martin Scorsese has directed some of the finest films of all time. Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas, Casino, and The Departed are his most notable accomplishments, and his influence has affected filmmaking worldwide. Now, in 2010, Scorsese has released his latest triumph, but any evidence of his signature style is nearly stripped. Shutter Island is a psychological thriller in the vain of The Shining or Memento and even has traces of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and Mulholland Drive. The result is a captivating film that will not appeal to the universal audiences Scorsese usually receives but stands as one of his most unique and ambitious accomplishments yet.

Based off the novel of the same name by Dennis Lehane (who has had a lucky streak in Hollywood with this, Gone Baby Gone and Mystic River all getting the silver screen treatment), Shutter Island follows a winding narrative structure that does not resolve until the eye-opening conclusion. The beginning synopsis is not that complicated, however: Teddy Daniels (DiCaprio) is a federal marshal joined by his new partner Chuck (Mark Ruffalo) to investigate the disappearance of an inmate at the ominous Shutter Island, a house for the "criminally insane." Located 11 miles into the Boston harbor, the island is overseen by Dr. Cawley, a composed yet freaky Ben Kingsley. He believes that the patients can be cured through attention and a healthy environment rather than heavy doses of drugs. However, Teddy sees through the smokescreen and suspects something else is up. A doctor with possible ties to the Nazis, played by Max von Sydow of The Exorcist fame, and a downright creepy warden, given that aura by Ted "Buffalo Bill" Levine, set Teddy off to uncover the truth. Telling much more about the story would venture into spoiler territory but, rest assured, this is a film you will want to see twice.

Set in 1954, the film quickly becomes a psychological-centered tale once Teddy's mind serves as the stage for much of the action. Teddy is prone to migraines and sea-sickness, and usually recalls his experience as a concentration camp liberator in World War II when he is impaired by these ailments. Disturbing flashbacks of heaps of dead bodies, as well as fresh Nazi corpses, haunt his memories. The increasingly hostile weather on the island serves as a huge obstacle on top of this and the gap between reality and imagination unpredictably widens. The scene atop the cliff is particularly memorable for both serving as a branch in the story as well as a showcase for neat film techniques. Freeze frame images and brisk editing give these scenes a nightmarish quality, a technique more akin to Stanley Kubrick than anything Scorsese has done yet. Even if you are familiar with Scorsese's work, his name will probably not come to mind if you view this film without any knowledge of the forces behind it.

Nonetheless, the directing is the force behind perhaps the legendary director's most distinctive work yet. While not a horror film in the sense of Kubrick's Shining, the unnerving atmosphere and grim images certainly cast a tense aura over the entire story. Marty, to my surprise and petty disappointment, does not include any long, tracking shots a la Goodfellas, a technique that was popularized in Kubrick's aforementioned film 30 years ago. He showed his unparalleled mastery at this form in the classic mobster film, and considering those shots naturally draw suspense, an incorporation of the tracking shot into Shutter Island could have been both a nostalgic homage but, more importantly, the making of a classic thriller scene. Alas, this qualm is very minimal as it only applies to idiosyncratic movie buffs like myself, and the directing overall is stellar. Scorsese has always been able to delve deep into the soul of his characters, forming a personal connection between the viewer and the protagonist. He uses this to his advantage here, but also relies on the provocation of the senses to connect to the viewer. Some excellent sound design accompanies the most harrowing scenes, and, to contrast, beautiful picks by Gustav Mahler and Lou Harrison plant the film in its time during the seemingly "normal" sections. The haunting main theme by Polish composer Krzysztof Penderecki, who, ironically, composed the iconic soundtrack for The Shining, guarantees that the final scene will stick in your head for some time.

The acting is excellent overall, though Leo's performance is getting the most attention. In the beginning he speaks in his imperfect Boston accent, but thankfully his dialect does not remain the focus; his true acting ability does instead. I cannot think of any role that was more complex or nuanced than this one, even including The Aviator, and it may be safe to say that this is his finest achievement yet. He grows convincingly frustrated at the stalemate of an investigation he is presented with, and conveys true loss when needed. Leo is almost never off the screen and, even those who usually dislike his work, will find his presence welcome. Meanwhile, Ben Kingsley does what he does best and chews up the scenery. However, this time around it is more urbane than some of his recent work and he is a menacing delight to behold. One line he speaks (and you will know what is upon hearing it) shocks you like cold water but, you have to admit, you love it. John Carroll Lynch, the lovable husband in Fargo but also the suspected serial killer in Zodiac, is the Deputy Warden and convincing as an arrogant authority figure who does not need much more than his word to get work done. He finds himself, funnily enough, in the middle of those two memorable roles, for this film here. Watchmen's Rorschach, Jackie Earle Haley, shows his intimidating mug for a tense scene that starts shining a light on the whole story. Finally, Michelle Williams, the talented young actress, plays Teddy's wife in many of the flashbacks and hallucinations. She is excellent as the diaphanous figure of a spouse, especially once the difference between those two types of scenes becomes muddled. All the performances together are superb, though Leo's will be the only one that will be particularly remembered.

If there was one problem I had with Shutter Island more than anything, however, it was its marketing campaign. Simply put, the trailers give away a little too much, as the conflict is not established until a considerable amount of time in. This is not the filmmaker's fault, and the delayed release schedule is most likely to blame. The marketing team had to saturate the public with an amount of revealing promos to draw attention, after all. Nevertheless, this con is separate from the film's quality itself. Shutter Island is, like its setting, insular in Scorsese's catalog. He has not done a thriller of this type or caliber before, and, while it still is a strange offering from the master of high-class, yet accessible films, it is a first-rate offering. The story takes you on a ride that dives, loops and corkscrews until the final scene. Your heart races and you need to catch your breath. But, like any great roller coaster, you cannot wait to get on it again.

Final Verdict:
4.5 Stars Out of 5