Mass Effect 3 Review

Mass Effect 3
Developed by BioWare
Released in 2012

The Mass Effect series is, so far, the only body of video game fiction worthy to join the heavies in film, television and literature like Star Wars, Lost and Harry Potter. The rich universe of characters, locations, conflicts, phenomena and funny names created by Canadian developer BioWare not only stirs a rabid fanbase but also mines a vein of franchise dollars on a scale unseen before in role-playing games. All tales must end, and Mass Effect 3 concludes the trilogy just like those aforementioned series: with nostalgic nods to its revered canon, inspiring additions and a handful of questionable decisions.

Despite what EA Games' marketing team may be preaching, Mass Effect 3 is made for the fans. Who starts with Return of the Jedi, after all? As hero Commander Shepard, you run into basically every key and bit character of the trilogy (well over 50) as you prepare to battle the gargantuan threat of the Reapers, an ancient alien race that wipes the universe of all sentient life every 50,000 years. Since you can import your save file from the second game — which, in turn, could have been imported from the first — the choices you made way back in 2007 decide who is alive to fight by your side.

The word "choice" rules most discussions of Mass Effect. Once again, choices you make shape your character into a good — “paragon” — or bad — “renegade” — character, though saving the galaxy is the common goal at both ends. The variable is more how you get there: unite the quarreling races or save only those already on your side? (Hint: the latter approach is most unwise.)

Guiding your Shepard’s morality takes place in the abundant cinematic dialogue the series is famous for. Not much has changed in aesthetic since the first game, but I am once again astonished how they record over 40,000 lines of dialogue and attach them to convincing, animated characters in proper lip-sync. The voice cast includes such actors as Martin Sheen, Seth Green, Keith David and Yvonne Strahovski. It speaks to the respect BioWare has accrued that these acclaimed talents bring their all to this medium.

BioWare fills the Milky Way with species ranging from beautiful humanoids to sentient Portuguese Man o’ Wars. There are the brilliant, if neurotic, amphibious Salarians and the brutish, reptilian Krogans. Ignore that all these disparate organisms evolved with roughly equal intelligence and have spoken modern English for millennia (shh, ignore it). Shepard has to find a way to band together the warring factions and recruit the isolated ones to unite against the greater threat. In my playthrough, Shepard solved not one but two Israel/Palestine analogous conflicts; one race involved, the Quarians, carry an unmistakable Middle Eastern accent. Earthly ties can be drawn between all events, if on a macro scale. It is a post-human society where contemporary quibbles over evolution — “the cosmic imperative,” a wise, African-inspired race calls it — and homosexuality — pilot Steve Cortez recalls his dead husband with no camp or novel subtext — are relics of the past.

But your time with Mass Effect 3 will not rest solely on futurist political theory and interspecies sociology. At its core, the game is a cover-based shooter a la Gears of War. Action still does not flow as smoothly as said game, and both schools and monasteries possess invincible architecture primed for war. However, there is a broader cornucopia of choice on how each battle is played. Dozens of pistols, shotguns, snipers and machine guns flesh out the arsenal, and new modifications can be purchased to strengthen your stopping power. Biotic and tech powers, including a repackaged Force push, are now easier to complement conventional weapons, leading to varied battlefield encounters encouraging experimentation.

There are only 15 or so hours of required missions, but to see all the content — and achieve the “best” ending — 30 to 40 hours will accumulate. One central mission culminates with directing airstrikes on and dodging the death rays of a giant Reaper, the design of which resembles Halo’s Covenant ships and H.G. Wells’ alien forces. Another smaller assignment has you defusing a bomb that could decimate a planet, ending with a scene of thrilling cinematography and moving sacrifice. There was only one mission I actively disliked, involving a digital Shepard recovering important files; basically, a virtual reality CCleaner. Regardless, most missions reintroduce familiar faces from past titles and carry enough thrills to induce involuntary gamer vegetation, or bliss, as we prefer it to be called.

Between missions you roam the Normandy SR-2, your sleek vessel capable of faster-than-light speeds, and talk to your squadmates about the mission ahead. The different perspectives of your varied crew lead to enlightening discussions on the toils of war. However, if playing the good guy as I did, it usually boils down to Shepard reassuring those worried that cooperation is the key to victory and, when Shepard laments all those dead, a pal like series steady Garrus reminding that sacrifice is the other key. War is bad, that is for sure. The game even opens with you watching a little boy crash as his ship fails to escape a smoldering Earth. For a triple-A blockbuster title of the sort, there is legitimate contemplation on the price of war, even if the theme’s execution leans more Independence Day than The Battle of Algiers.

Love is still on the plate, of course, and virtual romance is still as incendiary as it has never been. I favor overhearing crewmembers hit on each other and the awkward results that follow, or the exchange of dirty jokes between a meathead soldier and a 50,000-year-old warrior (“Now the joke’s on you, human, hehe”).

To guarantee the “best” ending, assisting different races to find traitors or artifacts boosts their morale and, alas, readiness. Your in-game journal does not register progress on these tasks, so these preparations for war just become what they really are: cumbersome chores. Thankfully the Citadel, an ancient space metropolis, is a triumph of artistic direction, so running across a beautiful plaza to deliver the third missing war bible right after taking down a mile-high Reaper is not that much of a buzzkill.

Playing multiplayer is also necessary to gain access to the “best” (again, the quotes) ending by some inexplicable logic of ratios and “effective military strength” EA threw in. Thankfully, the online co-op is surprisingly fun, structured like Horde mode from Gears, with waves of enemies to defeat and simple objectives to complete. I cannot picture myself playing it weeks down the line, but it is a worthwhile diversion from the main campaign.

And then it ends. The ending already lives in infamy, with thousands signing protests against it. I find this widespread devotion to story inspiring, signaling how great writing is now expected of great games. The final moments do not take into account the whole arc of your journey and enter some serious Lost territory that will frustrate some, or many. I do not personally loathe it so for it still successfully wrings emotion, a tough feat in video games, and there is a convincing justification making the Internet rounds (look up: Indoctrination Theory). The real issue is that, after bonding together the entire galaxy to fight the Reapers, there is little proof of collaboration in the final battle. I would have appreciated some help from the bloodthirsty Krogans I befriended after dying for the ninth time battling endless screeching Reapers.

The first Mass Effect received a fair share of ridicule for its loading screens disguised as the slowest elevators in the universe, inching up as you and your squad just awkwardly stood there. There is a not so subtle nod to that ignominy in Mass Effect 3 as you blast off on top of a high-speed elevator to apprehend an assassin. BioWare has brought this series to remarkable heights over five years, aware of its weaknesses and ever eager to improve. While the third may hold its own flaws, it closes the greatest modern video game franchise with style and heart. I finished the game and was struck by that unique depression that also accompanied the finales of Lost and Harry Potter. Now what? I guess I’ll play them all again.

Final Verdict:

4.5 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 History of Violence

Courtesy of Santi Slade

"Familiarity breeds contempt,” the saying goes. Anyone familiar with the current events of the world should harbor a little contempt at the way things are running. On one side, GOP contender Rick Santorum spews outdated drivel demeaning women, gays and all other minorities. Far more flagrant is the state-sanctioned massacre of civilians over in Syria. Videos from journalists — two of which were killed last week while covering the clash — and everyday citizens expose nauseating bloodshed that has spared no one; a clip went viral earlier this month that depicted a dismembered teen’s last moments. This continues on, with no end in sight.

But, hey, we love violence. A small contingent applauded Rick Perry’s boast that, last year, his state of Texas put to death more criminals than any other. A much larger majority cheered the death of Osama bin Laden. I will not lie to say I was not one of them. But, as a key passage from the Bible, Matthew 5:44, attests, “Love your enemies,” a principle so noble in theory because it is so difficult in practice.

Consider how many synonyms in the English language can substitute for “kill”: murder, slay, waste, snuff, whack, hit, ice … to take care of, to do away with, to make sleep with the fishes. How many different ways can we describe a field of flowers, or the connection with a loved one? Words appear futile in those circumstances. We have all, at least, seen glimpses of the best in life. Millions of songs have been written about how impossible it is to describe, the ineffability of beauty. Most of them are so bad they make us value this struggle even more.

Victims of rape assure the cozy masses that the extent of abuse similarly defies words. With a glazed stare, PTSD war veterans contend that taking life, for the noblest of causes, still rattles the soul. Hostile rhetoric can prove far more dangerous, for it indoctrinates subjects in intolerance, pushing objective detachment to subjective hatred. The images of war and the words leading to it remain ugly. Violence is the antithesis of beauty.

History tells us violence has forever been the answer instead of, to quote Elvis Costello, “peace, love and understanding.” It is easier, requires less thinking and compensates for the impotence of a long line of male leaders. “Kill, kill, kill!” we yell to this day. Demonize the enemy, for they could surely not be anything like us.

The haunting quote from Jean Renoir’s 1939 film, The Rules of the Game, takes the just, if taboo, both then and now, approach to our history of violence: “The awful thing about life is this: Everybody has their reasons.” There is a side to every story, with emotions and values that lie not in black or white, but the grey in between. Familiarity breeds not contempt but identification, knowledge of another’s affairs that sit not far from our own.

Art uncovers these truths and, today, cinema most of all. But now that Oscar season is over, I expect movie studios to once again focus on making money; that is, equate the lowest denominator as the entire audience. Sickly romantic comedies take a shot at cobbling together some immaculate depiction of true love while Michael Bay and Guy Ritchie wade in the unremitting tide of action blow-em-ups.

From post-Oscar February to pre-Oscar October, Hollywood attempts to ignore its unequaled ability to contemplate topics like peace and morality, values long stripped from Congress. Some films like Harry Potter, Super 8 and Planet of the Apes slip through the cracks, yet not even they, the sole breadwinners in the business, occupy the ballot for Oscar night. Why does intelligent fare have to be relegated to a narrow three-month window, and at the metropolitan poles of our two coasts, no less? For the rest of the year, sex is love and blood is war.

The best of cinema ponders themes greater than its own plot or mechanics. Iran’s A Separation, winner of the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar and my Best Film of 2011, period, studies a simple but powerful domestic dispute. Through its performances, subplots, editing and direction, the film upends the hostile image of the country and its people many of us have as well as any notion of infallible law. No side of the conflict, between a recently divorced husband and sickly, pious woman, acted worthy of condemnation independent of one another. Innocuous events escalated until a mutual split in morality cast one vehemently against the other.

It is a fascinating, brilliant film that explores the simple violence in language and conduct, and how uncontested it would stand at each home base. Like the smallpox explorers greeted Native Americans with, the origins of strife are invisible to one another.

I criticized last year’s Drive, a film I otherwise greatly admired, for serving its brutal, almost beautiful carnage with no footnotes. Director Nicolas Winding Refn framed the slitting of wrists and stomping of skulls with chill sterility and detachment. It disturbed me not for the bloody images but for its refusal for empathy. It took a Camus approach to violence, detached and detailed, not unlike the testimony of the BTK Killer or Ted Bundy.

That approach works for some, but I carry an agenda with the greatest of films. “Why?” I want the film to ask. Violence is all around us, but it is born of mass ignorance and petty greed. Diplomacy seems impossible for a man raised to pull the trigger. If this is such a wonderful world, there should be nothing funny about peace, love and understanding. The Coen Brothers capture this complex perfectly in Fargo, after policewoman Marge apprehends four-time murderer Gaear. “And for what?” she asks. “For a little bit of money. There’s more to life than a little money, you know … And here you are, and it’s a beautiful day.”


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

The Grey Review

The Grey

Directed by Joe Carnahan

Released in 2012

In my minutely-partitioned movie collection, there is a little section I like to call “old men kicking ass.” The subgenre hit its peak in 2008 when Hollywood realized the youth demographic revered the aging action stars from the 70’s and 80’s  (Chuck Norris jokes may be somewhat responsible). We saw Clint Eastwood and Michael Caine pulverize punks in Gran Torino and Harry Brown, and Sylvester Stallone slurred at anything that moved in reboots to the Rocky and Rambo franchises, not to mention regrouping the Rogaine collective in The Expendables.

Guilt by proximity places the Liam Neeson of Taken in this category as well, as a 56-year-old clearing a yacht full of machinegun-wielding thugs using only a pistol and no apparent shortness of breath strikes us as rather exceptional. Neeson may be a few years under the median of the rest of these gentlemen, but his association in the badass elder enclave stands strong.

When I buy Mr. Neeson’s latest film The Grey — which I will do considering it is, itself, rather exceptional — I will not place it besides these vigilante senior pictures. This film has something profound to say, not (wolf) skulls to crush, though the aggressive marketing campaign insists on the latter. The Grey creeps into heavy philosophical territory without pretension but with the innate terror — and, conversely, Zen — these situations carry. For me, that trumps any mindless action rehash, even with the novelty of an old man holding the gun.

Ottway (Neeson) is at the end of the line. He addresses ambiguous notes to his unseen wife and finds himself pulling a gun to his brain in the plot’s first five minutes. Symbolic events ensue and he ends up on an airplane with a crew of oil drillers headed to Northern Alaska. They do not make it there. In a stunning scene, the plane rips from the sky in a whirling blur of chaos, silence and light. Seven survivors plus one dying one make it through the crash. That man’s death — which Ottway softly eases him into — throws the film as far away from the hyper pulp of Taken as possible, if the initial suicide attempt did not already come to that conclusion.

The terrible plane crash actually brings Ottway back to life. Not to the extremes of Locke’s reaffirming rebirth in Lost, but more a solemn commitment to save those still with him. His official job in the oil operation is to snipe encroaching wolves, so he knows a few tricks to sustain survival. Unsurprisingly, the crash reduced his rifle to splinters so the circling wolves indisputably have the upper hand.

These savage canines — whose depiction conservationists call deceptive while Joe Carnahan, the director, defends as plausible — pick off the survivors one-by-one, with different tactics each time. The realism of the wolves’ stalking, strategizing, bloodletting may be questionable, but I have seen enough Planet Earth to know that nature is cruel, and it would not surprise me if apex predators, evolved to dominate in the harshest of climates, could wipe out our truly weak species.

Carnahan takes cues from Spielberg by keeping the wolves off-screen for the most part. Relegating the animals to blurs of grey fur and echoing howls creates creatures far more terrifying than what Canis lupis truly are: a few nucleotides away from Air Bud. Jaws set the precedent for the unseen, and thus omnipresent, monster (actually due to malfunctions on-set that Spielberg took in stride). These wolves could be anywhere, but are always in mind.

But enough about these damn wolves, sharks and boogeymen, for the story cares little about them. Instead, it thrusts men into the most primal of scenarios, where it is not only necessary to kill, but almost impossible to do so. This crew of ex-cons, fugitives and thieves — “men unfit for mankind,” as Ottway describes, though others might just call them “manly men” — falls victim to the elements with shocking passivity. Diaz, played by Frank Grillo and by far the most captivating of the supporting characters, brutally dismembers a wolf carcass as the rest of the survivors watch in concern. It is not a look of disgust as much as fear that this loss of humanity lurks around the corner for them, as well.

Dread as bleak as Alaska’s whiteout tundra permeates every scene of this film, though spiritual catharsis joins in tandem for a few provocative moments. Prayer is both futile and vital. Under such duress, most would turn to a higher power for aid, but what can He do? Screenwriters Carnahan and Ian Mackenzie Jeffers play the middle ground, leaving the message fulfilling to those with and without faith. Distributor Open Road Films actually released a companion pamphlet aimed at Christian audiences, saying The Grey “provides men with an opportunity to discover the many ways in which they can better face a life in which spiritual warfare – the battle for our individual souls – is a hard reality.” Perhaps pushing the card a bit, but the poetic last scene will leave it up to any interpretation.

There is one scene that will sear into your conscience. A character gives up, but not in the way you would expect. Carnahan stages an incredibly long shot, proving great courage on his own part (he directed the bombastically mediocre A-Team reboot after all) and balances terror and serenity with minimalist precision.

The solid cast of I’ve-seen-that-face-before character actors and the script’s decency to give us a decent look into their humble lives brings a complete, circular structure to the plot and themes. It is a heavy movie for the multiplex, especially considering many are expecting Taken 3 (2011’s Unknown was the spiritual sequel) and do not anticipate a Jack London-esque contemplation on nature, death and faith, in all the agony and peace and yin and yang that they carry.

This strife serves as the perfect vehicle for the film’s titan, Liam Neeson. His rugged but mortal face completely fills the poster. It is a handsome face, well-suited for close-ups, not unlike the symbolic tarmacs of Clint Eastwood or Dustin Hoffman. His presence guarantees quality regardless if the rest is camp or craft. He dominates the screen. How could wolves think they stand a chance?

Final Verdict:

4 Stars out of 5




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

Oh, God.

Not terribly long ago, questioning your faith led to a pile of smoldering kindle for a slow, grisly death. Now, it only divides families and inspires death threats from a vocal minority. How far we have come.

I do not speak in jest, for I truly find this a welcome shift, from global persecution to domestic quarrels. The United States prides itself with its freedom of religion, which, to the dismay of many, includes the absence of it. Of course, there still lies the debate over evolution in schools (le sigh) and the daily impasse that politicians back with Biblical verses. 

But that belongs in another conversation entirely. When I need answers to the unanswerable, I turn to the greats before me who wrestled these intellectual behemoths. Paine, Marx, Mencken, the late Hitchens — who often compared Abrahamic faith to living in a “celestial North Korea.” What they all said in their literature and — in the latter’s case — numerous filmed exchanges stirs the pot, no question.

For me, I go a step further. I find god in the movies. Of all people, Tim Burton captured a brilliant allegory in his whimsical, underrated masterwork, Big Fish. A son parses through his father’s autobiographical tall tales to reach the truth in what he feels were narcissistic delusions. Burton juxtaposes these fantastical flashbacks with the present day ruins of the past.

The town of Spectre, a Southern gothic version of the lotus-eating colony in The Odyssey, existed, but without all the fairy dust. His giant cannibal buddy was only abnormally tall. The Siamese twin entertainers he befriended in North Korea were only sororal twins. Burton examines Biblical myths (the Great Flood, for instance) and pagan lore to settle that, while lacking in veracity, these stories provide morals and comfort. The Book of Mormon took up the oft-ridiculed LDS faith with the same innocuous charge.

Last year’s controversial The Tree of Life started at the dawn of time, asking how this — all of this — came to be. Director Terence Malick — a Rhodes scholar who taught philosophy at MIT — anthropomorphizes images of nebulas and supernovae with a human presence. Fast-forward to life on Earth, where the swaying kelp on coral almost possesses a human face. Christians praised Malick’s work as an enlightening depiction of God’s grace. The film beautifully contemplates the miracle of life. Yet Malick does not take much stake in the masculine “God the Father” of Michelangelo, but sees rather a pantheistic, animist form that is all.

Then there is the most powerful film of all time, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. Kubrick held no concrete belief on religion (and neither really do Burton or Malick). But, with all the film’s attention to science and technology, Kubrick has conceded that, “on the deepest psychological level, the film's plot symbolizes the search for god, and it finally postulates what is little less than a scientific definition of god.”

An evolutionary monolith, kaleidoscopic wormhole and neoclassical bedroom are the tools of this god. This higher power may just be a superior alien species, but, in all of scripture, what much more is a god than that? These (unseen) extraterrestrials ultimately transform the fearless astronaut into one of their own, a being above man.

The key here is that the one who dared into uncharted territory became the most powerful. The scientist would say knowledge breeds power. The priest would argue finding god derives it. At the core of the two sides, where is the difference? You can move towards science and away from faith-based immortality, yet still find yourself contemplating the meaning of infinity. Now if only we had the time on this earth to see it to an end.

Do question what you believe. It is whether you accept or reject such beliefs after such metacognition that holds them to be true. Your philosophy holds true to you, and, in this case, absolutely no one else matters.

But, if I may, share one last thought. Religion, in a fundamental sense, was created — or found, whatever the outlook — to cope with the depressing inevitability of death. Death and taxes, the only sure things in life.

I seek to live and see, like the characters of Burton, Malick and Kubrick, learning the whole time and basing opinions on facts, not the other way around.  There is simply too much already here to be concerned about what is … there. For when you go, you may reach your maker who will commend you for using the potential of the brain and universe he made for you. Or, if there is nothing after it all, there is literally no time at all to decry it, for it is nothing. And, for that moment, all the Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Scientologists, Satanists, Pastafarians, agnostics, atheists, Joe Pesci-ites and otherwise will all be on — no, excuse me, under — the same playing field for once. 




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

The Artist Review

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 first 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 swinging score by Ludovic Bource are what we see and hear. Thankfully Hazanavicius 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. We usually feel quite awkward when the coughs of the audience or yells from the exterior hallway’s Icee-fueled children echo during those 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. If anything, these seconds 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 their relationship that propels 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 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

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

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