Film Freak Central

Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs (2009)

*/****
screenplay by Michael Berg, Peter Ackerman, Yoni Brenner
directed by Carlos Saldanha

by Walter Chaw It's not entirely accurate to say that I've hated the Ice Age movies. They're not, after all, the Land Before Time series, the post-classic Disney output just prior to the Pixar revolution, or, heaven forefend, the Shrek trilogy. No, better to say that the Ice Age franchise is at worst merely the quintessence of inconsequence: they're films so bereft of wit and vigour that their biggest crime isn't the constant shit and hit routines, nor the predictable parade of unearned sentimentality, but rather that they're as inert as the right side of the Periodic Table. The message in Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs (hereafter Ice Age 3)--that no matter what our heroes look like on the outside (two mammoths, two opossums, a giant sloth, a sabre-toothed tiger), on the inside, they're members of one tribe--is the same as in the first two instalments, and by this time, its constant mantric recitation begins to take on the air of unaware self-parody. Of course, despite its incessant championing of a non-traditional family unit, like Shrek, it still has a mammoth (Manny (voiced by Ray Romano)) marry a mammoth (Ellie (Queen Latifah)), leaving cross-species miscegenation, unlike the otherwise execrable Madagascar sequel, to the actors voicing them. What I wouldn't give for the same premise in live-action with Romano married to Latifah, the latter morbidly knocked-up and royally pissed-off.

Public Enemies (2009)

**/****
starring Johnny Depp, Christian Bale, Marion Cotillard, Billy Crudup
screenplay by Ronan Bennett and Michael Mann & Ann Biderman
directed by Michael Mann

by Walter Chaw It's possible that Johnny Depp in a zoot suit, firing a Tommy gun from the running board of a vintage Ford, is so distractingly perfect an image that all other considerations are shunted to the soft shoulder--possible for the audience to only realize afterwards that there was nothing much of substance revealed about John Dillinger in Michael Mann's gorgeous Public Enemies. (Possible for Mann, too, who in the process of creating another of his odes to masculinity and bloodshed, accidentally crafted this pedestal upon which to worship the cult of iconic stardom.) Maybe no accident at all, as the movie closest to this one is Terrence Malick's Badlands--right down to a scene amongst law-enforcement officials in which our Johnny is treated like a Hollywood demiurge of a street-thug bank robber. And if Mann is trying to craft a film along similarly fetishistic, Americana-informed lines, then the media is the massage as they say. Aside from that, somewhere down the road from today, we may look back and wonder about the sudden proliferation late in this decade of films centred on Robin Hoods literal and allegorical, robbing from a broken system of fiscal governance to give to (or, at least, not directly take from) the common guy. From our current vantage, though, what we see is the biggest movie star on the planet playing the most famous and admired "public enemy" of the outlaw era, 1931-1935 edition. While there are intimations now and again of darker contextual rumblings, they don't feel convicted; and in the end, there's left just a collection of beautiful pictures as inert as a coffee-table book.

Passengers (2008) - Blu-ray Disc

*/**** Image B Sound B Extras B-
starring Anne Hathaway, Patrick Wilson, David Morse, Dianne Wiest
screenplay by Ronnie Christensen
directed by Rodrigo Garcia

by Bryant Frazer Even if you haven't read the jacket promo copy, you'll suspect Passengers is up to some kind of supernatural wish-fulfillment from its first few minutes, as a slumbering Anne Hathaway is awakened on a rainy night by a phone call from a colleague who tells her something terrible has happened requiring her presence at a nearby hospital. It's not just that Hathaway plays Dr. Claire Summers, a therapist charged with helping a group of plane-crash survivors cope with their near-death experiences and the accompanying trauma--it's that the chilly, insistently otherworldly production design strongly implies something strange (but comforting, very comforting) is going on, too. Early hints that Claire's flirty, devil-may-care patient, Eric Clark (Patrick Wilson), has gained psychic powers, or that the other survivors are being eliminated, one by one, by a nefarious airline bent on protecting shareholder value, turn out to be red herrings as Passengers works its way to a hoary final-reel revelation that would have felt tired a decade ago.

Spaceballs (1987) [Collector's Edition] - DVD|Blu-ray Disc

**/****
DVD - Image A- Sound A- Extras B+
BD - Image A- Sound A Extras B+
starring Mel Brooks, John Candy, Rick Moranis, Bill Pullman
screenplay by Mel Brooks & Thomas Meehan & Ronny Graham
directed by Mel Brooks

by Bill Chambers Neither the audacity of Mel Brooks's perpetually relevant Blazing Saddles nor the movie-love that manifested itself in his uncanny genre parodies Young Frankenstein and High Anxiety inhabit Brooks's Spaceballs, a spoof tailored to the undiscriminating palate of preteens and people who can't resist a joke at the expense of Star Wars hobbyists. It is, in other words, Brooks's very own Return of the Jedi, and although it's being reissued in a Collector's Edition DVD to capitalize on the release of Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith, it's not really in a position to take the piss out of the new Star Wars trilogy. In fact, the most interesting thing about Spaceballs circa 2005 is that what was once spectacularly stale--by the time it came out, the first wave of Star Wars mania had passed--now elicits nostalgia for a Star Wars saga that was so classical and (visually / narratively / allegorically) uncluttered as to lend itself to burlesque. Because nothing in the current "episodes" has a prayer of becoming an institution, a contemporary Spaceballs would just be a succession of insults--you can't mock Jar Jar Binks with any affection.

Roxanne (1987) - Blu-ray Disc

*½/**** Image A- Sound A-
starring Steve Martin, Daryl Hannah, Shelley Duvall, Rick Rossovich
screenplay by Steve Martin, based on the play "Cyrano de Bergerac" by Edmond Rostand
directed by Fred Schepisi

by Walter Chaw After The Devil's Playground and The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith--both appearing in the middle of the Australian New Wave--the conventional wisdom was that Fred Schepisi was someone to watch. Then Hollywood called and he did what fellow 'wavers Peter Weir and Phillip Noyce did, punching the timecard on shit like Patriot Games, Sliver, and Dead Poets Society. A re-telling of "Cyrano de Bergerac", Edmund Rostand's play about a proboscis-challenged swordsman armed with the Blarney (in spades), Schepisi's noxious Roxanne stars a downhill-sliding Steve Martin and a Daryl Hannah who didn't yet know that Blade Runner and Splash would be the only things anyone would know her for until a career resurrection of sorts some fifteen years later with Kill Bill. I used to love this film. Time has been unkind.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (2009)

ZERO STARS/****
starring Shia LaBeouf, Megan Fox, Josh Duhamel, John Turturro
screenplay by Ehren Kruger & Roberto Orci & Alex Kurtzman
directed by Michael Bay

by Walter Chaw The worst summer in recent memory continues as Michael Bay brings his slow push-ins and Lazy Susan dolly shots back to the cineplex with Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (hereafter Transformers 2), the ugliest, most hateful, most simple-minded and incomprehensible assault on art and decency since the last Michael Bay movie. It's bad (that goes without saying), and it's possible that even its fans will have the brute sense to recognize that it's bad--but it's bad in such a way that defies easy description. It's so bad, it's exasperating. The action, as you'd expect, is impossible to follow, with long stretches cascading in on one another without the slightest notion of who's winning, where, and to what end. But that's not why it's bad. It suggests that the evil robots have perfected Terminator technology in the manufacture of a gorgeous slut-bot (Isabel Lucas), who, before trying to kill the returning Sam (Shia LaBeouf) with her go-go-gadget tongue, is humiliated by having heroic Autobot Bumblebee money-shot robot semen all over her face. But that's not why it's bad, either. Ridiculously poor filmmaking and Bay's wearying misogyny aren't "bad," per se, so much as they're the tools of his auteur canon, of his absolute gold-standard grasp of what it is that prepubescent boys are into and his desire to, as fast as he can, create undercover hardcore porn to gratify those desires. What else to make of the weird girl issues--the entire co-ed Michael Bay U campus populated with hot bimbo chattel, Bay's camera leering obligingly? It's tough to make someone feel sorry for Megan Fox, yet the extent to which she's objectified in this flick has you looking for track marks, smeared mascara, and other evidence of bus-stop porn-star exploitation.

Taken (2008) [2-Disc Extended Cut] - Blu-ray Disc

***/**** Image A- Sound A Extras B
starring Liam Neeson, Maggie Grace, Leland Orser, Famke Janssen
screenplay by Luc Besson & Robert Mark Kamen
directed by Pierre Morel

by Ian Pugh Director Pierre Morel's last film was that cookie-cutter nonsense District B13, while co-writers Luc Besson and Robert Mark Kamen have in recent times mainly presided over the Transporter series. So what surprises most about the trio's Taken is that, given its pedigree of orgiastic excess, every single one of its attributes is delivered in quantities that are just enough. All of its action sequences are just tightly edited enough to be exciting without becoming hyperactive; all of its characters are just developed enough to warrant analysis without interfering with the thrills; and its screaming misanthropy is just equal-opportunity enough to not feel like xenophobia. There's certainly a pathetic loneliness to ex-Black Ops agent Bryan Mills (Liam Neeson), still taking ersatz family photos with a disposable camera and struggling to direct the attention of his teenaged daughter Kim (25-year-old Maggie Grace, in a borderline grotesque woman-child performance) away from the rich asshole (Xander Berkeley) now married to his ex-wife (Famke Janssen). But when Kim is kidnapped by sex traffickers in Paris, it's a chance to utilize his training and indulge in wish-fulfillment of the most literal variety. Blowing past government procedure and busting up prostitution rings run by the upper class, Bryan's search eventually culminates in a violent showdown with a Middle Eastern sheikh.

Year One (2009)

½/****
starring Jack Black, Michael Cera, Oliver Platt, Hank Azaria
screenplay by Harold Ramis & Gene Stupnitsky & Lee Eisenberg
directed by Harold Ramis

by Ian Pugh Maintaining relevance is a bitch, ain't it? Just ask Harold Ramis. His sequel Analyze That marked the point at which Robert De Niro lost his self-parody cred; seven decades' worth of film noir had beaten him to the punch at everything he had to say in The Ice Harvest; and the ball is only now starting to roll on that third Ghostbusters movie that's been unwarranted for the better part of fifteen years besides. But, having found a friend in Judd Apatow, Ramis finally has the means of making a movie for the here and now and gathering together an ensemble cast composed of all those funny guys the kids seem to like these days. Unfortunately, with cinematic trends as fickle as they are, most of these ultra-popular comedians already passed their expiration dates a minimum of two years ago--and, to the surprise of absolutely no one, Year One ends up being another rotten egg in what is thus far the weakest summer for movies in recent memory. As cavemen, Jack Black is still the wild-eyed idiot and Michael Cera still the stuttering virgin; Forrest Gump'ing their way through the Old Testament, they cross paths with Cain (David Cross) and Abel (Paul Rudd) as well as that other famous pair, Abraham (Hank Azaria) and Isaac (Christopher Mintz-Plasse, reprising McLovin as anticipated). Rest assured that, if the film really wanted to jump around the Book of Genesis, it probably would have featured Jonah Hill as Esau and Will Ferrell as Jacob, doing whatever it is they do anymore without deviating from what you know about them. You pays your money and gets what you expects, and that's precisely what's so deadly about Year One.

Easy Virtue (2008)

***½/****
starring Jessica Biel, Colin Firth, Kristin Scott Thomas, Ben Barnes
screenplay by Stephan Elliott & Sheridan Jobbins, based on the play by Noël Coward
directed by Stephan Elliott

by Walter Chaw At first glance, it would seem that Stephan Elliott's pictures follow no conventional line. Start with 1993's Frauds, starring Hugo Weaving and (yes, that) Phil Collins, then proceed to Elliott's landmark The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Then it's on to that film's tonal antidote (think an Outback Woman in the Dunes with Rogers & Hammerstein interludes), Welcome to Woop Woop; a Hollywood sojourn (the criminally-underestimated serial killer/FBI procedural Eye of the Beholder); and finally, one near-fatal ski accident later, an oddly appropriate return to form in the Noël Coward adaptation Easy Virtue. These movies are almost Billy Wilder-ian in their variety--literally, in that Elliott seems above all keenly attuned to the comic opportunity--the Lubitsch, if you will--in relational dynamics, but also in that he begins with something like a thriller, goes to camp, goes to camp thriller, returns to thriller, and now does something almost entirely genre-peculiar. It's a vertiginous enough trajectory that for the first half-hour of Easy Virtue, I'd forgotten I was watching a Stephan Elliott film--that the fact that Elliott directed it was indeed the only reason I was interested in seeing Jessica Biel spar with Kristin Scott Thomas on a sprawling English estate in the 1920s.

Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991) [Extended Version] - Blu-ray Disc + Waterworld (1995) [2-Disc Extended Edition] - DVD

ROBIN HOOD: PRINCE OF THIEVES
½*/**** Image C Sound B Extras B
starring Kevin Costner, Morgan Freeman, Christian Slater, Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio
screenplay by Pen Densham & John Watson
directed by Kevin Reynolds

WATERWORLD
***/**** Image B Sound B
starring Kevin Costner, Dennis Hopper, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Tina Majorino
screenplay by Peter Rader and David Twohy
directed by Kevin Reynolds

by Walter Chaw In the "careful what you wish for" sweepstakes, here's Kevin Costner, fresh off an Oscar victory for his naïve idyll Dances with Wolves, spending his hard-won Hollywood currency indulging best buddy Kevin Reynolds in a trilogy of pictures (Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, Rapa Nui, Waterworld) he produced for the express purpose of giving Reynolds more than enough rope. If you're in the sport of charting the positively Greek decline of the late-'80s box-office king, mark 1991 as Exhibit A, as his sad attempt at an English accent for Robin of Loxley was notoriously overdubbed in post-production after being deemed the stuff of legend in initial cuts. Aside from providing schadenfreudians endless fodder, it was the first real evidence that the Golden Boy's tragic flaw was the belief that his charm was based on something other than Gary Cooper's mantle of Everybody's All-American Doofus.

Friday the 13th (2009) [Killer Cut - Digital Copy Special Edition] - Blu-ray Disc

*/**** Image C+ Sound A- Extras C
starring Jared Padalecki, Danielle Panabaker, Amanda Righetti, Travis van Winkle
screenplay by Damian Shannon & Mark Swift, based on characters created by Victor Miller
directed by Marcus Nispel

by Ian Pugh SPOILER WARNING IN EFFECT. It's both surprising and disappointing that, after ten Friday the 13^th films (or rather, ten Jason films), it took a crossover with Freddy Krueger to coax genuine pathos out of a hulking man-child who refused to die until he could sufficiently please Mommy. So it was to my great pleasure and delight that Marcus Nispel seemed poised to exploit that potential and separate it from its less savoury aspects. (He even starts things off with a pinch of disdain for the '80s nostalgia that brought this project to life, with the victims-to-be making weightless references to Blue Velvet and rocking out to Night Ranger.) Ironically enough, though, the remake reduces this worn-out scenario to something less complex. Using the bare essentials of the original film and its first sequel as backstory--a headless mother, oblivious campers in search of weed, and a backwoods monstrosity with a bag over his head--the amazing pre-title sequence implies that Jason Voorhees (Derek Mears) is most effective as a rumour whispered around the campfire, specifically designed to keep you awake at night. Might be heresy to say it, but in this opening salvo, Nispel's Jason promises to become a presence of terror equal to his immediate antecedent, John Carpenter's trend-setting Michael Myers. He's not an amorphous bogeyman ready to leap from the shadows, but a piece of teenage folklore that by all rights shouldn't exist, brought to murderous life by overactive imaginations.

Seattle International Film Festival '09: Hachiko: A Dog's Story

Hachi: A Dog's Tale
ZERO STARS/****
starring Richard Gere, Joan Allen, Sarah Roemer, Jason Alexander
screenplay by Stephen P. Lindsey
directed by Lasse Hallström

by Jefferson Robbins SPOILER WARNING IN EFFECT. It's better than Marley & Me, but so's a Tasering. At least the title alerts you up front to the presence of a dog in this Lasse Hallström movie--the latest Japanaptation, after Shall We Dance, to star serial sentimentalist Richard Gere. As a lifelong mutt owner, I'm unimpressed by stories of fierce canine loyalty and homing instinct. The dog hears your train coming and runs to meet you? That's because he knows you're gonna feed him, you ass. The dog that persists for a whole decade after you're dead, however, could be called obsessive and stupid, not loving and noble. But because it's a G-rated movie based on a Japanese film (Hachiko Monogatari) that was in turn "based on a true story," producer/star Gere demands that your throat tighten. (This even as Hallström shoots Hachiko's POV in an alienating low-angle Cujovision.) Our famous Buddhist reluctantly adopts a lost Akita pup at his commuter railway station, unaware that this particular hound was whelped and shipped direct from a Nippon monastery, fated to shadow him through his earthly turn on the karmic wheel and beyond. That's the judgment of Gere's wise Japanese co-worker (Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa), who doubles as his kanji interpreter and kendo partner. (Offscreen, he no doubt instructs his friend in the tea ceremony, shiatsu, and how to make those cool ninja smoke bombs.) The dog must be magic: it arrives in Gere's Northeastern hamlet of "Bedridge" (you're shitting me) while the Christmas lights are hanging, just in time for the 1996 World Series. This film does for continuity what my dogs do for my lawn, it doesn't care enough about its supporting characters to name them aloud, and it even misidentifies Hachiko's breed. Gere's music professor composes the kind of faux-Vivaldi piano twinkles (courtesy Jan A.P. Kaczmarek) that grace the soundtracks of...well, of Lasse Hallström films; his work is so crucial that he ignores loyal Hachi's warning to stay home on the day he's bound to die. Not that it would've helped--if he can't be saved upon collapsing in a crowded university lecture hall, what are the odds he'd ride out a stroke reading NEWSWEEK on his own crapper? Too bad Hachi's owner showed so little concern in kind, letting him wander for years, leashless and untagged, through the town's busiest streets. Hachiko is the perfect illustration of George Lucas's alleged rule of cinematic emotionalism: if you want your audience to cry, kill a cute animal. It's instructive, in light of Hachiko, to revisit Hallström's 1985 breakthrough My Life As A Dog. In each, a grown man engages in barking to get into his wife's knickers. Also? Both films suck, and Hallström hasn't improved one lick since the first dog he murdered to make us cry.

The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 (2009)

ZERO STARS/****
starring Denzel Washington, John Travolta, John Turturro, James Gandolfini
screenplay by Brian Helgeland, based on the novel by John Godey
directed by Tony Scott

by Walter Chaw It's amazing that a film that takes place on a metal tube in a dank tunnel should have no trace of come in it. Less amazing when one considers that it's Tony Scott at the helm of this redux--the same Tony Scott who arguably reached the zenith of his potential with his vampire-erotica cult debut The Hunger, whose best film is the result of a superior screenplay by Quentin Tarantino (True Romance), and whose main claim to fame may be that he's behind one of the most homoerotic sequences ever captured on film in his gay amusement park Top Gun. Scott's The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 (hereafter Pelham) is packed to the gills with meaningless, hyperactive visual gawping every bit as bad here as it is in his unwatchable Domino, so frantic that it has the opposite effect oPublishn the audience by rendering itself static and boring. (There's a lot going on in a screen full of snow, too, but all it does is put you to sleep.) The picture reunites Scott with his go-to leading man Denzel Washington, whose Garber, an MTA operator fallen under suspicion of taking a bribe, replaces Walter Matthau's weary, hangdog transit cop from the Joseph Sargent original. When ridiculous goon Ryder (John Travolta) hijacks the titular subway car with a pack of the usual suspects (including Luis Guzmán, of course), it's up to smooth-talking every-dude Garber to cover up the deficiencies of hostage negotiator Camonetti (John Turturro), the gasbag Mayor (James Gandolfini), and all the bumblefuck NYPD who manage to accidentally snipe one of the bad guys, crash a car racing through Manhattan, and decorate a couple of baddies with a good twenty clips of ammunition in the middle of Uptown. It also, as a way to give the film a contemporary slant against which the terminally un-hip Scott is well over-matched, demonizes Wall Street by having its chief baddie be a former securities trader who hatches a plan to fuck the stock market by making New Yorkers afraid that his plot is a terrorist attack. Pelham is, in other words, rather tasteless in addition to being awful.

The Fall (2008) - Blu-ray Disc

*½/**** Image A+ Sound A Extras C+
starring Lee Pace, Justine Waddell, Catinca Untaru
screenplay by Dan Gilroy and Nico Soultanakis & Tarsem
directed by Tarsem

by Walter Chaw Beware the film that positions itself as being told from the perspective of a child, because unless you're a child or that specific child's parent, you're eventually going to wish that someone would slap the kid in question. Tarsem's labour of love The Fall, his unlikely follow-up to his serial killer movie as shot by Salvador Dali-cum-Caspar David Friedrich The Cell, is such a film, told from a child's perspective--and rather than as an artistic decision, it plays as a plea for leniency. It's a fairytale about a little girl's emergence into maturity... No, it's a fairytale about the delicacy of life... No, it's not anything much of anything. By touching on a suicidal movie star's convalescence after an impressively-shot accident on a film set (involving a horse, Tarsem scholars take note), the picture seems to want to access some discussion concerning artificiality and its intrusion into reality--something that would make sense if The Fall positioned itself as a dyad with The Cell (which was, after all, only about film as a dream medium that acts as the brain does), but it doesn't really do that, either. All it does, in fact, is provide Tarsem an excuse to indulge his prurience and affection for elaborate set-pieces awash in saturated colours and tableaux that often border on the grotesque. Freed of the necessity to be coherent, freed of much understanding of Bruno Bettelheim or Jung or Freud, it's a fairytale without purpose and pretentious to boot, reminding more than a little of the also-pretty, also-empty Neil Gaiman/Dave McKean collaboration Mirrormask. It's too bad, really, as there are images in here genuinely affecting for their visual splendour. I wonder if it's unforgivable heresy to say The Cell is badly underestimated and due for revisionism while The Fall, despite its relative obscurity (no J-Lo anywhere in sight), is badly overestimated.

True Blood: The Complete First Season (2008) - Blu-ray Disc

Image A- Sound A- Extras B-
"Strange Love," "The First Taste," "Mine," "Escape from Dragon House," "Sparks Fly Out," "Cold Ground," "Burning House of Love," "The Fourth Man in the Fire," "Plaisir d'amour," "I Don't Wanna Know," "To Love Is to Bury," "You'll Be the Death of Me"

by Bryant Frazer The notion of vampires and werewolves as romantic leads isn't exactly cutting-edge. Anyone who ever spent time in the '80s and '90s with cosplayers, Dungeons & Dragons enthusiasts, SF conventioneers, and/or habitués of certain USENET newsgroups knows of a thriving subculture that imagines vamps and other shapeshifters to be highly potent sexual partners, if not outright preferable to human companions. In a cinematic climate where former nerd icons like Frodo Baggins, Iron Man, and even Alan Moore's Watchmen have been reinterpreted as big-budget propositions by the men in the suits, the eventual mainstreaming of vampire erotica shouldn't come as much surprise. In the romance aisles of your local bookstore, where "paranormal" is the preferred rubric for a burgeoning category of supernatural bodice-ripper, a reader may now find that vampires and werewolves really are that into you. On the other end of the spectrum, the brooding, outrageously popular Twilight book and film series pussyfoots around the central metaphor of vampirism, detonating a no-intercourse-before-marriage payload in the hearts and minds of a generation of teenaged girls enraptured by the idea of an impossibly ravishing, possibly fatal affair with a stormy Count Dracula type whose feelings for an awkward young thing from Arizona are stronger than his love of a virgin's blood.

Seattle International Film Festival '09: Deadgirl

***/****
starring Shiloh Fernandez, Noah Segan, Jenny Spain, Candice Accola
screenplay by Trent Haaga
directed by Marcel Sarmiento and Gadi Harel

by Jefferson Robbins The word "zombie" is never uttered in Deadgirl, but the movie belongs to that genre, both in its plot device and in the way it uses the animate dead to probe a particular neurosis of our culture. In this way, it does the best job of its ilk since 28 Days Later..., and it resembles that movie in its question of women as currency or possessions in a world gone feral. Drinking and breaking shit in an abandoned mental hospital, two sexually-frustrated high-school slackers stumble upon a hidden prize: a beautiful, incoherent girl, chained naked to a gurney, apparently for years. She can't be killed (although she doesn't heal from injury, either), and her alienness makes her little more than a blow-up doll in the eyes of young punk JT (Noah Segan, channelling Christian Slater c. 1988). His pal Rickie (Shiloh Fernandez) struggles with his conscience, torn between objectification of the Deadgirl and idealization of his still-living longtime crush (Candice Accola). A small cabal of rapists slowly grows around this sexually-available figment, and the lycanthropic JT gets trapped in the latter half of his madonna/whore complex, a prisoner-prince of his own personal sex dungeon. The young men of Deadgirl have no visible family life (scenes meant to give Rickie some stereotypically lower-class domestic grounding feel like afterthoughts) and fail whenever a chance at a healthy relationship presents itself. By instinct, they favour the pliable--with a hint of filth and barely restrained danger--over the real. Porn is easier than love, after all, and the same immature fantasy construct that allows JT to rape lets Rickie see himself as a white knight. Fernandez, the more classically handsome of the male leads, seems overwhelmed by the film's need to make Rickie both sympathetic and culpable. A reversal of roles, with Segan resisting Fernandez's call to prurience, might have held more surprise, while a single line of post-dubbed dialogue adds too much justification to Rickie's final choice. As the dead girl in question, Jenny Spain has no lines, but her portrayal is brave for rising to all its other strenuous demands--and her eyes leave us in doubt as to how mindless this creature truly is. It must be a good horror movie: I've been thinking about it ever since.

Foreign Correspondent: FFC Interviews Ed Helms

June 7, 2009|Meeting him at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston to discuss The Hangover, it was almost immediately apparent that Ed Helms is right in the middle of a difficult transitional period between television and film: "The Daily Show" is long behind him, "The Office" is opening up countless new avenues, and Judd Apatow is referring to him as a national treasure. The Hangover isn't exactly the kind of film you can discuss at great length--you either pass the jokes amongst your comrades or simply dismiss its juvenilia out-of-hand--but it features enough depth in its performances to jumpstart a conversation about this actor, his talents, and the circumstances that brought him here. Zach Galifianakis may be the one you end up quoting after the end credits roll, but as Stu Price, a worrywart dentist who wakes up from a drug-fuelled night in Vegas to find that he's missing a tooth, Helms is the most nuanced member of the cast, capturing the essence of The Hangover's most delirious highs while keeping himself--and the movie--grounded in a bewildered reality. Helms admits that he's not entirely comfortable with the subject of himself, but he's a good sport about it nonetheless, keeping you at a somewhat businesslike distance from his early career but still game to reflect on where he's been and where he's going.

Seattle International Film Festival '09: Fifty Dead Men Walking

**/****
starring Ben Kingsley, Jim Sturgess, Kevin Zegers, Rose McGowan
written and directed by Kari Skogland

by Jefferson Robbins You're watching the wrong guy if you keep your eye on Martin McGartland (Jim Sturgess), a Special Branch mole in the Belfast IRA circa 1988. The one to mark in Fifty Dead Men Walking is his handler, codenamed "Fergus" and played by Ben Kingsley under a hairpiece that makes him look astonishingly like Ben Gazzara. As he transitions from mere manipulation of his charge to fatherly love, Fergus reveals himself to be the only character made valid by the script and fully fleshed out by the performer. Inspired by, but not based on, McGartland's memoir of the same name, Kari Skogland's film packs a history lesson on the Troubles into its opening act, then expects us to bond with a hero whose only personality trait is a lack of political conviction. Sturgess's McGartland is a Catholic hood with no love for the IRA, the Ulster Unionists, or the British peacekeepers in his divided city; "I don't have opinions" is his only self-disclosing line of dialogue. Fergus keys in on that alienation and grooms McGartland as an infiltrator, but the latter's turn towards informant is unbelievable, despite his stated desire to save lives. And who can tell why he rises so easily in the IRA hierarchy, treated as he is like a foster son by a high-ranking commander (Tom Collins)? He gets asked a few times if he's bucking for sainthood, and it's the only reasonable answer. (Consider his rebuff of flame-haired Volunteer captain Grace (Rose McGowan), who's strictly there to give family man Martin some temptation to deny.) Music-wise, any film that starts off with a blast of Stiff Little Fingers' "Alternative Ulster" is jockeying for my respect, but Ben Mink's score is The Edge minus the atmosphere. Skogland has some effective visual tricks--note how often characters are separated by ancient, broken walls--but her ace is Kingsley, who can carry off the clunkiest dialogue ("The hunters become the hunted," "The price of a conscience is death") and finds leeway in small moments that make his Fergus a human rather than a type. We thought we'd lost you, Sir Ben, somewhere between BloodRayne and The Love Guru. Well met. Nice hair.

Land of the Lost (2009) + The Hangover (2009)

LAND OF THE LOST
½*/****
starring Will Ferrell, Anna Friel, Danny McBride, Jorma Taccone
screenplay by Chris Henchy & Dennis McNicholas, based on the television series by Sid & Marty Krofft
directed by Brad Silberling

THE HANGOVER
**/****
starring Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms, Zach Galifianakis, Jeffrey Tambor
screenplay by Jon Lucas & Scott Moore
directed by Todd Phillips

by Ian Pugh I'd estimate there are around a hundred reasons why Brad Silberling's big-screen adaptation of Sid & Marty Krofft's "Land of the Lost" is awful, but none of them are more infuriating than the fact that it panders to its core hipster audience by being a great big nostalgic turd with an ironic bow on top. Have you watched the series recently and cracked self-satisfied jokes about how drugs were its primary influence? If so, then this film is for you. Do you like movies that try as hard as possible to resemble shitty episodic television from yesteryear? Then you've probably seen Land of the Lost twice already and rationalized it as something that won't win awards but at least manages to pass the time. That's certainly the mentality driving this unfortunate theme-park ride: the film would prefer that you look to the old series' theme song to fill in the necessary plot details, jamming the lyrics of same into its dialogue with a heavy-handed wink. Rick (Will Ferrell), Will (Danny McBride), and Holly (Anna Friel) are on "a routine expedition," and despite much ensuing sound and fury, that's all you need to know. But hey, dude, do you remember the Sleestaks? 'Cause this film totally remembers them, too--and while they've been injected with some CGI gloss, the costumes are just crappy enough to keep your childhood memories intact! It's worth noting that this is the second film in as many weeks to use an old-school Universal logo in its opening credits--but unlike Drag Me to Hell, Land of the Lost has nothing to distinguish it from what came before, no special insight into why the TV show that inspired it is a cultural touchstone. Frankly, it's impossible to see how any of it could be considered an improvement on renting the original series and jerking off.

Seattle International Film Festival '09: Art & Copy

**½/****
directed by Doug Pray

by Jefferson Robbins The metaphors that Doug Pray's subjects arrive at to describe their chosen medium--advertising, in all its forms--are atmospheric. "It's like air and water," says Jeff Goodby, creator of the "Got milk?" campaign. "It's around you. It's gonna happen to you." Art director and ad legend George Lois ("I want my MTV") is perhaps more honest: "I think advertising's a poison gas." Pray's documentary does a great job of illustrating where we are now in our relationship with our ads. Where it doesn't succeed is as a history lesson, save for opening nods to the era familiar to fans of "Mad Men". It was ad pioneers like Bill Bernbach who paired artists with writers beginning in 1949, sparking the "creative revolution" that put paid to Don Draper's business model. But in one sentence, I just told you more about that era, including its relevant date, than all of Art & Copy does. The personalities of DDB and other groundbreaking agencies aren't much explored; understandably, as a filmmaker, Pray is far more interested in the ads themselves, particularly TV ads. Moreover, he's only interested in the successful campaigns, not the stinkers. His earliest hero on that front is Mary Wells, a DDB veteran who later ran a campaign for Braniff Airlines that turned its ads (and planes) into theatrical productions. (In 1977, Wells taught us how to ♥NY.) Pray's talking heads display an unexpected philosophical bent (save Goodby's partner Rich Silverstein, an epic douche who thought "Got milk?" was a stupid idea). The late Hal Riney, who sold wine coolers and Ronald Reagan's second term with the same sepia tinge, admits to an unhappy childhood that fed into his advertising style. The best advertisers, all agree, are less artists than antennae--they capture what's already in the air, and spur their clients to strive for quality. "If the product isn't any good, I'll put it out of business," the wonderful Lois roars, "because people'll run and buy it and find out it's a piece o' shit!" Despite the theme they spell out for him, Pray can't successfully tie these amazing characters to his advertising-infrastructure factoids, and he seems to imply that we've been creating and consuming advertising ever since we made the first rock carvings. I'd prefer to think my ancestors had larger souls than mine.

Seattle International Film Festival '09: Black Dynamite

***/****
starring Michael Jai White, Byron Minns, Salli Richardson-Whitfield
screenplay by Michael Jai White, Byron Minns, Scott Sanders
directed by Scott Sanders

by Jefferson Robbins When last we saw Michael Jai White, it was in the biggest movie of 2008, getting a shiv in the uvula from Heath Ledger. The veteran action performer (Spawn, Universal Soldier) wants to shrug that one off with a joke of his own. The pre-credits scenes in Scott Sanders's Black Dynamite, a vehicle created specifically for White, make you fear another I'm Gonna Git You Sucka or Undercover Brother--a satire on '70s blaxploitation tropes that uses actual, professional camera setups, editing, and continuity. That doesn't last long. Black Dynamite finds its ground once Sanders appropriates the which-end-of-the-camera aesthetic of the worst/best black grindhouse cinema. (Rudy Ray Moore's Dolemite is uppermost on the creators' minds.) The titular hero is all that Shaft and Black Belt Jones wish they could be: Vietnam vet, ex-CIA assassin, martial arts master, and urban avenger, capable of sexually sating five ethnically-diverse ladies at once. (Understandably, he's prone to a lot of flashbacks.) There's a "new smack on the streets," flooding the ghetto in tandem with a plot to sexually disempower American black men. When his brother is killed in the crossfire, B.D. roundhouse kicks his way through a passel of thugs, Mafiosi, government operatives, and dangling boom mics--pointing out, with the up-trending body count, that the heroes of these things are seldom better than cackling psychopaths. White turns out to be adept at kicking ass while cracking jokes; someone should have given him an action-comedy years ago. It would be nice if romantic interest Gloria (Salli Richardson-Whitfield, a crackerjack straight-woman) had followed in Pam Grier's footsteps by proving Black Dynamite's female equal, but the character amounts to mere bed candy. Too, the filler is evident, though these points are great excuses to go get another beer. Ultimately, Black Dynamite achieves that confrontation with American political power that so much cinema of the 1970s--grindhouse or otherwise, overtly or in subtext--seemed to demand.

Fargo (1996) - DVD|[Special Edition] - DVD|Blu-ray Disc

***½/****
DVD - Image B Sound A-
SE DVD - Image A- Sound A- Extras B
BD - Image B+ Sound A Extras B-
starring Frances McDormand, William H. Macy, Steve Buscemi, Harve Presnell
screenplay by Joel Coen and Ethan Coen
directed by Joel Coen

by Vincent Suarez The critics' knock against the Coen brothers has always admonished the filmmakers for seemingly valuing style over substance--their flamboyant camerawork frequently seemed the raison d'être for rather loosely-plotted films like Raising Arizona. It's fitting, then, that Fargo, their most celebrated work (but not their best--that distinction belongs to the severely underrated Miller's Crossing), champions the virtues of simplicity at nearly every level. Not only is Fargo the Coens' most straightforwardly-told film, lacking their typical stylistic flourishes, but its cautionary tale highlights the dangers of permitting life to become more complicated than necessary. Indeed, had the title not already been assigned to their debut film, Fargo would have been more aptly christened Blood Simple.

2010: The Year We Make Contact (1984) - Blu-ray Disc

2010
*/**** Image B- Sound B- Extras F
starring Roy Scheider, John Lithgow, Helen Mirren, Bob Balaban
screenplay by Peter Hyams, based on the novel 2010: Odyssey Two by Arthur C. Clarke
directed by Peter Hyams

by Walter Chaw As we slide ever closer to the reality of artificial intelligence, the question of functional equivalence becomes ever more pressing to our sense of ourselves. It's because of this, I think, that Peter Hyams's 2010 seems more pertinent now than it necessarily did in 1984. I watched Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time just a few months before I saw 2010 (this would be the summer of '84; I was twelve years old), and to that pre-teen me, 2010 gave the impression in most ways of being the better film. It appeals to the pragmatist instead of the philosopher, to the childish belief that there is nothing without an explanation under the sun and that should we encounter an alien intelligence, it will inevitably have the same desires and motivations we do. My first viewing of 2001 left me feeling angry and bored--the moments that tickled at something greater weren't moments I was able to isolate and examine (I wouldn't learn the term mysterium tremens until at least a decade later)--and in a sense 2010 allowed me to appreciate the Kubrick picture as a linear narrative. Which is, after all, not the point, and perhaps even ultimately destructive of 2001. It's easy to understand benevolence (whether it's from an alien "creator" to us, its possible creations, or from us to our machine creations), because benevolence is within the human capacity to comprehend. It's much harder to understand an astronaut waking up in a hotel room after a trip down the rabbit hole and then coming back to Earth as a glowing fetus.

Revolutionary Road (2008) + Doubt (2008) - Blu-ray Discs

REVOLUTIONARY ROAD
*½/**** Image A+ Sound A Extras B
starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet, Michael Shannon, Kathy Bates
screenplay by Justin Haythe, based on the novel by Richard Yates
directed by Sam Mendes

DOUBT
**/**** Image A- Sound A Extras B-
starring Meryl Streep, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Amy Adams, Viola Davis
written and directed by John Patrick Shanley

by Walter Chaw Impeccably acted and playing out what seems to be a collective cultural fascination with the pre-Flower Power '60s (not quite Ward and June, not quite Jimi and Janis), Sam Mendes' Revolutionary Road and John Patrick Shanley's Doubt help 2008 meet its quota of prestige-y actor's studio pieces. Both are based on well-regarded (renowned, in the case of the first) literary sources, both sport high-octane casts in the pursuit of that delicate balance in adaptations between literal and spiritual faithfulness, and both, ultimately, have considerably less to say than the surrounding hullabaloo would suggest. Revolutionary Road plots another point on the graph of Mendes's steeply-declining returns--he's a stage director whose greatest weakness is his desire for little epiphanies that play like Everest off the boards, and he's guilty of too much intoxication with the medium besides. Mendes spends so much time fiddling around with his camera to a noodling Thomas Newman score that you feel like giving him some privacy.

Seattle International Film Festival '09: I Sell the Dead

**/****
starring Dominic Monaghan, Larry Fessenden, Angus Scrimm, Ron Perlman
written and directed by Glenn McQuaid

by Jefferson Robbins I was genetically engineered to like this movie, a Hammer Films riff with dollops of Evil Dead slapstick and EC Comics creep-out--so I guess I have to blame the filmmakers for fumbling the experiment. It's rare that a gothic-Guignol seems to drag, but at 84 minutes Glenn McQuaid's graverobbing comedy I Sell the Dead could still be shorter, some bits of business dropped without harm. Then you've got a great hour of television with a fuckton of feature-film pedigree. Producer Larry Fessenden roleplays gleefully as resurrectionist Willie Grimes, framed for murder and ultimately beheaded. Awaiting his own execution, Grimes' partner Arthur Blake (Dominic Monaghan) unspools his story to a confessor priest (Ron Perlman), detailing how the pair moved from simply digging up the deceased for mad Dr. Quint (Angus Scrimm, who really should play Scrooge sometime) to exhuming the undead for added profit. The cast is game, but the movie can't seem to narrow its focus. McQuaid even injects a note of modern science-fiction to no real effect and introduces a third-act love interest (Brenda Cooney) who gets no real arc, though some redemption is granted when one completely predictable reversal is followed by an unforeseen second. In sum, it's a lightweight Halloween rental, a close cousin to Bubba Ho-Tep--although it lacks the heft of that film's meditation on aging and death.