Waltz With Bashir (Vals im Bashir)

 (2008)

A Movie Review

By

Jonathan Moya

4 Out of 5 Stars or A-

The Plot: (from IMDB.com)

One night at a bar, an old friend tells director Ari about a recurring nightmare in which he is chased by 26 vicious dogs. Every night, the same number of beasts. The two men conclude that there's a connection to their Israeli Army mission in the first Lebanon War of the early eighties. Ari is surprised that he can't remember a thing anymore about that period of his life. Intrigued by this riddle, he decides to meet and interview old friends and comrades around the world. He needs to discover the truth about that time and about himself. As Ari delves deeper and deeper into the mystery, his memory begins to creep up in surreal images.

The Review:

Sometimes the greatest soul pain is in the amnesia of life.   The moment’s one ought to remember but cannot.    In Waltz with Bashir, an animated documentary about the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon and the Sabra Shatila massacre, Ari Folman tries to recover that experience from the ennui of war, genocide, the holocaust and the Jewish consciousness.  Folman was a 19-year-old Israeli soldier stationed close to the Sabra-Shatila refugee camps at the time of the massacres.   Now forty-five, Folman can only remember the leave times.  He seeks out others in his platoon to see if they have the same memories.  Waltz with Bashir becomes their animated nightmare, testimony and witness.

The memories that come back are like a pack of twenty-six snarling marauding dogs baying under a window-- the ritual nightmare that has haunted Boaz Buskila for thirty years.  Twenty-six was the number of dogs he shot during the war.  Boaz gives his testimony but not his face.  The animated Boaz is a composite done by an actor in the original reference videos.  The same for Carmi  Cna’an, the longtime friend of Folman  with genius potential but who turned his back on all of it after the war to embrace Buddhism and a Dutch exile.  Their encounter in Bashir is cold and detached, made tolerable by the reefer they share. 

The other five who share their faces and voices, recall the events with a narrative and emotional detachment that makes them characters, witnesses and bystanders to their own story-- something terrible that happened to someone else.  The reality is there- as much of it as they can absorb before the body heals the mind with the balm of forgetfulness and memory and time bends existence into the eternal fiction-fact compromise. Only Roni Dayag has a trauma free normality, a future without the war shadows and ghosts.  Detached from his squadron he survived by spending the night sitting still behind a rock and slipping into a calm sea that drifts him back to his comrades the next day. Dayag found peace in the surrender to that calm flow while the others fight the tide of guilt and conscience.  They rise out of the sea’s baptism, fully armed but naked, fearful and weary, thrust into the golden exploding city melting before their eyes.  Folman revisits that scene two more times just as the violence and war shifts to more savagery (the invasion) and massacre (Sabra-Shatila) making it a prophecy that points to the entryway of Sheol.  The squadron drift into a stasis and nothingness that allows the Sabra-Shatila evil by the Christian Phalangists.  In a memorable scene, Israeli flares light the way to the camps. In their head and souls, The Holocaust lives just a small conscience step away from genocide.

The two who try to do the right thing are circumscribed, their futures dismembered.   Dror Harazi, Folman’s tank squadron commander who aspired to be a general, did everything he could to alert his superiors to the situation at the Shatila camp, only to earn a premature and disgraceful discharge from the army.   His testimony is a last cry to expose the truth. Ron Ben-Yeshai, an Israeli war correspondent of twenty years and at least six campaigns, called Minister of Defense Arik Sharon about the massacres.  Sharon did nothing to stop them.   The next twenty years for Yeshai were without promotion.   Sharon made sure of that.    

The need to forget horror provides horror its opportunity.  Waltz with Bashir shows the results of that genetic holocaust which has existed ever since Cain murdered Abel.  It gets an A-.   

The Credits:   (From Allmovie.com)

Ari Folman  - Director / Producer / Screenwriter / Cinematographer Serge Lalou  - Producer Gerhard Meixner  - Producer Yael Nahlieli  - Producer Roman Paul  - Producer Max Richter  - Composer (Music Score) Nili Feller  - Editor David Polonsky  - Art Director / Illustrator Thierry Garrel  - Co-producer Pierrette Ominetti  - Co-producer Aviv Aldema  - Sound/Sound Designer Bridgit Folman Film Gang  - Animator Tal Gadon  - Chief Animator Yoni Goodman  - Animation Director Roiy Nitzan  - Visual Effects Supervisor

With:  Ari Folman  - [Voice] Ori Sivan  - [Voice] Roni Dayag  - [Voice] Shmuel Frenkel  - [Voice] Ron Ben Yisahi  - [Voice] Dror Harazi  - [Voice] Boaz Rein Buskila  - [Voice] Carmi Cna'an  - [Voice] Yehezkel Lazarov  - [Voice]

Copyright 2009 by Jonathan Moya

Gran Torino

 (2009)

A Movie Review

By

Jonathan Moya

Rating: 4 out of 5 or A-

The Plot: (from AllMovie.com)

A racist Korean War veteran living in a crime-ridden Detroit neighborhood is forced to confront his own lingering prejudice when a troubled Hmong teen from his neighborhood attempts to steal his prized Gran Torino. Decades after the Korean War has ended, ageing veteran Walt Kowalski (Clint Eastwood) is still haunted by the horrors he witnessed on the battlefield. The two objects that matter most to Kowalski in life are the classic Gran Torino that represents his happier days working in a Ford assembly plant, and the M-1 rifle that saved his life countless times during combat. When Kowalski's teenage neighbor (Bee Vang) attempts to steal his Gran Torino as part of a gang initiation rite, the old man manages to catch the aspiring thief at the business end of his well-maintained semi-automatic rifle. Later, due to the pride of the Asian group, the boy is forced to return to Kowalski's house and perform an act of penance. Despite the fact that Kowalski wants nothing to do with the young troublemaker, he realizes that the quickest way out of the situation is to simply cooperate. In an effort to set the teen on the right path in life and toughen him up, the reluctant vet sets him up with an old crony who now works in construction. In the process, Kowalski discovers that the only way to lay his many painful memories to rest is to finally face his own blinding prejudice head-on.

The Review:

Gran Torino hints at everything Clint Eastwood while cleverly dismantling it.   There is the Dirty Harry snarl and racist litany; the cigarette smoking antihero silence of the Sergio Leone Spaghetti Westerns; the shotgun of Unforgiven existing in uneasy calm with the Magnum-like semi-automatic and even the heavy memories of war wounds past.    Those parts of the Eastwood legend exist in the manicured lawn and well-maintained home belonging to the recently widowed Walt Kowalski (Eastwood), the Korean War vet living in the slightly shabby neighborhood taken over by the “gooks” that haunt his past, the Hmong— a war removed (Vietnam) but still the same in his mind.

Walt wants to be left alone to mow his grass, wash his 1972 Gran Torino, drink Pabst Blue Ribbon on his porch or to go out occasionally to the local bar or barber shop for some man talk with his war buddies.  “Keep off my damn grass,” he snarls with shotgun in hand to those who violate his well kempt legend.  His family only jostles for their share of the inheritance.   The niece wants the Torino and the son wants to put him out to pasture and sell the house.   The local priest Father Jovanovich (Christopher Carley), just barely out of seminary, wants Walt to quit handling things his own way with the local Asian gang and let the church and police handle them.  The Hmong community venerates him for what he has done.  

Eastwood delights in giving his legend closure.   Gran Torino is both the last Dirty Harry and Eastwood Western- even though it will not be the last curtain call as Clint once teasingly suggested.  The screenplay by Nick Schenk echoes the great Eastwood themes:   violence, vengeance, redemption and finding peace with the past.   It chisels down the fascism and racism to Archie Bunker softness while still keeping the will.   Walt’s ploy is the two-finger shooter backed up with the real weapon in his jacket.   Pay attention to those who really do the shooting in Gran Torino.   The twist at the end is a two-hanky surprise.  Walt gets all the Jesus, peace and redemption that Hollywood allows.

Gran Torino gets to have it all.  Walt gets almost a real daughter and son.   The legend gets closure.  In addition, the audience and this critic get to see a master create a minor masterpiece on time and under budget with the simplicity of his movie-making genes. The legend gets an A and a place in The Hall of Fame.   The movie gets an A-.    

The Credits:   (From AllMovie.com)

Clint Eastwood  - Director / Producer Bill Gerber  - Producer Robert Lorenz  - Producer Dave Johannson  - Screen Story Nick Schenk  - Screenwriter / Screen Story Tom Stern  - Cinematographer Kyle Eastwood  - Composer (Music Score) Michael Stevens  - Composer (Music Score) Joel Cox  - Editor Gary D. Roach  - Editor James Murakami  - Production Designer John Warnke  - Art Director Bruce Berman  - Executive Producer Jenette Kahn  - Executive Producer Tim Moore  - Executive Producer Adam Richman  - Executive Producer Deborah Hopper  - Costume Designer Ellen Chenoweth  - Casting

With:  Clint Eastwood  - Walt Kowalski Bee Vang  - Thao Ahney Her  - Sue Christopher Carley  - Father Janovich Brian Haley  - Mitch Kowalski Geraldine Hughes  - Karen Kowalski Brian Howe  - Steve Kowalski Dreama Walker  - Ashley Kowalski William Hill  - Tim Kennedy John Carroll Lynch  - Barber Martin Brooke Chia Thao  - Vu Chee Thao  - Grandma

Copyright 2009 by Jonathan Moya

Drag Me to Hell

(2009)

A Movie Review

By

Jonathan Moya

The Plot: (from AllMovie.com)

Determined to impress her boss and get a much-needed promotion at work, Christine Brown (Alison Lohman) lays down the law when mysterious Mrs. Ganush literally comes begging for mercy at her feet. In retaliation for being publicly shamed, Mrs. Ganush places the dreaded curse of Lamia on her unfortunate target, transforming Christine's life into a waking nightmare. Her skeptical boyfriend Clay (Justin Long) casually brushing off her disturbing encounters as mere coincidence, Christine attempts to escape eternal damnation by seeking out the aid of seer Rham Jas (Dileep Rao ). But Christine's time is fast running out, and unless she's able to break the curse, she'll be tormented by a demon for three days before literally being dragged to hell.

The Review:

Drag Me to Hell is Sam Raimi’s diabolical return party to the horror genre after a decade stuck in the Spiderman web. It is Raimi-lite, content with scary shadows, gypsy curses, putrefying hags vomiting all manners of emerald nastiness and a good old scary séance. Its PG-13 rating makes it almost quaint family fare by horror standards, a Tales from the Crypt to keep the comic crowd happy until 2011 and Spiderman 5. Sniff this butt and know that The Evil Dead remake scheduled for next year is going to bring Raimi back to his dismembering and blood projecting roots.

There is a lot of orifice horror in Hell. The evil slime not only falls on the fresh scrub face of the blonde Christine (Allison Lohman) but also is tongue kissed into her mouth, breathed in and plopped right into her eyes—hardhearted punishment for the softhearted loan officer misfortunate enough to administer tough love to the one mortgage defaulting, disease-eyed, talon, curse wielding gypsy woman (Lorna Raver) in the city. Lohman is the open-eye beneficiary of one of the great projectile face transplants of the last twenty years or so. It is the nasty stuff that gets inside that is really the best squirm inducing fright.

Raimi and his co-caballer brother Ivan conjured up the screenplay, a couple of catfights that sticks to the basic spooks. It is a Looney Tunes nightmare on Speed and Acid. There is a dandy bitch slap turned demolition derby that takes place in a parking garage that gives new meaning to click it or ticket. Lorna Raver as the gypsy crone provides some early character developing scares simply by jujuing with a set of moldy dentures. Adriana Barazza as the good counterbalance gets the most of her fifteen minutes of screen time in Hell’s séance scene. Allison Lohman (cast at the witching hour when Juno’s Ellen Page got spooked) musters enough Buffy the Vampire Slayer toughness while just barely passing her good girl acting test.

Still it is the scares before the scares that I remember: the diabolic shadows, the clanging pots and pans, an ectoplasmic handkerchief floating and attaching itself like a wind octopus. Raimi gets the little scares right so that the big horror matters. He messes with the head before taking the knife out. It is so old school old and well done that it looks brand new.

For its scary good fun, it gets a B+.

The Credits: (From AllMovie.com)

Sam Raimi  - Director / Screenwriter / Producer Grant Curtis  - Producer Robert Tapert  - Producer Ivan Raimi  - Screenwriter / Co-producer Peter Deming  - Cinematographer Christopher Young  - Composer (Music Score) Bob Murawski  - Editor Steve Saklad  - Production Designer Cristen Carr Strubbe  - Co-producer Joshua Donen  - Executive Producer Joe Drake  - Executive Producer Nathan Kahane  - Executive Producer Isis Mussenden  - Costume Designer John Papsidera  - Casting Howard Berger  - Makeup Special Effects Bruce Jones  - Visual Effects Supervisor Gregory Nicotero  - Makeup Special Effects

With: Alison Lohman  - Christine Brown Justin Long  - Clay Dalton Lorna Raver  - Mrs. Ganush David Paymer  - Mr. Jacks Dileep Rao  - Rham Jas Reggie Lee  - Stu Rubin Adriana Barraza  - Shaun San Dena Molly Cheek  - Trudy Dalton

Copyright 2009 by Jonathan Moya

Look

(2007)

The Review:

There is not much to like in Adam Rifkin’s Look, told through the gimmicky perspective of security, bank, cop, nanny and other kinds of hidden cameras. It is not quite Big Brother but neither is it little sister, just a queasy tale of randomly intersecting bad lives thinking they are getting away with it all. Rifkin slices out the 98 percent caught on tape doing nothing wrong, content to present the 2 percent-- a Lolita searching for prey, the couplings of a randy store manager, a gay tryst, the convenience store slackers, a child stalker, the murderers and serial criminals—as the truth. He leaves God on the cutting room floor. The movie’s only grace notes are the tender revelations of a nanny cam. The good conscious is lost in the muffle of end reel sound and the fast forward button. Everything is evidence for the guilty and the half guilty—the tape the detective throws the tape across the table when he catches the lie. Its justice takes everybody down.

After 45 minutes, I was resenting Rifkin gluing me to the voyeur’s chairs. The revelations were small and cramp. There was no big point or sustaining point of view, no commentary on the lack of privacy in a nation crazy for reality television—just the camera and the idiots in front of it. The grainy, black and white, muted color, edge bending, occasionally sharp and clear high definition camerawork, all caught in high fidelity sound that never covered the lie, erects a wall that keeps out the compassion and the insight. Look is drama bled down to dull observation. When the truth comes, some get theirs and some do not. Whether it comes in a crash, a divorce or prison cell, it does not matter. I stopped caring a long time ago.

Somewhere in the footage of captured everyday lives, there is a great drama or documentary waiting to be cut and captioned. Look gets the idea but never quite gets the truth. Capture the good and the bad, fine tune the point of view, give it compassion and hate, despair and hope all caught in the man lens that pretends to be God and there might be great art hidden in the grainy soft focus and battered soundtrack of our humanity. Look needs a little more of the real truth for me to be enraptured. Capture that and capture me with the magic of the lens.

The Credits:

Written and directed by Adam Rifkin; director of photography, Ron Forsythe; edited by Martin Apelbaum; music by B T; produced by Brad Wyman and Barry Schuler; released by Vitagraph Films. At Angelika Film Center, Mercer and Houston Streets, Greenwich Village. Running time: 1 hour 42 minutes.

WITH: Hayes MacArthur (Tony Gilbert), Giuseppe Andrews (Willie), Spencer Redford (Sherri Van Haften), Rhys Coiro (Ace), Heather Hogan (Holly), Jennifer Fontaine (Louise), Ben Weber (Marty), Paul Shackman (Ben), Chris Williams (George Higgins) and Jamie McShane (Barry Krebbs).

Copyright 2009 by Jonathan Moya

Good Luck Chuck (The Unrated Version)

The Review:

Good Luck Chuck is a guy’s chick flick. 

Dane Cook, vilified for his previous smarmy performances, plays Chuck (Charlie Logan) a nice regular Joe with a quiet dental practice.  Chuck was cursed by a Goth teen witch when he was ten.  She won him in a game of spin the bottle and he refused to perform for the requisite seven minutes of closet time.    His vexation:  the person who makes love to him falls in true love with the next person who comes along.  

As an erotic and true urban legend Chuck has a clientele that crams his waiting room and overtaxes his home answering machine.  He goes along with the curse well because it gets him laid— and since he really underneath it all is just a big softy with a squishy romantic heart—it performs a public service for the thousand of unmarried women searching for their true love.

The result definitely sets a cinematic record for the most on screen lovers.  A weird and morbidly funny group of sexual positions flash by as quad split screens multiply to infinity at two seconds per shoot and five minutes of screen time.     Chuck has so much sex I kept on wondering if there were some digital erotic creations being performed.  Any female who might have won an adult film award practically shows up in this movie. 

Even though Chuck has all the dream sex a man can desire, he is also unsatisfied.  The sex is not the right kind of sex.  It doesn’t feel like true love.  

Of course, Chuck’s true love is Cam (Jessica Alba playing perky without a safety net), the gorgeous penguin feeder who is a walking curse—the ultimate example of Murphy’s Law.   The romance tries to be sweet and honest but with all the mild raunchy going-ons it goes down as awkwardly as a morning after pill after a really good date.  

The role reversals provide for a neat conceit-- for once it’s the guy who is the sexualized object.   The typical horn dog male, Chuck best friend, Stu (played with an obsessive lasciviousness bordering on the pathological by Dan Folger)  who makes his living as a boob doctor is the one left lonely masturbating into grapefruit every night.     

The middle part where Chuck attempts to break the curse by boning the ugliest, rudest, loutish, fattest unmarriageable woman in the world is the only gross comedy that completely falls flat.  

Good Luck Chuck gets a B-.  

The Credits: 

Directed by Mark Helfrich; written by Josh Stolberg; director of photography, Anthony B. Richmond; edited by Julia Wong; music by Aaron Zigman; production designer, Mark Freeborn; produced by Mike Karz, Barry Katz and Brian Volk-Weiss; released by Lionsgate. Running time: 96 minutes.

WITH: Dane Cook (Charlie), Jessica Alba (Cam), Dan Fogler (Stu), Ellia English (Reba), Sasha Pieterse (Goth Girl), Lonny Ross (Joe) and Chelan Simmons (Carol).

“Good Luck Chuck” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). It has naughty words and topless women.

Copyright 2008 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

National Treasure:  Book of Secrets

The Review: 

National treasure: Book of Secrets at least gets the history right before its treasure turns out to be a watered-down piece of booty.  The same cast from the first movie plus the addition of Helen Mirren as Benjamin Gates mom (Nicholas Cage returns either laughing his way through the role or laughing all the way to the bank depending on your half-glass philosophy) goes through practically the same adventure.  In true Santayana fashion “those who can not learn from history are doomed to repeat it” forever in the sequels.  

The first National Treasure canoodled the American Revolution into a mildly entertaining The Da Vinci code spoof.  Book of Secrets schlumps the Civil War into dreck.   

The conspiracy this time around involves the Lincoln Assassination, a lost city of gold, what looks like ancient Native American dildos misinterpreted as treasure locations, two desks on different sides of the world and the real reason Mt. Rushmore was commissioned.  And that great MacGuffin, The  Book of Secrets which reveals the truth about the Kennedy assassination, the missing eighteen minutes of the Nixon tapes, the moon landing, Area 51 and all the other time holes of presidential history--  all this to redeem the good name of great granddaddy Gates from the muddiness of misattribution.

This is a serious spoof of a spoof which means the facts and plot turns don’t connect in any coherent or logical way, and the action except for one good car chase in London (this is a Jerry Bruckheimer extravaganza after all) mainly grinds together in anticlimactic jolts.    Yes, the cast looks happy— they trapeze around the world and got well paid for it (hopefully, in confederate notes).

When half the cast start mysteriously slipping in and out of American and British and German accents there is a sense that a little too much self-medication at the complimentary set wet bar was taking place. Nicolas Cage does the lamest cockney accent ever put on film in one scene in a mock argument between his on and off again ex played by Diane Kreuger only half-disguising her German heritage.  Even Helen Mirren frequently reverts to uttering the Queen’s English.   

We haven’t seen method from Nicolas Cage in many a moon.  He has been too busy being these lame action idiots (Ghost Rider and Wicker Man). It may not even be in his genes anymore.  Does he really like the look of himself as an action figure that much?  

America never tires of conspiracy theories and treasure hunts, so National Treasure: Book of Secrets should be a big hit.  

For me, however, it gets a lost in time grade of C+. 

The Credits:

Directed by Jon Turteltaub; written by Marianne and Cormac Wibberley, based on a story by the Wibberleys, Greg Poirier, Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio, based on characters created by Jim Kouf, Oren Aviv and Charles Segars; directors of photography, John Schwartzman and Amir Mokri; edited by William Goldenberg and David Rennie; music by Trevor Rabin; production designer, Dominic Watkins; produced by Mr. Turteltaub and Jerry Bruckheimer; released by Walt Disney Pictures and Jerry Bruckheimer Films. Running time: 2 hours 4 minutes.

WITH: Nicolas Cage (Ben Franklin Gates), Jon Voight (Patrick Gates), Harvey Keitel (Agent Sadusky), Ed Harris (Mitch Wilkinson), Diane Kruger (Abigail Chase), Justin Bartha (Riley Poole), Helen Mirren (Emily Appleton) and Bruce Greenwood (the President).

“National Treasure: Book of Secrets” is rated PG (Parental guidance suggested) for bloodless violence and mild innuendo.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

The Review:

It is just like Tim Burton to wrap up a bloody valentine as a Christmas present.   Sweeney Todd amps up the guignol and tones down the Stephen Sondheim musical.  It is a horror film done as a chamber piece—were revenge is the only joy and hope is imprisoned just when it takes flight. 

Sweeney Todd (Johnny Depp with a shock streak of Bride of Frankenstein gray in his hair), formerly the barber Benjamin Barker, has just returned from an Australian penal colony after serving sixteen years on a trump charge because the magistrate Judge Turpin (Alan Rickman wearing a three o’clock shadow) desired Todd’s/Barker’s beautiful wife (the vocally radiant Laura Michelle Kelly, the only professional singer in the cast).  Lusting for revenge, Todd sets up shop in his old haunt still managed by Mrs. Lovett (the splendidly gothic Helena Bonham Carter still as pale as a corpse) who secretly pines for him.  A shave and a murder and the entrails of the victims baked in a meat pie become the specialty of the house—a little fun thing for Todd to do until the right moment of revenge presents itself.  

On Broadway the music provided a distance from all the grim going-ons.  The blood and violence were cantilevered into the stagecraft.  The crimson mess was over quickly, often before the opening bars of the next song were played-- the blood becoming an intellectual point. 

With Burton it is the blood that sings and the music is just a thought bubble, an imperfect cry of the pained and dying.  The blood here has a pulsating vibrancy, a squishy almost feral look to it that provides an emotional shock whenever it is spilled.    In a London and a world burnt down to the texture of ash, this blood is the only color that lives.    The whole thing is about revenge— rage as the life force of the universe, bloody, raw, up close and extremely personal. 

Sondheim’s music filled with counterpoint and angular harmonies was strongly influenced by horror music maestro Bernard Herrmann (Psycho, Vertigo and other Alfred Hitchcock films) and Sweeney Todd’s imagery and plot are littered with old Universal black and white horror movie echoes.   Usually performed full-throated (it is one of the few Sondheim musicals to gain Opera acceptance) Sweeney Todd can easily be downscaled and roughed up.   It performs better with actors who can sing a little bit rather than singers who can act.  

Burton (and Sondheim who had contractual approval over director and cast—Depp and Bonham Carter actually had to vocally audition before the master) knows this little secret.   The score was recorded first followed by the vocals, essentially locking in the screen performances months before shooting.  Casting Depp (in his sixth Burton movie) and Bonham Carter (Burton’s inamorata appearing in her fifth) just cut the rehearsal time.  

John Logan (Gladiator) with Sondheim’s help streamlined the libretto by cutting subplots and numbers not related to the revenge theme-- turning Sweeney into less of an intellectual and more of an emotional musical, less of a play and more of a movie. 

Johnny Depp’s Sweeney Todd is an emotional force, a demon of rage. Vengeance is the only thing that resides in the fiery pit of his soul.  My friend, the love song Sweeney sings to his beloved razors is an atavistic dance between fetishism and blood yearning that ignores the possibility of love, in the form of Mrs. Lovett, standing directly in back of him and out of sight.  Depp’s tenor full of rage and heartbreak gets its perfect emotional moment before the yelping pain squelches everything.   

Helena Bonham Carter’s Mrs. Lovett gives Todd its tragedy.    Lovett is the counterpoint of hope that is constantly being squelched.  Bonham Carter’s singing voice is soft and sometimes tenuous—perfectly suited for a woman trying to find the right thing to say and do to turn a hard heart to love, but afraid of uttering and acting the wrong way.   Bonham Carter plays Lovett as a ghost, an echo of conscience that Sweeney barely can hear over all the other mad noises swirling in his brain.   

Burton keeps it intimate, and with the help of Dante Ferretti’s set design (that combines London into a sooty lump of coal—a claustrophobic nightmare of narrow black streets and shadowy low ceilings) and Dariusz Wolski’s darkly somber cinematography it all comes together with an unrelenting death grip.  This is the gothic tale Tim Burton was born to direct; the culmination of his happiest nightmare; the movie that has been in his head from his very first cinematic thought.

Sweeney Todd gets an A.  

The Credits:

Directed by Tim Burton; written by John Logan, based on the musical by Stephen Sondheim and Hugh Wheeler from an adaptation by Christopher Bond; director of photography, Dariusz Wolski; edited by Chris Lebenzon; music and lyrics by Mr. Sondheim; production designer, Dante Ferretti; produced by Richard D. Zanuck, Walter Parkes, Laurie MacDonald and Mr. Logan; released by DreamWorks Pictures and Warner Brothers Pictures. Running time: 1 hour 50 minutes.

WITH: Johnny Depp (Sweeney Todd), Helena Bonham Carter (Mrs. Lovett), Alan Rickman (Judge Turpin), Timothy Spall (Beadle), Sacha Baron Cohen (Pirelli), Jayne Wisener (Johanna), Jamie Campbell Bower (Anthony Hope) and Laura Michelle Kelly (Lucy/Beggar Woman).

“Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). It’s not “Hairspray.”

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

I’m not There (2007)

The Review:

Todd Haynes did a thorough deconstruction of the 1950’s Hollywood style in Far From Heaven.  Under the smooth golden light and all the coded tension he revealed the gay throbbing heart of all those Douglas Sirk melodramas.  The outing ditched the Hayes Codes, kept the pulp and in the process elevated a gentle satire to something greater than the original.

Likewise Haynes faux Bob Dylan biopic I’m not There uses style and poses to unmask our times ultimate stylist and poseur.   If it doesn’t really explain the original it is because the Grand Jester knows how to keep a good joke to himself.  If I’m not There isn’t a better Dylan it is just as interesting. 

Haynes and his co-scriptwriter Oren Moverman (Jesus’ Son) have created six Dylan reflections—four of them real, one historical, and one mythic-poetic.   Their perfectly dramatized stories, shot in the dominant style of their times (grainy 16mm color, Kodachrome, 35mm Panavision and Black and White) are intercut on the same plane, bump up to each other but never merge.

The mystic chords of the Dylan musical inheritance are bundled up in the eleven year old black Woody Guthrie (Marcus Carl Franklin).  Guthrie is a mass of contradictions: a unionist zealot who is too young to work; a spouter of folksy wisdom who weeps homesick blues songs from his battered guitar; a runaway whose ever shifting lies never allow him to find a permanent home.  He is a bluff forever taking off for the nearest boxcar whenever someone gets a little to close to his secret.  Dylan’s own musical genes doom him to wandering and reinvention. 

And when the interrogation gets too close the reinvention begins.   The folk singer (an earnest Christian Bale) yields to the hipster poet (Ben Whishaw) when the anthems change nothing and the faithful question the lack of revolution; and when the establishment press digs close to the façade of the rock idol (Cate Blanchett) that utters gnomic code and lives the mod life in London with the Fab Four it yields to the Hollywood star (Heath Ledger) enduring a failed marriage and artistic malaise.  Even his alter ego character, Billy the Kid (Richard Gere) retreats when it’s Sheriff Pat Garrett demolishing the homestead in the name of progress.

Like a Dylan song I’m not There can mean everything and nothing.  All the biographical facts are there, and all the six stories and reflections refract with dramatic action and resolve themselves in traditional ways.  Everything points to meaning and moral points are thrown about like party confetti, but the dots don’t connect— just more riddles and questions.  I’m not There is biography as metafiction.  And Dylan, who easily acquiesced to the use of the music and his life incidentals is in keen agreement with Haynes little inside joke.   Think of it as six characters in search of an author.   Like modern art it is more about the feeling than the meaning.  

Cate Blanchett’s performance as the Dylan known as Jude Quinn is I’m not There’s crystal beating heart.   The post folk break Dylan shocked his followers with an electric ballad.  It was a transformation as radical as a sex change.  Haynes plays it for all its literalness-- the thin dike in the black suit and tie with the spaghetti hair existing on bennies and cryptic attitude in the middle of rock n roll London becoming the stand-in for the eternal masculine-feminine, the Dylan stuck in the middle and in between the middle of everything, the chaos that comes before faith.

Blanchett plays her Dylan as a Mona Lisa smile.   There is a scene where Jude shares a taxi with John Lennon (that other Cheshire Cat of music) and an interrogator (Bruce Greenwood) where all the recondite rejoinders become the slapstick expression of all rock star attitudes.  When the two slap on black shades it become the first inside pop joke.  This isn’t just a dead on impression, it is great acting done with sunglasses and a laugh.             

I don’t know if Todd Haynes could do a great straight picture that isn’t dependent on synthesis for its effect— but he does make a great argument for the protean Dylan.   Without all the recreations there can be no great creation.   

I’m not There gets an A. 

The Credits:

Directed by Todd Haynes; written by Mr. Haynes and Oren Moverman, based on a story by Mr. Haynes; director of photography, Edward Lachman; edited by Jay Rabinowitz; production designer, Judy Becker; produced by James D. Stern, John Sloss, John Goldwyn and Christine Vachon; released by the Weinstein Company. In Manhattan at Film Forum, 209 West Houston Street, west of Avenue of the Americas, South Village. Running time: 2 hours 15 minutes.

WITH: Christian Bale (Jack/Pastor John), Cate Blanchett (Jude Quinn), Marcus Carl Franklin (Woody Guthrie), Richard Gere (Billy), Heath Ledger (Robbie), Ben Whishaw (Arthur Rimbaud), Kris Kristofferson (Narrator), Charlotte Gainsbourg (Claire), David Cross (Allen Ginsberg), Bruce Greenwood (Keenan Jones/Pat Garrett), Julianne Moore (Alice Fabian), Michelle Williams (Coco Rivington), Richie Havens (Old Man Arvin), Peter Friedman (Morris Bernstein), Alison Folland (Grace), Yolonda Ross (Angela Reeves), Kim Gordon (Carla Hendricks), Mark Camacho (Norman), Joe Cobden (Sonny) and Kristen Hager (Mona).

“I’m Not There” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). It has sex, swearing, brief violence and drug use.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

  August Rush (2007)

The Review:

L

August Rush is a visual rhapsody-- a genuinely charming fairy tale of a musical prodigy who wills himself a family by wishful composition.   Visually it is a mixture of Close Encounters of the third Kind and Field of Dreams, with a dollop of Forest Gump.   Structurally it is Oliver Twist without the politics and social commentary. 

August Rush is an orphan who like all other orphans still believes that some day his parents will come back to claim him.   He is acutely in tune with the music of the world.   He can be found in the local crop field conducting a symphony as the wind breathes harmonic noise through the wheat— the soft swirls of stalks bending almost into musical notes. 

He tells the social worker handling his case (Terence Howard caught in a fog of sadness and loneliness) “The music.  I though if I could play it, they would know I was alive.   And find me.”  

“I believe in music the way some people believe in fairy tales. But I hear it came from my mother and father. Once upon a time, they fell in love,” he continues.

August’s mom is a muse, Lyla Novacek (Keri Russell of Waitress scrubbed to an ivory glow till she is radiantly pure) a concert cellist who falls in love with Louis Connelly, (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) a male muse (a museum—is that the word?) transfigured into the lead singer of a musical band of Irish brothers.    August is the harmonic convergence that results.  

Lyla’s father, Thomas Novacek (William Sadler) a jealous manager of his daughter career, forces the lovers to separate and later when the pregnant Lyla is involved in a serious traffic accident, secretly places the baby into an orphanage. 

Eleven years and sixteen days later (the kid has been keeping count) August feels a musical echo of their existence and runs away from the orphanage, the compulsion (one of the many notes of Close Encounters that pop up) leading him towards Greenwich Village, the start of his composition.   Lyla feels the same tug— and soon Louis is leaving his white collar life adopting the torn blue jeans of his past and also heading to New York.  

August comes under the sponsorship of Wizard (Robin Williams channeling Bono via way of a drugstore cowboy), a Fagin with his own gang of street musician children.   Wizard encourages August’s talent, aiming to use the boy as his ticket out of homelessness.   

The raging symphony building inside of August forces him to split from Wizard and eventually he wanders into Julliard where the faculty adopts the prodigy, teaching him the skills needed to finish the Rhapsody humming inside of him.   After what seems only two weeks he has finished his course requirements— and the resulting August Rush Rhapsody in C is chosen as the headline talent of a new young composers and musician’s concert that will have a Central Park debut.  Guest who is featured as one of the opening acts?   

Kristen Sheridan a few years back garnered an Oscar nomination for co-penning along with her father Jim Sheridan (the director of My Left Foot and In the Name of Father) and her sister Naomi (a poet and writer) the ultimate immigrant fairy tale In America, which daddy Jim also directed.   It was the perfect balance of the American Immigrant Dream and immigrant angst.

August Rush is pretty much an adorned fairy tale that proudly shows it heart.  It’s filled with all the elemental tug, eyes to the skies wonder of Close Encounters without the alien worship.  There are even subtle homage’s to John Williams in the Mark Macina score.  

The screenwriters, Nick Castle (Hook) and James V. Hart (Contact) burnish all the coincidences with the ring of fate while letting the musical subtheme propel the story forward with emotional warmth and a big squishy heart.

Kirsten Sheridan layers it all with unblinking childlike innocence.  She gets the notes right, letting the fragments hang tantalizing in the air until Augusts’ composition pulls it all together.   Pieces could be heard in the wheat field, in the swoosh of the underground and ambient rhythm of traffic.  Sheridan gives the audience the first chords knowing that she can count on us to listen for the rest.   Though the final product sounds more Mr. Holland’s Opus than Mozart (another child prodigy) it sings with the joy of mother, father and child reunion.    

Only a few wrong notes mar the composition.    The constant refrain of “Run, August run” adds an unintentional layer of Forest Gumpiness.   And Augusts’ insistence of if he writes it, sings it, composes it they will come is just a fillip of “If you build it, they will come” from Field of Dreams— adding another obvious layer of unneeded symbolism.  

Even with all its faults, August Rush is the best heart warming family picture I’ve seen this year.  

It gets a B+.    

The Credits: 

Directed by Kirsten Sheridan; written by Nick Castle and James V. Hart, based on a story by Paul Castro and Mr. Castle; director of photography, John Mathieson; edited by William Steinkamp; music by Mark Mancina; production designer, Michael Shaw; produced by Richard Barton Lewis; released by Warner Brothers Pictures. Running time: 1 hour 52 minutes.

WITH: Freddie Highmore (August Rush), Keri Russell (Lyla Novacek), Jonathan Rhys Meyers (Louis Connelly), Terrence Howard (Richard Jeffries), Robin Williams (Wizard) and William Sadler (Thomas Novacek).

“August Rush” is rated PG (Parental Guidance suggested). The title character was conceived out of wedlock.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

http://www.jonathanmoya.com/

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

Enchanted (2007)

The Review:

Amy Adams as Giselle in Enchanted gives the whole Disney Princess world a light dusting.   A braid of floral dandruff in her auburn hair, singing her happy working song (composed by Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz of Pocahontas and The Hunchback of Notre Dame fame), Giselle sweeps and cleans her animated 2-D world with the aid of her furry bunny, tweety bird, shy curly tail doe friends and one seriously agitated chipmunk named Pip.     After being pushed down a well by the wicked Queen Narissa (Susan Sarandon in a luscious black and purple velvet bustier gown lined with golden fingers clutching her hooters) Giselle tumbles far far away into a world of not so happy ever after folks.  She pops up from that rabbit hole in time known as a New York City manhole cover, a billowy vision in a wedding dress -- the rude 3-D world of Times Square zooming all around her.    Adopted for a few nights by Robert Phillips (the macdreamy Patrick Dempsey being very macgruffy) a forlorn divorce attorney and his princess obsessed daughter Morgan (Rachel Covey a ray of little Miss Sunshine), Giselle continues her singing, spic n’ span ways, this time enlisting the local Manhattan fauna of rats, flies, cockroaches and pigeons (and thus continuing the Ratatouille tradition of trying to animate grotesque things in cutesy ways). 

Giselle is caught in a world where the rules of love in the Andalasian constitution (that it be true, run straight except for the expected detour for the prince to fight a witch turned hag or dragon, and that  it be happy happy happy forever and ever after) don’t work, don’t apply and don’t make very much sense. She is confused about this place where love can stop and die, or even worse, turn back on a slant, fall down somewhere else, and form a triangle.  Her Prince Edward (James Marsden playing it straight with almost no chaser) following closely behind is being delayed because he keeps on putting his sword through the top of transit buses and being run over by a tour of bicyclist after only finishing the first few notes of their love song— even though her true love, in the guise of Robert, stares her in the face her every real morning, noon and night.   Her emotions are flying as neatly as the little pirouettes of hands over her head that is her happy dance.  

Enchanted isn’t a grand scale retooling of the Disney Princess animated tradition— just a sideways revision.   It’s a romantic comedy for the millions of one parent kids and those families on their second try of happy forever aftering.   Its $50 million opening weekend gross says it is a princess story whose time has come.

But without Amy Adams enchanting portrayal it would be just another bad sappy princess tale decaying among the ruins of not so great family fare.  Adams is all full body princess— all genuine wide eye majesty from her Belle ringlets to her Cinderella slippers.   No winks.   No nods.   No tongue in cheek.    Her posture is princess perfect.  Her every step is almost a Skippy little waltz.   Even her anger and sadness is silk.  

Robert’s unwillingness to see the sunny side of life leaves Giselle perplexed, bothered and bewildered.  He turns down even her gentlest requests.

“Is that the only word you know? No,” she says to him.   “No no no no no no no,” he replies.    “I'm... I'm... I'm so angry! Hahahahhahahaha.” She laughs from her heart.  

Eventually her singing and dancing, her persistent cheerful goodness wins him over.   Patrick Dempsey goes from charmless man to charming lover with aplomb, even though his good looks and engaging smile do most of the acting and talking. 

The transition from Prince Edward to Robert, from one true love to one real love, that wicked reflection that bounces off the magic mirror of life and bends Enchanted waves from fairy tale to romantic comedy isn’t quite the golden ray of sunshine it should have been— even though it does involve a lost slipper and a Prince looking for that perfect fit. 

Enchanted only poison apple is with the wicked queen role.   When the evil queen in Snow White asks the mirror “who is the fairest one of all?” it is the wrong question.  If she had said “who is the most beautiful, babe-a-licous one of them all”, the mirror would have said “you your royalness.”     The queen’s side of a fairy story is a tale of pride gone blind.    Half of male goth culture started out with the feeling of wicked joy that a real good looking queen in a dark tight velvet floor length gown produces down in their netherworlds.  

The cartoon version of Narissa is dark wonderbra perfection.    The real version of her applies her makeup with all the deftness of a drunken drag queen, could use a little more support up there, and wears her evil a little too loose around the hips.  She isn’t hot, just damp.   There is no sizzle to her nastiness.

The King Kong like ending which involves a wincing role reversal just proves that this queen should never have been let out of the closet. 

Amy Adam is enchanting, Enchanted the movie a little less so.  It gets a B+.   

The Credits:

Directed by Kevin Lima; written by Bill Kelly; director of photography, Don Burgess; hand-drawn animation supervisor, James Baxter; edited by Stephen A. Rotter and Gregory Perler; music by Alan Menken, with songs by Mr. Menken and Stephen Schwartz; production designer, Stuart Wurtzel; produced by Barry Josephson and Barry Sonnenfeld; released by Walt Disney Pictures. Running time: 1 hour 47 minutes.

WITH: Amy Adams (Giselle), Patrick Dempsey (Robert Phillip), James Marsden (Prince Edward), Timothy Spall (Nathaniel), Idina Menzel (Nancy Tremaine), Rachel Covey (Morgan Phillip), Susan Sarandon (Narissa) and Kevin Lima and Jeff Bennett (Pip).

Enchanted” is rated PG (Parental guidance suggested). Pigeons and rats and water bugs, oh my.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

Beowulf (2007)

The Review:

Angelina Jolie’s nude animated body dripping with what looks like caramel syrup is the big fan boy highlight of Beowoulf.   She is a water demon, so she is wet all the time—which is three times the amount she is actually ready for Brad.   She rises slowly from a phosphorescent blue puddle, the voice oozing the come-on of a Transylvanian whore, the breasts honeyed perfection, her vertical smile obscured in a golden aura, her cloven hooves in the exact shape of a pair of $600.00 Manolo Blahnik oro gold pumps with the four inch stiletto heels— the perfect temptation of every man doomed to hell.  

This is the second time that Robert Zemeckis has animated female perfection.  The “I’m not bad, just drawn that way,” Jessica Rabbit was first back in 1988 with Who Framed Roger Rabbit.  The nineteen year difference is how long it took nature to catch up with art.  The naturally perfect Jolie is not just bad— she is nasty! 

Actually, Zemeckis tries for a perfecta.   Ray Winstone’s Beowulf has sweeping golden hair contained in a braided headband, six pack abs, bronze muscular thighs clothed in cinched leather briefs that hide the whispered about third leg of every mead maiden’s desire, and a rock solid ass.  He carries himself with the immodesty of a porn star.   If Beowulf never quite comes off as a six and half foot sculpted god it is because the knowledge of the really 5’ 9”, 240 pound Ray Winstone of Sexy Beast fame fogs the vision.

That chiseled manliness in its almost full glory bounces around like a Jai-Alai pelota (with incidental shlong exposure obscured by convenient obstructions) in the early battle between Beowulf and Grendel (Crispin Glover in screeching mutant pain), the monster that King Hrothgar (a mostly half-nude Anthony Hopkins) wants Beowulf to kill because it interferes with the whole Danish community’s desire to feast, wine and fornicate itself into oblivion.  “No singing, no merry making of any kind,” is King Hrothgar’s decree until the hero comes. 

Grendel, a pitiful mass of strangulated blood vessels and seared muscles with the hearing of a bat ingests the Danish merriment assaulting his ulcerating eardrums with all the irritation of the Grinch listening to the Whos down in Whoville singing carols.  In one of the more unusual tracking shots of all filmdom it sleighs over hills and dales, over a river and through woods of bramble branches, a jabberwocky of alliterative senselessness.

When Grendel crashes the party every cell and follicle of him cries out for cessation.  He shunts, shoos, swishes aside, chomps off the heads of any noisy warriors brave enough to assault him— until Beowulf shows him the door, sending him screaming home to mommy(the caramel delicious Angelina Jolie), his severed arm now the mighty Geet’s trophy. 

Grendel dies near the lap of his mother, an innocent little boy crying softly about the bully who beat him up.  In revenge, Grendel’s mother slaughters a troop of Danes sleeping off another big revel.   Their carcasses are strung upside down from the mead hall ceiling like bats hanging from a cave roof.

If the monster seems more human than the man it is because the man is really a monster underneath all that sculpted perfection.  “I know that beneath you’re glamour, you’re as much a monster as my son,” Grendel’s mother says to Beowulf—intent to rid the Danes of yet another horror.    

She proposes the bargain that was the seed of Hrothgar’s cursed kingdom, and would be the curse of Beowulf’s realm fifty years on at the end of a soul breaking, bloody lifetime of empire building.  “Are you the one they call Beowulf?  Such a strong man you are.  A man like you could own the greatest tale ever sung.  Beowulf. . . Stay with me.  Give me a son, and I shall make you the greatest king that ever lived.  This. . . I swear.”

Zemeckis’s first performance capture spectacle The Polar Express was a holiday sugar plum marred with creepy The Nightmare Before Christmas side effects. The process which involves filming actors as they performed in Lycra suits studded with myriad digital sensors couldn’t capture eye movement in coordination with face and body.  The result: skin tones with a ghostly pallor, a Santa Claus with a pedophiliac glint and elves with all the warmth of hobgoblins.  The whole train trip was the Rapture to hell. 

For Beowulf the Zemeckis design team added a color palette of sun, fire and gold; and created an EOG device (electrooculography) that synced eye movement with body performance.  Now, the men are bronzed-- only the women are deathly pale.  And in a small step up, the eyes are drunk and dazed instead of crazily demented.

However, the monsters are glorious.   Grendel and his mother are a twosome that rock to their own delightfully twisted dance steps.  Grendel’s molded confusion perfectly mirrors the emotional chaos inside him— visually Edvard Munch’s The Scream turned flesh. With screeching authenticity, Crispin Glover captures the whole mad howl of this monster’s existence.  Jolie’s alluring beauty matched with the reptilian voice never let’s one forget the she-demon inside.   Like Medusa her true self is only glimpsed in reflection.  And the dragon at the end is a model of scorched earth burnished perfection.  

The screenplay by Neil Gaiman (the Sandman graphic novels) and Roger Avary (Pulp Fiction) fills in the holes of the Beowulf saga with some oddly appropriate Freudian slush and oedipal intrigue.  The update keeps the tales mythological spine while giving it a tragic dimension-- some Joseph Campbell relevance for the generations weaned on the Star Wars six-pack.

Zemeckis directs with all the solemnity of a Viking funeral.   The similar Trojan War and death epic 300, released earlier this year, was all eye-popping, muscle bulging, pulpy testosterone—but it at least it had a level of ironic fun, and stirred things up visually.   Beowulf is all juice by contrast.  It doesn’t want to spoil the read for those few high school English teachers that may be watching.    The Zemeckis that did the Back to the Future trilogy and Who Framed Roger Rabbit knew how to goose and pop the script to make it fun while keeping it classic.   Beowulf is just classic.  In-between the set pieces its rich aesthetic values had me yawning. 

Even with the dust blown off this tome, Beowulf gets a B.  

The Credits: 

Directed by Robert Zemeckis; written by Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary, based on the epic poem; director of photography, Robert Presley; edited by Jeremiah O’Driscoll; music by Alan Silvestri, with songs by Mr. Silvestri and Glen Ballard; production designer, Doug Chiang; senior visual effects supervisor, Jerome Chen; produced by Mr. Zemeckis, Steve Starkey and Jack Rapke; released by Paramount Pictures. Running time: 114 minutes.

WITH: Ray Winstone (Beowulf), Anthony Hopkins (Hrothgar), John Malkovich (Unferth), Robin Wright Penn (Wealthow), Brendan Gleeson (Wiglaf), Crispin Glover (Grendel), Alison Lohman (Ursula) and Angelina Jolie (Grendel’s mother).

“Beowulf” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Gory violence and a naked Angelina Jolie avatar.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

  Fred Claus (2007)

The Review:

Any holiday movie that features Santa Claus gets an automatic pass from this critic.   I don’t like being on anyone’s naughty list.   Besides I have a fetish for striking full-size fays (the correct term for a female elf) in short tight red dresses with white fuzzy trim.   One has been on my Christmas list consecutively since 1965.  Maybe one day she will come. 

Santa Claus fay assistant in Fred Claus is Charlene played by the delightfully leggy and delectably proportioned Elizabeth Banks who is given as many low angles up the skirt camera shots as possible since she has a “secret Willie.”   That is how one child in the row in front of me described the elf that is her secret admirer.  Willie (John Michael Higgins) is Santa’s indispensable right hand and tool. 

Fred is Santa’s older brother played by the half sleepy-eyed, half grumpy-pussed, sometimes just right Vince Vaughn.   Fred and Santa (Paul Giamatti looking as red nose as Rudolph) have been on the outs ever since Santa mistakenly chopped down the tree that contained Fred and the blue bird of happiness.   That was hundreds of years ago, before Santa became a saint, and time became eternal youth for St Nick and his relations— one of the perks of sainthood. 

Fred was present when Santa was born— as big as a turkey and two Christmas hams, his eyes all a twinkle, his dimples very merry, his cheeks like roses, his nose not quite a cherry.  He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook as he shivered off all his maternal jelly.  He looked at his mom and called her a “ho”, followed by two more before Fred up the stairs he did go.  (With all apologies to Clement Clark Moore.)

Fred is a two bit hustler with big dreams, a heart of gold and a posse of bill collector on his trail.   In his latest scheme he needs fifty thousand dollars to open an Off Track Betting parlor right across from the Chicago Mercantile Exchange— and has only three days to get it. 

So Fred does what any black sheep brother with a mythological sibling would do— he steals himself a little red pot of money from a Salvation Army Claus.  In jail after being unkindly pummeled and piled on by thirteen of Santa’s red-suited Brethren, Fred calls the only true miracle worker he knows. 

Soon Fred is at the North Pole stamping endless naughty and nice files, having massive disco parties on the factory floor of Santa’s toy shop and causing work slow downs that put the elves behind on their Christmas quota.

Fred is probably the least of Santa’s problems.   The jolly old elf is fighting morbid obesity caused by the endless generosity of the world’s little one leaving out too many milk and cookies for him to eat.   Corporate already having given the Easter bunny his notice, has sent an efficiency expert Clyde (Kevin Spacey dressed in a Clark Kent costume but still acting like Lex Luthor) to hopefully shut him down permanently.    Santa is only one strike away from being replaced by Chinese labor. 

Guess who will have to step in to save Christmas?

To make a Bad Santa type movie with an actual bad Santa would be box office poison.  So Fred Claus can’t help but to be a homogenized Elf spread served on a crusty bagel— something that is just barely good though not quite kosher. 

It lets the rest of the religious universe crash what is normally a large and loud private party of one sect.

Fred stamps every naughty file as nice.  “Every child deserves a Christmas present,” he says, to a flustered Santa trying to patiently explain to Fred that the factory can’t make enough gifts for everyone.  

As Santa’s surrogate on Christmas Eve Fred passes out gifts to even Muslim and Jewish families. 

If Clyde (read Lex Luthor) had gotten a Superman cape many Christmases ago when he was number one on the naughty list he wouldn’t be such a pud.    The right gift, at the right time can turn an evil genius to good— it can transform the world. 

Fred Claus is a Christmas movie that comes close to suggesting that the world be better with less of the Kris and more the Kringle spirit.  It wants a universal Santa Day that will celebrate the diversity of the world.

It is the only Christmas movie I know which wants to win a Nobel peace prize.  Movies can come up with the weirdest subtext when a bored director (Kevin Dobkin of Wedding Crashers fame) tries to shake things up a bit.

 Fred Claus is not naughty enough to deserve coal in its stocking, but not nice enough to produce visions of dancing sugar plums.  It gets a B, because there are no truly naughty Christmas movies. 

The Credits: 

Directed by David Dobkin; written by Dan Fogelman based on a story by Jessie Nelson and Mr. Fogelman; director of photography, Remi Adefarasin; edited by Mark Livolsi; music by Christophe Beck; production designer, Allan Cameron; produced by Joel Silver, Ms. Nelson and Mr. Dobkin; released by Warner Brothers Pictures. Running time: 107 minutes.

WITH: Vince Vaughn (Fred Claus), Paul Giamatti (Santa Claus), Miranda Richardson (Annette Claus), John Michael Higgins (Willie), Elizabeth Banks (Charlene), Rachel Weisz (Wanda), Kathy Bates (Mother Claus), Kevin Spacey (Clyde), Ludacris (DJ Donnie), Bobb’e J. Thompson (Slam) and Jorge Rodero (Willie’s body)

“Fred Claus” is rated PG (Parental guidance suggested). Sexual innuendo and ninja elf violence.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

 Bee Movie (2007)

The Review:

I am glad to see that Jerry Seinfeld is ready to get back to work.   Doing American Express commercials with Superman and being a standup guy isn’t as rewarding as it once was.  Ah, to be a drone again and to punch that old clock!  The stuff of Jerry’s dreams— but not mine. 

In Bee Movie the newly matriculated worker bugs choose the dead-end jobs they will be doing for the rest of their lives from a flap display of appealing positions ranging from crud picker to regurgitator.  The good spots like pollen collector are inherited positions with a twenty-seven million year waiting list. 

Technically, they are not bees, not even insects— though they are black and yellow and fly, and exhibit a collective hive mentality.   They are a weird hybrid that has four legs instead of the normal six and speak with the chipper high tones of those taking antidepressants.  The parents worry whether their children are still being “Beeish” and not dating wasps. 

Everyday life in the hive is a Rube Goldberg conglomeration of ladles, scoops and tubes coated in a purple and golden aura-- an endless theme park ride to keep the bees working and amused.  

And everyone is, except for Barry B. Benson (Jerry Seinfeld), a maverick Bee who dreams of seeing life outside the hive.   On a dare he is able to fly along with a squadron of pollen jocks, the only bees allowed to leave the hive. 

He finds a friend when a rainstorm causes Barry to break formation and seek shelter in the window box belonging to Vanessa (Renée Zellwegger), a quirky big–hearted Manhattan florist, who saves him from being mashed under the winter boots of her dim bulb tennis partner Ken (Patrick Warburton). 

Barry is smitten and she is curiously amused—and the two prattle around the city taking in the sights. 

That is until one day in a grocery store he stumbles upon a secret that shatters him.  Rows and rows of golden honey stocked neatly to the ceiling plastered with Ray Liotta’s face— and all marked 50 % off.  The bees are slaves to the hu-“man”, and all their work just serves their sweet cravings. 

“This is stealing.  A lot of stealing,” Barry screams in dismay.  “You have taken our homes, our schools, our hospitals.  This is all we have.  And it’s on sale!”     

Barry decides to sue the human race for the misappropriation of the bee’s labor.    And he wins.  But there are disastrous side effects—all the flowers, vegetables and trees start to die.   And soon even the bees themselves.   But take heart, this is a family movie, and family movies don’t end in ecological disaster.  

The collective hive mentality of Bee Movie, forces the plot to jump through so many illogical hoops that Bee Movie almost stings itself to death.   Parents may want to give their children two spoonfuls of sugar and one of honey less they prattle on about being a crud picker, regurgitator or mite wrangler to the end of their dyeing days.  It is nice for children to have a fall back position, but to fall back so low, well. . .

I suspect that some children are going to be thinking dirty job for eternity or dope fiend--- and choosing dope fiend.  In that case, parents would be advised to take their kids to see American Gangster playing in theater twelve next door,  because “Bee”-ing yourself here  clearly means the end of the world. 

Even being an animated bee is a stretch for Jerry Seinfeld.   Being Jerry worked in Seinfeld because he was free to sit back and be the straight man to a more talented cast.   The show was deliberately episodic and about nothing for a reason— the man was a lousy actor.  In longer doses he was sweaty, uncomfortable and almost insufferable. 

In Bee Movie Seinfeld is just uncomfortable.   The timing of his jokes just hang in the air.  They don’t buzz.

The screenplay written by Seinfeld and Seinfeld scribes and friends Barry Marder, Spike Feresten and Andy Robin is three half-hour episodes uneasily waxed together with as much bee foolery, bee facts, and cautionary wisdom about their necessary ecologic role as the audience can stand.  Bee Movie is at it best when it is nothing more than friends hanging around and shooting the breeze-- just a Seinfeld episode. 

The bits between Barry and Vanessa, and his fellow hive mate Adam (Matthew Broderick) are loaded with chummy repartee.  Chris Rocks throwaway barbs as a mosquito named Mooseblood, Barry’s temporary traveler splattered on the windshield of life zing with the survival comedy of people in the same mess.  “Why do you people have to be so god dumb clean,” he cries.  “How much do you people need to see.  Open your eyes.  Stick your head out the window.” A life mantra if there ever was one. 

The last two-thirds of Bee Movie wiggle in honey righteousness.    The court case and the ecologic disaster that results have all the fun and excitement of being in bed with the hives.   The more it scratches the messier it gets. 

The directors Steve Hickner (Prince of Egypt) and Simon J. Smith (the Shrek 4-D attraction at Universal Orlando) give the images a hypnotic lushness and a pacing that swarms with pheromone acuity.   The sags never show because Bee Movie is always busy setting up the next big set piece. The best animated montage I have seen this year is Barry’s introduction to the outside world:  a kaleidoscope of green nature that floats into the cool pastels of box kites floating high on a breeze.

The blitzkrieg of Bee Movie ads on NBC primetime (Jerry’s old network) has the smell of a sitcom deal waiting to be announced between Jerry and the peacock network.  Why else would NBC air such unfunny stuff?  

Bee Movie never quite lives up to its own buzz, but then it is just a B-movie.

It gets a B, of course. 

The Credits: 

Directed by Simon J. Smith and Steve Hickner; written by Jerry Seinfeld, Spike Feresten, Barry Marder and Andy Robin; head of character animation, Fabio Lignini; edited by Nick Fletcher; music by Rupert Gregson-Williams; production designer, Alex McDowell; produced by Mr. Seinfeld and Christina Steinberg; released by Paramount Pictures. Running time: 100 minutes.

WITH THE VOICES OF: Jerry Seinfeld (Barry B. Benson), Renée Zellweger (Vanessa), Matthew Broderick (Adam Flayman), John Goodman (Layton T. Montgomery), Chris Rock (Mooseblood), Patrick Warburton (Ken), Larry King (Bee Larry King), Ray Liotta (himself) and Sting (himself).

“Bee Movie” is rated PG (Parental guidance suggested). A few scary moments and mild hints about, er, the birds and the bees.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

  Lars and the Real Girl (2007)

The Review:

My experience with plastic sex dolls is limited to the occasional fumbling around with a condom.  Although I must admit I was psychologically scarred when in a pique of curiosity I did pull down the pants of my G.I. Joe and discovered that underneath he looked exactly like Barbie.   And so did Ken too!  For the two years between first and second grade, I thought I was living with an alien thing growing between my legs.  I thought I was a Martian.   It was the only explanation that seemed to fit.   It was also, my only childhood delusion.  

So Lars and the real girl, about a 27 year old virgin so painfully shy that he treats the anatomically correct sex mannequin he “met” on the Internet as his real girlfriend, has a shared ache for me and all the other Martians and nerds who grew up scared about that thing in-between their legs. And if parents were really caring and smart, all shy boys would have a real girl like Lars for their first love.  

The real girl of the title is Bianca who comes fully assembled and delivered in a Frankenstein-size crate suitably attired in black arm and fishnet stockings, a matching sequin top and skirt, and smart designer pumps.  

Lars (Ryan Gosling in a performance so wittily self-contained it is easy to miss the fact that most of it is improvised) spent his pre-Bianca life in the converted garage apartment in back of his brother’s Gus (Paul Schneider) house avoiding all attempts at breakfast, lunch and dinner invites his brother’s wife Karin (Emily Mortimer) tried to hijack his way; excusing himself from the innocent yearnings of Margo (Kelli Garner), the blonde from his church with a naïf’s smile, an I.Q. and a pulse; and (this being a PG-13 film with no solo yo-yo playing allowed) nights alone in his dark bedroom.  

With a half loopy, almost sexual smile on his face Lars announces his newfound friend to Gus.  Bianca confined to a wheelchair, is a missionary of Brazilian-Dutch blood— a religious girl whose faith won’t allow for Lars and her to sleep under the same roof.

“Bianca is in town for a reason,” observes the local therapist and general practitioner Dagmar (Patricia Clarkson) explaining Lars delusion to the perplexed Gus and Karin.   “Just go along with it.”   And everyone in town does. 

Their romance is a kind and gentle relationship until Bianca develops a village life.  She volunteers at church and the hospital, reads with the aid of an audio book to the first graders at school, even has a part-time job as window dressing at the dress shop in the mall—all to the chagrin of Lars.   

“How did you know… that you were a man,” Lars asks Gus in the kitchen one day.  “You grow up when you decide to do right.  And not just right for you-- for everybody.  Even when it hurts,” Gus replies.

Lars is uncomfortably starting to notice more grown up things—namely the curves, the legs and ass on Margo as she shimmies up and down at every strike she makes at the bowling alley— the two out on a friendly date intended to cheer up Lars enduring another lonely night of Bianca volunteerism. 

It leads to Bianca and Lars first argument.  Days later Bianca becomes sick.   When Lars resuscitates Margo’s office teddy bear after another coworker had hung it with a noose made from an extension cord (in retaliation for Margo stealing his action figures), Bianca suddenly stops breathing and is admitted to the hospital. And things only get better for Lars.  

Nancy Oliver’s’ screenplay is a delicious inside joke.   Oliver was a regular scribe for Six Feet Under, the comic drama about a family of undertakers that ran for five seasons on HBO.  Substitute a corpse for Bianca and this would be a weird horror comedy about necrophilia.   The chaste “manno”-philia allows Oliver to pitch the ruse to a wider audience, while keeping it Hollywood small-town gentle.   The lack of an edge or dissent from the townsfolk to Lars affliction robs Lars and the Real Girl of any emotional depth it might have—making it just a small good film with some charm and strong performances.

Craig Gillespie’s gives Lars the muted color scheme and subdued camera placement typical for independent comedies now.  With a more talented cast of Billy Bob Thornton, Susan Sarandon and Sean William Scott, Gillespie released, just a month earlier, the lamentable Mr. Woodcock.   The movie had the feel and tone of a production shoot where everyone was just there for the paycheck.     Lars which was filmed and finished before Woodcock, at least had some beginner’s luck and a cast that wanted to make some art on its side.  

Lars and the Real Girl is as gentle as a last breath—just not as final.  

It gets a B.  

The Credits: 

Directed by Craig Gillespie; written by Nancy Oliver; director of photography, Adam Kimmel; edited by Tatiana S. Riegel; music by David Torn; production designer, Arv Grewal; produced by Sidney Kimmel, John Cameron and Sarah Aubrey; released by Metro Goldwyn Mayer Pictures. Running time: 106 minutes.

WITH: Ryan Gosling (Lars Lindstrom), Emily Mortimer (Karin), Paul Schneider (Gus), Kelli Garner (Margo), Patricia Clarkson (Dagmar), Nancy Beatty (Mrs. Gruner), Maxwell McCabe-Lokos (Kurt) and Karen Robinson (Cindy).

Lars and the Real Girl” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). No man-and-doll sex, just courtship.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

  Dan in Real Life (2007)

The Review:

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my family to death. It is always the highlight of my year when we come together in Hulls Cove, an extension of the Mount Dessert Island town of  Bar Harbor, Maine for the annual family reunion (this year it was a Caribbean cruise) at my dad’s big sunlit modern house with its fireplace that almost reaches heaven and the fabulous view it has of Frenchman Bay, its nature trails artfully cleared that lead to an almost natural looking pond, its gatehouse filled with the tumble of grandkids and antic moms and dads, and its cottage with a Japanese rock garden and trellises full of locally grown flora that find their way into pots and vases in all the houses.   The cottage was reclaimed from the ruins of what use to be an old stable and/or servants quarters.  Before it was built, it use to be an old “haunted house” that the grownup kids use to shine flashlights in at night to scare the be Jesus out of the little ones watching from the safe distance of the gate house porch as the ghosts of Tranquility (the name of the main house) moaned and reflected their ectoplasmic existence.  But I’m a big city person, and after about four days of Tranquility and family togetherness I would be looking for a little insanity by escaping to a movie, Bangor or across the Bay of Fundy to Yarmouth Nova Scotia via the high speed Cat which runs twice a day in season.  After the seventh day I was ready to go home.  

Dan in Real Life is a romance buried in a family reunion picture.  Meaning there is a lot of Dan but very little of what I know as real life. 

The original draft written by Pierce Gardner was inspired by all the summer vacations he spent with his wife’s extended family in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.  I suspect it was intended to be a funny little independent film filled with the explosions and reconciliations of sibling rivalry, dirt dishing, wayward relatives sneaking some rule breaking with the children of their sibs, all punctuated with family outings that leveled everyone to a sobbing, blubbering pile of conscience stricken guilt seeking a group hug.  At least, that is what my family reunions were all about.  

When the screenplay warranted a bigger studio treatment Peter Hedges (screenwriter for What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, About a Boy, and the underrated Pieces of April- which he also directed) was asked to do the rewrite and perform the directing chores.    Hedges strips the burrs of family contention to plane the romance. 

Dan Burns is played by Steve Carell with two degrees less of the usual Carell antics.  Think of his depressed Proust scholar from Little Miss Sunshine properly medicated and level.

Burns a widower of four years is a writer who drafts the title column in the fifteen minutes of quiet time not devoted to taking care of his three daughters, which he does with zealous protectiveness.  Jane (the aptly named Alison Pill) bugs dad about learning how to drive.   Cara (Brittany Robertson) annoys dad with her constant jonesing to be with her first boyfriend.  To her, Dan is just “a murderer of love.”   Lily, the baby (Marlene Lawston) is just lucky if she gets Dan attention. Since Dan fears for their mortality, their budding sexuality and his own sanity he keeps his daughters in a constant state of grounding and prohibition.    He is a “good father, but sometimes a bad dad”, one of his kids exclaims.

Hedges is content to leave the daughters as tics, having them fidgeting to life whenever the plot requires complication— the boyfriend that shows up 100 miles north, in the physical film space of here is here, when he should be 100 miles south in the world of over there; the daughter who just happens to have her learner’s permit and the keys when Daddy isn’t allowed to drive.  

In the alternative Hedges screenplay, the ones he use to write when the winds were brusque and the sailing not always smooth, Jane would be tooling down the dirt road in the old Town and Country-- sitting on her wayward Uncle’s lap with him at the foot controls and she in control of the steering wheel (a true incident), and Cara would find sisterly solace in a back porch confidential that might involve a little weed (not so true incident). 

Dan in Real Life could be Philadelphia for all the brotherly love it displays.  Dan has three brothers, all of which he adores, but one of which he seems to have any extended conversations with— his brother Mitch (a less annoying Dane Cook). The other two exist to take up the other bedrooms in their parents rambling paneled to the gills Rhode Island beach house, remaindering Dan to the “special room” occupied with a cot and an old clanking washing machine. 

The Burns are into doing speed crossword challenges segregated by sex, group aerobics, and pretty awful talent shows, in which Dan is excused from participating.  “Get lost— it is not a request”, his mom (Dianne Wiest) smilingly demands of Dan, putting his lameness in quotes.

In the solitude of the local book and tackle shop, Dan meets Marie who is looking for a book on dealing with awkward situations.  Since she is played by Juliette Binoche, Marie is wistfully intelligent, winsomely sexy, and soothingly beautiful.

“I am looking for something not necessarily hahaha laugh out loud funny, something human funny” she purrs.

Whenever a screenwriter expresses his writing credo you know that love can’t be far behind.  Dan knowing a good line when he hears it--  is instantly smitten to pour out his soul, his life, his very heart to her over coffee and the most malformed muffin ever to grace the screen.   And she is charmed enough to give him her number despite the warning she is involved.  

Unfortunately it turns out to be Mitch. 

Dan being a nice guy first follows denial, then out and out contempt, before all the accidental face to faces on the football field, in the shower, in the special room and the kitchen (where he is condemned to eat burnt pancakes in front of the withering glare of Marie) crumble his brotherly-family resolve— and force him to go for the gusto of life staring him in the face. 

Mitch as a consolation ends up with “pig-faced” Irene (Emily Blunt) the ugly duckling turned swan and successful plastic surgeon with a racy red convertible.    

Binoche who won an Oscar for the English Patient and is use to appearing in the unbearable lightness of being of French and old continental drama glories in her chance to play something lightweight—something that allows her to display her deft touch and timing, her guileless charm to full effect.  She is just the anchor that Dan needs. Her bumbling, closeted humanity waiting to be outed makes Dan in real life a joy.     

Carell is becoming a capable romantic lead.  The tics that use to make one producer exclaim that Carell has the looks of a serial killer are almost gone.   He is getting less precious with every movie.  Dan Burns is probably Carell’s most balanced and believable performance.  

Real Life is Peter Hedges-lite.  The film lacks the antic joyfulness and disruption, the earnest biting humanity that made Pieces of April a heartfelt charmer.  But then life and death and the whole family mess isn’t involved either.  It is content to be soothingly pleasant.   It stands out in this summer of foul-mouthed comedies with heart like Knocked Up and Superbad.  With just a little more complexity and attention to the family side Dan in Real Life could have been a little more real and livelier.

For what it is and what it could have been Dan in Real Life gets a B.   

The Credits: 

Directed by Peter Hedges; written by Pierce Gardner and Mr. Hedges; director of photography, Lawrence Sher; edited by Sarah Flack; music by Sondre Lerche; production designer, Sarah Knowles; produced by Jon Shestack and Brad Epstein; released by Touchstone Pictures. Running time: 95 minutes.

WITH: Steve Carell (Dan), Juliette Binoche (Marie), Dane Cook (Mitch), Alison Pill (Jane), Brittany Robertson (Cara), Marlene Lawston (Lilly), Emily Blunt (Ruthie), Amy Ryan (Eileen), Norbert Leo Butz (Clay), Dianne Wiest (Nana) and John Mahoney (Poppy).

“Dan in Real Life” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). It has some sexually suggestive situations.

 Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

Things We Lost in the Fire (2007)

The Review:

With over one-half million people being evacuated from the wildfires blazing across Southern California this week, Things We Lost in the Fire has the year’s most unfortunate film title.  Susanne Bier’s previous film was the academy award nominated best foreign language film from last year, After the Wedding—which like Fire dealt with themes of reconciliation and grief.  Fire could easily be “After the Funeral”, since it involves the early death of a beloved character.

Brian Burke a Seattle real estate developer, a father of two, and life long best friend with a lawyer turned junkie is shot and killed breaking up a domestic argument in the parking lot of the neighborhood store. 

Brian is played by David Duchovny in his most ingratiating everyman mode.  He is Hank Moody- the divorced novelist with writer’s block that Duchovny plays in Showtime’s Californication- stripped of the hedonism, the drugs, the sex, and the acerbic intelligence.    Brian is a saint with a smile and a little charm.   In the less than twenty minutes of  film time Duchovny shares with his screen wife Audrey and best friend Jerry, played by Halle Berry and Benicio Del Toro, he manages to generate  almost no chemistry.   His role could easily have been limited to photos on the wall and thirty sentences of mourning exposition.

Halle Berry is left to bear the representation of Brian’s conscious- and it is not an easy fit.   Audrey is an introvert with a jealous, artistic, perfectionist’s streak and an undying devotion to her two children, Harper and Dory (Alexis Lewellyn and Micah Berry— no relation).  She worries when Brian goes to see Jerry at whatever dive hotel he inhabits that week.  She hates the time the relationship takes away from her and the family. At the last minute she sends someone to invite and take Jerry to the funeral because it is what Brian would have wanted.

Berry’s performance is full of the stops, starts and revisions of a woman trying on a new skin, of trying to accept the good the dead have left behind.    The slough of anger, jealousy and rage is yielding the fight to the patient benevolence and gentle understanding that were the hallmarks of Brian’s life.   Berry’s struggle is an echo of the battle of every woman who has ever mourned and moved on.      

Jerry is a heroin junkie whose only reason to quit is Brian’s faith in him. 

“I hated you for so many years and now it seems so silly, Audrey tells him at the wake reception, secretly resenting the irony that Brian was the first to pass on.  “Why wasn’t it you, Jerry?” she cries softly to him later.  

Yet, Jerry has an easy rapport with Harper and Micah.   And he is seriously trying to overcome his habit cold turkey and with the help of a Narcotic Anonymous group.   He isn’t an evil person, just lost. He doesn’t steal to get drugs.

Audrey tired of the loneliness and emptiness allows him to stay in the garage in exchange for his finishing its conversion into an extra bedroom.  

Their relationship, with the exception of one awkward emotional moment, is chaste and platonic.   Jerry just has a little of Brian’s soul. 

Audrey’s jealousy erupts when Jerry inadvertently usurps Audrey’s role with the kids.   When Dory is reported missing from school one day, Jerry knows that she could be found at the local revival theater watching an old black and white classic.  It was a father-daughter activity that Brian devoted a little hooky time to.   When Jerry gets Harper to swim underwater, a goal that both Brian and Audrey have failed at, Audrey strikes out with a vindictive “those should have been my moments, not yours.”

Benicio Del Toro plays Jerry’s drug addled stupors as if he were Ferdinand the Bull happily smelling flowers under a cork tree.   But that is his only whiff of over indulgence.   The rest is a commanding portrayal of a man facing fears, self contempt and the ache of the soul to tentatively, and hopefully, totally reconnect with the community of the world.

Susanne Bier in her first American feature retains the elements of her dogme style (the handheld shots, reliance on natural light, the stripped down music score provided by her imported colleague Johan Soderqvist) that union Hollywood can comfortably accept.   Except for a little too much attention to eyes in close-up, her style is generally affecting.  It averts typical romantic expectation and strives to find the quiet emotional reality of everything.  She manages to keep the mawkish and overarch moments few and far between.    

Her damage souls know where they walk in the world-- and though grateful to each other for the start-- they know they can get to the end alone.  

Even though the fire is just a metaphor, Things We Lost in the Fire gets a very real B. 

The Credits: 

Directed by Susanne Bier; written by Allan Loeb; director of photography, Tom Stern; edited by Pernille Bech Christensen and Bruce Cannon; music themes by Gustavo Santaolalla, score by Johan Soderqvist; production designer, Richard Sherman; produced by Sam Mendes and Sam Mercer; released by Paramount Pictures and DreamWorks Pictures. Running time: 112 minutes.

WITH: Halle Berry (Audrey Burke), Benicio Del Toro (Jerry Sunborne), David Duchovny (Brian Burke), Alison Lohman (Kelly), Omar Benson Miller (Neal), John Carroll Lynch (Howard Glassman), Alexis Llewellyn (Harper) and Micah Berry (Dory).

“Things We Lost in the Fire” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). It has sexual situations, drug taking and strong language.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya.

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

My Best Friend (Mon Meilleur Ami) (2006)

The Review:

When Disneyland Paris first opened its gates the press reports were alit with stories about how the 12,000 cast members, most of them recruited from the surrounding areas near Marnee-la-Valee and Paris, had to be taught to smile the American/Disney way.  Apparently, the French weren’t use to smiling all the time.  Guest coming to the park for those first few months were unnerved by an unceasing wave of neatly dressed cast folks with zombielike grins.  

In My Best Friend, the new comedy by Patrice Leconte, the dour friendless antique dealer Francois (Daniel Auteuil) is coached on the three S’s of buddy making- be sincere, be sociable and smile- by the gregarious cabbie Bruno (Danny Boon)with an encyclopedic knowledge of useless facts.  On his first trial runs, Francois goes up to an artist painting in the park, parents with a pram and some men lawn bowling only to be splattered annoyingly with paint, shunned, and shushed away.  

On a whim Francois has spent 200,000 Euros on an elaborately decorated Greek vase that celebrates the to-the-death friendship of Achilles and Patroclus.  At a dinner with business acquaintances he is stunned to find out that not one of them considers him a friend- even his long time business partner Catherine (Julie Gayet), who he just learned is a lesbian.  Desperate to prove them wrong he makes a bet with Catherine- produce a true best friend in ten days or he must forfeit the vase.

When the one friend from sixth grade confesses he actually hated him, Francois reads a self-help book, questions others on how they became friends, even calls up Dial-A-Friend, all to no avail.   Only Bruno offers him any guidance. 

Bruno is so amiable he could be the ultimate Disney theme parks cast member.    I kept on expecting him to get a dust pan and start sweeping up cigarette butts and candy wrappers, so stuck is he on chanting the mantra that is the Aum of all Disney customer service.

The reactions of the disbelieving Parisian hordes are priceless when Francois walks the street with that first goofy smile on his face. 

The climax which has Bruno nervously appearing on the French version of “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” (a Disney produced game show) shows how closely My Best Friend adheres to the Disney style of family comedy.   Substitute Vin Diesel or The Rock for Francois and some kids for Bruno and this could easily be another The Pacifier or The Game Plan.  

Even with a liberal sprinkling of pixie dust My Best Friend still only gets a B-.   

The Credits: 

Directed by Patrice Leconte; written (in French, with English subtitles) by Jérôme Tonnerre and Mr. Leconte, based on a story by Olivier Dazat; director of photography, Jean-Marie Dreujou; edited by Joëlle Hache; music by Xavier Demerliac; production designer, Ivan Maussion; produced by Olivier Delbosc and Marc Missonnier; released by IFC Films. Running time: 95 minutes.

WITH: Daniel Auteuil (François), Dany Boon (Bruno), Julie Gayet (Catherine), Julie Durand (Louise), Jacques Mathou (Bruno’s Father), Marie Pillet (Bruno’s Mother), Elizabeth Bourgine (Julia), Henri Garçin (Delamotte) and Jacques Spiesser (Letellier).

My Best Friend” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned) for strong language and mild sexual situations.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home |  New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

GONE BABY GONE (2007)

The Review:

Ben Affleck always had a good knowledge of the mechanics of screenwriting and moviemaking. He and his good buddy Matt Damon did win a shared Oscar for best screenplay in 1998 for Good Will Hunting. Their Project Greenlight series, which aired for two seasons on HBO and one on Bravo, specialized in finding talented writers and directors who deserved a shot.

It was just the acting stuff that tripped Affleck up. Dazed and Confused (1993), his big break film, also unfortunately became the mantra for his on screen career. The curriculum vitae for Ben includes six Razzie nominations with one win (for Daredevil) - and another four shared nominations for worst screen couple, two of them while he was still bunking and sharing screen space with J-Lo.

By the time the good notices, golden globe nod and Oscar talk had come in for his portrayal of George Reeves in the who killed TV’s Superman mystery Hollywoodland from last year, Affleck had called it quits, had shacked up and committed to the pregnant Jennifer Garner and was in to deep preproduction for his first behind the scenes cinematic child.

And I would like to announce that both the father and child are ok and doing fine, even though the rest of the neighborhood is DOA. Gone Baby Gone is a mystery which queasily shows that it takes a whole piss poor community to abduct a child. The “it takes a village to raise a child” nonsense only applies to the richer burbs.

Any film about corruption should practice what its story preaches and display a little nepotism. So Ben Affleck wisely casts his younger brother Casey in the lead part of Patrick Kenzie.

Kenzie along with his long time professional and carnal partner Angie Gennaro (Michelle Monaghan) are a private eye team who specialize in missing person’s cases that just need some internet time to solve. Patrick is a Dorchester boy who never left the mainly white South Boston slum when he had the chance. He knows the flow and hustle of every pimp, pusher, pedophile and low life crack head and thief in the yard.

When Amanda McCready, a four year old girl goes missing for three days becoming the latest Amber alert to grab media headlines, the girl’s grandmother Bea (Amy Madigan) decides to hire the two to aid the police in the stalled investigation. She desperately hopes that Patrick’s connections in the area could pooch up a lead. Reluctantly they take the case when Bea’s anguish hits their soft spot.

Amanda’s mom Helen (Amy Ryan) is a high volume near alcoholic and almost coke addict who still lives at home and has an almost nonchalant disregard for her missing daughter. She’s a straight shooter with a foul mouth and a cynical mind that knows the ways of the world. In this milieu of shadowy motives, that almost counts as a clue.

Amanda and her boyfriend have stumbled upon a satchel containing 130 thousand dollars belonging to the local Haitian drug dealer, Cheese (Boston rapper Ed Gathegi). Helen thinks that Cheese might know who has Amanda. What she doesn’t know is that there is a power struggle for the money being waged between the police leading up the investigation (Ed Harris, John Ashton and Morgan Freeman), some on-the-take family members and Cheese—with Amanda as the bargaining chip.

A murky night shootout between them ends with Amanda as the only apparent victim. When a couple of weeks later one of Kenzie’s friends hears a hint that Amanda might not be dead, Kenzie follows the trail and learns that it is true. The ending questions whether doing the right thing is really the right thing for Amanda or the accommodation a moral soul must make in order to coexist in an unjust world.

Ben Affleck wisely keeps Gone Baby Gone close to the two things he knows best—Beantown and his brother, Casey.

All the minor roles not subject to union control are filled with regular Dorchies and other natives of South Boston. It doesn’t look like there is a single standing set. The authenticity allows Affleck to hone the nuts of the drama.

Dorchester native Dennis Lehane’s novels make for an easy celluloid transition. Mystic River made it to the screen with barely a retouch or edit. Gone Baby Gone is Lehane’s fourth Patrick and Gennie mystery-- and except for some excised back story and the usual amalgamation of other characters, Ben Affleck and Aaron Stockard’s screenplay is also pretty much the book.

Mystic River was very much a night film. Clint Eastwood kept it in the shadows, allowing the night to speak for the dark side of its characters. Gone Baby Gone takes place in broad daylight. It is all about not believing and understanding what is happening in front of your eyes. All the clues are plainly there. They are just not recognized until it is almost too late.

Casey Affleck doesn’t disappear into his roles. He just does them, without any show. He exudes boyishness, innocence and decency- making him a good choice for Kenzie, whose street toughs are in his head.

Now, if Casey can get control of that oddly soft voice that tails into a slur, he actually might make a decent lead.

The rest of Gone Baby Gone is cast with capable backup players. Ed Harris, Morgan Freeman, Amy Madigan, Titus Welliver all provide convincing support- and the right amount of misdirection needed.

Amy Ryan as Helene is the standout. Without her brazen welfare mother sincerity, and the proper amount of repulsion-attraction, the morally ambiguous ending of Gone Baby Gone would not have worked.

Ben Affleck has obviously done his homework. In true slacker style he lets the city, the characters, the actors and the Dennis Lehane source all do the heavy lifting. But can he play it again outside of Boston? Affleck has the rest of his life to try to find out.

Gone Baby Gone gets a B+.

The Credits:

With: Casey Affleck (Patrick Kenzie); Michelle Monaghan (Angie Gennaro); Morgan Freeman (Jack Doyle); Ed Harris (Remy Bressant); John Ashton (Nick Poole); Amy Ryan (Helen McCready); Amy Madigan (Bea McCready); Titus Welliver (Lionel McCready); Michael Kenneth Williams (Devin); Edi Gathegi (Cheese)

Directed by Ben Affleck. Screenplay by Ben Affleck and Aaron Stockard. Based on the novel by Dennis Lehane. Produced by Sean Bailey, Dan Rissner and Alan Ladd Jr. Cinematography by John Toll. Sound by Alan Rankin and Jeff Largent. Edited by William C. Goldenberg. Music composed by Harry Gregson Williams. Set designed by George R. Lee. Art direction by Chris Cornwell. Costumes by Alix Friedberg. Produced by Live Planet, Miramax Films, and The Ladd Company. Released by Miramax.

“Gone Baby Gone” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). There are several scenes of intense and bloody violence, and a horrifying subplot involving a pedophile.

Copyright 2007 by Jonathan Moya

Home | New Reviews | Now on DVD | Archives

WE OWN THE NIGHT (2007)

The Review:

I always though it was my fate to be a Hollywood screenwriter-- to write pap, snort coke with rolled hundred dollar bills, drink myself into oblivion and write that classic novel that never sees the light of the days because it is locked away in a desk draw.   That is until I learned that I can't stand the taste of alcohol, wouldn't know where to find some coke if my life depended on it, and that the closest I will ever get to Hollywood would be a movie theater.  (The novel is still locked away in the closet of my head, waiting for the right words to come out.) So, I do what I am suppose to do-- write about Hollywood from a distance.  

That other fate I leave to Joaquin Phoenix in We Own the Night. And for most of the movie he gives it a good try.  

Bobby Green (really Grusinsky)  lives the life that most of Hollywood dreams about.   He manages the Le Caribe, a Brighton Beach nightspot the size of two football fields-- and curiously only one bar.  He snorts as much complimentary nose candy up his bazoo as he wants.  And just to show he is alright,  he has only one old lady he can bonk any time he pleases.  And when that old lady is Eva Mendes seductively fondling her coochie on a gold lame covered couch, you know he is one happy humper. 

So, when the local Russian dope czar Vadim Mezshinski (Alex Veadov) plops his long brown pony-tailed ass at the VIP table each night and starts passing out numbers, Bobby pays it no mind.

But this is a melodrama of classical proportions-- meaning that FATE in capital letters and of the needle-in-the-eyes Greek kind is going to come knocking on his door pronto.  Mezshinski/Grusinsky notice the fateful rhyming.

Bobby's big secret is that he is an honest guy from a long line of upright guys in blue.   His brother Joseph (Mark Wahlberg) just made Lieutenant and daddy Bert is the Chief of Police (Robert Duvall). 

At a party honoring Joseph's promotion, the opening salvo between father and son is, "I hear your using your mother's name."  That's cop speak for: "You turned out to be such a pussy, son."   

They wont forgive him for not being a cop.

It is a point that brother Joe defiantly wags in Bobby's face after a raid of the nightclub that makes a lot of noise but garners little real smack.  In true brotherly fashion they hug each other with a few vicious jabs to the chin.

Dad separates the two and gives Bobby the straight dope.   "It's a war out there.  You're going to either be with us or the drug dealers."

Bobby sees the point and decides to wear a wire and eventually become a cop only after Mezshinski unsuccessfully tries to have Joseph whacked--  and Bert becomes a picture in the hall of legends when he dies for the cause in a spectacular rain-soaked chase under the El.  

The director James Gray, Mark Wahlberg and Joaquin Phoenix previously teamed up on The Yards (2000), a morally ambiguous feature about crime and corruption amongst the contractors responsible for maintaining, repairing and refurbishing New York city transit trains.  It was a moody, semi-autobiographical statement piece about honest people trying to find a middle ground in a corrupt system.  

We Own the Night by comparison is a throw back so full of highly structured plotting and black and white thinking that some gray critics will easily dismiss it as manipulative hokum.  Manipulative yes, hokum no. 

Gray stages a great car chase filled with digitally created torrents of splattering rain, jack-knifing trailers, careening, tumbling and flipping cars all unavoidably flying at a  powerless Bobby with a first person fury.  

The final shootout  is staged in a grove of dry reeds put to a torch.  The smoke, the instinctual lunging to running shadows and blind firing makes the case for fate as grand arbiter and slayer in a dandily ingenious way. 

While fate may make for great action pieces, it unfortunately only provides for unoriginal characters.   Once the nasty pest of freewill is swatted down, imagination follows. And fate just coldly marches to its bloody conclusion.

The resignation in Joaquin Phoenix's face matches the cold calm of Mark Wahlberg and the stoic force of Robert Duvall.  The Grusinsky's are fates grim poster family.  

Fate is not fun.  It makes critics mad, and audiences bored.  

We Own the Night from the very start was doomed to a B+. 

The Credits: 

With: Joaquin Phoenix  (Bobby Green); Mark Wahlberg  (Lt. Joseph Grusinsky); Eva Mendes  (Amanda Juarez); Robert Duvall  (Bert Grusinsky); Antoni Corone  (Michael Solo);  Moni Moshonov  (Marat Bujayev); Alex Veadov  (Vadim Mezshinski); Tony Musante  (Jack Shapiro)

Directed by James Gray;  Produced - Joaquin Phoenix and Mark Wahlberg;
Composed (Music Score) by Wojciech Kilar;  Set Decoratored by Catherine Davis; Edied by John Axelrad; Sound/Sound Design by Thomas G. Varga

“We Own the Night” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). It has sex, drug use and abundant profanity.

MICHAEL CLAYTON (2007)

The Review:

In Michael Clayton George Clooney looks like a man whose pig just died.   Clooney's beloved pet pot-bellied porker Max passed away in December 2006 after a long and happy life of 18 years-- right at the beginning of production shooting for the film.  For Clooney, it was the most sustained relationship of his adult life.   And the grief he feels for his darling little piggy just sizzles like a crispy piece of bacon throughout his portrayal of the title character. 

Clooney lets his jowls go slack.  His eyes root.  His nose is turned down and his nostrils slightly flare at the long time swill his employer dish his way.  

Michael Clayton is clearly a man who has had enough of the slop and is looking for a way out.  For seventeen years, he has been a fixer for the law firm of  Kenner, Bach and Leeden.  He fixes that hit and run accident when it was one of the firm's lawyers that does the running.  When their desperate housewives shoplift he keeps it out of the police blotter and off the front page. 

"I'm not a miracle worker", he notes. "I'm a janitor.  "The smaller the mess, the easier it is for me to clean up." 

The carrot of partnership long since snatched away, he is mired in the sty of the firm's mud, rooting for his conscience.

Even his life is a sty.  He is divorced, struggling to be a good father to his four-year-old son (Austin Williams);  a good son to his ill father, a former pig in blue;  struggling to be less boarish towards his pig-headed police lieutenant  sibling (Sean Cullen) and his pigged out cokehead other brother who waddles in irresponsibility-- and leaves Clayton with a pig in a poke and an eighty thousand dollar debt, when their jointly owned restaurant deal goes to the slaughter of the auction block.         

Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson in an Oscar caliber performance), Clayton's best friend and the firm's other top fixer has gone spectacularly ding-dong-- stripping during an important deposition and running through a snow filled parking lot gleefully displaying his ding-a-ling to all.  

For six years Edens has been doing cleanup on a multi-billion dollar weed killer law suit for the agrichemical manufacturer U/North, the firm's biggest client.   And in all those billable hours Edens has found a conscience and a cause.   Edens has uprooted a memo that proves that U/North is guilty on all counts and beyond all reasonable doubt.   The swine's knew from the get go that their weed killer was toxic to both weeds and men.  Silently, Edens has been sabotaging the defense and building a counter suit.  

Clayton is called in to clean up the mess that not only threatens to stink up the firm's merger with a London group, but also threatens to knock  Kenner, Bach and Leeden dead on its haunches.   Edens a manic depressive has gone off his meds-- or so it seems.

Also called in is U/North's lead counsel, Karen Crowder (Tilda Swinton in perfect harridan mode), a jittery bundle of nerves who fretfully rehearses and rewrites her every public word in front of her bathroom mirror.    She has Edens tailed, bugged and eventually snuffed-- it being the most cost effective choice.

Clayton infected with the swine flu of Edens conscience acquires his cause-- the only cure being to clean out the sty and destroy the carriers. 

As much as Michael Clayton  likes to wallow in the swinishness of corporate and legal America, it equally revels in making a paddy's pig out of the moral conscience of business and legal ethics.  It is a small film with a little ego-- so self-contained it seems afraid to let it secrets out.    Michael Clayton never achieves greatness because it is too concerned with being nice.  

Tony Gilroy who successfully adapted the Bourne experience out of the slush of the Robert Ludlum novels, and here making his directorial debut, has made a miniature drama in the Sydney Lumet style. Michael Clayton is intelligent without being overly complex--  hushed almost to the point of withdrawal.   It is content to throw it punches and walk way.   The whole dirty structure still stands, the only difference being that one man stands proud-- his conscience clean.

In Serpico and The Prince of the City, the Lumet cop dramas that revolve around a crisis of conscience, ego turns to superego-- the burst blowing the corruption away.   They are urban creation stories that proclaim how these good things came into being.   Free of politics they swagger in myth.   And in Serpico, Al Pacino was mythic enough to make it great.   If Prince in the City fell short it was because Treat Williams didn't generate enough of the Pacino aura.  

George Clooney has the good looks and some acting chops- but in a duel with Pacino, Clooney would get knocked under the table.   He is a nice boy without the ego that can dare make him great.   He doesn't have the edge that Pacino can display in his sleep. 

Thus Clooney is perfect for the ordinary lawyer who never gets to try a case-- and the one big case he wins is settled out of court.   Michael Clayton only aspires to do the right thing, not the great one. George Clooney needs to crash a few more motorcycles.  He needs to become a rebel with a cause and a little more fury.  He needs to stop being so nice. 

Until that happens, Michael Clayton gets a could of been better grade of B+.  

The Credits:

Written and directed by Tony Gilroy; director of photography, Robert Elswit; edited by John Gilroy; music by James Newton Howard; production designer, Kevin Thompson; produced by Sydney Pollack, Jennifer Fox, Steven Samuels and Kerry Orent; released by Warner Brothers Pictures. Running time: 119 minutes.

WITH: George Clooney (Michael Clayton), Tom Wilkinson (Arthur Edens), Tilda Swinton (Karen Crowder), Sydney Pollack (Marty Bach) and Austin Williams (Henry Clayton).

Michael Clayton” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). Adult language, some violence.