Graffiti With Punctuation

Stark treks into darkness “Can we talk about the Avengers?”...

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 05:57:00 +1200

Stark treks into darkness

“Can we talk about the Avengers?” asks a painfully inquisitive child to an already irritated Tony Stark. If we didn’t know any better, we’d say that’s the average Avengers fan: eager, prying and full of questions about last summer’s smash-hit. The answer, of course, is no. Let’s talk Iron Man 3 instead. The follow-up to the already forgotten sequel, it sees Tony as fragile as he’ll ever be. Sure, so Bond and Batman covered that ground. But, for a character that exudes cool rather than warmth, the results are only more emphatic. Who knew that, beneath that oh-so-confident exterior beat the heart of, well, a heart? Tactfully and tonally, Black makes good use of Starks newfound vulnerability, welding action, psychological introspection, and genuine surprise into a unique blockbuster.

For unique, Iron Man 2 was not. Rather than follow the age-old law that superhero sequels should mark the highpoint of a trilogies lifespan (see: X2, Spiderman, even the Dark Knight) it just provided a watered-down version of the first film, sans Terrence Howard. With the direction of Lethal Weapon’s screen-scribe Shane Black, Iron Man 3 was never going to logically suffer the same fate. In truth, it benefits from the writers know-how about a good one-liner and layered characters, giving it the tone of a psychological drama, let alone a comic-book adaptation.

But importantly, Black knows that Iron Man is just that: a comic-book character. For every adult confrontation, there’s a sharp line and action sequence to keep it comic. The opening is a bit of both, drawing on the commanding, solemn narration of Robert Downey Jr. himself (very Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, isn’t it?) as we watch his museum of suits engulfed in a blaze of fire. Then, a much less sober Tony Stark staggers into view, his wild bachelor days in full swing. With an attractive woman in one hand, and a drink in the other, the subject of conversation miraculously sticks to invention, in particular a mysterious, not-yet-perfected ‘extremis’ compound. This may be the past, but Tony’s cold shoulder fosters grudges from both the woman (Rebecca Hall) and the spotty, overlooked scientist (Guy Pearce) that even clever-old Tony couldn’t anticipate.

Stark’s still got time for smug charm (“well, you know who I am”, he assumes in his voiceover) but the light parts are thinly distributed. In present time, it goes horribly wrong, horribly fast for Tony. A provocative terrorist group dominates the news channels. Someone, using the aforementioned extremis serum, has bred terminator-style, ember-glowing super-soldiers. In visceral and technically ambitious fashion, Tony’s house, and his hardware, gets demolished. And at the center of this growingly intricate conspiracy lays the films super villain, Ben Kingsley’s Mandarin. If there’s one thing that’s lacked in the last two films alike, it’s a foil quite as verbally captivating as Downey. And Kingsley is just that, promising a performance (*wink wink*) that ranges from flamboyant to frightening, from comic to masochistic, so good that it reportedly had the film crew in a rapture of applause.

Black’s writing too is deserving of some form of approving gesture. As well as being the darkest Iron Man adventure, it’s a close second for funniest. Jon Favreau is hilarious in short doses as Tony’s bumbling driver who, wonderfully, is fond of a bit of Downton Abbey. Also, Black sensibly doesn’t neglect the action beats of the series, and though the shipment-set finale goes on a bit longer than it should, an air bound rescue mission midway captures the grandeur of super heroism in a heartbeat.

A lot of the credit should go to Downey, who grounds a character so used to ascending into the skies that doing so in the Avengers recurs in his nightmares (a nice touch of continuity). Black gives him good sparring partners to work with, from fatherless Harley (Ty Simpkins) to the alluring Maya (Rebecca Hall). Disappointingly, Stark has less time for team-ups with Don Cheadle’s Rhodes, whose faced is saved for much-too-short appearances in the patriotic iron suit. Everyone loves a good double-team, and yet there’s only time for one in the closing stages (and frustratingly, this is the one time Cheadle is stripped of a suit!). But Black can easily be forgiven. This, after all, is Stark’s story. Like his suits, there are patches in Stark’s personal life he needs to address: with Pepper Potts, who increasingly feels unappreciated, and with his own fragmented psyche. In his vulnerability, Downey performs most capably, oscillating from confidence to utter helplessness in a virtuoso display of despair.

Shane Black is famous for focusing on the bond between unlikely buds (Lethal Weapon, The Last Boy Scout), but he recognizes that the relationship of the film is not that of Stark and Rhodes, but Stark and Pepper. It’s another of those partnerships riven by clashes of character, only sold by the solid work of the actors who play them. Even Paltrow’s Pepper, unbounded by a usual domesticated role, gets to have fun. While Iron Man 2 sunk deeply into what it was comfortable with, this takes massive, tortuous leaps with its characters. So, there may be nary an Avenger in sight (or is there?), but this is a sufficiently independent alternative. Summer blockbusters: the benchmark has been set.

Structurally and stylistically bold, this is one of few blockbusters that can deliver spectacle and humour without resting on its laurels. And so, Black’s real achievement is to pull off surprise as much as entertainment.

★★★★

Broken homes, broken hearts A Derek Cianfrance film wears its...

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 00:04:00 +1200

Broken homes, broken hearts

A Derek Cianfrance film wears its heart on its sleeve. No exaggeration. They have that rare quality that, on the one hand, makes one feel like an uninvited intruder, and on the other, completely embroiled in the plight of its characters. Blue Valentine is an example, for when it peeked nosily beyond the curtains of a marriage mid-breakdown, we couldn’t quite look away. The Place Beyond the Pines continues this tradition, exploring the lives of people so damaged and mutually accountable that they had to come from Cianfrance. Pines’ is arguably the directors boldest. But whilst there’s no doubting that it has the emotional sway to make men and women alike (for the former, a little begrudgingly) weep like a fatherless babe, there is some over the completeness of its second half.

Judging on its first half alone, Pines’ is a hardy candidate for film of the year. We open to the well-sculpted, tattooed frame of Gosling’s ‘Handsome Luke’, a mysterious figure whose face we only see when he mounts his motorcycle. But he isn’t on the impersonal par of the Driver, as we soon become completely bound in Luke’s personal affairs. This is done, deftly, in a single scene, where Luke comes a-knockin’ for his one-time lover (Eva Mendes). “Who’s that little guy?” he says after being faced with the steely countenance of not Mendes, but her mother and a child. “It’s yours”, she drily replies. Mendes has moved on, and the child has no knowledge of Luke’s existence.

In about 10 minutes, Cianfrance has us gripped like a fish nibbling on a hook. Luke, desperate to thumb himself back into the picture, goes by the ill advice of a woodsman (a zany Ben Mendelsohn) and turns, dangerously, to bank robbery. Gosling is a capable anti-hero; only he can manage to be charming as his criminality verges on the monstrous.

And yet, Pines isn’t quite as complete a film as Blue Valentine. The direction of Cianfrance’s plot is unavoidably heartbreaking; surrounding one unforeseen event that’s tremors can even be felt in the final frame. But it also has profound implications for the film’s quality, as the second-half notably lacks the vitality that characterized the first. It does somewhat lose its way, and the presence of fate and karma here is so great that this could just as well be soap opera. But crucially, it doesn’t get that far. For one thing, the acting’s superb. Bradley Cooper makes good on his promise in Silver Linings Playbook with a better performance as local police hero Avery. Again, he proves more than just a pretty face, and his many layers make for a convincing performance, even if he can’t hold our attention as much as Gosling. Secondly, the themes, as perfectly embodied in that character, of familial relationships, moral quandaries and immoral choices make this superior, complex drama.

Like Valentine, this also makes you question who, if anyone, is to blame when everything goes horribly wrong. Pines’ explores the generational fallout of unresolved mistakes well, helped in this regard by short-but-sweet turns from Dane DeHaan and Emory Cohen. Sure, so it’s a bit of a shame that Cianfrance, though ambitious, gets caught up in his own time-spanning complexities. But because of good character, and the scale of its ambition, which at times masterfully maneuvers multiples stories at once, TPBTP is one of the most rewarding cinema experiences this year.

A tendency to veer off into soap-style drama in the second half can’t derail this complex, strongly cast study of causation and consequence. Expect it to leave you as moved/emotionally drained as Blue Valentine did, if not more so.

★★★★

The Joes hit rock bottom Retaliation doesn’t start off as bad...

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 05:07:00 +1200

The Joes hit rock bottom

Retaliation doesn’t start off as bad as it plans to finish. For maybe 10 minutes of refreshing banter, you may even be fooled into thinking this has learnt from the mistakes of its predecessor. Sure, it isn’t perfect, and some offhand jokes don’t stick, but it makes the best of its likeable character duo, Tatum and Johnson already laying multiple smack downs on the weak camaraderie of Tatum and Wayans in the first film. Which is why it’s a genuine surprise that the biggest strength and strongest relationship built in the series (within minutes, we kid you not) is foolishly, irrevocably broken, the honeymoon period over before consummation. It really is all tits-up from there.

On the behalf of those not acquainted with G.I. Joe numero Uno, it deservedly earned a hearty critical mauling. Amongst other things, it lacked heart, character and real class. Retaliation literally takes one step forward, two steps back. In many ways it’s superior to the first. Shrewdly, it cuts out the irritating characters of the first piece, and throws the Rock in the mix (always a plus for a series needing a pick-me-up). The action scenes too, have taken a turn for the sublime. It’s when the characters start talking that you might want to tune out. Rhett Reese’s (currently in the process of devising Zombieland 2, cross your fingers) screenplay is a master class of needless complication and flawed characterization. It gets to the point where characters switch sides so much that their true allegiances become ambiguous. For series newcomers, it isn’t exactly the best way to roll out the welcome mat.

Then there’s the plot itself. Vaguely continuing from the first movie, it has Jonathan Pryce’s president still in captivity, a doppelganging Cobra operative now pulling the strings as the most powerful man in the world. In this presidential position, the Joes are blamed for a crime they didn’t commit, and all but three are wiped off the face of the Earth, leaving only a mesh of bloody dog tags. Retaliation is high on formulaic back-story, but low on explanation. Cobra’s plot for world-domination feels like a 9-year-old - one that’s particularly fond of nigh on obliterating London - wrote it. Characterization, if there is such a thing, is scarce. Unfortunately, some of the numskullian character names- Roadblock, Flint, and Storm Shadow (Byung-hun Lee proving that silence really is the answer)- are more amusing than the characters themselves, each as hollow and featureless as a G.I. Joe doll (sorry, Action Figure). Dwayne Johnson, such a promising addition after his sterling work in Fast Five, makes that comparative masterpiece even more of a one hit wonder, struggling in scenes that ask him not to “kick that ass” but to mourn the loss of a friend.

We would say Jon M. Chu should know better, but perhaps he doesn’t. Brows were no doubt raised when it was announced that the man best known for the Step-Up series was taking over where Sommer’s fallaciously left off. Just because he knew a good pop-and-lock, didn’t mean he could direct Roadblock, right? Like that series, cliché after cliché is dropped like a cursory last round. RZA’s blind sensei is laughable as he spouts words of fortune-cookie wisdom, and yes, there is a moment where a hero doesn’t look back at an explosion. But if Step Up had any strength (and we’re pushing it here), it was stunning choreography. Likewise, this is superb when Chu is handed action sequences. Though the final act is the antithesis of nail biting, there’s a mountain-crawling ninja fight composed (fittingly) like dance, a 3D-slathered showstopper that’s as absurd as it sounds. It’s a shame then, that aside from cute choreography, this is another G.I., oh no you don’t.

Decent action chops aside, Retaliation makes the mistake of parting with one of its most charismatic characters (ditched within minutes) and arguably never finds its feet. Charmless, characterless, and just plain stoopid, there are some things even Johnson Juice can’t remedy. So, better than the first, but not by much.

★★

Carell and Carrey mage war If mainstream culture is anything to...

Sun, 17 Mar 2013 23:59:00 +1200

Carell and Carrey mage war

If mainstream culture is anything to go by, magicians are a comical bunch. They draw us in with practiced showmanship, impress us with a goofy party trick, and have a wonky, ostentatious taste in wardrobe. Made for a good comedy, aren’t they? At least that’s true for Burt Wonderstone. At best an onslaught of hilarity, its confirmation that movie-magic doesn’t necessarily begin and end with The Prestige. Jim Carrey specifically, in a sort-of-comeback, is on maniacal form. So why, like discovering the machinery behind the ol’ coin behind the ear, does the allure tend to vanish in a thick puff of smoke?

Burt’s a wealthy, world-renowned mage when we meet him, but life wasn’t always so swell. Childhood, to say the least, was brutal. No prizes for guessing that a love of sorcery made him somewhat of an easy target for the stick of bullies. From this rough patch came relief though, in the form of fellow magic-enthusiast, Anton (an unusually sympathetic Steve Buscemi) whose friendship sets the basis for a popular Vegas magic-act. That is, until Burt’s egotism and a new competitor leads to both bruising incident and an unmistakable rift in their relationship.

This partnership is the beating heart of Wonderstone, even if Carell’s unpleasant treatment of Buscemi makes him difficult to get behind initially. Carell simply hasn’t played a character this unlikable (or tanned) and now we know why. We’re running out of excuses to make for a man with the world, wealth and women all in his hands, and yet not a shred of care for those around him. Under the anchorage of here-and-there 30 Rock director Don Scardino, this is also nowhere near as smart as it needs to be. Sure, Jon Goldstein’s script isn’t short of moments that’ll have you snorting in hysterics. A magic-themed sex scene shows shades of the wit we know Scardino produces week-in-week-out with Liz Lemon and co. Yet, moments like these are criminally short, handfuls of scenes plod by with jokes that don’t work rehashed within an inch of their lives. Really, apart from some spot-on physical gags, the zinger-count is disappointingly low.

Fortunately, Scardino is graced with the kind of supporting cast that when given lame writing can make lame-onade. Alan Arkin is great as a seminal-conjurer-turned-senior-citizen, and so is Olivia Wilde as the headstrong magicians assistant looking to break out in a male-dominated business. The real revelation here is Carrey as mystical street magician Steve Gray, who takes magic and turns it into something truly ugly. And still it’s he that we can’t take our eyes off as he commits increasingly deranged acts of bodily harm, all in the name of magic.

It’s always fun to see Carrey play such nutty characters, and he nails every scene he’s in here. Wonderstone is funny, sometimes uncontrollably so. What it lacks is the necessary smarts of 30 Rock, which you’d have to say, could’ve turned this pleasurable box of tricks into movie magic.

★★★

You’re a wizard, Harry The knee-jerk reaction to an...

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 02:36:00 +1200

You’re a wizard, Harry

The knee-jerk reaction to an update of a timeless story is to run for the hills. In the case of the colorful, all-singing world of Oz, only the uppermost hills will suffice. Not only is the 1939 original a widely adored ‘classic’, but it’s also a film that shouldn’t benefit from a modern integration, the practical effects and theatricality a proper and unrepeatable part of the charm. For anyone (or everyone) that’s seen it, it’s a movie that should really stand alone. Revisiting this world risks besmirching childhoods, the cinematic equivalent of trying to improve Mona Lisa with an errant brush mark. Why mess with a masterpiece?

If this project feels dead in the water before it’s begun, that’s probably because of harmful prior evidence. Take Burton’s Alice in Wonderland. Though a clear-cut remake (unlike this), it’s a decisive example of stylistic visuals outweighing decent story-telling, a mistake that Raimi nearly makes as we first step into this new, gaudy Oz. Despite this, the case for a prequel is made well. After all, the Wizard of Oz left questions as to character origin (just how did Oz come into being?) and was not, contrary to popular belief, Baum’s one-and-only Oz-capade.

Here, we join young Oz (a smirking James Franco) at the height of his swindling days. Starting out in the gloomiest possible shade (figuratively and literally), we find that his powers are more for breaking hearts and petty stage-shows than actual miracle. Yet, he fails to fool his audiences and friends as much as he can himself, a small-town jerk with ambitions of one day becoming a renowned, filthy-rich conjurer. Clearly, he’s a cathartic experience away from the wisdom-passing Wiz we know and love.

In typical style, Franco is whisked up, up and away on a journey of self-discovery, at which he’s tasked with saving Emerald City from a certain witches clutches. At this point comes an influx of color and a most excellent case for 3D usage. One of the strongholds of Oz is brilliant special effect, and the frequently pulsating imagery used, particularly in that hurricane sequence, is so vivid you’ll feel blinded as stalactites plunge into the balloons undercarriage. This is in-your-face entertainment, and it’s a wonder what isn’t hurled towards watching faces. It also looks marvelous, a worthy, beautiful diversion from a story that, while usefully told by Kapner and Lindsay-Abaire, fails to engage with good dialogue (“this wicked witch, how wicked is she?”). As respite from the storm, we dock down in Baum’s charming, war-torn cityscape, and the yellow brick road just beyond sight. Unfortunately, it’s a moment that doesn’t pinch at you with as much nostalgia as hoped.

This is kind of a theme throughout. Raimi presents an admittedly charming abode of sub-characters (Zach Braff’s scene-stealing chimp is as verbose as Donkey). And he doesn’t steer too wide of the originals mechanics. The neat touch of having characters in Kansas reappear in Oz is left unchanged, as is the cuddly cluster of companions off on a mission of great peril. At best though, this awakens a longing for Victor Fleming’s infinitely superior version.

Thankfully, Raimi doesn’t do a world of harm to Baum. What we have here is a slightly weak tale of Good vs. Evil, enhanced by an ever-watchable Franco. Though not a world away from Harry Osborn, Franco is a nice pick for Oz, showing subtle signs that he does care for anything but himself. It’s also easy to believe that Oz was a confident lady-killer in his younger, reckless days, and Franco’s trademark grin shows a man who, beneath the mischievous façade, isn’t such a bad guy. This we can decipher in a tender scene with Franco and a fragile girl made of ceramics. Left for dead by the Witch’s forces, she’s given a helping hand to put herself back together, showing that even Oz isn’t beyond affection.

And if its certainly Oz’ tale that’s being told, Raimi makes a point of developing important supporting characters. Rachel Weisz stirs up a cauldron of intrigue as the deceptively sexy Evanora, and Michelle Williams is lovely as Glinda, the only witch whose intentions we can grasp. Fatally, Mila Kunis doesn’t convince as the pliable Theodora, understandably the most hotly anticipated of the lot. Kunis isn’t dramatically bad; she’s just unusually cautious upon introduction, hindered more by a distractingly floppy hat. Another of Oz’ heart-broken victims, Theodora should be easy to read and feel sorry for, yet neither is possible because of a lack of attachment. Still, Kunis warms to a predictably iconic transformation, which sees her become a witch you daren’t cross.

Like Kunis’ final form, Oz suits best when it’s scary. And what else would we expect from the Evil Dead man? It’s hard to talk about the original Oz without reference to its frightening resonance with little children, and Raimi continues this with relish. The flying monkeys are a reliable source of menace, determined to crop up in the nightmares of kids, and even adults. Raimi knows a good scare, and sprinkles the film with gothic touches (like tears that leave trails of blood). Aside a fairly standard, pyromaniac final act, it’s this scariness that makes Oz a distinctive family film. And if you disagree, you can always click your heels together three times.

A mesmeric if middling return to Oz, with beautiful visual effects and sufficient scares covering up for writing pitfalls. This isn’t quite the style-over-substance disappointment of Alice in Wonderland, but nor will it last as long as the indefatigable Fleming version.

★★★

That the Paperboy’s identifier is as ‘that movie where...

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 05:52:00 +1200

That the Paperboy’s identifier is as ‘that movie where Nicole Kidman relieves herself on the High School Musical kid’ isn’t promising. Yet, there are other less-repulsive reasons why Daniel’s latest is worth-a-watch, not least the fact that this adaptation (of Pete Dexter’s 1995 novel) is considerably better than it has the right to be. Sure, this is a light year away from the brilliant Precious, but judged on dialogue, tone and pure balls; it’s anything but the raging misfire its critics would have you believe.

Paperboy is, like Precious, no easy watch. Drawing on the attempts of 3 journalists to save the skin of a death row detainee, it loops into surprisingly dark territory. Daniels is on solid ground when he questions the morality of the crim behind bars, it’s when he tries to highlight existing racist attitudes that the film loses its way. In a film characterized by directorial risk-taking, this is one aspect that isn’t quite taken to the next step. If the plot doesn’t always stick to its topical guns, the fleshing of character and dialogue is a different story. Oyelowo provides able support as an ironically well-spoken Englishman, and his hilarious line (“I’m sweating like a pregnant nun”) is as sharp as any.

Though Efron’s love-struck teen is handed leading man duties, this is mainly a display of Kidman’s fearlessness. Gussied-up with a tan and a mane of a hairstyle befitting Barbie, the actress exhibits a striking commitment to the lively Charlotte. The southern accent does sometimes elude her, but the sheer bravery on show, particularly in that telekinetic sex scene, cannot be disputed.

As mind-boggling a follow-up to Precious as you could imagine, this is a fruity, sweaty tale of injustices with a very watchable Kidman in tow. Not so much tasteless tosh, just tasteless.

★★★

Marriage rows You have to hand it Apatow. Even when the man...

Mon, 11 Feb 2013 01:24:00 +1200

Marriage rows

You have to hand it Apatow. Even when the man isn’t busy, you could hardly accuse him of taking it easy. In truth, the presence of this comic deity can still be seen flitting in and between projects, occasionally slapping his name on those that take his fancy (Girls and Wanderlust to name a few). Apatow the director has definitely taken a backseat to Apatow the here-and-there producer. So now that he’s back behind the lenses for the first time since Funny People, it feels like he barely left. Accordingly, this 4-year sabbatical has worked wonders. Not only does Forty show a more seasoned directorial touch, but its jokes too seem recharged and ripened with age.

This is all about the strain that age (and additional factors) can place on a marriage running out of ideas. Judd felt that it was a story that had to be told to a fresher generation, borrowing his charming supporting couple from Knocked Up on the way. Forty, which many see as the add-on to that story, is arguably better billed as a twin to Funny People, carrying that mutual element of death at arms-length. Thrust into this dilemma are Debbie and Pete (friends of Seth Rogen and Katherine Heigl) who find the big 4-0 looming ahead of time. Juggling squabbling teens, pressure at work and clashing musical tastes, they also have to work at keeping their marriage afloat.

Despite strong suggestions to the contrary, this isn’t a happy marriage. Take for example the very first scene. Opening to the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking, this apparent blissfulness is undermined by Pete (Rudd) admitting that he’s only gone and used Viagra. Even an amusing excuse that he “wanted to go turbo” for her birthday fail to salve Debbie (Leslie Mann, Apatow’s real-life wife) and we get the feeling that any brief pleasure will peel away to reveal unrest. It’s a funny, manic little quarrel in which we learn this marriage is clearly on the rocks, but also not beyond saving.

That denotes, quite accurately, that there is a lot of arguing. Rudd and Mann go straight for each other’s throats, the latter coping less well with reaching the milestone. So while Rudd’s slacker turns to snacking on cupcakes (however soggy), Mann’s coping mechanisms range from a covert smoking habit (in one scene she’s virtually indistinguishable from a cancer patient) to outright hysteria. Judd took admiring emotional leaps with Funny People, not afraid to let his cast scream and shout like children. This is a similar exercise in releasing pent-up emotion, with the leads good worth for drama as well as comedy in a house-party crescendo. Debbie and Pete are everyday characters complete with a cheeseboard of irritating quirks and flaws, made worse by his futile attempts to add integrity to a sinking music business, and hers to reconnect with her distant daddy. Building on the sweet chemistry of Knocked Up, Mann and Rudd display the right amount of loveliness to help us withstand them for better or worst. For once, it’s a story delivered tactfully enough not to curl into familiar adultery contours, resulting in beautifully open performances.

Apatow nimbly maintains an organic quality to his scenes, switching fluidly like, well, real life. Naturally, a crude conversation about dysfunctional sexual organs will degenerate into Clooney talk (as you do), and a cheery scene will often end in tense silences. Much has been made of the writer-directors decision to languish amid scenes, luxuriating in the dialogue of his characters. Here though, it’s less an issue of how long he meanders (which is actually an improvement from Funny People) but more of what fills the frames that doesn’t check out. Quite simply, there’s too much going on. Beginning with a loose biking incident, the denouement is directionless even for Apatow. What’s more, Sub-characters tread in and out of the couples orbit, and momentarily fun characters are relegated to the stands. Of these appearances, cherish a golden turn from Albert Brooks (last seen scaring it up in Drive) as Rudd’s sponging father, because ironically, it’s disappointingly short.

No stranger to the odd dick joke, Forty proves Apatow’s capability of juicing simple scenarios for laugh-out-loud moments. The Hollywood funnyman is in his element here, culpable only of repeatedly tickling the funny bone. Chris O’Dowd, in his short part, shows why he’s quickly becoming the Irish M.V.P of the Apatow gang, headlining one of the film’s funniest scenes with his pained delivery (“what the fuck is happening right now?”) and having a fruitless time vying for Megan Fox’s attentions. Mostly, the director just has fun. And any movie that has Mann and family dancing to Nicki Minaj is as inclusive as it gets. Keeping it in the family, Maude (a duplicate of Dana Brody) shows promising signs of one day matching her mother’s comic versatility, a teen that responds to menstruation and old-fashioned parents, hilariously, by blaming the rest of the world. If reaching 40 is this fun, you’ll be after the nearest Age Yourself app in a hurry.

Blending the all-out hilarity of Knocked Up with the somberness of Funny People, this approaches the highs (and deafening lows) of married life with endearing, uncomfortable honesty. And while Apatow tries to tell too many stories at once, he makes turning Forty, funny.

★★★★

Eat, decay, love At least in theory, Levine’s movies should...

Sun, 03 Feb 2013 07:27:00 +1200

Eat, decay, love

At least in theory, Levine’s movies should make for serious, humorless viewing. As far as unpleasant subjects go, terminal cancer (50/50) and shady drug dealing (The Wackness) are certainly up there. So perhaps the immediately striking feature of these films is an audacious, alternative eye for humor. Warm Bodies smoothly hands over that baton, categorizing a zom-pocalpyse from the POV of a ‘corpse’ (an offensive term in the realm of the undead) with surprisingly quick witticisms. Marion’s amusing novel feels like it was born for Levine’s mournful-but-light direction, and this eschews unflattering comparisons. In other words, yes, this is no Twilight.

A fundamental chunk of the movies charm is down to the story, conservatively adapted by Levine himself. At the start of an extended opening sequence, this has us brought to eye level with Nicholas Hoult, whose lifeless eyes and pasty complexion tell us all we need to know about him: he’s a zombie. But in case you need more, there’s also a drowsy voiceover to fill in the blank spots. It’s all awfully drab and grey, a tonal opposite to the wild Zombieland. Hoult evidently isn’t at ease with life as he knows it, can only sustain “almost conversations” and can’t even remember his own name. Not that this is injurious to the characters sharp wit. In one analytical sequence, Hoult expresses internally what he cannot vocally, lamenting a lost world where “people can enjoy each other’s company”, knowing not that mobile phone’s have given rise to universal unsociability. Still, beats his aimless existence, which is spent sleepwalking through a desolated airport and reluctantly gnawing on flesh.

It’s this basic need for brain food that brings Hoult and his best mate (Rob Cordrry) in the scrumptious company of humans. These humans put up a decent resistance, but are never really a match for hungry zombies, who leave most missing vital organs, and many just scared witless. For the course of the film, this scene is critical, with Hoult gaining more than the energy-replenishing meal he fancied. He falls hopelessly in love with a human girl (Teresa Palmer) that he saves, encouraging him to both change his ways and start believing that there may be life in him yet.

The central complication is self-explanatory, with Palmer’s Julie equally horrified and fascinated by the zombie (now going by ‘R’) that, unbeknownst to her, is snacking on scraps of her ex-boyfriends brain. Another trope of the source novel is its somewhat fantastical qualities, the brain offering a vivid, colorful memory from cranium of the victim (Dave Franco) that translates beautifully onto screen. But there’s also the considerably bigger deal that R is a zombie, a biological difference that, ordinarily, can never be undone.

Levine may have only scratched the surface with laughs in 50/50, but its here that his comedic worth can be appreciated in all its glory. Romance though it is (Romeo-and-Juliet gags are strewn deliberately throughout), this is predominantly a comedy that ceases upon the comedic potential of zombies. We’ve laughed at zombies (a la Shaun of the Dead) but never perhaps with zombies. Thankfully, its much more subtle than it sounds, and Bodies’ has capable comic actors in Corddry and Analeigh Tipton (Julies talkative BFF). As M, Corddry promises a funny scene so brief you might miss it, a delightfully unplanned use of the word “bitches” from a man of very few.

On the romance side of things Bodies definitely doesn’t disappoint. Bodies’ preaches (quite broadly) the power of love, but this exhausted moral is given credence by its graceful young lovers. Hoult in particular does much to impress despite playing a character cursed with a scant vocabulary. Slumbering and peeling skin by the minute, the About a Boy actor looks every bit the zombie with a vestige of humanity. He also feels it too, garnering genuine pity with little more than glances and small facial expressions. Not exactly what you’d say of Edward Cullen. The same if not more can be said for Palmer, who deserves acknowledgment for adding quick-wittedness and charisma to an otherwise sub-standard love-interest. Palmer’s and Hoult’s is a believable relationship, and fireworks tend to go off when the two are together. Although kept captive by the questionable R, Palmer warms to the zombie at almost the same rate that we do, linked by, amongst other things, a love for the music of old (another strong feature).

Arguably, Levine’s lowest ebb comes on the part of the villains. In the novel itself, the ending is resolved naturally with very little need for bloodshed. To compensate for this tame end, Levine has added considerable meat to the role of the ‘bonies’, an oppressive, skeletal crew who assumes leadership and provoke fear in the zombie ranks. Yet even with this, there’s a gaping hole left in the villainy department. The so-called bonies are poorly designed (looking like less scary grim reapers) and water-down the dramatic grand stand.

Weak villainy be damned, Warm Bodies is a refreshing, somewhat revolutionary take on the zombie movie. The first, it seems, that gives a voiceless group, oft dismissed as villains, a relatable voice. It also proves no gloomy topic is beyond Levine’s stylish direction. What next, a romp about recession?

This is a hip, wonderfully strange adaption of the source novel, served well by its youthful leads and witty writing. Levine seems the go-to-guy for lending love and comedy to morbid topics, and no ‘zombie-meets-girl’ movie has the right to be this good.

★★★★

It’s not easy being mean Finding anyone without the slightest...

Tue, 29 Jan 2013 09:32:00 +1200

It’s not easy being mean

Finding anyone without the slightest kinship towards retro video games is about as likely as a video game movie being any good. It doesn’t happen. Gaming is definitely a gift to be shared, cherished, revisited; yet never, it seems, to survive a big-screen transition. These evidently have the capacity to swallow up loose change; they’ve just had limited success in putting that marketability to cinematic use. How fitting then, that the video game movies’ saviour is an 8-bit giant that returns to gaming’s retro roots. Ralph proves that the cheat code to our hearts isn’t frantic button bashing, but a well-cooked combination of laughs, lovely characters, and piles of nostalgia.

Not since the excellent Despicable Me has an animation deliberately sympathised with its titular big bad. This it does nicely, by completely reversing conventions and asking for once how video game villains (here a big softy) feel about their fixed role in the arcade hierarchy. Here, the villain is rotund Wreck-it-Ralph (John C. Reilly), who’s literally down in the dumps because of a dearth of friendship and trouble fitting in. He wonders, quite rightly, why his competitor Fix-it-Felix (Jack McBrayer giving delightful dorkiness) gets to soak up all the adoration and why he, Ralph, is treated like a social pariah.

This brilliantly ties into Director Rich Moore’s’ fantastical video game world, which, so much like Toy Story, peeks behind reality’s curtains and opens a prism into another unexplored dimension. When the arcade store shuts up shop, this colourful world comes to life, street fighters become drinking buddies, the 8-bit icons transform into characters with real personalities, and either retreat or advance out of their homely alcoves. Ralph’s is a harsh yet roomy scrapyard, Felix’s is a multi-storey penthouse populated with people. It’s a smartly envisaged world that homes some of the most promising scenes, and a Game Central Station as busy and crowded as London’s Paddington.

In these we discover Ralph is growing tired of routine, Reilly’s voiceover almost as reflectively bored and monotonous as his characters day job (which involves being regularly bested by his overly perky work-foe). Being a baddy with massive hands clearly isn’t all that it’s cut out to be, and Ralph craves variety. Even some expert reasoning, – “just because you’re a bad guy, doesn’t mean you’re a bad guy” – in a Bad Anon meeting (full of crowd-pleasing big names) fails to change his tune. And Ralph winds up making matters worse by living up to his namesake at an anniversary bash for his game, a bash that he wasn’t even invited to.

Here rests the movies interesting story arc, setting Ralph on a journey to heroism, where he hazardously jumps the arcade game ship in pursuit of an elusive gold medal. First, he crosses the pond to ultra-violent first person shooter Hero’s Duty; a Call of Duty lookalike if ever there was one. Here is perhaps the writing teams first slip up. After quite a blistering beginning packed full of retro references, the connections to the modern world pale in comparison. Still, if Ralph was aiming to satisfy a broad range of taste, which it does, Jane Lynch’s’ uptight, appropriately badass female commandant is the way to do it. Fiercer an adult heroine than even Ripley, the explanation for her natural prickliness is also golden: “its not her fault, she was programmed with a tragic backstory”, her second-on command ruefully emits.

Then we’re whisked away to the sugary sweet universe of Sugar Rush, a racing game that covers for the absence of a certain Italian duo. This is where the crux of the story takes place, with Ralph unwittingly threatening to lay the world, and its blinding colour palette, to waste. There’s good reason to believe adult viewers may lose interest, with the colourful, cliquey residents clearly pampering to young children. Stick around though, and your patience will be rewarded. Sarah Silverman is a standout and a shoe-in as Ralph’s pain in the arse, and plays the humorously named “Vanelllope von Schweetz”, an effortlessly irritating ‘glitch’ that can actually understand where the loveable lummox is coming from.

By far Ralph’s biggest draw is its imagination. Loaded with the right amount of referential treats to keep geeks happy and non-geeks onside, Moore’s direction is sometimes visionary. Regrettably, the films most outstanding moment is also its shortest. In and between scenic shifts, there’s a small reference to the arcade games traditional 8-bit format. It’s a small, casual nod to the plots innate surrealism, which is strong enough to withstand some lull stages. Moore does suffer some unshakable issues pacing-wise, with the first half’s’ bombardment of laughs feeling like having a kitchen sink hurled at you and the other half unshakably dull. Thankfully, like the barely-there 3d, this is soon indiscernible.

Ralph is infused with a surprising layer of heart, becoming almost Pixaresque with its balance of laughs and love. Its not destined to shed any tears, but apart from some fooling around, the final act packs a meaty, moralizing punch. Stripped of that its still a supreme animation, which roots for the outsider and ignores their imperfections. Disney is really on to a winner here, breathing heavily on the neck of Pixar, and setting a new, retro yardstick for the video game movie.

Although falling short of the depth needed to really resonate, this ode to the arcade is gloriously imaginative and heartfelt, doing for gaming what Toy Story did for toys. Unsurprisingly, the idea behind it is neater than the actual execution, but Ralph’s nostalgic humour and fuzzy heart will have you itching for a joystick.

★★★★

The Big Payback Django Unchained has all the ingredients for...

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 10:02:00 +1200

The Big Payback

Django Unchained has all the ingredients for the perfect controversy cake. From the open, the camera follows a platoon of black slaves living in the strongly racist south 5 years before slavery was eventually abolished. Immediately, this shouldn’t sound too threatening. Throw in Quentin Tarantino, a filmmaker known in most circles for his blunt and gratuitous use of violence and expletives, and it only takes a minor slip for offence to pile up. Sure enough, the n-word is used more freely than in a modern rap song and without reprieve (a very fair excuse is that it’s reflective of the period). That barely detracts from the entertainment though (unless of course, your Spike Lee) and Django is better billed as a comedy than a serious slavery pic. Controversy or no controversy, this spaghetti western is possibly Tarantino’s most ambitious and certainly his most humorous.

Clearly, Tarantino doesn’t aim to address the issue head on. Instead, the relationship between master and slave provides the background to another of the director’s juicy revenge stories. Interestingly, this particular revenger, shall we call it, has the tables turned with the films black lead hero (Jamie Foxx) searching for retribution and baying for the blood of his malevolent white ex-masters. For this, he conveniently gets the helping hand of a dentist/bounty hunter, Dr. King Schultz (Christoph Waltz, brilliant in an unusually friendly role) who requests Django’s assistance with a tri-assassination. Django willingly obliges, in return for his liberation from bondage, and a chance to be reunited with his separated wife (Kerry Washington). It’s a vengeance story that will hit home with those of any race, origin, or color.

When it’s Waltz’ turn to repay his end of the bargain, he doesn’t disappoint. Under the guise of a potential buyer, Waltz and Foxx (now a free man) looks for his wife, who now works in the mother of all slave plantations, Candieland. And trust us, it isn’t as sweet as it sounds. Residing in Mississippi, the most extremely prejudiced southern state; it’s also home of cruel, sadistic Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio), and his equally evil right hand-man (Samuel Jackson, barely recognizable).

Foxx and Waltz form an effortless and understandable camaraderie, the first half essentially playing out as one long happy montage. This is the most humane relationship that develops throughout, and what starts as business soon turns to genuine friendship and companionship. Waltz in particular stands out, a strange and likeable German man possibly the furthest away from his character in the Nazi-hunting Inglorious. The one time, you’d have to say, that a main German character isn’t cast out as the enemy. There’s an exquisite moment, where Waltz fully explains his justification for a life of killing for money. Like Django’s torturous tale, this involves a woman, binding the two inseparably and believably. Less believable is the way Foxx’s seemingly untrained, seemingly illiterate slave develops revolver accuracy and a way with words that could challenge even Arnie.

It’s Foxx’s smart performance that anchors Django, and if it isn’t the best turn of the film, Foxx delivers on the promise shown in bite-sized roles, and comes into his own. Django is something of a black superman, suspending belief (how does he not get take at least a blow in that shootout?) and churning out lines like the one above with a straight face. Foxx may be a black man in the racist south, but he shows plenty of tude’ and simmering swagger in the face of his former masters. Brilliantly, he also has a flamboyant fashion sense alike Kanye West. A wise man would bank on the actor being swamped with future comic book duties, after of course, his appearance in the Spiderman sequel. Tarantino’s writing assures that Django is a slightly one-note character, but his own weaknesses – an incredible hotheadedness and a tendency for brash choices - shine through visibly; when the camera lingers on Foxx’s conflicted, stoic expressions during the killing of a browbeaten black man, it’s an excellent moment of will he or won’t he.

If some of the components of Django appear with little explanation, the entertainment value can really not be questioned. For action, Django’s first three killings are specifically good, with Foxx showing up dramatically before a public whipping to serve up some sweet justice. If reputable men following fair rules typified the standoff of the old west, Tarantino’s is a comparatively one-sided affair, with Foxx going so over the top with his beatings that we can literally see the passionate hate coursing through his veins. It’s a super, understated performance, and it helps that he gets the best lines, with “I like the way you die boy” destined to grace the majority of first-person-shooters.

Tarantino’s famously slick chat is employed to full effect here, and the screenplay itself is ridden with memorable characters whipping out memorable quotes. For shocking villainy, Django Unchained is hard to top. DiCaprio’s Candie is a despicable specimen of a man, given a brutal introduction that could double as the characters blurb, turning a desperately bloody, sweaty fight to the death (“Mandingo fighting”) into sick entertainment. For additional character quirk, Candie is a wannabe academic, surrounded by books he has but more likely hasn’t read, and demands to be called Monsieur, but knows little French. On his shoulder groaning and comically twitching, Jackson’s Machiavellian performance as Candie’s highest-ranking slave may just be best of all. Crippled, suspicious and irritable, he has the look of an especially hideous cartoon character; only he’s still sharp enough to tell that something isn’t up with the new arrivals.

Like that character, Django is at its best when it pines for comedy. Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, you name em’, all have the eye for dark humour, and this is no exception. The malfunctioning bag head scene doesn’t have the most sophisticated or even smart dimension, but it’s expertly drawn, and tends to get funnier as the joke stretches out. It’s surely Tarantino’s funniest, but the film doesn’t rest completely on comedy. Beauty also comes subtly, the image of bloodstained cotton an especially nice touch from cinematographer Robert Richardson, who provides many of the visual cues.

Not everything hits the mark. An obligatory cameo feels out of place, and it’s also way too long for its own good. Blood frankly paints the walls in the penultimate showdown, working fine as a big finish in its own right and sadly, the second ending doesn’t quite live up to it. That’s nothing on the finished article in hindsight, because Django assures entertainment from beginning to end, in spite of the seriousness of the subject matter, and despite the laborious running time. This is one controversy you’ll want to get yourself embroiled in.

It does shy away from the universally touchy issue at its core, but the same can’t be said for Tarantino’s usual hallmarks. The violence is brutal and blood-drenched, the dialogue whip-smart, and the villainy at an all time horrific high. This means that, for all its length-based grievances, Django remains a funny and sublimely satisfying revenge movie.

★★★★

Taking the Mick When movies ask us to submit to the assembly of...

Sat, 05 Jan 2013 08:19:00 +1200

Taking the Mick

When movies ask us to submit to the assembly of a wacky team chasing after an improbable goal, chances are they’re inherently watchable. There’s something in its very design that means only a special kind of sucker can get them wrong. Happily, Fleischer is no such sucker. For one thing, his team is all the right shades of loveable and oddball, comprising unique characters that are all easy to root for. For another, the Zombieland man flourishes with his stylish set pieces, which, while never subtle, are always loud and proud enough to etch grins on faces. This means that, where the dialogue is a little lax, the story slightly silly, Gangster Squad heads in the right direction heartily on its casts sturdy shoulders.

Squad is yet another that claims to be “based on a true story”, a caption one might easily dismiss if it were not for the existence of a book of the same name. The majority of the characters onscreen are portrayals of real-life, tommy-wangling gangsters. This semi-biopic, like the obviously similar Untouchables (which to many is considered untouchable), hones in on the then-corrupt city of Los Angeles in 1949, a time where crime was as rife as good jazz music. Fleischer rightly draws on to the artificial beauty of the city, which mounts incongruously with the crook of the plot. At this time, Angeles is the dominion and hunting ground of real-life crook Mickey Cohen, who here is played with voracity by an excellent Sean Penn. Penn has the whole of LA – the prostitutes, addictive drugs, and various services- in his hands, and isn’t keen on letting it go in a hurry.

As a character of his build and monstrosity is likely to do, he inspires fear and paranoia in his city, the law eager to bend to his power-seeking whims. Just one group of honest Americans have held on to their integrity through the oppressive storm, in particular Josh Brolin’s war-weary sarge, whose kept a constant desire to clean his contaminated city in spite of his surroundings. You get a feeling that all that Brolin needs is prodding to go up against Cohen, and he gets it, with Nick Nolte’s subdued chief a rare good guy in a city crawling with cops who bend to Mickey’s will. With Nolte’s suggestion, Brolin is set on a dangerous mission to rid the city of crime, gathering a merry band of misfits to help him do it. In short terms, get Mick or die trying.

Fleischer opens with a symbol of intent from the start, with Brolin’s desire to do right getting him caught in a brutal scrap with three unfortunate henchmen. Squad is certainly gripping from the start, Brolin needing little time to fully win us over in his plight for justice. Nevertheless, it’s Penn who really livens up affairs with his nostrils enflaming and prosthetic-enhanced appearance. Penn makes Cohen a brutal monster of a man who we can quickly believe runs the show in LA. An early exchange, though formulaic and entirely predictable of a man with loose ends to cut, sees Penn literally tear a man from limb to limb. What to do with the dead body? Give it to the hounds. Penn also has the best one-liners that aren’t used for Gosling’s pick-ups. Having seen another poor henchman, this time swearing to god, Penn grimly retorts: “You‘re talking to God, so you might as well swear to me”, a line that shouldn’t necessarily survive on its own merit, but does so because of Penn’s dead-serious delivery.

Penn is just about the only person who can get away with such lines, yet even when they’re bad they’re not unbearably bad. The rest go to the film’s central squad, each chosen after an interesting selection process with Brolin’s resourceful wife (Mireille Enos). Fleischer hasn’t dealt with a tone this serious in his prior cinematic entries, but performances like that of Enos’ hold up that end of the piece, a low-key, dramatic and solitary voice of reason in a film coasting with testosterone and boys blowing stuff up. Enos is perhaps the only one not goading the squad to go on, instead wagging her finger in fear of the repercussions of the mission.

Problem is, the idea of a team coming together is so tantalizing from a viewers perspective that you’ll likely will them on into danger too. Whilst slightly too quick, the formation of the team goes swell, an informal trail-down that allows each individual a minute or so of characterisation, and to explain their grudges against Cohen. Fleischer perhaps doesn’t linger on the notion of the distortion between good and evil when the guys abandon their law badges, but all are memorable (if only just for a Mexican based gag), with Gosling, Robert Patrick, and Giovanni Ribisi the standouts. Patrick is the fast drawing; gun-slinging old-timer of the troop, Ribisi a doting father who joins the expedition for the future of his young, and Gosling, well, Gosling does his act in Crazy Stupid Love and does it well.

A strong feature of Gangster Squad is it’s rekindling of a great Crazy Stupid Love pairing in Gosling and Emma Stone. Stone, who also starred in Fleischer’s Zombieland, doesn’t seem at first glance the right pick for the glamour girl on Cohen’s arm. Gorgeous definitely, funny certainly, but it’s hard to imagine Olive Penderghast’s wit relegated to such a role. Ultimately, Will Beall’s script caters for these mixed expectations, giving her a plum arc that involves her catching the eye of Jerry Wooter (Gosling). Like in Crazy Stupid, the chemistry sky rockets, and also raises more tension betwixt Cohen and the gang. Gosling is brilliant again here, exerting a cool and audacious confidence with the ladies that make lines like “I was just hoping to take you to bed” sound less creaky and creepy.

Fleischer’s movies so far (30 Minutes or Less, and the superior Zombieland) have fared well, a satisfactory blend of funny and outrageous action. His action sequences here leave a feeling of dissatisfaction in their wake, mostly a blur of pointless slow-mo shootouts that wear out their welcome quickly. The final gung-ho action sequence specifically is something of a mess. The most fun emerges when Fleischer invests his comic roots into action, such as a fatally ill planned rescue operation. In many ways, that’s what drives Gangster Squad, which, although lacking in any clear-cut action sequences, is funny, strongly acted and immensely entertaining.

Though the aspirations aren’t high in this dumb but occasionally delightful crook against copper flick, you can never accuse it of being dull. Thanks to splatters of stylish ultra-violence and a cast that offers more clout than the plot itself, this is some of the most guaranteed glee you’ll have in the cinema this year.

★★★★

That still only counts as one! You could write a mini-novel...

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 09:15:00 +1200

That still only counts as one!

You could write a mini-novel about the multifarious challenges plaguing The Hobbit. For, because of troubles not beginning and ending with its relatively alien frame rate, a once greatly anticipated adventure is now a somewhat nervy prospect for moviegoers. One trouble perilous to overlook is the fact that Journey arrives at the latter end of the year, meaning middle earth (furry feet and all) has become outdated, with box-office-hits like Avengers Assemble filling the hobbit sized hole in our hearts. By far the biggest source of ignominy is Jackson’s decision to make Tolkien’s notably short novel into a movie trio, best known in Tolkienite circles as An Unexpected Trilogy. Truth is, there’s little time for the unexpected in this by the numbers journey, and a good dosage of time to revisit Jackson’s expectedly splendorous world.

The Hobbit is always a joy to behold, enhanced ever so generously with the 3D format. You’d have to agree that Jackson, with Andrew Lesnie, his cinematographer from the Rings trilogy, has completely nailed the convivial setting of Tolkien’s expertly envisaged middle earth. This may just be as we’ve always remembered it, but the visual effects employed are brilliantly updated. Even in Hobbiton, where this epic journey takes off, the verdant vegetation and well-rounded hillsides create a wonderful sense of place, New Zealand ever the welcome platform in which resides our domestic hero.

Before the real festivities begin, we see Ian Holm’s wearier Bilbo presumably after his quest and before the events of the Rings series. In remembrance, Bilbo decides its time to retell his story for a newer generation, in particular his relative Frodo (a returning Elijah Wood). Trivial though it may seem, the case for three films rather than two is well made here. Chiefly, it allows the narration a tight comprehension otherwise missing from a solitary film. The history of the dwarves is allowed to come through unperturbed, important for introducing the merry, definitely bitter gathering and the reasons for their unchanging animosity towards elves. Its subtle, but it’s a reasonable case made with fastidious attention to detail.

Bilbo feeds us an engaging spiel about a gold-loving dragon (named Smaug) that forces the dwarves en masse from their home with their tales between their legs. This crucial moment will drive the trilogy-to-be, as one headstrong dwarf (Thorin, Richard Armitage) hopes to reclaim the kingdom that rightfully belonged to his predecessors. To pull of this improbable homecoming, to outwit this formidable beastie once and for all, Thorin needs a burglar to make his company complete. Thus, Gandalf The Grey (an always wry and wise Ian McKellen) suggests that Bilbo (a bemused Martin Freeman) fill this slot, for he perhaps holds the key to saving the entire, homeless dwarven race.

All would be good if Bilbo wasn’t one of literatures definitive reluctant heroes. Jackson displays a comic edge that aptly captures the novels moods, especially when the bumbling, gluttonous, cheerful dwarves come a-knockin’ at Bilbo’s comfortable retreat uninvited and expecting supper. Like the most voracious of babies, these fellows (led by the comparatively reserved Thorin), they eat, they burp, and they sing merry melodies, creating an irreparable dent in Bilbo’s bountiful food stores. Funny, and certainly one of the films’ best plays; the dwarves are always a delight to watch, smuggling in some winning physical comedy and endlessly offsetting Freeman’s contentment.

Where it doesn’t work so well is oddly in the same way as Jackson’s otherwise untouchable trilogy, showing us that the director hasn’t quite learnt from his prior mistakes. The Hobbit is counter-productively overlong, a trip that trots with trepidation and scenes that, albeit impressive, really do not need to be included (we’re looking at you stone giants). The Rings films were similar, but save for its numerous endings, it was all worth the ride. Although only referred to in Tolkien’s narrow narrative, the foreboding presence of a darker threat beyond means we meet new characters like Radagast, a harmless but annoying addition despite Sylvester McCoy’s better intentions, and see old ones making dull and ruinous appearances.

The most memorable scenes are those that hark back to the crowd-pleasing characters of old, with a penultimate “Riddles in The Dark” act with Gollum/Sméagol (delete as applicable) surely the showstopper of the film. The animation used to render the wretched creature (if possible) only gets better and Serkis’ admirable voice work adds pathos to a scene that sets the unprecedented cogs in motion. Almost as good is the synchronized trials of the rest of the company and a crowd of prodding goblins, who take the irritable dwarfs to their grotesque-looking boss. Then are those moments that are truly inspired. An age-old rivalry between Thorin (think Aragorn with vertical challenges) and a believed-to-be-dead orc king (Azog the Defiler, to be precise) isn’t exactly needed, but makes the story move with more urgency and gives Richard Armitages’ unimpressed leader-type the chance to shine.

Viewers fond of an old fashioned larf’ are sure to love the obtuse trio of trolls that come close to having a hobbit-stew, and provide the grossest (unhygienic) cut of the series. Freeman himself doesn’t face the toughest challenge in mastering Bilbo’s agitated reactions and fussy detestation’s. Tim’s ordinary and relaxed temperament in the UK’s Office only needed a jerk and a fiddle to reach the expectations of Freeman for Bilbo. Yet as becomes clear fast, Jackson chose the likeable comic actor for a reason. He may not burst at the seams with the comic vitality that we could get from somebody different, and certainly delivers a very discreet turn.

This simplicity works well however, as Freeman’s character is able to believably progress from the Halfling most likely to let the side down, into a chivalrous man of the people, a superbly assured transformation that fits Freeman firmly into those famous furry feet, and lifts the film from its shackles.

This return to middle earth is a rich, if unremarkable occasion that suffers from a sluggishness and thickness of plot that would befit its Dwarven troupe. The Hobbit is never as watchable or memorable as the Rings trilogy, but by the years standard it’s a fine prequel, dazzling both with its imagery and a similarly glowing display from Freeman.

★★★★

Pi of the tiger What’s set to be the grandest 3D film of this...

Thu, 20 Dec 2012 09:02:00 +1200

Pi of the tiger

What’s set to be the grandest 3D film of this year is about nothing less than a boy, a zebra, a hyena, an orangutan, and one helluva hostile tiger. Given it’s a movie that essentially confines its two leads (one human, one not so) to a singular boat, that’s no small feat at all. But really, the quickest draws among us should have prophesized this. December, almost without fail, has become something of a regular slot for which auteurs squeeze out their revolutionary art forms, whether Scorsese’s triumphant try in the erstwhile year, or, of course, Cameron’s Avatar (for when can 3D conversations be made without reference to the film that laid the first foundations). If that’s the canon, then it goes without saying that the twelfth month would offer similar joys, to which Life of Pi verifies. And while Lee may not excel as well narratively as he does technically, like wearing the uncomfortable, frequently chafing specs, you’re assured an experience you’ll likely never forget; make what you will of that.

Thus Pi is not a perfect journey, even if it does come admirably close to one. Part of the problem is that, whilst Lee deals fantastically when at sea, the talking scenes come paler in comparison. Interestingly, Lee frames the narrative in a way that mirrors the way Martel originally conceived his best-selling novel; a contented Indian man (Irrfan Khan) relays his epic tale to Rafe Spall’s struggling Canadian writer (who we can assume represents the author at a time when he struggled for inspiration). For the most part, the Life of Pi comes from the mouth of Pi, as his wiser, older self looks with retrospection at a life of woe, great loss, and spiritual findings. This includes an anecdote as humorous as you’ll find in the films two hours, with merciless childhood bullies making Pi’s life a living hell upon noticing his full-name’s natural correlation to the word ‘pissing’.

And the teasing does not stop there; with the poor boys own Indian-born parents (and boisterous brother) repeatedly misunderstanding his loyalty to three unconnected religions, Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam. His cruel-yet-well-meaning father in particular has a go at him, saying in one of the snappier lines of dialogue, that he only needs to convert to three more religious for his life to become one long-term holiday.

Lee’s film, and indeed the book itself, is begging to be analyzed for an allegory, ridden as it is with hidden meanings and moments worth retreading to fully understand. You’ll be playing with the possible meaning of the denouement like a tiger-sized ball of yarn, but be unperturbed, for as a simple, delightful story, Pi configures handsomely, in no short part owing to spectacular visuals. Lee’s three-year hiatus (during which Pi was presumably filmed) needs no explanation. It is surely the best looker of the year, revolutionizing the art of story telling, and also the way we see it. One of the many standout sequences (for there is many) sees a legion of uber-animated, flapping fish violently hurtling towards our titular duo. The camera hones in on a determined multi-colored fish en route to the boat, following its path face-first into the port. It’s a wonderful 3D flourish that, like the fluorescent whale weaving its way through the night sky, like the sight of innumerable meerkat’s, makes you stand and watch in absolute awe.

Which is why one should not necessarily be appalled by the contrast between the awkward, terribly formal nature of Spall and Khan’s outer exchanges, which serve only as humdrum procedures to fill in the gaps that audiences could not themselves. Because of that, they do feel like stopgaps between the action, bustling hurriedly along at a tone that suggests the screenwriter’s (David Magee) own indifference. Otherwise, with all seriousness, these parts are entirely fundamental for where the film goes, even if it means you’ll be desperate to return to the raw energy back in the great sea.

When it does come to that action, via a visually jaw-dropping shipwreck sequence that would make Titanic jump ship, Pi never looks back. In fact, some of the most urgent filming is done right in the claustrophobic confines of that singular lifeboat. Supplies are scarce, but fearsome animal hierarchies are rife, and Pi, the son of a stern zookeeper, needs to apply all of his experiences (and heart-breaking life-lessons) if he is going to have any chance at survival. If the going is tough then, it only gets a whole lot tougher, as Pi is confronted by certainly the most ruthless animal he’s been brought up with; a Bengal tiger named, through a mix-up, Richard Parker.

Here, a teenage Pi (the strikingly charismatic Suraj Sharma) faces his toughest test of endurance, willpower, and faith, in a tale that has a lasting likeness to The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Sharma tackles these themes with grace in spite of working virtually alone, maintaining a cool sense of humor amid the suffering and hemorrhaging body weight. Though not at all subtle, one of the most hard-hitting scenes is where Pi realizes that he, in absence of his family, is the lone survivor, placing him in an unbearable circumstance deserved of a good cry. That this is Sharma’s first role is a shocking discovery, and comparisons with Dev Patel are warranted, but Lee’s Pi exhibits an emotive core that just edges him ahead of the slumdog millionaire.

Although missing, an element of romance was never wanting from Martel’s novel, and its filmic amendment is never fully justified. Still, that Pi had the promise of a lover waiting for him on the outside, before his world spins out of control, compounds the overwhelming sense of loss we feel for this character. It also offers food for thought in regards to a query about religion: if Pi devotes himself to not one, but three supreme beings, why is it that he and not another has their loved ones stripped away?

Dominantly, as in the novel, it’s the relationship with man and tiger that warrants the most of our attention. Initially it’s dangerously tense, with Pi virtually kept captive as far out of reach as possible from the unfriendly carnivore. Eventually though, slave becomes master, as Pi progressively adopts a skillful circus routine which backfires only when he is sprayed bawdily with the tigers urine. Above all, the odd companions learn that they need each other more than they first thought, Richard for Pi’s regular food offerings, and Pi for Richard’s company. Lee brings Richard to feral life with some truly believable CGI, blurring the distinction between the real and the fake to a point of inseparability. Every scowl, every roar, and any frown, is in its place.

A memorable, enduring adventure likely to twitch at inquisitive minds for weeks, Life of Pi is also the most beautiful use of 3D since, well, Avatar. Nonetheless, far from functioning as a simple feast for the eyes, Pi is grounded by a weighty script and smart characterization; all underlined by a strikingly good lead performance of emotion and class.

★★★★★

Sniper no sniping Jack Reacher is one of those ultra-capable...

Wed, 12 Dec 2012 08:36:00 +1200

Sniper no sniping

Jack Reacher is one of those ultra-capable action heroes that needs no introduction. In fact, to do so would only undermine the essence of his character; by all means a humble drifter, a semi-hobo, and the human equivalent of a Swiss army knife. Finally, and importantly to fans in particular, Reacher is a towering figure, the kind of 6 foot 5 meathead you would cross the street to avoid in broad daylight. Which is why it’s perfectly easy to understand the hoards of hate mail at Cruises’ casting, himself a famously short and commercial actor that arguably misfits the bill by not one shot, but a long shot. After about 30 minutes of watching Cruise’s Jack Reacher do his thing (whipping out quotable ultimatums to enemies, showing up specifically when he wants to) you’ll realize that maybe Tom Cruise IS Jack Reacher, after all. Hats off to Cruise then, for not only pulling of a Mission Impossible style achievement, but making Reacher into a character moviegoers will want to see cropping up onscreen with regularity.

The narrative framework for Reacher’s rope-cutting series starter comes from Lee Child’s 8^th installment of the page-turning series, which essentially involves a plot-driving case of whodunit. This is triggered by a seemingly random killing-spree, in which the accused perpetrator (James Barr) is apprehended for five unrelated acts of barbarity. The facts and figures, compiled by a touchy cop (David Oyelowo) suggest overwhelmingly that the case checks out on all sides. It takes a good while for Reacher to step into the fray, but he does so reluctantly to check his fellow soldier has lived up to some contracts from the past. When Jack does sniff around to see if there’s more to the investigation than meets the eye, he becomes entangled in a plot of puppetry, threat, wickedness and one or two extremely dim-witted Russians. Not that Reacher’s irritated facial expressions give off any suggestion of peril.

Besides author Lee Child, and star Tom Cruise, it was Christopher McQuarrie who had the biggest responsibility propped onto his shoulders. This responsibility is handled diligently and judiciously, and some of the more tricky elements of the source material are integrated into a final product that really suits the big screen. One Shot, perhaps the most fascinating and second-guessing of the whole series, is a predictable opener for what is sure to be another series glass sculptured like Bourne, or even Bond. McQuarries organic script is most clearly designed for the funny bone, which is tickled proficiently throughout. Reacher is noticeably sharper, wittier, and less laborious than The Tourist (McQuarrie’s most recent), and shows a sincere affection for Child’s larger-than-life character.

That any action scenes arrive second place to sheer wit just heaps on praise for the director/writer’s faithful-but-dynamic script. That said there are some very worthy of the post-movie highlight reel. Anyone that’s read the series (or even one of the novels) will already know that Reacher can get himself safely in and out of a scuffle with not so much as a scratch to show for it. The fight scenes are nevertheless thrilling, envelope pushing, but always over before you know it. More innovative is a lengthy, heated, aggressive car chase within the city limit, which ends in an ingenious display of ‘blending in’ and civilian’s working together that brings to mind a very similar scene in Raimi’s second Spiderman film.

Above all else, Reacher works as an interesting study of character relationships, with top-rate performances from top to bottom. The lead back-and-forth is strictly professional, between Reacher himself, and Helen Rodin (Rosamund Pike), the woman given the near-impossible task of offering the accused a fair trial. Pike, given that her character is the touch-point, the most down-to-earth of the cast, firmly grounds the film, giving it an agreeable character an audience can relate to. Helen is as infatuated with Reacher as we all are, and forms a comical crush with the handy man. The exchanges between the two are subtle, almost difficult to decipher, but Reacher is not deprived by its lack of romantic core. If anything, Reacher excels without conventional romantic trappings, penetratingly focusing on the films focal points, the man himself, and the justice surrounding Barr’s apparent murders.

Among Reacher’s fine surrounding cast is Oyelowos delightfully seedy investigator, Jai Courtney’s still seedier marksmen, and Werner Herzog’s sinister kingpin, a Russian old-timer with grotesque facial and fingerly disfigurement. If you had to take a shot at One Shot, it would probably be that its villainy is slightly underwritten, and we are only given the shadiest of details of their motivations. Herzog and his brainless sidemen also pose nary a threat for Cruise’s superbly equipped former military officer, leaving the ending with very little doubt. The ending itself is a paired down affair, restructuring Child’s tense denouement with a slightly clumsy and dissatisfying one that is an injustice for the consistent marvel of all that’s gone before it. Even then McQuarrie is able to wring out some rational elements, and some unquestionably classy comic relief from Robert Duvall, a pissed-off, “too old for this shit” army veteran who offers his insufficient arms and super-sufficient one-liners to match Jack’s.

Far from being a one-man-show, Reacher prospers with a confidently solid lead man, just about ahead of the pack. Cruise deliver’s Reacher’s terse tone brilliantly, offering the most genuine humour we’ve seen from the actor without doubt. Cruise is also able to hold his own well in the expertly choreographed fight scenes, offsetting any suspicion that Cruise isn’t up to the challenge physically. Never mind that he’s a good foot short of the original characters descriptions, Tom never lets us believe that he’s anything other than an indomitable action man. McQuarrie’s tweaks with the plot suitably inhabit the character of Reacher. This, after all, is a man who ditches his gun to make it a fair fight (not that it turns out that way retrospectively). Reacher then, is not the bog-standard action hero that you would expect, but a resourceful every-man who’s decent moral compass makes him destined to endure as long as any Bourne’s or Bond’s.

Funnier than Bourne and faster than Bond, Jack Reacher is an old-style investigative caper for people of all ages, genders, and certainly heights. Partly because of a frighteningly infectious performance by Cruise, partly because of McQuarrie’s infinitely entertaining script, Reacher is the hero we’ve all been waiting for: cool, witty and outright sardonic. With any luck, the sequel will land with half as much gusto.

★★★★

Cool immortality As worrying as the signs are, Stephanie...

Sun, 18 Nov 2012 11:23:10 +1200

Cool immortality

As worrying as the signs are, Stephanie Meyer’s incredibly popular teen-fiction novel has defined a generation of dynamic, loved-up teenage drama. Appealing almost exclusively to the feminine sex, it’s a sickly phenomenon best known for its hunky hunks, insecure heroines, and swooning fan base. But even staunch Twi-hards have to concede that Breaking Dawn was an all-time-low behind the lofty standard of Eclipse. It was in this lapse that Katniss took the advantage point: a tough leading lady that didn’t let triangular love problems override the force of the task at hand. Part 2 is something of a rescue mission, packing a weighty climax that could save the franchise from cinemas dustbin.

We join newlyweds Bella and Edward in what must be literally seconds after the dramatically gross pregnancy that part 1 hung on. Bella, (if possible, sallower than her non-vampire self) appreciates the powers and enhanced retinas, and she and Edward have rounded off a perfect family with the birth of Renesmee, half-human, half-vampire, half computer generated. Jacob, in a turn so ridiculous it doesn’t even make sense in the novel, has assumed a role as the ultra-protective guardian. It’s all too good to be true for Bella, and just as she’s started adjusting to her new skin, the Volturi, itching for decapitation, receive word of the rapidly growing newborn.

This opens up quite an interesting path for Bill Condon’s solid trio, all intensely attached and protective of the child. Condon has fun knocking out some of the wackier elements before the serious stuff settles in, with Kristen Stewart’s Bella coming to terms with motherhood and animalistic urges amid a odd mix of guttural snarls and lip-biting. The consensus for Stew’s portrayal has been tremendously unfavorable; but it’s easy to forget how sucky the character was to begin with. Stewart still feels uncomfortable, - noticeably struggling with the vampire makeup – but it’s as manageable as its come, and at least not as guffaw inducing. Patterson submerges into the wallpaper as Kristen matures, but he’s used where it counts, steaming up the joint in the series’ sexiest love scene.

Bizarrely, it’s Lautner who emerges as the movies topless revelation. It’s no less a surprise to see Jacob tear of his clothes than to see Alice do her oracle party trick, yet these primal concerns are tempered by his knowing comic performance. It’s likely that, for the first time, Lautner has recognized the jokey potential of his character, and to a larger extent, the story itself. Taylor steps to the plate, helped along by some of the quickest lines (Melissa Rosenberg’s writing is otherwise pretty excruciating) and an unmistakably funny sequence that best exploits the actor’s bodily talents.

There’s definitely something less stiff and springy about this latest soapy offering, which even the most horrid CGI can’t eradicate. The CGI distracts, shoddily lent to render the indescribable magic of the gifted child. Except Condon can’t really justify it, and ends up creating something nearly angelic, but mainly very creepy. You’ll automatically feel a collective sigh of relief when the cuter, much less threatening actress Mackenzie Fox picks up from where demon-daughter left off.

Because the pixelated child is strictly taboo (unsuspecting newborns have a bloody history of mass death sprees), the main conundrum emerges. Jacob, Edward, and the Other One must band together in unison to plea to an ever-misunderstanding Volturi. If they are going to stand any chance, they are required to spread out into their Vamp clan and collect witnesses to prove Renesmee’s innocence. Then the Cullen’s go through X-Men motions, collecting a diverse super team of unique talents, and a common disliking for the oppressive law bringers. The antagonistic vampires (with a suitably maniacal Michael Sheen at its head) finally relieve themselves from the wings, congregating to reveal a realer threat this time out.

The unmistakable problem daunting writers facing the adaptation of Meyer’s 756-page epic is that it’s anything but epic. Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and generally any fictional novel pull out all the stops in their respective big finishes. Breaking Dawn’s prefers dialogue to bloodshed. Rosenberg, adapting her fifth and final film from page, does what can only be seen as the audacious play, reconfiguring the final-act in a way both faithful for fans and violently rewarding for the rest. The writing is engineered so that, if you’re already hooked to these characters, you’re struck with a Final Destinationesque sucker punch that rubbishes all that’s come before it. Nonetheless, though Twi-hards won’t be in any hurry to say goodbye, Twi-softs will be at the front of the queue to write that obituary.

Surely eclipsing Eclipse as the most entertaining of the lot, Stew and co cope among the usual madcap scenarios, rigid facial expressions, and gawky funny we know and loathe. Treat its second hour as a separate entity however, and Breaking Dawn might just have enough shock-power to hush the cynics, a startlingly good farewell to a series that’s run hitherto without so much as showing its fangs.

★★★

You don’t look a day over 50, Mr Bond For anyone already...

Sun, 04 Nov 2012 04:15:00 +1200

You don’t look a day over 50, Mr Bond

For anyone already acquitted with Great Britannia’s most beloved double agent, Skyfall comes as a complete Nolan-shaped curve ball. Now, that isn’t to say that Bond stalwarts will feel like they’re missing out in any way. Bond’s 50^th is capped with a bridging between the old and the new, a 2-hour epic that drives ahead with renewed urgency in the absence of celebratory cake and bubbly. For Sam Mendes, who lends a certain straight-faced-ness, the opportunity to direct Ian Flemings suave spy must have been unique. To dig deeper and unearth more than just trademark drink instructions and hot women (though there is some of that here too) from the characters psyche. Its essentially the tried-and-terrific credos Chris Nolan went by with his Batman series: paint the plot black as tar, add a complex, terrifying adversary who nearly steals the show from his cast, and put years on a famous lead who’s physically past it.

The element of surprise, should one think otherwise, majorly pays off. Chockfull with an assured mix of action and dialogue sequences, Mendes arrives with ready tricks up his sleeve. His main one is toning down the make-believe; this is no smiling adventure where James eventually leaves with the girl. No, instead, Mendes plays with the realism factor, whilst keeping some surviving Bondian forms. Just short of suffering an identity crisis, both director and erstwhile Bond scribe, Neal Purvis, have genuine fun with usually one-note characters. Purvis’ script is incredibly attentive to character detail and depth, and scarcely anyone evades the shadows of the past. Yet there’s a schoolboy bandolier of nostalgic throwbacks that bode well next to this newer, tougher Bond.

Not least an opener set to break-neck pace, partnered with a soulful theme by Adele (wait, come back!). Try as they may, it’s rare that they manage to top the streaming excellence of that drama-strewn opening scene. Like Casino Royale, the chase between pursuer and anonymous runner is by turns death defying, impressive, and divertingly scenic (with violently shoved passers-by looking in collective awe). That motorcycle jot, set on the rooftops of Istanbul, is more captivating than Taken 2’s entire film in the vivid Turkish city. Adele’s emotive melody is certainly no Goldfinger, but it captures the essence of this newest entry without spoiling the accompanying visuals.

Then the real narrative kicks in. Daniel Craig’s chiseled Bond is shot and presumed dead after a mission goes askew in Turkey. With M16 headquarters falling victim to an explosive terrorist attack, and a cunning enemy from the past desperate for retribution from M (Judi Dench), Bond rises from the dead to get back in the saddle; where his charming services are required more than ever. But it was never going to be that easy; Bond’s been out of contention so long that question marks of his fitness, and age, are being raised. Either that or his shaken-not-stirred habit has finally caught up on his firm physique.

As the smooth but stubbly agent staring down the barrel of retirement, Craig has never been more comfortable, and arguably, never better. Feeling his way through the role like it’s been tailored for him, the character and Craig are now one and the same, indelibly inseparable, so well has he nailed the part. Though, in showing Bond up to be more than just an enviably cool operator with the ladies, the actor reveals a vulnerable side that’s more relatable from the perspective of an average Joe. Here, he’s as much a human with very human fears as a fantasy hero with a personal set of skills. The darker makeover is certainly due the character, as is the revisiting of Bond as a boy with parents. For all that Mendes succeeds with placing this Bond in an alienating environment where old-style instruments are replaced with a world where everyone is wired in, a selective demographic will hate what he’s done with their childhood idol. This is perfectly understandable, darker blockbusters being something of a bandwagon of late. But it’s interesting to see the director of Away We Go bring that same emotional temperament, complex if not always as familiar a ride.

Skyfall is rooted to the polarization of the old and the modern. It may not be subtle, as with the quoting of Tennyson’s Ulysses, but Mendes’ effort is full of symbolism for a man near the end of his cycle. This great divide is entrenched by the movie’s youthful Q (a terrific Ben Whishaw), a tech-genius who looks fresh out of university. The first encounter adds a much-needed comic dimension; Craig and Whishaw trade insults, neither convinced of the others capabilities in their field, and Craig hilariously observing that the new Q “still has spots”.

The women are less well represented, though Dench is reliably strong in an usually chunky part as M. With the exception of her, the women are mostly side-lined, one series consistency in an installment of much change. Bérénice Marlohe, the French damsel in distress, plays Séverine, the deliberately stunning villain-turned-babe that Bond gets to bang. Marlohe gives a mighty good shot of it, but her running time is cut short to feed into the bustling narrative. Naomie Harris is more of a flirting success, sharing sexual chemistry eventually telling for the story’s direction.

As a villain, Javier Bardem’s Silva is up there with the greats. Singular but not dissimilar from textbook Bond evil, he’s another antagonist that can be conflicting for viewers; we understand him (M is as much to blame as himself for his current insanity), but don’t necessarily want to share a pint with him. As anarchic as Iago, and as well matched a foe as Bane, Bardem is the films guilty highlight. To say best Bond villain ever might be ill-judged at this point, but Bardem does maniacal laughter like the best of em’. He’s a gruesome-looking crook (thumbs up to the art depo for making a once handsome actor unrecognisable) with a twisted rodent-based analogy of the world, and a dilapidated condo to hatch his prudent plan.

Mendes scampers over the atlas with the enthusiasm of a tourist, but its in England’s capital city that the finest set piece takes place. The first tense run-in with Silva defines the man in a nutshell; a precise, expert tactician with his eye on the prize: the absolute destruction of the London underground, at rush hour.

This is probably the nearest we’ll come to a Nolan directed Bond, which was never going to be a bad thing. Even so, Skyfall is exquisitely confident filmmaking. In wiping away the cobweb that is 007’s murky past, Mendes delivers a Bond movie the likes of which never seen: it’s grittier, graver and humane, a replica that borders on perfection.

★★★★★

Smuggle, you’re on camera! The recent influx of hand-held...

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 22:57:00 +1200

Smuggle, you’re on camera!

The recent influx of hand-held camera movies has crept upon us with the erratic excitement of a sugar rush: delightful in small doses (Troll Hunter and Chronicle) but more commonly associable with a regretful nausea. Done right, with enough filmmaking adroitness, cams can nicely accompany a story as a necessary plot device. Done wrong, and the shuffling awkwardness can make for uncomfortable viewing, like sticking a camera inside of a mid-tumble washing machine. Used to the easier-to-follow action of Fast & Furious, and often, crime dramas not dissimilar in appearance to this, David Ayer doesn’t help himself by only vaguely explaining his filmed POV (is it just chance that multiple characters keep a video-recorder handy?). Once you’ve gotten over the early implausibility though, End of Watch undrapes something more appealing: a humane bond between brothers from another mother.

These two unlikely bros are (surprisingly) regular police officers, Taylor (a startlingly skin-headed Jake Gyllenhaal) and his partner-in-crime-solving, Zavala (Michael Peña, the funny Hispanic from 30 Minutes or Less). The two with the best reputation for squeaky-clean efficiency in the field, (they detain a runaway vehicle without so much as busting a sweat) Brian is determined to shoot his day-to-day life for a class assignment, attaching lenses to he and his partners chest, and the car dashboard, to the annoyance of coworkers. It goes a turn for the nightmarish when they get caught in the middle of gang warfare after a bust-up with a goon with cash and bejeweled arms in his possession. This really pisses off the cartel, so naturally, they want these two coppers out of the picture, preferably soon.

As you might well expect from the guy that scripted a Fast & Furious film, Ayer has a keen eye for a good car chase, as the opening sequence (a smart grand theft auto from the perspective of a car hood) confirms. Given that its a ‘buddy cop movie’ however, its significantly low on show-stopping action pieces, which is never necessarily a bad thing. The safety net here is that Ayer’s brutal world (savagery and stomach churning barbarity are common place) feels all the more realistic, graffiti plastered and run by sinister drug dens. Any action is saved for the wild, heart-racing final act, and even then there’s a raw, realistic quality that you barely get from say, Bad Boys. Occasionally, there’s the odd visual beat to soften the scripts inherent abrasiveness. The photography is incongruously idyllic, with the rare beauty of the LA sunset and the luminous lights of the city’s nightlife painting a picturesque panorama of the city below.

Gorgeous city space aside, there’s still no evidence of the handheld format being fully justified. Instead there’s an uncomfortable claustrophobia, whether intentionally or not, in a fire rescue mission, before the films unconvincing villains come into view. Here the evil is brought by a foul-mouthed cluster of Mexicans, led by a noticeably un-scary kingpin ridiculously known as ‘Big Evil’ (Maurice Compte). Tolerating the high rate of unnecessary swears is nearly as redundant as connecting with the group’s dull ‘make me proud’ inner story. Ayer never digs as deep into the frightening notions as one might hope; questions of morality, and of American puppeteers, are not explored enough to keep us out of the dark.

Sure enough, as the movie slowly progresses, it gets terribly entertaining. Ayer threatens the tender central bond with a pleasing amount of casual gruesomeness, which pulls the rug over an otherwise episodic plot. The characters also supply welcome aid: Anna Kendrick’s Janet is as beautiful on the inside as out, America Ferrera defeminizes herself with business-like sass, and Cle Shaheed Sloan keeps it relatively gangsta in one of the secondary roles. Ayer also balances out the dark matter with a refreshingly comic slant. In one otherwise solemn scene, there’s a mindful half-gag at those improbable shootouts where bullets whiz by the heroes head without hitting the target.

At its heart, as did this years 21 Jump Street, End of Watch hinges heavily on the worth of the bond between its leads. Thankfully, there’s no doubting the relaxed chemistry between Gyllenhaal and Pena. It’s surely most enjoyable when the busy outer world is on hold, letting the banter begin over home life and conflicting cultural traditions. For all that Gyllenhaal manages the pensive and petulant child in an adults body, it’s easy to forget just how good Peña is at holding up at the other end, matching Gyllenhaal’s uncanny Mexican impression with a funny one of his own. The inevitably gloomy end is a given, foretold by the ominous story of a regretful lieutenant. That the impact is still harsh owes to the sincerity, even sweetness, of a love fuller than blood ties.

If the irritating hand-held gimmick eventually wears thin, Ayer rings out enough grit, enough drama, and enough realism, to pacify. The portrayal of criminality in the city’s underbelly is familiarly gripping, but it’s in the lead camaraderie and a turnaround performance from Pena where the film finds its real heart. A moving cop caper that proves, once again, that it’s not all good in the hood.

★★★

Science Labrador With the splendid Coraline and, newly,...

Tue, 16 Oct 2012 00:19:00 +1200

Science Labrador

With the splendid Coraline and, newly, ParaNorman worrying film certification boards, the spooky animation is destined to live forever. We’ve come to welcome those characteristically abnormal head shapes, marvel at some truly ambitious comedy aims, and wonder just how long it takes to bring these pint-sized creations to life (answer: very long). But, like many things, it took a scruffily haired genius-type to really make a ‘thing’ of it. So, kind of like a father returning to announce himself to a long-lost son, Tim Burton gets back to his dark quarters to concoct a personal, arty, nostalgic animation, a romantic tale about a boy and his dog. Wreathed in black and white, and with the Burton signature plopped firmly onto it, its occasionally incredibly moving. It has the air of a cycle down to his old wistful neighborhood. Yet often, it’s more of the new Burton we’ve come to expect than old: dated, slightly dull and conservative with the funny, even in the most gifted scenarios.

As the story goes, Disney aborted Burton’s original Frankenweenie short on the basis of being ‘too scary’ for little children. Now in stop-motion rather than live-action, He can hardly be accused of shying away from the shadiness of the context; winged creatures get stuck with pointy wooden planks, hounds get flattened by irresponsible drivers, and the obsession of young Victor with creation is realized just as creepily as in Shelley’s classic novel. The blur between the novel and the movie is another stroke of genius. Leonard Wipp’s reverential screenplay stays quite faithful to the books key themes (save of course, for the manic Jurassic Park ending) and it’s littered with neat and geeky references to the characters of Mary Shelley’s haunting ghost story. To the point where one inventive character design bears clear resemblance to Boris Karloff’s definitive Frankenstein.

Burton’s re-imagining takes place in suburbia New Holland, and circles around a young boy, Victor (Charlie Tahan), a chronic loner, unless you count his beloved and doomed dog Sparky. The two have an inseparable bond between them, until cruelly, his dog is taken away from him to visit the big dog house in the sky. His boring parents see this as a perfect chance for him to move-on and make human friends but, instead of moving on, the inquisitive Victor becomes fixated with the prospect of bringing him back to life once more (after being drawn to Martin Landau’s raving mad professor). This has horrific consequences for the whole town, as school competition (a science fair, of course) sets the scene for an immoral and exploitative grasping of Victor’s special gift.

These aren’t the kind of cuddly characters your kids will want adorned on their t-shirts, but for the weirder kids, the animation is remarkably lush, as is pretty much a given due to the lofty standard. The lead dog, however decomposing and stitched-together, is likely to be loved by all. Elsewhere, the character models may be too much of a reminder of some of Burton’s better features, but they’re really well written and put together, all individually and laboriously cast. This does go slightly too far, as Burton gives each of his unusual cast-members a continual foible rather than any substantial depth, but there is immense fun to be had from watching them all try to fit in (or, more frequently, not).

And while Victor happens to be the lead character, and watching him cope with the death of his dog is heartbreaking, there’s blandness to his character arc that’s capitalized on by the rest of the cast. Chubby boy Bob is visibly amusing enough to get chuckles without even speaking, whilst James Hiroyuki Liao’s troublesome Japanese kid impresses with his speedy dialect. There’s even a chance to defer back to Frankenstein’s goofy-looking hunchback sidekick, here perhaps even creepier. Importantly, its also the first time in a good while that Depp and Burton’s real-life partner have not joined him in holy trinity. Instead, we have another member of the Burton guild: Winona Ryder’s voice is used absently to a gloomy teenager who seems to have set phaser’s to frown. All are overshadowed by the effort of Catherine O’Hara’s brilliantly ominous, wide-eyed girl (her name is ‘weird girl’ in the credits). As well as chipping in some stunning voice work, O’Hara’s seriously troubled character illuminates every scene she’s in with her melancholy forecasts and creepy kitty (the best pet in the film by far) even with the very narrow color palette.

Regrettably, besides the visual beauty of his characters, and some eye-pleasing set-pieces (the electric creation sequence sticks out as something to behold) early on, there isn’t enough quick-witted humor as one would like. As a result, the focus is unhappily restless and sometimes outright silly. For example, rainstorms are cast so generally for the purpose of fitting snugly into the plot. Perhaps, with Burton having half an eye on his younger audience, the list of adult gags and considerations has slipped under the radar. After all, Frankenweenie is a celebration of childish imagination, a dark piece addressing very real themes of personal loss, with little time to really be as special as Burton’s other cherished creations. All of this is vacuum-packed into a story with a kind moral: let sleeping dogs live.

If Nightmare Before Christmas was Burton’s most twistedly imaginative, this is his most personal. Another stop-motion (re) animation of irresistible craft, real warmth and nifty references, this gothic feast is for the cuckoo inside of us. Frankenweenie isn’t ever as funny as it needs to be, but its quirky, gothic, and yes, a little bit strange.

★★★

The end justifies the mean As scandal-obsessed media outlets,...

Sun, 23 Sep 2012 23:55:00 +1200

The end justifies the mean

As scandal-obsessed media outlets, satirical television and Andrew Marr are quick to share with us, politics (in particular, American) is a funny old game. It’s easy to turn the atypical election process into a laughing matter, what with its lack of sportsmanship and an excess of scathing campaign ads that do more to ruin the opponent than better ones chances. Politicians then, are our jokers of the pack, characteristically corrupt; they are those electorally selected losers you love to whine about. And that’s where this political comedy gets off, mocking the Americanised face-off (because that’s what they resemble) and the dim-witted villains that run for state election. The Campaign may be an immensely broad and generic critique of the west, but then again, this is Will Ferrell funny, and subtle, incisive comedy isn’t really his thing.

For this one, director Jay Roach (Dinner for Schmucks) doesn’t dig into the fibres of his material as astutely as hoped, especially given the current social context (Americans are only 2 months shy of the next American election). However, that takes only a portion away from the humour of the finished article. We’re with Will Ferrell’s unpleasantly piggish congressman, Cam Brady, busy composing speech after speech – hilariously, repeatedly calling his varying audience the ‘backbone’ of America – and being a general twat. Brady is reasonably smug; he’s run unopposed every time so he can afford to let his election run a bit slack. Then, Brady gets caught in the middle of a porter potty sex-scandal that’s interpreted as a threat to his candidacy by two CEO men, who back another man to challenge him…

Much like Schmucks underlined the art of the eccentric weirdo, The Campaign’s titular conflict is the battle of the twits. Ferrell’s lame duck goes toe to toe with plump, whelp-like Marty Huggins (Galifianakis, unusually sympathetic here). Marty is a stranger to the democratic process, and too innocent to abandon his principles for a slanderous two horse race. But he’s happy to win over his reproachful pa, quickly taken under the wing of a creepily expert campaign strategist (Dylan McDermott),

From being the naïve yokel with little an eye for the cruelties of politics, Galifianakis is given a complete makeover job to better fit the bill, and the electorate is soon split sideways; its way too close to call. Rather than any catchy slogans or party platforms however, the chief trick is to catch each other out in an increasingly aggressive popularity contest that wallows in baby violence, childish sabotage, and scandalous sex tapes. The votes wane and oscillate when one of the pair fall into a faux pas or an underhanded trap, and the movie essentially finds its funny in the blatant absurdity of the race.

Because politics, of course, is absurd, and so is the absolute necessity to pledge your fealty to the defining American values of God, America and, most hypocritically of all, ‘freedom’. As a critical spoofing of American and corporate amorality goes, you’d only wish The Campaign exposed its fangs more proudly. For as funny as it does get when the meanness begins, it ceases to be bitingly relevant, roughly punching in most of the presidential tropes most are well aware of. That, perhaps, is its most earnest pitfall. Thankfully, Roach’s cast is strong enough to seam up any filmmaking gashes. McDermott’s strategist makes every scene he’s in a delight, disappearing at a ‘poof’ like some odd fairy godmother. And any onlookers will note that this is the most adorable, likeable form we’ve seen from Galifianakis, a welcome rest from the nasty profanities of his adversary, and excellent in a revelatory dinner table sequence.

Ferrell, for his part, is a baby-hating, loathsome man-child, complete with a counterfeit family. Brushing up on his dead-accurate Bushian impression (as perfected in SNL), Brady’s basically a coarser Ron Burgundy, harder to warm to, egotistic, and his 360-character spin is therefore impossible to believe. The confessional ending – where he’s asked to show some sort of personal atonement- comes as rare to a political campaign as a punch does to the face of an infant: genuine honesty.

A gross exaggeration of American politics that’s cruder than your average Ferrell laugh-a-palooza, this doesn’t quite deliver on all the fronts of its satirical material. As anticipated, it’s a movie that’s only ever as good as its leading pair; laughs are uncomfortable, Ferrell disgusts, and Galifianakis narrowly gets the jump on his onscreen rival.

★★★

Splice girls Pitch Perfect isn’t the type of upbeat musical...

Mon, 17 Sep 2012 09:15:00 +1200

Splice girls

Pitch Perfect isn’t the type of upbeat musical you can judge from trailers and hearsay alone, for when you’ve finally been introduced to its clever world, the bigger picture, it provokes entirely different feelings. There’s no way of knowing which camp you’ll be in, yay or nay, and as easy as it is to get this twisted with Glee-mania (a huge deal breaker for any vehement haters) that shadow is soon dispelled. There is lots of impromptu singing and regionals and nationals, but there isn’t actually much reason to despair; in fact it’s a super important component of the movie, and much less likely to make you want to puke. The result is a flick that does cash-in on Glee’s success, but eschews all of the awkward dialogue and questionable vocals, substituting for a good old self-mickey taking romp. And it’s better than it sounds.

Director James Moore takes the big transition from television to screen, and his ingenious concept is to set all in a campus where a Capella singers, in place of jocks, are the next big thing. There’s an established hierarchy with two sides in particular at the top of the heap. On one side, there’s the ‘Treble Makers’ (the all-male contingent; basically a bunch of cocky boys led by the perky Adam Devine) and then there’s the Barden Bella’s. After a disastrous gig a year prior (one of the lady’s chucks up on stage) the Bella’s are lagging desperately behind the competition. Facing ignominy and defeat to their bitterest rivals, they need a dramatic change to get back on their feet. Luckily, help is at hand in the shape of Beca (Anna Kendrick), an aspiring DJ with dreams of making it big in The L of A.

Moore paints the boys vs. girl’s rivalry like war, with saucy sabotage, flying Mexican snacks and a literal fistfight with some very familiar comic faces. He feels right at home rearing the aggression till boiling point, and it’s all vastly entertaining. Beca’s early stubbornness to participate in the colleges thriving social community changes when she’s overheard in the shower showing off her vocal chords, and she’s inaugurated in with a cult-like oath. She immediately shakes things up with plans to innovate, but rubs up against the dogmatic ideals of the team leader Aubrey (Anna Camp) who stoically sticks to the boring set list. And then there’s a burgeoning young romance with her opposing number, Jesse (Skylar Astin) to contend with.

Its fun seeing Moore’s troop of anti-socialites fit in together, but there’s no escaping how very much it’ll look like the Glee posse for outsiders. There’s a slutty one, a peculiar Asian one with a speech/confidence impediment, a lesbian, a sassy one with a belting voice, and, of course, the boisterous fat one. What follows is typically focused on a slowly forming sisterhood and girl-power that’s hampered only by Aubrey’s conservativeness and dislike to the newbie.

Screenwriter Kay Cannon (co-produced 30 Rock) takes the shrewd cinematic move of keeping the jokes firing from every conceived angle, meaning some do miss the mark, but most are very effective. Pitch Perfect does go to the outlets of a broad comedy, but its mostly so clever it won’t matter. Cannon deserves credit for creating some deliciously acidic teen jargon, instead of finicky acronyms there’s “aca-scuse me?” and a list of band puns (“this means treble”). This is a musical comedy for kids that’ll swear they have no affiliation with the genre, its infectious, not saccharine, and the singing’s actually fun.

It’s almost a case of the film-making team playing their hand too early that lets Pitch Perfect down. Belly laughs there may be, but Moore and co struggle to elevate the funny status of the film to anything outstanding, and some of the running gags are so taxing you’ll want to be whisked onward to the next. It may not all go according to plan, but Moore curtails any tackiness, using self-parody to compliment his fondue of memorable sequences. Besides the mish-mash of disparate themes – eccentric girl with a hidden talent for singing, underdogs pull through etc. – Cannon grips the stories progression with assiduity, a standout scene, purely for feel-good factor, is a riff-off set in the graffiti-plastered underground.

Without the wit of its characters though, you’ll wonder just how painful this could’ve been. Rebel Wilson is the obvious standout as ‘Fat Amy’, who almost unfairly outshines the rest due to the quality of some of her lines, but there are also some excellent supporting parts, with two bantering commentators that feel like a married couple, and Ben Platt squeezing out the most pathos in a comic turn as the sexually ambiguous ugly duckling who gets the more rewarding story arc.

And its leading lady is finally given the springboard she deserves. She’s certainly due it alright. From being just near the best thing in twilight, and holding her own alongside Clooney, it’s rare to picture Kendrick in anything that’s heralded her wittiness in the spotlight, but her charisma is wasted no more. Beca begins as a self-contained loner, with a knack for remixing that would put Bon Jovi into early retirement, and a singing voice that would leave Britney in ruin. Kendrick’s cute chemistry with the likeable Astin is totally convincing, and you’ll root for them to settle their capricious romance before the films inescapably cheery climax.

You really mustn’t let the glee-for-screen aesthetic scare you off; you could risk overlooking the most surprisingly smart and spontaneous study of teens since Easy A. Moore inevitably hits a bum note story-wise, but he finds an ingenious highway that barely annoys as much as it pleases. Dialogue is snappy (but teen-friendly) and comedy as catchy as those mash-ups. We dare you not to smile.

★★★★