Review of Burn After Reading

This review orginally appeared in the October issue of ICON and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

I suspect some moviegoers might be disappointed in Joel and Ethan Coen's Burn After Reading, seeing how it doesn't replicate the philosophical, twisted grandeur of their Oscar-winning epic No Country for Old Men. However, Burn After Reading is a typical effort for the brothers, who never try to hit home runs every time out, the way that Martin Scorsese has in recent years. They're content to take genres--in this case, spy movies--out for a spin, never adhering to a template. It may not be a profitable tack, but it is a great way to build a legacy.

Burn After Reading is a nice addition. It begs for broad satirical swipes at our wacky government, but it's smarter, more heartfelt, and more biting than anticipated. The comedy features several characters embroiled in turmoil because of one man, Archibald Cox (John Malkovich), a mid-level CIA employee who quits his job. This angers his wife, Katie (Tilda Swinton), who burns what she thinks is his financial information on a CD as ammunition for a divorce. The disc ends up in the hands of gym employees Chad (Brad Pitt) and Linda (Frances McDormand) who see it as a payday from Cox. Bedlam ensues.

The disc isn't the movie, the same way that the Dude's rug wasn't the point to The Big Lebowski. And, really, who is in the mood for another cloak and dagger affair? For the Coens, it's all about highlighting their characters' foibles and the genre they're spoofing. Lives are changed over a disc that actually contains Cox's memoirs, which judging from his feeble dictating sessions, is bound to be rejected by publishing houses nationwide. Meanwhile, the characters' level of stupidity, whether it's natural or bred in upper-class status--is mystifying.

Cox is deluded enough to think that anyone would consider his memoir (or "memwoh," as he pronounces it) readable, while the philandering Katie decides to milk her husband for money when he's not making any. Linda looks great, but is consumed with improving herself through cosmetic surgery and not exercise, an odd stance for someone who works at a gym. Her beau Harry (George Clooney) has a loving wife who makes a fortune writing children's books, a deficit he makes up for by sleeping around and inventing a cool alter ego. As for Chad, this guy shouldn't be running a pretzel cart, never mind dealing with CIA matters.

Each actor is a stand-out, especially Pitt, whose blissfully moronic performance could be his best ever, and the indispensable McDormand, who nails the fragility and impatience of a perfectly nice woman who has nothing going for her. Like McDormand's human touch and Clooney's philandering as desperation, the Coens throw in a lot of little touches to keep us amused and engaged, like Chad riding a bike (and donning a helmet) to his rendezvous with Cox or the 20-second scene that shows Katie as possibly the worst pediatrician on the planet. I loved the brothers' swipe at lame romantic comedies (Pushing Up Daisy, anyone?) and the cult of celebrity. One morning news show thinks Dermot Mulroney, the star of The Wedding Date, warrants a two-part interview, which is about two too many.

According to the Coens, the world we live in is full of impatience, selfishness, delusion, and stupidity. It's so awful that sometimes the only thing you can do is sit back and laugh at the surroundings. Near the end of the film, a CIA employee (J.K. Simmons) asks another (David Rasche), "What did we learn?" The reply of "I don't know" is followed by, "F**k if I know what we did." Joel and Ethan have delivered a frothy, smart comedy while also warning us to keep our eyes open. At some point what we see here will cease being satire, if it hasn't already.

How We Did

I like to space out my screenings over the course of a month, but due to a string of reasons--thanks for naming me a groomsman, Eric--I wound up seeing five movies (four of them screenings) in two days.

At first, the prospect of seeing that many movies in 48 hours was daunting, but I wound up with my head above water. The movies were spaced far part enough that I could grab a slice of pizza, call a friend or two, and pace aimlessly around New York. That's not too bad; it sure beats checking my email repeatedly. Or having the sideburns of the gent in this photo.

My only complaint is that I wish more of the movies were sunny. I sat through a documentary, two intense character dramas, a stale Hollywood satire (What Just Happened, which was endless) and an intense Holocaust drama (the outstanding The Boy in the Striped Pajamas). A cutesy Meg Ryan comedy would have done me a world of good.

Man, there's a line I thought I'd never write.

As for observations and remarks during my two-day screening binge. Here are few thoughts, without giving away too much. Reviews will be posted soon.

1.) Rachel Getting Married just might be the most overrated movie of the year

2.) I'm finding it hard to remember the last movie where Robert DeNiro gave a great performance. Do you remember when DeNiro was synonymous with excellence?

3.) With Entourage, is there really any need to come out with a Hollywood satire?

4.) Anne Hathaway will get nominated for an Oscar by the time she's 30. Her performance in Rachel is the only reason to watch it.

5.) Vera Farmiga is growing on me. I can almost forgive her for ruining The Departed.

Dennis Quaid and Bonnie Raitt

No new reviews yet--next week kicks off an ass-kicking week of screenings galore--and my review of Animal House for Filmcritic.com has not posted yet. But that'll be in due time.

So, have you heard about this YouTube? It's pretty damn addictive. I'm working a lot from home these days, so about two times a week I'm surfing for nuggets on YouTube while the economy crumbles and my competition on the job market becomes more and more like Lord of the Flies. I like to look for stand up routines and music videos mostly, and to see what neat kitten videos are up! Hang in there, baby, indeed.

Anyway, I've been looking for the video to Bonnie Raitt's "Thing Called Love" for a while, and I found it. Two encouraging things: First, the song holds up remarkably well. Second, I have another reason to love Dennis Quaid, who's in the video. He's got a goofy smile on his face, is wearing a hideous pair of cowboy boots, yet he's so charismatic. It's impossible not to love this guy.

Oddly enough, this video captures his movie star qualities better than most of his early movies. He's had an odd, yet rewarding career. Quaid was this matinee idol who never took off in the 80s and 90s. Then around 2000 or so, he reinvented himself as a first-rate supporting actor and starring actor in smaller stuff.

I'll be curious to see where he is in 10 years. Maybe he'll be in another music video. Rhianna would be a good choice, or maybe Fall Out Boy. Here's hoping.

And here's the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTjaPYkZNjo

The (almost) September Book of the Month

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they're another option besides pawing through magazines and drinking 150-oz. frappucinos at the bookstore.

The deaths of celebrities---regardless of what form of medium--doesn't really affect me that much. I may have happy memories of Harrison Ford, but he didn't play catch with me or counsel me through high school. That would be Ford's Witness co-star Josef Summer, who was an invaluable presence during my awkward wonder years.

With that said, 2008 has been awful. First, Sydney Pollack (director of the awesome Tootsie) died, with my most recent memory of him playing second bannana to Patrick Dempsey in Made of Honor. Last weekend, Paul Newman passed away after a life well lived and a collection of movies to match.

About a week or so before Newman died, David Foster Wallace hung himself at him home. For those who don't know, Wallace was a novelist and essayist who was known for his liberal use of footnotes and his ferocious intellgience. Whether anyone ever fully understood his brilliance, well, that's another story for another blog. If you've actually read his thousand-page opus, Infinite Jest, let me know.

John Krasinski, the hunky star of TV's The Office, is actually directing an adaptation of Wallace's Brief Inteviews with Hideous Men. I haven't read that book, but I can recommend Wallace's awesome essay collection, Consider the Lobster.

Yes, it's dense reading, but Wallace's insight and critical clarity are phenomenal. I mean, this is a guy who turned a review of tennis prodigy's Tracy Austin's autobiography into one of the best pieces of criticism I've ever read, as he examined the intelligence of the athlete compared to everyday life. And his discussion of language enthusiasts is mind-blowing and informative, as is his journey through the Adult Video Awards.

America has lost a truly great writer. Thank goodness, there's some record of his work. Now, get reading.

In case you forgot, here's a recap of past books of the month. More to come later in the month

May--No One Belongs Here More than You, by Miranda July
June--But Enough About Me, by Jancee Dunn
July--The Chris Farley Show, by Tom Farley Jr. and Tanner Colby
August--Easy Riders, Raging Bulls and Down and Dirty Pictures by Peter Biskind

September's Film Round-Up

Golly, I know these are late, but think of it this way: Compared to the DVD releases dates, these reviews are breaking news! The reviews are reprinted with permission of ICON (thanks, Trina).

Pineapple Express (Dir. David Gordon Green). Starring: Seth Rogen, James Franco, Danny McBride, Gary Cole, Rosie Perez. After an aimless, pot-loving process server (Rogen) witnesses a murder, he and his amiable, space-cadet drug dealer (Franco) are forced to go on the run. After starring and co-writing 2007's biggest comedies, Knocked Up and Superbad, respectively, Rogen lighting his farts on screen would make money, and this is pretty close. The movie is light and loose, an attitude that grows old pretty quickly. Rogen and co-writer Evan Goldberg's comedic riffing goes on way too long with no real payoff, and there's very little reason to care about Franco and Rogen's characters, two one-dimensional slackers who we're supposed to like because they have to take action. The movie desperately wants to be the Generation Y version of The Big Lebowski, but the writers and director Green (All the Real Girls, perhaps the last person you want to direct a movie like this) seem loath to make an effort. In that respect, they've recreated the stoner experience a little too well. R

Sukiyaki Western Django (Dir: Takashi Miike). Starring: Hideaki Ito, Koichi Sato, Yusuke Iseya, Yoshino Kimura, Teruyuki Kagawa, Kaori Momoi, Quentin Tarantino. A favorite of directors such as Guillermo del Toro (Pan's Labyrinth) and Tarantino, Miike's take on the spaghetti Western has a lone unnamed gunfighter (Ito) arriving at a small Nevada town and coming between two warring factions, the Genji and the Heike, with calamitous results. The story is a little choppy and the actors' command of English isn't the best (they had a month of intensive language training), but that takes a backseat to Miike's visual mastery. For those tired of quick cuts and massive FX-laden explosives, Miike is a savior. The man knows how to use violence to evoke humor and pathos, and that ability, along with the fun he has showing it off, is infectious but not for the squeamish. Pray that Jerry Bruckheimer doesn’t give him a billion dollars to do something stupid. Tarantino, appearing early on and later in heavy make-up, plays an old gunfighter with a surprising connection to one of the townsfolk. R

Tropic Thunder (Dir: Ben Stiller). Starring: Ben Stiller, Robert Downey Jr., Jack Black, Nick Nolte, Steve Coogan, Tom Cruise, Matthew McConaughey, Jay Baruchel, Brandon T. Jackson. Desperately behind on a big-budget Vietnam War epic and hoping for a creative jump start, a frazzled director (Coogan), sends his cast (featuring clueless stars Stiller, Black, and Downey Jr.) into hostile jungle territory for filming. The exercise becomes all too real when a band of real-life bad guys mistakes the pampered stars for actual soldiers. This satire of Hollywood culture is as broad as a multiplex screen, with director Stiller pounding his points home. But when the movie hits the mark, such as Downey Jr. character's ridiculous method acting or describing the perils of an actor going "full retard" for Oscar votes--the movie is a scream. Plus, Stiller, Black, and especially Downey Jr. (playing an Australian actor playing an African American solider), are plenty funny. Those who have procaimed Tropic Thunder to the be the year's funniest movie are somewhat off, but it is a contender. Believe it or not, Judd Apatow is not involved in the movie. R

Traitor (Dir: Jeffrey Nachmanoff). Starring: Don Cheadle, Guy Pearce, Jeff Daniels, Neal McDonough, Aly Khan, Said Taghmaoui, Archie Panjabi. Cheadle, who produced, stars as Samir Horn, a demolition expert who joins a group of well-connected Muslim extremists in planning bombings worldwide. Meanwhile, two dogged FBI agents (Pearce and McDonough) are hot on Horn's trail, although he's really working deep cover for the CIA as he gets closer to orchestrating an unthinkable terrorist act. Got all that? Don't bother. Endless and needlessly complex, Traitor is so bogged down by Horn's international traveling and whispered details, that it never actually decides on what it wants to be--a political thriller, a well-traveled version of The Fugitive, or a commentary on religious identity in America. All it is, is boring and offensive, as the movie simply uses post 9/11/01 issues and paranoia as a set-up for a flashy, empty spy movie with a ridiculous ending. The actors involved here, and there are some good ones, deserve better than this. So do audiences. PG-13

Review of Vicky Cristina Barcelona

So, Scarlett Johansson got married over the weekend to Ryan Reynolds. No!!!! Hey, do you know she's also an actress, and a pretty good one. The following review appeared in the September issue of ICON and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina)

Throbbing with energy, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is the movie that should launch Woody Allen back into relevance after 10 years of making inferior movies from his legendary ones. Example: Crimes and Misdemeanors - laughs + attractive cast + turgid pace = Match Point. Vicky Cristina Barcelona feels like the legendary writer/director has been revived, that he's finally become tired of remixing his greatest hits. Thank God.

Arriving in Barcelona for a two-month summer stay, twentysomething friends Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) have different agendas. Vicky is working on a graduate degree in some nonsense Spanish-influenced subject. Practical and organized, she's biding her time studying until she marries the bland and successful Doug (Chris Messina). Sexy and free-spirited, Cristina has no real plan except to enjoy the free accommodations from Vicky's friends (Patricia Clarkson and Kevin Dunn).

The girls' plans change when they meet Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), a sexy and tortured painter, who invites the two for a weekend of sightseeing and lovemaking in Oviedo. "This is the chance for something special," is his sales pitch. Cristina is hooked while Vicky is repulsed. But concerned for her friend's safety, Vicky makes the trip as well. Cristina is on the verge of passionate lovemaking with Juan Antonio ("I'll go to your room," she says, "but you have to seduce me.") when she becomes ill, allowing Vicky and the amorous painter to spend the next day together.

As day turns into night, Vicky's pragmatism fades, and she sleeps with Juan Antonio, the first of many chaotic events. Cristina moves in with Juan Antonio, while Vicky still pines for him, her feelings becoming stronger as marriage-minded Doug arrives in Barcelona in all his khaki and tucked shirt boredom. Cristina, meanwhile, flourishes with Juan Antonio and his bohemian lifestyle, until the arrival of his creative, sultry, and suicidal ex-wife, Maria Elena (a hilariously unhinged Penélope Cruz), changes everything.

The big difference with Vicky Cristina Barcelona compared to Allen's other films, aside from the international cast, is its sensuality. The four main characters are guided, for better or for worse, by sex. Vicky's tryst with Juan Antonio shakes her worldview, while Cristina uses lovemaking as a way of maturity and self-discovery. For Juan Antonio, he oozes sexual confidence out of his pores, while Maria Elena uses it as a weapon over her ex-husband and his current paramour. The acting here is so ripe and vibrant, especially from Cruz and Bardem, that it never feels like Allen is commenting on the limits of sexual desire. The characters come to those realizations themselves. The philosophy-rich ways of Annie Hall and Manhattan never surface. And with Johansson--after two prior films, finally being used to her full smoky, charismatic potential by Allen--and Cruz around, who needs philosophy?

Allen can no longer effectively portray the everyday neuroses of relationships, or offer his interpretation of how those crazy kids do it. (His head might explode if he toured the dating web sites or talked to a single, sexually active 25-year-old.) Vicky Cristina Barcelona shows that he can have fun while imparting bigger lessons than how to date someone from the Lower East Side. Being young and impetuous in a sexy, foreign city can be fun, but it can also expose you to a lot of hard truths. When Vicky and Cristina return to New York, they have life experience, but not the kind they envisioned. It's a poetic finale in a terrific movie that introduces Allen in a new role to a younger generation of moviegoers: the sage grandfather of American cinema. Let's hope he doesn't feel the need to rehash the good old days.

Paul Newman

Well, it's been a while hasn't it-over a month since the last post. Part of it has been adjusting to a new schedule. Basically, I'm freelancing full-time while looking for a suitable job, and it's taken me some time to get used to budgeting my time properly. (I've also had several assignments.) The blog, unfortunately, got lost in the shuffle. Until now.

You've probably heard by now, but Paul Newman died last weekend. I am as sad as any movie fan, as he was the matinee idol who displayed staggering depth along with consistency. There was no Al Pacino "Foghorn Leghorn" phase or Robert De Niro "where's my paycheck" era. He delivered great performances--without compromise--for some 60 years.

I think the one reason why I loved Paul Newman so much is that he had a sense of humor about himself. Witness his voice cameo on "The Simpsons," where Homer, angry at Marge's crush on a paper towel pitchman, roams the groceries for a fellow crush. Homer's eyes eye a bottle of Newman's Own salad dressing, and Newman springs to life.

"Homer, I'll tell you what I told Redford: It's not going to happen."

Genius. Also, memorable was his appearance on Letterman's first show on CBS. After a big introduction, Newman stands up in the crowd, and greets Dave with, "Where the hell are the singing cats?' a reference to then-popular Broadway show. Newman, looking like the cool uncle I never had, then heads for the exit.

We'll miss you, Hud. Rest in peace.