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.

August's Book of the Month

I love books. They're fun, educational, and keep trees from getting too cocky.

Why is this man grinning? If you had written two of the best books ever about the movie industry, you'd be smiling too. I don't know if I'd be sporting the 'stache, but hey, who am I to comment on facial hair?

The man is Peter Biskind, and I own his two most popular books, Easy Riders, Raging Bulls and Down and Dirty Pictures. The first book chronicles the rise and fall of American movies in the late 1960s and 1970s, when mavericks like Coppola and Altman made legendary movies, took over Hollywood, and got drunk on power and stupidity. The second book looks at the rise of Miramax and independent movies in the 1980s and 1990s.

Both books are mythically reported and have enough revelations and gossip to keep you battling the fatigue. But what's great about Biskind is that he's not a gossip monger; both books comment on the changing environment of film. He gives you great stories about wack-a-doos like Paul Schrader (carried a gun everywhere) and Robert Redford (not the nicest guy, supposedly), but he also gives you an enlightening account of why two heydays of contemporary American film had to end.

Seriously, if you're a film buff you need to check these books out from the library immediately. Or ask me to lend them to you...Just return them promptly and don't fold the pages. I hate that.

Books of the Month so far...

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

Get reading, chumps.

Review of The Visitor

This review appeared in the August issue of ICON (formerly Primetime A&E) and is reprinted with permission (thanks, Trina).

Why am I reviewing a movie that's been in theaters for months, giving a chunk of space to this relic when newer movies (American Teen, Brideshead Revisited) are featured elsewhere in this publication?

It feels necessary to write at length about The Visitor, and not because it covers a hot topic (illegal immigration). It's in writer/director and New Jersey native Tom McCarthy's warm and compassionate delivery, which offers a bracing perspective on what's been talked about so much that it's become background noise. McCarthy frames his argument so delicately and has so much love for his characters, that the movie's political agenda clears its throat, shakes your hand, and whispers in your ear. That careful approach, and its resulting revelations, is why the movie deserves (belated) attention.

The Visitor starts with a lonely man and a misunderstanding. Walter Vale (ace character actor Richard Jenkins) is a middle-aged economics professor who seems to purposefully avoid pleasure. His life consists of a series of isolated events, from eating lunch to driving in stern silence. When he speaks, the words come out in the humorless cadence of an overworked bank teller. There isn't even anyone for him to be lonely with. His only son is abroad; his wife his dead, but still a palpable memory: Walter still practices on her old piano while searching for the right teacher.

A man like Walter doesn't adjust well to change, so when he is asked to present a paper at a conference in New York, Walter makes the trip unwillingly. He returns to his old apartment, sets down his bags, and finds a young woman (Danai Gurira) using his bathtub.

Through a lying friend, the young couple--she's from Senegal, he's from Syria--have taken residence in his long-ignored apartment. From this awkward encounter, something blooms. Walter, sensing the couple is having a difficult time, lets them stay. He also accepts the husband's friendly advances. The young man, a charismatic musician named Tarik (Haaz Sleiman), exposes Walter to drumming and a new way of expression. Then Tarik is arrested going to the subway and sent to a detention center for illegal immigrants. His future in this country becomes uncertain.

Walter finds himself in a new world, and his adjustment galvanizes The Visitor. Really, Walter could be one of us. He's isolated and consumed by his daily routine until he realizes that the life he knows isn't available to everyone. McCarthy doesn't make his movie a vehicle to promote immigration reform, but about Walter learning to care again. Walter is not a metaphorical figurehead; he's coping with societal issues on a personal scale. Jenkins nails the performance because of his mannerisms and countenance. He doesn't shed his gloomy life in some kind of internal extreme makeover, but he inches toward Tarik and his alluring, dutiful mother (Hiam Abbass). His gradual melting eases us into the movie and into the points McCarthy makes about a country that can be so accommodating to immigrants, but also so cold.

Not surprisingly, McCarthy makes these points with a velvet touch. Like his first film, The Station Agent, the most rewarding part of The Visitor is in what McCarthy doesn't do--offer gooey life lessons or lecture. McCarthy trusts his audience to pay attention, to notice characters' gestures and slight camera movements, so that when the characters unburden their souls, it means so much more: We're observing life in tumult, not just a writer looking to grandstand or to express a viewpoint. The genius of The Visitor is that with his gentleness and compassion, McCarthy makes the movie more about people than politics.

At the same time, by showing the smaller story behind a national problem without grabbing the audience by its collar, McCarthy has made his point abundantly clear: The American dream is not available to every immigrant, and that affects countless others in ways that columnists and posturing pundits can't elaborate. That undeniably human touch makes The Visitor a special movie, one that will have life beyond the current news cycle.

Scenes from a Mall (Forgive the reference)

In my previous post, I had mentioned how I had won four free movie passes, prompting a trip to see The Dark Knight. The bad news about that was the passes were for Mega Movies at the Brunswick Square Mall.

I used to go to Mega Movies quite a bit when I first moved to my glorious suburban town because it was close to the house and I could hit on the 18-year-old salesgirls at Spencers' Gifts. (OK, only the first part is true. My usual playa haunt is the Olive Garden on Rte. 18.) As time went on, I started to hate going there.

Since the theater is in a mall, it is teeming with kids. Now, I don't have a problem with the youth of America, except when they're at malls. Unsupervised, hyped up on unsupervised freedom and cell phones, they are beyond obnoxious. As I went to the theater more and more, I'd have groups of teens talking during the movies, making comments, and just acting like apes with backwards baseball caps and ruffled skirts. And not just at movies geared toward them, but indy stuff like Trust the Man.

So, I had mixed feelings when I got the free passes. On one hand, it was, "Hey, free movie passes!" On the other hand, it was, "Ah, Christ, I have to go to here." When I went to see The Dark Knight on Friday afternoon, it seemed harmless. The movie had been out for a while, so it wouldn't be packed, and it was a 2:45 p.m. show on a beautiful day.

What could go wrong, right?

It started about an hour into the movie. My girlfriend turned to me and complained about a drop falling on her head. OK, I thought, probably nothing major; we'll move if need be. Five minutes, later she says, "There's that drop again...Wait, it's popcorn. It's coming from behind me."

I stormed from my seat and walked two rows up, where I confronted two 10-year-old girls, both slumped in their seats. "Are you throwing popcorn?" No answer, life flashing before their eyes, as they wondered what this 6'1" bearded guy was going to do. "Knock it off."

Problem solved.

I'm honestly thinking of mailing the two passes back and treating GF to a movie at a theater that doesn't resemble the Double Deuce in Road House. No one deserves this, plus what if the girls wanted to "throw down"? I'd be so screwed.

The Best Sequel Ever?

With a short break in my schedule, I finally got a chance to go to the movies casually--no pen in hand and no deadlines to worry about. I had won four movie passes at a minor league game and my girlfriend expressed a desire to see The Dark Knight, so off we went.

I had my reservations about going to the movie, primarily because I was not a huge fan of Batman Begins, which I felt was overburdened by background and atmosphere. (My friend actually stormed out of the theater with 20 minutes to go.) It almost felt like watching a particularly weighty, ass-kicking version of Masterpiece Theater.

I'm not going to offer a 1,500 word review here, but I will say that The Dark Knight is an early candidate for my favorite movie of the year, because director Christopher Nolan matches unrelenting action with unsettling psychological components (the fallibility of a hero, the personal cost of security). It's the best "serious" action movie I've seen in years. The script by Nolan and his brother Jonathan blends both paradigms beautifully; you never see the seams, you never feel like you're being hit over the head with essay points. This, folks, is how you make a blockbuster movie that doesn't make you feel like a moron or that you're being talked down to.

As for Heath Ledger (pictured above), good God. He's going to get an Oscar nomination, not as some kind of "let's honor the young, talented, and deceased" but because it's a fantastic performance. I'm not one to pine over the personal life of actors and actresses--to me they're entertainers the same way that LeBron James or Tom Brady are---so you can trust my assessment.

More coming soon, including an incident at the movie theater. Stay tuned.