Saturday, July 16, 2011
I Wanna Go (Chris Maars Piliero, 2011)
Britney's new video, I Wanna Go, continues in the vein of Hold It Against Me -- taking a song that hints little if at all to her ongoing love/hate relationship with fame, notoriety, the press, her old image -- and meshes it with a video overloading on those elements. Here she and director Piliero craft a pastiche of Old Brit references: skull Mickey Mouse shirt, makeup, hair styling and close-ups reminiscent of Lucky video, a Got Milk? parody, a reference to Crossroads, and likely others that I missed, in an attempt to recontextualize her media breakdowns and burn outs as a combination of pseudo-fuck you rebellion and the pent-up dissonance between the person she feels she is and the person the media/world perceives her as. Somehow the whole thing never quite comes together. As with many pop stars, her acting abilities are relegated mostly to facial expression and anytime she's required to emote with spoken lines, a certain flatness appears inescapable. The oddly literal reference to Half-Baked at the end of the press conference does nothing to enliven the situation.
Her coy stroll through fan groping, indecent exposure and cop seduction is better-handled, but still lacks a certain oomph -- neither filled with the manic, albeit reprehensible, energy of Avril Lavigne being a dick to some dude's girlfriend (whose terrible videos were clearly something of an inspiration for this one) nor an actually sleazy coat of grime that might add character to Britney's well-traveled road of public misperception. This is, I think, the biggest reason the video never quite gets off the ground. Unlike her first video for Femme Fatale, Hold It Against Me, she has retreated back into the mindset of blameless victim, forever at the mercy of a media attempting to twist her words and actions around, rather than the more ambivalent truth of the subject.
The physicality of Britney vs Britney in Hold It Against Me is replaced here with a much tamer fight sequence (full of bad, weightless CGI). If you're going to do a Terminator reference, I suppose paparazzi as unstoppable, bloodthirsty machines is as good a way to do it as any, but there's no real sense of dread or terror that the idea of Terminators are intended to instill. Like most of the other references, it feels like the director is nudging you in the ribs and winking really hard before moving on to the next bit. The Thriller reference is similarly unearned, which is a shame because, upon reflection (and with a little knowledge of Britney's real-life history) it suggests a somewhat tragic parallel with her own brief relationship with paparazzi photographer Adnan Ghalib. If I Wanna Go had stripped down some of the ideas and focused on this push-and-pull relationship, it could have been something darkly confessional and interesting. Instead, like almost everything else, it's a one-off that simplifies, rather than complicates, Britney's ongoing struggle with being Britney Spears -- and trying to figure out who that person even is.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The Hangover Part II (Todd Phillips, 2011)
I walked into The Hangover Part II with an expectation that I would not like it. While I had not ever seen the first film (I hesitate to call it "original"), I had seen several previews for both. They did not inspire confidence. But, after a frustrating day, sometimes you just want to have two beers and go to a midday showing of a movie you fully expect to not be good. This is the part of the review in which a person might normally admit to being wrong. That all this expectation was for nothing, and it was merely the marketing executives doing what they do (using advertising to make their movies look worse than they are). This is not what happened. The movie advertised, especially the strangely eerie trailer of Ken Jeong and Zach Galifianakis slowly singing to elevator music, make the movie look better than it actually is.
It begins just fine. Whoever was the Assistant Director on this movie, actually, is working his or her ass off (probably his, sadly) to get a real job as a director. Almost all the shots that do not involve any of the principle actors look fantastic. While it is probably not that difficult to go to Thailand and film what is, in essence, a pretty looking travelogue of pseudo-exoticism, AD still kinda nails the hell out of it. And compared to how bland and typically comedy movie-looking the rest of the film is, these throwaway moments are a wonderful change of pace. Even the opening of the post-Hangover wake up in a small Bangkok hotel room, there's a tinge of moody loneliness to all the shots leading up to the actors getting up and doing things.
But, other than that, the movie is more or less worthless. I cannot understand the appeal of Galifianakis' movie persona. His psychotically boorish tendency to make every situation he's in worse for the other "protagonists" is acknowledged at the very beginning of the movie, yet the characters still allow themselves to be guilted into keeping him around. With less exaggeration this could be a plausible storyline, but Galifianakis' character is so obviously mentally ill and in need of serious psychological help that he simply becomes sad and pathetic, rather than humorous. It's impossible to quite be angry with him, because he is clearly incapable of any form of impulse control, yet it also feels weirdly cruel to laugh at anything he does -- malicious, even. It helps that, at least to these ears, his lines and delivery are never funny.
Ken Jeong does battle with Galifianakis for most awful thing about the film, and mostly manages to win with an awful caricature of "ching-chong-y" Chinese stereotypes, speaking in an exaggerated accent that he can't even keep up a decent portion of the time (dropping into a higher-pitched version of his normal English, which is, at least, less offensive if no less obnoxious).
In the film's opening post-Hangover scene, Jeong overdoses on cocaine, has a heart attack and dies. The other characters then decide to stuff his body in an ice chest, rather than attempt to call any authorities or make any serious attempt to revive him. They come to this conclusion so nonchalantly, and with very little moral panicking or indecision, that it makes it immediately impossible to see them as anything but reprehensible human beings, even if three-quarters of the way through the movie it turns out Jeong isn't dead after all. They thought he was, and they reacted in the most self-serving and awful way possible, without even much flinching. And, in the end, that is all that really needs to be said about these characters. We are expected to embrace and relate to them and their plight to discover what, exactly, they did the night before, and yet they are such reprehensible low-lifes, and the movie is so patently unaware of this fact (save Galifianakis, though even he is sympathetic) that it is a movie that has failed as soon as it begins. And its failure continues from there, an almost endless stream of racism, cliches and hatefulness in celebration of exactly the disgusting American tourist entitlement that, say, Hostel satirizes so viciously.
It begins just fine. Whoever was the Assistant Director on this movie, actually, is working his or her ass off (probably his, sadly) to get a real job as a director. Almost all the shots that do not involve any of the principle actors look fantastic. While it is probably not that difficult to go to Thailand and film what is, in essence, a pretty looking travelogue of pseudo-exoticism, AD still kinda nails the hell out of it. And compared to how bland and typically comedy movie-looking the rest of the film is, these throwaway moments are a wonderful change of pace. Even the opening of the post-Hangover wake up in a small Bangkok hotel room, there's a tinge of moody loneliness to all the shots leading up to the actors getting up and doing things.
But, other than that, the movie is more or less worthless. I cannot understand the appeal of Galifianakis' movie persona. His psychotically boorish tendency to make every situation he's in worse for the other "protagonists" is acknowledged at the very beginning of the movie, yet the characters still allow themselves to be guilted into keeping him around. With less exaggeration this could be a plausible storyline, but Galifianakis' character is so obviously mentally ill and in need of serious psychological help that he simply becomes sad and pathetic, rather than humorous. It's impossible to quite be angry with him, because he is clearly incapable of any form of impulse control, yet it also feels weirdly cruel to laugh at anything he does -- malicious, even. It helps that, at least to these ears, his lines and delivery are never funny.
Ken Jeong does battle with Galifianakis for most awful thing about the film, and mostly manages to win with an awful caricature of "ching-chong-y" Chinese stereotypes, speaking in an exaggerated accent that he can't even keep up a decent portion of the time (dropping into a higher-pitched version of his normal English, which is, at least, less offensive if no less obnoxious).
In the film's opening post-Hangover scene, Jeong overdoses on cocaine, has a heart attack and dies. The other characters then decide to stuff his body in an ice chest, rather than attempt to call any authorities or make any serious attempt to revive him. They come to this conclusion so nonchalantly, and with very little moral panicking or indecision, that it makes it immediately impossible to see them as anything but reprehensible human beings, even if three-quarters of the way through the movie it turns out Jeong isn't dead after all. They thought he was, and they reacted in the most self-serving and awful way possible, without even much flinching. And, in the end, that is all that really needs to be said about these characters. We are expected to embrace and relate to them and their plight to discover what, exactly, they did the night before, and yet they are such reprehensible low-lifes, and the movie is so patently unaware of this fact (save Galifianakis, though even he is sympathetic) that it is a movie that has failed as soon as it begins. And its failure continues from there, an almost endless stream of racism, cliches and hatefulness in celebration of exactly the disgusting American tourist entitlement that, say, Hostel satirizes so viciously.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Mom's House Movie Round-Up
I spent a week at my mom's house, during which time I watched something like a dozen movies. Her TV is set up in a way where huge boxes of glare shine into the center of the screen, making actual enjoyment fairly difficult. As such I mostly tried to watch movies I was vaguely curious about seeing, but suspected I wouldn't like.
In an effort to speed along this blog process and catch up to something close to where I should be with my movie reviews, I've decided to give these dozen movies short shrift and stick them all together in one hastily written post.
The Last Man on Earth (Ubaldo Ragona & Sidney Salkow, 1964)
By default the best adaptation of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend. None of the three are good, but this one is, I suppose, the least bad. If I'm being honest I sort of hate Vincent Price's theatrical acting in this. I am not familiar enough with his work to know if this is his typical style of acting, or if too long pauses and over-emphasis on the dramatic words of a sentence are simply his forte. In any case, it gave everything a feeling of Masterpiece Theatre, which the grimy desperation of the character needs anything but. The Omega Man must've got the part where the main character becomes a martyr, rather than realizing he's the monster, from this movie. Kinda defeats the whole point of the book.
The Box (Richard Kelly, 2009)
Lately I've fallen in love with describing certain movies as "cinema wallpaper." It seems a short and easy way of stating that they feel a whole lot like watching nothing. There are things happening on screen, but none of them seem to add up to an experience that is like watching a whole movie. The Box is certainly like that, and, sadly, that's enough to make it Richard Kelly's best movie (based on Donnie Darko and the 20 minutes I was able to get through of Southland Tales). Again, like in DD, he uses period detail without much point -- the film takes place in the '70s, but it could just as well be now (and, for a lot of it, now would make more sense). But, again, I guess nothing beats the low-hanging fruit of Donnie Darko's attempts at '80s satire. It's pretty difficult to even understand why or how this was made.
Swordfish (Dominic Sena, 2001)
Uses that Matrix rotating camera trick to much greater effect than was ever used in the Matrix. Gave the feeling that, despite the awfulness of Travolta's opening monologue, I might actually be about to watch an interesting movie. Unfortunately it turns out the opening sequence is one of those Begin at the End hooks, and the ensuing flashback to Hugh Jackman as a paroled hacker (quite easily the buffest man to ever be jailed for spending 16 hours a day sitting behind a computer) being enticed back into the life is dull nonsense -- though, at least, breezy, hastily paced nonsense. I didn't hate it, even if all the potential was eventually wasted, and the movie can never decide whether it wants to be a big, outlandish cartoon of an action movie or a gritty, violent down-to-earth action movie with Jackman as a plausible moral center, trapped in a world of chaos and violence.
Man on Fire (Tony Scott, 2004)
Honestly, I was completely surprised how much I enjoyed this. My general feeling towards Tony Scott is that, despite certain critical opinions, he is in fact even worse than Ridley. This, however, is the most I've enjoyed a movie by either of the two brothers, which I guess puts Tony back in the lead even if Ridley never made a movie I hated as much as True Romance. It is mean and bleak and gross, and wearing its "gritty" Denzel broken down Man of Action heart on its sleeve does it no real favors, but its ultra high contrast music video cinematography is so gorgeous I could watch nearly anything happening to it and be enthralled. Perhaps it speaks to my sense of aesthetic (and how bad it is), but I just plain love looking at this movie and if I could make a movie that looked just like it I would be pleased as punch. Dakota Fanning is pretty good, too.
The Manchurian Candidate (Jonathan Demme, 2004)
At first looks and feels like a bad attempt to revive '70s paranoia-style filmmaking, with weird deep fisheye cameras and strange zooms. This visual style eventually stopped bothering me, though it never completely gelled with the rest of the movie. Despite these stylistic problems, and Meryl Streep's boring Meryl Streep performance, Demme's attempt to make a big budget movie also be somewhat politically subversive ends up giving it enough oomph to push it into a pretty decent movie. The way it mirrors the hypnotic suggestion of its characters with the rhetoric of television punditry and political speeches to suggest that our entire political system is a broken down mess of mass hypnosis and it doesn't really matter which party you support, as long as everyone is talking the same way about the same things is a pretty unusual (if a mite obvious) outlook for a Hollywood political thriller, even if Demme eventually becomes trapped in offering the audience an easy happy(-ish) ending escape.
Freejack (Geoff Murphy, 1992)
Actually starts like an interesting movie, possibly. Though that is only because I misinterpreted the opening sequence to think it was about something completely different. The opening intercuts Emilio Estevez in a bright, sunny, idyllic, Best Day of My Life scene with a dark Mick Jagger-led post-apocalypse wasteland. The implication at the time, to me, was that Estevez was jacked into some kind of virtual reality world where he relived the positive aspects of his life as an escape from the reality that he was seriously injured or something along those lines. You could go interesting places with a concept like that. Instead it's about how in the future you can snatch people's bodies just before their death and, if you have enough money, transfer your personality into them to live forever -- like some kind of reverse on the Bradbury story Sound of Thunder. Estevez escapes and the movie proceeds from there in a series of poorly executed chase sequences until it eventually ends.
X2: X-Men United (Bryan Singer, 2003)
Still too long, just as I remembered, but otherwise an efficient slice of superhero action movie. Singer is, with little doubt, one of our best living action directors and this movie goes far to demonstrate just what is dull and lacking about the sleepwalking action sequences in Matthew Vaughn's newest X-Men movie. The tension, the sense of place and motion, in the opening action sequence alone would probably make it one of the best American action scenes of the last decade or so. It moves with a steady, pure kinesis that is almost unseen in action movies lately. I also have to admit I appreciate the mutants as metaphor for the struggle for gay rights, and the goofy fun Singer has with it ("have you ever tried... NOT being a mutant" asks a fretful mother) a lot more than I like it as a metaphor for black civil rights ala the new one. Guess I should finally get around to watching Valkyrie and see if it has some glimmers of awesome in and around how awful I expect to find some of it.
X-Men: Last Stand (Brett Ratner, 2006)
Actually not as awful as I remembered. Kelsey Grammar is a terrible choice for Beast (come on, it's fuckin' Frasier, how did anyone think this wasn't ridiculous), and it mostly skates along without any ideas about anything -- it doesn't, for instance, even attempt to grapple with the idea that despite Magneto hating Nazis he basically wants to be a mutant Hitler. But it does skate along briskly and with a kind of gleeful abandon. No doubt working with the knowledge that this was gonna be the last real X-Men movie, Ratner and screenwriters spare no opportunity to kill off as many main characters as they possibly can. And while this is, in itself, not anything like an inherently good thing, I can find a small amount of pleasure in it compared to the usual way of handling super teams in movies. Cover it with an ecstatic layer of sentimental cheese and you have a movie that, while not at all something good, is at least a joyful and unbridled show of passable mediocrity.
Jurassic Park III (Joe Johnston, 2001)
I guess this would be kind of the opposite end of a similar sequel spectrum. This is even more unapologetically schlocky than Last Stand, yet it works far less well. The biggest issue is that Joe Johnston is so obviously beholden to Spielberg's work that what he ends up with is merely sticky, oozing Velveeta Spielberg. An indiscernible mess of could-be Spielberg, yet everything about it looks, feels, tastes and smells wrong. Even the music is weird, having been able to successfully license the Jurassic Park theme song -- but not John Williams himself. So we alternate between big, uproarious moments with the (actually pretty annoying) theme, then seque into some not at all good faux-Williams music for the next part. Then the movie will do something completely inexplicable, like try to reprise that first Jurassic Park moment, when you've spent 20 minutes talking about dinosaurs and getting hints of dinosaurs, then you get the big BAM moment when there's a dinosaur... only they do it 3/4ths of the way into this movie, which has already been filled with dinosaurs since the beginning. Why are you trying to replicate (almost exactly) the big majestic moment at a completely ill-fitting time when everyone is trying to run away and not get eaten? While I can understand not liking The Lost World, or probably honestly any of the Jurassic Park movies, do not trust anyone who claims this is better than the second one.
Minority Report (Steven Spielberg, 2002)
So after all that fake Spielberg I decided to watch a real one, albeit not even close to one of his best. In many ways this is the most conflicted of his movies that I've seen, constantly battling itself between his impulse for humanistic gravity about the future, where America/humanity appeared to be heading in a post-Patriot Act world of security and paranoia -- and a bunch of awful jokes like Tom Cruise chasing his eyeballs down a ramp and Peter Stormare as a doctor blowing snot everywhere. This is definitely Spielberg at his most weirdly unrestrained, apparently literally throwing every idea he can think of into the movie whether good, bad, offensive, childish, interesting or dull. Just a whole big kitchen sink of a movie which, somewhat unfortunately, also happens to have some of the most interesting sci-fi world building that exists in a recent movie -- blending utopic and dystopic ideas into a world that seems like a plausible reality in 20-30 years (Xbox Kinect already offers the ability to control TV menus by moving your hands, and, from what I hear, cars that drive themselves are in a constant state of testing).
The X-Files: I Want To Believe (Chris Carter, 2008)
A ridiculous exercise in combining what would be, even by its standards, a pretty bland episode of the show with a seemingly endless string of kowtowing fanbase appeasement. Mulder and Scully are finally together and doing it as they get roped back into working for the government for One Last Job. Xzibit co-stars as the only black guy, who also happens to be surly, dislikeable and useless. Even late in the movie, when it appears his time for redemption has come, as Scully angrily calls out his masculinity ("if you can't do it, find me someone with the balls who will") instead is just an excuse to bring back Skinner for a worthless cameo and Xzibit never appears in the movie again. Also attempts to mirror the killer with an at first extraneous seeming medical case Scully is working on, where a boy is probably dying from a rare brain disease and an experimental and highly painful treatment has only a very small chance of saving him. The killer, meanwhile, is kidnapping people and sawing them up with the hope of curing his husband's cancer. The question, eventually, appears to be: How far is too far to save someone you love? But then the end completely ignores this connection, as Scully powers on with the treatment. Mercifully, we never find out whether it works, but it still seems completely at odds with what the rest was trying to suggest. Easily the worst movie of the trip, despite Duchovny's charming attempts to rescue it with every scene he's in. (Gillian Anderson is also completely awful, it is little wonder her career has stagnated without the show)
Mission: Impossible III (J.J. Abrams, 2006)
Watched this both because I had not seen it since the theatre, and as a primer for my anticipation of seeing Super 8 when I arrived in Atlanta. That it turned out to be much better than that movie was a surprise, although it is still nothing worth writing home about. The bit of stunt casting that put Phillip Seymour Hoffman in the villain's chair likely won Abrams much of the movie's critical respect, but to me he does nothing but exude a pale, mealy-mouthed narcissist's idea of quiet, direct menace. He's so obviously caught up in trying to be scary without being overtly scary that it ruptures the entire movie's existence. The whole fiasco is a case of Actors Gone wild, as Cruise pulls out all the stops in appearing as Tom Cruise-y as possible at all times, while Billy Crudup tips his hat too early by being oily and shooting furtive glances. The rest of the movie is the usual Abrams celebration of gender roles, with Cruise as the jaded spy who falls in love with a girl because of her innocence and naivete (creepy), then must rescue her when his life, and his mistakes, ensare her. A few of the espionage aspects seem interesting at first, though eventually end in cliche (one particularly elaborate sequence's finale comes down to spilling a drink on someone and then ambushing them in the bathroom). Here's hoping Brad Bird's first foray into live-action can breathe some life into this tired franchise (but, sadly, who's really holding their breath?), as who doesn't love the idea of spies doing cool spy stuff?
In an effort to speed along this blog process and catch up to something close to where I should be with my movie reviews, I've decided to give these dozen movies short shrift and stick them all together in one hastily written post.
The Last Man on Earth (Ubaldo Ragona & Sidney Salkow, 1964)
By default the best adaptation of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend. None of the three are good, but this one is, I suppose, the least bad. If I'm being honest I sort of hate Vincent Price's theatrical acting in this. I am not familiar enough with his work to know if this is his typical style of acting, or if too long pauses and over-emphasis on the dramatic words of a sentence are simply his forte. In any case, it gave everything a feeling of Masterpiece Theatre, which the grimy desperation of the character needs anything but. The Omega Man must've got the part where the main character becomes a martyr, rather than realizing he's the monster, from this movie. Kinda defeats the whole point of the book.
The Box (Richard Kelly, 2009)
Lately I've fallen in love with describing certain movies as "cinema wallpaper." It seems a short and easy way of stating that they feel a whole lot like watching nothing. There are things happening on screen, but none of them seem to add up to an experience that is like watching a whole movie. The Box is certainly like that, and, sadly, that's enough to make it Richard Kelly's best movie (based on Donnie Darko and the 20 minutes I was able to get through of Southland Tales). Again, like in DD, he uses period detail without much point -- the film takes place in the '70s, but it could just as well be now (and, for a lot of it, now would make more sense). But, again, I guess nothing beats the low-hanging fruit of Donnie Darko's attempts at '80s satire. It's pretty difficult to even understand why or how this was made.
Swordfish (Dominic Sena, 2001)
Uses that Matrix rotating camera trick to much greater effect than was ever used in the Matrix. Gave the feeling that, despite the awfulness of Travolta's opening monologue, I might actually be about to watch an interesting movie. Unfortunately it turns out the opening sequence is one of those Begin at the End hooks, and the ensuing flashback to Hugh Jackman as a paroled hacker (quite easily the buffest man to ever be jailed for spending 16 hours a day sitting behind a computer) being enticed back into the life is dull nonsense -- though, at least, breezy, hastily paced nonsense. I didn't hate it, even if all the potential was eventually wasted, and the movie can never decide whether it wants to be a big, outlandish cartoon of an action movie or a gritty, violent down-to-earth action movie with Jackman as a plausible moral center, trapped in a world of chaos and violence.
Man on Fire (Tony Scott, 2004)
Honestly, I was completely surprised how much I enjoyed this. My general feeling towards Tony Scott is that, despite certain critical opinions, he is in fact even worse than Ridley. This, however, is the most I've enjoyed a movie by either of the two brothers, which I guess puts Tony back in the lead even if Ridley never made a movie I hated as much as True Romance. It is mean and bleak and gross, and wearing its "gritty" Denzel broken down Man of Action heart on its sleeve does it no real favors, but its ultra high contrast music video cinematography is so gorgeous I could watch nearly anything happening to it and be enthralled. Perhaps it speaks to my sense of aesthetic (and how bad it is), but I just plain love looking at this movie and if I could make a movie that looked just like it I would be pleased as punch. Dakota Fanning is pretty good, too.
The Manchurian Candidate (Jonathan Demme, 2004)
At first looks and feels like a bad attempt to revive '70s paranoia-style filmmaking, with weird deep fisheye cameras and strange zooms. This visual style eventually stopped bothering me, though it never completely gelled with the rest of the movie. Despite these stylistic problems, and Meryl Streep's boring Meryl Streep performance, Demme's attempt to make a big budget movie also be somewhat politically subversive ends up giving it enough oomph to push it into a pretty decent movie. The way it mirrors the hypnotic suggestion of its characters with the rhetoric of television punditry and political speeches to suggest that our entire political system is a broken down mess of mass hypnosis and it doesn't really matter which party you support, as long as everyone is talking the same way about the same things is a pretty unusual (if a mite obvious) outlook for a Hollywood political thriller, even if Demme eventually becomes trapped in offering the audience an easy happy(-ish) ending escape.
Freejack (Geoff Murphy, 1992)
Actually starts like an interesting movie, possibly. Though that is only because I misinterpreted the opening sequence to think it was about something completely different. The opening intercuts Emilio Estevez in a bright, sunny, idyllic, Best Day of My Life scene with a dark Mick Jagger-led post-apocalypse wasteland. The implication at the time, to me, was that Estevez was jacked into some kind of virtual reality world where he relived the positive aspects of his life as an escape from the reality that he was seriously injured or something along those lines. You could go interesting places with a concept like that. Instead it's about how in the future you can snatch people's bodies just before their death and, if you have enough money, transfer your personality into them to live forever -- like some kind of reverse on the Bradbury story Sound of Thunder. Estevez escapes and the movie proceeds from there in a series of poorly executed chase sequences until it eventually ends.
X2: X-Men United (Bryan Singer, 2003)
Still too long, just as I remembered, but otherwise an efficient slice of superhero action movie. Singer is, with little doubt, one of our best living action directors and this movie goes far to demonstrate just what is dull and lacking about the sleepwalking action sequences in Matthew Vaughn's newest X-Men movie. The tension, the sense of place and motion, in the opening action sequence alone would probably make it one of the best American action scenes of the last decade or so. It moves with a steady, pure kinesis that is almost unseen in action movies lately. I also have to admit I appreciate the mutants as metaphor for the struggle for gay rights, and the goofy fun Singer has with it ("have you ever tried... NOT being a mutant" asks a fretful mother) a lot more than I like it as a metaphor for black civil rights ala the new one. Guess I should finally get around to watching Valkyrie and see if it has some glimmers of awesome in and around how awful I expect to find some of it.
X-Men: Last Stand (Brett Ratner, 2006)
Actually not as awful as I remembered. Kelsey Grammar is a terrible choice for Beast (come on, it's fuckin' Frasier, how did anyone think this wasn't ridiculous), and it mostly skates along without any ideas about anything -- it doesn't, for instance, even attempt to grapple with the idea that despite Magneto hating Nazis he basically wants to be a mutant Hitler. But it does skate along briskly and with a kind of gleeful abandon. No doubt working with the knowledge that this was gonna be the last real X-Men movie, Ratner and screenwriters spare no opportunity to kill off as many main characters as they possibly can. And while this is, in itself, not anything like an inherently good thing, I can find a small amount of pleasure in it compared to the usual way of handling super teams in movies. Cover it with an ecstatic layer of sentimental cheese and you have a movie that, while not at all something good, is at least a joyful and unbridled show of passable mediocrity.
Jurassic Park III (Joe Johnston, 2001)
I guess this would be kind of the opposite end of a similar sequel spectrum. This is even more unapologetically schlocky than Last Stand, yet it works far less well. The biggest issue is that Joe Johnston is so obviously beholden to Spielberg's work that what he ends up with is merely sticky, oozing Velveeta Spielberg. An indiscernible mess of could-be Spielberg, yet everything about it looks, feels, tastes and smells wrong. Even the music is weird, having been able to successfully license the Jurassic Park theme song -- but not John Williams himself. So we alternate between big, uproarious moments with the (actually pretty annoying) theme, then seque into some not at all good faux-Williams music for the next part. Then the movie will do something completely inexplicable, like try to reprise that first Jurassic Park moment, when you've spent 20 minutes talking about dinosaurs and getting hints of dinosaurs, then you get the big BAM moment when there's a dinosaur... only they do it 3/4ths of the way into this movie, which has already been filled with dinosaurs since the beginning. Why are you trying to replicate (almost exactly) the big majestic moment at a completely ill-fitting time when everyone is trying to run away and not get eaten? While I can understand not liking The Lost World, or probably honestly any of the Jurassic Park movies, do not trust anyone who claims this is better than the second one.
Minority Report (Steven Spielberg, 2002)
So after all that fake Spielberg I decided to watch a real one, albeit not even close to one of his best. In many ways this is the most conflicted of his movies that I've seen, constantly battling itself between his impulse for humanistic gravity about the future, where America/humanity appeared to be heading in a post-Patriot Act world of security and paranoia -- and a bunch of awful jokes like Tom Cruise chasing his eyeballs down a ramp and Peter Stormare as a doctor blowing snot everywhere. This is definitely Spielberg at his most weirdly unrestrained, apparently literally throwing every idea he can think of into the movie whether good, bad, offensive, childish, interesting or dull. Just a whole big kitchen sink of a movie which, somewhat unfortunately, also happens to have some of the most interesting sci-fi world building that exists in a recent movie -- blending utopic and dystopic ideas into a world that seems like a plausible reality in 20-30 years (Xbox Kinect already offers the ability to control TV menus by moving your hands, and, from what I hear, cars that drive themselves are in a constant state of testing).
The X-Files: I Want To Believe (Chris Carter, 2008)
A ridiculous exercise in combining what would be, even by its standards, a pretty bland episode of the show with a seemingly endless string of kowtowing fanbase appeasement. Mulder and Scully are finally together and doing it as they get roped back into working for the government for One Last Job. Xzibit co-stars as the only black guy, who also happens to be surly, dislikeable and useless. Even late in the movie, when it appears his time for redemption has come, as Scully angrily calls out his masculinity ("if you can't do it, find me someone with the balls who will") instead is just an excuse to bring back Skinner for a worthless cameo and Xzibit never appears in the movie again. Also attempts to mirror the killer with an at first extraneous seeming medical case Scully is working on, where a boy is probably dying from a rare brain disease and an experimental and highly painful treatment has only a very small chance of saving him. The killer, meanwhile, is kidnapping people and sawing them up with the hope of curing his husband's cancer. The question, eventually, appears to be: How far is too far to save someone you love? But then the end completely ignores this connection, as Scully powers on with the treatment. Mercifully, we never find out whether it works, but it still seems completely at odds with what the rest was trying to suggest. Easily the worst movie of the trip, despite Duchovny's charming attempts to rescue it with every scene he's in. (Gillian Anderson is also completely awful, it is little wonder her career has stagnated without the show)
Mission: Impossible III (J.J. Abrams, 2006)
Watched this both because I had not seen it since the theatre, and as a primer for my anticipation of seeing Super 8 when I arrived in Atlanta. That it turned out to be much better than that movie was a surprise, although it is still nothing worth writing home about. The bit of stunt casting that put Phillip Seymour Hoffman in the villain's chair likely won Abrams much of the movie's critical respect, but to me he does nothing but exude a pale, mealy-mouthed narcissist's idea of quiet, direct menace. He's so obviously caught up in trying to be scary without being overtly scary that it ruptures the entire movie's existence. The whole fiasco is a case of Actors Gone wild, as Cruise pulls out all the stops in appearing as Tom Cruise-y as possible at all times, while Billy Crudup tips his hat too early by being oily and shooting furtive glances. The rest of the movie is the usual Abrams celebration of gender roles, with Cruise as the jaded spy who falls in love with a girl because of her innocence and naivete (creepy), then must rescue her when his life, and his mistakes, ensare her. A few of the espionage aspects seem interesting at first, though eventually end in cliche (one particularly elaborate sequence's finale comes down to spilling a drink on someone and then ambushing them in the bathroom). Here's hoping Brad Bird's first foray into live-action can breathe some life into this tired franchise (but, sadly, who's really holding their breath?), as who doesn't love the idea of spies doing cool spy stuff?
Friday, July 1, 2011
Cobra (George Pan Cosmatos, 1986)
Cobra is so vile and complete an embodiment of '70s-'80s fascist vigilante romanticism that it could almost be a parody of these ideals, if not for its complete straight face -- excepting macho-cynical one-liners, of course. A gang of psychotic cultists spouting apocalyptic nihilism are taking over the town and it's up to one cop in a vintage sedan to stop them. His superiors don't understand his brand of no-nonsense, get results, shoot the bad guys police work. A material witness who is also a pretty lady needs his protection and he'll stop at nothing to give it to her. One of the bureaucrats always standing in Cobra's way is secretly working with the cult. Hits every cliche plot nail on the head and lacks both the gorgeously scummy look Don Siegel brought to Dirty Harry, as well as that movie's occasional acknowledgement of/ambivalence towards the titular character's gross methods/outlooks. If this were possible to be taken seriously by anyone, this movie would have made me very angry. Instead, it was just annoyingly icky -- like the sheen of sweat from a muggy summer day spent doing nothing much but writing about terrible movies (hint: today).
Hot Tub Time Machine (Steve Pink, 2010)
A telling cultural placeholder -- a fitting affirmation of just how far we haven't come since the '80s. Manages to mix the homophobia, misogyny and racism of yesteryear with all the new ways we've discovered to oppress people in the two decades since. I'd say Craig Robinson ought to be ashamed of himself, but he has already proven himself a man without shame.
The film's premise is, actually, not without potential. Sad sack middle-aged guys trying to relive their glory days accidentally get time-warped back to them. If the film had gone from there to become an indictment of the vanity and privelege of male mid-life crises, as well as an attempt to slap in the face the entire idea of rose-tinted nostalgia for the '80s and all the awful things about that decade, all while embodying the tone and feel of an '80s comedy (the one thing the actual movie does get kinda right), well, that actually sounds like a movie I'd want to see -- a lot. The movie has a banquet of satirical subject matter to work with, and all it ends up with is some jokes about neon and slack-jawed Red Scare jokes that were likely tired before the '80s had ended.
And the actual plot involves none of this premise. Instead, it is the exact opposite. It is about how, hey, now that we're old and we see all those mistakes we made, wouldn't it be great if we could go back to our young, hot, virile bodies, but with the life experience we have now? We would rule EVERYTHING. So it becomes an extended, unfunny exercise in male wish fulfillment. John Cusack, in the present, is reeling from a recent divorce in which his Bitch Ex-Wife(TM) took everything and left him a shallow husk of a man. The solution, in the past, is to meet a "quirky" girl with almost no personality and get her to fall in love with you despite the fact that you are exhibiting personality traits in life with both A) a mopey, recently dumped creep ex-boyfriend and B) a legitimately mentally ill person who believes he is from the future. There is literally no way a young, successful writer for a music magazine would ever be interested in him. Craig Robinson, in the present, is an emasculated cukold too much in love with his wife to confront her about his knowledge of her affair. The solution, in the past, is to call his 9-year-old wife-to-be on the phone and scream obscenities at her until she cries. This move proves so emotionally scarring, that when he returns to the future she would never dream of cheating on him (though, of course, she doesn't know it was him). The entire movie is like this. Men behave in such disgusting, self-serving, completely inhuman ways and are then rewarded. We are supposed to buy into their ending as being a happy one, because, I guess, that the only thing really wrong with the world is that men don't have enough control over it.
The film's premise is, actually, not without potential. Sad sack middle-aged guys trying to relive their glory days accidentally get time-warped back to them. If the film had gone from there to become an indictment of the vanity and privelege of male mid-life crises, as well as an attempt to slap in the face the entire idea of rose-tinted nostalgia for the '80s and all the awful things about that decade, all while embodying the tone and feel of an '80s comedy (the one thing the actual movie does get kinda right), well, that actually sounds like a movie I'd want to see -- a lot. The movie has a banquet of satirical subject matter to work with, and all it ends up with is some jokes about neon and slack-jawed Red Scare jokes that were likely tired before the '80s had ended.
And the actual plot involves none of this premise. Instead, it is the exact opposite. It is about how, hey, now that we're old and we see all those mistakes we made, wouldn't it be great if we could go back to our young, hot, virile bodies, but with the life experience we have now? We would rule EVERYTHING. So it becomes an extended, unfunny exercise in male wish fulfillment. John Cusack, in the present, is reeling from a recent divorce in which his Bitch Ex-Wife(TM) took everything and left him a shallow husk of a man. The solution, in the past, is to meet a "quirky" girl with almost no personality and get her to fall in love with you despite the fact that you are exhibiting personality traits in life with both A) a mopey, recently dumped creep ex-boyfriend and B) a legitimately mentally ill person who believes he is from the future. There is literally no way a young, successful writer for a music magazine would ever be interested in him. Craig Robinson, in the present, is an emasculated cukold too much in love with his wife to confront her about his knowledge of her affair. The solution, in the past, is to call his 9-year-old wife-to-be on the phone and scream obscenities at her until she cries. This move proves so emotionally scarring, that when he returns to the future she would never dream of cheating on him (though, of course, she doesn't know it was him). The entire movie is like this. Men behave in such disgusting, self-serving, completely inhuman ways and are then rewarded. We are supposed to buy into their ending as being a happy one, because, I guess, that the only thing really wrong with the world is that men don't have enough control over it.
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