Chopper vs. Bronson

Tom Hardy is the new hot shit, right?  He was the sole source of humor in Inception, he was perfectly repressed in Warrior and he will, I assume, be expertly covert in the upcoming Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.  And of course, Bane.

When people start talking about Hardy, I always steer them to the film that made him a breakout star, Nicolas Winding Refn’s Bronson.  I’ll talk about Bronson for a little while, about its stylized violence and its charismatic yet clinically insane titular character; and after a while, I realize that I should’ve been talking about a similar, but far better, film the whole time.

On paper, Chopper and Bronson are the exact same movie, made eight years apart.  Both Mark Brandon ‘Chopper’ Read and Michael Peterson (a.k.a Charles Bronson) were real-life criminals who spent more time in prison than out.  Both were fiercely charming, sadistically violent, lethally street smart, and very much insane.

But while Rehn is more focused on showing how amusingly batshit crazy his Bronson is, Andrew Dominik added another level to his Chopper.  He gave his man a soul.

I'm just a bloody normal bloke. A normal bloke who likes a bit of torture.

Released briefly in New York and L.A. in mid 2001, before fading to single copy-only purgatory on a hidden shelf at your local Blockbuster, Chopper was (and still is) a hidden phenomenon waiting to be discovered.

When we meet Chopper (played with ferocious excellence by then nobody Eric Bana), he is hatching a half ass plan to kill all of his enemies (i.e. pretty much everyone) in the Australian prison he occupies.  If it sounds absurd, that’s because it is.  Dominik and Bana know this, and the way they handle the (mostly) true material is breathtaking.

Everything Chopper says and does, you see, is done with wild charisma.  Whether he’s thrusting a shank into a prisoner’s face a dozen times, or being stabbed repeatedly by his cell mate, or chopping his own ears off, or firing a gun in a crowded nightclub; it’s all done with a sense of deranged joy.  The actions themselves aren’t necessarily funny (unless you have a sick sense of humor – ding ding), but the fallout is nothing short of hilarious.

Bana as Chopper/Chopper as Chopper

Eric Bana, if I haven’t been clear, is revelatory in the lead role.  Packing on a good 30 pounds and slathered in hundreds of tattoos, Bana transforms himself into Chopper.  It’s the type of performance that, quite frankly, makes award competitions irrelevant.  Bana may have not been nominated for anything, but he got the attention of Ridley Scott, who cast him in Black Hawk Down, which led to The Hulk, which led to Munich, and so on.

And despite the fact that Bana steals the show, Chopper is far from a one trick pony.  Because the film was made for next to nothing, its composition is horrible.  It is grainy and dark with a fluctuating soundtrack.  All of this, however, lends itself perfectly to the film.  The look of the film is raw, but so is the material.  If you saw The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, then you know Andrew Dominik knows his shit.  The raw talent of he and his Chopper cast and crew is wildly compelling.

Inside, I'm somebody nobody wants to fuck with, do you understand? I am Charlie Bronson, I am Britain's most violent prisoner. 

Bronson is similar in story in that it tells the tale of a violent prisoner who took more pleasure in hurting others than he probably did from anything else.  The real Michael Peterson (who later took on the fight name, Charles Bronson) was sentenced to seven years in prison for robbery, but has only spent a handful of days out of jail since being incarcerated. 

As Tom Hardy informs us in the film, Bronson loved being an inside man.  He loved being able to hone his fighting skills on the guards that tried to restore order.  Kidnapping guards, hurting himself, refusing to eat; no gimmick was spared to make way for a little bit of beating.

I first saw Bronson at the 2009 Sundance Film Festival and remember being utterly enthralled.  You had this jacked up dude beating the shit out of anything within sight, usually cut in slow motion to electronica music.  It was coolest prison movie I’d seen since, well, Chopper.

Hardy as Bronson/Bronson as Bronson

Watching it now, having seen Refn’s far superior Drive, I’m a little less impressed.  A lot less impressed, actually.

Its sense of humor is still intact, and Hardy is still demonically possessed in all the best ways, but there’s really nothing to the film.  There’s fighting and blood and punching and knives and bare asses and talking and fighting and blood and end credits.  The film is 92 minutes but its repetitiveness makes it feel double that.  If you’re a fan of Drive, you’ll enjoy seeing the makings of Refn’s genius.  Otherwise, Bronson is a film that, aside from its violence, is as weightless as air.

Here's a bloke, sitting in a cell, who can't spell, and he's written a best-seller. It's sold two hundred and fifty thousand copies. And it's still selling. And he's writing another one. And I can't even spell. I'm semi-bloody-illiterate. 

Which brings me to my final point.  Bronson is all style, no substance, whereas Chopper is high style, higher substance.  You may laugh with your friends about all the crazy shit Chopper does, but when you stop and actually think about it, you’ll find yourself staring off at a blank wall, alone with your thoughts, much like the man himself.  Chopper: A, Bronson: B-

Footloose

I am an unabashed Footloose fanatic.  I love everything about the 1984 dance fever classic.  The big hair, the loud clothes, the synthesized music, John Lithgow; I love it all. Sure, when you scrutinize the plot (which, incidentally, requires very little scrutiny), the original is full of continuity errors, gapping plot holes and less-than-stellar acting, but I love it nonetheless.

Which makes the notion of a remake all the more unnecessary.  I frankly see no point in it.  Director Craig Brewer knows this, and because he knows this, he must understand that he has a lot going against his film.  With all that in mind, there’s only one thing a person can do, really.  Sit back, relax, and (try to) enjoy the show.

Which, much to my surprise, is exactly what I did.

Footloose starts the exact same way as the original, with an extended credit sequence of various shoes cuttin’ it loose to Kenny Loggins’ titular track.  However, visible in Brewer’s version are kicked kegs, red plastic party cubs, spilt beer, and dozens of wasted teens.  Before the movie even begins, five of those teens have been killed via a head-on collision with an 18-wheeler.  This is very ballsy stuff.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.

When we meet Ren MacCormack (Kenny Wormald) he’s fresh off a bus from Boston, strutting with spiked hair, a leather jacket and a Yankee attitude.  Ren has spent an unexplained amount of time nursing his mother to death from leukemia.  He’s tired, he’s pissed, and he’s in serious need of what every teenager who has just lost their mother requires: a little dancin’.

You know the drill.  Ren has moved to Bomont, a small, deeply religious town where dancing, among other things, is illegal.  He befriends Willard (Miles Teller), a good-hearted country bumpkin and soon falls for Ariel, the rebellious preacher’s daughter (Julianne Hough).  After being victim to a little not-so-Southern hospitality, Ren decides to get a petition in motion to reverse the law against dancing.

The good:  It’s fun, but only when people aren’t talking.  Brewer’s Footloose, much like the original, has the dance numbers down pat.  Wormald and Hough did most of their own dancing, the result of which is tremendously impressive.

Wormald and Teller

Miles Teller (in the Chris Penn role) brings some much needed levity to the film.  He is given the best material, and in return, delivers a genuinely hilarious performance.  He knocks every line out of the park. Likewise Ren’s aunt and uncle, played respectively by Kim Dickens and Ray McKinnon, two great character actors known mostly for their television work, including their roles in the HBO series Deadwood.  Their characters were the best changes to the new Footloose.  Instead of having a cranky uncle and an underused aunt, Dickens and McKinnon are tender and respectful.  They each have their shining moments, and they handle them well.

The bad:  When the film isn’t involved in a dance number, it is simply dead.  This is mostly the fault of Wormald and Hough, who have virtually no acting talent.  That great scene from the original, in which Kevin Bacon uses a verse from the Bible to state his case to the town council, falls devastatingly flat here.  Likewise Hough’s big moment when she tells her father (played aimlessly by Dennis Quaid) that she isn’t a virgin.  That scene starts well (rather superb, actually) but gets muddled by length and horrible dialogue.

In short, the new Footloose is simply inconsistent.  It’s six minutes longer than the original, yet so much feels left out.  If you haven’t seen the first film, then you’ll know nothing about the characters’ motivations.  If Brewer (who directed the very impeccable Hustle & Flow), was aiming to solely have fun, then he achieved that.  But what about the other 90 minutes?  C

Note: Much of this film was ruined by Wormald’s horrible Boston accent. It was distracting, and nothing short of laughable.  Now, having discovered that that is Wormald’s real voice, I must admit that I like the movie a little bit more.

Melancholia

Like most of my cinephile counterparts, I am equipped with a distinct ability to separate the art from the artist.

After Lars von Trier’s painfully inappropriate Cannes press conference (the one where he said he understood Hitler, and hated some, but not all, Jews), you can’t exactly fault a person for labeling von Trier as depressed scum, and that by supporting his films, you’re supporting a monster.  My solution: create two different opinions, one for von Trier, the man, and another for von Trier, the filmmaker.

To be clear: Lars von Trier is an asshole, but he’s an extremely talented asshole.  Von Trier – or rather, the characters in his films – smash erect penises with wood blocks, tell their wives to sleep with other men, shoot babies, rape women, hang innocent people, and so on.  Yet somehow, rather miraculously, the man has asserted himself as one of the world’s premiere filmmakers.  While viewers may not be able to stomach his films, it’s simply impossible to argue that they are not well made.

So now, after the brutal hell of his last, most lacerating film, Antichrist, we get one of his tamest, but no less thrilling, movies yet. 

Melancholia starts much the same way Antichrist did, with an extended slow motion sequence that, at first, appears to be nothing more than pleasing sights and sounds.  Whereas the prologue in Antichrist affected everything that happened after, Melancholia’s introduction plays more like a wondrous fever dream of what may, or may not, occur.

The narrative begins with freshly married couple Justine (Kirsten Dunst, effortless) and Michael (Alexander Skarsgård, delightfully aloof) humorously arriving late to their reception at the estate that Justine’s sister, Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) shares with her wealthy husband, John (Kiefer Sutherland).  What transpires, slowly, beautifully, is the wedding reception from hell. 

Immediately upon arrival, Claire warns her sister to not fall into what appears to be one of her frequent spells of manic depression.  The girls’ mother, played with perfect bitterness by Charlotte Rampling, devotes her wedding toast to bashing love, marriage, and the girls’ father (John Hurt, still at it).  Justine’s boss (a devilishly slimy Stellan Skarsgård) toasts to Justine’s talent as a copywriter, and warns that if work is not completed by night’s end, serious consequences will follow.  Basically, Justine’s friends and family are like the cast of Modern Family stuck in purgatory.  They’re busting at the seams with ego, hatred, and self-loathing. 

“I tried to kick your mother out,” John says to Justine late in the evening.

“You usually do,” she calmly retorts.

I’m an incredible fan of Lars von Trier’s work.  Dancer in the Dark, Dogville, Antichrist, and especially Breaking the Waves, represent some of the finest films released in the past 15 years.  Before, I enjoyed von Trier’s work mostly because of its audacity.  It wasn’t until Melancholia that I became fully aware of how much I appreciate von Trier’s eye for craft.  His tone and overall mise en scène is, more often than not, quite flawless.

In addition to Melancholia’s story (which, for the record, takes many dramatic turns that I see no point in ruining here), the film looks amazing.  Its camera floats and glides and stumbles in all the right places, catching all the right action.  Its editing is calm yet appropriately abrupt.  Its music is soothing yet loud.  Much like Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, Melancholia is as close to technical perfection as I’ve seen in any film so far this year.

Add a tonally seamless script and faultless acting (Dunst justly won Best Actress at the Cannes Film Festival) and you’ve got the makings of a unique, jaw-dropping head trip that completely justifies its massive scope.

This year has been better to us film enthusiasts than the past two.  Much is to thank for this, mainly the brashness of Bridesmaids and The Trip, the bizarre wonderment of The Tree of Life and Drive, and, yes, the unique beauty Melancholia.  A

Note: Melancholia will have a limited run in theaters beginning on Nov. 18.  Currently, you can find it On Demand via your cable provider.  Which you should do.  Right now.

The Ides of March

What Caesar was once warned about, the characters in George Clooney’s new film do not fear. Rather, they attack it with the vicious hunger of a rabid animal.

March 15 is the day it all goes down.  When Pennsylvania Governor Mike Morris (George Clooney, perfect) and Arkansas Senator Ted Pullman compete in the Ohio Democratic primary.  This primary, it’s explained, is a fast track to the Presidency.  America is in no mood for another Republican President, so whoever tips the polls in The Buckeye State will get the indefinite advantage.  Win Ohio and you're sleeping in The White House.

Here’s the beauty of Clooney’s new film (which, in addition to co-starring, he directed, produced, and co-wrote): it doesn’t focus on the candidate.  It concentrates on the backrooms; the secret handshakes in dive bars, the slid envelopes stating astronomical figures, the whispered promises of a cabinet seat. 

At the forefront are Stephen (Ryan Gosling, simply killing it this year), Morris’ junior campaign manager, and Paul (Philip Seymour Hoffman, happily toning it down a bit), who runs Morris’ campaign.  Early in the film, Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti, brief but effective) the campaign manager from the opposing side, offers Stephen a job.  Tom, who by all accounts seems genuine and fair, is in awe of Stephen’s flair.  Deals have been made, Tom explains.  Morris is set to lose.  Jump ship and Stephen will have a job in the west wing.

For added effect, Stephen begins an honest, playful relationship with Molly (Evan Rachel Wood, who really deserves to work more), the head intern of Morris’ campaign.

While all this may sound familiar and unexciting, Clooney and co-writers Grant Heslov and Beau Willimon, have a few tricks up their sleeve.  Their cracker-jack script slowly evolves into a twisting, turning, muddled mess. Messy for the characters, mind you, not for us.  The plot devices may seem recognizable, but that’s only after the fact. The Ides of March is perfect in the way it reels you in. 

Problems.  I didn’t buy Morris’ political stances.  I seriously doubt that a guy who openly admits his atheism (or, sorry, his religious belief in The Constitution) during debates, and tells Charlie Rose that he would murder the person who, hypothetically, killed his wife, would get this far in a Presidential campaign.  If Morris wasn’t played by America’s most charming leading man, the role would be borderline laughable.

But this problem, and the few others I have, are minor in comparison to the scope of the picture.  The acting, as you might expect, is utterly top notch. As he did in Drive and Half Nelson (and Blue Valentine, and, well everything he’s in) Ryan Gosling demonstrates the importance of having an expressive face.  Maybe that sounds funny, but seriously, go back and look at his movies.  If the director was smart enough, they let Gosling simply look and stare, contemplate and negotiate, without saying a word. There is a very pivotal scene late in The Ides of March that has Gosling’s face in close up.  As the camera slowly pushes in, Gosling looks on, saying nothing, but thinking everything.  To put it simply, Gosling makes the movie.  If this film is worth seeing, it’s largely because of him.

Indeed, audiences need not beware of this Ides of March.  It’s a twisty throwback to its director’s favorite era of movies. But one that will ultimately, I feel, be overshadowed by stronger, more lasting films in the ensuing months.  B+

George Clooney’s Every Other Year Career

With the exception of gaining weight for one role (hello, Oscar) and occasionally talking with a hyperbolic southern accent, George Clooney is always… George Clooney. 

However, this doesn’t bother me.  Why?  Because George Clooney is a heavy actor.  He may rarely change is appearance, but he consistently delivers, no matter the material.  (Yeah, okay, there have been a few missteps.  Even Brando made The Island of Dr. Moreau).

I’ve been tossing this theory around in my head for a while now, that of examining George Clooney’s Every Other Year Career.  Basically, if you look at his work in the odd-number years alone, you have a massive talent in the cinematic medium.

This isn’t to say that the even-number years haven’t been influential to him.  Point in fact, the most important film of Clooney’s career was in 1998, when Out of Sight proved that he was the new definition of suave.  Cool personified.

Here’s a look at Clooney’s Every Other Year Career, starting conveniently after Batman and Robin.

1999

Leaves ER after proving he can probably take over the movie industry.  Stars in Three Kings, which is critically revered, commercially accepted, yet, for whatever reason, ignored come awards time.  Defends extras by beating up the director on set.  Inspires extras to never put up with nagging directors again, or at least for the rest of the Three Kings shoot.

2001

Ocean’s Eleven is released.  Clooney becomes pretty much the most famous person in the world.  Rants well with Benjamin Button.  Looks even better in a suit than he did in Out of Sight, which, you know, no one thought was possible.

2003

Intolerable Cruelty proves that great directors and a polished leading man don't necessarily equate to a great film about a polished man.

2005

Directs, co-writes, and co-stars in Good Night, and Good Luck, which after the playfulness of his first feature, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, proves that his directing is serious fucking business.  Gets to scream at that guy who played Nixon.  The film receives six Oscar nominations but loses to that gay cowboy movie and that muddled racism flick.

Commits a rarity for his role in Syriana by actually changing his appearance.  Delivers the best performance of his career.  Wins an Oscar.  Gives one of the best speeches in recent Oscar history.   Basically wins over the hearts of the world.

2007

Michael Clayton, a film he initially wanted to direct, is released to justified fanfare. Delivers the best performance of his career.  Yells at Tilda Swinton.  Is nominated for an Oscar.  Loses to that guy who is shouting all the time in that oil movie.

2009

Everyone tries to forget that The Men Who Stare at Goats is an actual movie.  Up in the Air is released. Delivers the best performance of his career.  Makes us laugh, cry, and appreciate economical packing. Nominated for an Oscar.  Loses to The Dude.

2011

Directs, produces, writes, runs craft services, and stars in The Ides of March, a political thriller based, in part, on Howard Dean’s 2004 presidential campaign.  People flock to theaters in hopes of seeing a crazy, red-faced Clooney roll up his sleeves and scream that he’s going to take back the White House, yeah.

Stars in The Descendants, the first full length feature by the guy who made that movie about that Legally Blonde chick screwing her teacher.  Clooney receives positive early buzz and will be nominated for an Oscar, which he’ll probably lose to that crazy guy from Dracula, or that guy he shot in Burn After Reading, or Jack from Titanic, or young Magneto.

Top 10 Criterion DVD Covers

In addition to restoring and preserving the best among classic and contemporary films, The Criterion Collection has made an art out of the DVD cover.  Bleak or busy, hand drawn or still photo, there’s no mistaking the eye-catching beauty of a Criterion.

Seeing a film doesn't necessarily make you fully appreciate a Criterion cover, but it does help define what some of the more obscure covers were attempting to encapsulate in a single image. For that reason, I've made two lists: my favorite Criterion covers of film’s I've seen, and films I have yet to watch.

One other rule: only one cover per director, or else this list would be devoted entirely to Ingmar Bergman films. Enjoy.

10 Favorite Covers of Films I’ve Seen:

Modern Times (1936)

The face of one, if not the, most iconic characters in film history with a few crude mechanical graphics, all resting on a flawless white background. Only Chaplin could make an image like this work.  Equally humorous and breathtaking. Also see: Chaplin's The Great Dictator

Rashomon (1950)

This image mirrors the theme of its film perfectly.  Like the differing stories told by the characters in Rashomon, the film’s main centerpiece is hazy and broken, yet somehow still stands tall. Also see: Kurosawa's Ikiru

Night and Fog (1955)

While I’m all about still photos from a film being utilized on its DVD cover, I’m extremely thankful that Criterion chose this faded, washed-out image to represent one of the most graphic films I’ve ever seen.  Once you’ve seen Night and Fog, you realize how much justice this cover does for the film. Also see: Resnais' Hiroshima mon amour

Paths of Glory (1957)

Christ, just look at that face. If you’ve never seen Kubrick’s Paths of Glory, this cover should immediately implore you to discover its origins.  Having seen the film, you’ll fully understand how appropriate this image is. Also see: Kubirck's The Killing

Breathless (1960)

This text-only cover conveys the influence of its film better than any Criterion I’ve seen.  Like Godard’s classic, this cover is audacious and unapologetic.  You’re jarred by what you see, and you damn sure won’t ever forget it. Also see: Godard's Contempt

Scenes from a Marriage (1973)

I could go any which way with Bergman.  There’s Max von Sydow’s face emerging out of the darkness for The Seventh Seal’s Blu-Ray, Alexander’s perplexed, curious face looking above, the Magician staring stoically, and on and on.  But for me, no Criterion cover sums up a Bergman film better than Scenes from a Marriage.  Bleak, raw, and to the point.  Beautiful in its simplicity. 

Salò (1975)

Whether you’ve forced yourself through it or not, we all know about Salò.  Criterion doesn’t mince words with this one; they want to make damn sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. The future is bleak.  Be afraid, be very afraid.

Days of Heaven (1978)

It’s tough to slap a cover on one of the best-looking films ever made, but this image says it all. It’s beautiful yet oddly concise.  The house (and what’s in it) is the ultimate goal. Only the characters can lose sight of what that goal is. Also see: Malick's The Thin Red Line

Yi Yi (2000)

Perfect example of how a DVD cover can elevate a film.  I wasn’t the biggest fan of Edward Yang’s sprawling family epic, but damn if this cover isn’t perfect.  Also, if you’ve seen the film, you’ll appreciate how this image conveys one of the movie's best inside jokes.

Hunger (2008)

In 2008, I heard very little about Hunger; just what filtered from the film festival circuit.  It came and went in theaters quickly before silently landing OnDemand in 2009.  I caught it one very late, very hazy night and sat utterly enthralled. Months later, I stumbled across this DVD in a Barnes & Nobel and didn’t think twice about buying it. By long and far my very favorite Criterion DVD cover.

5 Favorite Covers of Films I’ve Haven’t Seen

Pigs, Pimps & Prostitutes (1960s)

I’ve heard about the films of Shohei Imamura, but I have yet to see any of his work.  I discovered this cover while researching this post, which spawned my immediate interesting in seeing the three films.  

The Face of Another (1966)

I’ve never heard of this film, quite frankly.  But because of this image, I’m undeniably drawn to it.

Man Who Fell To Earth (1976)

Although I’ve never gotten around to watching this, this cover definitely has my interest piqued.

Missing (1982)

This just looks dangerous.  If it’s anything like Costa-Gavaras’ masterful Z, then I’m sure this will be worth checking out.

Secret Honor (1984)

To be fair, I’ve actually seen Secret Honor, I just don’t remember it all that well.  This cover (which I saw for the first time a few days ago) makes me want to revisit it.

Honorable Mentions

Straw Dogs (1971)

F for Fake (1973)

Z (1969)

Grey Gardens (1975)

Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975)

Naked (1993)

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1997)

The Ice Storm (1997)

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001)

Fish Tank (2009)

50/50

50/50 tells the uneven story of Adam, a 27-year-old do-gooder who is diagnosed with a rare form of spinal cancer that brings with it the life-and-death odds reflected in the film’s title.

As a result of the cancer, relationships fail, work continues, weed is smoked, girls are laid, dogs are fed, heads are shrunk, and so on.

To be clear: 50/50 didn’t work for me.  There are a few redeeming qualities, but, in my mind, its constant tonal shifts from find-me-funny to please-oh-please-cry-for-me were overbearing misfires.  Amusingly, 50/50 is garnering great reviews, damn near excellent, in fact.  So now I’m left to defend my uncommon abhorrence.  Here goes.

Let’s start with Seth Rogen, who, like most of his buddies in the Apatow Family Circus, only knows how to play one character.  Sometimes it works (40-Year-Old Virgin and Superbad) and sometimes, as is the case with 50/50, it hinders a film almost completely.

Rogen plays Adam’s selfish, grotesque best “friend,” Kyle.  Kyle is, as you might expect, a sloppy, profane, pot-smoking hornball who cares far more about which girl he’s going to pick up than his friends’ well being.  Kyle is seen doing a number of things that no real cancer-ridden friend would (or should) put up with.  This includes using Adam’s illness as a way to get laid, annoyingly taking all the credit for calling Adam’s cheating girlfriend out, not returning Adam’s calls the night before his most influential doctor’s appointment, and getting wasted the night before Adam could very well lose his life in surgery.  What’s worse, the movie, in its weakest moment, tries to save face by having Adam tell Kyle how selfish he is.  Really?  You’re just realizing that now? Or maybe he’s known for years, and is just now sharing it with his best buddy.  In short, I didn’t buy this friendship for a second.  There are so many better-equipped actors to fill in the best friend role, and 50/50 is seriously brought down by its chosen performer.

Rogen isn’t the only one at fault here.  Director Jonathan Levine, who had similar tonal issues with his last film, The Wackness, is relying too much on the heavy handedness of his material to propel the film.  You think I can’t hate on a movie about a kid with cancer?  Think again.  Trade is a very poorly made film about human trafficking.  Dear Zachary is a very awkwardly narrated and horribly edited documentary about the murder of small child.  Remember Me uses 9/11 as a punch line.  Pearl Harbor makes Pearl Harbor look ridiculous. Life is Beautiful turns the Holocaust into a running gag (yeah, I hate that movie, sorry). And so on.  Just because your film is about a nice guy who gets cancer, doesn’t mean I’m going to automatically care about it.

The script, by Will Reiser, is rarely as funny as it thinks it is, and the characters are hardly as fleshed out as Levine wants them to be.  Are we supposed to care about Adam’s new friend, and fellow cancer patient, who dies unexpectedly? Maybe, if we had gotten to know him.  Am I supposed to sympathize with Adam’s cheating girlfriend?  Because it seems like she’s just made to be a cookie-cutter cold heart.  Does the fact that Adam’s father, stricken with a horrible case of Alzheimer’s, lend anything whatsoever to the rest of the film?  No, it does not.

If 50/50 works, it is because of the immense talents of a trio of performers.  Joseph Gordon-Levitt does all that he can and more with Adam.  His performance is raw, tender and wholly believable.  It’s the type of acting that deserves far better source material.  Levitt has long been a true talent, and that isn’t up for debate here. Anna Kendrick, as Adam’s very young, very ill-equipped shrink, is a master of subtle, awkward tension.  Kendrick won me over big time with Up in the Air; and she’s doing very well at living up to her soon-to-be A-list status. 

But the best performance in 50/50, which, incidentally is by far the most underwritten, belongs to Anjelica Huston, who plays Adam’s mother as a smothering, lost, desperate woman.  When she’s on screen, the film soars; a shame, given her pitiful amount of screen time. It’s her best role since The Royal Tenenbaums, which is seriously saying something.

Despite these strong performances, 50/50 carries a few too many faults for me to recommend it. Maybe you’ll enjoy it (most have) or maybe you’ll be like me: tired of films relying on the sensitivity of their material to help tip the scales.  C-

What’s Your Number?

You know what my biggest problem with romantic comedies is?  It isn’t that they all follow virtually the same exact scenario (meet, love, fight, love, end), it’s that they all insult our intelligence on the most rudimentary of practices.

Take, for instance, the basic understanding of time, a principle What’s Your Number? disregards regularly.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In What’s Your Number?, Anna Farris plays Ally Darling (awful name), who, after being dumped and fired, proclaims that she will not sleep with another guy until she’s sure she’s met “the one” (a proclamation she keeps for roughly three hours, but oh well.)  To keep the number of her sexual partners unmoving, she decides to hunt down her exes and wed one of them instead of  putting in work with a new guy.  But because she doesn’t know how to use Facebook or Twitter, she hires her manwhore neighbor, Colin (Chris Evans) to help her.

So about that whole time thing.  In one extended sequence, Colin gives Ally information about an ex that currently works on the Hill in DC.  Ally travels by train from Boston (the movie takes place there, despite the fact that no one speaks with an accent) to DC.  Once there, she quickly runs into her ex, who puts her up in a nice hotel.  Later, the ex delivers a very small, very stylish red dress to Ally’s hotel room, which she dutifully wears to a lavish event that evening.  Things go wrong and suddenly we cut to Ally walking up her apartment stairs, still in the red dress, giving Colin a play-by-play of the night’s faults. 

Now, let’s say this event in DC started around… 8 p.m. (the weather is warm and it is clearly night time).  Maybe they’re at the event for… 30 minutes before everything falls apart.  Ally takes a cab to her hotel, packs, and gets to the train station by, oh, 9:30.  She’d be on the train for at least six hours, probably longer.  3:30 a.m.  She gets a cab from the train station to her apartment, where it is most likely upwards of 4 a.m.  So, at 4 a.m., not only is Colin awake, standing outside his door, hanging on Ally’s every word, but Ally is still wearing the tight red dress that she bitched about all night.  Did she change?  Nope.  Is she tired?  Nope!  Oh and did I mentioned that after Ally gets back, the two order a pizza, spilt eight beers, sneak into the TD Garden (where the Celtics play), play two games of basketball and go skinny dipping in the river, all before sunrise?  That’s a lot in an hour and a half.

I’m probably being too nitpicky, I just can’t help but take notice in such gapping plot holes.  Who knows, maybe you’re willing to overlook that flexible notion of time and enjoy yourself.  Well, how enjoyable is it to watch a late-twentysomething lose her job but still be able to afford her massive city loft, and pay for all these dates with her exes?  Shouldn’t Ally be looking for a job?  Shouldn’t her family and friends encourage her to stop bitching and get paid?  Better question: should I even give a shit?  No, and neither should you.  D-

Dream House

In journalism school, I learned that every great news article should contain the same six components: the five W’s and an H, criteria, I feel, that can be must amusingly applied to the new film Dream House.

Who: Four A-list foreigners doing their best to capture the Americana fright on upstate New York.  This includes Irish director Jim Sheridan and Britain-born Daniel Craig, Rachel Weisz, and Naomi Watts.

What: New family moves into a house with a murderous past.  You know the drill.

Where: Upstate New York.

When: Present, with flashes of five years ago.

Why: Now, herein lies our dilemma: why the hell would any of the aforementioned stars take part in such a wasted, pointless film?  Money, I assume.  Or maybe it was the chance to work with Sheridan, who achieved greatness with My Left Foot, The Boxer, In America, and especially In the Name of the Father, but has since hit a series of missteps after Get Rich or Die Tryin’ and Brothers.

While the actors’ motivations are puzzling, they aren’t the main setback for Dream House.  Part of the problem is the film’s trailer, which reveals the movie’s big twist. If you’ve seen the trailer, you’ve essentially seen all there is to see.  Another gapping issue are the 30 some odd minutes that follow the twist, when the film tries to retread and make up for all its faults.  It is in those 30 minutes that the three stars and the film’s director contribute the worst work of their respective careers.

Don’t get me wrong, the film is already deep in eye rolling shit long before the obvious twist reveals itself.  By this point, there’s no turning back, and it is utterly embarrassing to watch the actors try to dig their way out of a mindless script that eventually takes them nowhere.

Apparently I’m not alone.  According to several sources, Craig, Weisz and Sheridan were so appalled by the final cut of this film, which was taken away from Sheridan by Morgan Creek Productions, that they refused to do any sort of press to promote the film.  That’s all well and good, but honestly, How much different could the final cut have been?

A movie has to seriously piss me off to receive the lowest of all ratings.  Usually, it must be offensive in some way.  This offensiveness can manifest itself racially (as in here), historically (as in here) or creatively, as is the case with Dream House.  This film isn’t just bad, it’s an egregious waste of time brought to you by people who should know better.  F