Cam's Cinematic Episodes

Film Review - THE GREY

2012-02-04T20:14:00.000-08:00

“They know we’re wounded…”

Those ill-omened words, spoken with characteristic gruff solemnity by Liam Neeson during a tense encounter with a hostile wolf pack, strike right to the anguished heart of director Joe Carnahan’s meaty, contemplative survival thriller The Grey. Deceptively marketed as a fist-pumping man vs. nature action flick on steroids, the film is, in all actuality, a grippingly bleak macho meditation on life, death, faith and redemption, dressed up in rugged genre picture attire. This movie doesn’t just entertain mightily; it cuts to the bone as harshly as a chilling blast from an oppressive Alaskan winter windstorm.

Leading the charge into the great, grim unknown is Neeson, as Ottway, a world-weary wolf sniper stationed at a remote Alaskan petroleum company outpost. Depressed and suicidal, finding comfort only in brief recollections of a beautiful brunette, he’s en route to liberation from his isolated refuge for “men unfit for mankind” when his passenger plane explosively crashes into the pitiless white wilderness. Stranded in the desolate, punishing environment with a small handful of fellow societal outcasts (including Frank Grillo, Dallas Roberts, Nonso Anozie and an almost unrecognizable Dermot Mulroney), Ottway determinedly rallies everyone to push forward on a perilous, uncertain journey in search of safety. Unfortunately for the group, though, their fragile hopes for a speedy rescue are violently dashed when they draw the unwanted attention of a ravenous pack of timberwolves, who are none too happy to have strangers encroaching on their fiercely protected territory.

Unlike past outdoor survival pictures like Open Water or Frozen, The Grey isn’t overly interested in striving for gritty realism. Instead, Carnahan and screenwriting partner Ian Mackenzie Jeffers, who penned the short story, “Ghost Walker,” that inspired the film, have fashioned their red-blooded adventure yarn into a stirring tale of tired lost souls (“ex-cons, fugitives and drifters”) rediscovering their long-buried humanity and resolve to fight for their existence. These men have landed in an earthly purgatory, a primal, will-testing space between life and death – the very “Grey” of the title – where personal salvation is achieved only by embracing your fate and going out on your own terms.

To this end, the movie’s wolf villains take on a more supernatural, thematically rich role. Although revealing themselves initially as GOTCHA! monsters, springing out of obscurity in dizzying displays of carnage-strewing horror (there’s a fantastic early moment wherein one four-legged aggressor overtakes an injured lollygagger on an dense, snowy plain, with the rest of the party helpless to sprint to his aid), they soon take on the more profound role of eerie carriers of the dead, savagely transporting their fatigued mortal prey into the next realm. Whether on-screen, as glowing eyes in the night or disconcerting howls on the soundtrack, or not, their terrifying ominous presence looms large over every single scene, keeping both the characters and audience in a constant state of intense agitation and dread.

Joe Carnahan has been building to this film for a while now. Over the course of his short, uneven career, he’s shown an unmistakeable fascination with high-testosterone relationships under exceptional pressure. Stripping away most of the playfulness that coloured The A-Team and Smoking Aces, and pumping up the sober frankness that made 2002’s Narc such an audacious discovery, the helmer feels, for the first time, totally in control of his philosophical tough-guy vision. Carnahan isn’t exactly a subtle director – Ottway’s idyllic sun-drenched memories skirt dangerously close to caricature – but he knows exactly how to tap into cinema’s full visceral potential. Whether during the chaotic, you-are-there plane crash, or the utterly perfect poetic final moments, he feels engaged and in the moment, consistently excited to be taking the viewer on this unrelenting introspective quest.

The helmer is well-teamed with the ever-reliable Neeson. The statuesque noble warrior star bears the haunted eyes of a man who has seen things – a crucial trait given the shadowy nature of his protagonist. At one point he talks a dying man through the final moments of his slow demise and there’s an unspoken sense this isn’t the first time Ottway has performed this difficult service. Among the actor’s finest gifts is his steadfast ability to sound utterly persuasive, no matter how crummy the dialogue or outlandish the situation (remember in The A-Team how he almost had us all convinced that tanks could indeed fly?!). He does exceedingly fine, nuanced work here, chewing purposely through The Grey’s crude four-letter-word-packed existential musings, and ringing every ounce of sad, impotent fury out of Ottway’s frustrated one-way conversation with the seemingly indifferent heavens above.

Watching The Grey, I was often reminded of Henri-Georges Clouzot’s 1953 masterpiece The Wages of Fear. That movie, about four shady, damaged men in an impoverished South American town trucking ultra-combustible nitro-glycerine over miles of bumpy dirt road, rickety bridges and impenetrable jungle terrain, generated just as much unbearable suspense from the slowly developing interpersonal dynamics as the perilous cliffhanger setpieces. Carnahan’s film, with its stock supporting cast and relatively simple philosophies, doesn’t have quite as much on its mind as Clouzot’s remarkably complex epic – to be fair, few films do - but the picture does display a similar mastery of pitch-black irony and authentic working class honesty, as well as a delirious knack for constructing skillful sequences of escalating white-knuckle tension. It’s an undeniably bold work.

Vigorous, awesome and surprisingly poignant, Joe Carnahan’s latest is a smart, rewarding left of centre approach to material that, in clumsier hands, could have resulted in routine “When Animals Attack” b-movie filler. Just like its ferocious furry antagonists, The Grey grabs hold like a vice, and mercilessly shakes you to your very core. And it doesn’t let go.

4 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - THE IRON LADY

2012-01-26T23:31:00.000-08:00

Few genres come burdened with a heavier air of self-importance than the biopic. For they are expected to not only tell an entertaining story, but also serve as a compelling tribute to their famed subjects’ profound importance and exceptionalness. Muddying the waters further is the fact that, frankly, reality isn’t cinematic; serious artistic license and dramatic flourish is required in order to transform it into anything approaching an engrossing viewing experience. Filmmakers have to walk a tricky balancing act, dishing out equal parts invention and accuracy. And the majority fall well short of brilliance. Great entries like Raging Bull, Ed Wood, The Social Network, Malcolm X or The Coal Miner’s Daughter succeed because their protagonist's personal account arrives tightly wrapped in a richly layered narrative that cleverly tackles universally relatable themes. It’s not enough to simply tell us a person is significant. We need to be able to connect emotionally with them and derive meaning from their unique journey.

Alas, The Iron Lady, the new Meryl Streep-fronted examination of the life and times of Britain’s controversial first female Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, couldn’t be any less vital. A cobweb-riddled grab-bag of musty old biopic clichés, archival footage and shallow historical bullet points, the picture falls prey to the same brand of lazy, trite screenwriting and overbearing stuffiness that hobbled Clint Eastwood’s dreary J. Edgar. It’s as if the filmmakers, fearful that audiences wouldn’t grasp or respect the magnitude of Thatcher’s achievements alone, decided to overcompensate by dressing up their effort in clumsy TV-movie obviousness and forced sentiment. It’s been a while since a biopic championed its own cause harder than this one.

Set largely in the modern day, The Iron Lady presents Thatcher (Streep) as a stately, good-humoured senior citizen, whose grip on sanity is being tested by frequent hallucinations of her deceased husband Denis (Jim Broadbent, twinkling with mischievous wit). Still grieving his loss, and unable to bear moving his belongings from her bedroom closet, she finds comfort by escaping into the past, recalling key personal milestones involving their courtship, her working class youth (in which she’s played ably by Alexandra Roach) and early forays into politics, first as an Oxford student, and later as a Conservative M.P. and education secretary. As well, we witness her miraculous rise to power, and her unprecedented 11-year reign as Britain’s leader, tackling fiery issues such as the 1981 Brixton riots, the 1984 miner’s strike and – most interestingly - the Falkland Islands military conflict.

Unlike similar, superior fare such The King’s Speech or The Queen – which used a single captivating event to explore their main character – the film spreads itself way too thin by trying to cover so much terrain. At just 105 (thankfully well-paced) minutes, The Iron Lady’s script, by Abi Morgan, hops, skips and jumps hastily through Thatcher’s lifetime without ever pausing to delve deeper into any of the crucial events. Did no one realize viewers might actually be intrigued to learn why exactly this woman was able to excel as she did? Or see how her role as a wife and mother affected her role as a leader and vice versa? This final product is like Coles Notes cinema, communicating only the barest of details without any of the desired context, curiosity or dynamism.

The picture’s creaky structure does it no favours. Can we please call for a moratorium on biopics that feature actors in old-age make-up using faded photographs, videotapes and brief memory snippets to recollect their lives in nearly precise chronological order? It’s a beyond-exhausted story device that reeks of artificiality. The Iron Lady relies on this conceit so heavily, it’s kind of amazing. The lion’s share of the movie’s attempts at poignancy and truth are stuffed into hokey, bewildering sequences of Thatcher being pestered by Denis’s ghost (who often wears funny hats!) and devolving into bouts of pitiful hysteria. And since her career spanned such a lengthy period of time, and ended so mundanely, there’s no grand, moving final note to close on. So the film just sort of peters out with a series of concocted fictional moments in which she confronts her demons and achieves blissful serenity. Under the direction of Phyllida Lloyd – who previously guided Streep in 2008’s Mamma Mia! – these scenes play more like parody than honesty.

It goes without saying that Streep is, as per usual, a mesmerizing force of nature on-screen. She doesn’t imitate Thatcher. She inhabits Thatcher. And her performance is so dead-on smart, funny and authoritative that she almost single-handedly redeems the whole uneven affair. Portraying the character over four decades, the legendary actress is completely convincing every step of the way, and brings more dimension to the role than anything offered by the page. In one of her many crackerjack bits, she verbally demolishes a long-time colleague for being unprepared for a meeting, and we sense both her innate anger and stubbornness, and, conversely, her sad regret at having to behave so harshly. Streep also forms a warm union with Broadbent (who, unfortunately, is relegated mainly to popping up in the fantasy sequences). It’s too bad the film doesn’t spend more time with them in the countless flashbacks.

If only this movie wasn’t so timid and unwilling to think outside of it’s safe, unchallenging prestige picture box. With Streep giving it her all, this could – and should - have been an exciting, absorbing portrait of one of the 20th century’s most complex and contentious figures. Agree with her politics or not, Thatcher was a woman of tireless drive, fierce intelligence and vision. She deserved a movie far better than The Iron Lady, which fails on all three of those counts.

2 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - CONTRABAND

2012-01-25T16:35:00.000-08:00

There’s not a whole lot in Contraband, the new heist thriller starring Mark Wahlberg, you haven’t seen done better elsewhere. This is another one of those B-movie plots about a former criminal being forced, through unpleasant circumstances, to abandon peaceful retirement and take on One. Last. Job. You know the type of job I’m talking about: a final convoluted journey into the seedy underworld where everything that can go wrong does so spectacularly, every pre-established rule is broken and yet, somehow, the hero manages to emerge triumphant and mislead the sinister antagonist, as well as the audience.

It’s a fun, seemingly inexhaustible, formula, and one that can very easily become repetitive and tediously predictable. However, Icelandic director Baltasar Kormákur has managed to imbue his Americanized remake of 2008’s little-seen Reykjavik-Rotterdam – which was helmed by Óskar Jónasson and featured Kormákur in the lead role — with just enough grungy off-beat charm to warrant its own rather slight existence. Contraband is the kind of movie you unintentionally come across on TV one night and, after a reasonably engaging two hours, find yourself reflecting on why you have no memory of it ever being in theatres.

Wahlberg treads familiar thespian terrain as Chris Farraday, a soft-spoken working class New Orleans family man with a mean right hook and a gift for smuggling. How good a smuggler is Chris? So good that other characters often feel compelled to remind him of his top-notch credentials. Like every other heist movie hero, Chris is the best there is at what he does. Unfortunately for him, his specialized services are desperately required after his ne’er-do-well brother-in-law Andy (Caleb Landry Jones) botches a drug operation and infuriates local crime lord Tim Briggs (Giovanni Ribisi). Soon, thugs are threatening the Farradays’ safety, and Chris is tasked with transporting millions of dollars worth of counterfeit cash from Panama to U.S. shores. Aided by his recovering alcoholic right-hand man Sebastian Abney (Ben Foster), our crafty, muscular protagonist books passage on a dingy cargo ship on a perilous mission to outsmart the ever-vigilant authorities and make it home alive with merchandise in hand.

One of Kormákur’s film’s most endearing qualities is how refreshingly low-tech it is. Unlike most modern heist pictures, which typically involve high-pressure internet surfing and goofy gadgets,Contraband – like Ben Affleck’s superior The Town – wears its blue collar attitude like a badge of honour. Outside of some brief ship manifest doctoring, Chris has little use for computers, relying instead on mundane, practical methods for deceiving the powers that be. He succeeds not because he has more gear or brains than his opponents, but rather due to the fact that he’s adept at improvisation and sizing up a situation, and never underestimates the importance of dumb luck. Or grade 8 science.

The scrappy street-smart tone of the picture also inspires three wonderfully weird performances that breathe much-needed life into the conventional story. Chief among them is Ribisi as the lowly scumbag drug kingpin. Repulsively greased up, python-voiced and operating out of a pathetic ramshackle apartment complex, the actor creates a fascinating case study in terrifying incompetence. No matter how badly Farraday beats Briggs down, he just keeps picking himself up and continuing the pursuit like a possessed cockroach. Ribisi’s sole competition in the scenery-chewing department is Diego Luna, playing a deranged, agitated Panamanian gangster whose sweaty psychotic unpredictability more than makes up for his lack of physical fearsomeness. On the lower end of the crazy-scale is Ben Foster — an eminently watchable beacon of offbeat light in any movie — who doesn’t necessarily have a lot to do here, but adds impressive anguished, twitchy dimension to the ever-rattled Sebastian.

Contraband’s unremarkable script, by Aaron Guzikowski, hums along nicely when it’s tracing our hero’s journey through the movie’s criminal universe. It stumbles awkwardly, however, whenever the action shifts back home to Chris’s wife Kate (Kate Beckinsale). The actress has alarmingly little to do, beyond acting frantic and having her beautiful head slammed into walls by vicious aggressors, and the picture completely deflates once she becomes a key element in the climax (Hallelujah for conveniently loud ring tones!). A more effective film would have either excised the majority of her subplot, or brought more originality to it than hackneyed, eye-rolling “woman in peril” clichés.

It is a telling sign that this film has been released in sleepy mid-January, when studios traditionally refrain from pushing exciting A-grade fare into theatres. Neither particularly good, or bad, it’s an agreeable enough timewaster that won’t tax your patience and serves as a modestly tense and satisfying tide over until 2012’s more ambitious popcorn fare arrives. Like Wahlberg’s world-weary protagonist, Contraband gets the job done with minimal flash or flare.

3 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

The Bottom 5 Worst Films of 2011

2012-01-13T21:22:00.000-08:00

As I said in my countdown of 2011′s Top 10 Films, there was no shortage of rewarding film choices this past year. Unfortunately, though, as is always the case, there was also no shortage of cinematic landmines; dreadful movies that made you want to flee the theatre in barely muted horror, and perhaps motivated you to question the value of the art-form all together.

I know I suffered through my fair share. And I didn’t even bear witness to Jack and Jill or Bucky Larson: Born to Be a Star!

Here are my 5 Worst Films of 2011:

1) The Three Musketeers Everyone involved in this pathetic, crass exercise in unimaginative brand-building should be ashamed of themselves. Taking little more from the Alexandre Dumas classic than a title and a few character names, this $75-million-dollar dud instead ineptly rips most of its inspiration from the Sherlock Holmes (Steampunk weaponry!) and Pirates of the Caribbean (Pirate ship battles in the sky AND a fey, mascara-wearing Orlando Bloom!) properties. Charisma void Logan Lerman stars as a smarmy, Americanized D’Artagnan, who joins up with the now-personality-free rapier-wielding trio in order to prevent ninja assassin Milla Jovovich from sparking war between England and France. Directed with zero energy by schlockmaster extraordinaire Paul W.S. Anderson, The Three Musketeers is a monotonous waking nightmare of embarrassing CG effects, cringe-inducing witty banter, cement-shoed swashbuckling and ludicrous air battles. Oh, and to add insult to injury, the whole disaster crashes to a final, unresolved close with a blatant cliffhanger for a sequel! Fortunately for mankind, future punishment is unlikely as this burgeoning franchise clumsily falls on its own sword right out of the gate.

2) Apollo 18 A cheap, opportunistic attempt to cash in on the Paranormal Activity craze, Apollo 18 sets a patience-testing new low for the already inconsistent Found Footage horror genre. A “true life” account of NASA’s top secret final moon-landing mission, the movie takes a pretty solid concept and renders it utterly unwatchable. A chaotically edited visual mess of several ugly film formats mercilessly smeared with every imaginable post-production distortion effect and audio burp, the whole ordeal is like a film school video art project gone horribly awry. Director Gonzalo Lopez-Gallego not only fails to break the crushing boredom with ultra-telegraphed jump scares and by-the-books icky body horror, he often cheats too by placing cameras where they frankly have no business being. It’s tempting to say that Apollo 18 stalls on take-off, but that would imply someone even bothered to fuel it up in the first place.

3) Target Rarely have I encountered a motion picture as confused and narratively incoherent as Russian writer/director Alexander Zeldovich’s science fiction epic Target. Opening with a group of wealthy Moscow citizens travelling to a remote fountain of youth in the year 2020, the picture soon wanders off in a number of bewildering disconnected directions - including border law intrigue, extramarital hedonism and deranged game shows. The helmer deserves points for ambition, but so little of anything on-screen sticks its maddening. He wants to make bold statements about Russian society, geopolitics and human morality (measured by groovy sunglasses!), but the messages are all but swallowed up by the meandering, nonsensical script, which abandons plot threads by the handful and doesn’t give any of the characters even a hint of dimension. Zeldovich also lacks the ability to establish a convincing sci-fi world; the film frequently introduces strange technological concepts without a lick of explanation. Target may boast some lovely cinematography, but all other positive qualities seem to have been utterly lost in translation.

4) The Roommate The latest in an apparently endless string of teen-friendly PG-13 erotic thriller copycats, The Roommate shamelessly runs 1992’s Single White Female through the trusty ‘ol Sanitize-matic 2000 with predictably vanilla results. Preppy college freshman Minka Kelly is, like, totally psyched to have visibly loony art student Leighton Meester as her roommate. At least, that is, until the crazy-eyed roomie starts donning the heroine’s deceased sister’s necklace and running kittens through the spin cycle. Drained of all characteristic moral ambiguity, escalating tension and sexual charge, director Christian E. Christiansen’s exhausted checklist of poorly-delivered genre tropes is redeemed only by the ridiculous sight of a fancy hat-wearing Billy Zane as a dandyish sleazeball fashion professor. That part is genuinely scary for reasons purely comedic. The rest of The Roommate is so timid and dumb it should be aired as an afterschool special on the dangers of bad teen flicks.

5) Season Of The Witch No movie featuring Nicolas Cage and Ron Perlman as a wise-cracking 14th century knight duo transporting a suspected witch to a hazardous mountain-top monastery should be this deadly dull. Against all mortal odds, though, director Dominic Sena accomplishes this miraculous feat with Season of the Witch, a generic, cruddy-looking sword ‘n sorcery cheese-fest that’s too concerned with being dour to have any fun with its goofball B-movie premise. Heck, even the dependably bizarre Cage is on autopilot, trudging sleepily through the flick’s endless dank, chilly forest locales with a look of melancholy obligation. At one point a wounded Perlman, in an act of climactic heroism, violently head-butts a shoddy CG demon. Brave this slog and you too will be able to share that demon’s pain.

Dishonourable Mentions: Cars 2, The Eagle, Green Lantern, J. Edgar, Just Go With It, Sherlock Holmes: A Game Of Shadows.

The Top 10 Best Films of 2011

2012-01-10T18:58:00.000-08:00

It’s easy to mistake 2011 as a weak year for cinema. After all, how else should one sum up a year that had few universally acclaimed masterpieces-in-the-making or zeitgest-altering blockbusters? A year that will likely lead to Michel Hazanavicius’s adorable, but inconsequential, The Artist nabbing the top prize at the 2012 Oscar ceremony?

However, scanning over the 90+ releases I saw in 2011, I’m surprised at how consistently good – and occasionally great – the output actually was. The sizable number of commendable efforts actually made it significantly tougher to assemble this list than in the past; there were so many titles I tried valiantly to sneak on without success. While you might disagree with a few (or all) of my final choices, think about how nice it is to have a rare year where all the Top 10 lists aren’t boring carbon copies of one another.

Now, without further adieu, my Top 10 Films of 2011:

1) THE TREE OF LIFE Terrence Malick’s ambitious, awe-inspiring head-trip through the Big Bang, life, death, religion, childhood and 1950s suburban America daringly endeavours to unlock the mysteries of the universe through cinema. More metaphysical visual poetry than clear-cut narrative, The Tree of Life certainly isn’t for everyone. But for those interested in delving into its gorgeous, unforgettably epic sights and sounds, subtle performances – from Brad Pitt, Jessica Chastain, Sean Penn and Hunter McCracken - and heady concepts, it offers an immersive, unrivalled spectacle that reveals powerful new insights, both filmic and intensely personal, with each revisit. Malick has fashioned a film to interpret, debate, dissect and hold dear; it respects the intelligence of the audience, and rewards active participation. An enthralling culmination of the reclusive helmer’s career-to-date – combining the intimate, small-scale storytelling of his 1970s efforts, Badlands and Days of Heaven, with the dreamy, reflective philosophical musings of his more recent The Thin Red Line and The New World – The Tree of Life operates on the grandest of scales and will, without a doubt, continue to amaze, frustrate and challenge cinephiles well into the foreseeable future.

2) WAR HORSE Alfred Hitchcock famously declared that he loved to play the audience like a piano. With War Horse, a captivating period tale about a majestic horse named Joey navigating his way, owner by owner, through battered WWI Europe, renowned director Steven Spielberg masterfully tickles every finely tuned, spellbinding note in his arsenal, conducting an impressively potent orchestra of wonder, joy, horror and, of course, tears. Inspired by the classical filmmaking of John Ford and David Lean, War Horse is sweepingly picturesque, deliberately paced and refreshingly old-fashioned in its approach to melodramatic emotion and thematic messages. Spielberg again richly tackles the torments of war – nobody else captures on-screen combat with such virtuosity – while also underscoring the heartbreaking irony of mankind’s contradictory relationship with animals; using and abusing them to meet our own “civilized” needs, yet still depending on them to fill our human yearnings for hope, friendship, courage and love. It’s a special film that wears its heart on its sleeve and speaks directly to the soul of the viewer.

3) HUGO I’m not exactly sure which children Martin Scorsese’s marvellously peculiar, sumptuous 3D celebration of golden age silent film was aimed at, but we should all be thankful Paramount agreed to bankroll it! A whimsical sensory feast, Hugo chronicles the exploits of its titular hero (Asa Butterfield), an orphaned clockmaker, secretly living in a bustling 1930s Paris train station, who becomes entangled in the life of disgraced pioneer filmmaker Georges Méliès (a mesmerizing Ben Kingsley). Scorsese’s passion for the material radiates from every single exquisite, affectionately-assembled frame, and in its themes of illusion and fantasy, the importance of film preservation and art’s ability to unite people of all ages and backgrounds. There’s such an abundance of charming pleasures to be uncovered in Hugo, from the audacious cinematography and striking art direction, to the sweet performances and stunning advancement of 3D as a storytelling tool. It transcends mere movie-making and becomes something else entirely: magic.

4) SHAME Steve McQueen’s second directorial effort is a profoundly uncomfortable, wrenching experience that I’ve yet to shake. A harrowing portrait of one man’s bleak descent into loathsome excess, Shame traces the day-to-day life of a dashing New York professional, portrayed by 2011 MVP Michael Fassbender, who, after his disturbed sister (a brittle Carey Mulligan) reappears, attempts to escape his deep-seated anguish by surrendering, body and soul, to self-destructive sex addiction. Shame is uncompromising and often shocking in content – depicting its protagonist’s sad behaviour in cold, clinical detail – but McQueen never fails to generate raw honesty and breath-taking passages of visual artistry from the sordid squalor. This cinematic downward spiral is as magnificent as it is ugly.

5) THE DESCENDANTS Rarely has a family unit felt as authentic and relatable as in Alexander Payne’s droll, observant study of a dysfunctional Hawaiian clan blindly navigating their way through the grieving process. George Clooney, in amusing dorky dad mode, hits a career high as a loving, but distant, father who reconnects with his kids while preparing for his wife’s untimely death, while Shailene Woodley, as his rebellious oldest daughter and confident, is a true discovery. The Descendants is relaxed and delightful, content to show us flawed, decent people trying their darnedest to do right by those closest to them. It’s the kind of breezily endearing low-key gem you almost wish wouldn’t end, if only so you didn’t have to bid farewell to its enchanting cast of fully-realized characters.

6) DRIVE Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn’s visceral neo-noir tribute to vintage cinematic cool is an invigorating blast of slick, attitude-drenched style. With brooding, toothpick-chomping driver-for-hire Ryan Gosling sitting intently at the wheel, and stellar supporting players Carey Mulligan, Oscar Isaac, Bryan Cranston, Christina Hendricks, Ron Perlman and an unsettlingly shark-like Albert Brooks adding dimension to the requisite stock roles, Drive adds a dazzling, flavourful dash of art-house meticulousness to an oft-rehashed B-movie chestnut of a plot. Backed by a propulsive, insanely catchy soundtrack, Refn’s picture doesn’t simply riff on beloved old Hollywood clichés; it lovingly reassembles the parts into something new, alive and visionary. The result is a picture that has one foot planted firmly in the past and the other in a bold, electric future.

7) X-MEN: FIRST CLASS This is one movie that really shouldn’t have worked. A questionable venture at prequelizing a series that petered out of creative gas in 2002, the picture was rushed through production without a finished script in 11 head-spinning months in order to meet its release date. Against all odds, wiz director Matthew Vaughn – coming off 2010’s sneering superhero triumph Kick-Ass – delivers a thrilling James Bond-influenced adventure yarn with serious dramatic oomph! The picture not only pumps new blood into the brand, it actually ranks as the very best of the X-Men pictures; as vital, fun and inventive as a beloved Chris Claremont-era panneled page-turner. Populated by a cast of colourful, compelling mutants led by James McAvoy’s groovy, well-intentioned Professor X and Michael Fassbender’s tragic, seething Magneto, and drawing boundless inspiration from its 1960s Cold War setting, First Class is a pure popcorn rush that merrily lives up to its own cheeky title.

8) BRIDESMAIDS Kristen Wiig finally received the career launching pad she’s long deserved in this uproarious comedy smash that gleefully gunned down Hollywood’s long-held stodgy belief that women can’t be as funny as men. A hilarious, freewheeling exploration of wedding party pressure-cooker stress, Bridesmaids mines endless comic gold from the wacky group dynamics of its enthusiastic go-for-broke female cast – which also includes Rose Byrne, Maya Rudolph and raunchy scene-hijacker Melissa McCarthy – as well as the dizzying lows journeyed to by its basket-case protagonist. Directed with casual, hands-off confidence by Paul Feig, working off a sharply truthful and witty script by Wiig and her writing partner Annie Mumolo, this brilliant, endlessly rewatchable laugh-fest is the rare major studio comedy that’s worthy of its hype.

9) WARRIOR This rousing MMA family drama was one of the year’s most welcome, fist-pumping surprises. Starring heavy-hitting up-and-comers Joel Edgerton and Tom Hardy as over-burdened blue collar brothers working out their demons in the ring, Warrior is the rare sports film that knows how to make its well-worn genre tropes feel bracing and impactful. Loaded with exhilarating martial arts action sequences and nuanced performances (especially by Nick Nolte as the clan’s recovering alcoholic patriarch), Gavin O’Connor’s modern day Rocky skilfully builds suspense by setting genuine emotional stakes and never making the climax seem like a foregone conclusion. By the time the final blow is landed, and the fractured family’s tumultuous trip towards reconciliation reaches an explosive, cathartic end, Warrior nearly has us on our feet in rapturous applause.

10) MELANCHOLIA Whereas The Tree of Life astonished us with the explosive origin of the Earth, Melancholia sees controversial director Lars Von Trier wiping it out of existence in gloriously operatic splendour. A haunting, sad and sometimes darkly humorous examination of crippling depression, this elegantly assembled drama casts Charlotte Gainsbourg and an ethereal Kirsten Dunst as a pair of strained sisters grappling with insurmountable mental illness, as well as the impending apocalypse. Never succumbing to overly-morose stabs at misery exploitation, the always unconventional Von Trier has made a film that dives unwaveringly into the darkest depths of mortal despair, yet still manages to find beautiful, sweet release and a tiny, shining sliver of undying hope.

Honourable Mentions: THE IDES OF MARCH, MARTHA MARCY MAY MARLENE, MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - GHOST PROTOCOL, MONEYBALL, TAKE SHELTER, 13 ASSASSINS.

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - SHERLOCK HOLMES: A GAME OF SHADOWS

2011-12-25T01:55:00.000-08:00

2009’s surprise smash Sherlock Holmes, which reinvented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s master detective into a hyper-aware bundle of anti-social neuroses and peculiarities, was a decent enough film hobbled by a number of problems. Director Guy Ritchie was saddled with a script heavy on exposition and world-building, but light on actual mystery and depth. While Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law, as Holmes and Watson, infectiously batted their roles out of the park, the picture separated them – to great detriment - for too much screen-time. It also failed to supply a memorably dastardly villain or a lively love interest.

My hopes were high that, with its gorgeously ugly steampunk Victorian London universe up-and-running, and the key figures firmly ingrained in the public consciousness, Ritchie would use his sequel to actually spin a ripping yarn worth telling. Alas, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows is an obnoxious, confusing slog of a motion picture; one that mistakes bombastic franticness for charm, revels in tiresome snarky smugness, and criminally wastes one of literature’s most indelible bad guys. It’s a prime example of lazy franchise filmmaking; taking what everyone loved the first time around and cranking the dial mercilessly up to 11.

Picking up a few years after the initial entry, the movie opens with Sherlock (now with even more enhanced psychic powers!) on the trail of fiendish mastermind Professor James Moriarty (Jared Harris), a cold, sinister intellectual who may have a hand in a series of anarchic bombings that threaten to kick-start war in Europe. Unfortunately for the crazed detective, his trusty right-hand man, Watson, is about to embark on his honeymoon with the lovely Mary (Kelly Reilly), and firmly resists helping to unravel the truth from the uber-tangled ball of conspiracy theories and misdirection. However, an action-packed visit to a gypsy fortune teller (Noomi Rapace) soon brings an abrupt, explosive halt to Watson’s romantic plans. The delightful deciphering duo are then launched on an extensive cross-country fact-finding mission, where they face unbelievably dangerous cliffhanger predicaments, and, ultimately, find themselves drawn ever closer into Moriarty’s sinister web of deceit and murder.

In theory, the script for a Sherlock Holmes adventure should operate like clockwork, with all of the seemingly disconnected plot threads fusing together into one grand, climactic “A-ha!” moment of glorious revelation. Whereas the 2009 film sort of half-heartedly toyed with that trope, A Game of Shadows’ terrible script, by Michele and Kieran Mulroney, basically abandons the concept all-together! There isn’t a great deal of mystery here at all - only an endless series of convoluted happenings obscuring what is essentially a very, very routine villain scheme. Sure, there’s a last minute reveal, but it’s a shameless cheat. It depends solely on introducing never-foreshadowed elements that the audience has no chance of predicting. The film really wants to play like a Victorian-era Indiana Jones/James Bond adventure, with its characters skipping across locations willy nilly, carried almost solely by a string of dynamic action sequences. Problem is, those series depend on fast-paced, broad-stroke storytelling to succeed. Holmes, on the other hand, is simply at odds with that mode of high-flying adventure because it’s fixated on the minutiae of each moment, exhaustively explaining every new development and detail. Call it Cinematic Square Peg, Round Hole syndrome, if you will.

To complicate matters, director Guy Ritchie's stylistic skills have always far outweighed his ability to convey a satisfying narrative. His best efforts – Snatch and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels – are jolting, showy snapshots of attitude, visual virtuosity and scruffy, street-level cool. Here, though, working with a script that’s as incoherent as the last two Pirates of the Caribbean pictures, he flounders, unable to mould this overlong, shapeless mess into a compelling whole. That said, working with cinematographer Philippe Rousselot and production designer Sarah Greenwood, he has made a fairly striking mediocrity. Victorian England has rarely looked as wonderfully cluttered and ominous (you can practically smell the filthy cobblestone streets and soot-covered extras). And, although his livewire energy seems absent from the majority of the movie, Ritchie does still find a handful of moments to shine, among them an artillery-shell-packed jaunt through the forest, a nifty battle inside the cabin of a steam engine, and an amusingly awkward horse-riding montage - scored, improbably, to Ennio Morricone’s hee-hawing theme from the 1970 Clint Eastwood western Two Mules for Sister Sara.

It bears mentioning that Downey Jr.’s Holmes is beginning to creep perilously close to Jack Sparrow-ville. He’s fun in short bursts, but becomes grating when standing centre stage for too long. In A Game of Shadows he runs wild, consuming everyone in his presence, save Law’s suitably aggravated Watson. This picture desperately needed well-rounded supporting players to add flavour and build the series’ mythology into something nuanced and involving. Steps have been taken, with the addition of Moriarty and Holmes’ spy brother Mycroft (Stephen Fry – a winking, jovial presence in search of a purpose), but these characters aren’t given enough to do. Despite an effective last-act verbal chess match with Holmes, Moriarty never feels like the iconic villain he should be. Harris has a diabolical exactness that’s largely underutilized, and we never really get a good sense of the true malevolence he’s capable of unleashing. As for poor Noomi Rapace – cinema’s fierce original Lisbeth Salander – she’s stuck here in the type of useless, one-dimensional role many gifted imports must slum through on their debut trip across the pond. May her future burn brighter.

Draggy and nearly devoid of joy or thrills, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows soullessly vacuums up the accumulated goodwill generated by its predecessor, leaving only an uninspiring promise that a third instalment is definitely in the cards. The fact that the film is helpless to mine good escapist entertainment from such rich, fertile source material is baffling and, to be honest, more than a little concerning. If Ritchie and Warner Bros. really want this franchise to endure, they’d best make it a priority to avoid screenplays this ridiculously clueless.

1.5 out of 5

Film Review - SHAME

2011-12-13T23:53:00.000-08:00

When we first meet Brandon, the haunted sex addict played by Michael Fassbender in British director Steve McQueen’s potent second effort, Shame, he resembles a living corpse. Impassive, alone and spent, he lies silently in bed staring at the ceiling above, vacant eyes registering only exhaustion and crushing boredom. He might as well be gazing into the dark reaches of his own broken soul. Subsisting on an obsessive daily diet of mechanical casual sex with prostitutes, masturbation and internet pornography, Brandon’s like a tragic modern day vampire; devoid of feeling or vitality, living simply to unenthusiastically feed his own base compulsions.

Like all serious addicts, Brandon’s devastating sickness has begun to infect the normal aspects of his existence as well. Although he holds a lucrative job at a generic Wall Street office, his suspiciously virus-plagued work computer, and penchant for consistently arriving late, has started to grab the snaky attention of his boss – and singles club wingman – David (James Badge Dale – unrepentantly odious). Even worse, his expensive, sterile New York apartment has been invaded by long-absent younger sibling Sissy (Carey Mulligan), a clingy, damaged basket-case whose fragile wrists are alarming roadmaps of deep psychological anguish. The reappearance of his sister – and her ensuing improper relationship with David – opens excruciating, unspoken wounds for Brandon, further propelling his self-loathing tailspin into excess, and forcing him to face the suffocating torments of his past.

For McQueen, Shame is an extremely fitting follow-up to his great 2008 debut Hunger, which, in often excruciating detail, portrayed the grim fate of Bobby Sands, the republican inmate leader of Ireland’s infamous 1981 prison hunger strike. Whereas that movie featured a protagonist – also played by Fassbender – strictly denying himself all temptations, this new film veers boldly in the polar opposite direction, showing us a man who dives headfirst into them and refuses to come up for air. There’s a fearlessness to Shame’s depiction of sex addiction that’s coldly effective; McQueen fills his picture with countless scenes of graphic sexuality and nudity, but drains them of any sense of eroticism or passion. After the initial shock wears off, we’re slowly drawn into Brandon’s headspace, greeting each ensuing perfunctory sexual encounter with an increased sense of detached apathy. The film doesn’t titillate, it numbs.

As overwhelmingly unpleasant as the picture gets, the director - who has a prominent background as a visual artist - once again proves to have an magnificent ability to transform revolting human misery into breathtaking passages of pure cinema. Among its many wonders, Shame contains two extended dialogue-free sequences, set to Harry Escott’s gloomy, ominous tick-tock score, that are astonishing visual poetry. The first, which occurs early on, sees Brandon seducing a lovely commuter on a subway train with little more than a strong, unremitting gaze. As the tension builds, the film cuts away to random explicit excerpts of his regular routines, providing us, in just a few absorbing minutes, with both a vivid layout of the character’s world and his no-nonsense approach to seduction. The second follows Brandon on a night-time prowl around the city on a ravenous, self-destructive hunt for gratification and – he hopes – a much-longed-for moment of peace. It’s a heartbreaking bit of filmmaking.

Just as in Hunger, there’s repeated use of long single-shot takes in order to draw out the complexities of the characters. During the film, Brandon goes out on a date with an attractive co-worker, played by Nicole Beharie, and, in their real-time verbal, and sensual, interactions, we’re given first-hand witness to the debilitating effects of his affliction. For him, sex is no longer (if it ever was) about intimacy or a profound human connection. Instead, it’s been distorted into a selfish act of personal satisfaction, with women acting merely as a prospective fuel source. Equality has been erased from the equation entirely. Despite rarely being without female companionship, he’s never anything but utterly alone.

Michael Fassbender continues to warrant recognition as one of our most courageous and exciting up-and-coming actors. Most will know him best for his commanding performance as the iconic villain Magneto in last summer’s X-Men: First Class. However, it’s his smaller efforts – playing Sands in Hunger, or an incestuous step-father in 2009’s Fish Tank – that reveal the murky depths he’s willing to travel to in order to serve an artistic vision. There’s no ego or artifice in his performances, only steadfast dedication. Here, he performs numerous scenes fully nude, exudes raw animal magnetism, and doesn’t shy away from appearing grotesque or unlikeable. He has a fantastically disturbing moment with Mulligan where he playfully leaps on top of her, and transitions into a frenzied madman so instantaneously that the audience sucks in its breath in discomfort. Brandon may be something of a monster, but with Fassbender inhabiting his uncomfortable skin, he’s a fascinatingly complex one, who wholly involves us in his pitiful, wrenching journey.

Certainly, this is primarily Fassbender’s show, but apparently no one told Carey Mulligan, who delivers an extremely juicy supporting turn. Following her co-star’s committed example, she makes Sissy into a compellingly ravaged portrait of barely suppressed misery. Her biggest showcase scene comes in the form of an extended musical performance, where her character – a struggling nightclub singer – performs “New York, New York” with all the starry-eyed optimism of a retired streetwalker. While Mulligan has a knack for playing vulnerable, she’s never really been called on to be this pathetic or irritating before. We immediately realize why she’s such a toxic factor in Brandon’s life, but still yearn to grasp the trauma that so thoroughly shattered her.

Shame is – to state the obvious – not a film for every viewer. It’s grueling and aching, filled with unforgettable images of emotional and moral decay, with precious little relief. McQueen has crafted an important picture that transcends the sensationalistic “controversial” tag some will slap it with, and offers thoughtful, provocative insight into the nature of sex, addiction and oppressive long-term guilt. After all, individuals like Brandon do exist. And this picture helps us, if only a little, to understand their pain.

4.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - MY WEEK WITH MARILYN

2011-12-08T23:17:00.000-08:00

The genius of Marilyn Monroe was that she never appeared to be trying. Whether delivering a saucy punch-line, uttering breathy come-ons or cooing and slinking her way through a seductive musical number, there was never a sense of performance. She simply was, seemingly happening upon her dialogue and tantalizing body language through some kind of divine inspiration. Under the watch of master directors like Billy Wilder (Some Like It Hot, The Seven-Year Itch) or Howard Hawks (Gentlemen Prefer Blondes), she was an unstoppable force, rendering those on-screen around her invisible. Even junky, hopeless material couldn’t suppress her radiant talent. In the feeble final Marx Brothers comedy Love Happy she managed, in a mere sliver of screen-time, to upstage renowned scene-stealer Groucho Marx – a feat few mortals would dare attempt, much less accomplish.

Now, almost fifty years after her untimely death, she dominates the screen anew – courtesy of sublimely talented conduit Michelle Williams – in My Week with Marilyn, a so-so coming of age/showbiz drama that squeaks by on our affection for the fallen icon. But just barely. Based on the (rather dubious) memoirs of documentarian Colin Clark, the film highlights one turbulent key week in the starlet’s life, during her 1956 stay in London shooting The Prince and the Showgirl under the strict direction of lauded thespian Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh).

Acting as our avatar into this exciting moment in cinema history is Colin (Eddie Redmayne), the gawky “youngest in a family of over-achievers,” who scores an (uncredited) 3rd assistant director gig on the The Prince after procuring lodging for Monroe following a production setback. Starry-eyed and naive, but motivated by an unquenchable love for filmmaking, the aspiring artist has a prime seat in the eye of the hurricane as Monroe frolics into town and plunges the set into chaos. Accompanied by her maternal acting coach Paula Strasberg (Zoë Wanamaker), the insecure, ill-prepared star quickly draws the ire of the classically-trained Olivier, who has zero patience for America’s new Method approach to acting. He wants only to harness her boundless charisma as a means of reigniting his dusty screen image.

As tension builds, and the production is put on hiatus, Colin unintentionally winds up becoming Monroe’s confident, and partner in a chaste quasi-romance. This irritates many of the power players, including the actress’ protective, seen-it-all press agent Milton Greene (Dominic Cooper). However, as her brand new marriage to playwright Arthur Miller (Dougray Scott) becomes strained, Marilyn begins to spiral into an abyss of pills and drink. While Olivier struggles to maintain control of his picture, and frets over whether his main attraction will be able to bring the necessary on-camera fireworks, Colin fears that the sweet girl he’s come to love will be consumed by the fog of depression hovering around her.

As the tragic blonde bombshell, Williams is an unlikely, yet wholly convincing choice. With her delicate, angelic loveliness and quiet, melancholy, she’s a pro at inhabiting damaged souls – recently evidenced in Shutter Island, Blue Valentine or this year’s frustratingly enigmatic misery-western Meek’s Cutoff – but here she also embraces, and owns, Monroe’s bubbly erotic innocence. Although the actress doesn’t exactly look like the legend, it’s often astonishing how fully she disappears behind her subject’s endearing wide-eyed stare and come-hither vocal mannerisms. She nails a musical opening, lip-synching the sultry lyrics of “Heat Wave,” and flawlessly channels Marilyn’s magnetic ability to work a room in a wonderful scene set at a press conference. But it’s the small moments that really sell the illusion, like how she teasingly calls to Colin from a bubble bath, telling him to “Wait a while, crocodile,” or how, even at her lowest, coy amusement flickers in her dazzling eyes. It’s a tough task, to avoid the perils of pure imitation, but Williams manages to create not an idealized carbon copy, but a fully-realized human being with dreams, fears and deep emotional wounds.

Sadly, Williams’ revelatory work is at the service of an underwhelming screenplay. There are compelling stories to be told in My Week with Marilyn, but very few of them have anything to do with Colin Clark. Redmayne, with his leering eyes, vaguely reptilian features and smarmy social-climber air, is a tepid nonentity of a lead, with all the charisma of watered down oatmeal. The character obviously serves a necessary function, providing us access to the film’s truly intriguing figures, but his by-the-numbers, dramatically inert character journey dominates so much of the run-time it threatens to topple the picture into the bleary dregs of Blandsville.

The remainder of the cast is on-the-ball, albeit criminally underutilized, with many vanishing from the picture by the halfway point. Dame Judi Dench is a sweet, funny joy in her handful of scenes as actress Dame Sybil Thorndike, the set’s loving mother figure who goes out of her way to make Marilyn feel welcome, and Julia Ormand portrays Vivien Leigh with striking elegance and humanity. A warm Emma Watson is wasted in a go-nowhere part as a costumer who catches the attention of Colin. Though she at least gets some resolution, unlike Toby Jones’ cynical publicist Arthur Jacobs, who barely even registers as a character. Only Branagh’s role has any meat, and he relishes digging in. A pompous tyrant on set, Olivier is at his most poignant when he sits in the dark, silently watching daily rushes, and admitting – in a voice both mournful and wondrous – that Monroe makes everyone else on-screen look “permanently ten feet under water.”

Helmer Simon Curtis directs with unflashy restraint, enlivening the proceedings through subtle visual tricks. He frequently lights Williams more intensely than her co-stars; a nice shorthand for emphasizing just how much brighter Monroe’s star shone than those around her. Additionally, Colin and Marilyn’s two most important meetings are set in idyllic pastoral environments, and he and cinematographer Ben Smithard do a nice job creating gorgeously serene natural paradises that complement the exquisite natural wonder of Monroe herself.

Ultimately, though, My Week with Marilyn is the most frustrating kind of film; one with limitless potential, a fascinating historical background and a crackerjack lead performance, which takes the easy road, settling for shallow whimsy and safe, unimaginative storytelling. No film about this captivating, eternal sex symbol – who created an invigorating, vivacious stir wherever she appeared – should be this flimsy, tame and, frankly, forgettable. In the playful parlance of Marilyn herself, it’s too much whoop-dee-doo, not enough boop-boop-a-doop.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - THE DESCENDANTS

2011-12-01T23:15:00.000-08:00

The Descendants is a film you just want to bask in. Playful, poignant and leisurely, it’s the kind of story they don’t tell enough of these days; an insightful, intimate character study populated by well-meaning people who want only to do right by those they love. So rare it is to come across a movie that allows its characters to simply exist, liberated from the rusty mechanics of plot contrivance, and talk to one another in an intelligent, frank manner. One that allows its abundance of humour to spring from behaviour and human truth, as opposed to eruptive bodily functions and dumb sitcom-level misunderstandings. When this picture flickers to a close, its characters don’t vanish into the dark, they follow you right out of the theatre.

The latest unofficial entry – following About Schmidt (2002) and Sideways (2004) – in director Alexander Payne’s droll series of films focussing on flawed men who gain a new lease on life after emerging from a rut, The Descendants explores how grief can upset, and ultimately strengthen, a family. An atypically un-suave George Clooney stars as Matt King, a Hawaii-based lawyer and land baron, whose wife (Patricia Hastie) is left comatose after a speedboat racing accident. Their marriage, we learn, hit a rough patch long ago. Matt’s been consumed for years by a tremendously lucrative land deal, which will result in the sale of his family’s countless acres of lush, untouched tropical real estate. His long hours have forced her to essentially raise their two daughters single-handedly.

Things soon take a turn for the worse. Matt is informed by his wife’s doctor that her condition is deteriorating and, in accordance with her living will, they are going to remove her from life support. With mere days left until the inevitable, he brings his rebellious older daughter, Alexandra (Shailene Woodley), home from private school to help take care of her sensitive prepubescent sister, Scottie (Amara Miller), while he makes the necessary preparations. However, the teenager quickly leaves Matt shell-shocked when she reveals that her mother had been engaged in an affair around the time of the tragedy. Bombarded by raw, conflicted emotions, Matt, accompanied by his children – and Alexandra’s beefy, slightly dim friend Sid (Nick Krause) – embarks on a draining, difficult mission to break the terrible news to his spouse’s family, friends and mysterious lover.

Payne, an unobtrusive, low-key director, has long had a spectacular, and apparently effortless, ability to convey genuine interpersonal dynamics, and The Descendants finds him riding a career high. Collaborating with his three perfectly-cast leads, he has fashioned one of the more believable, compelling on-screen families in recent memory. The Kings may be functionally dysfunctional, but they are also smart, funny, resourceful people who truly care for and respect one another, and realize that they have to stand united in order to endure their tough situation. Payne allows their story to unfold at a deliberately calm, unhurried pace, drawing us personally into their burgeoning reconnection as a familial unit. The effect is so powerful that by the time the touching, perfect final shot arrives, you can’t help but wish you could spend another two hours in their wonderful company.

The script, by Payne, Nat Faxon and Jim Rash – adapted from the novel by Kaui Hart Hemmings – takes delightful amusement in shooting down our ingrained assumptions about its characters. In a lazier film, Woodley’s Alexandra would be portrayed as a stereotypical antagonistic brat, snidely bickering with her father before a last minute heartstring-pulling reversal. Instead, the writers know well that, when called upon, emotionally turbulent teenagers are capable of great leaps of maturity and selfless sacrifice. They also give fascinating depth and dimension to their considerable stable of supporting players, including Robert Forster, who earns the film’s biggest laugh as Matt’s fiercely proud father-in-law, and Beau Bridges, as a leading member of the King clan who is hugely invested in the land sale. Heck, even Sid, juvenile and awkward as he may be, ain’t such a bad kid after all!

Rising to the classy occasion, George Clooney gives one of his most accomplished performances. Long celebrated as one of our top-ranking modern movie stars, it’s rare anyone takes the time to acknowledge what a giving actor he is. A less secure performer might vie for attention, surrounded by a cast of this pedigree, but Clooney is confident enough to play understated and let his co-stars steer the scene. You can sense real trust between him and his inexperienced on-screen daughters, Woodley – who has a blindingly bright future ahead of her – and Miller, and his performance benefits immensely from their natural shared chemistry.

It’s worth noting how much of Clooney’s stand-out work is nonverbal. There’s a fantastic moment in a bar and grill where, after receiving some shocking news, Matt temporarily disengages from everything around him. In Clooney’s anxious, dazed mannerisms, you can feel him fighting valiantly to maintain his composure. Conversely, he hilariously drops all shreds of his characteristic cool is an inspired comedic bit frantically racing down the street in flip-flops. Payne calls on him for true fireworks, though, in a pair of scenes in his wife’s hospital room, the latter of which will likely receive considerable (and deserved) airtime at the next Oscar ceremony.

Given the craftsmanship and sophistication on display in The Descendants, it’s a hard to figure out how the unnecessarily longwinded opening narration ended up tacked onto the first fifteen minutes. Rarely has such a dizzying amount of exposition been dumped in such a breathless amount of time. It seems strange that Payne – a helmer who can be counted on to have faith in his audience – would choose to include such a shockingly on-the-nose voiceover.

Still, it’s easy to forgive such a brief misstep when there’s so much to treasure. To watch this picture is to witness a masterful filmmaker joyfully fashioning a brand of beautiful entertainment that only he’s capable of achieving. Coming in the last few weeks of a troublingly spotty year for quality cinema, The Descendants is a sunny little cinematic oasis that’ll leave you feeling charmed, moved and beaming ear-to-ear.

4.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - J.EDGAR

2011-11-22T14:10:00.000-08:00

Clint Eastwood is not exactly a sure-fire bet as a director. Since striking sweet, sweet Oscar gold with 1992’s instantly iconic western Unforgiven, his output has often sling-shotted wildly back-and-forth in quality, from high grade populist art to bloated, unremarkable awards bait. While the former Man with No Name appears unconquerable on-screen, behind the camera that just ain’t the case. He has a notorious Achilles’ heel for poor scripts, and is known to race headlong into production with first draft efforts. That’s all fine and dandy if he’s holding Million Dollar Baby or Letters from Iwo Jima under his arm. But hand him Midnight in the Garden of Good or Evil or Changeling and things get uglier than the last act of a Dirty Harry thriller.

Sad as it is to report, his latest, the star-studded J. Edgar, lands with a hollow thud in the sorry latter category. Starring Leonardo DiCaprio as Hoover, the legendary FBI first director, the film falls prey to almost every damning pitfall of the biopic genre. Meandering, underbaked, and almost entirely devoid of depth or emotion, Eastwood’s movie plays less like a cinematic narrative than an exhausting series of historical “greatest hits” moments stretched over a punishing 135 mins. I’ll be utterly gobsmacked if there’s a more tedious prestige picture this year.

Unspooling in pointlessly jumbled chronology, J. Edgar loosely traces its subject from his earliest days as an eager young agent in the 20s, feverishly trying to pin down convoluted Bolshevik conspiracies, to his lonely final days five decades later, sternly recounting his autobiography to a series of interchangeable typists. The film skips over the oft-covered gangster wars of the Depression, instead primarily using the Lindbergh kidnapping as a means of recounting Hoover’s obsessive personal quest to improve methods of evidence retrieval and to establish a fingerprint database. His visionary ideas transform the Bureau of Investigation from a dead-end organization into the top crime-fighting agency in the world, in the process elevating J. Edgar to an untouchable status enjoyed by precious few.

Although the details of Hoover’s personal life are sketchy at best, Eastwood’s film paints him as a socially inept loner, clinging to the apron strings of his dominating mother Anna Marie (Judi Dench) for much of his life. He has only two other confidents: loyal secretary Helen Gandy (Naomi Watts) and second-in-command Clyde Tolson (Armie Hammer). Tolson, the movie argues, was also Hoover’s clandestine lover, a man of infinite patience who spent an inordinate amount of social time with his high maintenance superior.

Undeniably, there are multiple nuggets for a fascinating motion picture strewn throughout J. Edgar. However, the script by Dustin Lance Black – who previously penned an infinitely better biopic with 2008’s Milk – jumps around too much to gain any momentum. This film desperately lacks a coherent throughline; it’s a confusing series of half-formed ideas, grafted onto a flimsy narrative structure, that never bond into anything substantial. There’s no drama to this story, only exposition, dull minutiae and bloodless recreation. No concrete reason to care about Hoover’s (heavily fictionalized) on-screen life or his valuable achievements. There’s a brief tantalizing bit where a supporting character references J. Edgar’s aggressive, and extremely successful, tactics for rewriting his and the FBI’s role in popular culture through comic books and movies. Couldn’t Eastwood have cut out a handful of dreary sequences of Hoover dictating his life-story and fleshed out fascinating material like that?!

It must be said, DiCaprio delivers another boldly effective performance. Speaking in a contemplative, precise drawl that ejects every word like the clack of typewriter keys, he’s calculated and icily internal, greeting his closest colleagues with all the affection of a computer. Even when he’s buried under a liberal slathering of slightly rubbery old age makeup, the actor manages to bring more to this enigmatic, insecure and unlikable character than the movie frankly deserves. In a better film – one that figured out how to make J. Edgar interesting – DiCaprio would be an easy lock for a Best Actor nomination.

The character of Hoover could have been explored more satisfyingly if the picture hadn’t short-changed the key players surrounding him. Armie Hammer has a genuinely strong presence, but his Clyde Tolson is an utter blank. It’s nearly impossible to name any characteristics that describe his personality beyond “loyal.” Like Naomi Watts’ underutilized secretary, he’s just there for DiCaprio to bounce lines off of – a limited function which proves disastrous in the love story-heavy second half. On the flip side of the equation, Judi Dench brings lioness-like severity to her role as Mama Hoover, and owns the film’s single best scene, bitterly recalling one of J. Edgar’s homosexual childhood classmates. However, despite her alleged impact of her son’s life, she receives depressingly little screen time.

Eastwood may not be able to breathe any storytelling life into J. Edgar, but he’s certainly fashioned a beautiful looking dud. He and his frequent cinematographer Tom Stern return to the chilly deep black and silver colour palette of Flags of Their Fathers, elegantly complementing the period costumes and sets, and imbuing the movie with a handsome noirish atmosphere. It’s fitting that Hoover, a man of a thousand secrets, always seems to have his face partially concealed by shadows.

At one point, J. Edgar says “What’s important at this time is to re-clarify the difference between hero and villain.” It’s a powerful statement, and one that should be loaded with rich subtextual meaning. There are intriguing parallels between Hoover’s tale and our own turbulent times and one can’t help but wish a bolder, riskier filmmaker than Eastwood had been able to sink their teeth into this story. Maybe then we’d leave the theatre deep in conversation instead of stifling yawns of indifference.

1.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - MARTHA MARCY MAY MARLENE

2011-11-08T12:14:00.000-08:00

Martha Marcy May Marlene is a truly uncomfortable, fear-soaked experience. A chilling examination of the fragility of the human psyche, viewed through the vulnerable eyes of an irreparably damaged woman who has forgotten what it even means to be human, this cult survivor tale mercilessly drags the audience down a numbing spiral of sadism, abuse and sorrow. However, those able to brave the ominous, upsetting journey will be treated to the most terrifyingly plausible horror movie of the year.

The picture stars Elizabeth Olsen as Martha, an attractive, quiet and troubled 20-something, who – in a moment of rebellious strength – flees the constricting confines of a fundamentalist cult. Alone and without any resources, she reunites with her estranged sister Lucy (Sarah Paulson) and her husband Ted (Hugh Dancy), and is invited to their posh, remote summer home to mend. However, the idyllic scenery and familial support do little to calm Martha’s shattered nerves, and she soon begins reliving tormented memories of being systematically broken down by her former master Patrick (John Hawkes). As Lucy and Ted struggle to comprehend their loved one’s bizarre, erratic behaviour and moods, Martha finds herself slowly becoming trapped inside an inescapable prison of crippling paranoia.

Viewing the film, it’s impossible not to be shaken by the omnipresent sense of dread hanging over the proceedings at every turn. Martha Marcy May Marlene is a skilful exercise in unrelenting suspense, and writer/director Sean Durkin – making his feature film debut – impressively sustains the film’s unnerving tone throughout. He and cinematographer Jody Lee Lipes have created a gorgeously ugly-looking picture, teaming with foreboding atmosphere, which feels eerily reminiscent of Wes Craven’s uncompromising early efforts. They’ve stripped away all beauty and serenity from their locations, allowing us to familiarize ourselves with the alienating, comfortless world Martha’s become lost in. Heck, even Lucy and Ted’s luxurious summer house is all but swallowed up by the bleak, Herzog-ian forest surrounding it.

As commendable as the direction is, though, all might have been for naught if Durkin hadn’t found his crucial lead actress. Newcomer Elizabeth Olsen is, simply put, a revelation. Frequently silent, she brings a raw, wounded defencelessness to the role that’s difficult to watch at the best of times, and downright distressing in the more sickening scenes of cult brainwashing. While we know nothing about Martha’s past, we empathize and genuinely care for her, and it’s painful to see her being exploited. In her scenes with Paulson and Dancy, she masterfully walks a fine line between childlike innocence and frustrating obliviousness. We sympathize with their aggravation – such as when Martha climbs into their bed during a late night romantic session – yet completely understand why Olsen’s character would behave in such an odd manner. Pay close attention to the film’s last, and very best, scene, where the camera lingers intensely on Olsen’s face and she wordlessly communicates all we need to know about Martha’s foreseeable future. It’s haunting work.

Just last year, in his Oscar-nominated turn in the wonderful neo noir Winter’s Bone, John Hawkes created an unforgettably menacing lowlife you couldn’t imagine ever approaching. Here, he does something trickier; he makes his nasty cult leader so charming and persuasive that you can’t help but be won over by him initially. Hiding his aggressive, manipulative nature behind an appealing mask of soft-spoken flirtatiousness and laid-back cool, Patrick is an exceedingly loathsome villain and Hawkes again delivers tenfold. We witness the slow emergence of his true self – transitioning from a loving, guitar-playing father figure, entertaining his flock with soulful impromptu ditties, to a heartless sexual predator – right alongside Martha and it’s a riveting, bloodcurdling sight to absorb.

It’s too bad Durkin’s screenplay doesn’t flesh out the rest of the cast as well as Olsen and Hawkes’ characters. Sarah Paulson and Hugh Dancy have strong chemistry, both together and with Olsen, but their roles feel underwritten. An argument could be made that Durkin wanted us to share Martha’s lack of personal connection to them, but at a certain point we’re supposed to invest ourselves in their plight and it doesn’t quite click. You can’t expect an audience to become concerned with the fate of two undefined people they never really get to know. Similarly, it would have been nice if some of the other cult members had been given dimension. As it stands, they’re mostly glorified extras devoid of interesting characteristics.

Still, Martha Marcy May Marlene’s slight script deficiencies are easily overshadowed by the measured power of Durkin’s direction and the two gangbuster central performances. This is a film guaranteed to crawl under your skin and remain trapped there – existing forever alongside the most indelible on-screen horror images you’ve bared unfortunate witness to. Consider this review a fair warning. And an enthusiastic recommendation.

4 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Epi-Cast: Episode 32 - "Send In... The Cloon!"

2011-10-22T20:24:00.000-07:00

Everything. Turn-turn-turn. There is a season. Turn-turn-turn... Oh, hello there! Didn't see you come in. Now that the leaves of fall have erased what little remaining joy was left from the summer months, your loyal pals Cam and Tom have a little Epi-Cast action in store for you! What kind of action, you ask? Well, if we told you here there'd be little reason to keep reading or - heaven forbid - download the episode. Patience is a virtue, my dear friend.

Epi-Cast: Episode 32 - "Send In... The Cloon!"

Since the serious films of autumn are starting to roll out, Cam and Tom drop the jovial jocularity and weigh in on George Clooney's fourth directorial outing The Ides of March. How should you vote with your wallet? They'll tell you - in glorious depth! Additionally, Cam steps into the ring with Real Steel, gets brainwashed by Martha Marcy May Marlene and, uh, watches The Thing. Tom, for his part, arrives late to the party with a scathing review of Green Lantern and a glowing recommendation for John Michael McDonagh's The Guard. Plus, in a Trailer Park Encounters segment both giddy and vitriolic, the duo check out the latest previews for The Avengers, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, The Grey and This Means War. It's all so much wacky fun that it'll leave you gasping frantically for more!

To download, simply right-click and save on any of the episode titles above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the wild worldwide web's most majestic mp3 treasures.

P.S. We are, of course, available on iTunes! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, GIZMO-STRIPE!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive instantaneous downloads whenever we bother to upload a new episode. Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." It's very unlikely that profound interpretations of the Bible will be included amongst the silliness.

P.P.S. Don't hesitate to leave a review on our iTunes page. As always, we sincerely welcome your hyperbolic praise/earth-scorching venom.

One-Sheet Showcase - THE ADVENTURES OF BUCKAROO BANZAI ACROSS THE 8TH DIMENSION (1984)

2011-09-20T17:25:00.000-07:00

Category: Confusing

Pity the poor 20th Century Fox marketing staff members that were forced to brainstorm a coherent advertising campaign for this 1984 satirical sci-fi cult fave. I mean, having endured The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension, I know very well that it's the most foolish of fool's errands to try to sum it up in a sentence or two. A doctoral thesis? Maybe. But a single tag-line? Ha! Good luck, bunky.

That said, a good argument could be made that the approximately 73 lines of context-free description they jotted across this teaser poster are actually more confounding than the movie itself. I mean, who did the team think this poster would appeal to? Who did they think would take the time to stop and spend half an hour reading it in the theatre lobby? It's head-spinning to even try to visualize what it's selling (Yoyodyne Propulsion Systems? Penny Priddy? Za?!), and the lone image is just abstract enough to be utterly meaningless to anyone who hasn't seen the movie.

I'm gassuming Fox was hoping to appeal to the geek audience (hence the prominent "Major Marvel Comic" plug, although I'm fairly certain Buckaroo's funny book adventure sales were anything but major), but was that really a smart market to target? Even in this era, where Comic-Cons rule the land and superheroes storm the multiplex, geek dollars only carry so much weight. Just ask the filmmakers behind Scott Pilgrim and Kick-Ass. Solely targeting them in 1984? Insane. Perhaps that's why Buckaroo only Banzai-ed itself to a 6-million-dollar domestic gross. Ouch.

To be fair, the studio did ultimately release a more general audience-friendly theatrical poster, but when it comes to motion picture branding, first impressions are everything. If you don't burst confidently out of the gate, the public catches on lickety split and shifts their attention elsewhere. Call it the Green Lantern effect, if you will. Back on August 10, 1984, you had three big new movies to choose from: the kids and spies adventure Cloak & Dagger, the Commie-busting teen actioner Red Dawn and this bewildering unknown quantity. Which one would you have chosen to skip? Audiences at the time arrived at the same conclusion.

Which isn't of course to imply that Buckaroo Banzai is a terrible movie (although it's pretty far from a good one), just that when it comes to successfully selling a movie a clear hook makes all the difference. The no doubt capable creators of this one-sheet never figured their picture's out. Instead, they crafted a hilarious mess of convoluted nonsense and off-puttingly weird imagery.

Huh. Who says Hollywood doesn't occasionally practice truth in advertising?

Film Review - SHARK NIGHT 3D

2011-09-09T02:42:00.000-07:00

As far as aquatic monster thrillers go, Shark Night 3D doesn’t bring a whole lot to the table. It’s mostly a reheated chum bucket of standard genre tropes served up as late summer celluloid filler for the undiscerning. However, it does make one valuable contribution worthy of enthusiastic notice: it finally offers the Cookiecutter shark its moment to bask in the spotlight.

Long ignored by the world of exploitative B-movies, the Cookiecutter shark is an ugly little fellow with a truly unusual method of attaining food. The creature suctions itself onto the bodies of prey with its mouth and then spins in circles, using dozens of razor-sharp triangular teeth to saw loose chunks of flesh. Round, cookie-shaped chunks of flesh. Awesome, huh?! And, if that isn’t impressive enough, their bioluminescent bodies – which lure unfortunate victims into their gory, ninja-like sneak attacks - earned them the genus name Isistius, after Isis, the Egyptian goddess of light. That’s a pretty badass distinction for a carnivore that measures a mere 50 centimetres.

Ol’ Cookiecutter doesn’t get much time to shine in Shark Night 3D, but it makes every single horrible second count. Watching a school of the diminutive swimming night-terrors turn a screaming college student into a bloody human jigsaw puzzle, I couldn’t help but let out a cackle of twisted appreciation. Frankly, this flick badly needed more moments like it!

The picture stars Sara Paxton (no direct relation to Bill) as, uh, Sara, a haunted pixie-ish co-ed with a Mysterious Past, who invites a group of hilariously diverse movieland stereotypes to her family cabin in the Louisiana Gulf. There’s the Slutty Goth Babe (Katharine McPhee), the Black Football Star Who Escaped the Projects (Sinqua Walls), the Football Player’s Sexy Latino Girlfriend (Alyssa Diaz), the Horny Goofball (33-year-old Joel David Moore), the Campus Stud (Chris Zylka) and the Sensitive Nerd (Dustin Milligan – who, like all nerds, is really just a male model with glasses).

Note: If you’ve ever seen a by-the-numbers horror movie before, you’ll be able to scan the above list and easily determine who the first two attack victims are.

On the way to the lake, the criminally attractive friends run afoul of Sara’s ex-boyfriend Dennis (Chris Carmack) and his loathsome pal Red (Joshua Leonard). They’re a pair of racist hicks with a serious hatred for higher education, who object to Sara attempting to escape her small town roots. However, after a couple “boating accidents,” it becomes painfully clear the peaceful lake is thriving with several species of man-eating shark. Thus, in order to avoid becoming dinner, the opposing parties, along with jovial local lawman Sabin (Donal Logue), are forced to quit their squabblin’ and join forces to flee the Gulf’s toothy new residents.

While Shark Night 3D is being marketed as a straight-forward shark thriller, the script by Will Hayes and Jesse Studenberg is actually more of a sub-genre mash-up, blending together elements from several different horror movie breeds (which I dare not spoil in fear of ruining major plot twists). Unfortunately, the three primary sub-genres depend on a certain level of creative depravity and go-for-broke lunacy in order to succeed, and Shark Night 3D’s blood-spattered potential is utterly neutered by its PG-13 rating. Outside of the creepy Cookiecutter sequence, none of the kills have any real impact. Oh, there’s plenty of red in the water, but they’re abrupt and frustratingly brief, with precious little gore or flailing-limbed hysteria. Even the fairly ingenious third act revelation explaining how the sharks wound up in the lake is hopelessly dulled by the filmmakers being unable to milk it for everything its worth.

The film’s harmless, bland vibe can also largely be laid at the feet of helmer David R. Ellis, a man who has become infamous for failing to live up to expectations. After grabbing the attention of genre fans with the outrageously over-the-top Final Destination 2 and the fun, if inconsequential, Cellular, he stiffed on two sure-fire camp-tastic concepts: the much-hyped Snakes on a Plane and 2009’s terrible The Final Destination 3D. Now, against Herculean odds, he's managed to make sharks boring. Despite featuring almost a half-dozen varieties of the fearsome fishies, none of them have even the slightest wisps of on-screen personality. They’re under-utilized, cheesy-looking blurs of CG that just dash in and out of frame. At the beginning of the movie, Ellis even lazily attempts to recreate the iconic opening of Jaws – for what has to be the millionth time – and it is borderline embarrassing. Obviously, his options have been limited by the MPAA, but if you can’t find cool new ways of shooting an attack sequence, you have no business wading into the water.

He also makes the critical error of attempting to pad the opening hour with pointless zany montages and diversions in an effort to stretch the picture to feature-length. There's a sluggishly-paced boat chase that seems to drag on for eternity, and a wakeboarding segment that's about as exciting as sitting on a dock and watching others enjoy themselves through binoculars. And, as if lulling the audience into tedium isn't unforgivable enough, neither of these listless timewasters have any effect on the story or characters.

The cast is largely forgettable shark bait, even by generic horror flick standards. Donal Logue goofs off amiably in a poorly defined stock role, and Sinqua Walls is strangely fascinating due to the fact his football player makes a series of decisions so amazingly stupid that they defy rational human thought. Only Chris Carmack, as the heroine’s sinister former flame, makes a lasting impact. He’s effortlessly charismatic, and projects genuine menace. It’d be great to see the actor cast in a smarter and more daring film that allowed him to really get nuts.

Given the state of the economy and current ticket prices, there’s no good reason you should venture to the multiplex to experience Shark Attack 3D. There’s not much here you can’t see in a dozen crappy DTV killer shark movies, and the 3D is virtually non-existent. Coming almost exactly one year after Alexandre Aja’s giddy Piranha 3D – which rung every last drop of schlocky perversion and winking naughtiness from its dopey premise – Ellis’ movie feels tired, trivial and antiquated. After all, if there’s no frenzy to go along with feeding, what's the point?!

2 out of 5

Epi-Cast: Episode 31 - "Podcast of the Planet of the Apes"

2011-08-30T10:20:00.000-07:00

Okay kids, party time's over. Put away your surfboards and short shorts and start gathering up your school books! Time to prepare for another 10 months of soul-crushing study and crippling mental exhaustion. But before you do that, rejoice in the fact that another Epi-Cast has landed plum in your lap to entertain you as you sob the next few days away. If you're looking for a laffy, daffy means of aural escape, this podcast is the ticket, baby!

Epi-Cast: Episode 31 - "Podcast of the Planet of the Apes"

Summer movie season may be over but there's still fun to be had picking through the wreckage. In this most exhilirating of episodes Cam and Tom journey to that horrible Planet of the Apes and debate where Rise of the Planet of the Apes ranks in relation to the rest of the venerable franchise. In addition, Cam reviews the horror remake Fright Night and Kevin Smith's Red State, while Tom finally joins the party and talks about X-Men: First Class and Joe Wright's indie actioner Hanna. In an exceptionally bicker-happy segment of Trailer Park Encounters, the duo dissect Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance, George Lucas's Red Tails and Tomas Alfredson's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Beware, much hooting, hollering and chest-thumping lies ahead. Enjoy!

To download, simply right-click and save on any of the episode titles above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the wild worldwide web's most majestic mp3 treasures.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, WHY-COOKIE-ROCKET!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geek-speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." Profound interpretations of the Bible will probably not be given here. (I added the "probably" because it's truly impossible to predict Tom's oft-random thought patterns.)

P.P.S. Don't hesitate to leave a review on our iTunes page. As always, we sincerely welcome your glowing praise/earth-scorching venom.

Epi-Cast: Episode 30 - "Let's Get McCracken!"

2011-07-10T00:21:00.000-07:00

Is it just us, or has this season's pack of blockbuster releases been pretty dire? Sure, X-Men: First Class and Bridesmaids were great, and Thor was pretty fun, but Green Lantern? Cars 2? Transformers: Dark of the Moon? The Hangover 2? Pirates of the Caribbean 4? Yuck. Let's face facts, people: this is, so far, not shaping up to be one of Hollywood's proudest summers. And we as a society can only put so much faith in Captain America and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 2...

Thus, to relieve ya'll of the mid-summer cinema gloomies, Cam and Tom are back with an Epi-Cast episode which covers a couple spectacular alternatives to the typical, glossy 200 million dollar 3D crap clogging up multiplexes at this very moment. You're welcome.

Epi-Cast: Episode 30 - "Let's Get McCracken!"

In this podcasterific dose of sophisticated discourse, Cam and Tom attempt to delve into the mysteries of Terrence Malick's mesmerizing and ambitious The Tree of Life, yet find themselves stumbling to even synopsize this modern masterpiece. Don't fret, though, much appreciation and awe is nonetheless expressed. They also arrive late to the party with a joint review of The Hangover Part II. As solo acts, Cam dutifully slogs through Transformers: Dark of the Moon and cheerfully recommends Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris, while Tom catches up on his home video releases with Adjustment Bureau and Paul. Plus, in the latest Trailer Park Encounters, the duo clash over Spielberg's War Horse, are caught slightly off-guard by the teasers for Pixar's Brave and Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, and debate the literary accuracy of Paul W.S. Anderson's The Three Musketeers. They also whine for an extended period of time about James Blunt for some reason... Anyhoo, it's more of the usual hijinx for cinephiles young, old and in-between! Enjoy!

To download, simply right-click and save on any of the episode titles above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the wild worldwide web's most majestic mp3 treasures.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, XANDER-BERKELEY!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geek-speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." Profound interpretations of the Bible will probably not be given here. (I added the "probably" because it's truly impossible to predict Tom's oft-random thought patterns.)

P.P.S. Don't hesitate to leave a review on our iTunes page. As always, we sincerely welcome your glowing praise/earth-scorching venom.

One-Sheet Showcase - ALLIGATOR (1980)

2011-07-07T17:33:00.000-07:00

Category: Cool

As anyone who reads this blog knows, few things tickle my fancy more than a good creature feature - preferably gory ones involving aquatic predators. In the years following Jaws, there was no shortage of the dang things, and Lewis Teague's Alligator was one of the better efforts. Written by the talented John Sayles - the scribe behind Joe Dante's 1978's cult classic Piranha, who would go on to pen and direct 1988's Eight Men Out and the critically lauded 1996 neo-noir Lone Star - Alligator is a bloody blast of wry humour, creatively depraved gore and general lunacy. It also features the invaluable Robert Forster in a self-effacing turn as a Chicago cop who spends as much time obsessing over his male pattern baldness as investigating gator attacks.

In short, it's a damn entertaining B-movie, and well worth checking out. It's cheap, too!

The picture also produced one heck of a great poster. Unlike the majority of the Jaws clones, which just copycatted the 1975 smash's iconic art-work, Alligator actually managed to inspire a one-sheet that stands on its own. Although it still places its toothy star front and center, this poster projects a darker, more lurid vibe than Spielberg's originator, and feels more in keeping with the exploitative horror and sci-fi movie advertizing of the era. Thus, it makes for a fantastically cool - if not quite accurate - piece of promotional art.

I love the sewer tunnel-shaped framing of the central image. Given that much of picture involves Forster and his edible co-stars wandering around Chicago's bowels in search of the man-eating beastie, it's appropriate that the poster imagery depicts how the creature could appear to someone who took an unfortunate wrong turn. The artist manages to make the lurking alligator look like it almost belongs in the dank, uninhabitable environment, while still capturing it's alarming otherness. Notice, too, how the eyes are immediately drawn to the monster's frightening toothy grin. It looks less like an inhabitant of the natural world, than an unstoppable, almost supernatural, presence slowly emerging from fog and darkness.

Like many of the best 80s horror one-sheets, it projects an image that is both nightmarish and exciting. It's so striking, in fact, that it even makes up for the goofy title font choice. Unlike the actual movie, which is more campy and fun than scary, this Alligator poster has no shortage of bite.

Film Review - TRANSFORMERS: DARK OF THE MOON

2011-07-03T17:52:00.000-07:00

Transformers: Dark of the Moon defies criticism. It is what it is, and, by this point, you're either on-board or you're not. Those who enjoyed 2007's Transformers or 2009's Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen will once again be treated to well over two hours of CG robot mayhem, relentless violence, broad humour and heavily made-up Maxim-esque actresses. Michael Bay doesn’t attempt to upset the applecart; he delivers exactly what fans expect from him, and closes out his gargantuan, tin-headed trilogy with enough fireworks to fuel a century's worth of Fourth of July celebrations. Although I can respect Bay's tireless attempts to expand the already-massive scope of the franchise, and gleeful dedication to detonations, I still feel left out in the cold. Watching Dark of the Moon, I didn't experience the visceral sense of irritation I did for the first or second film so much as faintly amused indifference. Sure, the effects are state-of-the-art and the action is well-executed. But why should I care?

It remains fascinating how little Bay is interested in the Transformers. Oh, there are plenty of the towering, mechanized aliens in the film, except few of them have a personality, much less dialogue. We've spent three films with Autobot leader Optimus Prime and what do we really know about him? That he fights for good, dislikes Decepticons, and is sorta friendly with Shia LaBeouf's character. Outside of Peter Cullen's booming voice, he brings very little to the proceedings and exists to recite solemn platitudes, war cries and dull exposition, and chop down bad guys. And, sadly, he's the most well-rounded non-human character. The rest - including the popular Bumblebee, who has maybe 15 minutes of screen-time - are technically impressive background ciphers, defined by their funny accents and powers (or, in one case, inexplicable resemblance to Albert Einstein). If you had told me in 2007 that the villainous Megatron's character arc would culminate in him donning a cape, sitting quietly on the ground for an entire battle, and being verbally ridiculed by a Victoria's Secret Model, I'd have called you batty. Yet, here we are.

Once again, the plot is absurd. The film opens in 1961, the year of the great Cybertronian war between the Autobots and Decepticons, as the heroic Sentinel Prime (Leonard Nimoy) attempts to flee the planet with a top secret weapon. Unfortunately, during his escape, he is shot down and crash lands on Earth's moon - a momentous event that instigates the space race between the Americans and the Russians. As we all know, the Yanks emerge victorious and, during the legendary 1969 landing, Neil Armstrong is ordered to investigate the downed craft. Among the wreckage he discovers is Sentinel's corpse and the all too important MacGuffin, and brings the latter back to the U.S. government where it remains hush-hush for over 40 years...

Flash-forward to an undisclosed time in the relative present: the Autobots work for the government, under the rule of head honcho Mearing (Frances McDormand), running covert anti-terrorism missions (how covert can a mission involving gargantuan robots really be?!) all over the globe, while the disgraced Decepticons hang out with zebras and elephants in the African Savannah. Sam Witwicky (Shia LeBeouf) has graduated college, been awarded a medal for bravery by President Obama and, oddly, is unable to find any means of employment. He's supported by his loving British girlfriend, Carly (Rosie Huntington-Whiteley), who works for shady venture capitalist Dylan (Patrick Dempsey - an unexpected riot in a stock role). Unbeknownst to the jealous Sam, Dylan gets him a job at a tech company run by the eccentric Bruce Bazos (John Malkovich), where he comes across classified information regarding powerful Transformer hardware buried on the dark side of the moon. Soon, it's a mad dash between the government and the Decepticons to retrieve the crucial technology, called "pillars," which may well spell doom for the entire planet.

Many took issue with the previous Transformers film for its incoherent story which, according to Bay, was an ill-fated result of the Writers Guild strike. I sincerely look forward then to hearing him defend the script for Dark of the Moon, by Fallen co-writer Ehren Kruger. Not only does this picture contradict sizable chunks of the groundwork laid by its predecessors, very little of the film stands up to rudimentary critical thinking. Why, for example, does the government not return earlier to excavate Sentinel Prime's crashed ship? I'd imagine, at the very least, the alien technology could have been worth checking out. Why does a certain character not accept the Matrix of Leadership - an item which can resurrect dead Transformers - from Optimus Prime? Why does Carly push for Sam to assist in the Autobot cause, only to become infuriated minutes after he does? Further, anyone able to logically explain Dempsey's character's motivation and decisions deserves to be heroically paraded around town on a float to great fanfare.

Yes, I know, I know. Transformers movies aren't about story, they’re about skull-quaking action. That's all well and good, however it's difficult to generate any type of emotional reaction to epic special effects battles when their reason for occurring makes so little sense. There is an hour-long sequence in which the city of Chicago is utterly demolished (Why Chicago, you ask? There's no good answer to that question, other than the fact that, thanks to The Dark Knight, the city has become the go-to locale for large-scale summer-movie heroics) that is truly ambitious and daunting in scale. Nevertheless, because the previous 90 minutes of build-up is so messy and ridiculous, the climactic set-piece's impact is severely diminished. It doesn't excite or exhilarate, it just happens.

Bay also makes a curious creative decision with his human characters: they’re all portrayed as being insane. Not, like, quirky insane, but full-on foaming-at-the-mouth-and-ready-for-the-mental-ward insane. LaBeouf, usually the dependable grounding force for the series, is now an entitled jerk who has no less than three scenes where he devolves into a spastic, screaming lunatic. Returning once more are John Turturro's kooky former agent character, now a crazed author with unrepressed passion for McDormand's borderline incompetent g-woman, and Julie White as Sam's lusty mom, who this time discusses her son's, um, organ size and the importance of cunninglingus. Never one to be out-weirded, newcomer John Malkovich appears to have spent his time on set ingesting narcotics, and is really terrible in a truly mesmerizing way (one has not lived a full life until they've seen Malkovich tickled into submission by a Transformer). Rounding out the peanut gallery are Ken Jeoung, as a hyper-agitated tech nerd with critical info, who drops his pants and forces LaBeouf into a toilet stall, along with Alan Tudyk, who plays Turturro's gay German assistant as if auditioning for a Sprockets movie. Even the lower-key characters played by Dempsey and Huntington-Whiteley behave in ways no rational human being ever would. There's a place for broad caricatures such as these but, when the fate of the universe hangs in the balance, a certain level of gravitas is needed in order to build tension. By cramming Dark of the Moon with grotesque oddballs, the filmmakers undercut the dramatic stakes and rob their epic of a pulse.

The childish raunchy humour from Revenge of the Fallen has been toned down; though Bay's other obsessions are still unmistakeably present, including fetishistic depictions of military gear, obvious product placement, blatant allusions to real-world historical tragedies and a borderline-creepy penchant for immature misogyny (Huntington-Whiteley's entrance consists of an leering handheld close-up of her underwear-clad derriere as she navigates her apartment). That said, he delivers the (surprisingly brutal) overkill enthusiastically and, due to the picture being shot for 3D, his robot-on-robot fisticuffs are - for the first time ever - actually comprehensible. Gone are the days of the bewildering blurs of fractured grungy grey chaos; this time around we can usually tell who is hitting who, and with what object. Thank heavens for small miracles.

It'll be interesting to see where the Transformers franchise goes from here. The property has become too profitable to abandon, though Bay and LaBeouf have both stated that they're done with the series, and this film sends a significant portion of its characters to an early scrap yard grave. My hope is that the inevitable reboot cuts down on the unnecessary bloat and makes a conscious attempt to bring the Autobots and Decepticons to the forefront and give us a reason to feel affection for them beyond nostalgia. Bombastic end of the world scenarios can be a lot of fun when there's dynamic, genuine personalities involved. It’s too bad no one behind Dark of the Moon seemed to understand that.

2 out of 5

Cinematic Consumption - DEATH WISH V: THE FACE OF DEATH

2011-06-30T21:10:00.000-07:00

Death Wish V: The Face of Death (or, according to the fine print on the cheap DVD art, "Faces of Death") begins as all films should: with abundant footage of naked models getting dressed intercut with shots of Charles Bronson strutting like Tony Manero down the streets of New York to terrible dance music. Now, you may think gratuitous nudity in the credits is shameless, but don't worry! It all serves a valuable purpose. See, Bronson's character is going to a fashion show overseen by his girlfriend, Olivia (Lesley-Anne Down). Hence, director Allan A. Goldstein isn't aiming to titillate, he's trying to educate by giving us a fly-on-the-wall documentary-like glimpse into the daily realities of this swanky industry. Besides, who are we to question the man's art? Who are we...?

Ultra-classy opening aside, though, The Face of Death is a pretty shoddy affair. Despite being released in 1994, you would be forgiven for thinking it was a straight-to-video cheapo cash-in from the previous decade (which is surprising, as I was always under the impression that any movie featuring a "Special Guest Appearance" by Saul Rubinek must cost a king's ransom). The cinematography is flat and grungy, and I'm not sure the production ever bothered to hire anyone to cover art direction. Although, someone must have dreamed up that bizarre clothing factory warehouse, which came complete with an acid pit and a high-speed conveyer belt that leads into a wood chipper. Are these things common in clothing factories? They must have some mighty insane workers comp cases.

This fifth Death Wish instalment opens with Bronson's vigilante architect Paul Kersey (whose face really does, at this point, resemble the Grim Reaper) settled down in happy domesticity. He has a hot fiancé 30 years his junior, and a soon-to-be stepdaughter (Erica Lancaster) who adores him. But, because the universe loves making a cruel cosmic joke of the poor dope, happiness is again violently taken away from him. His lady love's sadistic (and impotent!) mobster ex, named Tommy O'Shea (Michael Parks - dependably loopy), finds out Olivia is planning to rat him out to the feds. So, to dissuade her, he orders flamboyant, dandruff-plagued hitman Freddie Flakes (Robert Joy) to dress in drag and smash the poor woman's face into a mirror. Repeatedly. Then, just to be a jerk, he waits until she's recovered and returned home before showing up and shooting her off the roof.

Kersey is shattered, obviously, and demands to know why the law hasn't busted O'Shea yet. They put on their sad faces and tell him they've been trying for - wait for it -16 years! Since that's an unacceptable amount of time to spend failing to arrest a man who frequently murders people in broad daylight in front of dozens of witnesses, the ass-kicking senior citizen tells the cops to take a flying leap, grabs his gun and sets out to kill his enemies in wildly over-the-top ways. A task which he accomplishes swimmingly.

Following the series' previous bombastic entry, The Crackdown(!) - in which Kersey killed approximately 1,692 bad guys - The Face of Death is remarkably subdued and more in tune with the first film. It's nowhere near as good, but there is a conscious effort made to make its hero's battle more small-scale and personal. O'Shea really only has a small handful of goons so, instead of wall-to-wall shoot-outs, the film's runtime deals primarily with the outlandish scenarios Kersey concocts to send his foes screaming into the nether. Poison cannoli, anyone? Or, better yet, how about death by exploding remote control soccer ball? (Speaking of which, did those actually exist? Why would you want a remote control soccer ball? You can't kick it because that would damage the circuitry, and the novelty factor would be remarkably short-lived.) Of course, it all ends with a gun battle in the clothing factory. Gosh, I hope someone remembered to put a lid on that acid pit...

The glorious excess of the villain deaths are The Face of Death's greatest strength, as well as it's most crippling weakness. They're easily the most entertaining part of the movie, but they are so ludicrous that they completely null the film's attempts to be taken seriously. It all results in a tonal mess of a motion picture that, while more watchable than a couple of the other sequels, doesn't congeal into anything of particular worth. After 20 years of wishing gruesome death on the guilty, Death Wish V finally sees Paul Kersey limping off into the sunset. And boy, oh boy, does he ever look tired.

2 out of 5

One-Sheet Showcase - CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND (1977)

2011-06-29T18:15:00.000-07:00

Category: Confusing

Not all posters featured in this weekly column are winners. Some will be oddities that are so peculiar and wrong-headed that they deserve notice purely for existing. Such is the case with today's kooky-crazy Polish theatrical one-sheet for Steven Spielberg's seminal 1977 science-fiction masterwork Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Designed by brilliant artist Andrzej Pagowski, this is a classic case of what happens when a painter is asked to depict imagery for a movie they have no frame of reference for. Todd Gresely, director of Monstrose, Houston's Retro Gallery - which ran an exhibit of Pagowski's work in 2007 - said of this bizarro piece that "The government probably said, 'we're getting a movie about aliens, make the poster.'" Thus, the artist conjured up this goofy, green Saturday morning cartoon character with a slightly stoned-looking grin and ran with it.

While there's nothing inherently wrong with the artistry of the one-sheet, it is hilariously off-the-mark. The silly, droopy-lidded alien bears zero resemblance to the extraterrestrial visitors in Spielberg's opus (it's actually closer, physique-wise, to E.T.), and the piece's tone lacks any of the mystery and awe promised by the standard North American poster. Polish audience members could easily be forgiven for thinking they were buying tickets to a children's movie.

Oh, and Richard Dreyfuss' name is spelled incorrectly. Oops.

That said, I dig the glowing, splattered background of stars and constellations, and the unrestrained weirdness of the design. While not remotely representative of the film, I'll be damned if it isn't still charming in a decidely off-beat way. This one-sheet is pure broad, goofy fun. It's just not Close Encounters.

I would recommend, however, you take a closer look at Pagowski's diverse catalogue of work. There are some truly breathtaking gems to discover. Personally, I love the Wall Street, Patton and Rosemary's Baby one-sheets. Hopefully, I'll get around to featuring some more of this artist's striking efforts here in the future. Under the "Cool" category, of course.

Cinematic Consumption - DEATH WISH 4: THE CRACKDOWN

2011-06-23T01:33:00.000-07:00

Death Wish 4 may just have the sweetest subtitle of all time: The Crackdown! Because Charles Bronson is "crackin’ down" on crime. Get it? And, since this 1987 film has the aging tough guy singlehandedly winning the war on drugs, it has a double meaning! Down with crack, kids, or crazy ol' Uncle Charlie will shoot you in the face with a grenade launcher! Wait, I'm lost. How did this series get to this point? Wasn't the first one a fairly sombre character-driven revenge drama? Doesn't rapidly mummifying Paul Kersey - architect by day, vigilante by night (except, of course, when he's just being a vigilante 24/7) - usually focus his attention on street punks, rapists and purse-snatchers? How did he suddenly come to star in a hilariously over-the-top-and-down-the-other-side generic mob war shoot 'em up in the Canon Group Pictures mould.

Oh, right, because Death Wish 4 WAS made by Canon, those fine purveyors of crappy-looking, cheesy 80s action extravaganzas, such as Cobra and Missing in Action, who never produced a film in which a villain shuffled off the mortal coil quietly. Indeed, people die horribly in The Crackdown. At one point, a dope dealer gets shot a half-dozen times by a sub-machine gun and turns, arms swinging wildly, and runs headfirst through a car window. That's dedication! Another baddie gets his noggin smashed through an exploding television, is thrown across a room, flips right over a 15-story balcony and lands facedown on a limo windshield. To quote the amazing Spunkadelic: I give it a 9.95!

The film even opens brilliantly! A nameless blonde woman is walking to her car in a darkened parking lot (Is there any other kind?). Nervous, she gets into her vehicle and fumbles with the keys, trying to start the car. It won't start. She looks up to see a shadowy figure nearby wearing nylon over his head. She panics and tries the ignition again. Nadda. She raises her head and now there are two goons patiently watching her. Once more, she freaks and turns the key. Bupkis. Whoa, now there are three goons standing there. What's with these guys' weirdo showmanship? After one last futile attempt she surveys the parking lot. The three men have utterly vanished in the span of two seconds. Or have they?! Suddenly they break through her windows, drag her out of the automobile and begin to slap her. But then Kersey, resembling Marvel’s the Punisher, steps out of the darkness. He blows away two of the assailants and chases the third down, capping him in the back. As he turns over the corpse, he sees his own face staring back at him! Kersey awakes with a jolt. It's all a dream! Obviously, it means that Kersey's quest for vengeance is going to consume his soul, right? Like Luke Skywalker in that magic tree on Dagobah? Wrong. It's never referenced again. Pretty cool opening, though, huh?

Following the silly teaser, we're reintroduced to Chicago's finest anti-hero, who's back in the architecture game and dating clueless investigative reporter Karen Sheldon (Kay Lenz). Her daughter Erica (Dana Barron) is a sweet young teenager with a promising aptitude for architectural design. Surprise, she's doomed! After ingesting too much nose candy, the girl flatlines. However, before Kersey can drag out his killer hobo clothes, he's recruited by Nathan White (John P. Ryan - who looks like Dick Van Dyke crossed with John Carpenter), a millionaire press baron who also lost a child to drugs. He hires Kersey to kill the town's two warring cartels, and supplies him with explosives, Uzis and assault rifles (Revolvers are sooo 1970s!). Soon, Kersey is wiping out powder merchants left, right and center - and making zero attempts to remain inconspicuous.

Whoops, almost forgot: At the same time, Karen sets out to write a damning expose of Chicago's drug scene. Or something. Don't worry about paying close attention. The movie drops this sub-plot after about 5 boring minutes.

Death Wish 4: The Crackdown was one of the last pictures directed by the J. Lee Thompson, helmer of the original Cape Fear and The Guns of Navarone. Seems his waltz with genius was pretty short-lived, as he spent most of the 70s and 80s half-heartedly overseeing junk like King Solomon's Mines, Battle for the Planet of the Apes, Firewalker and the forgettable Bronson clinkers Avenging Angels and Kinjite: Forbidden Subjects. I wish I could say The Crackdown was a final grasp at glory, but it really, really isn't. There's a climactic shoot-out at a roller disco, for the love of Pete!

All beating up on the picture aside, I'd be lying if I said I didn't slightly enjoy Death Wish 4. It's a dopey reminder of the half-witted, cartoonish action flicks I spent my teenage years consuming by the dozen. How can you not smile at a film that makes explicit reference to a villain having a "highly-trained baritone singing voice," and then never features a single scene of him bellowing a tune? Or a film which depicts a 66-year-old man being talked into a limousine by an evil chauffeur, locked inside, then given enough time to watch the goon walk up the road to another car and drive away, sit for a minute in desperate contemplation, try all the doors, shoot out a window, crawl through the opening and, finally, dive away before the vehicle explodes? So, in essence, if you want to watch a trashy movie so stupidly violent it'll give you a bad case of the giggles, you need to get down... with THE CRACKDOWN!!!

2 out of 5

One-Sheet Showcase - KING KONG (1933)

2011-06-22T16:54:00.000-07:00

Category: Cool

God, I love this King Kong poster. It's big, pulpy, scary and thrilling in all the right ways, with the title gorilla barrelling through Skull Island's temple doors, almost exploding with fury, bathed in fiery, hellish shades of red, orange and yellow. If there's a better way to capture the unstoppable rage and might of the character, no one else has yet to stumble upon it. Had I been a youngster in 1933, nothing short of divine intervention could have prevented me from skeedaddling to the local movie house and slapping down 25 cents for this humdinger of a talkie! No, siree!

Like the very best one-sheets of the period, this evocative piece of advertising manages to flawlessly convey the sensational feeling of a lost era; an exploratory time when the possibility still existed that maybe, just maybe, there were still undiscovered lands left to uncover. Lands filled with fearsome gargantuan creatures still stalking the earth, untamed by human civilization. It also powerfully speaks to the deliriously imaginative dreams (or nightmares) that so many cinephiles, of all ages, journey to the theatres to see magically realized in front of their eyes.

It's notable that this poster solely promotes the edge-of-your-seat adventure of King Kong, not the earnest sense of wonder or the heart-string tugging finale. That's just smart marketing. Lure 'em in with promises of bold, unforgettable sights, then hit them with the emotion and message. That said, traces of Kong's veiled sexual politics still remain present. Notice the placement of Ann Darrow in reference to the towering simian's anatomy. I'd say it is pretty unlikely that that was merely a coincidental artistic touch.

The King Kong property has produced a number of frame-worthy posters. This action-packed effort from the disappointing 1976 remake still lingers, as do several of the pieces released in conjunction with Peter Jackson's epic-sized 2005 version. Heck, I even kinda like the cartoony one-sheets for 1986's terrible King Kong Lives and 1963's camptastic King Kong Vs. Godzilla. Maybe I just have a thing for giant monkeys...

Regardless, this one-sheet manages to out-cool the competition. I own a replica print, as well as a t-shirt bearing its likeness, yet still never grow tired of gazing at it. No doubt about it, when it comes to motion picture one-sheets, this Kong poster is still king.

Film's 5 Most Nauseating Dinner Table Scenes

2011-06-20T16:21:00.000-07:00

As anyone who’s ever spent much time with me can attest, I'm a pretty picky eater (I prefer the term "cautious consumer"). It seems to run in the family. Hence, there are few things more unbearable than revolting eating scenes in movies or television. Inspired by a recent viewing of one of the films mentioned on this list, I decided it was time to assemble my own personal Top 5 Most Nauseating Dinner Table Scenes in cinema. The criterion was easy: did the moment in question make me gag? All five of the titles listed below managed that task. Perhaps, a bit too well for my taste...

Before we begin, there were a few regrettable exclusions. I would have loved to include Monty Python's The Meaning of Life and Oldboy but, alas, they feature characters eating alone. I was looking for the communal experience. Misery loves company, after all. Julie Taymor's adaptation of Titus also came close, but I decided one Anthony Hopkins movie was enough. Plus, it frankly doesn't belong in the same category as the five that were ultimately chosen.

5) Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984) - Steven Spielberg and George Lucas must have been cackling like a pair of naughty school children while assembling their nightmarish Indian banquet from this second Indiana Jones adventure. After all, with a menu that includes such delicacies as chilled monkey brains, eyeball soup, beetle innards and "Snake Surprise," there must have been precious little doubt that audiences would squirm, wince and retch until scene's end. It wound up being one of Temple of Doom's most iconic moments, and ensured that we would never again have to wonder what it would look like to see a grown man scarf down a live eel whole. Ick.

4) Alien (1979) - Was it not punishment enough that Kane (John Hurt) had to spend a couple days confined to the infirmary with a giant space insect suckered to his face? Could he not just be left alone to enjoy a pleasant dinner of freeze-dried rations with his friends and co-workers? Apparently not, as director Ridley Scott soon subjects the poor sap to the worst case of indigestion known to man. When that toothy creature explodes out his chest, spraying the table with showers of gore and entrails, all semblance of calm is instantly eradicated, along with our appetites.

3) Hannibal (2001) - This Silence of Lamb sequel paid off its predecessor's unforgettable closing line "I'm having an old friend for dinner" tenfold. Although the movie itself is a pretty mixed bag, it's doubtful many will ever forget the sight of a dazed Ray Liotta, sans the top half of his skull, being fed sautéed chunks of his own sliced-off grey matter and savouring every stomach-turning, squishy chew. Thomas Harris' original novel had Julianne Moore's Clarice eagerly joining in on the brain-food feeding frenzy but, fortunately, director Ridley Scott (who, judging from #4 as well, apparently has a thing for gross-out meal gatherings) spares us that sight and instead provides us with a relatable dinner party member; one who makes no effort to shield her revulsion. Too bad she's not present at the film's end when an escaped Dr. Lecter (Anthony Hopkins), aboard a flight, offers his leftovers to an impressionable young seat-mate.

2) The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) - A dinner party requires great company to succeed, so what happens when the company consists of a screaming family of inbred hillbilly cannibals? Such is the scenario faced by Sally Hardesty (Marilyn Burns) in director Tobe Hooper's horror masterpiece. Awakening at a dilapidated table, shackled to a chair made from human remains, the hysterical heroine shudders and screeches in terror as the villainous family of man-eating mass-murderers hoot, howl and paw perversely at her blood-stained hair. As if that wasn't bad enough, set right in front of her is a plate of unpleasant meat products of questionable origin. Why, it's enough to send a poor soul shrieking like a banshee into the night! Not surprisingly, Sally soon does just that, without thanking her hosts on the way out. Unsurprisingly, this situation was repeated in future sequels/remakes/prequels - probably most gruesomely in 1986's The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 - but none were as potent as the originator.

1) Eraserhead (1977) - There are few greater discomforts than having to eat dinner at a prospective romantic partner's parents' house. The potential for awkwardness alone is enough to make anyone break into a sweat. David Lynch, who's rarely stooped to subtlety in exercising his gift for mutating the mundane into the sickening, uses his audacious debut to create the mother of all disturbing family dinners. In Eraserhead, Henry Spencer (Jack Nance) is urged, by his girlfriend's seemingly lobotomized plumber father (Allen Joseph), to carve a pathetic genetically modified chicken. Just as he's about break the skin, the tiny morsel's legs start to kick, and slick black, bubbling blood begins to ooze out all over the spotless white plate. Then mom (Jeanne Bates) starts spasming like Linda Blair. It's a repulsive sequence which is, troublingly, merely just a hors d'oeuvre for the plethora of cringe-inducing horrors still to come.

Film Review - GREEN LANTERN

2011-06-18T17:47:00.000-07:00

For a fledgling franchise, Green Lantern sure does spend an inordinate amount of time trying to make the extraordinary feel tediously ordinary. When you have a multiple galaxy-spanning storyline, and cast featuring hundreds of bizarre-looking alien marines, why settle for giving audiences lazy earthbound action beats involving helicopter accidents and hordes of extras running in terror through city streets from a big, boring CG monster? In a superhero epic where the hero can traverse the solar system in the blink of an eye, or conjure bizarre weapons out of pure energy, who wants to watch him mope around his apartment in self-doubt or try to win back his boring ex? We've seen these things done too many times already, and done with far more wit and enthusiasm.

Sure, on the surface, DC Comics’ emerald-hued icon's mythology comes across as being a mite silly in live-action, but there's no reason a grand space opera couldn't have been adapted from it. Audiences are willing to step into the fantastic if there's an exciting tale to be told that they can emotionally invest themselves in. Imagine if James Cameron's Avatar had only spent 15 minutes on Pandora, and the rest in the military base. Or if Luke Skywalker had ran back to the moisture farm shortly after stepping through Mos Eisley's dingy doors. That's Green Lantern in a nutshell; a dull wannabe sci-fi epic with zero confidence in its own appealingly unique creative strengths.

Even worse, I'm not exactly sure who this film was made for. It's often too campy and cartoonish - at one point the hero creates a giant Hot Wheels track to save a crashing vehicle - for adults to take very seriously, but also too lethargic and violent to engage young children. Many fans of the comic books will likely take issue with the one-note renderings of their favourite characters, and lack of dynamic space battles, while newcomers to the brand may be put off by the movie's convoluted, sloppily sketched-out mythology and thoroughly unimaginative origin tale structure.

The film follows the adventures of Hal Jordan (Ryan Reynolds), a cocky test pilot in the Maverick mould, who, late one night, is up and whisked away to a fallen space-craft containing a mortally injured extra-terrestrial named Abin Sur (Temuera Morrison). A victim of the life-draining, fear-powered intergalactic entity Parallax, Sur presents the irresponsible human with a magic ring and lantern, which harness the green energy source of will, and inducts him into the Lantern Corps, a team made up of hundreds of intergalactic peacekeepers who patrol the many sectors of the cosmos. Upon inadvertently activating the clunky piece of jewellery in a parking lot brawl, Jordan is zapped to the realm of Oa, where he's given instruction on his uncanny powers - which allow him to make his imagination spring to life via energy-based "constructs" - by the warriors Kilowog (Michael Clarke Duncan), Tomar-Re (Geoffrey Rush) and, most importantly, Sinestro (Mark Strong), the valiant ringleader of the Lantern squad.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, the body of Sur has been discovered by the U.S. government and handed over to painfully nerdy xenobiologist Hector Hammond (Peter Sarsgaard). During the autopsy procedure, a fragment of Parallax leaks out of the alien's corpse and infects the insecure scientist, causing grotesque physical mutation and infusing him with potent telepathic and telekinetic abilities. As Hector begins to go insane, Hal Jordan struggles to accept his newfound responsibilities and regain the love of Carol Ferris (Blake Lively), a fellow pilot who has long since grown weary of her colleague's reckless attitude. Following an unsuccessful attempt by Sinestro and the Lanterns to capture Parallax, the menacing entity heads towards Earth and it’s up to Hal to step up and save the world.

Green Lantern's script, cobbled together by a committee of four writers, accomplishes the paradoxical feat of being both rushed and ponderous. At 105 minutes, the film repeatedly spins its wheels by showing us dreary scenes of Hal sulking or staring at the horizon (this passes for character development), and listening to platitudes from Lively's Carol, yet skips over several fundamental building blocks of good storytelling. We’re supposed to feel something for Hector Hammond, but he isn't introduced until it's time for his transformation. Then, the movie attempts to establish a strong connection between him, Hal and Carol in a couple throwaway lines of dialogue. How are we supposed to care about a relationship that's central to the film when there's little on-screen evidence that it even exists?

Much of the picture works that way. We don't see things happen, so much as hear other people talk about them. The Lantern Corps, allegedly, are a near unstoppable intergalactic police force, yet they spend their sadly limited screen-time losing fights and standing around on Oa shining their rings in the air. Everyone endlessly informs Hal what a screw-up he is, but we rarely see him behave in a selfish manner outside of an effective early jet fighter training sequence. In Iron Man, Tony Stark's flaws were laid bare for us to see, and we loved him for them and were eager to watch his metamorphosis. Perhaps Green Lantern's writers were wary of making Hal too unlikable but, by making him so wishy-washy, he's impossible to root for. The film asks us to believe that only Hal is up to the task of tackling Parallax, yet we only see him train with the Corps for five (entertaining) minutes before quitting the group, and having a couple close-call scuffles with Hector. We're expected to accept that growth has occurred without seeing any of it actually transpire.

I'd be curious to know how much material wound up on the cutting room floor. There are a number of jarring edits in the film that make nary a lick of sense. Hal's first confrontation with Hector feels like an island unto itself, with no lead in or denouement. It just happens and then we return to business as usual. As well, Hal's trips between Oa and Earth in the latter half of the movie seem to occur almost at random.

It's unclear why director Martin Campbell was selected to helm this particular project. He's proven adept at kick-starting more grounded heroes like James Bond (Casino Royale, GoldenEye) and Zorro (The Mask of Zorro), but is hardly the go-to guy when you need to sell the otherworldly. Although he never embarrasses himself, there's no spark of invention in his grand CG superhero action sequences. Lantern's powers, which could be really fun in an inspired Looney Tunes-kinda way, are just delivered matter-of-factly. They don't look terrible, but they also aren't particularly thrilling or dazzling. They're just effects for the sake of being effects. The same could be said for the climactic battle with Parallax, though I’m tempted to give Campbell a pass on that one, as I remain unsold whether any director is capable of making a scene depicting a human-being in combat against an evil space cloud cool. Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer couldn't pull it off, and neither can Green Lantern.

The cast does what it can with lame material and, for the most part, flounders. As Hal, Reynolds is pleasant enough, and obviously has the masked avenger physique down, but spends too much time looking sheepish to be compelling. He's as edgy as rice pudding, and even his patented ironic observational one-liners feel forced. Lively, competently playing Generic Love Interest, has a few amusing bits, such as during her first face-to-face with Lantern, but is saddled with dialogue no actress should have to utter with a straight face, while Mark Strong acquits himself admirably with what is essentially a non-character (Sinestro, a major staple of the comics, is anything but here). Only Sarsgaard leaves an impression, with a creepy, broad villainous performance that could have been a milestone had Hector Hammond not wound up being completely inconsequential.

Everything about the picture feels weighed down by a crushing sense of nervous obligation; to both expanding DC’s cinematic presence and cramming in enough fan-service moments to appease the faithful. However, by following the strict template established by its forebears so joylessly, and short-changing its own potential in fear of offending the average movie-goer, it fails to inspire anything other than apathy. Green Lantern may shine brightly in the comic-book world, but his value in the universe of on-screen superheroes couldn’t be any less murky.

2 out of 5

Film Review - SUPER 8

2011-06-10T23:48:00.000-07:00

Ordinarily, it's not really fair to criticize a new release for failing to live up to a milestone of the art-form. Classics come with too much baggage, and have had the benefit of time to saturate the public consciousness and become something larger and more important than a mere motion picture. So, what then to make of J.J. Abrams' Super 8, a reasonably efficient thrill-ride nostalgia trip that so desperately wants to stand on the shoulders of giants and invite warm comparisons to watershed Spielberg masterpieces such as Close Encounters of the Third Kind and E.T.? How can one clearheadedly judge a film that so blatantly muddies the waters by mining its most effective elements from treasured memories of the past?

I'm not sure it's possible. For some, Super 8 will be held in high regard purely for its uncanny ability to tap into the nostalgic mindset of its audience. This is a film that seems determined to make ticket-buyers wistfully yearn for childhoods they never actually had. That's not necessarily a fault of the picture, so much as a statement of its obvious intent. I heartily enjoyed the majority of my time spent in the film's idyllic 1979 setting, surrounded by its Goonies-like gaggle of precocious film buffs, but, leaving the theatre, I couldn't help but feel a little let down that the film didn't swing for the fences. When Spielberg blazed new ground with material like this, he infused it with passion, intelligence and tingle-inducing wonder. He created films you didn't just watch, you experienced. Abrams, on the other hand, doesn't have the same drive for innovation or grandeur, and never quite manages to fully immerse us in his world. It's a fun entertainment, but not a whole lot more.

Set in the sleepy Ohio suburbs, Super 8 stars impressive newcomer Joel Courtney as Joe Lamb, a sensitive 12-year-old recovering from the loss of his mother, who died in a tragic mill accident. Obsessed with monsters, movie make-up and homemade model kits, he's in the midst of shooting a super 8 zombie movie with his friends and rebellious crush Alice Dainard (Elle Fanning - a dead ringer for a pre-teen Drew Barrymore) late at night, when a cargo train mysteriously, not to mention explosively, derails. Soon, the military - who enter the picture as ominous flashlights in the night ala E.T. - are swarming the area looking for... something. As the kids continue to assemble their project, strange occurrences begin to happen around town; dogs start running away. Electricity flickers on and off. Something is out there and its just a matter of time before Joe and his friends run headlong into it.

Naturally, if there's one thing almost every Spielberg work has in common, it's aloof father figures. Super 8 completes the homage package by supplying not just one of these all-important characters, but two! Joe's stern, grieving deputy sheriff father (the always welcome Kyle Chandler) urges his son to grow up and consider new hobbies, while Alice's deadbeat alcoholic dad (Ron Eldard) carries a shameful secret of his own; one which threatens to disrupt the slowly emerging romance between the two tweens.

Boldly confident from the get-go, Super 8 works best during its first hour, as we get to know and understand the kids and their little isolated universe. Abrams' script makes a wise call early on in delaying the kids inevitable involvement with the supernatural elements of the story until the third act. Sure, they're present for the fiery train-wreck - which is grand in scale but not as convincingly rendered as I suspect the filmmaker thinks it is, given how long he milks it on-screen - but soon their attention turns back to that which is most important to them; namely, their movie. Many screenwriters have failed miserably writing kids, but Abrams understands the innocent self-absorption that comes with that age, and implicitly realizes that, for them, making a movie isn't just a pleasurable activity, it's everything.

As he proved in his previous filmic forays, Star Trek and Mission: Impossible III, and high profile television work, Abrams posesses one of the canniest eyes for casting in the business. To his great credit, there is not a single child actor in the film who rings false. Courtney and Fanning ably share most of the spotlight, and generate the picture's most powerful dramatic fireworks, but the supporting cast is no less colourful. Riley Griffiths, as the crew's wannabe director, possesses just the right amount of gusto and bossiness, while Gabriel Basso, as the over-anxious leading man, earns the film's biggest laugh during an action sequence involving a bus. Ryan Lee, who boasts some truly daunting dental wear, is also delightfully true-to-life, playing that kid we all knew who never went anywhere without a lighter. These characters are an utter joy to spend time with and, unlike in Richard Donner's often tiresome The Goonies, their non-stop, overlapping chatter is funny, honest and comprehensible.

I really wish the film didn't trip so badly over itself once it introduces its otherworldly co-star. Had it played a less prominent role in the emotional pay-off of the film, it would be far less problematic than it is. Plainly put, Super 8's creature is a dud. Over-designed, poorly explained and always obscured by darkness (likely to hide the fact the CG is less than stellar), it's a generic non-entity in a film that requires us to care about it to truly triumph. Remember E.T.? He was both a brilliantly nuanced character, as well as a poignant metaphor for Elliot's impending loss of childhood. This movie's mysterious being has neither a personality nor clear thematic purpose. Worse, it's appearance in the third act disrupts the natural flow of the other story threads, leading to a rushed finale that badly undercuts the movie's grand attempt at a tear-jerking final moment of awe. Spielberg knew when to pace himself and let the audience bask in his fantastic images and sounds, whereas Abrams seems over-eager to wrap everything up as fast as possible and fade to black.

Yet, despite not succeeding at meeting the standards set by its influences, there's still plenty to recommend Abrams' quirky little film beyond the performances. There's so much love in each and every frame - from the kids' elaborately designed rooms, full of geeky little touches and period detail, to the quiet minutiae of small town life and, my personal favourite, the beautifully evocative shots of the spellbinding night sky - that it’s impossible to resist falling prey to the picture’s gentle whimsy. As a cinematic journey, Super 8 may fall short of the stars, but it's nonetheless a journey still worth taking.

3.5 out of 5

P.S.: Make sure to stick around during the credits to see the kids' completed super 8 movie. It just may be the most charming sequence in the entire film.

Cinematic Consumption - MEGA SHARK VERSUS CROCOSAURUS

2011-06-10T15:39:00.000-07:00

Going in, Mega Shark Versus Crocosaurus had to accomplish very little to entertain me. I'm a total sucker for bad killer sea creature movies (Read my obsessive retrospectives for both Jaws 3-D and Jaws The Revenge for proof), and all I ask is that the filmmakers manage to throw in some weirdo inspiration here and there amidst the brain-jellying exposition and scenes of washed up actors staring at unconvincing computer monitor screens. A memorably gory kill, perhaps. Or a climactic monster death so astoundingly ridiculous you find yourself fumbling for the rewind button. Heck, even a winking bit of pointless nudity (an old genre standby that has sadly become a rarity). I'm an easy customer.

Unfortunately, MSvsCS - as I shall henceforth be referring to it - fails to deliver any of these base desires. Oh, it's rated R, all right. For language. Language! This is a killer shark/crocodile movie whose most extreme element is the F-word! I really don't understand the logic behind that decision. Why make such a film and not deliver on the audience's modest expectations? It's not like there was ever a danger of anyone being invested in the storyline!

What is the storyline, you ask? Well, it's about a Navy acoustics scientist (Jaleel White - he who once wore suspenders, giant red-rimmed glasses and nasally uttered the immortal phrase "Did I do that?!" ever Friday night on ABC) who is developing a new audio technology to repel sharks. After his fiancé is killed by Mega Shark, who sinks her battleship by leaping over it three times and smacking it with his tail, he is recruited by the military and a tanktop-wearing government agent babe (Sarah Lieving) to destroy the errant fish. But wait! Over in South Africa, a ginoromous prehistoric crocodile has emerged and escaped into the sea, causing the rough-around-the-collar resident croc-hunter (Gary Stretch - who looks like a squintier, sleazier, hairier Pierce Brosnan) to also be brought in on the action. Will the hunter and Urkel be able to put their differences aside and stop the carnivorous man-eaters once and for all? (Spoiler: Yes. Yes, they will.)

It's amazing how sizable a chunk of this film is spent with Urkel, croc-dude and Agent Hotty McHotterson sitting in a fake helicopter cockpit tediously arguing over whether or not the scientist's "hydrosonic spheres" will save the day. (Spoiler: they do!) Even though the flick runs only 88 mins, I feel like I'm still trapped in that godforsaken airborne purgatory waiting for someone to take charge and DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING!!! No one sane expects strong writing in a direct-to-DVD creature feature, but if you're going to give actors awful dialogue, at least make it so wretched it's hilarious, not boring.

Further, this is a picture which, in its very title, promises an epic clash between the titular monsters. The reality, however, is much more disappointing. The two beasts, which look like refugees from a Super Nintendo game, chomp down on each other's tails in unison and form a rudimentary circle. They then spin around and around, repeatedly and bloodlessly. To add insult to injury, even when destroyed they remain locked in their eternal game of Ring Around the Rosie. This could be forgiven if there were a few decent human fatalities, but there aren't. Most are just swallowed whole, disappearing into a blur of ugly CG. Yawn.

Ultimately, MSvsCS is a complete waste of time. It lacks the so-terrible-it's-funny qualities that made Shark Attack 3: Megalodon and Raging Sharks quasi-brilliant, and never lives up to its deliciously pulpy title. Too bad, so sad.

I'll probably still watch the inevitable sequel...

1 out of 5

P.S.: It's never a good idea to name your submarine USNS Invincible. Soon or later, it will be proven to not be.

One-Sheet Showcase - STAR TREK IV: THE VOYAGE HOME (1986)

2011-06-08T23:05:00.000-07:00

Category: Camp

I chose this poster to launch the inaugeral One-Sheet Showcase for a couple reasons, first and foremost being that I'm attending a Star Trek convention this weekend. What better way to celebrate my impending 3-day festival of fanboyism (and fangirlism) than with the goofiest official film poster ever inspired by the beloved space-hoppin' franchise?

Would I consider this a cool poster? No, not really. While The Voyage Home is easily the most light-hearted of the original cast's cinematic run, this one-sheet strictly sells the high-concept, fish-out-of-water comedy stuff (which, to be fair, it has no shortage of), rather than the crowd-pleasing sci-fi adventure tale elements involving a pair of humpback whales named George and Gracie. It's also hard not to childishly giggle over the fact that Spock and Kirk are beaming into San Francisco via rainbow. I imagine numerous slashfic authors hold this art up as one of their most profound inspirations.

All kidding aside, though, I still have a great deal of affection for this poster. Why, you ask? Because it unabashedly promises a carefree, fun time at the movies. Take a second and try to remember some recent blockbuster lobby art, not aimed at children, which actually tried to sell the movie as being a cheerful experience. It's harder than you'd think. Nowadays, everything has to look dark, intense and - the buzz word which is driving me slowly insane - "EPIC!" Why is every franchise, no matter how good-natured and breezy (Pirates of the Caribbean or Iron Man, for example), sold on soberingly solemn images better suited to a wrenching period drama? Lighten up, people!

Certainly this Star Trek IV poster has no shortage of detractors in the fan community, but I like it because it's eye-catching, colourful and unpretentious - not to mention completely devoid of irony. It genuinely makes me want to see the film being advertised. Besides, it must have worked a little bit, as Voyage Home was the highest-grossing Trek film until J.J. Abrams' awesome reboot - which also had inappropriately moody one-sheets - dropped in 2009.

So while few die-hards would ever choose to own it over a vintage Wrath of Khan or Search for Spock print, I'm still greatful it made it out of Paramount's promotional department 25 years ago.

Cinematic Consumption - DEATH WISH 3

2011-06-08T01:40:00.000-07:00

Death Wish 3 is not a good movie. In fact, it is - perhaps unsurprisingly - a pretty terrible one. However, unlike the vile second franchise entry, this flick figures out its tone from the very beginning and rides it out to the bitter, hilarious end. No one comes out of the film smelling rosy, but I'll be damned if I didn't laugh my fool head off throughout.

The fun continues as eternally cursed architect Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson) returns to his former hometown of New York. Now, you'll be forgiven for thinking the city looks a little odd, as the picture was shot in London. Which looks nothing like New York. At all. Rather, the entire film almost seems to unfold at the same bombed-out location where the finale of Saving Private Ryan took place; all mountains of debris, crumbling brick buildings and poorly-maintained, empty streets. Populating the town is roughly thirty sadistic gangland punks and about a dozen mournful citizens (the latter of which trudge, shoulders slumped and heads down, solemnly along the sidewalks waiting to have their grocery bags knocked out of their hands or purses stolen - an occurence which takes place every 5 mins or so in the movie.) I hate to blame the victim, but when you're outnumbered by bloodthirsty psychopaths who attack you on a daily basis, it's probably high-time to wise up and peruse the real estate ads.

Anyhow, Kersey shows up at an old friend's house, only to find him savagely beaten. After his final side-splittingly operatic death rattle, the cops bust in and arrest the baffled former vigilante. But all is not as it seems. Dimwitted police chief Shriker (Ed Lauter) - whose office looks like it was constructed in an elementary school classroom - decides that the old gun-wielding lunatic is the lesser of two evils and sets him loose, with a plea that he keep the cops informed of his activities. Which he promptly doesn't. Soon, the gang starts picking off saintly locals and Kersey is pressed back into action. By the end, the entire "city" is at war, as smiling old folks and shopkeepers, following the senior citizen ass-kicker's noble example, take up arms and blow every single facepaint-wearing hoodlum to hell. It's the ultimate NRA wetdream.

Yesterday, I made no attempt to hide my disgust for Death Wish II (Notice how the roman numerals disappeared with this chapter? Too bad. I really prefer uniformity in my movie titles), yet I had an ironic blast with this installment. Returning director Michael Winner has made an amusingly moronic campfest, full of ludicrous ultraviolence, phony sets and plenty 'o kroovy, that never for one moment convinces the viewer that it's transpiring in anything resembling the real world. This is Bronsonland, dammit, and it's a deliriously silly place to be, where everyone dies oh-so-spectacularly and youths dress like Billy Idol's reject back-up band. Even the horrific violence against the elderly is forgiveable as - on-screen - it's committed solely on overweight stunt men in embarrassing wigs. In fact, the only depressing element of Death Wish 3 is having to watch Martin Balsam, the great character actor who appeared in Psycho, Cape Fear and 12 Angry Men, cash a paycheck.

Actually, come to think of it, the love story between Kersey and a ditzy public defender (played badly by Deborah Raffin, who was 32 years younger than Bronson. Ick.) was pretty freakin' grim to endure too.

The Death Wish franchise is beginning to remind me of a far less awesome version of the Rambo series. The first is an effective character piece, while the follow-ups devolve into carnage-strewn blast-o-ramas. Does this mean that Death Wish 4: The Crackdown or Death Wish V: The Face of Death (Obviously, I can't stop now!) will manage, like 2008's Rambo, to unite the opposing strengths of the first and later films and create a satisfying whole? Honestly, I ain't holding my breath.

1.5 out of 5

Cinematic Consumption - DEATH WISH II

2011-06-07T00:52:00.000-07:00

What an utterly revolting pile of rotten celluloid this is! Whereas 1974's Death Wish, while hardly a great movie, was at least an intriguing, straight-faced character study of a peaceful man driven mad by urban decay and a gruesome attack on his family, this sequel wallows into the muck and asks us to celebrate it's irredeemable qualities. I'm no prude when it comes to shocking or disturbing subject matter, but this flick left me desiring a hot shower.

Taking place 2 years after the first film, Charles Bronson's Paul Kersey has put his vigilante ways behind him - a character change that makes little sense given the original's ending - and is once again living a peaceful life as an architect, lovingly supported by his radio reporter girlfriend Geri (Bronson's former flame Jill Ireland). One day, while out at a fair with Geri and his mentally traumatized daughter, who still hasn't recovered from her sexual assault in the first film, he's accosted by a group of colourfully garbed punks (including a very young Laurence Fishburne in stupid pink sunglasses) who steal his wallet. Kersey chases them off but, in an act of revenge, the nogoodniks break into his house and savagely gang rape and murder his latina housekeeper. Then, when Kersey returns home, they knock him out and kidnap his daughter and rape her too. After she's killed - courtesy of being impaled on sharp fence posts (Seriously!) - Kersey moves into a hovel, dresses as a homeless man, and sets out to even the score.

On a B-movie level, Death Wish II could have worked. Sure, it's trashy stuff, but there's no reason that it couldn't have been fun in a cheesy exploitation movie kinda way. However, returning director Michael Winner seems unsure of how to move away from the grim seriousness of his first instalment. He tries for over-the-top cartoonishness in his treatment of the teen thugs - who are about as threatening as the gangs in West Side Story - and Bronson-delivered violence, but uncomfortably revels in the unnecessarily prolonged scenes depicting horrific violence against women. No breasts are left unbared, and all dignity is out the window as Winner lingers sadistically on ever scream, plea for mercy and choking sob from his on-screen victims. Even worse, the rape of Kersey's handicapped daughter is bizarrely shot so as to be erotic, which is, frankly, intolerable. By the time the third such scene rolled around, I loathed Winner and his dubious filmmaking morals far more than the utterly laughable criminals.

Then, after thirty or so minutes of this torture, we're supposed to cheer as Kersey ploddingly wanders around town gunning down the guilty. But, personally, I was so disgusted with the film, that I just watched, bored and numb, waiting for the 88 minute runtime to reach its welcome end. Even Bronson seems embarrassed to be associated with the project, and does little more than smirk, squint, stalk and shoot. Death Wish II isn't just a bad film; it's a loathsome and stupid one.

1 out of 5

New Content Coming Soon

2011-06-06T19:06:00.000-07:00

I think it's been pretty obvious since the beginning that this blog is a constant work-in-progress. Sure, it's always been a home for reviews, and the always incredible Epi-Cast podcast, but other features have had far less staying power. Remember the Epitorials and video reviews? Boy, those sure didn't last long...

Well, in an effort to help provide content outside of the standard full-length reviews, I'm going to add a pair of new features that will help add to the site's value.

The first new addition will be Cinematic Consumption. This new feature will be a personal viewing diary of sorts, with short reviews/reflections on movies I've just watched. This will hopefully allow more space for the older films I view. Why should new releases have all the fun? Huh? Tell me!!! The entries will be less structured and dense than the standard reviews, and, hopefully, more candid and tongue-in-cheek. When appropriate, of course.

The second will be a weekly feature called One-Sheet Showcase, in which I'll post some of my favourite movie posters. Those chosen will run the gamut from awesome to hilariously campy, with commentary as to why I chose them. Look for those to be posted on Wednesdays.

So, there you have it. Lots to be excited about if you're easily excited! See you soon!

Film Review - KUNG FU PANDA 2

2011-06-01T13:57:00.000-07:00

As an animation studio, DreamWorks hasn’t exactly established a reputation for high quality product. Oh, they churn out hits, by gum, but precious few come within spitting distance of Pixar’s oft-miraculous output. Occasionally they manage to work wonders – How to Train Your Dragon being the most recent glowing example – but more often than not they fall back on their time-tested, nutrient-free, wash, rinse and repeat formula of simplistic storytelling, A-list celebrity voice-casting and half-assed pop-culture references. The results are usually harmless, fluffy and entirely forgettable. Over the Hedge, anyone?

2008’s Kung Fu Panda should have fallen into that category. Conceptually, it came across like a hellish cinematic launch pad for a merchandizing bonanza. What kid wouldn’t want a cute stuffed animal that could do martial arts? Especially one voiced by wacky Jack Black and featured in TV spots scored to Tom Jones’ long-past-played-out ditty “Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting?”

Yet, the film was surprisingly endearing; a charming and respectful candy-coloured love letter to classic Hong Kong cinema that actually contained a number of genuinely dynamic action sequences. It also had true heart, along with a solid laugh ratio, and played as strongly to kids as it did adults. Kung Fu Panda became a big box-office smash for the studio and, despite losing the Best Animated Oscar to Pixar’s Wall-E, nonetheless managed to earn a spot on several year-end Best Of lists. Thus, a sequel was inevitable.

Now, just three short years later, we have Kung Fu Panda 2, which shares its predecessor’s cheerfully kinetic visual sense and reverence for all things chop socky, but lacks its narrative oomph. Our hero, Po (Black), is still a lovable goofball with an unconquerable appetite, albeit one who has mastered martial arts and earned his rightful place fighting alongside the Furious Five – which includes legendary warriors Tigress (Angelina Jolie), Monkey (Jackie Chan), Viper (Lucy Liu), Crane (David Cross) and Mantis (Seth Rogen). All is well and good until villainous peacock Shen (Gary Oldman) happens onto the scene. Disgraced after being exiled from his homeland many years ago for a vicious campaign of panda-cide, Shen intends to conquer all of China by unleashing his new catastrophic weapons which utilize... gunpowder!

As if a canon-wielding, metal-taloned peacock with terrible dreams of domination and an army of ravenous wolves wasn’t enough to contend with, Po must also grapple with the newfound discovery that his adoring goose dad Mr. Ping (James Hong) may not actually be his biological father(!). Unfortunate for our hero, the only individual capable of divulging his mysterious parentage is Shen, who is none-too-forthcoming with answers. In order to triumph, Po must overcome his emotional baggage and achieve inner-peace – an elusive state of being that only true kung fu masters are capable of attaining.

Directed by series newcomer Jennifer Yuh, and written by returning scribes Jonathan Aibel and Glenn Berger, Kung Fu Panda 2 wastes no time in catching viewers up to speed. Shen’s threat is established immediately – courtesy of a beautifully animated prologue which depicts his violent backstory with traditional Chinese paper dolls – and Po and the Furious Five are off and running shortly after being reintroduced. However, unlike the first film, which had a sturdy narrative structure, this second entry feels repetitious and slightly aimless. We can only watch our heroes track down the villain and engage in hand-to-hand combat so many times before we start to check our watches. Further, the connection between Po and Shen doesn’t feel as powerful and spot-on as it should. Sure, it leads to a gorgeous anime revelation in the spirit of classic heartstring-tugging Disney, but even that moment feels more like plot housekeeping than an organic story development.

While the script often lets the picture down, there are still plenty of dazzling visuals to maintain a hold on the viewer’s attention. There’s an imaginatively chaotic rickshaw chase through the streets and a valiant ascent up a rapidly collapsing tower that are both brilliantly choreographed and staged, and a climactic battle involving a fleet of glowing, red lantern-lit ships that’s a feast for the eyes. Although the background extras often look like cut-and-paste copies of one another (a common DreamWorks deficiency), the film’s fantastical representation of mythic ancient China is distinctive and well worth savouring on the big screen. That said, my favourite bravura bit comes early on, when Po and the Furious Five dive off a cliff into action and the camera follows them as they plummet down, down, down, until we almost feel our stomach rise up.

Once again, Jack Black is front and centre and more than comfortable riffing when called upon to do so. The actor, who can be tiresome when let loose in the live action realm, is well-suited to animation. His outsized persona is already near that of a cartoon’s. It’s long been a weakness of the franchise that he isn't given many strong personalities to bounce off. Despite an all-star supporting cast, most of the other actors seem to have recorded their brief dialogue snippets over a short lunch break. Jolie’s Tigress has a little more to do this time, but most of her on-screen duties require her to act as the painfully sober voice of reason. Hoffman’s presence is lessened considerably this time around – down to really only one juicy early scene – while Rogen’s role consists of telling a pretty lame joke. Twice. As before, Chan, Cross and Liu are pretty much wasted, as is Jean-Claude Van Damme, playing imprisoned palace guard Master Croc. Only Oldman’s silky menace and James Hong’s hyperventilating daffy dad (the series’ greatest secret weapon, as far as I’m concerned) manage to leave a lasting impression.

When all is said and done, and the last baddie has been skadooshed, Kung Fu Panda 2 is an amiable enough family film that will doubtlessly enthral those in the single digits. The picture is vibrant and peppy, and perfectly content to tell a safe, inoffensive story that doesn’t travel down any daring new roads. It’s a decent enough first sequel, but if the adventure is to continue – and the cliffhanger ending implies it soon will – DreamWorks needs to seriously consider boosting this Panda’s mojo.

3 out of 5

Film Review - PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: ON STRANGER TIDES

2011-05-23T01:51:00.000-07:00

When Gore Verbinski’s Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl exploded like a stray cannonball onto the scene in 2003 it felt like a blast of fresh air. Irreverent, smart and thrilling, and fronted by an instantly iconic Johnny Depp as the mincing, deceptively imbalanced Captain Jack Sparrow, it was one of the best summer blockbusters of the decade and quickly amassed a legion of fans. Unfortunately, the series' creators seemed perplexed by the sly swashbuckling appeal of the film, and produced two gargantuan-sized sequels of varying quality which stretched the property's thin mythology to the breaking point and left many feeling a tad seasick. By the end of 2007’s frustrating At World’s End, it was clear that the franchise needed to scale back and return to its fast, loose and fun roots.

Now, after four years of lying dormant and under the directorial command of Rob Marshall of Chicago and Nine fame, Pirates of the Caribbean has sailed back into theatres with On Stranger Tides. Written by returning scribes Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio, this latest chapter excises the majority of the characters from the previous films – save Captain Jack (Depp), his right hand man Gibbs (Kevin McNally) and newly peg-legged frienemy Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush) – and is pitched solely as a stand-alone adventure, involving the quest for the legendary Fountain of Youth. Alas, though, even free of the excess baggage, this new film feels soggier than the last episode; a largely joyless and plodding excursion that wears out its welcome after about an hour.

It starts out innocently enough, with Captain Jack being forcefully recruited by King George (Richard Griffiths – battling tirelessly to out-camp Depp) and newly respectable privateer Barbossa to beat the Spanish to the elusive eternal life-spring. Following a nifty carriage chase escape – which includes a 10 second Dame Judi Dench cameo (Kids love a good Dench cameo!) – Jack is reunited with former flame Angelica (Penelope Cruz), a fiesty she-pirate who has been - inexplicably - posing as the foppish captain to assemble a crew for her own quest. Turns out, Angelica is the daughter of the notorious Blackbeard (Ian McShane), who is hoping the Fountain will rewrite a prophecy regarding his own death.

As Blackbeard’s formidable ship Queen Anne’s Revenge hits the high seas, racing against the Spanish and Barbossa, the complications begin to accumulate, and the movie’s momentum begins to flag. According to pirate lore, one can’t just drink from the Fountain. No, they must also bring with them mermaid tears and a pair of magical chalices. How this combination came to be is left purposely vague. Apparently the Fountain’s creator or creators wanted to make it very difficult to use, which is fine, but why then assemble it at all? Weird sense of humour? I know, I know, magic and logic rarely go hand-in-hand.

Anyhow, the mermaid tears prove particularly difficult as, in the Pirates-verse, mermaids are flesh-eating vampires who can tear down a ship with their bare, uh, hands. However, Blackbeard’s crew luck upon the wounded mermaid Syrena (Astrid Berges-Frisbey), who quickly – emphasis on the word “quickly” - draws the romantic interest of an idealistic missionary named Philip (Sam Claflin – bland as bland can be). As the two star-crossed lovers from vastly different worlds exchange yearning glances, Jack, Blackbeard, Barbossa et al. battle for possession of the chalices and trek through the jungle in search of the ultimate prize: immortality.

Despite an obvious attempt to distance itself from the bewilderingly labyrinthine At World’s End, On Stranger Tides still feels directionless and messy. The film doesn’t really tell a story, so much as string together a series of loosely related plot points and action beats. There’s nothing wrong with coasting on style and attitude – lord knows, James Bond’s been doin' just ducky for almost 50 years – but when stretched over a 135-minute runtime, the effect is more exhausting than exhilarating. There’s no spark to the picture. No sense of urgency behind the entire Fountain search. Even the characters seem often apathetic. Outside of Blackbeard, no one’s motivations are particularly clear. To compensate, the script calls for the various characters to endlessly verbalize to each other exactly why they’re doing what they’re doing when they’re doing it. Frankly, my dear, that’s just poor storytelling.

Rob Marshall seems to have mined a fair deal of his inspiration from the Indiana Jones series, but doesn’t quite grasp why those films worked. He pays homage to the opening of the Ark scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark during the mermaid encounter – the film’s arguable highlight, which doesn’t reach the delirious heights it should – and, during the conclusion, the Holy Grail scene from Last Crusade, but without any of the energy or Spielbergian go-for-broke showmanship. Also, Sparrow and Cruz’s Angelica have a similar relationship as Indy and Karen Allen’s Marion Ravenwood, albeit minus the witty banter and nimble playfulness.

Both Chicago and Nine had an intentional stripped-down visual plainness to them; they were presented to look like we were seeing them transpire on stage. Somewhat disastrously, Marshall has brought a similar aesthetic to On Stranger Tides. This is one of the uglier blockbusters in recent memory, full of cheerlessly drab colours, sparse, boring shots and poorly lit soundstage work. The Fountain of Youth set, in particular, is so unappealing and phony-looking it's a mite shocking. You half expect one of the characters to turn to the camera and complain "This is what we came all the way here for?" Marshall even manages to strip Hawaii of much of its natural beauty (It’s doubtful the state’s tourism board will be using On Stranger Tides as a calling card anytime soon). Whereas previous series director Verbinski could be relied on to create breathtaking imagery, Marshall just dreams too small to make a film of this scale and scope work.

The key to Captain Jack Sparrow’s character has always been that he’s a reactor, not a plot mover. In the first two films, he had interesting players to bounce off of and to drag him into comical situations. Here, he’s stranded. Depp does what he can, and has a couple patented slurry zingers up his sleeve, but Captain Jack spends the majority of the film at the mercy of a villain who couldn’t be any less compelling. Blackbeard may have a zombie crew (unexplained), voodoo powers (also unexplained) and a ship which responds to his psychic command (again, unexplained), but he’s not remotely threatening. The writers have tried to give their baddie an ambiguous touch – is he truly evil or simply flawed and needing redemption? – but instead he’s just a bore; a half-formed idea in search of a reason to exist. Movies of this type are only as good as their villains and, coming after Bill Nighy’s incredible Davy Jones, Blackbeard is a major disappointment and a source of much of the film’s shortcomings.

This fourth Pirates picture had to accomplish only one thing to succeed, and that was to provide a strong argument – outside of commerce - for restarting the franchise anew. To watch it fail so badly in its mission is more than a little depressing. At one point in the film, a character says to Captain Jack: “you’ve never been the most predictable of sorts!” Had the filmmakers kept that line in mind while assembling On Stranger Tides, maybe we would have been spared this summer’s first costly dud.

2 out of 5

Epi-Cast: Episode 29 - "Thor. What Is It Good For?"

2011-05-14T00:04:00.000-07:00

Ho, ye loyal and chivalrous podcast audience! Thine champions Cam and Tom have returned from exile beyond yon hills and meadows far to deliver another message of cinematic wit and wisdom. Forsooth, thou verily needst to download this audio bounty from thou powers above. Lies, you say? I say thee, NAY!

In this divine episode, the mighty duo review Marvel's latest summer spectacular Thor! They also share discourse over the merits of Duncan Jones' Source Code, scoff at Zack Snyder's Sucker Punch, and critique Peter Weir's The Way Back, Doug Liman's Fair Game and... Sylvester Stallone's Staying Alive (?). In the arena of trailers, they utter their thoughts on Transformer: Dark of the Moon, The Immortals, Rise of the Planet of the Apes and Real Steel. Aye, 'tis a good one.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the wild worldwide web's most majestic mp3 treasures.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, FANDRAL-VOLSTAGG!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geek-speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." Profound interpretations of the Bible will probably not be given here. (I added the "probably" because it's truly impossible to predict Tom's oft-random thought patterns.)

P.P.S. Don't hesitate to leave a review on our iTunes page. As always, we sincerely welcome your glowing praise/earth-scorching venom

Film Review - THOR

2011-05-10T16:33:00.000-07:00

By Odin’s beard, Thor shouldn’t have worked as well as it does. The movie’s based on an oddball cult fave comic-book property brimming with borderline silly quasi-mythological gobbledygook, set in a hallucinogenic world conjured up by artist Jack Kirby, Marvel’s legendary master of miraculous milieus. It’s been assembled by a team of five (!) credited writers and a classically-trained Shakespearean director untested in the modern blockbuster arena, operating under the dominant rule of a company notorious for compromising individual works in service of their larger film universe game plan. And the whole shebang hangs on the broad shoulders of a dashing Aussie unknown whose best-known screen credit was a five minute appearance in J.J. Abram’s Star Trek reboot.

Herculean odds be damned! Kenneth Branagh’s Thor is one of the more breezily enjoyable crowd-pleasers in quite some time; a boisterous, hearty slab of superhero movie-making with charm and whimsy to spare. Based on the Marvel Comics protagonist, who first sprung forth from a modest 13-page Stan Lee and Larry Lieber-scripted tale contained within the pages of Journey into Mystery #83 waaaay back in 1962, Thor traces the intergalactic travels of a spoiled soon-to-be king who must learn a necessary lesson in humility. Or else.

The story opens in the far-off realm of Asgard, as the titular hero (Chris Hemsworth), the robust, but rash, son of King Odin (Anthony Hopkins), is preparing to accept his father’s place on the throne. However, during the coronation, the kingdom is infiltrated by a group of Frost Giants, denizens of the rocky, icy planet of Jotumheim, seeking a magical power source long ago captured during wartime by the Asgardians. After their attempt is thwarted, Thor seeks revenge – against the strict orders of his father – and, alongside his brother Loki (Tom Hiddleston) and small cadre of warrior pals, travels to the Frost Giant homeland to decimate the hulking blue beasties.

After the attack results in a bitter end to peace between the two worlds, Odin strips his arrogant son of his godly abilities and invincible hammer weapon, dubbed Mjolnir, and plunges him to Earth – New Mexico, to be more specific. Following a dusty desert automobile collision, he’s befriended by a pair of astrophysicists, Erik Selvig (a very game Stellan Skarsgaard) and the lovely Jane Foster (Natalie Portman – energetic in an underwritten role), who attempt to make sense of the lusty bearded being. While Thor, alongside his mortal helpers, searches for a means of returning home, Loki wrestles rulership of Asgard from Odin and puts a nefarious plan into action involving the Frost Giants and a towering, titanium, Gort-like goliath called the Destroyer. In order to face the impending threat, the once mighty warrior must prove himself worthy of lifting Mjolnir from its new earthly resting place and earn back his formidable superpowers.

With its multiple epic locations, sizable ensemble cast (there are over a dozen major speaking parts), Avengers tie-in material and weighty father-and-sons drama, Thor could have been a logy, ponderous mess of exposition and unwieldy storytelling. Yet somehow Branagh and his writers have massaged their bulky material into a high-spirited, briskly-paced adventure yarn – edited to near economic perfection by Paul Rubell - that never gets bogged down by unnecessary details or distractions (the scenes involving SHIELD actually feel organic to the story – something that’s couldn’t be said of last year’s Iron Man 2). The director’s ability to tap into the stirring humanity of his characters is always front-and-center. Thor is more engaging as a vehicle for character interactions, both humorous and intensely melodramatic, than for its special effects and action, which are serviceable enough but hardly earth-shaking (Though Asgard’s rainbow bridge, Bifrost, a dazzling visual creation, deserves special mention). Even if the script occasionally falters – Loki’s grand scheme doesn’t hold up to much scrutiny – and the film’s ambitions aren’t as lofty as some of the more noteworthy superhero films, Branagh establishes such a bouncy, disarming tone that it’s hard not to be swept up by his colourful exuberance.

As Thor, Chris Hemsworth is a true find. Commanding and sympathetic, with a sharp sense of comic timing and strong physicality, the star’s presence is as crucial to the film’s success as Robert Downey Jr. in the Iron Man pictures. Although he’s often surrounded by a number of cinema’s very best acting talents, Hemsworth’s charisma looms large in every scene. Hiddleston also impresses as the villainous Loki, whose own emotional journey is just as important as that of the brawny hero. The stealthy, black-maned Brit often seems to be channelling Iago, with his wry gift for verbal trickery, but displays little of that character's malicious glee. His Loki has a victimized underdog quality that earns him a spot in the pantheon of the genre’s most compelling supervillains.

Among the supporting cast, an unrecognizable and imposing Idris Elba, playing Heimdall, the guardian sentry of the portal connecting Asgard to Earth, is a stand-out. Despite being buried under a potentially giggle-inducing mountain of golden armour, the actor projects hard-as-iron noble grandeur. He makes us believe that even Thor or Loki would think twice about crossing him. Also notable is the always welcome Kat Dennings, as the astrophysics team’s intern Darcy, who delivers the lion’s share of the film’s biggest laughs.

Thor feels like a film made by people who genuinely cared about telling an entertaining story with endearing, interesting characters. Branagh and his crew respect the intelligence of the audience, and understand that CG and stunts can only carry an expensive comic-book movie like this so far. Considering the usual standards for blockbuster filmmaking, it’s a refreshing approach that, as far as I’m concerned, is pretty much akin to godliness.

3.5 out of 5

Epi-Cast: Episode 28 - "Of Speeches and Swans"

2011-01-22T16:43:00.000-08:00

Here at the Epi-Cast, we pride ourselves on being punctual (and little else). While we may not hit new releases as soon as we'd like to, our podcasts are online mere hours after they're recorded. But snags occasionally appear on the horizon, and this episode hit more than a couple of them. Thus, some of the content in this episode isn't quite as fresh as we would have liked. However, there's plenty of goodness to hear and - thanks to this being award season - the majority of the films discussed can still be found in theatres. Hooray for small miracles and all that.

After partaking in holiday gluttony, Cam and Tom reconvene to hold court over a pair of prestige pictures, offering their own unique insights into both Black Swan and The King's Speech. As well, Cam praises The Fighter and damns Little Fockers, while Tom weighs in on The Social Network and The Other Guys. In Trailer Park Encounters, the duo argue over the mythological accuracy of Thor, make controversial, credibility-decimating statements regarding Terrence Malick's Tree of Life, fail to care an iotta about Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides and almost come to blows over the Hugh Jackman fighting robot opus Real Steel. Seriously.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the wild web's most fantabulous mp3 treasures.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, LASTRADA-FELLINI!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geek-speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." Profound interpretations of the Bible will probably not be given here. (I added the "probably" because its impossible to predict Tom's oft-random thought patterns.)

P.P.S. Don't hesitate to leave a review on our iTunes page. As always, we sincerely welcome your glowing praise/scorching venom

The Bottom 5 Worst Films of 2010

2011-01-09T19:20:00.001-08:00

While 2010 was not a strong year for great films, it was also disappointing when it came to so-bad-it-must-be-a-sadistic-joke films. Oh, there was no shortage of laziness on the part of the movie studios, but ultimately they produced more forgettable mediocrities than mind-melting atrocities. Whether this was a blessing or a curse is difficult to determine at this point.

With that said, in the interest of full disclosure, I must confess that a number of the year’s more supposedly offensive offerings eluded me. I never attended the reportedly unholy quartet of "family" films (Gulliver’s Travels, Yogi Bear, Marmaduke, Furry Vengeance) or some of the more critically-derided comedies aimed at the mainstream female demographic (Leap Year, Valentine’s Day, Sex in the City 2) or Twi-hards (Vampires Suck, Stan Helsing). I also never saw Skyline, though not for lack of trying. That sucker was out of theatres faster than a Yahoo Serious revival. (*Pause for laughter*)

At any rate, here are the 5 Worst Films I experienced, body and now broken soul, this past calendar year. May you avoid the horrors that will forever plague my once angelic dreams.

1) THE LAST AIRBENDER Early on, this seemed like it might be M. Night Shyamalan’s redemption picture; a big-budget career change-up to help erase The Happening and Lady in the Water from filmgoers’ minds. Instead, it set a new low for the water-treading director, massacred its beloved animated TV show source material, and became one of the most boring blockbusters of the modern era. Filled with unbearably clumsy kid acting, incompetent attempts at fictional world-building and hilariously awful dialogue (Commander Zhao: “Again, I offer my condolences on your nephew burning to death in that terrible accident.”), The Last Airbender is both a franchise killer and a momentously dumb embarrassment for all involved. By the time credits at long last rolled the only thing I wanted to see get bent was its once promising helmer.

2) JONAH HEX More fascinatingly inept than painful, this is one of the most intriguing cases of studio-mandated butchery to unspool in theatres since the bizarre Vin Diesel fever dream Babylon AD. Edited to absolute shreds, and running a mercifully scant 81 minutes (which includes about ten minutes of credits and a cheap-looking animated exposition sequence), this supernatural-tinged western comic-book adaptation doesn’t make a lick of sense. Visibly ashamed star Josh Brolin, hiding behind a phony make-up appliance, mumbles his way through an incoherent tale concerning magic glowing dragon balls, conversations with corpses and post-Civil War skullduggery, all while matching wits with a narcoleptic John Malkovich and romancin’ a vampin’ Megan Fox (Strangely unconvincing as a plucky prostitute). Although Jonah Hex may be able to reanimate the dead, I reckon ain’t no one gonna be reviving this sorry one-and-done cinematic property.

3) LITTLE FOCKERS The reason the first two entries in the Meet the Parents series worked was because they hinged on relatable hooks. Who hasn’t been anxious about meeting a romantic partner’s parents or mortified by their own family? Little Fockers, on the other hand, doesn’t even have a good premise. Ostensibly the film is about Robert De Niro’s stern father-in-law appointing put-upon Greg Focker (Ben Stiller) to be the brood’s God-Focker (Hardee-har-har! There’s a joke that never gets old!), but the film goes in multiple scattered - and laugh-free - directions at once, filling time with (unresolved) sub-plots featuring a snooty children’s school, a stalled housing development, Owen Wilson returning as Teri Polo’s character’s obsessed former flame, Greg moonlighting for a Viagra-like company, an impending birthday celebration, as well as a flirty pharmaceutical rep/functioning mental patient played by Jessica Alba. The result is an insultingly lazy, unfunny series of barely-connected “wacky” misunderstandings in which smart characters act, for no explainable reason, like clueless idiots. Little Fockers isn’t entertainment; it’s a transparent movie-star check-cashing party.

4) EDGE OF DARKNESS For fans of the once mighty Mad Mel, this film had oodles of promise. Not only was it directed by Casino Royale helmer Martin Campbell, but it boasted a script by The Departed writer William Monahan and support from reliable character actors Ray Winstone and Danny Huston Sadly, however, almost everyone has an off-day in this bloated, lethargic adaptation of the acclaimed BBC miniseries. Playing a grieving cop on the trail of those responsible for his daughter’s grisly murder, Gibson is solid, but the story is predicated on a mystery that isn’t much of a mystery. The culprit is glaringly obvious immediately after their moustache-twirling introduction, so we’re forced to sit in idle frustration, waiting for what feels like forever, for this sloppy movie to play catch-up. Ugly and tedious, Edge of Darkness is such a waste of resources that it borders on criminal.

5) THE TOURIST What was intended as a fun throwback to bubbly 1960s mistaken identity capers has been transformed - via the light-as-concrete touch of director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck - into a monotonous case study of sleepwalking A-listers. Pretty as a postcard, but as exciting as a two-hour compilation of European wine commercials, the film disastrously mismatches Angelina Jolie with an uncomfortable-looking Johnny Depp in a snail-paced romantic thriller devoid of romance and, well, thrills. Bearing the not-so-proud distinction of possessing 2010’s slowest action sequence, as well as the most maddeningly preposterous twist ending, The Tourist is more putrid than the Venetian canals on a scorching hot summer day.

Dishonourable Mentions: COP OUT, A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET, LEGION, FROM PARIS WITH LOVE, TWILIGHT SAGA: ECLIPSE

The Top 10 Best Films of 2010

2011-01-08T16:00:00.000-08:00

2010 will not be remembered as a great year in cinema. While there were a number of diamonds in the rough - many included on this list, obviously - the year felt noticeably overstuffed with uninspired retreads, remakes, sequels, , 80s nostalgia, slavish adaptations and calculated attempts at franchise-building (Hello Prince of Persia! What's goin' on, Tron: Legacy?). Frankly, there wasn't a great deal to get really excited about - especially in the first dire 8 months. However, a handful of releases stood out from the rest, offering hope that magic could still be found in a darkened room on a glowing screen. The ten films listed below, and the honourable runner-ups, each, in their own individual way, managed to leave a permanent mark and loom large over the competition. If you haven't yet seen them, I recommend you add them to your list.

1) 127 HOURS Forget 3D, director Danny Boyle’s vigorous portrayal of climber Aron Ralston’s traumatic ordeal in the Utah canyons was easily 2010’s most immersive cinematic experience. Utilizing almost every technique in his very distinctive bag of tricks, the Oscar-winning director created a gruelling, sweaty, life-affirming action film in which the lead character rarely moves. With his right hand pinned down by an errant boulder, Ralston (a magnetic James Franco, almost invisible behind his character’s stubble, grimy skin and weary eyes) battles valiantly for not only survival but redemption; facing down the demons of his past as he tirelessly chips away, day after day. Boyle places us in that canyon right next to him, experiencing every ache, moment of weakness, bout of unbearable thirst and - when desperation kicks in - agonizing cut. Though 127 Hours mercilessly runs you through the emotional gamut, the overwhelming sensation of catharsis waiting at journey’s end is profound and intense – this film doesn’t just reward the senses, it rewards the soul.

2) INCEPTION If there was any doubt left after The Dark Knight that Christopher Nolan was the premier master of intelligent, bold blockbuster filmmaking, Inception cements the fact. As Leonardo DiCaprio (a doppelganger for the auteur, with his slicked-back hair and suave suits) and his crack team of high-tech corporate con-men navigate the subconscious of mourning energy mogul Cillian Murphy, we’re content to let the director guide us through the tale, eager to witness each new grand sight and original idea. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Nolan respects the audience and the act of viewing cinema and, like a true showman, creates enthralling works of large scale high-wire entertainment that reward the thinking film-goer and the adrenaline junkie alike. In combining his fascination with psychoanalysis, science fiction mind-benders and the James Bond catalogue, he’s crafted his most ambitious and engrossing work to date; the rare studio event picture that knows that smart and cool often go hand-in-hand.

3) THE FIGHTER Great sports films understand that dramatic heft comes from the rich personalities involved, not the game itself, and David O. Russell’s electric biopic of welterweight champion “Irish” Mickey Ward (portrayed with understated modesty by Mark Wahlberg) is bursting at the seams with fascinating characters. While Christian Bale – giving a career best performance as Ward’s crack addicted half-brother and trainer – and ferocious family matriarch Melissa Leo are the obvious stand-outs, The Fighter gives even the tiniest bit players juicy material to bite into. The result is a scrappy, authentic and honest boxing picture that holds us firmly in its grasp until the final victory bell rings out.

4) WINTER’S BONE Bleak and sombre, Debra Granik’s breakthrough neo-noir sleeper creeps up on you like an icy draft from a cracked window. Set in a desolate, moody Ozarks mountain town overrun by poverty and crystal meth, Winter’s Bone follows an intrepid teenager as she embarks on a perilous quest to track down her father, who has jumped bail and put the family farm in jeopardy. Headlined by confident, strong-willed Jennifer Lawrence and a fearsome John Hawkes - who commands your attention in every scene with his gripping, tragedy-soaked turn as the girl’s criminal uncle – Granik’s captivating film sucks you into its wounded, ominous world, where a single misspoken word can lead to a sudden burst of violence and grim secrets lurk behind every battered door and cold, weathered face.

5) BLACK SWAN On paper, a psychological horror film set in the world of ballet seemed like an odd choice for Darren Aronofky, the art-house auteur behind intriguing works like The Wrestler and The Fountain. In practice, however, Black Swan is a mesmerizing and visceral continuation of the director’s many stylistic obsessions and narrative themes; a film which doesn’t so much capture insanity as plunge you into its gaping abyss. As we sit in uneasy silence, watching driven dancer Nina (a fearless Natalie Portman) psychologically splinter while attempting to tap into the duality of her lead Swan Lake role, the helmer gleefully jolts us with unforgettable scenes of shocking body horror and disturbing surrealism. By the time the astonishing culmination of Nina’s madness occurs we’re so completely under the spell of Aronofsky’s warped vision that it’s impossible to not hunger for an encore.

6) THE SOCIAL NETWORK Although the notion of a Facebook movie seemed ridiculous when it was first announced, David Fincher’s engrossing account of the behind-the-scenes trials and tribulations surrounding the juggernaut social networking site proved to be anything but. Fiercely clever and observant, with a crackling script by Aaron Sorkin, the film assembles an exceptionally compelling group of fully-rendered personalities – flawlessly inhabited by ace ensemble Jesse Eisenberg, Andrew Garfield, Justin Timberlake and Armie Hammer - and watches intently as they bounces off one another. The ensuing fireworks are fast, hypnotic and frequently hilarious, touching upon a number of universal truths and elevating the material far beyond its trendy roots.

7) HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON After spending more than a decade churning out mediocre animated product that favoured A-list voice stunt-casting and pop-culture references over strong storytelling, Dreamworks finally hit gold with this crowd-pleasing adaptation of Cressida Cowell’s best-selling children’s novel. Lovingly assembled by former Disney talents Dean DeBlois and Chris Sanders, How to Train Your Dragon soars to the same exhilarating heights as its lovable title character, Toothless, presenting invigorating flying sequences, thrilling action and a genuinely touching central friendship – all set to a John Powell’s pulse-quickening score. A dazzling treat for movie-goers of any age, it’s a film that deserves to be ranked amongst the very best cinematic portrayals of kids and their amazing pets.

8) KICK-ASS Matthew Vaughn’s uncompromising, balls-to-the-wall descent into superhero-driven lunacy was one of 2010’s most unexpected treats. Revelling in the glorious excesses of author Mark Millar’s inferior comic-book series, Vaughn and co-writer Jane Goldman fashioned a comic-book origin tale that blazed with punk rock spirit and snarling attitude. Frequently misinterpreted as a failed attempt at a real world take on masked heroes, the film is, rather, a wry examination and celebration of the superhero genre, with Aaron Johnson’s idealistic masked avenger violently learning the rules of his own fictional universe. Featuring a star-making performance by Chloe Moretz as the purple-wigged, death-dealing crusader Hit Girl and a batty and disarmingly warm turn by an Adam West-channelling Nicolas Cage, Kick-Ass is a startling blast of blood-soaked irreverence that never dares pulls a single punch.

9) THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT One of the funniest films released in 2010, this Sundance fave written and directed by Lisa Cholodenko was especially notable for producing the year’s most memorable on-screen romantic couple in Annette Bening and Julianne Moore. Cast as long-term lovers raising two teenagers (Mia Wasikowska and Josh Hutcherson), the two actresses each give powerhouse performances and create a wholly believable and endearing movie relationship. Their union isn’t Hollywood perfect; there are huge bumps along the way – especially when formerly anonymous sperm-donating interloper Paul (Mark Ruffalo) arrives on the scene – but Cholodenko’s ultra-sharp writing sidesteps clichés and allows their bond to transform and adapt in frank, absorbing ways. More than just all right, this is a damn engaging film, teaming with witty dialogue and charming characters, which creates such a friendly, inviting atmosphere that we don’t really want to have to leave.

10) RABBIT HOLE Making movies about couples in grief can be an extremely messy business. There’s a tendency to depict one partner as being more sympathetic than the other, or to simplify their emotional processes. Director John Cameron Mitchell and screenwriter David Lindsay-Abaire (adapting his own stage play) get it just perfect. Starring Nicole Kidman and Aaron Eckhart as a married couple shattered by the untimely death of their young son, the film tackles its complex adult subject matter with humanity and quiet sympathy. Refusing to take sides, it offers us a window into both protagonists’ heads, revealing both the strengths and limitations of their contrasting approaches to existing day-to-day. Backed by a solid supporting cast which includes Dianne Wiest, Sandra Oh and Miles Teller, Rabbit Hole is quiet, raw and often sad, but never loses hope that there’s something better waiting just around the corner.

Honourable mentions: EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP, WINNEBAGO MAN, TRUE GRIT, THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO, THE KING’S SPEECH, TOY STORY 3.

Film Review - THE TOURIST

2011-01-05T18:08:00.000-08:00

The Tourist is a light-hearted romantic spy romp with lead feet and a head full of rocks. That it stars two of Hollywood’s most sexy and beloved movie stars and is co-written and directed by Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, the Oscar-winning director of 2006’s The Lives of Others (and the filmmaker with the best chance of one day having a Bond villain named after him), only compounds the frustrations of slogging through its paced-like-congealed-syrup 103-minite run-time. These people are more than capable of creating great audience-pleasing work! Why are they wasting their time and ours on a project that, more often than not, resembles a particularly tedious perfume commercial?

I imagine the chance to shoot in Venice was a significant part of the draw. The ancient canals and architecture of the world’s most romantic city look gorgeous on-screen, and von Donnersmarck lingers seductively on each and every charming location. As a travelogue, The Tourist ain’t half-bad. It’s glossy and lovingly shot by cinematographer John Seale (The Talented Mr. Ripley, The English Patient) - a man who knows how to mine visual majesty from foreign locations. Pity, then, that nothing remotely interesting happens in front of the magnificent backdrops.

Inspired by bubbly Hitchcock thrillers such as To Catch a Thief and North by Northwest, and 60s-era star power-driven escapades like Stanley Donen’s Charade, The Tourist casts Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp as romantic opposites who find themselves on the run in Venice from generic movie gangsters and the law. Jolie’s Elise, a mystery woman being tailed (and constantly ogled) by an Interpol financial crimes team led by Paul Bettany, picks up unassuming math teacher Frank (Depp) on a train headed for Venice. She’s been instructed by her shadowy criminal lover to find a man bearing similar features to use as a decoy. However, after seductively luring the bumbling Frank to a luxurious hotel sparks begin to fly between the two. Or so we’re supposed to believe.

Certainly Depp and Jolie, individually, have undeniable chemistry with the camera, but together they feel awkward and cold; like two detached alien life-forms attempting to mimic love scenes from more successful movies. Fine, if the film was a globe-trotting remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but deadly for a picture whose main selling point is the promise of cheerful romantic adventures. While Jolie relies on her come-hither stares, breathy delivery and bordering-on-X-rated body language, Depp plays his character like a stuffy, clumsy bore who seems like he would far rather peruse dusty old volumes than carry on a conversation. While we can buy her duping this poor sap, there’s nary a moment when their alleged mutual attraction translates to the audience. They also aren't done any favours by the hopeless dialogue which lacks any of the necessary zip or wit.

With the love story barely even operating on autopilot, there’s no strong central dramatic pulse to hold our attention during the film’s convoluted espionage hijinx. The classics which inspired this picture knew the crime thriller stuff was just a means of bringing together the attractive leads and rarely allowed the behind-the-scenes power players an opportunity to take centre stage. The fun came from watching the plucky protagonists weave together the ludicrously complex plot strands on their own. In The Tourist, we spend an exhausting amount of time with Paul Bettany’s team as they incompetently plan, plot and scheme. Bettany is a great actor, and, in a perfect world, would be playing the Depp part, but he’s saddled with a dull character whose only job is to explain the plot to the audience and tie up loose ends. The only time he seems to be having any fun is when he’s sparring with a lively Timothy Dalton, playing his hard-ass superior, in a couple all-too-short scenes.

The general sense of lethargy carries over to the film’s action set-pieces as well. There is a chase scene featuring two tied-together water crafts that looks great, but lacks any thrills as it is – in keeping with the rest of the movie - arguably the slowest boat chase ever committed to film. The vehicles don’t actually appear to accelerate past 5 miles per hour. Slightly more energetic is a rooftop pursuit involving a bare-footed Depp and two gun-toting assailants, which cheerfully bends logic (Depp’s feet must be made of adamantium) but doesn’t feel like the showstopper it was intended to be. The character is such an aloof cipher that all emotion is drained from the scene. It’s almost impossible to care if he’s caught or not.

So little of the picture works that it’s kind of amazing. Even the shocking last minute twist is gratingly moronic, and actually worsens the experience of having sat through the whole sluggish affair. This is a film that needed to be faster, sharper and more attentive to the demands of its genre, or at least so hilariously awful that one could enjoy it on an ironic level. Instead, it’s flat and boring; a forgettable movie aimed at the masses with next to nothing to offer. The Tourist is in desperate need of a map and better directions.

1.5 out of 5

Flm Review - TRON: LEGACY

2010-12-18T18:16:00.000-08:00

It will come as a surprise to precious few that Tron: Legacy director Joseph Kosinski has an extensive background in architecture. A mere glimpse at the expansive blackened cyber-city known as the Grid reveals an almost fanatical attention to detail. Thickly populated with intricately designed jagged towers, sleek, shiny platforms, glass-walled gladiator arenas and cavernous hallways, Kosinski and his team create an almost oppressive sense of machine-tooled exactitude. Even the smaller interiors are gorgeous. Take one step into Jeff Bridges’ character Kevin Flynn’s abode and you’ll bear witness to the most charmingly antiseptic futuristic Zen palace this side of the Matrix. And that’s just the sets, never mind the fantastic-looking light cycles, planes and 4-wheel runners. Forget Xzibit, if I ever need my room or ride pimped, I’m calling Kosinski and his crew of design dynamos.

Indeed, as a honkin’ piece of big-with-a-capital-B blockbuster filmmaking, Tron: Legacy sure is mighty pretty to look at. So persuasive are the picture’s eye-popping visuals and glossy production work that we almost don’t notice that most of the inspiration seems to have stopped at the design stage. Like Avatar, this is another hyper-costly blast of musty storytelling gussied up in all the shiniest CG bows and ribbons.

Which, of course, isn’t to imply that Tron: Legacy is devoid of fun. The first hour of the film plays like a truncated remake of the original 1982 cult hit, full of disc battles featuring daredevil choreography and a multi-layer light cycle race that amps up the velocity and danger factor. There are also nifty moments involving a quartet of simultaneous-stepping babe-bots in fetish gear and a virtual saloon overseen by a foaming-at-the-mouth Michael Sheen, playing an underground contact with all the subtlety of Willy Wonka on trucker speed.

Unfortunately. none of these highlights really play a prominent role in the by-the-numbers main storyline, which follows rich whiz-kid Sam Flynn (Garrett Hedlund), who has been on his own since his father vanished off the face of the earth in 1989. Now residing in a storage container with his camera-savvy dog, Sam lives off his shares from ENCOM, the tech firm father Flynn once worked for, conducting vigilante-style annual sabotage pranks on the heartless company. He’s basically Bruce Wayne without the motivation to accomplish much beyond irritating boring old dudes (and a nerdified Cillian Murphy) in business suits.

Things take a turn for the technological, however, when Alan Bradley (Bruce Boxleitner), Flynn Sr.’s old Grid buddy, tells Sam that a beeper call has been made from Kevin’s dusty old office at Flynn’s Arcade. After all-too-easily finding the top secret subterranean lair (Where “Sweet Dreams” apparently plays on a never-ending loop), Sam is zapped via laser beam into the Grid, which is now ruled with a silicon fist by Clu, a Polar Express-ian young doppelganger of dear ol’ dad. Sentenced to partake in deadly games against warrior programs in futuristic motorcycle gear, Sam is rescued by wide-eyed ass-kicker Quorra (Olivia Wilde – officially replacing Speed Racer’s Christina Ricci as the fantasy girl for anime “enthusiasts” everywhere). She’s been sent by her creator – *drum roll* – Kevin Flynn, who decided eons ago that the best way to combat Clu was to just hang out, man. Now a grizzled cyber-hippie, Flynn Sr. is much sought by the sinister digital twin for his light disc, which contains every secret necessary for Grid – and perhaps world – domination.

While there’s nothing inherently wrong with wrapping high concept ideas around a tried-and-true formula, Tron: Legacy too often feels like it’s following a checklist. The story doesn’t flow so much as leap mechanically from one beat to the next. It’s stated early on that, to return home, Sam et al. must reach a portal on the other side of the Grid. Since the portal is apparently only open for a short span of time, why is there no sense of rising tension as our heroes race bravely towards it? There’s a classic ticking clock set-up, but Kosinski and writers Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz fail to exploit it. Similarly, Sam has to break into Clu’s headquarters to retrieve a valuable item. To say that he meets very little opposition in his mission would be an understatement. Like too much of the film, it feels like the filmmakers are going through the motions, hitting the required genre tropes without comprehending why they’re crucial to building pace and excitement.

The slapdash screenwriting also extends to two of the film’s plot twists. There is a key character reveal, and a change of heart, which is dealt with so haphazardly that it’s positively baffling. Although Tron fans steeped in the mythology of the property may be able to fill in the gaps, non-converts are likely to greet the intended crowd-pleasing moment with ambivalent shrugs. Also frustrating is Kosinski’s bungling of Kevin Flynn’s immense scientific breakthrough, which has led to the creation of new life-forms called ISOs. They’ll revolutionize science, religion and medicine, he declares. An intriguing concept, for sure, but no one involved with the script deemed it necessary to develop this idea much beyond a single line of dialogue.

These story deficiencies could have been softened had the actors been given three-dimensional characters or intelligent dialogue. Jeff Bridges is characteristically warm and charming - and drops a few amusing Lebowski-isms – but isn’t given a whole lot to do beyond act reluctant, provide exposition and share some emotion-free father/son moments with Hedlund. His motion-captured performance as Clu is serviceable but lacks spark – the character is sunk by spotty animation and an utter absence of villainous charisma. Hedlund and Wilde manage to mine what they can from their clichéd roles, but ultimately fail to make much of an impact. They do, however, get the privilege of engaging in perhaps the most groan-inducing romantic exchange since George Lucas waxed poetic about sand.

By the time the Star Wars-inspired climax and dramatic denouement arrive, the picture feels like its spinning its wheels creatively – not a good sign for a supposed franchise re-starter. It is a mite frustrating to see hundreds of millions of dollars worth of dazzling art direction, costumes and computer programming working overtime to compensate for a screenplay that could have been easily (and inexpensively) retooled to provide a sturdy backbone for the impressive fireworks. Tron: Legacy is harmless and forgettable, a 1.0 blockbuster trying to operate in a 2.0 world.

2.5 out of 5

P.S.: How to Train Your Dragon's remains unbeaten as the best 3D presentation of 2010. Legacy's muted use of the technology is a true disappointment and something of an insult when taking into account the $4 ticket surcharge.

Film Review - BLACK SWAN

2010-12-17T16:33:00.000-08:00

Black Swan is such an overpowering cinematic experience that attempting to recall it after the fact is akin to trying to remember the specifics of a bravura on-stage performance. Rather than a coherent whole, we’re left with a series of fractured images and sensations of hypnotic splendour connected to one another by a relentless jolt of adrenalized awe. To simply call it a movie is missing the point; the joy of Darren Aronofsky’s twisted tribute to Swan Lake is that it is so engrossing and spontaneous that we feel as if we’re the opening night audience to a thrillingly dangerous new stage show. We don’t know what to expect next but the crackling energy in the room tells us it’s going to be unforgettable.

Occupying centre stage is Natalie Portman, playing the role of Nina Sayers, a gifted young ballerina whose fierce determination is counterbalanced by a nearly stifling innocence. Technically, she’s a worthy candidate to win the lead in her company’s eagerly anticipated new adaptation of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, but lusty director Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel, reliably skeezy) has some misgivings. While Nina may be ideal to play the White Swan, he’s unsure she has the seductive abandon to tackle the Black Swan. Perhaps if she was a little more like mysterious new arrival Lily (Mila Kunis), the rough-around-the-edges dancer with a dangerous erotic streak and a penchant for recklessness and moody black attire...

But wait, does Lily really exist or is she merely a figment of Nina’s increasingly fevered psyche? The answer remains elusive to the troubled dancer even after she wins the coveted job. As she begins her rigorous, unconventional training under the demanding Leroy, and her obsessive mother Erica (a scary Barbara Hershey) battles to maintain control over her life, Nina becomes more and more consumed - both physically and mentally - by Lily and her starmaking role. Soon, she's spiralling into the unknown and undergoing the early effects of a metamorphosis. What could be waiting for Nina on the other side of this transformation? And why won’t those strange scarlet scratches marking her back ever heal?

Aronofsky, an established master at balancing disparate story elements, has fashioned himself a gritty and unsettling homage to the paranoia-soaked horror classics of the late 60s and 70s. Although the presentation is intentionally grimier (cinematography Matthew Libatique’s intentionally unflattering, grainy camera work is the perfect mixture of ugliness and beauty), Black Swan could just as easily be a great lost film from Roman Polanski’s heyday. And, like its brilliant influences, this picture will consistently make you cringe and shift uneasily in your seat. No one mines involuntary shudders from scenes involving hangnails and fingernail trimming quite like Aronofsky.

Yet, despite its numerous cinematic references, Black Swan is wholly an Aronofsky film, continuing many of the themes and visual quirks of his previous efforts. The director adores doggedly determined protagonists who, like auteurs, delve headlong into their passions in order to create their ideal world. Similar to The Wrestler’s Randy the Ram, Nina is driven by the unflagging desire to achieve glory on the theatrical stage. Aronofsky frequently shoots her just as he did Rourke’s character, from behind with a handheld camera, as she navigates her way throughout the ballet company’s rehearsal space and lower bowels. There’s an immersive fly on the wall quality to the picture that captures the day-to-day sweat and toil of the industry. Black Swan also boasts a strong element of body horror when depicting Nina's physical makeover. The spreading raw back scratches bear a distinct resemblance to the festering injection wounds from Requiem from a Dream – gradually deteriorating external injuries mirroring intensifying internal turmoil.

Aronofsky may be the true star of Black Swan but Natalie Portman runs a very close second. Gaunt and vulnerable, with a toned professional’s physique, the actress ventures into previously unexplored territory, playing a naive shrinking violet at the mercy of the dominant personalities around her. Not only utterly convincing as a career dancer, Portman commands the screen every second she’s on-screen (Which is roughly 90% of the film). Certainly her visceral and nightmarish descents into madness are the most attention-grabbing, but it’s her charged interactions with the supporting cast that are the real showstoppers. There’s one scene, wherein Cassel teaches her character about seduction, which is as icky-sexy mesmerizing as Naomi Watt’s big audition in Mulholland Drive. It also bears mentioning that Portman and Hershey form the most destructively dysfunctional mother/daughter combo since Carrie. Although I’m not yet sure I’d call Portman’s work here the best performance by an actress this year, it’s undoubtedly the bravest.

If Black Swan has a shortcoming, it’s that Aronofsky’s lack of subtlety with the material has a tendency to dull the tragedy of Nina’s arc. Like ballet or theatre, the emotions are broad, sweeping and melodramatic – a necessity in those venues for communicating with attendees seated both near and far – but as a film it tends to hold us at a cool distance. We’re invested in Nina’s journey, but never quite locked in on a deeper personal level.

However, the picture is so confidently well-crafted, and ends on such a triumphant, spine-tingling high note, that it’s extremely easy to pardon the director for his slight shortfalls. It’s a miracle worth celebrating that a film as unabashedly weird and risky as Black Swan managed to come to fruition in the current filmmaking climate. Ultimately, Aronofksy’s latest looms large over the majority of 2010’s cinematic offerings and is worthy of not only your attendance but a standing ovation as well.

4.5 out of 5

Film Review - THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA - THE VOYAGE OF THE DAWN TREADER

2010-12-12T00:15:00.000-08:00

As I sat watching The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the latest chapter in the spotty Chronicles of Narnia film franchise and the first produced by 20th Century Fox, I began to wonder why I felt no sense of emotional attachment to the lush, miraculous world on-screen. After all, with its emerald green hills, towering castles and cliff faces, dreamy, tranquil blue seas and colorful population of imaginative creatures, it should be the stuff of daydreams; a gorgeous, sprawling cinematic vista to escape for a few hours. Yet, instead everything feels flat and remote, an amalgamation of visual ideas from better fantasy films with more exciting tales to tell.

The fault certainly doesn’t lie in the source material – C.S. Lewis’ beloved universe has no shortage of sparkling invention – but rather the increasingly problematic disconnect between the episodic films. I’ve made two previous pilgrimages to Narnia, with the previous Walt Disney-produced films The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in 2005 and Prince Caspian in 2008, and have yet to be given a cohesive layout of the land. Unlike The Lord of the Rings or the Harry Potter series, there’s been no attempt to establish a strong, unified cinematic Narnia. We jump haphazardly from new location to new location without a strong idea of where we’re going or how one place relates to another. Why is the brave King Caspian (Ben Barnes) sailing the open ocean at the beginning of Voyage of the Dawn Treader? Doesn’t he have a kingdom to run back, um, somewhere or other?

While I’m sure hardcore Narnia fans have no problem filling in the gaps, the rest of us are left confused and disoriented, treading water like Edmund and not-so-little-anymore Lucy Pevensie (Skandar Keynes and Georgie Henley) near the beginning of Dawn Treader. Pulled back into the magical land through a painting, the two plucky WWII-era teenage Brits are reunited with Caspian and swashbuckling mouse Reepicheep (now voiced by Simon Pegg, taking over from Eddie Izzard) and embark on a perilous ocean quest to collect seven enchanted swords which have the power to stop a sinister green mist that has been consuming Narnians. To complicate matters, the two siblings have accidentally brought along their snivelling, aptly named cousin Eustace Scrubb (Will Poulter), who has never met anyone (audience members included) he can't aggravate.

Unlike the pleasant first entry and the dire second, Dawn Treader seems more intent on pleasing the young folk in the crowd, maintaining a determined, brisk pace that focuses on special effects and action and often leaves character and story development by the wayside. Each of our three Earthly protagonists are given a single trait to conquer (Lucy wants to be beautiful like her sister Susan (Anna Popplewell), Edmund lacks confidence in his masculinity and Eustace needs to stop being a selfish twerp) and overcome them all too easily. Barnes’ Caspian – who has dropped the annoying accent from the last film – is more or less just along for the ride, occasionally required to swing a sword or provide exposition.

Dawn Treader’s script, by returning series scribes Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, is chock-a-block full of allegedly important events and characters that are ultimately glossed over in the service of holding attention spans. There are no less than three key figures who are introduced to great fanfare and then unceremoniously scuttled off-screen once they’ve delivered their key piece of dialogue. If you’re able to keep track of any names beyond those of the lead protagonists my (feathered) hat is off to you. Make no mistake, I’m not arguing in favor of the overindulgent bloat that dragged down Prince Caspian, but new director Michael Apted and editor Rick Shaine have gone too far in the opposite direction, stripping their movie of nuance and soul. This Narnia adventure is efficient and pretty, but not particularly engaging.

However, there are still a handful of wonders to behold. The introduction of a not-so-sinister fire-breathing dragon to the story manages, improbably, to inspire a few moments of gentle warmth while Aslan (voiced by Liam Neeson), the franchise’s trusty Jesus Lion, has a moving third act scene holding court on a gorgeous white sand island. There’s also a thrilling sea battle against a ravenous serpent beast and nice little bits featuring a living star (Laura Brent, a breathtaking spectre of otherworldly beauty), as well as transparent mermaids (who resemble more fully-formed relatives of the water tentacle from The Abyss) that splash and dive freely alongside the Dawn Treader. These dazzling moments operate as very welcome diversions in a feature film that too often feels sadly light on amazement.

Despite being three films in, this series just isn’t hitting the crucial audience-pleasing notes required to warrant its continued existence. Although The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is perfectly inoffensive – and will provide suitably harmless entertainment for kids with free time over the holidays – it lacks the sweep, majesty and overpowering sense of awe necessary to reach the hearts and imagination of its audience. During the film’s closing it’s implied the time has come for Lucy and Edmund to leave Narnia behind and move on with their lives. The franchise’s filmmakers should probably consider following suit.

2.5 out of 5

Epi-Cast: Episode 27 - "Rock and/or Roll!"

2010-11-28T22:51:00.000-08:00

While it's become no doubt painfully apparent of late that the ol' Epi-Cast hasn't been sticking to its once tight-as-clockwork schedule, Cam and Tom are still battling to fit in recording sessions, amidst their packed school workloads, for your entertainment. Call them heroes, if you must. However, they prefer the term Supreme Galactic Overlords of Awesomness Squared. They're just modest like that.

Epi-Cast: Episode 27 - "Rock and/or Roll!"

In this pre-holiday extravaganza, recorded just prior to final exams/projects, the suitably stellar stalwarts of snarky cinematic speech-ifying roll out a special episode jam-packed with poorly prepared filmic chatter. Want to know if Danny Boyle's 127 Hours moved either of them to tears? Well, right click and save my good man/woman! Also on the agenda: Cam weighs in on Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1 and Winter's Bone, while Tom tackles the tremendous period epics Agora and Centurion. They also band together - Wonder Twins style - to discuss the recent trailers for Green Lantern, Cowboys & Aliens, Battle: Los Angeles and Source Code and, in a rare - and slightly unsettling - moment of tender nostalgia, name their favourite Christmas movies. Forget the blu-rays, gift cards, clothes and Xbox crap, this here's the true Christmas gift destined to bring happiness to one and all! Ho Ho Ho!

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the wild web's most fantabulous mp3 treasures.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, BRUNDLE-GOLDBLUM!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geek-speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." Profound interpretations of the Bible will probably not be given here. That said, never say never.

P.P.S. Don't hesitate to leave a review on our iTunes page. As always, we sincerely welcome your glowing praise/scorching venom!

The Top 5 Greatest Train Thrillers

2010-11-13T15:38:00.000-08:00

With Tony Scott’s runaway train crowd-pleaser Unstoppable opening in multiplexes across the globe this weekend, it seemed like an opportune time to reflect on how the now fairly antiquated form of travel has colored the cinematic art-form.

As film history junkies may recall, the train famously ushered in the cinematic age in 1896 when Auguste and Louis Lumière legendarily terrified an unwitting audience with one-minute of footage, titled L'arrivée d'un train à La Ciotat, depicting a locomotive charging towards the camera. The experiment served as a fitting kick off for the exciting new visual medium and later led, in 1903, to the very first narrative picture, The Great Train Robbery.

While the train, chugging purposely across the rails, became instantly iconic, the film industry fell equally in love with the romance associated with train travel. The collective cinematic consciousness is forever imprinted with images of cozy private cabins, tasteful dining cars and steam-drenched stations. The train offered passengers a means of achieving freedom, adventure or true love, as well as inspiring heartbreak and danger. Who can forget Bogart standing alone on the rainy train-station platform waiting for Ingrid Bergman? Or the infectious romantic hijinx depicted in Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot? Hitchcock adored trains, utilizing them in classics like Strangers on a Train, Shadow of a Doubt and North by Northwest, and the James Bond series is peppered with scenes aboard travelling coaches.

So, in tribute to the most cinematic mode of travel, I’ve compiled a list of the Top 5 Greatest Train Thrillers. Don’t bother looking for movies like Back to the Future III or Mission: Impossible below, though. These films don’t simply use trains as a prop or as part of a slick set-piece, they set the majority of their action aboard the majestic transports, pulling audiences out of the popcorn-scented confines of the cineplex (or living room) into an insular, nostalgia-tinged world that’s almost always in motion.

5) Under Siege 2: Dark Territory (1995) - While this is hands down the cheesiest entry on the list, Steven Seagal’s return appearance as ass-kicking Navy chef Casey Ryback is actually one of the most enjoyably over-the-top Die Hard clones produced in the 90s. Facing off against loopy hacker Eric Bogosian and lethal mercenary Everett McGill, Seagal is in fine form, snapping limbs, unloading guns and delivering whispered wisecracks with admirable aplomb. Dark Territory also deserves credit for the creative means in which it dispatches its motley crew of villainous goons, many of which experience the very worst that can come from being careless atop a speeding train. Although the flick kinda jumps the tracks into bad CG-hell during the climax, this second Under Siege moves at a full clip and offers action-fans the exact ride they were no doubt hoping for.

4) Runaway Train (1985) - The film most noticeably similar to Unstoppable (The Denzel Washington flick even bore the same title during shooting), Andrey Konchalovskiy’s Runaway Train stars Jon Voight and Eric Roberts as a pair of escaped convicts who find themselves trapped on an out-of-control Alaskan locomotive without an engineer or even brakes. Teaming up with a young railroad worker (Rebecca De Mornay, an early crush of mine), the two prisoners must put aside their own self-interests in order to survive long enough to enjoy their newly-found freedom. Both Voight and Roberts received Oscar nods for their impressive work in Train, which is the rare big-budget thriller that trusts its characters, not the spectacle, to do the driving.

3) Murder on the Orient Express (1974) – The great Ingrid Bergman won a third Oscar for her supporting turn in this cheeky Agatha Christie adaptation directed by heavyweight auteur Sidney Lumet. Bergman’s character, a timid Swedish missionary, is but one of a handful of murder suspects being interrogated aboard the attractive titular train by unorthodox sleuth Hercule Poirot (Albert Finney) over the brutal death of businessman Richard Widmark. While Orient doesn’t fit within the thriller genre as tidily as the other four entries, Lumet and Finney give each verbal showdown its own distinct feel and captivating energy, and the filmmaker steadily raises the stakes to near-dizzying levels. Co-starring esteemed talents such as Lauren Bacall, Sean Connery, Anthony Perkins, Martin Balsam, Jacqueline Bisset and Vanessa Redgrave, Murder on the Orient Express is an enthralling first-class affair.

2) The Narrow Margin (1952) – Arguably the most obscure title on the Top 5, this Richard Fleischer (Soylent Green, Fantastic Voyage) film noir is a lean, mean, 70-minute exercise in tension and black humor. The picture follows hard-edged cop Walter Brown (gravel-gargling Charles McGraw) as he attempts to safely transport a gangster’s moll-turned-informant from Chicago to L.A. aboard a crowded train populated with ruthless assassins and mysterious characters who may not be who they seem. Brimming with sharp dialogue and surprising twists, The Narrow Margin is a memorably sly entertainment that’s well worth hunting down.

1) The Lady Vanishes (1938) – One of Hitchcock’s finest masterworks, Vanishes stars Margaret Lockwood as a rich young woman who discovers that a fellow passenger, a kindly elderly lady played by Dame May Whitty, has, well, vanished without a trace. However, as she attempts to convince those around her that the senior traveler has disappeared, she comes to realize that no one aboard will admit to ever having seen the woman in the first place. Equal parts psychological thriller and espionage tale, The Lady Vanishes displays all of the wit, charm, suspense and technical daring one can expect from a film bearing the brilliant director’s fine name. An unforgettable classic on any list.

Epi-Cast: Episode 26 - "Yay-O for the Trej-O!"

2010-09-18T23:27:00.000-07:00

Sweet Salamander Salsa! September has crashed upon us like an unholy space chunk and school's back in session. And with this transition, germs are upon us, infecting all of those who dare enter into the hallowed halls of academic learning. Take Cam and Tom, for example. Usually perched squarely atop the ball, the duo spend their return to the podcast world hacking, sniffling and whining about their fall from grace. Yup, it's another infectious Epi-Cast, here to ease the pain of homework and pop quizzes!

Epi-Cast: Episode 26 - "Yay-O for the Trej-O!"

Burying their faces in jumbo-sized Kleenex's, the premiere princes of pithy podcasting once again take their place upon their lofty cyber-thrones and reign down judgment on the latest Hollywood offerings dosey-doe-ing into theatres as we speak. In a half-assed bit of critical analysis, the two use the word "fun" 134 times while describing Robert Rodriguez's Trejo-tastic Mexploitation epic Machete. Additionally, Cam weighs in on both Ben Affleck's second directorial effort The Town and the latest Resident Evil (now in 3D) instalment, while Tom highlights a couple random rental choices in Hot Tub Time Machine and the 1964 Michael Caine classic Zulu. In the newest "Trailer Park Encounters" segment there's plenty of discussion on Darren Aronofsky's Black Swan, Uwe Boll's Auschwitz (!!!), David O. Russell's Mark Wahlberg boxing epic The Fighter and Todd Bridges' Robert Downey Jr./Zach Galifianakis buddy-road movie Due Date. Plus, as filler, the two discuss their worst theatre experiences. Enjoy! *Coughs*

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the snazzy net's most fantabulous mp3 glories.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, QUINTO-QUASAR!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geek-speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." Profound interpretations of the bible will not be given here. Or at least not intentionally...

Epi-Cast: Episode 25 - "The Dream Team"

2010-08-14T23:41:00.000-07:00

...aaaaand here we go again with another cherry-scented blast of filmic irreverence (okay, mostly idiocy)! This time around we delve into Inception, the film which stood the best chance - after Piranha 3D, of course - at redeeming this whole sub-par movie season and allowing us to trudge into the grim early days of September with heads high and chests puffed. Did it succeed and manage to tickle the ever un-tickle-able Tom? Is it at least a good lead in to Eat, Pray, Love and Takers? Only one way to find out senor, and that's to do some d-l-in' and get hip to the buzz. Our buzz!!!

Epi-Cast: Episode 25 - "The Dream Team"

Out of practice and worn down by the suffocating summertime heat and toil of full-time work, Cam and Tom finally get around to reviewing Chris Nolan's Inception, and the results are nothing less than, um, all over the map (But entertainingly so!) In addition, Cam reviews the indie hit The Kids Are All Right and the hit Swedish import The Girl Who Played With Fire (And badly mangles his attempt at synopsizing the latter's convoluted storyline). Apparently uninterested with staying up-to-date, Tom looks to the past for inspiration - finding the 1973 classic The Day of The Jackal to be worth shining a light on, along with the 2008 Ben Kingsley effort Fifty Dead Men Walking. The duo also make the most of another "Trailer Park Encounters" segment by analyzing what could be the finer points of Zack Snyder's Sucker Punch, Guillermo del Toro's Don't Be Afraid Of The Dark, the Ed Norton/Bobby De Niro joint Stone and Yogi God Damn Bear. Finally, as a fun bonus, the two hosts recount some of their most awkward film-watching experiences.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the interthingy's most glorious holy of mp3 holies.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, OSMOSIS-JONES!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geek-speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." Profound interpretations of the bible will not be given here.

Epi-Cast: Episode 24 - "To Critique A Predator"

2010-07-13T22:08:00.000-07:00

Is it just me or has this summer's cinematic offerings been seriously underwhelming. I mean, yeah, Toy Story 3 was a magical odyssey for the young and old alike (blah, blah, blah) and Iron Man 2 was fun, but Prince of Persia? Robin Hood? Get Him to the Greek? Shrek Forever After? Knight and Day? I mean, even the semi-decent ones in that pile aren't exactly worth leaving the safe confines of your barred-and-gated homes for. Sure, Inception is only days away, but can one film single-handedly redeem an entire season? I suppose we shall see. In the meantime, in a half-assed effort to remind our adoring audience that we are in fact still alive, myself and my loyal and snarky co-host Tom Wytrwal have convened to spit out another dash of mp3 brilliance in order to help lift your tragically weighed-down spirits. We're just considerate like that.

Epi-Cast: Episode 24 - "To Critique A Predator"

Despite having suffered through two terrible Alien Vs. Predator spin-offs and a lousy 1990 Gary Busey-fronted sequel, Cam and Tom return for a rumble in the space jungle with producer Robert Rodriguez's Predators. Does it live up to the 1987 Schwarzenegger original? Tune in and find out. In addition, the duo begin carving a tombstone for M. Night Shyamalan's career while trashing The Last Airbender, as well as discuss the disastrous Jonah Hex, the surprisingly awesome Karate Kid and the critically-loved documentary Exit Through the Gift Shop. For no apparent reason, they also spent an unnecessary amount of time yammering on about From Paris With Love. Plus, in Trailer Park Encounters they weigh in on the latest promotional clips for David Fincher's The Social Network, the Bruce Willis/Helen Mirren action comedy Red and Michel Gondry and Seth Rogen's intriguing/troubling Green Hornet. Good golly goombas, I guarantee the glorious results are a hippin-hoppin' hollerin' hootenany for all.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the interweb's most glorious audio-based holy of holies.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, GORO-MOTARO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geek-speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." Avoid those blundering buffoons like a gaggle of carnivorous blue-footed boobies.

Another Summer in Amity: 35 Years of JAWS, Day 5: JAWS: THE REVENGE

2010-06-25T22:57:00.000-07:00

As unthinkable as it seems now, there was a point in time when a fourth Jaws film seemed like a good idea to someone. How and why is hard to determine, but it would seem that Universal decided, a few years after the release of Jaws 3-D, that the cracks in the franchise were repairable and that audiences would be game for another installment involving the Brody clan’s increasingly preposterous ongoing war with enormous man-eating fish. Apparently, the studio decided to scapegoat the third entry for the diminishing returns of the series, and felt it necessary to essentially ret-con the SeaWorld-tastic events of the past and return to the peaceful, sleepy town of Amity once more. After all, how could the public resist such a tempting cinematic treat?

Supervising the resurrection of the great beast was Joseph Sargent, helmer of hits like The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 and the Burt Reynolds’ fave White Lightning, who’d transitioned into the television industry by the dawn of the 1980s. He would be both directing and producing the project, dubbed Jaws: The Revenge, and bringing to life a script by Michael De Guzman, an untested feature-film-writer who had previously penned two episodes of the Steven Spielberg-created NBC series Amazing Stories. Seemingly aware of where the property had gone astray, Sargent decided that it was imperative the new movie be character-based and continue the story developed over the course of the first two chapters.

Hence, Lorraine Gary was hired to reprise her role as Ellen Brody, while Lance Guest - of Last Starfighter fame - was signed to play her eldest son Michael, and Michael Caine as her dashing devil-may-care romantic interest. Purportedly, Roy Scheider was also asked back so he could be served up to the shark as an appetizer in the flick’s opening scene. Shocking as it may seem, he was able to resist the lofty offer and instead the script was altered so that Sean Brody (nasally Mitchell Anderson – light years away from Jaws 3-D’s douchey cowboy John Putch) would be the sacrificial victim.

Following a bumpy production period in Martha’s Vineyard, Nassau and the Universal back-lot, Sargent was forced to reassemble his cast and crew to reshoot the ending of the film following disapproving test audience feedback – a complication which would wind up preventing Michael Caine from accepting his Best Supporting Oscar for Hannah and Her Sisters in person (He later joked that though he never saw the results of his hard labor, he had “seen the house that it built, and it is terrific!”). When Jaws: The Revenge was at last unleashed onto the unsuspecting populace on July 17th, 1987 it was met with a hailstorm of harsh critical barbs and middling box-office, grossing just 20-million domestically and 31-million in foreign ticket-sales. Routinely named one of the worst films of all time, the film ultimately proved to be the final devastating blow for the franchise – as well as Joseph Sargent’s motion picture career - and a source of ironic hilarity for untold numbers of bad movie fans. On a more positive note, though, it also inspired a seriously addictive NES game and a brilliant Rich ard Jeni comedy routine.

The epic saga that is Jaws: The Revenge begins in picturesque Amity Island around Christmas time. While children sing heart-warming carols in the chilly open air, Chief Sean Brody (Anderson), who has followed in his now-deceased dear dad’s law-keeping footsteps, is called to investigate an errant log floating in the harbor. But no sooner has the poor sap hooked the chunk of timber than his entire arm has disappeared down the cavernous maw of a gigantic great white shark. In precious little time, the rest of his gnarled form follows suit. Did the evil animal create the wood-y diversion to catch him? (No, seriously, did it? I still have no idea) Well, crazy old lady Brody thinks it did, much to the concern of surviving son Michael (Guest) and his artist wife Carla (Karen Young). So, to cheer up the grieving matriarch, the couple invites her back to their home in Nassau, where Michael and his colleague Jake (Mario Van Peebles) are conducting research on conch snails for a Marine Biology PhD project. Flying them there is Hoagie (Caine), a mysterious pilot with a live-for-the-moment mentality and an astonishing tolerance for listening to hysterical middle-aged women spout screwball theories about ocean-dwelling carnivores.

However, apparently eager to back up Mrs. Brody’s claims, the colossal finned culprit has made the speedy journey from the east coast of the USA to the Bahamas in about two days. That is one determined fish! Rather than reunite itself with Ellen, though, the bulky creature reveals itself to Jake and Michael, who, rather recklessly, decide to abandon their trivial sea-snails in favor of secretly studying the predator instead (Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think PhD research grants quite work that way…). Despite not telling anyone of their covert research mission, Mrs. Brody senses something is wrong and is plagued by visions, nightmares and sepia-toned flashbacks to events which she wasn’t actually present to witness (The novelization states that this is due to the shark being controlled by a voodoo witch doctor, but the film isn’t quite so clear or boldly off-the-wall).

Possibly bored of swimming around doing nothing for weeks on end, the shark finally makes its presence known, interrupting the public unveiling of Carla’s latest dangerous-looking, jagged metal statue, and chowing down on a banana-boat-riding extra. Her deranged beliefs confirmed, Ellen hijacks Michael’s sailboat in order to feed herself to the shark – a loony plan which Michael, Hoagie and Jake justifiably disagree with and attempt to prevent. After attaching some sort of tracker thingie to the monster, Jake is killed (or not, depending on the version you’re watching) and the remaining trio ram the mast of the boat into the inexplicably-roaring shark causing it to spontaneously explode. We’re then treated to a recycled clip from Jaws showing its corpse sinking to the ocean floor. Then the Brody family lives happily ever after. Well, except for Sean Brody, what with the being dead and all.

Taken as a stupid whole, Jaws: The Revenge is like the most unbearable type of fan-fiction (I should know, I wrote an awful Jaws 5 outline when I was 11); assuming that a great sequel story can be made by simply ripping off the original’s most iconic scenes and inserting random obscure references to please the die-hards (Both Mrs. Kintner (Lee Fierro) and Amity council member Mrs. Taft (Fritzi Jane Courtney) have brief cameos sitting in Ellen’s living room) Although Sargent and De Guzman obviously worship Spielberg’s 1975 smash, their fawning reverence is like an anchor weighing their movie down, preventing it from being its own unique entity. Consider the father/child mimic scene, which was a heartfelt, poignant moment in Jaws, and is replicated here between Michael and his daughter Thea (Judith Barsi) almost shot-for-shot. Whereas the first film used the scene as a character-driven emotional release, introducing it at the precise time it was needed, Revenge just plunks it in haphazardly during a listless gap between shark incidents. Rather than engage in thoughtful, organic storytelling with multi-layered individuals, the film plays like an abbreviated series of perfunctory story beats that have no real aim or purpose beyond barely filling up three acts.

Even though the picture is intended to be thrilling adventure tale, the shark is almost a non-entity during the run-time and nothing exciting or interesting really happens to the characters. Instead, Jaws: The Revenge plays like a really dull soap opera in which everyone carries on tedious expository speeches and exhibits stereotypical movie behavior in order to cause badly-written crises and arguments to occur. How else to explain Michael and Jake’s idiotic behavior regarding their deadly science project? If your brother had recently been devoured alive, would you really take part in unprotected dives with a visibly hostile predator? Especially after it’d already come close to killing you once? And wouldn’t it be a wise idea to warn local authorities that there’s an aggressive man-eater in the vicinity? Lord knows, banana-boat woman would probably have benefited from a small word of caution.

Sargent occasionally tries to spice up the suffocating dreariness with a few inconsequential shark encounters, but he’s working with a robot that wouldn’t be out of place at a Chucky Cheese restaurant. It moves drunkenly, has a coarse plastic complexion, emits laughable guttural groans and is often quite evidently suspended above the water. At one point, you can even see a cable pulling it. Whereas Spielberg and Szwarc understood the limitations of the mechanism, Sargent shoots it from every possible angle – frequently altering its scale in the process - and has it commit physically impossible acts such as remaining stationary and standing on the tip of its tail in the water. It’s never scary or menacing, rarely appealing and almost always distractingly phony. Arriving a dozen years after the original design, one would have to be as nutty as Mrs. Brody to consider this progress.

In the end, Jaws: The Revenge is little more than a pathetic, whimpering finish to a once endearing film series. Although I don’t think that it was Sargent’s primary intention to cheaply manipulate the audience by calculatingly exploiting their fondness for the first Jaws, his under-baked, soggy final product seems to indicate otherwise. Rather than accomplish its sole objective of keeping the profitable Universal’s property afloat, Revenge sends the entire franchise spiraling into the same blackened abyss previously reserved for inert, decimated shark carcasses. Given the direction it was headed, perhaps its best to just be thankful for a speedy mercy killing, no matter how unintentional.

Shark Bites:

Shark-tality Count: 2 or 3 (depending on the version) – Sean Brody, Banana boat woman, Jake (Current DVDs feature this character surviving, while some theatrical cuts and TV versions end with him taking an exploratory dive down the shark’s gullet.)

Best Toothy Kill: Sean Brody, I guess. You’d think that having such a low-kill count would at least inspire the filmmakers to put some effort into the measly few they have. Sadly, you’d be sorely wrong. Certainly Brody’s actual death is nothing to write home about, but it’s elevated a bit by being crosscut with children singing Christmas carols. Oh, the cruel irony of it all.

Worst Toothy Kill: Jake. His survival in certain versions is utterly moronic, but his demise is no better. His death is intended to have a similar impact as Quint in Jaws but any drama is annihilated by the shark inexplicably standing on its tail and the Jake clumsily tripping ass-backwards off the ship’s mast.

How the Shark Finally Bites It: (Also depending on version) Ummm... I’m not exactly sure. It’s hit with the mast of the Brody clan’s sail-ship and detonates without warning or cause. One cut of the flick just features the shark being impaled (which is still goofy but at least sorta makes sense visually) whereas the other requires a team of analysts working around the clock JFK-style to decipher.

Climactic Words to Chew On: Courtesy of a pointless sepia-toned flashback, we once again get to hear Chief Brody utter his classic “Smile you son of a...” Needless to say, the impact is considerably dulled.

Shark-splosion Rating (Out of 10): Impaling demise: 3.0, Random explosion demise: 1.0

Overall Film Rating: 1 out of 5

Another Summer in Amity: 35 Years of JAWS, Day 4: JAWS 3-D

2010-06-24T18:42:00.001-07:00

Originally, during their development of a Jaws 2 follow-up, executive producers Richard D. Zanuck and David Brown had a very different plan in regards to the direction a third series’ entry should take. The duo were of the opinion that audiences would no longer be able to accept the premise of yet another shark arriving in Amity at all seriously, so the film best not either. Their cracker-jack plan? To produce a spoof film, along the lines of Young Frankenstein or Airplane!, called Jaws 3, People 0. The duo were so certain that this was the correct approach that they hired on Animal House producer Matt Simons and commissioned National Lampoon writers John Hughes (Yes, that John Hughes!) and Todd Carroll to conjure up a script.

However, Universal, not pleased to see that its high-banking tent-pole property was being turned into an ironic joke, shut down the production and fought for a more conventional threequel. This clash of opposing ideas ultimately led to Brown and Zanuck abandoning the project altogether, and the studio turning the fishy franchise over to exec producer Alan Landsburg (responsible for such masterworks as Porky’s II: The Next Day and Tarantulas: The Deadly Cargo), who nabbed up Guerdon Trueblood’s story outline - which involved a shark becoming trapped in a lake after a poorly-navigated migration – and handed it off to series scribe Carl Gottlieb, Legend of the Lone Ranger screenwriter Michael Kane and author Richard Matheson (Yes, that Richard Matheson!) for expansion and polishing. It’s unknown how many versions of the script were cranked out, or which lasting elements came from which writer, but Matheson has been quoted as saying that the final screenplay as we know it was essentially cobbled together by uncredited studio script doctors.

Although Zanuck and Brown had briefly flirted with employing helmer Joe Dante - whose cheeky 1978 B-movie Piranha had proved to be a cult hit - their dismissal led to this tantalizing possibility evaporating into thin Hollywood air. Instead, the studio chose to seat Joe Alves, the franchise’s capable production designer, who also oversaw second-unit shooting on the first sequel, in the director’s chair, with a stipulation that the film be shot for 3-D so as to compete with popular trashy horror flicks like Friday the 13th Part III. While none of the original cast was expected to reprise their roles, Roy Scheider allegedly ran screaming towards Blue Thunder just to ensure that he’d be unavailable if Universal came a-calling. Instead, the lead was handed over to an unknown, named Dennis Quaid, who would play Chief Brody’s all grown-up son Michael, with support coming from Bess Armstrong, newcomer Lea Thompson (Just two years shy of Back to the Future) and recent An Officer and a Gentlemen Academy Award-winner Louis Gossett Jr.

Released under the oh-so-cheesy moniker Jaws 3-D on July 22nd, 1983, the water-logged effort (Which, to be fair, did have a really wicked teaser t railer) would end up generating just under half the worldwide box-office of Jaws 2, bringing in 45-million US and 42-million overseas. Though not a financial disaster by any means, it was readily apparent that the series had slipped out of the cultural zeitgeist and was unlikely to recover it’s once illustrious status. Just to further hammer home this point, at the close of the year the flick would garner five Razzie nominations,
for film, director, screenplay, supporting actor (Gossett Jr.) and newcomer (the movie’s two dolphin sidekicks). This, of course, would have little bearing on the regrettable decision to green- light a fourth film a few years later.

Abandoning the calm environs of Amity Island, Jaws 3-D transplants the aquatic action to balmy Orlando, Florida, where none-too-bright businessman Calvin Bouchard (Gossett Jr.) – who, judging by the actor’s tenuous accent, may or may not hail from New Orleans – is opening up a colossal new SeaWorld(™) theme park. Folks, this park has it all; an Undersea Kingdom decorated with hokey mechanical eels and tentacles, a water show featuring trick-skiers in lederhosen performing a human pyramid, a pair of wacky dolphins named Cindy and Sandy and a plausibility-busting 35-foot man-eating great white shark. Obviously that last attraction isn’t an intentional addition, but its present nonetheless, alongside its cute lil’ 10ft off-spring, and making short work of greasy-looking maintenance workers and inept coral robbers. Thank the heavens, then, that Philip FitzRoyce (Simon MacCorkidale) is on the scene! He’s a hotshot British photographer/hunter who feels the best method of dealing with the problem is massacring the beast on live television for publicity. While logic would seem to dictate that most media outlets and animal protection groups would be rather upset by a high-profile zoo murdering a protected animal for entertainment purposes, Bouchard is a dope, so he’s fine with the deal.

Enter the sole voices of reason: Kathryn Morgan (Armstrong), a senior biologist eager to contain and study the creature, and Michael Brody (Quaid), her boyfriend and the park’s engineer, who mostly stands around and does nothing. Oh, a cowboy-hat-wearing Sean Body (John Putch) is also kicking around, alongside his barfly professional-skier girlfriend (Thompson), but they don’t really add much to the already convoluted equation. After Kathryn and FitzRoyce capture and sedate Jaws Jr. during an unnecessarily dangerous night-hunt, the biologist attempts to nurse it back to health. But Bouchard wants moolah, dammit, so he puts the sick shark on public display. Where it promptly dies. This ensures that Momma Shark is officially pissed and she begins attacking the Undersea Kingdom, to woefully unsatisfying effect. FitzRoyce, ever the wannabe hero, attempts to lure the creature into the pump system, but brings along rope that’s about as strong as a wet noodle. Hence, he winds up mashed to a pulp. In a confusing last-ditch crack at saving the day, Michael Brody does some high-stakes welding, which proves pointless when the shark, shortly after, attacks the underwater control-room holding himself, Kathryn and Bouchard. All is looking grim until they notice FitzRoyce’s arm flopping around the behemoth’s maw, still clutching a grenade. Utilizing a rudimentary hook, they pull the pin and KA-BLOOEY!!!, the shark dies, Cindy and Sandy celebrate in high-pitched dolphin fashion and Bouchard vanishes without a trace. The end. Or is it?

Jaws 3-D is a pretty terrible movie, albeit a pretty terrible movie that’s strangely watchable. Indeed, there is so much camp on display that it makes for a thoroughly amusing “Bad Movie Night” choice. From the laughably ludicrous 3-D effects themselves (Not only do we get eternity-length shots of dead fish, butchered arms and cartoony-looking sharks, but also Pussy willows and plastic tri-pronged spears!) to the painfully awkward acting and wretched dialogue (Bouchard: “Well, you know, uh, it's that old shark screen, the bubble screen. You know, shark's don't like that. It's what they call, uh, marine segregation”), you’re guaranteed a solid 99-minutes of incompetent hilarity. To take it a step further, I’m even going to declare that if you don’t collapse into a spastic bundle of giggles during the climactic scene where the great white “smashes” through the glass barrier protecting the control-room, you, sir or ma’am, have no soul!

It’s generally acknowledged that the shark grows more and more fake-looking with each installment, and this film truly doesn’t disappoint in making the once fearsome predator resemble a taxidermy patient. Rarely moving at all, the creature inches along at a crawl in almost every scene it’s featured in. Whereas, in the first two entries, there was brutality and speed to its attacks, in Jaws 3-D the gilled antagonist looks logy and disinterested in prey; snacking only on those stupid enough to virtually crawl into its yawning oral cavity. It also swims backwards multiple times, which recalls crucial information given in Deep Blue Sea dictating that sharks simply can’t perform such an unnatural feat.

Certainly a large part of the blame for Jaws 3-D can be pinned on Alves (he, unsurprisingly, never directed again), whose efforts feels slack and mechanical, but the whole enterprise reeks of studio interference. It is fairly obvious that no one involved in making the movie had any real enthusiasm or inspiration for doing so other than a chance at raising Universal’s bottom-line. The tension is long gone, the players cut-rate and dull and the attack scenarios wholly unimaginative (Minus FitzRoyce’s gloriously goofy demise). Heck, even the score by Alan Parker (No, not that Alan Parker!) feels workmanlike and lifeless – a sad successor to the mighty John Williams. You know there’s something rotten in the aquarium when even the iconic Jaws theme can’t quicken your pulse an iota.

At the time, Jaws 3-D marked a new low for the franchise; a crass attempt to copycat the slasher genre with a giant fish and outrageous technological gimmickry. Gone was the attention to characterization and drama that made the first and, to a lesser degree, the second, compelling suspense pictures. Ultimately, despite boasting a gargantuan killer bearing hundreds of dagger-edged chompers, this third Jaws picture couldn’t be more toothless.

Shark Bites:

Shark-tality Count: 5 – Shelby Overman, Two black-clad coral-thieving morons in a dinghy, Philip FitzRoyce, Anonymous SeaWorld control-room tech guy.

Best Toothy Kill: Easily FitzRoyce. For all of its innumerable descents into awfulness, “Jaws 3-D” at the very least gives us something new in the kill department: a POV fatality from inside the shark’s gullet. The results are both riotously corny and insanely cool.

Worst Toothy Kill: I gotta go with Shelby Overman’s death by stupid montage. I’d probably be more willing to forgive its terrible staging if it didn’t end with a craptastic shot of the muscular, porn-moustached welder’s arm “floating” in eye-scraping 1980’s 3-D.

How the Shark Finally Bites It: Conveniently positioned hand grenade – still gripped in FitzRoyce’s cold, dead hand, no less - lodged in the creature’s throat.

Climactic Words to Chew On: As the entire finale is filmed underwater, in silence, we only get a few rather underwhelming breathing sounds and gurgles.

Shark-splosion Rating (Out of 10): 4.0 (Extra point added for silly-looking shot of shark’s jaws flying towards audience.)

Overall Film Rating: 1.5 out of 5

Another Summer in Amity: 35 Years of JAWS, Day 3: The Top 5 Coolest Foreign JAWS Posters

2010-06-23T18:32:00.000-07:00

Obviously, as a motion picture, Jaws is packed to the gills with iconic characters and moments. Whether it be Brody facing down the shark with only a shotgun and an oh-so-slim chance of triumph, or Quint, atop the Orca’s viewing platform, quietly whistling in the twilight, the images contained within the film have left an indelible stamp on not only the psyche of movie-fans around the sphere, but also on the language of cinema itself. Heck, consider how many times you’ve seen Spielberg’s virtuoso Vertigo-esque dolly-zoom shot of Brody’s stunned reaction to Alex Kintner’s death recreated by other filmmakers (You can put Spike Lee, alone, down for at least a dozen tries).

However, outside of the film, and all the wondrous details and artistry contained within its taut 125 minutes, one would be remiss to not acknowledge Jaws’ remarkable one-sheet poster design. Created by artist Tony Seiniger, who updated and tweaked Roger Kastel’s very similar Bantam books paperback cover, the artwork has appeared on an endless parade of shirts, collectible cups, trading cards and novelty art (I have a 3D sculpt of it hanging over my bed). It’s was also retrofitted for every subsequent sequel’s ad campaign. Ultimately, Seineger and Kastel’s contribution to the property has been, in many ways, crucial to the continued success in the marketing of the classic.

Over the course of my many years of fandom, and while doing research for this 35th anniversary event, I’ve encountered a number of foreign theatrical posters that eschew the traditional art-work in favor of something stranger, riskier or more experimental. Hence, it seemed like a fun idea to gather some of the more outstanding efforts for your perusal and enjoyment. You’ll no doubt note that only the first two films are represented by these choices, but this is only because, beginning with Jaws 3D, Universal seemingly abandoned the multiple-concept approach and simply used the same artwork in all markets. A true pity.

Nonetheless, here are my Top 5 Coolest Foreign Jaws Posters:

5) Jaws (Thailand Version) – Although fairly close to the American original, I have to admit that I’m somewhat tickled by the overhead images featured on this work. It looks almost as if the fearsome aquatic predator is being confronted by an extremely vengeful and colorful storm cloud, or perhaps is having a particularly unsettling nightmare about the events of the film (Presupposing, of course, that fish dream). That said, it’s terrific to see the Orca featured and Brody’s bloody-machete swing (Nitpick: it should have been Quint wielding the weapon) is totally bad-ass and oddly reminiscent of the many slasher film posters which would follow. On the whole, this design is a bit busy, but nicely captures the romanticized sense of adventure that the movie so thrillingly captures.

4) Jaws 2 (Polish Version) – What’s scarier than a great white with one set of razor-sharp teeth? How about one with two alarming sets of razor-sharp man-mashers? Taking the film’s title amusingly literal, this design, rendered by Edward Lutczyn, could almost boast the tagline “New shark. Twice the bite.” Come to think of it, how much cooler would it have been had the bather-chomping star resembled this creation? Perhaps toxic waste could have been the culprit... Okay, now I’m engaging in absurd fan-wankery, but there’s no arguing that this poster – though seriously weird – would look pretty damn nifty hanging on your wall.

3) Jaws (Czech Version 1) – Though a movie-goer could easily be forgiven for having absolutely no idea what Zdenek Ziegler’s abstract one-sheet is advertising, it’s definitely an awesome artistic interpretation of a shark feeding frenzy. The swath of bright red blood, mixed with the choppy depictions of a furiously vicious predator, is pretty breath-taking, and nicely echoes the frantic brutality of the film’s gruesome attack scenes. It’s too bad the credits at the bottom weren’t printed with the little more flair, but the image is so visceral and eye-catching that I almost don’t care.

2) Jaws (Czech Version 2) - Geez, what’s in the water over there in Czechoslovakia? And why can’t there be a little of it over here? Another impeccable attempt at illustrating the energy and feel of the film, this poster, by an uncredited artist, is far less emotion-driven and intense than the previous version, and more fitting in regards to the shark’s coldly methodical, instinct-driven approach to survival. The blood-in-the-water motif is again vibrantly prominent but I’m actually more intrigued by the shark’s placement on the poster; just a hair away from vanishing from the scene. Very much in keeping with the strike-and-retreat behavior of the on-screen leviathan, I’d have to say.

1) Jaws (Polish Version) - I unabashedly adore this one-sheet, designed by Andrzej Dudzinski, and would love nothing more than to find an affortable copy of my very own. Again, the violence of the attack is front and centre, but the otherwise tranquil nature of Amity is perfectly encapsulated in this portrayal. The frothy, churning sea, offset against the more uniform, gentle waves, and the rich, untouched greens of the surrounding cliffs? Gorgeous. The ominous, never-ending expanse of dark blue ocean stretching out into oblivion under the striking sunrise (or sunset)? Captivating. Even if I didn’t have any idea what this poster was advertising, wild horses couldn’t prevent me from buying a ticket to find out. It’s just that effective and mesmerizing.