Film Review - BANGKOK DANGEROUS: Cage Rules, But BANGKOK Goes Out With A Whimper...

Can we all just agree that Nicolas Cage is the most entertaining actor working today? Sure, he may have a less consistent filmography than Tom Hanks, Denzel Washington or Russell Crowe, but Cage works the hardest for our entertainment dollars, in my lowly opinion. While his peers are tripping over each other chasing Oscar bait and renowned directors, he’s rambling surreal, likely ad-libbed, dialogue about the joys of jelly beans and television while playing a flame-headed second tier superhero. He’s leering like a pervert and stalking Jessica Biel in time-travel schlockbusters. He is even, in his greatest hall-of-fame moment, wearing a giant bear suit and clocking evil hippie women in the schnozzle while screaming about honey and bees! Yep, dammit, I love the oft-wigged eccentric hangdog, and so I was nearly euphoric about attending his latest, a strange exotic hitman drama with the genius title of Bangkok Dangerous.

Before I begin my expository breakdown of Bangkok Dangerous’ plot though, let’s keep in mind that a true Cage vehicle depends more on weirdo method acting moments than first-rate storylines. Anyways, I digress.

Cage’s character, economically named “Joe”, is a world-class assassin-for-hire, with a coldly methodical work ethic and preference for bad tourist outfits and greasy black hair extensions. Arriving in steamy, seamy Bangkok, Joe becomes quickly accustomed to his lurid surroundings and hires an errand boy, named Kong (Shahkrit Yamnarm), to aid him in his homicidal tasks. Kong, after some initial misgivings, develops a man-crush of sorts on Joe, inspiring the weary hitman to take the young man under his tutelage. Also, along the meandering way, Joe develops a slightly creepy crush on Fon, a local deaf pharmacist (Charlie Yeung), who seems blissfully ignorant towards the awkwardness of her hulking, cave-dweller-like new squeeze. In the midst of these relationships are a number of baffling and ill-conceived double-crosses, flashy assassinations (including a stylish drowning sequence) and horrendously incoherent action scenes that completely derail the film’s emotional centre: Joe rediscovering his lost humanity through the beauty and tranquility of Bangkok’s exotic culture and people.

Now, you may have taken my physical descriptions of Cage in the last paragraph as smart-ass ridicule, but it isn’t intended to be. Rather, I believe (truly, truly believe) that Cage’s physical presence and appearance in this film to be wholly intended. How else to explain the stooped posture and tacky aesthetics? Cage has always had a fondness for white-trash chic (Re-watch Con Air or Next. See what I mean?), and I think that Joe is one of the actor’s more interestingly wacky recent on-screen performances. The way he offsets his shabby exterior with a tired, world-weary attitude is actually quite appealing. The film’s best scene, where Joe first meets the lovely Fon in the pharmacy, has a gentle sort of off-beat grace about it. Carried out almost completely in silence, it allows Cage to exercise his talent for physical acting and stream-of-conscious verbal sputtering, which Yeung matches suitably with unspoken elegance. Even while I was pondering the potential liabilities involved with employing a mute, hearing-impaired woman as your pharmaceutical customer service representative (“How many pills a day? Two..? Five..? The whole bottle!?”), I was able to overlook the logistics and be entertained by the pleasantness of the moment.

If only the rest of the film was interested in following such a character-rich path. The directors, who work under the badass moniker “The Pang Brothers!” (Okay, I added the exclamation point for effect, but still...), have watched way too much flashy American junk for their own good. So instead of setting-appropriate transitions and graceful camera moves, we are pummelled with heavily edited action scenes and filler bits that reminded me of CSI and the Saw films. Speaking of which, Bangkok Dangerous is crammed to the gills with gun battles that can only be described as John Woo-On-Stupid-Pills. Apparently unable to match the stylishness of Woo, the Pang Bros. have instead wound up with a high-speed canal gondola chase that packs all the intensity of a paddleboat race, and a final shoot-out that, despite a record number of exploding water jugs, is as thrilling as City Council coverage on community television. As well, the directors’ choice to under-lit the sets and shoot through grainy filters makes the whole darn thing look like a straight-to-video Dolph Lundgren opus. I did, however, giggle at their shot from inside a car trunk – an obvious Tarantino homage. Keep dreamin’ brothers Pang.

Yet, Nic Cage’s strange charisma makes most of this shambling mess mildly interesting. So, if you too have been willingly inducted into the Cult of Cage, I’d consider guiltily checking this one out on DVD (Preferably on 2-for-1 night). The majority, however, should steer well clear. Unfortunately, despite promises of sensationalized violence and lurid subject matter, Bangkok couldn’t be any more harmless.

2 out of 5

Film Review - DEATH RACE: Carmageddon Never Looked Lovelier!

Well, here we are again: sifting through the pathetic remains of summer movie season in search of something (Anything!) to take our minds off the impending return to academic anguish. If there is one constant trend that refuses to die, it is that every late August will bring with it another half-assed Jason Statham action extravaganza. Actually, maybe extravaganza sounds too grandiose... How about action distraction? Yeah, that’s probably more appropriate, considering that the last two summers foisted Crank and War onto the unsuspecting populace. Well, the balding Brit is back in a big way with Death Race, a fun quasi-remake of the cult hit Death Race 2000, helmed by prolific B-movie hack Paul W.S. Anderson (Mortal Kombat, AVP: Aliens Vs. Predator).

Set in 2012, the United States of America is undergoing a severe economic depression. While unemployment has reached staggering heights, prison populations have also swelled. To combat the problem, the penal system has been handed over to large corporate entities that have begun staging violent gladiatorial-style reality shows as a means to entertain and inspire the dejected populace. The most popular of these programs is “Death Race”, an all-out vehicular slaughterfest, which is held at the brutal Terminal Island penitentiary.

Against this backdrop of despondency, we are introduced to a hard working, yet recently jobless, steel worker named Jensen Ames (Statham) who has a loving family and cosy home. Well, at least until his wife winds up on the receiving end of a butcher knife and Ames find himself convicted for her murder and sent to Terminal Island. Once there, his past experience as a NASCAR champion makes him an ideal candidate to take part in “Death Race”, with the prison’s flint-hearted warden Hennessey (3-time Academy Award nominee Joan Allen, kids!) promising freedom and custody of his daughter if he can win one measly race. So, the poor sap concedes and, under the masked identity of deceased champion Frankenstein, is given a dedicated pit crew (led by Ian McShane), a navigator from, I’m guessing, the Maxim Magazine sponsored women’s prison (Natalie Martinez) and a nasty arch rival named Machine Gun Joe (Tyrese Gibson). From this point onwards it’s a race to the finish, filled with bullets, napalm and good ol’ fashioned car-nage. (Cringe-inducing pun intended!)

I knew going in to Death Race that I was walking into a sensory assault of concussive idiocy, and sweet Suicide Sally that’s exactly what I got! There’s not a single moment in Death Race that isn’t gloriously over-the-top. Bodies explode, cars are flattened like pancakes and Jason Statham grimaces, sweats and swears. Anderson has crafted an entertaining throwback to the 80’s tough-guy flicks, where overkill, obscenity and unintentional homo-eroticism were measured out in equal portions and injected into cookie-cutter storylines with larger-than-life personalities. To put it succinctly, Death Race speeds well past stupid and somehow ends up all the way back at awesome.

Jason Statham, for once, deserves kudos. I’ve been pretty hard on the guy in the past. With his battery acid-scorched voice and rugged masculinity, he has the potential to ascend to the pantheon of Action-Gods alongside such names as Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Norris and Seagal. However, instead he’s wasted his gifts in lazy garbage like the Transporter flicks and In The Name Of The King. Fortunately, in Death Race, he has finally found a role that he can exploit to its full iconic potential.

As the main opponent, Tyrese Gibson is a tad underwhelming. He seethes and grimaces, but doesn’t have the level of charisma necessary to make his role work. I’m also not sure why they make a point of mentioning that his character is gay when it never develops into anything. Similarly, Natalie Martinez looks great in her form-fitting wardrobe, but falls far short of being a two-dimensional character.

I do, however, have to give my supreme thanks to Joan Allen’s agent, who obviously dropped the ball, allowing us the delight of seeing her slumming here. She’s pithy and cold, never more entertaining than when she’s quietly uttering grievous threats and ultimatums. Few theatrical moments can compare to witnessing this prestigious talent giving the command to “release the Dreadnought!”.

Anderson shoots his chaos with some real chutzpah, giving his endless race scenes a nice propulsive quality. The races are gritty and exciting, and the aforementioned Dreadnought sequence is a vicious crowd-pleaser. It was a good move to utilize practical effects and stunts over CG, as the action actually looks convincing.

Death Race is rarely coherent, but it has an infectious dumb spirit which surprised and truly entertained me. I’d recommend it to anyone who ecstatically welcomes a Van Damme marathon, and in the oeuvre of Anderson I’d place it above Resident Evil and Alien Vs. Predator, but below Soldier and Mortal Kombat. Make of that what you will.

3 out of 5

Film Review - TROPIC THUNDER: Topic Blundered.

I’m a movie geek. I run this film frenzy of a blog thing. I find Eric Roberts and Robert Davi references amusing. I take immeasurable (and frightening) joy in discussing and reading up on the arcane, the obscure and that which is not worth knowing. With my obsessive and nerdy attitude and passion I was confident that Tropic Thunder would be a revelatory experience. A massive in-joke aimed at pleasing only the most undesirable in society. So, despite finding nothing amusing in a single pre-release trailer or TV spot, I cheerfully took my aisle seat last Sunday afternoon (3pm to be exact) keenly anticipating two hours of clever references and industry-mocking satire. In short, I was very disappointed and am now convinced that Tropic Thunder is the perfect insider film industry satire for people who know very little about the big picture business. Now, before I provide any sort of interesting feedback, let's get the boring plot synopsis out of the way. (I know, I know! But it comes with the territory. At least you don't have to write this stuff!)

Directed by infrequently successful comedy star Ben Stiller, Tropic Thunder attaches its assortment of gags to the threadbare, yet oddly overstated, plot involving the making of the ultimate Vietnam epic. Casting himself as a fading action star, Tugg Speedman to be exact, Stiller is but one of the motley crew who make up the imaginary film. There's also Jeff Portnoy (Jack Black), a heroin addicted comedian whose films chronicle the best and worst that flatulence can offer, artsy, not unlike Russell Crowe, Aussie actor Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr.), who has undergone radical cosmetic surgery to play the film's African American sergeant, Alpa Chino (Brandon T. Jackson), a gangsta-rapper/energy drink entrepreneur actor wannabe and Kevin Sandusky (Jay Baruchel), the proficient hard-working character actor. Behind the scenes are an inexperienced, manic director Damien Cockburn (Steve Coogan), an obscenely enthusiastic special effects guy (Danny McBride), the grizzled writer, Four Leaf Tayback (Nick Nolte), whose book is the basis for the impending production, Tuggman's frat-dude agent (Matthew McConaughey) and last and most definitely least, Les Grossman (Tom Cruise), an vulgar, obese studio exec. Sweet Moses Magnum! We're halfway through this muck. Let's keep on trudgin'!

So anyways, the Tropic Thunder production is serious trouble. Money is being spent by the millions while the actors bungle their scenes and the director grows increasingly frantic. After being threatened with being shutdown, Damien Cockburn decides to go all Francis Ford Coppola and journey into the heart of darkness. Thus, he drops his actors in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle, informing them that their actions will be captured by hidden cameras. After Cockburn is removed from the picture (In a moment I wouldn't dare spoil), the clueless actors wander around the jungle bitching about acting methodology, Hollywood practices and whether or not they are still filming a movie. Stiller's character, the most clueless of the gang, eventually separates himself from the group and winds up captured by heroin smugglers, led by a 12-year-old warlord (Brandon Soo Hoo). Meanwhile, the remaining thespians must overcome their pretentious (and drug-infused in Portnoy's case) tendencies and save the dim-witted Speedman.

H'okay, now that that unpleasantness is behind us, let’s look forward? What'd I think of the damn thing? Well, as I noted above, I was really hoping for an incisive piece of nasty satire. What'd I get? About 40% witty material mixed with 60% lame-duck, dumb humour. Pretty disappointing I have to say! For shame Mr. Stiller! But then, I guess when you have close to $100 mill invested you'd best aim for the cheap seats, or you may find yourself down on your luck and stuck in Night At The Museum 2... Oh wait, never mind...

So what did I like about Tropic Thunder? What made me chortle and guffaw? Well, I loved the opening fake trailers, each of which was a false movie starring one of Tropic Thunder's fictional actors. Downey's artsy gay priest film (co-starring Tobey Maguire) was the most uproarious, but I have to give major credit to Jack Black's The Fatties: Fart 2 spot, which tore a vicious strip off Eddie Murphy's Nutty Professor franchise. Regardless, a great way to open the film. In keeping with the previous comments, a great deal of Tropic Thunder's early material features great jabs at La-La-Land. The film's first 30 mins., which tackles everything from Access Hollywood to condescending feel-good studio fare to dysfunctional sets and actorly whining, is spot-on great stuff. Also, the Vietnam movie spoofs (With a heavy helping of Platoon) and wonderfully cliched music choices had me tittering like an old lady at tea time. I wanted more!

But it was not to be. Unfortunately, once Tropic Thunder's plot falls into place the laughs die a fast and painful death. Thus begins over an hour of clumsy physical humour, a lot of bland riffing and a bizarre over-emphasis on kinetic thrills and explosions. The middle section is particularly aimless and tiresome. Sure there are a few chuckles, delivered mostly by Lazarus' obsessive dedication , Portnoy's heroin-withdrawal and one unfortunate panda, but the film seems to lose its nerve. The sharp satire is replaced with Zoolander-style wackiness. As well, this film (purposely?) bungles almost all of its movie-making moments. At least try to make the film-sets and shooting look authentic. Takes go on too long and are beyond impossibly complex. As well, the film's central conceit, that the actors think they are still in a movie, just doesn't work. Even the most inexperienced of actors would realize that filming with hidden cameras in the jungle is a futile exercise.

At least the actors make the trip (mostly) pleasant. Robert Downey Jr., one of 2008's MVPs, is unquestionably the most hilarious performer in the film. He takes what could be a controversial character and makes him a side-splitting study in well-meaning cultural ignorance. Despite being often difficult to understand, he still manages to walk away with the film. Also great is Jack Black who, despite less solid material as Downey, creates an actual character out of his dope-fiend hack. A scene featuring Portnoy tied to a tree gets one of the film's biggest laughs. Nick Nolte earns laughs simply due to the fact that he literally is a parody nowadays. He plays his role straight, giving lines like "beds give me nightmares" a demented spin. Jay Baruchel, in the thankless straight-man role, is deserving of bigger things. Too bad this film won't get him any. Matthew McConaughey, on the other hand, will likely get some better comedy roles after Thunder. His clueless agent (A role Owen Wilson abandoned) is one of the tougher characters to pull off, and McConaughey makes it look flawless. He even manages to get his lame TIVO jokes to work. That's called "Movie-Star Charisma", folks.

On the lesser side, I have to slap Ben Stiller upside the head. He is never convincing as an action film star (Sylvester Stallone or The Rock would have been better, and braver, choices) and is never able to drop his standard ironic brain-dead dolt routine. He does, however, score a major guffaw in the scenes showing his character's bellyflop film Simple Jack, a sappy tear-jerker about a mentally challenged hero. Many will say this bit is too far-fetched, but anyone who saw the trailers for Cuba Gooding Jr.'s Radio will laugh in recognition. Still, I wish Stiller would drop the dumb routine for once and find a new avenue to channel his performance through.

Also less-than-memorable is Brandon T. Jackson, whose rapper character was a stale target ten years ago, and Danny McBride, who continues to create vacuums of humourlessness in even decent comedies (The Pineapple Express for example). Here his role is kept to a minimum, which was appreciated. And finally, in a much ballyhooed role, Tom Cruise is a pain to watch. Dressed up in Jamie Kennedy's hand-me-downs, the actor rolls around in flop-sweat in a vain attempt to be funny through sheer force of will. Cruise's angry narcissism, effective in dramas and successfully toned down by better directors, is on full display here. His Les Grossman character is an annoying one-note caricature without any sense of spontaneity or cleverness. Cruise has always seemed fairly humourless, and judging from Tropic Thunder, he is also lacking in any sense of comedic timing. As well, his endless dancing scenes are cringe-worthy and embarrassing.

I wish I could recommend Tropic Thunder to y'all, but I can't. As I said right after exiting the theatre: It's extremely hit-or-miss. Unfortunately, more material misses. Too bad, as great Hollywood satires are few and far between. Oh well, in a summer filled with spectacular entertainments that exceeded by expectations, I'm willing to overlook this disappointment. So, my recommendation is to watch sneak in to see the first half-hour of Tropic Thunder before watching The Pineapple Express. More laughs, same ticket price.

...Now, have you heard the latest Robert Davi joke?

2.5 out of 5

P.S.: Personally, I'd recommend you go out and rent Bowfinger, the unfairly overlooked Steve Martin/Eddie Murphy gem, which is infinitely more intelligent, and has far more to say than Tropic Thunder would ever dare dream. Hell, even Kevin Smith's Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back is a superior alternate rental.

Film Review - STAR WARS: THE CLONE WARS: Star Dreck...

Man am I glad I didn't do a "7 Days Of The Bat"-style countdown to Star Wars: The Clone Wars. How demoralizing and pitiful would that have wound up being? I can picture it now: Basking in the glory of the original trilogy, entertained and casually supportive of the prequel trilogy and then... collapsed in a heap of self-pity and overindulgent misery after The Clone Wars, wrapped in a blanket, shaking, single tear drops rolling down my quivering cheeks onto the glossy surface of my autographed Boba Fett photo... Whew, good thing I avoided that heartache! Oh wait, I didn't, I saw The Clone Wars!

Now, I'm a big time Star Wars fan. Used to be a serious die-hard. I consider the original trilogy to be the catalyst for my lifetime of borderline troubling film fanaticism (including this blog!). I even went to Episodes II & III in full Darth Vader regalia. Some would call that sad. I call it the greatest of glories. But then, I'm often an idiot.

Regardless, despite early warning signs, I optimistically took my seat, row 6 centre, ready to be sped off to a galaxy far, far away. The lights darkened. The trailers (Including Harry Potter VI and Bolt) ran their course. And the Warner Bros. logo came up on the screen. What the? That just ain't right! A lifetime of seeing the 20th Century Fox logo has created a Pavlovian response in me in that that particular corporate fanfare immediately draws shivers of geeked-out giddiness. The Warner Bros. logo just made me pause... But then the Lucasfilm logo... Omigod, here it was! BAM! STAR WARS: THE CLONE WARS... with the Star Wars theme played by the most inept, half-assed junior-high band in history. No really, it's groin-kickingly lousy. Obviously John Williams wasn't involved, but couldn't they just use the recordings from the Star Wars library? Apparently not. So, yeah, that hurt. But then we were all collectively denied an opening crawl. Instead, we were "treated" to a breathless Starship Troopers-like narration that brought us up to speed with the galactic events. Which I'll do now.

Taking place after the events of Episode II, the galaxy has become embroiled in a world-shattering conflict between the Galactic Republic's clone troopers and the Trade Federation's droid army. Crime has become widespread as the Jedi forces focus on the battles at hand, and the Hutt clans' crime organization is thriving. In the middle of all this (bland) chaos, Jabba's infant son has been kidnapped by space pirates. Seeing this as an opportunity in gaining access to the Hutt's trade routes, Senator Palpatine (Ian Abercrombie) has ordered the Jedi’s to rescue the squealing slime-bucket in order to win favour with the crime lord. Unfortunately for would-be heroes Anakin (Matt Lander) and early teen padawan Ahsoka Tano (Ashley Eckstein), the whole ordeal is a sinister set-up orchestrated by the nefarious Count Dooku (Christopher Lee) and evil Jedi-killer Asajj Ventress (Nika Futterman) to frame the do-gooders and cast them in a negative light for his royal Bloatedness. Thus, it's up to our resourceful heroes, aided by Obi-Wan Kenobi (James Arnold Taylor) and Yoda (Tom Kane), to foil the Sithian (Is that a word?) plot and restore peace to the, uh... Well, okay that's going a bit far, but they do have to reunite the slug gangster with his precious "Punky Muffin" and get access to those ever-lovin' trade routes.

As a central story, what The Clone Wars offers up isn't unreasonably bad. Sure, a bit dull and dry (Trade routes, separatists... What's up with these Prequel-based films centered on issues ripped from a C-SPAN news crawl?), but with enough zip and a liberal application of Force-like creative invention, a tale ripe with fun possibilities. Too bad ol' George Lucas and director Dave Filoni have gone out of their way to deliver a condescending load of kiddie-pandering tripe. If I follow this pathway it's just going to lead to relentless bile-spewing so let's just do a countdown of the ten worst offences in The Clone Wars:

10) The music is, as previously hinted at, hopeless. However, at least the opening number is a woeful attempt at capturing the magic of the previous films. Past that introduction though, the film is filled with generic (yet trendy) hard-rock guitar chugging nonsense with hints of Middle Eastern melody. It's forgettable at best and infuriating at its worst.

9) The animation, while not horribly offensive, lacks the dynamics to bring these characters to life. I often felt like I was watching a bad episode of the Thunderbirds TV show. No one should have to suffer through that.

8) Rotta "Punky Muffin" the Hutt. Lord knows, everyone loves a wailing infant who makes coo-eyes at the camera every flippin' second. Old Stinky, as he is frequently called, is the worst kind of offender. A creation who exists only to be "adorable" and sell stuffed toys. I hope Hutt's eat their young and I can be treated to a future viewing of Jabba remorselessly sucking Stinky down his diseased gullet.

7) The action scenes are never-ending. They basically consist of 20 minute barrages of watching swarms of laser fire, wise-cracking droids, explosions and anonymous partakers erupt in flames. I felt like I was watching someone play a really stupid video-game (Though that would be pretty much all of them.).

6) There is no suspense. We know who will live and thus there is no tension is any moments of peril. Will Count Dooku meet a grisly end? Can Anakin survive this unprecedented threat? *Yawns*.

5) Ziro the Hutt (Pictured below-left). A purple, feather-wearing, tattooed and pieced, flamboyant blob with a gay southern gentleman's drawl introduced with sleazy lounge music. It's like Monsieur Lucas read up on all the Jar Jar/Ewok hate and declared "Wait'll they see what I can come up with next!” Every single Ziro scene was met with squeals of disbelieving laughter at my screening. This flaming queen sets homosexual stereotypes back ten years to the days of John Leguizamo playing Chi Chi Rodriguez.

4) A disjointed and often bizarre plot. New plotlines are abandoned and begun at almost random points. And by the 30-minute mark I was so worn down by computer-animated carnage that I didn't really care. I did, however, love Padme's arbitrary introduction and story twist around the 70-minute mark. I'd forgotten she even existed. I was slightly troubled by the amount of effort the animators seemed to put into making her booty slammin' on an intergalactic scale. Notice that they never miss a chance to flaunt it either... I can only imagine what was going on in the feverish minds of some of the more... enthusiastic fans.

3) There are few things worse that annoying characters referring to each other with "clever" nicknames. Having Ahsoka refer to Anakin as Sky-guy, while conversely being addressed as Snips was nothing short of eye-rolling.

2) The dialogue. Anyone who complained about the often stolid dialogue in the prequel trilogy should sit through this clinker, where characters only talk in exposition and bland declarations. "Look out for that missile!", "You woke up the baby!", "Get out of my way!", "We have to save them!", etc. Do people actually get paid for writing this sort of standard drivel? Yup, and well too.

1) Ahsoka Tano (Pictured left-above with Anakin). My lord. Whose bright idea was it to create this abomination of misguided youthful "hipness"? The sass-talk and Valley girl voice apparently weren't distracting enough, so the creative team decided to jailbait-her-up by dressing her in a micro-skirt and tube top, with frequent nipple issues that would make Joel Schumacher weep with pervy gratitude. So, instead of being a positive female role-model she's a skanky-looking, irritating wrecking ball of a character who pummels almost every single scene into the ground like a Bantha stampede. That she is arguably the lead character is a sign of how awful this debacle is. Hopefully, she too winds up in Jabba's fodder trough at some point in the near future.

For all the reasons above, plus an ending that is anything but satisfying, it pains me to say that The Clone Wars is a disaster (Minus a somewhat well-staged vertical battle scene, a few cool slow-mo space ship scenes and some nifty Jawa moments). Last year I kicked around Transformers, calling it cynical drivel that exemplified the worst that big studio movie making can vomit up. Well, that's The Clone Wars in a nutshell. It's obvious that no one truly loved making this junk, and so we can be forgiven for hating it in return. The fact that it's a precursor to an impending TV series does little to ease the pain. At this point, I can see very few people tuning in. Myself included.

Remember a few years back when we would fantasize what the Clone Wars were all about? Now that I know, I long for that blissful ignorance. Thanks George, you've had a hell of a summer.

1 out of 5

Film Review - THE MUMMY: TOMB OF THE DRAGON EMPEROR: Mummy Weariest...

Puking yaks and John Hannah... Holy Imhotep, it can only mean one thing: That The Mummy franchise has once again skulked into theatres, dragging a kicking and screaming Brendan Fraser along with it. Now, most of us assumed that Fraser and co. had ridden off into the sunset at the end of the gleefully moronic The Mummy Returns, a film that defied logical criticisms. Jeez, it starred The Rock’s head grafted onto a lobster tail for the love of Karloff! But, when summertime money (and pre-writer’s strike frenzy) calls, Universal will deliver. And deliver they have, a stupendous wonder of creative brain damage epically titled The Mummy: Tomb Of The Dragon Emperor.

I just want to go on the record as saying that the following paragraph or two will likely be the most idiotic string of sentences I ever type. *Ahem*... The plot of the third Mummy film begins with an epilogue of subtly racist silliness detailing the rule of the megalomaniacal Emperor Han (Jet Li for about 10 mins, 1’s & 0’s for the rest), who sought to destroy... freedom. Anyways, having mastered the elements, he longed for immortality so he could, um, continue his anti-freedom campaign. After seeking the aid of the local witch Zi Juan (Michelle Yeoh), Emperor Han fell in love with the sexy spell-caster, but was heart-broken upon the discovery that she was carrying on a love affair with his right-hand man Ming Guo (Russell Wong). Taking the “Bro’s Before Ho’s” rule very seriously, Emperor Han had Ming murdered. However before he could off Zi Juan, she cast a spell that turned him and his entire army into Nestle Chocolate... Er... stone.

Flash forward a whole bunch of years, and we find our heroes from the first two Mummy instalments, Rick and Evelyn O’Connell (Brendan Fraser & Maria Bello) bored out of their minds in retirement. While Evelyn pens successful romance novels based on their previous adventures, Rick impales himself in the neck with fly-fishing lures (Funnier imagined than actually seen, trust me). When their rebellious son Alex (Luke Ford), who has skipped out of college and become an intrepid archaeologist, discovers the tomb of Emperor Han, Rick and Evelyn are, through means too convoluted to explain, reunited with their son and involved in Han’s resurrection into a walking, fire-tossing, face-chucking menace. Aided by Evelyn’s frenetic brother Jonathan (John Hannah) and a “mysterious” Asian ninja-girl (Isabella Leong), the O’Connell’s endeavour to stop Emperor Han from raising his undead army and becoming an unstoppable force capable of wiping the land of, you guessed it, freedom! ...I swear those story meetings must have been an alcohol-fuelled gas!

Look, I don’t expect brilliance from this series. I don’t even expect coherence! But where The Mummy: Tomb Of The Dragon Emperor goes wrong is that it fails to improve upon a single aspect of the prior two films. Hell, they couldn’t even be bothered getting a mummy this time around. Emperor Han is cursed, yes, but not actually mummified by any stretch of the imagination.


Now, I’d forgive this slight if there was anything worthwhile up on the screen, but director Rob Cohen (XXX, Stealth, Fast & The Furious) is so bankrupt for ideas that his flop-sweat stains the screen. He has millions of dollars at his disposal, a willing cast and the limits of his imagination, and what does he accomplish? A battle between Han’s army and the undead Great Wall builders that rips off the climactic war at the close of The Mummy Returns, the Emperor turning into King Ghidorah from the Godzilla pictures, a brief and underwhelming glance at Shangri-La that looks like a Windows ’95 screensaver and an ineptly staged martial arts dust-up between Jet Li and Michelle Yeoh that looks like it was shot on Ritalin. And while his battle scenes are epic in scope, they are also clumsily filmed and hard to follow. It’s as if Cohen mounted his camera to the top of a pogo-stick and bounced around the set, drunk on hyperactive merriment (and God knows what else). In fact, that single mental image is more entertaining that anything the film has to offer.

...Though it does have yetis! Yetis who are introduced almost arbitrarily into a major action scene with little explanation. Looking like giant CG house-cats, they leap and tumble all over the snowy Himalayan set and, in their proudest moment, after having kicked a baddie through goalpost-shaped architecture, excitedly make the “It’s Good!” football arm gesture. A bunch of hams, they are. Yet(i), why couldn’t they have been used for something interesting? Being nothing but a Plot Device, they help our heroes, then retreat. What a waste...

Despite all the lunacy, I have to give a lot of credit to Brendan Fraser. Homeboy knows how to hit his marks and appear to be involved with the nonsense around him. Whether taking pratfalls off tree-branches or shooting a fireworks-bazooka at Emperor Han, the guy is flawless. Even his lines, which range from hokey to head-slapping, are handled with aplomb and gusto. He’s the strength behind the series, and a major reason for my continued attendance (other than masochism).

Rachel Weisz, the lovely female lead of the first two is gone, and Maria Bello is a poor replacement. Despite good physicality in the action scenes, she’s too tough looking and stumbles over a British accent that veers into New Zealander and Australian territory. She says things like “This is going to be Haaaaaaaaaaaahd!”. Her rigidity and continuous stream of vocal perversions definitely hurt the sexiness of her character. Mummies are the only thing gettin’ raised in her presence, if ya catch my drift. I can’t believe I just wrote that... Look at what you made me do, Miss Bello.

Michelle Yeoh is acceptable, and manages to say unspeakable lines like “The Yetis will help us!” and make them sound convincing. The same more or less goes for Isabella Leong, Alex O’Connell’s love interest with a secret. She’s pleasant and tries her best with haphazard material. On the opposite corner, Luke Ford is the president of Blandsville. The 27-year-old Australian actor looks more like Fraser’s brother than son, and uses a weird Matt Damon impression in an attempt to be ruggedly endearing. Instead, he’s a like a 1940’s frat-boy, without charisma or personality. While Fraser can spin gold with C-level material, Ford is like a baboon rubbing sticks together. John Hannah’s role can be summed up in two words: Yak Vomit. The actor, cast as comic relief, has nothing funny to say and instead minces around frantically ("Spank my bum!") when not having heart-to-hearts with a yak named Gertrude. I’d critique Jet Li’s performance if he gave one, but he’s simply a marketing gimmick like the Rock was. His few on-screen moments are flat and lack any sense of menace or danger.

I’m well-aware that no one is going to go to see The Mummy: Tomb Of The Dragon Emperor for anything other than mindless entertainment (I hope). However, this has been a summer filled with great entertainments and creatively fulfilling blockbusters. If you must see a brain-dead action-extravaganza, go see Wanted! And if you’re too young for that one, read a book or rent Clash Of The Titans or Army Of Darkness. They’re infinitely funnier, goofily exciting and more imaginative than anything here. Despite a really lame sequel-set-up (“Mummies were soon found in Peru!”), I think it’s time to wrap this series up. And bury it. Where not even Brendan Fraser can find it...

1.5 out of 5

Film Review - THE DARK KNIGHT: A "Knight" To Remember.

We all knew The Dark Knight was on its way. The viral marketing and media-fuelled hype guaranteed that even the peaceful fish-mongers of Bora-Bora were smearing lipstick across their lips and asking each other “Why so serious?”. We’ve followed each new superhero entry this summer, surprised each time at what well made entertainments they’ve been (Except Hancock). But there was no way that The Dark Knight would be able to withstand the hype-driven frenzy and deliver on the scale that Hellboy II and Iron Man did, was there?

Well, imagine my thankful surprise when The Dark Knight, helmed by returning director Christopher Nolan, blew past my sky-rocketed expectations akin to the Batmobile charging through the Axis Chemicals factory. I apologize for the esoteric reference, but this is a film that had every neuron of my movie-nerd/Batman-fanatic brain exploding like Canada Day fireworks.

The Dark Knight is a gritty, epic-sized crime story that dispenses with almost all of the established strengths of Batman Begins, leaving only the central cast and a few remaining story bits. Now we are reintroduced to a much brighter and realistic Gotham City, which looks suspiciously like Chicago. Crime has been on the low since Bruce Wayne, posing as the shadowy Batman, (Christian Bale) took on the job of city watchdog, and the recent arrival of hot-shot District Attorney Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart) holds great promise for a prosperous future.

However, a new threat has emerged in the form of a shuffling, tongue-wagging psychopathic clown, with a telephone-pervert voice, known only as the Joker (Heath Ledger). Aligning himself with the desperate remainder of Gotham’s mob leaders, Joker, who lacks any desire for superficial profiteering, is determined to reduce Gotham City to a state of pure chaos and anarchy. Why? Because it’s just SO much fun, silly! To combat the problem, Batman, the diligent Lieutenant Gordon (Gary Oldman) and golden-boy D.A. Dent create a union to work towards capturing the Joker and restoring order to their increasingly frenzied city. They are aided, in varying degrees (and often unknowingly), by Bruce’s former love interest (And Harvey’s current squeeze) Assistant A.D. Rachel Dawes (Maggie Gyllenhaal – taking over for Begins’ Katie Holmes), Bruce’s loyal butler Alfred (Michael Caine) and Wayne Corp. president Lucius Fox (Morgan Freeman).

Co-writer/director Christopher Nolan uses these events, and expertly illustrated characters, as a means to explore serious moral and ethical ideas regarding justice and power. Batman may have noble intentions, but he is also a magnet for deranged lunatics who will only further hurt the people that he has sworn to protect. As well, the relationship between him, Gordon and Dent has shades of The Treasure of The Sierra Madre in how a pact between assenting minds can lead to tragedy and unfortunate ethical compromises. There is a lot of action, including a spectacularly explosive French Connection-inspired chase (with the best physical and CG effects I’ve seen in eons), in The Dark Knight, but there are also negative repercussions associated with it, and Nolan doesn’t shrink away from putting his characters through emotional and physical pain. There are few great triumphs here, in fact the end results fall more into semi-failure territory. Yet, Nolan underscores the importance in the moral victory underneath the apparent misfortune. The ending, a bleak development, is more satisfying that most action films, as we feel like we’ve taken a journey through the character’s psyches and fully comprehend the themes and ethical resolutions that Nolan is imparting. Harvey Dent's line "The night is always darkest before the dawn" might as well be Nolan's mission statement, as everyone is going to suffer beyond their wildest dreams on the path to redemption and growth.

And yet, despite all the moody heaviness, The Dark Knight is the most exhilarating movie-going experience of the summer. Credit has to go to Heath Ledger, who has created the definitive portrait of the Joker. Unlike Jack Nicholson, who provided an amped-up exaggeration of his own bad-boy persona, Ledger simply disappears underneath the matted on grease-paint. His Joker is terrifying and blackly funny (His “Magic Disappearing Pencil Trick” is a moment of shocking virtuoso genius), a “dog chasing cars” who casts a spell on the audience every time he prowls into frame. His final scene, which effortlessly captures the truth behind his and Batman’s relationship is an exhausting, yet inspired success. I don’t feel I’m going too far into hyperbole-land in stating that he is a classic villain for the ages, alongside Darth Vader, The Wicked Witch of the West, Norman Bates and Hannibal Lecter. You just wait and see.

Christian Bale continues to erase painful memories of George Clooney and Val Kilmer. He makes us experience the internal turmoil of Bruce/Batman, and feel his frustrations – Especially in the film’s best scene, a captivating interrogation room scuffle between him and Joker. Special attention must also go to Aaron Eckhart, who makes Harvey Dent’s fall from grace positively heart-breaking. It was a masterstroke to build the central narrative around Harvey Dent, as the added exposure builds up our trust and faith in the character, making his physical and emotional damage Shakespearean in scope and effect. Eckhart, as Two-Face, doesn’t give as showy a performance as Ledger, but it is still an equally riveting creation.

Gary Oldman, the most unfairly ignored of the central cast, gives an equally powerful understated performance. His Jim Gordon is sturdy and overburdened, and we can feel the weight dragging him down. He is the true source of strength in the picture, and the most relatable to the audience. Also, Maggie Gyllenhaal adds an affecting gravitas to her Rachel Dawes. We can understand why both Bale and Dent are attracted to her brainy resourcefulness, and why her fateful developments are so powerful. Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman have the thankless jobs of exposition readers, but handle the chore with aplomb. Caine has some inspired moments involving a sensitive letter, as well as a terrific monologue regarding an unconventional bandit.

Attempting to explain the magnificence of The Dark Knight in such an economical number of words is nearly impossible. It’s among the finest works of recent mainstream cinematic art I’ve witnessed, and easily the most intellectually fascinating entry in the ever-broadening genre of superhero films. I’m actually nervous about how Nolan will (If he comes back) be able to even come close to matching the quality and inventiveness seen in The Dark Knight. I’ve seen it twice now, and each time I’ve emerged from the theatre tingling with excitement, in a state of wondrous awe. ...And with a big smile plastered across my Joker-loving face.

5 out of 5

P.S.: I love how Nolan keeps resurrecting washed-up former tough-guys for these films. First it was Rutger Hauer in Begins, now Eric Roberts! I think it's time to bring my homeboy Steven Seagal in for part 3!