Film Review - LAKEVIEW TERRACE: Solid Foundation, Shaky Design.

Call me crazy, but nobody plays frustrated emasculation like Patrick Wilson. Over the past few years, he has been steadily gathering a stable of hopelessly ineffectual middle-class guys who are backed into a corner by dominant opposing forces. The suburban husband arrested development case in the astonishing Little Children, overshadowed by successful wife Jennifer Connelly and paralyzingly reluctant about stepping into the adult world. The smirky pedophile unwittingly trapped in would-be victim Ellen Page’s sinister mind-games in the squirm-inducing Hard Candy. And 2009 will see him, in perhaps the penultimate Wilson role, as the impotent crime-fighter Night Owl in the eagerly anticipated adaptation of Alan Moore’s Watchmen.

So try to understand my enjoyment in watching the future star’s misery this time around, being metaphorically (and sometimes literally) slapped around the screen by that unconquerable figure of alpha-maleness, Samuel L. Jackson, in the semi-successful new thriller, Lakeview Terrace.

Set in an upper-middle class suburban neighborhood in forest-fire plagued L.A., Lakeview Terrace features Sam Jackson as Abel Turner, a hard-edged police officer who runs the streets, as well as his single-parent household, with a combustible mix of intimidation and fierce vigilance. An ever-present watchdog over his proud neighborhood, Turner is none-to-pleased when inter-racial married couple Chris and Lisa Mattson (Wilson and Kerry Washington) move in next door. Beneath a subtle veil of hostility, Turner begins making things uncomfortable for the new homeowners with everything from subtle annoyances (parking tickets, intrusive security lights and disparaging racial comments) to vicious verbal attacks and homicidal behavior.

…But then, we’ve all been around this block a few times before. Perhaps titles like Strangers On A Train, Unlawful Entry, Single White Female or The Hand That Rocks The Cradle pop into our heads, clueing us into the fact that we’ve once again entered the ol’ “Psycho Stalker” genre, in which decent people are endlessly tormented by an unstoppable force of menace.

At the very least, screenwriters David Loughery and Howard Korder have mixed things up a bit by honing on the subject of racial prejudice, and in Abel Turner they’ve created an interesting antagonist. Turner is furious over white America’s adoption and subsequent perversions of African-American culture, tired of seeing people like Chris Mattson sleepwalk their way into prosperity while he risks his life on a daily basis and, most of all, he’s resentful of his own place in society. Jackson is most fascinating when he lets his self-loathing seep to the surface like vitriolic ooze, especially in an alcohol-fueled bar-stool confessional, or engaged in a tense breakfast table stand-off with his two young children. His hurt is palpable, occasionally even truthful, and he poses some interesting moral questions.

Patrick Wilson is his perfect counterpart, a liberal yuppie, who often seems almost childlike in his inability to deal with the crises around him. His inability to deal with his wife’s desire to start a family or her over-bearing father (Ron Glass, masterfully imposing in his two short scenes) feed into his venomous conflict with Abel, who knows exactly how to tear down his confidence.

Director Neil LaBute, who previously made the ultimate filmic statement on monstrous male egos with In The Company of Men, understands that these two dueling lions are Lakeview’s core (Indeed, Kerry Washington’s Lisa is mostly relegated to whining and looking angry/hurt, minus a few edgy moments with Jackson), and for the most part he just lets them circle each other. It’s only in the latter third of the film, when the thriller aspects get amped up to ludicrous heights, that we’re reminded that LaBute also gave us The Wicker Man, my most oft-cited film of late. The film’s tumultuous fist-and-firearm show-down, as well as a ridiculous shot of a character in a Christ-like pose, deflate the film’s tension and honest intentions.

As far as suspense films go, Lakeview Terrace does its job and manages to sneak in a few surprise punches. It’s somewhat refreshing to attend a mainstream star vehicle that manages to inject some interesting moral conundrums and social criticism and not appear too simple-minded or patronizing.

Still, it would be nice, just once, to see a “Psycho Stalker” film that doesn’t end with battered sweaty people screaming at one another to “put the gun down”?

3.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Sept 29, 2008.

Film Review - RIGHTEOUS KILL: Dead On Arrival.

I’m pretty sure that director Jon Avnet is in leagues with the Dark Lord himself. And not the seductive, amiable type like Harvey Keitel in Little Nicky or Jack Nicholson in The Witches Of Eastwick, either. No, I mean the serious Tim Curry-in-Legend-type of badass who hates us all and yearns to make mankind (and Tom Cruise) suffer beyond all comprehension.

How else to explain how Avnet, after conjuring up box-office duds with Kevin Costner, Richard Gere and Robert Redford, was allowed to escape TV purgatory and direct two Al Pacino vehicles? Short-term memories will recall that their first collaboration birthed the critically body-slammed, audience-ignored 88 Minutes (which, oddly enough, ran 108 minutes). Now, suckering Robert De Niro into showing up, their second has arrived, the pathetic serial-killer groaner Righteous Kill.

Set in gritty New York, Righteous Kill clumsily starts off by introducing us to two veteran homicide cops nicknamed Rooster (Pacino) and Turk (De Niro), who are out to bust a gangsta drug-dealer played by, *sigh*, Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson. However, just as their investigation into the dealings of Mr. G-Unit, P.I.M.P. is heating up, known criminals start violently shuffling off the mortal coil. Seems a killer is offing the worst of the worst, and he might just be a cop. Thus, the old-timers are teamed up with two younger detectives (John Leguizamo and Donnie Wahlberg) and, aided by De Niro’s slutty CSI friend-with-benefits (Carla Gugino), attempt to discover the identity of the perp.

Right off the bat, Righteous Kill knee-caps itself by revealing what a wasted opportunity it is. De Niro and Pacino are the most treasured actors of their generation, who have only appeared in two films together, The Godfather: Part II and Heat, and only actually shared scenes in the latter. Any film that pairs the two of them together better earn their presence. Yet instead, Avnet and writer Russell Gewirtz (Who wrote the infinitely cooler Inside Man), saddle the two greats with buddy-cop dialogue so awful that your soul dies a little bit just hearing it. I’m talking Brady Bunch references and icky, awkward sex chat. They feel less like partners than tired actors sleepwalking their way through the scene on the way to the catering truck.

What is even worse is how amazingly dull the whole mystery is. We’re told right away who the guilty party “supposedly” is, and then must slog through ninety lifeless minutes watching this person do everything they can to look blameworthy, before being exonerated in an arbitrary last minute twist that defies all the evidence the film has provided. Real storytellers hide clues right in front of you and weave their mystery with skill and precision. Hacks like Avnet and co. put on kid-gloves and treat the audience with contempt.

If only the cast had gone gonzo with the lame material. De Niro, looking comically bloated, relies on grimacing his way through every single scene, while Pacino does his typical world-weary routine (except in a hilarious climactic moment when his stunt double steps in and he turns into a coiled jungle-cat).

Poor Carla Gugino tries valiantly, but her role is so needlessly degrading as to be offensive. Supporting players Leguizamo and Wahlberg seem to be on downers, and manage to appear more lethargic than the stars, though Wahlberg does have one good memorably awful moment wondering aloud “is he killing time? Or is it... killing time?”

There is, in all honesty, not a single thing I can recommend about Righteous Kill. It’s amateurishly shot, tedious and ugly, with as many holes as Pacino wore at the end of Scarface. I beg you, avoid this sucker like Maple Leaf deli meat and help send the malevolence known as Jon Avnet back to whence he came. It’s the righteous thing to do.

1 out of 5

*Originally published in SFU's The Peak: Sept 22nd.

Film Review - BURN AFTER READING: Plenty Of Smoke, But Not Much Fire.

Hello all. If you don’t mind, I’d like to preface my review of Joel and Ethan Coen’s latest film, Burn After Reading, with a joke that will hopefully tickle your funny-bones.

*Ahem*

So, a guy walks into a bar. It’s in Chicago, and it’s raining hard outside. Now, the guy is wearing a gray overcoat, with a battered fedora and nerdy glasses. He’s an accountant. Anyways, the guy takes off his coat and hangs it on a crooked coat-rack and walks up to the bartender, who’s about 60. The bartender is nervously reaching for the telephone, but the guy doesn’t see that. So, the guy looks at him and says: “What do you recommend for a wet accountant?” The barman looks him up and down, and says “whiskey on the rocks”. The guy drinks it and leaves.

The above anecdote best explains how I felt walking out of Burn After Reading, an anarchic ensemble comedy that jerks and shoves the audience through a litany of plot twists and turns only to deposit them, breathless and impatient, back into their seats, pat them on the head and inform them that the punch–line is that there isn’t one. Thanks for coming folks, don’t forget your jackets on your way out.

Burn After Reading relies more on a complex scenario than a plotline: a recently unemployed CIA agent named Osborne Cox (John Malkovich) has heatedly retired from the spook game and decided to write his memoirs. This decision exasperates his icy wife, Katie (Tilda Swinton), who has been conducting an affair with married serial philanderer/treasury agent Harry Pfarrer (George Clooney) and is determined that each of them divorce their current partners in the interest of a more socially acceptable union. Meanwhile, Osborne's book project has turned into an vengeful expose of his former employers. In preperation, he has created a CD-ROM of top-secret figures and statistics which, through fateful circumstances, ends up in the hands of dense personal trainer Chad Feldheimer (Brad Pitt) and vain, insecure Linda Litzke (Frances McDormand), employees of a local gym called Hardbodies.

Through an unimaginable series of absurd coincidences involving the aforementioned CD, as well as torrid affairs, each of these characters find themselves, often obliviously, caught up in a seemingly high-stakes game of espionage that makes so little sense that the Coens provide a pair of G-men, played by J.K. Simmons and David Rasche, to lend voice to the audience’s bewilderment.

Now, this isn’t the first time that the Coen brothers have played around with the concept of randomness and meandering narratives. Remember that the duo won Oscars last February for the brilliant No Country For Old Men, a far deeper and challenging film than Burn After Reading. More importantly, however, they were the masterminds behind the 1997 cult-classic The Big Lebowski, which introduced us to the Dude (Jeff Bridges), and plugged him into a film noir plot that was as hazy as his own mindset. Well, Burn After Reading can best be described as a less-ambitious Lebowski with spy-thriller conventions and unlikably needy characters.

Still, there are a few delights along the twisty way. Brad Pitt, an actor whom, despite his popularity, often seems as lively as balsa-wood on screen, is having a ball here and makes Chad a dim-wittedly brilliant creation. Most of the laughs in the film result from his delirious idiocy, especially in a goofy scene with Malkovich in a car, where Pitt tries to intimidate the furious former agent with ludicrous eye-squinting and tough-guy attitude. Pitt is fully committed throughout, and I found myself having flashbacks to his ace comedy-relief in True Romance. Someone get this guy a meeting with Judd Apatow, stat!

Equally amusing is J.K. Simmons, who you’ll recall from Juno and the Spider-Man series, as the befuddled CIA supervisor who, in two gang-buster scenes, mutters and shakes his head in disbelief over the increasingly jumbled plot developments.

I was also amused by the musical contributions of Carter Burwell, who overlays the tiresome lunacy with cheekily hard-edged thriller music, which establishes the intended espionage-genre satire.

But aside from these simply joys, I found myself blankly staring at an often lifeless patch-work of missed opportunities. It seems as though the Coens, so intent on crafting a droll cinematic F-U to the audience forgot to write anything very funny for their all-star cast to say. Pros like McDormand, Malkovich, Swinton, Richard Jenkins and Clooney are working hard, but haven’t much witty to say or do. And the mid-film introduction of a particular... apparatus is amusing, but missing the necessary punch to make it classic.

It’s kind of dispiriting to watch the massively talented Coen brothers deliver tired sardonic statements when they have so much more to offer. Burn After Reading is an okay ironic in-joke, but as a film it’s the equivalent of having Porky Pig sputter “TH-TH-TH-THAT’S ALL FOLKS!” at the end of the second act.

2 out of 5

*Originally published in SFU's The Peak: Sept 22nd.

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