Film Review - THE HUNGER GAMES

The Hunger Games is a good story in desperate need of a workable screenplay. An adaptation of the juggernaut young adult publishing phenomenon by Suzanne Collins, it’s yet another troubling entry in an increasingly long line of book-to-film translations – including Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows Part 1 and the Twilight sequels - that forsake narrative coherence, pace and energy in favour of slavish devotion to fans of the source material. This isn’t really a stand-alone movie, so much as a cinematic companion piece for readers. I strongly recommend bringing one of them with you, should you be one of the uninitiated. Because boy, oh boy, are you going to have questions by the time the credits finally roll.

Set in an undetermined time in the relatively near future, The Hunger Games depicts a twisted, shattered North American society where a debauched government picks one boy and girl from each of the surrounding 12 poor districts and pits them against each other in deadly, rigged reality TV combat. The fighters, or “tributes,” are set loose in elaborate battle grounds to form alliances and kill their peers in order to emerge sole survivor. The ensuing sacrifices act not only as a grim reminder of the years of turbulent rebellion that scarred the land, but also as a form of grand entertainment, providing hope to the masses struggling to endure the impoverished day-to-day toil of their bleak lives.

Chief among the contestants in this 74th annual edition is Katniss Everdeen (the lovely and transcendently gifted Jennifer Lawrence), an independent, resolute-minded teenage citizen of District 12 who volunteers in place of her cherished younger sister. Paired with sheepish potential showmance mate Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson), she’s transported to the decadent, fashion-obsessed Capitol – a nauseating circus of fascistic, Roman and French aristocratic imagery crossbred with bubble-gum 80s rock posturing – and run through a gambit of promotional appearances and training under the tutelage of alcoholic former champion Haymitch Abernathy (Woody Harrelson). The pampering and glamour proves terribly short-lived, though, as Katniss, Peeta and their 22 fellow competitors are soon let loose in a dense, unforgiving forest, armed with swords, bows, knives and an intense, animalistic drive to stay alive.

Given his penchant for penning light-hearted, mainstream-friendly fare like Seabiscuit, Big and Dave, helmer Gary Ross wouldn’t exactly seem the right man to properly service material this fierce. However, one need look no further than his 1998 directorial debut, the under-seen gem Pleasantville, to witness his skill at telling a tale about teenagers inspiring revolution against a strict, conformist authority. While he often feels adrift in this awkward, meandering affair, his spark of ingenuity still reveals itself when it counts. The early Reaping Day scene – in which Katniss is enlisted – is a chilling echo of Shirley Jackson’s classic short story “The Lottery,” and a quiet, sombre sequence where Katniss mourns the death of a friend is delicately handled. He also does a solid job building to the main event, with Katniss’s entertainingly bizzarro trip to the Capitol (slightly hindered by dodgy CG and obvious soundstage work). Too bad, then, that once chaos reigns, he’s hamstrung on how to make the games exciting. There’s no momentum or ticking clock urgency to the competition, and the brutal clashes are rendered in often horrendous eyesore bursts of shaky-cam obnoxiousness.

Of course, Ross’s most egregious problems lie in The Hunger Games shambling script. Co-penned by author Collins and Billy Ray (Breach, State of Play), this is a film that bombards the audience with exposition, usually through Stanley Tucci’s amusing blue-coiffed MC, yet fails to paint a comprehensive picture of its world. What does a Hunger Games winner actually win? Why is it so vital for contestants to please sponsors when there’s little evidence of their aid actually impacting the game in any real way? How are Peeta’s bakery-honed (!) super-strength and ninja camouflage abilities at all necessary? And let’s not get started on the vicious unexplained surprise guests in the picture’s climax! Doubtlessly, these elements made perfect sense in the original text, but on-screen they’re confusing and silly, if not utterly pointless. Even more aggravating is the absence of depth in Katniss’s opponents, several of which play major roles and whose deaths have serious ramifications. It’s pretty hard to care about a competition in which only two participants are given a personality and arc, not to mention memorable names. The film also, despite running nearly 2 ½ hours, feels rushed in the back end, as if the scribes were trying to jam everything in on their mad dash to the end. Events just seem to happen one after another, with zero breathing room. And the less said about the limp, semi-cliffhanger ending the better.

Perhaps the picture’s wheezy plot machinations might have been easier to ignore if the film had something truly bold to say. The use of televised death matches as a means of criticizing grotesque reality TV sensationalism is hardly a new thing (Death Race 2000, Running Man and Series 7: The Contenders already covered similar terrain), and neither, thanks to Kinji Fukasaku’s masterful Battle Royale, is the notion of kids being forced into committing heinous acts by a cruel, totalitarian Big Brother. By contrast, The Hunger Games, which is aimed at a younger demographic than the aforementioned titles, doesn’t seem fully committed to edging into any sort of bracing moral grey area. The youthful fighters practically step onto the field wearing Good and Bad labels (no examples are made of a player being gradually corrupted by the games), and Katniss isn’t forced into having to intensely consider deliberate murder; the choices are predominantly made for her. Moreover, the adults controlling the gruesome spectacle seem largely ambivalent to it all. Harrelson and Kravitz show fondness towards the heroine, yet aren’t visibly haunted by their roles in her potential demise. The film skirts intriguing thematic territory without ever quite building up the guts to dive headlong in and say anything genuinely original.

To her infinite credit, Jennifer Lawrence not only delivers a dynamic, layered, physical lead turn, but actually succeeds in carrying the entire picture on her toned shoulders. Simultaneously exuding stubborn inner-strength and frightened vulnerability, the actress digs down right to the emotional truth of her character and commands the screen effortlessly. She’s particularly excellent when playing off the surly, campy Harrelson and a warm Lenny Kravitz (as a nurturing stylist), especially in her poignant final minutes of freedom before entering the arena. If Winter’s Bone – a film The Hunger Games often seems to be paying homage to in Katniss’s early home life – established Lawrence as a dramatic powerhouse, this picture rightfully launches her into the stratosphere of movie stardom.

Make no mistake: Lawrence is the dominant draw, well above the modestly interesting ideas, performances and individual scenes swirling around this slightly bland, lukewarm sci-fi soup. This is a picture that cries out for braver filmmakers; people willing to make big sacrifices and alterations, and able to refine Collins’s beloved novel into a clear, proficient piece of populist cinema with its own vision and value. Although The Hunger Games is not without its minor pleasures, ultimately it only leaves you wanting more when it’s over. And not in the way you’d hope.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - JOHN CARTER

Ever since Pirates of the Caribbean unexpectedly morphed into a multi-billion dollar juggernaut Walt Disney Pictures has been on a tear to unearth a new live-action tentpole franchise capable of attracting young males to the multiplex by the horde. So far, this questionable business objective has motivated the company to foolishly squander bordering-on-obscene resources on the synthetic, terribly written blockbuster non-starters The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, The Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time and Tron: Legacy, to little financial gain. For a company famed for harnessing the limitless potential of imagination and awing audiences of all ages, these failures were more than a little embarrassing. After all, it’s darn hard to sell toys or build theme park attractions based on dead-end cinematic endeavours.

The Mouse House’s latest kick at the can, the woefully generic-sounding John Carter, doesn’t quite reverse this sad trend but it’s at least a step in the right direction. Based on Edgar Rice Burroughs’s near-century old literary creation, the film is a big, broad sci-fi swash-buckling spectacle that enthusiastically embraces its spaced-out, pulpy roots – frequently to its own narrative detriment – and paints the screen with vivid visions of grand otherworldliness. It’s not a particularly stellar movie; however those who maintain a love for geeky, old-fashioned thrills will appreciate the flashes of invention, ambition and wit that shine through the straight-faced, messy silliness.

Set in the dusty, arid vistas of Barsoom (or Mars, in human terms), the adventure kicks off when a roguish, daring former Confederate captain named John Carter (Taylor Kitsch – delivering a performance that’s a cross between Han Solo and Clint Eastwood) happens upon the red planet via a mysterious portal in a cave. Afforded enhanced strength and the ability to leap immense distances by the strange environment’s gravity, the intrepid protagonist quickly happens upon a warrior tribe of green, six-limbed Tharks. Led by the noble Tars Tarkas (Willem Dafoe), they’re a cheerfully rough and tumble lot who, impressed by their visitor’s mile-high jumps, take him prisoner and introduce him into their violent society.

Things become even more complicated when gutsy Princess Dejah Thoris (Lynn Collins – a regal screen presence with charisma to spare), fleeing the grasp of evil, mystical weapon-wielding warlord Sab Than (Dominic West), surrenders herself to the Tharks. Desperately seeking aid for her threatened people in the majestic city-state of Helium, the butt-kicking damsel catches the appreciative eye of her fellow prisoner, and soon the improbable duo, accompanied by kind, disgraced Thark woman Sola (Samantha Morton – occupying a role that’s something of a plot afterthought), escapes into the Barsoonian desert. Tracked by foes of all races, Carter must decide which side to fight for in the conflict and find a means of foiling Than’s sinister plan to force Dejah into a marriage he falsely promises will unite the land.

John Carter has long been a passion project for director Andrew Stanton, the Oscar-winning Pixar genius behind Wall-e and Finding Nemo, and, for better and worse, his infatuation is evident in every frame. Although this film is light years away from his celebrated animated classics, the helmer does a commendable job establishing an authentic, lived-in universe and filling it with loving homages – from Planet of the Apes to John Ford’s legendary cavalry pictures – and genuinely fun moments. Many will appreciate the hero’s slam-bang face-off in the arena against a pair of monstrous white apes, or a lively sequence featuring the bewildered American discovering his powers, yet it’s the smaller, quirkier bits that really resonate. The helmer mines cheerful humour from the ongoing culture clash misunderstandings between the Tharks and their earthly captive (“Virginia!” becomes an amusing go-to joke), or from the hyper-active antics of Carter’s loyal Martian dog Woola. There’s also a brilliant early sequence wherein a frustrated colonel played by Bryan Cranston fails to properly detain our lead character. Repeatedly.

Stanton isn’t quite as successful on the story front. While John Carter is largely derived from the first book in the series, A Princess of Mars, the director/co-writer and fellow scribes Mark Andrews and Michael Chabon eagerly throw a few too many extra elements into the pot, unnecessarily overcomplicating what was originally a fairly simple, rousing yarn. The film is too top-heavy, with a trio (!) of prologues dragging the energy down when it’s needed most, and often devolves into listless scenes of human characters explaining things to one another in tedious, occasionally impenetrable, Martian mumbo-jumbo. This is a story that should have been snappy and laser-focused, able to be easily understood by young movie-goers, and not convoluted to the point of confusion (in Avatar, James Cameron knew exactly how to clearly communicate the type of dense, out-there information that bogs down Carter). It also isn’t interested enough in its own star. Carter isn’t a particularly rich character on the page, and the movie doesn’t bring much more to the table, failing to provide him with enough depth to make us truly care about his transformation. We never get a good sense of who he is as a person, outside of a few sporadic, moodily-lit flashbacks that don’t exactly radiate emotion.

That said, where Stanton’s film stumbles most is in the bad guy department. This is one action-adventure tale burdened by a serious villain problem. With so much to set up in regards to establishing its unique cinematic world and abundance of inhabitants, it might have benefited to stick with a single fiendish force of antagonism. Unfortunately, John Carter supplies three – four, if you count Polly Walker’s scheming Thark Sarkoja – and all of them feel shortchanged and forgettable. For a genre that depends so heavily on fashioning remarkable portraits of treachery, this just unacceptable. Mark Strong, as a supernatural puppet master secretly controlling events, does a really tired variation of his Green Lantern would-be arch-enemy Sinestro (and again serves the sorry function of acting as a walking, talking sequel teaser) and West’s Sab Than is a complete void of a character. Only an under-used Thomas Haden Church, as a brutal Thark with designs on stealing leadership from Tars Tarkis, manages to stand out. And that’s predominantly because he at least looks cool.

In spite of the litany of script issues, though, there’s a pleasant, wide-eyed sincerity to Stanton’s reverential effort that works strongly in its favour. This is not a picture destined to make much of an impact, or, for that matter, lead to a more confident follow-up. Rather, it’s agreeable enough escapist eye candy that – similar to the Star Wars prequels – hums along when the masterfully orchestrated action and dazzling fantastical sights are unfolding, but trips over itself when story or dialogue take center stage. Unlike its titular figure, John Carter doesn’t succeed so much in leaps and bounds as it does fits and starts.

3 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - RAMPART

There’s an unmistakeable glint of deceitfulness in Woody Harrelson’s piercing blue eyes, like he knows he’s getting away with something. They stand in sharp contrast to his honest, gentlemanly Southern-fried accent and give him the air of a born con artist; a good-natured dim bulb who is, in reality, ten steps ahead of everyone else, gleefully working out new angles in his crafty mind. It’s a quality that has served him very well over the course of his intriguing and varied career, both in comedy (Zombieland, Kingpin) and drama (The People Vs. Larry Flynt, No Country for Old Men), and is given an interesting twist in Rampart, an uneven bad-cop-gone-worse character piece that takes the Harrelson archetype to its most extreme, hard-edged conclusion.

When we first meet Harrelson’s crooked, late 90s-era LAPD officer David Brown, he’s holding court with a pair of co-workers in a parking lot, dropping racist slurs and intensely brow-beating a nervous female recruit into consuming a carton of french fries. And this is a mere glimmer of his ugliness. Gaunt and bug-eyed, he hides behind a pair of large aviator sunglasses, rarely, if ever, bothering to eat anything. Instead, Brown subsists on an endless diet of cigarettes and booze, as well as the steady string of wounded, lonely women he picks up at his pathetic local watering hole. When he does go home, it’s to a dingy basement suite in the house of his ex-wife (Cynthia Nixon). He fathered one daughter with her and another with her sister (Anne Heche), who conveniently lives right next door. Neither of these women has any patience left for his manipulative antics.

If his personal life is in shambles, his professional one is an unmitigated disaster. Prejudiced and prone to reckless behaviour, the brutal officer has come under intense scrutiny for beating a latino driver nearly to death following an automobile collision. This isn’t the first time he’s landed in hot water; he earned the dubious nickname “Date Rape” for once allegedly murdering a purported sex offender. Now, a persistent assistant D.A. (Sigourney Weaver) and a resourceful Internal Affairs investigator (Ice Cube) – motivated to clean up the department in the wake of the infamous Rampart scandal a couple years earlier – have his number, and pose a serious threat to his already dismal, crumbling world. For Brown there’s nowhere really left to go but down.

Rampart marks the second collaboration between Harrelson and sophomore director Oren Moverman. Their first, 2009’s poignant military drama The Messenger – which also starred Ben Foster, who produced this film and has a bizarre bit part as a wheelchair-bound homeless man – netted the actor an Oscar nomination. Given a better release date, this one might have too. The helmer again coaxes a fantastic performance out of his star; not as outrageously showy as the crazed turns by Nicolas Cage or Harvey Keitel in the thematically comparable Bad Lieutenant pictures, yet no less concentrated, daring and lived-in. David Brown is a true original in a genre that has spawned no shortage of carbon copy villainous coppers, a revolting, detestable lost soul that we can’t break our gaze from. A bleak joke of a character, he’s an ego-maniac of limited capabilities with no link to the rest of humanity, fighting like a mad dog to remain mired in a toxic status quo that mirrors his own sick, self-hating psyche.

Harrelson’s off-kilter protagonist is such an ugly force of nature that his presence goes a long way towards helping the film battle the limitations of its often patchy screenplay. Written by Moverman and James Ellroy, the crime novelist/scribe behind L.A. Confidential, The Black Dahlia and this effort’s underrated forebear Dark Blue, Rampart focuses almost solely on its lead, at the frustrating expense of those around him. There are a lot of characters here – too many, actually – and the majority are robbed of dimension. Robin Wright, as a public defender who acts as Brown’s chief romantic conquest, admirably taps into her role’s tired fragility, however there’s no momentum to their relationship and her story is unceremoniously cut short. Suffering a similar fate are Weaver, Cube, Foster and Ned Beatty – as a shady retired cop with questionable connections – who show up and give their all without every quite making a significant impact. Only Brie Larson, as Brown’s resentful lesbian daughter, is given an arc that resonates. What made The Messenger so effective was its powerful intimacy. Rampart, on the other hand, is spread over a larger, more densely populated canvas that grows muddled and confusing, preventing us from emotionally investing ourselves in its sordid universe.

Still, in spite of the meandering narrative, Moverman delivers a handful of brilliantly conceived moments. One of the best occurs when Brown, taxed and angry, wanders into an underground sex club seeking release and finds it in the unlikeliest of places. Bearing an unmistakeable resemblance to one of Shame’s most haunting sections, the scene is a terrifically queasy mishmash of disturbing, bleary-eyed imagery, quick-cut editing and pounding distorted audio. Also memorable is a devastating hotel room meeting between Brown and his two daughters, in which the girls attempt to break ties from their drunken, washed up father while he tries desperately to lure them back with painfully transparent displays of affection.

If only the picture’s bursts of greatness didn’t feel so much like welcome oases adrift in a sea of lukewarm cop movie clutter. It’s a film that bears all the crucial pieces and people necessary to fashion a gritty classic neo-noir, so it’s hard not to be disappointed when it wanders off down dead ends and falls short of achieving its full potential. Rampart may be a fiery showcase for Harrelson’s fearlessness, but as a cohesive case study in police corruption it misses just as many marks as it ultimately hits.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

TV Review - THE 84th ACADEMY AWARDS

Every few cycles the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences give up on trying to appeal to the elusive young ‘uns and play to their loyal audience of blue hairs. Sunday night was such a night. In a nice recovery from 2011′s flop-sweat-stained Oscarcast, which saw Anne Hathaway and James Franco miserably failing to bring youthful cool to a ceremony dominated by the decidedly uncool The King’s Speech, Billy Crystal presided over an evening that was well-paced, confident and entertaining. It was well-suited to the cinematic year it was honouring; reasonably strong, with scattered instances of greatness, but not particularly remarkable or destined to linger in the collective memory for very long.

Despite a bumpy opening, wherein most of Crystal’s traditional song medley was (mercifully?) drowned out by muddy audio, the show recovered with a series of fastball jokes that helped goose the energy. Some of the gags were pretty corny, if not downright out of touch (Mother of Pearl, kids are watching movies on phones?!), but they came quick enough that even the clunkers were mostly forgotten. The nine-time host was at his best when he indulged in his talent for winking snark, noting the absurdity of “millionaires presenting each other with golden statues” in the current economy, or acknowledging the emergence of a giant songbook prop with a bored “Eh.” He also scored big with a gravel-throated impression of gruff Warrior supporting actor nominee Nick Nolte.

Trophies were handed out with refreshing regularity, and speeches kept fairly short and snappy (not many shout-outs to accountants and lawyers, thankfully). As expected the silent movie homage The Artist won best picture, director for Michel Hazanavicius and leading actor for the suave Jean Dujardin (“I love your country,” the star exclaimed at the start of a charming speech that closed with an ecstatic impromptu soft-shoe routine), while popular faves Octavia Spencer and Christopher Plummer scored in the best supporting categories for their turns in The Help and Beginners. At 84, the ever-classy Plummer officially became the oldest recipient to bring home an acting Oscar.

There were a few minor surprises, though. Meryl Streep’s prevailing over The Help frontrunner Viola Davis for best actress was a slightly controversial choice, given The Iron Lady’s frosty critical and commercial reception. The much-lauded actress herself even seemed to recognize that fact. Joking that half of America was no doubt irritated by her bringing home her third statue, she immediately launched into a self-effacing, warm and irresistibly humble acceptance speech (“Thank you for this inexplicable career”) that went a long way towards pacifying even the most ardent detractors. In the technical categories, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’s win for best editing left even the victors in a state of shock (“Let’s just get out of here…!”), and Hugo’s triumph for achievement in visual effects upset expected champion Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Many thought Apes was a lock since praised mo-cap performer Andy Serkis was snubbed in the supporting actor category.

By dropping the usual song numbers and extended best picture clips, the Oscar cast’s small handful of special segments were given more time to breath and settle in. A series of interview clips with actors talking about the magic of movies, and the films that inspired them (few would have guessed Brad Pitt fell in love with acting after viewing the Toho monster campfest War of the Gargantuas) were a fun treat, as was a gravity-defying performance by Cirque du Soleil that, allegedly, replicated the experience of going to the theatre. The true show-stopper, however, was a side-splitting recorded bit in which the amazing Christopher Guest and his crew of improv all-stars (Eugene Levy, Fred Willard, Catherine O’Hara and Jennifer Coolidge) recreated a 1939 Wizard of Oz focus group session. With Levy muttering cluelessly about the disconnect between Kansas and Oz, and Willard waxing poetic about flying monkeys, it was an embarrassment of comedic riches that just kept building to deliriously new absurd heights. The Academy should seriously consider handing 2013’s ceremony over to those guys!

All in all, it was a pleasantly old-fashioned affair that honoured cinema, and the legacy of the awards, with enough nostalgia, glamour and good humour to keep viewers engaged for the three-plus hour run-time. Sure, it was often tempting to poke holes in the committee’s stodgy nomination choices, but you know what? Hopefully they’ll get it right next year. Or maybe the year after that.

The complete winners list:
Best Picture: The Artist
Actor: Jean Dujardin, The Artist
Actress: Meryl Streep, The Iron Lady
Supporting Actor: Christopher Plummer, Beginners
Supporting Actress: Octavia Spencer, The Help
Director: Michel Hazanavicius, The Artist
Adapted Screenplay: The Descendants
Original Screenplay: Midnight in Paris
Animated Feature: Rango
Foreign Language: A Separation, Iran
Documentary: Undefeated
Film Editing: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Art Direction: Hugo
Cinematography: Hugo
Costume Design: The Artist
Make Up: The Iron Lady
Sound Editing: Hugo
Sound Mixing: Hugo
Visual Effects: Hugo
Music, original score: The Artist
Music, original song: "Man or Muppet" from The Muppets
Short, animated: The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore
Short, documentary: Saving Face
Short, live action: The Shore

Film Review - GHOST RIDER: SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE

In the annals of Marvel Comics motion picture adaptations, 2007’s Ghost Rider is a sad, misguided footnote barely worth expending the energy to mention. Helmed by Daredevil director Mark Steven Johnson, it was a tediously limp franchise launch that impressively managed to render a tragic flaming biker skeleton boring. No mean feat, that! However, despite toxic word of mouth and a flurry of critical jabs, the lifeless origin tale managed to gross a respectable, if somewhat discouraging, $228-million dollars worldwide. Remarkably quickly, the usual studio sequel chatter withered on the vine, as audience demand for the next chapter was roughly as voluble as the sound of a lone tumbleweed lazily rolling across the barren desert plain.

Of course, never underestimate the motivational power of being forced to forfeit the rights to an iconic fanboy property! In an effort to keep the languishing superhero under the studio umbrella, and away from rival Marvel Studios, Sony dusted off a near-decade old script by Blade and Batman Begins scribe David S. Goyer and enlisted deranged directorial duo Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor of Crank fame to reignite the Rider. The off-kilter end result, Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance, is a crazed hallucination of nonsensical, frenzied idiocy that somehow manages to out-stupid its insipid predecessor while still crossing into shameless guilty pleasure territory. Make no mistake; as a film it’s ten tonnes of terrible. That said, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m compelled to confess that I was occasionally amused by its unrepentant bargain barrel trashiness.

Stripping away most of the elements established in the original, Spirit of Vengeance picks up with cursed stunt-artist Johnny Blaze (Nicolas Cage, the sole casting leftover) adrift in strangely desolate Eastern Europe. Nomadic, friendless and plagued mercilessly by the powerful demon raging with him, he’s recruited by a wine-guzzling monk named Moreau (Idris Elba) to help prevent the Devil (Ciarán Hinds) from achieving unimaginable power. His villainous plot centers on a young boy named Danny (Fergus Riordan), whose actual parentage is a secret long kept by his resourceful and tough mom Nadya (Violante Placido). Now hunted by a team of bounty hunters led by vicious pretty-boy killer Ray Carrigan (Johnny Whitworth, who dons a bad rockstar wig after being transformed into the evil Blackout), the family has no one to turn to except the unpredictable and dangerous Blaze, who desperately needs to succeed in his grim task if he ever hopes to regain his long lost humanity.

Neveldine/Taylor – as they concisely credit themselves – have never been particularly skilled at storytelling. Their Crank movies, and the spastic, migraine-inducing Gamer, were intentionally obnoxious exercises in chaotic, go-for-broke insanity and guerilla-style filmmaking showiness (the pair are known to shoot their action by whizzing around on rollerblades). For better or worse, Ghost Rider 2 cheerfully follows their usual manic modus operandi, with cheerfully dopey visuals – slightly more subdued than usual, probably due to the sadly underutilized 3D – propping up a sloppy joke of a script. There is some fun stuff here, amidst the flotsam, such as a massive fiery mining crane smashing enemies into cinders or a scene in which the hero pees fire. Seriously.

They do a good job giving presence to their walking matchstick crusader. The Rider is usually silent, doesn’t move around much, and his primary power of staring people to death isn’t overly cinematic, yet he’s a genuinely cool vision in bubbling leather, flame and smoke. And, unlike last time, his oddball abilities, such as spewing back molten bullets, transforming random vehicles into apocalyptic death rides and using his trusty chain to drag baddies to Hell are given a fitfully goofy showcase. As a dynamic on-screen protagonist, he grabs your attention.

It’s hard, though, to watch the disjointed Spirit of Vengeance and not notice the significant resemblance it bears to the notorious comic-book box-office disaster Jonah Hex, which Neveldine/Taylor penned and later derided as not being representative of their work. As was the case with that pitiful waste of celluloid, this movie has been edited to utter shreds – a possible sign of studio interference – so that characters pop in out of the story whenever convenient (Christopher Lambert’s abbreviated appearance as a tattooed monk is a true head-scratcher), and there’s no momentum or logic to its feeble Terminator 2-lite chase plot. There’s also a reliance on extended sequences of quirky animated exposition, darkly comedic instances of raising the dead and a climactic final battle that takes place in two realms simultaneously. It often seems as if the duo are trying to right the (infinite) wrongs of the Josh Brolin western with Ghost Rider 2, only to stumble into the same clumsy, obvious filmmaking traps that thwarted Hex director Jimmy Hayward.

To his credit, Nicolas Cage refuses to play it safe. The often fearless actor, who reportedly got into Blaze’s headspace by walking around set in Baron Samedi voodoo god makeup, channels his loony, foaming-at-the-mouth Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans protagonist on numerous welcome occasions. In one mesmerizingly bizarre moment he shakes down a black market criminal by giving in to his darker supernatural urges, twitching and sputtering with wild abandon. It’s not a particularly good performance – it feels driven less by character than by a demand to dial up the crazy for crazy’s sake – but he makes his share of the wretched dialogue work, and his idiosyncratic style is greatly appreciated when contrasted against the rest of the largely forgettable cast. Only Hinds is brave enough to try to go toe-to-toe with Cage, delivering a hammy performance that’s operatic in its unabashed ludicrousness. He makes Al Pacino’s scenery-chewing turn in The Devil’s Advocate look restrained by comparison. Fan-adored Thor co-star Elba, boasting a beyond cartoonish accent, is a good sport as the gun-toting warrior monk. Too bad he’s largely wasted in a frankly uninteresting and pointless role.

Like the similarly schlocky Marvel sequel Punisher: War Zone, Ghost Rider 2 wears its bad B-movie aspirations on its sleeve, ironically aware of its own pointlessness and bubble-headedly content to revel in hyper-silly violence and cheap empty thrills. No real attempt has been made to add dimension to the tormented antihero and his shallow universe, or spin an engagingly demented yarn worth caring a lick about. Which is kind of unfortunate, because, by Spirit of Vengeance’s end, there’s no mistaking the fact that this Rider’s tank is running perilously close to empty.

2 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Handicapping the Oscar Best Picture Race

Okay, we all know this year's Best Picture race is something of a foregone conclusion. But why not have some fun analyzing which films are most likely to stand a chance against the unstoppable awards juggernaut that shall not be named here?

Head over to 24 Hours Vancouver to read my full thoughts on this years nominees.

Epi-Cast: Episode 33 - "An Oscarmoron"

Move over Weinstein, the Oscar season isn't all about you! And, as a reminder of that indisputable fact, Cam and Tom have emerged from deep deep cover to toss out another hot digital joint for y'alls. Want to know who our hosts think will win Best Animated Feature?! Well, strap yourself in because you are in for one wild, bumpy,senses-shaking ride!

Epi-Cast: Episode 33 - "An Oscarmoron"

With the Academy Awards just under a week away  (contrary to what one of the illustrious hosts states in this very episode), the diligent duo go toe-to-toe with Oscar queen Meryl Streep's The Iron Lady. Are Cam and/or Tom sick of biopics? Only one way to find out! Well, okay, that's not quite true. But there's only one way other than scanning Cam's recent reviews! In addition to the main course, Cam tells you whether Safe House or Chronicle are worth your $10, while Tom classes up the 'cast with eloquent critiques of Anonymous and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. And, if that's not enough wonder to satiate you, the two also debate the merits of recent trailers for The Amazing Spider-Man, Jack the Giant Killer and The Bourne Legacy, as well as offer up their choices for who should win at this year's Oscars. So plug in, chill out and let loose, cyber-brothers and sisters! 

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, WRECKER-MYSTERIO!, 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 insightful interpretations of the Bible will be included amongst our heated ramblings.

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Film Review - SAFE HOUSE

One single alarming, unlikely thought nagged at me incessantly during Daniel Espinosa’s slick, hyper-edited Training-Day-meets-The-Bourne-Supremacy mash-up Safe House — a thought I never dreamed I’d have: Boy, I really wish Denzel’s usual collaborator Tony Scott had directed this nonsense! For at least Scott, a shameless four-decade veteran of flashy, enjoyable trash such as Unstoppable, Enemy of the State and Man on Fire, would have injected his own brand of off-beat stylistic weirdness and hyperkinetic razzle-dazzle into these beyond routine proceedings. Under his heavy guiding hand, we might have at least been treated to a delicious fromage-scented symphony of ludicrous idiocy, as opposed to this weary, derivative dirge of spy thriller cliches.

Set in vibrant Cape Town, South Africa, Safe House stars Denzel Washington as Tobin Frost (a stellar movie name, if ever there was one), an awesomely formidable CIA super-agent gone rogue. How formidable, you ask? We’re told — in appropriately solemn, awed tones — that he’s “the most brilliant operative” the CIA has seen. Wanted on four continents for espionage, he’s also single-handedly responsible for sending multiple highly-trained agents into permanent retirement from life. Yup, he’s that good! And now, without warning, he’s casually walked into the American consulate and surrendered to the not unreasonably shocked authorities.

Frost, of course, has ulterior motives for giving up the chase. He’s carrying a secret with him in the form of a self-injected capsule of information that threatens to expose all of the intelligence community’s dirty little secrets, and there’s a deadly hit squad of hired guns viciously nipping at his heals to recover it. Transported to a long-vacant nearby safe house for aggressive questioning, Frost finds himself explosively thrust into the care of the site’s inexperienced overseer Matt Weston (Ryan Reynolds) after the pursuing assassins blast their way through the facility’s (strangely modest) defences. Soon the unfairly matched duo are on a mad dash from certain death, with Weston doggedly trying to locate a new secure location to accommodate his unpredictable charge, while the wily Frost, plotting his own escape, attempts to worm his way into the untested agent’s increasingly taxed mind.

Cribbing heavily from Antoine Fuqua’s Training Day playbook, director Espinosa attempts to recapture that film’s fierce, memorable Crafty Mentor vs. Naive Protege dynamic, but sacrifices character in favour of frantic action spectacle and hackneyed scenes of energy-sapping exposition. Safe House's script, by David Guggenheim, relies purely on shallow dramatic shorthand, shoe-horning in all-too-brief “character moments” without properly developing the rocky relationship between its two polar opposite leading men. There’s no natural progression of their life-changing battle of wills, only a handful of awkward conversations in between bouts of fisticuffs, and by journey’s end they still feel like total strangers. Frost, who, we learn, rewrote the rules of CIA interrogation, boasts to Weston that he’s in his head and in total control, but the film stops frustratingly short of actually exploring the extent of the senior agent’s manipulative powers, or highlighting their powerful effects. Reynolds’ taciturn hero’s transformation appears to be informed less by actual psychological torment than by repeated vicious blows to the noggin. A cautionary tip to screenwriters: if you’re going to write a dumbed-down script, don’t repeatedly emphasize the brilliance of its characters without any evidence of said brilliance!

Given the pedestrian nature of the material, it’s tough to place much blame on the actors for failing to register in their rain puddle-deep roles. Washington, who inexplicably helped shepherd this project to fruition as an executive producer, is doing a pretty shameless variation on his Training Day/American Gangster charismatic villain persona. But he’s fun to watch and, because we know this character so well from his better past efforts, we project more onto Frost than is actually present. Reynolds, however, isn’t so lucky. Continuing his troubling career transition from magnetic scene-stealer to vanilla movie star, the charismatic actor is rendered inert by his sweat-streaked void of a protagonist, grunting and wincing his way through the entire picture. He shows admirable physicality here — we believe he’s capable of the violent feats of daring-do on-screen — but there’s no inner fire, and no reason to invest ourselves in this handsome blank. Filling out the cast as CIA higher-ups, Brendan Gleeson, Vera Farmiga and Sam Shepard — an invaluable combination that, in a film with ambition, would inspire spectacular pyrotechnics — are criminally wasted in nothing parts, tediously debating whether Reynolds’ Weston is on their side or not.

Overseeing his first major Hollywood production, Swedish import Espinosa seems timid to establish his own unique directorial voice. Instead, he approximates Paul Greengrass’s queasy Bourne shaky-cam — a conceit that’s fast becoming a crutch for helmers incapable of staging coherent action — with terribly mixed results. An early car chase, which memorably begins with Frost locked in a trunk, has pounding, propulsive momentum, but as the film continues the set-pieces become progressively sloppier. A night-time pursuit through a crowded shantytown is a confusing headache of epileptic editing, and the confined-quarter climax involving shoot-outs and bruising martial arts clashes jumps around too much to build any intensity. Compounding the visual ugliness, Espinosa and Bourne cinematographer Oliver Wood smear every frame with sickly grey and brown bleariness, as if the unfolding events were being viewed through the eyes of the stumbling town drunk.

There’s just so little to latch on to in this film; it’s such a bland, middle-of-the-road offering, filled with paycheck-cashing actors in full-on slum mode, that it doesn’t even manage to offend. Free of surprises — the third act mystery bad-guy reveal can easily be predicted by observing the ancient rules of typecasting — or anything resembling a creative spark, it’s a vapour of an action picture; dissipating immediately from memory once the credits begin to roll. Joylessly wasting talent and countless resources, Safe House crumbles under the sorry weight of its own shoddy construction.

2 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - THE GREY

“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

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

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.