Film Review - EAGLE EYE: Blindingly Stupid.

His name is LaBeouf. Learn it well. For his is the glorious face of the future of the cinematic art form!

...Or at least that’s what those thunderous voices emanating from the Titans of Tinseltown have been bellowing for the last few years, as the ever-encroaching spectre of Shia LaBeouf slowly began infiltrating the tranquility of our daily lives. From the moment he was cast in Walt Disney’s Holes (Has there ever been a dirtier sounding family film?), the buzz has been deafening, and the back-to-back-to-back hits Disturbia, Transformers and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull were likened to triumphant blasts, heralding the arrival of an unstoppable box-office juggernaut. So how does one follow up two bazillion-grossing extra-terrestrial themed blockbusters? You make a paranoid suspense flick dealing with governmental surveillance, of course! (Hey, it worked for Big Willie, right?)

Which brings us to Eagle Eye, a head-slappingly absurd cyber-thriller, which pairs LaBeouf’s Jerry, a Copy Cabana-employed ne’er-do-well, with pretty single mother Rachel (Michelle Monaghan), and sets them on the run from their own government (handily personified by terse FBI man Billy Bob Thornton and gutsy Air Force investigator Rosario Dawson). The duo must obey an ominous female voice on a telephone (Julianne Moore in a wisely uncredited vocal cameo), who can see them anywhere, anytime, and who threatens their personal safety if they do not comply with her often bizarre demands. Should I also mention that amidst these energetic events a controversy swirls around a presidential decision to attack an Afghani desert funeral that may have been attended by a bin Laden-like terrorist? Could the two events possibly be related?

Now fine, the set-up for Eagle Eye is actually promising, and LaBeouf has a nicely shifty personality (though bad teenage facial hair was a questionable choice), all off-beat gesticulating and rapid-fire speech patterns, that’s fun to see plugged in to something this generic. He’s a bit like ‘Ratso’ Rizzo’s suburban nephew. But he’s badly sidelined at the beginning of the second act when the script takes a laughable turn. Before proceeding, I’d recommend anyone who yearns to experience Eagle Eye unsullied skip the next paragraph. Hark, light spoilers be on the horizon!

It turns out that the mysterious “voice” is Project Eagle Eye: a rogue governmental computer dubbed ARIA, which is modelled so closely to 2001’s HAL 9000 that I hope Stanley Kubrick’s estate is getting royalties. It has decided that the United States government is in a critical state of disarray and in need of intervention (Oh, how I wish they’d cast Michael Moore as the ARIA’s voice...). So, its plan is to stage the most overly-complex, silly scheme against the powers that be as inhumanly possible. It goes without saying that ARIA can control every single mechanical thing in the free-world: cranes, electrical conductors, iPhones and even, in a shameless plug, the Circuit City home-entertainment department. The sheer stupidity of ARIA's decisions had me pondering whether it had a virus protection program installed. Those trojan-droppers can be a bitch!

Director D.J. Caruso, who helmed Disturbia, tries to ground all this nonsense by attempting to shoot the picture like a half-witted homage to seventies’ cinema. He has the gritty filters down, but his action beats are flat out embarrassing. The film’s first intended show-stopper, a rapid-fire chase through downtown D.C., has apparently been shot and edited by a blind epileptic, while the second, featuring a self-flying attack plane, is a second-rate rip-off of Stealth and Live Free or Die Hard. I don’t even want to describe Caruso’s The Man Who Knew Too Much-lifted climax for fear of being haunted by Hitchcock’s ornery ghost.

Perhaps Eagle Eye’s most egregious crime, however, is wasting such an impeccable supporting cast. Rosario Dawson and Michelle Monaghan (who earned serious geek-cred with Kiss Kiss Bang Bang) are as devoid of personality as their super-powered puppet master. At least Billy Bob Thornton, who bears a mad glint of secret self-amusement, almost manages to rouse the audience awake with his oddball behaviour and (likely improv-ed) dialogue.

This brings us back to LaBeouf: the Man, the Myth and the Legend. He’s engaging and idiosyncratic, and able to make badly-written sarcastic dialogue about trains turning into talking ducks strangely crowd-pleasing. While many would like to deny it, he’s an outstanding lead because he understands the importance of a charismatic, grounded central figure, and yet brings numerous attractive acting choices to the table. Unfortunately despite his talents, he’s incapable of redeeming this sorry project, which boasts an Eagle Eye... and a bird-brain.

1.5 out of 5

P.S.: The final scene, an obvious studio intervention, is a howlingly miscalculated attempt at a sunny ending. My fellow movie-goers tittered their way through the whole thing.

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Oct. 6th, 2008.

Film Review - CHOKE: Rock(well)-Solid Comedic Gag-fest!

I’ve met many on-screen weirdoes in my time, but Victor Mancini is a true original. Get this: Victor, as portrayed by Sam Rockwell, is an unremitting sex addict, gawking lasciviously at any woman within 100 yards, who’s infamous at his mother’s psychiatric hospital for boffing every nurse and orderly on the payroll. Sure he realizes he has a problem, and does attend group therapy, but usually either jokes his way through them with his best friend, a chronic masturbator named Denny (Brad William Henke) or by rolling around the bathroom floor with the equally licentious Nico (Paz de la Huerta).

He’s also got serious mommy issues, doting on his dementia-addled mother Ida (Angelica Huston), a cruel former criminal, who has screwed poor Victor up so badly that the only way he can feel nurtured is to make himself choke on food at restaurants and have strangers save his life.
Oh, did I mention that he works as a “historical interpreter” (aka lowly jackass in a silly wig and costume) at a colonial theme park/tourist trap, where he relentlessly hits on his standoffish co-worker Ursula (Bijou Phillips), and takes cruel joy in infuriating his pompous boss (the film’s director, Clark Gregg).

Yep, he’s a character all right, and the film about his misadventures, titled simply Choke, is one of the most quirky and entertainingly original comedies to come down the twisted pike in eons.

Based on the novel by disturbed author Chuck Palahniuk (who also wrote Fight Club), Choke is the surprisingly affecting tale of a pathetic wretch who searches for meaning in his life. His emotional journey leads him to a number of avenues: learning the truth behind his crazily dysfunctional upbringing, beginning an awkward courtship with Paige (Kelly Macdonald), a new doctor at his mom’s hospital, and by finally making peace with his own depressions and admitting his (many) problems.

But plot isn’t imperative here. Choke is, at its filthy little heart, a hysterical character study that should, lord Xenu willing, finally launch the sleaze-tastic star that is Sam Rockwell. Rockwell, that ace character actor who’s been kicking around Hollywood for almost two decades working in films of varying quality (including Matchstick Men, Charlie’s Angels, Galaxy Quest and Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind), has finally found his ideal role and he owns it every sinful second he’s on screen. With his tousled, lightly greying mop and peculiarly otter-like appearance, he works wonders in making the audience love a man who sexually harasses senior citizens and launches snarky verbal projectiles at everyone around him.

First time helmer Gregg (who also adapted the film), is best known as co-star of TV’s The New Adventures of Old Christine, and was recently seen in theatres being bashed by a metal behemoth in Iron Man, doesn’t have much of a visual sense (he’s more from the bland point-and-shot school of directorial thought), but he shows a remarkable talent for staging comedy and drawing the best from his cast of off-beat talent.

He especially knows how to use Angelica Huston to full effect. Done up like a Goth Carmen Sandiego in flashbacks, the veteran actress goes crackers creating one of the most pathologically wounding parental figures since Gene Hackman worked his own emotionally-stunted magic in The Royal Tenenbaums. No one can say “It’s late! We have to make the state line”, with the chilly authority she can. As well, her work in the present, as a rapidly fading invalid is bravely unsentimental and lacking in vanity.

The other power-player here is Kelly Macdonald, the adorable Scottish actress best known for losing a coin toss in No Country For Old Men, who takes a very tricky pivotal role and really brings a surplus of warmth to it. The fact that she can make the audience believe that Sam Rockwell is endearing is incontestable evidence of her talents.

Gregg’s script is slickly written, and filled with raucously lewd comedic moments. One scene, which had a dozen battle-hardened film critics cackling, features Vincent hooking up with a business-minded rape fetishist without a single submissive bone in her body, who proceeds to verbally dominate her would-be “rapist” to the point of panic. As well, a bathroom encounter that ends with a misplaced anal bead is, on paper revolting, but as portrayed in the film, giggle-inducing. It takes talent to make the depravities seen here funny, but Gregg establishes such a breezy, amiable tone that they’ll offend only the most outrageously conservative of souls.

I ambled into Choke expecting a vulgar trip into Weirdsville, populated by the seamiest of dwellers. So imagine my pleasant surprise at discovering one of the most lovable films of the year, an off-beat triumph with a crackerjack lead performance and full dedication towards delivering a unique comedic vision. For a film over-flowing with acidic wit, bizarre fetishes and mislaid sex toys, Choke sure goes down smooth.

4 out of 5

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

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.