Film Review - ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO: Deep Throated Laughs Aplenty.

Few directors working today have carved out as comfortable a niche as Kevin Smith. Thriving on the profane, obscene and scatological, he’s an auteur with a heart of gold and a mouth full of raw sewage. His dedication to delivering sweet fan-driven valentines of filthy goodness has earned him an obsessively loyal cult following (Full disclosure: I include myself in this cheery lot) who flock like speckled grackles to his riotous speaking engagements/stand-up sessions and gobble up his weekly podcasts and bountiful merchandising ventures. He’s a John Waters for the comic-book slacker generation.

Well, Silent Bob’s back once again, bending the limits of free speech to their breaking point, with Zack and Miri Make a Porno, a mostly successful carnal-carnival of a flick which is 100% guaranteed to draw gales of merry laughter from juveniles of all ages. Whereas Mel Brooks once proudly stated “I do bad taste with intelligence”, Smith delivers his foul funniness with a wink, a nudge and plenty of smiles.

And who better to characterize the prototypical Smith-ian protagonist than Seth Rogen, the Fozzy Bear-ish star of Judd Apatow’s audacious sex comedies Knocked Up and The 40-Year-Old Virgin? Playing Zack, a chubby, shlubby coffee shop employee with little ambition outside of masturbatory exploration, he’s paired with Elizabeth Banks (Last seen portraying Laura Bush in W.) as Miri, his equally hopeless, yet light-years more attractive, best friend and room-mate. Desperately low on cash, and attending a High School reunion where they’ve become forgotten foot-notes, the duo are inspired by a gay adult film star (Justin Long – in a side-splitting comic turn) to get into the skin picture business.

Bankrolled by Zack’s co-worker, the unhappily married Delaney (Craig Robinson – the film’s drollest secret weapon), the duo quickly form a close-knit family of eager porn-pals. There’s Lester (Jason Mewes), a lisping goofball with one particularly valuable attribute, Bubbles (The legendary Traci Lords), star attraction of bachelor parties across the land, and Stacey (Real-life porn star Katie Morgan), a lovably vivacious - and impossibly pneumatic - stripper. Drafting an amateur camera-jockey (Clerks’ Jeff Anderson), the group set out to craft the ultimate do-it-yourself fornication flick. Complications ensue, however, as Zack and Miri prepare for their own scene, and begin to realize that their simple friendship may not be so simple after all...

Watching Zack and Miri, it’s hard to believe that Smith didn’t come up with this idea sooner. I mean c’mon, the man’s entire filmography has been fanatically fixated on exploring concepts usually best suited to the imagination of a fifteen-year-old thumbing through a well-worn copy of Hustler. It’s a great concept for a risqué adult comedy, and Smith recognizes the premises’ boundless potential and wrings plenty of laughs from it. Uproarious fake-porn antics rule the day (including one money shot you won’t see, um, coming.), but Smith’s talent for pop-culture riddled dialogue is also well served here, where obscure references to properties including Star Wars, Highlander and The Wiz are flawlessly peppered amongst the innumerable naughty words.

It’s pretty obvious that Smith has lovingly staged Zack and Miri as a tribute to his beloved younger years, pulling all-nighters shooting Clerks with his buddies, and Rogen is a superlative Smith stand-in. Crudely endearing, and so quick-witted that you almost need a slow-mo dial to keep up with him, this stoner Canuck delivers his passages of stamina-testing profanity with precision-like aplomb.

Equal, if not better, is Banks, who projects so much warmth into Miri that it’s hard not to join Zack in falling in love with her. There’s one moment after their big scene, where the actress expresses a whole host of feelings through body language, glowing smiles and girlish elation, pushing the film’s emotional envelope into the stratosphere. Mark my words; this woman is destined for Hollywood Jedi status.

While Smith handles his actors with skill, coaxing emotionally and amusingly satisfying performances from nearly the entire cast (Traci Lords proves to be the lone dead spot), he does make some undeniably limp editorial decisions. Zack and Miri’s momentum flags in spots, such as during an awkward opening sequence featuring Gerry Bednob, which shamelessly apes that actor’s eminent 40-Year-Old Virgin appearance, and more specifically throughout a meandering final act which veers perilously close to Maudlin-town. As well, James L. Venable’s dreadful Shaft meets Looney Tunes score should have never made it past the Cassio keyboard demo stage.

However, clumsy choices aside, Kevin Smith once again proves himself cinema’s definitive pervert provocateur; an idiosyncratic talent still capable of crafting smart and witty crowd-pleasers. Zack and Miri doesn’t reach the comedic zenith occupied by Dogma, Chasing Amy or the Clerks films, but still proves to be a potent source of charmingly dirty-minded hilarity certain to delight die-hards and newbies alike. Trust me when I say that this is one Porno worth paying for.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Nov. 10th, 2008.

Film Review - ASHES OF TIME REDUX: Kung Fu Dreamer.

Once in a blue moon, I find myself watching a movie that leaves me at a loss for words. Well, almost anyways. Wong Kar Wai's Ashes of Time Redux (aka Dung che sai duk redux) falls into that category, a narrative jumble of eye-popping imagery and subtle emotions that persistently challenges the viewer to find any sense of coherent story within it. Honestly, this is a film that would require flow-charts and an assemblage of a dozen esteemed film and literary scholars to properly decode into a comprehensive whole. With that said, though, it's something of a Herculean feat on Wong's part that this trancelike head-trip is still a thoroughly fulfilling and transporting visual journey.

It's actually kind of amazing that Ashes of Time managed to hold together at all. Originally released in Asia in 1994, the film was a critically lauded disappointment, making back but a fraction of its sizable budget. However, as is sporadically the case, the film began to accumulate a supportive fan-base who recognized the art within Wong's fever-dream madness. This support led to multiple edits, official and unofficial, each seeking to properly refine the essence of what the film was trying to say.

Recognizing an opportunity to reach a wider audience, Wong then set out to restore his film for a big screen revival, only to find that his original prints had been all but destroyed by the studio's print lab. After years of scouring black-markets and studio archives for alternate takes, digitally heightening their colour grades and recording a new soundtrack with famed cellist Yo Yo Mah, Wong and his editors are now finally introducing North American audiences to their definitive version of the film, appropriately labelled Ashes of Time Redux.

Loosely based on Louis Cha's novel The Eagle-Shooting Heroes, Ashes of Time Redux transports us to a lonely desert inn run by the sombre Ouyang Feng (the late Leslie Cheung), a heartbroken assassin who outsources his contracts to other hired guns, er swords. Over the course of the film, which is broken into six parts – with each representing one of the Chinese seasons - we come to know the men and women who enter his solitary life. Some of the more memorable guests are Hong Qi (Jacky Cheung), a skilled and ruthless killer shadowed by his blindly loving wife (Li Bai), Bridgitte Lin as a woman scarred by emotional pain who has created two separate identities in which to strike back at her uncaring world, and the mysterious Blind Swordsman (Tony Leung Chiu Wai), a once-great warrior who yearns to return to his lost love before his sight degenerates completely.

Wong uses these characters in an abstract fashion, like emotional brushstrokes on a canvas, to explore his desired themes regarding the overpowering nature of man's memory over his life, as well as how our pasts can disrupt identity and affect our ability to connect with our fellow man. Ashes of Time Redux is an unabashedly romantic film in the purest sense of the word, lyrical, sensual and haunting, an unflinching glimpse into the human soul.

But the real backbone of the film, and what makes it a rewarding trip, are the stunning images that Wong and cinematographer Christopher Doyle produce with their lenses. We see a woman, standing in an oasis-like lake, wielding a sword, who, with each slice and thrust, produces momentous bursts of water that surge upwards, reaching out to an expansive blue sky. As well, warm sunlight light filtered through a birdcage casts foreboding shadows across the human characters, stressing their own personal imprisonment. And my own favourite: a meditative shot of a dying warrior gazing calmly heavenward, while blood flows elegantly from a fatal throat wound.

This is a beautiful movie, even in its ugly and indistinctly staged fight scenes, which manages to communicate more with images than through its characters' poetic monologues. It's a martial arts film by way of David Lynchian dream-logic, a fractured memory that aims to draw the viewer into a sensation, as opposed to a story. When the closing credits come up, we aren't left with a feeling of completion, but rather the sense of waking from a particularly surreal reverie.

Ultimately, however, I do realize that Ashes of Time Redux is probably destined to infuriate more attendees than it will inspire. So, this is where my job as a reviewer ends, and your role as a consumer kicks in: if you are an adventurous film-goer, who craves non-linear storytelling and extraordinary images, I heartily recommend tracking this film down. You'll be dazzled, frustrated, intrigued and spellbound by the ambitious tapestry that Wong Kar Wai has woven. Memory may be the root of man's troubles, but Ashes of Time Redux proves that it can also be the source of endless visionary wonders.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Nov. 10th, 2008

Film Review - SAW V: The Game Remains The Same.

Make no bones about it; there's no film sub-genre more critically reviled than the Mad Slasher film. Beginning in the mid-seventies with Tobe Hooper’s revolutionary Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and popularized by John Carpenter’s Halloween in 1978, movies featuring depraved boogeymen butchers flooded the marketplace like blood from a freshly carved artery. Yet, despite equal amounts of scorn and resentment, critics, like many, many on-screen victims, have failed to snuff out the likes of Jason, Michael Myers, Freddy or Leatherface for good. What’s the old maxim? Ah yes, there’s no rest for the wicked.

Truthfully, I can understand their detestation. The Mad Slasher genre produces cinematic “experiences” that are typically mean-spirited, ham fistedly directed, stuffed with nauseating footage best suited to the surgery channel and acting which bears all the skill of an ITT Tech recruitment ad. Worse yet, their bleak amorality seems designed specifically to inspire pitiless blood-lust within the hearts of jaded youthful audiences.

...And yet time and time again, I’ve found grudging pleasure in watching these junky spectacles send squeamish audience members bolting anxiously for the exits. Blame it on the irreparable mental damage caused by my ten tours of duty at Camp Crystal Lake, but I was even able to find moments of perverse amusement within the gloomy confines of Saw V, the latest ridiculous entry in the now highest-grossing horror series of all time.

After a grisly opening, which features much-needed flashbacks to Saw IV’s complicated finale (Seriously, does anyone recall, or even understand, what occurred in that lousy instalment???), newly minted director David Hackl wastes no time in making with the ghastliness. We see a man, strapped spread eagle on a cold steel slab, with a pendulum blade swinging closer and closer to his exposed torso. The catch is, to stop his own vivisection he must place his hands in a pair of vice-like apparatus’ which will then mash them into oozing paste. To say it doesn’t end well is a given.

Following this initial jolt, Saw V fractures its story into umpteen different directions. Most important, I suppose, is that we are reconnected with grim-faced detective Mark Hoffman (Costas Mandylor), an apprentice of recently deceased serial killer Jigsaw (Tobin Bell – kept alive through a grab-bag of flashbacks), who continues to honour his mentor’s own brand of moral justice through disfiguring torture contraptions. His psychopathic plans, however, are threatened by dogged FBI Agent Peter Strahm (Scott Patterson), who’s desperate to expose the Jigsaw’s last surviving posse member. In the meantime, five new seemingly unconnected victims awaken in a grungy underground chamber where they must contend with a plethora of deadly booby traps, as well as their own ethical shortcomings.

Half of the joy in watching any given Saw film lies in the creativity behind the individual torture devices. (Yes, I realize I have issues) While there’s nothing to match that bizarre contraption in Saw III which drowned its victims in putrid liquefied pig parts, Saw V still manages to achieve a nice number of squirms and grimaces. The aforementioned lethal pendulum is a keeper, as is a mechanism featuring retracting chains and a large decapitating blade. But the real winner is a brutal instrument which requires users to draw ten gallons of human blood by running their hands through a table saw blade. Yeeks.

I have to give the series’ writers credit for producing plots so overly-complicated, that they must have smoke pouring out of their ears by the end of their first drafts. Saw V continues the tradition, featuring a dizzying hotchpotch of ludicrously complicated developments - with mucho shameless foreshadowing for Saw VI - and hair-pulling ret-cons of everything we’ve witnessed thus far. The Saw films have many problems, but listless writing ain’t one of them.

The acting, as expected, is pretty awful with the exception of Tobin Bell, who is still a lot of fun as Jigsaw. With his gravelly voice and beady eyes, he is more compelling than the majority of his Mad Slasher predecessors. Unfortunately, new padawan Mandylor can best be described as greasy. And smug. It’s hard to build up enthusiasm for a dude who looks destined to be interviewed by Chris Hansen on To Catch a Predator. As well, poor Scott Patterson earns many bad laughs, spending the entire movie alone, in empty torture rooms, irritably sputtering lines like “How’d they get you?” and “Did you help Jigsaw get them all???”

Saw V, like most Mad Slasher flicks, is impossible to recommend as anything other than a guilty pleasure. It’s poorly made, shallow, and lacks the narrative logic of the clever original film. Still, as evidenced by the audible shudders throughout my theatre, Saw V is sometimes sharply effective, and will probably draw many ticket-buyers back for part VI. I’m almost sorry to admit that I’ll perhaps be among them. Almost.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Nov. 3rd, 2008.

Film Review - PRIDE AND GLORY: Cop-Bland.

I’m not sure that it is humanly possible to come up with a more bland film title than Pride And Glory. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was a soppy made-for-Hallmark World War II drama... Or maybe a Zakk Wylde biopic, which would actually be pretty badass. But unfortunately no, Pride and Glory is, in reality, one half gritty crime saga and one half monotonous working-class family drama. Throw the two in the ol’ movie blender and what do you get? Over two hours of unremarkable, snail-paced clichés that will manage, no matter how hard you fight it, to evaporate from your cerebral cortex within an hour of viewing.

Surprising, considering the involvement of the uber-talented Edward Norton who, Death to Smoochy aside, usually shows impeccable taste in his projects. He plays detective Ray Tierney, an emotionally and physically scarred NYPD officer who, after a disastrous on-the-job event, has buried himself within the safe confines of the missing persons department. But, as we in the peanut gallery have seen innumerable times before, Ray is destined to become embroiled in a “Big Case”, which of course threatens to Bring. Down. The. Entire. Department.

I should mention of course, that Ray is coaxed into taking on the job, which involves a bust-gone-bad that led to the snuffing-out of four fellow officers, by his frequently sloshed father Francis Sr. (Jon Voight – doing a pretty nifty Brooklyn accent), who fears for the reputation of older brother Francis Jr. (Noah Emmerich), the department’s chief inspector. While Ray follows leads, interrogating standard ethnic witnesses and suspects, we are speedily informed that it is actually his shifty brother-in-law Jimmy (Colin Farrell) who is behind all the madness. Unfortunately for us in the audience, it takes Ray and the family most of Pride and Glory’s running time to catch up.

Watching Pride and Glory you become acutely aware that director/screenwriter Gavin O’Connor (who previously made the Disney hockey flick Miracle) was obviously far too inspired by episodic TV cop shows ala NYPD Blue and The Shield. There are countless sub-plots, which, after developing, go absolutely nowhere. For example: Francis Jr.’s wife (Jennifer Ehle) suffers from cancer. We are repeatedly shown and informed of this fact, and are even treated to a scene in which she breaks down in tears, practically smashing her tiny fists against the ground in impotent frustration. It’s never discussed or referenced afterwards. Why?

Why, at the halfway point, is a reporter introduced to the story and made to witness the murder of an important character? Will his ensuing expose act as a catalyst for the dismantling of the department’s web of corruption? Nope, after asking for Ray’s input he is dismissed and vanishes inexplicably from the film.

In a televised drama, these threads would likely have been explored, and a broader fictional world would have resulted, but here they're just pointless throw-away details. In fact, I don’t think I’d be wildly off-base in suggesting that O’Connor could have cut about half an hour out of the film (including the dreadful fist-fight climax, please) with no negative effect. The resulting edit would probably be a more enjoyable film, for at least it would be over quicker.

Strangely enough, the actors are all quite fine, if completely unmemorable. I’ve long suspected that Norton is so gifted that he could give a brilliant performance in his sleep. On the basis of Pride and Glory, consider this theory officially verified. In addition, Noah Emmerich, playing the family’s most conflicted member, has the most challenging role and delivers swimmingly, while Jon Voight, an actor infamous for basically playing himself, is really on the ball. Possibly due to the challenge in keeping up with his phenomenally talented co-stars, Voight seems alive in a way I haven’t witnessed since his last memorable turn in, um, Anaconda. In a better film, he would likely have raised at least a glimmer of awards season buzz.

Colin Farrell is downright batty. Seemingly exhausted, bloated and haggard, with his Irish brogue frequently slipping out, one has to wonder if the film was shot right before his recent stint in rehab. Still, he does have the film’s only memorable scene: busting up an immigrant family’s Christmas dinner and attempting to scald their baby’s head with a hot iron. Though, to be fair, that would likely be the most memorable scene in any movie.

But please, if you are truly desperate for a gritty cop thriller filled to the brim with tense racial situations, corruption and profanity, check out the unfairly ignored 2002 Kurt Russell film Dark Blue. It’s an appropriate alternative to Pride and Glory, which is almost staggeringly generic, a film destined for a DVD bargain bin near you very, very soon.

Perhaps a more suitable title would have been Cut and Paste...

2 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Nov. 3rd, 2008.

Film Review - MAX PAYNE: Forget PAYNE, This One Just Hurts!

It must be said that video games fell well off my radar shortly after the inglorious final death rattle of the Nintendo 64. Sure, I’ve had controllers thrust into my hands since, and half-heartedly bumbled my way through the odd round of Grand Theft Auto or HALO, but it’s safe to say that the passion pretty much expired following my active retirement from all things GoldenEye and Perfect Dark. Although for some reason I did manage to play my way through a gritty little slice of hyper-noir called Max Payne, which, interestingly enough, proved absolutely useless in attempting to assess, or even understand, the latest video-game-to-film adaptation, titled (duh!) Max Payne.

Set in an atmospheric New York City, where snowflakes always hang artily in the air, Max Payne weaves the tragic tale of Maxwell Norbert Payne (I made up the middle part), played by Mark Wahlberg, a once-great DEA agent now glumly toiling away in a dead end filing job. Why, you ask? Well, because some time back his wife and baby daughter, who apparently existed in a world of soft focus and delicate slow-motion, were killed by drugged-up madmen in a horrific home-invasion. Despite two of the intruders being handily dealt with on the spot, the identity of the escaped third wrongdoer remains a mystery, though I bet most audience members will solve this brain-teaser well before the improbably dense Monsieur Payne does.

Whilst following leads to crack this tragic quandary, Payne becomes a prime suspect in the murder of a trashy party-girl (Olga Kurylenko, who gets to engage in a seduction scene even more awkward than her one in Hitman). This misfortune brings him into contact with the girl’s sister, named Mona Sax (Mila Kunis), who, according to Wikipedia, is an assassin (but one of the film’s many poorly explained details). After an initial dust-up, the two join forces to investigate the cause of their loved ones’ one-way trip into the land of the living challenged, as well as seek to uncover the mysteries behind those shadowy winged creatures that hover like spectres of death in the night sky.

Now, that is about as much detail as I feel capable of giving you, as Max Payne almost redefines the term “Incomprehensible Action Extravaganza”. I’m not sure whether to blame untested screenwriter Beau Thorne or 20th Century Fox, whose tradition of butchering the life out of their genre-based properties is infamous throughout the entertainment world, for why so little of this film makes sense. The middle section in particular got so ridiculously hazy that I began to doubt my own mental faculties.

Typing this review now, I still have no idea how Payne is able to trace those two brutal murders all the way to the ominous Aesir Pharmaceutical corporation. It’s as if director John Moore and his editors removed all the connective tissue of their plot and only left in the pay-off moments. He’s also merciless with his actors (especially Ludacris and Beau Bridges), who typically show up at random, in disconnected scenes, and then disappear without mention. Kunis’ arbitrary reappearance during the climactic shoot-out is especially perplexing. How did she know where to go?

Also, what in the name of Sam Hill is up with those winged creatures? According to one character they’re called valkyries, famed from Norse mythology as being guardians of warriors. But for the life of me, I have no real idea what their purpose in the film is. Utter curiosity over this point even led me to Internet Movie Database, where a helpful fan named Yasifummah had posted a two-page explanation on their function in the video-game series. To be honest, after two mind-warping paragraphs I had to stop reading for fear of a brain aneurism. If anyone can logically explain their function in this film, you are a smarter individual than I.

Engulfed in the elaborately stylized atmosphere, and hung out to dry by a pathetic script, the actors are all uniformly awful. Wahlberg has two modes of expression: scowling and looking depressed, while Kunis comes close to blowing all the goodwill that Forgetting Sarah Marshall earned her. I was at least amused by Amaury Nolasco, as the evil Lupino, whose entire character seems to be based on staring menacingly down from rooftops (four separate times by my count).

Max Payne isn’t simply a bad movie; it’s an aggressively unpleasant one, battering the audience with fractured, ugly images, concussive sound effects and unspeakable dialogue for 100 minutes, without ever having the courtesy to try to tell a story or entertain anyone. In the film’s dramatic opening Wahlberg tells us in voice-over: “I believe in pain”. Well, count me a convert Mr. Wahlberg, because watching Max Payne made me believe in pain too.

1 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Oct. 20, 2008.

Film Review - W.: Not Worth Electing To The Top Of Your Must-See List.

“Too soon!” has become a popular criticism voiced by irritated on-line film fans (Are there any other kind?). Blame it on bloggers, celebrity sex-tapes or YouTube, but we now live in a culture obsessed with instant gratification, and Hollywood has been oh-so cooperative to meet this level of demand. Hence, we’ve been showered with a cavalcade of ripped-from-the-front-page cinematic excursions, each driven to become the definitive statement on the current political landscape. Some of the resulting movies have even managed to rise above their opportunistic aroma, resulting in modern silver-screen classics (United 93, Fahrenheit 9/11). But by and large, they’ve felt desperate and tired, and audiences have responded by purchasing tickets to less topical fare. Like Wild Hogs.

The latest entry in “Too soon!” cinema comes courtesy of acclaimed inflammatory director Oliver Stone. (Returning to this newly-christened genre after 2006’s unremarkable World Trade Center) His new film, W., is the first, and hopefully last, filmed biography of a U.S. president who has yet to pack his White House bags. Yep, George W. Bush may have spawned a flurry of calamities over his two terms in office, but you sure can’t knock the man for failing to inspire the artistic community.

The film opens with Dubya, (Josh Brolin) wearing a baseball cap, and standing alone in an empty ballpark, his arms raised to an invisible roaring crowd. We are then dropped unexpectedly into a post-9/11 Oval Office roundtable conference, where Bush and his peanut gallery of political confidants and strategists brainstorm possible nicknames for the rising terrorist threat (Axis of Hatred is briefly considered). The film uses this key beginning point to travel on a non-linear path through the soon-to-be former Pres’ life: from drunken frat-boy, to failed oilman and baseball manager, to over-whelmed chief-of-staff circa 2003, struggling with a job he seems completely unqualified for.

And damn it all if Mr. Brolin doesn’t sucker us in right off the bat. He’s disarmingly charismatic, occasionally inarticulate for sure, but plucky and filled with infectious confidence. The actor pulls off a tricky job, burrowing inside the skin of a man who has already developed into a pop-culture joke, a walking caricature who has been lampooned by a generation of comedic talent. Brolin has side-stepped imitation and, through measured amounts of organic vocal and physical mannerisms, captured the spirit of Dubya. The brilliance of the performance lies in the fact that we forget we’re even seeing one, drawn in by that intangible magnetism that the most skilled of politician’s possess.

It’s too bad that Stone and screenwriter Stanley Weiser (who penned the director’s 1987 hit Wall Street) couldn’t come up with an interesting tale to match the actor’s show-stopping efforts. W.’s script just sorta meanders around, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes tediously, in search of who-knows-what?! They aren’t particularly interested in Bush’s early days, which are only lightly touched upon in flashback, with the most infamous moments of youthful debauchery all but ignored. This particular decision hurts the film’s later scenes dealing with Bush’s conversion to Christianity and subsequent oath to quit drinking. I didn’t even realize the dude had a problem...

We do witness his first meeting with future-wife Laura (Elizabeth Banks, wasted in a nothing role), but their relationship is quickly scuttled into the background. As well, material featuring current administrative members (Richard Dreyfuss kills as a malevolent Cheney, while Thandie Newton goes SNL-broad with an awesome/awful Condoleezza Rice impression) are highlighted in a number of key moments, but ultimately exist just outside the film’s focal point.

Rather, Stone seems far more interested in Junior’s relationship with stern, determined Bush Senior, played with grumpy dignity by James Cromwell. The elder Bush is sick to death of watching his unmotivated, party-animal bum of a son putter from one failed venture to the next, dragging the family name down with him. Stone douses the film with steaming spoon-fuls of Freudian subtext, hypothesizing Dubya’s entire life and career as being driven by raging daddy issues. Trouble is, that’s about all he has up his sleeve.

The story’s crucial failure to engage us lies in the fact that no one behind the camera seemed compelled to aim for anything insightful or profound. As a biography it’s superficially bland (No mention of his controversial election OR second term in office???), but as a psychological study, W.’s as shallow as Bill O’Reilly is obnoxious. In addition, hinging a major dramatic moment on a dream sequence is always a cheap gimmick, but here it’s amateurish and embarrassing.

The real stumbling block of Stone’s film is its complete lack of perspective. We have no comprehension of Bush’s place in history, so the whole exercise feels hollow and inert. Walking out of the theatre, I didn’t possess any more insight into the real George Jr. that I had strolling in. At the end of the day, W. is too safe, too vague and too... soon.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Oct. 20, 2008.

Film Review - RACHEL GETTING MARRIED: Worth Committing To!

The chaotic swirl of pandemonium that surrounds the average wedding ceremony has long been a popular focal point in cinema. It’s a durable scenario, one that has been played for laughs in romantic comedies ranging all the way back to Hollywood’s Golden age. From Katharine Hepburn’s flighty serial bride in The Philadelphia Story, to Steve Martin’s flustered Father of the Bride, leading into the recent spate of “Wed-coms” (27 Dresses, Made Of Honor, The Wedding Date), audiences have regaled in watching fictional people panic in the face of lifelong commitment.

But, as we all know, real life typically paints a much more intense portrait of nuptial ceremonies, where train-wrecks in the form of last minute scheduling disasters and soused speech-makers can lead to misery for the organizers and awkward amusement for the guests. Screenwriter Jenny Lumet (daughter of legendary director Sidney Lumet), has obviously experienced her fair share of wedding D-days, and has compiled and moulded these memories into Rachel Getting Married, a searing debut film that should earn lead Anne Hathaway an Oscar nomination.

Hathaway plays Kym Buchman, a despondent former model and recovering drug-addict, who leaves the supportive confines of rehab to take part in her older sister Rachel’s wedding party. Nevertheless, things do not go smoothly for the venom-tongued out-patient, as her manipulative tendencies and emotional neediness only add to the tumultuousness of the impending proceedings. Through his voyeuristic lens, director Jonathan Demme (Silence of the Lambs, Philadelphia) tracks the family’s dramatic journey, from rehearsals to reception, delving deeply into both our heroine’s shattered psyche, as well as the secrets which dwell within the dark shadows of the Buchman clan’s troubled past.

One of Rachel Getting Married’s most striking feats is in how Demme and cinematographer Declan Quinn have blurred the line between fictional and documentary film-making. The movie has a surprisingly life-like quality, where intimate hand-held footage creates the illusion that we the audience are actually experiencing the on-screen events first hand. This effect, which feels fresh and original, forces us to invest ourselves in the characters’ emotional highs and lows, and builds uncomfortable scenes, such as Kym’s inappropriate rehearsal toast, into seat-squirming triumphs. However, what really sells Demme’s method-of-madness is the naturalistic performances he’s drawn from his mostly unknown cast of character actors.

Much attention has deservedly been heaped on Hathaway, whose wounded doll eyes, pale complexion and rather gaunt figure form a vivid physical representation of abuse. Kym isn’t just a wounded pariah; she’s often vicious and hurtful, desperate to make others feel her own twisted sense of internal struggle. Watching her sad attempts to drag attention away from Rachel (Rosemarie DeWitt, a perfect foil who simmers with barely suppressed frustration), or engaging in a wrenching squabble with her emotionally withdrawn mother (Debra Winger, set for a comeback), Hathaway vanishes into the bruised skin of her character.

Almost equally as brilliant is Bill Irwin, as the conflicted Buchman patriarch, Paul. Irwin, best-known, it would seem, for playing Mr. Noodles on Sesame Street, is exceptional as a father struggling to stay on equal footing with his often irrational daughters. He’s funny in little moments, such as in a giddy reaction to a surprise announcement, and remarkably compelling when he has to reveal the buried emotional truths of his character. If justice of any kind exists in Hollywood, Irwin won’t be overlooked when awards season rolls around, as he is the film’s greatest discovery.

Also worth mentioning is Mather Zickel, as best man Kieran, a fellow recovery case, who has made peace with his demons and acts as a source of support for the near-fracturing family. He’s a warm presence who understands Kym’s torment, and the two have a very interesting relationship that is entirely free of false moments.

If Rachel Getting Married has a flaw, it’s that Demme’s persistent quest for realism slightly drags down the last quarter of the picture. Wedding receptions aren’t particularly entertaining to attend in real life, much less in docu-drama style, where we can see only so many scenes of anonymous people dancing and socializing before fatigue sets in. It’s a testimony to the filmmakers’ vision that the characters are so three dimensional and absorbing that we can’t stand being taken away from them for too long, and these sections occasionally do just that.

With that minor quibble aside, it’s hard to find many flaws on display here. Demme and Lumet have managed to re-explore the tired themes of suburban dysfunction in a way that is poignant, funny, frank and, ultimately, pretty moving. From the point of view of someone who has been bored witless by his fair share of on-screen and off-screen weddings, Rachel Getting Married is well worth a speedy RSVP.

4 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Oct. 13th, 2008.

Film Review - RELIGULOUS: Sinfully Brilliant!

"Tell me I'm a sinner I've got news for you/I spoke to God this morning and he doesn't like you!"
-Ozzy Osbourne,
"I Don't Want To Change the World"

This song lyric ran through my head a couple times during Religulous, the stunning new documentary from Borat director Larry Charles, as I watched the film’s writer/narrator/interviewer Bill Maher, formerly of Politically Incorrect, impishly journey through the inner-most sanctums of organized religion and spirituality. There’s an infectious coiled energy that permeates from the diminutive outlaw comedian’s illusionary facade of laid-back cool, and this devilish fearlessness makes him the ideal master of ceremonies for Religulous, a film that has proven, predictably, to be a firebrand for controversy over the last couple of months.

Opening the film standing on the site of Megiddo, the Christian prophesied site of Armageddon, Maher states his thesis immediately: that religion is detrimental to the progress of humanity. There’s a jolt that comes with hearing a statement such as this spoken aloud as we’ve been socialized in North America to practice a sense of hesitant respectfulness when discussing religion. It’s a private matter, best discussed among family and members of your spiritual community. This, to paraphrase Maher, is bull-pucky.

Maher, a lapsed Catholic whose beliefs fall on the agnostic side of the spectrum, isn’t comfortable with current political structure of his country, much less the world, where the fate of the globe rests in the hands of individuals who are more concerned with the next world than this one (a clip of George Dubya citing his Christian beliefs as being vital in forming America’s foreign policy is particularly troubling). He’s annoyed by the hypocrisies, prejudices and manipulations that are perpetrated by misguided members of the religious right. But most of all, Maher is just plain tired of people being unwilling to admit that “they just don’t know”.

So, we follow him as he journeys the world in search of answers. He talks to a gold-bedecked evangelical preacher who attempts to use Bible quotes to defend his right to wear expensive lizard-skin shoes. There’s a hilarious meet-and-greet with summer-time tourists at Holy Land, a Florida-based Christian theme park (Check out their website at holylandexperience.com and be awestruck at the wondrous depths of crass commercialism), where an actor playing Jesus catches Maher off-guard with a uniquely astute religious analogy. And in the final section of the film, our Host with the Most asks some very pointed questions inside a Jerusalem-set Islamic temple.

This is very uncomfortable territory for many, and Maher and Charles are very aware of this fact, so they’ve used their years of comedy-writing experience to mould Religulous into a comical odyssey, packed with tightly-edited beats and amusing inserted film footage and subtitles. Their attention to the golden rules of comedy story-telling has allowed the duo to create one of the funniest films of the year, a veritable playground of wit and ideas which results in a memorable and absorbing film-going experience.

Now, there’s no doubt that your own personal beliefs are going to weigh heavily on the movie-going experience that Religulous provides. Many will have a hard time dealing with the giddy cheap-shots that Maher is inclined to make (though usually in the service of a larger point). I think what makes it a worthwhile, even important, film to see is how Maher uses the film, not as a tool for vindictive intolerance, but rather for probing curiosity. He’s fascinated by religion, not afraid to lay bare his frustrations with its practices and dogma, and yearns for rational thought to find its place above personal ideology for the sake of humanity’s future.

It must be said, I suspect that the film’s latter sections will lose some viewers. Maher’s exploration into the Islamic religion doesn’t have the care-free humorousness that the sections on Mormonism, Scientology and Christianity do, but it’s an appropriate choice for a couple of reasons. Firstly, due to the more serious and sensitive current political nature of the topic, and alternately, this transition better eases into the culmination of the film: a dazzling crescendo of imagery and gospel music, wherein Maher provides an impassioned call-to-arms for “non-believers” to speak up and make their minority voices recognized, as well as an appeal for people to recognize man’s propensity for just plain screwing up a lot.

Religulous will likely be more willingly embraced by the academic (read: liberal) crowd, who will appreciate the incisiveness and lack of pandering on display. Maher and Charles have made a truly great film that will entertain the many. But I think the real strength of the film lies in the fact that once the laugher dies down, intelligent discussion and debate is likely to ensue. And there’s nothing “religulous” about that.

4.5 out of 5

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