Film Review - FAST & FURIOUS: Stalls More Than It Accelerates!

Holy hand-grenades! Fast & Furious kicks off with an exuberant bang courtesy of an action sequence that would be perfectly at home opening the next James Bond adventure. Set on a dusty, windy Portuguese mountain road, a team of daring crooks, led by Dominic Toretto (Vin Diesel) and his tough-cookie girlfriend Letty (Michelle Rodriguez), attempt to liberate a considerable load of liquid gold from a gargantuan gas-hauling semi-truck. As the unwieldy behemoth swerves aggressively from left to right, and Rodriguez and a female accomplice hang on by the skin of their finger nails while Diesel and co. spin their jacked-up roadsters around like demonic dervishes, we thrill at witnessing a truly effective and brilliant combination of gutsy stunt-work, expert driving and dazzling practical effects combined into a Molotov cocktail of high-octane ecstasy.

Based purely on the stimulating success of this automobilia-erotica foreplay, one would be more than forgiven for expecting director Justin Lin’s stupidly titled film, the fourth in the popular homo-erotic Fast and the Furious franchise - famed for their multiple scenes of shirtless, sweaty men locking eyes and stroking chrome - to provide a heady collection of candy-glazed car-smacking and entertaining gee-whiz discourse. Unfortunately though, after blowing his movie’s wad prematurely, the remainder of Lin’s limp work shows very little grind or thrust.

Arguably set after the epic events of the awesomely campy 2 Fast 2 Furious, and preceding the coma-inducing Tokyo Drift, this entry picks up with Diesel’s outlaw Toretto on the run and seeking revenge. Following the off-screen murder of a close colleague (which is later recreated in full CSI glory), and hunted by the authorities, the lumbering, bald gearhead returns to his American homeland, intend on shutting down the shadowy heroin operations of the mysterious crime-lord Arturo Braga (played by ???). His investigation brings him into uneasy contact with his former “bro”, FBI Agent Brian O’Connor (Paul Walker). Fortunately for the two, Mr. Braga is a street-racing enthusiast – a shock, I know – and soon the two are vying to be a part of his merry band of gear-poppin’ drug transporters.

As Toretto and O’Connor quickly find themselves immersed in the devious goings-ons of Mr. Braga, old wounds and tensions speedily find themselves rising to the surface. While Brian attempts to find a balance between his role within the government bureaucracy and his allegiance to the Toretto clan, including ex-lover Mia (Jordana Brewster), Dominic must battle his own inner demons and seek an end to his high-flying criminal ways. When shit starts to hit the fan, and the identity of Braga is brought to light, the duelling car junkies are forced with a decision: to play by the rules or to shift into maximum overdrive and attack the foe head-on... Fast and furiously!

Now, before going any further, I’d like to take a little moment and examine Mr. Braga’s criminal organization. Fronted by the deceptively friendly Campos (John Ortiz), one would assume that, due to the elusive nature of the group’s figure-head and the FBI’s inability to bust them, they would be intent on remaining in the shadows, correct? So why then would they hold initiations for drivers by conducting reckless street-races in heavily populated downtown Los Angeles? Wouldn’t the immense amount of property damage and civilian casualties tip the authorities off? And again, where is the logic in capping your drivers after a single mission? So you can have more deadly automobile contests and rack up more damage in major urban centres? Seems like a pretty questionable tactic for staying secretive... But then again, the FBI can’t seem to find Diesel’s Torreto the entire film, and he’s just hanging out at his sister’s place – which is under strict surveillance!!! Gadzooks!

I know, I know, I shouldn’t concern myself with the plot. Fast and the Furious flicks aren’t about intricate storytelling but rather “sweet” rides and “off-the-hook” car chases. So why has Justin Lin gone to such effort to rob viewers of the expected spectacle? The big L.A. driving competition is filmed in pitch black, choppily edited and shot through a particularly murky lens. Likewise, the climactic pursuit, set in a cramped, under-lit mining tunnel which separates Mexico and California, is too dusty and poorly CG-altered to make any sense or deliver any excitement. For the life of me, I was completely unable to make out the details of Toretto’s miraculous escape and survival.

So, the car stuff sucks, but what works? Well, Diesel, when not moping, is still a forceful and engaging presence and his work here helps erase the lingering ache of dreck like Babylon A.D. or The Pacifier. Similarly, Walker has actually grown into his role, which is refreshing after the character’s previous incarnations as a bleach-blonde haired doofus, calling everyone ‘brah’, and appearing like a home-schooled Eminem-wannabe playing dress-up. He’s better now, I swear, and has a good physicality in a cool early foot-chase and in a nice bit pounding a co-worker to a pulp.

The women fair far worse, obviously. This IS a series built on mutual man-love and sensual displays of automotive arousal after all. Michelle Rodriguez is a lot of fun in her truncated returning role and the film would have been better served by including more of her. Less Jordana Brewster would have been a big plus though, as her emotional histrionics are painful to endure, and a late-game love scene between her and Walker is baffling in its suddenness. Gal Gadot as, um... Gisele Harabo (thanks IMDB!), a bad girl with a heart-of-gold, is a complete waste of time, not even named within the film and used only for cheap ass and tit shots as well as a whole lotta groan-inducing romantic come-ons.

You have to admire the initiative of the producers who have milked this series of Point Break rip-offs for everything they’re worth and are now guaranteed a chance for a fifth go-around. Fast & Furious, to put it mildly, doesn’t live up to its title but will probably modestly entertain the masses until the summer’s heavy-hitters stampede into theatres next month. With that said, by failing to meet the standard for sharply rendered automotive-awesomeness set by the previous films, apathetic movie-goers just may not be rushing quite so fast to the next Furious.

2.5 out of 5

Film Review - ADVENTURELAND: A Funny, Lovable Ride Into Young Romance and Mischief!

Writer/Director Greg Motolla’s Adventureland is the most rewarding type of film-going experience: a genuinely funny, heartfelt slice of coming-of-age narrative that sneaks up and lulls you into a blissful state of nostalgic joy, leaving you not only smiling well after you’ve exited the theatre, but also fondly remembering the tumultuous passionate journeys of your own adolescence. The film remembers a time where every night out with your friends promised a magical universe of possibilities and rapturous dreams of finding that one defining romantic partner who would “get” you and see through the immature goofball exterior. Watching Motolla’s sweet reverie of a comedy I found myself not so much transported into the film’s 1987 amusement park setting as awash in the tantalizing memories of a time which, while not long ago, seems to have mysteriously drifted out of my aging grasp.

Set in the sleepy suburbs of Pittsburgh during the latter years of the Reagan era, Adventureland stars The Squid and the Whale’s Jesse Eisenberg as James Brennan, a well-intentioned, funny young man who has just graduated with a degree in English literature - with a focus on the ever valuable Renaissance period - who finds his planned summer in Europe cancelled due to his families economic struggles. Desperate for money to pay his way into New York’s Columbia University journalism Masters program, James, after discovering the uselessness of an English BA (I felt like weeping during these scenes), finds himself with a dead-end job as a games supervisor at the city’s ramshackle, “Rock Me Amadeus”-rotating, amusement park Adventureland. Temporarily friendless, working for peanuts and still packing a V-Card, James glumly prepares himself for a summer of toil and tedium.

Fortunately however, Adventureland staffs an eccentric crew of wage-slaves so memorable that boredom isn’t really an option. There are Bobby and Paulette, the owners of the joint, a deceptively insane married couple played by SNL pros Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig, as well as their ruggedly handsome ride mechanic Mike Connell (Ryan Reynolds), a moonlighting musician who once legendarily jammed with Lou Reed! Also present are the workplace sexpot Lisa P. (Margarita Levieva), the uber-smart, cynical nerd Joel (Martin Starr) and the... Oh, hold on, who’s that cute, edgy girl behind that game counter over there? James sure wants to know too. Her name is Em (Twilight star Kristen Stewart) and she’s a wounded beauty who guarantees to make James’ life a whole lot more interesting. Over the course of these simmering, dreamy days of summer ’87, Motolla unfolds the day-to-day dramas of these character’s lives as we look on with an infectious mix of joy, hope, sadness and a heavy helping of youthful exuberance.

What makes Adventureland a revelatory experience, unlike similarly themed romantic-dramedies aimed at early twenty-somethings (Nick and Norah anyone? Yeah, me neither!), is its unswerving commitment to capturing the human truth within each and every character. Em may be cool, funny and adorable, and an ideal potential lover, but she’s also carrying the weight of the world on her lithe shoulders and not immune to poor judgment. Similarly, Reynold’s Mike is a smooth-talking ladies man, cheating on his wife, who talks big but, at the end of the day, innately realizes that his future prospects are slim to none. A lesser film would have made him the pathetic butt of a joke, but as played by the actor and written by Motolla, he’s a fragile human being just trying to remind himself of a time when the future glowed with promise. Heck, even bubbly Lisa P., goofy Bobby, meek Paulette and cynical Joel are interesting individuals with real emotions and genuine struggles to overcome.

It’s the love story between James and Em, though, which makes Adventureland sing. Not since David Gordon Green’s Snow Angels have I witnessed a youthful romance so honest, unconventional and rewarding as the one depicted affectionately here. Motolla remembers that young love is, at the best and worst of times, an exhilarating, frightening, confusing adventure which is as valuable for the passion shared as the accompanying personal revelations and growth. James and Em may not be destined to wind up in wedded bliss, but their time together will forever change and strengthen them for the better. That both young actors communicate this chaotic ride so beautifully is a testament to the maturity and quiet intelligence of their performances.

Leaving the film, it was impossible for me not to think of the Em of my own past, and reflect on how that relationship ultimately laid the groundwork for the course I’ve travelled on since. While I truly hope for a brighter future for Adventureland’s two young protagonists, I feel honoured to have been able to follow them and rejoice in their emotional explorations. This is a movie you want to hug and treasure, a tender reminder of time gone by and of those warm summer evenings when the mysteries of the cosmos could be unlocked by a bright smile or an adoring gaze.

4.5 out of 5

Epi-Cast: Episode 8 - "Ghost Dog, Captain Kirk and Dr. Zaius Get Dragged to the Last House on the Left (and then Hell...)"

Holy Toledo is that a long title or what? Only a podcast as zany and madcap as the Epi-Cast could dare pull off a half-assed flash of brilliance like that unwieldy moniker! And, in case you're a tad slow in the head, you know realize that, following a (too) brief break, the official podcast of Cam's Pop-Culture Episodes has returned tenfold! Rejoice and cower at its dazzling magnificence...

Epi-Cast: Episode 8 - "Ghost Dog, Captain Kirk and Dr. Zaius Get Dragged to the Last House on the Left (and then Hell...)"

In a sad attempt to make up for the fact that they haven't prepared a major review, Cam and Tom unload a metaphorical load of movie-loving buckshot on you with an unfocused, random blast of reviews, gossip and audio flaws. While Cam, in the left corner, takes on I Love You, Man, Knowing and The Last House on The Left, Tom, in the right corner, grapples with Bolt, Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist and Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. Following those gruelling encounters, the duo tag-team the trailers for Where the Wild Things Are, Drag Me to Hell and Star Trek, before rambling on about the ever-present 3-D craze and how best for the Bond franchise to recover from Quantum of Solace. Toss in the "Oddball Pic of the Week" Ed Wood, and you have yourself a recipe for a glazed smile and bleeding eardrums. Godspeed!

To download, right-click and save on the green episode title above and then listen/suffer to your heart's content.

P.S.: We are also available on iTunes as well. Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and PRESTO-STURGES, there we be at! Oh, and we're the film-discussion show, not the church-chatter one.

Film Review - KNOWING: Ain't Even Remotely Believin'!

Hoo boy, gather ‘round kids, do I have a tale to tell all of you! Okay, this story, called Knowing begins fifty looong years ago in Boston, Massachusetts, during those sleepy, innocent days of 1959. A recently opened elementary school there decided to take suggestions from its cheery students – kids were so much less lippy those days! - for how they should celebrate the inaugural semester. The best idea, posed by Lucinda Embry, the spooky girl at the back of the room, was to make a time capsule for future students to open. Well, everyone thought that idea was the cat’s pyjamas and began drawing adorably far-fetched visions of what the far-off year of 2009 would possibly look like. Except Lucinda. Apparently possessed, Lil’ Lucinda filled her entire sheet of paper with an endless string of numbers. A code, perhaps? Sadly though, the capsule burial ceremony got ugly when Lucinda disappeared, and was later discovered frantic and bloody-fingered, carving numbers into a closet door with her nails. Creepy, huh?

Time-warp! Now we’re in the modern day, where Nicolas Cage, playing an alcoholic, grieving astrophysics professor named John Koestler, teaches at a fantastical M.I.T. campus which, among many wonders, boasts almost zero Asian students. Having lost all faith in intelligent design and ordered determinism after the tragic death of his wife, John raises his rascally son Caleb (Chandler Canterbury) in a dilapidated house and coasts his lonely way through life. But – there’s always a “but”! – when Caleb, following the time capsule’s excavation, brings home Lucinda’s sheet of random numbers, John slowly realizes that each of the digit patterns corresponds to a real-life disaster. After surviving a horrendous plane crash, John recruits Lucinda’s daughter Diana, played by 28 Weeks Later’s Rose Byrne, to help him stop the disasters from a-happenin’. And then the aliens show up... Betcha didn’t see that comin’!

Produced and directed by visionary wunderkind Alex Proyas, who, in the past, bestowed upon us the artistically dazzling The Crow and Dark City, as well as the semi-successful I, Robot, Knowing aims for the stars, but barely clears the neighbour’s fence. My snarky comment aside, there are a number of great moments in this wonky paranoid thriller, such as the aforementioned airplane catastrophe, a hypnotic combination of CG and live action, which is one of the most arresting action sequences in recent history. Seriously, it’s that good. There’s also a cataclysmic subway crash and an apocalyptic forest fire, filled with frantic burning animals, that plays like dazzling eye-candy for the cynical and hard-to-please.

Oh, but sweet Sally Jupiter do you have to suffer to reach those moments. Aside from the films relentlessly dour tone, the plot and aforementioned alien business is truly cheesy. Looking like a Teutonic industrial metal band (“Nein! Inch Nails”, perhaps?), they frequently lurk in the background standing statue-still and looking ominous, but feel like tired leftovers from a bazillion horror and suspense films. Not to mention that their grand plan, when broken down, makes very little logical sense. Why involve little Lucinda in the first place?

The actors are decent to awful, with Cage turning in good to serviceable, if lacking in inspirationally weird, work. Rose Byrne, on the other hand, is tremendously pathetic. Often hysterical, screaming lines such as “WE HAVE TO SAVE THE CHILDREN!!!”, you’ll find yourself quickly rooting for her number to come up in Lil’ Lucinda’s lottery of numerical death. To be fair though, she does earn points for being on the receiving end of Cage’s creepiest romantic come-on since Next’s romantic scene with Jessica Biel.

The film looks pretty darn nice, though. And while I wondered why it was always necessary for John and Diana (along with the kids) to investigate every single creepy going-on in the dead of night – not to mention an early scene where the searchers could have just turned the lights on – Proyas films his pitch black night-scenes with a nice ethereal glow which gives it an otherworldly feel. Also, I feel compelled to acknowledge the score by Marco Beltrami, which is fairly subtle and haunting... Until the latter half of the picture, that is, when he doesn’t so much rip off Bernard Hermann’s Psycho theme, as haul the dearly deceased composer from the grave, attach strings to his extremities, and put on an unholy puppet show of creatively bankrupt mimicry.

Yet, despite the wildly sling-shotting quality of Knowing, I have a certain amount of fondness for the gong show I witnessed. It’s stunningly epic in scale, filled with A-level technical work and the occasional unforgettable image, and features an ending so staggeringly ambitious and bizarre that you have to admire the studio for having the balls to go through with it. Hopefully, newby studio Summit Entertainment realizes that spectacular effects can only go so far without a semi-coherent script though, because Knowing only wins half this battle...

2.5 out of 5

*Originally Printed in SFU's The Peak: March 30th, 2009.

Film Review - I LOVE YOU, MAN: Worth Hangin' Out With.

Regardless of its easy-going charm and engaging characters, I think what struck me most powerfully while watching the new Paul Rudd and Jason Segel bro-mance I Love You, Man is just how flippin’ blessed I am to have such a dependable cadre of oddball male friends. I mean, I don’t drink or “party”, hate sports, boast a number of amusing/troubling irrational hang-ups and am completely unable to reciprocate elaborate handshakes. In all honesty, it’s a wonder I don’t spend every night of my life on the couch watching X-Files DVDs with my cat Jasper...

But enough about me already, I Love You, Man features everybody’s favourite non-threateningly handsome leading man Mr. Rudd as Peter Klaven, a slightly up-tight Californian real estate agent. Well-liked and amiable, Peter’s low-key demeanour may have hooked him a gorgeous, thoughtful fiancé in the endearingly named Zooey (The Office star Rashida Jones), but it’s also led to a so-so professional life (he’s struggling to find a buyer for Lou “The Incredible Hulk” Ferrigno’s posh residence) and a dearth of male BFFs. After an epiphany-inducing dinner with his quirky parents (former Conehead Jane Curtin and Spider-Man’s J.K. Simmons) and popular gay brother Robbie (SNL favourite Andy Samberg) our prissy protagonist dedicates himself to finding a new man-friend and, fingers crossed, a best man.

After a truly catastrophic collection of hideously uncomfortable man-dates, with characters ranging from a banshee-voiced soccer fanatic to an eighty-five year old chess enthusiast, Peter inadvertently winds up being introduced to a prospective pal, named Syndey Fife, at an open house for the Ferrigno estate. Played by Forgetting Sarah Marshall’s Jason Segel, Syndey is a slovenly genial giant of a man-child, obsessed with Mexican food, masturbation and the rock band Rush. Despite a disturbing early number of accidental social faux pa’s by Peter, the duo quickly grows inseparable, much to the increasing concern of patient bride-to-be Zooey. As the wedding plans slowly begin to spiral out of control, and his new friendship is put to the ultimate test, Peter is forced to find a balance between his two quickly colliding universes.

While I Love You, Man won’t win any trophies for originality - other than a potential MTV Movie Awards moon-man, that is – the film is ultimately carried on the shoulders of its two attractively charismatic leads. The always winning Rudd, whose previous starring vehicle Role Models was an unexpected comedic winner, continues to demonstrate his brilliant affinity for white male neuroticism, making simple public acts, such as leaving a voice-mail for a potential pal or coming up with a cool nick-name, into mini masterpieces of anxiety-soaked embarrassment. He may not have the over-the-top magnetism of a Ben Stiller or Will Ferrell but, for my money, Rudd is probably the most consistently stellar actor working in comedy today.

Fortunately he finds a great match in Jason Segel, who impressed with Sarah Marshall, but really comes into his own here. His Sydney walks a fine line between shaggy lovability and unbearable neediness, but Segel never wavers, displaying not only a sharp capacity for comic timing, but also a stunning level of emotional truth and heart-warming sincerity. Syndey is a truly original creation and deserves mention among classic funny-film foils such as John Candy in Planes, Trains and Automobiles and Walter Mattheu in The Odd Couple. Further, based on the actor’s work here, I would not be surprised to one day see him making the jump to a booming career in dramatic character work.

Director John Hamburg, who helmed the semi-decent Along Came Polly, does his best Judd Apatow impersonation in presenting this modern day dude-love story, with fairly robust results. The laughs, while rarely uproarious, are consistent and clever. Any movie that features references to Chocolat, Andre the Giant and former Egyptian leader Anwar Sadat is all right by me. However, I Love You, Man falters significantly, unlike the Apatow oeuvre, in regards to its astronomically gifted supporting cast. While Rashida Jones is uniformly strong, making Zooey a surprisingly plausible three-dimensional love interest, and John Favreau and Jaime Pressly kill as a dysfunctional couple in the Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? mould, the majority of the team players are forced to battle it out for pretty meagre scraps. Why cast J.K. Simmons and Jane Curtin as a married couple and then ignore them? An odd and unfortunate choice, indeed.

In spite of some regrettable creative decisions though, I’m not for a second going to dissuade you from checking out this predominantly successful feel-good trip into the juvenile heart of male camaraderie. I suspect that men will find I Love, You, Man frighteningly relatable and entertaining, while female audience members are almost guaranteed to laugh, when not nodding knowingly to one another. Love may be too strong a word, but I have no problem saying that I really, really liked this Man.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally Printed in SFU's The Peak: March 30th, 2009

Film Review - THE LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT: Buyer Beware...

You may be surprised to hear this, but the latest “classic” horror film remake, The Last House on the Left, is a fairly interesting nasty bit of business. A contemporary adaptation of the 1972 Wes Craven-directed exploitation shocker – which apparently featured explicit forced lesbianism, not to mention male genital amputation by way of toothy felatio (!) – this sleek update boasts a punishing rape scene, multiple graphic stabbings and stomach-churning home surgery. With that said, however, underneath its thick layer of repellently salacious sadism and wanton bloodlust lies a number of compelling performances, as well as some unexpectedly intriguing thematic ideas. I know, I know, shoot the horse and paint me red, but it’s true, gawsh darnit!

Produced by Craven, but helmed by novice director Dennis Iliadis, The Last House of the Left ’09 stars Tony Goldwyn and Monica Potter as Dr. John and Emma Collington, successful upper-middle class yuppies and protective parents to a sweet teenage daughter named Mari (Sara Paxton). Still in painful mourning over the loss of their son, the couple decide to break free from the oppression of big city routine and take Mari for a peaceful holiday at the family lake-house. Unfortunately though, after their bubbly adolescent meets up with her mischievous gal pal Paige (Superbad cutie Martha MacIsaac), things slowly go horrifically awry.

Lured to the hotel room of a spaced-out youngster named Justin (Spencer Treat Clark) with the promise of seriously potent marijuana, the two girls are captured by the dumb kid’s escaped-con family, which consists of father Krug (Garret Dillahunt), his girlfriend Sadie (Riki Lindhome) and looney Uncle Francis (Aaron Paul). Roughed up and taken prisoner, the two girls and their captors wind up in the middle of the woods after an escape attempt leaves the getaway vehicle totalled. Angry and in pain, Krug and his crew proceed to viciously beat and terrorize the frightened duo, before brutally raping the petrified Mari and leaving the two girls for dead. Seeking refuge from the dark forest and merciless downpour, the criminals, through freakish circumstance, find themselves seeking shelter and aid at the Collington’s summer home. However, after the genuine nature of Krug and company’s crimes becomes known to the emotionally ailing couple, the hunters quickly find themselves becoming the hunted...

Now, before proceeding any further, I feel it is my obligation to seriously warn those of you unable to stomach appalling on-screen atrocities – namely those with sound morals and healthy psyches – to steer far away. The Last House on the Left is an often punishing experience which is shockingly effective at dragging the audience into the cruellest of human acts without glossy filters or ironic detachment. The murders are cold-blooded and severe and the act of sexual violence is guaranteed to lead to nervous fidgeting and uncomfortable silence. So buyers beware.

Now, as for the rest of us sick degenerates, the film also presents a curiously involving depiction of the Collington’s disturbing shift from calm domesticity into savagery. Unlike more conventional Hollywood revenge thrillers, the couple is never given a clean-cut dramatic turning point. John and Emma aren’t super-parents like Taken’s Liam Neeson, with skills and iron-tight plans; they’re clumsy and out-matched, almost accidentally shifting into offensive mode through sheer irate confusion and over-taxed nerves. Goldwyn and Potter imbue these characters with a dogged sense of outraged perseverance and stark realism, grabbing our sympathies but also occasionally causing us to question the nature of their actions. They also exhibit the appropriate level of pathos, exposing the inner pains of two wounded individuals who are seeing their last remaining chance for a happy home-life quickly dissolve. Through skilful editing and honest direction, the couple’s hunt for catharsis through ferocity is both disquieting and disturbingly liberating.

The killers themselves are also nicely drawn, with Dillahunt’s Krug (wasn’t that the main baddie’s name in Donkey Kong Country?) the most fearsome presence. Like the Collingtons, he seems to be operating on blind instinct and improvisation, rarely comfortable or in control. Unable to manage his hysterical victims and lunatic family, Krug’s volcanic temper and lack of restraint make him an ideal counterpart to the anxiously resourceful protagonists. The final scene in the film, where we witness the monster’s guard finally crumble, is more memorable for Dillahunt’s trapped-animal mask of terror than for the admittedly spectacular gruesome pay-off.

In a pop-culture atmosphere which prides itself on using excessively improbable gore effects and easy-scares to frighten an audience, it’s strangely refreshing to come across an ugly little thriller that doesn’t think twice about running movie-goers through the wringer. The Last House on the Left is an exhausting, wicked nightmare of a movie which, despite the odd tedious moment, achieves exactly what it set out to accomplish. Whether you decide to take the turn or drive right past is totally up to you.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: March 23rd, 2009.

Epi-Cast: Episode 7 - "AliBADba & the Fo'ee Watchmen."

You thought we'd packed it in and abandoned the dream didn't you? DIDN'T YOU??! Well, you sir or ma'am were very, very wrong. So wrong in fact that, as penance, you should download Cam Smith and Tom Wytrwal's latest, greatest, grating-ist Epi-Cast of all, a bloated, tangential meditation on Watchmen and so very much more.

Epi-Cast: Episode 7 - "AliBADba & the Fo'ee Watchmen."
Another shot of delirious doofery, this slightly expanded episode (95 mins) features Cam and Tom recovering from their mind-numbing post-Oscar podcast with a mighty heaping spoonful of Watchmen discussion. Beginning with a rattling, shaky pondering of whether the film should be seen by the masses, the discourse quickly turns into a geeky examination of how the flick matches Alan Moore's masterwork. Additionally, they also review Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li, Fired Up, Tigerland, Fatherland, Phantom of the Paradise and The Legend of Lobo (?). Throw in some Terminator: Salvation and Up mentions, as well as a guest review by Janine Smith on Miracle at St. Anna, and you have yourself one hell of way to kill an hour and change of your hopelessly unfulfilling life. Enjoy!

To download, right-click and save on the green episode title above and then listen/suffer to your heart's content.

P.S.: We are also available on iTunes as well. Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and BINGO-BANGO!, there we be! Oh, and we're the film-discussion show, not the God-talk one.

Film Review - STREET FIGHTER: THE LEGEND OF CHUN-LI: Tiger Upper-suck!!!

Remember those golden days of yore, when Street Fighter II ruled the arcades? A simpler time, it was, filled with glorious Sonic Booms, concussive Hadoukens and earth-shattering Tiger-Uppercuts. It was a precious period in my life, before the perils of school, work and romance, where the most daunting of tribulations could be defeated with a well-timed flash-kick. No offence to Kevin Arnold, but the early nineties were the TRUE wonder years!

So when I heard that ‘ol Hollywood was launching a new ass-kicking adaptation, it was hard not to let a small part of my inner-nerd bask in the fan-glow. I mean, sure, lessons were learned from the fromage-o-rific Van Damme quasi-epic Street Fighter: The Movie – which was packed with more stealth boats, cartoonish flexing and corny speeches than you could spit a Yoga Flame at! – but c’mon, that clown-show set the bar so low that there was no feasible way that Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li could possibly be any crappier, right!? Right???

In a noticeable attempt to sidestep the slavish faithfulness of the 1994 original, which stirred almost twenty game characters into an over-caffeinated smorgasbord of chop-socky Chop Suey, The Legend of Chun-Li has taken the reverse course and ignored nearly everything to do with the Capcom classic. Instead, we now tag along with the petite Chun-Li (Smallville’s Kristen Kreuk), a Julliard trained concert pianist who also happens to be skilled in the Chinese martial art of Wushu. After her loving father is kidnapped by the evil (vaguely Irish) business tycoon Bison (Neil McDonough), she begins a transformative journey of discovery which owes more than a handful of quarters to Batman Begins.

Living on the mean streets of Bangkok, Chun-Li begins an unconvincing, earnestly narrated descent into the criminal underworld before meeting Liam Neeson... Or rather Robin Shou, playing the Neeson role, as Gen, a martial arts master who leads the secret organization Order of the Web. (I counted two members) In a series of training sequences, Gen schools our diminutive heroine in the sacred arts of high-kicks and fireball throwing, all the while spouting platitudes about lacking focus and not giving in to anger. Proving a quick study, our little ninja pixie is soon ready to rumble, and investigating Bison’s nefarious criminal plot which involves, wait for it, crooked real estate dealings! (Boo! Hiss!) Teaming up with rugged, greasy Interpol agent Charlie Nash (Chris Klein – more on him later) and his cleavage-flaunting partner, Det. Maya Sunee (Moon Boobgood, er, Bloodgood.), Chun-Li must face off against Bison’s hired assassins’ Balrog (Michael Clarke Duncan) and Vega (The Black Eyed Peas’ Taboo), before facing the big, bad end-of-level boss himself.

Le sigh. It almost pains me to admit that all of this exhausted material is played out with grim sincerity and nary a stealth boat on the horizon. Helping to ease the pain though, is American Pie alum Klein, as the swaggering Nash, who scores a home-run with a truly oddball performance. In a moment of campy genius, the actor, accompanied by gangsta rap on the soundtrack, struts boldly towards the camera before slyly announcing - to no one in particular – “I love this job!”. Arguably inspired by equal parts Cobra, Tango & Cash and Miami Vice, Klein is an absolute hoot every second of his screen-time. The hell with The Legend of Chun-Li, I want to see The Sexy Adventures of Charlie Nash!

Tragically, instead of following Klein’s possibly stoned hep-cat act, the remainder of the cast are a bunch of Blandy McBlandersons, though Kreuk does have a hilarious moment where, in an attempt to draw the attention of Bison’s lesbian henchwomen in a dance club, she seductively “steps up to the streets”/“stomps the yard” (I’m too square to tell the difference). Another memorable bit involves Bison’s bat-shit crazy origin, which features magic caves and child-birth through mega-punching. Ouch.

The fight scenes are all over the map, with an early scuffle between Chun-Li’s father and Balrog probably the highlight due to its inclusion of flaming hands. The rest, particularly those featuring Kreuk, are packed with stupid wire-work and noticeably jagged editing, used to hide the star’s lack of fighting prowess. Additionally, the decision to stage a climactic gun fight between two teams of black-clad participants in the dark was, putting it mildly, imbecilic.

Still, The Legend of Chun-Li is almost charming in its incompetence, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity when the clearly delusional filmmakers trotted out a last minute sequel teaser. When your film can’t improve upon the sight of a sickly Raul Julia flying through the air in a bright red super-suit, it’s probably time to move on. Despite the presence of a cute star and lots of pyrotechnics, this film confirms that, when it comes to Street Fighter, Hollywood doesn’t know which buttons to push.

1.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: March 9th, 2009.

Film Review - FIRED UP!: So NOT Worth Cheering Over...

Fired Up! is not a movie that any rational person would give a second glance. The trailers and TV-spots alone heavily implied that it would be a laugh-free ninety-minutes, packed with himbos, bimbos and prat-falling mascots. It looked like complete crap and, perhaps, evidence not only of the dark lord Satan’s existence, but definitive proof that he was active on Earth and working in the moving picture business.

Now, while all of those assumptions are, to varying degrees, correct, there was a lone bright spot. A radiant spark within the desolate abyss that pulled my long-buried sense of optimism to the surface: Mr. John Michael Higgins!

Name doesn’t ring a bell? Colour me unsurprised. While Higgins has, for over a decade, been carving out a brilliant comic career, filling supporting roles in films of wildly differing pedigrees, he unfortunately still remains something of an unknown. With his cartoonishly square jaw and absurdly severe expressions, which often betray a complete absence of frontal lobe activity, the actor specializes in inhabiting ego-maniacs driven by a resolute dedication to their own misguided, idiotic ideals. Whether playing Jennifer Aniston’s karaoke-loving, gay-diva brother in The Break-Up or the cowboy-loving Hollywood agent in Christopher Guest’s For Your Consideration, Higgins is a genius at creating characters you’d probably want to punch out if they weren’t so damn charismatic and fascinating.

Which brings us to Fired Up!, a dopey teen comedy which casts Higgins in a key supporting role as Coach Keith, the gung-ho, borderline-deranged leader of Fired Up (think about the acronym) cheerleading camp. Watching Higgins perform spastic dance moves and wave pom-poms with the single-minded intensity of R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket, the actor is a joy to behold in all his narcissistic glory. Too bad the film isn’t about him.

The real story of Fired Up! is centred on Nick and Shawn, two smug, womanizing High School football jocks – surely a terrible conceptual idea for building any sort of audience identification – who decide to skip out on football camp in Texas and instead enrol at F-U (ha...ha.), with the sleazy intentions of racking up as many cheerleader points as humanly possible. While Nick (Eric Christian Olsen – think Jim Carrey crossbred with Owen Wilson) cuts a lusty swath across the campus, Shawn (Nicholas D’Agosto – imagine Superman Returns’ Brandon Routh interbred with, er, Owen Wilson...) begins to fall for the cheerleading team’s smart, sassy leader Carly (Sarah Roemer). Wouldn’t you know it though, Carly has a goony, evil boyfriend, self-named Dr. Rick (David Walton), who threatens not only the two kids’ blossoming romance, but also the team’s chances to win the big cheerleading exhibition! Whatever will they do? Like you don’t already have an idea!

Reading over the plot of the film, you can probably easily connect-the-dots from cliché to cliché, and watching the flick is no different. Fired Up! is the generic type of movie that, if given just a slight twist by the filmmakers, could be a pretty good satire and hilarious entertainment. But they don’t. And it isn’t.

Of course, that isn’t to suggest that a game few don’t struggle, with considerable flop-sweat, to overcome the Alcatraz-like imprisonment of Freedom Jones’s stupid script. Eric Christian Olsen, who oddly enough is actually over the 30-year mark, tries valiantly to give his dim witticisms some zing through weird speech rhythms and goofy physical gesticulations. While he doesn’t succeed in making Nick particularly likable, I wouldn’t be averse to seeing him get future comedy work. Similarly, David Walton, as the jerk boyfriend, is an over-the-top hoot in a few scenes, fervently singing along to Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumper” and always appearing to be in constant peril of bursting blood vessels. And, of course, Higgins kills in his few scenes of ecstatic prancing grandeur.

The ladies fair far, far worse due to the fact that they are all playing half-dressed, brain-dead automatons with catty tendencies and inclinations for sporadic lesbianism. Lead actress Sarah Roemer has sort of a cute, spunky Kate Hudson thing going on, but she isn’t given a single clever line, while the massive female cast only has one humorous scene, watching an outdoor projection of Bring It On and, in unison, robotically reciting every single line of dialogue.

Throw in the film’s lazy use of its soundtrack songs to create emotion – pop-punk music in party scenes, The Jackson 5’s “ABC” for wacky montages – as well as its rampant product placements and complete lack of comprehension for staging believable cheerleading routines, and you have a pretty dead fish on your hands. I’ll continue my unyielding support of John Michael Higgins however and, judging from the copious credit outtakes, it appears that he and the rest of the cast had a great time making Fired Up!. Too bad we have to watch it. F-U, indeed...

2 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: March 2nd, 2009.