Another Summer in Amity: 35 Years of JAWS, Day 1: JAWS

Hard to believe, but it was 35-years ago yesterday that director Steven Spielberg boldly made his formidable presence known to both Hollywood and audiences alike with a “perfect engine” of a crowd-pleaser; a film which forever changed the rules and practices of the movie-making industry and inspired generations of viewers to develop instantaneous aquaphobia. Based on Peter Benchley’s best-selling novel, and bearing the economical and pointed title Jaws, the picture would be the first film to receive opening-weekend wide-release distribution and go on to earn over $470 million at the box-office – a record at the time, which would prove short-lived once Star Wars erupted in 1977 – and give birth to the modern blockbuster.

While it’s often tempting, from our current vantage point, for critics to vilify the movie for helping to pave the way for the legions of soulless four quadrant-geared tent-poles which followed (and plague us to this very day) – a paradigm shift which proved lethal to the popularity of the intelligent, experimental and thematically complex adult-driven cinema of the 70s - it’s also impossible to not commend Jaws for how marvelously well it accomplished what it set out to achieve. Viewing the film – which still remains a singularly staggering exhibition of white-knuckle tension – one has to appreciate the idealistic purity and whimsical innocence that exists just below the churning surface of the blood-streaked surf, where the unproven director’s richly artistic and broadly commercial sensibilities potently merged for what would be the first of many glorious times (Although strong early glimmers were previously evident in both Duel and The Sugarland Express). As a cultural marker, Jaws looms gargantuan and mighty, but as a transcendent work of pure cinema, it’s a flawless masterwork; a relentlessly haunting and joyful experience which has altered career courses and irrevocably changed countless film-lovers’ lives forever.

Certainly, one of the movie’s greatest assets, and a critical component in establishing a vice-like grip on the audiences’ emotions, is the iconic opening involving Chrissie Watkins’ (Denise Cheshire) ill-fated night-time skinny-dip. Other than Psycho’s classic shower-stabbing of Janet Leigh, has there been a more unforgettable act of on-screen murder towards a shrieking naked female? (Curiously, Spielberg would later mine the famous scene for laughs in 1979’s 1941, to pretty lame results) Notice, however, how Spielberg initially establishes the serenity of the moment, elegantly capturing the lithe girl’s slender form gliding gracefully across the moonlit ocean’s rippling surface. We are at once alternately awed by the picturesque splendor of the images and unsettled by the subtly foreboding rumblings buried within John Williams’ powerful Oscar-winning score and the director’s vaguely predatory POV from below. Suddenly the infamous DUM-DUM-DUM-DUM begins to throb on the soundtrack, gradually increasing in intensity, as the camera begins to ominously close in on the unsuspecting victim and we nervously lean forward in our seats. Then the panicked thrashing and guttural, frenzied screaming starts and we’re completely and utterly hooked; frozen in horror, but so completely under the director’s spell that we dare not turn away. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of dreadful pandemonium, calm returns and we relax. It’s over. For now…

Indeed, the devil has come to peaceful Amity Island and he couldn’t have found a more unsuspecting vacation spot. With its quaint Norman Rockwellian décor (Not a single franchise restaurant or major-market retail chain in sight!) and populace of genial, easy-going small-town dwellers it might as well be called Hometown, USA. Spielberg’s lovingly picks out little details to help sell the reality of this world, such as the salty presence of Harbor Master Frank Silva (Donald Poole) cheerfully smoking his pipe on the sidewalk, or the emphasis on everyone referring to each other on a first-name basis, and it works. We like and understand these people, and can literally feel the low-key pulse of their half-empty streets, slightly run-down buildings, over-crowded meeting rooms and heavily trafficked beaches (filled out with almost distractingly normal-looking extras). When our hero, Chief Martin Brody (Roy Scheider), emerges from his humble, white picket-fence-bordered house, you can’t help but smile. If ever there was a town ill-equipped to deal with the sinister problem presently navigating their coastline, it’s this one.

The amusing dichotomy between the gentle, unworldly masses of Amity and the ravenous, unstoppable shark provides the film with a great deal of its escalating urgency. Unlike similar genre entries and cheapo horror flicks, the violence here is ugly and brutal and has genuine consequences. Consider the fall-out from the gruesome demise of young Alex Kintner (Jeffrey Voorhees) and how it inspires both full-scale shark hysteria – resulting in a disorderly city council meeting overseen by the greedy, tourist dollar-obsessed Mayor Vaughn (a priceless Murray Hamilton, in an endless parade of gaudy suits), a wildly funny and incompetent hunting party and an animated public gathering around the fishermen’s small fry quarry (complete with a stray arrow sticking out of its side!) – and, more tragically, a tearful condemnation of Brody’s lack of action from the boy’s grieving mother (Lee Fierro). Scenes like this illustrate why Spielberg is the best at what he does; he never fails to factor humanity into his material, no matter how pulpy. These deaths cause shockwaves within the close-knit community and the film tastefully doesn’t take them for granted or treat them like a repulsive gag.

The indisputable heart of Jaws, though, is the last-ditch hunting voyage undertaken by Brody, marine biologist Matt Hooper (Richard Dreyfuss, mixing impish goofiness and fierce intelligence with cool aplomb) and local shark-killer extraordinaire Quint (Robert Shaw, never better) aboard the cramped, weathered sea-craft the Orca. Their expedition - a series of day-trips in Benchley’s novel, combined into one satisfying whole by clever screenwriter Carl Gottlieb - supplies the film with a remarkable character-driven third act in which we realize, well before the mismatched trio, that it’s the behemoth shark doing the hunting and not vice versa. There is a brief striking moment, wherein Quint watches the shark drag three large barrels beneath the depths, which completely sells the magnitude of the situation. The look on Shaw’s face registers a series of conflicted sentiments; surprise, concern, exasperation and even a hint of begrudging respect. Although Hooper may be the most academically educated party aboard, Quint has the most personal score to settle – explained during his beyond-brilliant monologue detailing the sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis (“Sometimes that shark he looks right into ya. Right into your eyes. And, you know, the thing about a shark... he's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes. When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be living... until he bites ya, and those black eyes roll over white and then... and then you hear that terrible high-pitched screamin'”) – and for him to express even surpressed shock and awe significantly raises the dramatic stakes.

Although Quint and Hooper are arguably more suited to slaying the beast, it is ultimately Brody who gets to achieve the Herculean feat. Scheider has the least-flashy role of the three, but he is also given the most room to grow and develop. He’s portrayed as an outsider in almost every situation within the story; a native New Yorker living on an island of indigenous inhabitants, a lone sane man overpowered by local bureaucracy, a non-entity in his two shipmates’ competitive clashes for alpha-male supremacy. On board the Orca he assumes the lowly role of chum-thrower while Hooper steers the boat from the second-story steering column and Quint stands, champion-like, atop the lofty viewing platform. However, Brody’s advantage lies in his perception of the creature. While his two fellow adventurers only acknowledge the shark in natural terms – an animal that needs to be dispatched by routine methods – Brody sees it for the malevolent force that it is and isn’t hampered by personal prejudice or stubborn ingrained beliefs or assumptions. He triumphs, not through knowledge or expertise, but through ingenuity, bravery, fear and dumb luck. And when he does pull that trigger, and the shark explodes in a shower of flesh, blood, bone and water, the feeling is electric; one of the most unabashedly rousing moments in cinema history.

Of course, one would be remiss to not credit the performance of the shark itself. By all accounts a severe pain-in-the-ass for cast and crew alike (read screenwriter Carl Gottlieb’s account of the near-trainwreck production in his fascinating The Jaws Log) the creature, which was built by Joe Alves and Roy Arbogast, still works every second he’s chewing the scenery. The beast’s attacks on the Orca have true weight and when it lays thrashing on the boat’s submerged deck, snapping violently at Quint’s ankles, the menace is palpable and very, very real. Perhaps its greatest contribution is its clunky limitations, as it forced Spielberg to rely on his inner-Hitchcock, teasingly building up the shark’s alarming presence over the course of the picture before giving it its long-desired close-up. Had this situation not transpired, there’s a good chance that we wouldn’t hold Jaws in the same high regard as we do today.

Broken down to its bare essentials, Jaws is a very simple, well-told story with archetypal characters, primal thrills, an appealing location and a finely-honed Man vs. Nature theme. In the telling, though, it’s carefully stripped-down structure and honest, sensible heroes instil it with an often profound level of integrity, emotion and truthfulness that elevates it well above its genre roots and into the realm of high art. For Steven Spielberg, Jaws was a trial by fire, a chance to prove his worth amidst the very worst production conditions. His eventual off-the-charts triumph afforded him the necessary juice to gift audiences with treasured cinematic tales like Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and E.T. For audiences, it was a delightfully frightening, exhilarating yarn that produced as many nightmares as starry-eyed dreams of movie magic. Three and a half decades after its release, Jaws still refuses to let go, and it’s unlikely it ever will.

Shark Bites:
Shark-tality Count: 6 – Chrissie Watkins, Pipit the dog, Alex Kintner, Ben Gardner (off-screen), Male Lifeguard (referred to as “Estuary victim” in official credits), Quint.

Best Toothy Kill: A toughie, given that Spielberg makes every attack a veritable extravaganza of unleashed grisly mayhem, but I have to go with Quint’s all-too-slow demise. The most dramatically impactful death in the film – not to mention most ghastly – the Orca captain’s blood-spurting descent into the behemoth’s razor-sharp triangular chompers is so unflinchingly brutal and terrifying that it sticks with you days after seeing it.

Worst Toothy Kill: Nadda. This category will be better served in future instalments.

How the Shark Finally Bites It: Death by exploding oxygen tank.

Climactic Words to Chew On: Brody: “Smile you son of a...”

Shark-splosion Rating (Out of 10): A 10!

Overall Film Rating: 5 out of 5

Epi-Cast: Episode 23 - "Podcasterz 'N tha Hood"

Ah, nothing like a nice hiatus to clear the cob-webs and/or while away time doing schoolwork and preparing for a grim future of educated unemployment. But you know what? Even though we may spend our future podcasting in a dingy alley using only a broken microphone (unplugged of course) and a typewriter (missing the letter "A" of course), the Epi-Cast will live on. Whether that is a good thing or not remains to be seen. Or at least not yet communicated to me personally. We're practically working in a vaccuum here, people! But, you know, we wouldn't have it any other way. Unless money is involved, then we'll totally whore ourselves out. Any offers? We're cheap!

Epi-Cast: Episode 23 - "Podcasterz 'N tha Hood"

Returning just in time for the start of Summer movie season, the doofy duo unload their critical slings and arrows on Ridley Scott's unimpressive Robin Hood prequel. How much of a misfire is it? A hint: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is referenced in relation to it. Yeeks, that's never good! However, to help balance out the episode, they also fawn adoringly over this year's amazing Best Foreign Film Oscar Winner The Secret in Their Eyes, as well as engage in wit-soaked commentary over Iron Man II, I Sell the Dead, Pirate Radio and, oddly enough, the 1969 semi-classic Two Mules for Sister Sara with Clint Eastwood and Shirley MacLaine. Not enough to satisfy your ravenous appetite for movie discussion? Well, hoss, we'd be remiss to not mention that the new trailers for Machete, The Adjustment Bureau, Jonah Hex and Piranha 3D are dissected for the greater good of society. We may be internet outlaws, but we sure as sheep-dog know when to give the people what they want. You're most welcome.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the interweb's most glorious aural holy of holies.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, ZEMO-SINESTRO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Geeky net speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast". Avoid those pretentious circus clowns like a pack of flesh-consuming sloths.

Film Review - CLASH OF THE TITANS

Is it too much to ask that a gaudy blockbuster boasting the earth-rumbling title Clash of the Titans be, you know, fun?! The original film, released unto the masses in 1981, is best remembered - justifiably so – for its goofy-cool stop-motion animation, courtesy of renowned effects master Ray Harryhausen, which provided welcome lightning bolts of gee-whiz spark to the frequently logy and ponderous proceedings. In its best bits, that extremely flawed endeavour managed to stir up a genuine feeling of giant-sized other-worldliness, equal parts vivid Marvel comic-book adventure and brilliantly cheesy Manowar power ballad, which captured the gloriously colourful excess of its iconic source material. Hypothetically, it’s the ideal cinematic property to remake, as it was never really successfully realized in the first place. Too bad, then, that this new 21st Century Clash is even more of a lumbering snore than its ancestor; a slap-dash slice of hack ‘n slash idiocy delivered with the dour dryness of an early morning Aristotelian theory lecture.

 This retrofitted Clash of the Titans again chronicles the trials and tribulations of Perseus (The inexplicably ubiquitous Sam Worthington), mortal half-human son of Zeus (Liam Neeson), and mankind’s only hope when the Gods declare war on their ungrateful disciples. Recognized as being the only soul capable of withstanding the malevolent powers of Hades (Ralph Fiennes), the reluctant demigod embarks on a quest to discover a weapon capable of stopping the fearsome Kraken, a tentacle-waving, Godzilla-sized water-dweller proficient in unmitigated destruction, from laying waste to the city of Argos. Of course, no journey is without its minor inconveniences, and Perseus’ must endure deadly encounters with monstrous fiends such as the snake-haired Medusa, a trio of blind, man-eating witches and the villainous Calibos (Jason Flemyng), a deformed opponent with a shadowy past.

However, like every archetypal hero, Perseus’ greatest conflict ultimately lies within himself, as he struggles to make peace with his divine lineage. As anyone with even a passing familiarity with Greek mythology knows, the entire literary canon hinges on sharply defined individuals bearing larger-than-life personalities and emotions – two characteristics almost entirely absent from the various human characters populating the film. Worthington may be a step up from Harry Hamlin, but he’s still far too stolid and composed to properly portray Perseus’ inner-turmoil and incorruptible spirit. With his oddly contemporary haircut (Which badly stands out amidst the sea of shaggy-headed supporting players), bemused expression and baby-faced features, he looks about as dynamic as a trainee bank teller.

Of course, the filmmakers, perhaps to counter their star’s limitations, have surrounded Worthington with a crew of banal walking clichés to help distract from his flavourless performance. There’s Draco, the “Initially Hostile Ally Who Becomes a Trusted Friend” (imposing Danish actor Mads Mikkelson, valiantly grappling with his turgid dialogue), the “Beautiful, Compassionate Princess” Andromeda (Alexa Davalos, barely registering) and the “Wacky Comic Duo” (Ashraf Barhom and Mouloud Achour), who aren’t particular wacky, nor comedic. And what to make of Io (Gemma Arterton), the impassive immortal beauty who has made it her business to watch over Perseus from birth and explain everything he needs to know? To call her a good sport would be an understatement. It is curious, though, that, besides Perseus, no one seems to even notice her. There must be a deleted scene somewhere explaining this distracting phenomenon, because you certainly won’t find it on-screen.

One of the appeals of the first Clash was how the Gods behaved like a squabbling pack of bitchy high-schoolers. Here, they’ve all been relegated to extra status, minus Neeson’s Zeus and Fiennes’ Hades, who execute their roles exactly as you’d expect them to; the former playing his usual slightly-pompous, stately leader-type and the latter doing a variation on his Voldemort from the Harry Potter pictures. It might’ve been more enjoyable if someone in casting been a little more daring and swapped their parts.

 I was a big fan of director Louis Leterrier’s work on The Incredible Hulk, in which he made the dust-ups between his warring computer-rendered behemoths feel visceraland electrifying without overwhelming the viewer. Thus, it’s somewhat surprising that all the major set-pieces in Clash look so cluttered and blurry. The Medusa sequence – the suspenseful highlight of the 1981 version – is a chaotic mess of embarrassing CG and agitated editing, while the climactic Kraken battle is frankly too bewildering to be interesting. Only a desert scuffle against a squad of colossal scorpions manages to budge the Wow-meter above zero.

Even though it has become common-place to see major studios burn up untold fortunes in the service of unimaginative, middle-of-the-road spectacle,it’s tremendously disheartening to see a project so bursting with obvious potential blundered to the point of complete ruin. This is a premise rife with potential for audience-pleasing displays of unrestrained movie magic, timeless storytelling and unforgettably vibrant champions and hiss-worthy evil-doers. Instead, despite infinite artistic resources and talent, this Clash is trash.  

1.5 out of 5 

 *Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: April 12th, 2010.

Film Review - HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON

Back in the lazy, balmy summer days of 1999, Warner Bros. unceremoniously dumped an unassuming little Cold War-era animated tale into theatres to glowing notices and zero audience interest. The picture, called Iron Giant, was a heartstring-tugging take on the “Friendly Visitor from Another World” genre, which beautifully depicted the touching friendship between a colossal, scrap-metal-munching robot and a lonely young schoolboy. The film ultimately found its legs on video, where it has since transformed many-a-viewer - including my unabashedly sentimental self - into a pathetic blubbering mess of tears and stifled sobs. A decade later, it’s gifted director, Brad Bird, has seen his career sky-rocket into the stratosphere on the strength of his classic Pixar efforts Ratatouille and The Incredibles, while Giant itself has become regarded as one of the more important family entertainments of its time.

The reason I bring up Iron Giant is because it’s honest, magical spirit can be strongly felt throughout Dreamworks’ How to Train Your Dragon, an enchanting, and very welcome, departure from the studio’s usual brand of disposable pop-culture-riddled cartoon star-vehicles (Shark Tale, Anyone? How about Over the Hedge? Wait, come back!). Weaving a timeless yarn, not light-years removed from the enduring Warner Bros. favourite, the charming Dragon hangs itself squarely on the scrawny shoulders of Hiccup (Jay Baruchel), a nerdy teenage Viking living on the winged-reptile-plagued island of Berk, who dreams of one day becoming a courageous dragon-slayer in line with his proud father Stoick (Gerard Butler, more charismatic here than in his recent live-action ventures).

One disorderly starlit evening, during a chaotic dragon attack, Hiccup, using one of his unwieldy hunting contraptions, clumsily shoots an elusive Night Fury (A powerful breed famed for having never been gazed upon by a mere mortal) out of the sky. Eager to score his first kill, the wannabe warrior takes to the forest in search of his fallen quarry, anticipating a confrontation with a ferocious, spiteful foe. Instead, he finds a trapped and crippled animal, barely conscious, staring out at him through wide, wounded feline-like orbs. Unable to finish off the frightened creature – whom he dubs Toothless – Hiccup instead releases it from bondage, thus beginning a rousing bond built upon mutual trust, affection and the odd shared bite of slimy raw fish. However, the strain of carrying on this secret rapport begins to wear on the awkward hero when he is enrolled in dragon-fighting school and his father sets out to locate, and destroy, the beasts’ undiscovered subterranean nest. Torn between his allegiance to upholding the ancient traditions of his people, and ending their violent prejudice against Toothless’ species, Hiccup embarks on an epic adventure that could change Viking – and dragon - life forever.

As overseen by Dean DeBlois and Chris Sanders, who previously helmed Disney’s energetic Lilo & Stitch, How to Train Your Dragon is a frequently breathtaking feast for the eyeballs. There are a number of sweeping, gorgeous flight sequences (which occasionally recall Aladdin’s iconic magic-carpet ride), wherein Toothless and Hiccup glide above his tiny rocky homeland and sail out over the expansive surrounding seas, sometimes ascending above the soft overhanging clouds, which will send waves of incredulous chills up your spine and leave you grinning ear-to-ear. Using 3D to its fullest capabilities, the filmmakers have created a wholly immersive movie-going experience that, for my money, is more moving, grand and awe-inspiring than anything in Avatar.

The picture’s smashing success in that particular arena can largely be attributed to its directors’ refusal to allow their character to be swallowed by the behemoth spectacle around them. Great attention has been paid towards ensuring that the relationship beats are as potent as the dramatic action set-pieces. We genuinely care about Hiccup and Stoick’s discouraging inability to connect with one-another just as much as we’re enraptured by the sweetly playful dynamic between our protagonist and Toothless. The sincere warmth of their camaraderie – which will enthral devoted pet owners everywhere – never crosses into cloying or manipulative terrain, and culminates in a pair of crucial closing moments that pack some serious emotional firepower. Even the side players, like one-armed, one-legged weapons master Gobber (Craig Ferguson – a canny casting choice) and plucky love-interest Astrid (America Ferrera), register as appealing, fully-developed individuals whose critical decisions feel guided by their own nature, not the demands of the screenplay.

When it comes right down to it, How to Train Your Dragon is the epitome of what a winning family film should be; it’s a simple, endearing story, told well and with gusto, populated by compelling characters and exhilarating sights, capable of stirring a sense of pure delight and wonder in movie-goers of all ages. It’s becoming increasingly all-too-rare nowadays to be transported and uplifted by the joy of viewing the unhindered human imagination painted across a cinematic canvas. This film accomplishes that feat, for this Dragon appreciates what it really means to soar.

4 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: April 5th, 2010.

Film Review - GREEN ZONE

The topical political thriller has become an exceedingly difficult genre to mine commercial success from as of late, as evidenced by the battleground of smoking cinematic crater-holes left by Hollywood’s more costly attempts to weave smart adult entertainment out of the tangled mess of threads that makes up the current conflict in the Middle East. Mega-names such Cruise, Hanks, DiCaprio, Crowe, Clooney and Foxx have all valiantly tried to pull off this tricky endeavour and been treated to mixed critical response and anaemic box-office returns. Even Best Picture Oscar-winner The Hurt Locker, almost unanimously praised for its gritty authenticity and skilful use of ticking time-bomb tension (Literally!), only managed to eke out an unimpressive $15-million-dollars during its entire North American run. Ultimately, this long string of failures seems to prove, quite concretely, that audiences simply aren’t yet willing to spend their recreational time supporting films which mirror the disheartening political climate that’s coloured their day-to-day life. Quelle surprise!

Now we have Green Zone, an occasionally efficient, but largely flavourless, quasi-adaptation of Rajiv Chandrasekaran’s factual account Imperial Life in the Emerald City, directed by maverick Bourne Supremacy and Ultimatum auteur Paul Greengrass, and starring Bourne himself, Mr. Matt Damon. Playing Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller, a dedicated G.I. trying to sniff out WMDs in war-torn Baghdad, the reliable actor is in full-on action-star mode; stoic, remote and all-business, a hard-edged professional seeking to expose the truth amidst a veritable maelstrom of bad intel, administrative power struggles and bureaucratic double-talk.

After his latest futile assignment leads to a deserted toilet factory, he teams with Marty Brown (Brendan Gleeson), an unconventional CIA agent who questions the dependability of the government’s top-secret insider source, nick-named “Magellan”. Going rogue, dogged at every turn by both smarmy Pentagon intelligence officer Clark Poundstone (Greg Kinnear) and intrepid Wall Street Journal reporter Lawrie Dayne (Amy Ryan), Miller sets his sights on capturing the elusive Al-Rawi (Igal Naor) – a resourceful Iraqi General who may provide the elusive answers he requires.

As he proved in his two Bourne instalments and, more impressively, the extraordinary United 93, Greengrass knows how to construct an immersive sense of place through his apprehensive cinéma vérité-style of filmmaking, capturing the unfolding happenings around him with a documentarian’s zeal and a brilliant eye for raw, powerful visuals. Perhaps better than any previous effort, he flawlessly replicates the urban chaos of Baghdad, where the streets almost explode with frenzied swarms of confused pedestrians. Although his action set-pieces here are a tad too muddled and grimy to be particularly riveting, there’s a genuine urgency and ugly magnificence to the director’s trademark style (one striking scene, depicting a fiery helicopter crash, is an astonishing illustration of isolated pandemonium) which goes a long way towards energizing Brian Helgeland’s flat script.

Due to the audience’s own acquaintance with recent history, we're aware Miller isn’t destined to unearth any WMDs looong before he gets with the program - which would be fine if Green Zone was involving on an emotional level. Unfortunately, however, the film is thick with scarcely two-dimensional, personality-deficient characters that alternate between delivering weary polemics and rigid exposition. Amy Ryan - unforgettable as a white-trash mom in Gone Baby Gone - is criminally under-utilized; a walking plot device, whose sole thankless job is giving Damon and Kinnear someone to bounce their inner-thoughts off of.

Unlike The Hurt Locker, which used realistically nuanced and believable characters to draw us into the intense drama, Green Zone hangs itself squarely on the broad shoulders of Damon’s Miller, who is an utter cipher. The actor has the physicality of the role down, and is wholly convincing as a highly-trained soldier, but how can we become invested in his story, or significant impact upon the larger picture, when there’s nothing to hold onto? He’s the definitive Teflon hero. There’s an intriguing side-player, Freddy (Khalid Abdalla), a crippled informer with a history of violence, who gets unwittingly pulled into Miller’s mission, who’d have made a far more relatable and fascinating protagonist. He could have steered the narrative in a fresher direction, allowing us an outsider’s perspective on the perplexities of the highly-volatile situation. Alas, Helgeland and Greengrass were either oblivious to this notion, or completely uninterested, and their movie suffers for it.

While I can admire and support the filmmakers’ desires to use a relatively standard genre framework to express their own deeply-felt political beliefs, their final product too often feels like it’s preaching to the converted; conveying now-routine messages to ticket-buyers who’ve already seen them explored more sophisticatedly in better pictures. No, at the end of the day, Green Zone works better as a technical exercise, demonstrating Greengrass’ virtuoso-like ability to energize even listless material through sheer kinetic movie-making wizardry. Faint praise, I realize, but uncovering a minor victory is still preferable to coming out of the theatre empty-handed.
 
2.5 out of 5 

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: March 22nd, 2010.

Film Review - ALICE IN WONDERLAND

The 21st Century has, thus far, been a bumpy and oft-frustrating ride for lovers of Tim Burton’s highly idiosyncratic, Goth-tinged brand of misfit cinema, where emotionally and/or physically scarred outsiders undergo whimsical journeys in search of acceptance and comfort. Although the auteur’s delightful Gran Guignol take on Sweeney Todd was as queasily beautiful as a freshly-drawn gush of blood splatter upon immaculate white linen, and 2002’s Big Fish offered up a loving deconstruction of the art of storytelling, these intriguing ventures have been largely overshadowed by his more clunky, costly – and considerably more lucrative – blockbuster efforts, Planet of the Apes and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Certainly there are germs of wounded, bravura inventiveness to be mined within those unsatisfying misfires but there’s also a disturbingly perceptible feeling that the director’s once-potent formula for spinning poignant, weirdo spectacle has begun to unravel like Oogie Boogie’s potato-sack hide.

While Alice in Wonderland, a feverishly-designed blending of Burton’s off-beat artistic quirks and the bizarre imagination of Lewis Carroll, won’t exactly alleviate fans’ apprehensions, it’s a frequently fascinating technical achievement which masks its narrative inadequacies with enough visual bedazzlement to please those in search of unforgettable strange sights and rich landscapes. Tearing a page from Spielberg’s Hook, Burton reintroduces an older, more conflicted Alice (Mia Wasikowska – as spookily pale as any Burton heroine, wearing subtly dark eye-makeup and, eventually, an Avril Lavigne wardrobe), a 20-year-old Victorian dreamer who, convinced her childhood escapades were simply a vivid nightmare, once more takes a fateful header down the ol’ rabbit hole while escaping a ghastly engagement party. Befuddled and frightened, the plucky blonde quickly encounters her old peculiar playmates and becomes entangled in their plight, yearning to escape from under the tyrannical rule of the light-bulb-headed Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter – fun as a screeching cartoon, but noticeably underwritten) and her gangly henchman, the Knave of Hearts (Crispin Glover).

Burton handles these remarkably strong initial sections with carefully-measured humour and expertly orchestrated sequences of surrealistic marvel - particularly Alice’s lengthy plunge and protracted attempts, involving shrinking-potions and growing-cakes, to enter through a miniature door into Wonderland. Part of the irresistible charm of these early moments lies in the fact that they’re played with minimal dialogue and overwhelming sound, drawing us in and allowing us to share the heroine’s disorientation and naive curiosity. We’re genuinely astonished, and so is Mia Wasikowska, who truly shines as Alice, imparting her with restrained gutsiness, virtuousness and a mild rebellious streak (established during her very funny fumbling navigation through the lavish opening garden party) which provides the project with a strong grounding influence once the ornately-designed CG and frenetic characters burst into the picture.

And, boy, do they ever! Tweedledee and Tweedledum (Matt Lucas), along with White Rabbit (Michael Sheen) and Dormouse (Barbara Windsor), are speedily introduced with little fanfare at all, a creative choice which won’t bother many, but rather tested my own extremely vague memories of the monotonously episodic 1951 animated adaptation and its Disneyland ride counterpart, and may also leave younger viewers a tad perplexed. However, the movie quickly finds its footing with a pair of truly enchanting encounters, featuring the dignified Blue Caterpillar (Molasses-voiced Alan Rickman), who’s stateliness and wise words are enveloped within immense cloudy puffs of tobacco (?) smoke, and the enigmatic Cheshire Cat (Stephen Fry), a fabulously-executed, hypnotic creation whose silky charms and graceful floating movements alone make the film worth seeing in digital 3D.

Oddly enough, Alice’s biggest stumbling block is its most ubiquitous selling point, which is the problematic Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp), a mincing, lisping dandy, who frequently speaks in an incomprehensible Scottish brogue (Has Depp been hanging around Mike Myers?), and has been upgraded from anarchic lunatic to eccentric freedom fighter with a tragic paper-thin backstory. Though his initial tea party appearance, alongside the hilarious March Hare (Paul Whitehouse), hits the right marks, once he begins to steer the film’s trajectory, pushing Alice towards helping restore reign to the benevolent White Queen (a beaming, fluttering Anne Hathaway), the story begins to sag and wobble. For, Hatter is too creepy to be heroic, too silly to be taken seriously, and wrapping Alice in Wonderland so tightly around him is a woeful miscalculation. He should have remained a colourful side-character and left the heavy-lifting to the charismatic Wasikowska.

To his great credit, Burton masterfully slathers on spell-binding sight after spell-binding sight in order to distract from the film’s lack of propulsion in the middle-sections, and he’s actually reasonably successful. By the time Alice, sporting fetching shiny armour and swinging a mighty sword, faces off against the terrible Jabberwocky, and the eternal peace of Wonderland hangs in the balance, I was thoroughly immersed in Burton’s vision. This Alice probably won’t wow Carroll diehards, or remain lodged in the average film-goers’ head for very long, but as an exercise in Tim Burton-ian movie magic, it often works wonders.  

3 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: March 15th, 2010.

Film Review - COP OUT and THE CRAZIES

In Hollywood, where reputation largely lives or dies on the box-office strength of your last endeavour, industry redemption is a highly sensationalized and much-sought after achievement. Currently unspooling in multiplexes are the latest works by two notable directors, bearing wildly dissimilar aesthetic sensibilities, who have, nonetheless, taken curiously parallel courses in attempting to restore their good name. Indeed, both Kevin Smith, the foul-mouthed indie icon, whose Zack and Miri Make a Porno was a surprise underperformer last year, and Breck Eisner, son of former Disney-demigod Michael Eisner and helmer of the 2005’s goofily-enjoyable-but-financially-disastrous Clive Cussler adaptation Sahara, have elected to kick-start their careers by delivering easily-sold, conventional studio genre pictures. While the scrappy Clerks auteur has chosen to tackle the 80s buddy cop formula, with the middling Bruce Willis/Tracy Morgan vehicle Cop Out, Eisner has, more shrewdly, jumped whole-hog into the world of grungy paranoid horror with The Crazies, an energetic remake of George Romero’s largely forgotten 1973 minor cult hit.

Considering Smith’s proven affinity for penning hilariously honest and snarky dialogue, it’s baffling what drew him to the script for Cop Out, written by Robb and Mark Cullen, a patchy, cliché-ridden snoozer about Jimmy Monroe (Willis) and Paul Hodges (Morgan), two NYPD detectives running afoul of a too-vicious-to-be-remotely-comical Mexican gang while on the trail on a stolen baseball card (Don’t ask). Overlong, tonally inconsistent and laugh-deficient, the movie feels stuck somewhere between toothless satire and unimaginative copycatting, with the director reluctant to commit either way and relying solely on his floundering charismatic cast to give the hopeless enterprise some sizzle – a task only Jason Lee, as Monroe’s ex-wife’s beau, and Seann William Scott, playing an obnoxious parkour-master thief (!), manage. I have no idea how long the screenplay sat on the shelf, but there are precious few – if any - pop-culture references less than a decade old (Do kids still giggle over the phrase “All your base are belong to us”?). There’s an interrogation sequence, in which Hodges runs through a gamut of tired film references, where you have to wonder why a notorious comic-book fanboy like Smith wouldn’t at least take the opportunity to poke fun at the infamous Batman/Joker police station stand-off from The Dark Knight. Does the world really need more Scarface, Star Wars and Jaws homages?

However, Cop Out’s greatest fundamental flaw is that we never believe for a second that the two protagonists exist in the same cinematic world, much less like each other. While Willis is rigid-as-a-board straight and visibly bored, Morgan, cartoonishly over-enunciating every single word and wearing a lobotomized smile, seems to be channelling Cuba Gooding Jr.’s Radio persona (Pay close attention to how his co-stars always speak to him in noticeably condescending tones). It’s hard to fathom Hodges even being able to properly dress himself, much less wield arms and enforce the law. Although I suspect that Smith was aiming for Lethal Weapon or Beverly Hills Cop territory, his two stars’ utter lack of chemistry, and the film’s insipid approach to such time-worn material, ensure Cop Out a lowly place alongside misfires like Showtime, Red Heat and Hollywood Homicide.

Somewhat unexpectedly, Breck Eisner more than upstages Smith in the genre-department with The Crazies, a gritty, wicked little nugget of gore-hound gold with a great premise involving a virus turning a small Iowa town’s aw-shucks population into homicidal maniacs. Overcoming budget limitations by stylishly swinging for the figurative fences, the helmer utilizes all of his considerable skill and bags of tricks in staging viscerally effective sequences of macabre suspense, including a disquieting scene of a mother and son hiding in a closet from the diseased man of the house lumbering across the creaky floorboards just outside, a spectacular runaway bone-saw gag and, even better, perhaps the best scary use of a car-wash ever put to celluloid (I kid you not!).

Eisner also casts persuasive, endearing leads in Timothy Olyphant and Radha Mitchell, as the town sheriff and his pregnant doctor wife, and Joe Anderson, as an increasingly-erratic deputy. They are crucial to selling the flick’s more predictable moments and manage to make their characters’ epic quest to escape both the deranged murderers and the aggressive military forces seeking to isolate and exterminate the infected, emotionally compelling and entirely engrossing.

Sure, The Crazies is far from perfect – the logic behind the virus’s symptoms is often really iffy and there’re a few too many instances of characters stupidly wandering off on their own - but it has verve and enough black humour and attitude to make it stand-out amidst the never-ending onslaught of tedious cash-grab horror carbon-copies. The picture understands exactly what it is, what it’s going for and what it needs to do to efficiently push the audience’s buttons – three invaluable pieces of movie-making insight that so obviously escaped Kevin Smith when he signed on to Cop Out.

Cop Out: 1.5 out of 5
The Crazies: 3 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: March 8th, 2010.

Film Review - SHUTTER ISLAND

I’m an absolute, unapologetic sucker for films that provide the chance to be transported to original, fully-realized, tangible places, allowing me to virtually inhabit the cinematic world of the characters. Martin Scorsese’s latest, the inconsistent-but-impressive psychological thriller Shutter Island, masterfully does just that, plunging the viewer into the eerily quiet Massachusets-situated Ashecliffe Hospital, a stone fortress-like psychiatric prison housing the most appalling criminally insane deviants mankind ever accidentally birthed. Concealed behind an impenetrable wall of fog, and located atop a craggy, rocky land mass so unsightly that there might as well be trolls peeking out from within its endless jagged crevices, the facility at once utterly repulses us while nonetheless drawing us into its nefarious clutches.

 Such is also the unlucky case for Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio, in perhaps his best performance with the director) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo), two U.S. Marshalls, circa 1954, assigned to uncover the truth behind the disappearance of one of the penitentiary’s deranged inhabitants. Naturally, upon warily entering the cast iron gates of Ashecliffe – an ominous episode given, courtesy of the relentlessly throbbing, doom-drenched soundtrack, all the nerve-racking fanfare of King Kong’s unforgettable emergence from the thick, suffocating jungles of Skull Island – and surrendering their weapons, the two lawmen quickly find themselves at odds with the hospital’s exceedingly calm medical director Dr. Cawley (Ben Kingsley – masking restrained menace behind a soothing, silky voice) and his German colleague Dr. Naehring (An effortlessly intimidating Max von Sydow).

Finding their investigation hopelessly obstructed by Ashecliffe’s tough rules and regulations and its uncooperative staff and patients, Teddy begins to grow unhinged, plagued by visions of his recently murdered wife (Michelle Williams), as well as a traumatic WWII experience liberating a Nazi concentration camp. As the tormented lawman slowly loses his grip on reality, and a violent hurricane batters at the fortified walls outside, the two Marshalls slowly come to realize that sinister forces may be planning to ensure that they remain at the facility. Permanently.

Ostensibly a glorified B-movie in A-movie trappings, Scorsese has nonetheless delivered a hauntingly gorgeous visual feast. Working with his regular cinematographer Robert Richardson - A current Oscar-nominee for his efforts on Inglourious Basterds – and Editor Thelma Schoonmaker, the celebrated auteur conjures up a number of audacious moments that leave you breathless. There’s a lengthy tracking shot, unsympathetically floating down a line of Nazi soldiers being executed, that is a thrilling feat of movie-making virtuosity, along with an alarming trip to the dreaded Ward C that feels like a descent into Hell and a nightmarish sequence involving a sea of rats that manages to out-creep both Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu. Even more startling are the many spellbinding flashback and hallucination sequences which, unlike throngs of similar genre entries, actually operate on a believable plane of fevered dream logic. In particular, the team puts Michelle Williams’ ethereal, porcelain-doll loveliness to magnificent use, creating an enthralling and disquieting aura around her.

Alas, as exquisitely technically crafted as it frequently is, Shutter Island underwhelms in the story department. For the film to truly succeed it needs to completely draw us into Teddy’s psychological spiral and make us share his escalating sense of trepidation, uncertainty and anxiety. Unfortunately, Scorsese and screenwriter Laeta Kalogrodis never quite figure out how to transform Dennis Lehane’s novel into a wholly engrossing venture. Although it starts off incredibly strong, the movie’s latter half is often cluttered and plodding, featuring far too many scenes of powerhouse character actors (including Jackie Earle Haley, Patricia Clarkson, Elias Koteas and Ted Levine) providing Teddy with draggy enigmatic exposition that is more frustrating than tantalizing. At 138 minutes, the film could use some serious trimming, especially in the concluding flashback which, while thematically important and beautifully staged, would have been significantly less harmful to the already-bumpy pace if dealt with in a briefer manner.

There’s also the issue of Shutter Island’s plot twist which is, frankly, both far too predictable and utterly ludicrous. Scorsese makes the wise decision to not smack us over the head with a sudden shocking transition, instead allowing for a subtle shift free of stylistic fireworks, but that doesn’t make it any less silly. It’s the sort of twist that requires one to make a leap of Grand Canyon-sized logical proportions to accept and, if scrutinized even minutely, causes the entire house of cards to collapse.

In the hands of a lesser talent, Shutter Island would probably be a disaster. Yet in Scorsese’s masterful hands, and filtered through a fully engaged cast, it’s an agreeable night at the movies with enough extraordinary imagery and chilling atmosphere to make it still a film undeniably worth seeing. I’m not likely to forget the dreary, fearsome Ashcliffe institution, with its shuffling bands of zombified inmates and interchangeable orderlies, any time soon. I just wish I felt as strongly about the tale unfolding within its cold, pitiless, lonely halls.

3 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: March 1st.

Video: Post-Viewing Reflections on ALICE IN WONDERLAND

As I begin toying around with alternate methods of providing tiresome movie-related content, experiments such as this may enter (and unceremoniously exit) the fold.

This is a brief video of myself and my good friend Tony (Last name witheld on request) filmed immediately after viewing Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland:



Look back here for a full-length review soon!

Epi-Cast: Episode 22 - "Oscarploitation!"

If there's one thing sure to raise our ire, put some ants in our pants and motivate us to make with the chatter-box rockin', it's the Oscars. So, I'd like to thank the Academy for their generosity and compassion in providing our silly little podcast with a reason to continue its aimless journey across the interwebs and provide myself and Tom Wytrwal with an amount of celebrity suitable to our well- below-meagre talents. I'd thank my lawyer, Frank Garrigan, but he stole my savings and is currently living in a tree-house in the jungles of Palau. Gosh, this moment is so much bigger than me... Er, us...

Epi-Cast: Episode 22 - "Oscarploitation!"

Running on precious little sleep, and over-caffeinated beyond all rational levels, Cam and Tom take to the airwaves after enduring 3.5 hours of Oscar-fuelled excitement. How did they feel about the winners? The losers? That awful interpretive dance/B-boy segment? They'll tell you loudly and politically-incorrectly as possible. Such is their gift to you.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the interweb's very finest wonders.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, ZIMMER-GIACCHINO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Net speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast". Avoid those pretentious fools like a pack of flesh-consuming carpet monkeys.

In Defense of the Gill-Man: Resurrecting THE CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON

Although The Wolfman didn’t ignite the box-office enough to get within howling distance of ever breaking even domestically — the notoriously troubled 150-million dollar project grossed a respectable, if underwhelming 35-million total over the four-day Valentine’s day weekend — it at least helped Universal take one step in the right direction towards officially resurrecting their classic Monsters line.

A mainstay in Cinema’s golden age, serving both as main attractions and B-movie programmers between the mid-1920s and mid-1950s, Universal’s treasure trove of repulsive boogeymen were a powerful and lucrative brand-name, promising chilling gothic atmosphere, square-jawed heroes, screaming damsels and unsightly tragic villains to anyone who purchased a ticket.

While history has strongly favored Frankenstein, the Invisible Man, Wolfman, Dracula and the Mummy, who, following successful and beloved debuts, went on to headline multiple starring vehicles, crossovers, spin-offs and, later on down the road, big-budget remakes, one of the studio’s most iconic and recognizable grotesqueries has long been criminally ignored and under-appreciated...

To read the rest of this article, visit:
itsjustmovies.com

About That GHOST RIDER Reboot...

I have seen the future, my friends, and can officially tell you in one simple word what will ultimately lead to the utter destruction of the superhero genre’s seemingly unstoppable reign of supremacy at the movie box-office. This word, uncomplicated in construct and meaning, has become a ravenous plague within the studio system, gnawing at the bones of creativity and effective story-telling, and promising little more than rehashed adventures and soulless, flashy spectacle-for-the-sake-of-spectacle. It’s indeed a disturbing six-letter atrocity, and it has once again reared its vile head.
That word is “Reboot.”

No, I’m not talking about the internet neutron bomb-like Spider-Man debacle — I’ll have plenty to say about that later on down the road, little dogies — I am, instead, talking about a franchise that had its chance. A franchise that lurched awkwardly and inelegantly into multiplexes almost three years ago, klutzily tripped over its inept feet in the process and blew its dang, silly brains out all over theatre screens across the world.

I’m referring, obviously, to ‘ol Matchstick; aka Skeletor’s combustible brother-from-another-mother; aka Mr. Meanie Melty-face; aka the one, the only Ghost Rider.
To read the rest of this article, visit:
itsjustmovies.com