Film Review - G.I. JOE: THE RISE OF COBRA

Remember those Hasbro G.I. Joe toy commercials from the mid-eighties? The ones with that hyper-active kid laying by a small, perfectly constructed, picture-esque stream, surrounded by a small fortune’s worth of 3¾ inch plastic characters and massive, ungainly, missile-firing vehicles, ecstatically spouting out combat noises (“KCH-POO!” “UH-UH-UH-UH-UHHH!”, “CCCHHHH-KUH!”) and smashing his beloved possessions through piles of small, see-through blocks? I know I do and, based on the evidence at hand in G.I. Joe: The Rise of the Cobra, director Stephen Sommers sure does too, for he has crafted nothing if not the dopiest and most extravagant action-figure advertisement of all time. And I mean that in perhaps the best way possible.

Unlike Michael Bay’s bloated and insincere Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, a tonal mess, which attempted to approximate adolescent giddiness through misogyny, mean-spirited violence and potty humour, Sommers' film is goofily earnest to a fault, illustrating an epic tale of good vs. evil with all the verve and intellect of a 10-year-old male subsisting on an endless nutrition-free diet of video-games, Saturday morning cartoons and James Bond and Star Wars movies. It’s the type of flick where Dennis Quaid can gruffly shout “release the sharks”, free of pesky irony or self-awareness, and clashing opposite-coloured ninjas icily refer to each other as “brother” (All the characters in G.I. Joe share freakishly coincidental interconnecting back stories, covered in countless cornball flashbacks which open and close with characters staring dramatically into space, which seem to imply that the screenwriters are huge fans of Paul Haggis’ Crash). Did I mention there’s also a robotic tracking device disguised as a fish? Or a jet which only responds to voice commands? In Gaelic? Well, there is, dammit, and although the film they’re haphazardly stuffed into isn’t any good by accepted critical standards, there is an almost admirable purity to be found in its aw-shucks, blow-em-all-up idiocy. G.I. Joe may be crappy and campy, but it’s also an almost pitch-perfect translation of the absurd, one-dimensional property which spawned it.

Rise of the Cobra’s story can be summed up in a single sentence: the good guys have to stop experimental metal-consuming nano-tech missiles from falling into the hands of bad guys, who would use them to take over the world. How or why is not important. What is of central concern, though, is that the main good guys are Duke and Ripcord (Every character in this film has apparently eschewed traditional Christian names in favour of bad-ass monikers.), played by a wooden Channing Tatum and, um, Marlon Wayans. They’re a couple of top-shelf army rangers who blunder and worm their way – rather easily, it must be said – into being recruited into the G.I. Joe task-force, an internationally made-up team of super soldiers operating from a secret subterranean base in the deserts of Egypt. Overseen by the crusty old warhorse General Hawk (Dennis Quaid), the team also features the silent ninja warrior Snake-Eyes (Ray Park), the British arms expert Heavy Duty (Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje), communications genius Breaker (Said Taghmaoui) and the impressively pneumatic Scarlett (Rachel Nichols – doing her noble part to help single-handedly launch a new generation of young boys into the throws of puberty).

Despite being the new guys on the team, Duke and Ripcord are almost immediately thrust into leader-ship type roles, tasked with preventing the all-important WMDs from falling into the hands of the seductive, dominatrix-lite Baroness (Sienna Miller – wearing regalia that suggests that Victoria’s Secret may in fact have a separate catalogue for evil mercenaries), master-of-disguise Zartan (Arnold Vosloo) and the evil ninja Storm Shadow (Byung-hun Lee). They, in turn, are working for the slimy Scottish arms merchant McCullen (Christopher Eccleston – acting through an accent which makes Mel Gibson’s Braveheart brogue feel restrained), who is so uncompromisingly evil that he also employs a sinister deformed scientist named, simply, The Doctor (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), who has created an army of nano-injected, brain-washed mega-storm troopers. As these colourful baddies repeatedly clash with the no-nonsense Joes, by land, sea and air, for the fate of the free world, we are treated, in place of a story, to a continuous demonstration of the best computer-generated effects possibly imagined circa 1997 (this includes a cameo by a first-gen Coca-Cola™ polar bear). Certainly CGI Joe: There Will Be Explosions would have been a more apt title.

In spite of the often gaudily unfinished effects work, exemplified best by the expansive exterior shots, such as the sandy landscape outside the Joe’s base and the underwater sprawl of the villains’ headquarters, which resemble the shiny, polygon-rendered environments of a Turok: Dinosaur Hunter game level, the film’s action sequences still manage to build up a suitably enjoyable intensity. There is a chase through the streets of Paris featuring Duke and Ripcord, wearing Halo-like “accelerator suits”, and accompanied by a nimble Snake-Eyes and motorbike-jumping Scarlett, tearing after a multi-weapon-firing truck, that is impressive for both its scale and the stunning amount of collateral damage it accumulates. Later, Sommers’ rips a page from George Lucas’ Return of the Jedi playbook, with a ludicrous three-pronged assault on McCullen’s underwater base - which is seemingly still under construction considering the ever-present blow-torch wielding workman looming in the background of almost every interior shot - that includes two warring fleets of attack-submersibles (I have no idea how the Joe’s transported their forces to the Arctic – where ice sinks, apparently - so speedily), violent gun battles and a sword-slashing ninja mêlée. Heck, there's even a tacked on bit, with Ripcord chasing runaway missiles, that is an almost exact recreation of the climax of Moonraker. It’s goofy and unnecessarily violent stuff to be sure, but it’ll play like gang-busters to youngsters and those able to regress in maturity level for 120 minutes.

To Sommers’ credit, most of his actors are on-board with his cheesy vision, cranking up the lunacy of their performances to 11 and beyond. Quaid winces and frowns with aplomb (possibly reliving the traumatic experience of signing his three-picture contract), Sienna Miller vamps it up like a Hell’s Angels vixen-gone-wild and a gloriously flamboyant Joseph Gordon-Levitt croaks and guffaws through a death-metal growl. Rachel Nichols, whose Scarlett is the latest graduate from the Denise Richards University of Dubious Intelligence, spouts her inane pseudo-scientific dialogue with bubble-headed pep and jogs in a sports bra like nobody’s business. In arguably the film’s ultimate scene of coo-coo for Cocoapuffs logic, Nichols and Said Taghmaoui stick large electrical spikes into a dead bad-guy’s head in order to download his memories and make photographs from them. Yes. They then, utilizing a picture of a shadow as a reference point, pin-point the location of his headquarters by using “spherical trigonometry”. I felt like hugging someone when those precious two words were uttered.

When it’s all said and done, and the titular cobra has indeed risen (though, curiously, neither Nichols or Miller are responsible for this occurrence), and left the door gaping wide-open for the inevitable sequel, it’s hard not to feel a pang of desire for whatever stupid juvenile delights Sommers’ has left up his fromage-scented sleeve. G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra is as synthetic as the butter on your movie theatre popcorn and as dumb as a Dolph Lundgren film festival. However, for sugar-addled kids or those seeking to relive the endearingly bald-faced tackiness of the original cartoon show, or, more likely, derive sardonic amusement from it, G.I. Joe is just the ticket for you. Sometimes, it`s nice to know that, just when blockbuster action movies couldn`t get any sillier, G.I. Joe is there. Yo, Joe!

*snicker*.

3 out of 5

*This review was sponsored by the good folks at Toys "R" Us.

Epi-Cast: Episode 15 - "(500) Days in Madea's Hurt Locker"

Well, summer is quickly closing its hallowed doors for the year, and Cam and Tom have gathered once again to pay homage to its late season movie offerings. Sure they could be at the beach! Or washing cars in minimal clothing while giddily whipping their heads around to Len's "Steal My Sunshine"... But they aren't damnit! They're sacrificing for you, ensuring another eight months of pasty skin, cranking out another 90 minutes of film-related pod-casting content for you to listen to while you're out suntanning and eyeing the chippies/himbos. You're most welcome.

Epi-Cast: Episode 15 - "(500) Days in Madea's Hurt Locker"
In this unintentionally dirty-sounding episode the doofy duo take part in a combustible review of Kathryn Bigelow's excellent Iraq action-flick The Hurt Locker. In addition, Cam critiques the happy-happy-joy-joy wonderful (500) Days of Summer, Judd Apatow's newest "joint" Funny People and, in a later recorded addition, the Olyphant-tastic, but otherwise clunky, A Perfect Getaway. That said, though, the real pyrotechnics go off when Tom, for reasons beyond all reason and comprehension, delivers his thoughts on sitting through Tyler Perry's Madea Goes to Jail. Seriously. The two also, in their "Trailer Park Encounters" segment spew out their thoughts about the hot new trailers for the Wes Anderson-directed Roald Dahl adaptation Fantastic Mr. Fox, the Wachowski Brother's Ninja Assassin, the Coen Brother's A Serious Man and Peter Jackson's probable Oscar-winner The Lovely Bones. Enjoy or die. You can do no less.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to cringe/enjoy to your wuverly heart's delight.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! No guff! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, CHASTITY-BONO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-downloads. It's better than the Nintendo Power Glove! Oh, and we are the film discussion show, not the Christian show.

Cam Returns To The Hype! Cast!

Hey there true believers, you can believe the rumors tantalizingly swirling around the watercooler! The impossible has happened. An event of biblical proportions which shall forever redefine the way we, as the human species, look upon this great spinning blue sphere we call home. I was asked back to superherohype.com's illustrious Hype! Cast, hosted by the too-cool-for-school highscorefilms and the ever-humble "Champion Of The Universe" Immortal Fire! So, listen in as the two venerable hosts, along with special guest Drakon, and myself (blithering mindlessly under the anonymous cloak of my ever-reliable moniker Episode29) discuss all manner of things including G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, X-Men Origins: Wolverine and Stan Lee's best cinematic cameos. It's fun of the highest, most godly, order.

Download episode 29 (tee hee) to hear this episode, or you can check out my previous appearance reviewing Transformers 2 in episode 24. After that, go nuts and consume all the fellows' previous efforts. Fun for all, it is!

Click here for the Hype! Cast feed!

Click here for the Hype! Cast iTunes page!

And, once again, the biggest of thanks to highscorefilms, Immortal Fire, Drakon and Malice (who unfortunately couldn't make the record) for humouring me.

Film Review - 500 DAYS OF SUMMER

If you can recall back to the far-flung month of last April, I performed some very jubilant calisthenics over Greg Motolla’s incessantly huggable Adventureland, a film I gushingly praised as being “a genuinely funny, heartfelt slice of coming-of-age narrative that sneaks up and lulls you into a blissful state of nostalgic joy”. Faint praise indeed, and my unabashed fondness for the film has only increased since. However, with the slowly expanding release of Marc Webb’s lush and tender pop-smart post-modern dramedy 500 Days of Summer, we’ve once again been lovingly presented with another brilliantly comical, and similarly-themed, exploration into the dizzying highs and soul-crushing lows of twenty-something romance. If 2008 was the year of the reinvented superhero, I hereby dub 2009 as the year of the perceptive young love story.

Ostensibly assembled as an affectionate 21st century tribute to the 1977 Woody Allen classic Annie Hall, which mixed real-world relationship insights with fourth-wall-breaking snark and hilariously indulgent genre-bending absurdities, 500 Days of Summer is like that flick’s hip little brother: still bearing the same timeless American hopes and dreams, but boasting a contemporary ironic voice and an ADD-addled brain . As opposed to the average fluff-stuffed rom-com, which typically traces a dopey-smiley couple of combative alpha personalities from first “Meet-Cute” to “Stupid Misunderstanding” to the inevitable “Climactic Slow-Mo Make-Up Smooch”, Webb’s artfully constructed slice of whimsy bounces wildly around the timeline of its central duo’s romantic cycle, honing in the small intimate moments of truth crammed neatly between the colossal defining events. This is a film more focussed on the emotions of the morning after than the steamy passions of the carnal act itself.

And what an unforgettable post-coital sunrise it is, as greeting card writer Tom Hanson, played by the destined-for-big-things Joseph Gordon-Levitt, bursting with joyful triumph, merrily shakes hands with a throng of complete strangers before breaking into an infectiously winning impromptu-yet-choreographed dance routine to Hall & Oates’ “You Make My Dreams Come True”. Yep, he’s in love, all right. Who’s the lucky girl? That would be the free-spirited Summer Finn (Zooey Deschanel), a spritely bundle of modern-woman philosophies and quirky, odd-ball tastes (Ringo is her fave Beatle! She collects eccentric bric-a-brac! Gadzooks!). How did they meet? I’m so glad you asked. Really. You see, she’s a recent hire at Tom’s company, working for his affable boss Vance (a kindly Clark Gregg). Sure, he thinks she’s out of his league, and tries to avoid her at first, but, after a drunken office karaoke party, things begin to click and sparks ignite.

So what’s the problem, then? Well, Summer isn’t interested in a commitment while Tom has been indoctrinated from childhood to yearn for exactly that. Uh oh. As the film jumps around we begin to see cracks appear in their union: He’s overly determined and needy, while she’s distant and masking deep-rooted unhappiness. Can a solution be found? The film’s poster informs us that “This is not a love story. This is a story about love.”, and certainly a more apt description cannot exist. 500 Days of Summer uncovers the truth behind sweeping romance, and packs it with broadly painted eye-candy and quiet, naked observations, big laughs and contemplative solemnity. Director Webb and screenwriters Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber have ingeniously crafted a narrowly focussed character study that is, at the same time, eerily identifiable to almost everyone in the audience.

As fun as the film’s script is, and how much energy Webb brings to the classy affair, all would be nought if, um, not for the lively performances from its two central actors. Gordon-Levitt, an intriguing talent on the rise for some time now (Go rent Brick and The Lookout and see the early warning signs) is an ideal love-sick man-boy, charismatic and charming, but also not afraid to reveal the insecurity within. He’s able to play petulant frustration extremely well, as in an office meeting blow-up where all his romantic aggravation comes to an explosive head, and yet he still has the light touch to grab the film’s witty comic dialogue and situations and run with them.

Zooey Deschanel’s role is trickier. As Summer is, at least in sunnier times, Tom’s idea of flawlessness, she has to essentially play an almost angelic girl whose imperfections are all but ignored in favour of the fantasized ideal. Fortunately, no actress does idiosyncratic adorability better and, having finally found a director capable of harnessing her high-voltage magnetic appeal, she’s so sunny, funny and gorgeous that I’d suggest that any hot-blooded male who walks out the film not in love with her is either a soulless android or a corpse. When her character enters darker territory in the latter half, the actress is restrained and wounded – ixnaying the stereotypical screeching, erratic harpy routine in favour of something more touching and honest. Just as Tom can’t get Summer out of his head, 500 Days of Summer succeeds in making sure we can’t get Deschanel out of ours.

Although not all of the film’s flights of fancy strike gold – there’s a foreign film montage that feels too arch and superfluous and Tom’s wise-behind-her-years Juno-like little sister, who speaks like a brainy 39-year-old screenwriter, is a tad grating and inconsistent with the identifiable humanity of the rest of the cast. Helping to counter-balance these weaknesses are a spell-binding split-screen scene, which details an event from both Tom’s hopeful pre-visualized expectations and the heart-breakingly brutal reality, the aforementioned dance sequence and, quite possibly, the greatest Han Solo reference of all time.

The film’s structure mirrors the emotional freefall of young romance, with the early encounters crackling with the electric excitement of discovery and unspoken desire and the later scenes shadowed by barely-suppressed sorrow and an uncomfortable fear of the unavoidable. Like Adventureland, and Annie Hall of course, it’s a cinematic journey that feels alive and in the moment, a snapshot of a scenario that we almost regret to admit looks vaguely familiar. 500 Days of Summer won’t change the face of cinema, or make Transformers dollars, but it will make you laugh, grin ear-to-ear and maybe, just maybe, even lead you to re-evaluate and come to terms with your own particularly traumatic ill-fated romances. Who ever said that cinematic love couldn’t be grand?

4.5 out of 5

Film Review - SUMMER HOURS

Olivier Assayas’ Summer Hours (L’heure d’été), which recently competed in the Vancouver French Film Festival, is an intelligent and touching study of family dynamics in the face of unexpected change. Just as Jonathan Demme’s great Rachel Getting Married explored the out-of-control drama, dynamics and chaos surrounding impending nuptials, Assayas’ film takes a long, hard glimpse at the complications of death and the effects in which treasured memories colour our long-term life decisions. The journey is captured in a no-frills fly-on-the-wall approach, an economical mode of storytelling which strips the work of artifice and allows us free roaming access into these fascinating people’s lives.

The film opens with the extended relations of lovably eccentric family matriarch Hélène (Edith Scob) gathered at their gorgeous sun-lit summer house in the lush French countryside in celebration of her 75th birthday. Her three children – Adrienne (the always sophisticated Juliette Binoche), a New York-based designer, Frédéric (Charles Berling), an economy professor and Jérémie (Jérémie Renier), a Puma Athletics executive operating out of China – have arrived with their assorted gaggle of significant others and offspring and, between joyful gift-giving and merriment, are playfully regaling each other with nostalgic childhood reminiscences of lazier carefree days. For Hélène though, this is a chance to lower her mask of fashionable radiance and confess a heavy secret to elder sibling Frédéric. However, after he proves reluctant to pay heed to her concerns regarding her own mortality, and the fate of the beloved vacation home, the families retreat back to their own comfortable separate realities.

A short time later, Hélène’s grave concerns prove sadly accurate, and the family, grieving and fatigued, are forced back together, tasked with not only laying their mother to rest, but also deciding the fate of her lavish summer place. For, besides being a monument to their cherished past, it has also, over time, been converted by Hélène into a makeshift tribute to their late artist great uncle. As the trio of now-adult children weave their way through endlessly complicated decisions and questions, alternately supporting one-another and butting heads, they are faced with having to decide whose dreams are more important to hold onto; Hélène’s or their own.

Director Assayas handles Summer Hours’ fragile material with an elegantly gentle hand, carefully coaxing profoundly moving moments from his classy team of top-quality actors. It’s somewhat amazing, after viewing an endless procession of dumbed-down mainstream North American cinema, to encounter a director so intensely focussed on relating adult themes without succumbing to cheap sensationalism. When the three siblings engage in an important discussion over whether to sell the country house, Assayas refuses to simply lay out the scene’s messages and ambiguities, urging us instead to peer beneath the forced pleasantries and grasp the emotions behind the behaviour. Similarly, he ends the film with a scene which seems oddly random but, the more you think about and analyze it, is as poetic and impactful as any possible conclusion.

There is so much beauty in the film that it occasionally even pulls our eyes away from the intriguing complexities of the characters. Despite the naturalistic quasi-documentary feel created by cinematographer Eric Gautier, there is an almost other-worldly beauty to the French countryside, with its ever-stretching yards of flourishing emerald green trees, crystalline blue sea and rustic stone walls. The house is a character unto itself, filled with gleaming wooden antique desks and cabinets, decorated with an evocative collection of ornately framed art-work. If ever there was a film to convince you to pull up stakes and head to France, this is it.

Although Juliette Binoche gets first-billing (The benefit to winning an Oscar, folks!), Charles Berling is the true conflicted heart of the film. The most grounded, emotionally and geographically, of Hélène’s brood, Frédéric nobly carries the majority of the burden, with the longest road to travel towards acceptance and catharsis. Like his beleaguered character, Berling carries the film with quiet dignity, revealing the elder son’s soul in quieter solitary moments, as in a scene where, after clearing the table, he sits alone and contemplative in a darkened room. It’s a wondrously inspired performance. Edith Scob, as Hélène, is also invaluable, casting her vibrant presence over Summer Hours long after she has departed. Her final scene, solemnly climbing a shadowy path towards her sun-drenched abode, is unforgettably heart-rending.

It would have been easy for lesser filmmakers to be overwhelmed by the inherent gloominess of the movie’s subject matter, but instead they have produced one of the most life-affirming cinematic experiences of the year. This is a mature examination of not only the wonders of mortality, but also the importance of memory in shaping who we are. By film’s conclusion, we realize, alongside the characters, that it’s not so much the place and belongings that matter, as much as what we have brought and taken away from them. Summer Hours is truly magnifique.

4 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: July 27th, 2009.

Epi-Cast: Episode 14 - "Mann Up, Princess!"

Well, the lucky streak was bound to end eventually and, most definitely, this latest Epi-Cast episode, number 14 for those counting, is a spectacular combustion of sorts. Having been recording these lately in the early AM, on little to no sleep, Cam and Tom thought they had discovered a recipe for greatness. Sadly, they were delusional. This resulting effort, while filled with hilarious/offensive jocularity, is a wildly unfocussed journey into the inner regions of the two brave co-hosts surly, disturbed minds. Joseph Conrad would have shuddered to undergo the aural exploration now being offered up to you for download...

Epicast: Episode 14 - "Mann Up, Princess!"

In this momentous episode, Cam and Tom finally come to blows, ranting and railing over Michael Mann's Public Enemies and its inherent greatness/crappiness. However, not all is doom and gloom, as the deranged duo heap out-of-this-world praise on Duncan Jones' sci-fi breakthrough Moon and reminisce over some of The Hangover's better bits. As well, Cam reviews the wonderful Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, the emotionally powerful Summer Hours (L'heure d'ete) and the not so sexy-time Bruno. In regards to trailer reviews, they cheer for the Peter Jackson produced District 9, remain optimistic for the indie flick How To Be A Serial Killer, split on Diablo Cody's Jennifer's Body and, in a podcast first, one host stomps off set and refuses to talk about Drew Barrymore's roller-derby epic Whip It!. It's drama of the highest degree folks, but you'll have to experience it for your own sorry selves...

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to cringe/enjoy to your blessed heart's delight.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! No guff! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, QUASI-MODO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-downloads. It's better than hot Marlon Brando butter-lovin'! Oh, and we are the film discussion show, not the Christian chat one.

Film Review - HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE: Film 6 Casts A Reel Spell.

Any Harry Potter film that opens with a flash strobe-popping nod to Scorsese’s Raging Bull and closes with a poetic homage to The Empire Strikes Back is all-right in my book, and Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is the best of the series, a work of ornately dazzling fantasy storytelling. After the clunkily competent Order of the Phoenix, which was marred by a dull and poorly staged final act, returning director David Yates has delivered a revelatory work: a dark, Gothic-tinged expedition into a world of omnipresent evil and apprehensive uncertainty, kept alight only by the purest of brave hearts. Hogwarts has never felt more empty and forlorn, with its towering spires reaching achingly towards the glumly overcast sky, but, surprisingly, there are still an abundance of joys and wonders waiting to be discovered within its earthy stone walls, vast corridors and curiously decorated, snug rooms.

The adventure which fuels Half-Blood Prince begins with a shocking act of real-world violence, as a trio of wraithlike Death Eaters, operating under the hateful orders of Lord Voldemort, wreak calamitous havoc upon the Muggle population of London. Spurred into action, Professor Albus Dumbledore (Michael Gambon) recruits Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) for an investigation into both the present-day goings-ons of the loathsome Draco Malfroy (Tom Felton), and the crucial historical events which drove the young, troubled Tom Riddle (played at differing ages by Hero Fiennes-Tiffin and Frank Dillane) to adopt the malevolent mantle of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Enlisting the oft-soused Professor Horace Slughorn, a visibly anguished former Hogwarts potions professor with past connections to both Voldemort and Harry’s parents, as a potential source of essential information, the duo set out to discern the exact nature of the wicked wizard’s world-shattering intentions.

But of course even the most imperative of missions can become complicated by the emotional tilt-a-whirl of teenage romance. While Harry’s best-pals Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint) and Hermione Granger (Emma Watson) become embroiled in a frustrated love triangle with the hormonally-loco Lavender Brown (amusing newcomer Jessie Cave), the Chosen One himself begins to be irresistibly drawn to the all-grown-up-and-suddenly-lookin’-real-good Ginny Weasley (Bonnie Wright). As these mini-dramas swirl out of control, and Voldemort’s forces, led by the batty Bellatrix Lestrange (a sexy/scary Helena Bonham Carter), wreak increasingly unspeakable havoc, young Harry is faced with having to win a seemingly unwinnable battle – with the precarious fate of the universe at risk.

The entire tumultuous journey is communicated gorgeously by Yates and director of photography Bruno Delbonnel, who have employed a desaturated colour palette to communicate the rising bleakness in the Potter-verse. While there are splashes of lustrously warm yellows, scarlet reds and forest greens, the world feels mired in a haze of smoky greys and blacks, and stark whites which reach into oblivion. For the first time we feel the far-reaching effects Voldemort’s sinister influence bleeding through the theatre screen.

There is an enhanced sense of artistic craftsmanship to the special effects this go-around, with nary an example of unnecessary CG tinkering. It all feels vital to the story and there are sights to become lost in, such as a damp subterranean cavern, featuring zombie-like spectres of death and a suffocating watery abyss, which is a sublime vision of apocalyptic beauty, as well as the expansive rolling hills of Hogwarts, glimpsed from the highest parapets. Even the smaller moments, as when a heartbroken Hermione sits on a lonely staircase, watched over by shimmering birds, delight the senses with their honesty and expressive creative invention. When Harry, late in the film, reflectively confesses that “I’m just beginning to realize how beautiful this place is”, we nod in agreement.

Yates stretches his sumptuous marvels over a luxuriously paced story, which isn’t afraid to take the time for witty character-driven comedy (Half-Blood Prince is often very funny) and enlightening dramatic touches aimed at enriching the brilliantly drawn cast of personalities. Michael Gambon reveals new layers of resourcefulness and conflict as Dumbledore, while Jim Broadbent, as Slughorn, captures a sense of dignified pain, masked behind an exterior of eccentric buffoonery, which is the sort of performance worthy of awards recognition. The director even infuses the film`s viscerally thrilling moments, a late-night pursuit through an immense, engulfing field of vegetation, or a brutal lavatory-set wand battle between Harry and Draco, to name a couple, with a sense of character and emotional truth which is sadly all-too-rare in blockbuster entertainment.

For the first time in a long while, Harry Potter’s movie adventures feel fresh and bursting with promise – a good sign for Yates’ two-part Deathly Hallows wrap-up arriving in 2010 – and I find myself uncharacteristically awaiting the next chapter with bated breath. The Half-Blood Prince is a spectacular tribute to J.K. Rowling`s visionary genius, a film to enchant the young and old alike, and a work of pure, uncompromised imagination. Indeed, this is magic of the highest cinematic order.

4.5 out of 5

*Originally printed SFU's The Peak: July 20th, 2009

Film Review - WHATEVER WORKS: Big Laughs In The Big Apple, Woody Style.

Whatever Works is a charming trifle, a return to the magical fantasy-land that is Woody Allen’s New York. Here, even the most cynical of hearts can be vibrantly reawakened by splendorous art, majestic architecture, stimulating conversation, and cosmopolitan culture. Having visited so many memorable times before — this is the director’s 45th film after all — the final results are like cinematic comfort food, lulling us into a warm state of contented delight. As Sam Raimi proved earlier this summer with his return to form, Drag Me to Hell, it is sometimes a joy to simply sit back and watch a master run through the basics with a practiced panache.

If the film feels fresher than it should (the script, as has been heavily reported, was actually written during the ‘70s with The Producers star Zero Mostel in mind), credit has to go to ingenious decision to cast Larry David as the film’s archetypal Woody surrogate. As the pioneering and creative mind behind Seinfeld and HBO’s painfully funny Curb Your Enthusiasm, David is taller and wirier than Allen. Although he occupies a much darker realm of neurotic misanthropy, his rapid-fire bursts of droll malice make Whatever Works feel alive and occasionally risky. Few performers could get away with dropping distastefully bitter bon mots about suicide, the Holocaust, and abortion without forsaking the audience’s sympathy, but David — who possesses no formal acting training — is a naturally charismatic and fiercely intelligent personality. He’s like the outspoken, caustic uncle who enlivens even the dullest family gatherings, but equipped with better writers.

David’s character, Boris Yellnikoff, a once-brilliant physicist who repeatedly claims to have been “considered” for the Nobel Prize, exists in a constant state of existential angst (“I’m dying! I’m dying! Not now, I mean eventually!”) and OCD-type obsessions (compulsively singing “Happy Birthday” twice while washing his hands.) Crippled after a failed suicide attempt, Boris wastes his time mocking the world’s endless population of “cretins,” “microbes,” and “inchworms,” as well as giving confrontational chess lessons to oblivious adolescents.

Returning home one night to his eccentrically ramshackle apartment, Boris fortuitously meets a young Southern runaway who bears the cumbersome moniker of Melodie St. Ann Celestine. Played by the multi-faceted Evan Rachel Wood, Melodie, after much doe-eyed finagling, manages to talk her way into both a temporary home on the old grouch’s couch, and a tutorship of Boris’ own disillusioned brand of worldly education. As time passes, and love blooms — portrayed off-screen, thankfully — the mismatched couple find themselves visited by the girl’s recently-separated and dysfunctional parents: flighty Southern belle mom, Marietta (Patricia Clarkson), and bible-thumping, NRA-member father, John (Ed Begley Jr.), who both demonstrate little approval of their daughter’s pompous beau. However, as the Big Apple begins to weave its tantalizing spell on these sheltered misfits, inspiring transformation and revitalized vigor, Boris, against his obstinate will, becomes progressively more and more compelled to reassess his ‘to-hell-with-humanity’ theories of life.

Although Allen doesn’t explore the curious nature of Boris and Melodie’s May/December romance with a fraction of the perceptive zeal afforded to the mismatched coupling at the centre of 1979’s Manhattan, he still manages to mine great comedy from his two wildly contradictory stars. Evan Rachel Wood has proved herself to be a great dramatic actress on multiple fronts (as witnessed in Thirteen and The Wrestler), but here, she exposes herself to be a gifted comedienne. Her Melodie character hides under a cloak of cheerfully deceptive naivety and is a vivacious source of life as well as an enthusiastic sponge for information.

There is a scene in the film where she sits, deeply contemplative and attempting to analyze the intricacies of Beethoven’s Fifth while someone knocks on the front door, that is a mini-masterwork of slow-burn hilarity, with the actress essentially delivering a flawless silent film-style comedy routine. Likewise, her scenes with the brilliant David — wherein she matches his scornful disdain with bubbly ‘head-above-the-clouds’ optimism — are Whatever Works’ most entertaining selling point.

Unfortunately, the film loses track of itself when the focus shifts away from these two bickering companions and onto the supporting characters. While Patricia Clarkson’s Marietta is a keeper (her character’s bizarre journey into the unbridled wilds of New York bohemia is a riot) Begley’s John feels undeveloped and contrived. His metamorphosis, handled in a single scene, feels perfunctory and hollow. Additionally, Henry Cavill, as a somewhat creepy potential suitor for Melodie, is a bland, uninteresting pretty boy-type who actually manages to make Boris seem like the more appealing option.

If it all wraps up just a little bit too nicely, considering the antagonistic tone of the central character, we reflect that it is sometimes nice to just watch love conquer all and leave the complications of reality behind. Allen argues that we all deserve happiness — even cranky old Boris — and should be thankful for discovering ‘whatever works’ to help us escape the annoyances of modern life. And, for the film’s 92 minutes, we are.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: July 13th, 2009.

Cam on the Hype! Cast!!!

I posted a link below in the latest Epi-Cast show-notes but, having listened to the final product, I feel compelled to shill a little more for my associates over at superherohype.com's official podcast The Hype! Cast. I joined the intrepid trio of Malice, Immortal Fire and highscorefilms last monday and spent an often hilariously entertaining 90 minutes running the critical gamut over Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. The resulting debate/discussion/gab-session has now been edited, mastered and released on iTunes as well as on their pod feed, and it's really worth checking out, along with some of their past episodes. So, look for me, wielding the esoteric moniker Episode29 (Bet you can't guess where I got it!), in Episode #24: Transformers Review and then feel free to storm their archives for past hidden gems.

Link to the Hype! Cast's iTunes page

Link to the Hype! Cast's Podcast Feed

A big thanks to those guys for the great opportunity, and to you, dear reader, enjoy!

Epi-Cast: Episode 13 - "Transformers and Jack Black and Larry David, Oy Vey!"

Greetings fans and foes, we've returned to help you recover some of the decimated brain cells you withered away watching Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen! Nothing but the smartest, most intellectual and scintillating discussion ahead (Yes, we talk about Transformers...). Plus, we even have a special guest to help boost our already sky-rocketing energy levels. We may not have the Matrix of Leadership or all-mighty Allspark in our possession, but we have what really counts: Voluminous Verbosity! Take that Optimus!

Epicast: Episode 13 - "Transformers and Jack Black and Larry David, Oy vey!"

Wherein Cam and Tom, with special guest Janine Smith, don honourary yarmulkes and rejoice over Woody Allen's hilarious Larry David vehicle Whatever Works. The duo (sans guests) also kicks Jack Black's Year One in the stones, while Cam recounts a few reasons why Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is an affront to all that is good and holy in our universe. Also stuffed into these 90 mins of film-fun are withering dismissals of Daniel Craig's Defiance and Jim Carrey's Yes Man, along with trailer reviews for the Matt Damon/Steven Soderbergh corporate comedy The Informant, the vampire cliche-pile Daybreakers, Vince Vaughn's Couple Retreat and M. Night Shyamalan's The Last Airbender. Mazel tov!

Show Note: To download Cam's awesome-tastic appearance on superherohype.com's Hype! Cast, in which he and the show's hosts do a full hour-long review of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, either search for "Hype! Cast" on iTunes or head on over to the Hype! Cast's podcast feed and download Episode 24.

To download, right-click and save on the green episode title above and then listen/suffer to your dear pulsating organ's content. Get your mind out of the gutter.

P.S.: We also available on iTunes! Seriously! They accepted us! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and RIP-TORN!, there we are! Oh, and we're the movie-talky-talky show, not the holy roller festival.

Film Review - TRANSFORMERS: REVENGE OF THE FALLEN: Autobots Roll Out! ...and Out and Out and Out and Out...

Watching Michael “Blow It All To Hell” Bay’s latest thought-impaired robotic punch ‘em up Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, the sequel to 2007’s lumbering, migraine-inducing Transformers, it occurred to me that the director doesn’t give two stinking spark-plugs about his titular titanium-plated titans. Sure, we’re treated to endless scenes in which they cave in each other’s craniums with ginormous swords and mega-detonating projectiles, but personality-wise they’re empty vessels, characterized solely by their vehicular appearance and distorted booming voices. It takes a certain amount of determination to cut together 150 minutes of mechanized car-nage, Pauly Shore-level comedy and infinite shots of anonymous military people spouting jargon ala “The target is located!”, and not reveal a single interesting idea about the characters, but boy did he succeed. In fact, the flick could be renamed GoBots or Voltron and only a few superficial changes would be required.

The plot? Oy. Oddly, the script by the shallow writing duo Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (with added “help” from Reindeer Games scribe Ehren Kruger), is both lamely simplistic and torturously convoluted at the same time. Much like the similarly bloated Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End, lots and lots of things happen, but very little matters.

Essentially Revenge of the Fallen can be synopsised as thus: Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) is departing for Maxim College – where all the women dress like Seymour Street hookers and seem perpetually on the brink of orgasmic ecstasy – when he discovers a fragment of the all-powerful All-Spark, which zaps his head full of alien code. The Decepticons, under the rule of the disgraced warlord The Fallen, need this implanted information to find a potentially world-ending device that will give them unlimited supremacy. Hence, Optimus Prime and the Autobots, along with a few one-note human sidekicks, must assemble to thwart their wicked scheme. Much joyless brawling, screaming and showering scrap metal ensues.

Transformers die-hards (Trans-fans?) will no doubt devour the numerous diesel-injected dust-ups. There’s an impressive forest-set melee where Optimus takes on multiple mechanized assailants at once, along with an impressively staged gargantuan climax in Egypt which, up to the underwhelming final boss battle, is almost pornographic in its obsession with money shots and Megan Fox’s heaving bosom. But what about the Transformers’ personalities and feelings? What do they think about when not clashing? There are some interesting questions raised – probably unintentionally – regarding the alien race’s birthing process. Do these creatures mate? They appear asexual, and almost entirely masculine. How does an Optimus Prime reproduce? Also, we get a glimpse at Robot Heaven, where angelic Auto-bots – I’m guessing that there’s a Robot Hell reserved for Decepticons – stand in front of the pearly gates bathed in light. Is there Transformer theology? Who do they pray to? Do they dream of electric sheep? Fans might as well bellow these questions into the never-ending void, because the film-makers could care less. They’re vehicles for seeking and instigating mayhem, little else.

...Which would be forgivable if there was a single human performance in Revenge of the Fallen that rose above the level of transparent. LaBeouf, the team’s MVP and everyman, is helpless in the face of Bay’s orchestra of idiocy. He sweats fetchingly, shouts insipid terminology with gusto and gamely charges into the numerous bombastic set-pieces head-first. Megan Fox is window dressing, with nothing to do except be willingly molested by Bay’s salacious camera - although newcomer Isabel Lucas is the primary target for the director’s unique brand of creepy misogyny – while Tyrese Gibson and Josh Duhamel’s soldiers are best represented in an art-imiating-life dialogue exchange wherein they are informed that they are paid “to shoot, not talk”. John Turturro, reprising his annoying Sector 7 agent role, feels unnecessary but somewhat pleasant when compared to Ramon Rodriguez, as Sam’s conspiracy theory-fixated roommate, a narcissistic jerk of a character that’s an endurance test to tolerate.

Bay surrounds his human and mechanical nonentities with liberal heapings of masturbatory CG polish, characters TALKING! LIKE! THIS!, racially insensitive caricatures (the “twin” Auto-bots Skids and Mudflap have already provoked much passionate debate) and toilet-bowl sex humour. This is the type of film where mini-bots defile Megan Fox’s leg, dogs graphically hump each other (twice!) and a giant Decepticon named Devastator wields wrecking-ball testicles. I don’t necessarily blame Bay for going juvenile, but there is a cold-hearted cynicism at work that feels condescending toward adults and potentially harmful to impressionable children.

Ultimately, Transformers makes the classic blockbuster mistake of not comprehending the difference between enchanting an audience and numbing it into submission. Despite its massive budget, there’s not a single memorable line or moment of creative inspiration to be found amongst the reckless state-of-the-art computer-born gimmickry. At the conclusion of Revenge of the Fallen little doubt remains that Optimus Prime and his hulking horde of synthetic ciphers will return. Maybe next time they’ll actually let us see the soul beneath the aluminum armor.

2 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: June 29th, 2009.