Film Review - THE FIVE-YEAR ENGAGEMENT

When it comes to romantic comedies, there’s only so much conflict an audience can be expected to endure before any hope for a believable happy ending goes sailing out the window. It’s a tricky, indefinable line in the sand – structurally, the genre depends on conflict to fuel a big, sappy, crowd-pleasing third-act reunion – that, more often than not, determines whether a picture sinks or swims. We can buy that Steve Carell and Catherine Keener will work out their differences and forge a lasting bond in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, or that Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan can exorcise their neuroticisms together in When Harry Met Sally. But when an on-screen union breaks down into total toxic dysfunction (see: the entire cast of Couples Retreat), it’s hard to resist thinking the stars would be wise to see other people.

Nicholas Stoller’s The Five-Year Engagement, the latest raunchy-sweet rom-com to emerge from under the dependable umbrella of Judd Apatow’s production stable, truly tested my endurance for exaggerated romantic complications. Too bad, because this is frequently a really funny, smart and endearing effort that offers no shortage of laughs and a genuinely inspired, chemistry-laden pairing in Jason Segel and the perpetually ill-used Emily Blunt. They’re a charming duo, and we so badly want them to triumph that it becomes uncomfortable and frustrating to watch them run ragged through an endless and exhaustive gauntlet of stupid misunderstandings, weirdo behaviour and unnecessary plot contrivances. This movie badly needed to embrace a “less is more” philosophy.

From the moment we bear witness to the meeting of chef Tom Solomon (Segel) and psychology PhD grad Violet Barnes (Blunt) at a New Years Eve superhero costume party (he’s in a giant pink bunny suit and she’s decked out in regal Princess Diana garb) we know these crazy kids are destined for holy matrimony. Of course, the real question isn’t so much “if?” as “when?” Following a proposal that’s both hilariously clunky and adorable (it’s centered on, of all things, business receipts), the lovers’ impending nuptials are continuously side-tracked by distractions; overwhelming wedding plans, the pregnancy and hasty marriage of Violet’s flighty sister (adorably manic Alison Brie) and – most importantly – promising career possibilities.

After the bride-to-be is offered a two-year research position at the University of Michigan under a rock star professor (Rhys Ifans, unleashing his appealingly brainy eccentric oddness), the pair put wedded bliss on hiatus, vacate their sunny San Francisco digs and head east, beaming with optimism. However, shortly upon arrival, Violet thrives while Tom stagnates. Forced to take a go-nowhere gig at a local sandwich shop, and surrounded by emasculated men of limited vision, he begins to grow stir-crazy and resentful. As tensions increase between the two, and primo chef job postings filter down from back home, their once dreamy future grows murkier and murkier. Can love still conquer all?

Similar to Stoller’s previous films, the side-splitting and truthful Forgetting Sarah Marshall (also, like this film, co-written by Segel) and the amusing, if uneven, Get Him to the Greek, The Five-Year Engagement is a shaggy, loosely-assembled series of comedic beats and situations stretched out over a lengthy run-time. They’re hang-out movies, allowing us to simply spend time with likeableably flawed characters and watch them joke around, talk and undergo personal change. For the first hour, his latest is a treat. Tom and Violet are interesting, attractive, multi-layered protagonists who feel like human beings, with all the foibles and intelligence one would hope to find in a prospective mate. And watching them navigate their way through the loopy demands of their crazy families and friends, and the simpler daily realities of Michigan life, leads to a number of inspired fish out of water scenarios (Tom’s inexperienced hunting trips and slacker workplace conjure serious laughs, as do Violet’s cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs research team). As the quips and gags fly fast and furious – with an above average hit ratio – the film seems so confident that one could easily assume they’re witnessing a minor rom-com classic in the making.

At least, that is, until the wheels fall off in the second hour. Perhaps concerned their story wasn’t substantial or outrageous enough, Segel and Stoller’s screenplay unconvincingly amps up the strangeness factor. Tom’s devolution into a bearded Ted Nugent-style outdoorsman – complete with a Texas Chainsaw Massacre-esque home full of products fashioned from animal parts – is abrupt and, frankly, kinda pointless. It drags the film down and exists solely to further distance the couple (not to mention set up a pretty lame crossbow gag). The same could be said for sequences depicting a messy encounter with a food fetishist or a pantless night time excursion through the frozen wilderness. Whereas Sarah Marshall’s bizarre flights of fancy occurred organically and were informed by the personalities of the characters, The Five-Year Engagement’s seem isolated and tonally awkward; like germs of dark comic ideas shoe-horned into a light-hearted comedy confection unable to support them. They disrupt the movie to a point where it never recovers, and act as a springboard to a truly draggy extended pre-wrap-up section that’s something of a chore to endure. Bridesmaids and Knocked Up earned their two-hour-plus lengths; this picture does not.

As with past Apatow productions, the supporting cast is a brilliant who’s who of entertaining scene-stealers. In addition to Ifans and Brie (who features wonderfully in a killer scene where serious personal problems are debated in Sesame Street impersonations), The Five-Year Engagement also includes memorably humorous turns from Mimi Kennedy, David Paymer, Mindy Kaling, Kevin Hart, Randall Park, Dakota Johnson, Brian Posehn and force-of-nature Animal Kingdom Oscar-nominee Jacki Weaver, as Violet’s pit-bullish mumsy. Playing Tom’s slovenly frat-jerk best friend, Parks and Recreation’s Chris Pratt is a hyper-energized portrait of id-driven cluelessness, while SNL regular Jim Piddock (last seen as 21 Jump Street’s doltish drama teacher), imbues his ineffectual, ghastly-sweater-knitting Michigan house-husband with a subdued streak of passive derangement.

Honestly, there’s not a weak link to be found amongst any of the film’s amazing players. Segel and Blunt are delightful, and everyone else is on their A-game, delivering well beyond what the meandering script deserves. This is the most maddening type of noble failure; one with every element necessary for a home-run that can’t sort out its story from the suffocating muddle surrounding it. Just like Tom and Violet, The Five-Year Engagement has the best of intentions at heart when it sets out but, along the way, loses unfortunate sight of its much-desired objective.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - TITANIC 3D

James Cameron’s Titanic is a glorious feat of epic-scale blockbuster engineering. Revisiting the sweeping, tragic tale of the unsinkable ocean liner nearly 15 years after it dominated theatres for a record 15 weeks, tallied up 11 Oscars and sparked an adoring inferno of Leo-Mania, it’s impossible not be impressed by the brilliance of its construction. Blending together grand technical ambition and intimate, starry-eyed romance, the innovative writer/director managed a nearly impossible feat; he produced a box-office behemoth that truly spoke to every possible demographic. It was the perfect picture arriving at the perfect time, boldly furthering the CG revolution while simultaneously celebrating Old Hollywood storytelling. Indeed, like the doomed ship itself, it was an exorbitantly costly vision that stood with one foot planted firmly in the past and the other reaching fearlessly into the bright, optimistic future.

It’s unfortunate, though understandable, that the film’s luster has been tarnished by aggressive backlash. Intense hype can only last so long, and it’s easy to become disillusioned and embarrassed by past obsessions. Nonetheless, to dismiss Titanic as being “uncool” is to miss the point entirely; Titanic was never meant to be cool in the first place! Arriving in theatres during the hip, ironic indie boom sparked by Pulp Fiction, Cameron’s wonderfully square portrait of idealized young love is, in the tradition of the very best Tinseltown epics, defiantly earnest and melodramatic. Nothing is funny about all-consuming first love – at least not to the participants – and the movie makes no efforts to downplay the swooning exhilaration shared by scruffy artist Jack and troubled upper-class Rose (perfectly cast Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, generating chemistry that radiates from the screen). There’s an unmistakeable purity in their hoary amorous declarations and unabashed naivety. And, because most of us have occupied a similarly foggy headspace at some point in our lives, we not only feel nostalgia viewing their archetypal affair, but also become profoundly invested in preserving their happiness.

Cameron is not a particularly emotional director. Although his 1985 break-through, The Terminator, featured a sweet romance between Linda Hamilton and Michael Biehn, he’s usually credited more for crafting smart, boundary-pushing spectacle than relatable human narratives. Titanic is easily his most tender and sensual picture. Sure, his dialogue may occasionally veer into cornball territory (“A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets…”), however real care has been taken in portraying the heightened emotions and evolution of the central relationship. Few moments in modern cinema are as innocently erotic as the famous nude sketching session, or as deliriously joyful as the whirling Irish dance in the steerage section. And the sight of the two leads, together against the world, embracing on the bow of the majestic ship, is one of those powerfully unforgettable images that only cinema is capable of creating.

As an action director, Cameron is in a league all his own, and his staging of the climactic destruction of the doomed vessel is a breath-taking orchestra of chaos that begins in disquieting serenity (those flares sure look beautiful in the pitiless night sky) and ends in nightmarish pandemonium. The effects, of course, remain brilliant, but what’s even more impressive is the helmer’s flawless ability to convey the geography of the unfolding events. Due to the fact we’ve been subtly touring the ship for the preceding two hours, rarely is there a moment where we don’t innately comprehend where our heroes are or where they have to go. It was also an ingenious idea to include a computer-rendered recreation of the ship’s demise in the movie’s often clunky opening modern day bookend. By filling us in on the overall picture, we’re free to remain focused firmly on the characters, not on the expository details of every stage of the destruction.

Like the best blockbusters, Titanic remains just as relevant today as it was in 1997 – maybe even more so. There’s a sense of timelessness to the picture’s themes and artistry that allows it continue to speak to the time it’s viewed in. The class war, between Jack and his fellow steerage passengers and the upper-crust likes of Rose’s mother (Frances Fisher) and steel heir fiancé (awesome ham Billy Zane), is especially pertinent nowadays, with the high profile Occupy movement and struggling 99 percent. It isn’t as easy to flippantly dismiss their outmoded early 20th century mindset now as it was during the original release. Similarly, watching the bodies plummeting from the capsizing liner, one can’t help but be reminded of our own great modern tragedy, the 9/11 World Trade Centre attack.

The film’s much-ballyhooed $18-million-dollar 3D transfer, in the works for several years, is pleasant though unnecessary. Sure, there are a handful of bits that wow – such as a haunting shot of a female corpse floating angelically in the flooded ballroom, or a tiny moment in which one of Rose’s paintings sinks beneath the chilly ocean water – yet the picture itself is already such an immersive experience that the added tech doesn’t really add to the equation. Unlike Avatar, which was only really satisfying on a visual level, and thus benefitted hugely from the extra dimension, Titanic’s 3D is a harmless icing on a cake that’s delicious enough on its own.

Still, regardless of the upgrade, Cameron’s opus is a picture that demands to be watched – and, yes, rewatched – on the best possible theatre screen available; where its countless iconic shots can be projected to appropriately larger-than-life, mythic proportions. Titanic is a work of visionary filmmaking, a rousing and poignant master class in how to use blockbuster techniques to reach into the hearts and imagination of the collective movie-going population. It’s poetic that the Ship of Dreams should inspire a work of cinema destined to continue sailing on throughout our own for a long time to come.

Film Review - WRATH OF THE TITANS

If ever there was a franchise built on a heaping, Olympus-high mountain of wasted potential, it’s Warner Bros.’s Titans series. 2009’s Clash of the Titans, a remake of Desmond Davis’s 1981 cult hit, stuffed a monumental cast of thunderous mythological heavy-hitters into a stolid, directionless hack ‘n slash bore-a-thon that struck with all the sound and fury of a wiffle ball bat. Cluelessly bungling a sure-fire recipe for cheesy popcorn nirvana, the film was little more than a showcase for wonderfully-designed, choppily-executed CG monsters and the perpetually apathetic smirk of buff, charisma-challenged lead Sam Worthington.

Yet, the picture’s gloriously silly “Release the Kraken!” marketing push worked wonders – generating a gigantic $500-million in worldwide ticket sales – and has inspired a return trip to creature-infested ancient Greece in Wrath of the Titans, an oh-so-slightly superior follow-up that’s equal parts sequel and remake of its uninspired forebear. Following the same template as Clash, this second attempt is still a story-telling dead end, though it at least pares down the convoluted nonsense to a manageable length and delivers an appropriate amount of stylish, empty-headed effects overkill. The result is often like watching a friend play an impressive-looking video-game; you can admire the spectacle even if the experience is forgettable.

Taking place roughly a decade after the events of Clash, Wrath finds Worthington’s stoic demigod Perseus living the serenely sleepy life of a fisherman and single father to his adolescent son Helius (John Bell), indifferent to his divine heritage and the wants of his almighty father Zeus (Liam Neeson – sporting his silly beard with unwavering authority). Things take a turn for the earth-rumbling, however, when the lightning bolt-wielding deity is taken prisoner by his embittered brother Hades (Ralph Fiennes) and son Ares (Edgar Ramirez), and used as a means of releasing Kronos, the destructive, volcano-sized father of the Gods, from his crumbling subterranean prison. With the evil being’s grotesque titan army already loose and wreaking havoc, Perseus is forced to team up with Poseidon’s no-good son Agenor (Toby Kebbell – serving no genuine purpose beyond terrible jokes) and the warrior queen Andromeda (Rosamund Pike) and embark on a quest to once more restore peace to the fractured land.

How mankind’s oldest, richest stories could inspire a script this vacant is a mystery best left to the ages. While there’s nothing wrong with using classical literature to craft light-hearted swashbuckling fun (1963’s stellar Jason and the Argonauts pulled off this feat in spades),Wrath is so uninterested in its flimsy narrative it’s off-putting. The script, by a crew of four credited writers, sends its characters on an epic journey that feels like it spans all of a weekend. Although the film’s title screams larger than life thrills, there’s no grandeur to the picture, with its blank, paper-thin heroes and villains and abominable dialogue, or any sense that we’re being swept up in a breathless tale.

It’s hard to ignore the nagging aura of déjà vu that lingers over the film. Just as in its predecessor, Perseus must transition from a fisherman to fighter and learn to accept his demigod status. And, again, his arc occurs over the course of a location-hopping search, fraught with fearsome beasts, death-defying traps and feeble romantic interludes, that ends with him swooping around on his trusty steed Pegasus in confusing combat against a final behemoth boss. For a dependable and predictable B-movie formula of this type to really work there has to be a twinkle of joy and go-for-broke imagination at play, like in the Indiana Jones or James Bond movies. Wrath of the Titans, unfortunately, operates under the crushing weight of dutifulness; to keeping the fledgling brand name alive and earning. It isn’t an entertainment, so much as a canny business decision.

Taking over the directorial reigns from Louis Leterrier, series newcomer Jonathan Liebesman doesn’t have a resume worth writing home about – his unremarkable past efforts include Battle: Los Angeles and Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning – nevertheless he’s a competent journeyman with enough visual flare to skate by more or less unscathed. Unconcerned with his dopey plot, the helmer instead sweats over the money shots; enlivening a few nicely assembled sequences including a suspenseful forest-set tussle with a trio of babbling Cyclops (whose alarming appearance is counterbalanced by a noticeable glint of quirky Ray Harryhausen-esque oddness) and a village-wrecking encounter with a ravenous, and seemingly female genitalia-tailed(!) Chimera. Liebesman also does his darndest to give Kronos’s explosive entrance scope and weight, in spite of the fact there’s something patently phony about watching human actors stand in the foreground shooting energy projectiles at an enormous stationary creation in the background (Shades of the climax of the goofy 1983 fantasy fave Krull). Unfortunately, he doesn’t bring the same level of attention to the picture’s bewildering labyrinth set-piece, where coherent cinematic geography vanishes into thin air, and a truly underwhelming close-quarters WWE-style Minotaur wrestling match.

No one expects to see great performances in these types of movies. That’s pretty much a given. Still, they can afford gifted actors a platform to revel in the glory of pure camp. In the original Clash, for example, Laurence Olivier consumed scenery by the heaping spoonful as Zeus and Burgess Meredith was a tongue-in-cheek hoot as a mischievous mentor/exposition machine. Wrath of the Titans, by contrast, offers up the invaluable Bill Nighy, as a loony navigator with a make-believe friend, as its sole weirdo stand out. Worthington – now fully reverted back to his native Australian dialect – is a physically skilled non-entity, while Neeson and Fiennes, who squabble with admirable gravitas, keep their moments of broad theatrical invention to a regrettable minimum.

This picture is the epitome of the one-week blockbuster; produced solely to dominate a single box-office chart before vanishing entirely from the audience’s collective memory. It’s a shame, as this is a franchise that should provide visionary filmmakers with a veritable playground of magical story possibilities, sweeping otherworldly locales and broad, iconic characters capable of leaving an indelible stamp on an audience. Those behind Wrath of the Titans may have read up on their Greek mythology, but it’s glaringly evident there weren’t any Muses visiting the set.

2 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - THE HUNGER GAMES

The Hunger Games is a good story in desperate need of a workable screenplay. An adaptation of the juggernaut young adult publishing phenomenon by Suzanne Collins, it’s yet another troubling entry in an increasingly long line of book-to-film translations – including Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows Part 1 and the Twilight sequels - that forsake narrative coherence, pace and energy in favour of slavish devotion to fans of the source material. This isn’t really a stand-alone movie, so much as a cinematic companion piece for readers. I strongly recommend bringing one of them with you, should you be one of the uninitiated. Because boy, oh boy, are you going to have questions by the time the credits finally roll.

Set in an undetermined time in the relatively near future, The Hunger Games depicts a twisted, shattered North American society where a debauched government picks one boy and girl from each of the surrounding 12 poor districts and pits them against each other in deadly, rigged reality TV combat. The fighters, or “tributes,” are set loose in elaborate battle grounds to form alliances and kill their peers in order to emerge sole survivor. The ensuing sacrifices act not only as a grim reminder of the years of turbulent rebellion that scarred the land, but also as a form of grand entertainment, providing hope to the masses struggling to endure the impoverished day-to-day toil of their bleak lives.

Chief among the contestants in this 74th annual edition is Katniss Everdeen (the lovely and transcendently gifted Jennifer Lawrence), an independent, resolute-minded teenage citizen of District 12 who volunteers in place of her cherished younger sister. Paired with sheepish potential showmance mate Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson), she’s transported to the decadent, fashion-obsessed Capitol – a nauseating circus of fascistic, Roman and French aristocratic imagery crossbred with bubble-gum 80s rock posturing – and run through a gambit of promotional appearances and training under the tutelage of alcoholic former champion Haymitch Abernathy (Woody Harrelson). The pampering and glamour proves terribly short-lived, though, as Katniss, Peeta and their 22 fellow competitors are soon let loose in a dense, unforgiving forest, armed with swords, bows, knives and an intense, animalistic drive to stay alive.

Given his penchant for penning light-hearted, mainstream-friendly fare like Seabiscuit, Big and Dave, helmer Gary Ross wouldn’t exactly seem the right man to properly service material this fierce. However, one need look no further than his 1998 directorial debut, the under-seen gem Pleasantville, to witness his skill at telling a tale about teenagers inspiring revolution against a strict, conformist authority. While he often feels adrift in this awkward, meandering affair, his spark of ingenuity still reveals itself when it counts. The early Reaping Day scene – in which Katniss is enlisted – is a chilling echo of Shirley Jackson’s classic short story “The Lottery,” and a quiet, sombre sequence where Katniss mourns the death of a friend is delicately handled. He also does a solid job building to the main event, with Katniss’s entertainingly bizzarro trip to the Capitol (slightly hindered by dodgy CG and obvious soundstage work). Too bad, then, that once chaos reigns, he’s hamstrung on how to make the games exciting. There’s no momentum or ticking clock urgency to the competition, and the brutal clashes are rendered in often horrendous eyesore bursts of shaky-cam obnoxiousness.

Of course, Ross’s most egregious problems lie in The Hunger Games shambling script. Co-penned by author Collins and Billy Ray (Breach, State of Play), this is a film that bombards the audience with exposition, usually through Stanley Tucci’s amusing blue-coiffed MC, yet fails to paint a comprehensive picture of its world. What does a Hunger Games winner actually win? Why is it so vital for contestants to please sponsors when there’s little evidence of their aid actually impacting the game in any real way? How are Peeta’s bakery-honed (!) super-strength and ninja camouflage abilities at all necessary? And let’s not get started on the vicious unexplained surprise guests in the picture’s climax! Doubtlessly, these elements made perfect sense in the original text, but on-screen they’re confusing and silly, if not utterly pointless. Even more aggravating is the absence of depth in Katniss’s opponents, several of which play major roles and whose deaths have serious ramifications. It’s pretty hard to care about a competition in which only two participants are given a personality and arc, not to mention memorable names. The film also, despite running nearly 2 ½ hours, feels rushed in the back end, as if the scribes were trying to jam everything in on their mad dash to the end. Events just seem to happen one after another, with zero breathing room. And the less said about the limp, semi-cliffhanger ending the better.

Perhaps the picture’s wheezy plot machinations might have been easier to ignore if the film had something truly bold to say. The use of televised death matches as a means of criticizing grotesque reality TV sensationalism is hardly a new thing (Death Race 2000, Running Man and Series 7: The Contenders already covered similar terrain), and neither, thanks to Kinji Fukasaku’s masterful Battle Royale, is the notion of kids being forced into committing heinous acts by a cruel, totalitarian Big Brother. By contrast, The Hunger Games, which is aimed at a younger demographic than the aforementioned titles, doesn’t seem fully committed to edging into any sort of bracing moral grey area. The youthful fighters practically step onto the field wearing Good and Bad labels (no examples are made of a player being gradually corrupted by the games), and Katniss isn’t forced into having to intensely consider deliberate murder; the choices are predominantly made for her. Moreover, the adults controlling the gruesome spectacle seem largely ambivalent to it all. Harrelson and Kravitz show fondness towards the heroine, yet aren’t visibly haunted by their roles in her potential demise. The film skirts intriguing thematic territory without ever quite building up the guts to dive headlong in and say anything genuinely original.

To her infinite credit, Jennifer Lawrence not only delivers a dynamic, layered, physical lead turn, but actually succeeds in carrying the entire picture on her toned shoulders. Simultaneously exuding stubborn inner-strength and frightened vulnerability, the actress digs down right to the emotional truth of her character and commands the screen effortlessly. She’s particularly excellent when playing off the surly, campy Harrelson and a warm Lenny Kravitz (as a nurturing stylist), especially in her poignant final minutes of freedom before entering the arena. If Winter’s Bone – a film The Hunger Games often seems to be paying homage to in Katniss’s early home life – established Lawrence as a dramatic powerhouse, this picture rightfully launches her into the stratosphere of movie stardom.

Make no mistake: Lawrence is the dominant draw, well above the modestly interesting ideas, performances and individual scenes swirling around this slightly bland, lukewarm sci-fi soup. This is a picture that cries out for braver filmmakers; people willing to make big sacrifices and alterations, and able to refine Collins’s beloved novel into a clear, proficient piece of populist cinema with its own vision and value. Although The Hunger Games is not without its minor pleasures, ultimately it only leaves you wanting more when it’s over. And not in the way you’d hope.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - JOHN CARTER

Ever since Pirates of the Caribbean unexpectedly morphed into a multi-billion dollar juggernaut Walt Disney Pictures has been on a tear to unearth a new live-action tentpole franchise capable of attracting young males to the multiplex by the horde. So far, this questionable business objective has motivated the company to foolishly squander bordering-on-obscene resources on the synthetic, terribly written blockbuster non-starters The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, The Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time and Tron: Legacy, to little financial gain. For a company famed for harnessing the limitless potential of imagination and awing audiences of all ages, these failures were more than a little embarrassing. After all, it’s darn hard to sell toys or build theme park attractions based on dead-end cinematic endeavours.

The Mouse House’s latest kick at the can, the woefully generic-sounding John Carter, doesn’t quite reverse this sad trend but it’s at least a step in the right direction. Based on Edgar Rice Burroughs’s near-century old literary creation, the film is a big, broad sci-fi swash-buckling spectacle that enthusiastically embraces its spaced-out, pulpy roots – frequently to its own narrative detriment – and paints the screen with vivid visions of grand otherworldliness. It’s not a particularly stellar movie; however those who maintain a love for geeky, old-fashioned thrills will appreciate the flashes of invention, ambition and wit that shine through the straight-faced, messy silliness.

Set in the dusty, arid vistas of Barsoom (or Mars, in human terms), the adventure kicks off when a roguish, daring former Confederate captain named John Carter (Taylor Kitsch – delivering a performance that’s a cross between Han Solo and Clint Eastwood) happens upon the red planet via a mysterious portal in a cave. Afforded enhanced strength and the ability to leap immense distances by the strange environment’s gravity, the intrepid protagonist quickly happens upon a warrior tribe of green, six-limbed Tharks. Led by the noble Tars Tarkas (Willem Dafoe), they’re a cheerfully rough and tumble lot who, impressed by their visitor’s mile-high jumps, take him prisoner and introduce him into their violent society.

Things become even more complicated when gutsy Princess Dejah Thoris (Lynn Collins – a regal screen presence with charisma to spare), fleeing the grasp of evil, mystical weapon-wielding warlord Sab Than (Dominic West), surrenders herself to the Tharks. Desperately seeking aid for her threatened people in the majestic city-state of Helium, the butt-kicking damsel catches the appreciative eye of her fellow prisoner, and soon the improbable duo, accompanied by kind, disgraced Thark woman Sola (Samantha Morton – occupying a role that’s something of a plot afterthought), escapes into the Barsoonian desert. Tracked by foes of all races, Carter must decide which side to fight for in the conflict and find a means of foiling Than’s sinister plan to force Dejah into a marriage he falsely promises will unite the land.

John Carter has long been a passion project for director Andrew Stanton, the Oscar-winning Pixar genius behind Wall-e and Finding Nemo, and, for better and worse, his infatuation is evident in every frame. Although this film is light years away from his celebrated animated classics, the helmer does a commendable job establishing an authentic, lived-in universe and filling it with loving homages – from Planet of the Apes to John Ford’s legendary cavalry pictures – and genuinely fun moments. Many will appreciate the hero’s slam-bang face-off in the arena against a pair of monstrous white apes, or a lively sequence featuring the bewildered American discovering his powers, yet it’s the smaller, quirkier bits that really resonate. The helmer mines cheerful humour from the ongoing culture clash misunderstandings between the Tharks and their earthly captive (“Virginia!” becomes an amusing go-to joke), or from the hyper-active antics of Carter’s loyal Martian dog Woola. There’s also a brilliant early sequence wherein a frustrated colonel played by Bryan Cranston fails to properly detain our lead character. Repeatedly.

Stanton isn’t quite as successful on the story front. While John Carter is largely derived from the first book in the series, A Princess of Mars, the director/co-writer and fellow scribes Mark Andrews and Michael Chabon eagerly throw a few too many extra elements into the pot, unnecessarily overcomplicating what was originally a fairly simple, rousing yarn. The film is too top-heavy, with a trio (!) of prologues dragging the energy down when it’s needed most, and often devolves into listless scenes of human characters explaining things to one another in tedious, occasionally impenetrable, Martian mumbo-jumbo. This is a story that should have been snappy and laser-focused, able to be easily understood by young movie-goers, and not convoluted to the point of confusion (in Avatar, James Cameron knew exactly how to clearly communicate the type of dense, out-there information that bogs down Carter). It also isn’t interested enough in its own star. Carter isn’t a particularly rich character on the page, and the movie doesn’t bring much more to the table, failing to provide him with enough depth to make us truly care about his transformation. We never get a good sense of who he is as a person, outside of a few sporadic, moodily-lit flashbacks that don’t exactly radiate emotion.

That said, where Stanton’s film stumbles most is in the bad guy department. This is one action-adventure tale burdened by a serious villain problem. With so much to set up in regards to establishing its unique cinematic world and abundance of inhabitants, it might have benefited to stick with a single fiendish force of antagonism. Unfortunately, John Carter supplies three – four, if you count Polly Walker’s scheming Thark Sarkoja – and all of them feel shortchanged and forgettable. For a genre that depends so heavily on fashioning remarkable portraits of treachery, this just unacceptable. Mark Strong, as a supernatural puppet master secretly controlling events, does a really tired variation of his Green Lantern would-be arch-enemy Sinestro (and again serves the sorry function of acting as a walking, talking sequel teaser) and West’s Sab Than is a complete void of a character. Only an under-used Thomas Haden Church, as a brutal Thark with designs on stealing leadership from Tars Tarkis, manages to stand out. And that’s predominantly because he at least looks cool.

In spite of the litany of script issues, though, there’s a pleasant, wide-eyed sincerity to Stanton’s reverential effort that works strongly in its favour. This is not a picture destined to make much of an impact, or, for that matter, lead to a more confident follow-up. Rather, it’s agreeable enough escapist eye candy that – similar to the Star Wars prequels – hums along when the masterfully orchestrated action and dazzling fantastical sights are unfolding, but trips over itself when story or dialogue take center stage. Unlike its titular figure, John Carter doesn’t succeed so much in leaps and bounds as it does fits and starts.

3 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Film Review - RAMPART

There’s an unmistakeable glint of deceitfulness in Woody Harrelson’s piercing blue eyes, like he knows he’s getting away with something. They stand in sharp contrast to his honest, gentlemanly Southern-fried accent and give him the air of a born con artist; a good-natured dim bulb who is, in reality, ten steps ahead of everyone else, gleefully working out new angles in his crafty mind. It’s a quality that has served him very well over the course of his intriguing and varied career, both in comedy (Zombieland, Kingpin) and drama (The People Vs. Larry Flynt, No Country for Old Men), and is given an interesting twist in Rampart, an uneven bad-cop-gone-worse character piece that takes the Harrelson archetype to its most extreme, hard-edged conclusion.

When we first meet Harrelson’s crooked, late 90s-era LAPD officer David Brown, he’s holding court with a pair of co-workers in a parking lot, dropping racist slurs and intensely brow-beating a nervous female recruit into consuming a carton of french fries. And this is a mere glimmer of his ugliness. Gaunt and bug-eyed, he hides behind a pair of large aviator sunglasses, rarely, if ever, bothering to eat anything. Instead, Brown subsists on an endless diet of cigarettes and booze, as well as the steady string of wounded, lonely women he picks up at his pathetic local watering hole. When he does go home, it’s to a dingy basement suite in the house of his ex-wife (Cynthia Nixon). He fathered one daughter with her and another with her sister (Anne Heche), who conveniently lives right next door. Neither of these women has any patience left for his manipulative antics.

If his personal life is in shambles, his professional one is an unmitigated disaster. Prejudiced and prone to reckless behaviour, the brutal officer has come under intense scrutiny for beating a latino driver nearly to death following an automobile collision. This isn’t the first time he’s landed in hot water; he earned the dubious nickname “Date Rape” for once allegedly murdering a purported sex offender. Now, a persistent assistant D.A. (Sigourney Weaver) and a resourceful Internal Affairs investigator (Ice Cube) – motivated to clean up the department in the wake of the infamous Rampart scandal a couple years earlier – have his number, and pose a serious threat to his already dismal, crumbling world. For Brown there’s nowhere really left to go but down.

Rampart marks the second collaboration between Harrelson and sophomore director Oren Moverman. Their first, 2009’s poignant military drama The Messenger – which also starred Ben Foster, who produced this film and has a bizarre bit part as a wheelchair-bound homeless man – netted the actor an Oscar nomination. Given a better release date, this one might have too. The helmer again coaxes a fantastic performance out of his star; not as outrageously showy as the crazed turns by Nicolas Cage or Harvey Keitel in the thematically comparable Bad Lieutenant pictures, yet no less concentrated, daring and lived-in. David Brown is a true original in a genre that has spawned no shortage of carbon copy villainous coppers, a revolting, detestable lost soul that we can’t break our gaze from. A bleak joke of a character, he’s an ego-maniac of limited capabilities with no link to the rest of humanity, fighting like a mad dog to remain mired in a toxic status quo that mirrors his own sick, self-hating psyche.

Harrelson’s off-kilter protagonist is such an ugly force of nature that his presence goes a long way towards helping the film battle the limitations of its often patchy screenplay. Written by Moverman and James Ellroy, the crime novelist/scribe behind L.A. Confidential, The Black Dahlia and this effort’s underrated forebear Dark Blue, Rampart focuses almost solely on its lead, at the frustrating expense of those around him. There are a lot of characters here – too many, actually – and the majority are robbed of dimension. Robin Wright, as a public defender who acts as Brown’s chief romantic conquest, admirably taps into her role’s tired fragility, however there’s no momentum to their relationship and her story is unceremoniously cut short. Suffering a similar fate are Weaver, Cube, Foster and Ned Beatty – as a shady retired cop with questionable connections – who show up and give their all without every quite making a significant impact. Only Brie Larson, as Brown’s resentful lesbian daughter, is given an arc that resonates. What made The Messenger so effective was its powerful intimacy. Rampart, on the other hand, is spread over a larger, more densely populated canvas that grows muddled and confusing, preventing us from emotionally investing ourselves in its sordid universe.

Still, in spite of the meandering narrative, Moverman delivers a handful of brilliantly conceived moments. One of the best occurs when Brown, taxed and angry, wanders into an underground sex club seeking release and finds it in the unlikeliest of places. Bearing an unmistakeable resemblance to one of Shame’s most haunting sections, the scene is a terrifically queasy mishmash of disturbing, bleary-eyed imagery, quick-cut editing and pounding distorted audio. Also memorable is a devastating hotel room meeting between Brown and his two daughters, in which the girls attempt to break ties from their drunken, washed up father while he tries desperately to lure them back with painfully transparent displays of affection.

If only the picture’s bursts of greatness didn’t feel so much like welcome oases adrift in a sea of lukewarm cop movie clutter. It’s a film that bears all the crucial pieces and people necessary to fashion a gritty classic neo-noir, so it’s hard not to be disappointed when it wanders off down dead ends and falls short of achieving its full potential. Rampart may be a fiery showcase for Harrelson’s fearlessness, but as a cohesive case study in police corruption it misses just as many marks as it ultimately hits.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

TV Review - THE 84th ACADEMY AWARDS

Every few cycles the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences give up on trying to appeal to the elusive young ‘uns and play to their loyal audience of blue hairs. Sunday night was such a night. In a nice recovery from 2011′s flop-sweat-stained Oscarcast, which saw Anne Hathaway and James Franco miserably failing to bring youthful cool to a ceremony dominated by the decidedly uncool The King’s Speech, Billy Crystal presided over an evening that was well-paced, confident and entertaining. It was well-suited to the cinematic year it was honouring; reasonably strong, with scattered instances of greatness, but not particularly remarkable or destined to linger in the collective memory for very long.

Despite a bumpy opening, wherein most of Crystal’s traditional song medley was (mercifully?) drowned out by muddy audio, the show recovered with a series of fastball jokes that helped goose the energy. Some of the gags were pretty corny, if not downright out of touch (Mother of Pearl, kids are watching movies on phones?!), but they came quick enough that even the clunkers were mostly forgotten. The nine-time host was at his best when he indulged in his talent for winking snark, noting the absurdity of “millionaires presenting each other with golden statues” in the current economy, or acknowledging the emergence of a giant songbook prop with a bored “Eh.” He also scored big with a gravel-throated impression of gruff Warrior supporting actor nominee Nick Nolte.

Trophies were handed out with refreshing regularity, and speeches kept fairly short and snappy (not many shout-outs to accountants and lawyers, thankfully). As expected the silent movie homage The Artist won best picture, director for Michel Hazanavicius and leading actor for the suave Jean Dujardin (“I love your country,” the star exclaimed at the start of a charming speech that closed with an ecstatic impromptu soft-shoe routine), while popular faves Octavia Spencer and Christopher Plummer scored in the best supporting categories for their turns in The Help and Beginners. At 84, the ever-classy Plummer officially became the oldest recipient to bring home an acting Oscar.

There were a few minor surprises, though. Meryl Streep’s prevailing over The Help frontrunner Viola Davis for best actress was a slightly controversial choice, given The Iron Lady’s frosty critical and commercial reception. The much-lauded actress herself even seemed to recognize that fact. Joking that half of America was no doubt irritated by her bringing home her third statue, she immediately launched into a self-effacing, warm and irresistibly humble acceptance speech (“Thank you for this inexplicable career”) that went a long way towards pacifying even the most ardent detractors. In the technical categories, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’s win for best editing left even the victors in a state of shock (“Let’s just get out of here…!”), and Hugo’s triumph for achievement in visual effects upset expected champion Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Many thought Apes was a lock since praised mo-cap performer Andy Serkis was snubbed in the supporting actor category.

By dropping the usual song numbers and extended best picture clips, the Oscar cast’s small handful of special segments were given more time to breath and settle in. A series of interview clips with actors talking about the magic of movies, and the films that inspired them (few would have guessed Brad Pitt fell in love with acting after viewing the Toho monster campfest War of the Gargantuas) were a fun treat, as was a gravity-defying performance by Cirque du Soleil that, allegedly, replicated the experience of going to the theatre. The true show-stopper, however, was a side-splitting recorded bit in which the amazing Christopher Guest and his crew of improv all-stars (Eugene Levy, Fred Willard, Catherine O’Hara and Jennifer Coolidge) recreated a 1939 Wizard of Oz focus group session. With Levy muttering cluelessly about the disconnect between Kansas and Oz, and Willard waxing poetic about flying monkeys, it was an embarrassment of comedic riches that just kept building to deliriously new absurd heights. The Academy should seriously consider handing 2013’s ceremony over to those guys!

All in all, it was a pleasantly old-fashioned affair that honoured cinema, and the legacy of the awards, with enough nostalgia, glamour and good humour to keep viewers engaged for the three-plus hour run-time. Sure, it was often tempting to poke holes in the committee’s stodgy nomination choices, but you know what? Hopefully they’ll get it right next year. Or maybe the year after that.

The complete winners list:
Best Picture: The Artist
Actor: Jean Dujardin, The Artist
Actress: Meryl Streep, The Iron Lady
Supporting Actor: Christopher Plummer, Beginners
Supporting Actress: Octavia Spencer, The Help
Director: Michel Hazanavicius, The Artist
Adapted Screenplay: The Descendants
Original Screenplay: Midnight in Paris
Animated Feature: Rango
Foreign Language: A Separation, Iran
Documentary: Undefeated
Film Editing: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Art Direction: Hugo
Cinematography: Hugo
Costume Design: The Artist
Make Up: The Iron Lady
Sound Editing: Hugo
Sound Mixing: Hugo
Visual Effects: Hugo
Music, original score: The Artist
Music, original song: "Man or Muppet" from The Muppets
Short, animated: The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore
Short, documentary: Saving Face
Short, live action: The Shore

Film Review - GHOST RIDER: SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE

In the annals of Marvel Comics motion picture adaptations, 2007’s Ghost Rider is a sad, misguided footnote barely worth expending the energy to mention. Helmed by Daredevil director Mark Steven Johnson, it was a tediously limp franchise launch that impressively managed to render a tragic flaming biker skeleton boring. No mean feat, that! However, despite toxic word of mouth and a flurry of critical jabs, the lifeless origin tale managed to gross a respectable, if somewhat discouraging, $228-million dollars worldwide. Remarkably quickly, the usual studio sequel chatter withered on the vine, as audience demand for the next chapter was roughly as voluble as the sound of a lone tumbleweed lazily rolling across the barren desert plain.

Of course, never underestimate the motivational power of being forced to forfeit the rights to an iconic fanboy property! In an effort to keep the languishing superhero under the studio umbrella, and away from rival Marvel Studios, Sony dusted off a near-decade old script by Blade and Batman Begins scribe David S. Goyer and enlisted deranged directorial duo Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor of Crank fame to reignite the Rider. The off-kilter end result, Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance, is a crazed hallucination of nonsensical, frenzied idiocy that somehow manages to out-stupid its insipid predecessor while still crossing into shameless guilty pleasure territory. Make no mistake; as a film it’s ten tonnes of terrible. That said, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m compelled to confess that I was occasionally amused by its unrepentant bargain barrel trashiness.

Stripping away most of the elements established in the original, Spirit of Vengeance picks up with cursed stunt-artist Johnny Blaze (Nicolas Cage, the sole casting leftover) adrift in strangely desolate Eastern Europe. Nomadic, friendless and plagued mercilessly by the powerful demon raging with him, he’s recruited by a wine-guzzling monk named Moreau (Idris Elba) to help prevent the Devil (Ciarán Hinds) from achieving unimaginable power. His villainous plot centers on a young boy named Danny (Fergus Riordan), whose actual parentage is a secret long kept by his resourceful and tough mom Nadya (Violante Placido). Now hunted by a team of bounty hunters led by vicious pretty-boy killer Ray Carrigan (Johnny Whitworth, who dons a bad rockstar wig after being transformed into the evil Blackout), the family has no one to turn to except the unpredictable and dangerous Blaze, who desperately needs to succeed in his grim task if he ever hopes to regain his long lost humanity.

Neveldine/Taylor – as they concisely credit themselves – have never been particularly skilled at storytelling. Their Crank movies, and the spastic, migraine-inducing Gamer, were intentionally obnoxious exercises in chaotic, go-for-broke insanity and guerilla-style filmmaking showiness (the pair are known to shoot their action by whizzing around on rollerblades). For better or worse, Ghost Rider 2 cheerfully follows their usual manic modus operandi, with cheerfully dopey visuals – slightly more subdued than usual, probably due to the sadly underutilized 3D – propping up a sloppy joke of a script. There is some fun stuff here, amidst the flotsam, such as a massive fiery mining crane smashing enemies into cinders or a scene in which the hero pees fire. Seriously.

They do a good job giving presence to their walking matchstick crusader. The Rider is usually silent, doesn’t move around much, and his primary power of staring people to death isn’t overly cinematic, yet he’s a genuinely cool vision in bubbling leather, flame and smoke. And, unlike last time, his oddball abilities, such as spewing back molten bullets, transforming random vehicles into apocalyptic death rides and using his trusty chain to drag baddies to Hell are given a fitfully goofy showcase. As a dynamic on-screen protagonist, he grabs your attention.

It’s hard, though, to watch the disjointed Spirit of Vengeance and not notice the significant resemblance it bears to the notorious comic-book box-office disaster Jonah Hex, which Neveldine/Taylor penned and later derided as not being representative of their work. As was the case with that pitiful waste of celluloid, this movie has been edited to utter shreds – a possible sign of studio interference – so that characters pop in out of the story whenever convenient (Christopher Lambert’s abbreviated appearance as a tattooed monk is a true head-scratcher), and there’s no momentum or logic to its feeble Terminator 2-lite chase plot. There’s also a reliance on extended sequences of quirky animated exposition, darkly comedic instances of raising the dead and a climactic final battle that takes place in two realms simultaneously. It often seems as if the duo are trying to right the (infinite) wrongs of the Josh Brolin western with Ghost Rider 2, only to stumble into the same clumsy, obvious filmmaking traps that thwarted Hex director Jimmy Hayward.

To his credit, Nicolas Cage refuses to play it safe. The often fearless actor, who reportedly got into Blaze’s headspace by walking around set in Baron Samedi voodoo god makeup, channels his loony, foaming-at-the-mouth Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans protagonist on numerous welcome occasions. In one mesmerizingly bizarre moment he shakes down a black market criminal by giving in to his darker supernatural urges, twitching and sputtering with wild abandon. It’s not a particularly good performance – it feels driven less by character than by a demand to dial up the crazy for crazy’s sake – but he makes his share of the wretched dialogue work, and his idiosyncratic style is greatly appreciated when contrasted against the rest of the largely forgettable cast. Only Hinds is brave enough to try to go toe-to-toe with Cage, delivering a hammy performance that’s operatic in its unabashed ludicrousness. He makes Al Pacino’s scenery-chewing turn in The Devil’s Advocate look restrained by comparison. Fan-adored Thor co-star Elba, boasting a beyond cartoonish accent, is a good sport as the gun-toting warrior monk. Too bad he’s largely wasted in a frankly uninteresting and pointless role.

Like the similarly schlocky Marvel sequel Punisher: War Zone, Ghost Rider 2 wears its bad B-movie aspirations on its sleeve, ironically aware of its own pointlessness and bubble-headedly content to revel in hyper-silly violence and cheap empty thrills. No real attempt has been made to add dimension to the tormented antihero and his shallow universe, or spin an engagingly demented yarn worth caring a lick about. Which is kind of unfortunate, because, by Spirit of Vengeance’s end, there’s no mistaking the fact that this Rider’s tank is running perilously close to empty.

2 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.

Handicapping the Oscar Best Picture Race

Okay, we all know this year's Best Picture race is something of a foregone conclusion. But why not have some fun analyzing which films are most likely to stand a chance against the unstoppable awards juggernaut that shall not be named here?

Head over to 24 Hours Vancouver to read my full thoughts on this years nominees.

Epi-Cast: Episode 33 - "An Oscarmoron"

Move over Weinstein, the Oscar season isn't all about you! And, as a reminder of that indisputable fact, Cam and Tom have emerged from deep deep cover to toss out another hot digital joint for y'alls. Want to know who our hosts think will win Best Animated Feature?! Well, strap yourself in because you are in for one wild, bumpy,senses-shaking ride!

Epi-Cast: Episode 33 - "An Oscarmoron"

With the Academy Awards just under a week away  (contrary to what one of the illustrious hosts states in this very episode), the diligent duo go toe-to-toe with Oscar queen Meryl Streep's The Iron Lady. Are Cam and/or Tom sick of biopics? Only one way to find out! Well, okay, that's not quite true. But there's only one way other than scanning Cam's recent reviews! In addition to the main course, Cam tells you whether Safe House or Chronicle are worth your $10, while Tom classes up the 'cast with eloquent critiques of Anonymous and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. And, if that's not enough wonder to satiate you, the two also debate the merits of recent trailers for The Amazing Spider-Man, Jack the Giant Killer and The Bourne Legacy, as well as offer up their choices for who should win at this year's Oscars. So plug in, chill out and let loose, cyber-brothers and sisters! 

To download, simply right-click and save on any of the episode titles above. Then you are free to indulge in one of the wild worldwide web's most majestic mp3 treasures.


P.S. We are, of course, available on iTunes! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, WRECKER-MYSTERIO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive instantaneous downloads whenever we bother to upload a new episode. Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast." It's very unlikely that insightful interpretations of the Bible will be included amongst our heated ramblings.

P.P.S. Don't hesitate to leave a review on our iTunes page. As always, we sincerely welcome your hyperbolic praise/earth-scorching venom.

Film Review - SAFE HOUSE

One single alarming, unlikely thought nagged at me incessantly during Daniel Espinosa’s slick, hyper-edited Training-Day-meets-The-Bourne-Supremacy mash-up Safe House — a thought I never dreamed I’d have: Boy, I really wish Denzel’s usual collaborator Tony Scott had directed this nonsense! For at least Scott, a shameless four-decade veteran of flashy, enjoyable trash such as Unstoppable, Enemy of the State and Man on Fire, would have injected his own brand of off-beat stylistic weirdness and hyperkinetic razzle-dazzle into these beyond routine proceedings. Under his heavy guiding hand, we might have at least been treated to a delicious fromage-scented symphony of ludicrous idiocy, as opposed to this weary, derivative dirge of spy thriller cliches.

Set in vibrant Cape Town, South Africa, Safe House stars Denzel Washington as Tobin Frost (a stellar movie name, if ever there was one), an awesomely formidable CIA super-agent gone rogue. How formidable, you ask? We’re told — in appropriately solemn, awed tones — that he’s “the most brilliant operative” the CIA has seen. Wanted on four continents for espionage, he’s also single-handedly responsible for sending multiple highly-trained agents into permanent retirement from life. Yup, he’s that good! And now, without warning, he’s casually walked into the American consulate and surrendered to the not unreasonably shocked authorities.

Frost, of course, has ulterior motives for giving up the chase. He’s carrying a secret with him in the form of a self-injected capsule of information that threatens to expose all of the intelligence community’s dirty little secrets, and there’s a deadly hit squad of hired guns viciously nipping at his heals to recover it. Transported to a long-vacant nearby safe house for aggressive questioning, Frost finds himself explosively thrust into the care of the site’s inexperienced overseer Matt Weston (Ryan Reynolds) after the pursuing assassins blast their way through the facility’s (strangely modest) defences. Soon the unfairly matched duo are on a mad dash from certain death, with Weston doggedly trying to locate a new secure location to accommodate his unpredictable charge, while the wily Frost, plotting his own escape, attempts to worm his way into the untested agent’s increasingly taxed mind.

Cribbing heavily from Antoine Fuqua’s Training Day playbook, director Espinosa attempts to recapture that film’s fierce, memorable Crafty Mentor vs. Naive Protege dynamic, but sacrifices character in favour of frantic action spectacle and hackneyed scenes of energy-sapping exposition. Safe House's script, by David Guggenheim, relies purely on shallow dramatic shorthand, shoe-horning in all-too-brief “character moments” without properly developing the rocky relationship between its two polar opposite leading men. There’s no natural progression of their life-changing battle of wills, only a handful of awkward conversations in between bouts of fisticuffs, and by journey’s end they still feel like total strangers. Frost, who, we learn, rewrote the rules of CIA interrogation, boasts to Weston that he’s in his head and in total control, but the film stops frustratingly short of actually exploring the extent of the senior agent’s manipulative powers, or highlighting their powerful effects. Reynolds’ taciturn hero’s transformation appears to be informed less by actual psychological torment than by repeated vicious blows to the noggin. A cautionary tip to screenwriters: if you’re going to write a dumbed-down script, don’t repeatedly emphasize the brilliance of its characters without any evidence of said brilliance!

Given the pedestrian nature of the material, it’s tough to place much blame on the actors for failing to register in their rain puddle-deep roles. Washington, who inexplicably helped shepherd this project to fruition as an executive producer, is doing a pretty shameless variation on his Training Day/American Gangster charismatic villain persona. But he’s fun to watch and, because we know this character so well from his better past efforts, we project more onto Frost than is actually present. Reynolds, however, isn’t so lucky. Continuing his troubling career transition from magnetic scene-stealer to vanilla movie star, the charismatic actor is rendered inert by his sweat-streaked void of a protagonist, grunting and wincing his way through the entire picture. He shows admirable physicality here — we believe he’s capable of the violent feats of daring-do on-screen — but there’s no inner fire, and no reason to invest ourselves in this handsome blank. Filling out the cast as CIA higher-ups, Brendan Gleeson, Vera Farmiga and Sam Shepard — an invaluable combination that, in a film with ambition, would inspire spectacular pyrotechnics — are criminally wasted in nothing parts, tediously debating whether Reynolds’ Weston is on their side or not.

Overseeing his first major Hollywood production, Swedish import Espinosa seems timid to establish his own unique directorial voice. Instead, he approximates Paul Greengrass’s queasy Bourne shaky-cam — a conceit that’s fast becoming a crutch for helmers incapable of staging coherent action — with terribly mixed results. An early car chase, which memorably begins with Frost locked in a trunk, has pounding, propulsive momentum, but as the film continues the set-pieces become progressively sloppier. A night-time pursuit through a crowded shantytown is a confusing headache of epileptic editing, and the confined-quarter climax involving shoot-outs and bruising martial arts clashes jumps around too much to build any intensity. Compounding the visual ugliness, Espinosa and Bourne cinematographer Oliver Wood smear every frame with sickly grey and brown bleariness, as if the unfolding events were being viewed through the eyes of the stumbling town drunk.

There’s just so little to latch on to in this film; it’s such a bland, middle-of-the-road offering, filled with paycheck-cashing actors in full-on slum mode, that it doesn’t even manage to offend. Free of surprises — the third act mystery bad-guy reveal can easily be predicted by observing the ancient rules of typecasting — or anything resembling a creative spark, it’s a vapour of an action picture; dissipating immediately from memory once the credits begin to roll. Joylessly wasting talent and countless resources, Safe House crumbles under the sorry weight of its own shoddy construction.

2 out of 5

*Originally published at Converge Magazine.