News in Film

The Dark Knight Rises

Jeff Leins — Sat, 21 Jul 2012 23:22:00 +0000

This review was previously written and scheduled for opening day. However, out of respect for the tragedy in Aurora, Colorado, I did not feel it was appropriate to publish as planned. My thoughts are with those affected by this horrific, senseless act.

“If you make yourself more than just a man. If you devote yourself to an ideal… You become something else entirely.” — Ra’s al Ghul, Batman Begins.

Christian Bale’s Bruce Wayne has taken this advice to heart since the beginning, despite that fact that it was delivered by his sworn enemy (ninja Liam Neeson) and the message was meant for the League of Shadows. With this lesson — and others about “why we fall” instilled by his father — Bruce devoted himself to Gotham and the myth of The Batman, an all-seeing shadow that is whatever Gotham needs him to be. Eight years after the Joker’s reign of terror, Bruce is a retired recluse and only certain destruction can compel The Batman to rise and fight again.

In Batman Begins, Neeson’s villain, an evil Obi-wan in life and death, and his minion the Scarecrow tested Batman’s mind. In The Dark Knight, Heath Ledger’s haunting Joker and Harvey Dent tested Batman’s principles. In The Dark Knight Rises, Bane, a hulking bare-knuckle brawler embodied by Tom Hardy, tests Batman’s will. Bane is corruption that grows in strength and numbers, then boldly operates in daylight, running amuck on our stock exchange, prisons, schools, sports, and businesses; part of a lurking political allegory if you must. Hardy wears a Vader-like mask that covers the majority of his face, which leaves his wild eyes visible but obscures any other expressions from an otherwise solid actor. His ugly mug may have been a scary sight if we hadn’t seen it in our media for months, and any dread is lost as the audience intensely listens to catch what Hardy is groaning in post-production. A truly ruthless, unleashed Bane may have required a studio-dreaded ‘R’ rating, and this dark PG-13 series stays strictly bloodless. The voice and mask are creepy, but less so when there’s an app for that.

Christopher Nolan, admittedly among my favorite directors, makes the best move by re-hiring cinematographer Wally Pfister. Their continued partnership creates the magnificent IMAX shots (roughly two-thirds is done in 70mm), swooping angles, dark tone, and swift action that define their Gotham. It’s one fans will not soon forget, even after they both move on to new ideas.

The director and his screenwriter brother Jonathan Nolan have a special knack for constructing transformative stories that connect the audience to its characters. Memento and Inception are outstanding examples, weaving intricate plots that transfer the experience to you in some way. Here, Nolan and company struggle to link us to Bruce’s physical pain or the overwhelming force that is Bane and his army. Nor do we identify with Bruce’s helpless banishment and physical torment, suffering away somewhere. The movie takes us to Bane’s level almost immediately and other locations in Gotham’s ground zero, then simply checks in on Bruce’s progress. Like Alfred. “How are you fee– Nope. Ok. We’ll be right back.”

Anne Hathaway slips in early and always arrives conveniently as Selina Kyle, a.k.a. The Cat, a burglar with pointy goggles propped atop her pretty head. Hathaway is strong and sassy, while nimbly avoiding the campy Catwoman we’ve dismissed before. Well, most of the time. “There’s a storm coming, Mr. Wayne…” Joseph Gordon-Levitt, a badged hero without(!) a mask named John Blake, is stellar too and it’s no wonder he will be a studio golden boy after this busy year. Meanwhile, Marion Cotillard lingers in the peripheral as Miranda Tate the corporate trustee and Morgan Freeman does what Morgan Freeman does. As each supporting character jockeys for action sequences and wordy speeches in stretches of clunky, Batman-free chaos, the movie’s 165 min. run-time starts to feel more like two hours and four-five minutes.

An aggressive chant –”desh-shay-bash-shah” meaning “rise” — cheers Bruce on repeat and becomes a Pavlovian cadence for rooting him to rise again. A chant in the movie’s native language would have been nice, if that’s not too jingoistic. Luckily, a bus full of school children finally screams, “Go Batman!” and all is well. Until it isn’t and whaaat? Wha happened…?

Nolan angles for the end all the way, and vows to the press that he has produced his last Bat-movie. Michael Caine’s Alfred takes one pained look at Bruce and diagnoses the same. Caine’s anguished farewell says it all, and may earn him acknowledgements at year’s end. Bale, looking beaten and withered on purpose, looks definitely done with Bruce and his grueling schedule. The saga had to come to a close sometime, and it does so seemingly on Christopher Nolan’s enigmatic terms. We will inevitably see more caped crusader adventures in our cinematic future, but they are already in the shadow of a Batman epic that was once truly great.

The Higgs Boson and Paramount’s ‘God Particle’ Movie

Jeff Leins — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 22:41:46 +0000

On Wednesday, CERN physicists all but confirmed the existence of the Higgs boson, the so-called “God particle” and a key piece in the subatomic puzzle of our universe. Essentially, the Higgs boson proves the Standard Model, a crucial, nearly 50-year-old theory that helps to explain how the subatomic particles that make up everything interact.

CERN, the European Organization for Nuclear Research, announced this historic discovery at their complex near Geneva, Switzerland. It is the birthplace of the World Wide Web and home to the $10 billion Large Hadron Collider, a particle accelerator on a 17-mile circular track buried in a tunnel 574 ft. below Switzerland and France. 800 trillion particles were collided at up to 7 TeV (teraelectron volts) to yield these findings, which they estimated were accurate down to less than three parts of 10 million. So, they’re pretty sure.

#CMS: “we have observed a new boson with a mass of 125.3 ± 0.6 GeV at 4.9 sigma significance.” Thunderous applause. #Higgs #ICHEP2012

— CERN (@CERN) July 4, 2012

“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably at least a bird,” said Frank Wilczek, an MIT physicist and Nobel laureate, to the LA Times. But both groups achieved the statistical requirement for a scientific “discovery,” so break out the champagne bottles and, wait, did you notice the bottom of that bottle looks a lot like… Nevermind.

CERN wasn’t the only group of physicists chasing the Higgs boson. On Monday, researchers using the Tevatron collider based in Illinois said their results indicated the “God particle,” which will be corroborated with the LHC discovery. As Texas scientists tell it, the Higgs boson may have been discovered earlier, 30 miles south of Dallas, if Congress hadn’t pulled their funding in ’93. :This is a discovery that could have been and should have been made in America,” said Steven Weinberg, a Nobel Prize-winning physicist at the University of Texas in Austin.

The nickname “the God particle” comes from a theoretical science book by Leon Lederman who explored the galaxy back to The Big Bang, though most physicists reject the pseudo-religious misnomer because it overstates the boson’s significance. “God particle” is definitely sexier than “Higgs boson,” which is why the media love to use it in headlines. (Guilty, I guess.)

Last month, Paramount Pictures liked the name The God Particle too, on a spec script written by Oren Uziel (Mortal Kombat: Rebirth). According to Vulture, J.J. Abrams’ Bad Robot production company will produce the $5 million movie and release it under the studio’s new micro-budget arm, Insurge Pictures, which released The Devil Inside this year.

Does the developing movie seek to answer the fundamental questions of our universe, just as these physicists are doing? Does the discovery of this once-theoretical particle collide with Paramount’s new script? Not exactly. The story takes place in the distant future, “a few dozen years” after the Europeans discover the Higgs boson, when America and the European Union are on opposing sides of World War III. Orbiting the war-torn Earth, a team of American astronauts work to test a hadron accelerator in space, hoping to split the Higgs boson just as the Manhattan Project split the atom at the end of WWII. The Higgs boson is the key to a super-bomb and the two sides are keen to unlock it first. Except, oops, the Earth disappears instead, and a spaceship full of Europeans appear to be the only other survivors. Can they be trusted?

Uziel’s script essentially takes the concept of competing large hadron colliders in America and Europe, then advances it into the future. Unfortunately, the characters are stereotypical — a religious type named Monk — and the science is fuzzy at best (airlock fun!). By act two, a whodunnit murder mystery is somehow a distraction from the fact that the Earth is missing, and, ironically, there is one nasty deus ex machina. The God Particle is a sci-fi mystery thriller with particle physics at its core, not quite the philosophical journey the title portends.

The Amazing Spider-Man

Jeff Leins — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 01:49:56 +0000

At one point in The Amazing Spider-Man, a high school teacher suggests to her class that every story ever told follows one single plot: Who am I? Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield) misses the lesson, arriving late as usual, but the reboot’s not-so-subtle self-defense rings loud and clear. If something looks familiar, it’s just because all stories are basically the same! Especially in comic book movies, where that identity crisis continues to be recycled in different costumes.

Just ten years after Sam Raimi’s less-amazing original and five years after part three, a restart of Spider-Man’s origins is entirely too soon. (In fact, it’s a new record for fastest franchise reboot.) Nevertheless, Peter Parker re-learns what it means to be an orphan, a mutant, a boyfriend, and a hero in a thrilling quest for purpose. And something about responsibility.

The surprise is that, on its own, the “amazing” version is more fun than any studio cash grab is expected to be. Garfield, 28, is fantastic in each of Peter’s switching roles, playing the 17-year-old wunderkind as intense and vulnerable, without any “emo” brooding, and socially awkward, with stammering instead of squeaking. The talented actor certainly belongs in the room with Martin Sheen (as Uncle Ben) and Sally Field (Aunt May), even if their exchanges are banal.

Behind the mask, Peter is someone different entirely, emboldened by his anonymity and the powerful forces within. (Something the Internet generation can relate to, of course.) Spider-Man zings wisecracks, along with webs from his homemade(!) shooters, toying with his prey. He’s more confident in costume and why shouldn’t he be? He can swing from skyscrapers.

The switch to a sleek CGI Spidey or a nimble stunt double is always obvious, but allows for artful fight choreography that illustrates the hero’s elusive quickness. Spider-Man dispatches thugs, bullies and even cops with creative webslinger placement, acrobatic martial arts and an enhanced form of parkour, until he meets a more formidable foe.

The Lizard, teased in Raimi’s trilogy, finally rears his ugly head. He is the mutant reptilian incarnation of Dr. Curt Connors, who also morphed and now looks like a one-armed Rhys Ifans. Connors’s nefarious plot to help amputees grow back their limbs goes awry when he gives himself an experimental genetic serum — remember all plots are the same — and, surprise, he turns into a hideous beast that goes on a rampage. Ultimately, his insane deterioration and murky motivations render The Lizard the missing link in an otherwise solid chain of events. Three screenwriters are credited in this, including a Pulitzer winner, but studio notes seem to have trimmed The Lizard down to a one-dimensional rage monster and a tense moment when The Lizard’s toxin spreads simply fizzles in an erratic, familiar ending. Can we get a moratorium on villains positioning otherworldly equipment on the tallest buildings in New York City?

The story falls back on its tender coming-of-age romance, a proven strength of director Marc Webb, whose other feature is (500) Days of Summer. It helps that Emma Stone is irresistible as Gwen Stacy, maintaining her playful girl-next-door charm even dolled up as a leggy, brainy blond. She catches Peter Parker’s eye too, and the chemistry between Garfield and Stone is electric. Their heartfelt touches tangle with high-flying action flurries, schoolyard bully cliches, cheesy sentiments and a rocky home life for a decent portrait of who Spider-Man is this time.

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

Jeff Leins — Fri, 22 Jun 2012 00:11:09 +0000

My Dear Reader,

By now you may have heard word of a man they call Seth Grahame-Smith. He is the author of book titled Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter and a born patriot of this great Union. In the event that word has not reached you of yet, I hope this letter finds you well and in good time.

Mr. Grahame-Smith is a man of 36 and the writer of scholarly guide books on a fellow named Spider-Man and something called ‘Zombie Survival.’ He has also written books, of New York Times bestseller legend. Some folk have taken to calling them “mash-ups,” and I do recall one named Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Word has it that his latest book, Unholy Night, tells of Three Wise Magi and the Lord himself. I fear the Hail Marys I should earn if I were to read it.

The reason I tell you this, dear Reader, is that this man’s first “screenplay” is none other than the “mash-up” narrative Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter and it has been made into something called a “movie.” It is quite an absurd slice of revisionist history compounded with Righteous heroes who slice the heads off true Villainy. I suppose One could say It is just as It sounds, a tall tale divided between dreary historical fiction and certain dread. It did put a fair many folk in good spirits and indications are strong that you may verry well share the same, should you find joy in such a peculiar arrangement. I recall only a single note in Its song.

A young man by the name of Benjamin Walker looks remarkably like a strapping Liam Neeson and plays this axe-toting Honest Abe, from youth to death. May the Lord emancipate his soul to Heaven. As a true man of honor, Abe vows to avenge his Dear Mother’s exsanguination by a rebel vampire beast and pledges his verry axe to an outlaw and a mystery called Henry Sturgess (an intense Dominic Cooper). In order to free our Great Nation from the Tyranny of Vampires! And the bonds of slavery! And, at times, the bitter sorrows of our own Boredom.

I trust word has reached you too of the wild Russian-Kazakh: Timur Bekmambetov, known for directing such wonders as Wanted and Night Watch. This uncivil War is recreated in his most irregular style, as though time slows until there is nary a heartbeat, then is stirred to life again with disorienting speed. Black blood does swirl and Mr. Lincoln does twirl, We pretend. That Walker rather looks the part of a Scholar turned Savage Slayer. As though the monstrous Mr. Hyde has called upon his very soul. But mostly Abe just twirls that bloody axe of his. And waits.

As the Sun rises on this once noble struggle, so goes our enjoyment. Mr. Lincoln’s courtship of Mary Todd and political ambition is often as dull as a schoolhouse lecture. After such circus! The most darling Mary Elizabeth Winstead bats her eyelashes to rescue mine eyes from such three-dimensional torment, yet I feared the joy had left the theater forever. Only our fortunes did turn. Bless the reserves, in particular Jimmi Simpson’s clever shop-keep Speed and Anthony Mackie as Will Johnson, the chivalrous black companion of Mr. Lincoln.

It is with great pain that I impart the very foundation is grievously afflicted. I know not if this can be attributed to Mr. Grahame-Smith, Mr. Bekmambetov, or a truly poor edit. It is a Beast of telescoping flashbacks within flashbacks and abrupt leaps in time. The Lincoln Memorial in the present (look, it resembles a stake!) tumbles into Mr. Lincoln’s boyhood tragedy, then to a new indeterminable era, then I dare say back again. When a Man has the leisure to make It up as he sees fit, an accurate year may ask too much, but as Vampire demons take to lunging or cloaking and anachronisms persist without quarrel, it becomes disorienting to say the least. I was out of sorts, I admit, and unsure why any Man (or Woman) should bother with this fiction.

(“Wild Wild West” sprang to mind, more than once, and a host of schlocky horror movies. If you crave dark vampire-slaying gore without the 16th U.S. President, I recommend Stake Land.)

The terrible wound only deepened, I am afraid, by the troupe’s unwillingness to smile but once or twice, even in the face of true folly. Dear Lincoln is lamely unaware that folks find him most amusing, his silly Secret Occupation and all. There is a sense of humor about It, just beneath a drama beyond repair it seems. Winking references to top hats, secret railroads, and theater balconies assure us It knows of Its own humors, even if Mr. Lincoln is utterly humorless. I found myself astounded when one dreadful Beast hurled a horse as a weapon in the heat of battle. I do not recall seeing such a sight before. Rotten allegorical parallels notwithstanding, my dear reader, telling a tall tale in this Nation’s troubled past certainly makes for odd entertainment.

Though perhaps Mr. Grahame-Smith’s tale can inspire others and we shall see more of its ilk. JFK: Pinball Wizard or perhaps Grover Cleveland: Highlander. May they be Blessed with a better story. Until then, my friend…

Sincerely,

Jeffrey D. Leins, Defender of this Great Union, Former Boy Scout Troop Bugler

ABC’s ‘Glass House’: Don’t Hate the Players, Hate the Game

Jeff Leins — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 20:38:15 +0000

Reality shows are all copies. Each has influenced the next, and now it’s just an blob of 15-minute-famous people competing in similar-enough formats. “American Idol” is interchangeable with “The Voice,” it just depends which music industry burn-outs are giving the advice. The dating shows are all copycats and Bravo is just following Z-listers around now. NBC’s “Love in the Wild” is a hilarious blend of “Survivor” and “The Bachelor,” with a little “Amazing Race” and Jenny McCarthy for good measure. It should just be called “Reality Show.”

The premiere of ABC’s “The Glass House” aired as scheduled on Monday night, despite CBS’s ongoing lawsuit that claims it borrows too heavily from its own summer ratings hit, “Big Brother.” Federal Judge Gary Allen Feess has, thus far, disagreed and denied CBS’ restraining order, essentially saying, “it’s not that new.” Both are reality shows in which contestants live with and compete against strangers for a cash prize (in this case $250,000). Both involve a hamster cage of a house lined with cameras. (And both have been picking up free publicity outside the courtroom.) How similar is ABC’s show? As a long-time, unashamed fan of “BB,” I had to know.

The verdict? “The Glass House” is nearly identical on the surface, but the game is gone.

The manipulative gameplay that defines CBS’ “Big Brother” has been reduced, and replaced with more fan input. The foundation of “Glass House” is this new, post-modern “more of what you want!” concept, in which fans can have an immediate reaction and regular influence, and it’s completely backwards. The customer isn’t always right, particularly in a creative field (if ABC’s carbon copy qualifies). Reality TV is about sitting down, shutting up, and passively pulling for one of the diverse people the producers have pre-selected. Sometimes there’s a producer-diluted vote. But never “tell me what to do!” as the shadows in ABC’s ads demanded.

On “Big Brother,” the cast has a chance to flirt and banter with the host personality, Julie Chen. On ABC, the House Guests take orders from Portal’s GLaDOS, essentially a technological surrogate for the show’s fans, who can vote online at ABC.com, several times a day, and steer the show. Finally, America was able to weigh in on something crucial: whether they should celebrate with a pool party or a pajama party! The result? A jacuzzi that couldn’t fit everyone.

The online element is part of this Reality Show 2.0 concept, where Twitter reactions pop up on screen, their web bios tell you how many Facebook friends they have, and opponents are voted off with XBOX Kinect gestures. Meanwhile, online voting will play a part in who goes home and who comes back. CBS has never had any qualms about plugging their official “Big Brother” website and the nearly 24-hour live stream — available through Real (buffering…) Player — that allow curious outsiders to tune in any time (with a subscription), but rarely was the Fourth Wall broken when it came to the gameplay inside. In “The Glass House,” that Fourth Wall isn’t just transparent, it’s shattered, meaning it is just as important for serious players to manipulate America as it is for them to scheme against the other competitors. That’s a game changer.

To play a perfect game in “Big Brother,” you simply have to outthink your opponents. It is one of the purest mind games on television, stripped almost entirely of physical competition, survival skills, work and travel. The players simply sit in a House and play the game. And we observe. The winners have typically been the players who manipulated their roomies the most, not who was most likable, as evidenced by champs “Evel” Dick, Mike “Boogie” and, arguably the best reality competitor, Dr. Will Kirby. The majority hated them, and they won the game.

The scheming changes with the Internet calling the shots. Interaction from the outside had a major impact on season 8 of “Big Brother,” when a banner flew over the house with game-changing information. America’s influence matters, which means playing nice for the cameras or, more importantly, entertaining your audience. Unlike “BB,” ABC’s version only comes on once a week (plus short, scheduled live streams Monday through Thursday). If you make the show’s weekly highlight reel, you make an impression on America, the 15th player.

In “The Glass House,” it’s clear there won’t be much thinking going on. The parade of silicon-enhanced fembots was the first clue. Another was a character named Apollo Poetry (really), who refused to make decisions (leaving it up to the cards) and asked America if we “smiled once today?” To quote Bryce Harper, “that’s a clown question, bro.” But it was painfully obvious this was a special show when Jacob, a 28-year-old cook, didn’t know his home state of Oregon is on the west coast. I thought for a second this was the most bold game move I had ever seen — to appear to function at a fourth grade level — then Jacob quit and he was just an idiot.

Alex Stein, a bail bondsman from Dallas, recognized America’s influence right away, stepped up, and started claiming he’s the only interesting character on this show, more than once. Alex is PrimeTimeStein99 on YouTube, where his desperate cries for fame ooze out of every forced comedy sketch. This Internet showboater asked voters on the Internet if he should be “the most epic villain in the history of reality TV.” Of course! cried the people who knew to vote ahead of time and did. Except, his strategy meant calling women fat, air-humping a happily married mom, and just being obnoxious for no reason. In the first week. Naturally, this genius plan backfired, everyone in the house hated him, and Alex wound up banished to … limbo? Only to possibly return next week, depending on the ABC.com democracy (with a little help from the producers).

How these cracks in the Fourth Wall will affect the game remains to be seen. Though it won’t be seen by many, since the ratings for its debut were low at 4.2 million total viewers and losing a chunk even by the second half hour. Those of us who tuned in to watch a little friendly (or unfriendly) competition, like “Big Brother,” were given a different kind of rip-off entirely. With a diminished game and forced interaction, ABC’s “The Glass House” is just fourteen strangers picked to live in a house, like “The Real World.” Or, more appropriately, “Jersey Shore.”

Besides, this competition looks like a foregone conclusion. Kevin, who looks like Ryan Gosling’s older brother and really loves his daughter, ought to do quite well on the same network as “The Bachelor.” (And, oh yeah, he’s a nice-guy police sergeant.) Jeffrey’s big gay antics will probably go over well with the “Modern Family” crowd too. Either way, I’m going to pass on ABC’s “The Glass House.” I have better things to do with my summer. Like watch “Big Brother.”

‘The Killing’ Season Two Comes Down to the Randoms

Jeff Leins — Tue, 19 Jun 2012 19:05:56 +0000

“Sometimes it just comes down to that, I guess. Just… randoms.” Detective Holder always had a knack for shrugging out truths, but none have been as spot-on as this tacit explanation for season two, mumbled in the dark office where it all began. Holder, played by Joel Kinnaman, and his partner Sarah Linden (Mireille Enos) chased leads for twenty-six days before they caught up to Rosie Larsen’s killer(s), only to discover it was the randoms all along. The fringe nobodies. The hanger-ons that just would not go away. The characters no one cared about.

“The Killing” was always ostensibly about the murder of Rosie Larsen and the spotty police work that finally led to… Terry Marek. Who? Exactly. She is Rosie’s aunt and she didn’t know it was Rosie screaming for her life. It could have been any random that Jamie Wright needed to erase. Jamie who? He is councilman Darren Richman’s right-hand weasel, the hopelessly-devoted (except when he wasn’t), over-zealous creep in a camera-ready sweater.

But the drama, created by Veena Sud, also prided itself on being fundamentally different than network television’s cookie-cutter police procedurals, where a case is wrapped up in under an hour by some forensic miracle or interrogation-room squeeze. Instead, there was one (1) case and a myriad of suspects, tumbling down the rabbit holes that always led to another random. It was driven by character. Supposedly. Each week, viewers like myself tuned in to watch a determined Detective Linden obsess over the case — even as she sat next to Stan Larsen while he bellowed, “Nobody cares about my Rosie!” Of course, plenty of people cared, including Rosie’s killer. And the 1.8 million viewers who tuned in Sunday to find out whodunnit.

I cared about Rosie because Linden did, evidently to the detriment of us both. She was the true, honest cop determined to see it through to the end. Just like this stubborn viewer who refused to give up on this show, even when season one ended in an infuriating cliffhanger. I defended Sud’s choice to carry the mystery into another season. Especially since that two-season decision was made back when the series was pitched, as an Americanized remake of the Danish drama “Forbrydelsen.” A quick peek at the ratings show that about 500,000 viewers abandoned the show and, in hindsight, I don’t blame them. But we forged on, knowing deep down that this could not end well for either of us, demanding to know who killed some teen dolt.

Mid-way through the second season, that empathy was broken. As Linden dug deeper, she gradually shed what made her a heroic, compelling character worth shadowing for two seasons. She went from a detective that needed answers to a detective that needed answers. Her distracted struggle with single motherhood turned into downright neglect, then reckless child endangerment and the lawful involvement of Social Services, all of which was resolved by simply sending Jack packing. Linden’s squinty courage led to the old “turn in your badge” scene and, off the reservation, a near-trunk experience of her own. She was even deemed psychologically unstable one point, for rather valid reasons. Yet Linden stubbornly, often illogically pressed on anyway, rarely calling for back-up and slowly severing ties with reality.

With these personal indignities weighing on her, each of the twenty-six episodes became a repetitive exercise in watching Linden frown around foggy Seattle with her slouching partner Holder; their once cunning yet noble tactics replaced by interrogation-room squeezes, fraud, and breaking-and-entering. Enos, talented as she is, could only inject so much subtle drama into a world where a politician heals from a paralyzing gunshot wound in a matter of days — and he is pretty good with that wheelchair too. This is a magical place where characters forgive (or forget) egregious offenses and disloyalty instantly, simply because it preserves some strained plausibility. The quasi real-time format was the reason “24″ could never be more than a silly show about a superhero agent. Season two’s daily continuation could never be more than a silly show about a cop who solved a crime in spite of these impossible elements.

The continued woes of councilman Darren Richmond (and his oh-so-loyal staffers) only added to the déjà vu. Surprise, one of his trusted aides is dusting him off and saying, “You can do this” again (and again). Or Stan, the poor sap, constantly huffing and puffing about every new development, while only tangentially involving the far more interesting mob. Both men were rotating portraits of anguish and resolve — “Why me!” followed by “I’m going to get him!” — and the series’ conceit kept dragging these characters along, well after they had nothing left.

There just was not enough mystery to sustain an episodic hour-long drama about a single murder, even with AMC’s short seasons. Sud’s series was too rigidly focused on deepening the mystery, any random mystery — like “Lost” — but Rosie’s late night escapades were just too limited in scope. Despite her involvement with a host of shady characters, there’s only so much a teenage almost-prostitute can realistically accomplish while still living with her two impossibly-stupid parents and tattletale younger brothers. In other words, the rabbit hole can only go so deep when the victim was last seen carrying a cutesy pink backpack. It did not contain a kilo, or a bomb, just a home movie of her smiling on a swing set. And some homework.

It’s unlikely AMC will pick up “The Killing” for a third season, now that Rosie’s killer has been revealed and the ratings have dipped. And it feels like a natural break. It’s time to move on. The series, like Detective Linden, has become a dull shadow of itself with nothing left to give.

That’s My Boy

Matthew McKibben — Tue, 19 Jun 2012 18:55:50 +0000

That’s My Boy is a mildly successful return to the concept of stretching a “Saturday Night Live” sketch out to 2-hour movie, a style Adam Sandler seemed to perfect with his mid-90s output, including hits Happy Gilmore and Billy Madison. But, like a Hall of Fame baseball player whose best days are behind him, Sandler in That’s My Boy scores some pretty monstrous home runs, but shows some definite signs of age and fatigue, both in their antiquated brand of comedy and next to the young face of recent “SNL” vet Andy Samberg.

One thing I’ve always enjoyed about Sandler comedies is that his main goal is to go for laughs and laughs alone. His latest includes some seemingly genuine attempts at heart-string tugging and a deeper story at play, but Sandler’s movies tend to exist just so he can make jokes about everything; from overweight strippers, to semen tasting, to barfing on wedding dresses, to threesomes with octogenarians (with Vanilla Ice, natch), to (spoiler alert) incest. Yes, incest. It’s not hard to imagine Sandler gathering up all of his Happy Madison team, partaking in a product only rich Californians can buy, and throwing joke ideas at the wall to see which ones stick. Not many fell, it seems. (The script is credited only to David Caspe, creator of “Happy Endings.”)

It’s because of this concept that I find his movies a bit depressing as I leave the theater. Despite the laughs, those of us who enjoy a variety of comedy recognize the Happy Madison formula, as it’s happening, and realize how played out it has become. And we already know there are more of these to come. If this was Sandler’s swan song of crude comedies, you’d have to stand up and applaud this movie for being pretty funny and commend Sandler for providing decades of sophomoric humor for those of us who enjoy it. But at this point, these guys have these movies down to such a predictable science.

In Prometheus, the pouty leading man guy says to Fassbender’s robot David that maybe his creator made him just because he could (to which David replied, maybe that’s why pouty leading man guy’s creator made him, too). I kind of get that same feeling from That’s My Boy. He made this movie because he could. Not because he actually has anything to say.

The rest of the cast is largely forgettable, as they are in all of Happy Madison’s movies. There’s the overbearing brother type (Milo Ventimiglia), the hot love interest (Leighton Meester), the foul-mouthed grandma type (Peggy Stewart — what, they couldn’t afford Betty White?), and the rest of the Happy Madison/SNL crew who always show up in these movies (Will Forte, Rachel Dratch, Nick Swardson, et al). Even Susan Sarandon goes underused.

Sandler’s schtick gets old, but they mixed up enough plot around Samberg and the rest of the cast that by the time that we approached the second hour, I was only mildly numb to Sandler’s usual antics instead of painfully numbed to it. Samberg holds his own with Sandler, which is no small feat — quick, name another co-star of any of his comedies. In some ways, Samberg is like a miniature Sandler (their names are even pretty similar), with the same lowbrow sense of humor, contorted facial expressions, and career trajectory. Except, there isn’t much in this movie that shows off Samberg’s chops. There were a few moments where the movie nearly built Samberg’s character, shifting from a mild-mannered boy to a tougher man, but following interesting narrative leads is not the purpose of a Sandler joint. It’s far more interested in poking fun at incest and drunken boxing priests to actually be or say anything interesting.

Prometheus

Jeff Leins — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 19:27:59 +0000

Prometheus is not Alien. (In case that wasn’t obvious.) Ridley Scott directed them both and they share the same cinematic universe, but the 33-year span has changed the landscape the legendary filmmaker realized way back in 1979. Alien was and is a horror movie to its pulsating core, set in the claustrophobia and loneliness of space. James Cameron’s Aliens upped the ante and the artillery, and eventually others — namely David Fincher (Seven, The Social Network) and Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Amelie) — toyed with the environment in their own horrific ways, including two ill-advised, ill-fitting hybrids with the Predator galaxy. Shudder.

Scott, now 74, approaches the series as a changed man as well. As a result, his latest is an awe-inducing, star-gazing journey to understand and witness the origins of humanity, and the mission doesn’t quite go as planned. It’s about the hubris of challenging the gods by creating life, or a simulated version. It is an entirely different blend of science fiction and horror, with varied results, not necessarily focused on the birth of a terrifying creature that fans have grown to love. It is not a groundbreaking opus, just a fantastic movie. Flawed, but still fantastic.

If we learned anything from the late, great Ray Bradbury, it is this: good science fiction seeks to understand our world by peering into an exaggerated, often fantastical future. Prometheus is born from a concept that curiosity, faith, hubris and, perhaps, our manifest destiny has led this 17-person crew across the universe in 2093 to an uncharted moon to “meet our maker.” Their ship is even audaciously named Prometheus, a not-so-subtle reference to the mythological Greek hero who defied the gods by stealing fire and giving it to us mere mortals.

Visually, the film showcases a master at work in his own abandoned futurescape. It’s as though his Alien universe has been waiting, suspended in stasis, and Scott has re-awakened it for a curious revisit and a tech upgrade — even if that freshness seal has been broken so many times since by auteurs and opportunists alike. Spaceflight received a boost and the effects are noticeably enhanced, but the sterile, stark-white confines of the ship, its rusty, mechanical underbelly, and the ribbed tunnels of an alien world inspired by H.R. Giger are duly preserved. The environments are appropriately dazzling, made all the more seamless by subtle CGI and depth-producing 3D. That Scott was able to create something this ambitious in an industry this risk-averse speaks volumes about his pedigree.

Eagerly aboard the flight are archeologists Dr. Shaw (Noomi Rapace, the Swedish Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) and Charlie Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green), the pair who discovered a group of vaguely similar cave drawings and connected the dots to this distant star system.

Shaw possesses the strong-willed resilience of Ripley 2.0, just scrawnier and scrappier. The series’ themes of birth and bloody abortion center on her. Only, like the rest of the crew, she has a nasty habit of touching things, wandering off, or breaking protocol once the ship lands in an ominous valley on LV-223. The most untrustworthy is David (played perfectly by Michael Fassbender), an android who takes his emotional cues from 1962′s Lawrence of Arabia. David has already met his maker, a mogul with a god complex named Peter Weyland (Guy Pearce buried under pounds of make-up), and Weyland gave him a different set of instructions.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize the common sci-fi conflict of knowledge versus spirituality, as Shaw discusses her devoutly Christian faith and fiddles with her father’s cross. Her unwavering divinity also provides a connection to audiences who may wonder why a summer movie is pursuing a higher being that isn’t already approximated in their own religion.

The progression is undoubtedly building to something sinister, that much is clear in the slither to first contact. A digital hologram shows massive beings fleeing from an unseen menace and there are oozing egg-shaped vessels placed before a monstrous sphinx. And, for those familiar with Alien, there is the uneasy expectation that something is lurking, waiting to emerge and prey on them. The same way we inherently know Jason Voorhees is about to give a blond and her college-age friends a serious case of steel poisoning.

Except, Prometheus screenwriters Jon Spaihts and Damon Lindelof (“Lost”, Star Trek) come with sci-fi credentials, not horror, and a knack for expansive, universe-building scope. These creative beginnings help explain why Scott’s seminal classic is all creepy, old-school horror and his new almost-prequel is an epic, mystifying odyssey. Ridley Scott has essentially directed two movies, skewed toward different genres, launched into the same universe.

Scott, Spaihts, and Lindelof have been coy about calling Prometheus a prequel, even though the year (2093) precedes the existing chronology by roughly, coincidentally, thirty years. They are careful to say it runs “parallel” to satisfy questions about continuity, just as Lindelof and the Star Trek crew did with their re-launch. (No doubt 20th Century Fox executives want to save room for a saga, particularly since Scott has hinted at multiple revisits.) As Lindelof explained it to Entertainment Weekly, the original draft by Spaihts included many of the quadrilogy’s familiar elements (face-hugging, chest-bursting monsters with acidic blood). Lindelof’s subsequent rewrite introduced the cosmic crisis, the loose strands of unanswered bits that made his “Lost” conclusion so infamous. The culmination of their efforts amounts to a wealth of concepts connected by murky logic, amorphous structure and vaguely-drawn characters (17 of them).

Rapace has a slippery grasp of Shaw, until the storm rolls in. Marshall-Green struggles with Holloway, who morphs from inspired to sullen to a confused puddle. The arc of Idris Elba’s Captain Janek is a bumpy one. Charlize Theron’s character, a corporate officer named Vickers, is an enigma for all the wrong reasons. Sure, her near-naked push-ups look great, perfect for the relentless ad blitz, but the hardcore drive it takes to drop and do twenty (immediately after emerging from stasis) doesn’t match her pampered, impulsive bureaucrat and the only question Theron’s hard-shelled, gooey-centered vixen leaves is “what was her point again?”

However, while we puzzle over the missing pieces, here is some perspective. There is more wonder and dread in any single frame of Prometheus than the late Alien pretenders. It will leave you pondering, both the positive and the negative, but at least it warrants a discussion.

Snow White and the Huntsman

Jeff Leins — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 20:36:57 +0000

Once upon a time, circa 1812, the Brothers Grimm published a collection of short stories. Among them was “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves,” a German fairy tale that involved beautiful royalty, little people heroes, magic mirrors and poisoned apples. The classic story has been retold and re-imagined countless time before and since, with random changes like a huntsman, dragons, silly dwarf names and, recently, Julia Roberts. Disney’s billion-dollar Alice in Wonderland redux began a Hollywood oil rush for updated fairy tales. Universal is the latest studio to drink from the proverbial milkshake, coupled with another industry favorite: injecting an unnecessary love triangle into a pre-existing concept.

Snow White and the Huntsman is predictable along its age-old fable with enough conflict and epic grandeur to be an engaging, often enchanting re-telling. Except, just as its story precedes it, so do the studio’s overtly calculated marketing moves. The $170 million movie plays like the careful satisfaction of each precious demographic, a sure-fire combination of the girl from Twilight, that guy who played Thor and an Oscar winner, for a deliberate mix of starry-eyed romance, bloodless PG-13 violence, and dramatic credibility. Your awareness of it as an over-designed product may vary, of course. Personally, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this time the remake machine had churned out Snow White by way of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (without the Bryan Adams ballad).

Kristen Stewart plays the princess whose skin is white as snow. Only, Stewart’s snowy White is the blessed “Chosen One.” The prophesied embodiment of life and nature who will inevtiably bring balance to the rotten kingdom. And, like Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood, she finds herself banished, washed up on a sandy beach, attempting an accent and sloshing through a forest.

Stewart is certainly used to playing the desired object of affection, complete with a quivering lower lip, rescued by handsome heroes and, in this case, mythical white horses. But the young, dainty actress isn’t quite equipped to play a brazen Joan of Arc-type heroine who leads an army and delivers bold speeches. She awkwardly bellows, “I would rather die today than live another day of this death!’ After so much Kristen Stewart navel-gazing, it requires a significant suspension of belief to buy her as a headstrong rogue with a sword in one hand.

It’s next to impossible to believe Stewart’s Snow White is the “fairest of them all,” especially in a kingdom that also includes her own step-mother, Ravenna, played by the crazy sexy Charlize Theron. The South African beauty steals the show, equal parts piercing ego and bitter envy in a performance that commands attention. Her malevolent succubus, a lustrous blond literally empowered by black magic, wastes no time in usurping the throne, backed by an army of obsidian knights. But the Queen’s milky-smooth features are withering and another is fairest, says the mirror on the wall, a reflective disc that morphs into a reflective wraith. Or the liquid metal T-1000 from Terminator 2: Judgment Day, which would have been infinitely better.

Enter the Huntsman (Chris Hemsworth), a brutish Irish ax-man tasked with tracking down and capturing Snow White, the key to the Queen’s immortality. Only, when he finds Snow, the Huntsman is instantly smitten. (She is the fairest, after all.) Never mind that this love-at-first-sight attraction undermines the classic themes, that true love conquers all and inner beauty is paramount. Luckily, Hemsworth falls for her without going doughy-eyed or intensely boy-band.

The couple rarely stays still for long, fleeing roughly every ten minutes from the Queen’s relentless brother. This also means that, like clockwork, fantasy and romance are interrupted by the chaos of clanking steel and surging cavalry. The quest lurches this way through the second act, encountering a society of free people, a merry band of dwarves (seven, in fact), and Sam Claflin’s Prince William — not that one. William is the other tip of the love triangle, a hooded creep who has been stalking her for a lifetime. (Oddly, William is one of the few male characters who didn’t want to kill her. Six of the seven dwarves wanted her dead at first.)

Rupert Sanders, directing his first feature, manages the visual effects and magnificent sets for dashes of magical wonder or ominous dread. The Dark Forest in particular appears about a friendly as it sounds, a realm of gothic terror that threatens to swallow Snow White, and it’s rendered even scarier by a nifty hallucinogen effect that bends tree limbs into tendrils and shadows into looming death. Later, Snow White strolls through a distinctly different forest, accompanied by sweeping shots of a lush sanctuary teeming with fairies and furry creatures.

But Sanders, from a script credited to three separate writers, struggles to define Snow White herself. She is painted as a vague archetype of a defiant princess who is beautiful, stubborn, pure, proper, tough, kind, and vengeful, among other convenient adjectives. Snow is gentle enough to soothe a bridge troll with her magic stare, then determined enough to spearhead armored assaults. By the contrived climax, Snow White is as murky as the Queen’s milk baths. It’s no wonder the story spends so much time with Theron’s compelling Queen, despite her having little to do but fume in her throne room, and it doesn’t help that Stewart is not dynamic enough to mirror each of the character’s fluctuating personalities.

Spoilers: In the end, Snow White and the Huntsman, based on a story we’ve all heard before, is deliberately open-ended, the frustrating product of the studio’s approved changes. Snow White is an ambiguous mass-appeal hero, everything to all people in any market. Her one true love is actually a toss-up between two available hunks. And the usual “happily ever after” is just an ellipsis this time around, leaving space for a potential franchise. In 3D.

Men in Black 3

Jeff Leins — Tue, 29 May 2012 15:00:41 +0000

Men in Black III is remarkably better than it should be. It is a “threequel” in a sci-fi buddy cop franchise that includes a time travel conceit and a partner switch. It comes ten years after a panned sequel that involved amnesia. (Or maybe you forgot?) And, for what it’s worth, MIIIB is also being hailed as Will Smith’s return to the prime summer season, four years after Hancock.

Enthusiastic headlines read “Will Smith is back in black!” after years of wondering if he still had “it.” As if, over the short hiatus, Smith could ever lose it; that inimitable set of qualities he possesses that drives his work and makes the world adore him (and Ukranian journalists want to kiss him). He is charismatic, talented enough to make it look effortless, and, most importantly, he is consistent, bringing the same success and animated energy (“Big Willie Style”) to early ’90s “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” as he did to 2008′s Seven Pounds. As a result, Smith’s career went on an unprecedented run. Bad Boys was his start in 1995 (and there was a sequel) but, beginning two years later in ’97, Men in Black was his sole franchise. The series is tailored to Smith’s brand of action comedy: expressive funny faces, fast-paced action, science fiction elements, and memorable catch phrases. The MIB brand even launched hit theme songs rapped by recording-artist Will Smith, whose lyrics were squeaky-clean (read: family friendly).

Smith’s performances are always entertaining to watch, if a little expected, especially when he is Agent J of the Men in Black. His Philly swagger and harmless, goofy physicality return in MIB 3, consistently fun and effortless, even if the situation feels familiar. Smith plays incredulous as an agent explains another new secret of the universe, a gaping loophole being exploited by a new heavily made-up, CGI-ed alien baddie. In this case, the grotesque antagonist is Boris “the Animal” (Jemaine Clement), who escapes from a moon prison and vows revenge on K. To stop him, J must travel back to the 1960s, where he fast-talks his way past most things: the era’s racial prejudice, an oddball character that can see infinite timelines (Michael Stuhlbarg), and celebrities who, surprise, are aliens. Still, neuralyzer in hand, Agent J’s off-the-cuff explanations for otherworldly phenomena are still some of the best comedy bits in Smith’s filmography.

Tommy Lee Jones, brilliant as he is, was only ever there to mutter nicknames and set up Smith’s zingers and wild comic antics. Suited up and wearing cool shades, Smith’s famous line to Jones was “you know what the difference is between you and me? I make this look good.”

This time, Jones is only present for the first act, before the time-traveling Boris erases the present-day Agent K from existence. Once again, it is up to Smith’s Agent J to rescue his partner, the bureaucratic stick-in-the-mud, and, naturally, save the world from an alien invasion. In the ’60s, Jones is replaced by a young K and, to his credit, Josh Brolin mimicks Jones’ mannerisms and speech patterns perfectly — it turns out Tommy L. Jones is only a slight adjustment from Brolin’s George W. Bush impersonation. Isn’t that right, slick? The hint of a new romantic subplot involving K and another MIB officer (Emma Thompson) is never more than a nostalgic note and, when the time finally comes to face Boris, K is noticeably absent.

MIB is distinctly Will Smith the same way Mission: Impossible defines Tom Cruise. Both are massive franchises that play to the strengths of their A-list star; except the latter millionaire loves sprinting, gunning, climbing, jumping, and other -ing verbs. Smith prefers his heroes to be moral and affable. And that he look good doing it. While maybe rapping about it.

Smith continued to consistently crank out hits until 2008, finally fizzling after Hancock. He holds the record for the most consecutive $100 million movies (at 8, though 14 of his movies have reached the mark out of 19 before MIB3) and most consecutive #1 openings at the domestic box office (also 8). Men in Black I and II rank among the top ten highest-grossing releases in Sony/Columbia studio history (behind all three Spider-Man movies, but accompanied by #6, Hancock and #10, Smith’s rom-com blockbuster Hitch). Smith was worth an estimated $215 million in 2011. In a risk-averse industry, Will Smith was reliable. Until he suddenly stopped.

Now Will Smith is “back in black,” suited up a decade later. In a sign of the times, Smith shared the stage and the spotlight at the New York premiere last week with his two rapping kids, 13-year-old Jaden and Willow, 11. They are mini Will Smiths, adorable multi-talented children who make hit movies and songs, lined up for futures in entertainment. During that 4-year hiatus, Will supported Jaden as he karate-kicked the Chinese, while Willow whipped her hair back and forth. (The Smiths love giving instructions, like “nod your head” and “get jiggy with it.”) Not to mention Will’s Hollywood actress wife, Jada Pinkett. The Smith family are a freakishly multi-talented bunch, like the Partridges or the Jacksons for a new millennium. (A Willennium?)

Men in Black 3 is fun and Smith is always reliable for a laugh, but his recent devotion to his family provides the touching context for the film’s final moments (no spoilers). When the script’s third act issues halted the production for several months, the ending was reportedly re-written by Smith and series director Barry Sonnenfeld. (Only Etan Cohen received a writing credit.) The scene is the truest part of the story, a heartstring pull set apart from the franchise formula.

The ending also leaves the portal open for another sequel. Will the actor continue to return to the Men in Black, his only franchise? Perhaps with Jaden in tow next time? The Smiths certainly have no qualms about rewriting themselves into Karate Kid or Annie. Why not MIB: Legacy in five years? The Smiths’ next venture, another summer-sized sci-fi movie, is called After Earth and it’s about a father and son played by Will and Jaden. (M. Night Shyamalan is directing.)