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'Gate of the Ghost' a Colorful, Pointless 'Rashomon' Remake

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 06 May 2013 23:36:00 +0000

Directed by: M.L. Bhandervanop Devakul; Runtime: 107 minutes
Grade: C-

Remakes can be tricky business: should they stay true to the source out of respect and diligence towards theme preservation, or should they attempt to adjust the story's context and visual tone to achieve something both similar and noticeably unique? It's even tougher to land on an answer to that with iconic cinema such as Akira Kurosawa's oeuvre; arguably the most successful reimaginings of his work break away from overt similarities to the source, such as The Magnificent Seven and Last Man Standing. At the Gate of the Ghost -- aptly titled The Outrage in its native Thailand -- attempts an almost precise duplication of Rashomon, from the way the characters look and act down to its strict philosophical ideas about human dishonesty and perspective. Despite justifiable performances and a lush visual tone, such a literal replica of a classic masterwork doesn't really give itself a reason for existing, and the film's few minuscule changes are either heavy-handed or redundantly articulate what's already said on a nonverbal level.

The only thing differentiating M.L. Bhandervanop Devakul's adaptation from its source is the more direct Buddhist angle that frames it, as well as a clearer emphasis on the importance of those telling the story of dishonesty and deceit in a murder trial. Seeking shelter in the midst of torrential rainfall, a devout monk (Mario Maurer) and a common woodcutter (Petchtai Wongkamlao) sit around a campfire as they contemplate the wrongs of the world and how it pertains to offset "dharma", their minds lingering on testimonies they had recently heard about the killing. Later joined by a vagabond "undertaker" (Pongpat Wachirabunjong) who offers a pragmatic, unsavory point of view to their idealistic concerns, they all retrace the testimonies of three people in the case of a warlord's murder: the words of a famous bandit (Dom Hetrakul) charged with the death, of the dutiful widow (Chermarn Boonyasak), and an of the warlord himself (Ananda Mathew Everingham). The story is a straightforward exploration of culling falsities from truth, and vice versa, until their conflicting points-of-view -- and their interpretations of one another -- are called into action.

Rashomon strikes a balance between the characters' perspectives and whether the real focus is the testimony's subjects or those telling their stories, something At the Gate of the Ghost loses by shining a spotlight on the conflicted monk. Beginning with a grandiose, heavy illustration of a young boy's development from a common child to a devout Buddhist, the tone crafted here is one of a religious man finding his way back to the right caliber and focus of his belief structure through his societal comprehension -- and how murder, deceit, and selfishness weaken his resolve. While it doesn't necessarily take away from the intentions of Kurosawa's original film, it does add a slant to its tone that limits effectiveness on a wider scale; believers and non-believers can both appreciate the gray-area morality in the original, while intentionally filtering that through the eyes of a monk adds something else to the equation. Since that's where most of the added content comes from, it's a weaker and more narrow-focused film for it.

Aside from that, At the Gate of the Ghost essentially plays out as a verbatim, colorful reenactment of Kurosawa's film once it gets all the philosophical debaters ~~under the same roof~~ in the same cavern for their campfire storytelling, each yarn crafted with easily admirable passion and visual grandeur. Choreographed sword battles and a shifting gradient of pain and anger in the tied-up warlord's disposition are beautiful in their familiarity, while there's a stunning scene involving a shaman channeling a spirit from the afterlife, her black teeth and long-curled nails creating an striking display of mysticism. Director M.L. Bhandervanop Devakul achieves many the same takeaway points -- numerous versions of the same people in different contexts, unreliable narration, biased motivations, constant variables -- all cradled in Thailand's opulent settings of cascading waterfalls and convoluted forests. And while there's a lack of dimension to the performance, the cast suitably acts out their respective roles in the varied recounts: some selfish, some noble, some cunning, some affable.

Unfortunately, the variation of the "crime scenes" emphasizes each version of the murder being a "completely different story" a little to on-the-nose, since they lack the ability to truly express that there could be other truths hidden among the testimonials. Each recount in At the Gate of the Ghost is too disparate, too black-and-white, reaching a point where the best course of action is to dismiss almost all viewpoints as unreliable (aside from one, small fact) instead of a sliding scale of integrity, something counterproductive to what the film aims to accomplish. What's really frustrating about this, as the film moves along, is its fondness for verbalizing aloud what simple interpretation gets across in Kurosawa's original, forcing it into a corner of tiring existential clarification that makes the story appear less intellectually engaging. This might seem like splitting hairs when comparing the two, especially when they're seventy (70!) years apart, but when films are this similar outside of some tricky alterations, it's hard to overlook those issues when digging into a revitalization of one of cinema's great critiques on perspective.

Drinks, Dialogue, Delirious Drama Hallmark 'Sexy Evil Genius'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Wed, 01 May 2013 19:40:00 +0000

Directed by: Shaun Piller; Runtime: 91 minutes
Grade: C

At the beginning of Sexy Evil Genius, a trio of starkly-different strangers sit down over drinks in a largely-dead metropolitan bar, where they proceed to chat about good times and bad involving their mutual, mentally-unhinged ex-girlfriend, Nikki. They're not shy about it either, dishing out stories of obsession, love lost and how they were eventually shafted in one way or another. Steadily, and humorously, these characters take shape by revealing more about their failed relationships and life post-Nikki, all because their scheming ex covertly got them all together for ... some eventually-revealed purpose. That component works in Shawn Piller's crafty little comedy-mystery, a chatty never-leave-the-room lark that's more of a blend between stage performance and an extended skit than much of a movie. And it's entertaining in its own twisted little way, as long as it focuses on speculative gossip among spurned lovers and avoids revealing the actual purpose behind getting them all under the same roof.

This scenario could almost be misinterpreted as a dream in the mind of a sleeping TV geek, as if characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, LOST, and Battlestar Galactica have gathered together in a bizarro universe for the purpose of willfully defying their pre-established types. Seth Green plays a levelheaded, suit-wearing salesman, Zach; Michelle Tractenberg dons dark eyeliner and a sour demeanor as an alternative ex-addict, Miranda; a laid-back Harrold Perrineau muses about the soul and authenticity of jazz as Marvin; and, in a twist, Flatliners and Virus actor William Baldwin is a silver-tongued, morally-grey defense attorney, Bert. They're all drawn to their "sexy evil genius", Nikki, and Katee Sackhoff's fiery eyes and blown-back hair cleverly avoid the attributes that accentuate her Toaster-killin' fame-maker. Sure, these are some rather on-the-nose, one-dimensional characters, but that simplicity eventually serves a purpose once their conversations formulate some common grounds.

Witty dialogue -- perhaps a little too witty -- bounces between the assorted ex-lovers in Scott Lew's script, playing to their character types without really betraying their semi-authentic personalities. In terms of pure surface-level enjoyment, watching this banter can be fun long before the topic of their conversation arrives, long before Sexy Evil Genius really even has a purpose beyond the vague "Nikki's up to something ... again". It's amusing to see Zach fiddle with his olive-laden martini while wrapping his mind around his ex-girlfriend in a lesbian relationship, as is observing Marvin's reaction when he discovers what kind of music his bongo-banging ex really likes. The strengths in Lew's writing become obvious once Nikki's motivations, and the underlying plot developments, start to detract from that clever synergy; in a way, I almost wish that Nikki had stayed away until much, much later on. The dialogue's ability to put this mostly-invisible woman on a pedestal, reducing these sharp people to her thralls, are what held my attention.

Eventually, Sexy Evil Genius pulls the curtain back on the reason for Nikki's scheming -- involving deaths, stalkers, substance abuse, secrets from the past relationships, and a desire for revenge -- which presents a frustrating and unrecoverable kink in Shawn Piller's film. Nikki is a feisty mix of brilliance and insanity, and her feistiness is great to behold when filtered through the BSG veteran's edge, but the shady baggage her character brings to the table becomes too much for the story's quaint charisma to shoulder. Some of the film's best moments, such as the personalized ways Nikki greets her exes and identifies their beverages, are soon weakened once her overly-chaotic inclinations force black-comedy absurdity into the mix. Mind you, the performances maintain the same pulse as they do in the beginning, allowing the characters to amusingly wrap around the situation as it grows out of control; they're all in top form, straight-faced and frazzled, as they adjust to the scenario. There's just way too much dark, inane drama.

The main thing keeping Sexy Evil Genius from blowing out of control is the confinement of its one-set location, creating an almost literal stage effect -- a faint Hitchcockian ode that's better at grounding the plot that enhancing suspense. Outside of colorful flashbacks manipulated by distorted blues and erratic lens flares, almost everything takes place within plain, public view at the heart of the bar; a few privacy-required scenes shuffle over into the bathroom. This becomes important as the "danger" mounts among the group's later inebriated conversations, and it's one of the reasons why Shane Pillar's film ultimately sustains a meager amount of interest through its hectic climaxes. Without that novelty, without the ability to watch this sarcastic play resolve its story threads and motivations in a single spot, it would've appeared far too indulgent as the skeletons in Nikki's closet come tumbling out in a precarious jumble. Like this, at least there's a glint of appeal in seeing the evil genius' scheme come to fruition among her admirers.

'Mama': An Atmospheric Horror Fable With a Frustrating End

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 20:00:00 +0000

Directed by: Andres Muschiette; Runtime: 100 minutes
Grade: B

Oftentimes, it seems as if films "presented by" directors take that approach solely to draw attention to emerging talents and generate theater turnout, but this isn't exactly the case for the works touted by Guillermo Del Toro, where he often serves as an active producer. Between The Orphanage and now Andres and Barbara Muschietti's Mama, his fingerprints -- entrancing visuals, robust characters, and eerie atmosphere -- can clearly be spotted and noticeably elevate the creations under his wing, while allowing the respective directors' viewpoints to shine through. The inspiration for this particular fable of absent parentage and looming secrets is a three-minute short by the Muschiettis, featuring a disturbing, gangly-armed "mother" who stomps after two children in a dimly-lit home. Extended into a warped study of unlikely mothers and spectral guardians that look over feral daughters, this is a flawed, slight, yet consistently haunting parable that wouldn't appear out-of-place among its presenter's own work.

Mama goes down that well-worn path of dark and quixotic children's horror that Del Toro has brought somewhat to the mainstream, depicting a pair of sisters, Victoria (Megan Charpentier) and Lilly (Isabelle Nelisse), left to fend for themselves in a forested cottage following a car accident. Thought to be lost, but not without being sought by their uncle, Lucas (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Game of Thrones), the girls are rediscovered five years later in that same cottage -- filthy, crawling like animals, and detached from normal emotion and maturity. Despite offers to take the children into more suitable custody, Lucas maintains a stern desire to keep the girls, despite not really having the means to do so. A solution arises in a house built for psychological evaluation, where Lucas and his prickly rocker girlfriend, Annabel (Jessica Chastain, Zero Dark Thirty), would look after them while they're under continuous evaluation by psychologist Dr. Dreyfuss (Daniel Kash). A question remains, though: how were the girls able to care for themselves in the wild, and who is this nonexistent "mama" they say looked after them?

Annabel provides a necessary dimension to the story in the form of a headstrong bass player who isn't really built for the domestic-parent lifestyle, or, at the very least, isn't ready for it at this point in her life. She's an interesting challenge for Jessica Chastain: harsher, resistant, driven less by empathy and optimism than her other name-making roles. But she's also crucial to the dramatic backbone supporting the spook tactics to come in Mama; Annabel's ability to adapt to the situation, and her growing pains while trying to be a stand-in mother to oddly-behaving daughters, jumps between frustration with parenting to a young(er) rocker's decision whether to endure the situation or not. Unlike other up-and-coming actresses who fall prey to horror-suspense films that don't do their careers any favors, Chastain not only enhances what's otherwise a contrived slate of scenarios, she becomes crucial to both the eeriness and emotional purpose that the Muschiettis eventually aim for.

The complicated maternal setup works well once the scares emerge in Mama (and once Annabel is forced to care for the girls by herself), providing a levelheaded opportunity for Andres and Barbara Muschietti's ideas to unnervingly creep out of the shadows. Steadily, we learn what's followed Victoria and Lilly from the cottage, and the role ... it served in their life while they were secluded for five years. Their ethereal little secret avoids our field of vision through clever plays on perspective that Antonio Riestra's cinematography achieves -- namely, the mischievous framing of multiple rooms within one shot, relishing who's in each and who isn't. The spacious, creak-and-slam-friendly house provides corners and corridors for Annabel to creep herself out in, while flickering lights and guitar amplifier feedback rattle the nerves through a few unnecessary but heart-thumping parlor tricks. Conventional jump-scares and glimpses into shadowy spaces end up appearing too orthodox for such a distinctive and straight-faced supernatural mystery, but they're polished, austere, and maintain a marvelously macabre atmosphere that begs for "mama" to make its mysterious presence known, a mix of curiosity and trepidation.

Written by the Muschiettis and television scribe Nick Cross, the script sustains its supernatural purposes by focusing on a mystery to be solved about the girls' elusive guardian, as they tiptoe around the evil stirring in the house; in fact, it's rather compelling on those simple terms. Once it goes any deeper than that, though, Mama becomes harder to take seriously. Dark, decaying magical holes in walls, creepy moths, and household accidents deal out visceral scenarios more concerned with unnerving the audience with arty horror instead of allowing the drama to keep a level head. What's more, the characters have that age-old fascination with sleuthing at night just so the darkness can cheaply draw them into powerlessness. Chastain's performance and the undertones about an evolving maternal bond beckon those watching to grasp what's going on, empathize, and care about their well-being -- which does work -- but getting wrapped up in those intentions becomes difficult when the characters are corralled into plot-rigged traps.

Mama struggles to right an uneven balance between inspiration and creative prudence all the way to the conclusion -- a bold, devious, but bizarrely forced culmination on a craggy moonlit bluff, underscored by maternal instincts and the eerie mystery that unraveled alongside the scares. While this is an unapologetic supernatural hybrid of horror and melodrama from start to finish, the melancholy ending crosses a line in both emotionally-charged and unsatisfying ways, plagued with the rough kind of ambiguity that provokes somber questions about the outcome and mandatory moral grayness. Andres Muschietti's film achieves a suitable evolution of Annabel's nature against a supernatural force of domineering parenthood, where stark atmosphere both weathers and warms her, but it comes remarkably close to undermining the effort in one fell swoop of forced misinterpretations and last-minute empathy. It's a good thing, then, that the atmosphere works so well leading right up to it.

Soth Korea's 'Punch' Amusing, But Lacks Authentic Oomph

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by: ; Lee HanRuntime: 110 minutes
Grade: C+

South Korea's Punch is a curiously dissimilar entry in its genre: it's a sports movie without much of a foreseeable "big game" to prepare for; it's a mentor-student drama with an unlikable, abrasive role model for the youth; and it's a coming-of-age story where the student exhibits very little observable change, outside of a newly-discovered outlet in a combat sport. These differences could potentially result in a courageous depiction of a teenager's metamorphosis amid impoverished living conditions, where the true effects of discipline and a physical hobby shape a lout into a winner; mostly, though, this film adaptation of Kim Ryeo-ryeong's popular novel plays it safe by sticking to the well-tread path taken by others of its type, only missing an end goal and embraceable character growth. Lee Han hasn't created a bad film, occasionally humorous and well-felt through sensible performances, but an inability to harness its distinctive qualities reduce it to something unremarkable and formless.

Following the shutdown of the dance cabaret where his disabled father and kooky uncle performed for many years, eighteen-year-old Wan-deuk (Yoo Ah-in) has become aggressive and unfocused as his family struggles to stay afloat in their cramped apartment. His frustration affects every part of his life, namely his grades and attendance at school, which causes him to violently lash out when he should keep his composure. This has caught the attention of his homeroom teacher, Dong-joo (Kim Yoon-seok, The Thieves), a belligerent and uncouth bum who verbally harasses Wan-deuk and scams him out of his family's food rations. Wan-deuk realizes that he has a knack for fighting, though, so when he's approached by someone at his church to train in kickboxing, he jumps at the chance. This new hobby gives him an outlet for his frustrations, which escalate as his uncles leave him to go work at the markets for days on end -- and when his estranged Filipino mother reenters his life.

Typically with these coming-of-age sports comedy-dramas, a life event sparks the young hero's interest in a particular sport, and a form of competition gives them an objective to aim for while sharpening their skills -- the tournament in The Karate Kid, the divisional placement in Win Win, and so on. Punch doesn't really have that, since Wan-deuk jumps into the sport of kickboxing for no other reason outside of a casual invitation during a worse-than-normal praying session; he eventually works towards a potential sparring match with another gym's fighters, but nothing substantial. In other words, Wan-deuk begins training for no other reason than his own well being and to occupy his idle hands, his own brand of "studying" towards something he's good at. While this is a dignified and more down-to-earth portrayal, it leaves the film without a reason to move forward, really, which forces the family drama to claim the spotlight in lieu of an exciting payoff for seeing him discover something that utilizes his talents.

The problem is that the drama in Punch rarely delivers any poignant blows -- partly because Wan-deuk father is so frequently out of the picture and because his mother reappears so opportunely, but also because his "mentor", Dong-zoo, is such a flagrant jackass. Kim Yoon-seok's performance here is strong as the homeroom teacher, bringing roughness to the role that works as more apathy than callousness, yet he's written in such a way that his hateful temperament makes his investment in a young teenager's life seem far-fetched, at the very least. Wan-Deuk himself even prays to God for Dong-zoo's death on a regular basis due to the teacher's harassment. Yet, the teacher's metamorphosis is arguably the story's most significant personal change, where he covers for Wan-deuk so he can train and assists with the mother-son reunion in some rather significant ways. One might be willing to see a complex character in Dong-zoo who allows himself to transition, even reveal a hidden empathetic side, but the story doesn't do a convincing job of making his shift feel organic around his bitter, resigned demeanor.

Punch's story, much like Wan-deuk's family in their small apartment among the Seoul rooftops, merely treads water until an opportunity for something positive comes along, while having a few easy --and, surprisingly, quite effective -- laughs at the expense of the characters' quirks and navigating the timely subject of (un)employment in South Korea. There's an underlying, uplifting message to discover as the young kickboxer gradually builds his talents in the ring and, as a result, builds his confidence around his peers (namely a certain girl): finding what you're good at is more important than forcing yourself to be someone you're not, as long as the circumstances allow for it. Conflicts emerge and are simply resolved around this idea in typically uplifting fashion, along with weepy family melodrama that doesn't really stick, but at least there's a decent moral backbone to Wan-Deuk's metamorphosis from a dead-end, angry kid into someone with more promising prospects. And when it effectively ends in a unconventional knockout, it misses an opportunity at more earnest, moving articulations of its themes.

'Royal Affair' a Spirited, Handsome Glimpse at Danish History

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 18:37:00 +0000

Directed by: Nikolaj Arcel; Runtime: 137 minutes
Grade: A-

Locked-door rendezvous, passionate discussions about the future, plans to break from the restraints of one situation and into a more liberated one ... it makes you wonder which "affair" the title of Nikolaj Arcel's historical drama refers to: the romance between a queen and her husband's physician, or the Age of Enlightenment's courtship with the Danish throne. In so many words, it's both. Arcel and Rasmus Heisterberg, the writers who brought Stieg Larsson's Dragon Tattoo books to the big (and little) screen in Sweden, prove their versatility by leaping from a maze of investigative technology and themes of sexual identity to (semi-)adapting Bodil Steensen-Leth's novel built around Denmark's late-1770s war of progressive political thought -- and Caroline Mathilde's repression in her marriage to mad king Christian VII. A Royal Affair neither rips bodices nor weighs itself down with excessive costume theatrics; instead, it's a cogent, approachable telling of stifled aspiration and idealism that led to a country's tricky transformation.

Told from the perspective of letters written by Caroline (Alicia Vikander), a British royal who explored the principles of lower-class freedom through works of the Enlightenment, A Royal Affair begins by showing the extent of King Christian's VII (Mikkel Boe Følsgaard) insanity and how it complicates the early sight-unseen "courtship" -- and a particularly unpleasant first evening together -- that leads to their problematic marriage. As years pass and distance forms between them, due to the king's lust and Caroline's dropping of pretenses once their first heir arrives, followers of the Enlightenment discover that the mentally-ill king is in need of a physician, opening a path to influence the throne. Enter Johann Struensee (Mads Mikkelsen), a German doctor and anonymously-published author of Enlightenment papers, who accepts the invitation. From here, the focus falls on how Struensee non-maliciously influences the malleable king as a trusted adviser after earning his good graces -- and the bond that forms between the doctor and the like-minded queen when Christian demands that he "make her fun".

The historical thrust behind A Royal Affair centers on the king and the shifts in Denmark's power, yet the film predominately focuses on Caroline and Struensee as forward-thinkers with idealistic desires and ambitions -- and the positions they hold that could, through the right decisions, reward their beliefs. Arcel and Heisterberg capably flesh out their personalities around their evolving motivations; Caroline's resilience slowly emerges from under the weight of the Danish throne, though her voice still muffled by the royal court and family, while Struensee subtle charm and multifaceted perspective reveal a man with an optimistic future for Denmark. They're both haunted by their lack of self-determination, though, making them hushed, intense souls whose dispositions beg to be cut free without them saying a word. This becomes especially poignant when the two finally meet, where the assumptions they make at first -- notably Caroline's hasty dislike of Struensee -- surrender to a mutual discovery of their philosophical alignments.

Like many period dramas, A Royal Affair often lingers on meticulous garments and delicate photography that plays with depth-of-field and relishes landscapes, creating a gorgeous glimpse at the fleeting escapes from Denmark's stuffy environment. The visual details are never without purpose, though; shots of a rushing brook or a hand grabbing another before a dance appear indulgent out of context, maybe even a little in-context, but they feel essential because of how they underscore the sensations of rare freedom that Caroline and Struensee fight so diligently for. Passion, of both romantic and political variety, stirs in the aesthetics and intellectual points elevated by the film's purposes, which reach a peak once the romance between the physician and the queen finally blossoms. This occurs in one of the most convincing, sumptuous slow-down shots of a masquerade dance I've witnessed, furthered by candlelight and expressive glances in a familiar but tremendously effective context.

A Royal Affair's plot sustains a surprisingly constant flow of urgency from one period to the next, especially in the fraught romantic scenes between the two chief supporters of the Enlightenment, a result of clever, self-aware writing from Arcel and Heisterberg. Navigating the stately grounds of Scandinavian historical turmoil and covert trips to bedchambers, the story's rhythm remains brisk and void of overt melodrama as it repeatedly brings them all under one room for a unified objective: the people's freedom and well-being, something unachievable under Denmark's entrenched customs. Often when political machinations arise in these dramas, keeping up with the motives, crossed wires, and deceit can be a chore. Here, it's handled with a deft hand that allows the situation to avoid moral black-and-white appearances; the ways Caroline and Struensee flirt with being discovered are smartly-written and organic, especially when suspicion arises and they're forced to react, while the sly manipulation by the doctor upon his king strikes compelling, even vibrant notes once they rush to enact political reforms.

There's no denying that A Royal Affair has its share of soap-opera inclinations, full of opportune suspicions, shifty glances, and covert coups as plans fall into motion, but it never allows itself to appear soapy due to the impeccable performances that authenticate those trapped in this Denmark's struggle between bureaucrats and progressives. While the madness of King Christian VII comes to life through Mikkel Boe Følsgaard's nuanced, credible portrayal, it's the conflicted chemistry between Alicia Vikander and Mads Mikkelsen as Catherine and Struensee that embolden this depiction of the Enlightenment's distressed ascendance; their cloak-and-dagger romance, and how it ebbs and flows amid the country's circumstances, provides a heartrending backbone to the events that follow. This isn't a moment in history with a happy ending, a dramatic more-bitter-than-sweet expression of what happens when new principles are rushed into application, but the enthusiasm driving their strife for a better country -- and the two weathered idealists' passion for one another -- ensures that this cinematic affair doesn't end without leaving an enduring mark.

'In Their Skin' an Irritating, Vapid Home-Invasion Misfire

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 15:22:00 +0000

Directed by: Jeremy Regimbal; Runtime: 97 minutes
Grade: D-

So, let's assume you're staying in a secluded rural cottage as a getaway from metropolitan life, a necessity in the wake of a recent tragedy: the death of a child. It's an uncomfortable time for your significant other, who's especially grief-stricken by the passing; the event has made them cold, despondent, and unavailable for physical intimacy. Early one morning, where the night before a car had suspiciously cruised and stopped in front of the secluded forest house, loud noises wake everybody up in the home due to a trespassing family chopping wood in the front yard. These strangers -- a thin, aggressive father (James D'Arcy); a scatterbrained mother (Rachel Miner); and a big-for-his-age son (Alex Ferris) -- are oddly insistent and probing during conversation, as they offer the wood they chopped and a special salad as a forced means of rushing a neighborly connection. Clearly, the correct course of action here is to ignore what happened the night before, ruffle your significant other's feathers, and invite these people for dinner that evening ... right? Well, the guy in In Their Skin seems to think it's a good idea.

This is the blunder that director Jeremy Regimbal works against in his home-invasion thriller, where dour characters are forced into a dubious predicament. The beginning paints an image of this family of three making their way to the secluded house, where the ghostly disposition of a real-estate developer, Mary (Selma Blair), quickly gains our focus; she's a mother grieving the death of her child, the primary reason her lawyer husband, Mark (Diary of the Dead's Joshua Close, also the writer), has orchestrated this vacation. Expected issues arise while they're there: Mary isn't prepared for life to get back to normal, leaving her on-edge and disinterested in rebuilding an intimate relationship with her husband. Their son (Quinn Lord) doesn't seem too distraught by the events, though, playing videogames and with his dog. Despite how each one copes with their grief, there's little that's interesting about the family -- outside of their foolishness when handling their "neighbors".

That other family, however, are quite the abnormal bunch; observably, insufferably abnormal, and they don't exactly give off a good first impression. That doesn't stop Mark from extending a dinner invitation to suspicious strangers, though, which leads to an evening of verbal snooping and twitchy nerves over red wine and secret cigarettes. This conversation between the two families over their meal, framed for thematic effect as a "mirror image" of sorts between husbands, wives, and sons in Norm Li's brooding cinematography, provides some of the most painfully drawn-out sequences of awkwardness that I've ever endured. Director Regimbal aims to create an atmosphere of aggression and unease fueled by the jealously of a down-and-out family over the success of another, but the conversations resulting between them -- overstated responses, unrealistic inquiries, and peculiar mirror-image reactions -- play out more like some bizarro glimpse at how bitter beings from another planet might try to communicate with successful humans.

It'd be one thing if In Their Skin's intended discomfort led to something more significant once the film's suspense gained momentum, but the script persists down questionable paths that lead to a hollow replication of other home-invasion films, especially Michael Haneke's Funny Games. The difference lies in the invaders' motives, where pure sadistic pleasure with an authorial purpose -- such as Haneke's commentary on how audiences relish the safety of on-screen violence -- mostly takes a back seat to the perfunctory "ambition" of wildly unhinged people who couldn't feasibly con anyone. Shock value ensues in their scheme, as one would expect; knives are pulled and pistols fired with the intent of keeping the sadistic situation under control, along with forcing the victims to do things they might not otherwise do. Any attempts that Regimbal makes to challenge the audience, however, are reduced to little more than boorish provocations.

In Their Skin continues with this unpleasant descent into crazy town once the conflict reaches its boiling point, driven by the undertones of desiring and obtaining a perfect life by any means necessary. Selma Blair does what she can as a mother grieving the loss of her child, whose darkened eyes and thin, angular face render a person who deserves a departure from her harrowing everyday life to rediscover the woman she once was. That should enhance what director Regimbal sets out to do, but instead it makes it even more frustrating to see her caught up in the avoidable scheming of loons who yearn to snatch her life away. Maybe this is where the worn-out message of "life can always get worse, so appreciate what you have" fits into the equation, reinforced by the tidy way that this chaotic dilemma conveniently reaches its end. Or, perhaps it's as simple as not inviting the wild-eyed, twitchy strangers over at all, and to call people early on if things appear sketchy.

Modern Update to 'The Sweeney' is Dull, Not So Up-To-Date

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 17:30:00 +0000

Directed by: Nick Love; Runtime: 112 minutes
Grade: C+

Furthering the trend of classic TV shows being remade for the big screen, British crime-drama director Nick Love reaches back to the '70s and pulls out a reinvention of The Sweeney: a program focused on a renegade branch of London's metro police who occasionally bend the rules of legality to get results. For these reboots to sustain a reason for existing, they've got to find a way to update the premise for the current climate, such as the modification of conspiracies in Edge of Darkness or State of Play and the technological shifts in Mission: Impossible. While draped in contemporary trappings and suitably acted, with a degree of procedural suspense barreling it forward, The Sweeney doesn't offer a fresh-enough perspective to merit this old-hat retread of antiheroic cops, their slippery targets, and the authorities working to shut them down. The film's only real course of modernization is suggesting that the unit's tactics could be too archaic for the here and now, and it doesn't do a great job of convincing otherwise.

Loosely based on a real branch of London's police force, the Flying Squad, who specialize in thwarting high-profile bank heists and currency trafficking, the division is led by a gristly veteran detective, Jack Regan (Ray Winstone), whose eclectic team aren't afraid of getting their hands dirty if the end justifies the means. Much of The Sweeney focuses on exploring the myriad relationships built around Jack and his division: the mentor-protégé banter between he and his ex-thief partner, Carter (Ben Drow); the battle waged between Jack and an internal affairs investigator, Inspector Lewis, moderated by department head Det. Haskins (Damien Lewis); and the more-than-sex rendezvous between Jack and one of the officers he commands, Nancy (Hayley Atwell), who so happens to be the wife of Inspector Lewis. In the midst of this, they're working to solve a case -- and prevent further crimes -- involving an elusive thief who inexplicably killed a hostage during a low-yield, lower-profile robbery.

The underlying mystery in The Sweeney is little more than a means to an end, though, a dull jumble of deception and scheming in the city that merely give the squad, and those scrutinizing their methods, something to do around the moral grayness, romances, and fears of getting shut down. A lot of talk and bluster occurs about the nature of the police division and their place in maintaining balance, yet the primary case they're working on teeters blandly between a conceivable plan and several other forgettable, disposable crime-heist plots. While that might be part of Nick Love's intention, to give Jack and his team a case that's neither outside the realm of possibility nor something that glorifies their mostly-thankless jobs, it renders into a tiresome experience that goes through the motions -- payoffs, volatile interrogations, late-night sleuthing -- in a way that doesn't reinforce the idea of their methods being indispensable. They're tired attempts to invigorate a scenario we've seen many times before.

Ray Winstone balances the staleness by enlivening his stocky, gruff renegade detective with his own brand of coarseness, transforming him into an intriguing leader. There's no denying that Jack Regan is, in essence, every other loose-cannon cop to appear on-screen: he sneers at authority and conventionalism, lets his salty language get him in trouble, and pulls both literal and figurative triggers without considering the consequences. At least Winstone's edge believably bolsters these traits in the antihero vessel, instead of them being merely token devices created for provocative entertainment value. His authenticity filters to the relationships that fill the department's office and beyond; his earnest connection with a female colleague whose marriage is going down the drain creates a moderate ray of hopefulness between Winstone and a capable Hayley Atwell, while to the tug-and-pull rapport between he and his overseer, Haskins, works well due to how Damien Lewis' authoritative poise plays off Winstone's prickly demeanor.

The components are there in The Sweeney for a charismatic, Cockney-fueled procedural, but the conservative decisions Nick Love makes in relocating the story from the '70s to the current era prevents them from locking together. He constructs the action scenes with a fusion of established crime-heist aesthetics from the likes of Christopher Nolan and Michael Man, somewhere between Inception and Heat; deep-blue cinematography and rhythmic electronic music -- complete with the occasional restrained "brrawwmmnn" -- render stylish action scenes with powerful guns and rogue officers we'd prefer not to get shot. Unfortunately, despite being coherent and constantly moving, the shootouts and plot twists can't shake off the feeling of lethargy left by the dime-a-dozen plot moving them forward, as well as an almost adamant insistence on meeting a quote for genre clichés. Jack Regan and his team need more attention-grabbing crimes to solve than this, better justifications for the knee-jerk, morally-gray tactics that land them in trouble.

'Woochi' an Erratic Blend of Ancient Magic and Time-Lapses

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 15:35:00 +0000

Directed by:; Choi Dong-hoon Runtime: 136 minutes
Grade: C

Last year, director Choi Dong-hoon created a take on the bank heist formula, The Thieves, which spryly and unashamedly apes Steven Soderbergh's Ocean's Eleven to some rather positive ends. Instead of reinventing the premise, it focused on the personalities of those rogues being assembled and the charismatic, humorous rapport which forms between their differences, concocting a film whose replete personality trumps an overlong, dime-a-dozen plot. Tracing back through the director's work will lead one first to 2009's Woochi: The Demon Slayer (aka Jeon Woochi: The Taoist Wizard), a Korean fantasy-epic that aims to do similar things by setting its sights on flamboyant characters -- namely a quirky, confident hero -- who jump ahead in time to halt the scheming of beasts and magic-wielding evildoers. Choi Dong-hoon's concentration on embellished personality isn't as successful in this crowd-pleasing romp, focused on a zany yarn of humanoid rats, ancient wizards, and parallels between the past and present that's weighed down by overzealous buffoonery and lukewarm action.

We begin by focusing on an impish Taoist wizard, Woochi (Kang Dong-won), in the Chosun Dynasty during the 1500s, whose proclivity for mischief and dreams of fame and fortune lands him in a situation out of his pay-grade. A student in the magic arts, he's caught in the conflict between his superiors -- including the questionable Hwadam (Kim Yoon-seok) -- and the rat-faced "goblins" who are kept under control by a magical flute. Woochi's shenanigans during the battle with the goblins frame him for a crime he didn't commit, and as punishment, he and his sidekick Chorangyi (Yoo Hae-Jin), a shape-shifter who goes from horse to man as needed, are indefinitely locked away in separate tapestries. Cut to modern-day South Korea, where the "retired" Taoist masters decide to pull Woochi from his imprisonment in order to battle the recently-returned goblins. The sites of the city, including a strangely-familiar woman from his past, prove too intriguing for the awoken wizard to ignore, though.

At first, Choi Dong-hoon flirts with the possibility that he might deliver on Woochi's fanciful concept, as the visual effects and production touches bring out action-fantasy jollity from the mythical 1500s setting. Battles across tile rooftops with digital rat-people, flying arrows, and magical slips of paper containing spells create a fine supernatural atmosphere, while the personality and aptitude of the hero -- cocky, devious, and uninterested in more respectful practice of the magical arts -- establishes a fun foundation for the story's time-sprawling intentions. Its purposes get obscured by cluttered, directionless writing and floppy comical interactions, but the fabled essence of those balance-protecting wizards coping with an aloof apprentice and ominous demons kept it interesting. Had the film stayed in the ancient era, atop mountains and trees while surrounded by weather-beaten structures and grand palaces, the mythology would've likely been enough for some vivacious wire-work fantasy in that setting.

Staying in the past isn't the point, though: Woochi yearns to get its hero and the antics that follow him to the modern era, and that's the point where the film's magic starts to fade. Similar to what he did in The Thieves, Choi Dong-hoon nonchalantly modifies the established formula of similar "fish-outta-water" fantasies from the '80s, like Beastmaster 2 and Masters of the Universe, reworking them into a not-so-different journey to defeat evil and locate a powerful relic -- a musical instrument, mind you! -- through foreign sights and sounds. Expected gags ensue; Woochi and his horse-in-disguise partner enjoy liquor and fried foods, groove through loud night clubs in modern clothes, and zoom around the city grid in a mechanical "horse". Their mischievous learning-curve exploration doesn't generate enough successful humor, though, making scenes where Woochi conditions to his modern surroundings into awkward, overcooked stabs at rewarming the same old jokes. To be fair, they didn't work all that well in those '80s fantasies, either.

Woochi suffers from simply having too much going on once the modern era's activities comingle with the story's promising mythology, from time-travel humor and trite "drama" involving an uppity actress to a stiff romantic undercurrent involving the demon slayer and a suspiciously familiar-looking assistant. It doesn't help that the momentum in modern-day Korea is driven by disorderly action, some of which is fairly dull. There are a few exceptions; one set-piece, which comes close to achieving what Choi Dong-hoon set out to do, features an army of magically-duplicated Woochis battling a pair of human-clothed goblins, where those involved bounce between neon-lit buildings and dancing fire in a faint ode to The Matrix Reloaded. Magical convenience pops up like this frequently, though, such as nonviolently distracting suit-and-tie thugs and disguising one person with the features of another. The whole thing is a jumble without rules, really -- and that unruliness applies to the action's editing itself, a disorienting array of snippets that very rarely lingers on anything. While occasionally entertaining, the "action" part of the action-comedy is a mess.

Perhaps everything would've clicked better had Woochi himself been a more intriguing cornerstone. Known to most as the stoic, intimidating Sad Eyes from The Duelist, actor Kang Dong-won embodies an overly eccentric hero here who can't be taken very seriously. His smirks, sideways glances, and hocked loogies from under a wide-brimmed black hat make for a peculiar, forced rascal of an antihero, who, despite showing aptitude with a staff and a deck of spellcasting "amulets", doesn't command much of a presence. Sure, that's part of the point: this "resurrected" wizard isn't a champion, instead more of the ancient leftovers reluctantly brought back to life when the situation grows desperate. This nagging hollowness does little to inform his hunt for rat-goblins in modern-day South Korea, though, where the rediscovery of his powers and blossoming love slip through Choi Dong-hoon's fingers as missed opportunities at fleshing out a superior demon slayer.

So, I Reviewed Twilight's Breaking Dawn ... Both Parts

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 15:57:00 +0000

Directed by: Bill Condon; Runtime(s): 117 min; 115 min;
Grade: Part 1 - D; Part 2 -- C

Both ruffling feathers and sending hearts aflutter for over five years, Twilight's contortion of vampire lore finally arrives at an end with a sprawling, teary-eyed two-part finale, Breaking Dawn. Ever a revolving door for directors, but constantly penned by Melissa Rosenberg with the watchful input from the books' author, Stephenie Meyer, the series' quality has rendered an inconsistent train of gratingly passable supernatural romance, overdrawn and dramatically limp when looked at under any kind of inspection. Finishing off the slate of filmmakers brave enough to handle the material is Dreamgirls and Gods and Monsters director Bill Condon, who, based on his experience, knows how to navigate a larger production and handle tricky thematic material. He doesn't make a dent in the perception of the franchise, though, guilty of the same overspent mistakes as those before him as Breaking Dawn's two halves clumsily struggle against one another, one as drawn-out and sugary as a piece of taffy and the follow-up, while an improvement, a little too wacky and overpowered by comparison.

Breaking Dawn: Part 1:

I'll gladly take absurd over bland, though, considering how Condon handles the maturing relationship between a vampire, Edward (Robert Pattinson), and his dutiful human fiancée, Bella (Kristen Stweart). Breaking Dawn: Part 1 doesn't really concern itself with introductions to this story, as it knows exactly who the target audience is for the events to come: those who have read the book and watched the movies, the people anticipating an emotional pressure release once the two are hitched and able to fully "enjoy" one another. There is another component, though, that being Bella's agreement to turn into a vampire in order to complete their union; without transforming, Edward's strength will hinder their intimacy and, obviously, she'll eventually die from old age. Bella wants to hold onto her mortality as long as she can, at least through their honeymoon, which leads to some unfortunate circumstances not unlike those that might arise with normal couples: pregnancy, something thought to be impossible between humans and vampires.

So, yeah. The wedding, the honeymoon, the pregnancy -- and, aside from a little family drama for both Bella and her werewolf admirer, Jacob (Taylor Lautner), that's about it. Breaking Dawn: Part 1 suffers from a case of acute onset dullness due to very little occurring over two hours of laborious swooning in idyllic locations, where a forested wedding and a Brazilian island vacation home play host to drawn-out smoldering and melodramatic bickering that's supposed to communicate a message of enduring, immortal love. Engineered to tickle the fancy of the franchise's longstanding fans, with little regard for pacing as it provokes the senses and begs for teardrops, it's as if we're watching the home movies of a hybrid couple's matrimony as they break beds, wrestle with temptation, and express how profusely they love one another. Playing chess and going swimming provide character-building diversions while they iron out their wrinkles, faint as they may be, though the content tiptoes along an unsavory thematic line when it addresses how Bella "accepts" the way Edward inadvertently harms her during intimate situations.

The frustrating thing about all this romancin' is that it's technically rather competent and judicious with its resources; the production design's blending of computer effects and practical sets sustains a seamless illusion of scattered locations in Forks and Brazil, while Guillermo Navarro's cinematography remains well-composed while weaving between the stalwart couple. It provides the ideal setting for Twilight enthusiasts to get lost in the soapy wish-fulfillment of witnessing Edward and Bella finally advancing their relationship, from that wispy wedding in a nook of the woods to the waterfalls and bedrooms where they flirt with the idea of "going the distance". There's simply no momentum here, though, nothing propelling their isolated time alone, outside of anticipating what could come of Bella's resistance to transforming into a vampire. Fans with weatherworn copies of the books might get wrapped up in the cursory delight of seeing this in motion, but it's a slog on any cinematic plane.

Part 1 only really picks up at the point Bella figures out that she's pregnant while on the honeymoon, which introduces a preposterous but slightly compelling (and unintentionally witty) dose of body horror once the vampire fetus begins to wreak havoc on her body. Visual effects and makeup work dress Kristen Stewart to appear emaciated, unable to support the life growing inside her, and that visual image works while her family and friends -- enter Jacob, who already met his shirt taking-off quota after receiving the wedding invitation -- argue about what to do about the child and how the outside world, namely Jacob's tribe and the Volturi vampires, will tolerate its presence (hint: they won't). The situation transforms into a mess of loopholes, shifting allegiances, and flimsy flirtation with abortion comments that director Condon futilely attempts to shape into something intriguing, where the agreement for Bella to turn becomes crucial to thwarting the dangers. Just when things get halfway "interesting", it frustratingly ends on a cliffhanger ... but, hey, that's what happens when a largely romantic story gets chopped in half at the escalation point, right?

Breaking Dawn: Part 2:

The divide between the two books creates a disproportion of tones between Condon's films, leaving Breaking Dawn: Part 2 with a jarring perspective on Bella -- and her personal life -- that shifts the Twilight Saga from conflicted supernatural romance to essentially The Avengers ... with vampires. You get the idea of what's happened at the end of the previous film, which zooms in on Bella's (Kristen Stewart) revived body to reveal the opening of a blistering red eye. With her new vampiric form comes new abilities: strength, speed, and confidence, to which much of the film focuses on learning about her enhancements. She and Edward (Robert Pattinson) are posed with a situation where her powers will prove useful: they need to gather vampire "witnesses" from around the globe to attest that their hybrid child, Renesmee, isn't a threat, a young bloodsucker without perspective. If they're unable to demonstrate her innocence to the Italian Volturi, then Aro (Michael Sheen) and his minions will be forced to eliminate the young Cullen vampire.

Going back a bit: let's not confuse Bella's "learning" with genuine acclimation, because she's very quick to pick up on the ways of a vampire and toss aside her lost mortality and the need for human blood. In essence, the Bella seen in Part 2 is conveniently nothing like her previous persona; instead of meek and obsessive, she allows herself to be confident and capable with this shiny new skill set. She leaps and sticks landings across vast distances, scales mountaintops with ease, takes vampires down in games of strength and, yes, glitters in the sunlight -- yet, she doesn't experience much of an internal conflict about it all, something handled better in the likes of The Vampire Diaries. Bella has now become a force to be reckoned with, and that's before the Cullen clan plays around with her hidden "gift". Though the transition is filled with textbook superhero triteness, somewhere between Spider-Man and X-Men: First Class, there's something invigorating about this girl shedding her submissiveness and harnessing power.

While Edward and Bella are afforded some alone time to explore the shifts in their lives, notably in their new, cozy cottage that'll probably send fans' hearts soaring, Part 2 largely stays away from calculating romantic melodrama by focusing on self-referential ridiculousness, resolving the peculiar "imprint" situation with Jacob (Taylor Lautner), and convincing the witnesses. To be honest, discovering these new vampires from the corners of Stephenie Meyer's universe offers one of the more interesting, albeit cursory, experiences out of the Twilight woodwork; we get to know lithe, empyreal Northern vampire sisters not unlike the Cullens, while at the same time being able to experience Lee Pace as a Lost Boys-meets-Fright Night brooding revolutionary and a pair of bronze Amazonian mental projectionists. A huge host of characters, from Egypt to Ireland, file into the Forks location to observe Renesmee's lack of imposition, and while their presence feels nothing but forced, the strewn variation of their personalities -- and brand-new faces -- present a welcome change of pace. Speaking of "pace", I'd totally watch a standalone vampire comedy centered on the Pushing Daisies star.

Breaking Dawn: Part 2 can't break the trend of lackluster films in this franchise, though, despite a few intriguing distractions. Limp attempts at humor break up those scenes where Bella learns about her vampiness, screwing with the film's momentum from the beginning. Magic -- yes, superhero-like magic -- enters the picture in a relatively big way, where controlling the elements and manipulating minds clashes with the smaller-scale clairvoyance, shape-shifting, and mood control that has powered the series. An odd effects decision renders most of the shots of Edward and Bella's child when she's young into unconvincing digital manipulations, while the underlying oddness of Jacob's role in her life never really disappears. And murky, convenient plotting merely treads water so that the characters can interact with one another about immortality and love's perseverance. Oddly, it's easier to overlook these things to witness this more amusing and vivacious film of the bunch, largely because it plays fast and loose with its established rules for cinematic shock value.

The biggest shock arrives at the end of Part 2: that massive, relatively grisly battle you've seen in the trailers, pitting the Cullens, werewolves, and foreign covens against the Volturi. Director Condon orchestrated something pretty extravagant here, a big scene in the expanses of snowy wilderness created with practical photography and digital manipulation. Taken purely on its own, it's an exhilarating showdown with mingling superpowers, flying bodies, snarling wolves and mounting danger that takes quite a few risks with the loyal audience's emotional threshold -- a bold, zany way of capping off a saga with little of this kind of larger-scare conflict. Some will find the action a breath of fresh air; other, however, won't be able to hold back some cynicism once this somewhat daring diversion reaches its end. Ending on this note ensures that the Twilight Saga went out with a bang, though, certainly a substantial improvement over the inert blandness of the first half.

Lynskey Says 'Hello', Enlivens Forced Post-Marriage Dramedy

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 06:25:00 +0000

Directed by: Todd Louiso; Runtime: 95 minutes
Grade: B-

The loud sounds of renovation refuse to allow recently-divorced Amy to sleep past noon, so she awakens with a depressed sigh and heads downstairs in her parents' airy, posh house, where she deflects comments about sleeping late and frowns at having to dress up for an important dinner party. It's hard not to feel aggravated with Amy while she's wallowing in these surroundings: she's fallen into a marvelous safety net after getting dumped by her husband, yet she's no closer to moving on than she was when the marriage ended. Hello I Must Be Going understands the way the audience might see Amy; in fact, the script makes a point to spotlight the 35-year-old divorcée's submissive stupor. That doesn't stop Todd Louiso's film from creating an odd but magnetic blend of frustration and compassion, a stably-performed comedy about discovering independence and emotional maturity that's kept at arm's length by a woman's problem-causing decisions.

This distance has nothing to do with Melanie Lynskey, who landed on a starring role that robustly utilizes her talents. Amy is melancholy and desperate as an ex-wife who forgot how things work outside of a marriage; she curses while looking at herself in a dress for the first time in months, while her chat with a high-school acquaintance is appropriately awkward once the conversation veers to marriage and children. The disarming look in her eyes reveals an awkward, spoiled, slight woman flustered by the dialogue inside her head, fluctuating as she maneuvers around sniping from her icy mother (an excellent, serrated performance from Blythe Danner) and her tenderhearted father's (John Rubinstein) solace. Lynskey's presence elevates scenes that would fall flat, granting passes to silly moments involving car sickness and heat exhaustion that feel out-of-place. The movie works because of the sensitivity and unease she brings to it, something typically reserved for her smaller roles like in Up in the Air and The Perks of Being a Wallflower, shaping a sad sack into someone halfway likable.

Amy gets a kick in the pants after locking eyes with someone during the dinner party: a talented young actor, Jeremy (Christopher Abbott, Girls), the son of one of her father's clients. She takes the opportunity to show him around the small Connecticut town, an unspoken form of payback for her parents, which reveals how intriguing of a person he actually is -- and how deprived of passion she is. One thing leads to another, and they develop a more involved relationship on both physical and emotional levels, peppered with a few brief but steamy scenes of intimacy in expected hush-hush locales. Turns out, they're both caught in their own awakenings from emotional isolation, trapped in roles they're playing or have played. What's interesting is that it's not a stereotypical Mrs. Robinson-like situation, where an experienced and assertive older woman controls their dichotomy; it's often the other way around, a more mature version of Good Girl instead of The Graduate and mindful in handling their "taboo" excursions. Amy doesn't have control, and the film's more compelling for it.

Sarah Koskoff's script subverts the audience's expectations by keeping Amy and Jeremy's maturity levels somewhat flip-flopped, and her focus on breaking down internal (dis)honesty while doing so offers something to embrace in Hello I Must Be Going. This is primarily Amy's story of recovery, where she learns about the side of affection she didn't catch, or that she lost, in her marriage, and she endures a lot of ups and downs as life takes her for a few hard knocks and reveals who's waiting on her to grow up. Many of the things that worsen her situation are of her own creation, though, and reveal forced happenstance -- both figuratively and literally catching Amy with her pants down -- for the sake of creating a situational roller-coaster. This can be chalked up to part of the film's point, I suppose, that she's thinking less and acting more as she rediscovers what makes her tick, but some of its success gets lost in a recklessly-contrived rock bottom for her to emerge from.

The chemistry between Melanie Lynskey and the rest of the cast succeeds when the script falters, their talent elevating most of the derivative, unsurprising scenes-- namely a rough last acts that skirts the line of genre convention -- where the writing forces wisdom about individuality and maturity through a clutter of arguments. What's being verbally said matters less and less as body language does the talking, especially that of Lynsky's barefaced reactions to Christopher Abbott's earnest advances. There are moments of true intimacy and wit between Amy and Jeremy as they simply enjoy each other, in contrast with the sternness from her mother for not getting back on track, that compel Hell I Must Be Going towards being something more profound, something with a tighter grasp on self-determination for a divorcée being forced to emerge from her depression. It doesn't quite get there in Amy's moments of catharsis and rejuvenation, despite really wanting to, but at least she's a work in progress who won't be spoiling any other parties anytime soon.

Unfortunately-Titled 'Blair Witch' Knockoff Is, Indeed, 'Hollow'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 14:15:00 +0000

Directed by: Michael Axelgaard; Runtime: 91 minutes
Grade: D

"Found footage" has, for all intents and purposes, become its own genre following the release of The Blair Witch Project roughly fifteen years ago, but none of its entries so obstinately duplicate the one that started it all than Hollow, a British horror-thriller from director Michael Axelgaard. After all, it's not as if the idea of an assortment of friends investigating eerie rural folklore isn't believable, nor is the assumption that they'd come under odds when stranded in the middle of the woods and fleeing from a mysterious force driven by said folklore. This indie, however, embodies everything that knocks the wind out of the genre, a range of criticisms voiced over superior movies of its ilk: shallow and frustrating characters, nonplussed tension, jarring camera movement, and pacing that borders on tedium as the characters navigate through knotted trees and stony ruins.

Matthew Holt's script closely adheres to its precursors: a group of early-twenties friends embark on a vacation to the English countryside, to a small town where folk legends tells of an evil spirit that compels young lovers to commit suicide. The place of their demise is designated by a mammoth, imposing tree with a wide trunk and gnarled branches, beautiful yet unsettling at the same time in its surroundings near a monastery. Drawn out of their vacation routine of booze and socializing, the group -- a do-gooder, Emma (Emily Plumtree); her more rambunctious fiance, Scott (Matt Stokoe); Emma's best friend and not-quite romantic interest, James (Sam Stockman); and a livelier party girl, Lynne (Jessica Ellerby), who has an eye for Scott -- delve more into the stories after stumbling onto information about the lore in their vacation spot. Naturally, what they unearth as they approach the tree and its foreboding surroundings aren't exactly welcoming.

The groundwork for found-footage horror lies in the integrity of the people captured in those discovered recordings, something that the title of this film unfortunately reveals about its characters. Holt's writing renders stiff, unlikable stereotypes that possess deeper emotional connections which get lost in muddled interactions; Emma and James' vague romantic history infuriates more than it intrigues, while Lynne's stereotypical promiscuity and Scott's "athletic" bluster remain nothing short of predictable. It doesn't help that their inane activities revolve more around booze and drugs, where white powder is confirmed to be a hell of a drug and wandering out in the darkness while snorting the stuff probably isn't a great idea. Put bluntly, no emotional connection builds with these people as they venture closer to paranormal danger, their camera nothing but a vacation recorder and a flashlight.

Without that investment in the "searchers", the haunting folklore must shoulder the brunt of the intrigue itself, and there's far less suspenseful exploration of the countryside's yarns in Hollow than needed to sustain interest. The root of the issue lies in the motivation, or lack thereof, behind figuring out what's going on with the tree, the monastery, and the suicides: Emma has a bit of incentive for exploring the legend, but everyone else couldn't be less concerned as they screw around the ruins and get mildly freaked out at fluttering birds and disappearing roadkill. In other second-generation found footage / vérité movies -- [REC], Trollhunter, The Last Exorcism -- there's an inviting, dire magnetism behind discovering what's going on that permeates to those investigating, whereas this concerns itself with limp relationship melodrama that disappointingly lugs the story to its conclusion. Considering the hedonism and scattered sinful connotations that could've made for something more sinister, it's a shame.

As a result, Hollow becomes a tepid stretch of jostled camera footage and yelling, chronicling the tedious psychosis that ensues when these characters finally start caring about the ancient curse when their lives are threatened. Michael Axelgaard's base intentions are indeed admirable -- there's a mildly edg sequence involving a blacked-out, locked-up SUV that tries to rival the tent sequence in Blair Witch -- but the meandering ninety-minute path it traverses saps most of the tension from its endeavors, ending in a wheezing, drawn-out rehash of the genre's tropes that, quite frankly, is foreseeable almost from the start. It's a shame, too: the mammoth tree, the weatherworn ruins, and the curse's flirtations with religious subtext could've dangled out something more unsettling for the audience to absorb. Instead, it's all just as void of scares and substance as the trunk of the tree.

'Chicken With Plums': Fine, Pensive Follow-Up to 'Persepolis'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 18:57:00 +0000

Directed by: Marjane Satrapi & Vincent Paronnaud; Runtime: 93 minutes
Grade: B

Graphic novelist Marjane Satrapi conjured quite a surprise when she adapted her Persepolis books to the big screen, infusing humor with a firm thematic current as she tells her story of life amid the Iranian Revolution through inky-black animation. Again, she pairs with artist and director Vincent Paronnaud to bring another of her books to life: Chicken With Plums (Poulet aux prunes), a live-action tale of a violinist whose will to live has reach a final barline. This isn't as directly personal of a story as Satrapi's first film, lacking the autobiographical notes and persistent hand-drawn artistry; however, melancholy expressions of faded passion replace those missing notes, casting a wider contemplative net about existence in a different sort of fable. It's not as triumphant as Persepolis, scattered in purpose and lacking the soul to embolden its melancholy reflections on death, but it still possesses a moving perspective on the subject that enriches its visual inventiveness.

Musician Nasser-Ali Khan (Mathieu Almaric) has arrived at an impasse: the lifeblood of his musical inspiration, his beloved violin, has been irreparably damaged. He'd like nothing more than to tuck a new instrument under his chin and continue doing what he loves -- which hasn't earned him any income in a long while -- but repeated attempts to play other violins have ended in disappointment and despair, with Nasser-Ali's wide-eyed expression growing more bereft with each attempt. Instead of settling for less and embracing the new, he resigns himself to death; suicide doesn't inspire the respectable side of him, so he decides to simply wither away in a room next door to his frustrated wife, Faringuisse (Maria de Medeiros), and children. During that time, a span of eight days, he undergoes several stages of reflection as his life's experiences play before him, namely the woman whom he once loved, Irâne (Golshifteh Farahani).

The majority of Chicken With Plums occurs either within the space of Nassar-Ali's mind or just outside the walls of his room in the rustic late-50s Tehran atmosphere, where sumptuously-lit photography follows the violinist as he hunts for a new violin and, after, contemplates how his life shall end. Satrapi and Paronnaud envelop his story in playfulness at first, rendering a tone not unlike a fusion of Jean-Pierre Jeunet's work and taste of surrealism a la Fellini. Scenes involving an antique store's dealer and a family dinner reveal a quirky cadence to the dialogue not unlike Delicatessen's or Amelie's, juxtaposed uniquely against images of Nasser-Ali disappearing between a pair of larger-than-life breasts and a satirical take on American TV sitcoms. The co-directors create lyrical fantasy with the violinist's glum contemplations, cleverly weaving his memories -- of childhood, of his past romance, of his forced relationship with Faringuisse -- into an inviting emotional tapestry that possesses some of the soul-searching that bolstered their previous creation.

Satrapi's writing evokes an ample gradient of emotion, which the cast of Chicken With Plums render into lucid, charismatic entities navigating a melancholy basis. Mathieu Almaric has shown comfort in the mental space of an edgy man losing his composure, and it eloquently fills the vessel of the wide-eyed violinist; he fluctuates between Nasser-Ali's vibrant younger years and the weatherworn afterthoughts later on, and he convincingly morphs them into an authentically downhearted bard of meager means. Moments where he handles violins -- such as the defeatist sensation when he "feels" what a new instrument does for him -- are the most potent, revealing the slivers of free emotion that this man of music occasionally allows himself to express. The slight, frustrated appearance of his unloved wife enhances Nasser-Ali's obsession and focus on the past, subtly achieved in the dutiful presence that Maria de Medeiros creates, and the disarming temperament of his long-lost love, Irâne, reveals why in whimsical flashbacks.

It's hard not to feel at arm's length from Chicken With Plums, though, partly due to the inherent design of Marjane Satrapi's story. Gradually, it takes shape into a metaphorical elegy of sorts, where the focus on Nasser-Ali's broken violin becomes a figurative expression of his passion and the futility of replacements. As the days of his life approach an end, underscored by a mythical conversation with the angel of death himself, Satrapi's narrative almost deliberately creates a conflicted sensation over the compassion felt for this man -- a man with a wife and children whom cannot divorce himself from the remnants of passion that crumbled upon his violin's destruction. The co-directors ensure that each expressive scene fits seamlessly with their melancholy purposes, and it's a beautifully-composed articulation of layered poetic intentions, yet that disconnect from the man with shattered enthusiasm renders an absorbing character exploration that, much like Nasser-Ali, can't quite resolve its emotional center.

In So Many Words: 'Skyfall' is My Kind of Bond

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 21 Feb 2013 13:05:00 +0000

Directed by: Sam Mendes; Runtime: 143 minutes
Grade: A-

Quantum of Solace left a bitter taste in many mouths, both casual and die-hard James Bond fans alike; the suave, storied spy had given into vengeance following the death of someone close to him, flinging him between exotic locations in a jerkily-edited blur of rage. Marc Forster's film felt organic in how it allowed a man like Bond to reach that mind-frame, sure, where his emotions cloud his judgment and detach him from personal connection, but this red-eyed loose cannon neglected to latch onto the stuff that distinguishes the character. When early details of the next film began to emerge, that perception didn't improve right away: Bond would swig beer instead of a martini, one of several product placement initiatives in the wake of stalled production, while certain returning characters would be spruced up for a modern era under the helm of American Beauty director Sam Mendes. Therefore, it comes as a bit of a surprise that Skyfall's brisk momentum and inventive composition not only render a dazzling entry into the franchise, it also deftly lures 007 back into familiar territory.

Proof that Mendes has guided the franchise back on track can be found in the opening sequence, an enthralling blitz through Istanbul where Bond -- again played by a weathered, steely Daniel Craig -- and his temp field partner, Eve (Naomie Harris), hunt down a mark carrying a digital registry of undercover MI6 spies. After the chase goes awry, a botched operation under M's (Judi Dench) leadership that puts her under the scrutiny of government chairman Gareth Mallory (Ralph Feinnes), Bond is confronted with the possibility that his skills might be overburdened by his age and ailments, something he's forced to deal with once he learns of a terrorist attack in London. Soon after piecing together that the attack and agent-list theft are connected, 007 gathers his strength and begins the search for the organization's cyber-terrorist leader, Silva (Javier Bardem), in a cloak-and-dagger hunt against the clock that'll take him across Asia and London to preserve the integrity of MI6's operatives hanging in the balance.

One moment during that early Istanbul chase, a scene featured in the trailers, conveys how Skyfall assures those watching that Bond is back in full form: after a train car dismantles behind him, he coolly adjusts the cuffs of his shirt and presses forward. Mendes understand the character's essence that the audience finds compelling, a world of style, spirits, and tech that the British spy navigates in the shadows; yet, the direction here also enables him to cleanly mold this Bond to the rough-and-tumble spy that Martin Campbell established in Casino Royale. Bottles of Heineken and glasses of hard liquor drown him in his downtime, but that doesn't keep him from the opportunity to order his famous "shaken, not stirred" silver bullet while donning a tuxedo. Guns involving fingerprint recognition add a splash of tech whimsy, while an Asian-inspired, orange-hued den of gambling and seductive women (who's the "Bond girl" here, anyway?) perpetuates that familiar tone. Inch by inch, Mendes works the classics into the modernized Daniel Craig universe.

Interestingly, Skyfall works just as well independently as it does as a progression of James Bond's narrative, an intentional choice on Mendes' part. Part of what hampered Forster's entry in the series was how it carried over the events of Casino Royale and focused on personal vengeance, and how losing someone forced the newly-promoted agent into a volatile, melancholy mind-frame. Mendes also incorporates something of a stern pathos to Bond, yet it's not directly dependent on his past actions; he's a weather-beaten, flawed man of espionage who answers the call of duty through several modes of painkiller, whose obligation to country and his "handler" overcome his ailments and nondescript baggage. This is a comfortable arena for the Road to Perdition and Revolutionary Road director, whose shrouded male protagonists often harbor secrets while under transition periods, and his experience shows in a Bond whose skillset conflicts with his years. Driven by a graceful evolution in Daniel Craig's persona, suave, stoic, and prickly at all the right moments, this brand of 007 is in top form here.

Mendes' signature method of storytelling, his methodical visual composition, also achieves the distinctive yet careful perspective that Skyfall needed following Quantum of Solace's erratic jostling. Through cinematographer Roger Deakins' lens, the bath of neon lights in Shanghai and the warm glow of a waterlocked casino in Macau lend it an artful edge; the duo incorporate moving, bright-blue digital signs on the sides of buildings as the background of a tense assassination sequence, then focus on free-floating lanterns, Asian architecture, and dragon statues for sheer exotic pleasure. While these flourishes invoke a bit of abstract vision, Mendes never loses focus on the core forward-moving momentum of the action itself, where each set piece -- motorcycles driving on rooftops, firefights in a city's ruins, sprints through underground London -- sustains a steady-handed demeanor. Skyfall keeps things relatively simple, focused on the proximity of people and the danger that looms amongst them, by sophisticatedly conveying the geography and logic of what's happening in fist fights and foot chases.

The action in Skyfall is, in a word, riveting, both because of its design and the threat driving it. Focused on anarchy in London that's driven by the plotting of a cyberterrorist, this was the second film of 2012 -- and arguably the more successful one -- that aimed to accomplish the confined terror of a city being dismantled from within, along with the dirty secrets of identity used as a bargaining chip. That tension is driven by Javier Barden's Silva, whose flamboyant manner and ruthlessness craft an intriguing villain specialized in the battleground of digital exploitation, a timely issue when considering the likes of WikiLeaks and transparency. And on top of that, there's a compelling anti-Bond element to Silva that gradually materializes, cycling back to James' tangled outlook. Any misgivings about the script written by Bond veterans Neil Pervis and Robert Wade, as well as The Last Samurai writer John Logan, will likely emerge over the similarities between the suspense beats of Silva's machinations with Christopher Nolan's comic-book franchise, despite more hardnosed execution here.

Skyfall's pace affords Mendes the opportunity to realize a pair of clever themes once all is said and done, both of which revolve around the concept of "returning to the basics". There's a line earlier in the film suggesting that even in an age dominated by a digital infrastructure, sometimes there's no escaping the things that must be done in an analog environment -- an idea that comes to fruition in the expanses of a misty Scottish countryside. On top of that, though, we're given a glimpse into the back-history of James Bond that's only been alluded to in text and vague mutterings with Vesper Lynd over wine in a train car, painting a vague portrait of the person who decided to leave his world behind in pursuit of one with little opportunity for identity and attachment. The two intertwine into a conclusion that hinges on classic ingenuity in a tech-based story (with a Peckinpah flair), underscoring the successes of Skyfall in a grand finale that'll convince those watching that the franchise has returned to its roots in a contemporary era, without losing that complex, rough-around-the-edges Bond.

Bassett's Take on Silent Hill 3: Sufferable, But No 'Revelation'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 18:45:00 +0000

Directed by: Michael J. Bassett; Runtime: 94 minutes
Grade: C

So close, within director Michael J. Bassett's grasp, did we come to seeing a substantial adaptation of one of Konami's more intriguing, psychologically twisted entries in the Silent Hill franchise. Memories of early set photos, coupled with a rough synopsis, fueled my interest going into Silent Hill: Revelation, triggering thoughts that they just might get this thing right -- or, at the very least, right enough. Decrepit carnival grounds and rusty corridors would play host to a familiar-named girl wearing an orange hood-shirt underneath a white jacket-vest, riding on the coattails of Christopher Gans' atmospheric and visually ensnaring rebirth, flawed as it may be. Unfortunately, what Bassett has crafted in Revelation speaks to a very narrow audience that'd even meagerly appreciate what's going on: those who dug what Gans' histrionic supernatural preface aimed to do, those familiar with the source, and those who'll tolerate egregious exposition, blatant departures, and limited scares to dig into the coarse, warped world. I kinda fall in that camp.

It's surprising that Bassett chose to adapt the established game so closely in the first place, given how Gans significantly retooled the series' elements into a distinct, detached entry point to the harrowing purgatory of Silent Hill. Instead, after the French director and writer Roger Avary pulled out of the sequel, he worked to mold this specific story into a direct follow-up that would cohesively mesh with the original film. Centering on Heather Mason, the adopted daughter of Harry (Sean Bean) who's suitably embodied by Adelaide Clemens, it chronicles how she's spent her life on the run, which plays into the nightmares that have been escalating in her sleep-state since childhood. They allude to that fog-covered town known as Silent Hill, a place of demons, torment, and disheartening gore, which seems to be beckoning Heather. As time passes, those dreams start to permeate in her awake state, and once her father disappears, she's forced to confront their meaning by returning to the town -- with the help of Vincent (Kit Harington, Game of Thrones), an equally-new student at her school -- in order to find him.

Bassett's attempt to distinguish Revelation as a reverent continuation of the original film with a fan-service kick is commendable, but the inventiveness won't be observable -- or satisfying -- to everyone. Fans might relish how it amalgamates sources by finding ways to incorporate Gans' characters into the roles of Heather and Harry Mason, through forced narrative tricky and suspension of disbelief. From a cinematic standpoint, however, it's pretty unhealthy for the continuation of its even meager storyline; barriers between corporeal and metaphysical worlds are unconvincingly breached, while characters thought to be lost in the ghostly abyss return. Perhaps it might've gone down smoother had Bassett's writing not been laden with persistent, heavy exposition that tries remarkably hard to mask those leaps in the lore, becoming gradually more muddled as it progresses. The mood gets bogged down by explanation, and that's counterproductive to an atmosphere like Silent Hill's that relishes its own vagueness.

Atmosphere, after all, is the backbone to Silent Hill -- the mysterious, psychologically obfuscated realm of limbos and realities -- and it's an area where Revelation fires on all cylinders to replicate the series' strengths within the boundaries of a meager budget. Malls, schools, and hospitals dutifully transmute from sterile environments into a dilapidated maze of rust, flaking walls and eerie mannequins, after Heather navigates through the streets of the town's ashen upper-layer. Proverbial but ensnaring music from Jeff Danna, infused with the legendary work of Akira Yamaoka, bolsters the brooding energy through buzzing lights and twisted wires, bathed in acidic yellows and burnt-orange tones. Barrett uses the environment to cattle-prod the audience with few traditional jump-scares and gory oddities that'll make the fans grin, too, like the surprise appearance of a mannequin with a dead stare and the" true form" of a psychotic man in chains. Silent Hill's attitude looms in this sequel, to a modest degree, but it's less of an ominous spooky atmosphere and more of a jittery, grind-saw furor.

The fact that neither its frights nor metaphysical chills strike the right chords keeps Revelation's potential locked up, though. Sure, sequences feature a black-eyed girl hurling spectral dust with sirens blaring in the background, as well as flesh slivered from a torso and arms lopped off thanks to our old pal Pyramid Head, but their execution feels more like trekking through a token haunted house than absorbing a consistent plunge into madness. Cameos from the series' regulars and new (familiar) faces do little to help that disjointed impression; the likes of Malcolm McDowell and Carrie-Ann Moss, despite their expected gravitas, are wasted in their implementation as the seedy members of a cult populating Silent Hill's bowels. Heather might be descending into an oblique carnival of nightmarish flames, and those with some knowledge of "Silent Hill" might embrace the tone of the loose-end allegory, but it's bound to do little for those wanting to actually satisfy their inner horror hound.

Silent Hill: Revelation eventually closes in on a bit of a stalemate, between a desired outcome and what materializes on-screen. The urge to grasp onto what's here and relish a cinematic version of Silent Hill 3 is palpable; Clemens looks and acts the part well enough, while menacing lighting embraces her white jacket and spiked blonde hair as she navigates the mazes of oblique buildings with a flashlight and pistol. Even as the brooding energy drags her forward, though, and some of those ambiguous components that hallmark the franchise filter into the our vision through a grainy veil, director Barrett's perspective gets lost in convoluted plotting -- yes, even for an entry in this franchise -- that arrive at dull, unchallenging climax that deviates from the grand guignol mindscrew at the game's end. It'd be reasonable to assume that preconceived expectations might be clouding that judgment, but honestly, it's that familiarity with Silent Hill's tenor that'll likely grant one enough tolerance to embrace the few triumphs that emerge from Revelation's dense fog.

Chbosky's 'Perks' Adaptation is Vibrant, Emotional, Reverent

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 17:24:00 +0000

Directed by: Stephen Chobsky; Runtime: 102 minutes
Grade: A-

Since being published in 1999, Stephen Chbosky's "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" has frequently loomed near the top of the ALA's "most challenged books" chart for situations and themes centering on young outsiders, enough to make conservative foreheads sweat. Underneath a sincere exploration of sexuality, drug use, and the grief and depression that fuel suicide, this epistolary coming-of-age story is instead much closer to a comforting embrace than something to fret over; and, really, the "potentially banned" label only strengthens the resolve to seek out stories like this for their candor. The novel maintains a tricky balance while telling high-schooler Charlie's story, between hard-edged honesty and a message of reassurance, which might make it difficult to adapt to film in a way that values the sensibilities of its target audience. Luckily, Chbosky takes the challenge as screenwriter and director here, who welcomes us onto this island of misfit toys in a vivid, infectiously bittersweet adaptation that justly respects his intentions.

Set in the early '90s, the book consists of a series of letters written from the point-of-view of Charlie (Logan Lerman), an incoming freshman in high-school whose best friend committed suicide several months prior. Confiding in a stranger he refers to only as "friend", his letters -- more cathartic than journal entries, click-clacked on a typewriter or handwritten -- reveal his perspective as he tries to acclimate to the change in his life and participate on a social level. Chbosky's film does the same thing, but differently: it's almost as if the mysterious stranger on the other end has visualized his stories in a realistic, mature way as they're reading each letter, essentially presenting us with their interpretation of the setting, characters, and how unspoken events play out. More importantly, it provides a third-person outlook on Charlie's emotional and mental introversion instead of directly within the space of his head, and how it factors into the loss of his aunt Helen (Melanie Lynskey), the only person who's really "gotten" him in his life.

Charlie's experiences largely focus on his leap-of-faith relationship with a group of out-crowd graduating seniors, namely Patrick (Ezra Miller), an ostentatious guy dealing with being gay in a high-school environment, and Sam (Emma Watson), a pixie-haired girl with a past reputation of being a lush -- whom Charlie quickly becomes fond of. The awkwardness of their first encounter, over nachos at a football game, leads into the framework that The Perks of Being a Wallflower relishes: the off-kilter bond that forms as their social circle brings Charlie into their fold while learning to grasp his discomfited mannerisms, driven by discovering music and learning secrets at dimly-lit parties. Alongside that, they also show how Charlie incorporates his social awakening with his mental state outside their circle, namely with his older sister (Nina Dobrev), who dates an overbearing boy with a pony tail, and extracurricular lessons with his literature professor, Mr. Anderson (Paul Rudd), enhancing his writing ability by assigning him books to dissect.

Hazy, resonant photography from Crazy, Stupid, Love cinematographer Andrew Dunn makes the events in The Perks of Being a Wallflower appear as if they're filtered memories of an antiquated time, which make Chbosky's film feel both nostalgic and, in a way, timeless. Contemporary and classic tunes popular in the '90s fill the air in scenes such as where the teenagers hop into a truck bed and glide through Pittsburgh's amber-lit Fort Pitt tunnel as if they're flying, embracing a sense of freedom and abandon as they move from one stage to the next. Scenes at school dances and after-parties feature vérité- lite movement that evokes authenticity, juxtaposed against a few subtle artistic flourishes illustrating Charlie's distorted reality -- either "under the influence" or just caught up in his tumultuous mental state -- that feature blurred motion and soul-thumping beats. It wouldn't be unreasonable to accuse these scenes of being romanticized, especially those where Charlie fixates on Sam, but that's the way recollections often work under a melancholy veil, even in instances where the world turns upside-down.

Chbosky understands the variety of his audience, from young adults currently enduring similar situations to mature viewers with those experiences long behind them, and he finds a way to take the book's edge down a notch so that the material retains its magnificence while avoiding some vulgarity. This isn't an easy task to accomplish, where Charlie's friends rope him into the corset-'n-garter world of Rocky Horror Picture Show and (without pressure) afford him the opportunity to get high. They're central components to this being an honest illustration of his metamorphosis, though, and Chbosky's inexperienced direction handles them in a surprisingly conscientious way, making Charlie a believable, sensitive sponge among his new environment. Naturally, the film lacks certain elements of his character's growth that are more articulate in the book, such as how Charlie uses the contextual knowledge he picks up from the novels he's assigned from Mr. Anderson, but their absence is filled with sequences that emphasize his desperation, intellect, and confusion in other ways.

A huge part of the film's overarching success lies in the chemistry between the actors, and how this assortment of quasi-pariahs and authority figures interact with Logan Lerman's barefaced, heartrending complexity as Charlie. Ezra Miller takes the commanding presence he imparts on the likes of We Need to Talk About Kevin and tempers it with absorbing charisma as Patrick, adding depth and timbre to a gay young adult who's eager to socialize his freshman friend. Paul Rudd's subdued personality works exceptionally well as Mr. Anderson, an observant mentor or sorts, while Mae Whitman (Scott Pilgrim) and Erin Wilhelmi gracefully fill out the rest of their clique as Mary Elizabeth and Alice, whom embolden the background ambience with talk of horror films and philosophy. The wonder of The Perks of Being a Wallflower comes in the tender chemistry between Charlie and Sam, though, where a smashing typecast-bucking turn from Emma Watson meshes with Lerman's uncomfortable infatuation. They're consistent entities whom effortlessly support the film's ideas.

Chbosky's appreciation for the emotional fabric of his characters is observable from start to finish, which makes the times when he underscores harder themes in The Perks of Being a Wallflower -- abuse, grief, loving the wrong people -- all the more poignant. Flashbacks of repressed memories and quick shifts in the group's perception of Charlie escalate into an unpretentious emotional crescendo near the end, gathering the themes addressed across the story into a climax that successfully tiptoes the line between earnestness and melodrama. Part of what's being witnessed here is the metal-testing of a talented could-be author, whose experiences might become the thematic backbone to what he might pen himself in the future. This idea is vibrantly realized as Charlie's story comes to a close; the ache of disappointment, loss of innocence, and an inability to control things takes shape in a moving final expression that, while admittedly seeing things through rose-tinted glasses, articulately brings this reverent-yet-tweaked adaptation full-circle.

James Goes 'Boom' in Affable, Outlandish MMA Comedy

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 15:12:00 +0000

Directed by: Frank Coraci; Runtime: 105 minutes
Grade: C+

Kevin James reteams with director Frank Coraci and the Happy Madison crew for Here Comes the Boom, an underdog comedy about a guy who throws himself into a sport he knows little about for a worthy cause. Before high-tailing it in the other direction due to thoughts of another Waterboy or Zookeeper, which wouldn't be a groundless or entirely invalid assumption, stay for a moment and consider the possibility that the Coraci-James combo might've cooked up something more assured and conscientious here. There's no denying that it's taken to the same worn-out template; screwball slapstick humor in training montages, clumsy flirts between an awkward hero and his appealing love interest, and a clichéd heightening of the stakes near the end give that away. Yet, the noble foundation it's built upon, about sacrificing for children's needs and the threat of academic lethargy in classrooms, allows its reputable charm to take this zany, hot-blooded throwdown in the MMA world up a step.

James, who has trimmed down and beefed up quite a bit through training, plays high-school biology professor Scott Voss, once a lauded teacher who now arrives late, merely tolerates his sessions, and fruitlessly hits on the school nurse, Bella (Salma Hayek). He's confronted with the opportunity to muster some oomph again, though, when the school is forced to make budget cuts -- and one of its central decisions is to remove the $48,000 music department, headed by a gentle, inspiring conductor, Marty (Henry Winkler). After all other options dry up, and after he watches a UFC fight on television where he learns that the loser made $10,000, he cooks up the idea to get in the ring and pull the money together through failed MMA competitions. Scott, once a wrestler in school, enlists the help of an aspiring US citizen, Niko (Bas Rutten), to show him the ropes so that he won't get demolished in the ring. Thus begins the high-school professor's journey into the realm of hand-to-hand cage fighting.

Despite Coraci and James fighting to make Here Comes the Boom as authentic and considerate as possible, it can't avoid hefty, unsurprising contrivances that knock the wind out of the comedy's simulated realness. You get the idea as soon as the music program's budget is cut without any warning to the department; I don't call into question that similar scenarios do occur, but the hastiness of its delivery renders the moment artificial here, an unfortunate turn of events considering it gets Scott's transformative gears turning. The relationship angle between Scott and Bella piggybacks on that too, leading to an awkward non-chemistry only spruced up by Hayek's disarming presence, her flirtations warming as the teacher rediscovers his gusto. An unnecessary subplot featuring his down-and-out handyman brother (Gary Valentine) and his aspiration to be a chef also redundantly underlines the idea of following one's ambition. We get it: It's cool to defeat the odds for personal and interpersonal progress.

But, I suppose there's no harm in aiming big when you're hurling the inelegant, aging Scott Voss into the fray to literally take a beating for the future of his school's extracurricular programs. Here Comes the Boom has a good bit of fun when it plays with the martial-arts content, where cheeky training sessions involving mattress armor and getting clobbered by numerous foes filter into the fights themselves, which are surprisingly rigorous. The humor here doesn't generate raucous laughs, even moments that probably should; the battles occasionally spark a few chuckles, such as an impromptu fight in the rain and the after-effects of eating old applesauce, but they mostly emphasize Scott's fish-outta-water ungainliness while tumbling around the ring. With that, some restraint can be seen in Coraci's direction, treading the line between common sense and whimsy through well-composed, occasionally gruff competition. No delusions involving multiple Winklers singing "Water Sucks!" on the heads of football players, instead replaced by the twitchy training of an MMA veteran, one-punch knockouts, and the unspoken humor behind a stocky teacher brawling against seasoned fighters.

The urge to cry foul on the unlikelihood of Here Comes the Boom partly surrenders to its noble intentions, where the invigorating tones that driven films like Warrior are repurposed into an optimistic lark about preserving our schools' enrichment and bolstering those stuck in the doldrums. Gloomy blues and oranges in Phil Meheux's cinematography rejuvenate into vibrant, hopeful colors as Scott wrestles closer to his goal, and while very little isn't predictable -- where Scott's headed, where his relationship with Bella is going, and that the stakes will embellish out of control for dramatic effect -- that doesn't stop Kevin James from charmingly pushing forward in an rousing rush of blood and sweat. That gain in both visual and emotional escalation comes at the expense of common sense; the final act ditches most of the realism left for a helping of rip-roaring gratification. Alas, it's difficult not to suspend disbelief and cheer for the reawakened warrior educator, despite having awareness of the situation's absurdity and acknowledging that it missed an opportunity to become something greater.

Korea's 'Thieves' a Lively Emulation of the Ocean's Formula

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 13:45:00 +0000

Directed by: Choi Dong-hoon; Runtime: 135 minutes
Grade: B-

Sometimes, despite looking like it'll go one way within genre conventions, a movie surprises those watching with how it diverts from expectations; other times, it's shocking to see how tightly one might mirrors its influences. The Thieves garners both impressions: most of Choi Dong-hoon's film acts as if Stephen Soderbergh remade his remake of Ocean's Eleven through a proxy for the Korean market, then late in the game departs from its expected framework before it grows too familiar. No shortage of exhilarating, eye-grabbing filmmaking will be found in this by-the-numbers heist thriller; safe dials spinning, bodies rappelling down an apartment, and quick cuts between operation-prep scenes craft it into a modish display of what makes this one of cinema's most enduring genres. There's simply little ground here that hasn't been retreaded many times over, and despite charisma, polish, and an infectious momentum, it doesn't amount to much more than a routine character caper -- albeit, a rather entertaining one.

With the police hot on their trail following a long-con operation to procure a specific piece of art, a pack of high-caliber thieves -- led by a young but seasoned pro, Popeye (Lee Jung-jae, Typhoon) -- answer the call for a job in Macau in order to let the tension in Korea simmer down. The job, orchestrated by Popeye's defunct partner, Macau Park (Kim Yun-seok, The Chaser), involves combining two forces: the Korean crew and a cluster of equally-talented thieves from China, led by the graying veteran Chen (Simon Yam). Their directive involves breaking into a fairly high-security casino in order to snatch a diamond from its vaults, which might prove difficult considering the vast loyalty issues between both sides; while obvious distrust looms between two clusters of thieves whom don't know each other, there's also internal unrest within each one. As tensions mount and D-Day quickly approaches, they'll have to stomach each other's idiosyncrasies and flaws in order to nab their $20million jackpot.

The thieves themselves take center stage, naturally, establishing an atmosphere of stratagems and second-guessing as their actions bare their moral standpoints, motivations, and impulses while they're burrowed in their hideouts. Choi Dong-hoon juggles a bevy of shifting character types -- dueling female rogues, a wire expert (Gianna Jun) and a safe cracker (Kim Hye-soo), competing for superiority; aging veterans Chewingum (Kim Hae-sook) and Chen wanting to get out of the game; and a dense dullard and a much-younger upstart -- as they serve their purposes, weaving a varied tonal fabric that underscores the weatherworn "honor among thieves" concept with bickering and grandstanding, hefty drinking and happenstance romance. Flashbacks also offer glimpses into the ways that some of them once knew each other, the backstabs and romances drenched in steely-styled cinematography, portraying a clear emotional arc as the day draws nearer. There's a lot going on, at times excessively so, and some of those connections get lost in a tangle of crossed wires.

Choi Dong-hoon's perspective on the casino caper itself is polished, methodical, and candidly exhilarating, yet it also lacks the diversity from its Western contemporaries to distract from its doting rhythm. Glossy modernized photography captures bleeding yellow lighting and the sleek metal sheen on gears and dials, framing safe-crackers and pistol-wielders in an ultra-modern aesthetic that doesn't linger long enough on the rogue's gallery to label a hero among them. Its familiarity doesn't go unobserved, however, since every step of The Thieves reveals page after page taken from Soderbergh's playbook, from the diversions and meetings prior to the heist to the hot-potato editing between brisk moments. The momentum it generates largely masks these concerns, though; the context, offhand humor, and empathy imparted by the rogues themselves shape the thrashing twists and turns into bracing chartbuster entertainment. But a pronounced sense of déjà vu eases up little amid the bustle.

That is, until The Thieves plays its hand. Eventually, Choi Dong-hoon adopts a cavalier attitude with the caper's trajectory, not only leaving the audience uncertain of where the outcome will arrive, but also who will make it out of the deadly chase at all. The shaky camaraderie among the rogues becomes ripe for moral grayness and cutthroat scheming, unraveling in a volatile, noticeably more stark fashion that doesn't shy away from death or allowing none of its characters to appear virtuous. Again, though, the plotting grows too convoluted for its own good; a blur of car crashes, gunfire, face prosthetics and back-alley dealings destine this heist-thriller to remain obfuscated by its own mundane maze of details, more compelled to knee-jerk reactions than confidently sticking the landing. The unraveling of Choi Dong-hoon characters takes precedent here, though, the roguish sarcasm and inner turmoil embracing his stylized outlook on a weatherworn genre. Danny Ocean's crew this isn't, but they get the job done.

Old-School 'The Awakening' a Rustic, Chilling Ghost Tale

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 15:32:00 +0000

Directed by: Nick Murphy; Runtime: 107 minutes
Grade: B-/C+

The paranormal mystery genre, whether it'd like to or not, trains moviegoers to recall those among its ranks that they've seen, and to decipher the mysteries lurking in the dusty, decrepit corners of eerie environments before they happen. Now, the only way the formula can work lies in the material's willingness to push boundaries beyond the foreseeable, or, perhaps, with execution so confident that those watching simply forget they've endured this nerve-testing experience before. In the midst of cracked, emotionless gray walls and ominous lighting in post-Victorian England, Nick Murphy's The Awakening aims for confident execution of familiar spook tactics and twists over innovation. Yet, it also shapes those on-edge characters navigating an empty British boarding school -- especially the role given to the talented Rebecca Hall -- into unique presences by exploring their psychological state, the reasons they are the way they are. While not altogether successful, with drabness fogging more than its atmosphere through BBC-heavy mannerisms, it's a eerie little supernatural drama in which old-fashion directives supersede its familiarity.

Interestingly, The Awakening touches on similar ideas to Rodrigo Cortés Red Lights (both released in close succession), about a stony, tormented ghost debunker confronted with a situation that demands reevaluation of their beliefs -- and rethinking their fear of the unexplainable. Director Murphy's film, which handles that material in a more absorbing analog environment, takes us back to early-1900s, post-WWI England, where author-detective Florence Cathcart (Hall) answers a call to a boys' boarding school to investigate a death believed to be caused by a ghost. Cathcart, regarded as a sensible but astute pro who assists local police with quashing fraud, navigates the mansion-turned-school with relatively lo-fi tools: space thermometers, atmosphere barometers, trip-wire cameras and bells. Her sharpest tool is her analytical capability, the ability to see a charade, as well as how she can shut out panic in somewhat alarming situations; she's met, however, with questions about the eerie happenings that don't add up by her scientific standards.

The screenplay, written by Murphy and Stephen Volk, diverts little from standard haunted-house fare in its plot: Florence is persuaded to journey out to the countryside, through curiosity and emotional provocation from a weathered war veteran-turned-teacher, Robert (Dominic West), to pull the curtain back on the ethereal figure that appears in a series of class photographs. Once she's there, the mood gradually rises as she coyly moves about the spacious, rigid school environment, complete with a persnickety housekeeper (Imelda Staunton) and a rifle-toting groundskeeper (Joseph Mawle) who shoots shifty glances in her direction, creating a sense of unease around the typically steely-nerved hoax-killer. These are old, rusty devices with obvious purposes, somewhere between a mystery novel and a campfire tale, yet even the aged creakiness of their familiarity casts a faint spell of foreboding as the camera follows Florence between stuffy rooms. Director Murphy doesn't camouflage the familiarity either, instead embracing scenes of scolded children and voyeuristic snooping through cracked walls.

Eventually, the gloomy daytime sequences surrender to the darkness of night, allowing The Awakening's bucolic corridor-to-corridor tension to mount through unsurprising but well-telegraphed trembles of measured atmosphere. Standard accoutrements of the genre are present and accounted for; violins begs for hairs to rise, creaks and clicks of wood echo in vast darkness, and a dollhouse eerily mirrors the onlookers in the stillness of night. The film's artful cinematography, full of lamp-lighting and worn walls that underscore the school's age, dresses these sequences in a curiosity that the daylight moments could've benefitted from, where that dreary-gray staleness dampens the impact that could've furthered enlivened Florence's exploration of those shadowy extremities. Granted, those base sensory jolts driven by ghostly faces do succeed when the film needs a tingle, while those that populate the school -- troubled boys and adults alike -- are viewed suspiciously by our skeptic afterwards. While the likes of The Woman in Black and The Others easily edge it out in aggression and atmosphere, there's something to admire in its restraint.

The Awakening's most compelling trait can be found in the progression of Florence's grip on her fear, and how Rebecca Hall lets the calculated, stalwart character weaken. She stalks the school at first as a truth-seeker whose unshakable resolve allows her to conquer shadows, someone who simply doesn't believe in things that go bump in the night. With lamp light bathing her thin frame, she effortlessly bolsters the persona of a science-minded atheist; however, as Florence laments the death of her soldier husband and gets lost in some of the building's unanswerable questions, she crumbles under the weight. Hall's performance emboldens the pensive moments of psychological defeat and longing for affection -- the stillness of a bath; the sensation of a hand on her shoulder; the feeling of being watched -- which attempt to interact with the eeriness of ghosts, be it literal or figurative, that populate the school's byzantine architecture. Her chemistry with the remainder of the cast stays at arm's length, aside from Robert, but that's largely by design.

Alas, naturally, an entry in this genre can't seem to escape the obligation for a grand perspective-shifting twist -- or twists -- nowadays, to liven its intrigue and encourage repeat viewings. The Awakening is no exception: in the midst of spinning barometers and shifts in temperature, details unravel in a weighty connection-of-dots that, despite being largely similar to others of its ilk, fights through implausibility towards a convincing catharsis for Florence. Whether Hall's performance is responsible for that or not I can't be certain, but her fraught presence becomes crucial as the film descends. Are Murphy and Volk's array of curtain-pulls successful in their endeavors? Only partly; there's a point where invigorating shifts in observation bleed into the realm of personal interpretation with what exactly happened on the school's grounds, as well as unnecessary grand guignol undertones that don't do the film any favors by attempting to one-up its contemporaries. Though, I do dig the subtlety behind paying attention to something like a passed cigarette as a focal point for 11th-hour interpretation.

Not Enough Gears, Gravitas in Superfluous 'Tai Chi Zero'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 15:35:00 +0000

Directed by: Stephen Fung; Runtime 105 minutes
Grade: C

Overclocked and underperforming -- really, that's the best description I can think of for Tai Chi Zero, the recent martial-arts adventure from House of Fury director Stephen Fung. Branded as a "steampunk king-fu throwdown" in its most prominent trailer with twirling gears, violent mechs, and extensive brawls boasting a vigorous fantastical journey into a cross-bred environment, the film presented here instead hybridizes and juxtaposes with other, lesser ideas in mind, trying much too hard for its own good. Essentially, it's a representation of a creative brain infused with too much caffeine, where a clutter of outside-the-box ideas inspired to combine video games, anime, and cinema surrender to a dearth of substance powering them. Rendering a film hesitant to decide on the tone it wants to achieve and void of the base diversions-value needed to hold one's attention while observing the chaos, this unfortunately isn't the bracing, inventive rush of Asian filmmaking one might expect.

Tai Chi Zero doesn't waste any time losing itself in the excess, either. After an unfocused beginning where slow-motion brawls set to heavy-metal music coexist with an overlong silent-movie-inspired backstory, the story eventually restrains itself a bit once we've learned about Lu Chan (Yuan Xiaochao), an orphan with a pressure-point on his head that transforms him into a furious warrior who mimics the kung-fu tactics he observes. There's a drawback: every time he's had this point "activated", and it's been frequent given his place among a military faction, his life's essence has been lowered. To counterbalance this, Lu Chan must travel to a village nestled in the heart of a mountain range, the Chen Village, to learn a specific kind of kung-fu that soothes his internal energy and might keep him alive through practice. The village, however, doesn't allow outsiders to learn their craft, forcing Lu Chan to get creative with his pursuit to learn. But once the village comes under attack by a steam-powered machine, he might prove more useful than they're willing to admit.

Tai Chi Zero becomes all about how its visual method shapes the film's tone, and it's quite unruly. Big, bold descriptions of the characters (and actors!) and their fighting styles, blipping health bars, and vibrant fighting-game graphics are easy reminders of the pop-culture dressings that were impressively realized in Scott Pilgrim vs. The World<, which were pertinent to that specific story. Here, those visual elements -- futuristic circles and curved lines underneath feet mid-battle, graphical animations overly inspired by Adobe Illustrator techniques, and a literal "Bam!" here and there -- feel out-of-place and superfluous against a transitory Chinese countryside on the cusp of industrialization; in fact, as we eventually learn, they're fighting against industrialization. Stephen Fung clearly wants to achieve vibrant and cheeky tones that butt heads with the setting, akin to something between Detective Dee and Kung-Fu Hustle with an underdog-turned-champion, but these tactics distract far more than they intrigue (and that's coming from someone who really digs Hausu).

Perhaps it's because these overt tricks add flash where more appealing, tangible elements -- namely the steampunk-infused aesthetic and brisk martial-arts brawls -- would've felt more suited for Tai Chi Zero's purposes. Aside from the opening scene, which does feature some fairly hard-hitting fight sequences (accompanied by jarring heavy metal music), the fisticuffs Stephen Fung drops into the film center on Lu Chan's semi-pacifistic battle through the townspeople, including tofu choppers and young girls, so he might earn their respect and allow him to learn their fighting style. While this rhythm could evoke hard-hitting martial arts, that's not the case here; they're semi-graceful, mostly void of firm aggression, and altogether not very entertaining when they're broken up by limp, buzzed humor. Instead of persistent battles in an environment of spinning mechanics and billowing steam, it's a fanciful underdog story focused on preserving the seclusion of a self-sufficient, non-mechanized town and its martial-arts secrets -- which would've been great, if handled differently.

Of course, one might need to understand that Tai Chi Zero intends on being the starting point for a trilogy, which very well could delve deeper into those things lacking from this installment. However, this story of isolation and industrialization, and an outcast from the town who evolves into a villain concerned with those matters, doesn't work as a standalone piece of work due to its scattered focus and waning narrative. Stephen Fung's willingness to apply off-the-wall components to his film deserves some endorsement, along with keeping his ducks in a row while doing so; however, the rush of visual invention wears off, quickly, the rich photography and intricate production losing their ability to mask the capricious storytelling underneath. And when a preposterous conclusion attempts to replace common sense and momentum with flying vegetables and fickle melodrama, all the health bars, beautiful women, and explosions in the world won't prevent some from wishing it were more of a rough-and-tumble, steampunk throwdown than it ends up being.

Classic Musings: The Duellists (1977)

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 14:20:00 +0000

The Duellists' path to realization is an easy and logical one to follow: after thumbing through public-domain material to adapt and landing on a Joseph Conrad short story, Ridley Scott -- then an experienced commercial director -- took around a million dollars to emulate the tone and visual style of Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon but with his own, distinctive outlook. He made the most of every penny by relying on impressive on-location structures, hiring the right actors, and concentrating on the accuracy of costumes and fighting maneuvers for his Napoleonic-era depiction of two soldiers' duels across the French countryside, taking place over several decades. Surprisingly, what Scott ended up with in his first feature film remains one of his most versatile and time-withstanding pieces of work: an enthralling assessment of both the import and vainness of honor amongst men that's heightened by staunch adherence to historical precision, and an early expression of the visual storyteller's ingenuity.

Joseph Conrad's story has roots in true events about two French soldiers, whose rivalry spurned from a hot-headed duelist's challenge to his prominent comrade for delivering a message he didn't find favorable. As expanded upon in Scott's film, the message was over a lopsided duel instigated by Lieutenant Gabriel Feraud (Harvey Keitel) that nearly killed a family member of the mayor of Strasbourg, and the reprimand delivered to Feraud by Lieutenant Armand d'Hubert (Keith Carradine). This simple act, coupled with Feraud's thirst for swordsmanship and quick-tempered judgment against d'Hubert, leads to a series of duels spanning fifteen years in the early 1800s and between several different European battles, with the two soldiers scaling military ranks at a nearly-even pace. With every new station and every battle fought, however, the rivalry -- one that becomes storied among soldiers and townsfolk -- perseveres; not over what caused it, but for the pure back-and-forth damage to their honor that results.

Significant events happen around Feraud and d'Hubert, bookended by the rise and fall of Napoleon's reign in itself, but Gerald Vaughan-Hughes' screenplay for The Duellists revolves about the physical and mental duel itself, and how it impacts those around them. That tunnel-vision focus on their contention emphasizes an intentional subtext: as major events occur, changing the face of their country and the ones they love, a petty war of personal dominance -- instigated by Feraud, tolerated or avoided by d'Hubert -- remains a central feature as they grow into weathered, prominent officers of disparate dogmas. Obviously, their prowess over one another doesn't directly determine their importance outside the duel, but it endures so long as Feraud's ideal of honor feels threatened by the actions of d'Hubert. Vaughn-Hughes' dialogue, bolstered by Scott's keen eye for the versatile morality of his characters, renders this obsessive tug-of-war into an intriguing challenge of the psyche and spirit of men.

The duel scenes themselves aren't elegant displays. Gorgeously photographed by Frank Tidy against rich location shots that feature breathtaking weathered structures across the French countryside (and other locations), these aren't fights featuring mythical duelists, but flawed men embodying the role of opponents. Despite proper fencing stances and occasional grace given authenticity by the guidance of fight choreographer William Hobbs, they're full of missteps, blood, and self-doubt that nail down the veracity of how they play out. The collective choice between Scott and

his actors to use heavy steel sabres instead of quicker parrying rapiers, a tactic to stay relevant to the era, gives those scenes weight, where the clang of those blades and how it impacts the actors' movement enhance the power, danger, and exhaustion intended. These are observable precursors to the visceral force Scott conveys within his more successful films, and they're impressively enhanced by straightforward, budget-minded decisions.

Director Scott allows The Duellists to dig into a psychological space by navigating those fundamental differences between the duelists themselves, and how they reflect on the different sides of those that cross swords. Possessing a vague history outside of being a commoner-turned-soldier who fought his way up, Feraud's bloodlust and unquenchable desire to conquer shape him into a browbeater custom-made for the duel; Harvey Keitel's intense presence, with the fiery spirit he brought to Martin Scorsese's earlier work, emboldens that perspective. Conversely, d'Hubert possesses aristocratic roots and graduallt progresses towards an obligated fixation on his opponent, and how the bind to honor intrudes on his life's impetus; Keith Carradine's projects easy charm and burdened rigidness through those traits. Both allow the duel to consume parts of them in different ways -- one shackled by his own fury, the other avoiding or preparing for the ongoing conflict -- and Scott relishes that obsession as the world progresses around them.

And progress it does. The Duellists' scope allows their rivalry to crop up under different contexts of the men's lives, especially concerned with d'Hubert's struggle to cope with his constant squabble with Feraud alongside his military and romantic endeavors, featuring a sensual, wonderful performance from Diana Quick as his lover at arm's length, Laura. Surprisingly, by way of Scott's direction, this depiction harnesses an everlasting property when contained by the two men's obfuscated perception of honor, where its rich visual presence commands a specific tone as they trade blows in foggy forests, sun-drenched stone alcoves, and ultimately a breathtaking sprawl of damp, fiddly ruins. This is a sensory piece of filmmaking, there's no denying that, where drenched blood and sweaty, stern-eyed glances convey the mannered evolution of these duelists with every instance they survive yet another encounter. They're different men every time, yet they can't seem to pry themselves from this habitual internal war they've lost perspective of over the years.

Loopers, Wallflowers, and Tigers: The Best of 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 17:25:00 +0000

Time-travel, philosophy, social outcasts, sexual awakening, and fighting against oppression were the key themes taken away from 2012's best cinema: a varied, rich smorgasbord of topics to explore and relish across several variations of the medium. It's been a particularly strong year for storytelling; original scripts have taken familiar ideas and given them a captivating new presence, while adaptations of books, plays, and historical events showcase labored-over details and satisfying focus on familiar entities. Below are my picks for the ten most prominent films -- and a particular video game -- that I'll be taking away from the year, which I've arranged in alphabetical order since I'm not very keen on arbitrary numerical ranking.

Although, the one at the top of the list does fit there quite nicely.

Argo
If you would've told me several years ago that Ben Affleck would evolve into a hot-topic director, whose films would become appointment-worthy at release, I probably would've questioned your sanity. Then, Gone Baby Gone happened, working its intense magic through a captivating adaptation of Dennis Lehane's child-kidnapping novel, and The Town's exhilarating emulation of Heat filtered through Chuck Hogan's crime story squeaked it into the spotlight for awards. Argo, Affleck's depiction of the "Canadian Caper" in which six American diplomats were evacuated during the '79 Iran hostage crisis, furthers that perception through his most polished and intense film to-date. Gritty '70s visual aesthetics follow Tony Mendez as he creates a fake science-fiction film production as their cover, and the tension it generates -- both for the audience watching and about the situation during the time-period, while creatively adhering to the real-life events -- is a blinding accomplishment.

Django Unchained
Quentin Tarantino pulled something off with his slavery-revenge western that should've been expected, I suppose, but it's still surprising. Equally over-the-top and bracingly violent as it is shrewdly crafted and flawless in tempo, it's a mythical depiction of a "freed" slave (Jamie Foxx) and his liberating bounty-hunter "owner", Dr. Schultz (Christoph Waltz), as they journey across the American landscape to satisfy contracts and unshackle Django's wife from the clutches of a lavish plantation runner (Leonardo DiCaprio). Tarantino's script, blending odes to classic westerns with his signature dialogue and razor-sharp humor, shows incredible awareness of the line separating what's acceptable and offensive for a fantastical folk tale like this. Coupled with a perfectly-timed performance from Christoph Waltz as the hilarious, morally-gray bounty hunter and captivatingly shot by Robert Richardson to create a painterly-yet-granular mosaic of images, and you've got the consistent components of a great Tarantino film in distinctive, daring context.

Les Miserables
I dreamed a dream that Tom Hooper's adaptation of the popular Broadway musical, about love and torment amid revolution-driven France in the 1800s, would be reverent and robustly performed while making enough unique decisions -- both visually and dramatically -- to pave way for its own distinctiveness. He didn't disappoint: the key feature, the live-recorded vocals, nudge its presence as close to a hybrid of stage and film as possible; the textured, complex production design evokes a strewn emotional mosaic across the alleys, apartments, and other cluttered corners of France, heightened by close-ups that underscore the scenes' intimacy; and the embodiment of the characters, barring a few questionable casting choices (no, not Russell Crowe's underappreciated earthiness as Javert), harness the essence of the musical with entrancing, lavish melodrama. The show-stealer here, however, is Anne Hathaway, whose rendition of "I Dreamed a Dream" shouldn't be viewed without a tissue handy.

Life of Pi
I have just one issue with Ang Lee's adaptation of the wonderful book by Yann Martel. The source material's themes, in my experience, revolve around general faith in things that cannot be directly seen or proven, while the film concentrates a bit more on how that pertains to belief in higher beings and religion. Those who haven't read the book might not comprehend the significance of what that implies: this is an improbable story about a teenage boy who spends a very, very long time stranded on a small boat, and an adjacent makeshift raft, with a live and hungry tiger attempting to claim its territory. The intimate relationship Pi develops with his ferocious passenger, Richard Parker, should've be unable to be captured on film; however, not only do the visual effects in the film make it happen, but the intuitive performance from Suraj Sharma convinces on more than a few levels. The visual artistry is brilliant, the themes elegantly realized, and the respect paid to Martel's intentions for this journey are spot-on.

Looper
This isn't what I envisioned of a time-travel movie from the director of Brick and The Brothers Bloom, and obviously that's meant in a good way. Rian Johnson's brain-child, about hitmen who kill wrongdoers from the future by way of time-travel devices that shoot them to the past, is a violent, gritty, artistically alluring slice of science-fiction that doesn't shy away from either moral complexity or flickers of philosophical contemplation about the nature of choice. The director's brand of humor is restrained, but present; the dialogue stylized, but organic; the tone bleak, but not nihilistic. And the notion of one of these loopers -- played exquisitely by Joseph Gordon-Levitt as he purposefully channels a young Bruce Willis -- must eventually kill his future self in order to "close the loop" sounds like a hokey idea, but Johnson's steady-handed direction authenticates the idea within the grimy, desperate framework of the future he's crafted.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Tracking the internal development of outsiders through high-school has been a focus in cinema for quite some time, but it's not something easily undertaken when trying to both speak to a generation and sustain a timeless presence. Writer/director Stephen Chbosky accomplishes this rather well by adapting his own book to film, and his passion for the material is apparent every step of the way. He understands the mental fabric of a brilliant teenage writer (Logan Lerman) who, while coping with the suicide of his best friend, clumsily integrates into high-school's newness, where his stiff, quiet personality only meshes with those who don't misinterpret him. Enter the elder wallflowers, and where emotional rawness becomes the film's cornerstone; Charlie acclimates to infatuation, disappointment, and things that cannot be controlled, bolstered by exceptionally-rendered quasi-pariahs -- notably a complex, typecast-bucking turn from Emma Watson as Sam -- whom guide and truly embrace Charlie as he comes of age in his adamant mental environment.

Safety Not Guaranteed
Time-travel movies almost always find a spot in contemporary cinema. However, they've recently seen a real surge in popularity, and they aren't purely using time-travel as some perfunctory plot device. Instead, they're exploring the evolving mental state of the believers, as well as the cynics who don't buy into the fantastical ideas of time-travel being capable. One of the best as of late is Safety Not Guaranteed, an indie comedy-drama about a group of Seattle reporters -- actually, a reporter and his two interns -- who answer an ad someone placed in the newspaper for a partner to travel back in time. One of the interns, played by up-and-comer Aubrey Plaza, builds a kinship with the guy preparing for his time-travel voyage, creating this involving relationship between melancholy souls who really do want to go back on a mission to make things better. Cleverly written and organically funny, and not without a few tried-and-true surprises, it's an affective, idiosyncratic, and exceptionally put-together gem.

The Sessions
In May of 1990, Mark O'Brien, a polio survivor and poet mostly paralyzed from the neck down, published an article entitled "On Seeing a Sex Surrogate", chronicling his experience with a specific kind of sexual therapist as a way of experiencing the act before he dies. For me, the only way for a movie about this to actually work -- outside of a documentary, such as "Breathing Lessons" -- is with an assertive current of humor and extra helpings of heart, which Ben Lewin understood while directing The Sessions. John Hawkes brings O'Brien to life as a witty, charming guy with a conflicted but optimistic viewpoint of the world, allowing his thin frame and transformed demeanor to authentically present his sexual curiosity. The real surprise here, however, is Helen Hunt, who embraces the role of Cheryl, the sex surrogate, with emotion honesty filtered through a conflicted demeanor and tweaked accent. The synergy between their performances creates a breathtaking, deeply-felt expression of forcing yourself to break through boundaries, and, of course, of the bonds that form when they're least expected.

Silver Linings Playbook
Don't trust the advertisements for David O. Russell's latest film, adapted from Matthew Quick's heartening chronicle of depression and dysfunctional families. It projects the attitude of a daft, by-the-numbers rom-com, the story of a guy who, following a stint in a mental institution after beating his wife's extramarital lover nearly to death, rediscovers his self-worth through a quirky girl and a dance competition. One might be surprised to discover exactly how incisive, raw, and blisteringly affective it can be, where Russell gets his hands dirty with two damaged and confused individuals in the process of confronting their illnesses. Bradley Cooper is excellent as the delusional guy who can't let go of his wife, sure; however, it's Jennifer Lawrence's deep-cutting, uncompromising, sexually-charged presence as Tiffany that'll blindside those watching. Occasionally effective humor about football's lunacy and physical hostility are welcome reliefs, but the honesty about depression and the lingering enrichment growing around those two psyches are what defy misconceptions.

Skyfall
Quantum of Solace was an ... unusual entry in the new James Bond franchise, essentially sending the storied spy careening through overly-frantic action scenes as a revenge-seeking, emotionally-bruised brawler. What the series needed was a return to form, both to Casino Royale and to the classic panache of the character himself, as well as steady composition and an eye for style. Sam Mendes, whose direction here isn't unlike that of the intensity of Road to Perdition and the firm, intimidating drama of Revolutionary Road, proves to be the idea director to get Bond back on the tracks. Following a spellbinding introduction that makes Skyfall's fierce presence known right off the bat, the story weaves through Bond's internal pathos as an aging agent as he tracks a high-profile computer anarchist (a great role for Javier Bardem) who's threatening to expose the morally-gray innards of MI6 for the world to see. Matched with Roger Deakins' brilliant photographic eye as he navigates both industrial and rustic landscapes, Mendes' direction transforms this Bond into a perfectly-paced, topical, and completely enthralling installment.

Honorable Mentions

Most Disappointing: Prometheus
Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed Ridley Scott's return to his beloved universe. I really did. He's a remarkable visual storyteller, evidenced all the way to his premiere feature film, The Duellists, while the screenplay he's navigating is an ambitious one that explores the origin of humanity in a lavish, stark science-fiction setting. Toss-backs to classics of the genre are scattered throughout, the cinematography and production design captivate in their intricacy, and the questions Scott poses to his audience involve some outside-the-box interpretation and concept-chewing while wrapping their minds around Michael Fassbender's tremendous performance as David. But for every intriguing question it asks, it either neglects to answer another or, even worse, expresses moments of immersion-breaking idiocy. As a result, Prometheus ends up being an aesthetically spellbinding exercise of wobbly B-movie sci-fi, but the man who concocted Alien and Blade Runner is capable of something far, far more coherent and convincing with a film exploring the nature of existence. Of course, in the past he wasn't operating with a script (re)written by LOST's Damon Lindelof, either.

Best Video Game: The Walking Dead
The knee-jerk reaction to Telltale's recent tie-in game likely isn't very favorable: at a point when we're experiencing an overabundance of zombie stories, this game might appear to be an undead killing spree engineered to mindlessly capitalize on the success of AMC's popular television show. Instead, what the writers have done here not only stands toe-to-toe with the series' emotional impact, they exceed it. Taking place in Robert Kirkman's post-epidemic universe but involving (almost) none of the same characters, The Walking Dead tracks the activities of Lee Everett, a convicted killer whose trip to prison was interrupted by the undead, and the protective bond he builds with Clementine, a young girl whose family has been lost in the chaos. Trading egregious head-shots and grotesqueries for morally-gray dialogue and tough choices, shaping our perspective and the characters' temperament in ways more like a fusion of point-and-click Sierra adventures, Heavy Rain, and a BioWare game, it becomes a heartrending and brutal exercise in preserving the humanity of those traveling through south Georgia's zombie-infested wasteland. And with a conclusion that made me weep like a baby, I suggest those who argue that video-games cannot be art to experience this.

Best Blu-ray Release: Rosemary's Baby
I doubt humanity will ever get so technologically and medically refined where mothers won't be at least moderately fearful of pregnancy's involvedness, but even if that day comes, Rosemary's Baby will still induce shivers and squirms. The story's ominous atmosphere preys on fear driven by inexperience and a desperate willingness to trust, where a young pregnant housewife follows the counsel of doctors and friends alike who might not have her best interests at heart. With a backdrop of witchcraft and demon-worship, Roman Polanski's adaptation of Ira Levin's popular novel allows the tension to steadily bubble like a brew in a cauldron, driven by Rosemary's burgeoning, frenetic suspicion and the visual horror present in her gaunt physical appearance. Couple that with story's overarching evaluation of who to trust with concerns about one's physical condition, namely the development of a new life, and it's no wonder why The Criterion Collection brought this unsettling, masterful piece of work to Blu-ray.

In Closing ...
Looking forward to seeing you in 2013, dear readers. Last year was tough, filled with mourning over the passing of loved ones and some of my own personal (but not that serious) health issues, but here's hoping for a better year with just as many excellent films to digest and scribble about. Revel in being alive, folks: eat, drink, be merry, and embrace the world of film in a way you haven't before -- however that may be.

Boy, Does That 'House at the End of the Street' Look Familiar

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 17:08:00 +0000

Directed by: Mark Tonderai; Runtime: 100 minutes
Grade: D

The girl moves into a new house down the street; the boy, a dubious pariah with a secret about his past, earns her interest. She contemplates riding home in his car or whether to enter his house or not, then bickers with her protective parent as they grow closer -- and, eventually, it all unravels in a blur of tension, confusion, and danger. House at the End of the Street is a defiantly derivative horror-thriller burdened by those bulk-purchase tropes that even mildly-seasoned genre enthusiasts will find stale, a pastiche of ideas recontextualized by tweaked incentives and moral ambiguity in a warmed-over package. The only thing separating Mark Tonderai's film from direct-to-video fare is Jennifer Lawrence, in a year when she's expertly realized both an off-kilter mental depressive and a storied bow-wielding heroine from a popular series of novels, and even she's limited in her capacity to add novelty to what's playing out. This is one of those genre films where it's hard to decide whether nosedived ambition or by-the-numbers dullness is, on the whole, less-satisfying.

After an abrasive flashback intro full of jostled nighttime colors and bloody feathers, House at the End of the Street catches up with Elissa (Lawrence) and her single mother, Sarah (Elisabeth Shue), on the day they move into a new house. It's a large, beautiful place in the middle of a secluded rural forest, a spot the mother-daughter pair could only afford due to the sordid history of the other house that's nearby; both parents to a brother and sister were murdered there several years prior. Under the presumption that nobody would be living in the house, Elissa and her mother get settled into their new environment -- her mother, a doctor, takes a position at a local hospital; Elissa acclimates to a new high-school -- where they attempt to build the relationship they never really had beforehand. One night, a light flickers across the way, and they discover that the son, Ryan (Max Thieriot), still occupies the place. Elissa, someone who gravitates to "damaged" people, can't seem to resist the urge to get to know him.

The focus falls on Ryan in House at the End of the Street, pivoting on his mental state and whether it's wise for Elissa to associate with the troubled outcast. While the mystery aspects make their presence known early on -- something else is going on at Ryan's house -- director Tonderai handles the tone and plausibility almost as a practical examination instead of a horror or suspense film, an attempt at faint genre versatility that ultimately sinks. Conversations arise about Ryan's stability and Elissa's compulsion to "fix" people during the mother-daughter "bonding", forming an authentic backbone to the lead-up, but the stilted dialogue between shallow characters proves too heavy a burden to support. More importantly, this illusion of quasi-believability and a message of embracing strangers feels out-of-place with the audience instinctively keeping their guards up, since, y'know, the film's branded as a thriller about fearing what's going on in the house next door. It's conflicted, unfocusedly so, like a warped take on Hitchcock's Psycho in terms of trusting someone suspected of being unhinged.

Jennifer Lawrence's presence in House at the End of the Street is, in a word, frustrating among the hollow, perfunctory material. Her wide-eyed glances, defiant magnetism, and inherent virtue all stir in Elissa, much in the same way they do in her more substantive roles; her hikes through the wooded areas easily remind one of her desperation in those brisk stomps through the Ozarks in Winter's Bone, while her youthful nervousness echoes that of her early role in The Burning Plain. But there's not much of a character here for Lawrence to flesh out, comprised of little more than inconsistent outcast traits driven to sweat, jolt, and screech on cue, garnished with an occasional bit of character development -- she's a singer, she's assertive, she takes on people as projects -- to embolden her presence. Elissa's bond with her mother, which should be a central feature given the importance of the family angle, also doesn't really work; the anemic script and absent chemistry between Elisabeth Shue and Lawrence instead reduce heart-to-hearts and squabbles into token moments that merely shoo the plot forward.

Perhaps those issues could be ignored for the sake of popcorn-munching chills, watching a talented it-actress get swept up in suspense, had House at the End of the Street managed to follow through with that side of the coin in a far-less derivative fashion. Despite a clear effort to do otherwise, Mark Tonderai leads the audience into bland, bloodless tedium that rarely generates more than faint alarming squirms at the strangeness of Ryan's overarching situation, where twists and revelations we've all seen before lethargically force their way between the forest separating the two houses. Jerky camera movement and brusque editing attempt to gruff up the atmosphere, which they do, but it comes across more like a maneuver to dress up the lack of authentic suspense until its sequence of momentous "gotcha!" reveals -- echoes of far-better horror films, languidly applied in a different perspective. That'll make it vanish into the ether of forgotten bland horror, but, thankfully, it assuredly won't be taking its lead actress with it.

Radnor's 'Liberal Arts' Is a Charming, Aware Soul-Searcher

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 15:15:00 +0000

Directed by: Josh Radnor; Runtime: 97 minutes
Grade: B-

While reviewing Josh Radnor's mouthful of a freshman feature, happythankyoumoreplease, I described it as a dramedy that "carries the best of intentions while showing courtesy to the anxiety that accompanies shifting between life's stages". This theme has clearly sunk its claws into the director, because his latest film, the much more manageably-titled Liberal Arts, touches on similar observations while taking a guy back to his college years after being "out there": a degree of anxiety over reluctant maturation; a desire to experience the joys of the past; confusion over which path(s) to take into the future; and, of course, what a relationship looks like in his older years. The difference between Radnor's pair of growing-up portraits lies in the concise, emotionally relaxed focus that drives Liberal Arts, an earnest and occasionally amusing play on a stunted thirty-something's desire for clarity and rejuvenation.

Again shouldering the responsibility as writer and director, The How I Met Your Mother actor funnels personal authenticity into his subject, a conflicted mid-30s higher-ed admissions advisor named Jesse, by also putting himself in the spotlight as the lead. There's both bravery and honesty behind him doing so, mixed with a little internal fantasy: after receiving a call from a favorite college professor (Richard Jenkins) to attend his retirement dinner, Jesse goes back to his alma-mater and, while there, meets a confident, abnormal undergrad student, Zibby (Elizabeth Olsen), who's fascinated with books, improv, and things from the past. Through coffee shops and cramped dorm rooms, the two form a bond that transcends their age and place in life, where Zibby reintroduces Jesse to the learning and awakening that accompanies a liberal arts college experience. That experience, and Zibby herself as a kindred spirit, seems to be exactly what he needed; however, when their link turns more intimate, they're forced to deal with their difference in life experience.

Alongside the comedic romance mannerisms built around Jesse and Zibby's meet-in-the-middle maturity, Liberal Arts focuses on discovering and rediscovering that spark some people lose when they're boxed into modern adulthood and find comfort in their own heads (or books). That awakening of sorts becomes one of Radnor's key strengths when telling Jesse's story; he discovers music of years past, reads books he thought he'd never read, and becomes more attuned to the beauty of the world around him, reminiscent of what some students experience (or wish they'd had) while roaming the halls of college. With that, though, also comes an interesting outlook on an idea recently explored by Woody Allen in Midnight in Paris: "golden age thinking", or that things -- art, music, people, ways of living -- were better in a simpler, more deeply-felt time. Jesse and Zibby might be guilty of that, getting lost in old music and handwritten letters, but does it matter if they've found kindred spirits in one another?

Radnor's reflection really only serves an outward purpose, though, enough to enhance the blossoming relationship between Jesse and Zibby, but it makes the age-defying romance feel somewhat distinctive as they meld minds over classical music and literature. Part of that lies in the chemistry between Radnor and Elizabeth Olsen, where his inherent hangdog charisma tugs-'n-pulls with her assertiveness and barefaced wisdom. They're an enjoyable pair to watch in the college environment, if a bit reliant on their natural personas; while it's expected for Jesse to be something of a man-child, especially considering the underdeveloped emotional state of Radnor's protagonists (both those he's written and whom he plays elsewhere), his stunted temper communicates well with the way Olsen gives Zibby a forward-thinking energy. Jesse's interaction with others around his college campus also creates a cluttered but enriching mosaic that informs his growth: he befriends a bipolar literature wiz (John Magaro), rubs elbows with a philosophical hippy (Zac Efron), and even trades glances with the romantics professor (Allison Janney) who ignited his passion for literature.

Despite its earnestness, Liberal Arts constantly fights against the déjà vu nature of its relatively by-the-numbers journey through Jesse's "awakening" and internal dilemmas -- another tweaked, not-so-humorous take on Garden State's formula about breaking barriers and defeating adulthood's tedium, largely sparked by a girl who comes severely close to "manic pixie dream girl" territory. Radnor shows comfort in this emotional wheelhouse, as if he's creating a direct line to his own train of thought about pushing through the barriers of growing up, which could've easily surrendered to a thirty-something's wish fulfillment and easy emotional catharsis. But it doesn't, and that's what elevates his sophomore film: Liberal Arts shifts gears and takes an unexpected route towards sincere self-discovery at a crucial point. This doesn't make it great, but couple that with leads wearing their roles like comfortable blankets and you've got a small, well-felt expression of maturity that's worth some consideration.

Brisk, Exhilarating Attitude Keeps 'Premium Rush' Moving

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 20:38:00 +0000

Directed by: David Koepp, Runtime: 91 minutes
Grade: B

Sometimes you just need a simple adrenaline rush of a movie, where chases and sturdy characters types impulsively move through a blur of suspense. David Koepp's Premium Rush hit that spot when I was seeking this kind of diversion. Driven by creative but integral visual tricks that briskly glide through New York's maze of streets, shops, and cars, this is a production that understands its meager purpose -- get the audience wrapped up in the bike messenger scene for a straightforward action-suspense film -- and pours its attention into oiling up the mechanics that pedal it forward. The gravitas of competition, the thrill of pursuit, and the bare-knuckled rationale behind why the riders do what they do surround an unassuming hero in rising star Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and while it could stand to focus and flesh out the substance driving its underlying conflict, it's indeed a exhilarating, polished rush.

Gordon-Levitt saddles a break-free, fixed-gear cycle as Wilee, an educated and risk-taking messenger whose character mixes eccentricity and control with an urge to push his limits. Despite his work as Security Courier not current offering the most hospitable of atmospheres -- he recently broke up with his messenger girlfriend, Vanessa (Dania Ramirez), and he's vying for routes against a muscle-bound rival, Manny (Wolé Parks) -- he maintains a substantial amount of assignments due to his speed and skill in navigating New York's obstacle-heavy, car-laden network. But that's not the Wilee first seen in the film's initial scene: sweaty, starry-eyed, and hugging pavement, he's presumably knocked down due to the events that drive a time-ticker that also appears on-screen, and it's reasonable to assume that it's because of a specific job. Premium Rush starts things off by steeping the audience in the culture, similarly to the way Quicksilver does, but then it progresses towards revealing the details of that assignment.

Koepp's objective becomes clear once the camera follows Wilee through New York's grid: he's out to create visually-driven suspense that gets someone on a bike from one side of the city to the other as quickly as possible, weaving through obstructions with an intuitive eye. Premium Rush showcases inventiveness when focused on the speed and danger of cycling through a city environment, focused on low-lying angles that capture twirling spokes and huffing bodies as the world blurs around them. Inventive usage of tilt-shift photography (also knows as "miniature faking") creates the illusion of a tangible map for Wilee to follow, while his phone's graphical interface logs a path to follow. And when he's confronted with obstacles, Koepp cleverly shows what happens if he were to make the wrong choices through what-if crashes. Transformers and Wanted cinematographer Mitchell Amundsen brings his style down an octave, bottling raw verve here for something quite involving.

Eventually, the purpose behind Premium Rush's story does emerge, as a specific high-value package Wilee needs to deliver in a very short time-frame -- which garners attention from all the wrong sources. It's here, though, that Koepp's undemanding script skids into issues that limit its effectiveness beyond that of an instinctive bike-chase adventure. A conflict involving organized crime, child trafficking, and a gambling-addicted NYPD police officer (Michael Shannon) earns Wilee's personal investment to the situation, yet it clumsily and hastily touches on these points by doing little more than giving our rider a clear-cut villain and a complex destination. It does, however, introduce an absorbing mechanic in the middle of the time-crunched chases: several different points of view, including that of the police officer and Wilee's package-giver, reveal the situation's complexity while sustaining the element of a set, cramped time period.

In a year where he caked on make-up and graveled his voice to appear as a younger Bruce Willis, and where he stiffened his demeanor into a clean-cut and idealistic copy for a comic-book movie, it's refreshing to see Joseph Gordon-Levitt let his unfiltered charisma create a character in Wilee. His role demands a confident, earthy haste in his presence whether he's riding the bike or not, trading barbs with his cocky competition or slipping back into a rhythm with his self-assured ex-girlfriend. Koepp's script keeps the dialogue bouncing between them crisp and amusing, allowing Gordon-Levitt's restrained comic timing and modest heroism to take shape when Wilee hurls himself into sprints across town, slips between cars, and takes a few necessary spills. Where the performances stumble, oddly enough, is in Det. Monday's mania -- not because Michael Shannon isn't intriguingly psychotic, which he delivers like clockwork, but because the character's wild-eyed abrasiveness feels too hefty in this slight production.

Premium Rush comes together into this brisk and hearty push across New York that never really loses steam, mostly due to the skill and style behind the fast-paced biking itself. Director Koepp keeps the pulse-rate high as he mixes different types of chases -- Wilee zips through buildings, between both moving and stationary cars, and through mostly-straightaway park roads, some handled by Gordon-Levitt and others by trained stunt riders -- which embrace that sheer focus on blurred suspense through an urban environment. That raw cinematic perspective becomes its most admirable trait; while the story itself hustles along and reaches a suitable crowd-pleasing climax, galvanizing the bike messenger culture and lashing against the agenda Wilee is racing against, it's those invigorating and well-photographed races themselves which make that 90-minute time rush by. It may be slight and uncomplicated, but its textured charm and breathless, everyday danger are all it needs to successfully meet its purposes.

Classic Musings: Deathtrap (1982)

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Sun, 16 Dec 2012 20:25:00 +0000

The decadently baroque Deathtrap falls into the class of mystery that isn't easy to discuss without blowing the lid off its twisted little secrets, and I certainly wouldn't want to do that. The urge is there to reveal exactly where certain performances excel and where this parlor thriller's elaborateness transforms into a clever little contraption, yet that wouldn't be fair to the cunning of Ira Levin's play -- or to Sidney Lumet's doting adaptation. Motives evolve, courses change, voices elevate, and the threat of death hangs in the air of a moody Long Island cottage, where stunted creative ambition and hubris loom over a once-successful playwright and his devious plotting. This is a pitch-black comedy, through and through, an ode to Anthony Shaffer's Sleuth that more ornately blurs the line between macabre humor and soup-thick tension, and it's that puzzlement over how to follow the film's tone that underscores its modest, masterminded success.

Sidney Bruhl's (Michael Caine) name once commanded recognition as a chief player on the Broadway theatrical scene, due to his inventive comedy-mysteries. His latest, though, is yet another disastrous flop in the long list following his initial success, leaving the crowd either whispering insults or stunned in deafening silence. In his frustration, Sidney returns to his secluded cottage -- and to his wealthy, pill-popping, anxious wife, Myra (Dyan Cannon) -- to lament in his failure as writer, and, in contrast, to marvel at the excellence of an amateur screenplay sent to him by someone who attended one of his stage-writing seminars. The idea started out as something of a joke: what if he were to simply ... kill this nearly-nameless screenwriter, Clifford Anderson (Christopher Reeve), and pilfer his suspense-thriller script, entitled "Deathtrap", for use as his own work? Myra initially dismisses Sidney's plan as a jest, but when he invites the young writer over to their house for discussion about his work, the suspicion begins.

Aside from the opening theater scene and one or two exterior shots, Deathtrap takes place completely between the walls of the Bruhl cottage: a rustic, spacious location, adorned with maces and crossbows on the dark-wood walls of Sidney's workspace and a decidedly-'80s pink glow radiating behind a brick chimney. Sidney Lumet preserves a theatrical presence to the film's bustle of activity, complete with several lengthy long-takes and the occasional shot that pulls back to reveal the full spread of the household. At first, Lumet -- and, by extension, Ira Levin -- lure the audience into the assumption that money doesn't factor into Sidney's motives; between the house and Myra's wealth, his scheming appears to be purely for prestige's sake. Yet, that's all part of the clever house of cards assembled, preying on assumptions over incentive and temperament as the fateful evening of Clifford's creative session approaches, not unlike a fusion of Sleuth, Rope, and Lumet's own 12 Angry Men.

As soon as Clifford steps into the cottage, revealing the statuesque physique of Christopher Reeve -- Superman, essentially, in the eyes of the audience -- the scheme's complexity and motivations are flipped on their head. Adapted by Jay Presson Allen, Deathtrap's script operates under a highly-theatrical presence from thereon out, bleeding together devious situational comedy and legitimate anticipation in seeing what Sidney -- and Myra -- will do in the face of murder for the sake of creative pursuit. There's no denying the bleakness of the comedy, yet it dominates the film's tone to a degree that prevents Lumet's film from generating many hearty "laughs"; he allows the camera to focus on body language, facial gestures, and the wideness of eyes in a way that interlocks surreal, deadpan humor with an ominous atmosphere. Dyan Cannon's timing remains especially on-point as Sidney's frazzled wife, whose constant suspicion over whether her husband is capable of murder creates an infectious persona.

Lumet understands that a big part of Deathtrap focuses on characters evaluating and reevaluating one another in covert ways, dictated by the suspicion that mounts as Clifford picks up on more and more of what's happening around him. Michael Caine is well-conditioned to these mechanics, and it shows; his nimble shifts in deviance and honesty from Sleuth are shadowed here as Sidney Bruhl, embodying a conflicted, earnest, yet self-seeking artist who very well could kill or not kill the focus of his scheme. But, man, does Christopher Reeve work some magic as Clifford. Somewhere in Time suggested that there's more to the actor than his superhero counterpart, but his shifts in method as Clifford -- from innocence and misgiving to eventual intimidation -- create this rather versatile presence that'll take one by surprise. The rapport between the two isn't like that of Laurence Olivier and Caine, instead more sinister and authoritative with how the story's motives unravel, yet their chemistry still becomes thoroughly absorbing in the process.

The elaborateness of Ira Levin's play doesn't stop for a second, even as it becomes a bit preposterous, where the twists-'n-turns in the Bruhl's home runs flush against the script for Clifford's play in a witty parallel. While scenes involving a clairvoyant neighbor and an estate lawyer also add elements of contrivance to the sake of ornate suspense, and they're not without their frustrations due to easy dubiousness, the marks they leave on Sidney's grand scheme -- both before and after the events of that night -- sustain a confidently impish attitude that makes up for it. Deathtrap's cascade of climaxes and motivations blends menacing theatricality with quick-witted verbal barbs, where lavish stretches of exposition and unresolved red herrings are underscored by Lumet's alert direction throughout its grand climax. And when the curtain's pulled back on the truth behind what's been seen, Lumet's vision of the play delivers a zealous side-stab that revels in the equilibrium between dishonesty and misfortune. Vague, I know, but I wouldn't want to spoil its surprises.