Deep inside every great artist, there is a lesbian ballerina stalker who wants to drug you and take your job. To attain greatness, you’ve got to stab her in the stomach and toss her into a bathroom stall. But not before getting it on with her. Because life is too short not to.
This is the main lessons I learned from Black Swan. Well, I guess it’s not right to say that I learned the lesson, because I’ve always known it, but I just needed the movie to remind me of the great truth.
Oh, and another thing I learned that I already knew: Director Darren Aronofsky is a frikkin’ genius.
Black Swan is a labyrinthine head trip that spelunks through the messed-up mind of an artist in the most fascinating way I’ve seen outside Federico Fellini’s 8 ½. I’m not one for superlatives, but as ballet movies go, this is even better than Center Stage.
By not only making a movie about ballet interesting, but somehow making that movie one of the best movies of the year, and furthermore by making a movie in which Winona Ryder is only the third hottest actress in the movie, and furtherermore having those two actresses make out, Aronofsky proves to be a true master of his craft.
Through just a few films, just about all of them masterworks of the finest order, Aronofsky has established a distinct, powerful voice so strong and probing that every time he releases a new film, it should be regarded as the cinematic holiday of Aronofskoliday. As time passes and euphoria fades into detached contemplation, Black Swan may prove to be his best work yet. It’s got the inner obsessive torment of Pi, the hopeless derangement of Requiem for a Dream, and lonely psychological struggle for redemption of The Wrestler. Most importantly, it’s got none of the sucky pointlessness of The Fountain. But even though The Fountain was terrible, Black Swan is so good I pretty much want to change my mind and like that movie from afar just as a way of paying tribute to it.
I’ll say little of the plot, only to share that it takes the story of Swan Lake, twists it around with psychosexual drama, and makes it seem resonant and exciting. Natalie Portman plays a ballerina who fears she’s nearing the end of her career, exuberant that she has the chance to replace a fading star (Ryder), while carrying on a dysfunctional romance with the company leader (Vincent Cassel) while trying to fend off a challenge from the mysterious new girl in the company (Mila Kunis).
OK, halfway through that last paragraph, it occurred to me that Black Swan, like Burlesque, is pretty much an exact copy of Showgirls. And while the Showgirlsness of Burlesque made me hate that movie, the Showgirlsness of Black Swan is amazing and perfect. Does that make sense? Well, if it doesn’t, don’t worry, because neither does the ending of Black Sawn on the literal level.
The beauty of The Black Swan is that it transcends the realms of logic and contrivance to make perfect sense on a metaphysical level. You watch the movie, recover from the gut punch of an ending and think, “Yes, that’s just right.” Then you gulp down some egg nog, open your presents and start counting down the days until the next Aronofskoliday.
Starring Natalie Portman, Mila Kunis, Barbara Hershey, Vincent Cassel, Winona Ryder. Written by Mark Heyman, Andres Heinz and John J. McLaughlin, based on a story by Andres Heinz. Directed by Darren Aronofsky. 107 minutes. Rated R.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Review: 'Tangled'
I am going to blab on and on, as I always do, but the only review you really need to hear about this terrible movie comes from my 3-year-old son, Luke:
“Daddy, can we leave?” he said in the middle of the endless movie. When I shook my head, he added the death blow: “I never, ever want to see this show again.”
This from the kid who can watch the same episode of Special Agent Oso four times in a row.
If not for the reinforcement by my offspring, I might have cut Tangled more slack out of concern that maybe the problem was more mine than the movie’s. The trailers made the movie out to be an irreverent, Shrek-like deconstruction of a famous fable, oozing with snark and in-jokes. The actual product packs about as much subversive punch as a Hallmark card.
Maybe the problem rests with the Grimm brothers story itself. There are only so many ways you can go in a tale about a girl with long hair stuck in a tower, and this Disney take seems like a bitter Pictionary player who’s stuck with a clue that’s too hard to describe so he ends up drawing a character that looks like a hybrid between a turtle and a question mark, then stares ashamedly at the ground until the timer runs out.
Mandy Moore voices Princess Rapunzel, who was kidnapped as a baby by a cruel old woman who uses the girl’s magical hair to replenish her youth. The king and queen miss Rapunzel so much that they set off an annual display of floating lamps to commemorate her birthday, but don’t yearn for her return so much that they have a search committee check all the towers in the region in which locked-away girls stare out the windows with longing abandon.
Zachary Levi voices Flynn Rider, the con artist adventurer who happens upon Rapunzel’s tower as a hideout, then through a twist of contrivance ends up agreeing to take her to see the floating lamps on her birthday if she’ll hand over a stolen artifact that she stole from him after knocking him out with a frying pan.
Yes, the movie proves that it is possible to get a brain freeze without eating ice cream.
No matter how silly and overly complicated the story, the movie would have been fine had it managed to generate any sense of rhythm – comedic, dramatic or otherwise. The film lacks any soul or purpose, much like a Jersey Shore castmember. But unlike a Jersey Shore castmember, it’s incapable of punching people in the face at random for your entertainment.
When I got home from the movie and put my son to bed, I just had to tell someone about the horrors I’d experienced. So I dialed up my dad, and told him “I never, ever want to watch this show again.”
Starring the voices of Mandy Moore and Zachary Levi. Written by Dan Fogelman, based on the fairy tale by Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm. Directed by Nathan Greno and Byron Howard. 100 minutes. Rated PG.
“Daddy, can we leave?” he said in the middle of the endless movie. When I shook my head, he added the death blow: “I never, ever want to see this show again.”
This from the kid who can watch the same episode of Special Agent Oso four times in a row.
If not for the reinforcement by my offspring, I might have cut Tangled more slack out of concern that maybe the problem was more mine than the movie’s. The trailers made the movie out to be an irreverent, Shrek-like deconstruction of a famous fable, oozing with snark and in-jokes. The actual product packs about as much subversive punch as a Hallmark card.
Maybe the problem rests with the Grimm brothers story itself. There are only so many ways you can go in a tale about a girl with long hair stuck in a tower, and this Disney take seems like a bitter Pictionary player who’s stuck with a clue that’s too hard to describe so he ends up drawing a character that looks like a hybrid between a turtle and a question mark, then stares ashamedly at the ground until the timer runs out.
Mandy Moore voices Princess Rapunzel, who was kidnapped as a baby by a cruel old woman who uses the girl’s magical hair to replenish her youth. The king and queen miss Rapunzel so much that they set off an annual display of floating lamps to commemorate her birthday, but don’t yearn for her return so much that they have a search committee check all the towers in the region in which locked-away girls stare out the windows with longing abandon.
Zachary Levi voices Flynn Rider, the con artist adventurer who happens upon Rapunzel’s tower as a hideout, then through a twist of contrivance ends up agreeing to take her to see the floating lamps on her birthday if she’ll hand over a stolen artifact that she stole from him after knocking him out with a frying pan.
Yes, the movie proves that it is possible to get a brain freeze without eating ice cream.
No matter how silly and overly complicated the story, the movie would have been fine had it managed to generate any sense of rhythm – comedic, dramatic or otherwise. The film lacks any soul or purpose, much like a Jersey Shore castmember. But unlike a Jersey Shore castmember, it’s incapable of punching people in the face at random for your entertainment.
When I got home from the movie and put my son to bed, I just had to tell someone about the horrors I’d experienced. So I dialed up my dad, and told him “I never, ever want to watch this show again.”
Starring the voices of Mandy Moore and Zachary Levi. Written by Dan Fogelman, based on the fairy tale by Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm. Directed by Nathan Greno and Byron Howard. 100 minutes. Rated PG.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Review: Burlesque
Burlesque writer/director Steve Antin was watching the movie Showgirls one night and thought, “Man, this is a great flick, but it would even better if I added Cher and subtracted the nudity!” And thus Burlesque was born.
The scenario in the above paragraph may have been completely made up, but it’s better than other possible explanations of how this movie was made, including “on a dare,” “by Mad Libs” and “on accident.”
I don’t want to say Burlesque is bad, but you know all those movie theaters in New York that are infested with bedbugs? Word has it the creepy-crawly parasites have abandoned the establishments for fear of having to be subjected to the movie.
There’s a chance you’ll like the film. Perhaps if you’re Christina Aguilera’s mom or the spirit of Sonny Bono reincarnated as a person who can tolerate awful movies. Or maybe if you’re drunk or high and hanging out with friends and in the mood to laugh at something, Mystery Science Theater 3000-style, for 100 minutes.
Let’s set the stage: Christina Aguilera plays NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali, a desperate, lonely Midwestern girl with no family or prospects who lands on heading west to make it to the big time. Being a woman of modest means, NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali has a loose definition of what constitutes “the big time.”
When she steps into a 1930s-influenced hole in the wall that’s so awful its patrons tolerate a lip-syncing Kristen Bell as its lead attraction, NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali decides that she will dedicate her life, Rudy-style, toward one day being able to sing and dance for minimum wage on that magical stage for a crowd of 15 people. Or make the Notre Dame football team. Whatever’s easiest.
A rational Midwestern NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali might see such a place as a brief steppingstone to something better – maybe a gig as a greeter at Chili’s or something. But to the movie’s heroine, this burlesque club is living the dream.
Understandably, the joint is losing money, much to the despair of its owner, played by Cher, and her gay best friend (Stanley Tucci) with whom she once hooked up back in the day, as revealed by a story that’s about as believable as Cher’s plastic surgery.
An evil land developer wants to buy the club for way more than it’s worth and turn it into something less of an affront to society, such as a bedbug incubation farm, and he’s also dating the Bell character. But then NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali starts singing and shaking it like a genie that’s spent far too much time in the bottle, and he wants to rub her the right way. But the bartender guy likes her too, and so there’s a love tri… uh…
Since I stopped caring about the plot midway through the last paragraph and Antin stopped caring even before he wrote it, I won’t trouble you with any more setup. Just know that the high points involve Aguilera busting out that fantastic voice of hers, the low point involves Cher’s one ill-advised song, and Rudy not only makes the team but gets a sack on the very last play. Oh, and Christina Aguilera is every bit as good of an actor as she was on the Mickey Mouse Club. OK, not quite as good. But she does have boobs now.
Starring Christina Aguilera, Cher, Stanley Tucci, Kristen Bell, Cam Gigandet and Eric Dane. Written and directed by Steve Antin. Rated PG-13. 100 minutes.
The scenario in the above paragraph may have been completely made up, but it’s better than other possible explanations of how this movie was made, including “on a dare,” “by Mad Libs” and “on accident.”
I don’t want to say Burlesque is bad, but you know all those movie theaters in New York that are infested with bedbugs? Word has it the creepy-crawly parasites have abandoned the establishments for fear of having to be subjected to the movie.
There’s a chance you’ll like the film. Perhaps if you’re Christina Aguilera’s mom or the spirit of Sonny Bono reincarnated as a person who can tolerate awful movies. Or maybe if you’re drunk or high and hanging out with friends and in the mood to laugh at something, Mystery Science Theater 3000-style, for 100 minutes.
Let’s set the stage: Christina Aguilera plays NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali, a desperate, lonely Midwestern girl with no family or prospects who lands on heading west to make it to the big time. Being a woman of modest means, NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali has a loose definition of what constitutes “the big time.”
When she steps into a 1930s-influenced hole in the wall that’s so awful its patrons tolerate a lip-syncing Kristen Bell as its lead attraction, NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali decides that she will dedicate her life, Rudy-style, toward one day being able to sing and dance for minimum wage on that magical stage for a crowd of 15 people. Or make the Notre Dame football team. Whatever’s easiest.
A rational Midwestern NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali might see such a place as a brief steppingstone to something better – maybe a gig as a greeter at Chili’s or something. But to the movie’s heroine, this burlesque club is living the dream.
Understandably, the joint is losing money, much to the despair of its owner, played by Cher, and her gay best friend (Stanley Tucci) with whom she once hooked up back in the day, as revealed by a story that’s about as believable as Cher’s plastic surgery.
An evil land developer wants to buy the club for way more than it’s worth and turn it into something less of an affront to society, such as a bedbug incubation farm, and he’s also dating the Bell character. But then NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali starts singing and shaking it like a genie that’s spent far too much time in the bottle, and he wants to rub her the right way. But the bartender guy likes her too, and so there’s a love tri… uh…
Since I stopped caring about the plot midway through the last paragraph and Antin stopped caring even before he wrote it, I won’t trouble you with any more setup. Just know that the high points involve Aguilera busting out that fantastic voice of hers, the low point involves Cher’s one ill-advised song, and Rudy not only makes the team but gets a sack on the very last play. Oh, and Christina Aguilera is every bit as good of an actor as she was on the Mickey Mouse Club. OK, not quite as good. But she does have boobs now.
Starring Christina Aguilera, Cher, Stanley Tucci, Kristen Bell, Cam Gigandet and Eric Dane. Written and directed by Steve Antin. Rated PG-13. 100 minutes.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Review: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows; Part I
Like University of Kentucky basketball players, Harry Potter and his pals have decided they can’t wait to finish school before going pro. You can’t really blame them for leaving Hogwarts early. Not only do shoe contracts and multimillion dollar paychecks await, but -- oh yeah – Lord Voldemort and his gang of evil, genocidal sorcerers want to kill them and they’ve installed the guy who killed the school’s previous principal as the new headmaster.
So there’s that. Don’t try and talk to Harry, Ron and Hermione about the importance of earning degrees and enjoying their fleeting childhoods. They’ve got to go get theirs – “theirs” in this case meaning hidden charms called horcruxes that transform into monsters that display smokey underage sex shows and double as Voldemort’s resurrection portals to boot. To destroy the horcruxes, Harry and the Harriettes must find a hidden magical sword that Harry may or may not need to ice-fish out of a random Antarctic lake in the middle of the United Kingdom.
And no matter how efficiently the kids do their convoluted job, they won’t be able to finish until next year, when the other half of their 5 hour movie will apparate into theaters.
The first few paragraphs are my way of complaining how convoluted and ineffectual the plotting of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I is. And despite its silliness, insanity and Blue’s Clues-like insipidness, it’s still a fast-paced, fascinating film that’s better than all 32,000 previous movies in the series combined, times two.
Harry Potter flicks have always suffered from a narrative akin to a sugared-up kindergartener who tells you pieces of a story without linking them together or explaining context. “Harry flew in a magic car and then he smiled at Hermione and then Dumbledore came in and showed them some magic and then…”
While the routine holds true in the 32,001st movie in the series, at least now there are real consequences and some chances for the not-so-young-anymore actors to strut their chops. To put it bluntly, I like this movie because instead of whining about possible death at the hands of Voldemort while barely any of the threats come to fruition, this is the film in which Voldey finally gets to pull out his nine and bust some caps. If you happen to be an irritating CGI character, you’d best not make reservations for the premiere of Part II. And oh yeah, retroactive spoiler alert for that sentence.
It’s just fun to watch wizards kill each other, shooting spells like bullets and throwing knives through magic wormholes that come out the other side and continue to get their stab on. I could watch this stuff all night, and practically did since the movie is so needlessly long.
I was actually impressed with the acting. All that time spent making love to horses on the British stage has clearly paid off for Potterboy Daniel Radcliffe, who now displays a full range of emotions rather than the bewildered false modesty that’s been required of his character for the first 32,000 films. The same goes for Emma Watson and Rupert Grint, who by now must be so sick of their roles they’d take just about any other job, including head coach of the Dallas Cowboys, just to break typecast.
Well, let’s not get carried away. No one in their right mind would coach the Cowboys because Jerry Jones is a meddlesome owner who sets employees up to fail. But they’re definitely ready to star in softcore Showtime porn or play substitute teachers on Glee. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for them, but before the future I need one more wizard slaughtering movie, pretty please with a horcrux on top.
Starring Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson and Alan Rickman. Written by Steve Kloves, based on the novel by J.K. Rowling. Directed by David Yates. 145 minutes. Rated PG-13.
So there’s that. Don’t try and talk to Harry, Ron and Hermione about the importance of earning degrees and enjoying their fleeting childhoods. They’ve got to go get theirs – “theirs” in this case meaning hidden charms called horcruxes that transform into monsters that display smokey underage sex shows and double as Voldemort’s resurrection portals to boot. To destroy the horcruxes, Harry and the Harriettes must find a hidden magical sword that Harry may or may not need to ice-fish out of a random Antarctic lake in the middle of the United Kingdom.
And no matter how efficiently the kids do their convoluted job, they won’t be able to finish until next year, when the other half of their 5 hour movie will apparate into theaters.
The first few paragraphs are my way of complaining how convoluted and ineffectual the plotting of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I is. And despite its silliness, insanity and Blue’s Clues-like insipidness, it’s still a fast-paced, fascinating film that’s better than all 32,000 previous movies in the series combined, times two.
Harry Potter flicks have always suffered from a narrative akin to a sugared-up kindergartener who tells you pieces of a story without linking them together or explaining context. “Harry flew in a magic car and then he smiled at Hermione and then Dumbledore came in and showed them some magic and then…”
While the routine holds true in the 32,001st movie in the series, at least now there are real consequences and some chances for the not-so-young-anymore actors to strut their chops. To put it bluntly, I like this movie because instead of whining about possible death at the hands of Voldemort while barely any of the threats come to fruition, this is the film in which Voldey finally gets to pull out his nine and bust some caps. If you happen to be an irritating CGI character, you’d best not make reservations for the premiere of Part II. And oh yeah, retroactive spoiler alert for that sentence.
It’s just fun to watch wizards kill each other, shooting spells like bullets and throwing knives through magic wormholes that come out the other side and continue to get their stab on. I could watch this stuff all night, and practically did since the movie is so needlessly long.
I was actually impressed with the acting. All that time spent making love to horses on the British stage has clearly paid off for Potterboy Daniel Radcliffe, who now displays a full range of emotions rather than the bewildered false modesty that’s been required of his character for the first 32,000 films. The same goes for Emma Watson and Rupert Grint, who by now must be so sick of their roles they’d take just about any other job, including head coach of the Dallas Cowboys, just to break typecast.
Well, let’s not get carried away. No one in their right mind would coach the Cowboys because Jerry Jones is a meddlesome owner who sets employees up to fail. But they’re definitely ready to star in softcore Showtime porn or play substitute teachers on Glee. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for them, but before the future I need one more wizard slaughtering movie, pretty please with a horcrux on top.
Starring Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson and Alan Rickman. Written by Steve Kloves, based on the novel by J.K. Rowling. Directed by David Yates. 145 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Somewhere Out There Is A TV That Will Love Me
As you may have heard if you've encountered any video game site in the entire world in the last few days, I discovered the hard way that HDTVs are less than capable volleyball opponents. While they are excellent at blocking shots at the net, they can't take a hit and quit playing like crybabies, making you out to be the bad guy by crying rainbow unicorn tears as the world laughs at you.
So as things stand, I'm in the market for a new TV. And no, just to clear things up with those who asked, I wouldn't accept a replacement from Microsoft if it offered because that would unleash an ethical bag of monkeys I'd rather not spank. I will be buying my new TV, hopefully with as little money as possible.
Here are my requirements. If you happen upon a great deal that fits these parameters, leave a comment.
Size: 46 to 55 inches.
Kind: 1080p LED LCD. I would slum it for a plain LCD, but only if it's 55 inches or larger. Plasmas have nice pictures but too much glare and DLPs seem nice and all but I don't want to be buying new lamps every other year.
Price: $900 maximum.
HDMI inputs: 4.
Have at it, army of new readers. You're my only hope.
So as things stand, I'm in the market for a new TV. And no, just to clear things up with those who asked, I wouldn't accept a replacement from Microsoft if it offered because that would unleash an ethical bag of monkeys I'd rather not spank. I will be buying my new TV, hopefully with as little money as possible.
Here are my requirements. If you happen upon a great deal that fits these parameters, leave a comment.
Size: 46 to 55 inches.
Kind: 1080p LED LCD. I would slum it for a plain LCD, but only if it's 55 inches or larger. Plasmas have nice pictures but too much glare and DLPs seem nice and all but I don't want to be buying new lamps every other year.
Price: $900 maximum.
HDMI inputs: 4.
Have at it, army of new readers. You're my only hope.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Yes, I Am The First Moron To Break His TV With Kinect
A public service announcement: Do not under any circumstances play Kinect Sports Volleyball at 1:30 a.m. while standing under a ceiling fan with a dangling chain for a light switch. You could conceivably spike it into your year-old amazing TV, causing it to die with a rainbow LCD teardrop dripping down from the impact wound.
Plus you'll lose the match by forfeit.
Addendum: If you feel sorry for me buy my book, Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel (makes a great Christmas gift) and help take the pain away.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Review: Due Date
This is posted over at OK.
Zach Galifianakis and Paul Rudd are the leading man-whores in the bromance arms race. Neither has any standards, and will give it up to just about anyone who asks.
All either cares about is giving as many different dudes as possible 90-minute sessions of hot, dirty, unprotected platonic bonding.
Galifianakis gets it on with Robert Downey Jr. in Due Date, the latest shot across the bow, not to be outdone after Rudd added Steve Carell to his harem earlier this year with Dinner for Schmucks.
This round goes decisively to Galifianakis, whose film is funny throughout and the only one to include the necessary element of a masturbating dog.
Due Date is a wholesale ripoff of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, with Downey as Peter, the snobby, uptight businessman forced to travel cross-country with the pudgy, slovenly Ethan (Galifianakis). Peter hates Ethan, mainly because as soon as they meet Ethan gets Peter thrown off his flight home to see his expecting wife (Michelle Monaghan). Ethan loves Peter, if only because Peter hates him and Ethan likes a challenge.
Galifianakis is so darned adorable as Ethan that it’s impossible to share Peter’s fury. A hapless lug who carries his recently deceased dad’s ashes in a coffee can, Ethan holds dear to his dream of becoming an actor and one day appearing as a special guest on Two and a Half Men. Kudos to the screenwriters for thinking of such a pathetic aspiration.
Downey is the Larry Appleton to Galifianakis’s Balki Bartokomous, putting hand to the forehead as Ethan engages in all sorts of hijinks, such as flipping their rental car off freeway overpasses, getting Peter beaten down by a cane-wielding Western Union employee and chased by Mexican Federales.
The material may not be as inspired as The Hangover, director Todd Phillips’ last outing, but it never bores and keeps the laughs in the theater so loud you’ll miss enough few follow-up jokes to want to see the movie again.
Now the ball is back in Rudd’s court. He’ll have to top that masturbating dog, perhaps with a masturbating monkey or something.
Starring Zack Galifianakis and Robert Downey Jr. Written by Alan R. Cohen, Alan Freedland, Adam Sztykiel and Todd Phillips, based on a story by Cohen and Freedland. Directed by Phillips. 95 minutes. Rated R.
Zach Galifianakis and Paul Rudd are the leading man-whores in the bromance arms race. Neither has any standards, and will give it up to just about anyone who asks.
All either cares about is giving as many different dudes as possible 90-minute sessions of hot, dirty, unprotected platonic bonding.
Galifianakis gets it on with Robert Downey Jr. in Due Date, the latest shot across the bow, not to be outdone after Rudd added Steve Carell to his harem earlier this year with Dinner for Schmucks.
This round goes decisively to Galifianakis, whose film is funny throughout and the only one to include the necessary element of a masturbating dog.
Due Date is a wholesale ripoff of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, with Downey as Peter, the snobby, uptight businessman forced to travel cross-country with the pudgy, slovenly Ethan (Galifianakis). Peter hates Ethan, mainly because as soon as they meet Ethan gets Peter thrown off his flight home to see his expecting wife (Michelle Monaghan). Ethan loves Peter, if only because Peter hates him and Ethan likes a challenge.
Galifianakis is so darned adorable as Ethan that it’s impossible to share Peter’s fury. A hapless lug who carries his recently deceased dad’s ashes in a coffee can, Ethan holds dear to his dream of becoming an actor and one day appearing as a special guest on Two and a Half Men. Kudos to the screenwriters for thinking of such a pathetic aspiration.
Downey is the Larry Appleton to Galifianakis’s Balki Bartokomous, putting hand to the forehead as Ethan engages in all sorts of hijinks, such as flipping their rental car off freeway overpasses, getting Peter beaten down by a cane-wielding Western Union employee and chased by Mexican Federales.
The material may not be as inspired as The Hangover, director Todd Phillips’ last outing, but it never bores and keeps the laughs in the theater so loud you’ll miss enough few follow-up jokes to want to see the movie again.
Now the ball is back in Rudd’s court. He’ll have to top that masturbating dog, perhaps with a masturbating monkey or something.
Starring Zack Galifianakis and Robert Downey Jr. Written by Alan R. Cohen, Alan Freedland, Adam Sztykiel and Todd Phillips, based on a story by Cohen and Freedland. Directed by Phillips. 95 minutes. Rated R.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Review: "Hereafter"
This is posted over at OK.
If you’ve ever brought together two good friends from different spheres of your life together, only to be stunned at how bored and tedious things got when you all hung out, you know what it’s like to watch a Clint Eastwood-Matt Damon pairing.
It’s exacerbated by how much you like both parties on their own, and how hard you try to convince yourself something lively will come out of the pairing. You try to start a conversation.
You: “So, uh, Matt, you know Clint likes the Red Sox, too.”
Clint: “No I don’t.”
“Oh, well, Clint, Matt starred in a Western just like you used to!”
Matt: “Yeah, I did All the Pretty Horses, but that was a flop and I don’t really like to talk about it.”
You: “Riiight. Who’s up for some Parcheesi?”
After suffering through the solidly made but slumber-inducing Vindictus and Hereafter, it’s clear that the duo go together like peanut butter and jellyfish. While it may well be that the writing on both projects is at fault for the lack of any spark, it’s time to cut our losses and stage an intervention to break this pair up before they start gaining more bizarrely undeserved Oscar success and thinking they’re some sort of Scorsese/DiCaprio unit.
To get a feel for the movie, imagine Crash meets Meet Joe Black with an extra dose of unwatchable. The movie spins three equally uninteresting tales about death, alternating from one to the other before eventually smushing together all three in a forced finale that doesn’t so much tie up loose ends as it does fray them with a blowtorch.
Story one stars Cecile De France as a French newswoman who nearly dies when the tidal waves The Day After Tomorrow barges in on her vacation. Story two features Damon as an all-grown-up Haley Joel Osment whose psychic medium abilities prevent him from having sex with Bryce Dallas Howard. And then there’s a tale of a sullen British boy who struggles through foster care after the untimely departure of his twin brother.
Damon’s story is the closest to amusement the movie comes, if only due to his character’s omnipresent confused scowl and obsession with Charles Dickens. The man is so into C.Dick that he falls to sleep to his audio books. What I don’t get is why he needs those audio books, since he obviously has the power to speak to Dickens and have him personally read his beddy-bye stories.
There is symbolic poignance to those scenes, though. They serve as psychic symbolism for this movie’s eventual fate, as a DVD that doubles as a sleep aid.
Starring Matt Damon, Cecile De France, Bryce Dallas Howard and Jay Mohr. Written by Peter Morgan. Directed by Clint Eastwood. Rated PG-13. 110 minutes.
If you’ve ever brought together two good friends from different spheres of your life together, only to be stunned at how bored and tedious things got when you all hung out, you know what it’s like to watch a Clint Eastwood-Matt Damon pairing.
It’s exacerbated by how much you like both parties on their own, and how hard you try to convince yourself something lively will come out of the pairing. You try to start a conversation.
You: “So, uh, Matt, you know Clint likes the Red Sox, too.”
Clint: “No I don’t.”
“Oh, well, Clint, Matt starred in a Western just like you used to!”
Matt: “Yeah, I did All the Pretty Horses, but that was a flop and I don’t really like to talk about it.”
You: “Riiight. Who’s up for some Parcheesi?”
After suffering through the solidly made but slumber-inducing Vindictus and Hereafter, it’s clear that the duo go together like peanut butter and jellyfish. While it may well be that the writing on both projects is at fault for the lack of any spark, it’s time to cut our losses and stage an intervention to break this pair up before they start gaining more bizarrely undeserved Oscar success and thinking they’re some sort of Scorsese/DiCaprio unit.
To get a feel for the movie, imagine Crash meets Meet Joe Black with an extra dose of unwatchable. The movie spins three equally uninteresting tales about death, alternating from one to the other before eventually smushing together all three in a forced finale that doesn’t so much tie up loose ends as it does fray them with a blowtorch.
Story one stars Cecile De France as a French newswoman who nearly dies when the tidal waves The Day After Tomorrow barges in on her vacation. Story two features Damon as an all-grown-up Haley Joel Osment whose psychic medium abilities prevent him from having sex with Bryce Dallas Howard. And then there’s a tale of a sullen British boy who struggles through foster care after the untimely departure of his twin brother.
Damon’s story is the closest to amusement the movie comes, if only due to his character’s omnipresent confused scowl and obsession with Charles Dickens. The man is so into C.Dick that he falls to sleep to his audio books. What I don’t get is why he needs those audio books, since he obviously has the power to speak to Dickens and have him personally read his beddy-bye stories.
There is symbolic poignance to those scenes, though. They serve as psychic symbolism for this movie’s eventual fate, as a DVD that doubles as a sleep aid.
Starring Matt Damon, Cecile De France, Bryce Dallas Howard and Jay Mohr. Written by Peter Morgan. Directed by Clint Eastwood. Rated PG-13. 110 minutes.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Movie Review: Life as We Know It
Life as We Know It isn’t so much a movie as it is a social experiment. It proves, through extensive mixture of film formulas, that you can make two people who absolutely hate each other fall madly in love with one another as long as you trap them in a house with a baby.
The movie may drag more than it entertains, but at least it’s aware of the universal truth that despite common wisdom, babies bring parents closer together rather than push them apart. Raising a child is like being thrown into an insane reality show in which contestants are faced with inhumane challenges to the body and soul, driven together in moments of constant crisis and chronic sleep deprivation. It’s somewhat like what drew Boston Rob and Amber together in Survivor.
Any reality show setup would be more convincing than the sloppy plotting that turns bitter enemies Holly (Katherine Heigl) and Eric (Josh Duhamel) into parents of their mutual best friends’ 1-year-old girl. Following a fatal car crash suffered by the infants’ parents, a lawyer tells the protagonists that they must live together in their deceased pals’ mansion and raise their child together.
This part of the film highlighted a little-known fact about last wills and testaments: Whatever you put in there, no matter how stupid and harmful to others, it becomes law. You can will your best friend to have to jump on one leg for 25 years after you die, and he has to do it. You can will the Air Force to conduct a bombing raid on the Moon, and they have to go through with it or answer to the Make a Wish Foundation. You can’t will the Cubs to win the World Series though, because some things are just impossible.
I nearly sobbed at the funeral scene, sullen in the knowledge that I’d spend the next 90-plus minutes watching a painfully forced romance emerge. You watch bickering turn into flirtation, which leads to hot-and-heavy glances, which turns into sex-signifying fade-outs followed by screaming matches drummed up by contrived late-film fights. Such are the ways of love when conducted by complete morons.
At least I got to enjoy the long-overdue comeuppance of Josh Lucas, who plays Sam, a pediatrician who has the hots for Heigl. In the 2 billion romantic comedies in which Lucas has starred, he’s been the roguish free spirit who managed to sweep the heroine off her feet, derailing her from a life of blissful boredom with the nice but boring guy.
Not this time, sucka. Sam is forced to stand by idly as the nice but boring guy who’s powerless to stop Duhamel from taking the entire movie to decide his hate for Holly is really love because of the evil magic cast over him by the baby.
If only Sam had seen Knocked Up, he would have realized that Heigl was susceptible to bad romances with baby daddies.
Starring Katherine Heigl, Josh Duhamel, Josh Lucas and Christina Hendricks. Written by Ian Deitchman and Kristin Rusk Robinson. Directed by Greg Berlanti. 113 minutes. Rated PG-13.
The movie may drag more than it entertains, but at least it’s aware of the universal truth that despite common wisdom, babies bring parents closer together rather than push them apart. Raising a child is like being thrown into an insane reality show in which contestants are faced with inhumane challenges to the body and soul, driven together in moments of constant crisis and chronic sleep deprivation. It’s somewhat like what drew Boston Rob and Amber together in Survivor.
Any reality show setup would be more convincing than the sloppy plotting that turns bitter enemies Holly (Katherine Heigl) and Eric (Josh Duhamel) into parents of their mutual best friends’ 1-year-old girl. Following a fatal car crash suffered by the infants’ parents, a lawyer tells the protagonists that they must live together in their deceased pals’ mansion and raise their child together.
This part of the film highlighted a little-known fact about last wills and testaments: Whatever you put in there, no matter how stupid and harmful to others, it becomes law. You can will your best friend to have to jump on one leg for 25 years after you die, and he has to do it. You can will the Air Force to conduct a bombing raid on the Moon, and they have to go through with it or answer to the Make a Wish Foundation. You can’t will the Cubs to win the World Series though, because some things are just impossible.
I nearly sobbed at the funeral scene, sullen in the knowledge that I’d spend the next 90-plus minutes watching a painfully forced romance emerge. You watch bickering turn into flirtation, which leads to hot-and-heavy glances, which turns into sex-signifying fade-outs followed by screaming matches drummed up by contrived late-film fights. Such are the ways of love when conducted by complete morons.
At least I got to enjoy the long-overdue comeuppance of Josh Lucas, who plays Sam, a pediatrician who has the hots for Heigl. In the 2 billion romantic comedies in which Lucas has starred, he’s been the roguish free spirit who managed to sweep the heroine off her feet, derailing her from a life of blissful boredom with the nice but boring guy.
Not this time, sucka. Sam is forced to stand by idly as the nice but boring guy who’s powerless to stop Duhamel from taking the entire movie to decide his hate for Holly is really love because of the evil magic cast over him by the baby.
If only Sam had seen Knocked Up, he would have realized that Heigl was susceptible to bad romances with baby daddies.
Starring Katherine Heigl, Josh Duhamel, Josh Lucas and Christina Hendricks. Written by Ian Deitchman and Kristin Rusk Robinson. Directed by Greg Berlanti. 113 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Friday, October 01, 2010
Movie review: The Social Network
This is posted over at OK.
If The Social Network is to be believed, Mark Zuckerberg is a truly remarkable individual. Not because he invented Facebook – or at least managed to swindle close friends and business associates into owning the company that has collected 500 million members make him worth $7 billion – but because he is the world’s first rich
@hole who is incapable of getting any chicks.
Word has it that Zuckerberg is furious that the movie is making him look like a shyster who stole others’ ideas and ran with them all the way to the bajillionaire’s club, but what he should be angry about is how the movie makes him appear to have as much game as Screech from Saved by the Bell. As played by Jesse Eisenberg, Zuckerberg is a tunnel-visioned, shrewd businessman and genius computer hacker who can’t even muster up the nerve to send a friend request to the unrequited love of his life
who drove him to make something of himself.
The flimsiness of the central character is the only fault I can find with the cyberninja drama, which tugs you along with Farmville-like addiction into its
torrent of backstabbing and betrayals.
Shocks and surprises abound in the brilliantly directed film by David Fincher, pepped up by Aaron Sorkin’s silky dialogue and a spine-tingling soundtrack by Trent Reznor:
*Justin Timberlake can not only act, but he’s so charismatic as Napster founder-turned Zuckerberg partner Sean Parker that he may earn an Oscar to go with his Grammys.
*A movie about people standing around yelling at each other and occasionally typing can be as riveting as Rocky 3. Did I stutter? Yep, that’s Rocky 3, the one with both Hulk Hogan AND Mr. T.
*A key to Facebook’s success was making Baylor students jealous of it. Baylor!
*Someone actually remembers what Friendster is.
The best aspect of the movie is just how delightfully trashy it is. There are more “oh no he di-in’t” moments than in an episode of Jersey Shore. Characters treat each other like verbal punching bags, and the scenes you’d expect to be the least engaging – those featuring Zuckerberg and his former business partners sitting around a table meeting with lawyers – are often the most engaging. This despite the fact that many of the other scenes feature Timberlake hosting parties where people do coke lines off of tummies of stripping co-eds while covering up just enough skin to keep the movie in the PG-13 range.
Eisenberg has just enough of a soft touch to keep his ruthless, obsessive character relatable, while also ensuring that Zuckerberg’s virginity will continue to remain intact. Which is nice, because if this movie is true, we really don’t want this guy reproducing, because little Zuckerbergs would undoubtedly be smart enough to create death-dealing robots who enslave humanity while showing your girlfriend photos of that party you swore you didn’t go to the other night.
Or at least steal the idea to make those robots from giant twin frat boys.
Starring Jesse Eisenberg, Rooney Mara, Andrew Garfield and Justin Timberlake. Written by Aaron Sorkin, based on a book by Ben Mezrich. Directed by David Fincher. 120 minutes. Rated PG-13.
If The Social Network is to be believed, Mark Zuckerberg is a truly remarkable individual. Not because he invented Facebook – or at least managed to swindle close friends and business associates into owning the company that has collected 500 million members make him worth $7 billion – but because he is the world’s first rich
@hole who is incapable of getting any chicks.
Word has it that Zuckerberg is furious that the movie is making him look like a shyster who stole others’ ideas and ran with them all the way to the bajillionaire’s club, but what he should be angry about is how the movie makes him appear to have as much game as Screech from Saved by the Bell. As played by Jesse Eisenberg, Zuckerberg is a tunnel-visioned, shrewd businessman and genius computer hacker who can’t even muster up the nerve to send a friend request to the unrequited love of his life
who drove him to make something of himself.
The flimsiness of the central character is the only fault I can find with the cyberninja drama, which tugs you along with Farmville-like addiction into its
torrent of backstabbing and betrayals.
Shocks and surprises abound in the brilliantly directed film by David Fincher, pepped up by Aaron Sorkin’s silky dialogue and a spine-tingling soundtrack by Trent Reznor:
*Justin Timberlake can not only act, but he’s so charismatic as Napster founder-turned Zuckerberg partner Sean Parker that he may earn an Oscar to go with his Grammys.
*A movie about people standing around yelling at each other and occasionally typing can be as riveting as Rocky 3. Did I stutter? Yep, that’s Rocky 3, the one with both Hulk Hogan AND Mr. T.
*A key to Facebook’s success was making Baylor students jealous of it. Baylor!
*Someone actually remembers what Friendster is.
The best aspect of the movie is just how delightfully trashy it is. There are more “oh no he di-in’t” moments than in an episode of Jersey Shore. Characters treat each other like verbal punching bags, and the scenes you’d expect to be the least engaging – those featuring Zuckerberg and his former business partners sitting around a table meeting with lawyers – are often the most engaging. This despite the fact that many of the other scenes feature Timberlake hosting parties where people do coke lines off of tummies of stripping co-eds while covering up just enough skin to keep the movie in the PG-13 range.
Eisenberg has just enough of a soft touch to keep his ruthless, obsessive character relatable, while also ensuring that Zuckerberg’s virginity will continue to remain intact. Which is nice, because if this movie is true, we really don’t want this guy reproducing, because little Zuckerbergs would undoubtedly be smart enough to create death-dealing robots who enslave humanity while showing your girlfriend photos of that party you swore you didn’t go to the other night.
Or at least steal the idea to make those robots from giant twin frat boys.
Starring Jesse Eisenberg, Rooney Mara, Andrew Garfield and Justin Timberlake. Written by Aaron Sorkin, based on a book by Ben Mezrich. Directed by David Fincher. 120 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Movie review: Legend of the Guardians
This is posted at OK.
Shot on location inside the part of Zach Snyder’s brain that’s addled by owl opium, The Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole certainly has its share of owls. Nice owls, mean owls, owls who can fly, owls who can’t, and owls who start off not being able to fly but can once the plot requires it to be so.
The cinematic equivalent of the meme “I like turtles,” the movie is director Zack Snyder’s way of saying just how much he loves owls. Well, not just any owls, mind you.
The owls of Ga’Hoole. The ones who can talk like Agent Smith from The Matrix, and dive bomb and carry around magical blue things that make other owls freeze. Those owls.
The most exciting drama had little to do with what was going down onscreen – you know the drill: mean Nazi-like owls kidnap nice impressionable owls and preach to them about “purity,” only to have their whole system torn asunder by Coalition Forces – but what was going on in the aisles.
This is the first movie to which I took my 1-year-old, and she was fine watching the movie for the first 70 minutes before deciding to pretend she was an owl herself and hooting while running back and forth across the sides of the theater. It must have just felt like the thing to do. While chasing her likely caused me to miss key moments of visual splendor late in the movie, I’m not going to lie to you. By then I was willing to start running around the theater as well. There’s only so much owl-on-owl violence, owl philosophy and owl arguments you can take before you need to start running around the theater like a crazy person, you know?
From what I saw and listened to of the movie, I was reasonably entertained but a little disappointed by the weird but not-so-weird-it’s-awesome CGI puppet show.
Director Zack Snyder is one of the most exciting, unpredictable filmmakers around, and after watching this one, well, you can still say he’s unpredictable, if not always exciting. Here’s hoping his next effort is something akin to the subversive madness of his Dawn of the Dead remake, the unassailably brilliant 300 or the underappreciated Watchmen.
My 3-year-old sat calmly with my wife throughout, enjoyed the movie, then when he saw a commercial for it the a few days later, asked what movie that was for. He’d completely forgotten about The Legend of the Guardians. It’s best of Snyder and all of us follow suit and pretend this never happened.
Starring the voices of Jim Sturgess and Hugo Weaving. Written by John Orloff and Emil Stern, based on the novels by Kathryn Lasky. Directed by Zack Snyder. Rated PG. 90 minutes.
Shot on location inside the part of Zach Snyder’s brain that’s addled by owl opium, The Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole certainly has its share of owls. Nice owls, mean owls, owls who can fly, owls who can’t, and owls who start off not being able to fly but can once the plot requires it to be so.
The cinematic equivalent of the meme “I like turtles,” the movie is director Zack Snyder’s way of saying just how much he loves owls. Well, not just any owls, mind you.
The owls of Ga’Hoole. The ones who can talk like Agent Smith from The Matrix, and dive bomb and carry around magical blue things that make other owls freeze. Those owls.
The most exciting drama had little to do with what was going down onscreen – you know the drill: mean Nazi-like owls kidnap nice impressionable owls and preach to them about “purity,” only to have their whole system torn asunder by Coalition Forces – but what was going on in the aisles.
This is the first movie to which I took my 1-year-old, and she was fine watching the movie for the first 70 minutes before deciding to pretend she was an owl herself and hooting while running back and forth across the sides of the theater. It must have just felt like the thing to do. While chasing her likely caused me to miss key moments of visual splendor late in the movie, I’m not going to lie to you. By then I was willing to start running around the theater as well. There’s only so much owl-on-owl violence, owl philosophy and owl arguments you can take before you need to start running around the theater like a crazy person, you know?
From what I saw and listened to of the movie, I was reasonably entertained but a little disappointed by the weird but not-so-weird-it’s-awesome CGI puppet show.
Director Zack Snyder is one of the most exciting, unpredictable filmmakers around, and after watching this one, well, you can still say he’s unpredictable, if not always exciting. Here’s hoping his next effort is something akin to the subversive madness of his Dawn of the Dead remake, the unassailably brilliant 300 or the underappreciated Watchmen.
My 3-year-old sat calmly with my wife throughout, enjoyed the movie, then when he saw a commercial for it the a few days later, asked what movie that was for. He’d completely forgotten about The Legend of the Guardians. It’s best of Snyder and all of us follow suit and pretend this never happened.
Starring the voices of Jim Sturgess and Hugo Weaving. Written by John Orloff and Emil Stern, based on the novels by Kathryn Lasky. Directed by Zack Snyder. Rated PG. 90 minutes.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Movie Review: The Town
This is posted at OK.
And the Academy Award for most generic title goes to… The Town! One can only guess Ben Affleck and his team of writers came up with that gem only after discarding The Departed But Not Quite As Good, The Bank Robberies, The Movie and The One Where Ben Affleck Sexes A Drugged-Out Blake Lively.
The title is a work of unsurpassed genius in bland insignificance, much like Affleck’s acting career after Chasing Amy. But lo and behold, the writer-director-star makes a comeback worthy of the 2004 Red Sox in the stunning crime thriller. The movie is nearly mesmerizing enough to wipe away painful memories of Affleck leaping rooftops in red tights as Daredevil or stinking it up in Jersey Girl.
Chiseled down, bulked up and bursting with a fiery, I-may-not-be-Matt-Damon-but-I-still-got-skills screen presence, Affleck seizes the moment and re-establishes himself as a lead actor capable of carrying a film. And his dark horse Oscar-caliber performance as Doug, the ringleader of a Boston bank robbing gang melds as part of an elite commando force. Mad Men’s John Hamm is smoothly authoritative as an Inspector Javert-like FBI agent who tracks the gang’s every move.
Jeremy Renner brings a block-headed toughness as Jim, Doug’s best friend/sidekick who’s bitterly protective of his trashy single-mom sister (Lively), but not protective enough to keep Doug from stomping all over her heart. And Chris Cooper is chilling as Doug’s bitter, incarcerated father.
The only weak point is Rebecca Hall, who does what she can in the thankless role as Doug’s oblivious girlfriend, who also happens to be a hostage the gang seizes in the opening-sequence robbery. It’s a dopey, contrived character who is little more than a device to infuse Doug with some humanity.
The character is unnecessary because Affleck’s torrid storytelling and heartfelt acting make it easy to root for him and his brilliant-yet-ignorant cronies as they pull one ill-advised heist after another, begging for Hamm and his rules-bending gang of feds. The cat-and-mouse game succeeds despite its predictability, thanks much in part to the authenticity of the setting. The dialect, distinctive slang, Beantown delivery and distinctive city architecture meld together to create a tapestry reminiscent of the scary-yet-invigorating Bostons of The Departed and Good Will Hunting.
There are two or three jaw-dropping car chases in the movie, one of which Jim punctuates with the line “Now that’s how you f-ck-n’ drive a car.” Affleck shows this is how you f-ck-n’ direct a movie.
Starring Ben Affleck, John Hamm, Jeremy Renner, Rebecca Hall and Blake Lively. Written by Ben Affleck, Peter Craig and Aaron Stockard, based on a book by Chuck Hogan. Directed by Affleck. 125 minutes.
And the Academy Award for most generic title goes to… The Town! One can only guess Ben Affleck and his team of writers came up with that gem only after discarding The Departed But Not Quite As Good, The Bank Robberies, The Movie and The One Where Ben Affleck Sexes A Drugged-Out Blake Lively.
The title is a work of unsurpassed genius in bland insignificance, much like Affleck’s acting career after Chasing Amy. But lo and behold, the writer-director-star makes a comeback worthy of the 2004 Red Sox in the stunning crime thriller. The movie is nearly mesmerizing enough to wipe away painful memories of Affleck leaping rooftops in red tights as Daredevil or stinking it up in Jersey Girl.
Chiseled down, bulked up and bursting with a fiery, I-may-not-be-Matt-Damon-but-I-still-got-skills screen presence, Affleck seizes the moment and re-establishes himself as a lead actor capable of carrying a film. And his dark horse Oscar-caliber performance as Doug, the ringleader of a Boston bank robbing gang melds as part of an elite commando force. Mad Men’s John Hamm is smoothly authoritative as an Inspector Javert-like FBI agent who tracks the gang’s every move.
Jeremy Renner brings a block-headed toughness as Jim, Doug’s best friend/sidekick who’s bitterly protective of his trashy single-mom sister (Lively), but not protective enough to keep Doug from stomping all over her heart. And Chris Cooper is chilling as Doug’s bitter, incarcerated father.
The only weak point is Rebecca Hall, who does what she can in the thankless role as Doug’s oblivious girlfriend, who also happens to be a hostage the gang seizes in the opening-sequence robbery. It’s a dopey, contrived character who is little more than a device to infuse Doug with some humanity.
The character is unnecessary because Affleck’s torrid storytelling and heartfelt acting make it easy to root for him and his brilliant-yet-ignorant cronies as they pull one ill-advised heist after another, begging for Hamm and his rules-bending gang of feds. The cat-and-mouse game succeeds despite its predictability, thanks much in part to the authenticity of the setting. The dialect, distinctive slang, Beantown delivery and distinctive city architecture meld together to create a tapestry reminiscent of the scary-yet-invigorating Bostons of The Departed and Good Will Hunting.
There are two or three jaw-dropping car chases in the movie, one of which Jim punctuates with the line “Now that’s how you f-ck-n’ drive a car.” Affleck shows this is how you f-ck-n’ direct a movie.
Starring Ben Affleck, John Hamm, Jeremy Renner, Rebecca Hall and Blake Lively. Written by Ben Affleck, Peter Craig and Aaron Stockard, based on a book by Chuck Hogan. Directed by Affleck. 125 minutes.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
No 'Go' for Kingdom Hearts Birth by Sleep
A PR rep handling Kingdom Hearts: Birth by Sleep says Square Enix has no plans to release the game as a download, bucking the trend of PSP publishers releasing games as downloads alongside UMDs with just about all PSP games that have been released in the 11 months since the download-only PSP Go came out.
A representative from Ogilvy, which handles Square Enix games writes:
Bad news for the 7 PSP Go owners out there, myself included. The game comes out Sept. 7.
A representative from Ogilvy, which handles Square Enix games writes:
"Just found out that there unfortunately are no plans to release KHBBS on PSP Go. If that changes, I will certainly let you know!"
Bad news for the 7 PSP Go owners out there, myself included. The game comes out Sept. 7.
Review: Going the Distance
This review is posted over at OK.
Justin Long’s character in Going the Distance is a Mac and Drew Barrymore’s is a PC. He lives in New York, she’s a NorCal girl. He takes two steps forward and she takes two steps back. But they go together like Janet Jackson and animated music video cats. And they overcome the travails of their long distance relationship to get together every 15 minutes to make sweet PG-13-rated love in a movie that’s rated R for no reason.
The rating is one of the many confusing things about the movie, which underuses It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia genius Charlie Day in a throwaway role as Long’s dirtbag roommate and gives Christina Applegate far too much screentime as Barrymore’s disapproving nag of a sister. The movie has some wildly funny moments, such as all of Day’s lines, a scene in which Long gets a comeuppance for texting too much at a driving range, and the part in which wannabe newspaper reporter Barrymore is denied a job when her would-be boss tells her he just laid off 100 people.
I was the only one in the theater who laughed at that one, possibly because it wasn’t meant as a joke, but Barrymore’s crack that she thinks the newspaper business is about to rebound drew big chuckles.
The funny stuff is canceled out by too many story-intensive stretches, which dispense with the humor and make the movie feel as long as Braveheart. Director Nanette Burstein expects you to dangle in suspense, wondering whether Long and Barrymore will be able to settle on a place to live together and sort out their trust issues. Meanwhile, Day sits offscreen with nothing to do, waiting for the chance to come back into the film, breathing life into the otherwise dull affair before slipping back to crazyland.
Long and Barrymore lack the chemistry that makes you believe they’ll run away together after filming to start adopting African children. Long, who is better in supporting roles as a put-upon straight man, struggles to stay interesting as a put-upon music promoter who’s forced to recruit boy bands instead of striving to uncover the hipster garage bands he loves.
Barrymore conjures up a mix between her Wedding Singer waitress character and the Never Been Kissed reporter. Her character earns your sympathy for her tireless efforts to strive for low expectations. She goes to Stanford with the goal of becoming a print reporter, hoping to land a job that won’t pay off her student loans for four lifetimes. She stays single, fending off advances from a British coworker to pine for a self-hating, directionless commitmentphobe who lives on the other side of the country.
Much like her sister does, you glare at the character with scrunched eyes, wondering why she can’t do better for herself. Or maybe you just stare through the character, at Barrymore herself, wondering why an actress as talented as her signed onto a mess like this.
Starring Drew Barrymore, Justin Long and Charlie Day. Written by Michael Geoff LaTulippe. Directed by Nanette Burstein. Rated R. 102 minutes.
Justin Long’s character in Going the Distance is a Mac and Drew Barrymore’s is a PC. He lives in New York, she’s a NorCal girl. He takes two steps forward and she takes two steps back. But they go together like Janet Jackson and animated music video cats. And they overcome the travails of their long distance relationship to get together every 15 minutes to make sweet PG-13-rated love in a movie that’s rated R for no reason.
The rating is one of the many confusing things about the movie, which underuses It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia genius Charlie Day in a throwaway role as Long’s dirtbag roommate and gives Christina Applegate far too much screentime as Barrymore’s disapproving nag of a sister. The movie has some wildly funny moments, such as all of Day’s lines, a scene in which Long gets a comeuppance for texting too much at a driving range, and the part in which wannabe newspaper reporter Barrymore is denied a job when her would-be boss tells her he just laid off 100 people.
I was the only one in the theater who laughed at that one, possibly because it wasn’t meant as a joke, but Barrymore’s crack that she thinks the newspaper business is about to rebound drew big chuckles.
The funny stuff is canceled out by too many story-intensive stretches, which dispense with the humor and make the movie feel as long as Braveheart. Director Nanette Burstein expects you to dangle in suspense, wondering whether Long and Barrymore will be able to settle on a place to live together and sort out their trust issues. Meanwhile, Day sits offscreen with nothing to do, waiting for the chance to come back into the film, breathing life into the otherwise dull affair before slipping back to crazyland.
Long and Barrymore lack the chemistry that makes you believe they’ll run away together after filming to start adopting African children. Long, who is better in supporting roles as a put-upon straight man, struggles to stay interesting as a put-upon music promoter who’s forced to recruit boy bands instead of striving to uncover the hipster garage bands he loves.
Barrymore conjures up a mix between her Wedding Singer waitress character and the Never Been Kissed reporter. Her character earns your sympathy for her tireless efforts to strive for low expectations. She goes to Stanford with the goal of becoming a print reporter, hoping to land a job that won’t pay off her student loans for four lifetimes. She stays single, fending off advances from a British coworker to pine for a self-hating, directionless commitmentphobe who lives on the other side of the country.
Much like her sister does, you glare at the character with scrunched eyes, wondering why she can’t do better for herself. Or maybe you just stare through the character, at Barrymore herself, wondering why an actress as talented as her signed onto a mess like this.
Starring Drew Barrymore, Justin Long and Charlie Day. Written by Michael Geoff LaTulippe. Directed by Nanette Burstein. Rated R. 102 minutes.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Review: Nanny McPhee Returns
Oh, to be Nanny McPhee. To travel early-20th century England, using your magical powers to torture bratty kids into behaving at will. To be able to command your pet bird to disarm Nazi bombs with a wink of an eye. To possess the benefit of inexplicably vanishing your unsightly blemishes whenever you correct a family crisis.
What we truly need as a society is an Aliens vs. Predators like extravaganza in which McPhee goes nanny-a-nanny against Mary Poppins.
But until then, we’ll have to settle for McPhee sequels such as Nanny McPhee Returns, which one by one grant the good Nanny Google-search superiority over her American Idol descendant, Katharine McPhee.
This time around, screenwriter-actress goes all out with the poop and flatulence jokes, as though she’s just discovered her inner 1990s Kevin Smith. If you ever wanted to see a close-up of a cow heeding nature’s call, a geriatric woman use manure as a picnic seat cushion or a bird lay waste to a wheat field with a titanic gas blast, this is your film.
This second dose of McPheever covers the bases of the first movie, peppering in a little more humor while removing some of the sentiment. Set during World War II, a ranch-at-home mother (Maggie Gyllenhaal) struggles to corral her three wild kids and live-in niece and nephew as her husband battles it out against Hitler’s cronies.
The farm kids despise their city-slicker cousins and make mommy want to tear her forced British accent out, but in comes McPhee to save the day with her snaggletoothed witchcraft.
McPhee clearly holds herself in high moral regard, ignorant of the fact that she’s truly a tyrant who forces others to bend to her will by tossing around her supernatural heft. Believe me, you’d start sharing your toys too if the alternative was to be stuck in a perpetual zombie state spanking yourself over and over until you finally tell McPhee “sorry.”
Luke, my 3-year-old, enjoyed the movie while also becoming mildly terrified of the heroine. Only time will be able to tell whether or not the nightmares he’ll have about Nanny McPhee coming in to trap him in his room with a wild elephant until he agrees to share a bed with his cousin turn out to be worth it. Until then, I can always warn him that if he doesn’t pick up his Legos I’ll revel in the ability to send Nanny McPhee and her farting shoulder bird after him.
Starring Emma Thompson, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Rhys Ifans. Written by Thompson, based on characters created by Christianna Brand. Directed by Susanna White. 109 minutes. Rated PG.
What we truly need as a society is an Aliens vs. Predators like extravaganza in which McPhee goes nanny-a-nanny against Mary Poppins.
But until then, we’ll have to settle for McPhee sequels such as Nanny McPhee Returns, which one by one grant the good Nanny Google-search superiority over her American Idol descendant, Katharine McPhee.
This time around, screenwriter-actress goes all out with the poop and flatulence jokes, as though she’s just discovered her inner 1990s Kevin Smith. If you ever wanted to see a close-up of a cow heeding nature’s call, a geriatric woman use manure as a picnic seat cushion or a bird lay waste to a wheat field with a titanic gas blast, this is your film.
This second dose of McPheever covers the bases of the first movie, peppering in a little more humor while removing some of the sentiment. Set during World War II, a ranch-at-home mother (Maggie Gyllenhaal) struggles to corral her three wild kids and live-in niece and nephew as her husband battles it out against Hitler’s cronies.
The farm kids despise their city-slicker cousins and make mommy want to tear her forced British accent out, but in comes McPhee to save the day with her snaggletoothed witchcraft.
McPhee clearly holds herself in high moral regard, ignorant of the fact that she’s truly a tyrant who forces others to bend to her will by tossing around her supernatural heft. Believe me, you’d start sharing your toys too if the alternative was to be stuck in a perpetual zombie state spanking yourself over and over until you finally tell McPhee “sorry.”
Luke, my 3-year-old, enjoyed the movie while also becoming mildly terrified of the heroine. Only time will be able to tell whether or not the nightmares he’ll have about Nanny McPhee coming in to trap him in his room with a wild elephant until he agrees to share a bed with his cousin turn out to be worth it. Until then, I can always warn him that if he doesn’t pick up his Legos I’ll revel in the ability to send Nanny McPhee and her farting shoulder bird after him.
Starring Emma Thompson, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Rhys Ifans. Written by Thompson, based on characters created by Christianna Brand. Directed by Susanna White. 109 minutes. Rated PG.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Review: Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
This is posted over at OK.
If you allow video games to warp your brain enough, you start to view life as series of pixilated levels to be conquered. When you get out of work, you see the fireworks that Mario gets when he slides on the flagpole. On the drive home, stuck in traffic, you dream about clearing the way with a lightning bolt that makes everyone in front of you shrink and spin out. On payday, you hear the “dingdingdingding” of jumbo-sized coins accumulating in your bank account. When you go to sleep you see the outlines of falling Tetris pieces inside your eyelids.
OK, so maybe it’s just me. Well, me, Scott Pilgrim graphic novel author Bryan Lee O’Malley and his legions of fans.
If you haven’t wasted a significant portion of your life on video games, particularly those in the 1980s and 90s, the magical realism-infused Scott Pilgrim vs. the World may seem about as relatable as a non-subtitled Czech comedy. But if you have, discovering the movie is as blissful as hitting a random coin block to see it spawn a fast-growing vine that launches you into coin heaven.
Michael Cera stars as the same waifish, insecure bundle of post-adolescent nerves he always plays. Some are tired of the schtick, wishing he’d branch out and try different roles, but not me. When you do something well, I say run it into the ground until the paychecks stop coming in. Cera’s characters are some of the few leading men in movies who make you feel better about yourself. You think, hey I could take that guy in a fight.
Except you’d be wrong, at least in this movie, because Scott Pilgrim is an unstoppable dynamo of ass-kicking fury. He’s tasked to defeat the seven evil exes of
his dream girl, Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth WInstead).
Sometimes the fights are Street Fighter-like throwdowns, with yoga flames and tiger uppercuts, while other times they’re guitar hero bass battles and Tony Hawk rail sliding challenges gone wrong. Each tangle ends with Scott dispatching the mini boss into a poof of disappearing pixels, and naturally, a pile full of coins.
Director Edgar Wright, who’s proved to be an ace of offbeat humor in Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, maintaings his niche momentum in the movie, collaborating on a ridiculously quotable script and peppering the screen with infinite sight gags. It’s a movie you could probably watch five times and still find new sneaky references on each additional viewing. It’s filmmaking that makes you feel –well – not smart, but well informed on a trivial, arguably pointless topic.
The only knock on the film I can fathom is that the theater seems like way too formal of a setting to watch it. It’s destined to be playing in the background at bars and house parties. It will be worshipped in pot-smoke filled dorm rooms and cause rubber-necking when played on commuters’ iPads. The movie taps into something shallow and false that too few will be able to relate to. It’s an obnoxious, navel-gazing, uproarious tribute to a life well wasted.
Starring Michael Cera and Mary Elizabeth Winstead. Written by Michael Bacall and Edgar Wright, based on the Bryan Lee O’Malley graphic novel. Directed by Wright. Rated PG-13. 112 minutes.
If you allow video games to warp your brain enough, you start to view life as series of pixilated levels to be conquered. When you get out of work, you see the fireworks that Mario gets when he slides on the flagpole. On the drive home, stuck in traffic, you dream about clearing the way with a lightning bolt that makes everyone in front of you shrink and spin out. On payday, you hear the “dingdingdingding” of jumbo-sized coins accumulating in your bank account. When you go to sleep you see the outlines of falling Tetris pieces inside your eyelids.
OK, so maybe it’s just me. Well, me, Scott Pilgrim graphic novel author Bryan Lee O’Malley and his legions of fans.
If you haven’t wasted a significant portion of your life on video games, particularly those in the 1980s and 90s, the magical realism-infused Scott Pilgrim vs. the World may seem about as relatable as a non-subtitled Czech comedy. But if you have, discovering the movie is as blissful as hitting a random coin block to see it spawn a fast-growing vine that launches you into coin heaven.
Michael Cera stars as the same waifish, insecure bundle of post-adolescent nerves he always plays. Some are tired of the schtick, wishing he’d branch out and try different roles, but not me. When you do something well, I say run it into the ground until the paychecks stop coming in. Cera’s characters are some of the few leading men in movies who make you feel better about yourself. You think, hey I could take that guy in a fight.
Except you’d be wrong, at least in this movie, because Scott Pilgrim is an unstoppable dynamo of ass-kicking fury. He’s tasked to defeat the seven evil exes of
his dream girl, Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth WInstead).
Sometimes the fights are Street Fighter-like throwdowns, with yoga flames and tiger uppercuts, while other times they’re guitar hero bass battles and Tony Hawk rail sliding challenges gone wrong. Each tangle ends with Scott dispatching the mini boss into a poof of disappearing pixels, and naturally, a pile full of coins.
Director Edgar Wright, who’s proved to be an ace of offbeat humor in Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, maintaings his niche momentum in the movie, collaborating on a ridiculously quotable script and peppering the screen with infinite sight gags. It’s a movie you could probably watch five times and still find new sneaky references on each additional viewing. It’s filmmaking that makes you feel –well – not smart, but well informed on a trivial, arguably pointless topic.
The only knock on the film I can fathom is that the theater seems like way too formal of a setting to watch it. It’s destined to be playing in the background at bars and house parties. It will be worshipped in pot-smoke filled dorm rooms and cause rubber-necking when played on commuters’ iPads. The movie taps into something shallow and false that too few will be able to relate to. It’s an obnoxious, navel-gazing, uproarious tribute to a life well wasted.
Starring Michael Cera and Mary Elizabeth Winstead. Written by Michael Bacall and Edgar Wright, based on the Bryan Lee O’Malley graphic novel. Directed by Wright. Rated PG-13. 112 minutes.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
How To Survive Stay At Home Dadhood
I wrote a guest post for the Noob Dad. An excerpt:
Lesson 3: Trick the Poop Gods. Toddlers, much like grandparents, do not control their own bowel movements. Instead they’re determined by the Greek or Roman, I forget, god of poop. What’s his name? Always skips my mind. Oh yeah, Satan! Satan waits until you’re about to head out somewhere before giving your child’s lower intestine the go-ahead to start filling the diaper with stinking waste. The goal of Satan is obviously to trap you at Costco or Barnes & Noble story time with a putrid load that somehow doubles your toddler’s weight, rendering you a Keystone Kops-like mess of madcap 1920s silent comedy as you grab Luke by the scruff of his neck (or ankle) with one hand into the bathroom while hauling the crying post-baby in the other. Once inside you’ll have to use a spare elbow or knee to tae kwon do open the ancient changing table that was installed in the 1970s as a token nod to the women’s lib movement but never intended for actual use. Then you will change Emma’s diaper with one hand and half an eye as you unsuccessfully verbally warn Luke not to pick up the urinal cake with both hands.
To avoid this situation, simply say you’re going to take the kids somewhere, wait until Satan has you on record, and then pull a fast one on him and say “Tricked ya, fool! We’re not going any damn where!” And then call up Sesame Street from Comcast On Demand for like the fifth time that day. Once Emma has finally been tricked into pooping, you can be on your way.
Lesson 3: Trick the Poop Gods. Toddlers, much like grandparents, do not control their own bowel movements. Instead they’re determined by the Greek or Roman, I forget, god of poop. What’s his name? Always skips my mind. Oh yeah, Satan! Satan waits until you’re about to head out somewhere before giving your child’s lower intestine the go-ahead to start filling the diaper with stinking waste. The goal of Satan is obviously to trap you at Costco or Barnes & Noble story time with a putrid load that somehow doubles your toddler’s weight, rendering you a Keystone Kops-like mess of madcap 1920s silent comedy as you grab Luke by the scruff of his neck (or ankle) with one hand into the bathroom while hauling the crying post-baby in the other. Once inside you’ll have to use a spare elbow or knee to tae kwon do open the ancient changing table that was installed in the 1970s as a token nod to the women’s lib movement but never intended for actual use. Then you will change Emma’s diaper with one hand and half an eye as you unsuccessfully verbally warn Luke not to pick up the urinal cake with both hands.
To avoid this situation, simply say you’re going to take the kids somewhere, wait until Satan has you on record, and then pull a fast one on him and say “Tricked ya, fool! We’re not going any damn where!” And then call up Sesame Street from Comcast On Demand for like the fifth time that day. Once Emma has finally been tricked into pooping, you can be on your way.
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