Friday, July 30, 2010
REVIEW UPDATE: GRANDMA'S BOY & THE SWEETEST THING
Sorry, folks. The reviews for GRANDMA'S BOY and THE SWEETEST THING will make their debuts tomorrow. Now I must go before my stagecoach turns into a pumpkin...
# 47 - DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS (2010)
DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS (2010 - COMEDY) ***½ out of *****
(Schmucks have feelings, too. Unlike shallow, materialistic bastards)
CAST: Steve Carrell, Paul Rudd, Jemaine Clement, Stephanie Szostak, David Walliams, Bruce Greenwood, Kristen Schaal, Lucy Punch.
DIRECTOR: Jay Roach.
WARNING: Some SPOILERS and douchebags vs. schmucks showdowns right ahead...
I have to admit that when Steve Carrell first started to garner attention as the Boss-Not-From-Hell-But-Someplace-Weirder from THE OFFICE, I couldn’t figure out what was supposed to be so hilarious about him. I mean, he was funny enough in the clips I saw online, but I can’t say I saw anything that warranted the frenzy. Then I saw THE 40-YEAR OLD VIRGIN - and subsequently saw the light. The guy is hilarious. Hilarious in a “FUCK IT!!! I’M DIVING INTO THE DEEP END AND I DON‘T CARE IF YOU LAUGH!!!” way. Which, most of the time, does make you laugh. And he also knows how to underplay effectively to sell his character’s humanity, which is not an easy trick for a comedian to do.
As for Paul Rudd, well, let’s just say that I’ve been a fan ever since he bickered with Alicia Silverstone in CLUELESS approximately 58 years ago. Not as blatantly funny as Steve Carrell, Paul Rudd is more of a slow-burn comedian - who makes his droll inexpressiveness almost... expressive. These guys co-starred in the aforementioned 40-YEAR OLD VIRGIN where Carrell was the virgin, and Rudd one of his decidedly un-virginal buddies. But in today’s review, DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS, they share equal footing - and it’s great a pairing.
Paul Rudd plays Tim, a financial analyst for a securities firm who dreams of moving up the corporate ladder - literally. See, Tim works on the 6th Floor which, according to his goofy assistant Susan (Kristen Schaal), reeks of cabbage. So much so that the guys who hit on her at clubs comment on her Eau De ColeSlaw - which, fortunately, somehow never gets in the way of her getting laid. Or so she claims.
Anyhow, Tim would like to rise from the land of leafy vegetables to the rarified air on the 7th Floor, where the Executive Team of the company engage in the following activities: (1) practicing their golf-swings, (2) cracking jokes about the sixth floor denizens, and (3) comparing the fellating skills of their hooker girlfriends. This, apparently, is attractive to Tim. Of course, this type of aspiration is thoroughly in line with someone who has an apartment, car, and girlfriend that are waaaaaaaaaay above his pay grade, so to speak. In other words, Tim is not exactly a careerist douche bag - but close to it.
Basically, Tim needs a promotion to be able to sustain his First Class living and chi-chi paramour Julie (Stephanie Szostak), because Heaven forbid he actually tries to live within his means and, I don't know, get a girlfriend who’s a little more low-maintenance than Julie, whose highlights and hairstyle alone look like they were financed by the GNP of a developing nation. At any rate, after one of his presentations on the 7th floor leads to an offer by CEO/Head Douchebag Lance Fender (Bruce Greenwood) to take over the position of a recently-fired exec, things begin to look up for our profligate corporate climber.
There’s one catch, however: Lance wants to evaluate Tim’s suitability for an office on the hallowed 7th floor. If you think this means a review of his past five performance reports, a background check, a written test, or some sort of interview - allow me to disappoint you. Nope, our boss Lance doesn’t confine himself to such conventional ways of employee assesment.
No, sir... His idea of determining whether or not someone is executive material is to invite the candidate to his palatial manse for dinner - with one caveat: the candidate needs to bring - well, there is just no way say this gracefully, is there? - a total loser. In fact, all the invitees need to bring one loser each. And for the rest of the evening, Lance and his posse make fun of their guests and basically try to see who the Biggest Loser is. And by that title, I don’t mean who drops the most pounds during the course of the meal. This, evidently, is the crowd that Tim longs to be a part of. If it’s occurring to you right now that Tim himself might be the winner of the Biggest Loser title because of his materialistic ways - and what he’s willing to do to sustain them - then aren’t you the sharp one?
Unfortunately, the script is more interested in laughs than subtext. And in order for it to be funny, Tim needs to meet a schmuck - and fast. The script obliges and has his Porsche run over Barry (Steve Carrell), a taxidermist trying to pick up a dead mouse in the middle of the street. We know that Barry is, well, odd because he practically rolls over the top of Tim’s Porsche, but doesn’t: (1) cuss Tim out, (2) demand his insurance info, or (3) threaten to sue him within an inch of his life. Nope, Barry just grins like the benign doofus that he is and basically strikes up a friendship with Tim. Now, if only there were more people like that, this world would be a... strange place.
At any rate, Tim gradually realizes that he just might have the guest he needs to bring to Lance’s dinner. Fortunately, Julie demonstrates commendable depth for a bimbo by insisting that Tim not attend the function because it would be “messed up.” Hard to say if she means making fun of the losers, or having to eat surrounded by so many of them. But we’ll give her the benefit of the doubt because she's sizzlin’ hot, eh?
Tim, however, really wants to be able to continue to live beyond his means and doesn’t cut Barry loose like he should. Instead, he pretty much lets Barry hang around him, leading Barry to: (1) invite Tim’s psycho one-night-stand from three years ago, Darla (Lucy Punch), to Tim’s crib; (2) alienate Julie from Tim (big loss) and drive her into the arms of Kieran (Jemaine Clement), an artist who looks like the lovechild of Cro-Magnon Man and Cousin It; and (3) basically destroy the important brunch between Tim and Mueller (David Walliams), a major Swiss client who looks eerily like a wax mannequin with blue marbles for eyes. And don’t get me started about how Mueller’s wife looks.
So, basically, Tim finds himself in a quandary: does he push through with this abhorrent social event that will grant him access to the upper-echelons of corporate-douchebagery - or does he, you know, listen to his heart and... well, hmmmmm, I guess his heart really wants that corner office on 7, right? Hmmmmm. A dilemma....
But just when you think that Tim will go the “heartless prick” route, he surprises us (or, at least, the two people in the audience who don’t know crap about a “character arc”) by deciding he can’t go through with this. He hightails it down to Lance’s crib (if you can call something that looks like Buckingham Palace on Steroids a crib) to tell his boss that he can’t go through with the dinner. Unfortunately, having heard about the event beforehand, Barry is already there - and guffawing at the collection of Grade A Schmucks that Tim’s colleagues have scrounged up. To wit, I present: (1) a scrawny dude who’s apparently married to a condor - and pretty much French Kisses the ugly bird at the dinner table (or maybe he was feeding it with his mouth - either way, it’s fucking gross), and (2) a goofy blind man who won’t shut the fuck up, and (3) a crazy bitch who communicates with dead pets and won't shut the fuck up. Suffice it to say, Barry is justified in saying that these bizarros actually make him look like the paragon of normalcy.
That is, until he whips out his “History of Civilization” presentation - as told through the eyes (and stiff bodies) of dead mice. Right around then is when Barry’s cool points kind of take a swan dive.
Anyhow, this extended dinner sequence serves as the third act and climax of the film - and is best left unspoiled since the funniest bits are in this section. Suffice it to say, the following occur: (1) Barry’s wacky boss, Therman (Zach Galifanakis), shows up to spice things up, (2) all hilarity breaks loose, and (3) Lance and his pack of douchebags learn that they picked the wrong Schmucks to ridicule. Big time. Very big time.
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Paul Rudd and Steve Carrell are the main reasons to see this film. Like some sort of throwback to THE ODD COUPLE, these guys play well off each other with their differences. Barry actually courts more audience sympathy than Tim at the outset, given that the latter has been portrayed as a posturing materialist. But, as usual, Paul Rudd wins you over by uncovering the decency in Tim that’s been obscured by ambition. And as for Barry... Barry is actually not all that weird - at least he’s stuffing mice and not, well, lost tourists or back-packing teenagers or something. Or maybe it’s just Carrell’s innate likability shining through. Either way, both these guys nail their roles.
The rest of the cast rise to the occasion: Zach Galifanakis is hilarious as Carrell’s boss/rival. Ron Livingston is appropriately slimy as Tim’s own rival. Stephanie Szostak is decent as Tim’s girlfriend - and has what has to be the Sexiest Overbite ever. Lucy Punch is a loony delight as Tim’s psycho stalker. The scene where Darla and Barry square off in Tim’s apartment and end up demolishing part of it is classic. Finally, Jemaine Clement as Tim’s rival to Julie’s affections is bizarrely compelling and memorable.
In the end, though, DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS falls a little short of **** or higher because of the length of time it takes to get to the dinner. Yes, it was necessary to set up the characters, but it didn’t have to be drawn out. Imagine if 80% of the film had been at the dinner - what a treat that would’ve been. Still, this is funny stuff.
(Schmucks have feelings, too. Unlike shallow, materialistic bastards)
CAST: Steve Carrell, Paul Rudd, Jemaine Clement, Stephanie Szostak, David Walliams, Bruce Greenwood, Kristen Schaal, Lucy Punch.
DIRECTOR: Jay Roach.
WARNING: Some SPOILERS and douchebags vs. schmucks showdowns right ahead...
I have to admit that when Steve Carrell first started to garner attention as the Boss-Not-From-Hell-But-Someplace-Weirder from THE OFFICE, I couldn’t figure out what was supposed to be so hilarious about him. I mean, he was funny enough in the clips I saw online, but I can’t say I saw anything that warranted the frenzy. Then I saw THE 40-YEAR OLD VIRGIN - and subsequently saw the light. The guy is hilarious. Hilarious in a “FUCK IT!!! I’M DIVING INTO THE DEEP END AND I DON‘T CARE IF YOU LAUGH!!!” way. Which, most of the time, does make you laugh. And he also knows how to underplay effectively to sell his character’s humanity, which is not an easy trick for a comedian to do.
As for Paul Rudd, well, let’s just say that I’ve been a fan ever since he bickered with Alicia Silverstone in CLUELESS approximately 58 years ago. Not as blatantly funny as Steve Carrell, Paul Rudd is more of a slow-burn comedian - who makes his droll inexpressiveness almost... expressive. These guys co-starred in the aforementioned 40-YEAR OLD VIRGIN where Carrell was the virgin, and Rudd one of his decidedly un-virginal buddies. But in today’s review, DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS, they share equal footing - and it’s great a pairing.
Paul Rudd plays Tim, a financial analyst for a securities firm who dreams of moving up the corporate ladder - literally. See, Tim works on the 6th Floor which, according to his goofy assistant Susan (Kristen Schaal), reeks of cabbage. So much so that the guys who hit on her at clubs comment on her Eau De ColeSlaw - which, fortunately, somehow never gets in the way of her getting laid. Or so she claims.
Anyhow, Tim would like to rise from the land of leafy vegetables to the rarified air on the 7th Floor, where the Executive Team of the company engage in the following activities: (1) practicing their golf-swings, (2) cracking jokes about the sixth floor denizens, and (3) comparing the fellating skills of their hooker girlfriends. This, apparently, is attractive to Tim. Of course, this type of aspiration is thoroughly in line with someone who has an apartment, car, and girlfriend that are waaaaaaaaaay above his pay grade, so to speak. In other words, Tim is not exactly a careerist douche bag - but close to it.
Basically, Tim needs a promotion to be able to sustain his First Class living and chi-chi paramour Julie (Stephanie Szostak), because Heaven forbid he actually tries to live within his means and, I don't know, get a girlfriend who’s a little more low-maintenance than Julie, whose highlights and hairstyle alone look like they were financed by the GNP of a developing nation. At any rate, after one of his presentations on the 7th floor leads to an offer by CEO/Head Douchebag Lance Fender (Bruce Greenwood) to take over the position of a recently-fired exec, things begin to look up for our profligate corporate climber.
There’s one catch, however: Lance wants to evaluate Tim’s suitability for an office on the hallowed 7th floor. If you think this means a review of his past five performance reports, a background check, a written test, or some sort of interview - allow me to disappoint you. Nope, our boss Lance doesn’t confine himself to such conventional ways of employee assesment.
No, sir... His idea of determining whether or not someone is executive material is to invite the candidate to his palatial manse for dinner - with one caveat: the candidate needs to bring - well, there is just no way say this gracefully, is there? - a total loser. In fact, all the invitees need to bring one loser each. And for the rest of the evening, Lance and his posse make fun of their guests and basically try to see who the Biggest Loser is. And by that title, I don’t mean who drops the most pounds during the course of the meal. This, evidently, is the crowd that Tim longs to be a part of. If it’s occurring to you right now that Tim himself might be the winner of the Biggest Loser title because of his materialistic ways - and what he’s willing to do to sustain them - then aren’t you the sharp one?
Unfortunately, the script is more interested in laughs than subtext. And in order for it to be funny, Tim needs to meet a schmuck - and fast. The script obliges and has his Porsche run over Barry (Steve Carrell), a taxidermist trying to pick up a dead mouse in the middle of the street. We know that Barry is, well, odd because he practically rolls over the top of Tim’s Porsche, but doesn’t: (1) cuss Tim out, (2) demand his insurance info, or (3) threaten to sue him within an inch of his life. Nope, Barry just grins like the benign doofus that he is and basically strikes up a friendship with Tim. Now, if only there were more people like that, this world would be a... strange place.
At any rate, Tim gradually realizes that he just might have the guest he needs to bring to Lance’s dinner. Fortunately, Julie demonstrates commendable depth for a bimbo by insisting that Tim not attend the function because it would be “messed up.” Hard to say if she means making fun of the losers, or having to eat surrounded by so many of them. But we’ll give her the benefit of the doubt because she's sizzlin’ hot, eh?
Tim, however, really wants to be able to continue to live beyond his means and doesn’t cut Barry loose like he should. Instead, he pretty much lets Barry hang around him, leading Barry to: (1) invite Tim’s psycho one-night-stand from three years ago, Darla (Lucy Punch), to Tim’s crib; (2) alienate Julie from Tim (big loss) and drive her into the arms of Kieran (Jemaine Clement), an artist who looks like the lovechild of Cro-Magnon Man and Cousin It; and (3) basically destroy the important brunch between Tim and Mueller (David Walliams), a major Swiss client who looks eerily like a wax mannequin with blue marbles for eyes. And don’t get me started about how Mueller’s wife looks.
So, basically, Tim finds himself in a quandary: does he push through with this abhorrent social event that will grant him access to the upper-echelons of corporate-douchebagery - or does he, you know, listen to his heart and... well, hmmmmm, I guess his heart really wants that corner office on 7, right? Hmmmmm. A dilemma....
But just when you think that Tim will go the “heartless prick” route, he surprises us (or, at least, the two people in the audience who don’t know crap about a “character arc”) by deciding he can’t go through with this. He hightails it down to Lance’s crib (if you can call something that looks like Buckingham Palace on Steroids a crib) to tell his boss that he can’t go through with the dinner. Unfortunately, having heard about the event beforehand, Barry is already there - and guffawing at the collection of Grade A Schmucks that Tim’s colleagues have scrounged up. To wit, I present: (1) a scrawny dude who’s apparently married to a condor - and pretty much French Kisses the ugly bird at the dinner table (or maybe he was feeding it with his mouth - either way, it’s fucking gross), and (2) a goofy blind man who won’t shut the fuck up, and (3) a crazy bitch who communicates with dead pets and won't shut the fuck up. Suffice it to say, Barry is justified in saying that these bizarros actually make him look like the paragon of normalcy.
That is, until he whips out his “History of Civilization” presentation - as told through the eyes (and stiff bodies) of dead mice. Right around then is when Barry’s cool points kind of take a swan dive.
Anyhow, this extended dinner sequence serves as the third act and climax of the film - and is best left unspoiled since the funniest bits are in this section. Suffice it to say, the following occur: (1) Barry’s wacky boss, Therman (Zach Galifanakis), shows up to spice things up, (2) all hilarity breaks loose, and (3) Lance and his pack of douchebags learn that they picked the wrong Schmucks to ridicule. Big time. Very big time.
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Paul Rudd and Steve Carrell are the main reasons to see this film. Like some sort of throwback to THE ODD COUPLE, these guys play well off each other with their differences. Barry actually courts more audience sympathy than Tim at the outset, given that the latter has been portrayed as a posturing materialist. But, as usual, Paul Rudd wins you over by uncovering the decency in Tim that’s been obscured by ambition. And as for Barry... Barry is actually not all that weird - at least he’s stuffing mice and not, well, lost tourists or back-packing teenagers or something. Or maybe it’s just Carrell’s innate likability shining through. Either way, both these guys nail their roles.
The rest of the cast rise to the occasion: Zach Galifanakis is hilarious as Carrell’s boss/rival. Ron Livingston is appropriately slimy as Tim’s own rival. Stephanie Szostak is decent as Tim’s girlfriend - and has what has to be the Sexiest Overbite ever. Lucy Punch is a loony delight as Tim’s psycho stalker. The scene where Darla and Barry square off in Tim’s apartment and end up demolishing part of it is classic. Finally, Jemaine Clement as Tim’s rival to Julie’s affections is bizarrely compelling and memorable.
In the end, though, DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS falls a little short of **** or higher because of the length of time it takes to get to the dinner. Yes, it was necessary to set up the characters, but it didn’t have to be drawn out. Imagine if 80% of the film had been at the dinner - what a treat that would’ve been. Still, this is funny stuff.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
# 46 - TROPIC THUNDER (2008)
TROPIC THUNDER (2008 - COMEDY/ADVENTURE) **** out of *****
(I guess this is what happens when AMERICA'S SWEETHEARTS gets gang-banged by DELIVERANCE, PLATOON, and THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY - and the resulting baby is delivered by an Asian crack whore)
CAST: Ben Stiller, Robert Downey Jr., Jack Black, Matthew McConaughey, Jay Baruchel, Tom Cruise, Danny McBride..
DIRECTOR: Ben Stiller
WARNING: SPOILERS and Hollywood whackjobs straight ahead.
I usually begin these reviews with a certifiably insane breakdown of the film under scrutiny, placing the plot and characters under a cracked (literally and figuratively) microscope. The latest film, however, is already certifiably insane and figuratively cracked as it is. A politically-incorrect, thoroughly-unforgiving, and viciously hilarious account of what happens when a film project on location in Cambodia threatens to get shut down by the antsy studio because of budget overruns, bickering actors, psychotic crew members, and a skittish director collapsing under the pressure of his first high-profile project, the movie is called TROPIC THUNDER. And it is already more whacked out of its gourd than I could ever make it out to be. So... in an inversion of the usual format of these reviews, I shall present TROPIC THUNDER - as if it were a dead serious dramatic thriller. Yes, you read that right. Let's begin, shall we?
Our provocative drama opens in Cambodia, were a major Hollywood production, TROPIC THUNDER, is being helmed by Simon Cockburn, a British director who is unsure if he has what it takes to complete his first major Hollywood assignment. Problems include, but are not limited to: (1) A cast of unruly actors, (2) a crew that seems rather unequal to their tasks, and (3) budget overruns exacerbated further by a major special effects shot that is executed before the cameras are ready to capture it. Rendered churlish by this unfortunate turn of events, the actors get even more ill-tempered. They include: (1) Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller), a Tom Cruise-clone known for his mega-budget films that revolve around global warming and rogue Ice Ages, but whose latest tear-jerker about a mentally-impaired farm hand failed miserably at the box-office; (2) Jeff Portnoy (Jack Black), a comedian whose scatologically-themed comedies have been hits - but whose rambunctious off-screen antics have not; (3) Alpha Chino (Brandon T. Johnson), an African-American rapper who is making his big-screen crossover, and who harbors a huge secret - he is homosexual; (4) Kevin Sandusky (Jay Baruchel), an up-and-coming actor who epitomizes wholesomeness and is easily the least experienced among them, (5) and - last but most definitely not the least - Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey, Jr.) a mercurial Australian mega-star known for his temper and willingness to do anything to capture the authenticity of a role - such as undergoing a controversial medical treatment that turns his appearance to that of an African-American.
Meanwhile, back in Los Angeles, several key players in the industry are growing concerned over the production problems. First, we have Tugg's agent (Matthew McConaughey) who is fiercely loyal and dedicated to ensuring his # 1 client is taken care of. Next is Les Grossman (Tom Cruise), the head of the studio bankrolling TROPIC THUNDER. Grossman is perturbed that Cockburn can't seem to get the production under control - and threatens him with firing if he can't bring his cast and crew under control. Desperate for a solution, Cockburn determines to save his project - by luring his main cast members into an isolated part of the jungle, where he will secretly film the with hidden cameras as they are terrorized by special effect gunfire and explosions hidden in the jungle. He hopes that the resulting project will be raw and gritty and groundbreaking. The following day, Cockburn and a small crew fly Speedman, Lazarus, Sandusky, Portnoy, and Chino out into the Cambodian jungle to release them into the wild - and fend for themselves as the cameras secretly roll.
Unfortunately, little do they know that a Cambodian drug ring is operating in the area, and they don't take kindly to the Hollywood visitors. What follows is a tense, exciting, and gripping thriller that unfolds at a kinetic pace. The various stars quickly realize that the enemies stalking them in the woods are dead real - and not the creation of some special effects crew. Increasingly desperate, they find no choice but to set aside their petty disagreements and trivial dislikes of one another - to band together to not only overcome the drug runners, but also to ultimately redeem TROPIC THUNDER. And themselves.... (sniffle).
BUT, SARDONICALLY: Oh who am I fucking kidding? TROPIC THUNDER is to serious action thrillers the way THE HAUNTING remake was to serious horror films. And unlike THE HAUNTING, TROPIC THUNDER is intentionally funny. For me, watching TROPIC THUNDER was like meeting someone who is just as utterly fucked up as yours truly. In other words - a soulmate. There are times when you're watching this flick that you find yourself wondering with horrified curiosity whether or not they're going to go there - only to revel in horrified glee that they: (1) not only went there, but also (2) built a condominium complex with (3) an awesome pool, and (4) threw a big-ass pool party with plenty of nekkid people. The beauty of TROPIC THUNDER is that it doesn't really care who it "offends." I put that in "quotes" because TROPIC THUNDER would only be offensive to those who live under a rock. Because you can't really be offended by something that has the ring of truth, right? In that regard, TROPIC THUNDER is like SOUTH PARK - only more in your face because it's not animated.
The cast is stellar and can all be praised uniformly as "excellent." The standout, though, is Downey as Kirk Lazarus, whose in-character shenanigans are priceless. In a smaller, but no less hilarious, role Tom Cruise almost steals the show as Less Grossman. Sporting a bald cap and prosthetic gut and forearms, Grossman is a bizarre and hypnotic spectacle. Cruise's bravura turn here instantly won him some serious "good will" points, and rightfully so. On an unfortunate side note, Cruise is apparently planning a full-length feature based on the character, which is about as wise a career move as almost creating a franchise around Halley Berry's character from DIE ANOTHER DAY. Tom, let it go. You did a great job. Don't push it.
But back to TROPIC THUNDER... it's secret weapon isn't its raunchy humor or talented cast, but the fact that the script has some real wit and intelligence behind it. Without those brains, this would have been like a Southeast Asian version of AIRPLANE. In other words, average at best. Instead, it's as sublime as a comedy with a half-naked Jack Black strapped to an Asian water buffalo can possibly get.
(I guess this is what happens when AMERICA'S SWEETHEARTS gets gang-banged by DELIVERANCE, PLATOON, and THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY - and the resulting baby is delivered by an Asian crack whore)
CAST: Ben Stiller, Robert Downey Jr., Jack Black, Matthew McConaughey, Jay Baruchel, Tom Cruise, Danny McBride..
DIRECTOR: Ben Stiller
WARNING: SPOILERS and Hollywood whackjobs straight ahead.
I usually begin these reviews with a certifiably insane breakdown of the film under scrutiny, placing the plot and characters under a cracked (literally and figuratively) microscope. The latest film, however, is already certifiably insane and figuratively cracked as it is. A politically-incorrect, thoroughly-unforgiving, and viciously hilarious account of what happens when a film project on location in Cambodia threatens to get shut down by the antsy studio because of budget overruns, bickering actors, psychotic crew members, and a skittish director collapsing under the pressure of his first high-profile project, the movie is called TROPIC THUNDER. And it is already more whacked out of its gourd than I could ever make it out to be. So... in an inversion of the usual format of these reviews, I shall present TROPIC THUNDER - as if it were a dead serious dramatic thriller. Yes, you read that right. Let's begin, shall we?
Our provocative drama opens in Cambodia, were a major Hollywood production, TROPIC THUNDER, is being helmed by Simon Cockburn, a British director who is unsure if he has what it takes to complete his first major Hollywood assignment. Problems include, but are not limited to: (1) A cast of unruly actors, (2) a crew that seems rather unequal to their tasks, and (3) budget overruns exacerbated further by a major special effects shot that is executed before the cameras are ready to capture it. Rendered churlish by this unfortunate turn of events, the actors get even more ill-tempered. They include: (1) Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller), a Tom Cruise-clone known for his mega-budget films that revolve around global warming and rogue Ice Ages, but whose latest tear-jerker about a mentally-impaired farm hand failed miserably at the box-office; (2) Jeff Portnoy (Jack Black), a comedian whose scatologically-themed comedies have been hits - but whose rambunctious off-screen antics have not; (3) Alpha Chino (Brandon T. Johnson), an African-American rapper who is making his big-screen crossover, and who harbors a huge secret - he is homosexual; (4) Kevin Sandusky (Jay Baruchel), an up-and-coming actor who epitomizes wholesomeness and is easily the least experienced among them, (5) and - last but most definitely not the least - Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey, Jr.) a mercurial Australian mega-star known for his temper and willingness to do anything to capture the authenticity of a role - such as undergoing a controversial medical treatment that turns his appearance to that of an African-American.
Meanwhile, back in Los Angeles, several key players in the industry are growing concerned over the production problems. First, we have Tugg's agent (Matthew McConaughey) who is fiercely loyal and dedicated to ensuring his # 1 client is taken care of. Next is Les Grossman (Tom Cruise), the head of the studio bankrolling TROPIC THUNDER. Grossman is perturbed that Cockburn can't seem to get the production under control - and threatens him with firing if he can't bring his cast and crew under control. Desperate for a solution, Cockburn determines to save his project - by luring his main cast members into an isolated part of the jungle, where he will secretly film the with hidden cameras as they are terrorized by special effect gunfire and explosions hidden in the jungle. He hopes that the resulting project will be raw and gritty and groundbreaking. The following day, Cockburn and a small crew fly Speedman, Lazarus, Sandusky, Portnoy, and Chino out into the Cambodian jungle to release them into the wild - and fend for themselves as the cameras secretly roll.
Unfortunately, little do they know that a Cambodian drug ring is operating in the area, and they don't take kindly to the Hollywood visitors. What follows is a tense, exciting, and gripping thriller that unfolds at a kinetic pace. The various stars quickly realize that the enemies stalking them in the woods are dead real - and not the creation of some special effects crew. Increasingly desperate, they find no choice but to set aside their petty disagreements and trivial dislikes of one another - to band together to not only overcome the drug runners, but also to ultimately redeem TROPIC THUNDER. And themselves.... (sniffle).
BUT, SARDONICALLY: Oh who am I fucking kidding? TROPIC THUNDER is to serious action thrillers the way THE HAUNTING remake was to serious horror films. And unlike THE HAUNTING, TROPIC THUNDER is intentionally funny. For me, watching TROPIC THUNDER was like meeting someone who is just as utterly fucked up as yours truly. In other words - a soulmate. There are times when you're watching this flick that you find yourself wondering with horrified curiosity whether or not they're going to go there - only to revel in horrified glee that they: (1) not only went there, but also (2) built a condominium complex with (3) an awesome pool, and (4) threw a big-ass pool party with plenty of nekkid people. The beauty of TROPIC THUNDER is that it doesn't really care who it "offends." I put that in "quotes" because TROPIC THUNDER would only be offensive to those who live under a rock. Because you can't really be offended by something that has the ring of truth, right? In that regard, TROPIC THUNDER is like SOUTH PARK - only more in your face because it's not animated.
The cast is stellar and can all be praised uniformly as "excellent." The standout, though, is Downey as Kirk Lazarus, whose in-character shenanigans are priceless. In a smaller, but no less hilarious, role Tom Cruise almost steals the show as Less Grossman. Sporting a bald cap and prosthetic gut and forearms, Grossman is a bizarre and hypnotic spectacle. Cruise's bravura turn here instantly won him some serious "good will" points, and rightfully so. On an unfortunate side note, Cruise is apparently planning a full-length feature based on the character, which is about as wise a career move as almost creating a franchise around Halley Berry's character from DIE ANOTHER DAY. Tom, let it go. You did a great job. Don't push it.
But back to TROPIC THUNDER... it's secret weapon isn't its raunchy humor or talented cast, but the fact that the script has some real wit and intelligence behind it. Without those brains, this would have been like a Southeast Asian version of AIRPLANE. In other words, average at best. Instead, it's as sublime as a comedy with a half-naked Jack Black strapped to an Asian water buffalo can possibly get.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
REVIEW UPDATE: TROPIC THUNDER & DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS
Just got back from the cinema for an advanced screening of DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS. Funny shite. Review coming tomorrow, along with the very tardy TROPIC THUNDER. Sorry, guys. Busy, busy, week. One must also be and live, after all....
Good Thursday to all...
Good Thursday to all...
REVIEW UPDATE: TROPIC THUNDER
Sorry, folks... Went to a Jazz Concert last night, therefore had to defer writing the TROPIC THUNDER review. Will post it later today. Attending the DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS screening tonight, too. Busy, busy day...
Later...
Later...
Monday, July 26, 2010
# 45 - SORORITY BOYS (2001)
SORORITY BOYS (2001 - COLLEGE/COMEDY) **1/2 out of *****
(Yeah, right: if that's a chick, then I'm Catherine Zeta-Jones...)
CAST: Barry Watson, Melissa Sagemiller, Michael Rosenbaum, Harland Williams, Heather Matarazzo, Kathryn Stockwood, Yvonne Scio, Brad Beyer.
DIRECTOR: Wallace Wolodarsky
WARNING: SPOILERS and some seriously ugly women right up ahead....
Last week, as part of the "I am Woman - Hear me Roar!!!" celebration that accompanied the release of SALT, I reviewed the 1985 gender-switch classic JUST ONE OF THE GUYS. That film, about a beautiful and intelligent high school senior who goes undercover as a guy to prove gender inequality, was clever and ahead of its time.
Today, I am reviewing it's far less graceful - and much, much more crude - cinematic cousin: SORORITY BOYS. I remember seeing the trailers for this flick in 2001 and simply erupting into gales of laughter over them. I figured if the film was even half as funny as the trailer, then it was possible we had a major hit on our hands. For a film that I was so gung-ho on seeing, I didn't end up catching it until it was out on DVD. Don't remember the reasons why, but turns out that things unfolded as they should have: if i would have ended up paying the full price of a ticket back then for SORORITY BOYS, plus the several million dollars for drinks and popcorn, I think I would bludgeoned someone with a standee.
Paying the much lower price for a DVD rental seems more appropriate for a film that clearly saved all of its best moments for the trailer. Needless to say, I was a bit underwhelmed. If TOOTSIE was at the top of the class of "boys-dressing-as-girls" academy, SORORITY BOYS is the dude who slept in and missed the whole semester. Still, there are some diamonds to be found in this rough - if not many.
Our fable begins at a party at the Kappa Omega Kappa fraternity, which spells - altogether now - KOK. If you think those letters are an accident, then you obviously have an evolved opinion of frat boys and the games they play. One of those games is tying up naked pledges and taunting them with bowls of Crisco and and a gerbil - which is the first lovely scene we see.
Then, thankfully, this would-be Mythbusters episode is interrupted when the rest of the fraternity brothers decide to use the room for a normal frat party and shove aside the dork-ass president of KOK, Spence (Brad Beyer), and his equally dork-ass flunkies who were wielding the Crisco and the gerbil.
By the way, by "normal party" I mean one that doesn't involve anal exploratory surgery involving a small mammal - and only good ol' fashioned misogyny. We are efficiently introduced to our would-be heroines: (1) Dave (Barry Watson), the kind of frat boy who is actually pretty nice - meaning he fucks only one girl instead of three at a party; (2) Doofer (Harland Williams), the kind of frat boy who was a frat boy when Ronald Reagan was President - and will still be a frat boy when Ben Affleck is President; and (3) Adam (Dean), the kind of frat boy who is elected head of the social committee - in other words, the Frat Boy Poster Boy. Life is great for these future nuclear physicists - until the day they are thrown out of KOK for embezzling money from the social fund.
Suddenly homeless and penniless, the trio rack their brains for a plan to prove their innocence. Given that they probably have a collective IQ commensurate to about that of a used coffee filter, this endeavor surprisingly doesn't take that long.
See, Doofer quickly remembers that Adam had set-up a secret video camera to tape him fucking half the co-eds on campus - and the safe that kept the social fund is right next to the bed. Using the logic from a hundred Scooby-Doo cartoons, our heroes deduce that all they have to do is get ahold of the tapes to see if it picked up footage of the theft.
Unfortunately, there's no way in hell they're going to be allowed back into the KOK house, so Doofer (again) comes up with the brilliant idea to sneak into that night's "All Tramp" party - dressed up as, uh, tramps. AKA: Girls. Lo and behold: despite looking like the cast of TO WONG FOO PART 2, our "heroines" manage to get into the KOK house.
Sadly, before they can search for the tapes, three things happen to put a crimp in their plans: (1) Jimmy (Tony Denham), Adam's "little brother," develops a major hard-on for Adam-dressed-like-a-girl, which is like flying Beyond the Valley of the Fucked-Up; (2) their KOK brothers take one look at those broad shoulders, Adam's Apples, nonexistent hips, and lopsided tits - and immediately mistake them for sisters from the Delta Omega Gamma sorority house, also known as - altogether now - DOGs, (3) and toss their flat asses out onto the sidewalk.
Swooping in to save our "girls" is DOG president Leah (Melissa Sagemiller), the kind of sorority sister that passes out flyers to everyone at the student union and generally is a major pain despite being extremely hot. Taking pity on the three, Leah invites them into the DOG house (giggle) and serves them a hot meal - which, at this point, the guys would've gone down on each other for.
While Doofer, Dave, and Adam tear into the food in a manner about as ladlylike as a pack of velociraptors tearing into a bleeding triceratop, Leah tries to convince them to join DOG. Dave secretly tries to convince Adam and Doofer that they can use the DOG generosity for food and board while they contrive a way to get to those tapes that will surely clear their names.
Well, actually, Adam is the only that needs to be convinced - because Doofer was pretty much convinced by the food. Faced with the thought of possibly having to make a living as transvestite hooker, Adam succumbs to the idea of becoming a DOG - for the meantime.
Before you know it Dave, Adam, and Doofer have become Daisy, Adena, and Roberta. Our three "heroines" quickly blend into the DOG house (ha ha), not so surprising since the major sisters are: (1) Frederique (Yvonne Scio), a French chick who, while reasonably hot, also has a mustache just a little less bushy than Magnum P.I.'S; (2) Patty (Kathryn Stockwood), a girl who is bigger than most NFL linebackers, with a voice deeper than most foghorns; and (3) Katie (Heather Matarazzo), a bookish sister whose voice is probably used a lot by Foley artists to simulate the sound of tires screeching on pavement during car chases - and I'm barely exaggerating.
So, as you can see, their sorority's name isn't exactly unwarranted. At any rate Dave, Adam, and Doofer quickly launch a plan to try to get the tape back, which consists of: (1) Adam taking advantage of Jimmy's raging boner for Adena by (2) meeting him on a date at the KOK house, and then (3) slipping a roofie into Jimmy's drink, before Adam as Adena (4) searches the room from top to bottom for the tape.
Unfortunately, Jimmy's a lot more cunning than his sub-Fred Savage looks would hint at. Basically, he slips his own roofie into Adena's drink which leads to a knock-down drag out fight that ends in: (1) Adam passing out, (2) waking up the next morning and having to (3) do the Walk of Shame in his own frat house, and then (4) discovering a suspicious sticky stain on the seat of his skirt, which (5) leads Doofer and Dave to posit that Adam might have actually gotten butt-fucked by his "little brother." Ouch.
Desperate now for a strategy that doesn't include inadvertent sodomy, our trio of "heroines" convinces the other DOGs (tee-hee) to participate in the Powder Puff Festival, a football game between sororities with the prize being a chance to sail on the KOKtail Cruise with the similarly-named dickheads. Dave sees this as an opportunity to search for the tape, and also sort our his feelings for Leah - whom he has grown close to as Daisy.
It goes without saying that the DOGs win the tournament - and they eventually make it onto the cruise. There, all the various plot threads collide: (1) Jimmy and Adena's "affair", (2) Daisy and Leah's pseudo-lesbian dalliance, (3) the search for the tape, (4) Doofer's desire to, uh, get smashed; and (5) our "heroines" being revealed to have, well, dicks.
Needless to say, it turns out that Crisco-and-gerbil-loving KOK president Spene engineered the theft of the social funds and pays for his transgression by getting tossed off the ship - leading to (1) Adam's coronation as the new, uh, KOK head; (2) Dave and Leah becoming a couple (couple of freaks, that is) and (3) Doofer convincing Frederique to explore the whole new world of depilatories.
And, Jimmy? Well, he and Adam will always have that one night together.... And Adam always has Tequila to forget.
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Like I wrote, I had high hopes for SORORITY BOYS based on its trailer. Unfortunately, the trailer had a self-assurance that somehow doesn't translate to the film itself. A lot of the jokes are just a tad off. Can't really blame the cast because they perform their roles with gusto. Somehow, you can't help but think the direcctor was in a hurry to get the film in the can, because a lot of the scenes feel rushed. Better to have taken the time to get them right. After all, comedy is about timing, right?
As for the cast, they all have moments where they acquit themselves well. Barry Watson is suitable as the nice-guy frat boy who slowly falls for a DOG (ahem). Michael Rosenbaum has a couple of great expressions as the macho frat boy who is literally traumatized by not only his fall from grace, but also his forays behind the female curtain.
The "Zach Galifanakis" award goes to Harland Williams as the eternal frat boy Doofer, who generates the biggest laughs. Whether he's counseling Frederique on how to change her, um, French ways, or sharing with his new sisters the fact that he's addicted to masturbation, Doofer almost always get a smile out of you - at the very least. As the various sisters of the DOG house (chortle), Melissa Sagemiller, Heather Matarazzo, Kathryn Stockwood, and Yvonne Scio are all competent.
In the end, though, the only thing that keeps this from sliding into the "Below Average" swamp is the energy of its three leads. Without them, there'd be no excuse for SORORITY BOYS to exist.
(Yeah, right: if that's a chick, then I'm Catherine Zeta-Jones...)
CAST: Barry Watson, Melissa Sagemiller, Michael Rosenbaum, Harland Williams, Heather Matarazzo, Kathryn Stockwood, Yvonne Scio, Brad Beyer.
DIRECTOR: Wallace Wolodarsky
WARNING: SPOILERS and some seriously ugly women right up ahead....
Last week, as part of the "I am Woman - Hear me Roar!!!" celebration that accompanied the release of SALT, I reviewed the 1985 gender-switch classic JUST ONE OF THE GUYS. That film, about a beautiful and intelligent high school senior who goes undercover as a guy to prove gender inequality, was clever and ahead of its time.
Today, I am reviewing it's far less graceful - and much, much more crude - cinematic cousin: SORORITY BOYS. I remember seeing the trailers for this flick in 2001 and simply erupting into gales of laughter over them. I figured if the film was even half as funny as the trailer, then it was possible we had a major hit on our hands. For a film that I was so gung-ho on seeing, I didn't end up catching it until it was out on DVD. Don't remember the reasons why, but turns out that things unfolded as they should have: if i would have ended up paying the full price of a ticket back then for SORORITY BOYS, plus the several million dollars for drinks and popcorn, I think I would bludgeoned someone with a standee.
Paying the much lower price for a DVD rental seems more appropriate for a film that clearly saved all of its best moments for the trailer. Needless to say, I was a bit underwhelmed. If TOOTSIE was at the top of the class of "boys-dressing-as-girls" academy, SORORITY BOYS is the dude who slept in and missed the whole semester. Still, there are some diamonds to be found in this rough - if not many.
Our fable begins at a party at the Kappa Omega Kappa fraternity, which spells - altogether now - KOK. If you think those letters are an accident, then you obviously have an evolved opinion of frat boys and the games they play. One of those games is tying up naked pledges and taunting them with bowls of Crisco and and a gerbil - which is the first lovely scene we see.
Then, thankfully, this would-be Mythbusters episode is interrupted when the rest of the fraternity brothers decide to use the room for a normal frat party and shove aside the dork-ass president of KOK, Spence (Brad Beyer), and his equally dork-ass flunkies who were wielding the Crisco and the gerbil.
By the way, by "normal party" I mean one that doesn't involve anal exploratory surgery involving a small mammal - and only good ol' fashioned misogyny. We are efficiently introduced to our would-be heroines: (1) Dave (Barry Watson), the kind of frat boy who is actually pretty nice - meaning he fucks only one girl instead of three at a party; (2) Doofer (Harland Williams), the kind of frat boy who was a frat boy when Ronald Reagan was President - and will still be a frat boy when Ben Affleck is President; and (3) Adam (Dean), the kind of frat boy who is elected head of the social committee - in other words, the Frat Boy Poster Boy. Life is great for these future nuclear physicists - until the day they are thrown out of KOK for embezzling money from the social fund.
Suddenly homeless and penniless, the trio rack their brains for a plan to prove their innocence. Given that they probably have a collective IQ commensurate to about that of a used coffee filter, this endeavor surprisingly doesn't take that long.
See, Doofer quickly remembers that Adam had set-up a secret video camera to tape him fucking half the co-eds on campus - and the safe that kept the social fund is right next to the bed. Using the logic from a hundred Scooby-Doo cartoons, our heroes deduce that all they have to do is get ahold of the tapes to see if it picked up footage of the theft.
Unfortunately, there's no way in hell they're going to be allowed back into the KOK house, so Doofer (again) comes up with the brilliant idea to sneak into that night's "All Tramp" party - dressed up as, uh, tramps. AKA: Girls. Lo and behold: despite looking like the cast of TO WONG FOO PART 2, our "heroines" manage to get into the KOK house.
Sadly, before they can search for the tapes, three things happen to put a crimp in their plans: (1) Jimmy (Tony Denham), Adam's "little brother," develops a major hard-on for Adam-dressed-like-a-girl, which is like flying Beyond the Valley of the Fucked-Up; (2) their KOK brothers take one look at those broad shoulders, Adam's Apples, nonexistent hips, and lopsided tits - and immediately mistake them for sisters from the Delta Omega Gamma sorority house, also known as - altogether now - DOGs, (3) and toss their flat asses out onto the sidewalk.
Swooping in to save our "girls" is DOG president Leah (Melissa Sagemiller), the kind of sorority sister that passes out flyers to everyone at the student union and generally is a major pain despite being extremely hot. Taking pity on the three, Leah invites them into the DOG house (giggle) and serves them a hot meal - which, at this point, the guys would've gone down on each other for.
While Doofer, Dave, and Adam tear into the food in a manner about as ladlylike as a pack of velociraptors tearing into a bleeding triceratop, Leah tries to convince them to join DOG. Dave secretly tries to convince Adam and Doofer that they can use the DOG generosity for food and board while they contrive a way to get to those tapes that will surely clear their names.
Well, actually, Adam is the only that needs to be convinced - because Doofer was pretty much convinced by the food. Faced with the thought of possibly having to make a living as transvestite hooker, Adam succumbs to the idea of becoming a DOG - for the meantime.
Before you know it Dave, Adam, and Doofer have become Daisy, Adena, and Roberta. Our three "heroines" quickly blend into the DOG house (ha ha), not so surprising since the major sisters are: (1) Frederique (Yvonne Scio), a French chick who, while reasonably hot, also has a mustache just a little less bushy than Magnum P.I.'S; (2) Patty (Kathryn Stockwood), a girl who is bigger than most NFL linebackers, with a voice deeper than most foghorns; and (3) Katie (Heather Matarazzo), a bookish sister whose voice is probably used a lot by Foley artists to simulate the sound of tires screeching on pavement during car chases - and I'm barely exaggerating.
So, as you can see, their sorority's name isn't exactly unwarranted. At any rate Dave, Adam, and Doofer quickly launch a plan to try to get the tape back, which consists of: (1) Adam taking advantage of Jimmy's raging boner for Adena by (2) meeting him on a date at the KOK house, and then (3) slipping a roofie into Jimmy's drink, before Adam as Adena (4) searches the room from top to bottom for the tape.
Unfortunately, Jimmy's a lot more cunning than his sub-Fred Savage looks would hint at. Basically, he slips his own roofie into Adena's drink which leads to a knock-down drag out fight that ends in: (1) Adam passing out, (2) waking up the next morning and having to (3) do the Walk of Shame in his own frat house, and then (4) discovering a suspicious sticky stain on the seat of his skirt, which (5) leads Doofer and Dave to posit that Adam might have actually gotten butt-fucked by his "little brother." Ouch.
Desperate now for a strategy that doesn't include inadvertent sodomy, our trio of "heroines" convinces the other DOGs (tee-hee) to participate in the Powder Puff Festival, a football game between sororities with the prize being a chance to sail on the KOKtail Cruise with the similarly-named dickheads. Dave sees this as an opportunity to search for the tape, and also sort our his feelings for Leah - whom he has grown close to as Daisy.
It goes without saying that the DOGs win the tournament - and they eventually make it onto the cruise. There, all the various plot threads collide: (1) Jimmy and Adena's "affair", (2) Daisy and Leah's pseudo-lesbian dalliance, (3) the search for the tape, (4) Doofer's desire to, uh, get smashed; and (5) our "heroines" being revealed to have, well, dicks.
Needless to say, it turns out that Crisco-and-gerbil-loving KOK president Spene engineered the theft of the social funds and pays for his transgression by getting tossed off the ship - leading to (1) Adam's coronation as the new, uh, KOK head; (2) Dave and Leah becoming a couple (couple of freaks, that is) and (3) Doofer convincing Frederique to explore the whole new world of depilatories.
And, Jimmy? Well, he and Adam will always have that one night together.... And Adam always has Tequila to forget.
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Like I wrote, I had high hopes for SORORITY BOYS based on its trailer. Unfortunately, the trailer had a self-assurance that somehow doesn't translate to the film itself. A lot of the jokes are just a tad off. Can't really blame the cast because they perform their roles with gusto. Somehow, you can't help but think the direcctor was in a hurry to get the film in the can, because a lot of the scenes feel rushed. Better to have taken the time to get them right. After all, comedy is about timing, right?
As for the cast, they all have moments where they acquit themselves well. Barry Watson is suitable as the nice-guy frat boy who slowly falls for a DOG (ahem). Michael Rosenbaum has a couple of great expressions as the macho frat boy who is literally traumatized by not only his fall from grace, but also his forays behind the female curtain.
The "Zach Galifanakis" award goes to Harland Williams as the eternal frat boy Doofer, who generates the biggest laughs. Whether he's counseling Frederique on how to change her, um, French ways, or sharing with his new sisters the fact that he's addicted to masturbation, Doofer almost always get a smile out of you - at the very least. As the various sisters of the DOG house (chortle), Melissa Sagemiller, Heather Matarazzo, Kathryn Stockwood, and Yvonne Scio are all competent.
In the end, though, the only thing that keeps this from sliding into the "Below Average" swamp is the energy of its three leads. Without them, there'd be no excuse for SORORITY BOYS to exist.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
UPCOMING REVIEWS FOR THE WEEK OF 7/26/10 - 8/1/10
In commemoration of DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS, which is being released on Friday, July 30, next week's reviews will focus on the highly intelligent and sophisticated genre of the... raunchy comedy. Beware...
7/26/10 - #45 - SORORITY BOYS: 2001 (AKA: THE UGLIEST THREE WOMEN ON CAMPUS)
7/27/10 - #46 - TROPIC THUNDER: 2008 (AKA: APOCALYPSE NOW THE SHIT'S GONNA HIT THE FAN)
7/28/10 - #47 - DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS: 2010 (AKA: I GOT YOUR RESERVATION RIGHT HERE)
7/29/10 - #48 - GRANDMA'S BOY: 2007 (AKA: AND WHAT, MAY I ASK, IS WRONG WITH LIVING AT HOME?)
7/30/10 - #49 - THE SWEETEST THING: 2001 (AKA: WOMEN ARE SOMETIMES BIGGER PIGS THAN MEN)
7/31/10 - #50 - HOT TUB TIME MACHINE: 2010 (AKA: I GOT INTO A JACUZZI, DRANK A CASE OF BEER, AND WOKE UP IN THE 80's)
8/1/10 - #51 - THE HANGOVER: 2009 (AKA: WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, UM, GETS FORGOTTEN...)
7/26/10 - #45 - SORORITY BOYS: 2001 (AKA: THE UGLIEST THREE WOMEN ON CAMPUS)
7/27/10 - #46 - TROPIC THUNDER: 2008 (AKA: APOCALYPSE NOW THE SHIT'S GONNA HIT THE FAN)
7/28/10 - #47 - DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS: 2010 (AKA: I GOT YOUR RESERVATION RIGHT HERE)
7/29/10 - #48 - GRANDMA'S BOY: 2007 (AKA: AND WHAT, MAY I ASK, IS WRONG WITH LIVING AT HOME?)
7/30/10 - #49 - THE SWEETEST THING: 2001 (AKA: WOMEN ARE SOMETIMES BIGGER PIGS THAN MEN)
7/31/10 - #50 - HOT TUB TIME MACHINE: 2010 (AKA: I GOT INTO A JACUZZI, DRANK A CASE OF BEER, AND WOKE UP IN THE 80's)
8/1/10 - #51 - THE HANGOVER: 2009 (AKA: WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, UM, GETS FORGOTTEN...)
# 44 - THE UPSIDE OF ANGER (2005)
THE UPSIDE OF ANGER (2005 - DRAMA/ROMANCE) ***½ out of *****
(When one door closes, another opens. And a drunk and lovable ex-baseball player who looks eerily like Kevin Costner stumbles through…)
CAST: Joan Allen, Kevin Costner, Alicia Witt, Evan Rachel Wood, Keri Russell, Erika Christensen, Mike Binder.
DIRECTOR: Mike Binder
WARNING: SPOILERS and out-of-control estrogen right up ahead…
I just love it when actors turn up in quirky fare that you never would’ve thought they’d be part of. Such is the case of THE UPSIDE OF ANGER.
I’m not referring to Joan Allen who, while delivering a powerhouse performance as angry jilted wife Terry Wolfmeyer, seems at home with this kind of slice-of-life fare. Nor am I referring to Alicia Witt, Evan Rachel Wood, Keri Russell, and Erika Christensen - who all play Terry’s daughters.
Nope, I’m referring to Sir Kevin Costner, who was once the Crown Prince of Hollywood, and is the genius who brought us and/or starred in some very good to excellent films: FANDANGO, SILVERADO, AMERICAN FLYERS, NO WAY OUT, BULL DURHAM, DANCES WITH WOLVES, FIELD OF DREAMS, TIN CUP, MR. BROOKS, and SWING VOTE. While he has starred in low-key fare like THE WAR, Mr. Costner is better known for higher-profile projects with him as the unquestioned lead. In THE UPSIDE OF ANGER, he’s not the lead. Instead, he plays a very gracious (and funny) second fiddle. And it’s one of his best performances ever.
Terry Wolfmeyer is a well-to-do Detroit housewife who has issues: (1) her husband Grey has up and run out on her with his Swedish secretary, (2) she’s stuck with four daughters who aren’t exactly thrilled that pops has upped and run out on them, and (3) she’s understandably pissed. Very pissed. Evidently, Terry had recently learned of Grey’s affair with “Danke Schein” (as she refers to the Nordic office tramp), and so when Grey fails to return home one day, she automatically assumes that he just absconded with D.S. and ran out on his family. Refusing to beg for him to come back, Terry puts on Ye Olde Stiff Upper Lip and breaks the news to her daughters and tells them that life is going to be very, very different from now on.
The girls, naturally, take this like the bombshell that it is. Eldest daughter Hadley (Alicia Witt) is the one who gets over it the quickest. Easy to do when you’re a bitchy pill whose already moved out of the house to go to college. Andy (Erika Christensen) is upset by the news and promptly decides to deal with it by having an affair later with local radio station manager Shep Goodman (the film’s director, Mike Binder, doing double duty as slimeball, too) which is kind of fucked-up when you think about it. Ballet aspirant Emily (Keri Russell) is already dealing with eating issues and desperate to court her mother’s approval, so her dad’s abrupt departure is like tossing dynamite on a bonfire.
Last, but not the least, is Popeye (Evan Rachel Wood) who narrates the story and observes the events with the detached eye of a future tabloid writer. And don’t ask me why she’s called Popeye, because not once do I see her eat any goddamn spinach. And her chin's not that huge. And she ain't bald. So, WTF?
Where’s Mr. Costner in all of this, you ask? Well, I’m getting to that. Kevin plays Denny Davies, a washed up baseball player who works for Shep and has a radio sports show - and is a friend to the Wolfmeyers. He also supplements his income by signing baseballs and selling them at conventions and, I guess, E-bay. The interesting thing about Denny is that he actually is not one of those guys who's trying to relive his past glories. If anything, he can’t wait to bury the fuckers, but his fans insist on keeping them above ground. In other words, Denny is stuck. He wants to move forward, but he can’t. And he’s a drunk. Which might be because he’d like to have something more meaningful than the baseball memories of old - but can’t find it. Kind of like an endless hunger or an itch you can’t scratch.
At any rate, Denny decides that being a friend to Terry and her girls in this strange time is that meaningful thing he’s been looking for. Terry doesn’t necessarily thinks this is a great thing, and basically treats Denny like an annoying golden retriever puppy who just won’t leave you alone. And she’s not afraid to kick. It’s a testament to Denny’s patience that he suffers these verbal assaults in silence and just responds with a goofy smile. Any other man would’ve drop-kicked Terry across Lake Michigan.
THE UPSIDE OF ANGER traces the next couple of years as Terry tries to rebuild her family without trying to initiate contact with Grey - whom she is sure is basically starting a new family in Sweden with his new whore. Several interesting things happen during this time: (1) Hadley gets married and has a kid, (2) Andy embarks on the aforementioned sleazy affair with Shep, (3) Emily starves herself to the point of passing out and being hospitalized, (4) Popeye strikes up a friendship with a gay teen (Dean Christensen) who she wants to - ha ha - “cure”, (5) and a romance develops between Denny and Terry - with the former practically moving in and turning into a pillar of support and healing force for the crazy bitches of the Wolfmeyer Clan. That he can put up with not only one but five banshees is further proof that this guy should be sainted. Basically, though, everyone’s happy and relatively content. Which all changes one day when a construction crew developing property behind the Wolfmeyer house uncover a well - and discover’s a man’s decaying corpse at the bottom. They fish out his wallet and discover that the man was…. Grey Wolfmeyer.
Now, in another universe this would turn into a thriller in which Terry would be suspected of Grey’s death and Denny and the girls would fight to prove her innocence. Thankfully, though, the movie treats this revelation as more of a catharsis - and everyone accepts that Grey must have been walking around the property and fell through the well (like a dumbass) to his death. So, in other words, he never ran off with Danke Schein and sired four more irritating daughters. With this very big loose end tied up, Denny and the Wolfmeyer broads live happily ever after.
At least until Denny realizes that there are nicer women out there and life is just too damn short.
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Joan Allen and Kevin Costner make this movie. In the hands of less gifted performers, this might have been a tedious slog. Instead, they generate some serious chemistry that anchors the film and gives it a solid center. The actresses playing the Wolfmeyer daughters are all stellar and complement not only the leads, but each other, as well. As with Costner and Allen, they are well cast and make the roles their own. They’re all aided by a sharp script by director and actor Mike Binder. And when that ending comes along, it’s a heartbreaker - but also a liberating one, somehow. In the end, what the story tries to tell us is that “anger” is basically a waste of time and in the end, doesn’t really have an upside. This ironic twist shows that all that energy and turmoil that Terry suffered through wasn’t necessary, but at the same time, unavoidable.
One quibble: I find it hard to believe that the women wouldn't have realized sooner that Grey wasn't in Sweden. It's a testament to how terrific the cast is that this nit-noid doesn't mar the experience. THE UPSIDE OF ANGER is a good flick - and in a perfect world, Kevin Costner and Joan Allen would’ve gotten Academy Awards for it...
(When one door closes, another opens. And a drunk and lovable ex-baseball player who looks eerily like Kevin Costner stumbles through…)
CAST: Joan Allen, Kevin Costner, Alicia Witt, Evan Rachel Wood, Keri Russell, Erika Christensen, Mike Binder.
DIRECTOR: Mike Binder
WARNING: SPOILERS and out-of-control estrogen right up ahead…
I just love it when actors turn up in quirky fare that you never would’ve thought they’d be part of. Such is the case of THE UPSIDE OF ANGER.
I’m not referring to Joan Allen who, while delivering a powerhouse performance as angry jilted wife Terry Wolfmeyer, seems at home with this kind of slice-of-life fare. Nor am I referring to Alicia Witt, Evan Rachel Wood, Keri Russell, and Erika Christensen - who all play Terry’s daughters.
Nope, I’m referring to Sir Kevin Costner, who was once the Crown Prince of Hollywood, and is the genius who brought us and/or starred in some very good to excellent films: FANDANGO, SILVERADO, AMERICAN FLYERS, NO WAY OUT, BULL DURHAM, DANCES WITH WOLVES, FIELD OF DREAMS, TIN CUP, MR. BROOKS, and SWING VOTE. While he has starred in low-key fare like THE WAR, Mr. Costner is better known for higher-profile projects with him as the unquestioned lead. In THE UPSIDE OF ANGER, he’s not the lead. Instead, he plays a very gracious (and funny) second fiddle. And it’s one of his best performances ever.
Terry Wolfmeyer is a well-to-do Detroit housewife who has issues: (1) her husband Grey has up and run out on her with his Swedish secretary, (2) she’s stuck with four daughters who aren’t exactly thrilled that pops has upped and run out on them, and (3) she’s understandably pissed. Very pissed. Evidently, Terry had recently learned of Grey’s affair with “Danke Schein” (as she refers to the Nordic office tramp), and so when Grey fails to return home one day, she automatically assumes that he just absconded with D.S. and ran out on his family. Refusing to beg for him to come back, Terry puts on Ye Olde Stiff Upper Lip and breaks the news to her daughters and tells them that life is going to be very, very different from now on.
The girls, naturally, take this like the bombshell that it is. Eldest daughter Hadley (Alicia Witt) is the one who gets over it the quickest. Easy to do when you’re a bitchy pill whose already moved out of the house to go to college. Andy (Erika Christensen) is upset by the news and promptly decides to deal with it by having an affair later with local radio station manager Shep Goodman (the film’s director, Mike Binder, doing double duty as slimeball, too) which is kind of fucked-up when you think about it. Ballet aspirant Emily (Keri Russell) is already dealing with eating issues and desperate to court her mother’s approval, so her dad’s abrupt departure is like tossing dynamite on a bonfire.
Last, but not the least, is Popeye (Evan Rachel Wood) who narrates the story and observes the events with the detached eye of a future tabloid writer. And don’t ask me why she’s called Popeye, because not once do I see her eat any goddamn spinach. And her chin's not that huge. And she ain't bald. So, WTF?
Where’s Mr. Costner in all of this, you ask? Well, I’m getting to that. Kevin plays Denny Davies, a washed up baseball player who works for Shep and has a radio sports show - and is a friend to the Wolfmeyers. He also supplements his income by signing baseballs and selling them at conventions and, I guess, E-bay. The interesting thing about Denny is that he actually is not one of those guys who's trying to relive his past glories. If anything, he can’t wait to bury the fuckers, but his fans insist on keeping them above ground. In other words, Denny is stuck. He wants to move forward, but he can’t. And he’s a drunk. Which might be because he’d like to have something more meaningful than the baseball memories of old - but can’t find it. Kind of like an endless hunger or an itch you can’t scratch.
At any rate, Denny decides that being a friend to Terry and her girls in this strange time is that meaningful thing he’s been looking for. Terry doesn’t necessarily thinks this is a great thing, and basically treats Denny like an annoying golden retriever puppy who just won’t leave you alone. And she’s not afraid to kick. It’s a testament to Denny’s patience that he suffers these verbal assaults in silence and just responds with a goofy smile. Any other man would’ve drop-kicked Terry across Lake Michigan.
THE UPSIDE OF ANGER traces the next couple of years as Terry tries to rebuild her family without trying to initiate contact with Grey - whom she is sure is basically starting a new family in Sweden with his new whore. Several interesting things happen during this time: (1) Hadley gets married and has a kid, (2) Andy embarks on the aforementioned sleazy affair with Shep, (3) Emily starves herself to the point of passing out and being hospitalized, (4) Popeye strikes up a friendship with a gay teen (Dean Christensen) who she wants to - ha ha - “cure”, (5) and a romance develops between Denny and Terry - with the former practically moving in and turning into a pillar of support and healing force for the crazy bitches of the Wolfmeyer Clan. That he can put up with not only one but five banshees is further proof that this guy should be sainted. Basically, though, everyone’s happy and relatively content. Which all changes one day when a construction crew developing property behind the Wolfmeyer house uncover a well - and discover’s a man’s decaying corpse at the bottom. They fish out his wallet and discover that the man was…. Grey Wolfmeyer.
Now, in another universe this would turn into a thriller in which Terry would be suspected of Grey’s death and Denny and the girls would fight to prove her innocence. Thankfully, though, the movie treats this revelation as more of a catharsis - and everyone accepts that Grey must have been walking around the property and fell through the well (like a dumbass) to his death. So, in other words, he never ran off with Danke Schein and sired four more irritating daughters. With this very big loose end tied up, Denny and the Wolfmeyer broads live happily ever after.
At least until Denny realizes that there are nicer women out there and life is just too damn short.
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Joan Allen and Kevin Costner make this movie. In the hands of less gifted performers, this might have been a tedious slog. Instead, they generate some serious chemistry that anchors the film and gives it a solid center. The actresses playing the Wolfmeyer daughters are all stellar and complement not only the leads, but each other, as well. As with Costner and Allen, they are well cast and make the roles their own. They’re all aided by a sharp script by director and actor Mike Binder. And when that ending comes along, it’s a heartbreaker - but also a liberating one, somehow. In the end, what the story tries to tell us is that “anger” is basically a waste of time and in the end, doesn’t really have an upside. This ironic twist shows that all that energy and turmoil that Terry suffered through wasn’t necessary, but at the same time, unavoidable.
One quibble: I find it hard to believe that the women wouldn't have realized sooner that Grey wasn't in Sweden. It's a testament to how terrific the cast is that this nit-noid doesn't mar the experience. THE UPSIDE OF ANGER is a good flick - and in a perfect world, Kevin Costner and Joan Allen would’ve gotten Academy Awards for it...
# 43 - SALT (2010)
SALT (2010 - ACTION/ADVENTURE/SPY) ***1/2 out of *****
(Too much of it is bad for you. But in the right amounts…)
CAST: Angelina Jolie, Liev Schreiber, Chiwetel Eijofor, August Diehl, Cory Stoll, Daniel Olbrychki.
DIRECTOR: Phillip Noyce
WARNING: Minor SPOILERS and blatant Bourne-sex-change antics right up ahead…
After seeing INCEPTION last week, I knew with some heaviness in my chest that it would be awhile before another film as surprising or provocative would come down the pike. I knew it would be back to the usual glut of bland and run-of-the-mill cinematic fare. You know - stuff that doesn’t stand out from the pack and doesn’t even make an attempt to, whose main purpose is give us more of the same because there’s an audience for that kind of thing so why not keep feeding us the same fare? Does SALT fit that bill? On the surface, SALT looks like it’s more of the same - basically, a Jason Bourne film with tits. And to a certain degree, it is. However, there are two things that elevate it above being just another “Shaky Cam” spy thriller: (1) Angelina Jolie’s layered and engaging performance, and (2) recent events that have made it uncomfortably clear it is not at all fantastic for Russian “sleepers” to walk among us. And by Russian “sleepers” I don’t mean whores from Moscow, thank you.
SALT opens with a brutal scene of Evelyn Salt (Angelina Jolie) bound and writhing in bra and panties on the floor of a filthy North Korean prison. As opposed to, say, a pristine North Korea prison. At any rate, seems those damn commies think Evelyn is a spy, even though she maintains she’s just a sweet businesswoman on, uh, business in a place where she should have no business. The North Koreans carefully consider her assertions by (1) beating the crap out of her, (2) forcing gallons of water down her throat, and (3) slamming their booted heels into her stomach to force all that water out. Clearly, these fuckers love their jobs. Eventually, the North Koreans agree to an exchange to free Evelyn. Met at the prison gate by her boss, Ted Winter (Liev Schreiber), she learns that her German boyfriend, Mike (August Diehl), fought relentlessly and tirelessly for her release. By the way, the sharp-eyed among you will remember a similar opening scene from DIE ANOTHER DAY, the James Bond movie that was about an Asian guy wanting to turn into a Cracker. And it also had an ice palace and a space laser beam so, needless to say, DIE ANOTHER DAY wasn’t exactly at the top of the pantheon. You’re probably groaning in your seats right now, thinking that if SALT has to rip-off one of the silliest Bond films since MOONRAKER - and so early on - then that can’t be a good thing. Don’t worry - SALT will move on to ripping off better movies.
Flash forward a couple of years, and we find that Evelyn and Mike have married, and are about to celebrate their second anniversary. Which Evelyn prepares for by... trying to fold table napkins into elegant patterns. Now, I may be off-base here, but I really don’t think Mike is going to care about how the napkins are folded - and more about how long it will take him to remove Evelyn’s lingerie. But I’ve been called a degenerate. Evelyn complains to Ted (who’s still her boss) that her napkin-folding is just not “sexy.” Got that right. At that point, I was hoping Ted would say to her, “Babe, if it’s sexy you want, why don't you cover your naked body - which eerily resembles Angelina Jolie’s - with a hundred of these napkins - and have him unfold them, one by one.” Unfortunately, he doesn’t say this to her. Later, Evelyn and Ted rush out of the building, he to catch a flight, she to continue practice folding for her anniversary celebration. Their departure is kiboshed when a Russian defector suddenly shows up and demands an audience for a whopper of a story to tell. Ted sends Evelyn in to talk to him, since she’s apparently the best at sorting out a whackjob from the truthful. The defector turns to be a crone named Orlov (Daniel Olbrychki), who spins for Evelyn a tale of children being trained in Russia to be sleeper agents planted in the United States. And that one of them is a mole right inside the CIA who is planning to target the visiting Russian president the very next day.
Deciding she’s heard more credible stories on THE OUTER LIMITS and THE TWILIGHT ZONE, Evelyn excuses herself from Orlov’s company - saying she still has a lot of napkin-folding to do. Her exit is botched by Orlov’s declaration that the mole is Evelyn herself. Even worse, the super-duper lie detector that scans the entire room determines that Orlov is telling the truth. Pleading with her colleagues that she is innocent, Salt watches as Orlov is escorted out of the building. Unfortunately, it appears that Orlov has been hanging out with Rosa Klebb, because he has the same dagger shoes that she had in FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE. He uses these kicks to annihilate his CIA escorts - and escapes. Evelyn follows his lead and does the same in a hilarious sequence that shows her turning into a hotter version of MacGyver by creating a bomb of out of some cleaning detergents and a fire extinguisher. Getting the jump on her pursuers, she skedaddles out of her place of employment and rushes to meet Mike for some sweaty and vigorous napkin-folding.
To her chagrin, Mike is not at home. Probably heard through the grapevine that she intended to celebrate their anniversary by folding napkins and got while the gettin' was good. After dropping off their pet mutt with a neighbor, Evelyn tucks her blonde hair under a cap and jumps on the first bus to New York City - where the Russkie prez is visiting and where she hopes to avert an assassination attempt on him. Or does she? Needless to say, the less you know about Evelyn’s loyalties and the remaining twists and turns (and there are many) in SALT, the more you will enjoy it - or, at least, the harder your jaw will slam into the theater floor as you scream: “What. THE. FUCK!!!”. All I’ll say that is that Evelyn embarks on one action scene after another - racing to stay ahead of both the CIA and them pesky russkies while also trying to find her hubby - with such cat-like skill that you have to wonder if she was two-timing Mike with Jason Bourne. Maybe she needed something more exciting, after all, than folding napkins….
Oh… one thing I will say: when Angelina Jolie dresses up like a guy, she looks eerily like a butch Kristin Scott Thomas. You’ll see…
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Saying it point blank: without Angelina Jolie, SALT would have been just "Jason Bourne with breasts." Plain and simple. While the whole thing is directed and written with a kinetic efficiency, this is not something we haven’t seen before. But, as I mentioned in the intro, recent events that revealed 10 Russian sleeper agents have been among us all this time lend SALT some relevant immediacy it would have surely lacked. The subject matter, elevated by these events, in turn elevate the entire film. But even the most timely topic wouldn’t be enough to distinguish a film if its lead is not dynamite. And, folks, Angelina Jolie is dynamite. I was sure I’d be bored with her playing yet another kick-ass action heroine. But there’s something about her spin on Evelyn that got me. Professional and efficient, but also human and vulnerable in a way that isn’t cliched. Indeed, Jolie’s best moments are not those wherein she is trying to evade capture, but rather the quieter ones where she tries to Bond with her husband. Like in the beginning when, after having been released from the North Korean prison, she sees Mike waiting for her - and realizing how hard he fought to free her. The look on Jolie’s face as she registers this act of love is both a telling emotional marker - and significant plot point.
The supporting cast supports Jolie well. Schreiber is good in a role that calls for him to slowly question his loyalty to Evelyn. And Chiwetel Ejiofor is similarly strong in his Pamela Landy-type role of Salt’s pursuer who gradually comes to question her guilt - only to doubt her again. August Diehl is touching in his small but significant role as Mike, Evelyn’s beloved husband. Their relationship provides the film with the closest thing to an emotional center. Indeed, if this thread would have been developed better, SALT would be more than a merely good film. But maybe they’re saving it for the (ahem) sequel.
Also, director Phillip Noyce knows his way around action and suspense, having helmed such solid thrillers as DEAD CALM, PATRIOT GAMES, SLIVER, CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER, THE BONE COLLECTOR, and THE QUIET AMERICAN. He brings his expert craftmanship to SALT and it shows in the sleek and propulsive end-product.
Bottom line: Angelina Jolie owns SALT. More power to her.
(Too much of it is bad for you. But in the right amounts…)
CAST: Angelina Jolie, Liev Schreiber, Chiwetel Eijofor, August Diehl, Cory Stoll, Daniel Olbrychki.
DIRECTOR: Phillip Noyce
WARNING: Minor SPOILERS and blatant Bourne-sex-change antics right up ahead…
After seeing INCEPTION last week, I knew with some heaviness in my chest that it would be awhile before another film as surprising or provocative would come down the pike. I knew it would be back to the usual glut of bland and run-of-the-mill cinematic fare. You know - stuff that doesn’t stand out from the pack and doesn’t even make an attempt to, whose main purpose is give us more of the same because there’s an audience for that kind of thing so why not keep feeding us the same fare? Does SALT fit that bill? On the surface, SALT looks like it’s more of the same - basically, a Jason Bourne film with tits. And to a certain degree, it is. However, there are two things that elevate it above being just another “Shaky Cam” spy thriller: (1) Angelina Jolie’s layered and engaging performance, and (2) recent events that have made it uncomfortably clear it is not at all fantastic for Russian “sleepers” to walk among us. And by Russian “sleepers” I don’t mean whores from Moscow, thank you.
SALT opens with a brutal scene of Evelyn Salt (Angelina Jolie) bound and writhing in bra and panties on the floor of a filthy North Korean prison. As opposed to, say, a pristine North Korea prison. At any rate, seems those damn commies think Evelyn is a spy, even though she maintains she’s just a sweet businesswoman on, uh, business in a place where she should have no business. The North Koreans carefully consider her assertions by (1) beating the crap out of her, (2) forcing gallons of water down her throat, and (3) slamming their booted heels into her stomach to force all that water out. Clearly, these fuckers love their jobs. Eventually, the North Koreans agree to an exchange to free Evelyn. Met at the prison gate by her boss, Ted Winter (Liev Schreiber), she learns that her German boyfriend, Mike (August Diehl), fought relentlessly and tirelessly for her release. By the way, the sharp-eyed among you will remember a similar opening scene from DIE ANOTHER DAY, the James Bond movie that was about an Asian guy wanting to turn into a Cracker. And it also had an ice palace and a space laser beam so, needless to say, DIE ANOTHER DAY wasn’t exactly at the top of the pantheon. You’re probably groaning in your seats right now, thinking that if SALT has to rip-off one of the silliest Bond films since MOONRAKER - and so early on - then that can’t be a good thing. Don’t worry - SALT will move on to ripping off better movies.
Flash forward a couple of years, and we find that Evelyn and Mike have married, and are about to celebrate their second anniversary. Which Evelyn prepares for by... trying to fold table napkins into elegant patterns. Now, I may be off-base here, but I really don’t think Mike is going to care about how the napkins are folded - and more about how long it will take him to remove Evelyn’s lingerie. But I’ve been called a degenerate. Evelyn complains to Ted (who’s still her boss) that her napkin-folding is just not “sexy.” Got that right. At that point, I was hoping Ted would say to her, “Babe, if it’s sexy you want, why don't you cover your naked body - which eerily resembles Angelina Jolie’s - with a hundred of these napkins - and have him unfold them, one by one.” Unfortunately, he doesn’t say this to her. Later, Evelyn and Ted rush out of the building, he to catch a flight, she to continue practice folding for her anniversary celebration. Their departure is kiboshed when a Russian defector suddenly shows up and demands an audience for a whopper of a story to tell. Ted sends Evelyn in to talk to him, since she’s apparently the best at sorting out a whackjob from the truthful. The defector turns to be a crone named Orlov (Daniel Olbrychki), who spins for Evelyn a tale of children being trained in Russia to be sleeper agents planted in the United States. And that one of them is a mole right inside the CIA who is planning to target the visiting Russian president the very next day.
Deciding she’s heard more credible stories on THE OUTER LIMITS and THE TWILIGHT ZONE, Evelyn excuses herself from Orlov’s company - saying she still has a lot of napkin-folding to do. Her exit is botched by Orlov’s declaration that the mole is Evelyn herself. Even worse, the super-duper lie detector that scans the entire room determines that Orlov is telling the truth. Pleading with her colleagues that she is innocent, Salt watches as Orlov is escorted out of the building. Unfortunately, it appears that Orlov has been hanging out with Rosa Klebb, because he has the same dagger shoes that she had in FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE. He uses these kicks to annihilate his CIA escorts - and escapes. Evelyn follows his lead and does the same in a hilarious sequence that shows her turning into a hotter version of MacGyver by creating a bomb of out of some cleaning detergents and a fire extinguisher. Getting the jump on her pursuers, she skedaddles out of her place of employment and rushes to meet Mike for some sweaty and vigorous napkin-folding.
To her chagrin, Mike is not at home. Probably heard through the grapevine that she intended to celebrate their anniversary by folding napkins and got while the gettin' was good. After dropping off their pet mutt with a neighbor, Evelyn tucks her blonde hair under a cap and jumps on the first bus to New York City - where the Russkie prez is visiting and where she hopes to avert an assassination attempt on him. Or does she? Needless to say, the less you know about Evelyn’s loyalties and the remaining twists and turns (and there are many) in SALT, the more you will enjoy it - or, at least, the harder your jaw will slam into the theater floor as you scream: “What. THE. FUCK!!!”. All I’ll say that is that Evelyn embarks on one action scene after another - racing to stay ahead of both the CIA and them pesky russkies while also trying to find her hubby - with such cat-like skill that you have to wonder if she was two-timing Mike with Jason Bourne. Maybe she needed something more exciting, after all, than folding napkins….
Oh… one thing I will say: when Angelina Jolie dresses up like a guy, she looks eerily like a butch Kristin Scott Thomas. You’ll see…
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Saying it point blank: without Angelina Jolie, SALT would have been just "Jason Bourne with breasts." Plain and simple. While the whole thing is directed and written with a kinetic efficiency, this is not something we haven’t seen before. But, as I mentioned in the intro, recent events that revealed 10 Russian sleeper agents have been among us all this time lend SALT some relevant immediacy it would have surely lacked. The subject matter, elevated by these events, in turn elevate the entire film. But even the most timely topic wouldn’t be enough to distinguish a film if its lead is not dynamite. And, folks, Angelina Jolie is dynamite. I was sure I’d be bored with her playing yet another kick-ass action heroine. But there’s something about her spin on Evelyn that got me. Professional and efficient, but also human and vulnerable in a way that isn’t cliched. Indeed, Jolie’s best moments are not those wherein she is trying to evade capture, but rather the quieter ones where she tries to Bond with her husband. Like in the beginning when, after having been released from the North Korean prison, she sees Mike waiting for her - and realizing how hard he fought to free her. The look on Jolie’s face as she registers this act of love is both a telling emotional marker - and significant plot point.
The supporting cast supports Jolie well. Schreiber is good in a role that calls for him to slowly question his loyalty to Evelyn. And Chiwetel Ejiofor is similarly strong in his Pamela Landy-type role of Salt’s pursuer who gradually comes to question her guilt - only to doubt her again. August Diehl is touching in his small but significant role as Mike, Evelyn’s beloved husband. Their relationship provides the film with the closest thing to an emotional center. Indeed, if this thread would have been developed better, SALT would be more than a merely good film. But maybe they’re saving it for the (ahem) sequel.
Also, director Phillip Noyce knows his way around action and suspense, having helmed such solid thrillers as DEAD CALM, PATRIOT GAMES, SLIVER, CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER, THE BONE COLLECTOR, and THE QUIET AMERICAN. He brings his expert craftmanship to SALT and it shows in the sleek and propulsive end-product.
Bottom line: Angelina Jolie owns SALT. More power to her.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
# 42 - MY LIFE IN RUINS (2009)
MY LIFE IN RUINS (2009 - ROMANTIC COMEDY) **½ out of *****
(So where's the big fat wedding?)
CAST: Nia Vardalos, Richard Dreyfuss, Alexis Gourgoulis, Alistair McGowan, Caroline Goodall, Bernice Stegers, Simon Gleeson, Natalie O'Donnell, Brian Palermo, Jareb Dauplaise.
DIRECTOR: Donald Petrie
WARNING: SPOILERS and inappropriate tourist/tour guide fraternization right up ahead.
When I was living in Italy a few years ago, I went with some friends on a tour of the unspeakably lovely island of Ischia. Our guide on that trip was a lovely lady named Francesca, a stunning Neapolitan beauty with glowing olive skin, shining raven hair, and brown eyes that turned gold under the sun. To say that everyone on the tour wanted to either (1) bang her or (2) be her is like saying that pasta is a little popular in Italy.
Anyhow, what was especially cool about Francesca was the passion and vivacity that she brought to her job. Whether it be taking us ugly Americans through a medicinal spa, or showing us how to read a menu, or instructing us on how to use hand gestures without unwittingly starting a blood feud with the locals, she was always spirited and vibrant and looked like she was having an utter blast.
In fact, she made being a tour guide seem like the most wonderful job in the all the Multi-verses. So much so that I seriously considered staying in Italy to become a tour guide. Then common sense prevailed and I chose a life of drudgery back in the US of A. Yippeee. Shoot me now. But that is another story… Bottom line? Francesca was the kind of guide that every tour should have - smart, sexy, and ineffably fun.
Georgia Ianakapolous (Nia Vardalos), the heroine of MY LIFE IN RUINS, nails the first and second traits. She’s smart (being a former history professor) and sexy (she’s played by Nia Vardalos, who is lovely in a natural and real way). Unfortunately, she’s not much fun. In fact, she’s a bit (okay, more than a bit) of a whiner. A Greek-American, she evidently moved back to the Motherland to teach at Athens University - but got laid off.
Given that she’s a world-class moaner (and not the bedroom kind) is that any kind of surprise? To support herself, she’s had to take a job as a tour guide at PanGloss tours - which, apparently, is definitely not glossy. She also hoped to bring her knowledge of ancient and classical history to shepherding flocks of unruly tourists from one site to another.
Unfortunately, most tourists are more interested in where they can get cheap and cheesy souvenirs instead of the history of the Parthenon. Which doesn’t sit well with Georgia, who mopes about like someone just told her MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING was complete crap. Suffice it so say, Georgia is no Francesca. Not even close. If she would’ve been our guide on Ischia, I think I would strapped cement blocks to her ankles and tossed her into the Mediterranean.
The film begins with yet another tour that Georgia is sure will be no different from all the others that came before. To wit, the trip will (1) be filled with ugly Americans, crazy Brits, drunk Aussies, horny Spanish divorcees, and any other national stereotype you care to mention; (2) her boss (Bernice Stegers) will stick them in the crappiest hotels this side of the Aegean, (3) the other tour led by rival guide Nico (Alistair McGowan) will have insanely luxurious accommodations, (4) Nico will relentlessly torment her, (5) she will have a bus driver who resembles a hot Sasquatch appealingly named Poupi Kakkas (Alexis Gourgoulis), and (6) none of her tour members will give the slightest shit about the Temple of Hephaestos or the Shrine of Athena. In other words, your average nightmare.
The tour gets off to a bumpy start, when Georgia runs afoul (understandably) of a few of the tourists. Chief among them is Irv (Richard Dreyfuss), a old fart who is convinced that everything that sputters out of his mouth is the utmost in side-splitting hilarity. It’s not. He and Georgia go nine rounds until she inadvertently insults him by saying she can understand why his wife left him. Only his wife didn’t leave him - she died. Ooops. Now, it’s distinctly possible that Irv’s wife actually committed suicide to get the hell away from him for good, but Georgia still looks like an insensitive choad to the rest of the group. Somehow, I just don’t see this happening with Francesca.
This forces Georgia to comes down a peg or two and apologize to Irv. Thus begins an unexpected and unlikely friendship that sees Irv acting as a sort of life coach-meets-pimp to our sour and dour tour guide. He counsels her to be open to the opportunities around her. By this, he means: (1) get rid of her cheap polyester tour guide blazer, (2) replace it with low-cut short dresses, (3) and hook up with some of the eligible dudes on the tour. Basically, he wants her to embrace her Inner Ho.
Unfortunately, her choices are a bit limited. The most ideal physical candidate is Barry (Simon Gleeson) a Russell Crowe-lookalike who is unfortunately married to the other Aussie in the group (Natalie O‘Donnell), and it wouldn’t be such a stellar idea for Georgia to add “home-wrecker” to her services as a guide. Side note: I wonder if the casting agent asked for a Russell Crowe clone for this role simply because he’s an Aussie. Hmmmm…. Good choice, though.
The other would-be fuckmates in the group for our heroine are (1) Gator (Jareb Dauplaise), a Florida teen who will likely still be acting like a Florida teen when he’s 80; and (2) Marc (Brian Palermo) , an IHOP executive who is forever on his BlackBerry communicating with the IHOP Mother Ship in an effort to find more communities to inflict IHOP branches on., and (3) our lovable Sasquatch, Poupi. Needless to say, Georgia chooses Marc.
However, this leads to a catastrophic first “date” where Georgia learns far too much about syrup than she cares to know. And let me be clear that, by “syrup”, I don’t mean the kind that you slooooooooooowwwwllllyyyy dribble all over your lover while he/she/it is handcuffed to your bed - then sloooooooooowwwlllyyyyyyy lick off until he/she/it can’t take it anymore and explodes like Mt. Vesuvius. No - when I say “syrup” I mean, “the kind you pour on flapjacks in the morning while yelling for the kids to get their asses down to eat breakfast before you flush it all down the garbage disposal.” In other words, “yawn.”
Finally, after a visit to the Temple of Delphi, where Irv acts like some sort of slurring and deranged Oracle, Georgia realizes that it’s Poupi she really wants. Because he’s a really great guy - even if he is named after something that comes out of your ass. Soon, Poupi and Georgia are crossing work boundaries and slapping bellies (and other body parts) while sweating profusely.
This has a rejuvenating effect on our tour guide, as great sex generally does, and she pretty much floats above the ground and makes radical changes to her itinerary, which was just a little less interesting than a lecture given by that monotone teacher from FERRIS BUELLER’S DAY OFF. Say, maybe he’s actually Georgia’s pops back in the States.
At any rate, Georgia decides to have a “beach day.” In a montage sequence set to some cheesy pop music, Georgia and her wards frolic their tanned and toned bodies under the Aegean sun. This all poses a problem for Georgia, though. See, earlier in the trip when she was still a major pill, she decided she’d had enough of Greece and PanGloss tours and mailed her resignation back to her boss in Athens.
So what’s a girl to do now that she thinks she’s found true love? Well, if you’re Georgia Ianakapoulos you thank your lucky stars when it turns out that the lecherous hotel clerk who mailed out your resignation letter also accidentally spilled coffee all over it - smearing the words and fooling your boss into thinking the letter was actually a “Thank You” letter. Oh, and because it turns out a university in the States wants to hire Georgia as a professor, her boss offers her a 20% raise to stay in Greece. Which Georgia accepts. Not that it’s necessary, because the only “raise” that Georgia really needs, apparently, is in Poupi’s pants.
And they lived hornily ever after...
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Call me insane, but I had high hopes for MY LIFE IN RUINS when I first saw the trailers. I guess I'm a sucker for films about women in foreign locales who "find themselves." Witness the piece of sweetness that was UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN. Indeed, I was hoping this would be something along those lines: UNDER THE AEGEAN SUN, if you will. Unfortunately, while the story does take place under said sun, it doesn't have anywhere near the depth and texture of that Diane Lane near-masterpiece. Instead, it substitutes easy yuks and obvious gags for most of the running time, short-changing the plot thread of its heroine's transformation.
While Nia Vardalos is charming and funny, she is also stuck playing a character who is whiny and nagging for most of the early going. Of course, this is necessary for Georgia's eventual mellowing, but it does test the audience's good will. Fortunately, Vardalos is so engaging the we don't lose sympathy with Georgia, even though we come close. And she's aided by the good supporting cast led by Richard Dreyfus. These folks are all pretty entertaining - even if most of them are playing stereotypes. Still, they mesh well with Vardalos. Unfortunately, the script doesn't give Georgia much of an arc besides going from uptight to glowing. We never get a sense of her as a full character with an inner life. Unlike Diane Lane in the UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN, who was basically transparent and who we just "got.". But then again, maybe MY LIFE IN RUINS never aspired to be that kind of movie. Maybe it was just meant to be your average funny-enough film about foreigners overseas. In that regard, it succeeded. It's funny enough, but it's also average. Obviously meant to capitalize on the Greco-mania sparked by MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING, MY LIFE IN RUINS can only stand in that film's shadow.
(So where's the big fat wedding?)
CAST: Nia Vardalos, Richard Dreyfuss, Alexis Gourgoulis, Alistair McGowan, Caroline Goodall, Bernice Stegers, Simon Gleeson, Natalie O'Donnell, Brian Palermo, Jareb Dauplaise.
DIRECTOR: Donald Petrie
WARNING: SPOILERS and inappropriate tourist/tour guide fraternization right up ahead.
When I was living in Italy a few years ago, I went with some friends on a tour of the unspeakably lovely island of Ischia. Our guide on that trip was a lovely lady named Francesca, a stunning Neapolitan beauty with glowing olive skin, shining raven hair, and brown eyes that turned gold under the sun. To say that everyone on the tour wanted to either (1) bang her or (2) be her is like saying that pasta is a little popular in Italy.
Anyhow, what was especially cool about Francesca was the passion and vivacity that she brought to her job. Whether it be taking us ugly Americans through a medicinal spa, or showing us how to read a menu, or instructing us on how to use hand gestures without unwittingly starting a blood feud with the locals, she was always spirited and vibrant and looked like she was having an utter blast.
In fact, she made being a tour guide seem like the most wonderful job in the all the Multi-verses. So much so that I seriously considered staying in Italy to become a tour guide. Then common sense prevailed and I chose a life of drudgery back in the US of A. Yippeee. Shoot me now. But that is another story… Bottom line? Francesca was the kind of guide that every tour should have - smart, sexy, and ineffably fun.
Georgia Ianakapolous (Nia Vardalos), the heroine of MY LIFE IN RUINS, nails the first and second traits. She’s smart (being a former history professor) and sexy (she’s played by Nia Vardalos, who is lovely in a natural and real way). Unfortunately, she’s not much fun. In fact, she’s a bit (okay, more than a bit) of a whiner. A Greek-American, she evidently moved back to the Motherland to teach at Athens University - but got laid off.
Given that she’s a world-class moaner (and not the bedroom kind) is that any kind of surprise? To support herself, she’s had to take a job as a tour guide at PanGloss tours - which, apparently, is definitely not glossy. She also hoped to bring her knowledge of ancient and classical history to shepherding flocks of unruly tourists from one site to another.
Unfortunately, most tourists are more interested in where they can get cheap and cheesy souvenirs instead of the history of the Parthenon. Which doesn’t sit well with Georgia, who mopes about like someone just told her MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING was complete crap. Suffice it so say, Georgia is no Francesca. Not even close. If she would’ve been our guide on Ischia, I think I would strapped cement blocks to her ankles and tossed her into the Mediterranean.
The film begins with yet another tour that Georgia is sure will be no different from all the others that came before. To wit, the trip will (1) be filled with ugly Americans, crazy Brits, drunk Aussies, horny Spanish divorcees, and any other national stereotype you care to mention; (2) her boss (Bernice Stegers) will stick them in the crappiest hotels this side of the Aegean, (3) the other tour led by rival guide Nico (Alistair McGowan) will have insanely luxurious accommodations, (4) Nico will relentlessly torment her, (5) she will have a bus driver who resembles a hot Sasquatch appealingly named Poupi Kakkas (Alexis Gourgoulis), and (6) none of her tour members will give the slightest shit about the Temple of Hephaestos or the Shrine of Athena. In other words, your average nightmare.
The tour gets off to a bumpy start, when Georgia runs afoul (understandably) of a few of the tourists. Chief among them is Irv (Richard Dreyfuss), a old fart who is convinced that everything that sputters out of his mouth is the utmost in side-splitting hilarity. It’s not. He and Georgia go nine rounds until she inadvertently insults him by saying she can understand why his wife left him. Only his wife didn’t leave him - she died. Ooops. Now, it’s distinctly possible that Irv’s wife actually committed suicide to get the hell away from him for good, but Georgia still looks like an insensitive choad to the rest of the group. Somehow, I just don’t see this happening with Francesca.
This forces Georgia to comes down a peg or two and apologize to Irv. Thus begins an unexpected and unlikely friendship that sees Irv acting as a sort of life coach-meets-pimp to our sour and dour tour guide. He counsels her to be open to the opportunities around her. By this, he means: (1) get rid of her cheap polyester tour guide blazer, (2) replace it with low-cut short dresses, (3) and hook up with some of the eligible dudes on the tour. Basically, he wants her to embrace her Inner Ho.
Unfortunately, her choices are a bit limited. The most ideal physical candidate is Barry (Simon Gleeson) a Russell Crowe-lookalike who is unfortunately married to the other Aussie in the group (Natalie O‘Donnell), and it wouldn’t be such a stellar idea for Georgia to add “home-wrecker” to her services as a guide. Side note: I wonder if the casting agent asked for a Russell Crowe clone for this role simply because he’s an Aussie. Hmmmm…. Good choice, though.
The other would-be fuckmates in the group for our heroine are (1) Gator (Jareb Dauplaise), a Florida teen who will likely still be acting like a Florida teen when he’s 80; and (2) Marc (Brian Palermo) , an IHOP executive who is forever on his BlackBerry communicating with the IHOP Mother Ship in an effort to find more communities to inflict IHOP branches on., and (3) our lovable Sasquatch, Poupi. Needless to say, Georgia chooses Marc.
However, this leads to a catastrophic first “date” where Georgia learns far too much about syrup than she cares to know. And let me be clear that, by “syrup”, I don’t mean the kind that you slooooooooooowwwwllllyyyy dribble all over your lover while he/she/it is handcuffed to your bed - then sloooooooooowwwlllyyyyyyy lick off until he/she/it can’t take it anymore and explodes like Mt. Vesuvius. No - when I say “syrup” I mean, “the kind you pour on flapjacks in the morning while yelling for the kids to get their asses down to eat breakfast before you flush it all down the garbage disposal.” In other words, “yawn.”
Finally, after a visit to the Temple of Delphi, where Irv acts like some sort of slurring and deranged Oracle, Georgia realizes that it’s Poupi she really wants. Because he’s a really great guy - even if he is named after something that comes out of your ass. Soon, Poupi and Georgia are crossing work boundaries and slapping bellies (and other body parts) while sweating profusely.
This has a rejuvenating effect on our tour guide, as great sex generally does, and she pretty much floats above the ground and makes radical changes to her itinerary, which was just a little less interesting than a lecture given by that monotone teacher from FERRIS BUELLER’S DAY OFF. Say, maybe he’s actually Georgia’s pops back in the States.
At any rate, Georgia decides to have a “beach day.” In a montage sequence set to some cheesy pop music, Georgia and her wards frolic their tanned and toned bodies under the Aegean sun. This all poses a problem for Georgia, though. See, earlier in the trip when she was still a major pill, she decided she’d had enough of Greece and PanGloss tours and mailed her resignation back to her boss in Athens.
So what’s a girl to do now that she thinks she’s found true love? Well, if you’re Georgia Ianakapoulos you thank your lucky stars when it turns out that the lecherous hotel clerk who mailed out your resignation letter also accidentally spilled coffee all over it - smearing the words and fooling your boss into thinking the letter was actually a “Thank You” letter. Oh, and because it turns out a university in the States wants to hire Georgia as a professor, her boss offers her a 20% raise to stay in Greece. Which Georgia accepts. Not that it’s necessary, because the only “raise” that Georgia really needs, apparently, is in Poupi’s pants.
And they lived hornily ever after...
BUT, SERIOUSLY: Call me insane, but I had high hopes for MY LIFE IN RUINS when I first saw the trailers. I guess I'm a sucker for films about women in foreign locales who "find themselves." Witness the piece of sweetness that was UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN. Indeed, I was hoping this would be something along those lines: UNDER THE AEGEAN SUN, if you will. Unfortunately, while the story does take place under said sun, it doesn't have anywhere near the depth and texture of that Diane Lane near-masterpiece. Instead, it substitutes easy yuks and obvious gags for most of the running time, short-changing the plot thread of its heroine's transformation.
While Nia Vardalos is charming and funny, she is also stuck playing a character who is whiny and nagging for most of the early going. Of course, this is necessary for Georgia's eventual mellowing, but it does test the audience's good will. Fortunately, Vardalos is so engaging the we don't lose sympathy with Georgia, even though we come close. And she's aided by the good supporting cast led by Richard Dreyfus. These folks are all pretty entertaining - even if most of them are playing stereotypes. Still, they mesh well with Vardalos. Unfortunately, the script doesn't give Georgia much of an arc besides going from uptight to glowing. We never get a sense of her as a full character with an inner life. Unlike Diane Lane in the UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN, who was basically transparent and who we just "got.". But then again, maybe MY LIFE IN RUINS never aspired to be that kind of movie. Maybe it was just meant to be your average funny-enough film about foreigners overseas. In that regard, it succeeded. It's funny enough, but it's also average. Obviously meant to capitalize on the Greco-mania sparked by MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING, MY LIFE IN RUINS can only stand in that film's shadow.
NEWSFLASH: DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS
Hello, folks. The Steve Carell-Paul Rudd comedy DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS will be released nationwide on July 30, Friday. And guess who's got some advanced passes to a screening on Tuesday, July 27? No, guess again. No, again. Well, anyhow... this means that you should be seeing the review posted here the next day.
To all a good weekend. The sun is shining here. And I'm going hiking and biking in an effort to keep myself looking semi-hot. Par-tay!
To all a good weekend. The sun is shining here. And I'm going hiking and biking in an effort to keep myself looking semi-hot. Par-tay!
Friday, July 23, 2010
# 41 - FLIGHT PLAN (2005)
FLIGHT PLAN (2005 - MYSTERY/DRAMA/THRILLER) *** out of *****
(The best flying advice? Lock up your daughters, folks...)
CAST: Jodie Foster, Peter Sarsgaard, Sean Bean, Erika Christensen, Kate Beahan, Greta Scacchi, Marlene Lawson, Judith Scott.
DIRECTOR: Robert Schwentke
WARNING: SPOILERS and economy-class nightmares right ahead…
If there’s anything that’s flawless about FLIGHT PLAN, it’s Jodie Foster. From the moment we first lay eyes on her as propulsion engineer Kyle Pratt, we know that no matter how FLIGHT PLAN turns out she’s going to at least give you a compelling performance. We first find Kyle sitting alone on a Berlin subway platform, looking like someone just told her she won the lottery - only she just remembered that she accidentally flushed the ticket down the crapper. Turns out she looks shell-shocked because her beloved husband recently fell to his death from the roof of their building. Only we don’t find this out for sure until about five minutes into the movie - after we’ve seen him approach her on the subway platform and lead her by the hand back to their apartment. Turns out this evening stroll with her hubby was a figment of her imagination. She was actually alone. This is our first sign that Kyle may not exactly be the international poster girl for sound mental health.
Kyle and her equally traumatized 6-year old daughter, Julia (Marlene Lawson) are escorting Mr. Pratt’s body back to the States. Just so happens the aircraft they’re taking is the newest, biggest one in the world - which Kyle helped design. And which Kyle promises Julia will be like one big playground. Yeah… Devil’s Playground, maybe. Anyhow, the flight is your usual mixed bag of (1) smokin’ hot flight attendants (Kate Beahan, Erika Christensen), (2) grumbling and annoying passengers (Peter Sarsgaard), and (3) sizzlin’ hot captain (Sean Bean). The flight starts out like you’re usual transatlantic seven-hour Chinese water torture marathon. Not long into the flight, though, Kyle notices some empty rows in the back and suggests to Julia that they each get their own and stretch out. Obviously too young to realize that finding an entire empty row on a packed flight is like finding Atlantis, Julia replies, “Can we do that?” After pretty much telling the kid to get a fucking move on before someone else nabs the seats, Kyle curls up into a ball and drifts off into a peaceful slumber - obviously dreaming of her single days before such pains-in-the-ass like husbands and children pretty much shut her down for business.
When Kyle awakens, she finds that Julia is missing. At first she writes it off as yet another one of the little brat’s fun and games. Except said brat never shows up, prompting Kyle to (1) harass the crew into searching the entire plane, (2) tap-dance on Captain Sizzlin’ Hot’s last nerve, and (3) point-blank accuse a few Arab-Americans of being terrorist in a scene so unintentionally funny in its political-incorrectness, it will leave you breathless. At least, I hope its unintentionally funny, otherwise that’s just so fucked up. Anyhow, Julia remains missing - which sends Kyle into even more of a tailspin. She basically ends up sneaking into the electronics hold of the aircraft, where - using her Yoda-like knowledge of the plane - she plays “Simon Says” with the electronic lights and wires. Leading to (1) all the lights going out, (2) the oxygen masks deploying, and (3) about 70% of the passengers shitting themselves. Before Kyle can do any more damage Gene Carson (Peter Sarsgaard), the flight’s air marshal, apprehends her and takes her back to the cabins topside, where the glares of the angry passengers are almost as pungent as the stench of the crap in their pants.
Kyle makes one last plea to Carson to believe her story that Julia is really onboard, and not dead or a figment of her imagination, like they’ve been telling her. I mean, just because she imagined walking in Berlin with her dead husband, doesn’t necessarily mean she imagined bringing Julia onboard. Right? Oh, who the fuck am I kidding. Of course it does! She sounds about as stable as a skyscraper with a mud foundation. But, surprisingly, Gene agrees to plead her case with Captain Sizzlin’ Hot one last time. If you’re wondering why Gene - who has pretty much behaved like a colossal dickhead to Kyle even before she started exhibiting symptoms of Crazy Terrorist Bitch Syndrome - is suddenly so accommodating towards her, well, let’s just say he has an agenda. And it’s revealed when he tells Captain S.H. that (1) Kyle is a terrorist who fabricated the missing daughter story and wants (2) $50 million wired to an off-shore account when they make an unscheduled land in the garden spot of Goose Bay, New Foundland, (3) wants the crew and passengers to de-board, (4) and demands a G3 chopper fueled to capacity, with (5) Godiva chocolates and Crystal Light lemonade stocked inside. Okay, I made up that last part.
Of course, Kyle has no idea that Gene-the-Prick has been making absurd demands on her behalf. So it’s no surprise that when the plane lands in Goose Bay (oh, that name. THAT NAME!) and Kyle tells Captain S.H. yet again that her daughter is missing, our fine (in more ways than one) pilot basically rolls his eyes and tells her to talk to the hand. Quickly figuring out that Gene has thrown her under the landing gear, and has been feeding the authorities an almost admirable load of bullshit, Kyle confronts him after the plane has been emptied out. By "confront him", I mean she: (1) smashes his face in with a fire extinguisher, (2) cuffs him to the door handle, (3) gropes him vigorously (yeah!), and (4) steals the detonator to the bombs stashed down in avaionics - where Kyle suspects Julia is being held. Sure enough, Kyle finds her curled up into a little ball, sleeping peacefully as if this kind of shit happens to her everyday. Before mother and daughter can have much of any kind of celebration, our favorite prick Gene makes a reappearance and tries to do them in. Unfortunately, he must not have gotten the memo that this is a Jodie Foster movie - and he’s not Jodie Foster, but rather someone trying to kill Jodie Foster’s character. Which means he’s dead meat. As in, trapped-in-the-nose-cone-of-the-plane-as-it-explodes kind of dead meat.
The movie ends with Jodie, er, Kyle triumphantly walking away from the smoking wreckage of the plane - carrying Julia who, by this time, has become something of an urban legend to the other passengers. Your cue to run screaming with laughter our of the theater is when one of the very same disbelieving assholes actually says in a teary voice, “She never gave up.” Well, at least she was consistent. Which is more than can be said for disbelieving assholes who conveniently change their minds at the whim of the script. Meow.
BUT, SERIOUSLY: For approximately the first two-thirds of FLIGHT PLAN, everything is nearly perfect. We’ve met our intriguing heroine, walked in her shoes as she navigates the grim scenario she finds herself in, and then watch as things get increasingly worse for her in the most unexpected of ways - in the least likely of places. Jodie Foster makes this film with her riveting performance of a woman whose mental, emotional, and - yes - physical strengths are severely tested. Sean Bean is gallant and likable as the conflicted captain who clearly is instinctively protective of Kyle - but also must weigh this with his duties to the other passengers of the plane. Peter Sarsgaard is perfectly slimy and hissable as the surprise bad guy - except with Peter Sarsgaard, being revealed as less than honorable doesn’t always seem to be a surprise. Kate Beahan, Erika Christensen, and Judith Scott are all competent as the various flight attendants on the flight. But the most important support comes from Marlene Lawson, the lovely young actress that plays Kyle’s daughter. She plays Julia with a naturalness that isn’t forced and is refreshing for its lack of cleverness. In other words, she succeeds in playing a normal kid.
Unfortunately, all the good ground covered by the film falters when the plot behind Julia’s disappearance is revealed. In essence, the writers and director basically set up such a fantastic promise that they ultimately couldn’t deliver on. Gene’s plot is so dependent on random coincidence and Kyle doing exactly the right (or, I suppose, wrong) things that you have to wonder if it's Gene who is Yoda, and not Kyle. And I seriously doubt the authorities would wire $50 million that easy and quickly. And while the climax with Kyle and Gene playing cat and mouse through the abandoned plane is tense and exciting, it's a step down from all the exciting psychological slow burn suspense that preceded it.
In short, FLIGHT PLAN is an admirable attempt to create an intelligent and deliberately paced thriller centered around a complex and strong woman. It’s just too bad that the writers felt they had to turn her into James Bond at the end to jazz things up. If they’d managed to create a third act that followed through on the promise of the first two, this film would be right up there with THE LADY VANISHES and THE VANISHING (original, not the crappy remake) in quality. Instead, its merely above average - and mostly due to the brilliant Jodie Foster. She elevates the film - and deserves a better ending. Without her, this movie would be merely average.
(The best flying advice? Lock up your daughters, folks...)
CAST: Jodie Foster, Peter Sarsgaard, Sean Bean, Erika Christensen, Kate Beahan, Greta Scacchi, Marlene Lawson, Judith Scott.
DIRECTOR: Robert Schwentke
WARNING: SPOILERS and economy-class nightmares right ahead…
If there’s anything that’s flawless about FLIGHT PLAN, it’s Jodie Foster. From the moment we first lay eyes on her as propulsion engineer Kyle Pratt, we know that no matter how FLIGHT PLAN turns out she’s going to at least give you a compelling performance. We first find Kyle sitting alone on a Berlin subway platform, looking like someone just told her she won the lottery - only she just remembered that she accidentally flushed the ticket down the crapper. Turns out she looks shell-shocked because her beloved husband recently fell to his death from the roof of their building. Only we don’t find this out for sure until about five minutes into the movie - after we’ve seen him approach her on the subway platform and lead her by the hand back to their apartment. Turns out this evening stroll with her hubby was a figment of her imagination. She was actually alone. This is our first sign that Kyle may not exactly be the international poster girl for sound mental health.
Kyle and her equally traumatized 6-year old daughter, Julia (Marlene Lawson) are escorting Mr. Pratt’s body back to the States. Just so happens the aircraft they’re taking is the newest, biggest one in the world - which Kyle helped design. And which Kyle promises Julia will be like one big playground. Yeah… Devil’s Playground, maybe. Anyhow, the flight is your usual mixed bag of (1) smokin’ hot flight attendants (Kate Beahan, Erika Christensen), (2) grumbling and annoying passengers (Peter Sarsgaard), and (3) sizzlin’ hot captain (Sean Bean). The flight starts out like you’re usual transatlantic seven-hour Chinese water torture marathon. Not long into the flight, though, Kyle notices some empty rows in the back and suggests to Julia that they each get their own and stretch out. Obviously too young to realize that finding an entire empty row on a packed flight is like finding Atlantis, Julia replies, “Can we do that?” After pretty much telling the kid to get a fucking move on before someone else nabs the seats, Kyle curls up into a ball and drifts off into a peaceful slumber - obviously dreaming of her single days before such pains-in-the-ass like husbands and children pretty much shut her down for business.
When Kyle awakens, she finds that Julia is missing. At first she writes it off as yet another one of the little brat’s fun and games. Except said brat never shows up, prompting Kyle to (1) harass the crew into searching the entire plane, (2) tap-dance on Captain Sizzlin’ Hot’s last nerve, and (3) point-blank accuse a few Arab-Americans of being terrorist in a scene so unintentionally funny in its political-incorrectness, it will leave you breathless. At least, I hope its unintentionally funny, otherwise that’s just so fucked up. Anyhow, Julia remains missing - which sends Kyle into even more of a tailspin. She basically ends up sneaking into the electronics hold of the aircraft, where - using her Yoda-like knowledge of the plane - she plays “Simon Says” with the electronic lights and wires. Leading to (1) all the lights going out, (2) the oxygen masks deploying, and (3) about 70% of the passengers shitting themselves. Before Kyle can do any more damage Gene Carson (Peter Sarsgaard), the flight’s air marshal, apprehends her and takes her back to the cabins topside, where the glares of the angry passengers are almost as pungent as the stench of the crap in their pants.
Kyle makes one last plea to Carson to believe her story that Julia is really onboard, and not dead or a figment of her imagination, like they’ve been telling her. I mean, just because she imagined walking in Berlin with her dead husband, doesn’t necessarily mean she imagined bringing Julia onboard. Right? Oh, who the fuck am I kidding. Of course it does! She sounds about as stable as a skyscraper with a mud foundation. But, surprisingly, Gene agrees to plead her case with Captain Sizzlin’ Hot one last time. If you’re wondering why Gene - who has pretty much behaved like a colossal dickhead to Kyle even before she started exhibiting symptoms of Crazy Terrorist Bitch Syndrome - is suddenly so accommodating towards her, well, let’s just say he has an agenda. And it’s revealed when he tells Captain S.H. that (1) Kyle is a terrorist who fabricated the missing daughter story and wants (2) $50 million wired to an off-shore account when they make an unscheduled land in the garden spot of Goose Bay, New Foundland, (3) wants the crew and passengers to de-board, (4) and demands a G3 chopper fueled to capacity, with (5) Godiva chocolates and Crystal Light lemonade stocked inside. Okay, I made up that last part.
Of course, Kyle has no idea that Gene-the-Prick has been making absurd demands on her behalf. So it’s no surprise that when the plane lands in Goose Bay (oh, that name. THAT NAME!) and Kyle tells Captain S.H. yet again that her daughter is missing, our fine (in more ways than one) pilot basically rolls his eyes and tells her to talk to the hand. Quickly figuring out that Gene has thrown her under the landing gear, and has been feeding the authorities an almost admirable load of bullshit, Kyle confronts him after the plane has been emptied out. By "confront him", I mean she: (1) smashes his face in with a fire extinguisher, (2) cuffs him to the door handle, (3) gropes him vigorously (yeah!), and (4) steals the detonator to the bombs stashed down in avaionics - where Kyle suspects Julia is being held. Sure enough, Kyle finds her curled up into a little ball, sleeping peacefully as if this kind of shit happens to her everyday. Before mother and daughter can have much of any kind of celebration, our favorite prick Gene makes a reappearance and tries to do them in. Unfortunately, he must not have gotten the memo that this is a Jodie Foster movie - and he’s not Jodie Foster, but rather someone trying to kill Jodie Foster’s character. Which means he’s dead meat. As in, trapped-in-the-nose-cone-of-the-plane-as-it-explodes kind of dead meat.
The movie ends with Jodie, er, Kyle triumphantly walking away from the smoking wreckage of the plane - carrying Julia who, by this time, has become something of an urban legend to the other passengers. Your cue to run screaming with laughter our of the theater is when one of the very same disbelieving assholes actually says in a teary voice, “She never gave up.” Well, at least she was consistent. Which is more than can be said for disbelieving assholes who conveniently change their minds at the whim of the script. Meow.
BUT, SERIOUSLY: For approximately the first two-thirds of FLIGHT PLAN, everything is nearly perfect. We’ve met our intriguing heroine, walked in her shoes as she navigates the grim scenario she finds herself in, and then watch as things get increasingly worse for her in the most unexpected of ways - in the least likely of places. Jodie Foster makes this film with her riveting performance of a woman whose mental, emotional, and - yes - physical strengths are severely tested. Sean Bean is gallant and likable as the conflicted captain who clearly is instinctively protective of Kyle - but also must weigh this with his duties to the other passengers of the plane. Peter Sarsgaard is perfectly slimy and hissable as the surprise bad guy - except with Peter Sarsgaard, being revealed as less than honorable doesn’t always seem to be a surprise. Kate Beahan, Erika Christensen, and Judith Scott are all competent as the various flight attendants on the flight. But the most important support comes from Marlene Lawson, the lovely young actress that plays Kyle’s daughter. She plays Julia with a naturalness that isn’t forced and is refreshing for its lack of cleverness. In other words, she succeeds in playing a normal kid.
Unfortunately, all the good ground covered by the film falters when the plot behind Julia’s disappearance is revealed. In essence, the writers and director basically set up such a fantastic promise that they ultimately couldn’t deliver on. Gene’s plot is so dependent on random coincidence and Kyle doing exactly the right (or, I suppose, wrong) things that you have to wonder if it's Gene who is Yoda, and not Kyle. And I seriously doubt the authorities would wire $50 million that easy and quickly. And while the climax with Kyle and Gene playing cat and mouse through the abandoned plane is tense and exciting, it's a step down from all the exciting psychological slow burn suspense that preceded it.
In short, FLIGHT PLAN is an admirable attempt to create an intelligent and deliberately paced thriller centered around a complex and strong woman. It’s just too bad that the writers felt they had to turn her into James Bond at the end to jazz things up. If they’d managed to create a third act that followed through on the promise of the first two, this film would be right up there with THE LADY VANISHES and THE VANISHING (original, not the crappy remake) in quality. Instead, its merely above average - and mostly due to the brilliant Jodie Foster. She elevates the film - and deserves a better ending. Without her, this movie would be merely average.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
# 40 - MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING (1997)
MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING (1997 - ROMANTIC COMEDY) **** out of *****
(I’ve heard of women being driven crazy by weddings, but this is just ridiculous…)
CAST: Julia Roberts, Dermot Mulroney, Cameron Diaz, Rupert Everett, Susan Sullivan.
DIRECTOR: P.J. Hogan
WARNING: SPOILERS and extraordinarily stupid behavior right up ahead…
Oh, the singularly unique appeal of Julia Roberts. I can’t exactly define it, but I know it when I see it. And I’ve only seen it on her. No one else. Which, I guess, is what makes it singular and unique. Duh. And the whole world witnessed it full-force in PRETTY WOMAN. Her next two films, FLATLINERS and SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY, quickly proved that she was no fluke. Even through misfires and disappointments like DYING YOUNG, MARY REILLY, I LOVE TROUBLE, and THE PLAYER she maintained an almost supernatural magnetism. Which many other upcoming young actresses were eager to duplicate, to little success. One after another, all these “next Julia Roberts” fell by the wayside. Especially in the mid-to-late 90’s when Roberts had a career resurgence that reminded the whole world of the one-of-a-kind nature of her appeal. MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING in particular does an excellent job of this, because of how it tweaks the standard romantic comedy formula and dares to paint its star (and her mega-watt smile) in some decidedly unfavorable shadings. Anyone who can survive that kind of gauntlet with her likability intact, and her star power undimmed, is lightning in a bottle.
Julianne “Jules” Potter (Julia Roberts - Gee, you think they wrote the movie for her?) is a famous and feared New York food critic who has all the accoutrements that a single girl in the Big Apple could want: (1) a glamorous job, (2) a face like Julia Roberts, and (3) deeply fabulous gay Best Friend # 2 in George (Rupert Everett). What Jules does not have is a boyfriend and, if she’s to be believed (later on, we will see that she is most definitely not), that’s a-okay with her. At dinner one night, after having made the chef and staff piss their pants in terror over their entrees, Jules shares with George that she once promised her Best Friend # 1, Michael (Dermot Mulroney), that if they are both still single by the time they’re 28 - they will marry each other. Now, first of all, I’m not a firm believer in marriage to begin with, and I think that it should only be entered into if doing so will get a Great White Shark to stop gnawing on your leg. Of course, the Shark will just be replaced by another one until the eventual divorce goes through, if you know what I mean. Anyway, with all my suspicion and derision towards marriage, it won’t come as surprise as that I believe this little pact between Jules and Michael is about as sensible as two straight teenage boys making a pact to fuck each other if they haven’t lost their virginity to girls by the time they’re 17.
Sure enough, Michael calls Jules in the middle of the dinner - and leaves a message that they have to talk. And - oh, by the way - Jules’ 28th birthday is in two weeks. Could it be that... Nah! That would not only be stupid as hell, but awfully convenient, too. Like something that would only happen in a... movie. By the way, you can tell this film is from the mid-90’s because Jules’ cell phone is the size of a VCR. Anyhow, she finally calls Michael back, expecting the worst - the worst being a proposal. Much to her surprise, though, Michael does not propose. Instead, he: (1) tells Jules he’s met a fabulous girl, and (2) he’s crazy about her, and (3) they’re getting married in a few days in a grand traditional wedding, and (4) Jules needs to be there. To say that Jules is surprised would be like saying that Jimmy Hoffa is a missing person. And I feel her pain, since the only last-minute weddings I know about are the ones that take place in Vegas under the cover of darkness and neon. At any rate, Michael’s declaration flicks a switch in Jules, who promptly: (1) spazzes out like a champ, (2) decides that she actually loves Michael and wants to marry him herself, and (3) the bitch called the bride - whoever she is - might as well be Dead… Meat….
As George drops off Jules at the airport, he just patiently shakes his head in that benign manner that gay folk treat their often silly straight friends. So, like some color-coordinated patron saint, George sends his pal to fall on her face - hard. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, eh? Later, Jules lands in Chicago where she is greeted by Michael (Dermot Mulroney), and Kimmie (Cameron Diaz) - his bride-to-be. Kimmie, for her part, greets Jules with such over-the-top glee that you have to wonder immediately if she’s either: (1) brain damaged, or (2) a transvestite that can really pass. You can’t help but share Jules’ shock when she gazes upon the bouncy spectacle that is Kimmie, as if she’s thinking “He’s ditching me for this?” On top of that, Kimmie is also apparently a shitty driver - and an even shittier Karaoke singer. The latter is something that Jules’ exploits to try to get Michael to see his bride-to-be in a less than flattering light. Unfortunately, Kimmie is one of the those people that are even more lovable when they look like a mega-dork. You can practically hear Jules’ teeth gnashing as she realizes that she’ll need to be more vicious.
Plan B for our morally-questionable "heroine" is to set up Kimmie - by having the latter ask her father to offer Michael a job in his company, thereby implying Kimmie wants him to be part of the family business and not his own person. Which, evidently, is the next thing to dying as far as Michael is concerned. Freaking out like a champ, he basically cusses Kimmie out - an act which (1) plays right into Jules’ devious agenda, and (2) calls into question his long-term viability as a husband. Unfortunately, in typical female fashion, this makes Kimmie seem to want him even more. She just about falls on her knees to beg for his forgiveness - and if he hadn’t given it in time, I’m sure she would’ve blown him for it right there in the middle of the restaurant. Anyway, this scene ends with the lovebirds kissing and making up. And Jules steaming in her seat and gnashing her teeth - realizing that she’ll need to be even more vicious.
Frantic now, Jules makes a desperate call back to Mission Control. By Mission Control, I mean NYC where George is doing what every sane gay man would do without their straight harridan female friend around to terrorize them - throw a party with his fabulous gay friends. Unfortunately, Jules crashes this celebration with her pathetically frantic message. Prompting George to rethink that “be cruel to be kind” strategy. Nope, he decides to switch to the “wouldn’t miss this train wreck for the world” strategy - and flies out to Chicago to see what kind of hanky-panky his nitwit straight bitch friend has gotten into now. Which, given the whackjob extraordinaire that had been dormant in Jules, is surely considerable. This is confirmed when George arrives in the Windy City to be eventually introduced to Michael, Kimmie, and her family as... Jules’ fiancee. Much to George’s chagrin - because at this point he realizes that there’s no saving Jules from herself. So he does what any good friend would do - embarrass the living shit out of her. He does this by (1) slapping Kimmie on the ass and complimenting her mom’s outfit with flamboyant adjectives, (2) leading an entire restaurant in a rendition of “I Say A Prayer” - surely one of the gayest songs ever - and (3) basically acting like someone who will eventually cheat on her with the hunky gardener or pool guy. Exhausted by the debacle, Jules takes George to the airport afterward - telling him to basically go fuck himself forever and a day. George takes the high road and just mentally flips her THE FINGER, but also says what is surely the most sagacious thing to ever sputter out of a gay man’s mouth (besides an unexpected blast of semen, that is): “Tell him you love him, Jules. Tell him you love him - and let the chips fall where they may…”
Happily, Jules actually listens to George for once. During an exceedingly lovely scene on a Chicago tour boat, Jules tries to muster up the courage to tell Michael she loves him - but fumbles it. The moment passes, heartbreakingly, and in this bit of acting, we see why Julia Roberts is the fucking star that she is. Sadly, after this brush with common sense, Jules goes back to being the psycho biyatch from hell that she seems more at home with. At this point, we the audience begin to suspect the worse: our heroine is the villain. Last time I checked, trying to ruin someone’s wedding - however chirpy and annoying they may be - is wrong, wrong, wrong. But Jules is so far gone by now that she wouldn’t know the right thing to do if it came up and shoved a restaurant menu up her ass.
This time, she contrives to sneak into Kimmie’s dad’s office and forges an email that makes it sound like he’s trying to get Michael’s bosses to fire him from the newspaper he writes for. If you’re wondering how in the fucking hell Jules can get this to work, then you obviously underestimate a crazed banshee. I sure did. At any rate, this also backfires. Finally, Jules has no choice but to follow George’s advice: tell Michael that she loves him. Which she does on the day of the wedding at Kimmie’s parents’ estate. Unfortunately, Kimmie glimpses this liplock and correctly surmises this to be a pre-meditated groom-jacking - and runs off. Michael give chase, with Jules chasing him. And in one final effort to get Jules to do the right thing, George berates her over the phone - by telling her she’s not “the one.” This seems to flick another switch in Jules’ little brain - and she confesses everything to Michael when she catches up to him. This leads to the sublimely satisfying moment when Michael compares Jules to “the pus that infects the fungus that feeds on pond scum.” Oh, snap.
At any rate, Michael and Kimmie both outwardly forgive Jules for being a Psycho Bitch From Hell, and mentally note to never have anything to do with her again. I mean, who knows when she might have a relapse and, I don’t know, throw their first-born off a bridge or something? Long story short, Michael and Kimmie dash off to their honeymoon - no doubt telling their driver to peel rubber because Jules might just tail them. Fortunately for them, Jules has been so drained by her incessant scheming and conniving that all she can do is sit at a table at the reception and drown her sorrows in cake and champagne. Suddenly, an unexpected phone call reveals that George has actually flown back to Chicago - to do the following: (1) dance with Jules and (2) make her feel better, and then later (3) find any drunken groomsmen to take advantage of. And you thought George was a saint. Saint Whore, maybe….
BUT, SERIOUSLY: If PRETTY WOMAN created Julia Roberts’ image, MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING tweaked it considerably. Finally allowed to play snarky instead of sweet (while still retaining a little of that to be likable) and given more of an edge, she delivers a nicely-layered and complex performance that is constantly walking the fine line between sympathetic and hissable. While the story is fairly thin and uncomplicated, the cast and their undeniable vivacity lend it some heft that it may not have had otherwise. Dermot Mulroney is okay as Michael, if just a little bland - it’s never entirely clear why Jules would be suddenly so bananas over him. However, everyone else knocks it out of the park. Cameron Diaz lends Kimmie much affability and perkiness, but tempers the latter with an endearing vulnerability that makes you root for her in the face of Jules’ onslaught. But the film is deftly stolen by Rupert Everett as George - who is the “straight” man in relation to Jules’ high-strung control freak. Anytime he’s onscreen, the film soars even more. He has a great rapport with Julia Roberts. A cast of colorful character actors fill out the role of Michael and Kimmie's family, lending warm support to the main cast.
Furthermore, the script cleverly tweaks the rom-com formula and infuses the story with something approaching suspense - will our protagonist actually get what she wants despite all the dastardly things she does? It's a brave choice to end a film with Julia Roberts not getting the guy. I should also highlight the scene with Jules and Michael on the Chicago tour boat - where Jules is given her first shot at laying bare her feelings to Michael. Accompanied by James Newton Howard’s beautiful score, this moment cuts right through to the heart - and immediately makes the Jules-Michael relationship into a solid emotional center for the film. Another wonderful scene occurs later at Kimmie’s estate - when Jules is given her second - and, most likely, final - chance to tell Michael that she loves him. These two scenes are heartbreakingly good - and clearly shows why there hasn't been - and will likely never be - any actress to rival Julia Roberts for sheer emotional magnetism and hypnotic star power. See for yourself.
(I’ve heard of women being driven crazy by weddings, but this is just ridiculous…)
CAST: Julia Roberts, Dermot Mulroney, Cameron Diaz, Rupert Everett, Susan Sullivan.
DIRECTOR: P.J. Hogan
WARNING: SPOILERS and extraordinarily stupid behavior right up ahead…
Oh, the singularly unique appeal of Julia Roberts. I can’t exactly define it, but I know it when I see it. And I’ve only seen it on her. No one else. Which, I guess, is what makes it singular and unique. Duh. And the whole world witnessed it full-force in PRETTY WOMAN. Her next two films, FLATLINERS and SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY, quickly proved that she was no fluke. Even through misfires and disappointments like DYING YOUNG, MARY REILLY, I LOVE TROUBLE, and THE PLAYER she maintained an almost supernatural magnetism. Which many other upcoming young actresses were eager to duplicate, to little success. One after another, all these “next Julia Roberts” fell by the wayside. Especially in the mid-to-late 90’s when Roberts had a career resurgence that reminded the whole world of the one-of-a-kind nature of her appeal. MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING in particular does an excellent job of this, because of how it tweaks the standard romantic comedy formula and dares to paint its star (and her mega-watt smile) in some decidedly unfavorable shadings. Anyone who can survive that kind of gauntlet with her likability intact, and her star power undimmed, is lightning in a bottle.
Julianne “Jules” Potter (Julia Roberts - Gee, you think they wrote the movie for her?) is a famous and feared New York food critic who has all the accoutrements that a single girl in the Big Apple could want: (1) a glamorous job, (2) a face like Julia Roberts, and (3) deeply fabulous gay Best Friend # 2 in George (Rupert Everett). What Jules does not have is a boyfriend and, if she’s to be believed (later on, we will see that she is most definitely not), that’s a-okay with her. At dinner one night, after having made the chef and staff piss their pants in terror over their entrees, Jules shares with George that she once promised her Best Friend # 1, Michael (Dermot Mulroney), that if they are both still single by the time they’re 28 - they will marry each other. Now, first of all, I’m not a firm believer in marriage to begin with, and I think that it should only be entered into if doing so will get a Great White Shark to stop gnawing on your leg. Of course, the Shark will just be replaced by another one until the eventual divorce goes through, if you know what I mean. Anyway, with all my suspicion and derision towards marriage, it won’t come as surprise as that I believe this little pact between Jules and Michael is about as sensible as two straight teenage boys making a pact to fuck each other if they haven’t lost their virginity to girls by the time they’re 17.
Sure enough, Michael calls Jules in the middle of the dinner - and leaves a message that they have to talk. And - oh, by the way - Jules’ 28th birthday is in two weeks. Could it be that... Nah! That would not only be stupid as hell, but awfully convenient, too. Like something that would only happen in a... movie. By the way, you can tell this film is from the mid-90’s because Jules’ cell phone is the size of a VCR. Anyhow, she finally calls Michael back, expecting the worst - the worst being a proposal. Much to her surprise, though, Michael does not propose. Instead, he: (1) tells Jules he’s met a fabulous girl, and (2) he’s crazy about her, and (3) they’re getting married in a few days in a grand traditional wedding, and (4) Jules needs to be there. To say that Jules is surprised would be like saying that Jimmy Hoffa is a missing person. And I feel her pain, since the only last-minute weddings I know about are the ones that take place in Vegas under the cover of darkness and neon. At any rate, Michael’s declaration flicks a switch in Jules, who promptly: (1) spazzes out like a champ, (2) decides that she actually loves Michael and wants to marry him herself, and (3) the bitch called the bride - whoever she is - might as well be Dead… Meat….
As George drops off Jules at the airport, he just patiently shakes his head in that benign manner that gay folk treat their often silly straight friends. So, like some color-coordinated patron saint, George sends his pal to fall on her face - hard. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, eh? Later, Jules lands in Chicago where she is greeted by Michael (Dermot Mulroney), and Kimmie (Cameron Diaz) - his bride-to-be. Kimmie, for her part, greets Jules with such over-the-top glee that you have to wonder immediately if she’s either: (1) brain damaged, or (2) a transvestite that can really pass. You can’t help but share Jules’ shock when she gazes upon the bouncy spectacle that is Kimmie, as if she’s thinking “He’s ditching me for this?” On top of that, Kimmie is also apparently a shitty driver - and an even shittier Karaoke singer. The latter is something that Jules’ exploits to try to get Michael to see his bride-to-be in a less than flattering light. Unfortunately, Kimmie is one of the those people that are even more lovable when they look like a mega-dork. You can practically hear Jules’ teeth gnashing as she realizes that she’ll need to be more vicious.
Plan B for our morally-questionable "heroine" is to set up Kimmie - by having the latter ask her father to offer Michael a job in his company, thereby implying Kimmie wants him to be part of the family business and not his own person. Which, evidently, is the next thing to dying as far as Michael is concerned. Freaking out like a champ, he basically cusses Kimmie out - an act which (1) plays right into Jules’ devious agenda, and (2) calls into question his long-term viability as a husband. Unfortunately, in typical female fashion, this makes Kimmie seem to want him even more. She just about falls on her knees to beg for his forgiveness - and if he hadn’t given it in time, I’m sure she would’ve blown him for it right there in the middle of the restaurant. Anyway, this scene ends with the lovebirds kissing and making up. And Jules steaming in her seat and gnashing her teeth - realizing that she’ll need to be even more vicious.
Frantic now, Jules makes a desperate call back to Mission Control. By Mission Control, I mean NYC where George is doing what every sane gay man would do without their straight harridan female friend around to terrorize them - throw a party with his fabulous gay friends. Unfortunately, Jules crashes this celebration with her pathetically frantic message. Prompting George to rethink that “be cruel to be kind” strategy. Nope, he decides to switch to the “wouldn’t miss this train wreck for the world” strategy - and flies out to Chicago to see what kind of hanky-panky his nitwit straight bitch friend has gotten into now. Which, given the whackjob extraordinaire that had been dormant in Jules, is surely considerable. This is confirmed when George arrives in the Windy City to be eventually introduced to Michael, Kimmie, and her family as... Jules’ fiancee. Much to George’s chagrin - because at this point he realizes that there’s no saving Jules from herself. So he does what any good friend would do - embarrass the living shit out of her. He does this by (1) slapping Kimmie on the ass and complimenting her mom’s outfit with flamboyant adjectives, (2) leading an entire restaurant in a rendition of “I Say A Prayer” - surely one of the gayest songs ever - and (3) basically acting like someone who will eventually cheat on her with the hunky gardener or pool guy. Exhausted by the debacle, Jules takes George to the airport afterward - telling him to basically go fuck himself forever and a day. George takes the high road and just mentally flips her THE FINGER, but also says what is surely the most sagacious thing to ever sputter out of a gay man’s mouth (besides an unexpected blast of semen, that is): “Tell him you love him, Jules. Tell him you love him - and let the chips fall where they may…”
Happily, Jules actually listens to George for once. During an exceedingly lovely scene on a Chicago tour boat, Jules tries to muster up the courage to tell Michael she loves him - but fumbles it. The moment passes, heartbreakingly, and in this bit of acting, we see why Julia Roberts is the fucking star that she is. Sadly, after this brush with common sense, Jules goes back to being the psycho biyatch from hell that she seems more at home with. At this point, we the audience begin to suspect the worse: our heroine is the villain. Last time I checked, trying to ruin someone’s wedding - however chirpy and annoying they may be - is wrong, wrong, wrong. But Jules is so far gone by now that she wouldn’t know the right thing to do if it came up and shoved a restaurant menu up her ass.
This time, she contrives to sneak into Kimmie’s dad’s office and forges an email that makes it sound like he’s trying to get Michael’s bosses to fire him from the newspaper he writes for. If you’re wondering how in the fucking hell Jules can get this to work, then you obviously underestimate a crazed banshee. I sure did. At any rate, this also backfires. Finally, Jules has no choice but to follow George’s advice: tell Michael that she loves him. Which she does on the day of the wedding at Kimmie’s parents’ estate. Unfortunately, Kimmie glimpses this liplock and correctly surmises this to be a pre-meditated groom-jacking - and runs off. Michael give chase, with Jules chasing him. And in one final effort to get Jules to do the right thing, George berates her over the phone - by telling her she’s not “the one.” This seems to flick another switch in Jules’ little brain - and she confesses everything to Michael when she catches up to him. This leads to the sublimely satisfying moment when Michael compares Jules to “the pus that infects the fungus that feeds on pond scum.” Oh, snap.
At any rate, Michael and Kimmie both outwardly forgive Jules for being a Psycho Bitch From Hell, and mentally note to never have anything to do with her again. I mean, who knows when she might have a relapse and, I don’t know, throw their first-born off a bridge or something? Long story short, Michael and Kimmie dash off to their honeymoon - no doubt telling their driver to peel rubber because Jules might just tail them. Fortunately for them, Jules has been so drained by her incessant scheming and conniving that all she can do is sit at a table at the reception and drown her sorrows in cake and champagne. Suddenly, an unexpected phone call reveals that George has actually flown back to Chicago - to do the following: (1) dance with Jules and (2) make her feel better, and then later (3) find any drunken groomsmen to take advantage of. And you thought George was a saint. Saint Whore, maybe….
BUT, SERIOUSLY: If PRETTY WOMAN created Julia Roberts’ image, MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING tweaked it considerably. Finally allowed to play snarky instead of sweet (while still retaining a little of that to be likable) and given more of an edge, she delivers a nicely-layered and complex performance that is constantly walking the fine line between sympathetic and hissable. While the story is fairly thin and uncomplicated, the cast and their undeniable vivacity lend it some heft that it may not have had otherwise. Dermot Mulroney is okay as Michael, if just a little bland - it’s never entirely clear why Jules would be suddenly so bananas over him. However, everyone else knocks it out of the park. Cameron Diaz lends Kimmie much affability and perkiness, but tempers the latter with an endearing vulnerability that makes you root for her in the face of Jules’ onslaught. But the film is deftly stolen by Rupert Everett as George - who is the “straight” man in relation to Jules’ high-strung control freak. Anytime he’s onscreen, the film soars even more. He has a great rapport with Julia Roberts. A cast of colorful character actors fill out the role of Michael and Kimmie's family, lending warm support to the main cast.
Furthermore, the script cleverly tweaks the rom-com formula and infuses the story with something approaching suspense - will our protagonist actually get what she wants despite all the dastardly things she does? It's a brave choice to end a film with Julia Roberts not getting the guy. I should also highlight the scene with Jules and Michael on the Chicago tour boat - where Jules is given her first shot at laying bare her feelings to Michael. Accompanied by James Newton Howard’s beautiful score, this moment cuts right through to the heart - and immediately makes the Jules-Michael relationship into a solid emotional center for the film. Another wonderful scene occurs later at Kimmie’s estate - when Jules is given her second - and, most likely, final - chance to tell Michael that she loves him. These two scenes are heartbreakingly good - and clearly shows why there hasn't been - and will likely never be - any actress to rival Julia Roberts for sheer emotional magnetism and hypnotic star power. See for yourself.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
# 39 - MOTHER OF TEARS (2007)
MOTHER OF TEARS (2007 - HORROR) ***½ out of *****
(Italians are probably the most beautiful people in the world. And the scariest…)
CAST: Asia Argento, Cristian Solimeno, Adam James, Valeria Cavalli, Moran Atias, Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni, Udo Kier, Daria Nicolodi, Barbara Mautino, Franco Leo, Silvia Rubino.
DIRECTOR: Dario Argento
WARNING: SPOILERS and crazy Italians up ahead….
In 1977, the horror classic SUSPIRIA was released. It was Italian auteur Dario Argento’s first foray into supernatural horror after a string of visually-striking thrillers that led him to be branded “The Italian Hitchcock.” A visceral chiller about a German dance academy that turns out to be a witches’ coven, SUSPIRIA became a worldwide hit and launched the “Three Mothers Trilogy,” each film dealing with a cursed abode overseen by a demonic matriarch. This first installment was soon followed by INFERNO (1980), which dealt with the Second Mother hiding out in a New York apartment building and wreaking havoc there. INFERNO tried to recreate its predecessor’s fairy tale atmosphere, but went further and fractured it into a sort of dreamy, surreal puzzle. While SUSPIRIA was a linear story moving forward within some eerie parameters, INFERNO is decidedly non-linear and follows multiple protagonists in a looping and unpredictable storyline that predated THE GRUDGE films. Then, Argento decided to go back to his thriller roots, resisting the urging of fans to complete his trilogy. Finally, after nearly 30 years, MOTHER OF TEARS completes the circle. Harkening back to SUSPIRIA’s linear movement - but accelerating the pace to a brisk jog, MOTHER OF TEARS tells the story of Mater Lacrimarum, the third mother based in Rome. This third and final installment is grander in scope and is very non-European in its execution. And much more violent and disturbing than its two predecessors, which were fairly violent and disturbing to begin with (especially SUSPIRIA). That crazy Argento….
The movie wastes no time in setting up its main hook: after a creepily atmospheric opening title sequence that effectively sets the tone, we cut to a graveyard in Viterbo, Italy. There, what is surely the least competent - even by Italy’s fairly laid-back standards - construction crew south of Rome inadvertently uncovers a coffin with an urn strapped to it. In case you’re wondering what an “urn” is, it is apparently a smaller version of the coffin. And in case you’re wondering how the construction crew “inadvertently” uncovers them, they topple their tractor right into the damn hole. Anyhow, Monsignor Bruscha (Franco Leo) is summoned onto the scene, and promptly wets his pants in fear. Well, we don’t know about the pants-wetting part for certain, but the expression on his face when he sees the artifacts seem to suggest it. Firing off a letter to a curator in Rome, Monsignor Bruscha seals the urn with candlewax and sends the damned thing away, eager to be rid of it. Not gonna be that easy, Father…
At any rate, the urn arrives at the Rome Museum of Archaelogical History, where Italian hottie - and assistant curator - Giselle Mares (Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni) is contemplating opening it. Art student Sarah Mandy (Asia Argento) is also nearby to egg Giselle on. Deciding not to wait for the curator to return, and eager to prove the old adage that curiosity killed - or, at least, maimed - the cat, the women yank that bitch open to find: (1) a jewel-encrusted dagger, (2) three scary statuettes (not Oscars, thank you), and (3) a red tunic with gold-writing on it - proving that bad fashion was present in the medieval ages, too. Giselle instructs Sarah to fetch the Aramaic and Mycenaean dictionaries so they can decipher the writing on the tunic. Hopefully, it doesn’t read “Ye Old International House of Pancakes.” Because, while telling, that would also be somewhat of a letdown. At any rate, while Sarah is fetching books, Giselle makes the mistake of reading out loud the words on the red tunic. This leads to three things happening: (1) a violent monkey appears, (2) the three statuettes turn into hulking monsters, and (3) said monsters eviscerate Giselle and strangle her with her own intestines while the monkey screeches and claps. And you thought I was just fucking around when I told you this was one crazy movie. To make matters stranger, Sarah discovers the massacre and tries to escape - but only manages to do so when a disembodied female voice yells at her to “Get out now! Go!” Sensing that Sarah’s about to respond with, “Thanks a million, bitch. But the goddamn door is inexplicably locked. By the way, where are you?” the voice decides to send the locked doors flying open. Allowing Sarah to run through - and slamming them shut just in time for the pursuing monkey to smash his face like in a Looney Tunes cartoon. Which, I guess, this film is on a certain level.
Anyhow, Sarah manages to escape and call the police. As the cops interrogate her, Sarah shares her story. Given that said story involves; (1) three statuettes turning into a trio of hulking monsters, and (2) a monkey-on-crack terrorizing her, and (3) a disembodied voice throwing open locked doors and coaching her on an escape plan, who can blame the policemen for looking at her like she’s two drumsticks short of a chicken bucket? Indeed, Detective Enzo Marchi (Cristian Solimeno) should be commended for his sangfroid and graciousness in the face of what sounds like utter horseshit. Instead of, say, slapping her silly until she practically confesses to Giselle’s death and the theft of the artifacts, he simply allows the curator, Michael (Adam James), to squire Sarah away without any further interrogation of either of them. Nice to know that the famous Italian sense of urgency is present in police work, too. But we’ll forgive Enzo, because, like Sarah and Giselle, he’s smokin’ hot. In fact, everyone in this movie, is smokin’ hot. Even the damn construction crew from the opening scene. In fact, every Italian person I’ve met in my life - male, female, or in-between - Has. Been. SMOKIN’. HOT! What is it about these guys and gals that makes us all look like unwashed dishrags in comparison? Is it the olive oil? Is it their open approach to exploring their sexuality? Is the olive oil used during their open approach to exploring their sexuality? Like body lotion or lubricant. What? WHAT!? WHAT IS IT?! TELL ME BEFORE I EXPLODE!
Excuse me a moment while I take a cold shower….
Okay, I’m back. Alright, back to the movie review. Anyhow, the death of Giselle and the theft of the urn somehow unleashes an ancient evil in modern-day Rome. This leads to a tidal waves of mass suicides and street crime in the Eternal City. We get to see all manner of freak shite like…. hooligans trashing a parked car and men being stabbed viciously by women. In other words, the daily usual for the neighborhood that I grew up in is basically treated like end-of-the-world material in swanky Rome. Pussies. But I ain’t one to judge. Because these are some smokin' hot people, know what I’m sayin’? Meanwhile, witches from all over the world arrive in town to party ring-side at the Second Fall of Rome. And, apparently, all it takes to be a witch is to: (1) wear a lot of cheap eye make-up, (2) have a really bad haircuit, and (3) say “Damn it!” a lot in a growly voice. In other words, they all look like rejects from an audition for an 80’s music video. Tell me that’s not terrifying. So… while Rome is being inundated by these sub-Cyndi Lauper wannabes, Michael is busy trying to uncovers the origins of the urn. He discovers that Monsignor Bruscha has slipped into a coma, and that the urn supposedly belonged to Mater Larcrimarum (Moran Atias), a very powerful black witch who has been unleashed by its opening. And M. Lac doesn’t like nosy people. Sure enough, when Michael returns to Rome, he finds that his young son has been kidnapped by her cult. When Sarah makes the mistake of comforting him, he explodes and runs off to do his best Mel-Gibson-from-RANSOM impersonation.
Meanwhile, Sarah is left alone to figure things out. As Rome tears itself to pieces around her, she follows a trail that leads to Padre Johannes (Udo Kier) who might as well be called Yoda for all the knowledge he has concerning the Three Mothers. Unfortunately, M. Lac is at least two steps ahead of everyone, because she possesses Valeria (Barbara Mautino), Padre Johannes’s assistant, and commands her to acquaint him intimately with the business end of a meat cleaver - before committing suicide herself. Fortunately, Sarah finds another ally in Marta (Valeria Cavalli), a smokin’ hot psychic who knew Sarah’s mother - who just happened to be good witch. Huh? Never mind - just play along. Marta lets Sarah stay the night at her place because it’s not safe anywhere else. Unfortunately, Helga (Silvia Rubino ), Marta’s partner, reacts to Sarah in that special manner that all women react to potential rivals - she hisses like a Queen Cobra and has to be held back by Marta. Come on, Helga - you’re Italian. Be generous and invite her into a threesome. But, alas, Helga is not a freak and retires with Marta to the bedroom - where they promptly make sweet love. In the bedroom next door, Sarah lies curled up on the bed, with her hands over hear ears - trying to block out the sounds of sweet love. Thankfully, her misery is ended by M. Lac’s flunkies showing up and killing Helga and Marta in a way that I can only eloquently describe as fucking fucked-up. This is horrifying - even for Argento. That crazy Italian.
At any rate, Sarah finally realizes she’s on her own when she discovers that Michael has been turned by the coven, and as for his son…. Trust me. You do not want to know. I guess Dario Argento sat down at his desk when he was writing this movie and decided to dream up the most unbelievably cruel plot twists that he could scavenge. Well, he succeeded. Long story short, Michael tries to kill Sarah, but is thwarted by the ghost of Sarah’s mother - who, by the way, was the disembodied voice who helped Sarah escape after Giselle’s murder. Since then, Mrs. Mandy has been hanging around her daughter like an ectoplasmic chaperon, and helping out where she can. She performs her ultimate act of assistance by killing Michael somehow - and returning to the netherworld where she came from. Truly alone now, Sarah learns more about the legend of the Three Mothers from a Belgian dude, DeWitt (Philippe Leroy ), who basically points Sarah in the direction of Mater Lacrimarum’s lair. There, three things happen: (1) Sarah hooks up with the smokin’ hot detective Enzo, (2) Sarah and Enzo discover M. Lac in an catacomb chamber being worshipped by her subjects, and (3) it’s all fucking hilarious. Turns out that, for all her seeming viciousness, M. Lac’s strength is very dependent on that red tunic that was in the urn. Which means all Sarah has to do is rip it off her smoking’ hot bod and toss it into a flaming bowl - and M. Lac’s reign of terror is an instant memory. Which is basically what happens. Leading to the building to collapse around everyone’s ears.
The film ends with Enzo and Sarah managing to make it back to the surface, where they promptly gaze at each other and laugh like a couple of deranged - albeit, smokin’ hot - idiots. Evidently, knowing all along that they’re both just too damn sexy to die. Being Italian has its priveleges, I guess.
BUT, SERIOSLY: This movie, the third and final installment in Dario Argento’s Three Mothers trilogy, is only well-regarded by those of us who are fans of The Italian Hitchcock. And even then, not all of us. Mainstream viewers may be put off by the sometimes clunky dialogue, unbelievably cruel violence, and often awkward acting. However, the atmosphere that Argento generates is well worth it. While MOTHER OF TEARS is more kinetic and propulsive than either SUSPIRIA or INFERNO, it retains enough of those films’ eerie and downright weird ambiance to keep audiences off-kilter. With its linear storyline and increasingly imperiled and isolated heroine, MOTHER OF TEARS has more in common with SUSPIRIA then INFERNO. Having less of a European feel than the first two movies, this final episode feels very American. Normally, that would be a bad thing, but after the surreal but frustrating and ultimately unsatisfying INFERNO, the brisk pacing and steadily mounting tension of MOTHER OF TEARS makes for satisfying entertainment.
Asia Argento (Dario’s daughter) is not perfect in the lead, but she is good enough to keep us interested in her character’s plight. Cristian Solimeno is perfect and perfectly quirky as the smarter-than-he-lets-on detective - making him the most engaging Argento male lead since Liam Cunning in THE CARD PLAYER. Wish Solimeno would’ve had more scenes. Adam James, the only Englishman in the cast, delivers a sympathetic performance as the museum curator for whom every parent’s worse nightmare comes true. Valeria Cavalli turns in the film’s best performance as the warm and generous Marta, who risks her life to help Sarah - and pays for it dearly. Daria Nicolodi is a little histrionic as the ghost of Sarah’s mother, but that’s the Italian in her, I guess. Finally, Moran Atias as Mater Lacrimarum is fine in a performance that relies more on nudity than anything else. Then again, Mater Lacrimarum is supposed to be the most beautiful of The Three Mothers.
All in all, MOTHER OF TEARS is not as good as SUSPIRIA, but is ultimately better than INFERNO because it doesn’t leave you hanging. In time, I believe that Argento fans - and mainstream audiences - will come to appreciate this underrated entry into The Italian Hitchcock’s canon. It’s not perfect, but it gives us a likable heroine we can root for, a twisting and mythology-rich storyline, a colorful supporting cast, some nasty scares, a truly ominous atmosphere, a brilliant gothic score, and a genuine feeling that bad things can happen to any of them at any second - and usually do.
(Italians are probably the most beautiful people in the world. And the scariest…)
CAST: Asia Argento, Cristian Solimeno, Adam James, Valeria Cavalli, Moran Atias, Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni, Udo Kier, Daria Nicolodi, Barbara Mautino, Franco Leo, Silvia Rubino.
DIRECTOR: Dario Argento
WARNING: SPOILERS and crazy Italians up ahead….
In 1977, the horror classic SUSPIRIA was released. It was Italian auteur Dario Argento’s first foray into supernatural horror after a string of visually-striking thrillers that led him to be branded “The Italian Hitchcock.” A visceral chiller about a German dance academy that turns out to be a witches’ coven, SUSPIRIA became a worldwide hit and launched the “Three Mothers Trilogy,” each film dealing with a cursed abode overseen by a demonic matriarch. This first installment was soon followed by INFERNO (1980), which dealt with the Second Mother hiding out in a New York apartment building and wreaking havoc there. INFERNO tried to recreate its predecessor’s fairy tale atmosphere, but went further and fractured it into a sort of dreamy, surreal puzzle. While SUSPIRIA was a linear story moving forward within some eerie parameters, INFERNO is decidedly non-linear and follows multiple protagonists in a looping and unpredictable storyline that predated THE GRUDGE films. Then, Argento decided to go back to his thriller roots, resisting the urging of fans to complete his trilogy. Finally, after nearly 30 years, MOTHER OF TEARS completes the circle. Harkening back to SUSPIRIA’s linear movement - but accelerating the pace to a brisk jog, MOTHER OF TEARS tells the story of Mater Lacrimarum, the third mother based in Rome. This third and final installment is grander in scope and is very non-European in its execution. And much more violent and disturbing than its two predecessors, which were fairly violent and disturbing to begin with (especially SUSPIRIA). That crazy Argento….
The movie wastes no time in setting up its main hook: after a creepily atmospheric opening title sequence that effectively sets the tone, we cut to a graveyard in Viterbo, Italy. There, what is surely the least competent - even by Italy’s fairly laid-back standards - construction crew south of Rome inadvertently uncovers a coffin with an urn strapped to it. In case you’re wondering what an “urn” is, it is apparently a smaller version of the coffin. And in case you’re wondering how the construction crew “inadvertently” uncovers them, they topple their tractor right into the damn hole. Anyhow, Monsignor Bruscha (Franco Leo) is summoned onto the scene, and promptly wets his pants in fear. Well, we don’t know about the pants-wetting part for certain, but the expression on his face when he sees the artifacts seem to suggest it. Firing off a letter to a curator in Rome, Monsignor Bruscha seals the urn with candlewax and sends the damned thing away, eager to be rid of it. Not gonna be that easy, Father…
At any rate, the urn arrives at the Rome Museum of Archaelogical History, where Italian hottie - and assistant curator - Giselle Mares (Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni) is contemplating opening it. Art student Sarah Mandy (Asia Argento) is also nearby to egg Giselle on. Deciding not to wait for the curator to return, and eager to prove the old adage that curiosity killed - or, at least, maimed - the cat, the women yank that bitch open to find: (1) a jewel-encrusted dagger, (2) three scary statuettes (not Oscars, thank you), and (3) a red tunic with gold-writing on it - proving that bad fashion was present in the medieval ages, too. Giselle instructs Sarah to fetch the Aramaic and Mycenaean dictionaries so they can decipher the writing on the tunic. Hopefully, it doesn’t read “Ye Old International House of Pancakes.” Because, while telling, that would also be somewhat of a letdown. At any rate, while Sarah is fetching books, Giselle makes the mistake of reading out loud the words on the red tunic. This leads to three things happening: (1) a violent monkey appears, (2) the three statuettes turn into hulking monsters, and (3) said monsters eviscerate Giselle and strangle her with her own intestines while the monkey screeches and claps. And you thought I was just fucking around when I told you this was one crazy movie. To make matters stranger, Sarah discovers the massacre and tries to escape - but only manages to do so when a disembodied female voice yells at her to “Get out now! Go!” Sensing that Sarah’s about to respond with, “Thanks a million, bitch. But the goddamn door is inexplicably locked. By the way, where are you?” the voice decides to send the locked doors flying open. Allowing Sarah to run through - and slamming them shut just in time for the pursuing monkey to smash his face like in a Looney Tunes cartoon. Which, I guess, this film is on a certain level.
Anyhow, Sarah manages to escape and call the police. As the cops interrogate her, Sarah shares her story. Given that said story involves; (1) three statuettes turning into a trio of hulking monsters, and (2) a monkey-on-crack terrorizing her, and (3) a disembodied voice throwing open locked doors and coaching her on an escape plan, who can blame the policemen for looking at her like she’s two drumsticks short of a chicken bucket? Indeed, Detective Enzo Marchi (Cristian Solimeno) should be commended for his sangfroid and graciousness in the face of what sounds like utter horseshit. Instead of, say, slapping her silly until she practically confesses to Giselle’s death and the theft of the artifacts, he simply allows the curator, Michael (Adam James), to squire Sarah away without any further interrogation of either of them. Nice to know that the famous Italian sense of urgency is present in police work, too. But we’ll forgive Enzo, because, like Sarah and Giselle, he’s smokin’ hot. In fact, everyone in this movie, is smokin’ hot. Even the damn construction crew from the opening scene. In fact, every Italian person I’ve met in my life - male, female, or in-between - Has. Been. SMOKIN’. HOT! What is it about these guys and gals that makes us all look like unwashed dishrags in comparison? Is it the olive oil? Is it their open approach to exploring their sexuality? Is the olive oil used during their open approach to exploring their sexuality? Like body lotion or lubricant. What? WHAT!? WHAT IS IT?! TELL ME BEFORE I EXPLODE!
Excuse me a moment while I take a cold shower….
Okay, I’m back. Alright, back to the movie review. Anyhow, the death of Giselle and the theft of the urn somehow unleashes an ancient evil in modern-day Rome. This leads to a tidal waves of mass suicides and street crime in the Eternal City. We get to see all manner of freak shite like…. hooligans trashing a parked car and men being stabbed viciously by women. In other words, the daily usual for the neighborhood that I grew up in is basically treated like end-of-the-world material in swanky Rome. Pussies. But I ain’t one to judge. Because these are some smokin' hot people, know what I’m sayin’? Meanwhile, witches from all over the world arrive in town to party ring-side at the Second Fall of Rome. And, apparently, all it takes to be a witch is to: (1) wear a lot of cheap eye make-up, (2) have a really bad haircuit, and (3) say “Damn it!” a lot in a growly voice. In other words, they all look like rejects from an audition for an 80’s music video. Tell me that’s not terrifying. So… while Rome is being inundated by these sub-Cyndi Lauper wannabes, Michael is busy trying to uncovers the origins of the urn. He discovers that Monsignor Bruscha has slipped into a coma, and that the urn supposedly belonged to Mater Larcrimarum (Moran Atias), a very powerful black witch who has been unleashed by its opening. And M. Lac doesn’t like nosy people. Sure enough, when Michael returns to Rome, he finds that his young son has been kidnapped by her cult. When Sarah makes the mistake of comforting him, he explodes and runs off to do his best Mel-Gibson-from-RANSOM impersonation.
Meanwhile, Sarah is left alone to figure things out. As Rome tears itself to pieces around her, she follows a trail that leads to Padre Johannes (Udo Kier) who might as well be called Yoda for all the knowledge he has concerning the Three Mothers. Unfortunately, M. Lac is at least two steps ahead of everyone, because she possesses Valeria (Barbara Mautino), Padre Johannes’s assistant, and commands her to acquaint him intimately with the business end of a meat cleaver - before committing suicide herself. Fortunately, Sarah finds another ally in Marta (Valeria Cavalli), a smokin’ hot psychic who knew Sarah’s mother - who just happened to be good witch. Huh? Never mind - just play along. Marta lets Sarah stay the night at her place because it’s not safe anywhere else. Unfortunately, Helga (Silvia Rubino ), Marta’s partner, reacts to Sarah in that special manner that all women react to potential rivals - she hisses like a Queen Cobra and has to be held back by Marta. Come on, Helga - you’re Italian. Be generous and invite her into a threesome. But, alas, Helga is not a freak and retires with Marta to the bedroom - where they promptly make sweet love. In the bedroom next door, Sarah lies curled up on the bed, with her hands over hear ears - trying to block out the sounds of sweet love. Thankfully, her misery is ended by M. Lac’s flunkies showing up and killing Helga and Marta in a way that I can only eloquently describe as fucking fucked-up. This is horrifying - even for Argento. That crazy Italian.
At any rate, Sarah finally realizes she’s on her own when she discovers that Michael has been turned by the coven, and as for his son…. Trust me. You do not want to know. I guess Dario Argento sat down at his desk when he was writing this movie and decided to dream up the most unbelievably cruel plot twists that he could scavenge. Well, he succeeded. Long story short, Michael tries to kill Sarah, but is thwarted by the ghost of Sarah’s mother - who, by the way, was the disembodied voice who helped Sarah escape after Giselle’s murder. Since then, Mrs. Mandy has been hanging around her daughter like an ectoplasmic chaperon, and helping out where she can. She performs her ultimate act of assistance by killing Michael somehow - and returning to the netherworld where she came from. Truly alone now, Sarah learns more about the legend of the Three Mothers from a Belgian dude, DeWitt (Philippe Leroy ), who basically points Sarah in the direction of Mater Lacrimarum’s lair. There, three things happen: (1) Sarah hooks up with the smokin’ hot detective Enzo, (2) Sarah and Enzo discover M. Lac in an catacomb chamber being worshipped by her subjects, and (3) it’s all fucking hilarious. Turns out that, for all her seeming viciousness, M. Lac’s strength is very dependent on that red tunic that was in the urn. Which means all Sarah has to do is rip it off her smoking’ hot bod and toss it into a flaming bowl - and M. Lac’s reign of terror is an instant memory. Which is basically what happens. Leading to the building to collapse around everyone’s ears.
The film ends with Enzo and Sarah managing to make it back to the surface, where they promptly gaze at each other and laugh like a couple of deranged - albeit, smokin’ hot - idiots. Evidently, knowing all along that they’re both just too damn sexy to die. Being Italian has its priveleges, I guess.
BUT, SERIOSLY: This movie, the third and final installment in Dario Argento’s Three Mothers trilogy, is only well-regarded by those of us who are fans of The Italian Hitchcock. And even then, not all of us. Mainstream viewers may be put off by the sometimes clunky dialogue, unbelievably cruel violence, and often awkward acting. However, the atmosphere that Argento generates is well worth it. While MOTHER OF TEARS is more kinetic and propulsive than either SUSPIRIA or INFERNO, it retains enough of those films’ eerie and downright weird ambiance to keep audiences off-kilter. With its linear storyline and increasingly imperiled and isolated heroine, MOTHER OF TEARS has more in common with SUSPIRIA then INFERNO. Having less of a European feel than the first two movies, this final episode feels very American. Normally, that would be a bad thing, but after the surreal but frustrating and ultimately unsatisfying INFERNO, the brisk pacing and steadily mounting tension of MOTHER OF TEARS makes for satisfying entertainment.
Asia Argento (Dario’s daughter) is not perfect in the lead, but she is good enough to keep us interested in her character’s plight. Cristian Solimeno is perfect and perfectly quirky as the smarter-than-he-lets-on detective - making him the most engaging Argento male lead since Liam Cunning in THE CARD PLAYER. Wish Solimeno would’ve had more scenes. Adam James, the only Englishman in the cast, delivers a sympathetic performance as the museum curator for whom every parent’s worse nightmare comes true. Valeria Cavalli turns in the film’s best performance as the warm and generous Marta, who risks her life to help Sarah - and pays for it dearly. Daria Nicolodi is a little histrionic as the ghost of Sarah’s mother, but that’s the Italian in her, I guess. Finally, Moran Atias as Mater Lacrimarum is fine in a performance that relies more on nudity than anything else. Then again, Mater Lacrimarum is supposed to be the most beautiful of The Three Mothers.
All in all, MOTHER OF TEARS is not as good as SUSPIRIA, but is ultimately better than INFERNO because it doesn’t leave you hanging. In time, I believe that Argento fans - and mainstream audiences - will come to appreciate this underrated entry into The Italian Hitchcock’s canon. It’s not perfect, but it gives us a likable heroine we can root for, a twisting and mythology-rich storyline, a colorful supporting cast, some nasty scares, a truly ominous atmosphere, a brilliant gothic score, and a genuine feeling that bad things can happen to any of them at any second - and usually do.
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