Let’s Not Listen Movie Reviews

I think I’m kinda excited about this.

In Kinyarwanda, first-time writer-director Alrick Brown’s Crash-like drama about Rwanda’s 1994 civil war, a boy no more than 4 or 5 is sent to a merchant to get his father cigarettes. He comes across a rogue militia, its members shouting about guns and where to find the “cockroaches.” They’re Rwandan Hutus, and they’re talking about the country’s other principle ethnic group, the Tutsis. The boy tells them that he knows where the weapons and roaches are — and brings them to his home, popping in a tape of a violent movie and looking around the house. “There are the guns,” he says, pointing to the TV. “And there are the cockroaches.” Yes, they are bugs skittering across the floor.

His parents are naturally terrified, but the militia just leave. Others are not so lucky in Kinyarwanda (the title refers to the area’s primary language), though the squeamish need not worry. The film — the first made entirely by Rwandans and shot in 16 days — is more about how to heal the strife than exacerbate it, and Brown rarely shows bloodshed. Instead he looks at the people involved and tells their stories (these six intermingling mini-tales are based on true ones), personalizing the horrific massacre that took approximately 800,000 lives.

The person you’ll likely remember most is Jean (Hadidja Zaninka), a sweet young woman who’s enthusiastically received when she arrives at a party. (Her sometimes-beau, Patrique (Marc Gwamaka), serenades her with “Islands in the Stream.”) When Patrique walks her home late at night, they encounter a militia with guns trained on kneeling Tutsis. They’re waved off, but when Jean arrives at home, the house is a bit too quiet. She wanders around in excruciating silence for a while, a smile on her face from the night’s festivities. Then she finds her parents dead.

We’ll see Jean again, both in the present (retreating to a mosque to hide with other refugees) and in a flashback (her parents, one Tutsi and the other Hutu, were arguing when she said she was leaving for a party and forbid her to go). But there are other characters of note: “Brother Cockroach” (Kennedy Mpazimpaka), a particularly hated and hunted Catholic priest. The Mulsim leader (Jean Mutsari) who opens his mosque to the refugees and has an interesting conversation with his Christian peer about how neither religion can be celebrated or vilified, for there are good people and bad people who subscribe to each. A “re-education camp” in which Hutus admit to their crimes and ask for forgiveness. Their stories, brief as they are, are some of the most powerful, with each participant confessing his “number” — i.e. how many he killed.

It’s probably best to know some history going in. But what’s perfectly clear is the nightmare that enveloped this country for 100 days and claimed 800,000 lives. Brown succeeds in giving faces to these numbers—quite strikingly, in fact, with tightly framed shots that capture characters’ every expression, and a wavering camera that reflects the period’s volatility. Whatever you know of the genocide when Kinyarwanda starts, Brown ensures that his snapshot is a powerful one.

Just…wow.

The genius of The Muppets has always been the show’s ability to cut its gee-whizness with winking self-deprecation and a hint of cynicism. The somewhat insufferable Kermit the Frog has his rainbow-connectedness karate-chopped by an always-insufferable but realist Miss Piggy. Fozzie Bear and his terrible jokes are heckled by cranky balcony-dwellers Statler and Waldorf. And in the new film The Muppets, chickens sing — to Cee Lo Green’s “Fuck You.”

Resuscitated by lifelong fan Jason Segel, who co-wrote and stars in the film, the Muppets are back to win over a new generation of fans. No, they won’t get the jokes about Benson or Tab, and they probably won’t recognize Mickey Rooney or Dave Grohl (the latter winning Coolest Cameo Ever). In fact, much of the script’s dry humor will go over little ones’ heads, such as Amy Adams playing an elementary-school teacher who heads an auto-mechanics class (“And that’s how you fix a 12-volt starter!”) or when her character, Mary, says when the inevitable conflict is introduced, “This is going to be a really short movie.”

And Los Angeles, where Segel’s big-kid Gary, his girlfriend, Mary, and his Muppet brother, Walter, go for vacation? It’s not quite Tinseltown but a city alight with police sirens. There’s even a barbershop-quartet performance of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” (Hard to imagine Courtney Love giving the go-ahead, but it must have happened.)

But there’s gotta be a good-versus-evil angle, and in this case it’s saving the dilapidated Muppet Studios from an oil baron (Chris Cooper) who says he’s going to turn the place into a museum but really plans to drill, baby, drill. (As the character, who embarrassingly raps in one of the film’s more misguided numbers, would say, “Maniacal laugh, maniacal laugh.”) So the Muppets, now spread all over the world pursuing different careers, must regroup to put on a last-ditch telethon show. (Kermit and Gary et al. gather a couple of the crew before Kermit’s helper robot says, “May I suggest we save time and pick up the rest of the Muppets using a montage?”)

Though there are multiple setbacks, the show, of course, eventually comes together, and when the Muppet theme song is finally played — well, members of a certain generation may feel a little tingle if not a happy tear. It’s no spoiler to say the telethon is a triumph, as is the movie itself: Segel’s pitch-perfect in his gee-whiz performance (though Adams is underused), he’s written the Muppets true to their characters, and every sentimentality is counterbalanced with a hit of dry wit. Even Statler and Waldorf would approve.

The first thing you notice is the hips. My Week With Marilyn begins with a performance of “Heat Wave,” and Marilyn Monroe’s silhouette isn’t so much a Coke bottle as it is a deeply undulating sine wave. It’s 1956, and fellas of all ages are watching the star onscreen, their mouths agape or frozen in foolish grins. She sings, “I started a heat wave/By letting my seat wave.” Indeed.

Monroe is portrayed by Michelle Williams, and for the rest of the film’s 101 minutes, you can’t take your eyes off her. It’s not just her outward allure, enhanced by prosthetic curves and teeth, wig-supplied platinum curls, and perfect ‘50s makeup that transform Williams into Monroe’s virtual double. It’s the character’s innocence, the kind that makes her say things such as, “Oh, phooey!” It’s the high-pitched, nearly breathless voice. But mostly it’s the icon’s devastating self-destructiveness, fueled by a lack of confidence and fear of abandonment so severe they nearly paralyze her. Williams gets it all right, and it’s mesmerizing.

Meanwhile, Monroe attracts both men and women like a magnet, even when she’s pissing them off. My Week With Marilyn, directed by Simon Curtis and adapted by Adrian Hodges from books by Colin Clark, tells of a week in the production of The Prince and the Showgirl, which Monroe shot in England with Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh). Clark (here portrayed by Eddie Redmayne) was one of those grinning fools at the movie theater, and he then makes a laser-focused attempt to get involved in pictures. He lands a position as third assistant to the director on Prince — and that grin never really wears off. It’s kind of annoying and sometimes downright creepy, but seemingly the kid can’t help it.

The bulk of My Week With Marilyn involves Monroe screwing up — arriving on the set late or not at all, drugging herself into oblivion, freezing when it’s time for her line. She alienates some (mainly her then-husband, Arthur Miller, played by Dougray Scott) and irritates others (Olivier, in a fit of pique, remarks, “Trying to teach her how to act is like trying to teach Urdu to a badger!”). But she has her unflaggingly loyal cheerleaders, particularly her acting coach (Zoe Wanamaker), her terribly sweet and stealthily supportive co-star (Judi Dench), and the 23-year-old Clark himself, whom the 30-year-old Monroe somewhat astonishingly pulls further into her world. Even a reporter tells Olivier, “With tits like that, you have to make allowances.”

The Prince and the Showgirl is here described as “the lightest of comedies,” and barring Monroe’s meltdowns, it applies to this film as well. It’s more about the bloom of first love, however; Clark falls head-over-heels for the star, who skinny-dips with him and invites him to cuddle in bed. (The wardrobe assistant he’d started dating, a horribly wigged Emma Watson, is not amused.) Their scenes together are mostly featherweight, filled with giggles and romping and just the slightest hint that Norma Jeane had actually been playing a character all along. (“Shall I be her?” Monroe asks Clark when they encounter a group of fans.)

One of the film’s faults is that you don’t quite believe the relationship — and yes, things do get kissy — between Clark and Monroe. He may be the man who’s the nicest to her, but Redmayne is just too goofy to be taken seriously as a romantic interest. (That smile, really — you want to smack it off his face.) Branagh’s Olivier, who’s initially besotted, would have been a more realistic fling, even if he, domineering and reproachful, quickly became impatient with her. Hell, Dench would have made a more acceptable partner. Alas, that’s not how the story goes, however; it’s just a casting misstep. Watson, meanwhile, will need more than this small throwaway role to decisively slip out from under Hermione’s shadow.

Monroe’s darkness is only touched on here, but when it is, it’s certainly affecting — you finally understand why so many people rooted for her. Though ultimately inconsequential, My Week With Marilyn is an enjoyable confection, anchored by Williams’ marvelous performance. The film ends with her singing another song, “That Old Black Magic.” And you realize that, the entire time, you’ve been under her spell.

The Swell Season is the spoiled result of too many cooks. Three directors helmed this episodic and ultimately aimless documentary about the titular folk-rock band formed by Once stars and Academy Award winners Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. The two became a couple despite their 18-year age difference (Irglova is now only 23) and this doc, filmed in somewhat distracting black and white, ostensibly records the end of it, though it’s more accurately about the rigors of touring, punctuated by performances.

The most sympathetic character, in fact, is neither the Irish Hansard nor the Czech Irglova but Hansard’s father, who was a former boxing champ and repressed alcoholic and flat-out told his children, “I’m going to stay drunk until I go.” It’s heartbreaking to hear, particularly because Hansard relates the sentiment after his father’s passing and after we see him onscreen, full of personality and pride for his son. Hansard’s mother is also a frequent presence, busting with joy over his Oscar win (for Once’s hit song, “Falling Slowly”) and way too concerned about the neighbors’ approval. She comes off as a bit loony, but it’s still uncomfortable when Hansard tries to harsh her buzz and insist that fame means nothing.

But this isn’t a film about Hansard’s parents, which is part of the problem. We’re supposed to fall in love with the couple falling out of it, yet the doc is just too piece-y to do so; even their breakup isn’t really clear until Hansard makes a passing remark in the final chapter that they had ended their romantic relationship but decided to continue as a band. In the meantime, we get tidbits: stories about how Hansard devoted himself to music at a young age, scenes of the pair skinny-dipping or him working on a song, a random remark from a stage tech that “one day runs into another.” Much is made of Irglova’s discomfort with the touring lifestyle, particularly fans who want photos with her. During the lengthiest scene on the matter, Hansard walks out, saying he’s tired of having the same conversation. By the end of the film, you will be, too.

And their romance? You see them occasionally being affectionate, and you hear Irglova briefly tell of how they became involved after she became of age, having met Hansard and started informally playing music with him when she was 13. Besides statements of how easy it was for the pair to write songs together, you don’t get a sense that they were destined for each other — he’s kind of a prick, while she’s a sorta-likable, daintily voiced wallflower.

Too much of The Swell Season, though, focuses on the music itself, which ranges from sleepy-angsty to sleepy-angry. If you like it, great, but that still doesn’t lend the doc a direction. It remains steadfastly folky while you wait for it to go electric.

In The Descendants, George Clooney is rumpled. He wears Hawaiian shirts; his hair is grayer than usual. In other words, you don’t really question it when his character, a Hawaii-based attorney named Matt King, finds out that he’s a cuckhold. (Cheat on George Clooney? Never!) You’d think that Matt would be angry enough to, in a manner of speaking, kill his wife. But she’s already in a coma from a boating accident and may never awaken.

That’s the gist of writer-director Alexander Payne’s fifth film (co-written by Nat Faxon and Jim Rash and adapted from a Kaui Hart Hemmings novel), and like his previous hits About Schmidt and Sideways, its essence is bittersweet and not always easy to watch. Its pace is as leisurely as a day at the beach, making the lovely parts lovelier but the angst even more uncomfortable as its torturous moments are stretched.

And there are plenty of them: Matt’s the father of two teen girls but is admittedly the “understudy” parent who didn’t have much to do with them until their mother’s accident, and now he must not only learn how to be their Dad, but guide them through the roughest of times. It’s his older daughter, Alexandra (Shailene Woodley, simultaneously fresh-faced and poised), who tells him of her mother’s affair. They’re both pissed, yet both mourning. Meanwhile, 10-year-old, testing-her-boundaries Scottie (Amara Miller) is kept oblivious to the affair as well as the severity of Mom’s condition.

Matt’s obsession with finding the guy his wife had been sleeping with comprises the bulk of The Descendants, along with a subplot involving an expansive lot of untouched Hawaiian land that he and his cousins have inherited and are about to sell. (To whom is a source of contention.) There’s some comedy here, coming mostly from Alexandra’s dopey, mouth-breathing boyfriend (Nick Krause) and Matt’s highly awkward attempt to meet the man he already loathes.

Underscoring it all, though, is the agony of watching a loved one die slowly; Clooney makes it look easy to deftly pedal through emotions ranging from anger to bitterness to grief and back again. (Judy Greer, in a small, serious role, also has a devastating scene.) Despite the extreme circumstances there’s no sense of contrivance here — it’s likely, in fact, that you’ll leave the theater musing about what you would do under the same conditions. And you get the feeling that Payne, ever the realist, would regard that as high praise indeed.

There’s something off about the American Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. At first I thought it was the hair — did her mom cut those bangs? — but upon seeing close-up photos in this week’s Entertainment Weekly I realized: Girlfriend’s got no eyebrows. Rather, they’ve been bleached to match her skin.

I understand that Lisbeth Salander is an outsider. But she doesn’t have to look alien. In the Swedish adaptations of Stieg Larsson’s books, Noomi Rapace was transformed into a pierced, leather-clad someone you didn’t want to fuck with — but she had a sexiness about her. (Though Lisbeth would surely be pissed to be so regarded.) You accept Mikael’s attracted to her.

Now I’m not sure I’ll buy James Bond bedding The Girl Who Looks Like a Freak. (Then again, he married Rachel Weisz.) Yeah, it’s superficial, and their romance is only a blip in the story. But I bristle every time I see Mara-as-Lisbeth. Couldn’t they just use Hollywood’s go-to de-prettying makeover and give her glasses?

Tagline: “Give us your money all over again.”

Whoops, it’s actually: “Experience it like never before.” Easy mistake to make.

Iceberg, straight in your face!

Can’t wait. Jennifer Lawrence is going to be perfect.