Archive for June 2006
“Hell.” That adjective was getting
pretty cozy with Warner Bros.’s seemingly doomed attempt to
resurrect the Man of Steel, last seen in 1987’s Superman IV: The
Quest for Peace. With the fanboys now worked up to a frenzy, Bryan
Singer’s Superman Returns is finally coming to a googolplex near you,
the product of a mere 13-year development whose unrelenting series of
missteps and setbacks threatened to catapult the project up, up, and
away.
The chain of events went something like
this: First, Tim Burton as director – a dark-souled Superman? –
who wanted his hero to ditch the iconic duds and, um, not fly.
Nicolas Cage, whose face is as long as Christopher Reeve’s shoulders
were broad, would have been Burton’s star. Brett Ratner was later
chosen to helm, but Charlie’s Angels director McG was given the reins
when Ratner booked over creative differences (and wound up taking
Singer’s place to direct X-Men: The Last Stand instead). During this
time, Ashton Kutcher, Josh Hartnett, and James Marsden (among others)
were considered to fill the tights – which is likely the only
objective these wooden actors would have accomplished.
In 2004, the flux was over, and the
result is far from the disaster message-boarders feared. Singer’s
pitch had all the right moves: He wanted to keep the outfit. He
wanted to keep John Williams’ score. And, wisely, he wanted to take a
let’s-forget-III-and-IV approach and continue the story from the
franchise’s only respectable sequel, Richard Lester’s 1981 Superman
II. Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, Singer’s ace writers from X2,
center the plot on the sudden disappearance of Superman/Clark Kent
(Brandon Routh, a Reeves ringer). For five years, the Daily Planet
was without its pantywaist reporter, Lois Lane (Kate Bosworth) was
heartbroken/pissed over her crush who didn’t say goodbye, and the
disaster-prone people of Metropolis and the rest of the country
soldiered on without their savior. When he just as unexpectedly shows
up again, Superman still has released convict Lex Luther (Kevin
Spacey, colder than Gene Hackman) to contend with. And poor Clark is
stunned to find Lois with a fiance, Richard (Marsden, still a
nonpresence in support), and young asthmatic son, Jason (Tristan
Lake Leabu, not movie-cute but funny). She also has a
Pulitzer, for a piece entitled “Why the World Doesn’t Need
Superman.”
Superman Returns runs a potentially
patience-testing 154 minutes, but don’t be surprised if your focus
never wanders to your watch. It’s not without flaws. Routh and
Bosworth’s eye colors are distractingly – and unforgivingly –
inconsistent, for instance. And Frank Langella’s Perry White is quite
possibly the blandest, most even-keeled editor-in-chief in film or
reality. Most egregious, though, is the casting of Bosworth as Lois,
who is supposed to be brash. A bit pushy. And, well, a woman: Take a
look at the 23-year-old Bosworth’s angelic, wide-eyed face, and she
comes off like a prom queen with a fake I.D. — which would mean that
back when Lois and Superman fell in love, this now-award-winning wife
and mother wasn’t already an intrepid, world-wise reporter but a
phenom floozy. Here Lois is too damn nice, though she does make a
cut-to-the-chase phone call while investigating a blackout (she hangs
up without saying goodbye!), and not nearly as feisty, though at one
point she makes a valiant attempt to escape one of Luther’s traps
(via…surreptitious fax). Best to forget comparisons to Lanes gone
by and, purists excused, accept the character as some soft-edged
beaut whom S-man is really into – after enjoying her early
demonstration of how serious an unbuckled seat belt can be when a
plane loses control. (Don’t get all outraged, her worst injury is
mussed hair.)
When Superman Returns is good, however,
it’s very, very good. Singer builds anticipation – as if any more
was needed – by training on backs of heads and legs before
revealing characters’ faces. His superhero can still fly faster than
a speeding bullet, naturally, but in scenes that are nearly
Spielberg-poetic, he glides and floats as well, ascending into the
sky and occasionally just hanging out, gazing at his imperfect
adopted planet as his deepened-red cape flutters behind him. Routh
is like Reeve reborn, not only resembling him physically but also
re-creating the do-gooder grins and starched PSAs at the end of many
averted disasters. Even better is his goofy Kent, which Singer
captures at peak moments of social awkwardness (i.e., turning around
to listen to breaking news still hunched over his lunch, with noodles
hanging out of his mouth). Thankfully, the gigantic glasses are gone,
but his more fashionable specs still serve as magical disguise. And
contrary to rumor, guys and gals, Clark’s not closeted here, though
Planet staffers have their suspicions about another co-worker.
The script shines: Romantic, funny, and
occasionally aching, with a great turn near the end. The filmmakers’
attention to detail, too, is impressive. You’ll notice, for example,
the hippie bike messenger among most films’ usually generic crowd.
And a TV report that mentions “Gotham” in a list of
blackout-affected cities. Even the toys have nice touches, such as a
“Just Married” tag on the back of a tiny car, crushed in Luther’s
model of the destruction he intends to create.
Now – you’ve waited for it – the
effects: The opening catastrophe, a near crash of a 777 carrying a
space shuttle, is rife with fireballs and palpable inside-the-plane
fear; after holding your breath, you’re rewarded with a a nearly
silent moment of passenger weightlessness and a unique landing that’s
capped with a terrific tension-cutting laugh. Singer also shows off
his destructive range with a spectacular Metropolis ball-dropping
that’s like a nightmare version of New Year’s Eve, earthquakes, and
an outstanding, claustrophobic touch of Poseidon. Between the chaos,
cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel (also from X2) drapes Lois and
Superman’s world in a beautiful gossamer gold. With reverence so
admirably paid, this long-lost hero has received a rather fine
welcome back.
“Hell.” That adjective has also
come to be associated with watching a movie starring Adam Sandler,
former SNLer who for the most part hasn’t escaped the curse on cast
members who ditch the show to give the big screen a go. With Click,
it seems as if you’ll be getting more of the same: weak premise,
weaker writing, and Sandler’s sophomoric jackassery. But, well,
sometimes a little sophomoric jackassery works.
That’s not to say Click is a great
movie, but parts of it are unexpectedly entertaining – and, if
you’re a perennial It’s a Wonderful Life weeper, even touching. The
setup is typically Hollywood: Michael (Sandler), is a successful
architect who is working overtime to make partner. Of course, that
means he’s neglecting his fabulous personal life, which includes
Donna (Kate Beckinsale), his gorgeous wife, and Samantha and Ben
(Tatum McCann and Joseph Castanon), his adorable little kids. One
night, tired of getting hit in the head with remote-control toys when
trying to turn on the TV, Michael drives past a Best Buy to
inexplicably shop for a universal remote at Bed Bath and Beyond. Aha,
that’s why scripters Steve Koren and Mark O’Keefe (both Bruce
Almighty writers) bend logic: Michael finds the store’s “Beyond”
section, a storage room/lab at the end of long hallway, itself hidden
behind a decidedly un-chain-store-looking door.
Mad scientist Morty (Christopher
Walken, looking crazed as ever) appears to offer Michael what he’s
looking for, but with a twist – it’s not a universal remote, but a
*remote to control the universe!* So now Michael can mute his dog,
fast forward through fights with Donna and dinners with his parents
(Henry Winkler and Julie Kavner), revisit his childhood, and pause
infuriating moments to stealthily kick ass, such as when he slaps the
shit out of his smug boss (David Hasselhoff). Which is all dandy
until, TiVo-like, the remote builds up a memory and begins to
automatically FF through events it thinks Michael wants to skip.
Like the Sandlers of the recent past,
the star’s Michael isn’t manic or obnoxious, but a believable
workaholic who’s so focused on career goals that he puts off his
family just this once, just this once again, and he swears this time
will be the last. OK, so the humor tends toward running gags like a
dog humping a stuffed duck and Michael’s taunting of the obnoxious
kid next door. (“My father’s stereo is a Bose!” “Your father’s
stereo blows? That’s too bad!”) The comedy, however, later takes a
tight swerve toward drama as the characters age – with terrific
makeup, unlike the hideously orange mask Winkler appears to be
wearing in a Young Dad flashback. Tragedies unfold and lessons are
learned. It all can be tagged heavy-handed cinema, for sure. But
magic remote excepted, Click is surprisingly successful in reflecting
the realistic ups and downs of everyday life.
copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com
Rob a bank, and you’re scum. Rob an art
gallery, and you’re scum – with an incredible amount of cunning
and, perhaps, a dash of sophistication. At least that’s how it’s
portrayed in Stolen, Rebecca Dreyfus’s freshman film that explores
the mystery of the 1990 robbery of Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner
Museum. The band of thieves who overtook the guards and made off with
13 masterworks on that early March morning have yet to be found. And
the whereabouts of each painting, collectively believed to be worth
hundreds of millions of dollars, is still unknown.
Gardner,
a 19th century grand dame and lover of Italy, established her museum
in 1903 and designed it to evoke a Venetian palazzo.
She meticulously laid out her collection and dictated that nothing
about the museum should ever be changed – a result, some speculate
in the film, of the death of Gardner’s two-year-old son and her
ensuing desire to never again lose something she loved. Dreyfus
weaves a mini-biography of Gardner throughout Stolen, focusing on her
passionate disposition, magnetism, and, somewhat bizarrely, her
allegedly impressive figure. Dreyfus’s motivation to include this
character study is obviously not merely to help round out the
85-minute movie, but an effective tactic to make this particular
heist seem personal. Who, for example, can remain unmoved watching
Frank Dimaria, a Gardner gallery attendant, tell Dreyfus of when he
first saw John Singer Sargent’s portrait of the founder at age 13 –
and pronounce that she telepathically told him, “You’re mine, and
you’ll know me all your life?” (OK, the teary dude’s a little
wild-eyed and goes so far as to say Gardner “adopted” him, but
it’s still touching.)
Stolen
also includes commentary from a variety of experts, including Tom
Mashberg, a Boston Herald reporter who spent a year trying to chase
down one of the missing Rembrandts, and Tracy
Chevalier, a Jan Vermeer enthusiast who wrote the novel Girl With a
Pearl Earring. (The most valuable painting snatched is Vermeer’s The
Concert, which gets significant deconstruction here.) But 75-year-old
Harold Smith, an art detective, provides the documentary’s narrative
momentum as Dreyfus tails him dissecting the case that became his
obsession. A genial, quick-witted man who is rarely dressed in
anything but a suit and bowler hat, Smith livens up a story that
could have rapidly become pedantic.
The
director allows a blip of Smith’s personal life into the film, which
was unavoidable because of the elephant in the room: The gumshoe
wears an eye patch, prosthetic nose, and bandages on his face that
seem to be the only things holding together its patchy flesh. Cancer
is the cause; remarkably, however, Smith’s battled the illness for
decades, victim of an experimental dry-skin treatment when he was a
young Marine.
Granted,
this has nothing to do with the crime. But watching the
disease-riddled, elderly man in action is fascinating: Smith’s
intellectual curiosity beams from his expressions as brightly as the
sun. Even when he’s talking with notorious art thieves – one of
whom, William Youngworth, is particularly brash in his declaration
that if the government guaranteed amnesty, they’d have the paintings
within 30 minutes – Smith’s desire for knowledge and puzzle-solving
consistently trumps any distaste he may have for his collaborators.
Stolen’s only distraction from the compelling investigation is Albert
Maysles’ often annoying camerawork: Faces are zoomed in on with
clipped frames that are cheesy enough to be Ed Wood-ian, for example,
and some interviews suddenly start bobbling. Thankfully, the
unnecessary stylization never reaches a Domino degree.
Even
philistines are likely to become absorbed in Stolen’s CSI: Fine Arts.
Yes, the film sometimes skirts high-class snootiness, especially with
Blythe Danner’s arch readings of Gardner’s letters to her art
procurer, Bernard Berenson (voiced by the excellently cast Campbell
Scott). And eyes may roll when one interview subject pronounces the
theft “unconscionable” — this is a world filled with war,
murderers, and rapists, after all – and another melodramatically
claims that the museum is “now touched with evil.” (A more
objective assessment comes from the Herald’s Mashberg, who plainly
says the heist was “rude.”) But between the perspectives of
Johnny Tightlips and the wild directions the investigation takes –
Smith finds fingers pointing to the IRA, Sen. Edward Kennedy, Sept.
11, and the Catholic Church, among others – Stolen will spur more
than art lovers to keep an eye out for new information on this most
head-scratching heist.
American
writer-director Ra’up McGee’s debut feature film, Autumn, is less a
crime story than an exercise in genre – in a word, French. A
repeated flashback shows a red leaf falling in slow motion, as a
blank-faced kid beats a drum. A bad guy rummaging through a trash bin
somberly tells a startled street urchin, “Every day I wake up
frightened. Like you.” The characters most often communicate not by
dialogue, but by gazing into each other’s eyes. But when a freshly
caught crook hisses “You’re so dumb!” at her default accomplice
near the end, you’ll probably feel that she may as well be talking to
you.
Autumn,
in other words, is a mystery trapped in a…etc. Ostensibly, it’s a
puzzle to be solved, but McGee provides few useful pieces. The
flashback, which takes place in a forest, at least reveals that
Jean-Pierre (Laurent Lucas), his girlfriend, Michelle (Irene
Jacob), and his best friend, Andre (Benjamin Rolland), have known
each other since they were kids. Beyond that, how most events and
characters connect to each other is anybody’s guess. Michelle,
delivering parts of explosives, works for Hugo, slobbering dude
(Jean-Claude Dreyfus) who attacks her while giving her an English
lesson. Jean-Pierre is apparently familiar with him, because he knows
exactly where to go for retaliation after seeing Michelle’s black
eye. Noel (Michel Aumont), a mob boss, hangs with the young
and perpetually unsmiling Veronique (Dinara Drukarova), who is likely
an assassin, though it’s hard to tell because she repeatedly backs
out on killing anybody. There are also a couple of kids who rough
someone or other up when necessary. Andre borrows money from
everybody, which seems to be the impetus for a lot of the violence
inflicted here.
There’s
also a mysteriously important Pulp Fiction-esque briefcase involved,
whose contents and location are unknown to those who want it most.
Noel seems to be the owner, but when a few characters then
turn from being merely criminally-inclined to double- and
triple-crossers, the audience will probably be just about ready to
surrender.
The actors are suitably intense,
especially Lucas and Jacob, whose comely couple spend a lot of time
in the bathtub together. But the spare film is more satisfying in its
evocative images than its narrative – their characters may be
one-dimensional, for example, but Dreyfus and Aumont inarguably
elicit disgust and the fear of God, respectively. A warehouse,
Reservoir Dogs-style, that Michelle and Jean-Pierre find themselves
in is stark contrast to her warm, light-filled apartment, or even the
deserted but intimate beach on which they lay low for a while. And
where better – or more cliched – to have a showdown than in a
dark metro station? Obviously, McGee’s trying not only to pay homage
to French minimalists but also Quentin Tarantino – only these
people tend to use guns to smack or oh-so-briefly intimidate people,
not shoot them. Even the pacifists in the audience will grow
impatient.
As will anyone not enamored by austere
enigma. If only McGee’s characters would talk a bit more – and not
with conversations in which a solemn mention of Brittany’s delicious
crepes decides whether a couple of outlaws will travel together or
not. When Michelle at one point tells Jean-Pierre, “You don’t have
to say anything!” it’s the one line that didn’t need to be said.
copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com
“Fat guy in a little coat.” Extend
that Chris Farley gag from 1995’s Tommy Boy – visually, the quote
pretty much says it all – to about 100 minutes and you’ve got Jared
Hess’s Nacho Libre, his Napoleon Dynamite follow-up whose appeal
relies heavily on the sight of short, tubby Jack Black in
flesh-spilling spandex. Then there’s that mustache. And the ’70s
perm. And the eyebrows that ridiculously arch into hairy carets –
so clearly, Nacho is no one-dimensional comedy.
OK, you might not
laugh every time that the incredibly game Black, playing
Ignacio/Nacho, an offensively accented priest in charge of cooking at
a Mexican orphanage, severely tests his wardrobe onscreen. But with
the actor’s mania tamed and the director’s screenplay, co-written by
his wife, Jerusha Hess, and Mike White, slipping in bits of
desert-dry humor among all the broad silliness, there’s more than
meets the eyeful. Though wrestling is forbidden at the monastery
where he grew up, Ignacio has been dreaming since he was a kid –
crude Spider-Man-like costume sketches and all – about becoming a
luchador. When he can’t take serving slop to the children – always
addressed as “orphans” — anymore, Ignacio announces that he’s
“the gatekeeper of my own destiny!” and begins sneaking off to
nighttime matches. (Another inspiration, by the way, is monastery
newcomer Sister Encarnacion (Ana de la Reguera), one smokin’ woman of
God.) Ignacio persuades Esqueleto (the equally funny Hector Jimenez),
the lanky dude who always jumps him when the priest picks up
second-hand tortilla chips for the orphanage, to be his partner.
Like
Napoleon Dynamite, Nacho is a classic underdog story, with characters
equally bizarre but more defined than that redhead with dry lips.
There’s parody here, too, in the form of a nearly defeated Ignacio’s
solitary retreat up a mountain while reflective music plays. He even
writes a song, which he animatedly performs when he returns: “I ate
some bugs/I ate some grass/I used my hand/To wipe my…tears.”
Undeniably, there’s lots of (borderline racist) lowbrow, but it only
amplifies the effect of unexpectedly witty lines such as when
Esqueleto, shaggy and shirtless former bum, tells Nacho in the ring
that he won’t pray, because “I don’t believe in God. I believe in
science.” Laugh now; feel guilty later.
copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com
A Prairie Home Companion was created by
– and created for – the kind of people who still appreciate the
melancholic longing in lyrics such as “Come and sit by my side if
you love me/Do not hasten to bid me adieu.” That couplet from
traditional folk song “Red River Valley” closes A Prairie Home
Companion, a reflection on nostalgia and the end of things beloved directed by Robert Altman and written by
Garrison Keillor.
Based on Keillor’s same-named and, at
31 years, still-running NPR program, the loose narrative involves the
final episode of an old-fashioned but modern-day radio variety show,
with a touch of soured love affairs and a significant subplot about
death. It’s impossible to not consider that this may be the
81-year-old Altman’s swan song, as well – Paul Thomas Anderson was,
somewhat morbidly, contracted as a backup director – and imagine
that the film’s warmth and sadness is so profound partly because its
themes have been running through the legend’s head for a while.
“Every show is your last show – that’s my philosophy” intones
compulsive yarn-teller Keillor, who plays himself, when a disbeliever
blurts that this can’t really be the end.
The subtext, of course, is to remember
that another sunrise isn’t promised to anybody, though the easily
distracted G.K., as Keillor is nicknamed here, is the most
matter-of-fact about the death of his show – and, later, the death
of a performer – among the largely cooing cast and crew. Among the
sentimental are the Lunch Lady (Marylouise Burke), who laments that
she’s never going to see anyone again; sister act Yolanda and Rhonda
Johnson (Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin), who go on (and on) about the
old times with the rest of their family, may they rest in peace, as
Yolanda’s uninterested daughter, Lola (Lindsay Lohan, stepping up to
the task) scribbles poems about suicide in her notebook; and
hairdresser Donna (Sue Scott), who complains that without their
program, radio will have officially gone to hell. Considering the
circumstances, Donna may as well be talking about society in general:
Their station, formerly family-run, has been bought by a corporation
(represented by Tommy Lee Jones as “Axeman”) that plans to tear
down Minnesota’s Fitzgerald Theater (where Keillor’s real show is
performed) to make way for a parking lot.
A Prairie Home Companion’s ultimate
message, however, is that endings ought not merely be grieved, but
should serve as opportunities to be grateful for the good times the
person/job/activity provided. It also confines its sorrow to the
backstage, and meanwhile treats the audience to a nearly real-time
episode of the show. The performances, heavy on banjo-driven, Carter
Family-style music and backed by Keillor’s own band, are jubilant,
including Dusty (Woody Harrelson) and Lefty (John C. Reilly)’s
singing-cowboy duo who giddily exchange terrible jokes while
strumming their guitars. (All of the actors, by the way, do their own
singing.) G.K.’s flowing banter is amusing for both his between-song
ads (one for duct tape, no company necessary) and the seeming
effortlessness with which he keeps the show moving regardless of
what’s going on around him. And though an imaginary character on
Keillor’s program, the rat-tat-tat, 40s-era style gumshoe Guy Noir is
here entertainingly played by Kevin Kline, complete with sharp suit
and sharper dialogue, who serves as a klutzy security guard.
Much of the film is classic Altman,
including a camera that flows through rooms and even a ceiling, and
conversations that overlap – though at times to a hair-pulling
degree, especially between Yolanda and Lola, with Streep and Tomlin
replicating their irritating (though admittedly flawless) shtick at
this year’s Oscars. Also annoying is the Dangerous Woman – a role
Altman allegedly wanted to reduce – who drifts around the staging
area in a white trench coat. Played by Virginia Madsen, the
character is initially more ponderous than mysterious, slowing
delivering eye-rolling lines such as “Every sparrow is remembered.”
She’s somewhat redeemed, however, when her reason for showing up is
revealed and she tries to reverse the show’s prospects with a
shocking yet arguably merited bit of advice to one of the characters.
A Prairie Home Companion is a
meditation, to be sure. It shouldn’t be any fun to be reminded that
one’s demise might come sooner than expected, and most people,
content with familiarity and comfort, would agree that change is bad.
The film’s impossible achievement is that it makes you face these
gloomy facts of life head-on, but you’ll still walk out with a
smile.
On
the other side of the sentimentality spectrum is The Lake House, the
atrocious romantic drama starring Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves.
It’s slow-moving, unengaging, and ultimately unsatisfying. Yet the
movie could be recognized for its one dubious achievement: matching
the manufactured preciousness of director Alejandro Agresti’s last
release, Valentin.
The
Lake House’s story isn’t original, but this time it’s not completely
Hollywood’s fault. Il Mare, a 2000 Korean film, the basis for Proof
writer’s David Auburn’s adaptation of a couple who fall in love via a
wrinkle in time. Kate (Bullock), a doctor, is moving out of her
ridiculous glass-walled home – on a lake, of course – to take a
job at a Chicago hospital. She leaves a note for Alex (Reeves), the
new resident, apologizing for a couple of inherited-with-the-house
details and asking him to forward any mail to her new address. Alex
writes Kate back – putting the letter in his mailbox, which is, God
knows how, where Kate knows to look for it when she takes a drive
back to the country on her day off. He says that he doesn’t see
either of the things she’s mentioned. Eventually, they begin to
bicker that the other person is crazy, because their respective
letters – always left in his mailbox for some reason — are dated
wrong. Kate’s say 2006. Alex’s say 2004.
So,
naturally, they fall in love. Really, there’s no basis for their
“long-distance” romance besides the whoa-inducing realization
that they’re both right. Soon, each is asking about the other’s
likes, which cringingly include stuff way too closely along the lines
of sunsets, puppies, and walks on the beach. Meanwhile, each bemoan
to themselves and others how isolated they’ve let themselves become.
She, har har, plays chess with her dog. (Which, by the way, they both
own, with the magic pooch simply wandering into their lives out of
nowhere.) And Alex, an architect like his father (Christopher
Plummer), points out to his nearly purposeless brother (Ebon
Moss-Bachrach) that the house we discover his pop built is just a
glass box, completely disconnecting its occupant from the world.
Agresti
mostly has the characters communicate in voiceover as they pen their
missives, but occasionally he’ll show them merely talking to each
other, whether separately or, ghostlike, in the same place. It
doesn’t matter – these long conversations are snoozeville, often
with lines such as “I could be a shoulder for you like you’ve been
for me!” and overly obvious musical cues such as Paul McCartney’s
“This Never Happened Before” and Carole King’s “It’s Too Late.”
The wannabe-couple’s attempts to meet through the busted space/time
continuum are mildly interesting, and the script’s theme of losing
your chance at true love is admittedly moving. But for anyone who’s
drawn to The Lake House less for its romance than for discovering
the secret behind its gimmick, be warned: In reality, you can’t go
back to retrieve your $10.
copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com
In the 6/6/06 version of The Omen, tiny
merchant of death Damien is so adorable when he scowls. Of course,
he’s meant to be menacing — he is the Antichrist, after all.
Admittedly, the little devil and his apparent deaf-muteness is a bit freaky at times. But mostly he just narrows his eyes at silly adults
and dismisses them like any unfiltered grown-up would love to do, and
it’s just so gosh-darn cute.
Surprisingly, the utter lack of
spookiness of the contemporary Damien (Seamus
Davey-Fitzpatrick) in John Moore’s remake of the 1976 classic doesn’t
entirely damn this latest in the seemingly never-ending parade of
redos. Though The Omen’s original writer, David Seltzer, tuned his
script using mostly a paint-by-numbers approach, he and Moore add an
opening scene that will very likely seem tasteless to some yet
chilling to others: After the sighting of a comet, two priests
fearfully tick off the prophetic list of pre-Armageddon events –
probably containing a little dramatic tweaking – and accompany a
few of them with real news footage. The warnings include massive,
deadly floods (Katrina, the tsunami), a flaming star (the Columbia
crash), and balls of fire falling to earth (shockingly, especially
since it comes first, an image of the Twin Towers aflame). All that’s
left is the birth of a special bundle of horror, which occurs in Rome
on June 6 at 6 a.m.
At
the same time, Katherine Thorn (Julia Stiles) squeezed out a
stillborn. When a priest tells her fath – I mean husband – Robert
Thorn (Liev Schreiber), the news, he also offers the grieved dad a
deal: Another child, born at the same time, has lost his mother.
Perhaps a swift switcheroo would spare Katherine the sorrow, and hey,
it’ll be the men’s little secret. Astoundingly, the dumb-as-a-rock
Robert (a characteristic Schreiber nails) agrees. Fast forward to
London, where Robert, an ambassador, was appointed after the former
Great Britain official’s freak death, and Damien’s gigantic fifth
birthday party. In front of a bazillion kids and their parents,
Damien’s nanny joyfully hangs herself – with a dedication to her
charge – after locking eyes with a red-eyed dog. Guilt, obviously,
leans toward the dog, but actually it’s the first sign that the boy
ain’t right.
Really,
The Omen isn’t as ridiculous as all that makes it seem. Moore amps up
the original’s simple eeriness with more modern yet smartly
restrained frights – the required monster-in-the-mirror trick, a
montage of silent, freaky satanic images in Robert’s dreams, some
unexpected, from-out-of-frame attacks. Gore is minimal by today’s
standards, but expect a desensitized audience to cheer during a
particularly graphic beheading. (Truthfully, a couple of the kills
are somewhat entertainingly built up with ludicrous Final Destination
complexity.) And the film itself is often gorgeously stylized, with
both the always-stormy outdoors and the Thorns’ mostly white,
museum-like home punctuated by bits of blood red. It’s an especially
nice touch when Katherine, whom Satan particularly has it in for,
drapes a crimson shawl over her all-white outfit when once again
trying to convince Robert that either she’s going nuts or their spawn
is, well, a spawn.
The
acting is another story. Besides Davey-Fitzpatrick placing low in the
spooky-child category, Damien’s parents, though serviceable, weren’t
exactly expertly cast, either. The 25-year-old Stiles, with a face
ready for Save the Last Dance 2, is hardly mom material –
especially when paired with 38-year-old Schreiber, who was probably
born looking middle-aged. Despite being the leads, neither role is
very taxing, although Stiles, whose main responsibility is to appear
spooked and occasionally freaked out, does a better job than the
monotone Schreiber. Which makes it a pleasure when Michael Gambon’s
Bugenhagen,
who appears briefly advises Robert how to kill his kid, chews a scene
when responding to the droning dad: “He’s my son. I raised him
for…” Robert says. Bugenhagen, nearly pogoing in frustration,
then spits out, “He’s NOT your son. He’s a BEAST!” Other minor
roles are well-played by Pete Postlethwaite, who serves as the priest
who cryptically tries to warn Robert, and Mia Farrow, who here is
happy to take care of Rosemary’s baby as the Thorns’ bad-news
replacement nanny.
The
Omen’s last chapter is, appropriately, the most frightening, with
ghoulish touches added to flashbacks of that fateful day in the
hospital. Moore’s version may truly scare only lightweights (ahem),
while horror nerds find the laughs outweighing the improvements. But
with throwaways such as An American Haunting, Silent Hill, Wolf Creek
– I could go on – recently sullying the screens, Take 2 on the
Antichrist’s birth is a relative step up in the genre.
The evil that boys do isn’t a result of
the apocalypse in Twelve and Holding, director Michael Cuesta’s
sometimes over-the-top follow-up to 2001’s also tragedy-ridden first
film, 2001’s pedophilia-themed L.I.E. You’ll pity the poor tweens
centered in heretofore television writer Anthony Cipriano’s script,
though to do so increasingly requires a significant suspension of
disbelief to stay absorbed in the soap-opera experiences they go
through in a handful of months.
Twelve and Holding begins with scenes
of typical adolescence. Twin brothers Rudy and Jacob (both played by
Conor Donovon) are running to the safety of their treehouse when
chased by two bullies, with Kenny (Michael C. Fuchs), the tougher
one, threatening “You are DEAD!” when Rudy throws a bucket of
urine on them. The boys are physically identical, except that Jacob
has a birthmark covering one side of his face and prefers to hide
behind a hockey mask. In terms of personality, though, they’re rather
opposite: Rudy’s the outspoken fighter, Jacob, for understandable
reasons, would rather be quietly invisible. So only Rudy and obese
friend Leonard (Jesse Camacho) later go off in the middle of the
night to protect the treehouse. Then Cipriano dishes out the first
the jolt: As promised, the thugs-in-training return – with Molotov
cocktails. The boys are sleeping at the time. Leonard escapes with
only a head injury that takes away his sense of smell and taste. Rudy
is engulfed by flames and dies.
The death sets the emotionally knotted
Jacob, Leonard, and another close friend, Malee (Zoe Weizenbaum),
spinning in radical directions with their parents reacting with
equally lost extremity. Jacob absorbs the anger of his mother (Jayne
Atkinson) instead of the it-was-an-accident acceptance of his father
(Linus Roache), and begins to visit and threaten the detained Kenny.
Leonard, no longer enjoying his usual fatty diet and given nutrition
and exercise books by his concerned gym teacher, takes to eating
apples and jogging – and tries to force his lifestyle change on his
grossly overweight parents. And the precocious Malee, who’s
desperate for her absent father and not given much attention by her
therapist mother (Annabella Sciorra), develops an obsessive crush on
Gus (Jeremy Renner), one of her mother’s adult patients, going to
awkward and ultimately shocking lengths to get him to requite her
puppy love.
Cipriano isn’t subtle in Twelve and
Holding’s theme of the figurative singeing of tragedy: There’s the
accident, Gus is a former and still-haunted firefighter, and Blue
Oyster Cult’s “Burnin’ for You” is rather hammily woven into the
plot. And the film truly plumbs into caricature whenever Leonard’s
parents (Marcia DeBonis and Tom McGowan) come into the story, with
both, looking like full-grown Oompa-Loompas, constantly shown eating
piles of junk food and reacting furiously (!) to Leonard’s desire to
get fit. Murders, suicide, pedophilia, assisted homicide, and even a
gas leak are included to move things along, too. But though the
script goes overboard, each character’s fundamental predicament is
wrenching enough break hearts instead of roll eyes.
copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com
Roughly only half the population will
understand the sentiment, “It’s not that I want you to do the
dishes. I want you to want to do the dishes.” It’s probably said
at least once in most domestic households, and it’s also the kickoff
of conflict in The Break-Up, the tabloid-driven ballyhoo starring
are-they-or-aren’t-they real-life couple Jennifer Aniston and Vince
Vaughn.
Aniston’s Brooke, a stylish art-museum employee, is
rightfully furious when her longtime boyfriend, Vaughn’s tour-guide
Gary, heads right to the couch to play video games both before and
after an elegant dinner party for which Brooke did all the work. And
even though Gary’s valid plea that he just wants to relax for a bit
when he gets home (plus sorta-valid yet besides-the-point point “Why
would I want to do dishes?”), Brooke announces that she’s had
enough and, big surprise, breaks up with him. Except that they co-own
their gorgeous and appreciating Chicago condo, and both refuse to
move out.
Directed by Peyton Reed (Bring It On) and written by
freshmen scripters Jeremy Garelick and Jay Lavender (with a story
credit going to Vaughn), The Break-Up mixes a significant amount of
comedy into the movie’s essentially sad story; instead of coming off
as schizophrenic, though, anyone who’s ever suffered through the end
of a relationship – especially those easily pushed to pettiness –
will likely find the movie pretty damn realistic. Naturally, most of
the humor comes courtesy of the logorrheic Vaughn, whose Gary is
quick with the retorts as Aniston plays a solid straight man. (Also
amusing is Judy Davis as Brooke’s arrogant, eccentric boss, and
consistently hilarious is John Michael Higgins as Brooke’s goofy,
obviously closeted brother.)
Besides a blatant Simpsons ripoff
involving a particularly hostile game of Pictionary, the script’s
frequent gags are fresh and funny. Sure, there’s a bit of
outlandishness here as the now-roommates try to one-up each other in
revenge tactics. But overall, The Break-Up is relentlessly honest –
and reinforces the idea that amicable separations exist only in
publicity statements.
copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com
If you like your relationships just the
way they are, for God’s sake, avoid the group roadtrip. It’s never
just cranked radios and pit stops – by necessity there will be
communal decisions to make, by likelihood there will be arguments,
and by the end of the inevitably exhausting journey, the travelers
will either dig more deeply into superficial bonds or never want to
see each other’s goddamn faces again, or at least anytime soon.
In The Puffy Chair, twentysomething
Josh (writer Mark Duplass) knows this. And therefore when he buys
online the eponymous piece of furniture, a comfy purple replica of
the chair his father occupied Archie Bunker-like back in the day, for
his dad’s birthday, he plans to do the drive to pick up the chair
solo. The movie, which is the feature debut of Mark and his brother,
director Jay Duplass, begins with Josh and his longtime girlfriend,
Emily (Kathryn Aselton), having a romantic dinner on the eve of the
trip. They laugh, they babytalk, and Emily tentatively asks one more
time if she can come with him. She sadly but resignedly accepts
Josh’s desire to hit the road alone and they go back to having a good
time – until he takes a phone call during dinner, not acknowledging
to the other person that he’s in the middle of a date, and goes
beyond talking about the business at hand (a failed musician, Josh is
now a “booking agent”) to yakking about setting up some friends
and saying he’ll sell the girl on the guy by first touting his
oversize genitalia. At which point Emily knocks her dish off the
table and storms out.
Of course, Josh – though he never
actually apologizes to her — then feels obligated to take her with
him. And when they stop to initially just visit Josh’s New Age-y
brother, Rhett (Rhett Wilkins), it’s decided the party will become
three. “I need to reconnect with Dad, dude!” Rhett says,
rationalizing that his presence will be his birthday present to the
old man. “Dude,” by the way, is the siblings’ favorite word, with
Josh even cringingly peppering his conversations with the lovely
Emily with the frat-boyism.
Josh at first has only his strikes
piled against him, but the sharpness of the brothers’ squirmily funny
first film lies in its The Squid and the Whale-like verite. Each of
the characters gets moments of slap-worthiness: The cooing and
ever-forgiving Emily repeatedly asks “What do you love about me?”
when Josh is trying to sleep. Rhett believes in love at first sight,
at least until the next morning. Josh, in perhaps his worst moment,
goes to George Costanza-ish lengths to save $10 on a motel room. Your
sympathy with the characters subtly varies throughout the movie’s
compelling, swift-moving 85 minutes; the Duplasses aren’t offering
escapism so much as an often painful reminder that nobody is
consistently a walk in the park.
The relatively green performers –
bearing just the right amount of unpolished, real-world prettiness –
are superb in slipping into these quite believable cloaks with no
“acting” apparent. And the script throws in conflicts, naturally,
but never melodrama or contrivance. (OK, maybe the overly righteous
motel manager they clash with seems a bit idealized.) Despite its
likability, odds are The Puffy Chair may be too simple to escape its
indie smallness. But those who do discover it may restrict their
multiple-passenger trips to the HOV lanes for a while.
copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com
