Archive for July 2007
Somehow, this is way less embarrassing than "Wild Hogs"
The
average musical would be a helluva lot better if, when its heroine is
belting out a saccharine tune, she got hit in the face with a
dodgeball. That’s what happens when Tracy Turnblad sings puppy-love ode
"I Can Hear the Bells" in Adam Shankman’s tremendously entertaining
Hairspray, a remake of John Waters’ 1988 original via its 2002
reincarnation on Broadway. And she doesn’t miss a note.
Tracy
is a zaftig teen in 1962 Baltimore who wants nothing more than to strut
her generous amounts of stuff on the hot local dancing program, The
Corny Collins Show. Every day, Tracy (Nikki Blonsky) and her dopey
friend, Penny (Amanda Bynes), run home from school to shriek at the TV
as the area’s most popular kids, including Amber von Tussle (Brittany
Snow), do the Mashed Potato with pasted grins in front of the camera.
When one of the dancers drops out — "Only nine months," she responds
when Corny (James Marsden) asks how long she’ll be gone – Tracy knows
it’s her chance to get in the spotlight. Her equally oversize mother,
Edna (John Travolta), fears she’ll be turned down because of her
weight, but her father (Christopher Walken) tells Tracy to go for it.
That’s
right: Mom and Dad are John Travolta and Christopher Walken. Together
at last! As freakish as Mr. Saturday Night Fever looks in a fat suit
and make-up as he reprises the role originated by late drag queen
Divine, you may be surprised to find yourself warm to his version of a
sweet, shy housewife opposite Walken’s adoring – if, as always, a bit
creepy – husband. Of course, this being a musical, the cast members
weren’t chosen only for their acting chops, and Travolta steals several
scenes as Edna’s coaxed by her daughter to bust a move – not heels nor
fake flab keep the actor from quite skillfully shaking his ass. Some of
the movie’s best moments, though, develop when the couple are together.
Imagine Walken comforting his weepy, gigantic male wife. Or the two
doing a little soft-shoe in the moonlight.
The
pair are representative of Shankman’s biggest achievement: making a
film that manages to be slightly subversive, very goofy, and
relentlessly feel-good at the same time. Tracy is a potentially
insulin-raising bubble of optimism and cheeriness, believing that she
can do anything despite not being skinny and blonde – and she proves
it, by becoming one of the Corny show’s most popular dancers. But she’s
forward-thinking, too. When she gets punished in school for
"inappropriate hair height," Tracy meets a group of black students,
including Seaweed (Elijah Kelley) and his little sister, Inez (Taylor
Parks), who use their detention time to dance. The kids aren’t allowed
to appear with the white teens on the program, instead being restricted
to a once-monthly "Negro Day." When Negro Day is canceled altogether,
though, thanks to the TV station’s manager (a frighteningly skeletal
Michelle Pfeiffer) – who also happens to be Amber’s competitive mother
– Tracy protests, marching with her black friends to try to force the
station to integrate.
It’s
a serious theme that Shankman and his writers – Waters, Leslie Dixon,
and the stage musical’s Mark O’Donnell get credit for the screenplay,
with Scott Wittman responsible for lyrics – are able to incorporate
smoothly exactly because the rest of the movie refuses to take itself
seriously. Every treacly-sounding, show-stopping song (and the film’s
full of them) hides jokes and political incorrectness among its earnest
lyrics. (Penny, who falls in love with Seaweed, sings: "In my ivory
tower/Life was just a Hostess snack/But now I’ve tasted chocolate/And
I’m never going back!") One-liners pepper the script, too, always
zinging just in time to erase whatever goopiness has been building up.
Travolta
and Walken aren’t the only cast members who are terrific. Blonsky,
looking like she could be the daughter of the original’s Ricki Lake, is
infectiously sweet and great with a tune. But the smaller players are
gems as well, particularly the usually blank Bynes, who subtly brings
out the innocent Penny’s sexiness, and Marsden, who looks more alive as
a song-and-dance man than he has in any of his mouth-breathing dramatic
turns. And as is the case with many remakes, cameos offer a giggle,
too. Perhaps the biggest surprise of all, though, is Shankman, whose
previous efforts helming the terrible Cheaper by the Dozen 2 and The
Pacifier didn’t exactly make him an obvious choice to steer a summer
musical. Turned out that he and his crew needed only a little Hairspray
to make something unforgettable.
Stripping and grocery shopping — a winning combination!
In
a romance, the equivalent of a feisty go-getter singing her heart out
must be the slow-motion remembrance of an old lover. And Cashback, an
Oscar-nominated short that’s been stretched to feature length by
British writer-director Sean Ellis, can’t get enough of it. Woe is Ben,
the art student who has broken up with his first girlfriend at the
beginning of the film. He’s been unable to sleep since the separation
and is haunted by her image: In a flowing dress, his fair love laughs
as she runs and looks behind her into the camera, sunlit all around, as
the score swells. Thinking about her with her new boyfriend, he says,
"felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room."
Now
would be a good time for that dodgeball, but there will be no such
relief from Ellis’ triteness. Cashback is purportedly about beauty and
time and realizing one’s goals, but really it just seems like an excuse
to show boobs. Not just any boobs, mind you, although the reason for
their contribution to the movie is to demonstrate the elegance of the
female form and Ben’s obsession with trying to capture it. No, these
breasts are natural and astounding, belonging to very lucky, very slim
young women. But Ben, see, isn’t a horndog like his friends. He’s an artiste — who apparently has ever had exposure only to the Playboy-ready, besides the farting male model in his drawing class.
Ben
(the bland Sean Biggerstaff) sees the majority of these racks after he
takes a job as an overnight clerk in a grocery store in an attempt to
stave off his insomnia-fueled boredom. During these long nights, he
discovers he has the ability to freeze time, which he often uses to
delicately undress the female customers or to stare at Sharon (Emilia
Fox), a quiet cashier. He draws her without her knowledge and
eventually asks her out; a conflict that would occur only in a script
nearly keeps them apart, but as Ellis seems to argue with the
time-stopping conceit, every action sets off a chain of events that
eventually lead a person where they should be.
The
frozen scenes are rather hypnotic as Ben studies whatever activity has
been stopped, and with minor characters such as the store manager and
fellow employees played as clowns, the movie is sometimes funny. (A
hapless soccer game against a rival store, for instance, is one of the
best parts.) But Cashback’s few pluses don’t outweigh its facile
sentimentality, made all the worse by Ben’s continual, ponderous
voiceover that clue us in to his Psych 101 musings. With each
succeeding thought, it feels as if all the oxygen is being sucked out
of the room.
After this is over, I’m going to transform
your panties into a hat
There’s a Herbie the Love Bug moment in Transformers.
A high-school kid just got his first car. He’s crushing on a girl who
looks 10 years older than he is and doesn’t tax her taut body by
throwing on a lot of clothes. She needs a ride home; the vehicle flings
its passenger door open and plays the Cars’ "Drive." Once it’s got her
inside, it further helps out his owner by motoring them over to a
remote spot – and switching the radio to "Sexual Healing."
OK,
so maybe it’s a scene that would make Herbie blush. But what do you
expect from a movie based on…toys? Transformers is the latest
directorial effort from Michael Bay, so you probably don’t need the
PG-13 rating to tell you that despite its Hasbro origins, the movie’s
not for the little ones. But unlike the rest of this summer’s
something-for-most-of-the-family fare – particularly other fanboy stuff
like Spider-Man – the live-action Transformers has an unflattering vibe
all its own: It’s not for kids, but it’s not quite for geeked-out
adults, either. It’s for the stunted.
Bay
and his screenwriters, Mission: Impossible III duo Roberto Orci and
Alex Kurtzman, are betting that audiences will feel that a heap of CGI
sophistication will make up for lack of depth elsewhere. (And they’re
probably right, alas.) The story is a gibberish-laden shell that
integrates the giant robots from another planet, who until now have
been kept there in the animated TV series and 1986’s The Transformers:
The Movie, with humans. Shia LaBeouf trains for his upcoming Indiana
Jones role as Sam, the uncool student who ends up with the prying old
Camaro that he eventually learns is Bumblebee – though Bumblebee was
originally a Volkswagen Beetle – one of the good-guy Autobots. He (it?)
and a few other ‘bots are here to support their leader, Optimus Prime
(Peter Cullen), as Optimus travels to Earth and hunts for the Allspark,
something that’s ridiculously important for the Autobots to have.
Of
course, the evil Decepticons also want it. And they almost had it:
Megatron (Hugo Weaving), the baddest of the bad, came searching for the
Allspark back in the 19th century, only to accidentally freeze and
later be discovered by Sam’s great-great-grandfather, an explorer.
Before he was totally paralyzed, though, Megatron etched out a map to
the Allspark on Grandpa’s glasses, which are currently in Sam’s
possession. Why did the Autobots wait until 2007 to gain control of the
Allspark? Apparently it took that long for the Decepticons to figure
out how to hack the government’s security system (and, uh, attack U.S.
soldiers in the Middle East) and defrost Megatron – or something like
that.
All
you really need to know, though, is that the shape-shifting androids
are in a battle of good vs. evil, and it’s just an excuse for a lot of
explosions, gunfire, childish humor, and a couple of completely
unnecessary hot women. (How important are the actresses’ looks compared
to the movie’s logic? Sam’s love interest (Megan Fox) somehow gets a
wardrobe change while everyone else is knee-deep in Armageddon.) The
action is mind-numbing rather than stupidly invigorating, filmed
primarily in Bay’s messy style of thrashing cameras and dizzying edits.
What Bay and his technical crew do get right, on the other hand, is
what most of the audience members probably came to see: the alien stars
morphing from their disguises as helicopters, trucks, whatever each
stealth situation calls for into their badass (or goodass) robot
selves. From machine to ‘droid and back again, their transformations
are quick and fluid, often seamlessly occurring during a mere leap. The
bombs may not impress you, but at least this will.
If
only the script weren’t unbearable. Despite a 144-minute running time,
the story gets choppy. (Days turn instantly into nights, while lines
such as "I had fun" refer to nothing we’re privvy to.) The characters
are mere mouthpieces. (Sam’s immediately comfortable with his new
world, rattling off details of the planet’s possible doom to others;
Fox’s Mikeala is summed up above.) And the jokes are painfully
adolescent. (Ha ha, that robot is peeing – something – on a government
official! That dude is picking his nose!) The package would be passable
for kids – if they were the movie’s intended audience. But our inner
children deserve better.
copyright 2007 themoviebabe.com
Ratatouille’s
hairy version of vermin isn’t anything like Mickey and Minnie. Which
means that the latest animated Pixar offering has a similar, if much
less significant, problem as Transformers. In
the same way that
some parents may roll their eyes at a movie that turns their childhood
heroes into urinating clowns, grown-ups may not be thrilled about
watching rats – even friendly ones with opposable thumbs (!) –
swarming buildings and getting their paws on restaurant food. But will
children be interested in a 110-minute story of a rodentian Rachael
Ray?
It’d
be a dicey proposition if it weren’t for Mr. Incredibles. The newest
creation of writer-director Brad Bird, now the darling of Pixar, is
Remy (Patton Oswalt), a France-based rat with a refined palate and
desire to "add something to the world," despite his family’s insistence
that their kind was meant to take. Neither Remy’s gruff father (Brian
Dennehy) nor dimwit brother, Emile (Peter Sohn), understand why he
won’t just eat garbage like the rest of them. Remy wants to be a chef,
but Dad tries to scare him straight, telling him that the human world
is too dangerous and that he should abandon his dream of leaving the
clan. Remy’s father does finally recognize his son’s talent for
identifying the ingredients of a concoction by sniff – and puts him to
work as a poison detector.
When
the family and their horde of friends are discovered in an old lady’s
house – in a surprisingly violent scene, a carpet of them fall through
the ceiling when she goes crazy with a rifle after spotting Remy among
her spices – they get separated while escaping. Remy negotiates through
gushing pipes (another frightening sequence, though the inky waters
look damn good) and ends up safe beneath a once five-star-rated French
restaurant. Since he assumes his family is dead, he takes the advice of
his sudden companion, the ghost of his idol, rotund chef Gusteau (Brad
Garrett), to sneak into the joint and spice up the kitchen.
Bird
may not have created anything as exciting as superheroes or an iron
giant when he developed Remy, but the rat’s culinary adventures are
both sophisticated and kid-friendly – without, mercifully, the usual
two-tiered paradigm of lots of face-plants and potty-humor for the
little ones while grown-ups get assaulted with pop-culture references.
Instead, the story’s kept simple while the visuals are extraordinary.
As Remy takes rather entertaining steps toward his goal, plenty of
worthy life-lessons are served as well: Not stealing is a big one, but
there are more subtle messages about the importance of family (OK,
that’s a yawner) and how not
everyone can do whatever they want, but that those with talent need not
feel inhibited by their circumstances to succeed (not only a wise
teaching, but one that’s ingeniously woven).
Lifelike
delicacies may be served in Gusteau’s place, but the eyes get a feast
elsewhere as well, particularly in skyline views of Paris glowing at
night that are amazingly realistic. Bird also loads the film with
clever passing details, such as the goings-on in apartments that Remy
scampers above or the back stories of the more zestily painted minor
characters, such as a severe cook named Horst (Will Arnett) who’s given
a brief montage of the various reasons he gives for having spent time
in prison. ("I killed a man with this thumb.") What Ratatouille is not
is a showcase of belly laughs, which is a bit of a disappointment if
you compare this film to its predecessor, The Incredibles. But it’s
charming, original, and solid – not a description that will make your
kids beg you to see it, but like the patrons eating Remy’s dishes, they
never have to know.
I have had it with these motherfuckin’ ghosts
in this motherfuckin’ room!
Directed by Mikael Hafstrom (Derailed) and written by a trio of scripters, 1408 is based on a short story by Stephen King. It’s not nearly as nightmarish as King’s The Shining nor as unrelenting as the similarly themed Vacancy in its scares. But amid the culture of Saw-imitating torture porn, this taut psychological thriller stands out as an instant, mind-bending classic.
1408
begins, appropriately, with a dark and stormy night. Ghost-hunting
author Mike Enslin (John Cusack) is making his way in the pouring rain
to stay at a rural bed-and-breakfast whose owners claim is haunted.
He’s been seeking such places to research his travel books that center
on the phantasmagoric — "Five skulls," he rates the B&B – though
he doesn’t actually believe in spooks himself. Until, that is, Enslin
checks into the titular forbidden room at New York’s swanky Dolphin
Hotel.
The
hotel’s manager, Gerald Olin (Samuel L. Jackson), strongly suggests he
change his mind about going into 1408, claiming that 56 patrons have
died in there, none of them lasting more than an hour. He bribes Enslin
with an expensive bottle of booze and offers him access to the hotel’s
copious files on the "natural" deaths that occurred in the room but
haven’t been publicized. "My training is as a manager, not a coroner,"
Olin says. Still, Enslin insists, and Olin escorts his as far as the
elevator doors on the 14th floor. The room is initially unremarkable,
with Enslin describing its details into a tape recorder with a yawn in
his voice. Then the clock radio blasts on by itself – the Carpenters’
"We’ve Only Just Begun" has never sounded so creepy – and the time
scrambles to 60:00 and starts counting down. Enslin gets a little
worried.
1408
is a series of freakouts from there, with the writer seeing things such
as phantoms jumping out the window, a crazed knife-wielder coming at
him, and the bathroom turning into a hospital hallway where his dead
father is sitting in a wheelchair. ("Like I am, you will be," dad tells
him with a smirk. Ack.) There are mental games, too – a room-service
attendant calls and responds to Enslin’s questions with perky,
unrelated answers, and later phones again with skin-crawling
information about how he can go about leaving. It’s all very "Hotel
California."
Hafstrom
arguably has his main character lose it a little too easily, but Cusack
never turns cartoonish as Enslin talks to himself, charges around the
room, and in general desperately tries to figure out what’s going on
and how the hell to get out of it. King’s story is expanded to include
an ex-wife and a dead daughter, details that work well to give the
seemingly one-note fright fest layers and keep things chilly. As with
the best of King’s work, nothing is overexplained, and the ending is
left intriguingly open. Enslin’s mind may get checked at the door of
1408, but yours won’t.
