A Separation

Astonishing and pulverizing, "A Separation", Iran's rightfully ballyhooed entry into the Oscar Best Foreign Film derby, has a run time of just a little over two hours but is so fiercely urgent it zips by in a blink - albeit the most overwhelming blink you've ever experienced. Writer/Director Asghar Farhadi aims for a distinct documentary style by forgoing a musical score until the last second and handheld filming (that thankfully is fairly restrained), yet it never feels like a documentary because it never feels like a film is unfolding before your eyes. It feels like it is all happening in real time and you are a helpless, paralyzed observer, peering around corners of the modest homes, drab and busy police precincts and hospitals where much of its action takes place.

It opens with, as the title implies, the separation of Nader (Peyman Moaadi) and Simin (Leila Hitami). In a single-take sequence that moves so breathlessly the viewer will have a difficult time watching both the subtitles and the actors' expressions and gestures, a judge refuses to grant them a desired divorce. Simin wants to leave for a more stable country. Nader, understandably, does not on account of his Alzheimer's-stricken father (Shirin Yazdanbakhsh) for whom he must care. Dismissing their disaffection as petty, the judge refuses the divorce. Thus, they instead separate, and while the separation at this point ceases to be the primary source of plot, everything that happens can in one way or another, whether fair or not, be directly traced back to it.

Simin decides to move in with her parents. Their daughter, Termeh (Sarina Farhadi), stays with her father, perhaps as a last ditch effort to convince them to stay together. With Simin gone, Nader hires Razieh (Sareh Bayat), a friend of his wife's who comes with a young daughter, a deep religious conviction and a hot-headed husband, to care for his house and most especially his father while he is gone at work for the day. For simple but terrible reasons this review shall not reveal, things reach an impass and Nader and Razieh wind up squaring off in court with Nader facing a charge that carries several years in prison.

Unfolding like a fantastic work of fiction, it builds a story by involving you in the situations of its many respective characters while simultaneously layering the narrative with bits and pieces that all crucially fit in at varying intervals as the film progresses. But they never seem like ill-fitting "clues", partially because there is no music to emotionally cue us and partially because they are all gracefully woven into the actual everyday lives of these people. Farhadi creates a sensation that I can't ever recall experiencing at a film, one in which a particular event early in the proceedings becomes of the utmost importance later, an event that is remembered differently by different characters, and while I remembered the event and thought I remembered it one way I realized as it was brought back up that I too now could not exactly recall how it had played out. That, to the say least, is mind blowing bit of moviemaking acumen.

There isn't one character or another for whom you necessarily root because it's set up so that each character's argument from his or her point of view makes sense and earns a certain measure of sympathy, even if all is not, as it cannot be, as it seems. Secrets are waiting, though they are not of the bargain basement "gasp!!!" variety. They are on account of truly real human desperation which is shown again and again in the scenes before the balding judge (Babak Karimi), who is forever looking down at his endless paperwork, delegating, displaying an almost incomprehensible level of patience.

At one point he asks someone to open a window in his cramped office. It's all become much, much too tense. He needs a little air. And so will you. The film begins, you go down and you disappear. It's not entertaining so much as it is relentlessly gripping. It is worth all the hype in the movie review forest.

Pause For The Cause

As I do each and every year on this day, I would like to take a moment and pay tribute to the anniversary of The Greatest Moviegoing Experience Of My Life. You know the film.

"All fighters are pig-headed one way or another. Some part of them always thinks they know better than you about something. Truth is, even if they're wrong, even if that one thing is going to be the ruin of them, if you can beat that last bit out of them.....they ain't fighters at all." - Scrap Dupris

Woo!! Woo!! All Aboard The Rooney Mara Bandwagon!!

Are you tired of Meryl Streep garnering Oscar nominations every single year by playing real people (next year she plays Clara Barton, Bette Davis and Mamie Eisenhower in the same movie!)? Are you upset that Michelle Williams earned an Oscar nod for playing Marilyn Monroe when Marilyn Monroe herself was never nominated? Are you disgusted that "The Help", that meringuey flim-flam, got nominated for anything? Are you sick of women getting nominated simply for playing men?

If so, this is your chance to act! Say NO to the conventional! Say YES to piercings and McDonald's Happy Meals! Say YES to Rooney Mara as Lisbeth Salander in David Fincher's "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo"!

That's right, for the next month, right up until Academy Award Sunday, the Rooney Mara Bandwagon will be criss-crossing this fine nation to show support for the one nominee who thinks men should perform cunnilingus more regularly on their ladies. (Too much? Over the top? Then go watch a Margaret Thatcher biopic. The Rooney Mara Bandwagon is no place for you.)

Join now and you will get your very own "Fuck You Fucking Fuck" tee shirt, combat boots and fake mohawk wig and eyebrow ring!

Wondering what the price of admission is to board the bandwagon? Worry not! It's completely FREE! All you have to do to join is sing along and headbang to "Immigrant Song"!

This Oscar race isn't over yet! Not if WE have anything to say about it! And we're going to say A LOT!

Evil With Evil Shall Be Expelled!

Why Mark Harris Is Wrong About The Descendants

To be clear, film writer Mark Harris is fairly brilliant. He wrote the best, most engaging book I read all of last year. Mr. Harris, as the saying goes, has forgotten more about the history of cinema then I will ever know.

That said, he's an idiot.

I love "The Descendants." Go ahead and quote me. Fifty-seven times, if you want. I wrote this review of it within 48 hours of seeing it and I still stand by every single word. I named it my #5 movie of 2011 and I still stand firmly behind that, too. Of course, in the face of its awards success, many have turned against it. And Mr. Harris is among the most prominent haters. Now, to be even more clear, Mr. Harris didn't simply slide into "The Descendants"-haters camp once it started racking up Best Picture trophies from varying critics associations (The Winneshiek County Critics Association names "The Descendants" its picture of 2011!). He was against it from the beginning. And I respect that.

That also said, he's still an idiot.

(Note: There will be some minor spoilers ahead.)

Of the Oscar Best Picture nominee directed by Alexander Payne, Mr. Harris wrote: "It just opened to what Metacritic numerically defines as 'universal acclaim' (despite some serious non-acclaim from the likes of Time, Slate, and Movieline). Perhaps some of you saw it over the weekend and loved it, too. But perhaps some of you objected, as I did, to (mild spoilers follow) voice-over narration that is at first overbearing and then, mysteriously, gone. Or the TV-pilot-ish subplot about whether George Clooney’s character is going to sell a beautiful piece of Hawaiian land to rapacious developers, which takes two hours to go exactly where you know it’s headed the second it’s introduced. Or the movie’s irritating habit of introducing characters by showcasing their worst qualities — the teenage girl is an angry brat, the teenage boy is such an insensitive dolt that you’re happy when he’s punched in the face — only to turn around and say, no, you’ve judged them too hastily, they’re actually good, rock-solid, sensitive people, after which the movie never returns to or acknowledges their problematic sides again. In other words, 'The Descendants' makes them look like clichés only so that it can then claim they’re more complicated than they look. Anyway, I, frankly, don’t see what all the fuss — wait, where’d everyone go?"

In regards to the "voice-over narration that is at first overbearing and then, mysteriously, gone", well, that's just like "Jerry Maguire." And "The Royal Tenenbaums." And......I could do that all day.

Regarding the "TV-pilot-ish subplot" which "takes two hours to go exactly where you know it’s headed the second it’s introduced" allow me to first just say very, very loudly...SIGH. It never fails to amaze me how much misplaced pride (which doubles as pseudo-disgust) people take in being able to "predict" plot outcomes simply so at the end they can say "I told you so!" Yes, you know from the first moment that Clooney ISN'T going to sell the land. But do you know WHY he isn't going to sell the land?

In his review of the film the esteemed Roger Ebert writes: "The film follows Matt's legal, family and emotional troubles in careful detail, until Payne shows us, without forcing it, that they are all coiled together. A solution for one must be a solution for all. This is so much more complex than most movie plots, where good and evil are neatly compartmented and can be sorted out at the end." "The Descendants" carefully, wonderfully cultivates this multi-layered story so that by the time we reach the point where Clooney must decide if he will or will not sell the land it is made very clear that if he agrees not to sell it he can, in a sense and to be vulgar, screw the guy who was, ahem, screwing his wife. HOW CAN ANYONE MISS THAT?! As I said in my own review (to be self-indulgent): "The critical decision he makes in the end may very well seem predictable but stop and think about it for just a moment. Did he actually make it for the right reason?" To simply write off this subplot because you can "see it coming" is that lazy sort of criticism I despise.

And that brings us to "the movie’s irritating habit of introducing characters by showcasing their worst qualities...only to turn around and say, no, you’ve judged them too hastily, they’re actually good, rock-solid, sensitive people, after which the movie never returns to or acknowledges their problematic sides again." We will address the two characters he cites as examples in order.

"The teenage girl is an angry brat." This would be Alex (Shailene Woodley), the 17 year old daughter of our main character Matt King (George Clooney). And yes, that first time we meet her she comes across as a brat, defying authority, drinking, talking back to her dad. And yes, as the film progresses this introduction will prove to be less than entirely accurate. But, is she actually a good, rock-solid, sensitive person? Does the movie never return to or acknowledges her problematic side again? Consider, for example, just who it is that pushes her father to track down and, in turn, spy - yes, spy - on the man with whom his wife was cheating. Consider just who it is that pushes her father to go up to this house of the man on whom he's been spying and knock on the door to confront him and who then assists in getting that man's wife out of the way so her father can continue with the confrontation. Alex! That's who! Is that "rock-solid"? Is that not acknowledging her "problematic side again"? That is beyond question one of my favorite bits in any movie in 2011. Father & Daughter teaming up and sleuthing around and, for a moment, the father regressing to the level of an immature teenager, failing to note the consequences of his actions for anyone else involved in this - to quote Juno Macguff's stepmom - "garbage dump of a situation." It's GLORIOUS! It's the DEFINITION of "complicated"!!! Dammit, we should be so lucky to have this sort of easy-going complexity in filmmaking ALL THE TIME!!! I'M GETTING A MIGRAINE!!!!!!

......getting it together......

This brings us to the "insensitive dolt", Syd (Nick Krause) who is Alex's kinda, sorta boyfriend and who shows up often and tags along for various excursions because Alex makes it clear she will be easier to deal with if he's around. And for the majority - I repeat, majority - of his screen time he is portrayed as insensitive and a dolt. Or, to say it another way, he is introduced by showcasing his worst quality primarily because his worst quality is his FOREMOST quality. He is an insensitive dolt, until the wonderful sequence when Matt and Sid find themselves having a late night chat. I self-indulgently quote myself again (underline added): "Then Matt asks him about his family and Sid offers a fairly harsh revelation – without ever ceasing to be the character he’s been the whole way – and hits Matt and us hard."

Matt poses a question and without even thinking about Sid supplies an answer, he simply says exactly what comes out of his mouth first, which is exactly how he's acted the whole movie, except in this moment he miraculously steps up to the plate......kind of a dolt savant, if you will. And the admission he makes to Matt is what explains his problematic side that Harris claims was merely an invention of the writers.

If there is one thing that annoys me above everything else about awards season it is unquestionably backlash. And the backlash against "The Descendants" as it dukes it out for a possible Best Picture win is pissing.me.off. So hey, Mark Harris, go lash your back somewhere else. Thank you.

Submarine

15 year old Oliver Tate (Craig Roberts) is explaining via voiceover how a school classmate earned his street cred when two girls literally stabbed him in the back with compasses and he refused to react even as blood spots appeared all over his fine white shirt. Of this act Oliver says: "His stoicism reminded me of the brave men who died in the First World War." It's not just that this line is so funny I had to momentarily pause the DVD to necessarily extricate all my chuckles, it's that it summarizes in full the remarkable tone director Richard Ayoade manages to set up and then hold throughout. 

In recent years high school films have all sort of adopted that ironic "Juno" posing (though, to be clear, I did and still do like "Juno"), and while one might look at "Submarine" and be quick to heave ready-made labels at it such as quirky and/or Welsh West Anderson, these miss the mark. Students of Oliver's sort at that particular age are, above all else, what? What's a term that springs to mind? How about say, self-serious? Listen to the score of the film as composed by Alex Turner and Andrew Hewitt, a kind of orchestral lament, the kind of thing you might hear in, oh, I don't know, a WWI film. It takes itself seriously, much like Oliver takes himself seriously, much like the film takes itself very seriously, and which is what routinely makes it funny. The title is not lost on me. What is high school but becoming submersed in cliques and not re-surfacing for another four years?

His forehead hidden behind a tousle of black hair that suggests the eleventh or twelfth Beatle, Oliver is the sort who carries a briefcase to school and spies on his parents (Noah Taylor & Sally Hawkins), tabulating notes on their non-existent sex life. He wants to be a cool kid at his school and he wants to be a cool kid at school primarily so he can woo Jordana (Yasmin Page), resembling Zooey Deschanel if she played bass for The Pixies instead of fronting She & Him, who is, as they say, out of his league. He earns his stripes by aiding her and another mischievous classmate in bullying the equally uncool Zoe. And although he apologizes (sort of) to Zoe while the others run away, it is rather unmistakable that the film has chosen to align us with a character who bullies and then, apart from a passing mention or two of his victim, moves on. Risky. Not that he won't be met with his own string of come-uppances.

He and Jordana, miraculously, become an item. He forges ahead with no real idea of what he's doing, inviting her over to have sex and then cooking a sit-down dinner complete with boxed wine, alternately intriguing and repulsing her. The film, in fact, takes great care in painting Oliver as a true chip of the old man's shoulder, his nervously indifferent chatter and social obliviousness causing the slow-burn demolition of the relationship just like they led to the precipice of the downfall of his parents' union.

And because Oliver worries his parents are headed for divorce when an asinine ex-flame (Paddy Considine) re-enters his mom's life with potential intentions of wooing her, and because his dad essentially stands by and does nothing, Oliver decides to man up and take matters into his own hands.

The voiceover and the tone are meant to resemble a 15 year old telling his (so far) life's story as if it were a humongous piece of dramatic literature, occasionally even working in his own cinematic fantasies of how he sees things playing out. Of course, in the end he's forced to face up to the fact things in the real world don't always have those tidy dramatic resolutions, a fact which can be scary.

But also liberating.

The Help

I have one of those "Courage" posters that features an image from Birmingham, Alabama in 1963 with three black people pressed up against a brick wall because a fire hose has been turned on them. I have this poster rolled up and tucked away. I don't really ever want to look at it because the level of human idiocy that forced these three people (and countless others) into this kind of situation is not only unsettling but entirely incomprehensible. How could anyone possessing even a shred of sanity possibly treat the three people in that photo that way? That image, to quote Chris Rock, is "real racism." I mention this because this particular topic is not just so hot-blooded but so deep and terrible that trying to do justice to the plights of those who experienced it is not just delicate but extraordinarily difficult. It demands a screenplay as rooted in conviction as the heroes of "The Help." Unfortunately "The Help's" screenplay can't live up to the precedent set by its own heroes.

This film is based on Kathryn Stockett's novel and directed by Tate Taylor and set in 1960's Mississippi and tells the story of the black maids hired to do the cooking and cleaning and shopping and, in some cases, the actual raising of the children of the uppity white folk. Specifically it tells this story from the point of view of Abileen (Viola Davis), employed by Elizabeth Leefolt (Ahna O'Reilly), and Minny (Octavia Spencer), employed by Hilly Holbrook (Bryce Dallas Howard), only to find herself fired on account of some serious sass which leads to a job with Celia (Jessica Chastain), the one woman purposely ignored by the snooty white lady circle of Jackson Mississippi, probably because her good heart is shrouded by the fact she's a minor headcase.

Ah, but of course the film can't simply tell its story from the point of two black maids. Heavens, no! With whom could white America "identify"?! Enter: Eugenia "Skeeter" Phelan (Emma Stone), an idealistic recent graduate of Ole Miss who yearns to be a ground-breaking journalist but takes a job at the local paper ghost-writing "Miss Myrtle" columns as a starting point. As it happens, Skeeter herself was basically raised by a black maid, Constantine, who upon returning from school she learns her sickly mother (Allison Janney) has fired. This gives Skeeter the idea of writing a book told from the perspective of the maids who make so many southern homes run but are forced to sit at the back of the bus and use separate restrooms nonetheless. She gets Abileen onboard. Eventually Minny will come aboard too. They know the risks they run and those are considerable. They forge ahead anyway.

I have not read the book and thus, obviously, have no idea how it reads or what the intentions were of its author, but if this story as brought to the screen is meant to be a look into an emotionally charged and painful part of America's past it's entirely too soft. It's like taking a slap to the face from a tuxedo glove. It doesn't want to make anyone too sad because if it's too sad then the person watching (or reading) might not recommend it to their friends. It's also possible that Stockett's goal was simply to craft her own Dixie-set "Da Vinci Code" - you know, use a fairly thorny issue to mask nothing more than a heaping, steaming slice of melodrama. That would account for the film's lack of any real complexity. I have no qualms whatsoever with an author or screenwriter or director wanting to make a melodrama for entertainment's sake. I love melodramas. God bless them, every one. The problem: Stockett's story hinges on telling the perspective of two black maids knee deep in Jim Crow. "The Help", however, wants to have its shit pie (somewhere Mookie and his garbage can are emitting long, loud, sad sighs) and eat it too and, in turn, displays the sort of cowardice akin to the monstrous Bryce Dallas Howard character.

At least Viola Davis nuts up. Fear and resignation dot her face at every turn but she also sells us on her defiance in her willingness to go on the record with Skeeter without requesting sainthood. There is a fantastic sequence late where the intention is to display her as a real American hero and she chooses brilliantly to play against the moment - embarrassed by the adulation she tries to wave it off. The problem is she seems to have wandered in from a different, tougher-minded movie, a movie where there no easy answers, a movie where a great deal of her incredible strife must have remained.

At the end in voiceover she says "No one ever asked what it felt like to be me." The answer is apparently on the pages of this book that Skeeter writes. The pity is we hardly get to hear any of it.

Oscar Nomination Q & A

Rooney got nominated. Shailene didn't. Oldman did. So confusing. You can read my traditional Oscar Nomination Q & A session over on Anomalous Material this year.

You're still Best Supporting Actress on this blog!

Underworld Awakening (3D)

Kate Beckinsale (Selene) has just jumped from a high up window ledge, crash landed on a semi truck and then had the semi truck driver stop short so she is thrown to the cement. This begs the question: why does she need the semi truck to cushion the leap when later in the film we see her leaping from higher places and landing cleanly on her impeccable high-heel lookalicious boots? I don't know, reader, and I don't care, and neither should you because, for the love of God, she's playing a vampiric "death dealer". Anyway, where was I? Right. Thrown to the cement. So the semi truck driver gets out because he's employed by the film's endless supply of bad guys and blasts a bullet straight into Kate's forehead. But Kate, non-plussed, stands, grabs the semi truck driver and bites into his neck, drinking his blood, while the aforementioned bullet simultaneously drops right outta her forehead and the wound closes up.

For the next five or so minutes I tuned out the film's various swirling plot points and incessant machine gun fire to wonder if I was placed in a situation as the last human on earth and Kate Beckinsale was the vampire tasked with switching me over to their side, if I would cave into her requests simply so my last few seconds as a human would double as seconds spent having Kate Beckinsale bite my neck and drink my blood. Sigh.

I digress.

The government, you see, has learned about the existence of vampires and Lycans - who, to clarify, are like much more CGI-enhanced werewolves and have long held a grudge against the vampires - and after rounding up Kate Beckinsale during "the purge" she has broken out, as she must, from her cryogenic chamber allowing for the obligatory shot of a clothes-less Kate Beckinsale in which specific body parts which shall go nameless are cleverly shrouded "Austin Powers"-like by steam that emanates from the film's special effects department lingering just off camera. She quickly slides herself back into her standard form-enhancing spandex, re-acquires her precious guns and for reasons I'm fairly certain I missed when I briefly nodded off (no, really), she strikes out to rescue and keep safe Eve (India Eisley), a "hybrid" vampire/Lycan, recalling a sci-fi "Exorcist" Linda Blair, and......wait for it......Kate Beckinsale's daughter. Gasp!

But the Lycans want Eve for themselves so they can......uh.......kill her? No. Not kill her. Perform scientific experiments on her, I think. She was strapped down to a "Franksenstein"-esque table at one point so I'm assuming it was a scientific experiment to harness her plethora of powers. I'd consult my notes taken during the film but there aren't many aside from "LOVE the shot where Kate Beckinsale's Bahamian blue right eye peeks out between two of her dangling, hella regal bangs." There was more after that but it wound up smudged out on account of my drool.

Where was I? I don't remember. Damn it, why did I pay $12.50 to see this movie? That's right! $12.50! Do you know why?! Because it's in 3D! And this use of 3D in this movie is so absurdly pointless if James Cameron had attended my sparsely populated screening he would have hurled profanities at the screen while using his own bare hands to tear that same screen down before going and de-friending co-directors Måns Mårlind and Björn Stein on Facebook. This movie did not need 3D. It's not visually inventive in any capacity. It's just dark. Like, really, really dark. I suppose darkness is necessary when taking into consideration its main character is a vampire but, heck, even the police precinct of the detective (played by some guy who appears to have been hired after the real Chiwetel Ejiofor read the script and said, "Hell no, I won't play that part!") is shrouded in an ultra-plush darkness that makes it look more like a club on Rush Street in Chicago. This ceaseless darkness is helpful because it covers up the lameness of just about everything going on.

Except, of course, for the strutting and ass-kicking of Kate Beckinsale, when we're allowed to see it. There is one magnificent moment when Kate is hollering at someone about this Lycan that's bigger than any Lycan ever, or something, and she steps forward into the synthetic light and although Handel's "Hallelujah" doesn't play it should and then Kate goes over to this fellow vampire who's dead and cuts open his chest and reaches inside him and literally re-starts his heart and brings him back to life and then we cut to an exterior shot of Kate throwing on her chic trench coat as she strides in slow motion in front of a rollicking waterfall. The meaning is implicit. Even if Brad Pitt plays Dracula, no other vampire will have ever have this much style.

For Your (Razzie) Consideration: Jordana Spiro, "Trespass"

Tomorrow the Razzies, recognizing the worst in cinema, announce their 2011 nominations. Buzz for Worst Supporting Actress includes, amongst others, Katie Holmes for "Jack and Jill" (oh Katie - what has L. Ron Hubbard done to my poor Katie?) and Rosie Huntington Whiteley for "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen."

I haven't seen those performances, and while there isn't a doubt in my mind that they're wretched, Razzie Nominating Committee, I ask you, are they merely "boringly wretched"? Or, are they SPECTACULARLY wretched?

Jordana Spiro in "Trespass" is SPECTACULARLY wretched.

This was quite literally the only photo of Ms. Spiro from "Trespass" I could find online, so you'll have to make do. But notice the unhinged facial expression. Screenshot don't lie.

Imagine Samuel L. Jackson in "Jungle Fever" recast as Bonnie Parker as re-imagined by Phoebe Buffay if Phoebe Buffay doubled as a stripper. That's Jordana Spiro in "Trespass." She's a splendifirous wackadoo that's part of a motley crew determined to rob Nicolas Cage & Nicole Kidman. And while the writing is crazy-pants bad and the direction is, well, the direction of Joel Schumacher, it is Spiro who shapes the character of Petal (yes, Petal) into a scene-stealer in the all the ways acting coaches encourage you NOT to steal scenes.

The Razzies are the anti-Oscars, are they not? So don't be like the Oscars. Don't be all predictable. Think outside the box. Jordana. Spiro. "Tresspass." Worst. Supporting. Actress. See it and, trust me, you will believe it.

Someone Else Stands Up For Elizabethtown

As is well known, Cinema Romantico is an ardent, unwavering supporter of Cameron Crowe's much maligned 2005 flick "Elizabethtown." Which is why any time any of my esteemed colleagues stand up and defend it I become most decidedly giddy.

Kristin of All Eyes On Screen is the latest to stand up and defend my current favorite movie 'ever'. She writes, amongst many other things, "(F)or me, 'Elizabethtown' is one of those movies I will watch again and again, because the movie captures little moments in life that I’ve experienced, and it’s a great reminder about what’s important in life–not success, but time spent with the people who matter." Do read the whole piece at once. She even tweeted Cameron Crowe about her love of the film and got a tweet back from the Man himself. That's fairly awesome.

Long live Drew Baylor! Long live Claire Colburn! Long live "Elizabethtown"! In fact, I haven't watched it in a few months.....

The Underworld Awakening Experiment

I won't lie. I've written what amount to mash notes to Kate Beckinsale on this site before, so much so that I'm still a little surprised her agent hasn't filed a restraining order. That said, I've never gone quite as far as I plan to go this weekend, which is to say I will go against my usual moviegoing taste and venture to the theater for a showing of "Underworld Awakening" specifically to write a review from the viewpoint of a critic who openly admits to having an enormous crush on Kate Beckinsale and wants to see her in 3D.

Wish me luck. And check back on Monday for the most ridiculous review of this movie anywhere on the interwebs, guaranteed!!!

Further Definitive Proof of the Movie Gods

I have written before of my immense love for the opening expansive tracking shot committed to film by Paul Thomas Anderson at the open of his 1997 classic "Boogie Nights." In fact, I like it so much I discussed it in my 1,000th post. A shot that is not merely a technical marvel, two minutes plus moving down a street and around and into a club and across the dance floor, etc., but a thematic marvel in the way it introduces this dysfunctional but loving porn-movie making family and eventually, at the very end, finding the brand new member of the gang.

I was 20 years old at the time. I'd always loved movies but I was really only in the infant stages of understanding how movies worked and understanding what I wanted from movies and how I related to movies. And this shot, to quote Berlin, took my breath away. It still does. It always will. It's why the day after the movie I bought the "Boogie Nights" soundtrack so I could listen to the song that underscores the whole shot, "Best Of My Love" by The Emotions, and imagine the camera swooping to and fro over and over and over in my mind. To this day whenever I hear that song it conjures up the shot and that movie going experience in my mind.

There has been this what-have-ya going around on the social networking device known as the Facebook where you can learn what song was #1 in the country on the date of your birth. And after a bit of time I decided to check it out and when I did I had to take a step back and compose myself. Do you know what song was #1 in the country on the date of my birth?

"Best Of My Love" by The Emotions.

Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

New Girl: Story of the 50

So our girl Jess, played by the mercurical Zooey Deschanel, has decided to put together a birthday party for her cool-guy (i.e. douchebag) roommate Schmidt and she's going through the whole what-have-you and winds up in another teacher's room at her school (she's a teacher, remember, even though we rarely see her teaching) and the teacher (Rachael Harris) enters and rather than question why Jess is snooping around in "the confiscation drawer" in her room immediately wonders if she can assist Jess in finding anything necessary, going so far as to suggest a "locker search" to acquire potential drugs.

The look on Jess's face made me wonder - is it always like this at her school? Had she just never noticed? Or does she notice all the time and ignore it? Or try to fight back against it in her own mercurial way? There seemed to be a bit of potential there - a high school where locker room searches so teachers can get the good stuff are the norm and, in turn, are cleaned up through the effervescent hijinks of its mercurial teacher. It could be a little off the wall, a little unpredictable, "Lean on Me" with a hipster. (And M. Ward could guest star as a janitor!)

Instead we quickly left the school and moved on to a party bus and a stripper who turned out to be (twist!) a male stripper and "bro juice" and Schmidt almost kissing Jess and........I'm melting.

I'm melting.

I'm melting.

Crazy, Stupid, Love

Cal (Steve Carell) and Emily (Julianne Moore), husband and wife, though currently separated, sit in the hallway, a little ways apart, of their son's school, waiting their turn for a parent/teacher conference. They fall into a conversation that is at first slightly uneasy but slowly transitions into something more real, more heartfelt. But then the teacher appears. It is Miss Tafferty (Marisa Tomei) and we and Cal quickly realize she doubles as the woman with whom he engaged in a one night stand several scenes back and purposely neglected to call. Miss Tafferty drags them in for the parent/teacher conference anyway and casts aside discussing their son to explicitly discuss Cal and the infinite idiocy of men in general. This inevitably leads to the truth emerging and Emily barging out and Cal chasing her down and the two of them having a sincere argument, an argument that just so happens to take place in front of all the teachers and all the parents just as it's about to - you guessed it - pour rain.

"Crazy, Stupid, Love" has a mind to be taken seriously, as the first portion of that sequence shows, except it often becomes dependent on typical romantic comedy crutches, as the second portion of that sequence shows, and winds up staring itself down, wanting to be taken seriously in the context of an uproarious comedy, as the third portion of that sequence shows. Naturally this makes for an uneven, though often entertaining movie, that comments on and embraces and (all too) occasionally discards the mechanics of the kind of movie it fully knows it is. More than anything, though, it's saved by two standout performances.

After Emily asks for a divorce from her high school sweetheart in the face of cheating with a leech (Kevin Bacon) from her office, Cal retreats to a posh bar/club where David Beckham-lite Jacob Palmer (Ryan Gosling) who apparently, improbably averages taking home about 3 women per night (not sure how that works) overhears this soon-to-be-divorcée whining to anyone within earshot of his plight. Thus, Jacob decides to take Cal under his wing, upgrade his wardrobe and teach him the finer points of "the game". In a way, Cal is kind of like what might have happened to Carell's "40 Year Old Virgin" if he'd wound up separated from Catherine Keener and having to start all over again.

Meanwhile Jacob has his own romantic entanglement to pursue in the form of Hannah (Emma Stone), a tough-as-nails about-to-be lawyer who has no interest in Jacob or "the game", until her requisite Boyfriend She Would Never Date If This Was Real Life (Josh Groban) fails to propose at which point she seeks out Jacob which leads to a more genuine courtship than she ever expected.

The third bit of business in this nearly 2 hour film is Cal and Emily's 13 year old son Robbie (Jonah Bobo) being lovesick for his 17 year old babysitter (Analeigh Tipton) who, as it turns out, is lovesick for the much, much older Cal. Complications and hijinks ensue.

All parties involved do good enough work, though the screenplay by Dan Fogelman definitely focuses more on the male aspects than the female aspects, a fault of scads of screenplays, but Gosling stands out in the predictable role of The Douche With The Heart Of Gold. Look, from the second he sits down in his brilliantly cut Italian (I'm assuming) suit and councils Cal about nutting up and shutting up - "Are you in or are you out?" - everyone knows the script will get flipped and his stylin' Jacob will be revealed as decent and desperate to change up his There's Always More Fish In The Sea outlook on life. Gosling, though, cleverly keeps the core of the character the same throughout and just adjusts his demeanor a few degrees here and there in accordance with his maturation. Arcs of these sorts in these sorts of movies are too often all at once and unbelievable but with such nuance it's virtually undetectable, Gosling creates the least broad character despite playing the most broad role. Skillz, baby.

And that brings us to the ever-magnificent Marisa Tomei in a small part as a delightfully unhinged teacher who in but a few brief scenes suggests a life always in danger of careening off the rails that nevertheless still somehow manages to stay on that track. Miss Tafferty is in serious need of her own spinoff with a tougher script and, believe me, Marisa would leave Cameron and her wannabe "Bad Teacher" sinking pathetically in quicksand. Alas, 'tis but a dream.

The conclusion works in not only one Big Speech but two Big Speeches, overlapping one another (and suggesting that psychologically Cal may be more than a little selfish in the way he usurps his son's moment), and so "Crazy, Stupid, Love" settles, as it must, for a belief in eternal love and soulmates. Unless, of course, you're poor Miss Tafferty. But then never mind her. She's merely rom com collateral damage.

Warrior

Set in the uncompromising world of MMA (Mixed Martial Arts), writer/director Gavin O'Connor's "Warrior" is pitched somewhere between "Rocky" and "The Wrestler", though for me it conjured up memories of 1975's "The Great Waldo Pepper", a film starring the young Robert Redford as a barnstorming pilot who at the end finds himself filming a flying stunt sequence with a German WWI ace that, improbably, gloriously, turns real, two men giving themselves up entirely one final time. "Warrior" skillfully builds to a conclusion that's very much in the same vein and that on paper would sound utterly ridiculous, which is to say imagine if Redford and the German ace had been.........brothers.

Older Brother is Brendan (Joel Edgerton), an ex MMA fighter who has since settled down into the straight life with a wife (Jennifer Morrison) and two daughters and a job as a high school physics teacher. But his bliss is tested when foreclosure on his home is threatened, re-sending him into the most outer limits of MMA to make a few quick bucks which leads to attaining a black eye which leads to him getting suspended (understandably) from his job which leads to him seeking out his old trainer to get back in the ring.

Younger Brother is Tommy (Tom Hardy), a former MMA prodigy who joined the marines and turned heroic before, in turn, going AWOL for reasons this review will not reveal. He turns back up on the doorstep of his father (Nick Nolte), formerly a broken down, vicious alchohlic but now more put together and 1,000 days sober, not saying much of anything beyond expressing his desire for his dad to aid him in getting ready to enter "the Super Bowl" of MMA tournaments, "subtly" named Sparta, set on the shores of Atlantic City where, of course, famously "everything dies, baby, that's a fact, but maybe everything that dies someday comes back." Which is to say that, yes, "Warrior" also unmistakably evokes the essence of a Springsteen song. ("Atlantic City" crossed with "The Hitter.")

Springsteen tells familiar stories but makes them matter. "Warrior" tells a familiar story but makes it matter, more than I would have suspected possible. If you think for even a moment that despite the presence of "the mighty, mythical Russian" (the movie's words, not mine) and a single, fast-moving montage that summarizes all the training our main characters need to face the best MMA fighters in the world that the two brothers won't meet for the championship of Sparta then you obviously haven't seen "Best of the Best." So what is then that makes "Warrior" matter? Above all, it's the unmistakable urgency of the performances. Despite being Australian and English, respectively, Edgerton and Hardy genuinely convey two men whose rough upbringing colored them as the mistrustful men they are today. Forgiveness of their father for his insinuated flurry of sins might be stated once or twice but is not really implied, never more so than in a MAGNIFICENT sequence set around a slot machine where Hardy's lips literally seem to be dripping with bitter menace. Nolte, meanwhile, who late in his career has often seemed disinteresed in so much as making his line-readings even halfway intelligible against all odds somehow becomes even more hoarse, heartbroken that his sons won't show him mercy but understanding that nothing he does now can offset what he didn't do in their youth. And that might be the film's final assets, the portrait of this significantly strained relationship between sons and father and the unconventional refusal to have it all neatly resolved.

Of course, by making them brothers you're not just enhancing drama, you're also sacrificing suspense, and much of the Sparta Tournament is going-through-the-motions because it's all so terribly foregone. Yet, to its credit, once it gets to that inevitable tete-a-tete it isn't cheap because a rather skillful job was done in getting us to care for both parties. (Although in my opinion the war hero bit with Tommy pours it on too thick when considering how gritty and realistic the rest of the movie is and yearns to be.) The ending works. Damn it all to hell, it really works. Two people related by blood who are nonetheless distant and unknown to one another enter a ring to engage in some mixed marital arts and exit the ring as......well, you know.

Apparently Not Everyone Thinks Kate Is Great

The following is an approximate transcript of a conversation I had with a co-worker yesterday in our office's kitchen.

Him: "What are you doing this weekend? Seeing any new movies?"
Me: "'Carnage!' I'm seeing 'Carnage!'"
Him: "What's that?"
Me: "It's the new Kate Winslet movie!"
(Co-Worker rolls his eyes.)
Me: "Oh, come on! She's the-"
Him: "The greatest actress in the world. You've told me before. I know."

Some things are non-negotiable. Like the earth being round, or Kate Winslet being The Greatest Actress In The World.

Me: "Well, she is."
Him: "Yeah, I still don't get it. Her career really isn't all that special."
Me: "Isn't all that...have you SEEN any of her movies?"
Him: "What all has she done?"
Me: "I know you don't like 'Titanic' so we'll skip over that one. 'Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind?'"
Him: "She was okay."
Me: "Okay?!" (Regaining composure.) "'The Reader?'"
Him: "Nope. Didn't see it."
Me: "Heavenly Creatures?'"
Him: "Never heard of it."
Me: "'Little Children?'"
Him: "What's that?"
Me: "No one's seen 'Hideous Kinky' so never mind but......'Sense and Sensibility?'"
Him: "Nope."
Me: "She was Ophelia in 'Hamlet.'"
Him: "Mel Gibson's version?"
Me: "No, the Branagh version of the whole text."
Him: "Then I haven't seen it."
Me: "'Finding Neverland?' You must have at least seen 'Finding Neverland?'"
Him: "Nope."
Me: "Have you maybe seen parts of 'The Holiday' on TBS?"
Him: "Is that the one with Jack Black?"
Me: "Yeah, but-"
Him: "Ugh. No way."
Me: "But SHE'S fantastic in it. I'm telling you."
Him: "Sure she is."

How can you dismiss the entire career of an actress - especially The Greatest Actress In The World - when YOU'VE ONLY SEEN TWO OF HER MOVIES?????????

Friday's Old Fashioned (Will Return)

You may have noticed the lack of the Cinema Romantico staple in which every Friday we review a classic film. Or you very well may not have noticed it. A couple of my friends have admitted to my face they don't read those posts since they are often films with which they are completely unfamiliar and likely have no intention of ever seeing. And that's perfectly fine. Honest, it is. Either way, I kind of write those Friday-only posts for myself as much as my readers as a way to get myself to watch more classic film, something I wasn't doing near enough of in the last couple years.

But I got quite tangled up with the ceaseless spate of new movies at the theater and 2011 releases I still needed to see on DVD (and still need to see) and with holiday obligations and currently I'm in the midst of a very expansive project that is very, very close to my heart (and which will be up over on Anomalous Material soon).

All of this is just to say that yes, Friday's Old Fashioned will return. Eventually. So stop acting like your Fridays are meaningless without it!

A Whole New Mann-Land

Wait, wait, wait. Why didn't anyone TELL me Michael Mann's daughter was directing movies?! Seriously! You don't think that's information I'd like to know?!

Make sure to check back on January 31 (or thereabouts, upon its arrival from my Netflix queue) for my review of Ami Canaan Mann's "Texas Killing Fields."

Viva Riva!

"It takes money to make money." - Mark Wahlberg, Contraband

"Money is like poison. In the end, it always kills you." - Mani Malone, Viva Riva!

I don't think it's mere coincidence I saw the African crime thriller "Viva Riva!", written and directed by Djo Munga, the night before the American crime thriller "Contraband" was released into theaters. The latter's trailer comes across like so many films before it, an ex-con who's gone straight unwillingly pulled back into the game to save a loved one. It is done this way, of course, to ensure audiences have a rooting interest and so that when the rooting interest inevitably emerges victorious audiences can go home happy and not feel as if they were spending their two hours in the company of bad people. The former is the exact opposite. Don't let that title fool you. It is a movie about a large number of bad people doing bad things to one another in the name of some very bad reasons. Even the eventual "man of God" who shows ain't all on the up and up. 

The Riva of the title, played fairly charismatically by Patasha Bay, is your typical wheeler, dealer, schemer, though not so much a dreamer, returning from Angola home to Kinshasa of the Democratic Republic of Congo with a whole big bunch of gasoline. See, gas is scarce in Kinashasa, sort of turning it into an African "Mad Max", and Riva and his pals plan to sell it off to desperate bidders for a high cost. Ah, except Riva's old boss from Angola, Cesar (Hoji Fortuna), is hot on his tail and enlists the unwilling aid of an army commander (Marlene Longange) by taking her sister hostage. Riva, though, seems less concerned about the possibility of - to quote 2Pac - "death around the corner" than with finding a way to make Nora, the girl of a local crime boss (Diplome Amekindra), fall in love with him. This is probably the film's sweetest aspect and yet even it is coated in the stench of deceit. Every time Riva makes a move Nora threatens to have her "man" who she clearly doesn't even like rough the persistent Riva up. And when Riva finally appears to have won her over via a bit of dashing cunning she cons him for damn near all his cash. Even if she seems to regret doing so, well, she still CONS HIM FOR DAMN NEAR ALL HIS CASH.

Everyone here seems well aware that it takes money to make more money but they also seem well aware that the more money they make the more likely they are to end up bloody and beaten on the floor or burned alive. The lives of leisure they lead when not trying to make money seem not born of enjoyment but as a respite. They didn't die today so tonight they live it up because tomorrow......who knows? The stakes consistently feel real and the film maintains a gritty, forceful feel without ever really resorting to your standard shaky cam sorta cinematography, eliciting its mood through rough and tumble locations and some seriously wicked comedy.

While there is significant violence throughout there isn't much gunplay until the concluding setpiece that brings most everyone together. In a way this sequence seems predictable - like something out of the worn pages of the Q.T. playbook - but it's actually a lot tougher than it appears, not letting any single character off the hook. And the closing shot is a bag of bricks dropped from a roof that clean knocks you out. For 90 minutes you assume you're watching a bit of genre madness - albeit a minorly brilliant bit of genre madness - and then suddenly everything flips which is so spot-on because all these people swirling around and grabbing for cash fail to realize the trickle-down effect of their actions.

In the end, it's the children that get screwed and the circle of unpleasant life continues.

30 Minutes Or Less (In 30 Words Or Less)

Pizza delivery driver. Strapped to bomb. Forced to rob bank. Hijinks ensue.

Eisenberg = Eisenberg.

Aziz = Tom Haverford with less pseudo-style.

Worse than Tombstone, better than Totino’s.

The 7th Annual Prigges: Top 10 Performances From 2011

Each and every year at the movies is stacked with great performances and 2011 was no exception. Young, old, male, female, great movie, good movie, so-so movie, they came from everywhere. These are the 10 (well, make that 12) performances from the year in movies that I most dearly loved. They are in no particular order aside from the first two, which I am proclaiming as my official Favorite Performance of 2011 and my Second Favorite Performance of 2012.

Shailene Woodley, The Descendants 

Perhaps the most difficult role to execute is a Realistic Teenager. Woodley was actually 20 years old at the time she played the part of 17 year old Alex King and I think that’s crucial. I think being a few years removed from her 17 year old self allowed her to look back and examine who and what any of us are at the R-rated movie age. It’s a confusing point for all of us but would be even more so when your mom is in a coma and she was cheating on your dad, your often-neglectful, though not mean-spirited, dad. When she is most desperate to be an adult is when she’s most like a kid and when she most wants to play the kid-card is when she most has to ante up and act like an adult. Ticked off and unfair but loving and fair she effortlessly conveys the whirlwind emotions of adolescence.

Rooney Mara, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo 

Without revealing much of anything, Mara somehow improbably shows most of everything. Consider the, uh, shall we say, torture sequence with a most unfortunate (but kind of deserving) gentleman which easily (and darn near is) gratuitous. Instead she plays the moment with an indifference that’s not so much casual as suggesting of a pent-up rage, a past long since buried and that manifests itself in this manner. I didn’t think it was possible to come across humane in such a moment. Mara proved me very wrong. Is it too over-the-top to say this performance sorta shattered my soul? No? It isn’t? Yes? It is? Either/or, I don’t care. It did.

Gary Oldman, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy 

He doesn’t speak until 15 minutes into the movie and even the few times he does speak he doesn’t say a whole lot or say any of it with much volume and yet no one male in a movie this year commanded the screen more. Except possibly for…..

John Boyega, Attack the Block 

In his first movie at the age of 17 he already appears to have more charisma than all the dudes in “The Expendables 2″ trailer put together.

Trieste Kelly Dunn, Cold Weather 

Dunn gives us someone whose fire has burnt out and who spends a whole film flicking and flicking and flicking the Lighter Of Life (???). At the last second, there’s a spark. My single favorite shot of the year is the final one in Cold Weather, and it’s Trieste who makes it.

Michael Shannon, Take Shelter 

What’s so phenomenal about Mr. Shannon’s work is the way he consistently comes across so ordinary in an increasingly extraordinary situation. Jennifer Lawrence, The Beaver Magnificent in Winter’s Bone, she proves in director Jodie Foster’s so-so, tonally uncertain film that, in fact, she can also convey an actual lived life in an under-imagined and under-written role and that, of course, is a trait typically only possessed by the great ones.

Bruce Greenwood, Meek’s Cutoff 

Virtually unrecognizable, he realistically embodies the ultimate wild-west cliche.

John C. Reilly, Terri 

This isn’t so much a departure as an assembling of all the traits the ever eclectic Reilly has developed over the years culminating in a character who speaks in cliches but (whether knowingly or not) leads by his very much unperfect example.

Ewan McGregor, Melanie Laurent, Christopher Plummer, Beginners 

Let me see if I can phrase this right, despite the fact Plummer and Laurent are never on the screen at the same time these three form a true ensemble in the way the characters not only share emotional similarities but how they underscore and illuminate one another. If Mr. Plummer wins an Oscar (which seems rather likely) I sincerely hope he makes sure to thank Ewan and Melanie.

The 7th Annual Prigges: Top 10 Movies Of 2011

As a prelude I will simply say this: my favorites of 2011 are undeniably an odd collection but are undeniably also the ones that struck me most, regardless of genre, budget, box office, or critical/audience consensus.

10. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. Please understand that I don’t think this film is perfect. In fact, I think it has an avalanche of flaws, notably with the blah murder mystery that functions as its core. But while there were certainly “better” movies I saw in 2011, the things that really resonated with me in David Fincher’s Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (things mostly having to do with Rooney Mara) resonated with me so much I couldn’t not put it on here.

9. Young Adult. A nasty and tough piece of work cloaked in an idiotic ad campaign, its triumvirate of Jason Reitman (director), Diablo Cody (writer) and Charlize Theron (actress) absolutely, respectfully go for broke and skewer the Hollywood myth that small town visits cure all ails. Bonus points for the most game-changing single scene of the year. 

8. Midnight In Paris. The first time I watched this idyllic fantasy, in that moment right after Owen Wilson first gets in the car and finds himself at the party I caught myself thinking, “Man, Woody Allen always seems to think it’s a different era, doesn’t he?” Then, of course, I realized what was happening. The exhilaration…..oh, the exhilaration.

7. Take Shelter. If there ever really was – to employ an oft-employed phrase – “a movie for our times”, it’s this tale of a family man who may or may not be having foreboding visions. 

6. Senna. A documentary about Formula One auto racing legend Ayrton Senna that is less about auto racing than artistry and spirituality. 



5. Meek’s Cutoff. A slow-burning, mystic take on the wagon trail opus which ends with a beautiful bit of the unknown that must have mirrored the unknown into which so many brave and/or foolhardy souls ventured. One man’s boring is another man’s blistering.

4. Turn Me On, Dammit! Awkwardly hilarious and unflinchingly honest, this Norweigan film I was fortunate enough to catch at the Chicago Film Festival captures the wild emotional swings of teenage life with near perfection and does it all in just under 80 minutes.

3. The Descendants. A fragmented family begins the process of putting the pieces back together. Hawaii never looked so much like everywhere else.

2. Beginners. To quote Melanie Laurent in the film itself: “People like us, half of them think it will never work out. The other half believe in magic.” I, for one, believe in magic. And I believe in this movie. Vigorously. 

1. Cold Weather. The answer to the mystery of this lo-fi Sherlock Holmes riff from writer/director Aaron Katz, The Mumblecore Malick, turns out to be that the film isn’t a lo-fi Sherlock Holmes riff at all but rather a quiet, wondrous re-kindling of youth.