30 Second Film Review: 30 Days of Night (David Slade)

I’m way behind so I’m now in all glib soundbytes all the time mode.

Pretty but dead inside: and you wondered why they cast Josh Hartnet. Slade can compose a gorgeous shot, but as with Hard Candy (aka Hostel’s more arty cousin) it’s yet to be seen whether he can place any two of them in successive order to generate legitimate tension or momentum. The film fails to exploit its on clever premise instead stealing style and story tropes from (insert your favorite genre film of the last 10 years here), forgoing a white-knuckle war of attrition in favor of quick cut action and colorful gore. What’s the point of making a film about a siege with a finite team period if there’s no real sense of how your characters are surviving day by day or how much longer they’ve got? Raimi’s just having an awful year, isn’t he? C-

90 Second Film Review: We Own the Night (James Gray)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

We Own the Night is essentially three to four stunning sequences floating in a sea of mediocrity and cop clichés that were moldy when Sidney Lumet stopped using them back in the early nineties. Gray returns to filmmaking seven years after making his last gritty, method-infused drama of torn loyalties and families at odds, The Yards, and essentially remakes it here, only this time switching locals from the train yards to Russian-owned night clubs.

As Mike D’Angelo pointed out, this is basically the mirror image of The Godfather, with the younger sibling with criminal affiliations being drawn into the clean-cut world of law enforcement in response to a family tragedy with Joaquin Phoenix in the Michael Corleone role of the black sheep. The problem is it’s a mighty short ascent as the film goes out of its way to paint the character as acting just within the confines of the law (outside of the occasional belt of cocaine) so we see him turning his back on superficial trinkets and hanger-on friends as opposed to a moral code or even a highly evolved criminal lifestyle. The film sets its gears in motion too quickly to place Pheonix into the fold of the police force, negating much of the familial angst of brother versus brother, while setting up perhaps the dumbest plot development of recent memory (I won’t ruin it here but rest assured you’ll know when to scoff). Mark Wahlberg and Robert Duvall essentially share a character, and not an especially well developed one at that, while Eva Mendes looks really, really good in a corset and fishnet stockings.

There is, however, a good twenty minutes buried at strategic points where it gives hints of the potentially great film entombed underneath the dreck. Gray’s use of music is straight from the Scorsese play book, but there’s a reason such a thing even exists and the film employs it masterfully. The film opens to Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” over a scene that’s indescribably erotic (although mostly implicit) that leads one to believe they’re about to watch a less technically accomplished version of Boogie Nights. There are also two set pieces during the film’s second act where you can feel We Own the Night threatening to become a film that actually calls attention to itself. The cutting becomes more acute, the sound design more attuned, the level of verisimilitude in the performances (which are usually terror) becomes more pronounced. The trailer sadly gives away most of this stuff as there’s really little to sell the film on without them. Two hours after I saw the film I could barely remember it. Ten days removed and it’s even less tangible. That says more than anything else I suppose. C

2 Minute Film Review: Elizabeth: The Golden Age (Shekhar Kapur)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

Important caveat: I haven’t seen the original Elizabeth since it played theaters back in the fall of ’98 and I wasn’t a fan. In general I found it overblown, over-directed and under conceived. The shorthand at the time was “The Godfather for women” which, while both an unfair knock against both that film and that gender, also gets at the fundamentally cartoonish nature of the entire franchise. Filmed amidst impenetrable dark shadows where an assassin can spring forth at any time and a duplicitous climate of intrigue where even your closest advisers conspire against you, Kapur’s hyper-indifferent storytelling actually allowed the birth of England’s most prominent monarchy to become overshadowed by the moon-eyed pining of an adolescent who couldn’t love whom she wanted. In that same vein I found Cate Blanchett’s much championed performance to consist of two notes: simpering and Elmer Gantry. Seven Oscar nominations and the outright devotion of almost every woman I’ve ever met tell me I’m squarely in the minority with these opinions.

So now we have Elizabeth: The Golden Age which not only matches the first film fault for fault but seems to be rehashing the same conflicts (internal as well as external) thirty years farther along in QEI’s life. And yet I’d be a complete liar if I didn’t confess that in its own trashy sort of way the film is actually quite fun at times. I think the secret is—and perhaps I was too young to grasp this the first time out—that you have to toss out everything you’ve ever read in a history book as well as any pre-conceived notion of what a period piece should be and just appreciate the film as a live-action comic book. The realities of, as an example, a 50-something Elizabeth donning a full suit of honor and delivering a ra-ra, Braveheart-esque speech to rally the troops (which strikes me as absurd as the idea of honest Abe fighting at the front lines of the Civil War) are secondary to the grandeur of the imagery and the swell in your chest one is no doubt supposed to feel. Likewise, the threat from all-sides approach to conflict has the effect of turning even the most effete of diplomats into snarling threats to kingdom and crown. It's all quite lurid and baroque and laughable, but never dull.

Also on the plus side of the ledger is Kapur’s toned-down visual scheme which employs less drastic contrasts between light and dark as well as less spastic camera movement (although his predilection for extreme camera angels and 360-spins are still disappointingly the norm) which certainly allows for a great appreciation for the film’s production design and the great weathered faces of its cast. And of course, you have the intended upside of Kapur’s post-modern techniques which is the film cooks, never allowing itself to get bogged down in musty expository pieces or staid chamber-room drama (quite the opposite, the film is so propulsive at times it’s difficult to tell that we’ve actually moved from a different country and even a different year than we were just in a few seconds earlier).

So, clearly this one played well above expectations, but I can’t overstate that this might be the most redundant film in history. Blanchett gives the exact same performance here that she did nine years ago, which will no doubt please those who found the first film a “you-go-girrrrrl” empowerment piece in corsets, but doesn’t make a heck of a lot of sense when viewing the character’s dramatic arc over the course of a lifetime. Frankly it’s a bit disheartening to watch a middle-aged woman sulk that in spite of being the most powerful woman in the world still can’t get the guy. Speaking of which, Clive Owen has been slotted into the Joseph Fiennes role, which I’ve got to believe is an improvement across the board (right ladies?), but some last act Errol Flynn heroics aside isn’t given much to do beyond serve as eye candy. But that pretty much sums up the film as a whole. B-

90 Second Film Review: Into the Wild (Sean Penn)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

Tough, tough film to externalize my thoughts on. On one hand you have the undeniable pull of the material, oscillating between exhilarating and meditative and tragic. It’s easy to see why so many are responding so strongly to the film as it does tap into the sense of idealism and hope and belief in change and leading by example that most twenty-two year olds possess right out of school. I’ve always found Penn’s directorial-projects to be gnashing, method-fests (shocker!) but there’s a real sense of naturalism and warmth and unfussy grandeur to (most of) the film that permeates everything from Eric Gautier's (The Motorcycle Diaries) photography to Eddie Vedder’s way less obnoxious than anticipated music to the devastatingly empathic performances from the likes of Catherine Keener and Hal Holbrook. It’s also worth commending the job Penn does with adapting the film’s screenplay, maintaining the structure of a novel (complete with onscreen chapter headings), externalizing Christopher McCandless’ (a fine Emile Hirsch) isolation, jumping around seamlessly from one time frame to another and doing his darndest to keep the film from becoming episodic (it’s a failed endeavor but the effort is appreciated none the less).

But then on the other hand you have Penn who clearly identifies with, if not outright idolizes, McCandless, leaving the character unaccountable for almost all of his actions. In short, the kid is an asshole. A self-absorbed, condescending, preachy, hurtful asshole particularly in the way the character treats his parents (the film attempts to off-set and compensate for this by depicting them as bourgeoisie gargoyles) who’s deified on repeated occasions (at one point a character jokingly asks if he’s Jesus), dipping in and out of people’s lives, leaving behind pearls of wisdom and enlightening everyone from the half-naked jailbait throwing herself at him to the kindly old man who wishes to adopt him. The film has so much admiration for McCandless’ journey that is brushes right over the emotional damage left in his wake, never quite willing to acknowledge that his ultimate fate may have less to do with martyrdom than with a shithead getting exactly what he deserved.

I’m told Jon Krakauer’s 1996 book of the same name—which of course I haven’t read—placed more culpability at McCandless’ feet in addition to inferring most of the perceived slights at the hands of his parents (I have a hard time imagining it contains anything quite as embarrassing as a scene in the film where William Hurt tackles Marcia Gay Harden in plain sight of their understandably horrified children). At times Into the Wild feels like you’re trapped in a booth at a coffee house, forced to listen to a boorish trust-fund brat tell you how little you know about the world (it’s ultimately the film’s greatest failing the McCandless’ interactions come across no less arrogant at the end of the film than they do at the beginning). I have a hunch Matt & Trey are going to have a field day with this one. Like I said, tough film to get my arms around. I anticipate being on the outside looking in, so take with more granules of flavorful mineral than usual. B-

90 Second Film Review: Reservation Road (Terry George)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

May I propose as an alternate title, Crash. Both in the literal sense (Ruffalo kills Phoenix’s son in a hit and run accident) as well as the implied shortcomings shared by both films. Specifically the contrivances, the histrionic performances, and the cursory-level exploration of human anguish. Way less white, liberal guilt at least.

The film is essentially In the Bedroom, big studio edition (mini-major distributor not withstanding) with every emotion broadly telegraphed (cry when you’re sad, rage when you’re upset, etc…), indifferently plotted, building towards an anti-catharsis that’s less ambiguous than it is letting the film off the hook from having to follow through on its own tired premise. Director George, who showed admirable restraint with material infinitely more tragic in Hotel Rwanda, directs his actors like their auditioning for guest spots on "Law & Order." Never quite finds a unique angle in approaching neither the waking tragedy of losing a child nor the torment of being responsible for said act, so it ends up playing like scenes from a drama class.

At the risk of sounding biased, a film like Steel City at least brought a sense of working-class, under-stated angst to similar material. Reservation Road meanwhile appears to have been engineered from the For Your Consideration clips up. Furthermore, the film engenders zero good will by depicting perhaps the most unengaged Red Sox fans (a father and son in the throws of the 2004 post-season run, no less) in history. Jennifer Connolly is of course cast as “least interesting thing in the film” yet again. Seriously Jen, go back to playing crack whores; your career was a lot more promising. C-

2 Minute Film Review: Eastern Promises (David Cronenberg)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

As part of the microscopic minority that was under-whelmed by A History of Violence I’m likely to be in an equally small grouping in considering this a return to form for Cronenberg, retreating to familiar territory and some of the ickier, transgressive imagery his career has been built upon, the irony being that Eastern Promises is also the most widely-accessible film he’s made since The Fly. Like all of his best films, this is one of icy tone and alien settings, with most of the film’s emphasis placed on the clash between various immigrant subcultures in contemporary London, particularly the violent, densely-layered Russian underworld. After taking a detour to skewer the perception (and celebration) of homicidal tendencies bubbling beneath the surface of placid Americana with History, the director’s back to deconstructing the seemingly infinite number of ways a human body can be violated, with almost fetishistic appreciation of prison tattoos as a form of self-identification and mob hierarchy.

If Eastern Promises feels greater than the sum of its parts it’s because it is, following the minimalist lead of star Viggo Mortensen (who probably rivals Matt Damon in The Bourne Ultimatum for least dialogue spoken by a leading man in a film this year), the film slithers along on attitude and malevolence always hinting at violence that may never come to pass yet places the viewer in the role of the Naomi Watts character as the outsider bearing witness to everyday, almost disaffected, evil so corpulent it resides in plain sight. We’re getting a peek behind the curtain, catching a glimpse of archaic rituals and old world traditions with the director equally transfixed by the professional detachment of “processing” a body for disposal as he is the arrangements of flower pedals on an ornate pastry. The broad strokes of the film’s criminal activities are largely ignored or inferred (this is a decidedly claustrophobic look at both contemporary England as well as organized crime) yet the details are presented in horrific, and at times quite amusing, detail.

The themes are far from groundbreaking (he types a few hours after “The Sopranos” sweeps The Emmys for its final time) but the milieu is fascinating and if Cronenberg merely intended it as set dressing to gussy up a fairly pedestrian child in peril hand-wringer (second one as many weeks, funny enough) it’s enough slight of hand to convince me for long stretches I was watching the best film of the year.

The problem is, no matter how skillfully it neglects it, the film is ultimately a slave to its own disconnected plot, and if it goes to great distances to push all that dispiriting “why-done-it?” stuff to the film’s final act (like saving your vegetables for the end of dinner) it’s especially unpleasant when it arrives to collect its bill. The film was written by Steve Knight who also wrote Dirty, Pretty Things, which if memory serves was a pretty compelling film about London’s immigrant working class that became weighed down by a dopey plot (something about harvesting organs, right?) and as evidenced by Eastern Promises, he hasn’t really switched up his M.O. any. Without giving anything away, the film begins to resemble the low-rent genre piece its detractors are convinced it is the deeper it gets into Viggo’s motivations, doing a hell of a disservice to the actor’s mesmerizing and evasive performance. The safer the film makes the passage for the viewer as outsider, the less interesting the journey is. B+

60 Second Film Review: Shoot ‘Em Up (Michael Davis)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

We’re a long way from True Lies folks. This one’s getting a pass from a lot of reviewers who are throwing around the “live action cartoon” label, as if that were somehow able to justify the slapdash execution and rampant laziness of the film. The fact is the film isn’t so much a cartoon (although God knows it does everything short of have Clive say “What’s Up Doc?” to try and propagate the idea) as an under-conceived Tsui Hark knock-off dumbed down and shoddied-up for American audiences. The great Peter Pau (Crouching Tiger) shot the film but you’d be hard pressed to identify his work as everything has been edited to ribbons to compensate for the budgetary constraints and the depressing reality that 40-something Clive Owen is not Jet Li.

Crumminess might be more palatable if the film wasn’t essentially a hat on a hat for 90-minutes, frequently commenting on the genre staples and narrative contrivances it wallows in as a validation for how little actual tension and excitement it generates. Something like Rodriguez’s Planet Terror took a lot of these same ideas and came away with something more joyful and observant. Too much sizzle, not enough steak really. Remarkably contains the worst performances of Owen’s, Giamatti’s and Bellucci’s (whose butchery of the English language is especially hard to endure) respective careers, which I suppose speaks to the unique talents of a director responsible for such direct to video gems as Girl Fever, 100 Girls, and Eight Days a Week. You know what I hate? A supposed “down and dirty” R-rated film that casts Monica Bellucci as a prostitute who specializes in lactation that doesn’t even give her a decent boob shot. You know what else I hate… D+