Phil Villarreal's Blog, page 150
November 15, 2012
Why Silver Linings Playbook is the worst kind of sports movie
A movie that makes itself about the culture of a specific team and its tribe, much like a movie that makes itself about a video game, is doomed to failure and the sneering rants of the material and people it claims to know and show.
This is just a fact we fans of sports and movies must accept. We can accept fictionalized nonsense like Jerry Maguire and stylized insanity like Any Given Sunday, because they use mostly made-up players. What's harder to take is a movie that tries so hard to get things "accurate" but has no interest in the details.
Silver Linings Playbook, from NYC native director David O. Russell, is the worst type of sports movie.
It's a movie that Philadelphia Eagles fans will adore for all its references to the team and its fans' anxieties, traditions and hang-ups. It's a movie that Philadelphia Eagles fans will hate for its lack of consistency, existing in a meta-world in which the team has a smattering of players it's picked up (Nnamdi Asomugha), cut (Donovan McNabb) and traded away (Kevin Kolb) in the last few seasons.
The movie gets too many things right to get so much wrong. It understands the team's uncanny ability to inspire as much pride in its consistent, Andy Reid-infused competence and seething hatred of its consistent, Andy Reid-infused tendency to inexplicably collapse at crucial moments. It understands that the Eagles pet name to fans is "The Birds." It understands that the Eagles' fans are some of the most pathetic and downtrodden subsets of humanity, prone to sneering cynicism when the team wins, shame coupled with genuine shock when it flops — the same reaction of a dog when it's put outside for the third day in a row for chewing up the same sofa seat three days in a row — and ignorant, fierce loyalty that only a Cubs fan could sympathize with.
It's a movie that says a game against the Seahawks ended with a specific score, before later announcing a Seahawks game had a different score, incompatible with the first one — meaning either the screenwriters forgot they had already had characters reference the score earlier in the movie — or, more disconcertingly, that the movie takes place in a world in which the Eagles play the Seahawks twice in the regular season in the same year, a situation that's impossible since the teams aren't in the same division.
Robert De Niro plays an obsessive-compulsive man who credits his superstitions for the team's success and blames the failures of his son, Pat (Bradley Cooper), who is recovering from breakdowns of his mind and marriage. His wife (Jacki Weaver) dons a Kevin Kolb jersey. Let's go ahead and excuse this as a commentary on her sense of misplaced nostalgia and loyalty, one that applies to the way she forgives Pat for flipping out and hitting her earlier in the movie.
What's inexcusable is a radio reference to Donovan McNabb (final Eagles season: 2009) as the team's current quarterback, followed with a shot of a tailgating fan in a Nnamdi Asomugha (first Eagles season: 2011) jersey.
For the purposes of this movie, Michael Vick doesn't exist, which is just as well, given his lack of presence in box scores of his fantasy owners.
I have no allegiance to the Eagles, but as a fan of the Arizona Cardinals, winners of the last three matchups between the teams, I consider them my property and am disappointed to see my things mistreated.
This is just a fact we fans of sports and movies must accept. We can accept fictionalized nonsense like Jerry Maguire and stylized insanity like Any Given Sunday, because they use mostly made-up players. What's harder to take is a movie that tries so hard to get things "accurate" but has no interest in the details.
Silver Linings Playbook, from NYC native director David O. Russell, is the worst type of sports movie.
It's a movie that Philadelphia Eagles fans will adore for all its references to the team and its fans' anxieties, traditions and hang-ups. It's a movie that Philadelphia Eagles fans will hate for its lack of consistency, existing in a meta-world in which the team has a smattering of players it's picked up (Nnamdi Asomugha), cut (Donovan McNabb) and traded away (Kevin Kolb) in the last few seasons.
The movie gets too many things right to get so much wrong. It understands the team's uncanny ability to inspire as much pride in its consistent, Andy Reid-infused competence and seething hatred of its consistent, Andy Reid-infused tendency to inexplicably collapse at crucial moments. It understands that the Eagles pet name to fans is "The Birds." It understands that the Eagles' fans are some of the most pathetic and downtrodden subsets of humanity, prone to sneering cynicism when the team wins, shame coupled with genuine shock when it flops — the same reaction of a dog when it's put outside for the third day in a row for chewing up the same sofa seat three days in a row — and ignorant, fierce loyalty that only a Cubs fan could sympathize with.
It's a movie that says a game against the Seahawks ended with a specific score, before later announcing a Seahawks game had a different score, incompatible with the first one — meaning either the screenwriters forgot they had already had characters reference the score earlier in the movie — or, more disconcertingly, that the movie takes place in a world in which the Eagles play the Seahawks twice in the regular season in the same year, a situation that's impossible since the teams aren't in the same division.
Robert De Niro plays an obsessive-compulsive man who credits his superstitions for the team's success and blames the failures of his son, Pat (Bradley Cooper), who is recovering from breakdowns of his mind and marriage. His wife (Jacki Weaver) dons a Kevin Kolb jersey. Let's go ahead and excuse this as a commentary on her sense of misplaced nostalgia and loyalty, one that applies to the way she forgives Pat for flipping out and hitting her earlier in the movie.
What's inexcusable is a radio reference to Donovan McNabb (final Eagles season: 2009) as the team's current quarterback, followed with a shot of a tailgating fan in a Nnamdi Asomugha (first Eagles season: 2011) jersey.
For the purposes of this movie, Michael Vick doesn't exist, which is just as well, given his lack of presence in box scores of his fantasy owners.
I have no allegiance to the Eagles, but as a fan of the Arizona Cardinals, winners of the last three matchups between the teams, I consider them my property and am disappointed to see my things mistreated.
Review: Silver Linings Playbook
You could say Pat Solitano doesn't have much going for him. Freshly yanked by his mom from a mental hospital after having been locked away for beating his wife's lover nearly to death, he's broke, socially awkward and directionless. An otherwise good guy who's prone to violent outbursts when he's off his meds -- which he always does his best to be -- he's not allowed to use a phone or contact his estranged wife.
On top of all that, he basis his self esteem on the performance of the perennially underachieving Philadelphia Eagles. When the team loses, as it always does, his crazytown dad blames him for not sitting in the right chair.
Playing a pitiable, psychologically damaged goofball is something new for Bradley Cooper, who is usually cast as a wise-cracking con man in The Hangover movies or the heroic stud in thrillers, like The A-Team and Limitless. For once, he's the guy to laugh at instead of with, but he's so aw-shucks earnest that you feel bad for chuckling at his failures.
Well, you feel bad for a while, until he starts hooking up with Jennifer Lawrence. And not just any Jennifer Lawrence, an emotionally unstable, sexually aggressive, highly flexible, spandex-wearing version of Jennifer Lawrence. Then you're convinced that whatever problems he's got don't mean nothin' and he's the luckiest bastard on the planet.
Lawrence's character is named Tiffany. She's a widow in her early 20s whom her sister (Julia Stiles) regards as a big enough loser to hook up with Pat, the best pal of her henpecked husband.
Yeah, you read that right. That's Saved the Last Dance Julia Stiles, in an actual acting role in an actual movie. Silver Linings Playbook is something like a lost and found of good actors, including Chris Tucker. And yeah, that's Friday "and you know this, maaan!" Ice Cube's sidekick Chris Tucker, acting in his first movie in half a decade, and his second in the last 11 years.
To that lost and found actor list you can also add Good Script Choosing Robert De Niro, who had been kidnapped by aliens 20 years ago and swapped out for Awful Script Choosing Robert De Niro. It's nice to have Good Script Choosing Robert De Niro back, if only for a moment.
Finding and sticking with the right tone in a black comedy like this is tough, but director David O. Russell, who's worked it in Three Kings, I Heart Huckabees, The Fighter, knows what he's doing. Sure, the Lawrence character is unrealistic -- someone who is born not of flesh and blood but horny screenwriters' late-night fantasies. But it doesn't matter. She works in the film, either as a necessary narrative conduit for Cooper's self-discovery arc, or because she's Jennifer Lawrence in spandex. Not sure which.
A story device straight out of a 1980s high school comedy gets Tiffany to bribe Pat into training with her for a dance competition, and their training montages are intercut with the Eagles' season. No doubt the deleted scenes will show a disgruntled Stiles staring holes through Lawrence's spandex, bitter that the last dance is not saved for her in this movie.
You can tell where the romantic comedy part of the movie is going all along -- gee, will Pat stop obsessing over his wife and fall for Jennifer Lawrence in Spandex? -- but it doesn't matter, because the movie is funny and smart enough to distract you away from its nonsensical silliness.
Either that or because it's got Jennifer Lawrence in spandex.
Starring Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence, Robert De Niro, Jacki Weaver, Chris Tucker and Julia Stiles. Written by David O. Russell and Matthew Quick. Directed by Russell. 120 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
On top of all that, he basis his self esteem on the performance of the perennially underachieving Philadelphia Eagles. When the team loses, as it always does, his crazytown dad blames him for not sitting in the right chair.
Playing a pitiable, psychologically damaged goofball is something new for Bradley Cooper, who is usually cast as a wise-cracking con man in The Hangover movies or the heroic stud in thrillers, like The A-Team and Limitless. For once, he's the guy to laugh at instead of with, but he's so aw-shucks earnest that you feel bad for chuckling at his failures.
Well, you feel bad for a while, until he starts hooking up with Jennifer Lawrence. And not just any Jennifer Lawrence, an emotionally unstable, sexually aggressive, highly flexible, spandex-wearing version of Jennifer Lawrence. Then you're convinced that whatever problems he's got don't mean nothin' and he's the luckiest bastard on the planet.
Lawrence's character is named Tiffany. She's a widow in her early 20s whom her sister (Julia Stiles) regards as a big enough loser to hook up with Pat, the best pal of her henpecked husband.
Yeah, you read that right. That's Saved the Last Dance Julia Stiles, in an actual acting role in an actual movie. Silver Linings Playbook is something like a lost and found of good actors, including Chris Tucker. And yeah, that's Friday "and you know this, maaan!" Ice Cube's sidekick Chris Tucker, acting in his first movie in half a decade, and his second in the last 11 years.
To that lost and found actor list you can also add Good Script Choosing Robert De Niro, who had been kidnapped by aliens 20 years ago and swapped out for Awful Script Choosing Robert De Niro. It's nice to have Good Script Choosing Robert De Niro back, if only for a moment.
Finding and sticking with the right tone in a black comedy like this is tough, but director David O. Russell, who's worked it in Three Kings, I Heart Huckabees, The Fighter, knows what he's doing. Sure, the Lawrence character is unrealistic -- someone who is born not of flesh and blood but horny screenwriters' late-night fantasies. But it doesn't matter. She works in the film, either as a necessary narrative conduit for Cooper's self-discovery arc, or because she's Jennifer Lawrence in spandex. Not sure which.
A story device straight out of a 1980s high school comedy gets Tiffany to bribe Pat into training with her for a dance competition, and their training montages are intercut with the Eagles' season. No doubt the deleted scenes will show a disgruntled Stiles staring holes through Lawrence's spandex, bitter that the last dance is not saved for her in this movie.
You can tell where the romantic comedy part of the movie is going all along -- gee, will Pat stop obsessing over his wife and fall for Jennifer Lawrence in Spandex? -- but it doesn't matter, because the movie is funny and smart enough to distract you away from its nonsensical silliness.
Either that or because it's got Jennifer Lawrence in spandex.
Starring Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence, Robert De Niro, Jacki Weaver, Chris Tucker and Julia Stiles. Written by David O. Russell and Matthew Quick. Directed by Russell. 120 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Why Silver Linings Playbook is the worst kind of sports movie
A movie that makes itself about the culture of a specific team and its tribe, much like a movie that makes itself about a video game, is doomed to failure and the sneering rants of the material and people it claims to know and show.
This is just a fact we fans of sports and movies must accept. We can accept fictionalized nonsense like Jerry Maguire and stylized insanity like Any Given Sunday, because they use mostly made-up players. What's harder to take is a movie that tries so hard to get things "accurate" but has no interest in the details.
Silver Linings Playbook, from NYC native director David O. Russell, is the worst type of sports movie.
It's a movie that Philadelphia Eagles fans will adore for all its references to the team and its fans' anxieties, traditions and hang-ups. It's a movie that Philadelphia Eagles fans will hate for its lack of consistency, existing in a meta-world in which the team has a smattering of players it's picked up (Nnamdi Asomugha), cut (Donovan McNabb) and traded away (Kevin Kolb) in the last few seasons.
The movie gets too many things right to get so much wrong. It understands the team's uncanny ability to inspire as much pride in its consistent, Andy Reid-infused competence and seething hatred of its consistent, Andy Reid-infused tendency to inexplicably collapse at crucial moments. It understands that the Eagles pet name to fans is "The Birds." It understands that the Eagles' fans are some of the most pathetic and downtrodden subsets of humanity, prone to sneering cynicism when the team wins, shame coupled with genuine shock when it flops — the same reaction of a dog when it's put outside for the third day in a row for chewing up the same sofa seat three days in a row — and ignorant, fierce loyalty that only a Cubs fan could sympathize with.
It's a movie that says a game against the Seahawks ended with a specific score, before later announcing a Seahawks game had a different score, incompatible with the first one — meaning either the screenwriters forgot they had already had characters reference the score earlier in the movie — or, more disconcertingly, that the movie takes place in a world in which the Eagles play the Seahawks twice in the regular season in the same year, a situation that's impossible since the teams aren't in the same division.
Robert De Niro plays an obsessive-compulsive man who credits his superstitions for the team's success and blames the failures of his son, Pat (Bradley Cooper), who is recovering from breakdowns of his mind and marriage. His wife (Jacki Weaver) dons a Kevin Kolb jersey. Let's go ahead and excuse this as a commentary on her sense of misplaced nostalgia and loyalty, one that applies to the way she forgives Pat for flipping out and hitting her earlier in the movie.
What's inexcusable is a radio reference to Donovan McNabb (final Eagles season: 2009) as the team's current quarterback, followed with a shot of a tailgating fan in a Nnamdi Asomugha (first Eagles season: 2011) jersey.
For the purposes of this movie, Michael Vick doesn't exist, which is just as well, given his lack of presence in box scores of his fantasy owners.
I have no allegiance to the Eagles, but as a fan of the Arizona Cardinals, winners of the last three matchups between the teams, I consider them my property and am disappointed to see my things mistreated.
This is just a fact we fans of sports and movies must accept. We can accept fictionalized nonsense like Jerry Maguire and stylized insanity like Any Given Sunday, because they use mostly made-up players. What's harder to take is a movie that tries so hard to get things "accurate" but has no interest in the details.
Silver Linings Playbook, from NYC native director David O. Russell, is the worst type of sports movie.
It's a movie that Philadelphia Eagles fans will adore for all its references to the team and its fans' anxieties, traditions and hang-ups. It's a movie that Philadelphia Eagles fans will hate for its lack of consistency, existing in a meta-world in which the team has a smattering of players it's picked up (Nnamdi Asomugha), cut (Donovan McNabb) and traded away (Kevin Kolb) in the last few seasons.
The movie gets too many things right to get so much wrong. It understands the team's uncanny ability to inspire as much pride in its consistent, Andy Reid-infused competence and seething hatred of its consistent, Andy Reid-infused tendency to inexplicably collapse at crucial moments. It understands that the Eagles pet name to fans is "The Birds." It understands that the Eagles' fans are some of the most pathetic and downtrodden subsets of humanity, prone to sneering cynicism when the team wins, shame coupled with genuine shock when it flops — the same reaction of a dog when it's put outside for the third day in a row for chewing up the same sofa seat three days in a row — and ignorant, fierce loyalty that only a Cubs fan could sympathize with.
It's a movie that says a game against the Seahawks ended with a specific score, before later announcing a Seahawks game had a different score, incompatible with the first one — meaning either the screenwriters forgot they had already had characters reference the score earlier in the movie — or, more disconcertingly, that the movie takes place in a world in which the Eagles play the Seahawks twice in the regular season in the same year, a situation that's impossible since the teams aren't in the same division.
Robert De Niro plays an obsessive-compulsive man who credits his superstitions for the team's success and blames the failures of his son, Pat (Bradley Cooper), who is recovering from breakdowns of his mind and marriage. His wife (Jacki Weaver) dons a Kevin Kolb jersey. Let's go ahead and excuse this as a commentary on her sense of misplaced nostalgia and loyalty, one that applies to the way she forgives Pat for flipping out and hitting her earlier in the movie.
What's inexcusable is a radio reference to Donovan McNabb (final Eagles season: 2009) as the team's current quarterback, followed with a shot of a tailgating fan in a Nnamdi Asomugha (first Eagles season: 2011) jersey.
For the purposes of this movie, Michael Vick doesn't exist, which is just as well, given his lack of presence in box scores of his fantasy owners.
I have no allegiance to the Eagles, but as a fan of the Arizona Cardinals, winners of the last three matchups between the teams, I consider them my property and am disappointed to see my things mistreated.
November 8, 2012
Review: Arbitrage
If there were a movie about Mitt Romney, no one other than Richard Gere could play him. Just as Romney, unfairly or not, is typecast as an over-privileged, condescending, out-of-touch d-bag, those are pretty much the only roles Gere gets. Good thing Gere is better at Romney at doing what he does.
In Arbitrage Gere plays Robert Miller, a master of the universe who made a killing on betting on the housing bubble to burst. The world regards him in awe, as some sort of visionary — the Nate Silver of derivatives trading. But inside, Miller's world is dissolving. He's overextended, getting by on credit and image rather than cash. The feds are hunting him down, determined to send him and possibly his innocent heiress/business associate daughter (Brit Marling) to jail for corporate fraud, and then there's the bone-crusher, involving his mistress, a car accident and a sloppy cover-up.
Writer/director Nicholas Jarecki's drama tracks Miller's frantic struggle to keep things together by any means necessary. On the surface Miller appears to be a nice enough guy, but he's got a calculating, cold-blooded side that thrives on an uncontrollable survival instinct. He'll call in any favors he feels are owed to him and throw anyone in range under the bus to spare his own hide. The drive that got him to the top works to tear himself down even as he flails at the pieces of his life.
Susan Sarandon sparkles as Miller's socialite wife, who has made peace with the fact that she's married not to a man, but to an image that must be impeccably maintained, lest the trappings of her silver-lined life vanish. She, too, though, is a survivor, and is prepared to lock horns with her husband, using his betrayals as a bargaining chip to ensure she makes it out of the collapse intact.
Moving at a frenetic, Michael Clayton-like pace, Arbitrage is a gripping, if insignificant race to the bottom. I'm not sure why the movie was tabbed for awards consideration — there are no standout performances to fall in love with — but the film is a rugged page-turner, which is more than you can say for drawing room dullards that can dominate the season.
Starring Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, Brit Marling, Tim Roth and Nate Parker. Written and directed by Nicholas Jarecki. 107 minutes. Rated R.
In Arbitrage Gere plays Robert Miller, a master of the universe who made a killing on betting on the housing bubble to burst. The world regards him in awe, as some sort of visionary — the Nate Silver of derivatives trading. But inside, Miller's world is dissolving. He's overextended, getting by on credit and image rather than cash. The feds are hunting him down, determined to send him and possibly his innocent heiress/business associate daughter (Brit Marling) to jail for corporate fraud, and then there's the bone-crusher, involving his mistress, a car accident and a sloppy cover-up.
Writer/director Nicholas Jarecki's drama tracks Miller's frantic struggle to keep things together by any means necessary. On the surface Miller appears to be a nice enough guy, but he's got a calculating, cold-blooded side that thrives on an uncontrollable survival instinct. He'll call in any favors he feels are owed to him and throw anyone in range under the bus to spare his own hide. The drive that got him to the top works to tear himself down even as he flails at the pieces of his life.
Susan Sarandon sparkles as Miller's socialite wife, who has made peace with the fact that she's married not to a man, but to an image that must be impeccably maintained, lest the trappings of her silver-lined life vanish. She, too, though, is a survivor, and is prepared to lock horns with her husband, using his betrayals as a bargaining chip to ensure she makes it out of the collapse intact.
Moving at a frenetic, Michael Clayton-like pace, Arbitrage is a gripping, if insignificant race to the bottom. I'm not sure why the movie was tabbed for awards consideration — there are no standout performances to fall in love with — but the film is a rugged page-turner, which is more than you can say for drawing room dullards that can dominate the season.
Starring Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, Brit Marling, Tim Roth and Nate Parker. Written and directed by Nicholas Jarecki. 107 minutes. Rated R.
Review: The Sessions
Cheryl is not a prostitute. Played by an oft-naked Helen Hunt, she says this over and over again, maybe to convince herself as much as her clients. She does, after all, accept money for sex. She's a sexual surrogate, and the therapy she provides is the type of healing Marvin Gaye used to sing about.
Taking cues from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, writer/director Ben Lewin's film is a study of spiritualism and sexuality through the eyes of a man held prisoner inside his own body. Based on the life of polio-stricken poet Mark O'Brien, who is played with beautiful empathy John Hawkes, the film regards the paralyzed, iron lung-bound, close-to-death man as a man who asks not for pity, but for help and grace.
A devout Catholic, he seeks approval from his priest before he hires Cheryl to not be a prostitute while still having sex with him. Lucky for him, he finds the coolest priest ever, played by William H. Macy, who is fine with breaking the whole no-sex-before-marriage rule, given Mark's circumstances.
The suspense and drama boil down to a few questions:
* Is Cheryl getting sweet on Mark, who falls instantly in love?
* Will they be able to work their way up to actual sex within Cheryl's strict, six-session limit?
* Will Mark gets the fulfillment he seeks, spiritually and, ahem, otherwise, or will the whole thing just pile onto his lifelong frustrations?
Methodical and awkward, the narrative unfolds painfully, while never losing its grip on the tender subject matter. You feel as embarrassed as Mark does when Cheryl disrobes, as if you're snooping on a moment too private for the eyes of an outsider. But also, you get the feeling that Cheryl, who is determined to keep a clinical, professional approach to a passionate act, wouldn't mind the audience.
The performances by Hunt, Hawkes and Macy are all stunning, and I'll cheer any awards they receive. Their film is more than a skin flick, despite it definitely being that. Just as Cheryl is more than a prostitute, while definitely still that.
Starring Helen Hunt, John Hawkes and William H. Macy. Written and directed by Ben Lewin. 95 minutes. Rated R.
Taking cues from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, writer/director Ben Lewin's film is a study of spiritualism and sexuality through the eyes of a man held prisoner inside his own body. Based on the life of polio-stricken poet Mark O'Brien, who is played with beautiful empathy John Hawkes, the film regards the paralyzed, iron lung-bound, close-to-death man as a man who asks not for pity, but for help and grace.
A devout Catholic, he seeks approval from his priest before he hires Cheryl to not be a prostitute while still having sex with him. Lucky for him, he finds the coolest priest ever, played by William H. Macy, who is fine with breaking the whole no-sex-before-marriage rule, given Mark's circumstances.
The suspense and drama boil down to a few questions:
* Is Cheryl getting sweet on Mark, who falls instantly in love?
* Will they be able to work their way up to actual sex within Cheryl's strict, six-session limit?
* Will Mark gets the fulfillment he seeks, spiritually and, ahem, otherwise, or will the whole thing just pile onto his lifelong frustrations?
Methodical and awkward, the narrative unfolds painfully, while never losing its grip on the tender subject matter. You feel as embarrassed as Mark does when Cheryl disrobes, as if you're snooping on a moment too private for the eyes of an outsider. But also, you get the feeling that Cheryl, who is determined to keep a clinical, professional approach to a passionate act, wouldn't mind the audience.
The performances by Hunt, Hawkes and Macy are all stunning, and I'll cheer any awards they receive. Their film is more than a skin flick, despite it definitely being that. Just as Cheryl is more than a prostitute, while definitely still that.
Starring Helen Hunt, John Hawkes and William H. Macy. Written and directed by Ben Lewin. 95 minutes. Rated R.
November 7, 2012
Review: Skyfall
Skyfall is an awesome James Bond movie until it gets tired of all that, goes a little crazy and turns into a not-so-awesome Home Alone movie.
There you are, watching a solid Bond until suddenly the Home Alone phase kicks in and there you are with a booby trap-laden house that adorable little Kevin, uh, I mean tough, gritty James Bond, uses to knock off a sneaky gang of terrorists one by one. Well, sometimes four by four.
Nothing against Home Alone and its wacky slapstick antics, but you'd think a superagent with 50 years of experience would be able to think of a better plan than running off to booby trap a mansion. Then again, maybe all that experience is exactly why Bond does what he ends up doing. After half a century you start to run out of ideas and just start repeating things you saw in Macaulay Culkin movies.
It's eyebrow-raising to see an Oscar-winning director like Sam Mendes take on a Bond flick. His presence can mean one of two things: That the American Beauty/Road to Perdition filmmaker is adding resonance, style and depth to a franchise known for its bombastic silliness, or that he's hard up and slumming for a paycheck. With Skyfall, both turn out to be true.
What the movie does well, it does very well. Start with the villain, a hackerterrorist (if that wasn't a word before, it deserves to be now, thanks to this movie) played by Javier Bardem, back in the full-throttle creeptastic zone he entered in No Country for Old Men.
His name is Silva, and he's the definition of beast mode. He can easily escape an underground plastic cell that looks like the one Magneto was trapped in at the end of the first X-Men movie. He can gross people out by pulling out dentures and revealing hillbilly teeth. He can tie James Bond to a chair and share his evil plans while totally getting to second base with him. Vampish Bond girls are a well-known phenomenon, but for a minute there, Silva is the first Bond guy.
There's more. Silva is so good with computers that he can push a button and make anything, anywhere explode. Sure, his plans for world domination may be lacking in creativity -- he grabs a hold of the proverbial file that lists the identity of every embedded secret agent around the world -- but he carries out his cliche antics with a flourish that recalls Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight.
Craig is nearly as intense, continuing to do his Jason Bourne-style Bond thing, dispensing the usual tricky Bond gadgets for the old-fashioned technique of shooting guys in the face. Craig's Bond seemingly learned how to fight from Call of Duty and has little need for disguises, compulsive womanizing, awful sex puns or jetpacks. Lucky for him, his Steve McQueen cool makes up for his lack of self-aware sass.
Mendes and his screenwriting crew try to flesh out the characters, tying Bond, Silva and M (Judi Dench) together with a dark past. The effort is far deeper than the usual Bond villain motivation, but seems a little forced and stiff, requiring characters to swap exposition-revealing monologues to fill us all in on who's got a grudge against who and why.
I could have done without the way the movie tries to issue a Batman-like origin for Bond that explains his drive and dedication. The character works better as a mysterious cipher you can't quite peg rather than a scared little boy who has built a hardened shell in which to hide.
Although the writing may be off, the action is superb. The movie is best when it shuts up and blows stuff up, sending Bond off on a wild spree of collapsing subway tunnels, blistering shootouts and lungs-burning chases. The first hour and change is nearly all action, and it's impossible to wipe the grin off your face. The movie could have ended at the halfway point, failed to wrap up most of its plot threads and just said "Hey, that's all for now. Come back for the sequel," and would have left me with nothing to complain about.
But this is a Bond movie that wants to be more, and by reaching too far, it ends up missing greatness and pulling down Home Alone. It's enough to make you clasp you hands to your face while that grin turn into a look of shock, much like that of little Kevin when he tries to shave.
Starring Daniel Craig, Javier Bardem, Judi Dench, Albert Finney, Ben Whishaw and Naomi Harris. Written by Neal Purvis, Robert Wade and John Logan, based on Ian Fleming's characters. Directed by Sam Mendes. Rated PG-13. 143 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
There you are, watching a solid Bond until suddenly the Home Alone phase kicks in and there you are with a booby trap-laden house that adorable little Kevin, uh, I mean tough, gritty James Bond, uses to knock off a sneaky gang of terrorists one by one. Well, sometimes four by four.
Nothing against Home Alone and its wacky slapstick antics, but you'd think a superagent with 50 years of experience would be able to think of a better plan than running off to booby trap a mansion. Then again, maybe all that experience is exactly why Bond does what he ends up doing. After half a century you start to run out of ideas and just start repeating things you saw in Macaulay Culkin movies.
It's eyebrow-raising to see an Oscar-winning director like Sam Mendes take on a Bond flick. His presence can mean one of two things: That the American Beauty/Road to Perdition filmmaker is adding resonance, style and depth to a franchise known for its bombastic silliness, or that he's hard up and slumming for a paycheck. With Skyfall, both turn out to be true.
What the movie does well, it does very well. Start with the villain, a hackerterrorist (if that wasn't a word before, it deserves to be now, thanks to this movie) played by Javier Bardem, back in the full-throttle creeptastic zone he entered in No Country for Old Men.
His name is Silva, and he's the definition of beast mode. He can easily escape an underground plastic cell that looks like the one Magneto was trapped in at the end of the first X-Men movie. He can gross people out by pulling out dentures and revealing hillbilly teeth. He can tie James Bond to a chair and share his evil plans while totally getting to second base with him. Vampish Bond girls are a well-known phenomenon, but for a minute there, Silva is the first Bond guy.
There's more. Silva is so good with computers that he can push a button and make anything, anywhere explode. Sure, his plans for world domination may be lacking in creativity -- he grabs a hold of the proverbial file that lists the identity of every embedded secret agent around the world -- but he carries out his cliche antics with a flourish that recalls Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight.
Craig is nearly as intense, continuing to do his Jason Bourne-style Bond thing, dispensing the usual tricky Bond gadgets for the old-fashioned technique of shooting guys in the face. Craig's Bond seemingly learned how to fight from Call of Duty and has little need for disguises, compulsive womanizing, awful sex puns or jetpacks. Lucky for him, his Steve McQueen cool makes up for his lack of self-aware sass.
Mendes and his screenwriting crew try to flesh out the characters, tying Bond, Silva and M (Judi Dench) together with a dark past. The effort is far deeper than the usual Bond villain motivation, but seems a little forced and stiff, requiring characters to swap exposition-revealing monologues to fill us all in on who's got a grudge against who and why.
I could have done without the way the movie tries to issue a Batman-like origin for Bond that explains his drive and dedication. The character works better as a mysterious cipher you can't quite peg rather than a scared little boy who has built a hardened shell in which to hide.
Although the writing may be off, the action is superb. The movie is best when it shuts up and blows stuff up, sending Bond off on a wild spree of collapsing subway tunnels, blistering shootouts and lungs-burning chases. The first hour and change is nearly all action, and it's impossible to wipe the grin off your face. The movie could have ended at the halfway point, failed to wrap up most of its plot threads and just said "Hey, that's all for now. Come back for the sequel," and would have left me with nothing to complain about.
But this is a Bond movie that wants to be more, and by reaching too far, it ends up missing greatness and pulling down Home Alone. It's enough to make you clasp you hands to your face while that grin turn into a look of shock, much like that of little Kevin when he tries to shave.
Starring Daniel Craig, Javier Bardem, Judi Dench, Albert Finney, Ben Whishaw and Naomi Harris. Written by Neal Purvis, Robert Wade and John Logan, based on Ian Fleming's characters. Directed by Sam Mendes. Rated PG-13. 143 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
October 31, 2012
Review: Wreck-it Ralph
If you're going to rip off an animated movie, make it Toy Story.
That's the path plowed by Wreck-it Ralph, an animated Disney comedy that answers the question kids ponder: What do video game characters do when the arcade is closed?
They only ask that question, though, after wondering "What's a video arcade?" and "Why would people keep popping quarters in a machine when they can just download games for a buck on their iPhones?
The best answer parents can give to those inquiries from their adorable offspring is "Shut up. Just watch. Stop ruining the movie for me."
This is definitely one of those movies that parents like me are frighteningly overeager to drag their kids to, rather than the other way around. That's because of the trailer, which gives away the movie's best scene: Disgruntled villain Wreck-it Ralph (voiced by John C. Reilly) seeking comfort in a gaming bad guy support group that includes Bowser, Dr. Robotnik a pair of Street Fighter guys and a generic zombie. As soon as I saw that trailer either me or my 5-year-old jumped up and down with glee, declaring it to be the best movie ever based on that scene alone. I'll leave it to you to guess which of us it was.
While watching the full movie — which unfortunately does not consist entirely of support group meetings — dampened my enthusiasm a bit, it still gave me to grab the arm of 5-year-old Luke or my 3-yaar-old, Emma and inappropriately shout "Oh my gosh did you just see that!!" Prompting them to shush me.
Director Rich Moore, a veteran of animated TV (The Simpsons, The Critic, Futurama), crams his first feature film with enough gaming references to make you toss up your hands like a dead 8-bit Mario in Super Mario Bros. What the movie lacks in cohesive story it makes up in appreciation for a youth well wasted pouring lunch money into thirsty coin slots.
Strip away the gaming references — and the movie does just that in its feet-dragging middle act — and it's debatable as to whether Wreck-it Ralph is still a good movie. The film sputters when it focuses on the mechanics of its silly plot, involving Ralph's efforts to retrieve a hard-fought medal from sprightly kart racing character Vanellope (Sarah Silverman), who is determined to show up her condescending competitors by winning the big race at the end of the movie. Ralph was a made-up guy from a made-up game, except for the fact that there is a real Wreck-it Ralph game now, which in turn is based on this movie, so he's actually... Sorry, my brain just melted.
Also along for the ride are Ralph's archrival Fix-It Felix (Jack McBreyer), modern shooter Rambo-woman Sgt. Calhoun (Jane Lynch), and about ten thousand real and made-up game characters voiced by the likes of Mindy Kaeling, Ed O'Neill, Adam Carolla, Dennis Haysbert and Horatio Sanz. There are parallel stories of redemption, yadda yadda, and one emotional moment that managed to make Luke start to cry, but otherwise this is a copy of the Toy Story plot that left the pathos untouched.
Like most any game, Wreck-it Ralph is most fun when it's messing around without a particular goal. Like when Ralph heads over to the Tapper machine to drown his sorrows in what's described as "root beer" but what we all have known for 29 years is just beer. Or when he's chatting up gibberish-speaking Q*bert. Or, yeppers, that support group scene. Wreck-it Ralph himself may be a brute known for breaking stuff, but I'm happy to report his film did not break my games-loving heart.
Starring the voices of John C. Reilly, Jack McBRayer, Sarah Silverman and Jane Lynch. Written by Jennifer Lee and Phil Johnston. Directed by Rich Moore. Rated PG. 108 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
That's the path plowed by Wreck-it Ralph, an animated Disney comedy that answers the question kids ponder: What do video game characters do when the arcade is closed?
They only ask that question, though, after wondering "What's a video arcade?" and "Why would people keep popping quarters in a machine when they can just download games for a buck on their iPhones?
The best answer parents can give to those inquiries from their adorable offspring is "Shut up. Just watch. Stop ruining the movie for me."
This is definitely one of those movies that parents like me are frighteningly overeager to drag their kids to, rather than the other way around. That's because of the trailer, which gives away the movie's best scene: Disgruntled villain Wreck-it Ralph (voiced by John C. Reilly) seeking comfort in a gaming bad guy support group that includes Bowser, Dr. Robotnik a pair of Street Fighter guys and a generic zombie. As soon as I saw that trailer either me or my 5-year-old jumped up and down with glee, declaring it to be the best movie ever based on that scene alone. I'll leave it to you to guess which of us it was.
While watching the full movie — which unfortunately does not consist entirely of support group meetings — dampened my enthusiasm a bit, it still gave me to grab the arm of 5-year-old Luke or my 3-yaar-old, Emma and inappropriately shout "Oh my gosh did you just see that!!" Prompting them to shush me.
Director Rich Moore, a veteran of animated TV (The Simpsons, The Critic, Futurama), crams his first feature film with enough gaming references to make you toss up your hands like a dead 8-bit Mario in Super Mario Bros. What the movie lacks in cohesive story it makes up in appreciation for a youth well wasted pouring lunch money into thirsty coin slots.
Strip away the gaming references — and the movie does just that in its feet-dragging middle act — and it's debatable as to whether Wreck-it Ralph is still a good movie. The film sputters when it focuses on the mechanics of its silly plot, involving Ralph's efforts to retrieve a hard-fought medal from sprightly kart racing character Vanellope (Sarah Silverman), who is determined to show up her condescending competitors by winning the big race at the end of the movie. Ralph was a made-up guy from a made-up game, except for the fact that there is a real Wreck-it Ralph game now, which in turn is based on this movie, so he's actually... Sorry, my brain just melted.
Also along for the ride are Ralph's archrival Fix-It Felix (Jack McBreyer), modern shooter Rambo-woman Sgt. Calhoun (Jane Lynch), and about ten thousand real and made-up game characters voiced by the likes of Mindy Kaeling, Ed O'Neill, Adam Carolla, Dennis Haysbert and Horatio Sanz. There are parallel stories of redemption, yadda yadda, and one emotional moment that managed to make Luke start to cry, but otherwise this is a copy of the Toy Story plot that left the pathos untouched.
Like most any game, Wreck-it Ralph is most fun when it's messing around without a particular goal. Like when Ralph heads over to the Tapper machine to drown his sorrows in what's described as "root beer" but what we all have known for 29 years is just beer. Or when he's chatting up gibberish-speaking Q*bert. Or, yeppers, that support group scene. Wreck-it Ralph himself may be a brute known for breaking stuff, but I'm happy to report his film did not break my games-loving heart.
Starring the voices of John C. Reilly, Jack McBRayer, Sarah Silverman and Jane Lynch. Written by Jennifer Lee and Phil Johnston. Directed by Rich Moore. Rated PG. 108 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
October 26, 2012
Review: Fun Size
I guess it's called Fun Size because the marketing team wasn't cool with more accurate titles such as Drudgery Size, Fun Sighs or Don't Watch This Awful Movie.
The Halloween-themed comedy nails the "trick" part of the deal but is light on the "treat" part of the equation. Put it this way, the movie's funniest character is the only one who doesn't talk.
Director Josh Schwartz, who has directed several episodes of just about every CW show you could imagine, seems to be going for the wacky 1980s teen comedy vibe of Weird Science and Adventures in Babysitting -- the kind of movie in which little kids slip into strangers' cars and people pull out and shoot guns for no reason, and everyone is cool with it.
Victoria Justice, or as her birth certificate identifies her, Miniature Megan Fox With Slightly More Acting Ability, manages to escape from the cage Nickelodeon keeps her in to star in a movie. She plays Wren, a social outcast who goes to the one school in the country in which ridiculously attractive girls aren't popular. This would be Wren's big night to move up into the A list and make out with a dreamy popular kid at his big party, except for the fact that her mom is forcing her to take her 8-year-old brother (Jackson Nicoll) trick-or-treating.
The kid, who doesn't talk either because he's distraught that his dad died or he refuses to recite anything in the idiotic script, scampers off into the night. Wren recruits a fellow dork (Thomas Mann) who's got a crush on her to escort her around town searching for her brother in an obstacle course of bonkers mishaps that will have you cackling -- at yourself, for mistakenly thinking you had a good idea by spending money on tickets to this thing.
On the rare occasion something funny happens, the movie goes and screws it up. Case in point, when a giant, robotic fast food chicken sign falls down and starts making sweet love to a Volvo, all the extras stand around laughing at it way too hard, Hoovering away the moment. Then we get more footage of the chicken rocking the Volvo's world, and then still some more. And more over-laughing.
Wren's bestie, April (Jane Levy), is such a great pal that she jokes constantly about the kid being lost and urges her to forget about it and go to the big party. There's far too little screen time spent on the kid, who could play Jay and Silent Bob's lovechild in the next Kevin Smith movie and will definitely make a solid street mime one day.
Chelsea Handler, age 37, must have an agent to fire since she's already getting miscast as mommy of people like 19-year-old Justice, which is almost like casting the Olsen twins as Elizabeth Olsen's grandmas. Awkwardly, Handler's character exists in the movie only to be made fun of for how old she is.
Johnny Knoxville, on the other hand, needs to give his agent a shoulder rub because he somehow managed to score him an acting gig in a non-direct-to-video flick for the first time since people thought making a movie of The Dukes of Hazzard was a great idea. Knoxville plays a thug whose big moment comes when he confronts a flaming bag of poop.
There are many applicable metaphors in that scene, but I'll leave you to interpret them as you see fit.
Fun Size boils down to a rotating festival of three separate, equally dull movies: Wren's boring chase, the kid's amusing-but-disturbing escapades and Handler's desperate attempts to claw her way out of the screen and strangle those responsible for sticking her there. As far as Halloween-season entertainment options go, you'd be better off bobbing for apples embedded with razor blades.
Starring Victoria Justice, Chelsea Handler, Jackson Noll and Josh Pence. Written by Max Werner. Directed by Josh Schwartz. Rated PG-13. 90 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
The Halloween-themed comedy nails the "trick" part of the deal but is light on the "treat" part of the equation. Put it this way, the movie's funniest character is the only one who doesn't talk.
Director Josh Schwartz, who has directed several episodes of just about every CW show you could imagine, seems to be going for the wacky 1980s teen comedy vibe of Weird Science and Adventures in Babysitting -- the kind of movie in which little kids slip into strangers' cars and people pull out and shoot guns for no reason, and everyone is cool with it.
Victoria Justice, or as her birth certificate identifies her, Miniature Megan Fox With Slightly More Acting Ability, manages to escape from the cage Nickelodeon keeps her in to star in a movie. She plays Wren, a social outcast who goes to the one school in the country in which ridiculously attractive girls aren't popular. This would be Wren's big night to move up into the A list and make out with a dreamy popular kid at his big party, except for the fact that her mom is forcing her to take her 8-year-old brother (Jackson Nicoll) trick-or-treating.
The kid, who doesn't talk either because he's distraught that his dad died or he refuses to recite anything in the idiotic script, scampers off into the night. Wren recruits a fellow dork (Thomas Mann) who's got a crush on her to escort her around town searching for her brother in an obstacle course of bonkers mishaps that will have you cackling -- at yourself, for mistakenly thinking you had a good idea by spending money on tickets to this thing.
On the rare occasion something funny happens, the movie goes and screws it up. Case in point, when a giant, robotic fast food chicken sign falls down and starts making sweet love to a Volvo, all the extras stand around laughing at it way too hard, Hoovering away the moment. Then we get more footage of the chicken rocking the Volvo's world, and then still some more. And more over-laughing.
Wren's bestie, April (Jane Levy), is such a great pal that she jokes constantly about the kid being lost and urges her to forget about it and go to the big party. There's far too little screen time spent on the kid, who could play Jay and Silent Bob's lovechild in the next Kevin Smith movie and will definitely make a solid street mime one day.
Chelsea Handler, age 37, must have an agent to fire since she's already getting miscast as mommy of people like 19-year-old Justice, which is almost like casting the Olsen twins as Elizabeth Olsen's grandmas. Awkwardly, Handler's character exists in the movie only to be made fun of for how old she is.
Johnny Knoxville, on the other hand, needs to give his agent a shoulder rub because he somehow managed to score him an acting gig in a non-direct-to-video flick for the first time since people thought making a movie of The Dukes of Hazzard was a great idea. Knoxville plays a thug whose big moment comes when he confronts a flaming bag of poop.
There are many applicable metaphors in that scene, but I'll leave you to interpret them as you see fit.
Fun Size boils down to a rotating festival of three separate, equally dull movies: Wren's boring chase, the kid's amusing-but-disturbing escapades and Handler's desperate attempts to claw her way out of the screen and strangle those responsible for sticking her there. As far as Halloween-season entertainment options go, you'd be better off bobbing for apples embedded with razor blades.
Starring Victoria Justice, Chelsea Handler, Jackson Noll and Josh Pence. Written by Max Werner. Directed by Josh Schwartz. Rated PG-13. 90 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
October 12, 2012
Review: Argo
It may be hard to believe in our peaceful times, but back in 1979, the United States didn't get along so well with Iran, which seized 52 hostages from the American embassy in protest. They would have taken six more had they not escaped and holed up in the Canadian embassy until the CIA rescued them by masquerading as a movie production.
It's a story so outrageous and silly, not the least because it was known by such as stupid name as the Canadian Caper, that it would be laughed out of production meetings had it not actually happened and were it not backed by documents declassified in 1997. It was such a brazen, daredevil operation that it can only be dramatized by Daredevil himself.
Ben Affleck produces, directs and stars in a Ben Affleck production of a Ben Affleck film about Ben Affleck being Ben Affleck. Also, Affleck Affleck Affleck.
Affleck has come a hell of a long way since he pranced around as a blind superhero in red tights. With Gone Baby Gone, The Town and now this film, he's developed an untouchable resume as a filmmaker that's almost stunning enough to make everyone forgive him for starring in Gigli, Jersey Girl, Reindeer Games and Paycheck. Almost.
He plays CIA operative Tony Mendez, who concocts the idea to rescue the hidden hostages by dreaming up a movie so awful that Affleck would have starred in it 10 years ago. It's a sci-fi film called Argo about a planet that looks exactly like Iran. It's up to Mendez and the hostages to convince Iranian officials that the movie was commissioned by a Hollywood studio that dispatched six Canadian crew members that need to do some location scouting just as the hostage crisis is going on.
Affleck is good enough in the role to chase away rumors that he was only cast because he was sleeping with the director. The ever scarier-Bryan Cranston breaks good in playing a CIA boss who champions the caper amid a doubting home office. Alan Arkin and John Goodman play the guys who have the easiest part of the mission -- to stay home and answer an office phone in case dudes at the Iranian airport call to check out whether or not Argo is a real movie.
Affleck makes the movie resemble something made in the late 70s or early 80s, thanks to all the period detail, including feathered hair, sideburns, 'staches and giant collars. If it's tough to add suspense to a story that history dictates will turn out OK for the good guys, the movie doesn't show it. Certain doom seems to be waiting for the escapees at every turn, narrowly avoided by equal parts moxie, misdirection and luck. The intensity starts as a slow grind and continues to ratchet up until the end, when you've warped both armrests with nonstop squeezing from your trembling fingers.
There's only one significant flaw in the movie, but it is a major one. It's that A Flock of Seagull's "I Ran (So Far Away)" is not the theme song. If you can overlook that shortcoming, you'll likely be entranced by Argo. If you cannot overlook that shortcoming you will hate it and Affleck will have to deal with life without your approval.
Starring Ben Affleck, Bryan Cranston, Alan Arkin, John Goodman and Taylor Schilling. Written by Chris Terrio. Directed by Affleck. 120 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
It's a story so outrageous and silly, not the least because it was known by such as stupid name as the Canadian Caper, that it would be laughed out of production meetings had it not actually happened and were it not backed by documents declassified in 1997. It was such a brazen, daredevil operation that it can only be dramatized by Daredevil himself.
Ben Affleck produces, directs and stars in a Ben Affleck production of a Ben Affleck film about Ben Affleck being Ben Affleck. Also, Affleck Affleck Affleck.
Affleck has come a hell of a long way since he pranced around as a blind superhero in red tights. With Gone Baby Gone, The Town and now this film, he's developed an untouchable resume as a filmmaker that's almost stunning enough to make everyone forgive him for starring in Gigli, Jersey Girl, Reindeer Games and Paycheck. Almost.
He plays CIA operative Tony Mendez, who concocts the idea to rescue the hidden hostages by dreaming up a movie so awful that Affleck would have starred in it 10 years ago. It's a sci-fi film called Argo about a planet that looks exactly like Iran. It's up to Mendez and the hostages to convince Iranian officials that the movie was commissioned by a Hollywood studio that dispatched six Canadian crew members that need to do some location scouting just as the hostage crisis is going on.
Affleck is good enough in the role to chase away rumors that he was only cast because he was sleeping with the director. The ever scarier-Bryan Cranston breaks good in playing a CIA boss who champions the caper amid a doubting home office. Alan Arkin and John Goodman play the guys who have the easiest part of the mission -- to stay home and answer an office phone in case dudes at the Iranian airport call to check out whether or not Argo is a real movie.
Affleck makes the movie resemble something made in the late 70s or early 80s, thanks to all the period detail, including feathered hair, sideburns, 'staches and giant collars. If it's tough to add suspense to a story that history dictates will turn out OK for the good guys, the movie doesn't show it. Certain doom seems to be waiting for the escapees at every turn, narrowly avoided by equal parts moxie, misdirection and luck. The intensity starts as a slow grind and continues to ratchet up until the end, when you've warped both armrests with nonstop squeezing from your trembling fingers.
There's only one significant flaw in the movie, but it is a major one. It's that A Flock of Seagull's "I Ran (So Far Away)" is not the theme song. If you can overlook that shortcoming, you'll likely be entranced by Argo. If you cannot overlook that shortcoming you will hate it and Affleck will have to deal with life without your approval.
Starring Ben Affleck, Bryan Cranston, Alan Arkin, John Goodman and Taylor Schilling. Written by Chris Terrio. Directed by Affleck. 120 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
October 5, 2012
Review: Pitch Perfect
There are so many reasons to hate Pitch Perfect, and yet it's impossibly tough to do so. It's a movie that you'll laugh at as much with, then store in the back of your mind until you meet someone else who's seen it. You'll start talking about how awful it is, then start trying to top each other by talking about the parts that were the most awful.
Then, after you've spent half an hour of your life talking and laughing about a movie you were sure you didn't like, it will occur to you that you actually hate-liked it to the point that you wouldn't mind seeing it again.
Pitch Perfect is one of those movies in which a mismatched performance group gets together, overcomes infighting and strives to win the championship of whatever while at the same time uniting the lead characters in everlasting love. The hook here is that the groups are preciously choreographed a capella song-and-dance groups like what you'd see on Glee or The Sing Off.
You come for the electric song and dance numbers and feel free to take a bathroom break, snack bar run or nap when the drama starts getting all dramatic. Characters may have problems to solve, but you may as well block out what they're saying and imagine the dialogue actually goes:
"Oh no! We're not singing and that means we're really boring again!"
"Quick, let's start singing and dancing again!"
"But we're stuck in a dull story scene!"
"OK, let's just shout at each other until it's time to sing and dance again!"
For all its awfulness, there are aspects of Pitch Perfect that are undeniably good. For one, Rebel Wilson, who plays the group's answer to Honey Boo Boo, an overly self-assured plus-size bundle of joy who calls herself Fat Amy. A dynamic performer cast from the mold of Melissa McCarthy, Wilson is so exuberantly funny that if she met female comedian-bashing Adam Carolla, he would undoubtedly declare her to be a man - his highest compliment.
Also winning is Anna Kendrick, who does her eternally annoyed eye-rolling thing as Beca, a college freshman who is coerced by her dad into joining the Bellas, the all-female a capella squad, and chief rival to - not the Edwards, but the Treblemakers.
Beca's rival is Queen bee Aubrey (Anna Camp) bosses around her fellow Bellas, including sidekick Chloe (Brittany Snow) and has the adorably irritating tendency to tack on the prefix "aca" to the beginning of things the way Smurfs do the word "smurf." Aubrey forbids hook-aca-ups with the hated Treblemakers, so Beca's budding romance with Jesse (Skyler Astin) is un-aca-ceptable.
Forget about the plot, though. The filmmakers sure do. There's little rhyme or reason for anything that happens. Things are so free and loose that eventually you stop questioning why the contest announcing team of John Michael Higgins and Elizabeth Banks are following around the Bellas just about wherever they go, deriding them for spending too much time on their Ace of Base routine.
There are just enough wacky jokes to keep things fun and lively. A shy girl making snow angels in a pool of vomit, women referring to their lady parts by male names and Fat Amy mistaking burrito residue on her outfit as evidence that she's been victimized by a drive-by shooter are some highlights. Not to mention aca-puns. Aca-puns galore!
Those are the things that stick with you when you're mulling over your inability to hate a movie that's just too easy to love.
Starring Anna Kendrick, Brittany Snow and Rebel Wilson. Written by Kay Cannon, adapted from Mickey Rapkin's book. Directed by Jason Moore. Rated PG-13. 112 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Then, after you've spent half an hour of your life talking and laughing about a movie you were sure you didn't like, it will occur to you that you actually hate-liked it to the point that you wouldn't mind seeing it again.
Pitch Perfect is one of those movies in which a mismatched performance group gets together, overcomes infighting and strives to win the championship of whatever while at the same time uniting the lead characters in everlasting love. The hook here is that the groups are preciously choreographed a capella song-and-dance groups like what you'd see on Glee or The Sing Off.
You come for the electric song and dance numbers and feel free to take a bathroom break, snack bar run or nap when the drama starts getting all dramatic. Characters may have problems to solve, but you may as well block out what they're saying and imagine the dialogue actually goes:
"Oh no! We're not singing and that means we're really boring again!"
"Quick, let's start singing and dancing again!"
"But we're stuck in a dull story scene!"
"OK, let's just shout at each other until it's time to sing and dance again!"
For all its awfulness, there are aspects of Pitch Perfect that are undeniably good. For one, Rebel Wilson, who plays the group's answer to Honey Boo Boo, an overly self-assured plus-size bundle of joy who calls herself Fat Amy. A dynamic performer cast from the mold of Melissa McCarthy, Wilson is so exuberantly funny that if she met female comedian-bashing Adam Carolla, he would undoubtedly declare her to be a man - his highest compliment.
Also winning is Anna Kendrick, who does her eternally annoyed eye-rolling thing as Beca, a college freshman who is coerced by her dad into joining the Bellas, the all-female a capella squad, and chief rival to - not the Edwards, but the Treblemakers.
Beca's rival is Queen bee Aubrey (Anna Camp) bosses around her fellow Bellas, including sidekick Chloe (Brittany Snow) and has the adorably irritating tendency to tack on the prefix "aca" to the beginning of things the way Smurfs do the word "smurf." Aubrey forbids hook-aca-ups with the hated Treblemakers, so Beca's budding romance with Jesse (Skyler Astin) is un-aca-ceptable.
Forget about the plot, though. The filmmakers sure do. There's little rhyme or reason for anything that happens. Things are so free and loose that eventually you stop questioning why the contest announcing team of John Michael Higgins and Elizabeth Banks are following around the Bellas just about wherever they go, deriding them for spending too much time on their Ace of Base routine.
There are just enough wacky jokes to keep things fun and lively. A shy girl making snow angels in a pool of vomit, women referring to their lady parts by male names and Fat Amy mistaking burrito residue on her outfit as evidence that she's been victimized by a drive-by shooter are some highlights. Not to mention aca-puns. Aca-puns galore!
Those are the things that stick with you when you're mulling over your inability to hate a movie that's just too easy to love.
Starring Anna Kendrick, Brittany Snow and Rebel Wilson. Written by Kay Cannon, adapted from Mickey Rapkin's book. Directed by Jason Moore. Rated PG-13. 112 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
