The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

I have a penchant for remakes. I have always relished the evolution from page to screen, from one language or medium to another. Theme and variation, as it were. In this case the theme is Stieg Larsson’s world famous mystery novel, though perhaps it ought to be reclassified as a horror story. In its initial publication, Larsson’s piece was titled Men Who Hate Women – but in the dilution of translation for American and international audiences, the intricate and verbose novel became the sexily re-titled The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. In the first book alone, the trilogy combines the taboo with a parent’s worst nightmare. Larsson does not shy away from the potential atrocity of human behavior, nor does it minimize or marginalize the instances of it. On the contrary, I am more than a little surprised at the lack of criticism and condemnation for the violence and abuse depicted throughout the novel an the film – at least, I am surprised that the praise outweighs the chastisement. Incredible that our nation’s notorious conservativism (especially in campaign season) has bypassed the Larsson Millenium trilogy, at least one of which is now featured in many a school’s curriculum.

Let me set aside the grotesque actions within the plot and return to the film itself. I find myself struggling to avoid plagiarizing Roger Ebert even inadvertently, as we share so many of the same opinions. He is entirely correct to assess director David Fincher’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo as neither better nor worse than the 2009 Swedish version – merely different, as it should be. There was never any doubt that Fincher (Fight Club, The Social Network) was an excellent choice for the helm, and Trent Reznor’s contribution to the score definitely brought the edginess you’d expect from a Fincher film. I wonder though who made the decision to feature the chosen graphic behind the opening credits. An action-mystery-drama starring Daniel Craig might to better than to open with a driving rock anthem and vaguely erotic animation, if only to distance itself from the mixed-review Bond films of late.

In any case, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo belongs to Mikael Blomkvist and Lisbeth Salander. The American film version has Daniel Craig trying to dodge one icon while Rooney Mara struggles to live up to another. Craig does well to bring his fatherly insight to the role – even if he is James Bond fit, looking like he could easily take on any opponent (and win). Roger Ebert noted that it must be impossible to fully abandon the confidence of Bond once you’ve earned it; I imagine he is right. That said, I could not think of a better A-Lister for the role. What I missed in this version was Mikael’s reticence to take on the story of the missing Vanger girl, and any fear he may have had upon doing so. The stakes are high for Mikael, whose reputation and bank account have taken a major hit. It’s one thing to be a man with nothing left to lose, but Mikael has redemption on the line. Mara, as Lisbeth, faces a similar challenge. A portion of the series’ success is owed to the riveting and dynamic performance delivered by Noomi Rapace in the first big-screen adaptation. So popular was her depiction of the unlikely heroine, fans petitioned to have her reprise the role in English. Understandably she declined, having lived with the role for several years. Fincher eventually cast Mara, having worked with her on The Social Network. Mara brings a youthful awkwardness to the role that is touching - she’s a much more vulnerable Lisbeth than Rapace. She’s more fragile and less volatile, which drives many of the differences in other characters. This is a Lisbeth that could use a protector, though she goes without. Again, I find her performance neither better nor worse than Rapace’s - just different. Craig and Mara are an unlikely combination, and Blomkvist’s progression from father-figure to romantic interest is troubling, if thematically apt. I expect there will be many papers on the subject in film classes.

All the same, it is a fine film. The performances are effective, and as they develop they continue to complement each other. To a degree, I wish I had been able to watch the film without the baggage of familiarity; perhaps knowing ‘whodunnit’ prevented me from becoming as absorbed in these characters as I might have otherwise. (Maybe if I had been discovering the case with Blomkvist, I would not have been observing Bond trudging through the snow.) Fincher keeps the film moving at a steady pace, abbreviating most of Blomkvist’s complicated love life and balancing his screen time to Lisbeth’s. The fact that it works does not mean that it has been accomplished without sacrifice. There’s a lack of nuance, and while the shortcuts taken at the end may go unnoticed by newcomers, the simplification is anticlimactic - and a little questionable. Would it work? Really? I missed the resolution of the Swedish film, and the hard-won closure for the Vanger story alone. The denouement is a messy struggle to tie up the many strains of plot that Larsson has strewn about - something that was bothersome in both films and added to the tedium of the novel.

I’m glad to have seen both films, and I consider the opportunity to observe the differences between them a luxury. Remakes, reboots, retellings all have their purpose, and they probably go back to a tradition of oral history. If theatre is built upon cycles of the same plays (as it so often is), why shouldn’t the same story be told again on film? No, it’s not always a good idea (The Dinner Game and Dinner for Shmucks are not just in different languages but in different humors), but this Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is another viable production of the story, engaging and complex.

Panic! at the Disco Highlight "Vices & Virtues" at Lupo's

We interrupt this cinema blog to bring you a breaking entry on a recent rock concert...

Not snow nor rain nor sleet nor slush will keep the teenagers from the rock concert. They were lined up down the block in front of Lupo’s on Saturday night, down the block and around the corner for Panic! at the Disco.

I don’t know why it surprises me to see the impressionable adolescents flock to this performance, a throng of underdressed teens beside parents with umbrellas. Truth be told, this 26-year-old concert-goer missed the first opening act, choosing to wait out the line and the weather in a bar across the street. Still, if the underage crowd wasn’t enough cause for suffering, adult chaperones and mature Panic! fans (like myself) were made to suffer through Foxy Shazam – an opener whose terrible name matches their entertainment value, something like a parody of 70s circus freaks? I’m not really sure.

I will say this: neither Foxy Shazam nor Panic! at the Disco labor under any illusions regarding their audience. They’re well aware of the high-school crowd, dispensing advice and cracking wise. For Panic! at the Disco lead singer Brendon Urie, any condescension goes largely unnoticed by the crowd. Ever since their first tour, it was inherently clear that Urie is a dynamite performer. His vocal skills are exceptional, with a deeper tone than most pop idols, perhaps enabling older fans like myself to delude ourselves into believing Panic! is more than just a steampunk pop set for tweenagers.

For a young band, Panic! has been through a lot. Their first album, titled A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out, was a big success, but the lag time between that and their wildly divergent Pretty, Odd meant that the sophomore album flew under the radar and many fans lost interest. Those loyalists who walked the Pretty, Odd path soon found that the band had drastically changed their sound. The Fever broke, and many reviewers wrote found Pretty, Odd creatively interesting, but a mildly amusing Sgt. Pepper rerun of pot songs… which it was. With such schizophrenia in the band it’s no wonder that Panic! suffered a creative identity crisis and would resurface with only two of the original four members to lead the charge. In the divorce, drummer Spencer Smith and frontman Brendon Urie got to keep the band name. And all the hit songs.

The third album from Panic! at the Disco, Vices & Virtues brings the band back to their trademark hooks and catchy melodies. The lyrics are not as bitingly clever as they once were, including such tripe as “You’re tearing me apart, like bad glue on a get-well card” (I read somewhere that one of the former band members was the one with the unexpected razor wit). The new guitar player and bassist are very talented guys – even if they don’t look quite at home. I give the new guitarists a lot of credit for supporting Urie and Smith, who dominate center stage both literally and figuratively. But I winced for them when Urie introduced the first Panic! single “Time to Dance” as “the first song we wrote together as Panic! at the Disco.” Sure, if “we” means “Spencer and I.” Sure, Brendon. Whatever you say.

Being in the minority of people who may appropriately identify as an adult, I found myself empathizing with the chaperones at the show, wincing again when Urie proclaims that one of the ‘rules’ of Panic! at the Disco is to have as much casual sex as possible. I’m no prude, but I’m glad I’m not sharing this moment with a parent over my shoulder. And surely Urie is as aware of the chaperones present as they are of him; or maybe I’m just old now, and unimpressed by a handsome young rock star unexpectedly crooning “Let’s Get It On” in hopes of assuring the Providence crowd that he intents to “fuck you in my sleep.” Perhaps Urie’s cavalier exhibitionism is exactly the almost-offensive pitch teenagers are looking for, but I’m fairly certain that I would have been equally unimpressed at their age. Urie’s stage persona is an odd combination of older brother and sexed-up rock star, vaguely immature for someone who is actually an immensely skilled musician and vocalist. His impressions of the Foxy Shazam frontman were highly amusing, and he even adopted the body language of Neon Trees vocalist Tyler Glenn for their cover of “Animal.” It feels largely like Urie’s show, except for his affection for Smith; fair, considering their shared history.

Even if it was all about Urie, it’s captivating and occasionally hypnotic – Urie’s hair is so amazing, he might have pulled a Dorian Gray. In any case, the Vices & Virtues show is truly a long way from the over-produced Nothing Rhymes with Circus tour. I skipped the Pretty, Odd tour, so I can’t say what that one looked like, but it seems that having once gone over the top Goldilocks mellowed out and then finally found the just right combination of funky set pieces, evocative wardrobe, and dynamic performance. Once you get past the hormonal, melodramatic crowd, there’s an interesting concert happening, definitely worth your while.

50/50

For anyone who has stumbled on my humble blog without knowing me personally, I should note that my own experience with cancer at age 25 made me particularly susceptible to being interested in this film. My odds were significantly better than Adam’s, but humor was still the key to the healing process.

Part comedy, part drama; part fact, part fiction. Based on writer Will Reiser’s own experience with cancer in his early twenties, 50/50 is a film that deals with cancer the way people do - with highs and lows, humor and honesty. Adam’s a straight-edge, clean cut, independent guy who works in radio with his best friend when his back pain is diagnosed as having been caused by a malignant tumor on his spine. It’s the kind of diagnosis that not only reveals what you’re made of, but on whom you can truly rely.

There are many reasons to like this movie. The truthfulness of the script, the hilarity that ensues, Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the most adorable young Everyman ever, Seth Rogen finally getting to act his age, medical marijuana jokes, drama without melodrama - and while 50/50 may initially come across as a “coping with cancer through comedy” workshop, the film’s humor comes from its truth, and its insight goes one step further by revealing the different ways in which friends and family cope as well. One person may not cope at all, another though misguided advice, another with pot-laced macaroons, while still another will join a support group.

Some indie actors make unfortunate choices to do weird or supposed-blockbuster films while establishing their careers (I’m looking at you, Ryan Gosling and Lee Pace), but Joseph Gordon-Levitt is one actor whose credit is indicative of quality work. As Adam, Levitt is in almost every scene and his trademark honesty serves him well here. His passion, frustration, drive, humor, and despair are palpable. Rogen takes a step back from his recent foray into leading-man territory to play the best friend, a role likely written with him in mind. The irreverence and loyalty shared by Seth Rogen and writer Will Reiser was instrumental to the crafting of Reiser’s very smart script. No wonder some scenes feel like insights to Rogen’s college days. Screen veteran Anjelica Houston took on a role usually played by Marcia Gay Harden (Whip It!) or Allison Janney (Juno), a an adoring, worry-laden, overbearing mother. For a relatively new director, Jonathan Levine wisely keeps both Houston and Rogen reined in - if either role gone too far in any particular direction, the whole film would have been thrown off balance. Instead, Levine carefully crafted himself a hit film.

50/50 has a uniquely youthful zeal, despite its serious subject; that said, I saw the film with my dad and we both enjoyed it. That says a lot. By providing a broad view of one young man’s diagnosis and the lives it effects, 50/50 has something for almost everyone. Genuine performances and a heartfelt script are symptoms of a really great film. Recommended dose: at least one viewing.

Notes:
- Yes, Will Reiser is related to Paul. They are cousins.
- Check out this interview with Will Reiser from the Toronto Film Festival: http://www.tribute.ca/tiff/index.php/2011/09/13/will-reiser-interview-5050
- In the video mentioned above, Reiser mentions that Joseph Gordon-Levitt had a week to prepare for the role. Levitt was a last-minute replacement for actor James McAvoy.
- Joseph Gordon-Levitt pulled a Natalie Portman by actually shaving his head during filming. (Portman did this for the film V for Vendetta.)

Drive

Don’t let the guy from The Notebook fool you. Drive is no pretty-boy follow up to Crazy, Stupid, Love. It’s full of bloody violence, shady dealings, and cars, but with enough focus on Ryan Gosling to keep the girlfriend interested. He’s a man of few words, a man with no name, whose identity hinges on doing what he does best: drive.

Ryan Gosling chose Nicolas Winding Refn as the director to replace Neil Marshall, and this after Gosling had stepped in to replace Hugh Jackman as the lead. Significant difference there - quite possibly for the better. It’s easier to see a young Gosling getting tangled up in disaster than a world-weary Jackman falling prey to so much ruin. There are, however, two different films here. Before the heist-gone-wrong, and after. The fallout from our hero’s misadventure brings a dramatic change in color scheme and energy... namely, violent energy.

The movie as a whole maintains an unmistakably retro feel. The opening titles are absolutely out of the late eighties/early nineties. Then there’s the cars (1973 Chevy Malibu), the costumes (although ‘white trash’ hasn’t changed in the last 30 years, really), and the dialogue (film noir/mafia movie). If it wasn’t for the cell phones, I would have thought the film was set much earlier than the present. The atmosphere is perfect - the lighting and cinematography seems, somehow, to be just right. Now and again, we encounter a touch of the unexpected - and three days after seeing the film, I’m still weighing its effectiveness. This includes Carey Mulligan as Irene - whom I have always thought resembles Michelle Williams, Gosling’s Blue Valentine costar. Mulligan is bewitching, of course, if somehow out of place. It’s clear that the costumes are meant to convince us that Mulligan is as lower-class as the script would have us believe. (I’m also not sure how I feel about her casting as Daisy Buchanan in Baz Luhrman’s forthcoming Gatsby picture... we’ll see.)

It’s not what I expected, from the trailer. As my movie-going friend pointed out, I expected more driving, more chases. Less blood. On the upside, someone did something right: girlfriends will want to see Gosling, and boyfriends will enjoy the cars, adrenaline, and violence. Something for everyone.

Midnight in Paris

After forty years in the business, a “Woody Allen film” has been established as a very specific type of movie. One can expect Allen’s trademark prattle, an insecure protagonist, and a variety of beautiful if difficult women. In his latest venture, Midnight in Paris, Allen has cleverly cast Owen Wilson as Gil, his stand-in, and Wilson is perfectly cut out for the role, if you can believe him to be a literary and art snob. Troubled personally as he has been, it’s nice to see Wilson tackling something other than Hall Pass and maybe garnering some self-respect. Rachel McAdams, on the other hand, has come so far from Mean Girls in her career that it’s difficult to buy her as bourgeois fiancée Inez seduced by “pedantic” college professor Paul (Michael Sheen).

By now you may well know that the title of the film refers to the moment where, on a particular street in Paris, two eras overlap and it is possible for one nostalgic writer to share a car with F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, challenge Hemmingway to a fight, and seek advice from Gertrude Stein. These visits to the twenties are crafted with ardor and romance, soft focus and shadows, while the stark present of 2010 Paris is trite, predictable, obvious, and formulaic. Watching Gil, Inez, Paul, and Carol walk the grounds of Versailles, the changing relationships are clear. Remove the dialogue, and follow the action perfectly. How Gil and Inez made it beyond a first date is a mystery, but about par for the Woody Allen course. The less-than-ideal present is definitely evident with the funky casting and forced dialogue. Not surprisingly, the most delightful scenes and performances are in twenties Paris. Kathy Bates is as grounding a force as ever, bringing wisdom to the words of Gertrude Stein. Perhaps the purest, most natural performance comes from Marion Cotillard as Adriana, a beautiful woman from Bordeaux drawn to artist-types (and yes I’m biased) - but it’s also a role we’ve seen from her before. In both Love Me If You Dare and Inception Cotillard also portrays a woman asking the man she loves to choose the path she intends to take. As Adriana she is beautiful and easily the most relateable character whose sensibilities transcend the 1920s. It’s no wonder so many artists adore her, though her reciprocation of Owen Wilson’s affection does lead to one of the more awkward onscreen kisses I’ve seen. Still, Midnight in Paris crams a lot of high-profile impersonations into a few late-night parties, the highlights of which include the Alison Pill’s vibrant Zelda Fitzgerald, Tom Hiddleston as her adoring husband, and Adrien Brody’s bug-eyed Salvador Dalí.

The one thing I haven’t figured out is the extensive opening montage, which spends ages of credit-less shots establishing Paris. Why the segment goes on for so long, I don’t know. I’m the last person to deny the beauty of Paris (dry or in the rain), but I paid $9 for a movie not a motion postcard, even if it is a variation on Xanadu with Olivia Newton-John. Regardless, it’s fun to imagine the twenties as populated by giants of great art and literature as real people living among Parisian wine and parties. Midnight in Paris, like the city itself, is “a movable feast” for English lit majors.

Ceremony

Ceremony has a delightfully home-made feel, if you make your dad is the Fonz. For a debut film, Max Winkler displays complete confidence in his work - perhaps too much, because Wes Anderson he’s not. In some ways, Ceremony is reminiscent of The Royal Tennenbaums; rather unlikeable characters from the upper middle class, disparaging of their class, full of self-importance and perceived achievement, in love with the wrong person and out for his- or herself.

So why see it? You could be a friend of the Winkler family, or maybe you also hold Uma Thurman on a pedestal. Maybe you’re interested in debut films from up and coming directors. Maybe you’re obsessed with Lee Pace (who, me?). Perhaps you followed the project while Jesse Eisenberg was attached to play the lead role of Sam Davis. Eisenberg would have been interesting, and I have no doubt Michael Angarano would have been a great Marshall (as he was originally cast). That’s not to say that Angarano doesn’t do Sam justice. Even so, I’m not sure I believe Zoe (Thurman) would ever give his adorably sad-puppy face a shot. There is, however, a scene in which it rather seems that Whit (Pace) is willing to do so...

It seems that Winkler was inspired by Ferris Bueller, The Graduate, and the films of Wes Anderson, but the chemistry among the cast is so far off that it’s hard for the elements to gel. One gets the sense that Angarano is playing against type, Whit should be more of a cad, and Reece Thompson alternates between playing Cameron from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Kenneth from 30 Rock. I also have to wonder how Winkler managed to snag Thurman as his leading lady. Is it just for her height? Thurman hasn’t had a vulnerable side since The Truth About Cats and Dogs; where is Zoe’s need for Sam? I will grant Winkler this: it’s a bold and confident first move. And look at Jason Reitman. Son of a famous director whose first film, Thank You For Smoking, put him on the map, but it was Juno that made him a household name. What I mean to say is this: I’ve got my eye on you, Winkler. Best of luck on your next project.

The Tree

I’ll be honest, what also enticed me to catch The Tree was a scene in the trailer, in which eight-year-old Simone (Morgana Davies) says, “Well, you have a choice to be happy or sad, and I chose to be happy. And I am happy.” Like Morgan Lily in Henry Poole is Here, newcomer Davies displays a depth far beyond her years. Must be the name.

I’m not sure if The Tree is a film as much as an exercise in symbolism. Nevermind the fact that Julie Bertuccelli’s film has the misfortune of being released so closely to Terrence Malick’s Tree of Life, potentially losing audience from a confused population. It may have its problems, but I was more interested in the heart of The Tree than the headiness of Tree of Life (which is why I saw one film instead of the other). Still, It’s difficult to think of The Tree as a film. The symbolism is so heavy-handed at time, the fact that Bertuccelli’s inspiration was a novel becomes abundantly clear. One imagines the novel, title Our Father Who Art in the Tree, reads like a Steinbeck or Faulkner saga, with perhaps a touch of Harper Lee in Australia.

It’s not a bad film, nor is it a great one. Morgana Davies is wonderful as a bereft little girl, daddy’s favorite. In a brief but moving performance, Aden Young imbues Peter O’Neill with life and warmth, happiness and dedication. His death blindsides his family and the loss is felt by the viewer as well. Charlotte Gainsbourg is exactly what you’d expect - a fragile and broken French expatriate, widowed mother of four. There’s no denying the love she bears for her children, but one has to question the decisions she makes as the tree next to the house overtakes her yard, her house, her children, her relationships. After eight months of mourning, Dawn meets George (Marton Csokas, who is somehow reminiscent of Richard Coyle) and endeavors to move on, with George’s help. Where do you think the story is going? You’re probably right.

Ingenuity isn’t the point here, though; it’s poetry, something The Tree has in spades. Accepting that, it’s possible to enjoy The Tree and appreciate the Australian landscape. Maybe you’ll even walk away wanting to read the book - I know I did. But I can’t help but think that it could have had a much more satisfying conclusion...

Beginners

I’d seen headlines buzzing with rumors about the excellent quality of Beginners. Imagining the film crafted from the story outlined in a summary, it’s easy to see where the brilliant performances germinated. What’s unexpected about Beginners is the unique way in which the relationships are revealed and developed. Writer/director Mike Mills has crafted an exceptionally beautiful picture of love and loss in contemporary (2003) Los Angeles. It’s about teaching an old dog new tricks; it’s about facing the challenges posed to the identity a person develops over years of experience, and deciding to change – even when change is difficult and life seems to point in a different direction.

At 38, Oliver Fields (Ewan MacGregor) has lost not one but two parents to cancer. His father Hal spent his last years relishing his revised identity as an openly gay man, despite having spent most of his life married to Oliver’s mother. Despite his concern for his father’s health, or perhaps because of it, Oliver is inspired by Hal’s vitalty and happiness. With Hal’s death Oliver is overtaken by sadness, becoming inseparable with his father’s dog Arthur and devoing himself to his job as a graphic designer. When his friends force him to attend a costume party (with Arthur in tow), one woman sees through his façade to the vulnerable man behind it. They’re made for each other, Anna and Oliver. She’s a French actress living in a hotel, and he’s a commitmentphobe waiting for The Right One. They’ve both run away from previous relationships but now confront the very real possibility of ending up alone.

In many ways, Beginners is an apt companion film to Tom Ford’s A Single Man. Flashbacks, loneliness, life in the fifties, the repression of the gay lifestyle and its effect on love in the now, Beginners as an illustration of what became of Firth’s peers in A Single Man. Stylistically, Beginners is completely different, often inserting documentary-style graphics to depict visually what Oliver is trying to express. But what’s truly exquisite about Mike Mills’ film is the bittersweet moments, the love and loss intertwined, enveloping love juxtaposed with heartbreak and suffering - and laughter. Whether it’s the humor found in an unexpected moment or an awkward truth hitting home, we all turn to laughter at one point or another, as we need a way to cope.

The performances in Beginners are excellent, with each of the starring quartet (Christopher Plummer, Ewan MacGregor, Mélanie Laurent, and the Jack Russell playing Arthur) earning their accolades. Plummer’s masterful navigation of difficult emotions is incredible, and Ewan MacGregor gives a beautifully comfortable performance as Oliver. A man with so much and so little to lose, determined to do better than his parents and unwilling to settle, Oliver is someone with whom most viewers can identify. Mélanie Laurent is both classic and foreign, a blend of Meg Ryan with Marion Cotillard, quite possibly capable of being anybody’s dream girl, nevermind Oliver’s. The dog’s appeal goes without saying - but the accompanying subtitles are priceless. More importantly, the role Arthur plays in the story is too important to be ignored. Arthur is love: undeniable, irrevocable love.

Love is a sort of baptism - once you’ve experienced it, you emerge anew, beginning again. It is eternal, remaining long after the object of one’s affections is gone. In Beginners, Mike Mills proves that you’re never too old to begin again, and that really, in life and in love, you’re never really finished.

The Help

Somewhere in California, Lindsey Lohan is watching Easy A, watching private showings of Crazy, Stupid, Love and The Help, surrounded by the August issue of Vanity Fair, sobbing. A weeping, heaving tantrum in which she cries, “That was supposed to be me!”

It’s hard to ignore the buzz proclaiming Emma Stone the one to watch. She’s decidedly different from previous Hollywood starlets, with her husky voice and – get this – talent. One of the best things a rising young actor can do is put themselves in quality projects with more experienced professionals to take some unofficial acting lessons. In both Crazy, Stupid, Love and The Help, Stone has done just that. The Help brings undeniable talent to the best-selling book. Viola Davis earned an Academy Award nomination for the quiet power she brought to Doubt, and her Aibileen is unbreakable and brilliant. Allison Janney’s Charlotte Phelan is a mother in the 1960s coping with Southern society women, fiercely independent daughter, and cancer; it’s enough to merit her own movie. Instead Janney brings grace and warmth to a difficult role, giving both Emma Stone and her determined Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan a lot to learn from. A mere seven years older than Stone, Bryce Dallas Howard could give a master class in villainy as she turns in a sharp-clawed, venom-spewing performance as society deb Hilly Holbrook, whose sense of propriety is intertwined with deep-seated racism and a purported belief in “separate but equal.” Beyond the core characters, the supporting cast is also phenomenal. Especially Octavia Spencer as Minny. Her sassiness provides comic relief and an understanding of what a person needs to survive hard times.

The production design is exceptional and evocative, so it’s easy for viewers to follow the emotional journey of the film, which is indeed extensive. The Help captures everything from profoundly personal conflict to the much larger social issues, making them accessable and real. A brilliant title, too, encompassing so many forms of help - asking for it, providing it, needing it, taking it unwillingly, trying to help and failing, wanting to help and being unable. Help yourself to a night at the movies and catch Viola Davis, Allison Janney, and Emma Stone in The Help.

Crazy, Stupid, Love

It feels like it’s been a long time since a romantic comedy rolled around that appealed to adults. Larry Crowne was cute, if perhaps a little naïve, so Crazy, Stupid, Love was a welcome addition to local cinemas. I’d been looking forward to this one for a while – Emma Stone calling Ryan Gosling ‘photoshopped’ in the trailer was extremely promising and clever – and was all too pleased to have caught an advance screening of the film.

What I didn’t know was how very close-to-home it would be. Steve Carrell manages two identities in Hollywood: Michael Scott, and Everyman. I prefer the performances in which he demonstrates his finer acting skills (Little Miss Sunshine, Dan in Real Life), as he does in Crazy, Stupid, Love. As a man blindsided by his wife’s request for a divorce, Carrell is heartbreakingly truthful. It’s a grounded performance for what could have been a pathetic make-over movie. Instead the reality of the situation reveals a depth to the story. Why, exactly, he bonds with Ryan Gosling is a little elusive, but it’s something pardonable under the “it’s a movie!” premise. Gosling is suave and charming in a departure role, bringing his trademark honesty to a womanizing bar hound - if it wasn’t for the hideous bling ring he wears throughout the film, I’d completely understand why the women go home with him. Also, why don’t any of the women return the bar, resenting his womanizing ways? Food for thought.

Julianne Moore is lovely, as usual, and not nearly as weepy as the trailer would have you believe. Emma Stone, however, is exactly the ‘contemporary young independent’ factor that the trailer promotes. Seeing as she’s America’s darling right now, it’s natural that Gosling’s character should fall in love with her from one evening in her company. Surely it helps to imitate the kiss from The Notebook, as well.

Producers have populated the film with dynamite and amusing performers. A major plotline features a 13 year old boy and his unabashed, unrequited love for his babysitter, which is very well played by newcomer Jonah Bobo and up-and-comer Analeigh Tipton. Josh Groban makes a surprise appearance as Emma Stone’s first love interest, while Kevin Bacon and Marissa Tomei bring subtlety to some truly ludicrous situations.

It’s an ensemble comedy that comes together in unexpected ways, and just goes to prove what we already know - everything we do is generated by one of three feelings: Crazy, Stupid, Love.

Horrible Bosses

It’s a sure-fire premise – everyone’s had a boss they can’t stand. Take the premise and multiply it by the three-dude formula from The Hangover, add one saucy woman, throw in a few surprising appearances by reputable stars and it’s bound to be a summer blockbuster. Especially when The Hangover 2 was such a disappointment. Congratulations, Hollywood! Another one in for the record books.

I saw Horrible Bosses at a free preview before its wide release last week. Yeah, it was a week ago. And I still don’t know what to say about it. The movie is exactly what you expect, entirely predictable and almost boring in its trajectory. Bateman is half-hearted throughout the film, Jason Sudeikis fails to amuse the way Ed Helms does, and Charlie Day steals what moments he can as the meekest of the three. It’s hard for me to find Spacey funny as Bateman’s boss. His utter seriousness almost transcends the comedy. Some input from Michael Showalter or David Wain (both of the comedy trio Stella and the movie Wet Hot American Summer) might have come in handy, maybe seeing Christopher Meloni as Bateman’s megalomaniacal boss would have been hilarious. As it is, one of the funniest bits features Brian George being brilliant (if physically absent) as GPS contact Gregory/Atamanand.

The press circuit Jennifer Aniston has been It Girl and received great word-of-mouth if not great reviews for her performance as “maneater” dentist Julia Harris. But here’s where my utter disappointment with the film begins. Persistent sexual harassment despite expressed disapproval isn’t funny. Rape humor isn’t funny. I don’t care if it is America’s Sweetheart Jennifer Aniston making the advances rather than battling them.

While it has its funny moments, I came away feeling half-heartedly amused by the film as a whole. If it’s mindless summer comedy you’re looking for – Horrible Bosses may be just the ticket you’re wanting.

Larry Crowne

Earlier this month, Tom Hanks made an appearance on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, at the end of which Stewart observed, "You will never ever not be adorable."

Tom Hanks is back in Larry Crowne, just to prove he’s still got it. All that producing he’s been doing gave us wonderful, meaningful films, but I think we can all admit we like him best when he’s doing his thing: comedy. With fellow screenwriter Nia Vardalos he’s come up with a clever little film targeted at his peers, middle-aged adults whose life carried them away from the madding crowd. As a retail clerk fired from his job for lacking a college education, Hanks is every bit as charming as he ever was. In fact, it’s a pleasure to see Mr. Charm opposite Julia Roberts, whose own uncommon beauty and feminine charm has often carried a film. For those of us who willingly forgot or avoided Charlie Wilson’s War, it’s a surprise that Hanks and Roberts haven’t collaborated earlier. Perhaps a more appropriate observation would be to say that it’s a surprise that the two haven’t made a romantic comedy together before.

All the same, the film would not work one bit if it wasn’t for the supporting cast. As always with a Hanks-produced film, the supporting roles are filled by actors that are both of a type and yet authentic. British actress Gugu Mbatha-Raw is captivating as free-spirited Talia, the scooter-enthusiast responsible for Crowne’s makeover. Talia’s no love interest though – her boyfriend is played by none other than That 70’s Show’s Wilmer Valderrama, who seems to have gone from funky to hunky overnight. Rami Malek is highly amusing as one of Crowne’s classmates; his performance reminded me of Justin Chambers’ turn as Massimo in The Wedding Planner. There are a few other familiar faces in the crowd; Cedric the Entertainer entertains as Crowne’s enterprising next-door-neighbor, and Hanks’ wife Rita Wilson makes an appearance as an optimistic bank representative.

Nia Vardalos voices the Map Genie in the film, and anyone who was a fan of Hanks’ cinematic directorial debut That Thing You Do! should keep their eyes and ears open for some inside jokes and references. Of course Rita Wilson was in That Thing You Do! as well (who could forget her sultry cocktail waitress?), but so was Holmes Osborne (college dean/Mr. Patterson). And can you place the line “We’re being invaded!” in both films? Wilson’s character’s last name in Larry Crowne is Gammelgard – maybe she’s related to Faye’s last good, true kiss. I don’t expect anyone to remember minutae from That Thing You Do!  but I do, and I’m on to you Hanks!

There aren’t many Hollywood actors one would truly call gentlemen, but Hanks is clearly one. He and Vardalos have cleverly written a story that avoids pitting the older and younger generations against one another, instead demonstrating a positive and cooperative friendship. It allows Hanks to create a role that doesn’t require the imitation of his previous successes or sacrificing his maturity It’s a fun movie, even if it drags at points, and you know exactly how it’s going to end. It’s still a good time, and a comfort to see Hanks return to comedy. It just makes you think, “Somewhere, something is right with the world.” For once.

Mary and Max

Traditional and computer animation has come so far, it is no surprise to find the clayography film Mary and Max is so deeply moving. Adam Elliot wrote, directed, and produced the movie, inspired by his own twenty year “pen friend” relationship with a New Yorker. In Mary and Max, Elliot has crafted an eloquent and sincere depiction of an unlikely friendship. Mary is an oft-teased eight year old girl who lives in Australia with her eccentric parents and a pet rooster. Max is an extremely overweight forty-four year old New Yorker with Asperger’s Syndrome. What they have in common is loneliness, tempered by a love of chocolate and a cartoon series called “The Noblets.” Half a world apart, they cling to their epistolary friendship as they deal with issues of self-esteem, loss, weight-loss, and anxiety. This is not an animated film for children, by any means – it is an expressive film that encompasses an entire life, and how important it is to have a friend.

To voice young Mary Daisy Dinkle, Elliot chose eight year old Bethany Whitmore, and she is an absolute delight. Toni Collette is credited with voicing Mary, but what they really mean is grown-up Mary. I think you’ll agree that young Mary is the one that will stay with you forever. Receiving Mary's letters is Max Jerry Horovitz, perfectly voiced by Phillip Seymour Hoffman. And the animators clearly adore their progeny. The exquisite, painstaking detail in every shot or frame is remarkable. The film’s website boasts that Max’s typewriter was a fully-functioning miniature that required nine weeks of design and construction. That’s more work than the New York skyline, which took two months.

(For more statistics on the production check out www.maryandmax.com, a really lovely website for the film. Bet you can’t guess how much lube they needed.)

También la lluvia

In 2000 Bolivia, a young filmmaker and his producer set out to make a movie about Columbus’s arrival in the West and his relationship with the natives. Between religion, politics, need, passion, and decency, morality is tossed like a hot potato. It is one of the most profound elements of the film. Gael Garcia Bernal plays the young filmmaker with of selfish zeal, driven to produce an authentic representation of Spanish history, but at the core of the story is his producer Costa, played by an excellent Luis Tosar. Mediator and cheerleader, his responsibilities quickly become greater than he could possibly have imagined. His efforts to save a buck by filming in Bolivia are thwarted when local conflict over the privatization of water escalates to demonstrations and mass violence. To the privileged and the able, there is no question of loyalty to the film’s production. For the locals in need of water, much more than production deadlines weigh on their shoulders. The question then – for everyone – becomes: “At what cost?” What will it cost to safely make this film? What does it cost to pursue your career? What are you willing to lose for the right to fresh, clean water? When do you say ‘enough?’

There’s a lot going on in También la lluvia; there’s a film within a film, social uprising, human rights debate, morality, representation of history, and a clash of cultures. Not to mention the fact that I’m watching it with English subtitles, knowing only bits of Spanish myself. All the same, it is an ambitious film that manages to accomplish quite a lot of what it intends. No wonder Angelina Jolie has adopted so many children from foreign countries. To be a sensitive person filming in a deeply conflicted country… I cannot imagine.

Never Let Me Go

It wasn’t until I saw the trailer for the film adaptation of Never Let Me Go that I knew I had to read the book. The visuals for the film intrigued me in a way that the book cover and summary had not, though we all know movie trailers and dust jackets can be deceiving. How else can we know what goes on inside? It’s like the education of Hailsham students, walking the line between “told, but not told.”

Much of the narrative of Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel and Alex Garland’s screenplay is memory, making the sea-air texture of the film suitably nostalgic. One has to wonder, though, what these characters have to be nostalgic for when they’re in their youth. Life at Hailsham hardly seems worth noting. Screenwriter Garland adds his own details to life at Hailsham, and not merely unwarranted, but they don’t add anything, either. While he’s very good at expressing the ideas threaded through Never Let Me Go, the affection or friendship between Kathy and Ruth is decidedly absent. With Tommy, the three are supposed to be inseparable –  whereas it seems that whatever common past they share is a tenuous bond, at best.  I never expect the film of a novel to maintain all aspects of the novel. That said, there were several things I missed, and a few things added erroneously.

For the performances, Andrew Garfield’s Tommy is endearing and heartfelt, and Keira Knightley makes sense as Ruth, even if I expected more of the role. Carey Mulligan, of course, is spot-on as narrator Kathy. Lonely and sympathetic, at times resembling Michelle Williams, her character develops nicely.

Yet somehow, one comes away from the film feeling that something is missing. Then again, maybe that’s one of the many reactions we’re meant to feel from Never Let Me Go: the vague sense that our joys could be more joyous, our losses more somber, and our time together more fulfilling.

Somewhere

In Somewhere, Stephen Dorff is Johnny Marco, an actor whose miserable existence is punctuated with expensive misadventures and alcohol. It’s not very glamorous, and it isn’t terribly interesting, either. Half an hour in, I was fairly certain the first two minutes contained all I needed to know about the film. Elle Fanning’s first appearance as Johnny’s daughter Cleo places her in an angelic light, and it’s true that if it wasn’t for her, there wouldn’t be much to watch. After her first appearance, it’s entirely too long before she returns for a visit. Her energy, smile, and her engagement in life is a sharp contrast from Johnny’s melancholic routines.

What has Johnny done to deserve his fortune or his miseries? We’ll never know. It’s clear he’s a self-absorbed man with a guilty conscience. In LA he thinks he’s being followed, other times, he’s haunted by accusatory text messages from a private number. It comes as no surprise that he’s ill-equipped to communicate or care for to his 11-year-old daughter; more often than not, she takes care of him, better care than any of the adults in his life. By the time he figures it out, it is, of course, almost too late. Unlike most fathers, he has the blessing of leisure time, time to spend with his daughter before dropping her off at summer camp.

Somewhere is a fairly short film, though you wouldn’t guess it from a viewing. Elle Fanning as Cleo is a miniature adult; her uncommon maturity made obvious and more apparent by Johnny’s predilection for women bearing a strong resemblance to Cleo. Having finally spent more than a day with her, Johnny realizes, sobbing on the floor of his dumpy room at the Chateau Marmont, what we have known all along: his life is empty without her.

Now, no one really believes reformation happens overnight, and perhaps this self-discovery is the most we can ask of Johnny. Dorff does a brilliant job at inhabiting the torturous feelings of boredom, self-loathing, and egotism, tempering it with a genuine adoration of his daughter. He’s a marvel to see, even if the context is boring and goes on for far too long. There are no surprises, no unexpected twists, no alternate realities in Somewhere. In fact, the title is entirely misleading – because in the end, we’ve gone nowhere.

Water for Elephants

Adaptations fascinate me. The evolution from one complete medium to another is incredible and revelatory. I love to observe the different forms a story can take, and what difference any changes may make. Many – dare I say most? – popular films, plays, musicals, television series, and even novels are based on older versions of the same story, stories so inherently interesting or diverting that we thrill to tell them again and again. In our world, stories travel through our technology faster than ever before and novels are optioned for film adaptations before they are written.

I read Water for Elephants after it hit the best-seller list, before it was optioned for a film, and before everyone I knew had read it. Naturally, I had developed my own idea for how the characters should look (“Marlena a blonde? No. Absolutely not. Never.”), but the novel itself was written in a very accessible and cinematic manner, and its subsequent adaptation came as no surprise. While I was by no means enamored of Sara Gruen’s novel, there were still a lot of expectations riding on this film.

My own misguided hope that caused me to anticipate something akin to Big Fish, but Francis Lawrence directs a surprisingly faithful adaptation in this elegant period piece. Lawrence previously worked in the shorter media of music video and mini-series, and learning this now explains the up-and-down pacing of the film. The conflict/resolution/climax cycle is off, the film’s arc disjointed – though I have a vague memory of feeling similarly about the book. That aside, his visuals are dynamic and effective, with a very clear depiction of camaraderie and menagerie.

The elephant in the room (forgive the pun) is of course, Robert Pattinson. If you’ve read any of my other reviews, you know that I own up to any partiality where it exists. I have neither seen nor read Twilight, and the closest I have come to watching Pattinson at all is Jimmy Fallon’s hilarious “Robert is Bothered” sketches. But you know what? Good job, Pattinson. And that’s a damn fine performance from Ms. Witherspoon as well. Even if she is blonde. And no one had any doubt that Christoph Waltz would be brilliant as circus ringleader and tyrant August Rosenbluth (though not having seen his Oscar-winning turn in Inglorious Basterds, I could not have imagined his suitability for the part).

There’s something else special about this film, something unexpected and beautiful: the chemistry between Pattinson and Witherspoon, remarkable because it is not sexual chemistry, but something older, wiser, and respectful. Their characters share an instinct for self-preservation, and a sympathy, an understanding, a love of animals of which the circus seems devoid. The profound affection between these kindred spirits actually generates the sense that this relationship – not driven by lust – might actually last.

Water for Elephants is a lovely film, and well-cast, recommended for viewing. Because we all like “tricks and illusion” now and again, don’t we?

Hesher

Catching Hesher was easily one of the best decisions I’ve made in a long time. While it may not win any awards, it’s precisely the catharsis I didn’t know I needed.

I wasn’t sure I’d buy Joseph Gordon-Levitt as a hardcore, no-holds-barred tough guy, but not only did I buy it, I’d pay for it again. A good actor knows that the audience will go along with what he believes to be true; it’s clear that Levitt is – on some level – Hesher, though Levitt’s inherent and undeniable likeability helps to offset Hesher’s vulgarity. Still, Hesher is a side of Levitt we’ve never seen – reluctant rock and roll model whose path crosses with unlikely disciple T.J. (Devin Brochu). And really it’s T.J. who’s at the center of this story.

When a character starts out with a broken arm, you know things have not been going well; and for T.J. things just keep getting worse. It seems that T.J.’s nemesis, a grown up version of Chuckie from Rugrats, lives only to bully T.J. and add insult to his injuries. Surely a kid can’t be expected to properly mourn his mother’s death when he’s having his face shoved in a urinal at school. T.J. puts up a good front for his dad and grandmother at home, but no one should have to deal with that kind of stress alone. Not that Hesher is the friend T.J. needs, but his sudden arrival and persistent presence (Levitt’s footsteps take ‘plodding' to a new extreme) is enough to prompt a reaction from T.J.

Everyone deals with grief differently, but most of us recognize the point at which the only thing you can do is keep going. The characters in Hesher have all reached that point. Devin Brochu is exceptional as a young man on the cusp of adolescence, sporting a red sweatshirt like a miniature, contemporary James Dean. Rainn Wilson plays T.J.’s father, Paul Forney. His role suffers some neglect since his shadow of a man is the shell of an interesting character. Natalie Portman is everything I wished she would be in Garden State – homely and comely and real. And Hesher… well, “Hesher is the id run rampant” (Peter Travers for Rolling Stone), and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is magnetic in one of his most entertaining roles to date.

So. You can do nothing, like Paul Forney, or you can do something, like Hesher. I recommend Hesher.

The King's Speech

Many of us like to think of British royals as Julie Andrews and Helen Mirren, or Patrick Stewart and Kenneth Brannagh. But we haven’t seen them quite like this.

The King’s Speech is a refreshing take on Pygmalion, which itself is likened to a Cinderella story, and yet The King's Speech is borne out of history; Shaw only wishes his script was as much fun as this one. The Duke of York is debilitated by his stammer, and having seen numerous doctors with royal referrals, has resigned himself to an identity of “B-b-b-b-bertie” the stuttering son of King George V. In fact, screenwriter David Seidler has smartly paid homage to Shaw’s infamous play by including a scene in which one doctor insists upon having the Duke try to speak while keeping marbles in his mouth. When the The Duke’s adoring wife Elizabeth is less willing to give up, they instead seek the unconventional help of Australian speech therapist Lionel Logue.

It practically goes without saying that Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush are brilliant. Their names are synonymous with great performances (if one forgives Firth for Mamma Mia! After all, who turns down a chance to work with Meryl Streep?). That said, my fear was that by purchasing my ticket I had committed myself to a second edition of The Queen – poorly paced and overlong but with undeniably strong performances that (would hopefully) sustain my interest. Thankfully, The King’s Speech is so much better than that. Director Tom Hooper has done a beautiful job filming a deeply personal and moving film, choosing to allow the dynamic performances to come to the fore. Even the predictable lines or moments are entirely earned, the same way you or I may follow a statement with “it had to be said.”

What stood out to me was the excellent cinematography. It has been a long time since I felt a film was so enhanced by the placement and effectiveness of the framing of shots. The artistry of a single frame could be felt in a way that reminded me of A Single Man. Often simple, but thoughtful. Similarly, Helena Bonham Carter gave a performance unlike anything I’ve seen from her and she is a pleasure to watch. As a loving wife and mother, Carter brings grace, love, and a woman’s touch to the otherwise reserved royal family.

Notes:

-        As with so many wonderful films, the story behind its realization is every bit as fascinating as the story that made it to screen. Playbill.com recently featured a “Stage to Screens” article by Harry Haun that details the process. (http://www.playbill.com/features/article/147151-STAGE-TO-SCREENS-The-Kings-Speech-the-Acclaimed-Film-Started-as-a-Play-and-May-Return-as-One)

-        Colin Firth is most famous for having played Mr. Darcy in the BBC’s adaptation of Pride and Prejudice; his leading lady from that miniseries is also in The King’s Speech as Lionel Logue’s wife.

True Grit

Confession: I haven’t seen Jeff Bridges in much of anything since I saw him captain the 1996 film White Squall. Maybe I’ve lived under a rock, but I somehow have yet to see The Big Lebowski and Crazy Heart. Maybe he deserved the Academy win last year. Or maybe he just needs a cowboy hat the way Helena Bonham Carter needs a corset – a talisman that gives their performance strength and power. Regardless, what I loved about Bridges in White Squall reappears in True Grit: tough love and determination, and a low tolerance for sissies.

In the late 1800s, fourteen-year-old Mattie Ross enlists the gruff, tired, one-eyed Rubin “Rooster” Cogburn to help find the man who killed her father. Cogburn’s half-drunk, half-asleep reticence sustains him until there’s action – at which point he readily comes to life, only to resume his cocky, distanced demeanor thereafter. His rambling chatter is met at counterpoint by the lofty speech of Texas Ranger LaBoeuf (pronounced “Lah-beef,” as he is a man who clearly has a beef with his enemy), also on the trail of one murderous, outlaw scoundrel who goes by Tom Chaney, among other aliases. Incidentally, it’s a kick to hear three renegades of the law chasing after a criminal called Chaney. Mattie, Cogburn, and LaBoeuf make a lively threesome as they pursue Chaney in Arkansas’ wild Chocktaw territory.

One other confession before I continue: I have not, before True Grit, seen a Coen brothers film. My knowledge of them is largely through reputation, and I understand they are a force with which to be reckoned. Much like Cogburn, I suppose, they have proved to be men of true grit. As far as I can comment on their filmmaking, I believe exposition is not their strength, and perhaps their cinematography serves not the picture but their ability to cast and carve characters exceedingly well. My qualm lies in the lack of gravitas permitted to certain small corners of the film. Elizabeth Marvel’s voiceover work as the elder Mattie Ross left much to be desired; the final lines of the film ought to have far more gravitas. Brief character roles are filled and depicted with incredible detail, but it’s hard to tell if they’re trying to illustrate or caricaturize traditional figures of the cinematic westerns. Early in the film, Mattie walks in to a public court hearing, where I wasn’t sure if the prosecuting lawyer was a humorous figure or a man to be taken seriously.

That aside, every performer in the film took their role and enhanced it. Newcomer Hailee Steinfeld brings a contemporary accessibility to nineteenth century, adolescent farmer’s daughter who has appointed herself head of the household. Her performance has made quite an impression on movie audiences, rivaling Chloe Grace-Moritz as Hit Girl (Kick-Ass) for Bad Ass Young Female Figure of the Year. What Mattie retains that Hit Girl doesn’t is her youth: on Chaney’s trail, she still delights in the care of her horse as a child dotes on a pet, and her eagerness to avoid conflict between allies by distracting them with ghost stories betrays her innocence. It’s a clever combination the Coen brothers have drawn, and well balanced by Miss Steinfeld. I last saw Matt Damon in the Clint Eastwood drama Hereafter, but his appearance in True Grit is delightful. As LaBeouf, he’s required to display a touch less modesty and a bit more bravado than he usually does, though he wisely allows Bridges to take the fore. Cogburn’s a hell of a character and Bridges is no less than fantastic as a gravelly, gristly bear prodded from hibernation to do what he does best – hunt.

Using humor to temper the course of adventure, it’s a timely film to help get through the winter. I would not be surprised to see True Grit collect several Academy Awards. For anyone who had doubts about a Coen brothers remake of a 1968 classic, True Grit has certainly proved its mettle.

The Fighter

It’s the relentlessness of boxing that makes it so difficult to watch. It’s not enough to make your opponent bleed, to break bones in his or her face, knock teeth or knock your opponent to the ground. A boxer must do all of these things, repeatedly, and may lose perspective on the damage being done – and thus the referee must stay in the ring with the fighters, often pulling them apart, trying to gauge when the pummeled has had enough. And yet, at least the sport has that to offer, a referee. If only families used one.

Today, the Ecklund-Ward household would star in their own reality series. A Greek chorus of seven interchangeable daughters and two nearly-famous sons, the adult family feels more like a polygamist nightmare than someplace to call home. Older brother Dicky Ecklund (Christian Bale at his wiry, cocaine-addicted, tortured best,) is the prodigal son with a drug problem, ever trying to avoid admitting his faults while reminding everyone that he is the “Pride of Lowell.” Micky (the brilliantly understated Mark Wahlberg) adores his older brother, and calmly navigates the rough family tides. Matriarch Alice Ward still exerts tremendous influence over her grown children, though her show-mother-den-mother identity seems to overpower any practical considerations. The manipulation that gets Micky to go along with his mother’s and brother’s choices – the indoctrination to choose allegiance to family over one’s best interest is overt and frightening. You would think that a boxer would have some instinct for self-preservation, but no, these boys have yet to learn.

Thus we arrive at the title. Slowly, but with great force, Dicky and Micky begin to understand that some of their choices have been self-sabotage and each is willing to fight for his life. Then again, a prison sentence or finding love can help you turn your life around (or so one would like to believe). It’s something of a relief to see Dicky imprisoned and Micky come out of his shell as he falls in love with new-in-town bartender Charlene (a surprisingly plain Amy Adams). If you’re like me, arguments among loved ones drive you to wonder why we can’t all just get along. Compromise, right? At least when things to come to a cinematic close, it’s an earned resolution. These are characters (and people) who have worked to achieve their version of a happy family.

If you had any doubts as to the truth behind the story, not only are there traditional end tags with epilogues for each of the major players, but some interview footage of Dick Ecklund and Micky Ward is shown as the credits begin. It’s clear to see how Bale and Wahlberg were chosen, or if not chosen, at least the inspiration for their performances.

Pandorum

You know it’s true. There are certain films that you see only because one actor you like is in it. In fact, entire franchises have been built on less than that. Pandorum, for me, was one such film.

Anyone who saw the 2007 remake of 3:10 to Yuma knows that the most riveting performer in the movie was Ben Foster. His unflinchingly loyal Charlie Prince was a man of contradictions, and easily commanded the most interest. Foster has done well for himself, having graduated from Disney’s FlashForward and established himself as an intensely focused and talented actor, garnering praise from supporting roles in Alpha Dog, Hostage, X-Men 3, and his powerful lead in The Messenger. Thus, on a very chilly January evening I sat down to sate my anticipation of Foster’s forthcoming The Mechanic with Pandorum.

In fact, Foster is one of the first people we meet on the spaceship Elysium – we watch him rediscover himself and his world as he wakes up from hypersleep. As Corporal Bower, he seems to be the only one conscious and possibly the last one alive. Soon he is joined by Lieutenant Payton (Dennis Quaid), who resumes the command. Together, they determine that they are part of a flight team and that while they cannot recall their mission, it is up to Bower to restore power to the ship and enable navigation, and furthermore, their survival. Bower’s journey to the ship’s reactor aligns him with space ninjas (abandoned passengers who have learned to defend themselves) and pits him against cannibalistic Hunters (a humanoid species that feeds on the blood and flesh of other humans). Along the way, he discovers that Elysium was en route to a distant Earth-like planet when something went wrong. Bower must endure the danger and violence he encounters while trying to hold on to his sanity. The slightest shake or bloody nose may indicate the onset of ‘pandorum’ – a kind of insanity caused by severe psychological trauma and long periods of hypersleep. An astronaut giving in to pandorum will likely hallucinate, becoming paranoid and violent.

Invented by the filmmakers Travis Milloy and Christian Alvart, ‘pandorum’ is a fictional illness, the word itself combining the connotations of Pandora’s Box and the evil released into the world, and pandemonium, which certainly ensues. Now by and large, I do not like scary movies. I have seen very few of them, but one of them was a spelunking nightmare called The Descent. Whereas The Descent sets six women against subterranean humanoid creatures that have evolved to life in the underground caves, Pandorum is The Descent in space. Somewhere between the Crawlers of The Descent and the Reavers of Joss Whedon’s Firefly/Serenity series lie the Hunters of Pandorum. (Coincidentally, Ben Foster’s costar from FlashForward was the mechanic for Serenity – Jewel Staite.)

That being said, Production Designer Richard Bridgland has done a fantastic job with his futuristic reality. The ship’s design was likely influenced by pop culture’s icons of science fiction: from Star Trek to the original Star Wars, The Fifth Element to Apollo 13, Firefly and Serenity. A good spaceship will always strike a balance between being able to see the underlying mechanical elements and the advanced technology that develops as I write. The coolest and most unexpected piece of technology is featured for a moment in the first ten minutes of the film when Bower shaves with a laser-razor – of course, my personal fear of sharp objects usually makes scenes that involve shaving difficult to watch.

I had no problem watching Pandorum, though I found some of the savagery nauseating. Despite a fairly satisfying conclusion, Pandorum left me feeling rather “eh.” While dividing the major conflicts between Bower – who mainly fought the Hunters – and Payton – who struggled with pandorum – was an effective way to cover a lot of interesting concepts, I don’t think I ever fully invested in either of them. Cam Gigandet as fellow survivor Corporal Gallo was ill-used, nevermind the boring struggle among Gallo, Payton, and pandorum. Or maybe Payton’s struggle was less effective for being left to Quaid to tackle; I have to wonder if Foster wouldn’t have been more interesting in that role. Then again, I’m biased.

Black Swan

“As filmmakers, we can show where a person’s mind goes, as opposed to theater,
which is more to sit back and watch it.” – Darren Aronofsky

Black Swan does what all of my favorite films do: it makes the most of its medium to express what could scarcely be communicated. It is excellent, a psychological thriller en pointe. It’s about art, ballet, acting, performance, competition, jealousy, suffering, perfection, transcendence, and invention. As professional ballerina Nina Sayers, Natalie Portman channels Audrey Hepburn. When the director of the ballet company decides to replace his prima ballerina for the new season, Nina is the very embodiment of the devastatingly delicate Princess in Swan Lake. But can she dance the seductive Black Swan as well?

Every artist knows the struggle of being true to one’s self while responding to the demands of the art. For Nina, her determination to inhabit both swans is also a struggle for her own identity – her ambitions, independence from her possessive mother, her sexuality. As the pressure to be perfect compounds and Nina sheds her former self, she breaks with reality, becoming increasingly paranoid, possibly schizophrenic, and dangerous. A woman passes Nina on the street; is it Lily? Or Nina’s double? Part of Aronofsky’s genius lies in his ability to show that life and art are intertwined, the one influencing the other and changing it. In The Fountain, he explored the interplay between our present and our history. The careful placement of images to craft a perception rather than a reality is extraordinary, like a dream in which our subconscious plays tricks on us. We may be more certain than Nina of what has been seen, but we are unsettled all the same.

The background elements are equally well crafted, enhancing the story, and turning Portman’s Sayers into a rat in a maze. At work and at home, Nina is surrounded by reflections and repeated patterns. Mirrors line the studios in which she dances, they decorate the walls of her home, she sees herself in her mother, in new company member Lily, and in the former prima ballerina Beth. She is haunted by echoes, the reflection of sound. There’s something deliciously creepy in Aronofsky’s representation of New York City as labyrinthine, unknowable, dirty, and suspect. No matter how well we may know these things to be true, setting our fragile ballerina against this rough-and-tumble backdrop is immensely effective. If some of the costume or make-up choices seem a little obvious, it’s because the symbolism behind them works. It is the lesson of the Swan Princess – why struggle against the inevitable? Regardless, the film is beautiful and it already has my (uncounted) support for Best Sound Design.

The Fall

Filmmaker Tarsem Singh spent his own considerable fortune to create The Fall. Based on a Bulgarian film, a young girl in a hospital (her arm having broken while picking oranges) forms an unexpected friendship with a wounded stuntman (whose fall from a train trestle caused him to break both of his legs). On the day they meet, Roy tells Alexandria that he will tell her a great story, set in India, when she returns to visit the next day. What follows is an extraordinary journey of visual splendor and heartrending significance.

Understanding the stylization of certain aspects of the film is key to fully enjoying it. Most viewers can appreciate the decision to limit the color palette for the 1920s sequences while saturating the story of the Masked Bandit. It speaks directly to The Wizard of Oz – and in fact, the films are very similar. In each, a young girl uses the figures she knows as faces in an imagined story that parallels her life. But it’s easy to take color for granted in contemporary cinema, so it’s up to Tarsem’s exceptional creativity and courage to pull out all the stops for his magical world. The editorial craft of manipulating dozens of exquisite locations without the use of a green screen is its own magic, seamless in creating a dreamlike realm that grows more beautiful at every turn and consistent within its own reality.

I have friends who were unable to appreciate the story sequences because of what they called “bad acting.” I tell them they are mistaken, that the performances in the fantasy are heightened – stylized – so that we never forget we are in the imagination of a six year old girl. It’s impossible to deny the effectiveness of Tarsem’s leading young lady, Catinca Untaru. Her genuine performance is what drives the film; we fall in love with her and come to want Roy’s epic as much as she does. It is through her imagination and the familiar elements of her world that the fantastical story within The Fall is told. So when Roy tells her of the Indian, she envisions a scene in India, making no effort to accommodate the squaw hidden in a wigwam. Unfamiliar with Roy’s use of Native American terminology, and expecting a tale set in the East, she interprets the story as best she can. It’s this subtle touch that contributes to making the visual story uniquely hers.

There are critics who have condemned the film, proposing that an affection for it condones the manipulation of children for selfish purposes. I can’t speak for the process between director and actress, and I won’t scorn Roy’s influence over Alexandria. The “strange pair” have a need for the story they spin. Their needs differ at times, but they exist nonetheless. On the contrary, my sole qualm with the film lies with Nurse Evelyn. While I believe she was intended as a substitute maternal figure, I never saw her in a positive light. When she betrays Alexandria, it is Catinca’s depiction of heartbreak that sells it, nothing less.

I write my review now because The Fall is a film of note – regardless of its release date. It took four years for the film to find David Fincher and Spike Jonze, whose willingness to support the film helped get it to theaters at all. Luckily we the people have DVDs – high quality DVDs and televisions – that come close to recapturing the magic of a movie theater. If any of The Fall’s considerable magic is lost on your first viewing, consider sitting closer, and imagining the grandeur of it on a big screen. If you find yourself soaring like I did, you’ll know the biggest fall is coming back to earth after the movie is over.

Kick-Ass

Good things come in the smallest packages; at least they do in Kick-Ass. In a film dedicated to comic book geeks and everywhere invisible teenage boys, young Chloë Moretz is the standout performer and my hero of the film, although even this could not have been accomplished without the success of the film’s other elements.

One of the things I most respect and appreciate about Kick-Ass (or perhaps director Matthew Vaughn) is the tone and speed with which it sets up our story. I don’t want to say that establishing elements or backstory are glossed over – it is information that comes quickly, clearly, and without asking us to accept the cliché as original. The production design and cinematography is largely helpful in this, as Russell De Rozario and Ben Davis succeed in creating a world infused with the imagery and framing of a comic book. And in a story as self-aware as this one, it’s more appropriate to tell us that Dave is our Peter Parker than it is to merely give him a similar story. In fact, the direct parallels to Spiderman belong in the film as an integral part of how Dave sees the world. It would not be the same without them. Even Big Daddy and Hit Girl maintain the art of the comic book within their secret existence, as the form in which their backstory is revealed.

However, when there are unexplained or unreferenced similarities to other films or stories, something does seem to be missing. As I write this, I realize that my biggest qualms with the film lie in the bad guy family. Christopher Mintz-Plasse’s rich kid Chris D’Amico bears an uncanny resemblance to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off rich kid Cameron Frye. Then Red Mist is somehow reminiscent of the villain of The Incredibles: Syndrome. But with someone as recognizable as Mintz-Plasse playing Chris, one has to wonder why Dave doesn’t recognize his classmate as Red Mist. Yancy Butler, as Mrs. D’Amico, makes a few brief appearances looking strikingly like a petite Angelina Jolie. Mark Strong plays yet another villain as Frank D’Amico, but his one comedic scene early in the film in which he plans his trip to the movies, is delightfully entertaining – I only wish there was more of this sensibility to his role in the rest of the film. Instead, I found myself wondering what it would have been like to have Christopher Meloni (of Law and Order: SVU and Wet Hot American Summer) playing the drug boss.

Everybody else though, is believably average and therefore, perfect. Somehow the drug thugs manage to come off as authentic clichés rather than petty Sopranos wannabes. Aaron Johnson is not too good-looking to pass for an awkward teenager, nor does he look too old for high school (refreshing, in Hollywood). Dave’s buddies are every bit as anonymous as he says they are, and his beginning efforts are as painful as they are well intentioned. But if Dave is without superpowers (a la Spiderman), and without a super powerful bank account (a la Batman), where does he get the money for his costume? A mystery.

Also a mystery is where Big Daddy and Hit Girl got their trust fund. Three hundred thousand dollars for a toy of the trade? Fun! But how? It doesn’t matter. They’re the two caped crusaders that we believe are truly superheroes. Nicolas Cage – a polarizing performer at best – acknowledges his character’s similarity to Batman by adopting the specific speech patterns of the most famous Batman of all, Adam West. Being aware of this fact prior to seeing the film helped me to accept his otherwise affected and vacant Big Daddy. When he’s spot on, it works; when he isn’t, it becomes difficult to understand what he is saying.

And then there’s Hit Girl. Now maybe I’m partial to her purple wig (at one point I was going to don one to get through chemotherapy), but Chloë Moretz’s Mindy Macready, a.k.a. Hit Girl, is the glue holding this thing together. She’s the fiercest, most agile, most deadly, and most determined of our heroes – with the best costume, by far. She’s no satire of Spiderman or Batman, and while those who don’t understand the film may complain about her involvement in the bloodshed or her foul and offensive language, she is without a doubt the most interesting character in the film, the most magnetizing on screen, and the most fun to watch. Unlike with Kick-Ass, Red Mist, or Big Daddy, there is no question as to whether we are in a comic book world or a real world in which comic books are featured. We are in Mindy’s world, the only world she knows and lives in, a world in which superheroes are truly super men and women. This is why there is no need to be offended by such a young child speaking such crass dialogue. In Mindy’s world, it’s all for effect. It’s all a part of her superhero persona, and she uses it without relish but to insult and punish those to whom she is speaking. As for the bloodshed – we’re not talking Tarantino here, and Hit Girl isn’t even present for the films goriest moment. When she fights, the stylization of it makes it akin to viewing a comic book or watching a cartoon. Aren’t there any feminists to support Hit Girl’s heroism? What happened to all the viewers wanting to see girls in a role of power? I’m a little sad that young girls – too young for this movie – won’t get to have Hit Girl as a heroine, but at least I do. It’s nice to see a young girl kick some ass now and again.

A Single Man

The trailer for Ford's directorial debut revealed little about the movie's plot, and felt rather reminiscent of an Ingmar Bergman film. From that, plus a director whose day job as a fashion photographer renown for his particularity and perfectionism, one might expect A Single Man to be a far more pretentious film.

Instead, Ford has bypassed the awkward feeling of film school projects or self-appreciating productions with an exquisitely crafted story of love, pain, loss, and coping. There's a surprising amount of sarcasm and humor throughout, extraordinary production design, and every shot is imbued with enough style to balance what might otherwise have been an excess of pathos.

Ford can't claim all the responsibility for the brilliance in A Single Man - the film is buoyed by the brilliant the stellar ensemble. Colin Firth is so profoundly moving as George Falconer, it's no wonder his performance has generated so much buzz. Julianne Moore also shines as George's best friend, Charly. In the hands of a lesser actress, Charly would quickly become a grating cliché - we are grateful to Moore that she does not. Nicholas Hoult, the youngest of the eponymous heroes of About a Boy, has clearly blossomed into his early adulthood. His icy blue eyes are filmed to their best advantage, and he creates a Dorian Gray-like ambiguously sensual persona for George's living ghost. Matthew Goode's screen time is so brief that his effectiveness is remarkable. His connection with Firth is so simple and genuine that George's adoration of Jim is completely believable.

Finding such finely tuned performances in A Single Man is representative of Ford's impeccably refined style. Like all good fashion, A Single Man highlights its strong points and limits its weaknesses. Like all good art, it could use another viewing.

Possession

Perhaps it has to do with the title. At one time, the Sarah Michelle Gellar/Lee Pace suspense flick was titled Addicted. Then the title changed, and everything went south. While the movie would now be titled Possession, it seemed much more like a hot potato. Possession simply could not make its way to theaters. Surely it couldn’t have helped to share a title with an extremely poorly received Gwyneth Paltrow/Aaron Eckhart romance. Then, with the release date constantly being pushed back, the fall of the distribution company, and the DVD delays, there wasn’t even time for the title to be re-associated for a new audience.

Anyone interested in seeing Possession was undoubtedly frustrated at the wait for its availability – if he or she maintained any interest in it at all. Were Lee Pace not in the film, I know Possession would never have made my ‘To See’ list. Gellar’s work has never tempted this reviewer, but so far, a Lee Pace movie has always been worth the wait (see: The Fall). From the trailer for Possession, it was apparent that the story of a felonious brother waking from a coma believing he is the romantic brother and husband of a beautiful young lawyer (Gellar) was either going to be very well done, or very poorly done. There would be no in-between.

I would like to take this moment to praise the trailer editor. The trailer was so enthralling that I became eager to watch the movie and find out how exactly the subject would be handled and resolved. Sadly, it seems that the filmmakers had yet to decide these matters when the film was made. What seems like a good story concept is poorly fleshed out and ill explained. Many unanswered questions and potential suspense moments are sprinkled throughout, though none of them seem to interest the characters or director. Only in the beginning, where cheaply predictable ‘foreshadowing’ elements are combined in the most deliberately shot, formulaic scenes since the videos used in high school Spanish class.

The concept at the core of the film is fascinating. Can one person wake up from a coma, possessing the soul of another? Amnesia is no less mysterious an idea; why not? Especially for the sake of a movie. Were I in Gellar’s character’s situation, I too might do an internet search to figure out what’s going on. But to make the jump from “psychological” phenomena to “possession”… did Buffy grow up to be a lawyer? Who knows. It’s one of many story holes plaguing the film.

Performances are as you would expect. Gellar is the standard suspense-film heroine, Michael Landes serves well as her sweeter-than-pie artist husband, and Pace – I may be a little biased, but Pace does his best with what he is given. His Roman is both dirty and angsty before the accident, then softer and desperate after. Were the answers not handed to you in the beginning of the film, the transformation would be much more engaging.

To the benefit of the viewer’s imagination, the DVD includes a brief featurette and deleted scenes with an alternate ending. The featurette seems to reveal some uncertainty on set about the truth of the story, at least the truth they intend to tell. The extra scenes, significantly different and far more interesting than the ending used in the final cut, suggest that Possession, as the filmmakers abandoned it, would have worked better as a Choose Your Own Adventure DVD. Perhaps we would all have the benefit of a film we could enjoy, instead of an unfortunate corruption of a Japanese thriller. Unless of course, you view the film as a reason to be less afraid of the dark. After all, if there’s a brooding Lee Pace stalking around and in love with me, what’s the problem?