Movie Review

(In theaters, October 2004) In this post-9/11 era where firefighters are the new demigods of civic responsibility, funding for a movie such as Ladder 49 comes naturally. Even the trite by-the-numbers script plays it safe in a transparent attempt to mythologize the plight of the ordinary firefighter. The result is a sure-fire populist hit and film likely to be a firehouse fixture for years to come. For those with an average interest in firefighters, however, all that’s left is an ordinary drama that makes to attempts at being a thriller (unlike Backdraft) or more than a straight-up biographic drama. This is a life (or maybe an instructional video), not a story. Save for a manipulative framing device, events simply happen without dramatic tension or surprises. Is it earnest or calculated? I suspect that those who go for the film just won’t care.

(In theaters, October 2004) First thing first: Yup, this film is packed with chills and scares and spring-loaded cats and gratuitously wrong imagery. On these grounds alone, this ranks as a successful horror films. There’s only one catch, though: Even as your lower reptilian cortex is being so effectively stroked, your higher-level brain functions will violently react as they try to make sense of what is ultimately a pretty dumb film. The implicit pact between filmmaker and viewer is broken: The early weird scenes do not end up making sense. We are to believe in a haunted house that takes sadistic delight in killing everyone who enters it, but then we see a real estate agent waltz in and out. Then the house starts going after victims just about everywhere in Tokyo, under guises that don’t actually reflect the internal logic of the triggering trauma. Then some people are killed efficiently while others are left to suffer for a bit, and maybe even take the bus back home. In short, there’s no internal logic, no “rules” to play with. This, contrarily to what others may say, doesn’t make the film scarier: It makes it cheaper, lazier and dumber. A year after The Ring, I still have chills over it thanks to a simple plot line that worked. A day after The Grudge, I can scarcely remember it already.

(Downloaded, October 2004) There is little doubt that this is a hagiography of John Kerry, carefully structured to bolster his image both as a soldier in Vietnam and then an opponent of the war after his tour of duty. And it delivers in spade. An “invisible documentary” with little overt intervention by a narrator, George Butler’s Going Upriver does wonder with archival footage and talking heads, describing Kerry’s formative experiences with skillful effect. In doing so, however, it manages something more; it holds its own as the capsule description of a time and a place from Vietnam to Washington. John Kerry predictably emerges from the film looking like a hero, but the context surrounding him is even more impressive. As someone born the same year Saigon fell, the description of anti-war protests is an eye-opener, going well beyond the usual encyclopedia articles about the subject. Kerry’s leadership qualities are manifest, but so is the dedication of the movement he’s spear-heading. It’s unusually moving, especially given the natural tendency to associate this war, so long away, with another still unfolding as I write this. In this mash-up between Kerry the soldier and Kerry the activist, it’s the activist who emerges as the clearest hero. Powerful stuff: the archival footage is excellent (including large portions of Kerry’s Senate Foreign Relations Committee testimony) and some of the pictures are nothing less than breath-taking. (Among the film’s surprises is seeing John O’Neill pop up, thirty years ago, as a White House-selected Kerry opponent. And they say history history repeats itself…) It all ends with a clever montage of photos from later in Kerry’s career, showing his ascension to positions of power. How can this man not be elected president?

(In theaters, October 2004) The curse of most average SF/Fantasy movies these days is the market imperative to pad a story until it’s roughly 90 minutes long. While the plot of The Forgotten may have been mildly entertaining as a 20-minutes Twilight Zone episode, it severely overstays its welcome as a feature film. Plot development is held back, obvious revelations are drawn out and the movie dilutes its impact through bad pacing. Truth be told, there just isn’t enough in the premise of the film (a woman sees elements of her life being “erased” from her life, including in other people’s memories) to justify more than a short story’s worth of material. Over ninety minutes, the basic problems of the story become obvious: All-powerful “erasers” able to modify minds but unable to paint over a wall? People “magically” remembering things? Silly chases through open fields? The powers of the opposition just don’t match the cat-and-mouse game (and the silly clues) in the film. Dumb, which wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t asking for a full hours-and-a-half of our attention. But it does. And shouldn’t. Calling a dumb little movie The Forgotten is asking for a reaction in kind. Just give me a week or two.

(In theaters, September 2004) Normally, it’s easy to emphasize with movie heroes looking out for their families. But when confronted with such a hypocritical piece of work like Paparazzi, it’s even harder to care. A revenge fantasy made for those dozens (dozens, I tell you!) actors rich enough to be hounded by celebrity photographers, Paparazzi makes its first mistake when it introduces a hero with serious attitude problems. Most of us could deal with paparazzis with a touch of tact; here, our protagonist starts pounding. Ahem. Then our antagonists are just as quickly sketched as lewd and amoral caricatures of pure evil, prone to hissy fits where they vow “I’ll destroy you!”. Uh-huh. (The script is so detached from reality that it features a woman jumping into bed right after witnessing her one-night-stand leaving the scene of a terrible accident he just caused. Whaaat?) The rest of the picture is a revenge fantasy where our sympathies naturally migrate toward the photographers rather than the rich-and-famous-actor. The awful coincidences, dumb contrivances and limp plotting do nothing to make us care and more. By the time the protagonist’s self-styled therapy session has given him the tools required to face his celebrity (“I’ve killed a bunch of your colleagues; how’s it going, champ? Take another picture of me, willya?”), normal audiences are left to face the fact that this is what passes for entertainment these days.

(In theaters, September 2004) This fascinating documentary takes us on the ground at the US Military media “control room” in Quatar throughout the American invasion of Iraq. While the focus is kept on the staff of the Al-Jazeera news network, this is really an examination of how war affects journalism, and how truth is carefully molded by forces escaping individual control. As a documentary, it’s low-touch: All is raw footage and beyond some text at the very beginning of the film, there is no feeling of a narration telling us what is happening. Don’t think that this makes for a loose film, though: Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Control Room is how it defines and watches its own characters coping with the ordeal. Samir Khader, a wizened news producer who tells the truth in-between cigarettes, including how he’d gladly trade the Arabic nightmare for the American dream. Hassan Ibrahim, a teddy bear philosopher whose quiet brainy rage is no match for the events he’s covering. Lt. Josh Rushing, a mouthpiece for the US Army who nevertheless shows, at times, a rough understanding of what is going on. Donald Rumsfeld, appearing only through television monitors, every single time uttering a statement that applies more to himself than to the enemies he thinks he’s damning. And the staff at Al-Jazeera, professionals and journalists just like others, until they themselves become targets. Throughout the film, one stark realization emerges for non-partisan viewers looking at it from a late-2004 perspective: In a match between American and Arab media, the Arab media seems to have a clearer picture of what truly happened. As American media breathlessly accuse Saddam of torturing prisoners and lying to the press, it’s hard not to feel the force of history selecting the ultimate truth-sayer.

(In theaters, September 2004) Thrillers don’t have to be good if they’re clever, and Cellular demonstrates this better than most other films. Bad dialogue? A lousy lead actress? Contrivances, coincidences and leaps of logic? Here’s the surprise: you just won’t care if the film is energetic and suspenseful enough. After a wobbly first fifteen minutes (Kim Basinger is still pretty hot, but her idea of “terrified” is closer to our vision of “mildly annoyed”), the premise is clearly established: A faint phone connection as the only thing linking a kidnapped woman to her accidental would-be rescuer. After that, watch out, because the film takes off and doesn’t land until the end. A succession of clever set-pieces keeps the action flowing, and director David R. Ellis’ nervy direction excels at delivering a limpid story. There’s suspense, there’s action, there’s wish-fulfilment and there’s plenty of humour. Lead Chris Evans does exceedingly well as an ordinary guy thrown into an extraordinary situation. Jason Stratham is wasted as the bad guy, but Rick Hoffman turns in a great character performance as an ultra-obnoxious lawyer. Los Angeles itself takes a starring role as the playground on which all the craziness occurs. The ending is a bit conventional, but no matter; by that point, it’s easy to be completely taken by Cellular, one of 2004’s purest and most compelling thrillers. Let this be a lesson to would-be filmmakers; be funny, be fast and be clever, damnit!

(In theaters, August 2004) Wow! After seeing the film, it’s hard to understand why Miramax held on to it for so long: While it may not be the most profound martial arts film ever shot, it certainly ranks up there as one of the most beautiful, along with a pleasing patina of sophistication when it comes to plotting. At first, it appears as if Jet Li plays a stoic warrior asked to tell the emperor the story of how he managed to kill three ferocious would-be assassins. But that’s not the real story, and that’s what we slowly discover as the film progresses. It’s not a complicated plot, but the structure is unusual enough to keep us interested. Of course, the fights are the core of the film’s appeal. Mercifully well-edited, they flow seamlessly and end slightly before we grow tired of them. But what puts this film over and above its comparable brethren is the flawless cinematography, which paints every fight scene with a very different colour palette. Digital effects are sagaciously used to heighten the sense of unreality that make this film so unique. In the end, Hero achieves an unusual distinction: that of being a martial art film of interest even to people without much interest in martial films.

(In theaters, August 2004) There is something interesting in how this romantic drama has all the trappings of a thriller without, in fact, being much of one. The somber pacing, the Hitchcock-inspired shots, the constant intimations that a psycho is on the loose may all contribute in making a vaguely creepy trailer, but they’re misleading in a way that becomes increasingly obvious as the film progresses. Oh, there’s much to applaud in the way the scenario is assembled, with flashbacks and dramatic ironies that make the viewer work in putting the story together. But once the story is put together, there just isn’t much left in terms of tension; just a dull love story that has no way of ending in a satisfying fashion. Acting-wise, John Hartnett once again proves that he is incapable to express any emotion beyond befuddlement. Matthew Lillard also once again proves an ability to triumph over lifeless material, mostly by acting in a different (but vastly more interesting) movie than the rest of the cast and crew. Otherwise, well, it’s not that Wicker Park is bad or all that dull, but that it falsely presents itself… and would have been vastly more entertaining had it been made as a comedy rather than a tepid drama with thriller aspirations.

(In theaters, August 2004) I see it all the time, yet I still hate it all the time: A boffo premise trashed by over-development, partially redeemed by just about enough directing/acting skill to make us long for the film that wasn’t. Zack Penn’s original 1997 screenplay was reportedly a barn-stormer of a script, a take on the serial-killer genre with plenty of things to say. I’m not sure what happened to it in the meantime, but the 2004 filmed version of the story is a hodge-podge of supernatural crap without much in terms of a sustained storyline. The structure is off, revelations are made too late, coincidence abounds, silly shortcuts are taken and, worse, some bits (the fifty-foot shark) don’t make sense without prior knowledge of the script. It gets, in other words, profoundly silly, and that’s exactly the wrong tone in a serial-killer picture. The matter-of-fact acceptance of “remote viewing” hurts most of all, but the rest of the picture isn’t all that special either: the energy has been sucked out of the script, resulting in, yes, a dull film. There is an interesting patina of good directing here and there (though it too-often falls into the “dark is scary” mode), along with a good performance by Ben Kingsley (his ear-rie shadow is spooky). It’s enough to rescue the film from a total catastrophe, but not enough to make it any good. Hey, Universal, how about re-making that first draft?

(In theaters, August 2004) It took years for this film to come to North America and be released in theatres, but it was worth the wait: This soccer/kung-fu sports comedy is just about what you’d expect from the premise (a bunch of misfits use shaolin skills to become a top-notch soccer team) and the execution is just as energetic as you’d except from a Hong Kong action film. Crammed with an astonishing amount of special effects, Shaolin Soccer is, by far, the funniest football/soccer film you’ll see: It’s a wonder why it wasn’t judged sufficiently commercial by Miramax, especially after the rather good translation/re-editing job they did on the film. (The film itself is subtitled -hurrah!- but the text snippets on-screen have been translated.) Writer/Director Stephen Chow is an enormously likable lead, but the entire cast gets the chance to score some points in the comedy department. As far as the sport scenes themselves are concerned, well, you will have to see them for yourself: The cartoonish nature of the stunts (including flaming footballs, shock waves and shattered concrete) is perfectly balanced with more simple gags and the result is a film that practically begs to be shown to the entire family. Good, great stuff.