Movie Review

(In theaters, September 2006) Alas, another good concept that flounders on the actual execution. There is nothing wrong about a WW1 movie about the Lafayette Escadrille squad. (Well, nothing except side-step the real story of most WW1 pilots, because there wasn’t anything ordinary about Lafayette Escadrille.) But when it’s leadened with some of the worst structure and dialogue this side of the Star Wars prequels, it’s really hard to appreciate the whole. The word “excruciating” was invented to describe the feeling the audience gets while watching James Franco romance a French Girl (who’s not, as the movie takes particular pain to explain, a prostitute) –and it’s even worse if you do understand French. At least the historical recreations are interesting, and some of the dogfights are very cool despite the video-game aspect of the zeppelin scene. Structurally, the script is a trite collage of old-fashioned clichés, but some individual moments stand out… though it will take a masochist to watch the film over and over again. (Especially given how it lasts no less than two hours and twenty interminable minutes.) Worse, at least to modern audiences, is the lack of self-awareness about war and its toll on the men fighting it: the worse we get for the pampered flyboys of Lafayette is a man losing his nerve long enough to sustain dramatic tension. (And even that doesn’t work, as viewers can count down to his re-appearance in the story.) In the end, I suppose that Flyboys‘ greatest success and biggest failure can be described as having the same effect: It will make everyone realize their unfulfilled need for a really good WW1 dogfighting epic. Comparisons with Pearl Harbor, though insulting, are not unfair.

(In theaters, September 2006) “Gloriously insane” is how I would start to describe this film, which seldom hesitates to use showy cinematic techniques whenever it gets bored, which is about once every twenty seconds. This meshes unusually well with a concept that goes straight to the heart of the modern action film: If you stop, you die. The director uses just about every single trick in the book to keep the film hopping and if the action scenes themselves aren’t all that spectacular, the mash-up of images, techniques and approaches makes for a deliriously cool viewing experience. Think Domino, Running Scared and a bit of Saw and you’ll be in the right ballpark. Jason Stratham is fabulous in the main role (the movie wouldn’t have a worked as well as it does without his pure action personae), but the real star of the show is the director and his catalogue of effects. Small touches like video-game graphics, satellite-picture scene transitions and gratuitous public sex basically ensure that I’ll pick up this title at least once on DVD, especially if it has an audio commentary by the directors. No, there’s nothing respectable or admirable about this mixture of nihilism, misogyny and absurdity. But damn if there isn’t something in this film to appeal to the baser instincts of the action crowd –or the postmodern hipster sensibilities of those who think they’re above all that. Surprisingly, Crank may actually be a lot more clever than anyone is willing to acknowledge.

(In theaters, August 2006) Five years after “the day that changed everything” (yeah, right), movies about 2001-09-11 are finally emerging out of the woodwork. I suppose that radical or even subversive takes on that day will have to wait a bit: In the meantime, we’re stuck in the first stage of recovery: recognition. World Trade Center is a surprise in that it’s just about as anti-political as it’s possible to be. Like United 93, it focuses on the real events of the day and dramatizes what happened to real people. But unlike United 93, it’s a slick and glossy piece of Hollywood film-making that never hesitates to ham it up on the altar of family, religion and good old American values. That’s an issue for sophisticated moviegoers, but it’s nowhere near as annoying as the movie-of-the-week script that buries its characters in the rubble for what feels like the 18 hours they spent there. To be entirely truthful, the first act of World Trade Center is gripping stuff: As the day begins and the event start to unfold, we’re stuck along the uncomprehending characters, swept along the flow of history as the towers start to burn and then fall down on our characters. (The boom-Boom-BOOM sound of the towers pancaking over the protagonists echoes one of my particular nightmares about that day.) That part is handled with a deft hand and recreated with conviction. Unfortunately, all forward momentum stops dead in its track once the characters are stuck under the debris. From then on, it’s protagonist-thinks-about-his-wife, cut to wife-worries-about-her-husband, repeat ad coma, occasionally leavened by a creepy Marine impostor who would be right at home in a serial killer movie. It gets old real fast, and for a long time the movie coasts on its association with events that still touch a nerve. But the script could have been retooled to be about miners stuck in a coal mine with very little effort, and that film would have been poorly reviewed even as a TV movie. If World Trade Center would have been the first one out of the gate about “that day”, it might have gotten a slightly better rating. But United 93 showed how it could be done, with intensity, respect and catharsis. While I suspect that most of us can identify with plane passengers stuck in a plane commandeered by hijackers, few of us will identify so readily with police officers rushing into a dying building. While I’m glad that Oliver Stone will get rid of his unfair “conspiracy nut” image with this apple-pie of a film, I wonder how a nervier directory could have handled the same material. Oh well; maybe in another five years?

(On DVD, August 2006) It occurred to me, watching this film, that the “documentary” label as attached to film may be about to need further definition. Much like libraries aren’t divided with multiple favours of fiction and one big “non-fiction” section, it may be time to make a few distinctions, perhaps starting with “opinions” and “facts”. No, I don’t believe any documentary can be completely objective, even if it’s only in what it chooses to show and what it doesn’t. But comparing a piece like Gunner Palace, which is almost all found footage with very little context, with Why We Fight, an avowed opinion piece with supporting footage, makes one wonder. Let it be said that Why We Fight somewhat accurately reflects my own views on the American industrial-military complex: That it has taken a life of its own and that the thousands of people working in that sector of industry all collectively pull American society in a direction that is radically at odds with the rest of the civilized world. But I couldn’t repress some annoyance at how Why We Fight sometimes anthropomorphized the phenomenon, giving the occasional impression that there was sort of a master plan at work in the development and usage of the military arsenal. (Although even I am not above some hasty generalization, as the above few lines demonstrate.) Still, Why We Fight is a much-needed exploration of how aggressive tendencies present in American society have been institutionalized, even glorified as all-American values. There’s tremendous depth to the argument and if Why We Fight often forgets to focus on its main argument, there are a lot of effective moments here and there, individual stories worth telling and contextualizing. The variety of interview subjects is impressive, including people that you may not expect in left-leaning documentaries. This opinion piece asks a lot of good questions and if the answers can be a bit weak at times, I prefer to see this film as a stepping stone or a subject of contemplation. While the musical montages can be unsubtle, the film covers a lot of ground and leaves viewers with plenty of material to digest. Fans of The Corporation will love it.

(At the Gruman’s Chinese Theater in Los Angeles, August 2006) The best news about this film are that it delivers exactly what you’d expect from the titles. There are snakes, there is a plane and the snakes are on that plane. Genius. But beyond the best pop movie title since Dude, Where’s My Car?, there’s actually a decent B-grade monster movie in here. Thriller fans will fondly recall director David Ellis’ previous Cellular and rejoice during the film’s first few minutes as the plot is set up with a ruthless efficiency just so we can get to the creature feature. At least the payoff is fabulous: When the snakes start attacking, the film goes crazy for a few moments and truly earns its title. Samuel L. Jackson plays a caricature of his own film personae with relish and the other actors wisely stay out of his way. Alas, Snakes On A Plane stumbles with a sad attempt at a third act, which is almost a preordained problem given how the entire “snakes on a plane” conceit can only be milked for so many victims. The third act is weak, resorting back to cliché with some typical winking but few surprises left in store. Don’t fool yourself: this isn’t some minor classic nor even a particularly noteworthy thriller. But for a one-joke film, it’s a good joke and the storyteller has some talent. Ideal for a B-movie marathon. Just don’t bring expectations.

(Second viewing, On DVD, June 2007) Yes, the joke is old and tired. But it has, at least, sprung for a decently entertaining B-grade movie, and justified a fully-loaded DVD edition that fully acknowledges the silliness of the premise. Far from the hype, Snakes On A Plane still succeeds at entertaining its audience, and even the dumbest plot twists are acknowledged with a wink. Goofy fun, perfect for an unpretentious evening. The DVD comes complete with an above-average number of special features, the best of which has to be a lively commentary in which Samuel L. Jackson truly earns his salary as an enthusiastic cheerleader for the project. Other extras will answer every single question you may have entertained about making a movie with snakes, and give a glimpse into the Internet fan phenomenon that Snakes On A Plane sustained up to the moment of its release. Me? I still like it.

(In theaters, August 2006) As a standalone film, Scoop is rather nice and innocuous, dipping in magical realism to deliver a serial murderer comedy. Still, it finds its best resonance when compared to other Woody Allen films. Most of the comparisons will focus on Match Point, a film to which Scoop almost acts as a counter-point: Both are set in London and feature Scarlett Johansen, of course, but they almost act as thematic mirror images to each other: While Match Point was a deadly serious thriller with occasional moments of deep humour, Scoop is a crime comedy with occasional moments of deep darkness. The use of outmoded supernatural devices also refers to The Curse Of The Jade Scorpion. But Scoop also refers back to classic Woody Allen in how it allows Allen to ride his old stand-up routines once again, fully playing up to the neurotic personae he created for himself early in his career: There an undeniable pleasure at seeing Allen hamming it up, perhaps for the last time. His script and direction are impeccable, particularly so during the no-nonsense first act which roars from scene to scene by taking supernatural shortcuts and cutting away all the superfluous material. In this light, it’s a shame to see parts of the script make less sense as the conclusion wraps up. (Ask yourself who murdered the secretary, and why an oar wasn’t used at a crucial moment.) Scarlett Johansen also seems to have so much fun as a young journalist that it almost feel curmudgeonly to point out the film’s contradictions between crime and comedy, or the fuzzy third act. After Match Point, it’s certainly another very pleasant work by Allen, who finally seems to shake off the creative doldrums that afflicted him so visibly since the mid-nineties. If nothing else, he has the decency to cast himself as Johansen’s father rather than his lover: small favours, but we’ll take it.

(In-flight, August 2006) Sometimes, I wonder at what can happen between the time a lead actor reads the script and the moment where the audience stares wide-eyed at the disastrous mess spooling away. What was Robin Williams thinking? Couldn’t he see that R.V. had all the ingredients of a cheap straight-to-video mess from the words on the page alone? It’s obvious that nothing in the latter production of the film actually improved the results: As a “family goes travelling” film, it still gets mauled by National Lampoon’s Family Vacations. Heck, watching people get their luggage at the airport is funnier than Rv. Perhaps the nicest thing one can say about it is that it’s completely harmless: indeed, even the copious scatological humour is more exasperating than offencive. The overall dramatic arc is a mish-mash of trite family values and hypocritical warnings against the evils of working too hard –something the filmmakers have obviously embraced. RV would be instantly forgettable if it wasn’t for the reminders that ten years ago, the news of a Barry Sonnenfeld starring Robin Williams would have been awesome. Right now, it’s just something to be ignored as long as possible.

(On DVD, August 2006) I’d write “oh, how the mighty have fallen”, but that’s pretty much the case with all horror sequels, right? The American remake of The Ring was one of the few Hollywood horror film to truly mess with its audience’s sense of dread. As a horror film, it was dramatically effective, so much so that it looked like a happy accident. The sequel proves that no one learnt anything from the previous effort: The Ring 2 is an uninviting sequel that barely raises any hackles, dilutes the mythology of the first film by extending it and frankly doesn’t make much sense. Often unintentionally funny and not the slightest bit creepy, this is a case study in how crass commercial intent can manage to suck all the promise out of an interesting work. Here, the video tape gimmick is jettisoned early on, voiding a major source of interest and reducing the film to your standard mom-protecting-child bugaboo. Despite one or two interesting images (and a number of hilarious sillier ones, such as the all-CGI deer), The Ring 2 seems made on auto-pilot, with everyone phoning in performances for the sheer love of the dollars. Do everyone a favour: don’t make the mistake of wasting yours.

(In theaters, August 2006) Note to twenty-first century filmmakers: If you have a clever premise and you’re capable of a pleasant execution, make damn sure that the core of your film isn’t based upon a festering pile of misogyny. In this case, consider the potential of a superhero film mixed with a romantic comedy. Now consider the skills of Ivan Reitman and Luke Wilson, neither of whom could offend anyone even under an extreme case of Tourette’s Syndrome. It all points to a nice little comedy fit to counter-program against Superman Returns, right? Well, half-right: My Super Ex-Girlfriend is considerably more interesting than the latest Superman, and most of its gags are perfect summer fare fodder: slightly naughty, accessible to everyone and completely innocuous. But don’t look too closely at the female characters because once you do, the ugly core of the film comes exposed: Females either come as humour-impaired harridans, pliant male-toys or hidden psychos. (Not the mention the old exasperating “brunettes with glasses are less attractive than blondes” clap-trap.) In your life, you probably know that guy who dismisses all of his girlfriends with the easy slam “she was psycho” caricature, not realizing that the insult tells us more about him than her. Well, My Super Ex-Girlfriend is a lot like that, exposing the core of misogyny that is still embraced by many so-called men out there. As a guy who really does like girls with backbones, I sat aghast at a third-act development in which the male characters actively conspire to rob the titular ex-girlfriend of her superpowers: why not throw in a lobotomy and a club-sized bottle of Prozac if you really want her to be so meek and compliant? Eeek. If I manage to stop hyperventilating, it’s true that the film eventually finds a harmless way out and a fun conclusion. But it takes a very unpleasant path to get there, and never quite shakes off its ugly side. Given that the rest of the film is so unremarkable (only a high-rise shark attack stands out as a sequence worthy of the film’s premise), let’s just say that this is one movie where occasional flaws more than manage to overwhelm the general amiability of the whole.

(In theaters, August 2006) The good news, I suppose, is that this film definitely has its moments: As an animated feature, it’s perfectly poised to exploit its premise of a monster house, from its ambiguously unnerving introduction up to and including the stomping crashing conclusion. There are a number of dynamic set-pieces, decent one-liners and imaginative details. Unfortunately, Monster House definitely leaves audience asking for more, and for better: The back-story is weak (even more so when it seems to belong in a different genre), the script doesn’t seem to know what to do with its female characters (who are far more interesting than its male protagonists) and there are some annoying lengths here and there. The animation is generally decent, though the character design never loses its innate plasticity. It’s not really a bad film, but it shows just enough of its cards to whet our appetite for a tighter, leaner, more clever work. Oh well: at least the sound mixing is good.

(On DVD, August 2006) Neil Gaiman. David McKean. What else do you need to know? Mirrormask blows away most other fantasy films by presenting a very particular, very original vision of fantasy. Once in the dream world of its protagonist, I don’t think that there’s a single frame of this film that looks as if it belongs in a “normal” film: Everything else is wonderfully twisted, straight out Gaiman’s script and McKean’s visual imagination. The script is top-notch, as you would expect from one of the savviest, most popular fantasy writers of our times. The images are spectacular, as you would also expect from one of the best fantasy illustrators out there. In fact, the small wonder of the film is how it was made at all: it’s so pleasantly off-the-wall that it lends credence to the film’s “give us a small budget so that we can have complete control” making-of rumours. If there’s a problem with the film, it’s that it certainly takes its time getting from point A to point B, and seems to exemplify John Clute’s “thinning” fantasy archetype. Still, this is not the kind of film you would expect to see on either big or small screens. In its level of quality, it’s fully equal to at least a Young Adult fantasy novel. Its existence is mind-boggling: fantasy fans should rush to see it if they already haven’t done so.

(On DVD, August 2006) From the assured opening narration (from an unnamed narrator who credibly claims to be a businessman whose trade happens to be illegal), we’re easily swept along this criminal tale. There are twists, there are turns and there’s a joyously mean ending twist. As a movie, this is somewhere between Guy Richie and Martin Scorsese, mixing wry dark humour with an insider’s look inside the criminal trade, carried along with a tight plot and interesting characters. Daniel Craig continues to demonstrate why he was picked to be the next Bond with a performance that is both intelligent and brutal. It’s hardly perfect (there’s at least one abrupt change of heart for the protagonist, and one development that’s hard to justify), but it’s fun and ultimately that’s more than enough to satisfy anyone looking for a fix of glamorized crime fiction.

(On DVD, August 2006) There really isn’t much to say about this film beyond the simple facts: It’s a documentary about a bunch of American soldiers (most of them young), stationed at what was Uday Hussein’s pleasure palace. The filmmakers behind the camera spent a year with the soldiers and filmed everything: Gunner Palace is best seen as a collage of life over there, without much in term of narrative structure or documentary development. As a demonstration of what life is like for the men out there, it’s unbeatable: War, from the trenches, is about boredom footnoted by death. Garbage bags that may explode. Allies that turn into enemies overnight. Living in the ruins of excess, trying to help people who would rather throw stones at you. I suspect that Gunner Palace is so close to its subject that it’s likely to be seen as a triumph regardless of one’s political affiliations. Alas, it’s already gaining in historical stature as, two years later, the situation over there hasn’t really improved… and thousands of Americans have come back in body bags. Ultimately, reviewing the film isn’t necessary, not when they (or people much like them) are out there, and we’re over here… not understanding what they’re going through.

(On DVD, August 2006) Oh my: this is a juvenile, frat-boy glorification comedy that never hesitates to go for the cheap gag and the gross sight. And yet, I pretty much loved it from beginning to end. Good supporting characters, inspired lunacy, some shamelessness and plenty of unpretentious attitude can carry you a long way, and so Dodgeball manages to suceed despite characters you would almost certainly hate in real life. The way that “dodgeball” is formalized with rules that would never make up a real sport and then hyped up as a Vegas sport is particularly endearing. The ending does fall apart, but that’s part of the fun: This film has one of the most outrageous good-guys-win-everything finale I can recall, but look closely at the screen and you can see the winking deus ex machina. There isn’t much more to say about the film though: Instantly accessibly, instantly forgettable. But it is funny enough.