Reviews

(In theaters, April 2002) Sometimes, the problem with cinema is that you have to pad a film in order to make it marketable. There is not much of a commercial outlet for 45-minutes-long films outside of anthology TV shows, and even then it’s a gamble. The sad result is all too often a thinly-plotted film stretched over at least 80 minutes, dressed-up with a lot of “atmosphere”. Frailty is a lot like that; not exactly bad, but so long and deliberate that you’ll have ample opportunity to ask yourself what happens next, which logically leads to the “twist” conclusion well before the end of the movie. Technically, at least, it’s rather good. The acting is fine, especially from the two young boys, and the direction -by co-star Bill Paxton- is serviceable. However thin the story is, it’s neither silly nor stupid which already gives it an advantage over most of the other horror films out there. Interesting, and maybe even more so when played in 2x fast-forward.

(In theaters, April 2002) There’s a really good reason why dark comedies don’t enjoy much success at the box-office: For every successful Get Shorty or Pulp Fiction, there are dozen of film that don’t understand that violent death with winks don’t necessarily equal big laughs. In Death To Smoochy‘s case, someone forgot that it makes more than a sappy plot with murders and swear words to be funny, and ultimately, there are maybe three laughs in the whole film. Oh, the narrative foundation is promising; corrupt kid shows, the Irish mob, dwarves, a huge purple rhino, ice-skating and a kid’s show host groupie. What makes everything fall apart is the dry and dour tone in which everything is handled: It’s as if an accountant got hold of a Simpsons episode and tailored it to cut all the laughs. What doesn’t help is the sheer irritating nature of nearly everyone in the film, from a pestilent Robin Williams (even though he should get accolades for moving away from his amiable screen presence of late) to a grating brain-damaged ex-boxer. True, Edward Norton, Catherine Keener and New York are as good as ever. But the whole film surrounding them is tedious and annoying. The finale is especially vexing, as it forgets its own nature in favour of an all-sweet finish. A lot of wasted potential for this one…

(In theaters, April 2002) A line of dialogue in this film essentially states that “it’s a terrible thing to let children play with such wondrous technology”, and that pretty much sums up my own feelings about Clockstoppers. When such cool effects as virtual cameras are used to prop up an average teen science-fiction film, well, there is a tangible impression of waste. It’s not as if it’s a bad film, mind you: Jesse Bradford does a good job as the lead (though he’s not nearly as cool as in Bring It On) and Paula Garcés is fine to look at (though older than her character by nearly a decade, to the delight of post-teen males in the audience). It’s just that the script makes no attempt at being anything more than simply a science-fiction film for teens. Some of the antics are juvenile, the romance feels contrived and artificial, the enemies are too caricatured to be believable and, well, everything seems so intentionally aimed for teens that it loses the rest of the audience. The “logic” of hypertime is shakily established, and then carelessly broken time and time again. (The DJing sequence is particularly painful to watch) Naturally, the special effects are a lot of fun (though you can see most of them in the trailer) and done with a certain amount of skill. Too bad that they serve such a forgettable script.

(In theaters, April 2002) The trailers will try to sell you a black-versus-white story of a poor family man being unjustly tormented by a rich young lawyer. But that’s not quite the story of Changing Lanes, which proves to be more complex than that. Our young rich lawyer (Ben Affleck, in a rather good role) proves to be the protagonist with the most to learn. Our middle-aged family man (Samuel L. Jackson, also quite good) turns to be a walking ball of barely-repressed anger. Neither is particularly sympathetic, and that proves to be one of the film’s weaknesses. Changing Lanes proves to be curiously tepid, as the quasi-juvenile war of dirty tricks between both rages on for a full day. The awful coincidences propelling the plot forward, the contrived situations manipulated by the screen writer and the all-too-sugary conclusion are also sore points. On the plus side, though, there’s a great confrontation between Affleck and Sidney Poitier, an unconventional battle of characters and an attempt at social reflection on the meaning of civilized behaviour. Unfortunately, the film stumbles as many times as it advances, and the end result is merely so-so.

(In theaters, March 2002) Fascinating documentary on the Ali-Foreman “Rumble in the Jungle” boxing match of 1973. Archival footage mixed with contemporary testimonies give us a true idea of the scope of the event, the personalities involved and the sacrifices of all the players. Makes a perfect double feature with Michael Mann’s Ali (2001), if only for comparison purposes. The portrait of Ali is fascinating; charismatic and bigger than life, Ali is well-served by the documentary. Often overlong (the musical segments can get tedious) but more interesting than not.

(In theaters, March 2002) It’s one thing to be able to recognize emotional manipulation. It’s another to be able to be affected by it despite professional cynicism. We Were Soldiers is doubtlessly a manipulative war film; it spares no subtlety in playing on such classic levers as honor, loss and bravery. Yet it does so in such an unapologetic way that it’s hard not to be swept in. Applying the lessons of Saving Private Ryan (gory realism, nervy direction, historical accuracy) to a Vietnam-era setting, We Were Soldiers manages to establish its own identity in the war film genre as a uniquely balanced perspective on one of Vietnam’s most significant military encounter. Mel Gibson takes command as general Hal Moore, and infuses the film with a quiet dignity that’s not belied by first-time director Randall Wallace’s efforts. In fact, We Were Soldiers stands as a film of apologies; Wallace redeems himself after Pearl Harbor‘s execrable script, and Barry Pepper almost makes us forget Battlefield Earth with his role as a journalist thrown in combat. The battle scenes are shot with eye-popping realism that really put us alongside the soldiers; one scene featuring fuel-air explosives is brutal enough to make you gasp out loud. Vietnamese enemies are represented as heroic in their own right, and the result is a film that feels real. I managed to be unexpectedly moved by that staple of all war films, the “death telegram” scene. Granted, the patriotism and the forced anti-racism segment can feel awkward at times, but the film itself is an unqualified success.

(In theaters, March 2002) Just as, after Harry Potter and The Lord Of The Rings, we were wondering if Hollywood had finally mastered the art of faithful adaptation, here comes a film to reassure us that nothing has really changed. If you have fond memories of H.G. Wells’s original novel, you might want to avoid this 2002 adaptation which rips out the guts of the novel by trying to “improve” the plot. It doesn’t take five minutes (at which point the fiancée of the protagonist is killed by a strangely unconvincing ruffian) to understand that this is going to be not only a bad adaptation, but an awful film in its own right. The rest of the film is -alternately- dull, stupid, loud, cliché, ugly, nonsensical and worse. Guy Pearce does his best with the trash he’s given as dialogue, but there’s a limit to what he can do in the middle of the paucity of imagination surrounding him; for SF fans, it’s excruciatingly painful to see the wasted potential of his trip through future New York. Granted, there’s one thing that saves The Time Machine from complete failure, and it’s the visuals. Some accelerated-time shots are impressive, and some images are truly arresting. Alas, most of it is thrown on-screen as mere eye-candy; the bulk of the story is a boring caveman-versus-monsters story we’ve seen countless times before. Oh, and lest you ask; all the sociological subtext of Wells’s story has been excised; now the Eloi are simply prey, without any exchange between them and the Morlock, who are now simply bestial. (The make-up job on the Morlocks is one of the most awful thing I’ve seen in years of special effects.) The script is filled with gigantic logical holes (parts of New York survive an ice age and massive erosion intact, pieces of the moon still orbit in roughly-identical position after epochs, etc…) and the main story isn’t directed with enough competence to make us care. Just avoid, okay, avoid. The only reason I kept a minimal interest in the film is because I was, at the time, playing around with a wireless web browser in the theater.

(In theaters, March 2002) An early contender for worst-film-of-the-year awards, Slackers‘ biggest problem is that it features no characters to cheer for. The “hero”, aptly played by Devon Sawa, is a world-class liar and cheater whose attempts at being honest feel like the biggest cheats of all. His slacker friends have all of his faults and none of his charisma. The antagonist is the worst uber-nrrrd to disgrace the silver screen in a long while. (It’s incarnated by Jason Shwartzman, almost as a dark parody of his already borderline-loathsome character in Rushmore) You might think that the poor stalked heroine would be left as the protagonist-by-default, but she’s so damnably boring that we come to wish the worst indignities on her simply for extra sadistic fun. (Fortunately, there’s a somewhat amusing gallery of supporting characters, from a militaristic teacher’s assistant to a sluttish roommate) Already starting from a character deficit, the screenplay mixes a few amusing vignettes with loads of gross-out humor and an inconsistent tone for a comedy experience that’s simply unpleasant. Even though I can name five to ten little moments that I liked in Slackers, the rest of the film is so worthless that I’d be hard-pressed to recommend it at all.

(In theaters, March 2002) While I recognize the artistic qualities of writer/director Wes Anderson’s previous Rushmore, I doubt that I’ll ever manage to like it. I was prepared for more of the same with The Royal Tenenbaums, and so my feeling at the end of the film is one of relief. Yes, it’s more or less the same approach than Rushmore, but this time the discomfort factor of the first film is toned down and the characters are more broadly sympathetic. The result is a much more enjoyable film. The acting talent present in the film is awe-inspiring; Hackman, Huston, Glover, Stiller, Wilson [x2], Paltrow… aside from Bill Murray (in a role that could have been played by anyone), few of them are wasted. There are still uncomfortable moments (the Paul Wilson plot-line, for instance) but the writers’ love for their characters shines through and carries the audience over the less pleasant moments. The direction is appropriate, though occasionally a touch too pedestrian especially given the flourishes shown elsewhere in the film. While I’m not particularly enthusiastic over The Royal Tenenbaums, it’s a definite step up from Rushmore and a quirky comedy in its own right. Definitely worth a look on video if that’s your type of film.