J. Edgar (2011)

John Edgar Hoover was one of our nation’s most powerful guardians, who created the FBI, championed fingerprinting as a form of identification, and launched the very notion of criminal forensics. He remains the Holy Trinity of U.S. law enforcement. He did great things. He also was a control freak who drove his patriotic cop zeal so far up the flagpole, it turned from love of country to illegal and immoral bludgeon tactics not out of place in the Communist Russia that Hoover so loathed. His hunch or mood was law, the law be damned. He did terrible things. He kept files on and blackmailed presidents, Hollywood stars and corporate tycoons. How the hell can a movie about him be boring?!? This is it.

“J. Edgar,” the latest cinematic effort from Clint Eastwood, is a dead-eyed, soulless, filmed in shit-colored browns biopic unworthy of the man in the title. Directed by Eastwood and written by Dustin Lance Black – a gay leftist who penned “Milk” – this film should explode off the screen, polarize, and burn our conceptions. Recall “Nixon” or “Malcolm X.” They had balls. No balls here. Tackling Hoover is a tall order. No film could ever get it all. I could not do it. That anyone could try is surely of respect. But no love.

Black goes bust from the start as old Hoover is dictating the narrative of his life to various underlings, for a book of some sort, spilling his secrets… Wait, what? Hoover spill secrets? No. Worse, the agents question Hoover’s accuracy. Bullshit. No one questioned him. Still worse, the story jumps timelines throughout, Hoover at 70 at 19 at 35 at Gate 6F, and the edits kill all momentum. The scene of JFK’s assassination carries the impact of a burned pizza. As does the Lindbergh baby murder. That case is sliced and diced throughout the film. All the history and fascinating crime talk sinks. More bullshit: When Leonardo DiCaprio as Hoover dons a dress as his dead mother – yes, we go there – it’s a cheap potshot of a rumor long disproved. And also hilarious, a contender for worse scene of the year. No joke.

And, yes, the film eyes Hoover’s debated sexuality, and as much as “J” tries to tackle the homosexuality slant as tippy-toes as possible, it’s undone by Armie Hammer (“Social Network”) who plays Clyde Tolson, Hoover’s confidant and reported lover as a wide-eyed swish. A cruel word, but it fits. It is not all bad. Black writes some beautiful bits about the absolute forbidden gay life of the time, a period all of our GOP presidential candidates long to bring back, and tells of a boy Hoover knew who committed suicide because he was bullied. As a gay. Judi Dench is Hoover's Bible-thumper bigot mom who says better dead than queer. Great performance, her psychologically whipping her boy because he dislikes girls. But, damn, does he have to dress like her? Is that not counter-productive, for gays, for Black? Such stereotype?

DiCaprio plays Hoover with all the Oscar Nomination power he can muster, and for that I never forgot I was watching a performance. (Dig Penn as Harvey Milk. Effortless.) DiCaprio is a fine actor -- he is -- but he does not have the gravitas, the sheer power that Hoover must have exulted, the fear factor. Not here. That said, Leo nails one scene where he declares his love for Tolson to himself. No sex, though, as Hoover is too repressed, or is it Eastwood? Whatever. Does not matter. When our two stars play old, they toddle around like drama majors doing “Odd Couple,” each smothered in terrible makeup. All the drama, gay and straight, seeps away.

It all ends with Hoover dead and the files – the thousands of files Hoover kept – shredded. There is no substance to right now, the sheer horror of what a guy like Hoover could do with cell phones and the Internet. (Hey, with Gingrich as president, we may find out.) Eastwood, Black and DiCaprio would be better if the screenplay were shredded. Hoover, too. Check out the 1950s Hoover/Hollywood propaganda flick “The FBI Story.” It’s so hilariously opportunistic and blindly in love with Hoover’s ego, and the America is God, I consider it a comedy classic. It tells more about J. Edgar than “J. Edgar.” Our nation, too. Always right. Eastwood -- a favorite of my life and forever, no matter his faults -- is just sagging of late. C

The Other Guys (2010)

In every testosterone-filled cops and their partners flick, there’s always the barely in-focus fellow detectives, no name extras taking up space. No one cares if they die by gunfire. Unlikely partners in every way (casting, too) Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg are those men, one a paperwork nerd, the other a hot-headed dunce, in “The Other Guys.” When the cliché super cop heroes – played hilariously by Samuel L. Jackson and Dwayne Johnson – die not pulling off a stunt every movie cop pulls off, our “Guys” enter the fray. In a red Prius. Director/co-writer Adam McKay gleefully throws one of those impossible-to-follow coincidence plots at us as a greedy Wall Street tycoon (Steve Coogan) runs amok. Explosions and car chases abound, all sickly ridiculous, and yet not out of place in any “Lethal Weapon” movie. McKay ridicules mega-masculinity, the hot wife syndrome in every guy flick, and the economy. The bad guys get a bailout. Talk about realism. Ferrell is genius uncorking rage, and Wahlberg is a good straight man, although clearly uncomfortable yelling “I’m a peacock!” Still, great laughs. B+

Puss in Boots (2011)

Antonia Banderas as Puss in Boots was the best gag in the latter “Shrek” films, boring affairs that smelled of hastened scripts and all eyes on boosted 4Qs at Dreamworks. Luckily, the stand-alone film of “Puss in Boots” – the Latin Lover kitty stars, with no ogres or talking donkeys about – stands on his own four legs despite the studio curse of all jokes and flimsy story. Puss teams with Humpty Dumpty to score the golden goose from “Jack and the Beanstalk” fame. Salma Hayek voices a femme fatale, and Billy Bob Thornton and Amy Sedaris play a redneck Jack and Jill. A flashback is dull, Jack and Jill are after-thoughts, and Humpty Dumpty (Zach Galifianakis) is a shell, but the writers clearly love cats, and they pitch gags galore as Puss breaks his cool to chase a light or give himself a bath at the most dramatic moment. The “camera” has fun as we weave around this CGI world, over a bridge, and later up a beanstalk. Cat nip for feline lovers. B-

Footloose (2011)

It’s been too long since I watched the 1984 Kevin Bacon-starring “Footloose” to compare it side-by-side to this 2011 remake. Both follow the same concept: A big-city high school guy named Ren McCormack (here Kenny Wormald) arrives in a small town that has gone all 700 Club following the fatal DUI wreck of several students: Dancing is banned. Loud music banned. Church mandatory. The plot is set in stone: Ren loves to dance, and he will dance, bringing a wild child (Julianne Hough) and a geeky country seed (Miles Teller) along the way. It’s a goofy movie with lines such as: “It’s our time now!,” but it’s a fun fight-the-power trip for teens bored of living at home. This version is more sexual and violent. Director Craig Brewer (“Hustle & Flow”) for the most doesn’t belittle small town people, and his camera happily follows the feet and hips of youths dancing until adulthood arrives. Wormald scores bonus points over Bacon: He does his own dancing, and does it spectacularly well. Diverse helpings of music abound. B+

Gnomeo & Juliet (2011)

“Gnomeo & Juliet” is exactly what you think it is: A child’s eye version of Shakespeare’s “Romeo & Juliet,” minus the suicide, blood, lust and sex. Although there’s a helluva lot of jokes about cock – hat – sizes, and references to brave boy gnomes having huge balls. But will children get that? Likely not. They won’t care, either. Nor will they care that the movie’s concept steals from “Toy Story,” the gnomes come to life when left alone by people, and turn back into objects when they appear, and its humor stolen from the Dreamworks line of film parodies and famous voices for entertainment. There are some witty bits: Dig the moving truck, or the Taming of the Glue. The opening is a silly wink-wink nod to narrators of old. Nine writers took part. Up to 10 or more if you count Shakespeare and actorly improvisation. With that many people, you can have a soccer club. But a good film? No. C+

Just Go With It (2011)

Looking for a film to signal a breakup with your S.O.? “Just Go With It.” And “The Break-Up.” Hey, both star Jennifer Anniston. Why does she choose such awful projects? Here she plays a single mom and receptionist/ assistant/Jiminy Cricket to a smug plastic surgeon (Adam Sandler) who fakes being married to bed marriage-wrecker college girls. When doc falls in love with one of his scores, he bribes Anniston to play his greedy ex-wife, and her kids to be his offspring. This is one of those con shell games where the lies pile high for no other reason than to keep the plot going, and I stopped caring who hooked up with whom. Everyone on screen is an idiot or cruel or both, and the women are made to be especially gullible. You can see Anniston’s dread, and when Nicole Kidman (!?!) pops by as a snob, you can see her regret. Dennis Dugan made the awful Sandler flick “Grown-Ups,” and this is just as sloppy. Sandler hates his audience. Anniston deserves better. Nick Swardson, a Sandler apprentice, plays a vile, dumb character as an extra F.U. to the paying suckers on ... date night. D+

Bridesmaids (2011)

The Kristen-Wiig-spearheaded “Bridesmaids” is at once a female take on all-guy flicks such as “The Hangover” and a goofy yet sharp take on women wondering how they fit into the world, as opposed to the insufferable women who think the world revolves around them as in “Sex and the City 2.” This comedy revolves around Annie (Wiig), a mid-30s single woman with a failed business behind her, a dumpy jewelry store gig, and a crude fuck buddy (Jon Hamm) who doesn’t even appreciate the sex. When she learns her childhood BFF (Maya Rudolph, another “SNL” vet as is Wiig) is engaged, Annie reacts not with happiness, but despair. She fears being alone.

Annie means well, for sure, but her mental id makes hell for the bride’s life, including a literal shit-storm pileup at a high-dollar dress shop and a Las Vegas plane ride to nowhere. The best comedies, as with the best fantasy or sci-fi or romance films, take relatable, real people and put them in outlandish situations, and this is it: Drunk Annie balling at the death of Wilson in “Cast Away” and the sister-in-law bridesmaid (Melissa McCarthy, stealing the movie) not giving a flying F about what people think, and laying it all out for men. McCarthy says of a guy at a party, “I’m going to climb that like a tree.” Make a movie about her.

This is a fun movie, smart, happy to make an ass of its heroine, but never treating her as stupid or in a demeaning way. Nor are any of the women beholden to men, although they long for relationships, so they exist in a world Katherine Heigl fans cannot contemplate. It’s slow to go, and many scenes drag for a beat too long, as does every other Judd Apatow creation. He produced this. Still needs a sharper editor. But what a hilarious film. B+

Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides (2011) and Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)

I watched “Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides” twice in one week to truly understand how much of an empty-headed, empty-hearted letdown it is, a dull gray shadow of its first outing, “Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl,” one of the most fun Big Hollywood Tent Pole Movies of 2003 and the past decade.

That was a deserved Hollywood blockbuster: The thrill of seeing undead men walking on the ocean floor in moonlight to take a ship, Geoffrey Rush’s gleefully nasty villain who, I swear, I wanted to win because he was so … rotten good, Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow, a swashbuckling conman hero with eye-liner who took part in the action yet remained aloof, a comedic Puck-like character from Shakespeare. With an undying thirst for rum, rum, rum. And rum. It was as if Depp said, “You want me to headline a Hollywood summer film? Alright, stand back.” The cast and characters (including Orlando Bloom and then-unknown Keira Knightley as the hero and damsel in distress) seemingly had no idea how to contemplate the actor Depp or the character Jack, and in once hilarious scene Bloom all but breaks the fourth wall to make sport of Sparrow/Depp.

“Black Pearl” was and remains a fun blast. No one knew it would work. It did. Massively. (Rush was robbed of a Best Supporting Actor nomination, fact.) The film remains endlessly rewatchable, just to pick out the shifts and squirms in Depp and his pirate self. The inevitable sequels disappointed, they had nowhere to go but down, but they limped along nicely enough. This? This fourth sequel? Third sequel? Shit, does it matter? No. I have thus far avoided talking about it have you not noticed? It hurts my cinematic brain.

Depp is back, and the center stage as Jack Sparrow, the first mistake in this Rob Marshall-directed (he made “Chicago” and “Nine”) crapper that has no spark, no center, or soul, or logic. (Gore Verbinski helmed the first three.) Even hair-brained Hollywood logic, by which I mean the “Don’t think, enjoy” mantra is gone. Depp looks deeply sullen and uninterested from the start as he badly impersonates a London judge then – must I explain? – gets mixed in with a former flame (Penelope Cruz) and the nastiest pirate of all, Blackbeard (Ian McShane). It is McShane who gives some pulse to this mess, which leaves Bloom and Knightley behind for another couple two boring to speak about, and I say that knowing the dude plays a Christian missionary and the lady plays a genuine mermaid. How that can be boring, I’ll never know, but the writers behind this film make it so.

The whole darn lot is after the Fountain of Youth, and the climatic fight over it – involving pirates, Brits, the Spanish navy, those mermaids and zombies, yes, zombies – plays like an AARP promo. Arthritic, with bad-lighting, and lots of mugging. I mean sorry-ass smiles, not robbery, unless one counts the price of a movie ticket or DVD. The filmmakers whip up so many switcheroos that the endless double crosses become redundant echoes of “Gotch’ya!” In one ugly spot, Sparrow pulls a mutiny prank that gets an innocent man executed (by flamethrower!) at the hands of Blackbeard. Sparrow just shrugs it off. The scene is all kinds of wrong, bad for Jack and the series.

No scene is more boring and overlong than an early sword fight between Depp and Cruz, shot in pitch dark and from angles so unpleasant and haphazard, even a child would know we are watching stunt doubles piss about in a second-unit action scene. The once-rousing “Pirates” music by Klaus Badelt, Depp’s comedic timing, and the way he once slipped in and out of the action like an armed drunken court jester, is all off, as is the supernatural kitsch. We get zombie pirates, massive ships (the Black Pearl!) shrunken and captured in rum bottles, and voodoo magic. None of it is explained, and all of it reeks like half-assed script ideas abandoned whilst cameras rolled.

Rush returns (again!) as Barbossa, but that joyously evil glimmer he showed in “Black Pearl” is gone. Rush is here for the paycheck and the vacation in Central America, same as Depp. Having seen Depp slump through “Rum Diary,” I’m not too shocked, but Rush is usually above that. The first film played like a wild card gag, while “Stranger” lacks strangeness and magic, it is a lifeless bore, so dark (and in useless 3-D) I thought the big-screen TV we recently purchased was off kilter.

A fifth (!) “Pirates” is in the works, but I hope it’s a chest never opened. Beyond McShane and employing hundreds of CGI geeks and model makers, this third sequel (that hurts typing that again) has no reason to exist other than to have made hordes of money. (Which it sadly did.) Jump the shark? Jump off the plank. Captain Jack should quit the sea, and retire. To the ocean floor. Black Pearl: A On Stranger Tides: C-

The Runaways (2010)

When MTV debuted, Joan Jett’s shouted anthem “I Love Rock n’ Roll” (a cover) seemed to be the only female voice in an all-male sport. That chapter of Jett’s life is unseen in “The Runaways,” the standard biopic treatment of her first band, The Runaways – the early 1970s all-girl band that set guys’ eyes and other parts bulging, before the band imploded from drugs, sex, in-fighting and all the other rock band woes. “Runaways” puts Jett (Kristen Stewart) in second place, and focuses on Cherie Currie, the 15-year-old singer of the band, picked from a nightclub for not dancing. She jumps at the chance to escape her shattered family, and the band’s “I am God!” producer (Michael Shannon) drools at the thought of exploiting Cherie’s jailbait age. Dakota Fanning (who co-stars with Stewart in the “Twilight” pics) plays Cherie in a brave performance. Writer/director Floria Sigismondi hits every single Behind the Music tour stop, down to the prerequisite recording studio meltdown. The Runaways used the definitive F.U. song “Cherry Bomb” to burn the rules; the movie is a wet match. C

Attack the Block (2011)

“Attack the Block” is a short (88 minutes) B-grade flick shot with digital cameras, sporting no stars, and smelling of a 1970s–era sci-fi action piece that aired way late on crap cable channels when I was a child. I mean that as a compliment. It is what it is, silly, mildly scary fun. The Attackers are aliens that resemble wild wolves with glowing teeth. The Block is a massive cylinder monolith of low-income housing flats in South London. The heroes are young punks known as Hoodies, derived from their sweatshirt attire. The opening scene has the thugs (led by John Boyega as the aptly named Moses) robbing a young nurse (Jodie Whittaker) on the street. The crime is interrupted by a fetus-looking alien smashing into a car, and it’s off nonstop to the end credits. Joe Cornich is the writer and director, and like Quentin Tarantino before him, he uses every cliché of the genre he works in to new affect, including the myriad ways characters flee one another, only to end up together. It’s no “Reservoir Dogs,” but it is a great way to end an all-night movie marathon. Boyega is a star-to-be. B+

The Rum Diary (2011)

I discovered something about myself not too far into “The Rum Diary,” the latest gonzo tale by and about journalist/novelist/debaucherist Hunter S. Thompson, who never met an alcoholic drink or illicit drug he didn’t like. Correction, I learned something about Johnny Depp. He’s the star here. See, I have grown tired of Depp as an actor.

After watching “Pirates of the Caribbean: Are they Still Making These Things?,” I realized he no longer is an ace actor game at playing emotionally aloof rascals who involve themselves in dangerous games, but standoff at a safe distance. He has become an emotionally aloof actor involving himself in big films, but stands off at a safe distance. “The Tourist” more than fits that bill. His characters are no longer the ones who don’t give a shit, now it’s Depp himself.

Here, a journalism/discovery-of-self drama set in 1960 Puerto Rico from a HST novel, he plays Paul Kemp, a failed novelist who gets mixed up in a dying newspaper rag (headed by Richard Jenkins) and a corrupt real estate deal (headed by Aaron Eckhart), and must dig himself out. Between hits of rum and mescaline drops.

Depp lazily walks all over the film blasé style, hiding behind sunglasses, rather than the Captain Jack eye liner, and making jokes about mermaids (too soon) and dishing out that “Whoa, can you believe this?” double jerk take reaction he does without end. (He seems only jazzed by Tim Burton films.) Paul is supposed to be enraged by film’s end, but he barely ever registers a pulse. Ink and rage? Zzzzz. When the plot’s air leaks out of the bag and Paul leaves the scene with a defeated shrug, we have to rely on an end credit’s title scroll to tell us, “No, really, this Kemp guy is important! He did things!” From the sights on screen, I would never have guessed it. Not in 1,000 tries.

As the sexy femme fatale that messes with Kemp’s head and other body parts, Amber Heard is the only pulsating person on screen, seconded by Michael Rispoli as an overweight photojournalist comic foil, and the only guy on screen with a heart. They are the rum shots in this watered down drink. C+

Sex and the City 2 (2010)

“Sex and the City 2” is an abomination. Over reaction? I present this scene: NYC sex columnist/novelist/wife Carrie Bradshaw (Sara Jessica Parker) is sitting in a private jet, flying to Abu Dhabi on an all-expense paid trip. Free. No strings. Is she looking out at the window at the majestic world below her? Is she contemplating the wonders of culture and geography at her destination? No. She is pouting. She says, in that “I’m so witty” voice that Parker employs, and grinds my soul apart, and I quote, “Somewhere over Africa, I began to wonder about relationships.” Who. The. Fuck. Talks. Like. That? I mean, even in a fictional high-on-sugar-and-schmaltz fantasy cream fizz bullshit film about rich, snobby, soulless New Yorkers?

Carrie pouts because husband Mr. Big, a wildly wealthy Wall Street type played by Chris Noth, bought her a massive TV for their anniversary, so they can snuggle and watch movies in bed. The horror! The abuse. Pfft. It sinks in fast during the first 20 minutes of this ungodly long film that God Himself, if He exists or not, in all His infinite glory could not satisfy Carrie Bradshaw. So she will pout. She’s become a caricature reality show Housewife of Wherever, I guess New York. She is a 45-year-old child, with Botox. Syringes of Botox.

But that’s just the tip of this vile fantasy anti-feminist comedy that is so unaware of its self and the universe and any remote reality, it thinks having Arabic women lifting burkas to reveal hidden Madison Square Avenue clothes equals liberation. In a region infamous for killing women who dare speak out, drive, and ask for equal rights from their men overlords. More eye-opening side trips in this in-Hollywood-only Middle East include the four TV “SATC” friends (Cynthia Nixon, Kim Cattrall and Kristin Davis are all on hand with Ms. Parker) having an openly swishy gay Arabic manservant because … we all know how Islamic-nations love gay people. As much as the Republican party. I won’t get into the multi-million-dollar opening gay wedding with swans, an all men’s chorus, and Liza Minnelli as the officiator and entertainment. So damn vulgar.

Director/writer/torturer Michael Patrick King has said this film -- this capitalism-is-God soul fuck -– is a throwback to the fantasy films of the ’30s, purposeful fluff made to cheer up audiences rocked by the Great Depression. Never mind that many people in 2010 could not afford the $12 movie ticket to be sucker punched. It was a nickel back in 1931. The HBO TV show was known for some crass consumerism, for sure, but it also was amazingly smart and shrewd, giving men the window-shop treatment women suffer in 99 percent of films and music and TV shows. Heartbreaks were played out, and 9/11 honorably looked upon with love for New York. The few moments of insight in this -– Davis’ mother weeping over hectic children and Nixon’s attorney dealing with a sexist boss, everyday stuff women deal with -– are drowned out in silliness such as a hot nanny with no bra, Jude Law jokes, and Nixon chirping all Minnie-Mouse-like saying “I’ll get a better job!” Really, lady, in this economy?

That the movie winks at true sexism and the economy, the housing market, and joblessness, GREED that has destroyed millions of lives, and yet has every character blissfully not giving a fuck is all the more insulting. A better film could have had these ladies knocked down a peg, holding fast to their friendship through the loss or a job, or eviction, or uncertainty. I have read reviews comparing the excess and dumpsters of money found here to “Transformers 2.” I’d say this film is more akin to “Grown Ups,” a sad sack comedy full of 40-year-olds acting like 20-year-olds, fully unaware no one in the audience finds them relevant anymore. At least the first film, released in 2008, had kick and spark of character growth, mixed in with the commercialism.

Final insult: The women flaunt their “feminist” power in the land of Allah like a pack of Westboro church members screaming free speech as they belittle every single human within earshot, and yet cry foul when criticized. Cattrall’s sex lioness -- once a pop culture icon, now a stereotype – is the prime offender, mimicking oral sex at an Arabic restaurant. That’s not feminism. That’s pissing on feminism. On culture. The whole film is an insult to women, Muslims, gays, America, the Middle East, all sense and sensibility. If you like this film, please, buy, rent or borrow a soul. There is none to be found here. F