“Double Indemnity” is
the film noir classic before there was such a genre. It forced extramarital sex
and murder onto 1940s America, a place not used to seeing its own sin displayed
onscreen. It’s a miracle the film ever got made. (Confused? If you tune in Fox
News or vote Republican, then you know all about ignoring sin and fact. Please, go away.) I digress. This classic follows a greedy salesman
(Fred MacMurray) out to dump unneeded car insurance on a rich prick, but instead
gets sucked in by the man’s amoral wife (Barbara Stanwyck, has there been a deadlier/cooler actress?) who sees opportunity: Off hubby, get fucked on the side, and get
rich. I will not spill plot, or the inevitable (government-forced) ending,
but marvel at every beautiful cruel act. Billy Wilder made this gem, and he
knows gems, and this may be his best. The lead actors kill as immoral shits you
want to see die, but truly fantasize about. Best asset: Regular Hollywood tough guy Edward G. Robinson as the hero and book nerd! Dig his
angry geek tirade against low-IQ insurance dweebs, and witness acting at its
greatest. One of the true Hollywood greats, a must watch. A+
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Jason and the Argonauts (1963)
“The greatest film
ever made.” Says Tom Hanks of “Jason and
the Argonauts.” Damn it, he might not be right, but he’s not far off. How
can you argue? This is absolute movie magic beauty: Giddy
childish wonder watching wide-eyed as a group of men take on the gods and battle skeletal beings
risen from the ground, all for honor. The director is Don Chaffey, but this is
Ray Harryhausen’s gem: The special effects guru dreamed up those skeletons and
the myriad giants and monsters and living ships that make up this classic. Screw CGI, this is the stuff of a boy (and girl’s) deepest imagination. The
plot veers way off the Greek religious record as Jason (Todd Armstrong), lost
son of a dead king, captures the Golden Fleece to –- unknown to him -– reclaim his
rightful throne in an adventure that should spawn 100 sequels. Along the way, Jason
finds a ship, Argo, brave warriors, and adventure and love, and monsters, and I will stop. Ditch Jason. The hero is Harryhausen. Dig those skeletons battling men to the death. This is what it meant to be young in
1963! A
Labels:
1963,
Argo,
CGI,
children,
classic,
gods,
Greek,
imagination,
Jason and the Argonauts,
Ray Harryhausen,
special effects,
Todd Armstrong,
Tom Hanks
Rollerball (1975)
In 2018 super-corporations
rule the world in a soulless oligopoly as every need is served by nameless businesses.
Government and freedom of choice is dead. Citizen-consumers are told to do
their part and buy, buy, and obey, making the corporations even wealthier. It’s
the dream world of the modern Koch Brothers, Consumers United, and right-wing GOP
greed. I digress, but that’s the world behind 1975’s “Rollerball,” a futuristic
nightmare flick that focuses on a roller rink blood sport that’s like basketball
on wheels, with spikes, motor bikes, and death. James Caan is Jonathan, the
Michael Jordon of the sport, a long-time veteran at the top of the game. Until
the Corporate Gods tell him to stop. Why? No man can rise against the Corporate
Elite. Damn, this is a fine premise. It’s predictions are crazy eerie. The
film itself, directed by Norman Jewison? A dud. Caan -– who can deny his screen power? -– appears bored, the pace glacial,
and the cheapo imagery amateurish. Oh, there’s a fantastic bit that foresees the rise of the ’Net and the fall of books, but like the Koch
Brothers warning, it belongs in a better movie. C+
Labels:
1975,
corporate,
future,
greed,
Internet,
James Caan,
Norman Jewison,
Rollerball,
sci-fi,
sports,
violence
Dredd (2012) and Mad Max (1979)
It’s the future, so
bring on the apocalypse. I downed cheapo, gonzo 1979 Australian classic (and
Mel Gibson debut) “Mad Max” as a fast antidote to “Dredd,” the second cinematic
coming of comic book anti-hero killer cop Judge Dredd after the God-awful,
terrible 1995 Sylvester Stallone film of the same name that put freakin’ Rob
Schneider in the sidekick role.
(The less said about that debacle, the better. It took me months to recover from just one viewing.)
(The less said about that debacle, the better. It took me months to recover from just one viewing.)
Is “Dredd” better? By
far. Miles. It’s still crap. For myriad reasons. The plot: It’s post-nuclear war
U.S. of A., and the whole East Coast is a godless concrete jungle of high rises
and crime. The police and courts have been merged into the Judges: Leather-clad,
masked cops with guns and a glint to kill. Basically, it’s like present day
America except everybody is an unarmed young black man. You can get “judged” and
end up in a body bag just for walking. Sorry, I digress. Still on a “FrutivaleStation” kick. Can’t help it.
Anyway, Dredd (Karl
Urban) is the best (read: most ruthless) cop in Mega-City (because Metropolis
was taken) and we follow him here as he takes on a high-rise apartment tower
that reaches for the heavens, but might as well plunge low to the pits of hell.
As in 1995, Dredd has a sidekick. And it’s a she, and not Schneider in drag,
thank the gods. Helmetless because why stump the fan boy’s eye candy factor, Judge
Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) also is a mutant who can read the thoughts of others.
Why are there mutants popping around? No idea.
Dredd and Anderson enter the complex to
investigate a grisly drug-related triple murder and within minutes find themselves
at the mercy of the building’s ruthless drug lord (Lena Headey). Mama she is
called, and she places the building on lockdown and tells every thug ruthless,
shitty, one-eyed, tenant over an intercom that she wants Dredd’s head now. From
there it’s war, the tenants attack our hero (and the girl rookie) and he
shoots, bombs, kicks, scowls, and grimaces his way through the lot to the top.
If One Man Against an
War Zone Apartment Complex and the intercom bit sounds familiar it’s because the plot and details were done
exactly point-for-point in “The Raid,” an kick-ass Indonesian action/blood fest also from 2012. Literally, this is a replica. Down to camera angles. Everything
says director Pete Travis is innocent, it’s a mere coincidence. If it is, “Raid”
is still the better film. And Travis has the luck of a rat. “Raid” has a hero that means something and is one hell of a sight to behold, has a human
trait, and a reason not to fail. It’s also a spectacular feast of stunts. Seriously, see it.
This
has CGI glut, a zero hero with Urban (good actor, no slam, I like him) doing Eastwood as an unkillable tank, and
it all means nothing. Absolutely nothing. I get it. Dredd is supposed to be the
darker Dark Knight. Great read for a book, I’m sure, bur a lousy watch and with
so many wasted opportunities. Dig it: Mama has created a nasty drug that slows
the brain to a crawl so every movement feels wicked trippy, lights pop, and
rushing water stands still, and the effect is crazy wicked on screen. So let’s see
Dredd on that shit, right? No. Dude just kills and scowls. I won’t watch a
third film. C
“Mad Max” I can watch
endlessly. You know the plot: It’s the near-future, meaningful authority is dust-bin
history, and the highways are open roads of lawlessness akin to old Australia
or the American West than anything we’d call the future. Zero horses, all cars.
Gibson is Max, a highway cop trying to maintain some order against roaming bikers
who steal, rape, and kill for the pure glee. The bikers make the error to wrong
Max’s friends and family, and Gibson as Max explodes like a fuel-air bomb in a
film that feels not scripted or planned, but captured out of a complete drug-fueled
nightmare. Not slow like in “Dredd,” but warp-speed head-rush fast.
Whole
sections of “Max” are incomprehensible and wreck loud, but few films -–
especially chase ones -– have ever felt more in the moment. It vibes like a tale
that had to be made or writer/director George Miller and his star would just
die. And for all the story’s debauchery, Miller shows little blood or gore. It’s
just over the camera frame’s edge, way deep in our skull, and that is scarier
than anything anyone can put before our eyes. Gibson is young and scary
fanatical, is that acting? A-
Labels:
1979,
2012,
America,
apocalypse,
Australia,
comic book,
Dredd,
future,
gangs,
George Miller,
Karl Urban,
Lena Headey,
Mad Max,
Mel Gibson,
original,
Pete Travis,
police,
remake,
violence
Monday, September 23, 2013
The Blob (1958)
Steve McQueen is the
world’s oldest teenager in “The Blob,” the corny, campy horror classic that
opens with the funniest, catchiest theme song that I can recall. “Beware of The
Blob, it creeps/ And leaps and glides and slides/ Across the floor/ Right
through the door.” It’s a laugh riot. The movie is too, right from the start
with McQueen playing 17 (!) calling a first-date gal named Jane (Aneta Corsaut)
as “Jenny,” and getting away with it because he’s Steve Freakin’ McQueen.
Anyway, meteor hits, a blob pops out, eats an old guy’s arm, and it’s on -- laughs, goofy special effects, and punk
teen kids saving the world when the cops won’t listen. Classic scene: The
cinema! What’s hard as hell to take is the sexism: Every woman and girl is a
helpless twit prone to hysterics and less brave than the 7-year-old brat in PJs
prone to carrying around his teddy. Actually that’s the gist of the film: Those
nightmare fantasies kids have about monsters coming true and no adult will
believe them real. So honk the horns, and hold those ladies’ hands tight. B
Labels:
1950s,
1958,
Aneta Corsaut,
campy,
classic,
horror,
Monsters,
sexism,
Steve McQueen,
teenagers,
The Blob,
theme song
The Robe (1953)
Biblical epic “The
Robe” is more akin to “Ben-Hur” than any film about Christ. It follows a (fictional)
man inspired by Christ, here Marcellus
Gallio (Richard Burton), the rich, man-ho, authority-bucking Roman centurion
who oversaw the very crucifixion of the Son of God. The titular red robe is
that worn by Jesus, dropped at the cross, and won by Gallio in a bet. The robe,
or course, isn’t just cloth. It’s the whole blood of salvation thing set to
wake up Gallio from his life’s stupor. Too dumb for analogies? Dude also literally
gets Jesus’ blood on his hands. The rest of the film tracks Gallio as he becomes
a believer. Burton gnashes teeth down to the gums and when he gets that robe near
his face, he “sucks” it up like Frank Drebin wrestling with that pillow in “Naked Gun.” Tin
sword fights on stairs abound, too. Very “Robin Hood” sans tights. Thank
the Lord. Still, for all the unintended laughs, many of director Henry Koster’s
images are knock out: A distraught Judas walking off into the night, a tree in
the distance is stunning. The end-scene “walk to heaven”? Just ick. B
Labels:
1953,
Bible,
blood,
centurion,
Christian,
classic,
historical fiction,
Jesus Christ,
Judas,
Richard Burton,
Rome,
The Robe
Fruitvale Station (2013)
I cannot recall a
more timely film in recent years. Seemingly every week in some U.S. city,
police and vigilante pricks (Zimmerman) are gunning down unarmed black men at
a clip not seen since … pre-1960? It just happened in Charlotte, and it’s the cold
plot behind true story “Fruitvale Station.” We open with cell phone footage:
22-year-old Oscar Grant is shot point blank in the back New Year’s Day
2009 by a transit cop. He dies hours later. We then flashback to Oscar’s (Michael
B. Jordon) final day as he desperately steers away from peddling drugs, works
his way back into the graces of his girlfriend and daughter, and helps
celebrate his mother’s (Octavia Spencer) birthday. It is she who suggests Oscar
and his pals take the train that night. Writer/director Ryan Coogler’s drama is
full of gut-puncher tragic moments like that, but also too syrupy scenes where
Oscar plays chase with his tot in slo-mo magic hour light. The best moments
come when they show Oscar as just a guy, any guy, struggling to correct course,
thinking he has time, not knowing he does not. One day, maybe, films like this
will be of the past. A-
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
G.I. Joe: Retaliation (2013)
“G.I. Joe:
Retaliation” outpaces the first installment of the toy-inspired franchise about
an elite force of American soldiers dedicated to fighting uber-terrorist group Cobra,
the latter obsessed with snake puns and world domination. Mind you, “G.I. Joe:Rise of Cobra” was an awful take on the 1980s comics/cartoon, mangling
characters, adding ugly Iron Man suits, and putting (shudder) lips on the mask
of a black-clad ninja. Here, director Jon Chu (“Step-Up”) ups the action -– dig
the mountain-side battle of sword-playing ninjas -– and ditches much of the “Rise”
low marks, reworking characters to give fan boys their due. The plot kicks off
as Cobra has created an imposter U.S. Prez (Jonathan Pryce) and plans to take
the world via nuclear disarmament.
Satirical politics? No. This is child’s play. Speaking of, in action
figure trading glory, most of the “Rise” cast has fled, but we get Dwayne
Johnson as heavy-gunner Roadblock and Bruce Willis as the original Joe named Joe.
(Channing Tatum briefly returns as Joe leader Duke.) Johnson carries all,
while Willis yawns and the rest of the newcomers, including Adrianne Palicki in
a painfully sexist “hottie soldier” role, strike poses more plastic than human. B-
Labels:
2013,
action,
action figure,
Bruce Willis,
Channing Tatum,
comic book,
Dwayne Johnson,
franchise,
G.I. Joe,
Jon Chu,
Jonathan Pryce,
ninja,
Retaliation,
sequel,
terrorism,
toy
The Rundown (2003)
It comes fast, a split-second cameo: Arnold Schwarzenegger walks out of a bar and
yells, “Have fun!,” as Dwayne Johnson -– billed as “The Rock” for his wrestling -–
struts into a showdown that will have him clobbering most of a football team. Off
the bat, director Peter Berg in his second film is planting flags: Johnson is
the new Action King and “The Rundown” is a goofy, bone-cruncher flick from 1986.
And it is exactly that. Every beat, stunt, gag, and boom is wired to the days
of Reagan. Irritation? Yes. Likely the point? Fact. Plot: Johnson is Beck, a
bounty hunter sent to the Amazon to retrieve the son (Sean William Scott) of
his loan shark boss. In the jungle, his target easily found, Beck gets sucked
into a third-world slave camp (free market capitalism!) drama run by an evil
baron (Christopher Walken). Skulls crack, you know the rest. Johnson’s charisma
is strong as Berg dreams up cackling, chortling myriad ways to put his hero
through the ringer. Scott’s Wile E. Coyote irritates and needles Beck in the
film’s best unsaid gag: This is a bromance take on “Romancing the Stone,” one
of those great ’80s films. B
The Possession (2012)
A girl on the cusp on
puberty is possessed by a demonic spirit and spills familial terror as her soul
goes dark and her body gyrates in inhuman forms. Familiar? “The Possession”
is another spawn of diminishing returns and scene-for-scene re-dos from “Exorcist,” the demon queen of spiritual horror. Here, the girl (Natasha Calis) happens
upon an antique wooden box with Hebrew engravings at a yard sale. It calls to
her, quite literally. Daddy (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) quickly obliges daughter’s
purchase as he wants to soothe her woes as he and mom (Kyra Sedgwick) sign divorce
papers. (If the real horror on screen is divorce then it is badly, badly handled.) Emily
is taken hold by the box and starts to splinter, distant, silent, and prone to
stabbing dad with a fork. All this leads to a finale involving exorcism and a
man of God, here a rabbi rather than a priest. (Jewish reggae star Matisyahu plays
the role, oddly tone deaf.) Every scene here was done better in 1973, save one:
Morgan as the desperate father begs a room full of religious elders for
help. One old crow coldly replies, “It is up to God.” That’s chilling. The rest…
C+
Labels:
2012,
children,
demon,
divorce,
girls,
horror,
Jeffrey Dean Morgan,
Judaism,
Kyra Sedgwick,
Natasha Calis,
parents,
possession,
puberty,
rabbi,
religion
Twenty Feet from Stardom (2013)
“Twenty Feet from
Stardom” is a music lover’s dream. If you have ever rocked to the Rolling
Stones, David Byrne, Ray Charles, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Diana
Ross, or Sting, you know their songs – “Gimme Shelter” and “Young Americans” are
two – infect the soul as much from the backup chorus as the lead singers. “Twenty”
is the story of those background voices. For me, the faces and names of Darlene
Love, Judith Hill, and Merry Clayton have glimmers of faint recognition. But
their voices -– “Rape! Murder! It’s just a shout away!” from “Shelter” -- vibe in
me forever. These women never reached fame or riches, one even takes to cleaning
houses. Their careers were sidelined by sabotage or bad luck, or by choice. Each
woman recalls memories, and they and eat together, and their talents are praised
by the likes of smitten men Mick Jagger
and Gordon Sumner, and director Morgan Neville shows these ladies in a divine
light. Too much so. The hedonism of rock n’ roll is vaguely referenced, but
never explored. These women stood close to stardom, but also madness. Oddly, those stories are left off stage. A-
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Much Ado About Nothing (2013)
Joss Whedon -–
director of “Avengers,” creator of “Firefly” –- has adapted
Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About
Nothing” into a light and airy, black-and-white big-screen trip. The result is
less movie and more “you have been invited to a weekend theater party” at
Whedon’s own house no less, with his TV friends (Amy Acker, Alexis Denisof,
Nathan Fillion, and Clark “Agent Coulson” Gregg) performing off the cuff and in
the kitchen where last night’s dishes sit unwashed. Adorable. See, this “Much
Ado” -– you either know the famous comedy about sex, dirty war, and feminine
politics, or you are a home-schooled lonely Bible freak -- reminds us that these
plays were not high-brow work for snobs, but blasts of escapist fun for the
masses. The cast riffs and experiments on the dialogue and gender-flips
roles, and some of it works, and what sinks has the beauty mark of trying
something different. Fillion’s “police force,” which in modern day would not
dither over infidelity and womanly virtues, seem to be having more fun than any
group of people onscreen all summer long. Now, about that “Avengers” sequel… A-
Requiem for a Heavyweight (1962)
This is the real
America. We’re told growing up that
if you work hard and stay true, you can be anything with the American Dream waiting
just for you. Not in “Requiem for a Heavyweight,” a true-classic film that
shows the world outside the boxing ring as far crueler than the one between the
ropes. In life one never sees the punch coming until it’s too late. We focus on
Luis “Mountain” Rivera (Anthony Quinn) a boxer who -– as the movie opens –- sees
his final fight when he’s knocked out, and the doctor deems him unfit to go again
as blindness or a fatal aneurysm is assured. Born poor with no education, Rivera
had and has zero chance, and now he and his “cut man” (Mickey Rooney) are at
the mercy of the duo’s longtime manager, a gambler (Jackie Gleason) swallowed
whole by booze and selfishness. The sick tragedy: Rivera remains true to his
“master” because he knows of no other option. His loyalty is his doom. Rod
Serling of “Twilight Zone” fame wrote the dagger sharp screenplay that draws
blood with ripped dialogue. The final scene is one of Hollywood’s greatest gut
punchers, leaving any compassionate viewer reeling hard. A+
Repulsion (1965)
Roman Polanski has
done far more film-wise to make apartments the living embodiment of
psychological hell on Earth than anyone alive, and saying his low-budget English-language
debut “Repulsion” stands above “Tenant” or “Rosemary’s Baby” is one massive compliment.
Catherine Denevue plays Carol, a manicurist living with her aloof sister in
London, zombie shuffling to and from work, staring at sidewalk cracks, and from
her bedroom to the loo, staring at the razor of sister’s (married) sugar daddy.
She glazes out, does not talk, and fears the leers or touch of any man. In
quick succession, a suitor comes on strong and her sister leaves for vacation, acts
that push Carol off her ledge into shocking hallucinations and depraved acts. Carol
has a past that purges out at the finale as we learn her hellish torture is not
over by half. Polanski works with brimstone, fear, and one hell of an actress, laying
the way for the nightmares of “Baby,” his horror masterpiece of stifled women. Sick
irony or inevitable that Polanski had his own misogynistic demons to spew years later? A near-unbearable must-watch classic that left me gasping, and
spawned the recent dark daughter of “Black Swan.” A+
Labels:
1965,
apartment,
Catherine Denevue,
hallucination,
London,
Repulsion,
Roman Polanski,
Rosemary's Baby,
sexism,
siblings,
violence,
women
Knowing (2009)
“Knowing” is
forgetting. In 1958 Massachusetts, a frantic girl scribbles seemingly random numbers
on a sheet of paper that is then placed inside a time capsule that is dug up 50
years later by another group of children, one of whom is the son of an MIT professor
(Nicolas Cage). Widowed, drunk, and sure that God is dead, our troubled hero
stumbles upon a code in the numbers -– it marks the date, map location, and
death toll of every disaster since ’58 until the end. As in End of Times. Director
Alex Proyas (“Dark City” and “I am Legend”) has served up a dark Christian
apocalypse thriller with no way out, and if you go for angel starships and
religion-heavy films that drop 9/11 tragedy and people burning to death with barely a shrug, and that God naturally only saves white
American children, then have at. Not me. This is not deep or knowing, and it
does not dare question what kind of god plays this cruel. Stupidity abounds.
Dig the scene where Cage uses a magic ID card stamped “Academic” to get by
the police. Really?!? Where can I and my wife get that? C-
Labels:
1950s,
2009,
Alex Proyas,
children,
Christian,
drama,
End of Times,
God,
Knowing,
Nicolas Cage,
religion,
Revelation,
time capsule
The Hunger (1983)
“The Hunger” is so ’80s,
I felt like popping over to MTV for a full night of music videos and the Moon
Man. Drenched in equal parts German
techno rock and blood, with sex on top, Tony Scott’s gothic thriller follows a
love triangle between a vampire (Catherine Denevue), her undead boy toy (David
Bowie), and a NYC doc (Susan Sarandon) who studies aging disorders, ironic as
Denevue’s blood-sucker won’t age and Bowie’s poor sap is dying fast no matter
how much young blood he drinks. (The couple tutors a neighbor girl on violin;
let’s just say Mom and dad deserve a refund.) I won’t dive too much into plot
or fates, but I can’t let go the bat-shit-crazy WTF studio-demanded epilogue that
takes a stake and a blowtorch to every nuance and act of violence that came
before it, all for the hope of a sequel. (Why!?!) It does not help that Scott,
being Scott, overloads on smash edits, hellish strobe lights, and making
everything so serious. A sex scene with Denevue and Sarandon should not be
boring. Scott makes it boring. Hunger is overstuffed from the start. Often,
being left hungry for more is better. Is it not? C+
Labels:
1980s,
aging,
Catherine Denevue,
David Bowie,
ending,
epilogue,
German,
gothic,
Rock,
Susan Sarandon,
The Hunger,
Tony Scott,
vampires
Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice (1969)
Relatively tame now,
when “Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice” debuted, it caused a shit storm of
controversy that caught flak from the religious right because it dared dived
into the then-taboo subjects of free-love, open marriage, and recreational drug use, and
did so as a comedy satire with a take it or leave it judgment card at the end.
I daresay few of these critics even saw the film, but panned it eyes closed. In
truth, this is an often hilarious blast at both the conservative and liberal
divide, with the left actually taking the bigger punch as married Bob and Carol
(Robert Culp and Natalie Wood) each take on lovers and suck longtime pals Ted
and Alice (Elliott Gould and Dyan Cannon) into their “don’t think, just feel” bed-hopping
circle. There’s no LOL scenes of slapstick comedy, just the constantly awkward
chortling of watching fools run themselves sideways because they’re afraid to
not do so, to not get angry, and to not babble on amok about “honesty” as it
were alien. Gould standouts as one very hopeless dope who cannot win, ever. B+
Labels:
1969,
Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice,
comedy,
drama,
Dyan Cannon,
Elliott Gould,
marriage,
Natalie Wood,
Robert Culp,
satire,
sexuality
The Lost World (1960)
“The Lost World” is
some kind of crazy time capsule flick, a reminder how far most of America and
the world has progressed since 1960. Here, a group of explorers led by a
pompous professor (Claude Rains) jet to South America to claim what the prof
calls “El Dorado,” a forgotten mountain where “dinosaurs” roam and dark-skinned
cannibals screech and chase after good white folk. Among the heroes is a
helpless, always shrieking lady (Jill St. John) who is repeatedly told a woman’s
only place “is in the home” and her venturing outside is dangerous. She agrees.
“150,000 years ago or today?,” the “Lost World” poster reads. That’s irony.
Then and today, this is a Tea Party GOP’ers warped version of the world, as it
was, is, and shall be forever. Hey, it’s an improvement over the 6,000 years
thing, right? In the end, all of the white people survive, find wealth, and
laugh. All the foreigners die, including the maybe gay guy. I
cringed, winced, and, yes, laughed at the sexism and xenophobia, and
the ancient special effects that have lizards with glued-on appendages “chasing”
people. “Lost World” is accurate. C
Labels:
1960,
Claude Rains,
dinosaurs,
feminism,
Lost World,
racist,
sexism,
South America,
special effects,
xenophobia
Monday, September 9, 2013
The Muppet Movie (1979)
“The Muppet Movie” is
perfection. This is one of the first movies I saw in a
theater. The very Jim Henson fourth-wall tweaking story
has Kermit the Frog making his way from his tiny swamp to Hollywood, meeting
his felt gang (Fozzie, Piggy, Scooter, Gonzo, and even Big Bird) along the way,
and outsmarting Charles Durning as a seller of fried frog legs. Yikes! The kick,
so to speak, other than seeing the Muppets move freely, ride bikes, and drive
cars: Henson’s unparalleled love of
entertaining children with no pandering still warms my soul. He celebrates
each child in the audience, upholding above all the joyous wonder,
curiosity, imagination, and intelligence of the very young. No studio does that
now. Not one. “Rainbow Connection” truly is one of the greatest film songs, that
final verse saying you -– the children -- make all this possible. For the
adults, the humor – loner Rowlf takes himself for a walk -- and guest stars –- Richard Pryor! -– never tip toward concession or ridicule. I can drone on forever
of my love for “Muppet Movie.” I love it now as I did at age 5. A+
Labels:
1979,
Charles Durning,
childhood,
imagination,
Jim Henson,
joy,
Kermit the Frog,
memory,
Piggy,
Rainbow Connection,
Rowlf,
Scooter,
The Muppets
Jack Reacher (2012)
In “Jack Reacher,”
Tom Cruise is the coolest guy in the room who’s miles ahead of everyone else, can
fight five guys no sweat, and when he walks by -– even at a Goodwill –- every
woman swoons. The college girls, too. Yes, Cruise may be “playing” Jack
Reacher, but really he’s spinning on his own ego. And since Reacher is one of
those secret Army guys with no personality or background, why not let Cruise do
so? He is the main attraction. Sorry Lee Child books fans. Here, Reacher
investigates a mass murder carried out by an ex-Army sniper who we know is
innocent because we saw another man (Jai Courtney) do the deed. Fear not,
Reacher/Cruise will down every villain, right up to the one-fingered evil Blofeld
cousin (famed director Werner Herzog) with an agenda so uninspired 007 would yawn.
Not Reacher/ Cruise. He coolly threatens, scowls, and drives a Chevelle in a
kick-ass car chase that’s a riotous hoot. All of this is carried out as a
massacre plot that shies at the shock of violence to get a kid-friendly PG-13.
But post-Sandy Hook, when a movie killer targets children, why are we not
looking at an automatic R rating? B-
Labels:
2012,
action,
Army,
children,
crime,
ego,
Jack Reacher,
massacre,
PG-13,
police,
Sandy hook,
Tom Cruise,
Werner Herzog
The Way, Way Back (2013)
I got into “The Way, Way Back” fast. The title refers to those nerdy 1980s station wagons with the reverse seat in the far back that faced traffic, exile from all family interaction as you wondered if the truck in “front” of you crashed into the rear, would you survive? Not likely. Yes, I have mental issues. So does Duncan (Liam James), a 14-year-old stuck on a beach trip with his mother (Toni Collette) and her boyfriend (Steve Carell, against type and damn good), who riddles the boy with abuse. “You’re a three,” this dick chides the boy. Seat position is Duncan’s least worry. Seeking escape from boredom and his mother’s daftness, Duncan peddles a girl’s bike (too easy a joke) around the lazy town and finds himself at a cheapo water park run by a beach bum (Sam Rockwell, air quoting Bill Murray) who reaches out with friendship and a job. Duncan gets to drive. Directors/writers Jim Rash and Nat Faxon (“Descendants”) have crafted a great -– if overly familiar -- film about a kid who wants nothing more than to jump out that back window and run. I was him long ago. A-
Labels:
2013,
abuse,
beach,
comedy,
drama,
Jim Rash,
Liam James,
Nat Flaxon,
New Jersey,
Sam Rockwell,
Steve Carell,
teen,
Way,
Way Back,
youth
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