Showing posts with label Tom Hardy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tom Hardy. Show all posts

Monday, January 11, 2016

The Revenant (2015)

Alejandro G. Inarritu’s “The Revenant” is grueling, beautiful, and blood-soaked ugly. It is the tale of survival and revenge with Leonardo DiCaprio as famed tracker Hugh Glass, returning from near-death to find those who abandoned him for dead after a bear attack in 1820s America. My gut instinct: “Revenant” is far too long and far too a “Look at Me!” performance by DiCaprio with his artist/director as cheerleader. But laying in bed hours later I clicked on “Revenant” as far more than the straight flick of one angry man killing another that I expected. Wanted. It’s a spiritual war of man, nature, and an America I’ll never know. Inarritu uses dreams and hallucinations within dreams, tied to shaky reality. None more stunning than a ruined stone church, images of Christ barely intact, that may or may not exist. Glass is a haunted man, and Tom Hardy as Fitzgerald -- the man who leaves Glass for dead, and kills the latter’s Pawnee son -– is also that. Glass says he “ain’t afraid to die,” he’s done it already, but so has Fitzgerald. It’s damn long and peculiar, but “Revenant” is a brutal, exhilarating tale of base nature, man and animal. B+

Monday, May 18, 2015

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

(EDITED 20 May 2015. A second viewing has me even more enthralled with this movie. But some a huge correction to the below: It is without doubt the same Max Rockatansky in this film as Mel Gibson played. That's clear up front, and elsewhere. Which makes the lead of Charlize Theron's road Warrior Trucker all the more amazing. And the first appearance of The Wives is one of the great rug pulls of modern cinema. The first shot seems contrived and sexist, wet ladies in the desert, wearing gauze, maybe. College guys next to me whistled. Within moments they cringed and winced at the rage these ladies held. That's powerful film-making. I never touched on the wild religious implications of the film, the sick promise of Immortan Joe to his followers that if they die for him, Valhalla (heaven) awaits. Massive part of the story. It hits current wars of this day. Just epic. I don't know George Miller, only a few months younger my father, pulled this off. He has just crushed every young filmmaker working today. Epic. That certain Jedi film coming out later this year has a huge mountain to climb. A sequel.reboot has just set a new standard for action films, and how woman are to be seen on screen. Forever. And the energy on screen -- the feeling that anything can happen -- i just have to applaud.)


Days on, I’m still pumped with awe. I don’t know where to begin or if I’ll ever get everything I feel right now. “Mad Max: Fury Road” is the most daring, subversive summer action film to hit cinemas in years. God love George Miller. 

This is THE film we need now. In its jaw-dropping spectacle. Its energy. Its anger.

From trailers and posters galore, we expect rising Hollywood star Tom Hardy (“The DarkKnight Rises”) to take on the iconic Australian role of ex-cop Max Rockatansky played frighteningly wild-eyed, fierece by Mel Gibson 40 odd years ago and run with it. 

Hero. Savior. Bad ass driver and gunslinger. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

During a frenzied pre-credits opening salvo, hero Max is taken hostage, bound and masked, and in drops the true lead of this film -- the new Road Warrior for our time -- Charlize Theron as Imperator Furiosa. One-armed, armed, and driving a steam-punk tractor trailer straight out of hell and into freedom. Or hope. Or any place, but from where she came. 

This is an action film with women at the core. Not since “Alien” have we seen such a display. Theron makes Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley seem tame. Here, strong, blood, divisive, kick-ass women in a near-future world take back control of their lives and their world -- killed by men -- with ferocious force. Max has to keep up. This could have been called Mad Women. (Unlike Alien, Miller uses scant clothing to again burn genre.)

And the action -– the entire film is one chase with so little dialogue, you begin to forget to question if anyone can talk – has no peer. In an age where whole hours of something like “Avengers: Age of Ultron” is wall-to-wall CGI and impersonal robots and immortal heroes, Miller drops in real vehicles and teams of stuntmen and women and smashes everything together decadent glee. He smashes trucks through cars. Drops bikes off mountains. Throws tanks into a tornado, and lets them fall. He kills characters we have instantly fallen in love with minutes ago. 

Every frame of “Fury” is madness, glorious madness that feels as alive and pulsing as the first “Mad Max” in 1979, a film that plays like it had to be made or its director –- Miller –- might lose his f’n mind. 

(This also recalls the gonzo mad independent Australian films of the 1970s, such as “The Cars that Ate Paris,” where narrative coherence is slain by glorious visual chaos. And, yes, John Seale’s digital, handheld cinematography is Oscar worthy, inches from bloodied cheeks and oil-spewing motors. Also Oscar worthy: Nicholas Holt, breaking out from boring X-Men and childish movie star roles to play a crazed man riddled with tumors and a desire to die horrifically, so he can be reborn whole.) 

Before I get ahead of myself: We are back in the post-nuclear apocalypse desert of the “Road Warrior” and “Thunderdome,” although I don’t think “Fury” is exactly a sequel or a reboot from the previous films. It’s never specifically said that this Max is the same Max of the previous trilogy. His flashbacks -– violent, haunted acid trips of a man long past sanity -– match nothing told before. Miller has us work for info. He drops us in the middle of the action and makes us chase down the back stories, the detailed horrors of this world. 

One viewing is not enough. Furiosa’s task at the start of the film is to steal gasoline for her master, Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne, who played the villain in “Mad Max,” but a fully different character). Joe is an obese tumor-stricken old man wearing a plastic muscle suit that bulks him to Hulk-size, with a horrifying oxygen mask of plastic, rubber, and animal teeth for a face. He is the leader of a desert cult that worships him as a god, and as he controls all water, food, fuel, and the blood supply, he will not be questioned. 

He also keeps five young women as sex slaves to breed his children. It is they who are Furiosa’s cargo as the film opens, she defying the order to steal petro as she carries these women to the “green place” of her lost youth. Within Joe’s tower cave, his “wives” have scrawled defiant phrases: “We are not your property!” 

The chase is set when Joe decides otherwise and sets out to get his “women” back, no matter who he has to kill to do so. (Even his underlings question his sanity.) That the “wives” are introduced as one-note barely-dressed supermodels is a tantalizing FU from Miller and his writers. In the sands, away from men, finding more women warriors and mentors, these young “hotties” explode in murderous revolt. Max can barely keep up. 

Oscar winner Theron rules the film with quiet intensity. Our action star for 2015. Hardy is her acting equal as a man lost and in desperate need of saving by these women before he loses his last thread of humanity. Epic does not do “Fury” justice. It is vital viewing as action spectacle and comment on our sexist age. 

I can’t think of another Hollywood summer film that has so upended my expectations to glorious effect. Miller has just writ the end of our male-dominated Marvel and D.C. summer era. Those films are made by business. This was made by burning need. A+



Saturday, June 21, 2014

Locke (2014)

“Locke” is a movie-making stunt that wins its dare. Writer-director Steven Knight (he penned “Eastern Promises”) has fashioned a real-time thriller that follows a construction engineer –- played by Tom Hardy -– fighting to keep all he owns and loves as he drives 90 minutes from Birmingham to London to witness the premature birth of his third child. No guns involved. The damage is emotional. The pending child is the product of a one-night stand. The mother is frantic. Hardy’s Ivan Locke -– we only see him inside his BMW, interacting by phone –- declares himself in control and refuses panic. But he must inform his wife of his transgression, assure his two sons all is well, and track the status of his massive work project -– a skyscraper concrete pouring -– that costs untold millions. Tense and without a wasted second, “Locke” booms loud on Hardy’s fierce performance as a man whose hubris is as destructive as negligence, a trait worn by his dead father who produced Ivan out of wedlock. Knight traps us tight inside that BMW with Locke as his life shreds as the minutes tick by, the most valiant action righting one’s life errors. However futile. Seemingly small, “Locke” is epic. A

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Lawless (2012)

If you watch the 1930s-set backwoods gangster flick “Lawless” and don’t know better, and you’d be a major idiot not to know better, you might think tiny, mountainous Franklin County, Va., is over the hill and through the woods and one covered bridge over from big bad Windy City Chicago. Director John Hillcoat and screenwriter (and rock god) Nick Cave, who previously collaborated on the excellent “The Proposition” and the very good “The Road,” likely believe so.

But I digress, as I always do with the details. 

The duo has taken the wonderfully titled non-fiction family-history novel “The Wettest County in the World” by (my proximity) local author Matt Bondurant and drably re-titled it as “Lawless.” It follows a backwoods trio of Bondurant brothers (Tom Hardy, Shia LeBeouf, and Jason Clarke) who moonlight as moonshiners, selling the vile-looking homemade hooch during the days of Prohibition. Sure enough, things go wrong. In the span of just a few weeks, a (1) former go-go dancer, (2) infamous mob boss, and (3) corrupt federal agent -– all from Chicago, all on separate missions in life -– end up in wee Rocky Mount, and onto the brothers, they respectively, 1) Land a job at the family diner/gas station, 2) Sniff out killer booze to sell back home, and 3) Terrorize the siblings with endlessly wicked means of unlawful law enforcement. The newcomers are played by 1) Jessica Chastain, 2) Gary Oldman, and 3) Guy Pearce. 

The Rocky Mount and Chicago depicted here each must have one only dirt road going out, and it meets in the middle, and provide light-speed travel a la “Star Trek.” Hell, today in real life, it takes roughly 12 hours to get from Rocky Mount to Chicago. Here, pre-Interstate, pre-cruise control, it is magically faster. How fast is to get to Philadelphia? Does the title refer to liquor running, or the rules of physics, time, and distance?

But no matter these logic lapses, nor the cliché dialogue, “Lawless” floats and sinks on the acting. I’ll focus on the guys as the women (Mia Wasikowska also co-stars as a love interest) are only allowed to look “purty” and be supportive to their menfolk. Tom “Bane” Hardy grunts most of his scenes to ill-advised comic effect, while Clarke howls madly with his slimly written character. LeBeouf, former son of Indiana Jones, gives his best as a wimpy runt who must become a hardened man, but his character arc is foolish in the end. Oldman’s nasty scenes are a mere but oh-so-welcome series of cameos.

It’s –- shocker -- Pearce that near kills this film. “Proposition,” “Memento” and “L.A. Confidential” are each new classics, and he excels in all. Here, he overacts himself right out of the movie as a sissy snot named Rakes, channeling Dennis Hopper playing Dame Edna playing an endlessly psychotic version of super-agent-man Elliot Ness with a subscription to GQ for Sadists. Sporting ridiculously greased and parted hair, and shaved eyebrows, Rakes fears blood, and yet –- it is inferred -– gets his thrills raping crippled boys after he murders them in the woods. In a gangster flick in the New York of Mars by David Lynch on full-tilt Wild at Heart craziness, his character would stick out as a ridiculous clown. Here? Please.

Oh, one piece of divine greatness: Legendary bluegrass singer and Southwestern Virginia native Ralph Stanley covers the Velvet Underground’s “White Light /White Heat” at film’s end, and it’s an absolutely riveting, soul crushing performance that deserves a far better movie to precede it. For that matter, the entire music score, led by the genius Cave, elevates the movie, especially a breath-taking church singing which hits the soul dead center with pure joy-of-God beauty that can uplift an agnostic. The film misses. C

Monday, July 30, 2012

The Dark Knight Rises (2012)

“The Dark Knight Rises” is the third and clear final installment of Christopher Nolan’s definitive, genre-defining trilogy of Batman films. It is pure topsy-turvy genius Nolan, an epic urban-war film and rule-bending comic book movie that wraps around and fits like snug fingers into “Batman Begins” and “The Dark Knight” so exactly, it feels as if we have just witnessed the ultimate story arc of a super hero’s life, unlike ever before. No fat. No lose ends. Near perfect. The balance, themes, visuals, and characters expertly played. 

In the first film, a doomed father asks his son, “Why do we learn to fall down?” And the boy, now the Batman, is still answering that question, that we are even still pondering that question is worthy of story-writing accolades. Nolan and his co-writer brother Jonathan have again raised the bar, not just on the super hero film genre, but the entire idea of the summer movie tent pole. I’m looking at you, every Michael Bay film ever made, or even the stellar, popcorn fun (but, in hindsight, flat as a flapjack) “Avengers.” 

Case in point, name another summer flick that tips its hat and quotes from “A Tale of Two Cities.” This does, liberally. Average film fan: Clueless. Nolan: All the happier devil.

The amazing kicker of this finale: Nolan’s best hat-trick of the ultra-dark film franchise, a “Prestige,” if you will, is to introduce a new hero rising from tragedy, pain, and lost trust in leadership. Not evil mass death of the Joker, nor the vigilante violence that haunted Bruce Wayne as Batman. But honest, cautious goodness. Let the fan fiction begin. The final image, before Nolan’s trademark “black screen” sign off, is a literal “Dark Knight Rises.” I saw it coming, months back, sort of. But Nolan defies the script I wrote in my head.

If you have not seen this film, then stop, SPOLIERS abound. And, really, 10 days?

“Rises” opens eight years after the events that closed out “Dark Knight,” with Harvey “Two-Face” Dent (Aaron Eckhart) killed after a deadly rampage that also almost killed the son of Commissioner James Gordon (Gary Oldman). Batman (Christian Bale) remains hated and hunted, taking the millstone of Dent’s sins onto himself. Tones of Christ, anyone?

The Dark Knight’s thinking: Give Gotham (New York, naturally) the hero he thinks it “deserves,” whatever that means, the Boy Scout White Knight that Dent was before he crossed paths with the Joker. As for the Clown Prince, he receives no mention here, with Heath Ledger’s death already hanging over the franchise like a heavy fog. Nolan didn’t want to bring up more scar tissue, so to speak. In the end, it is a smart move.

Back to this drama: Gotham is enjoying an unprecedented drop in crime thanks to a hardcore, no appeal law for criminals handed down in the name of Dent, and the Batman remains vanished. Bruce Wayne also is in hiding, rumored to be crazy or disfigured, similar to Howard Hughes -– an in-joke as Nolan once tried to make a biopic of Hughes before Martin Scorsese beat him to the punch. (Anyone still want to see that movie? I do.)

This is just the start of “Dark Knight,” and we have much to go. A hulking, massive brute of a terrorist named Bane (Tom Hardy) is living in the underground of Gotham’s water system, planning an all-out war on the city, with a purpose that strikes close to Occupy Wall Street: Take down the rich establishment, share it all, and destroy the infrastructure. 

(Yes, the film cuts deep into the left, but know that the city’s corrupt law-and-order-at-all-costs tactics, and blatant lying about peace and stripping of Civil Rights mirrors the right-wing’s mantra, including the great lie that this nation was founded on some Christian value. Never generations of racism or the murder of countless Native Americans.) 

Yet, Bane has more in plan, fully indifferent to politics. It all goes back to the first film. Nolan has followed Peter Jackson with his  “LOTR”  Trilogy, and Lucas with his own trilogy. You know the name. It is all that rock solid. (Let me say it here, this film meets our impossible expectations of the trilogy's closing, not excel, but meets. That alone is worthy of endless praise.) Consider the opposite: “The Matrix” trilogy. 

I digress. Mr. Wayne, still heartbroken over the death of Rachel Dawes, injured more in mind than body, is flummoxed by a new woman. She is Selina Kyle (Ann Hathaway), a jewel thief who breaks into Wayne’s personal safe when the manor is full of guests. She discombobulates the man, leaving him first flat on his face, then as the film progress, unable to finish sentences and struck silent. (The film is immensely dark, but also quite funny.) Kyle intrigues Wayne, and is the catalyst to bring him, both of him, out into the light. Indeed, Wayne dons the Batman suit again, but only for short chunks of time. 

This trilogy always has been about Bruce Wayne –- the rich playboy -- as the disguise, after all. The rubber suit, by now, is irrelevant. A tool. The suit, though, must come out because after a stunning set of scenes -- the film is 2 hours 45 minutes, but flies by -- has Bain and his henchmen leading a hands-on assault on Wall Street, and later ups the ante with a full-on attack of the city, centered on a football stadium, but spanning outward to include bridges and various infrastructure. Batman, sure as hell, is needed again.

The finale takes place on the streets and air of Gotham, and again has echoes of “Begins” and “Dark Knight” in certain punches, crashes, and other beats of action cinema. It’s a pulverizing film that had me thinking of 1970s Cold War paranoia films, “The Siege,” or a classic Tom Clancy novel, more than anything found in the libraries of D.C. Comics, and also of 9/11, and terrorism in our day and time. Nolan is going big here, not looking back.

Again, Nolan takes Batman out of the film for well more than half its running time. I’ll hold off on why. If you have seen it, you know why, if you have read the comic books, you know why. It’s a daring step that would make the folks behind “Avengers” or “Iron Man” quake: A superhero with an MIA superhero. Here, it perfectly fits in with what we were told in “Begins,” this is all Bruce, Batman can be anyone, the man behind the mask is irrelevant. The move also takes Batman down several pegs, a fallen boy in an old well.

Back to Gotham where a lone, hotheaded policeman (Joseph Gordon-Levitt of the Nolan-directed “Inception,” which also had Hardy in it) becomes not just the right-hand-man of a sidelined Gordon, but a stand-in for the Dark Knight. Nolan shifts his film to this man, John Blake, also an orphan, as if it were an Olympic relay race. He is the man, the Dark Knight, who Rises in the end, wary of violence, iron-strong structures and also anarchy, and we presume will take on the mask. That his story plays out much like a police thriller (as did “Dark Knight”) is another way Nolan defies expectations. Gordon-Levitt rocks the role.

As with “Prometheus,” the other surprisingly great, against-the-grain summer film, there are errors along the way, mostly the Wall Street attack and its immediate aftermath, which seems to go from day to dusk to darkest night in far too short a frame period, and a questionable gap in how long the Batman remains sidelined, is it the full three months, or five? I’m still uncertain at this point. All are forgiven, easily. One more crack follows.

What is certain: This film, is a huge, bloody marvel (I know, D.C.), but it does not have the drive of Ledger’s Joker sending electric shocks out into the audience. How could it ever have equaled? Ledger’s performance remains legendary, and could never be topped. The scarily muscular Hardy –- a great actor, catch him in “Bronson” -– is playing such a different sort of evil menace, that comparisons are unfair, and irrelevant. (Had Ledger lived, had the Joker returned, would the story be repetitive? Would Bane be here?) 

Bane wears a “Mad Max”-type gas mask that obscures most of his face, and the effect is purposefully off-putting, almost fully repugnant. So we must watch his eyes, blazing with anger and power, and study his body language, how when he lays his hand gently on a man’s shoulder and brings him –- powerful as he is –- down in a second, by sheer intimidation. 

Hardy's chosen voice will remain controversial forever, tones of Darth Vader, mixed with that of an early James Bond villain, many words inaudible. It’s all crazily over-the-top theatrical, but as Liam Neeson’s Ra’s al Ghul taught Wayne in the first installment, that’s how you intimidate. Nolan is playing by the rules off screen that he lays out on screen. (Amazing how many people miss that. And, yes, Neeson appears here, but not how I expected. ) 

The film has a legion of detractors, those who hate how Nolan has mangled and morphed the Batman history and legend, to his own will, and his (undeniable) epic arc, but, again, as with “Inception,” people cannot stop talking about this movie. That’s power, for Nolan, as Ra’s al Ghul would indicate. (And that is art, too.)  

Let’s not forget just how good Bale is here, how permanently hurt and old he appears. As in the first film, Nolan and company are not afraid to show a hero making mistakes and truly getting in over his head. Case in point, despite his mantra to “fight harder,” look at the shock on Bale as Batman’s face, when he first fights Bane. It’s one for the books. Not a heroic rebel yell, but a look of sheer, absolute, “Oh, shit,” fear. Somehow fans hate that. Why? It is real.

Now, that penultimate scene, with Alfred in the Italian café, looking up, to see his life’s hope. I wish it were the very final image, not the Rising scene, and I wish Nolan didn’t show what Alfred sees, instead leaving us hanging and spinning like Cobb’s top. Cain staring out from the screen. Cut to black. Seeing those faces confirmed, it kills the drama before it. At the last moment, an over-reach that drives me mad. Debate onward...

I already have burned through too many words here, and I still have yet addressed the women of this trilogy, and the way Hathaway as “Catwoman” (the name is never mentioned, thank the film gods) turns not just Batman’s brain upside down. Nor have I touched on Wally Pfister’s endlessly fascinating cinematography, never better than the scenes where Batman fights Bain in the low, dark sewers. Hans Zimmer’s score thunders as if he were scoring a deadly serious take on “Clash of Titans,” or another story of gods at war. Every technical mark is just struck dead-on target, besting all before it. (O.K., wait, nothing beats Ledger’s  tractor trailer crash in downtown Chicago.)

“Rises” has that much going on. That many plates. Nolan barely drops a fork. I’m writing this and thinking of a third trip back to the Batcave. To discover more that I missed, re-watch the finale. That’s what movies are all about, are they not? If only that one tiny scene had been cut short, leaving us wide open, rising, in mystery, shock, wonder, and in applause. That's what I wanted. It is the sole reason -- OK< no, I still hate that time jump Wall Street attach to pieces, bad move all around -- this doesn't get a solid “A score. A-

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

This Means War (2012)

“This Means War” exists for one reason: Make college girls debate who’s hotter, the guy who was Kirk in the new “Star Trek,” or the Brit guy from “Inception.” My wife and I heard the chatter as the credits rolled. So, in a sense, “War” succeeds. Not for me. This ugly flick requires smart, self-assured actress Reese Witherspoon to play the fool, and she is no fool. The plot: Chris Pine (Kirk) and Tom Hardy (Brit guy) play “GQ” blowhard CIA agents both wooing a lonely commercial market researcher (Witherspoon) for sport. Lauren is so shocked that two men (!) would pay her amorous attention that she falls oblivious to each man’s outlandish lies and eerily perfect dates, so we in the audience snicker at what a slack-jawed, wide-eyed rube she is. Of course, Lauren learns the truth and forgives instantly. Toss in much nonsensical guns and chases, boom, movie! Try and get past the following: Pine’s lothario meets Lauren at a DVD rental store; the men stalk and spy on Lauren, and it’s meant to be funny; and Pine and Hardy spark hotter chemistry with each other than with Wiherspoon. Hmm. McG directs, without mercy. C-

Monday, September 26, 2011

Warrior (2011)

“Warrior” is a two-for-one “Rocky” tale set inside the metal cages of Mixed Martial Arts. Tom Hardy is Rocky 1, a hulking slab of muscle and seething anger named Tommy Riordan, returned home to visit his Found Jesus father (Nick Nolte), a recovering alcoholic whose past sins run deep. In Philly is Rocky 2, Brendan Conlon (Joel Edgerton), an ex-MMA pro now teaching high school physics. The kicker: The men are brothers, split apart by the old man’s carnage. Directed by Gavin O’Connor, who made “Miracle,” the movie plays with every sport film cliché around from the loyal wife to the hero with a dark secret. Nolte’s listening to “Moby Dick” on CD pushes the edge of symbolism, that white whale being his sin. It could have been cut. But like “Miracle,” this is a go-ahead-and-cheer film with the brother-against-brother final bout dishing out drama that hurts. Nolte plays regret so well, and Edgerton (“Animal Kingdom”) is heroic as the underdog fighting to pay the mortgage. But this is Hardy’s film. He stalks and defeats opponents with a Raging Bull glare, and builds on the grisly prison flick “Bronson” and his scene-stealing from “Inception.” He’s up next as the steroid-crazed Bane in “Dark Knight Rises.” Batman better watch his back. B

Friday, August 6, 2010

Bronson (2009)

Pulling from “The King of Comedy” and “Natural Born Killers,” the gonzo bipic “Bronson” tells the ultra-violent tale of Michael Peterson, a.k.a. Charles Bronson, a.k.a. Britain’s most violent criminal. Bronson (Tom Hardy of “Inception”) tells us he can’t sing or act, but wants fame. So he (successfully) chooses the route of unmitigated, pulverizing violence as his golden ticket. The destination: Prison. Behind bars is his world to play with, and that he does to the fullest extent for 35-and-counting years, and mostly in solitary confinement. Director/co-writer Nicolas Winding Refn uses a “King” trick to dramatize Bronson’s inner workings as the prisoner performs on a “stage” to an audience alive only in his head. It is fascinating and scary as Hardy gives a thundering, crushing performance. Even as Hardy as Bronson commits heinous acts fully naked and covered in any combination of blood, soap, oil and/or black paint, he can't not be watched. A mix of horror, comedy and blow-hard direction add kicks to the movie, which may only be playing in Bronson’s own mind. A-