Hysteria (2012)

“Hysteria” is a mostly daring, often hilarious satire, more commentary on history, than actual deed-for-deed, word-for-word history. In 1880s London, the city’s poor are loathed and considered trash by the rich. To help or mingle with them is status quo cultural sin. Women, damn. Women are thought to suffer from hysterical delusions, and if they speak out too loudly, demand change, and a right to their own (gasp!) body, then they face institutionalization. 

More than a handful of good ol’ U.S. Republicans will recognize these traits as the glory days of all humanity. The Romney-Ryan ticket approves, certainly. (Add in blatant hatred of homosexuals.) Indeed, “Hysteria” shows a time best forgotten. Or satirized. Not re-lived.

The big tongue-in-cheek focus lays on the invention of the portable electric massager that gave any woman a right to her own pleasure. We follow a young doctor (Hugh Dancy) who is vile enough to not only wish to help the poor, but recognize the science of germs, who is tossed from job after job for his beliefs. 

So, he bounces into the employ of a physician (Jonathan Pryce) who treats hysteria, the catch-all phrase for the female symptoms I described above, you know, dissatisfaction. Here the film turns riotously funny because the “treatment” at this time means literally having a doctor manually massage a female client to climax, for her to be relived of “unwanted” thought. Hilariously, the endless workload distresses Dancy’s Mortimer Granville to near disability, or what we call carpal tunnel syndrome. More hilariously: Watch how the older female clients of the physician practically rip apart Granville with their eyes. Enter the vibrator, which our hero doctor sees in another device worked on by a rich (and very liberal) friend. 

The old physician, by the way, has two daughters: One demure and colorless, by force, the other, headstrong, willful, and ready for a fight. Maggie Gyllenhaal plays the latter. Yes, trouble brews. When Mortimer foolishly calls her a “socialist” for wanting to help the poor, leaving her own privilege behind, the audience nodded knowingly.

The brew goes flat -- dare I say limp? -- at the end, though. The climax of courtroom speeches and declarations of love is old, and far too Hollywood, umm, rigid for an English film made about breaking boundaries. That grinds loud and old. But I could not help but dig watching the way “Hysteria” parallels our own time, and how far some of us want to go back. We need another shakeup, STAT. B+

The Iron Lady (2011)

In “The Iron Lady,” a biopic about Britain’s MP Margaret Thatcher, Meryl Streep embodies the loved/hated prime minister with a voice and movements that are amazing to witness. The actress is more than a worthy Oscar winner here, for she is Atlas, hoisting a terrible film upon her shoulders. Director Phyllida Lloyd and writer Abi Morgan dedicate heaps of time to an Alzheimer’s-stricken Thatcher as she talks to her dead husband (Jim Broadbent), who mucks about as if Peter Pan. The undeniably fascinating life of Thatcher, from World War II-era teenager to leader of a superpower, is all rushed flashbacks, snippets with bold-font headlines, half-explanations, and historical characters that run by. The dementia scenes turn into a bad “Ghost” rehash as onscreen Thatcher literally packs a suitcase for dead hubby so he can go off into the light. What utter nonsense. Streep, thankfully, makes every scene she is in shine, from Parliament debates to her vicious and regretted attack of a second-in-command, to the sad elderly years. Nostalgic conservatives will cheer the speeches, cruel liberals will mock the woman chasing her ghost husband because he’s shoeless. B-

Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax (2012)

Conservative bobble (hot) heads are denouncing the CGI animated 3-D version of Dr. Seuss’ “The Lorax” as the second-worst thing in the universe since “The Communist Manifesto,” or third, behind Obama’s birth certificate. The book: Quick subtle lesson of conservation over consumerism by the late Theodore Geisel. Its plot simple: A boy from a treeless, polluted town seeks a real, life tree. But none are to be found, according to the Once-Ler, a recluse who long ago killed all the trees in the land to make bizarre products from the flowery tree tops. The Once-Ler did not heed the warnings of the Lorax, a short hairy beast that looks like (no really) Wilfred Brimley, but oranger and shorter and much hairier, and the self-proclaimed voice of the voiceless trees.

The “Lorax” movie, directed by Chris Renauld and Kyle Bald, is not quick nor subtle. It’s a sermon. Jonathan Edwards Spider kind, but leftist, and with brighter colors. I am quite liberal, and I fast grew tired of the tree-hugger brimstone drum beat, which is finished off by a disturbing and loud Tom Petty/MTV dirge that will scare the hell out of toddlers. It’s “The Day After the Day After Tomorrow,” but the lessons are not remotely “indoctrinating,” as the Fox critics cry. It’s telling kids to be smart, watch your resources. (I know, responsibility crazy right? I mean, wasn’t there a sentence of three in the Bible where God said, “Take care of the Earth. It’s mine. Not Yours.” Commie Bastard out to get Job, err, jobs.) For 90 minutes, yeah... OK, too damn long.

I digress, sorry. See, all the Seussian word plays, innocence, and childlike wonder of the book, are washed in a sea of redneck jokes, spoofs on the bottled water business (bottled air!) and “Too Big To Fail” gags, and this relentless dizzying, loud, nonstop mad dash to deliver a dozen jokes per minute. (The similarly CGI’d “Horton Hears a Who” is far, far better, a true treat.) That’s not to say “Lorax” is a bad, the animation pops with bright cotton candy colors, and many of the jokes are funny – just more akin to current TV fare. The voice talent is ace, especially Danny DeVito for The Lorax. It’s a joke all its own, such a cuddly creature with that Joizee guy mutter, but still warm.

As for the 1971 book, Corporate America did not like it here or there, or anywhere. They made their own book, “Truax” I recall, a tale that included the lesson that, hey, if some forest animals die in the name of progress, tough luck. In God We Trust. Who says who’s brainwashing children? Maybe Murdoch and Gingrich will fund a pro-multi-national-corporation cartoon, about the fun of mountain top removal, as long as it ends with money being made, it’s all good. “I am the Newt , I speak for the dollars…” Not that “Lorax” is any more pure. B-

P.S. I saw this in 3D. Not necessary. A few scenes, maybe. But overall, save your money. Skip the plastic glasses. But, loving Momma Earth, you knew that, eh?

Bound for Glory (1976)

“Bound for Glory” is a movie the GOP might wish banned, a tribute to the American Union spirit that defied billy-club work-crew bosses during the long Great Depression. Men such as Woody Guthrie and thousands of fruit pickers – paid pennies per bushel for exhausting work – were the first to Take Our Country Back, and “Glory” tells this biopic story of the leftist singer in such wonderful detail, one might think this a documentary. Hal Ashby (“Harold and Maude”) directs with a keen eye and ear, and as the man who wrote “This Land is Your Land,” David Carradine is soulful and serene. It’s a must-watch as we head toward an election held fast by corporate-controlled puppets that have no regard for anyone but their rich peers. Yet, this is no leftist orgy. Guthrie is a womanizer, too selfish to recognize his family. It’s a sharp message from Ashby and Carradine, troubled men themselves. Ronny Cox (“Total Recall”) as a unionizer dazzled by fame is marvelous. The cinematography recalls Dorothea Lange. A-