The Game (1997)

David Fincher’s red-herring thriller “The Game” failed with most mainstream critics. I loved it. I just saw a different movie. “Game” is a deceitful movie about the deceit of movie-making, the Hollywood button-pushing that we know is fiction, but that we get sucked up into: Drama, action, comedy. The edits, camera angles, lights, sound effects: We know it’s fake, but we buy in bulk. We get involved. The plot: Michael Douglas is soul-dead San Fran multimillionaire Nicholas Van Orton who accepts a “gift” from his baby brother (Sean Penn), a vacation that comes to him at home and office, a personalized attack that crushes and removes every instinct Nic has built, bought, and forged, starting with a TV with its own mind and running past a crashed cab in deep water. The plot is preposterous, of course, but it’s on purposefully so, this beautiful nasty meta-film of a film stars a man who has bought into his own Hollywood thriller by choice, we the audience running with him. By choice. Douglas -– the symbol of amoral America during the 1980s –– is perfectly cast as a vastly unlikable man who we root for quickly. We are him. A

The Untouchables (1987) and Gangster Squad (2013)

Double bill: Brian De Palma’s “The Untouchables” with Elliot Ness versus Al Capone, and “Gangster Squad,” with L.A. cops against Mickey Cohen. Both are true cops-and-mobs stories repainted with Hollywood final blowout action scenes. Why allow Frank Nitti his suicide when Ness can toss him off a building? “Squad” plays looser with truth. 

Such is film. Facts hit the floor faster than bodies. In 200 words, my take downs on these mob take-down films.

“Untouchables” –- also based on the rah-rah TV show – follows Eagle Scout/U.S. Treasury agent Ness (Kevin Costner) as he brings in three like-minded heroes (Sean Connery as wise old cop, Andy Garcia as hothead cop, and Charles Martin Smith as nerd cop) to nail Robert De Niro’s Capone. Smart casting and smart-looking film. 

It smells of Chicago and spent bullets. De Palma and screenwriter David Mamet put us in gorgeous locales -– trains station, courthouses, and filthy red alleyways. Dialogue pops like spent lead: Connery barking about knives at a “gun party” is classic. 

I was 13 in ’87 and this became my Instant Favorite Film. The violence, male bravado, scope, and that shoot-out on the stairs. It’s a stellar cops-and-gangsters fantasy for… teenage boys. I’m wiser now, and the red-blood love has waned. This is a sloppy-ass film riddled with dubious continuity errors -– moving corpses, that wondering elevator in the assassination scene, a terrible voice dub throughout, and logic tossed aside in a courtroom finale. Too many scenes make me cringe. 

Was De Palma so in love with his own (admittedly great) style, he forgot the importance of details? Hell if I know. Costner is too fantastic to care. B+

“Squad” whiffs fake as “Untouchables” feels immersed in Chicago lore. You can smell the wet paint. I read Ellroy. Call me biased. Josh Brolin is WWII Army Special Forces vet John O’Mara, now a cop assigned to stop New York-bred Cohen (Sean Penn) from becoming the West Coast Capone.

O’Mara is very Ness to the point I believe writer Will Beall watched “Untouchables” on repeat. Lines are lifted whole. O’Mara also has his three heroes: Robert Patrick as wise old cop, Ryan Gosling as hothead cop, and Giovanni Ribisi as nerd cop. Toss in retro-progression with Anthony Mackie as a black patrolman and Michael Pena as a Hispanic flatfoot named Navidad. (Cringe.) 

Plot: O’Mara’s guys shoot the shit out of Cohen’s guys, who do the same back. Penn is comically spittle-tossing evil, his performance falls into hysterics. I laughed my ass off when a ridiculously dickensesque shoeshiner gets whacked. I gather director Ruben Fleischer (“Zombieland”) wasn’t going for giggles among the blood and rape. 

As Ness says, “You aren’t from Chicago.” Do not pretend. C

Tree of Life (2011) – A second look

On my first viewing of “Tree of Life,” Terrence Malick’s epic drama of God’s creation of the universe, one Texas family during the 1950s, and such small potatoes as life and death, it took me more than a week to even form words to describe a reaction.

And, now, on my second viewing, I realize those first thoughts and impressions were wrong. Fully and wildly dumbass wrong. I will not re-edit my first review. I still stand by it. As with a diary entry, it must remain, as this film – the most mind-blowing movie of 2011 – is something all new to me. Twelve days later. To understand my second-take reactions, one must read my first (naïve) impressions.

Malick, director of “Badlands” and “The New World,” here has made nothing short of a biblical love poem on film -- a psalm -- to not just the glory and passion of his own family, but God Himself, and all the meanings of His passion. In passion, there is great pain. And there is great pain on screen in this film. Death. (Sorry to get all religion, which I normally approach gingerly and awkwardly, always and forever.)

I realize now, that there is no Rapture or end of world drama in “Tree of Life,” I think, but only an adult man’s dream-like, memory-fueled acceptance of his beloved younger brother’s death by suicide and his re-finding of faith in God and life, the light if you will. That leap, that bridge, inspired by the planting of a tree at a glass-encased office tower.

It recalls the tree, the God-like tree, in front of his childhood home. The one associated with his own mother. Sean Penn is that man, Jack, an architect who was raised in a small Texas town by a strict and over-bearing, but loving and passionate, father (Brad Pitt) and free-spirited mother (Jessica Chastain).

I also now understand Malick’s use of creation and the very start of all life, for the miracle and darkness found in every childhood -- growing up, laughing, playing, maturing, rebelling -- is as majestic and beautiful as the very start of our and God’s universe and as dark as the cataclysmic death by meteor of all dinosaurs. It is beauty. Infinite.

I’m already well past a preset 200 word limit, and ready to spill another 1,000 words on this epic film – ready to spill on the dark traces of father and son relations that I experienced growing up, every boy did I surmise, and am re-living after seeing this work of beauty, and the way Jack’s younger self (Hunter McCracken) has his entire since-birth-driven belief in God and goodness ripped apart after watching a child drown.

An act, an event, I also saw as a child, as I spoke of in my first take.

And I did not realize until hours after my second viewing that the building that is central to Penn’s character, I have not only visited, but stayed at and photographed: The Hyatt Regency Hotel and Reunion Tower. I slept many nights, for several years running on an annual business trip. (It is within eye line of Dealy Plaza.)

I imagine my take will be fully different on a third viewing. How often does that happen in movies, to create such a personal reaction? Me, I loved it. But I respect the haters of this film, too. It is art. Made to provoke. If you think this film is shit, God bless, standby your reaction. Scream it. But know this: Does any human being actually give two farts about "Cowboys & Aliens"? I do not. I cannot even recall it. I bet fans of the film cannot either.

Few other films in 2011, or 2010, or 2009, and on and on, can make that claim. This is art. Mind-blowing, core of the soul, church in a cinema, art. New grade: A+

Tree of Life (2011)

Terrence Malick’s latest ruminating avant-garde cinematic riff is “Tree of Life,” a 2 hour 20 minute drama about the creation of the universe and life itself, a 1950s small-town Texas family and the tragedy that befalls them, and a man seemingly lost or aloof in a city seemingly made of glass, steel, concrete and little of anything organic. That is, of life.

It ends on a beach in a wondrous scene that makes the finale of “Lost” seem as straightforward as a Hallmark card. Without the plane and dog, naturally.

It’s taken me more than a week – almost two to be exact – to even collect my thoughts on this voyage through Malick’s view of God, the universe, life, birth, family and death. Words failed me. Still do.

The movie is that good. Maddeningly so.

Then I realized the answer was in front of me, staring at me in the face. It is in the film’s poster, which I luckily snagged from the local artsy movie theater. (I got connections, don’t hate.) The poster contains 70-some images from the film, stills that represent memories of the film like snapshots from a family album, memories, a group of postcards from the universe’s beginnings to the film’s end.

Finally, I got it.

“Tree of Life” is about memories, the aloof man (the family is his, from childhood) and maybe God’s memories. Or Malick’s version of God, looking back at the universe He created out of nothing and then brought to an end. (That’s my theory on the end, it is the rapture.)

In its editing, “Tree” eschews linear design, dialogue, action and time. We witness dinosaurs hunting in a river that we later will see the Texas children traipse through as they play. This is pure Malick -- a polarizing, perplexing, maddening (that word again) and utterly fascinating filmmaker, maybe the best one of our day. (David Lynch being the top. In my book.)

“Badlands” and “Days of Heaven” are among my favorite films, and I’m still mesmerized by “The Thin Red line,” Malick’s World War II drama. The man would rather show forest animals and birds fleeing a South Pacific gun battle than show the men fighting and bullets whizzing by. It is that view that fascinates me, not just outside the box, but outside the world the box is in.

Here in “Tree,” more than any other film, he is saying we humans with all our dramas are part of something much larger than ourselves. As a friend wrote on Facebook the other day, referring to a Rick Warren book, “It ain’t about you.” Or something to that affect.

This is not a film for everyone. Its legion of fans may be rivaled if not well outnumbered by its detractors, many fine and decent (and some stupid ones I’m sure) folks who have walked out lost or outright angry at the inscrutable images of God’s first light breaking the darkness of space, giant fish, cells, blades of grass, waterfalls, cars, bi-planes, and fields of sunflowers. And then much of 2 hours of children playing.

Yes, God figures into this film in a major way, as the Creator of our world and the seemingly absentee Father that he now appears to be. (Go on, debate away. I debate myself on it.)

Sean Penn is Jack, the aloof man/architect in the city, looking back on his childhood, with his overly strict father (Brad Pitt) and his luminous, angelic mother (Jessica Chastain), and two brothers, the most innocent of who will die years later. For reasons never shared.

(News interruption: Malick grew up in 1950s Texas, and had a younger brother who committed suicide at 19. The brother dies at 19.)

Adult Jack lives with a woman, maybe his wife, who he does not look at. Jack’s childhood scenes take up the majority of the film, and they are among the best of Malick’s work: Snippets, chunks and wide-swaths of Jack’s memories and barely recalled dreams are all innocent, terrible and scary. Rebellious, too. As is childhood, no?

Young Jack (Hunter McCracken) climbs trees – the title tree is in the family’s front yard – and swims, and talks his little brother into sticking a metal wire in lamp (it’s not plugged in) and putting his little finger over a barrel of a bb-gun (oops, it’s loaded).

I’ve never seen a film the better captures interaction of a family. The beautiful simpleness. To Jack, the mother is the perfect loving God(dess), and in one scene she floats in the air above the family tree. Like God would.

Dad is not that by far. He will toss the dinner table over to hit one of the children who dares disobey him. He is wrathful. In one scene young Jack sees an opportunity to kill his father. He leaves it be. We can take this as a troubled child reacting to his parents, or as one friend (go Dana!) suggested, mother is the New Testament God, father the Old Testament. My father wasn't Dick van Dyke for sure, and, man, that scene hit close to home. Been there. Dreamed that.

Indeed, church is a major part of the family’s life, and when a child friend drowns (it is shown from afar, but still packs a stomach punch) or a polio-stricken man walks by, the children are confused, befuddled, and ask their parents why God would let such things happen. As do all or most children. As did I, as many of the themes and actions in this film I directly experienced. I at age 9 watched a child drown. It still haunts me. When the youngest boy later dies as a young man, the mother asks God the same question, why?

Malick reaches far. The dinosaurs are too damn much. I only think the ending is the Rapture, some Christ-like figure appears. But the man is reaching. Who does that nowadays? To make a film that will divide audiences and get a group of adults talking about a film for more than a week, as has happened in my circle of friends?

No one is making films like this right now, going for such high themes as God, daring to freely mix the theories of creation and evolution, the universe and our place in it. Children playing, pranking and smashing windows.

This is what filmmaking is supposed to be out, right, the art form of our time? Abstracts welcomed. Love it or hate it, just see it. And see it on the big screen where it belongs. A

Into the Wild (2007)

Actor Sean Penn has written and directed a superb film version of John Krakauer’s award-winning nonfiction book "Into the Wild" -– one of my favorite reads -- the true story of Christopher McCandless. If you know the book, you know the movie. If you don’t know the book, get a copy. Read it. Then see the film. Now that we have that settled, Chris was a college graduate who in the early 1990s, ditched his job prospects, family and any career prospects to head West, way west to Alaska, to live off the land as if he were a Jack London hero. It killed him.

Played by the superb Emile Hirsch, McCandless is idealistic, full of the brimstone fire one gets in their post-college years (and quickly ditches when the rent is due and Waffle House sounds mmm-mmm good after a night of drinking). Sorry. I digress. Chris despises materialism, capitalism and the "hypocrisy" of his well-to-do parents. He gives away his savings, killing his chances of law school, burns his money and destroys his identification in the form of driver’s license and credit cards. He, or so he thinks, "frees" himself in the process. A hiker finds his body inside an old bus.

I loved the book’s soulful genius. Krakauer lost a child and knew the parents’ pain. He wrote about it. Penn’s movie digs deep into the worry and pain of the parents (William Hurt and Marcia Gay Harden) and sister (Jena Malone) felt after Chris left, but never treats them as saints. The parents are humans with wrongs, as does any other person. That Chris was too young to see that his parents could never be perfect, nor could he. Shit happens. It is one of the tragedies that Penn focuses on.

The cast is both superb and … less so. A heart-breaking Hal Halbrook plays an elderly "perfect" father figure that Chris never felt he had. Hirsch is unforgettable. I never cared for him before, but here he shines. His acting of Chris' slow, painful demise is as cruel here as in the searing book, something I couldn’t imagine while reading the book back in 1996. The heart of the book and film is McCandless’ relationship with the Holbrook character, especially for anyone who saw their grandfather more as a father figure than their own father. Holbrook walks away with the film. Other actors don’t fare so well. Vince Vaughn plays a farmer, but he’s nothing more than Vince Vaughn sucking up the scenery.

Beautiful camera work, inspired casting of locals and a respect for people who are religious, gypsies, flakes and loners, all drive the film. It celebrates individualism, but marks against being alone and committed to one’s own self. Eddie Vedder contributes to the way-cool soundtrack. A-

The Assassination of Richard Nixon (2004)

Relax. This isn’t “Inglourious Basterds.” Tricky Dick survives “The Assassination of Richard Nixon.” But back in 1974, Samuel Byck – failed salesman, rejected husband and nut-job loser -- did try to off Nixon. The method: Hijack a commercial jet with the intent of crashing it into the White House. Some 26 years before 9/11. This spooky drama is a fictional take on the unraveling of Byck, played by Sean Penn, and re-named Sam Bicke for full “Taxi Driver” homage. (Wait, was Travis Bickle named in honor of Byck?) When Bicke’s ticking time-bomb bell rings, the violence is shocking. To us, post 9/11. And to Bicke. Penn is brilliant in the role, of course. But even at 95 minutes, the film seems long. This dirt clod could have remained under the rug, forgotten. B+

Milk (2008)

Sean Penn is life-changing in "Milk," the Oscar-winning biopic of gay civil rights leader Harvey Milk of San Francisco, slain on November 27, 1978 (the day my brother was born). Penn's entire body language, movement, even his smile and very eyes, disappear into the role of Milk, a NYC transplant who comes West in 1972 to open a small business.

Fed up with police abuse and constant bigotry from the political right, he soon becomes a community leader and then seeks city office. He gets the nod after multiple failed attempts and soon becomes the face of homosexuality in America. Is it any surprise he was murdered?

The cast of this mostly flashback-style biopic is amazing, from Emile Hirsch ("Into the Wild") as a young gangly hustler to Josh Brolin ("No Country for Old Men") as the angry conservative and fellow city supervisor who kills Milk and S.F. Mayor George Moscone (Victor Garber).

Dustin Lance Black's screenplay is a detailed wonder that balances dozens of characters and a good deal of history. But it's not a perfect beast. He and director Gus Van Sant ("Good Will Hunting") add in a double phone call between Milk and a suicidal gay teen - in a wheelchair! - that plays as way too sentimental and coy. Of course Milk inspired gay youths across the country to feel good about themselves, we don't need neon pointers.

Worse, the duo paints hell-bent White as a closeted gay man finally uncorked and brimming with rage. It's a weak, dumb and seriously cliched liberal argument. Here's the deal: self-righteous Bible-thumpers kill or harass gays for one reason, because they can. It makes them feel better about themselves and their God. There's nothing deeper or more secret than that cold evil fact. Heck, Brolin doesn't seem to cop to this card either. His slowly unraveling performance is brilliant.

That said, this is an uplifting film that uses real-life archival footage to great effect. (That really is Diane Feinstein announcing Milk and Moscone's deaths, and that really is Anita Bryant as one of God's bigots, err, believers.) But this is Penn's film, more so than "Mystic River." His Milk is geeky, shy, painfully trusting, jumpy in his own skin and prone to failed romances with immature or unstable men. He's much like any man, but he chases men. Not women. Who knew Penn had that in him.

Milk is not played as a hero or a saint, but a man who saw no one to lead his people and so became that leader. Penn deserves every accolade out there. A-