I am a Box Office Prophet

I hardly think that’s accurate, but technically it’s true.  Back in March I submitted some of the writing I’d done here on Photoplay Talk to a film site I’ve always been a fan of called Box Office Prophets. The site, as you may have guessed from the title, dedicates itself to forecasting and analyzing the current Box Office climate.  In addition to weekly articles predicting and dissecting film grosses BOP – that’s what the cool kids call it – offers up a smorgasbord of reviews, quizzes, trailers, releases schedules and snarky columns.  The latter is where I come in.

Having sent my stuff in, a cover note attached with my review of Medicine for Melancholy, a few days passed and I decided not to keep waiting, disappointed but not surprised.  Then as soon as I had let the notion go, the site’s founder David Mumpower emailed saying he dug my stuff.  Wow.  He then gave me some preliminary assignments to test the waters and see if I would be a good fit.  WOW!   I hungrily polished off the assignments, previews for some upcoming films, in a weekend.  After that I was offered the chance to attend press screenings of upcoming indie films Lymelife and Valentino: The Last Emperor.  Naturally I accepted, in less than a week I had gone from being a pretend-critic with a blog to a sort-of-critic for a mid-level website!

After the screenings, I wrote reviews of both films which you can find here and here.  And while seeing my name in a byline was enormously satisfying the reviews took a huge toll on me.  No doubt my lack of experience in writing concise, intelligent and professional reviews played a huge roll in that, but I also think it’s not nearly as fun as ripping on terrible films that win Best Picture.

The thing I had come to love about Photoplay Talk was that I could take the dizzying array of cinematic musings going through my head at any given time and throw them out onto the Internet instead of on unsuspecting bystanders (they generally don’t appreciate it).

Everyday became about trying to balance my assignments at BOP with my updates on PPT (if they can do it I can too).  It proved to be somewhat overwhelming.  As I completed about ten more previews I saw my average time between PPT posts grow from a week to a month, pretty sad considering my pledge to post once a week was only this past January.

Coming up with ideas for film writings started to become a chore, a hobby that took up more time than I was willing to give.  I should mention that the BOP gig, while giving me much greater exposure than my usual readership that sits in the single digits, did not pay.  And though my ultimate goal in starting Photoplay Talk, eventually using it’s contents to get a higher profile position in the film writing world, had been somewhat attained much faster than I ever could have expected, I felt like I might not be able to handle it afterall.

Rather than deal with that issue I just continued to push on until in May, when my day-to-day schedule became too hectic, I started letting BOP go by the wayside as well.  After about a month, David contacted me and asked if I was still interested in doing reviews for them, and if not, he’d look elsewhere.  Feeling pretty guilty I finally wrote him an honest email about how much I could contribute and what types articles I wanted those contributions to be.  I told him I could do about one review a month as it took a lot of time and effort.  But I also said I wanted to figure out a column idea, David had proposed this earlier, one with a vague enough scope so I could write about pretty much whatever I wanted.   My hope was that I could do the same type of work for BOP as I did on PPT (this acronym thing is so fanboy).

A day or two later I got an email agreeing to my terms, the guy’s super nice, leaving me with the task of coming up with an appropriately broad theme and title for my prospective column.  It had been about a month since I had written anything, nothing had really inspired me of late, probably due to fatigue.  But once I saw Terminator Salvation that was no longer a problem.  My hatred for that movie spawned my first entry which I sent to David.  He liked it and wrote back with two proposed titles, Art vs Commerce and Selling Out (not surprisingly, he thought Photoplay Talk was “a bit archaic.”  Ouch, my ego).

Selling Out ended up being the one we went with.  Which I like it a lot, it provides me with ample room to rip on Hollywood nonsense as well as praise Art-House superiority.  There’s also a nice personal tie-in, while I write about how terrible these movies are I kind of secretly love them, Sell Out.  The first post went up on June 5th.  I got my byline and my snarky attitude.  Mission accomplished.

Having said all that, I don’t intend to abandon Photoplay Talk altogether.  I still plan on using it as a place where I can post links to recommendations, tiny quips or musings and as an outlet for when I feel the need to be, shall we say, a little more colorful than Box Office Prophets allows me to be.  I want to extend my sincere gratitude for the small but substantial support I have received in these short months.  It’s helped open up a truly wonderful new dimension to my life.  I hope you’ll keep following me on BOP and, if the mood strikes you, that you’ll share my work with anyone you feel might enjoy it.  As always, happy watching!

I’m Wolverine

The last time we saw Hugh Jackman was back in March when he was singing and dancing his way into our hearts as the host of the Academy Awards.  What a magical night it was.  The highlight was the capper on his opening number.  As he climbed onto a pedestal embodying Mickey Rourke’s Randy the Ram in The Wrestler, Jackman sang triumphantly:

These are the Oscars!
And this is my dream!
I am a Slumdog!
I am a Wrestler!
I’ll rent The Reader!

Then, joyfully proclaiming his Hollywood identity to the world with, as one usually does when expressing themselves through song, overwhelming earnestness, Jackman declares:

I’m Wolveriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

And so he is.

Obviously this delightful singing and dancing side of Hugh was going to be no where in sight for 20th Century Fox’s summer tentpole X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Obviously Wolverine, the baddass-iest of all superheros, is no powder puff.  He has facial hair.  Smokes cigars.  Has a baaaaaad attitude (but, naturally, a heart of gold).  He fights in wars.  And not just any war.  All of them!  He unleashes his uncontainable rage by throwing his head back opening his arms and screaming at the top of his lungs.  At one point they (I am referring the makers of this film as “they” because rather than being a collaboration of director, writer, designer, producer and studio, it feels like someone typed Wolverine, CGI  and summer movie into a machine and this formulaic, cliche-ridden calculation popped out) even made Wolverine a lumberjack, with axes and saws.  And big trees falling, making big noises.  There’s so much manly testosterone manliness going on this comes to mind.

But how can Hugh Jack-Man be both a singing virtuoso and a brooding superhero?  Sounds confusing to me.  I bet the inside of his head looks like this:

I’m Wolverine!

I’m Wolverine!

I’m Wolveriiiiiiiiiiiiine!

IIIIIIIII’MMMMM WOOOOOOOOLVERIIIIIIIIIINE!

Did somebody say lumberjack?

Make the voices stop!  You can’t have it both ways Hugh.  How are guys supposed to know whether to have “platonic” crushes on you or to be homophobic?

As for the actual film, there’s not much to say.  The origin story is the big thing right now in Hollywood.  At first, in films like Batman Begins and Casino Royale, it provided at much needed detour from the sequel formula.  Now that we have every franchise “rebooting” with a prequel of their own they’re beginning to feel like what they actually are, fourth sequels without a number in the title. The biggest problem with prequels of course is that they are, by definition, exposition.  So the trick is making the story something that the audience cares about so they’re not just looking ahead.  On this front Wolverine fails miserably.  They cover so much ground so fast it feels like a filmed outline.

Another problem is that Marvel was clearly trying to capitalize on The Dark Knight’s success by showcasing their own intense, angry superhero.  The difference is The Dark Knight had substance.  And since they went the dark dramatic path the film is devoid of any sense of fun. There are literally a skinny jeans pocket-full of enjoyable moments.  Ryan Reynolds has about ten lines towards the beginning of the film that serve as brief comic relief.  The rest of the time, between the displays of unmotivated computer animators, we get scenes like Wolverine’s girlfriend telling a story about the Moon and some Indians that (somehow) ends up being the genesis of Wolvy’s eventual namesake.  The scene is so cover-your-eyes-embarrassingly-painful they (everyone involved, including the caterer) should be ashamed of themselves.

Basically the movie’s bad.  Don’t see it.  Wait until it’s on TNT in a year so you don’t have to squelch in your snarky outbursts like it did.

Before I close the book on Wolverine, a movie I saw four days ago and barely remember, I’d like to share the parting moment of my Wolverine experience, one I will not soon forget.  After the credits rolled there was a coda, as is the trend these days.  But instead of being a cool hint at a sequel, it was hilariously pointless.  As my friend and I got up to leave, overflowing with contempt, a guy sitting in front of us turned around and said something like “Really guys? You’re going to complain about a comic book movie?”  And before we had a chance to respond he was already walking away.  Alone.  First of all, interrupting people is just rude.  But second of all, you just walk away?  Ok, here’s my response to you Mr. I-go-to-comic-book-movies-at-midnight-by myself.  You are the reason dreck like this keeps coming out.  You keep shelling out cash for these movies and when they’re crap just shrug your shoulders and say “Hey, it’s a comic book movie.”  Maybe if you had some kind of standards and stopped seeing movies that are obviously garbage then Hollywood would start making better ones.  And as soon as I acquire the ability to resist trailers with pounding soundtracks and bad CGI that’s exactly what I’m going to do!

Essential Viewing: Sunday TV

As is my usual custom on the day of rest I spent most of last Sunday in front of the television.   There’s just something about coming across blockbusters from the 80s and 90s I never intended to see them again that’s hard to resist.  Really, what’s better than pressing a button and seeing a CGI tornado chasing Bill Paxton (or anything chasing Bill Paxton for that matter)?  It’s all in the flipping.  I don’t generally watch anything for more than a few minutes.  For some reason my attention span fluctuates according to medium.  I can sit and watch a movie about a log washing up on the beach (really) but when I watch TV I start channel surfing like a 5 year-old after a box of fruit rollups (those things are dangerous when I was three I saw a commercial for them and ran headfirst into a coffee table.  22 stitches.)

I’m If I’m honest with myself I think the reason I take so much pleasure in these bulging budget marathons is because I enjoy skewering bad movies as much as I enjoy watching good ones.  And if I’m even more honest with myself, it’s because I actually like them (a case of reverse cinematic denial?  Perhaps.)  On with the skewering.  I know movies are big and dumb these days but man, in the 80s and 90s when studios figured out they could make terrible films and market them to huge opening weekends, movies were down right brain-dead.  Sure they’re enjoyable, Independence Day is a great watch.  But a computer virus?  The Aliens just happened to be using Windows 95?  And how did they get an Internet connection in space?!

Another Sunday viewing joy is that it can be serendipitously hilarious.  For example, I caught the scene in True Lies where an incredibly sexy Jamie Leigh Curtis does a strip tease for her husband Arnold Schwarzenegger, (she doesn’t know it’s him, because of the plot).  Then later on I saw her in a commercial enthusiastically endorsing Activia, the yogurt laxative.  Hot.  Speaking of True Lies, every time I see it, or parts of it (I haven’t watched it end to end since I was about 14) I’m reminded of what an great ride of a movie it is.  You need both hands to count the great action sequences.  Plus, it’s genuinely a funny comedy that manages to have a strip tease scene that essential to the plot and Bill Paxton actually being good and funny as opposed to his usual bland and bland routine.

I flipped from True Lies over to the end of Terminator 3.  Which, I’m going out on a limb here, I liked when it came out.  I don’t remember why, I haven’t seen it since, but I left the theatre thinking it was good and I’ve maintained and defended that position ever since.  Boy was this a wake up call.  I’ve been living a lie.  Watching Arnold awkwardly rehash his iconic character from the 90s that, despite being from the future, feels painfully out of date was discombobulating in it’s own right.   But considering that this man is currently the Governor of Caleef-oarn-i-ah and that he took office the same year the movie was released takes its absurdity to new levels.  Still the solid ending (judgment day, nuclear bombs gong off everywhere, because of the plot) did get me kinda amped Terminator 4, coming out next month.  But more than that it made me jonesing to watch Terminator 2.  Because really, is there a better action film than T2?

While pondering this essential question my mind drifted once again to True Lies.   Not as iconic as Terminator but that last 45 minutes has to put True Lies in the conversation.  Another contender I immediately thought of was Aliens, a film I rewatched for the 10th time just a couple months ago.  If I had the ability to visit various premieres in film history, along with Douglas Fairbanks’ The Thief of Baghdad, Buster Keaton’s The General and Star Wars, I’d go to the opening night of Aliens just to hear the crowd’s reaction when Sigourney Weaver lays the smack down on the alien queen.  “Get a way from her you bitch!”  Strong.

Then it dawned on me, Terminator 2, True Lies, Aliens, all directed by James Cameron.  I love to rip on Cameron and won’t stop, when you stand on a stage and say to a billion people “I’m the king of the world!” after winning an award for directing Titanic you deserve what’s coming to you.  But Sunday viewing has forced me to give him his due.  Three kick-ass films films that are endlessly watchable and actually really good.  I tip my hat to you Mr. Cameron.

I don’t what’s going on with him lately.   He hasn’t directed a narrative film since Titanic.  Instead he’s been making underwater IMAX movies with bizarrely similar titles that contain titles of his previous films, Ghosts of the Abyss and Aliens of the Deep.  I wonder if Secrets of the Piranha 2: The Spawning is next.  See, now I’m ripping on him again.  James Cameron’s sense of entitlement is so unlikeable even when being praised he gets made fun of.  Perhaps Avatar, his 3D extravaganza coming out this December, will “right the ship.”  I hope so because I’d love to add another action film to my endlessly watchable repertoire (it’s been filling it up with Paul Rudd’s films lately).

Ahhh, the is the glory of Sunday TV.  Thanks for all the pearls of widsom.  I wonder what fruits will you bear next week.

What’s Good: April 09

So far 2009 has been pretty barren as far as new releases go.  Paul Blart: Mall Cop and Taken have been the top grossers,  Watchmen baffled uninitiated audiences and people seem to be digging to 3D.  I haven’t been able to get to as many films as I’d like but of those I’ve seen in recent weeks here are a couple I think are worth checking out.

Hunger

Hunger chronicles the protests that took place in 1981 at the Maze prison in Britain as IRA prisoners attempted the gain political prisoner status.  Amidst already horrendous conditions prisoners smear the cell walls with feces from floor to ceiling, refuse to bathe- resulting in forced cleaning sessions with a brillo-pad like broom – and, the films ultimate focus, stage a hunger strike led by Bobby Sands (Michale Fassbender).  This is no Slumdog Millionaire.

Films that graphically depict extreme cruelty are nothing new, but I can’t remember ever seeing one that has prompted me to use the word beautiful.  Director Steve McQueen (yes that’s his name and yes it’s a total coincidence) allows the events to play out with very little dialogue primarily relying on visual story-telling, bringing to mind the likes of Terence Malick, which is so assured for a first time director it’s scary.  In one sequence a prison guard, knuckles freshly bloodied for reasons unknown, silently smokes a cigarette as snow gently falls around him.  The scene lasts a good 3-4 minutes, does not elaborate, and is mesmerizing.  This is suitable microcosm for the visually incongruous film that is filled with images that are simultaneously alluring and repulsive.

The sparsely scripted style is sustained throughout save for a sequence in the middle where Sands tells a visiting priest (Liam Cunningham) about his plans for the hunger strike.  Acted with compelling restraint, the two debate his political and personal motivations over a 20-25 minute conversation that is, incredibly, largely captured in one take.  Filmed in a mid shot from the side the men are harshly back-lit, emphasizing Sands swirling cigarette smoke and silhouetting them in a glowing blue outline.   The scene is the only one in the film that features dialogue and feels more like an arresting one-act play.  This is sharp contrast provides perspective  to the rest of McQueen’s film where disturbing acts are witnessed but never talked about.

The final act follows Sands’ ultimate sacrifice which is frighteningly realized by Michael Fassbender’s inspired physical performance that goes beyond losing weight for a role.  The disturbing scenes, which once again play out with little dialogue, see Sand’s body deteriorate all the way to the end.   McQueen adds some haunting touches by interspersing unexplained visions of childhood memories or perhaps just hallucinations, that release Sands mind, and the audiences, from his tortured body.

It’s film you’re not likely to want to rush out and see again.  But it is one you’ll definitely be hearing from when 2009 top ten lists start rolling out.  After seeing this, Steve McQueen is now a huge flag on my radar, not to mention his magnetic and ferociously committed leading man.

Goodbye Solo

As you may remember my favorite film of 2008 was Wendy and Lucy, a film about a down on her luck Michelle Williams and her dog where nothing happens and your heart gets ripped out.  The director of that film, Kelly Reichart, along with the director of Goodbye Solo Ramin Bahrani are starting to turn this minimalist style into something of a tiny movement which has annoyingly been dubbed, neo-neo realism.  Don’t worry, this isn’t film snob fest 2009.

Solo (Souleymane Sy Savane) a jolly Senegalese cab driver in Winston-Salem North Carolina who you are literally in love with 3 seconds into the film engages William (Red West), a craggy hard-nosed southerner, and takes particular concern when he suspects William’s request to be driven to a cliff in the middle of nowhere is an attempt to end his life. William tolerates Solo’s aggressive, or perhaps oblivious, attempts to be his friend making it seem inevitable that the two are a pair of unlikely kindred spirits.

Though the premise is ripe for sentimentality Bahrani keeps the viewer off balance as things don’t fall into the places we expect them to.  And as we, along with Solo, try to decipher what’s going on with the reclusive William the characters burrow deep under our skin.  There is little dialogue and little need for it.  An exchange of closeups towards the films end communicates more to the audience any words ever could.

Most of the film’s actors are non-professional, as is often the norm with these types of films, and there is rarely a false note.  West has some film roles to his credit but is perhaps best remembered as a buddy of Elvis.  Here, his William is at once sympathetic and contemptuous as he quietly simmers with regret.  But it is Souleymane Sy Savane as Solo who serves as the heart beat of the film.  His defiant optimism is so contagious that it turns a somber premise into a story that induces far more grins than frowns.

Interlaced with a quiet beauty, whether it be a swaying tree branch or the bags under William’s eyes, Bahrani has made a film that, while cinematically minimal, is emotionally massive.

For those of you looking for a more commerical good time at the mulitplex (no judgements here) check out Monsters vs Aliens.  Make sure you see it in IMAX 3D, I know it’s $17 but the visuals are quite impressive.  You could also can’t go wrong with Paul Rudd in I Love you, Man.  Not quite as strong as Knocked Up or even last fall’s Role Models but even an average entry from these guys is always a good time.  And if none of that sounds good to you, don’t worry.  Summer begins with Wolverine in only a few weeks, (I’m both serious and joking).

Why?!?!?!?!

Fast and Furious made $72 million dollars this past weekend.  I’m going to jump out of a window.  That is all.  Goodbye world.

In Cinematic Denial

When people ask me what I thought of “Watchmen” I say something like: “There was a lot of great stuff, Jackie Earle Haley was awesome, so was Dr. Manhattan’s origin.  The plot was pretty glossed over since they had to cram everything in so you probably need to read the comic to get it but, overall I thought it was pretty good.”

Now, is this really my opinion?  Or the opinion I’m telling myself to cope with my disappointment?  I honestly don’t know.  It’s only been a few weeks since I saw “Watchmen” which makes me wonder, am I in cinematic denial?

Cinematic denial is a phenomenon that affects millions of movie-goer’s every summer and late fall/holiday season.  It occurs when one’s anticipation to see a film is so high that when it is ultimately horribly disappointing, either because of unreasonable expectations or because it was just plain crap, they tell people they liked the film in attempts to convince themselves, and to spare the pain of a matrix-like-shaking-your-fist-at-the-sun-tantrum.  Being someone who frequently comes down with this condition I can tell you it’s often hard to know when you’ve got it.  Typically, it takes a least 3-4 months to diagnose.   A well documented example of this disease is the case I came down with in the summer of 2006.  Here are the details:

I grew up, as did many others, wanting to be Superman.  I had a Superman shirt, with red cape attached of course, that I probably wore 80% of my waking hours between ages 3-5 (are you calling my bluff about the ages?).  My childhood environment was universally infused with Superman toys, movies, 5th birthday parties and underpants.  And though I’ve outgrown the undergarments with Superman furiously breaking through massive coils of chains (that image has a completely different meaning to me now) I maintain my enthusiasm for the man of steel (Admittedly, John Williams’ theme is one of my iPod’s 25 most played songs).  So, of course, when I heard about the prospect of a new Superman film it was met with giddy screeches of joy.  I was careful not to get too excited because I’d been burned before (I’ll save Phantom Menace for another time), but the hiring of Bryan Singer as director, whose previous efforts with the X-Men franchise had aptly demonstrated his knack for the genre, was very promising.  Hwever, what really sent my anticipation to stratospheric levels was the first trailer.  The music, the spit-curl, and Brando’s Jor-El, I watched it just now and I still got chills.  Not only did this guy know how to make a superhero movie, he clearly understood and deeply respected the material.  Against my better judgment, I was stoked.

Then came the fateful day.  When I look back, this movie could have easily been a home run for me.   I didn’t need it to be good to enjoy it, I just needed it to be Superman.  In the film’s opening credits when the music took off into it’s familiar fanfare and the superman S emblem appeared on screen I honestly welled up.  It had nothing to do with that film in particular, it was just the excitement of seeing Superman, any Superman, on the big screen.  I was the fish, the theatre was the barrel and Bryan Singer had the gun.  I was ready for my life to be changed.

Ok, where do I start?  Kate Bosworth, tragically miscast as Lois Lane.  Kevin Spacey, who let him on set?  Parker Posey, why are you in this movie?   Superman has a kid? What?  And worst of all, only one big action set piece.  ONE.  That freaking movie cost $270 million!   Almost as much as the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.  All I get is Superman chasing after an airplane?  Don’t get me wrong it’s a good sequence that looked very expensive, but it’s no where near the top 10 actions sequences of all time, and let’s face it, with today’s technology and the limitless possibilities with Superman they should’ve have had no trouble cracking the top 5.  Aside from the airplane all the other action, including the mind-numbing climax, was increasing displays of his Super strength.  Wow superman is strong.  Wow, Superman is really strong!  Wow Superman is really really strong!  The most depressing feeling when watching a big summer movie is thinking “that was it?” (Matrix Revolutions flashback).

The movie was such a pompous substandard letdown I should have walked out of the theatre and immediately started hitchhiking to Hollywood to personally egg Byran Singer’s house (I’m glad I’ve matured).  But, despite the sacrilege, I walked out of the theatre in defiance.   I was not prepared to face the reality that the film I had been waiting to see for basically my entire life was a dull exercise in mediocrity.  Knowing I would be called on to take a stance I subconsciously formed a completely invented opinion.  This fallacy was centered on one of the film’s dim yet bright-ish spots, Brandon Routh’s wooden but not dreadful performance.  I would say things like “Well it was all so meticulously planned, with his costume and his hair having to be perfect, plus acting in front of all those blue screens.  For him to say a line even halfway truthfully is a miracle.”  I’m not exaggerating.  This was the basis of my defense of “Superman Returns.”  What a racket.

I finally came to my senses some months later after the box office drubbing Superman took at the hands of Johnny Depp (pathedic Superman!) and “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest” (which I enjoyed due to super low expectations).  I hadn’t thought about “Superman Returns” for a while and was reading about a Q & A Bryan Singer gave regarding prospects for a Superman sequel.  The article talked about how when one of the questioners expressed of his disappointment with Returns it was met with universal applause from the crowd.  And that was when I realized.  If I had been in that audience I would have applauded too.  I couldn’t keep living this lie.  It was time to come out of the cinematic closet and say it, “Superman Returns” sucked.

You’ll be happy to know I made a full recovery and thankfully “Superman Returns” did not soil my memory of the previous entries in the franchise.  But the idea that it could have makes me take this sickness very seriously.  Looking back, I can think of many instances when I’ve been in cinematic denial and I know I’m not alone.  My question is, has it always been like this?  Has cinematic denial always been a cross for movie buffs to bear? Were people in 1930 walking out of “Free and Easy” trying to convince themselves that Buster Keaton was just as good with sound? Or is it a modern mutation caused by too much exposure to George Lucas (yes)?

Whatever the cause, until Hollywood starts making films that are universally awesome – which isn’t happening anytime soon – hopes for a cure remain grim.  But there are many ways to combat the symptoms.  If you or a friend may be suffering from cinematic denail, take solace (not the James Bond movie that will only make it worse), you aren’t alone.  If I survived “Superman Returns” you can survive “The Haunting in Conecticut” (why did you think that would be good?)  Just take a deep breath, throw up your arms and say “Who am I kidding? That was terrible!”  See?  Now doesn’t that feel better?

3D, the Wave of the Futrue…and the Past.

When television took over in the 1950s the Hollywood encountered something previously unthinkable to them. Competition.  “Why should I go to a movie theatre if I can watch moving pictures from my living room?” thought the average movie-goer.  Movies were no longer the universal entertainment medium they once were (at one point 90 million people went to the movies a week).  While television tapped into what the public wanted, Hollywood churned out retread after retread with the same aging, contracted workers who made all those classics in the 40s.  It’s no coincidence that the great films of the 50s and 60s came from Europe, hmmm but they had television back then didn’t they?  Why did their movies still do well?  Whatever the cause, something needed to be done, Hollywood needed a game-changer to get people back into the theatre.  What could studios possibly do?  Make better movies?  Nah, how about gimmicks?

Drive-in movies (clearly a compromise with viewers, “how about you leave your living room but you don’t have to leave your car”), cinemascope (still surviving today), smell-o-vision (how did this not take off?) and 3D (movies, with a third dimension, and killer glasses.)  A flash in the pan when it was first introduced in 1952, 3D all but died out in 1955 because of expenses, maintenance problems, oh, and people didn’t give a crap.  Aside from the early success of some horror flicks (I credit Vincent Price) audiences did not respond. Often films released in both formats were outgrossed by their “lesser” dual dimension versions.  Apparently Hitchcock’s “Dial M for Murder” was filmed in 3D but only released in 2D.

Thankfully, the Americans eventually caught on (or all the old fogies died out) to what the rest of the world already knew out and started making good movies again.  The new Hollywood of the 70s brought a young generation to the cinema, television and movies were able to live in peace and Hollywood was saved.

3D, with the rest of its brethren became forgotten relics of a misguided industry.  By the 90s drive in theatres were all but closed down, smell-o-vision was just a hilarious thing to say and 3D, taking a final stake to the heart with “Jaws 3D” was defunct.  The End.

………or is it?

They thought the movies were safe.
They thought their troubles were behind them.
They.  Thought.  Wrong.

Coming soon to your computer.  The easiest way to waste time and not go the movies.  THE INTERNET!

The powerful, sprawling World Wide Web, again presented an alternative to movie-goers, that, in light of the rising tickets prices they gladly opted for.  This spelled certain doom for Hollywood who once again faced declining ticket sales in the face of their new adversary and once again, they took action.

What new trick would they have up their sleeve this time to send the public to the theatre in droves?  How about the same exact one that didn’t work last time.

3D is back, apparently.  Over the past few years it has slowly crept back into the cinema, at first in children’s films like “Chicken Little” then spreading to higher profile releases like “Beowulf” (the highlight was the IMAX logo, seriously).  Now films are being released in something called “Real D,” which is supposed to be better somehow but I swear is just a different name for marketing purposes.  Regardless, it has had an impact.   Last summer’s dreadful looking “Journey to the Center of the Earth” starring Brendan how-are-you-still-in-movies Fraiser quietly grossed $240 million worldwide, despite being released in the shadow of  “The Dark Knight” (that’s going to be the name of my new band).   And if a Brenden Fraiser movie was a hit something must be working right?

Whether it’s just a marketing tool or people actually like it, 3D seems to be generating some cash and everyday more and more 3D films are put in the pipeline.  Still, with many theatres not equipped with the newer technology needed to screen these films, it has not quite become mainstream.  Though many predict it’s only a matter of time.  The two highest profile 3D films yet will be released this year, Dreamworks “Monsters vs Aliens” later this month and James I’m-the-king-of the-world-for-making-a-movie-that-made teenagers-cry-and-no-one-likes-anymore Cameron’s big budget Sci-Fi film “Avatar”.  The success of these films will likely determine which side of the precipice 3D will fall.

Personally, I find whole thing rather silly.  I don’t have a hatred for 3D movies, but I’ve never had an experience with one that was greatly enhanced by the extra dimension (except at Disney world, that was awesome).  One problem is the glasses.  As soon as they figure out how to do it without that ridiculous eyewear I think 3D will probably take off.  Until then it’s not going to be the way most people see movies anytime soon.

But more than the glasses, it’s the mentality.  I say to Hollywood, just try to make better movies.  I know that’s easier said than done but when a movie is good people will go see it.  Expecting people to show up to see whatever you put out there is just plain lazy.  Plus, as soon as 3D movies take off so will 3D TV and then what?  Smell-o-vision makes a comeback (don’t be surprised)?

Worry about the what’s in the package, not how it’s wrapped.  [Insert slow clap here].

Review: Walking Briskly While Concerned (Taken and The International)

Ok bear with me, last week I saw “Gomarrah,” a film about the terrifying mafia organization, the Camorra, based in Naples.  Shattering the mob movie mold instituted by Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese, the film is devoid of all the glorifying gangster standards and is an incendiary look at the horrific reality of the mafia.  Or that’s what it would have been if I was able to follow it.  I went in so ignorant of the situation being depicted I could barely keep up with what was happening.  It was quite embarrassing watching a film with no exposition or contextualization, practices I have recently praised in reviews of “The Class” and “Medicine For Melancholy,” and wish for some more hand holding.  I couldn’t bring myself to write a review (though I can’t say I enjoyed myself) because I didn’t think I could discuss it intelligently.  I just simply, didn’t get it.

Well, there’s nothing like a bland Hollywood thriller to reassure wounded cinematic intellect.  “The International” is only the second Bourne imitation to hit theatres in the past month, the ridiculous “Taken” being the other.  They’re basically the same film, “The International” is more in the globe trotting political vein while “Taken” is strictly fixed in ass-kicking mode.  Each is anchored by proven leading men.  Clive Owen and Liam Neeson both capably talk sternly into their phones and walk briskly while down the street with appropriate concern (some times both at once).  And their objectives, one retrieving his kidnapped daughter, the other trying to expose a corrupt bank are treated with interchangeable importance.

The biggest difference is “The International” had a much bigger budget.  So does that make it superior?  Let’s compare the film’s finer points.  “The International” includes more helicopter shots of large buildings and sets that look like a tour of the nation’s apple stores.  In comparison “Taken” seems to be set in a series of Verizon outlets.  “The International” could also afford a female lead, regardless of whether it needed one.  Naomi Watts stands around looking likes she’s reading her lines for the first time off a teleprompter.  For someone so incredibly talented she has some brutal scenes.  The closest thing “Taken” has to a major female character is Maggie Grace, who’s biggest claim to fame is a role on “Lost” that was killed off after a season (sorry Maggie but they had the right idea).  25 playing 17, she gives one the most annoying performances I’ve seen in awhile.  Thankfully the film is about her being “Taken,” I just wish she had stayed that way.  “The International” also affords a superior supporting cast.  It’s impressive array of well dressed European businessmen and New York cops (notably a strong turn by Felix Solis in a throwaway role) are an upgrade over the bloody and bruised Albanians.

Now the important stuff.  In terms of action “The International” had the funds for an true set piece and on that front it delivers.  The sequence, set in the Guggenheim, is mildly preposterous.   You’d think there’d be some police on the Upper East Side (then again you’d also think a hired gun would know how to use one).  The building’s spiral design in creatively utilized and things are kept simple, guns, knives and no wire-aided feats.  Instead of isolated action sequences “Taken” maintains a constant stream of smaller fight scenes.  Liam Neeson basically beats the crap out of every person he sees.  Luckily they all happen to be Albanian human traffickers.  I shudder to think what happens when he goes to Trader Joe’s, think of the massacre.

There are much similarities concerning the directors as well. Both are foreign, International’s Tykwer is German, Taken’s Pierre Morel, French.  Both made well received films in their own country.  Tykwer’s “Run Lola Run” is still an elitist dorm room mainstay and Morel’s “Disctrict B13” was a refreshingly inventive action film that employed free-running before Martin Campbell used it in “Casino Royale’s” fantastic opening number (almost as good as Hugh Jackman’s).  Here, each takes a step back.  Morel has more of a future I think.  He seems to do the action thing well, it’d be nice if he were given more leash instead of being forced to watch the Bourne trilogy and then mimic it.  Tykwer was already a red flag in my book and “The International,” while completely watchable, did nothing to remove it.  His previous film “Perfume” was obscene, and by obscene I mean bordering on pornographic and not in the good way.

Though it was much more graceful, all the bells and whistles on the “The International” are just that.  “Taken” is a poor man’s version of the same film.  I say watch “The Bourne Ultimatum” again.  And again.  And again.  Until The Bourne Domination, or whatever, comes out.  If you must, check out these serviceable impostors.  They’re good for a trash fix.  Probably not as good the fix I’m about to get though.  “10,000 BC” just started on HBO, I should probably watch Antonioni’s “L’Ecplise” which is sitting on my on my blu-ray but I don’t think I can resist.  This is going to be good.

The Hugh Jackman Show (aka The Oscars)

When Hugh Jackman, otherwise known as the ideal man, finished his dynamite standing-ovation-inducing opening number you had the feeling there was no where they could go but down.  But let’s not worry about that for now. What an opening!  Jackman, a legitimate triple threat, took the audience by storm using his exceptional talents to turn the traditional opening ditty recapping the nominated films into a showstopper.  So well conceived, from the glittery “cost cutting” cardboard sets to the interpretive dance representing the “The Reader” to his final triumphant declaration a top the ropes of a wrestling ring a la Mickey Rourke “I’m Wolerveriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!” it was the most entertaining Oscar moment in my recent memory.  Bravo sir.  I wonder if he just wanted to announce Best Picture and call it a night right there, I wouldn’t have mined.

I remember saying right after it was over, well it’s all down hill from here.  I felt little bad for being so pessimistic, but I was right.  The newfound excitement was immediately undone by the self-serious, self -congratulatory tone we’ve become accustomed to.  Most notably in the new format used to present acting honors.  Instead of having the previous winner present the award, five past winners came out and each individually introduced a nominee providing a brief bio and praise.  Not a bad idea, but many of the presenters seemed unprepared with nothing particularly insightful to say, and the odd image of five men or women regally posed in formation looked more like the induction of some freaky cult minus the black hooded robes.

When it came time for another production number, dedicated to the movie musical, Jackman was now accompanied by the one Beyonce and it sadly was not nearly as memorable.  With far too many references the overly ambitious piece was often incomprehensible.  Hmmmm, do you think that had anything do with Baz Lurhman being the director? (Rip alert)  Would people just get over this guy.   I loved, loved Moulin Rouge! (despite having an exclamation point in the title).  But what has he done since?  A bunch of Chanel commercials that were embarrassingly self-important, not mention expensive, it cost like $40 million, (he also insists they be referred to as films, please), a Broadway show that by all accounts was atrocious, and “Australia,” a movie even I didn’t see this year because by all accounts it was so brutal (I have friend who walked out).  So why, oh why did they let him in the room when planning this years Oscars?  I picture him tip-toeing around in Groucho Marx glasses.

The rest of the show was fine, boring, overlong, but fine, it just didn’t live up to the first 8 minutes.   In terms of the actual awards there were few surprises.  Probably the biggest, or the most high profile, was Sean Penn taking home best actor.  I’ve been saying all along how much I hoped he’d win because Mickey Rourke wasn’t that great in “The Wrestler.”  Of course the second they said Sean Penn I immediately felt bad for Mickey.  I am such a pushover.  That must be tough when everyone expects you to win and then you don’t.  Then it must really feel like you lost.  I mean, he had to sit there for 4 freaking hours thinking he was going to hear his name called.  I feel for ya Mickey.  At least he didn’t storm out like Eddie Murphy did in 2006.

Another surprise winner I was particularly happy about was “La Maison en petits cubes” picking up best animated short!  Yay!  Why am I the only one clapping?  The film was one of two surprise wins for Japanese films whose acceptance speeches ran headfirst into the language barrier.  The second, “Departures” for foreign film, was probably the biggest shocker of the night.  I don’t know anyone who wasn’t picking “Waltz With Bashir” or “The Class.”  I have a hard time believing “Departures” is better than those two but if it is, hats off.  Who knows, maybe it’s another “The Lives of Others.”  When that beat out heavily favored “Pan’s Labyrinth” back in ’06 people, including me, were aghast.  But upon actually seeing the film everyone loved it, and if not for the Oscar it never would’ve gotten an audience.  So I’ll give “Departures” the benefit of the doubt.  If it ever gets released.

I hope Hugh’s back next year.  The ratings were up (not hard to do since the previous year was the worst ever) and he managed to shake off, however briefly, some of the staleness that has taken hold of the ceremony.  It’ll be interesting to see if this bumps ticket sales for his summer tent-pole “Wolverine.”  I know I’m a little more excited.  Here’s a formulaic trailer with an intense choral soundtrack.  Also check out the opening number that I’ve built up so much there’s no way it can live up to the hype (I hate when people do that, “Slumdog Millionaire”).  Until next year…..

Review: Medicine For Melancholy

While reflecting on the hugely entertaining “Medicine For Melancholy” I realized I felt guilty for liking it.   As a white New Yorker who is actively aiding the gentrification of Brooklyn I can’t help but feel somewhat culpable after watching Barry Jenkins’ grossly personal film about two black San Franciscans waxing on the evils of gentrification, class and race.  And saying I felt a connection to it feels like another case of the phenomenon that some people think got our latest president elected.  Did I mention this is a romantic comedy?

The premise, on paper, is simple enough.  The film chronicles 24 hours post one night stand between two twenty-somethings.  Mr. Jenkins wastes no time with exposition and begins right in the middle of things as Micha (Wyatt Cenac of Daily Show fame) and Joanne (Tracey Heggins) stumble through the uncomfortable morning-aftermath of their dizzy encounter.   We aren’t given many clues as to what happened the night before, just that they didn’t exchange names.  Joanne, a distant, enigmatic beauty, is  at first eager to forget the incident (she even gives a fake name) but, Micha’s offbeat charm, which won me over immediately, is able to penetrate Joanne’s steely demeanor and the two become companions for the day.

Demonstrating chemistry to die for it’s not hard to fall in love with Joanne and Micha.  Wyatt Cenac, a successful stand up comedian, is another strong case for comedians being good dramatic actors (not necessarily vice versa).  Though not a comedic script, Cenac finds multiple opportunities to inject his easygoing brand of humor, even managing to slip in his brilliant Bill Cosby impression, “every black guy’s got one” he explains.  With frequent but uncontrived humor, they achieve some very rare moments where we’re laughing right along with the characters, as if part of the conversation.  The scripted comedic banter thing, a la “Sex and the City”, has always been one of my pet peeves, often ringing false.  But “Medicine for Melancholy” gets it just right and the spontaneous interactions exude the exhilaration of brand new love.  We’re discovering these characters, as they bike, stroll, chat, argue and laugh their way through San Francisco, at the same time they discover each other.

For those who doesn’t know the city (guilty as charged), we’re discovering San Francisco as well.  Dedicated to an accurate portrait, Jenkins avoids the cinematic staples we’re used to.  No Golden Bridge in a San Fransisco movie, crazy (I really appreciate this as New Yorker, it always bugs me in movies when Washington Square Park and the Flatiron Building end up on the same block).  But beyond serving as a setting, when conversations drift to the very real housing problems facing San Fransisco, the city evolves into a full fledged third character, turning the film, in the directors words, “into a love triangle.”

While debating these issues, as they do throughout, Micha constantly traces it all back to race, a topic he just can’t seem to stay away from.  It’s not without cause, only 6.3% of the city is black and rising housing costs forcing relocation is somewhat of a trend.  But for Micha it’s more than just a social matter.  For him, it seems, everything is boiled everything down to black or white.  As he explains, if using one word to describing himself he’d say he’s black before he’s a man.  This grates against Joanne’s point of view who doesn’t acknowledge labels.   To her, he’s Micha before anything else.

As these disputes progress it begins to sound like two opposing soapboxes.  Often I find a detectable agenda can bog down a narrative, for example “Crash” (I swear that wasn’t planned but it’s a perfect example).  But Jenkins’ film rarely strays into that territory.  Only once, when the camera drifts away from our protagonists to observe a small local organization does it feel a little contrived.  While the content is informative and engaging, I think Jenkins could’ve gotten what he wanted without it having to be directly explained.  Fortunately, the infectiously watchable Tracey Heggins and Wyatt Cenac are more than just vessels carrying a message and they keep the storytelling from becoming too didactic.

The look is so desaturated it’s only a tick or two above black and white, like the color has been physically drained out, giving things an appropriate mood that’s both beautiful and sad.  The film is scored with an eclectic mix of what my limited music knowledge can only describe as “indie”, giving it a very personal feel.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re listening to a playlist on Mr. Jenkins ipod.  In one particularly lovely sequence where the music strikingly enhances the action, Micha and Joanne playfully ride a Merry-go-round.  The scene plays out over the entire song suspending the fleeting, wonderful moment between the two whirling among the brightly painted equine.  When the song ends and the ride creaks to halt, giving way to familiarly abrasive organ music, the air is filled faint regret, like someone turned on the lights signalling that the party’s over.

At once funny, romantic, political and thought-provoking, “Medicine For Melancholy” is littered with moments that are simultaneously comic and disturbing.  Early on when Micha refuses Joanne suggestion they go to MOMA because, “Black people don’t go to MOMA.”  She responds, “What do two black people do on a Sunday afternoon?”  He counters,”Go to church, what to two black people not do on a Sunday afternoon?  Go to MOMA.”  When you think about the reality of that statement, it’s not funny, but I still laughed, because it was.  That’s what makes this film so confusing.  It it there to be enjoyed or contemplated?  I think, finally, it’s best not to worry and just tip my hat to Mr. Jenkins, any film that makes me feel bad for living in my apartment is well worth the price of admission.  Here’s hoping Jenkins is able to cut as close to the bone in future work.  And that at least a few of his contemporaries follow the lead.