The title may sound like some exploitation horror filled with excessive thrills and a radioactive heroine, but “The Exploding Girl” from director Bradley Rust Gray could not be farther from that.
The film is more like a subtle reminder that there exist filmmakers who are concerned with reality as they see it, not as they want it to be. But for all its beautifully quiet and sparse dialogue, and perhaps because of it, “The Exploding Girl” is a challenging film since its observant director may have struck too close to reality.
Ivy (Zoe Kazan) is at home on spring break from college and in that time span must cope with some dramatic changes in her life, particularly concerning her relationship with best friend Al (Mark Rendall). Hollywood has been obsessed with the college or near-college years and there’s an army of films out there that claim to be some sort of definitive chronicle of the college experience. From“Animal House” to“The Graduate” to, who knows, maybe even trashy spring break reality film “The Real Cancun,” the diverse number of films just goes to show how subjective reality can be.
But what Gray achieves with “The Exploding Girl” is a level of realism so unique to the present generation that it is alarming how normal everything seems. The characters talk like they are in college, so complete with awkward pauses and modern slang that the entire film feels ad-libbed by amateurs, though closer examination proves otherwise.
Ivy is no drama queen. She doesn’t give monologues about her existential grief; there are no cat-fights or dramatic walk-outs. No race against time to win someone back and no “final stage” where she pours here soul to the world and proves herself. What is there is a slow build-up of those tiny moments that can lead to an emotional overload. It is a cinematic realization of the quote by philosopher Norman O. Brown: “Meaning is not in things, but in between them.”
Visually, these in between moments can look like nothing at all, just a fleeting part of everyday life, such as being sent to your boyfriend’s voicemail or convincing your best friend to stay behind at a party. But to the person experiencing them, they can mean the world.
Thanks to Zoe Kazan’s forceful performance, we can feel the shades of emotion that could easily go undetected, even if all we see is a patch of her face past a door frame or if she is hidden in the middle ground of the frame behind a street full of cars, as is often the case.
Gray bolsters Kazan’s performance with an expressive visual style that puts her in all sorts of awkward positions. She’s our protagonist, but we never see her face to face and people and things are constantly drifting by to block her entirely from view. If it was not for the feelings that linger after Kazan’s every word or motion, Ivy could easily have been the invisible rather than the exploding girl.
While this is a great testament to Kazan’s skill, it also brings to light some of the challenges for a viewer. The film, in fact, relies too heavily on the performance of one young actor and does not offer enough else for an audience to grab on to. There is an unnerving build up of suspense throughout the film, but it takes far too long to reach the payoff. “The Exploding Girl” is only 80 minutes long, but at least 20 of those minutes feel redundant.
And while the film is about Ivy, it really isn’t about Ivy doing anything. Her spring break is filled with card games in the park, low-key parties with old friends and strolls through bookstores. It is a very authentic sort of spring break for the under-represented college student (i.e. the ones not in “The Real Cancun”), but despite the beauty Gray lends to this realism, it takes a trooper to sit through a film where it appears as if nothing happens for a week.
But it only appears this way. What occurs is the stuff mankind has been writing poems, novels and screenplays about for all of history. It is a genuine, youthful experience of pain, love and confusion observed in a stripped-down form on film. Sure, Gray could use one last visit to the editing room, but the necessary ingredients are there and he and his cast struck upon a trickle of that filmmaking gold, real emotion.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Green Zone
Director Paul Greengrass puts the dizzying mess of the arrogance and lies of war completely in focus with “Green Zone.” He shakes and bobs his camera from melees in Iraqi neighborhoods to poolside parties in the international territory in Baghdad known as the Green Zone. It’s a cluttered state of affairs told in a tightly composed film. So tightly, in fact, that the story’s characters had to wiggle their way into the film.
Iraq war movies are always a tough sell. Even Oscar-winner The Hurt Locker did poorly at the box office, earning it the title of lowest grossing best picture winner in recent history. But unlike The Hurt Locker, which was about the people in war, Green Zone is about the situations surrounding the Weapons of Mass Destruction. And while the story makes for a fantastic action-thriller, it’s hard to get emotionally invested in just a situation, no matter how recent in history it was.
The film takes place at the start of the Iraq war and Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller (Matt Damon) is fed up with a hunt for WMDs that puts his men in danger but turns up nothing. Military officials are quick to dismiss his concerns of faulty intelligence, but a potential ally comes in the form of CIA employee Martin Brown (Brendan Gleeson) who correctly predicts Miller’s next mission will leave him empty-handed once more. It doesn’t take long for Miller to go rogue and, with the help of Brown, embark on his own pursuit of the truth behind WMDs. Mistrust and conspiracy run wild and Miller is at the center. Unlike the bureaucrats calling shots from the safety of the guarded Green Zone, Miller is on the ground, experiencing the effects of their decisions in the real world.
The screenplay was inspired by the nonfiction book “Imperial Life in the Emerald City: Inside Iraq’s Green Zone” by Rajiv Chandrasekaran and the film tries for a near-documentary level of storytelling. Greengrass even employs a documentary style of camerawork, with shaky cameras and mostly hard natural lighting. It seems the filmmaker was more occupied with recounting U.S. officials’ willingness to lie about the presence of WMDs than creating an original story, but when the real-life story is this interesting, narrative originality is less of an issue.
The political intrigue is matched only by the upfront and tense action-sequences. At the able hands of Greengrass, the film’s action involves no clichés or pastiche, just straight-forward and gritty combat. Greengrass directed Damon in the last two Bourne movies and has tackled other political-action films, such as United 93 and Bloody Sunday. With Green Zone, he balances the precise unfolding of a mystery—surprisingly suspenseful for a story that is now well-known—with realistic and chaotic warfare. But this is at the expense of one key point: characters.
The movie’s characters are less people and more points of views being represented by feebly written cardboard cutouts. Damon plays an all-around hero, blindly fighting for justice and what’s right but lacking any real humanity. He’s more the idea of goodness than a good person. The reliably-grumpy Gleeson does his best as a hard-boiled veteran of conflict strategy who has spent far too long in the region, but the way his role was written just seems too manufactured to be believed. The same for Greg Kinnear as the malicious but flat Clark Poundstone. Amy Ryan as Wall Street Journal reporter Lawrie Dayne, based on real-life reporter Judith Miller, shows the dangers of an irresponsible press and gives a few moments of insight into guilt, but not much more.
The most intriguing player in the film is an Iraqi citizen nicknamed Freddie, played expertly by British-Egyptian actor Khalid Abdalla (The Kite Runner, United 93). Freddie’s torment and his genuine love for his country are far more compelling than Miller’s all-around good guy image. Green Zone would have been better served to be told through Freddie’s eyes instead; at the very least it would boast a unique and under-represented vantage point.
It is unfortunate Greengrass let this crucial bit of storytelling fly past him undetected. That withstanding, he was a director on a mission and this risky roman à clef of a shameful lie provokes and enrages, as it very well should.
Iraq war movies are always a tough sell. Even Oscar-winner The Hurt Locker did poorly at the box office, earning it the title of lowest grossing best picture winner in recent history. But unlike The Hurt Locker, which was about the people in war, Green Zone is about the situations surrounding the Weapons of Mass Destruction. And while the story makes for a fantastic action-thriller, it’s hard to get emotionally invested in just a situation, no matter how recent in history it was.
The film takes place at the start of the Iraq war and Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller (Matt Damon) is fed up with a hunt for WMDs that puts his men in danger but turns up nothing. Military officials are quick to dismiss his concerns of faulty intelligence, but a potential ally comes in the form of CIA employee Martin Brown (Brendan Gleeson) who correctly predicts Miller’s next mission will leave him empty-handed once more. It doesn’t take long for Miller to go rogue and, with the help of Brown, embark on his own pursuit of the truth behind WMDs. Mistrust and conspiracy run wild and Miller is at the center. Unlike the bureaucrats calling shots from the safety of the guarded Green Zone, Miller is on the ground, experiencing the effects of their decisions in the real world.
The screenplay was inspired by the nonfiction book “Imperial Life in the Emerald City: Inside Iraq’s Green Zone” by Rajiv Chandrasekaran and the film tries for a near-documentary level of storytelling. Greengrass even employs a documentary style of camerawork, with shaky cameras and mostly hard natural lighting. It seems the filmmaker was more occupied with recounting U.S. officials’ willingness to lie about the presence of WMDs than creating an original story, but when the real-life story is this interesting, narrative originality is less of an issue.
The political intrigue is matched only by the upfront and tense action-sequences. At the able hands of Greengrass, the film’s action involves no clichés or pastiche, just straight-forward and gritty combat. Greengrass directed Damon in the last two Bourne movies and has tackled other political-action films, such as United 93 and Bloody Sunday. With Green Zone, he balances the precise unfolding of a mystery—surprisingly suspenseful for a story that is now well-known—with realistic and chaotic warfare. But this is at the expense of one key point: characters.
The movie’s characters are less people and more points of views being represented by feebly written cardboard cutouts. Damon plays an all-around hero, blindly fighting for justice and what’s right but lacking any real humanity. He’s more the idea of goodness than a good person. The reliably-grumpy Gleeson does his best as a hard-boiled veteran of conflict strategy who has spent far too long in the region, but the way his role was written just seems too manufactured to be believed. The same for Greg Kinnear as the malicious but flat Clark Poundstone. Amy Ryan as Wall Street Journal reporter Lawrie Dayne, based on real-life reporter Judith Miller, shows the dangers of an irresponsible press and gives a few moments of insight into guilt, but not much more.
The most intriguing player in the film is an Iraqi citizen nicknamed Freddie, played expertly by British-Egyptian actor Khalid Abdalla (The Kite Runner, United 93). Freddie’s torment and his genuine love for his country are far more compelling than Miller’s all-around good guy image. Green Zone would have been better served to be told through Freddie’s eyes instead; at the very least it would boast a unique and under-represented vantage point.
It is unfortunate Greengrass let this crucial bit of storytelling fly past him undetected. That withstanding, he was a director on a mission and this risky roman à clef of a shameful lie provokes and enrages, as it very well should.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Alice in Wonderland
Alice is back in Wonderland, but its inhabitants aren’t sure she is the right Alice. She looks the same but doesn’t act at all like what they remember their Alice to be. As the Mad Hatter proclaims, old Alice was “much more muchier.” The same can be said for Time Burton’s “Alice in Wonderland.” Past incarnations of the fabled Lewis Carroll story and Burton’s previous work are definitely “muchier.” The film has a hard time finding its own identity, though it’s not without redeeming qualities.
The 1951 Disney animated “Alice in Wonderland” that most people are familiar with was a simple story of a girl’s jaunt through Wonderland as she looks for a way home. This revamped Alice is dealing with things far heavier and the new look of Underland (Alice got the name wrong as a youngster) is fittingly murky and gothic.
Alice (Mia Wasikowska) is 19 years old, on the cusp of a new decade in her life and faced with a marriage proposal to an upper class twit of the year. She's been having dreams of blue caterpillars and talking animals that her late father reassured her made her crazy, "though all the best people are." Not quite ready to let go of her childhood dreams of impossibilities, Alice falls back down the rabbit hole. Underland has been waiting for her return as Alice is destined to slay the Jabborwocky, the henchman of the villainous Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter), to return the White Queen to power.
Alice is a whimsical young woman who rejects early marriage and winds up in Joan of Arc-like armor wielding a sword against the feared Jabborwocky. She’s a warrior-heroine who is not relegated to a sex-symbol, doesn’t chase after a man’s affection and is more likely to wear a corset and stockings (fat chance) than be a damsel in distress. In addition to this refreshingly strong-minded female lead, Underland’s problems are set in motion by powerful feuding sisters not fighting over a man but for their own self-worth or humanistic beliefs. As it is so rare in Hollywood to find more than one interesting female role per film, “Alice” deserves praise for this alone. Unfortunately, the rest of the film doesn’t come together as impressively.
Burton’s speckles his film with moments of his trademark quirky flavor, such as when a fat pig comes squealing to the Red Queen’s throne to be her foot rest, but overall, his style got lost in an over-burdened story, forced wackiness and pointless 3D effects. The promise of revolutionary 3D that followed Avatar is not at all realized in “Alice,” where the 3D is unsurprisingly cumbersome and labored as Burton shot the film for 2D.
The story relies on the fact that audiences are familiar with the characters so it doesn’t bother to establish them, but then takes them into entirely new territories. The Cheshire Cat, Blue Caterpillar and White Rabbit are all there but can’t decide if they are recreations or reinterpretations. Maybe the film asked directions from Tweedledee and Tweedledum, because the story goes in every which way, but nowhere at all.
The Mad Hatter and the Red Queen, handled expertly by Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter respectively, stand above the rest. Depp's jitteriness and frighteningly glazed expression has hints of the animated Hatter but is a unique creation of Burton’s interpretation and a great example of how to make the old come alive. The only complaint would be that the Mad Hatter was forced into being a bigger role than needed. Layered in make-up and a clown wig, Depp makes you long for the “Ed Wood” and “Edward Scissorhands” days when his collaboration with Burton felt so effortless.
Bonham Carter's cold portrayal of the Red Queen with a head almost as large as her delusions of dignity brings an unexpected depth to an over-the-top villain. Credit must also be given for Anne Hathaway’s kooky turn as the docile yet off-beat White Queen. Though not as present as her evil sister, the White Queen feels like a true Burton inspiration.
If only the rest of the film followed the pattern of these three characters in taking familiarity and subverting it. Instead, “Alice in Wonderland” is an underwhelming display of Burton’s old “muchness.”
The 1951 Disney animated “Alice in Wonderland” that most people are familiar with was a simple story of a girl’s jaunt through Wonderland as she looks for a way home. This revamped Alice is dealing with things far heavier and the new look of Underland (Alice got the name wrong as a youngster) is fittingly murky and gothic.
Alice (Mia Wasikowska) is 19 years old, on the cusp of a new decade in her life and faced with a marriage proposal to an upper class twit of the year. She's been having dreams of blue caterpillars and talking animals that her late father reassured her made her crazy, "though all the best people are." Not quite ready to let go of her childhood dreams of impossibilities, Alice falls back down the rabbit hole. Underland has been waiting for her return as Alice is destined to slay the Jabborwocky, the henchman of the villainous Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter), to return the White Queen to power.
Alice is a whimsical young woman who rejects early marriage and winds up in Joan of Arc-like armor wielding a sword against the feared Jabborwocky. She’s a warrior-heroine who is not relegated to a sex-symbol, doesn’t chase after a man’s affection and is more likely to wear a corset and stockings (fat chance) than be a damsel in distress. In addition to this refreshingly strong-minded female lead, Underland’s problems are set in motion by powerful feuding sisters not fighting over a man but for their own self-worth or humanistic beliefs. As it is so rare in Hollywood to find more than one interesting female role per film, “Alice” deserves praise for this alone. Unfortunately, the rest of the film doesn’t come together as impressively.
Burton’s speckles his film with moments of his trademark quirky flavor, such as when a fat pig comes squealing to the Red Queen’s throne to be her foot rest, but overall, his style got lost in an over-burdened story, forced wackiness and pointless 3D effects. The promise of revolutionary 3D that followed Avatar is not at all realized in “Alice,” where the 3D is unsurprisingly cumbersome and labored as Burton shot the film for 2D.
The story relies on the fact that audiences are familiar with the characters so it doesn’t bother to establish them, but then takes them into entirely new territories. The Cheshire Cat, Blue Caterpillar and White Rabbit are all there but can’t decide if they are recreations or reinterpretations. Maybe the film asked directions from Tweedledee and Tweedledum, because the story goes in every which way, but nowhere at all.
The Mad Hatter and the Red Queen, handled expertly by Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter respectively, stand above the rest. Depp's jitteriness and frighteningly glazed expression has hints of the animated Hatter but is a unique creation of Burton’s interpretation and a great example of how to make the old come alive. The only complaint would be that the Mad Hatter was forced into being a bigger role than needed. Layered in make-up and a clown wig, Depp makes you long for the “Ed Wood” and “Edward Scissorhands” days when his collaboration with Burton felt so effortless.
Bonham Carter's cold portrayal of the Red Queen with a head almost as large as her delusions of dignity brings an unexpected depth to an over-the-top villain. Credit must also be given for Anne Hathaway’s kooky turn as the docile yet off-beat White Queen. Though not as present as her evil sister, the White Queen feels like a true Burton inspiration.
If only the rest of the film followed the pattern of these three characters in taking familiarity and subverting it. Instead, “Alice in Wonderland” is an underwhelming display of Burton’s old “muchness.”
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Ghost Writer
If there is anyone more superficial than a politician, it is his ghost writer. He fakes a person’s style and manner of speaking and rearranges their life’s story to create a specific image of that person; a liar regurgitating another person’s lies. Or at least this is the gloomy truth in the hopeless world Roman Polanski imagines in his latest film, “The Ghost Writer,” adapted from the novel “The Ghost” by Robert Harris.
Pierce Brosnan is Adam Lang, the disgraced former prime minister of Britain living in Cape Cod to keep a low profile in the face of allegations of war crimes. Ewan McGregor plays the ghost writer, never given a name in the film, who takes on the task of finishing Lang’s memoirs after his first ghost writer washed up dead on a beach. Despite knowing nothing about politics, the Ghost is lured by a big paycheck. As the Ghost delves deeper into Lang’s world, he discovers secrets that put his life at risk.
The similarities between Lang and Tony Blair is obvious, but it is his desperate attempts to preserve dignity in the face of overwhelming evidence against him that conjures up uncomfortable parallels to Polanski’s real-life troubles with the law. This is Polanski’s most overtly political work to date. While the liberal political message is not the focus of the story, there is enough of it there to turn off some of the film’s right-wing viewers. The film’s main focus is rather the fickle and twisted world of politics and the people involved in it. But it is not just politics that are corrupt. Publishing moguls exploit people to sell books and romance is nowhere to be found in this world. And our guide through this wasteland is a ghost writer, one with almost no real history or characterization. His entire life is spent telling other people’s tales so that he has none of his own, until now.
McGregor got possibly the least interesting role in the film. The Ghost is the “every man” in the story, his lack of a name representing his lack of an identity. His shocked reactions to the controversies he uncovers are meant to reflect our own, though we are of course in on the game long before the Ghost, and waiting for him to catch up can get tiresome.
Lang’s wife Ruth (Olivia Williams) has a disposition as gloomy as the reliably overcast New England weather. Williams’ portrayal of the frustrated wife of a politician is heartfelt and layered. The other woman in Lang’s wife is his chief assistant Amelia Bly, played by Kim Cattrall in a surprising turn as a platinum-blonde ice queen. She delivers her lines with a chilling calm that pierces the air whenever she’s on screen.
Polanski’s repertoire is defined by his noir suspense-thrillers. His past films, such as “Chinatown,” “Rosemary’s Baby” and “Death and the Maiden,” are filled with flawed characters that make up a medley of moral grays, and “The Ghost Writer” is no exception. There are no heroes in his work, just victims at the whim of powerful evil or ironic fate.
“The Ghost Writer” is rounded out by spectacular lighting schemes and a dramatic score by Alexandre Desplat that rarely ceases. The film is so overpowered by tones of blue, brown and gray that bright colors are rare, and their presence is off-putting and alarming instead of welcomed.
This darkness of this political suspense thriller is already difficult to watch, and Polanski does not make it any easier with his narrative style. It is as if he wants the audience to suffer through the process of the film with him, and so he destabilizes any character or plot point the moment it starts to feel comfortable. And none of this matter, for, in reliable Polanski-fashion, the stakes will be dramatically altered in the film’s final moments. This time around, he hit his mark perfectly.
But aside from a thrilling ending, the film is painfully overt in every plot twist or turn. It reads like a classic detective-thriller where important facts are repeated multiple times (just in case you missed it), characters explicate in detail and there is even a key witness who mysteriously ends up in a coma. A little more subtly would have gone a long way for Polanski in this otherwise well-constructed story. It is the thrill of the chase and masochist pleasure that make “The Ghost Writer” worthwhile.
See Also:
Pierce Brosnan is Adam Lang, the disgraced former prime minister of Britain living in Cape Cod to keep a low profile in the face of allegations of war crimes. Ewan McGregor plays the ghost writer, never given a name in the film, who takes on the task of finishing Lang’s memoirs after his first ghost writer washed up dead on a beach. Despite knowing nothing about politics, the Ghost is lured by a big paycheck. As the Ghost delves deeper into Lang’s world, he discovers secrets that put his life at risk.
The similarities between Lang and Tony Blair is obvious, but it is his desperate attempts to preserve dignity in the face of overwhelming evidence against him that conjures up uncomfortable parallels to Polanski’s real-life troubles with the law. This is Polanski’s most overtly political work to date. While the liberal political message is not the focus of the story, there is enough of it there to turn off some of the film’s right-wing viewers. The film’s main focus is rather the fickle and twisted world of politics and the people involved in it. But it is not just politics that are corrupt. Publishing moguls exploit people to sell books and romance is nowhere to be found in this world. And our guide through this wasteland is a ghost writer, one with almost no real history or characterization. His entire life is spent telling other people’s tales so that he has none of his own, until now.
McGregor got possibly the least interesting role in the film. The Ghost is the “every man” in the story, his lack of a name representing his lack of an identity. His shocked reactions to the controversies he uncovers are meant to reflect our own, though we are of course in on the game long before the Ghost, and waiting for him to catch up can get tiresome.
Lang’s wife Ruth (Olivia Williams) has a disposition as gloomy as the reliably overcast New England weather. Williams’ portrayal of the frustrated wife of a politician is heartfelt and layered. The other woman in Lang’s wife is his chief assistant Amelia Bly, played by Kim Cattrall in a surprising turn as a platinum-blonde ice queen. She delivers her lines with a chilling calm that pierces the air whenever she’s on screen.
Polanski’s repertoire is defined by his noir suspense-thrillers. His past films, such as “Chinatown,” “Rosemary’s Baby” and “Death and the Maiden,” are filled with flawed characters that make up a medley of moral grays, and “The Ghost Writer” is no exception. There are no heroes in his work, just victims at the whim of powerful evil or ironic fate.
“The Ghost Writer” is rounded out by spectacular lighting schemes and a dramatic score by Alexandre Desplat that rarely ceases. The film is so overpowered by tones of blue, brown and gray that bright colors are rare, and their presence is off-putting and alarming instead of welcomed.
This darkness of this political suspense thriller is already difficult to watch, and Polanski does not make it any easier with his narrative style. It is as if he wants the audience to suffer through the process of the film with him, and so he destabilizes any character or plot point the moment it starts to feel comfortable. And none of this matter, for, in reliable Polanski-fashion, the stakes will be dramatically altered in the film’s final moments. This time around, he hit his mark perfectly.
But aside from a thrilling ending, the film is painfully overt in every plot twist or turn. It reads like a classic detective-thriller where important facts are repeated multiple times (just in case you missed it), characters explicate in detail and there is even a key witness who mysteriously ends up in a coma. A little more subtly would have gone a long way for Polanski in this otherwise well-constructed story. It is the thrill of the chase and masochist pleasure that make “The Ghost Writer” worthwhile.
See Also:
- North by Northwest, dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1959
- Chinatown, dir. Roman Polanski, 1974
- The Big Sleep, dir. Howard Hawks, 1946
- The Third Man, dir. Carol Reed, 1949
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief
Greek mythology gets a 21st century update in “Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief.” Directed by Chris Columbus, “Percy Jackson,” based on the popular book series by Rick Riordan, combines the structure of a classic Greek hero tale with a present-day sensibility to some success, but falls prey to Hollywood’s ritual dumbing down of successful children’s literature.
The basic premise for “Percy Jackson” is designed to make Greek myths accessible to a younger audience. These heroes face contemporary challenges they overcome through showdowns with mythical creatures and an adventure that takes them from high school, to the underworld and to Mt. Olympus. There is a lot of potential for a story like this, but unfortunately, the film version fails to capitalize and is troubled by undeveloped characters and storylines that lack fluidity.
Logan Lerman is Percy Jackson, an average teenager struggling with dyslexia and ADHD who hopes to escape the tyrannical hold of his dead-beat step-father. Percy’s dyslexia and ADHD are actually characteristics of his true identity as the son of Poseidon, the Greek god of the seas. Similarly, Percy’s best friend and Satyr guardian Grover (Brandon T. Jackson) is introduced in the film with crutches, which are really just a cover for his goat legs. Their wheelchair-bound teacher Mr. Brunner (Pierce Brosnan) is actually a centaur hiding his true form. It is a world where weaknesses are just hidden strengths, an appealing concept to any kid who has struggled with being different.
Percy’s identity is finally revealed to him when a Fury, a deadly creature hiding in the form of a substitute teacher, attacks him during a field trip and demands Zeus’ stolen lightning bolt from him. Zeus (Sean Bean) has wrongfully accused his brother Poseidon (Kevin McKidd) of using his son to steal the bolt, and the loss of this powerful weapon sends the gods to the brink of war.
A Minotaur sent by Hades (Steve Coogan), god of the underworld, kidnaps his mother as she delivers him to Camp Half-Blood, a training ground for the world’s demigods, and from the improbable number of demigods there, it seems the gods keep very busy with regular visits to Earth. Hades motives are clear: Percy need only give him the stolen lightning bold and his mother will be set free. Despite not having the bolt, Percy embarks on a classic Greek adventure to get his mother back.
But the hero cannot make it through the journey alone. Percy is accompanied by Grover, whose role as the so-called comedic relief is more cringe than laugh-worthy. Then there’s Annabeth (Alexandra Daddario), daughter of Athena the goddess of wisdom, whose tough-girl attitude is a counterpart to Percy’s naiveté and is a natural love interest.
Their journey mixes mythological creatures with recognizable locations, such as Las Vegas or the Empire State Building. Each bump along the road tests different qualities of a hero, such as wit, bravery and selflessness. However, the heroes experiences no real sacrifice or suffering along the way, shielding the film’s young audience from the darker side of Greek mythology and providing zero intrigue for any older viewers in the crowd.
Percy’s mother, played by Catherine Keener in a role unworthy of her talent, is selfless and loving. Her story could have given the story much-needed emotional pull, but it is hardly explored. This film introduces more characters than its plot has room for. Uma Thurman as the snake-haired Medusa is remarkable if only for the 20 minutes or so she is on screen. Rosario Dawson as Persephone, Hades’ reluctant wife, embodies the tragedy of her character, but her performance, like Thurman’s, stands apart from the rest of the film. Both characters are mythological superstars in their own right but are reduced to gimmicks in “Percy Jackson.”
The film’s biggest oversight was with Luke (Jake Abel), son of the messenger to the gods, Hermes, and his troubled view of his father’s abandonment. Luke represents the repressed hate and anger Percy feels towards his father. What could have been a poignant story of childhood pain and confusion is reduced to fleeting moments of intrigue that are never realized.
“Percy Jackson” is a moderate action movie with a wonderful premise that fails to live up to its full potential. Weak characterization and an overly ambitious cast list make the film feel crowded and lose focus too often. The film gets so preoccupied in updating and demystifying Greek mythology that it forgets about the passion and tragedy that made them so appealing in the first place.
The basic premise for “Percy Jackson” is designed to make Greek myths accessible to a younger audience. These heroes face contemporary challenges they overcome through showdowns with mythical creatures and an adventure that takes them from high school, to the underworld and to Mt. Olympus. There is a lot of potential for a story like this, but unfortunately, the film version fails to capitalize and is troubled by undeveloped characters and storylines that lack fluidity.
Logan Lerman is Percy Jackson, an average teenager struggling with dyslexia and ADHD who hopes to escape the tyrannical hold of his dead-beat step-father. Percy’s dyslexia and ADHD are actually characteristics of his true identity as the son of Poseidon, the Greek god of the seas. Similarly, Percy’s best friend and Satyr guardian Grover (Brandon T. Jackson) is introduced in the film with crutches, which are really just a cover for his goat legs. Their wheelchair-bound teacher Mr. Brunner (Pierce Brosnan) is actually a centaur hiding his true form. It is a world where weaknesses are just hidden strengths, an appealing concept to any kid who has struggled with being different.
Percy’s identity is finally revealed to him when a Fury, a deadly creature hiding in the form of a substitute teacher, attacks him during a field trip and demands Zeus’ stolen lightning bolt from him. Zeus (Sean Bean) has wrongfully accused his brother Poseidon (Kevin McKidd) of using his son to steal the bolt, and the loss of this powerful weapon sends the gods to the brink of war.
A Minotaur sent by Hades (Steve Coogan), god of the underworld, kidnaps his mother as she delivers him to Camp Half-Blood, a training ground for the world’s demigods, and from the improbable number of demigods there, it seems the gods keep very busy with regular visits to Earth. Hades motives are clear: Percy need only give him the stolen lightning bold and his mother will be set free. Despite not having the bolt, Percy embarks on a classic Greek adventure to get his mother back.
But the hero cannot make it through the journey alone. Percy is accompanied by Grover, whose role as the so-called comedic relief is more cringe than laugh-worthy. Then there’s Annabeth (Alexandra Daddario), daughter of Athena the goddess of wisdom, whose tough-girl attitude is a counterpart to Percy’s naiveté and is a natural love interest.
Their journey mixes mythological creatures with recognizable locations, such as Las Vegas or the Empire State Building. Each bump along the road tests different qualities of a hero, such as wit, bravery and selflessness. However, the heroes experiences no real sacrifice or suffering along the way, shielding the film’s young audience from the darker side of Greek mythology and providing zero intrigue for any older viewers in the crowd.
Percy’s mother, played by Catherine Keener in a role unworthy of her talent, is selfless and loving. Her story could have given the story much-needed emotional pull, but it is hardly explored. This film introduces more characters than its plot has room for. Uma Thurman as the snake-haired Medusa is remarkable if only for the 20 minutes or so she is on screen. Rosario Dawson as Persephone, Hades’ reluctant wife, embodies the tragedy of her character, but her performance, like Thurman’s, stands apart from the rest of the film. Both characters are mythological superstars in their own right but are reduced to gimmicks in “Percy Jackson.”
The film’s biggest oversight was with Luke (Jake Abel), son of the messenger to the gods, Hermes, and his troubled view of his father’s abandonment. Luke represents the repressed hate and anger Percy feels towards his father. What could have been a poignant story of childhood pain and confusion is reduced to fleeting moments of intrigue that are never realized.
“Percy Jackson” is a moderate action movie with a wonderful premise that fails to live up to its full potential. Weak characterization and an overly ambitious cast list make the film feel crowded and lose focus too often. The film gets so preoccupied in updating and demystifying Greek mythology that it forgets about the passion and tragedy that made them so appealing in the first place.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus
Director Terry Gilliam has a knack for making escapism you can’t escape from. The absurd worlds he created in past films, such as “Brazil,” “Time Bandits” and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” grant a freedom from narrative and common sense, but are rooted in deep truths about mankind. His films require an unconditional surrender of the mind in exchange of blissful release layered thickly over often dark tales. “The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus” follows a similar formula, but the payoff is tainted in this film, which gets weighed down at times in its own plot.
Dr. Parnassus, played by Christopher Plummer, is an ancient shaman with the ability to send people into a physical representation of their own imaginations with the use of his crafty mirror. His traveling theater troupe is comprised of his daughter Valentina (Lily Cole), who dreams of escaping her life on the road; the love-sick and desperate Anton (Andrew Garfield); and the wisecracking dwarf, Percy (Verne Troyer). They park their richly detailed and dilapidated mobile stage outside seedy bars across London, putting on performances for unappreciative drunken crowds.
Dr. Parnassus, for all his wisdom, can be a foolish man. After a tragic deal made with the devilish Mr. Nick, played by Tom Waits in the films best performance, Dr. Parnassus will lose Valentina to him on her fast-approaching 16th birthday. So he makes one last bet to keep his daughter and embarks on a race to collect five human souls before Mr. Nick, a task accomplished by sending customers into the imaginarium to sacrifice their greed and vices.
Dr. Parnassus wants nothing more than for mankind to think for itself and get rid of material obsessions. A drunk bar hopper that enters the mirror must choose between the hard work of scaling a mountain or popping in for a quick drink at a bar. A wealthy older woman sees a world of designer shoes and handbags and herself as slim and younger. The symbolic, metaphysical plot that drives this story can be pesky. The film lies somewhere between escapism and serious metaphor. This personality disorder could have been a boon for the film by making it a fantasy with an edge, but instead, it oscillates across this spectrum too frequently and it is easy to get lost along the story, and for some, maybe even in the first twenty minutes.
But the reward for persistence is great. The contrast Gilliam establishes between the muted tones and broken down scenery of London and the vibrant colors, angles and curves of the imaginarium is the pleasure center of the story. In his characteristic hyper-real visual style, Gilliam makes it easy to surrender the mind to the delicious contrast of reality and fantasy. But even the so-called real world in “Imaginarium” feels distorted. The use of wide angle lenses exaggerates sizes and creates an incredible deep focus that feels too glossy to be anything from the known world.
This film was Heath Ledger’s final performance, one he did not complete. Ledger plays Tony, a questionable philanthropist rescued by Dr. Parnassus’ gang and who subsequently joins them to hide from a shameful past. It is yet another excellent performance from the late Ledger. After Ledger’s death, Gilliam revised the script to explain that Tony changed physically whenever he entered the mirror and cast Johnny Depp, Jude Law, and Colin Farrell to finish shooting the imaginarium versions of Tony. The rewriting works and each actor does an admirable job fulfilling the character Ledger began. But it cannot be denied that the shift in actors and knowing this was Ledger’s last role has an effect on the experience of the movie. It is no fault of the film, but being briefly removed from the story whenever Ledger is replaced by another actor brings disbelief and logic back to the table, if only for a moment. It is hard to not imagine that the movie would have been better if Tony was played by the same actor.
Gilliam’s wonderful visual style accentuates a tale about rescuing the imagination from worldly objects and desires. Surreal twists and turns give the film enough buoyancy to keep from floating down too close to reality, but running just over two hours, the film is far too long and can overwhelm just as easy as it inspires. Dr. Parnassus’ traveling show is really Gilliam’s manifesto, surprising its participants with a freeing mental escape and a look at how truly incredible the imagination can be.
Dr. Parnassus, played by Christopher Plummer, is an ancient shaman with the ability to send people into a physical representation of their own imaginations with the use of his crafty mirror. His traveling theater troupe is comprised of his daughter Valentina (Lily Cole), who dreams of escaping her life on the road; the love-sick and desperate Anton (Andrew Garfield); and the wisecracking dwarf, Percy (Verne Troyer). They park their richly detailed and dilapidated mobile stage outside seedy bars across London, putting on performances for unappreciative drunken crowds.
Dr. Parnassus, for all his wisdom, can be a foolish man. After a tragic deal made with the devilish Mr. Nick, played by Tom Waits in the films best performance, Dr. Parnassus will lose Valentina to him on her fast-approaching 16th birthday. So he makes one last bet to keep his daughter and embarks on a race to collect five human souls before Mr. Nick, a task accomplished by sending customers into the imaginarium to sacrifice their greed and vices.
Dr. Parnassus wants nothing more than for mankind to think for itself and get rid of material obsessions. A drunk bar hopper that enters the mirror must choose between the hard work of scaling a mountain or popping in for a quick drink at a bar. A wealthy older woman sees a world of designer shoes and handbags and herself as slim and younger. The symbolic, metaphysical plot that drives this story can be pesky. The film lies somewhere between escapism and serious metaphor. This personality disorder could have been a boon for the film by making it a fantasy with an edge, but instead, it oscillates across this spectrum too frequently and it is easy to get lost along the story, and for some, maybe even in the first twenty minutes.
But the reward for persistence is great. The contrast Gilliam establishes between the muted tones and broken down scenery of London and the vibrant colors, angles and curves of the imaginarium is the pleasure center of the story. In his characteristic hyper-real visual style, Gilliam makes it easy to surrender the mind to the delicious contrast of reality and fantasy. But even the so-called real world in “Imaginarium” feels distorted. The use of wide angle lenses exaggerates sizes and creates an incredible deep focus that feels too glossy to be anything from the known world.
This film was Heath Ledger’s final performance, one he did not complete. Ledger plays Tony, a questionable philanthropist rescued by Dr. Parnassus’ gang and who subsequently joins them to hide from a shameful past. It is yet another excellent performance from the late Ledger. After Ledger’s death, Gilliam revised the script to explain that Tony changed physically whenever he entered the mirror and cast Johnny Depp, Jude Law, and Colin Farrell to finish shooting the imaginarium versions of Tony. The rewriting works and each actor does an admirable job fulfilling the character Ledger began. But it cannot be denied that the shift in actors and knowing this was Ledger’s last role has an effect on the experience of the movie. It is no fault of the film, but being briefly removed from the story whenever Ledger is replaced by another actor brings disbelief and logic back to the table, if only for a moment. It is hard to not imagine that the movie would have been better if Tony was played by the same actor.
Gilliam’s wonderful visual style accentuates a tale about rescuing the imagination from worldly objects and desires. Surreal twists and turns give the film enough buoyancy to keep from floating down too close to reality, but running just over two hours, the film is far too long and can overwhelm just as easy as it inspires. Dr. Parnassus’ traveling show is really Gilliam’s manifesto, surprising its participants with a freeing mental escape and a look at how truly incredible the imagination can be.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A Town Called Panic
By the time Cowboy, Indian and Horse balance precariously in the middle of an ocean on a floating snowball that is steadily melting, which was flung there by a giant robotic penguin operated by snowball-happy mad scientists, it’s readily understood that “A Town Called Panic” is highly incomprehensible.
Or maybe it’s long before then, when the trio plummets miles toward the center of the Earth on a slab of rock playing a card game because the fall seems to be taking a bit longer than expected.
This delightful film about a town’s high-strung residents is a childish adventure with little plot and a lot of insane fun. “A Town Called Panic” is based on a popular Belgian television show by Stéphane Aubier and Vincent Patar that uses a style of stop-motion animation with plastic toys.
The story begins when Cowboy and Indian try to make their roommate, Horse, a barbeque as a last-minute gift for his birthday, but instead, end up destroying his house. Horse, the only level-headed one in this trio, forces Cowboy and Indian to help rebuild the house, but the walls they construct are stolen every night.
A chase ensues to catch the mysterious, bat-like thieves. Their journey takes them to through lava, ice and water, and no matter where they are, there is always a reason to panic.
All the while, Horse longs to be with Madame Longray, a mare who teaches music and has caught the eye of Horse. The other residents of Panic, such as the farmer, Steven, and his wife, Jeanine, notice the three missing and (unsurprisingly) panic. The town bands together against the thieves with an army of farm animals complete with parachuting cows.
“A Town Called Panic” resembles the slapstick styles of The Three Stooges and the Marx Brothers, but at a considerably more frantic pace. The movie is packed with ridiculous and downright nonsensical gags that work because of the inherent zaniness of the characters and their environment. The characters never expect a normal day in Panic, and you shouldn’t either.
Many of the things in the town are “people-sized,” such as a hair-dryer three times the size of Cowboy or a dining-table sized slice of toast that Steven devours for breakfast. It is as if Panic were a play set that a child mixed together with things around his room that are far too large for his toys.
Bold colors and textures that are a delicious sample platter for the eyes fill the town, making each scene as much a joy to look at as it is funny. Everything from how the toys hop around the vibrant landscapes to their squeaky, rapid ramblings in French is carefree and fun. The animators succeed in visually conveying all the reactions and emotions from the characters even though the plastic faces never move. The entire story and every characterization can be understood without one glance at the subtitles. Like a silent Buster Keaton films, this movie needs no dialogue to be funny, but what is there makes the experience that much better.
This surprising treasure of a film is a welcomed escape into hysterical absurdity that proves a little—or a lot—of crazy, can be very good for the nerves.
Or maybe it’s long before then, when the trio plummets miles toward the center of the Earth on a slab of rock playing a card game because the fall seems to be taking a bit longer than expected.
This delightful film about a town’s high-strung residents is a childish adventure with little plot and a lot of insane fun. “A Town Called Panic” is based on a popular Belgian television show by Stéphane Aubier and Vincent Patar that uses a style of stop-motion animation with plastic toys.
The story begins when Cowboy and Indian try to make their roommate, Horse, a barbeque as a last-minute gift for his birthday, but instead, end up destroying his house. Horse, the only level-headed one in this trio, forces Cowboy and Indian to help rebuild the house, but the walls they construct are stolen every night.
A chase ensues to catch the mysterious, bat-like thieves. Their journey takes them to through lava, ice and water, and no matter where they are, there is always a reason to panic.
All the while, Horse longs to be with Madame Longray, a mare who teaches music and has caught the eye of Horse. The other residents of Panic, such as the farmer, Steven, and his wife, Jeanine, notice the three missing and (unsurprisingly) panic. The town bands together against the thieves with an army of farm animals complete with parachuting cows.
“A Town Called Panic” resembles the slapstick styles of The Three Stooges and the Marx Brothers, but at a considerably more frantic pace. The movie is packed with ridiculous and downright nonsensical gags that work because of the inherent zaniness of the characters and their environment. The characters never expect a normal day in Panic, and you shouldn’t either.
Many of the things in the town are “people-sized,” such as a hair-dryer three times the size of Cowboy or a dining-table sized slice of toast that Steven devours for breakfast. It is as if Panic were a play set that a child mixed together with things around his room that are far too large for his toys.
Bold colors and textures that are a delicious sample platter for the eyes fill the town, making each scene as much a joy to look at as it is funny. Everything from how the toys hop around the vibrant landscapes to their squeaky, rapid ramblings in French is carefree and fun. The animators succeed in visually conveying all the reactions and emotions from the characters even though the plastic faces never move. The entire story and every characterization can be understood without one glance at the subtitles. Like a silent Buster Keaton films, this movie needs no dialogue to be funny, but what is there makes the experience that much better.
This surprising treasure of a film is a welcomed escape into hysterical absurdity that proves a little—or a lot—of crazy, can be very good for the nerves.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Crazy Heart
Bad Blake is a chain-smoking, alcoholic country singer playing shows at small-town bowling alleys and who hasn’t written a new song in years. He doesn’t resemble a likeable person by any means, but Bad, like the movie Crazy Heart, defies these odds to win our hearts.
Scott Cooper’s directorial debut tells us almost everything we need to know about Bad in the first five minutes. The movie opens with wide, empty fields and a rusty, beaten-up car driving alone on a country road. When there are other cars around, they are all headed in the opposite direction. Bad, brilliantly played by Jeff Bridges, is a loner, constantly going in the wrong direction and isolating himself in a large, beautiful world. He talks but no one seems to understand what he’s saying, and he does not understand them. While preparing for a gig, Bad cannot comprehend why he is not entitled to free drinks from the venue or why his back-up band needs so much rehearsal time. They, in turn, do not understand his perpetual need for a drink or that the creative mind works on its own clock. But none of that matters when he sings.
Bad’s songs, written by music producer T Bone Burnett, are about times gone by and his own fatigue. The music is invigorating and Bridges singing, like the rest of his performance, is spot on. Oddly missing from the movie is anyone who is remotely critical of Bad’s music. Everyone he meets loves his songs and recognizes him as a legend. Even his business-minded agent, who is a constant headache for Bad, knows he is representing a true artist.
But despite this abundance of appreciation, Bad is unable to function without a guitar to keep space between him and his audience—and in turn the movie’s audience—and a drink close by to numb the world’s pains. He is a weary musician who guards his weariness from the world. He despises the new, sleek country music and the soul-sucking industry it belongs to and, like many tortured artists, has a failed family life. But beyond the subtle hints into his past sprinkled throughout the narrative, Bad keeps his audience at guitar’s length.
Like many damaged men in need of rebirth, all this begins to change with the arrival of a soul-saving girl. Maggie Gyllenhaal is Jean Craddock, a Santa Fe journalist doing an interview with the singer, who serves as the audience’s eyes and ears in the film and her unlikely relationship with Bad mimics our own. Bad is old enough to be her father and half the time they are together he is drowning in alcohol, and yet a romance grows. She is drawn in by his pain and his “so be it” attitude towards life. Likewise, Bridges performance draws you in with the small gestures and grunts of a man more complex and damaged than anyone knows, and more capable of love than anyone would guess. He could have easily overdone this role, but instead, for example, moments of anger are portrayed by a particularly forceful lighting of a cigarette rather than a tantrum in a motel room.
But the relationship that builds between Jean and Bad and ourselves and Bad is not the healthiest or most fulfilling. As in real life, it is filled with imperfections and by the end of it, we are not sure why it must end, but we know we are better because of it.
Then there is Bad’s anger at his former protégé, Tommy Sweet (a surprising performance from Colin Farrell) who he used to tour with until Tommy hit it big and left Bad behind. Tommy is hardly the villain Bad thinks him to be and is eager to make amends, but Bad’s sense of betrayal runs deep, deeper than Bridges will let us see.
After his first interview with Jean, Bad asks her “Did you get what you need?” in regards to her article. This is a question you may be asking yourself as you walk away from the movie. It is a tough question, and the answer could very well be “no,” but it’s not from any flaw of the story or directing, but because Bridges played his role so forcefully that he denies you the traditional comfort and simplicity found in similar stories.
Scott Cooper’s directorial debut tells us almost everything we need to know about Bad in the first five minutes. The movie opens with wide, empty fields and a rusty, beaten-up car driving alone on a country road. When there are other cars around, they are all headed in the opposite direction. Bad, brilliantly played by Jeff Bridges, is a loner, constantly going in the wrong direction and isolating himself in a large, beautiful world. He talks but no one seems to understand what he’s saying, and he does not understand them. While preparing for a gig, Bad cannot comprehend why he is not entitled to free drinks from the venue or why his back-up band needs so much rehearsal time. They, in turn, do not understand his perpetual need for a drink or that the creative mind works on its own clock. But none of that matters when he sings.
Bad’s songs, written by music producer T Bone Burnett, are about times gone by and his own fatigue. The music is invigorating and Bridges singing, like the rest of his performance, is spot on. Oddly missing from the movie is anyone who is remotely critical of Bad’s music. Everyone he meets loves his songs and recognizes him as a legend. Even his business-minded agent, who is a constant headache for Bad, knows he is representing a true artist.
But despite this abundance of appreciation, Bad is unable to function without a guitar to keep space between him and his audience—and in turn the movie’s audience—and a drink close by to numb the world’s pains. He is a weary musician who guards his weariness from the world. He despises the new, sleek country music and the soul-sucking industry it belongs to and, like many tortured artists, has a failed family life. But beyond the subtle hints into his past sprinkled throughout the narrative, Bad keeps his audience at guitar’s length.
Like many damaged men in need of rebirth, all this begins to change with the arrival of a soul-saving girl. Maggie Gyllenhaal is Jean Craddock, a Santa Fe journalist doing an interview with the singer, who serves as the audience’s eyes and ears in the film and her unlikely relationship with Bad mimics our own. Bad is old enough to be her father and half the time they are together he is drowning in alcohol, and yet a romance grows. She is drawn in by his pain and his “so be it” attitude towards life. Likewise, Bridges performance draws you in with the small gestures and grunts of a man more complex and damaged than anyone knows, and more capable of love than anyone would guess. He could have easily overdone this role, but instead, for example, moments of anger are portrayed by a particularly forceful lighting of a cigarette rather than a tantrum in a motel room.
But the relationship that builds between Jean and Bad and ourselves and Bad is not the healthiest or most fulfilling. As in real life, it is filled with imperfections and by the end of it, we are not sure why it must end, but we know we are better because of it.
Then there is Bad’s anger at his former protégé, Tommy Sweet (a surprising performance from Colin Farrell) who he used to tour with until Tommy hit it big and left Bad behind. Tommy is hardly the villain Bad thinks him to be and is eager to make amends, but Bad’s sense of betrayal runs deep, deeper than Bridges will let us see.
After his first interview with Jean, Bad asks her “Did you get what you need?” in regards to her article. This is a question you may be asking yourself as you walk away from the movie. It is a tough question, and the answer could very well be “no,” but it’s not from any flaw of the story or directing, but because Bridges played his role so forcefully that he denies you the traditional comfort and simplicity found in similar stories.
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