Arcade Fire Sale

One of my biggest disappointments this year was discreetly checking my phone at Wreck-It-Ralph's forty-five-minute mark and realizing that A) it should have ended twenty minutes earlier, and B) it was only half over. That's unfortunate, because I'd really been looking forward to Disney's CGI love letter to classic video games, a film that is is clever, gorgeous, and totally dead inside.

The impressive and oddly moving trailer promised to tell the story of a 1980s coin-op villain (the titular Ralph, voiced by John C. Reilly) who grows dissatisfied with his lot in life and seeks a greater destiny in other games. From the looks of things, the Mouse House kept up the stellar 3D animation streak it began with Tangled, and didn't cheap-out on licensing costs--populating the movie with legends and oddities from the 8-bit hall of fame. And the new avatars looked to have been created with a true fan's eye for the little details that hardcore gamers would appreciate.

Sadly, the homages didn't stop at character design. Co-writers Phil Johnston and Jennifer Lee's screenplay is an uninspired patchwork of gaming in-jokes and plot points recycled from better animated movies. From the behind-the-scenes look at the work-a-day lives of fantastical creatures (Monsters, Inc.); to the everything's-at-stake race through bizarre terrain (The Phantom Menace, but less obviously and more accurately, Speed Racer*); to the journey of a proud oaf who must ultimately defeat a big-headed tyrant king and, in the process, help an "ugly" princess discover her inner beauty (Shrek); and the climactic moment of sacrifice where the misunderstood hero must blow himself up to save the world (The Iron Giant), there's not a moment in Wreck-It-Ralph that doesn't feel blatantly co-opted.

I realize I'm screaming into the wind here. The movie debuted to record-breaking box office numbers, and reaction from the geek community has been overwhelmingly positive. I almost wrote "shockingly positive", but there's little surprise, really, in the film's success. Wreck-It-Ralph is a big, lazy, nostalgia-bomb designed to appeal not just to kid audiences, but also to the developmentally arrested adults who've kept the kitsch industry alive through sales of ironic t-shirts and Nintendo-console-style, novelty lunch boxes. As much as they may rail against the idea that they are a legitimate, mainstream demographic--and not disparate, impossible-to-pin-down renegades--the "nerd/geek" jig is up. And it's time for industry to either stop catering to these sad weirdos or put some real effort into catering to them.

For example, a character using the Konami Code to unlock a digital chest is not funny. It's a Pavlovian whistle meant to elicit loud, obnoxious laughter from the ten people in the theatre who want to let eeeeeveryone else know that they get the "joke". In the last couple years, geek-targeted movies have crossed a dangerous threshold into Romantic Comedy and Action Shoot-'Em-Up territory. One no longer needs to be original, daring, or genuinely imaginative to capture this crowd; they simply need to make the right references and evoke a chocolate-milk-and-Cheetos feeling in the trailer. Q-Bert has become the basement-dweller's Katherine Heigl and Jason Statham.

Speaking of celebrities, I'm sure director Rich Moore was thrilled to work with such comedy luminaries as Sarah Silverman, Jane Lynch, and Jack McBrayer, but for someone intimately familiar with those actors' CVs, I found all of the voices in Wreck-It-Ralph distracting and annoying. Lynch, in particular, is problematic because she plays a hard-as-nails, alien-killing squad commander who's also supposed to be a sexy, chick-with-guns-and-issues. She nails the former by phoning in a variant on her Sue Sylvester character from Glee. But when called upon to melt reluctantly at the bumpkin-ish charms of her wacky sidekick, Fix-It-Felix Jr. (McBrayer), she still sounds like a bitter, chain-smoking old lady. If that was the joke, it was poorly executed.

It might have helped if the actors had been called upon to do actual voice work instead of just show up and play themselves. With the exception of the consistently wonderful Alan Tudyk (as the deceptively kooky King Candy), the rest of the main cast are all too recognizable. The first of many arguments between Ralph and Vanellope (the racecar-obsessed pixie he meets in a game called Sugar Rush) felt like one of those pre-coming-attractions featurettes where footage of Sarah Silverman recording her lines plays next to scenes from the movie. I watched most of Wreck-It-Ralph with several such mental split-screens, unable to look at Fix-It-Felix Jr., say, and not think of "Kenneth" from 30 Rock.

I started this review by praising Wreck-It-Ralph's looks and cleverness. Visually, the film is a masterpiece. But what do you expect for $165 million? As for sly humor, the script has it in spades--from an arcade surge protector serving as the characters' Grand Central Station to an inspired use of the Pac-Man maze and big ideas about what a "glitch" means in the world of video games, it's clear that the filmmakers are no strangers to pop-culture homework and puns.

None of this adds up to a compelling story, though, and I was surprised at the movie's limited narrative scope. Ralph only visits two games outside his own; in a universe populated by literally thousands of variations on dozens of genres over three decades, this is a crime equivalent to setting eighty percent of Star Wars on Tatooine. Were Sugar Rush--or the things that happen there--inherently interesting, this wouldn't be a major complaint.

I really wanted to take Wreck-It-Ralph seriously, but it wouldn't let me. Despite its apparent financial success, this is a big step backwards for Disney. Time will tell if their homegrown 3D brand will mature into the kind of capable, sophisticated storytelling juggernaut that uncle Pixar is, or if they'll succumb to the bad influence of that recently adopted, nose-picking redhead, Lucasfilm, and continue playing to the back of the house.

*Though both films are technically live-action, I think there's enough CGI at work in each to label them as "animated".

Get Out the Veto!

I used to think Bob Roberts was funny. That was twenty years ago, when I naively understood Tim Robbins' faux documentary to be a comedy. On election day 2012, the satire plays like a horror film. The "jokes" are prescient jabs at just how thoroughly industry and media have steamrolled the American people two decades later.

In the movie-within-the-movie, documentarian Terry Manchester (Brian Murray) follows a heated 1990 Pennsylvania Senate race between septuagenarian Liberal incumbent Brickley Paiste (Gore Vidal) and thirty-five-year-old Conservative millionaire Bob Roberts (Robbins). Paiste, an old-fashioned believer in public programs and honest campaigning, has a slight edge Roberts, who preaches Gordon Gecko's prosperity gospel via the chart-topping songs he's created as a Republican contemporary-folk singer. If this sounds like a contradiction, that's the point: in a sinister yet effective PR move, Roberts performs sweet-sounding tunes, which seek to dismantle the very social change that inspired the art form.

Manchester and his film crew travel with Roberts and his people aboard "The Pride", a campaign bus/global-financial-markets hub. In between early-morning fencing matches, talk show appearances, and rallies that double as concerts, the highly motivated team of moneymakers are constantly on the phone or pounding away on computers, chasing and defining world stock trends. And they are rightly frustrated that their candidate (whose net worth is somewhere north of $40 million) is having trouble beating a senior citizen with outmoded hippie values, and who espouses conspiracy theories about the corrupting influence of the military/industrial complex.

The solution, of course, is to exploit (and possibly plant) a non-story about Paiste's alleged affair with a sixteen-year-old campaign staffer. Though effective, the polling doesn't increase Roberts' margin enough to ensure a decisive win. So they get really, really dirty, with a stunt I won't spoil here.

Suffice it to say, Roberts' team devises a darkly ingenious way to martyr their candidate without actually killing him--thereby cementing his status as not only an unflappable crusader, but also a Neo-Christ figure for the Me Generation. Their bold strategy also does away with Bugs Raplin (Giancarlo Esposito), a nosy reporter eager to pin the campaign's brain trust to failed Savings and Loan schemes and a South American dope-smuggling operation. No one is happier with this plot's success than campaign mastermind Lucas Hart III (Alan Rickman), a former CIA operative who narrowly escaped conviction during Iran-Contra-style Congressional hearings a few years before--in an investigation spearheaded by Brickley Paiste.

Bob Roberts is one of my favorite films, and I revisit it every few years as a sort of political Rorschach test. Existing somewhere between the easy-target parody of Rob Reiner's This is Spinal Tap and Christopher Guest's freak shows-with-heart mockumentaries, Tim Robbins' film seems to have gotten lost in the popular consciousness. Which is a shame, because it is perhaps the most perfect version of the art form. The film is so expertly conceived, shot, and put together that I've been hard-pressed to find a "wink" in the dozen or so times I've seen it. Sadly, this may be the result of the Roberts campaign and the sycophantic media that covers him becoming less recognizable as cartoon characters since 1992 and more cemented as the kind of bizarre political animals you're likely to see when turning on the television today.

Forgive my use of labels here, but I can imagine a Conservative watching this movie and being shocked that a notorious Hollywood Liberal like Robbins would have "switched sides" to make an homage to traditional Republican values. I can also imagine a classic Progressive watching this movie and laughing at Roberts, the narcissistic, money-mongering suit--while also failing to grasp that his brand of evil is not strictly partisan.

On the surface, it's easy to tell which of the current Presidential candidates is more like Bob Roberts than the other. But in the years since the movie came out, both parties have drifted towards a disturbing commonality of millionaire nominees with a penchant for war-mongering, austerity, and media manipulation the likes of which we've never seen.

Revisiting the film last night, Brickley Paiste--in his sincerity, knowledge, and decency--seemed like a time traveller from two hundred years ago. Part of me has always felt that way about his character, particularly in contrast to the chilling modernity of his opponent. But I could always take comfort in a solid laugh at several of Robbins' well-observed jokes. I barely cracked a smile last night, thinking about today's grand showdown of the Lesser of Two Evils and wondering if I'll ever again feel hopeful enough to engage in a sick process devoid of heroes. When the reality of our current political process can be summed up in a slick, decades-old Mad Magazine-style parody, what hope is there?

To quote Roberts' ironic idol, Bob Dylan, "The times, they are a-changin'".

Note: It's telling that Robbins never approved the release of a Bob Roberts soundtrack album. His film is packed with funny, catchy folk songs that attack welfare queens, drug users, peaceniks, and every other enemy of bootstrap Conservatism. They're so well-written and performed so straight that he worried about their out-of-context adoption as anthems for a party he despises. Listen to any one of these tunes, and it's hard to argue with his concerns; the themes and lyrics are, sadly, timeless, and it's easy to imagine them playing as bumper music on Rush Limbaugh's or Michael Savage's radio programs.

The Naked(ly Opportunistic) Now

Despite having played heroic space adventurer James T. Kirk on Star Trek, there's little nobility in William Shatner's new documentary, Get a Life! As a director, the actor makes a great carnival barker: luring with the promise of a wry look at fan obsession; persuading with the kind of gross heart-string tugging that dares non-fans to scoff; all the while promoting a cynical business built on separating the socially awkward from their hard-earned money.

Yes, at just under sixty minutes, there's no mistaking this movie as anything but an infommercial for fan-convention juggernaut Creation Entertainment. Set largely during their 2011 Trek show in Las Vegas--which marked the TV series' forty-fifth anniversary--Get a Life! would have you believe that A) it took Shatner nearly fifty years to question what it is about Star Trek that resonates so deeply with people,* and B) the best way to get answers is to assemble and interview a reality-TV-cast-waiting-to-happen.

In the world of Get a Life! (as well as the equally exploitive but better-promoted Comic-Con Episode IV), there's no such thing as an average-Joe convention attendee--no one that just likes Star Trek and wants to buy some cool merch or maybe meet a celebrity. They're all geeks in the sideshow sense of the word, with hoarder-houses overrun by collectibles and a Deeply Moving Personal Story to Tell.

We meet the guy who proposed to his fiancée during a convention auction; the Hubble telescope engineer who was inspired to pursue a career in science after watching the first episode of Star Trek; the fire department chief who models her leadership after the Captains; the cuddly stalker of actress Terry Farrell who, upon meeting her idol (SPOILER!) breaks down with a sob story about her fiancé and future mother-in-law dying in a car accident; then there's "Captain" Dave Sparks, the wheelchair-bound uber-fan with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy.

Farrell's and Sparks' stories are the most troubling and the most instructive parts of the film. Farrell is a good actress. I liked her in Back to School, Hellraiser III, and what little I saw of Deep Space Nine. It's unclear to me how much of her skill was at work during the documentary: when a fan switches gears from, "I love and admire you so much" to, "It's been really hard raising a kid on my own, and I never got to finish that DS9 marathon, 'cause my boyfriend took a fender through the skull",** the actress takes it all in stride. But something behind her eyes suggests she doesn't appreciate being railroaded.

Is it possible that Shatner and company didn't share this crucial bit of information with Farrell when setting up the meeting? Granted, that would be the only way to maintain the director's ultimate quest for nerd cinema vérité. But it's a lousy trick to pull on a colleague:

"Hey, Terry! We're doing this little documentary thing and I've got a super-excited young woman who's just dying to meet you. She moderates your unofficial Facebook fan page and everything."

"Wow, Bill, that's so nice!"

"Indeed. Now, we'll make sure to have plenty of Kleenex and security on hand..."

"Hmm?"

"Oh, nothing. Don't worry, it'll be great!"

If Farrell did know the story beforehand, she did a hell of a job laying on the spontaneous sympathy--thus completely bullshitting the audience. I know it's too much to ask for an ounce of truth in the infotainment era, but can't filmmakers make some kind of effort to fool the two percent of viewers who pay attention?

This brings me to Captain Dave. Wide-eyed, silent, and wheelchair-bound throughout the film, his mother and caretaker do a moving job of talking about his difficult life, his deep love of Star Trek, and how, after appearing in another Shatner documentary, The Captains, he became a minor celebrity at the conventions he attended.

It's very sweet, but also hugely unfair. This is the kind of story that belongs in Trekkies, a film whose purpose was to shed light on the weird diversity of Trek fandom. Get a Life! is a sales pitch, plain and simple. "Look," it says, "Trekkies(/ers) are a giant, loving family who'll accept you no matter the depths of your sad obsession! Check out your local Creation event and see for yourself!"

If I didn't know better, I'd assume Shatner arranged for Captain Dave to die during production (which, sadly, he did) for the sake of providing his narrative a gripping hook.

That's how slimy this movie made me feel! And none of this would have occurred to me if I hadn't spent the last seven years attending fan conventions of one kind or another. It's very easy to get the lovey-gooeys from Get a Life! if you know absolutely nothing aobut how cons work--and I assume a decent portion of the audience who'll find this film are blissfully ignorant.

For starters, the celebrity breakfasts, autograph sessions, and photo ops depicted here all cost money. A lot of money. Shatner and Patrick Stewart have been known to charge north of $80 for a scribble on items provided by fans (and that doesn't include a photograph of or with them). So this bogus notion that someone might travel across the country to hang out with Captain Kirk for a nominal admission cost is offensive. I wonder how many genuine, personal experiences like the Farrell episode would have happened if the celebrities were offered zero dollars to appear? So much for appreciation.

I'm also uncomfortable with the film's notion that all of this life-consuming Trek passion is okay. Shatner engages in a fascinating discussion with a Joseph Campbell scholar (which should have been the whole picture) about the roots of fandom. But never is the question raised, "Is devoting all of one's free time and imagination to constructing elaborate Halloween costumes and pretending to be other people actually healthy?" None of the handful of films like this that I've seen offer an argument that the thousands of hours people spend sewing costumes and begging for the attention and approval of strangers is scary and not to be admired. I guess as long as the Creation machine gets fed, Shatner and company are okay with the freaks doing whatever they want.

The flip-side of that coin is the notion that Trek fans lead very full lives outside of their hobbies. But I've yet to see a documentary on this topic that suggests any kind of balance. It's unclear, in other words, who is more at fault for flipping that judgment switch in my brain: the filmmakers or the people being filmed.

Side Note: Why is it that Trek fans take such great pains to emulate their fictitious heroes in every detail except for physical fitness? Jesus, the amount of excess spandex and billowing cloth on display in Get a Life! could clothe Africa until there really is such a thing as the United Federation of Planets.

Sure, I'm being harsh on Shatner's subjects. They seem nice and are, I'm sure hard-working. But are they to be respected for their fealty to obsession? I'm not so sure. And I'm not convinced that Shatner is, either. His movie opens with the famous Saturday Night Live sketch that inspired the title--in which he excoriates a gathering of fans for not doing more with their lives. But he discards his thesis within minutes, transforming the narrative into an ostensibly loving portrait of fandom--while also hovering above it in bemused puzzlement. 

The great irony of the film's title is that, were Trekkies world-wide to suddenly follow its advice, Shatner and Creation Entertainment would quickly find themselves out of work and out of demand--which, if the quality and insincerity of Get a Life! is any indication, would not be such a bad thing.

*Keep in mind, this is after he wrote a book on the subject.

**I'm paraphrasing.

Cloud Nine in Cloud City

Let's begin today with some A's for Q's likely running through your head:

Hey, didn't this used to be a movie-review site?

It still is, but I understand your concern. For the fourth time in as many months, I've set aside space to discuss a live stage show taking place in Chicago--which, for my UK and Boise readers, must be doubly frustrating. In fairness, seventy-five percent of these productions are movie parodies (and the remaining quarter was, at least, written by Clive Barker).

Are you in the pocket of Gorilla Tango Theatre?

No. As fate would have it, I've attended three of their shows--all of which were uniformly awesome. I'm ready and willing to attack bad theatre, but the crazy-talented folks at GTT refuse to give me an opening. Bastards.

Are you seriously telling me that there's still humor to be mined from Star Wars?

Oh, yes. Though the Seths (Green and MacFarlane) have built empires of cash by ripping George Lucas to loving, comedic shreds, they've yet to go where no man has gone before: burlesque satire. As a lifelong Jedi-at-heart, I was skeptical going into The Empire Brings Sexy Back: A Star Wars Burlesque Sequel. But writer K Leo and director/choreographer MsPixy have not only upheld Gorilla Tango's recipe of adding pureed pop culture to roiling, unabashed sexuality, they've broken new ground in dissecting the thirty-five-year-old franchise's significance.

Narrated by an Imperial Officer (Zatanna Zor-Elle), the show looks at the events of The Empire Strikes Back through the prism of a government fending off terrorist attacks. Luke Skywalker (Trixi Kidd*), Princess Leia (Inara Rose), Han Solo (Ann Hauserbush), and their rebel friends are the enemy here, causing destruction and grief for noble, put-upon bureaucrat, Darth Vader (Dottie Comm). Star Wars fans will recognize all the big story beats from Lucas's classic film, including the Hoth invasion, Luke's training sessions with Yoda (Mia Atari), and the lightsaber showdown atop Cloud City. The big difference is characterization, with rebels and dark-siders alternately trying to kill and hook up with one another. In a galaxy far, far away, war isn't hell--it's horny.

This could have been a "greatest-hits-with-jokes-and-tits" production, but The Empire Brings Sexy Back has a solid through-line, as well as a handful of brilliant detours into the unexpected. The big reveal regarding Luke's paternity is handled as a Jerry Springer segment, and Han's climactic carbonite-imprisonment scene takes on a mind-blowing new dimension when accompanied by Queen's eerily perfect "Bohemian Rhapsody". That sequence has been stuck in my head for days now, and I'm still taken with the humor, vulnerability, and heart that Hauserbush brought to what should have been a campy flashlight show played for easy laughs. In a cast of stand-out performers, she shines the brightest.

Indeed, the best reason to see this show--and any Gorilla Tango production, in my experience--is the passion and imagination that's evident in every detail. From Kristen Ahern's inventive costumes, which tweak the film's iconic designs with modern, risqué touches, to MsPixy's effective use of the stage in creating innovative blocking, movement, and prop work, I didn't feel like I was watching a low-rent, "cute" version of The Empire Strikes Back. I dare say there's probably little difference between the work that went into figuring out how to bring the Star Wars experience to a black box stage and the feats Lucas and company pulled off when creating the Death Star. If you doubt this after seeing the levitating lightsaber trick and applause-worthy opening crawl, drop me a line and we'll chat--briefly.

I don't mean to sell the performers short with my high-minded analysis of the show's craftsmanship. If all you care about are curvy women shaking pasties and prancing around an intimate stage, you'll find plenty to marvel at here, executed with steamy professionalism. I'll admit, the Han/Leia courtship takes on a tempting new dimension when both characters are played by attractive, young women--but that gimmick would get old quickly without a solid foundation. 

It's fitting that The Empire Brings Sexy Back opened the same week that Disney acquired Lucasfilm for $4 billion (the move is addressed in an early sight gag). Beyond merchandising and film franchise rights, the Mouse House has also purchased a legacy. It's up to the suits to decide Star Wars' fate now, and I hope that whoever they put in charge has the same love, appreciation, and commitment to the series as this scrappy band of semi-nude nerf herders.

The Empire Brings Sexy Back plays Saturday nights through February 23, 2013 at Gorilla Tango Theatre (1919 N. Milwaukee Ave. Chicago, IL 60647). Click here for tickets and additional information.

*Ms. Kidd is listed as an understudy for Diva LaVida, who did not appear in the performance I attended. For the record, She was terrific in her dual roles as Luke and Boba Fett, whose character began the show in a state of undress and slipped on a sultry version of the famous Mandalorian armor piece by piece--an unexpectedly awesome reverse strip show.

Give Thanks for Necessary Evils

If Andy Warhol were alive today, he would make Thankskilling 3 and then blow his brains out. The sequel to Jordan Downey's ultra-low-budget, ultra-unwatchable slasher movie pushes the boundaries of art and entertainment so boldly that I'm conflicted as to whether this is the worst movie of the last half-decade, or one of 2012's very best.

I attended an advance screening nearly a week ago, so plot specifics are a bit fuzzy. In fairness, I was hard-pressed even in the moment to understand what was happening on screen or why--so time may have little to do with my confusion. I do know that the first movie's villain--an anthropomorphic, wisecracking killer turkey named Turkie (voiced by Downey)--is on a mission to preserve the last copies of Thankskilling 2, a movie so terrible that aliens have landed on Earth to incinerate mountains of its DVDs.

(In case you're wondering, Thankskilling 2 exists exclusively as a plot device in Thankskilling 3, the only film to skip its own sequel.*)

Turkie will stop at nothing, including murdering his own wife and child and then willing his son's spirit into a Thankskilling 2 DVD case. At odds with the gruesome gobbler is Yomi, a yellow puppet from another dimension who believes that defeating Turkie will compel her talking, pixie-like brain to return. She enlists the help of Uncle Donny (Daniel Usaj), a TV spokesman and amateur amusement park entrepreneur. Donny and his brother (?) Jefferson (Joe Hartzler) dream of opening Thanksgivingland, but are too busy fending off insults from their ancient, hip-hop-loving grandmother to get anything off the ground. Also key to the plot somehow are a space worm and his killer-cyborg boyfriend, who shoots interdimensional portals out of his anus.

That covers about half the film, and I'm pretty sure I've made it more coherent for you. Thankskilling 3 qualifies as a movie only by virtue of its ability to be shown on a screen. Downey and co-writers Mike Will Downey and Kevin Stewart shift gears with their narrative and production quality so frequently that it's impossible to get a foothold. You can literally see the glue holding the space worm's googly eyes in place, but his hulking, metal companion's costume looks like it cost twice the entire budget. In this universe, we must reconcile quarter-effort voice acting and multiple five-minute pockets of nothingness that seem to meander for hours with camerawork, special effects, and production design that occasionally look like the fruits of serious filmmakers.

Perhaps the best way to describe this thing is as a cross between the short-lived TV series Wondershowzen and Gaspar Noe's Enter the Void. Downey and company use the aesthetics of innocence to tell a dark story that gets more vulgar and nonsensical by the moment, relying on captivating psychedelics to lull the audience into just the right state to accept the less-than-successful stretches. I found composer Zain Effendi's two instrumental interludes to be so hypnotic that I'm convinced there were actual sedatives in the beats--maybe some hallucinogens, too, because I still can't believe the 8-bit-Nintendo-style animated turkey fight at the center of the climax.

In retrospect, I'm glad the original Thankskilling was enough of a hit to warrant a sequel. Sure, everyone I know who's seen Part One says it's one of the worst movie watching experiences of their lives. But I'd like to believe that was the point: Downey spent as little money and effort as possible to put out a movie that the Internet wouldn't be able to resist. Using the ensuing mountains of cash, he unleashed his creativity and commitment in making a confounding trash masterpiece that's sure to piss off ninety-nine percent of its audience--but for the right reasons this time.

Just as it kills some people to concede that Warhol's soup-can paintings qualify as art, I'm at once embarrassed and delighted to proclaim Thankskilling 3 a good and possibly important movie. It's at times funny and deadly un-funny, intellectually challenging and horribly base; even when the plot gets dull, the film remains alive. I can't recommend this movie to anyone--which is why you need to see it as soon as possible.

*This was almost not the case. Legend has it that Chevy Chase proposed a follow-up to his wildly successful 1985 comedy Fletch, called "Fletch 3". The studio balked and went with "Fletch Lives" instead.

Repetition is Not Enough

I have a strict "No Walking Out" policy with movies, which the universe has put to the test many times over the years. I think it grew tired of my stubbornness last weekend.

I saw Skyfall on Sunday. At the halfway mark, the entire auditorium went black, save for the footlights and green "Exit" signs down front. After sitting in darkness for nearly ten minutes, it looked as though everyone would have to have to settle for passes to a different screening. In those moments, I seriously doubted I'd make the effort--opting instead to either wait for Netflix or skip the rest of the film altogether. It saddened me that A) this technically violated my long-standing code, and B) I had zero interest in finishing the new James Bond adventure.

Unfortunately, my record still stands; Skyfall resumed right where it left off, compelling me to stay put and finish it. The fact that I've spent a full week putting a review together is a testament to my profound disappointment in this limp, creatively bankrupt insult to the franchise.

In 2006, Casino Royale came out of nowhere, giving fans of the 007 series a grown-up, brutish take on a character who, especially in recent installments, had become a cartoon character. With Daniel Craig stepping into the role of Britain's most famous spy, and writers Neal Purvis, Robert Wade, and Paul Haggis plotting a grim, globe-trotting game whose psychological stakes were as thrilling as its action set pieces, it was clear that Martin Campbell couldn't rely on the camp and gadgetry with which he'd made Goldeneye. It was a thrilling reboot that made the iconic character cool again in the vast realms beyond nostalgia and geekdom.

Then came Quantum of Solace, a movie that screamed "Writers' Strike Placeholder" from minute one. Some refer to this entry as the "'Bourne' Bond", but The Bourne Identity and its sequels never (okay, mostly never) sacrificed good storytelling for hyperkinetic action. I can't even remember what happened in QoS; something about oil, revenge, and squandering every ounce of good will built up by the previous movie.

This brings us to Skyfall, which is better than Quantum of Solace only in that it rips off stronger material and does so very well. In this case, we're talking about Christopher Nolan's Batman trilogy. I was able to overlook the "homages" for the first third of the movie. But ten minutes after Javier Bardem's introduction as the bleach-blonde, bi-sexual bad-guy, I realized that director Sam Mendes and his writing team (including John Logan, subbing for Haggis) had simply stolen the best elements of The Dark Knight--and, to a lesser extent, the other new Bat flicks--and melded them with the plot structures of Casino Royale and Home Alone.

To prove my point, please indulge me in this spoilerific pop-quiz. We'll get back to the "review" part of the review in just a minute. Promise.

001. In which movie does James Bond drive a construction vehicle while fighting a low-level thug during the opening chase?

a. Skyfall

b. Casino Royale

c. All of the Above

002. In which movie does the psychotic super-villain dress up as a beat cop to pull off a daylight assassination, which ultimately fails?

a. Skyfall

b. The Dark Knight

c. All of the Above

003. In which movie does the psychotic super-villain allow himself to be captured by the authorities in order to infiltrate their headquarters and creep everyone out with his eerie, disfigured smile?

a. Skyfall

b. The Dark Knight

c. All of the Above

004. At the end of which film is a supporting character given greater franchise significance when their full name is revealed during casual conversation?

a. Skyfall

b. The Dark Knight Rises

c. All of the Above

005. Which film levels its hero's swanky, high-tech base of operations, forcing them to set up shop in a Steve Jobs-inspired underground lair?

a. Skyfall

b. The Dark Knight

c. Batman Begins

d. b. and c.

e. a. and d.

006. In which film does the hero's tech-savvy sidekick reluctantly aid in tracking down the villain using big-screen virtual maps of the entire city?

a. Skyfall

b. The Dark Knight

c. All of the Above

007. Which film shows off its cutting-edge special effects by staging a "unique" subway train crash?

a. Skyfall

b. Batman Begins

c. Die Hard with a Vengeance

d. Knowing

e. Final Destination 3

f. All of the Above

The answers to all of these cute questions are obvious, but they aren't nitpicks. Unless your memory is so faulty as to have forgotten major plot points and action sequences from some of the highest-grossing, most popular movies of the last two decades, there's no excuse for gobbling up this retread. It's as if Mendes wanted to prove to MGM that he could direct big action scenes after building a career on gripping, personal dramas like American Beauty and Revolutionary Road--so he threw fresh digital paint on a bunch of familiar moments to create the world's most expensive demo reel. Unfortunately, after giving him the job, the studio executives forgot to ask for an actual movie and released this instead.

Wow, I just realized that there's barely a word in this review about Skyfall's plot. Here goes:

An ex-MI6 agent named Alec Trevelyan (Bardem) is abandoned by the agency at the end of a perilous mission. He resurfaces years later with a harsh vendetta against his former employer, and steals the CIA's "Non-Official Cover" (NOC) list. James Bond must stop him from publishing the identities of the world's undercover agents, while also protecting his boss, M (Judi Dench).

They draw Trevelyan's elite hit squad to Bond's childhood home--an estate in the middle of rural Scotland called...wait for it..."Skyfall". There, they reunite with Alfred (Albert Finney), the wise, old butler of Bond's deceased parents--who were killed while walking home from the theatre decades earlier. Using household objects, Bond, Alfred, M, a troubled teen named Nancy (Heather Langenkamp), and a sarcastic eight-year-old named Kevin (Macaulay Culkin) rig explosives and elaborate traps to foil Trevelyan and his army of thugs--the nastiest of which are played by Joe Pesci, Daniel Stern, and Robert Englund.

I'm messing with you, of course. But take that synopsis into the theatre, and I guarantee Skyfall will play on a mental split screen with the dozen or so other films it rips off.

In fairness, I enjoyed the movie's first third, and was able to forgive some of the obvious references. But at a certain point, the lack of originality--and the promise that new ideas weren't coming--became too great to ignore. Craig is, once again, great as Bond, and he's given three really sharp counterparts this time out: Naomie Harris as Eve, Ben Whishaw as Q, and Ralph Fiennes as Gareth Mallory, a bureaucrat with more guts than meets the eye. It's a shame that none of these great actors get to play with rich material; they're stuck in a run-of-the-mill revenge story that was absolutely not worth the four-year wait.

And I have zero interest in what follows this movie. The last five minutes of Skyfall are a return to franchise form, with Mendes and company aligning the stars for a more "classic" Bond adventure next time out; which, I suppose, means more quips, more gadgets, and more "fun". I admire the setup, but going back to the days of Brosnan or (hate to say it) Connery is not in any way appealing to me.

Casino Royale proved that a Bond film can be exciting, smart, and even funny without resorting to winks or outright silliness. Quantum of Solace and Skyfall suffer from an alarming lack of scale and stakes. Having Bond face a rogue 00 agent is a scary idea, and a terrific setup for an action film. But we're asked to settle for a third-rate stalker-type villain who exhibits absolutely none of the brains or brutality that we've seen bred in the good-guy version of the archetypical British spy. For all the Dark Knight shenanigans in this movie, the filmmakers failed to appropriate the one thing that movie did so well: give the audience an antagonist who steals the spotlight from the hero, while making them tremble in fear and rock-star admiration.

Skyfall is a letdown, but at least it will help me maintain my "No Walking Out" policy when dealing with future Bond films: I can't abandon something if I don't start it in the first place.

The Biter End

It's strange to think that we won't have Twilight to kick around anymore. After four years and five movies, the wildly popular, non-vampire vampire series concludes with Breaking Dawn, Part 2--a movie so wonderfully weird that I wish director Bill Condon had been at the helm from the beginning.

Before diving in, let's do a quick recap.* Sullen teen Bella (Kristen Stewart) nearly dies while giving birth to the half-vampire/half-human baby she conceived with her undead husband, Edward (Robert Pattinson). At the last moment, Edward "turns" his bride, allowing the two of them to live happily ever after. Following the delivery, jealous werewolf Jacob (Taylor Lautner) "imprints" on the baby, binding their souls together for life (think Spock and Bones at the end of Star Trek 2, only way more ridiculous).

Part Two picks up moments after Bella's transformation, and sees her and Edward coming to grips with their child--who, because this is technically a sci-fi/fantasy film, grows at an abnormal rate and exhibits powers beyond mere super-strength and immortality. Yes, young Renesmee (no crime in giggling, folks) matures from newborn to toddler to eight-year-old girl in about a week.

One afternoon, while catching snowflakes in the woods by levitating, Renesmee is spotted by Irina (Maggie Grace), another vampire, who immediately suspects that Bella, Edward, and the Cullen family have turned a mortal child--a big "no-no" in bloodsucker circles. Irina visits Rome, seeking an audience with Aro (Michael Sheen), the head of a vicious vampire mafia known as the Volturi. Aro has had brushes with the Cullens before, and jumps at the excuse to wipe them off the face of the Earth.

The rest of Breaking Dawn, Part Two is essentially an X-Men sequel with skinny jeans instead of spandex. The Cullens recruit sympathetic vampires from all over the world, each with unique abilities (mind control, lightning blasts, typhoon conjuring, etc.), while the Volturi take their sweet time getting their army together for some reason. All of this leads to an epic battle in a forest clearing, with werewolves and misfit daywalkers squaring off against fifty European snobs in black capes.

The build-up is as silly as it sounds, and the ridiculousness is compounded by the most breathtakingly awful CGI I've seen in a mainstream blockbuster--perhaps ever. Let's begin with the baby. In an attempt to, I guess, not confuse a core audience who isn't old enough to understand the aging process, Condon and his effects wizards superimpose a computer-generated baby face over an actual child; it's meant to either resemble Stewart and Pattinson's features, or to evoke the likeness of Mackenzie Foy, who plays Renesmee at her oldest age in the film.

The effect is distracting, grotesque, and a genuine puzzlement. Renesmee makes the E-Trade baby look like one of Avatar's Na'vi. It's an odd choice, considering the number of tender moments between Bella and her daughter--moments when the audience should be emotionally invested rather than compelled to look away.

How hard would it have been to hire actual kids for these rolls? The various stages only get a minute or two of screen time each. Any casting director worth their salt could easily find a handful of look-alikes for a fraction of what it must have cost to bring those little abominations to the big screen. Regardless, once the filmmakers signed off on the CGI direction, was there no quality control at Summit Entertainment? I haven't seen such ghastly 3D character work since Robert Zemeckis's The Polar Express, and even that gets a pass because the whole production was a cartoon.

A similar issue plagues the rest of the film. Eighty percent of the Twilight series takes place in the woods of Washington, yet at least the same percentage of this movie appears to have been shot on a green-screen-covered sound stage. Stories that take place in exotic, otherworldly locations may have a need for this, as the computer-generated environments are filled in around the actors. But given the fact that Breaking Dawn, Part Two has, I think, four locations--one of which is the wooded clearing--what in the world prevented Condon and company from just grabbing some decent cameras and shooting amongst real trees and honest-to-God rocks?

Once again, if you're going to head in this direction, please at least use some of the franchise's shocking profits to invest in competent effects artists. Between the fuzzy haloing around the flesh-and-blood actors, the way-too-sharp CGI wolves, and, of course, that creepy Renesmee kid, I could barely contain my laughter. I expect this nonsense out of Tommy Wiseau, not the Academy Award-nominated director of Dreamgirls.

Having said all that, I recommend checking out Breaking Dawn, Part Two--or at least part of it. The twenty-minute battle that closes out the film is seriously thrilling. In the numerous decapitations, maulings, and immolations, we're treated to a ballsy fight to the death in which series regulars are epically disposed of and the boundaries of the PG-13 rating get pushed to their very limits. I watched this section with a racing heart and a hand over my mouth.

The only thing better than the climax is the way it ends--with a cool bit of cinematic trickery that I've seen dozens of times in the last decade, but which has always failed to elicit the directors' intended response. Pardon my dancing around the subject here, but I really don't want to ruin the surprise for those of you who don't already know about it. Some have called the move a cheat, but they're missing the point entirely. All praise to Condon, screenwriter Melissa Rosenberg, and, I suppose, author Stephenie Meyer, for giving me one of the most cathartic, duped-beyond-belief laughs I've had at the movies this year.

I should end my big Twilight send-off with remarks about the cast, but I'm not going to. I've thought about and written about these kids enough in the last four years. I will say that Stewart finally dislodged whatever stick had been jammed in her, um, craw this time around. It's ironic that the Bella character never came to life until the film after she died. And the new crop of actors playing vampires is fine, but they're given little to do besides entertain audience chaperones with a running game of, "Where've I Seen That Guy/Gal Before?"

No, I'll leave Twilight exactly as I found it: a curiosity that has not had--and will not have--any impact on my moviegoing life. It's telling that I sat through all five films and yet couldn't recall the context for most of the scenes that played in the closing montage. I'm still not convinced that these are actual "vampire" stories: the undead in Meyer's universe can frolic in the sun, see their own reflections, touch crosses, and subsist without drinking human blood. They're strong, fast people who don't age, but so is Superman. Maybe the Cullens are aliens? Maybe I should give up and move on.

*None of you lives under a rock, so I'll assume you're aware of the Twilight films as a pop-culture phenomenon and have simply had the good sense to avoid them. These aren't movies, after all, so much as emo theme-park rides crossed with wedding porn. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. But it's your civic duty to quickly shut down any attempts to unironically defend the series' quality. Twilight is the pre-teen-girl and sad-cat-lady equivalent of the Transformers franchise.

Jingoes Unchained

Red Dawn isn't so much pro-American as it is anti-human. Though John Milius's bloody fantasy tells the story of American teens waging war against invading Cuban/Russian military forces, it's hard to know which side to root for. One group is whiny, incompetent, and culturally illiterate; the other has a young Charlie Sheen as its second-in-command.

I'll give Milius and co-writer Kevin Reynolds this: they waste very little time in getting to the action. Following a series of fast-moving current-events title cards, the movie opens on a Colorado history class. The teacher stops mid-lesson to investigate a paratrooper battalion raining from the sky. Within seconds, he's gunned down and his students run for cover. In the ensuing chaos, former high-school football star Jed (Patrick Swayze) collects his brother Matt (Sheen) and a handful of other kids in his pickup truck; they speed out of town, avoiding road blocks and RPGs on the way to some nearby mountains.

Soon, Jed and his small group of refugee kids form a resistance movement called "The Wolverines"* to take back their town from the evil communists. They attack supply convoys, blow up stores in the town square that have been turned into propaganda headquarters, and free as many people from the hastily established re-education camps as possible. A put-upon Cuban colonel named Bella (Ron O'Neal) finds that he doesn't quite have the stomach for mass graves and mayhem, so he relies on the Russian military to supply him with Strelnikov (William Smith)--a cold-blooded hunter who substitutes great white sharks for Brat Packers during his take on Quint's "doll's eyes" speech from Jaws.

Red Dawn has two things going for it: a strong story and Powers Boothe. I'll address the latter first, in order to give your giggle-fit about the former a minute to die down.

Boothe plays Andy Tanner, a U.S. fighter pilot whom the Wolverines discover amidst the wreckage of his plane. He joins the group, sharing news from the rest of the country and providing tactical insight when needed. The actor tarnishes his macho charisma here, with a shell-shocked performance that he would indirectly reprise years later in By Dawn's Early Light. And though his young co-stars were destined for legitimacy, Red Dawn plays like a grade-school Shakespeare audition for many of them.  After an hour of watching Swayze, Sheen, and C. Thomas Howell cry endlessly in laughable attempts at conveying gravity, it was refreshing to see a more experienced actor show everyone how it's done.

Now, let's talk about that story. In order to appreciate Red Dawn, you have to put aside any notion of the United States as an indomitable force. Sure, it's unlikely that America would put up with aerial assaults and enemy tanks rolling over the Great Plains, but for the sake of argument, we must assume that something went horribly wrong in every aspect of modern defense, circa 1984.**

The problem with Red Dawn is in the execution, not the premise. The idea of relatively privileged teens fighting an enemy who grew up in decidedly harsher conditions is a fascinating one. In strokes, Milius and Reynolds touch on the cruel barbarism of warfare, planting a traitor in the Wolverines' midst and killing off ninety percent of the principal cast. But the filmmakers build a flimsy candy house on that solid foundation, spewing laughable nonsense in every direction at almost every opportunity.

For starters, the teens' scared, teary demeanors may be realistic, but the portrayals are grating and unintentionally hilarious. The melodramatic way in which Swayze and Sheen grip the re-education camp's metal fence while talking to their imprisoned dad calls to mind a painful rectal probe rather than a gut-wrenching moment of honesty. Conversely, when Jed toughens up and tells the Wolverines to turn their sadness into "something else", I couldn't help but think of the pedophile motivational speaker he played in Donnie Darko.

Then there are the myriad weird details that play like gags out of Airplane!. When the teens raid a roadside gas station for supplies at the beginning of the siege, we see boxes of ceiling fans on the shelves next to arrows and ammunition. I get the weaponry; it's a hunting community, after all--but ceiling fans? In that same scene, one of the boys makes a big point of stocking up on Kleenex. I doubt the filmmakers were going for a masturbation joke, but having endured the American Pie era, I'm sad to say that was the first thing that sprung to mind (it's an unfair point, but a funny one).

Speaking of cartoons, the invading army appears to have been trained by Boris and Natasha. One commander brags about his knowledge of the "elite paramilitary force" known as the Eagle Scouts, and the Cuban/Russian army's idea of securing a town appears to involve only letting non-gun-owners walk the streets. The Reds could have prevailed within the first two days of guerilla assaults by simply locking down the open society they'd commandeered.

Which brings me to the film's biggest Warner Brothers-cartoon moment. Col. Bella discusses the Wolverine problem with his Soviet liaison. They bookend the propaganda ministry in-frame perfectly--a building that one of the rebels has just entered and exited with great haste (again, not a problem when even cursory security forces are in place). They talk and talk and talk, until a bomb goes off right as one of the officers says something about the Wolverines not posing a real threat.

It's apparent that, in all their "Ra-ra! USA! USA!" fervor, the filmmakers forgot to think out plot points or watch dailies of the performances. Okay, it's apparent to me, nearly thirty years on, but I can't imagine a decade or a state of mind that accepts this movie as being good. From the Wolverines doing stupid things like charging a pair of tanks to standing directly in the way of a firing gunship, Red Dawn forsakes strategy and intrigue for the visceral thrill of seeing kids and commies get blowed up real good. That would be forgivable (maybe) if the scenes were well put together. As it stands, the angles and close-ups in several of the film's montages make it seem as though the Wolverines are perpetually firing on each other.

The only reason to watch Red Dawn today is as a fascination. In the same way that Reefer Madness is a kitschy slice of nostalgia, this film is more entertaining in the context of how Reagan-era foreign policy was sold to the American public than in terms of irony-free escapism. It's also fun to play "Spot the Rising Star" with the likes of Jennifer Grey and Lea Thompson (and, in a weird way, O'Neal, who is practically unrecognizable from his Super Fly days). Other than that, it's a remarkable premise betrayed by unremarkable storytelling.

*The name derives from the high school football team.

**Of course, the idea seems a tad less ridiculous now, considering our sacred airspace was violated numerous times on 9/11, but I still see how someone would skip this movie based solely on the synopsis.

All Re-education. No Camp.

It's a shame Dan Bradley's Red Dawn remake was shelved for two years during the MGM bankruptcy. As brand-name "re-imaginings" continue their painful march towards depletion, I can only imagine the positive impression this film might have made had it been released on-schedule. If remakes are a necessary evil in Hollywood, Red Dawn 2012 is evil done right.

In the 1984 original, Cuba and Russia joined forces to invade the United States. Twenty-eight years later, Russia has teamed with North Korea. It's up to you to decide whether or not the slickly produced opening credits montage--featuring slightly modified news footage and press conferences--makes the fantastical premise any easier to swallow. I found it a movie-plausible gateway to the meat of the story, in which a group of American teenagers form a guerilla unit to take back their town.*

The setup is the same, as are most of the characters' names. But writers Carl Ellsworth and Jeremy Passmore do lots of really interesting things with their screenplay; their Red Dawn is still recognizable, but it diverges in key places so drastically and effectively that the movie forges its own identity.

For starters, the character relationships are given plenty of room to breathe. Unlike the original, which saw armed paratroopers tearing up the screen within the first five minutes, the new Red Dawn begins as a teen-soap version of Warrior. Jed Eckert (Chris Hemsworth) and his younger brother Matt (Josh Peck) clash on Jed's return home from the Iraq war. Jed left right after the boys' mom passed away, and their dad (Brett Cullen), a local police officer, has been emotionally distant ever since.

When the invasion begins, the boys high-tail it out of town. In a chaotic scene reminiscent of the opening of Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead, Jed and Matt collect friends and other citizens in the back of their pickup truck while running down Korean soldiers and busting through road blocks. They make it safely to the family's wooded cabin** and, under Jed's leadership, plant the seeds of rebellion.

Though this Red Dawn is about a half-hour shorter than the original, it feels much more substantial. Many of the staples are still here, such as the deer's blood-drinking scene, the hidden tracking-device, and the Wolverines encountering an older soldier named Andy Tanner (Jeffrey Dean Morgan). But Ellsworth and Passmore tweak the hell out of these elements and add much more plot to the action scenes--meaning fans of John Milius and Kevin Reynolds' version won't feel like they're watching a re-run, and new audiences will get a sense of why someone thought this story needed to be re-told.

The two biggest contributors to the film's success are the directing and the screenplay. The cast is fine (especially Hemsworth, who exudes tough-guy emotional honesty in ways that make Patrick Swayze's attempts all the more amusing), but this kind of movie really needs a modern, flashy director who knows how to stage action--as well as writers who can give that director interesting action to stage. Bradley is a stunt coordinator by trade and has, I imagine, picked up a lot of great filmmaking tips on productions like the Bourne movies and Sam Raimi's Spider-Man series.

In addition to a thrilling opening chase scene, we're treated to a public assassination attempt gone horribly wrong; an extended infiltration and extraction sequence at the Spokane, WA police headquarters; and a surprise death that nearly made me jump out of my seat. Much of this Bradley accomplishes without CGI explosions or cartoonish digital stunt men, lending the production a sense of realism that the premise desperately needs. My one gripe is a baffling sequence that begins with characters in an abandoned apartment building whose busted windows clearly let sun stream into the rooms; minutes later, they rush outside--to a nighttime street; after driving to safety, they stop in bright, daytime woods.

Yikes.

Let's move on to the screenplay. Until looking at his writing credits, I didn't realize that Ellsworth had been behind some of my favorite remakes of the last half-decade. Yes, the term "favorite remakes" demands a huge qualifying statement; here it is: I don't like the idea of remakes any more than you do. On the other hand, I'm not morally opposed to them. For the studios, these things are all about money. But for hungry filmmakers who want to get a foot in the door, or maybe pay homage to a movie they grew up loving, these can be great opportunities to say something new.

Two cases in point: Ellsworth worked on Disturbia and the 2009 version of The Last House on the Left--two movies I enjoyed tremendously. Disturbia is a teen-centric re-telling of Alfred Hithcock's Rear Window. Wisely, the filmmakers decided to only borrow the structure and leave the title alone. This allowed them to play with the material and explore different storytelling avenues without the audience playing "Compare and Contrast" through every scene.

I never saw Wes Craven's original Last House on the Left, so I can't comment on how the remake stands up to the original. However, I was so engrossed in what Ellsworth and director Dennis Iliadis did with their version that I didn't care. From what I know of the story, they made some smart, key changes, which is exactly what I've come to expect from an Ellsworth screenplay. The man knows how to adapt older material for our times, abandoning or satirizing the dated stuff while also contemporizing elements in ways that don't seem like trend-chasing (i.e. he doesn't wallow in pop culture references).

Red Dawn continues his track record of demonstrating a deep love (or at least an understanding) of the source material and altering it in ways that make the overall story much, much richer. For example, the 1984 version ends with much of the teen cast dead. Ellsworth and Bradley are more judicious in their bloodletting, meaning that certain characters live who"shouldn't" and other characters die "out of sequence". We remain engaged and off-kilter, instead of just waiting for the body count to reach its inevitable maximum.

That's all heavy praise, but I'd be doing you a disservice by not mentioning a few of the film's sizable problems. First, Red Dawn suffers from what I like to call "CW Gloss". The CW television network (formerly The WB) specializes in teen dramas like 90210 and Gossip Girl. Their programming features uniformly attractive actors who are so made up that even the occasional case of bed-head is a runway-ready work of art. Most of Red Dawn's characters spend months in the mountains, rolling around in dirt, setting off explosives, and practicing combat maneuvers. Though their clothes are sufficiently scruffy and their hair is at leased tousled, many of their faces have a golden L'Oreal glow that suggests the Wolverines' first mission was to re-claim the town day spa.

A related problem plagues Peck, whose character is ten years his junior. That's not uncommon in Hollywood, but the actor's features are so rough that he looks older than his "older brother", Hemsworth. He also seems to have gone Method for this role--which would be fine, if his imaginary back-story didn't involve dual addictions to emo music and pills. That's speculation, of course, but there's nothing in Peck's performance to suggest that Matt would be a key player on the football team--he's more like the mopey, bullied water boy who would have blown his brains out during the next half-time show if the Koreans hadn't given him something else to shoot at.

I also really miss Powers Boothe's version of the Tanner character from the original. Morgan makes as good a substitute as any, but his performance is hampered by the inclusion of two fellow soldiers that serve only to water down the emotional gravity Tanner brings to the Wolverines.

Those quibbles aside, I recommend Red Dawn. I can feel your skepticism coming at me in clench-faced, sniffling waves even as I type this. Believe me when I say that I had zero enthusiasm for watching this thing, especially after having muscled through the original only a few days before. This film has a fraction of the mindless, easy patriotism of its predecessor, and has way more heart, brains, and excitement than Milius could have imagined possible for such a project twenty-eight years ago. This is far from a perfect movie, but as one of the year's biggest surprises, it's well worth an hour-and-a-half of your time.

Trivia! For you horror nuts out there, Dan Bradley briefly played Jason Voorhees in Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives. He was soon replaced by C.J. Graham, and you can see the noticeable physical difference between the performers in Bradley's one surviving scene: Jason's attack on a group of weekend-warrior paintballers.

*I'm reminded of that terrific line in Looper, wherein Bruce Willis's character tells his younger self not to get caught up in questioning the details of their time-travel predicament, lest they "spend all days making diagrams out of straws".

**Coincidentally, Hemsworth also starred in The Cabin in the Woods, another 2012 film delayed by the MGM bankruptcy.

Tuesdays with Tandoori

As we get older and our days become routinized in the service of survival (or prosperity for the lucky few), finding a work of art that speaks deeply to us can be a rare and magical experience. For me, those revelations often happen at the movies--some of my favorites being films that I'd had little interest in seeing. There are few greater highs in life than floating absent-mindedly out of a theatre with a head full of bold, new ways to look at the world.

Things don't always work out that way, though. Ignoring my instincts can also set me directly in the path of a painfully laborious clunker like Ang Lee's Life of Pi. Somewhere around the hour mark of this story about a boy adrift at sea with a Bengal tiger, I, too, wanted nothing more than to scream at God and go home.

The film stars Irrfan Khan as Pi Patel, an Indian man living in Canada. One day, he's visited by a blocked writer named, um, Writer (Rafe Spall), who'd heard about a life-defining adventure that Pi experienced as a teenager. Eager for any kind of mental stimulation following the abandonment of his second novel, Writer listens anxiously as Pi begins his fantastical tale.

The first twenty minutes of Life of Pi could be broken off into a (bad) short film called Forrest Gupta. As a boy, Pi doesn't display Tom Hanks levels of dimwittedness, but his eerie obsession with finding the right religion while dodging constant ridicule from his classmates clearly makes him an oddball--and not in the endearing sense: speaking as a former childhood outcast, I wouldn't have hung around this annoying weirdo, either.

About that name...

"Pi" is short for "Piscine", the French word for "pool". Pi was named after an uncle who was determined to take a dip in every swimming pool he could find, following a birth defect that left him with an over-inflated chest (or something). We see the uncle in a flashback-within-a-flashback, and he's portrayed as a grotesque, partial-CGI creation. It's supposed to be endearing, I guess, in the same way that the infant Renesmee was meant to pass as an actual humanoid in the last Twilight movie. But the effect is off-putting, and reminded me of the worst elements of Big Fish.

"Piscine", when pronounced correctly, sounds an awful lot like "pissing". The schoolyard taunts become too much for him, so Pi decides to become the cool kid by memorizing the mathematical number pi and writing it triumphantly across several chalk boards. This moment, in conjunction with the He-Man-action-figure uncle, forced me completely out of the movie--and denied me re-entry for the next ninety-plus minutes.

Allow me to explain. When Pi takes to the chalkboard, the rest of the kids in his class cheer him on, reciting the impossibly long string of numbers as he goes. His teachers look on in amazement, comparing each written character to the master sequence in a large book.

Question: How did all those kids know that Pi was writing the proper numbers?

Follow-up question: How did the teachers not lose their place when looking from the book to the board and back again?

Bonus question: If the kids knew the number pi well enough to play along, why the hell were they so impressed that the nerdy kid could write it on the board?

The answer to all of these, of course, is that Life of Pi is a fantasy film. As such, the audience doesn't have to rely on anything they're told to be true--unless they decide that something rings true enough for them to invest in. These kinds of movies are extremely hard to pull off. How do you convince people to sit still for two hours after indirectly informing them that the life-threatening peril the characters are about to face is probably not even real (in the context of the story)?

The short answer, for me, is "you can't". At least, Ang Lee can't--which is a big disappointment. Though he and screenwriter David Magee (adapting Yann Martel's novel) do their best to crowd out their flimsy story and world-philosophy melange with great visuals, the movie is dead in the water.

Which brings me to the boat wreck. A few years after Pi conquers pi, his father (Adil Hussain) decides to pack up the family zoo and move to Canada. They secure passage on a Japanese freighter, which crosses (or tries to cross) the Mariana Trench during an epic storm. Pi (Suraj Sharma), now a teenager, wakes up in the middle of the night to dance in the rain on the deck of the ship. I suppose Lee was aiming for innocent playfulness here, but I just wanted to yell at the screen, "Get back inside, stupid!" I shouldn't have been as worried, I guess, since it became clear quite quickly that Pi's other gift--besides astounding memorization--is the ability to defy gravity and crashing waves.

Let me put this out there: if you can watch Life of Pi and suspend disbelief enough to accept Pi's not getting drowned/washed out to sea/crushed by the tsunami that sinks his ship--while simultaneously boarding a swaying life boat with a tiger, a zebra, a hyena, and, eventually, an orangutan--then please never bring up the flaws in a Michael Bay blockbuster again. You'd need four thousand hot air balloons to suspend disbelief to the degree that this movie requires; coincidentally, that's about how many times Pi miraculously avoids death while half-gripping his boat during storms that make Hurricane Sandy look like a light drizzle.

The bulk of the film sees Pi stranded on this boat with a decent supply of rations, a survival manual, and that big-ass tiger. They drift, fight, catch fish, and slowly begin the process of dying. Pi creates a makeshift secondary raft out of some oars and life jackets to give his reluctant companion some space--which he deserves, after having eaten the other animals onboard. Lee evokes the boredom and uncertainty of Pi's journey a bit too effectively. At no point did I care about this character, but I consider my struggle to not check my phone for the time an equally epic spiritual conquest.

The film's one interesting sequence takes place on an island that eats people. It's full of meerkats, acid water, and fruits with human teeth lodged inside. Unfortunately, Pi and the tiger only stay there for a night before heading back to sea.

Let's skip to the part where Pi gets rescued and interviewed by two insurance adjusters from the Japanese freighter company. In an interrogation scene reminiscent of the beginning of Aliens and the end of The Usual Suspects, Pi recounts his story to a doubtful audience. He then launches into an alternate version, in which he'd engaged in a life-and-death battle with the ship's racist cook (Gerard Depardieu, whose whopping three minutes of screen time somehow warranted opening-credits billing), a sailor (Jian-wei Huang), and Pi's mother (Tabu).

A sure sign of a lame movie is when the main character spells out the fact that all of the animals in the story were actually metaphors for other characters. Hey, Ang, leave the "Ain't I a Genius" commentary to critics and film studies teachers. In fairness, I'd forgotten about most of the other animals and characters by that point, seeing as they'd been dead for over an hour. The only purpose of this "big reveal" is to reinforce my earlier point that the events on the life boat don't have to make sense because they never happened. Life of Pi is a lie, presented as a vague, consciousness-expanding spiritual metaphor.

The problem with vague, consciousness-expanding spiritual metaphors, particularly in movies that don't stake out a clear stance one way or the other, is that they're often presented as take-it-or-leave-it propositions. The adult Pi leaves Writer with a vague sense of which version of his story is true, which only makes for a shoddy attempt to mask horror with whimsy. Worse yet, Writer's faith in God and himself are reaffirmed at the end, for no other reason than the fact that Pi told him these things would happen by virtue of listening to his story.

I'm reminded of the last time I attended church (for a function not related to funerals or baptisms). Fourteen years ago, our pastor promised a revelatory Easter Sunday sermon that would prove beyond any dout that Jesus not only existed, but also rose from the dead three days after being crucified and tossed in a cave. The preacher was known for his scholarly research into such matters, and I was fully ready to find a kernel of science that I could grab onto in this convoluted mythology of talking snakes and people who lived for hundreds of years at the dawn of a seven-day Earth.

The pastor's "irrefutable evidence" was that God Himself had inspired the Gospel writers to tell the truth about His son, and that's all the proof anyone should need--which is roughly equivalent to saying that George Lucas is the leading historical authority on a space war that happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. 

I can't recommend Life of Pi. Despite its occasional visual invention and great performances by all the actors who play Pi, there's simply no point to Lee's venture. You'd be much better served by watching Cloud Atlas or reading Ishmael or The Third Eye, books with similar themes and a lot less bullshit (don't let the former's talking gorilla fool you). Americans may be drawn to the film's unusual locations, cast, and themes, but "exotic" doesn't automatically equal "deep". This is definitely a case of "least meets West".

Dead Beats

I never expected this to happen in my lifetime: the Step Up franchise has officially become a drag. I have no illusions that this series was ever anything but an excuse to link innovative, big-screen dance performances with the flimsiest of star-crossed-love stories, but Step Up: Revolution is the first to let me down on both fronts.

Mine wasn't even the most broken heart in the house last week. I'd rented Step Up 4 as a pick-me-up for my poor wife, who's been battling a nasty cold, a rambunctious toddler, and my extended work schedule--all with an inhuman positivity achievable only through regular doses of high-quality, escapist trash. 

Unfortunately, we got one out of three: director Scott Speer comes through with some gorgeous trash, but Duane Adler and Amanda Brody's lame screenplay makes the other Step Up movies look like Anna Karenina. Instead of escaping into this tale of renegade Miami dancers, we spent most of the run-time yelling bitchy things at the screen and guessing which characters would fulfill which genre cliche next. This wound up being lots of fun, but our commentary stemmed from desperation instead of inspiration.

The titular revolution occurs when a real estate developer named Mr. Anderson (Peter Gallagher) announces plans to buy a strip of homes and local businesses in order to expand his luxury-hotel empire. Many of the residents are members of "The Mob", a performance-artist collective who specializes in staging elaborate flash-mob shows and then uploading them to YouTube. The impending ouster forces the group to focus their energies on statement-driven art and get the wider community on their side.

Yes, it's another "Let's Dance to Save Our Home/Club/Youth Center" movie. And, wouldn't you know it? The Mob's spunky new member Emily (Kathryn McCormick) is actually Anderson's daughter! And she's fallen for lead dancer Sean (Ryan Guzman), a Big Dreamer from the Wrong Side of the Tracks who works at one of Anderson's hotels! Sean keeps Emily's secret from the rest of the group, but his best friend Eddy (Misha Gabriel) stumbles on a rehearsal video that ends with the two lovebirds spilling the beans.

Eddy makes the video public, tearing the group apart on the eve of the big board meeting (or some such event). I won't spoil whether or not Emily and Sean's relationship survives, or if Sean and Eddy reconcile their damaged lifelong friendship, or if the money-hungry mayor has a change of heart during The Mob's spectacular "Save our City from the Squares" pop-up party and winds up doing a lame middle-aged-white-guy dance amidst kids half-mockingly cheering him on.

It would be criminal to rob you of that gripping, Hitchcock-ian suspense.

I will say that my wife and I talked through ninety percent of the dialogue scenes. We missed absolutely nothing pertinent, and even made up games for ourselves that were far more entertaining than anything happening on the screen. Games such as:

"Where's Moose?" Fans of the Step Up series know and love its single consistently recurring character, Moose (Adam Sevani). He began as the second film's awkward sidekick, and has matured into a Dark Knight-like hip-hop messiah--swooping in at the last minute to help Sean and Eddy wreck Anderson's plans. As Revolution trudged along in search of life, the hope that Moose was lurking around every corner became a bulwark against pressing "Stop".

"You Can Say Anything To Me While Dirty Dancing" Maybe Revolution's writers figured no one would actually see their movie. How else to explain the outright theft of two beloved romantic-movie classics? Early on, we see that Sean lives with his older, single-mom sister. She's grumpy and doesn't like the irresponsible influence he has on her daughter. I kept waiting for Sean to make a kick boxing reference. And don't get me started on Peter Gallagher: he's one "Baby in the corner" gag away from actually being Jerry Orbach in this film.*

"Maybe This Song Won't Suck" The repetitiveness of the rest of the movie could be to blame, but there wasn't a single tune that resonated with us. The flash-mob sequences ranged from ridiculously inventive to just plain ridiculous (none of these public places has on-duty security or a nearby police force?); sadly, the music was unremarkable through and through. You'd think a movie based on the hyper-energized Miami music scene would pop off the screen, but, in comparison, it sounds like the masters were mistakenly swapped with the latest Twilight soundtrack.

"That Dude Looks Weeeeird!" It took a couple minutes to realize that Misha Gabriel wasn't Elijah Wood on steroids. But once that thought popped into our heads, it wouldn't be un-popped. We also enjoyed the return of Chadd Smith as one of Moose's NYC dance crew. His robot moves are so unnaturally awesome that I either demand to see a birth certificate or a manufacturer's warrantee. The next movie, if there is one, needs to focus on this character looking for love and/or that ever-elusive emotion chip.

Were it not for these distractions, Step Up: Revolution would have been an unendurable nightmare of boredom. Worse yet, the filmmakers pander to the lowest-common denominator of youth culture. At one point, The Mob accuses Anderson of being an "evil, corrupt businessman", when we're given no evidence of his being anything but a businessman. Yes, he's out of touch with the community whose buildings he's purchasing, but he's never seen murdering anyone or greasing wheels to get his way.

To add irony to insult, our heroic rap-robats sell out at the first opportunity. At the end of the movie, after everyone's made nice, one of Anderson's clients steps in to offer Sean and his crew a lucrative contract as Nike pitch-men. Without hesitation, Eddy asks, "Where do I sign?" Do you think the next Step Up picture will take place at a Chinese sneaker factory? Neither do I.

These movies used to be cheesy fun, mixed with impressive choreography and songs that I could at least remember a day later. The latest Step Up entry proves that a revolution was both unnecessary and counter-productive.

*Though he does get to deliver Revolution's biggest howler: as a compromise to outright shooting down Emily's dreams, Anderson says, "If you're not a professional dancer by the end of the summer, you'll come work for me back in Cleveland."

Once You Go Back, You'll Never Go Back Again (Maybe)

The hardest part of admitting I was wrong about The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring is figuring out what led me to dislike the film in the first place. I saw it once theatrically, in 2001, and the following year on home video. Prior to that first viewing, I knew nothing about the LOTR trilogy or J.R.R. Tolkien, except that both were highly regarded as being significant to sci-fi/fantasy storytelling. Afterwards, I concluded that the movie adaptation had so turned me off to Tolkien's work that I needn't bother reading the source material--and would succumb to watching the sequels only under duress or influence of alcohol.

The home video experience was just as bad. My girlfriend was curious about the movie, so we rented it and spent an entire Saturday starting and stopping, running errands, starting and stopping, napping, starting and stopping--you get the picture. Fellowship was such a tedious chore (we thought) that committing to a single sitting didn't seem worth the effort of being able to say we'd both seen it.

Ten years later, on the eve of Peter Jackson's Hobbit trilogy (the prequel to LOTR), I've resolved to watch the films again--all in one weekend, and with the forty-plus minutes of additional footage found in each "Extended Edition". I sighed before pressing "Play" on Fellowship, as I couldn't imagine enjoying (or even appreciating) nearly an hour of further exposition and walking. But as you may have guessed from my lead-in, Jackson and Tolkien have finally worked their charms on me. I now love me some hobbits.

For the uninitiated, the story centers on Frodo Baggins (Elijah Wood), the most innocent of a race of Middle Earth creatures called hobbits. Frodo's uncle Bilbo (Ian Holm) entrusts him with a cursed golden ring, which must be destroyed in the distant fires of Mount Doom--lest it find its way back to its previous owner, a disembodied flaming eyeball named Sauron. Aiding him on his quest is a wise old wizard named Gandalf (Ian McKellen), Frodo's best friend Sam (Sean Astin), and an assortment of other hobbits, dwarves, elves, and displaced human warriors.

This film is all setup, and I think that's what annoyed me the first time out. Perhaps I was too young or too impatient to understand the importance of Jackson's style of world-building (or perhaps the additional material really does, as friends have suggested, help smooth out some of the jumpy narrative patches). Today, I see things differently. The director, working from a screenplay he co-wrote with Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens, establishes a leisurely pace in the Baggins' homeland, The Shire, and then ramps up the pace and danger as they step cautiously into the realms beyond. The greatest compliment I can give Fellowship is that Jackson and company capture the thrill of reading a great adventure novel on a rainy afternoon.

Things get a tad repetitive as our band of heroes treks from one wise-elf oracle to the next, collecting people and peril along the way. At the behest of a treacherous wizard named Saruman (Christopher Lee) they are pursued by ghastly ring-wraiths and tracked by the impish Gollum (Andy Serkis), a bizarre creature who was driven mad by the ring's powers for centuries until he lost it to Bilbo. These frequent intrusions help break up the numerous speeches about destiny, delivered by scowling, elaborately dressed actors pacing equally elaborate and nigh indistinguishable sets.

The picture's most interesting dynamic plays out between Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen) and Boromir (Sean Bean), two members of a doomed kingdom. Aragorn, the rightful heir to its thone, turned his back on power because one of his ancestors allowed the ring to corrupt is soul. He agrees to help Frodo and Gandalf on their quest, ostensibly to see evil destroyed once and for all. Boromir, on the other hand, goads Aragorn to return home, and is convinced that acquiring the ring for himself will allow his people to stomp out the dual threats of Saruman and Sauron.

The least interesting characters, sadly, are Frodo and Sam. But I guess that's the idea. Their innocence and reluctance to fight are precisely what gives them the best chance against the ring's dark influence. Everyone else acts as a buffer on the long journey.

As a member of the Star Wars generation (and, technically, the tail end of the Harry Potter generation), it was impossible for me to separate those films' archetypes from those in Fellowship. True, LOTR beat the other two franchises to the Joseph Campbell punch, but I challenge anyone to ignore the similarities between Frodo and Luke Skywalker, Gandalf and Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Sauron and Lord Voldemort--not to mention the Hermione/Princess Leia and droid/hobbit comic-relief sidekick archetypes.

If there's a lingering concern from my hobbit-hating days, it's this: the characters in the Tolkien/Jackson trilogy, for the most part, lack personality--at least as played by the actors. Aside from Bilbo and a couple of the goofy supporting players, Fellowship is populated by solemn sad-sacks who treat living in a world of magic and monsters with the resigned heaviness of a Mokena gas station attendant. Wood could use a tad more Mark Hamill and a lot less Jake Lloyd in his portrayal of the wide-eyed kid going on an adventure. After the first hour, Frodo spends much of the movie sick or sad, and after Gandalf drops out of the picture, he becomes even less tolerable. In fairness, a lot of these decisions may come down to direction.

And what direction! Jackson and the effects geniuses at WETA transform the New Zealand countryside into a host of fantastical lands. From Saruman's spiked tower rising out of a demon-harvesting factory to the renaissance-inspired elegance of the elf kingdom, Middle Earth becomes a real place in this film, with a clearly defined geography and relationships between various races and territories. At all times, the screen is packed with details that suggest histories as exciting (and, in some cases, far more exciting) as what's going on in the present.

As embarrassed as I am to say that I never gave this film a fair shake, I'm glad to have taken the time to watch it again. I recall liking the second film better than the first, and the third film better than the second--so. hopefully, more great surprises await in The Two Towers. Regardless, I'm officially a Lord of the Rings fan. Who knew?

Locals Roasting on an Open Fire

One of my earliest horror-movie memories is renting 1984's Silent Night, Deadly Night during a fifth-grade sleepover. My friends and I had heard about the controversy surrounding the film's release,* and were curious to see if the notorious Santa slasher was really as twisted as everyone said it was. Charles Sellier Jr.'s bleak and bloody movie cast a dark cloud over my soul; it wasn't just violent in ways I hadn't expected, there was also a distinct anti-humanity message throughout that made me profoundly sick.

Not wanting to seem like a wuss to my friends, I cheered as the deranged St. Nick yelled "Punish!" at his victims and laughed when he ran through a topless Linnea Quigley with a pair of mounted trophy antlers. Ah, sweet youth...

Nearly thirty years later, the remake fairy dropped an early Christmas present on my virtual doorstep. Sellier's vision has been given new life as Silent Night, a pretty-much-straight-to-video update that shares some of the original's DNA (to use that awful Ridley-ism), while staking out its own kookily entertaining identity.

In the film, death has come to the sleepy town of Cryer, Wisconsin. A maniac dressed as Santa Claus (Rick Skene) walks the streets, apparently eavesdropping on conversations to find out who's been naughty and who's been nice. The "bad" people are treated to murder by electrocution, impaling, wood-chipper, flamethrower, and ol' fashioned multiple stabbings.

The "good" people...well, he doesn't really find any--except for an old lady who witnesses him killing a lascivious priest in the middle of an empty Christmas Eve service. Santa gives her the bloody collection money that Father Touchy had stolen from the donation box. This begs the question, "Doesn't accepting that money put her in the 'Naughty' column?"

The slasher story takes a back seat to the personal drama of Sheriff's Deputy Aubrey Bradimore (Jamie King). She lost her husband a year ago, and is still struggling to pick up the pieces. Luckily, she's got plenty of wackiness to keep her mind occupied, from the invasion of Santa look-alikes pouring into town for the "record-setting" annual parade; to the creep who causes a disturbance by telling kids the truth about Christmas; to her eccentric English boss, Sheriff Cooper (Malcom McDowell), who sees every crime as the opportunity to play super-cop.

I was surprised by how much attention was paid to Silent Night's non-horror elements. Could it be that director Steven C. Miller and writer Jayson Rothwell are just as bored by horror remakes as the rest of us? By focusing on Aubrey and her relationship with the townsfolk, the filmmakers elevate the material to that of a pseudo-Twin Peaks TV pilot. Were it not inevitable that most of the cast wind up dead by film's end, I could easily imagine this as an ongoing adventure series about a mad-Brit sheriff, his glum-but-determined deputy, and their feisty dispatcher (Ellen Wong).

But this is a horror movie, and I must review it as such. Though Silent Night is utterly lacking in scares, it has a lot to admire in the gore department. Frankly, it's refreshing to see squibs and gooey, gore-soaked dummies flopping about instead of the insulting fakery of After Effects digital plug-ins. Miller and cinematographer Joseph White accomplish their elaborate kills the old fashioned way: by shooting around the practical special effects in ways that can later be edited into effective kill scenes, which still require some imagination on the audience's part.

The one odd aesthetic choice (which would make a hell of a drinking game for those that are so inclined) is the over-use of lens flares. Forget J.J. Abrams' Super 8 and Star Trek: Silent Night takes the gold in the Reflected-light Olympics. It's hard to tell if Miller and company achieved this retro atmosphere through on-set techniques, or if the omnipresent, cutting beams of light were added in later. Regardless, it's hilarious to the point of distraction. In one scene, Aubrey navigates an old house with her flashlight aimed at the darkness (i.e. right at us), and the effect is like that of her carrying Darth Maul's double-headed lightsaber into battle.

Speaking of hilarious, I'd be remiss in not giving a huge shout-out to Silent Night's MVP, Donal Logue. As Santa Jim, the creep who likes to spoil kids' Christmas with Yuletide honesty, he barrels through the movie with an abbrasive wit that practically belongs in another movie. It's as if the filmmakers had wanted to get Billy Bob Thornton to reprise his Bad Santa role, but couldn't, and settled for the next best thing. Jim delivers an impassioned, crazy speech towards the end of the film that reminded me of Stallone's climactic screaming fit in Rambo, and his defiant last words to the killer Claus belong on t-shirts and bumper stickers.

I recommend Silent Night, but not strictly as slasher escapism. The killer is the least interesting part of the film, and the juciest stuff happens when he's not on screen. If you're into these kinds of movies, you may know that this is at least the second remake each for King and McDowell, who starred in updates of My Bloody Valentine and Halloween, respectively. Silent Night owes as much to those movies, stylistically and narratively, as it does to its own source material (blink and you'll also miss references to Black Christmas and the cult catch-phrase from 1987's Silent Night, Deadly Night Part 2).

No, the real joy is figuring out if you're more into following the Santa killer on his grisly rounds or watching Aubrey stumble in her attempts to pin a local drug dealer (also dressed as Santa Claus) to the murders. This weird little movie is full of enough red herrings, homages, and sub-plots to down a magical sleigh. It falters in the final moments, appending a superfluous villain-origin to a story that had muscled along quite nicely without it. But over all, Silent Night's quirkiness stands in sharp contrast to the original, which played like a snuff film with a death wish.

*With all the outrageously demented stuff that's oozed out of cineplexes in the decades since, it's cute to think of parents forming protest groups because a horror-movie villain decided to dress up as Santa.

Adventure to the Ent Degree

When The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers came out ten years ago, I somehow convinced my girlfriend and roommate to see it with me in the theatre. I told them that the early reviews I'd read on-line were incredibly positive, and that even the few critics who'd had problems with the overly expository Fellowship of the Ring found the sequel to be very exciting. None of us were fans of the first film, but my enthusiasm was, I guess, persuasive enough that I didn't sit through the sequel alone.

The problem with trusting critics is that they can sometimes lead you astray. In fact, the only pleasure I got from The Two Towers was giggling at the red-hot death stares coming from the seats on either side of me. For two-and-a-half hours, we squirmed, groaned, and prayed for death amidst endless shots of sweeping landscapes; plodding, mush-mouthed CGI tree creatures; and what looked to be twenty-seven separate battles involving characters who may or may not have been in multiple places at once. To this day, I consider the fact that I still have relationships with these people to be proof of God's existence and infinite love.

I'm glad I wasn't a critic back then--at least not one with a forum. Otherwise, my short-sighted impressions of this terrific second chapter would have sat in an archive for all to see and ridicule. As with Fellowship, I've come around to The Two Towers after recently watching the Extended Edition on blu-ray. I still have many of the same problems with the story as I did a decade ago, but in most every other respect, I feel as though I've just seen the film for the first time.

I won't rehash the essential plot elements here, as not much changes between films one and two. The major development is that evil wizard Saruman (Christopher Lee) has unleashed a thousands-strong army on Middle Earth. It's up to Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen), Gimli (John Rhys-Davies), and Legolas (Orlando Bloom) to rally the disparate kingdoms to arms. That's easier said than done, and easier watched than explained.

In my Fellowship review, I remarked at how well the filmmakers mapped out their fictitious geography and drew clear lines of good versus evil. All that gets thrown out in the second movie, with kingdoms and characters springing up out of the woodwork, talking about politics as dense as the outlying woods. Jackson and co-writers Philippa Boyens, Fran Walsh, and Stephen Sinclair do very well telling personal stories, such as Aragorn's attempts to save King Theoden's (Bernard Hill) kingdom from the clutches of Saruman's slimy henchman, Grima Wormtongue (Brad Douriff), and the unrelated tale of prince Faramir (David Wenham), whose eagerness to get back in his father's good graces following the death of his brother, Boromir (Sean Bean), leads him to nearly hand the ring of power to Sauron by mistake.

The five or so main stories in The Two Towers are handled well as snapshots, but I had a hell of a time piecing them all together into a cohesive big picture. I found it easiest to just slip into the story stream and trust that the guys with beards and helmets were good and would eventually work out whatever it was they were squabbling over, and that the bad guys were the growling things with curved machetes and razor-sharp teeth.

Arguably, J.R.R. Tolkien's works planted the seeds of modern fantasy storytelling, but I really do have to give the advantage to those who studied him. George Lucas, for example, populated an entire galaxy with diverse races and conflicts, but I never felt lost during the original Star Wars trilogy--never felt like the story was being artificially inflated so as not to become too soap-y. I got that impression here, and it's to Jackson's credit that his handling of the various dramatic segments were strong enough to support rather weak connective tissue.

Speaking of weak, I should mention what continues to be my least favorite part of The Two Towers:

Hostage hobbits Merry (Dominic Monaghan) and Pippin (Billy Boyd) escape their captors and stumble upon the Ents, a centuries-old race of sentient trees. They spend much of the film trying to convince the literal fabric of Middle Earth to rise up against Saruman's army--no small feat, considering introductions can take the better part of a day. Though their storyline is one of the most profound in the film, it also carries the excruciating weight of filler--as if the writers wanted to build bathroom breaks into their story. Sure, the first couple of scenes with the talking greenery are cute, but there are at least two more identical ones before anything actually happens with this storyline. You won't miss anything by ducking out for a minute.

Yeah, I'm ragging on the film a bit, but that doesn't mean I don't love it. All of the stories come to a head in the spectacular battle at Helm's Deep, the last-resort fortress at which Theoden and Aragorn lead a group of three hundred ill-equipped soldiers against ten thousand savage orcs and uruk hai. The film's climax is a thrilling, moving, utterly believable fight to the death that's rendered with all the care and attention to accuracy of real-life historical events. This sequence is a marvel of digital special effects, sound design, and acting, and I kept having to remind myself that the hordes of people charging each other were created largely on a desktop.

Strangely, my highest praise is also the source of my greatest criticism. The special effects are so convincing that they run counter to the filmmakers' desire for full immersion into the story. The Two Towers was a technological milestone thanks to WETA's achievement with the Gollum (Andy Serkis) character. In this movie, he steps out of the shadows and becomes a bona fide presence, fully interacting with Frodo (Elijah Wood) and Sam (Sean Astin) in ways no one had ever seen before. The motion-capture and digital-painting artistry are unbelievable, but instead of becoming fully invested in Gollum's inner struggle, I kept thinking, "My God, how the hell did they pull this off?"

Some of this odd effect is lessened by the fact that Frodo develops a personality in chapter two. Granted, much of that stems from negativity, doubt, and fear brought on by the ring's influence, but these things at least shade the hobbit's lackluster identity. His relationship with Sam is tested, and Sam's loyalty to the mission and his best friend strains under the desire to outright kill Gollum. Though this really is Aragorn and Theodin's movie, I was glad whenever the narrative checked back in on these squabbling travelers.

Perhaps Jackson's greatest feat of wizardry in The Two Towers is making the film feel like its own movie, rather than just a franchise bridge. If asked, I'd be hard pressed to describe all the factions, their goals, and their major accomplishments/setbacks--without the aid of a cheat sheet--but I get what the movie is trying to say. The greater themes of temptation, friendship, and courage come through as brilliantly as that crystal thing on the end of Gandalf's (Ian McKellen) staff. It's just a shame that I spent ten years wallowing in ignorant darkness before figuring that out.

Peter Jackson's Obsession for Men

I imagine most of you have already seen the Lord of the Rings movies and made up your minds about them. You know how technically stunning they are, how well-acted, and epic If you don't know those things, you're likely a J.R.R. Tolkien purist who thinks Peter Jackson butchered the classic novels by not including eeeeverything in his twelve-hour film opus.

Or maybe you're like me. Perhaps the thought of reading LOTR never crossed your mind. It took me months to crack the first chapter of Irvine Welsh's Scottish-slang-dense Trainspotting--you really think I'm going to give Elvish folk lyrics more than a skeptical glance? I've got things to do, people. I'm still trying to review Ed, for fuck's sake!

Ahem.

Or maybe you're like me. Perhaps the thought of reading LOTR never crossed your mind, and you went into these movies cold ten years ago. They didn't grab you, and you wondered what the big deal was. If that's the case, I implore you to get hold of the Extended Edition blu-rays and commit to giving all three films another shot (yes, even Fellowship).

I don't know what's changed in the last decade that's allowed me to appreciate Jackson's (and, I guess, Tolkien's) vision. Maybe I'm more patient with movies in general. Maybe fatherhood has softened my heart to the series' numerous messages about family, friendship, and faith.* Or maybe my friends weren't full of shit when they insisted that the hour-plus of new material integrated into the theatrical cuts really does make the films flow better and feel, oddly, shorter. Whatever the case, I truly love this series now.

A lot of that has to do with the final film, The Return of the King. Granted, one of my biggest initial complaints still holds true: each main characters' heroes' journey, if viewed linearly, doesn't deviate--at all--from the expectations of their archetypes. Frodo (Elijah Wood) and Sam (Sean Astin) set out to destroy the One Ring of power in the fires of Mount Doom. They succeed. Exiled king Aragorn seeks redemption in his quest to help Frodo and his wizard buddy, Gandalf (Ian McKellen). He finds it. Elf princess Arwen (Liv Tyler*), long kept from being with Aragorn because of...y'know, I still don't understand that cockamamie storyline. Anyway, she gets her man.

This used to drive me crazy. Now I realize that the beauty of these arcs shouldn't be measured by how far ahead I can see their conclusions, but by the poetry and nobility of the characters' struggles. Every actor in this film oozes sincerity and, in the moment, makes us believe that the fate of their world is uncertain.

The emotional beats still didn't land for me, though, at least not all the time. Part of that has to do with that sincerity I just mentioned. As much as it allows us to accept the reality of Middle-earth, it also mires the entire trilogy in a single-note seriousness that lulls instead of compels. While I was thrilled to see the numerous battles for the lost kingdoms unfold, and found a sweetness in the bond between Theodin and his noble niece, Eowyn (Miranda Otto), I still felt like Jackson was keeping me at arm's length from his story's beating heart.

There was light in Fellowship, and a few moments of humor in Return of the King--thanks largely to the bromantic rivalry between dwarf Gimli (John Rhys-Davies) and elf archer Legolas (Orlando Bloom). But the last two movies so perfectly capture the land's impending darkness that I'd forgotten joy ever existed in the trilogy. So, when Theodin dies (Spoiler?), my reaction was more of a, "That sucks. I wonder how the castle walls are holding up against those orcs"--instead of a heartfelt, "Noooooo!"

The only character I could fully relate to, ironically, was Gollum (Andy Serkis), the wholly computer-generated cave dweller who joins Frodo and Sam. In the beginning of the film, we meet him in flashback as a hobbit (and as a human actor) and see his grim transformation from the moment he spies the One Ring. The deterioration from flesh-and-blood to withered unreality reminded me of a similar setup in Hellbound: Hellraiser II (in which the man who would become Pinhead also got a bit too curious with a shiny found object). As Gollum vacillates between helping his fellow travelers and trying to murder them, those grounding early scenes drove home Tolkien's/Jackson's message about the dark forces that drive men to greatness and/or madness.

Which brings me to an unexpected revelation I had towards the end of the movie: at no point in the series does a woman come into contact with the One Ring. Only men fall under its spell. I wonder if this was some kind of deliberate statement on the author's part (or a detail that Tolkien discussed in the books, which Jackson left out). It's interesting to think that all the problems in the world are caused by men's unchecked desires and insecurities; I don't necessarily agree with that, but it's fun to speculate about how Eowyn, for example, would have handled the burden of the quest--or, if in such a blatantly patriarchal society as Middle-earth, she'd have even been offered the chance.

I'm inclined to apologize for having so thoroughly and ignorantly disrespected these films for the past eleven years. But I won't. I'll simply let my embarrassment stand as a reminder that first impressions shouldn't always be allowed to remain lasting ones, and that all perception is merely a snapshot of emotion, education, and circumstance at a given point in history. Twelve years from now, I might revisit these again and decide that they're overwrought, boring, and merely pretty to look at. For now, though, I'm happy to say that I've gone on an amazing adventure of self-discovery and come out the other end a changed man.

Fantasy has sparked my dimmed imagination and once again granted me the power to dream.

Note: You may wonder why I haven't mentioned the film's universally criticized "multiple endings". Yes, the last half-hour or so of Return of the King is heavy with the weight of each character saying good-bye and moving on from their epic journey. The screen fades to black repeatedly, teasing our hopes for end credits after nearly four hours.

I didn't bring this up as a problem because I no longer see it as a problem. These scenes aren't nearly as exciting as the amazing battles that comprise most of the movie. But they're the most crucial because they bring Frodo Baggins' story full circle and fulfill Gandalf's Fellowship promise that he wouldn't be the same at the end of his quest. Frodo returns to the shire a changed man. He's essentially shell-shocked by horrors he'd never imagine within the peaceful, lazy confines of Hobbiton--and so, he can't stay.

Many of the film's final passages lead up to Frodo's exile from the land of children. He's a grown-up now, and must live in the land of wizards and men. Sam and the other fellowship hobbits, who've not been so corrupted by the Ring's dark influence, are allowed to remain innocent. Changed, yes, but innocent still.

*If not in a "higher power", then at least in those other two things.

**Maybe I would have cared about the Arwen storyline if Liv Tyler hadn't been so goddamned awful in the role. After Aragorn meets Eowyn in The Two Towers, I hoped to God he'd forget about that dead-eyed, monotone elf chick and get with a real woman. No luck there. Fortunately, Jackson and company had the courtesy to drown out most of Tyler's role in Return of the King via instrumental montage and a series of "meaningful looks" between Arwen and her beloved.

Scrubbing Athletic Supporters

I really, really hate you, Drew, for making me watch this thing. Yeah, I obliged myself to review an audience-picked movie as a contest prize. But come on!

The rules were simple: submit the name of a favorite movie starring a Friends cast member to win some schwag and a review of the winning film. I could've seen any number of outstanding possibilities, like The Opposite of Sex, The Good Girl, or Biloxi Blues. Alas, an alarmingly small entry pile meant I'd inevitably land on Ed during the game's "random selection" portion.

What's worse is that I know for a fact you haven't seen this movie, and cruelly pushed me out of a metaphorical airplane without an actual parachute. On the bright side, I was recently criticized for being long-winded in my reviews, so I'll keep this one mercifully short--a quality I can't ascribe to the film itself.

Last week, while recovering from surgery, I sat through the four-hour Extended Editions of Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers, breaking only to use the bathroom. In contrast, it took me the better part of a day to finish Matt LeBlanc's ninety-minute baseball-chimp picture. I paused roughly every three minutes to surf the Internet, watch TV, nap, masturbate, and prepare microwaveable meals with a deliberation they absolutely did not require--all to prolong facing another moment of cinematic waterboarding.

I've purposely blocked out everything except the basic plot and handful of weird details that kept me half interested during those three-minute bursts. Sure, I could go to IMDb and pull up the names of LeBlanc's director, writer, and co-stars, but they've been through enough. Also, I don't want the suits at whatever studio put this out to equate my clicks with fan interest in their terrible movie. I've taken a solemn oath as a film lover to keep Ed from achieving a blu-ray edition until three days after the format is declared dead.*

Okay, I lied a little. The one (ahem) person of interest to pop up is Jim Caviezel, who would later play Jesus in The Passion of the Christ. He's the one bright spot in the film, playing a rookie on LeBlanc's minor-league baseball team. His character gets cut from the roster early on, leaving the actor with a whopping ten minutes of screen time. But in those moments, he outshone everything that came before and after him--which, I guess, makes him a savior in two movies.

What else is there? Oh, yeah, LeBlanc has a weird tan throughout much of the picture. I dare say it's an awful makeup job--lots of earth tones. The filmmakers drove home the awkwardness with a few jokes about minority players being "sold" and "traded" along with the monkey. For the record, if this is some weird racist dig on their part, I'm happy to say it's so poorly executed as to be the film's least offensive aspect.

What about the plot, you ask?

Leblanc the ball player has low self-esteem. He gets a monkey for a teammate--who, for some reason, also becomes his roommate. They sloooooowly learn to like each other and Ed (the animatronic monkey, of course), helps LeBlanc find love and a renewed passion for the game (or something). Stretch that out over an hour-and-a-half; toss in villain characters who make the bad guys in Follow That Bird look like Olivier in Marathon Man; rely on slide-whistles and honking-horns for absolutely every occasion in which they might be used to "comic" effect; and you have a movie that proves the existence of miracles--as evidenced by some of its stars finding work after opening weekend.

If your reaction to all this is, "Lighten up! It's a kids' movie!", let me assure you that Ed is tantamount to child abuse--joyless, idiotic brain-sugar that I wouldn't be surprised to learn has been linked to certain forms of autism. I'm not making light of mental conditions. I'm simply declaring that there's no way in hell I'd let my kid near this movie.

Thanks again, Drew. Asshole.

*It seems I'm not alone in trying to bury this movie: the black-and-white photo accompanying my review is the only high(ish)-resolution image I could find from Ed on-line. The film is actually in color.

High (Frame Rate) Anxiety

In a way, it's unfortunate that Peter Jackson chose The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey as the platform from which to launch his medium-changing, high-frame-rate 3D technology. Had he done so on King Kong, The Lovely Bones, or some other movie that nobody cares about, perhaps the proper focus would have been placed on the unbelievable visual enhancements he and his team of cinematic alchemists conjured up--instead of on the diminished fan excitement for history's second-most anticipated prequel.

If you'd told me eleven years ago that The Hobbit would sit cozily near the top of my 2012 "Best Of" list, I'd have probably choked to death on vomit and laughter. I'm a recent Jackson convert, you see, having spent far too much time neither understanding nor appreciating his Lord of the Rings trilogy. But I'm fully on board the Middle-earth train now, and am happy to say that the director's most recent film is not only the best of the bunch, but also the kind of unique, reason-to-go-to-the-movies experience cinephiles have been craving.

We got a taste of Bilbo Baggins' (Ian Holm) story in The Fellowship of the Ring. Martin Freeman plays the character here, for the most part, in an extended flashback that unfolds as a book written for his nephew, Frodo (Elijah Wood). The "unexpected journey" of the title refers to a great quest Bilbo reluctantly joined many years ago at the behest of kooky old wizard Gandalf (Ian McKellen)--who'd offered the timid hobbit's (nonexistent) skills as a thief to thirteen dwarves seeking to take back their mountain kingdom from a fierce dragon. 

While the posse sing, laugh, and gorge themselves on the contents of Bilbo's pantry, their leader, Thorin Oakenhshield (Richard Armitage), broods and plots to restore honor to his family name: once upon a time, his grandfather grew so obsessed with hoarding gold (i.e. dragon catnip) that he attracted the attention of Smaug, the biggest, nastiest, dwarf-chompin'-est winged beast this side of Pelennor Fields. 

Unlike The Lord of the Rings--which, though thrilling, often creaked under the weight of its heavy themes and abundance of overly serious characters--The Hobbit is shaping up to be a crackling adventure series. Gone are the glum Shakespearian monologues and endless shots of desperate warriors trudging to and from battle. An Unexpected Journey's nearly three-hour run-time is packed with mini-escapades, as Bilbo and the boys encounter trolls, goblins, proto-orcs, and, of course, Gollum (Andy Serkis)--the ex-hobbit-turned-One-Ring-obsessive whose blind greed inadvertently sets the apocalypse in motion.

Going in, I knew that Jackson and co-writers Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, and Guillermo del Toro (who stepped down from the director's chair early in the the project) had blown up J.R.R. Tolkien's three-hundred-twenty-page novel into three long movies. This scared me a bit, especially after reports of bloat coming out of early screenings. I'm puzzled, frankly, by all the concern. It's true that much of An Unexpected Journey is set-up for two sequels and the LOTR trilogy, but the filmmakers perfectly balance action, humor, and dramatic tension.

Sure, you could probably clock the dwarves' introductions, their big meal, and Bilbo's pre-quest waffling at twenty-plus minutes, but it's a great twenty-plus minutes--full of character building, stakes-raising, and even leisurely merriment. Remember, sometimes it's okay (even crucial to the plot) that a movie breathe and appear to go nowhere for awhile. In this way, An Unexpected Journey--more so than the previous entries--feels like a well-paced novel; had complaints about pacing and fluff been allowed to rule the day, it's doubtful Tolkien or Stephen King would have ever had careers.

Jackson and company's greatest triumph--and subtlest nuance--is the way they contrast certain characters' moods and motivations from what the audience knows of them from the previous (future?) films. Gandalf is practically a senile pothead here, who has to be reminded at times that he's a Serious Wizard. The Elf King, Elrond (Hugo Weaving), is an accommodating, almost jovial host to the dwarves--a total one-eighty from the wet blanket he played throughout LOTR.

And Bilbo, this film's Frodo--the innocent who must face unbearable darkness to save Middle-earth (or a portion of it, in this case)--is a sheltered adult, rather than a sheltered child. That made a huge difference to me, in terms of relatability. He's content with the quiet life he's built for himself, but greater forces compel him to revisit the excitement and glory of youthful exploration. Rather than watching someone make stupid mistakes or cave at the first sign of temptation, it was refreshing to see a protagonist who already had a sense of himself and (to an extent) the world, who is forced to learn new skills in order to cope; that is to say, Bilbo's journey adds more colors to a well-used palette, instead of breaking in a new one.

Fine, fine. The story and characters are all terrific. How does the movie look? And what's with all this "frame-rate" business?

Most films you see in a theatre or on blu-ray are displayed at 24 frames per second (fps). That's 24 single images, played in sequence, which produce the illusion of a single second's worth of animated imagery. Jackson filmed The Hobbit at 48fps. This means the audience takes in twice the amount of visual information as a regular movie--allowing greater perception of detail, as well as a "sped-up" motion effect.

Why on Middle-earth would you want to see such a movie? The answer is simple: the result, which takes a few minutes of getting used to, is simply breath-taking. I didn't see An Unexpected Journey in IMAX, opting instead for Cinemark's XD experience (it's that theatre chain's version of LIE-MAX). The screen wasn't so big that I couldn't focus on anything, but it was significantly larger than a typical movie screen--allowing just the right amount of immersion.

I also saw this in 3D, a technology that has come so far in the last few years as to be unrecognizable from the red/blue-tinted gimmickry of its reputation. Yes, I've lost countless dollars to 3D rip-off experiences (from post-conversions to films whose lack of story dimension didn't warrant an extra visual dimension), but movies like Avatar, Dredd, and An Unexpected Journey prove that some filmmakers take their medium-enhancements very seriously.

The confluence of a really big screen, 3D, and higher frame rate create a truly unique experience. The details of Jackson and WETA's effects-heavy world are unbelievably rich, and the action scenes gave me, at times, the heady, weightless sensation of tipping over the peak of a roller coaster. One particular fly-through during a climactic mountain battle left me reeling with delight, and I realized that I hadn't felt so young and wide open to a movie since seeing the original Star Wars as a child.

As I said, the effect is jarring at first, and my brain almost missed out on processing the film's prologue because it took awhile to adjust decades of visual preconceptions. I literally couldn't believe what I was seeing. I've read complaints that The Hobbit suffers from the same "soap opera" effect that occurs when HD televisions have their frame-rates jacked too high. I can understand that point, but it was my experience that the quick motion and hyper-realism stopped being distracting after the first fifteen minutes or so. In fact, towards the end of the movie, I was pulled out of the story by the realization that the movement on-screen seemed so natural. I wondered if I'd simply gotten used to the unique motion, or if Jackson had fiddled with something in the process to bring things back to "normal".

Whatever the case, the 48fps decision boils down to personal choice. I can't imagine not seeing this movie in the way Jackson intended. But some of you may have motion-sickness, eye-strain issues, or plain old impatience that will steer you into auditoriums offering the traditional 24 fps presentation. If you're feeling adventurous, I highly recommend the optimum experience. An Unexpected Journey is worth multiple viewings anyway, so why not change it up a bit?

As a film and as a moviegoing experience, The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey is as creatively, intellectually, and technologically stimulating an experience as you're likely to find in theatres--until next year, when it sequel comes out. By then, I'll bet Jackson and his team will have worked out some of the kinks that always accompany these kinds of advancements (remember The Lawnmower Man's "cutting-edge special effects"?). Meanwhile, I must re-adjust to boring old 24fps features--no matter how tempted I am to grab the nearest wizard and sail off to an enchanted land made for those of us who've been too fundamentally shaken to ever look back.

This is Other People's Brains on Drugs

I'd like to begin with a sincere thanks to Karen, whose angry comments on two previous reviews have stuck so firmly in my brain that I'm now forced to adjust the way I write about movies. In a nutshell, she called me out on giving a pass to independent films for fear of coming off as too harsh on aspiring non-professionals.

Critics walk a fine line between being brutally honest and couching our true feelings when it comes to movies that fall short because of budgetary or first-time-follies constraints. Perhaps Karen has never had to queasily pan a film that was created by people she is likely to meet in various circles. The fact is, I'm not likely to run into J.J. Abrams at an after-party, so knocking the hell out of Super 8 feels like a safer bet than ripping a guy to shreds after he sends me a screener of his modest project.

Nonetheless, I take her meaning. My endorsement--assuming it carries actual weight with readers--is a green-light to seek out a movie. Because true indies don't pop up on Netflix, Amazon, or other entities that allow cheap rentals, the only way to see most of them is a blind-buy from the director's Web site. That can mean upwards of ten or twenty bucks out-of-pocket and sight unseen. So it's unfair of me to praise a film as being worth a blind buy if there's even an ounce of timidity in my virtual voice.

The best way forward, I think, is to be sparkling clear in how my recommendations are intended. Sometimes, a movie will fail in its performances and/or story, but will be so well technically executed as to be a beacon for young filmmakers or people considering getting into the game. Often, it's just as important to study one's peers' mistakes as it is their triumphs.

Case in point: Mark Lewis' Wild Girl Waltz, a meandering comedy that I would not ask any of my friends to sit through without a lengthy qualifying speech beforehand--but which I (mostly) enjoyed as a diamond-in-the-rough production from a filmmaker who may or may not have a decent future in the business.

Writer/director Lewis wears his influences on his celluloid sleeve, but seems to have taken all the wrong lessons from them. Wild Girl Waltz has the aimless non-plot of early Richard Linklater (two bored twenty-somethings take hallucinogens and must be baby-sat by one of their put-upon boyfriends); the episodic, title-cards-and-chit-chat delivery of Kevin Smith's Clerks (complete with spontaneous, soap-boxing monologues--more on that in a moment); and the stale rhythms of every bad sitcom you've seen in the last decade (the only trope left unturned is a character falling down and yelling, "I'm okay!" from off screen).

As the trippers in question, Christina Shipp and Samanth Steinmetz do quite well with the material they're given. Shipp reminded me of a cross between Kathy Griffin and Renee Zellweger, and Steinmetz a boozy Helen Hunt from her Mad About You days. See? Even in my actorly comparisons, I can't escape television references!

They fare better than the movie's male lead, Jared Stern. His Brian character (the babysitter) is a macho guy who thinks nothing of punching a woman in the face after throwing back a few beers with a fellow Bro-ski.* While fleeing the scene of this encounter, he pontificates on society's bullshit paradigm wherein it's somehow not okay to, under any circumstances, hit a female. At no point is he ridiculed or countered on this belief, so I can only assume that his words reflect the filmmaker's world view. Later, during the climactic moment when Brian gingerly deposits an "I Love You" napkin from his girlfriend in a keepsake box (aawwww), I couldn't help but wonder how far in their future the inevitable 9-1-1 call would be.

This errant machismo is at the heart of Wild Girl Waltz's story problems. Early on, we see Brian confront a friend (Scott Lewis) over an unpaid loan in a tense and comparatively riveting scene that I was sure would be called back during the drug adventure. But no: it's a complete non sequitur that only adds minutes to the run-time. The same goes for the scene in which Brian punches the woman (Kim Barlow), whom he finds rifling through the back of his pick-up truck. Again, I assumed (hoped, even) that this would tie in to the debtor storyline. Sadly, the woman is just a random thief who messes with the wrong douchebag.

Lewis' superfluous underbelly elements ram head-on into the otherwise semi-sweet tone of his film. Despite nigh undeliverable hack dialogue and the typical Drug Movie problem of the audience growing increasingly bored watching boring people get stoned,** the affection that these characters feel for each other shines through--even if one or more of them is reluctant to admit it.

Lewis needed to either fashion a coherent, plot-driven movie based around a drug trip, or make Wild Girl Waltz a wholly free-form experience that puts the audience in its protagonists' shoes. This schizophrenic middle-of-the-road business doesn't cut it. And while the actors are interesting enough to watch, their characters don't warrant the patience needed to endure through the ultimately pointless, "Hey-trip's-over-I-guess-Whaddya-wanna-do-tomorrow?" ending.

To Karen--and anyone else who might wonder where I ultimately come down on this picture--let me be sparkling clear: as a technician, Lewis shows great promise. Wild Girl Waltz features terrific use of music, a decent sense of pacing, and a game cast whose only real shortcomings are the words they're saddled with making sound like actual dialogue. If you're starting up an independent film of your own, by all means, hit up the movie's Web site and find out more about it.

But if you're looking for a smart, consistently enjoyable comedy, I'm sad to say this is not your film.

*Don't worry: it's all played for laughs.

**Tip: if you're going to show people freaking out at color trails and hallucinating, either spring for some awesome special effects or focus on a more engaging aspect of the story.

Sad People

Last Christmas, my in-laws gave my wife and I a financial-planning book by Dave Ramsey. We were up to our eyeballs in credit card debt, barely paying off a car, and putting about as much money into savings as faith in Miley Cyrus' Oscar-nomination prospects. Still, we had two incomes and miles of magical plastic dollars with which to make any emergencies (momentarily) disappear; in other words, zero reason to change.

Early this year, my wife lost her job and it took nearly five months for her to receive unemployment benefits--leaving me as the sole bread-winner for us and our toddler. Two nights after the news hit, we dug the Ramsey book out from under a mountain of old bill stubs and cracked it open. I no longer sneered at the frequent Biblical passages or laughed out loud at the cornpone, too-outrageous-to-be-true testimonials; it was time to get serious about the direction our lives were headed in, and Ramsey had some great ideas.

STOP!

There's no need to hit "Refresh". You have, in fact, loaded my review of Judd Apatow's This is 40, and not an infomercial. Context is key in any critique, which is why I included that bit of personal history. Had I seen this comedy a year ago, I likely would have still found it extremely unfunny--but not as offensive as I do today.

The movie stars Leslie Mann and Paul Rudd as Debbie and Pete. They were the "adult" sidekicks in 2007's Knocked Up, which was about a twenty-something loser forced to grow up when his one-night-stand turned into an eighteen-year commitment. The couple has a huge house, two kids, and a Beemer and a Lexus in the driveway, all thanks to Pete's years as a Sony Music executive. Since we last saw them, Pete has left the corporate world to start an indie label and Debbie divides her time between watching their daughters and managing the boutique clothing shop they co-own.

The trouble is, Pete has been hiding his label's shaky financial status from Debbie, along with $80,000 in personal loans to his deadbeat dad (Albert Brooks), and a delinquent home mortgage. Meanwhile, Debbie suffers near-crippling anxiety over her own dark little secret: she's turning 40! Actually, she and Peter are hitting the Big Four-oh in the same week, but she insists that everyone help celebrate her thirty-eighth birthday. Yes, until all the money problems come out at the film's half-way mark, that vain, sitcom-level nonsense passes for a major plot point.

Not to worry, though: This is 40 is a virtual side-story roulette wheel. From Peter and Debbie's meddling in eldest daughter Sadie's (Maude Apatow) Facebook drama; to their suspicions that comely store employee Desi (Megan Fox) is ripping them off; to Peter's quest to revitalize the career of soon-to-be-hipster-deity Graham Parker; to Apatow's famous Superfluous Third-Act Curveball, the movie plays as if Apatow made mini-movies out every circle on his idea board and loosely tied them together in the editing process.

That might have been okay had the dialogue been solid and the characters interesting. But Apatow, who wrote and directed this thing, is guilty of giving quality actors and comedians nothing of substance to work with. I don't know forty-year-olds like Peter and Debbie, and I'll bet that's true for ninety-nine percent of the people who will pay to see this movie. Nearly everyone on-screen plays a Conservative caricature of the Hollywood liberal: rich, self-obsessed, clueless, and convinced that banning gluten from the family diet constitutes heroism.

This isn't 40. This is 25 going on 12. Peter and Debbie don't talk to each other, except to fight. Their daughters are completely out of control, probably because mom and dad would rather attempt marriage counseling via oral sex than drive them to school on-time. And every other word out of almost everyone's mouth is "fuck". I'm no prude when it comes to language, but if the point of a movie is to say, "these are real people having relatable, real-life experiences", I'm sorry, but this degree of pre-teen-level swearing simply rings false.

It's so disappointing, too, because I genuinely like the performers. Rudd spent much of his early career playing characters who would absolutely rail against a navel-gazing, out-of-touch yahoo like Peter. So to see him disappear into such a whiny, personality-free shell is heartbreaking. He played a version of this guy in the far-superior and heartfelt Wanderlust earlier this year; the key difference being the amount of time it took the two characters to realize their shallowness (in Peter's case, the meter is still running).

Mann fares slightly better, if only because she pretty much only plays versions of Debbie. This slim, fit ray of sass with the sun-kissed complexion is fine as a comic foil, but I just can't feel the impact of a midlife crisis that involves whiter teeth and a slightly firmer ass. Everything else that's wrong in her marriage has nothing to do with aging; it's a simple matter of acting like she's married (i.e. paying attention to household finances, asking questions without yelling, etc., etc., etc.).

At least the leads invest heavily in their performances. Almost everyone else in This is 40 skates by on the comedy cred of appearing in a Judd Apatow film. Here's the thing: cameos by funny people don't work unless they generate laughs with the material. Charlyne Yi's turn as cinema's eight-millionth Mousy Asian With a Secret Wild Side is more like product placement than acting.** Likewise, for all the comedic value they add to the proceedings, Chris O'Dowd and Jason Segel might as well have been replaced by two camera-facing bottles of Pepsi. Whether it was a matter of the script being poor, the actors not caring enough to improve it, or the director not giving them the leeway to do so, there's not a "hot comedic talent" on screen whose success I could explain if the need arose.

My wife and I are not yet in our forties, but we've been together for roughly the same amount of time as the film's protagonists. Like Peter and Debbie, we've faced relationship issues, self-doubt, and financial struggles, and are sure to encounter even greater horrors in the decades ahead. But we have sense enough not to exacerbate our problems by shutting each other out and keeping secrets. It took hard work, sacrifice, and communication to become debt-free within what has turned out to be a very challenging year, but we did it. Coming out of the theatre, we were puzzled as to why no one in the film had any brains, decency, or heart.

My only guess is that the title was shortened from This is 40, You Privileged Assholes. 

*In Funny People, he transformed a movie about stand-up comedy into a bickering-couple picture. Here, he derails a bickering-couple picture by introducing Debbie's absentee father (John Lithgow) and turning forty minutes of the film into an exercise in blame-skirting and projection.

**Yes, she has a bowl haircut, wears giant 80s eyeglasses and says "shockingly" foul-mouthed things in a mumbly monotone. Hilahhhhrious.

Glee-gurgitation

Had I seen Pitch Perfect a week ago, I would have used its plot to cut holiday cookies out of dough with my wife--the very same wife who insisted we watch this thing, and whose future recommendations now require unanimous approval by a committee of my choosing.

The film stars Anna Kendrick as a college freshman named Beca. Right away, we've got problems. In 2010, the actress was Oscar-nominated for playing a straight-edge, mid-twenties corporate creature in Up in the Air. Later, she would play a therapist in 50/50 and a cop's wife in End of Watch. Of course, older actors have long taken on younger roles, but Kendrick's left-field turn as a character ten years her junior reminded me of John C. Reilly playing a high school student in Walk Hard--but she's not nearly as convincing.

Doubly unconvincing is the kind of teen she's asked to play. Beca is a club-kid, a snarky non-conformist with the shittiest attitude I've seen in a female protagonist since...well, I guess, since Amy Mann's character in This is 40 (it's been a rough week for movies, kids). She arrives at college with a chip on her shoulder, and a beef with her wretched father (John Benjamin Hickey).

Can you believe the son of a bitch wants his daughter to put off her dreams of running away to L.A. to become a DJ until she finishes at least a year of higher education? He's even got tuition covered, the prick, thanks to his fancy job as a professor at the school. In fairness to him, Beca's technically an adult now, meaning there's nothing actually keeping her from chasing her dreams. I'm sure the big fight in which this caustic, rugged individualist tells her old man that she doesn't need his money and can make it on her own got edited out.

Anyway, Beca is recruited by one of the school's four competing singing clubs. Upper classwoman, Aubrey (Anna Camp, who looks every one of her thirty years--okay, sorry, I'll stop) is desperate to find new singers after she vomited on stage during the previous year's national championship performance. She and her second-in-command, Chloe (Brittany Snow), snatch up Aubrey and a gaggle of misfit freshmen who have no idea about the club's sunken reputation.

The newbies are the fetid stuffing in a central-casting cornucopia that will no doubt remind you of Revenge of the Nerds, Sorority Boys, or pretty much any college comedy made after Animal House. We meet the gay chick, the prim prude, the nympho, and, of course, the Mousy Asian with a Secret Wild Side.

Correction: Last week, I accused Charlyne Yi of playing the eight-millionth iteration of this offensively unfunny stereotype. But Pitch Perfect came out two months before This is 40, so all honors and benefits go to Hanna Mae Lee. Congratulations.

Oops! I left one stereotype unturned. She comes in the form of Fat Amy (Rebel Wilson), an overweight Australian student who continues the sad trend in recent comedies of obese women revelling in being gross, macho freaks (as written). I don't know if it started with Bridesmaids, but Melissa McCarthy is making such a great career out of being willfully repugnant that she now has imitators, apparently.

Like her new friend, Beca, Fat Amy sneers a lot, doesn't trust anyone who smiles regularly, and has a warped sense of her own attractiveness. It's one thing for an overweight character to be comfortable in their own body, but she actively avoids exercise and calls girls who have the audacity to work out "twig bitches". I'm sorry, but watching Wilson's upper legs constantly threaten to eclipse her knees in a slow-motion avalanche of fleshy porridge is disturbing; watching her promote the attitude that being fit (let alone healthy) somehow runs contrary to being "real" is disgusting.

I haven't gotten to the plot yet, but why bother? You know what's going to happen just as surely as I did five minutes into the movie. Beca meets a cute boy (Skylar Astin) who (SPOILER?) gets recruited by her team's biggest rival. This puts their young romance into immediate jeoparzzzzzz.

Meanwhile, Aubrey insists that her girls perform only safe standards from previous decades. Beca believes they need something edgy in order to win the fiercely competitive Lincoln Center finals, so she introduces mash-ups to the group--and to the universe, I guess, since Pitch Perfect seems to exist in a dimension without Glee.

Ahhh. I've made it this far without busting out the dreaded "g" word. If you've followed the hit TV series for any appreciable amount of time, I challenge you to watch Pitch Perfect and not think it a poor imitation. First off, Glee is a genuine musical, meaning that in addition to high school kids putting on performances, there are fantasy interludes and montages in which the songs serve a thematic, emotive purpose. All the songs in Jason Moore's film are functions of rehearsals or competitions, with no greater meaning to the song-and-dance routines. You may find emotional stakes in the predictable beats of Kay Cannon's screenplay, but not in the music itself.

Great songs (and even crappy pop tunes), when used properly in drama, can offer insight into a character, provide subtext for a story, or simply evoke the necessary emotions to put the cherry on a key scene. Pitch Perfect, with its mostly one-note, show-choir renditions of radio hitz, really does play like a two-hour karaoke jam buffered by teen-soap interstitials. In a weird way, it feels as though Moore, Cannon, and Universal Pictures were banking on Glee's popularity to put asses in seats, while simultaneously hoping that no one in the audience had ever watched the show.