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by Bill Gibron

23 Sep 2007

Let’s just label it slacktire and get it over with, okay? Critics have been clamoring for months on how to describe Judd Apatow’s sense of humor, that big screen box office bonanza he derived out of an amalgamation of geekdom and irony, crudeness clouded in the thinnest veil of undeniable cleverness. It’s an aesthetic he’s developed over the years, from his earliest days as a stand-up comedian to a stint writing scripts for the formidable Larry Sanders Show. Humor was a strong part of the filmmaker’s early years, his family dynamic practically dredged in the punchline and the observational quirk. That it took 16 years, several failed projects, a collection of subpar starting points (Heavyweights, Celtic Pride), and two beloved TV series (Freaks and Geeks and Undeclared) to become an “overnight sensation” is not the real story, however. How he single handedly reinvented the flatlining joke genre is perhaps the most important story of the post-millennial movie business.

You see, for a long time, Hollywood knew how to make people laugh. It was part and parcel of the burgeoning artform. Toward the beginning, slapstick ruled the day, and certified geniuses like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin setting the original burlesque benchmarks. The Marx Brothers expanded off the no sound notions and into the realm of intellectualized mania, leaving the furthering of physical fun to those masters of mayhem, the Three Stooges. Between the screwball and the sophisticated, the cartoonish and the classical, comedy was never considered a mistaken happenstance or a purely improve-driven idea. Scripts were carefully crafted, with performance strengths and weaknesses worked into and out of the narratives. But by the ‘60s, when TV taught a nation there were other ways to laugh, Tinsel Town got sloppy. For every Mel Brooks there was a beach movie, for every endearing slice of Brit Wit, there was a sloppy sex farce substituting the risqué for the rib tickling.

By the time the ‘80s had rung the category out of all its varying possibilities, individuals interested in making people snicker had to seek out another way of working. Some turned to the grotesque, amplifying the trash art created decades before by individuals like Andy Warhol and John Waters into an adolescent revamp of the Garbage Pail Kids. Others decided that the bluer the ballsier, and overloaded their plots with as much pointless cursing and retrograde repugnance as possible. While some could manage the combination expertly (Trey Parker and Matt Stone are a perfect example), others could barely manage a single successful movie out of the maximum (we’re looking at you, Farrelly Brothers). As the ‘90s slipped away, it was clear that comedy was headed for a fall. Films were no longer being manufactured to reach a universal level of wit. Instead, subjects were micromanaged down to a specific spoof demographic. Comedians known for their appeal to particular audiences were given multi-picture deals, based more on their MySpace buzz than their actual talent.

So when Apatow stepped in to produce the 2004 Will Ferrell hit Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, it was a wise warning shot to the coasting cinematic category. Crude, rude, screwed, and borderline lewd (it was cleaned up for a PG-13 release), it offered a preview of the type of movie this maverick would soon pursue, though he only functioned as an official overseer. No, it wasn’t until the surprise sleeper hit of 2005, The 40 Year Old Virgin that Apatow’s name was connected clearly with something he created. It was the first true example of ‘slacktire’ – a cleverness carved out of decades of filmic obsession, human nerdiness, and the overriding need for interpersonal connection. Like the obsessive venturing out of his basement for the first time, and witnessing a world that didn’t keep all its toys in Mylar cases to maintain mint condition, Virgin showed that Apatow had the makings of a striking Tinsel Town titan. All he needed was the right celluloid synchronicity to bring it all together. 

Such a project arrived with Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. Reteaming with Ferrell, Apatow proved to the mainstream movie fan that he could successfully circumvent expectations (who would have thought that a NASCAR comedy would be so clever) while keeping his funny bone firmly on the pulse of what makes people smile. Capitalizing on his newfound credibility – and the outrageous success of his films on DVD – the fledgling filmmaker prepared for his biggest project to date. It would be the culmination of many previous efforts, a look at family and friendship accented by pop culture cut downs and true dweeb determination. It would reflect an aging of his Freaks and Geeks personas while still maintaining a slick stoner stance. It would talk like people talk, think like people think, argue like people argue, and, doubt like people doubt.

Knocked Up became that undeniable masterpiece, a movie that gets better, and more insightful, with every subsequent viewing. What starts off like a grunge rock remake of Revenge of the Nerds quickly converts into an effortless examination of impulse, overcompensation, and acceptance. It gave long time marrieds food for mid life crisis consideration and Gen-X’ers an excuse to play videogames for another 15 years. Unlike most Hollywood films that focus on biology as a salve for what ails you (as in Parenthood or She’s Having a Baby), Apatow finally told paternity like it is – a scary, life changing cock-up that has the potential to make you the happiest human on Earth as it systematically unravels your dreams, your hopes, your hobbies, and your individual foibles. Instead of acting as a peacemaker, babies will blow your sh*t apart, if you’re not careful.

For those unfamiliar with the plot, E! Entertainment Television personality Alison Scott (a sensational and very believable Katherine Heigl) has an alcohol fueled one night stand with Internet porn providing wannabe Ben Stone (Seth Rogen, never better). A few weeks later, a baby is on the way, and the couple must decide what they are going to do. Alison’s snobby sister Debbie (Apatow’s real life wife Leslie Mann, very good here) wants her to kick Ben to the curb. But brother-in-law Pete (a flawless Paul Rudd) thinks she should give the goof a chance. At first, they try to make it work. Alison hides her condition from her bosses while Ben tries desperately to grow up and mature. They fall in love. They break up. Debbie and Pete have problems. Things are quickly patched up before disintegrating again. In the end, Alison and Ben decide to simply accept each other, though the oncoming responsibility of a child could still throw all that into jeopardy. 

Even in its new, expanded form (the DVD release from Universal is labeled “extended and unrated”) Knocked Up is a Tootsie for our times, a smart, subversive comedy that meshes different forms of wit to create a singular source of hilarity. It’s a combination of the practical and the profane, the character driven and the crazy. It has more heart than any standard romcom ridiculousness and goes places your normal motion picture matchmaking would never attempt. Fleshing out his constantly coupling foursome with an amazing array of supporting and cameo casting choices, Apatow never lets his movie meander. It stays constantly focused, drawing even the most oddball remarks and riffs (the bead competition, the various personal hygiene quips) into a devastating study of what it takes to be human. Unlike other comedies of its type, Knocked Up is out to expand and dimensionalize its personas, careful to give even the most obscure references a concrete connection to reality.

It’s the very essence of slacktire. It’s the knowing of how to make a pot smoking stooge both dorky and deep. Rogen’s Ben is a very decent guy, a slightly pudgy joker who simply wants someone to listen to him. Alison is also a less than perfect specimen, though her high cheek bones, blond bombshell bubbliness, and statuesque figure may suggest otherwise. It’s to Apatow’s credit that he finds a way to reconfigure these social archetypes. People who think this couple would never copulate, let alone hook up in the long term, are obviously voicing their own underlying issues. The reasons behind Ben and Alison becoming a couple are clearly up on the screen for anyone and everyone to see. He’s funny, caring, and clever. She’s open, honest, and highly emotional. Together they form a bond, not just out of fear, but via the recognition of each other’s inherent goodness.

Apatow contrasts this approach with Debbie and Pete - and in a very minor way, with hirsute homie Martin and his delightfully dense girlfriend, Jodi. In them, we see a couple settled, a pair play acting at what Ben and Alison are striving so hard to find. It’s not really love, and it’s not really companionship. It’s more or less a truce, a place where one time individuals who still long for their good fun glory days can interact and coexist without killing each other. Martin and Jodi share a love of getting loaded. Debbie does what every long suffering housewife does – she nags her already henpecked husband until, as she says in one of Knocked Up’s best speeches, she breaks his spirit. Exhausted, and with no other line of defense, he acquiesces and then she changes him some more. It’s insights like this that make this movie more than just a series of sex jokes.

Yet the openness about body parts and their various functions are also a key to this film’s stunning success (it is something that also makes the Apatow-produced Superbad stand out). Adults don’t hint about genitalia and human reproduction. They talk frankly and fully about their biological needs and the reaction to same. Unlike current comedies that feel an adolescent friendly rating somehow produces both decisive wit and insightful discussion, this writer/director is a Hard R man. He’s Kevin Smith concocting Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? , John Hughes with a copy of Jokes for the John instead of the Preppy Handbook by his laptop. It’s a rare cinematic bird that can take the normative and the noxious and combine them in a way to make each acceptable. It’s an even bigger anomaly to mine territory tired out from years of retarded revisits and make it fresh, innovative, and capable of resonating with a jaded and jaundiced viewership. Yet that’s exactly what Apatow does. 

What the new two disc DVD release of Knocked Up essentially illustrates is how much of a gamble making a big screen comedy really is. Slacktire comes at a significant price – a legitimate work ethic that very few filmmakers want to attempt. As part of the package, we are treated to almost an hour of deleted and/or extended scenes, and in most cases, the reasons for their removal are obvious. A few make Ben into an angry, overbearing ogre. Some show Alison as a desperate, disconnected bitch. There are moments of uncomfortable conversation between our hero and his horndog roommates, and a ripe reproach of Brokeback Mountain by scene stealer Jonah Hill. Still, the inclusion of any or all of this material would have modified Knocked Up’s overall tone. Instead of a carefully controlled combination of motives, we’d have pissed off people saying inappropriate things to each other for over two hours.

On the other hand, it’s clear that the right attitude from the cast, the crew, and the individuals footing the bill is important for a comedy’s success. All throughout the numerous bonus features found on the two disc DVD release, we see savvy behind the scenes material that extend the jokes in the film while fulfilling a kind of amusing meta reality on the entire production process. One of the best examples of this is something called “Finding Ben Stone”. In this clearly fake EPK, Apatow discusses the different actors brought in to play the loveable loser lead. Such known names as Orlando Bloom and James Franco are featured, and the recreations from the movie are absolutely wonderful. Similarly skillful are Apatow’s own “production diaries” serious takes on how hard it was to make the movie. From snippets of songwriter Loudon Wainwright III (who contributed to the soundtrack) to an overview on dealing with prima donna Asian gynecologists and real life strippers, it’s clear that the old adage remains true. Drama may be hard, but comedy appears impossible.

That’s why Apatow’s emergence and the creation of slacktire are so important. Once you can successfully create a calling card, a way of making your efforts stand out from all the derivative dreck out there, you’re more than halfway toward timelessness. Everything else is funny business fate – your actors, your timing, your apparent competition. As Superbad would show three months later, audiences remain anxious for anything associated with this man, and in the coming months, a music industry mockery entitled Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story and something known as The Pineapple Express will indicate whether Apatow has staying power, or stands as a hit making machine that finally ran out of gas. Hollywood is hoping otherwise, of course. They have the man on tow for at least a dozen different productions, working with everyone from former roommate Adam Sandler to Steve Carell, the ‘virgin’ who put them both on the map.

So let’s just declare his genius and be done with it – and concocting a catchphrase is only half the battle. When we look back at the later part of the so-called ‘naughts’ we will remember certain cinematic statements: the creation (and quick death) or ‘gorno’, otherwise known as torture porn: the rise of CGI inspired spectacle ala 300; Bourne’s rebirth of the spy thriller, and the startling success of big budget trilogies. And then we will look at what Judd Apatow did for the motion picture comedy, how he saved an entire creative category from its own artistic and aesthetic bankruptcy, and we will smile. While some of his work may fall into obscurity, and other efforts pale in comic comparison, Knocked Up will stand as one of the decade’s best. It truly represents the diversity inherent in Apatow’s approach. It’s slacktire at its finest.


by Rob Horning

23 Sep 2007

Former Fed chairman Alan Greenspan has been doing a lot of press for his memoir, The Age of Turbulence, which was released on Monday, and he seems determined to say a lot of things that will get him attention. In practice, that apparently means distancing himself from the Republican establishment that built him and making many comments that clash with their accepted talking points. Just as he made him self serviceable when Bush first came into office, speaking out in favor of his unnecessary tax cuts (as Paul Krugman details here), perhaps Greenspan, sensing the coming change in the political wind, now wants to preserve his reputation for being relevant by throwing some sops to Democrats, who are likely to dominate the Washington establishment in coming years. If he has their approval, and he continues to be frequently cited in public discourse and continues to show the power to affect markets with his utterances, he can keep on procuring the lucrative speaking fees he’s apparently earning on the lecture and conference circuit. Hence, Greenspan has basically suggested lately in his memoir and in interviews that the Iraq war is about oil, not democracy or terrorism; deficits do matter; Bush’s fiscal policy is responsible; the Republican led 2004 Congress deserved to lose for its fiscal irresponsibility, which bordered on corruption in its abuse of power; and Clinton was a good custodian of the federal purse, nothing like the tax-and-spend stereotype that Democrats are tarred with. And consistent with a goal of remaining relevant, Greenspan doesn’t admit to having done anything wrong in holding rates low and inflating asset bubbles—the excess liquidity, he argues, was not a matter of central bank policy but instead a consequence of globalization and the spread of capitalism throughout the world, introducing newly productive workers who work for cheap and contributing to what Benanke, his successor, would call a savings glut. For good measure, in a FT interview he adds that bubbles are just an inevitable and unfortunate consequence of human nature: “I am coming to the conclusion that bubbles are inevitable,” he says. “Human beings cannot avoid them . . . They cannot learn.”

But of all his repositioning moves recently, this one, from the same FT piece, where he questions the current profit/wage split, was the most striking:

The world he is describing looks like a global market nirvana – with one very odd feature: profits are much higher than they should be in a world of ever-intensifying global competition.
He says: “We know in an accounting sense what is causing it” – the share of worker compensation in national income in the US and some other developed countries is unusually low by historical standards – “but we don’t know in an economic sense what the processes are.”
In the long run, he says “real compensation tends to parallel real productivity, and we have seen that for generations, but not now. It has veered off course for reasons I am not clear about.”
It is striking that he does not, as many do, blame China. He agrees that companies should not be able to price above their marginal cost, as many apparently can today. “They should not be able to,” he says. “And the issue here is that there are restrictions that they are not identifying that enable them.” He adds: “The competition should be moving in.”
Mr Greenspan says “I did and still do” expect some normalisation of profit and wage shares. But asked whether the high profit share remains a puzzle to him, he says: “Yes, it does.” In his book, he worries that if wages for the average US worker do not start to rise more quickly political support for free markets may be undermined.

It’s pretty startling to see the friend of investment bankers, the namesake of the notorious Greenspan put that protects big financial risk takers from facing consequences, wondering why wage earners aren’t getting more of their share. That last comment verges on an endorsement of a populist uprising, a return to union power, and the kind of labor-friendly economics John Edwards seems to be campaigning on. You can interpret that last comment to suggest what left-leaning economists tend to say all the time: The whole capitalist system is threatened by income inequality, because the injustice of inequality reveals the imbalances between labor and capital that undermine the economy’s supposed rational fundamentals. The power distortions lead to externalities, rent-seeking, perverse incentives and other phenomena that make a market economy veer from its ideal, textbook elegance, where ever party gets what they wants and what they deserve at a price that can be nothing other than fair. Eventually, there is no redress to the imbalances other than political intervention, and if Greenspan is right—and if his anti-Republican pronouncements are further evidence of his sense of shifting political winds—than we can expect that intervention to come soon. When the redistribution of profits fails to happen naturally—as it inevitably does—the political cycle (from right to left) must kick in to correct the business cycle (from capital to labor). This preserves the sanctity of both and forestalls the kind of revolution that would put an end to all such cycles (and most of what we recognize as economic freedom as well).

by Bill Gibron

23 Sep 2007

When East meets West in cuisine, they call it fusion. When they collide cinematically, it could easily be labeled con-fusion. When a fan approaches a Hong Kong action epic, they don’t expect an overemphasis on plot, a lot of confused character double dealing, and a visit from the gang that couldn’t shoot straight. Nor are they looking for ex-Hollywood A-list desperate for a paycheck. No, they hear the premise of a particular Asian stunt spectacle and assume its time for the spirit of John Woo to infect yet another franchise. And when you add in the now mandatory international angle (for financial and marketing reasons), the results can be inconsistent at best. For director Danny Lee, the combination cast, along with the overly complicated narrative, should have spelled motion picture disaster. But thanks to his skill behind the lens, his epic police procedural Dragon Heat becomes an imminently watchable bullet ballet.

Offered under the Weinstein Company and Genius Entertainment’s continuing Dragon Dynasty series, this 2005 effort (originally labeled Dragon Squad), is a multimedia movie functioning under some very peculiar plot parameters. When we first meet our band of good guys – a ragtag collective of cops including a sharpshooter, a sniper, and an undercover expert, among others – they are preparing to present evidence against drug running mobster Panther Duen. On the way to court, their convoy is ambushed and the criminal is eventually kidnapped. At first, everyone thinks it’s a well planed rescue. But soon, the truth is revealed. Another group of bad guys, including a disgruntled South Korean General and a sinister Columbian mercenary, are out to make the Duen Brothers pay for double crossing them. With the help of police chauffer (and ex-Commandant) Kong Long, the novice police agents intend to get to the bottom of this case and dispose of all the felons once and for all.

Clearly created to showcase a meshing of old school heroism with new jack bravado, Dragon Heat has its moments of stellar symbolism. When martial arts master Sammo Hung (as the aforementioned driver) goes mano y mano with Jun-ho Heo (as the disgruntled military man) in a close combat sequence, its pure archaeological adrenaline. Our pulse quickens just knowing that we’re about the see a true screen legend open up a can of whoop ass with nothing more than his fists. Similarly, Maggie Q has an excellent cemetery shoot out with her good guy equivalent, and the trading of carefully aimed gunfire among the grave markers is certainly suspenseful. But Lee also allows his purpose to undermine his young ones. They appear strategically inept, impulsive to a fatal fault, and marksmen in name only. During a setpiece factory alley firefight, with apparently plentiful ammunition, no one is capable of hitting a criminal, let alone the broad side of a building. Yet we’re supposed to buy these noble newcomers as the next “wave” in justice. It’s an odd juxtaposition that frequently fails to engage.

Still, Lee is enough of a craftsman to help us forget the kids and their incomplete acumen. The narrative relies on context and flashback to fill in the missing interpersonal blanks, and just when we think we’ve learned all we can about our players, we get subplot scenes involving lost loves, paralyzed brothers, and fame-hungry supervisors. Edited into the film in a manner that makes a quick and considered impact, Lee does go a tad overboard at the end, offering repeats of these montages just before the plot ordered face-offs occur. Still, for a potential viewer raised on video games and other forms of multifaceted media, it makes for a visually arresting and appealing ideal. In fact, Dragon Heat often acts like a metamorphosis between the staged spectacle of previous Hong Kong crime cinema and a new, more naturalized motion picture approach.

There are some stylistic choices that will undermine your enjoyment, especially in light of how Lee handles their happenstance. Every gun battle in Dragon Heat is a borderline irritating exercise in ammunitus interruptus. In order to lengthen said action scenes, our director makes these heroes and villains all pomp and very little precision. During a single volley of gunfire, we can see thousands of rounds exchanged, but very few come close to hitting their mark. Indeed, even when a scope shows a body part clearly in the crosshairs, the round rarely arrives as planned. This is especially disquieting during the finale. Our leads have all been talking semi-smack for at least 20 minutes or so, pumping themselves up to take on these fiends who are clearly more aggressive than they will ever be. They even get Sammo’s sage character to agree to a blade on blade rematch. But as our kung fu god is slicing and dicing with a machete, these literal young guns are proving, yet again, their lack of rudimentary trigger pulling skills.

It also doesn’t help that our supposedly formidable force frequently sulk like Kenny when he learns that Gamera is not coming out to play. Their dour, disappointed personalities often remind one of brats being scolded, not seasoned cops looking to take a bite out of crime. Part of this is Lee’s fault. Aside from a silly sequence where our agents show off their questionable talents at a pub’s shooting gallery, we never see them successfully complete a mission. They always miss by a hair, or underestimate their opponents or their strategies, leading to another dressing down by their superiors. In fact, we are told on more than one occasion that these visiting lawmen (and women) are not really wanted. They’re sheepishly given a role here because they hold the evidence to convict the local drug kingpin. But once that villain meets a rather grizzly fate, it’s fairly clear their “expertise” is a marginalized commodity at best.

Still, Dragon Heat delivers enough suspense and old world moralizing to make the trip well worth while. The inclusion of an international cast definitely gives the film a unique edge, especially when cult favorites like Michael Biehn pop up to show us how it’s done. As part of the ample added content provided by the DVD, we learn of the money men’s desire for a ‘name’ cast, some Western flair, and a native angle that spanned demographical and media interests. From the commentary track by producer/Hong Kong film historian Bey Logan to the music video like Making-Of featurette, there is a clear, calculated approach to this project which explains a lot of its appeal – and a great deal of its entertainment apprehension. Call it a “too many cooks” conceit, or intrusion by people who have no business determining aesthetic, but the “everything to everyone” designs are apparent all throughout this otherwise exceptional effort.

Flaws and all, Dragon Heat is definitely worth paying attention to. It seems to indicate the future of Asian action while commenting directly on the expectations of and exceptions to the standard genre archetypes. It’s more a movie of individual moments than all out epic of excitement, and the futuristic metropolitan backdrop delivers a beneficial, big city appeal. While it would have been nice to see more hand to hand combat vs. all the non-stop firefighting, the final result is something even the most jaded slo-mo shoot out lover could embrace. In some ways, Dragon Heat expertly mirrors the guerilla style of battle exploding all across the post-millennial urban landscape. While duty and honor are still important, quick reflexes and a brazen determination are far more valuable. This is one fusion film that actually works – in spite of itself.

by Bill Gibron

23 Sep 2007

Girls in bikinis kicking butt – sounds like nothing more than sexist male fantasy fodder, right? No matter the scholarly interpretation and arguments over empowerment, it’s hard to see the feminism in fisticuffs between scantily clad babes…especially when the narrative emphasizes the eroticism, and exploits their camera ready ‘assets’ in a very up close and personal manner. So would it surprise you that D.O.A.: Dead or Alive, based on the lusty adolescent console title of the same name, is readily one of the more estrogen-ccentric films in a long time? It’s a movie geared to make the supposedly weaker sex a smarter, savvier and far more substantive opponent – both in and out of the competitive ring. While its sci-fi subtext may be laughable at best, and its characters cut out of bitmap believability, it remains a gloriously goofy romp as choice chick flick.

In fact, DOA is actually the gender equity version of August 2007’s Shoot ‘Em Up! , a mindless exercise in violence with enough style and sass to get an audience over its superficial stutters. This is not a movie interested in three dimensional development, narrative coherence, or sentimental subtlety. Instead, it’s a C cup full of nonstop action, a collection of incredibly effective fistfights and sword standoffs played out against a wonderfully cartoonish and creative backdrop. Hong Kong director Corey Yuen, who made his name stateside delivering Jason Statham through The Transporter and Jet Li in The Enforcer, uses the same over the top, in your face approach that defined those films to make these superhero supermodels more deadly than Charlie’s so-called Angels, and a heck of a lot more fun.

Our story begins when Princess Kasumi, leader of her Japanese clan, decides to ignore royal protocol and go after her missing brother. By doing so, she becomes an outcast, leading loyal guard Ayane to automatically switch allegiances and become a court bounty hunter. Her prey? The MIA princess. Meanwhile, professional wrestler Tina Armstrong takes on a boatload of pirates aiming to shanghai her yacht. At the same time, master thief Christie Allen is questioned by the Hong Kong police over some missing bank money. All four eventually find themselves invited to the D.O.A. (Dead or Alive) Competition, hosted by reclusive and eccentric businessman Donovan. The set up is simple – a single elimination tournament where the loser is sent home, and the eventual winner winds up with $10 million. With Helena, the daughter of the invitational’s original founder present, and a collection of competitors from around the globe, everything is in place for another compelling contest – not that this is Donovan’s real intent…not by a long shot. 

The first thing you notice about D.O.A. is Yuen’s decision to tweak the color palette. This is a pastel and primary battle royale, an assortment of tints and hues manipulated and manufactured to skirt the boundless border between believability and full fledged fantasy. All the water present is a crystalline blue, matching the azure elegance of the endless sky. Grass is greener than finely polished jade, and sunsets radiant a deep, dynamic orange. Clearly, this director is trying to emulate the millions of possibilities inherent in a complex computer program, but such a strategy also underlies D.O.A. ’s sense of seriousness. Since it is larger than life, the rules of reality really don’t apply, and that goes for every other facet of this film – its set design, its face offs, and its concept of characterization.

The main actresses here are all amazingly capable, with recent Emmy winner Jamie Pressly full of piss and vinegar as a desperate to prove herself grappler, and Sin City’s Devon Aoki as a sword wielding ninja doll. Equally impressive are Prison Break’s Holly Valance as a bodacious burglar and Shark’s Sarah Douglas as the untested Helena. All the gals get a little F/X help to realize their many moves (there is wire fu, real life martial arts, and a smattering of CGI to make it all come to life), but in general, they are very believable as smart, smokin’ hot extreme fighters. Yuen does go a little overboard on the slo-mo shots of torsos and tushies, but this is clearly in connection to the movie’s target audience. Guys like brawling, but they really LOVE a little T&A on the side.

As for the movie’s men, none make much of an impression, although Eric Roberts salt and pepper feathered look gives him a 10 years younger make-over. His performance is pitched somewhere between Christopher Walken and an actual psychotic beach bum. It’s pure Method madness at its most unhinged. As the dorky geek who gives the narrative its nutty professorship, Reba’s Steve Howey is feeb lite. Try as he might, he appears more anxious to pound brewskis than hack code. Other members of the male persuasion are either unimportant, or irritating (especially Brian White as a motor mouthed moron named Zack whose pin head is festooned with a sad spike of green hair). Still, none of these individual failings really matter. Yuen knows that action films rarely rely on compelling, complex personalities to make their point. Instead, it’s all about the fireworks, and D.O.A. delivers a couple dozen Fourth of July’s worth.

Indeed, this is a movie that cuts to the adrenaline pumped production number every couple of minutes, letting dialogue barely sink in before another example of hand to hand Hellsapoppin’ arrives. The choreography and filmmaking during these sequences are just stunning. Yuen obviously knows how to balance the needs of the purist with current pop culture dynamics. He tosses together quick cutting, amazing mise-en-scene, explosion compositions, and just a tinge of movie magic to turn a couple of pretty people beating the snot out of each other into some manner of metaphysical meltdown. It makes one wonder how long he can keep up such a satisfying pace. The answer is 80 plus minutes, apparently. From Princess Kasumi’s escape for the last act face off between good and evil, D.O.A. never settles down. It’s just one amazing stunt statement after another.

There will be complaints that the plot makes no sense – not the contest, but the undercover bio-engineering that’s going on behind the scenes – and some will argue that, no matter their prowess, Yuen and the producers are exploiting attractiveness and sexuality for the sake of some elusive commercial conceit (the film did not do well at the box office, that is, when it could find its way there after its 2006 making). Fans of the games were glad to see the obvious references, as well as the sneaky segment where our heroines forget about fighting and play a friendly game of beach volleyball (wink). The added content on the DVD itself sheds little light on the film’s numerous issues. We get a decent Behind the Scenes featurette, but it mostly focuses on the fighting onscreen, not during post-production. The lack of further context speaks volumes about the studio’s overall faith in this film.

And that’s a shame. If marketed correctly, embracing its genial junk food frenzy instead of trying to overcompensate for it, D.O.A. could have been a sleeper hit. It had the perfect focus group strategizing, and with a little help from the female sect (who would definitely appreciate these gals’ knuckle crunching self determination), this eventual flop could have been viewed as a lot of fun. Instead, it is criticized for everything its not, and castigated for concepts it barely embraces. When it comes right down to it, Corey Yuen has indeed delivered a kind of kung fu interpretation of a Penthouse Forum letter, but there is more than just softcore slumming here. Even if you wouldn’t be caught ‘dead or alive’ watching such a film, you should give D.O.A. a try. It’s nothing more than a big, dopey delight.


by tjmHolden

23 Sep 2007

When I was younger I believed that dreams came true
Now I wonder
Cause I have seen more of dark skies than blue
Now I wonder

Chris Isaak, I Wonder

I’m not as grey a guy as ol’ Chris, quoted above. But still, traveling around this great globe of our’n gives pause. In so many ways, it sets a man (and probably a woman) to a-wonderin’.

One thing that I wonder as I wander is this: what if life wasn’t about order?

I know, our bodies – to select but one immediately available counterexample – are self-contained packages. Bundles of nerves, integrated compilations of sinew, carefully crafted architecture of bone. There are highly complex chemical processes that all follow logics which are deducible and predictable employing the highly-honed methods of science. Physics explains some of how it all holds together; bio-chemistry perfectly accounts for others. Medical and psychological and sometimes even sociological theories make fine sense and are occasionally sustainable. They all offer evidence (if not proof) of fundamental order.

Or do they? I wonder . . .

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