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Sunday, Sep 30, 2007


It’s important to remember a film’s intended demographic. A gross out slacker comedy to some will be a realistic look at a life among one’s peers to another. It’s the same with comic book adaptations. While the genre was always geared toward post-adolescent audiences with a healthy nostalgia for their collections and the characters, there remains an equally thriving underage contingent that doesn’t respond well to all the introspection and brooding. So when the initial Fantastic Four film decided to drop the existentialism and go for the grade schooler, the obsessive reacted like someone had dismantled and played with their limited edition action figures. What they failed to recognize was that not every movie has to be focused directly toward their mentality. Sometimes, a family friendly approach can find a payday as well.


Of course, this doesn’t excuse the first installment in the proposed franchise. It was a tripe trifle, forged out of the flimsiest of scripts and topped with the most awkward of casting considerations. For those who couldn’t imagine a worse take on the material than the 1994 Roger Corman reject (made to settle a rights issue), the update was equally awful – what with it’s reliance on cornball humor and blatant Hollywood hokum. Yet even with the inconsistent acting – Jessica Alba and Michael Chiklis just can’t make the superhero thing work, period – and less than impressive F/X (especially in connection with Reed Richards’ shoddy CGI shape shifting), the movie made a profit. And if there is one constant in the motion picture biz, is that success demands a sequel. Equally important is remembering to copy exactly what made the first effort fiscally viable.


Our new saga (now on DVD from Fox) starts when a planet in a nearby galaxy suddenly implodes and splits apart. From the chaos comes a silver streak of light, its path marked directly for the Earth. In the meantime, Reed Richards (Ioan Gruffudd) and Sue Storm (Jessica Alba) are trying, once again, to get married. They’ve failed four times before, and they’re hoping that the fifth times the charm. During this stressful time, brother Johnny Storm (Chris Evans) has been living it up, womanizing and trading on the Four’s good name for his own fame whoring needs. Old pal Ben Grimm (Michael Chiklis), on the other hand, has finally settled into his all rock persona, and is even enjoying a romance with blind gal pal Alicia Masters. When the Army contacts Reed about building a machine to track the cosmic radiation generated by some newly discovered holes in the planet’s surface, the bad news is discovered – The Silver Surfer has come to our world. And eight days after he arrives, the occupied planet simply dies. 


With director Tim Story back behind the lens (a call many feel belies the franchise’s biggest flaw) and a new character to carry us past the problems, The Rise of the Silver Surfer is definitely better than you’d expect. It’s also a popcorn flick full of the same old slop. For everything it gets right (the reverence toward the title entity, the epic arrival of Galactus) it provides even more fuel for the faithfuls’ ire. Granted, Stan Lee never intended this quartet to be taken too seriously. Unlike other comic avengers, the Four were a dysfunctional family that actually catered to and basked in the limelight. But with Alba’s Sue Storm even drippier as the narrative’s main wet blanket, and superficial supermodel Julian McMahon’s dreadfully dull take on Dr. Doom, our newly introduced chrome conqueror has a lot to countermand. For the most part, the metal man succeeds.


Indeed, after seeing this outing, there is hope for the planned Silver Surfer spin-off project, thanks in part to the stellar reading Laurence Fishbourne brings to the role. When combined with the state of the art computer animation (it’s a Weta level of realism that the first film avoided), and some old fashioned stand it work, our interstellar sentry with the planet prepping mandate definitely comes alive. Although he’s hardly a main character – The Thing’s blind babe gets about as much screen time – his impact is such that we actually anticipate his next appearance. Thanks in part to a broadening of scope (we’re dealing with a world killer here), the accompanying action that surrounds the part, and the last act change of heart, we get a well rounded, three dimensional star who is stuck as a supporting player in a meandering mess. 


This makes the main foursome seem all the more minor. Chiklis cannot overcome his man in a costume conceit, and every time The Thing interacts with the others, it’s like stepping back in time to the less convincing era of pre-‘80s make-up work. Richards’ stretch skills are more believable this time around, though they almost always wind up part of some slapstick gag. One of the main narrative elements in the film – the Surfer interaction side effect of Johnny Storm switching powers with his fellow crime fighters – makes for some interesting sequences, especially during a midpoint problem in London. Yet the firestarter character remains a cloying card, the kind of slick, look at me loudmouth that can grow annoying very easily. Luckily, actor Chris Evans has little to worry about when it comes to grating. Jessica Alba’s whiny, wounded Sue Storm is enough to drive any sane superhero lover to irritation.


Still, you can sense Story’s fascination and love of the material, and it’s an opinion seconded by the bonus features found on the new two disc digital edition. The director’s commentary is especially enlightening, since we learn of his outright geek love for the Four, as well as his desire to stay as true to the comics as possible (who knew). Even in the documentary featurettes provided on the making of the movie, Story is a stone cold nerd. Creating and controlling the world that these beloved icons exist in seems to bring out his inner child. Among the rest of the cast and crew, it appears to be nothing more than business as usual. A second alternate narrative track (featuring a producer, writer, and editor) is a dour, overly technical affair that saps any possible enjoyment out of the project. Similarly, the F/X and design overviews often provide little more than electronic press shilling. The only legitimate look behind the scenes comes from a near hour long backstage glimpse. It’s great stuff.


It’s just too bad then that Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, plays to such a specific demographic. This is the kind of movie that requires a viewer who’s still open to the magic of movies while not being so dense that they miss some of the more satiric bits. Be a little too lost and Tim Story’s take on this title will seem like advanced trigonometry. Know a little too much about the comic in question and the many liberties taken with the characters, and you’re going to be angry at every single frame. Viewed with the proper eyes and processed by the necessary mentality, this plaintive blockbuster wannabe really rocks. Any other critical consideration argues for its slightly average amusements. Figuring out where you stand on the subject will end up being the best guide for your potential pleasure


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Saturday, Sep 29, 2007


It gets marginalized and joked about, but few film fans really understand the importance of exploitation. Like labeling a movie “Troma-esque” or referencing a title as “torture porn”, the stock cinematic categorization has become a buzzword, a term used to undermine a movie by giving it tacky tenets it may not actually own. Sure, a lot of the films that played in Pussycat Theaters and drive-ins nationwide were geared toward busting taboos and violating common decency. Yet without their envelope pushing chutzpah, their desire to do more with the medium than the cowardly Hollywood hacks, the post-modern phase of filmmaking would have never arrived. It’s true. In addition, without that sensational ‘70s epiphany, a moment where the artform truly found its finesse, new age architects like Quentin Tarantino wouldn’t have an inspirational pool to dip in.


Throughout this anarchic auteur’s reign of referencing, the entire history of celluloid has been his memory bank. But when it comes to specific statements, the Me Decade makes this director all hot and bothered. One need look no further than his contribution to the Spring 2007 experiment entitled Grindhouse. In collaboration with fellow indie icon Robert Rodriguez, the man responsible for giving outsider filmmaking its maverick flair decided to revisit the days when double features ruled, and coming attractions were often more impressive that the picture they supported. At over three hours, many moviegoers couldn’t handle the skin and splatter glory of what these inspired box office bad boys were attempting. Now separated for DVD by Genius Products/Dimension Films, and released separately, we are treated to a longer, European cut of Mr. Pulp Fiction’s fabulous Death Proof. Even without its zombie stomp accompaniment, we are witness to everything that made exploitation so important. 


Our story begins when three Austin gals – disc jockey Jungle Julia (Sydney Poitier), her buddy Shanna (Jordan Ladd), and visiting vamp Arlene (Vanessa Ferlito) – end up at a local dive bar. Celebrating a girls-only weekend, they run into the creepy, middle aged maniac who calls himself Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell). After an eventful evening of cat and mouse, they wind up going head to head with the psycho’s souped up car. A few months later, a quartet of no nonsense chicks – production hairdresser Abernathy (Rosario Dawson), stunt driver Kim (Tracie Thoms), fresh faced actress Lee (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) and visiting Kiwi daredevil Zoë (Zoë Bell) – meet up with Mike on a lonely Tennessee back road. He wants to taunt and tease them, using a 100 mile per hour chase as a means of getting acquainted. But unlike the Texas talent, these babes have the ability to fight back. And when they do, Mike will need more than a well armored vehicle to stop the rampage.


As a greatest hits package of every grindhouse conceit ever considered for heating up a local passion pit, QT’s dazzling Death Proof stands as a sensational slice of electrified genre porn. From subversive slasher like violence to 440 horsepower white line fever, it walks the freak show divide between reverence and rip-off so well that we never once feel the obvious nods and callbacks. Taking the best bits of b-movie masterworks like Vanishing Point and Dirty Harry and Crazy Mary among many, many others, the jigsaw genius with a seemingly endless frame of allusion proves his continued dominance of the filmic language. Not only is he rewriting the rule book and all its potential translations, but he’s going back over the work of those that preceded him and giving those movie maxims a good tweak along the way.

For anyone well versed in the original version, there is definitely more meat here. We are treated to a mid-narrative sequence where Mike literally stalks Abernathy and her pals. It’s a peculiar moment, since it seems to indicate that this character’s pathology is based as much in machismo as it is murderous rage. Also enlightening is Arlene – aka “Butterfly’s” – missing scene lap dance. As he does with most music based moments in his film, Tarantino maximizes the effect of this bravura bump and grind. The rest of the material is marginal – little snippets of conversation, extended moments of non-erotic female bonding. Many of these segments do help flesh out previously paltry backstories, as well as give us a chance to hear more of this man’s amazing dialogue.


Indeed, some consider Death Proof far too talky, and for those who think the original cut was verbally overwrought, this version will test their conversational tolerances. From this critic’s standpoint, the wordiness is warranted. Two hours of Stuntman Mike ramming young blonds into his windshield with his modified auto would be an open invitation to misogyny. One can practically hear the PC proponents complaining that QT is a director who hates women. Hardly – but that’s because of the characterization…which comes directly from the girl’s interaction. In fact, it’s easy to see the 30 minute rap sessions as the set up for what will be a huge horror/high speed chase payoff. The car crash that ends section one is remarkable, perhaps the most grotesque display of gear to gal gonzo ever attempted. Even better, the last act street race showdown is spectacular, a stunning reminder of how effective physical effects and real stuntwork can be.


As part of the ample added content on the two disc Extended and Unrated Special Edition DVD, we get lots of how-to featurettes. Tarantino talks openly about wanting to emulate the old school method of machine mayhem, and he introduces us to the masters of such disasters. We also get some insight into the casting process – why Kurt Russell was a genre must and how the various female faces have intriguing lineages all their own. As with most of his movies, our filmmaker is hyper to the point of distraction. He can barely contain his thoughts, and rambles on almost incoherently about the many bows he built into the film. Without a commentary track which actually highlights these hints however (it’s a feature the disc definitely warranted), we occasionally feel lost. Not to worry though. Death Proof works perfectly well without a brain steeped in the blaxploitation/action epics of the Watergate era.


In fact, part of the fun of this fantastic movie is rediscovering these forgotten filmmaking facets sans their outright connections. Of course, there will be those who don’t know them from a Herschell Gordon Lewis splatter sensation or a David F. Friedman flesh feast. If there was one flaw in Tarantino and Rodriguez’s designs, it was assuming that all movie geeks were as goofy for a slice of raincoat revisionism as they were. Part of the problem with Grindhouse as a concept was a lack of proper context and audience perspective. Not everyone in the demo owns the Something Weird Video catalog or rereads The Psychotronic Film Guide like it was a Bible. These novices needed to be immersed in the genre for a while in order to appreciate such worship. Instead, they were tossed into the mix pell mell, and came out confused.


And that’s a shame, because Death Proof has a helluva lot going for it. The performances are flawless, with special recognition going to Russell (who is as terrifying as he is pathetic) and Rosario Dawson, who makes self-effacing cockiness seem downright desirable. Add in Sydney Poitier’s diva dimensions and Zoë Bell’s star making turn and you’ve got a film that easily walks the walk that it talks. Yet it’s Tarantino that once again deserves an equal amount of credit. Only a filmmaker as accomplished as he could take a lamented cinematic style and reinvent it to fit his own diabolical needs. As he did with martial arts in Kill Bill and crime in Reservoir Dogs, Death Proof is ample evidence of this man’s moviemaking prowess. You may bristle at his tricks and transparency, but no one keeps film as kinetic as he does. If anyone could give exploitation a good reputation, it would be this amiable anarchist – and this movie is confirmation of such an artistic acumen.


 


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Saturday, Sep 29, 2007


When the western finally wore out its welcome on both the big and small screens, it required that most reactionary of entertainment ideals – revisionism and/or deconstructionism - to mark it’s marginal return. Beginning with the sensational spaghetti phase, and working through phases both existential and esoteric, filmmakers found hidden facets of the genre, exploiting realism and debunking myth in an attempt to make the category compliant to a contemporary audience. While many still can’t cotton to its outlaw glorification and “violence answers everything” ideal, the creative forces in filmmaking still try to revive its fading fortunes. With a few startling examples – Unforgiven, for example – the horse opera is still considered an artifact of a less sophisticated entertainment era.


Perhaps that explains the lax, almost lost quality of Andrew Dominik’s fascinating if flawed The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Not really an oater in the traditional sense, yet restricted by the undying spirit of the wild, wild west, this is a biopic as a beautiful collection of landscapes, a project where vistas and visuals are far more impactful than characters or individual interaction. Instead of giving us reasons to care about the title icons, people who’ve remained intrinsic to the pulp culture collective since fading from physical view, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is hollowed out history. It’s a Ken Burns documentary without all the style and none of the substance. It’s one big long love letter to the notion of a nation without laws, and a stunning example of overreaching aesthetic dismantling a rather decent idea.


Our tale begins with Ford trying to join Jesse’s gang. Brother Frank (a blink and you’ll miss it turn by Sam Shepard) rejects the oddball kid outright, but the celebrated criminal finds his fawning…interesting. After a set piece train robbery, the boys disband, heading to safe houses in and around the Midwest. James meets back with his family, while the Fords - Robert and his older sibling Charley (an excellent Sam Rockwell) – head to their sister’s farm. There, they get involved in various personal problems, including unnecessary romantic relationships, conspiracies against Jesse, and back door deals with local law enforcement. Naturally, James finds out about these transgressions, and uses his own brand of six shooter justice to right the wrongs. As the Fords continue to befriend the seemingly psychotic criminal, it’s clear that James is planning something sinister for his compadres. It is up to Robert to act, even if it means destroying everything he’s ever cared about.


At the core of director Dominik’s take on this material (by way of Ron Hansen’s novel) is the idea that fame always has its flunkies, that even a notorious murderer and criminal like Jesse James would have at least one glorified groupie on the range who’d desperately want to emulate him. Our fanatic is the noted weakling Ford, a spineless sycophant with as many nervous tics as personal problems. He’s an obsessive, a stalker in an era where such menace was begged off as eccentricity, or ignorance. By the time this film finishes setting up the last act killing, it’s not a surprise. Instead, it becomes a natural extension of our current tabloid take on such matters. Ford may seem forced into acting – he’s supposedly saving himself and his brother from James’ unpredictable nature – but his is a response to rejection, not a matter of actual self defense. 


All of this could make a fine film, especially one that never looses its focus to feature unnecessary supporting characters and insignificant subplots. But The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is almost all ancillary players and narrative asides. Whenever we are introduced to a new member of the gang, or walk into the home of a distant relative, Dominik disembarks from the story at hand to bring us backstory, historical context, and expositional explanations. It’s like listening to a lecture by an old time recreationist, complete with a vernacular heavy narration that frequently undermines the mood. No matter how much we enjoy the company of Charley Ford, Wood Hite, Dick Liddil, or Ed Miller, we spend way too much time with them.


And then there is the acting. When it comes to supporting performances, everyone is aces. They bring a nice level of authenticity, never coming across as too contemporary or overly modern. But our stars are scattered to say the least. As James, Brad Pitt decides to invest his killer with a Zen sense of nature, as well as a weird sort of insomnia that only arrives when the story needs him awake. He’s like Jeffrey Goines from 12 Monkeys on personality altering chemicals and a couple of quarts of moonshine. It’s a take that kind of grows on you, as well as a Method maneuver that never really pays off. As Ford, however, Casey Affleck is quirkiness incarnate. When we first meet him, his line readings resemble the disconnected ramblings of a borderline imbecile. His toothy grin and stammering, starstruck qualities are downright creepy. But when viewed in contrast to what Pitt is producing, a sly symbiosis occurs. It’s as if, by allowing his actors to go in totally different directions with their interpretations, Dominik is trying for a single three dimensional whole. And he nearly achieves it.


What he does get right, however, are the gorgeous cinematic compositions that give The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford its optical splendor. While there are rumors swirling around the production of interference from studios and stars (Pitt is an executive here, as well as Ridley Scott), it’s clear than Dominik has an eye for pretty pictures. From the dynamic night robbery with its snow-covered, near monochrome menace to a stunning shot of Jesse riding down a hill toward a guilty co-conspirator’s shack, there are enough evocative sequences here to stir even the most hardened motion picture heart. Yet they continue in the service of a narrative that never comes alive, that fails to fulfill the story’s numerous possibilities, and trudges along tentatively, only to go on for another half hour after the finale.


Oddly enough, the epilogue material is indicative of what’s right – and very wrong – with The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. When we learn of the conflicting feelings toward Ford, of how James’ unusual fame produced a clear cut dichotomy between people who loved his criminal bravado and those who suffered at his hands, it’s a fascinating bit of history. Likewise, the stage show where the killing was recreated nightly, plus the eventual backlash that caused Ford to go into hiding, are similarly evocative. Soon however, we realize where the flaw in the film exists. When dealing with James and Ford, their unintentional battle of wills intertwined with their individual shortcomings and psychosis, we get the outline for something truly remarkable. But when viewed in response to the rest of the movie proffered, the reaction is far more muted.


Fact is, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford should have been better. It should have followed the real focus on the story and done away with at least an hour of subplotting. Good work by genial actors just can’t make up for a lack of direction or an overreliance on atmosphere. Director Andrew Dominik gives great mood, and when paired with the right project, the results should be astounding. But this movie is a western for those not steeped in the genres generic trappings, who see majesty in the mundane and brilliance in the disconnected and dour. The only thing epic about this otherwise slight film is its ambition. You can tell that everyone involved thought they were creating a post-modern masterpiece. What we end up with, however, is a collection of pretty canvases without a single gallery conceit to hold them all together. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford could have been heroic. As it stands, it’s nothing but scattered.



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Friday, Sep 28, 2007


Here it is, the last Viewer Discretion Advised before SE&L settles in for its annual examination of horror in all its many film-oriented facets. As usual, the pay cable channels are challenging the very notions of quality, providing limp action, dull drama, and uninspired comedy as its main cinematic starting points. Only a fascinating look back at the War at Home circa 1945 holds any worthwhile allure. Things aren’t much better on the Indie and Outsider scene either. It looks like every movie-based network is waiting for the calendar to turn over so they can indulge in a little movie macabre thrills and chills. So play it safe this weekend – tune in to the suggested selection, and then get ready to get your creepy crawly on. You’ll have 31 days of dread before the haunted holiday itself signals an end to all the ghosts and goblins:


Premiere Pick
Flags of Our Fathers


It was an ambitious decision. With the success of Saving Private Ryan and books like The Greatest Generation, Hollywood and the viewing public’s newfound love affair with World War II was about to get a whole lot trickier. Clint Eastwood announced that he intended to take on the Battle of Iwo Jima – one of the conflict’s worst and bloodiest – and present it from two perspectives. The first would be this Western/Allie/American side of the story, with that famous photo of the flag raising beginning the dramatic dissertation. From there, the hero worship accompanying the soldiers, plus the search for the real story behind the shot, are given an equally evocative treatment. For many this was the lesser of Eastwood’s daunting double feature. The all Japanese Letters from Iwo Jima would be considered the material’s masterpiece. Still, this is a wonderful motion picture, addressing issues not usually associated with a war movie. (29 September, Cinemax, 10PM EST)

Additional Choices
Miami Vice


Michael Mann’s uninspired update of his seminal ‘80s TV series avoids all of the arch art direction and soundtrack spoils that gave the MTV-inspired crime drama its signatures. Instead, we getting Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx doing Scarface for an audience more interested in pastels and Glen Frey than undercover acrobatics and moral indecision. (29 September, HBO, 8PM EST)

Running with Scissors


Movies based on books run the risk of angering more than one demographic. You have devotees to the tome, individuals hoping for complete authenticity. On the other hand, you’ve got film fans who just want an engaging entertainment. This adaptation of Augusten Burroughs autobiographical work satisfied neither. It missed too many of the memoir’s finer points, substituting obvious quirk in their place. (29 September, Starz, 9PM EST)

Failure to Launch


Here’s a weird idea for a romantic comedy – let’s focus on the adventures of an amiable slacker who won’t leave home, even after he hooks up with a socially acceptable hottie. Matthew McCanaughy is the likeable sponge. Sarah Jessica Parker is the horse-faced catalyst who’s supposed to inspire, and then spring him. It’s all very touchy feely and phony as Hell. (29 September, Showtime, 8:15PM EST)

 


Indie Pick
Kill Your Idols


Kill Your Idols starts off with a stellar premise for a documentary. Hoping to trace the history and growth of the No Wave scene in mid ‘70s New York, director S. A. Crary rounds up a few of the usual suspects – and a couple we desperately hope to hear from – and turns the camera on their open, opinionated selves. For anyone who grew up in the period, only ‘hearing’ about artists like Lydia Lunch or Suicide from their more hip and haughty pals, this is a chance to get in on the ground floor of the significant sonic movement and see what all the fuss was about. In many ways, this approach will probably copy your reaction to this fine, fragmented film. On the one hand, you will definitely find these aging musical anarchists an intriguing and engaging bunch. But there will be folks who hear the racket these reasonable people made and bristle at such an atonal attack. For them, no amount of erudition can make up for their lack of melody. (01 October, Sundance Channel, 11PM EST)

Additional Choices
American Splendor


Paul Giamatti is writer Harvey Pekar, a miserable man who channels his angst into the title comic. Along with friend Toby Radloff (the genuine nerd of Cleveland, Ohio), they work as file clerks for the VA. This astounding biopic follows the cult figure’s rise to prominence…and the pitfalls along the way.  (01 October, IFC, 9PM EST)

Debbie Does Dallas Uncovered


One of hardcore’s penultimate titles gets a documentary breakdown thanks to director Francis Hanly’s overview. This is really nothing more than a UK look at America’s obsession with smut, an episode from Channel 4’s sensational The Dark Side of Porn. Still, it definitely deserves a look. (02 October, Sundance Channel, 2AM EST)

Dahmer


He remains an icon of evil, a man so disturbed that he could only satisfy his psychosexual cravings via vivisection and cannibalism. When he was caught, the slaughterhouse state of his apartment indicated a darkness much deeper than anyone thought. Too bad this small indie effort fails to capture any of these elements. (03 September, IFC, 9PM EST)

Outsider Option
Circle of Iron


In an ADD hampered cinematic society which thinks films like Crank and The Transporter are too restrained, this elemental Bruce Lee vanity project (which was completed posthumously after the noted Asian action star died) will appear almost comatose. But if you get into the mellow mood being presented, and actually listen to the many maxims offered up, you will definitely be engaged both visually and metaphysically. For many, Lee continues to be batted back and forth, marginalized and sanctified by critics on both sides of the conversations. Still, it’s clear that his impact on martial arts in the movies remains as strong as ever. No film featuring kung fu, karate, or any other form of Eastern training can make it into theaters without bowing to the man who more or less formed their commercial viability. While Circle of Iron won’t diminish his earnest reputation, it also won’t amplify it. Instead, it remains an individualized endeavor lacking its true inspiration. (01 October, Flix, 12:45AM EST)

Additional Choices
Bikers Beware!


It’s Billy Jack vs. Marlon Brando as TCM’s Underground brings chopper riding reprobate to the late night audience. Both movies here – The Born Losers and The Wild One – have been featured before, so if you love ‘em, here’s your chance to enjoy them all over again. If you’ve never seen them, you’re in for some remarkable man vs. motorcycle madness. (05 October, TCM Underground, 2AM EST)

The Red Shoes


British auteur Michael Powell and his longtime collaborator Emeric Pressburger created this decidedly adult take on the Hans Christian Anderson fairytale, and critics have been beside themselves ever since. Remarkable in its use of color and art design, yet equally imposing in its acting and dance performance, this is a masterpiece for the ages. (30 September, Retroplex, 11:40PM EST)

The Capture of Grizzly Adams


Okay, so it’s a TV movie. Sue us. We here at SE&L just can’t get enough of Dan Haggerty’s hokey mountain man persona, and this old fashioned melodrama has enough wonderfully weepy elements to push all of our guilty pleasure buttons. Come on – it’s got wrongful accusations and kids being threatened by a trip to the orphanage. How can you say no? (02 October, Drive In Classics Canada, 10:30PM EST)

 


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Friday, Sep 28, 2007


Apparently, people just can’t be ‘people’ in the movies. Gone are the days when individual idiosyncrasy and outright character quirks gauged a personality. Now – or at least in the universe of the post-modern motion picture – issues outside a human being must dominate who they are. A person whose father is a drunkard, who used heroin in the past, and dreams of a life where material wealth will fulfill every single one of his heart’s desires, doesn’t process said problems and then convert them into an overt philosophy. Instead, they are solely defined by them, limited in cinematic scope to be hobbled by such insurmountable social hurdles. The new film by two time Oscar winner Robert Benton, Feast of Love, is a veritable smorgasbord of such ills-defined scrubs. What wants to be a multifaceted look at how emotion moves and manages us becomes a cardboard collection of movie of the week warning signs.


What we have here is a story where everyone is carved out of crisis. Professor Harry Stevenson (Morgan Freeman) is all broke up inside since the death of his son. While his wonderful wife Esther (Jane Alexander) tolerates his moods, she’s desperate to see him back in the classroom. While on extended leave, he frequents a local Portland coffee shop (Jitters – tee hee) run by the unlucky in love owner Bradley (Greg Kinear). Having recently lost his wife (Selma Blair) to a lesbian lover, he’s empty and vulnerable. Still, he hopes to find love, and believes he may have when he meets real estate agent Diana (Radha Mitchell). Unfortunately, she’s not the faithful friend he thinks she is. Elsewhere amongst the staff, young barista Oscar (Toby Hemingway) has just fallen head over heels with little girl lost Chloe (Alexa Davalos). In an odd twist of fate, the energetic couple has two massive burdens to overcome. One is his drunken, dangerous father Bat (Fred Ward). Hers is a psychic prediction that Oscar is destined to die.


Human interaction just doesn’t get this overstuffed. If Feast of Love was indeed a food, it would be a purposeless pan pizza decorated with every topping on the melodrama menu and extra schmaltz inserted into the talky, twice baked crust.  Instead of simplifying the story to make everything crystal clear and highly important, Benton believes in getting lost in untold undercurrents. No one is just discontented – they are plagued by literal curses. Happiness doesn’t come from simply being together. No, couples must copulate and spend endless minutes spooning in pre/post sexual congress to illustrate their attraction. Replete with social suckers and lustful losers, this is a movie of misfits, a film better suited as a cautionary example vs. a work of celluloid substance. If we could get a handle on what this director was aiming for, that would be one thing. But the way this sappy story is told, the parts never create a significant sum.


At first, we feel this will be a tale about redemption. Freeman, who basically wears dignity and grace on his brilliantly aging face, could be the center of an intriguing take on forgiving one’s flaws and accepting the horrors of the past. His character has the most inner stability, the most well rounded relationship, and offers more advice than doctors Phil and Laura put together. Unfortunately, he’s one of those ‘unable to practice what he preaches’ teachers. For every beneficial bon mot he gives out, he spends another sleepless night blaming himself for this son’s demise. It’s a tentative situation, one that could easily unsettle a viewer hoping to see something other than 100 minutes of self pity. But Freeman pries more out of his moments than the sloppy script (by Autumn in New York scribe Allison Burnett) actually offers. Sadly, he’s the only actor who can.


On the opposite end of this paradigm is the pathetic Greg Kinnear. It’s unclear what’s more upsetting about his Bradley character – the fact that he’s such a clueless sap, or that this noted performer can’t find a way to play him properly. Maybe in the hands of a more gifted, or daring star, we’d have something to hang onto. But Kinnear actually buys into this guy’s good natured denseness. In a surreal seduction scene where wife Selma Blair is getting mentally bi-curious with a Sappho softball player, our hapless lead sits back and smiles like he’s just let the world’s biggest fart. It doesn’t help matters that every line of dialogue he’s given sounds like a passage from the dimwitted optimist’s primer. We’re supposed to view his unbelievable blind faith as something good. But when it comes out of Kinnear’s mouth, it sounds downright desperate – and rather pathetic.


Part of the problem is the screenplay. It feels like Burnett simply skimmed the chapter headings of Charles Baxter’s book and then inserted emotional signposts from a Lifetime Original Movie. In other instances, she leaves characters so vacant that others must try to fill in their blanks. As Oscar, the dreamer with a Dad who’s consistently two and three quarter sheets to the wind, Toby Hemingway is all tribal tattoo - and that’s it. His after-sex speech about dreams and fantasies sounds like the incoherent ravings of a well potted weed head. This means that Chloe, as essayed by a decent Alexa Davalos must do all the heavy cinematic lifting. Not only do we have to believe in her amiable if aimless gal, but we rely on her to provide her partner with some manner of sympathy. After all, we learn he’s going to die about halfway through the film, so in order to make that event (if it ever comes) resonate, there’s got to be some identification or empathy there.


But Feast of Love will have none of that. Instead, it aims for the little plastic tips at the end of your heartstrings and hopes that by slightly nicking them, the inadvertent and ever so slight tugging will leave you satisfied. In fact, all it really does is make us angry. When the Professor reaches out to Chloe, when Diana’s man whore boy toy calls her the C-word and slaps her face, the movie actually offers up some life. We sense a spark that other sequences have no intention or ability of creating. Even worse, the intersecting narrative with its Altman-esque sense of scope destroys any real sense of drama. Since Benton isn’t out to replicate said American auteur’s epic nature (the running time is kept to a bare focus group friendly minimum) and hopes to keep each important thread in its own isolated arena, elements that should help are left hanging. It says a lot about this film that Kinnear and Freeman end up living next door to each other, yet that fact vanishes from our memory almost immediately.


In truth, it’s hard to assess what would help this haphazard effort. Perhaps if Benton had tossed aside the entire same sex subplot and made Kinnear’s character less of a cuckold king. Maybe Fred Ward’s drunk on a rampage routine could have been scaled back or simply excised. Did we really need the nauseating meet-cute moment when Chloe and Oscar make cow eyes at each other while the Professor predicts their Greek god-like level of love? Even the ‘dog bribe’ bit was a pointless exercise in tacky tween greed. When viewed through all these flawed facets, Feast of Love comes across as a budget buffet instead of a banquet. Baxter’s inspiration for his novel was apparently a reworking of the Bard’s celebrated A Midsummer’s Night Dream. One thing’s for sure – this isn’t Shakespeare. It’s barely Benton, when you come to think of it.



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