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by Bill Gibron

4 May 2008


It sounds both sinister, and kind of silly: vagina dentata - literal translation, female genitalia with teeth. Believe it or not, cultures all around the world have legends about this mysterious gender power, a clear cut allegory for the control women have over men. While much of what makes up the folklore derives from ignorance, imagination, and just a wee bit of old world paternal superstition, it’s clear that the biological battle of the sexes is less than a fair fight. Women mandate conception, give birth to the future, and more or less determines the destiny of the human race. The indie horror comedy Teeth wants to add a few more mixed metaphors to this situation. Sometimes, it succeeds. At other instances, it’s the crotch version of a circus geek.

Abstinent Dawn is dedicated to ‘The Promise’, a school program that promotes purity and virginity. Ever since she reached puberty, she’s been at war with her hormones, and so far, religious fervor has kept them at bay. Then Tobey, a new boy in town, tests her moralistic mantle. When an innocent date turns deadly, Dawn fears something is wrong with her womb. Seeking the counsel of the Internet, she learns a shocking truth - she may have vagina dentate, or a toothed vulva. A horrific trip to the gynecologist confirms the worst. With her home life in shambles - sick mother, distant stepfather, perverted stepbrother - she turns to another neighborhood boy for help. But with everyone’s thoughts on sex, it’s not long before her mandibled mommy parts start seeking revenge.

As a first film from Mitchell, the son of famed artist Roy, Lichtenstein, Teeth doesn’t seem like the work of mature 52 year old. Instead, the tone of this devious dark comedy is like John Hughes filtered through John Waters via a teenager’s impression of what a parable is. Much of the material here is mired in a too cutesy, too clever idea of how to portray uncontrollable instinct. On the other hand, the performances of Jess Weixler as Dawn, John Hensley as metalhead sibling Brad, and Lenny von Dohlen as tormented stepdad Bill bring a real truth to the subject’s treatment. What could have easily been a Hustler Magazine level joke gets some subtle, somewhat substantive treatment. Yet Lichtenstein never comes right out and shows us the ‘monster’. Instead, we have to view Dawn as a suggested symbol, and that’s where some of the problem lies.

On the newly released DVD from Genius Products, The Weinstein Company, and their Dimension Extreme subdivision, the filmmaker gets a chance to defend his choices. Over the course of a feature length commentary, Lichtenstein points to the fact that he’s dealing with actual tradition here, and that he’s simply following many of the narratives and myths derived within. Yet he never explains his scattershot approach, randomness taking over moments that need more clarity or focus. Take Dawn’s parents. Bill and his ailing wife Kim seem like nice enough people. But their relationship starts off ambiguously (shown in flashback at the beginning) and never develops beyond that. Even the mother’s terminal illness is kept a secret, the better to confuse our empathy.

And then there is the tone taken toward males. Dawn’s stepbrother Brad only wants to explore the incestual aspects of their relationship. New boy Tobey becomes an ersatz rapist before meeting his demise. A doctor drops the professional decorum to more or less violate his client, and the mixed up neighbor who lusts for Dawn longingly goes the Ruffee route to get in her goodies. To hear Lichtenstein tell it, a man’s libido is the most angry and aggressive facet of foreplay and fornication. Our heroine responds by using her inner ‘protection’ to insure “No means NO!” Much of Teeth is puzzling and rather muddled. For his part, when he’s confused, our director simply calls on the F/X to give us some gory castration shots.

Other potential satiric targets are never explored. Dawn lives, Simpsons’ style, near a nuclear power plant. The potential genetic jerryrigging such a facility could create is completely ignored. So is Brad’s preference for anal sex. Of course, we make the connection (it must have something to do with that game of ‘Doctor’ he played with Dawn when they were kids), but the movie fails to address it upfront. If all that’s important is our lead’s coming of age, and her decision to use her privates as punishment, Teeth certainly spends a lot of time beating around the bush (no pun intended). In fact, if you took away all the periphery and simply focused on the girl and her gimmick, the running time would end up on the short film side.

Clearly, Lichtenstein could have done more with the premise. The ending feels like the middle act of the movie - or worse, the set up for a sequel. It’s possible to see Dawn as a post-modern feminist heroine, a gal harnessing the power of her gender to eliminate those who merely want to exploit it. And unlike men, who are constantly reminded that they think with their penis more than anything else, such a story could be the antithesis of a ‘weaker sex’ sentiment. It could be smart, funny, profane, uncompromising, and deeply thought provoking. None of this is evident in the approach Lichtenstein takes, however. He’s just happy to push a few teen proto-porn buttons and move on. Even the making of material suggests that nothing much deeper than a slightly dirty joke was intended.

Still, thanks to some sensational performances and a clever insight or two, Teeth manages to transcend its implied trashiness. We can even forgive the unnecessary nude scene that Weixler had to endure. Had Lichtenstein taken a more Funny Games style look at his subject (in a good way), deconstructing the sex comedy and our expectations of same, this might have been a minor masterpiece. Instead, it’s a rock solid b-movie, schlock masquerading as something more meaningful. This is the kind of premise that Doris Wishman would have driven into the ground - or better yet, imagine what Dave Friedman or Harry Novak would have done. Teeth is too polite and PC to follow in those glorious grindhouse footsteps. It really should have reconsidered such a stance.

by Bill Gibron

3 May 2008


While driving across country a few years ago, filmmaker Todd Haynes decided to get reacquainted with an old friend. The man’s music had always meant something to him, but he never really made the link between the breadth of what he accomplished (and continued to do so) vs. the scope of how he changed the cultural landscape. The name Bob Dylan still demands the kind of respect worthy of a major historical icon, and he continues to make meaningful contributions to the craft of songwriting. But once Haynes began to dig into his four decade long catalog, he realized that there was more to this man than just his art. For his entire career, Dylan was a shapeshifting chameleon who used his place and position to explore many facets of the American experience. As a result, any biography would have to examine him from as many perspectives as possible.

Thus, I’m Not There was born, a sinfully rich reduction of everything Bob Dylan meant to music since his folk revisionism hit New York’s Village in the late ‘50s. Breaking down the man’s personality into his roots (African American adolescent Marcus Carl Franklin), his workingman blues (a fierce Christian Bale), his poetic side (Ben Whishaw), his superstar sizzle (the magnificent Ms. Blanchett), his personal life struggles (Heath Ledger), his conversion to Christianity (Bale again) and his old age iconography (Richard Gere), we get biography as ballyhoo, the truth tempered by the surrounding myths, folklore, rumors and innuendos that tend to make up this legend’s ample aura. Using nods to films and filmmakers of the specific era, Haynes wraps everything up in a visual grace that is astounding, and then populates it with performances that actually boggle the mind.

For Haynes, perhaps best known as the idiosyncratic mind behind the deconstructionist dramas Safe and Far from Heaven, tackling the life and times of one Bob “Zimmerman” Dylan, was not really a stretch. This was a man who had previously unraveled the days and death of Karen Carpenter, and a fairytale view of Iggy/Bowie glam rock. So a musician, even one of his import, wasn’t out of the question. Yet the decision to go with several different actors, including a young black boy and a woman raised a few eyebrows. Then again, few should have stirred. This is the man, after all, who used Barbie dolls to tell the tragic story of the anorexic AOR star. A little invention should have been anticipated. Yet many did question the multilayered motivation. Luckily, we now have a medium that allows for Haynes to provide some backstory.

If you’re looking for a definitive DVD, a combination of movie and making-of material that redefines and expands on the overall experience, The Weinstein Company’s new two disc version of I’m Not There is it. Over the course of a wonderful, informative, and in-depth commentary track, Haynes tells all. He explains the approach, the importance and symbolic stance of each idea and angle. Like learning the secrets of a complicated novel, or unraveling the truth inside a dense allegory, the co-writer/director adds heretofore unknown elements to his film, making the movie that much more intriguing. Wonder why Richard Gere lives in a circus sort of old world weirdness? Haynes explains. Why did he hire a minority to play a precocious, troubled Jewish boy from Minnesota? Again, there’s a reason. Nods to famous films (8&1/2, Masculin Feminin) are explored, as are lines quoted directly from Dylan interviews, lyrics, and other public presentations.

 

It all takes a bit of getting used to at first. While Haynes tosses in all these asides, in-jokes, and visual cues to keep us connected, seeing a small boy of color mimic Dylan’s earliest poses is still visually puzzling. As he makes his way from locale to locale, hoping trains and trading war stories with his fellow hobos, we can just see the dream being formed in a young child’s impressionable head. But that doesn’t explain the weird, almost off kilter design. Dylan’s youth wasn’t factually similar to the events that happen here. Instead, Haynes appears to be reaching across a more metaphysical interpretation of the man’s make-up. Thanks to the commentary, everything is made clear. In fact, I’m Not There becomes the Gravity’s Rainbow of rock star bio-pics thanks to this DVD overview.

Once we get to Bale, however, the cinematic stars literally align. Frankly, had Haynes decided to make a straightforward biopic with the superb UK young gun as his muse, no one would have complained. He’s got the Greenwich glower of the coffee house Dylan down pat, and when he lip syncs to versions of the bard’s best songs, he really does capture the subject’s stern determinism. Granted, Bale is a little too hunky to play the whisper thin folkie (all that Batman bulk just can’t be hidden), but from an inner angst standpoint, he’s amazing. So is the late, great Heath Ledger, as long as we’re talking about enigmatic men. His was and remains a hard chapter to deliver. He’s the private Dylan – married man, cheat, father, deadbeat – and it’s often not a pretty picture. In fact, the emotions are so raw that Haynes chokes up when revisiting the actor’s work.

And then Cate Blanchett arrives. To call her turn here magnificent is too undeserving an understatement. She is regal, almost unrecognizable. She masterfully morphs into the pot-scented genius who ruled his world with a typewriter and a six string. She is I’m Not There’s trump card, its piecemeal paradigm of fame, disillusion, influence, and flaws. During a fictional recreation of Dylan’s disastrous Newport Jazz Festival plug-in, Blanchett is so callous and cool we can feel the vibe resonating off the screen. In the second disc’s deleted/extended/alternative scenes, we can see how her performance grew. The auditions and interview material also provide some insight into how a glamorous beauty turned into an androgynous ‘60s stalwart.

This just leaves Whishaw and Gere. Of the two, the Perfume: Story of a Murderer star comes off best. He’s not given much to do. He simply stares at the camera and reads off a list of inspired Dylan via Arthur Rambeau witticisms. He definitely looks the part – naïve wordsmith playing with his philosophies – but without the commentary, his purpose would be much harder to define. Things are even worse for Gere - until now. In theaters, he was the weakest link in this material, his Dylan as resident of the aforementioned surreal turn of the century backwater burg. The carnival Wild West inferences seem especially odd, particularly when the midsection of his career is so intriguing (we do see Bale, momentarily reprising his role, during Dylan’s conversion to Christianity). Luckily, Haynes is there to uncover the many mysteries. 

One needs to remember that I’m Not There is definitely not a realistic, fact-based overview of the seminal pop culture figure’s life. This is not Walk the Line, or even Ray. It’s more like Lisztomania, and other outrageous biographical freak shows created by that cinematic savant Ken Russell. In fact, with a few more bloody crucifixes and a rasher of naked girls, this could be a hidden gem from the now 80 year old English oddball. Haynes treats his creative canvas like a slightly less sloppy Pollack, infusing his images with a contrasting color/black and white visual friction that breeds both contemplation and contempt. Even more confusing, we get actual Dylan recordings juxtaposed against obvious imitators. It’s as if Haynes decided to throw out the motion picture playbook this time and simply go on instinct. Luckily, most of his impulses are dead on.

If you want a realistic recreation of Dylan’s cultural impact, of how he turned a love of Woody Guthrie and traditional music into a significant social stance, grab a copy of Martin Scorsese’s magnificent documentary No Direction Home and enjoy. If, on the other hand, you don’t mind a wonderful, if slightly uneven, look at how one man becomes many, figuratively redefining his art along the way, stick with I’m Not There. Thanks to its treatment on DVD, what was a daring, difficult masterwork becomes a certified masterpiece.
 
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by Bill Gibron

1 May 2008


SUMMER’S HERE!!! and for the weekend beginning 2 May, here are the films in focus:

Iron Man [rating: 9]

Iron Man is fantastic, a sure fire blockbuster that will leave audiences breathless and fanboys wanting more

It may have been the moment when Tobey Maguire went emo, a visual gag that gave longtime Spider-man fans a similar physical reaction. Or maybe it was the flailing Fantastic Four franchise, taken out of its superhero element to be forced and family friendly. The Phantom didn’t help, and Ghost Rider only staved off the inevitable. The superhero movie was hobbled, and having a hard time maintaining its cinematic relevance.

So when it was announced that Marvel would take control of its own brand and make its own movies from its catalog, some were skeptical. Hollywood knows about film, not a comic book company. Well, all doubts now need to be cast aside. Iron Man proves that, by going to the source, the genre has finally found someone who understands it implicitly. 
read full review…
 

Snow Angels [rating: 6]

For all its noble intentions and universal truths, Snow Angels is not a great movie. It’s not a grand movie. It’s barely a very good movie.

Is there really any surprise left in the story of a small town racked by tragedy? Would something like Blue Velvet, or David Gordon Green’s George Washington really resonate today? The last movie to try was Todd Field’s fantastic Little Children. While poised to be an awards season hit, it was ignored by critics and barely made a box office dent. While marketing and studio support can easily be blamed, audiences clearly didn’t want to take another trip down sad suburban lanes. Now Green has returned with yet another look at how the problems of people spiral into events of Earth shattering consequence. And up until the final ten minutes, Snow Angels is some very powerful stuff. read full review…


Other Releases—In Brief

The Visitor [rating: 6]

The United States, post-9/11 is a confluence of contradictions that would make even the most skilled sociologist wince with professional pain. On the one hand, we want to extend an olive branch to the rest of the world, convincing them that our time in Iraq is not a matter of hubris or revenge. But back at home, we want the borders closed, the airlines safe, and the slightest ethnic suspicion investigated fully. Into this new world sleepwalks Ivory Tower widower Walter Vale. Forced to leave his New England home for a conference, he returns to his unused New York apartment only to discover illegal squatters Tarek, an Arab, and Zainab, an African, living there. Agreeing to let them stay, they develop a nice liberal-lite living arrangement, and everything seems fine…until Tarek is arrested on a minor infraction. Before Walter knows it, his new found friend becomes part of America’s homeland security bureaucracy. All of this allows The Station Agent‘s Thomas McCarthy an opportunity to work out all his fixations and frustrations on our current cultural isolationism. His capable cast never lets him down, while the story occasionally strands the characters in the inviolable victim mode. Not a bad film so much as an underwhelming one.

by Bill Gibron

1 May 2008


Is there really any surprise left in the story of a small town racked by tragedy? Would something like Blue Velvet, or David Gordon Green’s George Washington really resonate today? The last movie to try was Todd Field’s fantastic Little Children. While poised to be an awards season hit, it was ignored by critics and barely made a box office dent. While marketing and studio support can easily be blamed, audiences clearly didn’t want to take another trip down sad suburban lanes. Now Green has returned with yet another look at how the problems of people spiral into events of Earth shattering consequence. And up until the final ten minutes, Snow Angels is some very powerful stuff.

One winter’s afternoon, in a small Pennsylvanian burg, the sound of gunshots fills the air. It halts band practice, where high school kid Arthur Parkinson is playing the trombone. It resonates across the football field, where his new girlfriend Lila is standing by, taking photos. It travels across town, where Arthur’s separated parents continue their blame game, as do waitress Barb and her wandering husband, Nate.

As the last echo careens off a distance source, all thoughts turn to recent events. Little Tara Marchand went missing a few weeks before, and angry parents Glenn and Annie took it very hard. Now, some suspect the tragedy has escalated beyond a tiny child and a horrible accident. Glenn was never that stable to begin with, and Annie’s done nothing by spurn and sour his feelings. The terrifying sound might just be their issues - adultery, attempted suicide, alcoholism, abandonment - coming to a head. It might be something much worse.

It’s really a shame that Snow Angels stumbles when it does. It’s not like we can’t see it coming, however. Green, who tends to underplay everything with a deliberateness that borders on the unbelievable, shows a striking lack of restraint through most of the movie. Whenever Sam Rockwell’s failure in flux character Glenn first appears onscreen, we hope his newfound religious fundamentalism will be his only obvious quirk. By the time the actor grabs a gun and starts looking for Kate Beckinsale, we’re pining for the previous piousness.

It’s not that Rockwell is bad in the role, or too mannered in what he’s trying to accomplish. It’s just that Green has pitched the rest of his narrative so down on the dour temperament key that larger than life plays like out of this world. We hold little compassion for Glenn, never understand his numerous tantrums, traumas, or transformations, and simply wait for the mechanical movie making beats to take over and get us to the foreshadowed finale (the open sequence ends with a punctuation of gunfire after all).

And Beckinsdale is no prize either. Playing white trash and trampy may be a stretch for this striking UK beauty, but again, it’s not the performance that throws us. Instead, we are constantly taken by how selfish, manipulative, and just plain unlikable Annie is. She’s like the character played by Amy Ryan in Ben Affleck’s brilliant Gone Baby Gone, except without the drug problem or the pathos.

In Snow Angels, most of Annie’s actions are inexcusable. Her affair with a coworker’s wise-ass male nurse husband feels forced, the plot point predicament like something out of a dime store detective novel. When she needs our empathy, we could honestly care less, and there is never a mea culpa where she confesses to being a stone cold, conniving witch. Instead, Rockwell’s unclear history is supposed to excuse her actions. It doesn’t work.

Luckily, the rest of Snow Angels does. The material with Michael Angarano plays out perfectly, his flirtation with Annie never pushed, his eventual hook up with Lila, a girl more in line with his age and ideals, has a breezy, offbeat grace. The boy’s backstory, including a pair of feuding parents (Griffin Dunne and Jeanneta Arnette) has little weight, but it’s really not necessary. Angarano carries everything he needs with him, and the results give the arc a real sense of purpose.

There are also some sensational supporting elements that keep us engaged. Comedian Amy Sedaris may be the last person you’d picture playing a wounded, whiny small town waitress, but her turn as Barb is beautifully realized. Similarly, little Grace Hudson is the perfect child star antidote as Glenn and Annie’s daughter Tara. While one imagines that most of her scenes were the result of extended improvisation, she never comes across as Dakota Fanning phony or, God forbid, Quinn Cummings cloying. 

Maybe it’s the fact that Green is going with someone else’s ideas here. Snow Angels is based on Stewart O’Nan’s novel, and the feeling of something written, not organic, is everywhere. Much of what happens here would probably come across better on the page. We recognize how minor moments can evolve into unfathomable horrors - human or otherwise - but we miss most of the internal monologues that fiction uses to flesh out these situations. Green hopes his camera and contemplative cinematography will carry us across these plot pot holes. Sadly, we struggle to see the significance.

For all its noble intentions and universal truths, Snow Angels is not a great movie. It’s not a grand movie. It’s barely a very good movie. But if taken at face value and allowed to be its earnest, overplayed self, the sense of cinematic satisfaction is fairly forceful - that is, until the shameless showboating at the end. It really does dampen an otherwise intriguing drama.

by Bill Gibron

1 May 2008


It may have been the moment when Tobey Maguire went emo, a visual gag that gave longtime Spider-man fans a similar physical reaction. Or maybe it was the flailing Fantastic Four franchise, taken out of its superhero element to be forced and family friendly. The Phantom didn’t help, and Ghost Rider only staved off the inevitable. The superhero movie was hobbled, and having a hard time maintaining its cinematic relevance.

So when it was announced that Marvel would take control of its own brand and make its own movies from its catalog, some were skeptical. Hollywood knows about film, not a comic book company. Well, all doubts now need to be cast aside. Iron Man proves that, by going to the source, the genre has finally found someone who understands it implicitly. 

Tony Stark is a wunderkind, a wealthy weapons manufacturer and all around entrepreneur known as much for his mind as his misdeeds. More comfortable in the headlines than the boardroom, he uses a mission to the Middle East with defense contractor pal Jim Rhodes to introduce The Jericho, an unfathomably destructive missile. A roadside ambush soon finds our cocky CEO in enemy hands, and they have a simple demand. Build them a similar system.

Instead Stark, with the help of a fellow prisoner, constructs a massive metal suit, a human shield capable of indescribable defenses and offensive destruction. Realizing what his company has wrought, the former hostage demands that it change course. This makes his secretary Pepper Potts happy, and his chief advisor and company head Obadiah Stane wary. In the meantime, Stark modifies his suit, turning it into a sleek, super-powered Iron Man. With it, he hopes to right the wrongs his corporate callousness created. 

Iron Man is fantastic, a sure fire blockbuster that will leave audiences breathless and fanboys wanting more. And if all that sounds like unhealthy hyperbole, this is the rare film that actually earns it. In an era where summer films tend to aim for opening weekend supremacy (and little else), this is an epic for the ages. Director Jon Favreau fills in the last missing element in his resume by creating a certified crowd pleaser, a F/X driven spectacle that mandates character count as much as CGI.

Just deep enough to avoid superficiality, so ‘whiz bang wow’ that there’s no chance of boredom, two decades of motion picture allegiance to the Marvel/DC universes is rewarded with an epic that wears it’s intentions proudly. Favreau and crew are looking to forge myth out of the post-modern jingoism, and they succeed beyond any Spider-manipulative psychobabble.

The genius move among many here is the treatment of Tony Stark both internally and externally. On the outside, much will be written about Robert Downey Jr.‘s turn here, and all the praise is warranted. Playing cocksure success and smarts with just enough self spoofing humor to keep from being unbearable, the accomplished actor with the very troubled (and public) past reestablishes his star power with what is, in essence, a collection of everything that contemporary society values.

Stark is attractive, excessively rich, a solid savant, and when push comes to power struggle, capable of tossing aside his blasé business model to fight for what is right. Sure, he also drinks, carouses, and more or less mucks up his personal life, but we love our heroes flawed. From the ancient Greeks to the online pages of TMZ, someone like Tony Stark is our own social reflection.

Internally, the first hour of the film establishes the character’s humanity equally well. Stark is given a physical representation of his personal problems - an electromagnetic implant that keeps tiny, needle-sized pieces of shrapnel suspended in his blood stream and away from his heart. From a clunky battery powered device to a smaller and more refined self-contained unit, this visual representation of the conflict going on inside our lead lends the film a great sense of balance. On the one hand, it powers the various alter ego suits. On the other, it also represents the future of his non defense contract corporate approach. It’s his Achilles Heal and his newfound conscious, a way of representing both the problems he faces and the realizations he’s come to.

By balancing these two elements together, along with some obvious nods to old school effects and new fangled filmmaking, Favreau sets the benchmark for all future comic book efforts. Some have complained that Iron Man is nothing more than an origin story, as if there is something wrong with seeing how an off kilter character like this (a guy dressed up in a high tech flying suit???) got it’s inspiration.

The Arab conflict opening is just ambiguous enough to avoid any outright stereotyping (the villains all speak various international languages, including Hungarian) and Stark’s solution to the dilemma seems like the sort of outsized mechanical master plan he would come up with. In fact, Iron Man is consistently logical and pragmatic. It doesn’t pull out the unbelievable big guns until the mandatory ‘good vs. evil’ finale.

Along with Downey, Jr. this film has assembled a crackerjack cast. Terrence Howard continues to amaze as an intriguing presence at the sidelines of the main action. His Jim Rhodes is primed to play a much bigger role come franchise time. Also impressive is Gwyneth Paltrow as Stark’s gal Friday, Pepper Potts. Intelligent without being imposing, concerned without overplaying that emotion, we get a wonderful byplay between her character and Stark.

Of course, every hero needs a bad guy to bounce off of, and Jeff Bridges is chrome-domed diabolical as Obadiah Stane. He just looks like trouble the moment we see his smug bearded mug, and our suspicions are rewarded. The closing confront may seem like standard cinematic operating procedure, but it sure does deliver.

Indeed, the main element that Iron Man offers that few of its predecessors could provide is solid storytelling matched with excellent entertainment value. Favreau’s filmmaking is compact, controlled, and never outside his capacity. As he proved with overlooked family fantasy Zathura, he’s not about extremes. Instead, he’s one of the few directors who establish an enjoyable equilibrium between the needs of the narrative vs. the mandates of the marketers. From the moment the movie opens to the final close-up, he does nothing but deliver. Anyone who still views him as an actor turned director needs to reconfigure their perspective. In fact, Favreau may be more accomplished behind the lens than in front.

Don’t be surprised when the backlash comes, however. Remember how the hype took Tim Burton’s Batman down a few unnecessary notches before the film itself reestablished its classicism. Those who’ve been chiseling away at the genre’s tombstone need to take a break - Iron Man reminds us of why the pen and ink paradigm was viewed as profitable in the first place.

Sure, this movie will make scads of cash, but what Favreau accomplishes here is something more timeless. Like Guillermo Del Toro’s sensational Hellboy, Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, and Raimi’s reverent view of Peter Parker, the story of Tony Stark becomes one of the best translations from comic to cinema ever. It’s also a firm reminder of why we go to the movies in the first place. 

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Double Take: The African Queen (1951)

// Short Ends and Leader

"What a time they had, Charlie and Rosie. They'll never lack for stories to tell their grandchildren. And what a time we had at Double Take discussing the spiritual and romantic journey of the African Queen.

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