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Thursday, Jul 3, 2008

It’s been nearly six solid months of agony and waiting, speculation leading to momentary bouts of joy and sullen disbelief. With reliable information a rarity, fans had to use every ounce of their cautious constitution not to overreact. Then, suddenly, patience paid off. The announcement came - the gang at Cinematic Titanic were back, and they’ve brought along a real hackwork howler to foist upon us unsuspecting bad movie buffs. For those who don’t remember the origins of this Mystery Science Theater 3000-styled clone, here’s the scoop. Touted last winter as a welcome return to in-theater commentary comedy, Joel Hodgson reteamed with pals J. Elvis Weinstein and Trace Beaulieu. With the additional help of talented ex-MSTerions Mary Jo Pehl and Frank Conniff, their goal was to update the original concept and bring the fine art of mediocre movie ridicule back to the masses.


Along with Mike Nelson, Bill Corbett and Kevin Murphy who carry on the defunct series’ traditions via their Rifftrax and Film Crew DVDs, this was the first time many in this group had participated in the format in over a decade. And after half a year, they have finally fashioned a follow-up. Devotees of the collective’s first direct to disc effort, the Al Adamson atrocity The Oozing Skull, wondered how the group would top that celluloid stinker. The answer? The Doomsday Machine, a reconfigured 1967 sci-fi slop job that has the bold faced filmmaking audacity to offer 75 minutes of Bobby Van, Denny Miller, Grant Williams, Ruta Lee, Mala Powers, and Henry Wilcoxon, only to disintegrate into footage shot four years later with none of the original cast.


See, the producers were clearly planning a major speculative epic, an end of the world wonder featuring the destruction of Earth, a hazardous journey into deep space, and an eventual colonization of Venus. Very much of the era - drive-in or otherwise. In the end, a lack of money meant they could only realize a small percentage of their goals. Stock footage replaced the planned F/X and corners were cut toward inventing the film’s future shock vision. Or maybe directors Lee Sholem and Harry Hope were just cheap, unimaginative bastards after all. The film frequently reeks of the Ed Wood School of incomprehensible narratives, the plot quickly de-evolving from a political crisis Apocalypse to an outer space swingers’ party in the blink of a cinema-schlock eye.


It’s 1976, and the world is on the brink of destruction. It seems the Chinese have developed a ‘Doomsday Machine’ located 700 miles below the planet’s surface. At the slightest provocation - which eventually arrives, though we never learn how or why - the Asian Reds will jumpstart the Earth’s core, causing the entire sphere to spontaneously combust. Of course, once the US and Russia get a whiff of this info, they decide to hijack a planned NASA mission to Venus and replace three of the more expendable astronauts with a few fetching astro-babes. Naturally, this goes over like gangbusters with everyone on the crew, except for the highly strung Major Kurt Mason. One look at skirt and he goes from persnickety pain in the ass to psycho-pseudo rapist.


The rest of the motley crew, including foxy flight surgeon Marion Turner, Russian space queen Georgiana Bronski, slightly unhinged meteorologist (and Mason victim) Katie, wisecracking New “Yawker” Danny, and surfer stud boy Colonel Don Price take their part in the procreation quite well. They don’t mind being passengers on this knotty Noah’s Ark, even if the tempers are flaring as often as the hormones. Eventually, people die, analog computer calculations are made, sacrifices are discussed, and one of those Planet of the Apes trick endings is attempted. No, it wasn’t all a simulation or an intricate NASA experiment. It turns out that if Soviet scientists had paid a bit more attention to the previous failed missions to the second closest planet to the sun, they may have discovered a few ‘collective consciousness’ warning signs along the way.


A long time staple of the breast-ically endowed Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, The Doomsday Machine is a miserable bit of motion picture sickness. Its mood swings are so rampant - serious space saga to stale soap operatics to mean-spirited misogyny - that teen girls are jealous of its irritability. Any film that feels Bobby “Mr. Elaine Joyce” Van and Ruta “HSN Diet Spray” Lee can sell its tech spec sketchiness is definitely dunderheaded. To make matters worse, the four years in the making finale, clearly fashioned out of whatever Sholem and Hope had lying around, has the cajones to recast the important players. As a result, there is at least 15 minutes of pointless stasis as well hidden extras with non-compatible voices try fervently to connect the material and make everything seem meaningful and deep. It ends up rendering the already retarded movie even more insipid.


For the Cinematic Titanic collective, The Doomsday Machine marks a MST3K Season 4 level challenge. At one point, Frank Conniff states exasperatedly that this experience is like “watching someone else watching Manos: The Hands of Fate”.  There is an instance when the cast completely clams up, the inability to quip on the inanity they’re witnessing overwhelming even their own masterful mirth making. The rest of the time, their material is spot on, joke after joke hitting the painful plotholes and destitute acting dead on. Hodgson is rather quiet this time around, letting Weinstein, Beaulieu, and Pehl do a lot of the heavy humor lifting. There is one classic moment when Mary Jo stops the film (a developing CT gimmick) to discuss the crisis fallback plan should the group have to decide on who lives and who dies, but overall, there is little of the skit-oriented filler that accented the previous series.


We do get a little more insight into the whole Cinematic Titanic protocol, however. At the very opening of the presentation, two workers discuss the upcoming installment with the cast. We discover that the plan is for the individuals present to record these episodes for “posterity” depositing the final results in a ‘time tube’ for future generations to enjoy. Oddly similar to the Film Crew conceit (adding commentary to all the movies known to man, even the horrible ones), it opens up the entire experience to limitless possibilities. One assumes that, after they get a handle on how to successfully market and maximize their self-sales and distribution network, Cinematic Titanic will become a regular cult commodity.


And as long as they deliver stellar satire like the kind found in The Doomsday Machine, there’s no reason to worry. Fans familiar with the group’s retro-revisionism will find nothing but treasure here, while those new to the whole MST/CT situation should be instantly won over. Way back in the ‘80s, when Hodgson teamed up with Murphy and producer Jim Mallon to produce some local UHF programming for Minneapolis, Minnesota television, they could have never envisioned two decades of celluloid send-ups. While purists wait for the day when all camps make nice and come up with a combined effort to bring everyone back into a single spoofing whole, we’ll have to settle for segmented brilliance. And with Cinematic Titanic, this cast of creative geniuses is back in big style. 


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Sunday, Jun 29, 2008

One really does have to feel bad for the Romantic Comedy. It’s a genre that’s life support system is more or less irretrievably broken. Of course, part of the problem lies in the two categories it contains. By its very nature, big screen humor has been running on empty for almost a decade. Besides, it’s hard to find love inside a stratagem consisting of tawdry gross out gags and juvenile Jokes from the John. And then there’s the ‘Moon/June’ part of the picture. In 2008, we no longer comport to the ‘love and marriage’ ideals of relationships. Instead, like the rest of our overcomplicated lives, we want to micromanage affection, leaving it less like a sunny summer sentiment and more like an emotional wash. Leave it to this past February’s Definitely, Maybe to try and revive the flat-lining film style. That it almost works is a testament to the category’s - and creator’s - staying power.


Former political consultant turned ad executive Will Hayes should have a wonderful life. His career choice has found him working on high profile campaigns for former President Bill Clinton, and now he’s a big success. He’s also got a precocious little daughter named Maya who just adores him. But when it comes to his love life, Will is always on the losing side. On the verge of a divorce from his wife, he is confronted by his inquisitive child, her questions framed around his seemingly failed romances. Agreeing to explain his past, with one small exception (he will change the women’s names), Will begins by outlining his exploits, starting with college sweetheart, Emily. After he moves to NYC, he finds himself embroiled in elections, and an affair with the idealistic Summer. Finally, he hooks up with April, an ambitious copy girl who seems to challenge his very purpose. It’s up to Maya to put together the clues, and discover who her mother represents…and if there’s a chance to save her freefalling family.


All throughout the ‘80s and ‘90s, Hollywood was convinced that the only way to make love stories truly work was to dress them up in outrageous, high concept fantasy. Unless you were Woody Allen, Tinsel Town thought you needed otherworldly help in creating something quixotic. Be it literally bewitched gals pining for a ‘mortal’ man, or angels desperate to connect with their humorless human charges, real people just can’t get together anymore. Instead, certain types - either freakishly fictional or meet cute manipulative - have to be devised, and then their escapes framed around a certain narrative device (frequently fashioned after an old school cinematic tearjerker) to get dates to dish out the dollars. Happily, Definitely, Maybe (new to DVD from Universal) avoids some of these pitfalls, instead hoping that a post-modern nostalgia guides the audience’s affections.


Thanks to the capable direction of Adam Brooks and a stellar cast including Ryan Reynolds as the put upon Will, Abigail Breslin as his daughter Maya, and a trio of charming fantasy gals - Elizabeth Banks, Rachel Weisz, and Isla Fisher - this fluffy piece of celluloid cotton candy has a tad more heft that your average heartstring strainer. By using the unique (if slightly wonky) narrative device of presenting all three ladies as possible partners, we get a much more viable view of how love and loss works. Even better, the political backing and time warp realizations (this is the early ‘90s, when grunge is still a novelty and Bill Clinton represents the future of America) aid in our sense of recognition. Unlike other RomComs that rely on ancient concepts of companionship to meter out their meaning, Definitely, Maybe tracks a more contemporary, quasi-ironic bent.


Most of this is done on purpose. As part of the full length audio commentary offered as part of the digital package, Brooks defends the whodunit like story structure, arguing that it helps sustain a focus as well as a certain likeability rooting interest in what is going on. One of the reasons the film functions so efficiently is that we see where Will made his mistakes, as well as the pain they caused. There is also the genuineness generated by Breslin. As one of the best child stars of her generation, she creates a kind of psychic sphere of influence, her perception reflecting our own take on the material. Through her, we sense the sentimentality in her father’s predicament, and hope for the genre-mandated happy ending.


Again, it’s the performances that support our attention. Reynolds, who can be a bit too jock cocky in his mannerism, finds a perfect balance between machismo and melancholy. Though he never comes across as lame, he’s definitely a leading man in training. As for his female co-stars, all create the necessary sense of boy/girl balance. Weisz in particular seems an expert at both the seduction and the send-off, while Elizabeth Banks’ Parker Posing could be toned down a bit. After an introductory sequence where she discovers the particulars of sex (it’s part of her school’s new educational regime), Breslin isn’t given much more to do. But thanks to the aforementioned openness in her expressions, we instantly forgive the limits.


Oddly enough, when viewed as a whole, Definitely, Maybe isn’t all that impactful. In fact, the reason Allen’s name gets tossed into the mix is that, with films like Annie Hall and Manhattan, the American auteur managed to mix humor with heartbreak in a way that seemed to resonate on a more universal, communal level. Even those of us who never lived a day in an uptown loft understood the pleasures and problems his characters were going through. Brooks is clearly no Wood-man, but he’s also not one of the numerous hacks who hopelessly exploit the inherent value of a screen kiss to contemplate all manner of middling to miserable contrivances. There are a lot worse things for a post-millennial RomCom to be besides ‘enjoyable’, and yet that’s an apt description of this film’s pixie stick commerciality. It may not be a dense, delectable treat, but while it’s around, Definitely, Maybe is pleasant enough.


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Sunday, Jun 29, 2008

True fans of cinema generally hate dubbed foreign films. Not only do they miss the beauty of the native language, but every rerecording job seems to feature Western actors misinterpreting the onscreen emotions to screech poorly scripted words to impossible to match lip movements. No matter how well done the final attempt is, or how much it complements the original’s intent, something seems to be off, a vibe that’s as visible as those misjudged mouth inflections. For his first film in English, Hong Kong auteur Wong Kar Wai (In the Mood for Love, 2046) has created a vignette oriented road picture following one lonely woman as she casts off the shadows of her prior life (and lover) and looks for redemption and rebirth along the byways and backwaters of the US. And just like those inexplicably unsettling translations from one idiom to another, something just doesn’t feel right.


Smarting after being dumped by her boyfriend, a dark and brooding Elizabeth stumbles into the NY café run by bubbly Brit Jeremy. Looking for a sympathetic voice, and maybe a slice of pie, the two strike up a curious friendship. One night, Elizabeth up and leaves, running off to Memphis to escape her ever-present heartache. There, she finds an alcoholic policeman named Arnie who refuses to give up on his cheating wife, Sue Lynn. Sadly, their feelings can’t transcend a relationship in freefall and a couple in deep denial. Later, our heroine finds herself in Reno, working in a casino and befriending a lying young card sharp named Leslie. When a poker game goes sour, both girls head to Vegas to connect with Leslie’s dad. What they discover there has Elizabeth wondering about who she is, where she’s comes from, and those “Blueberry Nights” with Jeremy.


As with any film that divides up its narrative into more than one section, My Blueberry Nights (new to DVD from Genius Products and the Weinstein Company) lives or dies by the effectiveness of these pieces. If one fails, or fully overwhelms the others, the whole sensation of the movie can be thrown off. In the case of Wong Kar Wai’s contemplation upon the meaning of love and all its painful complications, the internal elements are far more intriguing than the set up and resolution. During the two middle acts of the narrative, we learn about addiction, obsession, denial, and youthful rebellion. We see how one man’s inability to stay connected to his slut styled trophy wife leads to a battle with the bottle, while a cocksure daughter demands her father accept her on her own, indirect terms. With excellent performances by David Straitham, Rachel Weisz, and Natalie Portman, these moments manage to soar.


But the wraparound story, featuring Jude Law and Norah Jones is nothing short of ordinary. Aside from the performance aspect, which finds the singing sensation putting on her acting garb for the first time (and only partially succeeding), we never understand the deeper connection between the two. As they swap stories and symbolic rituals, comparing how life has left them both in the lurch when it comes to companionship, we never see the supposed smoldering chemistry. So when Jones’ Elizabeth heads out on the road, leaving Law’s Jeremy to wonder where his nightly pie pal has disappeared to, we aren’t moved, but confused. It makes the later actions of both characters - her writing lovelorn postcards from parts unknown, his incessant calls to all the bars and cafés in Tennessee - seem meaningless.


The final stumbling block that many will have to manage, aesthetically, is Wong Kar Wai’s visual choices. There is a heightened neon candy colored sense to the cinematography, the greens and reds shimmering like jewels amongst a dark Manhattan/Memphis backdrop. As he states in the extras found on the DVD, the director considered his first “American” film a chance to create a love letter to the city and state of mind he knows all too well (his wife’s family is from New York City). You can really see that care and attention in the way the sprawling Southwestern landscapes of Arizona and Nevada cascade past the lens. Such an attention to detail even translates down to the actors. Their close-ups are held within a concept of glamour shot respect - even when the sentiment inside a scene fails to mandate such glitz.


Yet there’s that ‘stranger in a strange land’ attempt at a cultural connection that doesn’t quite gel. Wong Kar Wai may think he knows how humans interact (and his past efforts prove this out), but having to translate said approach from East to West just can’t cut it. Characters in My Blueberry Nights tend to modulate between cutesy cliché and biting realism. At one moment, their hearts are clearly on their sleeves. The next, they are dead inside, the result of a life spent in pursuit of a personal passion that has left them hallowed out and hopeless. Straitham has a moment revolving around AA chips that is breathtaking, while Portman’s entire performance feels like a borderline breakdown. If there is promise to be found here, Wong Kar Wai buries it in a baffling blurred camera trickery that tends to turn everything into an overly arty advertisement.


Still, for what it strives to accomplish, for the stunning way this filmmaker moderates his vision and design, for the backdrops that betray the frequently infantile emotions of the characters, My Blueberry Nights must be considered a success. While it’s a shame that this DVD didn’t include the additional 20 minutes that Wong Kar Wai cut after the film’s disastrous Cannes premiere (especially in a format that allows for the retention of a director’s original vision), what remains is a strong statement of one man’s cinematic station, a viewpoint that, at least in this initial English outing, requires a little fine tuning. There is no denying the creative capabilities present. But just like other talent transplants, something here is not quite right. It’s still fascinating to watch it almost fail, however


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Sunday, Jun 22, 2008

When faced with death, few would argue against the prospect of more life. Sure, there are ethical considerations over ‘quality vs. quantity’, and no one really understands what it means to live forever, but immortality (and the implications it offers) has long captured the human imagination. As an alternative to non-existence, it seems like a foregone conclusion. Natural curiosity keeps us wondering what lies ahead, and the prospect of discovering - or actually living through - it drives many. After all, isn’t everlasting life the main tenet of all religion? Yet no one ever really considers what being immortal would really mean. It’s a concept explored by Asian filmmaker Higuchinsky in his fascinating featurette, Long Dream.


In an ominous Tokyo hospital, Dr. Kuroda Shuusuke treats patients with all manner of ailments. He appears to specialize in brain tumors, both benign and terminal. He also handles strange sleep disorders. When his associate, Dr. Yamauchi, comes across a young woman accosted by another patient, Kuroda reveals the strange case of Mukoda Tetsurou. Months before, the young man came in, complaining of something called “long dreams”. Instead of the normal night visions, his horrific REM-induced hallucinations lasting days, sometimes months. Soon, Mukoda is dreaming for YEARS. While trying to discover the secret of why this is happening, Dr. Kuroda must live with the guilt of another patient he couldn’t cure - a young woman named Kana continues to haunt his own waking fears.


Like an old school Outer Limits episode given a surreal Japanese twist, Long Dream (new to DVD from Facets Video) never excuses its made for TV frontiers. In fact, director Higuchinsky, best known for his surreal horror film Uzumaiki, embraces the medium in such a way that he makes even the story’s singular hospital setting work expertly. Everything about Long Dream is controlled and compact. There’s nary a wasted shot or underdeveloped moment. Taking the Junji Ito manga and translating it into a series of amazing movie images, the single named filmmaker finds the proper balance between dread and the deranged. There are moments here that resonate with real visual power. At other times, Higuchinsky is clearly playing with the audiences preconceptions.


Stories centering on dreams typically deal with the clash between fantasy and reality, how we view our world on a day to day basis bedeviled by our nightly visits into subconscious situations. In Long Dream, Higuchinsky highlights one of Ito’s more compelling ideas - that such scenarios could be a doorway to immortality. As the typical eight hours passes, as the subjected person rests, centuries could be playing out in their brain. Such intriguing concepts as evolution, progress, and the basic biological effect on the human enduring such shifts become Long Dream‘s central conceit. But there is also an element of sadness involved, a depressive notion that such an otherworldly opportunity may not be the boon our mind’s eye makes it out to be. Indeed, Mukoda’s deadened manner suggests that, even as he lives for eons in his mind, his true existence is being cut painfully short.


Of course, Higuchinsky does most of his deep thinking via images. Some are obvious (hundreds of CG clocks indicating Mukoda’s complaint) while others push the boundaries of believability (the “monsters” resulting from the title ailment). If you look too close, you may question the zipper-backed believability of some of the material. Similarly, the Kana subplot gets little true explanation. The last act denouement sells the purpose, and the acting by Horiuchi Masami helps fill in some of the blanks. But in order to have us believe in the reason for Dr. Kuroda’s seemingly unethical behavior, we need something stronger than a set of meaningless montages. Of course, this could also be part of Higuchinsky’s strategy. Without a feature length running time (Long Dream is only 54 minutes long), he has to infer some of his more substantive narrative.


Oddly enough, even with the complaints, it works. One of the reasons we stick with this material is that, thanks to Ito’s idea, Long Dream can’t help but fascinate. Dreams are our private realm, a world we visit that no one else can connect to. Sure, we share similar themes and pictures, but the actual experience is totally individual and unique. It’s a subject that many involved in the production address during the DVD bonus features. Both Ito and Higuchinsky comment on the spirit world, our connection to it, and the uneasy truce between the two planes. They also stress the horror elements in such an idea, proposing that people, faced with a certain style of “immortality” would be more frightened than if confronted by ghosts.


When viewed as both an exercise in style and an illustration of substance, Long Dream definitely delivers. It meticulously manages its material without going too far over into indecipherability, and even when things turn odd, Higuchinsky attempts to tie it all together. That he succeeds more times than he fails explains why, even at less than an hour, this film feels fully realized. Sure, some will not forgive the cartoonish appearance of the “evolved” versions of Kuroda’s creatures, and the “twist” at the end may not fully satisfy, but then again, this is more than just a surrealistic shocker. The individuals behind this movie want to challenge the preconception that death is the end and life at any expense is worth living. Long Dream seems to suggest that, in some cases, the exact opposite is true.


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Saturday, Jun 21, 2008

Sometimes, comedy is as much about the messenger as it is the message. Case in point: Adam Carolla. The stand-up/performer, responsible for such contrasting fare as Loveline (the radio and TV relationships show he co-hosted with Dr. Drew Pinsky from 1995 until 2005), the chauvinistic romp The Man Show, and Comedy Central’s Crank Yankers, is one of those odd, ‘love him or hate him’ entities. His smug, pseudo-frat boy shtick can grow horribly tiresome, and yet his quick sarcastic wit can reduce the most ridiculous circumstance down to a targeted one liner. So a feel good sports satire starring the man as an aging boxer grabbing one last shot at glory stands little chance of succeeding, except in small snippets, right? Wrong. The Hammer is actually one of the funniest films that the still sagging laugh-a-thon genre has to offer.


For Jerry Ferro, turning 40 is just another day on the calendar. His girlfriend still complains about his lack of ambition, his Nicaraguan best friend Ozzy remains naively optimistic about America as a land of opportunity, and his boss still hates his guts. Luckily, he can go to the local gym and work off his frustrations. As a former teen pugilist, Jerry enjoys the fight game. He even teaches a few classes to keep sharp. When he knocks out a cocky competitor during a sparing match, he earns the respect of a noted Olympic trainer. Soon, he has signed up to compete in the regional tryouts, with a shot at making the 2008 games in Beijing. And thanks to a budding relationship with public defender Lindsay Pratt, things are looking up on the interpersonal front as well.


Built out of character, not crudity, and wonderfully uplifting without being maudlin or pat, The Hammer (new to DVD from Genius Products and the Weinstein Company) is actually quite accomplished. Considering its independent production paradigm and low budget limitations, it is a funny and fresh take on material that’s as old as cinema itself. The tale of a washed up loser finding redemption in one more tour of competitive duty is not new - just ask Wallace Berry, Sylvester Stallone, or John Voight. It plays into everyone’s desire for a second chance, the possibility of being true to their own nature, and the universal wish fulfillment that comes with winning. Carolla’s character is a decent guy dealt cards he can never play. By using boxing as a way back, he has a chance at finally re-stacking the deck in his favor.


A storyline like this is prone to cliché, but Carolla - who came up with the idea and worked closely with Kevin Hench on the script - avoids all but the most mandatory of chestnuts. We have a crusty old trainer that’s seen it all, contrasted by the girlfriend without a lick of faith in her man. There’s the idealistic young lawyer who puts her clients in front of her career, and the foreign best buddy whose broken English expressions hold a world of cockeyed wisdom. Between the black boxer with a stubborn, nu-jack attitude, to the last act discovery and betrayal, The Hammer could easily be a solid studio era potboiler. Toss in an A-list actor (or equally forgotten face) and you’d have that classic combination of underdog tale and five hanky tearjerker.


Except…The Hammer doesn’t want to be so obvious. That is why casting Carolla is crucial to the film’s success - and the difficulty in marketing it. As a celebrity, he gives off a vibe of being crude and confrontational. Many have gotten the mistaken impression that he’s one step away from Johnny Knoxville’s Jackass joking, or Howard Stern without the outward adolescent obsessions with sex. Carolla, however, is a far more complicated comedian. He mines both the intellectual and the illiterate for his wit, a sly satiric commentator rather than a simple set-up and punch line jokester. Yet thanks to the limited settings he’s been seen in, audiences still think of him as abrasive and obnoxious.


It’s an underserved reputation that makes the first few minutes of The Hammer rather disorienting. When faced with a jerk-off boss, we anticipate the moment where Carolla will dig into his bag of ironclad insults and lay into the butthead with verve. As his soon to be ex-girlfriend is dressing him down, undermining everything that makes him human (let alone a man) we anticipate Jerry’s epithet-laden screed. And we wait. Soon, we learn what makes this movie so winning. Unlike other so-called comedies which let a stand-up simply walk into frame and start regurgitating their act, The Hammer gives us realistic, recognizable characters. That Jerry is genuinely funny is just one of his endearing attributes. He’s also troubled, lost, vulnerable, and sickeningly loyal.


There is one scene in particular which shows how well Carolla and Hench balance their approach (with a little help from solid direction by Charles Herman-Wurmfeld). Jerry wants to take lawyer Lindsay on a date. She suggests an afternoon at LA’s goofy La Brea Tar Pits. After he gets over the fact that it’s not a nighttime get together, his string of snappy comebacks while at the historic site are marvelous. Not only is it important for the supposed humor of the piece, but it shows Jerry to be the loveable loser, a man whose hound dog expression hides a winning inner warmth. All throughout The Hammer, the interaction of individuals builds the laughs, not some high concept cop-out or a descent into the scatological.


Perhaps that’s why the DVD commentary track featuring Carolla and Hench is so enlightening. Arguing over how the film received an “R” rating from the MPAA (instead of a much more deserving PG-13), the pair proceed to dissect the script, commenting on how true they are to the “sweet science” as well as arguments over levels of humor and how far outside the boundaries of taste to go. Some of this also shows up in the deleted scenes, Carolla clearly being allowed to run wild, only to have Herman-Wurmfeld reel him in during editing. In fact, what much of the bonus material here indicates is that the age old adages about comedy centering on timing and tenacity remain very true indeed.


Because it refrains from pushing the ordinary aside for the outlandish, because Carolla’s normal (or at the very least, notorious) persona has been modified to fit this material, The Hammer is heartfelt and hilarious. Yet, when faced with how to advertise this movie to the many who already know the man, what can a studio do? If you play up his piggish party boy image, you risk reducing the film to something it truly isn’t. On the other hand, if you tell the truth, reflecting the story’s good natured, journeyman jocularity, you risk dismissing the demographic immediately drawn to the man’s beers and babes cockiness. Frankly, The Hammer can’t win either way, which is rather sad. This genial comedy should be a strapping sleeper success. Instead, it may wind up forgotten, as washed up as the characters at its core. And as with the man at the center of the film itself, it deserves better.


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