What Happens in Vegas [PG-13]
Grade: F
Cast: Ashton Kutcher, Cameron Diaz, Treat Williams, Lake Bell
Director: Tom Vaughan
I made a mistake a couple of years ago that I would like to admit to. I enjoyed an Ashton Kutcher movie.
Actually, it wasn’t a mistake. A Lot Like Love, with Kutcher and Amanda Peet, remains one of my favorite assembly line romantic comedies since I got my film critic cap. While somewhat undermined by a cookie-cutter bad-timing premise, the movie actually cared about its characters as something more than random slapstick generators. Which makes it stand out, given the genre.
It also boasted a competent director (Calendar Girls’ Nigel Cole) who located in Kutcher an awkward Midwestern innocence, a little Henry Fonda-like, that only emerges if you shake well. He also got Kutcher to tone down his sit-com mugging. It was almost like he was a real actor. Almost.
What Happens in Vegas is a step backward – way, way backward. And it doesn’t bother to be hush-hush about it. In fact, it’s not hush-hush about it at all.
This Kutcher-Cameron Diaz pairing stumbles over more than the word, "cinematography." I can recap the plot in two-word sentences. Watch. She’s dumped. He’s fired. Vegas calls. Get drunk. Get hitched. Win big. Attempt Splitsville. Judge denies. Unhappily ever after. OK, OK, that last one has three. And it’s not actually a sentence.
Actually, this is a pretty good concept. You have American values in opposition to American dreams. In the hands of Howard Hawks it might have amounted to something quite splendid. But Dear Reader, perhaps it hasn’t escaped your notice – Howard Hawks is too dead to save it.
The “comedic” shrieking is on Viagra. Or Cialis. It’s in danger of needing to call the doctor for a four-hour erection. Kutcher and Diaz grab each other’s throats like cartoon cat and mouse – peeing in the sink, setting each other up for adultery, anything that might drive the other to leave the whole $3 million. Do these people have lives when they’re not on camera? Could anyone stay in this orgasmically obnoxious mood for six months? Not without landing in intensive care.
Naturally, if the film goes to 11 that means Kutcher goes to 15. And holds it. The whole time. The mugging is back. The blinking never left. I worry about his blood pressure.
Yet in the final 10 minutes, Kutcher reels back the innocence. The ending is complete balderdash, but at least he seems sincere. And it’s at a moment like this that one could wonder if in a parallel universe, his identical twin cousin Ashley Kutcher might not be earning a living as a competent romantic lead.
Then the extra scenes appear as the credits roll. He’s right back to shouting, pointing, mugging, and annoying. Oh well.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Priceless worth it
Priceless [PG-13]
Grade: B
Cast: Audrey Tautou, Gad Emaleh
Director: Pierre Salvadori
Priceless is a champagne-fizz farce about a woman with champagne tastes and a French bartender suffering a romantic hangover.
Irene, a Riviera gold digger of some magnetic capacity, mistakes Jean, her hotel bartender, for a rich man. The mistake will test Jean’s love, sanity, and credit card. Eventually to win her heart, he will stumble into being a gigolo, too. Stuck in the same luxury hotel, they live off the kindness of elders, exchange trade secrets, and fall slowly in love.
Now, you might not drop everything, collapse your bank account, and consign yourself to being a kept man in a hotel, all for the girl of your dreams. But the object of your affection likely isn’t the lovely Audrey Tautou. She leaves behind the lovable gamine routine for one film, and plays seductive and wily. Meanwhile, Gad Emaleh, quickly becoming the new trademark French everyman sex symbol, shows a dry-martini touch for this sort of thing. Given this film and The Valet, will a sexy siren ever fall instantly for him, for his own self?
Directed by Pierre Salvadori (Apres Vous), Priceless (aka: Hors de Prix), floats along on bubbly atmosphere. There are leaps in logic, motivations driven by plot rather than brain, and sometimes dodgy pacing. And it doesn’t really matter in the end, because the sexy humor and charm makes up for it. So does the soundtrack, a brassy sixties sort of thing that recalls a time when a romp like this was common.
Tautou often draws comparisons to that other iconic Audrey. In fact, doesn’t the whole “stunner in fabulous dresses living on the kindness of older men” give this a bit of a Breakfast at Tiffany’s feel? Not being an Amelie fan, this might well be the best I’ve seen of her. For the camera and the atmosphere, she truly is a fizzy delight.
Priceless won’t change your life. But I can’t say it won’t entertain.
Grade: B
Cast: Audrey Tautou, Gad Emaleh
Director: Pierre Salvadori
Priceless is a champagne-fizz farce about a woman with champagne tastes and a French bartender suffering a romantic hangover.
Irene, a Riviera gold digger of some magnetic capacity, mistakes Jean, her hotel bartender, for a rich man. The mistake will test Jean’s love, sanity, and credit card. Eventually to win her heart, he will stumble into being a gigolo, too. Stuck in the same luxury hotel, they live off the kindness of elders, exchange trade secrets, and fall slowly in love.
Now, you might not drop everything, collapse your bank account, and consign yourself to being a kept man in a hotel, all for the girl of your dreams. But the object of your affection likely isn’t the lovely Audrey Tautou. She leaves behind the lovable gamine routine for one film, and plays seductive and wily. Meanwhile, Gad Emaleh, quickly becoming the new trademark French everyman sex symbol, shows a dry-martini touch for this sort of thing. Given this film and The Valet, will a sexy siren ever fall instantly for him, for his own self?
Directed by Pierre Salvadori (Apres Vous), Priceless (aka: Hors de Prix), floats along on bubbly atmosphere. There are leaps in logic, motivations driven by plot rather than brain, and sometimes dodgy pacing. And it doesn’t really matter in the end, because the sexy humor and charm makes up for it. So does the soundtrack, a brassy sixties sort of thing that recalls a time when a romp like this was common.
Tautou often draws comparisons to that other iconic Audrey. In fact, doesn’t the whole “stunner in fabulous dresses living on the kindness of older men” give this a bit of a Breakfast at Tiffany’s feel? Not being an Amelie fan, this might well be the best I’ve seen of her. For the camera and the atmosphere, she truly is a fizzy delight.
Priceless won’t change your life. But I can’t say it won’t entertain.
Indy panned
The web is sort of buzzing with the pan at Ain't It Cool News for the new Indiana Jones movie, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. I don't trust AICN that much, but really, would it surprise anyone if the film was a stinker? People seem to be looking back on the first three films with rose-colored glasses. Only one of them was anything special. Harrison Ford is in his sixties. And every still of this one so far has looked disappointingly goofy. I'll be fair, but I'm not holding my breath.
Need for Speed, Part 2
I mean, isn't the point of being a critic to encourage the innovative? If not, what are we here for?
No need for Speed?
Reading some of the reviews of Speed Racer, I'm struck by something that's been bugging me lately. Do film critics still care about the look of a film? Do they still care about innovation? Or do they just want their little blandly-shot Judd Apatow movie that makes them laugh. The Wachowskis are innovating wildly, pushing the limits, and too many reviewers are covering their eyes and wishing the kids would keep the racket down.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Select list
Man, I need to change the Select list, as I suspect that you'd be hard-pressed to find Snow Angels, and maybe Blueberry Nights, at this moment. But I'm kinda waiting until I have something to watch.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Quantum of Solace mishaps
Is Quantum of Solace a cursed production? The new James Bond film has been beset by numerous mishaps since it started filming early this year. One Aston Martin was driven into an Italian lake. A stuntman was sent to the hospital with pretty serious injuries after a stunt mishap. Now a production person was stabbed with a steak knife in a woman's bedroom. And now word is that Amy Winehouse apparently is not in any sort of shape to perform the theme song.
All this makes people wonder if this thing is going awry. The strange thing is that the hints and plot points that have emerged sound very interesting. I'm still looking forward to it.
All this makes people wonder if this thing is going awry. The strange thing is that the hints and plot points that have emerged sound very interesting. I'm still looking forward to it.
The Decline and Fall of the Inwood Theater
During the 1990s heyday of indie filmmaking, the epicenter of the movement in Dallas was the Landmark Inwood Theater. It's a wonderful relic, an old movie house spruced up a bit for modern movie tastes while retaining its original flavor. It is even said to have a ghost that haunts it. I've seen many good first-run films there, but the real joy has been with its midnight Friday and Saturday night showings. I've seen Vertigo, Singin' in the Rain, The Godfather, Ju Dou, Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, Blade Runner, etc. at that odd hour with some of the most cock-eyed assemblages of humanity. My favorite was the time that a man and woman entered to see Rushmore, I think. Maybe Singin' in the Rain. They were coming from a night on the town, likely in the adjoining Inwood Lounge, and the woman was wearing very high stilleto heels. She was also incredibly intoxicated and she showed the balance of a dreydl walking down the aisle. But I digress .....
My point is, look at the shameful lineup of films playing this week at the Inwood. 88 Minutes. Leatherheads. Made of Honor. Made of Honor? These are films you can get at any moviehouse in the Metroplex. The only one remotely in the neighborhood of indie is Leatherheads, based on George Clooney's delight in cinema history. But then again, it has George Clooney! I mean, Made of Honor? Do they have to disinfect the theater between showings? What the fuck, I saw Grizzly Man in this theater!!!
The Devil Wears Prada was a hint, but at least that is a decent film with a standout Meryl Streep performance and was based on a book, however flimsy the literary merit. When it played Enchanted first-run, there really was no excuse, and that was surely a sign of things to come. But Made of Honor? Made of Honor? Hell, Iron Man has more artistic merit! Perhaps the film programmer is a Gray's Anatomy junkie who has carved out a special programming exception for Patrick "McDreamy" Dempsey. Which would be an explanation. It certainly would not be an excuse.
I suppose they would say it's business. But why would someone drive into Dallas to an old movie theater to see Made of Honor when they could see it down the road at the year-or-two-old AMC theater at NorthPark Mall? Does that make business sense?
If you want to see corporate creep into the film industry, here it is.
My point is, look at the shameful lineup of films playing this week at the Inwood. 88 Minutes. Leatherheads. Made of Honor. Made of Honor? These are films you can get at any moviehouse in the Metroplex. The only one remotely in the neighborhood of indie is Leatherheads, based on George Clooney's delight in cinema history. But then again, it has George Clooney! I mean, Made of Honor? Do they have to disinfect the theater between showings? What the fuck, I saw Grizzly Man in this theater!!!
The Devil Wears Prada was a hint, but at least that is a decent film with a standout Meryl Streep performance and was based on a book, however flimsy the literary merit. When it played Enchanted first-run, there really was no excuse, and that was surely a sign of things to come. But Made of Honor? Made of Honor? Hell, Iron Man has more artistic merit! Perhaps the film programmer is a Gray's Anatomy junkie who has carved out a special programming exception for Patrick "McDreamy" Dempsey. Which would be an explanation. It certainly would not be an excuse.
I suppose they would say it's business. But why would someone drive into Dallas to an old movie theater to see Made of Honor when they could see it down the road at the year-or-two-old AMC theater at NorthPark Mall? Does that make business sense?
If you want to see corporate creep into the film industry, here it is.
A Note on Iron Man
I just wanted to add .... my grade of C for Iron Man is probably misleading and something of a demonstration of the weakness of my grading system. I do think it's an average film, in the sense that I did not think it was far beyond an average summer movie. That is to say I didn't find an extra gear. That said, it is probably a high C, as it is mostly an entertaining one. As I said, nothing special, but plenty of decent.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Two-Lane Blacktop
My potential thirteenth cousin, Chuck Bowen over at Bowen's Cinematic, has a wonderful review of a film that I also viewed recently, Monte Hellman's incredible existential road picture Two-Lane Blacktop. I don't write a lot about older films - I write enough about new releases as it is, and I enjoy keeping some film viewing for the sake of film viewing - but I wanted to point you to a review of this supreme 1971 release.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Scrap Iron
Iron Man [PG-13]
Grade: C
Cast: Robert Downey Jr., Jeff Bridges, Gwyneth Paltrow, Terrence Howard
When Iron Man’s iconic outfit first goes under the mallet, it is in a gloomy prison, in a gloomy cave, with scraps of leftover metal.
Similarly, the Iron Man persona is pieced together from spare parts of more successful caped men. Playboy arms dealer Tony Stark is the sunny-sided version of Batman’s brooding Bruce Wayne. His bulletproof armor probably required Superman to sign a legal waiver. Not to mention his ability to fly. (His glowing heart, meanwhile, conjures memories of Neil Diamond's E.T. tribute “Heart Light.” Yeah, thanks for that.)
In terms of being a weak imitation, the film version of Iron Man follows suit (presumably one made of red-and-gold titanium). Batman Begins draws a hero of darkness and complication. Bryan Singer’s Superman allows us an alienated savior, a man who can save the world but cannot fully participate in it. Despite some mild stabs at a darker, deeper vision, Jon Favreau’s Iron Man possesses little of that sophistication.
That’s my hopefully not-too-unkind way of calling this a derivative story for a derivative superhero. While Iron Man has plenty of decent, it seldom feels special.
And that might consign Iron Man to the scrap heap of popcorn cinema, if it were not for one fit of inspiration – the radical lunacy of selecting Robert Downey Jr. to play a superhero. Our favorite intelligently maniacal ad-libber comes with his own show tent. That’s good news here, as the modest script begs for a furious performance. That’s why Downey proves so effective, and so necessary.
Downey’s deadpan vitality spruces up a deadly basic story. A genius weapons developer and merchant of death, Tony Stark is captured during an ambush in the Afghan desert. After taking him to a prison camp and parading him before cameras, his captors command him to build a supermissile for their two-dimensionally evil use. In perhaps the dumbest move in the history of captivity – and that goes back a ways – the jailers give Stark access to their arsenal. Soon he builds two things not on his captors’ world-domination agenda – a glowing magnet that keeps his damaged heart healthy and an indestructible suit of armor and arms.
Having seen the damage caused by his deadly products, Stark vows to do heroic things upon his return home. Of course he does so, ironically, by turning himself into a one-man military-industrial complex. And so the first hour devotes acres of screentime to watching Downey play with science. It feels like watching a Bill Nigh the Science Guy biopic. If Bill Nigh split his time between two laboratories in an oceanside mansion and an Afghan cave.
Things pick up as Stark completes his fully-operational battle station of a uniform. Soon, he’s flying. He’s fighting. He’s gleefully dodging fighter planes and whacking the bad guys. At first, his efforts and missile systems aim for the dastardly terrorists who captured him. Later, he will duel his duplicitous business partner (Jeff Bridges), in a Transformers-esque smash-up, along the highways and skyways of Los Angeles.
As superheroes go, Iron Man feels disappointingly non-mythical. That feeling is compounding by the film’s lackluster visual style. The world of a superhero should be custom-painted to its character. It should feel like walking in his psyche. Director Favreau produces no such creativity. Not that there is much of a psyche to work with.
And yet much of this is saved by Downey’s greatness. His puncturing asides resucitate workmanlike moments. His character might be a merchant of death, but Downey is a merchant of the unexpected. Even if the same cannot be said for the rest of the movie.
Grade: C
Cast: Robert Downey Jr., Jeff Bridges, Gwyneth Paltrow, Terrence Howard
When Iron Man’s iconic outfit first goes under the mallet, it is in a gloomy prison, in a gloomy cave, with scraps of leftover metal.
Similarly, the Iron Man persona is pieced together from spare parts of more successful caped men. Playboy arms dealer Tony Stark is the sunny-sided version of Batman’s brooding Bruce Wayne. His bulletproof armor probably required Superman to sign a legal waiver. Not to mention his ability to fly. (His glowing heart, meanwhile, conjures memories of Neil Diamond's E.T. tribute “Heart Light.” Yeah, thanks for that.)
In terms of being a weak imitation, the film version of Iron Man follows suit (presumably one made of red-and-gold titanium). Batman Begins draws a hero of darkness and complication. Bryan Singer’s Superman allows us an alienated savior, a man who can save the world but cannot fully participate in it. Despite some mild stabs at a darker, deeper vision, Jon Favreau’s Iron Man possesses little of that sophistication.
That’s my hopefully not-too-unkind way of calling this a derivative story for a derivative superhero. While Iron Man has plenty of decent, it seldom feels special.
And that might consign Iron Man to the scrap heap of popcorn cinema, if it were not for one fit of inspiration – the radical lunacy of selecting Robert Downey Jr. to play a superhero. Our favorite intelligently maniacal ad-libber comes with his own show tent. That’s good news here, as the modest script begs for a furious performance. That’s why Downey proves so effective, and so necessary.
Downey’s deadpan vitality spruces up a deadly basic story. A genius weapons developer and merchant of death, Tony Stark is captured during an ambush in the Afghan desert. After taking him to a prison camp and parading him before cameras, his captors command him to build a supermissile for their two-dimensionally evil use. In perhaps the dumbest move in the history of captivity – and that goes back a ways – the jailers give Stark access to their arsenal. Soon he builds two things not on his captors’ world-domination agenda – a glowing magnet that keeps his damaged heart healthy and an indestructible suit of armor and arms.
Having seen the damage caused by his deadly products, Stark vows to do heroic things upon his return home. Of course he does so, ironically, by turning himself into a one-man military-industrial complex. And so the first hour devotes acres of screentime to watching Downey play with science. It feels like watching a Bill Nigh the Science Guy biopic. If Bill Nigh split his time between two laboratories in an oceanside mansion and an Afghan cave.
Things pick up as Stark completes his fully-operational battle station of a uniform. Soon, he’s flying. He’s fighting. He’s gleefully dodging fighter planes and whacking the bad guys. At first, his efforts and missile systems aim for the dastardly terrorists who captured him. Later, he will duel his duplicitous business partner (Jeff Bridges), in a Transformers-esque smash-up, along the highways and skyways of Los Angeles.
As superheroes go, Iron Man feels disappointingly non-mythical. That feeling is compounding by the film’s lackluster visual style. The world of a superhero should be custom-painted to its character. It should feel like walking in his psyche. Director Favreau produces no such creativity. Not that there is much of a psyche to work with.
And yet much of this is saved by Downey’s greatness. His puncturing asides resucitate workmanlike moments. His character might be a merchant of death, but Downey is a merchant of the unexpected. Even if the same cannot be said for the rest of the movie.
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