Category: Film Review

It’s difficult to tell exactly how “Kick-Ass” considers the comic book/superhero genre. On one hand, there’s a profusion of love offered to the subculture through a series of crafty inside jokes and tributes only a few knowing audience members will understand. On the other hand, “Kick-Ass” is a tone-deaf pantsing of the superman cause, creating an incredible ruckus as it breakdances on hallowed ground, preferring noise over wit when it comes to giving funny books a comprehensive noogie. Only vibrant in spurts, “Kick-Ass” is a distractingly frenzied picture lacking true satiric aim, making the oncoming mess of ultraviolence more bothersome than rousing.

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“The Joneses” contains an impressively timely premise that drills right into the heart of today’s financial crisis. It’s almost too sharp of a script, which is carried a surprising distance by writer/director Derrick Borte before it falls completely apart, but what works here works wonderfully, providing a painfully accurate depiction of materialism run amok.

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As much as I wanted “The Perfect Game” to be a fearless Mexican version of “The Bad News Bears,” the picture just wasn’t in a wish-granting mood. More of an inspirational tale compounded with a true story, “Game” is a feature of sheer earnestness, which tends to grate and persuade with equal determination. However, it’s easy to praise the film’s gushing heart, which might be enough to satisfy less demanding audience members in the mood for a few smiles and cheers; a sparkling tale of baseball triumph ideally issued for the first week of the season.

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A painfully low-budget horror turkey, “The Black Waters of Echo’s Pond” at least has a corker of a premise: think a satanic version of “Jumanji.” What director Gabriel Bologna actually does with this picture is less devilishly enchanting, punishing the viewer with atrocious acting, formulaic plotting, and ghastly scripting. Cinematic ambition is one thing, but execution is what matters most, and this feature is missing a stimulating directorial imagination to sell what could’ve been something amusingly heinous.

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Tina Fey and Steve Carell are two extremely formidable comedians, and thank heavens someone, somewhere had the good sense to pair them up for a feature film. While wobbly at times, “Date Night” is a perfectly pleasant, often uproarious action comedy that makes good use of their gifts and their surprising chemistry as an exhausted married couple. Even with Shawn Levy directing, “Date Night” is a consistent delight.

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“The Runaways” opens tight on a drop of menstrual blood. This image can be digested three ways: a sign of oncoming womanhood, a defiant stand of earthy feminism, or a wildly accurate reflection of director Floria Sigismondi’s irritating fixation on details that have little to do with the amazing story of the band in question. Take your pick, as any path will lead to the same conclusion: “The Runaways” is a dim, gutless approximation of the feisty group and their brief bath in the frigid ice waters of fringe celebrity.

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Reviewed at the 2010 Florida Film Festival

“Paper Man” has the appearance of a deeply felt, earnest film concerning unfinished emotional business. It literalizes the burden of guilt in strange seriocomic ways, but the film as a whole is a woeful misfire of inexplicable outbursts and overpowering performances. “Paper Man” certainly reaches out for a hug and demands a few tears, but the execution of the film is irritating, making this sensitive picture dishearteningly hopeless and, at least during a few key moments of the feature, seemingly endless.

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Reviewed at the 2010 Florida Film Festival

Working without much of a budget or the comfort of a studio, the New York City drama “Don’t Let Me Drown” manages to pull off one of the most harrowing depictions of a post-9/11 world I’ve seen to date. Using disquieting images of ashes, the anguish of lost loved ones, and the confusion of a wounded city, the film evokes the fragile days that followed the terrorist attacks with heartbreaking, often chilling execution. There’s a love story wedged in here too, but that only gets in the way.

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Reviewed at the 2010 Florida Film Festival

Imagine “The Matrix,” with all of its eye-popping violence, sensuality, and salty language giving the material its very identity, as intended by the filmmakers. Now picture “The Matrix” stripped of its coarseness, boiled down to a family-friendly adventure without bite and, for the most part, creative logic. In Utah, a war against sin has been waged for the last decade, pitting Hollywood legal firepower against a hungry Mormon movie nation, clamoring for blockbusters without balls.

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For his ninth feature film, writer/director Tyler Perry has returned to the source of his most inspired work. “Why Did I Get Married Too?” is a sequel to the 2007 domestic disturbance ensemble piece, reuniting all of the original cast to once again delve into the flood waters of marriage, trust, and infidelity. The original film wasn’t an astounding emotional investigation, but it permitted Perry a chance to work on a script concerning adults, without the pinching shackles of the demonic Madea character or his feckless stabs at religious enlightenment. “Married Too” continues the coarse matrimonial adventure, only now the childish rage and jarring tomfoolery has moved to the Bahamas, allowing the earsplitting melodrama a chance to grab a tan.

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Bringing the hit 1981 fantasy “Clash of the Titans” safely back to the big screen requires a divine touch that can successfully vault past the beloved special effects display of the original film. Of course, what was once handcrafted and painstakingly mounted has been replaced with computer wizardry and polish, making the update a rowdy video game of heroes and villains, only lacking true character. It’s a gorgeous remake from a technical perspective and highlights a handful of magnificent widescreen ideas, but as much as it hustles to be an eye-popping extravaganza (nudged along by a last-minute 3-D conversion to squeeze a few more bucks out of patrons), the new “Clash” is detached and frustratingly cold to the touch.

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If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. That’s not just a motto to author Nicholas Sparks, but the very key to his vast literary fortune. The architect of North Carolina soap operas, Sparks launches another granny shot with “The Last Song,” an absurdly formulaic tearjerker based around the aging appeal of star Miley Cyrus. It’s a fascinating attempt for the former Hannah Montana to edge away from her clownish Disney ways, but even Meryl Streep would be hard-pressed to make something stimulating out of Sparks’s paint-by-numbers storytelling effort.

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Reviewed at the 2010 Florida Film Festival

At least in America, the work of director Yimou Zhang has redefined the widescreen scope of the Eastern historical epic, through films such as “Hero,” “House of Flying Daggers,” and “Curse of the Golden Flower.” “The Warlords” isn’t nearly as finely tuned, sumptuously mounted, or dramatically alert. A blunt take on Chinese history crossed with heavy soap opera inclinations, “The Warlords” is certainly forceful, but it only marginally succeeds at pulling the viewer into a state of battle zone fatigue and budding regality, assisted greatly by three tremendous lead performances.

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Reviewed at the 2010 Florida Film Festival

Drugs, Judaism, brain-dead intellectualism, and pops of ultraviolence. “Leaves of Grass” isn’t the new film from the Coen Brothers, but don’t mention that little fact to writer/director/co-star Tim Blake Nelson. It appears working with the Coens on the 2000 feature “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” has rubbed off on the filmmaker, who molds a dark comedy in a frighteningly similar manner, minus the godlike tonal control that could shake some sense into this scattershot, criminally unfunny picture.

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Grief is such a tricky emotion to handle in film. It’s an elusive sensation, often manifesting itself in resolute silence, which doesn’t always register cleanly for the cameras. “The Greatest” is not a picture of complete quiet, but it’s marvelous when it settles into a hushed mood of introspection and unspoken personal connection; a sweeping feeling of sea change reflected through a trio of splendid actors and their unexpected articulation of mourning.

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“Defendor” could be processed either as a dreadful misfire of a black comedy or a semi-brilliant deconstruction of the deranged superhero mindset. It’s a weird picture and not always successful selling its ideas, but it definitely retains a determined personality, making the picture convincing on a fundamental level of cinematic ambition, not execution.

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When most directors repeat themselves, it’s typically a sign of artistic exhaustion or perhaps unshakable fixation. In Wes Anderson’s case, his visual repetition has become an irresistible thumbprint, and one of the great moviegoing joys I’ve encountered in recent years is the opportunity to watch this supremely gifted filmmaker use his leather-bound imagination to impart varying stories of eccentric outsiders and their enduring emotional wounds, with each film connected by exotic aesthetic degrees of detail-oriented splendor. Now Anderson takes his cinematic language to the hand-woven field of stop-motion animation for “Fantastic Mr. Fox,” and, yet again, the filmmaker shapes a breathtaking cinematic marvel; he finds a magnificent home nestled firmly in the luxurious textures of the animation, the dancing vocal performances, and delicious wry tone that makes for stunningly fanciful cinema.

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This is a wonderful motion picture. Perhaps Dreamworks, in their frantic need to push the movie to every demographic, has lost sight of the film itself, but abysmal marketing efforts aside, “How to Train Your Dragon” is a rousing success; a soaring, endearing adventure feature that plays smart and fierce. Now stop giving your money to Tim Burton’s wheezy imagination and see something with genuine magic. An actual, effective, multi-dimensional wonderland.

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There’s a 15-minute period at the commencement of “Hot Tub Time Machine” where matters feel rather dire: faced with a loopy plot, a competitive cast of comedians, and well, the hot tub, the film proceeds to roll out a series of gross-out jokes and an endless stream of profanity. The effort is to establish a potent tone of vulgarity to prepare the audience for the runaway-boulder-sprint of comedy ahead, sloshing around the chum to see who decides to stick around. For those who elect to ride out the booze-soaked, forked-tongued storm, they receive a startlingly alert, good-natured, borderline poignant slapstick comedy that makes the most out of a one-joke premise.

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“Chloe” opens with a clinical description of the female orgasm, and then spends the following 100 minutes displaying increasingly more frenzied examples of it. Director Atom Egoyan returns to his favorite thematic playground with this sexual thriller, working the levers and polishing the knobs on a juicily plotted, tantalizing chiller that cooks in an appealingly heated state of submission to the bitter end.

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