Category: Film Review

Using Judi and Ron Barrett’s beloved 1978 book, “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs,” as inspiration, the big-screen adaptation takes off in its own special direction, mixing clever cartoon timing with an Irwin Allen valentine, emerging as one of the strongest CG-animated efforts of the year. Energetic and dripping with the sort of cutting-edge, reference-heavy humor that rules the genre today, “Meatballs” makes for a hilarious and obviously mouth-watering sit, the hunger dialed to impossible levels if viewed in a house of 3-D.

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Let’s put aside the obvious blunders of the horror comedy “Jennifer’s Body” for a moment and focus on the major howler of the picture: an emo band is selected to be the agent of Satan in the story. Not Judas Priest or Dio, but a guyliner-wearing, whimpering-vocals emo band. Now where’s the PTA-alarming fun in that? The popped-collar doomsday device is only a tiny portion of the troubles that plague this uneven, obnoxious picture, but with a script that tinkers with teens, sex, and Lucifer, peeling metal out of the mix is not a bright way to kickoff a tale that reaches for a specific tone of wickedness.

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There’s an exclamation point in the proper title of “The Informant,” but I’m not sure why. Nothing happens in the film that warrants such dramatic punctuation, but I assume it means something special to director Steven Soderbergh. It’s getting to be a private carnival for the once engaging filmmaker, who appears to be chasing a Peter-Sellers-meets-Forbes bite for his latest picture, only to bury the jokes in three feet of baffling stylistic choices and tin-ear scoring. “Informant” takes some exertion to appreciate, but the payoff doesn’t quite reward the moviegoing effort.

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There’s a not a single moment in the new musical drama “Broken Hill” that’s original or fresh. Films of this ilk, inspirational and romantic (to a certain degree), are typically judged by their storytelling fervor, and “Broken Hill” gets by with just enough enthusiasm to help block out the photocopied screenplay and the pedestrian dramatics perhaps better suited for a television series. However, there are morsels of good-natured inspirational intentions here to help the film scurry away from the chore it might’ve become without its amiable personality.

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While an update of the 1983 chiller “The House on Sorority Row,” the shortened “Sorority Row” brings its own special facepalm inanity to the party. Reducing slasher ingredients to their most flavorless appearance, “Row” is a total wash-out, a contemptible pile of malarkey that takes modern horror to new lows of boredom and sluggishness, not to mention unfettered annoyance. Imagine being trapped inside a pungent shoebox with the over-caffeinated morning shift of Forever 21 while an inept epileptic captures the small talk with a camera he lost the instruction manual for. That’s “Sorority Row,” and it’s one repellent motion picture.

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Last winter, Tyler Perry suited up inside his Madea character and made a fortune. “Madea Goes to Jail” was a box office smash for Perry, bringing his cross-dressing, slang-heavy shtick close to the 100-million-dollar barrier required for worldwide box office legitimacy. Smelling blood in the water, Perry has hastily brought back the character for “I Can Do Bad All By Myself,” though the sassy, gun-toting, breast-swinging matriarch carries more of a cameo role here (shhh, don’t tell the Lionsgate marketing squad). Without or without Madea (ideally without), “Bad” is the same old moldy dish of melodrama and misbegotten salvation, spoon-fed to the Perry faithful without much care for appealing artistic development.

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Rock superstardom is a rare achievement, never requiring actual talent, but crack timing and blind persistence to seep into the public consciousness, along with at least one passable tune. The status of rock god is an entirely inimitable designation. These men and women showcase barnstorming creativity that’s second to none, along with a unique career longevity that’s survived the worst of artistic disasters. More often than not, they also carry a guitar, wielding it with Excalibur-sized supremacy.

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Here’s a scorching idea for the producers of the “Saw” franchise: a “Sandra Bullock Slapstick Comedy” death trap. That would surely send audiences into a full-blown panic. Too bad “All About Steve” beat the infamous horror series to the punch, erecting its own contraption of suffering with a smirking, fluttery eyed, stumbling Bullock as the main attraction. I wasn’t morally shaken by “Steve,” but it’s a mercilessly odious comedy, not to mention skating on thin ice in the taste department. There are few nightmares in the world that can rival Bullock in funny mode, but “Steve” and its liberal drizzling of witless behavior is oddly eager to match its star in the cringe department.

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Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor are the masterminds behind the “Crank” franchise of cynical, 8-bit, head-smashing entertainment. “Gamer” is the duo’s first foray outside of the suffocating Statham kingdom, but I could scarcely tell the difference. A rude, crude, deafening valentine to overkill cinema laughably passed off as muffled social commentary, “Gamer” is ideal for fans of the nauseating “Crank” series, as it traces along the same old lines of chaos, revealing that these directors, credited simply as neveldine/taylor, are two of the most inept minds working in the industry today.

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“Big Fan” is being pushed to audiences as the sizzling dramatic debut for comedian Patton Oswalt, lovable cherubic star of “The King of Queens” and the voice of Remy in “Ratatouille.” While a forceful piece of acting sure to widen Oswalt’s horizons, “Big Fan” also strikes a devilish, queasy tone worth savoring. It’s a wicked play on professional sports and its professional, dogmatic appreciators. While shackled by a paltry budget, “Big Fan” manages to slip under the skin and play cleverly with topical issues of misguided moral fiber.

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Looking to tap into the buoyant mood as America celebrates the 40th anniversary of the music festival of music festivals, “Taking Woodstock” transports the viewer not to the center of the muddy hippie hullabaloo, but a few weeks earlier. An origin story of sorts, Ang Lee’s summery film is a hodgepodge of legendary sights and sounds, and for an hour it plays fresh and stimulating. But only for an hour.

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I’m positive there’s a finer way to showcase the nuances of Asperger’s Syndrome than anything the new film “Adam” manages to come up with. While respectful to the disorder, the picture is nonetheless disinterested in anything that would enliven the experience beyond the severely clichéd or overacted. It’s a gentle romantic dramedy, but misfires at every turn, making for a tedious motion picture that minimizes a fascinating subject.

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