Category: Film Review

While undoubtedly mild sauce compared to the more excitable distractions at the local cinema, “The Great Buck Howard” is nevertheless a charismatic dramedy that’s wise enough to dredge the muddy waters of archetypal entertainment personalities to boost a conventional story of flailing fame and the wonder years of undeveloped twentysomething life. The film is fun to watch, easy on the frontal lobe, and features John Malkovich in a lively performance that’s both masterfully impish and authentically mysterious.

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The imprisonment of IRA member Bobby Sands and his eventual call for a second 1981 hunger strike to protest treatment of political prisoners was previously made the subject of the marvelous 1996 Terry George film, “Some Mother’s Son.” George turned the event into high drama, finding inspiration through a domestic perspective to better alleviate the gruesome details of the prison conditions and the dark psychological effect on the young men incarcerated for their controversial cause. Steve McQueen’s “Hunger” boldly heads the opposite direction, grimly recounting the mounting filth and desperate survival instincts as Sands embarked on an incredible test of self-control.

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This is not Disney’s first encounter with Witch Mountain, and it most certainly won’t be their last. However, it’s their loudest contribution to date. A reimagining of the 1975 motion picture and the 1968 Alexander Key novel, “Race to Witch Mountain” does away with all that pesky character development stuff to put the pedal to the metal and offer family audiences an adventure packed with stunts, gunfire, and one-liners. It’s definitely a vibrant diversion, and kids will undoubtedly be glued to the screen, but the high tech, fist-happy approach leaves much to be desired.

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Over time, director Wes Craven has claimed that his seminal 1972 film, “The Last House on the Left,” was a veiled commentary on Vietnam-era violence and the redaction process of news footage. It was intended as shock in a time that wasn’t equipped for such explicit content and grim storytelling. With viewers stunned into submission, the film became a cult hit, leading to the inevitable remake, albeit 37 years later. What was once an intolerably uneven, crude stunner has now been glossed up, stripped of even the smallest crumb of palatable intention, and pointed directly at the “Saw” and “Hostel” fans that just can’t get enough of that funky suffering stuff.

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There was a time when comedy troupes had to earn their fame before setting off on a feature film adventure, running the gauntlet of obscurity before glory. Now all it takes is a mild acknowledgment of unity and the next thing you know, a terrible jokefest isn’t far behind. “Miss March” isn’t technically a Whitest Kids U’ Know motion picture, but it might as well be, showcasing filmmakers Trevor Moore and Zach Cregger as the latest obscure sketch comedy wizards to pull a movie out of their hindquarters. It seems I owe an apology to the Broken Lizard: guys, turns out you are no longer the worst unknown jesters to come around and bore mainstream audiences to tears. Hazzah.

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“Sunshine Cleaning” is a motion picture that succeeds entirely because of the prodigious acting labor from stars Amy Adams and Emily Blunt. Without their efforts to force-feed some deep-seated emotional shading into the film, the picture would be a decidedly hollow indie event, defined by a quirky premise and one-dimensional characterization. Because Adams and Blunt bring their best to the roles, the feature carefully avoids the pitfalls of convention, becoming a familiar story executed with unexpected gravitas.

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The sizzling embers of forbidden desire cloud the screen in “The Edge of Love,” an overwrought but not entirely unconvincing attempt at a smoldering period romance movie. Blessed with an eager, rightly immodest cast and meticulous production value, “Edge” doesn’t aspire to be anything more than a juicy British wartime soap opera, but when it finds delicious pockets of whispered betrayal, artistic impotency, and cherry-lipped invitation, it adds up to a convincing sit.

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Pegwarmers, as defined in this documentary, are the action figures nobody wants. They’re the plastic personalities that are left behind to gather dust while their more popular, exclusive brethren are snapped up quickly. It’s a geek term finding an ideal home in this exhaustively geeky movie. Lovingly prepared and quick to charm, “Pegwarmers: The Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth” is an affectionate ode to the less esteemed pop culture pursuits, returning some dignity to those brave few who boldly go; individuals who take on sci-fi and fantasy pursuits in the face of disdain, eventually finding a safe haven in the company of other like-minded enthusiasts.

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Celebrated director Doris Dorrie’s “Cherry Blossoms” concerns the enriching odyssey of life lived after the cruel death of a loved one, tracing that specific psychological abyss for a German man at ease with his habitual life and now confronted with cataclysmic change. Endearing, modestly tear-jerking, and basted with just enough culture shock oddity to keep the cinematic brew tart and curious, “Blossoms” is an emotionally charged pearl of a film.

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For his third motion picture, director Zack Snyder has returned to a formula that’s served him very well: snatch a well-established event in geek culture, slather it in photographic gloss, and call it a “tribute.” Through a remake of “Dawn of the Dead” and a photocopy interpretation of “300,” Snyder has found his niche seizing the work of others and shaping it into crude, chest-puffing cinema, intended to rile the senses and play to undemanding appetites. With the illustrious graphic novel “Watchmen,” Snyder is forced to wield his adaptation sword carefully, for a single flawed stroke is sure to topple the entire endeavor. I give Snyder credit for his tenacious reverence here, but “Watchmen” is an unimaginative attempt to recapture lightning in a bottle, ultimately shadowing a literary franchise that was better left on the page.

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Last fall’s surprise smash “Eagle Eye” concerned the nightmare of a NSA computer system gone haywire, using the deep technological reach of modern society to control the fate of the human race. “The Echelon Conspiracy” is about the nightmare of a NSA computer system gone haywire, using the deep technological reach of modern society to control the fate of the human race. You see the difference? While “Echelon” walks accidentally (I hope) in very recognizable footprints, this latest take on Bush-era paranoia and cell phone alarm might arrive in theaters somewhat dramatically moldy and short-sheeted in the budget department, yet it’s actually a more rewarding sit than “Eagle Eye” if viewed with minimal attention paid to the details.

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Sometimes being a film critic is being at constant war with your instincts. This time last year, the “Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus: Best of Both Worlds Concert Tour” film was hitting screens across the country, with distributor Disney doubling ticket prices and keeping the press away from the final product out of fear of rotten reviews spoiling the moment. I walked in cautious and came out smiling, finding a bouncy performance film that utilized cutting-edge 3-D technology and bubblegum pop theatrics superbly, bestowing the devoted the party atmosphere and you-are-there point of view that formed one heck of a show. Now it’s time for the Jonas Brothers to play the 3-D concert film lottery, and, once again, I have fear.

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If memories could be dialed back to the dark ages of the mid-1990s for a moment, recall that the last time the “Street Fighter” video game empire was adapted for the big screen, it concerned a cartoonishly costumed Jean-Claude Van Damme and Kylie Minogue trying to save the world from the demonic clutches of an infirmed Raul Julia. Unsurprisingly, the film tanked. Now 15 years later, a new challenger has arrived with “Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li,” and this production is armed with a few clumsy television actors, Chris Klein, and a member of the Black Eyed Peas. This is not progress.

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Author Margery Williams’s 1922 novel, “The Velveteen Rabbit,” is one of those ageless children’s books that’s so entirely heartbreaking it burns an imprint onto the soul that’s impossible to remove. Adapted throughout the decades for generations of audiences to enjoy, “Rabbit” finds its way back into the limelight with a new feature film that only borrows thematic bullet points from Williams to form its own pass at an age-old tale of love and childhood maturity. A little rough around the edges, the new “Rabbit” is nevertheless successful with the small goals it sets for itself, providing a richly fulfilling movie night for the entire family.

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It’s been a treat to watch the 1994 underdog “Ace Ventura: Pet Detective” grow from a critical open sore to something resembling a slapstick classic. Along with its deliriously madcap 1995 sequel, “When Nature Calls,” the Ace franchise has developed into a beloved comedic institution, due in great part to Jim Carrey’s fluid, berserk work as the titular animal sleuth. Imagine the ecstasy of a third “Ace Ventura” movie, with the promise of Carrey returning to his career-making role after a 14-year-long absence spent trying to sell himself as a serious actor, ready to slap on the bouffant and spastic mannerisms to conquer the world all over again. Viva la Carrey! 

Would you settle for Josh Flitter instead?

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There was an outrageous amount of bad cinema released during the 1980s to calcify the senses, but nothing retained the absurdly vitriolic reputation of “Howard the Duck.” A lump of top-heavy comedic/sci-fi filmmaking, the blame for the failure of this messy movie has always been forced onto the bearded shoulders of producer George Lucas, who was torn a new anal cavity by the press and select members of the public for this big screen blunder. After viewing the film, I’m fairly certain Lucas is the least of the picture’s problems. A bloated, mismanaged attempt to mingle brash irreverence and crunchy blockbuster aesthetics, “Howard the Duck” isn’t quite the booming nightmare its reputation suggests, but I defy most viewers out there in DVD land to sit through the entire feature without maintaining a sweaty, alert finger on the fast-forward button.

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Times are tough for Tyler Perry these days. With critical accolades in short supply and box office returns slowing to a worrisome degree, it’s time to bust out the old drag routine again to stimulate the faithful. Discounting a microscopic cameo in last year’s “Meet the Browns,” “Madea Goes to Jail” is the first time the titular Georgian hell-raiser has assumed a starring role in three years. I’ll be honest: she wasn’t missed. An unpardonably primitive, repetitive dramedy that promises a farce yet delivers the same tiresome Perry brand of spiritual and empowerment hooey, the “Jail” of the title is more apt as a metaphor for the ticket buyer’s situation than a comic location for Madea to prance around within.

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Nostalgia, the undiluted variety, can assume the form of tender memories that enhance the human experience, providing illumination in the strangest of places. Nostalgia can also foster obsession, either for objects or a return to a supposed simplicity of life that’s impossible to reconstruct in the modern world. “The Rock-afire Explosion” itemizes the efforts of sensitive individuals who ache to grasp the elusive comfort of the past to help brighten their future, only the object of desire at play here might raise a few eyebrows.

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Actors Nicholas D’Agosto and Eric Christian Olsen are aged 28 and 31, respectively. In the cheerleading epic “Fired Up!,” these men have been hired to play teenagers, which remains the one and only piece of hilarity to be treasured within this terrifyingly miscalculated, nastily adrenalized comedy. Man-boys, nubile girls, sporting hijinks, and beloved actor John Michael Higgins in a cameo; one would think with these tools the filmmakers could’ve invited any reaction from the viewer other than the one they achieve: self-immolation.

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Shot three years ago and soon after became the bruised victim of a heated post-production war that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, the comedy “Fanboys” finally emerges from Harvey Weinstein’s dust-laden vault to placate the faithful who hoped (and eventually kicked and screamed) to one day enjoy this carousel of “Star Wars” references and male bonding humor on their own. The war is over, the movie is available in some form to the general public, and the natural response after viewing? The film wasn’t worth all the fuss it generated.

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