Category: Film Review

What I’m about to write isn’t a recommendation of the new parody film “Dance Flick,” but more of a gentle warning that what the Wayans Brothers are serving up here isn’t nearly as wrist-slittingly disgraceful as expected. We’re still miles away from the bellylaugh miracles of the golden “Airplane!” and “Naked Gun” era, but “Dance Flick” has an appealing concentration on zany that’s eluded fellow yuksters such as Friedman/Seltzer and even David Zucker in recent years. Again, this is not a recommendation. More a blazing “all clear” signal flare to those partial to a little brainless comedy on occasion.

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The droll poise of playwright Noel Coward is returned to the screen in Stephen Elliot’s “Easy Virtue.” A firecracker of a period comedy brought to life by some of today’s most elegant actors, “Virtue” possesses marvelous edge, wit, and pace, yet this latest incarnation of the 1924 play should be defined by one single, utterly shocking element: Jessica Biel. Turns out the young lady can act some, keeping up with the tempo of this culture comedy like seasoned pro.

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2003’s “Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines” was a frivolous entry in this brutal saga of man vs. machine, but it retained a suitably metallic scent of James Cameron’s original creation, and offered audiences a sucker punch of a doomsday ending, placing a respectable capper on a franchise that never bothered to plan too far ahead. We’re now confronted with “Terminator Salvation” because Hollywood is stuck in the “rebooting” phase of its history, scouring the vaults for once high-profile material it can reshape and resell to a public hungry for familiarity. Not unexpectedly, the Cameron-less “Salvation” is another trembling step backwards for this once persuasive series of time-traveling adventures, crafted by a filmmaker I was hoping could lead the charge and take the franchise in a whole new direction.

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Light the torches and sharpen the pitchforks, I enjoyed “The Da Vinci Code.” While long-winded, Ron Howard’s version of the Dan Brown best-seller provided a lovingly smothering mood of daredevil exposition and for-fans-only historical minutiae. Even if I didn’t seize the scholarly passion burning behind the dialogue or comprehend the larger religious misconduct of the plot, I enjoyed the cinematic bluster of the work and appreciated how Howard took the time to preserve the experience for the fanatics. Plus, a heaping dose of star power from the stately Tom Hanks never hurts, unless Nora Ephron is directing. “Angels & Demons” rolls up to bat three years after “Code” stormed the box office, and while Howard’s promise of a snappier pace is kept, it’s hard to sense much of a seismic difference between the two films. But that’s fine by me.

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A little over a year ago, the simplistic, heart-tugging immigration drama “Under the Same Moon” opened in theaters, pouring honey and tears over the complicated subject of hazardous Mexican border crossing. While not explicitly a story of migration, the drama “Sin Nombre” boldly assumes a bleaker perspective of Mexican and South American individuals who seek the comfort of America any way they can find it. It’s one of many captivating, searing depictions of fear in this unflinching, outstanding debut feature film from director Cary Fukunaga.

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“Management” should come equipped with some type of safety restraint to best absorb the shock of all the uncomfortable tonal changes that continually derail the film. A romantic comedy that’s eager to make a commitment to its characters, yet never takes anything seriously, “Management” is only tolerable in small fragments of performance and laughs. As a whole, it doesn’t know what to do with itself, preferring to wander around blindly in search of a dramatic core instead of actively seeking one.

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It seems these days every genre film wants to add a pinch of verisimilitude to their diet, searching to find a fresh take on antique thrills. “Big Man Japan” aims to rework the gravity of the monster movie, looking to create a world where not only monsters are real, but the man sent to battle them has terrible domestic problems, surrounded by a populace that would rather see him quit. Director/star Hitoshi Matsumoto’s graceful satire “Big Man Japan” is a viewing experience akin to a leisurely acid trip, but it’s also one of the more original, surprising visions of the year.

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In the opening section of the indie “The Big Shot-Caller,” there’s a suggestion that the material will swiftly transform into an underdog dance story, resting comfortably in the arms of cliché to win over the most audience members. It’s to the film’s credit that this familiarity doesn’t really surface for a good 60 minutes. The bad news is that “Shot-Caller” eschews tradition to summon its own quirky music, and in the hands of inexperienced filmmaker Marlene Rhein, the challenge to form a cohesive feature-length motion picture proves to be too large a task.

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120 minutes of unrelenting goose bumps.

An artistic blood transfusion of immaculate execution, the new “Star Trek” boldly goes straight to the senses, providing a full-throated rush of operatic sci-fi, cleverly conceived characterizations, and a swarm of franchise homages and surprises that take incredible care of the brand name’s impossible 44-year-long pop culture reign, while forging firm new ground for those who couldn’t tell Kirk from Spock with a gun to their head. Director J.J. Abrams has achieved what many thought to be impossible, reaching bare-handed into the venomous depths of absurdly rigid canon, pulling together a sublime space adventure that flies as confidently and triumphantly as “Trek” ever has before. It’s not only a victorious series highlight, but perhaps one of the best pictures of the year.

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Samantha: You don’t know anything about me.
Pastor John: I can see you’re in pain.
Samantha: I’m alive.
Pastor John: Is that how you see life?
Samantha: Until farts taste like cherries…yeah.
Corey: What do you think God’s farts taste like?
Samantha: Marshmallow Peeps.

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“The Girlfriend Experience” is a palate cleanser for director Steven Soderbergh, who embarks on one of these odd “personal” films every few years (“Bubble,” “Full Frontal”) when his fingers tire of counting “Ocean’s” trilogy money. A mood piece on vagaries of whorish behavior, Soderbergh is stuck in full wander mode with this picture, absent the sort of thespian effort that would enliven the cross-eyed atmosphere of disconnect Soderbergh is forever chasing.

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I don’t know whether to laugh or cry over “Rudo y Cursi,” an oddball football dramedy that reteams actors Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna eight years after their breakthrough roles in the indie sensation, “Y tu mama tambien.” “Rudo” isn’t a strikingly original creation, but the efforts of the cast make the stale script sing, assembling a motion picture that coasts along nicely on pure performance oomph. Granted, all this uncut Mexican energy will perhaps take a night in a sensory deprivation chamber to properly expunge from the system, but it’s a wild ride of thespian effort that keeps the material amicable.

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Need proof marijuana kills brain cells? Catch “Next Day Air,” a pot comedy trying to pass itself off as a Guy Ritchie/Quentin Tarantino multi-character crime caper. Weed is smoked liberally throughout the film, and I fear most of it was consumed behind the camera by director Benny Boom, who shows no discernable handle on the disorderly proceedings. “Air” is an interesting misfire, but often an irritatingly erratic viewing experience that would’ve profited greatly from a good old-fashioned dose of clear-headed concentration.

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“Killshot” hasn’t enjoyed the easiest road to a suitable release. Filmed nearly four years ago, the picture suffered through endless rounds of editorial indecision, reshooting, and the embarrassment of a pathetic five-screen theatrical release earlier this year. While the feature’s unpleasant personal history shouldn’t be at play during a viewing, it’s hard not to spot the sloppy stitch marks on the motion picture. While certainly endowed with a few startling moments of tension, “Killshot” is messy and unfocused, taking the stinger out of this Elmore Leonard adaptation.

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The bottom line on “X-Men Origins: Wolverine” is this: if you found any morsel of entertainment value out of 2006’s “X-Men: The Last Stand,” then “Wolverine” will be painless to digest. If you found “Last Stand” to be a drooling cinematic rape of a near-brilliant franchise, “Wolverine” is going to feel like further salt in the wound. While I recognize the multiple fandom violations of “Last Stand,” I found it to be a lively thrill ride with an abundance of mutant vs. mutant action to sufficiently numb the brain. “Wolverine” is less triumphant as multiplex junk food, but still retains a satisfying lunacy and even more mutant monkey business to relish.

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“Ghosts of Girlfriends Past” is a Matthew McConaughey romantic comedy that would be better off without Matthew McConaughey. It’s come to a point in this performer’s career where his inability to alter his natural spray-tanned ooze has rendered his acting tiresome and ineffective. Combine that with a desperately unimaginative screenplay, and “Ghosts” is a flavorless feature that’s easily and welcomingly stolen by the vibrant supporting cast.

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The easy sell for “Battle of Terra” is to compare the film to “Wall-E,” blended with a heaping teaspoon of the “Star Wars” prequels. This latest go-around with an independent CG-animated epic certainly holds lofty sci-fi aspirations, but it’s executed with unexpected grace and patience that lends the thematic objective a genuine weight. “Battle for Terra” isn’t blessed with the most luxurious animated resources around, but it’s a mature, active piece of storytelling and a nice surprise in the cluttered family film multiplex sweepstakes.

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With two direct and developed lead performances from Michael Caine and young Bill Milner, it seems unfair to watch their efforts wasted on an uneven, unsatisfying picture like the tear-jerker “Is Anybody There?” It’s a simple case of acting trumping splintered storytelling, with most, if not all scraps of character vulnerability and empathy emerging from the measured talents of the actors, not the interminable, shapeless motion picture.

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After two failed shots to nab Oscar gold with “Dreamgirls” and last year’s underwhelming “Cadillac Records,” Beyonce Knowles is ready to get her hands dirty. Summoning the spirits of the dearly departed blaxploitation genre, Knowles has selected “Obsessed” as her initial step to becoming more than just a rabid prestige hunter and ideal object of stunt casting agents. This is the lauded singer’s first starring vehicle, and she’s chosen wisely. What better way to show some imposing box office muscle than to headline a trashy, empty calorie thriller that plays with racial bugaboos and DTV slasher conventions for a cheap, conversation-with-the-screen response. Oh my, this picture is junk food, but worse, it’s an absolute toothless bore.

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“The Soloist” strikes me as a very special film handicapped by unfortunate marketing. Dreamworks seems unfairly bound to promote the feature as a feel-good snapshot of redemption, spotlighting the road-tested appeal of the privileged white man taking a handicapped black soul under his wing, guiding him to unimaginable greatness. “The Soloist” is not that film. Under no circumstances is this picture a perverse “Radio 2.” Put the marketing aside, block the promotion out, and absorb this feature for what it truly is: a masterful observation of genius trapped inside unimaginable distress. The studio would like to sell a candied inspirational story, but director Joe Wright avoids the sugared path at all turns, producing a stunning, transcendent celluloid event that fuses the tranquility of classical music with the unyielding frailty of humanity.

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