Category: Film Review

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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Allis was a mother, wife, and frustrated feminist who lived a problematical life of anxiety and depression. When she died in 2001, her children found 300 pages of transcripts, 50 hours of audio recordings, and 200 home movies in the backyard shed with explicit instructions to peruse after her passing. With a fractured family scattered to the four winds, grandson Morgan Dews took over the task of research, finding an entire existence he knew nothing about, documented with alarming precision that revealed deep psychological wounds disregarded long ago.

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Is crippling debt and a reckless spending habit ideal fodder for a comedy these days? Is “Confessions of a Shopaholic” so much of a fantasy that audiences can forget the world’s current financial woes and give themselves over to a romantic comedy concerning money troubles? With a stronger picture, sure. As it stands, “Shopaholic” is a trifle with fangs; a brutally insincere, borderline sci-fi excursion into Prada-packed, “chick-lit” distraction, puffed with shameless abandon by the cast and crew, who really seem to be enjoying themselves. The feeling doesn’t rub off the screen.

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I approach the “reimagining” of the slasher perennial “Friday the 13th” with the same moderately ajar mind I employed to absorb 2007’s feverish reworking of “Halloween.” After all, there’s a mass of sequels already out there that have managed to eat away at the sanctity of the original 1980 film, discovering new depths of awful as the follow-ups tried to cash in on an unexpected smash hit. Remaking “Friday” is not exactly dabbing a mustache on the Mona Lisa, and if embraced on a lowered scale of expectation and artistic requirement, this new spin on an iffy “classic” feels pretty nifty in miniature doses.

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When Hollywood slips into action/thriller mode, it usually involves dimly lit warehouses or the rampant destruction of a major interstate. When a European production wants to play hardcore, it trashes a modern art museum. “The International” attempts to blaze a few new trails in the big screen suspense game but comes up frustratingly short. The intent is written clearly, but the execution fails to grab the viewer by the throat like a dazzling thriller should. However, the museum bit is a nice touch.

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Through films such as “The Godfather” and “Scarface,” along with the television smash “The Sopranos,” there’s been a definite glamorization of life inside the deep layers of the mafia. The breakneck Italian crime saga “Gomorrah” seeks to sever that golden lure of brutality, power, and money, presenting an unflinching look at the inner workings of the Camorra criminal organization as they choke Italy for every last cent.

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Despite the come hither title promising warm ribbons of sensuality, “Two Lovers” is actually quite dire; a film that could make the unprepared viewer swear off romance for a substantial amount of time. Accept it as a cautionary tale of misplaced affection and “Two Lovers” is a terrific observational film, built upon layers of dense psychological curiosity and soul-flattening displays of rejection.

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While watching the loathsome “Push” I couldn’t help but wonder why people were so hard on last year’s satisfying actioner, “Jumper.” Certainly there was plenty of disbelief to swallow with Doug Liman’s hyperactive film, but it had a thrilling pace, top-notch special effects, and delved into a sci-fi mythology with some sympathy for the bewildered audience. The similarly plotted “Push” is opposite in every way: a ruthlessly tedious film that doesn’t make a lick of sense, is captured with cringing cinematography more at home on a skateboard accident compilation tape, and peppered with confused performances. People, give “Jumper” a second chance.

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“Pink Panther 2” is a sequel that’s not concerned with rocking the boat, dishing up the same velocity of slapstick that made the 2006 remake a modest hit, profitable enough for a second installment. This is not a motion picture worthy of disdain, but when a piece of comedy emerges from the mind of Steve Martin, shouldn’t there be more of a bite and not just a rolling succession of pratfalls and weirdly kid-unfriendly sexual innuendo? If you enjoyed the original “Pink Panther,” there’s no reason you wouldn’t like what Martin has cooked up for the sequel. Of course, if you embraced the 2006 film in a distinctly yawn-inducing way, you’ve already seen the follow-up.

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“He’s Just Not That Into You” is a cluttered motion picture that has a lot on its mind about the state of the modern romantic union, but lacks perspective. It’s a rambling, unfair runaway snowball of a movie lacking any leadership behind the camera, instead relying on the gifts of the enormous cast, who do their best to keep this cartoon from falling apart.

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From the director of “The Nightmare Before Christmas” and “James and the Giant Peach” comes “Coraline,” another foray into luxurious stop-motion animation and wildly imaginative fantasy visualization. It’s a gorgeous picture to behold, but fails to absorb smoothly, for the surreal nature of the material often overwhelms basic storytelling requirements. “Coraline” is an easy film to admire, but not always to watch.

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The second of pop star Jessica Simpson’s two desperate attempts to become a top-tier big screen comedienne (the other being last year’s odious “Blonde Ambition”), “Private Valentine: Blonde & Dangerous” (aka “Major Movie Star”) is pretty much as unremarkable and borderline unprofessional as one might imagine. A riff on “Private Benjamin,” “Valentine” is a graceless, flavorless farce built around the idea that Simpson’s dimwit routine still holds appeal and the hope that the target demo has never heard of Goldie Hawn. It’s not the worst film to escape from the Simpson Family promotional think tank (“Papa” Joe produces), but it’s a dreary, numbing comedy that has rightfully bypassed theatrical release for a quietly embarrassing DTV launch. 

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Over the course of the last year, Elizabeth Banks has starred in five motion pictures (six if you open up the range a few months). A talented, appealing actress, Banks has dominated the multiplex with a successful range of genres and tempos, but I worry that suspense just isn’t her weapon of choice. “The Uninvited” is a slapdash offering of chills hinged on Banks’s tenuous ability to channel her inner Hannibal Lecter. She can’t manage the workload, and “Uninvited” doesn’t clutch a strong enough premise to overcome her lack of juicy depravity.

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I have to admit, when Luc Besson sits down to invest in an offering of buttery popcorn entertainment, it’s an occasion to celebrate. Flipping through the likes of “District B13,” “High Tension,” “The Transporter,” and “Kiss of the Dragon,” it’s obvious Besson has a skill for picking out tight, twisted, lovable distractions, and “Taken” takes a welcome spot on his mantle of achievements. It’s an inconsequential action diversion, but damn does it pack a wallop over 90 taut, tempting Liam Neesony minutes.

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As a Minnesotan for nearly my entire life, the fish-out-of-water comedy “New in Town” drives me up a wall. While innocent fun was poked toward the state in the Coen Brothers’ 1996 classic “Fargo,” the business of cartooning up Minnesota has almost become a full-time industry, last felt in the pop culture dynamo, “Juno.” Because many in the remaining 49 states will take “Town” to heart, let me assure you all: Minnesotans would never present meatloaf to a first-time dinner guest (it’s casserole/hotdish or nothing at all), they don’t eat Tapioca by the bucketful, and I’ve never heard anyone introduce the glory of Jesus in casual conversation. It’s been 13 long years since “Fargo” and numerous irritating Lea Thompson interviews, and my sense of humor concerning this topic has been rubbed raw; “New in Town” is nothing short of a character assassination attempt on Minnesota, and even worse, it’s a ghastly romantic comedy that requires heavy sedation to endure.

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The new “Underworld” installment is being touted as the prequel the die-hard fans were demanding. That’s super-secret Hollywood code for, “Kate Beckinsale refused to appear no matter how much money was offered.” After the abysmal “Underworld: Evolution” from 2006, the prospect of another go-around with werewolves and vampires wasn’t welcome, though I have to hand it to the producers for having the sheer balls to replace Beckinsale with Bill Nighy and Michael Sheen, perhaps hoping acting expertise will pull this pointless prequel out of the gutter. The risk pays off for the rickety franchise, with “Rise of the Lycans” a swell, if profoundly trivial return to form for the creaky “Underworld” universe.

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