In 1995, the Isaac Mizrahi documentary “Unzipped” opened to acclaim and
box office interest. It was a strange picture at the time, revealing the
backstage life of a fashion designer, detailing the work, the
struggles, and the success of such an intense vocation, teeming with
judgment and humiliation. Cut to today, and fashion stories are
everywhere, with television shows and documentaries happily pulling back
the curtain on industry secrets and cattiness while selling an image of
artistry and unattainable luxury to those who relish such dreamtime
opportunities. Finding a fringe topic rarely open for discussion,
director Matthew Miele goes beyond style and into the store,
establishing a cathedral of commerce and anecdotes for inspection in
“Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf’s.”
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Most films concerning The Troubles take a vitriolic stance, using stark
images of violence and fiery participants to paint a disturbing portrait
of sacrifice and circular movements of tragedy. “Shadow Dancer” is no
less impassioned, but takes a more suspenseful route, locking on the
internal churn of responsibility and personal protection as national
events and schemes of war carry on in the background. It’s a terrific
picture, bolstered by powerful performances from Clive Owen and
especially Andrea Riseborough, who carries the restless effort with a
singular display of discomfort peeking out from behind a mask of duty,
capturing a precise projection of doubt in the midst of destructive
political certainty.
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It’s been a long time since I’ve seen an Uwe Boll picture, going to back
2008 when his last theatrical endeavor, “In the Name of the King,” blew
in and out of multiplexes with the speed of a spring breeze. Since that
time, Boll has gone on to direct 15 movies, living up to his Ed
Wood legacy by churning out features at an alarming rate, with one of
his last efforts titled “Blubberella” (oof). What was once goofy cult
aimlessness has now become a private industry for Boll, who, despite his
grim artistic reputation and the forgettable nature of his work, has
managed to remain employed after all these years. Now the helmer puts
the Financial Crisis of 2008 into his crosshairs, turning monetary ruin
and one-percenter gloating into a revenge fantasy, putting a gun and a
moronic script into the hand of the common man. Because it wouldn’t be
Boll if there wasn’t borderline irresponsible storytelling. Read the rest at Blu-ray.com

I was completely swept away by the 2009 reinvention of “Star Trek” (my favorite film
of that year). Director J.J. Abrams approached an impossible creative
challenge with startling confidence, restoring awe to a dusty brand name
while removing the need to be slavish to Gene Roddenberry’s original
creation as it paved the way for its own universe of alien planets,
adversaries, and whip-crack heroism. Four years later (an eternity in
blockbuster time), Abrams and Company return with “Star Trek Into
Darkness,” a sequel that’s nearly as thrilling as the previous picture,
delivering a sensational view of crew camaraderie and earthbound threat.
However, there’s a specific cancer in the screenplay in dire need of
removal, moving a jubilant creation into an area of dramatic replication
that’s all wrong. Most of “Star Trek Into Darkness” will have its
audience cheering, the rest feels like a slap across the face.
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What “The Iceman” has to offer, we’ve seen before. It’s a hitman story, a
bio-pic of sorts studying the cold-blooded career of Richard Kuklinski,
a mafia enforcer who murdered over 100 people during his two decades on
the job, dealing with all types of godfathers and hot-heads as he tried
to raise a family in relative peace. It’s a tough guy saga touched up
with some texture by co-writer/director Ariel Vromen, who makes a
passable attempt to deepen the displays of underworld gamesmanship by
focusing on the nuclear power generated in Kuklinski’s mounting
frustration with his eroding life. It’s not a feature that lingers after
it concludes, but considering the cliches available to the production,
it shows some taste when it comes to goombah happenings.
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I’m almost embarrassed to admit that my introduction to Ricky Jay was
through his acting credits, watching him perform in the films of David
Mamet and Paul Thomas Anderson, completely unaware of his legacy as a
sleight of hand master. His magical authority would come later to me,
making his accomplishments and skill even more impressive, with his very
career a type of delicious misdirection to people of a certain age.
“Deceptive Practice: The Mysteries and Mentors of Ricky Jay” returns
focus to Jay’s far-reaching history with tricks and stage performance,
sitting down with the subject to discuss his influences and career,
placing attention on a man who would much rather communicate through his
indescribable brilliance with something as simple as a stack of playing
cards.
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Danish director Susanne Bier has built a career out of difficult
pictures with hard edges, gracefully exploring the limits of
vulnerability with a decidedly humane approach, always aware of natural
behaviors that have generated some spellbinding cinema (including 2004’s
“Brothers”). “Love Is All You Need” is an unnerving step toward
mainstream acceptance for the helmer, masterminding an unexpectedly
conventional romantic drama that carries a predictability about it
that’s a touch deflating. I’m not suggesting the movie is a Kate Hudson
rom-com with Katrina and the Waves needle drops, but for every touch of
emotional texture that’s inviting, there’s a wallop of formula that’s
disheartening.
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After playing second fiddle to Gerard Butler in last month’s “Olympus
Has Fallen,” it’s about time star Aaron Eckhart proved himself in the
action arena. It’s only a shame “Erased,” as nondescript a title as can
be, doesn’t reveal much ingenuity in the stale genre, electing to reheat
plot elements and violent encounters viewed in other, better films.
Eckhart commits to the material like a professional, but his feverish
investment in Arash Amel’s repetitive script and Philipp Stolzl’s
pedestrian direction is wasted, with “Erased” struggling to come across
exciting when it’s really just painfully average, resembling a sleepy
version of “The Bourne Identity.”
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I wish “The English Teacher” was as humorous and mischievous as it
believes itself to be. A farce in serious need of speed and content, the
picture doesn’t exactly achieves its minimal goals, falling short of
its intended satiric aim toward high school theatrical productions,
while lacking spitfire as a comedy of errors tinged with uncomfortable
sexuality. Although the cast is invested in the shenanigans to a
satisfying degree, there’s simply not enough to the feature that
translates to dynamic filmmaking. “The English Teacher” unfolds with all
the edge and depth of a television movie, and despite some tempting
turns of unsavory behavior, it barely shows interest in itself.
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With “Down Terrace” and “Kill List,” director Ben Wheatley was striving
for more of a severe atmosphere of family dysfunction and the dark
unknown, creating interesting but indulgent cinema that fell short of
its initial promise. “Sightseers” takes Wheatley in a distinctly broad
direction, creating a pitch-black comedy that’s uproarious when it isn’t
completely horrifying. It’s shocking in all the good ways, lead by two
fantastic performances from Alice Lowe and Steve Oram, who capture the
elusive feel of cheery malevolence early on the feature, helping to sell
Wheatley’s casual atmosphere of whiplash temper down to the last gasp.
“Sightseers” is a legitimate doozy.
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“Aftershock” is a strange disaster film that desires to merge broad
comedy with utter depravity, looking to concoct a pungent brew of
exploitation for those who’ve developed a taste for such bitter screen
insanity. Unfortunately, the feature is lopsided, unfunny, and
needlessly aggressive, or, in other words, it was co-written by Eli
Roth, the horror player behind the “Hostel” series and “Cabin Fever.”
Though Nicolas Lopez is credited as co-screenwriter and director of
“Aftershock,” the picture bears all the birth defects of a Roth
endeavor, including wild tonal swings, cruel violence toward women, and
an overly jokey introduction. Although it hopes to depict the utter
downfall of man in the face of a natural disaster, it’s mostly obnoxious
and forgettable.
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The marketing for “Peeples” has been stamped silly with the Tyler Perry
brand name, though he only has a vague producer presence here, not a
primary creative role. Actually, it’s probably a mistake to have Mr.
Madea’s name anywhere near the picture, as Perry’s core fanbase will be
expecting something volcanic from a movie that just wants to relax and
have a little harmless fun. It’s more Huxtables than hysterical. That’s
not to suggest “Peeples” is an especially good film, but when it finds
its silly stride, there’s some amusement to be had, providing a few
scattered laughs. Its even-tempered atmosphere of mischief is perfectly
alien to Perry’s bazooka approach, so be warned acolytes, this feature
isn’t going to scratch that pan-wielding melodrama itch.
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Director Baz Luhrmann is not a miracle man, but he’s successfully
restored pluck to fatigued material with his unique brand of cinematic
voodoo. He made Shakespeare dizzy with 1996’s “Romeo + Juliet,” sent
turn of the century Paris to Mars in 2001’s “Moulin Rouge,” and restored
romantic sweep to a majestic continent with 2008’s “Australia.”
However, turning his laser focus to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 novel
“The Great Gatsby” somehow tangles his antennae, faced with material
that doesn’t allow for the type of spunk Luhrmann has turned into a
brand. Despite his best intentions to make this collection of mope and
alienation feel like a celebration of a euphoric era and its force of
personality, the helmer can’t inject feeling into a cold-blooded
creation. It’s a gorgeous film; sadly, it’s not a silent one.
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Continuing his barbed but playful filmmaking interests as of late,
writer/director Francois Ozon works his way to an exploration of
voyeurism with his latest effort, “In the House.” Playing to the
helmer’s strengths as it details obsession and mental gamesmanship, the
feature is a riveting endeavor that blurs the line between fact and
fiction, working as delicious commentary on the mechanics of literary
manipulation while managing a peculiar complexity as a tale of depressed
people avoiding their own realities. It’s amusing and unexpected,
capturing the compulsive spirit of writing with wit and attention to
mischief that keeps it unpredictable to the very end.
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In the mid-eighties, there was bumper crop of films examining the plight
of the red-blooded, family-oriented American farmer as they faced
industry demands, corporate interests, and dwindling profits. In 2013,
the vocation has changed radically, with little room for a personal
touch, giving way to fields of crops born from genetically modified
seeds, with Big Agriculture turning to science and law to control what
was once an Earthly treasure shared by all. “At Any Price” uses the
discomfort surrounding GMO seeds as a foundation for its story of
domestic dissolve, but largely ignores the possibilities of the
conflict. In fact, the results are quite disastrous when it steps away
from farming concerns, resulting in a movie that’s unforgivably clunky,
tone-deaf, and dreadfully acted.
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After securing blushes from teen girls worldwide with his supporting
role in the “Twilight” series (playing Emmett, the vamp bruiser), Kellan
Lutz is looking to break out on his own, accepting starring vehicles
that require displays of strength and beefcakery. However, the true star
of “Java Heat” is the Indonesian island where the location takes place,
often displaying more nuance and personality than any of the performers
onscreen. Rote and uneventful, “Java Heat” could’ve easily starred
Jean-Claude Van Damme 15 years ago and probably would’ve been a total
gas. Today, we’re stuck with Lutz, who doesn’t have the Euro charm or
martial art prowess required to gift the production an identifying
trait.
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