With “American Mary,” the Soska Sisters, identical twins Jen and Sylvia,
become a force to be reckoned with in the horror community. While their
screenwriting ultimately fumbles the climax, the picture remains a
fascinatingly brutal, charmingly perverse creation that always maintains
its composure, despite an open invitation to dwell on extreme
personalities in a most untidy manner. Funky without feeling oppressive,
“American Mary” is sharply made and well acted, keeping it ahead of
routine genre offerings with its unique interest in the body
modification subculture, approaching disturbing behavior with a palpable
comfort level that’s not encountered often enough.
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Although it’s nearly impossible to distinguish from the marketing push,
“After Earth” is actually co-scripted and directed by M. Night
Shyamalan, the once mighty filmmaking force whose name used to be the
guiding light for any promotional campaign. Now he’s barely mentioned,
yet “After Earth” retains the atmosphere and odd accentuation of a
traditional Shyamalan effort, down to awkward pauses and frosty
performances. The big guns here are star Will Smith and son Jaden Smith,
and while the actors have difficulty raising the pulse rate of such a
lethargic project, it’s really the helmer’s iffy creative decisions that
keep “After Earth” more of a wince-inducing drag than the
heart-squeezing, mind-blowing sci-fi adventure it desires to be.
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From the outside looking in, it seems rather insistent of director Sarah
Polley to present a documentary with her own family as the subject,
suggesting an insufferably narcissistic viewing experience where the
artist purges her demons for the world to see. However, “Stories We
Tell” isn’t that shameless, embarking on a riveting odyssey of emotion,
revelation, and storytelling perspective as it examines a most unusual
situation of bifurcated love, resulting in a mystery of sorts involving a
question of paternity and the very essence of family as Polley collects
the jigsaw puzzle pieces of her life. While I can understand any
reluctance to view the personal business of others, Polley moves beyond
the routine of therapy to shape an expressive and beautifully
considerate documentary.
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As repeatedly reported in pre-release press, “Behind the Candelabra”
represents the last feature film Steven Soderbergh plans to direct
before entering a period of retirement nobody believes will last for
long. On the off chance he actually follows through on this threat,
“Behind the Candelabra” is an apt farewell for the frustrated
moviemaker, who tackles a controversial script teeming with sordid
details and cruel behavior, out to strangle the legacy of gaudy showman
Liberace, viewed here a monster-in-the-making. Although a glacial pace
ultimately undermines the passions of the characters, the picture does
supply tangy performances from stars Michael Douglas and Matt Damon, who
sink their teeth into the unsavory business of love gone wrong,
captured by Soderbergh in a distracted manner that hints more at auteur
fatigue rather than industry frustration.
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Exploitation cinema is rarely guided by women, making “Black Rock”
something special in the often distasteful genre, which always seems to
hold a remarkable amount of aggression toward female characters.
However, don’t let director Katie Aselton fool you, as she’s crafted a
roughhouse effort that serves up frenzied acts of intimidation and
extreme violence. Unfortunately, she’s funneled such raw intensity into
an unforgivably permissive picture, with hyperactive performances and
thinly sketched screenwriting unraveling whatever highlights of terror
manage to survive the viewing experience. The feminine approach is
refreshing, but the novelty wears off quickly once a few of these actors
decide to turn on the ham, making it difficult to buy much of what
“Black Rock” is selling.
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“Syrup” takes on the cutthroat world of marketing, a battleground where
anything goes in terms of content, as long as it sells. The same
disposability applies to the employees as well, who often engage in pure
ruthlessness to secure work and reputation, handing the picture fanged
potential that’s aching for a smart directorial approach to lend the
material momentum and a biting sense of humor. “Syrup” doesn’t head in
that direction, instead self-consciously watering down its acid splashes
to appease sensitive moviegoers, introducing a dead weight romantic
subplot to soften the blow. It’s a spunky film, but only in frustrating
fits, with the majority of the feature overly concerned with its
appearance, generating a sliver of irony to go with all the mediocrity.
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With its last outing, 2011’s “Fast Five,” the “Fast and the Furious”
franchise reached a previously unimaginable creative high. Against all
odds, it was a vastly entertaining picture that readjusted tonal goals
for the series, dropping most the dead weight car race tangents to run
full steam ahead as a caper, using the limited but colorful cast to
generate an event film atmosphere populated with familiar faces and some
exciting new ones. Rewarded with enormous box office returns, the
producers have decided to maintain the pace, keeping “Fast & Furious
6” (titled “Furious 6” on the print) focused on a Bondian baddie,
wrecking ball-style chases, and pro-wrestling fisticuffs. What’s missing
here is a decent script, at least something approaching digestibility
when it comes to the misadventures of this knuckle-dragging crew. The
production insists the characters should verbalize their every thought.
The production has made a horrible mistake.
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It appears Todd Phillips received the memo. After the successful sequel,
“The Hangover: Part II,” was released in 2011, there was a great swell
of disappointment, watching co-writer/director Phillips basically remake
his original 2009 feature, merely switching locales and stakes but
retaining the same crude sense of humor and trust in comedic madness.
Perhaps aware of the apathetic response to “Part II,” “The Hangover:
Part III” heads in a fresh direction, with a new plot and a different
focus on certain characters. It’s not exactly an apology, but the
production’s once mighty devotion to hard R-rated chaos has been dialed
down considerably, coming off affectionate toward the Wolf Pack as they
embark on their final disaster.
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In this line of work, one sees plenty of animated movies, and while
there are natural variances in quality, most fall into a familiar
structure, guaranteeing a certain box office response. The French
production “The Painting” generally refuses the temptations of formula,
displaying remarkable invention as it builds a unique world of art
appreciation and adventure, using smarts instead of sameness to provide a
richly detailed viewing experience that will satisfy the whole family.
It’s sophisticated and stunning, amusing and harrowing, and quite
possibly one of the most interesting pictures of the year, raising the
bar for CG-animated pursuits.
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The Cartoon-o-Tron 9000 sparks to life and cranks out “Epic,” a feature
filled with so many derivative ideas and formulaic events, it’s
difficult to assess what’s actually novel about the picture. From the
production team that brought the world the “Ice Age” series and
“Robots,” “Epic” has its eye on a blockbuster plan of engagement, hoping
to wow its audience with an expansive fantasy world populated with
miniature heroes and villains. What’s missing here is a personality of
its own, with director Chris Wedge more attentive to marketing needs and
CG-animated minutiae than supporting an engaging story. It’s a
mechanical, halfhearted effort, and while it’s lovely to look at,
there’s little to the movie that lives up to its lofty title.
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Writer/director Noah Baumbach has spent the last chunk of his career
working on his anger issues, funneling his insecurities into pictures
such as “Margot at the Wedding” and “Greenberg.” “Frances Ha” comes off
as a calculated attempt by Baumbach to remind his audience that he’s not
such a creep, working intimately with star/co-writer Greta Gerwig on a
tale of delayed adolescence hitting a rough patch of reality. It’s a
comedy, though often a painful one, displaying bouncy pop songs and a
chipper attitude despite its investment in depicting the natural
progression of stale friendships, counting on Gerwig’s sludgy delivery
and credible embodiment of woman-child impulses to sprinkle sugar on the
behavioral poison.
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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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