It’s hard to believe that “Tiger Eyes” represents the first major motion
picture adaption of a Judy Blume novel. The celebrated author (“Are You
There God? It’s Me, Margaret”), once a mighty junior high library
beacon to adolescents everywhere, seems like a natural fit for teen
cinema tastes, with her frank discussions of growing pains and her
commitment to an honest assessment of emergent emotions. While Blume’s
world is long overdue for a big screen spin, it’s unfortunate that the
first effort out of the gate is “Tiger Eyes.” While the feature is rich
with malleable misery and juvenile disquiet, it makes for a leaden,
rushed movie, with Blume’s own son responsible for mucking with the
nuances of the source material, flattening promising conflicts and
painful introspection.
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Romantic comedies have it rough these days, but most invite misery
through absurdly pedestrian screenwriting and dismal, overly vanilla
casting. The British production “I Give It a Year” manages to indulge a
touch of warmth via carefully managed bitterness, dissecting the genre
to locate ideal notes of distress and embarrassment to play. In danger
of becoming yet another relationship picture that misunderstands the
Richard Curtis formula, the movie instead acquires its own personality
of vulgar humor and matrimonial inspection, delivering on laughs and
knowing cohabitational nods as it makes an agreeable screen mess of
emotions and impulses, carried largely by an ensemble clearly enjoying
the opportunity to send up the foibles of coupledom.
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In 2005, Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson co-starred in “Wedding Crashers,” a
vulgar R-rated comedy that ended up becoming one of the biggest
pictures of the year. Bizarrely, a sequel was never attempted. Instead
of an official follow-up, there’s “The Internship,” which takes the
opposite tonal route of “Wedding Crashers,” containing its
outrageousness to a PG-13 uproar, while amplifying its feel-good
intentions to win over the big summer crowds. The film feels weirdly
gutless, especially from known rapscallions such as Wilson and Vaughn,
showing surprisingly little hunger to land monster laughs, instead
finding comfort in a tired underdog story gifted a tech-world spin.
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“The Purge” has a crackerjack premise it takes absolutely no interest
in. It’s a disappointing feature that contains a substantial amount of
stupidity, asking its audience to digest an entire buffet of illogic as
it discards any hope for a profoundly satiric or meditative approach to a
futureworld story of government-branded nationwide order via
unspeakable violence. “The Purge” is careless work, more interested in
summoning a haunted house atmosphere of cliched chills than exhaustively
working over the potential of the piece, bringing to the screen a dire
depiction of a world gone mad. Instead, the movie runs through the
motions, gradually lobotomizing itself over 85 wasteful minutes.
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Screenwriter Geoffrey Fletcher won an Academy Award for his first
produced work, 2009’s “Precious,” and now graduates to the director’s
chair with “Violet & Daisy,” which is about as far removed from his
industry introduction as possible. Taking on the assassin genre with
initial hints toward the formation of a jailbait-killer satire, Fletcher
soon loses the snap of his bubblegum, grinding the picture to a halt
with banal stretches of dialogue and location claustrophobia. Leads
Alexia Bledel and Saoirse Ronan show spark and interest to lean into the
shaming Fletcher initially appears to value, but their efforts are
gradually flooded by a helmer who doesn’t quite know what type of movie
he wants to make.
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“Before Midnight” represents the next stage of development for the
Richard Linklater-directed series, which wasn’t truly intended to be a
string of movies in the first place. With 1995’s “Before Sunrise” and
2004’s “Before Sunset,” Linklater, along with star Ethan Hawke and Julie
Delpy, crafted loquacious inspections of the human heart, studying the
development of a tentative relationship as it grew from flirtation to
promises, from loss to love. Now the topic is marriage and all its
pitfalls and challenges, returning to the once springy lovers nearly two
decades after they first met on a European train. True to form,
Linklater doesn’t rock the boat with this second sequel, embarking on a
familiar odyssey of conversation, personal inventory, and brutal
honesty.
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There’s an effective feeling of unease that hangs in the air of “Wish
You Were Here,” a mystery film of sorts that walks a rough path toward
tragedy. It’s a vacation-gone-wrong story, but one that’s not interested
in generating fear, just unbearable tension as a simple journey into a
foreign land proves disastrous, yet the participants refuse to divulge
the details of their unraveling. Tightly constructed and honest with
character relationships, “Wish You Were Here” is a riveting study of
guilt and moral corruption, wisely using disorientation to sustain
interest in the bleak proceedings.
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There are moments in “The Kings of Summer” that conjure a feeling of
pressurized adolescence, where innocence is depleting and parental
quarrels turn into all-out war. And there are sequences presented here
that resemble an audition tape for the Groundlings. It’s an unevenness
that holds the picture low to the ground, despite its effort to come off
as a document of juvenile concerns. Actually, there’s little about “The
Kings of Summer” that’s consistent, rendering the film irksome in its
randomness, finding a few profound windows to the soul before it lurches
back into shtick coma mode, trying to come across silly when a more
refined dramatic approach would support the intended emotional and
nostalgic response.
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“The History of Future Folk” is a perfectly pleasant picture. It’s not
remarkable work, but a surprisingly gentle entry into the comedic
musical duo sweepstakes once populated by the likes of Tenacious D and
Flight of the Conchords, though the paring of Nils d’Aulaire and Jay
Klaitz doesn’t aspire to any sort of comedic anarchy. Instead, directors
John Mitchell and Jeremy Kipp Walker play it comfortable with this
oddball sci-fi musical, trusting in their own scripted reality to a
degree that such passion rubs off on the audience, disarmed by the
feature’s generous spirit and set-list of toe-tapping tunes.
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“Midnight’s Children” is a sprawling motion picture that rarely pauses
to allow its audience a moment to grasp the numerous leaps in time and
enormous collection of characters. It’s based on the 1981 book by Salman
Rushdie, who co-scripts and narrates this bizarre story of childhood
trauma, magical powers, and crushing political changes, attempting to
work its way to a grand summation of a life lived in full. Director
Deepa Mehta fashions a lively movie for its first half, teeming with
personality and digestible flights of fancy, only to be crushed by the
overall narrative responsibility, unable to juggle faces and places to
satisfaction.
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I suppose if one must see a movie about a rampaging, mutant version of a
popular lumberjack from the depths of American folklore, “Axe Giant:
The Wrath of Paul Bunyan” is the best bet. A no-budget take on woodsy
horror and semi-comedic survival, the picture only manages to raise a
slight commotion with graphic violence and bizarre happenings, failing
to reach full hysteria even with its bizarre premise and dedication to
outrageous displays of gore. It’s an entertaining slice of schlock, good
for a few giggles and some handsome creature feature craftsmanship.
However, considering the possibility of a murderous Paul Bunyan prowling
Minnesota northland on the hunt for blood, “Axe Giant” isn’t the
runaway mine cart viewing experience the title promises.
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“Now You See Me” is a movie about the world of magic that doesn’t
contain a single frame of the real thing. It purports to understand the
techniques and attitude of the profession, yet it does a great injustice
to the skill of misdirection by turning elaborate deception into blunt
blockbuster filmmaking, perverting sleight of hand beauty into moronic
CGI-drenched escapades where anything goes. “Now You See Me” is a lousy
picture, anchored by lazy screenwriting and dismal performances, but
that it ignores the challenge of bringing authentic magic to the screen
to support its caper interests is practically unforgivable, keeping the
effort thoroughly plasticized and often tedious.
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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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