Just when I thought Thai cinema couldn’t get any stranger, I come across “Muay Thai Giant,” a 2008 action-comedy finally making its debut in America. A highly bizarre mix of “The Incredible Hulk,” “The Little Rascals,” and the average knee-to-the-face martial arts extravaganza, the film is a refreshingly nutty family film that probably shouldn’t be shown to families. Loud, broad, and always aiming to please, “Muay Thai Giant” is an unpredictable charmer that delivers on every silly promise.
“The Way Back” features more walking than I’ve ever seen from a film. Combine all three “Lord of the Rings” pictures, and there’s still less arduous trekking than found in this movie. It’s a true-life tale of endurance and unimaginable distance brought to the screen by filmmaker Peter Weir, who captures the agony and companionship of life on the move, where a group of strangers faced the fight of their life hiking through debilitating environmental challenges.
The lottery is a powerful thing. For some, it’s a method of achieving a better life, flush with enough cash to permit the indulgence of any imaginable dream. For a few of the winners, the jackpot is a burden, distancing them from the life they once knew, forcing them to pull back on loved ones and the public at large. “Lucky” surveys lottery tales of winning and losing, observing the emotional strain and social discomfort that goes along with the gamble. For some, money doesn’t even begin to cover some of their troubles.
Within the first 10 minutes of “Madea’s Big Happy Family” a doctor is groped, the lead character is handed a cancer death sentence, and perennial boob Mr. Brown (David Mann) threatens to beat a woman. In other words, it’s business as usual for writer/director Tyler Perry, last seen slinging Oscar bait with the sobering drama, “For Colored Girls.” Receiving a frosty response to his “mature” motion picture, Perry has hurriedly returned to the cross-dressing comfort of Madea, slapping together a half-finished vehicle for his most popular character. It’s back to threats, stress, and Jesus, with this latest film a slapdash, tedious reworking of old business.
Disneynature has taken on “Earth” and “Oceans” with reasonable box office success, but a story was clearly missing, something substantial to support the glorious images of life unleashed. “African Cats” attempts to rectify the situation by assigning personalities to an assortment of wild creatures, manufacturing a human drama to compliment the animal one. Thankfully, the producers stopped at exaggerated narration from Samuel L. Jackson, turning down the opportunity to have these regal creatures of Africa speak or possibly rap.
Whatever magic was included in Sara Gruen’s 2006 novel, “Water for Elephants,” has not made the arduous journey to the big screen. An excruciatingly labored and uneven melodrama, the cinematic incarnation of the best-seller takes a vivid tale of romance and revenge and bleeds it dry of tension, electing to hang tight to a trio of miscast actors instead of developing the rich world and characterizations of the story. The best part of the picture is the elephant, and even she looks embarrassed to be a part of this charmless snoozer.
These days, sci-fi conventions are big business, held in cavernous convention centers where the proudly geeky pay big bucks to come within slapping distance of their television and movie heroes. And let’s not forget the merchandise, with rows and rows of dealers selling everything they can get their hands on. Conventions have become a machine of commerce and promotion, but it wasn’t always this way. Zip back to the 1970s, and these gatherings displayed sincerity and passion, stitched together by individuals who adored “Star Trek” and wanted to share their particular interests with others.
A few years back, I was pushed into seeing the “High School Musical” movies, and, boy howdy, I wasn’t looking forward to the assured sensorial punishment. The trilogy turned out to be a charming, jaunty experience, teeming with happy feet and fresh-faced young talent, kicking up a Disney Channel-approved storm that, while outrageously broad, provided the essentials in terms of tween melodrama. While Vanessa Hudgens is out there appearing in awful movies (“Beastly,” “Sucker Punch”) and Zac Efron looks to butch up in indie cinema, Ashley Tisdale is perfectly content to continue on with her own starring vehicle, once again taking command of Sharpay as she looks to make her mark on the Great White Way.
The box art for “Blood Out” trumpets the participation of Val Kilmer, Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson, and Vinnie Jones, though these men are hardly in the film. The true star is actor Luke Goss, who’s built a career for himself as a poor man’s Jason Statham, accepting roles as a buzz-cut bruiser in a myriad of DTV product, working hard to look cool in motion pictures that are nearly comedic in their ineptitude — the highly ludicrous “Blood Out” being the latest to join his career hall of shame.
While Michael J. Fox was thrust into the media spotlight when “Back to the Future” blew up the box office in the summer of 1985, it wasn’t his only picture released during the season. Shot before “Future” and released shortly afterwards to capitalize on its massive success, “Teen Wolf” was a decidedly low-tech teen comedy, less about dazzling Spielbergian pace and time travel, and more about hairy teens and pubescent allegory. Despite the inexcusable lack of a DeLorean, “Teen Wolf” is a modest, digestible comedy, guided by a perfectly itchy Fox performance as the titular beast.
In 2000, Mark Hogancamp was beaten senseless outside of a bar by a group of brutes. The resulting brain injury wiped his mind clean, forcing the 38-year-old man to relearn basic functions, rebuilding his life after an extended hospital stay. Instead of feeding into an understandable rage over what was lost, Mark reclaimed what was left of his life through a curious hobby: photographs of 1/6-scale dolls engaged in a large-scale WWII recreation that reflects Mark’s own dreams of community support, filling his vast emotional needs.
Imagine “Inception.” Now imagine “Inception” with a C-list cast, obscure locations, and a visual effects effort similar to a PBS production from the 1980s. “The Speed of Thought” is yet another indie film too ambitious for its own good, constructing a psychological thriller without a proper budget, rendering the feature awkward and downright silly at times, despite an intriguing concept.
“Rio” doesn’t break new ground in terms of animated entertainment for families, but what it does it does very well. A musical romp boasting an explosion of colors and an energetic range of voice actors, “Rio” keeps to a minimal plan of villains and personal triumph, summoning a charming, booty-shaking carnival ambiance where a bunch of crazy birds (as opposed to the angry kind) participate in some 3D-inflated slapstick, adding to the riotous party atmosphere.
“The Conspirator” is a sumptuously shot depiction of a lesser-known moment in history. Taking place after President Lincoln’s assassination in 1865, the picture seeks to recreate hysteria and shady political dealings during a time of nationwide turbulence. Unfortunately, instead of mounting a crushing procedural picture filled with facts and figures, director Robert Redford elects for a more melodramatic route, turning all the accusations and disgust into a wobbly drama of limited emotional impact.
Time hasn’t been kind to the “Scream” franchise, with the original film’s novelty effectively scraped away by imitators, parodies, and sequels, diluting the position of pop culture powerhouse the 1996 film achieved. We’re up to “Scream 4” now, and it’s a completely unnecessary update/reboot/reheat that essentially rehashes previous pandemonium, deploying the same nudge-nudge self-referential screenwriting and graphic kills fans have come to expect and perhaps resent. It’s a tired, overstuffed, overlong picture that labors to revitalize a comatose concept. The scream has effectively become a yawn.
Writer/director Shana Feste aims to pattern her latest film, “Country Strong,” after the tragic love songs of the enduring musical genre. What she comes up with is far more clunky and unimaginative, scripting an intolerable Lifetime Movie-style excursion into the gloomy recesses of fame, making a complete fool out of a confident actress. “Country Strong” is excruciating to watch at times; a wholly embarrassing enterprise that renders country music insufferable, keeps Gwyneth Paltrow in an irritating state of teary distress, and makes one long for the same numbing cell of bottle-clutching isolation that alcoholism gifts to the lead character.
In a day and age when so many filmmakers lean on camp to pay tribute to the monster movies of old, “Monster Beach Party A-Go-Go” plays surprisingly straight. A valentine to the creature features of the 1960s, the film has an unexpectedly low-key presence, content to tinker with a few traditions and tug at some goofy genre habits, but refuses to squeal, accepting the challenge of recreating beach party horror with refreshing semi-seriousness.
BRIAN ORNDORF 