“Jack Goes Boating” is a very peculiar film that reaches out for an emotional intensity I’m not convinced it ever achieves. The movie marks the directing debut of Philip Seymour Hoffman, who strains to lend the picture a certain level of indie film authority, mixing crooked whimsy with exaggerated idiosyncrasy. The feature has few tender moments of joy and pain, but nothing gels in an insightful manner that invites the viewer into the experience.
“Death Race 2” isn’t actually a sequel, but a prequel detailing the creation of the unstoppable, iron-masked driving force known as Frankenstein, portrayed in the original 1975 film by the late David Carradine. The picture doesn’t exactly answer all the burning questions left behind by the dreadful Paul W.S. Anderson motion picture from 2008, but it’s a start. And not a half-bad one either, effortlessly surpassing its forefather with a scrappier take on head-bashing, car-smashing matters of a dystopian future.
When a child dies, what comes next for the parents left behind? Grief is inevitable, but should it become eternal? Is there hope for happiness or at least some sense of composure in the midst of ungodly tragedy? “Rabbit Hole” analyzes the messy, raw emotional aftermath of loss, and how the eventual road to recovery is not defined by simple acts of forgiveness, but a rolling effort of comfort emerging from the most unlikely of sources. “Rabbit Hole” is a beautiful picture of immense power, treating the bleakness at hand with sublime variants of intimate human response.
It’s another peek into the strain of marriage with the drama “Every Day,” though this particular snapshot of marital friction is blessed with a gifted cast able to pull the interior ache out of a script that eventually grows to fail them completely. A scattered picture, the viewing experience is saved by a few tender scenes of resignation and the occasional blip of honest communication.
Stepping away from serious business (and the lucrative world of Robert Langdon) for a spell, Ron Howard mounts his first comedy in over a decade with “The Dilemma.” True to form, it’s really not much of a comedy at all. Though crudely marketed as a slapstick bonanza to put butts in seats, the picture is a far more peculiar machine of anxiety, flavored with only a light dusting of the funny stuff. Howard’s not drilling to the root of infidelity here, but he touches on delicate relationship issues, providing a fascinating, unexpected personality to the picture.
“The Green Hornet” is a beloved superhero franchise that has carried on triumphantly through the years on radio, television, and the silver screen. For its latest cinematic adaptation, the material confronts its greatest challenge: Seth Rogen. The giggly, goofy actor takes an implausible leap into big screen heroics; however, his “Green Hornet” is far from a stone-faced urban savior with a thirst for justice. Here, Rogen plays the masked avenger as a boob, though a financially powerful, easily impressed boob. His instincts to turn the role into comedy serve him well, making his “Green Hornet” a screwy addition to the parade of stern superhero releases.
As an actor, Paul Giamatti has remained predictable, at least for the majority of his career. Blessed with a certain carriage of rumpled intensity, his roles have gravitated toward men of rage or duplicity, often embodying eye-bulging discontent. However, when the actor finds a special role that demands dimension and an overall throttling of disease, Giamatti is unstoppable. “Barney’s Version” offers such a challenge, gifting Giamatti a role of immense depth and mystery to explore in this outstanding, unpredictable drama.
The strain of love and marriage goes mumblecore in Katie Aselton’s ‘The Freebie,” which takes a largely improvised peek at the struggle of fidelity. Though cursed with a clichéd shaky HD presentation, Aselton (who’s married to co-producer/mumblecore maestro Mark Duplass) proves herself to be a formidable filmmaker with a keen eye for shame, making the picture something of a surprise, especially with its sense of marital realism.
I received an unexpectedly warm response to my original Terrace Theater story. My inbox was filled with support and stories, people who wanted to share their grief over the loss of this movie palace. It was a gush of nostalgia that encouraged me to head back to the site of the crumbling theater, yet I completely forgot to post the pictures from the trip. This is a more unedited look at the state of the building, with a few peeks inside. As always, click the picture for a larger view.
It’s difficult to take Nicolas Cage seriously these days. The former madman has been forced into a series of paycheck gigs for reasons obvious to anyone enjoying access to the internet, with “Season of the Witch” a solid representation of Cage’s new career direction. Unchallenged and over-wigged, the actor is merely biding his time with this serving of horror hooey, obviously more interested in hearing the sweet sound of “cut!” than trying to make a tepid screenplay shuffle with restless energy Cage is more than capable of summoning. The material needed his special sauce. Instead, Cage barely raises an eyebrow.
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.
“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.
Like any dependable Mike Leigh picture, “Another Year” leisurely reveals its secrets. It’s a glacial feature representing the passage of time, observing a single year in the life of a dangerously functional couple and their troubled friends and family. It’s not a film of direct conflict or suspense, but one that nurtures a sinking feeling of unease and sadness, watching as some of these characters fall deeper into hopelessness, almost to spite the happiness around them.
Though there’s nothing wrong with the appearance of weighty dramatics during a martial arts extravaganza, the Indonesian film, “Merantau,” lacks a necessary component of entertainment. There’s no sense of life to this bland run of heroes and villains, reducing the bone-breaking encounters scattered throughout to merciful blasts of screen energy that break up the monotonous, poorly acted severity that turns the picture into a still frame. I’m all for the infusion of gravitas and actual stakes, but “Merantau” is a bore, only achieving a few pure moments of bloody-knuckled invention.
Ariel’s rebirth, Affleck’s revenge, stuttering blues, attack of the clones, superpoke supremacy, Rooster’s rage, a toothless friendship, apartment hell, unspeakable loss, and zombie flowers. These are the best films of 2010.
Plastic runaways, 100% medical accuracy, Kristen Bell x2, the strain of marriage, the wrath of Dick Chainy, Lawrence of My Labia, Edward Sullen, Schumacher’s revenge, and Nazi mice. These are the worst films of 2010.
Charting the origin and termination of a volatile relationship, “Blue Valentine” elects to carry intense dramatic weight through improvisation, capturing the authenticity of the moment by allowing the actors to feel out the perimeter of their characters. The effect can be wearisome, clouding the intriguing atmosphere of the film, stealing attention away from the fractured essence of the piece so actors can flail about, killing vital intimacy by being so aware of the camera.
BRIAN ORNDORF 