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.
Take a cursory glance at the comedy “Barry Munday,” and it might appear as an extended “Napoleon Dynamite” riff, delving into the lives of those cursed with social awkwardness, bad hygiene, and budget clothes. Mercifully, the picture submits a little more effort than cruel mockery, struggling to extract a sense of profound characterization out of surface mannerisms. It’s an oddball feature lacking a fine point to tie it all together, but it spotlights a cast game to try something new for a change, committing to the aimlessness with endearing slack-jawed concentration.
The Jimmy Fallon we know today is the host of a successful late night talk show, working diligently five nights a week to entertain America with his genial goofball wit and amusing competitive streak. The Jimmy Fallon viewed in the indie “The Year of Getting to Know Us” (shot in 2007) is a man at the end of his acting career, attempting to pull off an angsty role well beyond his skill level, working with professionals behind the camera who show no command over basic storytelling essentials. I think Jimmy Fallon is better off being silly on late night television.
For some, the Christmas season is about the comfort of family and friends. Others celebrate the peaceful aspects of the holiday. For a few candy manufacturers, it’s the time of year to trot out various confections centered on the idea of reindeer feces.
Perhaps I’m not up on my Jonathan Swift as well as I should be, but was there actually a scene in the novel, “Gulliver’s Travels,” where our titular hero, after spotting an inferno raging in the heart of the Lilliput kingdom, decides the only act of firefighting he’s capable of is to urinate all over the building and surrounding Lilliputians, creating a drippy, yellow mess? A climatic musical number where Gulliver leads the Lilliputians in a hopping rendition of Edwin Starr’s “War”? A scene where a Lilliputian soldier is accidentally plunged into Gulliver’s anal cavity after the giant is knocked to the ground?
An assured crowd-pleaser, “The King’s Speech” struck me most pointedly as a depiction of friendship between two men. There’s plenty of history and period nuance to reflect upon, but the heart of the film lies with two individuals making a connection despite a monumental royal divide. In an era of broheim nonsense, where the idea of male companionship means watching three louts suck down tall boys and grunt about their grim sex life while improvising inept one-liners, it’s refreshing to find a film observe a union of intelligence and vulnerability, set against the backdrop of turbulent world events.
In 2003, Sofia Coppola wrote and directed the indie smash, “Lost in Translation.” An ode to pains of attraction and the loneliness of fame, the picture hit commanding emotional and stylistic chords as it established an enchanting sense of fading melancholy. “Somewhere” is an aesthetic cousin, again traveling through the glittery void with famous people sinking deeper than they realize, finding salvation in companionship and unspoken affections. As to be expected with a director essentially repeating herself, the results are considerably less poignant, with Coppola forgoing the challenge of developing emotional bonds to wallow in a tedious world of Hollywood superficiality.
There’s a bit of medical anal play tucked snugly into the first five minutes of the sequel, “Little Fockers.” No greetings and salutations, just, boom, right into the butt to give the fanbase exactly what they want. Skillful writing, sharp comedic performance, and endearing domestic reflection are tossed aside here, permitting the picture a wide berth to engage the autopilot function and make these millionaires even richer. Who needs a challenge at this point? Just comedically snake a tube up a stranger’s ass, and watch the box office light up with willing customers. What better way to spend the holiday season.
BRIAN ORNDORF 