Not only is Anna Faris one of the more brightly gifted comediennes working today, she’s some sort of miracle worker. How else can one explain the ability to sit through something that emerged from Fred Wolf and not have the urge to run screaming from the theater? That Anna Faris is amazing.
Watching Steve Coogan overact is like being pummeled bloody with a pillowcase packed tightly with frozen oranges. When he’s given carte blanche to eat up the frame, Coogan can be aggravating to behold, and “Hamlet 2” is always eager to let the British comic set the tone. It results in a thoroughly disheartening farce that doesn’t believe a joke is funny until it’s been indicated into fine dust.
Perhaps the most brilliant decision the producers of “The Longshots” made was to hold director Fred Durst’s credit from reveal until the end of the film, to minimize assured slack-jawed disbelief. The guy who gifted the world “Nookie” is making movies these days, and much like the music he created with band Limp Bizkit, Durst’s cinematic sensibilities are hackneyed, tiresome, and lack sorely needed rehearsal.
It’s been a long time since the conceit of a train odyssey was used to backdrop a psychological thriller. Typically associated with cutting Hitchcockian overtones, filmmaker Brad Anderson looks to return a touch of discomfort back into the genre with “Transsiberian,” a glacial but easily consumed thriller played out in mysterious, remorseless locations.
A pox, a pox I say, on the house of the individual who first told Rainn Wilson he was a funny man. For the inconsiderate moose that decided to open their trap and inspire this actor, I wish them the same discomfort I suffered while watching Wilson’s first starring effort, “The Rocker.”
(Warning: This review contains nudity!)
Imagine a randy, ridiculous Monty Python film with the famous troupe on vacation, replaced with Hayden Christensen, Mischa Barton, and a half-asleep Tim Roth. It’s not a pretty picture, and “Virgin Territory” is a constant reminder that delicate tone and comedic heft should be placed in the assured hands of professionals, not handsome, young, marketable stars of dubious ability.
With the magnificent “High Tension” and his exhilarating remake of “The Hills Have Eyes,” director Alexandre Aja positioned himself as a genre innovator with unusually lucid ideas on how to return some fright to horror cinema. “Mirrors” is Aja stepping up to the big leagues, taking on his largest budget to date and working with an authentic Hollywood star. It’s a tricky position for Aja to find himself in, and the obscene pressure has blurred his once pristine vision for scares.
Out of all the astonishing sights and sounds plastered to the big screen by the George Lucas franchise juggernaut “Star Wars,” I think the last item on the average fan’s wish list of things to see was “Teen Girl Jedi.” Not that the inclusion of more female warriors is something to be shamed, but this puberty-bound knight is indicative of the infantilized experience put forth by “The Clone Wars.”
For his 38th feature film, we find Woody Allen in a sensual mood, taking on the role of tourist in a passionate land. “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” is an aimless diversion, even for the notoriously unfocused Allen, but retains expected performance momentum, and positively sells the hell out of a lusty Spanish vacation.
“Jack Brooks: Monster Slayer” is the type of predigested cult film that’s easier to admire than actually enjoy. A polite tip of the hat to “Evil Dead” and all things “Buffy,” this horror/comedy is lacking proper oomph in both categories, resulting in a movie of commendable purpose, but lackluster realization.
I’m sympathetic to the purpose of “Henry Poole Is Here,” just not receptive to the filmmaking on display. A grossly obvious take on the draining push and pull of faith, the picture is warm to the touch, just not digestible or, ultimately, meaningful.
What Ben Stiller has achieved with “Tropic Thunder” is the cinematic equivalent of witnessing Halley’s Comet: he’s crafted a Hollywood satire about Hollywood, and it’s a triumph on nearly every level of execution and intent. It’s an industry rarity that’s worth applauding.
Didn’t we just do this with the chimps? “Fly Me to the Moon” takes budget CG animation back into the vastness of space, only now the subjects are tiny, the visual depth enormous, and the objective much more educational. The entertainment value? Debatable.
“Kabluey” introduces the world to Scott Prendergast, who assumes nearly all production roles for this quirky feature. The movie has all the ornamentation of a strident indie comedy leading with braying irony, but Prendergast doesn’t chase alternative statements, he wants to make people laugh, and “Kabluey” is one of the more inventive, invigorating productions to come out of the industry’s lonely right field.
“Frozen River” is one of those films that would be laughed out of the independent film scene if there wasn’t a mesmerizing lead performance to hold it together. The actress is Melissa Leo (“21 Grams,” “Homicide: Life on the Streets”), and her work here is stirring, haunting, and singlehandedly maintains a pitch-perfect tone of weathered anxiety the rest of “River” is all too quick to fumble.
I’ve never seen a film directed by a penis before. We came close with 1984’s “Hardbodies,” but “Hell Ride” appears to have been fully helmed by Larry Bishop’s male appendage. Congratulations, Mr. Bishop, I salute this achievement…from a safe and hygienic distance.
Jack Wrangler was an adult film superstar in a way you don’t find anymore these days. He was a phenomenon that slowly enveloped the smut culture, constructing a name for himself through whispers and uncomfortably long, held gazes. When they write that they don’t make ‘em like they used to, they’re talking exclusively about Jack Wrangler.
If The Germs were a seminal L.A. punk band who truly informed the scene with their destructive energy and subversive lyrics, then “What We Do Is Secret” is a botched representation of their seismic impression. Striving to become the definitive word on an explosion of raw musical and philosophical energy, “Secret” is mostly about lukewarm actors playing dress up, walking around in punk heritage boots they can’t stand up straight in.
David Gordon Green is a fine director capable of extracting inconceivable moments of nuanced human behavior out of his motion pictures. He’s best with characters that hold dark secrets near their aching heart, habitually fascinated with the limits of reaction and temperament. I write the above with some confidence, since it’s painfully clear Green has no business directing comedies.
The Judgment of Paris was a 1976 tasting competition that pitted the finest French wines against the latest and greatest from California. It was an event assembled to reinforce the might of the European palate, but what actually occurred during this historic tasting shook the wine industry to its core, and forever changed the reputation of American vintners.
BRIAN ORNDORF 