If something seemed familiar in the first episode of the new season of "Breaking Bad" -- and we don't just mean the pointed jab at ABC laws in Virginia -- maybe you recognized former Richmonder Holly Rice in an extended cameo.
Rice, a teacher and administrator in Chesterfield public schools for 20 years, played a teacher in the Emmy-winning show, too. In the school-assembly scene in which Walter White (played by the episode's director, Bryan Cranston) uncomfortably attempts to cast a major plane crash in a positive light, Rice is seen standing next to him with a concerned look on her face. She plays the blonde teacher in the light-colored sweater, and is visible for much of the scene.
Rice is the longtime companion, as they used to say, of the show's creator, Vince Gilligan. Gilligan, who wrote this episode, often slips references to Rice into his scripts. Most obviously, the baby born last season to the characters played by Cranston and Anna Gunn is named Holly.
Gilligan is also from the Richmond area, which explains that pointed jab at the ABC laws.
Full disclosure (do blogs even need full disclosure?): Rice and Gilligan are friends of this blogger.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Worst. Movie. Of. The. Year. (So far)
If the commercials for "The Bounty Hunter" couldn't find any humor in it, think of how hard it is for the viewers. My review is here: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/435-the-bounty-hunter.html
Friday, March 19, 2010
Getting Hitchcocky
It takes a director like Roman Polanski to successfully pull off a movie like “The Ghost Writer,” a political crime thriller that might not even have any crimes in it.
At 76, Polanski is back in fine form with this sharply made film, seemingly none the worse for wear for his recent legal dust-up over his appalling behavior in the ‘70s. With the skill shown in his earlier films, the uncanny ability to build tension from seemingly innocuous moments, he entices us to follow him into a world of mystery, intrigue and danger.
Ewan McGregor -- himself better than he has been in years -- stars as a ghost writer of the memoirs of celebrities (his most recent was the autobiography of a magician titled “I Came, I Sawed, I Conquered”). For a great deal of money, he is hired to finish work on the memoirs of a recent British prime minister.
Like the main character in “Rebecca,” McGregor’s character is never named. Also like “Rebecca,” he is overshadowed by the previous holder of his position, a loyal and beloved writer who drowned, whether by suicide, accident or something more sinister.
The former prime minister, effectively portrayed by Pierce Brosnan, is not Tony Blair, but he is certainly Tony Blairish. His detractors claim he was a puppet of the United States and that some of the actions he took (ordering suspected terrorists to be kidnapped and handed over to the CIA for torture) constituted crimes.
The ghost writer role is seen by Polanski and his co-writer Robert Harris as a cipher, an insignificant man subject to the whims of people more powerful than he. It is the prime minister who is more dynamic; he can be friendly and frightening at the same time, open and reserved, devious and naïve.
It is a testament to the skill of Polanski and Harris (who also wrote the original novel) that we precisely know the prime minister’s domestic situation without it ever being spelled out. He is married to the lovely and stalwart Olivia Williams, but a subtle glance or two lets us know that he has recently begun to stray with his capable assistant Kim Cattrall.
With these players in place, Polanski begins tightening the screws -- both on them and us in the audience. From the bunker-like house where the prime minister has taken up residence to the gloomy, heavy atmosphere at the beach (Germany standing in for Martha’s Vineyard), Polanski creates a mood of ominous dread, of being in circumstances neither controlled by the writer nor even understood.
It is true that Polanski comes to this tense unspooling of the story by way of Hitchcock (and a little bit of early Kubrick at the end). It is one master borrowing the technique of another -- echoes of camera angles, hints of music -- and it is marvelously effective.
From the performances (including Eli Wallach and stellar work from Tom Wilkinson in small roles) to the script to the atmospheric direction, “The Ghost Writer” comes together like a good political crime thriller should. It is wholly satisfying.
At 76, Polanski is back in fine form with this sharply made film, seemingly none the worse for wear for his recent legal dust-up over his appalling behavior in the ‘70s. With the skill shown in his earlier films, the uncanny ability to build tension from seemingly innocuous moments, he entices us to follow him into a world of mystery, intrigue and danger.
Ewan McGregor -- himself better than he has been in years -- stars as a ghost writer of the memoirs of celebrities (his most recent was the autobiography of a magician titled “I Came, I Sawed, I Conquered”). For a great deal of money, he is hired to finish work on the memoirs of a recent British prime minister.
Like the main character in “Rebecca,” McGregor’s character is never named. Also like “Rebecca,” he is overshadowed by the previous holder of his position, a loyal and beloved writer who drowned, whether by suicide, accident or something more sinister.
The former prime minister, effectively portrayed by Pierce Brosnan, is not Tony Blair, but he is certainly Tony Blairish. His detractors claim he was a puppet of the United States and that some of the actions he took (ordering suspected terrorists to be kidnapped and handed over to the CIA for torture) constituted crimes.
The ghost writer role is seen by Polanski and his co-writer Robert Harris as a cipher, an insignificant man subject to the whims of people more powerful than he. It is the prime minister who is more dynamic; he can be friendly and frightening at the same time, open and reserved, devious and naïve.
It is a testament to the skill of Polanski and Harris (who also wrote the original novel) that we precisely know the prime minister’s domestic situation without it ever being spelled out. He is married to the lovely and stalwart Olivia Williams, but a subtle glance or two lets us know that he has recently begun to stray with his capable assistant Kim Cattrall.
With these players in place, Polanski begins tightening the screws -- both on them and us in the audience. From the bunker-like house where the prime minister has taken up residence to the gloomy, heavy atmosphere at the beach (Germany standing in for Martha’s Vineyard), Polanski creates a mood of ominous dread, of being in circumstances neither controlled by the writer nor even understood.
It is true that Polanski comes to this tense unspooling of the story by way of Hitchcock (and a little bit of early Kubrick at the end). It is one master borrowing the technique of another -- echoes of camera angles, hints of music -- and it is marvelously effective.
From the performances (including Eli Wallach and stellar work from Tom Wilkinson in small roles) to the script to the atmospheric direction, “The Ghost Writer” comes together like a good political crime thriller should. It is wholly satisfying.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Something old, something new, a whole lot borrowed
Well, someone has gone and made “My Big, Fat Black/Hispanic Wedding.” And it’s a big, fat flop.
“Our Family Wedding” is a remedial lesson in race relations, a film for people who find “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” fresh and full of insight for our time. Judging by the way people were laughing in the theater, apparently it’s also supposed to be a comedy.
But really, can a movie with humor this atrocious, this poorly conceived, this ineptly rendered truly be considered a comedy?
Lance Gross and America Ferrera are a nice and strikingly handsome young couple who are in love and want to get married -- in three weeks, yet. But they haven’t told their parents yet because -- get this -- Gross is black and Ferrera is Hispanic!
Excuse me for a moment while I laugh myself silly.
The mid-’60s fun just keeps on rolling when the fathers (one is played by Forest Whitaker and the other by Carlos Mencia, but I’m not going to tell you which is which) turn out not to approve of the mixed marriage. They don’t like each other either, due to an early confrontation that is so torturously conceived that you cringe and feel embarrassed for the actors, particularly Whitaker.
It’s not the last time you feel that way. But soon you stop feeling bad for the actors and start taking pity on yourself. After all, they’re getting paid to be there. But we actually spend money to watch the scene with the frisky billy goat, the Worst Softball Game Ever Filmed (seriously, if you don’t know anything about the game, don’t try to film it) and the wedding-cake food fight that is so appalling they actually do it twice.
Writers Wayne Conley and Malcolm Spellman have concocted an extraordinarily unremarkable script (“I fell in love. It changes things. It doesn’t change who you are”) that posits a Los Angeles in which members of different races have never met each other.
Rick Famuyiwa’s direction is as haphazard as the writing, lurching awkwardly from one situation to the next with little sense of timing or logic. At his very worst, he shows a wedding reception that lasts so long it feels as if it were shot in real time.
No, that isn’t the worst. The worst is that softball game with the pitcher who pitches for both teams, except when she doesn’t, and the third baseman who plays left field. That’s the worse scene. But it has a lot of competition for the claim.
“Our Family Wedding” is a remedial lesson in race relations, a film for people who find “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” fresh and full of insight for our time. Judging by the way people were laughing in the theater, apparently it’s also supposed to be a comedy.
But really, can a movie with humor this atrocious, this poorly conceived, this ineptly rendered truly be considered a comedy?
Lance Gross and America Ferrera are a nice and strikingly handsome young couple who are in love and want to get married -- in three weeks, yet. But they haven’t told their parents yet because -- get this -- Gross is black and Ferrera is Hispanic!
Excuse me for a moment while I laugh myself silly.
The mid-’60s fun just keeps on rolling when the fathers (one is played by Forest Whitaker and the other by Carlos Mencia, but I’m not going to tell you which is which) turn out not to approve of the mixed marriage. They don’t like each other either, due to an early confrontation that is so torturously conceived that you cringe and feel embarrassed for the actors, particularly Whitaker.
It’s not the last time you feel that way. But soon you stop feeling bad for the actors and start taking pity on yourself. After all, they’re getting paid to be there. But we actually spend money to watch the scene with the frisky billy goat, the Worst Softball Game Ever Filmed (seriously, if you don’t know anything about the game, don’t try to film it) and the wedding-cake food fight that is so appalling they actually do it twice.
Writers Wayne Conley and Malcolm Spellman have concocted an extraordinarily unremarkable script (“I fell in love. It changes things. It doesn’t change who you are”) that posits a Los Angeles in which members of different races have never met each other.
Rick Famuyiwa’s direction is as haphazard as the writing, lurching awkwardly from one situation to the next with little sense of timing or logic. At his very worst, he shows a wedding reception that lasts so long it feels as if it were shot in real time.
No, that isn’t the worst. The worst is that softball game with the pitcher who pitches for both teams, except when she doesn’t, and the third baseman who plays left field. That’s the worse scene. But it has a lot of competition for the claim.
A minor 'League'
Sometimes, a movie title can tell you too much.
Given a romantic comedy “She’s Out of My League,” you can literally predict everything that is going to happen in the film: A nice-but-nerdy young man -- skinny and average-looking -- is going to fall for a beautiful and sassy young woman with a great attitude, a great apartment and a great job. And she is going to fall for him, too.
Somehow, I have the sense this is more a fantasy for guys than for women.
The only surprise associated with this movie is that it is actually significantly funnier than you may fear it will be. Even though you can predict all the jokes before they are said, as the women in front o
of me were doing, the jokes are actually fairly decent.
Or rather, indecent. Body-part humor abounds, as does embarrassing-situation humor. And when a group of male friends get together, they talk about sex in a way less like real people than characters in recent movies.
Do you remember how after “Pulp Fiction” came out, we were treated to a spate of copycat movies by Tarantino wannabes? Well, “She’s Out of My League” is the first film by a Judd Apatow wannabe.
Even some of the actors are from the Apatow fold, notably star Jay Baruchel. Baruchel plays Kirk, a TSA employee at the airport in Pittsburgh (thanks to cinematographer Jim Denault, Pittsburgh has never looked more romantic). A small act of kindness leads Kirk to meet perky event-planner Molly, played by Alice Eve. Molly looks a bit like Reese Witherspoon and everyone in the movie thinks she is the most beautiful woman on the face of the globe (I personally disagree, though she is certainly attractive).
One wonders if writers Sean Anders and John Morris are from California. The only thing that seems to matter to any of the characters is how people look. No one talks about how well suited Kirk is to Molly, or how nice it is he has found a worthy girlfriend after pining for a harridan for two years. All Kirk’s three best friends (they’re straight out of the Apatow best-friend mold) talk about is how much hotter Molly is than Kirk.
Even Molly’s best friend Patty (in these movies, girls only get one best friend) is concerned solely with the disparity in their hotness. Patty, who is played by perpetual best-friend Krysten Ritter, is sour and bitter and, as if often the case in roles played by Ritter, rather more interesting than the lead actress. She has a way of delivering lines that makes them seem funny even when they aren’t.
But other characters’ lines are better, and you laugh at them (or at least smile) even when you know they are coming.
The ending, however, is lame. It is as sub-mediocre as you may have been afraid the whole film would be.
Given a romantic comedy “She’s Out of My League,” you can literally predict everything that is going to happen in the film: A nice-but-nerdy young man -- skinny and average-looking -- is going to fall for a beautiful and sassy young woman with a great attitude, a great apartment and a great job. And she is going to fall for him, too.
Somehow, I have the sense this is more a fantasy for guys than for women.
The only surprise associated with this movie is that it is actually significantly funnier than you may fear it will be. Even though you can predict all the jokes before they are said, as the women in front o
of me were doing, the jokes are actually fairly decent.
Or rather, indecent. Body-part humor abounds, as does embarrassing-situation humor. And when a group of male friends get together, they talk about sex in a way less like real people than characters in recent movies.
Do you remember how after “Pulp Fiction” came out, we were treated to a spate of copycat movies by Tarantino wannabes? Well, “She’s Out of My League” is the first film by a Judd Apatow wannabe.
Even some of the actors are from the Apatow fold, notably star Jay Baruchel. Baruchel plays Kirk, a TSA employee at the airport in Pittsburgh (thanks to cinematographer Jim Denault, Pittsburgh has never looked more romantic). A small act of kindness leads Kirk to meet perky event-planner Molly, played by Alice Eve. Molly looks a bit like Reese Witherspoon and everyone in the movie thinks she is the most beautiful woman on the face of the globe (I personally disagree, though she is certainly attractive).
One wonders if writers Sean Anders and John Morris are from California. The only thing that seems to matter to any of the characters is how people look. No one talks about how well suited Kirk is to Molly, or how nice it is he has found a worthy girlfriend after pining for a harridan for two years. All Kirk’s three best friends (they’re straight out of the Apatow best-friend mold) talk about is how much hotter Molly is than Kirk.
Even Molly’s best friend Patty (in these movies, girls only get one best friend) is concerned solely with the disparity in their hotness. Patty, who is played by perpetual best-friend Krysten Ritter, is sour and bitter and, as if often the case in roles played by Ritter, rather more interesting than the lead actress. She has a way of delivering lines that makes them seem funny even when they aren’t.
But other characters’ lines are better, and you laugh at them (or at least smile) even when you know they are coming.
The ending, however, is lame. It is as sub-mediocre as you may have been afraid the whole film would be.
The Greengrass Zone
You can always count on director Paul Greengrass to deliver an edge-of-the-seat thriller. "Green Zone" is no different -- except for the few parts that are. My review is here: http://theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/430-green-zone.html
Friday, March 5, 2010
If you go chasing rabbits
On NPR, Bob Mondello said the new "Alice In Wonderland" would be better titled "C.S. Lewis Carroll's Alice In Narnia, Starring Johnny Depp as the Mad Scarecrow." And he's right.
My feelings about the movie are mixed to slightly negative (it picks up at the end), but my favorite moment comes in a particularly "Wizard of Ozy" scene and the music subtly plays "Over the Rainbow." Cute. My review is here:
http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/421-alice-in-wonderland.html
My feelings about the movie are mixed to slightly negative (it picks up at the end), but my favorite moment comes in a particularly "Wizard of Ozy" scene and the music subtly plays "Over the Rainbow." Cute. My review is here:
http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/421-alice-in-wonderland.html
Monday, March 1, 2010
Lethal Beverly Hills Weapon of 48 Hrs.
If you were watching movies in the 1980s, you've already seen "Cop Out," and you've seen it done better. Much better. My review is here: http://theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/415-cop-out.html
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