Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Killerzzzz
The trailer to "Killers" looked so funny. But not only did they show all of the best material, it was actually better in the context of the trailer than in the movie. My review to this comic disappointment is here: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/508-killers.html
Spliced
The titles for “Splice” list two people as creating the story -- and then a third name appears below them.
You can almost see what happened: Two people wrote one kind of story and then a third person came along and attached a different kind of story to it. Spliced it, if you will.
The result is a better-than-average science fiction horror film that turns into a worse-than-average family drama. An effort to bring the two genres together at the end is, predictably, unsuccessful.
Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley star, and that is considerably more talent than you would typically find in a science fiction horror film cum family drama. They play scientists, partners outside of their lab coats as well as in, who are splicing together genes from various animals to create new species for pharmaceutical purposes. Inevitably, they decide to splice in some human DNA as well, despite being explicitly warned by their bosses not to do so.
You can imagine what happens next. These unbelievably smart people start to make an unending series of unbelievably stupid decisions. Despite promising that they just wanted to study their creation in an embryonic stage, they allow their little monster to be born. It changes rapidly from a stomach-monster from “Alien” to a female humanoid with chicken legs and a tail with a stinger on the end.
Anyone who has ever seen a science fiction movie (including “Frankenstein,” which this picture explicitly references in its characters’ names) knows that this hybrid should not be allowed to live. But our heroes keep it out of sight, name it Dren (that’s “nerd” spelled backwards) and more or less adopt it as their own mute child.
And that’s where the family drama comes in. Polley’s character, Elsa, treats Dren not only as a human but as a daughter, though her own family history was not ideal. Meanwhile, Dren matures ultra-rapidly and develops a host of skills that are never even remotely explained, such as drawing and spelling.
As the physically mature Dren, Delphine Chaneac holds her own against the strong acting of Brody and especially Polley. Chaneac has the additional disadvantage of not being able to speak for the role, although given some of the places this movie goes, being wordless might be a good thing. The drama sections, which basically comprise the third act, become awfully silly.
But see if the horror portions don’t give you the occasional chill.
You can almost see what happened: Two people wrote one kind of story and then a third person came along and attached a different kind of story to it. Spliced it, if you will.
The result is a better-than-average science fiction horror film that turns into a worse-than-average family drama. An effort to bring the two genres together at the end is, predictably, unsuccessful.
Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley star, and that is considerably more talent than you would typically find in a science fiction horror film cum family drama. They play scientists, partners outside of their lab coats as well as in, who are splicing together genes from various animals to create new species for pharmaceutical purposes. Inevitably, they decide to splice in some human DNA as well, despite being explicitly warned by their bosses not to do so.
You can imagine what happens next. These unbelievably smart people start to make an unending series of unbelievably stupid decisions. Despite promising that they just wanted to study their creation in an embryonic stage, they allow their little monster to be born. It changes rapidly from a stomach-monster from “Alien” to a female humanoid with chicken legs and a tail with a stinger on the end.
Anyone who has ever seen a science fiction movie (including “Frankenstein,” which this picture explicitly references in its characters’ names) knows that this hybrid should not be allowed to live. But our heroes keep it out of sight, name it Dren (that’s “nerd” spelled backwards) and more or less adopt it as their own mute child.
And that’s where the family drama comes in. Polley’s character, Elsa, treats Dren not only as a human but as a daughter, though her own family history was not ideal. Meanwhile, Dren matures ultra-rapidly and develops a host of skills that are never even remotely explained, such as drawing and spelling.
As the physically mature Dren, Delphine Chaneac holds her own against the strong acting of Brody and especially Polley. Chaneac has the additional disadvantage of not being able to speak for the role, although given some of the places this movie goes, being wordless might be a good thing. The drama sections, which basically comprise the third act, become awfully silly.
But see if the horror portions don’t give you the occasional chill.
Friday, May 28, 2010
'Sex' is boring -- and how often can you say that?
Only one of the four has sex, and the city is now Abu Dhabi -- it just ain't the same "Sex and the City." The sequel is long, pointless and nothing more than an excuse to show a lot of fashions. It's not a movie, it's a fashion show. My review is here: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/506-sex-and-the-city-2.html
The Sands of Stupidity
If someone were to base a movie on the most popular board game in America, we’d get a couple of hours of old roadsters and little dogs trying to buy real estate in Atlantic City.
Obviously, no one is going to pay 10 bucks to watch that, which is why no one has ever made a movie version of Monopoly. Yet studios keep making movies out of video games, which are essentially the same thing with better graphics.
As has now been proven time and time and time again, video games do not make compelling movies because they are not inherently cinematic. Video games are a test of skill and the ability to master whatever tricks you need to get you to the next level. But movies are purely emotional. It’s an entirely different kind of experience.
The latest video game movie to fail is “Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time,” which tries to re-create the gaming experience by racing from one action scene to the next. But even with all the action, it turns out to be a terrible bore.
Part of the problem is that the action scenes are largely all the same, with swordfights, dagger fights and characters leaping from one rooftop to the next (I’ve never played the original game, but I’m guessing it involves an awful lot of leaping). Director Mike Newell is obviously trying to capture the magic of adventure films of the past, but what he winds up with is “Raiders of the Least Ark.”
Once upon a time, Newell made wonderful, character-driven stories, such as “Enchanted April,” “Donnie Brasco” and the sublime “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” But apparently he has lost his touch. Where his earlier movies were smart, “Prince of Persia” is fatally banal.
Maybe it is all of those computer-generated special effects. Sure, computer effects may seem perfectly fitting in a movie based on a video game -- which is nothing but effects -- but they tend to drown out all acting and any efforts to create a character.
Suffering the most from this overabundance of effects is a buff Jake Gyllenhaal, who stars as an ancient Persian boy from the streets who was adopted by the kindly king to live as a prince. While his brothers lay siege to a holy city, he proves himself in battle (his brilliant strategy is to go in from the back). As a prize, he is given the city’s beautiful princess (Gemma Arterton) to be his future bride.
The two bicker in the time-honored tradition of romantic comedies, but without any of the humor or credibility. Meanwhile, the romance takes a back seat to the increasingly ridiculous story, which involves a dagger that has the power to turn back time, at least for a minute.
Horrifyingly, the writers tried to use this idiotic story to make political points: The Persian army invaded the sacred city because of inaccurate and trumped-up information it was hiding daggers of mass destruction. The man behind the throne (the vice king, as it were) argues that a man he knows is innocent be put to death without a trial, because a trial “will only give him a stage for his sedition.” And the fighting eventually threatens to bring on an Armageddon that will destroy all life on the planet.
The story is convoluted and periodically nonsensical, and it becomes more dull as the movie drags on. If you find yourself in the theater growing bored, you might want to spend some of your time trying to figure out why Gyllenhaal is trying to use an English accent.
Obviously, no one is going to pay 10 bucks to watch that, which is why no one has ever made a movie version of Monopoly. Yet studios keep making movies out of video games, which are essentially the same thing with better graphics.
As has now been proven time and time and time again, video games do not make compelling movies because they are not inherently cinematic. Video games are a test of skill and the ability to master whatever tricks you need to get you to the next level. But movies are purely emotional. It’s an entirely different kind of experience.
The latest video game movie to fail is “Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time,” which tries to re-create the gaming experience by racing from one action scene to the next. But even with all the action, it turns out to be a terrible bore.
Part of the problem is that the action scenes are largely all the same, with swordfights, dagger fights and characters leaping from one rooftop to the next (I’ve never played the original game, but I’m guessing it involves an awful lot of leaping). Director Mike Newell is obviously trying to capture the magic of adventure films of the past, but what he winds up with is “Raiders of the Least Ark.”
Once upon a time, Newell made wonderful, character-driven stories, such as “Enchanted April,” “Donnie Brasco” and the sublime “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” But apparently he has lost his touch. Where his earlier movies were smart, “Prince of Persia” is fatally banal.
Maybe it is all of those computer-generated special effects. Sure, computer effects may seem perfectly fitting in a movie based on a video game -- which is nothing but effects -- but they tend to drown out all acting and any efforts to create a character.
Suffering the most from this overabundance of effects is a buff Jake Gyllenhaal, who stars as an ancient Persian boy from the streets who was adopted by the kindly king to live as a prince. While his brothers lay siege to a holy city, he proves himself in battle (his brilliant strategy is to go in from the back). As a prize, he is given the city’s beautiful princess (Gemma Arterton) to be his future bride.
The two bicker in the time-honored tradition of romantic comedies, but without any of the humor or credibility. Meanwhile, the romance takes a back seat to the increasingly ridiculous story, which involves a dagger that has the power to turn back time, at least for a minute.
Horrifyingly, the writers tried to use this idiotic story to make political points: The Persian army invaded the sacred city because of inaccurate and trumped-up information it was hiding daggers of mass destruction. The man behind the throne (the vice king, as it were) argues that a man he knows is innocent be put to death without a trial, because a trial “will only give him a stage for his sedition.” And the fighting eventually threatens to bring on an Armageddon that will destroy all life on the planet.
The story is convoluted and periodically nonsensical, and it becomes more dull as the movie drags on. If you find yourself in the theater growing bored, you might want to spend some of your time trying to figure out why Gyllenhaal is trying to use an English accent.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
'MacGruber'!
I'll admit it: I laughed during "MacGruber." Out loud. Several times. It's not something I'm proud of, but there you have it. My review, attempting to explain myself, is here: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/487-macgruber.html
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Robin Ho-hum
The story of Robin Hood has been told on film many times, and none has surpassed the glories of the 1938 Erroll Flynn version. One wonders why they even keep trying. And the newest version is one of the worst. My review of it is here: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/486-robin-hood.html
Monday, May 10, 2010
'Iron Man 2' -- The same, only less
Loved, loved, loved the original "Iron Man." The sequel is bigger and louder and far less interesting. Gwyneth Paltrow looks great, though. My review is here: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/485-iron-man-2.html
One, Two, Freddy's Making You Snooze
A favorite trick in horror movies is to have a character suddenly bolt awake from a nightmare.
In the breathtakingly pointless remake of “A Nightmare on Elm Street,” as in the original, that’s all there is. In this new version, it happens at least nine times.
Repetition is never a good idea in a movie, and it is especially bad in a horror film. Once you’ve experienced something like this in a movie, you become acclimated to it and it doesn’t have the same effect the next time you see it. Or, in this case, the next eight times you see it.
Similarly, if you watch a person fall from the ceiling to a bed once, that’s pretty cool — in fact, it’s part of the most iconic sequence in the original. But when it happens twice, you wonder if the writers just didn’t run out of ideas. And each successive time we see serial killer Freddy Krueger run his finger knives along a random surface, usually producing sparks, it becomes exponentially less scary.
Along with the groundbreaker “Friday the 13th,” the 1984 original version of “A Nightmare on Elm Street” helped pave the way for a new style of horror films. No longer would they be subjected to the same expectations of other movies. After these two films, the genre was freed from the shackles of character and story; no more would they be harshly bound to the tyranny of a script or logic. They didn’t have to be well made, or even adequately made, and no part of them had to make sense. All that mattered is that they showed young people being chased around by a faceless guy with a knife and other instruments of evisceration, that the victims screamed and squirmed as they were being killed, one by one, and that their bright red blood spread prettily across the screen.
This version is an awful lot like the original version, but at least it tries an experiment: It wonders if it would make a difference to use a genuinely talented actor — Jackie Earle Haley — as the killer, Freddy.
All good experiments deserve an answer, and the answer to this one is: Nope. It doesn’t make a bit of difference in the long run, although the portrayal of Freddy is notably superior here.
Once again, we are brought into a typical small town where all the parents keep deadly secrets and all the children are still in high school in their mid- to late-20s. A group of these kids (think of them as being in their very late teens) realizes that they are all having the same dream. They all dream that they are being chased by a weirdo with a burned face, a goofy hat, an ugly sweater and knives on the tips of his gloves. Bizarrely, none of them has seen the original “A Nightmare on Elm Street,” but they soon realize that if they fall asleep they run the risk of being killed by this dream.
These characters are basically indistinguishable, but eventually our heroine turns out to be a waitress played by Rooney Mara, the unconventionally attractive younger sister of actress Kate Mara. The younger Mara is perfectly acceptable in her role as Nancy, which requires little more than a lot of screaming. The rest of the cast is generally worse, to varying degrees, although Haley shows promise as Freddy.
Here, as in earlier versions, Freddy is the sole character of any interest whatsoever. But the writers feel compelled to have him make little quips, like the hero of a 1980s action film, in the hopes that these will make him more frightening.
They don’t.
Note: This review originally ran at www.theboomermagazine.com
In the breathtakingly pointless remake of “A Nightmare on Elm Street,” as in the original, that’s all there is. In this new version, it happens at least nine times.
Repetition is never a good idea in a movie, and it is especially bad in a horror film. Once you’ve experienced something like this in a movie, you become acclimated to it and it doesn’t have the same effect the next time you see it. Or, in this case, the next eight times you see it.
Similarly, if you watch a person fall from the ceiling to a bed once, that’s pretty cool — in fact, it’s part of the most iconic sequence in the original. But when it happens twice, you wonder if the writers just didn’t run out of ideas. And each successive time we see serial killer Freddy Krueger run his finger knives along a random surface, usually producing sparks, it becomes exponentially less scary.
Along with the groundbreaker “Friday the 13th,” the 1984 original version of “A Nightmare on Elm Street” helped pave the way for a new style of horror films. No longer would they be subjected to the same expectations of other movies. After these two films, the genre was freed from the shackles of character and story; no more would they be harshly bound to the tyranny of a script or logic. They didn’t have to be well made, or even adequately made, and no part of them had to make sense. All that mattered is that they showed young people being chased around by a faceless guy with a knife and other instruments of evisceration, that the victims screamed and squirmed as they were being killed, one by one, and that their bright red blood spread prettily across the screen.
This version is an awful lot like the original version, but at least it tries an experiment: It wonders if it would make a difference to use a genuinely talented actor — Jackie Earle Haley — as the killer, Freddy.
All good experiments deserve an answer, and the answer to this one is: Nope. It doesn’t make a bit of difference in the long run, although the portrayal of Freddy is notably superior here.
Once again, we are brought into a typical small town where all the parents keep deadly secrets and all the children are still in high school in their mid- to late-20s. A group of these kids (think of them as being in their very late teens) realizes that they are all having the same dream. They all dream that they are being chased by a weirdo with a burned face, a goofy hat, an ugly sweater and knives on the tips of his gloves. Bizarrely, none of them has seen the original “A Nightmare on Elm Street,” but they soon realize that if they fall asleep they run the risk of being killed by this dream.
These characters are basically indistinguishable, but eventually our heroine turns out to be a waitress played by Rooney Mara, the unconventionally attractive younger sister of actress Kate Mara. The younger Mara is perfectly acceptable in her role as Nancy, which requires little more than a lot of screaming. The rest of the cast is generally worse, to varying degrees, although Haley shows promise as Freddy.
Here, as in earlier versions, Freddy is the sole character of any interest whatsoever. But the writers feel compelled to have him make little quips, like the hero of a 1980s action film, in the hopes that these will make him more frightening.
They don’t.
Note: This review originally ran at www.theboomermagazine.com
Monday, April 26, 2010
Plan B? No, more like Plan C-minus
J-Lo is back, leading us to wonder: Oh, was she gone?
Her latest romantic comedy is, alas, altogether too much like her earlier romantic comedies. My review is here: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/478-the-backup-plan.html
Her latest romantic comedy is, alas, altogether too much like her earlier romantic comedies. My review is here: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/478-the-backup-plan.html
Thursday, April 22, 2010
I don't hate to see 'That Evening Sun' at all
“That Evening Sun” thrives on the unexpected.
Anton Chekhov, who knew something about drama, famously wrote that if we see a gun early in a play, it has to be used later. We see a gun several times early in “That Evening Sun” -- it’s lovingly cleaned and loaded -- and although it does indeed show up later it is not used remotely in the way we think it will be used.
More to the point, the two central characters establish their personalities early but then evolve in ways that surprise and even shock us.
Hal Holbrook justly deserves all the rave reviews he has been receiving for his performance as Abner Meechum, an 80-year-old who tires of life in a stultifying nursing home and decides to go back to his old farm. But when he gets there, he learns it is being rented -- and not just rented, but rented to the drunken no-account redneck Lonzo Choat, played by Ray McKinnon. The two don’t like each other to begin with, and when Meechum takes up squatter’s residence in his own sharecropper’s cabin, their argument only begins to escalate.
Meechum is kind of lovably cantankerous, his face affixed in a permanent frown. He feels he has the right to live on his own property, and frankly, he has a point. Working from a short story by William Gay, writer-director Scott Teems explains the central conflict by saying that Meechum’s lawyer son has the right to rent out the property because he is the trustee of his father’s estate. Someone really ought to take Gay and Teems aside and gently explain just what that means.
McKinnon, who actually has an Oscar (for live-action short), isn’t in Holbrook’s league as an actor, and he doesn’t quite put across the sense of menace his role requires. But we certainly get the idea. More natural in their roles are Carrie Preston (of “True Blood”) as his sympathetic wife and -- despite forcing her Southern accent -- Mia Wasikowska (of “Alice in Wonderland”) as their coltish and kind daughter.
In a cameo, Holbrook’s late wife Dixie Carter plays his character’s late wife.
Behind the camera, Teems has chosen to take a languorous pace, which works both to the film’s benefit and detriment. When it works, it works well -- the little, finely observed details add a sense of place and character. But when it doesn’t work, those same details become an irritating waste of time. They remind us of that recent study showing that in an average football game, only 11 minutes are actually spent playing football. At times, “That Evening Sun” feels like it has the same ratio.
In a similar manner, Teems’ script also both soars and drops with a thud. At its best, the script has Meechum scolding his prevaricating son by saying “I would think not being able to lie convincingly to a jury would be a considerable handicap in your profession.” On the other hand, the same script requires Meechum to give vital exposition to a dog. Twice. And once the dog isn’t even alive.
“That Evening Son” is a small picture with a small budget, big performances and an intriguing story arc. It may drag at times and lack the polish associated with more money, but it certainly won’t be expected.
Incidentally, the title comes from “St. Louis Blues” by the great W.C. Handy. Readers of the review in the Richmond Times-Dispatch may have been surprised to read that it comes from an old song by Jimmie Rodgers. Rodgers was also great, but not genius enough to write “St. Louis Blues”
Anton Chekhov, who knew something about drama, famously wrote that if we see a gun early in a play, it has to be used later. We see a gun several times early in “That Evening Sun” -- it’s lovingly cleaned and loaded -- and although it does indeed show up later it is not used remotely in the way we think it will be used.
More to the point, the two central characters establish their personalities early but then evolve in ways that surprise and even shock us.
Hal Holbrook justly deserves all the rave reviews he has been receiving for his performance as Abner Meechum, an 80-year-old who tires of life in a stultifying nursing home and decides to go back to his old farm. But when he gets there, he learns it is being rented -- and not just rented, but rented to the drunken no-account redneck Lonzo Choat, played by Ray McKinnon. The two don’t like each other to begin with, and when Meechum takes up squatter’s residence in his own sharecropper’s cabin, their argument only begins to escalate.
Meechum is kind of lovably cantankerous, his face affixed in a permanent frown. He feels he has the right to live on his own property, and frankly, he has a point. Working from a short story by William Gay, writer-director Scott Teems explains the central conflict by saying that Meechum’s lawyer son has the right to rent out the property because he is the trustee of his father’s estate. Someone really ought to take Gay and Teems aside and gently explain just what that means.
McKinnon, who actually has an Oscar (for live-action short), isn’t in Holbrook’s league as an actor, and he doesn’t quite put across the sense of menace his role requires. But we certainly get the idea. More natural in their roles are Carrie Preston (of “True Blood”) as his sympathetic wife and -- despite forcing her Southern accent -- Mia Wasikowska (of “Alice in Wonderland”) as their coltish and kind daughter.
In a cameo, Holbrook’s late wife Dixie Carter plays his character’s late wife.
Behind the camera, Teems has chosen to take a languorous pace, which works both to the film’s benefit and detriment. When it works, it works well -- the little, finely observed details add a sense of place and character. But when it doesn’t work, those same details become an irritating waste of time. They remind us of that recent study showing that in an average football game, only 11 minutes are actually spent playing football. At times, “That Evening Sun” feels like it has the same ratio.
In a similar manner, Teems’ script also both soars and drops with a thud. At its best, the script has Meechum scolding his prevaricating son by saying “I would think not being able to lie convincingly to a jury would be a considerable handicap in your profession.” On the other hand, the same script requires Meechum to give vital exposition to a dog. Twice. And once the dog isn’t even alive.
“That Evening Son” is a small picture with a small budget, big performances and an intriguing story arc. It may drag at times and lack the polish associated with more money, but it certainly won’t be expected.
Incidentally, the title comes from “St. Louis Blues” by the great W.C. Handy. Readers of the review in the Richmond Times-Dispatch may have been surprised to read that it comes from an old song by Jimmie Rodgers. Rodgers was also great, but not genius enough to write “St. Louis Blues”
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Geeks rule!
If you don't mind the oh-so-familiar gratuitous use of violence for laughs (and you aren't turned off by a filth-talking 11-year-old girl), "Kick-Ass" is a lot of fun. My review is here: www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/473-kick-ass.html
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Rigor mortis has set in
As a rule, the idea of Hollywood remaking movies from other countries is to make a worthy but obscure film available to a wider audience.
But some films deserve to be obscure.
Exhibit A is “Death at a Funeral,” an ill-conceived farce with a lot of English people in it that has now been turned into an ill-conceived farce with a lot of black Americans in it. Not that race plays a part in this picture’s failure. It is essentially a word-for-word remake of the quickly forgotten original, with maybe a couple of R. Kelly and MC Hammer references thrown in for flavor.
As before -- the original only came out in 2007 -- the idea is to turn what should be a somber funeral into a wild, anything-goes farce. On paper, it might seem like a good idea. But actually showing it on the screen reminds of us the sarcastic old cliché “as funny as a funeral.” And if that isn’t a genuine sarcastic old cliché, it ought to be.
What we get is an hour and a half of lovers bickering, siblings squabbling and parents broadly hinting -- at every conceivable opportunity -- that they would like to see a grandchild or two. And what we especially get is a man (James Marsden in this case) who accidentally ingests a powerful hallucinogen and embarks on a prolonged and defiantly unfunny acid trip.
Chris Rock stars and shares the blame as one of the executive producers. He plays Aaron, perhaps the most normal member of a family that is grieving over the recent death of his father. Aaron tries to hold onto some dignity while everything around him is falling apart in ways that begin as tiresome and then become repetitious.
The problem is not with the cast, which includes such comedy forces as Martin Lawrence, Danny Glover, Loretta Devine, Tracy Morgan, Keith David and Luke Wilson. None can overcome the daunting deficiencies of the script, although Peter Dinklage (the only holdover from the original) manages a couple of amusing reaction shots to an extended humiliation.
That is what we are reduced to here, praising a couple of simple reaction shots. Along with writer Dean Craig, blame director Neil LaBute, whose forte is dialogue-driven, nuanced stories filled with realistic and emotionally brutal interplay between characters, particularly between men and women. In other words, what he is best at is the opposite of “Death at a Funeral.”
This movie is all physical comedy, or the verbal equivalent of it. It lazily looks for the cheapest joke and then uses that as a platform from which to search for an even cheaper joke. Or grosser.
I spent much of the film cringing.
But some films deserve to be obscure.
Exhibit A is “Death at a Funeral,” an ill-conceived farce with a lot of English people in it that has now been turned into an ill-conceived farce with a lot of black Americans in it. Not that race plays a part in this picture’s failure. It is essentially a word-for-word remake of the quickly forgotten original, with maybe a couple of R. Kelly and MC Hammer references thrown in for flavor.
As before -- the original only came out in 2007 -- the idea is to turn what should be a somber funeral into a wild, anything-goes farce. On paper, it might seem like a good idea. But actually showing it on the screen reminds of us the sarcastic old cliché “as funny as a funeral.” And if that isn’t a genuine sarcastic old cliché, it ought to be.
What we get is an hour and a half of lovers bickering, siblings squabbling and parents broadly hinting -- at every conceivable opportunity -- that they would like to see a grandchild or two. And what we especially get is a man (James Marsden in this case) who accidentally ingests a powerful hallucinogen and embarks on a prolonged and defiantly unfunny acid trip.
Chris Rock stars and shares the blame as one of the executive producers. He plays Aaron, perhaps the most normal member of a family that is grieving over the recent death of his father. Aaron tries to hold onto some dignity while everything around him is falling apart in ways that begin as tiresome and then become repetitious.
The problem is not with the cast, which includes such comedy forces as Martin Lawrence, Danny Glover, Loretta Devine, Tracy Morgan, Keith David and Luke Wilson. None can overcome the daunting deficiencies of the script, although Peter Dinklage (the only holdover from the original) manages a couple of amusing reaction shots to an extended humiliation.
That is what we are reduced to here, praising a couple of simple reaction shots. Along with writer Dean Craig, blame director Neil LaBute, whose forte is dialogue-driven, nuanced stories filled with realistic and emotionally brutal interplay between characters, particularly between men and women. In other words, what he is best at is the opposite of “Death at a Funeral.”
This movie is all physical comedy, or the verbal equivalent of it. It lazily looks for the cheapest joke and then uses that as a platform from which to search for an even cheaper joke. Or grosser.
I spent much of the film cringing.
Long Night's Journey Into Date
Note: This review originally appeared at www.theboomermagazine.com
Watching “Date Night” is not dissimilar to being a relatively proficient prospector. You have to sift through a lot of silt, but you find more than a few nuggets of gold.
Of course, with Tina Fey and Steve Carell, you might reasonably be expecting a mother lode. Of all the people in America who learned their craft at The Second City in Chicago and have back-to-back sitcoms Thursday nights on NBC, Fey and Carell are currently two of the funniest.
So it isn’t a surprise that “Date Night” is funny. But it is a little surprising that it isn’t funnier.
Fey and Carell play the Fosters, a couple with kids in the suburbs whose marriage is mired in the mud. They decide to break the routine by going to a tragically chic restaurant where, faced with the prospect of never getting a table, they claim to be another couple who didn’t show for their reservations. A couple of bad guys who apparently haven’t seen “North By Northwest” assume the Fosters are the other couple, shake them down for a MacGuffin and chase them through the streets of New York. Meanwhile, the Fosters have to prove they are who they say they are, find out the identity of the bad guys and bring everyone to justice.
There’s a whole lot of Hitchcock going on here, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it does tend to make the story seem formulaic. That puts the movie’s ultimate success or failure in the hands of the writer (uneven), the director (uneven) and the stars (less even than you might expect).
For a movie with such masters of verbal wit, many of the better jokes are visual. A scene with a sputtering motorboat is a highlight, Fey’s removing her mouth guard is hilariously unsexy (although she looks good in her U.Va. T-shirt) and a running gag about unclosed cabinets sort of works, too.
But writer Josh Klausner doesn’t know when to stop. Too often, he looks for the easiest gag — usually just the name of an intimate body part spoken for no particular reason. And the movie’s big strip-club set piece only makes us cringe in embarrassment; instead of being funny, it just comes across as a cheap and sleazy way to show Fey in a bustier, fishnet stockings and a strip pole.
Director Shawn Levy does little here to improve on his record of mediocrity (including both “Night at the Museum” movies), so the large number of cameos must be due to the attractive wattage of the stars. It’s a good thing, too, because some of the cameos are among the film’s best moments. James Franco and Mila Kunis are particularly fun as the couple who made the original reservations, Mark Wahlberg is humorous but overused as a beefcake deus ex machina and William Fichtner makes the most out of his small part as a D.A.
As is often the case, the ending is solid and provides more of a sense of having been entertained than the rest of the movie warrants. But don’t worry. There are plenty of flakes of gold to be found.
Watching “Date Night” is not dissimilar to being a relatively proficient prospector. You have to sift through a lot of silt, but you find more than a few nuggets of gold.
Of course, with Tina Fey and Steve Carell, you might reasonably be expecting a mother lode. Of all the people in America who learned their craft at The Second City in Chicago and have back-to-back sitcoms Thursday nights on NBC, Fey and Carell are currently two of the funniest.
So it isn’t a surprise that “Date Night” is funny. But it is a little surprising that it isn’t funnier.
Fey and Carell play the Fosters, a couple with kids in the suburbs whose marriage is mired in the mud. They decide to break the routine by going to a tragically chic restaurant where, faced with the prospect of never getting a table, they claim to be another couple who didn’t show for their reservations. A couple of bad guys who apparently haven’t seen “North By Northwest” assume the Fosters are the other couple, shake them down for a MacGuffin and chase them through the streets of New York. Meanwhile, the Fosters have to prove they are who they say they are, find out the identity of the bad guys and bring everyone to justice.
There’s a whole lot of Hitchcock going on here, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it does tend to make the story seem formulaic. That puts the movie’s ultimate success or failure in the hands of the writer (uneven), the director (uneven) and the stars (less even than you might expect).
For a movie with such masters of verbal wit, many of the better jokes are visual. A scene with a sputtering motorboat is a highlight, Fey’s removing her mouth guard is hilariously unsexy (although she looks good in her U.Va. T-shirt) and a running gag about unclosed cabinets sort of works, too.
But writer Josh Klausner doesn’t know when to stop. Too often, he looks for the easiest gag — usually just the name of an intimate body part spoken for no particular reason. And the movie’s big strip-club set piece only makes us cringe in embarrassment; instead of being funny, it just comes across as a cheap and sleazy way to show Fey in a bustier, fishnet stockings and a strip pole.
Director Shawn Levy does little here to improve on his record of mediocrity (including both “Night at the Museum” movies), so the large number of cameos must be due to the attractive wattage of the stars. It’s a good thing, too, because some of the cameos are among the film’s best moments. James Franco and Mila Kunis are particularly fun as the couple who made the original reservations, Mark Wahlberg is humorous but overused as a beefcake deus ex machina and William Fichtner makes the most out of his small part as a D.A.
As is often the case, the ending is solid and provides more of a sense of having been entertained than the rest of the movie warrants. But don’t worry. There are plenty of flakes of gold to be found.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Clash of the "Titanic" -- all hands lost
If the new "Clash of the Titans" is meant to be a guilty pleasure, the filmmakers forgot the pleasure part. Also the guilt. It may be stupid, but at least it is never boring. Although it IS remarkably stupid...
My review is at: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/441-clash-of-the-titans.html
My review is at: http://www.theboomermagazine.com/component/content/article/74-movie-reviews/441-clash-of-the-titans.html
Better than it looks, somewhat
Given a comedy about old friends who get in a hot tub and go back to the ’80s to relive a formative weekend, you could have two possible outcomes — it could be hilarious or it could be terrible.
Meet option No. 3: “Hot Tub Time Machine” is a little of both.
The disparity grows from the screenwriters working from conflicting impulses. Part of the time, they want to contemplate how human potential can go unfulfilled and how our choices determine our fate. The rest of the time, they want to show us bouncing breasts and multiple scenes of urination and projectile vomiting.
The filmmakers often go too far in their efforts to be naughty little R-rated boys. But the scattered funny bits are usually worth the wait.
John Cusack, Craig Robinson and Rob Corddry star as middle-aged men unhappy with their wasted lives; Clark Duke co-stars as Cusack’s nephew, the sort of young man who lives in his uncle’s basement and plays on the computer all day. As a way to cheer up the most depressed of them, the four go to a ski resort where the older men spent some of the happiest days of their youthful lives. But the resort, too, has fallen on hard times. Dispirited, they pile into the hot tub, and suddenly they're back in 1986 again.
At first, the movie aims for the most obvious jokes about the ’80s — the big hair, the bright clothes, the leg warmers and a joke about Michael Jackson that was undoubtedly a whole lot funnier when it was written. But then the story kicks in and the characters realize they have to relive the past exactly as it happened or risk changing everything in the future. The problem is, that particular weekend wasn’t great for any of them.
This scenario has a good deal of promise, particularly if you have seen “Back to the Future” and are willing to appropriate one of the best scenes and one of the major actors (Crispin Glover, mistreated here but weirdly amusing). The problem is, the filmmakers filter their ideas through the modern sieve of gross-out, sex-talk, post-Judd Apatow humor.
Director Steve Pink is the worst offender. Pink, who wrote the superior “Grosse Pointe Blank” (also starring Cusack), doesn’t know which tone to pick. So he picks them all. He allows Corddry to act as if he were in a different movie from the rest of the cast and slams home the physical humor while almost ignoring the funnier character-related verbal jokes.
Usually, the people who make trailers for comedies choose all the best parts, implying that it is the most hilarious film of all time. The trailer for “Hot Tub Time Machine” has no funny parts at all, making you think that it is screechingly awful. As is so often the case with this particular movie, the truth lies somewhere in between.
Meet option No. 3: “Hot Tub Time Machine” is a little of both.
The disparity grows from the screenwriters working from conflicting impulses. Part of the time, they want to contemplate how human potential can go unfulfilled and how our choices determine our fate. The rest of the time, they want to show us bouncing breasts and multiple scenes of urination and projectile vomiting.
The filmmakers often go too far in their efforts to be naughty little R-rated boys. But the scattered funny bits are usually worth the wait.
John Cusack, Craig Robinson and Rob Corddry star as middle-aged men unhappy with their wasted lives; Clark Duke co-stars as Cusack’s nephew, the sort of young man who lives in his uncle’s basement and plays on the computer all day. As a way to cheer up the most depressed of them, the four go to a ski resort where the older men spent some of the happiest days of their youthful lives. But the resort, too, has fallen on hard times. Dispirited, they pile into the hot tub, and suddenly they're back in 1986 again.
At first, the movie aims for the most obvious jokes about the ’80s — the big hair, the bright clothes, the leg warmers and a joke about Michael Jackson that was undoubtedly a whole lot funnier when it was written. But then the story kicks in and the characters realize they have to relive the past exactly as it happened or risk changing everything in the future. The problem is, that particular weekend wasn’t great for any of them.
This scenario has a good deal of promise, particularly if you have seen “Back to the Future” and are willing to appropriate one of the best scenes and one of the major actors (Crispin Glover, mistreated here but weirdly amusing). The problem is, the filmmakers filter their ideas through the modern sieve of gross-out, sex-talk, post-Judd Apatow humor.
Director Steve Pink is the worst offender. Pink, who wrote the superior “Grosse Pointe Blank” (also starring Cusack), doesn’t know which tone to pick. So he picks them all. He allows Corddry to act as if he were in a different movie from the rest of the cast and slams home the physical humor while almost ignoring the funnier character-related verbal jokes.
Usually, the people who make trailers for comedies choose all the best parts, implying that it is the most hilarious film of all time. The trailer for “Hot Tub Time Machine” has no funny parts at all, making you think that it is screechingly awful. As is so often the case with this particular movie, the truth lies somewhere in between.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Holly goes lightly into TV fame
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.
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.
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.
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