“My One and Only” tells the story of a life so interesting that they ought to make a movie about it.
Just not this one.
“My One and Only” is not quite a comedy, not quite a drama and not quite a movie. It is mostly just an idea, and it meanders and ambles around until it occasionally hits on it. But mostly it just meanders. And ambles.
This is the intermittently true story of Anne Devereaux, who comes home one day in the 1950s to find her no-good bandleader husband in bed with his lead singer. She piles her two teenage sons -- one by that husband, one by another -- into a new Cadillac Eldorado and sets off on a journey to find a husband who can support her and them. This trip takes them through a number of towns (mostly played by Baltimore) and introduces them to a number of men of varying degrees of inappropriateness.
All the while, the no-good bandleader husband lurks. That’s what he does, he lurks. He’s a little sleazy, this guy.
Renee Zellweger stars as Anne, and it has to be said that she is looking a little weird. Weirder than usual. Her performance is mannered and is marred by an inconsistent Southern accent, but either she improves or we become more used to her as the film rolls along. Although we never accept her belabored characterization, we do (perhaps begrudgingly) warm to the theatricality of the performance.
At first, her sons seem like appendages to the story, even though it is being narrated by the more bookish of the two, George, played by Logan Lerman of “3:10 to Yuma.” The other son (Mark Rendall) is gay, and his effeminism is thankfully treated with affectionate humor. The two boys eventually come into their own in the picture, and the film’s big surprise concerns one of them.
This surprise, incidentally, has been revealed by practically every other critic in the country. Sigh.
Veteran British director Richard Loncraine has made such notable films as “The Missionary” and the Ian McKellen version of “Richard III” -- and he directed an episode of “Band of Brothers” -- but “My One and Only” simply gets away from him. He seems at a loss about what tone to take, and all to often winds up with no tone at all. It is as if a somnambulist made the film; the actors are particularly lethargic, waiting half a beat too long to speak, and then in a near monotone.
And what they have to say is rarely interesting. Writer Charlie Peters has made a career of scripting terrible, terrible films, from “Paternity“ and “Hot to Trot” to “Her Alibi” and “My Father, the Hero.” Actually, “My One and Only” is one of his better efforts, if only because it boasts two genuinely amusing scenes. In one, a hitchhiking adventure takes an unexpected turn in the desert; in the other, David Koechner explains the secret to keeping women happy (they get cold a lot, so bring a sweater).
There are certainly worse movies than “My One and Only” playing at the multiplex. But if you see them, you’ll remember how terrible they are. If you see “My One and Only,” you’ll have forgotten it by the time you walk out the door.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Informative
Steven Soderbergh is back with Matt Damon (and George Clooney producing) in the whimsical, surprising and sort-of true "The Informant!" Read my review at: http://boomerlifemagazine.com/ver2/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=305:the-informant&catid=74:movie reviews.
Friday, September 4, 2009
With the laughs "Extract"ed.
"Extract," the latest film by Mike Judge, is everything that "Office Space" is, but less. My review is at: http://boomerlifemagazine.com/ver2/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=302:extract&catid=74:movie-reviews.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Don't eat the brown acid
My review of "Taking Woodstock" is up and ready. You can find it at: http://boomerlifemagazine.com/ver2/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=300:taking-woodstock&catid=74:movie-reviews.
Soulful, but not powerful
Rock documentaries of the 35 years ago invariably had two things they do not have today: a lot of backstage scenes and drum solos.
Who says the movies haven’t changed for the better?
Empirical evidence proves that movie audiences over the years do not want either of these things. No one ever talks about how memorable are the behind-the-scenes sections of “Woodstock” or “Gimme Shelter.”
The raw footage of “Soul Power” was shot 35 years ago, leaving the filmmakers with an implicit question: Should they edit it the way they would now, or should they respect the era and make it like it would have been in 1974?
Alas, they made the wrong decision.
The first half-hour of “Soul Power” is devoted exclusively to the nuts and bolts of putting together a large music festival. We see the stage builders build the stage and the sound-and-lights guy rigging the sound and lights. We see the producer having trouble hearing his walkie talkie.
Walkie-talkie problems from 35 years ago is never the most fascinating of topics. But if you can sit through all of that, at least there is some pretty great music on the other side.
The film is a document of a 1974 music festival in Kinshasa, the capital of what was then called Zaire. The festival was apparently the first time black American music stars came en masse to Africa to play alongside African performers, and much of the film is devoted to the performers congratulating themselves on the historical moment of it all. The history seems only slightly more meaningful now than the walkie-talkie problems, but the performers were certainly feeling it at the time.
And what performers they were: James Brown is featured most prominently, and if you’ve never seen him in his prime it might be worth the price of admission alone to see his three songs. B.B. King performs “The Thrill is Gone,” a song I personally believe is impossible to hear too many times.
The Spinners turn out their smooth-as-silk synchronized dancing for “One of a Kind (Love Affair)” and Bill Withers sings a powerhouse version of “Hope She’ll Be Happier,” which is unappreciated by the African crowd that is more attuned to rhythm. Unknown to me, at least, is a spectacular funk band, The Crusaders (they later had a modest hit with the familiar “Street Life”). And Celia Cruz is, as always, an irrepressible force for salsa.
For some American audiences, the African performers will be revelatory, from the godmother of African music, Miriam Makeba, singing “The Click Song” to the complex rhythms of OK Jazz, featuring Franco, and Tabu Rey and Afrisa (though one of their dancers probably should have thought about wearing underwear).
As impressive as the music is, though, it makes up no more than half of the film. Even the festival scenes are interspersed with shots of street performers (the idea is to show a connection between grass-roots African music and American superstars) or posters of scary dictator Sese Seko Mobutu.
And the still-young Muhammad Ali gets more than his share of camera time to espouse his racial politics and crowd-pleasing egotism. Ali is part of the film because the festival was originally scheduled to be part of the festivities surrounding his boxing match with George Foreman, the Rumble in the Jungle. The fight was delayed when Foreman was injured, but the music went on as scheduled.
A brilliant documentary was made about the fight, “When We Were Kings.” “Soul Power” is meant as a companion piece to that film, but it is not in the same league. The music is great, but too much of the movie isn’t music.
Who says the movies haven’t changed for the better?
Empirical evidence proves that movie audiences over the years do not want either of these things. No one ever talks about how memorable are the behind-the-scenes sections of “Woodstock” or “Gimme Shelter.”
The raw footage of “Soul Power” was shot 35 years ago, leaving the filmmakers with an implicit question: Should they edit it the way they would now, or should they respect the era and make it like it would have been in 1974?
Alas, they made the wrong decision.
The first half-hour of “Soul Power” is devoted exclusively to the nuts and bolts of putting together a large music festival. We see the stage builders build the stage and the sound-and-lights guy rigging the sound and lights. We see the producer having trouble hearing his walkie talkie.
Walkie-talkie problems from 35 years ago is never the most fascinating of topics. But if you can sit through all of that, at least there is some pretty great music on the other side.
The film is a document of a 1974 music festival in Kinshasa, the capital of what was then called Zaire. The festival was apparently the first time black American music stars came en masse to Africa to play alongside African performers, and much of the film is devoted to the performers congratulating themselves on the historical moment of it all. The history seems only slightly more meaningful now than the walkie-talkie problems, but the performers were certainly feeling it at the time.
And what performers they were: James Brown is featured most prominently, and if you’ve never seen him in his prime it might be worth the price of admission alone to see his three songs. B.B. King performs “The Thrill is Gone,” a song I personally believe is impossible to hear too many times.
The Spinners turn out their smooth-as-silk synchronized dancing for “One of a Kind (Love Affair)” and Bill Withers sings a powerhouse version of “Hope She’ll Be Happier,” which is unappreciated by the African crowd that is more attuned to rhythm. Unknown to me, at least, is a spectacular funk band, The Crusaders (they later had a modest hit with the familiar “Street Life”). And Celia Cruz is, as always, an irrepressible force for salsa.
For some American audiences, the African performers will be revelatory, from the godmother of African music, Miriam Makeba, singing “The Click Song” to the complex rhythms of OK Jazz, featuring Franco, and Tabu Rey and Afrisa (though one of their dancers probably should have thought about wearing underwear).
As impressive as the music is, though, it makes up no more than half of the film. Even the festival scenes are interspersed with shots of street performers (the idea is to show a connection between grass-roots African music and American superstars) or posters of scary dictator Sese Seko Mobutu.
And the still-young Muhammad Ali gets more than his share of camera time to espouse his racial politics and crowd-pleasing egotism. Ali is part of the film because the festival was originally scheduled to be part of the festivities surrounding his boxing match with George Foreman, the Rumble in the Jungle. The fight was delayed when Foreman was injured, but the music went on as scheduled.
A brilliant documentary was made about the fight, “When We Were Kings.” “Soul Power” is meant as a companion piece to that film, but it is not in the same league. The music is great, but too much of the movie isn’t music.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Mute, inglorious bastards
Unlike a strikingly large number of other critics in this country (Hi, Richard Corliss; greetings, David Denby), I do not give away the ending of Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds." Unbelievable. My review is here: http://boomerlifemagazine.com/ver2/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=299:inglourious-basterds&catid=74:movie-reviews.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Post Grad, and definitely post-"The Graduate"
“Post Grad” is like “The Graduate,” without Dustin Hoffman. “Post Grad” is like “The Graduate” without Mrs. Robinson. It’s like “The Graduate” without the social commentary.
Without Simon & Garfunkel. Without “plastics.”
It’s like “The Graduate,” without “The Graduate.”
At the filmmakers were ambitious. They didn’t just stick with one movie. It’s also like “Little Miss Sunshine.”
The difference is that “The Graduate” and “Little Miss Sunshine” were funny. And, you know, good.
A comedy presumably aimed at teenage girls, “Post Grad” tells the story of Ryden Malby, who graduates from a tiny college (we only see a couple of dozen students at graduation) and is ready to take on the world. So convinced is she that she will be hired as an editor at a big publishing house that she rents an expensive loft in downtown L.A. But, obviously, she doesn’t get the job. Perhaps the publishers see, as we do if we look quickly enough, that her diploma says she has a bachelor of science in English. Bachelor of science. I wouldn’t hire her, either.
A couple of months later, she still doesn’t have a job, even though “I thought I’d be doing something amazing by now.” It’s kind of hard to sympathize with someone who thinks in those terms.
While not looking for jobs, Ryden spends her time ignoring the guy who loves her and occasionally pursuing the studly middle-aged Brazilian who lives across the street, except when she (and we) forget about him. And in a completely unrelated part of the film, she hangs out with her quirky family.
Oh, are they quirky! They’re professionally quirky. They’re strenuously quirky. And they’re played by such quirky actors as Michael Keaton (in the Greg Kinnear role, although he’s mostly riffing on the character he played in “Night Shift”), Jane Lynch (in the Toni Collette role) and Carol Burnett in a ghastly wig (in the Alan Arkin role).
The part of Ryden falls to the moderately appealing Alexis Bledel, who has spectacular blue eyes and a lot of freckles and spectacular blue eyes. You could spend the whole movie looking at those blue eyes, and we do, partly because director Vicky Jenson spends so much time focusing on them and partly because there is nothing else to watch.
Bledel talks quickly and animatedly to get across the idea that Ryden has spunk. Lots and lots of spunk. And in the immortal words of Lou Grant, I hate spunk.
Kelly Fremon’s humorless script is utterly formulaic and is not above looking to other movies for its jokes. And those are the best of the mediocre jokes. Too many of the worst ones involve Michael Keaton stepping in cat poop.
Leaving the theater, we kind of know how he feels.
Without Simon & Garfunkel. Without “plastics.”
It’s like “The Graduate,” without “The Graduate.”
At the filmmakers were ambitious. They didn’t just stick with one movie. It’s also like “Little Miss Sunshine.”
The difference is that “The Graduate” and “Little Miss Sunshine” were funny. And, you know, good.
A comedy presumably aimed at teenage girls, “Post Grad” tells the story of Ryden Malby, who graduates from a tiny college (we only see a couple of dozen students at graduation) and is ready to take on the world. So convinced is she that she will be hired as an editor at a big publishing house that she rents an expensive loft in downtown L.A. But, obviously, she doesn’t get the job. Perhaps the publishers see, as we do if we look quickly enough, that her diploma says she has a bachelor of science in English. Bachelor of science. I wouldn’t hire her, either.
A couple of months later, she still doesn’t have a job, even though “I thought I’d be doing something amazing by now.” It’s kind of hard to sympathize with someone who thinks in those terms.
While not looking for jobs, Ryden spends her time ignoring the guy who loves her and occasionally pursuing the studly middle-aged Brazilian who lives across the street, except when she (and we) forget about him. And in a completely unrelated part of the film, she hangs out with her quirky family.
Oh, are they quirky! They’re professionally quirky. They’re strenuously quirky. And they’re played by such quirky actors as Michael Keaton (in the Greg Kinnear role, although he’s mostly riffing on the character he played in “Night Shift”), Jane Lynch (in the Toni Collette role) and Carol Burnett in a ghastly wig (in the Alan Arkin role).
The part of Ryden falls to the moderately appealing Alexis Bledel, who has spectacular blue eyes and a lot of freckles and spectacular blue eyes. You could spend the whole movie looking at those blue eyes, and we do, partly because director Vicky Jenson spends so much time focusing on them and partly because there is nothing else to watch.
Bledel talks quickly and animatedly to get across the idea that Ryden has spunk. Lots and lots of spunk. And in the immortal words of Lou Grant, I hate spunk.
Kelly Fremon’s humorless script is utterly formulaic and is not above looking to other movies for its jokes. And those are the best of the mediocre jokes. Too many of the worst ones involve Michael Keaton stepping in cat poop.
Leaving the theater, we kind of know how he feels.
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