Ambivalence

“Blind Side” would be better if so much of it weren’t so bad.

Overall, the scales still tip to worthwhile viewing. The movie easily has more strong scenes than squishy ones, but it would be foolhardy to overlook completely the squish factor.

The film is based on a true story, but unless Michael Oher’s life has been nothing but a parade of Hollywood clichés, the filmmakers have imposed a formulaic structure on it. The result is an enjoyable movie, but one in which everything is predictable and nothing is a surprise.

Oher, played not without affect by Quinton Aaron, is an enormous teen with an equally enormous heart. But he has never had a break -- he grew up in poverty (he never even had a bed), the son of a drug-addict mother and an absent father. Shifted from foster parent to foster parent and school to school, he lands at a wealthy private school, largely because the coach wants him on the football team.

As practically the only black student on campus, and showing no apparent ability to read, he is shunned by the students and teachers alike. But one mother of a student shows him a kindness, giving him a place to sleep on a cold night. Moved by his gentle nature, she begins to show him more kindness on a truly remarkable level.

For the entire film, we expect to be put off by the sight of a well-off white woman swooping in to turn around the life of a disadvantaged black youth, but it never feels condescending. And that is the movie’s greatest success.

In one of her most emotionally true roles, Sandra Bullock plays the woman -- very blonde, very rich and with a heart as big as Oher’s. She’s a no-nonsense, type-A, Memphis gal who is determined to get what she wants, particularly when she is doing the right thing. Her husband is played by Tim McGraw, a likable enough performance of a likable enough character, but he is overshadowed by Bullock.

But the supporting characters tend to trip up the film. The worst offender is the ridiculously precocious young son of Bullock’s character; he’s like a sitcom kid, witty and wise and glib. In an atrocious idea that is carried on too long, it is this boy, at perhaps 10 years old, who helps serves as Oher’s conditioning coach and teaches him the fundamentals of football. Kathy Bates has one great moments as a tutor but is otherwise awash in cliché, and the filmmakers trot out a series of college coaches to play themselves.

One of the unconvincing acting performances you will ever see is Nick Saban playing himself.

John Lee Hancock writes and directs, and the film is uneven exactly where he is uneven. Many lines are funny, a tribute to the wit with which he embellished the script. But all of the oppressively predictable parts are due to his script, too. And while the emotionally satisfying scenes resonate because of his direction, it is this same bald, unnuanced direction that makes the movie feel immature.

Of course, part of the problem stems from real life. In high school, Oher played offensive left tackle. They may try awfully hard -- a little too hard, maybe -- but it is impossible to make football footage seem exciting when focusing on an offensive lineman. Yes, they’re critical to a team’s success, but no, what they do is not dramatic.

“Blind Side” is remarkably ambitious, and it does score. But it’s just a field goal.

Not in a whimper, not in a bang, but in a blah

It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel bored.

“2012” is a disaster film about the biggest disaster of all, the end of virtually all life on the face of the Earth. That’s the sort of thing you would think it would be impossible to make too big.

Meet schlockmeister director Roland Emmerich, who covered much the same territory in his 1996 apocalyptic disaster film “Independence Day” and his 2004 apocalyptic disaster film “The Day After Tomorrow.” For his third try at the exact same story, Emmerich leans heavily on the greatly improved special effects to make his movie bigger than big. And not coincidentally, longer than long.

“2012” is so big and so long (and so clichéd and so predictable and so cheesy) that it becomes quite dull. There are only so many special effects a fellow can take, especially since it is the same two or three effects repeated over and over, and so much pounding music.

At no point in this film is there any doubt about who will survive the apocalypse, and who will die. Seven billion people will die. The cute little dog will survive.

One of Emmerich’s many problems is that he shows us far too many of the seven billion, scattered in too many places around the globe. We have John Cusack as a writer and Amanda Peet as his estranged wife and the mother of his two children in Los Angeles (anyone want to take bets on whether they reconcile?). We have Danny Glover as the thoughtful and noble president in Washington, Thandie Newton as his daughter and Oliver Platt as a high-ranking official.

We have astrophysicists in India, a welder and his Buddhist brother in China, and two old codger musicians (including George Segal) wistfully noting the passage of time on a cruise ship in the Pacific. We have Woody Harrelson as a nutcase ex machina in Yellowstone National Park, and Chiwetel Ejiofer as a scientist pretty much everywhere. We have a Russian billionaire with a blonde girlfriend and twin sons in Las Vegas, and some generic Arab sheik in some room somewhere.

It gets to the point that when we see the Indian astrophysicist late in the film, we think, “Oh, yeah, I forgot he was in this movie.”

The main characters who do not make it to the end are generally all given the chance to make a noble speech, or at least share a tearful goodbye. As for the potential survivors on whom we focus the most, we are not worried about them because they have a statistically improbable ability to outrace whatever disaster is immediately behind them, no matter how fast it is closing.

At one point, Cusack is even able to run and catch up to a plane that is in the process of taking off. That’s some mighty fast running.

The catching-up-to-the-plane scene might well be the movie’s most ridiculous, but it has plenty of competition. About half of the time that we laugh at this movie, it is at something that is intentionally humorous. The other half is at things that are just…so…stupid.

The point of movies such as this is to see special-effect destruction on a massive scale, and many of the effects here are indeed fairly spectacular. Others, especially when several things are happening at once, tend to look flat, badly animated or silly. But even when the effects are good, what is missing from them is the sense of fun. If you see one landmark being destroyed (as Emmerich did with the U.S. Capitol in “Independence Day”), it can be enjoyably cathartic. But a dozen or more landmarks crashing into the earth results only in apathy born of repetition.

“2012” is so big because it wants to be the end-of-the-world movie to end all end-of-the-world movies.

We can only hope.

We love you Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!

An overblown, detrimental sports rivalry in “The Damned United” is revealed to be caused by two coaches who are petty and childish.

Do you, like me, secretly suspect that a lot of coaches are like that?

“The Damned United” tells of the rise and fall of English soccer manager Brian Clough, a man probably completely unknown to the vast majority of Americans. That the film is so enjoyable in this country, and enlightening, is a testament to its universal truths: Some talented people are jerks, and their personalities can get in the way of their successes.

A considerably fictionalized true story, the film bounces back and forth in time between 1974 and 1968, in that order. In 1974, the brash, young Clough replaces the greatly beloved Don Revie as manager of the fearsome Leeds United football team. In 1968, we witness a match between what was then Revie’s Leeds United team and the little heralded team headed by Clough. Leeds plays dirty and Revie snubs the previously adoring Clough, leading to the unhealthy, long-lasting rivalry.

“I’m just going to have to beat him, Pete,” Clough says. “Beat him if it’s the last thing I do.”

The Pete in that quote is Pete Taylor, Clough’s longtime assistant coach. He is an integral part of Clough’s success, but the film never makes clear what it is that he does, other than recommend that Clough hire expensive, but able, older former players.

If that is a flaw, the filmmakers get the rest of the film right, starting with the casting. The extraordinary Michael Sheen stars as Clough, and once again he disappears into his role, as he has done in “The Queen,” “Frost/Nixon” and a host of other films. His version of the coach is cocky and cheeky, too high strung and loose-lipped for his own good.

“I wouldn’t say I’m the best manager in England, but I’m in the top one,” he jokes.

Revie is played by Colm Meaney, whose personification of the part extends to an extraordinary resemblance to the real coach -- kudos to the first-rated makeup staff. Among the other familiar faces (hello, Jim Broadbent!) is Timothy Spall of “Enchanted,” the Harry Potter movies and many other pictures.

Peter Morgan is the writer, from David Peace’s popular (in England) novel. Morgan created complex characters, but well-defined and real. Not only do we believe what is on the surface of the characters, we buy what they hide, their motivations and secret desires.

Morgan and the actors are helped in their quest by director Tom Hooper, who spent considerable time in Virginia directing the “John Adams” mini-series. He makes the story accessible even to people who don’t much care about soccer by focusing on the personalities and their conflicts.

A few of his camera angles are a little strange. But otherwise, “The Damned United” is an admirable and often fascinating work.

Goats staring back

Somewhere in "The Men Who Stare At Goats" is a great comedy straining to get out. I know, I know -- somewhere in my review is a great review straining to do the same. You can find it at: http://boomerlifemagazine.com/ver2/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=343:the-men-who-stare-at-goats&catid=74:movie-reviews

Tepid 'Coco'

It is the little moments in “Coco Before Chanel” that are supposed to enthrall us. But they do not, unless you’re captivated by advancements in fashion, and maybe not even then.

The life of Coco Chanel before she became famous is not by itself fascinating enough to command our attention. So director and co-writer Anne Fontaine seeks to enliven the picture with dangling little pretty baubles of recognition. When the pre-famous Coco makes a Halloween costume to look like an orphan’s uniform, we are to recognize the collar that will become the iconic Chanel collar. When she admires a fabric that turns out to be jersey, we are to understand that that is a fabric that will help define her style. When she goes to the shore and sees fishermen in their striped sweaters, we are instantly to glean something or other.

Beats me what it is. I’m not captivated by advancements in fashion.

The story, which is taken from a book, is simple and not unfamiliar: She falls for the wrong man, and then she falls for the right one.

Audrey Tautou stars as Gabrielle Chanel, whose nickname comes from a popular song she sings at what appears to be a combination music hall/brothel. Her sister introduces her to the wealthy Etienne Balsan (Benoit Poelvoorde), and she soon gives up a life of entertainment for a life as a kept woman. But she is moody and unhappy with him, so she becomes attracted to his equally wealthy English friend, Arthur “Boy” Kapel (Alessandro Nivola).

Tautou plays the character as enigmatic, which does add a whiff of mystery to the role, but it also makes her hard to get to know. We develop little empathy or passion for her, and only rarely care what happens to her. The film’s best scene stands out for his very reason -- it is the only one with any emotional heft. The scene comes when Etienne forces Coco to sing for his party guests; it is heartbreaking and, alas, singular.

As is perhaps not surprising for a movie about fashion (even when it pretends not to be about fashion), the picture is most successful in its visual presentation. The sets are sumptuous, the costumes crisp and evocative. And the composition within the frames is, at times, a marvel. An image endures of Coco alone outside on a vast estate, another showing her lying among (artfully arranged) leaves. Best of all is a scene at the sea, where everyone else is dressed in shades of cream, while she wears a dark plaid.

The meaning is obvious -- she stands apart from the rest of the world in her attitudes and ideas as well as her fashion sense.

True enough, perhaps. But it doesn’t seem to be enough for an entire movie.

3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds

Some critics have been calling the Coen Brothers’ “A Serious Man” a black comedy. Some have been calling it a drama.

I think it’s a horror film.

Protagonist Larry Gopnik is living a life in the Jewish version of Hell. His wife has fallen for an oily acquaintance and wants a divorce. His brother’s temporary stay with them is threatening to become permanent; he spends all his time draining a cyst. His 13-year-old son is a stoner and his older daughter washes her hair all day and dreams of getting a nose job. He is physics professor up for tenure, and one of his students tries to bribe him for a passing grade. He lives in a horrible 1960s house (the artwork is exquisitely awful) bounded on one side by an angry neighbor and on the other by a temptress.

Larry is a modern Job, or at least a Job in 1967, when the film is set. God is testing him for reasons he will never know, testing him severely. The question -- answered, but never asked -- is whether he will be able to remain moral in the face of all the stress.

The Coens are looking at the Big Questions here. What is God’s plan for us? How do we know what he wants? And as Larry himself asks, “Why does he make us feel the questions if he’s not going to give us the answers?”

Unfortunately, as sometimes happens when filmmakers begin poking around in the Big Questions, the film becomes a wee bit pretentious. And maybe more than a wee bit.

A certain smugness radiates from the screen as the Coens briefly touch upon Schrodinger’s paradox, Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle and the stoned wisdom of Jefferson Airplane, specifically the Surrealistic Pillow album.

Hey, I like Surrealistic Pillow, too. But I’m not sure what point they’re trying to make by using it so much in a movie focusing on the idea that religion, specifically Judaism, has no answer for God’s questions. There is a disconnect in this film between what they are trying to say and how they say it.

The Coen Brothers, Joel and Ethan, have introduced a number of fine movie actors over the years, and they do it again here with Michael Stuhlbarg, who stars as Larry. With a pained, blank look, Stuhlbarg is unsurpassable as the passive, manipulated professor, the pawn in everyone else’s game. The other actors are strong, too, but as the movie wears on we begin to feel as if their efforts are unrewarded by the lackadaisical plot.

Perhaps the best scene -- and certainly the most gripping -- is the first. Set in 19th century Poland and performed entirely in subtitled Yiddish, it tells of a poor and simple man and wife who are visited either by a blessing or a curse. The scene, which is narratively unrelated to the rest of the story, suggests the difficulty one has in determining good from evil. Or maybe it’s about how religion is just destructive superstition.

It’s kind of hard to tell.

Michael Jackson is it, mostly

Ordinarily, a movie audience should not be distracted by thinking about the process of making the film. But the viewers of “This Is It” have no choice -- this is a movie that must be judged in the context of how it was made.

“This Is It” is enlightening and entertaining, given the circumstances.

A concert film of sorts celebrating the final tour that Michael Jackson never got to perform, it was cobbled together from rehearsal footage that was not intended to be seen. All things considered, it holds together fairly well.

Shot at what appear to be uneven intervals over a three-month period earlier this year, the footage was meant to be just a keepsake for Jackson (and, one assumes, the basis of a making-of documentary). So the quality of the filming is not what we are accustomed to seeing on the big screen -- the digital cameras are not worthy of a feature-film, the focus is iffy and the sound can be indistinct.

Yet what these sub-par cameras catch is an astonishing performer, still in his prime, working hard to perfect what looks as if it would have been an absolutely astounding show. At one point, Jackson says he wants to show the projected audiences something they have never seen before, and he was well on his way to fulfilling this wish -- from Cirque du Soleil-like aerialists (seen altogether too briefly) to a bit of black-and-white video magic, seamlessly inserting himself into the movies “Gilda” and “The Big Sleep.”

Jackson revolutionized dance, and he spends most of his songs showing off his moves. He has an extraordinary ability to move seemingly without friction -- it’s an illusion he created for moonwalking, in which he appears to put his weight on one foot while actually transferring it to the other. Even knowing how he does it, it still looks shockingly unreal every time.

And of course he grabs his crotch a lot. I’ve never understood that.

If the dance is the best part of the movie, the singing is the weakest. That’s another inevitable result of having to use rehearsal footage -- he wasn’t practicing his singing, he was working on the staging, the music and the dance moves. For several songs, including “Billie Jean,“ he sings half-heartedly, trying to preserve his voice.

In other numbers, such as a group of songs he performed as a boy with the Jackson Five, he isn’t doing anything full strength. These rehearsals of works he has been performing since he was 6 were staged entirely for the benefit of the technicians, the back-up singers and the stellar troupe of dancers.

Jackson had his pick of some of the best dancers in the world b
because, face it, he’s Michael Jackson. A montage of some of them at their audition reveals the esteem they have for him; one man tearfully tells Jackson “You’re why I dance.”

The musicians, too, are absolutely top notch, another advantage to being Michael Jackson. Drummer Jonathan Moffett impresses with a driving, steady beat, but the stand-out is guitarist Orianthi Panagaris. Not only does she make her ax wail, but she’s also hot. It’s a good combination.

The show itself only stumbles once, but it’s a terrible stumble. For “The Earth Song,” it mixes simplistic ecological lyrics with embarrassingly childish images, including a little girl with butterflies facing down a bulldozer. “I love the planet. I have respect for trees,” he says, though we don’t know when he says it or whom he says it to.

You can never quite escape the freakishness of Jackson’s face, and viewers who are not inveterate fans might find themselves getting bored for 15 or 20 minutes. But even though it goes on too long, the movie leaves us wanting more.

We don’t want to watch more of the movie. We just wish it could have ended with actual footage of the concerts.