Roller derby has rules? Who knew?
“Whip It” is a coming of age story set against the decidedly unusual backdrop of the great tacky sport of roller derby. What a pleasant surprise it is -- frankly, it comes as something of a shock -- to find that the movie is this entertaining.
Drew Barrymore makes a notably solid debut as a director -- it turns out she was paying attention all those years. And equally impressive is the strong performance by Ellen Page, who shows that “Juno” (and the little-seen “Hard Candy”) was no fluke.
Page stars as Bliss, a high school student dreaming of leaving her small town, the amusingly named Bodeen, Texas. Her mother (Marcia Gay Harden, excellent in the role) wants her to compete in the same beauty pageant the mother won as a teen, but Bliss has other interests.
She is attracted to the lights, the sounds and the pseudo-legitimacy of roller derby. On a lark, she decides to try out for a team in Austin. Even though the waiflike Page is smaller than petite, Bliss is picked for the team.
Quickly, the plot heads out into three all-too-routine directions -- the film’s major flaw is that it is formulaic. The most important thread involves Bliss’ breaking away from the influence of her parents, including Daniel Stern as her likable but passive father. The second thread is about Bliss falling in first love with a sweet musician, Landon Pigg. And the third part is the competition, the roller derbies themselves. Bliss’ team, the Hurl Scouts, are perennial losers until she joins them, and soon they are in contention for a title.
OK, you probably won’t care about who wins the roller derby contests, but they’re enjoyable enough to watch if we care about the characters. And we do, courtesy of the winning performance by Page and, to a lesser extent, work from Barrymore, Kristen Wiig and Juliette Lewis as a rival player.
As a director, Barrymore keeps things peppy and full of life. She avoids the common first-time-director trap of calling attention to her work behind the camera, but she does suffer from a couple of minor missteps. A food fight feels a little staged, and a scene in which Bliss looks blissfully (so to speak) at her lover is so false it almost overshadows the inventive underwater love scene that precedes it.
Writer Shauna Cross based the screenplay on her own book, which she based on her own experiences as a roller girl. Her familiarity with the sport and its practitioners comes through, or at least her familiarity with the rules, and she has crafted believable characters who say witty things.
“Whip It” may make the case for grrrl power a bit too emphatically at times for some tastes, but it’s mostly a lot of fun. If I could think of an appropriate phrase taken from the world of roller derby, I’d use it here, but I can’t.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Hurrah for zombies!
So now we have a shiny new sub-genre, the zombie horror-based comedy.
First there was “Shaun of the Dead.” Now it is joined by “Zombieland.” In the world of shiny new sub-genres, two is a trend.
As funny as “Shaun of the Dead” is, “Zombieland is at least as good. The two films perfectly demonstrate the difference between English and American senses of humor. “Shaun of the Dead” is quiet and dry, drawing its laughs from its restraint. “Zombieland” is in your face and physical, reveling in irony and crudity. But it’s funny crude, not crude crude.
Zombies have taken over the world, killing nearly everyone and turning the planet into a zombie wasteland (although Garland, Texas, we are told, always looked like that).
Our hero from Garland, Jesse Eisenberg, suspects he may be the last human alive. He is a wimp, with numerous phobias and Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Perversely, his failings have helped keep him alive -- he has no close family and friends to feed on him, and his default mode of fear makes him extra cautious at all times.
Naturally, there are a few other survivors -- otherwise we wouldn’t have much of a movie. Our unnamed hero (none of the characters have names) meets his opposite in Woody Harrelson. Harrelson plays a tough, hard-living, macho redneck, the sort who would find Eisenberg’s sniveling character an annoyance and an irritant. Nevertheless, with their survival on the line, the two join forces, at least for a while.
Eventually, they meet two sisters, played by Emma Stone and Abigail Breslin. The younger girl (Breslin) has been bitten by a zombie and needs to be put down. But this is a comedy, and Breslin currently has the best career in the cast, so it is easy to guess that she will be around for most of the film.
The potential concern in a movie such as “Zombieland” is that it is just one joke, or at least just one note, and that will tire of it long before it ends. But writers Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick, and director Ruben Fleischer keep the laughs coming throughout the picture. Part of their secret is that much of the humor is based on the characters’ reactions to one another (the rest tends to be about the funny way zombies go splat -- it’s not quite gross-out humor, but it’s not for the faint of heart). And part of it is that although the story is simple, it is always interesting. We like the characters an we hope they succeed in their efforts to survive.
And although zombie movies have been done to death, so to speak, “Zombieland” manages still to be inventive. It makes good use of its locations -- the amusement-park climax is particularly satisfying -- and it never forgets that it is a comedy, not a horror film.
When you think about it, the concept of zombies has always been kind of funny. It just took “Shaun of the Dead” and “Zombieland” to figure that out.
First there was “Shaun of the Dead.” Now it is joined by “Zombieland.” In the world of shiny new sub-genres, two is a trend.
As funny as “Shaun of the Dead” is, “Zombieland is at least as good. The two films perfectly demonstrate the difference between English and American senses of humor. “Shaun of the Dead” is quiet and dry, drawing its laughs from its restraint. “Zombieland” is in your face and physical, reveling in irony and crudity. But it’s funny crude, not crude crude.
Zombies have taken over the world, killing nearly everyone and turning the planet into a zombie wasteland (although Garland, Texas, we are told, always looked like that).
Our hero from Garland, Jesse Eisenberg, suspects he may be the last human alive. He is a wimp, with numerous phobias and Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Perversely, his failings have helped keep him alive -- he has no close family and friends to feed on him, and his default mode of fear makes him extra cautious at all times.
Naturally, there are a few other survivors -- otherwise we wouldn’t have much of a movie. Our unnamed hero (none of the characters have names) meets his opposite in Woody Harrelson. Harrelson plays a tough, hard-living, macho redneck, the sort who would find Eisenberg’s sniveling character an annoyance and an irritant. Nevertheless, with their survival on the line, the two join forces, at least for a while.
Eventually, they meet two sisters, played by Emma Stone and Abigail Breslin. The younger girl (Breslin) has been bitten by a zombie and needs to be put down. But this is a comedy, and Breslin currently has the best career in the cast, so it is easy to guess that she will be around for most of the film.
The potential concern in a movie such as “Zombieland” is that it is just one joke, or at least just one note, and that will tire of it long before it ends. But writers Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick, and director Ruben Fleischer keep the laughs coming throughout the picture. Part of their secret is that much of the humor is based on the characters’ reactions to one another (the rest tends to be about the funny way zombies go splat -- it’s not quite gross-out humor, but it’s not for the faint of heart). And part of it is that although the story is simple, it is always interesting. We like the characters an we hope they succeed in their efforts to survive.
And although zombie movies have been done to death, so to speak, “Zombieland” manages still to be inventive. It makes good use of its locations -- the amusement-park climax is particularly satisfying -- and it never forgets that it is a comedy, not a horror film.
When you think about it, the concept of zombies has always been kind of funny. It just took “Shaun of the Dead” and “Zombieland” to figure that out.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Zellwegeria
“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.
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.
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.
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