Kimberly Gadette's Prose and Cons

Movie Review: IRON MAN 3

KimberlyG — Thu, 02 May 2013 19:27:01 +0000

Iron Man suit and Robert Downey Jr as Tony Stark

Release date: May 3, 2013
Directed by: Shane Black
Screenplay by: Drew Pearce & Shane Black
Cast: Robert Downey Jr., Gwyneth Paltrow, Don Cheadle, Guy Pearce, Rebecca Hall, Jon Favreau, Ben Kingsley, James Badge Dale, Stephanie Szostak, Paul Bettany
Rating: PG-13; Running Time: 130 minutes

Iron Man 3 brings us a new twist on the buddy film. Here, Robert Downey Jr. teams up with his Kiss Kiss Bang Bang writer/director Shane Black … and the combo gives us quite the bang bang for the buck. With Black’s irreverent style and Downey’s breezy wit, this high-concept third chapter — with nods to The Terminator franchise, A.I. and X-Men Origins: Wolverine – shows no signs of rusting out.

Underscored with hefty acting chops (Downey, the amazing Ben Kingsley, Guy Pearce and, big surprise, even Gwyneth Paltrow’s prim Pepper Potts gets to rage against the machine), Iron Man 3 boomerangs us right back to the thrill ride of 2008′s seminal film.

Opening with a flashback to 1999 that sets certain plot elements in motion, the movie delivers a present-day Tony Stark who ultimately wrestles with multiple demons: Those he recklessly created due to his overweening ego; those thrashing through his mind in the guise of frequent anxiety attacks due to his brush with alien invaders in last year’s The Avengers; and those go-to maniacal villains bent on the destruction of the U.S. In this last instance, it’s Ben Kingsley as the Osama Bin Laden-like Mandarin who threatens American soil, zeroing in on the President as well as Iron Man.

As in the first film, Tony again finds himself isolated in unfamiliar surroundings, removed from his supercharged toys, tools and robots, forced to rely solely on his brains as well as strangers who he must quickly mold into able assistants. Enter Ty Simpkins as the kid who Tony befriends out of necessity in a small backwoods town in Tennessee. Simpkins is a surprisingly good foil, sidestepping those deadly movie tropes of the precocious and the pink-cheeked cute. And playing off a scrappy child introduces a new dynamic for Iron Man, further enriching his character.

Filmmaker Black (who made his first splash as sole screenwriter for 1987′s Lethal Weapon) and co-writer Drew Pearce nod to the concept of well-intentioned innovators losing their way, with Tony stating, “We create our own demons.” This idea telescopes outward, expanding on the flawed hubris of the individual into a global construct, looking at how a self-righteous America — enflamed by its own sense of moral imperative – continues to trip itself up as it inadvertently engenders legions of enemies throughout the world. This isn’t exactly a new idea, but as it darts in and around the storyline of a struggling albeit brilliant superhero, surrounded in full by state-of-the-art CGI, the concept carries effective heft.

The kinetic quipfest is well constructed, even down to the opening voice over. [Note: Wait for the bookended cinematic button after the final credits.] But there are a few false notes, such as when a particular villain indulges in a theatrical monologue in which he claims full credit for the mayhem … a fact that we’d previously gleaned quite a few scenes earlier. Another surprising oops: although Tony discovers a scientific flaw in the madman’s invention, that flaw isn’t exploited as we’d been cued to expect.

But Downey’s Tony relentlessly carries the day. With his urbane humor and sparkling intelligence, calling to mind an American James Bond crossbred with a card-carrying member of Mensa, Downey continues to infuse his Tony Stark with charismatic ease. While the idea of making our hero face struggle with emotional fracture is a good one, the choice of New York and wormholes is a bit farfetched. Sure, devotees of The Avengers will recognize that plot point, but it might be too “inside baseball” for others. Couldn’t Tony experience an iron deficiency in a more effective manner? Such as, say, a sudden allergy to ferrous oxide? Or catching Pepper Potts in flagrante delicto with a younger, iron-jawed superhero?

Speaking of age, there’s something to be said for the crime fighting protagonist who is most decidedly middle-aged. Rather than playing on a tired Schwarzenegger-like schtick, Iron Man 3 quietly notes that while such characters as Tony and Don Cheadle’s sidekick Rhodey are far past their twentysomething prime, they can still kick ass with the best of them. For that alone, any viewer standing on the other side of twenty-five can appreciate the fact that brains and brawn are not solely the purview of the young. No wonder Tony Stark is so darn popular.

[A friendly warning: Since the movie has previously been released in other countries, this reviewer suggests that avid Iron Man filmgoers avoid perusing multiple articles about the film prior to viewing. Spoilers are piling higher than the Eiffel Tower! Look away if you can!]

As compared to the overwrought, too-many-irons-in-the-fire second installment of this franchise, Iron Man 3 proves its metal, oops, mettle, once again.
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Rating on a scale of 5 tin gods: 4

[as published on doddle, May 2, 2013: review of
Mr. Ambassador: In 1984, Bibi caught the eye of his typist.
Credit: Getty Images

Prime Minister’s Girl Friday Ponders What Might Have Been

[published in The Forward, March 22, 2013]

Twenty-nine years, and not one phone call from the man. Not one flower. Not one letter. Sure, a VIP like Bibi can’t be expected to remember the comings and goings of every temporary secretary over the past three decades. Still, I thought we’d shared a moment. Then again, I thought I’d marry a Rothschild and own a small country. Go figure.

n 1984, I was the ever-auditioning musical comedy star-to-be, a cabaret singer/bartender by night, temp secretary by day. Like most women who’d grown up on Rodgers & Hammerstein and Disney, I dreamed of a Broadway career and a Jewish husband. When I got word that I had a two-day temp assignment for the newly appointed Israeli ambassador to the United Nations, I thought it might be a sign from my yidishe forebears. Could it be? A Jewish bachelor of note in Manhattan politics, just for me? (Or so I conjectured. Netanyahu divorced his second wife, Fleur Cates, in the mid-1980s.)

Outfitted in an ensemble suitable for the role of secretary, I reported to a drab office at 42nd Street and Second Avenue and introduced myself to a tall, broad-shouldered man, his brown hair prematurely threaded with silver. “I’m Benjamin Netanyahu,” he said, the clouds of self-importance swirling around him. “Here’s your desk.” The man barely looked at me. So much for my flights of fancy.

At the end of that first uneventful day, Netanyahu had instructions. I can still recall his fluid diction mingled with a touch of throaty Hebrew. “Tomorrow, meet me in front of the Regency Hotel. 8:30 a.m.”

The Regency? Was there something going on between us after all? Then, forgetting the fantasy, it hit me: My other secretarial costumes were at the cleaners. While dressing like Mae West was perfectly acceptable after the sun went down, among the 9-to-5 mover/shaker crowd, feather boas didn’t work. Ever.

The next morning, the Regency was swarming with Diplomatic Secret Service agents. This was years before the advent of the 24-hour news cycle, and I was oblivious to the fact that Israeli Prime Minister Shimon Peres was concluding a six-day visit to the United States.

Choosing the most sedate cabaret garb I owned, I arrived at the hotel dressed in a low-cut black matte jersey jumpsuit, supported by a well-constructed push-up bra and accessorized by a multicolored diaphanous chiffon throw. The Secret Service looked simultaneously confused and lecherous as I walked by: What was a hooker doing at the Regency at this hour of the morning? Before breakfast?

As for any background checks, identification requests, etc., once Netanyahu waved me in, I was unimpeachable. I guess the typing test that the temp agency gave me had covered all the bases.

I was escorted to a hotel room consisting of a double bed and a bare-bones typewriter. The room offered no fancy city views. What kind of suite might his full-time secretary have had? It was petty, I knew, but I cursed her. And I continued to curse her as I realized there was no coffee. If I had to slake my thirst, my only option was to cup my hands under the bathroom faucet. Shame on me; at least I had running water. Appalachian temps probably didn’t even get that.

Eventually Netanyahu appeared, carrying a stack of paper and a handwritten letter: “Type this in triplicate — it’s a rush.” He then hurried off.

Expecting the same letterhead as yesterday, I was shocked to see that it bore the name “Shimon Peres, Prime Minister.” I was now temping for the P.M.? If I’d known, maybe I would have done something nicer with my hair. As I prepared to type in triplicate, sandwiching two copies of carbon paper between three sheets of stationery, I considered negotiating an additional perk, such as, say, a goddamn cup of coffee.

A second shock followed: The letter was addressed to President Reagan. While only an obligatory thank-you note, it had to be error-free.

“Dear Mr. Persident” Damn! A typo! As I rolled in a second stack of stationery and carbon paper, I pictured the bigwigs ingesting great gourmet breakfasts, as opposed to me, the sequestered Dickensian temp, pounding out letters to heads of state on equipment reminiscent of the first Gutenberg press.

Typing out “Peres,” I couldn’t help thinking: How did the Jewish prime minister end up with a last name that made him sound so very Spanish? Buenos dias, Señor Peres. ¿Cómo está usted? I giggled, and then looked down. S—t! Another typo!

Suddenly, at Netanyahu’s request, an agent was at the door, checking on my progress. All I could say was, “Tell him I’m having problems with the typewriter; the ribbon keeps slipping.” Great; I was lying to foreign diplomats. Did the Mossad ever imprison duplicitous temps like me?

My nerves were shot; the typos rampant. Throwing away all secretarial pride, I pecked out the words one letter at a time. Success.

It was only after I’d reported to the agent that I noticed the piles of discarded drafts. I couldn’t just leave them! Weren’t they confidential? Worse, I couldn’t admit to being such a piss-poor secretary. After cramming wads into my purse, I turned myself into an object of rare taxidermy, stuffing drafts into my pockets and down my pantyhose. (If it had been a few years later, when women’s padded shoulders ballooned to the size of twin life rafts, I could have hidden veritable reams.) I felt like a frantic Lucille Ball, knowing that angry Desi/Bibi was about to burst in. I imagined his voice straining to stifle his ire: “You! Temp! What do you think you’re doing?!?” Desperate, running out of time and physical space, I ripped out the pads in my padded bra, and voila! Two chasms yawned open, providing a perfect fit for the last sheets of paper.

Netanyahu entered, took the letter without smiling and turned to leave. “That’ll be all for today,” he told me.

I draped my chiffon wrap over me and slowly, softly crinkled down the hall, down the stairs and out into the light of day. I started to breathe a sigh of relief — but the bunched-up paper was too rough. I stopped for fear of hurting myself.

On October 12, 1984, when Peres returned home, his agenda included advising his Cabinet of the newly formed American/Israeli Joint Economic Development Group, established to aid Israel’s rocky economy.

On October 12, 1984, when I returned home, my agenda included a lengthy nap. I curled up on my bed amid all those ruined drafts, and dreamed of the romance that was never, ever meant to, um, Bibi.

http://forward.com/articles/172735/bibi-and-me/?p=all#ixzz2S9P5G0rg

Move Over ‘Girls;’ Time for Cable TV’s Real Women

KimberlyG — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 19:35:36 +0000

There are the marvelously complex heroines of cable TV’s comedy/dramas . . . and then there’s Hannah Horvath.

Other than raindrops, April is showering us with the return of three smart cable comedy/dramas with fascinating female protagonists. HBO’s “Veep” (second season) and Showtime’s “Nurse Jackie” (fifth season) debut on April 14. HBO’s “The Big C” returns for its fourth and final season on April 29.

If only Lena Dunham, the creator/star of HBO’s “Girls,” which recently ended its second season, considered taking lessons from these other cable shows that present far more compelling, well-written and prismatic looks at the modern woman.

Sure, these heroines are a few decades older than the ”Girls.” But age isn’t the big difference.

- In “Veep,” Julia Louis-Dreyfus’s Vice President Selina Meyer takes on the glass ceiling in Washington, D.C.

- In “Nurse Jackie,” Edie Falco’s nurse Jackie Peyton takes on drug addiction while saving lives.

- In “The Big C,” Laura Linney’s teacher/housewife Cathy Jamison takes on terminal cancer.

- And in ”Girls,” Dunham’s college grad Hannah Horvath takes on . . . what? Well, that’s the problem. Horvath sort of wants a boyfriend, sort of wants a writing career and sort of needs a job to survive in Brooklyn, N.Y. She wanders around with her three educated girlfriends who are also chasing their respective tails, all making half-hearted stabs at possible love and self-fulfillment.

Further, “Girls,” an embarrassment in shoddy storytelling and character development. In contrast to the tight plotting of the three above-mentioned shows, ”Girls” specializes in missing links. Critical issues in one episode are often ignored in the following show. Horvath’s desperate need to get rent money in episode #6 of the first season is all but forgotten until episode #9. A stolen dog is consigned to oblivion; lovers split up inexplicably. While other characters state that Horvath is extraordinarily bright, during a scene in which she attempts to work in an office, she can’t figure out how to break down a cardboard box. For God’s sake, keep her away from the stapler …

For the remainder of this article, published at Women’s eNews, please click here

Movie Review: OZ THE GREAT AND POWERFUL

KimberlyG — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 15:08:36 +0000

Release date: March 8, 2013
Directed by: Sam Raimi
Cast: James Franco, Mila Kunis, Rachel Weisz, Michelle Williams, Zach Braff
Rating: PG; Running Time: 130 minutes

In the 1939 L. Frank Baum-based film, a young girl named Dorothy Gale flees from her Kansan environs in order to rescue another. In the 2013 Baum-based film, a young man named Oscar “Oz” Diggs flees from his Kansan environs in order to rescue himself. And that, in a 3D nutshell, makes all the difference.

While Dorothy (Judy Garland) didn’t get very far in her attempted escape to save her beloved Toto in The Wizard of Oz, at least she tried. Goodhearted Dorothy may not be perfect, but she’s loving and funny and courageous, a complex adolescent who wins us over completely.

On the other wand, Oscar a.k.a. Oz (James Franco) of Oz the Great and Powerful is a shallow cad, disappointing even to himself, habitually apologizing for his shortcomings. This self-awareness doesn’t allow him to change … instead, he uses apology as a cautionary device, suggesting that he’s a helpless victim of any and all feckless behavior to come. The filmmakers do this two-bit magician no favors, adding on an extra layer of blithe disregard. (Such as when Oz orders his simian sidekick Finley [Zach Braff, doing double duty as the human assistant turned CGI flying monkey] to haul Oz’ unduly heavy luggage. Not only does Oz disregard the monkey’s fatigue, but when Oz boards a horse-drawn carriage, he never thinks of inviting the beleaguered monkey to share the ride.) Oz looks to be living out his days as a small-town circus performer – but when the strongman discovers that Oz has cuckolded him, Oz flees for his life. Jumping into his hot air balloon, he hitches a ride into the great blue yonder, ultimately splashing down to the Land of Oz.

Due to a prophecy, the citizens assume this stranger — with the word “Oz” inscribed on his balloon – is indeed their savior, sent to deliver them from the clutches of the evil witch. No fool, the elegant, alluringly clever Evanora (Rachel Weisz) tempts Oz with a throne and 5,000 coins of glittering gold if he indeed promises to dispatch the witch. In other words: She plays him like Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon.”

[For the remainder of this review and Kimberly's "enchanted" rating, please click here]

The Wonderful Reinvented World of Disney

KimberlyG — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 16:41:52 +0000

Toto and Dorothy (Judy Garland) in “The Wizard of Oz”

Poor Toto… his fate is still as much up in the air as a bunch of flying monkeys. You’d think that between The Wizard of Oz‘s five directors and twenty screenwriters (credited and not), some bright bulb on the MGM set might have noticed that the movie’s inciting incident, the plot point that starts the whole story a-twisting, was never resolved.

In case it’s been awhile since some viewers have seen this 1939 classic – deemed #10 in AFI’s Best American Movies, #1 in Fantasy and #3 in Musicals — here’s the issue: Dorothy runs away from home with her cherished Cairn Terrier Toto in an attempt to flee nasty neighbor Miss Gulch, who, suffering a bite from said canine, is intent on destroying him. But when a threatening cyclone forces Dorothy and Toto to return home, the wind’s kicking up too hard for Dorothy to open the storm cellar door; instead, she and Toto rush inside the farmhouse in the hopes of riding out the storm. Off they fly, house and all, to the Land of Oz. Adventures ensue. At the end of the film, Dorothy and Toto are back home, happily reunited with family and friends. But the terrible Miss Gulch isn’t mentioned … leaving us to wonder when the neighbor will once again be knocking at the door, ready to rid the world of Toto for once and for all.

(Note: Miss Gulch is not a character in L. Frank Baum’s original 1900 children’s tale. Instead, Dorothy is waylaid when she tries to coax a frightened Toto to come out from under the bed, and ends up inside the house when the storm hits.)

While Walt Disney had planned to snap up the rights to Baum’s book as a follow-up to the success of 1937′s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, MGM’s Samuel Goldwyn beat him to the punch. And though the beloved MGM film is firmly Technicolored into our collective minds’ eye, if the project had landed at Disney, purveyor of happy endings above all, the Toto/Miss Gulch problem would have melted away quicker than a water-soaked witch. After all, look what the sanitized wand of Disney has eradicated and re-fabricated over the decades:

- Sleeping Beauty. Centuries before Princess Aurora dealt with a prick to her finger, she had to contend with a wholly different kind of prick … in the guise of a rapist prince. Written by Italian poet Giambattista Basile in 1634, his seminal Sleeping Beauty tale of “Sun, Moon and Talia” recounts the story of a beautiful maiden named Talia who falls into a coma due to a virulent piece of flax. Overwhelmed by Talia’s beauty, the prince violates her while she sleeps. Since condoms probably weren’t the rage in the seventeenth century, Talia, still dead to the world, gives birth to twins. (Begging the question: Who pushed them out?) The spell lifts when one of the bastard kids, searching for a nipple, sucks on Talia’s finger instead, inadvertently removing the poisonous flax splinter. Finally awake, Talia and her children travel to visit the prince, now king, who’s married to an evil queen. The queen attempts to cook and eat the children, and throw Talia into the fire. But good news, the queen dies instead.

- Cinderella. In the original 1812 tale by the Brothers Grimm, Cinderella suffers humiliating abuse at the hands of her family. The gruesome comes into play when the wicked stepsisters attempt to fit their feet into the glass slipper; one sister cuts off her heel while the other cuts off her big toe. When the now-bloodied slipper fits Cinderella’s foot perfectly, all is well. Except that the lame stepsisters get their eyes plucked out by pigeons and must live out their days as blind beggars.

Ariel, “The Little Mermaid”

- The Little Mermaid. Hans Christian Anderson’s 1837 story is perhaps the most disturbing of all. Here, the mermaid rejects her oceanic life for a landlubber prince who she hopes to marry. A sea witch gives the mermaid a potion that replaces her tail with human legs. While they look perfectly normal, they make her feel as if she’s walking on knives. Additionally, the sea witch cuts out the mermaid’s tongue. If, now mute, she can’t win over the prince, her eternal soul will be lost to the ages. The prince does indeed marry another, and the Little Mermaid ultimately throws herself into the sea, where her body dissolves into the sea foam.

Gee. Given Disney’s reinvention of the above, how would the studio have handled the ending to Sophie’s Choice?

This time around, it’s not just a happy ending that’s required. With Oz the Great and Powerful releasing on March 8, Disney isn’t simply tasked with scrub-a-dubbing some centuries’-old children’s story clean of gruesome mythology, blanding it down for the PG crowd. This week, Disney is going where no lion, tiger or bear dare: to the hallowed yellow brick road. Can the studio truly succeed in taking on new adventures in Munchkinland? While the movie steers clear of a remake, the story will still hearken back to deeply ingrained memories of Dorothy and her friends. And her little dog, too.

Frankly, Frank (Baum), the venture seems as scary as some of those aforementioned fairy tales. The Toto problem notwithstanding, it’s going to take some huge crystal balls to revisit the land of Oz.

Maybe the Lion has a little extra courage to spare.

[For other articles by Kimberly Gadette, check out her doddle review page]

Filmdom 2012: Best and Worst

KimberlyG — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 16:50:36 +0000

(l to r) Jeremy Renner, Chris Evans, Scarlett Johansson

Unlike so many of 2012′s films that took a slow, tortured walk to get to some dramatic kernel (e.g., Cosmopolis, The Magic of Belle Isle and People Like Us), let’s jump right into the fray:

The Best: The U.S. box office, reporting $10.84 billion, versus the last record-breaking year of 2009, with $10.59 billion. (Additionally, the 2012 grosses scored a 6.6% bump over 2011′s $10.17 billion). It certainly didn’t hurt that increased ticket prices for 3D and IMAX upped the overall figures.

The Worst: Hollywood’s treatment of December audiences. Coming upon a midnight, um, drear, the studios gifted us with an cinematic sleigh of buzzkill overload. Such as Amour, in which Grandma and Grandpa slip toward inevitable death; Django Unchained, with Quentin Tarantino delighting in more blood and mayhem than ever before; The Impossible, a true story reflecting one family’s survival in the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami that took 230,000 lives; Les Misérables, where the Wretched Poor are indeed just that, furthered by our own misery at having to listen to the ungodly warbling of Russell Crowe; and Zero Dark Thirty, opening with the voices of the actual victims of 9/11 crying out in the dark. As a counter-programming measure, we got feeble offerings via the Seth Rogen/Barbra Streisand vehicle, The Guilt Trip, and Billy Crystal attempting to yuk it up with his grandkids in Parental Guidance. It’s hard to say which was more difficult to watch.

Further Bests & Worsts, both silly and not:

Best Odd Couple:
Jonah Hill & Channing Tatum, 21 Jump Street
Additional nod to: Richard Jenkins & Bradley Whitford, The Cabin in the Woods

Worst Odd Couple:
Andy Samberg & Adam Sandler, That’s My Boy

Best & Worst John Cusack:
Best: The Paperboy
Worst: The Raven

Best & Worst Zac Efron:
Best: The Paperboy, Liberal Arts
Worst: The Lucky One

Best Promising Child Star:
Quvenzhané Wallis, Beasts of the Southern Wild

Worst Promising Child Star, All Growed Up:
From 2002′s Panic Room, Kristen Stewart (Twilight Saga, Snow White and the Huntsman, On the Road)

Best All-Around Body of Work:
Matthew McConaughey (Bernie, Killer Joe, Magic Mike, Mud [debuted in 2012 Cannes], The Paperboy)

Best Performance in a Film Other Than the One That’s Getting Award Buzz:
- Robert De Niro, Being Flynn
- Keira Knightley, Seeking a Friend for the End of the World
- Jennifer Lawrence, The Hunger Games

Best (and, at this date) Overlooked Supporting Performance, Male:
- John Cusack, The Paperboy
- Jude Law, Anna Karenina
- William H. Macy, The Sessions
- Ezra Miller, Perks of Being a Wallflower
- Bill Nighy, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
- Sam Rockwell, Seven Psychopaths
- Christopher Walken, Seven Psychopaths

Best (and, at this date) Overlooked Supporting Performance, Female:
- Emily Blunt, Looper
- Ann Dowd, Compliance
- Nicole Kidman, The Paperboy
- Aubrey Plaza, Safety Not Guaranteed
- Alicia Vikander, Anna Karenina/A Royal Affair
- Kristen Wiig, Friends with Kids

Best Performance by an Actor Leaping Out of his Comfort Zone:
Jack Black, Bernie

Worst Performance by an Actor Leaping Out of his Comfort Zone:
Tyler Perry, Alex Cross (aka the Worst Cross-Dressing Crossover Award)

Best Opening Murder:
Seven Psychopaths

Best (or is that Worst?) Bloat:
Les Misérables, in which our senses are bludgeoned without end for 168 minutes. And while we’re on the subject, why is it that every time Jean Valjean leaves town for good, he always turns up just a few blocks away?

Best Big Beautiful Cat Since MGM’s Leo the Lion:
Richard Parker, Life of Pi

Best Stiff Upper Lip:
To Toby Jones, who not only depicted the stiff upper lip physically, but emotionally as well, playing a #2 Hitchcock in HBO’s The Girl to the more heralded Anthony Hopkins in the big screen Hitchcock. Given that this is Jones’ second go-round as #2 (his Truman in 2006′s Infamous versus Philip Seymour Hoffman’s award-winning turn in 2005′s Capote), one wonders just how well that stiff upper lip is holding up.

Best & Worst Sequel:
Best: Skyfall (with an additional nod to Men in Black 3)
Worst: Taken 2, tied with Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance

Best Exciting New Filmmakers:
- Derek Connolly (writer) and Colin Trevorrow (director), Safety Not Guaranteed
- Drew Goddard (director, co-writer), The Cabin in the Woods
- Benh Zeitlin (writer/director), Beasts of the Southern Wild

Best Actor (tie):
- John Hawkes, The Sessions
- Denzel Washington, Flight

Best Actress:
- Marion Cotillard, Rust and Bone

10 of the Worst Films of 2012 (in alphabetical order). Critic’s note: I sidestepped the thoroughly vilified A Thousand Words, One for the Money and Battleship. And yet, there was still plenty of bad to still go around:
- Alex Cross
- Gone
- Lay the Favorite
- The Lucky One
- The Magic of Belle Isle
- Peace, Love and Misunderstanding
- Project X
- Red Hook Summer
- That’s My Boy
- The Vow

And finally, 10 of the Best Films of 2012 (in alphabetical order):
- The Avengers
- Beasts of the Southern Wild
- The Cabin in the Woods
- Frankenweenie
- The Hunger Games
- Looper
- Rust and Bone
- Seeking a Friend for the End of the World
- The Sessions
- Zero Dark Thirty

Here’s to a New Year brimming with films that will inspire us all!

Hollywood’s Most Miserable Time of the Year

KimberlyG — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 19:17:02 +0000

Anne Hathaway as Fantine, one of the Wretched Poor in “Les Miserables”

After the opening paragraph, following is a link to my holiday 2012 article published in Salon.com on Dec. 26, 2012:

Ever since George Bailey attempted suicide on Christmas Eve in 1946’s “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Hollywood’s been blurring our visions of sugar plums with amorphous specters of death and doom. Gifts may necessitate gift taxes; brown paper packages tied up with string may contain sodden lumps of coal. And in the duel between naughty and nice, an assessment of “naughty” may result in less of a mild finger wag than an apocalyptic bloodbath.

To read the full article in Salon.com, please click here

Movie Review: ON THE ROAD

KimberlyG — Fri, 21 Dec 2012 17:33:46 +0000

Release date: December 21, 2012
Directed by: Walter Salles
Screenplay by: José Rivera
Adapted from the novel “On the Road” by: Jack Kerouac
Cast: Garrett Hedlund, Sam Riley, Kristen Stewart, Amy Adams, Tom Sturridge,
Elisabeth Moss, Alice Braga, Kirsten Dunst, Viggo Mortensen
Rating: R; Running Time: 124 minutes

Derogatory dismissals of prosaic visual experiences have been around since, well, someone was bored to tears. We’ve heard such poetic hyperbole as watching paint dry. Or grass grow. In Walter Salles’ On the Road, we can now add to that lexicon by suggesting that this film is as riveting as watching a writer write. This isn’t metaphorical; we are forced to watch the Kerouac character, the budding bebop voice of his generation, scribble his thoughts on notepads as he wends his way through the Great American landscape, from the start of his road trip in 1948 to December, 1951. Not just one road trip but many; not just one destination but rather a veritable map of routes traversing and double-backing as far south as Mexico, as far north as Quebec, covering all parts in between. Is this a drama or an examination of mid-20th century U.S. highways?

Salles’ attempt to turn Jack Kerouac’s seminal, rangy novel “On the Road” — reflecting the late ’40s through mid-’50s mindset of the Beat Generation — may be earnest but, ironically, proves why a successful book-to-film adaptation has faltered for over five decades. Kerouac’s lyrical reflections are as firmly anchored to the page as the type font itself.

It seems that filmmakers Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman had faced a similar challenge with 2010′s Howl, the creatively daring interpretation of the life and works of Beat artist Allen Ginsberg (played by James Franco). Rather than holding to a strict adherence, they solved the problem of bringing the epic poem to screen by presenting three disparate elements melded into one filmic fugue: biopic, animation and faux documentary. Not that this may have been the answer with On the Road, but it sure beats a travelogue … or, rather, a travel bog.

Speaking of the travelogue, credit must be paid to Eric Gautier’s exquisite cinematography, presenting a priceless snapshot of an America long gone. Additionally, Gustavo Santaolalla’s jazzy, period-flavored soundtrack smartly meanders through, contributing far more texture than the script itself.

Sam Riley, background; Kristen Stewart and Garrett Hedland, foreground

Director Salles and screenwriter José Rivera use the death of Kerouac’s father to set the film in motion. Shortly following the funeral, Jack Kerouac a/k/a Sal Paradise (Sam Riley) is introduced to Neal Cassady a/k/a Dean Moriarty (Garrett Hedlund) … and before you can say “Tank up the Hudson,” Sam, Dean and Dean’s 16-year-old wife LuAnne Henderson a/k/a Marylou (Kristen Stewart) are criss-crossing the country. Part personal odyssey, part joy ride, part rationale to avoid maturity or, in Dean’s case, his on and off commitments to his many partners, the film never quite digs deep enough into these characters to allow us to care about what they do or where they go. Because if all you do is aimlessly wander around the country, then that popular saying, “It’s not the destination but the journey” rings as hollow as this movie’s core.

Hedlund (Tron: Legacy, Country Song) as the dashing, irresponsible ladies’ man Dean certainly looks like he’s full of angst. If only he’d been given a revelatory scene or two. Riley’s Sal does his best as the faithful narrator who, as the representative chronicler, dutifully scribbles – but leaves us figuratively pressing our noses at the cinematic window, wondering just what he’s writing. (An additional cynical thought springs to mind … perhaps all this obfuscation is nothing more than a multi-income stream campaign cooked up by the studio, i.e., You don’t remember “On the Road”? Want to know more about what Jack/Sal wrote? Hey, we’ve got the novelization tie-in right here.) However, playing the manically funny Ginsberg who suffers unrequited love for Dean, Tom Sturridge is a stand-out. It’s a relief to see a character writ large, overflowing with emotion and commitment. When he disappears for numerous scenes at a time, his absence is noticeable. As for Kristen Stewart, the hope that this actress is now mature enough to branch out and immerse herself in a character other than Twilight‘s Bella is quickly, disappointingly dispelled. While the other actors appear strong, albeit in need of some sound writing, Stewart simply registers as weak.

Appearing all too briefly, Viggo Mortenson as William S. Burroughs (a/k/a Old Bull Lee) and Amy Adams as his batty partner Joan Vollmer (a/k/a Jane) offer up a much needed spark. More of their idiosyncratic insanity — and less rubber hitting the road — would have provided far more relief than a half-dozen gas station rest stops.

What will all the comings and goings that make up the predominant portion of the story, it’s not 1951 but, rather, 1967 that comes to mind, with the Beatles crooning, “You say goodbye, and I say hello.” While that song lasts mere minutes, this road picture rolls on … and on … and on.
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Rating on a scale of 5 roadblocks: 2

Movie Review: ZERO DARK THIRTY

KimberlyG — Wed, 19 Dec 2012 05:57:57 +0000

Jessica Chastain as Maya in “Zero Dark Thirty”

Release date: December 19, 2012 (ltd.); wide release January 11, 2013
Directed by: Kathryn Bigelow
Written by: Mark Boal
Cast: Jessica Chastain, Jason Clarke, Joel Edgerton, Jennifer Ehle, Mark Strong, Kyle Chandler, Edgar Ramirez, James Gandolfini, Mark Duplass
Rating: R; Running Time: 157 minutes

Consider Kathryn Bigelow’s epic Zero Dark Thirty as simultaneously cut-to-the-bone lean and monumentally vast. Not quite fiction, not quite documentary, the term “docudrama” is apt. But don’t expect a fast-paced historic reenactment akin to All the President’s Men. Instead, Zero Dark Thirty carefully picks through the factual and fictional rubble and rock of ten years, ultimately shrinking and compressing the many elements into a singular arrowhead, pointing to one courier, one location, one Osama Bin Laden.

It’s not just the impressive efforts onscreen. Echoing the film’s depiction of years enmeshed in chasing down vague information, Bigelow and screenwriter Mark Boal (the Oscar-winning team from The Hurt Locker) worked for two years on an earlier version – informally called “the Tora Bora movie” – which entailed the fruitless hunt for the al-Qaeda leader. But once President Obama announced Bin Laden’s death on May 1, 2011, the filmmakers scrapped all but the first two minutes of the film and started again. Now that’s some commitment.

That said, those opening two minutes are riveting. We stare at a black screen while an audio mosaic of desperate voices washes over us. It’s the voices of 9/11: victims, responders and families synchronously crying out. And we are viscerally, dramatically reminded why the hunt for this particular kingpin, “the North Star of global terrorism,” was America’s top priority.

But as with most pressing news items, one day follows the next, priorities shift, administrations come and go, and the once-impassioned need to capture Bin Laden wanes. We see the numbers of intelligence agents diminish over the years, with only a handful of operatives still trying to make sense of this enormous nihilistic jigsaw, without backing, or resources, or any substantial leads. Introduced during the first scene, we meet Jessica Chastain’s Maya, the CIA operations analyst who carries the film’s narrative thread from 2001 to 2011. Based on a true-life female operative, Maya is the proverbial cheese who stands alone, refusing to tear herself away from the mission. When civilians and colleagues become victims to ensuing deadly mayhem, her obsession intensifies as she states, “I believe I was spared so I could finish the job.”

While Chastain is immediately, physically recognizable, she delivers an entirely different performance from those we’ve viewed over the past two years. Neither a warm mother figure (The Tree of Life, Take Shelter), nor decorative eye candy (The Help, Lawless), her straight-backed Maya never veers from her objective. Sans any history, or lovers or parental figures, we only know this CIA operations analyst through her actions. She can dispassionately watch as prisoners are tortured (registering a barely-perceptible flinch) and, when questioned by CIA Director Leon Panetta (ably played by James Gandolfini), she minces no words about her discovery of the Abbottabad compound, blurting out, “I’m the mother fucker that found this place.” It is a lean performance, devoid of all sentimentality.

However, while others mention her reputation as “a killer,” we’re left without any knowledge of what she’d done to earn that moniker. Or what incidents might have contributed in creating her fierce obsession. In the last act, Maya takes a red pen and scrawls a daily count on her boss’s window, reflecting the growing tally of days in which he hasn’t acted. This is the most physical action we get from her, and it’s a welcome addition.

Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal, on the set of Zero Dark Thirty

The look and sound of the film is just as exacting as the other elements of Zero Dark Thirty. As contrasted with a vibrant outdoor Pakistani scene, the CIA’s inner-office lighting is painfully bleak and ugly. The soundtrack is barebones; in this film, no puppet master is manipulating us, telling us what to feel or what to think. Even the few scenes of waterboarding are devoid of bias. Torture methodologies are what they are … sometimes these actions produce viable results and, just as often, they do not. Bigelow and Boal are rare filmmakers, in that they don’t underestimate the intelligence of their audience. We are allowed to make up our own minds.

Small performances stand out, economic yet moving. Other than Gandolfini, we get smart support from Mark Strong, Joel Edgerton and Jennifer Ehle. Jason Clarke as an interrogator who knows when it’s time to retreat back to the staid, yet far more sane world that one views from behind a desk, is particularly effective.

There may be some grousing that, at 157 minutes, the movie runs too long. But Zero Dark Thirty had set out to deliver an overarching decade-long sweep … and it does just that. Additionally, it’s a credit to the filmmakers that though we know the ending, the last act holds us in a mad grip of suspense.

The fact Bigelow and Boal could create such a stupendous second effort after their prior The Hurt Locker is no small feat. Leading us to consider what, exactly, is more unbelievable: Finding Bin Laden in an unassuming northern Pakistani suburb? Or watching Kathryn Bigelow – the only woman to ever win the Oscar for Best Director – take home the top prize once again?

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Rating on a scale of 5 military terms for 30 minutes after midnight: 4.5

Movie Review: AMOUR

KimberlyG — Wed, 19 Dec 2012 04:33:12 +0000

(l to r) Jean-Louis Trintignant, Emmanuelle Riva in “Amour”

Release date: December 19, 2012 (ltd.)
Written and Directed by: Michael Haneke
Cast: Jean-Louis Trintignant, Emmanuelle Riva, Isabelle Huppert, Alexandre Tharaud
Rating: PG-13; Running Time: 127 minutes

A couple holds each other tight, shuffling and swaying together as they effect an inelegant dance. Though the scene merely depicts an old man helping his elderly wife walk the few steps over to her wheelchair, their halting pas de deux carries with it a bittersweet irony of days gone by … when perhaps an avid young suitor first took his ladylove into his arms and whirled her around the dance floor. [Editorial note: On Sunday, May 27, at the 65th Festival de Cannes Awards, Amour was awarded the top prize of the Palme d'Or ("Golden Palm").]

When we first meet octogenarians Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignant) and Anne (Emmanuelle Riva), they are a vibrant, decades-long married couple, intellectuals and retired music professors. They’ve just returned home from a concert in which their prior student was the featured soloist. But the front door to their lovely Parisian apartment is scratched up, as if some burglar had attempted to break-in. Georges isn’t concerned; he’ll call the handyman in the morning. But instead of going to sleep, Anne sits straight up in bed, wide awake, preternaturally frightened.

And so she should be. But the intruder she fears isn’t be some thug who might do her harm; it seems that mortality itself has come knocking at her door. The next morning, when Anne joins her husband at the table after preparing his breakfast as usual, he notices that the salt shaker needs refilling. Normally Anne — embracing the traditional role of the wife as caretaker — would immediately pop up and handle it. Instead, she stares off into space, immobile. After repeatedly trying to get her to respond, Georges slowly ambulates down the hall to the bedroom in order to get dressed and find help. His odd glacial pace signals his denial to the unexpected situation.

Once Anne snaps back to a conscious state, her denial is even more intense than Georges’ … and it becomes incumbent upon Georges to insist that she see doctors, followed by multiple tests and operations. One stroke follows another, and in a relatively short time span, both husband and wife are forced to come to terms with the fact that Anne’s inevitable descent toward the grave has begun.

With the deliberate, sometimes glacial pace that Austrian filmmaker Michael Haneke is known for, this time around he gives us an unflinching depiction of the daily toll that old-age degeneration exacts upon its victims. (The last film that Haneke entered in competition at Cannes was 2009′s The White Ribbon, which won the top prize of the Palme d’Or.) Furthering his reputation for refusing to explain his films, Haneke stated at this year’s Cannes press conference regarding Amour: “When you reach a certain age, you are inevitably going to be affected by suffering. I don’t want to show anything more than that, there is no more to it.”

Isabelle Huppert, Jean-Louis Trintignant in “Amour”

But there’s plenty more to it. Though it’s rough going, Amour should be required viewing for anyone who has a close relation or friend either in faltering health or nearing a decided old age. In particular, we get a clearer understanding of the often insular attitude of our mature loved ones, who sometimes act strangely exclusionary as we demand answers, often questioning their decisions regarding a spouse’s healthcare. Representing our angry reaction to having the door shut in our face, literally, Isabelle Huppert as the middle-age careerist daughter Eva is pitch perfect. She’s been so involved in her own concerns for so long, she has no idea how to talk to her parents about anything other than herself. And as Anne’s degeneration continues, Eva assesses her parents’ choices through her own narrow vision, unable to grasp the truth of the situation at hand. When she begs her father to talk openly, he finally does … sternly and realistically, laying it all out before her. Suggesting that if Eva objects, perhaps Eva would like to take care of her mother herself.

Beautifully and bravely acted by long-time French movie stars Jean-Louis Trintignant (awarded Cannes’ Best Actor in 1969′s Z, and the “Man” in 1966′s A Man and a Woman) and Emmanuelle Riva (Elle in 1955′s Hiroshima Mon Amour), now ages 82 and 85, respectively, there is a sober meta thread running throughout. Moving images are perhaps the greatest record-keeper of all, far more accurate than stills. They can unerringly reveal the actor’s growth — both in talent (hopefully), and in age (plastic surgery aside, undeniably). If old age can happen to those beautiful people up on the screen, then unforeseen events notwithstanding, it will most definitely happen to us.

As we watch, we wish we could hurry the piece along, hoping to get this old-age horror show over and done with. We care about these characters, yes, but we also squirm with discomfort. And that may be the exact point that Haneke intended.
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Rating on a scale of 5 reluctant visits to the old-age home: 4