Big Momma's House 2
Madea's Family Reunion
Little Man
Plot of The Da Vinci Code
Suspension of disbelief, summer 2006:
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| This is an old woman Big Momma's House 2 |
This is an old woman Madea's Family Reunion |
This is a baby Little Man |
This man fathered a child Plot of The Da Vinci Code |
When I look at these statements, the fourth is by far the most believable.
There is something seriously wrong with African-American film (for now, I'm going to define this as "films aimed at African-American" audiences) today. I hate to bring attention to the elephant in the room, but this particular elephant stomped into the room, donned a ridiculous wig and a size 38 dress and then proceeded to dole out unimpressive life lessons in between vacuuming and playing bingo.
Not subtle enough? Sorry. Perhaps you'd prefer the subtlety of Little Man, a film in which the otherwise normal parents (and their otherwise normal friends, family, neighbors and community) can't seem to figure out their adopted "baby" is badly in need of some Grecian formula and a shave.
This summer gave us three particularly lucrative films featuring primarily African American casts. See if you can guess at a theme: In Big Momma's House 2, Martin Lawrence goes undercover, again, disguised as an old black woman. In Madea's Family Reunion, Tyler Perry pulls her extended family together disguised, again, as an old black woman. In Little Man, one of the Wayans brothers playing a jewel thief goes underground, disguised — again — but this time as a baby.
It's ok for the audience to know more than the players — but it shouldn't be all the players and it shouldn't last the whole movie; it shows genuine contempt for the audience.
"Say, isn't that Martin Lawrence in drag?"
"Why, yes. Yes it is."
"Isn't that funny?"
"I suppose it could be if he hadn't been wearing a dress for two full movies now… or if he had the slightest idea how women talk or behave. Right now, even he looks bored doing this schtick."
What kind of puerile escapism is going on here? The tragedy is two-fold:
And then, the sermon comes. What, you're gonna preach to me in between fart jokes? Oh, goody: the wit and wisdom of the African-American cinematic community has been reduced to some self-important jackass in a muumuu.
By the time a legitimately good unique film featuring black actors finally comes along, like say The Pursuit of Happyness, the result screams "look at how hard it is for us just to be Middle Class! At that rate, we may as well pursue vain dreams or die young."
In recent times, fundamentalist movie fans have raved about box office hits such as The Passion of the Christ and The Chronicles of Narnia stating people want to go to the movies for Christian values. Meanwhile, George Clooney among others has lectured us on how progressive Hollywood is and forever will be. I find neither of these statements holds water. If they did, Hollywood would more strongly promote and many more movie goers would have paid attention to films like The Nativity Story and An Inconvenient Truth.
Hollywood is all about the dollar, thus making it the opposite of progressive. The organism is constantly letting us know what we wanted to see, not what we will want to see. Nobody invests in a philosophy. People donate to such. People invest in movies. As a result, for every million dollar backer for Truth, you'll find dozens, if not hundreds of backers for risk-free films like Cars or Talladega Nights. Do these investors give a crap that NASCAR is probably as wasteful as human existence gets (and thus sends the opposite message of Truth)? Of course not; they just want to see a profit.
And so we're left with this set of facts: IMDb voters rated dozens and dozens of films as bombs in 2006. Of these dozens, only five (5) movies rated below a 4.0 — standard for awful — and grossed over $50 Million. Now keep in mind when I write this that it is impossible for a major release to score below a 1.5 and the current bottom 100 cutoff is at 2.6. These five are:
The number of 2006 high grossing black films is fewer than ten. It's not unreasonable to assume a large number of African-American film goers saw only one or more of the movies on this list. You got burned. Seriously burned.
Do you know what Hollywood is saying? Things like "people who see these movies have no taste"… "are easily amused"… "are easily duped"… "are suckers"… do you see any incentive for Hollywood to invest any thought into a project involving black actors, actresses, writers or directors? Hell no. I see The Man saying: "If it's gonna make a profit, let's put every black actor in a dress and wig. There aren't any standards here."
Don't think this problem goes away just by pretending Dreamgirls was a great film.
There's a line in Madea's Family Reunion in which a young suitor asks the unmarried woman of her two children, "and their fathers?" That's right — that guy knew nothing about the woman's children and still assumed they had separate, living fathers (which they did). I don't object to the question. I don't even object to the set-up. In a "white" movie, like The Holiday, the partner not with us — the lone partner not with us — is dead. Circumstances are different in different communities, of course. No, I don't object to the question. I object to the woman who won't object to the question. The fact that our heroine did not means that not a single person involved in the filmmaking process ever considered if this single mother should take offense at that moment. Ladies and gentlemen — that's as bad as writing and directing gets. If we ALL don't object to this screenplay, strongly, and with our wallets, everybody suffers — and this is exactly what we suffer.
It's got to stop. Now. And it will take all of us to do so. In the mean time, get used to more awful black "comedies".
Cut-out amusement park pelican sez "you must be worse than me to really suck". The cutoff between bad and horrible is…
Oh, you must be so proud.
I call it the Houston/Preacher factor. In 1996, The Preacher's Wife, a fairly weak Denzel Washington Christmas remake about an angel sent to cuckold a devout man, annoyed patrons for several days. But that's not important right now. Somewhere in making this film, its producers remembered that lead actress Whitney Houston could sing, and since she certainly can't act maybe we should find a way to have her sing something — and the standard for contrivance was born. Here's how the plot moved to get our Diva going: A school has a Christmas Nativity play. The play is not at the school but at a local church. The play is run not by the school but by the preacher of the church. The preacher is too busy for the minutiae involved; hence, his wife takes over. This Nativity play is not silent. This Nativity play has singing. This Nativity play has original Christmas music (because there's a real shortage). The lead female ducks out last minute ("shyness"). There is no understudy. Because the music is original, nobody else knows it. "The show must go on" prevails ahead of "screw it, just run the play without the musical number". And thus, Whitney, playing the part of a child, sings for us. Yaaaaay.
No single step of all that seemed overly outrageous and yet the chance of recreating that in real life is less than one in one million.
Big Momma 2 gave us this year's Houston/Preacher winner, with an HP factor of 74. Martin Lawrence, in drag, playing the hired help to a well-off white family, is invited to a spa for rich white people. He accepts (?!). He is invited to undress to enjoy some of the spa's facilities. He accepts (?!). The locker room is not filled with rich old white women (or relatively empty as many locker rooms are), but instead has young supermodels of different races. One particularly attractive girl, clad only in underwear, asks Big Momma, a stranger, to unhook her frontward latched bra because her nails are wet.
Please, please offer Martin a recliner and a beverage; he's come so, so far for that bit of awkwardness.
Before I start on the rest — I'm sure these films were bad, but they ducked out of the theater before I could pan them: An American Haunting, Larry the Cable Guy: Health Inspector, Material Girls, PHAT Girls.
There just isn't anything inherently funny about jail. So the more you show, the less funny it's gonna be… and this one didn't exactly start out in the Airplane! range.
Among the Top 10 questions when I get to the afterlife is "Why did we go nuts for American Idol?" Do we have so great a need for celebrity that we'll create it from nothing? Are the delusional of this world not indulged enough? Are we as a nation lacking for divas, crack addicts and single-parent children?
Should a quality 73 seconds of Madonna's "Lucky Star" merit national adulation?
There is so much to hate about Idol — Ryan Seacrest's cloying douchebaggery, Simon Cowell's tact, Randy Jackson's need to play ethnic, Paula Abdul's good cop, the aggravating editing, the cheap plugs, the incessant prepackaging of "reality", and the fans and idols themselves who propagate this weird idea that imitating Mariah Carey is somehow worth more than being Mariah Carey. Figure that one out. And when you do, pick a target — they're all good… Writer/Director Paul Weitz doesn't even seem to be on the firing range. Shame. Shame. Shame.
Questionable executive decisions, Part I:
Hollywood Boss: It's time for a cool, hip teen film.
Junior Executive: I've got just the thing. Kids descended from magical families all have abilities… but the evil kid is the strongest of all and he doesn't want to share his power.
HB: Oh, like an American Harry Potter.
JE: No, no. Darker, less fun, older kids. These guys fight to the death, sort of.
HB: Ah, The Craft meets Highlander. Do these kids go to school?
JE: Yes, almost. Well, they're all in school together.
HB: So what do these kids do? Fix the student election? Cheat on classes? Pants the Dean? Pull a Carrie?
JE: Oh, no. We've removed almost all suggestions of any actual schooling. Mostly they sit around and talk about power.
HB: I see. What are their cool powers? What can we show?
JE: Well, we have this car crash stunt in which we reassemble the crashed car in mid-air before it returns to the ground.
HB: That sound pretty good. What else?
JE: Our bread-and-butter is this semi-visible energy ball the kids hurl at each other during battle. That's pretty much their weapon of choice.
HB: And how many 'energy balls' does the script call for? 5? 6? 7?
JE: One-hundred and fifty three.
HB: Green light.
We had this movie last year, too. Lessee… Julianne Moore loses a child…blames it on something out of her control…a lot of window dressing…thriller turns out to be a 10 on the anti-climatic scale. The Forgotten sucked, too.
Evaluating this movie is like watching an epileptic in a dance contest. Anything positive yields a "did you mean to do that?" while the rest is just painful to watch.
I don't think this movie understands the basic premise of "parody". Date Movie spoofs many films, all poorly, but banks on a few for plot and character: My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Meet the Parents/Fockers, and Hitch. See the problem yet? Those films were comedies. They had dramatic moments, but they have already been milked for comic effect. You can't parody that which is already comic. Or you can, but it's lame, really lame.
Past that tiny, little conception problem, the writing is just bad. Example: a dream sequence parody of Napoleon Dynamite (another comedy); nothing is added to the Napoleon character; it's just a guy playing him and doing his mannerisms. Funny? How about when our Napoleon rejects our lead, Julia (Alyson Hannigan)? Funny yet? How about his "Don't vote for Pedro" t-shirt? Funny? I'd love to be at that meeting — "what if his shirt says 'Don't vote for Pedro'?" "Oh yeah, that's brilliant!" "Yeah let's go with that!" I'll stop there — but the movie goes on for 80 more minutes.
"Gee, I really wish we could go back to the 'Eating of raw tapir testicles' scene" is among many thoughts that otherwise might never have crossed my mind without Mad Mel. Thanks.
Ok, let's start with this 2006 disaster. It's well known that Mel Gibson's grasp on history is as solid as sun-baked butter, so I'll forego that complaint. To put it bluntly, the first 90 minutes of Apocalypto is as unpleasant as films get. Without Gibson's previous effort, The Passion of the Christ, there would be little reference point for a precedent. Luckily, I suppose, now there is. From tapir slaughter to the football-field-sized pit of fly-infested headless corpses, Apocalypto's loving glance into 16th Century Mayan culture is equally as fun as and longer than your average dental procedure. Well, I certainly can't say Gibson didn't take us on a journey. Where else are you gonna see serious blood-letting organ-ripping ceremonial sacrifices atop giant pyramids followed by a good game of full-contact javelin dodging?
Just like Passion was filmed in Aramaic, Apocalypto is filmed in Yucatec Maya, another language (almost) nobody speaks anymore. And just like Passion was short on Aramaic and long on ugly cruel, so is Apocalypto. It's taken me four film hours to figure out why Gibson does this, and it finally hit me — it's easy. This is cheap writing and an easy victory. Writer's block? Just add "enforcer whips, clubs, or maces hero. He gets a malevolent grin; hero winces." You don't have to translate into Mayan; you don't have to guess at emotional response or redefine your character. And the audience sympathizes with your hero, because nobody should ever have to endure such pain. It's cheap, cheap, cheap. And it's a half victory at best. We know this, because, unlike Passion, Apocalypto did spend ten minutes introducing us to our players — and the peaceful little village came across as a drunken frat house. 90% of the very small window of character development scenes are devoted to the rush chair, his boy and the extras hazing the one likable character, Mayan Flounder. If we didn't think liquid heat on your Quetzalcoatl was funny in Rise of Taj two doors down, why would we think it's funny here?
For fans of Apocalypto and Blood Diamond, too, for that matter — ruthless violence is not character development. And it's a sad commentary on our way of life that any respected director thinks one can be substituted for the other.
I'll give it this — Apocalypto was much better than The Passion of the Christ.
Pre-Altman death full review available upon request.
Some others really, really worth not seeing: Grandma's Boy; You, Me and Dupree; Doogal; Ultraviolet; Underworld: Evolution.
Questionable executive decisions, Part II:
Hollywood Boss: It's time for another Basic Instinct. I think Sharon Stone is still available.
Junior Executive: (sarcastically) Are you sure? Isn't she, like, 50?
HB: She's 47 and still looks great.
JE: I believe you. But, you know, she can't possibly look better than she did in the original and you're appealing to an audience that's kind-of already seen everything she has to offer… if you know what I mean.
HB: That's the best part. This time, we'll just hint at nudity. Sharon doesn't want it anyway. But she's a pro — she'll be even more seductive without the money shot. We'll even suggest it by putting her cross-legged in a mini-skirt on the poster, but we won't come close to a repeat.
JE: So if I understand this correctly — people will go to Basic Instinct 2 to see Sharon Stone act.
HB: Is there something wrong with that?
In an ideal world, this would be #1. Well, in a truly ideal world, this film doesn't get made. It just doesn't work. Steve Martin reminds me not so much of Inspector Clouseau, but of a strictly amateur Clouseau impressionist — like that relative of the hefty IQ at family reunions who can't understand why SNL sent back his audition tape. No, Uncle Frank. Please, please don't do your "Mr. Rogers". We've had enough.
Still, this movie found an audience. The outpatient five rows in front of me insisted he was seeing the funniest movie ever. Either that or he bursts out laughing at say, stop signs or bike racks, too.
Questionable executive decisions, Part III:
Junior Executive: We just noticed that June 6, 2006 is on the calendar this year. i.e. 666, the 'Number of the Beast' How should take advantage of it?
Hollywood Boss: Let's remake The Omen and release it on that very date. Not much horror in the summer. This could be very refreshing.
JE: Good call. Ok, who should I get to write a new script?
HB: New script?! What are you talking about? Just buy up the 1975 one and use it.
JE: Er, um, that idea doesn't seem so good.
HB: Why not?
JE: Well, the whole point to releasing The Omen on 6/6/6 is to bring a level of reality to the fiction. It says "the son of the devil is alive on Earth, right now, and here's how it happened." If we use the 1975 script, all that says is "the devil doesn't know how to tell time".
HB: You're fired.
The standard 21st century Christmas film pan (Please apply as necessary).
Big exhale. Yes, the Christmas season is upon us, so Hollywood says it's time to be generous to those who pose exactly zero threat to you. Thank goodness there's only ___ holiday film(s) out this year. Tim Allen (in the unlikely event Tim Allen is not in this film, please insert the appropriate actor's name) plays the role of __________ and proves once again that he is the most disposable actor in Hollywood. Talk about going through the motions: __________ shows (pick one — a town in crisis, a family in crisis, a season in crisis), and through a series of "comic" miscalculations involving (pick several among the following: Santa, Jack Frost, The Grinch, elves, neighbors, townsfolk, reindeer, cookies, trees, the abominable snowman, etc.) all seems lost when thank goodness __________ is there to display a Christmas miracle and save the day.
It's not that this is such a bad film so much as there is a sinister underlying message here not that we should be kinder to our fellow man, but that there is something wrong with those who don't celebrate Christmas. I'm not sure that message was intentional, but I am sure I don't need to see this film again in any form.
Hilary Swank, Josh Hartnett, Scarlett Johansson all playing dress-up. "Look, mom. I'm in film noir." But even were this not the worst acted film of the year, it would still probably make the bottom ten. Brian De Palma's grotesque shock-value direction is much more suitable for one just breaking into the biz. "I know, let's have him land head-first from thirty feet onto a metal spike." Why is that necessary?
Mrs. Dursley highlights the only two humorous scenes in the film. Unfortunately, one is the climax and not meant to be funny. Uh oh.
Sources say the book is good. I find that extremely hard to believe.
Questionable executive decisions, Part IV:
Junior Executive: We're thinking it is time to remake The Wicker Man. We can get Nicolas Cage as the policeman.
Hollywood Boss: That creepy Edward Woodward thing? Wait, I can see it. Bringing U.S. Law to freaky religious, single-sex dominated non-Christians. Played correctly, it can be perfect conservative interpretation of Iraq.
JE: Oh, I…
HB: Yeah, there it is. Only Woodward was a decent guy, right? Change that. Make Cage play it more self-righteous.
JE: But…
HB: And make the island people all dicks. I want the audience to root for Cage to kick some weird pagan ass.
JE: But…
HB: And there was a lot of nudity in the first, right? Get rid of that. It won't play to the Bush fans.
JE: OK. How do we change the ending?
HB: Why should we change the ending? It's a classic.
JE: Hmmm. If we make Cage a sanctimonious prick, people will stop rooting for him halfway through the film. If we make the islanders all jerks instead of weird isolationists, we give away the surprise ending far too early. If we take away the nudity, there is absolutely no fun in this film and, finally, if we don't change the ending we make the statement that we're in over our heads in Iraq which won't play to the hawks your film ought to appeal to.
HB: Yeah, so?
JE: Do you want anybody to see this thing at all?
HB: Didn't I fire you?
Part of the problem with American films is over-selling the scene. Every grocery bag has a baguette. Every baseball fan has a pennant. Every chase scene has a fruit cart. Take the picture on the left, for example. When is the last time you saw baby/basket/doorstep? Does this ever happen anymore? And what is on his head? A bib hat? Baby bonnets haven't gone straight upwards in decades. I saw one of those in a baby Huey cartoon once back in the 70s. Haven't seen one since.
Until now.
Of course, this all underscores the bigger problem here — the "baby" doesn't look like a baby, just like the Wayans' White Chicks didn't look like white chicks. If the visuals don't work, there's no real point in going on. And selling us on it makes everybody look bad: "Gosh doctor, how do you suppose the baby got a tattoo?"
Past that point, is it funny when a toddler-sized man shits a diamond the size of a golf ball? If it is, I have some more writing to do.
What is that? Some sort of space snow-globe? There's a big tree inside; and there's Hugh Jackman… bald? And he's eating from the tree and saying something cryptic. Why are we in space? What is this, charades?
I saw a lot of animated crap this year. Too much. It happens when you have a child… or a movie-generating system that believes the popularity of Shrek lies independent of the writing. I thought I'd had enough of self-effacing tow-trucks, motherly arachnids and — God help you if you present me with yet another spiritually bankrupt zoo animal — but ½ hour of The Fountain and I was prepared to scream "you win. You win. Bring on the dancing penguins."
Was this a ploy? Hey, Darren Aronofsky. Yeah I'm talking to you. Did you truly believe that if you made a movie confusing enough, we wouldn't notice that it sucks? Steven Soderbergh tried to do this with Solaris. It didn't take, and neither will this.
The Fountain has the nerve to juggle three bad story lines, each hundreds of years apart. In 1500, Queen Rachel Weisz sends Conquistador Hugh Jackman abroad:
"Hugh, what's going on?"
"Queen, the Inquisition is downstairs. They kinda want your head. What do you say we fight back?"
"No, I have a better idea — go to the new world and look for the tree of life."
"Um, Your Highness, this is worse than the time you decided to make army helmets out of pottery."
Sorry for the paraphrase. In 2000, Veterinarian Hugh does brain surgery on a baboon to prolong cancer victim Rachel Weisz's life, I think. And in 2500, Hugh is an astral being in some bubble-nebula trying to save Rachel back in 2000 who appears to him and his outer-space tree of life through mirages. I think.
I'm not making this up.
If you start watching The Fountain and miss anything, don't worry, you'll see it again. There are only about three sets/scenes in the film and they pretty much run them over and over again in different and not-so-different forms. This movie laps itself a few times. The running gag seems to be this tree of life. Purpose: unclear. And there's the outer space bubble with the tree of life again. Wait, does the tree represent Rachel? Love? Life? Eternity? Hugh "loses" Rachel in all three time periods, so no symbol seems quite apt — but that assumes somebody with a solid idea put this film together. You'll find nothing of the sort here.
Opt for the penguins. Thank me later.
Good ole' RW had an acceptable 2006 conclusion as a mouthy penguin and a stuffed Teddy. But don't fool yourself — this man could have garnered the #1 spot by himself counting his work up to Thanksgiving.
In April, Robin was an absentee father who decides to combine business and pleasure by scrapping the Hawaii vacation in favor of the Rosetta Stone of half-assed parenting: an RV trip. And somewhere in between the fourth feces removal scene and the part in which Bob Munro (Williams) decides to take a 60-foot vehicle up a goat path, we realize he actually has tried to slip in some parenting. Isn't it nice when a decade of neglect can be erased with some rebuttal bullying or a 10-minute game of pool?
In August, Robin joined the list of celebrated modern radio hosts for insomniacs. Contacted by his only fan, Gabriel Noone (Williams) attacks the heartland in search of a mystery kid, The Night Listener. Long story short: we never see the kid; he was probably made up. Lame mystery, huh? Even Toni Collette can't save this one.
In October, Robin was Jon Stewart, a popular political comedy show host. As such, he differs from Stewart only in the areas of political acumen, charisma, humor, insight, and shrewdness. So, naturally, his fans want him to run for president. Then, Man of the Year goes into Bizarro World mode. In the USA I know, angry folks go all the way to the Supreme Court because some West Palm Beach granny can't figure out how to vote. In this film's USA, the populace blindly accepts Tom Dobbs (Williams) as our president-elect despite his 18% post-polling number and no official vote count listed. (Excuse me, but how do you make a counting program that does anything but count? No, skip that… how do you sell a counting program that does anything but count?) Luckily, Laura Linney is there to save the United States from evil; and instead of the sharp attack, or any attack, on US politics, we have a D+ love story.
I don't bitch about the popularity of Ben Stiller — whatever else I feel about Ben, his movies make money; but why do we still make Robin Williams vehicles? When is the last time that man carried a hit?
Some films are so repugnant, they ought to come with a patron debriefing afterwards. OK, not "some", "a few" or at least one in particular: Madea's Family Reunion, innocuous on the surface, but a vile vortex of unpleasantness within.
What do you say about a film that saw fit to display five? six? seven? cases of spousal abuse? And that was the responsible story line.
I gotta set this up so you get the flavor. Writer/actor Tyler Perry struck gold cross-dressing as his comic alter ego in 2005's Diary of a Mad Black Woman. The $50+M domestic gross, ten times its budget, inspired a sequel, this one written, acted and directed by Perry himself. In ridiculous over-the-top costuming Tyler assumes his primary character, Madea, who represents the conscience, the voice, of African-Americans. Undaunted by racism, sexism, ageism, weight or personality issues, Madea remains the matriarch of her family unit, a strong, sage, independent black woman who backs down from no one and advises as such.
Madea's Family Reunion focuses on three relationships: the wedding between fiancée beater and victim, the love life of a two-kids-no-husband woman and the foster motherhood of Madea herself.
Let's fast-forward, shall we? Interior. Evening. TV on. An episode of "Good Times". Check it out — it's the episode in which little Penny's mother disciplines her with a hot iron. Oh, there's a quality comic set-up. Pan out, living room. Madea is ironing. And she's pissed off waiting for her delinquent child to arrive home. What the Hell conclusion is anyone supposed to draw? Here the conscience of the black community (Madea) is being likened to one of the most depraved characters in television history. Damn, Tyler, you wrote this; you acted it out. "Good Times" doesn't exactly hit TBS nightly… you picked this scene for a reason. And the reason is one of the worst ever written.
Don't buy the conscience metaphor? Ok, let's look at it in context. The main story in Madea's Family Reunion is about spousal abuse. Blair Underwood gets top billing; he's the biggest name you got going, and he physically punishes his fiancée throughout the film. What is wife-beating but excessive use of force to control behavior? What is taking a hot iron to a child? Do you not see the parallel in your own damn film?
Thankfully, the Madea scene did not end with an iron. No, Madea dumps out a bag of belts (!?) — who has a bag of belts? — and whips the foster child for lying. You know, the iron leaves a more permanent scar, but the symbolic value, to me, is exactly the same. You are beating a child for bad behavior. And, you're using a weapon because you just can't do the job thoroughly enough with bare hands. Let me repeat that: in a story about lessons and morality, the wizened character representing sagacity and goodness uses a weapon to beat a child.
In under twenty minutes of screen time, in fact, drag Tyler Perry manages to belt a child, bitch-slap two children (separately) and encourages a woman to scald an offender and then skittle-whip him, which she does (because Madea is the voice of reason). So bring the kids, it's fun for everybody.
A partial list of the lessons taught by Madea's Family Reunion:
There isn't a single responsible thought in the pack there. This isn't "white values" v. "black values" thing. This is "follow this preacher and see how poorly your life turns out" thing. Go ahead, I dare you.
Perhaps the most telling Madea moment is in the end credits outtake montage — I may live to be 100 without ever seeing a quality film with an outtake montage. (Toy Story 2 doesn't count.) Tyler, this time dressed as the grandfather figure, asks the hunk suitor (Boris Kodjoe) where he's going on his date. Forgive me if I get this not quite right, but like everybody else who sat through this thing, I'm not going to see it again: "The movies" says Boris. The reply: "no you aren't. You're going to a poetry slam… you should read the script next time." Two things to notice: 1) it's the first legitimately funny moment in the film. Sad. 2) There's actual contempt in Perry's voice. Part of him is pissed off that his actor hasn't bothered learning the role properly. Tyler Perry actually thinks his script is so well put together that he can be offended when an actor falls out of character. Sad cubed.
Tyler Perry has openly stated his films are "critic proof". He's probably right. But look, Tyler, just because the audiences will come anyway doesn't mean you haven't made a shitty, irresponsible film. Look at the list above: this is as degrading and demeaning as values get. No culture that follows these lessons of Madea's Family Reunion has any business in the modern world.
You can Aardman up this thing as much as you want, but the fact is that Rats (the actors), Sewers (setting) and Televised Soccer (subplot) are all close to pole position on the list of American turn-offs. Perhaps Flushed is simply ahead of its time.
I've discovered recently that I can take two hours of Owen Wilson's voice little better than two hours of the rest of Owen Wilson. Hence, I had time to consider many things before the end of the film:
"So, uh, did you write anything in between the cool stunts?"
"No, why?"
Great makeup and some great action, but everything here feels like an excuse to get to the next stunt. Foolish dialogue, silly motivations, ½ hour boat rides (next time I have to travel cross-country, I'm gonna take a 17th century schooner to save time) — it's tempting to blame this on Lord of the Rings. But in reviewing the work of Ray Harryhausen recently, I find Pirates II to be amazingly similar to Jason and the Argonauts (right down to the use of a boat as the "vehicle" to get us from scene to scene). It seems no coincidence that Harryhausen's final film was most notable for use of The Kraken. Can we count on Johnny Depp to find Medusa in the next film?
Let this be the last 2007 mention of the name Tom Cruise.
The good: you picked up the Golden Gate Bridge and spanned another part of The Bay with it. Cool.
The bad: the themes and motivations show no distinct difference (to my mind) from X2
The ugly: Kelsey Grammer, action hero.
What a collection of cult TV figures — Lewis Black, Rob Riggle, Rob Corddry ("The Daily Show"), Wilmer Valderrama ("That 70s Show"), Tyler James Williams ("Everybody Hates Chris"), Jessica Walter, Tony Hale ("Arrested Development"), B.J. Novak, David Koechner, Mindy Kaling ("The Office"), Kevin McDonald, Bruce McColloch, Mark McKinney ("Kids in the Hall"), Cedric Yarbrough ("The Boondocks"). Did I miss anybody?
When did Teri Garr explode?
There is no doubt in my mind that this will one day be considered Jack Black's opus. He will never be my cup of meat, but I'll give him this…
This has got to be the most bizarre film of the year. Billed as a summer blockbuster, it wasn't. An Adam Sandler comic riot? Hardly — unless you consider a revival of the Fockers "dog humping a pillow" joke to be riotous. Yet, here you have the best gimmick of 2006 cinema — a remote control for your world (!) — The most powerful tool ever. In the hands of a just person, one could use such to find a bring Osama Bin Laden to trial. In the hands of a tree hugger, one could disarm every nuclear device on the planet. In the hands of evil, one could steal or destroy anything or anybody one doesn't like. In the hands of Adam Sandler? He uses it to ogle jog-bras and bully the neighbor child.
And then a funny thing happened — after not being much of a comedy, Click developed into a decent drama with a fairly poignant message. Is that how they get ya? "This sucks. This sucks. This sucks. Hey, that was moving." Can't say this was a great film, but I'd recommend it to anyone who never saw the trailer.
An open letter to M. Night Shyamalan:
Dear M. — Can I call you M? Thanks. I couldn't help noticing that your newest film Lady in the Water had the character of a film critic. It seemed bad enough that Bob Balaban played him as a sour curmudgeon, but then you insulted your critic and killed him off for comic effect.
That's quite an act of passive-aggression.
Considering that even you knew this wasn't your best effort, isn't the hostility a little misplaced? Obviously, life is getting you down a little. So let me speak to you openly as a fan and a critic: your work is still as original and intriguing as anything being produced. Your secondary characters are as well written as any in the game. Problem is, while it's unique compared to everybody else… it isn't compared to you. If we're disappointed, it's because we've seen The Sixth Sense. We know your capabilities.
If I may, some suggestions:
Oh, and please stop working with Bryce Dallas Howard. Thanks.
Your pal, Jim
Edward Zwick already made this film; it was set in Japan and called The Last Samurai.
Others that could have/should have been better: The Lake House, Marie Antoinette, My Super Ex-Girlfriend, The Break-Up, Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby.
Don't want a spoiler for Hollywoodland, The Prestige, The Last Kiss, Stick It, or V for Vendetta? Skip to the next section.
You can't have a "based on real life" mystery in which you question the police conclusions, you invent a P.I. to follow the unfollowed leads, you explore several different possibilities, only to come to the conclusion "the police were right". It's like Oliver Stone ending JFK with "you know what, Lee Harvey Oswald did it. Alone." Lame.
Now I'll be the first one to tell you Nikola Tesla got screwed. Thomas Edison railroaded him like few men have ever been railroaded. In fact, Edison railroaded, waterworksed and electric companied Tesla's sorry non-self-promoting ass all over North America. But don't give me some bull about Tesla making a cloning machine. In the film, David Bowie (as Tesla) has the nerve to complain about losing his fortune. Well, guess what? Turns out you already have the exact means of regaining it.
This movie has introduced the most powerful device of its time and then used it to perform magic tricks. Wow. Is that ever a weak use of power. Tell you what — I need to bake a cake, do you have a hydrogen bomb hanging around anywhere?
Zach Braff cheats. Fiancée pissed. Film ends with Braff sleeping on the porch until the future wife condescends to let him in. The ending strikes me as the kind of movie that can only be written by people who have no idea what marriage is about. You've taken a balanced relationship and given all the power to the woman. That isn't marriage. That's emotional slavery. There's no question the man should pay for his infidelity, but the price is one destined to lead to more bitterness. Child or no, Michael (Braff) and Jenna (Jacinda Barrett) are both better off with him leaving the relationship, because it's only a matter of time before their divorce happens anyway.
Let's review our history, shall we: terrorist attack happens. Fearing more terror, police state arises. Police state attacks any sign of anarchy. How is another, greater, terrorist attack supposed to lead back to democracy?
The more I think about this film, the less I like it. There's no question this gymnastics movie has its moments (topped by the fully suited judges performing rhythmic gymnastics). But this character study of a talented little snot switches gears suddenly and becomes an exposé on gymnastics scoring rules. What?! I don't say gymnastics doesn't have it coming; but do you have any idea how pissed a parent would be watching his/her child deliberately tank the Olympic trial on a self-righteous whim? Next time just follow through with your lame little story.
It would seem that part of Hollywood's legacy is to overrate the musical. Lacking for the genre in recent years, Hollywood even saw fit to reward a — classic — three-star film (Chicago) with its highest honor. Super. Fast-forward to Dreamgirls, an acting class in musical form.
This is it? This is what you got? You overblow an unmemorable tune about angst; you sing the dialogue into the next scene; somebody does some acting and you think you have West Side Story? Good luck with that.
A classic example how far good acting won't take you.
I hate to be soooooo — dangit — "American", but look what you got here — you kill off the best character in the first five minutes, then you spend an hour-and-a-half with variations on the following conversation:
Butler: "Tony Blair on the line, Mum."
Queen Elizabeth: "All right."
Tony Blair: "Will you please do something about Lady Di's death? You look like a royal pain-in-the-ass."
Queen: "No." (Then looks all agitated and stuff — gotta earn that Oscar somehow)
I've wanted to rail against Peter Morgan's script awards, but the truth is maybe the guy does deserve some accolades — how do you keep the audience's attention in a film where most of the action involves awkward phone conversations? So I'll concede the screenplay awards and Helen Mirren's Oscar — but don't sell me The Queen as a Best Picture nominee. This film differs not 2% from the look, content, acting, execution or delivery of a Grade B "Masterpiece Theater" offering. When you promote this as great film, it embarrasses us all — after all: if this is great, why ever stray from PBS? Why go to the movies at all?
Years from now, I'm sure to picture Donnie Brasco more easily than this unimportant Internal Affairs remake… but I won't soon forget the genius of Martin Scorsese here. In one film, Scorsese managed to separate and distinguish Leonardo DiCaprio, Mark Wahlberg and Matt Damon from each other. Only a true master could have pulled that off.
I mean, seriously… by fifth day shooting, I'm sure even Damon himself entered the lot saying "now who am I again?"
And thank goodness for Wahlberg's role as Martin Sheen's personal pit bull. After Invincible, I was convinced of Marky-Mark's next five endeavors:
Wow, there's yet another mild storyline. When is Bobby gonna get here?
I had no idea how anti-climactic the flag raising at Iwo Jima really was. Of course, that fact can only have one possible effect on a dramatic movie about the flag raising at Iwo Jima.
Takes the safe ending… and the correct one for that matter. Unfortunately, this tale of unfulfilled souls thus resigns itself to that One Hour Photo category of "big build up, little ending" films. Shame.
(That's right, I'm going after a quirky foreign film, and there's nothin' you can do about it. BAHAHAHAHAHA!!)
How to make a standard unconventional film:
You'll find maybe one film a decade undone by its own imagination. Congrats, Science.
I'm only mentioning these otherwise unremarkable films because of a good performance:
Penélope Cruz — Volver
Judi Dench — Notes on a Scandal
Maggie Gyllenhaal — SherryBaby
Forest Whitaker — The Last King of Scotland
Ryan Gosling — Half Nelson
Meryl Streep, welcome back. Prairie notwithstanding, the world is a better place when you have a meaty role.
Prada is a bit too into itself to be considered a great film. In a moment of "hey isn't it stupid which belt to put in this issue?", Anne Hathaway gets taken to task, sharply, for saying what we all are thinking. The fact that our dear President W has worn a lapel security blanket every single day for two terms now shows (to me) exactly how important fashion isn't, and preaching to the 5% of America who think it is ain't gonna change that.
Ah, Anne Hathaway. Acting is a nuanced art, but it is easily described as two-dimensional when you picture Anne Hathaway. Check the graph on the left. Let's assume the x-axis represents "difficulty of role" from complicated (quadrants 2, 3) to simple (quadrants 1, 4) and the y-axis represents "morality of character" with evil in quadrants 3 and 4 and good in quadrants 1 and 2. I call quadrant 1 the "Jethro Bodine" zone. Anne Hathaway has hung out there for almost her entire career. Anyone can act in the Bodine zone. Anyone. There shouldn't be accolades for this zone — the picture loves you enough already. Few actresses have ever had it this easy. Princess after princess. Simple hero after simple hero. No evil. No decision-making. No Jack Bauer stuff. Even her five minutes of Brokeback didn't stray from quadrant 1.
So what does it matter? She becomes a spoiled brat? Plenty of actresses do that without quadrant 1 anchors. It's not like Anne Hathaway is ever going to take her selfish act to the White House and insist that 300 million Americans share her very exclusive values. We probably only have to worry about Anne turning into Elizabeth Taylor. I suppose it's a jealousy thing… nobody should have it this easy. But at the end of the day, it really comes down to: you're a grown-up now Anne. It's time to act like one.
Is Spike Lee schizophrenic? Did he wake up last year and say to himself "I don't have to make a piece of crap" or "I don't have to have a political agenda" or both? In any case, this is a movie fan's movie: not only quality storytelling, but a great manipulation of cinematic art. The robbery is more-or-less believable on a visual level, but if you were actually there, the tell-tale scents would give away the deception. Of course, most films don't leave an odor, hence the audience is satisfied. Well done, Spike.
Other previously unmentioned good, not great: Lucky Number Slevin, Stranger Than Fiction, Running Scared, The Illusionist, The Holiday, Déjà Vu.
Amusement park cartoon pelican sez: "you must be at least as good as this film to be considered on a ten best list". For me, the line between good and great is —
So did everyone catch Le Chiffre's other "tell"?
Approaching this past election, we dreaded liberals had our own weird paranoia. It goes something like this: 1. Offspring vote as their parents vote. Yes, they do. Outlast your rebellious phase and odds are 8 in 10 that you'll share your 'rents political biases enough to vote as they do. 2. Right of center people reproduce at a much greater rate than left of center people. Combined the two facts and, logic says, we're doomed to be voting conservative.
Personally, I have faith that we Americans will always, eventually, move back to center. (Although sometimes it's too late; the damage has already been done by either side.)
Feeding the lefty paranoia is the documentary Jesus Camp in which our worst fears actually come true — Right Wing children are actually being sent away (to "camp") to be more right wing in the name of God. I won't go into details; it's pretty much what you'd imagine, but one eye-popping moment for me is the children praying to a cardboard cutout of George W. Bush, champion of the conservative fundamentalist bigot inside all of us.
It occurs to me that these children's parents are the same kind of folk who argue for ten commandment replicas outside our courthouses. "Our justice system is based on them". Is it? Tell you what, phone me the next time you see anybody jailed for failure to abide I, II, III, IV, VI, IX or X. Yeah, good call, fundamentalists. Let's focus on #1, shall we? Do you know what a false idol is? Is there a big difference between a golden cow and cardboard cutout of a golden ass? It's time for "Church Chat": Apparently, some of us only pay attention to The Bible when it's conveeeeeenient.
Suffice to say, I liked this film a great deal more than you did.
Man, am I gonna take Hell for this.
Almost chilling in its unemotional presentation of 9/11 events. Under the stellar direction of Paul Greengrass, United 93's deliberate distancing from the emotion of the day ironically makes it a far more involving retelling than Oliver Stone's "moving" tribute, World Trade Center.
They spread it on a little thick here, huh? Even in a bad economy, a skilled, dependable, hard-working, committed, intelligent, determined individual can find work, but somehow this guy — who is all that and more — can't. And let's face it — with our hero's exceptional devotion and problem solving abilities, why can't he pull his own life together?
Will Smith owns this character (based of the real life of Chris Gardener), however, and by sheer "will" of spirit, makes us root for his unemployed single-father motivations. Gotta stick until the end in this one, because leaving anywhere in the first two hours will leave you depressed.
The (illegal) immigrant full-time nanny has to go to a wedding. She can't get a substitute and thus takes the white kids with her to Mexico. Skeptical, the kids slowly join in and have fun with their South-of-the-border counterparts. The girl even wins a contest by catching a chicken. And then the camera shows us Uncle Santiago (another good role for Gael García Bernal) snapping the head off and letting the decapitated chicken run around. The Mexican kids all chase gleefully. The white boy and girl stand bug-eyed aghast staring into the camera. Their parents didn't need to go the Middle East to get away from it all; they could have found just as foreign a culture 20 minutes away.
That doesn't sound like a recommendation, I know. But you see, for many of us, that's not the boy and girl on screen but a mirror. This is a moment for the growing number of people who have never had to see their dinner get slaughtered. Is it too far to say this is a reflection on a culture that so easily prompts war without having to endure the consequences? Maybe.
Babel isn't easy. In some ways, it's an alternate universe It's a Wonderful Life, where the innocent, innocuous moments of life lead to evil, not good. A hunter rewards his guide with a rifle. The guide sells it to a goat-herding neighbor to shoot jackals. And in a moment interwoven with boredom, curiosity and stupidity, the adolescent son of the neighbor uses the rifle to shoot a tourist. Ain't life a bitch?
Perhaps the most important film you'll never see.
Animated stories used to be about the writing. This Rashômon adaptation of Little Red Riding Hood seems the only film this year to remember that.
None of your questions will be answered. And you'll have many of them, like: how did humans become infertile? Why does a lack of children make everyone act like assholes? Is Alfonso Cuarón saying something here, like in the absence of genuine immaturity, mature people will fill the gap? How is it the population has declined by attrition and force every single day for 18 straight years and there's still too many people on the planet?
If you can weather the idea that none of these questions will get answered, you will be floored by this graphic tale of hope within hopelessness.
¡Viva México!
I feel like I've just been let in on the big secret. I wasn't paying attention. I gave passing grades to Y tu mamá también, Amores Perros, 21 Grams, Hellboy, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and yet continued to say "what are you seeing in these Mexican directors that I'm not?"
I get it now, and I'm sorry for being late on the uptake.
Alejandro González Iñárritu, Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuarón are grown-ups making sophisticated movies for other grown-ups. In a Hollyworld of explosions and prudes, these men offer a refreshing alternative. Violence isn't just exit wound, blood spurt, done. Sexual politics and sexual identity doesn't begin and end Angelina Jolie in a wetsuit. Their subjects are often children, but their pictures are very adult; there are things in them strictly for mature audiences and mature minds. Children of Men shows gritty dismemberment; Pan's Labyrinth shows torture; Babel shows a broken Cate Blanchett peeing into a bowl. All three films delivered unsanitized, less-than-professional medical procedures. And yet it is exactly these moments of ugliness which show us what a piece of crap Apocalypto is. Non-stop violence has no anchor, no root, nothing to make it shocking. It is only when our subjects seem real that we find a film tough to watch.
Now I hate to lump all these distinctive artists together, so here's a brief guide to three men I hope continue to make movies for decades and decades:
Oh, and Pan's Labyrinth? This eccentric weaving of Gothic Fairly Tale and Spanish Civil War is the 2006 film I most wish to see again. 'Nuff said.
Quality films about high school always have style, and this one is no exception. The language in this dark murder mystery is almost poetic; you could wear blinders and still enjoy Brick. Next time I see it, I might, just to prove a point.
I have five criteria for great individual acting performance:
That being said, Sacha Baron Cohen is, to me, the only man worthy of Best Actor Oscar consideration in 2006. This movie is, essentially, Cohen play-acting against people who don't know it's a joke. If they don't buy his act, the film doesn't work. But look at how quick Americans are to believe reality in the rustic shenanigans of some idiot foreigner. It's not only the funniest movie of the year; (thanks in large part to how freely Americans divulge their insecurities around this man) it's also the sharpest slam on Americana you may ever see:
I haven't even mentioned my favorite parts. This is a must see for all adult Americans.
You can skate through this film for 80 minutes thinking "that was nice", "that was kind-of funny" and still ask "sorry, but what's with the hype?" I can't give it away, but this film has best denouement of any movie in this brief century. In fifteen unbelievably funny closing minutes, we wrap the story of this pageant-obsessed tot and her psychologically damaged family and attack a whole lot of twisted values in one fell swoop. I left Sunshine feeling the same way I did upon leaving The Sixth Sense, which is not to say it was thrilling or mystifying but "Wow. That was a nice film that turned into a great film." I have a feeling many other people felt this way.
Pulse: Holding steady at 75 bad reviews per minute.
Omen left on base. 27 men went home unsatisfied. Game over.
Self reviewing films: *Stick It* *Click*
Supermeh Returns
My Super Ex-Girlmeh
Poseidon: Apparently the Greek God of two stars. Did not know that.
Over the Hedge and through the woods, to grandmother's house, this blows.
Be frugal! Use google! Avoid Doogal!
American Dreamz: Suckz
Curious George and the pan with the yellow hat
16 Blocks. Manhattan-wise, that distance is about 8/10ths of a star.
RV, UV: WTF?
The Night Listener, I got one for you. You getting this? Clomp, clomp, clomp, slam.
Wordplay: 8 letters, means so-so, starts with an "M"
Invincible: Falls apart
The Departed: Left
Accepted: Denied
Van Wilder: The Rise of Taj: The decline of taste.
Pan's Labyrinth: Yes, but he loved the Minotaur.
Rocky Balboa: I went to the fights and a movie broke out.
Annapolis: Just the opposite happened here
Apocalypto: Come for the Mayan, stay for the Macabre. I liked this movie better when it was called The Road Warrior. Everyone did.
You, Me and Dupree: Rue, flee and ennui.
The Queen: takes pawn to the movies and bores him silly. Better check for content next time, mate.
See y'all next year —
January, 2007