5/1/16: This Kitten’s Got Claws

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action parodies, action-comedies, Alex Rubens, Anna Faris, buddy films, cinema, co-writers, cute kittens, Darrell Britt-Gibson, drug dealers, film reviews, films, Hot Fuzz, Jamar Malachi Neighbors, Jas Shelton, Jason Mitchell, Jordan Peele, Keanu, Keanu Reeves, Keegan-Michael Key, Key and Peele, kidnapped pets, Luis Guzmán, Method Man, Movies, Nia Long, Peter Atencio, Rob Huebel, Tiffany Haddish, Will Forte

In many cases, you never know quite what you have with a movie until you’ve actually sat down and watched it. Sure, the poster and teaser trailer might have given you some idea of what to expect but there’s almost always that “aha!” moment where all is actually made clear. After all: you know that all of those famous floating heads must be in the film somewhere but what are they actually doing?

Take, for example, the advance poster for Keanu (2016), the inaugural, big-screen starring debut from sketch-comedy mavens Keegan-Michael Key and Jordan Peele. One look at the poster would have us believe that the film centers around the terminally mild-mannered duo laying waste to everything around them, all in order to save an adorable kitten in a do-rag. Once you actually get into the film, however, you quickly come to realize that it’s actually about the bumbling duo laying waste to everything around them, all in a desperate attempt to save a kidnapped kitten, who just happens to sport a do-rag for most of the proceedings. Wait a minute…

This, of course, is not only needlessly reductive but downright mean: Keanu might offer up exactly what’s advertised but it does so in such a buoyant, jubilant and bighearted way that you’d have to be a literal monster not to be charmed. Think of this as the goofy, nerdy little brother to Edgar Wright’s Hot Fuzz (2007), a little brother raised on Nickelodeon shows, ’90s-era bullet ballets like Bad Boys (1995) and Con Air (1997) and enough Mountain Dew to kill a rhino. Silly? Without a doubt. A blast and a half? You know it!

Concept-wise, this loads a bunch of comedy/action tropes into a blender, hits puree and pours out the frothy results for instant audience enjoyment. Our heroes, Clarence (Key) and Rell (Peele), are the kind of meek, vanilla nice guys who make Mr. Rogers look like Max Cady, by contrast. Clarence, an avowed George Michael fanatic, seems completely oblivious to his neighbor, Spencer’s (Rob Huebel, oozing slime like a garden snail) smarmy machinations regarding his wife, Hannah (Nia Long). Rell, for his part, has just suffered a painful breakup and chooses to sooth his inner turmoil with copious amounts of weed purchased from next-door-neighbor Will Forte (doing his best K-Fed impression).

Change comes to the best friends in the form of the ridiculously adorable titular kitten, an escapee from the drug warehouse massacre that opened the film in full-on John Woo mode. Rell falls in love with the little fuzzball when it shows up on his doorstep and instantly finds a reason to not only stop moping around but to fully embrace life again. When the dynamic duo returns home from a movie and finds Rell’s house ransacked and Keanu missing, however, they’ll need to embrace their inner tough guys (well…relatively speaking, at least) and rescue the little guy. Along the way, they’ll tangle with the notorious 17th Street Blips, get dosed with a dangerous new designer drug, stay one step ahead of the lethal Allentown Boys, find love, earn some street cred and prove that nice guys can, in fact, finish first.

From the jump, Keanu is a thoroughly ridiculous, silly and absurd film: make no bones about that. The kicker is that everyone involved is so good-natured and all-in that it’s impossible not to get swept along for the ride. Praise must go to stars Key and Peele, of course, since the whole enterprise would quickly sink without their impeccable timing and genuine sense of camaraderie but the film is full of little touches that prove it’s more than just an extended skit from their show.

Like the aforementioned Hot Fuzz, part of the key to Keanu’s success is that it genuinely likes the moldy old tropes and cliches that it skewers left and right. This isn’t a case of derisively mocking cheesy buddy-action films: this is about pointing out the inherent absurdity of said cliches while simultaneously celebrating them. To that end, we get copious slo-mo gun battles, shell casings falling like snow and assassins so badass that they refuse to die, no matter how many rounds you pump into them. We get the obligatory car chases, tense promises of torture and a pounding soundtrack to highlight all of the gleeful carnage.

The difference, here, is that Key, Peele and their frequent TV collaborators (director Peter Atencio and co-writer Alex Rubens) are smart and skillful enough to weave plenty of surprises and sly commentary into this otherwise familiar tapestry. We get the expected plot point where Rell and Clarence need to impersonate tough guys in order to infiltrate the Blips but the scene pays-off pretty spectacularly when Key’s Clarence mugs so virulently that he becomes a cartoon-version of a gang-banger. Add to this their chosen gang monikers (Techtonic and Shark Tank) and you have a great gag that finds new ways to explore an old concept.

This upending of expectations manifests itself in ways both subtle (notice how the drug-packers in the opening scene are all scantily-clad guys rather than the underwear-clad women that are usually par-for-the-course with this type of thing) and in-your-face (every single bloodthirsty killer in the film appears to be as head-over-heels in love with Keanu as Rell and Clarence are) but it all has the effect of keeping the audience on its toes. Even if we recognize the basic set-up for a joke, chances are the filmmakers will find some way to subvert or modify it.

Despite how thoroughly charming and fun the film ends up being, however, Keanu is certainly not without its share of flaws. 100 minutes is a fairly long time for a silly, breezy comedy and there are plenty of scenes that could have benefited immensely from some judicious editing. In particular, a set-piece that contrasts Rell and Hi-C (Tiffany Haddish) trying to deliver drugs to an upscale party while Clarence waits outside and teaches the Blips to love George Michael starts off great, with plenty of big laughs, but ends up going on forever and becomes something closer to annoying. Call it too much of a good thing but plenty of this could (and should) have ended up on the cutting-room floor.

There are also frequent dead spots in the film, usually at any point that doesn’t feature Key, Peele and the kitten as the main focus. When the trio are together, they’re pretty much unstoppable: Key and Peele have such a natural, unforced chemistry that they handily sell each and every interaction, whether sweetly sentimental or delightfully demented. When it comes to the rest of the cast, however, the results can be a bit more hit-and-miss when they take center-stage: Forte, in particular, is so one-note and stereotypical that he wears out his welcome shortly after his introduction…and this is from someone who thinks he’s one of the best comic actors of this era. Ditto Method Man, whose steely Cheddar (because he played Cheese on The Wire, dontcha know?) never seems like more than a stock character type.

In the end, however, most complaints about this will be more quibbles and nitpicking than anything major: Keanu comes out of the gate with a very specific modus operandi and, if you’re on its wavelength, I’m willing to wager you’ll love it. From the scene where Rell and Clarence roll into slo-mo battle to the tune of George Michael’s “Freedom” to the fist-raising bit where Keanu saves the day, this is a film that knows how to deliver one crowd-pleasing moment after the next. Keanu may not be the most original film out there but there is one claim it can make: it is, without a doubt, the best action-comedy about a kidnapped kitten in a do-rag and tiny gold chain that you will ever see. That, my friends, you can take to the bank.

 

11/27/15: Fists of Funny

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'80s homage, absurdist, action-comedies, Andreas Cahling, cinema, computer hacking, crowdfunded films, Danger Force 5, David Hasselhoff, David Sandberg, dinosaurs vs Nazis, directorial debut, Eleni Young, Erik Hörnqvist, film reviews, films, foreign films, Frank Sanderson, Helene Ahlson, Jorma Taccone, Kung Fury, Leopold Nilsson, Lost Years, Mitch Murder, Movies, Patrik Öberg, retro-themed films, sci-fi, shorts, Steven Chew, Swedish films, synth scores, time travel, writer-director-actor

Is there such a thing as a perfect roller-coaster? While opinions may vary, I think there are a few key aspects that just about anyone can agree on. A perfect roller-coaster should have a balance of climbs and falls, straight shots and zig-zags: a roller-coaster that consists of one long, steady climb and a corresponding fall may be a great endurance test but it makes for a pretty poor roller-coaster. A perfect roller-coaster should feature plenty of surprise twists, turns and sudden swerves to the left and right: when done right, the only thing you should be anticipating is that big, final plunge into the abyss right before the cars stop and your heart thumps back into your chest. Perhaps most importantly, however, a perfect roller-coaster should be short and sweet. There’s a subtle (but definite) line between pummeling your senses and red-lining your adrenaline  and being reduced to a quivering pile of bodily functions on the blessed pavement. The perfect roller-coaster should leave you shaken, giddy, a little unsteady on your feet and eager to jump right back in line and do the whole thing all over again.

In this spirit, writer/director/actor/tour de force David Sandberg’s 30-minute mind-blower, Kung Fury (2015), might just be the perfect cinematic roller-coaster. Over the course of its short and sweet run-time, Kung Fury wastes not one single minute and features not one wasted, repetitive or unnecessary frame. The effect is like mainlining Pixie Stix and Red Bull, a jittery, explosive and relentlessly inventive trawl through the very best of ’80s-era junk culture, all filtered through a brilliantly absurd worldview that allows for Triceratops-headed police officers, machine gun-wielding Valkyries riding giant wolves and massive, sentient, blood-thirsty arcade games. Kung Fury is what might happen if a teenage metalhead’s Trapper Keeper doodles suddenly sprang to life and it is, quite frankly, rather amazing.

Taking place in a 1985 version of Miami that most closely resembles the neon-and-pastel insanity of Grand Theft Auto, Kung Fury details the adventures of the titular hero (ably portrayed by Sandberg in a genuinely funny, flat-as-a-pancake delivery) as he attempts to travel back in time and stop the evil Adolf Hitler (Jorma Taccone), who has dubbed himself the “Kung Fuhrer” and plots to take over the world with his endlessly impressive kung fu skills. Since this is an ’80s parody, we get all of the standard tropes: Kung Fury is a renegade cop who refuses to be teamed with a new partner after the death of his last one (even though Erik Hornqvist’s Triceracops seems like a perfectly nice, polite dude); he’s got a tech-savvy helper (Leopold Nilssen’s outrageously mulleted Hackerman); the picture quality is constantly marred by static and missing footage; the main bad guy has an army of thousands of heavily armed, killers, none of whom could hit the broadside of a barn if their lives depended on it (which they always do); the acting ranges from amateurish to studiously awkward. Basically, if you grew up on ’80s action/kung fu films (or pretty much anything put out by Cannon), this will be the best kind of deja vu.

While Kung Fury is endlessly fun, full of the kind of giddy, stupid thrills and setpieces that pretty much every comic book/superhero/mindless action film aspires to, one of the most impressive aspects of the production is how damn good the whole thing looks on a ridiculously small budget. After crowdfunding failed to produce enough funds for a full-length, Sandberg and company opted to turn their idea into a short. The whole film was essentially shot in the Swedish filmmaker’s office, utilizing green screens for everything, and budgeted on such a shoestring that they only had one, shared uniform for the scene where Kung Fury wades into an ocean of Nazis. It looks cheap, of course, but by design, not accident. When necessary, the film is as fully immersive as any mega-budget Hollywood blockbuster, stock-footage wolf or not.

Since part of the sheer, unmitigated joy of the short is giving yourself over to its particular brand of lunacy, I’ll refrain from spoiling much more, although I could probably list my fifteen favorite moments and still have enough leftover material for at least fifteen more. Suffice to say that if you’re a fan of absurd fare like Danger Force Five, ’80s action films or bone-dry humor, Sandberg’s Kung Fury should steal a pretty massive piece of your heart. With a promised full-length version over the horizon (featuring no recycled footage which, in and of itself, is kinda mind-blowing), I have a feeling that we’re all going to be seeing a lot more of Sandberg and his inspired brand on insanity.

I still think that the perfect roller-coaster is a short, sharp shock to the system. I’m more than willing to let David Sandberg prove me wrong, however: if nothing else, Kung Fury has handily earned him that right. Too much of a good thing? Bring it on.

7/15/15 (Part Three): Lost Swans and Hot Lead

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'90s homage, action films, action-comedies, Adam Buxton, Bad Boys, Bill Bailey, Bill Nighy, Billie Whitelaw, Blazing Saddles, British comedies, British films, Cate Blanchett, cinema, co-writers, cops behaving badly, David Arnold, David Threlfall, Edgar Wright, Edward Woodward, ensemble cast, Eric Mason, fast-paced, film reviews, films, goofy films, Hot Fuzz, ineffectual cops, Jess Hall, Jim Broadbent, Joe Cornish, Julia Deakin, Kevin Eldon, Lucy Punch, Martin Freeman, Movies, Nick Frost, Olivia Colman, Paddy Considine, Paul Freeman, Peter Wight, Point Blank, public decency, Rafe Spall, Ron Cook, Rory McCann, Shaun of the Dead, SImon Pegg, small town life, small-town British life, Stephen Merchant, Steve Coogan, Stuart Wilson, the Cornetto trilogy, The World's End, Timothy Dalton, UK films, urban vs rural, violent films, wisecracking cops, writer-actor, writer-director, Young Frankenstein

There’s something a little off in the sleepy, picturesque hamlet of Sandford, UK and it’s up to gung-ho London super-cop, Nick Angel, to figure out what it is. Sure, the inhabitants of the tranquil little village may seem impossibly friendly, the kind of small-town folks who know everyone’s names and just how many sugar cubes they take in their tea, thank you very much. Sandford may seem impossibly clean, neat and crime-free (no one in town, for example, has even heard of the “M-word” (Murder, doncha know?), let alone done the dirty deed), a peek into a peaceful township where the biggest problems are the “living statue” street performer and a “hoodie epidemic” that vexes the preternaturally polite populace something fierce.

Ask any genre fan worth their salt, however, and they’ll probably all say the same thing: small, quiet little towns like Sandford may seem like oases from the rat-race of the world at large but, dig a little deeper, and they’ll always produce more than their fair share of skeletons in the various closets. Behind every kind, small-town smile lurks a bottomless capacity for evil and down every immaculately cobblestoned pathway? Why, the very heart of Hell, itself! After all…can you really trust someone who seems so…nice?

If you’re Edgar Wright and the rest of his merry band of hooligans, the answer is an absolutely resounding “Hell no!” and the result is the second film in writer-director Wright’s “Cornetto Trilogy,” Hot Fuzz (2007). While the first film in the series, the modern classic Shaun of the Dead (2004), tipped the musty, old zombie film ass-over-tea-kettle, Hot Fuzz seeks to do the same for action-packed ’90s cop films (the final point of the trilogy, The World’s End (2013), takes on alien invasion epics). By using most of the same terrific ensemble from Shaun of the Dead and that patented zany brand of deadpan humor, Wright capitalizes on everything that made his previous film so much fun, while throwing plenty of bones to anyone weaned on actioners like Point Break (1991) or Bad Boys (1995). While the film is always a little goofy, it’s also a smart film, full of blink-and-miss-em visual references, plenty of silly action, some surprisingly bracing violence and enough witty dialogue and outrageous scenarios to keep the punters in stitches. In other words: prime Wright, through and through.

After Nick Angel is promoted to Sergeant and sent to the sticks (his always-on antics are making not only his police peers but his big-city superiors look like ineffectual morons), it looks like his eternal crime-fighting pilot light will be snuffed, never to blaze again. After he ends up in the middle of a pair of suspicious deaths that are unceremoniously labeled an “accident” by the local police force, Angel decides to do his own investigation, with the dunderheaded assistance of one PC Danny Butterman (Nick Frost), the fairly useless son of Angel’s new superior, Inspector Frank Butterman (Jim Broadbent).

As more and more “accidents” keep popping up, however, Angel begins to suspect that the sleepy town might harbor more below the surface than just an unhealthy interest in winning “Village of the Year.” As Nick and Danny butt heads with the local chamber of commerce, headed by Tom Weaver (a completely unrecognizable Edward Woodward) and slimy grocery-store impresario Simon Skinner (former 007 Timothy Dalton), they begin to get wind of a conspiracy that might, potentially, involve every resident of the lovely little town. When it begins to seem as if the pair have gotten in over their heads, however, there’s only one sure-fire fix: binge-watch ’90s action flicks and then take the fight right to the streets.

Is there really something going on, however, or is poor Nick just going completely stir-crazy in the snoozy little community? As he gets closer and closer to the truth, Nick will learn that there’s only a few things he can put his faith in: his unwavering belief in the absolute power of good over evil, his steadfast determination to rid the streets of any and all crime (shoplifters, beware!) and the universal truth that absolutely anything will explode into a towering fireball once shot. Bad boys? You better believe it, buddy!

Reprising their winning chemistry from Shaun of the Dead, if not their actual characters, Pegg and Frost are exceptionally bright points of light in the altogether brilliant constellation that comprises Hot Fuzz’s ensemble. Martin Freeman, Bill Nighy and Steve Coogan pop up, briefly, as Nick’s self-serving London superiors…writer-directors Joe Cornish, Peter Jackson and Wright, himself, all have cameos…Cate Blanchett stops by for an unannounced turn as Nick’s unfaithful former girlfriend…Paddy Considine and Rafe Spall show up as a couple of idiotic cops nicknamed “the Andes” (since they’re both named Andy, dig?)…the always amazing Olivia Colman (Peep Show, as well as endless other British endeavors) has a blast as snarky PC Doris Thatcher…the aforementioned Dalton (one twirled mustache removed from silent-era villainy) and Woodward (best known on this side of the pond for his titular role as TV’s Equalizer, on the other side for his landmark performance in The Wicker Man (1973)) chew miles of scenery…writer-actor Stephen Merchant gets a great bit as Peter Ian Staker (or P.I. Staker, for the punny win)…virtually every second of screentime is occupied by a phenomenal actor given free rein to be patently awesome.

The result, of course, is an incredibly immersive experience, the equivalent of Mel Brooks’ ridiculously star-studded classics like Young Frankenstein (1974) or Blazing Saddles (1974). When combined with the picturesque locations, the over-the-top action sequences and the often absurd comedy, Hot Fuzz (like the other two films in the Cornetto Trilogy) is its own self-contained universe. It’s this quality that allows moments like Adam Buxton’s outrageously gory death (his head is reduced into a fine mist via the timely application of a fallen stone block) or the unrelentingly action-packed finale to sit comfortably beside more “high-brow” comedy fare like the scene where Angel engages in a crossword duel with a cagey old lady or the one where he rides through town to the tune of the Kinks’ “Village Green Preservation Society.”

There are great throwaway jokes about the amount of damage caused by “good guys” in action movies, the tendency of small-town busybodies to focus on pointless “outrages” like hoodie sweatshirts and street performers over more important issues like corruption and justice and how small town folks in films often slot effortlessly into the “sinister locals” category (one of the townsfolk was an extra in Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs (1971), we’re told on more than one occasion). There’s great comic material here both high and low, literally something for any fan of the funny stuff.

One of the smartest tricks Wright and company utilize is the restaging of famous action movie setpieces from the likes of pop-culture phenomena like Point Break and Bad Boys. While these scenes would function just fine in a vacuum, previous knowledge of Danny Butterman’s much-loved action films makes the experience that much richer: there may be no more sublime scene in the entire film than the one where Nick and Skinner battle it out over the ruins of a scale-model version of the town. As the two punch it out, like warring Gargantua or Godzilla with a particularly stiff upper-lip, a broken fire hydrant supplies a continuous shower of water over the two: in other words, Wright goes ahead and gives us one of those clichéd old bits where the hero and villain fight it out in the rain, pounding abuse on each other as the very skies join in. And it works gloriously: somewhere in “movie heaven,” Riggs and Murtagh are looking down, fondly, I’m willing to wager.

In feel (and tone), Hot Fuzz probably hews a little closer to its follow-up, The World’s End, than its predecessor, Shaun of the Dead. Hot Fuzz, however, like the films it references, is an altogether bigger, noisier and more boisterous affair than either of the other films: while Shaun of the Dead was full of great setpieces and The World’s End managed to take a leap into much “bigger” themes, the action beats of the middle film are their own little world. Hot Fuzz is a little “dumber” and “slighter” than the other two but that’s also to be expected: you don’t wade into the fray of silly, adrenalized action movies without getting a little of it on your shirtsleeves, after all.

Despite being less than enamored with Hot Fuzz upon its initial release, the film has grown on me, over the years, in a way that I’m not sure Shaun or World’s End has (although World’s End still has plenty of time to go): once I allowed myself to get swept away by the film’s loud, Technicolor action and ferocious sense of energy, however, it became easier to absorb the more subtle, truly ingenious elements to Wright’s style.

If you grew up on ’90s actioners, harbor suspicions against the status quo or fancy yourself a bit of a lone wolf, Wright and Pegg’s Hot Fuzz practically demands another viewing. Come for the gleeful chaos and copious explosions but stay for the kind of insightful, in-depth and subtle commentary that we’ve come to expect from one of genre cinema’s most unusual visionaries. As Michael might say: “Yarp.” Yarp, indeed.

4/24/15: A Boy, A Girl, A Jungle, A Gem

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'80s adventure films, 1980s films, action-adventure, action-comedies, adventures, Alan Silvestri, auteur theory, Back to the Future, blockbusters, cinema, damsel-in-distress, Danny Devito, Dean Cundey, Diane Thomas, Film auteurs, film franchise, film reviews, films, Forrest Gump, jungles, Kathleen Turner, kidnapping, Manuel Ojeda, Mary Ellen Trainor, Michael Douglas, Movies, odd couple, priceless jewels, Raiders of the Lost Ark, ransom, Robert Zemeckis, romance writer, romances, Romancing the Stone, stolen treasure, The African Queen, The Jewel of the Nile, treasure map, Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, Zack Norman

What, exactly, would you get if you were able to somehow crossbreed John Huston’s indelible The African Queen (1951) with Spielucas’ (patent pending) Raiders of the Lost Art (1981)? If you performed this bit of alchemy nowadays, I’m guessing that you’d probably end up with something that bore a pretty close resemblance to Guardians of the Galaxy (2014) or its ilk. If you did this back in the ’80s, however, it’s pretty much a given that you’d come up with Robert Zemeckis’ Romancing the Stone (1984). Equal parts odd-couple romance and globetrotting adventure yarn, Romancing the Stone is the box-office blockbuster that, effectively, kicked off Zemeckis’ career, directly leading to some little indie film about race cars called Back to the Future (1985). As they say: a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step…for Zemeckis (Used Cars (1980) notwithstanding), that journey began right here.

Best-selling romance writer, Joan Wilder (Kathleen Turner, in only her third full-length film), may write about passionate, sexy, self-assured and ass-kicking heroines but life definitely doesn’t seem to be imitating art: in reality, Joan is meek, nerdy, awkward and chronically single, spending her days with her cat (Romeo, natch) while she waits for the flesh-and-blood version of her hunky leading man, Jesse, to swirl into her life and spirit her away to fun, adventure and love.

Adventure (albeit of the less than desired kind) makes its way into Joan’s life after she receives word that her sister, Elaine (Mary Ellen Trainor), has been kidnapped by miscreants (Zach Norman and Danny DeVito) in Columbia. The kidnappers demand that Joan head to South America and bring the treasure map that Elaine mailed to her, a map which purports to show the location of a fabled, priceless jewel. When Joan gets to Columbia, she immediately finds herself pursued by the sinister, murderous Zolo (Manuel Ojeda), a corrupt military leader who will stop at nothing to acquire the jewel.

Just as things look grim, Joan is saved by mysterious, handsome and wise-cracking Jack Colton (Michael Douglas), an American ex-pat adventurer who could, quite literally, be the very personification of Joan’s beloved “Jesse.” Jack spirits Joan away and she enlists his aid in rescuing her captive sister. As the kidnappers decide to take matters into their hands and pursue Jack and Joan, our heroes must also out-maneuver Zolo and his men, who are never far behind. Will Joan finally find her knight-in-shining-armor? Will Jack be able to put aside his more avaricious impulses and inherent dislike of Joan’s needy, city-slicker ways long enough to fall in love with her? Will our plucky heroes succeed in finding their massive emerald or will the jungle serve as their final resting place?

In many ways, Romancing the Stone is a prototypical ’80s adventure film: bright, silly, full of decidedly antiquated notions on gender politics (Joan is never much more than a hapless damsel-in-distress and Jack is often so macho as to become completely cartoonish), lots of engaging setpieces (Joan and Jack’s tumble down the river rapids is an easy highlight, as is the evocative bit where they stumble upon the treasure, complete with a skeleton in a crashed plane) and as little common sense as necessary to propel the storyline to its designated conclusion.

What really helps to vault Romancing the Stone above the competition (aside from the involvement of adventure auteur Zemeckis) is the stellar performances and chemistry of the three principals. Romancing the Stone would be Douglas’ first major foray into blockbuster entertainment (although some might argue that The China Syndrome (1979) really got the ball rolling for him after the success of The Streets of San Francisco (1972-1976)) and the role fits him like a glove. By turns smarmy, sly, genuine, put-upon and roguish, Douglas’ Jack Colton is the dictionary definition of a kickass “antihero” and definitely deserves his place in the action flick roll books. For her part, Turner is outstanding: never less than imminently likable and empathetic, Joan Wilder is a real hoot and Turner has a blast bringing her to cinematic life. Douglas and Turner have tremendous chemistry throughout, recalling nothing so less as Bogie and Hepburn’s performances in the aforementioned African Queen: any of their scenes together are smooth sailing but the parts where they lock horns, like stubborn rams, are pretty unforgettable.

On the villain side, DeVito (as usual) is an absolute scene-stealer: the bit where he wrestles with the extremely tall lady is a complete riot and his interactions with the dastardly Zolo hint at the sarcasm-etched wrecking ball that the future Frank Reynolds would become. Here, we get DeVito just as he was transitioning from the small-screen madness of Taxi (1978-1983) into his unforgettable big screen career. While there’s way too little of DeVito in Romancing the Stone, the producers rectified this by bringing DeVito, Douglas and Turner back for a sequel, The Jewel of the Nile (1985), that featured quite a bit more screen-time for good ol’ Ralph. Years later, the principals would once again reunite when DeVito directed Douglas and Turner in the absolutely essential The War of the Roses (1989), a re-teaming which managed to frame the earlier relationships in an entirely different light.

Silly, cute and lots of fun, Romancing the Stone is the kind of breezy entertainment that’s perfect for lazy weekend viewing: while it’s far from amazing (or even particularly original), Zemeckis’ romantic adventure is a perfect example of what made ’80s films so great. For younger generations, the film stands as a perfect example of a simpler, more innocent time, a time when comic book entertainment was still pulpy, goofy fun. In an era where heroes spend an awful lot of time frowning, Romancing the Stone reminds us that this wasn’t always the case: as far as I’m concerned, our modern era could use a little more Jack and Joan. After all: smiling is pretty good exercise, too.

4/12/15 (Part One): The Good Time Boys

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action films, action-comedies, Australian films, BMX Bandits, Brian Trenchard-Smith, Brigitte Jean Allen, car chases, Chad Law, Christopher Morris, Christopher Sommers, cinema, Damien Garvey, Dead End Drive-In, Drive Hard, driving films, Evan Law, film reviews, films, get-away driver, heist, hostage situation, hot pursuit, husband-wife relationship, Jason Wilder, John Cusack, mobsters, Movies, multiple writers, odd couple, road movie, set in Australia, stolen money, Thomas Jane, Tony O'Loughlan, unlikely allies, unlikely hero, writer-director, Yesse Spence, Zoe Ventoura

Among old and reliable action movie tropes, there are few that are older and more reliable than mismatched “odd couple” duos. From 48 Hrs. (1982) to Midnight Run (1988)…from Turner & Hooch (1989) to Tango & Cash (1989)…from Rush Hour (1998) to the Lethal Weapon franchise, you know the drill: put a straight-laced, by-the-book square with a lone-wolf, loose-cannon hothead and let the sparks fly! When the formula works, it’s an almost bullet-proof set-up: there’s a good reason why films like Lethal Weapon and Die Hard (1988) are still influencing modern action films almost 30 years after they left the multiplexes.

The success of said formula, however, winds up being pretty dependent on a very important part of the equation: if the mismatched partners don’t gel, if their chemistry lies somewhere between “uncomfortably awkward” and “dead on arrival,” well…let’s just say that your odds of getting a decent film aren’t great. In the case of classic “Ozsploitation” filmmaker Brian Trenchard-Smith’s newest film, Drive Hard (2014), we get enough of the elements in their proper places to insure a fun, fast and fairly breezy good time: would we expect anything less from the twisted genius behind Dead End Drive-In (1986)?

The “square” in this particular equation is Peter Roberts (Thomas Jane, sporting a ridiculously fluffy hair-do that would make a ’70s-era catalog model jealous), a former American race car driver who now toils in obscurity as an Australian driving instructor. He’s got a wife and young daughter, dreams of opening his own racing school and just enough spare cash to insure that he’ll probably be teaching yahoos what a stick-shift is for the next 90 years. Peter’s the kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back and spend the rest of the day complaining about being cold.

The “wild one” in this equation is Simon Keller (John Cusack), another American ex-pat. Simon (who pronounces his name in a way that sounded suspiciously like “Killer” to me) hires Peter to teach him to drive, even though he seems to be surprisingly adept around said vehicle for a complete novice. Keller’s a sophisticated smartass with a propensity for droll observations and a rather unsettling interest in Peter’s former occupation.

As luck would have it, Keller doesn’t want a driving instructor: he wants a get-away driver. Things get more complicated when Keller reveals that they’ve just ripped off Mario Rossi (Christopher Morris), a hot-headed mob boss who previously stiffed Simon on a job: this is payback and poor Peter is just the schmuck who’s found himself stuck in the middle. Except, of course, that good ol’ Peter eventually starts to, you know…kinda dig all this action. After all, he gets to race again: what’s that thing they say about the gift horse? He also gets out of the house at a time when things are particularly rough between him and his wife, Tessa (Yesse Spence), thereby avoiding any and all difficult conversations about sticky subjects like “responsibility” and the “future.”

While the fugitives burn rubber, their own relationship begins to thaw, allowing for the kind of uneasy détente that’s necessary for this sort of film: Keller is revealed to be more than just a criminal mastermind, while Peter gets to finally assert himself and start to loosen up. It’s not all Summer vacation in the Hamptons, however, as our intrepid travelers are pursued by a pair of extremely earnest Special Agents (Zoe Ventoura and Jason Wilder), along with Rossi and Chief Inspector Smith (Damien Garvey), a lawman so used to sitting in the mobster’s pocket that he may as well be a young kangaroo. As the forces continue to mass and the odds get slimmer, Peter and Simon will learn one important thing: if you want to have a fighting chance, you have to drive…and you better drive hard.

Like the vast majority of Trenchard-Smith’s extensive output, Drive Hard is massively entertaining: a silly, lightning-paced buddy film, Drive Hard never takes itself seriously, although it also manages to avoid (albeit just barely) slipping into full-blown parody territory. The Australian action auteur is a deft hand with this type of material, however, melding purely goofy comedy beats with genuinely thrilling action and racing sequences. While the film is the furthest thing from a “dark” crime saga, the stakes feel real enough to plant it squarely in the area code of films like Snatch (2000) and In Bruges (2008).

Key to the film’s success, of course, is that aforementioned chemistry between our odd couple, Peter and Simon.  The two leads play off each other with a playful sense of camaraderie that makes the film an easy, breezy experience from first to last. While Jane does an admirable job playing against type as the nerdy, clueless and slightly whiny Peter, Cusack handily steals the show as the riveting, obnoxious and thoroughly badass Simon Keller. Keller is the kind of antihero that practically demands his own franchise (I was constantly put in mind of Tim Dorsey’s amazing creation, Serge Storms) and it’s endlessly fun watching him work his machinations against the mob, corrupt cops, a biker gang and pretty much anyone who has the misfortune of crossing his path. Of late, Cusack seems to be gravitating towards these kind of “antihero” roles (see his similarly stellar turn as the villain in the thoroughly spectacular Grand Piano (2014) for another good example) and they really do fit him like a glove: he appears to be morphing into James Spader before our very eyes and I, for one, applaud this wholeheartedly.

While the supporting cast does fine work, the only one who really stands out is Zoe Ventoura’s ridiculously driven Agent Walker: there’s an intensity to her performance that ends up being much more magnetic than Christopher Morris’ mob boss, despite the constant fever pitch of his performance. Ventoura’s Agent Walker is also the only female character who gets much to do, with Francesca Bianchi’s Stacy being stuck in perpetual man-eater mode and Yesse Spence’s Tessa spending the majority of the film stuck somewhere in the background off-camera. For better or worse, this is the kind of action film that seems to strictly revolve around the male characters and their various relationships with one another. Call it a “bromance” if you like, but there’s certainly no shortage of testosterone to go around, here.

Despite being less than taken with Drive Hard’s look (the film is constantly blown-out and, to be honest, rather ugly), it’s hard to find fault with any of its key components. The driving scenes are thrilling and kinetic, while the various fights are well-staged and find a decent balance between chaos and order. The underlying sense of dark humor also works in the film’s favor, leading to suitably outrageous gags like the shop clerk accidentally blowing his own head off or Peter’s ludicrous brawl with an elderly lady that’s one slim pratfall away from a Happy Gilmore (1996) outtake. Holding everything together is that all-important central odd couple relationship between Jane and Cusack, the kind of partnership that actually makes sequels seem like good ideas.

Ultimately, Drive Hard is just what it should be: a goofy, fun, silly and effortless throwback to the days when everything blew up, any argument could be solved with a fistfight and a cutting quip could be just as deadly as a cutting blade. While Trenchard-Smith’s latest isn’t quite the modest masterpiece that Dead End Drive-In was (tonally, it’s just a little too all-over-the-map), there’s more than enough good stuff here to keep fans of ’80s and ’90s action films happy. Drive Hard tries hard and, at the end of the day, that’s a lot more than most.

 

2/25/15 (Part Two): The Tin Man Rides Again

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'90s films, 1990s films, action films, action-comedies, Belinda Bauer, cinema, cyborgs, Dan O'Herlihy, Delta City, Detroit, drug epidemic, dystopian future, evil corporations, fake commericals, Felton Perry, film franchise, film reviews, films, Frank Miller, Gabriel Damon, Irvin Kershner, man vs machine, Movies, Nancy Allen, near future, Never Say Never Again, OCP, Officer Murphy, Paul Verhoeven, Peter Weller, Robert DoQui, RoboCop, RoboCop 2, sci-fi, sequels, set in Detroit, street drugs, street gangs, The Empire Strikes Back, Tom Noonan, Willard Pugh

After RoboCop (1987) became a box office hit and a bit of a pop culture phenomenon, it was only inevitable that we’d be graced with a sequel, sooner or later. Enter Irvin Kershner’s RoboCop 2 (1990), a movie that manages to up the ante in every way possible, as befits pretty much any action/sci-fi sequel you might care to name. As the director behind such blockbusters as The Empire Strikes Back (1980) and Never Say Never Again (1983), Kershner was a much different filmmaker than the scrappy, sardonic Paul Verhoeven and it shows: RoboCop 2 is a much goofier, sillier and more over-the-top film than its predecessor…not surprisingly, it’s also a whole lot of fun.

We’re now a few years past the original film and nothing seems to have really changed: OCP is still in charge of Detroit’s police department, who are still threatening to strike; Delta City is still on the horizon as the ultimate “beautification” project; the streets are still over-run with crime and marauding gangs; and Officer Murphy (Peter Weller), aka RoboCop, is still partnered up with Officer Lewis (Nancy Allen). The big issue this time around is the emergence of a lethal, ultra-addictive new street drug called Nuke: the drug is being pushed onto the streets in mass quantities by Cain (Tom Noonan), a religious fanatic/drug dealer/wannabe-messiah who holds the city in the grip of fear thanks to his numerous bombings and terrorist activities…think of Jim Jones and The Joker mashed into one roiling ball of lunacy and you’re in the right neighborhood.

Turns out that OCP engineered the Nuke epidemic and resulting crime wave as a way to stretch Detroit’s resources and force them to default on a huge loan: if the city misses a single payment, OCP gets to swoop in and take it all, free of charge. Bastards! They’re also developing a new type of cyborg, an “improved” version that OCP’s scientists have cleverly dubbed “RoboCop 2.” The only problem with the new cyborgs are that they’re a little…well, a little…glitchy: in a bravura moment, one prototype blithely guns down an entire room of onlookers while another one rips its one face off, screaming in (literal) blood terror. The problem, as any good Frankenstein could tell you, is the brain: the project’s head researcher, the sinister Dr. Faxx (Belinda Bauer), has yet to find a brain that can survive the automation process…but you better believe it’s not for lack of looking.

After RoboCop disobeys a direct order (thanks to more of those pesky residual memories of his), OCP decides to make him more “obedient”: Dr. Faxx inputs several dozen new directives into his hard-drive, changes which, effectively, turn RoboCop into a big weenie. Once the stoic face of criminal ass-kicking, RoboCop is now a grinning, puppy-hugging, rule-following, bureaucratic wuss: as can be expected, he’s also a much less effective police officer now that he’s pathologically “nice.” As Cain and his crazy gang ramp up their assault on the city, Officer Lewis and the rest of the force must, somehow, snap RoboCop back to his old self. At the same time, Dr. Faxx approaches Cain with a once-in-a-lifetime offer: the genuine chance to become a god…or at least as close to it as he’ll ever get. Will RoboCop be able to get his mojo back in time to duke it out with the new-and-improved Cain or does OCP finally hold the fate of Detroit in its greedy, little hands?

While the majority of the humor in the first film was more subtle and blackly comic (aside from the glorious scene where RoboCop drags Leon out of the “punk” club by his hair, of course), all of the humor in the sequel is much more overt and front-and-center. This extends to the numerous fake commercials which break up the action, much as they did in the original film: this time around, the commercials are much more over-the-top and function less as cutting satire than as broader buffoonery. In some ways, the tone of the film is much closer to the sequels to Lloyd Kaufman’s Toxic Avenger (1984) in their depiction of a dystopic world gone wildly, giddily off the tracks. Like the first film, the world-building in the sequel is strong, forging a good bond between the two films. At one point, a commercial for “Sunblock 5000” casually mentions that the ozone layer is gone, while a throwaway news bit discusses a rogue satellite frying Santa Barbara in the same way that one might ask someone to pick up their dry cleaning. The details are all quite fun (if more than a little silly) and help to make the film that much more immersive.

If I really have a complaint with the film (other than the fact that it’s a solid half-step down from the original), it has to be with the main villain: while Tom Noonan really sinks his teeth into the role of Cain and runs with it, he’s absolutely no match for the inspired insanity of Kurtwood Smith’s iconic Clarence Boddicker. In many ways, Noonan is constantly upstaged by Gabriel Damon’s Hob, the ridiculously foul-mouthed kid who slings Nuke for Cain’s gang: by the latter half of the film, Hob has become the defacto leader (albeit briefly) and that’s when the villains really seem to take off. In an action film like this, you really need unforgettable, hateful villains and RoboCop 2’s just pale to the originals, unfortunately.

Cast-wise, the film brings back many of the original actors, including Weller, Allen, Dan O’Herlihy, Felton Perry and Robert DoQui (as the ever-suffering Sgt. Reed). This, of course, has the effect of creating an even stronger connection with the first film, a connection that’s reinforced by the production design: while many sequels have a “more of the same” feel, RoboCop 2 definitely feels like a continuation of a longer narrative, even if that narrative feels a bit unnecessary, by the end. In fact, it’s easy to see this sense of “continuation” as intentional, since the film has a completely open ending that not only doesn’t fully resolve the action but also directly sets up another film (a set-up which the third film, unfortunately, doesn’t make good on).

Even though RoboCop 2 is a much sillier, more weightless film than the first, there’s still a lot to like here: the more overt comedy leads to some great scenes like the ridiculous telethon where Mayor Kuzak (Willard Pugh) desperately tries to raise the funds to save Detroit (with the help of a fiddle-playing contortionist, no less!) or the giddy setpiece where a gang of Little League players commit a violent robbery and are let loose by the newly “nice” RoboCop, since they’re just kids. One interesting aspect of the film is how often we get treated to some rather eyebrow-raising moments involving the numerous child actors: they’re all saltier than a pack of sailors, with a particular favorite line being “Go fuck a refrigerator, pecker-neck!” To be honest, I don’t think I can recall a film where kids swore this much (there are plenty of films where kids engage in violent behavior, so that was considerably less surprising) and it made me bust out laughing more often than not.

Weller handles the new comedy angle with aplomb (his “nice” scenes are genuinely funny), which has the effect of humanizing Murphy to a much greater extent than the first film ever did. It’s great to have Allen back, as well, although it doesn’t feel as if she gets as much to do as she did the first time around. And, above complaint notwithstanding, Noonan is always a reliably unhinged performer: if he didn’t have such big shoes to fill, I doubt if I would have anything bad to say about his performance, to be honest.

While the sequel is a great deal goofier than the original, it’s not necessarily any less gratuitous: this time around, we get treated to an incredibly graphic brain transplant scene, along with the goofy “brain stem with googly eyes” bit that triumphantly ends the final battle. Since the film is pitched at such a comic-book level, however, the whole thing actually feels less violent than the original, which managed to ground everything in a more realistic, if still fantastic, milieu.

For the most part, I thoroughly enjoyed RoboCop 2, even if it was distinctly inferior to the original. There’s plenty of great action sequences, some genuinely funny comedic bits and a strong connection to the first film, making it pretty much essential viewing for anyone who enjoyed Verhoeven’s original. While this is nowhere hear the follow-up that either Terminator 2 (1991) or Aliens (1986) was, RoboCop 2 is a perfectly decent continuation of the franchise and a good way for fans to another dose of some good old-fashioned, cyborg law and order.

1/1/15 (Part Two): Bleed For Your Art

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35mm film, action-comedies, assassins, auteur theory, child actors, father-daughter relationships, Film auteurs, filmmaking, foreign films, Fuck Bombers, Fumi Nikaidô, Gen Hoshino, gory films, guerrilla film crew, guerrilla filmmaking, Hideo Yamamoto, Hiroki Hasegawa, husband-wife relationship, independent film crew, Itsuji Itao, Japanese cinema, Jun Kunimura, Megumi Kagurazaka, nostalgia, set in Japan, Shin'ichi Tsutsumi, Shion Sono, street gangs, stylish films, Tak Sakaguchi, Tetsu Watanabe, Tomochika, vanity project, voice-over narration, Why Don't You Play in Hell?, writer-director-score, Yakuza, Yakuza gang members

Calling gonzo Japanese auteur Shion Sono’s latest film, Why Don’t You Play in Hell? (2014), a sweetly sentimental film might seem a little nuts, especially if you’ve seen the movie. After all, isn’t this the same film that features a young girl “surfing” on an ocean of blood, Yakuza gang members as pick-up film crew, a finale that makes Kill Bill’s (2003) restaurant massacre look like a Hallmark special and a guerrilla film crew who call themselves “The Fuck Bombers” and delight in filming people throwing raw eggs at each other? All true, although none of these are really the film’s raison d’être: at its heart, WDYPIH? is about growing older, losing your dreams and the by-gone glory days of filmmaking (aka: the ones that actually used film). It might come wrapped in a stylish, candy-colored and ultra-gory wrapper but Sono’s goofy epic is, at heart, a friendly little shaggy mutt of a film: eager to please but rather unfocused, WDYPIH? is far from a masterpiece but I’m willing to wager that anyone who’s had their heart touched by the movie-making bug will find plenty to like here.

We begin 10 years in the past, as a pair of Yakuza gangs wage bloody warfare against each other: the Kitagawa and Muto clans seem evenly matched, as both gangs battle for control of the streets, but it’s a precarious balancing act and no one ever seems to be on top for long. The tide appears to turn when the Kitagawas send a team of assassins after the head of the Muto clan (Jun Kunimura) but Muto’s wife, Shizue (Tomochika), single-handedly kills the wannabe-killers, all while her young daughter, Mitsuko (Nanoka Hara) looks on in wide-eyed wonder. Shizue is sent to prison for her hand in the massacre (one would think some leniency would be in order, since it was basically Shizue defending herself against a group of attackers, although the point where she chased an injured guy into the street and butchered him might have thrown a monkey-wrench into the “self-defense” defense), Muto takes a mistress to “help him get through the hard times” and the Kitagawas reorganize themselves around Ikegami (Shin’ichi Tsutsumi), the only survivor of the original attempt on Muto’s life.

At this same time, we meet The Fuck Bombers, a young trio of guerrilla filmmakers led by Hirata (Hiroki Hasegawa), their far-beyond-driven director/de facto leader. The group recruits Bruce Lee-enthusiast Sasaki (Tak Sakaguchi) into their ranks, in order to shoot the action epics that they so dearly love. While out filming, the Bombers run straight into Ikegami, who’s fleeing the Muto house in a state of very bloody disrepair: he lets them shoot some footage of him, because he’s “cool” and then makes his escape. As fate would have it, however, this isn’t the last time this little group will cross paths…not by a long shot.

10 years later, Shizue is ready to be released from prison and her husband wants to give her the best present possible: a movie starring their beloved daughter, Mitsuko (Fumi Nikaidô). Unfortunately, the surly Mitsuko hates acting and has run away, throwing the whole production into jeopardy. Muto dispatches his gang to track her down and return her to him: at the same time, Ikegami prepares his gang to take another shot at the Muto empire and the Fuck Bombers are experiencing a bit of crisis. It seems that Sasaki is sick and tired of talking about making movies: Hirata keeps promising that they’ll make the “film of a lifetime” but it’s always “tomorrow,” never today. After ten years of “tomorrows,” Sasaki throws in the towel and quits, in disgust, leaving the FBs without their “action star.”

All of these disparate groups come crashing together when the FBs end up getting recruited (in a very roundabout way) by Muto in order to finish his vanity project. With Mitsuko back on board (no matter how unwillingly) and Hirata and the others eager to begin their “ultimate movie,” the stage is now set for some filmmaking magic. But what to film? As someone cannily notes, the Mutos and Kitagawas are preparing for one more, epic, bloody battle: why not turn the camera inward and capture the carnage as it happens? From this point on, the dividing line between fantasy and reality is shattered: as Hirata and the Fuck Bombers “stage” the battle, real blood sprays, real limbs are hacked and real Yakuza members are serving as the crew. It’s the ultimate “snuff” movie, as Hirata and his crew gleefully film the chaos swirling around them, always one step ahead of the gun (and the blade). Who will survive, what will be left of them but, most importantly: will they get the shot they need?

As should be rather clear from the above description, there’s an awful lot of stuffing crammed into this particular sausage-skin, even for a film that comes out a little over the two-hour mark. Despite all of the disparate elements (there are actually even more subplots and strands running through this than I mentioned, including a love story for Mitsuko and Ikegami’s obsession with returning the Kitagawas to the feudal days of Japan’s distant past), however, the film never feels particularly jumbled, probably because the Fuck Bombers storyline serves as the glue that holds everything else together.

Despite the fact that it all fits, however, WDYPIH? never feels as cohesive as it could be: the various threads tend to connect on a visual/stylistic level but don’t cohere as well on a thematic level. Even worse, however, WDYPIH? never quite feels like it completely cuts loose: despite the rather phenomenal level of bloodshed, especially in the climax, the film is actually so good-natured and goofy as to be relatively low-stakes. This is an especially strange complaint when one considers how many people die in this: if the numbers are in the double digits, they might as well be in the triple digits. By the conclusion, however, it seems that everyone is alive and well, ready to begin the next adventure as if everyone had been reset, ala Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. While this might have been some sort of commentary on the illusory aspect of film, it might also have stemmed from the desire to not “harsh our mellow,” so to speak. To be honest, I’m not really sure what the intention was: Sono sets up a pitch-black, nihilistic finale only to wrap it all up with a sunny, almost cartoonish bit and I was mildly confused, to say the least. Perhaps I missed something on the first go through but this particular quirk left me more than a little cold.

On a purely nuts-and-bolts level, WDYPIH? looks fantastic but the over-reliance on chintzy CGI effects, especially blood, really drags it all down a peg or two. When the effects work, such as in the blood surfing setpiece, it works fabulously. When the effects are poorly integrated and too obvious, ala much of the gore-drenched finale, it tended to pull me right out of the film. I can certainly understand the need to use CGI for many of the more outrageous effects (flying limbs, sword through the head, etc) but there are far too many points where an obviously CGI puddle of blood sticks out like a sore thumb. As someone who’s always been hot-and-cold on CGI effects, one of my all-time pet peeves is poorly done CGI blood: even ketchup would be more convincing, for Pete’s sake!

Ultimately, Why Don’t You Play in Hell? was a film that I really wanted to love but I could never quite clear the hurdles to get to that point. The film is never boring and when it’s good, it can be mind-rattlingly good: the blurring of real fighting and filmed choreography, in the climax, is pretty damn genius and there are plenty of genuinely funny cracks about independent filmmaking peppered throughout the script. Some of the fight sequences are also fairly jaw-dropping: the scene where Mitsuko spins around and decapitates an entire room full of assailants is exactly as cool as it sounds. Fumi Nikaidô is actually kind of great as the grown-up Mitsuko (the bit with her and the “broken glass kiss” is pretty amazing) and Tak Sakaguchi was a real hoot as Sasaki (he even kind of looked like Bruce Lee, at times, which was a neat trick) but too many of the other characters come and go without making much impact.

There’s definitely a lot to absorb here and I’ll admit to being a real sucker for the film’s discussion about the glory days of 35mm film: they’re preaching to the choir but I still appreciate the sentiment. At the end of the day, however, Why Don’t You Play in Hell?, despite a fairly unique angle and some outrageous ideas, never really seems like it comes into its own: neither as shocking as it probably means to be nor as emotionally resonate, Sono’s film kind of sits in a neutral zone, cooling its heels while much better (and much worse) films wage war around it. The middle-ground is always the safest place to be, but it’s not always the most interesting. While Shion Sono’s Why Don’t You Play in Hell? is a good enough film, I can’t help but wonder if it would have been more fun as a spectacular failure.

12/28/14 (Part Two): Great Ed Helms’ Ghost!

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action-comedies, After Hours, Ben Bray, Brooklyn Decker, Chris Pine, cinema, comedies, David Hasselhoff, eccentric billionaire, Ed Helms, film reviews, films, James Badge Dale, Jessica Alba, Joe Carnahan, limo driver, Matthew Willig, Movies, Narc, Patrick Wilson, Randy Couture, Ray Liotta, Shaun Toub, Smokin' Aces, Stretch, True Romance, voice-over narration, writer-director

You’ve gotta hand it to writer-director Joe Carnahan: from the Guy Ritchie-baiting hyperactivity of Smokin’ Aces (2006) to the brooding, troubled tough-guy-copisms of Narc (2002)…from the standard-issue “blow shit up” aesthetic of his A-Team (2010) remake to the “tough guys stranded in the harsh wilderness with ravenous wolves” romp that was The Grey (2011)…Carnahan has found a way to represent pretty much every flavor of macho cinematic action trope possible. As if ticking another possibility off a long list, the writer-director’s follow-up to his previous hit, the Liam Neeson-starring The Grey, takes a stab at another enduring staple of tough-guy cinema: the tough guy car film. In this case, Stretch (2014) is a return to Carnahan’s more tongue-in-cheek material, ala Smokin’ Aces, as he eschews the self-flagellation of The Grey in favor of some good, old-fashioned, high-energy action hi-jinks.

Kevin (Patrick Wilson), aka Stretch, is a sad sack actor wannabe who moves to L.A. in search of fame and fortune but ends up driving a limo instead. His boss, Nasseem (Shaun Toub), is a tyrant; Stretch is constantly losing clients to his company’s mysterious rival, the nearly mystical, long maned figure known as The Jovi (Randy Couture); and his “mentor” was the supernaturally efficient Karl (Ed Helms), who blew his brains out, went to Hell and returned with a bitchin’ mustache. Karl now appears to Stretch as a sort of ghost/hallucination/ego manifestation and basically gets to act out the “bad boy” impulses that he resisted while alive. To makes matters even better, Stretch owes six grand to loan shark Iggy (Ben Bray) and the reluctant leg-breaker needs to collect post-haste. In short: poor Stretch is kinda fucked.

Into this sky of dark clouds pops a tiny sliver of sunlight when Stretch’s doting dispatcher, Charlie (Jessica Alba) hips him to a “white whale”: eccentric billionaire Roger Karos (an uncredited Chris Pine) is in need of a ride for the evening and he’s been known to tip thousands of dollars at a time. After finally meeting up, Karos offers Stretch the deal of a lifetime: if he’ll be his faithful servant for the evening, Karos will make Stretch’s money problems instantly disappear. In no position to refuse, Stretch sets out on the adventure of a lifetime as he sets out on an evening that will include a mysterious sex club, drug deals, crazy valets, FBI stings, double-crosses, true love, high-speed chases, angry limo drivers, conniving rap stars and enough danger to choke a horse. For most people, it would be the ultimate nightmare. For Stretch, it’s just another night in the City of Angels.

For the most part, Stretch is an entertaining, if distinctly low-brow and, occasionally,excessively dumb, film. Forgoing the po-faced solemnity of The Grey, Carnahan is much more interested in a high-speed romp this time around and it’s definitely a refreshing change of pace. The film is actually full of some pretty good setpieces, including several high-octane scenes involving the speeding limo that are ridiculously thrilling. Carnahan also gets excellent work from Wilson, who’s quickly developing a name for these kinds of B-level genre flicks. While his tough guy posturing can get a little eye-rolling, at times, Wilson is consistently fun and is a big reason for any success the film has. If there was ever a doubt that Wilson is leading man material, let Stretch show that he’s charismatic enough to effortlessly top the marquee, especially in this kind of breezy material.

While Wilson gets able support from a decent supporting cast that includes Jessica Alba in a low-key, rather sweet role, there are two areas where the whole enterprise kind of deflates: Ed Helms and Chris Pine. In the case of Helms, there just isn’t a lot for him to do: essentially reduced to a ghost within the film’s first five minutes, he’s pretty much trotted out for over-the-top comic relief (the mustache is silly but his new ‘tude is even sillier) and any sense of character development evaporates. Pine, for his part, just isn’t up to the kind of subtle, twisted menace that’s so integral to the character of Roger Karos: in his hands, the billionaire comes off as more of a quirky doofus who experiences an eleventh-hour transition into Bond villain territory that feels utterly inauthentic. It’s not so much that Pine is bad: he’s not amazing but it’s not embarrassing, either. It’s more that the character of Karos demands an unforgettable representation and Pine just ain’t it.

All in all, Stretch is a fun, if decidedly non-essential, action-comedy, sort of a poor-man’s True Romance (1993), although I’m wondering if Scorsese’s After Hours (1985) might not be a more apt comparison. Thanks to some great action setpieces and a solid lead performance from Patrick Wilson, however, there’s enough good stuff here to make this an easy recommendation for anyone in need of a quick adrenaline fix. Plus, you get the inherent joy of watching David Hasselhoff play a foul-mouthed, evil-tempered version of himself and that’s gotta be worth something, right?

6/28/14 (Part Two): Always Bet on Kurt

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A Beginner's Guide to Endings, action-comedies, art forgeries, art thefts, caper films, Chris Diamantopoulos, cinema, Crunch Calhoun, Evel Knievel, film reviews, films, heist films, Jason Jones, Jay Baruchel, Jonathan Sobol, Katheryn Winnick, Kenneth Welsh, Kurt Russell, Matt Dillon, Movies, Terrence Stamp, The Art of the Steal, vagina scupltures, voice-over narration, writer-director

From Snake Plissken to R.J. MacReady to Captain Ron, Stuntman Mike and Jack Burton, Kurt Russell has been responsible for some of the most iconic film characters over the past 30+ years. He’s an old-fashioned matinée action hero, a take-charge joker who’s goofy grin, ruggedly handsome looks and way with a quip have been bowling audiences over for decades. As someone who worshiped films like Escape From New York (1981) and The Thing (1982) while growing up, I learned pretty early on that Russell was capable of elevating anything, be it low-budget exploitation film or silly Disney movie. Over time, Russell became one of my favorite actors: I’ve seen plenty of films that I never would have were it not for Russell (the odious Tango and Cash (1989) immediately springs to mind, as does the old Disney film The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes (1969)) and most of his “classics” also rank among my favorite films. Simply put: Russell can do no wrong, in my book, which makes anything he’s in “must-see.” This leads us directly to this day’s offering, Jonathan Sobol’s The Art of the Steal (2013). How’s ol’ Kurt hold up? Do you really have to ask?

We begin with Crunch Calhoun (Kurt Russell) beginning a seven-year sentence in a suitably awful Warsaw prison before jumping back a little to see the botched heist that put him there. It seems that Crunch was involved in a “can’t miss” art theft that ends up missing spectacularly after he’s sold up the river by his own half-brother, the irredeemably slimy Nicky (Matt Dillon). Fast-forward 5.5 years (he was obviously a well-behaved prisoner) and Crunch is once again a free man, making his living as a stunt motorcycle rider who throws events for extra cash. This doesn’t sit well with his best-friend/assistant, Francie (Jay Baruchel), who knows that Crunch is capable of much more. Crunch’s constant injuries don’t bother his greedy girlfriend, Lola (Katheryn Winnick). however, who just wants Crunch to keep her in the lifestyle to which she wholeheartedly believes she’s owed.

As luck would have it, Crunch ends up back in Nicky’s orbit after he’s roughed up by another of Nicky’s double-crossed partners, Sunny (Dax Ravina), a dumbass who threatens poor Crunch with an antique pirate’s pistol. When Crunch goes to yell at Nicky, he discovers that Nicky is planning another big heist, a complicated theft that also involves Crunch’s old pals Paddy (Kenneth Welsh) and Guy (Chris Diamantopoulos). Since Lola keeps demanding more and more money from Crunch, he reluctantly agrees to join the heist, Francie in tow. While this is going on, one of the gang’s former compatriots, Sam Winter (Terrence Stamp), has been forced into the informant game by oily Interpol agent Bick (Jason Jones). Bick wants Sam’s help in taking down Nicky and his gang, while all that Sam wants is the chance to finally retire and get out of the game once and for all. All of these friends, enemies and turncoats end up colliding in an uproarious caper that involves the second book ever printed on the Guttenberg press, a giant vagina sculpture, a fake priest and Francie dressed up like an Amish man. Through it all, however, one question remains: has Nicky mended his treacherous ways or is there a more devious plot going on? Old habits may die hard but you can’t keep a good Crunch down.

The Art of the Steal, for lack of a better word, is a minor gem, an absolutely hilarious, break-neck-paced, character-driven action film that’s sent into the stratosphere by the deadly combination of a fantastic script and a wonderful ensemble cast. There are so many genuinely funny set-pieces and great bits of dialogue that the film is an absolute joy to watch. When a film is glutted with this much good stuff, it’s hard to pick out my favorites but there’s plenty that stands out: the antagonistic relationship between Bick and Sam…Francie trying to cross the border dressed like he’s Amish (after explaining that he’s involved in a stage version of Witness, Franchie is asked if he has anything to declare: “The play is terrible,” he quips back)…the giant vagina sculpture that factors heavily into the caper…Diamantopoulos’ ridiculously fussy art-forger Guy, who’s more interested in his own abilities than fooling people with his forgeries…the list goes on and on. Writer-director Sobol seems equally gifted whether penning dialogue or scenarios, something that not all comedic writers excel at: the script is actually good enough that it would have been a pretty decent film without the cast. But, oh boy…that cast…

Sobol’s film is gifted with one of the most dynamic, well-matched ensemble casts that I’ve seen in some time. Russell is predicatably awesome as Crunch, a sort of low-rent, self-defeated Evel Knievel but the rest of the cast are no slouches: Dillon brings just the right amount of “nice-guy” to his sleazeball character, while Welsh, Diamantopoulos and Baruchel are perfectly cast as the remainder of the gang (Baruchel, in particular, is great). Stamp brings just the right amount of gravitas to his performance as Sam, perhaps giving us a peek into the “retired” life of some of his more famous gangster characters, and plays well against the simpering stupidity that is Jones’ Interpol agent. There’s a great bit where Sam tells Bick that he wouldn’t recognize a vagina if it were 4 feet tall and staring him in the face: later, Bick comes face-to-face with the vagina sculpture and his confounded “What’s that?” has to be one of the best moments in the film.

From a craft standpoint, Sobol uses a bit of a “kitchen-sink approach,” ala Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998): lots of on-screen text descriptors, multiple voice overs and perspectives, dates/times defined for everything. While it may all seem a bit much, it actually works spectacularly well with the complicated storyline. The heists, particularly the final one, are all immaculately plotted, which is a real sink-or-swim moments for caper films. Not only are they kinetic, visually interesting and well-plotted but the heists actually make sense: I’m not saying that any of this would be possible but I’ll be damned if Sobol doesn’t make it all seem rather likely.

Sobol was also responsible for the above-average A Beginner’s Guide to Endings (2010), so this is clearly one writer-director to keep a close eye on. At the end of the day, The Art of the Steal isn’t just a great Kurt Russell film: it’s a great film, period. With a witty, thorny script, plenty of great set-pieces, a superb ensemble cast and loads of laughs, The Art of the Steal is a modern classic. Looks like Crunch Calhoun gets to join that “Kurt Russell Character Hall of Fame”: I’m betting that he gets along just fine with Snake, A.J. and the rest of the guys.

3/5/14: Lukewarm, At Best

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action-comedies, Ashburn, Bridesmaids, buddy cop films, buddy films, cinema, cop films, Dan Bakkedahl, film reviews, films, Jane Curtin, Lethal Weapon, Loaded Weapon, Marlon Wayans, Melissa McCarthy, Michael McDonald, Michael Rapaport, Movies, Mullins, Paul Feig, Sandra Bullock, Taran Killam, The Heat

After over-dosing on Oscar nominated films in the week leading up to the ceremony, a little break was in order. Taking a few days to catch up on the odd TV show here and there, I returned to the cinematic world with The Heat, Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy’s recent buddy-cop-comedy. Was this Heat on fire or had the pilot-light gone out? The answer, gentle readers, lies beyond.

Sometimes, a film can simultaneously meet your expectations and disappoint them. To be frankly honest, I didn’t go into The Heat expecting much but I was more than open for being unexpectedly impressed. I liked Paul Feig’s previous film, Bridesmaids, but didn’t love it, finding it to be way too uneven and unnecessarily crude. I’d seen pre-release trailers for The Heat that did nothing for me, pitching the movie in a strange place between a straight action flick and a silly comedy, although none of the jokes worked (for me, at least). I like both Bullock and McCarthy in doses but find either one to be rather unbearable in certain roles. This film really could have gone either way with me but, unfortunately, it seemed a bit more content to plow a rather confused middle ground. When it worked, however, The Heat was really something. Too bad, then, that it didn’t work more often.

We’re first introduced to Ashburn (Bullock) in the middle of a big drug bust. She’s the kind of by-the-book, ultra-driven, almost psychic cop (in this case, FBI agent) that seems to exist solely to collect commendations and peer derision in equal numbers. She has her eye on a supervisory position at the Bureau but her boss isn’t convinced that she can play nice with others (spoiler: she can’t). In order to test her mettle for a potential promotion, Ashburn is sent to Boston in order to retrieve a mysterious bad-guy by the name of Larkin. Once there, she must work with a scruffy, foul-mouthed undercover cop named Mullins (McCarthy), the polar-opposite of Ashburn’s stuck-up, Type-A personality. As expected, Ashburn and Mullins get along like water and oil, making it exceedingly difficult to get anything done. With her boss and two pushy DEA agents (Taran Killam and Dan Bakkedahl) constantly on her ass, Ashburn must do the unthinkable: treat Mullins like an actual, honest-to-god person! Will Ashburn and Mullins get their man? Will Ashburn get her promotion? Will Mullins ever go more than two minutes without saying “fuck”? The answers, probably, won’t surprise you.

As with Bridesmaids, the biggest problem with The Heat ends up being its inconsistency. When the film is funny, it’s very funny. Bullock gets several choice moments (my two favorites being the scene where she snuggles with a cat only for it to be revealed that it’s the neighbor’s cat and the point where she apologizes profusely to a mother and infant in a bar only to realize that the baby had no business in the bar) that play against audience expectations and the “fish-out-of-water” element works quite well, at least as far as she’s concerned. McCarthy, though much less consistent than Bullock, also gets some good airtime, although the vast majority of her character’s inherent “humor” seems to come from her ridiculously filthy language, a gimmick which immediately grows old. McCarthy gets one truly bravura scene where she chases a pimp first by car, then on foot, becoming injured in the process but continuing the pursuit (albeit in drastically slowed down form). The chase ends with McCarthy pegging the pimp in the head with a watermelon, more out of frustration than anything else, and the whole thing is perfectly staged.

There’s plenty of choice dialogue, as well, most of it centered around the prickly relationship between Ashburn and Mullins. The two have pretty exquisite comic timing and the best lines (“I’m not trying to be rude,” Ashburn says regarding Mullins’ apartment, “but you could catch a MRSA infection in here.” After staring at her for a beat, Mullins dryly replies: “What part of that wasn’t rude?”) come across as both smart and funny. Unfortunately, the film also has a tendency to wallow in over-inflated action-film clichés (part of the joke, I suppose, like Hot Fuzz) which results in moments like the one where Bullock shouts “You gave me a ring, motherfucker” in her best John McClane mode, only to have it come across as limp parody. As a rule, the two halves fit uneasily together, resulting in scenes like the one where Ashburn performs a very messy tracheotomy in a crowded restaurant. Hot Fuzz had a similar tonal issue but Edgar Wright was much more skilled at giving each side of the coin a cohesive identity…at least more successful than Feig is.

More than anything, The Heat is frustrating because there are constant reminders of the film it could have been, particularly with more judicious editing. The film is long for an action-comedy (almost two hours) and feels every minute of it. In particular, the first 40 minutes of the movie are a drag, although things pick up considerably after the mid-point. Shorn of a good 30-40 minutes, The Heat would have been immeasurably tighter, although this current trend towards “more is better” run times indicates that this trend is only getting started. At this point, I look forward to the first 3-hour A Haunted House film.

Ultimately, The Heat is a fun, flawed and occasionally outstanding action-comedy but pretty weightless. It’s hard to say how this would have ended up with a different director or as a shorter overall film but there’s enough good material here to keep most fans satisfied. Here’s to hoping, however, that Bullock and McCarthy eventually get the starrer that they both deserve: until then, The Heat does a pretty decent job.