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.

 

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6/7/15 (Part Two): The Heart and the Loneliest Hunter

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A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night, addicts, Alex O'Flinn, Amirpour, Ana Lily Amirpour, Arash Marandi, atmospheric films, Bad City, based on a short, black and white film, black-and-white cinematography, cinema, death, Dominic Rains, dramas, drug addiction, drug dealers, evocative, fantasy, father-son relationships, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, French New Wave, ghost town, horror films, Iranian-American, isolated communities, Jim Jarmusch, John Hughes, loneliness, Lyle Vincent, Marshall Manesh, Milad Eghbali, moody films, Movies, Mozhan Marnò, romances, Rome Shadanloo, Sam Kramer, set in Iran, Sheila Vand, skateboarders, spaghetti Westerns, street urchin, stylish films, vampires, writer-director-producer

Billed as “the first Iranian vampire Western,” writer-director-producer Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014) is an endlessly fascinating debut, a thoroughly confident horror-art piece that manages to turn its grab-bag of cinematic influences into something effortlessly cool. More Dead Man (1995) than Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), Amirpour’s film throws gorgeous black and white cinematography, nods to the French New Wave, German Expressionism, the holy trinity of Jarmusch, Bergman and Jeunet and the ’80s youth flicks of John Hughes into a blender and hits “puree.” While the results aren’t perfect, AGWHAAN is still a stunning feature-film debut from an amazingly talented new filmmaker and a necessary addition to the existing bloodsucker canon.

Amirpour’s debut (based on an earlier short) concerns the various residents of the Iranian town of Bad City. A virtual ghost town, Bad City appears to be inhabited solely by drug addicts, prostitutes, pimps/pushers, hustlers and the odd street urchin, here and there. Our humble hero, Arash (Arash Marandi), is a hustler who looks like he stepped straight out of East of Eden (1955): with his white t-shirt, blue jeans, omnipresent sunglasses and vintage muscle car, he’s a classic rebel without a cause. His father, Hossein (Marshall Manesh), is a pathetic junkie who owes a wad of cash to the local pimp/dealer, Saeed (Dominic Rains). For his part, Saeed is a philosophical, if thick-headed, thug who isn’t above taking Arash’s car as partial payment for his dad’s debt, while ruling his “girls” with an iron fist. One such “employee” is Atti (Mozhan Marnò), the sad-eyed, thirty-year-old prostitute who plies her trade on the barren, empty streets of Bad City, overshadowed by the towering oil derricks in the background.

As these various sad-sacks go about their repetitive routines, a new force emerges to shake up the status quo: a mysterious, silent young woman (Sheila Vand) has taken to stalking the streets, doling out death to any who cross her path. When the vampiric girl puts a permanent end to Saeed, Arash seizes the opportunity and attempts to fill the void left by the drug dealer. As Atti and the mysterious girl form a bond, however, Arash finds himself similarly drawn to the enigmatic figure. What does the young woman really want? What does the future hold for Bad City and its shadowy residents? One thing’s for certain: if you have to be out after dark, be sure to stay far, far away from the girl walking home alone…your very life may depend on it!

Lush, hazy, hypnotic and vaguely hallucinatory, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night is the kind of film that you wrap around yourself like a cozy blanket, consciously giving yourself up to its warm embrace. While the pacing and visuals often bring to mind a perfect synthesis of Jim Jarmusch and Ingmar Bergman’s respective styles (the scene where the Girl skateboards down the center of the deserted street is framed in a way that turns her into the spitting image of Death from the iconic Seventh Seal (1957), while the film’s numerous long takes and relative lack of forward momentum handily recalls the aforementioned Dead Man), Amirpour’s influences are far more wide-reaching than something as simple as “Indie 101.”

Rather, Amirpour has taken a range of different styles and influences and made them all work towards a common goal: in this case, the goal being the film’s all-encompassing sense of foreboding atmosphere. Along with the more traditional indie influences, there are several strong, direct nods to the ’80s youth films of John Hughes (the lovely scene involving Arash, the Girl, a mirror ball and the White Lies’ song “Death” is one of the best examples but certainly not the only one), as well as a strong Spaghetti Western undercurrent (the wonderfully evocative score, locations and sense of big, empty spaces is pure Leone, through and through). On paper, Amirpour’s debut might sound like a rather head-scratching gumbo but the results speak for themselves: thanks to the Iranian-American filmmaker’s deft touch, everything comes together beautifully, giving the film the sort of unifying style befitting something like Jeunet’s exquisitely-crafted fantasias.

While the evocative score and beautiful cinematography (Lyle Vincent, who also shot the upcoming Cooties (2015), is an absolute wizard with a camera) help to give the film a sense of dreamy unreality, the acting keeps everything from dissolving into just another morass of pretty images. Marandi is a suitably cool, aloof “antihero,” while Manesh brings enough genuine regret to his portrayal of the sad-sack, aging junkie to make his character decidedly more complex than he might have been. Rains brings an interesting, almost empathetic quality to his portrayal of the sleazy pimp/dealer, calling to mind a less outwardly insane version of Gary Oldman’s iconic Drexl.

Most impressive, however, are Mozhan Marnò as the melancholy Atti and Sheila Vand as the titular vampire. In both cases, the actresses do a tremendous amount with as little as possible: Marnò is able to express entire worlds of sadness and sensuality with nothing so much as a half-smile and a look from her piercing eyes, while Vand’s portrayal of the Girl is nothing short of ethereal and completely alien. In many ways, Vand’s Girl is similar to Scarlett Johansson’s Female in the similarly eerie Under the Skin (2013): other-worldly, curious, nearly mute and of constant interest to the males around them, the Girl and the Female could certainly share a common bloodline, even if their ultimate goals differ wildly.

Amirpour’s hazy film is many things (seductive, sad, odd, cool and hypnotic being but a few) but it also manages to nail one of the most important aspects of any horror film: when necessary, the film is also genuinely scary. Although the Girl’s attacks have a tendency to rely on some decidedly stereotypical musical stings and old-as-the-hills “scary voices,” the pacing, framing and sense of impeding dread are all masterfully executed, resulting in some great, unique scares. The scene where the Girl stalks a young street urchin is a virtual master-class in how to build and execute: the fact that Amirpour also manages to throw in a clever reference to Fritz Lang’s child-killer classic M (1931) is only frosting on a very tasty cake.

Despite being thoroughly impressed by A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, there were a few elements that let a bit of air out of the proceedings. The aforementioned vampire stereotypes are problematic only because the rest of the film is so clever: at times, relying on the same stock clichés as other vamp films does more to pull Amirpour’s film down than it does to unite it with a common cinematic sensibility. I was also less than on board with the more verite, handheld-shaky-cam style of certain scenes, usually those involving Hossein’s drug use and withdrawal pains. Not only was the handheld style a distinct step-down from the gorgeous cinematography but the “drug scenes” had a different flow and pace that jarred against the rest of the film’s more dreamy atmosphere. In truth, all of these moments could have been cut without damaging the rest of the meticulously crafted narrative.

All in all, Amirpour’s debut feature is a real showstopper, the kind of film that kicks in the door and practically demands your undivided attention. While her debut was set in Iran (although filmed in California), Amirpour’s next film will, apparently, be a “dystopic love story, set in a cannibal compound, in a Texas wasteland,” featuring the combined talents of Keanu Reeves, Jim Carrey, Giovanni Ribisi, Jason Mamoa and the always amazing Yolonda Ross. In other words, it looks like Amirpour is going to continue her fearless genre-splicing. I’m willing to wager that her next feature will grab the world by the scruff of the neck and shake it silly. If it’s half as impressive as her debut, I’ll be the first person in line.

5/26/15: He’s Got the World Up His Ass

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abusive relationships, America's Cup, Andy Canny, Angus Sampson, Australia, Australian films, based on a true story, Chris Pang, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, corrupt law enforcement, crime thriller, dark films, dramas, drug dealers, drug mule, drug smuggling, Ewen Leslie, film reviews, films, Fletcher Humphrys, foreign films, Geoff Morrell, Georgina Haig, Hugo Weaving, Ilya Altman, Insidious, Jaime Browne, John Noble, Leigh Whannell, mother-son relationships, Movies, multiple directors, multiple writers, Noni Hazlehurst, period-piece, Richard Davies, Saw, set in 1980s, set in Australia, Stefan Duscio, The Mule, Tony Mahony, writer-director-actor

If you think about it, being a drug mule has to have one of the worst risk-to-reward ratios of any job, roughly equitable to being the royal food taster in medieval times. Let’s see…you get to swallow multiple, latex-bundled packages full of potentially lethal narcotics, any of which could burst, come open or leak out into your stomach, flipping the hourglass on what could be the last, miserable moments of your existence. If this works out, you then get the white-knuckle thrill-ride of attempting to bypass police, customs, airport security and drug enforcement officials, often in countries where illegal drug possession carries a life sentence (if you’re lucky) or something a bit more permanent (if you’re not).

Get through all of that in one piece and you still have to deal with whomever gave you the job in the first place: historically, drug traffickers haven’t been known to be the most trust-worthy folks, so there’s still every possibility that you’ll get a bullet to the face instead of an envelope of cash for your troubles. Of course, if it all works out perfectly, well…you get to repeat the whole process all over again, rolling the dice anew every step of the way. Small wonder they don’t talk about this one on career day, eh?

While drug mule might not be the profession of choice for most, there’s always a first time for everything: under the right (or wrong) circumstances, the role of smuggler’s little helper might be the only one available. This, of course, is the crux of actor Angus Sampson’s co-directorial debut (he shares the role with Tony Mahony), the appropriately named The Mule (2014). Pulling triple-duty, Sampson co-writes, co-directs and stars in the film as the titular character, a meek, down-trodden nebbish who, quite literally, ends up sticking his future right where the sun doesn’t shine. In the process, Sampson and company come up with one of the most intense, unpleasant and genuinely impressive films of last year, a roller-coaster ride where the weak of stomach would be well-advised to keep a bucket close at hand, while those who like their entertainment pitch-black might just find a new favorite for their collections.

Set in Melbourne, circa 1983, we meet poor Ray Jenkins (Sampson), the kind of salt-of-the-earth, blue-collar guy who seems tailor-made for getting screwed over in film noirs. A rather simple TV repairman who’s really into his footie team, loves his mom (Noni Hazlehurst) and step-dad (Geoff Morell) and can chug a pint of beer faster than most folks can blink, Ray seems to have a pretty decent life. He’s also lifelong mates with Gavin (co-writer Leigh Whannell), who happens to be the captain of Ray’s football team…when he isn’t trafficking drugs for the team’s president, the by-turns jovial and terrifying Pat (John Noble), that is.

When the team decides to take a trip to Thailand to celebrate the end of another successful season, Gavin and Pat see it as the perfect opportunity to bring back another half key of heroin. Although he initially refuses Gavin’s request to help mule the drugs, he changes his tune once he realizes that his step-dad, John, is up to his eyeballs in debt to Pat: if Ray doesn’t help, Pat and his over-sized Russian thug will take John apart and put him back together upside down.

Once Gavin and Ray get to Thailand, however, Gavin calls an audible: he purchases an extra half key of product with the express purpose of selling it himself, without Pat’s knowledge. Despite changing his mind and wanting out, Ray is manipulated into swallowing the entire key of heroin, separated out into a multitude of condom-wrapped packages. With a gut full of drugs and enough anxiety for an entire continent, Ray makes it back to the Australian airport but gets busted after he acts like the kind of twitchy idiot who normally, you know, mules drugs.

Separated from his family, his mates and his normal life, Ray is taken to a motel by a couple of hard-ass detectives, Paris (Ewen Leslie) and Croft (Hugo Weaving), after he refuses to either admit to smuggling drugs or submit to a stomach x-ray. Paris and Croft make the situation quite clear: they’ll keep Ray there, under 24-hour surveillance, until they get the drugs…one way or another. From this point on, it becomes a (literal) fight against the clock, as Ray does everything he can to make sure that the drugs stay right where they are. The record for a mule keeping drugs in his system is 10 days, Croft smugly tells Ray: if he can “hold it” for longer, he’ll be a free man.

While Ray is staying true-blue from the isolation of his motel room prison, however, things are a little dicier on the outside. After figuring out what happened, Pat decides that Ray has become too much of a liability and tasks his best friend with the job of silencing him, once and for all. As all of these forces swirl around him, Ray, with the help of his cheerful public defender, Jasmine (Georgina Haig), puts a final, desperate plan into action. Pat and Gavin aren’t the only threats to his existence, however: sometimes, the baddest people are the ones you least suspect.

From the jump, The Mule is a ridiculously self-assured film, the kind of effortless thriller that the Coens used to pump out in their sleep. Despite this being his first full-length directorial effort, Sampson reveals a complete mastery over the film’s tone, triple impressive considering that he also co-wrote and stars in it. There’s never a point in the film where Ray is anything less than completely sympathetic and some of Sampson’s scenes are so unbelievably powerful that it’s rather impossible for me to believe no one saw fit to nominate him for any kind of acting award. In particular, the showstopping scene where Ray needs to re-ingest the packages is one of the most powerful, painful bits of acting I’ve ever seen. The biggest compliment I can pay Sampson is that he actually becomes Ray: it’s an astonishingly immersive performance.

Sampson isn’t the only actor who goes above and beyond, however: if anything, The Mule is a showcase for intense, masterful performances. Whannell, perhaps best known as the co-creator of the Saw franchise, along with James Wan, is perfect as Ray’s best mate/biggest problem. Weaving and Leslie are, likewise, perfect as the bad cop/bad cop duo, with Weaving turning in the kind of terrifying performance that should make folks remember how versatile and valuable he’s always been. Haig does some really interesting things with her portrayal of Ray’s lawyer, adding some shading and subtle deviousness to a character who could have been a crusading do-gooder on paper. Hazlehurst and Morrell are excellent as Ray’s loving parents, with each of them getting some nice opportunities to shine on their own: the scene where Hazlehurst tries to force-feed Ray some laxative-doped lamp is pretty unforgettable, as is the one where Morrell drunkenly confronts Pat and his murderous restaurant employee, Phuk (a likewise excellent Chris Pang).

And speaking of Pat: let’s take a few moments to sing the praises of John Noble, shall we? As an actor, Noble seems to have the singular ability to not only crawl beneath the skin of many a reprehensible character but beneath the audience’s skin, as well: in a long-line of memorable roles, Pat Shepard is, easily, one of Noble’s best and scariest. Riding the fine-line between joviality and cold-blooded, murderous evil, Pat is a perfect villain and Noble lustily grabs the film with both hands whenever he’s on-screen.

While the acting in The Mule is strictly top-notch, it also helps considerably that the actors have such a great script to work with. Loosely (very loosely) based on true incidents in Sampson and Whannell’s native Australia, The Mule is lean, mean and exquisitely plotted, breathlessly swinging from Ray’s motel imprisonment to Pat’s outside machinations with stunning ease. Full of great dialogue, thrilling setpieces and nicely intuitive emotional beats, The Mule reinforces that Sampson and Whannell are one of the most formidable teams in modern cinema. Throw in some excellent, evocative camerawork, courtesy of Stefan Duscio, along with a great score by Cornel Wilczek and Mikey Young, and you have a film that looks and sounds great: there are no smudged brushstrokes or missing lines in this particular “painting.”

To sum it up: I absolutely loved The Mule from start to finish. Smart, twisted, endlessly entertaining and constantly thrilling, it was nothing short of a minor masterpiece. At times reminiscent of the Coens’ iconic Fargo (1996), at other times bringing to mind Sam Raimi’s relentlessly bleak, under-rated A Simple Plan (1998), Sampson’s The Mule still manages to carve out its own unique acre of cinematic real estate. While you might not think that a film about a man steadfastly refusing to take a shit for over a week is your cup of tea, I’m here to tell you to think again: if you like smart, edgy films with brilliant acting, you’d be an absolute fool to pass up The Mule. Suffice to say, I’ll be sitting right here, breathlessly awaiting the next Sampson/Whannell joint: I’d advise you to do the same.

4/2/15: Uncle Scam

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9/11/01, Alexis Rodney, Anna Paquin, anti-authority, army base, bad soldiers, based on a book, betrayal, Brian Delate, British films, Buffalo Soldiers, Catch-22, cinema, Cold War, conscription, dark comedies, David Holmes, Dean Stockwell, drug dealers, Ed Harris, Elizabeth McGovern, film reviews, films, Gabriel Mann, gallows' humor, Glenn Fitzgerald, Gregor Jordan, Idris Elba, Joaquin Phoenix, Leon Robinson, M.A.S.H., Michael Pena, Movies, multiple writers, Ned Kelly, Oliver Stapleton, rivalry, Robert O'Connor, Scott Glenn, September 11 2001, set in 1980s, set in West Germany, Sheik Mahmud-Bey, The Longest Yard, war profiteers, writer-director

Sometimes, movies (like people) can be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Take Australian writer-director Gregor Jordan’s Buffalo Soldiers (2001), for example. This smart, pointed and pitch-black comedy about U.S. soldiers behaving badly in Cold War-era West Germany opened at the Toronto Film Festival on September 9, 2001. Two days later, of course, the United States would be faced with September 11th, an event which would make anything even vaguely “anti-American” absolutely verboten for some time afterward. A film about greedy, avaricious, drug-dealing GIs running rough-shod (literally) over a foreign country? Buffalo Soldiers had about as much chance of receiving U.S. distribution as it did sprouting wings and flying to Saturn.

Which, as it turns out, is a real shame: not only is Buffalo Soldiers the furthest thing from an anti-American screed but it’s also one of the funniest, most cutting war satires since the glory days of M.A.S.H. (1970) and Catch-22 (1970). The soldiers depicted here might be reprehensible, violent and debauched con-men but they’re also fascinating characters, brought to vivid life by an outstanding cast. The script is smart, the film is full of surprising left twists and there’s a gleeful sense of abandon to the proceedings that make it easy to get lost in the bad behavior. Had the film come out a month (or even a few weeks) earlier, it would probably be heralded as a minor classic, along the lines of Barry Levinson’s Wag the Dog (1997). As it stands, however, Buffalo Soldiers is a largely unknown gem, waiting for modern audiences to give it the fair shot it never got the first time around.

The film takes place in the waning hours of the Cold War, in 1989, at Theodore Roosevelt Army Base in Stuttgart, West Germany. Our “hero” (such as he is), Ray Elwood (Joaquin Phoenix), is a conscripted ne’er-do-well who chose a stint in the armed forces over a stiff prison sentence and has regretted it ever since. Ray may be many things (a black marketeer, a philanderer, a hopeless screw-up and a perpetual con-man) but he’s definitely not a soldier, regardless of what his uniform, rifle and salute might indicate. Lucky for him, Teddy R Army Base is a veritable Garden of Eden for screw-ups and wasteoids, with a cast of quirky characters who would all fit right in with the idiots of Police Academy (1984): Ray may not be “the best that he can be” but at least he’s got plenty of good (bad?) company.

Commanding officer Colonel Berman (Ed Harris) is a soft-headed simpleton who’s as clueless about Elwood’s criminal activities as he is about his wife, Liz’s ( Elizabeth McGovern), on-going affair with the procurement specialist. Sergeant Saad (Sheik Mahmud-Bey), the brutal leader of the base’s MPs, deals heroin on the side and eagerly patrols the grounds with his men, enthusiastically beating any white soldiers who are unlucky enough to cross the base’s invisible color-line. Meanwhile, Ellwood’s fellow soldiers, Hicks (Glenn Fitzgerald), Garcia (Michael Pena) and Stoney (Leon Robinson), are all permafried and given to reprehensible behavior like getting completely fucked up and driving their tank through the middle of a quaint German town: it’s all fun and games until they accidentally barbecue two of their own, bringing a terrible sense of literalness to the term “friendly fire.”

As with all good criminals, Elwood is really just looking for that one, big haul that will let him retire into the lap of luxury and ease. Thanks to Hicks, Garcia and Stoney’s misadventures in the tank, opportunity drops into Elwood’s greedy hands when he steals the dead soldiers’ supply trucks, which just happen to be laden with millions of dollars worth of weaponry. Elwood turns around and sells the weapons to a dubious outside source and receives a king’s ransom in uncut smack for his troubles. Working around the clock, Elwood and his crew need to turn the pure heroin into pure profit, engaging in the kind of massive drug cook that would make Walt and Jesse misty.

Things get complicated, however, when the base receives its new “top,” Sergeant Robert E. Lee (Scott Glenn). Lee is a complete hard-ass who has no time for foolishness and instantly marks Elwood as a problem to be eradicated, similar to a roach infestation. As the two men feint around each other, probing for weakness, each thinks he’s found the other’s Achilles heel: Elwood is determined to “stick it” to Sergeant Lee by (literally) sticking it to his rebellious daughter, Robyn (Anna Paquin), while Lee is determined to make Elwood’s life a living hell via a million tiny indignities, along with the occasional ass-whipping. As the mortal enemies gradually ramp up their campaigns, Lee becomes increasingly violent while Elwood, ironically, finds himself falling for Robyn, despite his most cavalier intentions.

As the conflict gets more intense, everything is brought to a head when Colonel Berman challenges a rival colonel to an exceedingly unfriendly round of “friendly” war games. With Saad, Lee and his various illicit contacts bearing down, Elwood must figure out how to keep his ill-gotten gains, his girl and his head, all while running the scam of his life. Welcome to Theodore Roosevelt Army Base, where the Commies are the least of your worries.

Based on Robert O’Connor’s well-received 1993 debut novel of the same name, Buffalo Soldiers is a quality production from top to bottom. Almost ridiculously stylish and vibrant (the early shot of the soldiers marching across the flag-painted asphalt is a real eye-popper), there’s more than a hint of magical-realism to the proceedings, which helps to play up the many inherently fantastic elements, such as the riotous tank scene. Although the screenplay is credited to three writers (director Jordan, along with Eric Weiss and Nora Maccoby), the film never feels overly cluttered or disjointed: there’s a remarkable sense of cohesion, here, that belies Buffalo Soldiers’ split-authorship and speaks volumes towards the production’s structural integrity.

When you have a cast this good, there’s always a danger of “unnecessary cameo disorder (patent pending)” but this has more the feel of a gifted ensemble than anything more calculating. Phoenix is dependably good as the roguish Ellwood, although it’s nothing we haven’t seen from him in the past. Much better (and more surprising) are Harris and Glenn as, respectively, the Colonel and the Sergeant. Usually known as the craggiest thing in whatever production he happens to be in, Harris does a complete 360, here, and gives us the closest thing to a complete bumpkin that I think he’s ever done. Berman is a complete idiot, no two ways about it, but Harris brings just enough low-level cunning and pathos to the character to prevent him from being a completely silly, stock stereotype.

Glenn, for his part, is a complete force of nature as the cheerfully dastardly Sergeant Lee: one minute, he’s all stiff, starched and by-the-book. The next, he’s gleefully extolling the bad behavior that he, himself, got up to in Vietnam, insinuating that it would make Ellwood’s “adventures” seem like schoolboy pranks. It’s a great role and a great performance: there’s never a point where Glenn ever feels any less than 1000% invested in the role and his enthusiasm is absolutely infectious.

The supporting cast aren’t slouches, either: Mahmud-Bey is convincingly terrifying as the casually sadistic MP, while Pena, Robinson and Fitzgerald get great mileage out of their bumbling soldiers. While the female characters don’t get quite as much to do, they’re never just background detail, either. McGovern makes the most of her screen-time by positing Liz as an avaricious, status-climber who possesses the brains (and balls) that her simpering husband doesn’t, while Paquin serves as a good foil for Phoenix: no one will mistake their courtship as “star-crossed love” but it works within the context of the story and continually pushes the plot into thorny new territories. Throw in some smaller (but no less impressive) appearances by Dean Stockwell, Idris Elba and Gabriel Mann and you’ve got a film with more than ample star-power in the tank.

Despite being unaware of the film on its first go-around, I was completely taken with it on this viewing: there’s enough energy and invention here for five films, to be honest. When Buffalo Soldiers is locked-in and firing on all cylinders, it’s practically unbeatable: the combination of coal-black humor, social commentary and detailed characterization make the film the furthest thing from “disposable” that you can get. As funny as it is, however (and it’s often incredibly funny), Buffalo Soldiers also never shies away from violence, death and grit, which really puts it into the same vaunted company as Altman’s M.A.S.H: they’re both films about the immense absurdity of the human condition and violent death is as much a part of that as breathing is.

When the film is at its horrifying best (the uproarious tank rampage that gets ugly quick…the bracing scene where a pair of higher-than-kite soldiers repeatedly stab each other, while grinning from ear to ear), it’s impossible to look away. While Jordan would go on to more successful projects like the Heath Ledger-starring Ned Kelly (2003) and Unthinkable (2010), I don’t think he’s ever quite scaled the same heights that he does here. Nearly 15 years after its initial (limited) release, I think it’s way past time for Buffalo Soldiers to get some of the attention it so richly deserves.

2/28/15 (Part Four): Making a Case For the Staycation

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Andrés Levin, Beto Cuevas, black magic, Borderland, Brian Presley, cinema, co-writers, cults, Damián Alcázar, drug cartel, drug cartels, drug dealers, Eric Poppen, extreme films, extreme violence, film reviews, films, foreigners abroad, Francesca Guillén, gory films, Greg McLean, horror, horror films, horror movies, Hostel, human sacrifice, inspired by true events, Jake Muxworthy, Marco Bacuzzi, Martha Higareda, Mexican gangs, Mexico, Movies, Rider Strong, Scott Kevan, Sean Astin, set in Mexico, torture, torture porn, tourists, violent films, Wolf Creek, writer-director, youth in trouble, Zev Berman

If there’s one thing that modern horror films seem to make abundantly clear, it’s that tourists make great cannon fodder. From Hostel (2005) to Wolf Creek (2005), from Turistas (2006) to The Ruins (2008) all the way to the frigid water of the Reykjavik Whale Watching Massacre (2009), horror films have taught us that foreigners abroad (usually Americans in foreign countries…fancy that!) can expect a few things: beautiful locations, sinister locals, dangerous sight-seeing and more occult ceremonies, dismemberment and torture than they can shake a stick at. Hell, under this rubric, Australia’s Greg Mclean is probably the number one bane to that country’s tourism industry: between his Wolf Creek films and Rogue (2007), his giant croc opus, it’s a wonder that any non-resident would ever want to step foot in the Land Down Under, much less poke around in its isolated, Outback areas.

Tourism-based horror films work, in many cases, because we all (Americans, in particular) harbor certain preconceived notions and prejudices about “the other”: we all want to take in and experience as much of the world as we can but there’s always the nagging notion that what you don’t know can, without a doubt, flay you alive. Meeting new people and experiencing new cultures is always a good thing, we say, but humanity’s inherent fear of the unknown is a mighty powerful primal urge to overcome. For some audiences (and filmmakers, apparently), there can be nothing more terrifying than being “stuck” in a foreign country, surrounded by strangers, unable to fully communicate, protect or look after ourselves. It’s a biased fear, of course, but aren’t all fears? After all, the difference between fearing something and respecting it is usually a pretty small step, one that begins with understanding and empathy. As the TV used to say: knowing is half the battle.

Zev Berman’s Borderland (2007) is another in the long line of “tourists in peril” films, while also slotting neatly into the “torture-porn” subgenre that was spearheaded by the likes of Saw (2004) and Hostel (2005) in the mid-’00s. While I’ve never been a fan of torture-porn films, despite having seen more than my fair share – I’ll go on record as saying that the Saw films are something of a guilty pleasure, for me, while I find the Hostel films (and most of Eli Roth’s output, to be honest) to be fairly worthless, aside from the geek-show appeal – I’ve seen plenty that manage to balance their gratuitous blood-letting and suffering with actual narratives. When done right, these types of films can be unbelievably powerful, drawing us right into the dark heart of suffering and putting us uncomfortably close to the terrible action on screen. Despite some scattered issues, Berman’s Borderland ends up in the “well done” column, thanks to some atypically solid acting, a suffocating sense of helplessness and a connection to real-world events, no matter how tenuous. They’re small differentials, in some cases, but they make all the difference in a relatively crowded field.

The “other,” in this case, is Mexico: to be more specific, the violent, drug cartel aspect of Mexico that’s managed to turn the border between the U.S. and its southern neighbor into a veritable war-zone. The issue, of course, is much more complex than simply “good vs evil”: notions of societal infrastructure, politics (both domestic and international), xenophobia and good old-fashioned capitalism all play in. While the notion of eradicating the cartels is a noble one, it’s also a notion that’s steeped in wish-fulfillment as much as reality: at this point, the relationship between the cartels, Mexico’s political structure and its civilians is too intertwined to be easily severed. There’s also the underlying (and largely unspoken) notion that the United States plays a huge role in this problem: issues of supply and demand notwithstanding, the “war on drugs” has managed to turn cartels into cash cows, in the same way that Prohibition managed to give the mob a significant boost in the ’20s.

This is the framework into which we’re dropped, although the meat of the narrative is another “fish out of water” tale, involving a trio of freshly graduated, all-American high school seniors who decide to have one, last blow out in Mexico and get more than they bargained for. The trio are “types” more than individuals but that’s also par for the course: Henry (Jake Muxworthy) is the macho, cocky douchebag with a dick for a brain and an inherent dislike of the lower classes; Phil (Rider Strong) is the geeky virgin who just wants to get laid and Ed (Brian Presley) is the sensitive, nice guy (and obvious hero). After Ed “saves” a comely bartender (Martha Higareda) who ends up being more than capable of taking care of herself, the trio get a pair of bumming-around companions in the form of Valeria and her demure, religious cousin, Lupe (Francesca Guillén).

This is all well and good, of course, but the film’s opening introduced us to a severely terrifying group of Mexican drug dealers, led by the astoundingly creepy Gustavo (Marco Bacuzzi), and it doesn’t take a psychic to foretell that paths will, eventually, be crossing. When Phil mysteriously disappears after going to visit his 17-year-old prostitute “girlfriend” (she was his first, after all), Ed and Henry, along with Valeria and Lupe, scour the area, looking for any signs of him. When they run into a grizzled, former police detective by the name of Ulises (Damián Alcázar), however, they learn about the cartel and discover just how much trouble their friend (and they) are really in. As luck would have it, they’ve come to town just as the cartel’s “high priest,” Santillan (Beto Cuevas), has arrived: it’s time for a special ceremony, it seems, and Phil is the guest of honor.

Despite its unrelenting brutality, Borderland is actually a fairly thoughtful, well-thought-out film. While the camera never shies away from the violence (particularly in the incredibly unpleasant scene where a cop is tortured), it also doesn’t wallow in it: there’s never the sense that Berman has simply strung one gore setpiece to the next, ala the Hostel films. The violence is all justified within the framework of the story: Santillan and the cartel have a reason for doing what they’re doing, even if it isn’t a particularly solid one, which positions this as the furthest thing from “psycho killers hackin’ up teens.”

Unlike the recent spate of overly-glossy, polished horror films (think anything by Platinum Dunes), Borderland actually has a gritty, grainy look that really helps sell the foreboding atmosphere. At times, particularly during the opening credits, the film actually reminded me (favorably) of Tobe Hooper’s original Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), although Berman’s film is nowhere near as accomplished. Cinematographer Scott Kevan, who also shot Eli Roth’s gore-tastic Cabin Fever (2002), does lose points for some unnecessarily shaky camera (especially during some nausea-inducing running scenes that would make the Blair Witch blush) but it’s never bad enough to fully pull one out of the action.

One of Borderland’s secret weapons is definitely it’s collection of bad guys. Beto Cuevas’ Santillan is a cold, reptilian, uber-polite, smart and unassuming dude, the kind of guy that you wouldn’t mind discussing art with…if he wasn’t so busy sawing you into pieces, that is. Channeling something of the cool menace of Anthony Hopkin’s legendary Hannibal Lecter, Cuevas is nothing short of masterful and Santillan is, easily, one of the scariest “real-world” villains to pop up in horror films in some time. We’ve already mentioned Bacuzzi’s freakish Gustavo (sort of a Mexican cartel Michael Berryman who shoots first and asks never), but let’s not forget Sean Astin’s stellar take on the ex-pat-turned-cartel-whipping-boy Randall: friendly, apologetic and completely mercenary, Randall is the last person you’d want watching you in this situation. Put them all together and Borderland has a better group of villains that most action films I’ve seen in a while: kudos, indeed!

While Borderland certainly plays up the popular media perception of the Mexican border as a lawless war-zone (we’re informed that the film is “inspired by real events” at the outset), it’s certainly no more xenophobic than any of the aforementioned tourist-related horror films. We spend time with not only the cartel but also the police and locals (in the form of Valeria and Lupe): it’s not a fully-fleshed portrait, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s a fair sight more balanced than the typical “sneering, glowering, backwoods” take on this sort of thing.

I also appreciated that Higareda’s Valeria was never a shrinking violet, clichéd sexpot or damsel in distress: by the film’s conclusion, she’s maintained herself as a fairly independent asskicker and a worthy equal to Ed. Additional bonus points for allowing the character of Henry to develop (if ever so slightly) from arrogant asshole to properly-humbled dude after a confrontation with Gustavo: I’d change my tune awful damn quick if I butted heads with that guy, too!

Ultimately, Borderland is a well done, if decidedly unpleasant, film: despite a questionably happy ending, the majority of Berman’s movie is claustrophobic, lean, mean and engineered to pummel an audience into submission. While nothing here surprised me, necessarily, I was genuinely impressed by the way all of the moving parts came together into a cohesive, fairly unique and endlessly disturbing whole. While there might not be a shortage of tourist-in-peril or torture-porn films on the market, Berman’s Borderland manages to stand out from the crowd: sometimes, that’s all you can ask for.

2/1/15 (Part Two): Nobody Likes a Quitter

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addiction, alcohol abuse, alcoholism, audition, based on a short, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, comedies, dramadies, dramas, drug abuse, drug dealers, dysfunctional family, Emma Rayne Lyle, family obligations, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, indie films, Isiah Whitlock Jr., Jesse Eisenberg, Melissa Leo, mother-son relationships, Movies, musical prodigy, Paul Calderon, Phil Dorling, piano player, Predisposed, puppets, rehab, responsibilities, Revolutionary War reenactment, Ron Nyswaner, Sarah Ramos, single mother, Stephanie March, The Prince of Philadelphia, Tracy Morgan, voice-over narration, Why Stop Now, writer-director

As anyone who’s ever dealt with drug or alcohol addiction knows, cessation, treatment and sobriety can all be difficult, life-long challenges. Regardless of how an addict gets clean (support groups, medical programs, cold turkey, psychotherapy, hypnosis or prison), the very first step must always be their own, genuine desire to get clean. Until a junkie, any junkie, can actually look themselves in the mirror and express that desire, no process or procedure, short of death, will have any lasting effect. Friends, family and authority figures may all want the very best for an addict but, in the end, the only voice that will really make a difference is their own. Once that decision has been reached, for lack of any less schmaltzy way to put it, the actual healing can begin.

Why Stop Now (2012), the feature-film debut of co-writers/directors Phil Dorling and Ron Nyswaner, deals with the issue of addicts deciding to get help, although the film’s main focus ends up being the fractured relationship between a perpetually fucked-up mother and her increasingly frustrated, jaded son. Despite a worthwhile subject and some solid performances, however, Why Stop Now ends up fading into the “indie dramedy background,” failing to do much to distinguish it from any of a bakers’ dozen of similarly “heartfelt” message films. A pity, to be sure, since casting Melissa Leo as the dysfunctional mom would seem to guarantee a real firecracker of a film: in the end, however, Why Stop Now is more fizzle than sizzle, a spark that never manages to fully catch fire.

Eli Bloom (Jesse Eisenberg) is a young man with a lot going for him: he’s smart, independent, a piano prodigy and has just been offered an audition for a coveted spot at a prestigious music conservatory. Everything, it seems, is coming up Milhouse for the guy. The other half of the coin, however, doesn’t look quite as shiny: Eli is also confrontational, has a tendency to get ridiculously drunk at parties and puke everywhere (sometimes while playing the piano, for added spice), works a shitty job as a bag-boy and has a home-life that could best be described as “difficult,” with a side of “complicated.” His mother, Penny (Melissa Leo), is a “whatta ya got” kind of drug addict and has spent years in a chemical haze, leaving Eli to care for his younger sister, Nicole (Emma Rayne Lyle), who appears to be a high-functioning autistic, albeit one who communicates via a sarcastic, obnoxious and mean-spirited hand puppet named “Julio.” The Brady Bunch, it ain’t.

While Penny has never been able to get her shit together, the situation has just become critical: the music conservatory is in Boston, meaning Eli would be away from home, out-of-state, for over a year. Since he can’t be in two places at the same time, however, enrolling in the academy will leave his single mom as the sole caretaker for his sister, a role that she’s never been able to handle. In preparation for this, Eli needs to get Penny into a rehab facility post-haste, a necessity which she, naturally, fights at every step of the way. When he finally gets her to agree, however, fate steps in and backhands him once again: Penny has been sober just long enough to pass a drug test which, combined with her lack of insurance, means that she’s not eligible for the rehab facility. When one of the doctors “helpfully” suggests that Penny go cop, in order to fail her test and get admitted, Eli knows what he has to do: get his mom blitzed in order to help her get sober.

Nothing is ever that easy, however, as Eli discovers when it’s time to go score some dope. Seems that Penny owes quite a bit of change to her usual dealer, Sprinkles (Tracy Morgan), and is a little afraid to show her face. While attempting to negotiate with Sprinkles and his partner, Black (Isiah Whitlock Jr.), they discover that Eli can speak Spanish. This ends up coming in handy, since Sprinkles and Black need to make a buy from their source and don’t speak his language (leading astute viewers to wonder how, exactly, they managed to do this before Eli came along…Pictures? An English to Spanish dictionary? An intern?). The two agree to hook Eli (and Penny) up in exchange for his acting as translator. This, of course, leads to a series of minor adventures that culminates in Eli injuring one of his highly valued hands. With his audition in two hours, the sand is rapidly slipping through the hourglass. Will Eli be able to get his mother squared away in time to make his audition? Will he even be able to play with an injured hand? Will Eli finally gather up his nerve and ask out the cute Revolutionary War reenacter (Sarah Ramos) who’s been showing an obvious interest in him for the entire film? Will the two drug dealers ever get tired of hanging around with a piano prodigy, his puppet-sporting little sister and addict mom? If you’re not able to guess the answer to any and all of these questions, Why Stop Now may very well surprise…but I seriously doubt it.

The biggest issue with Why Stop Now, aside from its rather blah cinematography (the blown-out, constantly shaky cam gets old almost immediately) is how familiar everything is. Minutes into the film, I thought to myself: “This is where Eli’s voiceover comes in” and, lo and behold, there it was, right on cue. I assumed that Sprinkles would have some sort of “quirky” secret and he does. The part where Eli finally gathers up his courage and pursues Chloe is right where it’s supposed to be, as is the scene where Eli finally loses it and reads the riot act to everyone, including his little sister. We get the obligatory audition scene. Hell, we even get one of those “let’s see how happy everyone is” montages, just like the rule-book states.

There are just no surprises here, whatsoever. For some movies, that might not be an issue but when your film slavishly checks “requirements” off a list, you better have at least a few twists up your sleeve. In this case, however, Dorling and Nyswaner just go through the motions and give us what’s expected. There are plenty of solid performances here but nothing that we haven’t seen from these actors before, with the possible exception of Tracy Morgan: with only shades of his Tracy Jordan persona, Morgan is much more serious than expected and extremely effective. Eisenberg and Leo do nothing unique (or particularly interesting) whatsoever and Sarah Ramos might as well be playing her character from TV’s Parenthood. The only real stand-out is child actor Lyle, who makes the character of Nicole completely empathetic, if slightly otherworldly. As only her fifth (listed) acting role, Lyle promises to be an actor to watch in the next several years: perhaps we’re in on the ground-floor of the next Chloe Grace Moretz?

Another problem I had with the film is how relatively low-stakes it feels: while there’s an element of “race against time” for part of the film’s running time, that element goes out the window as soon as Eli gets injured. From that point on, it’s no longer about getting there in time so much as “will he be able to play” and we already know that answer, long before Eli does. The film also seems to fracture at the conclusion, with all of the characters meandering off into a multitude of directions and no unifying sense of cohesion: rather than coming to a definitive conclusion, everything just kind of peters out, like a car running on fumes.

Despite my above concerns, Why Stop Now isn’t a terrible film: it’s just a thoroughly pedestrian, run-of-the-mill one. I can certainly appreciate some of what the film has to say about addiction and recovery (the bit where Penny advises her son to keep an eye on his own alcohol issues is particularly sharp and powerful), although a lot of it falls into the realm of feel-good, pop psychology. There’s also an ironic core to the film that almost comes across as one, long, sustained set-up for a punchline: Penny can’t turn down drugs until she actually needs to get high, at which point she learns that she doesn’t want to do them anymore, yet must…sustained trumpet wah-wah. Again, I can appreciate the irony but the film’s message gets conflicted and confused, in the process. When all of the elements come together, such as the very funny scene where Eli tries to start his car while Sprinkles, Black and Penny provide non-stop “armchair-quarterbacking,” Why Stop Now is a fun, if decidedly non-essential, way to pass some time. Anyone looking for any real insight into either drug addiction or dysfunctional families, however, would be better served elsewhere. Why Stop Now is perfectly non-offensive, no two ways about it, but it really is a film that could have (and should have) got its hands just a little bit dirty.

12/25/14 (Part Two): Listen All of Y’all, It’s a…Mess

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action film, action films, Arnold Schwarzenegger, cinema, co-writers, corrupt law enforcement, David Ayer, DEA agents, drug cartel, drug dealers, dumb films, End of Watch, film reviews, films, hambonin', Harold Perrineau, Jerry Bruckheimer, Joe Manganiello, Josh Holloway, Kevin Vance, Mark Schlegel, Martin Donovan, Max Martini, Mireille Enos, Movies, Olivia Williams, Sabotage, Sam Worthington, stolen money, Terrence Howard, writer-director-producer

When we’re talking about action films, there isn’t necessarily anything bad about loud, dumb movies: as someone who worked his way through a veritable mountain of cheesetastic ’80s flicks (picture the ones where the hero takes out the bad guy with a close-range rocket launcher to get the full effect), I can attest that the stupidest films are, quite often, the most thrilling. After all, when we’re bombarded by so much chaos, conflict and real-world violence, sometimes it’s nice to just pop the cap on a cold one, turn off your brain and thrill to explosions, sneered badassitude and black-and-white concepts of good and evil, no?

There is, however, a limit, a tipping point, if you will: invisible to the naked eye, there is, nonetheless, a fine line between stupid and clever (thanks, Tap). David Ayer’s big, loud, Schwarzenegger vehicle, Sabotage (2014), has to see the line, since the whole film seems like a conscious effort to craft the biggest, dumbest, loudest action film possible: the film’s mantra seems to be “bigger is always better” and let me tell ya…this film ends up riding a giant, turbo-charged rocket straight into the heart of stupid, boldly going where few have dared to tread. Existing in a cinematic universe where Antoine Fuqua and Jerry Bruckheimer are the alpha and omega of existence, Sabotage is the ultimate fizzled bonfire: all smoke, precious little actual fire.

Sabotage concerns the various (very bad) activities of a group of rogue DEA agents, the kind that are de rigueur for Hollywood but don’t really paint the rosiest picture of our nation’s continued war on drugs. Led by the leather-faced, oddly-coiffed John “Breacher” Wharton (Arnold Schwarzenegger), the crew look (and sound) like various rejects from several seasons of American Gladiator: Monster (Sam Worthington), Grinder (Joe Manganiello), Neck (Josh Holloway), Sugar (Terrence Howard), Pyro (Max Martini), Tripod (Kevin Vance), Smoke (Mark Schlegel) and Lizzy (Mireille Enos, so amazingly over-the-top that she doesn’t need a cool nickname…she just “is,” dude). Their modus operandi is pretty simple: blow the ever-loving shit out of the bad guys, steal their money, blow up as much stuff as possible, get fuckin’ craaaazy, man…lather, rinse, repeat. It all works splendidly because, well, they’re badasses, man…aren’t you listening?

A fly enters the ointment, however, when one of their “jobs” results in the death of Smoke and the loss of $10 million in stolen drug money. The crew start falling out because agitated shouting is required (along with some good, ol’ character building, don’tcha know?) and, as we all know, you can’t trust a thief…especially if you’re a crooked, bloodthirsty fellow thief, I’m imagining. Things really get complicated, however, when members of the squad start to mysteriously die, one by one. When one guy wakes up to find his RV on the railroad, moments before impact, local police think it could possibly be a case of too much spiked eggnog. After lead detective Carolyn Brentwood (Olivia Williams) slips in a slick of blood the size of Michigan when her and Breacher go to interview another team member, however, her spidey sense is definitely tingling: when she looks up and sees the poor guy nailed to the ceiling, eviscerated, she definitely begins to think that these may be more than simple household accidents.

Working with the overly cagey, withdrawn Breacher, Brentwood tries to gather information from the others, yet meets with nothing but cold resistance: the troops have circled the wagons and no strangers are getting through. As more and more of his squad end up dead, however, Breacher is suddenly faced with the shocking idea that the killer may not be a cartel hitman…it may be someone a little closer to home…dun dun duuunh!

Alright, here’s the thing: I was more than willing to give Sabotage as much slack as it needed, mostly because I was duly impressed with director Ayer’s previous effort, the Jake Gyllenhaal-starring End of Watch (2012). I was able to look past the film’s overly kinetic, restless action sequences, even when said restlessness began to extend into non-action, “quiet” parts of the film. I didn’t care for the shaky camera or odd, overly-saturated color palette but I’d seen plenty worse. I didn’t really even mind the on-the-nose, endlessly posturing dialogue: you have to expect a certain measure of shit-talking in films like this, after all, and who doesn’t love a badass ass-kicker?

At a certain point, however, all of Sabotage’s dead weight ends up dragging the film straight to Davy Jones’ locker, my patience be damned. Perhaps it was the unbelievably douchy scene where Brentwood comes by to speak to the crew during a pool party and the whole thing devolves into ridiculous chest-thumping and frat-boy innuendos: I can’t tell you how bad I wanted to slap the fucking smirk straight off Joe Manganiello’s dumb mug right about the time he got up in the detective’s face and started hambonin’ her (thanks, Regular Show). Maybe it was the insultingly obnoxious “banter” between Brentwood and her partner, Jackson (Harold Perrineau), scenes which reminded me of the cringingly bad interplay between Jay Leno and his ever-suffering band-leader, Kevin Eubanks. Perhaps it was the climatic chase scene that involved one of the characters blasting away at the good guys from a car trunk, chewing and swallowing so much scenery that you can feel the film’s world unraveling from the massive gravitational pull of it all.

One thing’s for certain, however: the acting on display here does no one any favors. Schwarzenegger comes off the best, unsurprisingly, although that damned dead marmot on his head makes it patently impossible to take him completely seriously. His world-weary, “I’m too old for this” schtick actually works, much of the time, and he even gets a few “relatively” reflective moments to do a little modest acting…nothing that will make folks forget his glory days, mind you, but a decent enough continuation of his un-retirement. Other than that relative high point, however, the rest of the cast is pretty much a wash. While all of them are patently ridiculous, I must reserve a special amount of scorn for Enos and Manganiello: at no point in the film are either character anything approaching realistic, likable or even interesting…they’re just unbelievably loud, crude, obnoxious and rather hateful little cliches (Manganiello the huge, unstoppable Cro-Magnon, Enos the “tough chick with bigger balls than the whole combined crew”). As someone who’s a huge fan of Enos’ work on the cable series The Killing, I must admit to being completely flabbergasted by her film work: her previous performance, in Devil’s Knot (2013), was pretty awful but her work as Lizzy vaults her into a whole new realm of terribleness. If the only requirement for portraying a badass character is to shout til your veins pop, Enos’ Lizzy is our new gold standard.

And there, in a nutshell, is pretty much Sabotage’s problem: it’s a thoroughly average action film that’s completely undone by the constantly shifting tone, terrible characters/acting and patently ridiculous situations. One of the most puzzling aspects of the film, for me, was the way in which it almost seemed to have a foot in the horror world: between the splattery aftermath of the great train kapow and the evisceration scene that’s fully Hannibal Lecter approved, Sabotage often feels like a slasher film in action clothing, ala No One Lives (2012). While the gore is well done, it also feels completely out-of-place, similar to how the occasionally intentional comic beats fail miserably.

Despite how it sounds, I didn’t hate Sabotage, although I will freely admit to hating many of the performances. Rather, the film reminded me of any number of bottom-of-the-barrel actioners that I used to gorge myself on during rainy weekends as a kid. Without all of the critical injuries, I don’t see any reason why Ayer’s film couldn’t limp into the finish line. As it stands, however, I can’t help but feel that someone should have done the noble thing and just taken it out in the field to be shot, instead.

12/15/14 (Part Two): In the Kingdom of the Crow

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absentee father, bad schools, Best of 2014, Brandon Oakes, Canadian films, cinema, Cody Bird, coming of age, crooked government officials, death of a child, dramas, drug dealers, dysfunctional family, father-daughter relationships, favorite films, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, ghosts, Glen Gould, heist films, Indian agents, Indian Residential School, Jeff Barnaby, Kawennáhere Devery Jacobs, Mark Antony Krupa, Michel St. Martin, mother-daughter relationships, Movies, Nathan Alexis, Native Americans, Red Crow Indian Reservation, Rhymes For Young Ghouls, Roseanne Supernault, set in Canada, set in the 1970s, stolen money, strong female character, suicide, the Mi'kmaq, truancy officer, writer-director-editor

Every once in a while, a film comes completely out of nowhere and knocks me on my ass like a ghost train ripping through grand-pa’s house. It could be something I’ve never heard of, something that I’m not expecting to like or something that just completely blew away my expectations. While this has already been a pretty great year for film (compiling my Best of…lists has been harder than ever), leave it to one of the underdogs to sneak up and slap the complacency right off my stupid face. In this case, I’m talking about writer-director Jeff Barnaby’s feature-debut, the instantly classic Rhymes For Young Ghouls (2014). Only time will tell but, once the dust has settled, this may very well end up being in my Top Five of the year. Hell…it might even end up leading the parade.

Beginning in 1969 before jumping forward seven years, we find ourselves on the Red Crow Indian Reservation, in Canada. We first meet our hero, Aila, as a young girl (played by Miika Whiskeyjack). While her family life may not be the most conventional (her parents, Joseph (Glen Gould) and Anna (Roseanne Supernault), grow and sell marijuana with the help of Aila’s uncle, Burner (Brandon Oakes)), they seem like a loving family. After a night of drinking leads to a terrible tragedy, however, Aila’s life is torn asunder: with her brother dead, her father in prison and her mother a suicide victim, the poor girl’s life seems over before it begins.

Or it would, if Aila wasn’t such a completely kick-ass, resilient person. When we meet her seven years later, at the ripe-old age of 16 (played by the absolutely amazing Kawennahere Devery Jacobs), Aila is now running the grow operation on her own, with the able assistance of Burner and her friends, Sholo (Cody Bird) and Angus (Nathan Alexis). Completely self-assured and wise beyond her years, Aila is the glue that holds everything together, especially since her uncle is such a pothead wastoid. She’s a problem solver, a no-nonsense adult trapped in a teen’s body and she’s always quite the sight whenever she’s wearing her gas-mask and rolling her specialty blunts.

Along with running the operation, Aila and the others must also be wary of the odious, corrupt and infinitely shit-headed Indian agent, Popper (Mark Antony Krupa), who actually went to Catholic school with her now-imprisoned father. Popper runs the local “Indian Residential School,” a terrible place that’s more prison than educational establishment and where the kids are beaten and placed in solitary confinement at regular intervals. As we’re told at the beginning of the film, all Native American children between the ages of 5 and 16 are required to go to the school: truant officers (such as Popper) are authorized to use “whatever force is necessary” to get wayward kids back to school, including beating them senseless. The truant officers are also able to arrest, without warrant, any guardians who don’t make sure their kids go to school.

There’s always a loophole, however, especially when government officials are as evil and corrupt as the Indian agents: for a regular fee (a “truancy tax”), the truant officers will look the other way, allowing any kids who can pay the opportunity to run free. Thanks to her successful grow operation, Alia has always had plenty of money to pay the “taxes” for her and the others. When they end up losing all of their money in a trumped-up raid by Popper and his men, however, Alia is now facing the terrifying prospect of losing her freedom and individuality, all in one fell swoop. Things get even more chaotic when her father is finally released from prison and returns home, intent on being the father that he couldn’t be before. As he surveys the mass of drunk, stoned people crashing all over their house, however, the disappointment in Joseph’s voice is unmistakable: “How long has this been going on?,” he asks Alia. “About seven years,” she snaps back and the point is clear: if “dad” is expecting a Hallmark-style reunion, he better lose elsewhere.

With a host of outside forces closing in on her, Alia also must deal with her increasing nightmares, nightmares which feature her mother as a rotting zombie: since suicides are buried without grave markers, her mother is now “nameless” and stuck between the world of the dead and the world of the living. Facing pressure from all sides, Alia must do everything she can to avoid cracking and preserve the unity of her family. Popper won’t make any of it easy, however, which is just fine by her: as Alia learned long ago, sometimes the only thing you can do is put your head and charge forward, victory be damned. In the Kingdom of the Crow, no one is safe…least of all, the young.

Watching the film, I was frequently reminded of another showstopping dark-horse, Debra Granik’s stunning Winter’s Bone (2010), the film that first introduced the world to Jennifer Lawrence. Fitting, in a way, since Rhymes For Young Ghouls should serve to introduce us to yet another amazing young actor: Kawennahere Devery Jacobs. I don’t have praise enough for her performance but will say that I was completely and absolutely blown-away by her. If she’s not a huge star in 5 years or so, I’ll buy a haberdashery and eat every damn hat in the place.

Part of the sheer joy of the film is how completely unpredictable it is, so I’ll say as little about specifics as possible. Suffice to say that Barnaby’s killer script manages to seamlessly work in a heist subplot, as well as a beautifully-realized moment where Alia’s “grandmother” tells her a story and we see it visualized in a graphic-novel style. The film is in constant motion and is endlessly inventive, never dull or tedious. There’s also no sense of being force-fed emotional pabulum: the film deals with some very big issues (the stability of families; children caring for their parents; the suicide of a parent; institutionalized racism; class-warfare; traditional Native American ways versus the “modern world;” children working…it goes on and on, to be honest. Rhymes For Young Ghouls is one of the few films I’ve seen lately that actually feels important: these are issues that folks should be discussing and Barnaby’s film doesn’t shy from any of them.

From a filmmaking standpoint, Rhymes For Young Ghouls is nothing short of astounding. In fact, I daresay that a handful of sequences reminded me of nothing less than some of Scorcese’s best work: the opening slo-mo raid, in particular, was so fabulously “Scorcese” that I’m pretty sure I squealed in joy. There’s a synthesis of music and image that’s both flawless and extremely effective: one of the best, most subtle moments is the one where an angelic choir underscores a decidedly devious scene. Barnaby also traffics in a kind of magical-realism that can be pretty head-spinning: there were at least a few points in the film where I questioned the reality of what was happening, thanks to a combination of tricky camera-work and forced perspectives. Even divorced from its amazing cast and excellent script, Rhymes For Young Ghouls is one of the best looking, most well-realized film I’ve seen in ages.

At this point, all I can realistically continue to do is praise the film endlessly, so let me wrap it up thusly: Rhymes For Young Ghouls is a nearly perfect film, one that I absolutely can’t get out of my head after seeing it. While there are a handful of very minor issues spread throughout the film, overall, I absolutely adored it. This, as far as I’m concerned, is the reason we should all keep going to the movies and supporting strong, individualistic filmmakers. It’s almost impossible for me to believe that this is Barnaby’s debut, since it’s so self-assured and impressive. There’s not much time left in this year and I still have quite a few films to see but, if you’re a betting person, I’d wager money that you’ll see Rhymes For Young Ghouls on top of at least one of my lists. Watch the movie and I’m willing to bet that it’ll top your lists, too.

12/14/14 (Part Two): The Little Garda Who Could

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auteur theory, bad cops, Bad Lieutenant, Brendan Gleeson, buddy cop films, Calexico, cinema, corrupt law enforcement, David Wilmot, Declan Mannlen, Don Cheadle, drug dealers, dying mother, eponymous characters, FBI agents, feature-film debut, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Fionnula Flanagan, fish-out-of-water, gallows' humor, Garda, Gary Lydon, Guy Ritchie, Irish films, John Michael McDonagh, Larry Smith, Liam Cunningham, Mark Strong, mother-son relationships, Movies, racism, Rory Keenan, Sergeant Gerry Boyle, set in Ireland, small town life, stolen guns, The Guard, UK films, Wendell Everett, writer-director

Towards the end of writer-director John Michael McDonagh’s The Guard (2011), there’s a scene where Sergeant Gerry Boyle (Brendan Gleeson) solemnly changes into his traditional “Garda” uniform before heading out to face-off with the vicious drug dealers who have cold-bloodedly killed his partner. As he drives down the country-road, eyes locked straight ahead, he’s saluted by a young boy: a hero being recognized by the very people that he’s sworn to protect, an image as timeless as the very concept of law enforcement. It’s a huge, soaring moment for one important reason: for the first time in years, Sergeant Boyle has decided to actually do his job and we know, without a doubt, that the end result will be simply glorious.

Sergeant Boyle is the titular “guard” of the title but he’s also The Guard in a larger sense: every frame of the film, every plot twist, blackly comic moment and dastardly deed in McDonagh’s stunning feature-debut is completely and totally dominated by the towering presence that is Gleeson’s Boyle, a character who manages to be gleefully corrupt, yet still stands as a beacon of truth amidst those who are, you know, a whole lot worse. In a career that’s stretched to nearly three decades, Gleeson has never been better or more explosive: take a seat, Harvey…this here is the REAL bad lieutenant and you won’t be able to take your eyes off him.

We first get introduced to Gerry as he steals drugs from the bodies of a bunch of teens who just flipped their speeding car. The police officer nonchalantly drops acid, says “What a lovely fucking day” and we get the title, so big that it fills the entire screen, squeezing Boyle into the margins. The intent, as mentioned above, is pretty obvious: Boyle will dominate the proceedings, no two ways about it. Boyle might not be an honest cop, but he’s sure a helluva lot smarter than the rest of his peers: his partner, McBride (Rory Keenan) is one small step away from being a complete idiot and their superior officer, Inspector Stanton (Gary Lydon), thinks that “liquidated” people are actually turned into liquid. In this environment, can anyone really blame Boyle for looking out for number one? It’s not so much that Boyle is a bad cop, or even a lazy one, per se: he’s just so burned out on all the bureaucratic bullshit that he’s completely tuned-out…no sense getting fired-up about fighting crime if everyone around you keeps dropping the ball, is there? Better to spend one’s time cavorting with prostitutes, playing video games in a pub during the middle of your shift and getting shit-faced whenever possible.

Boyle gets shaken from his comfortable stupor, however, when his small, Irish hamlet ends up with a certifiable murder-mystery: a body has been found, shot in the head and posed in a way that seems to indicate some sort of cult activity. Despite caring so little about the case that he practically yawns his way through the initial investigation, Boyle goes through the motions, since that’s what he’s expected to do. Things really get interesting, however, when FBI agent Wendell Everett (Don Cheadle) shows up in town, investigating some sort of major drug case that involves four seriously bad dudes: Francis (Liam Cunningham), McCormick (Declan Mannlen), O’Leary (David Wilmot) and Clive (Low Winter Sun’s Mark Strong).

During Everett’s debriefing, Boyle makes a complete ass of himself after stating that he thought “only black lads were drug dealers:” Everett calls him a “racist,’ to which Boyle snaps back that “racism is part of Ireland’s tradition.” Casually racist though he might be, Boyle also recognizes McCormick as their anonymous murder victim, which gives Everett his first actual break in the case. Faster than you can say “odd couple,” Boyle and Everett are soon working together, albeit as reluctantly as possible. “I can’t tell if you’re real motherfucking dumb or really motherfucking smart,” Everett notes, at one point, and it’s a pretty valid question: Boyle is constantly working so many angles that he’s either the dumbest guy in town or the smartest, depending on whose bad side he happens to be on. When Everett and Boyle end up in the crosshairs of Francis and his gang, however, Boyle’s going to need all of his wits to survive. When the drug dealers kill one of his own, however, regardless of what an idiot he was, Boyle has no choice: it’s time for this Garda to quit messing around and get to the business of putting away the bad guys.

The Guard is an exceptional film, no two ways about it: quite possibly one of the very best films of the last five years. So much of the film works to an almost supernatural degree that it readily brought to mind “instant classics” like Guy Ritchie’s Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998). The cinematography, by frequent Nicholas Winding Refn collaborator Larry Smith, is beautiful, making expert use of bright, primary colors and that lush, gorgeous Irish countryside. The score, by the Southwestern-based Calexico, is ridiculously rousing, all spaghetti-Western horns, steel guitar and action beats like one of Ennio Morricone’s classic scores. McDonagh’s script is airtight, full of deliciously snarky dialogue and some of the driest humor ever put to film. There’s something rather amazing about watching Everett and Boyle feint, parry and thrust around each other, testing for weak points and trying to push as many buttons as possible.

Let’s not forget about the cast, however. While Cheadle and Gleeson are the main focal points, The Guard is filled with interesting, three-dimensional characters, not least of which are the three drug dealing villains. Veteran character-actor Liam Cunningham is great as the exasperated leader of the group, while David Wilmot shares a thoroughly badass scene with Gleeson that features one of the film’s most joyous surprises. Nearly stealing away their shared moments, however, is Mark Strong’s Clive Cornell: morose, philosophical, depressed and given to metaphysical ponderings, Clive is an awesome creation, at once lethal and silly. In fact, it’s to McDonagh’s great credit that one of the film’s sneakiest ideas (that no one, including the drug dealers, are actually doing the jobs they want to do) comes across entirely through subtle character development and dialogue: no unnecessary hand-holding to be found here!

It pretty much goes without saying that Cheadle is excellent as the put-upon fish-out-of-water FBI agent but let’s go ahead and say it again, anyway: Cheadle is absolutely excellent as Everett. Long one of Hollywood’s most dependable actors, Cheadle is the kind of performer, like Ron Perlman, who can elevate any film, regardless of the amount of screen time he gets. Here, we get lots of Cheadle and I don’t that anyone would mind. His scenes with Gleeson are marvelous little jewels but the really revelatory moments come when Everett is forced to pound the small-town pavement solo: his interactions with the overly hostile, racist locals are some of the best scenes in the film, hands-down.

The unquestionable star of the show, however, the “reason for the season,” as it were, is the amazing, unstoppable Brendan Gleeson. Towering over everything like a ragged, Gaelic god, Gleeson doesn’t appear to be acting: he honestly seems to be channeling the very spirit of Gerry Boyle. Gleeson doesn’t make a single misstep in the film: whether sneaking his dying mother (an outstanding Fionnula Flanagen) into the pub for one last pint, blowing Everett’s mind by rising from the freezing ocean in a skin-tight wetsuit or telling each and every authority figure in the world to sit and spin, Boyle is never less than completely charismatic and magnetic. I dare you to tear your eyes from the epic climax where Boyle strides relentlessly through the middle of a firefight, a rosy-faced Angel of Death who knows that he’s screwed and yet refuses to admit the fact to anyone, much less himself. There are countless good reasons to watch The Guard but there’s one necessary reason: no one who considers themselves an aficionado of fine acting can afford to miss Gleeson’s performance…it really is that good.

As it stands, The Guard is another film that I feel pretty confident recommending to anyone under the sun: if you’re a fan of darkly humorous UK crime films, “cops gone bad” movies or “buddy action” flicks, this one’s definitely for you. Truth be told, I really can’t see anyone walking out of The Guard disappointed or underwhelmed: if you should find such a person, stay far away, my friends…it’s obvious that they can’t be trusted.