8/1/15 (Part Two): Remember That One Time at Camp?

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A.D. Miles, Amy Poehler, Ben Weinstein, Bradley Cooper, camp counselors, Camp Firewood, Christopher Meloni, cinema, co-writers, comedies, coming of age, David Hyde Pierce, David Wain, Elizabeth Banks, ensemble cast, film reviews, films, Gideon Jacobs, H. Jon Benjamin, horny teenagers, inspired by '80s films, Janeane Garofalo, Joe Lo Truglio, Judah Friedlander, Ken Marino, Kevin Sussman, last day of camp, love triangle, Marguerite Moreau, Marisa Ryan, Michael Ian Black, Michael Showalter, Molly Shannon, Movies, musical numbers, Nina Hellman, one day, over-the-top, Paul Rudd, raunchy films, romances, set in 1980s, sex comedies, silly films, Skylab, summer camp, talent show, The State, Wet Hot American Summer, Whitney Vance, writer-director-actor, Zak Orth

How you approach, and ultimately enjoy, David Wain and Michael Showalter’s Wet Hot American Summer (2001) will probably depend on a few different variables: how you feel about ’80s teen sex comedies; how you feel about summer camp; how you feel about short-lived ’90s sketch-comedy troupe The State; how you feel about parodies of ’80s films, in general; and, perhaps most importantly, how you feel about silly movies. If any of the above set off the kind of drooling response that would put a smile on ol’ Pavlov’s face, the safe best is that you will, in all likelihood, absolutely love this giddy little ode to obliviously horny camp counselors, their perpetually hormone-ravaged young charges and the inherent insanity of Reagen-era America. If not…well…this is probably gonna be as much fun as getting hung from the flagpole by your tighty-whities. Let’s see which side of the line you end up on: fall in for roll call, campers!

It’s the last day of camp at Camp Firewood (August 18th, 1981, to be exact), which means exactly one thing: it’s also the last chance for everyone, counselor and camper alike, to have an exciting, life-changing summer romance. Good thing that hooking up happens to be everyone’s number one concern (the safety of youthful swimmers? Not so much.): there will be no shortage of star-crossed lovers, awkward triangles, odd pairings and horny virgins at this little summer soiree!

In short order, we’re introduced to a ridiculously diverse group of walking stereotypes and quirky characters, all of whom we’ll get to know much better over the course of the day/run-time. There’s Beth (Janeane Garofalo), the dour, “who gives a shit” camp director and Henry (David Hyde Pierce), the disgraced college professor (associate professor, to be exact) who has a summer home near the camp; counselors Andy (Paul Rudd), Coop (co-writer/creator Showalter) and Katie (Marguerite Moreau), who are involved in one of those aforementioned awkward love triangles and incredibly disturbed Vietnam vet/mess cook Gene (Christopher Meloni) and his put-upon assistant, Gary (A.D. Miles).

We also meet perpetually bawling arts-and-crafts instructor Gail (Molly Shannon), who’s constantly being counseled by her own pre-teen wards; walking hard-on/closet virgin Victor (Ken Merino) and his best friend, the impossibly geeky Neil (Joe Lo Truglio); Susie (Amy Poehler) and Ben (Bradley Cooper), the “perfect couple” who also serve as the camp’s directors/choreographers/entertainment personnel; voracious counselor Abby (Marisa Ryan), who pursues both peers and campers with equal aplomb; ditzy valley girl Lindsay (Elizabeth Banks) and McKinley (Michael Ian Black), the stylish guy who ends up capturing Ben’s eye. Don’t forget Steve (Kevin Sussman), the curious fellow who seems to think he’s a robot and ends up saving the entire camp by (literally) summoning rock ‘n roll salvation from the skies.

The film, itself, is merely an excuse for all of the above (and many, many more) to get into one hilarious, goofball, silly or outrageous situation after the next: romances are formed and broken (one character notes how they were “just friends” that morning but had already become “more” by noon, all on the way to falling out of love by the evening…not bad for one day!); friendships are tested; guys try (and often fail) to get the girl(s); Beth tries to keep the whole place running despite nearly constant stress (as if a raft full of kids in a dangerously turbulent river isn’t bad enough, Skylab is falling from space…right on top of their heads!); a can of vegetables speaks and sounds an awful lot like Mr. Archer himself, H. Jon Benjamin…you name it, it probably happens.

As befits a film that features quite a few sketch/improv comedians (out of eleven regular cast members from The State, six are featured here (Showalter, Wain, Merino, Truglio, Black and Kerri Kenney), while Shannon and Poehler got their starts on SNL), Wet Hot American Summer is a nearly nonstop barrage of gags, sexual innuendo, over-the-top characterizations and restless energy, all culminating in the kind of talent show set-piece that delivers as much as it promises (the Godspell bit, in particular, is priceless, especially when introduced by Poehler as “some people who suck dick”).

The point of the film, as with any comedic parody, is two-fold: poke fun at the original source – in this case, teen sex comedies like Meatballs (1979) and Porky’s (1982) – and entertain/amuse on its own merits. In both cases, Wain and Showalter acquit themselves much better than anyone might reasonably expect. As a 1980s parody, WHAS is spot-on, nailing not only the obvious mise-en-scene (plenty of butt-rock classics on the score, feathered hair and mullets, endless references to kitsch/catch-phrases/cultural ephemera) but also the themes, clichés and stereotypes that seemed to freely flow through many films (especially comedies) from that era. WHAS takes its ’80s-worship to pretty ridiculous heights (obviously) but that’s just what the material calls for (deserves?).

Even divorced from the ’80s parody aspects, WHAS is a complete blast from start to finish. Credit a clever script (the film is incredibly dumb but never stupid: there’s a huge difference) but don’t fail to give each and every member of the incredible ensemble cast their fair dues: to a tee, the group manage to build on each others’ performances, becoming something akin to the Voltron of silly comedies. It’s hard to pick out favorites here, although Merino is a constant delight as Victor (full disclosure: Merino has been one of my absolute favorite comedians for some time now) and Paul Rudd is impressively all-in as the temper tantrum-prone Andy. Garofalo does her patented combo of stressed-out/checked-out, while Shannon gets lots of great mileage out of the running gag involving her “road to recovery” via pre-teen psychotherapy.

Of an incredibly game cast, however, perhaps none are more so than Law & Order: SVU mainstay Meloni. Trading the brooding tough-guyisms of Elliot Stabler in for the ridiculously unhinged Gene is a nice move and one that would hint at Meloni’s post-SVU slide into sillier comedy versus gritty police procedural. There’s a night and day difference, here, and many of the film’s biggest, funniest scenes have Gene right at their wacko little hearts.

Perhaps due to my belief that the film was nothing more than a really dumb and cheap parody, I studiously avoided Wet Hot American Summer when it first appeared in 2001, even though I liked The State enough to catch the odd episode, here and there. This, of course, is why “assume” usually makes an ass of you and me: not only wasn’t WHAS the insipid, stupid film I assumed it was, it actually turned out to be one of the better, consistently funny and endearing comedies I’ve seen in several years.

In fact, I ended up liking the film so much that I eagerly plowed through the recently unveiled prequel TV series, Wet Hot American Summer: The First Day (2015), in what felt like one sitting. To my even greater surprise, the series actually manages to one-up the already impressive film, bringing back the majority of the cast (the first film’s unstated joke about 20-year-olds playing teens is even funnier when the cast is now nearly 15 years older and playing younger versions of themselves…the meta is strong with this one, indeed!), along with a raft of great newcomers including the likes of Michael Cera, Jason Schwartzman and several cast members from Mad Men. It adds nicely to the “mythos” established in the original film, while also serving to answer some questions and smooth over some particularly odd headscratchers (we learn the full story of H. Jon Benjamin’s talking veggies, for one thing, and it’s definitely worth the wait).

Ultimately, a comedy really only needs to answer one crucial question: is it funny? Wet Hot American Summer is many things (silly, loud, crude, nonsensical, esoteric, giddy) but, above and beyond all else, it’s definitely funny. Regardless of where your preferences lie on the comedy meter, I’m willing to wager that Wet Hot American Summer will have plenty of opportunities to tickle your funny-bone. As we’re solemnly told at the end of the film, “the entire summer, which kind of sucked, was rejuvenated by the events of the last 24 hours.” Sounds about right, campers…sounds just about right to me.

3/13/14: Ain’t No Love in the City (Oscar Bait, Part 15)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, auteur theory, Barton Fink, Best Cinematography nominee, Best Sound Mixing nominee, Carey Mulligan, cats, cinema, Coen Brothers, couch-surfing, Ethan Coen, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, folk music, Garrett Hedlund, Greenwich Village, indie dramas, Inside Llewyn Davis, Joel Coen, John Goodman, Justin Timberlake, Llewyn Davis, Movies, musical numbers, New York City, Oscar Isaac, Roland Turner, set in the 1960's, snubbed at the Oscars, the Coen Brothers, unlikable protagonist, winter

There’s a very fine line between being a gruff, disagreeable, yet essentially human being and being a complete horse’s ass. On the one hand, you have a set of individuals who just don’t feel like towing the party line, the kind of folks who follow their own rules and don’t always have to have a plastic smile glued to their faces. These folks may be curt, short-fused, unapologetically honest and kind of a drag but, for the most part, they’re good people: someone else’s “theme song” isn’t necessarily noise, just different from our own. The world is full of unpleasant people who do lots of good deeds and are responsible for some very essential/beautiful/hilarious/moving things. On the other hand, however, some people really are just horses’ asses and there isn’t much more that can be said about them.

The question at the center of Inside Llewyn Davis, the Coen Brothers’ latest film, is just what kind of an individual Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac) really is: is he a gruff, unlikable, immensely talented artiste or is he just a spoiled-rotten horse’s ass? As with pretty much every Coen film since their debut, nothing here is ever as clear-cut as that, although Inside Llewyn Davis tends to be almost as obtuse as Barton Fink, which is no mean feat.

We’re first introduced to Llewyn, a New York folk singer, as he’s doing one of the two things he’s best at: singing his heart out at a small club. In short order, however, we’re introduced to Llewyn’s other talent, as a mysterious man kicks his ass in the parking lot for heckling during another performance. Even as he’s getting stomped, Llewyn is completely unrepentant: if he regrets anything, it’s probably that he didn’t get away quick enough. We then follow Llewyn on an epic journey of minimalism and aimless drifting as he couch surfs across Greenwich village, letting loose a beloved family pet here, bringing discord to a relationship there and never once wavering from his steadfast devotion to say it like he means it. Jean (Carey Mulligan), one half of a local folk “power” couple with Jim (Justin Timberlake) may be pregnant with Llewyn’s kid but she’d rather abort it than take the chance: “You’re a shit person and everything you touch turns to shit.” Jim gets Llewyn a gig with him in the studio, only for Llewyn to spend the whole time ridiculing the song and being a jerk: “I’m happy for the gig but who wrote this song?” Jim’s unhappy reply? “I did.”

Time and time again, Llewyn acts in the most selfish, self-serving ways possible, navigating through life as if it were a highway and his was the only car in sight. He talks shit about Al Cody (Adam Driver) during the studio session but still manages to ask him to crash on his couch. Not only does Llewyn let out the Gorfeins’ (Ethan Phillips, Robin Bartlett) cat, he also explodes during a dinner, causing Mrs. Gorfein to burst out crying. Nonetheless, Llewyn still shows up on their doorstep later, looking for a place to stay. In any given situation, Llewyn does just what he wants to but then seems surprised when everybody reacts negatively.

As previously mentioned, however, there seems to be a lot more going on here than a simple look into the life of a jerk. For one thing, Inside Llewyn Davis is structured very much like a quest/road-movie, although the ultimate goal never seems quite clear. In some ways, the film reminded me of Oh Brother, Where Art Thou, although the underlying connection of the latter to the Odyssey is much clearer than any classical allusions I can draw from the former. This is not to say that the Coens’ intention is muddy, necessarily, just that I wasn’t able to get it the first time around. There’s definitely something going on internally, especially once we learn that the Gorfein’s cat is named Ulysses, but my initial viewing wasn’t quite sufficient: as with all things Coen, I expect multiple viewings to help clear this up.

We also get the odd introduction of Johnny Five (Garrett Hedlund) and Roland Turner (John Goodman), a beat poet and jazz musician, respectively, who embark on a short, ill-fated car trip with Llewyn. Goodman is absolutely amazing as the crass, boorish, Santeria-practicing, smack-shootin’ jazz musician but it’s a curious role and seems to serve a rather undefined purpose in the film. At first, I was inclined to think that this was a commentary on the inherent differences between jazz and folk during the early ’60s but that felt to reductive. I’m more inclined to think that Roland factors more prominently into the “real,” underlying story beneath Inside Llewyn Davis (I automatically think of Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came but that could just be me).

There’s also the curious business of the beginning and end of the film, sections which seem to hint at some sort of deeper, almost symbolic meaning. By the end of the film, I was left wondering if, perhaps, this were some form of a purgatory, with Llewyn Davis doing eternal laps around the track as some sort of punishment for past deeds. Did the mysterious, ass-whuppin’ man in black represent some sort of cosmic retribution, the universe’s way of making sure that Llewyn earned some measure of comeuppance for his blatant disregard towards everyone else? Was this some way of saying that omnipresent negativity can only breed more negativity, leading Llewyn to wander in a maze of his own unpleasant creation? It honestly stumped me but I won’t admit defeat until I’ve had a little more time with it.

My confusion notwithstanding, Inside Llewyn Davis marks something of a return to form for the Coens (at least as far as I’m concerned) after the disappointment of Burn After Reading, A Serious Man and True Grit. This is a much simpler, quieter film than productions like Oh Brother and True Grit but it doesn’t have the restrained sense of tension inherent to early films like Blood Simple or Fargo, either. For me, this “slow-burn” zone is my favorite mode for the Coens, so watching this felt like the cinematic equivalent of comfort food, in a way. As usual, the ensemble cast is fantastic: like Woody Allen, the Coens have a natural gift with bringing out the best in actors and they have quite the group to work with here. As the titular “hero,” Oscar Issac is simply marvelous and was egregiously snubbed of a Best Actor nomination at this year’s Oscars. Mulligan and Timberlake, as Jean and Jim, are great, with Timberlake continuing to impress me with another simple but spot-on characterization. As previously mentioned, Goodman is a whirlwind of chaos and easily steals every inch of celluloid that he appears on.

Ironically, despite being denied several obvious Oscar nominations (Best Actor, Best Picture, Best Director, for three), Inside Llewyn Davis was nominated for a pair that I just couldn’t agree with: Best Sound Mixing and Best Cinematography. While the cinematography was good but nothing special, I actually found the sound mixing to be rather awful, with the kind of vast gulf between dialogue and music that mars many films/TV shows these days: I found myself riding my remote’s volume more than I liked and certainly more than should have been necessary in a film with “supposedly” exemplary sound mixing.

At the end of the day, due to my lifelong love of their films, it’s always a bit difficult for me to be truly subjective regarding any new Coen Brothers productions. Unlike certain filmmakers like Nicholas Winding Refn or Ben Wheatley, I don’t love every Coen film in their canon: in fact, there are a few that I actively dislike. Very few filmmakers besides the Coens, however, would make me repeatedly watch a film that I don’t care for in an attempt to get me to understand and appreciate it better. While Inside Llewyn Davis is nowhere near my least favorite Coen film (hands down, that would be True Grit), it’s also nowhere near my favorite Coen film (Blood Simple/The Big Lebowski would be the conjoined twin/winner here). I’m willing to wager that, given some time, I’ll understand and appreciate this a lot more. At the very least, I’ll never get tired of watching Roland bluster or Llewyn chase that darn cat all over town.

 

2/11/14: That is the Question

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actors, Alan Johnson, Anna Bronski, Anne Bancroft, auteur theory, Blazing Saddles, Charles Durning, Christopher Lloyd, cinema, comedies, doubles, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Frederick Bronski, imposters, invasion of Poland, Jose Ferrer, Life Stinks, Mel Brooks, Movies, multiple roles, musical numbers, Nazis, period-piece, Robin Hood: Men in Tights, Ronny Graham, screwball comedies, Spaceballs, spies, The Producers, theatre group, Thomas Meehan, Tim Matheson, To Be or Not To Be, World War II, Young Frankenstein

Pound for pound, there are probably few comedic writer/director/actors with the kind of resume that Mel Brooks has. Even if they haven’t all been winners (and Life Stinks (1991), Robin Hood: Men in Tights (1993) and Dracula: Dead and Loving It (1995) definitely belong in the “Not Winning” category), Brooks has been responsible for some truly indelible, classic films. Try and imagine a world without The Producers (1967), Blazing Saddles (1974), Young Frankenstein (1974), High Anxiety (1977) or Spaceballs (1987)…that’s right: not a pretty picture is it, pal? Achievements as big as those tend to buy you an awful lot of goodwill, after all, and if the last 23 years of Brook’s career haven’t been as great as the first 24 years…well, the guy has kind of earned the right to rest on his laurels a bit.

For my money, Brooks is at his most unstoppable when he’s writing, directing and acting simultaneously (although this didn’t do anything to resuscitate his last three films, ironically enough). I think he’s a great actor but his kind of broad performance type is really only well-suited to his own over-the-top, joke-a-minute writing style. In anything where the jokes don’t come quite so fast and furious, however, such as Screw Loose (1999), Brooks often comes across as a fish-out-of-water. For some reason, that pliable mug of his absolutely flourishes in screwball territory.

To Be or Not To Be, directed by Brooks’ longtime choreographer Alan Johnson (the genius behind the Springtime for Hitler and Puttin’ on the Ritz segments in The Producers and Young Frankenstein, respectively) is a decent, if not revelatory, Brooks vehicle that marks one of the last (small) hurrahs in his career, followed four years later by Spaceballs (the last Brooks film that I truly enjoyed, including the patently awful remake of The Producers from 2005). While Brooks didn’t write or direct the film, writers Thomas Meehan and Ronny Graham would go on to write Spaceballs, making this a bit of a dry run for Brooks Star Wars-parody.

While To Be or Not To Be never quite scales the dizzying heights of previous Brooks’ classics, there are still plenty of genuine laughs to be found here, although nothing really too deep to think about. Technically a remake of a 1942 Jack Benny film, To Be or Not to Be details the attempts by a group of Polish actors and military personnel to identify and do away with a German double-agent on the eve of Germany’s invasion of Poland. Frederick Bronski (Brooks) and his wife, Anna (Anne Bancroft, in a deliriously giddy role) must deal with the spy (played by a virtually unrecognizable Jose Ferrer), asinine Nazi commandants (side-splitting turns by Charles During and Christopher Lloyd) and a randy Polish pilot (Tim Matheson) who wants to free Poland from the Germans and Anna from her stage-clothes, possibly in reverse order.

Although To Be or Not To Be is nowhere near the laugh riot of Brook’s earlier films, it’s probably unfair to assume that it would be. For one thing, To Be or Not To Be tends to be one of Brooks’ plot-heaviest confections (this still isn’t Solaris, mind you, but probably has the most convoluted plot since The Producers), so there’s much less of an emphasis on rapid-fire gags and more emphasis on running jokes and elongated payoffs. To Be or Not To Be is also (technically) a remake, so it suffers from a certain further sense of removal from the rest of Brooks’ oeuvre.

That being said, To Be or Not To Be is still filled with some truly great, hilarious moments. One of Bronski’s shows is called Naughty Nazis and is just as delightful as the ridiculous title would indicate (“A Little Piece of Poland” is a pretty amazing tune) and his Shakespearian “greatest hits” performance, titled “Highlights From Hamlet,” is good enough to get its own full-length. There’s a great running gag about the theatre troupe hiding Jewish refugees in the basement (Bronski’s reaction, upon seeing that “a couple” has turned into “a lot” is classic Brooks) and the bit where Bronski, dressed as Hitler, walks into a British pub and innocently inquires: “Is this England?” is just about as good as silly absurdist humor gets.

The acting, as a whole, is quite good, although Christopher Lloyd and Charles Durning easily steal any scene they appear in. Lloyd, in particular, is absolutely marvelous as Capt. Schultz, the stone-faced Nazi who has zero time for any shenanigans. It’s a wonderful change-of-pace role for Lloyd, something that really surprised (and delighted) me. Truth be told: we could have used a whole lot more Lloyd in the film. Bancroft is obviously hanging a blast playing the ditzy-but-canny Anna and there’s some genuinely nice chemistry between her and Brooks. Matheson is just fine in the kind of fresh-faced-rube role that he routinely pulled-off in his sleep, although his character is never asked to be much more than agreeable, bland wallpaper.

The whole film culminates in a circus-clown inspired escape attempt that manages to be both genuinely funny and truly nail-biting: this heightened sense of real tension was something that felt new for Brooks’ films: even edgy fare like Blazing Saddles, despite its storyline, often felt fairly low-stakes whereas we frequently get the impression (in To Be or Not to Be) that any of these characters could die at any time. That’s not to say that the film is ever grim (or even particularly serious, most of the time) but there is definitely the potential for deep tragedy here.

Ultimately, To Be or Not to Be sits pretty comfortably in the middle of Mel Brooks’ canon. While it’s nowhere near as good as his classics (but really…what is?), it’s certainly no where near as dire as his (to this point) final three films were. I’ll probably always consider Spaceballs to be Brooks “final” film, but To Be or Not To Be wasn’t a terrible lead-up to it.