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.

6/21/15: Know When To Say When

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Anthony Hopkins, based on a book, based on a true story, British-Dutch films, cinema, Cor van Hout, crime thriller, Daniel Alfredson, David Dencik, drama, film reviews, films, foreign films, Fredrik Bäckar, Håkan Karlsson, Heineken, Heineken beer, held for ransom, Jemima West, Jim Sturgess, Kat Lindsay, kidnapping, Kidnapping Mr. Heineken, large ransoms, Lucas Vidal, Mark van Eeuwen, Movies, Peter R. de Vries, Ryan Kwanten, Sam Worthington, set in 1980s, set in Amsterdam, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, The Girl Who Played With Fire, Thomas Cocquerel, Willem Holleeder, William Brookfield

On paper, Kidnapping Mr. Heineken (2015) must have seemed like a no-brainer: throw Sam Worthington, Jim Sturgess and some fellow named Sir Anthony Hopkins into a film about the real-life kidnapping of the titular beer baron and get the guy who directed the original versions of The Girl Who Played With Fire (2009) and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest (2009) to helm it. Stir, cook at 350 and voila: instant thriller goodness! The resulting film, however, ends up being much less than the sum of its parts: while Kidnapping Mr. Heineken sports a fairly relentless pace, it’s also overly familiar, a little nonsensical and more than a little slight. While the principals all turn in sturdy performances, it’s unlikely that you’ll remember much of it after the credits roll.

Taking place in Amsterdam, in the early ’80s, we’re immediately introduced to our intrepid gang of wannabe kidnappers: Cor van Hout (Jim Sturgess), his best friend, Willem Holleeder (Sam Worthington), “Cat” Boellard (Ryan Kwanten), “Spikes” Meijer (Mark van Eeuwen) and “Brakes” Erkamps (Thomas Cocquerel). When we first meet them, the group is trying to secure a renovation loan for an apartment building that they collectively own, a building which has now been overrun by “squatter punks.” When the loan officer indicates that the building will need to be “cleaned out” before any money can be disbursed, the gang springs into action and goes to kick some punk ass. The point is clear: this is a bunch of dudes who takes matters into their own hands.

On the home-front, Cor and his girlfriend, Sonja (Jemima West), are expecting a baby, which has put quite the financial strain on them. Cor wants to provide for Sonja (who also happens to be Willem’s sister) but there aren’t a lot of options out there for someone who’s done time in the big house. The group comes up with a simple, if outrageous, solution: they decide to kidnap Alfred “Freddy” Heineken (Anthony Hopkins) and hold him for the largest ransom in history…$35 million.

In order to finance their scheme, the gang robs a bank in a daring, daytime heist and uses the money to buy weapons, getaway vehicles and a soundproof, hidden room to hide their abductee. After planning the crime extensively, the group executes their mission without a hitch, grabbing Heineken and his driver (David Dencik) and spiriting them away to their hiding place. Once they actually have their quarry, however, everything begins to unravel: the group begins to fall out among each other, Willem becomes increasingly violent and irrational and Heineken ends up being a canny, sly bastard who pours pretty poison in the ear of anyone he comes in contact with. As the authorities begin to close in, will Cor and the others be able to reap their “rewards” or will grabbing Heineken prove to be the stupidest (and last) thing any of them will ever do?

Technically, all of the moving parts in Kidnapping Mr. Heineken do what they’re supposed to do: the cinematography is crisp and polished (Bäckar was also a cameraman on the American remake of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (2011)), all of the action scenes have a relentless pace (in particular, the bank heist is a truly impressive, exhilarating setpiece) and the acting is, for the most part, as sturdy as a rock. While this won’t go down as anyone’s shining moment (Hopkins, in particular, is rather stiff), it all works just fine in service of the actual film. As a director, Daniel Alfredson handles the action setpieces just fine, even if some of the more dramatic elements feel a little short-sheeted.

The big problem, as it turns out, is that Alfredson’s film just doesn’t do enough to distinguish itself from any number of similar movies: in certain ways, this comes across as a “paint-by-numbers” action film, a generic template where only the names and faces have been changed. None of the characters are really fleshed-out in any meaningful way (there’s some mention made of one of the kidnappers’ families being intrinsically tied to Heineken but that particular plot point leads nowhere), which means that we never get fully invested in them. Sturgess plays Cor like any number of “nice guy forced to do bad things” roles, while Worthington brings nothing new, whatsoever, to his portrayal of the loose cannon. Sonja is just the put-upon significant other, Heineken is just the petulant rich guy. None of the characters ever breaks out of their generic “types,” leaving us with a drama that feels no weightier than the average teen slasher flick.

Kidnapping Mr. Heineken is also one of those crime thriller/heist films where the characters act in inexplicable ways as a means of advancing the plot. They take their masks off at inopportune times, leave witnesses behind, and, in general, seem to do everything they can to get caught. Closing text informs us that no one really knows why the group originally got caught: if the real-life criminals were this sloppy and stupid, I’m pretty sure we don’t need three guesses.

In fact, one of the most interesting aspects of Kidnapping Mr. Heineken isn’t what happens on-screen but, apparently, what happened to the real-life participants after the film ended. As that helpful text informs us, Cor and Willem went on to become criminal godfathers in the Netherlands, after serving their 11-year prison sentences. Cor would go on to be assassinated, with scuttlebutt pointing the finger at his own best friend, Willem. Perhaps it’s only me but that actually sounds like a much more interesting story than the by-the-book heist film that we actually get: it’s rather telling that the film never really sparked my interest until it was actually over.

Ultimately, Kidnapping Mr. Heineken isn’t a terrible film, although it is a terribly familiar one. With its slight characterizations, lapses in logic and adherence to multiplex action movie conventions, Alfredson’s film might play well in the background but it’s unlikely to earn your full, undivided attention. In other words, this beer ain’t bad but it is pretty flat.

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.

3/8/15: Last Flight of the Golden Eagle

Tags

2014 Academy Awards, 87th Annual Academy Awards, Anthony Michael Hall, based on a true story, Bennett Miller, Brett Rice, Capote, Channing Tatum, co-writers, competition, Dan Futterman, Dave Schultz, David Schultz, dramas, du Pont, E. Max Frye, eccentric billionaire, envy, father figures, feuding brothers, Foxcatcher, Greig Fraser, Guy Boyd, insanity, John E. du Pont, low-key, Mark Ruffalo, Mark Schultz, mental illness, Michael Scott, Moneyball, mother-son relationships, multiple award nominee, multiple writers, Olympic athletes, Rob Simonsen, set in 1980s, sibling rivalry, Sienna Miller, sports movie, Steve Carell, tragedies, Vanessa Redgrave, wrestlers

As serious and stone-faced as garden statuary, Bennett Miller’s Foxcatcher (2014) is a bit of a conundrum: on the one hand, the overly stately film has a portentous, heavy atmosphere that practically demands we pay attention, drenching everything in the sort of numbing foreboding that all but guarantees a tragic resolution. On the other hand, Miller’s follow-up to his smash-hit Moneyball (2011) is so grim and po-faced that it often approaches the level of self-parody: it’s like spending an afternoon with your glowering, disapproving, elderly aunt as she constantly swats your hand for trying to sneak extra Lorna Doones. When the film’s serious-mindedness and its themes collide, there’s some genuinely affecting drama to be found here. Much of the time, however, Foxcatcher is…well, it’s a bit of a slog, to be honest.

Falling under the “they can’t make this stuff up” designation, Foxcatcher is based on the true story of eccentric millionaire John E. du Pont (Steve Carell) and his tragic relationship with Olympic gold medal-winning wrestling brothers Mark (Channing Tatum) and David Schultz (Mark Ruffalo). John, the mentally unhinged heir to the massive du Pont plastics fortune, was constantly trying to break away from the disapproving eye of his aging mother, Jean (Vanessa Redgrave), who valued her prized “horse flesh” over her son’s “silly” wrestling fixation.

John sought validation by pinning his support on Mark, the sullen half of the legendary Schultz brothers. By serving as the father figure that Mark so desperately needs, du Pont uses the wrestler’s natural skill and need for validation to make his own mark in the sport. More than anything, however, du Pont sees a kindred spirit with Mark’s own desire to break away from the over-bearing shadow of his super-successful older brother. John exploits the inherently rocky nature of Mark and David’s relationship, using Mark’s jealousy and David’s need for superiority to put new prizes into his trophy room.

The fly in the ointment, of course, is that du Pont is a loon. Prone to firing guns off for no reason, given to staring weirdly into space and so cold and distant as to appear almost alien, John is the absolute worst role model/father figure a person could possibly have. His increasingly erratic behavior and cocaine use (a habit that he, helpfully, introduces to the naive Mark) kick off a cycle of chaos that leads to tragedy, violence and, finally, redemption.

The big selling point to Miller’s multi-award-nominated Foxcatcher is, undoubtedly, Carell’s ultra-serious performance as the demented wrestling enthusiast. Best known for his portrayal of Michael Scott, the fumbling manager for the mythical Dunder Mifflin Paper Company, Carell has mostly stuck to comedy roles across his two+decades in the biz, although he’s snuck out for the occasional “dramedy” role, ala Little Miss Sunshine (2006) or Dan in Real Life (2007).

Here, we get nothing but the serious, stone-faced side of Carell (along with some seriously heavy-handed facial makeup) and it’s kind of a mixed bag. For the most part, Carell is fairly inert here, his silent, brooding watchfulness often blending into the background as if he were a stage prop. We do get scattered moments of pure Michael Scott-ism, such as the oddly humorous bit where du Pont encourages Mark to call him “Eagle, Golden Eagle, John or Coach” but it’s a largely flat-lined performance that seemed to garner an Oscar nomination on pure novelty factor, alone.

Much better is Tatum’s portrayal of du Pont’s brooding, unhappy protegé. Tatum has always struck me as a bit of a puppy dog on-screen, so naturally friendly and non-threatening as to be almost a cartoon character. Here, we get a completely different side of the matinée idol and it’s a pretty good look for the guy. There’s some genuine nuance to his portrayal of Mark, including a dressing room trashing scene that almost rivals Michael Keaton’s similar bit in Birdman (2014), and it really opens up new avenues for Tatum. I’m genuinely surprised that he wasn’t nominated for his performance but I’m willing to wager that he’ll get plenty of additional opportunities in the future. Let’s start to get this guy some more serious roles, Hollywood!

Falling between these two poles is Mark Ruffalo’s take on Dave Schultz. Neither as inert as Carell nor as dynamic as Tatum, Ruffalo strikes me as thoroughly reliable here, if completely unremarkable. This was another case where I have to wonder, at least a little, at the resulting awards nominations: while he was consistently solid, nothing about the performance stuck out, for me.

From a filmmaking perspective, Foxcatcher is almost relentlessly austere and serious-minded. This is the kind of movie where the very notion of “cracking a smile” is unthinkable: time after time, we’re reminded of just how grim everything really is, often to the point of near parody. The film has a pleasantly gritty, grainy look, which definitely works in its favor, but everything else about it practically screams “serious film” and it kind of sinks under its own weight. I’m not insinuating that the film needs a humorous edge, mind you: I am, however, stating that it takes itself far too seriously to be effective. There’s an inherently ludicrous element to the proceedings that the film never really exploits, giving everything the air of a particularly ponderous PBS film when it could’ve been a much more dynamic affair.

Ultimately, Foxcatcher was well-made but left me cold. I appreciate what Miller and company were going for but the film never seemed to cohere into anything more than a mildly thought-provoking take on obsession. There were plenty of hints at larger themes, especially relating to patriotism, but they never seemed to develop into anything more than footnotes. As such, Foxcatcher felt much “smaller” and slighter than was probably intended, especially considering how self-important the film feels. Inherently sad, introspective and muted, Foxcatcher is a decent-enough drama but nothing more. While it may be note-worthy as Steve Carell’s first truly “serious” role, I’m willing to wager that Channing Tatum’s performance will be the one that people still talk about, years from now.