711 - Act of Valor review

When “Top Gun” was about to be released on video, the studio offered the Navy the chance to put a promotional advertisement at the start of the tape in exchange for credit towards the production. The offer was rejected, as it was noted that the film already functioned as a recruitment tool and that extra enticement to join the military was not required.

26 years later we have “Act of Valor,” another Hollywood film that doubles as a recruiting tool for the Navy, this one crafted from the ground up for that specific purpose. When an insolent teenage theater employee demanded my ID at the counter before selling me a ticket, I couldn’t help but find the R rating a bit ironic, as the vast majority of people likely to see such a film and then feel compelled to volunteer for military service are kids. Who else can watch a widow weep over her husband’s casket and think, hey, that can be my widow someday?

Despite its origin and status as an advertisement, “Act of Valor” contains scenes and moments of surprising honesty and excitement. In truth, Hollywood makes advertising films all the time, usually for left-wing social causes, but they rarely provide as entertaining of an experience as this one, about what’s theoretically a non-partisan concern to boot.

The plot sees a group of SEALs tracking a multi-ethnic jihadist group across continents as a nefarious (and perhaps even plausible) plot unfolds that one of its leaders promises will make 9/11 look like “a walk in the park.” The action scenes are aptly done, finding a spot at the nexus of combat that makes it loud, chaotic, and dangerous, yet with a certain clarity realized through the perspective of the combatants.

Certainly the film’s Navy SEALs, played by actual active duty warriors whose names are withheld, look at least as convincing as any actor during the action parts of their roles, which involve sneaking around terrorist compounds, kicking in doors, and shooting lots and lots of bad guys. Unfortunately, these are career SEALs, not actors (a career reality I doubt many in either profession regret), and the moments that don’t involve the more cinematic part of their duties seem stilted, to put it charitably. These heroic men can dole out death in ways unparalleled across the world, and certainly they have rightly earned more genuine admiration than the most glamorous movie star, but convincingly reading even simple dialogue proves harder than it looks. As a result, we wind up with a film nearly as sympathetic to the terrorists as to the SEALs, played by actual actors who are shockingly allowed to imbue their characters with a trifle of humanity.

It’s that kind of touch that leads to a mild endorsement, the unexpected flourishes of reality that adorn this very profitable advertisement. Just as the SEALs are people with families, the bad guys do too, and it’s those in one’s life, be they a child across continents or a fellow fighter, that fuels those involved. The kids might not be able to read in-between the lines, but adults usually can, and “Act of Valor” functions as a reminder that war, however thrilling it can appear to those uninvolved, can rob even its most skillful participants of life and limb.

3 out of 5

709 - Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance review

In “Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance,” Nic Cage and his hairpiece return as Johnny Blaze, the Ghost Rider, a second tier Marvel Comics character whose fans revere by dint of his manufactured awesomeness. With his flaming skull head, his motorcycle spitting fire, and Satanic origin, Ghost Rider was one of the silliest characters in a silly medium, but in this sequel that status is used as a virtue. His preposterousness is shanghaied into a dose of skillfully absurd amusement.

Set in “Eastern Europe” and filmed in Romania and Turkey, “Ghost Rider 2” functions as both a comic book action film and a surprisingly effective homage. One could be forgiven for anticipating quasi-mindless fanboy fodder, and certainly it could be interpreted that way. Yet my own temptations to view it so kept being undercut by the competence of the manic filmmaking style, the gonzo enthusiasm that makes what could have been mundane into a searing blast of fun.

In this installment, Blaze has fled to Eastern Europe, where he and a biker priest (Idris Elba) find themselves the protector of a boy (Fergus Riordan) and his mother (Violante Placido), both pursued by the Devil (Ciaran Hinds) and an array of mercenaries and demonic hoodlums. The Ghost Rider’s powers seem to render him invincible, though the surprisingly straightforward use of grenades and explosives can throttle him back to the vulnerable mortal form. As one might guess, his exploits unfold through a series of chases and battles with the villains, which see Ghost Rider do a lot of incinerating and commandeering an array of vehicles, most amusingly when he turns a piece of mining machinery into an orange beast of death.

This is actually vastly superior filmmaking to “Captain America,” a washed out, meandering tribute to an era no one misses with a studiously designed to avoid offending the residents of German nursing homes. “Ghost Rider 2” successfully evokes the B-movie spirit that Quentin Tarantino failed at with his “Grindhouse” debacle, which served as a reminder that parody is often mistaken for homage. In this film, the handheld camera work, the desert highway chases, the occult-driven plot, all coalesce together as something sincere, a descendant of everything from “Mad Max” to 70s horror films. Granted, with its thin premise this never for a moment comes close to the poignancy and relevance of truly great comic book films such as “Spider-Man 2” or “The Dark Knight,” but even a decently sincere work such as this will always surpass a well-crafted fraud like “Captain America.”

Cage, who in his rush to suck up every dime not nailed down to alleviate his tax problems, marks his third B-movie with Christian theology as a driving force behind the plot. His volcanic eruption acting style seems thematically appropriate here as he plays a character that literally spits fire. Torment and frustration are what he does best, and I’d be hard-pressed to argue that he doesn’t belong here. Cage even gets a poignant moment where Blaze tells the boy that our darkness as humans can be used for good and need not define who we are, a bit of insightfulness that lends unexpected moral clarity to a narrative that many filmmakers would doubtlessly treat as a mindless excuse for fiery destruction.

“Ghost Rider 2” is directed by Neveldine/Taylor, a team of filmmakers not exactly known for their mannered, elegant work. Remember the “Crank” films, arguably the most offensive films to ever get a wide release? I sometimes wish I didn’t. Those movies managed to violate seemingly every convention of good taste and human decency. However, it stands to reason that in order to be so effective at insulting good sensibilities, an artist must possess them to begin with. Here their strange habits have a rare effect, infusing what would normally be an inert franchise movie with something it badly needs: a soul.

3.5 out of 5

708

Oscar time again, and I've got predictions. They can be found over at Big Hollywood. I'm leaning towards a sweep for "The Artist."

707

The Muriel Awards have started again! And I'm honored that I got the first word of the proceedings with a blurb about Albert Brooks' incendiary performance in "Drive." Check out my writeup here, and gawk at past awards of years past here.

706 - Chronicle review

What would three teens imbued with Godlike superpowers do? I can think of two options:

A. Announce themselves to the world as its new rulers, taking any and everything they ever wanted.

B. Videotape the whole experience while keeping it a secret, until one of them inevitably snaps and goes on a rampage.

“Chronicle” is a film about option B, which I’d imagine would be the choice of most filmmakers on a budget. Sure, the budget here is $15 million, which could make dozens of true indie films, but how many of those movies would feature characters that could fly across oceans and crush cars just by thinking about it?

Although the found footage format has seen extensive use since “The Blair Witch Project,” (first seen a whopping 13 years ago, can you believe it?) here there are some clever flourishes that allow the storytelling twists and surprises that a conventional format might have made predictable. Since teens Andrew (Dane DeHaan), Matt (Alex Russell), and Steve (Michael B. Jordan, no famous relation) are able to telekinetically levitate objects, courtesy of a crashed alien ship, the camera often finds itself hovering around the action, and proves a pretty resilient device, seeing as it’s often dropped out of the sky.

Since we’re talking about a film following the aforementioned option B, their usages of powers are generally modest; they play a mental game of catch, soar amongst the clouds, build a Space Needle out of Legos, and impress girls with at the talent show. At least, that’s about all they do until the movie nears its conclusion (with an 83 minute runtime, this doesn’t take long), where stress causes one of them to evolve from student to mentally armed robber to apocalyptic force of destruction.

That final sequence, which I would guess took a good half or more of the budget, sees the trashing of a good part of Seattle, told from the perspective of an array of camera phones, security and traffic cameras, news cameras, and for a couple of shots what looked like a plain old fashioned movie camera (cheating).

It’s an exciting film, with unexpected moments of humor and intensity. Directed by Josh Trank and written by Max Landis (famous relation to John, director of “Animal House”), there were a number of moments that piqued my interest, such as how they debated when and how their powers should be used, or how extensive use of their powers cause injury.

But it’s all a little shallow upon reflection, lacking any real insight and modest with thematic creativity. Certainly these kids can think of something better to do with their powers than win talent shows, right? Well, not really, unless you count trashing a major city after a severe argument with one’s parents. There might be an even more pertinent question from this line of thought: what better could a filmmaker do with $15 million? I’ll admit, one could definitely do much worse.

3 out of 5

705 - Haywire review

“Haywire” is to Steven Soderbergh what “Kill Bill” is to Quentin Tarantino. Both are examples of auteurs taking a swing at genre films, though the similarities end there. Whereas Tarantino is the cinephile, the fanboy’s fanboy whose love and adulation for these types of film grace every frame, Soderbergh is the artist, the prolific creator who enjoys a good experiment.

Thusly, “Haywire” comes out somewhat on the arty end for an action film, albeit one played straight and with few moments of self-awareness. Pedigree aside, it seems crafted to deliberately occupy late-night timeslots on cable, the kind of well-crafted, efficient thriller that’s just good enough to recommend and not purge from one’s memory. Its ambitions are squarely, accurately, unabashedly aimed somewhere towards the middle.

Gina Carano plays the hero, a privately contracted secret agent with the suitably stern moniker Mallory Kane. Carano isn’t an actress by trade, but a professional mixed martial arts fighter, apparently retired at the ripe old age of 29. Soderbergh has extensive experience placing non-actors in leading roles (see “Bubble” or “The Girlfriend Experience), and here he again proves to have an apt eye for finding talent where none was readily apparent.

Carano’s suitably beautiful and wholly convincing as hand-to-hand combatant capable enough to dispatch men with a great deal of weight on her. After seeing waifish actresses like Zoe Saldana pretend to pulverize 200 lbs men, Carano’s a borderline revelation. That she seems uncomfortable in the quieter moments doesn’t do much to diminish the charisma that Soderbergh brings out during the trailer-worthy parts.

The plot’s what I like to call a Ten Dollar Plot, which is to say that I’ll hand a ten dollar bill to any viewer who can coherently explain the details to me immediately after a viewing. Somehow I was able to ascertain that it involves Kane’s betrayal by her contractor employer, the U.S. government, and possibly the Spanish government, though it’s hard to say.

Here what matters is the action, suitably brutal and filmed in long takes so that we can enjoy the choreography, and the mood, a sort of amalgam of the director’s indie sensibilities and genre convention. Soderbergh is sparing with the music and light with his actors, lending an easygoing feel not common to straight action films that see the deaths of the lion’s share of the characters.

Carano might be virtually unknown outside of MMA fandom, but not the rest of the cast: Antonio Banderas, Michael Douglas, Michael Fassbender, Ewan McGregor, Bill Paxton, and Channing Tatum, all of whom play spies, tough guys, or bureaucrats. Their stardom not only lends gravitas to the picture and supporting roles which otherwise prove generally unremarkable, but it’s always nice to see a familiar face when you’re watching an action heroine smash it in.

3.5 out of 5

704 - War Horse review

Steven Spielberg has said that before he directs a movie, he watches four films: Akira Kurosawa’s “Seven Samurai,” Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life,” David Lean’s “Lawrence of Arabia,” and John Ford’s “The Searchers.” Perhaps in none of his films has this been more obvious than in “War Horse,” an epic war drama that’s both remarkably personable and expansive.

“War Horse” is easily one of the best films of 2011, a majestic work that many of the old masters would have been proud to call their own. Nothing else from 2011 that I’ve seen so stirred my emotions, or made me so yearn for an era of Hollywood long past, where grand films told widely appealing tales that left only those with hearts of stone unmoved.

The story begins in England with the birth of Joey, a thoroughbred, soon to be purchased by Ted (Peter Mullan), a drunken farmer that should be buying a plow horse for his farm. His wife Rose (Emily Watson) is aghast at the waste, but his son Albert (Jeremy Irvine) instantly adores the creature. Albert and Joey bond, but soon World War I begins, and Ted sells the horse to the army to be used as an instrument of war. Albert swears that he will be reunited with Joey one day, a vow that seems hard to keep.

After Joey’s shipped over to Europe, he drifts from owner to owner, the narrative introducing us to a number of personalities throughout the war, both military and civilian, English, French, and German. Audiences have now become accustomed to films depicting the harshness of war, in great part thanks to Spielberg’s own “Schindler’s List” and “Saving Private Ryan,” but here we’re forced to consider the toll of destruction as wrought upon a noble beast. War in, all its hellishness, seems to engender qualities of heroism and cruelty in large doses, with fear being the only commonality.

With this story Spielberg has found some of his best scenes. Some are idyllic, such as Albert racing an automobile in the countryside, or a French girl attempting to train him to leap. Others are terrifying, such as moments that see horses thrust into the middle of the war, thrown into terror by violence they can’t understand. Perhaps best is a mutual effort between an English and a German soldier to free Joey from a tangle of barbed wire, a strikingly humane moment in the bloodletting of war. The imagery is lush, exciting, breathtaking, startling, and always beautiful, whether it be a ride through a scenic countryside or a muddy, corpse strewn deathtrap between trenches.

The film’s detractors have sneered at Spielberg’s empathetic filmmaking, deriding its heartfelt story as obvious. Leave it to bad critics to label films they don’t like as “manipulative,” as if there was a film in the market that didn’t actively try to stir certain emotional responses with every scene. It’s telling that the lion’s share of this film’s detractors are those who fancy shallow, pretentious analysis, scoffing at classic filmmaking while paying lip service to the efforts of great storytellers.

The fact is, few films of any sort from any era are this good. Spielberg paints with a broad brush emotionally, crafting a picture replete with stark feelings of sadness, terror, and ultimately, joy. Little of “War Horse” couldn’t have been made 60 years ago, and through Spielberg’s impeccable grasp of storytelling and cinematic history, that pays the highest compliment.

5 out of 5

703 - The Iron Lady review

I'm happy to report that my review of "The Iron Lady" appears in my absolute favorite D.C. newspaper, the Washington Times. Check it out here.

702

The Master List has been updated again with some 30 new scores.

Here are some links to updated spreadsheets:

One in Excel format.

And another in Open Office, the program I used to create the spreadsheet.

701 - Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol review

There was the kind of moment in “Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol” a critic almost never sees. Invincible superspy Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) finds himself ascending the world’s tallest building in Dubai, only he’s on the outside, and doing so with the aid of an unreliable pair of gloves that give him a Spider-Man-esque purchase on the glass. If there’s ever a time one needs reliable equipment, it’s climbing a building over 120 stories tall. When the gloves fail, he falls, and I found myself in that rarest spot: panicked for a character that I know can’t, for any reason, die.

That speaks much not just to the construction of that amazing sequence, but to the film as a whole. Each “Mission: Impossible” installment has had its own distinct vibe courtesy of different name directors, though this entry, the first live action feature by Brad Bird (“The Incredibles,” “Ratatoullie”), seems uniquely inspired. The action set pieces, including a Russian prison breakout and a fight in a high-tech parking garage, are realized with the creativity and energy necessary to make this not only one of, if not the best of the series, but also the quality to return Tom Cruise’s to where it once was, as mandatory event viewing.

Cruise, whose career has lost much of its luster following disastrous publicity and years of under-performance at the box office, clearly went into “Ghost Protocol” with the intent that this would put him back on top, and if grosses and critical consensus are any indication, it worked. I’ve contended for years that Cruise’s status as an iconic megastar have belied his actual effectiveness as an actor; how many other stars have an intensity that, when suffused with wonderful characters such as those he portrayed in “Magnolia” and “Collateral,” can make something mesmerizing?

Here, Cruise actually hung from the Burj Khalifa, albeit securely fastened with a litany of cables. Nonetheless, he was out there, and Robert Elwit’s photography makes certain the audience appreciates the severity of the distance. In “Mission: Impossible II,” Cruise famously allowed a knife to be thrust within a quarter of an inch of his eye. Actually, he insisted. Some actors are hailed as brave for performances where they allow themselves to be photographed without makeup, but Cruise has actually risked life and limb, just like his characters.

The story involves Hunt and his team pursuing an evil Swede (Michael Nyqvist) bent on triggering a nuclear war, ostensibly to speed up the evolution of the human race. His team consists of the specific types that populate most cinematic spy groups: a beautiful woman (Paula Patton), a witty computer geek (Simon Pegg), and a guy played by an actor who would be the leader in a much cheaper movie (Jeremy Renner).

My question about the villain: what about the areas of the world unlikely to be directly involved in this exchange? If the Swede is an environmentalist, is the destruction wreaked by thousands of nuclear warheads worth the trade?

These films aren’t renowned for their story, and in fairness, this one’s isn’t particularly bad, though it’s not especially good, either. Especially problematic is the epilogue, which I’ve been offering a cash reward to anyone who can adequately explain its logic to me. No winners, so far.

But never mind. Blockbuster action films with great stories are sadly rare (think “Inception”), but these pictures triumph financially because of the wonder they provide, the escapism. Right now, this is the movie to see on the big screen. Just beware if you have a fear of heights.

4 out of 5

700 - Fear and Desire review

“Fear and Desire” is Stanley Kubrick’s famously unseen first film, a work the auteur despised so much that he went all out in trying to ensure that cinephiles couldn’t see his freshman effort. Now, after an airing on TCM, I see why. It’s bad enough that even Robert Osbourne was just barely able to avoid describing it in pejorative terms. Present in here is virtually none of the craftsmanship or thematic sophistication that distinguished everything he made from his third film up.

Pic centers around four soldiers trapped behind enemy lines during a fictional war, ostensibly to comment on the universality of the war experience, one I suspect more aimed at budgetary constraints. When they stumble upon the chance to assassinate an enemy general (in a foolish plot that seems to make a point of divorcing itself from plausibility), they discover that, *gasp*, the general and his aide looks like a couple of them! This sort of faux-insightfullness couldn’t be farther from the grim absurdity of his other war masterpieces, “Paths of Glory” and “Dr. Strangelove,” both of which were made soon enough after this that one could be forgiven for not believing they were by the same director. Its seriousness of intent separates it from other B pictures of the time that exist for sensationalistic thrills, but here Kubrick is an artist who knows what he wants to say, but lacks the skill and means to do so.

The only unmistakably Kubrickian element of the film I caught during my single viewing was what my film professor Scott Cawelti referred to as his “bottomless pessimism,” a near-complete absence of faith in the decency of man. Here, even a seemingly heroic soldier is in actuality making a desperate grab for purpose, and a captured civilian girl meets the grisly sort of fate not common even in today’s films. But these horrific moments are diluted by clumsy direction and hammy, dialed to eleven performances. Should this ever see a proper video release, I’d have to endorse it for comparison’s sake; screen this, then “The Killing” or “Paths of Glory,” and discuss what difference a couple years can make.

2 out of 5

699 - The Sitter review

And the devolution of David Gordon Green continues. You might not know Green from the more esoteric films at the start of his career. They were pictures like “George Washington” and “All the Real Girls,” works that announced him as a director to watch. They were understated and deliberate, demonstrating tenderness with a quiet melancholy.

Then came “Pineapple Express,” a stoner comedy with a surprising amount of humor and heart. Then came “Your Highness,” an emphatically stupid medieval stoner comedy for stoners, by stoners, written and produced while enjoying their illicit product.

Now Green’s arrived at “The Sitter,” a wretched, miserable piece of trash that would be embarrassing for the least-talented kid in a high school AV club, much less a name director once critically acclaimed.

It’s essentially a dirtier version of “Adventures in Babysitting,” a 1987 pic revered by more than a few people my age. That was actually a kids’ movie, with a hint of vulgarity designed to assure children into thinking they were watching something edgy. Conversely, “The Sitter” proves the folly of a habit of bad writers: when one has nothing interesting or funny to say, take another story and make it dirtier.

A lot dirtier, in this case. Most scenes defy polite or tactful description by family newspaper standards. The nastiness might not be offensive on its own. People worshipped “The Hangover” because of (or in spite of) its vulgarity and raunchiness, those guys were all adults. Here, scene after scene involves children exposed to sex, drugs, danger, violence, not to mention saying a lot of swear words. When shooting a film, actors usually give many, many takes of any given line. So when an eight-year-old girl says something aggressively ugly, one must wonder, how many times did she have to repeat that line on set?

I leave the having and raising children thing to others, though I worry nonetheless. How many parents will spot “The Sitter” on video shelves or at an automated kiosk and assume the film to be kid friendly despite its R rating? If you’re a parent considering watching this with your kid, skip it and go for something more wholesome, like “Blue Velvet.”

Jonah Hill plays the titular babysitter, a ne’er-do-well imbecile that packs up his three charges in order to score some drugs for pseudo-girlfriend. What did she promise him? Can’t say, family paper. It’s to Hill’s credit that his character, who drags these awful children through a witless freakshow of dopeheads, lowlifes, and murderers, ends up seeming just stupid than what he would actually be, which is sociopathic and evil. Scenes designed to demonstrate the character’s humanity are just perfunctory balderdash, any attempt at sensitivity instantly ruined by the picture’s inherent cruelty.

The fine character actor Sam Rockwell shows up as a demented drug dealer in pursuit of Hill’s character, giving a performance that he doubtlessly will leave off his resume for years to come.

Even at 81 minutes, which really means 75 unless you’re one of those hopeless cinephiles who sits through the credits, this runs incredibly long. I’d say about 75 minutes long or so.

1 out of 5

698 - Larry Crowne review

The great hit of 1994 that never was, the Tom Hanks starring and directed “Larry Crowne” holds a mirror up to American society and boldly declares that everything’s going to be fine, as long as you’re unfailingly simple and polite.

That’s the chief character arc of the titular protagonist, Larry Crowne (name repeated in full several dozen times), a middle-aged milquetoast who finds himself unexpectedly discharged from his duties at a big box store. The reason: since Larry Crowne didn’t go to college, he can’t advance into the corporate structure, and this violates policy. With this you’re told early on that writers Hanks and Nia Vardalos aren’t taking this whole making a movie thing too seriously.

But for a while, Hanks’ laid back performance, light directorial touch, and sunny outlook grant “Larry Crowne” an easy flow that makes Larry Crowne, and that’s Crowne with an ‘e,’ a sympathetic everyman embodying the economic downturn. Larry Crowne’s at that age where it’s too late to truly start over but too early to call it quits, and the crass indifference his plight meets in his supposed peers will ring true to those who have had to suffer the laughs of their moral inferiors. Even Larry Crowne's initial life step, trading in a gas-guzzling SUV for a scooter (the primary image of the ad campaign), possesses a certain charm in its tacit proclamation of slimming rejuvenation.

“Larry Crowne,” both character and film, nosedives when Larry Crowne attends community college, where he’s immediately surrounded by a litany of phony, irritating supporting characters, not the least of which is Julia Roberts’ sulky, disenchanted speech instructor. Her husband, played by the great Bryan Cranston, whose performance on “Breaking Bad” just might be the most marvelous thing I’ve ever seen an actor do, is a porn enthusiast, something the script treats as if Hanks and Vardalos had believe such a thing to be the height of contemporary aberrance.

Larry Crowne befriends an insufferable twerp (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) who promptly rechristens him ‘Lance Corona’ in a way that suggests Hanalos finds this endearing rather than obnoxious and insulting. She also throws out his clothes and dresses him up as if he were 20 years younger, which anyone with a brain can tell you doesn't make a 55-year-old man look 35, it makes him look stupid. Ever notice how free spirits are incredibly bossy?

By the end, Larry Crowne, or Lance Corona, if you prefer, learns to master Econ 101 and Speech, winning his professor with his charms and basically proving that redemptive power of community college. Who knew that starting over would be this easy, or this irritating?

2 out of 5

697

I've updated the Master List spreadsheet, which has a rating for every film I've seen for the past seven years or so. If one doesn't feel like downloading a spreadsheet, one can also check out the online version.

Here's an Excel version.

And here's a version in Open Office format.

696 - J. Edgar review

J. Edgar Hoover is a singular figure of American history, an enigmatic, vicious and effective lawman who lorded over the FBI and its predecessor for over 50 years. He had a part to play in seemingly every major American event during this time period, and was so influential that presidents were afraid to fire him. Despite this, his name today mostly conjures images of cross-dressing.

It’s with these things in mind that Clint Eastwood approaches Hoover’s life in “J. Edgar,” a biopic that will be revelatory for those not in the know and an effective but uneasy mix of facts and speculation to everyone else.

Leonard DiCaprio plays Hoover, proof that Hollywood will never discriminate against the extraordinarily handsome when it comes to portraying real-life figures. The film’s chronology plays out portions of Hoover’s life congruently, with his rise to power and famous cases occupying one timeline, the last months of his life (still heading the FBI) on the other.

As history, “J. Edgar” can be flawed at best, as it heavily explores Hoover’s personal life, the details of which largely belong to the dead. Hoover’s relationship with Clyde Tolson (Armie Hammer), his second in command apparently only friend, receives heavy emphasis here. Most speculate the two were lovers, and certainly a glance at the evidence makes that conclusion highly likely to be true, though this film plays it somewhere in-between.

The film, establishes a number of facts about Hoover that explain why he was so important. An egomaniac and eager public figure, he became a fixture in public announcement films and agency produced propaganda. He happily presented himself as the face of the FBI, and readily allowed others to believe he more or less was the FBI all by himself, when in fact other men physically did all the dangerous work. And it was an open secret to those in power that Hoover aggressively wiretapped and monitored anyone he found a threat, from politicians to Martin Luther King, Jr. The findings all went into his personal file cabinet, the contents of which intrigued and frightened anyone worth keeping a file on.

The Hoover of Eastwood and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black (“Milk”) struggles mournfully (and very privately) with his sexuality, fueled by a doting yet severe mother (Judi Dench). In a wonderfully written and acted scene, Hoover listens as she recounts the sort of torment that open homosexuals could expect at the time, illuminating why he keeps a perpetually respectful distance from Tolson, keeping his lascivious desires checked even when shielded from the eyes of the world. Even though cloaked in the sexual morality of the day, Hoover readily used the homosexuality of others, real or invented, against them.

Hoover himself would certainly despise this film, even though his treatment falls short of the harshness one would expect. Other than an odd (though thematically appropriate) scene where Hoover does don a dress, his behavior never crosses into outrageousness, and certainly stays far away from many of the worst things said about him. One gets the distinct impression Eastwood sympathizes with a myriad of Hoover’s decisions, ranging from lobbying for a technologically sophisticated FBI to his virulently anti-communist investigations. This Hoover’s not a monster, but a mournfully repressed, self-aggrandizing bureaucrat whose good works coexist uncomfortably with autocratic abuses of his organization.

At the end, we’ve come to know this Hoover, though perhaps not entirely in the best possible way. His personal story as told here imbues him with pathos and respect rarely afforded individuals of his controversial nature. That said, with work history and storied and important as his, one must ask, does what he did in the privacy of his own home matter much? “J. Edgar” portrays Hoover just effectively enough to tease the possibilities of a film that cared even more about his career than his desires.

3 out of 5

695 - Footloose (2011) review

“When dancing is outlawed, only outlaws will dance.” That’s not a quote from the advertising for Craig Brewer’s “Footloose” remake, though perhaps it should be. It’s the sort of brain-dead ad-speak chicanery that would work well with undiscerning audiences and those who like to take their dancing very seriously.

Here, as in the original, the action takes place in the Southern town of Bomont, a rural dystopia that has banned “underage dancing” in the wake of a high-fatality car accident. This probably seemed more poignant in 1984, the year of the original, a whole 27 years close to times when puritanical laws might have actually been enforced in one backwater or another.

If it was an awkward fit then, it’s triply so now, though certainly viewers familiar with small-town Southern life will find things to recognize. Socially, the communities can seem repressive and uptight even compared to many in Iowa, much less in even Bluer states, though director Brewer understands the true tone of things. There are bullies who use a perfectly good religion to impose their own personal sensibilities upon others, but there are many people of noble intent and a sense of fairness. Compared to “Straw Dogs,” another recent remake set in the South for the sole purpose of ridiculing Southerners and fetishizing their grisly deaths, this is a remarkable work of anthropology.

But I’m beside myself, because the audience doesn’t go to these films for lessons on American culture. Here, Kenny Wormald takes the role of Ren, an outsider whose arrival in this town sets off a chain reaction that results in an explosion of dancing, or teenage depravity, depending on your perspective. Originally, the role was played by Kevin Bacon, who probably would have been better cast as the town bully.

A glance at Wormald’s credits reveal that he has been credited simply as “Dancer” in several films, so it’s no great surprise that his screen presence largely limits its charms to the dancing sequences. “Dancing with the Stars” pro Julianne Hough plays Ariel, the town tramp (at least that’s how I read it) who catches Ren’s eye and becomes his favorite dance partner. The two spark up a romance that consists largely of hormone-drenched stares, reminding most of us fondly of that time in our lives where we weren’t great looking, adequate dancers, and had bigger problems on our minds than silly, unconstitutional town ordnances.

Dennis Quaid plays the town preacher, a man whose opinion carries so much esteem in Bomont that the town can practically be labeled a theocracy. I agree with the critic and former Roger Ebert sidekick Richard Roeper, who notes that Quaid “always looks like he’s about to say, ‘Ah hell, let’s go smoke a bowl!’”

Confession: I’ve never seen the original film, and perhaps as a result I’ve missed out on context. Then again, I doubt it. Here’s a remake that sees a character proclaim that his town is in fact part of the 21st century, with computers, cell phones, and internet, though I spotted none of those on my viewing. There was an iPod, but even that looked like an older model. Kids today might not be able to conceive of a world where dance is forbidden, but they’ll have an even harder time thinking of what it would be like to go through high school without a cell phone.

2.5 out of 5

694

Recently, I was able to talk to the majority of the 2012 Republican presidential candidates. Since time was short and I had few policy questions, I asked them all about their favorite movies. Fortunately, I was able to parlay this into something I could get paid for. My new piece in the Washington Times is up. Check it out here.


Michele Bachmann's favorites:





Herman Cain's favorite:



Newt Gingrich's favorite:



Gary Johnson's favorite:



Ron Paul's favorite:



Rick Perry's favorite:



Rick Santorum's favorite:

693 - 50/50 review

We all die too young, though some arrive at their end too much sooner than others. “50/50” takes the story of a man in his twenties facing such mortality and turns it into a comedy, albeit one with a cloud hanging over. There’s not as much cheap sentimentality here as one might expect, nor are the laughs designed to be uproarious or outrageous. What unfolds feels largely real and understated, even when saddled with one film convention that’s a requirement of every studio picture.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt plays Adam, the man with the titular odds. A health nut and teetotaler, he’s surprised when at 27 years of age he’s diagnosed with spinal cancer and given a coin toss’ chance to live beyond the immediate future. He doesn’t delve into full-bore panic or sadness, though he can be forgiven for the general moodiness that ensues.

Seth Rogen plays Kyle, Adam’s best friend, and to great effect; the screenplay was written by his friend Will Reiser, who himself was stricken with cancer. The film’s based on their own experiences with the disease, and thus the moments between Adam and Kyle are unfailingly the film’s best.

Besides his best friend, Adam finds varying degrees of support. Rachael (Bryce Dallas Howard), his girlfriend, puts on a cheerful front at first, but quickly proves that she’s not up to the task of caring for a dying man. Howard, daughter of Ron, is a good actress whose high profile jobs tend to be in abysmal franchise fare such as “Spider-Man 3” and “Terminator: Salvation,” does well at humanizing Rachael, making her somewhat sympathetic despite the character’s inherent unlikeability. Angelica Huston shows up as Adam’s mother, a woman already familiar with handling the diseases of others, whose presence presents a challenge to the protagonist: who does one spend the time they have left with?

The TV ads worked hard to push “50/50” as a routine sex comedy with a disease drama in the background, but the humor’s more measured than that. Sure, there are plenty of sex jokes, but they’re remarks and actions that could actually occur.

Anna Kendrick plays Katherine, Adam’s therapist. Kendrick plays the character as ineffectual, overwhelmed and outmatched by the requirements of a difficult job. It’s thus hard to swallow when Adam and her foment a romance, as if a. There wasn’t enough room for an extra character and b. This therapist was willing to risk her career to inappropriately bond with a patient facing the worst kind of stress.

Still, there’s a lot of heart and sincerity in this film. Certainly, there are films that present a much more unrelenting and pessimistic view of potentially fatal illness. “50/50” doesn’t spend much time on the physical pain, and its most intense moments of mental anguish likely won’t move many to tears. Perhaps in some ways it’s too optimistic. But it explores the potential ending of a life with appropriate seriousness and humor, whereas so many films use disease for crass manipulation, or trivialize it altogether. Here, we have something funny, but not too funny, and sad, but not enough to ruin our day, and uplifting, but not feel-good.

3.5 out of 5

692 - Midnight in Paris review

Leave it to audiences to reward this mediocre late Woody Allen film with generous box office receipts, enough that it's thoughtlessly celebrated as his highest grossing film. Of course that's balderdash spouted by PR hacks and media buffoons unaware of the concept of inflation, but this unfortunately means cinephiles can expect "Midnight in Paris" to make consistent appearances in list of his notable filmography.

Allen's stock shots of Paris didn't offend my sensibilities as it did some critics (they are perfectly pleasant if cliched establishing shots), though two deficiencies on Woody's part were glaring obvious. One isn't so much his pandering cheap shots at conservatives as it is his Republican characters, square businessmen that don't even rise to the level of caricature. Certainly, it's possible that one such as Allen could spend his entire life in place like New York City, Los Angeles, London, and Paris without ever having to suffer an entire conversation with a right-of-center individual, though when one fancies themselves a worldly intellectual, such a gap in life experience presents a problem when bringing such characters to screen. These moments are brief and infrequent, though made even more embarrassing as a result.

The other is the treatment of his surrogate, here played with effective affability by Owen Wilson, a screenwriter who dreams of transitioning into serious literature. There's much talk about how Wilson's character pens shallow but high-grossing studio pictures, with apparent carte blanche to work in Hollywood as he pleases. Allen, of course, has enjoyed something akin to this for decades, though his works are prestigious and always filmable on a modest budget. The consistent dissonance between Allen's view of things and reality should be beneath a filmmaker of his esteem.

Here, Allen takes a look at nostalgia and the tendency to perpetually romanticize the past as artistically and spiritually (in a secular way) superior to the present. He's not inherently wrong, though he commits a major sin by neglecting (or refusing) to acknowledge that not only are some eras better than others, but that artistic success is as much a "right place, right time," affair than it is one of transcendent talent. Eras create great artists and great artists define the eras, though to Allen different periods just appear to be meandering celebrations laden with the staples of high school and college English and art classes (at least before a devotion to "multiculturalism" began to erode their prevalence in the curriculum). It's disappointing to see one of the hardest working filmmakers alive put out something so profoundly lazy.

2 out of 5

691

"Drive," my favorite film of the year so far, hasn't gone over so well with audiences. Though revered by critics, it received a Cinemascore of C-, an exceptionally poor rating. Some sample Cinemascores of recent films:

The American: D-
Bridesmaids: B+
The Dilemma: B
Fast Five: A
The Help: A+
Mr. Popper's Penguins: A-
Priest: C+
Something Borrowed: B
Sucker Punch: B-
Transformers: Dark of the Moon: A

The prevailing trend is that if a film more or less delivers what its audience expects, and does so well, the score goes up. "The American" might be the best film in that sample list, but with a contemplative tone, deliberate pacing, and ads that hinted more towards a standard Euro-thriller than an existential assassin drama, audiences were displeased.

Similarly, "Drive" has only two car chases, which might as well be zero to an audience accustomed to the "Fast and the Furious" series. An exercise in style and genre, "Drive" is crafted with the cinephile in mind, which in this case meant the average viewer got left out of the loop.

Over in Detroit, a woman's who's either utterly shameless in her pursuit of attention or suffering a severe mental handicap has filed a lawsuit against the film's distributor, citing misleading advertising. Of course, suing because you don't like a film is utterly frivolous, because movies are one of the only products around that are sold without an assurance that you'll like them. Below is one of the trailers for "Drive," which, while emphasizing the action aspects, does give a reasonable idea of what the product is actually like.