Dallas Buyers Club

Dallas Buyers Club (2013) is a good film with a problematic message. Jean-Marc Vallee's film pits Everyman Matthew McConaughey against a heartless drug-manufacturing consortium. If the content clanks occasionally, it's still anchored by solid drama.

Ron Woodroof (Matthew McConaughey) is a hard-living electrician and rodeo cowboy in 1980s Dallas. After an accident, he's diagnosed with AIDS and given just 30 days to live. Woodroof undergoes a regimen of experimental AZT drug which only makes him sicker. He travels to Mexico, discovering that disgraced Dr. Vass (Griffin Dunne) a combination of drugs that works better than AZT. Woodroof teams with another AIDS patient, transsexual Rayon (Jared Leto), to distribute these drugs through a buyers' club. His activities catch the eye of FDA Agent (Michael O'Neill), who acts to shut down Woodruff's operation.

Dallas Buyers Club makes for a perfect libertarian fable. The FDA and pharmaceutical companies fast track AZT in dangerous doses - either addressing a desperate need over-eagerly or a callow conspiracy to make a buck. Of course it's Dr. Vass, disgraced, de-licensed and living in Mexican exile, who harnesses the miracle cures! Vallee and writers Craig Borten and Melissa Wallack try to soft pedal this, for instance by showing Ron overdose on one of his medications. But Dallas sees no problem with Ron running drugs from Japan or shipping black market meds to his policeman friend (Steve Zahn).

The criticism, that government regulations slow or curtail availability of medications, is fair enough. Especially in the context of the AIDS epidemic, where public panic and need for a useful cure outpacing the speed of bureaucracy. But this reviewer finds it dangerous to generalize with such matters. Enough cases of doctor shopping and drug abuse, let alone quack pills and tainted drugs, show that FDA regulations make sense. Dallasreally only needs a push towards destructive nonsense like anti-vaccine paranoia, which does more than theoretical damage.

Even those who don't buy Dallas's conceit should appreciate its human element. Woodroof's transformation to hotshot black marketer seems improbable, but becomes an extension of his wild lifestyle. If he develops a friendship for Rayon he never fully sheds his prejudices: his first instinct when meeting a straight woman patient is to take her to bed. Even his pseudo-romance with Dr. Saks has its poignant moments. Rayon is sensitively rendered, avoiding the pitfalls of the "gay best friend" stereotype: he gets nice moments away from Woodroof, like meeting his disapproving father.

Matthew McConaughey's impressive performance helps too. Continuing his recent transition from pretty boy to serious actor, McConaughey sheds weight and otherwise commits. Ron softens without losing his essential character, the hardest kind of character arcs. His natural brashness re-channels boozing and whoring into criminal enterprise, thumbing his nose at arrogant doctors and pesky G-Men. It's a nice turn, sparkling with a nuance I'd never have expected from the star of U-571 and Failure to Launch.

Jared Leto avoids playing up stereotype, giving Rayon humor and warmth, making him suitably tragic when necessary. The other cast members aren't so impressive. Jennifer Garner is fairly colorless, while Denis O'Hare and Michael O'Neill play as too obvious of villains.

Dallas Buyers Club is good despite being rough around its thematic edges. Perhaps Groggy's being a statist scrooge, but the movie's message is too case-dependent for me to jump on board. That said, it's still an enjoyable show, with a message that engages you even if you're in disagreement.

The Book Thief

Based on Markus Zusak's popular novel, The Book Thief (2013) is a major disappointment. Handsomely produced, Brian Percival's adaptation nonetheless feels naggingly superficial.

Germany 1938. Young Liesl (Sophie Nelisse) gets separated from her mother, a political refugee, who leaves Liesel with sweet Hans (Geoffrey Rush) and sour Rosa Huberman (Emily Watson). Liesel warms to her adoptive parents, but has trouble fitting in at school, picked on for her illiteracy and uncomprehending the surfeit of National Socialist propaganda. She befriends precocious Rudy (Nico Liersch) and learns to read, becoming obsessed with books. Trouble beckons when Max (Ben Schnetzer), a young Jew, seeks sanctuary at the Hubermans. World War II breaks out, the government grows more repressive, and the town comes under Allied bombardment.

The Book Thief tries to operate on two levels. Percival and writer Michael Petroni suggest a fantasia, from its child focus to fairytale plotting and silly humor. Portions of Thief are snidely narrated by Death (Roger Allam), a conceit which might work in the book but proves insufferable on film. While explicit violence remains off screen, Percival does depict wartime deprivations: townspeople conscripted into military service, food and supplies running out, air raids devastating the town. The film vacillates between wispy fantasy and weighty drama, never finding the right balance.

Contrasting childhood innocence with crushing totalitarianism is a well-worn conceit, even if children rarely provide the most useful perspective. World War II and the Holocaust provides plenty of examples, from The Diary of Anne Frank to Number the Stars, so this territory's already well-mined. Percival dutifully checks off the Third Reich's greatest hits: stormtroopers burning books, brief glimpses of Kristallnacht and Jews being rounded up. For all the rich period detail, Thief offers little perspective on Nazism.

Liesl and her adoptive parents earn our sympathy, with their warm scenes of family bonding and perseverance in the face of oppression. Everything else feels under-sketched. Liesel and Rudy's friendship never develops beyond stage one, and other child characters are ciphers. Liesl's fascination with reading amounts to a trivial tic. Is she a rebel for saving H.G. Wells from the Nazi bonfire? Thief wants to stress the ability of ideas, the power of words to overcome tyranny (or at least preserve individuality). Outside of the cloying epilogue, Percival treats this idea as superficially as anything else.

Sophie Nelisse gives a warm, endearing performance deserving a much weightier character. Geoffrey Rush is utterly charming, while Emily Watson (War Horse) excels in a more difficult role. None of the other actors, child or adult, makes much impression: Nico Lierisch, as Rudy, is too much a typical movie kid, while Ben Schnetzer's Max is a vaguely likeable cipher. Hildegard Schroedter plays a disappointing character, a book loving noblewoman who grows less interesting the more time we spend with her.

I really wanted to enjoy The Book Thief more. For all its handsome surface, it never achieves the depth or poignancy the subject matter deserves.

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire

The Hunger Games (2012) pleasantly surprised me. Unusually for a YA lit adaptation, Gary Ross's film matched action with clever plotting and sharp characterization. Propelling Jennifer Lawrence to super-stardom was an added bonus. The sequel, Catching Fire, bites off more than it can chew; despite some interesting ideas, it's mostly a letdown.

Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Everdeen) becomes a national celebrity. She's forced into a stage romance with her partner Peta Melark (Josh Hutcherson), touring PanEm to bolster the regime. But she also becomes a symbol of rebellion, inspiring protest against PanEm's government. Fearing revolution, President Snow (Donald Sutherland) replaces the standard Hunger Games with the Quarterly Quel, pitting past winners against each other. Thrust back into the games, Katniss and Peta from a testy alliance with several tribunes, including over-helpful Finnick (Sam Claffin), ax crazy Johanna (Jena Malone) and tech savvy Beetee (Jeffrey Wright), in a new game masterminded by the spidery Plutarch (Phillip Seymour Hoffman).

Catching Fire works best in its first hour, exploring the Games' traumatic after effects. Katniss suffers shellshock over her role in the game, a celebrity with no control over her life. She and Peta aren't content being mouthpieces for the regime: when Katniss shows compassion for fallen friend Rue, she initiates a demonstration culminating in summary executions. Snow's government becomes a more substantial threat, troops launching mass arrests and razing entire villages. On some level, you almost wish Fire could elide the arena action entirely.

But Catching Fire must deliver the blockbuster goods, and that's where it falls down. The middle third merely rehashes the original: the gaudy ceremonies, Caesar's (Stanley Tucci) talk show, the training scenes and tearful departures. Act Three at least injects some variety: Director Francis Lawrence shoots the violence in more straightforward fashion than Gary Ross's handheld style, while new menaces like poisonous fog and some monstrous monkeys work reasonably well. Even with the new wrinkles, these passages are underwhelming; what was inventive the first time around makes little impact in Fire.

Catching Fire's main problem is less familiarity than narrative clutter. The movie's never dull exactly, but it certainly feels overstuffed at 146 minutes. Too much time is spent establishing plot points for future chapters, not allowing Fire to work as its own story (a common sequel ailment). The early themes and plot strands grow constricted by the need for violent action. Characters like Plutarch and a grizzled military officer (Patrick St. Esprit) appear fleetingly, presumably foreshadowing more prominent roles to come. At least Lawrence (or novelist Suzanne Collins, more likely) ends things on the perfect note.

Jennifer Lawrence does a stellar job selling Katniss's increasing despair and defiance. But Josh Hutcherson's Peta still feels flat, and Liam Hemsworth's stiff acting undercuts Gale's more substantial role. Nearly all the major players from the original return: Donald Sutherland gets a meaty upgrade from vaguely menacing bit player to sinister villain. Elizabeth Banks gives her heretofore goofy character surprising gravity. Woody Harrelson's character maintains the right balance between humor and pathos.

Catching Fire enlarges the supporting cast, to mixed effect. Phillip Seymour Hoffman is fine, but his actual character makes little impact. Similarly, while Jeffrey Wright's always welcome in any movie, his presence doesn't amount to much. Sam Claffin and Jena Malone fare better as two of the more prominent tributes.

Second installments of franchises tend to be difficult sells. You have to advance the story in new directions while delivering similar thrills to the first one; often they're more set-up than self-sustained. The Hunger Games: Catching Fire isn't anywhere near bad, but its main achievement is getting me excited for the third installment.

12 Years a Slave

Cynical film-goers decry Hollywood's apparent obsession with race. Can't an awards season pass without another movie on Civil Rights or Jim Crow? Certainly the recent proliferation of race-themed dramas - Red Tails, 42, The Butler - shows Hollywood moving past its reticence to show history through black eyes. We also have biopics of Nelson Mandela and (reportedly) Martin Luther King Jr. in the pipeline, hopefully more substantial works.

But this obscures a festering blind spot. Slavery remains too raw and brutal to make comfortable viewing, immune to the Civil Rights Movement's increasingly anodyne treatment. Some films elide the topic: Lincoln examines the 16th President's struggle to pass the 13th Amendment, keeping blacks discretely sidelined. While Django Unchained does make an ex-slave its protagonist, it's an unrepentantly goofy neo-blaxploitation flick. Thirty-six years after Roots, is a serious slavery film out of the question?

Steve McQueen's 12 Years a Slave (2013) answers a resounding no. The director of indy favorites Shame and Hunger transitions effectively to historical epic. Unsparing in tackling America's greatest historical sin, it's a haunting cinematic experience.

12 Years a Slave draws on the autobiography of Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor). Northup is a freeman  in 1840s New York, successful in business and respected for musical talent. Until one day he's waylaid by two smooth-talking travelers who shanghai him into bondage. Northup is shipped south and renamed "Platt," purchased by Master Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch) until his gets the best of him. Platt next (Michael Fassbender), a brutal man tormented by his attraction to slave girl Patsy (Lupita Nyong'o) and his domineering wife (Sarah Paulson). Northup tries to retain his identity, even as escape becomes a dim hope.

12 Years a Slave is a class production. McQueen's direction is both artistically elliptical and carefully composed; he jumps from scenes without clear transition, relating chunks of story through inference or belated flashbacks. He effectively contrasts picturesque cotton fields and mansions with dirty slave dwellings and squalid violence. Hans Zimmer's score is unusually restrained, trading blockbuster bombast for reflective, moody strings.

McQueen and writer John Ridley avoid a clear narrative, sprinkling expository flashbacks between colorful episodes. The story moves through upstate New York, Washington, New Orleans and rural Louisiana, stopping for odd asides. Northup encounters a band of traveling Indians and later murderous slave hunters in the woods near his plantation. These vignettes also allow for sharp character sketches, like Paul Giamatti's piratical slave trader. "My sentimentality extends the length of a coin!" he claims while breaking apart Eliza's (Adepuro Oduye) family.

Such bleak humor doesn't undermine Slave's disturbing portrait. McQueen shows slavery as a regimen of humiliation, dehumanizing slaves by stripping them for market, forcing them to dance and beating them as punishment. When Eliza weeps after losing her children, her mistress (Liza J. Bennett) coldly suggests she'll forget them after a warm meal. Implicit everywhere is casual violence, from whippings to a lynching by angry overseer John (Paul Dano). Ford saves Northup from John, yet seems no more sympathetic for it. He still dominates Northup's life, his slaves' fate dangling on a personal whim.

In contrast to the genteel Ford, Epps is a distinctly Freudian villain. He ravishes Patsy but is publicly humiliated by his wife, who browbeats him into punishing his lover. He'd be pathetic if his actions weren't so disgusting. McQueen demolishes the planter class's pretensions to nobility; between their sexual dysfunction and quickness to violence, they're rednecks in expensive clothes. McQueen highlights slavery's inequities as the result not of evil individuals but a monstrous system.

Possibly Slave's most disquieting feature is its bleakness. What Lincoln and Django Unchained share, if nothing else, is their triumphant conclusions: Lincoln ends slavery, Django kills his tormentors. Northup entertains escape but surviving proves hard enough. The slave-owners break families apart and play other slaves against each other favors, preventing any racial solidarity. After Northup survives John's wrath, he dangles for hours while other slaves toil in the background. The ending should be happy but feels muted, heavily qualified. Real life doesn't follow the dictates of the Classic Hollywood Narrative.

Chiwetel Ejiofor already has Oscar buzz for this role, and with good reason. On paper Solomon could be a dull character, forced to sublimate his intelligence and resentment in a nightmare situation. But Ejiofor provides simmering, indelible intensity, letting emotion bleed through his subservient facade. Northup never loses his personality, even while subjected to dehumanizing cruelty. It's a layered turn, neither meek Uncle Tom nor abolitionist avenger, that Ejiofor sells brilliantly.

Benedict Cumberbatch gets the meatiest secondary role, allowing Ford glimmers of sympathy while retaining impenetrable hauteur. Michael Fassbender makes a low key monster destroyed by personal weakness. Newcomer Lupita Nyong'o gives a heartbreaking turn, driven near to madness by an endless parade of torments. Alfre Woodward plays a fiery house slave who escapes servitude by marrying her master. Only Brad Pitt's cameo as an abolitionist feels out of place. 

If 12 Years a Slave isn't entirely satisfying, it's because Solomon Northup's story lacks easy catharsis. It is a beautifully-shot, disturbingly rendered mood piece, confronting slavery more directly than any film in memory.

Lee Daniels' The Butler

Between his outrageous Precious (2009) and bad-taste The Paperboy (2012), Lee Daniels has never been a subtle filmmaker. This continues with The Butler (2013), though its excesses come packaged in the more tasteful trappings of an old-fashioned "message picture." Part biopic, part Cliff Notes history of the Civil Rights Movement, it's an uneven but mostly enjoyable movie.

Escaping life on a Georgia plantation, Cecil Gaines (Forest Whittaker) flees north and becomes a domestic servant. In 1957 he's hired by the White House maitre'd (Colman Domingo) as a Presidential butler. Cecil gets an inside view of Presidential hand-ringing over Civil Rights: Dwight Eisenhower's (Robin Williams) reluctant desegregation, John F. Kennedy (James Marsden) and Lyndon Johnson's (Liev Schreiber) idealism, Richard Nixon's (John Cusack) war on black subversives and Ronald Reagan's (Alan Rickman) incomprehension. Through it all he's expected to remain impassive and resolutely professional.

Cecil's high position conflicts with his home life. His marriage with Gloria (Oprah Winfrey) suffers, to the point that she has a fling with neighbor Howard (Terrence Howard). Son Lewis (David Oyelowo) goes to Fisk University, where he joins an underground Black Power movement that leads him to sit-ins, Freedom Rides and ultimately the Black Panthers. Younger son Charlie (Elijah Kelley) follows Cecil's commitment to service by enlisting in the Army. Cecil and Lewis go years without speaking to each other, reconciling only when Cecil's ready to call it quits.

First off, The Butler is (by its leads, anyway) exceedingly well-acted. Forest Whittaker gives a performance of masterful subtlety. He shows Cecil wrestling with contempt and bafflement at Presidential indecision, his  subservient attitude an anguished necessity. Oprah Winfrey's deservedly generated Oscar buzz: she impresses by not trying to dominate the film, matching Whittaker with low-key anguish. David Oyelowo navigates Lewis's difficult character arc: young idealist, punk radical, disillusioned adult. Cuba Gooding Jr., Lenny Kravitz, Terrence Howard and Colman Domingo offer graceful supporting turns. The personal scenes border on melodrama but work well-enough with these capable actors.

Butler mixes the worm's-eye perspective of Backstairs at the White House with Forrest Gump's historic sightseeing. Daniels stages moments of frightful Jim Crow bigotry: Lewis and girlfriend Carol (Yaya DaCosta) get beaten at a lunch counter sit-in, and later survive a KKK firebombing. The movie also works in less obvious moments, as when an argument over Sidney Poitier shows a deep generational divide. Daniels plays to both sides of the racial argument: Lewis's principled (if extreme) in his beliefs, but he'd be nowhere with Cecil's hard work. It's a conciliatory treatment of a difficult topic.

Yet Butler falls victim to a common malady of historical dramas. By covering so much ground, it reduces history to a greatest hits collection of cliches and buzzwords. Of course we meet Lyndon Johnson taking a dump while yanking on his beagle's ear! Vietnam's relegated to montages of well-worn archival footage. Even the conflict between Black Panther Lewis and Vietnam-bound Charlie seems forced. Daniels' simplistic rendering of these issues culminates with Cecil waiting to meet Barack Obama, whose worshipful treatment seems at least three years out of date.

Butler's stunt casting proves its most egregious blunder. Aside from James Marsden's respectable Jack Kennedy, none of the Presidents transcend caricature. Robin Williams more strongly recalls Truman than Ike. Liev Scheiber's LBJ emphasizes Johnson's boorishness over his Civil Rights achievements. John Cusack resembles Tricky Dick even less than Anthony Hopkins. Alan Rickman plays a mumbling, scatterbrained Reagan, while Jane Fonda's Nancy seems unaccountably pleasant. Nelsan Ellis plays Martin Luther King as wax dummy. Walk-ons by Minka Kelly, Vanessa Redgrave, Alex Pettyfer and Mariah Carey add to the fun.

Maybe The Butler is a sign that Hollywood's more willing to tackle history from a black perspective. With 12 Years a Slave and a Nelson Mandela biopic coming soon, we'll have opportunity to test this thesis. On its own terms though, The Butler is well-intentioned, but a qualified success.

The Lone Ranger

In three weeks, The Lone Ranger went from Disney's next blockbuster tent pole to this summer's biggest flop. It's probably the most backhanded of complements to say Ranger isn't anywhere near as bad as the reviews indicate. Sure, it's Pirates of the Caribbean out West, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

John Reid (Armie Hammer) is an idealistic lawyer returning to Colby, Texas. His train's held up by the gang of Butch Cavendish (William Fitchner), a sadistic outlaw rumored to be a wendigo, or evil spirit. Also on the train is Tonto (Johnny Depp), a crack brained Comanche Indian who reluctantly befriends John. After Butch kills John's brother (James Badge Dale), John gets reborn as The Lone Ranger, a vengeance-seeking, mask-wearing vigilante. He and Tonto contend not only with Butch, but Latham Cole (Tom Wilkinson), an amiable Union Pacific official who's not what he seems.

Besides filming in Monument Valley, Gore Verbinski lards Ranger with homages to The Searchers (the farmhouse massacre), The Wild Bunch (a shootout juxtaposed with Shall We Gather at the River?) and Once Upon a Time in the West (too many to count). Verbinski enjoys playing John Ford for awhile, but ultimately returns to the Pirates blueprint: straight-laced hero teamed with sleazy sidekick; the double-dealing corporate bigwig; villains who hate each other more than the heroes; "progress" equated with mass murder; Johnny Depp in strange makeup. Verbinski demonstrates the thin line between hack and auteur.

The Lone Ranger nonetheless works, jettisoning Pirates' more absurd plotting and supernatural elements for streamlined storytelling. The buddy dynamic works pretty well, and Verbinski spends enough time shading in supporting players that the interstitial material carries some weight. The main focus though are the go-for-broke, Rube Goldbergian set pieces Verbinski specializes in. Attempting to one-up Buster Keaton, Verbinski opens with a raucous train robbery/chase scene, topping it later on with a spectacular running gun battle complete with William Tell Overture. CGI-aided or no, it hits all the right action movie notes.

Admittedly, Ranger runs long at 149 minutes. The framing device with an antiquated Tonto is worthless, while a digressive set piece featuring ivory-legged hooker Red (Helena Bonham Carter) goes nowhere. There's much puerile liberal whining about corporate greed and maltreatment of Indians, culminating in a massacre straight from Soldier Blue. And the movie undercuts its dark tone and grisly violence with jokes about horse poop and killer bunnies. Still, Butch eviscerating his victims in this family film is scarcely less disturbing than Only God Forgives.

Johnny Depp plays Tonto as, essentially, Jack Sparrow with pidgin English and a bird on his head. Your mileage may vary whether this amuses or annoys. Armie Hammer (The Social Network) proves perfect casting as the straight arrow John Reed. Why this charismatic actor can't catch a break (this marks his third flop after Mirror, Mirror and J. Edgar) is beyond comprehension. William Fitchner makes a ferocious baddie. With his pork pie hat and scruffy beard, Tom Wilkinson uncannily recalls James Mason in Lord Jim. Ruth Wilson plays the perfunctory love interest, while Helena Bonham Carter's part amounts to an extended cameo.

It's no fun defending a movie everyone else hates, but dammit if I didn't enjoy The Lone Ranger. I was grinning like a kid during the wild gunfight/train chase at the film's climax, and really that's all I demand from my summer blockbusters.

Only God Forgives

Two years ago, Nicholas Winding Refn burst into mainstream consciousness with Drive. It's a neatly crafted, absorbing thriller, short on plot, long on violence, oozing style from every frame. The excellent supporting cast and moody score help, but its greatest success comes in reinventing Ryan Gosling as heir to the Eastwood-McQueen throne of laconic cool.

Now Only God Forgives. How? Sadly it's that all-too-common phenomena we recently examined: an ambitious artist letting praise go to his head, thus producing a grandly ambitious disaster. Everything that made Drive enjoyable warps into a black hole of pretension and nauseating violence.

Julian (Ryan Gosling) is a Bangkok boxing impresario/crime boss. When his brother Bobby (Tom Burke) is murdered, Julian seeks vengeance - but finds the culprit acted at the behest of Police Lieutenant Chang (Vithaya Pansringarm). Julian's mother Crystal (Kristin Scott Thomas) shows up, hiring goons for her own strike at Chang. Much blood is gruesomely spilled, with Julian debating whether to side with his domineering mother, to stay aloof, or maybe to blink once in awhile.

Arguably, Only God Forgives aspires to be the greatest B Movie ever made. It's got the laconic criminals of Jean-Pierre Melville, the deliberate pacing of Sergio Leone, the setting of a million kung-fu/yakuza flicks, even the gauche colors of Dario Argento. Heck, the title explicitly recalls a Terence Hill-Bud Spencer Spaghetti Western. One's reminded of Quentin Tarantino, but even QT's weakest flicks have a tongue-in-cheek self-awareness. Refn has nothing resembling a sense of humor, trying to will his kaleidoscopic mishmash of homages and gore into high art.

And what art! Refn's aesthetic sense demands that every scene, however banal or trivial, be filtered through a primary color or framed by a doorway. Splice in jump cuts and fantasy scenes, regardless of contextual appropriateness or coherence. Employ the Kuleshov Effect to an absurd degree: characters are constantly shot in close-up, ostensibly staring at each other, even when miles away. Fade out diegetic sound at will. Refn abuses these gimmicks worse than a second year film student, hoping that stealing from some Godard flick might salvage his grade.

Groggy's no shrinking violet, but even I found God's violence obnoxious. From frame one characters sloppily eviscerate each other, like refugees from Texas Chainsaw Massacre, producing only cheap shock. Characters get dismembered, disemboweled, slashed in two, machine gunned and savagely beaten, all lovingly photographed by Refn. It's not offensive so much as egregiously tasteless. Drive closely skirted this line, but at least our investment in the characters gave moments like the elevator scene a jolt. That film's not Shakespeare, but on some level you cared about The Driver and friends.

By contrast, God's protagonists spend so much time elaborately posing they might as well be mannequins: their presence is aesthetic not dramatic. These guys only show emotion when getting pinioned by hair pins. You'd expect Julian might react to his brother dying or thugs beating him to a pulp, but he remains expressionless throughout. After being informed of Bobby's proclivities, Crystal muses that her son "must have had his reasons." With a little push in this direction, God might edge into self-parody.

For all the awfulness - Chang's karaoke scenes, Crystal's nauseatingly Freudian farewell - one set piece stands out. About 70 minutes in, Julian and Chang face off in a martial arts slug fest. Refn choreographs this scene with the elaborate ritualization of a Sergio Leone duel; all that's missing is Ennio Morricone. Yet it's style without effect. Leone spends Once Upon a Time in the West, say, investing his gunslingers with mythic grandeur; they embody a bygone era where even villains observe a certain chivalry. Without such gravitas, God's antagonists are just thugs walking around slowly.

Ryan Gosling takes his Alain Delon impression to its logical extreme, showing no emotion at all. Well, except for one scene where it's hysterically inappropriate. Kristin Scott Thomas spends so much time posturing she's less Lady Macbeth, more chain-smoking lawn flamingo. Combining sadistic violence with bad karaoke, Vithaya Pansringarm chillingly invokes Kahn Souphanousinphone's father-in-law. Rhatha Phongam fingers herself and scowls in a masterful turn.

Ultimately, Only God Forgives disappoints even as a failure. With just a little more tackiness, it could have been the worst movie of 2013. Sadly for Nicholas Winding Refn and Co., that honor still belongs to The Great Gatsby.

The Newsroom, Season Two Premiere: The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill All The Lawyers

Note: This article was originally written for another site whose buggy interface prevented it from being posted. So now it's a Groggy feature. Time will tell if I continue covering the show.

The Newsroom's first season was a mess. Aaron Sorkin returned to TV after The Social Network and Moneyball, his already-healthy ego bolstered by cinematic success. Rather than learn from his previous flop, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Sorkin embraced that show's faults: pompous sanctimony, tedious subplots, recycled jokes, an author avatar protagonist who's an insufferable prick. The resulting show never lived up to its potential: despite an excellent cast, the plots grew murky, the characters became shrill and obnoxious, and the whole conceit (replaying recent news stories as they "should have been covered") is smug backseat driving. Frankly, it played as a bad self-parody of Sorkin's worst tendencies.

(Since some Sorkin fans insist all criticism comes from those too dumb to appreciate him, I own the first four seasons of The West Wing on DVD, along with Sports Night, Charlie Wilson's War and The Social Network. I just went through The West Wing's third season last month, in fact, so I'm interested in learning how my intelligence deteriorated so quickly. Defensiveness over.)

For those who missed Season One: the show depicts News Night, a cable news program on the fictional ACN channel. It's anchored by Will McAvoy (Jeff Daniels), a Republican speechwriter-turned-newsman eager to shed his bland image and become a combative pundit. He's joined by producer/ex-lover Mackenzie McHale (Emily Mortimer); producer Jim Harper (John Gallagher) and quirky assistant Maggie Jordan (Alison Pill); late show producer Don (Thomas Sadoski), Maggie's boyfriend; web designer Neal (Dev Patel); economist Sloan Sabbath (Olivia Munn); and big boss Charlie Skinner (Sam Waterston).

If that dynamic sounds familiar, well, it's basically Sports Night set in a faux-CNN. Only with the wit, charm and well-drawn characters replaced with stentorian pomposity, intolerable smugness and screeching caricatures. But don't take my word for it: take theirs and theirs and theirs.

Tonight kicked off Season Two with "The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill All the Lawyers." (Nothing reels in viewers like an allusion to Shakespeare's worst play!) And I remain underwhelmed. Aside from a slick new title sequence, emphasizing the show's office focus rather than, I dunno, its earth-shattering brilliance, there's nothing fresh here. Sorkin kicks off several new plot threads but they're too ephemeral to make any impact.

The episode starts with Will and Mackenzie being deposed by a high-powered lawyer (guest star Marcia Gay Harden) over a declassified military program. Flashback an undefined number of months. Will's on the hot seat for calling the Tea Party the American Taliban, leading Charlie to yank him from the network's 9/11 10th anniversary coverage. Jim goes to New Hampshire to cover Mitt Romney's primary campaign, while Don and Maggie's relationship grows more strained. Jim's smarmy replacement (Hamish Linklater) gets an earth-shattering tip from a right-wing pundit (Benjamin Koldyke). And Neal tries to sell Mackenzie on a budding protest movement called Occupy Wall Street.

The Newsroom starts on shaky ground. The flashback wraparound structure got beaten to death in Season One, and doesn't do much for "Lawyers." Sorkin's clearly setting the stage for ongoing stories, so everything remains painfully vague, with only a vague hook about something called "Operation Genoa." Seeing Maggie in a red-dye pixie cut is the only shocking thing here. At least Will's therapist is absent.

Indeed, "Lawyers" spends too much time setting up story lines. Charlie gets to endure CEO Leona Lansing's (Jane Fonda) threats once more. That Will's rank insubordination merits only a slap-on-the-wrist by proxy undermines her credibility, I'd say. Jim gets one (1) scene dealing with hostile Romneyites. Neal talks with a chatty Occupy leader (Aya Cash) who distills that movement into a two minute monologue. Everything's so facile it doesn't really work. Hopefully this throat-clearing will pay off eventually, but right now it's a damp squib. Where's the Sorkin who gave us dynamic premieres like "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen" or "20 Hours in America"?

Sorkin continues two risible trends. Again, ACN manages to be on the ground floor of both Gaddafi's downfall and Occupy Wall Street. Of course they are! And of course they're reporting both ten times smarter than those idiots at CNN or Fox News. And while early episodes of The Newsroom harp on making news more complex than sound bites, that's what we get: semi-factual zingers delivered without context or rebuttal. Talk about having your cake and eating it.

Seemingly every Newsroom reviewer hates the Jim-Don-Maggie love triangle, which naturally gets a lot of focus here. Don confronts Maggie with Youtube video of her season finale freakout, providing a catalyst for Don walking out on her. Here's hoping this irritating subplot gets resolved soon. That leaves poor Sloan Sabbath nursing unrequited feelings for Don. Olivia Munn's transition from G4 nerd goddess to serious actress was one of The Newsroom's best surprises. Here's hoping she gets more scenes like last season's face-off with Sam Waterston and less moping.

Anything positive? Well, I like that Will and Mackenzie interact without screeching about who broke up with whom, and Don Quixote isn't mentioned once. Jeff Daniels and Emily Mortimer invest these scenes with gravitas deserving a better show. But this episode's remarkably leaden for Sorkin, with little wit or humor; the only notable laugh comes with Will singing Rebecca Black during a lull in his show. It's pretty sad when a writer who's been unironically compared to Noel Coward and William Goldman mines internet memes for jokes.

As a Sorkin fan, I'd love to be optimistic about The Newsroom - that somewhere down the line, everything will come together. That's why I'm still watching. But Season One came and went without significant payoff, the threatened confrontation with Jane Fonda's bigwig muted and other plot threads terminated or botched. If "The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill All the Lawyers" is any indication, Season Two will be even rougher sledding. At some point, Sorkin must deliver on his promises.

Rating: C-

Much Ado About Nothing (2013)

It's a testament to Joss Whedon's flexibility that, while on break from The Avengers (2012), he created the antithesis to that box office behemoth. In just two weeks he assembled a slew of actors from his past shows and films, tweaked a well-loved William Shakespeare play and shot it in crisp black-and-white. The result is Much Ado About Nothing (2013), an enjoyably off-beat take on Shakespeare's best comedy.

Returned from "the wars," Don Pedro (Reed Diamond), Claudio (Fran Kranz) and Benedict (Alexis Denisof) visit the home of local Duke Leonato (Clark Gregg). Claudio instantly grows smitten with beautiful Hero (Jillian Morgese) while Benedict resumes a long-running feud with Beatrice (Amy Acker) - a feud which masks deep-seated affection. While friends and family connive to unite the feuding couple, Pedro's brother Don John (Sean Maher) has more malign plans. Along with partners Borachio (Spencer Treat Clark) and Conrade (Riki Lindhorne), he schemes to separate Claudio and Hero. Things go awry, relying on bumbling Constable Dogberry (Nathan Fillion) to set things right.

This blogger always found Much Ado easier-going than Shakespeare's other comedies. It lacks the overdone plot of Twelfth Night, the implausibility of Merchant of Venice, the repulsive sexual politics of Taming of the Shrew. The story's pretty flimsy but Shakespeare's witty lovers Beatrice and Benedict mouth some of the English language's best comic writing. Kenneth Branagh's splashy 1993 version holds up well, despite some egregious stunt casting (Michael Keaton and Keanu Reeves?); it's hard to imagine a better screen couple than Branagh and Emma Thompson. 

Whedon conjures a straight modern dress adaptation, with modern affectations that emphasize the story's ridiculousness. Dogberry comes on like a sad, RayBan-wearing Dirty Harry wannabe, viciously interrogating Borachio and Conrade like serial killers. Benedict ponders the horrors of marriage while sitting next to a dollhouse; Beatrice trips over her laundry while overhearing her maids' conversation. Yet Whedon smartly allows the text, and more importantly the cast, to carry the show. He's helped by Jay Hunter's unfussy black and white photography, with only a few flourishes (flashbacks, a dreamlike masquerade ball) to fill in story gaps.

Practically every actor's a veteran of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Dollhouse or The Avengers. Alexis Denisof dives whole hog into Benedict, whether mouthing Shakespeare's "oyster" soliloquy or performing push-ups for a bemused Beatrice. Amy Acker proves equally appealing, dispatching her barbs with wit and self-possession. Jillian Morgese makes a likeable Hero while Reed Diamond and Frank Kranz have fun with characters usually played as wet blankets. As Don John, Sean Maher at least purges memories of Keanu Reeves's dude-tastic turn. Clark Gregg overdoes Leonato's mugging, but he's such an agreeable presence it seems mean to criticize.

Much Ado About Nothing is a refreshing experience. In this summer's sea of sequels, superheroes and general junk, it provides a beacon of wit for those demanding more than explosions.

Now You See Me

Now You See Me (2013) probably sounded awesome at the pitch meeting. A heist movie centering on four magicians-turned-con artists, featuring some of Hollywood's biggest stars? Sold. The end result though is underwhelming, with director Louis Leterrier plowing through thriller cliches with a distinct lack of imagination.

A mysterious contact brings together four small-time magicians: street hustler Daniel Atlas (Jesse Eisenberg); escape artist Henley Reeves (Isla Fisher); disgraced mentalist Merritt McKinney (Woody Harrelson); and spoon bending Jack Wilder (David Franco). A year later they're headlining a show, The Four Horsemen, in Las Vegas for entrepreneur Arthur Tressler (Michael Caine). Their act combines magic with crime, apparently using their "powers" to rob banks and swindle millionaires. FBI Agent Rhodes (Mark Ruffalo) and Interpol cop Vargas (Melanie Laurent) team up to uncover their secret.

Now You See Me succeeds on its most basic level. It hits all the right heist movie notes, mixing genre-required tension with the razzle-dazzle of stage magic. I especially liked Henley's escape act with a tank full of hungry piranhas. The main cast registers instant chemistry, trading zingers and generally earning our affection. Wisely, the filmmakers keep things light with plenty of humor: during an early magic show, Rhodes becomes the butt of two hilarious gags, while skeptic Thaddeus Bradley (Morgan Freeman) has fun deflating the Horsemen's pretensions.

Too bad Leterrier and his three screenwriters never advance beyond stage one. Things get so wrapped up in legerdemain that the plot gets lost, frequently doubling back for breathless revelations. In particular, Leterrier treats a magician's secret society so superficially it becomes an irrelevant detail. The Rhodes and Vargas B-plot mines every conceivable buddy cop cliche (yes, they fall for each other). Movies where "nothing is as it seems" are particularly vulnerable to logic; adding blockbuster touches like car chases, explosions and fistfights only muddies things further.

Worst is the inevitable final twist. Admittedly I didn't see it coming, but only because I hoped no filmmaker would be dumb enough to use it. It's set up as a big revelation but leaves far more questions than answers, and not in a thought-provoking way. Frankly, the movie's not smart enough for this obfuscation to work. I'm reminded of The Tourist (2010), the limp Johnny Depp-Angelina Jolie vehicle hinging on a revelation that M. Night Shymalan would deem asinine.

Jesse Eisenberg repeats his deadpan snarker shtick from The Social Network; Isla Fisher (The Great Gatsby) is his feisty gal pal; Woody Harrelson (The Hunger Games) the grouchy veteran; Dave Franco, some real actor's brother. They're fun to watch even without real characters to play. Morgan Freeman outdoes everyone as a slick Amazing Randi type with his own agenda. On the other hand, Mark Ruffalo anemically recycles his crusty cops from Collateral and Zodiac, while Melanie Laurent (Inglourious Basterds) flounders in the Tyne Daly role. Michael Caine's part barely amounts to a cameo.

As undemanding summer entertainment, you could do worse than Now You See Me. (After all, The Great Gatsby's still playing.) It's just too bad the filmmakers didn't make more of its promising premise than absolutely necessary.

Iron Man 3

As much as I've (mostly) enjoyed Marvel's superhero flicks, they're in serious danger of over-saturation. The Avengers' mammoth success last year means we're entitled to seemingly endless spinoffs. There's a new Thor coming in November; sequels to Captain America and Incredible Hulk aren't far off. These of course are lead-ins to The Avengers 2, set for a May 2015 release. Unless moviegoers tire of them, Marvel will mine this vein long after its quality peters out.

Currently doing boffo box office, Iron Man 3 shows the formula nearing critical mass. In 2008, Tony Stark's debut proved a pleasant surprise: exciting, witty, with a career-reviving turn by Robert Downey Jr. Iron Man 2 (2010) proved a solid follow-up, adding memorable villains and S.H.I.E.L.D. lore to the mix. This third installment offers little beyond over-the-top action, forcing Downey to carry it single-handed.

Tony Stark's (Robert Downey Jr.) still recovering from the events of The Avengers, suffering periodic flashbacks and anxiety attacks. Stark's life isn't made any easier when a terrorist called The Mandarin (Ben Kingsley) launches several mysterious terrorist attacks, or when smooth businessman Adrian Killian (Guy Pearce) puts the moves on Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow). Turns out Killian's involved in a high-ranking conspiracy with the Mandarin, using ex-servicemen as guinea pigs in a super soldier experiment. Tony's suit becomes temporarily grounded: he must rely on Colonel Rhodes (Don Cheadle) and an annoying kid (Ty Simpkins) to help unravel Mandarin's plot.

The best superhero movies achieve the right balance of sincerity and fun. Movies like Richard Donner's Superman, Tim Burton's Batman flicks and, well, Iron Man are grounded enough to invest the audience  without forfeiting their sense of wonder. Lean too far in the former direction and you get bloated pseudo-epics like The Dark Knight Rises and Watchmen, who try desperately to wring profundity out of mumbly bats and giant blue nudists. The other extreme is even worse: see The Fantastic Four, Superman IV or (shudder) Batman and Robin.

This is the best framework to analyze Iron Man 3, which otherwise offers little to discuss. Director Shane Black displays a hackish disregard for story or characterization. Despite one or two neat twists (namely the Mandarin reveal), the movie cribs its ideas from other action flicks, including The Terminator (Killian's fire-scarred resilience) and Black's own Lethal Weapon 2 (the dockyard finale). The action proves exciting but provides few unique thrills, all computer-aided flash that could be copy-and-pasted into this summer's other blockbusters. This reaches its nadir in the finale, when Tony amasses a team of Iron Men (ho, hum) to save the day. It's all sound and fury, only signifying another sure $1,000,000,000 in Marvel's bank.

Robert Downey Jr. keeps things float. To his immense credit, Downey remains fully immersed in Tony Stark, avoiding the money-grabbing dourness of, say, Johnny Depp in the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels. He's still bantering with Pepper and putting down villains with aplomb, showing character development as he distances himself from his playboy past. Too bad Black and cowriter Drew Pearce remake him into a faux-James Bond, infiltrating the Mandarin's HQ with a zip gun, then saddle him with a tech-savvy moppet escaped from a lesser Spielberg flick. Downey nonetheless keeps Tony's core appeal (snarky wit and flawed personality) intact.

His co-stars aren't so lucky. Gwyneth Paltrow is downgraded to bitchy girlfriend/damsel-in-distress until a plot-convenient twist. Don Cheadle is all but absent for the first 90 minutes, turning up as Tony's action sidekick for the last reels. Guy Pearce makes a thoroughly colorless villain, no match for Jeff Bridges, Mickey Rourke or even Sam Rockwell in charisma or menace. Newcomers like Rebecca Hall's (Frost/Nixon) scientist/ex-paramour and Miguel Ferrer's duplicitous Vice President make zero impression. Only Ben Kingsley shines, in an unexpectedly hilarious turn; to say he isn't what he seems is a massive understatement.

Iron Man 3 is thoroughly disposable. After achieving a solid balance up to now, Marvel starts tilting in the direction of mindless frivolity. Here's hoping they stop before we get Iron Man and Robin.

The Great Gatsby (2013)

Something went fundamentally wrong with The Great Gatsby at the conceptual stage. Coming from Baz Luhrmann, it's no secret that the movie's loud, gaudy and overblown, a paean to self-indulgent excess. But Gatsby's a truly agonizing monstrosity, making Moulin Rouge and Romeo + Juliet look like Separate Tables - or the '74 adaptation look like Citizen Kane. Imagine the worst music video ever stretched out to two-and-a-half hours, claiming to be an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

Copy and paste plot summary: Stock broker Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire) makes the acquaintance of Jay Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio), a mysterious millionaire who throws swanky parties on Long Island but never attends himself. Through Nick, Gatsby reunites with his old flame Daisy (Carey Mulligan), trapped in an unhappy marriage with snobbish, unfaithful Tom Buchanan (Joel Edgerton). Tom gets suspicious, digging into Gatsby's past, dredging up ties to organized crime. Tragedy strikes when Tom's affair with lower class Myrtle Wilson (Isla Fisher) results in an accident.

The Great Gatsby starts dialed up to 11 and somehow gets more obnoxious. Luhrmann demolishes our senses with every cheap cinematic trick imaginable. There's caffeinated editing, swooping faux-camera work and laughable CGI, rendered in eye-exploding 3-D. There's text superimposed on the screen, sped-up photography intercut with gratuitous slow motion, sloppily inserted stock footage and incongruous hip hop music. Gatsby's parties are indescribably tacky: he first appears with Rhapsody in Blue blaring on the soundtrack as fireworks explode behind him, and that's the most subtle image. If Federico Fellini saw Gatsby, he'd advise Luhrmann to tone it down a notch.

Sadly, Luhrmann offers little beyond this sensory assault. For two acts there's nothing but exorbitant costumes, gauche art direction, gaudy exotic dancers, orgies and Beyonce tunes. And it drags on for a painful 143 minutes. There's no effort to make the story or characters credible: Nick's re-envisioned as a budding novelist, relating his story in flashback to a shrink (Jack Thompson). Gatsby and Daisy's connection becomes a tragic romance rather than a desperate fling. Did Luhrmann even read Fitzgerald? Source fidelity extends to plot points, some cribbed dialogue and the obvious symbols delivered with ice mallet subtlety. That damned eyeglasses billboard appears at least a dozen times, always in extreme close up. We get it already!

In the third act Gatsby transitions to dark drama. Here we get the meatiest scenes: Gatsby outlining his true back story, Tom confronting Gatsby, a tragic accident and subsequent murder. Unfortunately, Luhrmann pitches the human element at the same hysterical level. If the imagery and music feel comparatively restrained, the acting goes into frothing overdrive. Characters foam, scream, throw things and chew scenery. Even quiet moments are punctuated with affected gestures and pantomime posturing. But what did you expect? This movie thinks so little of its audience that it stops to explain who Kaiser Wilhelm was.

Leonardo DiCaprio tries, God bless him, to make Gatsby credible. He fails miserably. DiCaprio is just too bland, the character too poorly written to register. Tobey Maguire provides Nick an insufferable faux-naivety; his line readings make him sound mentally challenged, surely not the intent. Carey Mulligan (Drive) is more likeable than Mia Farrow but Joel Edgerton provides cringe-worthy cartoon villainy. Jason Clarke (Zero Dark Thirty) and Isla Fisher see their roles reduced to nothing. Jack Thompson (Breaker Morant) turns up for no reason.

I don't unconditionally hate Baz Luhrmann: heck, I enjoyed the much-derided Australia. His style's no less overwrought there, but wedded to a swooning epic romance it's enjoyable as pastiche. The Great Gatsby is nothing but crass vulgarity disguised as dizzying art. However appropriate that seems for Fitzgerald, in practice it's a catastrophe of Billy Jack proportions.

Coming Attractions - Summer 2013

"The trick, Groggy Dundee, is not MINDING that stinks!"

Technically, the summer movie season already kicked off with the release of Iron Man 3, Pain & Gain and other things. I have an excuse for tardiness, though: I recently moved and started a new job. Therefore, I've been forced to prioritize blogging, and the Crimean War always trumps Superman. At least they have Trevor Howard in common:

"Jor-El, you are arrested. Return to Krypton and be arrested!"

Anyway, it's the time of year when I drop all plebeian pretenses and embrace my snobbish side. What can we look forward to this summer? Superheroes, sequels, remakes, reboots, cartoons and assorted excrement, served up steaming hot with a side of Adam Sandler.

Groggy's 2013 Summer Preview

Iron Man 3 (April 26th) - This already opened to near-record box office, so how can I persuade or dissuade anyone who's not already seen it? Sadly, it looks like Marvel's going the Nolan route of "darker and edgier." The absence of such nonsense is precisely why I've enjoyed their movies so far. Trailer

The Great Gatsby (May 10th) - One of my favorite novels has, through a half-dozen adaptations, proven more or less unfilmable. I'm sure Fitzgerald's social satire, nuanced symbolism and tragic character study will receive subtle treatment from the director of Romeo + Juliet and Moulin Rouge. Trailer

Tyler Perry Presents Peeples (May 10th) - Forty seconds into this trailer, there's a joke about dog rape. Odds are Tyler Perry isn't the new Charlie Chaplin. Trailer

Star Trek Into Darkness (May 17th) - On the one hand, it looks painfully generic; calling it Star Trek is  just a ploy to sell Happy Meals. Then again, it looks reasonably entertaining. Put it in the maybe pile. Trailer

The English Teacher (May 17th) - Despite the presence of Julianne Moore, this seems about as appealing as that Tyler Perry thing. Two pepper spray jokes in a two minute trailer? Trailer

Epic (May 24th) - Fern Gully with gangsta slugs. Pass. Trailer

Fast and Furious 6 (May 25th) - Seriously? I'd rather watch Space Mutiny 2: Fast and Furious Floor Waxers. Trailer

By F&F 7, Vin Diesel will be lucky to reach speeds of three.

The Hangover Part III (May 24th) - In the words of Jay Sherman: "After Roman numeral II, give it a rest!" Hear that, Zack "no one would care about me if they could pronounce my last name"? And Bradley Cooper, you just got an Oscar nomination! What gives, dude? Trailer

After Earth (May 31st) - If Earth is done for, where can Will Smith welcome aliens to? Trailer

Now You See Me (May 31st) - Jesse Eisenberg, Mark Ruffalo, Isla Fisher and Morgan Freeman in a movie about magician thieves. We call this a judgment call. Trailer


Much Ado About Nothing (June 7th) - Joss Whedon's artsy Shakespeare adaptation, featuring Agent Coulson and Gretchen from Recess. Doubt this will top Kenneth Branaugh's version, but it could be fun. Trailer

The Internship (June 7th) - From the director of Night at the Museum comes a new comedy starring Vince Vaughn. My readers know I'll spend eight weeks in a sleeping bag waiting in line for this. Trailer

The Purge (June 7th) - Finally, Hollywood's making a film about Stalinist Russia! Er no, it's Straw Dogs meets Death Race 2000. Bonus kitsch points for the "ironic" use of America the Beautiful. Trailer

Man of Steel (June 14th) - Christopher Nolan and Zack Snyder huh? Will Superman leap tall buildings in a single bound while debating Hegel with Lex Luthor as Tears for Fears plays on the soundtrack? Trailer

The Bling Ring (June 14th) - You immediately lose me using a Ke$ha song. Trailer

This Is The End (June 14th) - Didn't the 2011 Oscars and Your Highness prove that people have limited tolerance for James Franco wankery? This MIGHT work as an SNL skit, not a feature-length movie - though the lack of minotaur penis is a good sign. Trailer

Monsters University (June 21st) - I'd rather see an Aah! Real Monsters reboot than a sequel to a 13 year old Pixar movie. Trailer

Krumm voiced by Zack Galifianakis.

World War Z (June 21st) - All those re-shoots, production delays and ego clashes for what looks like a generic zombie flick? Trailer

White House Down (June 28th) - Wow, it only took Olympus Has Fallen three months to get remade! Trailer

Despicable Me 2 (July 3rd) - Pass. Trailer

The Lone Ranger (July 3rd) - Looks surprisingly decent. More serious than I'd have expected from the Pirates of the Caribbean crew, plus the lack of werewolves is a big plus. Trailer

Untitled Terence Malick Project (July 4th) - What's the mystery? Five hours of monologing about trees?

Grown Ups 2 (July 12th) - Adam Sandler. Trailer

Pacific Rim (July 12th) - I've lost track of how many apocalyptic sci-fi flicks are coming out this summer. Eighty-nine? Trailer


Only God Forgives (July 19th) - Another violent, stylish Nicholas Winding Refn thriller, with an awesome Spaghetti Western title and Kristin Scott Thomas? Sign me up! For once, no sarcasm. Trailer

RED 2 (July 19th) - Sequels make me blue like I've never known. Watching them is dark gray, all alone. Ignoring them is like trying to review a movie I've never seen. Trailer

There goes my snob cred.

The Wolverine - Apparently, all of last year's Best Actor nominees feel obligated to slum in trash. In Hugh Jackman's case, the second reboot of a franchise he starred in to begin with. What's next, Daniel Day-Lewis in The Love Guru Part II? Trailer

The Smurfs 2 (July 31st) - I eagerly await The Snorks. Trailer


2 Guns (August 2nd) - Didn't Pain & Gain just come out? Originality obviously isn't a premium in Hollywood. Trailer

300: Rise of An Empire (August 2nd) - I appreciate this trailer for telling me absolutely nothing about the movie. Maybe that's a blessing. Trailer

Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters (August 7th) - By this point in the article, I know when not to bother watching the trailer. Trailer

Elysium (August 9th) - Jesus F. Christ, another post-apocalyptic science fiction movie. Guys and gals, 2012 ended and nothing happened. Get over it. Trailer


Kick-Ass 2 (August 16th) - The first Kick-Ass was a pleasant surprise. This one has Jim Carey. Trailer

SSSSSSSSSSSSSUCKIN'!

The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones (August 23rd) - From my limited understanding of YA lit, The Mortal Instruments is the next Hunger Games which was the next Twilight which was the next Harry Potter. Judging by the trailer I'll wait for the new Hunger Games movie in November. Trailer

The World's End (August 23rd) - Another post-apocalyptic science fiction... comedy. Is someone keeping track? Trailer

Riddick (September 6th) - I was under the impression that Pitch Black was a flop. In 2000. Why are they making a second sequel 13 years later? If Vin Diesel has to make sequels, why not Iron Giant 2? At least pick a decent Diesel flick. Trailer

* * *

And that's all he wrote. See you in the history books, people.

Hollywood, you make me envy the deaf and the blind!

Zero Dark Thirty

Kathryn Bigelow crafts a striking thriller in Zero Dark Thirty (2012). It's a powerful piece of work that depicts the War on Terror in a commendably complex manner.

Maya (Jessica Chastain) is a CIA analyst assigned to Pakistan in 2003. Maya helps a field agent (Jason Clarke) crack an al-Qaeda courier and tracks Abu Hamid, a high-level operative with ties to Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Her investigation stalls when another informant declares Hamid dead, and when the CIA relocates resources to homeland defense. Years later, a new lead convinces Maya that Hamid's actually alive - and that he can lead the Agency to Osama Bin Laden himself.

Zero Dark Thirty began as a project about the 2001 attempts to nab Bin Laden at Tora Bora. Real life rewrote the plot of course, refocusing things on Bin Laden's death. Assorted media and political gasbags spouted off before its release, claiming the film an endorsement of torture, pro-Obama propaganda or flag-waving jingoism. Not surprisingly, these preliminary complaints are remarkably unjust. 

Zero Dark Thirty operates on two levels. Bigelow and writer Mark Boal first present an unusually complex spy thriller. Maya finds her colleagues viewing Bin Laden through a pre-9/11 mindset: "You can't run a global network of interconnected cells from a cave." Human intelligence is flawed, electronic surveillance useless without hard leads. Political hurdles interfere: the Bush Administration downplays the hunt for Bin Laden, Barack Obama shuts down the CIA's detainee program. CIA bureaucrats are gun-shy after proclaiming Iraq a "slam dunk," delaying the operation by months. Only Maya's determination keeps things afloat.

Bigelow commendably downplays hot button issues. The film opens with a brutal torture scene, but the actual impact of "forceful interrogation" is secondary to analytical skills and luck. The detainee program, use of drones, electronic surveillance - heck, the legality of SEAL Team Six's raid - are unquestioned. The closest Bigelow comes to overt editorial comment is showing President Obama disavowing torture. The lack of an overt message may niggle liberal viewers, but it's Zero Dark Thirty's greatest strength.

Or second greatest strength, after its protagonist. Maya spends early scenes fitting into the man's world of spying, disarming colleagues with both her intelligence and coarse profanity. Virtually ignored in early scenes, she ends the film instinctively trusted by the CIA director (James Gandolfini) and Navy SEALs alike. One imagines Bigelow relating to this, a female professional gaining respect by besting her peers. Maya has only her gut feeling to confirm Bin Laden's presence in Abbotabad.

Unsurprisingly, Maya's obsession takes a mental toll. This takes an obvious form when one of her colleagues dies. More generally, she grows completely absorbed by her mission. Maya lacks a personal life, imbuing even friendly dinners with shop talk, clinging to her leads out of self-justification more than genuine conviction. Her entire life's been about hunting Bin Laden; the end of her quest leaves her drained rather than fulfilled. More than a feminist heroine, Maya symbolizes America's lingering obsession with terrorism.

If released two years earlier, Zero Dark Thirty might be a dark tale of obsession, a terrorist Zodiac. Instead Bigelow ends with SEAL Team Six's incredible mission. Truth be told, the climactic raid feels like a set-piece tacked on to an existing script. All the same, Bigelow handles it with remarkable skill, mixing handheld camera with night vision effects. It's an excellent finale, tense and exciting yet commendably muted. No rah-rah heroics at film's end, just numb relief.  

Jessica Chastain gives a flawless turn. She's not a complete blank slate, allowing humor and camaraderie to bleed through periodically. But the main impression is Chastain's bluntness, smarts and fierce dedication, whether coolly directing operations or telling off superiors. Chastain makes a commendably rounded heroine, easy to root for and emotionally sympathetic, and should nab this remarkable actress an Oscar.

Bigelow provides Chastain solid support. Jason Clarke (Public Enemies) makes a strong impression as Maya's hard-nosed partner. Jennifer Ehle (The King's Speech) gets an affecting role playing a CIA friend with a poor prognosis. Kyle Chandler, James Gandolfini, Mark Strong (Kick-Ass) and Stephen Dillane (John Adams) play skeptical agency bigwigs.

Zero Dark Thirty is remarkable. Smart, lucid and realistic, it joins Lincoln as a real-world drama for thinking adults.

Silver Linings Playbook

Watching Silver Linings Playbook (2012) after Les Miserables is like taking Tums after a bout of dysentery. It's an agreeably warm movie, providing viewers a genuine emotional payoff. True, Les Mis will make you cry; so will getting kneecapped with a tire iron. Neither is recommended. David O. Russell's brilliant dramedy earns sentimentality through authentic characters and flawless performances.

Patrick Solitano (Bradley Cooper) returns home after a stint in the mental hospital. Suffering from bipolar disorder, he snapped after catching his wife Nikki (Brea Bee) in flagrante and assaulting her lover. Patrick struggles to adjust: his father (Robert DeNiro) works as a bookie, betting on Philadelphia Eagles games to fund a restaurant, while Nikki's issued a restraining order. Patrick finds solace with Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence), a mentally-scarred widow. Tiffany agrees to help Pat communicate with Nikki in exchange for help with a dance contest. Their plan grows complicated when Pat's dad bets a friend on their contest.

Structurally, Silver Linings Playbook resembles your typical romcom. When Pat and Tiffany meet it's little doubt where their relationship's heading, while the dance tournament provides familiar third act drama. Writer-director Russell crafts a closely-observed drama around these familiar tropes. Russell's ear for dialogue and knack for characterization shape a film that's alternately funny, raw and heartfelt.

Silver Linings handles familiar conflicts unconventionally. Pat's mental illness is treated believably, his recovery a painful process rather than instantaneous cure. His obsession with restoring his old life backfires, forcing him to start from square one. Tiffany deals with her husband's death through promiscuity; middle-aged suitors proposition her and she immediately offers Pat sex. Their budding relationship provides each with much-needed stability. Pat Sr. focuses obsessively on football, bonding with his son by fusing their mutual "projects." Russell makes these characters remarkably warm and three-dimensional, helped immeasurably by his cast.

Bradley Cooper gives an outstanding turn. He's had dramatic roles before but really comes into his own. After some character-appropriate outbursts early, Cooper dials down to quiet intensity, communicating Pat's anguish, confusion and tortured character growth. Cooper registers perfect chemistry with co-stars Lawrence and DeNiro, nailing both Russell's barbed comedy and emotional payoffs. Pat's a difficult character, often violent and hateful, but Cooper makes him effortlessly sympathetic.

Jennifer Lawrence is equally impressive. She avoids "Manic Pixie Dream Girl" cliches for a unique character. Tiffany's quirks aren't treated as whimsical insights but deep-seated anguish, recognizing Pat as an opportunity for growth. Her chemistry with Cooper generates a slow-burn romance, moving in believable fits, starts and mutual frustration. After Winter's Bone, The Hunger Games and this Lawrence has both artistic and popular acclaim, a remarkable achievement at 22. With her talent she's certainly earned it.

Robert DeNiro is excellent playing a regular guy with scarcely-acknowledged mental baggage. It's nice to see the star of Raging Bull in a role worthy of his talent. Jacki Weaver plays her nagging mother broader and perhaps less effective. Chris Tucker is uncharacteristically low-key playing Pat's friend. Supporting actors John Ortiz (American Gangster), Shea Whigham and Anupam Kher perfectly complement the leads.

Silver Linings Playbook proved a wonderful surprise. It's ultimately a feel-good movie, Russell's challenging presentation making the payoff infinitely more satisfying.

Les Miserables

There are moments in Tom Hooper's Les Miserables (2012) that achieve genuine pathos. Here a colorful supporting turn, there a genuinely affecting ballad, a flash or two of genuine spectacle. But ultimately, Les Mis's highlights are weighed down by insufferable pomposity.

Jean Valjean (Hugh Jackman), imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread, skips out on parole in 1815 France. He reinvents himself as M. Le Mer, Mayor of a small town, but keeps crossing paths with Inspector Javert (Russell Crowe), his old tormentor. Valjean raises Cosette (Amanda Seyfried), the orphaned daughter of misbegotten Fantine (Anne Hathaway). In 1832 Paris, Cosette falls for Marius (Eddie Redmayne), member of the ABC Club of student revolutionaries. Everyone grows entangled in a failed student uprising, which leads to bloodshed but leaves nothing resolved.

In its stage incarnation, Les Miserables has been pleasing audiences worldwide since 1980. On the basis of the film, it speaks little of theatergoers' taste. Victor Hugo's dense, intricate historical novel is boiled down to the crudest soap, replacing its social commentary and rich characters with overbaked melodrama. Perhaps the endless singing and naked, cloying emotionalism work better on stage. On film it makes for a tiresome 157 minutes.

The material's operatic approach is a major gripe. True, there are several show-stopping tunes on display. But the constant singing dulls their impact, investing even the most banalities with false grandeur. For every memorable song there's two clunkers. Worse, the big character numbers sound the same notes endlessly, without variation or development. After hearing Javert ponder his devotion to the law for the 40th time it loses impact.

This repetitive character non-development takes its toll, leaving its protagonists one-dimensional. Valjean's conversion from vengeful thief to honorable man is interesting in Hugo's novel. On film, he scrambles through plot points - here Valjean's a thief, now a Mayor, then a Paris recluse - without noticeably developing. Similarly, Javert's obsession with Valjean never achieves the required grandeur. He's not a tragic villain but a doltish brute. Young lovers Marius and Cosette are invested with soaring, tragic pathos that they haven't remotely earned.

The stars try their hardest. Hugh Jackman sings beautifully but can't do much with a thoroughly dull character. Russell Crowe on the other hand is utterly, inexplicably awful, performing all his songs in an inexplicable gruff whine. Eddie Redmayne (My Week With Marilyn) and Amanda Seyfried (Mean Girls) show admirable pluck inhabiting featherweight characters.

Les Mis's gems lurk in the corners. There's Anne Hathaway, truly heartbreaking for the 15 minutes she's onscreen. Her one-take, bravura performance of I Dreamed a Dream inspired a tear in even this cynical blogger. There's Sacha Baron Cohen and Helen Bonham Carter's hilarious doubles-act as Cosette's adoptive parents, performing the incomparable Master of the House. There are no-name supporting players like Samantha Barks and Aaron Tveit who steal their scenes. However limited their screen-time, these characters provide sorely needed life.

But even they can't overcome Tom Hooper's awful direction. Never mind Hooper's anemic staging of conventional set pieces: 20 students standing on broken chairs isn't a revolution, it's a frat party. The musical numbers are endless close-ups, no matter how dramatic or colorful the song, complete with his trademark egregious angling and baroque framing. In John Adams and The King's Speech it's merely an irritating quirk; here it's a deal breaker. Isn't one of the pleasures of a musical spectacle? Why all the rich costumes and expensive sets if we're staring endlessly at Russell Crowe's atonal maw? Would it kill Hooper to hire a choreographer for some real dance numbers?

In short, Les Miserables stinks. And at two-and-a-half interminable hours, the smell grows unbearable.