Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The Blues Real Bad

Movie Review:
Ray

PG-13 / 2 hrs., 32 min. / 2004

I know precious little about Ray Charles. I am not a fan of his music, and I have only caught glimpses of his performance mannerisms in Pepsi Cola commercials. Now that I have seen Ray, I realize just how far-reaching his musical influence is. Call me naive, but I did not know he was the figure behind “Georgia On My Mind” and “Hit the Road, Jack,” and half a dozen other songs I’ve hummed in my lifetime.

Taylor Hackford’s Ray begins chronicling the life of Ray Charles as he leaves his native Florida in his early 20's and heads to Seattle for his first legitimate employment. Surrounded by sleazebags and conniving managers, Ray starts learning to stand up for himself and make his own way in the music world. His loss of sight only increases his other senses, enabling Ray to know when his employer is skimping on his cut of the pay, or when nightclub owners are attempting to rip him off. He uses his wits and brainpower instead of muscle to fight off the crooked bosses and studio honchos who try to steer him according to their plans. And he gains so much leverage in his quest that he can even demand an unprecedented clause in his contract: Personal ownership of his master recordings. Let it be said that my knowledge of the legendary figure has been enlightened.

And I have also been depressed and disturbed. Ray Charles apparently led a life of extensive drug use, marital infidelity, and the usual fame-induced attitude problems. Although the DVD case describes the film as “Ray’s inspirational journey; a tale of hope [and] redemption,” there is not a great deal of inspirational material in the film. The part about hope and redemption doesn’t even rear its head until the end credits are ready to roll. In the end, I think I would have preferred not knowing everything I now know about Ray. (And for those who would prefer not knowing any more about the film before seeing it, be aware that from here on out there may be some mild “spoiler” material.)

The problem with the movie’s entertainment value is in its choice of focus. The film spans a fair amount of time, but it is precisely that time in Ray’s life when things go from dark to darker. His drug addiction and his womanizing that nearly shatter his family tend to dominate the storytelling. (I can’t help thinking that his wife should have seen it coming, since she was sleeping with him before they were married, a ready indicator that he was not bringing a lot of high moral scruples into the union.) When the film does focus on Ray’s musical career, we are subjected to his increasingly egocentric behavior.

It doesn’t help that the flashbacks, designed to give us insight into why Ray is so driven, reveal a tragic and depressing childhood. Certainly this history to his personality is necessary, but combined with the weight of Ray’s present-day problems, we are really burdened down and pressed hard to squeeze some positive enjoyment out of the whole experience.

When I leave a theater, I generally like to feel better than when I went in. Ray fails here, as the entire film is 150 minutes of Ray’s long slow downfall into a pit of despair. Certainly there are the musical successes and the amazing celebrity status that this little boy from the South achieves, but these are not so much bright spots in the film as they are opportunities for Ray to sink even lower.

The film ends as Ray checks into a rehab clinic. A confrontation with his wife has enabled him to see what the drugs and the fame have done to him, and so he goes in for treatment. In other words, the film ends just when the advertised hope and redemption are finally entering Ray’s life; and all of his shining future is relegated to three or four screen captions just before the end credits, leaving us no chance to rebound with him and cheer him on. How much more rewarding to have taken the content of this film and assigned it to the first two-thirds of a movie that spends the last third rejoicing in Ray’s comeback.

Two things keep this film from becoming one of the most dreary sob stories ever made: Jamie Foxx’s performance, and the regular inclusion of Ray Charles’ upbeat musical numbers.

Jamie Foxx (Collateral) is outstanding as Ray. He has the manic sways and swings of the performer, the broad smile, and the speech patterns down so well, I did not recognize him as Foxx until a scene in which he takes off his glasses to “look” at his mother. I cannot compare him with the other four performances he was up against at his respective Academy Awards, but his victory as Best Leading Male was certainly reasonable at the very least. Quite a surprise from a man who started on In Living Color and appeared in such forgettable trash as Booty Call and Breakin’ All the Rules.

Foxx is backed up by a wonderful set of supporting performers, including Kerry Washington (Against the Ropes), Clifton Powell (Rush Hour), Harry Lennix (Get on the Bus), and Regina King (Jerry Maguire), among many others – and just when I think I’ve seen the last of Warwick Davis (Willow), he pops up again; this time he’s the announcer at Ray’s first Seattle gig.

The music of Ray Charles is peppered throughout the movie, as we would expect it to be, and fans will no doubt find themselves humming along. He apparently had quite the musical range and energy, and his fan base swelled so immensely that there’s a good chance “Elvis Lives” will soon be replaced by something else entirely. (That’s just a guess; I’m not an Elvis fan either.)

Taylor Hackford (Dolores Claiborne) has a sense of direction that is as energetic as Charles’ music. He keeps things moving right along. Sometimes too fast, even. The opening half hour of the film seems too eager to skip to “the good parts,” and feels choppy in its rush to get there. This is a minor complaint compared to the wonderful job Hackford does overall. We are convincingly and expertly swept into Ray’s world – but unlike Ray, we get to see it in all its sequined and neon glory.

I was not around during the times covered in the film, but everything feels right. From the hot, sweaty plantation in Florida to the grimy nightclub in Seattle and all across the country, the people look real, their costumes are right, the sets feel authentic. It is actually harder to work Production Design on a film that takes place just a generation ago than it is to redesign long-extinct civilizations – Stephen Altman and all the artists under him have done a wonderful job re-creating the American 1940's through 1960's.

It is entirely appropriate that since Ray Charles was a recording artist, it is his actual recordings that dominate the soundtrack. The only drawback is that Jamie Foxx’s speaking voice and Ray Charles’ singing voice are just dissimilar enough that the first time we hear one of Ray’s songs dubbed over Foxx lip-synching, it is a distracting change. Charles’ voice was slightly deeper and mellower than Foxx’s, judging from the recordings used, so the change in timbre from Foxx to Charles provides a slight jolt. A few of the songs do appear to be coming from Foxx’s vocal tone, and the end credits indicate that he did contribute singing talent to the soundtrack. Perhaps he should have contributed more, I don’t know.

Well, ultimately, I want to enjoy this film more than I actually did. The music is enjoyable. Foxx is wonderful. There is a zest in the storytelling. But I cannot shake the depressing tone of the film. Where most movies would consider Charles’ experiences in rehab to be the low point from which to spring into the third act, Hackford and writer James L. White let the curtain fall when the chips are down. And I am left with no desire to pick the chips up.

My Score: 7

Friday, July 9, 2010

Hopelessness as Art

Movie Review:
Synecdoche, New York

R / 2 hrs., 4 min. / 2008

A synecdoche is a literary device in which an emblematic object is used to succinctly express a reality. When the order is for “all hands on deck,” the captain of the ship certainly expects more than just hands on the deck; he intends for fully-intact sailors to report. The word “hand”, then, is a synecdoche, emblematic for the sailor’s entire being. Until I reminded myself of that nugget of trivia picked up in college, I was at a loss to explain the title of Charlie Kaufman’s latest script and first directing effort, since the fictional Synecdoche, New York takes place in the very real Schenectady.

There is an air of despondency around Caden Cotard. His alarm clock wakes him up with a radio interview of a poet who thrives on verses about Autumn and its death-like symbolism. Every morning he turns to the obituaries in the newspaper. He regularly visits medical specialists who advise him to see other medical specialists. And he is wrapping up rehearsals of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, set to open soon.

It doesn’t help that box office manager Hazel has a crush on Caden, or that his wife Adele confesses in marital counseling to fantasizing about Caden’s death, or that the set for the play falls down shortly before Opening Night, or that Adele clearly shares no enthusiasm for her husband’s work anyway. Indeed, Adele is too busy preparing her display of paintings for an art show in Berlin to be much good as a wife to Caden at all.

When Adele departs for Berlin with their daughter Olive and the trip abroad begins to extend itself indefinitely, Caden finally realizes that he has been left, abandoned. As a director of performing arts, he decides to explore his feelings by staging a play; a play designed to be real, not full of pre-scripted phony emotions but raw and true to life’s pains. To accomplish this realism, Caden stages the play in a vast warehouse, where the set is a life-size replica of several city blocks.

Here in Caden’s personal synecdoche, he hires actors to play people he knows, including someone to play himself. His set includes a scale model of the warehouse they are performing in, and within the warehouse set is yet another warehouse set. Over a rehearsal schedule lasting several years, Caden’s real life and his theatrical life blur until the difference between what is true and what is theater become indiscernible.

Charlie Kaufman is certainly one of the most original screenwriters in modern cinema. He enjoys taking topics that other writers would treat mundanely and bending them, exploring issues like love and self-image in surreal ways. From the comparatively prosaic Adaptation to the bizarre fantasy of Being John Malkovich, Kaufman gives us a memorable and distinctive take on reality.

In Synecdoche, New York, he goes one step further, making it hard to peg reality at all. The first fifteen minutes take place in September, October, December, January, and March despite the immediate continuity of the events involved. The morning cartoons all seem to be about disease and death; and an animated Caden even appears on the television screen. After Adele leaves him, Caden thumbs through a magazine in a waiting room, only to find an interview about her inside. Caden discovers his daughter’s diary under her pillow, and the entries keep updating themselves over the years even though she has never been home to write more. A woman buys a house that is perpetually on fire. Another woman dies in a hospital, and her tattoos die with her. It is as if Caden is wide awake but dreaming at the same time, which is pure Kaufman.

Kaufman is also very thorough. As I sat watching the film for the second time (which is almost required if you’re going to review it intelligently), I was impressed with the way everything relates to Kaufman’s topic. Issues surrounding death, disease, or loneliness infect every scene. Dialogue that seems trivial on the first viewing turns out to be critical to the themes once you hear it again with awareness. And it is no mistake that Caden’s last name, Cotard, is a reference to a mental disorder in which a person believes he is already dead and no longer exists. Kaufman is a man clearly alert to the smallest of details, impressively so.

As Caden, Philip Seymour Hoffman more than capably plays a weary, downcast soul whose every attempt at finding joy and purpose is frustrated. At least three different women enter his life, and he always seems to want the one he has least access to at any given moment. He sends gifts to Olive in Berlin but never receives any reply. He struggles to produce the theatrical monument to realism for years, with each new artistic epiphany fading into confusion until the next one arrives, causing him to repeat throughout the film: “I know how I want to do the play now.” Hoffman makes Caden carry all that weight so effectively that I had a hard time making myself sit and finish the film – the melancholy and despondency are so heavy that reaching the end credits is labor, not fun.

Hoffman is surrounded by Kaufman favorites and seasoned veterans like Catherine Keener as Adele, who has relatively little screen time but uses it well. Though Adele’s words may blame Caden for the dysfunctional marriage, Keener’s tone and delivery render Adele as self-absorbed as Caden. Samantha Morton plays Hazel and successfully takes her character from the smitten young box office manager to Caden’s dedicated life-long assistant director with apparent ease. Every performance, right on down to Dianne Wiest’s appearance which is practically a cameo, is delivered with strength and believability. Or at least the sort of believability a Kaufman landscape can provide.

The script is a production designer’s nightmare, which is why its successful execution is so astounding. Script supervisor Mary Cybulski made elaborate master charts to keep track of which warehouse set each scene takes place within, and her work paid off. The film moves seamlessly from the real Schenectady to Caden’s set of Schenectady, to the set within the set, and on through the layers endlessly. The special effects to further enhance all of this blend in so well I could not tell I was looking at special effects, which should naturally be the goal of every special effects artist.

All in all, Kaufman and his entire company pulled it off with a very understated panache. What is unfortunate is that so much talent was wasted presenting an empty and useless viewpoint. Kaufman’s nihilism states itself overtly in two monologues in the film’s second half. One character talks about life’s being nothing more than waiting, and waiting in vain for something that will offer hope. Another character tells Caden, “You have struggled into existence and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone’s experience.” Jon Brion’s music underscores all of this with compositions that at best contain a wistful grasping at hope, but more often drag us down too effectively into Caden’s barren wasteland of existence.

To say I do not subscribe to Kaufman’s message is putting it nicely. Kaufman’s thinking is apparently void of any knowledge of real joy, real happiness, real love. He knows nothing of God, eternity, hope. Through one of his characters, Kaufman sums up life as a brief and pointless existence in which nobody cares about anybody else, in which any sense of satisfaction whatsoever is only attained when we are able to say with conviction: “F*** everybody.”

I’ve never understood why nihilists bother disseminating their message at all, let alone spending millions to preach it in cinematic form. If nihilism is true, then there’s no escape from it and thus no point in “helping” everyone realize this. It’s like having a cell mate who wakes up every morning and reminds you that you’re serving a life sentence in an inescapable prison. What is a person supposed to do with that knowledge? Likewise, what am I supposed to take home from the movie? If the film had suggested for a moment that because life is short I should let loose and live it up, I could at least follow the logical flow of thought even while still disagreeing. But Kaufman suggests that because life is short and painful, there’s nothing to do but sit around and mope about it until no one wants to be around you anymore. And maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get in some sex along the way.

Synecdoche, New York demonstrates once again that Charlie Kaufman is a clever and savvy writer. It also demonstrates that he is a talented director. And it also reveals that he is a blind, misguided, and ignorant philosopher.

My Score: 6

Saturday, June 19, 2010

The Ultimate Senseless Violence

Movie Review:
Wanted

R / 1 hr., 50 min. / 2008

Given the stories we hear of ordinary people who “were such nice neighbors” suddenly snapping and becoming raving killers, I’m not sure Wanted is the best entertainment to thrust upon American culture. In this film based on the comic books by Mark Miller and J.G. Jones, insignificant office marshmallow Wesley Gibson (James McAvoy) goes about his perfectly spineless day when he suddenly learns that his father, whom he has not seen since he was seven days old, was not only the world’s greatest assassin, but has also been shot and killed by another assassin who now has Gibson in his cross-hairs as well.

On the run for his life with the help of a mysterious woman (Angelina Jolie), Gibson is invited to join the organization of assassins that his father was, until recently, a leading member of: The Fraternity. This gathering of professional killers was founded a thousand years ago by a group of weavers who took it upon themselves to rid the world of those evil elements that were responsible for corruption, crime, and chaos. Unfortunately, one of its contemporary members has gone rogue and is knocking off Fraternity personnel one by one.

Fraternity leader Sloan (Morgan Freeman) impresses upon Gibson the importance of avenging his father’s death, and Gibson embarks on a training regime to learn the art of assassination. This includes getting his weak mind getting beat out of him, learning about knife-fighting via direct assault, and mastering the art of bending the trajectory of bullets by simply thinking about it. And then he has to practice a few assassinations on seemingly innocuous targets. Finally the big day arrives and Gibson the Fraternity graduate heads off to blast the snot out of the renegade member who has been stalking him. Let that be a lesson to you, the next time you pick on the insignificant marshmallow in your workplace.

Well, frankly, if there was ever a movie that had no more purpose than to satiate the bloodthirsty fans of gratuitous and explicit violence, Wanted is it – though anything by Quentin Tarantino comes in a close second. There is no ennobling tale among the gore, like Gladiator. There is no attempt at political and social discussion or pro-humanist anti-theist philosophy, like Watchmen. There is simply violence. Fist fights and bloody noses, knife wounds, uprooted teeth, the spray of cranial fluids, and bullets exiting foreheads in slow motion are among the charming images of what amounts to a total waste of time.

I will agree with my wife and say that were it not for the disgusting level of violence in the film, the story itself would be somewhat entertaining. Written for the screen by Michael Brandt, Derek Haas, and Chris Morgan, and directed with rock star sensibilities by Timur Bekmambetov, the adventure that Gibson finds himself in is decently intriguing. Khazakstani director Bekmambetov plays this action movie for all the stylization and visual wit he can muster, which is quite a lot.

I think what I find most interesting about the film is my own reaction to its cinematic style. While I am not a fan of film techniques like ramping, bullet time, and ultra-cool leather-clad marksmen with groovy weapons, I found this film’s take on the “grunge” cinema to be actually rather interesting. Maybe it has something to do with that very American style being run through a Khazak’s cultural interpretation and coming out as something different in some subtle way. As I know I will not be able to put my finger on it, I won’t babble on in an attempt to sound intelligent. In short, while other “grunge”-style films have left me wishing in the worst way that they would end quickly, Wanted did not induce such repulsion in me.

James McAvoy (Atonement) is fitting as Gibson, a young man who has already surrendered any interest in conquering life. No attempt is made to make him stunningly sexy as he becomes an assassin: He continues to look like an ordinary guy. And he has a beautiful dry tone for the lifeless narrations that open the film.

Supporting McAvoy are veterans Morgan Freeman (Batman Begins) and Angelina Jolie (Mr. and Mrs. Smith), who are pretty much typecast following years of playing the rich-voiced black mentor and the svelte sex symbol, respectively. These two have played these roles so often I doubt there was any challenge to it. Nor did I sense they went hunting for any new challenge either; their performances seemed almost phoned in with a yawn.

While there is not much to say about the film’s production design, I did like the room in which a giant loom has been weaving fabric for a thousand years. Its purpose I will not divulge, but in terms of the art direction, this set struck me as the one memorable location in the film.

Oh, and I suppose I should mention the reason I bothered renting an R-rated action film at all, which is not my usual style. The music was by Danny Elfman, which is definitely my usual style. For the most part, this is Elfman phoning in his work as well, but he does treat his fans to his voice again as he writes and sings the featured song in the end credits. Not bad work, but I’m not desperately adding the soundtrack to my wish list.

Ultimately, I’d say skip it. The story is pointless, and the violence and gore really would not be healthy images to be stuffing into your brain. There really is no good reason to spend two hours watching this one, as indeed I wish I hadn’t. Just being brutally honest.

My Score: 6

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Wish You Weren't Here

Movie Review:
Postcards From the Edge

R / 1 hr., 41 min. / 1990

I rented Postcards From the Edge knowing only that there was a shot of Meryl Streep hanging from the ledge of a building and trying to find the best delivery in her call for help. The shot in isolation was very funny. The context for the shot is less so. This is one of those films you find in the comedy aisle, but which doesn’t really belong there at all: While some humorous situations and verbal interplay dance across the surface, at heart this is a drama.

Postcards From the Edge is the semi-autobiographical retelling of actress Carrie Fisher’s own experience recovering from a drug addiction. Kind of. It’s actually more about her relationship with her mother once the film hits its first turning point.

In this fictionalized version, Suzanne Vale (Meryl Streep) barely finishes principle shooting on her latest film when she overdoses and lands in rehab. As a recovering addict, she is now a liability for film insurance companies, and finding good work will be nearly impossible. There is a film company interested in hiring her, but on one condition: That she live with her mother for the duration of the production.

Vale’s mother is Doris Mann (Shirley MacLaine), faded has-been and mild alcoholic – never drunk, but always with a drink on hand. And she is one of those mothers that manages to be selfish in her generosity, always giving advice, giving encouragement, giving opinions – because it makes her feel good and in control to do so. And because it then gives her a reason to upstage her daughter. Vale has no hope of ever being the woman her mother’s lectures envision.

As Vale’s new film role commences shooting, she has to learn to deal with the ever-present drug urge, an adoring hunk (Dennis Quaid) who may or may not want her just for sex, an onslaught of “helpful” advice from the producers of the film, and her mother. Coping is not always easy.

There is a sense in which the film is nearly flawless. Mike Nichols (The Graduate) directs a smart script by Carrie Fisher and draws out a strong chemistry between Meryl Streep (Sophie’s Choice) and Shirley MacLaine (Steel Magnolias), a chemistry made that much more potent by Fisher’s story. I’m looking at Nichols’ list of credits, and he appears to specialize in real-life, present-day dramas, which is evident here.

Streep does a fine job of portraying a woman on the titular edge. She often looks strained, worn out, tired of fighting and coping. How easy it would be to take a few forbidden pills and retreat to rehab’s cozy private bedrooms again, and the weary fight against this temptation comes out in her performance.

Holding her own against Streep’s fine work is MacLaine, who is always reliable as a feisty overbearing type. She creates Doris as a self-proclaimed expert on life and fame and money and coping, but whose constant verbiage serves more to drown out her own pain rather than actually have a positive effect on anyone around her.

The lovable Mary Wickes (The Music Man) plays Mann’s mother, and the three generations in one room reveal a lot about why Vale turned to drugs. Also in supporting and cameo roles are Dennis Quaid (The Big Easy) as a smarmy lover, Gene Hackman (Mississippi Burning) as a Richard Donner-esque film director, and Rob Reiner (Sleepless in Seattle) as a film producer with the uneasy task of requesting a drug test from Vale. And that’s not including Richard Dreyfuss (Jaws), Annette Bening (Mars Attacks!), Simon Callow (Shakespeare in Love), and more. There’s a buffet of top talent scattered throughout the production, sometimes in roles that disappear before you can look twice, and none of which ever hit a wrong note.

Several scenes take place on the set of Vale’s film, and provide both amusing images and poignant symbolism. Many shots reveal facades and rear projection backdrops, hinting at the phony exterior Vale puts on in public while she wrestles with her inner agonies. Sometimes I had more fun looking at the film equipment and crew members at work than in following Vale’s journey.

But here’s the paradox: All this nearly flawless material adds up to a film that is just, well, uninteresting. I can offer no compelling reason to see it even once, let alone see it again or own a copy. I’m sitting here at my word processor trying to think of something, anything, that grabbed me, or of anyone I know to whom I would mention it with even a degree of enthusiasm. And nothing comes to mind.

Maybe it’s because I’ve seen too many movies. Everything this movie has can be found elsewhere, and presented at least as well as it is here. For instance, the dialogue is strong, but there’s more interesting dialogue out there. For snappy conversations between a mother and her child, I recommend Mother by Albert Brooks, starring, interestingly enough, Carrie Fisher’s mother Debbie Reynolds. The performances here are good, but Streep and MacLaine are good elsewhere, too. Other films about characters struggling against addictions have touched me deeper.

Really, I’m clutching at straws here trying to fathom why this movie even really exists, besides the pedestrian explanation that a producer somewhere liked the script and so on. If it disappeared completely, or had never even been made, the cinema world wouldn’t be lacking in any way. And in fairness, I suppose that could be said about a lot of movies.

I’m not trying to slam the film. All its parts are excellent, but those parts just add up to a whole that completely fails to captivate me. I’ve seen other films where the same could be said, but this is the greatest disparity I’ve ever noticed between a film’s superior artistry and inferior entertainment. It’s that disparity that has me stumped.

If I could pinpoint an actual complaint, it is that the songs go on way too long. Both Vale and Mann have singing talent, and it is showcased twice in the film. In both instances, the respective singer covers the entire song, and in one case she does so in a single close-up. The songs are not a useless conceit – some family dynamics are revealed in the first musical moment – but their sheer duration brings the proceedings to a halt.

No doubt some fan of the film will read this and be stupefied, and I’ll be told that it’s a wonderful film. To this I can only say that while I agree it is quite exceptional in its execution, we all have our preferences and mine do not include Postcards From the Edge.

If you haven’t had your fill of MacLaine as a grouchy old woman, or if you have a compulsion to see everything Streep has ever appeared in, give it a go. You certainly won’t be wasting your time on a bad movie – far from it. And if you like it more than I did, more power to you.

My Score: 7

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Learning to Fly

Play Review:
Peter Pan

by J.M. Barrie
Musical Adaptation by Mark Charlap and Carolyn Leigh

Company: Redmond High School
Venue: Redmond High School
Run: 5/18/2010 – 5/22/2010

There is a certain appropriateness in having a high school stage a production of Peter Pan, as it is a story about the necessity of growing up, of overcoming one’s fears about adulthood and admitting that eternal youth in Neverland is not an enviable lifestyle. This week Redmond High School, along with select performers from local junior high and elementary schools, brings J.M. Barrie’s story to life in the musical incarnation by Mark Charlap and Carolyn Leigh.

The story, of course, is the familiar tale of Wendy, John, and Michael Darling, and their encounter one night with Peter Pan, the spritely boy in green who can fly and who has sat outside their bedroom window, more evenings than they know, listening to Wendy tell her younger brothers their bedtime stories. Now Peter offers to take Wendy back to his home of Neverland, where you never grow up, so she can be “Mother” to all the Lost Boys there and tell them stories forever.

Peter’s constant enemy in Neverland is Captain Hook, who wants to kill the Lost Boys. And when he discovers a “Mother” on the island, his plan is to keep her on board to tell stories to his pirates forever. This leads to the grand swordfight finale between Pan and Hook aboard the pirate ship, and a happy ending that becomes a slightly bittersweet ending and then we all go home. If that felt rushed, it’s because I’ve written it before in a film review.

Frankly, it would be easy to attack this latest production on many levels. For one, I’m just not crazy about the Charlap & Leigh musical version. Apart from the iconic “I Won’t Grow Up”, the songs strike me as not really striking me, and in some places feel desperately tacked on to no good purpose. It is possible, if I ever make myself watch the classic Mary Martin performance, that the songs may feel more integrated and catchy when performed by professionals, but I doubt it – amateur delivery does not seem to be the problem here. If you like the musical version, you may ignore this old codger’s opinion with abandon.

In this run, Peter Pan is played by two students. At my showing, Una Wagner was the featured performer; the other is Billy Brandt, and I might see if I can catch a snatch of his performance Friday by buttering up the right school administrators. Miss Wagner has a lot of the necessary charm and energy for the part, though I am partial to having actual males in male roles, as when Jeremy Sumpter played the role in the 2003 film. Wagner has an enthusiastic smile as well as a delightful singing voice, and does a fine job skipping, jumping, and crowing about the stage.

As can be expected from a school production, the talent level covers a wide spectrum. The performance that surprised me the most was Jeffrey Richards, a cute little speck of a thing I am assuming was recruited from an elementary school. As Michael, Richards shows more confidence and personality than some of the high schoolers, and has the advantage of being totally adorable in his white night shirt.

And naturally, as a school production, there is a disjointed blend of strong and weak elements. Some characters had microphones and were clearly audible, others went unaided in their projection and were lost completely under the ruckus of Indian chases and sword fights and the orchestra. At times the orchestra was simply too loud, though when the piano had the melody, the pianist seemed reticent to actually speak up.

Costuming was surprisingly extensive, and included a vibrant pirate costume for Captain Hook, and full-body dog and crocodile outfits as well. And though I’ve seen better sets at previous RHS productions, the large cut-outs and the “coloring book” look are very fitting for a children’s story. The school also managed to secure the services of Flying By Foy, so that they do indeed fly through the air as gracefully as any professional company. They even managed to do one better than the high school production I saw in Utah, where either John or Michael had to make repeated efforts to get off the ground while a banging sound backstage suggested some trouble with the wires.

I will also point out that the playbills are very professional. I mention this because six or seven years ago the RHS playbills were flimsy, poorly laid out, and riddled with typos. A good playbill should present a professional welcome to audience members, and the one for Peter Pan achieves this.

And now I have to be cruelly honest: The quality of the production does not justify the $10 ($12 at the door) ticket price. Certainly as a former drama teacher I am aware that a school play is mounted as an experience for the students. At the educational level, the audience is not there to be entertained; they are there to provide an audience for the young performers learning what it is to memorize lines, create characters, and go out on a stage and face down a paying crowd. The audience becomes another facet of the students’ dramatic education.

And I have happily paid between four and seven bucks in the past for some very good shows at Redmond High, including A Midsummer Night’s Dream and even that depressing Woody Allen drama with the title I cannot recall that was very well acted despite its dreary message of hopelessness. So I am not just being a mean old critic who does not know how to view school plays for the educational value they present to the students. I simply did not receive a twelve-dollar show last night.

I think any and all troubles can be summed up as the director Phil Neely biting off a bigger project than the school was ready to chew. One of the first signs is that almost every Lost Boy and pirate is played by a female (much like the female Russian soldiers in my junior high adventure through Fiddler on the Roof). And I could be wrong but the presence of students borrowed from other schools would suggest that there was not enough in-house student interest to pull the play off.

Were I to list all my thoughts, they would largely revolve around little things that could have spiced up the production a notch. One example: Despite having a choreographer on the crew, some moments were a little bland. While Peter Pan sings “I Gotta Crow” the character pretty much just stands there. I so wanted to see him bound about the room like the cocky and vibrant imp that he is. I’m surprised no one on the creative staff found anything interesting to do with that scene.

I could go on, but I will retreat and remind myself that it is for the students that a school play is put on. And as such, several dozen kids are getting a good experience putting on a massive production. They are learning what it is to get into costume, enter on cue, act and react. In the wings, the crew are learning about timing of curtain, lights, music. And certainly they are learning that when cast members are flying fifteen to twenty feet off the stage, there is no room for getting distracted. I was not satisfied as an audience member, but I would not have the students involved miss out on this facet of their education no matter what the crusty old critics say.

Despite the play’s rough edges – of which there were plenty – as I sat there with my five-year-old son and heard again the play’s message about growing up, I did have to hold back a tear or two. They grow up so fast, don’t they? But the alternative of remaining a petulant child forever would not truly be as wonderful as it sometimes sounds.

I certainly hope that if you are a family member or friend of cast or crew that you will go see what they have achieved. For all others, I leave it up to you.

Lowest ticket price: $10
Value for money: Very hard to justify the expense

Saturday, May 8, 2010

The Spear Misses Its Target

Movie Review:
End of the Spear

PG-13 / 1 hr., 48 min / 2006

In the mid-1950's, missionary pilot Nate Saint flew Jim Elliot and three missionary companions into the jungles of Ecuador in an attempt to make contact with the Auca tribe. Their goal was to share the Bible’s message of salvation, the Gospel, to the natives.

On January 8, 1956, the five men were mercilessly slaughtered by a group of Auca tribesmen.

Whether readers of this review believe in Christianity or not is beside the point. Saint, Elliot, and the others did firmly believe that all people everywhere are destined to Hell unless they place their trust in Jesus Christ. Spreading the Gospel, enabling people to hear of Heaven and the escape from eternal pain and suffering, was of the utmost importance to them. They were willing to give their lives in the process if God so decreed.

But you sure can’t tell that by watching End of the Spear.

The film is told from the point of view of Nate’s son Steve, who was not yet a teen when his father was killed. We begin with a shot of an adult Steve (Chad Allen) paddling along a river with a Waodani tribesman named Mincayani (Louie Leonardo). Where they are going is not yet revealed, but Steve’s narration leads us into the story of how Mincayani ended up sitting in a boat with the son of the man he killed.

In the earlier part of the century, Mincayani was a prominent member of a dwindling tribe. Certainly some tribal rituals were part of the problem: When a parent died, for instance, his living children were to be buried with him – which really puts a damper on any hopes of a flourishing family tree. In addition, in-fighting among the various Ecuadorian tribes was leading to the extinction of all of them. But one enemy they all had in common was the “foreigners” – which basically constituted any white man.

There is a sub-plot involving what I think was Mincayani’s sister ending up being adopted by some white missionaries years before, but when the missionaries try to inform the Waodani that she is still alive and well, Mincayani is skeptical. Indeed, his skepticism and distrust eventually boil over into the rage that leads to the five deaths.

While these deaths bring grief to the hearts of the wives the missionaries left behind, these women also believe as their husbands did, and head out to minister to the Waodani tribe. Under the constantly distrustful eye of Mincayani, Elisabeth Elliot and the other women encourage the tribe to lay off killing other tribes, to foster honorable character. The women also prove very helpful when polio enters the tribe, administering medicine and therapy to heal the natives.

This loving treatment in light of his murderous behavior tortures Mincayani’s heart until, years later, he finds himself paddling up the river with Steve to the place where Nate and the missionaries were killed. There, both Mincayani and Steve must finally come to grips with the tragedy.

It has been the history of Christian films that, because they are not as hugely marketable as generic Hollywood entertainment, they operate under much lower budgets, and therefore end up with low production values all around, from acting to costumes to music to editing. In its favor, End of the Spear plays very much like a moderately well-budgeted film.

For what it is, the screenplay by Bart Gavigan, Jim Hanon, and Bill Ewing is respectable fare, with Mincayani’s story vividly laid out and woven together with Steve’s. Some of the lesser details puzzle me, like why the tribe is called the Waodani here when they are known as the Aucas in articles about Jim Elliot. And like many biopics, events are often compressed: The men made contact with the tribe on more occasions than are chronicled here, for example. But the overall structure is reliable, and the script is not inept.

Directed by Hanon, the production is entirely watchable, far removed from some of the embarrassments of Christian cinema’s earlier years. With some beautiful imagery by Robert A. Driskell, Jr., and production design by Clarence L. Major, we are taken into the steamy, dirty world of the Waodani, and the makeshift existence of the missionaries. It’s not perfect – the opening attack of one tribe upon another felt a little staged, for example. But clearly money was involved with this one.

Thanks to a beard and glasses, Chad Allen (NYPD Blue) works as both father and son without being a casting distraction, though far more charming is young Chase Ellison (The Young and the Restless) who plays Steve as a youth. But even with two roles, Allen actually doesn’t have a lot of acting to do. He flies the plane, lands with the men, and gets the dramatic death scene even though most anyone who knows this story thinks of Jim Elliot long before thinking of Nate Saint.

The film’s running time really belongs to Louie Leonardo (All My Children) as Mincayani. Leonardo must deal with all of the painful emotions running through Mincayani as he struggles with having his tribe’s tradition imposed upon by foreigners while at the same time wrestling with the perils those very traditions present. Leonardo gives no hint of his soap opera background, where melodrama reigns. He feels real in this performance.

Jack Guzman (Days of Our Lives) plays a tribesman named Kimo, who is the first to accept the ways of the missionary wives. Deciding their lessons of peace to be the better way, he helps with building new shelters, and reaches a point where he breaks his spears as a sign that he will no longer participate in killing other tribes. Guzman and Leonardo successfully generate the necessary tension between the two competing ideologies – they made me temporarily doubt what I knew was the historical outcome.

But under all of the quality production values lies a problem: If ever I have seen a biopic that totally misses the point of its subject matter, End of the Spear is the one.

Yes, I’m a Christian who very much admires Jim Elliot’s total devotion to God. But I’m not writing the following to turn any readers into Christians. I’m simply trying to describe the movie’s huge failure. I shall aim for succinctness.

It is the Bible’s claim that all souls throughout history are sinful from birth and sentenced by a perfectly holy God to pay for their sins by enduring never-ending unbearable suffering in Hell. Far from leaving it at that depressing conclusion, however, the Bible claims that God himself has paid that penalty by having his Son Jesus Christ die in mankind’s place, and that anyone who simply acknowledges this and places his trust in Christ will be rescued from the sentence of Hell and be welcomed into eternal bliss in God’s presence in the afterlife.

Saint and the missionaries believed all of this, and believed that giving the Waodani (or Aucas) the opportunity to hear that message and thus be saved from Hell was more important than any other goal in life. Still with me?

So if a person gave his life trying to rescue souls from Hell, shouldn’t a movie about that person include his central mission? End of the Spear turns Saint and Elliot, and later their wives, into people whose primary goal was to bring modern civility to the tribe; a shallow thesis compared to what they really went to Ecuador for. If you’re not familiar with Christian beliefs and the significance of my argument doesn’t strike you, let me put it this way: It would be akin to making a film about Martin Luther King, Jr., and leaving out that minor detail about his stand for racial equality.

The Bible’s message is not about living “the good life” here on earth. It is about the opportunity to live an unspeakably joyous life after this one. But Saint’s and Elliot’s heart-felt belief that God wants to save people from Hell is reduced to a message that God wants everyone to get along, get dressed, eat right, and stay healthy.

No wonder a homosexual activist and two soap opera hunks were willing to play leading roles in a “Christian” film: Had this movie truly portrayed what Nate Saint and the others stood for, I doubt Allen in particular would have touched the project. And no wonder so many non-Christians were angry: The film turns Saint and Elliot into nothing more than meddlers who had the presumption to assume that Western civilization needed to be spread to this backwater tribe.

I repeat, believing the veracity of the Bible’s message or not is up to you. My point is that End of the Spear thoroughly trivializes what happened in Ecuador, both in January of 1956 and years later when the next generation of missionaries returned, by ignoring Saint’s true motivation for going there. I give it points for production values, but cannot in good conscience call it a good movie.

My Score: 6

Friday, May 7, 2010

Two Parts Fluff

Movie Review:
Julie & Julia

PG-13 / 2 hrs., 3 min. / 2009

Until Julie & Julia came along, my only memories or knowledge of Julia Child came from seeing her television show as a young boy. Not that I was into cooking shows at age seven; mostly she was just a “funny old lady” to watch when Sesame Street wasn’t on.

Well, it turns out Mrs. Child was quite instrumental in encouraging American housewives to cook, to really cook and not just whip up Betty Crocker’s powdered mixes; and to enjoy the process at the same time. But apparently dozens of women in the theater already knew this, based on the comments I overheard.

Nora Ephron’s latest is a charming, romantic, and very funny comedy that weaves together two true stories: Julia Child’s life in France as she attempts to learn the art of French cooking and pass it on by writing a cookbook; and Julie Powell’s attempt to cook every recipe in Child’s book within one year.

The film opens like a beautiful postcard, with a car being lowered from a steamer and driving through the French countryside. In it are Paul Child (Stanley Tucci) and his wife Julia (Meryl Streep), newly transferred to Paris by the United States government. It is post-war France, and Julia is an ebullient personality that absorbs her surroundings, especially the French cuisine, with complete enthusiasm. But the exotic new locale is entertaining in itself only for so long, and soon Julia feels tedium creeping in.

As she enjoys eating good food so much, Julia enrolls in cooking school. Determined to learn French cooking, and encouraged by her husband, she lets nothing keep her down – not even the scornful attitude of the provost of Le Cordon Bleu. Eventually Julia joins forces with two French ladies to run their own cooking classes and to assemble their recipes into a cookbook written in English for American middle-class women.

Meanwhile (or rather decades later in 2002), Julie Powell (Amy Adams) grows weary of her monotonous government job in New York City and gives herself purpose by taking up Child’s published book (which deflates a little of the suspense about whether Child will get her book published) and working her way through it in a year, with an accompanying blog for whoever in the vast world wants to read of her adventure. Needing to average about two recipes a day, Powell dives in fully, potentially at the expense of alienating her husband Eric (Chris Messina).

Anyone familiar with Nora Ephron’s repertoire will definitely sense her presence here. The deft hand that created Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail brings the same buoyant spirit to Julie & Julia. Some may criticize Ephron’s works as inconsequential fluff, but the older and crankier I get, the more I have to wonder: When did we reach a point where we believed it was a film’s moral obligation to have something serious to say? Films were once about entertaining us; critics have made us believe they have to be important. I sincerely appreciate Ephron’s light and frothy spirit of fun that infuses the three works of hers that I have now seen, a spirit that lets me bounce out of the theater with a smile. Oh, there is a “serious” side to Julie & Julia, but it could hardly be described as “weighty”, and any problems that rise up before our protagonists are fairly easily dismissed.

The contemporary half of the story has Ephron’s signature all over it. But in presenting Child’s life in France, Ephron proves that her sense of comedy and romance are not relegated strictly to present-day big cities. In fact, it is Child’s story that is the more engaging of the two; without it, Powell’s storyline would not have stood on its own as a captivating movie.

Julia Child is played by Meryl Streep (Mamma Mia!), and she is utterly convincing. The mannerisms and speech patterns I recall from the television show were all there. And had I not known any better, Streep’s imitation of Child’s voice would have completely fooled me. The performance is not mere mimicry; she definitely brings a real person out of the impersonation. Consider the quiet and tender way Child deals with her inability to have children. In Streep’s hands, these moments are subtle and believable, and the scenery is left unchewed.

A good performance is one in which the audience forgets the actor and sees only the character. Streep so successfully absorbed me that I would put her right up there with Daniel Day-Lewis in There Will Be Blood or Anthony Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs. When I originally reviewed the film for a local magazine, I wrote that it is one of those performances that should be nominated for an Oscar, but which probably won’t because it has none of the political gravitas or heavy social relevance that the Academy falsely assumes is a requisite for an award. I am pleased to have been wrong, as Streep did indeed receive a nomination, proving that once in a while the Academy actually has some class.

Amy Adams (Enchanted) takes over for Meg Ryan in Ephron’s handbook of characters, as “the cute leading lady.” I don’t say this with derision – Ephron writes cute leading ladies so that they are believable and worthy of empathy; she manages to avoid making them syrupy and stupid. Adams is worthy of the performance, with zest and a darling smile that make her character entirely enjoyable; but as already noted, she is given the less interesting material.

Conversely, it is Chris Messina (Vicki Cristina Barcelona) as Powell’s husband that outshines Stanley Tucci (The Terminal) as Child’s husband. For reasons I cannot put into words, I enjoyed watching Messina work alongside Adams. He didn’t feel like the typical movie spouse; he feels real, and loving, and someone I’d want my daughter to marry. Tucci is always a pleasure to watch and does an excellent job; but of the male roles, he is the one with the lesser material.

A couple of very minor things prevent me from giving it a perfect score, one of which is a totally useless scene in which the Powells sit and watch Dan Aykroyd’s impersonation of Julia Child on Saturday Night Live. Aykroyd is funny, but watching someone watch Aykroyd for a full minute is not.

Otherwise, I like this film. A lot. It’s happy and perky. It is brightly lit. It is colorful. Alexandre Desplat’s bright little melodies are catchy. And while pop songs in movies generally annoy me, Ephron has a way of choosing and adding songs to the mix that actually complements her films. And (call me a prude) the only people who sleep together are the married couples!

Dare I end with a bad pun? For delightful viewing on a quiet evening, Julie & Julia is the perfect recipe.

My Score: 9

Saturday, February 20, 2010

An Awesome Flight of Fancy

Movie Review:
Peter Pan

PG / 1 hr., 54 min. / 2003

J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan is the classic tale of Wendy Darling (Rachel Hurd-Wood) and her brothers John (Harry Newell) and Michael (Freddie Popplewell), who share a room and bedtime stories. Wendy is at a delicate age: She is a child on the verge of adulthood, and she is about to be forced to make the change by her father (Jason Isaacs). But she is offered an escape from this fate by Peter Pan (Jeremy Sumpter), a lively young sprite who invites her back to Neverland, a magical place where no one ever grows up.

But Neverland is not a perfect paradise: It is also home to Peter’s nemesis, Captain James Hook (Jason Isaacs again), who bears a hook instead of a hand, which he lost in a fight with Peter. The hand and a clock were swallowed by a crocodile that has stalked Hook ever since, hoping for dessert. And Hook has stalked Pan ever since, hoping for revenge.

Raise your hand if you did not know any of that. Everyone with a hand raised needs to report to Childhood Classics 101.

I grew up on the Disney animated version of Peter Pan, which delivers a fine presentation of a fantasy adventure for the whole family, despite the derogatory comparison it is receiving in the wake of this new adaptation. I am also familiar with the stage script, having played Mr. Darling in college. What is interesting about most of the adaptations of the story is that our focus is on a simple children’s adventure – possibly even a dream – that comes across as a piece of literary fluff. Then I saw what P.J. Hogan (My Best Friend’s Wedding) had drawn out of it, and I was completely floored.

Having recently perused Barrie’s novelization of his play, I am a little surprised at the number of critics who praise this new film for “staying so close to the book.” In terms of a scene-by-scene comparison, the Disney version is far more accurate than what Hogan and writer Michael Goldenberg (Contact) have come up with. This new film tosses out whole chapters, adds entirely new scenes and characters, and otherwise tampers on a wholesale level with the structure of the tale. Hogan has done away with clapping as the cure for dying fairies, and Peter never crows. The film also jettisons the traditional ending (“I’m old now, ever so much more than twenty”) in favor of an ending that is slightly smarmy, but which provides a shorter denouement if not necessarily a better one. I am willing to overlook these changes because of what the film does right. What this version absolutely nails, without compromise and with an excellence that blows away its predecessors, is the real message of the book.

Humor me while I theorize on this subject: In this new screenplay, Peter is more than a rogue; he is, as the book suggests, Childhood personified. Wendy is no longer merely escaping the world of adults; she is flying off hand in hand with her very youth and immaturity, which she initially believes she wants to maintain forever. And Childhood must eventually face its fear: Adulthood, personified in Captain Hook.

Contrary to my impressions of earlier “Pan” adaptations, this film does not say that growing up is bad; in fact, maturity is to be commended. It is not Adulthood itself that Wendy is fighting on the pirate ship, but her irrational beliefs about growing up; and that is an important distinction, even if she doesn’t notice at the time. Indeed, Wendy must grow up, for to remain a child forever is the height of selfishness. At the beginning of the film, Mrs. Darling (Olivia Williams) points out that “there is the bravery of thinking of others before oneself,” and by the end, Wendy realizes this and comes home to fill her rightful place in the world, both now as a young girl and later as a grown-up. At the end of the story, Childhood finds it has no permanent home in the Darling household, and returns to Neverland until Wendy’s children come along. Such is the message that I believe has been there all along, but which previous films presented so muted as to be lost entirely on the typical audience, including myself.

The film is stellar in more ways than one. First, we finally have an actual male playing Peter! I have never been able to fully accept Pans played by females – I am constantly distracted and unable to abandon myself wholly to the story. Jeremy Sumpter, who debuted in Bill Paxton’s Frailty, is a wonderful blend of impish prankster, show-off, and heart-breaking rogue. He has a great face for the role, and pulls some wonderful expressions – watch his face when he agrees, without saying a word, to let John and Michael come along to Neverland. A line or two felt stilted or under-enthused, and his lack of a solid English accent in the midst of the other characters is a deterrent; but overall, I think he’s an excellent choice. I hope someone also casts him as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream before he gets much older.

Jason Isaacs continues the tradition of having the same actor portray Mr. Darling and Captain Hook, thus enhancing Wendy’s fearful association of Adulthood with her vision of her angry father. Isaacs has played nothing but malice since I first saw him (The Patriot, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets), but here he is far more timid than even in Barrie’s play, where Mr. Darling was all bluster to hide his shortcomings. Isaacs lets us see a reserved Mr. Darling grow more blustery as he is pressured into being “powerful” by Aunt Millicent (Lynn Redgrave).

Other noteworthy performances include Rachel Hurd-Wood’s debut. She is positively charming, with a lovely smile and giddy girlie energy throughout the film. Ludivine Sagnier is a deliciously wicked Tinkerbell, with some of the best laughs in the whole movie. Equally excellent are Harry Newell and Freddie Popplewell and Carsen Gray and the lovable Richard Briers (Much Ado About Nothing, Love’s Labour’s Lost) and, well, everyone else in the film. Casting was a strong point in an already strong production.

This is a film I regret having missed in the theater. The art departments have so pumped up the visuals that I wanted to sit as close as possible to my TV screen. The film opens with a gorgeous blue night sky, swoops through tufts of pink clouds over a storybook London, to the Darling home. Neverland is green and red and blue and ice-cold and summer-warm and bright and dark and every other imaginative extreme. Add to this that the colors change with Peter’s mood, from a fierce red during his sword fight to a chilling blue when Hook shatters his joy to a shocking pink when Wendy kisses him. And yes, Peter’s reaction is very much what happens when a young man is first kissed. I know from experience.

Speaking of kisses, a plethora of published critics have commented on the “sexual tension” in the film, but I must say I have no idea what they are talking about. There is a difference between longing for something (like permanent childhood) and getting turned on. I see nothing to indicate Peter and Wendy are erotically aroused, and parents who avoided the film because they heard of its sexual overtones from critics should rest assured that there is nothing to be wary of here.

The production department based many of their designs on the way a child would imagine things. Who among us has not seen a junior high student’s model of the universe, with brightly colored planets all within inches of each other? As Peter leaves Earth’s atmosphere, we are treated to just such a universe, as the children go careening past dozens of flourescent heavenly bodies.

Cinematographer Donald McAlpine and the effects team have provided us with some gorgeous images. I love the sequence in which Michael leaps off his bed attempting to fly. In one single shot, we see Michael spinning out of control, and Peter Pan above him sprinkling fairy dust on him. It’s beautifully composed and is as magical as the story itself. I also enjoy the image of Peter flying through what appears to be the night sky, until he puts out a hand and runs it through an ocean of water and we realize we are looking down upon him, not up at him. These are just two of the many visual high points.

Special effects are strong and excessively creative. I particularly enjoyed the early scenes involving Peter’s shadow. It has an entire personality all its own, sometimes swatting at Peter, sometimes cowering behind him. Once you’ve seen the whole film, watch the nursery sequences again and focus on just the shadow. Your viewing experience will be enriched.

Complementing all of it is James Newton Howard’s gorgeous orchestral score. I disagree with the addition of a pop rhythm to certain cues – I feel it wrenches us out of Edwardian London gracelessly – but the overall impression is of a fun and fantastical musical adventure.

I could go on, but you should probably just see the film for yourself at this point and revel in one of the best fantasy-adventures of its decade. It is visually lavish, emotionally stirring, and intellectually assertive, in addition to being a whole lot of gee-whiz swashbuckling high-flying fun. It is never lazy about its creativity, but fills the whole screen with life and joy from start to finish. It may be true that all children grow up (except one), but this is two hours of your life where you can slow the process considerably.

My Score: 9

Monday, February 15, 2010

Whisper, Whisk, Flit and Tick

Book Review:
Something Wicked This Way Comes

Ray Bradbury / Bantam / 1962

The back cover of my soft-cover Bantam edition of Something Wicked This Way Comes has a better introduction than anything I could come up with, I’m sure: “What if someone discovers your secret dream, that one great wish you would give anything for? And what if that person suddenly makes your dream come true – before you learn the price you have to pay?”

If you’ve never read Ray Bradbury’s classic piece of good old-fashioned horror and nightmares, you might want to stop reading this review even now and go find a copy at your bookstore. Letting the dark fantasy unfold with each page is the way it was meant to be experienced. If, however, you’re fine with hearing something about it first, read on.

It is the story of Will Holloway and his friend Jim Nightshade, two youngsters growing up in that classic era of Americana, the Midwest of the early 1900's. Both have dreams, but fatherless Jim in particular yearns to be older, a grown-up. And there is Will’s father, already in his middle-age years when he married, now considering himself old, too old to be a good father to Will.

Into the heartaches of these three and their fellow townspeople comes a carnival. Ordinary enough to look at, the carnival soon begins to make a frightening impression on people like Miss Foley, who so wishes to be young and beautiful again; or on Tom Fury, the lightning-rod salesman, forever racing ahead of storms to sell metal pieces of fire insurance. Carnival staples like the mirror maze and “The Woman Frozen in Ice!” first seduce then terrify those in town who have lives buried in regrets. The carnival and its owners, Mr. Dark and Mr. Cooger, seem to thrive on the anguish of others. As Will and Jim learn more about the carnival’s dark secrets, they find themselves running for their lives from a menagerie of side-show freaks who want to quiet the boys up.

Ray Bradbury is hit-and-miss for me, but Something Wicked This Way Comes is definitely one of my favorite books. The author creates an unforgettable tale, along the lines of something Stephen King might produce; but in my opinion more subtle, and certainly much less reliant on language, gore, and sexuality than King. As with other of his works like Dandelion Wine that play off his childhood memories, Bradbury takes us back to a small town where everyone knows the barber and the cigar store owner, where there is only one employee at the library because two wouldn’t have enough to do. Though the year is never stated, the atmosphere created is enough to let us know we are not reading about our contemporaries, at least not as far as the literal setting is concerned.

Bradbury has an interesting way with words. His choice of vocabulary is not one any other writer would think of, and yet his choices become so vivid and lend so much atmosphere. He talks of the library being “bricked with books”, or of arcs of electricity as “electric blue eels.” He runs sentences together not out of ignorance for the rules of English, but because when those sentences are then read, the pulse and tempo of the character’s very thoughts are amplified. Many of the characters do not speak as real people would, but they speak as real people might think in tense, pressurized times of life. As with much of Bradbury, especially his short stories, the point is the beauty, flow, and atmosphere of the words, not their denotative functions.

Bradbury’s theme is an interesting one, exploring those things in life that cause us internal pain, whether sharp or dull. The device of an infernal carnival allows him to look at how man spends his days wishing, regretting, envying – and then looks at what might happen if those wishes could be answered, if regrets could somehow be corrected. Even if Mr. Dark did not exact a hideous fee for making young boys’ dreams come true, the natural consequences of craving an alternate reality would, in Bradbury’s reasoning, be enough to drive a person mad.

I’m not going to delve any deeper, because this is one of those books that is best when it is simply absorbed page by page. A review of it could never really do it justice, neither before nor after reading it. Let it suffice to say that I highly recommend it. At 215 pages, it is not a laborious trek through an epic adventure, but good for finishing over the course of a handful of bedtimes. And at night in bed is definitely the best time to read it and experience its chills.

Worth The Read?: Absolutely

Saturday, February 13, 2010

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Leash

Movie Review:
The Wolfman

R / 1 hr., 42 min. / 2010

The past two decades have seen Hollywood resuscitate Dracula, Frankenstein, and The Mummy, so, given how Hollywood’s sense of originality has been flailing in its final death throes for most of the past decade, I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone latched on to The Wolfman.

When Ben Talbot dies a brutal death at the hands (or claws) of a vicious but unknown killer, his widow Gwen (Emily Blunt) writes to Ben’s estranged brother Lawrence (Benicio Del Toro), pleading for him to return to the Talbot family manor. The family patriarch Sir John (Anthony Hopkins) welcomes Lawrence as best a bereaved father can, and Lawrence pledges to delay his return to his adopted home of America until Ben’s death is solved.

Lawrence’s amateur investigation leads him to a gypsy camp outside the local village, where one fortune-telling gypsy (Geraldine Chaplin) may or may not know how Ben died. But before anyone can fully answer Lawrence’s questions, something begins attacking the gypsy camp. Seen only fleetingly as it races through shadows, the thing is obviously large, strong, and brutal. It doesn’t seem to be hungry so much as it just likes sinking large claws and teeth through any part of a gypsy or vigilante that might happen to make a nice, gooey, slurping sound for 21st-century audiences.

In the course of saving the life of a gypsy boy, Lawrence gets assaulted and bitten by the beast. This brings ominous words of woe from the gypsies, who for completely unknown reasons switch from English to their native tongue and back again in mid-conversation. The ominous words of woe suggest that Lawrence is now cursed, but in what way no one will say – in either language.

The curse, of course, is that he is now a werewolf, doomed to become a big hairy animal consumed with bloodlust whenever the moon is full. Lest you think I’m spoiling anything for the younger generation who did not see the original film and who have been so busy falling in love with sparkling vampires that the concept of werewolves just might be new to them, the film spoils itself in the opening shot. There really is no unfolding suspenseful mystery here, save our finding out who the werewolf is that bites Lawrence in the first place. And frankly, given Hollywood’s slavish adherence to the rules of screenplay writing, the average film-goer should be able to answer that mystery about twenty minutes into the film. Maybe thirty. And the scene in which this is “shockingly revealed” is yet another one of those moments where, because the plot would be too convoluted for Our Hero to figure it out in a two-hour movie, the guilty party simply spills his or her guts (no pun intended).

I guess I segued right from an unfinished plot summary into a critique of the script itself. No matter; the plot is straight from the cookie cutters in Hollywood’s pantry. There’s a man who becomes a monster, there’s a single woman who falls in love with the man, both are played by reasonably charismatic stars. So what part of this plot do you still need summarized? The only creativity that writers Andrew Kevin Walker and David Self add is to sling bloody body parts around and spill intestines on the ground. Even this is not new territory for Walker, who wrote half a dozen severed heads into his adaptation of Sleepy Hollow.

Their script is not only pure formula, it is also a bit murky regarding how you kill a werewolf. Anyone? Anyone? Silver bullets, right? Maybe. Someone in the first half hour muttered something about how werewolves can only be set free by true love; I forget the precise wording but Walt Disney would have liked the line. And based on events in this movie, I would say that if you find yourself facing a werewolf and you did not happen to bring your silver bullets along, it still might not be hopeless. Get creative – your intestines and other gooey, slurpy parts of your body will thank you.

In the midst of all this, there are a few positive surprises to be had. The first is that Joe Johnston, the All-American director of such All-American adventures as The Rocketeer and Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, does have a decent handle on creating a moody, Gothic work of British horror. Working with production designer Rick Heinrichs and cinematographer Shelly Johnson, Johnston crafts a film with a quality look instead of settling for anything cheap. He gives the script a far better delivery than it deserves.

I was particularly captivated and impressed by a scene where Inspector Abberline (Hugo Weaving) chases the Wolfman through London. Johnston gives it a nice look, a nice pace, and does not overdo the action or the length of the chase. The scenes in the asylum torture chamber and lecture hall are also well told, with Antony Sher (Erik the Viking) as the head doctor keeping my attention throughout.

My only disagreement with Johnston’s artistic contribution is regarding his time-lapse technique. With a monster like a werewolf, the only truly interesting parts of the story, the parts horror fans paid to see, take place one night per month. To get us there, Johnston inserts shots of the moon whizzing through the sky, waxing and waning at record speed. Not only is the first use of this technique so sudden it is jarring, but he does it too often and it becomes an annoyance that pulls us out of the story instead of letting us be fully absorbed.

Another positive surprise is how well Benicio Del Toro (Traffic) fits his role. My experience with Del Toro films is limited, but before the film began I was wondering what nut thought putting him in this film was a good idea. Whoever it was, they were right. Maybe not the world’s most brilliant casting decision, but Del Toro pulls off an American accent and an appropriate look for the film respectably well.

Anthony Hopkins (Red Dragon) basically sleepwalks through his role. I don’t mean it’s a bad performance; I just mean how hard can it be for Hopkins to play an English country gentleman? The voice, the face, and the bearing are something he has on a daily basis. Just add dialogue. Emily Blunt (The Young Victoria) and Hugo Weaving (The Matrix) round out the main roles, with Weaving looking particularly convincing as an English investigator. Not everyone looks good in period costumes; Weaving does. Blunt doesn’t seem to add anything any other attractive young actress could not have added – but then neither does the script ask much of her.

This is not really the kind of film that catches my interest before its arrival. Had it not been for one name in the credits I would not have spent the time or money to watch it. But I went because Danny Elfman wrote the music. On that point I was satisfied if not impressed. Elfman’s score sounds very reminiscent of the tragic and romantic music in older Hollywood films; it is more of a traditional, classic tone and less of either his signature or experimental styles. As such, it does its job for the film, but it doesn’t have me frantically adding the soundtrack to my wish list for next Christmas.

Well, so there you have it. The script alone deserves a failing grade, but I’ll give points to Johnston, whose storytelling skills and visual style did keep me interested throughout. It’s a one-timer for anyone into monsters and classic horror stories. And twenty years from now some executive producer will latch on to the idea again, and the cycle will continue – kind of like the predictable way there’s the same old full moon every month.

My Score: 6

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Elwood's Bad Dream

Movie Review:
Donnie Darko

R / 1 hr., 54 min. / 2001

Donnie Darko is one of those movies that is fascinating to watch until about the last ten minutes. Then it becomes incomprehensible. In this, it is not unlike Mulholland Dr., which I rented on the same weekend to kill some time while my wife was recovering from the medical procedures used to deliver our first child. Although Donnie Darko was much more coherent than Mulholland Dr., overall I think I wasted my weekend. I would venture to say my wife had more fun sitting in her hospital bed for hours staring at our boy asleep in her arms.

Donnie (Jake Gyllenhaal) appears to be a normal teenager attending some kind of prep or parochial school. He has a respectable home, with reasonable parents (Holmes Osborne and Mary McDonnell), even if he doesn’t always get along with his sister (Maggie Gyllenhaal, Jake’s real sister).

But something is clearly wrong with Donnie. He is morose, withdrawn. And he has recurring visions of a grotesque grey figure named Frank that visits him at night and gives him instructions for committing random acts of violence. Who or what Frank is is uncertain, but “he” wears a rabbit costume that is – well, to say it is merely unsettling is like saying Satan is merely bad. It is a rabbit to be found only in nightmares – sort of a deranged Harvey.

Donnie owes it to Frank to follow his violent instructions since Frank saves his life early in the film by telling him to leave his house. Shortly after Donnie steps off his property, an airplane engine crashes through the Darko house roof straight through Donnie’s bedroom – which leads to Frank’s other talent: Foretelling the future. He has predicted the end of the world on the day before Halloween, and all of the violent assignments Frank gives to Donnie are part of – well, I’m not quite sure; either Donnie is helping bring Frank’s dire prediction to a successful fulfillment, or helping Frank stave off the world’s undesirable doom. I was a little foggy on that point.

Donnie is in a fog as well, apparently. He spends a great deal of time in the movie looking into the concept of time travel, for reasons I appear to have missed. Perhaps he wants to know how Frank knows so much. Donnie even experiences limited prophetic abilities himself, able to foresee a few seconds into the future. How this is portrayed is interesting and a bit unsettling in its visuals.

Despite a certain sense of meandering that I was afraid would sabotage my interest, things do seem to head somewhere. Donnie learns about the hypothesis of time travel through wormholes (a word so popular in science fiction these days that I wish Stephen Hawking had never coined it), and discovers that the crazy old lady on the mountain road is the one who wrote the book on the subject. Frank himself, or at least his name, begins turning up in unlikely places, causing Donnie to be on edge constantly. And all of Donnie’s assignments from Frank result, strangely, in good being accomplished, despite the fact that Donnie may be committing flagrant crimes.

But then, we are never really sure that Donnie is actually committing the crimes. Is he dreaming? Is Frank simply telling him that someone is doing these things as a way of proving his prophetic abilities? It’s creatively vague, and I’m not going to tell.

Then there is a sudden tragedy that I cannot reveal, but which seems to have been caused by Frank himself. And it is at this point, the last ten minutes of the film, that the plot swerves into the realm of the unexplainable. It’s not that Donnie Darko is a bad movie; it’s just that the ending renders everything we’ve seen befuddling.

What happens works within the rules the film’s unity has set up, but it fails to explain everything that has gone before and, more frustratingly, it does not explain why any of it happened. Frank has been guiding Donnie – but to what conclusion? What would have happened if Frank had not given Donnie these assignments? Or if Donnie had refused to go along? I can deal with the inconsistencies and impossibilities of time travel theory as long as they are presented in an engaging way (and the film succeeds here), but I have a hard time with a film that fails to answer its own “So What?” If I do not understand or care about the main character’s final fate or condition, or do not at least learn something from what he’s gone through, why did I watch?

Amazingly, the director’s own commentary on the DVD does not help answer the question. Richard Kelly explains the whole movie, and at the same time fails to actually explain it. Though I have not seen the later Director’s Cut, Roger Ebert testifies that it is largely as bewildering as the original.

This problem of resolution should never happen, even in the worst movies; but it is particularly painful here, where the movie is successfully absorbing. This is Richard Kelly’s third writing and directing endeavor, and he does a good job, especially considering he’s a year younger than me and is doing the very thing I want to do: Directing films. Kelly knows what he’s doing as a director, but this script reveals he needs to step outside for a minute and try to read it as an unsuspecting audience member.

Jake Gyllenhaal (October Sky) is an excellent choice as Donnie. He looks and behaves like he is either constantly on drugs, or just really depressed by the inanities of the world, both of which are true for Donnie. And when Frank puts him up to his assignments, Gyllenhaal has a wonderful sardonic smile that suggests mischievous machinations. Gyllenhaal’s ability to be an Every-Teen makes it clear why Sam Raimi was considering him to replace an injured Toby Maguire in the Spider-Man franchise.

The supporting cast fill out their undemanding roles well. Most notable is Patrick Swayze (Dirty Dancing) as a disgustingly glossy self-esteem guru whose curriculum for health classes boils all of life’s decisions down to “Love or Fear.” Donnie correctly challenges him on this during an open-mic seminar; and although one cannot root completely for Donnie’s life attitudes, here was a moment I was on his side. Swayze’s excellent portrayal has so much sugar on it that diabetics will be rushing for their medication.

For fun, keep an eye out for scattered cameos from both seasoned performers like Katharine Ross (The Stepford Wives) and Drew Barrymore (Ever After), and actors like Seth Rogen (Knocked Up) whose career had yet to begin at the time.

Ultimately, everyone involved does his job well. The film is competently constructed, ably performed, and intriguingly presented. It tells its story well, and will no doubt commend Kelly to producers in the future. So it really is a shame that we end up with no clue why we sat and watched it.

My Score: 7

Saturday, January 23, 2010

A Challenge Met

Book Review:
In Six Days

John F. Ashton (ed.) / Master Books / 2000

We have reached the point where science has so utterly and thoroughly demonstrated the possibility and likelihood of evolutionary processes being the operating mechanisms behind the generation and variation of all life on earth that it has essentially been proven as fact, right?

Wrong. What we have reached is the point where scientists have become such slick storytellers that they can take a hypothesis which continues to be so buried in unanswered questions and riddled with holes that it is downright laughable, and present it with such grandiose verbiage and all the certainty of great actors that the public has swallowed it.

They also have become masters at scorning (but not disproving) the Bible's view that the earth was created complete in a six-day period. It is such scorn that prompted John F. Ashton to assemble the book In Six Days.

In a university class, Ashton heard a visiting lecturer state that no scientist with a Ph.D. would advocate a literal six-day creation of the earth, a claim also made by scientists such as Stephen Jay Gould and Ernst Mayr. The pondering of that claim resulted in this book: Ashton sought out doctorated scientists who did believe in the act of creation as presented in the first chapter of Genesis and asked them to explain their positions. He then selected fifty from among them and published the results.

And the results are very interesting. All fifty of the testimonies included are from scientists with at least one doctorate in a scientific field, ranging from geneticists to geologists to astronomers to biologists to orthodontists. All fifty of them have no trouble reconciling science to the Bible, because, as many of them point out, the presentation of evolution that scientists have foisted on the world is nothing more than theatrics. Behind the scenes, pro-evolution scientists have been observed ignoring contrary evidence, suppressing facts that would shatter their ideas, and even distorting their findings to fit their pre-conceived notions.

It is those testimonies in this book that specifically demonstrate the flaws in evolution that were the most fascinating to me. Though sometimes in such complex scientific terms that I could not follow everything being presented, I enjoyed hearing of the problems inherent in radiometric dating and the fossil record in the geologic column, both of which are two of the more common "proofs" of evolution. In fact, dating methods and the geologic column are so unreliable as to be useless in substantiating the evolution hypothesis, but those conflicting results rarely ever escape the laboratory because they are such an embarrassment to evolutionary thinking.

The irrational defense of evolution is also discussed in some of the testimonies, as many of these fifty scientists had first-hand experience with peers and colleagues ignoring or denying discoveries that would force them to discard their evolutionary views. Even published author Richard Dawkins is taken down in a handful of the essays; the inconsistencies within single volumes of his own books are plainly exposed, along with Dawkins' own admission that scientists have yet to discover one single example of a genetic mutation that has added information to the genetic code, an absolute necessity for evolution to be true. To date, all genetic mutations have resulted in a loss of information, which is in perfect harmony with the Bible and the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics, but which makes evolution entirely implausible.

The essays come in a wide range, from the highly technical explorations of radiometric dating and discussions of the mathematical impossibility of having all of the correct-"handed" amino acids form a protein for life to begin, to brief overviews of broad topics. Some of the scientists clearly do not specialize in writing essays for the lay reader, but the information presented is still positively juicy in its decimation of the naturalist view of the origins of life.

The book has two difficulties, the first of which is a repetitious feeling. Because they were all writing independently, many of the scientists present similar information or reference similar sources. By the time I was halfway through the book, I felt like I was not receiving any new information.

Second, the latter half of the book has very little to do with actual scientific evidence: While I suppose it is meant to be reassuring to hear even generic affirmations of the Genesis account from doctorated scientists, ten to fifteen of them said little more than just that – "I believe in the Genesis account" – in their essays.

But I am very glad I discovered the book and had the opportunity to read it. Those interested in exposing some extremely severe flaws (and deceptions) in the "facts" of evolution in future encounters would do well to keep a pen or highlighter handy, as there is enough testimony here on key points of argument to shatter naturalist thinking.

In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth in six ordinary days. I have known that with complete confidence since I was in high school. It is encouraging to hear from doctorates of science that their research leads them to the same conclusion.

Worth The Read?: Most definitely

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Home Video of Our Trip to New York

Movie Review:
Cloverfield

PG-13 / 1 hr., 25 min. / 2008

So you’re in charge of the video camera at a friend’s going-away party when something monstrous attacks the city. What do you do? Why, naturally, you videotape the entire harrowing escapade, no matter how hazardous it is to be holding on to the camera with one hand while trying to stay alive with the other. And that, friends, is the story of Cloverfield in a nutshell.

But I’m feeling generous, so I’ll expound just a bit more. It’s Manhattan, and the party is for Rob Hawkins (Michael Stahl-David), a twenty-something who has accepted a spiffy overseas job offer. So his circle of friends are sending him off in style. Hudson “Hud” Platt (T.J. Miller) ends up with the job of capturing farewell sound-bites from party-goers as the evening progresses.

The party has hit a low point for Rob: Old flame Beth (Odette Yustman) brought a new beau to the party, which inflames Rob’s envy even though he has a new flame himself. I think. The room was kind of noisy and I didn’t have much chance to identify characters before they became ciphers in a monster movie.

So anyway, yes, around about the time Rob is not enjoying his party anymore, The Creature From Long Island Sound makes certain he really doesn’t enjoy it at all. A huge shudder, a blackout, an explosion near the coast, and the sudden arrival of the Statue of Liberty’s head in the middle of a downtown street cause a certain amount of panic. People run everywhere, and Hud’s camera manages to catch a glimpse of something’s tail, which is big enough to indicate that even Godzilla will be cowering in fear – but I will leave that alone, as exactly what is on the rampage is the part of the movie worth discovering for yourself.

The central circle of friends, numbering about five, heads toward one of Manhattan’s bridges, but their way gets cut off. Then there’s an escape down into the subway system, and at some point Rob realizes Beth is trapped in her apartment deep in the city. Donning his shining armor, Rob heads back to rescue her, and his friends come along despite their own protests. All of which Hud gets on camera.

And that is where I simply cannot get with a film like Cloverfield. I have been the family’s camera operator since I was twelve. We have tons of footage of babies, parties, youth group camping trips, monuments, historical sites, coastlines, highways – I even have the entire experience of Disney World’s Haunted Mansion on tape. So I have a pretty good grasp of how amateur video footage looks.

Like its forerunner, The Blair Witch Project, Cloverfield is never fully convincing as supposedly accidental footage from a home video camera. The attempt is made to simulate such footage, with shots of the ground, feet running, and wild shaking images as Hud panics. But Hud has the unbelievable ability to hold that camera remarkably still at times – so still, in fact, one might suspect that he has either worked with a consumer video camera for years, or else has a steady-cam rig handy whenever he just happens to be recording something that just might later have relevance in, say, helping a theater audience follow along with either the chase or the human relationships.

Other tell-tale marks of amateur footage are missing as well. Not enough shots are cut off in mid-sentence. There are no notable digital artifacts that would normally result from the cajoling the camera takes as these guys run like mad through the city. The audio is crystal-clear for important lines of dialogue. In fact, for a bunch of college-aged kids, they found themselves a camera with a darned good microphone. The list could go on, but the point is that anyone with experience in “family vacation” videos will almost continually spot ways in which the images in Cloverfield are clearly orchestrated to look un-orchestrated.

Not to mention the fact that Hud holds on to the camera at all. Again, like The Blair Witch Project, a line or two of dialogue is meant to provide motive for Hud to keep the tape rolling even when he’s about to get shot or squashed. But it’s simply not convincing, especially as it arrives right about the time I’m thinking, “Why doesn’t he put down the camera and run?” Orchestrated to look un-orchestrated. A dead give-away.

Okay, so that’s my huge complaint. Having said that, I think Cloverfield is a much more effective movie than The Blair Witch Project. For one thing, it is actually creepy, whereas The Blair Witch Project was good for little more than curing insomnia.

I think Cloverfield manages to remain as passable entertainment because of one major element, and that is the creature. It’s creepy. Its movements are creepy. The parasitic things that enjoy a symbiotic relationship with it are creepy. There’s even a cliche “jump” moment toward the end that I must confess sent a slight tingle through me even though I predicted it.

In addition – and those of you who know me and my constant complaint about computer-generated living beings will want to buckle up and hold on, because I am about to admit something – most of the shots involving the creature are utterly convincing. This may be because the camera is jiggling, so aspects of CGI that are normally crippling to its realism are hard to focus on. Indeed, when the camera held still long enough for a solid close-up of the creature, I had my doubts about its tangibility. But I was definitely impressed by how present the creature felt overall.

The live humans are somewhat less convincing, however. Their acting is decent enough, but the script renders them all as units to be killed off instead of as interesting people who are actually identifiable from each other. Even now I am looking at the cast list and do not remember who was whom apart from Michael Stahl-David and T.J. Miller. As relative newcomers to theater screens they did a satisfactory job with the material they were given.

But oh, the material they were given! Run, scream, cry, mutter incoherent dialogue, mutter coherent dialogue that goes against all common sense, run headlong into dangerous places with no actual evidence that the goal is attainable or worth the effort. The first credit in writer Drew Goddard’s portfolio is for “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” which explains a lot.

Well, so, there you have it. Basically, I think the movie poster was more intriguing than the actual film. Heck, even my taping of the Haunted Mansion ride is more gripping. Who could resist a certain glee upon hearing that deep, resonating voice: “Kindly step all the way in, please, and make room for everyone. There’s no – turning – back – now!” Kind of like how you can’t get your eighty minutes back after watching Cloverfield.

My Score: 6