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mini movie reviews

THE KINGDOM

by Jonathan Plumtree
With films such as Syriana and United 93 providing a valid cinematic counterpoint to the current miasma of global terrorism and social anxiety towards Arab/American tension, one really has to ask whether it is appropriate to splice these themes onto a more exploitative genre? Sadly, there is no definitive answer. It is such a complex and ongoing theatre of operations that regardless of approach, there will be much grumbling as to whether such ventures are disrespectful, misinformed or just plain wrong. Jarhead and Three Kings took a slightly satirical and surreal stance that was creatively rewarding but are we ready for the action movie to step up to the issue driven plate? In the case of The Kingdom, a lot can be forgiven due to a strong cast and brisk direction, but there is also a sense of split personality with the story. It tries for political respectability, procedural intelligence and realistically pulse-pounding violence; only it struggles to do them all at once. At an American worker’s compound in Saudi Arabia many lives are lost due to a terrorist bombing. An elite team of FBI forensic experts chomps at the bit to investigate the tragedy after it is learned that a colleague was among the deceased. Agent Fleury (Jamie Foxx) leads the group (Chris Cooper, Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman) into the Kingdom against the wishes of certain government officials, but results start to accumulate when their liaison officer, Col. Faris Al Ghazi (Ashraf Barhom), realizes that they all want the same thing. Unfortunately, Westerners aren’t too popular among the extremist factions in the Middle East and plots ensue to remove the FBI agents from the area… permanently. If you subtract the culture clash dynamics of Americans operating in politically sensitive locations, what we have story- wise is basically a beefed up episode of CSI. Layering on the ‘fight against terror’ trappings almost seems like a bid for relevance. That isn’t to say that some of the overt messages that the film delivers aren’t effective, because there are several scenes that are hard hitting indeed. It is imperative to understand, though, that at the end of the day, this is all about Americans avenging their own and leaving a high body count. Despite this somewhat jingoistic approach, director Peter Berg (Friday Night Lights) tones down the nationalistic bombast about half way through to focus in a bit more on the characters and how they deal with the mess that surrounds them. It is also around this time that the mayhem quotient explodes into a truly memorable final sequence. Although technically an ensemble film, Foxx pours on his leading man charisma to some effect. How anyone can be that suave amidst constant threat of death is a mystery, but he is watchable in a somewhat one–dimensional role. Fleury is a cowboy, and chances are that if he really existed, he would have been killed many times over. What helps proceedings is the official stamp of producer Michael Mann. After setting the gold standard for street shootouts in his magnum opus Heat, Mann has clearly been a valuable resource in creating an almost equally rattling gun battle along the byways and alleys of a truly threatening neighbourhood. On its own, this set piece is a classic, but amidst the machinations and investigations of terror cells and the FBI, the disjointed mood is jarring. What also is jarring is the camera work of cinematographer Mauro Fiore. Gratuitously hand held, the wobbly frame communicates the confusion and immediacy of being under fire, but a steady-cam might have helped the quieter scenes when subtlety should prevail. The ensuing motion sickness provides an appropriate visceral response to the violence, but the reflection suffers with the jitters. Political and moralistic themes of violence begetting violence replace the obviousness of revenge and retaliation to buoy the film above a typical us vs. them mentality. Also, the strong parental influence that informs a child’s behaviour becomes a metaphor for the cyclical nature of both hatred and understanding. These are pensive ingredients for a film that spends a great deal of time blowing things up, but it is a welcome sight for that same film to acknowledge that there really is no easy solution and in all likelihood no solution… period. Cynical? Perhaps. Downbeat? Definitely! Let us be thankful that an action movie has at least tried to address the important issues, regardless of the scattershot results.

DEATH SENTENCE

by A. Dowler
is a Death Wish clone that begins as a surprisingly effective drama about tragedy and loss that quickly shoots itself in the foot, becoming yet another turgid revenge thriller. Kevin Bacon stars as the father of a murdered son who sets out to exact his pound of flesh from the thugs responsible. Soon, this quiet, unassuming family man is summoning forth his inner Travis Bickle (he even adopts a similarly shaved head) and locking and loading in a full-on gang war, at which point director James Wan (Saw) can't help but let loose with severed limbs and exploding chest wounds. What a bloody mess.B.Hooper. Directed by James Wan, runs 110 min.

THE BROTHERS SOLOMAN

by A. Dowler
s a lame, pedestrian comedy that wants you to root for two socially inept men - and makes you loathe the losers instead. Will Arnett and Will Forte star as hyperactive (and virtually interchangeable) brothers whose father (Lee Majors) home-schooled them in the Arctic. Their dad's dying wish is a grandson, so they pay Janine (Kristen Wiig) to let them inseminate her with Solomon sperm. Why she stays in the scheme so long is a mystery; she's astonishingly patient with their antics, which include honing their parenting skills by playing catch with a baby doll. The Wills play the Solomons so one-dimensionally (with creepy smiling galore) that you squirm rather than laugh. Even gags that should be funny go on too long or repeat themselves. Makes the Farrellys look like the Coens. Directed by Bob Odenkirk, runs 91 min.

EL CANTANTE

by Jonathan Plumtree
It would seem that becoming a musical superstar requires not only a healthy dose of talent, but the ability to ingest vast amounts of banned substances and act like a total prat. Not to mince words, but outside the Latin music community, I’m guessing that not too many folks have heard of Hector Lavoe. Apparently he was a key proponent of salsa music in the 1970’s and 80’s, but is his story worthy of recreating for film? Was he a superstar? In his genre he had a rewarding career and an adoring fan base, but apart from a great voice and a way with the ladies, there doesn’t seem to be a great deal to hang a memorable biography on. He liked the drugs, from heroin to cocaine, and he does appear to be a bit of a pillock where the family life is concerned, but the aforementioned rule isn’t a two way street: just because you’re a personal train wreck doesn’t always entitle you to everlasting fame. Born in Puerto Rico, Hector (Marc Anthony) came to New York seeking to better himself. This is a guess because the film doesn’t really divulge much about his motivation or background. Falling in with a band of like–minded musicians headed by trombonist Willie Colón (John Ortiz), the group embraces their influences and develops the genre that is now known as salsa. A ‘sauce’ of sexy rhythms and flamboyant performance, the music led the group of friends to fortune. Along the way, Hector meets Puchi (Jennifer Lopez), a neighborhood girl with a drug dealing family, whom he instantly falls for. As his career hits its stride, they wed and start a family. However, they enjoy to get legless quite frequently, impinging on the relationship’s stability. As all good things must end, Hector implodes his livelihood with merry abandon and his life takes a rather drastic turn when he contracts AIDS from his time on the needle. There is absolutely nothing ‘feel good’ about this project. The script is held together with a flashback device that has us witnessing the key moments of Hector’s life through a contemporary interview with Puchi. Sadly, these key moments are little more than shouty bits where Lopez and Anthony get to model period atrocities while arguing and getting wasted. The story is fragmented and the script lacks any sort of coherence or insight. The saving grace, and the only reason this review didn’t register negative stars, is the musical performance. The interludes when Anthony cuts loose and actually sings are very effective indeed. There is a reason why he is such a memorable performer that all lies in his stage persona. The music is moving and passionate and there are brief glimpses into what might have been a very different movie, if only more care had been taken with the script. The parts without the music seem to be more about Puchi’s character than Hector’s, and whether this is because Lopez is the supposed actor in the family, or because she is a producer on the film, is anyone’s guess. Director Leon Ichaso has assembled nothing more than a series of vignettes, or even less than that: a series of montages. Continual scenes evolve over the soundtrack that contains nothing more than beautiful scenery and gritty urban landscapes with the characters wandering around as if they were refugees from a perfume commercial. The camera work is stylish: from lush black and white, to saturated colour, but there is no continuity and the slash and burn editing has the effect of watching a two hour Michael Bay car chase. The lenses zoom in and out, the focus shifts, and if this were a two minute commercial or trailer, it might be effective. Sadly, the audience will react with tired eyes and that never bodes well. Anthony might be a performer of repute, but his acting skills really need to honed more in order to create a connection. Lopez proves once again that she can pull off brash like nobody’s business, but subtlety eludes her. Nobody else in the cast is given a chance to broaden the scope as this is a two person show. At just under two hours, El Cantante can, at times, be interminable. The concert footage punctuates the dirge with flashes of energy and verve, but that alone cannot salvage the film. A better suggestion might be to buy the soundtrack, or even conduct your own research into Hector Lavoe’s life and music, because there is little to learn here.

THE INVASION

by A. Dowler
flatlines a brilliant premise that's already been turned into two science fiction/suspense classics as Invasion Of The Body Snatchers in 1956 and 1978. The spores from outer space that replace humans with emotionless duplicates are still there, but now they're treated as a disease, and psychiatrist Carol Bennell's kid carries the immunity. So what had been a paranoid thriller of "no place to run, no place to hide" becomes the quest to rescue an imperilled child. The pod people believe human emotion is evil, something this weirdly cold movie doesn't bother to refute. Nicole Kidman, as Bennell, and Daniel Craig (the love interest) perform acceptable movie star acting, and the whole thing is competent enough and mildly tense, but it's as bland as if the pod people had made it themselves. Directed by Oliver Hirschbiegel, runs 90 min.

KLIMT

by John Harkness
gives us the latter life of the Austrian symbolist painter in the style of director Ruiz's great Proust adaptation, Time Regained. It's a symphonic structure of echoing flashbacks, brilliantly staged tableaux and elegant tracking shots. John Malkovich, star of arch Europudding art flicks, gives us Klimt as Portrait Of The Artist As A Resentful Creep. It's too arty by half, though the craft is exquisite. One can luxuriate in the elegant geometry of Ruiz's compositions if one likes that sort of thing. Directed by Raoul Ruiz, runs 97 min.

STARDUST

by Deirdre Swain
may confuse those not familiar with Neil Gaiman's novel, but here goes: Claire Danes, sporting an impressive English accent and no eyebrows, plays Yvaine, a star who falls to earth and finds herself the most popular girl in town. Tristan (Charlie Cox) wants to introduce her to his girlfriend, Captain Shakespeare (Robert De Niro) wants to clothe her in frilly dresses, Prince Septimus (Mark Strong) wants the supremely fugly necklace she's wearing, and witch Lamia (Michelle Pfeiffer) wants to cut out her heart and eat it. Director Matthew Vaughn may not have the visual panache of a Peter Jackson or Guillermo del Toro, but if a film's first purpose is to take you out of yourself and make you forget everyday life for a while, Stardust is a shining success. Dir. Matthew Vaughn, runs 128 min.

YOU KILL ME

by AA_notapplicable
stars Ben Kingsley as an alcoholic mob killer from Buffalo who finds himself shipped to San Francisco and told to get into a 12-step program. So the black-clad Kingsley, a walking exclamation point, finds himself listening to people talk about their problems while trying to get his life together so he can be better at his job. Screenwriters Christopher Marcus and Stephen McFeeley have crafted a slyly clever take on the culture of recovery, and stars Kingsley and Téa Leoni deliver finely detailed character work in the leads; they're smart enough to let us know they're not in on the joke. Directed by John Dahl, runs 94 min.

SUNSHINE

by AA_notapplicable
is a claustrophobic sci-fi thriller that travels inward and outward with equal velocity, jabbing a needle into the vein of our queasy contemporary anxieties about global warming while covering its track marks with astronaut mumbo-jumbo. Propelled by a gloriously improbable yet supremely blockbuster-worthy premise -- eight astronauts strap themselves to a nuclear bomb and fly it into our dying sun like some sort of cosmic defibrillator -- Sunshine blasts you with the kind of retina-searing visuals that'll have you seeing spots. It gets a little lost in space in its struggle to deliver a conclusion that eclipses the bold set-up, but in the fashion of a true space opera, it is both perplexing and grandly poetic. Directed by Danny Boyle, runs 107 min.

HOT ROD

by AA_notapplicable
is a stupid stuntman comedy that dares to ask serious questions. What would you sacrifice to save a loved one? How far can you jump on a moped? And what's the name of that song about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer? Or maybe it's a serious stuntman comedy that asks stupid questions. Either way, half the time it's absurdly, gloriously funny (the punch-dancing homage to Footloose, for example). The other half falls on its Tom Selleck-moustached face about as often as amateur daredevil Rod Kimble (Andy Samberg), and with the same degree of reckless abandon, which is worthy of appreciation if not laughter. But by the time Rod tries to jump 15 school buses to raise 50K for his abusive stepdad's heart transplant so Rod can then kick his ass (don't ask), you'll be smiling as goofily as star Samberg. Directed by Akiva Schaffer, runs 88 min. PG13

BRATZ: THE MOVIE

by AA_notapplicable
finds the kiddie junior-fashionista Bratz dolls coming out of the box and onto the live-action big screen. Four best friends -- hair curled, lip gloss a-shine and accessorized up the proverbial wazoo -- are devastated to find that high school is full of horrible cliques that threaten their friendship. Director McNamara delivers a shiny, sparkly vision of teenage girl life, complete with a heavy-handed pro-consumer message. It's all overly earnest -- unless you're eight, or wish you were. Directed by Sean McNamara, runs 95 min. - Hannah Guy

THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM

by John Harkness
is the third and, I think, final film in the Bourne trilogy, but nobody thought there'd be a fourth Die Hard either. Matt Damon's lethal amnesiac, Jason Bourne, comes back to the States to find out who he is and why the CIA keeps trying to kill him. The rest is details. As usual, the series makes superb use of Damon's recessiveness as an actor, and Greengrass directs as if he were making a documentary designed to reinforce urban paranoia. Somebody's always watching, and all we can do is hope to stay out of the crossfire. Directed by Paul Greengrass, runs 111 min.

BECOMING JANE

by Glenn Sumi
is a beautifully costumed insult to the writer's imagination. It argues that Jane Austen (Anne Hathaway) needed to find love, then lose it to pen her Regency-era chick lit novels. She's got suitors aplenty, but the object of her affections is Tom Lefroy (James McAvoy), an Irish lawyer from London who lives a dissolute life until he's exiled to the provinces by his stern, judgmental uncle. Fun with Tom and Jane means discussing passages from Tom Jones, which obviously got the hormones raging back in the 18th century. The script is both patronizing in its obviousness and thin in its character development. McAvoy delivers yet another flawed character with intensity, but Julie Walters and James Cromwell are wasted as Jane's parents. As for Miss Alabaster Skin, Hathaway, despite that literary name, seems out of place, as if she's just come from a Malabar fire sale. Directed by Julian Jarrold, runs 120 min.

DADDY DAY CAMP

by AA_notapplicable
is Cuba Gooding Jr.' s latest post-Oscar mistake. Filling in for Eddie Murphy in the Daddy Day Care sequel, Gooding plays a stubborn pop trying to rebuild his old summer camp. But all his nervous energy and animated mugging can't relieve the tediousness. The kids here are so charmless, it seems as though first-time director Savage (Kevin from TV's The Wonder Years) is working through some unresolved child-actor issues. Adding to the mess is a layer cake of painful clichés: crotch kicks, fart jokes galore, timeless classics like pies in the face and no fewer than three montages in a sad Ernest Goes To Camp/Addams Family Values retread. As in most such movies, the best part is the villain, a code-orange asshole played with relish by Lochlyn Munro. Directed by Fred Savage, runs 93 min. - Jason Richards

PARIS, JE T'AIME

by Glenn Sumi
is a better-than-expected anthology film featuring shorts by 20-odd diverse directors, each set in a different Paris neighbourhood. They're five minutes or so long, which means the weak ones are over quickly and the strong ones linger on. There's a refreshing mix of genres -- not just romance, but also horror (Wes Craven is on board), comedy, dark satire and one uncategorizable parody of bad mime. Everyone will have their favourites, but Alexander Payne's concluding short, by turns stomach-hurtingly funny and humane, wraps up many of the anthology's threads with panache. Subtitled. Directed by various, runs 116 min.

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