Rated R
103 minutes

**

When the Powers That Be suggested John Carpenter’s “The Thing (1982)” for the next big remake, there must have been some folks in the room who understood that there is no substitute for the horror masterpiece. Yet, they couldn’t leave well enough alone (have you met Hollywood?). Instead, they decided to disguise their remake as a prequel. I suppose one could argue that “The Thing (1982)” began in the middle of a larger story, after the creature had already decimated one camp. But the Thing has one modus aperandi: impersonate the inhabitants of Antarctic research camps and kill them off one by one. All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again. In essence, “The Thing (2011)” is a big old pile of redundancy, wrapped up in flames and topped with a Ripley-shaped bow.

Predictably, the film begins with a sweeping overhead shot of barren tundra. Amid the vast, white landscape, a teeny tiny vehicle trucks along to nowhere. And it is right in the middle of nowhere that the Norwegian scientists inside the vehicle locate the source of a mysterious beacon. Their subsequent discovery of a spaceship and the ice-encased body of the ship’s pilot is a surprise only to the characters in the movie. Lead asshole scientist, Dr. Sander Halvorson, (apparently deeming his large Norwegian team insufficient) quickly brings in some Americans to help him score that Nobel. One of them is Kate Lloyd (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), a shrewd paleontologist who wears the hell out of a form-fitting sweater. She’s wary from the get-go, and suggests that they don’t rush into anything. But Dr. Halvorson meets her warnings with condescension and misogyny, explaining that he didn’t bring her there to do the thinky kind of science. After long, the Thing escapes the melting ice block. Thus, kicking off the murderous, shape-shifting rampage we’ve all come to expect.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s an exciting rampage. Even though the plot is a foregone conclusion, the Thing is a really cool monster that mutilates and fuses with people in all kinds of fun ways. It’s also nice to see some ladies around the lab. Winstead is a substantial, engaging heroine who looks quite natural holding a flamethrower. When it seemed like they were about to launch into a copycat blood test scene, they took an original left turn, coming up with another way to tell who was human and who wasn’t. Van Heijningen also does a great job maintaining the tone of “The Thing (1982)” and his look is very reminiscent of that film.

While he mostly maintains creature continuity, there is one major discrepancy in the way it behaves. In Carpenter’s film, there was the impression that shape shifting was something of a defense mechanism for an alien in unfamiliar surroundings. At times, it even seemed a little frightened. Van Heijningen’s Thing is all predator, taking a balls-out approach, rather than trying to stay under the radar.

Not knowing exactly where or who the Thing was really contributed to the overwhelming sense of suspicion and dread that made the 1982 release so scary. “Show, don’t tell” is a tried and true rule for movies, unless you’re dealing with the horror genre. We saw tendrils and claws as the creature transformed from one guy into another, but we had no idea what it looked like when it wasn’t stalking research scientists. “The Thing (2011)” is all about showing. As soon as van Heijningen shines a spotlight on the creature, the unspeakable horror the audience was imagining fades into the best mass of slime, teeth and claws the effects guy could muster. By the end, we have a pretty clear picture of what the population of Planet Thing looks like. It’s still kind of scary. But, at the end of the day, it’s just another monster with a vagina dentata for a mouth.

Some might say that comparing and contrasting “The Thing (2011)” with “The Thing (1982)” is unfair. But hey, if you want your film to be judged as a standalone piece, don’t do a remake. If you want people to believe that it’s a prequel, not a remake, certainly don’t give it the same goddamn title. Maybe don’t rehash the plot so much either. Sure it’s the same creature, and it stands to reason that it would behave the same way in a different camp. But if that’s the case, why did we have to see it again? Any intelligent person who saw the 1982 film can fill in the blanks that the Norwegian camp left. Maybe we wouldn’t have pictured a beautiful American paleontologist, or that specific collection of guff, bearded men. But we got the idea. As thrilling and faithful as the new story is, it still feels so tremendously superfluous.

The biggest misstep in “The Thing (2011)” is that they couldn’t resist giving us more of everything: more firepower (and actual fire), more dismembered bits of the Thing skittering around and infecting people, more infected people at one time and more of the Thing itself. We see inside the Thing as it’s mid-transformation and you’d better believe we get to see the inside of that spaceship as well as an idea of how it works.

“The Thing (2011)” isn’t exactly terrible. Fans of the original should see it, if only to revisit that universe from a more James Cameron-esque angle. But it is, by no means, an essential addendum to what is now canon. Ultimately, if you hate surprises and mystery, or love to smugly point out ironic foreshadowing, then this is the movie for you.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

October 14, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2011
Unrated
83 minutes

***

In the late 90s, robot death matches became a national sport. Geeky dads and engineering students worked furiously in their garages to build machines, designed to do one thing: destroy other robots. When “Robot Wars” went off the air, our metal friends thought their long nightmare was over. But it turns out it was just passed on to the next generation. Joey Dauod’s documentary, “Bots High,” follows three teams of high school students in Florida, as they prepare their creations for the national championship.

For the egghead kids with designs on attending M.I.T., there isn’t much in the way of traditional extracurricular activities to compliment their skill set. Fortunately, several schools around the country have started offering a sort of robotics club, with a robot battle as the end game. It’s a great way for them to experience a practical application for the math and science they’ve learned, as well as get to know other, like-minded teens. Besides, a geek is a lot more daunting when they have a killer machine under their command.

“Bots High” introduces us to such contenders as Fluffy II (whose predecessor self-destructed), Famous Last Words, El Cholo and Lil’ Kanye. Their creators are some astoundingly smart teenagers, including several very capable girls. Now, I’m not surprised that the ladies are up to the task, but apparently the engineering field has a huge gender gap. Only 16% of engineering students are women. Here’s hoping this film, and the increasing prevalence of robotics clubs, will inspire more girls to put down the Gucci and pick up a wrench.

While it’s not going to win any cinematography awards, Dauod’s film is a lot of fun. Interspersed interview segments and stock music lend the film a reality show quality. But it has all the elements necessary to weave a compelling story. It has suspense, as one of the teams just can’t seem to apply themselves to the task, working up until literally the last minute at the competition to get their robot up and running. There’s a bit of romance, as the guys and gals flirt in the workroom. One particularly opportunistic fellow is great at working in comforting hugs when the girls experience setbacks. There is camaraderie as the teams band together to help each other with mechanical issues mid-competition. And, of course, there is plenty of robot carnage.

I don’t know whether to look forward to a future in which these kids are creating machines that will protect us and improve our quality of life, or fear their potential to bring about the robot apocalypse. Regardless, I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them build robots that kick ass.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

October 14, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2011
Rated R
107 minutes

***

Does anyone still think clowns are funny? I never understood the appeal. A traditional clown is, well, lame. Shakes the Clown is the only one who has ever made me laugh, and that’s more to do with the hilarity of alcoholism than the nature of his vocation. What’s so funny about big shoes (dangerous) or a cramming a lot of people into a small car (diseases)?

Take away their sanity and hand them a weapon, however, and now we’re on to something. From the Joker to Killer Klowns to Pennywise and back to the Joker, the Demented Clown has a proud cinematic tradition. Director, Álex de la Iglesia (“Gordos”), adds to the illustrious list with the unhinged clowns of “The Last Circus.” While his film has its share of narrative issues, Javier and Sergio are decent examples of clowns to be reckoned with.

“The Last Circus” opens in 1937 Madrid, in the midst of the Spanish Civil War, as the rebel militia compulsorily recruits a group of circus performers mid-show. There is no time to change clothes and besides, “a clown with a machete will scare the shit out of [the enemy]”, they wager. The harebrained scheme works and, before long, a Happy Clown is the last one standing, splattered with the blood of the Nationals. It’s an intense, gory, and hilarious scene, shot with plenty of Tarantino-esque slow motion. Barnum and Bailey take note: Hand-to-hand combat is the most entertaining clown context.

Despite the battle’s outcome, the rebels do not win the war, and the Happy Clown is sent to a prison labor camp where he is eventually executed. Before he dies, he tells his son, Javier, that should he follow in his father’s footsteps, he must be a Sad Clown; for his life has been nothing but tragedy. Oh, and while he’s at it, a little paternal avenging would be nice. Thirty-five years later, as the Franco era winds down, the boy has become a sad, humorless fat man who, despite his setbacks, is still determined to join the family business.

He finds work under a sociopath, a Happy Clown named Sergio, and develops an instant attraction to Sergio’s girlfriend, Natalia, an acrobat with some mental issues of her own. Javier is the only one brave enough to stand up to Sergio and, when he tries to rescue Natalia from her abusive relationship, she claims to be grateful. But, to Javier’s frustration, she always ends up back in the arms of her assailant. One can’t resolve such a cuckoo love triangle without a little bloodshed. Thus, the film devolves into an extensive battle of Sad Clown vs. Happy Clown in a contest of who is more fucked up.

Despite all the lovely clown carnage, I’m still not sure whether I liked “The Last Circus.” Obviously, we can’t expect a story like this to be pragmatic, but as the rivalry between Sergio and Javier escalates, some of the things that happen are downright preposterous. It’s hard to imagine the circumstances that would lead an adult human to becoming Franco’s lead hunting dog, but Javier’s boneheaded notions get him there.

Natalia is as troublesome as she is beautiful and it’s not entirely clear why Javier goes to such extremes for her. As they carry on their “affair,” she consistently places them in situations in which Sergio could easily find them out. It’s also unclear whether Natalia is trying to set Javier up or she really is that stupid. She’s either a femme fatale or the true villain of the film. Either way, she’s kind of shitty.

So as far as likeable characters, that leaves Sergio, the Happy Clown who knocks his girlfriend unconscious at a dinner party and then commands everyone to order dessert. His violent streak notwithstanding, he’s the most talented of the three. Plus, since his girlfriend is actually trying to cheat on him every chance she gets, his ire is somewhat justified. But he’s also one mean son of a bitch and he certainly takes his wrath too far.

As Sergio and Javier’s dealings become more grotesque, so do their faces, until they’re basically two Batman villains minus the common enemy. But “The Last Circus” is at its best when its clowns rampage murderously. Fortunately, there’s rampaging aplenty and it culminates in an exciting resolution involving circus powers. The film could be shorter and slightly less pretentious and the characters could be more empathetic, but as far as Demented Clown movies go, “The Last Circus” is a fine specimen.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

August 19, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2011
Rated R
92 minutes

***

Let’s face it. Since the early Aughts, horror villains have been, by and large, drags. Even Founding Fathers of supernatural serial killing, like Freddy and Michael Myers, experienced a 21st century overhaul; a re-invention which sucked all the light-heartedness out of their respective franchises. Meanwhile, the “Saws” and “Hostels” gave us torture porn, which satisfies the visceral bloodlust but isn’t exactly a laugh riot. It’s about time somebody made the horror franchise fun again. And there are few things more fun than the wacky Rube Goldberg ways of Death’s Design. In 3D!

After the entertaining – but ultimately flat – false series-ender, “The Final Destination”, the careless Reaper returns to clean up yet another of his botched attempts at killing attractive youths. This time, it’s the dynamic corporate team of a paper company (Hey! That would make a good sitcom!), who thwart Death’s Design only to learn that he means to finish the job in a variety of gloriously gruesome and convoluted ways. (I hope this is just Death’s way of keeping things interesting. Otherwise, he might want to consider another line of work.)

Anyone new to the series will quickly get up-to-speed during the opening credits as a long stream of deadly objects hurl toward them. This is also where rookie director, Steven Quale, shows off a little, showcasing the pitch-perfect 3D gore effects that are to come. Horror is the perfect genre for 3D. After a brief introduction to the characters, they get right to the mass destruction. On their way to a corporate retreat, Sam (Nicholas D’Agosto) has a vision of the bridge they’re stopped on, collapsing and killing everyone. This is the world’s most terrible bridge, where one crack in the wrong place coupled with a gust of wind, sends the entire thing crumbling into the water. It’s a very impressive, very awesome disaster scene that rivals the groundbreaking choreography of the freeway pileup in “Final Destination 2”. Sam is able to convince seven of his co-workers to get off the bus and they race to safety as the ground disintegrates beneath them.

The survivors consider themselves lucky until, at the funeral of their fallen colleagues, a sinister, whistling coroner named Bludworth (series regular, Tony Todd), warns them that Death doesn’t like to be cheated and he will come back to set things right. Despite all the ominous whistling, they are nonetheless surprised when, sure enough, Death picks them off in the order in which they were meant to die.

By now, audiences know what to expect: Elaborate death scenes involving faulty wiring, loose screws and spilled water that eventually lead to an unexpected freak accident. The “OWWH!” moment is what we’ve come to see, but screenwriter, Eric Heisserer does us one better. He understands that the reason the first two films worked so much better than 3 and 4 were because of the fleshed out characters. It’s fun to see all the different ways a person can be impaled, but if the people in peril are just archetypes, it’s a slog to get through the remaining scenes. The protagonists here aren’t exactly Rosemary Woodhouses, but they’re whole people with dreams and heartbreaks. We can feel their grief and fear and we genuinely want them to live. Final Destination’s first foray into 3D was one death scene after another. Five lets us get to know our characters a little bit, and then kills them off in 3D.

The fifth installment also introduces a new potential solution for thwarting Death’s Design (They didn’t say “Death’s Design” nearly enough this time around, so I have to make up for it here). This isn’t a personal vendetta for Death. He just needs to keep his books straight. So old Bludworth suggests that if one of these doomed souls takes the life of a person who wasn’t meant to die, they can have their years and everything will be square. It adds an interesting bit of extra tension as some consider testing the theory.

It’s not a perfect film. The first post-bridge collapse death is so outlandish that even the characters remark on its improbability. But, things get much better once Death gets back to his signature work of impalements and defenestrations. If this is indeed the final “Final Destination”, it’s a nice clean end to the series. But the freak accident premise has endless possibilities. They could also delve more into the supernatural aspect it, and give us an explanation as to who would bother to give someone a glimpse into their future if their future was inevitable (and why). They can get as existential as they want or take it back to bloody basics. All I know is I will be in line every time. Even if these movies always make me want to go home and tighten every screw and bolt in my house.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

August 13, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2011
Rated PG-13
117 minutes

***

I was all set to hate “Crazy, Stupid, Love.”. For starters, the title is terrible. Not only is it a punctuation nightmare, but it also encapsulates everything that’s annoying about romantic comedies. Love, man. It’s so craaaazy! And stupid! The last thing we need is another movie about Metrosexual Henry Higgins teaching some nerd how to bag babes. The poster recycles that tired nod to “The Graduate” with an anxious man beneath the arch of a sexy lady leg. Along the bottom is a series of headshots of the other actors staring off into the middle distance and smiling knowingly about how crazy and stupid love is. Well, I hope that whoever was in charge of marketing gets a stern talking-to, because “Crazy, Stupid, Love.”, while possessing a few slightly unbelievable moments of coincidence, is not really stupid at all. Crazy!

Cal (Steve Carell) is utterly shattered when his adulterous wife (Julianne Moore) drops the Divorce bomb on him. By the time Playboy Extraordinaire, Jacob (Ryan Gosling), takes him under his wing, Cal has hit a lot of new lows including repeating his tale of woe to everyone within earshot at the local singles bar. After a refreshingly amusing variation on the obligatory training and makeover montage (peppered with much comedic slapping), Cal is ready to field test his new social skills. Predictably, he does everything wrong on his first night out. Nonetheless, it somehow works on a jaded wild woman (Marisa Tomei) who gets off on his extreme honesty. With Cal’s newfound confidence, the Dud-erpillar is re-born as a Stud-erfly. Once all that is out of the way, the film is finally free to become the drollest and distinctly mature mainstream romantic comedy in years.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that they loaded the cast with talent. Ryan Gosling flexes his impressive comedic muscles, breathing new life into the lonely lothario persona. Despite chiseled abs and a curious accent, Gosling’s Jacob is more Barney Stinson than the Situation, with a sensitive soul lurking just below the surface of his exfoliated skin. It’s not until he meets Hannah (Emma Stone), the only woman to ever deconstruct his methods, that he considers dropping the designer act and being himself full time.

Carrell’s abused puppy face isn’t anything new, but he’s really quite good at it. Julianne Moore effortlessly packs both humor and pathos into every line. Stone is almost supernaturally beguiling as a misguided pragmatist just out of law school. Tomei plays her part a little broad, but I’m assuming it’s because she didn’t read the rest of the script and based her performance off the tone that the title implies.

Even the youngest actors hold their own in a cute, if over-explored, love triangle subplot. Cal’s thirteen-year-old son, Robbie (Jonah Bobo) is in love with the four-years-older babysitter, Jessica (Analeigh Tipton). Meanwhile, Jessica crushes on an oblivious Cal, even before his wardrobe overhaul. Bobo expertly wields the articulation and mannerisms of precociously insightful youth. Though several years out of high school, Tipton manages to squeeze her adult self back into that awkward period when innocence and sexuality collide. Not bad for a former “America’s Next Top Model” contestant.

The clever script boasts plenty of surprises including an adorably self-aware seduction scene between Hannah and Jacob and just why it is that Jacob volunteers to help Cal in the first place. But the biggest revelation of all is that the film never goes where you expect it to, with Cal using his newfound self-esteem to trick his wife into falling for him again. In a time when comedies are mostly about outrageous one-upmanship, “Crazy, Stupid, Love.” just wants to tell a story about people falling in and out of love. Though it contains idealistic characters, the script (by Dan Fogelman, “Cars”) is realistic in its execution. No one is infallible and no one (apart from a few peripheral characters) is an archetype. Young boys do think in absolutes. Maybe Cal and Emily don’t belong together, but you can definitely see why Cal might think there’s something worth salvaging. There are also real consequences to Cal’s period of sluttery, including a disastrous encounter with Tomei’s character, who was expecting to be more than just a confidence bone.

Despite all the surprises, it’s not a perfect film. They throw the kind of yucky phrase, “soul mate,” around a bit too much for my taste. But the biggest narrative misstep is with the kids’ storyline. Hannah disappears for a very large chunk of the film (presumably, she’s in Bar Exam hell), to make way for scene after scene of Robbie’s relentless pursuit of Jessica as she pines for Cal. Fogelman was probably trying to drive home the juxtaposition of love in its infancy (Cal and Emily met in high school) to love after it’s been corrupted by life. But Robbie’s unyielding romanticism and know-it-all confidence gets a bit tiring. It’s nothing out of character for a lovesick thirteen-year-old boy. We just don’t need to see it every time it happens.

The film starts to lose focus after a big scene that ties all the characters together and there are far too many endings for a movie that doesn’t actually resolve anything. Like most comedies that run longer than 90 minutes, they could have trimmed a lot of fat.

Still, not bad for a Rom-Com. Not bad at all.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com. 

July 29, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2011 FANTASIA FEST SELECTION!
Rated R
106 minutes

****

Forget those marmot-wielding guys in black from “The Big Lebowski.” Woodrow (Evan Glodell) and Aiden (Tyler Dawson) of “Bellflower” are the denotative Nihilists. Devoid of responsibilities, their days involve imbibing a constant stream of alcohol as they prepare for a “Mad Max” style post-apocalypse and… that’s about it. But their lives get a lot more eventful when Woodrow meets Milly (Jessie Wiseman), an equally unencumbered wild girl. They fall for each other like a ton of bricks but as the opening rapid fire backwards montage of brutality suggests, there’s no fairy tale ending for these crazy kids. What are on the menu, however, are large quantities of fire, one badass car and a riveting and wholly unique depiction of the dark places that love can take us. You may think you already know what heartbreak looks like, but trust me when I say you’ve never seen anything like Woodrow’s broken heart.

When we first meet Woodrow and Aiden, they’re doing what they probably do every day: build gadgets that serve no real purpose in civilization as it stands, but that would immediately rocket them to the top of the food chain if society crumbles. Their crowning achievement is a muscle car called, “Medusa.” This thing is Grace Jones on wheels: simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. But she won’t be complete until they can figure out a way to make her shoot flames. Only then will they truly be ready to rule like Lord Humungus.

Their end-of-days preparations are stymied when Woodrow meets Milly. Immediately smitten, he asks her out after she beats him in a cricket-eating contest at their local ironic hipster dive bar. Their first date turns into a week-long road trip to Texas, during which they get into a fight with a redneck, trade Woodrow’s tricked out car (complete with a whiskey dispenser in the dash) for a motorcycle, return to a raging party at Milly’s house, fight another guy and, finally, seal the deal with Aiden passed out a few feet away. Milly and Woodrow are balls out in love, but they’re clearly not headed for 2.5 kids in the suburbs.

Instead, the narrative beautifully smash-cuts straight to the end of the relationship, when, with just a few snippy exchanges, it’s clear that they have been living with deep-seated resentment for quite some time. Woodrow’s suspicions are confirmed when he walks in on Milly viciously fulfilling her first-date prediction that she would break his heart. Utterly distraught, Woodrow takes off on his motorcycle and soon, the rest of him is broken as well.

What happens next is as open to interpretation as it is horrifying. I don’t want to get into specifics but I doubt I could spoil the movie if I tried. Let’s just say that Aiden and Woodrow get their apocalypse, but it’s nothing like they, or you, could have imagined. I’m a recovering nail biter, and by the closing credits, I had fallen off the wagon pretty hard.

“Bellflower” isn’t just about the demise of young love. It also serves as shorthand for those kids currently experiencing early-adulthood limbo. They’re the Slacker Generation on alcoholic energy drinks. Their mechanical proficiency and eloquence suggest that they’re extremely gifted, if not formally educated. So what’s with the underachievement? There was probably never much hope for Milly. When I first saw her house, I actually thought she was a squatter. (Though, seeing as how she continuously stiffs her roommate on rent, she’s not far from it.) But with their skills, Woodrow and Aiden should be on “Mythbusters” instead of fucking around with blowtorches in between house parties. Perhaps it’s not entirely their fault. Assuming they did go to college, they graduated in the middle of a recession. Maybe they looked for work for a long time, but eventually gave up and got used to cashing their unemployment checks, draining their trust funds or however it is they procure their mad money. Yet, they share a few things with the preceding generation, like the continuous pop-culture laden dialog, the boozy escapades of misspent youth and doing things just for the irony and experience of it. I suppose you could call the film an updated “Reality Bites,” only without the adorably optimistic notion that, somehow, things will turn out all right.

The film doesn’t pull any punches from a technical standpoint, either. Joel Hodge’s cinematography lends a frenetic quality to the look of the film, and the omnipresent Hipstamatic filter often makes Bellflower Avenue resemble the wasteland that Aiden and Woodrow long to dominate.

Also noteworthy is Tyler Dawson’s performance as Woodrow’s fiercely loyal best friend, Aiden. Early on, it seems as though Aiden’s purpose is nothing more than comic relief. But when the shit hits the fan, his true character shines through, and Dawson handles it beautifully.

We can certainly credit some of “Bellflower’s” success to its basis in reality. Not only did Evan Glodell write, direct and star, he also built all the gadgets in the film, including the car and the camera used to capture it all. Normally, when someone spreads himself so thin on a film, some aspects will suffer for it. But Glodell doesn’t miss a beat. Perhaps it’s because the material is deeply personal. At a post-screening Q&A, Glodell confessed that he wrote “Bellflower” as purgation after ending a destructive relationship. That certainly explains the ultraviolence in the film. Let’s just hope the catharsis worked.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com. 

July 22, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2011
Unrated
93 minutes

**

Most everyone has had a horrible boss at one time or another. It’s frustrating while you’re at work and funny when you’re removed from it, so a movie like “Horrible Bosses” should have written itself. That’s certainly why we would go to see a movie called “Horrible Bosses.” Instead, guys who penned such illustrious sitcoms as “Becker” and “Shit My Dad Says” wrote it, with help from the kid from “Freaks and Geeks.” Nevertheless, they did a terrible job.

Jason Bateman plays Nick, a salesman who is gunning for a promotion. Unfortunately for him, his boss is Kevin Spacey from “Swimming with Sharks” and what the film calls a “TOTAL FUCKING ASSHOLE.” Jason Sudeikis is Kurt, an accountant for a chemical company who also wouldn’t mind a promotion. His future is actually bright, until his grandfatherly boss (Donald Sutherland) dies seconds after proclaiming Kurt the heir apparent. Unfortunately for Kurt, there were no witnesses to this decree and his new boss is Sutherland’s “DIPSHIT COKEHEAD SON.” Charlie Day’s Dale is a kind-hearted spazz who just wants to get through his day as a dental hygienist without being sexually harassed by his boss, a sex-addicted “EVIL CRAZY BITCH.” (Predictably, his friends don’t see it as a problem because DUDE SHE’S SO HOT!!! Hilarious.)

The biggest problem with this premise is that it drags the tone all over the place. We are definitely meant to relate to these average Joes. We all work hard and are under-appreciated. We’ve been passed up for that promotion. We’ve seen our bosses exercise dubious judgment. We’ve been the recipients of an off-color joke or two in the workplace. Yet, it’s almost as if the writers have only heard about these things, not experienced them first hand. “Horrible Bosses” is the interpretation of a real workplace dilemma by people who have only ever worked in the innately over-the-top office called Hollywood. The bosses in this film aren’t just horrible; they’re almost supernaturally evil.

Spacey’s Dave Harken uses a realistically dismissive line like “We’re all on the same team,” to explain to Nick why he’s just given himself Nick’s promotion; but he follows it up with, “You’re my bitch. I own you.” A man with this much ego would never say something so obvious and direct because he’s already made his point with the subtler, cutting excuse that some are more equal than others. Bobby Pellit’s (Colin Farrell) threats to fire all the fat people and dump chemicals into the drinking water would never fly because he’s a walking law suit in an office full of disgruntled employees. The nymphomaniacal Dr. Julia Harris (Jennifer Aniston), is the most ridiculous of the three. If she were really as relentlessly, unquenchably horny as we are meant to believe, she would not wait around for a little mouse like Dale (Charlie Day) to satisfy her. She would fuck literally the next person she found and it would be all the same to her. I just can’t suspend my disbelief enough to go along with the premise that her desire to have sex, specifically with Dale, would consume her every waking moment and drive her to concoct elaborate schemes to make it happen.

The outlandish bosses aren’t even the most cockamamie plot point. I understand why the writers would go to great pains to explain why quitting isn’t an option; not many people would see a movie called, “Horrible Previous Employers,” but instead of using their over-educated brains to come up with a way to get their bosses fired, our hapless crew instead decides that they must be killed. Killed. Yes, their bosses are technically evil, but we regular folk don’t just kill people. It’s the whole reason why that hypothetical question about going back in time to kill baby Hitler is even a QUESTION at all. The characters cite similarly themed films, “Strangers on a Train” and “Throw Momma from the Train” when they discuss the plot to take care of each other’s problems. But the difference is that the characters in those films are as insane as the people they’re trying to murder. Nick, Kurt and Dale are shortsighted buffoons with no common sense, but they’re not crazy.

Another difference is that the characters in those influential films were one-of-a-kind, memorable personalities. We’ve seen almost every single character in “Horrible Bosses” before. In most cases, they were played by the very same actors. Jason Bateman is pretty much Michael Bluth from “Arrested Development”, minus the delightful eccentrics to play off of. Jason Sudeikis is the same lecherous dork from “Hall Pass” with a higher success rate for booty snatching. Charlie Day does the same yell-acting that I’ve seen right before the end credits of every “Always Sunny in Philadelphia” episode that precedes something I actually want to watch on FX. I was bored for them, when I wasn’t too busy being bored myself. Also, there aren’t any trains at all in “Horrible Bosses.”

Jennifer Aniston is the biggest question mark in this debacle. In the past, she’s proven herself to be a competent comedic actress. In her better roles, she’s managed to completely shed her distracting movie star quality, which is something that a Julia or a Sandra could never do. She still churns out plenty of crap, but she doesn’t usually demean herself in the process. Playing a sexually confident woman should be empowering, but instead she’s labeled as an “EVIL CRAZY BITCH” (because whenever there’s something wrong with a woman, it’s because she’s “crazy”). I’m not advocating the idea that a woman can’t be capable of sexual harassment, but there is little difference between the forward things she says to Dale and the lecherous asides uttered by Kurt. It’s not supposed to be creepy when Kurt says, “I’m going to go see that girl about her vagina,” but it’s crossing the line when Dr. Harris talks about her own vagina to Dale. Granted, this whole argument is rendered moot when you consider the fact that people like Kurt exist while people like Dr. Harris do not.

I have to give credit to a couple of funny gags peppered throughout, but the laugh-out-loud moments are few and far between. I don’t even want to list them, because if you end up seeing the film (likely, considering the cast), you’ll have nothing to look forward to. It’s mostly a lot of tired bits (like the now classic argument about whom among them is more prison rape-able) and oh-no-he-didn’t moments. The world was a better place before people were obsessed with making this year’s “The Hangover” (especially you, Guys who made “The Hangover”).

Originally published on FilmThreat.com.

July 8, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2011
Unrated
89 minutes

****

There is a hell of a lot going on in “Conan O’Brien Can’t Stop.” It is essentially a complete portrait of a man. We’ve seen profile films before, but they usually just focus on the performance side of the subject. Rodman Flender’s film goes so much deeper, giving us an all-access pass into Conan’s brain. It’s a fascinating, scary and, of course, hilarious place. This is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve but protects it with a thin candy shell of biting humor. By the end, we really know him. Trouble is, once you really get to know people, you might not like them as much.

“Conan O’Brien Can’t Stop” has a lot in common with “Don’t Look Back” (1967), the documentary that revealed Bob Dylan as a brilliant prick. Though Flender has a long history with Conan, he didn’t impose any discernible bias in editing. He just turned the camera on and let the man reveal himself. This approach wouldn’t work for everyone. But when the subject is a firecracker like Conan, it’s practically the only way.

The film catches up with Conan soon after he receives his pink slip from NBC. As part of a tidy severance package, he is forbidden to appear on television for six months following his termination. Conan agrees to the terms but breaks out into a cold sweat at the thought of sitting on his ass for that long. So he immediately hatches a plan to launch a tour. He’ll bring a live show across the continent to repay all the loyal fans of Team Coco. At least, that’s the motivation he cites. But soon, it becomes clear that there is a secondary reason for going on the road. Simply put, Conan is addicted to performing. He absolutely needs his nightly dose of audience validation. It’s not clear what would happen if he went too long without it but something tells me we don’t want to find out. If he’s not playing to a studio or theatre audience, he’s going for laughs in the office, writer’s room, hotel suite, airport runway or street corner. One of the numbers in his stage show is a cover of Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” with the altered lyrics, “I can’t wait to get my own show again.” He’s anticipating the next fix when the proverbial needle is still in his arm. It’s a sickness (That’s his word, by the way). Conan O’Brien literally can’t stop going for the laugh.

Comedy is a simple word with a complex definition. For the Dane Cooks and Carlos Mencias of the world, it is just entertainment. For others, including Conan, it’s a lot closer to art. Though I’ve never been a fan of the talk show format, I’ve always respected what Conan does with it. He’s infiltrating a very mainstream form of entertainment, injecting the classic dick-and-fart-joke style with a cocktail of cerebral subversion. I’m not sure that everyone who watches his show gets that. I don’t mean to sound pretentious. A lot of his fans are very intelligent, perceptive people. But some of them are folks who don’t want to think too much about the things that make them laugh. It’s because of his ability to straddle highbrow and lowbrow comedy that he’s earned so many rabidly loyal fans from all walks of life.

He assures the camera that it’s not that he’s unappreciative. It’s not that he feels entitled. But there are times when he seems unappreciative and there are times when he acts entitled. He has several diva moments throughout the film. In one, he threatens to fire his long-suffering assistant when his take-out order is messed up. Even though she wasn’t even the one who made the mistake, he uses it as cautionary tale for not following instructions. “If you were an airline pilot, people would be dead right now,” he tells her. At one point, he compares himself to Anne Frank. He’s barely joking. Later, he admits that he’s “hard on [himself] and it bleeds onto other people.” So at least he’s not without perspective. He knows when he’s being an asshole, but he just can’t help himself.

The title doesn’t just allude to the tour, but to Conan’s general inability to turn himself off. He complains of being exhausted but schedules extra performances on his days off. He whines that everyone wants a piece of him, but he never says no to the fans on the street or the endless parade of celebrities and VIPs who invade his suite after every show. He worries that he will lose his voice, but he never stops babbling and joking. Sometimes the jokes get a little mean. During a meeting, he decrees that his staff must speak to him using a banana as a phone. All they want to do is finish the meeting, but, eventfully, they comply. You probably didn’t realize that “30 Rock’s” Jack McBrayer was even capable of frowning but it’s all he does when Conan mercilessly mocks him in a redneck voice and improvises a tune called “You Stupid Hick” for a room full of people.

Conan isn’t just a brilliant dick, though. He’s also a really nice guy who is very angry about getting screwed over by a network to whom he gave 22 years of his life. The tour is his much-needed rebound. He exorcises a hell of a lot of demons on that stage. Despite being run ragged from the show and the schmoozing, he still goes balls to the wall every night for his audience. He never brings any of his bitterness, weariness or baggage to the stage. He never lets his fans see how exhausted he is by their demands for autographs and ten different photo combinations. Sometimes, he even says nice things to his assistant. It’s possible that since his return to television, he’s found a balance that’s more Dr. Jekyll than Mr. Hyde. However, he frequently hints that making mean jokes is how he deals (or doesn’t deal) with stress. Though not as demanding as a tour, having your own show probably isn’t a walk in the park.

Rest assured, within all this therapy fodder is a very funny movie. Like I said, Conan is a brilliant comedian. Furthermore, his talent is completely innate. He delivers some of his best jokes off stage. It doesn’t hurt that Andy is often in tow. I’m fairly certain Andy Richter hasn’t met an awkward situation he couldn’t defuse with a perfectly timed one-liner. Andy is Conan’s Jiminy Cricket, keeping him from falling all the way down the Ass Hole. Whenever Andy is missing, the tone of the room is much heavier.

As is often the case with genuine people, Conan’s anger comes from a well-meaning place. He just wants to do his best at all times. He is his own worst critic. Conan O’Brien has definitely taken James Brown’s place as the Hardest Working Man in Show Business. He deserves all the praise he receives. Besides, if he were only the happy-go-lucky leprechaun from TV, it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting a film. “I might be a fucking genius or I may be the biggest dick ever,” he surmises. “Or maybe both.” I’m pretty sure it’s both.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com.

June 24, 2011
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment