Film Threat Review: The Other F Word

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL SPOTLIGHT PREMIERES SELECTION!
Unrated
98 minutes

****

Full disclosure: I AM the target audience for “The Other F Word.” I grew up on punk music and I have a one-year-old daughter at home. That said I’m a tough sell on sentimental documentaries. The movies that have brought tears to my eyes are few and far between. This one had me using my hoodie for a tissue every time one of those tatted-up daddies talked about their crappy childhoods or how much they love their kids. Director Andrea Blaugrund Nevins has made a raw, honest, hilarious and extremely heartrending film. Besides, how can you be expected to keep a dry face when these punk rock icons don’t?

Almost everyone who turns to punk does so because they need it. It’s not just music to them. It’s a home to them when their real homes are unwelcoming or their peers have ostracized them. In the punk scene, kids could find the unconditional love they couldn’t get elsewhere. But the scene is a bit like Neverland. Eventually, the punks grow up. They get adult jobs, mortgages and IRAs. They file away their punk rock pasts in their iPods’ shuffle. The musicians are the Peter Pans of the punk scene, but they couldn’t stay young either. They also can’t leave Neverland. Not if they wanted to keep playing music. When they found themselves with kids and mortgages, punk was no longer just an attitude to them. It had become a job. Brett Gurewitz, (Bad Religion, Epitaph Records) quips, “Punk rock was never meant to grow up. But it did. So too bad.”

There are some ideals of the punk world you never shake: Freethinking, questioning authority, pressing boundaries. Eventually, if you expect to have a happy family, you have to make some compromises. The film’s through line follows Jim Lindberg, front man for the legendary band, Pennywise. He’s preparing to go back on the road, where he spends over 200 days a year. He packs hair dye and studded belts. He’s trying to keep the dream alive but it’s clear that his heart just isn’t in it anymore. Unfortunately, the other, childfree band members want to keep touring forever, and partying like it’s 1989. The fans are still rabid for the music. Besides, his kids need food, clothing and electricity and those things cost money. He’s become a traveling salesman, schlepping anarchy door-to-door.

The film features numerous punk notables including Ron “Chavo” Reyes (Black Flag), Joe Escalante (The Vandals) and Mark Mothersbaugh (DEVO). All of them are dads. Some of them seem a little surprised by it. None of them expected to be around this long. They didn’t have death wishes or anything. It’s just that Fat Mike (NOFX) couldn’t have imagined that he’d become an indentured servant to a little girl, carrying her from room to room and making her breakfast. Mark Hoppus (Blink 182) never would have guessed that he’d be buying the edited versions of his albums to play in the car for his kids. Lars Fredrickson (Rancid) didn’t think about what the other moms at the park would think when he got that tattoo on his forehead. A young Jim Lindberg probably wouldn’t have believed you if you told him he’d one day be haggling with his daughters about how many of their Barbies he would bring on the road with him. These guys aren’t unhappy with the unexpected turns their lives have taken. On the contrary, they seem blissfully happy whenever they spend time with their offspring (in a hilarious twist, they are mostly daughters). They just don’t want to fuck it up.

Almost everyone interviewed has an asshole dad story. They tell harrowing tales of men breaking their sons’ hearts. In some ways, it was generational. Being a good father meant putting food on the table and that was basically all that was required of them. Many couldn’t even handle that and abandoned their families. Others stayed but used a belt or a fist on those that loved them most, an attempt to exorcise their resentment. “When I had my daughter,” Fat Mike confesses, “that’s when I really started to get angry at my dad.”

Art Alexakis of Everclear tells perhaps the saddest tale of paternal failure. Anyone who’s heard “Father of Mine,” knows that Alexakis has daddy issues. He discusses the horrifying details in between clips of a heartfelt acoustic performance of his song. Alexakis also wins the award for most priceless face by a scared-shitless new father.

“The Other F Word” isn’t all punk rock therapy. There are also many comical moments in a day in the life of a punk rock parent. One of more amusing elements is the way their children regard them. In the punk world, their fans revere and emulate them. But when they’re at home, they’re just lame old dads. Still, better to be a lame dad than a negligent one.

Fat Mike admits that he and his wife assumed that their child would just join their lives, already in progress. It’s easy to forget that they will be their own people and come with a completely unique set of opinions and desires. This generation of dads is desperate to improve upon the last. And it’s not just punk dads but any dad who just wants his children to be happy. You have to give up a lot to be a good parent. You don’t have to lose yourself entirely, but you have to make a lot of compromises that you never expected or possibly even vowed against. Jim summarizes the theme of “The Other F Word” nicely. “[Punk rock] is about doing everything your parents didn’t want you to do… How did we go from saying ‘Fuck your parents’ to being parents ourselves?”

Some of the sacrifices they make are lamentable, like having to hang out with the awful parents of their kid’s friends. Some are improvements, like cutting back on their partying and curbing their potty mouths. Jim suggests that the most important thing a punk can do might not be writing an anthem. “Maybe the way we change the world,” he says, “is by being better parents.”

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct). 

Film Threat Review: American Animal

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL NARRATIVE COMPETITION SELECTION!
Unrated
95 minutes

****

If you’ve read any plays by Tom Stoppard or Samuel Becket, than “American Animal” will be familiar territory. Apart from quick-paced banter between characters, nothing much happens. But when the thing is over, you’re left with much to muse. This sort of thing can be challenging. Especially since writer/director/star Matt D’Elia has created a personality who is obtrusive to say the least. Furthermore, when someone has that much creative control over a film, it’s usually a big, flashing warning sign that says “Vanity Project.” As it happens, it’s not vanity if they’re actually talented.

“American Animal” is practically a paradox. D’Elia plays Jimmy, an eccentric unemployed man with an unexplained terminal illness who spends his days lounging around his shared flat in unconventional underpants espousing philosophical monologues and doing impressions. A character like this should be aggravating, not compelling. It helps that Jimmy makes some pretty good points in his monologues and his impressions aren’t too shabby. Jimmy’s flatmate is James (Brendan Fletcher), an uptight bookish man (in contrast) who also enjoys a life of leisure. Remember those exhilarating nights in college when you blew off your homework and instead used what you learned in class to have inebriated, heated debates with your friends about the state of humanity? That’s every day for these trust-fund-squandering lay-a-bouts. Recently, however, James has begun to feel guilty about his extravagant lifestyle and decides that he needs to move forward with that whole “adulthood” thing by taking a job. Conversely, Jimmy has just decided that he hasn’t been extravagant enough. He proceeds to guilt-trip James and their two lady friends (a cheery blonde and a jaded brunette, both named Angela) into indulging him in his hedonistic antics. Jimmy is upset that James has decided to break up the party and does everything in his power to convince James to reconsider. James wants to affect the world around him and give his life a purpose. Jimmy has concluded that because he doesn’t have any responsibilities, he has mastered the system.

The eloquent, thought-provoking dialog flows at a theatrical pace, but it doesn’t feel unnatural. These are college-educated people who aren’t shy about name-dropping Charles Darwin. A typical exchange has everyone saying “what?” with near-maddening frequency, forcing each other to repeat themselves. It’s embellished, but it’s also an understandable reaction to the tension built up in close quarters. Though Jimmy makes grand, self-assured statements and spouts his radical, provocative ideas, he has several substantiated arguments in his repertoire. He makes childish demands and is completely inconsiderate to his friends. He jumps from character to character, often with a costume change. He makes up his own words and insists that it can be Christmas if he wants it to be. Jimmy blames his madness on whatever ailment requires him to take a meal’s worth of prescription drugs every morning. But what has really driven him mad is his privileged life. When he’s actually faced with a problem, he handles it by going balls out (sometimes literally). He’s the closest thing we have to a successful modernization of Hamlet. James is Jimmy’s Rosencrantz/Guildenstern. Though he has good intentions and thinks he’s doing the right thing, James is also, in some ways, writing Jimmy’s death warrant. James isn’t as exuberant as Jimmy, but actor Fletcher aids in cultivating a compelling character that may not be as reasonable as he thinks he is. The big adult job that James is starting in the morning is a paid internship at Harper Collins. His “contribution to society” is a job that he probably got through nepotism.

Theatrics aside, “American Animal” is a colorful, audiovisual experience. D’Elia utilizes jump cut montages and musical cues reminiscent of a Wes Anderson film to acquaint the audience with life in the Urban Outfitters catalog in which these two men have holed up for so long. D’Elia lets the irreverent décor of the house serve as shorthand for who these men are. Thankfully, no one in the film ever says the titular line. It was only after the credits rolled that I realized the title was a punch line.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com

Film Threat Review: Kill List

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL SXFANTASTIC SELECTION
Unrated
90 minutes

*****

Ben Wheatley’s first film, “Down Terrace,” was fantastic. But one great film does not an extraordinary director make. With the submission of “Kill List” as his sophomore effort, I think it’s safe to say that this guy is something special. As a critic and a genre fan, I wade through a lot of mediocre films searching for the ones that remind me why I fell in love with horror in the first place. I rarely feel so elated walking out of a theatre as I did leaving “Kill List.” Now that, my friends, is a fucking movie.

“Kill List” begins much the same way as “Down Terrace,” in familial territory. Except something violent and sinister is behind these otherwise archetypal squabbles. Jay (Neil Maskell) and Shel (MyAnna Buring) are married with a young son. They’ve been experiencing cash flow problems and anger management issues ever since Jay was injured “on the job” in Kiev. When longtime confidant and partner, Gal (Michael Smiley, “Down Terrace” and “Spaced”) brings his new girlfriend over for dinner one night, they witness some (at times amusing) spousal nitpicking that leads to Jay abruptly clearing the table. After the dust settles and the wine continues to flow, Gal takes the opportunity to entice Jay back to work. The job is contract killing and the money is good.

We soon learn that this isn’t the first time at the hitman dance for either of these men. This information does little to blight them. After all, the guys their clandestine employers have tasked them to snuff have done bad things. “Just for the record,” justifies Jay, “I’ve hardly done any terrible shit.” Be that as it may, something happened in Kiev that has kept Jay out of work. It has also led to a wee dependence on painkillers and a deep-seeded resentment of Christianity.

As they make their way through the titular list, Jay and Gal start to realize this job has some pretty enormous strings attached. It’s so much fun finding out what those strings entail at relatively the same pace as our protagonists, that I really hope people manage to avoid spoilers. That’s not so easy to do these days.

The performances in “Kill List” are terrific all around. Neil Maskell moves effortlessly between bitter and despondent-yet-devoted family man to merciless assassin with a mounting vigilante streak. When he’s in the heat of the moment, Jay is not unlike Garth Ennis’ Punisher. He’s merciless and derives more than a little satisfaction from killing people he deems “the bad guys.” He’s not content to just put a nice tidy bullet in the victim’s head either, opting instead to bash skulls and faces into a gruesome pulp. Michael Smiley is beautifully adept at playing the thoughtful gangster with a glint of mischief behind his eyes. MyAnna Buring (“The Descent”) brings a rare humanizing complexity to the standard role of the nagging wife. By the time the blood starts flowing, the characters have shown such warmth, passion and familiarity toward one another that you root for them even as their body count rises.

It’s difficult to tell how much of the film was scripted because the performances are so natural. Nonetheless, co-writers Wheatley and Amy Jump certainly deserve praise for creating some very real, intensely compelling characters. Cinematographer, Laurie Rose, uses the realism of the hand-held camera to suck us right into their lives, whilst managing to maintain a lovely cinematic look. The presence of a serendipitous rainbow doesn’t hurt. This look is something that Steven Soderbergh has been trying to achieve for years.

I hesitate to divulge anything more because it’s best to experience “Kill List” as a fly on the wall. There are clues planted along the way but there is little chance you’ll guess the exact ending unless you’ve been spoiled. You’ll likely wish to revisit the film to spot everything you may have missed. Still, I don’t think it’s fair to call the ending a twist. Wheatley isn’t M. Night Shyamalan. He’s not trying to trick you. He’s just following the all-important, yet frequently broken narrative rule: Show, don’t tell. By the time you’ve figured out what’s going on, it’s not so much a surprise as a revelation. That’s a much more rewarding experience than being duped.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com

Film Threat Review: Surrogate Valentine

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL EMERGING VISIONS SELECTION
Unrated
74 minutes

**

“Surrogate Valentine” is exactly the sort of movie you hope to avoid at film festivals. It’s a vanity project wrapped in a distracting, meaningless black and white package. It’s clear director Dave Boyle intended to jump on the Mumblecore bandwagon but it lacks the realism and effortless wit usually found in the genre. The dialog dips into rom-com cringe-worthiness and the sentimentality feels forced. Why do film festivals insist on programming these self-important wankfests? When will this madness end? Won’t someone please think of the children?

The story follows a musician named Goh Nakamura (played by Goh Nakamura), who is basically a portly Asian Lloyd Dobbler without the eloquence and good taste in music. The character is based tightly on an Asian singer/songwriter named Goh Nakamura. There’s also a Goh Nakamura in the writing credits. I’m guessing they’re related. Anyway, this struggling John Mayer-type agrees to let a quasi-famous Hollywood actor, Danny, shadow him for the purposes of role research. Danny accompanies Goh as he passively peddles his acoustic wares up and down the West Coast. Meanwhile, Goh reconnects with an old flame and passively attempts to win her back.

In the context of the film, as well as the film-within-a-film, Goh Nakamura is meant to be a sensitive genius and an object of desire. In fact, his awful music and lame jokes win women over so frequently that he can afford to ignore their advances. But the truth is that Goh Nakamura is a contender for the least appealing hipster of all time. He sports the hoodie and tie look without a hint of irony. He moves through the world quietly, attempting to appear deep, but coming off as boring at best.

The movie-within-a-movie is supposed to be bad. Danny plays it like a mincing emo Buddy Holly. Goh’s lame ballads provide the soundtrack for both films, implying that his songs are too beautiful for a Hollywood movie. It’s actually the other way around. A sample lyric: “Your suitcase is by the door/Your carry-on will carry on/Like a baby”. There’s a titular song too. Really.

It gets worse. Goh is the less annoying half of this buddy flick. Danny follows Goh around with a smug, actory demeanor, wildly gesticulating as he imparts platitudes onto his romantically challenged tutor. Like many actors, he has a mediocre Christopher Walken impression and he utilizes it as often as possible, claiming it helps him learn his lines.

The film is shot on HD, but the arbitrary black and white filter gives the picture a flat, dull look. Seattle and San Francisco are lush, beautiful places, but Boyle manages to make them look utterly unremarkable. Even iconic locations like Gas Works Park, Golden Gate Park and The Space Needle stood out only because of they’re hackneyed shorthand properties.

If there’s any redeeming quality to “Surrogate Valentine,” it’s that I see what they tried to do there. This is the sort of movie that gives Mumblecore a bad reputation. Dave Boyle doesn’t seem to realize that you don’t actually have to make your characters mumble.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

Film Threat Review: Red Riding Hood

2011 SXSW SPECIAL EVENT SCREENING!
PG-13
120 minutes

**

Before the “Red Riding Hood” screening my plus one remarked that she was expecting one third of the movie to be establishing shots of trees. So when the movie indeed opened with five minutes of aerial forest shots, we had a good giggle. Sadly, the forest isn’t the only thing Catherine Hardwicke rehashed. These days, she specializes in supernatural fairy tales involving young girls who want nothing but to traipse around in the woods with their forbidden boyfriends. Only this time the girl is blonde (and the wolves look a little different). You can expect plenty of intense close-ups of the leads; close enough to see their big damn eyes. In short, the people who love “Twilight” will love “Red Riding Hood.” The people who think “Twilight” is stupid will think the same about this movie. The people who think that “Twilight” is responsible for breeding a generation of girls with low self-esteem and terrible taste in men will think that “Red Riding Hood” is perpetuating the problem. I swear, sometimes it feels like “The Feminine Mystique” never happened.

Stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before. In a gloomy village deep in the forest, there lives a beautiful young girl named Valerie (Amanda Seyfried). She doesn’t think much about her looks but still manages to be the premiere object of desire. All she wants to do is distract her boyfriend, Peter, from his wood-chopping job and talk about running away together. With an arranged marriage and a werewolf stalking her village, there are plenty of reasons to bail. But when the werewolf murders her sister, she puts that plan on hold to help unmask the monster. She soon learns that the werewolf is after her and is living among them. Could it be her boyfriend, her betrothed, the town Jesus freak or even dear old grandma? Probably!

The “Twilight” comparisons were inevitable, but Hardwicke didn’t have to make it so easy. She changed the costumes and sets, but otherwise, it looks like it’s in the same universe. This is the cleanest medieval town ever and the gene pool is impeccable. Everyone’s a looker, even the village idiot (retarded Rupert Grint). The worst looking guy is Father Solomon (Gary Oldman), and he’s not even from there. He arrives, accompanied by two Nubian supermodel soldiers, to help sort out their wolf problems. We never do meet the town alchemist, as he’s probably far too busy making hair product to pay any mind to werewolf business. Everyone speaks with an American accent except for Father Solomon and one guy who sounds suspiciously Canadian (Michael Hogan, “Battlestar Galactica”). Valerie has frequent smolder-offs with Peter from across the square. Valerie and Peter engage in some revenge dancing while an unseen electronic goth band plays. Her two suitors have verbal and physical fights over her and she doesn’t do much to discourage it. People say melodramatic things like “I know you’re burning inside” and “I DO CARE! … I do care.” During a passionate make-out session, Peter growls, “I’ll eat you up!” Incidentally, they handle all of the references to the source material in this same ham-handed way.

When Hardwicke isn’t busy plagiarizing herself, she’s employing Sy-Fy movie-of-the-week techniques. Any time Valerie goes anywhere, the wolf shaky-cam stalks her. Often, it turns out not to be the wolf, but some other jerk who apparently has trouble holding his/her head still. Once we learn the wolf is a villager, the camera makes its rounds, lingering accusingly on the suspicious face of each suspect. The only thing missing is, “dun dun duuuun.”

I hate to say it, but this may be all Joss Whedon’s fault. He invented the “monster with a heart of gold” vampire. Of course his was a metaphor for teenage angst. Myer and Hardwicke misinterpreted it as a literal endorsement for a bad relationship. Girls in love with monsters are the new Princesses.

Now, I realize that this movie isn’t for me. It’s for the squeeing hordes of Hot Topic clad adolescents who are probably on Team Jacob. But I was one of them once. Sort of. In my day, we didn’t have teams because we were all on the same one. I’m not sure what you’d call it but it involved trying to be Winona Ryder. Our “Twilight” was “Bram Stokers Dracula”. It’s not a great film, but the only thing it hurt was our cred at the video store. The girl in “Dracula” wants to die for her Count but she ends up with Keanu Reeves. She was probably just under vampire thrall the whole time, anyway. She wants the bad boyfriend but everyone (including her) knows he’s bad and must be destroyed. Evil is sexy, but it’s still evil.

What makes me saddest about this whole debacle is that Catherine Hardwicke really isn’t doing any favors for the ladies of the Director’s Guild. When they brought her this script, she could have said “You know what? I’ve done troubled girl in a supernatural love triangle. I’d really like to move on so I don’t get pigeonholed.” But she didn’t. She could have said, “I’ll do it, but I’m going to tweak the story so that it’s not so similar to my past work. Plus, this script really blows”. She didn’t do that either. There are certainly male directors who are guilty of the same thing. But since gender equality hasn’t quite made its way into the world behind the camera a female director has to be better than that. A studio picks up a script for a “Wonder Woman’ movie or an “X-Men” and they’ll bring up Singer, Snyder or Favreau. If someone mentions a female director, unless it’s Kathryn Bigelow, they would probably be laughed out of the room or fired. And, in the end, they still wouldn’t give it to Bigelow. Until women stop making movies about girls who are independent only as far as what man they choose to be with, they’re never going to be considered for anything meatier. Hardwicke might sleep fine making gothic soap operas broody teenage girls, but she really should know better.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct). 

Film Threat Review: Hall Pass

2011
Rated R
105 minutes

*

One would think that after nearly twenty years spent writing and directing movies, the Farrellys would be better at it. They started out OK. “There’s Something About Mary” and “Kingpin” are consistently funny. “Shallow Hal” is practically a heartwarming story with a good message. They haven’t done anything noteworthy since. After their latest offering, a tragically humorless mess, they should strongly consider retirement. At its best, “Hall Pass” is a checklist of “outrageousness” including, but not limited to, public defecation, an enormous boner, a tiny boner, a massage parlor mishap, a catastrophic fart and frequent discussions about what one could and would do to various parts of the female anatomy. At its worst, it’s a puerile, if not completely misogynistic take on marriage. Despite the (squandered) presence of Stephen Merchant (“The Office” UK) and a handful of jokes that were likely improvised, there is no good reason to see this film. Be warned, readers: I’m about to get all Camille Paglia on your asses.

Maggie (Jenna Fisher) and Grace (Christina Applegate) are two long-suffering wives who decide that they are tired of being embarrassed by their husbands’ perpetual horniness. At the suggestion of their pop psychologist friend (Joy Behar) they decide to give Rick (Owen Wilson) and Fred (Jason Sudeikis) a week off from marriage to do whatever or whomever they must to “get it out of their system”. Never mind the fact that this would all be resolved if they just had sex with their husbands.

Rick, the marginally more mature one, isn’t completely on board with the Hall Pass idea at first. He has no say though, as the ladies leave town before they can discuss it. Meanwhile, an ecstatic Fred convinces Rick that it’s a good thing because it’s their turn to have a dream fulfilled. Their wives, he asserts, have had all their dreams come true. These dreams included getting married, having babies, and buying a house with a nice kitchen. This speech is delivered and received with utmost sincerity. According to the Farrellys, all women want to be pretty princess baby machines and all men want only to put their penises in things.

Unfortunately, these ideas aren’t entirely original. The Farrellys are perpetuating a long-standing implication that only men want to get laid while women view sex as either a soul-bearing experience or an inconvenience. “No sex after marriage” is the joke that will never die. But it really needs to. Sure, every marriage experiences dry spells, particularly if there are children involved. However, even with frequent boning, every person (male or female) in a committed relationship checks out other people and occasionally fantasizes about them. Anyone who claims otherwise is lying. This is perfectly normal, healthy and doesn’t mean that they love their partner any less. The wives in “Hall Pass” confess to each other the lengths they’ll go to avoid sleeping with their husbands from pretending to be asleep to complaining of lady problems. Maggie has mentally bronzed the moment she lost her virginity, claiming to know the month, day and hour it happened. Both women accuse their husbands of being unreasonably horny. But it’s not unreasonable to be allowed access to your spouse’s genitalia every once in a while. These women should be happy that their husbands still find them attractive. It’s not that wives owe their husbands sex. It’s that they should want to have sex with their husbands. Otherwise, why stay married to them?

The Farrellys have never been particularly good at writing female characters. They’re barely capable of writing male characters resembling socialized adults. Rick and Fred are detrimentally arrested adolescents while Maggie and Grace are humorless, frigid balls of estrogen. The women loosen up somewhat when they decide to utilize the Hall Pass for themselves. And the men do have one or two moments in which they make real, adult decisions. But it’s not enough. Simply having one or more characters ultimately “learn something” does not make up for gross gender stereotypes.

To add insult to insult, the conceit of “Hall Pass” isn’t even original. Whether or not the Farrellys were aware of “The Freebie” when they wrote it, the conceptual similarities cannot be denied. But concept is all they have in common. “The Freebie” is a thoughtful, emotionally honest look at the lengths an otherwise happy couple will go to in order to fix their stale sex life. They are friends as well as spouses so they discuss these issues honestly and maturely. It leads to them opening a very touchy can of worms, but this is an extreme outcome to a conversation that many couples have had. The Farrellys, on the other hand, took an interesting premise and vomited it onto the classroom floor. “Hall Pass” is desperately in need of the pink sawdust treatment.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

Film Threat Review: Unknown

2011
Rated PG-13
113 minutes

**

It’s difficult to explain what went wrong with “Unknown” without giving away the ending. So you must take my word for it that, though it starts out promising, it just doesn’t deliver. I can’t get into details about the twist, of course, but I can tell you that the motivations feel pretty slap-dash and the subsequent events are borderline cartoonish.

As the film opens, Dr. Martin Harris (Liam Neeson) and his wife, Liz, (January Jones) are on their way to a biotech conference in Berlin. We don’t really know much about it other than he seems super nervous about the speech he must give and, as a result, leaves his all-important briefcase on the luggage cart at the airport. He doesn’t find out that it’s missing until they’re already at the hotel and Liz has gone inside to check in. Rather than take the two seconds to tell his wife what’s up, Martin decides to hail the next available cab and head back to the airport. En route, a random accident lands the cab and its passengers in the river. The lovely lady cabbie saves Martin’s life and then quickly flees the scene. Martin wakes up in a hospital four days later with no I.D. and a minor case of amnesia. When he finally makes it back to the hotel to meet up with his wife, he finds that another man (Aidan Quinn), claiming to be Dr. Martin Harris, has replaced him. Nobody he knows, including his wife, will acknowledge his identity and he’s ejected from the hotel, left to figure this whole mess out. Of course, he eventually teams up with the conveniently pretty cab driver (Diane Kruger), an illegal alien trying to raise the dough to get out of Berlin. They’re aided by a former Stasi agent with a dark past and a knack for getting to the bottom of things.

“Unknown” bears a striking resemblance to “Frantic.” For a while, it’s nearly on par with Roman Polanski’s film. There are grand shots of snowy Berlin and exciting chases through and underneath the city. Though it sometimes dips into cliché action movie territory, something about the European setting lends it an air of credibility. But, when it finally comes time to start explaining what the deal is, things get pretty silly. It’s as if they started filming immediately after they thought of the premise and forgot that they would eventually have to wrap things up. Once the twist is revealed, it’s wham bam thank you ma’am right up to the ridiculous end.

Also lending credibility are the performances. Character actors abound, including “Downfall’s” Bruno Ganz and the inherently creepy Frank Langella. Neeson seems right at home as the gentle giant in the inadvertent caper. (I guess this is just what he does now.) The only one who’s out of place is January Jones. Sure, she looks the part of the femme fatale, but a lot of people can wear their hair like Veronica Lake. I’m an enormous “Mad Men” fan, but I’ve never been seduced by the wooden doll named January. She may have Matthew Weiner fooled, but her juju doesn’t work on me.

A second bump on the head restores Martin’s memory (as seen in the trailer…settle down, anti-spoiler freaks) just in time for the face-off between the two Martins. This fight is inevitable in more than just the context of the film. Neeson and Quinn have had similar careers, jumping between Oscar bait, romantic leads and action roles. Quinn, it seems, is always just a step behind. It’s fun to see these two lads duke it out for top Irish actor in Hollywood.

“Unknown” isn’t exactly a hot Razzie mess. For the most part, it’s a fairly enjoyable addition to the European Amnesia Thriller genre. But it’s also quite forgettable, even if you haven’t experienced head trauma.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

Film Threat Review: These Amazing Shadows

2011 SUNDANCE FILM FESTIVAL DOCUMENTARY PREMIERES SELECTION!
Unrated
90 minutes

***

The first time I met an archivist, I had little concept of what the job entailed. It seemed like they were basically librarians with less job prospects. Though there is some truth to that, “These Amazing Shadows,” depicts the brass ring of archivist jobs: Working for the National Film Registry. Archivists are passionate people. No one would work so hard for so little pay or job security if they didn’t love what they did. But if you consider yourself a lover of cinema, you know why they do what they do. Think of your favorite film. Chances are you consider it an indispensable part of film history. Now think of a future without it. “These Amazing Shadows” is an entertaining, though somewhat frivolous, look at what it takes to keep that from happening.

The National Film Registry is a department of the Library of Congress, which strives to preserve as many films as possible in their original format. It was created in 1988 as a response to protest by actors and filmmakers of Ted Turner’s colorization spree of black and white films. The registry initially named 1000 films for inclusion. Since then, they’ve nominated 25 films per year to be added to the list. The criteria are that they be “culturally, historically or aesthetically significant.” This can, of course, mean different things to different people and recommendations for the list are sometimes met with controversy. Inclusion on the list is a more prestigious award than an Oscar, because it means that the film stands the test of time.

“These Amazing Shadows” is more a love letter to cinema than an informational documentary. There is much talk about the magic of movies and how they enrich our lives; how they hold a mirror to society and document our history. There are tons of clips from indispensable films including “Easy Rider,” “The Wizard of Oz,” “To Kill a Mockingbird” and “It’s a Wonderful Life.” You’re most certainly guaranteed to see a clip from one of your favorite movies and, as a result, much of “These Amazing Shadows” feels rather moving. But it often relies too much on the films themselves and doesn’t delve enough into the process of preservation. Sure, we get a peak inside “Nitrate Land”, the vast, climate controlled chamber that keeps our beloved films in pristine condition. We meet an archivist in “triage” as she literally tapes together the reels of a damaged film. We hear testimony from a couple of employees as they tell the story of getting their favorite movie on the list. But these are merely brief glimpses in between montages of famous films. Because of this, it often feels more like one of those commercials that studios put together to showcase their biggest titles. It would have been nice to, instead, follow a single film from nomination to preservation.

They also briefly touch on some of the more controversial inclusions such as the notoriously racist film, “The Birth of a Nation” and footage of the JFK assassination as well as films with cult significance like “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” I wish that “These Amazing Shadows” had gone deeper with these topics. They bring up “Star Wars,” but only to talk about how it was instantly iconic. There is no mention of the fact that they sometimes can’t prevent the filmmakers themselves from attempting to ruin their original work.

Also missing is an explanation for why it is so important to preserve these films on celluloid. While I know that there is nothing so beautiful as an original 35mm reel of a favorite film, why work so hard to preserve such a fragile medium? Perhaps they should put some work into finding a more robust method of keeping these films alive. And what of films that are actually shot digitally? Are they out of the running or will the National Film Registry eventually have to update their vaults to accommodate them? After all, we fall in love with films because of the story, not the thing it’s printed on.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

Film Threat Review: Uncle Kent

2011 SUNDANCE FILM FESTIVAL SPOTLIGHT SELECTION!
Unrated
72 minutes

****

Say what you will about Mumblecore. Though I usually enjoy it, chances are I’ll agree with you. It’s a challenging genre. Auteur, Joe Swanberg is known as one of its heavy hitters and his latest offering, “Uncle Kent,” is so textbook that it will someday become some film student’s homework. Shot with seemingly the worst camera he could find with no attempts to boost light or sound quality, “Uncle Kent” isn’t so much a narrative film as it is a fictionalized home movie. But because it depicts a pivotal debacle in a single forty-something’s sex life, it’s not the sort of thing you’d want to share with the neighbors.

The film starts out slow as the Kent in question (co-writer, Kent Osbourne) carries out his daily routine as a children’s show illustrator. He easily succumbs to the pitfalls of working from home including goofing off with friends, cat snuggling and pot smoking. These scenes are mundane because Kent’s life is mundane. Outside of the occasional party and an obsession with the website, Chatroulette, he has no social life to speak of. He claims to be fine with this, protesting to his happily married friend (Swanberg) that he enjoys the freedoms it affords him. For instance, instead of having a set dinnertime, he can eat whenever he gets hungry. That sounds so liberating.

Things start to get interesting when Kent invites a Chatroulette acquaintance, a journalist named Kate (Jennifer Prediger) in town on business, to stay with him for the weekend. Though she has a boyfriend, the sexual tension presents itself immediately. The frank conversation that is so easy to have in cyberspace ups the anty when they’re faced with it in person. She “accidentally” lets him see some naked pictures she took of herself on her camera. They demonstrate their individual masturbation techniques. They take pictures of their naughty bits for the benefit of other Chatrouletters. Though Kate is very game for this extreme flirtation, she always puts on the breaks whenever things seem like they will come to a head (no pun intended). As the weekend wears on, Kent becomes increasingly confused and frustrated.

Obviously, the only way to clear things up is to have a three-way with a young woman from Craigslist. In most movies (adult or otherwise), a three-way directs itself and the participants merely go with the flow. In real life, which “Uncle Kent” emulates perfectly, three-ways are full of fumbling and awkward moments. Things get even more awkward when Kent realizes this isn’t so much a three-way as it is two people having sex with one other person.

Though light on the action, “Uncle Kent” is a very rich film, full of quiet moments that speak volumes. Kent adds another piece of tape to the wad that is holding his car together. Lacking a proper guest room, Kent must inflate a mattress for Kate every night and deflate it every morning. In a tiny closet, Kent wedges himself between his bike and the litter box so that he can scoop up cat shit. He frequently documents his humdrum activities on a Flip camera for a reason probably unknown even to him. The whole thing feels painfully voyeuristic. Then again, with Facebook, many of us partake in voyeurism on a daily basis. We invite it. Voyeurism has become the new way to socialize. For people like Kent, who have little going for them outside so-called social networking, it suddenly seems rather pathetic.

However you feel about them, a Mumblecore movie will always leave you with something to talk about. Atypical plot devises aside, the characters are so credible and natural that you can’t help but project yourself into the story. These aren’t larger-than-life Hollywood models having fantastical experiences. Even a really good mainstream movie will never leave you with as many social and ethical topics as a Mumblecore movie. If you can’t relate to the characters directly, you can at least feel morally superior watching them do and say boneheaded things. And who doesn’t love that?

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

Film Threat Review: Kaboom

2011 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL EMERGING VISIONS SELECTION!
Unrated
85 minutes

****

Writer/Director Gregg Araki specializes in one thing: Films about attractive young people with supernatural problems boning each other. He’s made this type of film several times (“The Doom Generation,” “Nowhere”, “Mysterious Skin”) and each time he’s improved upon the formula. The young people of “Kaboom” are especially hot, extra supernatural and constantly boning. If you’re on board with this premise, “Kaboom” will not disappoint you. Otherwise, you’ll want to steer clear of this one, as well as the Arakiverse altogether.

Thomas Dekker (“the Sarah Connor Chronicles”) stars as Smith (his first name), a sexually malleable film student on the cusp of his 19th birthday. This erotic romp gets right to the Eros. Nearly every character that meets will have sex immediately, eventually or, at the very least, in a masturbatory fantasy. When Smith finds time to sleep, he has a vivid recurring dream involving his nearest and dearest as well as two strangers. The dream proves prophetic when he bumps into said strangers at a party. One is a lesbian witch named Lorelei who hooks up with Smith’s best friend, Stella. The other is a red-haired girl who is later murdered in front of Smith by some animal masked creeps. (Maybe. Depending on what was in that cookie.) Smith soon finds himself caught up in a cultist conspiracy in which he may play a pivotal role. Who can go to class at a time like this?

Araki really knows how to work a small budget, crafting a teen comedy that both satirizes and celebrates the genre. Every scene pops with candy rave colors and hipster hues. Asymmetrical haircuts and wild clothes beg the question: Is this what young people look like? Well, not exactly. And it’s not really how they talk either. The average teenager does not speak in snappy one-liners. But it is how Hollywood portrays them. And the look comes with a precocious, world-weary personality. Nowadays, kids must go into hair salons asking for “ the 30 Seconds to Mars” the way folks used to ask for “the Rachel.”

Though the mystery is somewhat complex and new characters pop up every few minutes, Araki is on top of it. “Kaboom” is well paced, effortlessly blending the sex and the sleuthing so there’s never too much of one or the other. He makes smart directorial choices that put “Kaboom” a cut above the films it alludes to. Freeze frames and novelty transitions could easily become conspicuous and annoying. But Araki’s use of them only adds to the whimsy.

As in the films it emulates, the characters of “Kaboom” constantly speak in snarky sound bites and custom slang. However, Araki’s take on it feels natural and even clever. Among Stella’s quips: “Nice hat, by the way. Are we in Paris?” and “Dreams are just your brain taking a dump at the end of the day. They don’t mean anything.” Haley Bennett delivers Stella’s lines in a way that lovingly recalls Veronica Sawyer in “Heathers“. I was surprised to see Dekkar play a character that isn’t at all whiny or tedious. It’s difficult to sell a line like, “I don’t believe in standardized sexual pigeonholes”, but it rolls off Dekkar’s tongue with adorable earnestness. Also adorable is Juno Temple (daughter of brilliant rock documentarian, Julian). Temple plays London, a free-spirited, sexually liberated party girl who has “a thing for gay dudes.” These actors do a fine job embodying some surprisingly three-dimensional disenchanted youth.

Incidentally, it’s refreshing to see characters in movies using brand-name internet services. Araki name checks both Google alerts and Facebook. I know Araki wasn’t going for realism or anything, but it always ups the silliness quotient of a movie when they use thinly veiled euphemisms for things people use every day. It’s easier to sell a wacky premise when the normal elements of the story are actually…normal.

For a while, there are so many balls in the air that it seems like the mystery of “Kaboom” might never be resolved. But it does pick up speed and culminates in a hilarious car chase scene that cemented my appreciation for this film. This may have been what Richard Kelly was trying to do when he made “Southland.”

Though I thoroughly enjoyed “Kaboom,” I do have one little request. Can we retire the response; “I just threw up a little bit in my mouth”? Somebody please get on this.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct). 

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