2012 SXSW INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated
90 minutes

***

I just need to get this off my chest. Ten years ago, my husband, then a man in his mid-twenties, came up with the idea of a twelve-event competition. The nature of these events varied from drinking competitions to games of skill or (mild) athleticism. He called it the Dodeca-Cathelon. This competition has taken place every year since then, around his birthday. Fast-forward to 2012, and we come to find out that the old Duplass brothers are festival touring a film called “The Do-Deca-Pentathlon.”

Granted, they shot “Do-Deca” in 2008 alongside “Baghead.” This was way before they “made it” with mainstream audiences. But that’s still six years after the world’s first Dodeca-Cathelon took place in Seattle, WA. Now, maybe there’s a collective consciousness thing at play; also possible that two or three guys just had the same idea. Anyway, as you can imagine, we were definitely curious to see what this film is all about. And while it ended up having a bit more drama and life-lessons than my husband’s birthday parties, it’s still pretty entertaining.

So in the Duplass version, two extremely competitive brothers spent three days of their youth competing in a twenty-five-event challenge to determine which of them was, well… the better brother. The events comprised of games of skill and mild athleticism: everything from laser tag to arm wrestling. Unfortunately, they never finished their Do-Deca-Pentathlon because their dad prematurely ended their tie-breaking breath-holding contest. It’s unlikely that a definitive result would have solved anything anyway. Mark (the responsible family man with some stress-related health problems) and Jeremy (the perpetual manchild with zero responsibilities) have issues that run much deeper.

When Jeremy realizes he’s been left off the guest list for Mark’s birthday weekend at their mother’s house, he decides to crash the party. He doesn’t have any particular designs when he arrives other than to make everyone feel guilty for leaving him out. But when he finds that a video of the original Do-Deca has been taped over, it drives his gaping wounds even further open. Eventually, Jeremy succeeds in goading Mark into a rematch, though it must happen behind his disapproving wife’s back. Never mind the fact that some of Mark’s health problems might stem from his pathological competitiveness which Jeremy awakens in him like lycanthropy on a full moon.

Mark’s pre-pubescent son, on the other hand, is excited to see a more manly side of his father and conspires to help them complete their goal. Cue the hilarious events montages as Mark and Jeremy take to the ping-pong table like their lives depend on it. As the weekend progresses, the competition escalates and it threatens to tear the family apart. Eventually, they must choose between the family’s happiness and determining once and for all which brother is the true champion.

The Duplasses put “Do-Deca” on the back burner when they started working on their career-making film, “Cyrus,” and there is probably a reason for that. At times, it feels like a throwback to their more momentous work. But even though some of the dramatic beats feel a little simple, it’s only because they’re capable of so much more. Or perhaps they are trying to argue that sometimes we can be so stuck with the bad traits we developed in our youth that we don’t always see the error of our ways until it’s reflected in the disappointed faces of our loves ones. Besides, even a sub-par Duplass film is still better than most mainstream comedies. I just wish they’d stop stealing our ideas.

Originally published on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

March 28, 2012
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat, sxsw . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2012 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated
94 minutes

**

There are a couple of literary character comparisons which are proven to sell me on a movie. One of them is the protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s novel, “A Confederacy of Dunces.” Unfortunately, these references almost always set up standards that are impossible to meet. When the synopsis of “Small Apartments” compared its central character to the scholarly but socially incompetent butterball, Ignatius J. Reilly, I should have known it would be a stretch.

But I just couldn’t help myself. And now I will never be able to bleach the image of Matt Lucas’ scantily clad Pillsbury Doughboy body out of my mind. You don’t have to make the same mistake. Trust me when I tell you that Franklin Franklin is no Ignatius J. Reilly. He’s much, much worse. This makes him 100% unsympathetic and not the least bit fun to watch.

Franklin Franklin’s eye-rolling moniker is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of irksome traits. He is fat, pale and as hairless as the bowling ball that is allegedly responsible for evacuating his follicles. He’s self-conscious enough about being bald that he keeps a selection of wigs by his front door, but he has no qualms about roaming the streets in nothing but knee socks and baggy whities. He fantasizes about living in Switzerland while he bellows into his enormous Alp horn, much to the annoyance of his neighbors. He consumes nothing but pickles and a specific brand of soda. He neglects his talking dog. Every day, he receives an envelope in the mail from his hereditarily superior, but clinically insane, brother Bernard (James Marsden). This envelope always contains a homemade self-help recording and some toenail clippings. Are you tired of quirks yet? Writer Chris Millis was clearly trying to create a memorably eccentric character. But he neglected to give Franklin any qualities that would make him empathetic.

A lame character begets lame plot points. Millis designed every gag to be either shocking or wacky. In between jokes, he tried to pack in some notes of sincerity. Some of it even works, but the actors deserve most of the credit for that success. You know you’re in bad shape when it feels like Johnny Knoxville and Billy Crystal are being underutilized. Crystal’s jaded alcoholic fire investigator and James Caan as a widower gothic painter have a solid scene together.

Juno Temple is magnetic as an overcompensating teenage girl. At this point, I would watch her in anything. I only hope she achieves enough success to become more selective of her roles. A dramatic scene between her and Johnny Knoxville as a goal-oriented stoner would have made a great short film.

Were “Small Apartments” more the ensemble that the title suggests, it might have been something worthwhile. Unfortunately, the bulk of the film concerns Franklin’s bumbling attempt to cover up the manslaughter of his scumbag landlord. For a film that clearly prides itself on its idiosyncrasies, it sure is predictable.

There are also several elements, which make watching the film borderline insulting for even a remotely astute audience. Take note, screenwriters: Nudity in and of itself is not funny. There has to be a reason for it.

The film ends on a lengthy voiceover summing up the feelings you should have had and the lessons you should have learned throughout. Among the bumper sticker tropes: “Life is what you make it” and “Happiness is a state of mind” (yes, really). Furthermore, why can’t characters learn lessons (especially ones this simplistic) without becoming conveniently, unexpectedly wealthy? “Small Apartments” is standard Hollywood tripe, disguised as something unique. Some people might fall for it, but you’re better than that.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

March 28, 2012
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat, sxsw . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2012 SEATTLE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated
85 minutes

*****

“Safety Not Guaranteed” has a lot of things going for it: Mumblecore superstar Mark Duplass (in both a producing and acting capacity), the adorably dour Aubrey Plaza (“Parks and Recreation”) and the prospect of time travel. Furthermore, it was shot in Seattle, which is relevant to the interests of certain movie critics who live there. How can you go wrong? Turns out you can’t. “Safety Not Guaranteed” is fantastic.

Plaza plays Darius, a young intern at a Seattle magazine who has, as her father puts it, “a cloud following” her. Her mother died when she was very young and it’s clear that she hasn’t let anyone else in since. She’s not averse to happiness, but she doesn’t seem to be working too hard to find it either.

When her hyper-superficial boss, Jeff (Jake Johnson) volunteers her and a shy colleague, Arnau, to accompany him on an investigative road trip, she doesn’t take the assignment seriously at first. None of them do. Their mission is to track down a man who placed a newspaper ad in which he claims the ability to travel back in time. He is seeking a cohort, but leaves no contact information other than a P.O. box located in a small town on the Washington coast. Conveniently, it’s the same town in which Jeff’s old high school flame currently resides.

When they find the man from the ad, he is a predictably eccentric fellow named Kenneth (Mark Duplass) who is immediately suspicious of Jeff’s motives. Fortunately, Darius and Arno stayed out of sight, so the guys nominate “the pretty girl” to go under cover and make Kenneth believe that she is answering his ad in earnest. Darius begins “training” with Kenneth, learning all the skills that he deems essential for time travel. Kenneth is sweet and intense so it often seems like he may be telling the truth about his abilities. He certainly believes what he’s saying. Either way, Kenneth clearly has some wrongs in his past that he is desperate to make right. Darius certainly wouldn’t mind being able to go back and prevent her mother’s death.

Despite his volatile temper and paranoia, Kenneth soon softens to Darius, and she to him. Meanwhile, Jeff learns that true happiness has very little to do with appearance and Arnau learns to be a man.

The filmmakers keep us guessing till the end about whether Kenneth is just a charming lunatic or the real deal. But the heart of the story lies within Darius and Kenneth’s relationship. These are two broken people who somehow fit together perfectly, despite the fact that they don’t seem to fit anywhere else. That makes it sound like a sapfest, and I suppose it could have been, but Plaza and Duplass bring such a sincerity and affability to their roles that you would have to be a total asshole not to root for them. Don’t be that guy.

March 26, 2012
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat, sxsw . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2012 SXSW INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated 
76 minutes

***

Film festivals used to be lousy with movies like “Somebody Up There Likes Me” – Movies that were dry, quirky (without being cutesy) and borderline inaccessible. You got head-scratchers that kept you talking with your friends for hours after the screening. You got films so divisive that sometimes those conversations would turn into full-on fights. Maybe it’s because even indie filmmakers have become concerned with marketability, but they really don’t make ‘em like that anymore. Director Bob Byington doesn’t much care about marketability. What he does care about is unclear. In fact, there is a lot of ambiguity in “Somebody Up There Likes Me”. But that’s also what makes it fun.

The story follows an ineffectual, impassive, Jack White-looking fellow named Max who has just failed to save his marriage by cutting corners in the flower department (he stole a telltale bouquet from a roadside grave). This is probably a metaphor for what went wrong in their relationship. He has the decency to return the flowers, but this, we soon learn, is a rare moment of morality for the character. It’s not that he’s a bad person, exactly. He’s just not a good person.

Max has absolutely zero aspirations. He lives from one moment to the next, succumbing to whims and random bits of advice. He courts and subsequently weds his quirky, carb-obsessed co-worker, Lyla, because a stranger tells him to just get that second marriage over with. Don’t feel bad for her, though. She’s just as unaffected as Max. Everyone is, including Max and Lyla’s lusty nanny, Lyla’s terminally ill father, and Max’s constant companion – a dimwitted sage named Sal (Nick Offerman). The film progresses in five-year intervals, marked by ethereal animations, which allude to a mysterious, light-exuding blue suitcase that Max keeps in his closet. It’s never revealed, but whatever is in that case makes the person who opens it very happy. In fact, the only time any character truly smiles is when they take a gander at its contents. The rest of the time, the characters make huge life decisions and handle love, loss, birth, death, fortune and misfortune with the same zombie-like detachment.

I should also mention that “Somebody Up There Likes Me” is billed as a comedy. There are jokes! Many of these jokes are even funny, but, if you become too preoccupied with trying to figure out the character motivations, you might forget to laugh. Then again, I don’t think any of these characters have any motivations. These are people who expect absolutely nothing out of life and want nothing, unless it’s convenient. And yet, life keeps happening to them.

The acting is so stylized that it’s difficult to praise the performances. Their uniform nonchalant tone evokes the deliberate direction of a Wes Anderson film. Delightfully, Nick Offerman is such a charismatic presence, that he can’t help but inject just a hint of impish Ron Swansonism.

Wes Anderson parallels run deeper than the hipster soundtrack (by Vampire Weekend’s Chris Baio) and deadpan delivery. Max becomes a profoundly neglectful father, at times channeling Royal Tenenbaum. We don’t get to see how this affects his son, Lyle, until the boy is a man. But Lyle might be the only character in the film capable of emotions.

Though everyone around Max develops signs of aging (a gray streak here, a wrinkle there), his own appearance never changes. Perhaps this is indicative of a lack of personal growth or maybe there’s a Dorian Gray thing at play with that suitcase. Either way, its symbolism can’t be ignored. Byington certainly has something to say here, but he leaves it up to the audience to figure out what that is.

If you see this movie, you’ll have to tell me how you interpret it, but here’s what I think: The film posits that life is arbitrary. “Somebody Up There Likes Me” is an ironic title which alludes to the popular notion that there is a God and he has a plan (or is that Cylons?). Whether or not there is a God in Byington’s universe, he most certainly does not have a plan. It doesn’t matter how you choose to live your life, be it by working your ass off or hardly working. Good things and bad things will come to you in equal measure. But the things that happen to you aren’t what matter. Somebody up there might be doling out your ups and downs, but what’s most important is that somebody down here likes you. Otherwise, your life is a waste.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

March 26, 2012
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat, sxsw . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2012 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated
89 minutes

****

In his collection of essays entitled “Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs,” Chuck Klosterman astutely observes that “dynamic, nonretarded Americans… all seem to share a single unifying characteristic: the inability to experience the kind of mind-blowing, transcendent romantic relationship they perceive to be a normal part of living.” For this, he chooses to blame John Cusack. (For the sake of argument, John Cusack is interchangeable with his character in “Say Anything”.)

John Cusack is not a fairy tale prince. He’s just a really nice guy. That’s why it may seem perfectly reasonable to want to “hold out” for a John Cusack of your own. But in actuality, John Cusack is a completely unattainable romantic ideal, which has made every “dynamic, nonretarded American” believe that if they don’t have a boom box serenade, they don’t have anything. Nate Meyer puts Klosterman’s idea into practice with his carefully crafted film, “See Girl Run”, by using the mold of a Hollywood romance to show how damaging these notions are when taken too seriously.

Robin Tunney plays, Emmie, a self-employed thirty-something who is experiencing a downswing in her marriage. Thanks to ongoing correspondence with her high school sweetheart, she allows herself to get swept up in the idea that she’s been missing out on her Happily Ever After. Unbeknownst to her husband (Josh Hamilton), she auditions for a reality show about reuniting lost loves, naming Jason (Adam Scott) as the one who got away. When the casting director dismisses her application on a technicality, Emmie decides to take the reunion into her own hands, and heads back to her small coastal hometown in Maine to pursue what might have been.

Meanwhile, Jason has been slumming it at a lobster restaurant, while he obstinately chases his pie-in-the-sky dreams of becoming a professional illustrator and reuniting with Emmie. He’s stalled his life for years, never fully committing to anything or anyone. He’s the personification of the undisturbed childhood bedroom. Adam Scott’s effortless charm invokes empathy toward a delusional character that might have otherwise been insufferable.

Jason and Emmie share a consuming sentimentality and a confidant in Emmie’s brother, Brandon. Meyer tells the story through the perspective of the would-be lovebirds, letting the detriment of what they’re doing speak for itself. At first, Brandon lets Jason and Emmie’s juvenile shenanigans distract him from his own issues of depression, alcoholism and a freshly botched marriage. But, as Emmie continues to put off seeing Jason, literally hiding from him on several occasions, Brandon must be the voice of reason for these two foolish saps. Emmie and Jason have cast themselves in a formulaic romance. If this were a Hollywood film, we would be expected to root for them. But Meyer’s refreshing script reflects the reality of their actions in the peripheral characters.

There is a reason people say, “marriage is work.” It’s because once the initial luster wears off, you’re left with two flawed people who have entered into a partnership. Sometimes, you love your work and sometimes it’s a pain in the ass. But it’s never going to be perfect because there’s no such thing. John Cusack is the disease. Just maybe, “See Girl Run” is the antidote.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

March 18, 2012
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat, sxsw . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2012 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated
94 minutes

****

You might not think Sharon Stone had much in common with Kelly Osbourne, Lemmy and Paris Hilton (other than relative fame). But you’d be wrong. The thing they have in common is the Sunset Strip, the road that stretches a mile and a half through West Hollywood and has been making history for over 100 years. Every inch of it has a story. As Mickey Rourke puts it, “Your dreams will start there and they will end there.” Hans Fjellestad’s documentary, “Sunset Strip,” is a thorough history of this street of dreams and nightmares, beginning with its origins as a trade route, up to present day where ambassadors from each era converge. The film shows you a fascinating, glamorous, decadent and tragic place, filled to the brim with amazing tales. If you have even a passing interest in movies or music, you will be absolutely riveted for the full 90 minutes.

The Sunset Strip has been a perfect microcosm of Hollywood since actors first pulled up a stool at Schwab’s Drug Store whilst “waiting for the gravy train.” So many legends walked those streets that it’s practically hallowed ground. Marilyn Monroe met Joe Dimaggio in the same airspace that Lemmy currently occupies at the Rainbow. Rock and Roll was born at the Whiskey A Go Go with Johnny Rivers. Later, the Who, Led Zeppelin and the Doors rocked that same tiny stage. River Phoenix spent his last night in the same building in which the Pussycat Dolls later revived burlesque. Comedy Gods were born at the Comedy Store, where Robin Williams, Andrew Dice Clay and Sam Kinison shared bowls full of cocaine snorted through $1,000 bills before going on. Buffalo Springfield wrote “For What It’s Worth” about the same protest, which also saw Peter Fonda arrested. I could go on, but it’s really more fun to see it for yourself.

Fjellestad employs a very casual interview style, piecing together the chronicle of the Strip through musings from the people who were there. Actors, comedians, musicians and business owners from every generation get a chance tell their part of it. The story flows naturally through the decades, packing each part with entertaining vignettes as well as a nice overview of what was going on then and how it reflected or reacted to what was going on in the rest of the country. It’s as if grandpa managed to sneak a history lesson into his awesome anecdotes.

Not every interview subject is equally enthralling. A too-serious Billy Corgan seems like he’s there only to promote his new music. The film opens with Fergie belting out “Barracuda” live on stage, like a stripper channeling Ann Wilson while Slash diddles around in background. It’s a decent enough performance, but it doesn’t feel like it has much to do with anything other than to prove that Fergie actually knows how to sing. But these moments are few and far between. Most of the interviewees are so compelling that it becomes immediately apparent why they got famous in the first place. They belong to the Strip and the Strip belongs to them. The rest of us are just visiting.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

March 18, 2012
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat, sxsw . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment

2012 SXSW FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION!
Unrated
95 minutes

**

What is it with demons and video cameras, anyway? The found footage horror movie is seriously overdone. Can we please stop? It’s not even that scary anymore.

To be fair, the director of “Lovely Molly” (Eduardo Sanchez) is the guy who started it all when he brought us “The Blair Witch Project” way back in 1999. In his latest film, he mixes home movies with video footage shot by videographers (both seen and unseen) as well as traditional narrative filming. The result feels like a “Greatest Hits” of camcorder horror. And some of those hits aren’t even all that great.

The film opens on Molly (Gretchen Lodge) not looking so lovely. She cries into the camera about the terrible things she’s done against her will. She holds a knife to her own throat, but claims that an unseen force won’t let her end her suffering.

The opening credits play over happier times: a video of Molly and her husband, Tim, on their wedding day. It’s not just the supernatural that loves video documentation. I don’t know if demons are drawn to camera happy people or if possession brings it out of them, but folks in these movies constantly film their lives. You can bet that, during an intense moment, someone is going to tell Molly to “stop fucking filming.” Between her own camera and some security footage from her work as a custodian in a mall, there’s barely a moment Molly isn’t on camera.

Despite all the terrible memories it conjures up, Molly and Tim are forced to live in Molly’s childhood home, a creaky old thing in the middle of nowhere that is absolutely riddled with terrible rooms. There is a haunted bedroom with a dark closet, a dank basement, a tiny attic, a shed with an ominous green chair and a spooky horse shrine in a crawl space. Because Molly and Tim keep the place sparsely decorated it looks more like a museum to Molly’s abusive past than a newlywed couple’s love nest.

Screenwriters Sanchez and Jamie Nash try to keep the audience guessing about whether an evil entity is actually stalking Molly, or if she’s merely a victim of drug abuse and mental instability caused by childhood trauma. But they tip their own hand several times with some pretty standard supernatural shenanigans. The plot that unfolds is essentially a possession paint-by-numbers.

When their alarm goes off in the middle of the night, Molly and Tim call the cops. Naturally, despite the fact that the couple definitely heard something banging around downstairs, the officer on the scene sees no sign of forced entry. He’s equally useless every time Molly calls him back to investigate the escalating bumps in the night. This guy obviously aced “Cliché Explanation 101” at the Academy because he blames both “the wind” and “some neighbor kids” on what’s been happening before leaving Molly to her own devices.

The writers do their best to address the typical plot holes about why people don’t just move the fuck out when they suspect that they may have supernatural roommates. They’re too poor for Tim to quit his job as a truck driver, which keeps him on the road. She can’t see a doctor about her blacking-out-and-waking-up-naked problem because they can’t afford health insurance. She refuses to stay with her sister because she doesn’t want to impose. It never occurs to them to sell the place or try to rent it out. Besides, it’s only a little ghost rape. I’m sure it won’t get any worse.

For a while, the plot is just one long list of excuses in between inaudible whispering, lights popping on by themselves, disembodied crying and the occasional sexual harassment of a priest. Eventually, blood starts to flow as Molly’s Equine Ghost Dad brings her deeper and deeper into the abyss. Terrible things happen for no other reason than to be shocking. I have to give Lodge credit for her performance, which is an absolutely balls-out one. I just wish she had been given something a little more worthy of her talent.

Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).

March 18, 2012
Categories: Filmpinions . Tags: filmthreat, sxsw . Author: Baxter . Comments: Leave a comment