Shared Darkness

The buddy-cop genre has been spun a dozen different ways from sundown (there’s even an afterlife version with Jeff Bridges and Ryan Reynolds, in the form of this summer’s forthcoming R.I.P.D.), but the paired-female version has, for a variety of reasons, never been given much of a serious Hollywood treatment, either dramatically or comedically, on the big screen (sorry, Cagney & Lacey). That changes with The Heat, a fresh, funny and indefatigably paced offering starring Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy. Helmed by Bridesmaids director Paul Feig, and powered by great comedy of contrasts, the movie channels the same anarchic spirit as last year’s 21 Jump Street, delivering a wild and enjoyable ride of nicely balanced verbal sparring and physical comedy.



Sarah Ashburn (Bullock) is a hard-charging, by-the-books FBI agent with her eye on a promotion. Sent by her boss (Demian Bechir) from New York up to Boston to try to untangle a lead on a drug dealer, the difficult Ashburn immediately locks horns with Shannon Mullins (McCarthy), an uncouth local police officer whose lack of adherence to rules would seemingly mark Lorenzo Lamas or Steven Seagal as her heroes. Begrudgingly thrown together and powered by their shared fierce desire to bring down a mysterious criminal kingpin, they begin to suspect there might be a mole in the Boston Police Department or another government agency.

Screenwriter Katie Dippold (Parks & Recreation) leans readily on recognizable character types and the reliable tension between McCarthy’s boundless, foul-mouthed energy and Bullock’s initial condescension and deadpan, slow-burn persona, but she uses an audience’s familiarity with and acceptance of these tropes in smart, amusing ways. There’s definitely a bit of the same buttoned-up spirit Bullock brought to the Miss Congeniality films, but with less doted on personality flaws. Likewise, all the sputtering, go-it-alone rage of McCarthy’s character comes from a sincere place; having locked up her druggie brother Jason (Michael Rapaport) in order to protect him from both himself and others, Mullins is a pariah to her own stereotypically dysfuntional Irish family (a group that includes Jane Curtin, Bill Burr, Nate Corddry and, yes, ex-NKOTB-er Joey McIntyre — all very funny, and of an agitated piece).

Ergo, these characterizations feel more fully rounded, and the film as a whole has a savvy touch; while in some respects it’s a pin-prick satire of the puffed-up, masculinized clichés of the genre, it invests wholeheartedly in the feeling behind the behavior. Feig showcases great instincts for where and how to end scenes (the film is smartly edited, if a pinch overlong), and as with Bridesmaids, there’s also a distinctive array of worthy supporting characters — all honestly motivated, and not sacrificed at the altar of cheap, take-what-you-can, scene-to-scene laughs.

Bullock and McCarthy’s superb chemistry is The Heat‘s chief draw, however. It starts out as voluble, but as Ashburn and Mullins recognize and appreciate the occupational passion in one another, and pass through first a détente and then into friendship, it gives the movie a bit of welcome and surprising heart to match its bawdiness. (20th Century Fox, R, 117 minutes)

A return to the median for master of disaster Roland Emmerich after 2011’s period drama Anonymous, White House Down finds Channing Tatum and Jamie Foxx, a mere three months after the similarly plotted Olympus Has Fallen, battling for their lives and the lives of their countrymen while bearing witness to the destruction of the seat of government and living quarters of the President of the United States. Falling more on the side of entertaining than good — there’s a basic miscalculation to a movie that explicitly puts a gun to a child’s head and also has the commander-in-chief peddling quips about his sneakers — Emmerich’s adrenalized, well orchestrated pop fantasy is the type of exercise in audiovisual excess that heartily welcomes viewer reactions of “ridiculous” as compliments, whether intended or not. For the full, original review, from Screen Daily, click here.

World War Z is busy presently chewing up the box office, but there’s another zombie tale out there in theaters as well — one likely shot, quite literally, for the catering budget on Brad Pitt‘s film. Putting a Shaun of the Dead-like spin on one of filmmaker John Hughes’ beloved teen classics, Detention of the Dead centers on an oddball (and at-odds) collection of high school students who find themselves trapped in detention while all their classmates and teachers outside have turned into zombies. If its budget and cramped settings sometimes let it down, director Alex Craig Mann, in his feature debut, shows a nice ability to juggle character-rooted comedy and horror, in a manner that would surely make a young Sam Raimi proud.

It sounds damning with faint praise (and I suppose it somewhat is), but the easiest and most honest line on Detention of the Dead is that it’s better than it has any reasonable right or need to be, given its aims. A calling card for its maker and young cast, the movie isn’t seeking to reinvent the wheel or radically reinvent formula, and yet the extra thought and care put into it on various levels of production is evident throughout. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. Detention of the Dead opens today in select cities, and in Los Angeles at the Laemmle NoHo7. Additionally, it’s already available across VOD platforms. For more information, click here to visit its website. (Gala Films, R, 87 minutes)

In the vein of Searching for Sugar Man and Anvil! The Story of Anvil, earnest and engaging nonfiction feature A Band Called Death again helps prove that all the best nonfiction music stories aren’t tied up in Behind the Music-type bitterness and acrimony, and certainly aren’t related to any level of achieved fame. A warm if slightly overlong tale that sketches an arc of both what sadly might have been and what surprisingly now is bubbling to the surface, the movie chronicles the rather incredible story of three African-American Detroit brothers who, in the 1970s shadow of Motown, formed a punk rock group that predated Bad Brains, the Sex Pistols and even the Ramones.

A Band Called Death opens with a barrage of familiar faces — Henry Rollins, Elijah Wood, Kid Rock, the Roots’ ?estlove, Alice Cooper and more — designed to give the brothers Hackney credence. Three of four sons (the oldest was not a band member) of Motor City working-class parents, Bobby, Dannis and David grew up in a household that valued the eclecticism of music as much as the rhythm; the Beatles and the Who were as welcome as Earth, Wind and Fire, and the younger three Hackney’s in quick order turned to rock ‘n’ roll. The tragic death of their father, who was killed by a drunk driver, marked a turning point for their musical experimentation, however. Older brother David christened them Death, and they channeled their grief and abiding spirituality into a litany of thrashing tracks.

David, however, was caught up in the notion that the band’s somewhat off-putting (or at least confusing) name was integral to its “concept” — so much so that he convinced his brothers to turn down a record deal from Clive Davis. Their master recordings were returned to them, but nothing ever came of those innovative “Death sessions.” A heavy drinker and smoker, David would drift apart from his brothers — who made a living with a reggae band — and eventually succumb to lung cancer. Years later, however, Death’s tunes would find their way into the hands of collectors, leading to a proper “reissue” via Drag City Records, 35 years after the material’s recording, and sparking an appreciation of their heretofore unrecognized trailblazing status.

Co-directors Mark Covino and Jeff Howlett have an obvious affection for the Hackneys, and their closeness to the family, and the mutual trust they obviously have, makes for a warm, openhearted film. They do a generally great job, too, of mixing in archival photos, performance footage and other audio snippets with a cross-section of modern-day interviews, creating a dynamic and sincere sense of the Hackney family’s love and joy — for both music and one another.

Somewhat paradoxically, the film’s energy wanes a bit once it gets into the details of Death’s rediscovery. Just when it should be really catching flight as a story of unlikely redemption, the movie becomes bogged down by a roster of obsessive collectors.　Covino and Howlett seem to feel the need to track the full story, in exacting hand-to-hand detail, of how a particular seven-inch came to be passed along to some ears that mattered. Little matter, however. A Band Called Death still delivers an uplifting tale of resilience and deep family bonds. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here; to view its trailer, click here. In addition to its theatrical engagements, A Band Called Death is also available on iTunes and across VOD platforms. (Drafthouse, unrated, 96 minutes)