Daily Archives: December 29, 2008

Los Angeles Times Joins Ben Lyons Shit Parade

So I’m a day late if not a dollar short in getting to this, but there’s no doubt that Chris Lee’s piece in yesterday’s Los Angeles Times about Ben Lyons will be well received by most of the film crowd intelligentsia, especially on the west coast. The piece opens by asking in straightforward fashion if Lyons is the most hated film critic in America, yielding at the end of its first paragraph to this conclusion: “Consensus is that Lyons, the son of New York film critic Jeffrey Lyons, is unworthy of the balcony seats once occupied by Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel on the TV mainstay that has rallied audiences into theaters for more than three decades.” It goes further downhill from there for the younger Lyons.

Somewhat naturally, the Times is late to the party. All of this is after Roger Ebert basically put Lyons in the crosshairs in an October blog-post piece about the rules of film criticism and entertainment journalism. (Distilled, it’s basically, “Thou shalt not whore, or be an idiot,” two things with which Lyons has, at various points, been identified.) And this isn’t counting Erik Childress’ weekly Ben Lyons Watch, on eFilmCritic, or several other frequently trafficked Internet hit sites, most of which are mentioned in Lee’s 1,800-plus-word piece. Still, it’s fairly rare that print media (and the Times specifically) gets into the nitty-gritty of niche-culture wars waged largely on the blogosphere. Usually the real pulse of what people are murmuring is buried in a “trend” piece, or stacked up more comparatively, as if to purposefully lessen the blow. No such equivocation here.

All of which reflects more or less the chattering-class truth, I have to say. I’ve been privy to no fewer than five conversations at separate parties and/or professional gatherings where Lyons came under harsh direct fire, if not as the sole target of denigration then certainly as the chief one. Caveats? Well, let’s be honest: there’s an element of straight-up professional jealousy when it comes to the ease with which college washout Lyons, 27, has risen the ranks. In a profession where seemingly there is no such thing as terra firma, be it in print, online or on television, At the Movies is still a very plush gig, and many regard Lyons’ appointment there as a line-skipping affront.

Underqualified perhaps, but he’s not going to say no if offered the job. Who would? Still, two things could help Lyons, if more in the long-run than the short-run. First, if he exhibited more restraint with regards to the sort of gushing, simpleton praise he regularly doles out for rote studio product. I’m all for judging a movie on its own to-scale ambitions, and within the often comfier confines of its own fenced-in genre trappings, but one does have to still keep a broader context in mind, and apply an honest critical filter. Also, never give a publicist or PR flack reaction quotes immediately after seeing a film, or even verbally, for that matter. If I’m queried for something more than a simple yea-nay reaction on a movie, I will at times make available an advance, pre-publication copy of my review, or, failing that, a written, emailed response. You know, with actual sentences, not just exclamatory declarations or comparisons to previous box office hits. This helps ensure you don’t come off as a doof, calling everything “awesome,” or “a one-of-a-kind thrill ride.”

Second, surely it would help if Lyons just exhibited more a bit curiosity and application. A sizeable enough portion of film writers (and this includes both dyed-in-the-wool print critics and newbie e-critics as well) like to get into pissing matches about trivia knowledge, florid style or the ability to turn a phrase. So who’s the smartest critic? And is that the same as the best writer? Or the quickest analytical mind? Does it matter, in the end? What really rankles mightily, I think, is the ill-fitting breeziness of someone living a charmed life unearned. I’ve worked with people like that. We all know them. Intelligence and ability are great, very useful tools, to be sure. But if someone is working hard, and not only performing to the best of their abilities but also actively trying to get better at what they do, most reasoning people cut them a break. Lyons doesn’t come across as that guy. Is it any wonder, then, that in a country so fed up with still-President Bush and his off-the-mark, from-the-gut decision-making, the highest profile film critic who most obviously exemplifies the same sort of glad-handing, unexamined, hey-Dad-look-at-me! shuck-and-jive goofiness is a marked man?

Ghost Town

Having unintentionally birthed a derisive new shorthand (“nuked the fridge”) last summer with Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, high-profile screenwriter David Koepp jumps behind the camera for his fourth feature film as a director, a comedically-inflected minor misfire
about a socially maladjusted dentist, Bertram Pincus (Ricky Gervais),
who briefly dies, comes back to life, and finds himself able to see and
talk to dead people. Soon Bertram, much to his annoyance, is being
pestered for favors by all sorts of Earthbound ghosts, including a
philandering husband, Frank Herlihy (Greg Kinnear), looking to break up
the impending marriage of his wife, Gwen (Téa Leoni).

Exercising his considerable skill with cud-chewing asides, and blissfully playing up his character’s inhospitality and smarmy self-regard, Gervais helps give Ghost Town a bit of a kick in the pants.
And the movie is, on a certain level, sweet enough, really — it elicits
a few smiles and nods of identification here and there. Saturday Night Live‘s Kristen Wiig pops up in a couple amusing scenes, as a doctor with an affinity for tanning cream, no matter the fact that “it smells like dirt,” as she absentmindedly notes. And, yeah, dental practice colleague Aasif Mandvi gets to give Gervais the slow burn, after putting up with his shit for years.

But mostly Ghost Town
feels full of safe choices and conventional moves, rendering it a
future sale-through, bundled-DVD companion of fellow apparitional rom-com piffle like
2005’s Just Like Heaven
. Nothing truly gels, and gathers any downhill momentum. A potent comedic force in her own
right, Leoni is forced to mainly stand around, look beautiful and play
variations on sputtering uncertainty, which she capably pulls off,
scene to scene. Watching her romantically warm to Gervais and vice
versa, however, elicits indifference at best, disbelief at worst.
Koepp’s previous directorial efforts have all been small-budgeted
dramatic thrillers, with an emphasis on the human drama more than the
thrills. His first foray into more whimsical comedy, co-written with
John Kamps, unfortunately doesn’t leave one wanting for more in this vein.

Housed in a regular Amray plastic case, Ghost Town comes presented in 1.85: anamorphic widescreen, with Dolby digital 5.1 surround sound and Dolby digital 2.0 stereo tracks in Spanish and French. A feature-length audio commentary track with Koepp and the quip-happy Gervais is a lively affair, full of plenty of quick-witted asides and amusing anecdotes. Next up is a 23-minute making-of featurette which showcases Koepp’s insights about the creative process, and how he saw the film take shape; somewhat interestingly, he says that Leoni is basically playing Cary Grant’s character from Bringing Up Baby. Billy Campbell, meanwhile, confesses his secret for not cracking up during takes with Gervais: “I clinched my butt cheeks,” he says. A two-minute montage clip with no sound shows how a few special effects sequences were composited from separate frames, while a six-and-a-half-minute blooper reel is heavy on flubbed lines and other genial screw-ups from Gervais. There are some olive-related shenanigans during a restaurant scene, and Gervais cracks up Leoni when he gazes up the remains of a mummy (in the above photo) and talks about “sniffing his knob.” Finishing off the edited-together sequence, Gervais opines, “This is why I don’t do plays — they wouldn’t get out of the theater until 12:45!” Previews for American Teen, Eagle Eye and The Duchess round things out. C (Movie) B- (Disc)

Marley & Me

Sometimes screening schedules and the intrusions of everyday, regular life don’t align, or other assignments take precedent over films in which you might have more of an interest in a head-to-head pick ’em. Such was the case with Marley & Me, a movie that 20th Century Fox actually proactively screened, in an against-trend moment, yet I felt I could likely take or leave. The Butterscotch Stallion and the erstwhile Mrs. Brad Pitt, a rambunctious dog and some Family Circus-type familial angst… got it, check. Yet circumstances contrived to put me in a theater with a general audience over the Christmas break, and I was pleased with what unfolded.

I won’t say I was surprised, really, because I liked all the talent behind-the-scenes, which seemed to augur a competent production. I will say instead that Marley & Me is an above-the-line triumph of a different sort, because it so clearly represents an across-the-board, streamlined uniformity of vision with no sacrifice of quality; director David Frankel proves that his work on the 2006 summer smash The Devil Wears Prada was no mere source-text fluke, and Scott Frank and Don Roos, two talented screenwriters, do a great job of adapting John Grogan’s best-selling, same-named memoir with wit, clarity and heart.

The film opens with newlyweds John and Jennifer Grogan (Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston), leaving behind the harsh winters of Michigan on their wedding night, and heading south to
begin their new lives in West Palm Beach, Florida. They obtain jobs as
journalists at competing local newspapers, buy their first home, and
begin to make their way through the challenges of a new marriage, new
careers and, possibly, the life-changing decision to start a family. Unsure of his preparedness for raising children, though, John confesses his hesitation to his friend and fellow journalist Sebastian (Eric Dane), who comes up with
the perfect solution: get a puppy. “There’s nothing
to it,” says Sebastian. “You walk ’em. You feed ’em, you let ’em out
now and then.”

So the Grogans adopt a cute, little yellow Labrador and name him after reggae superstar Bob Marley. In no
time at all, though, they have a 100-pound steamroller of unbridled energy
that turns the Grogan home into a disaster area. He flunks obedience
school (mauling Kathleen Turner in the process), chews through sofa cushions and dry-wall, overturns
garbage cans, steals a Thanksgiving turkey, consumes flowers and toilet water, and chases the UPS guy. Even a
newly-purchased, expensive necklace isn’t safe from Marley’s gaping maw, which leads John to have to sift through poop for retrieval. The story marches inexorably forward, though; John becomes a weekly columnist, almost against his will, and Jenny quits her job. And amidst all the mayhem he generates, Marley helps see the
Grogans through the ups and downs of having kids, through job and home
changes, and most of all, just the myriad everyday challenges of a growing
family. Eventually, however, Marley grows old, and weak, forcing the Grogans to make some tough decisions.

Yes, Marley & Me has a couple peppy montage sequences of destruction aimed at producing squeals of delight from younger viewers. But, owing chiefly to Grogan’s source material, it also has an honest narrative backbone. This means story twists that, just like in real life, are sometimes painful — a miscarriage, a fairly late change of scenery — story twists that wouldn’t be tolerated in an originally produced screenplay. (You can practically hear the studio executive doing a spit-take: “A miscarriage?! Can’t we just have some more dog stuff… maybe some unexpected puppies?”) Frankly, I’m thrilled that all these things — as well as John’s wistful, nice-guy jealousy at Sebastian’s ascendant career arc and bachelor lifestyle — are included. They make the film what it is: deeper, more substantive, honest, and real. This is a film that happens to be rated PG, but can play to almost any age, and that happens to be somewhat about a dog, but isn’t just for dog lovers.

Other stuff that works well includes Alan Arkin — fantastic as Arnie Klein, John’s ascerbic editor — and Dane, who reduces the boil of his smarmy Grey’s Anatomy lothario to a mild simmer, to nice effect. Wilson and Aniston each do their thing as well; they make a believable, suitably charming couple, and nicely play the moments of familial drama and bickering, too. Commercially, Marley & Me has been embraced quickly out of the gate, and it’s not hard to see why, given the money pumped into its charm offensive, consisting of all those adorable posters, billboards and bus ads. But it’s a solid piece of Hollywood studio filmmaking, and those that took a pass on it thinking it was “only” a dog movie would do well to reconsider their first reaction. (20th Century Fox, PG, 123 minutes)

The House Bunny

Anna Faris is a rarity in young Hollywood — a fairly known
commodity and proven performer to boot, but still an undervalued stock. Collectively, the four Scary Movie films in which she has starred have taken in over $430 million domestically, and Faris’ supporting turns in movies like The Hot Chick, Waiting, Just Friends, My Super Ex-Girlfriend and, of course, Sophia Coppola’s Lost in Translation have shown her to be an inspired comic performer, equally adept at blank-faced satire, unhinged farce and physical slapstick. Yet, thus far, true breakout stardom has eluded Faris. Her highest profile solo-starring turn, however, The House Bunny, has the marketing advantage of her in a skimpy pink bikini.

The first film from executive producer Adam Sandler’s Happy Madison production company to fully give itself over to a mostly female ensemble, The House Bunny
is an utterly predictable and formulaic comedy given a huge kick in the
keester courtesy of its effervescent star. The movie’s
inner-beauty/empowerment arc is consignment-shop thin, and handled with
little élan by Fred Wolf, a former Saturday Night Live writer and Team Sandler veteran who stumbled through his directorial debut in the form of this year’s quietly dumped Strange Wilderness. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter, because every moment Faris is on screen is a moment in which something delightful could happen, and that’s as good a reason as any these days to go to the movies.

Faris
(above left, with Emma Stone) stars as Shelley Darlingson, a third-tier
Playboy bunny (she of the “Girls of the Midwest” and “Girls with GEDs”
pictorials) who aspires to print centerfold-dom (“It’s like the highest honor — it says, ‘I’m naked in the middle of a magazine… unfold me’”).
When a misunderstanding facilitated by a conniving housemate leads to
Shelley getting the boot from the Playboy mansion, though, she sets out
on her own, and stumbles across a small college with a sorority house
in need. Unless they can sign a robust new pledge class, the seven
socially clueless women of Zeta Alpha Zeta will lose their house. Needing a place to stay, Shelley talks her way into becoming their new house mother, and a cracked, colorful alliance is formed.
Throw in a few token love interests (including Colin Hanks for Faris’
character), some bureaucratic bit players (Christopher McDonald and Beverly D’Angelo) both sympathetic and hard-line, and some scheming counterparts — in the form of the girls
of rival sorority Phi Iota Mu, led by Sarah Wright — and one doesn’t need their own
GED to figure out where this is all headed.

Owing to the fact that it’s penned by the same screenwriters, Karen McCullah Lutz and Kirsten Smith, The House Bunny at times feels like a tailor-made companion piece to 2001’s Legally Blonde, both in color (pink, everywhere!) and bouncy tone. Though there are moderately well integrated cameos from Hugh Hefner and his real-life Aryan princesses,
there are also more than a few narrative bumps along the way, and gears
sometimes grind for a scene or two when characters are forced to more
nakedly advance the story. (It’s best, for instance, not to think about
the logistics of Shelley teaching the gals all about what boys like,
when American Idol runner-up Katharine McPhee plays a very
pregnant coed.) Speaking generally, though, there’s actually some
amusement to the gender inversion of Greek-clash college flick clichés,
and the value of the ditzy quips (“Eyes are like the nipples of the face,” advises Shelley) and some other banter are certainly above average. It’s funny, too, to watch Shelley discover that a steaming manhole isn’t always the best place to try to re-enact a Marilyn Monroe moment.

Faris’ breathy essence, though, is both the engine and the gasoline that makes this movie run.
(She also nabs a producer credit, her first.) With her in the driver’s
seat, the sturdy Oldsmobile-feel of this plot earns its racing stripes.
Faris has the savvy comic timing and inherent appeal of a new millennial Carole Lombard or Lucille Ball,
and the casting dilemmas she presents — clearly too talented and
naturally charismatic for eye-batting girlfriend roles, and such a
force of potential personality that she would eclipse a lot of drippy
rom-com leading men, like Edward Burns or Luke Wilson — summon to mind a similar problem faced by Téa Leoni,
another under-appreciated comedic performer. Whatever its final
commercial haul, one thinks, however, that the skimpy pink bikinis on
display in The House Bunny might finally help Faris get Hollywood’s lasting attention.

Housed in a regular plastic Amray case, The House Bunny is presented in 2.40:1 anamorphic widescreen, with English and French language Dolby digital 5.1 audio mixes and optional subtitles in the same language. Eleven-plus minutes of deleted scenes headline the extra features, though they run unscrubbed, and with time-code information on the bottom. A couple of the scenes, rightly excised, deal with a story strand in which Shelley, after being forced to pay for parking for the first time in her life, takes the advice of the lot attendant and gets a job, waitressing at IHOP.

It’s disappointing that for a film based on an idea she herself had more than two years ago, there isn’t an audio commentary track with Faris, but those are the breaks. She’s in demand, I guess, and couldn’t squeeze it into her schedule. In its place, the DVD producers opt for sheer volume, in the form of a whopping 12 featurettes. Truth be told, these bits run about 50 to 55 minutes when strung together (a “play all” feature is thankfully included on the disc), and could have easily been integrated into a more cohesive long-form documentary with a bit more editorial effort. Interviews with all prominent cast and crew members are included, from the screenwriters and members of Sandler’s creative team (producer Allen Covert, et al) to even ex-USC quarterback Matt Leinart, who cameos in a scene at the Playboy Mansion.

Various segments focus on the ensemble female players; the make-up and hair transformation of Shelley’s Zeta housemates; the film’s volcano-centric party sequence; Colin Hanks; the movie’s calendar shoot; and the on-set experiences of first-time actress Katharine McPhee and first-time actor Tyson Ritter, from the band The All-American Rejects. Naturally, one bouncy segment focuses more on Faris, and she reflects on the creation of her character, her 50 costume changes and interactions with others. Also included, yawningly, is a music video for McPhee’s version of “I Know What Boys Like,” which plays under the credits and, even more worthlessly, a one-minute “introduction” to the video by ever-sunny McPhee. Rounding things out are a gallery of previews for Hancock, The Other Boleyn Girl and 10 more Sony DVD releases. To view The House Bunny‘s trailer, click here; to purchase the film on DVD via Amazon, click here. B+ (Movie) B (Disc)

Palm Springs Festival Honors Freida Pinto

In addition to its feting of Clint Eastwood and assorted other celebrities, the 20th annual Palm Springs International Film Festival will honor 24-year-old Freida Pinto, of Slumdog Millionaire, with its Breakthrough Performance Award, it was announced today. Presented by Cartier, the festival’s awards gala will kick off the 2009 awards season on Tuesday, January 6, at the Palm Springs Convention Center, and will be hosted by Entertainment Tonight’s
Mary Hart. For more information on the festival, which runs January 6-19, click here.