The five Golden Globe nominees for Best Foreign Language Film will screen next week at the Aero Theatre, before the directors of all the nominated films convene for a special seminar at the Egyptian Theatre on Saturday, January 10. German director Uli Edel’s The Baader-Meinhof Complex will screen on Wednesday, January 7 at 7:30 p.m., followed by a discussion with Edel and writer-producer Bernd Eichinger; the following evening brings a double-feature of Everlasting Moments and Waltz with Bashir; Friday, January 9 features a double-feature of the French drama I’ve Loved You So Long and the sprawling Italian crime ensemble Gomorrah. On Saturday,
January 10, at 1 p.m. at the Egyptian Theatre, the directors of all five films will
sit for a free-admission panel moderated by Mike Goodridge, of Screen International.
The Aero Theatre
is located at 1328 Montana Avenue in Santa Monica; the
historic Egyptian Theatre is located at 6712 Hollywood Boulevard, between Highland and Las
Palmas, in Hollywood. Tickets for both venues are available through Fandango, but for 24-hour recorded
information on tickets, directions and each site’s upcoming schedule,
phone (323) 466-FILM, or visit
the Cinematheque’s eponymous Web site by clicking here.
John Travolta’s 16-year-old son Jett — the one named for the actor’s love of flying, and the one who may or may not have been autistic — has died in a most curious-sounding accident, reportedly after striking his head on a bathtub, possibly after a seizure. An all-around tragedy, to be certain, but the tabloids will have a month-long field day with this one, particularly if they can figure out a way to link to the mystery surrounding Jett’s diagnosis to this mishap — an easy series of dots to connect for the checkout lane set.
It’s Kate Bosworth’s 26th birthday today, and she gifted fans with some sheer-top and pantyhose photos, part of a cover spread for the UK’s Tank magazine by Todd Cole. Wow, thanks Kate. Umm… I forgot to get you anything, actually. Sorry. Tell you what, though — send me the top and I’ll pose in it myself, too.
Who says criminal pranksters aren’t foreign film fans? The folks who stole a $10,000 copper statue from the Florida estate of super-scamming douchebag extraordinaire Bernard Madoff were seemingly inspired by a 2005 German movie, it turns out. The Edukators focused on three leftist radicals who break into homes of the wealthy, not to steal but to rearrange furniture as an anti-capitalist statement and leave behind menacing notes; Madoff’s objet d’art was found in bushes Wednesday
behind the Palm Beach Country Club with a note signed by “the
educators,” and warning Madoff to “return stolen property to rightful
owners.” Err, as they did?
Directed by Bruno Barreto, an Oscar nominee for 1998’s Four Days in September, and written by Braulio Mantovani, an Oscar nominee for Best Adapted Screenplay for City of God, Brazil’s 2008 submission for the Best Foreign Language Film Academy Award screens January 4 at 7:30 p.m. at the Aero Theatre. Based on a true story and featuring young actors plucked from theater groups in and around the slums of Rio de Janeiro, Last Stop 174 tells the tragic saga of a boy in search of a family and a mother in search of her son, all against a backdrop where lies, degradation, corruption and violence are the norm, and justice is an unreal concept.
The Aero Theatre
is located at 1328 Montana Avenue in Santa Monica. Tickets for these movies, as well as other special events, are available through Fandango, but for 24-hour recorded
information on directions and the Aero’s upcoming schedule,
phone (323) 466-FILM.
Another period piece about a progressive, fashionable, forward-thinking woman constrained by and struggling against the strict mores of her time, director Saul Dibb’s The Duchess is a gear-grindingly familiar romantic drama cloaked in sumptuousness. Starring Keira Knightley, Ralph Fiennes and Dominic Cooper, the movie is based on the true story of the Duchess of Devonshire — an “It
Girl” of her era, and a direct ancestor to Princess Diana, as the film’s theatrical campaign nudgingly reminded viewers — who must face an agonizing choice between responsibility and love.
A characteristically beguiling young noblewoman, Georgiana Spencer (Knightley, suffering some prodigious hairpieces) is handed over for marriage by her mother (Charlotte Rampling) at the age of 17 to the wealthy and influential William Cavendish (Ralph Fiennes), the fifth Duke of Devonshire. With the arrangement, Georgiana enters into a lavish world filled with shocking deceptions, decadent scandals and stifling demands of duty. As Duchess of Devonshire, she first indulges her considerable energy in high society, outshining most of the aristocratic men around her with her incredible wit. The empty, endless chatter of the party circuit is not for her, however, and fashion icon Georgiana soon becomes the toast of London as much for her outspokenness as her iconic outfits. A devoted mother and stirring voice for the common man, she become one of the most impassioned political critics in all of 18th century England. Still, all isn’t happy at home. Lovers are taken — the dour William beds Bess Foster (Hayley Atwell), while Georgiana seeks comfort in the arms of Charles Grey (the aforementioned Cooper), a rising politician — and rigid domestic battle lines are drawn.
From Pride & Prejudice to Atonement, Knightley has a certain predilection for period piece fare, and the unfussy directness that’s a staple of almost all of her screen performances may be the film’s best attribute. She takes rather shallowly scripted clichés about loneliness and imbues them with undiluted feeling. That said, she and Cooper evidence little chemistry together, and Fiennes — a long way from the two mid-’90s Oscar nominations that gave him his reputation — can skate through stuffy material like this, and does so accordingly. Its connection to the still wildly beloved Princess Diana makes The Duchess more relevant or interesting to those across the pond (and British ex-pats living here, I guess), but the drama within the movie — consternation over Georgiana producing a daughter instead of siring a male heir, and the glass-house, woe-is-me psychological hand-wringing — is all very, very familiar, to an ultimately wearying degree.
Housed in a regular Amray plastic case, The Duchess comes presented in 2.35:1 anamorphic widescreen, along with English, French and Spanish language Dolby digital 5.1 surround sound audio tracks. Optional English, French and
Spanish subtitles are also available. Kicking off a so-so slate of three EPK-style bonus features is a 22-minute making-of documentary which explores the life of Georgiana, and the era that she came to define. Intercut interviews with cast and crew form the spine of this featurette, but extra footage from the many gorgeous locations that comprise the movie gives American viewers a glimpse of the old-world beauty that wide swatches of the United States just can’t match. In the seven-minute “Georgiana In Her Own Words,” Amanda Foreman, author of the award-winning book upon which the film is based, sits down with producer Gabrielle Tana at the actual home of Georgiana’s family, reviewing various letters, diary entries and artifacts that helped shape the historical landscape of her biography. Running six minutes, the final featurette shines a spotlight on costume designer Michael O’Connor, who talks about creating all of the film’s beautiful, extravagant wardrobes. An audio commentary track would have been nice, from either director Dibb (Bullet Boy) or the chatty Foreman, but a clutch of theatrical trailers for other Paramount releases round out this collection. To purchase the DVD via Amazon, click here. C (Movie) B- (Disc)
Produced by comedy man-of-the-moment Judd Apatow and directed by David Gordon Green, Pineapple Express follows a pair of druggie losers (James Franco and Seth Rogen) as they reach the top of the hit-list when one witnesses a mob murder by an evil drug lord (Gary Cole) and his corrupt cop partner (Rosie Perez). Marked for death, they set off on a mad-scramble escape, as both conceived and executed by habitual pot smokers.
Dale Denton (Rogen) is a schlubby twentysomething who doesn’t let his job as a process server intrude too much on his prodigious weed habit. Between official duty runs, he drops in on his high school girlfriend Angela (Amber Heard), lobbies talk radio hosts for the legalization of marijuana and of course rolls a couple joints. His dealer, Saul Silver (Franco), is a kind-hearted, wide-smiling soul who wants to be Dale’s best friend a little too much. When Dale witnesses a hit by drug lord Ted Jones (Cole) and his corrupt cop lover Carol (Perez), though, he instinctively high-tails it back to Saul’s pad… but only after accidentally dropping a very special, easily identifiable joint outside Ted’s place. Looking to tie up loose ends, Ted dispatches two henchmen (Craig Robinson and Kevin Corrigan) to question Saul’s supplier, Red (Danny McBride, above center), who quickly rats out Saul. The guns come out, and with their lives in jeopardy, Saul and Dale look to try to somehow score an upper hand; fisticuffs, wild chases in police cruisers and a siege at Angela’s house ensue, all before a shootout at a secret underground drug lair.
Pineapple Express more or less works as a stoner vehicle with intermittant flashes of shock violence, owing largely to the committed character work of in particular Franco, who’s a hoot. It’s this sly interplay (with Saul and Red reminiscing about how they contracted venereal diseases, say) that carries the day, much more than the brawny action — executed in only so-so fashion — that makes up the movie’s third act. With his arthouse roots, Green (George Washington, All the Real Girls, Snow Angels) is hired to give the film some offbeat edges, as with the montage moment — somewhat evocative of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid‘s “Raindrops Are Falling on My Head” segment — when Dale and Saul play leapfrog and blow smoke on a caterpillar. Another idiosyncratic touch that works to the film’s benefit is Graeme Revell’s alternately brawny and cheesy synth score, which sounds like an Atari game gone wild. Overall, a lesser entry in the recent “bro-mance” sub-genre, perhaps, but not without its moments.
Pineapple Express comes to home video in a variety of formats and versions, including a Blu-ray disc with exclusive bonus material, including a game based on the film. Reviewing off of the unrated single-disc version, though, there’s still plenty to enjoy. Housed in a regular plastic Amray case, the movie is presented in 2.40:1 anamorphic widescreen split into 28 chapters, and comes with English and French language 5.1 Dolby digital audio tracks, as well as optional English and French subtitles. The one big problem is that a cover sticker advertises both the theatrical and extended-cut versions of the film, but the latter is available nowhere on the regular menu screen. Instead, only once the regular “play” function has been selected can the extended version (117 minutes, versus 112 minutes for the theatrical cut) be chosen. This means that quick-play aficionados can’t select the long-play version, then skip past all those annoying start-up admonitions by just jumping straight to a chapter selection and toggling back to the beginning. Ah, well… small potatoes, I guess.
As for the actual bonus material, four deleted/extended scenes run a total of 10 minutes, the biggest difference being found in the movie’s black-and-white introductory sequence with Bill Hader and James Remar; Saul and Dale’s uncomfortable drug-buy conversation at Saul’s apartment is also extended, with Saul inviting Dale to go see Phantom of the Opera with him. As might be expected, the film’s feature-length audo commentary track is a rousing, messy group affair. It starts with Rogen and co-writer Evan Goldberg, Franco, Apatow, McBride, Ed Begley, Jr., and director Green, who’s patched in via conference call from another city and gives props to the shirtwear of a bit player at the film’s premiere. Begley, who the upstarts joke is “the Rod Carew of drug stories,” leaves about halfway through, and Perez and Robinson both stop by; producer Shauna Robertson also calls in, and inspires a brief discussion about the physiques of real-life drug dealers. Naturally, plenty of out-there anecdotes get mad run, including tales of being bombarded with urine-filled balloons while shooting in downtown Los Angeles, and a story in which Perez quotes L.L. Cool J as yelling at his wife, “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m gonna punch you in the pussy!” Special regrets also go out to Jeff Goldblum, who suffers a coarse exclamation in the movie; Rogen talks about incidentally meeting Goldblum in person during filming, but then chickening out about telling him about the line.
There’s a 21-minute making-of featurette, which includes footage from a March 2006 table read and Perez’s amusing imitation of Rogen. Producer Apatow, meanwhile, talks about the genesis of the film — watching True Romance (on laserdisc!) eight to 10 years ago, and being so enamored with Brad Pitt‘s character that he wanted to see a separate movie follow just him. A five-minute gag reel is also featured; highlights include Franco accidentally touching Rogen’s balls, Rogen baring his ass, Ed Begley, Jr. invoking the phrase “skull fucking,” and Rogen’s character pumping up McBride’s Red by telling him that he could be reincarnated “as Jenna Jameson‘s tit butter.” To view the movie’s trailer, click here; to purchase the unrated, single-disc DVD via Amazon, click here. B- (Movie) B (Disc)
I chatted with Kate Beckinsale via phone a couple weeks back, in advance of the release of Rod Lurie’s journo-drama Nothing But the Truth, and there was plenty that didn’t make it into the Q&A for New York Magazine. More excerpts from the conversation, below:
Brent Simon: Critics have been very complimentary of your performances in Snow Angels and Nothing But the Truth. Do you think these two movies have somewhat changed people’s perceptions of you?
Kate Beckinsale: Oh, I have no idea. I try not to think about people’s perceptions, or I’ll go mad. The thing is, for me, my career has absolutely reflected what age my daughter has been, and whether or not I’ve been a single parent at the time, that kind of thing. I suppose if you just look at it entirely from the point-of-view [of a filmography] it can look a bit schizophrenic, but it makes sense being the actual career of a woman with a child and all that. And now that my daughter is older, I do feel able to maybe make slightly more selfish choices. I’m not primarily governed by, “Does it shoot when her pre-school is in?” Things like that that were very much factors at one point.
BS: You obviously play a journalist of a slightly different breed in the film, but having now spent time in the proverbial set of other shoes, did you gain any special insight that helps with having to give so many interviews as an actress?
KB: No, not really. I think I feel pretty much the same as I did before, which is that I just try not to be too boring, and avoid saying the exact same thing every time. (laughs) I probably do feel much more empathetic to the person asking the questions. I’m used to being in the defensive position, and I realized that being in the attack position has its own pitfalls and fears that come along with it.
BS: I always say that if I had to give that many interviews I’d need to spend several days ramping up to it, talking incrementally more and more about myself.
KB: (laughs) Exactly — though I find most actors do that anyway, actually.
BS: Not surprisingly, since there is a whiff of political content, some people seem to view [Nothing But the Truth] through wildly different prisms. Do you think there’s any concrete statement at its core?
KB: I don’t think it necessarily has a political statement. I think what I really like about the movie, what most grabbed me when I was first reading it, is the character and the pressures that she’s facing. I was so caught up with the dilemma that she’s in, personally as well as in terms of her beliefs. I don’t see the movie as a polemic, in that I don’t think it’s answering questions. I think what’s great about it is that it’s asking them, and I would much rather see a movie that raises a question than tries to tell me what the absolute truth is. I think the fact that my character is flawed and makes mistakes, takes risks and has to make sacrifices and doesn’t necessarily always do the most honorable thing [means] she’s not set up as a Joan of Arc-type character. She’s a human being with flaws who finds herself in this incredible situation.
BS: You share a number of scenes with Matt Dillon, who cuts a slick, cool, quietly menacing figure as the film’s federal prosecutor. When you have antagonistic scenes like that, is there a separation or boundary that you want to maintain during filming, or is that not how you work?
KB: I’ve never thought like that, to be honest. On a film like this, which was a very short and tight schedule, Matt would be in for a couple days and then out again, so even if I’d wanted to get to know him intimately and instantly well, I wouldn’t have been able to. But I did like him. We got along and had some good laughs. I often find that you have fun with the “bad guy,” because when you get all your hostility and everything out with someone you don’t even know, it sort of makes you giggle a bit when you’re off set.
BS: Jumping back in time, was acting something you were always interested in — was there a recognizable performance instinct in adolescence?
KB: My parents were actors as well, so I think it’s one of those things where when you’re still in diapers people start asking you if you’re going to be an actor too, whereas they don’t tend to do that with doctors and postmen. So it was something I thought some about, but I was always very personally into it too, I was doing plays and going to the theater and movies. And I think when I was 16 — I’d go to Paris with a friend of mine every Easter, and we’d absolutely fill up on all the old French movies — that’s when I thought, or felt on my own, [that] I really wanted to do this.
The Weinstein Company and Universal Pictures announced today that Quentin Tarantino’s Nazi-scalping, Brad Pitt-starring, World War II epic Inglourious Basterds — which, yes, taking an English-mangling cue from The Pursuit of Happyness, will actually be spelled like that — will open domestically on August 21, 2009. The announcement was made by Harvey Weinstein, co-chairman of TWC and David Linde, co-chairman of Universal Pictures, who are partners in the production. The Weinstein Company and Universal are co-financing and co-presenting the film, with TWC handling domestic distribution and Universal handling international distribution. International release dates are still being sorted out.
The Village Voice/L.A. Weekly‘s 2008 film critics poll, based on your typical inverted-point scoring system, is here if you need it. The big winner: Wall▪E.
It’s a happy birthday to Eliza Dushku, who turns 28 today, and looks every bit as striking as when snapped by Dominick Guillemot in the above photo session for Maxim in 2001. Dushku recently got to exercise her untapped artistic side in Nobel Son, her second film with writer-director Randall Miller, but it’s her new small screen collaboration with Buffy the Vampire creator Joss Whedon, Dollhouse, that has genre fans foaming at the mouth with anticipation.
Says Dushku of the action-intensive series, a February replacement on Fox which finds her playing multiple characters: “It’s perfect for me, because I have three older brothers and our whole family pretty much has ADHD. I’ve always been go-with-it, so it’s much better for me than wearing the same lab coat every day. We’re also really trying to get Fox to approve a story about boy soldiers in Liberia, even though we don’t know how we’re going to shoot that.” Here Dushku pauses, and laughs. “Fox finds it a bit disturbing and racy, but we’re pushing for it.”
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)
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 afterRoger 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?
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)
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)
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.
It hadn’t really occurred to me, given my steadfast lack of investment in tabloid back-and-forth, but this holiday presents its own Jennifer Aniston versus Brad Pitt showdown, in the form of the Christmas Day releases of Marley & Me and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Also, it bears repeating that the “thriller of the year” sales job on Valkyrie is going to lead to lots of disgruntled ticket buyers, in my opinion.
If you’ll permit a moment of vegetable-related introspection, I’ve come to the realization that I just don’t like heirloom tomatoes. They’re a bit unnerving. You look at one, and it’s like a regular tomato tried to squeeze into the too-small skin of its younger sibling, and now its lack of exercise is evident to all, in the form of all those bulges and creases.
At the fairly recent press day for The Wrestler, a red-haired-ish Evan Rachel Wood talked enthusiastically about prepping for her Broadway debut in the form of Julie Taymor’s Spider-Man. “Rehearsals start in June and we’re supposed to go up in October,” said Wood. “I don’t know who’s playing Peter Parker yet — I’m still trying to convince Jim Sturgess to do it. But it’s incredible. Julie Taymor is taking it to the next level, just like she did with The Lion King. When I heard she was doing it I thought, ‘What, why?’ And then she asked me to come in and do the workshop run-through of it, so I got to learn all the songs and kind of see it acted out, and it’s incredible. It’s going to be really amazing. They’re using a lot of new flying techniques and different things for Spider-Man, and Bonoand the Edge did the music for it, and I think it’s some of their best work. I didn’t know how well they would do writing for a musical, but they did an awesome job.”
So from where does the Spider-Man stage story take its cues? “It takes stuff from the first and the second movie, but it’s more about
the original Spider-Man comic books and really where Spider-Man came
from,” explains Wood. Taymor “is taking it back to Greek mythology stuff, so it’s crazy. And there may be (an upside-down kiss) at the end. But Spider-Man never sings on stage in tights; he’s never there singing in the Spider-Man costume, only as Peter Parker. That was agreed upon, I know.”
On Friday, January 2, the Aero gets political with a Frank Capra double feature, hosting Mr. Smith Goes to Washington at 7:30 p.m. and Meet John Doe at 10 p.m. The Aero Theatre
is located at 1328 Montana Avenue in Santa Monica. Tickets for these movies, as well as other special events, are available through Fandango, but for 24-hour recorded
information on directions and the Aero’s upcoming schedule,
phone (323) 466-FILM.
A beautifully woozy piece of work, the clip makes one feel like they’re stuck in a Snow Patrol or Airborne Toxic Event music video. It’s the right sales job, too; best not to mention the subplot involving the transsexual prostitute, or the fact that Biel’s stripper-mom is working the pole to provide for her terminally ill son. Just show emotionally urgent emergency room footage, Biel dripping wax on herself and Ray Liotta making it rain! The three sentences at the end of the otherwise silent trailer puncture the haze of its otherwise pleasant, dreamy spell, which I have a problem with for the specificity of its content. Keep it shorter, or more obtuse. Or, if you are going to stick with these utterances, the tone here is a bit wrong; it needs to be more breathy come-on, or mysterious, not plaintive.
I don’t know if he’s really yet apologized to Todd Bridges, Winona Ryder, Alyssa Milano, Nicole Eggert and/or Joel Schumacher, but it’s a happy 37th birthday today to Corey Haim, who in significant, sincere ways I really would love to interview pegged to Crank 2. C’mon, let’s make it happen, Vanity Fair!
Reports of the economic collapse of the world as we know it are surely overstated if, as Popeater and others have reported, the remnants of a tissue used by a cold-stricken Scarlett Johansson when she appeared on The Tonight Show a week ago were auctioned off for over $5,000.
The trailer for Knowing, starring Nicolas Cage and releasing March 20 via Summit Entertainment, is online, and in very broad surface strokes it comes across as a slightly glummer, twistier version of 2007’s time-and-space-bending Next, which is to say inessential Cage, through and through. I say this with some regret and heaviness of heart, given that the movie is directed by Alex Proyas (The Crow, Dark City), who’s a top-notch visual stylist.
The story centers around a professor who stumbles on a series of terrifying
predictions about the future, and sets out to prevent them from coming
true. In 1958, as part of the dedication ceremony for a new
elementary school, a group of students is asked to draw pictures to be
stored in a time capsule. But one mysterious girl instead fills her sheet of
paper with rows of apparently random numbers. Fifty
years later, a new generation of students examines the capsule’s
contents and the girl’s cryptic message ends up in the hands of young
Caleb. Caleb’s father, professor Ted Myles, makes the
startling discovery that the encoded message predicts with pinpoint
accuracy the dates, death tolls and coordinates of every major disaster
of the past 50 years. As Ted further unravels the document’s chilling
secrets, he realizes it foretells three additional events — the
last of which hints at destruction on a global scale, and seems to
somehow involve Ted and his son.
Befitting a Proyas flick, the tone looks suitably atmospheric (for what it is, more thriller than sci-fi), and things that work in the trailer notably include the plane crash sequence, chiefly because it seems less “spotlighted” than so many effects-laden sequences. Things that don’t work: mention of the “whisperer people,” standing far afoot (never set up global catastrophe, then jerk it back to something corporeal); Ted promising to never let his son die (?!); and, while we’re at it, the movie’s title font and poster, the latter of which looks very much like War of the Worlds from a squinting distance. Also, right now Knowing is being billed as being written by Ryne Douglas
Pearson, Richard Kelly, Juliet Snowden & Stiles White, Stuart
Hazeldine, and Proyas, which just underscores the too-many-cooks-spoil-the-concept feeling. To view the trailer, click here.
So when does High School Musical 3 start printing its Blu-ray and DVD-revenue money? February 17, it’s been announced. So, you know, mark your calendars, parents of tweens.
