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"Fun feminist spy comedy;" "...perfectly enjoyable;" "A rib-tickling
espionage spoof;" critics and audiences of America, you have been
duped! Spy is not very good, it's barely even passable both as a broad
comedy and as a spy-spoof. I'm sorry but this stuff is the lowest of
low hanging fruit and even the most seemingly learned among you are
poised to be hosed here. Its not completely your fault though critics;
I get it. Melissa McCarthy is a talented star. The mere fact that a
woman of her, lets say unique perspective can become a popular cultural
figure is a sure sign of progress in a certain sense. Additionally
having a woman as a lead in a genre dominated by hetero-normative male
tropes is beguiling, but in the case of Spy it's not only a missed
opportunity, its a ruse and not a clever one either.
Let us start at the beginning. McCarthy plays a talented CIA analyst who is often paired up and runs interference for a suave, sophisticated field agent (Law). However after the agent's untimely death, the CIA quickly realizes that all their best agents are compromised. The only way they can recover a stolen nuclear weapon from a nefarious arms dealer is to put McCarthy's Susan into the field to gather intelligence and possibly save the world.
What could have been a truly ballsy, subversive routine ends up being a broad heckle from the sidelines. The first half of the movie consists of McCarthy's character being the butt of every mean spirited gag in the book. She's fat, she dresses poorly, she's homely etc. The thing is its not clever or thought out; its basically glorified improv; the director's excuse to let his players riff so he can cut everything together later. All of it sounds like the taunting of a dimwitted high school bully. Seriously, who acts this way without fully realizing their total dicks and impressing nobody. The only actor who is partially successful in balancing mean and funny is Jason Statham who by the last half-hour is transformed into a Falstaff-ian caricature lacking any real substance.
In fact, all of the characters, including Susan do somersaults to fit the plot compromising character motivations, traits and interests. Susan snaps from a scared, introverted analyst to a foul- mouthed, ass-kicker with the sudden sound of a cocked handgun. Another character murders and witnesses the murder of multiple people yet is reluctant to pull the trigger on a shoe-horned comic- relief character (Hart) because of...reasons. Jason Statham's character quits the CIA then does his own investigation to stop the people who murdered a colleague he hated because of...reasons. Bobby Cannavale's character wants to blow up the U.N. because of...reasons. You see a pattern emerging here? No matter let's all watch a gregarious Italian man grope Melissa McCarthy again.
The second act of the film consists of an escalating number of action set-pieces which offer nothing new to the genre; action, comedy, or otherwise. Its all so paint-by-numbers that rarely anything is given suspense. Even the jokes that pepper the chase sequences and close-quarters fighting are so painfully obvious, its hard not to let the mind wonder and miss the days of Austin Powers. By the third act all the dead horses are flogged and dead dogs boiled. All that's left to do is tag on convoluted double-crosses and swap allegiances a few times in the vein hope that the audience still cares about our all but ignored maguffin.
My main problem with Spy is it completely fails to lampoon or undermine the point of spy films, instead replicating the same tired comedy- spy schtick that's been around since Casino Royale (1967). They're male fantasies that not only glamorize violence, they glamorize living life in a haze of grey. James Bond, Ethan Hunt, Jason Bourne et al, they embrace the peril of a lifestyle that shifts with the alliances of criminals, terrorists, governmental bodies and femme fatales. "That's a Smith and Wesson and you've had your six," smirks Bond in Dr. No (1962) before killing a helpless assassin. They dispatch foes with the coolness of true professionals and we root for the characters despite their blood-lust. Spy seems so concerned with knocking on McCarthy's girth and gender that it fails to really get to why something like Mission: Impossible (1996) is a draw in the first place. Honestly, In Like Flint (1967) is post-actively a better take-down of sexism in action movies than Spy.
There are worse movies than Spy to be sure. Far from a nadir in the genre, to be sure (I can fill a days worth of column inches with terrible spy/action comedy movies). If broad, lazy comedy is your particular brand of weak tea, you may well get your money's worth with Spy. Yet with folks raving that this newest McCarthy vehicle is some kind of feminist provocation, I simply had to clear the air and say it's simply not. Like almost all American comedy over the last ten years, Spy is just another improv session among a stock cast of players all hoping their game of "park bench" ends up in the theatrical cut. What could have been a shot across the bow to male- dominated cinema ended up being the flick of a paper football tossed by a pig-tailed girl asking politely if she can play. If I were you, I'd just take my ball and go home.
Yeah, okay, it's good; but is Pixar's newest film really that good?
Truth is, the worst thing you can say about the worst Pixar films
(cough, cough Cars 2) is by comparison they just don't reach the high
bar set by Pixar itself. None of them are truly bad artistically. In
fact, in comparison to other animation studios, Pixar remains a
downright godsend. In that regard, Inside Out is a massive triumph.
Riley (Diaz) is just like any twelve-year-old Minnesotan girl. She loves her family and friends and likes to play hockey and goof off when she's not getting good grades in school. Up until now most of her memories are happy largely thanks to the emotions that run her mind. But when her family move to San Francisco those same emotions; Joy (Poehler), Sadness (Smith), Anger (Black), Fear (Hader) and Disgust (Kaling) must experience a parallel odyssey in the mind of young Riley.
On the whole the idea, while terrifically refreshing, thinly veils its 94 minute run time. This is including a subplot involving Joy and Sadness getting lost in Riley's subconscious and their odyssey to get back to mission control. While good for a full movie, it's much better as an animated short where straining for material doesn't feel too cloying. No matter, for the geniuses at Pixar know how to make things work story-wise using a myriad of psychological inside jokes and kid friendly humor. Having the "dream factory" look like a Hollywood studio was a particularly nice touch.
Pixar is also deft at making sympathetic characters and the emotions that work Riley's brain and influence her actions are well fleshed out. Its true that each character is meant to encapsulate the emotion they represent but their far from the flat characters I expected. It was honestly one of the most pleasant surprises I've seen in an animated film in some time. Joy probably goes through the largest character change realizing that despite her dour demeanor there is a place for Sadness in Riley's world. It helps that the voice actors chosen are able to convey so much so well.
Hang on though, Pixar isn't off the hook when it comes to all characters however. Perhaps it's just the limitations of the high- concept but with all these emotions controlling Riley's head, Riley herself comes off as one-dimensional. The decisions she makes are, well for lack of a better word emotional, and rely on little logic. I'm not saying a twelve-year-old should have an adult's understanding of consequence and forethought but for the most part she was simply reacting to stimuli like a behaviorist's wet-dream. There's little history or experience in her actions other than a hatred for broccoli. Likewise her parents are just flat. The father inhabits the role of the absent father whose busy with work...no new ground broken there, and the mother is just your run of the mill concerned mother too tacit to really see what's going on.
Overall, the movie's faults are outweighed by its successes. Its a gorgeous movie that does a great job creating the world inside the head of a twelve-year-old girl. It's said that the animators wanted the emotions to appear like apparitions and not as solid objects. In congress with the playful ergonomics of mission control and the creatures the populate the subconscious, Inside Out is yet another visual threshold the animators of Pixar have powered through.
Years ago when Up (2009) came out, I saw a news clip about Disney's irritation with Pixar's toy strategy. They were miffed because no child would ever buy a Carl Fredricksen action-figure complete with a tennis ball adorned cane. I'm sure a few rebels in Pixar giggled but John Lasseter and the executive board likely owed Disney's merchandisers for having a 70+ year-old protagonist. Inside Out offers cute characters who are sure to sell at Toys R Us as will The Good Dinosaur (2015), Finding Dory (2016), Toy Story 4 (2017), Incredibles 2 (TBA) and Cars 3 (TBA). Here's to hoping the future intent of Pixar movies remains telling a good yarn and not selling it.
One thing that I wholeheartedly, unabashedly love about film is its
populism. For all its faults film is the popular art that all walks of
life flock to. Its almost poetic to think that people of all ages and
all nationalities and faiths can come to a movie theater and find
something they enjoy with characters and/or images they can connect to.
I am a white heterosexual male in his late-twenties with a reasonably
well-off background. So what do I have in common with Malcolm Madacombe
(Moore), a black kid from Inglewood, California? Turns out a bit more
than I thought.
Dope follows a series of unfortunate events surrounding Malcolm and his geeky friends Jib (Revolori) and Diggy (Clemons). At the start, all have to walk the tightrope of being a geek in the ghetto. Most times being that way gets you bullied; in The Bottoms it could get you killed. After Malcolm runs into a small time drug dealer (Rocky) and does him a favor, he and his friends are invited to his birthday party where they come into the possession of designer drugs. Digging in deeper and deeper into ever escalating havoc, will our plucky heroes make it out of their situation unscathed?
Coming into the film I expected something along the lines of The Girl Next Door (2004) only without the porn angle. Both films do involve a trio of nerds coming of age through harsh and seedy realities after all. What I got however was a movie more in-tune with Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982) by way of Boy N the Hood (1991). A movie with sage-worthy thoughts and unique perspective told with a structure that is at times cinematically jarring. A satire of the highest order that misses the funny bone and aims directly for the heart.
The episodic nature of the film is part of its charm. Side stories involving Malcolm's crush on the drug dealer's girlfriend Nakia (Kravitz) and the budding popularity of the trio's band are given time to breathe and go on tangents. Writer/Director Rick Famuyiwa cares less about story structure than about getting the audience to identify with Malcolm. His foibles might have graver struggles than those you or I may have faced but being a teen means everything we did back then had immediacy and consequence. I for one can see myself in Malcolm even though the gravest issue I had to deal with at his age was not getting the part I wanted in the school play.
It is when the audience fully connects to the protagonist that the dynamic of the film slowly shifts to that of a satire. More poignant than before, the film's third act is not the frivolous good-time comedy it was advertised as. No matter, the satire is much richer and sharper, the antagonists that emerge are much broader foils of the economic and educational gatekeepers. The visuals are more dynamic and turned everyone's attention to the tightrope all teen in Malcolm's position must walk. I honestly wanted more. I left the theater hoping not for a sequel necessarily but for more characters like the ones I saw.
Dope is a satire of the best kind. It offers a unique and compelling perspective and does so sympathetically without being maudlin. It doesn't sacrifice keen and critical discourse with overbearing of over-broad humor and finally its a coming-of-age tale populated with characters who we care about and want to see succeed. In an art-form that manages to touts its populism while giving its supporters less and less in story and structure, I'm glad film can create something like Dope. Let's hope this starts a trend.
Vampires, like most Gothic horror monsters have gotten a very infamous
reputation. A reputation which has lasted over a millennia. They have
been pegged as evil, blood-thirsty villains; soiling the innocence of
all who become victim to their blood-lust. What's worse is within the
last two decades their standing has changed to much more humiliating
status; that of the romantic lead. Yes, we can all agree Twilight
(2008) was a blight on the world but you can't deny the YA series' made
an impact. Plus there were the better received True Blood (2008-2014)
and Vampire Diaries (2009-now) which, for better or for worse, reformed
Dracula's personal image. Between misanthropic movie monster and hunky
boyfriend of the undead, is there maybe a better, more sympathetic
portrayal out there for the besieged blood- sucker?
What We Do in the Shadows involves the semi-normal life of four vampires who have made New Zealand their new home. In-between feedings, Viago (Waititi), Vladislav (Clement), Deacon (Brough) and Petyr (Fransham) have to deal with the common trials of being flatmates. Such trials include dividing up the chores via chore wheel, juggling their active social lives and avoiding run- ins with vampire slayers, local werewolves and a mysterious creature known only as "The Beast". Their biggest obstacle is modernizing to the 21st century, a task that is helped by new friends who tip the balance of their creepy, decrepit home.
Co-written by half of Flight of the Conchords and given a mockumentary style, What We Do in the Shadows is the funniest movie you're likely to see this year. It's bolstered by goofy, self-deprecating performances and cheap yet seamless special-effects. Special mention should be given to Waititi's fussy performance as an Interview with a Vampire (1994) knock-off with an Eastern European accent. He becomes the center and voice of reason amid a growing group of rowdy undead friends and despite having the straight-man role, his nit-picking most often had me at medium giggle. The belly laughs however came from Clements's Vlad, designed to look like Dracula circa 1992. His one-liners showed a depth of skill when it comes to improvisation which hasn't seen a screen near me since Flight of the Conchords (2007-2009) ended its run on HBO. As far as mockumentary, What We Do in the Shadows matches This is Spinal Tap (1984) and Drop Dead Gorgeous (1999) chuckle by chuckle, perhaps more so.
Along with being incredibly rich territory for situation-comedy, What We Do in the Shadows brings up some grounded if unconsidered questions about living with eternity. We all get older so we naturally struggle to keep up with the "next big thing," so what happens when a three-hundred-year-old man attempts to enter Wellington's most popular club dressed like an 18th century dandy? What happens the first time they use a cellphone or a computer? These aren't the chiseled, pristine vampires of Twilight; no these guys can't even use a mirror and are forced to draw each other to conceive what they look like. There's no way these guys have the sensibilities to make it in today's world. At least not without a lot of help and hilarity.
As with all movies that adapt the mockumentary format, there are some drawbacks. There's some pretty cheap production design here and due to the subject matter most scenes are shot at night (duh!). This kind of budget is not helped by a flat aspect ratio and single-setup, point-and-shoot-type camera work. Thankfully there are enough consistently funny gags that keep the film light on its feet even if the supposed documentary crew are not.
What We Do in the Shadows may not help vampires reclaim the staple horror movie villain image we grew up with and took for granted. I personally yearn for Nosferatu to jump out of the shadows and give the floozies of True Blood a run for their money. I suppose all things must go through reinvention and renewal. Modernizing overall is a positive force is it not? If for no other reason than we get fun little experiments like this Kiwi comedy classic.
After watching Fury Road I can safely conclude that not only will the
film be welcomed by a majority of people craving a good action- packed
popcorn flick, this new movie will effectively change the
action-adventure game for the better.
The story begins with Max (Hardy) being chased by a group of crazed goons across the desert in his signature Interceptor car. The vehicle crashes spectacularly and he's immediately captured. We're introduced to a host of characters warped by the landscape and made crazy by their circumstance. Immortan Joe (Keays-Byrne) sits atop of the social spectra. A violent, disfigured dictator who has hijacked not only the world's most needed resource, water, but the world's most precious: the future. He has taken the most beautiful brides among his dirt-pile civilization and forces them into a harem where he rapes them to birth a normal, untarnished heir. That is until Furiosa (Theron) a trusted marauder takes the harem and escapes in her war rig with a mission to take them to "the green place". With war parties in fast pursuit, Max is forced to be a feral warrior's "blood bag" until fate allows him the chance for escape and possible redemption from the thoughts that haunt him.
After a fifteen minute setup the entire movie boils down to one, big, long, explosive, exciting, pulse-pounding chase through the desert. Each action set-piece is a master's course in chaotic beauty and mayhem. Lest you think you've seen it all, watch the first extended chase between the war rig and the war parties...then wait another five minutes, because the expectations you just set for yourself will be blown to smithereens. George Miller decided to film in the otherworldly desert of Namibia instead of the Australian outback. The hues of the rock and sands of Namibia make for some austere beauty and intensifies the desperation of the world of Mad Max. No longer are their paved roads, only basins of flat unforgiving dirt remain. Trekked by those most craven and those most crazed.
Through all the absurd chaos, characters emerge. Not through dialogue or long-winded explanations but through action. Everyone we meet is stripped to their essence and pitted against each other. The number one goal for our beleaguered protagonists? Survival; it's that simple. Max in particular has quite a complex character arc given the movie's structure. He is reintroduced in our psyche as a man who once had a moral compass now reduced to an animal; wild and instinctual. He lost those he loved most and is haunted by their memories. By the end of the movie his purpose is molded beyond simply survival. His resourcefulness and pragmatism follows a logical train that ends with Max becoming a restorer of hope. A rebirth of the dark anti-hero we once loved and all with little to no dialogue.
Now a game-changing movie like this is not without its controversy. Men's Rights Activists have been crying foul ever since this movie's been released, claiming the movie is feminist propaganda masquerading as a shoot-em-up. Noted chauvinist blogger and blatherskite Aaron Clarey even initiated a boycott over it's perceived "feminist agenda". "men in America and around the world are going to be duped by explosions, fire tornadoes, and desert raiders into seeing what is guaranteed to be nothing more than feminist propaganda, while at the same time being insulted AND tricked into viewing a piece of American culture ruined and rewritten right in front of their very eyes."
With as much respect as I can give people with rudimentary understanding of discrimination; knock it off. Having physically and emotionally strong female characters is not propaganda. Nor is making an enemy out of a thoroughly disgusting human who in no way represents the male gender or the patriarchy as it exists today. If anything the warped society that exists in Fury Road is an exaggerated view of patriarchy therefore categorizing the political elements of Mad Max as satire. Even to claim the film has a feminist agenda of any kind is suspect. Not all feminists believe the same thing but a majority believe portraying women in media in the mold of a traditional male sans male genitalia, is not the best way to empower women. Not to discount Theron's performance but her Furiosa does fit that bill.
My only real complaint is less about the movie and more about Hollywood's insistence that 3D is the way to go. Dazzling sequences of real stunt driving and explosions that would put the Fast and Furious franchise to shame are interrupted by obvious frames where 3D is injected for the sake of being injected. In one, almost delirious moment of climax, we see obvious computer generated twisted metal synchronized to look like a jack-in-the-box. It was distracting flaw but not a fatal flaw.
Mad Max: Fury Road is not just a spectacular action film; its an action film that truly raises the bar. Those who have never seen the original films won't be lost nor will they be disappointed. Through frenetic editing, solid, smooth camera work, strong acting, brawny, metal-meets-muscle action sequences and minimalist story, every action movie the foreseeable future is going to wish it was Mad Max.
They say that good art challenges its audience. It imposes something on
the viewer or the listener and gets them to ask questions about their
world. Sometimes the questions we as the audience ask ourselves are
deceptively simple like: can you capture real human experiences in a
painting or in a piece of music. Sometimes they're overtly political or
social in nature like: are you willing to live in a post-modern
consumerist culture or are you willing to give up essential freedom for
security. Bad art however, if you can even call it art; is just
propaganda. Such is the case for God's Not Dead, a plodding,
ill-conceived trifle of a movie that runs the danger of being taken
The movie begins with a jumble of different characters all getting up and going to work/university/life chores to the sound of twangy country pop. You can tell which characters are Christians because they're the ones who are smiling and happy to be alive. We're then introduced to the various threads of, let's call them plots in fast procession. The main one focuses on Josh (Harper) a college freshman who butts heads with his philosophy professor (Sorbo). Professor Hercules tells everyone in class to write "God is dead" on a piece of paper so the class can dispense with religious philosophy. Anyone who refuses will not only force the class to discuss the topic but they will have to present their arguments to the class on why they believe God is real. Also in the mix is a Muslim woman (Sittu) with a crisis of faith, an atheist blogger who has a crisis of non-faith, a preacher who just wants his car to start and a Chinese exchange student who is drawn to Josh's pronouncements. The professor and his wife (Oliver) seem to be in for conflict too but perhaps I'm front loading this boat a bit too much.
Stylistically, this movie is not well developed. The stagecraft here is just bad with terrible blocking decisions, lazy camera work and a host of semi-professional actors left to talk at one another with little or no interesting action. Sorbo is easily the best actor in this entire mess but even he cannot escape moments of un-cinematic 180 conversations. The only time I noticed dynamic camera shots were in the opening credits and the last five minutes of the movie.
Though the direction and cinematography is nothing compared to the writing which fits each character into a neat little Crash-like box mistaking stereotype for character. Nearly every non-white character is treated with a disrespect bordering on racist. Poor Chinaman and his over-valuing of family honor. If only he could be free to make his own decisions like an American can. Oh poor Muslim girl, if only she could escape her wrongheaded, borderline abusive father and be free to convert to Christianity like an American can. Oh and lest we forget the Rafiki-esque African reverend who seems to think watching a man die on the street is evidence of a "good day".
Which brings me to the most egregious example of stereotyping in God's Not Dead, the angry atheist caricature. There are three people who are kindly enough to be the strawmen for this exercise in choir- preaching; the aforementioned blogger, the professor and a man I can only describe as the douchiest guy in the world. The blogger is brought to the good side when she is diagnosed with cancer. Before then she lived a life of selfish indulgences which included casual sex, environmental rebel-rousing and picking on red-blooded Americans like Willie Robertson and kin. Meanwhile the professor is revealed to be not an atheist but an anti-theist who denies God's existence because of something devastating in his past. Then there's the douche, who is just a douche. There's no explanation, he's given no motivation, he's just a big a--hole towards everyone he meets. So based on the very clearly drawn lines in the film, all atheists are jerks who if pressed, will acknowledge there is a God but refuses to believe because life is unfair.
I could fit multiple column inches going over point by point, destroying every little wrongheaded detail of this shrill piece of propaganda but I won't. Honestly, ranting about how awful this movie is any further would be like beating an injured child. Christians, like all walks of life need to demand more of their art than just ham- fisted messages that reinforce a simple, whitewashed, easily- refutable worldview. Complexity is a good thing, especially when it comes to characters and their deeply held belief systems and I would welcome a movie that acknowledges that. For now though Christians will have to settle for a movie who only pushes its audience to ask one question: did I really pay money for this?
With The Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015) making its way to a theater
near you this weekend, every fanboy from here to Timbuktu wants a piece
of the action. They want to see familiar faces, face up against new
villains and possibly team up with new allies. They're entranced by the
spectacle, in love with the unabashedly overwrought story and eager to
see what specific lip service Marvel will give their fans (Spider- Man
cameo? Guardians maybe? Whatever happened to Bucky Barns?). I'd be
lying if I said I wasn't giddy too. Who's thirteen year-old self
wouldn't want to see beautiful people in skintight outfits (or iron
armor) blowing things up and being forces of good. Yet with so many
popular films doing similar things, is there room for movies that truly
challenge the mind and enrich the soul?
Ex Machina (2015) is certainly one for the books and in my view a watershed in sci-fi. A science fiction film with state of the art special-effects which nonetheless offers a small, quiet and poignant parable of the human condition. Domhnall Gleeson (of Harry Potter fame) plays Caleb a mid-level coder for Bluebook; a Google-type internet search engine company. He's won a competition and is given the opportunity to meet and work with reclusive and brilliant CEO Nathan (Oscar Isaac). The assignment at first is a mystery. Caleb meets Nathan at his quiet estate nestled in the mountains of a place unknown. After an off-putting introduction, Caleb is introduced to Ava (Alicia Vikander), an A.I. humanoid. He's told his job is to conduct a Turing test of sorts. He must decide whether or not she is the first of her kind; not just artificial intelligence but real intelligence.
We've seen dumb down versions of this theme before from the Bicentennial Man (1999) to I, Robot (2004) yet in Ex Machina's case there's a much more contemplative tone. Much of this must be credited to its deliberate pacing and slow-cooking suspense. Yet we mustn't ignore the unforgettable visuals which evokes the austerity of Ingmar Bergman yet with a utilitarian twist. First time director Alex Garland seems to have a real eye for capturing beauty in everything from the intimidating grandeur of the glacier ladened mountains of Norway to the simplicity of a kitchen counter-top. They say that a great movie is three great scenes and no bad ones but in Ex Machina's case, every scene is breathtaking.
Story-wise, Ex Machina asks a lot more questions than gives answers. It's a ballsy move reserved only for the greatest of the great like 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Persona (1966) and 3 Women (1977). There are cues in the film lifted from the aforementioned but A.I. as a subject has never looked and felt more beguiling than in Ex Machina. I'm slightly disappointed that the movie pulled its last punches of philosophical and psychological contemplation in favor of a potboiler final act. It is also disappointing that the majority of the audience I was with, concluded the movie was a cautionary tale and not a meditation on self-actualization. Ava, while exhibiting all the skin-deep trappings of an A.I. unit (wires, hardware, perfect diction and extensive vocabulary), she approaches every new sensation and experience with wonder. She sees Caleb as a curiosity then later as a confidant. She looks at Nathan with actual fear and resentment.
It's funny to think I have the opposite reaction to Her (2013) an impressive movie most audiences found to be rather charming but I saw as a cautionary tale. In Her, Samantha (Scarlett Johansson) was never prone to violence like Ava can be yet in Her, it was pretty much stated the operating systems have moved beyond humans. Ava doesn't "move beyond" humans or at least not explicitly. The last tableaux is indicative of this. I won't ruin it lest to say Ava never seems to loose her sense of wonder. Here's hoping we never do either; even if our sense of wonder is limited to superhero movies.
B-Movie, laughable horror comedy, raunchy and bloody gore-fest; these
are the words that many would use to describe Zombeavers. If you see
those words scribbled here or there and are not turned off by the title
I'm sure you'll get something out of this movie. Honestly me writing
anymore would be a waste of time...yet I continue.
Zombeavers takes place near a remote cabin in the Indiana woods. Three college sorority sisters are driving up for a weekend so one can recoup from a bad breakup and the others can spend time away from their boyfriends. What the ladies don't realize however is their picturesque cabin along the lake is home to a family of mutant zombie-beavers who are out for blood. The boyfriends of course follow the women up to the lake guaranteeing a few more fresh corpses.
This may not be the best movie review to bring this up, but when did horror movies become less about making you scream and more about making you laugh? The line between the two emotions is fine, I get that but it seems that since Cabin in the Woods (2012) they don't even try anymore. There isn't any buildup in Zombeavers, there isn't any suspense, there aren't even any cheap jump scares in this movie just a decent stream of chuckles amid at a completely self-aware movie.
All this almost covers up the fact that the visuals, the draw of any good movie, aren't very good. Moments before the predictable horror clichés consist largely of characters sitting or standing around trading barbs or banter. There's no unease being brewed behind the camera, just people blocking the scene like they're doing a high school play.
The beavers themselves were not the stuff of nightmares. Is it too much to ask that a B-horror movie have monsters that look the part at least a little? I'm not scared of Muppets, and as the gag real at the end showed the arbitrary sacrificial dog wasn't scared either.
I can't believe we've gotten to this point but we need to ask more of our low-brow schlockers. Never expect that they pull off the scares and guffaws in equal measure but at least expect they try. If noise like this becomes the norm we'll never see another Sam Raimi or another Peter Jackson. Instead we'll just get a slew of big- headed film students who'll think they can make a movie out of anything.
How do you parody something that already parodies itself? James Bond
boasts 23 cannon films. 25 if you include David Niven's Casino Royale
(1967) and Sean Connery's remake of Thunderball (1965), Never Say Never
Again (1983). Those who venture to see the whole series will no doubt
understand just how far-fetched and outlandish the world of James Bond
is. Crazy megalomaniacal villains, convenient gadgets, patronizing (at
best) treatment of women; Maybe Daniel Craig's severe take as 007 has
made audiences forget just how silly the series got.
Kingman: The Secret Service is the story of a British hood named Eggsy (Taron Egerton) who is given the chance to prove his mettle as a member of an elite secret service organization. Colin Firth plays his mentor (code name: Galahad) because years ago his father saved his life during a mission. While Eggsy is in training an eccentric tech billionaire (Samuel L. Jackson) is in the final stages of his nefarious plan to stop global warming. Can the Kingmen stop him before he submerges the world in chaos?
Critics are calling this movie a cheeky send up of the spy film genre. "Stylish, subversive and above all fun..." says the rottentomatoes.com banner over a 74% critic score. I must have missed something. Stylish? I suppose if you think the interiors of an old-timey tailor shop mixed with the interiors of Professor Xavier's School for mutants is stylish. Subversive? Does this movie subvert conventions? No it embraces them. Fun? Well, if your definition of fun is a church full of innocent people getting slaughtered while "Free Bird" plays in the background.
Now I'm not saying that gratuitous amounts of violence can't be fun. Who can't see a movie like Shoot'Em Up (2007) without a sense of awe an infectious giggling. But in that movie there was a premium on innocence. Those not directly related to the plot were omitted from the bloodletting and the one innocent in the film (the baby) was the one thing Clive Owen was protecting. The point driven home in Kingmen is there is no innocence. By virtue of being alive (and living in London, Rio or Kentucky) you're a participant in the villains endgame and an "entertaining" pawn in the story.
But hey, the good guys succeed in the end right? Well they do but the villain convinced nearly every head of state to go with his plan so realistically the world would still descend into chaos anyway. And what of our heroes? An organization that is old-money-rich, white, and British with one co-opted hood laying the kill stroke. Meanwhile the conspiracy they stop is diverse, largely new money and Samuel L. himself is black and if the medallion around his neck is to be believed, Muslim. His ultimate goal: stop global warming. Well if that's not a plot dreamed up by the editorial board of The Daily Mail I don't know what could be.
Each scene that doesn't involve gratuitous violence is rushed at the expense of the actors humanizing their characters. Firth sits in an office full of Sun headlines and explains that each headline represents a day he accomplished a mission for the Kingmen and the world never noticed. Egerton leaves his mother's house by taking a moment to comfort his little baby sister. These are moments that could have shown emotional resonance but were undermined by the villain making an appearance and Egerton escaping baddies with parkour respectively. Why get to know the characters at all when we could briskly move onto the next martial-arts set piece.
All in all, Kingman is an overloaded male fantasy with a fatalistic view of human behavior and an insultingly out of touch, Anglos- know- best mentality. The action, while occasionally cool to look at, can't hide its hatred filled heart and its attempts at parody are at the very most half-assured. Yet despite all this, I'm taken aback by the movie's critical success and the formation of a cult following. What is society coming to when we celebrate the demise of hundreds with computer chips in their neck and laugh at the potential deaths of billions who only wanted free cellphone service.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
Movies are meant to entertain right? The primary focus of a movie
should be to distract right? If you sincerely believe that stay as far
away from Taxi Driver (1976) as you possibly can. It's not that Taxi
Driver is boring, far from it. It's that it doesn't sugarcoat or
enthrall its audience with flashy special-effects or a twisty- turny
tale. It's a movie about being; specifically a movie about being the
darkest most menacing version of yourself. It's a movie that forces you
to confront and battle your innermost demons and you may not like who
you are by the end of it.
Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) is a Vietnam veteran looking for a job. After a short interview he's given the graveyard shift at a Taxi company thus exhausting the small, slim cords that tether him to the faulty structures of the human condition. He meets an underage prostitute (Jodie Foster) an aspiring Presidential Candidate (Leonard Harris), a homicidal cuckold (the director himself) among a menagerie of different characters all peeling away at his inner psyche. That is when he isn't doing that to himself in his isolated apartment.
When first watching Taxi Driver I watched it on the 14" screen of my old college TV set. I lived alone in a basement apartment next to the University and I worked nights as a University Police helper of sorts. I had no girlfriend and angry because of it. I had a handful of friends who I was "too busy for" and parents I still resented because I was still technically a teenager. I almost wept watching Taxi Driver because I felt Bickle's isolation. I automatically sympathized with the character on a most intimate level...then the third act of the film started.
A progression of events turn Bickle from a well-meaning if socially inept loner into a monster of sorts. Everything became a blur of violence and reactionary machismo. I no longer knew him. I no longer knew myself. He was a funhouse mirror of who I could possibly become. It was downright scary.
Director Martin Scorsese eases the audience into his grimy nocturnal New York City by first showcasing the alternatives; the moral compasses of fellow cab driver Wizard (Peter Boyle) and Betsy (Cybill Shepherd) a campaign worker who Travis fancies. Wizard shows concern for Travis but every time he attempts to connect Travis bristles. Betsy is uneasy around Travis and ultimately his attempts to woe her fall embarrassingly flat, further pushing him into isolation and the hellish cityscape. His last solace is Jodie Foster, a runaway and prostitute who is being taken advantage of by her pimp Sport (Harvey Keitel). His attempt to redeem himself through her becomes the violent and ultimately selfish conclusion to his sordid tale.
There is a popular film theory that Bickle suffered from PTSD which while probably true I feel takes away from the movie's universal impact. I am a larger fan of Slavoj Zizek's analysis where he claims Taxi Driver is a loose remake of The Searchers (1956). In both a cynical anti-hero and veteran attempts to save a young woman from what he doesn't really understand. When "successful" they are unable to return to the life they had. Like a fallen angel Travis, like Ethan in The Searchers is still alone and unsatisfied.
When I think of the hatemongers of the KKK or the misogynistic voices of the "Men's Rights Movement" I think of Travis Bickle and by extension my college-aged self. All want to accomplish what they feel are worthwhile goals but do so as reactionaries. Some have been known to be borderline violent and all see through a lens of selfishness. Thankfully I grew out of that stage in my life and while I can't 100% pin that maturity on Taxi Driver I can say that Taxi Driver is an uncomfortable watch that made me a slightly better person.
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