Friday Morning Review: "Black Christmas" (2006)

Starring Katie Cassidy, Michelle Trachtenberg, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Oliver Hudson, Lacey Chabert, Kristen Cloke, Andrea Martin, Crystal Lowe

Directed by Glen Morgan

Written by Glen Morgan

Produced by James Wong, Odgen Gavanski, Bob Clark, Mark Cuban, Glen Morgan, Todd Wagner

84 minutes

2 stars

In Black Christmas, dim-witted victims impale themselves on sharpened candy canes, ornaments, and icicles, thankfully purging themselves from the human gene pool, all to a traditional holiday playlist. I have a sneaking suspicion that the movie was designed with the idea that its viewers would take bets on which characters bit it, and in which order. Architects Glen Morgan and James Wong, the dream team behind the Final Destination franchise, knew exactly what they were doing. They knew it was bad, and they did it anyway. There is no protagonist in Black Christmas, only a psycho killer and a ditzy assortment of sorority girls. Let the festivities begin.

What I love about Black Christmas is that it makes no fanciful claim to be anything other than a gimmicky horror movie. You’re either naughty, or you’re nice—and if you’re naughty, you probably went to go see it when it opened Christmas Day. At its best, it’s an irreverent mix of unapologetic gore and tongue-in-cheek humor that actually doesn’t plod through every slasher cliché in the book. Some of the characters, while failing to recognize an ice scraper, do appear to be informed by the tactics of Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees.

Once you stop regarding the movie as pure irony—and yes, it does run out of steam eventually—that’s where you run into trouble. This is a black comedy, intentional or not, and will only entertain on that level alone. The yuletide bloodletting of characters who deserve to die for making the most unforgiveable errors remains its core plot mechanic. It’s one Darwin award after another for 90 minutes. Get comfortable.

The story isn’t really that important, and echoes the trend of recent horror movies in which the killer’s troubled childhood had something to do with sadistic parenting. By the same logic, Harry Potter should be a butcher-knife wielding psychopath.

Billy, the escaped mental patient of the week, scurries about the house’s woodwork like a mouse, sometimes peering through little holes in the walls to spy on the occasional Sorority girl in the shower. From time to time he pops out to pull bags over his victims’ heads, and then stab them viciously in the face. With each murder, the collective IQ of the human race goes up a percentile. Billy recalls Sin City’s Roark Junior (“that yellow bastard”), but the result is more comedic than anything. Watching him creep around the shadows is like picking out a yellow golf ball on the fairway.

More than once my frustration with the characters’ stupidity boiled over. By this day in age, shouldn’t security guards, like customer service agents at callcenters, have some sort of, I don’t know, script to follow upon investigating any suspiciously empty prison cell? You know, one that would force them to, maybe, check under the bed first?

I have a feeling I stopped becoming invested in the plot right about the time Mary Elizabeth Winstead bit it, not because her character was anything special, but merely because there was suddenly that big a chunk of eye candy gone. By the anticlimactic third act, I’d completely lost interest.

Black Christmas is a glass of eggnog that somebody spiked with metal shavings: it doesn’t exactly go down as smooth as it should. It’s devious, mindless fun to be sure, but overstays even its meager hour-thirty running time and left me with a bad taste in my mouth.

Friday Morning Review: "Surviving Christmas" (2004)

Starring Ben Affleck, James Gandolfini, Christina Applegate, Catherine O’Hara, Josh Zuckerman, Bill Macy, Jennifer Morrison

Directed by Mike Mitchell

Written by Deborah Kaplan, Harry Elfont, Jeffrey Ventimilia, Joshua Sternin

Produced by Betty Thomas

91 minutes

1 Star

If you can survive “Surviving Christmas,” you either have an unhealthy infatuation with Ben Affleck or the patience of Job. Since there aren’t terribly many of either out there, my best of luck to you if you find yourself tuning in to this, quite possibly the dumbest excuse for a Christmas movie I’ve ever seen.

“Surviving Christmas” belongs in the same category of yuletide traditions as standing in line with screaming kids to see Santa, cooking for three dozen people, donning an ugly sweater, and pretending to laugh at your lousy relatives’ same puns over and over again. It’s a truly headache-inducing experience that does a thorough job of sucking the Christmas spirit right out of you.

I would rather work retail on Christmas Eve than sit through this tripe for an hour and a half. If I had to pick between watching this movie again, and standing in line at the DMV for the duration of its running time, there would be a coin flip in my future.

It’s one of those movies that is magically bad. So bad, in fact, that it transcends even the notion of being a spectacle of itself and goes straight to being the elephant in the room. The kind of manufactured idiocy you can only roll your eyes at for so long until it hurts.

“Surviving Christmas” opens with a montage to—of course—Andy Williams’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” during which we see shots of people struggling with the commercialization of the holiday. A guy chucks his wedding ring into the salvation army plate, an old woman draws frowns on all her gingerbread cookies, then sticks her head in the oven. It’s almost enough to set up the expectation of a black comedy—but the rest of what follows is neither subtle nor funny.

Ben Affleck plays Drew Latham, an obnoxious ad exec who has a black hole in the family department, a fact we learn when his fiancé Missy shoots down his proposition to fly to Fiji for the holidays and none of his “friends” or colleagues want him clinging around. He feels doomed to spend Christmas alone in his gigantic apartment, until he gets an idea from a therapist to write down and burn any grievances he has been harboring since his childhood. This takes him to his childhood home in the suburbs, which is now occupied by the Valco family, headed by James Gandolfini. Before he’s forcefully ejected from the premises, Affleck offers to buy the family for the holidays, for $250,000. At this point he turns into a bossy five-year old and takes Gandolfini, wife Catherine O’Hara, and son Josh Zuckerman prisoner, forcing them through his childishly maniacal obstacle course.

Affleck’s performance is that of a completely, unsympathetically crazy person. An emotionally bankrupt human being. He’s the guy at work who seems like he could be cool from a distance, but then you learn the hard way not to get stuck in the breakroom with him because he talks and talks and talks about the dumbest shit and your only viable response is to just creep back out one step at a time as he continues to talk at you.

It’s never explained how a guy with zero family, no startup capital, and the mentality of a five-year-old is able to pay his way through college and apparently become a thirty-something millionaire who must wipe his ass every morning with $100 bills.

There is no character here. It’s just Ben Affleck being an idiot for about 90 minutes.

By the time Christina Applegate is introduced to the mix as the contrived love interest, my affinity for his character was at such an all-time low, that I was opposed to any prospect of him in a relationship with another human being. Despite the relentless bludgeoning of the plot, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be cheering for him to seduce Applegate’s character, or for Applegate to finally free herself from the clutches of his. I just felt uncomfortable about the pairing entirely.

For a movie about a manufactured Christmas, it’s like watching a scripted reality game show that’s been viciously exorcised of any and all semblances of humor that might have cropped up, even accidentally. We’re as disenfranchised with the idea as the actors are, whose expressions of bewilderment and vexation at Affleck’s tiresome childlike antics I can only surmise to be completely genuine. The atmosphere on set must have been agonizing.

You’re never sure which side you’re supposed to root for; Ben Affleck certainly isn’t a stable protagonist and only Christina Applegate, seen sparingly, anchors the nonsense. The Valcos are possibly the most boring family ever, so utterly devoid of life, so inorganic, that I felt no greater attachment to their fates than I do watching the contestants on the Price Is Right. James Gandolfini sports the same exasperated, demoralized expression on his face the entire movie, a look that says, “Why am I here?”

The painfully sentimental soundtrack only adds insult to injury. Every ironically-placed Christmas song is like another dash of salt in an open wound.

The script is devoid of logic, frequently raising the wrong questions. Each plot point is a sledgehammer to the back of the head. And yet none is offered as to why the Valco family needs the money other than the fact that it’s a lot of money. For $250,000, no punishment we see Affleck dish out should come close to shaking Gandolfini’s resolve, and yet he predictably reaches calculated levels of exasperation. How could he not sit there grinning like an idiot, laughing all the way to the bank?

I can’t recall ever being so dispassionate about a film’s plot. Each ham-fisted pass at comedy is so painfully obvious, so insulting to the intelligence of the audience, that it’s the equivalent of dropping a boom mic into the shot. I was so in awe at its ugly, whopping mess of a production that I couldn’t stay engaged for more than thirty seconds at a time. It’s like seeing a costumed character mascot from Chuck E Cheese out of context, in harsh daylight—every zipper, seam, and sweat or spilled pop stain glaringly palpable.

“Surviving Christmas” is a lot of things, but unfortunately not one of them is a watchable movie. This could be administered as psychological torture to unruly inmates, or perhaps more fitting for its title, as a training exercise in psychological endurance to—no, I wouldn’t wish this on anybody.

Friday Morning Review: "Nothing Like the Holidays" (2008)

Starring Luis Guzman, John Leguizamo, Debra Messing, Alfred Molina, Freddy Rodriguez, Melonie Diaz, Vanessa Ferlito, Jay Hernandez, Elizabeth Pena

Directed by Alfredo De Villa

Written by Rick Najera, Ted Perkins, Alison Swan

Produced by Reid Brody, Thomas J. Busch, Paul Kim, Rene M. Rigal, Freddy Rodriguez, Robert Teitel, George Tillman Jr.

98 minutes

3 stars

Right off the bat, Nothing Like the Holidays makes the egregious mistake of floating trussed-up, distracting titles across the opening montage. I have no idea what happened in those first five minutes because I was too busy paying attention to the snowflake animation each cast credit dissolved into.

As for the rest of the movie, there’s not too much to complain about. I just felt I had to get that off my chest.

This ensemble family drama explores a slice of Puerto Rican culture in Humboldt Park, Chicago, as Christmas looms around the corner. The concept is a Puerto Rican, anti-Royal Tenenbaums. Alfred Molina takes over for Gene Hackman as the estranged father figure, whose cancer diagnosis remains his privileged secret. John Leguizamo, Freddy Rodriguez, and Vanessa Ferlito round out the cast as his grown children leading independent lives.

Taken at face value, it’s a gripping, voyeuristic portrait of a dysfunctional American family during what may be their last Christmas together under one roof. At that, it’s a near-perfect success for director Alfredo De Villa, who has rendered some of the most realistic sibling rivalry since Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko.

You don’t have to be Puerto Rican to enjoy this film, but it helps. I came to this movie with little to identify with, and was reminded of a similarly alienating “meet the family” situation where all I could do was smile, nod, and be courteous in an environment that was by one stroke hostile and intimate. De Villa’s characters are brutally honest with each other, sometimes brazenly mean, but at their deepest level is unconditional love. At the outset, I felt like an unwelcome intruder, a stranger to the culture. But the more time I spent with this family, the more I felt like a part of it.

The best part about the film is the intimacy of its close-knit cast. The acting is superb all around. A lot of the writing is fresh, and I suspect much of that is boosted by segments lending themselves to pure improvisation. I believed every member of this family, every minute of snarky interaction. Few films can boast as convincing a family as the one on display in Nothing Like the Holidays.

The real shame of the film is that its truly excellent players, capable of some inspired ad-libbing, have to slog through a traditional, sentimental story that at times boasts a promise of edge but never ventures outside the buoys. As I felt drawn in by the characters’ relationships with each other, compelled even, their situations began to seem all too familiar. Few surprises lay in wait on the path to their eventual coming together. Dialogue, characterized by snide banter in the first act, only felt more scripted as the film went along.

The drama is forced, deliberately high-strung, with barely any permanent consequences. We hit the dramatic beats with calculated predictability, and at the end of the day these brothers and sisters still pal around in their underwear exchanging stories about the couch where they lost their virginity, or knock back shots together at the local bar.

The first twenty-five minutes had me expecting a fresh Christmas story with some balls, and it may indeed have some gritty illusions, but Nothing Like the Holidays never aspires to be anything other than a dressed-up Hallmark card.

As a sidenote, I also really expected more out of Paul Oakenfold’s soundtrack; I didn’t recognize his flourish at all. Maybe I’m being too harsh by I felt like there were times where the music actually held the film back.

And yet…Nothing Like the Holidays is indeed a Christmas movie, and Christmas movies are supposed to be sentimental, right? I hate to dwell too long on a moot point, and I’m trying not to end on a somber note here. When you start to tally up the film as the sum of its parts, it does more things right than it does wrong.

Despite an easily forgettable title, and a familiar story with few surprises, Nothing Like the Holidays is an edgier Christmas movie with a beating heart; full of life and culture.

Friday Morning Review: "Christmas in Connecticut" (1945)

Starring Barbara Stanwyck, Dennis Morgan, Sydney Greenstreet

Directed by Peter Godfrey

Written by Lionel Houser, Adele Comandini, Aileen Hamilton

Produced by William Jacobs

102 minutes

3.5 stars

I’m not going to pussyfoot around it for the sake of being politically-correct; this is a Christmas movie, not a holiday movie, and those that take offense at that idea can suck it.

Christmas in Connecticut, starring the lovely Barbara Stanwyck, is a charming, enjoyable little comedy that’s not quite Frank Capra and not quite Billy Wilder, but ventures into either territory on more than one occasion and is welcomed with open arms.

The question is, does this film deserve to be ranked amongst the more widely-recognized cable-slot icons of the season such as A Wonderful Life, A Christmas Carol, A Miracle on 34^th Street, and White Christmas? Should it be considered mandatory yuletide viewing?

Indeed, after walking away from Christmas in Connecticut you’ll be ready to celebrate the season even if your reality is a post-Black Friday retail hell. You might even find yourself looking forward to whichever D-Day gathering of friends and family you’re counting down to this year.

While it has a limited window of watch-ability that declines exponentially after the 25^th of December, I found more of its elements in common with Some Like It Hot than I did A Wonderful Life. You’ll be surprised how many of the jokes still work, and work well. It’s your classic “how long will the charade last” setup, adding unstable elements to the volatile mix in layers of progressive difficulty for Stanwyck’s character.

The premise is simple enough, but the exposition moves fast and frequently switches narrative mechanisms on you. We meet Dennis Morgan’s character first and stay with him just long enough so that the transition into Barbara Stanwyck’s world is a jarring one.

There’s a lot to keep in mind that the first twenty minutes throws at you: nurse Mary Lee (Joyce Compton) wants Jefferson Jones (Morgan), a debilitated war hero, to experience a good home-cooked Christmas dinner so that he will appreciate the values of a domestic life and thus consider marrying her. She sees a column penned by Elizabeth Lane (Stanwyck), the model American housewife, who would be perfect for the task and contacts magazine publisher Alexander Yardley (Sydney Greenstreet) to set the plan in motion; Yardley owes her a favor after she nursed his granddaughter through the measles. Since Yardley’s own Christmas plans fell through, he decides to have Lane entertain Jones and himself at her quaint farmstead in Connecticut. Yardley is a stern and impersonal man who only asks two things of his editors—“print the truth and obey my orders.” Elizabeth Lane, as she appears in her column, is actually a fictional character and the real Elizabeth shares almost none of her traits: she’s single, can’t cook, and lives in a New York high-rise apartment. Lane’s inspiration for the column comes from two real-life sources: the five-star cuisine of her friend Felix (S.Z. Sakall), who owns a Manhattan bistro, and an actual cabin in Connecticut owned by John Sloan (Reginald Gardiner), a haughty architect who continually solicits her with bland marriage proposals.

Predictably, these elements come together at the end of the first act to complete the formula for Lane’s ruse: cooking, farm in Connecticut, husband, baby. Check, check, check, and…well, check. The hoax is not that elaborate. Antics ensue, under one roof in the middle of the wintry countryside. Lane’s motivation initially is the prospect of keeping her job, and later the inevitable romance of Jefferson Jones.

Right off the bat it’s clear this is a movie about food. In a sea-starved hallucination, Jones lays out the courses of a savory French banquet with the attention to detail of Patrick Bateman. Throughout similar monologues to follow, I felt like a food critic being welcomed into an upscale restaurant, found myself reaching for phantom wine glasses. A word of advice: don’t watch this one on an empty stomach.

For a sailor, Jones is refined and cultured. He has a sophisticated palate, the domestic know-how of Martha Stewart, and a taste for the finer things in life. He plays piano, he sings “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” he’s the perfect gentleman. With each plot development, we’re offered a glimpse into how a Jones-Lane marriage will work: he’s doing all the cooking, cleaning, and child-care, she’s bringing the bread to the table.

Their one common thread is their resilience to the idea of marriage itself. Lane expends much of her energies dodging Sloan’s wedding plans and Jones has no particular desire to settle down with Mary Lee, who only won him over because he does a lot of thinking with his stomach.

Most of the humor comes from Stanwyck’s clever improvisation as she struggles to keep her cool, dropping the ball many times, and so obviously that the characters she’s trying to hoodwink must be wearing blinders. Her and Reginald Gardiner spend much of the time scurrying around behind the guests’ backs in unfulfilled efforts to make their sham of a marriage legit.

Felix is the comedy’s comedic relief, an oafish, endearing “uncle”-type character, with high standards for both his own cooking and for his “niece” Elizabeth. He waddles around, a nasally, thick-accented Hungarian, sweating bullets to keep up the charade, giving her helpful shoves in the right direction every now and then.

Overall, it’s hard to dislike Christmas in Connecticut. My only problem is that the climax is too easy. It just fizzles out, like air out of a balloon. I won’t spoil how the secret is finally let out of the bag, but the actual event leaves much to be desired, considering the energy of the first two acts.

Friday Morning Review: "The Manhattan Project" (1986)

Starring John Lithgow, Christopher Collet, Cynthia Nixon

Directed by Marshall Brickman

Written by Thomas Baum, Marshall Brickman

Produced by Marshall Brickman, Jennifer Ogden

117 minutes

4 stars

When you think of the Manhattan Project, probably one of two things springs immediately to mind: the 1942-46 US research project which led to the origin of the atomic bomb, or that breezy 80’s movie about the kid whose science fair project is one. If you’re the latter, congratulations. You’ve already discovered the charm of this heartwarming cult classic and need read no further.

The key ingredient for a film to be considered “cult,” in my humble opinion, is soul. And The Manhattan Project has it in droves. It starts off innocently enough, with some cheesy one-liners, painfully awkward expositional beats, and noticeable 80’s stamps, before rapidly evolving into something much more significant.

Paul (Christopher Collet) is your typical slacker genius, with a bit of a bad streak. One day, he crosses paths with John Lithgow, a nuclear physicist who arrives in his peaceful suburban hometown to set up a plutonium refinery hidden behind the less threatening façade of Medatomics, a company specializing in nuclear medicine. Sure enough, Lithgow starts to get soft on Paul’s mom, so he invites Paul out to the lab to check out the cool lasers and get some bonding time in. What Lithgow fails to realize is that Paul doesn’t just have his head in the big books, he’s a borderline criminal mastermind with a flair for the dramatic. And little does Paul know, the plutonium he’s about to hijack is 99.997% pure. This mutual misunderstanding forms the basis behind the rest of the plot to follow.

Aided by a teenaged Cynthia Nixon of “Sex and the City” fame, Paul builds from scratch his own private nuclear bomb, perhaps for the political activism aspect, but most likely for the challenge.

He’s the unassuming punk of the science fair, a sarcastic, easygoing prankster surrounded by quirky science nerds who won’t get laid until they’re 37. This isn’t his scene, and he’s not here to compete with these kids. His aspirations are grander. At which point, Lithgow makes the connection his plutonium is missing. And that’s when this innocent scholarly pursuit goes horribly, horribly wrong.

Let’s just say Paul’s brand of political activism is performance art. And the name of his piece is “mutually assured destruction.”

The Manhattan Project has more soul than most 80’s “science whiz” movies in its class. A lively, charming bomb construction montage, and the product placement of Duracell on the bomb itself, have “classic” written all over them. Snappy, wisecracking dialogue decorates the script. “Jenny…I never thought I’d say this to anybody, but…I gotta go get the atomic bomb out of the car.”

Most of the time, it’s a lighthearted, idealistic retelling of the Radioactive Boy Scout—less a cautionary tale and more of a “kids verses the adults” caper. Scenes of Paul implementing devious chemistry, pranking the class know-it-all with home-brewed explosives, and outwitting security guards, government personnel, and the military puts this movie in the same league as Wargames.

Half the fun is watching how easily Paul manipulates his environment, firing up computer consoles in a government lab like he’s going for the high score at Pac-Man. He makes operating a robotic arm look as easy as riding a bike. Maneuvers an RC car with the deftness of Jason Statham in Transporter 3. I laughed particularly at the simplicity with which he acquired C-4; the nonchalance with which he handled weapons-grade plutonium. Unbelievable? Of course. But it’s a hella good time.

What makes it work is Lithgow’s character: he’s far from the preachy buffoon of an authority figure typically relegated to this kind of role. We don’t even have any conflict arising from him stepping into the shoes of Paul’s absent father. Instead of piling on reasons for him and Paul to be at odds with each other, the writers have crafted a more interesting, respectful relationship. You’re endeared to both of them simultaneously, and only want for them to form their inevitable alliance, which is continuously prevented by circumstance.

There’s no pointed commentary here. It’s anti-nuclear proliferation to be sure, but that’s about where the political sophistication ends. There is no villain in a black hat…that is, until we reach the end of the second act, where The Manhattan Project suddenly turns into my second-favorite scientists-vs.-military movie behind The Abyss.

Lithgow is a competent, morally-sound realist surrounded by half-cocked gorillas. It’s his character whose dramatic arc we’re witnessing. He admires Paul for his resourcefulness but doesn’t understand his motivations. By the end of the film, he’s squaring off with the military himself.

At one point near the film’s frantic climax, he turns aside, hundred-yard-stare, a sheen of sweat on his brow, and you feel his guilt about the power his lab-coated ilk have willfully turned over to the men with big guns and little brains—an exchange that has been going on, in this field of science, since the titular event of 1942.

Oddly enough, the last ten minutes pack the most comedic punch. Or maybe that’s just my devious sense of humor.

Overall, The Manhattan Project is great fun. An unpretentious script, memorable scenes, and Lithgow’s best role to date (if I may be so bold) make this an undeniable cult classic. If you haven’t seen it yet, it’s the perfect fix to your 80’s nostalgia habit.

Review: "The House On Carroll Street" (1988)

Starring Kelly McGillis, Jeff Daniels, Mandy Patinkin

Directed by Peter Yates

Written by Walter Bernstein

Produced by Peter Yates, Robert F. Colesberry

101 minutes

2 stars

If the Hitchcock thriller is the golden child of the family, this movie is the attention-starved, amateur younger brother trying to follow in its footsteps, but who just hasn’t yet discovered his true calling in life.

The House on Carroll Street is a gigantic yawn of a movie, a ho-hum political thriller by Peter Yates about a mystery involving smuggled Nazi scientists that never fully held my attention. Perhaps the more enticing mystery is how Yates, responsible for films of such rousing personality as Bullitt, The Hot Rock, and Breaking Away, could have managed to put together something so dreadfully lackluster here.

The story opens in a 1951 House Un-American Activities Committee hearing, where we’re introduced to Emily Crane (Kelly McGillis), the unflinching photography editor for Life Magazine. After refusing the demands of McCarthy witchhunter Ray Salwen (Mandy Patinkin) to name names on her staff, she’s subsequently fired from her job and hounded by a pair of FBI agents. She rebounds fast, and takes a new job as a little old lady’s caretaker. One day, while stepping out back for a smoke, she can’t help but notice a heated argument from an open window across the way, between an angry German and Salwen himself. With little else to go on, she shoves herself into the heart of a conspiracy reaching up to the federal level.

I’m a big fan of the “curiosity killed the cat” narrative mechanism, and there were a few times where I felt like I was at the cusp of something interesting, but Kelly McGillis’ discoveries never failed to underwhelm. Even the most giddy conspiracy theorist would have a hard time getting into this car and taking it around the block.

The Nazi Paperclip scientist plot is intriguing but dangles too little to be of any real interest. Modern, “X-Files”-raised audiences will be bored to tears.

I wanted to enjoy it as a Hitchcock tribute, at the very least, but even a Hitchcock movie (or should I say especially a Hitchcock movie) has punch. This one has slipped through the cracks, and I’m content with leaving it there.

I kept fantasizing about what this movie would look like today, if some politically-charged director came along and gave it the old Hollywood overhaul: would it have a more satiable hook, per chance? A quickened, seizure-inducing Bourne Supremacy pace? I wish I can say it was because I was inspired by the story’s relevance; but the truth is, these occasional delusions of grandeur were the only lifelines saving me from utter boredom; I clung to them for survival.

Emily Crane, despite a great performance by McGillis, just isn’t that compelling a protagonist once you get past her unshakeable, two-dimensional grit and her Nancy Drew nosiness. I wanted to see some quirks, or some insight into her past, to really round out her character. And maybe someone will challenge me on this one, citing the film’s peculiar nude scene as proof of her complexity. But I doubt even this would inspire much discussion.

I do admire, after some reflection, the fact that Emily consistently and doggedly drives the entire plot, instead of haplessly falling into one situation after another. That aspect of the narrative deserves some recognition but the fact remains that there are just too few rewards at the end of the rainbow.

For the film’s sub-plot, McGillis and Jeff Daniels, one of the FBI agents, go through the familiar motions of a romance. There’s no reason for them to fall in love other than at one point, Peter Yates glanced down at his watch and said, “Well, it’s about that time for the female lead to sleep with somebody…hmmm, who’s it gonna be…?”

Daniels’ character is more intriguing, but never won me over. He’s kind of a teddy bear who’s either got a lot to learn, or has already been broken by the drudgery of his job, bogged down by the routine. His heart’s in the right place but his competence is lacking. I got the impression he was the guy at the FBI Academy all the other guys left alone, or made fun of. He’s the agent who gets stuck with all the shit jobs, casing a place and the like. In a sense he reminded me of Fox Mulder—that is, a much less endearing version completely drained of all signs of life.

More than once I felt like I was watching a live-action adaptation of a Scooby Doo episode; McGillis and Daniels never quite transcend the function of “those meddlesome kids.”

The movie’s only real pleasant surprise comes in the casting of Mandy Patinkin—you may remember him from The Princess Bride. A worthy antagonist, Patinkin nearly makes the film worth it. In the first scene, he’s grinding into McGillis with the indifferent callousness of a child pulling wings off a fly; the smack of a gavel later and he’s the ever-charming socialite amongst dignitaries. You really hate him. He delivers his lines with a business-like curtness, a nod and a smile every now and then as if to say he knows he’s holding all the cards. The scenes between him and McGillis are easily the best.

There were a few scenes that were hard sells on me, notably one where Patinkin’s character dumps an entire bottle of ketchup onto the tablecloth at a nice restaurant to elucidate some abstract point; another the scene immediately afterward, where he wires her apartment to blow up—since, of course, it’s natural to want to kill her for being the first Nancy Drew to arrive at some vague hypothesis, without proof, which may or may not implicate him. Other scenes are just plain silly: a chase in the middle of a stuffy used bookstore where flimsy bookshelves can continuously thwart pursuers, yet barely raise a commotion when they topple over.

I found the mechanics of the climax equal parts baffling and hilarious. I do have to give Yates props for putting together what has to be one of the most scrumptiously awkward death scenes in the history of cinema. It’s something I’m sure is on Youtube somewhere and exists as go-to entertainment for some group of bored college kids.

The House on Carroll Street most likely raised some interesting points on the interpretations of patriotism, but by the time the credits rolled around I was still too distracted by the ridiculousness of that death scene to care about any thematic resolution.

Friday Morning Review: "Into the Night" (1985)

Starring Jeff Goldblum, Michelle Pfeiffer

Directed by John Landis

Written by Ron Koslow

Produced by George Folsey Jr., Ron Koslow

115 minutes

2.5 stars

Fairly often while watching a movie, I’m wanting it to be something I just know it’s going to end up falling short of. This one was no exception. Like most 80’s ‘everyman thrust into cloak-and-dagger plot’-type movies, John Landis’ Into the Night starts out strong, but never rises out of mediocrity.

I’m a sucker for the following things: 80’s flicks, cloak-and-dagger plots, and Jeff Goldblum. I feel like you almost have to be, of all three, to appreciate this film. Well, there’s Michelle Pfeiffer, who’s not too bad on the eyes herself. But even so, I just couldn’t bring myself to give Into the Night 3 stars instead of just 2 and a half.

The premise is simple. Goldblum is a desperately bored, insomniac office drone who fails at communicating with his wife, and arrives home early one day to find her in bed with somebody else. Instead of an ugly confrontation scene, he takes to driving the lonely LA highways at night to B.B. King-influenced, but by now generic-sounding 80’s synth rock. It’s a right place at the wrong time situation that moves the story from Goldblum’s dull, boring life to the slightly less dull second act.

From here on out, he’s your classic Joe Blow who finds himself caught up in the middle of something way over his head alongside a beautiful and mysterious vixen, played by Michelle Pfeiffer. We don’t know what that ‘something’ is until much later, but for awhile we’re content with whatever our imagination can conjure. By the way, try not to imagine too much.

The first half of the movie plays almost like High Noon, as Pfeiffer shops around her socialite network for help, only to find that the reservoir has run dry. Goldblum chauffeurs the unappreciative Pfeiffer around Hollywood in a series of interesting cars, from a beat-up Chevy Nova to a ’59 Elvis-themed Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz, and everything in between. If you raised an eyebrow at ‘Elvis-themed,’ I’ll just say this: it’s got some flair that makes the “Pussy Wagon” in Kill Bill look like a Happy Meal toy.

My love for Michelle Pfeiffer’s character could be represented in a line graph and it would look something like a jagged downward trend: I generally liked her less and less as the film went on, but there were occasional scenes where she would gain back points for either being sexy or simply showing a little emotion now and then. In any case, I can’t think of a single other movie where she walks around completely stark naked in the background. (That happens closer to the beginning, by the way.)

Goldblum is a passive observer, only occasionally stepping out of his comfort zone to improvise where a situation calls for it, otherwise bemused by the rituals of this otherworldy realm he’s stumbled into. He drifts through the movie like someone who desperately needs a Red Bull.

To contrast the drab Jeff Goldblum in a melancholy tweed blazer, Into the Night has more than a few characters that’ll make your head spin, among them an Elvis impersonator whose infatuation with the King is more than an understatement, it’s a defining character attribute at the core of his personality. Oh, and right about the time I was wondering if there was going to be some kind of hook to elevate the film above its generic, run-of-the-mill plot, in popped David Bowie. Unfortunately, he understays his welcome.

Into the Night meanders through its plot developments and exposition in a way that’s almost true to the pace of real life but not so great for film. I kept thinking of Frantic for some reason, maybe because of the real-time intrigue-style plot similarities. Certainly not for the tone. If anything, it’s a lighter, cheaper Frantic, or Frantic with a mild sense of humor and without the mysterious European allure.

Like an old house with a manic, easily-influenced decorator/renovator, it’s never sure what it is. Gritty, realistic thriller one minute, 80’s B-movie of the week the next, with some slapstick thrown in for good measure. A goon squad of villains chasing Pfeiffer and Goldblum throughout much of the movie, one of them played by Landis himself, can shove their knives into a guy and let him bleed out onto the floor of a parking garage, ruthlessly drown a half-naked woman in the dawn surf, and needlessly open fire on an old man’s dog, and someone’s parrots, and yet at any given moment dissolve into the antics of a Three Stooges routine. Twice these henchmen barbarously ransack some rich asshole’s place while a half-naked, voluptuous mistress stands by. In each instance, I was never quite sure if what was about to go down was some kind of rape scene, graphic or otherwise. When they first appear you’re thinking: political thriller. Then, halfway through, they’re suddenly relegated to the comic relief station formerly occupied by such bumbling henchmen as Team Rocket and those hyenas from Lion King, before meeting their collective demise in a gritty scene reminiscent of a Sam Peckinpah shootout.

As the film builds to its climax, these tactics are an exercise in holding your slipping attention. For some, it will be a losing battle.

Again going for realism, it’s split up into two nights instead of just one, even though the brief gap of daylight in-between is superfluous and unnecessary—since, in order to move the action back into the night, Landis has Pfeifer and Goldblum sleep nine hours in a secret passage outside an estate’s grounds so they can wait for the maintenance staff to leave.

As a screenwriter I usually find my commentary to be more story-weighted by default. Here there’s not much else to comment on. Bland cinematography, drab lighting, a few focus issues here and there. From a technical perspective, it’s amateur hour. But you already know that; that isn’t why you’re here. You’re here for the cheap 80’s nostalgia, which I won’t deny exists. The funny thing is, Jeff Goldblum’s outfit already looks too outdated for this movie. Renowned blues guitarist B.B. King wrote two songs for the film, and I’m told contributed his musicianship to much of the score, which to me sounded like a generic library stock soundtrack, but they made a big deal about it in the special features of the DVD I watched. In any case, it’s pure 80’s.

The movie offers no sub-plot other than Jeff Goldblum is an insomniac and is bored with his life. My interpretation is that the entire film after he nods off at his desk is a prolonged dream sequence, a deluded fantasy cooked up by his bored subconscious. If you look at it through this prism it becomes much more interesting.

Friday Morning Review: "Nothing to Lose" (1997)

I am officially a staff writer for The Parallax Review, a plot development which became realized today when two of my reviews went up on the site. I've decided to post them here on the blog as well in raw, unedited form.
From here on out, my new reviews will get posted on the site every Friday at midnight.

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Starring Martin Lawrence, Tim Robbins, John C. McGinley, Giancarlo Esposito, Kelly Preston, Michael McKean, Rebecca Gayheart

Directed by Steve Oedekerk

Written by Steve Oedekerk

Produced by Martin Bregman, Michael Bregman, Dan Jinks

Rated R

98 minutes

3.5 stars

I’ve never asked myself, ‘what if Tim Robbins and Martin Lawrence got together to do a buddy comedy?’ After seeing Nothing To Lose, I won’t ever have to.

Steve Oedekerk’s 1997 follow-up to Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls could be your guilty pleasure brew-and-view, or toke-and-view depending on your pleasure. It could probably be your go-to Martin Lawrence fix, after you get tired of watching Blue Streak and Bad Boys II over and over again. It’s a weird little movie because I can’t honestly picture myself sitting around watching it with friends. Not enough of the humor is accidental to warrant that kind of viewing, I suppose.

But it is funny.

The story revolves around Tim Robbins’ character, a slick ad-man who’s too lighthearted to drift into Don Draper territory. He separates work and home life, he’s got a wry sense of humor, he’s a charmer. In fact he doesn’t do anything wrong, so the scene where he walks in on his wife and his boss in bed together is just that much more of a slap in the face.

This provokes a curiously subdued emotional breakdown in which he gets into his 1996 GMC Yukon and just drives clear across town, running red lights and putting along at 15 on the expressway. Soon enough he comes to the bad side of LA and is promptly held up at gunpoint by Martin Lawrence. Only Lawrence is a novice carjacker and Robbins, as the film’s title suggests, is the wrong white guy to mess with.

Once the action moves to the Arizona desert, the film really picks up. Robbins and Lawrence are pursued by hick law enforcement, cross paths with another black-white buddy ensemble from a darker parallel universe (maybe a Coen Brothers movie), and take turns knocking off backroads convenience stores. Eventually we learn that Robbins’ boss, Michael McKean, is hoarding a small fortune in his office guarded only by a well-endowed fertility god statue, and Nothing To Lose turns into a heist movie.

There’s nothing particularly surprising about the movie itself, but the plot throws just enough surprises at you to keep you invested throughout, even after it loses steam late in the second act. It goes down some unexpected avenues, some random, some a little awkward. Other than that, it’s perfectly formulaic, down to the minute. Which isn’t necessarily bad. In fact, I found most of this unlikely pair’s antics riotously funny.

My only complaint with Nothing To Lose is that it doesn’t touch upon anything significant enough to prevent it from fading into obscurity instead of securing a niche as a cult classic. I don’t have a problem with formula, but there has to be something going on between the lines. You know, like how Trading Places says something about greed or the mobility of one’s station in life. I predict that in a few short weeks I will have completely forgotten I even watched this movie, or that Tim Robbins and Martin Lawrence were ever in the same room. Which is a shame, because they make a great duo.

But there’s nothing especially meaty I can grab onto here, and digest after it’s over. At first I had the impression I was watching something truly original, but afterwards, I realized it was just another Martin Lawrence vehicle. And in that regard, Steve Oedekerk is a consummate magician. Unfortunately, I won’t be trolling eBay for a $5 used copy to add to my dvd collection.

Maybe it’s just not dark enough for my questionable tastes. The Coen Brothers, to throw that example out there again, could have turned this same premise into something truly memorable. Either Robbins or Lawrence might have abruptly died halfway through, and Oedekerk’s bizarre cameo would have hit the editing room floor so fast it would make Sonic the Hedgehog blush, but you’d probably have something you could at least watch again, and discuss in a film class.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to say that’s what the film should have been. As black-white rich-poor Trading Places-type buddy movies go, it’s definitely ahead of the curve; I just can’t recommend it to friends as a film that brings a crucial piece of the pie to the canon of cinema.

That said, I pretty much loved every minute of it.

I never had any burning desire to see a collaboration between Robbins and Lawrence, but honestly, the two are great together. Lawrence is a little more reserved than usual, and Robbins is a little less.

Surprisingly enough, the humor is not driven by Robbins’ character’s ignorance of black culture. In fact, racial jokes are largely absent, which is refreshing. Instead the comedy comes from the situations, which range from the aimlessly bizarre to the utterly ridiculous. In the middle of a robbery, the characters get into a debate (with the bewildered shopkeeper) over which is the less contrived approach.

They’re foils of style: Lawrence is a hot-headed, half-cocked amateur and Robbins is an unstable but mostly straight-faced articulate exec who’s aware he’s having an emotional crisis and is more amused by it than anything. In an early scene when they still practically hate each other’s guts, Robbins calls Lawrence “beetle-headed,” then has to explain that it’s a synonym for “stupid.” “Well here’s a synonym for procreation,” Lawrence retorts. “Fuck you!” Once they get their more obvious differences aside, there isn’t that much of a communication barrier. Here’s a black-white buddy movie that doesn’t waste precious running time on a prolonged ebonics lesson. As such, the plot is fueled less by their racial and economic differences and more by their similarities. These two guys understand each other, and draw strength from each other.

If you’re a Martin Lawrence fan and you haven’t seen this movie, shame on you. This is Lawrence at his more inspired, even if he does seem to be holding back. Tim Robbins’ nice guy-come unhinged left me a little nostalgic for Michael Douglas’ pencil pusher gone truly postal in Falling Down, but it’s hardly a fault.

John C. McGinley (Scrubs, Platoon) and Giancarlo Esposito round out the cast as a couple of fugitives who get mistaken for our heroes. I found myself trying to decide which pairing was more hilarious, Lawrence’s amateur carjacker with Robbins’ doddering highbrow, or John C. McGinley’s sensitive bully alongside Giancarlo Esposito’s deranged Mad Hatter-type with a classically-trained ear and a Baron Samedi cackle.

Anyway, pretentiousness aside, I can’t really say anything bad about Nothing To Lose. The movie entertained the hell out of me. And you know what? It’s a great time.

You’ve simply got nothing to gain by watching it.

Pulp #8

"Angel Heart" Review

My first piece for "The Parallax Review," a site that reviews mostly slipped-through-the-cracks cable fare. As a test of my writing ability, they asked me to pick out any movie that was playing on cable that week and write up an 800 word review. So, by dumb luck, I randomly chose a film that one of their reviewers had already been assigned. Long story short, it wasn't published on the site but you should be able to see new reviews of mine appear there starting this Friday (12/3).

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Angel Heart (1987)

Starring Mickey Rourke, Robert Dinero, Lisa Bonet

Directed by Alan Parker

Written by Alan Parker

Produced by Alan Marshall, Elliot Kastner

Rated R

113 minutes

4 stars

It’s 1955 and we’re in seedy, rainy downtown New York.

Angel Heart is neo-noir with a supernatural twist, starring Mickey Rourke as your classic, sleazy gumshoe with a Brooklyn accent. He spends most of the film in a rumpled suit and a pair of Wayfarer Clubmasters, exuding pure nostalgia wherever he goes. If you’re a fan, you’re in for a treat. This is vintage Rourke.

Here he plays Harry Angel, a private eye hired by Robert Dinero to look for somebody named Johnny Favorite. He’s wisecracking but subdued, a little frayed around the edges, with a certain boyish charm. He’s no stranger to death, pausing at a crime scene only to light a match off a corpse’s shoe, but more than once fights to ensure his survival with great fanfare. Alan Parker speckles him with just enough quirks to keep him interesting, while offering few solid clues about his character. Those he does provide are dropped with the subtlety of a hammer. He plunks keys on an old piano, keeps flashing back to a 1943 New Years’ party, and politely refuses eggs (he has a “thing about chickens”).

His stake in the film’s plot of voodoo and ritualistic murders is at first purely financial; he goes where the biggest wallet is. Throughout the first 25 minutes, I found myself wondering how Parker was going to uproot his easy existence in New York and move the action to New Orleans; I was a little disappointed that all it took was a paycheck with a magic number.

Rourke’s performance is bolstered by that of Cosby Show alum Lisa Bonet, playing a role that was sure to turn a few heads back in 1987. Bonet is sexy and mysterious, a modern femme fatale in the Big Easy. Only Dinero is flat. Cryptic, Mephistophelian, and slightly bizarre, he delivers his lines with a knowing smile. Whenever you see him, you’re trying to figure him out, but his interests remain purposefully vague.

The film boasts a bewildering, Big Sleep-type noir plot, and, like The Big Sleep, it throws a lot of disembodied names in your face the first 25 minutes. The script is peppered with just enough red herrings to not completely overwhelm. At one point we come across a bizarrely narcissistic Harlem pastor whose congregation carries him through the streets on a gold throne in what I initially guessed was a full-swing New Orleans funeral procession. Aside from that and the occasional voodoo-shrine-in-a-closet-gag, you’re not given too many indications where the film is going to lead.

Throughout the second act Rourke spends most of his time asking around about Johnny Favorite, and counting the stiffs piling up in his wake. The pacing might be slow for some. The film moves laboriously right up to the twist ending in the final five minutes, which, if you’ve been paying attention to the supernatural subtext, should be no harder to guess than that of The Sixth Sense. Fortunately, it’s much more satisfying, aided in part by the sheer creepiness factor of it. I’ll just say this: demonic children with glowing yellow eyes, used sparingly, can unsettle the shit out of you.

The film owes much of its moodiness to the synthesized, sometimes jazz-complemented soundtrack by Trevor Jones. Rourke creeps around shadowy, rain-soaked locales to Tangerine Dream-inspired ambience cues. If you’re creeped out by black magic, blood rituals and, well, blood-drenched sex scenes, stay away unless you’re masochistic. Everywhere Rourke goes, people keep turning up dead, and the murders are brutal to say the least. Michael Seresin’s cinematography, dark and possibly ahead of its time, offers little to the imagination.

The verdict? It’s Chinatown meets Live and Let Die. Gloomy, largely atmospheric, sometimes psychological, and a few times downright unsettling. If you’re an 80’s Rourke fan, a noir buff, or just anyone who’s into two hours of occult bloodletting with a twist that would make M. Night Shyamalan piss his pants, Angel Heart might just be the movie you’ve been waiting for.

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Previews

It's Been Awhile

But don't mistake my radio silence for lack of activity.

Here's a preview of the cover art for the first issue of the graphic novel project I'm working on. It's all charcoal:



The project is called "Who Saw The Deep" and it's a noir cyberpunk. I've written five issues so far, am in the middle of the sixth, and plan for it to be a 15-20 issue series.

Now that I'm starting to ease my focus more toward the art, expect to see more of this materialize soon.