A tender, delightful and little known historical tale to add to your holiday must-see list.
I’ll admit, I dreaded screening THE KING’S SPEECH – a British period drama about a stuttering royal figure? How could this not be boring? Yet not only is this movie entertaining, it’s delightfully so: funny, touching, inspiring, educational and, in my opinion, fully deserving of a Best Picture nod.
Director Tom Hooper introduces us to Albert (Colin Firth) - or “Bertie” to those close to him - England’s handsome and dignified Duke of York in the 1920’s. Bertie’s father, stern King George V (Michael Gambon), shrieks at him to overcome a stifling speech impediment. Why all the fuss? While Bertie’s notoriously philandering older brother David (Guy Pearce) is next in line to the throne, the king is convinced David will plunge the royal family into ruin thanks to his consistently scandalous behavior. He feels that Bertie should therefore be prepared for the worst and be forced to take the crown for himself one day – and a stutter won’t work in that equation. Sure enough, the king dies, David becomes Edward VIII - and the new king immediately embroils himself in scandal upon announcing his intention to wed an American divorcee.
Through the course of this unfolding royal soap opera the crux of the film plays out: after a succession of disastrous speech therapy consultations with quacks of all stripes, Bertie’s devoted wife Elizabeth (Helena Bonham Carter) engages the services of an eccentric Mr. Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush). Logue’s daily regimen of unorthodox treatments to Elizabeth’s quite reserved hubby results in an initially volatile reaction from the new patient, though he mellows out on the sessions with time. The sessions take on new urgency however as Edward VIII abruptly abdicates, Bertie is crowned King George VI and all of England looks to him for strong-voiced leadership through the commencement of war with Hitler.
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A formulaic romantic dramedy that at least offers a quality segment on Parkinson’s.
Despite very effective scenes devoted to Parkinson’s and, separately, a fair amount of nudity, LOVE AND OTHER DRUGS is little more than a typical, formulaic romantic comedy. It centers partly around Viagra’s debut and so is set in the 90’s, but otherwise comes across as little different from the world we live in today a decade-plus later. But its placement in that era also allows a cavalcade of 90’s one-hit wonders, thus fulfilling the mainstream rom com requirement of a buyable soundtrack. (Though the uninspired song choices and their constant reminder that it’s the 90’s annoys to no end.) The movie is based on Jamie Reidy's memoir "Hard Sell: The Evolution of a Viagra Salesman.”
In a nutshell, Jamie Randall (Jake Gyllenhaal) is a stud muffin specializing in getting laid. He uses this talent to his advantage first as an irritating electronics salesman, then as a pharmaceutical salesman. He meets Maggie Murdock (Anne Hathaway) when sleazy doctor Knight (Hank Azaria) actually permits him to join Dr. Knight’s consultation with her as a patient, during which time he sees Maggie’s exposed breast. (Sounds like a lawsuit to me.) Maggie is a “free spirit” – she loves her photography, lives in a pleasantly chaotic loft apartment, and – gasp! - speaks her mind. She struggles with an unusually early onset of Parkinson’s, and while she at first keeps her cards close to her chest because of it, James proves different from most men, and love and romance bloom.
Both Gyllenhaal and Hathaway have proven themselves fine actors before, and her excellent portrayal of a young person facing mortality had me wishing the film devoted more time to the subject. But instead of seducing us with his caddish charm, Gyllenhaal does little more than cause groans. And he’s rarely funny in this movie, so either Jake isn’t suited to play a superficial slut, or director Edward Zwick gave him a bad set of instructions. His kiss-ass, dancing-and-singing-with-the-customers routine at an electronics store is positively cringe-inducing.
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A brooding, sloppily paced seventh chapter.
HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS: PART 1 ventures onto territory completely unique to the wildly popular ($5 billion-plus and counting) series. In this brooding, sometimes violent and often hopeless seventh and final chapter - the first of two parts, no less - Voldemort’s forces finally wrest control of our cherished land of magic and wizards. The Disneyworld-like wonders we’ve grown so accustomed to are now shrouded in darkness, and our returning, fresh-faced protagonists – though not nearly so fresh-faced as they used to be –– find themselves both on the hunt and hunted. Though mostly the latter.
The movie begins where 2009's THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE left off, as companions Harry, Ron and Hermione (Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint and Emma Watson) face this foreboding new world minus their reassuringly wise leader Professor Dumbledore, violently murdered by turncoat Severus Snape. A steady deterioration of law and order ensues, the Ministry of Magic and our beleaguered heroes’ home of Hogwarts are ceded to the Death Eaters, and all those opposing You Know Who must flee or face certain persecution… or death.
HALLOWS leaps into action with a harrowing chase scene that results in the death of one of Harry’s friends, not to mention (another) significant character from the series. So we learn early on that this is no longer strictly family viewing, as spilled blood, terror and death already fill the screen. And the scene’s shocking conclusion establishes for both the good guys and the audience that the Dark Lord and his minions now have the upper hand. Over the next two and half hours those forces embark on an ruthless hunt for Potter and his friends, the action exploding even into the formerly out-of-bounds Muggle world. After all, the old rules no longer apply. Harry and his sidekick duo venture out on their own to spare their friends the danger constantly nipping at their heels. Together they must track down the remaining five Horcruxes, symbolic objects containing Voldemort's immortal defenses. Horcruxes are the ultimate life insurance policy: not only are they a bitch to find, but they’re protected by wickedly powerful charms. (Numbers one (Tom Riddle’s diary) and two (Marvolo Gaunt’s ring) were destroyed in THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS and HALF-BLOOD PRINCE, respectively.) In the midst of this quest, the ancient tale of the Deathly Hallows is unearthed, and a race to secure that legend’s powers is initiated.
McAdams is as obnoxiously perky as the title suggests.
Sigh… I entered this romantic comedy hopeful. I loved Ms. McAdams in WEDDING CRASHERS and MEAN GIRLS – she plays charmingly adorable and Queen Bitch equally well. And MORNING GLORY features acting gods Harrison Ford and Diane Keaton as crusty news folk -- kinda fun, right? Yet in the end, almost nothing works in the film: it now joins the towering trash heap that is Hollywood’s endless litany of generic, corporatized, paint-by-the-numbers “meet cute” pop vehicles.
Rachel McAdams plays the annoyingly perky (much like the film’s title) TV producer Becky Fuller, new top dog for “Daybreak,” the country’s fourth-place national morning news show. As one of her many ratings-booster brainstorms, she hires august anchor Mike Pomeroy (Harrison Ford) to host alongside longtime hostess-diva Colleen Peck (Diane Keaton). But the two instantly go for the other’s jugular off camera, the new format fails to gain ground and ratings plummet even further. So Becky goes into an over-caffeinated tizzy: a Tasmanian Devil whirlwind of madly talking to herself and ripping doorknobs off doors, all intended to charm us, I think. And as she attempts to single-handedly save the show, she must also save her budding romance with another TV producer, hunky Adam Bennett (Patrick Wilson).
McAdams unfortunately does not convince as the executive-producer-of-a-national-morning-show type, whatever that may be. She is just not it. And her utterly irritating persona makes for a weak protagonist to root for. You know her type:- every other rom com features her nowadays: the single, neurotic career woman who, despite being drop dead gorgeous, can’t get a date if her life (or career) depends on it. She’s kinda clumsy and will quickly, desperately fall head over heels (if not literally) for the first man to find her quirks charming. The first time they have sex (after the requisite, contrived obstacle course) causes her to let her hair down both metaphorically and literally. Her clothes become more feminine. Her obsession about her job lessens. This is the way women should be, right? And finding a man was all she needed! Katherine Heigl, Jennifer Aniston, and Drew Barrymore have beamed this lesson at us via the big screen time and again.
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An un-funny implementation of a brilliant idea.
I’d expected to love-love-love this film considering all the buzz out of Sundance. Not that Sundance is a reliable precursor to either box office success or wider audiences’ embrace. But while I’m absolutely, head-over-heels in admiration of the concept behind it, the clueless goons in the satire FOUR LIONS did little more than annoy and ultimately depress me as opposed to amuse and enlighten.
In a British city, four idiots declare jihad out of boredom and a need to prove their manhood. Omar (Riz Ahmed), the group’s leader and the only one with a semblance of brain function, wants to avenge the treatment of Muslims worldwide. White Islamic convert Barry (played by Nigel Lindsay and I thought in possession of the most comic potential) bursts into constant fits of contrarian rage. Waj (Kayvan Novak), who seems borderline mentally retarded, unquestioningly follows anything and everything put before him. And Faisal (Adeel Akhtar) is attempting to train crows to fly bombs through windows. (This too could have been funny, but instead is merely sad.) Together this losing team fumbles in slapstick fashion through devising and executing a mission of death and destruction at a local marathon.
We tend to view terrorists, an ambiguous term in itself, as fearsome individuals, steely-eyed and unafraid. These men at least do us the favor of making us consider the possibility that some such individuals aren’t that at all. Perhaps some merely desire recognition. Or for that matter are genuinely ignorant of any specific reasons for pursuing such bloody goals. It’s actually not that hard to imagine.
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A cold and lifeless retelling of a riveting national scandal.
Director Doug Liman’s past work includes such noteworthy gems as THE BOURNE IDENTITY, GO and SWINGERS, which is why I found it perplexing he created such a cold and often lifeless experience in FAIR GAME. Given the film’s historic potential to shine light on a relatively recent scandal with life-and-death implications, the final result is a particular disappointment, washed out in somber grays.
FAIR GAME’s official synopsis mislabels itself as an action thriller. There’s not much action in the traditional sense. But more importantly, the inherent psychological suspense of the events that took place isn’t fully exploited. The movie is based on the true story of former CIA spy Valerie Plame (Naomi Watts), whose career was destroyed by a White House smear campaign. She’s outed as a spy as retaliation for a New York Times editorial by her diplomat husband Joe Wilson (Sean Penn). In the editorial Wilson disputed George W. Bush’s State Of the Union declaration that Saddam Hussein sought from Niger yellowcake uranium, used to make nuclear weapons. It’s also hinted - though in reality never proven – that Karl Rove was personally involved in Plame’s exposure; the film’s title is what Rove supposedly labeled Plame once he and his cohorts set their sights on her and Wilson, a quote still shocking for its callousness.
Perhaps creating a genuinely exciting film based on these events is easier said than done? Then again, if it’s possible to make a thrilling flick out of Facebook’s creation, the Plame scandal should have been cake. (Yellow cake? Okay, bad joke.) The biggest problem I have with FAIR GAME is how miscast the otherwise multi-talented Sean Penn is – his version of Wilson is self-serious, lethargic and morose – and that’s even before the scandal that engulfed his family began brewing. While the real-life Joe Wilson comes across in TV appearances as a dashing figure, Penn's interpretation is so frumpy you have to wonder how he scored the beautiful and highly intelligent Plame. Is Wilson really as much of a bore as the film suggests? Penn also lowered his voice for the role in an odd way -- I kept wanting him to speak up.
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Ventures nowhere new in its embrace of the odd-couple-on-a-road-trip formula.
Director Todd Phillips’ first film since his smash hit THE HANGOVER, DUE DATE debuts to perhaps unfairly high expectations of hilarious inventiveness. Regardless, the movie ventures nowhere new in its embrace of the odd-couple-on-a-road-trip formula; such comedic classics as PLANES, TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES (which also mastered DUE DATE’s uptight-workaholic-meets-carefree-slob formula) and MIDNIGHT RUN exist on a whole other plane.
Peter Highman (Robert Downey, Jr.) experiences calamity after calamity after crossing paths with oddball stranger Ethan Tremblay (Zach Galifianakis) at Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta. Having lost his wallet and his ability to even board a plane (he gets put on the no fly list), Peter is forced to bum a ride with Ethan in his rental car to LA, where Peter’s wife will soon give birth. Comedy and chaos naturally ensues.
Downey and Galifianakis are both talented actors and funnymen, yet their comedic instincts are too often sideswiped here. Still, the movie does contain at least two genuinely hilarious moments, scenes that had me laughing loud and hard. And certain lines of dialogue and some subtle body language prompts grins and LOTI (laughter on the inside, bien sur) aplenty. Downey violently spitting in the face of Tremblay’s harmless dog for instance -- or even Tremblay’s odd, vaguely sexual caress of Ethan’s face in a hospital -- amuse because they’re so out of the blue, and out of the box. Such actions and scenes work because they’re presented in a fashion you’re neither used to nor see coming.
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