Kicking the Tweets

It's Complicated 2009)

Revenge of the Rom-com

Five months ago, Meryl Streep starred as Julia Child in Julie & Julia. I found the film to be so deplorable and soulless that my only way to cope with its awfulness was to start a movie blog. Had you told me then that less than half a year later I’d be writing a rave review about another Streep picture in which she plays a frenetic chef, I would’ve shit my pants and called you a liar. But here we are, and here’s my rave review.

I’ll lead off by stating publicly that whoever cut the trailer for Nancy Meyers’ It’s Complicated should be tried for crimes against the movie-going public and then dragged through the streets while on fire. The previews are exactly what kept me away from this picture for more than a month, and I’m just glad I got roped into this as an alternative to bowling (or Jackie Chan’s The Spy Next Door). I thought surely that I’d seen the entire picture in the course of two minutes: Streep and Alec Baldwin are divorced but have an affair; Streep giggles with her girlfriends about how men are dumb and silly; then Steve Martin shows up to complete the cliche love triangle; all of course played out against a Whimsical Romantic Comedy Soundtrack and gags about getting high and having Internet sex. While it’s true that all of those elements are part of the movie, this is in no way a simple pratfalls-and-revelations rom-com; it’s more serious than that; more (ugh) complicated.

Meryl Streep’s, Alec Baldwin’s and Steve Martin’s characters are the closest this genre has come to well-rounded, believable people in at least a decade. Streep and Baldwin play Jane and Jake Adler, a wealthy divorced couple; Jake has moved on, marrying his decades-too-young mistress and becoming a surrogate father to her child; Jane is single and still kind of shell-shocked from the decade-old divorce, and having a really hard time seeing the last of her three children leave the nest. At their son’s graduation, the exes run into each other at a bar, drink way too much, and fall into bed. This sets up a reluctant (on Jane’s part) affair that also comes to involve Adam (Martin), the architect who’s overseeing an extension on her home. This messy situation lends itself to comedy, but the film’s bright, beating heart is the honesty with which the principle actors imbue their characters. Watching It’s Complicated, both my mind and heart were engaged, and not once did I feel bored or insulted by lazy writing.

That’s due in large part to Meyer’s script (she wrote and directed the film). It’s such a personal story that I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was inspired by true events. There is such a fine level of detail in the dialogue and the situations that reveal truths not only about how love blossoms, dies, and occasionally blooms again, but about growing old and prizing family above all else. Just about everything in It’s Complicated works; I could’ve done without the scene in which Jake spies on Adam, or the entire Jake-goes-to-the-fertility-clinic sub-plot—those reeked of the desperate, sitcom-level nonsense that can be found in tripe like 27 Dresses, The Ugly Truth and He’s Just Not That Into You. But over all, this movie deals with the kinds of issues that real people care about; Nancy Meyers realizes that there’s enough comedy and drama in everyday life that there’s no need to turn her characters into cartoons in order to elicit laughs and empathy.

I’d like to take a moment to praise Steve Martin’s wonderful performance as Adam. While a lot of attention has been given to Streep (who is great) and Baldwin (who plays Jake as Jack Donaghy with a touch less flash), Steve Martin is the hero of the movie. I haven’t truly enjoyed one of his performances since Bowfinger, as both he and Eddie Murphy have toiled in lame family-friendly garbage for most of the last decade. But here, he is genuinely funny and very touching. The scene where Adam and Jane make chocolate croissants on their first date—all two minutes of it—is a better, more romantic film about food than all of Julie & Julia.

If you haven’t seen It’s Complicated yet, you owe it to yourself to check it out right away. I smiled throughout most of the movie—even during some of the dramatic scenes, just because the active was so damned good—and came away feeling like I’d just watched a movie for grown-ups. It’s the exact opposite of what I expected, thanks to those awful, unforgivable commercials.

Note: It’s Complicated is rated “R” due to “Some Drug Content and Sexuality”. This is utter bullshit, folks, and it’s an outrage. The only “sexuality” that might elicit this rating is an eighth-of-a-second shot of Alec Baldwin’s (body double’s) ass. And the “drug content” refers to the pot-smoking scene—only because the people doing it (who were adults, mind you) suffered no consequences for getting high. As I understand it, had they been arrested or driven into a tree because of that crazy, evil reefer, the film may have garnered a PG-13 rating.

I’m going to go on the record here and state that anyone who is inspired to smoke weed because they saw Meryl Streep and Steve Martin share a joint in a movie is a Grade-A imbecile who would be better off playing in traffic rather than fucking up the delicate Bell Curve of our American ratings system.


Daybreakers (2010)

The Sun Also Rinses

I just read an article about how Michael and Peter Spierig’s Daybreakers is one of three new films that are taking aim at dethroning Avatar as the current box office champion. There’s no way in hell that’ll happen. Avatar is a cultural juggernaut, having captured the imaginations of millions of people worldwide, while Daybreakers is the millionth serving of vampire-flavored pop candy to hit in just over a year (thanks, Twilight). But there is a legitimate financial discussion to be had regarding these two films in that Avatar cost more than any other film to produce, and Daybreakers is very obviously a low-budget picture that was lucky to get a theatrical release—even in the dead zone of January. Fortunately, the Spierig brothers realized that a filmmaker’s best investment is not in computer effects, but in the screenplay.

Set in the year 2019 following a vampire outbreak that has brought the human race to the brink of extinction, Daybreakers centers on a hematologist named Edward Dalton (Ethan Hawke). He’s a vampire in a world where vampirisim is no longer special; people still go to work and order over-priced lattes in subway stations—the only difference is that they’re immortal and prefer Type-O to soymilk. Edward works for the Bromley Pharmaceutical Corporation, whose president (Sam Neill) tasks him with developing a blood substitute that will sustain the population once the last human has been drained. Edward sympathizes with the humans’ plight and falls in with a small band of renegades who themselves want to find a solution to protect their species.

If this sounds like the setup to a half-dozen other “enemy of the state” movies, it is; Daybreakers treads very familiar ground. The key difference is that the Spierigs, who wrote and directed the picture, have followed in Quentin Tarantino’s footsteps by throwing all of he best elements from their favorite action movies and vampire stories into a narrative vat and tweaking the recipe; the result is a smart, briskly paced movie that delivers both good jump scares and great ideas. The Spierigs pay tribute to the first two-thirds of The Matrix (before it devolved into a really boring stunt show), Equilibrium, Dark City, Day of the Dead, and Children of Men—all of which dazzled audiences with action as well as solid stories and interesting characters.

What I love about this story is the texture the Spierigs bring to the vampire mythos and the ways in which they follow the lore out to its logical conclusion. Vampire society is inundated by sexy advertising for teeth whitening services and shielded cars that allow one to drive around during the day. As the blood supply dwindles, the vampire population begins to devolve from wealthy consumers into hideous, bat-like “under dwellers”; yes, the monstrous forms that are often regarded as the “cool” incarnations of vampires in most movies are the homeless, crazy derelicts of Daybreakers (there’s even a vampire army of humvee-driving soldiers who hunt under dwellers and humans alike). Another nice touch is that there’s not a high council or brotherhood of thousand-year-old vampires that Ultimately Must Be Stopped; in this universe, vampirism began as a blood disease—which is why, I think, it only took ten years for immortality and super-strength to become mundane characteristics. The synthetic blood storyline is the film’s greatest surprise, and I’ll leave it for you to discover; suffice it to say, we’re presented with an idea that I’m sure will pop up in vampire stories for generations to come.

I may be putting this movie over a bit too much. While parts of it are perfect, there are a few things that could have stood to be left out. First, I’m getting really, really tired of the “noble” vampire that doesn’t drink human blood. It was a cool idea once, but nowadays it seems the rabbit and pig populations of most vampire stories are in more danger than that of the humans. I’ll give Edward in Daybreakers a bit of a pass, though, because we’re shown just how much the decision affects him. What is unforgivable is a sub-plot involving one of Edward’s lab-mates who devolves from semi-interesting-character-with-potential into puppet-of-the-plot; it’s clear that the Spierigs hit a block with this guy, as he disappears from the story and pops up twice near the end in two developments that stink of desperation. These and the awkward staging of a couple of scenes are minor detractions from an otherwise sterling effort.

Those concerns aside, I urge you to check out Daybreakers in the theatre. There are a number of story points and characters that I haven’t even mentioned because I wouldn’t dream of spoiling them. Michael and Peter Spierig have taken their shot at the big time, employing wonderful practical effects, solid actors, and enough brains and passion to make them, potentially, the Coen Brothers of genre films. Daybreakers may not be a blockbuster, and will likely vanish in James Cameron’s big blue shadow, but it is the superior picture.


Paranormal Activity (2009)

Turn Off Your Cell Phone and Pay Attention!

I’m glad I didn’t see Paranormal Activity in a theatre. The hype machine was in full churn last Fall. Limited screenings built word of mouth, which gave rise to commercials showing audience members screaming and clutching one another; many of my friends reported incidents of morons who, if not talking and joking during the “boring” parts, were obsessed with letting all of their friends know—via text message—that they were watching a movie. Now that the film is on video, I was finally able to enjoy Paranormal Activity the way it was meant to be seen: in the dark, on a comfortable couch, with people who—for the most part—know how to shut the fuck up.

Still, the word of mouth on this picture had me scared. I’d heard that it was a fine movie if one simply “turned off their brain” and “went along for the ride”, which is average-idiot-speak for leaving all possibility of quality or surprise behind. Fortunately, this film proved to be much smarter than I’d ever hoped for. Writer/director Oren Peli has created the perfect slow-burn horror movie with a meager $15,000 and three natural, compelling actors.

What I love most about Paranormal Activity is the way it plays with audience expectations. The film starts out as an apparent rip-off of the similarly successful The Blair Witch Project: a day-trader named Micah (Micah Sloat)has purchased a fancy, expensive video camera with which he hopes to capture evidence of the ghost that has been causing weird things to happen around the house he shares with his girlfriend, Katie (Katie Featherstone). Not long after, we learn that the Katie has been followed by a spirit for as long as she can remember, and that the ghost may have been responsible for burning down her childhood home. Micah, the skeptic, finds the whole endeavor ridiculous, until the two call in a psychic (Mark Fredrichs), who warns them that they’re dealing with a demon, not a ghost. The layers of complexity build in this story, revealing not only secrets about the characters, but the key to the film’s very frustrating middle section, which has divided many people I’ve talked to.

You see, Micah begins acting in a way that many seem to think is unrealistic, or just plain douche-y. He borrows a Ouija board to make contact with the entity; he provokes the demon with taunts and an evolving sense of bravado that could be misconstrued as being out of character. Though the movie is a crowd-pleaser, it doesn’t hold the audience’s hand in explaining away Micah’s behavior; the answer is there, and it is brilliant. Though I won’t spoil any more than I already have, I will offer a solid, two-word clue to die-hard horror fans (one that the casual observer will likely have to Google): Jack Torrance.

Okay, yes, the movie’s clever; but is it scary? You bet! And not in the bullshit, slow motion CG ghost child manner that has, sadly, come to define mainstream horror in this last decade. No, Paranormal Activity aims for genuine creepiness and the kind of mundane scares that will keep new homeowners away from this movie for quite awhile. Oren Peli knows what would give many of us goosebumps: doors that swing just slightly, for example, or hallway lights that turn off and on a few times while we sleep, completely unaware of the occurrence. Micah’s video camera captures all of this and many more minor disturbances, which eventually become major ones—and, finally, full-on evidence of Hell on Earth. But the movie never comes off as showy. It’s like the first forty-five minutes of Poltergeist, when we jumped because kitchen chairs stacked themselves; it is unlike the last forty-five minutes of Poltergeist, in that there are no tree monsters or muddy upended graveyards.

I dare say that Paranormal Activity is a modern classic. At the very least, it is a thinking-man’s horror film, one that stimulates both the nerve endings and the mind. It’s also a fine example of how carefully considered characterization and storytelling can evoke real emotion in an audience without resorting to cheap scares or hiding behind a gigantic effects budget. The only thing scarier than Paranormal Activity is the people who find it boring.


August Underground (2001)

Down with the Sickness

I met Fred Vogel at last month’s HorrorHound convention in Cincinnati. I’d recently heard a great interview with him on Deadpit Radio, where he spoke at length about horror films and his production company, Toe Tag Pictures; it was cool to meet him, even though I’d never seen any of the August Underground pictures for which he is perhaps best known. Fred was very nice and—as in the interview—well spoken, passionate, and knowledgeable. I came away happy to have plopped down some cash for the trilogy, sight-unseen, knowing that I was supporting the efforts of a cool human being.

Today, I finally watched the first film, titled, simply, August Underground. Frankly, it’s the best independent film I’ve ever seen, and a wonderful example of what someone with enough imagination and talent can produce, even with the sparest of budgets. The problem is, I don’t know who the hell I can recommend it to.

You see, August Underground is a mock snuff film. Wholly devoid of plot and redeeming social value, it is the ultimate exercise in both style and tolerance. The film takes place in Pittsburgh, and centers on two unnamed guys who pass the time by kidnapping and torturing people. If this sounds like a Saw or Hostel knock-off, keep in mind that this film was released in 2001, and it is also shot as cinema verite: both the actors and the gore effects are so convincing that the only way to make it through the film with a clear conscience is to marvel at the performances and the artistry. This is sick stuff.

The conceit of the film is that it is a “found” VHS tape, I guess in the vain of The Blair Witch Project or Cloverfield. But Vogel’s commitment to the material is so absolute that the movie will cut from a woman bound and bleeding in a basement to a rave party at a local club to a pasture in which a cow gives birth. The image jumps and warps just as would a tape that had been recorded over multiple times, which means there are scenes that stop in the middle and open onto others that are thematic opposites. It’s style is the total absence of style.

Which is not to say that the movie is a pointless exercise in violence. On top of the acting and makeup effects, August Underground is a study in both set design and camerawork as storytelling devices. The assailants’ basement lair is a hellhole of arrested development, littered with cutouts from adult magazines and a bathtub filled with decomposing bodies; the cameraman (Allen Peters) giggles and lingers on exposed privates, taunting his friend (Fred Vogel) with ideas for how to further degrade and terrify the victims. While these shots seem random and repetitive, they begin to tell us something about the person taking them, peeling back the layers of psychosis but not providing any answers.

This subject matter has been tackled before, in films as far ranging as A Clockwork Orange and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer to American Psycho. But August Underground pushes the ideas, almost to their extremes (I say “almost” because, much like David Fincher’s Se7en, we see mostly the aftermath of the violence; there is a good measure of assault, sure, but Vogel is surprisingly conservative in how much he actually shows). In the other films I mentioned, the audience understands that they’re just watching movies, stories with a first, second, and third act; and that, likely, the killer be punished, or at least disposed of until the sequel. August Underground is free to just be a crazy tape, and that makes the experience of watching the movie totally unpredictable.

Going into the movie, I expected the worst. Vogel and his films are considered by some to be the progenitors of the “torture porn” trend, and I had no interest in watching people get cut up for two hours (the first film is mercifully short, at 70 minutes). But having seen the movie for myself, I can say that it’s not a cheap splatterfest.

August Underground is a beautiful, gruesome, dark piece of art that will probably turn a lot of people off within the first two minutes. But for any aspiring filmmakers reading this, it is a must-see. There is no longer an excuse for amateurish acting, shoddy special effects, or stories that fail to elicit emotion; with very little money, Fred Vogel created a serial killing duo, crawled inside their twisted heads, and produced a video diary that will make the most jaded moviegoer squirm. I don’t know what it says about me that I really enjoyed this movie, but I take some solace in knowing that it’ll be a good long while before I check out the sequels.

Note: I typically post these reviews with a still from the movie at hand. There are literally no good, representative images that I can put up in good conscience. So here’s a happy picture of Fred and me; it’s the only happy picture associated with August Underground.


Sherlock Holmes (2009)

Shit Sherlock

Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes accomplishes several astonishing things:

1. It evokes Robert Downey Jr.’s least interesting performance since his re-emergence as an A-list actor.

2. It reduces literature’s greatest detective to a borderline-autistic, drunken brawler.

3. It manages to wholly miss the point and promise of a good mystery.

This is a truly awful movie. And considering the talent on and off the screen, that had to have been a greater feat than all the technical wizardry in Avatar. Like Avatar, I knew I was in trouble less than ten minutes into this picture; I was honestly compelled to leave. But no movie has beaten me yet.

This is a much different take on the Holmes character than previous incarnations. For one thing, he and his faithful assistant, Dr. Watson (Jude Law) are much younger—at least they act like it. They share a London apartment, which they have trouble maintaining due to Watson’s gambling problem and Holmes’ propensity for blowing holes in the walls. They’re like a Masterpiece Theatre version of the Jersey Shore housemates, who occasionally solve crimes. Indeed, I found that the film’s biggest mysteries didn’t involve the sinister, back-from-the-dead Lord Blackwood (Mark Strong), or the motives of erstwhile femme fatale Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams); my curiosity lay in how Holmes and Watson could stand to be friends, much less work together. It was also never explained who or what Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be: rather than a sophisticated genius, Downey comes off as a very lucky hard case who grew up reading stories featuring his character.

When most people read a Sherlock Holmes mystery, they don’t settle in for an afternoon of explosions, incessant banter between the leads, and action set pieces; they want to enjoy an elaborate mystery, packed with atmosphere, plot twists, and suspects. Leave it to Guy Ritchie to throw out the story on day one and give us a chase scene through a shipyard featuring a shoddy runaway CG anchor.

The director and screenwriters Michael Robert Johnson, Anthony Peckham, and Simon Kinberg correctly assume that one of the highlights of a good puzzle picture is the climax, where the brilliant protagonist unravels the threads and helps the audience to see what was in front of their faces all along (think The Usual Suspects); however, they miss the point of that exercise, which is that it happens once—at the end of the story. In Sherlock Holmes, there are at least five of these kinds of scenes, where Holmes breaks down everything, from boxing match strategy to whipping up a disguise; the problem is that these scenes are often slow-motion foretellings in his head that we must then watch in real-time half a minute later. This flashy, tedious contrivance is meant to confuse the audience with cuteness rather than cleverness—or, you know, story.

There are times, though, when a movie isn’t really about the story. There are rare movies where the main attraction is a powerhouse performance, like Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood, or even Robert Downey, Jr. in Iron Man. The key is that the actor must do something unexpected with the part, something playful and engaging that either gets the audience on their side or turns them so solidly against him/her that they must stick around to revel in the character’s comeuppance. Sadly, the only surprise in Downey’s portrayal of Holmes is how phoned-in it is.

His English accent is flawless, but so what? He can do accents in his sleep; I was hoping he’d apply the same obsessive seriousness to Holmes that he did to his Paul Avery character in David Fincher’s Zodiac—perhaps with a slight comic bent; in both films he plays a smart, obsessed man on the trail of a killer. The difference is that here, he’s less man than Warner Brothers cartoon; he mumbles and slurs his lines unintelligibly for most of the movie (especially when he’s got that damned pipe shoved in his mouth); it’s as if he realizes this is a blockbuster, and not a job that requires an actual performance. There are two scenes in which we glimpse the Holmes that might have been (inspecting the ginger midget's apartment--before the madcap fight--and the climax with Lord Blackwood on the bridge), but they are sad reminders of everything else his character does during the other 105 minutes.

On a side note, who the hell thought Rachel McAdams was right for this movie? It’s bad enough that her “character” is a half-baked rip-off of Casino Royale’s Vesper Lynd, but the writers inexplicably made her an American—I guess to add some dimension or something. The problem is that there’s something off-puttingly modern in her acting here, a not-quite-Valley-Girl cadence that suggests a grade-schooler playing a grown-up.

Of course, the Irene character is not the only nod to Casino Royale and other films. Sherlock Holmes’s climax involves a big chase through the bowels of Parliament that ends when Holmes pops up through a door—which opens onto a giant, under-construction bridge hundreds of feet above the Thames (yeah, I said, “huh?” too). There is much fighting and monologuing, and we’re meant to be awed at the danger and dizzied by the height; but I kept thinking about how much more satisfying the James Bond picture was (and how much smarter, too). I was also reminded of an earlier scene in which Holmes, Watson, and Irene must escape an elaborate series of traps—a passageway lined with timed bursts of flame and a conveyor belt where pigs are ripped apart by a buzz-saw; anyone who has seen Saw VI and Saw III will instantly recognize these traps, which were also handled better in their original incarnations.

The most disheartening thing about Sherlock Holmes is its cynical use of a supernatural story as the main plot. Anyone who has read a Holmes story—or seen an episode of Scooby-Doo—knows that the “ghosts” will eventually be revealed as mortal men with enough imagination and connections to pull off elaborate hoaxes. So when the time comes to reveal the secrets of the villain’s sleight of hand, we no longer care because there was never a doubt that the whole thing was a trick.

It would have been really interesting if there had been a supernatural foe for Holmes, or maybe just an enemy with a greater intellect than his own. In a “nod” to both Batman Begins and The Phantom Menace, we get a glimpse of the evil Moriarty, who is set up as the next picture’s antagonist. I hope to God he can slap some adulthood into this man-child version of Holmes. At last, a mystery worth pondering!