Kicking the Tweets

Gone Girl (2014)

Alien Abduction

David Fincher enters the 2014 Oscar race with a broken foot and Scotch on his breath. Gone Girl tops my list of Year's Worst films, and I'm still in disbelief that the force behind Se7en and The Social Network delivered such listless garbage. If you're a fan of Gillian Flynn's best-seller, prepare to be entertained (I guess). If, like me, you've only seen the adaptation's trailer, steady yourself for some dashed hopes. Marketed as a roiling cauldron of domestic-violence and mystery, Gone Girl boils down to a tone-deaf stab at black comedy: it's Basic Instinct as an art-house sitcom; Schinlder's List with slide whistles.

It's my own damned fault. Like the perpetrator of Flynn's missing-wife plot, Fincher and company leave clues right out in the open. When a host of comic actors popped up, I thought, "How nice to see Tyler Perry, Casey Wilson, and Missi Pyle working on their dramatic skills!" I was met instead with a gaggle of cartoon characters: the slick, white-collar lawyer; the obnoxious, redneck neighbor; the Nancy Grace-style news-magazine host. Ben Affleck plays the object of their suspicion, a wealthy-by-marriage writing teacher suspected of doing something awful to his not-quite-beloved Rosamund Pike. Sadly, he takes the role seriously, in an off-putting universe of shrill Muppets and black holes where characterization should be.

Like a fool, I trusted Fincher (and Flynn, who also wrote the screenplay) to deliver the taut Whodunnit promised in the previews. You might argue that I should have A) read the book, and B) not held the film accountable for its marketing. The first point is moot, as movies should stand on their own. The second will only get you so far down the logic path: one shouldn't sit down to watch Lincoln, for example, and wind up with Movie 43.

Indeed, Fincher believes, I assume, that he's fashioned a black comedy about the tribulations of marriage. In practice, it's an uneven farce that would stink of incompetence were it not for the brand names involved. Nick (Affleck) and Amy (Pike) are characters defined not by events that we see, but by narration and dialogue that is ascribed to them. Their past and present meld together as Amy's "Dear Diary" flashbacks intersect with the present-day disappearance investigation, but there's no transition between love-struck courtship and bitter married couple. They love each other, then they don't. Nick is a nice-guy slacker (except when he's not), and then a scheming, physically abusive creep (sometimes). Amy is at once brilliant and the kind of idiot who gets caught with thousands of dollars in cash on her person--twice.

These aren't people. They're pawns in a tolerance game perpetrated on the audience by Flynn and Fincher. How many plot twists can we accept; how un-relatable can two people possibly be; how flat and un-engaging can a cinematic mastermind's latest film look--before throngs of opening-weekend suckers call "Bullshit"?

Gone Girl is like a bad Law & Order two-parter that learned viewers will abandon at the third commercial break. Like a hundred (or hundred-thousand, for all I know) semi-procedurals before it, the film hits us with red-herring suspects, red-herring motives, and even red-herring omniscience--all of which hinge on a big, third-act reveal. Fincher's film has about four major reveals, and each one is so gob-smackingly ridiculous that I constantly found myself wishing the material were in better hands.

As a David Fincher fan, I can't believe I just typed that and didn't delete it.

Had Fincher and his team settled on a consistent tone, they might have made the film that's currently being hyped. At every turn, the drama is undermined by "snappy" dialogue that sounds like Kevin Smith copying the His Girl Friday screenplay while zonked out of his mind. The comedy depends on archetypes neither rooted in reality nor the story they're involved with (Patrick Fugit plays a young cop who hates Nick and believes he's guilty--for reasons neither stated nor implied). Like The Boxtrolls, Gone Girl features a lot of tedious "business". Though substantial in terms of run-time, it does little to hide the filmmakers' deist approach--dropping their central secret halfway through, and then walking away from the next hour-and-fifteen minutes.

Even my one glimmer of hope was clouded by ambivalence towards everything that had come before. Late in the film, Fincher stages a grisly, yet unsurprising murder (especially for fans of the aforementioned Basic Instinct). These darkly gleeful two minutes douse the screen in buckets of blood and excitement, both of which drain away at the scene change.

When I say that Gone Girl is one of the year's worst movies, I don't mean that it's technically deficient. Excepting the writing and the director's sensibilities regaring his actors' performances, most everything else here is top-notch. Fincher brings back many of his Girl with the Dragon Tattoo cohorts, such as cinematographer Jeff Cronenweth, editor Kirk Baxter, and composers Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. But they're given far less room to play than even on their previous book adaptation--which had already been adapted for film. No, the material is the culprit here, abetted by a dependably exciting director whose wicked, inventive sense of style seems to have momentarily vanished.


Left Behind (2014)

Rapture Sheet

Left Behind is an amazing film. By "amazing", I mean "awful". And by "awful", I mean "Wow!" I don’t believe in much, but I believe in Nicolas Cage as the consummate entertainer. For decades, he’s rocked intense performances both Award-worthy and atrocious--in films that could often only be described as the latter, had he not been in them.

That’s definitely the case with the newest adaptation of Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkin’s faith-based apocalypse novel. To be clear, there’s nothing inherently un-cinematic in a modern-day telling of the Biblical Rapture story. But because this film (and the 2000 direct-to-video version starring Kirk Cameron in the Cage role) is targeted at a demographic who (mostly) likes their art squeaky-clean, Left Behind suffers from a Hallmark Channel harmlessness that in no way resembles a world in which millions of people might actually vanish into thin air.

Vic Armstrong’s film is achingly earnest, complete with an intrusive, syrupy score; flat, Hot Pockets-commercial lighting; and the kind of literal and visual speechifying that will make casual moviegoers’ eyes roll back in their heads as if moved by the Spirit.

That’s where Cage comes in. He plays atheist airline captain Rayford Steele with legit gravity, as compared to the CW smoldering of co-star Chad Michael Murray or Cassie Thomson’s misplaced “big break” enthusiasm. Cage’s experience and professionalism underscore the amateur-hour cheesiness of everything else on screen. From the lascivious framing of a promiscuous flight attendant, to the wobbly green-screen compositing on Cage’s face throughout the cockpit scenes, and a climax so ridiculous that I can imagine it only working on paper manufactured by Charmin, the bad material is conspicuous and uproarious.

To be clear: I’m not picking on this movie because it’s a religious film. I’m a huge fan of Stephen King’s The Stand, which, though not explicitly so, is a tremendously soulful examination of the End Times. More importantly, it has a villain. I understand that Left Behind is the first in a series of stories, and that the Anti-Christ is scheduled to pop up down the line, but we already have a ninety minute comedy about a troubled pilot trying to land an airplane—it’s called Airplane!.

The lack of a rival leads to a lack of dramatic tension. We know everyone will be okay (this is franchise territory, after all). And because this is a PG picture, we also know there won’t be any blood-curdling peril or even wondrous disaster images to ogle.

Which leads us back to Nicolas Cage. His performance is restrained, which, compared to the landscape, makes it insane. That insanity saves the movie and, in turn, the audience.


Jimi: All is By My Side (2014)

How Many Licks Does it Take?

I was as skeptical as anyone, going into the Jimi Hendrix biopic, Jimi: All is By My Side. Overshadowing the early buzz about André Benjamin's uncanny and electrifying performance was news that a purple haze of rights issues kept writer/director John Ridley from using any Hendrix-penned songs in his film. That's right: no "Voodoo Child", no "All Along the Watchtower", no "Hey Joe". But Ridley and company rose to the challenge, making All is By My Side one of the most interesting films of 2014.

Ridley focuses on a single, seminal year of Hendrix's rise to prominence, sidestepping the traditional biopic structure with a narrative that's as fluid as its hero is aloof. This makes the two-hour run-time as bold a statement as Hendrix's playing "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" two days after the album's release, to a packed house that included George Harrison and Paul McCartney.

Those looking for an A-to-Z reporting on Hendrix will come away disappointed. Ridley and his team meddle with time, space, and media in putting together a film that aims to capture the "Jimi Hendrix experience" (sorry). Unlike the recent James Brown biopic, Get On Up, however, one can't simply do a re-edit and get a fuller picture of the subject's life. We learn much from dialogue, body language, and the way in which this movie about revolutionary sound frequently drops into silence. Hendrix's childhood is summed up beautifully in a heartbreaking phone call with his estranged father; no flashbacks necessary.

If comedian Bill Hicks was right, and Hendrix was some kind of alien space Jesus sent to teach us about love and to reinvent rock, then All is By My Side is the perfect movie to capture all the attendant weirdness that implies. Benjamin plays Hendrix as a spaced-out, supremely dedicated artist who doesn't quite get people. The film is a ménage à quatre between Hendrix, his music, and two vastly different rock groupies: Linda Keith (Imogen Poots), a British socialite who believes so fervently in the music that she temporarily falls victim to the man; and Kathy Etchingham (Hayley Atwell), a good-time girl who gets more than she bargained for when falling in love with a musical genius. As the film points out, Hendrix was a lyrical master of soulful and social observation, but he fell far short in the interpersonal relationships that should have, by all rights, informed his professed giant heart.

Ridley's experiment in stream-of-consciousness biography is not unprecedented. In fact, it's the perfect companion piece to Julian Schnabel's 1996 film, Basquiat. The two pieces are so similar that it's easy to wonder if Ridley simply swapped out 80s abstract art for 60s abstract guitar riffs. Both movies are about awkward, drug-abusing black artists struggling with identity and fame; both feature a dichotomy of key female relationships; both nail the ups, downs, and maddening spiritual contradictions inherent in having been born creative; and both are anchored by unforgettable star turns.

Yes, let's get back to Benjamin. Those who mostly remember him as one half of Outkast (aka, "Andre 3000") will be positively floored. Between him, Jared Leto, and David Bowie (who nearly stole Basquiat, playing Andy Warhol), there's almost enough contrary evidence to shrug off the "musician/actor" willies that have become cliche. I could dig into the nuances that made me love the job he does here, but my highest compliment is that he very quickly made me believe in Jimi Hendrix as a character--not as a historical figure or as an actor playing the hell out of a part.

He shares the screen with two admission-worthy actresses in Poots and Atwell; I don't want to give Ridley's script short shrift, but I was wildly impressed by the realistic characters they built. Just as Benjamin's Hendrix is a frustrating composite of post-racial humanism and base aggression, Keith and Etchingham come across as smart, head-strong women who put up with mental and physical abuse long after either should have sent Hendrix packing. Atwell and Poots help us understand why they stick by their man, to a point, without allowing their characters to come across as plot-necessitated doormats. A shout-out is in order for Ruth Negga, as well, who plays the eerily angelic dark conscience of the rock groupie.

It's weird to say that I neither noticed nor minded the lack of Hendrix's greatest hits in the movie. All is By My Side is such a bold portrait of attitude and art that I simply wanted to see and hear what the filmmakers would do next. We get a full sense of Jimi Hendrix as tinkerer, rebel, monster, and prophet. Ridley's alternately blissful, challenging, frustrating biopic is a fitting, shades-of-gray tribute to a man who saw everything as colors.


The Boxtrolls (2014)

So What and the Seven Whatnots

The Boxtrolls makes me wonder if I’m too old to enjoy kids’ movies. I was completely disengaged from everything--story, characters, and dialogue--until the closing credits, which played over a fun cover of “Little Boxes” by Loch Lomond. The last three minutes also taught me that Eric Idle wrote one of the songs, and that Tracy Morgan was both underused and unrecognizable as a voice talent.

The problem with the previous ninety-three minutes is that I’m so used to kids’ movies that pop off the screen with imagination and personality that matches—even trumps—the world-building technical artistry.

Yes, it’s impossible to talk about general-audience entertainment without mentioning Pixar. And there’s a reason: that studio knows what material justifies a feature-length adventure, and what works best as a three-minute short.

Up-and-coming studio Laika, on the other hand, struggles with this calculation. The Boxtrolls, like 2009’s Coraline, works great as an elevator pitch—not so much as a heady hour-and-a-half. There’s a lot of “business” in both films: gorgeously hand-crafted and hand-animated characters amuse each other for minutes on end in ways that do absolutely nothing to service an already questionable plot. We spend way more time watching the titular Boxtrolls fall all over each other than learning what they are, where they come from, or why we should care that they’re feared and oppressed by humans.

Sorry, I’m just now getting to the plot. Consider this my clever, meta way of describing the Boxtrolls experience. In a fictitious, vertically laid-out village, hundreds of scared citizens lock up their doors so as not to be attacked by the titular sewer-dwelling gremlins—who wear discarded store boxes as clothing, for some reason. A human boy, whom everyone believed had been kidnapped by the Boxtrolls, grows up with the monsters and eventually rejoins society on a quest to make everyone get along.

There’s a scheming businessman, a spunky-girl sidekick, and endless “look at me” fly-throughs of weird, subterranean landscapes. There’s also a noticeable deficit of surprises, heart, or reason to be impressed, outside of the fact that most of the animation didn’t come from a computer. Unfortunately, recent examples of CG that looks hand-made (such as The Lego Movie) makes Laika seem like the top horse-carriage manufacturer in a bullet-train world.

On second thought, I’m not too old to enjoy kids’ movies. The best children’s fare is timeless and multi-generational. The Boxtrolls is a painstakingly rendered paean to padding and silliness, with life lessons that will awaken and impress only those who’ve never seen other movies. The same can be said of Transformers: Age of Extinction, too, and I don’t plan to revisit that one, either.


Take Me to the River (2014)

Hep Hop

There's a touching message at the heart of Take Me to the River, director Martin Shore's documentary about old-school blues legends collaborating with young hip-hop artists on a tribute album to Memphis' Stax Records: the Southern sound that defined American music may have been born out of struggle in the African-American community, but has become a multi-racial, multi-generational language of harmony. This is at odds with the movie's other message, which is that white people ruin everything.

To be clear: Take Me to the River is neither a racist movie nor a polemic against systemic oppression. But in addition to muddying stories of political and police brutality in the 1950s and 60s, Shore frequently halts his film's beautiful black rhythms by interjecting flat, self-important narration from himself and actor-turned-sorta-musician Terrence Howard. The inclusion of rap artists on this sacred musical ground is also jarring: in one corner, you have the late, great Charles "Skip" Pitts joyously talking about Isaac Hayes and the wah wah pedal (which Pitts pioneered); in the other corner stands Frayser Boy, a mumble-mouthed rapper who scrolls through lyrics on his cell phone while hunched over the mic. This isn't a white supremacist's ideal in action, per se, but one need barely squint to see the disheartening contrast between the lively, soul-searching, and very talented musicians of old, and the Pro Tools-weaned Thesaurus Rappers with interchangeable voices and "ideas".

My stomach turned when Howard stepped into the studio. Dressed to the nines in a white suit and sunglasses, he stuck out like a sore, untalented thumb in a room full of justifiably self-assured and accomplished, t-shirt-and-ball-cap-wearing geniuses. The ego pooled around Howard, creating a danger to everyone involved, and his singing was as garish as his tackiness.

Since I'm on a racial tangent (fair or not), Take Me to the River offers up only one white guy who isn't an utterly embarrassing cheeseball. We get the technician who only stops giggling and fist-pumping when he's not vomiting sycophancy all over blues icons, and North Mississippi AllStars' guitarist Luther Dickinson-- a cross between the dude who played Jim Morrison in Wayne's World 2 and every cartoon hippie committed to film. I don't begrudge anyone leading a knee-slapping life of zonked-out dorkiness, but until the cool, calm, collected (and, again, conspicuously talented) Charlie Musselwhite showed up, I thought I was watching a Christopher Guest spoof.

Despite the numerous stretches of discomfort, you really should see Take Me to the River. It may be clogged with rocks and logs, but the bubbling momentum of live performances from Mavis Staples, William Bell, and Bobby "Blue" Bland make the journey more than worth it. I just wish Shore and company had figured out what kind of movie they'd wanted to make: Is this an over-long record promo? Or is it an examination of Memphis music and its place in America's Civil Rights history?*

The film's saving grace comes in the last act, when high school students from the Stax Museum and Music Academy jam with our blues heroes. It was so touching to see Pitts encourage and advise young drummers and guitarists. Better yet, he offered to work with some of them in the future, just as he'd been given a leg up early on. Even this moment, though, was soured by Snoop Dogg, who popped up with some insightful and moving commentary on generational appreciation--before ruining Bell's "I Forgot to Be Your Lover"; with a Thesaurus Rap interlude he wrote on the spot, and while possibly high ("I did this in, like, six minutes". No shit).

Take Me to the River is a film at odds with itself. Its rhythmic, beating artist's heart can't quite drown out the desire to be both commercial and semi-structured. It's too glossy and fan-boyish to qualify as a kind of concert film--and too disjointed to recommend as a history lesson. Still, I can think of few other recent movies that really capture the bond of great artists reminiscing while creating, and which grant the audience such fine, fly-on-the-wall access. Just try to ignore that sound-board stooge with the weird bowl-mullet and incessant-nodding disorder.

*There are some wonderful stories here, and unsettling footage set to Martin Luther King's final speech, but the narrative is choppy, incomplete, and loses out to the in-studio stuff.

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