Joyful Noise is a terrible title for a movie.  And god I love Dolly Parton.

I walked out of Haywire after about seven minutes, made a phone call, came back in, saw that my friend had passed out, and I left again.  I walked into Joyful Noise and I watched the middle of the movie.  So this is not such a solid review.  I don’t know what happened at the beginning, or at the end.  I can guess things weren’t so great at the beginning, and by the end, they were better.  Like a Shakespearean comedy.  But who knows?

The movie’s awkward.  I can imagine being stoned and seeing it and feeling twice as bad as I did stone sober and entirely alone in a movie theater on Superbowl Sunday, which was bad enough.  The movie, from what I saw, relies heavily on the two young lovers, and not enough on the superstars: Dolly Parton and Queen Latifah.  Jeremy Jordan, playing the young lover of Keke Palmer, is either nauseating in general, as a man, or, to give him the benefit of the doubt, he is nauseating just in Joyful Noise, because director Todd Graff told him to be.  And Todd Graff being the same guy that directed Camp, Jeremy Jordan may be a fine actor after all.  That movie, okay.  Apparently the face I made during Camp was like the grim reaper was smiling at me and blowing a kiss in my face and I smelled the smell of Death’s mouth. 

There is an odd Kris Kristofferson cameo.  He plays Dolly’s departed husband.  She sings a song and Kristofferson appears and Dolly watches herself slow dance with the love of her life.  Except Kristofferson’s really weird.  His smile is glued on.  He looks like he just came out of an alcoholic blackout and is wondering what he’s doing dancing with Dolly Parton.  He also reminded me of Marlon Brando in Superman – although Brando was not smiling in Superman – in that they both took the check.  Kristofferson showed up to set for a few days, and he accepted his financial compensation.  He managed to smile.  It was that simple.  He was certainly more of a gentleman about it than Brando.  Watch Superman if you don’t remember.

Queen Latifah doesn’t get to be funny in Joyful Noise, not from what I saw.  She’s either pissed at her daughter, Keke Palmer, or she’s in denial that she is still in love with her husband, Jesse L. Martin, who ran off on her.  Pretty boring.  So Dolly gets to be the funny one and have an emotional memory about her late husband, Kris Kristofferson.  I should have been in heaven, but the thing was: there was not enough heaven.  Instead it was young love.  Is being young and in love nauseating and boring for other people to be around?  Or is that just in the movies?

 

Like Timmy’s experience with Contraband, mine was similar with One for the Money.  I was so excited after seeing the trailer, I invited friends to go see an afternoon matinee.  It was a failure.  I really want to dig into One for the Money but there’s not much to say.  It is not only not good, it is clear from the start director Julie Anne Anderson cannot make it happen on any level.  In short, we left.  When we were seated in the adjacent theater, my friend said, “That may have been the flattest movie I’ve ever seen.” 

A month and a half ago, I realized my Xmas spirit was lacking as usual.  So I took out Visions of Sugar Plums by Janet Evanovich from the library.  A book on tape, ready by Lorelei King.  It was an Xmas story and it introduced me to all the characters of the world of Stephanie Plum, who is the narrator and protagonist of many Evanovich novels.  Lorelei King, the reader of the book, was completely over the top and hilarious.  She did a much better job with Evanovich’s style and zany characters than the millions of dollars and hundreds of people who were involved in the feature film.  Heigl, by the way, was one of the executive producers of One for the Money.

And one other thing about the movie: the voiceover.  The only explanation I can come up with is they were trying to be so faithful to Evanovich the screenwriters wrote in all the non-dialogue parts from the book as voiceover for Heigl.  But it’s a movie.  We don’t need to hear visual descriptions.  It is no longer necessary for the author to help us visualize the scene.  Apparently when I left to get more popcorn, Stephanie Plum told the audience more than once that an onscreen car was yellow.

Before we move on to The Grey, let’s talk about previews, because I feel like a fool for getting so excited about movies that are obviously going to be bad.  Who are these genius editors?  They construct preview after preview that are almost always better than their longer counterparts.  Why aren’t they editing features?  Or directing them?  Or starring in them?  Can they function – and function is a giant understatement – only in the two and a half minute trailer medium?  Because so many movies – One for the Money and Contraband most definitely included – are worse than their previews.  In both aforementioned titles, the one liners land better, the sexual tension exists, and the movie stars’ smiles and mannerisms are magic – except that only exists in the preview, not in the actual movie.  But what am I going to rely on if not the previews?  Movie reviews?  No.  That was a joke.

So The Grey.  Let’s see.  Well first of all, it seemed like a masterpiece after thirty minutes of One for the Money.  But anything would have.

In essence, The Grey is a poor interpretation of Predator, men in the wilderness, dying off one at a time because a beast is after them.  In the case of The Grey, it’s wolves instead of a Rastafarian alien.  The Grey has back story, like Liam Neeson thinking about his wife and writing emotional letters, instead of Predator’s ingenious 1^st act drama.  In The Grey, by the time the shit hits the fan, we don’t know or care about any of the characters. 

The movie also needs a woman’s touch.  There’s so much “dude pain,” a friend said; he left in the middle and walked across the street and ate Chinese food for an hour.  The womanless aspect of the movie is epitomized when one of the characters wants to say a few words in honor of the dead that died in the plane crash; he says something like, “A lot of good men died here.”  But there was a stewardess on the plane.  We saw her right before she dies.  This is not a movie about women.  It is a dude movie about dudes fighting off wolves.  Sometimes characters say, “Let’s not talk about wolves.”  That is completely ridiculous.  Also it is totally weak that the wolves are computer generated.

The Grey is stretched like a motherfucker.  The filmmakers tried to cut it like it’s a masterpiece, which it is blatantly not.  When it was finally over, I saw that it was based on a short story by Ian Mackenzie Jeffers entitled, “Ghost Walker.”  That made a lot more sense.  Movies like this – based on short stories, like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button – tend to stretch.  Which brings up the idea of the forty-five minute film.  Great idea.  Mr. 3000, the Bernie Mac baseball comedy, would have been damn good if it was forty-five minutes long.  Even Where The Wild Things Are might have been good.  Maybe.  To give you an idea, the getting-to-know-you scene in The Grey comes an hour in.  One character – the underused Dermot Mulroney – talks about his daughter.  They laugh, they get misty.  Liam tells a story about his father.  But it’s too late.  Too late to start caring about these dudes.  Grey shouldn’t be a forty-five minute movie.  It should be a twelve minute movie.  Just take the first twelve then lop it off: Liam Nieson shooting a wolf, writing a letter to his babe wife from the past and crying softly, going to a bar where there is an elaborate fight going down that he doesn’t notice, and sticking the barrel of his rifle in his mouth, almost pulling the trigger only to be interrupted by the sound of a howling wolf.  Could have done well at a film festival.  Starring Liam Neeson, directed by his nephew.  No.  The movie is instead one hundred and seventeen minutes long.  It’s the kind of story that could go on and on: dudes trudging through the snow, fending off wolves.  The only way I could gauge how long it was going to be until the movie would end is by how many dudes had died and how many more still had to die until it was just Liam and the wolves.  See?  It’s Predator all over again.

Yesterday, I watched Warrior on-demand. I had heard from several reputable sources that the movie was solid, plus I love Nick Nolte, so the decision wasn’t that hard. And as it turns out, Warrior is totally solid, a predictable-yet-endearing reimagining of Rocky for the Great Recession.

The film follows two brothers, Brendan (Joel Edgarton) and Tommy (Tom Hardy), who were separated 15 years earlier upon their parents’ divorce. Both have fallen on tough times, with high-school physics teacher Brendan facing foreclosure and Tommy struggling with daddy-issues and pills. So, they turn to the most obvious way to improve their stations in life: cage fighting! More specifically, they both enroll in a Mixed Martial Arts tournament with a 5 million dollar purse.

Tommy decides to use his estranged father (Nolte) as his trainer, an odd choice given how he openly hates the man. In scene after scene, Tommy brings up his father’s abusive behavior and past drinking. Though he’s sober now, Tommy has been shaped by his father’s behavior, and rubs it in his face “I think I liked you better as a drunk” he says at one point,”at least back then you had some balls.” The scenes between Hardy and Nolte are the best of the film, full of hurt looks and verbal jabs.

Since this is a Rocky rip-off, there must be fights. And that’s the rub: Warrior is 140 minutes long, and it drags a bit once the tournament starts. Also, tons of superfluous back story explodes in the third act, something about Tommy being a secret warrior hero under a different name? Since this is a Hollywood movie, we know the brothers will face off in the final bout, so the preliminary rounds feel like padding.

There’s a lot of subtext about masochism and homoeroticism (par for the course in terms of MMA) that I can’t unpack right now. But the emotional strains and recession hardships are believable, and make up for the weaker spots.

Thanks to some rain and a bad pair of shoes, I was pretty cold throughout The Iron Lady. That seemed appropriate, though, at least at first, given the dreary British landscape and political history I thought I was going to witness. Meryl Streep playing Margaret Thatcher! Dowdy British men fighting against women in power! So much combustible character and plot backed by grayed out London fog and maybe something about the Berlin Wall falling. Sky’s the limit on a biopic about someone who was in politics for more than 30 years.
 
Going in, I didn’t know much about Thatcher and her brand of politics. I grew up mainly after she was left power in 1990, so I thought this would be a good way to get an idea of what British politics had been like in a fairly interesting time period. The Soviets, the Falklands/Malvinas War, the economic bust-then-boom of the 80s. Those things I have a decent grasp on (thank you, college survey courses), but the inner workings of Thatcher’s cabinet and personal life, no, I didn’t know anything about that.
Nor did I know anything about director Phyllida Lloyd, who apparently also did Mama Mia! (thank you, Internet) and is mainly a theater director. The Iron Lady is her second directorial role in movies, but she’s got scores of theater productions under her belt. I don’t know if that had much to do with it and I haven’t seen Mamma Mia!, but if I’m going to boil down this movie to just one word, it would definitely be montage.

I waited patiently throughout the movie for the thing to get going, for the movie to start, but instead was treated to few actual scenes and basically no information other than “this scene is later in history than the previous one, perhaps you should move on too.” Lots of music overlaid on ever-changing political scenes that weren’t explained. Who’s this guy? Doesn’t matter because now he’s dead (IRA claims responsibility, but don’t bother asking who the IRA is or why there’s footage of people rioting). Who’s that guy? Doesn’t matter because now he’s fired.
Here’s the movie: Opening scene where she’s old and pretty batty (conversing with a hallucination of her dead husband, Denis), remembers being young and listening to her father give political speeches, gets in to Oxford, is apparently done with Oxford and now a lawyer, is defeated in a party run that was never mentioned before and is proposed to by Denis who you barely know, is elected to Parliament and finds out it’s an old boys’ club to the point that it has no women’s bathroom (just a chair and an ironing board), is shouted at by men, is suddenly in the Cabinet as Education Secretary, is elected Prime Minister, does Prime Ministerial stuff, is deposed, is old. THE END.

There are a lot more old and batty scenes thrown in there in between other ones and they’re basically the only reason to watch the movie. Old Margaret, the one who drinks too much whiskey and thinks everything is an IRA bomb plot while talking to Denis even in front of others, is charming, interesting, grandmotherly. She’s lost everything. But you never really get a sense, through the other scenes, that she was ever anything else. You never get to meet her son, Mark, just her daughter, Carol, who didn’t move to South Africa. Why does she love the affable Denis? Why does he love her? Why does anyone vote for her? Who is she?

Basically, I know precious little more about Thatcher than I did going in. I know she was born to a greengrocer and that that is something one would look down upon in 1960s British political society. I also know she wore (and presumably still wears) a lot of blue. You never see the Soviets; you see Reagan for all of 2 seconds dancing around the stage; and the Falklands War, where the movie finally pauses a little from its helter-skelter run through time, is her staring at a map and saying “sink it!” in harsh tones and then writing letters to the families of the KIA with teary-eyed solemnity.

Then she resigns and is no longer in office and Denis apparently died and Mark moved to South Africa. Did you Mark was a rally car driver and got lost in the desert for 6 days in 1982? You didn’t if you didn’t read up on him somewhere else even though maybe that would have been mentioned in a regular biopic. Did you know Denis was a millionaire when he met Margaret (or that he was previously married to a different woman named Margaret)? Not surprising.

All of these terrible things don’t take away from just how damned good Meryl Streep is, though. She’s incredible. She turns old, batty Margaret into a fairly compelling character and in the few scenes she’s allowed to do anything, she does a good job of capturing some of the nuances that are spelled out (change your voice, Margaret, you’ll sound more commanding!) while maintaining some sort of humanity in the pained looks she gives the back of her husband as he walks out of the room after calling her, basically, a stubborn mule.

I say don’t bother with this movie, even if you love Meryl Streep, but it probably won’t stop some people from going out and wasting their money on an hour and a half montage of men in suits and a woman in blue who wears pearl kind of yelling about politics they never explain. And maybe I got pneumonia from the wet shoes part too.

This is a guest spot by Isaiah Cambron. You can find more of his writing at barcelonafootballblog.com

I expended a lot of friend-capital convincing my companions to go see this movie. This involved doing impressions of Mark Wahlberg saying “No es bueno” in his tough-guy doofus voice, as shown in the preview. Unfortunately, this was all for naught, since the movie is totally mediocre. Not good enough to be enjoyable on its own merits, not quite bad enough to laugh at.

Turns out the movie is a remake of an Icelandic film,  Reykjavík-Rotterdam. I’m guessing the original is better. Or at least I hope it is. Anyways, the plot of the Marky Mark version centers around Chris Farraday, a home-security installer who used to be really good at hiding contraband while working on massive freight ships. He’s worked his way out, but due to his stone-cold stupid brother-in-law, he comes to owe money to Tim Briggs (Giovanni Ribisi), a local gangster. Ribisi is truly, startlingly bad. Worst of all, you can tell he thinks he’s doing a good job.

Other things that keep Contraband from being good, believable, or bearable: the actress who plays Chris’ wife, who couldn’t look less middle class if she started a Gucci handbag bonfire; the nonsensical movie-within-a-movie Panamanian heist, the ridiculous ”we’re all millionaires!” happy ending, which doesn’t jive with the rest of the movies grimy, semi-realistic tone. Anyways, skip this one. If you’re hankering for some Wahlberg, just watch The Fighter or stare at those old Calvin Klein billboards.

I was in New York this past weekend, and had the good fortune to catch the Bresson retrospective at the Film Forum. The movie I saw was Pickpocket, a tale of crime, sin and sexual longing. Being such a full-fledged film dork, I’m slightly ashamed to admit this was the first Bresson film I’ve seen. But if I understand his legacy correctly, Pickpocket was in line with his other great works: deliberately paced,  layered of morality, beautiful and slightly mysterious.

In the film, Michel (Martin LaSalle) starts stealing wallets and purses to support his existential lifestyle, which features lots of diary keeping and sick-mother-ignoring. He crushes on his mother’s neighbor, the painfully beautiful Jeanne. Soon, Michel learns the tricks of the trade from a more seasoned pickpocket, and Bresson stages some impressive action set pieces as multiple criminals grab, switch, distract and rob Parisians. Often, Michel is so close to his victims that they could practically kiss.

I won’t spoil the ending for those who haven’t seen this gem, but suffice to say that by the time Michel secures Jeanne’s love, it’s too late for him to really enjoy it. The film lingers in your mind, and begs for repeat viewings.

There is a pattern in movies that disappoints me every time, something I’m still trying to get used to: the bad second half.

Hopscotch is a good example.  I had never heard of this movie: directed by Ronald Neame, released in 1980.  My friend bought it for me because of the cover: Walter Matthau at a typewriter, looking disheveled with a cup of coffee.  

It turned out to be a spy movie.  Now I’ve always had problems with James Bond.  Mostly because I don’t identify with the man.  Does he have B.M.s?  Probably, but they look and smell like ice cubes.  Does he have emotions?  Sort of, sometimes he does.  Does he drink beer with a straw?  Definitely not, what a stupid question.  James Bond’s just not my type of man then.  But a spy like James Bond played by Walter Matthau?  Amazing. 

I was so excited at the beginning of the movie.  Matthau’s Miles Kendig is irresistible; he is in love with a beautiful Austrian woman with a dry sense of humor (Glenda Jackson); he never carries a gun; and he is very, very smart.  After Kendig loses his position as an international spy, he decides to write a memoir, a tell-all, mostly to torment his old boss (Ned Beatty).  Kendig sends it, chapter by chapter, to all the people all over the world who should not be reading it.  So, as a result, he’s on the lam. 

At every turn for the first half of the movie, I was charmed, surprised, and laughing out loud.  Then came the second half: predictable, unending, spotted with scenes that flat-out didn’t work. 

Why does this happen so often?  Movies get wishy washy or preachy, sappy when they used to be funny, boring when they used to be fun.  Is it because movies are descendents of theater and generally the second acts of plays are worse than the first acts.  Either way, as Hopscotch neared its end, it tried leaping to new heights, when actually movie watchers are so used to these clichés: car chases, airplane chases, outsmarting dimwitted police officers.  It was so much better when Matthau drove around singing along badly to Mozart and having euphemistic conversations with his lover.  Fuck man.  I wish I would have known and turned it off halfway and left on a good note.  But that’s impossible.  The movie was so good at first that I would have always pined for the rest.

Basically, it’s a mess that’s never boring, but the director is Steven Spielberg and he gets to do whatever he wants like have WWI stop and both sides ignore their differences to save the war horse and then the owner of the horse – temporarily blind – does his special hand whistle to get the horse to come to him, and guess what? the British army parts like the red sea to let the horse come back to his man.  A little bit later an old man who has lost everything – including all his money – shows up with a unexplained shit load of money; he’s traveled to England from Germany, and he buys the war horse in an auction because it meant everything to his deceased granddaughter.  But then he gives it to the blind homo-erotic guy because, why not? it’s only all his money and the horse that his dead granddaughter loved.  And that’s going to be the end of the movie, wait almost, there’s going to be a long shot of the horse with a pink sunset behind him.  That’s not even good Spielberg.  That’s bullshit. 
 
Oh and it’s one of those movies that the whole time it felt like a book.  It was adapted into a play, which my mother thought was magic.  I told her, “Don’t see the movie.”

In “My Week with Marilyn” actress Michelle Williams delivers a revelatory performance as Marilyn Monroe.  Of course portraying Miss Monroe, a 20^th century icon presents a unique challenge.  This film, “My Week with Marilyn” is based on the “Diaries” of Colin Clark, a British filmmaker who at 23 served as 3^rd Assistant Director on the film “The Prince and the Showgirl” of 1957.  That film starred Marilyn Monroe and Sir Laurence Olivier.  The film of Clark’s “Week with Marilyn” takes place in 1956, and the period detail of this picture is spot on.

            Colin Clark was the son of the eminent art historian Sir Kenneth Clark; Colin, the younger of two sons was educated at Eton College and Christ Church Oxford.  In the film “My Week with Marilyn” Clark, as portrayed by another Etonian, Eddie Redmayne serves as a sort of go–between for Olivier who is portrayed by Kenneth Branagh.

            Since Monroe is so well known to American audiences Michelle Williams must gain acceptance as a convincing Marilyn.  For this filmgoer, accepting Williams as Monroe did not occur initially until about 50 minutes into the film, or roughly the halfway point; but when Monroe escapes with the aid of her body guard and driver, with the young Colin Clark, Williams captures the spirit of Marilyn Monroe and the film draws greater attention.  Williams does well in channeling Monroe’s playful spirit, and there are a number of scenes when she charms her audience toward the level of riveting fascination which Monroe commanded.

            The romantic romp Williams and Redmayne as Monroe and Clark set out on beyond London takes the filmgoer from Pinewood Studios in London to the verdant English countryside and Windsor Castle.  But as we all know, Monroe’s life was not all fun.  This film “My Week with Marilyn” also portrays Monroe’s paralyzing insecurity and self–doubt, and her dependence on lackeys, including her acting coach Paula Strasberg, wife of Lee, of The Actors Studio in New York; and also, Monroe’s domineering admirer Milton Greene, here portrayed by Dominic Cooper.

            But this film, or movie, is not a searching biopic, but tries to walk the line between biopic and light–hearted comedy.  Emma Watson portrays an age–apropos love interest, Lucy, for Colin Clark, but Clark is soon mesmerized by Monroe’s charms.  Julia Ormond portrays Olivier’s wife Vivian Leigh, and Dame Judi Dench as Sybil Thorndike defends and shields the flustered Monroe from the impatience and tumult of Olivier.  The two actresses Leigh and Thorndike serve to introduce a sub–plot or under current to the film as they remain fully aware that their fading and aging beauty is no match for Monroe’s beam.

            This film features capable performances by the veteran Shakespearean actor Sir Derek Jacobi who portrays the Royal Librarian at Windsor Castle, Sir Owen Moreshead, who is a relative of Clark’s. Zoe Wanamaker is effective as the shrewish Paula Strasberg, as are Dominic Cooper as the overbearing and jealous, Milton Greene, and Toby Jones, (of “Infamous”) as the reporter Arthur Jacobs.

            But this picture belongs to the triumvirate of Williams, Redmayne, and Branagh.  If one as a filmgoer can forget that Williams is not Marilyn Monroe, no one could be Marilyn, then one as a filmgoer may accept Williams as Monroe; and Redmayne as the well–born, and educated Colin Clark effectively puts forth that certain smitten character of the love–struck; but it is Branagh, as an aging Olivier who commands the close of the film, by delivering as a world–weary Sir Laurence, Prospero’s lines from Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”:

                           Our revels now are ended.  These our actors,

                           As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

                           Are melted into air, into thin air,

                           And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

                           The cloud–capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,

                           The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
                           Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

                           And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

                           Leave not a rack behind.  We are such stuff

                           As dreams are made on, and our little life

                           Is rounded with a sleep.

            For those who know Marilyn Monroe only from black and white photographs, a few film clips, and perhaps only one of her comedies, perhaps “The Seven – Year Itch” this film, may serve as an introduction to Marilyn Monroe who no doubt wished to be appreciated and taken seriously as a person, that Norma Jean who the inescapable image of Marilyn Monroe so brightly obscures.  This film, “My Week with Marilyn” also serves well as a temporary escape from the quotidian.

Okay.  I liked this movie.  Is that such a crime?  Is my opinion no longer valid?  Maybe.  Maybe you liked The Descendants.  A lot of people did.  Including the founder of this website.  And now I’m basically telling you I liked Jack and Jill. 

“Which one is Jack and Jill?”

“Oh, it’s the one where Adam Sandler has a twin sister and she’s played by Adam Sandler?”

“You saw that?”

“Yeah.  On a date.”

You know why I liked this movie?  I’ll tell you.  Because Adam Sandler played Jill, the twin sister, so well, so thoroughly, I thought of her as a woman.  I was not taken out of scenes because I was thinking it was Adam Sandler in a dress and a wig.  Even in scenes featuring her muscular thighs: I believed the character, full on.  And I believed in her, too.  I liked her, and I would have liked to talk to her.  My friend (who despises the movie though he has never seen it) said it was supposed to be mean spirited towards Jill.  I didn’t feel that way.  I thought it was an affectionate and, more importantly, an honest portrayal of a funny, lonely, adorable woman from the nice part of the Bronx.  

By the way, everything else in the movie – the male Adam Sandler character, Al Pacino, Katie Holmes, other side characters – is bad and not worth talking about. 

Finally, the movie begins and ends with supposed real twins talking about what it’s like being twins.  This did not sit well because a) all those couples in When Harry Met Sally… are actors, and b) because we know the whole movie is using green screens constantly, so how do we know it’s not one person multiplied?