Thursday, September 30, 2010
Box Office Predictions: Weekend of 10/1
Friday, September 24, 2010
Box Office Predictions: Weekend of 9/24
Friday, September 17, 2010
Box Office Predictions: Weekend of 9/17
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Review: Resident Evil: Afterlife (2010) - 1 1/2 Buckets
I feel like I should just copy and paste my review of any one of the other three Resident Evil movies because, folks, I know it’s shocking, but Afterlife represents more of the same. Franchise producer Paul W.S. Anderson may return to the director’s chair after being absent for two pictures, but the incoherent story, the abundance of clunky action, and the basic players are all still present. Basically, we get a video game adaptation that forgets the adapting part of the equation, the equivalent of watching two friends play the source material for 95 minutes without a controller of one’s own. Oh, and in case you weren’t already working up a headache, this time everything’s in 3D.
But I actually shouldn’t be so harsh. Unlike its immediate predecessor—which I only remember as being completely worthless because I paged back and saw I gave it a zero-bucket review—Afterlife is not agonizingly painful. There’s a pretty cool action sequence towards the end in which the characters escape zombies – probably the best thing Anderson has ever constructed as a filmmaker. That’s a whole 15 minutes of solid fun. Not to mention, Milla Jovovich and especially a brunette Ali Larter are hot as ever. (Yes, the world has ended and society has crumbled, but plenty of makeup and hair products are still readily available.) Given what I’ve been conditioned to expect from this franchise, I was more than happy for these small favors.
If the first three films failed to leave any kind of an imprint on your brain other than that they weren’t very good, then, like myself, you’re probably in the majority. This means that Resident Evil: Afterlife’s first 15 minutes won’t make a lick of sense to you, but then again, does anything else in the movie? The first sequence begins as Alice (Jovoich) raids the evil Umbrella Corporation with an army of clones, squaring off against bad guy Albert Wesker (Shawn Roberts), and ends with her jumping from an exploding helicopter after regaining her humanity from Wesker… or something like that. Then she jets a personal plane to Arcadia, Alaska, a supposed zombie-free refuge location she planned on escaping to with her compadres in the last movie. Turns out Arcadia isn’t much of a paradise; in fact, it’s uninhabited except for a disoriented Claire Redfield (Larter), one of said compadres.
So Alice does what common wisdom tells any survivor of the zombie apocalypse to do: head south. Amidst the rubble of downtown Los Angeles, she and the now lucid Claire spot a group of survivors taking shelter in a prison, a wealth of flesh-hungry zombies lurking outside the gates. These survivors inform the Alice that Arcadia is not a city, but a ship they can see in the distance. (This revelation is so corny I half expected them to tell her she actually got the wrong Arcadia, meaning the real zombie safe-haven is the suburb of L.A.’s San Gabriel Valley, not the one in Alaska.) With that, the movie’s thin plot comes to fruition. Once again, it’s time for our heroes to kick some zombie butt so they can reach a momentary oasis before the next sequel, in which they will inevitably do the same thing all over again.
Among the new team, the only interesting member is Chris (Wentworth Miller), who was found locked up in the prison. The others err on the side of caution and keep him in his cell, despite his claim that he was an Army soldier sent to release prisoners to fight the zombies, only to be mistaken for a guard and locked up by escapees. The menacing Miller ensures that Chris, who we later learn is Claire's brother, always makes for a captivating presence, even though he brings little of consequence to the story. But like I said when discussing the movie’s other pros, small favors seem huge when the movie is Resident Evil: Afterlife.
Deferring to my criticisms of the previous pictures on the rest, the only new part of the equation left to talk about is the 3D. It’s notable because the film was shot natively with an extra dimension on the Pace Fusion Camera, the piece of technology pioneered by Avatar. Like that visual milestone, this film might serve as a pretty cool Best Buy demo-real for 3D televisions, but it’s probably better as a 2D experience. The image is noticeably darker with the glasses on and the depth of field seems artificial. I’ve always been firmly in the anti-3D camp and Resident Evil: Afterlife does nothing to change my mind. In fact, I would argue the only time that the new 3D really works is the same one the old red-blue cellophane glasses kind did: when, as in the case of the recent Piranha 3D, the intention is to cheapen and cheese up the material. Resident Evil: Afterlife was already too cheap from the second it was green-lit. Like its predecessors, this is a movie only for carpel-tunnel afflicted gaming addicts whose weak hands don’t allow for all the seizure-inducing action they crave.
* * *
Resident Evil: Afterlife (2010, USA). Produced by Paul W.S. Anderson, Jeremy Bolt, Don Carmody, Berndt Eichinger, Samuel Hadida, Victor Hadida, Robert Kulzer, and Martin Moszkowicz. Directed and written for the screen by Paul W.S. Anderson. Starring Milla Jovovich, Ali Larter, Kim Coates, Shawn Roberts, Sergio Peris-Mencheta, Spencer Locke, Boris Kodjoe, and Wentworth Miller. Distributed by Screen Gems. Rated R, with a running time of 95 minutes.
Review: The American (2010) - 3 1/2 Buckets
His real name is Jack, or is it? That doesn’t much matter because, for most of the movie, he goes by Edward, and you’ll think of him as Clooney. When the audience meets him in a wintery opening scene, he has been staying with a woman in a cabin in the Swedish countryside. That’s the extent of our knowledge, however, when hitmen attempt to kill him. Jack treats the event with such definiteness that it’s clearly a regular occurence for him, and he is able to make off after shooting them—and his fling—dead. From there, his boss Pavel (Johan Leysen) assigns him to a new city, in remote Italy. There, we learn his gig is to make custom firearms, tailored specially for specific hits. His client is Mathilde (Thekla Reuten), who provides the specs and nothing else. Jack mostly follows protocol and keeps to himself as he assembles the gun, but he can’t avoid entanglements with the local priest (Paolo Bonacelli), who realizes his cover as a photographer doesn’t add up, and a seductive prostitute (Violante Placido), who he begins to see off the clock. All the while, the Swedes are clearly still after him.
If quiet, artful movies aren’t your thing, than you best look the other way. But for those who are willing to invest in The American, the payoff is rewarding. While the movie may not deliver constant action, it’s a real white-knuckler, especially due to the overwhelming cloud of doom that enshrouds Jack as the plot progresses.
But before one becomes enveloped in the central character, one will notice the film’s other superior trait: its visual power. Directed by former still photographer Anton Corbijin, who also made the 2007 black-and-white beauty Control, and shot by his DP Martin Ruhe, The American would likely be just as transfixing without sound. The stark, beautifully composed shots are not only a treat for the eyes, they capture the mysterious protagonist’s underlying primal emotions. While Clooney and the screenplay flesh out the details, the widescreen cinematography may be the viewer’s greatest insight into what Jack is feeling on the most basic level, from assuredness to claustrophobia.
Speaking of Clooney: this is his best performance in some time. He’s an actor who has always been gifted at playing solitary, bottled-up characters—for a more mainstream example, just look at Ryan Bingham in last year’s Up in the Air—and Jack represents a blank canvas that gives him a lot of creative room to roam. This is an appropriately un-showy performance, mostly free of dialogue, so the mere fact that Clooney keeps the viewer invested in the character is a marker of his success. And, as is the case with any great acting of this nature, Clooney’s work is up for interpretation; just as a real-life person’s behavior could be viewer completely differently by separate onlookers, such is the case with Jack’s.
And don’t even get me started on Clooney’s co-star, Placido, who has a preordained future in American films for the simple fact that… well, you’ll know when you see them.
With such an engrossing, well-crafted character at the helm, it must have been tempting for director Corbijn to run wild with the movie. It could have easily kept up its high interest level for three hours. But instead, Corbijn remains incredibly measured, just as precise and masterful in his assembly of The American as Jack is in making firearms. It’s a raw filmmaking feat – a picture that strips down all the baggage usually associated with crime movies and makes a far more complex piece of work out of immaculately examined, often impenetrable human behavior.
* * *
The American (2010, USA). Produced by Anne Carey, George Clooney, Jill Green, Grant Heslov, Enzo Sisti, Moa Westeson, and Ann Wingate. Directed by Anton Corbijn. Written for the screen by Rowan Joffe, based on the novel by Martin Booth. Starring George Clooney, Violante Placido, Paolo Bonacelli, Thekla Reuten, and Irina Björklund. Distributed by Focus Features. Rated R, with a running time of 105 minutes.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Review: The Romantics (2010) - 1 1/2 Buckets
The story is something you’d expect from a movie with surface banality like Bride Wars, darkened up to fit the “brooding drama” genre. The viewer meets the ensemble as they prepare for Lila (Paquin) and Tom’s (Duhamel) wedding. Drama bubbles from the start, because Tom used to date maid of honor Laura (Katie Homes) during college and then off and on for years after. It doesn’t take a genius to predict that this will bring problems, probably unfaithfulness on Tom’s part. The rest of the cast, made up of characters that all come equipped with their own canned eccentricities, really just blend into one, with the possible exception of Lila’s alcoholic brother Chip, who Elijah Wood does a funny job with. Yes, this is a movie that makes Malin Akerman “blend in;” unthinkable, I know.
The Romantics is so derivative of other low-budget American indies that it could pass for a parody of them. Most apparently, the soundtrack is full of piercing, high-pitched ballads meant to ironically dictate the mood, as if writer/director Galt Niederhoffer loved but totally misunderstood Zach Braff’s famed musical approach to Garden State. While music is hardly what ruins The Romantics, it’s the first phony thing the viewer will notice about it.
But early on, the real phoniness is exposed in the form of the characters. Despite the cast’s honest attempts, these people do not resemble anyone in real-life in the slightest. Only in contrived indie-world would Laura, who’s been angry with Lila for some time, even show up to this wedding, much less as the maid of honor. And of course the others enact clichés to express even more worn-out symbolism, like frolicking down to the nearby beach inebriated, in the dark. Memo to Niederhoffer: nobody cares who’ll be the first to run into the waves or what it’s supposed to make the audience feel like. I could go on, but there’s no point in just rattling off a list.
Considering The Romantics’ utter artificiality, it is admittedly surprising that the final 20 minutes of the movie pack an actual punch. (Luckily for the reputations of all involved, they also keep it from ranking as one of the worst films of the year.) Paquin and Holmes have a stripped-down confrontation that shows why they’re both respected actresses; it’s tense and exhilarating, unlike practically everything else that has come before. Ironically, only then does the viewer feel like there may actually be something more to these characters. It’s also admirable that the final scene—the inevitable wedding—doesn’t rely on any grandstanding to shake up the plot as they often do in this type of movie. But there won’t be a member of the audience who doesn’t view this sudden uptick in quality as too little, too late. The Romanticsremains a film that we’ve seen a zillion times before, a little more painful to watch than the last time we were presented these caricatures and problems.
* * *
The Romantics (2010, USA). Produced by Robert Ogden Barnum, James Belfer, Michael Benaroya, Cynthia Coury, Simon Crowe, Eva Marie Daniels, Rose Ganguzza, Daniel Hendler, Pamela Hirsch, Katie Holmes, Taylor Kephart, Lawrence M. Kopeikin, Todd J. Labarowski, Riva Marker, Nic Marshall, Tommee May, Ranjit Raju, Celine Rattray, Cecilia Kate Roque, Tony Shawkate, Jai Stefan, Ron Stein, Daniela Taplin Lundberg, Jennifer Todd, Suzanne Todd, Todd Traina, and Owen Weisman. Directed by Galt Niederhoffer. Written for the screen by Galt Niederhoffer, based on her novel. Starring Katie Holmes, Anna Paquin, Josh Duhamel, Malin Akerman, Jeremy Strong, Candice Bergen, Adam Brody, and Elijah Wood. Distributed by Paramount Famous Productions. Rated PG-13, with a running time of 95 minutes.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Box Office Predictions: Weekend of 9/10
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Review: Get Low (2010) - 3 Buckets
While independent film connoisseurs may remember a similar premise in Sol Tyron’s little-seen The Living Wake, Get Low is a very different movie – an American original through and through. It’s set in the Midwest countryside in the 1930s. Duvall plays the quiet, reclusive Felix Bush, who at the beginning of the film learns of the death of an old friend. At this point, the viewer knows very little about him other than that kids commonly try to vandalize his house. He then makes a rare venture outside his 100-acre backwoods farm into town to see the local reverend, whom he asks to conduct a funeral… for himself.
The reverend denies the request, but Felix is overheard by Buddy (Lucas Black), who works for undertaker Frank Quinn (Bill Murray). Quinn is desperate for any business he can get in the down economy, and he agrees to entertain Felix’s request, which gets stranger as time passes. On the radio, Felix invites everyone who has a story about him to come and tell it. Over the years, he has been shrouded in gossip; some even believe he’s a murderer. In addition, Felix has decided to raffle off his home and property at $5 a ticket. But the real revelation will come in the form of a secret Felix has been keeping for ages, which he plans to share with everyone. This likely has something to do with the film’s opening shot—a house on fire as a shadowy figure runs away—and probably the dead sister of Felix’s old flame Mattie (Sissy Spacek).
The scene in which Duvall reveals his secret in front of hundreds of onlookers is emblematic of Get Low on the whole. The secret itself is anticlimactic—annoyingly so at first—but if one thinks about it, one realizes that it’s both realistic and that, despite its lack of immediate punch, it would definitely haunt this character forever. Likewise, the movie is true to the time and, even though it might not grab the viewer at first, it has a staying power waiting to be unleashed. Furthering the scene’s representation of the movie as whole is the fact that it represents the crescendo of Duvall’s amazing performance, which is all the more impressive because it’s so reserved and quiet, not reliant upon showiness. Once again demonstrating that he’s one of the finest actors of all-time, Duvall delivers Felix’s painstaking speech in extended takes, never once losing the viewers attention despite the stripped-down style. Even if one feels that everything else about Get Low is lacking, it’s still worth seeing for Duvall; he’s that great.
The other three main actors are quite good, as well. After delivering one of the most embarrassingly awful performances in recent memory in the horror film Legion, Lucas Black re-focuses and proves himself a young star to watch. Buddy could’ve easily been played trivially as a stupid hick—he’s always at the mercy of his boss, who’s the olden-day equivalent of a used car salesman—but instead he’s a source of heart in the film. Buddy doesn’t understand Felix, but he tries, making him both endearing as a character and a way for the audience to access the cryptic Felix. He’s also a foil to Bill Murray, who’s an unlikely but wholly appropriate choice to play a desperate businessman. Murray thankfully never descends into complete sleaze-ball territory, gearing his approach more toward gentle humor. And Sissy Spacek is a joy as always. Her scenes with Duvall are soft and graceful, even when their tone turns tragic for a short period.
It’s tempting to compare Get Low to an “easy listening” album in that it moves at its own pace, pleasantly but not always with apparent consequences. However, that would be a mistake, because this is not a disposable film. As the viewer gets to know Felix and think about the story once it’s over, they’ll realize Get Low packs quite a bit of emotional heft. I’d suspect the film is even better on subsequent viewings, with Duvall’s performance becoming more affecting when you know what kind of weight rests on Felix’s shoulders throughout. Even if it might seem underwhelming at first, this is the kind of movie that should be made more often, because what good is cinema if it only lasts for two hours?
* * *
Get Low (2010, USA). Produced by Daniel Baur, Rob Carliner, Beth W. Crookham, Blerim Destani, Robert Duvall, Scott Fischer, Dariusz Gasiorowski, David Ginsberg, David Gunlach, Don Mandrik, Alain Midzik, C. Gaby Mitchell, Brad Park, Brandie Park, Justyna Pawlak, Lily Philips, Chris Provenzano, Joey Rappa, Richard Luke Rothschild, Oliver Simon, Konrad Wojterkowski, Dean Zanuck, and Harrison Zanuck. Directed by Aaron Schneider. Written for the screen by Chris Provenzano and C. Gaby Mitchell. Story by Chris Provenzano and Scott Seeke. Starring Robert Duvall, Bill Murray, Lucas Black, Sissy Spacek, Gerald McRaney, and Bill Cobbs. Distributed by Sony Pictures Classics. Rated PG-13, with a running time of 100 minutes.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Review: Going the Distance (2010) - 2 1/2 Buckets
However, when watching Going the Distance, it’s immediately clear where this film comes up short and the aforementioned ones didn’t: the characters. No matter how much the viewer may marvel over the fresh story decisions to not have either of the main couple cheat on each other or to include organically R-rated dialogue, the sense of originality missing from the central duo makes the whole exercise seem manufactured.
That’s not to say that Erin (Drew Barrymore) and Garrett (Justin Long) aren’t charming (they are) or that their chemistry doesn’t feel genuine (it better, as Barrymore and Long are in a real-life relationship). And so, as the viewer watches them get to know each other over Erin’s six-week newspaper internship in Manhattan and then struggle to make it work when she returns to San Francisco, they may enjoy the experience, but they’re not invested in it.
It’d be easy to blame the actors, especially Barrymore, for the simple fact that she’s played this role a dozen times and therefore could easily be construed as a caricature of herself. But they’re not the problem; they provoke more than enough audience-fawning and make the implications of the relationship feel real. Instead, the problem is Geoff LaTulippe’s writing, which seems so caught up in capturing an authentic long-distance relationship that it forgets about the people involved. Despite the actors’ endearing representations, these two couldn’t get any more cookie-cutter – he’s a semi-successful record-label employee who’s dying to jump off the corporate ladder and she’s a 31-year-old who’s still in graduate school because of the time she wasted chasing after a guy. As a result, the execution itself never overcomes this generic core mold, resulting in an audience that just doesn’t care.
Because the viewer remains relatively unmoved throughout, they’re also more likely to scrutinize other conventional material in the film. One of the key tricks in making a rom-com is to sweep the viewer up in the story so much that they don’t notice the underlying clichés; Going the Distance never gets away with this. The best example of something that would’ve been a home run in a more skilled film but is only a pleasant diversion here are Garrett’s two best friends, Dan (Charlie Day of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”) and Box (Jason Sudeikis of “SNL”). Dan, in particular, has some really inventive, funny bits, but the movie’s overriding sense of coldness reminds us that he’s just the requisite quirky friend there to offer zaniness and he is therefore less engaging.
The movie was directed by Nanette Burstein, whose previous works are the documentaries The Kid Stays in the Picture and American Teen. Both of those films, particularly the latter, enjoyed wide exposure by genre standards, perhaps gaining additional traction because of their creative embellishments. The latter, particularly, played more like orchestrated drama than real life. Interesting that Burstein would choose a script that feels very similar for her fiction debut. Sure, writer LaTulippe deserves credit for infusing Going the Distance with quite a bit of original stuff, including a handful of raunchy, laugh-out-loud moments. (And can I reiterate that these characters somehow find a way not to cheat on each other!?) LaTulippe’s work would likely get an A in any amateur screenwriting workshop. But that’s precisely the problem with Going the Distance: like a relationship that looks perfect on paper but then doesn’t work out, the movie has all the required elements but is missing the passion and soul.
* * *
Going the Distance (2010, USA). Produced by Jennifer Gibgot, Garett Grant, and Adam Shankman. Directed by Nanette Burstein. Written for the screen by Geoff LaTulippe. Starring Drew Barrymore, Justin Long, Charlie Day, Jason Sudeikis, Christina Applegate, Ron Livingston, and Jim Gaffigan. Distributed by Warner Bros. Rated PG-13, with a running time of 109 minutes.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Review: Machete (2010)
Let’s suppose a gourmet Mexican meal were wrapped up in Taco Bell take-out containers and fed to a dozen random folks. It’s reasonable to assume at least eight would instantly realize they were not eating terrible fast food, but something better, purposefully concealed. The other four, on the other hand, might just accept what’s before them and say, “Damn, Taco Bell has gotten really good at making enchiladas.”
OK, perhaps an extended Mexican food analogy is too obtuse, but Machete is that gourmet enchilada in a Taco Bell container. In constructing an homage to exploitation films of the 1970s, it replicates its subjects’ outrageously severe presentation of serious issues, illegal immigration in this instance. Machete could be no more didactically inflammatory; in it, white politicians are satanic figures and the Mexican aliens they’re fighting against are free, beautiful revolutionaries.
For those familiar with the blaxploitation and grindhouse films that writers Robert and Álvaro Rodriguez are referencing, the movie is superfluous bliss, start to finish. This is easily the best constructed and most consistently entertaining film Robert, who also fills his usual roles of directing and editing, has ever made. I personally loved it. But I also believe that films must be socially responsible and consider their potentially dangerous cultural implications, even when it isn’t their fault some viewers don’t “get” it.
What I mean is, it’s clear that some viewers, particularly in the young Latino community, will take Machete not as a send-up to a genre, but as a celebration of violent activism. With the heated battle over immigration currently taking place, with both sides ready to trivialize each other, Machete is the poster-child for a film that will be misinterpreted and used as propaganda. Its idealness for this purpose not only came across to me as I watched it, but it was evidenced around me, with many fellow audience members cheering the violent protagonist on in his anti-white rampage. Some may disagree that the movie bears any responsibility for its unintended effects, but I’m skeptical. Yeah, I had a lot of fun watching it, but does its accessibility come at a cost?
That’s not to say that all art should be self-censoring because it may lead wackos to do crazy things. Some of the best films made have featured intentionally offensive, provocative material; this is often an artistic necessity. But the problem in Machete’s case is that the reward for the risk is so minor. While the movie is a supremely well-done mock-up of the B-movie genre, it doesn’t have anything powerful to say to compensate for those it may mislead. Certainly, there is a chance that those who don’t “get” the joke won’t, in fact, illogically leap to the conclusion that it is indeed a rallying cry for a “brown” revolution in America, in which case the enjoyment of those in on the joke will come at no expense. But with such a volatile issue, I think there’s reason to fear. Not to mention, the diehard anti-immigration movement’s potential reaction to the film is just as worrisome as their opposition’s; they may be even more likely to view Machete as a call to arms and then dumbly deem it representative of the views of all Mexican-Americans.
But because Machete is out there and I certainly would not advocate any kind of authoritative censorship, I will let you make your own decisions about its social implications. What I can talk about objectively is the movie’s supreme skill and entertainment value.
Danny Trejo, in perhaps his most commanding performance ever, reprises his role from a fake trailer in Rodriguez’ Grindhouse and runs wild with it. He’s the title Machete, an ex-Federale who escapes to the United States and pretends to be a day laborer after his plot to bust a dangerous Mexican drug-lord (Steven Seagal!) goes awry. In America, he just so happens to be hired by a mysterious businessman (Jeff Fahey) to assassinate an anti-immigrant senator (Robert De Niro) for $150,000. Machete expresses no reservations in accepting the job, giving the payout to the leader of “The Network” (Michelle Rodriguez), a secret organization that helps Mexicans cross the border. But just when he’s about to pull the trigger, Machete is shot himself and a hidden gunman puts a bullet in the senator’s leg. Machete was clearly a pawn. The man who put him up to the job was actually in the senator’s camp and he wanted Machete to become the violent face of illegal immigration, allowing the Senator to surge in the polls. But our hero is too sly to let that happen, escaping despite his wound and then seeking vengeance against the campaign, which is representative of a white America that just wants to keep the brown man down. Jessica Alba, Lindsay Lohan, and Cheech Marin all pop up along the way to lend spice.
Trejo is downright magnetic, giving the character the same campy force as Richard Roundtree did for Shaft. This is hardly even a winking performance; in fact, it’s dead serious, relying on the movie as a whole to do the winking. I can’t think of anyone but Trejo pulling it off, with his scary, tough-guy image and workmanlike presence. And even better is the fact that he’s matched by the rest of the cast, which fit the established prototypes of their roles perfectly. Alba is just as hot as she is the person you’d least expect to play an ICE agent, and that’s pretty much what the part called for. Lohan, in a near-tragic turn, pretty much plays her pre-recovery self: the drug-addled, webcam-broadcasting daughter of a corrupt drug trafficker. It’s hard to believe De Niro is in the movie at all, which is by itself enough to make him consistently interesting. Michelle Rodriguez mostly just stands around and looks pretty, with the big payoff being a seemingly endless shot of her midriff in the third act. And Cheech Marin fulfills the role of the comedian who’s so washed up he must resort to awkwardly delivering a serious performance… how’s that for Meta?
But even more than Machete is an actor’s movie, it’s Rodriguez’ movie. Often referred to as Hollywood’s handyman, essentially making home movies with big stars that play in a lot of theaters, Rodriguez embraces his reputation and makes a self-aware extravaganza. Sure, Rodriguez had a studio to please, but his independent approach is about as close to that of the subject exploitation films as any mainstream film will ever come. And boy does he take advantage of this, making Machete as much of a Mexploitation flick as possible. Just when you think the movie can’t up the ante any more as it moves into the third act—after a dozen crazy jump-cut sequences and huge explosions and more—then come the low-riders and a balls-to-the-walls finale that embarrass everything that’s come before. Those viewers on Rodriguez’ wavelength will marvel, “What was he thinking!?” in the best possible way, over and over. I’ve called the guy an amateur many times in the past, but somehow in making the most amateur-seeming of all his movies, Rodriguez has crafted his most accomplished, stimulating piece of art to date.
Hopefully the dramatic turn from skepticism to praise seen in this review will highlight the dilemma that Machete presents me. Usually, I don’t like most critics’ tendency to see themselves as smarter and more culturally aware than the average viewer, but in this case, I feel that I am. If I were the only one watching Machete, I’d have no problem writing my glowing response without any caveats. But I’m honestly concerned about the emotions the movie may rile up, in private even more so than in public. Then again, only when movies do said riling are we reminded that the art form is alive and well, so at least I can take comfort in that.
Rating taking cultural responsibility into account:
Rating throwing caution to the wind:
* * *
Machete (2010, USA). Produced by Elizabeth Avellan, Alan Bernon, Alistair Burlingham, Dominic Cancilla, Jerry Fruchtman, Peter Fruchtman, Jack Gilardi Jr., Anthony Gudas, Aaron Kaufman, Myles Nestel, Iliana Nikolic, Darby Parker, Tom Proper, Steve Robbins, Robert Rodriguez, Rick Schwartz, and Quentin Tarantino. Directed by Robert Rodriguez and Ethan Maniquis. Written for the screen by Robert Rodriguez and Álvaro Rodríguez. Starring Danny Trejo, Robert De Niro, Jessica Alba, Steven Seagal, Michelle Rodriguez, Jeff Fahey, Cheech Marin, and Lindsay Lohan. Distributed by 20th Century Fox. Rated R, with a running time of 105 minutes.