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

Some movies present the audience with a central character so cryptic, the experience is made involving solely by working to decipher the person. Such is the case with The American, in which George Clooney plays a man whose profession requires he be so secretive, he can’t even be himself when he’s alone. Or has he literally become his profession—a black-market weapons maker? That’s the viewer’s decision to a make. This is a movie in which plot (of which there is little) is secondary; the real arc and its accompanying tension are created by the viewer figuring out what this man is thinking. Many will be surprised at how much of a relationship they form with him in the process, how much they begin to care for a man who is as cold as they come on the surface.

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.

Review: The Romantics (2010) - 1 1/2 Buckets

Some big stars’ craving for formula is insatiable… not only do they make conventional Hollywood blockbusters, they also somehow find the most formulaic indies they can. My impulse has always been to assume that when popular actors like Katie Holmes, Anna Paquin, Malin Akerman, Josh Duhamel, Elijah Wood, Adam Brody, and Candice Bergen lend their talents to a smaller project they won’t be paid their usual rate for, it’s probably something special. But here’s The Romantics, which relies on every bullshit indie cliché in the book, to prove me wrong once again.

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.

Review: Get Low (2010) - 3 Buckets

I’m a big believer in the idea that a movie’s power to stick with the viewer is just as important as the impression it makes as it rolls through the projector gate. This is why I’m recommending Get Low. The movie is sleepy—boring in parts, even—and leads up to a payoff that isn’t as immediately fulfilling on a narrative level as one might hope. But between its assured delivery and its strong performances, namely a remarkable one by lead Robert Duvall, the film lingers a lot after you see it. Normally I try to write about a movie the day following the screening, when it’s still very fresh in my memory, but in this case I’m glad time constraints prevented me from doing so until three days later. I planned on giving Get Low a just-OK review as I walked out of the theater, but every time I’ve thought about it since, it’s haunted me a little more.

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.

Review: Going the Distance (2010) - 2 1/2 Buckets

Going the Distance is undone because its conventions overpower its original material, of which there is actually quite a bit. But why is this? After all, my two favorite movies of last year, Adventureland and (500) Days of Summer, were essentially cliché romantic comedies bolstered to greatness by original writing, style, and structure. Like those films, Going the Distance is hardly your average genre effort, despite its inclusion of a traditional meet-cute, a predictable final act, and more. On the surface, greatness doesn’t seem so far from reach.

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.

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.

Review: The Last Exorcism (2010) - 3 Buckets

Had you asked me before I saw The Last Exorcism, I don’t think I could have come up with one favorable example of deceptive film marketing. Usually, when a movie is sold as something it’s not, there’s reason to be pissed off; most viewers rightly expect to have a reasonably good idea of what their $10 are going towards. But there’s an exception to every rule and I’m happy The Last Exorcism is it. Sold by distributor Lionsgate as a Paranormal Activity-esque fright-fest, this actually may be the smartest motion picture American teenyboppers ever voluntarily see. It isn’t high art, but The Last Exorcism is surprisingly less a horror film than it is a thriller that uses its faux-documentary style to forge substantive social commentary about such topics as the blind following of organized religion and the camera’s ability to attract narcissism. The half-hour or so of material that’s intended to be scary in the conventional sense is the side dish, not the main course.

In fact, I’d expect early walkouts from those audience members who go in expecting blood and terror. The movie takes a lot of time—the full first act and more—setting up its lofty premise, free of any immediate scares. Filmed documentary-style from the start, the film introduces protagonist Reverend Cotton Marcus (Patrick Fabian) of Baton Rouge, La. At church, he appears to be your ordinary charistmatic, bible-thumping Evangelical preacher. But, in truth, he’s anything gbut. After going through the traumatic premature birth of his son, Cotton grew to find his faith less and less important in his life. The only reason he continues in his profession is because it’s the way he best knows to pay the bills.

The reason for the documentary is Cotton seeks to expose the con of the exorcism within his religion. (I guess he figures he’ll make enough money off of it to pay those bills when it leads to his excommunication?) In an interview segment, he humorously assures viewers that even though the ancient ritual is typically associated with Catholics because “they have The Exorcist,” it’s a actually common practice within many religions. In fact, Cotton was a child prodigy exorcist, with news-clippings showing him performing the ceremonies at as early as 10 years old. But he has come to view them as a hoax, never having seen a ghost or anything remotely supernatural during the many he’s conducted. After hearing news of deaths occurring during exorcisms, he saw the need to create positive change by rigging fake ones and then demonstrating the placebo effect they hold on participants. Of course, his good intentions are matched by his own cocky desire for the camera; he hams it up and has a huge ego throughout the documentary.

Cotton’s subject this time is, to his surprise, 16-year-old Nell Sweetzer (Ashley Bell). “I don’t like to work with kids,” he says, after realizing he won’t actually be exorcizing Nell’s religious-fanatic father Louis (Louis Herthum), who wrote the letter requesting the act be performed. Nell has allegedly been engaging in strange behavior she has no recollection of, such as killing livestock on the family farm. Cotton tells the Sweetzers—Nell, her dad, and her angry, skeptical brother Caleb (Caleb Landry Jones)—that the demon Abalam is possessing the girl, randomly picking one out of his weathered picture-book. Using a bunch of magic tricks that make disturbing noises, shake photos in the room, and cause his cross to smoke up, Cotton performs the phony exorcism and calls it a day. But then comes the real horror: Nell is still displaying demonic tendencies later that night. Is she just psychologically screwed up, or does Abalam really have a hold over her?

Just as interesting as The Last Exorcism’s style and grander plot is the character Cotton himself, credibly played by television actor Patrick Fabian. Whereas a less complex film would’ve depicted Cotton as your standard well-meaning citizen journalist, director Daniel Stamm and writers Huck Botko and Andrew Gurland don’t fall into this trap. They realize Cotton would have to be a hot-head who loves the camera to be staging this kind of elaborate set-up. Even when Nell starts to show signs of true problems beyond imagined demonic possession, Cotton never second-guesses his decisions regarding her welfare. That requires a certain degree of arrogance, which would be fitting of someone who was a local celebrity at a young age. And yet Cotton never becomes unsympathetic because he admittedly seems to be onto something, meaning the viewer never becomes irritated by or bored of the man who leads them on the journey. Actor Fabian is just as responsible as the script for this success, too, as he nails the dichotomy, turning Cotton from charismatic to flawed and back on a dime.

On a narrative level, the movie is distinguished by its superior building of suspense. What’s really going on with Nell? If she is possessed, then are Cotton and the two documentarians accompanying him in danger, as the bloody drawings that Nell creates while “under the influence” suggest? Nell’s brother Caleb and the local pastor (Tony Bentley) appear to be hiding something; if really they are, what is it? Nothing is resolved with certainty until the film’s final scene, which is sure to be vigorously debated. However, even if one doesn’t like the ultimate outcome artistically, one would be hard-pressed to claim they predicted it.

As the cherry on top of it all, there’s what The Last Exorcism says about organized religion and religious figureheads in America. Louis, who’s been estranged from the local church since the passing of his wife, seems to blindly trust the allegedly expert Cotton to save his daughter from the demon within her… that is, until after Cotton’s exorcism “fails,” and he claims it isn’t a demon at all, but a psychiatric issue. Louis then returns to the scripture, which turns him towards violence. Yes, this is all fun and games and not meant to be taken seriously, but Cotton’s use of religion for selfish purposes and Louis’ literalist backlash bear striking resemblance to certain public figures today. It amounts to a very clever movie that gets the viewer thinking about how Christianity is abused in all kinds of ways, especially when media (in this case a documentary) is involved.

But even after all this praise, I probably still haven’t convinced you that the scare-quotient is irrelevant, have I? Truth be told, if you’re looking for the movie that will raise your heart-rate the highest, you should look elsewhere. There are admittedly some eerie sequences in The Last Exorcism that are shrouded in anxiety-producing mystery, but the number of outright terrifying moments is low. In fact, those who would be likely to jump out of their seats at the “scary stuff” in the final act are probably the same people who would walk out at the beginning of the movie because they find the other elements boring. For those moviegoers who like to be thrilled and think a little bit while they’re at it, however, The Last Exorcism represents multiplex fare at its best.

* * *

The Last Exorcism (2010, USA). Produced by Marc Abraham, Thomas A. Bliss, Patrick Curd, Ron Halpern, Patty Long, Eric Newman, and Eli Roth. Directed by Daniel Stamm. Written for the screen by Huck Botko and Andrew Gurland. Starring Patrick Fabian, Ashley Bell, Iris Bahr, Louis Herthum, Caleb Landry Jones, and Tony Bentley. Distributed by Lionsgate. Rated PG-13, with a running time of 90 minutes.

Nanny McPhee Returns (2010) - 2 1/2 Buckets

The original Nanny McPhee was a pleasant surprise, arriving on the scene billed as just another dumper of a January kids’ flick but then proving itself to actually be rather funny and touching. The magic of the movie was that it allowed the audience to both laugh at its child cast’s mischievous antics and root for the title Nanny (an unrecognizable Emma Thompson) in rearing them. A then 16-year-old friend and I went to see it because it was the only thing we hadn’t yet caught and I could get us in for free as an employee of the theater. We came out floored that even we, the antithesis of the target audience, had laughed and had ourselves a jolly good time.

Nanny McPhee Returns is not a bad movie, but its lack of originality and humor compared to the first film seem like more severe offenses than they really are because of the high standards in place. This time, writer/star Thompson and new director Susanna White place Nanny McPhee and her subjects into a conventional wartime weepy and, while it beats Tooth Fairy or The Spy Next Door as family fare any day, one could definitely argue that viewers would be better off watching its predecessor again instead.

This time around, the ill-behaved children are those of Isabel Green (Maggie Gyllenhaal, doing her best British accent), who live on a farm in the English countryside circa World War II. Their father (Ewan McGregor) is off fighting and his lack of presence is obviously taking a toll on the family. The kids’ antics wear on Isabel, who’s already stressed because she may have to sell the farm if she can’t come up with her monthly tractor payment. So what better idea but to add two more to the mix? The Cousins, as they’re dubbed, arrive at the farm, apparently because their London home is unsafe due to the firebombing. More ruckus ensues. Enter Nanny McPhee, who will surely teach the kids how to behave and how to care.

The biggest error Thompson and Grant make is not using Nanny McPhee enough. It feels as though the staple of the franchise is reduced to a footnote here, showing up when the strike of her whimsical cane is needed but otherwise simply looming in the background. This character is who audiences are paying to see, so why minimize her part?

Then again, maybe Nanny McPhee’s role in the first movie only seems comparatively larger because the surrounding story was better, meaning her absences were less of an issue. Unlike this sequel, the original film offered a lot of juicy narrative elements, like the love story between dad Colin Firth and maid Kelly Macdonald. While the original was hardly unpredictable, it was always entertaining because it engaged the viewer’s sense of wonder. Nanny McPhee Returns, on the other hand, features a family story that is conventional not only in plot, but emotion. We know from the beginning that the two main crisis-points for the family will be 1) whether or not their father dies in combat and 2) whether or not they have to sell the farm. Based on this short synopsis, I bet you can guess the outcomes of both story threads.

Nanny McPhee Returns also relies on cutesy trifles that are mildly amusing, but that simply amount to diversion where the first would have relied on heart. Yes, CGI pigs performing a synchronized swimming routine are worth a laugh and will undoubtedly amuse kids, but then again, are they really that funny and aren’t kids amused by anything? The same goes for the CGI baby elephant and Nanny McPhee’s trusty bird that uses its gas problem for the greater good.

But all this criticism is simply an indicator of the fact that I feel Nanny McPhee Returns is inferior to the first film, not that it’s a very bad film itself. As a Saturday matinee babysitter, it may not be Pixar, but it certainly won’t be a painful watch for parents. Maggie Gyllenhaal, for one, is delightful in the lead role. Her character may be too standard-issue to make much of an emotional impact, but viewers will enjoy Gyllenhaal’s sparkling presence throughout. The entire cast of kids, too, delivers strong performances that don’t suffer from the typical difficulties child actors often face. And, minimized as she may be, Nanny McPhee is just as charming as ever, so much so that one might still find oneself hoping Thompson reprises this role again, despite the sequel’s significant drop in quality. Nanny McPhee Returns settles for pleasant, moderate fun, but is unlikely to elicit strong enthusiasm from any moviegoer over the age of 10.

* * *

Nanny McPhee Returns (2010; UK, France, USA). Produced by Tim Bevan, David Brown, Liza Chasin, Lindsay Duran, Eric Fellner, Debra Hayward, Debra Osbourne, and Emma Thompson. Directed by Susanna Grant. Written for the screen by Emma Thompson, based on the characters created by Christianna Brand. Starring Emma Thompson, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Oscar Steer, Asa Butterfield, Lil Woods, Eros Vlahos, Rosie Taylor-Ritson, Rhys Ifans, Maggie Smith, and Ewan McGregor. Distributed by Universal Pictures. Rated PG, with a running time of 109 minutes.

Review: Salt (2010) - 3 Buckets

My requirements of a thriller break down like this: 1) it’s suspenseful and keeps me guessing until the final reveal, 2) it features an interesting protagonist and villain, even if who’s who is often in question, and 3) it handles action deftly, without any additional fat to bog up the plot. Salt holds to these core values. While detractors of the film may argue it’s pretty empty, with a thin story only designed to move the characters from one improbable action set piece to another, I think they’re overanalyzing things. There’s nothing ignoble about what Salt sets out to do—entertain with supreme skill and style—and it executes its plan masterfully. This certainly doesn’t make it a masterpiece, but it will make for a jolly good Friday night guessing-game at the cinema. I can’t think of anything released in the past three months that better embodies the spirit of summer movie-going, thanks to star Angelina Jolie and director Philip Noyce.

The movie’s tagline summarizes it pretty well: “Who is Salt?” We first meet Evelyn Salt (Jolie) as an American CIA agent, in a flashback sequence where we see her being freed from a torture camp in North Korea. Flash-forward several years and she’s still with the organization, working out of Washington D.C. She’s asked to interrogate a Russian national named Orlov (Daniel Olbrychski), who claims she is a Russian spy who will participate in a doomsday plot called Day X. He alleges that this will begin the next day when Salt assassinates the President of Russia at the late U.S. Vice President’s funeral. Provided he has not “beat” the lie detector test, Orlov is telling the truth.

It’s clear Evelyn has some part in Day X when she breaks out in a sprint, fighting to make her way out of the secured building in a grandiose chase sequence involving even a makeshift fire-gun. And surprise, surprise—we learn Orlov is aligned with Salt, as he kills two guards and escapes. Surely enough, the next day, Salt shoots the Russian President at point-blank range at the funeral in yet another extravagant, preposterous action sequence. She’s momentarily taken into custody but once again—you guessed it—escapes, only to then kill Orlov at their secret meeting place before continuing on with the Day X plot. The viewer quickly realizes there must be more to the story, but what? Just who is Salt and who exactly is she working for? Could she be a triple-agent?

Angelina Jolie was born to play this role. It’s ideal for her because, not only does she have the chops to handle the action sequences, the character also doesn’t require her to be likable. Jolie, despised as a public figure and an actress by a vocal minority, usually plays powerful women the viewer must love in order to truly get absorbed in the plot. But here, her character is shrouded in mystery and the viewer isn’t supposed to know whether they like her or not. As a result, even those who don’t consider themselves Jolie fans will make for potential fans of Salt. You don’t find many action films or thrillers where you don’t need to root for the main character to find them engaging, but this is that rare exception. And, man oh man, is Jolie photogenic as ever in the wham-bam action sequences. Rumored to have done many of her own stunts, she delivers a strong physical performance that keeps the adrenaline-level at maximum throughout. Whether Salt is actually with the good guys or the bad, there’s no denying she kicks ass.

Sealing the deal is the superior staging and pacing of director Philip Noyce, who hasn’t made an action film since 1997’s The Saint starring Val Kilmer. Noyce moves from one action-packed sequence to the next, making Salt a supreme popcorn movie if there ever was one. (I might be compelled to use the phrase “testosterone-filled” if not for the fact that there’s a female lead.) And yet, even though Noyce is unrelenting in his approach, the action is very clear and understandable, making it so much more engrossing than that of the music video-style genre-efforts that have become ubiquitous in Hollywood. Noyce’s vision puts the audience in a visceral position, making them feel the thrust of each punch and the sound of each gunshot. In a silly movie with no real consequences such as this one, this sort of feeling is very important for a director to maintain in order to keep hold of the audience. In this respect, Noyce is even more integral to the film’s success than Jolie; he’s the true puppeteer of the play.

If you require more of a thriller than that it is well-constructed action with audiovisual power, Salt may not be your cup of tea. But for the rest of us, it’s a good reminder that a simple, lean popcorn flick can actually be done satisfyingly. (When condemning the latest Michael Bay film mainly for lacking in the substance department, I usually forget that there are movies like Salt and the recent Scott Pilgrim vs. the World that actually do the style-only thing pretty well.) Noyce’s movie is filled with enough technical prowess that viewers don’t need to follow that dumb old adage: “Turn off your brain.” They simply need to redirect their mind’s attention to the good stuff Salt has to offer, which is admittedly not intellectual, but it sure is entertaining.

* * *

Salt (2010, USA). Produced by William M. Connor, Lorenzo di Bonaventura, Samuel Dickerman, Ric Kidney, Hannah Minghella, Sunil Perkash, and Mark Vahradian. Directed by Philip Noyce. Written for the screen by Kurt Wimmer. Starring Angelina Jolie, Liev Schrieber, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Daniel Olbrychski, and August Diehl. Distributed by Columbia Pictures. Rated PG-13, with a running time of 95 minutes.

Review: Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010) - 3 Buckets

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World is one of those movies we must admire for its accomplishments all the more because of all the ways it could have gone horribly wrong. The movie promises nearly two hours of comic-book action done in the style of a video game, with a repetitive plot to boot. Can you imagine what that might have meant had Paul W.S. Anderson been the man in charge? Throw in the fact that lead Michael Cera was all but guaranteed to pull of his action-star role and the delightful final product that writer/director Edgar Wright has concocted seems like a minor-miracle.

This really is an auteur piece for Wright, in spite of how faithfully he’s adapted (with Michael Bacall) Bryan Lee O’Malley’s source comic. His previous quasi-parody charmers made with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, showed that he definitely had a knack for comedy and action, but they were comparatively calm and low-budget. Thankfully, Wright has no problem pulling off the schizophrenic kinetics and whip-snap jokes of Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, assembling them with such command that it’s fair to compare his work to Quentin Tarantino’s, with a little Diablo Cody thrown in for good measure.

Michael Cera is the title Scott Pilgrim, a sorta-likable 22-year-old deadbeat who plays in a Toronto rock band called Sex Bob-omb. We first meet him when he’s begun dating 17-year-old Knives Chau (Ellen Wong) in a pathetic attempt to try to get over a big heartbreak, at the behest of his younger sister Stacy (the always-great Anna Kendrick) and even his admittedly dysfunctional gay roommate Wallace (Kieran Culkin). But Scott’s interest in Knives wanes quickly when he sets his sights on the new girl in town, a punk American named Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead). After an awkward first exchange at a party, he’s able to score a date with her on their second encounter, which unleashes something he never bargained for… Scott must battle Ramona’s “seven evil exes” to win her for himself. We meet them as they come, from actor/skateboarder Lucas Lee (Chris Evans) to twins Kyle and Ken Katayanagi (Shota and Keita Saito) to the big one at the end, the mysterious Gideon (Jason Schwartzman).

The movie’s aesthetic is dizzyingly complex, borrowing elements from both comic books and video games. Interjections like “Wham!” and bright colorful lines signifying action and noise spring from the characters, just as they would in a panel of the former medium. And, as you’d see in the latter, superfluous points are recorded onscreen as Scott battles it out with Ramona’s exes. Likewise, special weapons are awarded to the players for certain achievements and, when Scott defeats an ex, they explode into coins. And yet I would not consider Scott Pilgrim vs. the World to be a “video game movie.” Yes, it contains many of the rapid cuts and excessive stylizations that have fostered that derogatory term. But Wright not only implements these elements far more skillfully than we’ve ever seen before, he also uses them to comment on the sensibilities of the video game era in general. The film’s style is as much about observing these young characters’ need for instant gratification and ubiquitous communication as it is offering those elements to actual teens and 20-somethings in the audience. As such, those who don’t usually like seeing such frenzy on the screen (myself included) will actually find it enlightening, not annoying here.

Wright also deserves credit for keeping the interest level so high in a rather long film (an hour and 52 minutes) that is recurrent in nature. While the weapons and the players change, Scott battles all seven of Ramona’s exes in structurally similar fights. The film could’ve easily mirrored the agonizing experience of watching two friends play a video game and not being able to participate, but instead it’s entertaining throughout. One reason for this is that Wright and Bacall’s screenplay is filled with a constant barrage of witty allusions and quips that keep the viewer on their toes. Another is that the action, for all its in-your-face relentlessness, is quite formally interesting. Perhaps Hot Fuzz was good training for Wright because, in spoofing directors as diverse Michael Bay and Sam Peckinpah, he learned what would and what wouldn’t work in his own turn at large-scale action.

The performances aren’t exceptionally memorable, but they fit the bill nicely and keep things high-energy. Cera plays a version of the geek he always is and, for the most part, it works. That he has the chops for this kind of action shows he may not just be a one-trick pony. It’s also worth noting that all but the most awkward of young adults won’t be able to live vicariously through Scott, which is often a tactic that this type of movie is able to win viewers over too easily with. Instead, Cera does a good job at playing Scott for the loser he kind of is, but ensures the audience sympathizes for the character enough to be rooting for him to win the battles and get the girl. Likewise, Mary Elizabeth Winstead understands that Ramona may not be the great prize Scott thinks she is and she certainly has intimacy issues, but she’s nevertheless the one that Scott wants. (I was about as attracted to her as a square like me could be to a girl with purple and blue hair.) In smaller parts, Culkin, Kendrick, Schwartzman, Wong, Evans, Aubrey Plaza, Brandon Routh, Thomas Jane, and Brie Larson all offer their own distinct amusements.

So why am I not about to call Scott Pilgrim vs. the World a masterpiece or even a really, really good movie? Because the heart isn’t there. It may seem like I’m contradicting myself given I just praised the fact that the movie doesn’t manipulate the viewer by creating disingenuously appealing characters. Thus, where could it find the heart I desire? I dunno; maybe it’s a Catch 22. But for me to truly love a movie, I must get an unwavering feeling in my gut that it’s something amazing and special. In Scott Pilgrim vs. the World’s case, I may cognitively think it’s those things, but the visceral passion isn’t there. Yes, the characters are interesting enough and the style is overflowing and even groundbreaking in that it’s the first movie to really use the video game aesthetic right. But, as I established years ago when Kill Bill came out, I don’t think style—even when it’s what the movie is about—can become substance. Style can be moving and memorable, but it isn’t lasting in the emotional sense.

However, it’d be a shame to end on a negative note because Scott Pilgrim vs. the World really is great fun – a roaring Friday night at the movies. Box office numbers for opening weekend have just come out as I’m writing this and I see the movie was only able to sell a paltry $10.5 million worth of tickets, which is a shame because I’m sure a broad spectrum of people would like it. For now, it will have to be content in joining She’s Out of My League as one of 2010’s best kept secrets: that rare Hollywood picture that appeals to both guys, for its action and its comedy, and girls, for its romance. I already can’t wait for Wright’s next movie.

* * *

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010, USA). Produced by J. Miles Dale, Eric Gitter, Lisa Gitter, Jeff Kirschenbaum, Jared LeBoff, Adam Merims, Joe Nozemack, Nira Park, Marc Platt, Steven V. Scavelli, Adam Siegel, Scott Stuber, Ronaldo Vasconcellos, and Edgar Wright. Directed by Edgar Wright. Written for the screen by Edgar Wright and Michael Bacall, based on the graphic novels by Bryan Lee O'Malley. Starring Michael Cera, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Ellen Wong, Kieran Culkin, Anna Kendrick, and Jason Schwarzman. Distributed by Universal Pictures. Rated PG-13, with a running time of 112 minutes.

Review: The Other Guys (2010) - 2 Buckets

Leave it to Hollywood to release two ‘80s cop movie send-ups—not exactly a burgeoning genre—within six months of each other. Thankfully, comedy team Adam McKay and Will Ferrell spare audiences another atrocity in faring better with the material than Kevin Smith, Bruce Willis, and Tracy Morgan did in their dreadful Cop Out. Then again, that isn’t much of a compliment given how abysmal Cop Out was. In fact, only by comparison to that dud does The Other Guys seem like a clever riot.

Let’s get the good out of the way first. One thing McKay and Chris Henchy admittedly get right is their use of genre references, which is far broader and more story-focused than that in Cop Out. Whereas Kevin Smith’s film just felt like a long string of nods to ‘80s clichés, The Other Guys seems like its own modern movie. For instance, at the beginning of the film, McKay and Henchy have the hilarious team of Dwayne Johnson and Samuel L. Jackson play super-cops who are so full of themselves, they leap off a skyscraper in order to catch criminals at ground level, falling to their deaths. This isn’t a recognizable reference to any particular movie, but a wildly hyperbolic parody of an ‘80s cop movie prototype. This is much funnier than a more specific approach would have been. In fact, The Other Guys leaves most of its pointed references for more obscure topics, like TLC songs.

The plot itself is built around a topical villain—Ponzi scheme artist David Ershon (Steve Coogan)—but remains within the realm of an homage thanks to protagonists Allen Gamble (Will Ferrell) and Terry Holz (Mark Wahlberg). They’re your typical low-level NYPD partners who never see any action. Allen has no aspirations beyond paperwork at the bureau and Terry’s accidental shooting of Derek Jeter during the World Series put the kibosh on his goal of becoming a distinguished officer.

Early on, Terry decides he wants to live large once again and begins suckering Allen into attempting real police work, albeit out of Allen’s ruby-red Prius. They aren’t very successful at first, but mistakenly strike gold when Allen goes after the mysteriously wealthy Ershon for scaffolding violations on his construction projects. The duo isn’t smart enough to piece together the their suspect’s fraudulent scheme right away, but somehow they slowly string evidence together. As they inch towards cracking the Ponzi scheme Ershon has cooked up—against orders to stay off the case, of course—one misadventure after another ensues.

There are several laughs to be had, but The Other Guys ends up unsatisfying. The main reason for this is the script gets progressively less funny, further descending into mindless action rather than comedy. The most entertaining segment of the film is its first ten minutes, which feature the aforementioned Johnson/Jackson antics, not leads Ferrell and Wahlberg. That’s never a good sign, as the viewer naturally becomes more impatient and in need of compelling material as a picture moves, making its absence even more bothersome. The Other Guys only runs an hour and 47 minutes, but it feels longer because the comedy is poorly paced.

Another crushing blow to the funny-factor is that Ferrell’s ridiculous antics just aren’t as amusing as they once were. His delivery of a bit in which he explains to Wahlberg how a family of tuna could hunt a lion probably would have been hilarious five years ago, but now it just feels like Ferrell rehashing a previous performance. As a staunch defender of Ferrell over the years, I’ve previously never wanted to join detractors in commenting: “Yes, we get it – you’re obnoxious, dumb, and do not understand other people’s emotions, what’s the big deal?” But The Other Guys sadly had me ready to scream those words at the screen on a few occasions. Ironically, Ferrell proves the funniest here when he’s at his most understated.

Then there’s McKay’s weird inclusion of political commentary, which misses being interesting and just seems out-of-place. There are several strangely serious anti-corporate jabs throughout The Other Guys, capped off with an end-credit sequence full of statistics about bank bailouts, Ponzi schemes, and other related topics. I’m all for comedy being topical and resonant, but McKay just throws in these ideas haphazardly and the result is that the movie always seems to be hinting at something grander but that never confronts it. Viewers who read McKay’s regular politically-charged Tweets might cast their own projections on this aspect of the film, but looking at it objectively, it just seems like a vague distraction to the story.

Ultimately, The Other Guys feels like it would have been better off as a series of shorts on McKay and Ferrell’s FunnyorDie.com so as to not wear out its welcome. While that may have led to budgetary constraints making Jackson and Johnson’s big gag at the beginning impossible, the rest of the truly funny material would’ve remained intact as it doesn’t stem from expensive action. Instead, it’s the little things, like Michael Keaton’s police chief, who makes constant humorous references to the fact he must work a second job at Bed Bath & Beyond to put his bisexual son through a frou-frou program at NYU. Unfortunately, these are exactly what disappear as the movie reaches its bullet-filled finale, succumbing to mediocrity. Sure, The Other Guys is better than Cop Out, but with so many lame ‘80s cop flicks surely about to find new life on Blu-Ray, why do we need new ones at all?

* * *

The Other Guys (2010, USA). Produced by Joshua Church, William M. Connor, Patrick Crowley, Jessica Elbaum, Will Ferrell, Chris Henchy, David B. Householter, Adam McKay, Rizelle Mendoza, Kevin J. Messick, and Jimmy Miller. Directed by Adam McKay. Written for the screen by Adam McKay and Chris Henchy. Starring Will Ferrell, Mark Wahlberg, Steve Coogan, Eva Mendes, Michael Keaton, Samuel L. Jackson, Dwayne Johnson, and Lindsay Sloane. Distributed by Columbia Pictures. Rated PG-13, with a running time of 107 minutes.