Ben & Andrew, both early 30’s, reunite as Andrew unexpectedly shows up at Ben’s door after perhaps ten years. College friends of the wild variety, Ben has gone “white picket fence” (wife, home, “Where’s that baby?!”) while Andrew resides in the globetrotting, poor, arty, free polar opposite. Andrew represents, instantly, a challenge to Ben’s sense of structure, to his idea of himself as a free man. Ben’s insecurity manifests through overcompensation as he takes the first opportunity to prove himself to Andrew – by agreeing that they will produce and star in a porno of their own making for a local contest, and that the only sex happening will by their sex. I was skeptical too, but now I can report that it isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds. From here the film becomes a series of strained, often hilarious conversations between Andrew, Ben and Ben’s wife, spanning the Friday evening party when the gauntlet is thrown down to the Sunday night tryst at the Bonin’ Motel. Both men endure profound-ish crises of identity – and it’s great! Director Lynn Shelton (who, incidentally, stars in the film as the model of a free, sexy human) shot the film in two weeks and relied wholly on the talent of her three leads and the potent chemistry they generate (pardon me for making such a comment, but filmmaking is almost 100% casting). While Alycia Delmore is a virtual newcomer, Joshua Leonard and Mark Duplass (of the Duplass brothers) have experience directing and acting. Leonard even hitchhiked through Central America in his teens, not unlike his character Andrew – until he was snatched up for The Blair Witch Project (“We’ll pay you four million dollars to stop wandering.”). I will not be surprised if many are not satisfied by the film’s ending. It left an odd impression on me, but not an unpleasant one. That’s all I can say about it.

What a surprise. A pleasant surprise! Not having seen Shelton’s other two films and knowing only the most cursory information about Humpday, I was expecting a relatively gay bromantic comedy. The film is as good as, possibly even better than, Rachel Getting Married (the first association I formed after the viewing; modern impressive indie character piece).

Shot in less than two weeks!

Extract & Idiocy’s Judge

Extract (2009)
Directed by Mike Judge

It appears that Mike Judge is convinced he is surrounded by indecipherable, oblivious idiocy, and seems to think he has no recourse but to inevitably howl along with the madmen. On one hand I can’t blame him – on the other Judge may speak their language a bit too well. Judge crystallized two-dimensional idiocy with 90’s archetypes B & B and after their film aimed his repulsion at interchangeable American offices, yielding further superficial passing chuckles. Idiocy itself was his next subject with still another everyman in the spotlight. Which brings us to Extract, certainly his most inane work. The doctor is one step closer to joining the patients.

Jason Bateman’s character owns a modest little chemical extract plant peopled by working class doofuses who daily bring the company to the precipice of ruin through sheer obliviousness to their duties. One worker (Clifton Collins Jr.) loses a testicle in a Rube Goldberg-styled accident caused by the baffling insensibility of the employees – however, being ‘pussified’ by the loss he passively desires to take no litigious action against his employer until, that is, he is manipulated into doing so by a perky criminal drifter (Mila Kunis). The considerably more ridiculous other half of the story involves Bateman’s sexual frustration by his wife, Little Miss Sweatpants. Bateman begins to lust after Kunis but cannot cheat without guilt. Friend Ben Affleck suggests siccing a male prostitute on Bateman’s wife, thereby creating a scenario of ‘mutual adultery’ in which no party can be more guilty than the other. Bateman, as reasonable a person as can exist in Judge’s universe, balks until his reason is compromised by Affleck’s continuous narcotic influence. This is the crux of Extract (a wholly undemonstrative title): man wants to cheat, makes things worse by using drugs, works it out without learning anything and ends up correctly communicating with his wife again by sheer accident.

Jason Bateman’s finely honed deadpan talents and timing make him the most charming and watchable of Judge’s anymen, and this charm carries a great deal of what is otherwise a directionless, anecdotal series of gags. The reasonably talented supporting cast does a fine job buoying as much of the film as they can: Clifton Collins Jr.’s consummate enjoyment of acting – and hamming – makes me think of a person relishing a popsicle in public. Ben Affleck plays perhaps his most believable role as a flaky airport bartender who solutions to life’s problems – any of them, including the sniffles – consist of ingesting hard drugs. And Mila Kunis never imagined her sex appeal would take her so far. Half of the film passed before I stopped laughing altogether, as I realized no momentum was being created, and really, I had only been laughing at pretty lowbrow gags; ex: one employee belongs to five terrible metal bands with names as ridiculous as “God’s Cock.” I can’t deny that this elicited a genuine laugh, and that such satire may be Judge’s most potent penetration.

Judge seems to me to be bogged down by conventional narrative, and his work could take on a new level of free-form zaniness if he made his own rules. In Office Space, Idiocracy and Extract, Judge’s everyman protagonists live by the rules of others while carrying rather heavy chips on their shoulders. They are terrified of being disliked and will put up with astounding levels of insensitivity so as not to offend the very people they cannot stand. They become so petulant in their pretentious patience and eventually throw vitriol tantrums when it runs out. Office Space is the best example of a man who learns to live happily by his own rules. But I do not see that Judge has truly learned this lesson, and it will be a dominant motif in his work until he does. His reliance on conventional narrative creates the same depreciation of momentum, as if fidelity to story itself is his problem. For Judge, less story means less waiting to get to his cynical satire and toilet humor, which, let’s be honest, is why we watch him and what he does best – see case studies ‘Beavis and Butthead’ and ‘King of the Hill.’ What are they about? Watching music videos on a couch, and living an unglamorous but decent life far from bright lights big cities. Films, however, are bigger and more expensive and more is expected and perhaps they should be watched in big cities where everything else is proportionally as big as the screens. And for these, Judge isn’t going far enough. I suppose I can’t entirely blame him. If I were Mike Judge, I’d also check myself when I caught my laughter taking on the guttural guffaw of the damned idiots.

"Trembling before d-g"

Adam Resurrected

GRADE: C-

Director: Paul Schrader

Writer: Noab Stollman

Cast: Jeff Goldblum, Willem Dafoe, Derek Jacobi, Ayelet Zurer

Runtime: 106 min

Rated R for language, some sexual content and brief violence.

1961.  In a cosmopolitan mental institution in the Israeli desert, the brilliant and unstable Adam Stein (Goldblum) receives a hearty homecoming from his fellow Holocaust survivors.  Stein immediately resumes his asylum routine, which consists of banging his head nurse (when she isn’t too busy barking like a dog for him), using his inexplicable and irrelevant telekinesis to casually outsmart his chum, the institution’s administrator (Jacobi), sharing glib and predictable banter with other mental cases, and spontaneously experiencing “profuse bleeding fits” feasibly caused by slips in Stein’s superhuman control of his own body – which, trust me, sounds more interesting than it is.  A series of forced flashbacks over the course of the film juxtaposes Stein’s pre-war career – impresario, magician & all-around Vaudevillian performer – with his wartime career – an endless one-dog-show under the supervision of a trademark Nazi kook, Commandant Klein (Dafoe) – and his post-war “career” of degenerating into a crippled alcoholic Survivor, poor fictional fellow.  And back at the institution, Stein’s redemptive journey finds its true shape when a young boy shows up who woof-woofs and crawls around on all fours just like Stein did in his heyday.  To no great surprise they form an unlikely friendship – unlikely because it, like most else in the film, is forced – and save each other’s souls.

‘Creative paralysis’ occurs when an artist has belabored a project for so long that the original purpose is muddled and likely forgotten, and it occurs all the time.  The apparently schlocky German producer Ehud Bleiburg read Yoram Kaniuk’s Adam novel 20 years ago and has wanted to make a film of it ever since… and he should’ve (what struck a man at 20 is considerably different than what strikes him at 40).  Eventually Bleiburg found a for-hire director in Paul Schrader.  Adam marks Schrader’s 30th year directing films and all I can think is that he should know better than to make a film like this; Adam isn’t a disaster but is so inconsequential that it practically feels like one.  Schrader really seems to not have a clear idea of what to do with the script he’s got as he tells the story in a conventional, dated manner.  The cinematography is of mostly that typical handheld ‘whatever’ milieu and there is very little aesthetic crafting.  Goldblum does well but even as a brilliant and lighthearted performer he cannot elevate the film’s somber, dreary tone.  Dafoe?  Oh, who doesn’t get Dafoe, and who doesn’t get a nice little Dafoe performance?  In retrospect, I must say that there was not a moment in the film that excited me out of apathy.  It’s a curious surprise that the product feels slapdashed and forgettable considering how long it was stewing in Bleiburg’s pot.  Adam Resurrected was once, perhaps, an impressive and heartfelt story, but… there’s simply nothing left to talk about.  It’s too late, why force anything?  As a dynamic between the filmmakers and the audience, two doctors in the film touch on this position rather aptly…  One doctor complains to the head doctor that Stein is undisciplined, unmedicated, has free reign of the institution… frustrated, he muses, “Maybe we should just let the patients cure each other, and we can sit around all day in our pajamas and play cards?”  The other doctor warmly responds, “That’s the best thing you’ve said all day.”

Milk

GRADE: B
Director: Gus Van Sant
Writer: Dustin Lance Black
Cast: Sean Penn, Josh Brolin, James Franco, Emile Hirsch, Diego Luna, Alison Pill
Runtime: 128 min.
Rated R for language, some sexual content and brief violence.
www.milkthemovie.com

“Mr. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang”

Harvey Milk was the first openly homosexual man elected to notable public office in America. Is it any coincidence that he was assassinated after one year? The jury that prosecuted Dan White, Milk’s slayer, certainly thought so, though I would say it’s a rather incredible coincidence. 30 years later and for the second time, we revisit the path that led to Harvey’s death to try and make sense of it. This particular interpretation makes generous use of one of Harvey’s pet theories that City Supervisor Dan White was a closet homosexual. This is perhaps quite a license for the filmmakers to take, but then it is their view of Milk’s world. Starting from the beginning, Sean Penn gives us a very heartfelt and lovable performance as the eponymous Milk, now 40 years old and still unsettled. Relocating with boyfriend Scott Smith (Franco) to San Francisco, Milk, a natural politician and smiley extrovert, immediately became a voice for the underprivileged minorities of the city and turned the now notorious Castro district into a compassionate haven for all gays in America. Facing dissent from all quarters, Milk and his lovable band of misfits (Hirsch, Luna, Pill) began a vigorous campaign to have him elected to public office as City Supervisor for his district and it is clearly a testament to Milk’s positivity that it took him five years and as many campaigns to finally achieve his goal. Milk fought for gay rights, and for the rights of any underprivileged minority, at every opportunity, and, now able to see above the impenetrable haze of the lower classes, set his sights on the most powerful and virulent opponents to his cause: outspoken pop singer Anita Bryant (only seen here in existing media footage) and Orange County legislator John Briggs and his dreaded Briggs Initiative (a.k.a. Prop 6) which would’ve fired all California teachers who were openly gay and all faculty members who supported them. The bill represented an embarrassing level of insecurity and ignorance within our government; to Harvey’s rapture was defeated. And with this goliath slain, who would’ve suspected Milk to be defeated by a desperate and frustrated colleague? Former pugilist and firefighter Dan White, played by consummate and successful Brolin, snuck into City Hall, vengeance in tow, to dispute his own resignation from office with the mayor, and for christ’s sake, killed the mayor and Milk. This baffling act of despair silenced Milk forever and White spent five years in prison, then returned to San Francisco (despite the new mayor’s formal request for him not to return – ouch), and a year later committed suicide. The court case that sentenced White, and the rather ridiculous “diminished capacity” defense, were as historically resonant as the rest of Milk’s career. What an absurd legacy for a man like Milk to have left behind – though we’re told he would’ve found it entertaining.

With an academy-award winning documentary chronicling the times of Harvey Milk already behind us, what is the purpose of a fictionalized version of that account? Twofold: in order for Van Sant and young writer Black to have a forum to create a glowing tribute for Milk (i.e. to get it out of their systems), and concurrently to create a sympathetic portrait of the man. The result is sentimental and a bit forced; Milk’s story is already tragic, poignant and timely – I don’t know if it’s really necessary to indulge in Milk’s cute pillow talk or to see him weeping over Puccini to witness his humanity. The wonderful thing about the real Harvey Milk was his irrepressible joie de vivre (which is a wonderful trait for a politician to have, I’ll add); Harvey’s humanity is already abundant. Van Sant is a delicate and caring director who’d wanted this project to come about for some time now, and got his wish in spades: a highly experienced, sizable crew and a large presence of talent. Unfortunately, when his films become too large The Van Sant Experience does tend to get a bit watered-down, and it is that V.S. Experience that we watch him for. Sorry to report that the film offers nothing new, at all, in its script or aesthetics – Milk represents a group of professionals going through the motions (despite these motions being proven successes). Alas. But hey, Milk is a very nice film and a helpful reminder that there is still a moral battle at our doorstep. Personally, when I viewed the film I was struck at my feelings about this debate: that it is so very old and so very clearly over in the minds of intelligent people, as if the hands of the dead were reaching out of the ground to suffocate man’s progress. And if Milk weren’t so sappy I would feel more confident than any sane viewer would feel the same. When the film ends using the same quote that ends the former Milk documentary, one does feel a tickle that reminds us that what we witnessed was more serious than this indulgent fiction.

by David Ashley

I’ve Loved You So Long

Grade: C+

Cast: Kristin Scott Thomas, Elsa Zylberstein

Director: Philippe Claudel

Rated PG-13 for thematic material and smoking.

Language: French with English subtitles

Runtime: 117 min.

Release Company: Sony Pictures Classics

www.sonyclassics.com/ivelovedyousolong

Poor Juliette (Thomas) has been rotting for 15 years in prison for the murder of her 6 year old child, and is finally released into the care of her loving sister Lea (Zylberstein). Starting here [A], we will move laterally 110 minutes to [B] where we return to the murder and, inexorably, its motivation. From [A], a taciturn and hopelessly depressed Juliette beds at Lea’s home with her prickly hubby and two adorable adopted Viet-kids. Lea begins to retrain Juliette on the motions of civilized existence and a few side characters are introduced, some sensitive (Juliette’s dopey social worker), others not so much (the handful of employers who cannot forgive her but can forget her). In truth the narrative beats can be predicted a mile away, but clearly that’s not what this film is about; it is Thomas’s face that carries all the film’s weight and tells its entire story. We see Juliette as a living corpse – sallow sunken eyes, long extinguished, and a silent baleful expression which seems to experience the passing of time at a wholly different pace than those around her; Juliette’s soul has been crippled by loss. Lea, delicate and nervous, is a vessel of love who works to reforge the bond between herself and her sister, and learns that the depth of her sister’s love is more profound than anybody who knows her had imagined.

Loved is a strong Thomas vehicle, but beyond that is little more than a director’s first effort, plagued by those forgivable, if taxing, amateur errors: 1) beat-by-beat training wheel progression of events, 2) a virtual complete lack of cinematographic artistry, 3) unnecessary edits lacking emotional impetus and, 4) a wimpy acoustic guitar score that your college freshman roommate surely wrote. It isn’t awful, I suppose it’s a passable essay to the instructor. There’s no question that Thomas has succeeded at playing a woman whose spirit has been extinguished – my nitpicky criticism is only that her performance alone doesn’t make me want to watch the film again.

The issues behind the film’s events, however, definitely got me thinking… that being the truly insane reality of prison and its aftereffects. Rehabilitation? Obliterating the spirit that allows people to live and removing them from the society that claims the right to their life in the first place… I do wonder under what circumstances these punishments fit the crimes that led to them. This reviewer has no suggestion (yet) for a better solution than prisons, all he knows is that evil is when humans choose to make others suffer – and that’s what justice is: punishment. I digress. And Loved only intends to make one seriously ponder the effects of incarceration in the second place. I will provide a brief spoiler and say that the film really only builds to its final reveal twist, which pigeonholes Loved as another social issue film. What I took from the film was a reminder of the unwillingness of people to deal with any extreme elements in their nature, and the emotional tragedies resulting from shutting one another out. But that message is so much more fun to think about when I watch A Clockwork Orange…

by David Ashley

Ashes of Time Redux

GRADE: A
Director: Wong Kar Wai
Cast: Leslie Cheung, Tony Leung Ka Fai, Maggie Cheung, Brigiette Lin, Tony Leung Chiu Wai
Rated R for some violence.
Runtime: 93 min.
Release company: Sony Pictures Classics
www.sonyclassics.com/ashesoftimeredux

To be released Oct. 10, 2008.

You don’t often encounter films with the breadth of Ashes of Time Redux, films which function as enhanced narratives that aspire to the level of fables or myths.  1994’s original Ashes of Time was the first film put out by Wong Kar Wai’s newly christened Jet Tone Productions, and it was during a two month break in Ashes’ production that Wong and his ideal cinematographer, Christopher Doyle, shot the lark that became Chungking Express – and without intending to disparage his subsequent works, I suggest that 1994 is the best year of Wong’s career.

In China there is an esoteric genre called Jianghu that has steadily seeped into international regard and popularity, Jianghu films being, basically, ancient fantasy martial arts stories – perhaps you’d recognize Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon or Hero as the most accessible of these to American audiences.  Ashes’ story comes from Louis Cha’s Jianghu novel, The Eagle-Shooting Heroes.  Starting with two 70 year old legendary characters and working backwards, Wong presents Ashes as a series of vignettes which detail the meaty middle years of these two characters before time would remember them in its own way.  Main character Leslie Cheung plays the future Lord of the West, now in his mid-30’s, utterly jaded and withering away in the desert, hiring out wandering warriors to others in need of a little force (he’s kind of a ‘producer’).  Four notable passersby make up the tales of Ashes: old loner friend and future Lord of the East (Tony Leung Ka Fai), a heartbroken brother/sister [sic] who almost stabs herself in the back,  Yin/Yang (Brigitte Lin), the soon-to-be eponymous blind samurai (Tony Leung Chiu Wai), and a rash, indefatigable young warrior (Jacky Cheung) whose exuberance touches even the jaded man.  Said jaded man confines himself to watching time pass around him, trapped in his memories of the love that was lost (Maggie Cheung) because of pride.  Ever the romantic, Wong’s characters see little of the world beyond their own hearts.

Ashes of Time Redux restores the original film print to the highest quality that was possible from the original – which, while not perfect, is very, very pretty.  The original 2nd rate synth score was rearranged and recorded, and a few scenes were shot and added, including digital titles.  7 minutes have been shaved from the length of the original due to lost footage – despite that, Redux feels perfectly concise.  As Wong favors it, the film’s action is generally filmed at a low shutter speed, creating frenetic blurs of fury and superhuman combat that, frankly, are almost impossible to follow.  Clearly that isn’t the point – the “idea of violence” is meant to be transferred to the audience.  Ashes of Time was an adaptation and a reinvention; Ashes does to the Jianghu genre what Wong’s touch does to most products – sensualizes and melodramaticizes.  I found Ashes to be possibly his best work because of the scope involved in the telling of the story… but that’s just because the minutiae alone are not enough to sustain my interest – ironically, Wong’s contribution to film is inarguably his singular brand of ‘minutiae sight.’

But ‘minutiae sight’ is a process, a formula, not a story.  Perhaps this is why Wong’s films get old once you know what to expect.  Incidentally, Ashes is narrative unlike most films you’d see, and regarding your understanding of the product, it really helps to know the sort of film you’re getting into before it starts.  It’s a very singular flavor that most Americans are not prepared for.  Prep by viewing the trailer, at the least.

Wong’s technique of filmmaking is highly instinctual; he feels his way through a situation, a script, a story.  In that sense, Wong was at his freshest when he was young and enterprising.  International acclaim and the luxury of time have relaxed him – inevitably – and the questions that drove him into the business, the strong questions, have been dealt with.  Now Wong must adapt and evolve his technique and the nature of his stories if he is to continue improving as a filmmaker.  Regarding his current aesthetic, he peaked in 1994 and has expounded on and formalized that technique ever since.  My Blueberry Nights proved that this technique is growing stale.  The Lady From Shanghai (no relation to the original) will be next.

The Choke review

GRADE: C

Director: Clark Gregg

Cast: Sam Rockwell, Angelica Huston, Kelly MacDonald

Rated R for strong sexual content, nudity and language.

Runtime: 89 min

Release company: Fox Searchlight Pictures

www.foxsearchlight.com/choke

I wonder if Sam Rockwell has a clause in his contract that stipulates that he will only work if he is typecast as a neurotic bungler… let’s just say that this may have been the first time Rockwell played a character who walks around for 30 minutes with a derelict anal bead in his rectum, but it doesn’t feel like the first time I’ve seen him do that. This time around Rockwell is a cynical sex addict who functions as the ‘backbone of colonial America’ at an Eastern colonial theme park and, for kicks and cash, fakes choking to death in restaurants in the hopes that his rescuers’ pity will take on fiduciary proportions. His best friend is a compulsive masturbator, his mother (Huston) is a withering former vigilante, slowly skipping from sanity in a mental hospital, and his one true love interest is a smartly perky nurse (MacDonald) who always leaves the viewer with a curious “…?” hanging over his head. Between lurid, comedic sexual fantasies and wince-inducing childhood flashbacks we watch Rockwell attempt to balance out his own personal sicknesses with his often grotesquely absurd reality.

Choke was adapted by actor/writer Clark Gregg from Chuck Palahniuk’s bestselling novel, yet another tainted tableau of a world whose denizens are barely more than slaves to their compulsions. Palahniuk’s works are even more adaptable than Stephen King’s; his novels practically function as films from their publication. And Choke, no doubt, is perfect movie material, but doggonit, it’s so rare that any director’s first effort ever succeeds its ambitious intentions. I like Gregg. He’s intelligent and he has a sense of humor. And Choke is an admirable effort! But I can safely say that, seriously, nobody will see the film and be completely satisfied. Palahniuk’s jet black cynicism reminds one of having a cigarette snuffed out on his hand, but Choke is just too darn light: it’s plucky string soundtrack should’ve been replaced with screeching electric guitars, its bland, beige, would-be verite cinematography should’ve consisted of sharp, blatantly contrived shots with distinct color schemes (ironically, not unlike the film’s poster), and its strolling-down-the-street glib one-liners should’ve been oral icepicks that pierced our ears. No performance really stands out in memory, though each one is passable. MacDonald, as much as I like her and as well as she did, was simply miscast. Choke is, perhaps, 3/5 of the way there. Immediately we are thrust into the narrative with no mincing about and the momentum never really dies – points for Gregg. Narratively Choke borders on slipshod, any number of scenes and subplots coming and going without fanfare or memory (a rather dull ‘rock’ sidequest, that was quite relevant in the book, appears here as nothing more than a forced gag). Clearly Fight Club raised the bar quite high for Palanhiuk adaptations, and now Choke will serve as the ‘what not to do’ of that ilk. Future directors, take note: if you’re going to dive into the plasma pool, make it a deep, penetrating dive, and save the toe-dipping for the quakers.

Man on Wire

Grade: B
Cast: Philippe Petit,
Director: James Marsh
Rated PG-13 for some sexuality and nudity, and drug references.
Runtime: 94 min
Release Company: Magnolia Pictures

If Man on Wire feels like a heist film, it’s because Philippe Petit is something of a criminal.  After being arrested by the NYPD for “trespassing” when he walked across a wire set between the Twin Towers in 1974, Petit purloined the arresting officer’s wallet – just because he could.  Then there’s the Ocean’s-style setup for his stunt, involving eight months of meticulous planning: studying blueprints, reconnaissance, creating fake IDs and even a ‘working replica’ of the roofs of the Towers for practice.  Petit was so admired for his incredible stunt that his ‘crimes’ became utterly smothered by the outpouring of affection and praise once the media got ahold of his story – opulently named ‘the artistic crime of the century’ – all charges dropped.  Excellent!  This situation elucidates why Petit’s story is so romantically appealing: follow your heart, even if it means defying the world, and the positive effects will bleed into everything around you.  Good thing he hadn’t fallen.

Wire is composed of a very generous amount of video footage and photography following Petit’s wirewalking progression over his life and video interviews with all the principles involved in helping Petit pull off this stunt.  Most subjects have the same thing to say: “My role was slight.  He was crazy.  It was incredible.”  Wire builds momentum as the narrative nears ‘the Tower job’ (my term, not theirs) – which is to say, Wire improves once Marsh gets to the nitty-gritty and stops taking up our time with o-la-la exposition and first-year film school dramatizations.  To his credit, however, Marsh demonstrated his appreciation for fellow British documentarian Peter Greenaway by borrowing some wonderful Michael Nyman themes – notably from The Draughtsman’s Contract and The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover – and threw in some very pretty Satie piano pieces for good measure.  Thanks, Marsh.  Man on Wire is Marsh’s 3rd film… and he’s coming along fairly well, it seems.  Wisconsin Death Trip was an intriguing, if directionless, docu and The King was a proficient enough drama.  Marsh can’t seem to avoid relying on heavy sentimentality, namely in his fictional recreations – this crime is unforgivable.  If, however, he keeps finding documentary subjects whose lives are grand anecdotes in the making, even those crimes can be smothered by positive word of mouth.

Towelhead

GRADE: C-
Cast: Aaron Eckhart, Toni Collette, Maria Bello, Peter Macdissi, Summer Bishil
Director: Alan Ball
Rated R for strong disturbing sexual content and abuse involving a young teen, and for language.
Runtime: 124 min.
Release company: Warner Independent Studios

http://www.towelhead-themovie.com

Effective social agenda works tend to provoke in the audience desperate sycophancy, come-join-me-in-the-right pride, or bitter ceaseless polemics.  Alan Ball’s Towelhead may just end up succeeding with the wrong crowds to get its myriad messages across (any one of which would’ve constituted a full narrative), those viewers being HBO’s target audience of 20-40 year old, middle-upper income city-dwellers – but then, they’re probably the only ones who will care about the injustice involved in a 13 year old getting her rocks off when and how she wants to.  Young Jasira (Bishil), half-Lebanese, rockets into puberty in the Texas suburban sprawl where she has recently moved away from her insane bitch hypocrite mother only to swap for her insane bitch hypocrite father, played by Macdissi in what is little more than an extension of the outspoken art teacher role on Ball’s Six Feet Under.  Jasira’s life is quite confusing, and of course yours would be too if the lives of every adult in the vicinity revolved around you, often in depraved ways.  All-American Man next door, the enjoyable Eckhart, slowly devolves into a drooling lech as their debaucheries mount.  Nosy neighbors – the ‘control subjects’ in this social experiment – include preggy Collette and hubby, the honest, multilingual, healthily sexually active, concerned citizens that are posited as ‘the way to be sane and responsible in America,’ and are soon to be Jasira’s safe haven.  Horny little Jasira’s personality doesn’t extend beyond her ample sexual awakening and by the end she’s experienced more varieties of encounters in one year of her life than most teens do through all of high school.
Towelhead, for all its alleged controversy, is unfortunately not even an apt title for this piece, as the film is only a fish-out-of-water story in the second or third place.  Ball presents a very odd moral universe, where the white, level-headed globetrotting Americans are the only bastions of sanity around adults that are so unbalanced that they are impossible to empathize with.  Young Jasira represents émigré-America’s respective moral and sexual consciences, finally awakened out of repression and struggling to reconcile their resentment with pure, 100% transcendence.  It’s not that the events portrayed in the film don’t happen… but in an effort to melodramaticize them Ball has forced performances (nobody ever directs children realistically!), 2nd rate musical cues, TV-level direction… Towelhead should’ve been a Larry Clark film, not a touchy-feely exploitative after-school special.  The painful irony is that this polemic on sex is too sexy (or wants to be too sexy) to be taken seriously.  If you’d like to watch a much more fleshed-out, performance-driven film that is somewhat similar – young girl defines [not necessarily sexual] identity – this reviewer highly recommends the superior White Oleander.  And to think, I was once a big fan of Alan Ball… guess my time was up.

Directed By: Rob Cohen

Written By: Alfred Gough & Miles Millar

Cast: Brendan Fraser, Maria Bello, Jet Li, John Hannah, Michelle Yeoh, Luke Ford

Runtime: 112 minutes

Rated PG-13 for adventure action and violence

Release Company: Universal Pictures

Desperately hungry for a franchise, any franchise, Universal has thrown $175 million dollars (virtually the cost of the first two Mummy films combined) into the, clearly, wholly superfluous sequel to the series that just kept making money. Brendan “Why Brendan Fraser?” Fraser strolls back into the shoes of Rick O’Connell, the casually unstoppable and now extraordinarily rich American treasure hunter. Equally interchangeable wife-character is now Maria Bello, with one tiny and vaguely entertaining nod to the audience as such. Fellow spunky and translucent O’Connell, the now grown son (Ford), follows in mom and dad’s footsteps by quite accidentally unearthing and resurrecting an ancient immortal despot – what’re the odds? And, per formula, John Hannah is in tow for absolutely no reason at all, again complaining the whole way through. 2008’s Mummy is the faux–first Chinese emperor (Li), whose efforts to become immortal backfired when he and his legions were turned into terracotta (it is easily imagined that this film was conceived after the writer saw a picture of Emperor Qin’s actual terracotta army and uttered, “Wouldn’t it be cool if…?”). Stop Jet Li from reaching… um… Shangri La… yes, right, that place… and, uh… “finalizing” his immortality, so that then he can… um… well, let’s see… ah yes, resurrect his dead army and enslave humanity. Got it. Our formula is now in place for Mummy-action. Our enjoyment depends merely on this particular incarnation of the script and this new director at the helm. The result? Crash and burn, motherfuckers!

The film is about as fun as an evening spent dining out at T.G.I.Friday’s and about as funny as the funnies. Talentless shell of a man Rob Cohen sexifies this Mummy for the audience of seven-years-later, apparently doubling the budget in his requisites. Those funds did not inhibit the Mummy tradition of utilizing laughably obvious CGI, but rather made it so that during every quick cut there was something hugely expensive happening – unfortunately, the cutting is so lazily choppy that those spectacles often flit by in an instant. Each setpiece and scene is allegedly bigger-than-life but is introduced and carelessly discarded without fanfare – you get the sense that the film was struggling with itself to demand the right to its existence. Mummy 3 appears to be the perfect example a collection of suits in a boardroom glibly discussing what fodder they can throw at this summer’s audience, the notion of content being so irrelevant that if it were mentioned, all men would cease speaking and nervously side-glance at the taboo-sayer. I suppose the worst thing of all is that the film isn’t even enjoyable in that silly way where the previous Mummy films at least kind of succeeded. I believe it is evident that Stephen Sommers (Mummy champion) knew how to make a fun film, or at least had fun while making one. Rob Cohen is a whore. I’d like to say that again: Rob Cohen is a whore. Enunciate each syllable and speak slowly for full effect. He would rather look sexy than enjoy himself – he doesn’t appear to know how to have fun. So, Mummy 3 has come and will be accordingly forgotten tomorrow. Seriously, though – it is now a Mummy tradition for the main man to draw his respective pistol immediately after breaching and entering an ancient tomb. I cannot for the life of me imagine why.