Film Reviews Thread
Scroll to see replies
Transporter 3 (2008, Oliver Megaton)
The term “MTV-style” has by now become a well-worn cliché, although Transporter 3 may be an instance whereby the term’s application is best-suited. Whilst such a quick-fire editing style may befit many a hyper-kinetic action film, it is much to the foil of the latest Transporter installment (and many a member of the action crowd), in which helmer Oliver Megaton fatally misuses his cutting tools.
Transporter 3 does well to open with a flashy car chase, yet Megaton insists on intercutting between this and series protagonist Frank Martin (Jason Statham), whilst he sits in a boat, simply fishing. It is as though each time the action crowd will be leaning toward the edge of their seat, a misplaced cut is inserted, upsetting the flow of the action, making for a film that is wholly devoid of the lengthy and bombastic set pieces one would expect in a film such as this.
Each Transporter film has become less credible than the one that has preceded it, and in this instance, the after-the-fact (yet curiously overstuffed) plot is very nearly outdone by a Looney Tunes cartoon. Needless to say, a car comes crashing through Martin’s house, with his dying friend inside, eventually luring Statham back into his old ways, complete with an effortlessly attained femme sidekick named Valentina (Natalya Rudakova).
Despite its rough and fairly clueless opening, Transporter 3 does settle into fairly comfortable throwback territory by the end of the first act. Whilst it is in many ways a recount of John Carpenter’s Escape from… films, at least Transporter 3 is not an entirely routine sequel. Screenwriter Luc Besson (of Leon fame) throws a gimmick in the works – that Martin and Valentina are fitted with wrist bracelets which explode if they move more than 75 meters away from their car. Even if this gimmick has been better done elsewhere (Battle Royale, anyone?), Besson certainly manages to distinguish this sequel from its predecessors.
Unfortunately, for a film that should always emphasise just how much fun it is, Transporter 3 is an immensely padded film, replete with staid scenes of pseudo-character development, and a number of redundant instances of plot exposition. There are several painful scenes of considerable length whereby Frank and Valentina discuss their favourite foods (among other things), and rather than inject some much-needed charm into the film, they will likely simply leave you sighing, awaiting the next morsel of testosterone-fuelled action.
It is very much a shame that such interludes (as inaccurate as that term may be here) overpower Transporter 3, as the brief action scenes interspersed throughout (principally when Frank chases a car on a BMX bike), are agreeably frenetic, loud, and well-staged, particularly when Megaton calms down with the intercutting. Unfortunately, for all of the fifteen minutes of sparsely-spaced action in this film, one of the key set pieces – a 200mph car chase – appears to have simply been sped up, appearing amateur, and rather goofy. Fortunately, this irksome effect does not last too long, although once we return to something resembling solid action direction, you’ll likely be distracted by the incessant squabbling between Frank and Valentina.
Transporter 3 is packed with plenty of doom and gloom, and never really seems to fully embrace its own absurdity and sense of silliness until the final act, in which Frank, I jest not, manages to make a car float on water. Nevertheless, at its close, one must applaud this film for only rendering a few wholly recognisable CGI shots – it is just a shame that the action is not more voluminous and densely-packed.
Ultimately, the third entry into the Transporter series should be the last – this effort offers little in way of frantic inventiveness, and simply isn’t much fun either. Bogged down in a plot you’ll care not a second for, with so-so performances (other than a fairly reliable stone-face from Statham) and a poor script, Transporter 3 presents occasional visceral thrills, yet suffocates them with an obtrusive and unnecessarily lengthy narrative given the film’s overblown origins.
Rating: 5/10
The term “MTV-style” has by now become a well-worn cliché, although Transporter 3 may be an instance whereby the term’s application is best-suited. Whilst such a quick-fire editing style may befit many a hyper-kinetic action film, it is much to the foil of the latest Transporter installment (and many a member of the action crowd), in which helmer Oliver Megaton fatally misuses his cutting tools.
Transporter 3 does well to open with a flashy car chase, yet Megaton insists on intercutting between this and series protagonist Frank Martin (Jason Statham), whilst he sits in a boat, simply fishing. It is as though each time the action crowd will be leaning toward the edge of their seat, a misplaced cut is inserted, upsetting the flow of the action, making for a film that is wholly devoid of the lengthy and bombastic set pieces one would expect in a film such as this.
Each Transporter film has become less credible than the one that has preceded it, and in this instance, the after-the-fact (yet curiously overstuffed) plot is very nearly outdone by a Looney Tunes cartoon. Needless to say, a car comes crashing through Martin’s house, with his dying friend inside, eventually luring Statham back into his old ways, complete with an effortlessly attained femme sidekick named Valentina (Natalya Rudakova).
Despite its rough and fairly clueless opening, Transporter 3 does settle into fairly comfortable throwback territory by the end of the first act. Whilst it is in many ways a recount of John Carpenter’s Escape from… films, at least Transporter 3 is not an entirely routine sequel. Screenwriter Luc Besson (of Leon fame) throws a gimmick in the works – that Martin and Valentina are fitted with wrist bracelets which explode if they move more than 75 meters away from their car. Even if this gimmick has been better done elsewhere (Battle Royale, anyone?), Besson certainly manages to distinguish this sequel from its predecessors.
Unfortunately, for a film that should always emphasise just how much fun it is, Transporter 3 is an immensely padded film, replete with staid scenes of pseudo-character development, and a number of redundant instances of plot exposition. There are several painful scenes of considerable length whereby Frank and Valentina discuss their favourite foods (among other things), and rather than inject some much-needed charm into the film, they will likely simply leave you sighing, awaiting the next morsel of testosterone-fuelled action.
It is very much a shame that such interludes (as inaccurate as that term may be here) overpower Transporter 3, as the brief action scenes interspersed throughout (principally when Frank chases a car on a BMX bike), are agreeably frenetic, loud, and well-staged, particularly when Megaton calms down with the intercutting. Unfortunately, for all of the fifteen minutes of sparsely-spaced action in this film, one of the key set pieces – a 200mph car chase – appears to have simply been sped up, appearing amateur, and rather goofy. Fortunately, this irksome effect does not last too long, although once we return to something resembling solid action direction, you’ll likely be distracted by the incessant squabbling between Frank and Valentina.
Transporter 3 is packed with plenty of doom and gloom, and never really seems to fully embrace its own absurdity and sense of silliness until the final act, in which Frank, I jest not, manages to make a car float on water. Nevertheless, at its close, one must applaud this film for only rendering a few wholly recognisable CGI shots – it is just a shame that the action is not more voluminous and densely-packed.
Ultimately, the third entry into the Transporter series should be the last – this effort offers little in way of frantic inventiveness, and simply isn’t much fun either. Bogged down in a plot you’ll care not a second for, with so-so performances (other than a fairly reliable stone-face from Statham) and a poor script, Transporter 3 presents occasional visceral thrills, yet suffocates them with an obtrusive and unnecessarily lengthy narrative given the film’s overblown origins.
Rating: 5/10
I feel too intimidated to post here now. xD
W. (2008, Oliver Stone)
Oliver Stone is certainly one of the most divisive filmmakers of our generation, his numerous political polemics (Nixon, JFK ) seeing jubilation and outrage in equal measure. Stone’s last work – World Trade Center – saw him buck this trend, crafting a piece that, save from meting out any political agenda or ideology, was merely a tribute to the lives lost on September 11th, and in many ways, his latest film, W., is a companion piece to that film.
W. marks a change of temperament for the controversial director (given his very public derision of Bush); in chronicling the life and times of George W. Bush, Stone has aimed to remain impartial, creating what he terms a “fair, true portrait of the man”. As much as it may therefore disappoint Bush haters, Stone has crafted a restrained and balanced film that concedes Bush’s myriad mistakes, yet channels a resolute sense of humanity through Josh Brolin’s exceptional, Oscar-calibre performance.
Intercutting present-day Bush with flashbacks of his formative years, Stone effectively captures the key moments in Bush’s life, from his years of alcohol abuse, to his tumultuous relationship with his father (played by James Cromwell), as well as his romantic life with his wife Laura (Elizabeth Banks), his conversion to Christianity, and ultimately his political ascent.
Stone’s primary goal here, surprisingly enough, appears to be to humanise Bush, and largely, he succeeds. Stone is fair to note Bush’s mistakes, yet balances this with demonstrating the difficulty of his job, both in terms of competing with his ever-squabbling cabinet, and subsequently having to decipher their squabbling into something tangible the American people can understand.
With a lesser cast, W. could very well have malformed as an unintentional comedy (as the marketing initially suggested), yet Stone’s immaculate roster gives this film unremitting buoyancy. Of the supporting cast, James Cromwell delivers a typically reliable performance as George H.W. Bush, whilst Richard Dreyfuss is almost unrecognisable in his superb turn as leering Vice President Vick Cheney. Particular mention must also go to Thandie Newton, who, in portraying Condoleezza Rice, remains the film’s prime source of comic relief. Jeffrey Wright also demonstrates his acting chops beyond the role of Felix Leiter in the "new Bond" series, and in playing the role of Secretary of State Colin Powell, is easily the most instantly recognisable of Bush's cabinet, accurately replicating the man's presence (as well as his grey hair). In fact, the only unsure or misplaced piece of casting in the entire film is Ioan Gruffud as Tony Blair, yet this scene is brief and none too-distracting from the rest of the picture.
Josh Brolin, however, is the unqualified reason to see W. – whilst he may not physically resemble Bush, even beneath a keg of makeup, he subsumes every other visually and aurally attainable element of Bush’s essence. Brolin came to prominence last year with a number of high-profile roles (Planet Terror, In The Valley of Elah, No Country for Old Men and American Gangster), and in W., Brolin well-and-truly falls through the glass ceiling, giving a performance that is certain to garner him his first “Best Actor in a Leading Role” Academy Award nomination.
Brolin’s performance also benefits largely from Stanley Weiser’s sharp script, which is chock full of witty one-liners that cement Bush’s “Southern charm”, and for the most part, the political hyperbole is kept to a comprehendible minimum. Weiser’s characterisation is nuanced and fair (even making sure to include the infamous “Pretzelgate” incident), although W. sorely lacks a present context - a post-office moment in which he reflects upon his term of Presidency (as is perhaps the result of rushing the film’s release to make award season).
Oliver Stone’s middling stance will inevitably cause much frustration, and one must ask why he did not wait until Bush had left office to add a much-needed coda sequence to the picture. W. is also replete with a healthy dose of visual allegory pertaining to baseball (as reminiscent of the religious imagery in World Trade Center), which is likely to divide audiences, given its spoon-fed, seemingly unnecessary simplicity. Thus, whilst imbued with a certain inertia, W. is a witty and surprisingly sympathetic document of the most-maligned President of modern times that benefits from chameleonic performances from an electic cast.
Rating: 8/10
Oliver Stone is certainly one of the most divisive filmmakers of our generation, his numerous political polemics (Nixon, JFK ) seeing jubilation and outrage in equal measure. Stone’s last work – World Trade Center – saw him buck this trend, crafting a piece that, save from meting out any political agenda or ideology, was merely a tribute to the lives lost on September 11th, and in many ways, his latest film, W., is a companion piece to that film.
W. marks a change of temperament for the controversial director (given his very public derision of Bush); in chronicling the life and times of George W. Bush, Stone has aimed to remain impartial, creating what he terms a “fair, true portrait of the man”. As much as it may therefore disappoint Bush haters, Stone has crafted a restrained and balanced film that concedes Bush’s myriad mistakes, yet channels a resolute sense of humanity through Josh Brolin’s exceptional, Oscar-calibre performance.
Intercutting present-day Bush with flashbacks of his formative years, Stone effectively captures the key moments in Bush’s life, from his years of alcohol abuse, to his tumultuous relationship with his father (played by James Cromwell), as well as his romantic life with his wife Laura (Elizabeth Banks), his conversion to Christianity, and ultimately his political ascent.
Stone’s primary goal here, surprisingly enough, appears to be to humanise Bush, and largely, he succeeds. Stone is fair to note Bush’s mistakes, yet balances this with demonstrating the difficulty of his job, both in terms of competing with his ever-squabbling cabinet, and subsequently having to decipher their squabbling into something tangible the American people can understand.
With a lesser cast, W. could very well have malformed as an unintentional comedy (as the marketing initially suggested), yet Stone’s immaculate roster gives this film unremitting buoyancy. Of the supporting cast, James Cromwell delivers a typically reliable performance as George H.W. Bush, whilst Richard Dreyfuss is almost unrecognisable in his superb turn as leering Vice President Vick Cheney. Particular mention must also go to Thandie Newton, who, in portraying Condoleezza Rice, remains the film’s prime source of comic relief. Jeffrey Wright also demonstrates his acting chops beyond the role of Felix Leiter in the "new Bond" series, and in playing the role of Secretary of State Colin Powell, is easily the most instantly recognisable of Bush's cabinet, accurately replicating the man's presence (as well as his grey hair). In fact, the only unsure or misplaced piece of casting in the entire film is Ioan Gruffud as Tony Blair, yet this scene is brief and none too-distracting from the rest of the picture.
Josh Brolin, however, is the unqualified reason to see W. – whilst he may not physically resemble Bush, even beneath a keg of makeup, he subsumes every other visually and aurally attainable element of Bush’s essence. Brolin came to prominence last year with a number of high-profile roles (Planet Terror, In The Valley of Elah, No Country for Old Men and American Gangster), and in W., Brolin well-and-truly falls through the glass ceiling, giving a performance that is certain to garner him his first “Best Actor in a Leading Role” Academy Award nomination.
Brolin’s performance also benefits largely from Stanley Weiser’s sharp script, which is chock full of witty one-liners that cement Bush’s “Southern charm”, and for the most part, the political hyperbole is kept to a comprehendible minimum. Weiser’s characterisation is nuanced and fair (even making sure to include the infamous “Pretzelgate” incident), although W. sorely lacks a present context - a post-office moment in which he reflects upon his term of Presidency (as is perhaps the result of rushing the film’s release to make award season).
Oliver Stone’s middling stance will inevitably cause much frustration, and one must ask why he did not wait until Bush had left office to add a much-needed coda sequence to the picture. W. is also replete with a healthy dose of visual allegory pertaining to baseball (as reminiscent of the religious imagery in World Trade Center), which is likely to divide audiences, given its spoon-fed, seemingly unnecessary simplicity. Thus, whilst imbued with a certain inertia, W. is a witty and surprisingly sympathetic document of the most-maligned President of modern times that benefits from chameleonic performances from an electic cast.
Rating: 8/10
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Love triangles. We’ve all been there. Whether it be two girls after the same guy, or two men loving the same woman, or a teenage girl fancying a teenage boy who fancies another teenage girl, the age old love triangle has been depicted again and again on celluloid. This year, Woody Allen has a go, with his story of two American girls who travel to Barcelona, Vicky and Cristina.
Vicky (Rebecca Hall), a student in Catalan Identity, is conservative and grounded, and is engaged to Doug, a secure but unexciting option. Cristina (Scarlett Johansson), on the other hand, has come to accept pain as part of love, and would sacrifice all for that one movement of passion, and has come to Barcelona to get over her last relationship, which ended badly. Together, they are staying at the picturesque villa of Judy (Patricia Clarkson), and her husband Mark. One day, at an art exhibition, the broody, red-shirted figure of Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem) catches the eye of Cristina. Later that night, the two girls bump into him at a restaurant, at which he bluntly invites them to come to Oviedo to him on a plane, go sightseeing with him during the day and to “make love” with him during the night. Vicky rejects his offer immediately, Cristina is tempted, and hence, the girls take up his offer. And so begins an extremely tangled love affair, which only becomes more complicated once the ex-wife, Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz), re-enters the picture.
Beautifully photographed with lovely sequences of Spanish guitar being played, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is Woody Allen’s postcard to Barcelona, just like Match Point was with London. This is his fourth film in a row shot outside the US, and the change of scenery seems to be to his pleasure; you can tell he had a rollicking good time filming VCB, surrounded by the three actresses Hall, Johansson and Cruz (the latter of which he makes share a lesbian kiss in a later scene in the film.) The film itself is somewhat too episodic for my liking, epitomized by the voice over narration of Christopher Evan Welch, which, whilst helps to keep the story moving, does grate after a while, and contributes to a slightly cheesy tone of the film.
That said, there are some moment of fine comedy. Rebecca Hall has the neuroses of a younger, female, more vibrant Woody Allen, and she’s amusing to watch throughout. Penelope Cruz is on absolutely sizzling form. From her entrance (post-suicide attempt by her character), she looks every bit the husband-attacking, tempestuous flame that she’s described by others to be. Her facial expressions to Johansson in the “Say something in Chinese” scene are hilarious. Allen has written Maria Elena to be bitchy, bolshy, brash and a bit unstable, and she makes hilarious viewing. The interchanges between Bardem and Cruz wherein they throw Spanish about are amazing; I can’t understand a word they’re saying (and I studied Spanish), but never before has the language sounded so sexy. Their chemistry is terrific, and brings back memories of their Jamon Jamon days. It’s later revealed that she tried to kill him for betraying her with another man’s wife. Fair enough, you might say. Then it turns out that he only cheated “with his eyes.” Easily, one of the most entertaining characters of the year.
In between the sightseeing, smoking, and sexy scenes, Woody Allen does manage to slip the odd bit of philosophising in. Themes of loving, but not being in love, of doing the right thing or the thing you want to do, and whether we’ll ever really know what we want are all thrown about, never with any real conclusion. In the end, everyone is back where they started, better or worse for it, no-one really knows. Either way, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is a gentle, easygoing comedy with some great performances and maturely carries an underlying thread of melancholy throughout.
Love triangles. We’ve all been there. Whether it be two girls after the same guy, or two men loving the same woman, or a teenage girl fancying a teenage boy who fancies another teenage girl, the age old love triangle has been depicted again and again on celluloid. This year, Woody Allen has a go, with his story of two American girls who travel to Barcelona, Vicky and Cristina.
Vicky (Rebecca Hall), a student in Catalan Identity, is conservative and grounded, and is engaged to Doug, a secure but unexciting option. Cristina (Scarlett Johansson), on the other hand, has come to accept pain as part of love, and would sacrifice all for that one movement of passion, and has come to Barcelona to get over her last relationship, which ended badly. Together, they are staying at the picturesque villa of Judy (Patricia Clarkson), and her husband Mark. One day, at an art exhibition, the broody, red-shirted figure of Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem) catches the eye of Cristina. Later that night, the two girls bump into him at a restaurant, at which he bluntly invites them to come to Oviedo to him on a plane, go sightseeing with him during the day and to “make love” with him during the night. Vicky rejects his offer immediately, Cristina is tempted, and hence, the girls take up his offer. And so begins an extremely tangled love affair, which only becomes more complicated once the ex-wife, Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz), re-enters the picture.
Beautifully photographed with lovely sequences of Spanish guitar being played, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is Woody Allen’s postcard to Barcelona, just like Match Point was with London. This is his fourth film in a row shot outside the US, and the change of scenery seems to be to his pleasure; you can tell he had a rollicking good time filming VCB, surrounded by the three actresses Hall, Johansson and Cruz (the latter of which he makes share a lesbian kiss in a later scene in the film.) The film itself is somewhat too episodic for my liking, epitomized by the voice over narration of Christopher Evan Welch, which, whilst helps to keep the story moving, does grate after a while, and contributes to a slightly cheesy tone of the film.
That said, there are some moment of fine comedy. Rebecca Hall has the neuroses of a younger, female, more vibrant Woody Allen, and she’s amusing to watch throughout. Penelope Cruz is on absolutely sizzling form. From her entrance (post-suicide attempt by her character), she looks every bit the husband-attacking, tempestuous flame that she’s described by others to be. Her facial expressions to Johansson in the “Say something in Chinese” scene are hilarious. Allen has written Maria Elena to be bitchy, bolshy, brash and a bit unstable, and she makes hilarious viewing. The interchanges between Bardem and Cruz wherein they throw Spanish about are amazing; I can’t understand a word they’re saying (and I studied Spanish), but never before has the language sounded so sexy. Their chemistry is terrific, and brings back memories of their Jamon Jamon days. It’s later revealed that she tried to kill him for betraying her with another man’s wife. Fair enough, you might say. Then it turns out that he only cheated “with his eyes.” Easily, one of the most entertaining characters of the year.
In between the sightseeing, smoking, and sexy scenes, Woody Allen does manage to slip the odd bit of philosophising in. Themes of loving, but not being in love, of doing the right thing or the thing you want to do, and whether we’ll ever really know what we want are all thrown about, never with any real conclusion. In the end, everyone is back where they started, better or worse for it, no-one really knows. Either way, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is a gentle, easygoing comedy with some great performances and maturely carries an underlying thread of melancholy throughout.
Blindness (2008, Fernando Meirelles)
The concept of Fernando Meirelles’ Blindness is certainly of the more fascinating ideas of the year – a blindness epidemic begins sweeping an unnamed city without any indication as to its origin or means of propagation. From the opening moments of terror and confusion, this film has all the makings of a great picture – it is seemingly high-minded, socially conscious, artistically competent, and boasts a stellar cast – and whilst Blindness is certainly a solid thriller, a far smarter, more insightful film was possible inside of this premise.
As the blindness epidemic begins to spread, Blindness essentially becomes a depiction of humans reduced to zero – this anonymous metropolis places all of its inhabitants on largely an even keel, whereby most societal differences are, at least at first glance, seemingly eliminated.
Julianne Moore plays a woman immune to the blindness virus, and as such, in a world of the blind, she takes unto herself a Godly presence. Her nameless character is virtuous and kind-hearted, although wary of letting many know of her advantage (other than her husband, played by Mark Ruffalo), and to this extent, Blindness frequently considers the extent of human altruism, as well as noting those forces that can help, but choose to do nothing.
Aside from its concessions towards familial values, Blindness is a very gloomy depiction of the nature of man, yet the film’s interesting food-for-thought is occasionally stifled by some veritably spoon-fed narration by Danny Glover’s character, although fortunately the over-inflated rhetoric appears only in brief intermissions.
It was a sincere hope that Blindness might deviate from the tendency for “disorder narratives” to point blame towards the government, yet this film blatantly lampoons the “powers that be” with the most simplistic of means, lacking in any real moral relativism. Moreover, with its proclivity to represent the blind as a microcosm of society, it does invite certain contrivances – Gael Garcia Bernal’s kleptocratic “King of Ward 3” barely manages to remain within the credible realm, even as delightfully demented as Bernal’s performance is.
The film’s various taglines include “Love is blind” and “Lust is blind”, and ultimately, much of the narrative is driven by sexual power and desire, in an environment in which money and material possessions are of little worth. Sex is perhaps even a more basic need to the blind, and these ideas, given their considerable development, are a sight more unique and intriguing than the politically naïve dialectic.
To this end, the film’s basal depiction of sexuality is immensely horrifying, with more than its dash of tragic irony for Moore’s character who, whilst the only human blessed with the gift of sight, is also the only human subject to the visual terror of what transpires. A misreading of the film would view Blindness as an indictment of male sexuality, but simply, this is a film concerned with the tragic brutality of human nature.
Unfortunately, the film cannot resist some ham-fisted religious imagery, which is lithely slotted in for a five minute segment without a hint of subtlety, nor is it mentioned again in any sort of cohesive whole. The concept of a blindness epidemic as a biblical plague, perhaps a punishment from God, is a fascinating concept, but it misfires both with its heavy-handedness and its uneven development.
It is only too apt that a film concerned with God finds plausibility in a “Deus ex machina” close – that is to say, Blindness ends in very predictable fashion, although this is not so much a problem when considering the narrative punch it could have provided. By its end, Blindness seemed to write itself an ending both uplifting and dangerous, yet the more combative fallout is seemingly disregarded, and such an easily achieved dichotomy of adulation and horror falls upon deaf ears.
Blindness is a B-movie with A-movie aspirations – it is an entertaining thriller work that is likely too high-minded to find a large audience, yet also falters enough that it may alienate more liberal cinemagoers. Fernando Meirelles’ sense for the visual is once again in great abundance (following on from City of God and The Constant Gardener), and the film also boasts some very solid performances (particularly from Moore and Ruffalo), yet Blindness is mired somewhat by its occasional excesses and occasional lack of coherence.
Rating: 7/10
The concept of Fernando Meirelles’ Blindness is certainly of the more fascinating ideas of the year – a blindness epidemic begins sweeping an unnamed city without any indication as to its origin or means of propagation. From the opening moments of terror and confusion, this film has all the makings of a great picture – it is seemingly high-minded, socially conscious, artistically competent, and boasts a stellar cast – and whilst Blindness is certainly a solid thriller, a far smarter, more insightful film was possible inside of this premise.
As the blindness epidemic begins to spread, Blindness essentially becomes a depiction of humans reduced to zero – this anonymous metropolis places all of its inhabitants on largely an even keel, whereby most societal differences are, at least at first glance, seemingly eliminated.
Julianne Moore plays a woman immune to the blindness virus, and as such, in a world of the blind, she takes unto herself a Godly presence. Her nameless character is virtuous and kind-hearted, although wary of letting many know of her advantage (other than her husband, played by Mark Ruffalo), and to this extent, Blindness frequently considers the extent of human altruism, as well as noting those forces that can help, but choose to do nothing.
Aside from its concessions towards familial values, Blindness is a very gloomy depiction of the nature of man, yet the film’s interesting food-for-thought is occasionally stifled by some veritably spoon-fed narration by Danny Glover’s character, although fortunately the over-inflated rhetoric appears only in brief intermissions.
It was a sincere hope that Blindness might deviate from the tendency for “disorder narratives” to point blame towards the government, yet this film blatantly lampoons the “powers that be” with the most simplistic of means, lacking in any real moral relativism. Moreover, with its proclivity to represent the blind as a microcosm of society, it does invite certain contrivances – Gael Garcia Bernal’s kleptocratic “King of Ward 3” barely manages to remain within the credible realm, even as delightfully demented as Bernal’s performance is.
The film’s various taglines include “Love is blind” and “Lust is blind”, and ultimately, much of the narrative is driven by sexual power and desire, in an environment in which money and material possessions are of little worth. Sex is perhaps even a more basic need to the blind, and these ideas, given their considerable development, are a sight more unique and intriguing than the politically naïve dialectic.
To this end, the film’s basal depiction of sexuality is immensely horrifying, with more than its dash of tragic irony for Moore’s character who, whilst the only human blessed with the gift of sight, is also the only human subject to the visual terror of what transpires. A misreading of the film would view Blindness as an indictment of male sexuality, but simply, this is a film concerned with the tragic brutality of human nature.
Unfortunately, the film cannot resist some ham-fisted religious imagery, which is lithely slotted in for a five minute segment without a hint of subtlety, nor is it mentioned again in any sort of cohesive whole. The concept of a blindness epidemic as a biblical plague, perhaps a punishment from God, is a fascinating concept, but it misfires both with its heavy-handedness and its uneven development.
It is only too apt that a film concerned with God finds plausibility in a “Deus ex machina” close – that is to say, Blindness ends in very predictable fashion, although this is not so much a problem when considering the narrative punch it could have provided. By its end, Blindness seemed to write itself an ending both uplifting and dangerous, yet the more combative fallout is seemingly disregarded, and such an easily achieved dichotomy of adulation and horror falls upon deaf ears.
Blindness is a B-movie with A-movie aspirations – it is an entertaining thriller work that is likely too high-minded to find a large audience, yet also falters enough that it may alienate more liberal cinemagoers. Fernando Meirelles’ sense for the visual is once again in great abundance (following on from City of God and The Constant Gardener), and the film also boasts some very solid performances (particularly from Moore and Ruffalo), yet Blindness is mired somewhat by its occasional excesses and occasional lack of coherence.
Rating: 7/10
Frost/Nixon (2008, Ron Howard)
Frost/Nixon, Ron Howard’s first return to the camera since the extremely divisive The Da Vinci Code, is a fascinating film – in the slew of Oscar-baiting pictures emerging, Frost/Nixon is a genuinely exhilarating battle-of-wits between British reporter David Frost and President Richard Nixon, and is certain to earn several nods from the Academy.
Even with his previous successes (namely Apollo 13 and Cinderella Man), Howard’s mastery of the film medium has never been this pronounced – Howard presents much of the film in a documentary format, yet intercuts this between a diegetic document of the Frost/Nixon interview tapes, and the turmoil that bookends them also.
Moreover, the lengths to which Ron Howard has attempted to immerse the viewer is stultifying – an image of Frank Langella replicating Nixon’s exit from the White House is particularly resonant, especially when Howard also endeavours to seamlessly combine this with “real” footage as best possible (such as actual footage of Gerald Ford).
Frost/Nixon succeeds not merely in championing helmer Howard, however – this is an impeccably crafted film that is a robust collaboration, with its austere direction, deep characterisation and nuanced script, all of which turn on the axes of two outstanding performances – Michael Sheen as David Frost, and Frank Langella as Richard Nixon.
Scribe Peter Morgan (who also wrote the original play) presents Frost and Nixon as men from not only different countries, but different words, yet simultaneously paints them as sharing a die-cast sense of slyness and humour. Both men prefer to “keep busy”, and are almost drawn to one another. Moreover, both are seemingly contemptible characters in their own means – Frost is an aloof, air-headed playboy spurred by money, whilst Nixon is an unconvicted criminal, also spurred by money – yet Sheen’s Frost possesses such a suave, infectious charm, and Langella’s Nixon, such a delicious air of dour wit, that it is difficult not to find something to like about these characters.
Howard’s carefully-picked supporting cast also dazzles, particularly Sam Rockwell as the impassioned liberal investigator James Reston Jr., who wishes to give Nixon the trial he never had. Kevin Bacon also gets some much-needed upper-tier elevation as Nixon’s aide Jack Brennan, and plays the uber-conservative straight-man to perfection.
Much of the film’s first half is like a promo show for a boxing match – it is full of vignette and ideological opposition, and a sense of discomfort quietly percolates beneath the surface. As the moment of truth edges closer, Frost and Nixon even each receive their own flashy entrances to the vocal, uproarious crowds - Howard’s sense of spectacle (and more to the point, believable spectacle) is immense.
The film’s second half juxtaposes the tapes themselves with post-fight talking head commentary, and whilst it may sound procedural, it is an utterly compelling mix – Howard knows exactly where and when to cut between his A-roll and B-roll.
Once proceedings begin, Frost/Nixon is an intense sparring match between the two figureheads, as the respective members of the “ring crew” observe from behind monitors, recoiling or cheering as each figurative punch is delivered. Between each of the four “rounds” of recording, the teams converge and advise their competitor on how to proceed, and it is these interludes which illustrate just how much personal stock each side has invested in their crusade, to the point where it seems to subsume the human element of the battle, noted no better than when Frost invites his cohorts to “celebrate”, to which they are utterly dumbfounded, before he protests that it is his birthday.
The unqualified delight of the film is the build up to the final meeting between Frost and Nixon – in a phone call between the two, Nixon taunts and goads Frost, ratcheting the tension levels five-fold. Through most of the film, Nixon is the confident adversary, whilst Frost is the monetarily-invested, outfoxed underdog, and at game time, all of the muck-raking and mind games build to a wonderfully satisfying third act climax.
Ultimately, Frost/Nixon is a sensitive portrait of a man weathered by his myriad political foibles, yet the film never gets away from the heart of the matter, that it seeks to further indict Nixon’s sheer abuse of his position as the President of the United States. Frost/Nixon is an utterly compelling work, combining Academy-worthy writing with Academy-worthy performances (namely from Langella, but Sheen is outstanding also), and Howard’s directorial efforts are arguably the greatest that he has ever produced. Frost/Nixon is one of the best films of the year, and deserves attention whether you are interested in American politics, or simply interested in film.
Rating: 9/10
Frost/Nixon, Ron Howard’s first return to the camera since the extremely divisive The Da Vinci Code, is a fascinating film – in the slew of Oscar-baiting pictures emerging, Frost/Nixon is a genuinely exhilarating battle-of-wits between British reporter David Frost and President Richard Nixon, and is certain to earn several nods from the Academy.
Even with his previous successes (namely Apollo 13 and Cinderella Man), Howard’s mastery of the film medium has never been this pronounced – Howard presents much of the film in a documentary format, yet intercuts this between a diegetic document of the Frost/Nixon interview tapes, and the turmoil that bookends them also.
Moreover, the lengths to which Ron Howard has attempted to immerse the viewer is stultifying – an image of Frank Langella replicating Nixon’s exit from the White House is particularly resonant, especially when Howard also endeavours to seamlessly combine this with “real” footage as best possible (such as actual footage of Gerald Ford).
Frost/Nixon succeeds not merely in championing helmer Howard, however – this is an impeccably crafted film that is a robust collaboration, with its austere direction, deep characterisation and nuanced script, all of which turn on the axes of two outstanding performances – Michael Sheen as David Frost, and Frank Langella as Richard Nixon.
Scribe Peter Morgan (who also wrote the original play) presents Frost and Nixon as men from not only different countries, but different words, yet simultaneously paints them as sharing a die-cast sense of slyness and humour. Both men prefer to “keep busy”, and are almost drawn to one another. Moreover, both are seemingly contemptible characters in their own means – Frost is an aloof, air-headed playboy spurred by money, whilst Nixon is an unconvicted criminal, also spurred by money – yet Sheen’s Frost possesses such a suave, infectious charm, and Langella’s Nixon, such a delicious air of dour wit, that it is difficult not to find something to like about these characters.
Howard’s carefully-picked supporting cast also dazzles, particularly Sam Rockwell as the impassioned liberal investigator James Reston Jr., who wishes to give Nixon the trial he never had. Kevin Bacon also gets some much-needed upper-tier elevation as Nixon’s aide Jack Brennan, and plays the uber-conservative straight-man to perfection.
Much of the film’s first half is like a promo show for a boxing match – it is full of vignette and ideological opposition, and a sense of discomfort quietly percolates beneath the surface. As the moment of truth edges closer, Frost and Nixon even each receive their own flashy entrances to the vocal, uproarious crowds - Howard’s sense of spectacle (and more to the point, believable spectacle) is immense.
The film’s second half juxtaposes the tapes themselves with post-fight talking head commentary, and whilst it may sound procedural, it is an utterly compelling mix – Howard knows exactly where and when to cut between his A-roll and B-roll.
Once proceedings begin, Frost/Nixon is an intense sparring match between the two figureheads, as the respective members of the “ring crew” observe from behind monitors, recoiling or cheering as each figurative punch is delivered. Between each of the four “rounds” of recording, the teams converge and advise their competitor on how to proceed, and it is these interludes which illustrate just how much personal stock each side has invested in their crusade, to the point where it seems to subsume the human element of the battle, noted no better than when Frost invites his cohorts to “celebrate”, to which they are utterly dumbfounded, before he protests that it is his birthday.
The unqualified delight of the film is the build up to the final meeting between Frost and Nixon – in a phone call between the two, Nixon taunts and goads Frost, ratcheting the tension levels five-fold. Through most of the film, Nixon is the confident adversary, whilst Frost is the monetarily-invested, outfoxed underdog, and at game time, all of the muck-raking and mind games build to a wonderfully satisfying third act climax.
Ultimately, Frost/Nixon is a sensitive portrait of a man weathered by his myriad political foibles, yet the film never gets away from the heart of the matter, that it seeks to further indict Nixon’s sheer abuse of his position as the President of the United States. Frost/Nixon is an utterly compelling work, combining Academy-worthy writing with Academy-worthy performances (namely from Langella, but Sheen is outstanding also), and Howard’s directorial efforts are arguably the greatest that he has ever produced. Frost/Nixon is one of the best films of the year, and deserves attention whether you are interested in American politics, or simply interested in film.
Rating: 9/10
Twilight, (2008, Catherine Harwicke)
There's something curiously compelling about Twilight. Be it that it's a phenomenon of Harry Potter-like proportions that no-one except its fanbase has heard of, or that it managed to sneak into the bespectacled wizard's Christmas timeslot without Warner Brothers noticing. Perhaps, even, that what has been declared an overly sugary and relatively poorly written source novel could've produced such a tolerable film.
And tolerable it is - go in expecting an insufferable tween-fest of High School Musical proportions, and you're going to be pleasantly surprised. On the flip-side of the coin, however, if you go in expected a blooded tale of epic vampire love with the drinking and copious spilling of the claret in the vein of Interview with a Vampire, and you'll probably come out disappointed. This is most certainly the silver lining of this dark cloud of a genre, but an enjoyable skirting nonetheless.
The story goes that Bella Swan has moved to the small town of Forks in Washington to live with her father. She quickly makes a lot of friends at her new school, but is curiously shunned by a group of rather pale kids known only as 'the Cullens'. In particular, she notices that the one named Edward seems to have nothing but contempt for her - that is, until he saves her from being crushed by an out-of-control van. Turns out, the Cullens are a family of vampires sworn only to hunt animal blood. Over the next few weeks, Bella ingratiates herself into Edwards life, and the two fall helplessly in love with each other. Unfortunately, there are other vampires out there, and it would seem Bella is of a particularly delicious blood-type, so Edward must protect his newfound beloved.
Not exactly the most original of concepts is it? Take Romeo and Juliet, throw in vampires and a dash of dumbing down et voilà: the story of Twilight. But that's not what makes the film interesting - it's all in the execution. Catherine Hardwicke was perhaps the only person who could've possibly taken the helm on this one - the above sentence could've been changed to 'Take Thirteen, throw in vampires and remove the drugs et voilà: the story of Twilight'. Well...almost, but the heady scent of teenage rebellion still lingers, and Harwicke capitalises on it to the full - close camera work, 'almost' moments left right and centre, all build the sexual tension in the burgeoning relationship. It all culminates in a scene where there's a real sense of release, a visible retreating of the camera and a brief wash of saturation in the colour - it's the closest we're going to get to an on-screen orgasm in a 12A, but like I said: it's all in the execution.
A lot of this is down to the very readily apparent chemistry between Kirsten Stewart and Robert Pattison. Stewart is darkly pretty and pouty as Bella, totally lost in her iPod and her own thoughts, although her constantly quivering lip may come off as just pathetic after a while. But the real discovery is Pattison, sculpting a performance of a romantic, Byronic hero from the block of wood that was Cedric Diggory in the Potter films. It's a fantastic turn, and he just about carries the whole movie on Edward's pale shoulders. The support is solid, too, with all of the Cullens putting in various degrees of charismatic as the 'vegetarian' vampires. The antagonists of the piece are suitably menacing, if lacking in any true sense of threat.
But some of the best scenes - well, two of them anyway - come between Pattision and Billy Burke as Bella's father, the initial, 'formal' introduction hilarious thanks to the presence of a breach-loading shotgun. Gimmicky, maybe, but it's wonderfully played out by both actors, and if neither has drawn from real-life experiences with parents and kids respectively, I'll declare myself a Dutchman.
Unfortunately, those are the only moments when the script truly shines. There're a couple of zingers here and there ('And so the lion fell in love with the lamb.' 'What a stupid lamb.' 'What a sick, masochistic lion!'), but just as many clunkers ('you're my own personal brand of heroin'; 'I'd rather die than stay away from you!'; the latter seemingly repeated about 12 times), though whether these are from the source or the brain children of adapter Melissa Rosenberg will remain - to me, at least - a mystery. The story, too, is disjointed at best, and nonexistent at worst - more time is dedicated to the burgeoning 'true love' than the actual meat of the story. It's also curiously bloodless for a vampire movie - but this may well be to secure the PG-13/12A rating to get the fanbase into the cinema, so is almost forgivable.
But on the plus side, it never grates, even with a rather hefty 122-minute running time, and that's something of an achievement, considering how insufferable teenage-orientated romance usually is. If you're in possession of the XX chromosome and under the age of 17, this is probably going to be your film of the year. For the rest of us, it's solidly entertaining fare, but perhaps that little bit too fluffy to remain in our memory for long.
Rating: 7/10
There's something curiously compelling about Twilight. Be it that it's a phenomenon of Harry Potter-like proportions that no-one except its fanbase has heard of, or that it managed to sneak into the bespectacled wizard's Christmas timeslot without Warner Brothers noticing. Perhaps, even, that what has been declared an overly sugary and relatively poorly written source novel could've produced such a tolerable film.
And tolerable it is - go in expecting an insufferable tween-fest of High School Musical proportions, and you're going to be pleasantly surprised. On the flip-side of the coin, however, if you go in expected a blooded tale of epic vampire love with the drinking and copious spilling of the claret in the vein of Interview with a Vampire, and you'll probably come out disappointed. This is most certainly the silver lining of this dark cloud of a genre, but an enjoyable skirting nonetheless.
The story goes that Bella Swan has moved to the small town of Forks in Washington to live with her father. She quickly makes a lot of friends at her new school, but is curiously shunned by a group of rather pale kids known only as 'the Cullens'. In particular, she notices that the one named Edward seems to have nothing but contempt for her - that is, until he saves her from being crushed by an out-of-control van. Turns out, the Cullens are a family of vampires sworn only to hunt animal blood. Over the next few weeks, Bella ingratiates herself into Edwards life, and the two fall helplessly in love with each other. Unfortunately, there are other vampires out there, and it would seem Bella is of a particularly delicious blood-type, so Edward must protect his newfound beloved.
Not exactly the most original of concepts is it? Take Romeo and Juliet, throw in vampires and a dash of dumbing down et voilà: the story of Twilight. But that's not what makes the film interesting - it's all in the execution. Catherine Hardwicke was perhaps the only person who could've possibly taken the helm on this one - the above sentence could've been changed to 'Take Thirteen, throw in vampires and remove the drugs et voilà: the story of Twilight'. Well...almost, but the heady scent of teenage rebellion still lingers, and Harwicke capitalises on it to the full - close camera work, 'almost' moments left right and centre, all build the sexual tension in the burgeoning relationship. It all culminates in a scene where there's a real sense of release, a visible retreating of the camera and a brief wash of saturation in the colour - it's the closest we're going to get to an on-screen orgasm in a 12A, but like I said: it's all in the execution.
A lot of this is down to the very readily apparent chemistry between Kirsten Stewart and Robert Pattison. Stewart is darkly pretty and pouty as Bella, totally lost in her iPod and her own thoughts, although her constantly quivering lip may come off as just pathetic after a while. But the real discovery is Pattison, sculpting a performance of a romantic, Byronic hero from the block of wood that was Cedric Diggory in the Potter films. It's a fantastic turn, and he just about carries the whole movie on Edward's pale shoulders. The support is solid, too, with all of the Cullens putting in various degrees of charismatic as the 'vegetarian' vampires. The antagonists of the piece are suitably menacing, if lacking in any true sense of threat.
But some of the best scenes - well, two of them anyway - come between Pattision and Billy Burke as Bella's father, the initial, 'formal' introduction hilarious thanks to the presence of a breach-loading shotgun. Gimmicky, maybe, but it's wonderfully played out by both actors, and if neither has drawn from real-life experiences with parents and kids respectively, I'll declare myself a Dutchman.
Unfortunately, those are the only moments when the script truly shines. There're a couple of zingers here and there ('And so the lion fell in love with the lamb.' 'What a stupid lamb.' 'What a sick, masochistic lion!'), but just as many clunkers ('you're my own personal brand of heroin'; 'I'd rather die than stay away from you!'; the latter seemingly repeated about 12 times), though whether these are from the source or the brain children of adapter Melissa Rosenberg will remain - to me, at least - a mystery. The story, too, is disjointed at best, and nonexistent at worst - more time is dedicated to the burgeoning 'true love' than the actual meat of the story. It's also curiously bloodless for a vampire movie - but this may well be to secure the PG-13/12A rating to get the fanbase into the cinema, so is almost forgivable.
But on the plus side, it never grates, even with a rather hefty 122-minute running time, and that's something of an achievement, considering how insufferable teenage-orientated romance usually is. If you're in possession of the XX chromosome and under the age of 17, this is probably going to be your film of the year. For the rest of us, it's solidly entertaining fare, but perhaps that little bit too fluffy to remain in our memory for long.
Rating: 7/10
asdasta
Thanks dude 
Much love!
Much love!yeah your reviews are immense!
i could definitely imagine them on the pages of Empire, I assume you want to be a film reviewer?
Wow, thanks! Yeah, that's a dream of mine. Some people from my University put my name forward for the Guardian Student Media awards for "student critic of the year", which includes some nice benefits, so we'll see where it goes.
Planning to send Empire some of my work with a cover letter soon, even just to see if I can get a week's internship or something. We'll see I guess.
Planning to send Empire some of my work with a cover letter soon, even just to see if I can get a week's internship or something. We'll see I guess.
Fast and Furious (2009, Justin Lin)
The Fast and the Furious series is something of a pop-culture milestone, inspiring everything from pale imitations (namely the reprehensible Euro-trash knock-off Redline) to several profitable video game series. Eight years and three sequels later, the series returns to its roots, with the “original parts” – namely a returning principal cast - yet this reunion with our old pals, ingeniously titled Fast and Furious, is something of a half-baked misfire, which stumbles only as much as it succeeds.
The film opens promisingly, throwing the viewer immediately into a well-staged action sequence in the Dominican Republic, where Bonnie and Clyde couple Dom Toretto (Vin Diesel) and Letty (Michelle Rodriguez) hijack some fuel tanks in the most daring of means. However, the conclusion to the scene is, even for the standards of the series, utterly ludicrous, involving an exploding tanker hurtling towards our heroes at an interminable speed, whilst they attempt to drive under it as it flies through the air. If the ridiculousness of it won’t leave you laughing, the shoddy CGI will certainly leave you shaking your head in discontent.
Although chronologically, Fast and Furious is sandwiched between the second and third films, this film’s first scene of drama feels quite elegiac, as though our heroes are tired and winding down from a life on the run. However, this is soon enough thrown to the wind as a familiar cast member is perfunctorily killed off-screen, causing Dom to seek revenge, and in its course, meets up with old pal Bryan O’Connor (Paul Walker), wherein the two form an uneasy partnership to bring down the drug dealers responsible for the tragedy. Bryan, preposterously enough, is able to ingratiate himself with the bad guys, despite being a member of the FBI, and the consequent double-bind, in which Dom and Bryan cannot rat each other out to the perps, is also pretty unconvincing.
The tone then begins to shift all over the place; it is part investigative drama, with Diesel suddenly attaining the mindful eye of the most ardent character from CSI, and part existential meditation, with plenty of shots of people staring, glass-eyed, into the distance. Dom is forced to deal with the death of one of his comrades, yet mere scenes later he is seen flirting with women and downing shots. Perhaps this is a testament to how numbed and immunised Dom has become from our typical conceptions of anguish, but that would probably be giving the film far too much credit.
To its credit, the action scenes, mostly brief as they are, are shot with a bravura style – as Walker chases down a perp over rooftops and tackles him onto a car (which, surely enough, causes the windows to explode) - the chaos is assuredly well-captured, and it is difficult to criticise the production from this perspective, but these brief moments of technical mastery cannot disguise a lackluster, overly serious narrative that takes most of the fun out of the proceedings.
As much as director Lin captures enough money shots for the film’s racing scenes, the hackneyed, disorientating editing style is intensely off-putting, and in the film’s second chase scene, an authoritative GPS system make the racers seem more like kids gripped to their PlayStations than actual drivers. The film leaves you waiting long enough for these races, and then can’t even deliver the visceral goods.
Unfortunately, this trend continue even in the film’s later stages – it leaves you waiting long enough for another chase, and then the payoff is merely a disappointingly brief race through a mine in order to escape detection by the authorities – it leaves you wanting so much more.
To be fair, there are some impressive moments throughout, namely Dom using a rather ingenious method to detonate a row of cars, and a savagely violent kill in the film’s climax, but these moments of trashy genius aren’t enough to resolve the film’s less endearing indulgences. For instance, Diesel is as much his superhero alter-ego Riddick as he is Toretto – he dives between speeding cars and takes bullets in the shoulder without a sign of pain – and such flagrant inconsistency with the film’s lingering approach to the death of one of its characters undoes that sentiment, and takes away the little care the audience might already have for Toretto’s own wellbeing, both mental and physical.
The film’s close almost satisfies, both with its moral agency (although who would expect such in a film like this), and its almost funereal approach, yet Lin closes his picture with the tease of an action scene, as well as another sequel, before promptly killing the picture and cutting to the credits. It is immensely frustrating, given the largely flavourless action preceding it.
Fast and Furious is perhaps a solid enough diversion for booze-filled lads on a Friday night, but there’s a distinct lack of care in a series which has credibility already verging on tenuous. Surely the worst installment in the series, this entry is at times too self-serious, and the desire to attempt to tell a story falls flat, at the cost of taut action and viewer satisfaction. Who thought that a film in this series would leave you wanting for more action? The performances are mostly fine – Diesel is his gravelly, muscle-bound self, and Walker and co. are similar eye-candy (of which there is plenty for both genders). Fast and Furious may well leave you wanting to suck down on a bottle of Corona, and the heterosexual males in the crowd will surely have a greater affinity for tight white tank tops, but this outing shows signs of a series that is, excuse the pun, running on empty.
Rating: 5/10
The Fast and the Furious series is something of a pop-culture milestone, inspiring everything from pale imitations (namely the reprehensible Euro-trash knock-off Redline) to several profitable video game series. Eight years and three sequels later, the series returns to its roots, with the “original parts” – namely a returning principal cast - yet this reunion with our old pals, ingeniously titled Fast and Furious, is something of a half-baked misfire, which stumbles only as much as it succeeds.
The film opens promisingly, throwing the viewer immediately into a well-staged action sequence in the Dominican Republic, where Bonnie and Clyde couple Dom Toretto (Vin Diesel) and Letty (Michelle Rodriguez) hijack some fuel tanks in the most daring of means. However, the conclusion to the scene is, even for the standards of the series, utterly ludicrous, involving an exploding tanker hurtling towards our heroes at an interminable speed, whilst they attempt to drive under it as it flies through the air. If the ridiculousness of it won’t leave you laughing, the shoddy CGI will certainly leave you shaking your head in discontent.
Although chronologically, Fast and Furious is sandwiched between the second and third films, this film’s first scene of drama feels quite elegiac, as though our heroes are tired and winding down from a life on the run. However, this is soon enough thrown to the wind as a familiar cast member is perfunctorily killed off-screen, causing Dom to seek revenge, and in its course, meets up with old pal Bryan O’Connor (Paul Walker), wherein the two form an uneasy partnership to bring down the drug dealers responsible for the tragedy. Bryan, preposterously enough, is able to ingratiate himself with the bad guys, despite being a member of the FBI, and the consequent double-bind, in which Dom and Bryan cannot rat each other out to the perps, is also pretty unconvincing.
The tone then begins to shift all over the place; it is part investigative drama, with Diesel suddenly attaining the mindful eye of the most ardent character from CSI, and part existential meditation, with plenty of shots of people staring, glass-eyed, into the distance. Dom is forced to deal with the death of one of his comrades, yet mere scenes later he is seen flirting with women and downing shots. Perhaps this is a testament to how numbed and immunised Dom has become from our typical conceptions of anguish, but that would probably be giving the film far too much credit.
To its credit, the action scenes, mostly brief as they are, are shot with a bravura style – as Walker chases down a perp over rooftops and tackles him onto a car (which, surely enough, causes the windows to explode) - the chaos is assuredly well-captured, and it is difficult to criticise the production from this perspective, but these brief moments of technical mastery cannot disguise a lackluster, overly serious narrative that takes most of the fun out of the proceedings.
As much as director Lin captures enough money shots for the film’s racing scenes, the hackneyed, disorientating editing style is intensely off-putting, and in the film’s second chase scene, an authoritative GPS system make the racers seem more like kids gripped to their PlayStations than actual drivers. The film leaves you waiting long enough for these races, and then can’t even deliver the visceral goods.
Unfortunately, this trend continue even in the film’s later stages – it leaves you waiting long enough for another chase, and then the payoff is merely a disappointingly brief race through a mine in order to escape detection by the authorities – it leaves you wanting so much more.
To be fair, there are some impressive moments throughout, namely Dom using a rather ingenious method to detonate a row of cars, and a savagely violent kill in the film’s climax, but these moments of trashy genius aren’t enough to resolve the film’s less endearing indulgences. For instance, Diesel is as much his superhero alter-ego Riddick as he is Toretto – he dives between speeding cars and takes bullets in the shoulder without a sign of pain – and such flagrant inconsistency with the film’s lingering approach to the death of one of its characters undoes that sentiment, and takes away the little care the audience might already have for Toretto’s own wellbeing, both mental and physical.
The film’s close almost satisfies, both with its moral agency (although who would expect such in a film like this), and its almost funereal approach, yet Lin closes his picture with the tease of an action scene, as well as another sequel, before promptly killing the picture and cutting to the credits. It is immensely frustrating, given the largely flavourless action preceding it.
Fast and Furious is perhaps a solid enough diversion for booze-filled lads on a Friday night, but there’s a distinct lack of care in a series which has credibility already verging on tenuous. Surely the worst installment in the series, this entry is at times too self-serious, and the desire to attempt to tell a story falls flat, at the cost of taut action and viewer satisfaction. Who thought that a film in this series would leave you wanting for more action? The performances are mostly fine – Diesel is his gravelly, muscle-bound self, and Walker and co. are similar eye-candy (of which there is plenty for both genders). Fast and Furious may well leave you wanting to suck down on a bottle of Corona, and the heterosexual males in the crowd will surely have a greater affinity for tight white tank tops, but this outing shows signs of a series that is, excuse the pun, running on empty.
Rating: 5/10
Fifty Dead Men Walking (2008, Kari Skogland)
The opening titles to Kari Skogland’s Fifty Dead Men Walking note that several of the film’s events are alterations of the actual events, and two hours later, after several explosions, many a round of bullets, and some kinetic chase sequences, it is really no surprise.
Skogland, whose best-known work is the middling suspense thriller Liberty Stands Still (starring Wesley Snipes and Linda Fiorentino), directs here with an eye clearly attuned to mayhem and chaos. Savagely violent from its opening scene, and replete with a pulse-racing soundtrack, Skogland has sought to mediate the true events through the buoyant force and accessibility of the thriller genre, which invariably includes a wealth of action as a prerequisite. Nevertheless, the film still has its historical head on straight, and is agreeably narrated by Ben Kingsley’s Fergus character, ensuring the uninitiated never lose track of proceedings.
The film opens with Irish street hustler Marty McGartland (Jim Sturgess) being arrested by the police for selling stolen goods, wherein he is offered an ultimatum by smouldering police officer Fergus – infiltrate the IRA, or serve a jail term. Initially, the story is told from the point-of-view of Kingsley’s Fergus, and whilst his narration almost suggests an air of partiality on the part of the filmmaker, the film’s sense of morality soon enough becomes rather soupy, and in a welcome nuance, this narration dissipates.
The manner in which Marty is welcomed into the IRA is somewhat convoluted, and the film knowingly pawns this off simply as dumb luck, and such is the film’s conceit in its opening stages – it lacks authenticity. Notably, as Marty engages in a fight with a soldier, mere seconds later do bricks and Molotov cocktails materialise out of thin air and are thrown by angry citizens at the soldiers. With its expedience, it feels rather disingenuous.
Still, what is most respectful about the film is its accessibility – it makes all pains possible to keep the viewer in the know, even displaying the names of the key players on-screen at critical points. It is this accessibility through genre conventions, though, that causes the film to seem a little overlong at times – a romantic subplot, for instance, lends the film far too much generic familiarity, where Marty and his love interest, Lara, chew over unimportant dialogue which does little to benefit the film.
Indeed, many of the film’s scenes have been cherry picked from mere thriller formula, yet they are lent undeniable credibility from the sheer charm of these lead performances. Sturgess, following from some fluffy outings such as Across the Universe and 21, proves his acting chops with a demanding and impressive performance, whilst Kingsley is the ever-commanding screen presence. It must be said, however, that Rose McGowan’s appearance in the film’s second half as an IRA member is undeniably distracting, for whilst her character is clearly intended to be physically attractive, to allow someone with the starlet beauty of McGowan to penetrate the film simply reveals another layer of artifice. To her credit, however, her performance is fine.
Although there’s certainly much unneeded expository content that could have been trimmed from this film, personal pressures such as Marty’s girlfriend becoming pregnant at least demonstrate why he is so motivated to proceed with his financially stable position in the IRA, if not for the incumbent legal imperative. However, the film misfires with its chance to be profoundly moral, for Marty is let off the hook of performing any truly heinous crimes (such as when he is forced to execute an incompliant suspect, but refuses), never allowing the audience to consider the true righteousness of Marty’s actions, and under an already skeptical eye, the situation feels manufactured.
As such, the concoction just feels a little narratively sparse – the cop-crook relationship between Marty and Fergus becomes familiar and friendly far too easily, and although a few scattered tidbits of character development are sprinkled throughout the dialogue, the film just doesn’t seem to earn the pathos it seems to be shooting for. It isn’t seamlessly woven into the story, and Skogland never makes us feel the mutually desperate dynamic between Marty and Fergus.
Miraculously, things cohere into something resembling a meaningful whole for the film’s unrelentingly tense finale, in which all manner of waste product hits the fan, and the action, although evidently low budget, is kinetic and well-staged. Even in scenes of post-carnage contemplation, there is an underlying fear of an IRA strike – the uncertainty is a shared experience by the viewer, and this keeps the pulse racing through the third act, right up until the film’s redemptive but unmistakably tragic finale.
Fifty Dead Men Walking may have only superficial depth and run about fifteen minutes too long, but committed performances and a saucy plot make this an engrossing and energetic thriller. Although surely a beefed up account of true events, it is certainly an entertaining one.
Rating: 7/10
The opening titles to Kari Skogland’s Fifty Dead Men Walking note that several of the film’s events are alterations of the actual events, and two hours later, after several explosions, many a round of bullets, and some kinetic chase sequences, it is really no surprise.
Skogland, whose best-known work is the middling suspense thriller Liberty Stands Still (starring Wesley Snipes and Linda Fiorentino), directs here with an eye clearly attuned to mayhem and chaos. Savagely violent from its opening scene, and replete with a pulse-racing soundtrack, Skogland has sought to mediate the true events through the buoyant force and accessibility of the thriller genre, which invariably includes a wealth of action as a prerequisite. Nevertheless, the film still has its historical head on straight, and is agreeably narrated by Ben Kingsley’s Fergus character, ensuring the uninitiated never lose track of proceedings.
The film opens with Irish street hustler Marty McGartland (Jim Sturgess) being arrested by the police for selling stolen goods, wherein he is offered an ultimatum by smouldering police officer Fergus – infiltrate the IRA, or serve a jail term. Initially, the story is told from the point-of-view of Kingsley’s Fergus, and whilst his narration almost suggests an air of partiality on the part of the filmmaker, the film’s sense of morality soon enough becomes rather soupy, and in a welcome nuance, this narration dissipates.
The manner in which Marty is welcomed into the IRA is somewhat convoluted, and the film knowingly pawns this off simply as dumb luck, and such is the film’s conceit in its opening stages – it lacks authenticity. Notably, as Marty engages in a fight with a soldier, mere seconds later do bricks and Molotov cocktails materialise out of thin air and are thrown by angry citizens at the soldiers. With its expedience, it feels rather disingenuous.
Still, what is most respectful about the film is its accessibility – it makes all pains possible to keep the viewer in the know, even displaying the names of the key players on-screen at critical points. It is this accessibility through genre conventions, though, that causes the film to seem a little overlong at times – a romantic subplot, for instance, lends the film far too much generic familiarity, where Marty and his love interest, Lara, chew over unimportant dialogue which does little to benefit the film.
Indeed, many of the film’s scenes have been cherry picked from mere thriller formula, yet they are lent undeniable credibility from the sheer charm of these lead performances. Sturgess, following from some fluffy outings such as Across the Universe and 21, proves his acting chops with a demanding and impressive performance, whilst Kingsley is the ever-commanding screen presence. It must be said, however, that Rose McGowan’s appearance in the film’s second half as an IRA member is undeniably distracting, for whilst her character is clearly intended to be physically attractive, to allow someone with the starlet beauty of McGowan to penetrate the film simply reveals another layer of artifice. To her credit, however, her performance is fine.
Although there’s certainly much unneeded expository content that could have been trimmed from this film, personal pressures such as Marty’s girlfriend becoming pregnant at least demonstrate why he is so motivated to proceed with his financially stable position in the IRA, if not for the incumbent legal imperative. However, the film misfires with its chance to be profoundly moral, for Marty is let off the hook of performing any truly heinous crimes (such as when he is forced to execute an incompliant suspect, but refuses), never allowing the audience to consider the true righteousness of Marty’s actions, and under an already skeptical eye, the situation feels manufactured.
As such, the concoction just feels a little narratively sparse – the cop-crook relationship between Marty and Fergus becomes familiar and friendly far too easily, and although a few scattered tidbits of character development are sprinkled throughout the dialogue, the film just doesn’t seem to earn the pathos it seems to be shooting for. It isn’t seamlessly woven into the story, and Skogland never makes us feel the mutually desperate dynamic between Marty and Fergus.
Miraculously, things cohere into something resembling a meaningful whole for the film’s unrelentingly tense finale, in which all manner of waste product hits the fan, and the action, although evidently low budget, is kinetic and well-staged. Even in scenes of post-carnage contemplation, there is an underlying fear of an IRA strike – the uncertainty is a shared experience by the viewer, and this keeps the pulse racing through the third act, right up until the film’s redemptive but unmistakably tragic finale.
Fifty Dead Men Walking may have only superficial depth and run about fifteen minutes too long, but committed performances and a saucy plot make this an engrossing and energetic thriller. Although surely a beefed up account of true events, it is certainly an entertaining one.
Rating: 7/10
Dragonball Evolution (2009, James Wong)
Although Dragonball Evolution is only about as competent an adaptation of its source material as Uwe Boll’s films are of video games (that is to say, not a lot), at least it is a mercifully brief foray into the road preferably not travelled. Running in at less than 80 minutes (unless you, for who knows what reason, stick around for the credits), it is at least a brisk train wreck, providing you with most of the expository narration you will require within the film’s first sixty seconds.
Surprisingly free of overly-fantastical verbiage, Dragonball Evolution’s opening lets us know that 2000 years ago, an evil warlord named Piccolo (James Marsters) attempted to destroy Earth, yet met resistance and was imprisoned with a mystical spell. However, in present day, Piccolo has managed to escape and is searching for a number of mysterious dragonballs in order to make a wish to a magical dragon. Essentially, Piccolo follows the character arc of Superman’s General Zod, you know, if Zod had a deformed head and was painted green.
Soon enough, we meet young martial artist Goku (Justin Chatwin), who is the apprentice to his grandfather, Gohan. Typically, Goku learns a lot from ‘ol grandpa, and within mere minutes, the film is already filled to the brim with dodgy wire work and enough whimsy and truisms to make you want to vomit.
Transposing Dragonball into this setting – particularly when we observe Goku as an American high school student – simply does not work. The result is immensely cheesy, and by the time Goku is dropkicking bullies and fawning over his pretty classmate, you’ll wonder whether the film was some sort of practical joke between studio heads. That said, the awkwardness does rouse a chuckle or two throughout, and there are a few large nods to fans of the series, memorably as Goku attempts to flatten his hair down with gel, yet it simply springs back up.
One would expect that if Dragonball Evolution was going to succeed in any department, it would be the action front, yet as with virtually everything else about this film, it is mishandled, making excessive use of the “ramp up” and “ramp down” slow-motion effects that became so notably divisive in 300. Furthermore, there simply isn’t enough action; for a film that doesn’t run too long over the hour mark, it lingers and clambers around for far too long.
Further still, the film’s portrayal of series antagonist Piccolo is sure to frustrate fans of the source material, as well as anyone that’s a fan of good characterisation. Although Buffy mainstay Marsters is not to blame, for his deep, monotonous voice is one of the few delicious aspects of the film, he just has no screen presence, chiefly because of some hokey makeup effects, and, well, because he’s just not on screen very much.
After Piccolo implodes Goku’s home (in one of the film’s more showy visual effects moments), and cute sidekick Bulma (Emmy Rossum) shows up to assist Goku, the plot finally begins moving forward. Nevertheless, I couldn’t get out of my mind what a promising actress like Rossum was doing in a picture like this – with a saucy role in 2003’s Clint Eastwood film Mystic River, and receiving a Golden Globe nomination for her work in Phantom of the Opera, to see her reduced to this is a little disheartening.
Chow Yun-Fat, who seems to be the only person really having any fun in this film, makes his welcome, although rather belated entrance later as martial arts master Roshi, and although he surely had a penthouse or yacht payment to make, his over-the-top playfulness is in touch with Dragonball’s cartoon origins, making the film somewhat more bearable.
If Dragonball Evolution succeeds at anything, it surely takes the art of teasing its audience to a new level of mastery, for our can’t-be-arsed antagonist Piccolo, in all of his five minutes of screen time until the final battle, simply barks orders at his female warrior sidekick, before sending a fleet of monsters that loosely resemble the Xenomorph from Alien. When their numbers run out, Piccolo sends the sidekick herself, and to be honest, with her ability to imitate other people, she presents a greater sense of threat than the green one himself.
The film’s finale is something of a barely comprehensible mess; it allows Piccolo to finally become ferocious, but it throws some left-field material in there for those unacquainted with the source material, as well as some well-worn action film clichés, namely plenty of “are they dead, aren’t they?” moments, and some sickeningly sage truisms to boot. Naturally, everything is tied up in a neat bow just in time for the credits to hit, but not before the blatant hint of a sequel (which is already in production) outrageously implies Dragonball 2 will simply feature another quest to find more dragonballs.
This cack-handed adaptation of the beloved manga and anime series suffers from a laboriously dull script, bland characters, and simply the shoddiest villain of the year thus far. The sheer corniness generates a few laughs, namely from Yun-Fat’s grin-and-wink posturing, and whilst the performers are fine and the visual effects solid, this is a poor adaptation, and an even worse film, that its oddly distinguished cast – Rossum, Yun-Fat, Marsters, and Oz star Ernie Hudson (in absurd old-man make up, no less) in particular – will soon wish to forget.
Rating: 3/10
Although Dragonball Evolution is only about as competent an adaptation of its source material as Uwe Boll’s films are of video games (that is to say, not a lot), at least it is a mercifully brief foray into the road preferably not travelled. Running in at less than 80 minutes (unless you, for who knows what reason, stick around for the credits), it is at least a brisk train wreck, providing you with most of the expository narration you will require within the film’s first sixty seconds.
Surprisingly free of overly-fantastical verbiage, Dragonball Evolution’s opening lets us know that 2000 years ago, an evil warlord named Piccolo (James Marsters) attempted to destroy Earth, yet met resistance and was imprisoned with a mystical spell. However, in present day, Piccolo has managed to escape and is searching for a number of mysterious dragonballs in order to make a wish to a magical dragon. Essentially, Piccolo follows the character arc of Superman’s General Zod, you know, if Zod had a deformed head and was painted green.
Soon enough, we meet young martial artist Goku (Justin Chatwin), who is the apprentice to his grandfather, Gohan. Typically, Goku learns a lot from ‘ol grandpa, and within mere minutes, the film is already filled to the brim with dodgy wire work and enough whimsy and truisms to make you want to vomit.
Transposing Dragonball into this setting – particularly when we observe Goku as an American high school student – simply does not work. The result is immensely cheesy, and by the time Goku is dropkicking bullies and fawning over his pretty classmate, you’ll wonder whether the film was some sort of practical joke between studio heads. That said, the awkwardness does rouse a chuckle or two throughout, and there are a few large nods to fans of the series, memorably as Goku attempts to flatten his hair down with gel, yet it simply springs back up.
One would expect that if Dragonball Evolution was going to succeed in any department, it would be the action front, yet as with virtually everything else about this film, it is mishandled, making excessive use of the “ramp up” and “ramp down” slow-motion effects that became so notably divisive in 300. Furthermore, there simply isn’t enough action; for a film that doesn’t run too long over the hour mark, it lingers and clambers around for far too long.
Further still, the film’s portrayal of series antagonist Piccolo is sure to frustrate fans of the source material, as well as anyone that’s a fan of good characterisation. Although Buffy mainstay Marsters is not to blame, for his deep, monotonous voice is one of the few delicious aspects of the film, he just has no screen presence, chiefly because of some hokey makeup effects, and, well, because he’s just not on screen very much.
After Piccolo implodes Goku’s home (in one of the film’s more showy visual effects moments), and cute sidekick Bulma (Emmy Rossum) shows up to assist Goku, the plot finally begins moving forward. Nevertheless, I couldn’t get out of my mind what a promising actress like Rossum was doing in a picture like this – with a saucy role in 2003’s Clint Eastwood film Mystic River, and receiving a Golden Globe nomination for her work in Phantom of the Opera, to see her reduced to this is a little disheartening.
Chow Yun-Fat, who seems to be the only person really having any fun in this film, makes his welcome, although rather belated entrance later as martial arts master Roshi, and although he surely had a penthouse or yacht payment to make, his over-the-top playfulness is in touch with Dragonball’s cartoon origins, making the film somewhat more bearable.
If Dragonball Evolution succeeds at anything, it surely takes the art of teasing its audience to a new level of mastery, for our can’t-be-arsed antagonist Piccolo, in all of his five minutes of screen time until the final battle, simply barks orders at his female warrior sidekick, before sending a fleet of monsters that loosely resemble the Xenomorph from Alien. When their numbers run out, Piccolo sends the sidekick herself, and to be honest, with her ability to imitate other people, she presents a greater sense of threat than the green one himself.
The film’s finale is something of a barely comprehensible mess; it allows Piccolo to finally become ferocious, but it throws some left-field material in there for those unacquainted with the source material, as well as some well-worn action film clichés, namely plenty of “are they dead, aren’t they?” moments, and some sickeningly sage truisms to boot. Naturally, everything is tied up in a neat bow just in time for the credits to hit, but not before the blatant hint of a sequel (which is already in production) outrageously implies Dragonball 2 will simply feature another quest to find more dragonballs.
This cack-handed adaptation of the beloved manga and anime series suffers from a laboriously dull script, bland characters, and simply the shoddiest villain of the year thus far. The sheer corniness generates a few laughs, namely from Yun-Fat’s grin-and-wink posturing, and whilst the performers are fine and the visual effects solid, this is a poor adaptation, and an even worse film, that its oddly distinguished cast – Rossum, Yun-Fat, Marsters, and Oz star Ernie Hudson (in absurd old-man make up, no less) in particular – will soon wish to forget.
Rating: 3/10
JessicaW
I would give Twilight 10/10 for solid ingenuity.
What 'ingenuity' would this be?
State Of Play (2009, Kevin Macdonald)
Congressman Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck) is helping with the government investigation of a shady military-based company when he receives word that his mistress has committed suicide. Visually distraught, he leaves a hearing in tears and sets off a media circus. Seasoned reporter Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe) was his roommate in college, and the two have remained friends. In a bid to quash the political blogging of junior reporter Della Frye (Rachel McAdams), McAffrey sets out to find the truth about the story.
State of Play sets itself up early on to be a cookie-cutter, predictable thriller. But as the film progresses, it rather quickly becomes the twisty and conniving thriller it needs to be. Despite being heavily dialogue driven, the film is an intense ride that will keep people on edge throughout. Some scenes are downright terrifying in their amped up suspense and political intrigue. This film really set out to be tense, and succeeds wonderfully. It knows just what punches to pull, and when to pull them.
The script, written by political scribes Matthew Michael Carnahan, Tony Gilory and Billy Ray, is insight and intriguing. It could have easily been made boring and inundated with rehashed politicalisms (like all of their last films), but this film revels in how interesting it becomes. It has laughs strung throughout (a genuine surprise), and lacks the nerve to become loaded to the brim with facts and innuendos. Instead, it expertly weaves between scenes, amping up the intensity of some scenes, and downplaying others.
But this is mainly due to the incredible performances by the cast. Crowe (who I usually loathe) and Affleck are simply outstanding in their roles. Age issues aside, both play their character with finesse and charisma. Affleck looks and acts like a confused wet-behind-the-ears, gunning-for-higher-office political pawn from beginning to end. Some of the reactions on his face are downright devastating in how excellently they are conveyed. And this is a guy critics once said could not act. Coupled with one-two shot of acting in Hollywoodland and directing Gone Baby Gone, we may be seeing a renewed resonance and importance for the Oscar-winner. Crowe on the other hand, delivers his strongest performance in years. While he has been downplayed and underused in his last few films, he carries this film. He is stubborn and vaguely likable, but he makes his character work for all of his idiosyncrasies and ethically-questionable tactics. He makes a seasoned journalist look like an amateur.
McAdams, all but a ghost recently, holds her own against the two heavy-hitters and delivers a performance that is both inspired and emotional. It gives her a lot of room to act, and she delivers in every instance. The rest of the cast is a bit mixed however, as so little of them is given that much to do. Harry Lennix, Robin Wright Penn, Jeff Daniels, the horrifying Michael Berresse and especially Jason Bateman, all deliver noteworthy performances, but never get to really shine in them. They all have their traits and motivations, but get little screen time to truly express them. They each are developed quite strongly, but they lack the movement afforded to Crowe, Affleck and McAdams. I simply loved Helen Mirren's scenery-gauging editor and all of her subtleties. But she too, is downplayed to the point of almost barely being in the film.
Despite its intensity, the film is bogged down by its dialogue-heavy scenes and consistent character additions. It is easy to keep track of everyone, but so many people are introduced that the film loses its focus on more than one occasion. It makes for a few scenes that are merely filler between the scenes of useful heavy acting. It just feels so tiring. I understand now how daunting a task it must have been to convert six hours of British television into a 127-minute film, but there are scenes that are just too easy to not have been cut out (some entire mildly useful subplots may have helped). Adding characters in makes sense for a story about two journalists frantically searching to lift the lid on a story, but there needs to be more emphasis on what was needed and not needed. A brilliant montage in the middle of the film goes almost entirely to waste because the filmmakers lack the knowledge of what should be cut. Limiting the preposterous and silly climax could have also done wonders. The scenes that are left in the film (including the finale) are great, but they could have been stronger if they were as tightly wound as the film wants itself to be. A little less shaky hand camera movement could have also significantly benefited the film.
Even with its problems, it is clear from the on-set of the first shot in the bullpen at the Washington Globe that the filmmakers are going for a very keen sense of homage to All the President's Men. While the on-going and very professional relationship between McAffrey and Frye is very similar to Woodward and Bernstein, the fabric of journalistic integrity and researching are the core of State of Play. The film is loaded with allusions to the Oscar-winning film, and even mimics shots right out of the film. While it is obvious for anyone who has seen Men, this film's nods are done in such a delicate and unique way that they never become distracting or blatant. The film is its own, and does not ever feel like it is living in its big-brother's shadow. It is a fresh take on old-fashioned reporting in a very digital age, and frequently walks the tight line of old versus new.
State of Play looked interesting, and surprisingly delivers on almost every count. It is not a perfect film, but it is a solid example of great film-making. It wants to be more, but seems content at being a twisty and suspenseful modern thriller.
8/10
Congressman Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck) is helping with the government investigation of a shady military-based company when he receives word that his mistress has committed suicide. Visually distraught, he leaves a hearing in tears and sets off a media circus. Seasoned reporter Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe) was his roommate in college, and the two have remained friends. In a bid to quash the political blogging of junior reporter Della Frye (Rachel McAdams), McAffrey sets out to find the truth about the story.
State of Play sets itself up early on to be a cookie-cutter, predictable thriller. But as the film progresses, it rather quickly becomes the twisty and conniving thriller it needs to be. Despite being heavily dialogue driven, the film is an intense ride that will keep people on edge throughout. Some scenes are downright terrifying in their amped up suspense and political intrigue. This film really set out to be tense, and succeeds wonderfully. It knows just what punches to pull, and when to pull them.
The script, written by political scribes Matthew Michael Carnahan, Tony Gilory and Billy Ray, is insight and intriguing. It could have easily been made boring and inundated with rehashed politicalisms (like all of their last films), but this film revels in how interesting it becomes. It has laughs strung throughout (a genuine surprise), and lacks the nerve to become loaded to the brim with facts and innuendos. Instead, it expertly weaves between scenes, amping up the intensity of some scenes, and downplaying others.
But this is mainly due to the incredible performances by the cast. Crowe (who I usually loathe) and Affleck are simply outstanding in their roles. Age issues aside, both play their character with finesse and charisma. Affleck looks and acts like a confused wet-behind-the-ears, gunning-for-higher-office political pawn from beginning to end. Some of the reactions on his face are downright devastating in how excellently they are conveyed. And this is a guy critics once said could not act. Coupled with one-two shot of acting in Hollywoodland and directing Gone Baby Gone, we may be seeing a renewed resonance and importance for the Oscar-winner. Crowe on the other hand, delivers his strongest performance in years. While he has been downplayed and underused in his last few films, he carries this film. He is stubborn and vaguely likable, but he makes his character work for all of his idiosyncrasies and ethically-questionable tactics. He makes a seasoned journalist look like an amateur.
McAdams, all but a ghost recently, holds her own against the two heavy-hitters and delivers a performance that is both inspired and emotional. It gives her a lot of room to act, and she delivers in every instance. The rest of the cast is a bit mixed however, as so little of them is given that much to do. Harry Lennix, Robin Wright Penn, Jeff Daniels, the horrifying Michael Berresse and especially Jason Bateman, all deliver noteworthy performances, but never get to really shine in them. They all have their traits and motivations, but get little screen time to truly express them. They each are developed quite strongly, but they lack the movement afforded to Crowe, Affleck and McAdams. I simply loved Helen Mirren's scenery-gauging editor and all of her subtleties. But she too, is downplayed to the point of almost barely being in the film.
Despite its intensity, the film is bogged down by its dialogue-heavy scenes and consistent character additions. It is easy to keep track of everyone, but so many people are introduced that the film loses its focus on more than one occasion. It makes for a few scenes that are merely filler between the scenes of useful heavy acting. It just feels so tiring. I understand now how daunting a task it must have been to convert six hours of British television into a 127-minute film, but there are scenes that are just too easy to not have been cut out (some entire mildly useful subplots may have helped). Adding characters in makes sense for a story about two journalists frantically searching to lift the lid on a story, but there needs to be more emphasis on what was needed and not needed. A brilliant montage in the middle of the film goes almost entirely to waste because the filmmakers lack the knowledge of what should be cut. Limiting the preposterous and silly climax could have also done wonders. The scenes that are left in the film (including the finale) are great, but they could have been stronger if they were as tightly wound as the film wants itself to be. A little less shaky hand camera movement could have also significantly benefited the film.
Even with its problems, it is clear from the on-set of the first shot in the bullpen at the Washington Globe that the filmmakers are going for a very keen sense of homage to All the President's Men. While the on-going and very professional relationship between McAffrey and Frye is very similar to Woodward and Bernstein, the fabric of journalistic integrity and researching are the core of State of Play. The film is loaded with allusions to the Oscar-winning film, and even mimics shots right out of the film. While it is obvious for anyone who has seen Men, this film's nods are done in such a delicate and unique way that they never become distracting or blatant. The film is its own, and does not ever feel like it is living in its big-brother's shadow. It is a fresh take on old-fashioned reporting in a very digital age, and frequently walks the tight line of old versus new.
State of Play looked interesting, and surprisingly delivers on almost every count. It is not a perfect film, but it is a solid example of great film-making. It wants to be more, but seems content at being a twisty and suspenseful modern thriller.
8/10
Fast & Furious (2009, Justin Lin)
This fourth entry in the tough-guy, street-racer, busty-babe franchise is, and is not, worthy of the first. It's brought back the original actors, and they still look good. It's got at least one of the original street races. But now, as the opening sequence shows, it's joined the blockbuster rush and shifted over into a CGI-world of preposterously extravagant video-game car events. This intro is like the overkill prelude of 'Quantum of Solace.' Both movies show a trend toward numbing their audiences out with speed and violence in the opening shots, instead of quietly warming them up. It's not a good strategy. 'Fast & Furious' is replete with action that's neither credible nor as integral to the plot as it ought to be, or as the action was in the first in the series, Rob Cohen's 'The Fast and the Furious' (2001), which itself was a glossier reimagining of the kind of cheapie Fifties and Sixties fast-car movies Tarantino plays with in 'Death Proof.' But this one's still got tough guys and busty babes. It's got colorful muscle cars for hot-rodders to drool over. And it's got bright, clear images that are often beautiful. Though they don't quite offset the choppy editing, they punctuate it in an esthetically pleasing way.
In the first film Dom (Vin Diesel) disappeared into Mexico. Diesel missed the second episode, seemingly holding out for better career opportunities that didn't quite materialize. His big star vehicle, the 2002 'xXx,' was a bust, despite the presence of B-picture diva Asia Argento. He did star in Sidney Lumet's quirky trial drama, 'Find Me Guilty', if anybody remembers. Having reappeared in episode three, Tokyo Drift (like this directed by Justin Lin), Dom's now living in the Dominican Republic with his girlfriend Letty (Michelle Rodriguez). (Note for devotees: in time this new movie fits between episodes three and four.) It's Dom and Letty in the opening frames, stealing a multiple-unit truckload of oil. But their trickery defies the laws of physics and human dexterity too much to matter, even if it weren't too soon to get our adrenalin to pump that hard. Vin's still as muscled and macho; he was lumpen before; now he's just a little thicker. So is his delivery of dialogue, which now has an extra half-second delay. But there's something that makes it hard not to like Vin.
Paul Walker (as Brian O'Connor) is similarly likable, with a prettier face. He doesn't have the bottle-blond golden boy look of the original 'The Fast and the Furious,' but he still has a square-jawed, sterling quality mingled with toughness that suits his role here as, now, a cop who turns rogue (or a rogue turned cop; he's not sure) aiming to serve higher ends--but unwilling to betray his old street-racing, law-breaking buddies. He aims to catch a drug kingpin his police boss seems content to let by, but he's forever loyal to Dom.
Walker, like Diesel, has star quality, though he too has not exactly had a blockbuster career. He did, however, star in the mind-bendingly over-the-top action flick 'Running Scared,' and got to play the martyred Marine platoon leader in Eastwood's 'Flags of Our Fathers.' Though the plot of 'Fast & Furious' may not always serve Walker and Diesel as well as it should, there's an authenticity about their line delivery still that puts across the myth of their camaraderie and loyalty to a code that Dom has, and Brian is still working on.
At least the movie has the sense to make the opening hijack attempt a failure. It leads Dom to go and hide out in L.A. with his sister Mia (Jordana Brewster), who used to be Brian's girlfriend. That flame, predictably, is easily reignited when the plot needs a romantic boost.
In the street race sequence, Dom has a GPS screen with a woman's soothing voice (that of Gal Gadot, an exotic new addition to the femmes list) to show the big boy and us where he is in his trajectory. This shows the influence of Paul WS Anderson's 'Death Race,' which took the car race genre up a notch. Alas, though, the slick technology takes us further away from the personal, homemade quality of street racing, which in the first episode was about horsepower and garage work and macho taunts, not visual stunts and hi tech screens. Despite all the crashes (more often head-over-heels than in real life) these movies make racing on the roads look safer than it should, which is why this movie has a detailed "DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME" disclaimer at the end. (And there is stunt driving in this movie, even though it's undercut by the CGI tricks.) You'd better believe that warning. Better not to drive at top speed into a half-shut Mexican mountain tunnel. And don't try catching a guy your pal has just dropped out a window, either.
It remains to be seen if this movie, which is still fun and fast, helps Diesel and Walker on to the star rules they may deserve, or, what seems equally possible, just sidetracks them further. Lovers of the franchise are not going to be howling with disappointment, but new converts at this stage seem unlikely.
6/10
This fourth entry in the tough-guy, street-racer, busty-babe franchise is, and is not, worthy of the first. It's brought back the original actors, and they still look good. It's got at least one of the original street races. But now, as the opening sequence shows, it's joined the blockbuster rush and shifted over into a CGI-world of preposterously extravagant video-game car events. This intro is like the overkill prelude of 'Quantum of Solace.' Both movies show a trend toward numbing their audiences out with speed and violence in the opening shots, instead of quietly warming them up. It's not a good strategy. 'Fast & Furious' is replete with action that's neither credible nor as integral to the plot as it ought to be, or as the action was in the first in the series, Rob Cohen's 'The Fast and the Furious' (2001), which itself was a glossier reimagining of the kind of cheapie Fifties and Sixties fast-car movies Tarantino plays with in 'Death Proof.' But this one's still got tough guys and busty babes. It's got colorful muscle cars for hot-rodders to drool over. And it's got bright, clear images that are often beautiful. Though they don't quite offset the choppy editing, they punctuate it in an esthetically pleasing way.
In the first film Dom (Vin Diesel) disappeared into Mexico. Diesel missed the second episode, seemingly holding out for better career opportunities that didn't quite materialize. His big star vehicle, the 2002 'xXx,' was a bust, despite the presence of B-picture diva Asia Argento. He did star in Sidney Lumet's quirky trial drama, 'Find Me Guilty', if anybody remembers. Having reappeared in episode three, Tokyo Drift (like this directed by Justin Lin), Dom's now living in the Dominican Republic with his girlfriend Letty (Michelle Rodriguez). (Note for devotees: in time this new movie fits between episodes three and four.) It's Dom and Letty in the opening frames, stealing a multiple-unit truckload of oil. But their trickery defies the laws of physics and human dexterity too much to matter, even if it weren't too soon to get our adrenalin to pump that hard. Vin's still as muscled and macho; he was lumpen before; now he's just a little thicker. So is his delivery of dialogue, which now has an extra half-second delay. But there's something that makes it hard not to like Vin.
Paul Walker (as Brian O'Connor) is similarly likable, with a prettier face. He doesn't have the bottle-blond golden boy look of the original 'The Fast and the Furious,' but he still has a square-jawed, sterling quality mingled with toughness that suits his role here as, now, a cop who turns rogue (or a rogue turned cop; he's not sure) aiming to serve higher ends--but unwilling to betray his old street-racing, law-breaking buddies. He aims to catch a drug kingpin his police boss seems content to let by, but he's forever loyal to Dom.
Walker, like Diesel, has star quality, though he too has not exactly had a blockbuster career. He did, however, star in the mind-bendingly over-the-top action flick 'Running Scared,' and got to play the martyred Marine platoon leader in Eastwood's 'Flags of Our Fathers.' Though the plot of 'Fast & Furious' may not always serve Walker and Diesel as well as it should, there's an authenticity about their line delivery still that puts across the myth of their camaraderie and loyalty to a code that Dom has, and Brian is still working on.
At least the movie has the sense to make the opening hijack attempt a failure. It leads Dom to go and hide out in L.A. with his sister Mia (Jordana Brewster), who used to be Brian's girlfriend. That flame, predictably, is easily reignited when the plot needs a romantic boost.
In the street race sequence, Dom has a GPS screen with a woman's soothing voice (that of Gal Gadot, an exotic new addition to the femmes list) to show the big boy and us where he is in his trajectory. This shows the influence of Paul WS Anderson's 'Death Race,' which took the car race genre up a notch. Alas, though, the slick technology takes us further away from the personal, homemade quality of street racing, which in the first episode was about horsepower and garage work and macho taunts, not visual stunts and hi tech screens. Despite all the crashes (more often head-over-heels than in real life) these movies make racing on the roads look safer than it should, which is why this movie has a detailed "DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME" disclaimer at the end. (And there is stunt driving in this movie, even though it's undercut by the CGI tricks.) You'd better believe that warning. Better not to drive at top speed into a half-shut Mexican mountain tunnel. And don't try catching a guy your pal has just dropped out a window, either.
It remains to be seen if this movie, which is still fun and fast, helps Diesel and Walker on to the star rules they may deserve, or, what seems equally possible, just sidetracks them further. Lovers of the franchise are not going to be howling with disappointment, but new converts at this stage seem unlikely.
6/10
Quick Reply
Related discussions
- Ask an AUB graduate anything
- Best movies
- Personal Statement help for English at University
- Official Arts University Bournemouth 2023 Applicant Thread
- Higher English - The Cheviot, the Stag, and the Black, Black Oil
- Upcoming Films Trailer thread
- What are your hobbies?
- Hunger Games: Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes film review thread
- Film studies ( hopefully specialising in Screenwriting) degree?
- Should I hide my true taste in film in order to not raise alarms or anything?
- Applying to study Film Production
- Is UEL as bad as everyone says?
- What is your least favourite film?
- TSR Big Fat Quiz of the Year 2023!
- Bournemouth University or MetFilm School (Leeds) for MA Cinematography
- Most accredited Uni for Creative Writing (Film) in Bristol?
- WJEC GCSE English Language 3rd June 2014 Official Thread
- People who study film/tv, what are your plans?
- Looking for a Film Production course?
- Help! MA in Documentary by practice
