Let's Not Listen: Film and TV reviews

The Ex

Amazingly, this isn't the dumbest part of the movie

The Ex pits an asshole versus an imbecile – and one imagines it's supposed to be clear with whom viewers are supposed to side. Formerly known as Fast Track and delayed forever, Jesse Peretz's comedy (written by a pair of freshman) tries to envelope-push like South Park and stage highly awkward scenes like The Office. What results is merely an embarrassment for all involved.

The Ex stars Zach Braff and Amanda Peet as Tom and Sofia, a New York couple on the verge of parenthood. Sofia is quitting her career as a lawyer to be not a housewife but “a full-time mom” -- she actually makes this distinction to a co-worker – hoping Tom, a chef in line for a promotion, can support the family. When Tom ends up in a maximum-hijinks scuffle with his boss (Paul Rudd) and gets fired, though, they obviously need a new plan. The solution: moving to Ohio so Tom can finally take up an offer from his father-in-law (Charles Grodin) to join his advertising company. (The fact that Tom doesn't have any experience in the field is apparently not an issue.) Once there, Tom finds out he'll be working under Chip (Jason Bateman), a paralyzed former cheerleader who was slightly more than friends with Sofia in high school. Chip is an awful human being who tries to sabotage Tom because he still carries a torch for Sofia. Naturally, no one believes Tom when he starts to make accusations. After all, how could a guy in a wheelchair be a jerk?

The script veers from the absurd to the appalling as the conflict plays out. Tom's new workplace is ridiculous – and, considering it's small-town Ohio, not terribly believable – teeming with cartoonish New Age types and practices such as tossing around an invisible “yes ball” to encourage a positive, freethinking atmosphere. Bob, Sofia's father, spouts intolerable psychobabble while her mother (Mia Farrow!) just babbles. Tom has a gift for only-in-a-wacky-comedy gaffes. And besides Rudd, other usually ace comedians such as Donal Logue and Fred Armisen make unfunny appearances as a superhippie corporate mogul and a bisexual perv, respectively.

The humor isn't merely bad, however – it's often jaw-droppingly racist and offensive to homosexuals (the word “gay” is used pejoratively on a couple occasions) and the disabled (a wheelchair-basketball game is set to “You Ain't Seen  Nothing Yet”). The very few jokes that work are quashed by the nastiness of the rest.

As Braff and Bateman belittle themselves, the most interesting storyline goes to Peet. Sofia's initial joy at motherhood turns into loneliness at being home all day and frustration with the one outlet she does find, a “baby group” whose mothers are psychotics who emphasize approaches such as asking one's baby permission before you do anything to them. Sofia's not immune to the script's caricature, but the character is by far the most human and sympathetic -- especially considering she has not one baby to deal with, but three.

copyright 2007 themoviebabe.com

Waitress

Waitress has received plenty of attention for a reason that has nothing to do with its quality: The film's writer, director, and co-star, Adrienne Shelly, was murdered shortly after the movie wrapped and was submitted to the Sundance Film Festival. Shelly never got to hear any reaction to Waitress, never even found out that it was accepted to the festival before she died.

Happily, there's no need for critics to go soft and sentimental because of the tragedy – Waitress is excellent, a lovely legacy for the former indie It girl. It's also a triumph for Keri Russell, the film's star. Russell plays Jenna, a Southern diner waitress with a talent for making pies. She's miserable with her rotten husband, Earl (Jeremy Sisto), whose behavior ranges from annoying (honking repeatedly as he's getting close when he picks her up) to abusive (casually belittling her and grabbing her when he's angry). Jenna's squirreling money away – Earl takes her tips every night – and hopes to leave him. But things get complicated when she finds out she's pregnant. Since their relationship isn't exactly affectionate, Jenna knows it happened the one night he got her wasted. “I do stupid things when I drink,” she tells her co-workers. “Like sleep with my husband.”

Waitress is a small movie, but its characters, its humor, and its warmth have universal appeal. Jenna decides to have the child, dreaming up pies in an effort to stave off her unhappiness about the situation. Resulting concoctions include I Hate My Husband Pie. Or, when she finds herself attracted to her new, bumbling doctor (Nathan Fillion), the I Can't Have No Affair Because Its Wrong and I Don't Want Earl to Kill Me Pie. Perhaps the most appealing thing about Jenna is that she doesn't suffer from movie-motherhood syndrome, going all gooey over the prospect of a little bundle. “I'm having the baby and that's that,” she informs a perplexed Dr. Pomatter. “It's not a party.”

Jenna's storyline is central, but Shelly beautifully fleshes out the supporting characters as well, including Becky (Curb Your Enthusiasm's Cheryl Hines) and Dawn (Shelly), her fellow lovelorn servers, and Joe (Andy Griffith), the cranky owner of the diner who comes in regularly to give Jenna hell with his picky orders and, eventually, the counsel and support that ultimately leads her to a life-changing decision. They're all likable while being far from saccharine, and more important, they all ring true: Becky has more to her than what threatens to be cliched Flo-like sass; the slightly dorky Dawn is lonely but not pitiable as she begins a relationship with someone who initially seems to be a loser – and even he isn't drawn as a misunderstood prince, just a decent person. The sharpest portrait, though, is Griffith's Joe, a character that every waitress in neighborhood joints country-wide will probably recognize. 

Russell is the movie's biggest surprise in her first leading big-screen role. Her Jenna is sweet with a side of tart and subtle all the way through. It's all in her face, from Jenna's mulling-it-over grimace when Earl is begging for sex to her outright horror when she spots someone else's screaming kid. Sisto is also slimily (and sometimes humorously) perfect as the poisonous husband who isn't a cardboard monster, but occasionally elicits moments of sympathy that more acutely demonstrate the tough spot Jenna's in. Though full of tiny truths, Waitress' main message is one that you can't help but hope Shelly practiced herself: “This life will kill you,” Joe advises Jenna. “Make the right choices.”

copyright 2007 themoviebabe.com

51 Birch Street

I love you so much I could just...strangle you

According to the director of 51 Birch Street, Mike and Mina Block are “hardly people you'd think of making a documentary about.” He should know: Doug Block is their son. And he went ahead and made a film about them anyway. Initially Block was videotaping his parents merely for posterity, but when his mother died suddenly – and his 83-year-old father then married his former secretary just as suddenly – he started to piece together a portrait of a marriage, Capturing the Friedmans-style.

Dad's remarriage, while shocking, isn't the only thing that inspired Block to turn the story of their 54-year partnership into a movie, though – Block's mother may have no longer been around to talk to her son about her life, but 35 years' worth of her daily journals, faithfully kept and openly written, were. 51 Birch Street is engrossing and uncomfortable, often offering stomach-twisting honesty about the true feelings behind the couple's photographed smiles.

Block's relationship with his still sprightly father was never very close, and he doesn't exactly spill his guts here about the strength  of his marriage or what, if anything, went on with his new wife, Kitty, 30 years before. But Mina's ruminations are aching, revealing inner turmoil and pretense that are scandalous if only because they occurred  in lives so seemingly ordinary. (Especially interesting are her insights about being a housewife in the straitjacketed '50s and turbulent '60s.) Block never suspected any unhappiness growing up, and seeks unknowable answers from his sisters, a friend of Mina's, and even a therapist and rabbi (both useless) as the reality sinks in. The project then becomes autobiography, with Block examining his own marriage and contentment in a new light. The triumph of 51 Birch Street is that, as you're driving home past fast-food joints and strip malls, you'll be thinking about your own life as well.

copyright 2007 themoviebabe.com   

The Flying Scotsman

Maybe they wouldn't beat you up if you took off that stupid helmet

The Flying Scotsman, the Man: Graeme Obree, a Scottish bike messenger and shopkeeper, husband and father of one. He and his wife, a nurse, barely make ends meet. Obree suffers from bipolar disorder, which hit him particularly hard after the sudden death of his brother in 1994.

The Flying Scotsman, the Legend: An amateur cyclist who designed and built a bike out of scraps and washing-machine parts. He used the bike and a revolutionary riding position to repeatedly break longstanding records. Despite his success, Obree could not escape his illness and attempted suicide several times.

The Flying Scotsman, the Movie: A flat, superficial telling of the inherently interesting story described above.

Director Douglas Mackinnon's debut film about the accomplishments of Obree (Jonny Lee Miller) begins ominously, showing a hooded character carrying a bike through the woods and tossing a rope over a tree branch. Cut to a wee Graeme singing in a choir, a handful of bullies sneering at him from outside the church. After services, the boy doesn't get very far before the other kids surround him and give him a mild thrashing. Graeme's old-school Scottish parents are upset, but don't want to run to the principal. “You're just going to have to learn to stand up to them,” his dad tells him. To help with speedy getaways, Graeme gets a bicycle for Christmas.

Some 20 years later, in 1993 Glasgow, Obree is still tooling around town on his bike, delivering packages lightning-quick – if to the wrong locations – and meeting Malky (The Lord of the Rings' Billy Boyd), a fellow courier and cycling enthusiast. Obree tells Malky of his crazy plan to attempt the break the world hour record, which had been set by an Italian professional rider some nine years back. And Obree was going to do it on a bike of his own design, figuring out the physics of making a more aerodynamic vehicle and using whatever parts he had available to him. Helping him with scrap and encouragement was Douglas Baxter (Brian Cox), a widowed minister who'd stopped at Obree's struggling bike shop on one of its final days. Malky becomes his manager, who suffers humiliations such as “Hey, I know you...you're the bike messenger!” when he represents himself as part of a firm and tries to get meetings with possible sponsors.

It took a trio of screenwriters – John Brown, Declan Hughes, and Simon Rose – to come up with what's ultimately an outline of Obree's life. Besides living an apparently stressful hand-to-mouth existence with his wife, Anne (Laura Fraser), and their barely glimpsed baby, there's no reason given regarding why Obree sets such an apparently impossible goal for himself, under impossible conditions. He fails, he succeeds, he sidesteps the spotlight, he aims high again – the movie is little but 96 minutes of career highlights. And the widely reported lows? See Obree alone on a stairwell at a celebration party. Or looking contemplative as he sits near a shore, telling a seemingly needlessly concerned Baxter, “Everyone gets down sometimes.”

One scene nearly conveys the hopelessness and desperation a manic-depressive may feel: After beating the world hour record on his second attempt, Obree falls apart when his achievement is topped about a week later. Somewhat ridiculously, he's apparently still dogged by his childhood bullies, who taunt him -- “You think yer better than us?” -- when he goes into their bar to use a phone. Later, Obree's depressed and alone in his house, hiding when one of his tormentors knocks on his door. The dude gives a long, allegedly biting speech of some sort – the actor's accent is too thick to decipher much – and Obree crumbles, holding his mouth as he cries in a desperate attempt to keep the man from hearing him.

Miller, at least, does well with what he's given. (Though, after a string of American flops such as Dracula 2000, Mindhunters, and Melinda and Melinda, it'd be difficult to do worse.) The Brit carries a respectable Scottish accent and remains likable despite his character's obsession with biking (when he naughtily tells his wife to get on the floor, it's only to prove a pedal theory of his) and general stubbornness (when the Union Cycliste Internationale bans his riding position, he refuses to race differently, even though it means almost certain disqualification). Fraser lends hints of the strong woman Obree's wife was supposed to be, going through hell whether financially or when dealing with her husband's demons, but Anne is used as little more than a cheerleader here. And Boyd, well, he's still Pippen, and even if you don't buy him as a get-it-done manager type, he's innocuous enough.

The racing scenes themselves are naturally exciting, although even here Mackinnon sometimes falters by just showing Obree zooming around a track, his legs blurred and his face pained, without any indication of time – he's sure going fast, but is it fast enough, or is he failing? And while Obree's breaking of the world hour record is shown, many of his later achievements are related only through newspaper headlines. We don't get any more information about his depression, either, except a repeat of the forest scene and a closeup of happy, then darkened eyes as Obree's final crowning closes the film. Regardless of the real man's achievements, the filmic Scotsman merely sputters.

 

copyright 2007 themoviebabe.com

Vacancy

Do your deathbeds come in king size?

There's no way around it: Vacancy is nasty. The premise is about a creepy motel owner, as if there's any other kind, who manages a gang of murderers and surreptitiously shoots snuff films in the rooms. He then sells them, and he also enjoys them – in fact, he's watching one of his creations at top volume when his next targets wander into the lobby at the start of the movie. But it's not like the guests don't get any warning. Each filthy room comes complete with a VHS collection of the men's previous work for the customers' viewing terror, heavy on women in nighties getting pulled around by their hair.

Yet...well, if you can excuse its inherent abhorrence, Vacancy is pretty good, too. Props go to director Nimrod Antal for maximizing tension while minimizing gore – are you listening, Eli Roth? --  which makes this most dangerous game way more palatable. It all begins with a slasher-flick cliche: Amy (Kate Beckinsale) and David (Luke Wilson), a couple on the verge of divorce, are on a road trip and realize they're lost after David tries a shortcut. Things get worse when he swerves to avoid a raccoon and screws up the car. Naturally, they're in the middle of nowhere, and naturally, it's the middle of the night. (It doesn't help that their honeymoon has long been over: When Amy repeatedly calls the animal they nearly hit a squirrel, David hisses, “You know? It was a fucking raccoon.”) So they reluctantly check in to a deserted motel, cared for by Mason (Frank Whaley), a thin, long-faced nerdly type with giant glasses and a grudge.

Vacancy is Antal's first American movie and only his second feature after his excellent debut, the Hungarian festival-favorite Kontroll. Like that film, Vacancy is highly claustrophobic, taking place mainly in the small motel room as well as a suffocating tunnel system underneath. It's also efficient: Amy and David have barely settled in when the phone rings (no one's there), there's banging on the door (no one's there), the phone rings again (you guessed it) and the banging resumes (this time on a door adjoining another room as well as the couple's own). It's all terrifically disturbing and should tense you up good for the rest of the hunt, in which Amy and David are heavily surveilled and find themselves seemingly trapped by terrifying, gray-masked killers who patiently wait to block the pair's every dodge.

Comparisons to Psycho are inevitable, but Antal pays homage to Hitchcock beyond the Bates-ian story line. The credits are dramatic and menacing, large red and white blocked letters accompanied by an aggressive string soundtrack. The director's shots are often elegant, too, such the moment he captures Amy's reaction to the car breaking down not by pointing the camera in her face, but capturing her reflection in the driver's side mirror. Though the British Beckinsale occasionally loses her American accent, she and Wilson are great as a combative couple and even better as victims – these characters actually sweat, get dirty, and cry during their ordeal, and you're frightened for them every minute (even when they're just sniping at each other). For a plot that's so gleefully disturbing, Vacancy offers a surprising amount of old-school class.

copyright 2007 themoviebabe.com

Fracture

Killing her softly

From the opening moments of Fracture, we know whodunit. A man witnesses his trophy wife cheating.    He confronts her. And then he pops a cap in her face. He doesn't bother to act innocent when the cops  show up. I shot her, he tells them. Here's the weapon. Case closed, it would seem. Or is it?

Of course it isn't. Ted Crawford (Anthony Hopkins), the murderous cuckold, has a twinkle in his eye when it all goes down, and though it first suggests far-gone madness, really it's delight that whatever   he's been scheming has been set in motion. Crawford staged the shooting as a hostage situation, to ensure (at least according to movie reality) that the first person he'd deal with would be Rob Nunally (Billy Burke), a negotiator and the dude who's been schtupping Crawford's woman (Embeth Davidtz). Her name is Jennifer Crawford, but Nunally only knew her as Mrs. Smith, because, well, at the time it seemed cute that they didn't know a damn thing about each other outside of the hotel bedroom. When Crawford  shows him Jennifer's barely breathing body, Nunally attacks him. Crawford's arrested and brought to the precinct to give an official confession, grinning with feathers sticking out of his mouth all the while.   

On the other side of the law, an ace assistant district attorney named Willy Beachum (Ryan Gosling) is celebrating his last days serving the public before starting a position at a prestigious corporate firm. He's called to take on one more case, though – Crawford's – and agrees only because it promises to be over by lunch. Especially when Crawford asks to represent himself, in an aw-shucks-it-can't-be-that-hard kind of way that leaves everyone agape. Even Beachum urges him to seek counsel, but isn't too upset about his next notch coming that much easier.

Fracture plays out like an extended sweeps-week version of Law & Order – it goes on too long, has extra-special guests, and delivers a that's-it? instead of the bang it so fervently makes you expect. Director Gregory Hoblit, who fashioned a hit out of similar if stronger material in his feature debut, 1996's Primal Fear, may be to blame for the pacing problems that makes Fracture's nearly two-hour running time occasionally drowsy. But as he did with that movie's Edward Norton, who nabbed  an Oscar nomination, Hoblit gets terrific performances out of his stars. Then again, it'd probably be difficult not to: Hopkins' portrayal of a callous criminal will inevitably be compared to his Hannibal Lecter. Crawford isn't nearly as psychotic, but the actor's approach is just as fun to watch – he winks, he smiles, he seizes your attention with his lined face and expressive blue eyes that suggest he's way smarter than you are and is having a great time watching you try to figure him out. The greener Gosling, himself an Oscar nominee for last year's Half Nelson, is equally dazzling as the cocksure lawyer who's got as much charm as self-confidence in his ability to win no matter what the circumstances.

And the circumstances in this case are certainly stacked against him. The confiscated weapon isn't the  gun Crawford shot, and nobody can figure out where that one is. Regardless, Beachum continues his dig, and even if you don't figure out what's going on before the lawyer does, you're sure to be underwhelmed when the aha! moment arrives. Like with so many thrillers, implausibility is Fracture's weakness. Unlike so many thrillers, though, the cat and mouse don't get any more sensational than this, so best to watch them play and pretend you're as dumb as the characters ultimately turn out to be.

 

copyright 2007 themoviebabe.com