Let's Not Listen: Film and TV reviews

Sleuth - Dan in Real Life

First game: Finding me a barber

There are filmgoers who delight in the use of words such as "codswallop" in a script, while others have their fun scoffing when they see piles of the stuff itself littered throughout one. Viewers for whom both conditions apply will have a difficult time judging Sleuth, a cat-and-mouse, mano a mano, battle-of-the-wits, gotcha! and gotcha again! remake of a 1972 film starring Laurence Olivier and Michael Caine as, respectively, an older-but-suave codger and the poor-but-charming pretty thing who's unabashedly stealing his wife. Here, Caine's the codger and Jude Law the youthful tosser. It's the second time Law's taken over a Caine chestnut. (Alfie's 2004 redo was the first. Next, Beyond the Poseidon Adventure.)

 

Sleuth is, above all else, a theater lover's movie. The first film was based on a play and adapted by the playwright, Anthony Shaffer; this adaptation is by another stage scribe, Nobel Laureate Harold Pinter, and directed by Shakespeare obsessive Kenneth Branagh. The pair slashed the original's running time, with Pinter disposing much of the dialogue along with it. Still, the drama crackles like the best of Broadway: Pinter's clipped rhythms, the confined (and often non-)action, the Spartan yet gorgeously ubermodern and otherworldly set that's practically a character in itself, all vacuum your attention and give you the feeling that maybe you should have unwrapped that candy before the show began. Of course, there's also the matter of the thespian masterclass that happens to be taking place within the story's frame. Like this year's recent Interview, Sleuth shows what good actors can do when they've given a lot of lines and little else. Unlike Interview, which was directed by and starred Steve Buscemi, however, Sleuth feels less like an exercise. (Though this one's as much of a vanity piece, with Law producing.)

 

It's a character-driven plot. Andrew Wyke (Caine) is a wealthy crime novelist who's aware that his wife is cheating on him. So he invites her lover, an aspiring actor/current hairdresser, Milo Tindle (Law), over to his heavily surveilled estate for a chat. After some small – and, naturally, witty – talk, Andrew gets right to it: "I understand you're fucking my wife." Milo doesn't flinch. "We fuck each other. That's what people do." So that's how it's gonna be – a lot of chest-thumping and you-don't-scare-me cockiness lurking just beneath their polite British veneers. Until Andrew decides to make Milo a deal. The scarlet woman, Margeurite (seen only in a photo), is accustomed to a life of luxury, Andrew says, which Milo obviously can't afford to provide. So there are some jewels, see, stashed in the mansion's safe. Andrew's arranged a fence to buy them; he needs only Milo to break into his home and stage a fake robbery. Then Milo gets the spoils – including the woman – Andrew gets the insurance, and everyone lives happily.

 

The proposition clearly belongs in a Bad Idea Jeans commercial, but Milo goes along anyway with a glint in his eye. It's not much of a giveaway to say that things turn into what Andrew calls "a game...with a knife and a gun." (And the woman, by the way, isn't nearly as important as their rivalry.) There's a bigger twist, though, around the midway point, and this is when the film's serious flaws start to burble to the surface. In this particular case, it's likely that even those who haven't seen the original movie won't be fooled by a key wrench in Andrew's plan. And from then on out, inconsistencies in the characters that seemed forgivable before now veer more wildly as their I'll-one-up-you-but-good relationship escalates. Most egregiously, sometimes – often, even – these men are sharp. Confident. But suddenly they'll turn into dopes flummoxed and unraveled by the other player's (usually waaaay obvious) move. It's refreshing to see Caine play vulnerable, and here he sobs and begs (though regally, if possible) and looks as much a lonely old man as a sophisticated one. You'll buy his performance, just not Andrew's reaction. Law is a worthy match, though he's in a similarly tough spot trying to inhabit a character who's charming, bratty, warm, cold, stupid, smart.

 

Branagh's direction ranges from hyperstylized to theatrically spare, but it's nearly always more interesting than the actual conflict between the characters. He chooses to view many scenes through the house's surveillance cameras; at one point, we watch the black and white video feed of Andrew answering his front door on his flat-screen TV. (Less effective is the overused, somewhat ridiculous one-eyed zoom.) Mainly, though, Branagh blocks with the simplicity of a stage director, the actors merely standing across from each other as they tear into their lines, and from these setups come the most thrilling, seductive moments. You may become enamored, but all the game-playing here will likely make your love go cold.

 

 

Seriously, my character's in love with Dane Cook?

 

Dan in Real Life resembles real life in only the worst way: It's as bland as your workweek is long. But it's a romantic comedy, so reality really should have little to do with it, anyway – and indeed, overall it's sitcom-ready. Only that doesn't work, either.

 

A love triangle is also at the heart of Dan in Real Life, but there are no supermen jousting for her. There's just Dan (Steve Carell), a sad-sack advice columnist who's raising his three daughters alone since his wife died. While in Rhode Island for a reunion with his overbearing family, Dan meets Marie (Juliette Binoche) in a bookstore. They get on fabulously, but she's taken, so they say goodbye. And then hello: Back at the cabin, Marie is re-introduced to Dan as Annie, the new girlfriend of his brother Mitch (Dane Cook). Right before that, Dan had been beaming that he'd met someone – the fam gets seriously on his case for being alone – but of course, he never lets on that it's Annie/Marie. Oh, what miserable/hilarious misunderstandings lay ahead!

 

Dan in Real Life was directed and co-written by Peter Hedges, whose edgier Pieces of April also had some made-for-TV moments but then stunned you with an emotional wallop. (Also scripting his Pierce Gardner, whose 2000 Lost Souls is one of the most dreadful movies ever made.) With this film, Hedges tries to counter broad with low-key: Dan's gigantic extended family, headed by Dianne Weist and John Mahoney, is maddening in their cheery preciousness, not only possessing no sense of boundaries (ha ha, look at how they all crowd Dan's room to talk about his lack of sex!) but also so fun fun fun that their gatherings include talent shows, gender-divided crossword competitions, and – ugh – aerobics classes in which they each take turns leading while a feel-good song plays. In contrast, Dan and Marie are normal, though said normalcy translates predominantly into his passivity and her sainthood.

 

Anyone who's seen Evan Almighty knows that Carell's presence doesn't necessarily translate into huge laughs, and there really aren't any here. (Small charms, yes, but also big saccharine.) It's not all bad: The chemistry between Carell and Binoche is the truest part of the film, and parents might respond to Dan's difficulty with his daughters. ("You're a good father, but sometimes you're a bad dad," the youngest whimpers. Aww.) That's not to say that Dan in Real Life won't be a crowd-pleaser, though. In fact, its very innocuousness nearly guarantees it.

copyright 2007 letsnotlisten.com

Ha!

Oh Ripley, we can no longer laugh with you...and by 'with' I of course mean 'at'

This just in, courtesy of the Mercury News:

CBS’s big gamble of the season has officially gone bust.

The network has reportedly dropped the hammer on “Viva Laughlin'’ after just two episodes (Thursday’s special preview and another hour on Sunday) watched by only the show’s cast and crew and their immediate families. (Actually, we have doubts some of them watched.)

Honestly, I was surprised it lasted for two eps, but I figured once the execs took it that far, they'd keep it going to see what happens. Damn -- now I'll have to give Tila Tequila another, pardon me, shot as my go-to train wreck.

Viva Laughlin, Cop(UnRock)ping Out?

Anyone who watched both of Viva Laughlin's first two episodes -- anyone? -- might have noticed a difference in last night's: There wasn't an awful lot of singing. (Awful singing, yes...) The characters warbled a couple of times, to "I'm Still Standing" and "Money," but when the soundtrack dropped "Fat Bottomed Girls," for instance, it was used, well, normally --as decoration and embellishment, overobvious as the song choice was.

Did the creators get stagefright after filming the premiere, suddenly realizing that America is perhaps not ready for another (bad) TV musical? Will they, from now until cancellation, focus on the (bad) drama?

Don't get me wrong, the show was still terrible. (My God, those flashbacks!) But if Ripley et al are no longer going to be singing and dancing -- embarrassingly and often -- like the paycheck whores the poor actors no doubt are, then there goes Viva's kitsch value. Which, for those keeping score, would then leave it with nothing.

Viva Laughlin

Wealth, certainly. Taste, not so much.

The biggest surprise about Viva Laughlin, CBS’s new “mystery drama with music,” is that the singing and dancing isn’t the worst thing about it. Still, that is bad enough. Even when you’re on Broadway, interrupting a story with a ditty and a little soft shoe is always a dicey proposition, and this show compounds the weirdness by ditching the traditional concept of a musical for something more akin to dramatic karaoke. These guys don’t belt out their own tunes, they sing along with songs. Popular ones, like “Viva Las Vegas,” crooned by casino owner Ripley Holden (Lloyd Owen). And “Sympathy for the Devil,” cued up when Ripley decides to take a meeting with his nemesis, a fellow mogul with another only-on-TV name, Nicky Fontana.

“Please allow me to introduce myself / I’m a man of wealth and taste,” Fontana sings -– accompanying Mick Jagger, remember—after getting out of a helicopter in a shiny suit. He then struts into his casino, parting a sea of cooing dancing girls, jumps on a roulette table, and raises his eyebrows when he gets to the part about “lay[ing] your soul to waste / Oom yeah!” Onlookers watch without expression, as if they’re waiting for the guy to finish up a conversation.

Did I mention that Fontana is played by Hugh Jackman?

 

Jackman is also one of the Max Bialystocks behind Viva Laughlin, which is based on a six-episode British series, Blackpool. As often happens, things went awry somewhere in the translation. Blackpool wasn’t Cop Rock, with solemn situations accompanied by earnest -– and, worse, original and terribly written -– songs. The series isn’t available on Region 1 DVD, but watch any clip on YouTube and you’ll get a sense of the show’s appeal: despite the fact that it was fundamentally a murder mystery, it didn’t take itself very seriously. Star David Morrissey had sideburns, bad hair, and a slightly goofy way about him when he was dancing and singing on tabletops; the musical numbers, when not poignant, were infectiously silly and joyful. Good whodunits and good sing-alongs tend to be irresistible, and the creators of Blackpool combined the two without appearing like crackpots devising the next Springtime for Hitler.

The Viva Laughlin premiere is at least that awful. Owen, a British actor best known for appearing in the 2006 film Miss Potter, is a cocky son of a bitch, and not in a sexy Hugh Laurie kind of way. When he tries to pull off the kind of nerdy-parent joshing that The O.C.‘s Peter Gallagher was so good at, it’s just atrocious. Admittedly, he’s working with poor material. In the opening scene, Ripley roars into the kitchen in his casino-fab white jacket and wishes his son, Jack (Carter Jenkins), a happy birthday. When Jack reminds him that his birthday was two weeks ago, Ripley playfully replies, “Yeah, well, tick-tock, tick-tock. All good things come to he who waits!” Ripley’s Stepford wife, Natalie (Madchen Amick), points out that their daughter, Cheyenne (Ellen Woglom), is on the phone with a new boyfriend, whereupon Ripley asks, “Is this one human, or is he like all the others?” Huh?

The plot adheres to the premise of British series. Ripley’s about to open a casino hotel when one of his investors drops out. His options are either sweet-talking an old flame, Bunny Baxter (Melanie Griffith), who happens to be the wife of said investor, or offering Nicky Fontana a share. Neither of these works, but before the day is through, the former investor is found dead. Bunny’s hysterical and points the finger at Ripley in front of an apparently 12-year-old cop, Peter Carlyle (Eric Winter). (“Who were you with last night?” Ripley counterattacks. To which Griffith’s Bunny tearfully responds, “I was with my yoga teacher!” Good stuff.) So Peter starts tracking Natalie in hope of getting dirt on Ripley, very creepily walking up to her SUV as she’s pulling out of the driveway and later pretending to run into her at a grocery store, making small talk that’s not at all suspicious such as “So, you’re not looking as happy today. What’s up?”

Viva Laughlin is at its worst when it goes for what in a more competent series would be intensity; in this version, it's skimpy melodrama with more bad dialogue. Ripley and Natalie tuck in one night, and he’s a little quiet. “Would you believe a headache?” Ripley asks. “I’d believe secrets!” his wife harrumphs before turning over. The next day, at the scene of the murder, he peals away from a just-arriving Natalie in his hot rod for no reason; she yells out, “Ripley! Ripley!” (Are you getting sick of the name yet? She uses it a lot.) The lazy-writing prize, though, goes to a scene in which the two have a by-the-numbers argument about his career choice. If you can’t predict that Ripley won’t soon shout the line, “I am doing the best I can for this family!” you haven’t watched enough television.

The most egregious number, though, is set to Bachman, Turner Overdrive’s “Let It Ride.” Ripley sings the chorus like a superhero as he stomps into Fontana’s casino to make a bet. It’s also montage time, so the interlude serves as a recap, featuring Natalie, who appears every time the line “And would you cry” is sung, and guess what she’s doing. Weep, dear Madchen, for your career, for Jackman’s reputation, for all of us who have spent an hour gawking at a train wreck.

copyright letsnotlisten.com

The Simpsons: Season 19 premiere

                                                                                   Say You, Say Meh

The Simpsons has earned all kinds of accolades over the past 18 years. But lately the longest-running American sitcom may as well be stamped with the Krusty Brand Seal of Approval.

While writer turnover is as inevitable as creative burnout when a show spans nearly two decades, The Simpsons‘ decline was at first gradual and excusable, then sudden and difficult to watch. Were the new scripters even fans? Homer became an angry ass instead of a cranky buffoon. And classic jokes were shamelessly repeated, as if the creators didn’t realize that many viewers know past episodes by heart.

Then the series got a big-screen jolt. This summer’s The Simpsons Movie may not have matched the show’s best moments, but it was a pretty impressive try. Sharply drawn both literally and figuratively, the film offered satire and a Simpsons-save-the-day story arc that was saturated with old-fashioned sight gags and witty one-liners. True, series creator Matt Groening and executive producer James L. Brooks had to bring in old blood to pull it off. But the success of the project likely kept a number of the disheartened from giving up on the show for good.

Wisely, the Season 19 premiere milks that high right from the start. You’re lulled by the familiar intro—the opening notes of Danny Elfman’s theme song, the logo materializing among the clouds—and, hurray, a chalkboard gag: “I will not wait 20 years to make another movie,” Bart writes before blazing out of the school on his skateboard. But then… wait, what’s going on? Bart’s ride through town is different. Springfield, destroyed at the end of the movie, is still in ruins, and the boy careens off of pieces of the dome that had quarantined the city and zips past “Burns Construction” signs, the Alaskan “Boob Lady,” Moe in a short robe and traffic-cone hat. The Simpsons’ house is little more than a frame, but a couch remains, along with Spider-Pig.

The reinvented introduction is, quite frankly, thrilling, a shot of creativity that Simpsons fans haven’t seen since the live-action opening created by a British ad agency a couple years back. What follows, well, it isn’t so hot. But at least you’ll be in a forgiving mood.

The episode begins at the Springfield Mall, where Mr. Burns is checking things such as “spats” off his shopping list when he spots a coin in the fountain and tries to grab it. Because Burns is so frail he’s practically boneless, however, he gets sucked into the fountain and spit out the top. (Nearly drowning, he thinks, “I just wish I’d spent more time at the office,” a line that’s way too close to a recent 30 Rock joke.) Homer comes along and pulls Burns out. Sudden benevolence? Nope: “Hey, you’re not a penny!” Homer moans.

To thank him, Burns offers to takes Homer out to dinner, an evening that ends up with the two flying to Chicago on Burns’ private jet for pizza. The plane ride and its luxuries—sushi, a sexy flight attendant, no one to stop Homer from bringing a full bottle of lotion on board—makes Homer realize that his everyday life is lacking. To alleviate his depression, Marge hires a life coach named Colby to help Homer “get back on a private plane in no time.” Colby sees that Homer acts like a loser everywhere but in the bowling alley, so he makes Homer wear his bowling shoes 24/7. The job offers start pouring in.

Stephen Colbert plays Colby, a more successful bit of stunt casting than Lionel Richie, whose presence is as relevant as the episode's  moonwalking and Harlem Globetrotters jokes. Colbert brings the same misguided arrogance he’s perfected on The Daily Show and The Colbert Report ("Remember the NDCs of concentration: Never Don’t Concentrate"), but here he’s only fitfully amusing.

 

The same can be said of the episode as a whole. There are bright spots of old-school, risqué humor on subjects from terrorism to drug use, and the mall scenes reliably offer a stream of punny store names. But too often, the comedy relies on grotesqueries (Burns’ trip through the fountain isn’t pretty), gags that go on too long, and Homer’s knee-jerk rage. The premiere hints that The Simpsons‘ 19th season will be worth watching, but with the Krusty Brand caveat: “It’s not just good. It’s good enough.”

copyright 2007 letsnotlisten.com

Mission: Man Band

Or simply, "Mand."

“There’s technique in this, man!” says Bryan Abrams, former lead singer of ‘90s R&B group Color Me Badd. He’s not talking about vocal approaches or songwriting skills. No, the Oklahoma City resident is demonstrating how to roll three tires at once through a garage at his current job. “If you’re happy and you know it, stack a tire!” he warbles.

It’s not “I Wanna Sex You Up.” But if Abrams were still selling records instead of Goodyears, he wouldn’t be starring in Mission: Man Band, the VH1 reality series that means to “prove once and for all that there’s life after boy bands.” He’s joined by three other recent shadow-dwellers with that accursed term forever engraved on their resumes: Chris Kirkpatrick from ‘N Sync, Jeff Timmons from 98 Degrees, and Rich Cronin from LFO. They’ll be living in Kirkpatrick’s impressive home for a month, as they try to form their own group, pump out a hit, and recapture some long lost fan love.

“It hurts when I say ‘boy band,’” Kirkpatrick admits with a wince. VH1 is banking that self-respecting music lovers feel the same way. Should the phrase ever escape their lips? Take a cue from Katie McNeil, the allegedly ball-busting exec who agrees to manage them, yet introduces herself with a proper scoff in her voice: “I was not, you know, into the whole boy band thing.”

But even if you park yourself on the couch ready to laugh at Mission: Man Band, you may be surprised at the sympathy the show wrests out of the performers’ stories. (Especially considering how choppily edited the debut episode is, cramming as much information as possible into 30 minutes.) Cronin in particular is impervious to mocking: in 2005, the “Summer Girls” songwriter was diagnosed with leukemia and has since undergone extensive treatment. The handling of this is somewhat odd, as the show includes footage of Cronin in Boston that same year, in a hospital bed and speaking to the camera about the ordeal. The source of this tape is never revealed, but it’s only a minor distraction from Cronin’s comments, as when he learned he had the disease: “My father [asked the doctor], ‘What are his chances?’ And when he said that, that had never even occurred to me, you know? ... There was a time I didn’t think I was even going to get out of bed again.”

If the project means the most to Cronin, it seems only a pain in the ass to Timmons. (Somewhere in between is Abrams, who has one baby and another on the way, and Kirkpatrick, whose feel-sorry-for-me angle is that he drinks too much because he misses being in a band.) Timmons says that he’s been writing and producing music since 98 Degrees’ heyday and has been happy to stay out of the spotlight, but agreed to participate in the project for fun. As soon as McNeil is introduced, however—by way of a mysterious missive with the letters “KM” on the envelope—Timmons balks.

McNeil sends along sheet music of the Police’s “Every Breath You Take” and instructs them to learn it. “You know, instead of auditioning for this guy with this song, I’d rather not do that,” McNeil announces. They all agree to stick together and not sing, but change their minds, mostly, they say, because McNeil is a woman, and a va-va-voomy one at that. But Timmons holds out, and proceeds to spend the night pacing the hallways, confiding in the morning that he was “really upset” about the meeting. “Talking to Jeff,” Kirkpatrick says later,” I think there’s no doubt that this wasn’t what he bargained for.” It’s the episode’s first truly what-the-hell? moment.

The second results from a gimmick that, although short-lived, may
make viewers turn off their TVs. McNeil tells the men that they’re going on “a little adventure. It’s a Native American ritual about new beginnings, and it’s something that’s very real.” No way a group of dudes who think auditioning is for chumps is going to allow their manager to force them to take some hokey spiritual journey, right? Wrong. Everyone’s into it, readily discussing their dreams about becoming better people and contributing to the world. Abrams tears up.

It’d be moving if it didn’t feel so obviously scripted. Mission: Man Band doesn’t try to avoid typical reality-show touches such as creatively edited dialogue or spliced-in zooms on someone’s disgusted expression, but, at least in the first episode, these are not egregious. Anyone already inured to this kind of production won’t find this series’ ploys a huge turn-off. And the teaser for the second episode is effective: Abrams starts drinking heavily! Unintentionally hilarious is Cronin’s comment about the drama, “What good is a lead singer if he isn’t sober?” Then again, this is the boy-band lifestyle we’re talking about, not rock ’n’ roll.

copyright 2007 letsnotlisten.com

30 Days of Night

Vampires just aren't that scary when you already suck

The idea behind 30 Days of Night, a vampire movie based on a graphic novel, is head-smackingly brilliant. What better place for creatures who feast by night and disintegrate by day to go party but Barrow, Alaska, which gets hit with an approximately monthlong period of darkness every year? (Well, OK, they'd get more mileage out of Antarctica, but that wouldn't be giving our protagonists very good odds.) It's a pity, then, that director David Slade wasted the opportunity and turned the book's story into a horror film that's not frightening, or creepy, or even terribly cool – the best adjective for it is matter-of-fact.

Josh Hartnett – there's a negative already – plays Eben, the town sheriff who's on the outs with his cop wife, Stella (Melissa George). But she's forced to work with him when a bizarre stranger (Ben Foster) shows up at a diner and taunts Eben with vague comments such as, "So sweet, sooo helpless about what is coming," and it becomes clear that the residents have more to worry about than SAD.

The fact that Slade, who last directed the 2005 thriller Hard Candy, doesn't rely on cheap scares is an initial asset, with shadowy figures, menacing sounds, and omens such as severed dogs' heads establishing the creepiness. But then that restraint quickly becomes dull: Several tense moments end in action that's too drawn-out to jolt, which leaves you with little more than uninspired chase-catch-attack sequences and strategizing-in-attics scenes ripped from 28 Days/Weeks Later. And the victims themselves are as colorless as the vampires' skin, unless you really care about Eben and Stella's troubled marriage or the confused old man who's shamelessly played for sentimentality.

As for the undead themselves, at least they're stylin', partial to black overcoats and eye makeup and led by a suave Danny Huston. The decision to let the vampires speak to each other in their own language, however, cuts their slickness a bit: It may be OK to chat in what sounds like particularly phlegmy German when you're talking about, say, mauling some dumb human. But asides such as, "We should have come here ages ago!" is less appropriate for a serious graphic-novel adaptation than Dracula: Dead and Loving It.

copyright 2007 letsnotlisten.com

Things We Lost in the Fire - Reservation Road

No, no, no...too sexy!!!!

Things We Lost in the Fire seems like the kind of fall movie that fixes itself in theaters with the sternness of a schoolteacher. Its plot involves the murder of a family man, the anger of a widow, the rehabilitation of a drug addict. The banners, therefore, that the film not so much waves but holds aloft like picket signs upon its arrival can't be missed: These actors, in this case Halle Berry and Benicio Del Toro, are indeed courting Oscar. And audience members, you will feel your guts punched, your hearts wrenched, your mascara running. Bring tissues, and if possible a hard back for your chair, because such rawness shouldn't be experienced from the comfort of a cushy stadium seat.

 

Remarkably, though, the American debut of Danish director Susanne Bier feels neither like an Academy groveler nor homework assignment – it's simply a solid drama, more blemished by small, forgivable missteps than grandiosity. Allan Loeb's script (it's his first release, though a lineup of productions has him set up to become Hollywood's It Scribe) is built, for instance, on a cliche: Steven and Audrey Burke (David Duchovny and Berry) are blissfully wed. He's a successful real-estate developer, making enough money that Audrey need only concern herself with further beautifying their home and taking care of their gorgeous kids, 10-year-old Harper (Alexis Llewellyn) and six-year-old Dory (Micah Berry, no relation to Halle).

 

The couple's biggest conflict is over Steven's friendship with Jerry (Del Toro), a heroin addict who was his best bud growing up. "Every time you leave here [to see him]," Audrey tells Steven when he wants to visit Jerry on his birthday, "I'm scared to death you won't come back." He goes anyway. Turns out that Audrey's fear was misguided. Steven was fine in the ghetto; it was in their own clean, idyllic suburb where he was in danger, killed while out on an ice-cream run. Ever the perfect man, Steven died being a hero, shot when he intercepted a man beating his wife and tried to call 911.

 

Things We Lost in the Fire is told in flashbacks, with the first major scene occurring the day of Steven's funeral. It's here we meet his friend – Jerry, whom Audrey realized in a panic she'd forgotten to tell about her husband's death and therefore sends her brother to fetch him from his hole-in-the-wall apartment; Jerry, who cleaned up nice, even if his suit is a little big, and has an easy manner with the kids; Jerry, whom Audrey thanks profusely for coming before blurting out, "I hated you. I hated you for so many years." And then, as the film backs over itself, we see why. Audrey wasn't only worried about Steven's safety when he was with him. She thought the forever-relapsing Jerry was hopeless. Pathetic. A liar and a thief – when a few twenty-dollar bills go missing from the family car, Audrey is sure she knows what happened. But Steven saw goodness in him, and they loved each other, and Audrey needs something to fill the crater left by her husband's passing. So she spends some time with Jerry the day of the funeral, and later goes to visit him, only to discover he's moved from the tenement to a meth clinic. And the more she thinks about it, the more Audrey realizes that, beneath Jerry's druggie exterior lies, well, Benicio Del Toro (OK, he also seems like a decent guy), so she invites him to stay in the family's finished garage until he can clean up.

 

For all its drama and sadness, Things We Lost in the Fire is a rather quiet movie. Bier, whose last project, 2006's After the Wedding, was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film, lets Audrey's grief play out in little ways – her hesitation to go into Steven's office, her sudden outburst at the breakfast table when the kids are teasing each other – while Jerry's presence unobtrusively makes everyone feel better. The character isn't some magical gutterboy there to teach everyone life lessons. He's just a distraction – someone for Audrey to cook for and ask after, someone for the kids to play basketball with. And their company, not to mention the simple fact of treating him like a worthy human being, puts the pressure on the clearly personable and whip-smart Jerry to stop using. (Lest you imagine bluebirds singing by midfilm, it's hardly a cure-all.) This isn't a story about loss as much as the power of interaction to help heal. One scene in particular, in which a dinner guest simply asks Audrey a battery of mundane questions about Steven, demonstrates this astonishingly well.

 

There are wrong notes here, including an out-of-character scene in which Audrey, all sultry-like, tells Jerry that she wants to try heroin, and Bier is obsessed with the one-eye closeup, which not only doesn't add much in the first place, she uses the shot so often it starts to feel parodic. But it's – yes – the performances that elevate Things We Lost in the Fire into something so utterly watchable. Berry is at her Monster's Ball best with a tough character, forced to switch from generous and loving to bitter and angry with the unpredictability of a mourner; her Audrey is both warm and steely, sometimes to a frightening degree. Del Toro, though, is simply riveting. Again, his triumphs are small, mostly masterstrokes of expression: Jerry's slightly panicked look while eating dinner with Audrey's kids and a couple of their young friends. Or his rather funny befuddlement when a neighbor drops by, while Jerry's in midsmoke, to ask if he wants to go jogging. Of course, the character is a user, so there are moments when Del Toro needs to dial it up. Even as Jerry's relapsing, though, Del Toro spares us the histrionics. Still, you've never seen anyone play half-dead better.

 

 

In acting class, we call this our child's-tragic-death face.

 

Reservation Road is also a serious-with-a-capital-S tale of woe, but unlike Things We Lost in the Fire, you won't for a second forget it. The film is, after all, about the death of a child. Accidental. A hit and run. So, to top it all off, somebody must pay. If the tragedy itself doesn't keep your spirits crushed for the better part of two hours, the hunt for revenge will.

 

Unless, of course, you're rolling your eyes at the whole thing. Here, the acting is again largely understated and impressive – Joaquin Phoenix, Mark Ruffalo, and Jennifer Connelly star – but there's no saving the absurdly structured story, which was co-adapted from a John Burnham Schwartz novel by Schwartz and director Terry George (Hotel Rwanda). It begins on an autumn Connecticut night. The Learner family, Ethan (Phoenix), Grace (Connelly), and daughter Emma (Elle Fanning) are driving home from a recital featuring their son, Josh (Sean Curley), when they stop at a gas station so Emma can use the restroom. Meanwhile, Dwight (Ruffalo) is spending some rare time with his own son, Lucas (Eddie Alderson), at a Red Sox game, trying not to get frustrated by the frequent calls from his ex-wife (Mira Sorvino), who's demanding to know when he's bringing Lucas home. When the game ends, they take the same road the Learners followed – and right by the gas station, Dwight loses control of his SUV and runs over Josh, killing him instantly. Lucas was asleep; Dwight panics, tells him that they hit a log, and takes off, apparently too whipped by his ex to realize that leaving the scene of a fatal accident just might be worse than a tongue-lashing.

 

Dwight's reaction might be more plausible if he were just a garden-variety dumbass, but get this: The dude's a lawyer. Still, I suppose, you can be forgiving, reasoning that no matter what his education and training, the man is human and made a poor decision under duress. (Dwight does mutter something in a video-camera confession about fearing that he'd lose his son, though he wasn't drunk at the time or behaving recklessly.) But there's a much greater narrative manipulation to swallow, one that I won't give away (though others have, if you're so inclined to look for it), only because the initial shock of the twist is momentarily gratifying. Unfortunately, it's not long before it just seems unbelievable.

 

Ultimately, Reservation Road uses the Learners' loss to set up a face-off between Ethan and Dwight, which forces nuance to the sidelines. Connelly has some excellent, wrenching moments as a mother in the mourning, but Grace and Emma are mostly props to show how distant Ethan is becoming as his frustration and anger over the situation -- particularly, the seeming ineptitude of the police investigation -- increase. (Other props: Google and chat rooms, two of the laziest, least exciting devices to reveal a character's thoughts known to modern filmmaking.) Phoenix, known for edgier fare, is remarkably quiet and regular-dad-ish even as Ethan's obsession grows; a bushy beard helps soften his typically intense face.

 

But Ruffalo – also playing against type, in his case the teddy-bear sort -- is perhaps the best performer here, partly because of the thanklessness of his role. It may be difficult to comprehend Dwight's decision, but Ruffalo makes it easy to feel how completely it wrecks him, how uncomfortable simple existence has become: He can't look people in the eye. His lies are automatic and painfully endless. And you can see, in his every twitch, that giving himself up is forever at the back of his mind. The tension is unbearable for both the character and the audience – but it's so drawn out, with little payoff or redemption, that you're bound to snap out of the story and be reminded that it's all just a contrivance to make Dwight dance. It's one thing to wallow along with a film's tragic turns; it's another to humor a maudlin masquerade.

copyright 2007 letsnotlisten.com

The Heartbreak Kid

Eh, maybe 1 1/4.

In The Heartbreak Kid’s Seinfeldian universe, singing along to “Muskrat Love” isn’t only a red flag, it’s grounds for divorce. Eddie Cantrow isn’t an unreasonable man, however. He thinks it’s a blast to belt out Springsteen’s “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)” with his wife while road-tripping to Mexico for their honeymoon. But everyone knows that car karaoke gets old, especially when the radio excretes stuff like Barry Manilow, the Spice Girls, and that rodent-themed Captain & Tennille classic. So as Eddie’s new bride, Lila, keeps on warbling to song after godawful song, it suddenly becomes clear to him that she’s less babe than siren.

Bobby and Peter Farrelly don’t bring any fresh insight or relevance to their remake of 1972’s Elaine May–directed, Neil Simon–scripted The Heartbreak Kid—their deepest change is switching the female characters’ hair colors, so that now Mrs. Wrong is the bombshell blonde and Mrs. Right the sensible brunette—but debating the “necessity” of a film’s redo has gotten as tiring as the recent onslaught of regurgitated scripts themselves. Mainly, the brothers have taken a decent comedy and turned it into a…decent comedy, albeit this time said decency is delivered with a considerable dose of the Farrellys’ trademark raunch.

Ben Stiller replaces the original’s Charles Grodin, and considering the main character’s position as a man whose patience is chipped away slowly, then exponentially, by his wife’s every newly discovered quirk, the casting is perfect. His Eddie, the owner of a San Francisco sporting-goods store, isn’t quite the kind of loser that Stiller played in the Farrellys’ There’s Something About Mary, but he’s still an outsider: At 40, Eddie is a bachelor, harassed about being alone by his father (played by his real-life dad, Jerry Stiller) and best friend, Mac (Rob Corddry). Dad complains that Eddie doesn’t “crush pussy” often enough; Mac tries to convince Eddie that marriage is bliss, though really Mac just wants the comfort of knowing someone as henpecked as he is. Eddie’s low point comes on Valentine’s Day, when he attends the wedding of a former girlfriend and is forced to sit with kids (because it’s the “singles table”) and listen to a speech in which his once-potential father-in-law muses about approving his daughter’s choice: “That’s because he’s the first guy she’s brought home that wasn’t a total asshole!” Meanwhile, Eddie’s tablemates discuss whether he’s gay.

After the ceremony, though, Eddie meets an environmental researcher named Lila (Malin Akerman), and after six weeks of googly-eyed dating, they decide to get married so her company won’t assign her to a yearlong stint in Germany. He’s happy, happy, happy. (Though, mercifully, the directors try to cut the sugar by, for instance, capping off a kissing montage with Lila wiping out while couple-biking.) But then Lila starts singing and tracing circles around Eddie’s nipples and asking him to hold her hand while they eat in a diner. Because they waited to sleep together, he doesn’t know that she likes acrobatic, raucous sex. And when she doesn’t listen to his warning about wearing a strong sunscreen on the Mexican beach and gets a blistering burn, he’s annoyed at her stupidity. But that’s OK, because Lila’s ailment gives Eddie time to get to know Miranda (Michelle Monaghan), a more down-to-earth lacrosse coach who’s vacationing with her Mississippi family and spends her time cartwheeling with children in the surf. Miranda doesn’t know Eddie’s on his honeymoon, so she’s as smitten as he is.

A trio of writers helped the Farrellys rework Simon’s script about impetuous marriage and true love, and that seems like an awful lot of sweat for nothing more imaginative than queef jokes and the going-crazy shtick that Stiller’s been doing for years. Comparisons to the original Heartbreak Kid aren’t as damaging as placing it up against the oeuvre of Judd Apatow, who more sharply mined the same naughty-but-nice territory in projects such as Knocked Up and The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Like Apatow, the Farrellys still try to counter their dirty bits with life lessons—when Eddie confronts the resort manager, played by an unfunny Carlos Mencia, about trying to put his dick in Lila’s unsuspecting hand, he points out Eddie’s dalliance with Miranda and says, “I just figured, anything goes with this guy!” But for all the goofing, there’s an undercurrent of nastiness, mostly at the expense of women. Lila loses points when she spots an elderly couple and tells Eddie, “That’s us in 10 years,” excusing her miscalculation by saying, “I’m really bad at math.” Eddie claims that she doesn’t have a sense of humor, but his dad reasons, “Funny is a male gene.” Mac’s take on all this? “Bitches be crazy, man!”

But, well, it’s pretty entertaining when Corddry says it, and there’s enough lightness and talent here to keep one’s eyebrows from staying raised for long. Akerman mostly comes off as a poor man’s Cameron Diaz, but she, uh, nails her bedroom scenes, the funniest of which has Lila yelling, “Cock me!” and insulting Eddie’s manhood when he won’t hit her. (And Monaghan is completely uninteresting here, which is clearly a significant flaw.) Stiller, on the other hand, brings a little subtlety to all the broadness. He does freak out and is predictably funny while doing so, but more enjoyable is Eddie’s slowly degenerating expressions when Lila starts to get on his nerves. Or answering her passion-fueled requests for a slap because she’s “been a bad girl” with a nerdy “No, you’ve been fine.” Even Jerry Stiller’s filthy quips are occasionally amusing, although his red hair and vaguely orange complexion make him look like an Oompa-Loompa.

The new Heartbreak Kid’s main fault is an overly long running time. Overobviousness is another one—the new Lila has a walloping number of ticks in the “con” category, for instance, even though the story’s message is that Eddie is really the one with the problem (which the ending, though still open, also more definitively drives home). Grodin, May, and Simon came up with something as good as “Rosalita” in 1972, but though Farrellys’ version doesn’t match up, it’s far from being “Muskrat Love.”

copyright 2007 letsnotlisten.com

Ira and Abby

Just thinking about how adorable I am....

The New York-set romantic comedy Ira and Abby wastes no time establishing the personalities of its titular characters. Ira (Chris Messina), a 33-year-old doctoral candidate, is introduced on a couch, deluging his therapist with a Woody Allen-worthy burst of navel-gazing about how he feels fat, panicky, and wishes he could stay there all
day. Abby (scripter Jennifer Westfeldt) sells gym memberships, but more often she doesn't: When Ira shows up and waits forever for a tour, she breezily admits that no, she's not busy, she just forgot he was there. It's OK, though, because Abby's luminous, and caring, and
"highly nice," so open that she hugs Ira's bare belly and suggests he just take up running because the gym's not that great. Some six hours later, though, they're still talking, so they decide to get married.

At this point, Ira and Abby is a genial if familiar concept that promises nothing more than some opposites-attract kookiness, especially when we meet the parents – Ira's folks (Judith Light and Robert Klein) are uptight analysts, while Abby's (Frances Conroy and, an undeniable sign of impending wackiness, Fred Willard) are happy hippies. But Westfeldt, who also wrote and starred in 2002's Kissing Jessica Stein, goes deeper to offer a thoughtful discussion on marriage and the impossibility of ever completely knowing another person. The movie's an obvious Allen homage, its busy storyline involving overlapping relationships and lots of therapy, so a fondness for the style is prerequisite.

But even viewers who can't get enough neuroses-filled "valentines to New York" will need to pass The Abby Test to enjoy the movie overall. It's easy enough to buy that the whole world loves her when she's listening to someone's relationship problems or countering Ira's bleak worldview -- but hugging a stranger's naked stomach? Asking a subway robber, in a quite ridiculous scene, how much money he needs, and then going to each passenger herself to "borrow" some cash? Abby's drawn as a near saint at times, and her uber-sweetness is a potential deal breaker. If you can get past such moments, though, there are plenty of genuinely
uplifting moments here, as well as excellent attempts to answer movie's central question of why, if there are no good marriages, anyone bothers to get married. The bigger surprise: More wit than the movie's "You have no messages!" answering-machine beginning suggests.

copyright 2007 letsnotlisten.com