World War Z

Posted on July 9, 2013 by Mark DuPré

Mash-ups have often been fun diversions. Think of music mash-ups such as “Happy Days are Here Again” with “Get Happy,” or any number of more modern ones (watch more than one episode of Glee and you’ll see at least one.) Film mash-ups combine genres, which is often an exercise in exhilaration or frustration. “It’s a Western—no, it’s a musical. No, it’s both!” (Paint Your Wagon) Or think of David Lynch, or anything by Tarantino. Sometimes fun, sometimes fascinating, sometimes confusing.

World War Z begins as a promising mash-up of a family drama interwoven with a zombie movie. Although it gets to the central conflict rather too quickly, it works in an oddly fascinating way, mostly because the film does two things well. First, it keeps rooted with touching scenes of family connection and concern, and doesn’t rush them. Brad Pitt plays Gerry, a UN superman called to save the world in the light of the newest zombie pandemic. But the film, while showing his mad skills, leans hard toward Gerry as loving husband and protective father, and for a while, that connection adds depth and keeps the film rooted in the real world of love, support and family. Second, the film keeps the zombies at something of a distance by not reveling in the gore of the attacks and keeping the worst of the action just out of sight. Yes, it’s about zombies, but it might be any apocalyptic nightmare scenario.

But just when you think it all might work, the film s-l-o-w-s d-o-w-n and becomes a drawn-out suspense thriller that takes the film in the direction of another mash-up, this time a medical thriller (spoiler alert: will they find the proper antidote?) combined with a long, drawn-out sequence of equal parts zombie suspense and messianic sacrifice. Then it doesn’t wrap up as much as it just “concludes” with an open-ended narrative shrug that comes somewhere between “whatever…” and a “I dunno….” By this time, the promise of the first half has long been forgotten, the pace has been recalculated one too many times, and the two strong strands of family and zombie are left dangling and unresolved.

The film’s acting is its saving grace. Brad Pitt has become a better, deeper actor since becoming a father, and the changes work well here. Though he’s still hiding his looks under scruff and long hair, he seems to have left behind the quirks of the character actor and has embraced his leading actor status. He’s strong, smart and paternal all at once, and he holds the film together. His wife is played by Mireille Enos in what I hesitantly call the Jessica Chastain role (a category that I hope doesn’t exist a year from now). Her role isn’t as flashy, but it’s solid, and contributes greatly to the family dynamic of the film.

Two spoiler alerts ahead: The film does have one genuine stop-your-heart moment amidst a number of other moments of surprise, plus there is a narrative twist toward the end when the film presents its “answer” to the crisis. It’s fresh and imaginative, but it’s nearly lost in the missteps of the second half.

Not being able to categorize a film is not a criticism. Citizen Kane can’t be categorized, either. But nearly everything in that film works. WWZ starts off strong with a fresh mash-up of family and zombies, then careens into a series of narrative bumps and unrelated set-pieces that ends up derailing the whole thing by the time it’s over. The acting is good, the production values are generally first-rate (though the zombie hordes look CG), but the final effort is most certainly less than the sum of its parts.

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Quartet

Posted on June 30, 2013 by Mark DuPré

Quartet is a pleasant diversion, and will be remembered mainly as Oscar-winning actor Dustin’s Hoffman’s first (only?) directorial effort. Young people will stay away from it in droves, as it concerns a group of classical musicians who live in a lovely but threatened “old-age” home. For older folks, it’s an agreeable trifle with recognizable actors and characters that are worth the visit. It’s equal parts comedy and drama, and while never either deeply moving or howlingly funny, it’s, to use the vernacular, a good rental.

I’ll leave it to the viewer to discover what the title refers to, but there is a good deal of lovely music from real musicians, and that’s the first strength of the film. The second is the cast of characters, including the over-sexed older gentleman, the kind but (literally) demented singer, the past-her-prime operatic diva, and the performer-turned-teacher who thinks he’s found his old-age stride until…(no spoiler here). They are as worn as an old pair of slippers, and generally just as comfortable to have around. No real surprises, but this isn’t a film about surprises.

Maggie Smith, fresh from the rejuvenation of her career supplied by Downton Abbey, slips somewhere between the actress and line reader (see “Actors and Line Readers” on this website) in her role as the opera singer/diva whose arrival at the home stirs up old feelings and new possibilities. Smith is a wonderful actress, and can play nearly anything. Except, it seems, the musical diva. Dame Gwyneth Jones, a retired opera star, plays the operatic diva already living at the home when Smith’s character arrives, and she possesses—and is able to exude—the necessary diva resonance of the opera singer that Smith isn’t able to. Smith is too enjoyable a presence to spend much time carping on that, but it’s noticeable. Singer divas are singer divas, and actress divas are actress divas. There’s a difference.

As a director, Hoffman expectedly gets solid performances from his actors. He brings the action, based on Ronald Harwood’s play (Harwood was also the screenwriter) outside as often as he can to break up the staginess. But he doesn’t seem to quite know where to put his camera, and while each scene has its own rhythm and integrity, the film as a whole lacks pace. And several plot points, as well as the film’s ending, are simply ridiculous outside of an afternoon Disney special.

But as in superhero movies, films like this find their logic in other places than plot. The familiar characters and conflicts are comfortable rather than tired, and the actors playing them are a delight from most important to least. Add to that the genuinely musical artistry of most of the actors in secondary roles, and you have a lightweight bonbon that’s sweet and well worth the time for those who love music and/or are, like the author, of a certain age.

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Man of Steel

Posted on June 30, 2013 by Mark DuPré

Man of Steel is nowhere near as bad as some of the critics have said. Yes, it’s too long by a good 25 minutes, and the action scenes/fights are nearly endless and almost pointless. But as a reboot of the series, it works.

It lays the groundwork for a franchise right from the start. A great deal of time is spent on Krypton, establishing a background for where Superman begins his life as well as laying the groundwork for this particular film’s conflicts. Russell Crowe plays Jor-El, Kal-El’s (Superman’s) father and the one who arranges for his trip to Earth. The accent is occasionally distracting as he goes for the general English-ish tones of the educated cinematic alien. His general persona of authority works well for him here, and contrary to the opinion of others, he’s nowhere near as miscast as he was in Les Misérables.

Director Zack Snyder (300) spends a great deal of time—too much—on giving us the background of how Kal-El makes it to earth and why, but (spoiler alert) the fact that Krypton bad guy General Zod (Michael Shannon) shows up later helps justify the time spent on his actions, motives and general evil character. What isn’t justified are the drawn-out action sequences, which strain patience as well as credibility. The fights almost reach the point of the ridiculous at (several) times. And poor New York City—just when it was recuperating from the smack-down of The Avengers, Superman and Zod tear block after block to shreds here. This is my vote for another city to be the site of the next superhero battle. And even for a film that begins an another planet and puts us in an unreal world from the get-go, some of the plot set-ups are so literally incredible that it can take you out of the film: Would anyone have really let Lois Lane do half the things the folks in the film allow???

Much has been made of the humorlessness of the film, and that’s true. There are a few notes of humor, but the only real moments we’re given to enjoy comes right at the end. (I did burst out laughing, however, at the quick shot of a work sign trumpeting how many days had gone by without an industrial accident—right in the middle of a knock-down, drag-out.) One of the great successes of The Avengers was the layer of humor throughout the film that added some joy, real humor and a break from the intensity of our world being in danger. The action keeps moving so quickly here that you almost don’t notice the lack of humor until the end, when we all get a chance to breathe.

Henry Cavill (The Tudors, Immortals) is, as Zoolander might put it, ridiculously good-looking and certainly the buffest of all Supermen. All the attention has been paid to his exercise regimen and 5,000-calorie-a-day diet. But he’s pretty good here, as it’s as challenging to play this character (and pull it off) as it is to do an Iron Man, Spider-Man, or even Jay Gatsby. Not being that familiar with his work, I don’t know his range. But beyond the look, he has the focus and confidence needed, as well as the loving-son traits necessary for scenes with his father (Kevin Costner, solid), and mother (Diane Lane, lovely as ever and just as solid). He doesn’t play the nerd when he’s Clark Kent as Christopher Reeve did, and comes off as more lost and a bit confused about his role on earth—which fits perfectly the arc of the storyline here. His character seems a bit more hidden, which is either an actor’s victory with the character, or a slight failure to nail down the character in the midst of identity struggles with being a superior alien, slowing falling for a reporter, and oh, yes, constantly saving the earth while your government may be wanting to capture you. Perhaps future iterations will help make this performance clearer.

As Lois Lane, the talented Amy Adams is a bit too long in the tooth for both the role and for Cavill (she’s nearly 9 years older). But I’d likely have cast her in spite of her age as well. She brings all the necessary brain, sweetness, and toughness to the role. But as she heads closer to her 40th birthday, the age difference might seem greater in subsequent films.

Michael Shannon’s Zod makes a fascinating contrast to the season’s other great fantasy villain—Star Trek Into Darkness’ (possible spoiler alert) Khan, played so brilliantly by Benedict Cumberbatch. His Khan is deeply felt and fierce at the same time, and it is a performance that resonates internally within the character, which creates believability and adds depth to the film. Shannon knows how to do that, but seems to have more experience playing Very Bad People Who Yell a Lot (see Premium Rush). His Zod is all external anger and sputtering, and is less impacting than Khan. (Clearly, he, Crowe and Cavill spent months adjusting their weight—only Cavill gained—and pumping iron. I’ve never seen Shannon in real shape before.) And for some reason, his slight speech impediment seems increasingly pronounced the more he spews his verbal venom, which almost reaches the point of distraction.

Lastly, the traditional Superman-Christ comparisons are anything but subtle. The film actually functions well as a Rorschach test for this generation’s level of Biblical literacy. “El” is one of the Hebrew names for God in the Old Testament. Kal-El is sent to earth as a savior from a father who loves him. He’s raised by someone who isn’t his “real” father, and at 33, he enters his destiny. And in case you might have missed it, Superman’s agonizing over whether to give himself up to save others is placed in a church, with a priest, with an overly obvious stained-glass image of Christ agonizing in the garden before His crucifixion in the background. Yes, we get it! (At least most of us do.)

If the film reaches too high and far and occasionally falters, it nevertheless gives this generation a new and acceptable Superman. The time on Krypton was too long, the time growing up in Kansas is short-changed, and the fight scenes are both unbelievable and unnecessarily long. But the film sets a solid foundation for future films, the effects are top-notch, and we have a Superman who appears to be able to handle whatever direction the series may take us all in. Not a great film, but a good start.

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The Bad and the Beautiful (1952)

Posted on June 17, 2013 by Mark DuPré

Finally saw The Bad and the Beautiful (1952), the Vincent Minnelli-directed Hollywood film that trashed Hollywood. Perhaps today it’s known more for its statistical significance; it won 5 Oscars, the most ever for a film not nominated for Best Picture. It’s been on my must-see list for years, and seeing that was my wife’s Father’s Day gift to me: “You can watch whatever you want to tonight!”

As would be expected in a Minnelli film, it’s beautiful to look at, and won Oscars for best b&w cinematography (well-deserved), art direction (of course—it’s Minnelli) and costume. The structure of the film is a combination of Citizen Kane, A Letter to Three Wives (most closely) and All About Eve, and tells the story of someone people used to call a “heel,” played in full grit-your-teeth-and-look-like-you’re-going-to-explode style by the inimitable Kirk Douglas, receiving his second Oscar nomination for Best Actor. (He never did win a competitive Oscar.) He plays Jonathan Shields, who’s down on his luck (or was finally getting his due) as a successful producer, and he is asking three former colleagues (a director, an actress, and a writer) for help. They’ve all been made great successes due to their collaboration with him, and they never want to work with him again. Why? That’s the story.

It’s not as dark and biting as Sunset Boulevard, nor nearly as fun or fascinating. There is a great surprise near the end that I happily didn’t see coming, and which added a great deal of energy when the film most needed it. But perhaps the most enjoyable aspect for a film person is guessing who is supposed to be whom. Is this or that character based one famous actor/actress/director/producer, or is it a composite? And if so, a composite of whom? Clearly the character played by the top-billed Lana Turner is based on Diana Barrymore, son of the legendary John. One shot of a drawing of her supposed actor father in profile is enough, though the film lays it on pretty thick in that same scene. Is Leo G. Carroll’s character based on Hitchcock? The guessing games are nearly endless.

The Oscar-winning script is witty and dark in a noirish way, with biting humor that is somehow never really funny. Instead of enjoying the brilliance of the lines (a la All About Eve or even Sunset Boulevard at times), the characters tamp down the dazzle of the script and proceed to growl the lines away, adding to the dark mood but robbing us of the shared joy of a brilliant retort or comment.

Gloria Grahame won her Best Supporting Oscar for her tiny role here, and I’m not sure why. She’s a fine actress, and she played her part with a bit more edge and definition than some of her other characters, but the role is small and there’s nothing outstanding here. What did catch my attention was what I believe is the best performance in the film. It’s not Kirk, or the beautiful Turner, nor even stars Walter Pidgeon, Dick Powell or Barry Sullivan. The freshest performance is by Paul Stewart in the small but recurring role of Syd. Who? Most film people know him as Raymond in Citizen Kane. Take another look at his performance here, and mourn the loss of career that might have been. He was a life-long working actor, but he clearly deserves to be remembered for more than a bit role in a great film.

If given the choice and you have limited time, take Sunset Boulevard over The Bad and the Beautiful. But if you’ve seen the former, take a look at this black-and-white and very purple studio-era classic. Revel in the look, enjoy the lines and performances, and watch for Stewart at every turn.

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Iron Man 3

Posted on June 1, 2013 by Mark DuPré

Not a lot to say here. It’s better than the second, not as good as the first. The story feels a bit musty and yesterday, with the enigmatic Bin Laden-esque villain. Tony Stark’s post-Avengers Stress Disorder is somewhat hokey, and the action sequences are not up to snuff.

What works is Robert Downey Jr. and his take on the character. Downey seems a bit tired, but his snarky attitude, obvious intelligence, and most especially his approach to the character’s humor make it a joy to be around this guy again. Downey delivers the lines with a laser intensity and speed as if his brain is already onto the next point (which it is) and that the time it takes to actually deliver the line is a necessary evil that he has to execute so that he can get on to the next thing. This fan of the series would have much preferred more Tony, more Tony and Pepper (Gwyneth Paltrow), less suspension of disbelief over the plot developments, fewer explosions, no PTSD, and a more subtle villain. But that’s just me.

Beyond the tired and consistently more ridiculous storyline, the direction is only adequate. It’s as if a student were writing a paper that hit all the necessary points, but only put them down on the page in proper order with no driving central organizing thesis, and little style. Director Shane Black, a screenwriter whose only previous directorial credit is Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang, shows us everything we need to understand what’s going on, but the action sequences lack pop, and a there is a certain blandness of tone throughout. All the information is there; what’s missing is attitude and energy beyond that supplied by the lead actor.

Iron Man, especially as embodied by RDJ, is one of the great movie superheroes. Visiting him is always a pleasure. This film, however, is not. But memories of being with him will probably outlast memories of the film, which will likely fall out of one’s head in a few hours.

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The Great Gatsby

Posted on June 1, 2013 by Mark DuPré

As any of my film students could tell you (most likely with eyes rolled back as they remembered the lesson), the last stage in the development of a genre is the parodic/baroque stage. That’s the stage where the key elements of a genre (a western, a musical, a gangster film, etc.) are so familiar to audiences that directors simply use those key elements for parody or for stylization. Baz Luhrmann’s version of The Great Gatsby isn’t parodic—except perhaps on one level as a parody of Luhrmann’s own oeuvre. What it is in spades is baroque—taking a genre or story’s elements and dressing them up, spinning them around, oftentimes drowning the entire lily in gilt.

This is Luhrmann’s stock in trade. His Romeo + Juliet (also starring Leonardo DiCaprio) and especially Moulin Rouge are not versions of anything per se, but stylizations, as well as exercises in excess. That’s not a criticism, just a description. Original sources (classic plays, an entire genre, a classic work of American literature) are just jumping off points for Luhrmann, simply mannequins to dress up or grist for his mill of color, music, and camera movement. Luhrmann’s candy coatings almost overwhelm the slim story that is Gatsby’s, yet somehow the novel’s strong narrative prevents the film from careening off course into a whirlwind of sound and light.

Not that this Gatsby doesn’t come close. As in Moulin Rouge, Luhrmann uses anachronistic music that breaks the film out of its original time and place. His party scenes, even in 2D, are riots of color, sound, noise, and movement that seem to catch the director’s interest more than any other aspect of the story. They’re loud in every sense of the word. They serve on one level to represent how our narrator, Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire) is fascinated and enthralled by Gatsby’s material excess, but the scenes are visual crack that threaten to overstimulate the viewer and imbalance the film as much as the early scenes did in Moulin Rouge. The colors, the sounds, the personalities that we may or may not recognize (“Oh, there’s Cab Calloway, and isn’t that Josephine Baker—or are those just lookalikes?”), and the sweeping camera movements scream wild party, but their immersive qualities pull us too far away from the story and the people.

Thankfully, the people are played by actors who generally find their parts, or are good enough to distract us from characters that aren’t fully or clearly defined. The center of it all narratively isn’t Gatsby (DiCaprio), but Nick. Maguire has the sweetness and unusual combination of young adult maturity and naiveté to keep us interested, though the wide eyes are perhaps a bit overplayed. The framework (no spoiler here) that keeps Nick front and center could only work with someone with the kind of accessibility that Maguire has. He bears the Herculean task of keeping the film grounded, and to the greater part, succeeds.

Gatsby has always been a challenge to play, because he’s deliberately not a clear-cut character in the book. He’s a monster, a chimera, a stand-in for (you fill in the blank), a lovelorn little boy lost, and a Rorschach test for the reader all in one. In Luhrmann’s hands and camera, he’s the Golden Boy for all times. DiCaprio’s boyish good looks have mellowed into a soft handsomeness that the actor can fuel with steel or pained sweetness. Here, the actor leans toward the latter, making this Gatsby less enigmatic and more the tortured Romantic hero. Luhrmann seems to take his photographic direction from DiCaprio’s golden locks, bathing him consistently in soft cream-colored tones.

Just as golden, and with eyes one could do laps in, is Carey Mulligan’s Daisy. Mulligan is one of the screen most talented young actresses, and she can experience on-screen inner ache and conflict better than nearly anyone since Ingrid Bergman in her heyday. But while her Daisy moves us, we don’t feel as if we get to know her. Or her appeal. She’s not really coquettish, and her appeal isn’t quite as evident as it should be. She doesn’t seem the life of the party, and acts more tender and vulnerable than entitled. Perhaps the fact that we have to like Daisy if we are to relate to a film Gatsby is part of the problem; a likeable Daisy really isn’t on the page, and an unlikeable one compromises our connection with a screen Gatsby. We want to like our main characters in film, a weight that literature fortuitously doesn’t generally have to bear.

Joel Edgerton as the villainous Tom Buchanan is sufficiently coarse and brutish, but he seems to be caught somewhere between a naturalistic approach and one tending toward evil caricature. The problem of approach seems to be one shared by several of the other performers as well, especially Jason Clarke and Isla Fisher as the Wilsons. These are all solid actors, but it’s not a surprise that character definition and specificity are a bit lacking when the focus is on what’s going cinematically around them. Perhaps more attention could have been paid to what we’re seeing through the window instead of the window dressing. But with Luhrmann, the dressing is more often than not the point.

None of this is to say that the film isn’t a fun ride. But it’s not much more than that. If you’re looking for a feel of the ‘20s, forget it. If you’re looking for subtle socio-economic comment, look elsewhere, or bring your own and read it into the film.

This isn’t F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Gatsby; it belongs to Luhrmann. It will be remembered as the Gatsby that was all dressed up—beautifully—but with nowhere to go.

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To the Wonder

Posted on May 13, 2013 by Mark DuPré

Almost no one is going to see To the Wonder, Terrence Malick’s newest film, winner of last year’s Golden Lion Award at the Venice Film Festival. That is sad, as Malick is unique in American cinema. Expectations were high after his stunning 2011 The Tree of Life, which was the only thing close to a masterpiece that year. That film reached, generally successfully, higher and to a more grand purpose than any film that year, and would have succeeded except for the appearance of Sean Penn and some dinosaurs. But what worked in that film—the acting, the breathtaking cinematography—is what doesn’t work here.

The usual Malick concerns are present; beauty, nature, love, faith, life on this planet. He is officially one of cinema’s great poets, and not just visually. His films are genuinely beautiful without ever being precious. He reminds us continually that we live on—nay, are a part of—a strikingly beautiful world. He touches on issues of life that are achingly real and profound at the same time.

But what succeeded in Tree of Life fails here. Malick’s sweeping camerawork came at the narrative in that film from an angle and with sweeping motions that could have segmented the story, but instead filled the story with grace as it slid past and circled around a connected set of actions. In To the Wonder, we have a meditation on love, hate, loss and faith. In the “love/hate/loss” story, we have Ben Affleck and Olga Kurylenko as Neil and Marina, lovers who meet in Paris, move to America, and find that Neil can’t commit, or go deep enough in love, or something. For a while, the camerawork has a similar relationship with the story as in Tree of Life, and it appears for a while that the cinematographic approach might work here. But after a while, so little happens that instead of a strong story, we end up with a series of poses by the actors with an airy voiceover telling us what Marina is thinking and feeling. Marina almost twirls enough throughout to keep it all moving, but Affleck, a first-rate director, is more often than not a limited actor (high point: Hollywoodland) and seems as if he’s given little to do beyond looking and walking like a strong and typically American male. His lumbering recalls George O’Brien’s in Sunrise, with none of the poetry. Affleck has difficulty portraying the inner life of his characters, and it’s deadly here. The scenes are always gorgeously photographed, but they eventually break down into bits and pieces barely connected by a whispery voiceover.

Rachel McAdams appears in the middle of this story as Jane, who is as solid as Marina is light. The visual metaphors are almost overwhelming—Jane is solid, realistic, and quite unbelievably in love with Neil, all represented by heavy boots and land, land, land. Marina, on the other hand, is water, water, water—flowing, ever moving, and the opposite of Jane. Jane’s personal history is the occasion for the strongest Biblical reference—Romans 8:28—which is at least dropped into the discussion if not explored. It’s both tantalizing and a missed opportunity for a film that seeks to move beyond the depths and shadows of love and loss into “the larger issues.”

Shoehorned narratively into a connection with all this is the story that addresses those larger issues, albeit in the context of the personal faith struggle of Javier Bardem’s Father Quintanta. Quintana is dutiful and does good works for disadvantaged people, but can’t seem to find the presence of God in all his actions. Malick here is the warm and heartfelt first cousin to Ingmar Bergman and his similar concerns in his oeuvre, except that Bergman’s cool, numbed, intellectual concerns and meditations are replaced here with a more individual, heartfelt and vulnerable struggle. To his great credit, Malick cites Scripture with intelligence and without irony, which alone sets him apart from nearly all other mainstream Hollywood filmmakers. The film also has a lovely moment where a Pentecostal character does his best to demonstrate to Quintana how he himself feels the presence of God, and he rapturously speaks in tongues in an ebullient and reverent moment that may be unprecedented in current American cinema. Malick may be the one major director, with all his obvious doubts and concerns, who has a clue about what Christianity might actually entail and what the Scriptures might suggest.

Malick is clearly still exploring his own life (the plot line has several similarities to his own life) through his art. Yet he has been taking the occasion to also explore issues of human connection and the meaning, place and workings of faith. For that alone, even apart from the stunning beauty of his art and the striking audacity of his reach, Malick remains relevant, significant, and worthy of much more attention than he is being paid.

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42

Posted on May 8, 2013 by Mark DuPré

42 is the story of Jackie Robinson, baseball’s first black major league player. It’s what the critics used to call a “movie-movie,” and it’s touching, beautifully photographed, covered in a layer of honey both visually and narratively, and not quite believable. But what gives it life is a combination of the truth of the basic story and the movie’s one semi-brave move.

Chadwick Boseman as Jackie is a find. He fits the Jackie of the film without breaking out into something bigger, which fits with the film’s aim. The film is more about the historical moment than the man, and the role of Jackie (meant both ways) is a contained one. Boseman has the requisite good looks and flashy smile of a movie star, but he also slides easily into the role of loving husband, skilled player, and dutiful servant to the vision of Harrison Ford’s Branch Rickey, the man who had the vision of integrating the sport and who recruited the right man—Robinson—to make it happen.

Ford breaks away from his usual hero/curmudgeon role and uses his personal strength and anger as supports for creating a Bible-quoting, feisty man on a mission fueled by his faith in God and his own principles. It’s quite a refreshing thing to behold, and a reminder that the man can act, not just snap a whip or a line. It’s actually something of a risk, as the character is larger than life, and Ford sustains a near over-the-top interpretation throughout. But it works, and his character contains shadings and colorings we’ve rarely seen from this actor.

The script and direction are solid, if not a bit old-fashioned. The little side scenes with children or those with people responding/reacting to the challenges of the historical moment are either lame or quite dreadful, and makes the film look like the A unit directed the scenes with the stars, and a afternoon TV special hack did the minor scenes. They stop the film cold with their lack of believability and their awkwardness.

The film’s great moment is its most awkward. Though I’ve read that the historical scene portrayed was in actuality more savage and profane, 42 depicts the famous moment of the Ben Chapman racist heckling of Robinson during a game. The “n” word gets said again and again and again, and we as the audience find the heckling getting under our skin, as well as offending the mind and sensibilities. It’s the one time the film ventures into something that might take the viewer out of his/her comfort zone, and the one that perhaps most respects both the man and the moment by making us feel Robinson’s frustrations. For a moment, we get a small taste of the racial baiting and hatred that too many experienced then (and now).

The scene where Robinson releases his frustration and Rickey comforts him is a beautiful moment. We see the explosion of anger, the emotional release that had to occur as a result of keeping all that rightful anger inside. But as is consistent with the film, we don’t get too close to Robinson, and we more watch the moment than experience it. But it ends with a manly half-hug from Rickey that is perfectly timed, expressive of concern and love, and yet of its time and place in its tender awkwardness. It’s both astringent and deeply emotional.

As an entertainment, it’s the kind of sugarcoated grown-up film they hardly make anymore. It’s not dangerous, or challenging, or really disquieting. A better 42 might have been edgier, more full of frustration and angst. But as a film, it’s aimed at men and women with a brain and a heart. As a record, it’s a bit too warm and fuzzy, but (pardon me) hits all the bases on its way home.

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Actors and Line Readers

Posted on April 15, 2013 by Mark DuPré

There’s a difference between actors and line-readers, and it’s easy to confuse the second with the first.

For instance, Ryan Reynolds is a great line-reader, but just an OK actor. In The Proposal, his line “Hence the boat” may well be the funniest line in the film. (Sandra Bullock hesitates heading near the water because she can’t swim. Those three words are his response.) Reynolds brings a context to his line here—and many others—that involves his taking a huge step back to gain an alleged objectivity about whatever is happening, viewing the goings-on with a combination of amusement and detachment, and finally connecting back to whomever he is addressing with a combination of patient teaching and irony-tinged eye-rolling. His lines resonate.

My guilty pleasure film for the past few years has been Just Friends, where Reynolds is unsurprisingly cast as a romantic comedy figure with a snarky, cynical side. Anna Faris is actually the best thing in the film, but squeezes all the comedic juice out of each line he’s given by doing the same thing as in The Proposal. In that film, however, he eye-rolls more than teaches because the objects of his lines are generally the obnoxious star he’s babysitting (Faris) or his we-love-each-other-let’s-fight younger brother.

Perhaps he is only matched by Hugh Grant, a decent actor in many a different style who nonetheless excels at line reading. In another Sandra Bullock vehicle, Two Weeks Notice, Grant uses a different approach to make the lines sing beyond what is on the page. When Bullock as his assistant is (once again) appalled at his utter gall in calling her out from her participation in a friend’s wedding, she says, “I think you’re the most selfish human being on the planet. His reply is funny on the page—“Well, that’s just silly. Have you met everybody on the planet?—but sublime in the rendering. This line—and many others—benefits from a kind of dumb-struck, living in the moment, literal response to what he’s just heard. It’s childish or perhaps childlike, but that’s consistent with many of his characters. In Notting Hill, his readings are more gentle, as befits his different character, and he adds a sweet vulnerability to his “in the moment” responses. But his acting in this film is really more of a series of deftly delivered lines. In a sense, he reverses the acting process of others in that his performance is the sum total of his line-readings, and the character ends up coming from the lines rather than vice-versa.

Perhaps the queen of the great actors/line-readers is the inestimable Maggie Smith, dazzling audiences on both sides of the Atlantic with her line readings, and occasionally, with her acting, on Downton Abbey. Season Two of the series almost reduced her character to a comedy line-reading machine, almost concealing the sensitive actress she can be. Happily, as enjoyable as hearing these lines is, the show has reversed the trend.

There’s not enough time in my life to do it, but a case can be made for a more complete study of this actress’s oeuvre, with an eye to how much of her success as an actress is really more of a success with a line (just start with The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and work outward from there…).

To check out the inverse, think of Meryl Streep, Daniel Day-Lewis, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Sean Penn, four of the greatest actors of our times. None are known for their witty line-readings, but they create characters that will live forever in American cinema. Food for thought and much more investigation….

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Oz: The Great and Powerful

Posted on March 18, 2013 by Mark DuPré

With the unsurprising and evocative title this film has, Oz: The Great and Powerful fairly begs for an easily dismissive and disparaging riff on its title as a first line of a review. So OK—this film is neither great nor powerful, nor does it make much sense. Contrary to rumor, it’s not exactly a visual treat, as its digital colors and textures are the 2013 equivalent of Oz’s 1939 shiny plastic leaves in The Wizard of Oz’s first color shots. If you’re going to see this prequel, at least see it in 3D. IMAX 3D would be even better. It is dazzling, but that’s not exactly a compliment. For stunning, beautiful and subtle 3D work, get ye back to Life or Pi or even Hugo. For a cinematic equivalent of a shiny, bright red, hard candy apple, try this film.

Some aspects of the film are intriguing, even bordering on imaginative. The early nod to the 1939 original– black-and-white with a studio-era aspect ratio–is borderline twee, but works as a deserved homage to the classic. Another piece is the way the film backs into setting up the “man behind the green curtain” and the technology and teamwork it required. Perhaps the best is the inclusion of China Girl (voiced by Joey King), who nearly rescues the film at several points by providing some genuine tenderness and sadly needed emotional delicacy. But these are minor elements in a film that can’t make up its mind what it wants to be or what tone it finally wants to take.

James Franco as the Wizard tries as hard as he seems to be able to work to make something of the part, but he is simply miscast. Franco is an actor of great talent, but has proven here that he can’t do everything. He’s too reserved when he needs to display razzamatazz, and seems to fall back on his Cheshire grin when the part calls for greater depth and definition. As the witch Theodoro, Mila Kunis demonstrates that she is a pretty young woman who may, if she can avoid the pitfalls of many of her fellow young actors, grow into an exceptionally lovely older woman. But she is perhaps even more wrong for this part than Franco is for his. She woefully underplays her first scenes, and then fails to reach the heights that her (spoiler alert) transformation requires. And while it’s not her fault, the script gives as lame a reason for her transformation as might be found in current film. I’m not sure any actress could make sense of her character arc. NOW should be demonstrating or at least rolling its eyes.

Rachel Weisz (Evanora) and Michelle Williams (Glinda) fare better. Weisz has to be tamp down her natural radiance (spoiler alert again, but not a surprising one) and bring a darkness to the role that has to anchor the film in the direction of wickedness. Yet as hard as she tries, and she does, her evil is too contained and internal. This film is in desperate need of at least one blood-curdling Margaret Hamilton cackle, but never gets one. As good witch Glinda, Williams is fairly one-note, but it’s the right, lovely, kind and gracious note that the film needs to pull toward goodness. She and her character are the only things really holding this film together.

There are a few stabs at subtext here—the worth of films as entertainment being the biggest example. Perhaps that will be grist for a few college papers. For aficionados of the 1939 film, presenting a backstory might be fun. For lovers of what more than one critic has termed “retinal crack,” the visuals are both state of the art and as phony those in the original land of Oz. There’s dazzle aplenty but very little visual beauty beyond the cast.

Note to parents: Some parts of this film may be terrifying to children. Young children may have nightmares.

Bottom line: Oz: The Great and Powerful is an visually overstuffed, occasionally fun ride of a film that has a tiny China heart, has little sense of what it is all supposed to be about, and sacrifices humanity (and decent acting) for technology.

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