Not nearly as bad as reviews led me to expect, but its triviality did confirm for me that all the Coen Bros. movies aren’t worth saving, let alone masterworks. Sort of like Woody Allen, I guess. Anyway, this is a one-joke movie that passes the time, however implausibly, and depends on how you like various famous actors, such as John Malkovich and Brad Pitt. Any movie that kills off all its stars is, at least, different.
Another director, Ed Harris this time, is enticed by the beauty of the Old West, this time New Mexico, to make a post-modern Western, with noble Indians in a cameo role. Unfortunately, in mining a past genre, the filmmakers have come up with nary a novel plotline or character. Viggo Mortenson is exemplary, Jeremy Irons extraordinary, Renee Zellweger an unattractive puzzle, and Harris dons the taciturn gunslinger role so many others have done so much better (see, e.g., Eastwood, Clint). He also mouths the movie’s ad tagline – “Feelings can get you killed” – which is at best ironic coming from a besotted cuckold.
It’s the oldest storyline in cinema – Average Joe thinks he loves bodacious bombshell, not noticing the ‘friend’ who secretly loves him, and only after a series of misadventures does he realize where true happiness lies – but when the leads are endearing, the side characters entertaining and the rock score energizing, it’s still a formula that’s hard to beat. In short, a really good date movie and, for the rest of us, a happy time all around. Michael Cera reprises all his roles of last year, with similar success.
A bit of fashion fluff, with lovely period rooms and an Oscar wardrobe of pretty dresses for Keira Knightley. Unfortunately, humor is lacking, as is much in the way of drama.
While being high may be quite the pleasant state, it is probably not good to write an entire screenplay in that condition. How else to explain the el stupido factor of this film from the usually reliable Judd Apatow factory? The male bonding that made the other films sort of sweet was so heavy here as to be icky. But worse was the glorification of socially unredeeming acts – drug dealing to minors, murder, gang violence, reckless car chases – that didn’t produce a plot to care about and, worst of all, weren’t funny. I laughed out loud during the 20-minute setup, establishing the familiar stoner characters, but not once the rest of the way.
A sweet movie, perhaps a little overacted by Richard Jenkins, who didn’t have to be such a sad sack in his work but who, nevertheless, gave a haunting performance. Best were the starring roles given to the Arab son, Tariq, and mother, Mouna, both of whom lit up the screen. The immigration part of the story was all too real, as we know from experience with our own deported Jamaican housekeeper in New York; and the ending, with some shreds of hope in a sad and very frustrating situation, hewed closer to life than any other movie seen this year.
An essentially good-spirited movie, more studio-like than the Judd Apatow flicks and consequently less fun, but smiles and pleasures kept popping up, not least in Tom Cruise’s almost-total disguise as studio boss Lev Grossman. Robert Downey Jr’s dialogue-swallowing failed to enthrall, but the trailers preceding the feature totally worked.
Another story from the desolate, barren, culture-free northern fringe of America, where folks are just getting by, or trying to, by hook or crook, in this case crook. Melissa Leo gives a sensational performance, lying to her son, batting her eyes at a cop, exhibiting the determination of desperation, constantly balancing the need to cut corners with a conscience. The Indians on the Mohawk ‘res’ are treated sensitively, starting with the phlegmatic Lila, who puts the plot in motion and, in the story’s subtle arc, finds her sight and her way. In the end, it is the bleakness of the northern New York border town and the emptiness of the frozen river that stick, a black-and-white film despite its color.
Scarlett Johansson was a caricature and Javier Bardem was a mythical (or metaphorical) male, but they set the stage for Rebecca Hall’s Vicky, who portrayed a conflicted heart to perfection (ironically, a similar role to Johansson’s in Lost in Translation, with Barcelona replacing Tokyo). Perhaps never having seen her before helped convince me. The narrator’s voiceover didn’t bother me, as it did some reviewers; it made clear the film’s status as fable, obviating our questions on its more outrageous, or questionable, points. Penelope Cruz dominated the screen, matching Bardem’s suavity. But even this returned the focus to Vicky, the one real person, and her dilemma. Woody Allen gave us people to talk about, as he used to.
A down-to-earth retelling of what has to be one of mankind’s greatest achievements. Climbing Everest or robbing Brinks seem mundane compared to walking on a wire suspended between the twin towers of the World Trade Center. I cringed in my seat, not surprisingly, at photos of Philippe Petit peering off the roof, and smiled out loud at video of his other feats, on Notre Dame and the Sydney Harbor Bridge. What made the movie truly rich, though, was the cast of characters who formed his team, especially Jean-Louis Blondeau, now with white hair and black eyebrows, cooler than any American could ever be, and their relationships, more interesting and real than, say, Ocean’s Eleven. Petit himself, wirewalker, magician, storyteller, provocateur, made you wonder why it took someone 33 years to make this movie.
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