RIORI Presents Installment #197: Robert Luketic’s “Killers” (2010)


The Film…


The Players…

Ashton Kutcher, Katherine Heigl, Tom Selleck, Catherine O’Hara and Martin Mull, with Alex Borstein, Casey Wilson, Rob Riggle, Kevin Sussman and Kathryn Winnick.


The Plot…

Jen and Spencer are having troubles getting over their past relationships. Both just want to settle down and get their priorities straight. One would call it reassessment of their wants and needs.

Well, these two trying to turn over new leaves found each other in France, both ready for a change. Jen’s a computer programmer who just wants to get over, focus on her career, find some nice guy to maybe raise a family with. Spence seems like the nice guy, and agrees with Jen’s frame of mind.

That is not to say that Spencer isn’t tired of the demands of his government job. He wishes to give it all up in favor of a sense or normalcy, light years away from his trade as an assassin for hire.

…Hold up.


The Rant…

I wanna talk about black comedy this time out, and I’m not talking the Wayans Brothers here. I also wanna talk about rom-coms (again) this time out, and I’m not talking the Hallmark Channel here. I dislike most rom-coms, and it’s not just cause I’m a guy. I like romantic comedies so long they have some substance, namely a solid story, good characterization and precious little sparkly goo-goo eyes. Often next of kin to black comedies.

To begin, anyone out there know what the sub-genre “black comedy” is? It’s also commonly known as “dark comedy.” It’s a the kind of movie that finds humor in the bleakest, sometimes macabre, most ironic and often violent tendencies we humans apparently gravitate towards. It’s akin to watching the car wreck on the highway and being damned glad you weren’t in it. Schadenfreude, taking delight in others’ misery. To be deep consider Jung’s theory of the “death instinct.” Morbid curiosity about what the end might reveal. We’re all gonna go someday, so stir up a Cuisinart clogged with sh*t and let ‘er rip. That’s what dark comedy is about. Shout at the devil, screaming, “Is that all you got?” Because let’s face it, sometimes comedy and tragedy can go hand in hand. It’s the foundation of reality TV if you consider it. Do you really root for these idiots to succeed week after week? Be honest with yourself. Refer to your local, classic Greek playwright for clarification if confused.

Dark comedy is laughing at the Grim Reaper as catharsis. Bad sh*t happens every minute in our drab lives. Consider the evening news. Is it ever really informative or positive? Not from what little I’ve ever watched. Sure, there’s always a cute, little human interest story tag at the end of the evening’s installment, but the previous 22 minutes was hi-def wreck and ruin, and maybe the viewer being relieved not being wrapped up in another global train wreck. “Glad we weren’t in that reactor meltdown, but check out that footage of those liquified bodies that are gross, twitching, and ready extras for a Romero movie. Wow!” Yeah, it’s wrong, but it’s human nature and that’s what makes it amusing. Habeus corpus, this conundrum. Dark comedy, rife with murder, violence, perversion and the stuff that may have clotted in your mind like a poorly treated infection. Ick.

When done right, dark comedy can be a revelation. Scary things can be funny, and nervous chuckles are always welcome. Like with classic comedy and tragedy, an uplifting scene followed by a dire one (think Hamlet. It’s probably why it’s the Bard’s most famous work) to make some visceral impact. Follow something comic with something dark to achieve a metaphysical hit to the gut. Some pinnacles of this sub-genre you may have already seen and perhaps not quick to take them at face value, however there may have been a lingering odor of unease. Like a cut on your finger when not treated gives in to sepsis. Infamous titles like Dr Strangelove, Arsenic And Old Lace, MASH, Fargo and Young Adult are prime examples of the skewed view of how what may be cringy to one can be funny once we flip the script.

I find dark comedies an outlet. You think you’ve had a bad day? Check out The War Of The Roses. Directors who pull off decent dark comedies can be imps of the perverse and their output can be such a fine tonic to the stressors of the day. Say sure, Woody Allen, Ivan Reitman, John Landis, Charlie Chaplin and even Judd Apatow have made solid, funny stuff, devoid of pretense. You watch Annie Hall, Ghostbusters, Animal House, The Gold Rush and The 40 Year Old Virgin for yuk-yuks straight and forward. You might have also seen Interiors, Cannibal Girls, An American Werewolf In London and The Great Dictator which are far more subversive and perverted, but no less amusing. Apatow’s turn might have been Funny People, but only for the cringeworthy factor. Both sides of these directors know what funny is based against whatever ghoulish concoction they put out as a thumbing of the nose to just mess with audience expectations. This paradox results in a low level cognitive dissonance that makes you laugh at uncomfortable things. Like laughing during a eulogy or trying to talk your way out of a DUI speed trap. Sarry, occifer.

Comedy legend George Carlin illustrated what funny is perfectly: Everything we share but never talk about is funny. That being said the topic doesn’t matter, not really. We all can get behind the bumbling Dr Jekyll, for we are him sometimes. Hapless and muddling our way through the world. Dark comedy is the Mr Hyde, squirming and laughing against what makes us squirm like wanting to kill our boss or to sweep the leg of that senior citizen taking their grand old time weaving back and forth up the supermarket aisles Awful, right? But what if I…?. A fine example of this imp is our favorite spectral child-killer Freddy Kruger. He was truly scary, but also had an honest revenge agendum and some truly—dare I say—killer one-liners. He was terrifying and funny, so joyous skulking around in his boiler room and your subconscious. No surprise how the Elm Street franchise has endured. Can’t help but relish that car accident. Freddy’s yer boyfriend now. Funny sh*t. You could die laughing.

Please allow me that. Please?

The other side of the cinematic coin is the romantic comedy, often more querulous than any nagging Maguffin in Hitch’s arsenal. If you think about it romance can be scary, too. Regarding the object of your affection that is. As long as we’ve been able to breathe we’ve always been kindly against the opposite sex. Be it male, female or another trying to scrye what those dang butterflies are doing to your stomach. Those fears of rejection, self-doubt about your looks and your presence and a holy host of crap beyond your control because you must allow your love object to take your extended, open palm. Just like with Jung’s theories, you may get wounded, but you still try anyway. Coming back for more. Over and over. Masochistic. And that, my children, is why Only Fans is in such a tumult right now. A great many of us need to see the wrecks, literally and metaphorically.

Rom-coms mostly tease us. We’d all like to believe in Princess Bride true love, but that’s just wishful thinking. Feeling in love is indeed a scary feeling. If you are fortunate the love of your life accepts your hand and a romantic relationship begins it doesn’t necessarily mean the race is won. Even more imps may darken the day. Commitment issues, jealousy of another, failure to communicate, all such woes that taint any and all relationships. I speak from experience that whenever these issues rear their ugly faces I need to go to the bathroom. And they always do appear. At the back of your committed-to-the-other’s mind there’s always a lurking fear of when this crap happens again will that be the last time? Ask any divorcee for advice. Such going unease is scary, and often takes the legs out from under you. Hence why dark comedy exists. Yin and yang. Life goes on.

Consider it. Doesn’t the above seem scary, yet tantalizing? What? Were you never in middle school? Don’t puff out your chest. You’re lying. Accept that, as well as accept the fact that when romance goes sour—at least on screen—it’s cringy funny. Been there, don’t wanna go back there, will return there again. It’s a shared thing we never talk about yet is universal. Catch and release. Confidence and deferment. Swingers. That weird query that gnaws your mind to bits whether your crush is worth it. Worth what? A buffet of butterflies maybe? Such questions have informed the late John Hughes’ filmography. Being young and in dope love is never easy. Less so once married. And that’s when love truly becomes an algebraic problem…but with some luck mutually willing to solve. This is the ideal, mind you. You get it.

Hence the Hallmark side of things, so long as you don’t think too hard accompanied by a bowlful of micro’d popcorn. Maybe some Kleenex also.

The final flip side. Rom-coms are nothing but we wished would happen. The aforementioned Hallmark Channel is always happy to oblige a mismatched, forlorn, torn grocery bag romance that happens every New York minute. It’d be nice if that were true in real life, but it never is. And thank goodness, because it’s an ideal and they are seldom satisfying. Even stating that is cliché. That’s also kinda scary in the abstract.

Romance and humor is just as a tasty release and is horror and humor. Pleasure and pain walk along the same razor’s edge. That is why Trent Reznor’s ouevre still appeals. Time to get graphic and put false propriety to bed. Hold my hand once more, and don’t tell your father we made out.

The best rom-coms dispense with the usual schmaltz. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Kiss and make up. Boring. One must drip a little urine into the maple sweet saccharine to make a good rom-com come to life. Namely be both comedic and romantic in even doses, and not only please one side of the metaphysical waffle. Most rom-coms are either too romantic or too comedic because—again the Hallmark Channel’s stock in trade—the push and pull of drama is absent. If you consider it, most scary movies are at their core dramas. Using suspense to draw you in is nothing new in making movies. It worked for Casablanca as it did for Alien. Tight cast, solid story, and great pacing knows no genre. The gut feeling of “what happens next” is vital to all horror, comedy, romance and drama films. Right, like for all movies, but the key element is balance. Tip to far left or right and you end up feeling cheated. Not unlike every evil Eli Roth horrorfest I’ve even been subjected to. Man, grow up already. Your middle school bullies are all accountants now.

Not everything in rom-com romps is all puppy dogs, ice cream and young divorcees returning home to New England. No. Again boring with a capital B. That crap is all PG-13 bodice ripper. Style over substance, as well as cheaper to film. In case you haven’t noticed, America is lousy with single, capable white women that the Wayans can not wait to parody. Discussing this schism, funny marrying scary, dark comedy is the razor. Long argument short, in order for one to appreciate the relief of a dark comedy one must be awaiting it. I’ve had a sh*t life. I need a laugh and vengeance. Hey, is that my old beater DVD of Evil Dead 2? Press play. Maul me again. Let me laugh and squirm in equal doses so I can face the next day. I’ll rewatch Pretty Woman again come Friday with some hot slices of (Mystic) pizza.

Okay. Don’t allow me that.

Anyway, is the above cynical? Correct. That’s the crux. Now please, enjoy the car wreck and quit being ashamed for being curious. We’re all only human.

In the endgame how does dark comedy shake hands with romantic comedies? When done right look for subversion. Flipping the script, remember? Twist expectations just enough to get a foothold in the curious audiences’ mind and attention. Those dark comedies I mentioned above trick you into thinking you’re going to watch a straight ahead drama, comedy and/or character study. For example, when I first watched Arsenic And Old Lace I did not understand what Cary Grant was freaking out about when he opened up the cubbyhole. Then I did, and the film took on a darker bent despite still being grimly funny. Grant had great comic timing, and you know what they say about timing with comedy. It’s when the director of the beloved holiday classic It’s A Wonderful Life spins a tale about a pair of old spinsters euthanatizing lonely old men as a public service.

*squealing tires*

Script flipped. Gotcha. Like romance squeezes your guts into jelly—think James Garner in the gooey adaptation of Nicholas Sparks’ The Notebook (yes, I saw it. Not bad)—all widdershins. Also when you found out what Mrs Vorhees was all bent up about. One and the same; give in to your vulnerability for a possible great trade. You dig?

No? I guess you’ve either watched too many of one over too little of the other. Or are just in denial of getting stood up at Prom, opting to hang with your low-life buddies instead, spiking the punchbowl with lighter fluid. Such shenanigans are rather devious but also downright funny, considering what inebriation may lead to on with the dancing couples.

Right, binge watching Hallmark with a Rachel McAdams TV movie marathon. Now that is scary!


The Story…

Breaking up is hard on you. When a relationship ends sometimes all you really need is a change of pace, a change of space. And what better change of place than the south of France?

Jen (Heigl) and her mom and dad (O’Hara and Selleck, respectively) are all gonna get away from it all. Too bad that Jen’s ‘rents won’t lay off on her crappy, failed marriage. We’re on vacation! Let’s get away from all it all, right!

Jen finds Nice nice. Chill place, pristine beaches, servers with flutes of the local brut at the beck and call. She’s totally off on her ownsome, in her happy place, until she meets Spencer (Kutcher) en route to the hotel pool. He says he also has a lot to get away from, especially the drudgery of his government job. It’s taking its toll on him and also wants a change. No shock. Jen can relate. They strike up a conversation and way leads onto way, which leads to a nice dinner, a nice club date and some nice skinny dipping.

…Three years later…

Jen and Spence are happily married. Spencer is out of his old job, and Jen can concentrate on her career. All is bliss, until it isn’t. Turns out Spencer offered out lies of omission Jen’s way. His old government gig? A hired assassin for the CIA, disposing of America’s enemies with extremely extreme prejudice. One mark at a time.

Spencer’s old boss Holbrook (Mull) comes calling, warning that Spence’s unfinished business is about to catch up with him. And he ain’t talking about be overextended on some mortgage. There’s a price on Spencer’s head. No one ever truly gets out.

And all Jen wanted was her own office.


The Review…

I think I was poorly prepared to watch Killers. loves this movie, however her movie tastes aim towards the Disney/Pixar angle. Apropos of nothing, her TV habits vacillate amongst 7th Heaven, Bones, Gilmore Girls, NCIS, Supernatural, the many DC Comics TV adaptations (especially Supergirl) and the myriad CSI series. In sum, I never know what she’s into at any given week.

So a dark comedy? She still has the ability to surprise. She made me an ardent fan of 7th Heaven, so all is possible. Don’t scoff; it’s enjoyable to watch an 11 season comedy-drama about a minister’s dysfunctional family. Good characterization, which is vital for such a program. Now please quit judging me and let’s keep going.

had the right view with Killers. She recommended it for RIORI and it met the Standard. I found the flick refreshingly funny. And it was funny, but I think she got lost on the satirical angle. She’s my kind of cute, so I allowed it. To be honest, I found it a bit disturbing how much she giggled when the gunplay was center stage, and I always leave the toilet seat down. However it was a cute send up of modern rom-coms. Cute was the key word. KIllers‘ plot was nothing new, and has admittedly been done before better with more panache (read: Cameron’s True Lies, Liman’s take on Mr & Mrs Smith and Zidi’s La Totale!, which inspired True Lies BTW). To the point we’ve seen Killers before, but if you consider the MPAA’s rating of the movie PG-13, that was only there to sell tickets, as it always is. Killers should have been “honored” as the first, official PG dark comedy, so light and fluffy it was. Bring your kids. And blindfolds.

At first I thought Killers was going to be some James Bond spoof. Nope. It was a rom-com spoof. A very deviant one at that. From what I had whined about regarding rom-coms and their all too predictable plot devices are indeed front and center, but were twisted in such a way that you figured out the inevitable before the first act finished and were eventually rewarded for it, albeit subverted. Nice work, You already knew where the story was headed and dispense with such rigamarole ASAP. That sh*t’s not vital to anything related to the gonzo plot. The setup was short and sweet within the first fifteen minutes. Director Luketic didn’t waste our time, hopefully out of respect. Worked for me.

Regarding Killers’ tone I was at first unsure about chemistry. From what I’ve seen about our two leads Heigl is best known as a difficult yet has an awesome head of hair and Kutcher being a goof as an affront to his male model good looks. Heck, even I could plant one on him. But Killers was all about subverting expectations. Heigl wasn’t bitchy. Kutcher wasn’t aloof. Both were maladroit incarnate. A prime way to earn sympathy; we are all thumbs most of the time. Clever use of that; endearing. In fact that may have been the underlying tone of the plot. A perverted take on wedding vows. If so, it was properly ridiculous.

With that “saw this coming” precept in place I guessed that the whirlwind romance thing was unavoidable. A sop to the regulars who stone into rom-coms. Killers might have been designed to annoy such fans. The trick with rom-coms is that they strictly adhere to familiar tropes. It’s like comfort food in a way; nice people finding each other despite some odds with the principals all having high cheekbones and no pores. Any deviation from this formula is almost anathema in this genre. What’s wrong with stirring the soup some? I mean, really all those tepid rom-coms on Hallmark all have the same plot. It’s akin to being an ardent HGTV viewer; every show is the same show. I know because I have shared time watching my mother’s favorite show, Love It Or List It. It’s the same ep over and over again. Well-heeled couple either wants to find a better house or renovate their current abode with an obscene budget at their disposal. My mom’s a Realtor, so the show must be some soft-core porn to her. I get it, but I don’t. It’s like other straightforward/disposable infotainment all lukewarm mac and cheese dappled with ketchup. Harmless, predictable and in poor taste.

That being said, some ubversion might spice things up. Killers did yeoman’s work at upsetting the  balance. Disrupting the foreseeable. Sure, there were the nods to typical rom-con tropes (EG: Jen expecting by accident, Mom and Dad’s meddling, lies of omission to save the relationship, etc), but it was all eyewash until the fit hit the shan. This was made evident in the final act, when the bullets were ricocheting off bullets and dead shots aplenty. Any cutesy schtick was avoided at all costs, natch. Such pap would just soften the madcap action. Truth be told, when Spence finally began to open fire the flick truly got funny. That and Jen went along for the ride, literally and figuratively. Talk about for better or for worse. The worst was best.

Hold. On second thought, Killers wasn’t outright funny. It was witty, but at times confusing. It sometimes felt as if the director was attempting to shoehorn too much banter making light of Jen and Spence’s plight. To paraphrase Pacino in Godfather III, “Just when I thought I was out, I get pulled back in.” To the formula, skewered once too often. The setup allowed some breathing room, but sometimes also lent a lull in the pacing. The second act was a blur of Three’s Company-esque miscommunication and sitcom hijinks paired against frenetic gunplay. It was all so rapid fire—so to speak—it came across all lazy. I was all down with the story until it began to bottom feed. Thank hell Luketic attempted to channel his notorious debut, Legally Blonde. Yes, that infamous fluke. Cutesy, sweet daffiness and satire then worked surprising wonders. I supposed his stuttering direction here allowed us to catch up on what the hell we were watching, but it made the implied urgency sag. The witty banter between buoyed the dark humor. Frankly, I was awaiting more senseless violence with an abundance of winking. Endgame: pandering to the small masses. I’d’ve rather watched Kutcher whack soccer moms instead. A lot.

In a curious way, Killers had an air of “Apatow light.” The flick was nowhere near as deadpan, but had a similar cadence. It’s like what I griped about a bit ago; Apatow’s comedies are rapid fire doggerel, jokes that are gone once before you catch them and always low key and dismissal. Not so much here. Killers is deliberate, perhaps another paean to how rom-coms attempt to hamstring your heartstrings. Things fall into and apart here with sharp precision. Once you accept the dirty deeds—which are more or less eyewash come the third act—you’re wrapped up the the anti-schmaltz. Yes, it often felt draining, but at the core love and death are welcome partners. Get that? That kind of nervous tension makes dark comedies work. Namely, you can’t believe what you’re watching—and maybe even enjoying—such nonsense. Face facts, we all want to snicker during the eulogy. I barked out laughs often with some precision, shame attached gladly. This may be the way I have been so forgiving of Killers‘ flaws; funny is funny. Right?

Killers scratched an itch. It alternated between between goofy and espionage (almost in the same breath). It had pretty cool, gonzo fight scenes. It had the atypical family drama feel set on its ear. It had a lushy Catherine O’Hara role. Killers was a kind that I would allude to being the first proper dark comedy for the family. It was overall ridiculous, but in a fun, gleeful way. A fine mess and a decent waste of time. Other movies like Killers did a better job of skewering the rom-com formula with much more elan, but to its credit Killers was the dark rom-com variety equivalent of a Bic Mac and large fries. Namely, this is not necessarily a good thing, but…

*nom nom nom*

Oh, crap.


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. To the quick: f*ck the Hallmark Channel.


The Stray Observations…

  • “I’d kill for a normal life.”
  • I always wanted to know what Heigl felt like. I mean, felt like. K: *smack*
  • “Excellent mustache…Gorgeous.”
  • Aimes. Clever.
  • “Please, call me sir.”
  • Is that a spatula?
  • “I’m going to feed you.” Selleck had the best one-liners.
  • That’s a knife!
  • “Let’s go steal a car.”
  • Maalox. It’s not just for dinner anymore.
  • “if I was going to kill you I would have shot you back at the house.” Ah, marital bliss.
  • Can’t say Spence doesn’t come unprepared.
  • “Ooo, I’m Swedish!”
  • K: Piggy!
  • Wait. Kmart?
  • “Is anyone not trying to kill me?

The Next Time…

There is a property dispute regarding The House Of Sand And Fog. It’s not about who owns the land, per se. It’s about who has the right to live there.


 

RIORI Presents Installment #196: Joseph Kosinski’s “Tron: Legacy” (2010)


The Film…


The Players…

Jeff Bridges, Garett Hedlund, Olivia Wilde and Bruce Boxleitner, with Michael Sheen, James Frain and Daft Punk (no, really).


The Plot…

Almost 30 years after computer programmer extraordinaire Kevin Flynn disappeared from his CEO position at Encom, his son Sam receives a very curious communique regarding dad’s probable whereabouts.

Young Sam listened to his father regale him with digital dreams and analog adventures he had while working within Encom’s intranet, The Grid. Back then they were just cool bedtime stories. Pure fiction, but no less real to Sam.

Turns out the call for help came in the form of an archaic page leading to dad’s old, abandoned video arcade. Curious, Sam opens up a past that he always thought ol’ dad was just making believe. Being sucked into the Encom System to win video games or die trying. Pure fantasy, right?

Well, like father like son as it’s been said.


The Rant…

Ever hear of the “Eisenstein Effect?”

No? Well, more on that later. Right now I feel a need to recap some sh*t. That and I aim to make this installment the longest in RIORI‘s lowly history. Even more bloated than the doomed I’m Not There installment. Why? Because this time out (again) I’ve got a lot to say. Again. On your bike.

For those scant few loyal subs to RIORI, you may have noticed I return to a lot the same theories, themes and stories surrounding the making of the films I review and the dubious machinations that are responsible for their release. I harp on pacing a lot, true. I thumb my nose at the perceived money-grubbing practices Hollywood tries to bamboozle audiences with, yes. That repeated, tired thing about the blues being played yadda yadda yadda. All true, most relevant and with hope insightful. I’d like to believe The Standard is as close to a proper mission statement as you’re going to get around here. That’s why once in a while I feel the need to reheat matters of how this blog came into being.

Wait. Might be easier to link to the frothing frenzy that is my homepage. I’ll wait.

*clickbait*

Alrighty then. Remember The Standard? One of the reasons I started this blog was to deconstruct the implied conceit and deception Hollywood has trolled us with over the past 20 years. However recall that the movie business is just that: a business. A multi-million dollar business with a relatively plastic overhead. I say relatively because there’s a butterfly effect in how studios make ends meet. If a certain tentpole does fantastic clean up at the box office and/or home viewing, the floodgates open for potential sequels, merch, contracts and perhaps give second tier stars a breakout role to further their cachet. It’s never, “Welp, we did well here.” It’s more like, “Welp, we cleaned up here!” The first school of thought is moving on to the next big project. The second is what to do with this hot potato except stuff it back in oven again until it’s a charred cinder. Use it up. Beat it into the ground. It’s akin to why Dave Matthews isn’t popular much these days.

Bottom line, and I guess it needs repeating, RIORI was established as a watchdog to sniff out movies that may as well left for dead as far as Hollyweird could be concerned. Essentially I’m here as a PSA, advising all you curious folks out there in the blogosphere to not just take what the big deal movies throw at you and praying you bite. It was that way when I was a kid and much hasn’t changed, until nowadays when it’s nakedly blatant. All I ask for is  the chill feeling of watching a flick regardless of what the “experts” may say. I ain’t no expert, just a dork with a blog. Big Trouble In Little China is one of my fave films, and in the endgame I am curious about sequels to my favorite flicks as well as tasteful digital kablooey. But like LeVar Burton cautioned after recommending new reading material, “Don’t take my word for it.”

Whew. That was a good one, eh? [pant, pant]

*cicadas buzzing*

Where was I? Oh yeah, this week’s flick. CGI and gaming and sequels and attempting to realize a plot. And the Eisenstein Effect. We’ll cover all that claptrap soon enough.

Right now let’s get one thing—no, two things—out of the way.

One, the original Tron was one of my favorite movies when I was a kid. Still is as a grown-up; lotsa fun. Don’t know what to watch? Queue up Tron for it’s CGI and Star Wars-flavored story. In addition to the movie being prescient science fiction with fantastic visuals and a versatile cast, it introduced me to one of my most beloved actors Jeff Bridges. From The Fisher King to The Big Lebowski to The Last Picture Show, he’s always good, engaging and humorous, as well as self-effacing, thoughful and with a great head of hair. Big fanboy here.

The second is pretty much an open secret. When the original Tron dropped in 1982 it was the first motion picture to feature (then) cutting edge animation via CGI. Computer generated imagery. It was then (now a tired cliche) a “game changer.” Video game changer, if you will. When Oscar season rolled around for the class of ’82, Tron got snubbed for a Best Visual Effects nod. Why? The Academy made the claim that the producers of the film “cheated.” They used computers. Consider that almost 40 years later, what with the MCU tearing up the box office. Without computers nowadays, big budget blast-fests that Martin Scorsese rolls his bushy browed eyes at would not be possible. For example, I saw on YouTube the gear Brolin had to wear and be green screened to turn him into the power hungry, misguided alien Thanos in pre-production Endgame. Without those zeroes and ones he would’ve suffocated in a deluge of latex. CGI a cheat? Pshaw.

Me nowadays? I’ve grown wary of excessive CGI in movies. Keyword excessive, and how’s that? Sh*t that’s irrelevant to propelling the plot. Bullet time. Lens flares. Fast motion trickery. And other silly stuff like digitally removing the march of time on actors. Cyber face-lifting. First time I became aware of this insidious practice was a music video for the then latest Rolling Stones video back in the 90s; some of the facial crags on Mick and Keef’s face were digitally airbrushed. Um, these were the Stones who set well known Guinness-level debauchery and rough living water marks. Why bother with the buffering? Did it make the song better? Was dumb to me. Still is, and yet.

There is that elephant in the room. Too many flicks these days rely on F/X to drive the plot, rather than apply an engaging story or sharp direction. Beyond every. Single. Animated. Feature these days, there’s a unholy host of movies that exist just to show off the newest, gee whiz, bucky gizmo digital whatsis like a kid on Xmas, shaking the presents. Middling stuff like Van Helsing, the Fantanstic Four reboot, the original Fantastic Four, Cats, Deep Blue Sea and whatever else Renny Harlin got his meathooks on. All of those movies are all about style over substance—and may end up under my scalpel in the near future—and small wonder why you felt cheated after watching them. Okay, some of those might be guilty pleasures, but it doesn’t change my point. A good movie is all about story, acting and direction. Not pixelation.

So what’s my point? Well, it’s no lie that CGI in movies is here to stay. This is mostly a good thing when smartly applied. IMHO, special effects should complement the film, not drive it. The original Tron is a good example. As a kid, despite the coolness of the visuals, I was invested in how Flynn, Ram and the titular hero would restore the Encom System to a free state rather becoming the digital equivalent of Stalin’s postwar Russia. Sure, I’d not pass up a ride in a light cycle, but I’d rather see the heroes triumph over the forces or darkness. Hear what I’m screaming? You don’t need the bleeding edge anything for a satisfying story like that which, let’s face it, never gets old.

Despite that Hollywood profits are not steeped in art, but rather wanna apply the latest digital carrot to lure you in, sometimes there’s a synchronicity where money meets art and shakes hands. A profitable film earns awards and esteem, despite what the snots at the AMPAS deem “proper.” Did Tron: Legacy achieve that? Was it as fun and cutting-edge as the first Tron?

Maybe. Hang on. As always. Hush, my darling Player One.

I’ve been a gamer pretty much since the 5th grade. A friend of mine had one of those classic Atari 2600 consoles, the kind with the decals made to resemble wood grain. We would hang out after school—perhaps a bit too long—o.d’ing on classic titles like Adventure, Pac-Man, Q-Bert, Vanguard and Pitfall! Very simple games, primitive compared to today’s titles. But they were fun and that’s what mattered. You betcha.

When Saturday would roll around—still without a console of my own—me, my crew and a gym sock full of scrounged quarters would pester someone’s mom to take us to the video arcade at the mall. It was to be an adventure, and sort of a “scream till daddy stops the car” tableau vivant. Set the stage, so to speak.

There was this (of course now defunct) video arcade which was the vanguard to plunk away a Saturday afternoon. It was called the Space Port, smack dab in the middle of the local mall. The entrance was made to resemble a UFO, neon lights and the whole wad. Mecca to me and my digitally drooling crew.

If you were a kid in the 80s, your joystick would tingle at the opportunity to try your hand at one of the latest machines Space Port tempted. There was Dragon’s Lair, which used then new Laserdisc technology to render a platformer illustrated by former Disney animator Don Bluth (EG: The Secret Of NIMH, The Land Before Time, An American Tail, et al). Those nifty Nintendo gallery machines that let you play a variety of console games, from Super Mario to Castlevania to Bubble Bobble and others. Sit down Sega sim racers like Pole Position or the motorcycling Hang-On! Only spending Xmas at FAO Schwarz could rival such a cornucopia of fun. Not to mention precious few grown-ups around to kick you out of your zone.

Back then gaming was not in the mainstream as is now. Video games were a culty thing, reserved for freaks and geeks who both needed an escape from the drudgery of peer pressure as well find a place to bond. The arcade was a hotbed of social activity not unlike Star Trek conventions, comic book shops, nascent otaku, kids who sucked at basketball and were frankly persona non gratia to the fairer sex. Oh, gamers back then were almost exclusively male. The arcade was the middle school version of a man cave. Boy cave. Same diff. A home away from home.

As was then, it’s always been about escapism even before my young, Twizzler addled mind understood the concept. Gaming then as is now is like getting lost in a good book, or a good album, or a good movie before God. Gaming was a portal into another existence that in addition to escapism, you were in charge. The book example is potent, especially based against required reading from school that once you write up the report you might be blooped for your own interpretation rather than what teach deemed the “proper” way to view the story (EG: Twain’s Huckleberry Finn was about our hero hitching a ride down the Mighty Missip, soaking up the local culture with his fellow outcast buddy, Jim. Did you read the author’s note?). In sum, you were in control of these digital worlds, and no adult or popular kid could tell you different. Pocket full of coins, and you were a god.

Not unlike comic shops, the arcade was pitiable bubble, reserved for the lost and forlorn who needed a place to bond. Aim for the high score, debate which was better: Space Invaders or Galaga or Asteroids or Arkanoid. We gamer geeks knew the difference, and such discourse was valued for it was nothing the cool basketballers would get. Which is probably why the original Tron resonated with me and my fellow goony gamers.

The original Tron director Steven Lisberger got it. Not only did he forsee the potential of CGI in movies, but was also prescient how video games would eventually gain traction in the mainstream in the near future. His CGI rendered cinescapes reflected the games of the time. Think the angular styles of Atari and Colecovision console games. Watching Tron with its dark tableau punctuated with sharp blues and reds just screaming now. Well, now is now then, but if the original flick didn’t hold up we—I—wouldn’t be dismantling the sequel made almost 30 years later. That’s staying power, just like the allure of the arcade or a new PS5.

Tron was this is us. The junior gamers got it. When I was a pup I knew I was on the right track when my mom after seeing the film proclaimed she “didn’t get it.”

Score.


The Effect…

About the “Eisenstein Effect” (finally that). Ever heard of it? Of course not, because I made it up. Follow.

I consider it the gold standard of cinematic tribute. It’s where in a key scene (or scenes) of a contemporary movie pays tribute to a classic film image-for-image as homage, rather than some cherry on a DQ Blizzard held upside down. A good example of this is in Star Wars: A New Hope where Luke, Han and the gang receive accolades from Leia for a job well done. Director George Lucas more or less lifted this scene from Leni Riefenstahl’s epic Nazi propaganda film Triumph Of The Will, and dubious subject matter be damned. Another fine example is—with not much surprise—how the big fight scene in Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill, vol 2, was lifted from Bruce Lee’s debut film, Fists Of Fury. Even animated flicks are prone this kind of tribute; Disney’s Beauty And The Beast‘s final dance scene mirrored Sleeping Beauty’s. And Aronofsky’s mindf*ck of a PSA Requiem For A Dream documenting drug abuse and its joys? Yeah, that bathtub scene. An identical scene (if not circumstance) appears in Satoshi Kon’s psychological thriller anime Perfect Blue.

Lastly comes from a fave film from my youth. The one that made the late Sean Connery my favorite actor. Brian de Palma’s big screen interpretation of The Untouchables, what with the daring shootout scene lifted from the latter’s seminal film, The Battleship ‘Potemkin’. It’s not ripping off. It’s homage, and director Sergei Eisenstein created Potemkin. Not to mention innumerable filmmakers like those above who offer a twist on an iconic film scene. A tip of the hat, if you will. I consider such flourishes as Easter Eggs for cinephiles. An inside joke between strangers. It’s a good thing, and enhances some intimacy about how we film lovers love films and vice versa. You get it or you don’t.

There’s a curious thing about interpretation and review: depending on who digests it says what the feature was all about. I’m not talking about personal opinion. I’m talking about the court of public opinion. See, Potemkin dropped in 1925, and therefore a silent film. It depicted the harrowing nature about serving in wartime on a Russian cruiser. Lenin himself (yes, that Lenin) praised the film as a triumph of propaganda depicting the bravery and sophistication of the Russian Navy. This was something of a myopic view, for Eisenstein cut his masterpiece as a caution of the futility of war and how Russian sailors were no more than cannon fodder. I’ve seen the film. Guess where my sympathies lie.

The Eisenstein Effect is, in essence, honest cinematic tribute. A director was inspired by a classic film and decided to appropriate a scene, twist it around in a tasteful manner and incorporate it into contemporary milieu. The original Tron did this, but unlike Lucas, Tarantino and de Palma director Lisberger caged scenery from the arcades like the Space Port. What was the primary influence, which an audience may follow.

When Flynn and his fellow renegade programs get beamed down to the game grid, they are charged to play versions of the hot game titles of the day. It’s all Atari fully realized. The Lightcycle and Space Paranoids of Flynn’s user creations perfectly echoed the arcade hits of the day. Lisberger was inspired by the arcades, and rendered those games lovingly in his film. Not the “conventional” Eisenstein Effect, but I made that crap up and was spot on in respecting the source material, namely those old skool, quarter gobbling, flash and dash arcade games, which your Mom didn’t get.

In the endgame if you think about it (but not too much) sequels can also be tributes. Sure, there’ve been some very deliberate footprints laid out. Some movies invite the potential of an overarching story (again: the Star Wars saga and the MCU). I’d never thought in 30 years the original Tron could invite a sequel. It does make logical sense, though. There was more of a story to tell, since the first film heralded in the digital age of filmmaking, and such technology is ever evolving. I suppose now that computer use is not longer relegated to geeks, hackers and the military—all one and the same, tee hee—as hot as it was in the early 80s. In the early teens it was CGI upload all the way. As of now: viral TikToks. Ain’t the future of digital video as entertainment grand? Sigh.

Yeah, yeah. I know, I know, I know. Shaddap and cut to the chase. I’ve felt for too long us moviegoers have been relegated to steerage, assumed to play well for crusts. Some perspective is always in order. It’s akin to how Tom Jefferson commented that one should never buy what you do not want, because it is cheap; it will be dear to you. You ever flinch at the price of a basic pack of Twizzers at concessions? Of course you don’t. I don’t. Sue me. Like with all our pleasures and sins, you get what you give.

Beyond the big bucket o’popcorn, a sequel demands some attention. It once illustrated that some hot property of a film like the first Star Wars episode, or that The Godfather‘s source material insisted two movies to tell the whole saga, or bloody anything that moves too close to the MCU. Sequels are at most negative return on investment. Sometimes the first film warrants some chapters, like with Star Wars, The Godfather, the second, third and fourth Star Trek films, the entire James Bond 007 franchise, the Toy Story trilogy and Indiana Jones. There was more to expound upon, more stories inviting a cohesive whole. That last bit may be why those series flourished, aside of profit. I’d like to think so, for there are endless, unnecessary sequel made like I named back a bit that were nothing more than cash grabs. Example? The Die Hard series should of quit it with Vengeance, and should’ve skipped the second movie out of good taste (an icicle? Really?).

The aforementioned is important, for Tron: Legacy lifts its entire story—sometimes scene for scene—from the original film. Eisenstein again. It’s not a rip off, but a respectful nod dedicated to similar nodding fans saying to themselves “I get it.” Considering that director Kosinski was my age when the original Tron dropped I can only hope/pray that he was so in love as I’ve been that he had once watched Potemkin also. Or The Untouchables. Or pissed away a lot of quarters standing in front of a Timepilot machine. All worthwhile activities, by the way.

So. When does a sequel become a cash grab, a legit story progression of a tribute to the original film? A curious question, which these rants have not properly answered.

As the old adage goes, “The proof is in the pudding.” And I dislike pudding, unless I don’t.

Please deposit another 25 cents to continue.


The Story…

Dateline 1982: Encom’s software whiz kid Kevin Flynn (Bridges) is officially acknowledged as the programmer of several very successful arcade games. By his new resolve, Flynn rose to the rank of Encom’s CEO and launched a digital crusade; indeed computers are the guide to driving the future! With that flourish, Encom endeavored in shareware gratis to all American school districts and private universities alike. Information should be shared, not hoarded.

Dateline 1989: The birth of the World Wide Web, and info guru Kevin Flynn’s going off the grid. Encom’s prodigy was never seen again.

Dateline 2010: Upon the proper release of Encom’s next gen OS, Sam Flynn (Hedlund) keeps up his annual prank fest, thumbing his nose at the high and mighty Encom. They built his dad up, they took him down, and possibly out of sight.

Dateline 2012: Sam’s been wondering and a little less than pissed off about where Dad escaped to. No message, no reason, no clue. Until a very old skool message from wherever gets paged, before God, to Dad’s old “partner-in-crime” Alan Bradley (Boxleitner). Alan suggests the page was meant for Sam, seeing it was sent from Dad’s abandoned video arcade. Naturally Sam’s curiosity takes over, and wending his way through the forgotten machines he locates what seems to be Dad’s old Encom intranet portal. After all these years of Dad waxing philosophical about Encom’s System and the Grid, was there a pixel of truth in all those stories?

Click AGREE to comply.


The Review…

Fair warning. A lot of the following is riddled with spoilers. Hate doing it, but I gotta make things clear. Now who want’s s’mores?

This is odd, but akin to The Godfather saga (but less grand), one must see the original Tron to fully appreciated its Legacy. Just saying you need to watch the first to understand/appreciate the second. Lots of sequels play that way. I mentioned above about how sequels must enhance the going story to be worthwhile viewing. Yes, most part twos are a charred potato, rushed into production before the domestic box office tally has been fully scored. You can probably count those kinds on all yer fingers and toes, and if you’re a guy that makes thirteen.

I’ll see myself out.

After this. I feel that a little gestation period between sequels and threquels and prequels against the primary film helps justify an ongoing existence. Consider this: The first two Godfather movies were filmed sequentially, as were the original Superman movies. Both were in the can at the same time and were later tweaked to better bridge the two chapters. Our renegade archaeologist Indiana Jones worked in reverse; the cast proper was introduced in Raiders Of The Lost Ark, then Indy was back in the first proper prequel, Temple Of Doom and then the gang en toto was back in full in real time for The Last Crusade (save Marion, but now Dad). But Marion would show up years later, so yeah, full circle. Good examples of sequels and their ilk; there’s more of a story there, so let’s explore. And, yeah, I left out Star Wars now. Those chapters do go without saying, yes.

All being said, when a sequel gets released lightyears after the mother film, I start scratching my head. Like I said, sometimes it works (EG: Aliens, Terminator 2, Toy Story 2, etc). Most of the time it doesn’t (EG: Caddyshack 2, dishonorable mentions The Matrix Reloaded and Revolutions, any Jaws feature after the first one, etc). Anyone with a brain in their ticket holding stub knows what they are most likely getting into. Not to sound all grand or nothing, but quoting Thomas Jefferson once again, “People pretty much get the government they deserve.” Butter topping on that?

The last time I recalled a belated sequel to a movie was for the weeper Terms Of Endearment. This Oscar friendly paean dropped in 1983, and won a few vital awards, like Best Picture and whatever. It’s loose sequel, The Evening Star was unleashed to nobody in 1996. That’s a 13 year hiatus. The original Tron came out in 1982. The sequel in 2010. Wanna do the math?

That’s 18 years. Eighteen. I know I mentioned decent sequels demand a little breathing room. The crew behind Tron: Legacy must’ve been asthmatics. It’s all a good thing. Calm down. Here, have a Twizzler.

In hindsight after seeing Legacy its slow gestation made sense. Consider how the home video game consoles evolved so rapidly in the past 25 years. We’re at PS5 at the time of this installment, and consider its legacy since the 90s. Gaming has become a subculture to mainstream in a very short time if you think about it. The official console wars (not war, but plural) have been raging since the PSX dropped in 1995. Before that it was a pissing contest. Nintendo versus Sega, always trying to outsell more units. Players back then gave little sh*t to the inner workings of the SNES or Genesis (and their offspring), so long as the games were good. That last thing still holds today, what with true gamers knowing a tad more that just bitrate. Oh, and the Internet came along so there.

It is utterly numbing how fast consoles try to outdo one another. Despite being retro, I keep abreast of the latest specs of the next gen consoles and their gaming fodder, I just don’t invest in them. Why? Budget, nostalgia, budget, speed runs, ran out of HDMI ports and budget. And for the record I have eight and/or nine retro consoles corralled into a very exhausted Vizio flatscreen and multiple switch boxes. My pedigree as retro speaks volumes, and yet I still have a g/f to play Pokémon GO with. She’s the better trainer BTW, but I have two—two—fully maxed out Raichu. A boy and a girl. Wait, Pokémon breed?

*leaves rustling*

I’d like to think I have some qualifications as a gamer, albeit old skool. I mean I still have my very first console the g.1 NES—which I got as a twelfth b’day gift and is still working fine 20-some years later, thank you very much—a g.2 SNES (not the “toaster”), a Sega Master System, the Sega Genesis mk. 2, the underrated Sega Saturn, the extremely underrated Sega Dreamcast, a Wii, a Game Boy Advance SP (gotta play classic Pokémon somehow, pika pika) and a PS2 slim (which I bought new after hawking my old PSX and g.1 PS2). Anything else I check out Steam. I’d like to lay a claim I understand how a Tron sequel was inevitable, but not immediately so.

A movie based on/inspired by video gaming like the original Tron required patience for any going audience to catch up. Took a long time, even considering 90s boom. Now gamers are far more tech savvy, demand better programming and now we have MMORPG’s that connect the whole f’n planet into a virtual gaming world not unlike the Encom gaming Grid from those innocent days of yore that just needed a pocketful of coins and a Big Gulp to power up. Or a buddy you’d abuse to play Atari again at his house after school, guzzling down all his Gatorade. True story.

(I also almost bankrupted myself years ago playing Phantasy Star Online v2.0 on my broadband Dreamcast, which is why now I swear off MMOs. Also a true story.)

Legacy evolved as gaming evolved. Think the Metroid Prime saga, Wipeout Fury and other s/f racers, the Mass Effect series, etc. The inspiration was there—another tribute—based on how far we’ve come in gaming, for good and for ill. The games are more sophisticated now than the quarter gulpers of yesteryear. Legacy dropped at the same time when the PS3 (one of the most hot properties at the time) and the Xbox 360 in its stride engaged in battle, and the Wii swept them both under the rug with the first attempt at actual physical engagement into the game world. And Steam had already been viable since 2003. Like I keep hammering, gaming has become one with the mainstream.

So with evolution, a movie based on gaming and it’s ascent into the mainstream, despite said long gestation, I supposed it was about time that Tron would invite a sequel. And it did. And with that it did the gamers proud. That and those who like quick, crisp, organic CGI not exclusively reserved for action scenes or reducing facial wrinkles. Okay, all that was there, but there was also that ur-Eisenstein thing. And like the original, Legacy was also prescient as well as potent. Consider the film’s patient timeline, for instance. I’m pretty sure the original Tron was relegated to cult thing and some dandruff Disney was quick to brush away. However in TV land a lot of series were revived due to pressure from Internet posts and sympathetic network affiliates that needed to fluff up their schedule (EG: think Futurama, Family Guy and MST3K).

Here’s a kind of cinematic clickbait with Legacy. In the opening/flashback scenes, the last time young Sam spent with his dad Kevin was in the summer of 1989. That was the official/unoffical year when the US government declassified their network for commercial use. Look it up:

Berners-Lee, Timothy. Weaving The Web: The Original Design and Ultimate Destiny of the World Wide Web by Its Inventor. Harper San Francisco (1999).

No hyperlink here; you’re gonna have to do some homework. The future just happened.

*burp*

That was enlightening. Back to the review.

Just a moment, some clarification. My g/f has become the practical Siskel to my jelly donut Ebert when plying my trade. Over the past few installments she’s watched the selected movies with me, offering up her observations and opinions. She did this a lot with Legacy, doubtless because we watched the original the night before and she found that movie to be a lot of fun. So as I have in the recent past I will make now policy: whenever you read “K:” in a comment it was her insight, not mine. She’s been very helpful, and deserves credit. Moving on.

At its core Legacy is about family. The ties that bind and all that entails. The first film had a hint of that. Fellow programmers trying to maintain the ethics of their once cottage industry up against the corporate machine, but there was no blood there. At the outset, Legacy illustrates the bond between Kevin Flynn and young Sam. K: Sam has all of his dad’s Tron merch on display in his bedroom, illustrating young Sam believes in Dad. It’s a bit touching, that and Kevin is just as much a kid and his son. Bonding. It draws you in, unless you have ice in your spine. The movie lets you melt at this point, and also inform you as to who Sam becomes as a grown-up. Namely, living in a garage as all good nerds do when creating. Like Dad with his hacking for the greater good..

Such a setup can be one’s undoing. Like with all sequels, there must be more to tell but also honor the source material. Legacy‘s example? Check out all the motorcycles in the first act. A nod to Tron? Maybe. Foreshadowing? Definitely. When we finally get down to game grid level, the Encom System resembles the gamescape of early 10s games as the original mimicked the early 80s arcade analogs. Like I implied: tech is ever evolving, and with Legacy as does the continuing saga. In sum, Legacy to Sam is all about catching up, if not with his absentee father but also experiencing that the Grid is real, and will challenge you as it did Dad. A family thing, remember?

What I dug about Legacy was that it was not as cold as the original. From my experience, director Lisberger wanted his world of Tron to be cold, yet producing its own light via the landscape crackling with electricity. At the outset if Sam’s adventure in the upgraded Grid is heated by the blooming reds of corrupted files. It’s not as clinical as the prime film. Legacy is more “symphonic” than the original. More organic. The first film had a soundtrack derived from the bleeps and bloops of old skool synths and arcade machines. Now we have Daft Punk driving the soundtrack, well adept at creating futuristic soundscapes (I own their first two vital albums. An inspired bit of contracting). Everything screams (K:) “Upgrade!” And it sure was. We had lots of flash, dash and Matrix-style action, however not really detracting from the family drama that acts as the backbone of the plot. As I said the environment of Legacy was less cold than the original. And much to my surprise, it worked.

Thanks to the new programming, Legacy‘s new color scheme was key to and thanks for its keen application this time out. I can’t compare the first the second film enough, but the use off color was an extension of the story thread. Back in ’82, blue was good, red was bad, CLU was yellow. And it was a heckuva reveal when the one-time cyber bloodhound of Kevin Flynn evolved/mutated in our antagonist, CLU v2.0. Yellow in Legacy meant bad news for Sam and crew. Think about it, if you’re working from your own private agendum who gives a sh*t what side you belong. And Bridges as CLU paired against virtual Kevin made a very clever Jekyll vs Hyde dynamic. Hey, sometime the old crap works.

Despite how CLU loomed large over the advanced grid, it’s not to say that Kevin and Sam are mere pawns in his game. But before we get to that, let us consider this “plot hole.” Namely: how the f*ck did CLU came back to full operation? This was a major issue with Tron fanboys. I had to ruminate over this bugaboo also. This glitch harkens back to young Kevin trying to crack the code to hack into Encom’s intranet.

WARNING: TECHNOBABBLE AHEAD!

Inquiring geeks want to know. In the real world, CLU is syntax with the computer language ALGOL (algorithmic language), which was developed at MIT back in the day designed for more or less “seek and/or destroy” programming. The root sub-language is in Cluster (ergo: “CLU”). Its syntax is designed to unravel very complex numbers. Namely, a pre-programmed rouge program to weed out unneeded data that may hinder a network, designed by an independent user (EG: Flynn as hacker). And now you know. Blame MIT.

Whew. Yer welcome.

That being babbled, CLU v1.0 was not destroyed by Master Control two decades hence, but rather appropriated into Encom’s network, rather than expunged as we were led to believe in the first movie. I bring this up to silence all the Tron dorks who were screaming “What the f*ck?” back in 2010. Do yer f*cking homework you hackers you. I did, and it took less time than dial-up. So there.

Whew v2.0.

Wait. K: Kevin Flynn’s present memory disk is the memory bank for the entire new Grid he created. It hold’s all system’s memories. If that gets into CLU’s hands everyone is in trouble. Smart girl, and also commented, “the student became the teacher.” Bingo. Moving on.

Back to the color thing; color’s vital here, day. Since we figured out that CLU and his minions are trying to achieve separation (read: sentience a la the MCP back then), not to mention insurrection. K: The characters that are red imply, “Yer gonna get burned, Sam,” as if on fire in rage; the blues are oppressed and must remain calm. It’s all zeroes and ones. And it’s a very apt analogy.

Am I looking too deeply into all of this? You bet. It’s fun to pick apart films you like. Star Wars nerds, change my mind.

But, as always, there are hiccups with Legacy. There always are. There was a sh*tton of data to download with Legacy, maybe to get the newbs caught up. Legacy had a lot more exposition and navel-gazing this time out. The original was all about show me, don’t tell me. The basic plot invited that simple, effective precept. Legacy felt more like the Matrix sequels, trying to reinvent the bicycle. The upgraded Grid is so very life and death that any mistep from the emotional Users involved will unravel reality. Heavy portent, and far from the light-hearted tone of the first film. I’m saying that Legacy is a well-constructed sequel (more of a tribute really), even for non-fanboys, but heavy, man. Heavy.

The execution here is less basal than the first movie, and jazzed up for more “sophisticated” PlayStation pilots—a lot more stylish—but the song remained the same. Good versus evil. Cool CGI that complemented the film rather than weigh it down. Nifty soundtrack, In sum, overall and counting the numbers Legacy tickled my 7 year old self now as for the same fun with the first one: digital fantasy, efficient action, geeky humor and devoid of artistic merit beyond the frame rate. Legacy sure as heck didn’t feel two hours long. Pacing, as always. Regardless of exposition and thanks to Jeff Bridges in a dual role.

Hear what I’m screaming AMPAS?

From the deck of the Potemkin: End of line.


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. It’s a good companion piece to the original. Watch it paired with the first Tron and make it a double feature. It’s all good popcorn fodder, perfect for a lazy Saturday afternoon.


The Stray Observations…

  • “We’re always on the same team.”
  • Mickey logo on Sam’s motorcycle helmet. Discuss.
  • Now that is a big door!
  • K: Was that some sort of shadow simulation over Sam’s route to Dad’s lab? Like with the last movie? Again, sharp girl.
  • No one: Sam’s shop’s named DuMont, probably honoring Walter’s avatar in the first movie. Ever wonder where that moniker came from? History time! The DuMont TV network launched in 1942, and was rival to ABC. Long story short, DuMont’s programming was too ahead of its time, but later cable TV took a nod from its misunderstood scheduling based on content, not just entertaining (read: like The History Channel, Discovery Channel and Food Network in the 90s). DuMont folded in 1956, almost forgotten. Walter was co-founder of Encom, old and almost forgotten. And now you know.
  • “I’m tired and I smell like jail.”
  • Anti-Tron purrs like an overfed cat.
  • Oh Lord. Not Journey again.
  • Notice all those motorcycles.
  • Did that dinner scene remind you of the last act of 2001?
  • K: Like father, like son.
  • I felt that Wilde was only brought on board cuz she was hot. And duh!
  • And her character’s name Quorra, Sam’s digital love interest and Kevin’s operative, means “heart.” Subtle?
  • “Made it.”
  • Sometimes life moves faster than zeros and ones. K: Kinda like Cheerios. Me: Kinda profound that.
  • “Yer messin’ with my Zen thing, man!”
  • Does this installment compete in length with I’m Not There? I lost word count.
  • “I’m a User. I’ll improvise.”

The Next Time…

Ashton Kutcher and Katherine Heigl make for an unlikely pair of KIllers, but hey, so are most newlyweds.

Huh?

Pull!


 

RIORI Presents Installment #193: Joe Dante’s “Looney Tunes: Back In Action” (2003)


The Film…


The Humans…

Brendan Fraser, Jenna Elfman, Timothy Dalton, Joan Cusack, Heather Locklear, Bill “Goldberg” Goldberg and Steve Martin.


The Tunes…

Joe Alaskey, Jeff Bennett, Billy West and Eric “Not Goldberg” Goldberg.


The Plot…

When Daffy Duck quits his job as second banana at Warner Brothers, security guard DJ gets tasked with keeping that ungrateful quack off the lot.

On the flip side, comedy maven Kate needs Daffy back in the ranks—you can’t have Bugs without Daffy after all—so she and star wascally wabbit Bugs Bunny are on the case.

But this is no simple snatch and grab/road trip. Oh no. The secrets this goony quartet discover along the way might alter the course of history!

And maybe coerce Daffy to come home and renegotiate his contract. Maybe.


The Rant…

Let me share with you my late Saturday mornings back when I was a pup. Betcha most of you out there in the blogosphere have a similar story.

Before Saturday morning cartoons were relegated to cable on the Disney Channel and Nick the major networks gave over their usual airings of game shows and talk shows to broadcasting cartoons from, say, six AM until noon to bring in the weekend for kids like me. We were glad and relieved to get away from schoolroom drudgery for 48 hours (unless that dope of a 5th grade science teacher gave us homework over the blessed weekend. I could’ve cared less about what mitochondria do for the cell. Ugh). giving over to a morning of silliness, action and whatever you could describe Pee-Wee’s Playhouse was. That and too many bowls of neon colored cereal designed to overload your carburetor, God willing.

Getting right to point (for once) my Saturday morning viewing habits concluded with Spider-Man And His Amazing Friends (Iceman and Firestar of the X-Men), The Bugs And Daffy Show and finally Soul Train, where I caught up on the newest rap artists. Then I had to go mow the lawn. That’s how it went for a lot of Gen Xer’s I’ll bet. Not just the lawn mowing, nor grooving to the likes of Run-DMC or Kurtis Blow (an aside: opposite Soul Train was American Bandstand, which I detested. What turned me off was the prattle of America’s oldest teenage dork Dick Clark, which cardboard had more charm), but the immortal Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. The Looney Tunes! Classic and timely in the same package.

Those cartoons had something for everyone, kids and adults alike. Keep in mind that those classic ‘toons were shown after the previews in theaters back in the 1940’s and 50’s, aimed for mass appeal. Well before Pixar. Well before pixels even. For children of all ages. If you consider it, the Looney Tunes were the progenitors for the likes of modern parody and satiric cartoons like The Simpsons, Family Guy and South Park. Okay, granted the Looney’s were not as overtly topical or scatological as the aforementioned establishments, but they were damn good at poking fun at…well, everything, at least back in the early 40s. They could also skirt around being subversive when they wanted to (EG: what was with all the cross-dressing?). Some of the best shorts was when the toons directed their mockery at real life celebrities, skewering the pop culture of the day. Example, sister series Merrie Melodies provided “Slick Hare,” which both lampooned and celebrated all the real-life stars in the Warner Studios in the forties. Here’s a sample. Check it.

I’m figuring that was Lauren Bacall as Bogie’s date.

So why have the Looney Tunes endured, while equal acts back then like Woody Woodpecker and Popeye kinda fell into obscurity? Because, Doc, on the most part they could be reinterpreted by each generations’ audience. They were funny, they were topical, both factors carry over, as well as being their being irreverent. I believe that’s the key; the Tunes winking and nudging and trolling and just being zany enough to ignore the rules of physics, both scientific and why the hell don’t any of Wile E’s Acme deliveries never work yet he won’t delete his account profile? And where’s he getting the funding for all the crap? We don’t care. Just keep being funny, guys. Just keep being.

That zaniness paired with irreverence—the self-effacing, wink wink nudge nudge delivery—is why the Toons have survived for so long. Even back in the 90s, with the updated gags of Tiny Toon Adventureswhere Buster and Babs Bunny took cues from Uncle Bugs, there were even more sight gags of social relevance as well as pop culture roasting of the trends of the day (EG: I really dug the ep of TTA when it was all music videos highlighting the goofy brilliance of They Might Be Giants. Buster: “Who are these guys?”). Thus saying, the Tunes can adapt to the times, as well as be revisited in all their silly, non-PC glory from back in the day. Circle of life. As comedy goes, the tropes that got it right as far as staying power goes follows like Monty PythonSNL, MST3K and of course the Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies franchise. And how’s this? Relevance, dependability and reinvention, which is all those series had in spades. Still do.

I get it that the Tunes aren’t that sharp to reinvention, despite they originated in the movie theaters, which mocked their output. However when it came time for a live action adaptation (a la Roger Rabbit), which was far overdue for the big screen, how would Bugs and crew adapt this time out? We’re in the 21st Century now, and a lot of the non-PC gags which made the shorts so great back in the day would be taboo now. We’re not talking cancel culture here, and I kinda doubt Yosemite Sam hamming it up as a demented Johnny Reb, the Kaiser’s egotistic WWI pilot or the hare trigger happy outlaw Yosemite Sam we know and love today would translate across the decades. A lot of the Tunes mana was parody, slapstick and occasional satire. All welcome today—I repeat, South Parkbut the Tunes modus operandi was not to offend any sensibilities. They were drawn to be funny, packed fair and square. These days we can plainly see a bit of cultural insensitivity here and there, but it’s there and gone in a flash and not the whole of the short, as opposed to Walt Disney’s “blackface” animation Song Of The South, released in the same period. All anyone got out of that mistake was the catchy “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” song that, admittedly, won the Oscar for best original song. Precious few know that song due to the ultra-conservative take on it. However up the ladder almost anyone knows “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down,” the Looney Tunes theme song. There, now you know the title.

As venerable as the Looney Tunes franchise is it’s still lucrative. Still appealing. Consider the Space Jam sequel. Heck, when ten-year-old me was wedged between Peter Parker and Don Cornelius I thought the Tunes were new-fangled, custom made for Saturday mornings. What a shock it was to find Bugs and Daffy were older than my parents. And yes, sometimes the gags haven’t aged well, or at least inspired by arcane studio system trivia from back in the very day. All things considered, the Tunes back on the silver screen was a long time coming. So did Bugs, Daffy and the whole crew have the moxie to pull it of like back in the good ol’ days?

Let’s find out, folks…


The Story…

You’ve heard about things in threes? Beware, beware. But what about things in fours? Or fives even?

DJ (Fraser) is a crummy, clumsy stuntman at Warner Brothers studios. After one too many botches, he’s relegated back to his original job: security guard. He’s not very good at that either. It’s really embarrassing since his dad Damien Drake (Dalton) is their superstar action spy leading man…who scored his klutzy son the guard job in the first place. The apple fell far from the tree regarding DJ.

Meanwhile…

Daffy Duck (Alaskey) has had it being second fiddle to Bugs Bunny (also Alaskey), always enduring Elmer’s shotgun blasts to his feathered face. Daffy’s fed up and won’t renew his contract with the Warners for another season unless he gets his props. WB’s exec of comedy Kate (Elfman) is now tasked to get the duck back in action because, hey, without Daffy Bugs has no cachet. So she and the rabbit jailbreak from the studio to catch up with their duck amok.

Meanwhile…

JD received an urgent message from his superstar dad to come back home…with stowaway Daffy in tow. Dad’s mansion is a tribute to Damien…with a lot of odd decorations. After Daffy accidentally trips a secret message, turns out Damien is a for real spy, and has crucial info regarding the Acme Corporation’s nefarious Chairman (Martin) and his latest plan to generate more nefarious revenue. The Acme Corp? Don’t they fund the Looney Tunes? Oh yeah, and Damien is in their clutches.

Meanwhile…

Looks like it’s up to DJ and Daffy to complete Damien’s mission, not to mention Kate and Bugs’ mission hot on their trail to secure their jobs.

Meanwhile…

What the hell’s a Blue Monkey…?


The Review…

Right off the bat, I must say that this flick wasn’t for everyone. It’s clear that I’m an ardent Looney Tunes fan, but I feel for most my ardor runs very close to culty territory. Most folks I’ve found regard Bugs and company as quaint. A portrait of the animated comedy of yesteryear. In their time the Tunes were cutting edge. Not nearly as polished as their Disney rivals, and all the better for it. Let’s put it this way: no matter how new fangled the latest smartphone gets, the old model that fit the bill (and your palm) was the best phone you ever had, despite its limitations. Mine was my old iPhone 5. It was perfect, and I’m sometimes tempted to assault eBay for a retro purchase. The Tunes aren’t considered flashy now, or even en vogue as far as cartoons go, but they were solid pieces of animated comedy. Always reliable for a laugh. If you disagree you have no sense of humor. You are, as it’s been said, a maroon.

The raw animation of the Tunes couldn’t hold a blowtorch to Mickey’s motley crew, all watercolors and chirpy dialogue. However, the best take on how the Tunes trumped Disney when it came to humor came from disgraced comic Louis CK. His was something along the line of “Bugs Bunny is f*cking funny! Mickey Mouse is like: ‘Oh! Too much water!’.” When I claim that Chuck Jones was a genius the gentry responded with polite indifference: “Didn’t he own that kiddie pizza place?” Most folks don’t know (let alone care) what an acme* is anyway.

So yeah, the Tunes haven’t been much of a going concern lately what with every big budget animated feature having tossed pen to cell into the Dumpster decades ago. Along with my busted iPhone 5, with the ghost of Steve Jobs cackling. Agony. Sure, as of the time of this installment the Space Jam sequel is on it’s way, featuring this generation’s best b-ball players alongside the Tunes. Brand new live action married to CGI animation that is often better than expected. However, there is something to be said about the organic charms of the Tunes old skool cell animation. For one, it was pretty damned good animation. Again, not as polished as Disney, but what the Tunes lacked in technical merit they made up for it in spades when it came to tongue in cheek fun. Tunes tries a good deal to recapture that lightning in a bottle, even with CGI enhanced whatsits. Director Dante got the manic feel right, that zaniness across the board, but the execution felt a bit forced. It scanned like he had a dire mission to bring the Tunes to a 21st Century audience, where everything was madcap, frenetic and ultimately too busy to sit back, inhale and laugh. Blink and you’ll miss it. Tunes was indeed witty, but there was this Doppler effect that when a gag launched, it took a few long seconds to catch up with it. It got kinda exhausting. I’m all for swift pacing, but the parallax shift in Tunes got hard to take let alone me following the story. That was my immediate carp with Action. I wished it would have slowed the f*ck down. ADHD makes for a bad mindset when it comes to watching (and dismantling) any movie, but all was not lost on a Ritalin smoothie. I know that I’m always harping on pacing either making or breaking a flick, and Tunes was hell bent on recreating the zaniness we know and love from the originals at mach 10. The gags and one-liners in Tunes were delivered at such a frenetic pace it left one’s brain swirling on an existential Tilt-A-Whirl. What I’m saying is I needed some breathing room. Ever take in a Michael Bay movie? Get tired of all the boomy things? Me too. It kinda ruins the narrative, even when it doesn’t really matter. Like with The Island.

Zing!

I reckon director Dante was just as much a fanboy as I, and earned his bones with Tunes covering the spread of the WB cartoon universe. Hell, these characters made me laugh as a child of the 80s, and were created in the 40s before my parents knew how to eat solid foods. There’s a lot to digest here (pun intended) canon wise, and like I implied Dante made sure we suffered an overdose. That’s either a delight or a caution depending where you’re perched on the fence. Dutifully, Dante’s output has been pretty hit-or-miss. All of the fantasy films he’s helmed over the years have been a bit fevered, attempt to reconstruct an homage (or mimicry) to Spielberg. However, unlike Steve’s flights of fancy films, which always had a thread of “seriousness” to them (read: Close Encounters Of The Third Kind, ET: The Extra-Terrestrial and even Hook, before God) Dante’s catalog lacks no such pretense. I’ve gathered he’s made films based on cutting his teeth with the B-flicks he loved as a kid. That shows; there’s a teenage guile behind his camera work, snickering all the while. His sh*t won’t win awards, and it doesn’t matter. Ain’t you having as much fun as I am? Your loss. Like with his Innerspace, The ‘Burbs and Matinee (a very telling culprit in his oeuvre), his muse is an amusement park, freewheeling against Spielberg joyously navel-gazing. That sort of aesthetic explains his directing Tunes. It invited migraines, but it worked. Pass the Advil.

To his credit however, Dante did a decent job honoring the legacy as well as acknowledging the fans, Red Bull enemas notwithstanding. What was great about this movie was that virtually ALL of the Looney Tunes got screen time, even the obscure ones like dopey Beaky Buzzard and outlaw Nasty Canasta. Tunes was a who’s who in WB toon-dom, perhaps an urgent plea to indifferent Millennials to get off TikTok for a blip toiling over their lame animations (mostly ripping off the Toons at the outset. It’s a judgement call, but I’m making it) and embrace the feels of old skool animation. Tunes did have a certain scent of catching up the under-informed how vital these characters were and still are. Perhaps not on a collegiate level, but it was very obvious Dante loved and respected the Looney Tunes and wanted to share all with an unassuming love letter. A frothing frenzy of a love letter, but in good spirit dang it.

I figured that Tunes was another nod to all the goodies Dante scooped up and digested as a teenager. My eye spied a fanboy a mile away, and not just towards Looney Tunes. Nope. Tunes was dappled by many nods to classic scenes from the WB vault. Dante was a fan. The riff on Psycho‘s infamous shower scene, maverick and influential filmmaker Roger Corman shows up, a black-and-white Kevin McCarthy shows up at Area 52 lugging an alien pod. And that Pixar dig. The guy did his homework. Not necessarily about out of time pop culture, just to know what to dapple the LT universe with. A tribute, you see. However Dante’s wink wink nudge nudge schtick got to be somewhat tiresome after a while. In other words from fellow LT fans: “We get it.” I guess sometimes there’s always too much of a good thing. Ah, me.

It’s easy to say that the voice cast performed admirably. Alaskey was the primary voice of the Tunes, but the others (particularly West, who has a résumé a mile long, from Ren & Stimpy to Futurama) did their yeoman’s work. I remember seeing Alaskey on several stand-up comedy shows as an impressionist. His bit about Jack Nicholson as Eddie Haskell coming on to Leave It To Beaver‘s June Cleaver was hilarious, as well as Edith Bunker from All In The Family reciting Juliet’s soliloquy from Shakespeare’s best known romantic tragedy was truly inspired, not to mention Ralph Cramden deconstructing the events surrounding Laura Palmer’s murder in Twin Peaks. The guy knew voices, and not just sounding like the characters. The man could enunciate. He had nuance. He wasn’t just sounding like Bugs Bunny, he was Bugs. And I was nothing short of impressed that Alaskey was not only Bugs, but Daffy, and Sylvester, and Tweety, and… Well, the voice crew were no Mel Blanc, but then who could be? Daffy was his usual apoplectic slapstick. Bugs was all cool and detached. Taz slobbered a lot, all in the best honor to Blanc’s polymorphic vocals. Who could ask for anything more? Alaskey was a student, as was West. I’ve seen quite a few YouTube interviews with the man as to how he developed his voice. It was akin to method acting, only with your throat (he voiced Elmer Fudd, ha ha ha). It must’ve been a bit tricky when the casting call came down for all those voices. Wiser heads prevailed. Good job, Mary.

It’s the flesh and blood actors I want to talk about now, and the casting was right inspired. Fraser has been underrated for his skill with physical comedy. Doubtful? Check out Encino Man, George Of The Jungle (hey, that Eiffel Tower rescue scene. Did you think? Nah) or Monkeybone. Sure, none of them were designed to earn awards (let alone recognition), but they do illustrate Fraser was at home with the Tunes. When you consider it, most of Fraser’s memorable roles have an element of physical comedy (think Airheads, The Mummy and even him being rather aloof in Crash). His toony body language worked well in context with Tunes. It helped that his DJ took nothing seriously, even when trying to, which resulted in a seamless performance when interacting with his animated co-stars. Best proof? Check out the fight scene between DJ and Nasty Canasta. Again, seamless. Fraser was the ideal guy as our beleaguered protagonist.

Speaking of goony, it appeared that old skool, “wild and crazy guy” Steve Martin reared his madcap head as Mr Chairman of Acme Corp. If you ever caught Martin’s old comedy shows back in the 70s, you understood he played to the crowd a lot, as if breaking some fourth wall. Only Martin could make that dumb arrow-through-the-head gag funny. The look of Mr Chairman was “my look is my act look.” The thick horn rims, the Prince Valiant haircut gone horribly awry, the twitchy gesticulations of a six year old desperately in need of a public restroom. It’s all there, and Martin played to the hilt, not giving a damn how annoyingly cringy he got. In sum, Mr Chairman was a dopey bad guy we all would like to smack in the face with a flounder. Too bad he’d probably enjoy it. We all love a villain we love to hate, even if it was the live action cartoon like Steve Martin. Thumbs up overall.

Nonentity Jenna Elfman starred here in Tunes also. Moving on.

Okay, okay. Minus the dig at Elfman and her Sprite commercial appeal, Tunes did a decent job bringing Bugs and the gang into the 21st Century. Considering the last time they were on the silver screen was with 1996’s Space Jam (not to mention that sequel again right around the corner at this time of writing), Dante did a solid job representing all the glorious goofiness of the Tunes in the theater, even without Air Jordan. Yes, there were hiccups (EG: the pacing required crystal meth to follow, the action-comedy came across as forced, Jenna Elfman was cast, etc), but if you’re a fan of the Tunes, this was the greatest hits album. Not a fan? A simple curiosity with a lot of dumb jokes. It’s a good lazy Saturday afternoon movie. Perfect for after the debut of the new LL Cool J single and later on when the backyard needed mowing.

That’s all folks!

(C’mon. You gotta gimme that. 🙂


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? A mild rent it. Looney Tunes are a unique taste. I love ’em, however their return to the silver screen lacked a lot of the charm the original shorts had. Still, the Loonies are like pizza: even when it’s bad it’s still better than no pizza.


The Quips…

  • *The highest point. The pinnacle. Yer welcome.
  • “I found Nemo!”
  • Elfman is not hot. Don’t believe whatever hype.
  • “You got rid of our best duck.”
  • Lotsa cool cameos here, wide and varied and prob’ LT fans themselves.
  • “Y’know, I’m getting really tired of throwing you out of the car.”
  • Dalton’s better here as a spy than he was as 007.
  • “Shh. I’m about to defy you.”
  • I loved the vintage horror aliens (as well as Robbie the Robot’s cameo) on the rampage.
  • ” – Run! –”
  • Wait a minnit. That’s an Indian elephant.
  • “I did not order the pendulum of doom!”
  • This sure ain’t no Roger Rabbit.

The Next Time…

Welcome to Paterson NJ, where we spend a week with Paterson the man. Bus driver by day, poet by night. Where to?


 

RIORI Presents Installment #182: Jonathan Mostow’s “U-571” (2000)



The Crew…

Matthew McConughey, Harvey Keitel, Jake Weber and Bill Paxton, with TC Carson, Dirk Cheetwood, Will Estes, Tom Gulry, Jon Bon Jovi(!), David Keith, Jack Noseworthy, Erik Palladino, Dave Power and Matthew Settle.


The Briefing…

At the height of World War II, the Germans ruled the Atlantic with their U-Boat corps. The Nazis own the Atlantic from just beneath the surface. The subs are cutting off supply lines and ruining the Allied fleet via stealth and torpedoes, instilling fear and risk in all who traversed the ocean. According to the Admirality, it will take more brains than brawn to earn the upper hand.

The Nazis’ submariners have intelligence in spades, thanks to their Enigma codex. No Allied force can unscramble the Reich’s next mission until it’s too late due to the machine’s spell-bending, and yet another U-Boat sinks another Allied ship down to Davy Jones’ Locker, all hands lost.

What the US Navy needs is a break, that and a so-crazy-it-just-might-work mission to hijack a U-Boat, steal one of those Enigma contraptions and crack those secret orders wide open, potentially saving hundreds of lives in the process.

The US Navy requires seasoned crew of skilled sailors to handle such a daring mission. But where to find such skilled sailors? Nowhere, but this is war, and it’s always country before self, so we best take our chances on Lt Tyler’s very green crew.


The Flap…

I’ve never been much for war pictures. Not sure why. I’ve seen a great many of them, some held in very high esteem according to movie geeks more seasoned than I. I have seen and enjoyed Saving Private Ryan, Apocalypse Now (a favorite of mine, which may be Coppola’s finest moment), M*A*S*H, The Longest Day and Born On The Fourth Of July to name a few. All good, if not great movies revolving around our species’ endless need to divide and conquer. The stuff gets you on a gut level, primal and also basal. On the flip side combat movies are easy to digest; all the drama and action is a lot sexier than seeing any actual combat. Go ask any Vietnam veteran.

That must be it. I’m no soldier, but despite all the violence and the human factor under the lens, war on film doesn’t look that…real. I know, I know. They’re movies. What’s reality got to do with it, Tina? I’m not talking about historical accuracy or torsos being shredded by tripping a claymore in full THX, dang it. Nope. I need my war movies ugly, sweating of desperation and dire consequences. I need drama without soliloquy. In short, I need grime in my war films. I think you know what I’m screaming. Grimy.

I guess that the only war movies that stuck to my ribs revolve around submarines. Now we’re talking grime. I have never, ever seen a “pretty” submarine war flick. Everything is wet, from sea bilge to dripping pipes to the de rigueur hull breach to perspiration f*cking all over the flinty, terrified crew. Grimy. I think it must have something to do with all that claustrophobia, all that canned air. Tension is guaranteed to get ramped up real quick, and the pipes and wheels looming all over the cast like some mocking maze. There’s an immediate understanding of no escape. Always acting on your feet, as it were. Such anti-romanticism might’ve been the result of reading Tom Clancy’s The Hunt For Red October one two many times. Hey, it was a good book. Drew me in and made me wonder what kind of movie it might make.

Segue…

There are many more sub movies out there, but I can safely count on one hand a few silent service action movies that always keep ratcheting it up just one notch more, meter by meter below. All that sweat, all that grime. There’s the immortal Das Boot by Wolfgang Petersen (IE: pronounced “Volf-gong Pay-der-sen” for you exacting film nuts out there), the grimiest, most intense and probably most historically accurate, sh*tty depiction about being on a submarine crew. Disenfranchised Nazi submariners just trying to survive below decks and f*ck all to the missions the Reich command, so long as their Navy looks good regardless of who’s stretching their necks for Germany. These Nazi submariners fight for home and hearth and bloody hate their mission. Suck it in; its war.

The movie adaption of Red October was unpretentious and satisfying, had perfect pacing and starred an amazing cast with my man Sean Connery, the underrated Scott Glenn and a whipper-snapper Alec Baldwin as the ideal Jack Ryan, man without a country (BTW, it’s odd now to figure such an adored comedic actor was once an action star. And shot people to boot). The movie was a classic cat-and-mouse caper, with a dash of social commentary thrown in for good measure. All the characters had a history, all the subplots added up to a rewarding whole and despite the clean undersea scene, there was lots of sweat. Sure, the Red October and the Dallas looked like luxury liners, but still felt cloistered and desperate. Lotsa sweat, man. Lotsa sweat. Did I mention the director helmed the original Die Hard? There ya go and check it out.

Technically not a submarine thriller, James Cameron’s The Abyss (his best film. Refute me) is an awesome undersea survival movie. Claustrophobia reigns, as well as an undersea rig ready to tear apart at the reams, pressure reigning down from above and below. Most folks balk at The Abyss, all pissy about not seeing enough undersea aliens. They missed the point. Alien contact is the icing. The crew surviving long enough to have a third encounter is the cake. The protagonists are not the aliens; they’re men, just as on shore. That mess and it’s a pretty great homage to The Day The Earth Stood Still, so long as you watch the three-plus hour directors version. Never fear. It’s a Cameron flick. It’ll flow by like Taco Bell through the orifice of your choice, voluntary or otherwise. You’re welcome for the visual. Moving on.

It’s all about the cramped quarters. Modern nuke subs have a crew complaint at a little over 130, including officers. The average length of a modern Ohio class-sub is approximately 560 feet. The actual space for actual humans to function is no larger than a dog park. For 130 bodies. No room for a beer bust, or pooper scoopers. Can you feature that? The graduating class of some suburban high school crammed into a nuclear powered tin can, which is more or less and inverted balloon (like a jet airliner fuselage holding back all that pressure) with foreign objects ready to scar all that steel and carbon fiber.

You wanna talk about pressure? I’m not just talking about structural integrity here, but pressure on the sailors brave and daring enough to submerge in those old-fashioned diesel and electric powered subs of yesteryear, the kind that were swifter above the surface than below the waterline. Sonar was fuzzy, if even available and when you’re using bumps and bonks as a mean of rough navigation. And if gets too dicey to got to periscope depth that lumbering drone of a battleship can be easily confused by whale song. Until the depth charges start falling.

You wanna talk about pressure? Sweat, stink and swearing. If Petersen’s movie was the acid test, then a tour under the sea is akin to living in a mouldering YMCA pool locker in July. One could practically smell the fungus and foot rot. I would not at all be surprised by all the frayed nerves, patchy facial hair and having a short, profane order from Herr Kapitän or the cook. From stealth breeds bravado, and that invites death by torpedo or crush depth.

You wanna talk about pressure? From what limited civvie understanding I have about submarines is that they are all are haunted, and death is omnipresent. I wouldn’t bother shaving either. Haunted by way of compressed, grimy humanity squeezed into a unforgiving microcosm of fear, perspiration and the glory of the hunt. Happens little, worth the wait and risk.

After all this folderol, it might—barely—suggest I have some big message to get across. Of course not. Said all that had be said about the pressure of being on a sub crew/recreating that isolation and scene chewing required to make a film recreation palpable. There are precious few, and precious few further. Will U-571 make the grade?

Dive! Dive!


The Mission…

Britain is starving for ammo, food and sundries. The Blitz left London in pieces, and the rest of England didn’t fare much better. True the bombing ruined the Realm, but without proper supplies the country can’t even think of rebuilding.

It’s all because of those damned Kraut U-boats. Sneaking up from nowhere and torpedoing supply ships to so much flotsam and jetsam, score of lives taken. The Admiralty is furious at such audacious, cowardly warfare, not to mention quite scared of it also. To wit, the Treaty of Versailles never said boo about submarines. Furthermore, how it is those damned Axis subs can always, always thwart the Allied missions before the fool things haven’t even been carried out?

The US Navy has a hunch. It’s the Nazi’s blasted Enigma codex. Unbreakable. Thanks to that hellish gizmo the Axis are able engage the Allies under the seas faster than the wind blows. The Enigma can most likely predict that, too. Blast!

What the Allies can only hope for is a lucky break…and they get one.

Flap is that there is a stranded U-Boat floating in international waters, with “precious cargo” aboard. Now is the Navy’s chance. Take the boat, disable the crew and abscond with the Enigma. Straightforward, and with as little grease as possible.

Heading up this secret mission is the seasoned and hale Lt Cmdr Dahlgren (Paxton). Despite the need-to-know basis of the mission, and due to a lack of sailors, Dahlgren is hampered with a very green crew save his aide-de-camp Lt Tyler (McConughey) and grizzled Chief Klough (Keitel). The rest are green-gilled and literally wet behind the ears.

No matter. Service first, and so the mission proves successful…until Dahlgren and crew are holed by a German torpedo, and their boat is sinking fast. What to do now?

Right. The American crew has no other choice but to commandeer the Nazi vessel and sail safely back to the United Kingdom with the Enigma intact.

And hopefully themselves, too.


The Report…

Beyond being some submarine caper, U-571 is a measured—very measured—character study, even with the wartime histrionics. Meaning there is no wallpaper here regarding roles. Everyone in the movie has a purpose, kinda like being on a sub crew. These men (beyond the headliners) are well-formed characters with personalities and foibles of their own. Barring how odd that sturdy character actor David Keith and cinematic fringed leather jacket novelty Jon Bon Jovi evaporate from the plot, these swabbies feel like real people. Smart way to have an audience invest their two-plus hour attention well beyond the stretching point. That being said, the time just flew by. Economical pacing considering the closed quarters and skirting-close-to-formula plot.

(Another moment of your time. I’d feel remiss in not bringing this point up at least once here picking apart U like so much leftover Chinese food. Pick, pick, picky, but I feel it necessary.

Not surprisingly, and since the film did the research as U was based on actual events. Whether or not the events coalesced into a feasible whole? Don’t ask me. It’s understood, however, that films based on “true” events are more often than not subjected to “creative liberties” and sweetening. Y’know, make it all sexier like. However again, this was a war movie “inspired by true events.” That being said, I understand why its release in the United Kingdom ruffled a few feathers. A whole chicken coop’s worth. According to the historical records, the erstwhile true events were based upon the exploits of the desperate British Navy, not an American crew. Sweet.

I’m the last person you’d ever mistake for a patriotic flaggot, but I feel their ain’t enough Stevia in the solar system to warrant such a gauche move. And not even a proper send off before the credits roll. Like we couldn’t have taught Mac a British cum Fort Worth accent, alright? Alright. Alright lame.)

Where were we? Right. Movie. That thing.

I didn’t find U to be your typical submarine actioner. Shocking. I got the feeling that director Mostow wanted to bring some zing back to war movies with as little navel (naval?) gazing as possible. This movie dropped two years after Saving Private Ryan and The Thin Red Line, both high watermarks of existential combat cinema. Mostow brings the flash not just with terse action scenes, but that character interplay thing. Felt like he was going with some solo vision, sorta indie feel here, all stripped down. It kinda worked. More on that later.

Like the above pair, you get drawn into the drama by getting drawn into the characters’ heads (literally in Red Line and to excess) with U. I repeat: everyone has their place, but their place is based on immediate action—duty—which invests you into what happens next. Here, it’s down to the wire. Sure, Mac, Pax and Sport are the stars and that gets butts in the doors, but the supporting crew keeps you seated. Worked for me. plays like a play: deliberately staged and structured. It’s a nice change from the beyond crazy cray-cray 90s sweatfests so rampant since Sly Stallone hurtles towards Social Security eligibility (“I am the law!”). Burp.

U is an odd duck of an action film, not so often these days. Heavy on the drama, characterization and kerboom in that order. I stand by my conviction that if weren’t for Mostow shoving around fully fleshed out characters this would be just another sweaty Bruce Willis shoot ’em up. Nope. You actually have a modicum of care, if not concern for the sailors, even on both sides of the wire. Namely I appreciated all angles of the cast and how they were used. Not liked mind you. Watching the cast interacting with one another, the plot weaving in and out, it was not dissimilar to watching a chess match. Back and forth, back and forth. Run to the fore of the sub for extra weight. Thinking on one’s feet as to how to fix the diesels. Low level “sonar.” All these tasks cut workmanlike and with precision, and I repeat all of the casting was competent and well-executed.

A minor carp was the whole “liked mind you” crack. Here’s an example: McConaughey has always oozed slick confidence from his roles. Not here; he’s all anxiety and stress. Never seen him so grim. Serious, but a capable action hero. Not great, but serviceable. As great as the casting was, everything felt rather five degrees off cool. Slighty off and awkward. Keitel feels kinda out of place here (despite, or because of him being the sole voice of reason), but just because he’s Keitel, not someone like Sport for example. The rest of the swabbies don’t have a lot of backstory, but that didn’t feel like a detriment to me based against how well the cast worked together. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but if you catch the movie you might see what I mean.

On, and that “other side of the wire” bit? I appreciated how the Nazi submariners all had beards. No washing or shaving on a U-boat. A touch of humanity to a piece of the Reich’s more infamous elements of blitzkrieg. Mostow took some obvious cues from Das Boot. You almost feel bad for the Germans. That’s good direction. It’s also a bittersweet conceit that the Axis submariners are sailors first, not wind-up toys for the Reich. I felt that humanizing the enemy made the tension all the more palatable; these are people, sailors like Tyler’s crew. This notion perhaps filled in the blank I mentioned before. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but if you catch the movie you might see what I mean.

Uh, right.

This was an action movie, right? So where would an action flick be without its bucket of tech stuff to play with? Right! Hot Topic!

BONK

Thanks. From what I know about submarine architecture (which isn’t much. Most of it came from movies) quarters are always cramped, stations are relegated to a single chair and every inch of available space is designed for keeping the boat afloat and the crew alive. Again, Das Boot comes closest to this miserable truth. Heck, the sets of Red October were f*cking palatial compared to the workshop function over form that was U. And since this movie dropped circa 2000 we got really good models, not CGI. I dug that. Made the underwater scenes all the more real and seminal. Desperation does not let up. Grimy, remember? Claustrophobic of course, but the sets made the mission all more dire, like could rip apart at the seams at any moment…and almost does. The plunging depth charges, the winding torpedoes, and the B plot matters with keeping the diesels and batteries online and the boat alive. It was intense, resulting in excellent pacing. Right in the butter zone for an undersea action caper. I was grinding my teeth a lot, despite my dentist’s warnings about watching too many sub movies.

A final note, I appreciated how not glamorous it was to be on Tyler’s crew. Again noted with Saving Private Ryan and The Thin Red Line had nary an iota of the “glory of war” glam and glitz. Neither does U. I appreciated seeing how beat up the crew was. War’s never about charm. When this movie was released it was on its own. Not every action/war movies needs a “message.” The mission alone speaks volumes to us civvies, if we pay attention. Since U was “based on actual events” any head-scratching, speechifying or sloganeering would not fit in. Hell, even though this film had a “happy ending,” there wasn’t much to be happy about.

Relieved maybe. I had no fingernails after watching U.


The Material Condition…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. It’s a solid, straightforward action movie with a great cast. No muss, no fuss. A Saturday afternoon movie. Call it a cinematic shore leave.


The Scuttlebutt…

  • “Everything’s in German!” Well, duh!
  • Um, I don’t believe that conventional crockery were ever used on subs (EG: Navy mugs lack handles).
  • The mock shield reveal. Ugly, ain’t it?
  • Zippos are temperamental.
  • “How wise is that, Lieutenant?” “Not very.”
  • It took me, like, two-thirds into the movie to notice Tyler wearing the Captain’s hat. Guess I was too caught up elsewhere.
  • The ring exchange.
  • No submariner would ever be so reckless with firearms as illustrated here.
  • It’s still hard to believe Paxton is gone. Sorely missed.
  • “Keep working.”
  • One would think more than just one of the crew knew German.

Forward…

Why the heck are we reading about some doofy rom-com starring Diane Keaton and Mandy Moore?

Because I Said So!


RIORI Presents Installment #175: Harmony Korine’s “Spring Breakers” (2013)



The Players…

Selena Gomez, Vanessa Hudgens, Ashley Benson and Rachel Korine, with Gucci Mane and James Franco.


The Basics…

Spring break. It’s when all the lucky college kids get cut loose from their classes for an idyll on some sunny seashore drenching each other in suntan oil, alcohol and semen. Good, wholesome entertainment to let the pent up collegiate steam loose. If you can afford such debauchery on the beach.

Faith and her friends can’t. They’re broke, but they get it into their heads that unless they have a proper spring break they’ll be nothing but the outcasts they claim to be. But how to get some fast cash and get the hell outta Dodge?

Easy. Knock over the local Tex-Mex joint and abscond with the loot all the way to Miami. Or Aruba. Or jail?

Talk about getting away with getting away with it all.


The Rant…

I never had a proper spring break in college. By proper I mean never a vacation to sunny climes. I either went home or visited my girlfriend. Why? One: I was always broke, and; two, free laundry. I said I was always broke. Could never afford a week-long jaunt to sunny Hawaii. Truth be told I never saw the point. Just to get a week off of school was nice. That and getting stains out of things.

Yes, I visited that girl on occasion. She lived in rural Massachusetts, and no, there wasn’t any beach nearby (and if there was it was March in rural Mass. Wanna go count the mounds of slush on I-95?), but she was a spit away from the college/mafia town of Providence, RI. When Brown University let out its sigh, there were lots of cool shops to hang out at without the usual clogging. There’s something about the shopping district around a college that oozes with possibility of finding something neato in the underbrush that would usually be teeming 51 weeks out of the year. Cafes. Record Stores. Army surplus. May not have be Ixtapa, but I could locate a few pairs of Chuck Taylors in colors that forbade a sensible purchase, which came to around $25. That’s a month’s laundry money, BTW.

Did I want a “proper” spring break? Nope. Beyond the financial matters, I couldn’t justify the need to travel afar only to get pished, laid and sunburnt in some Olympic fashion as R&R from a syllabus. Minus the laurel crown I could do such dissoluteness at school, or rural Mass come to think of it. Sure, getting really away from it is all is great, even necessary once in a while, but when I go on a rare vacation, I don’t want to bring home (as well as the routine there) along for the ride. I travel light, thanks.

Way, way back in The Way Way Back installment I spoke of how vacations, especially those with family, can become a real drudge. You can’t really cut loose and be yourself when mom and dad have you in tow (along with several other generations of unknown relatives, strangers and hangers-on from the parking lot). That must be what the idea of spring break is so appealing, besides booze, babes and beaches. Sure, going to college is the first time “away” from everything for the lucky few, but the luckier few may afford spring break to get away from “themselves” for a while. Or worse turn into themselves for a week, and I ain’t talking nothing ’bout inner reflection.

I remember as a youth back when MTV blah blah blah was interrupted by going live to the scene of the crime: MTV Spring Break. Instead of getting the usual heavy rotation of Pearl Jam’s delightfully disturbing video for “Jeremy,” I had to endure Sodom by the sea with TLC’s sweet “Creep” oozing from somewhere out in the sand. Could’ve been Miami, could’ve been Aruba, could’ve been a sound stage for all I knew. What I learned from all this basic cable televised postcard from sunny bacchanalia was this: college kids’ll do all sorts of stupid things in front of a camera (and this being before social media, my catfishing friends) and the camera laps it up and spits it out. Then it was into my lap. I’m not badmouthing spring breaks, not at all. Let me tell you, due to lake effect climate any time to get away from the chilly gloom of overcast March in Central New York is always welcome, if not essential to maintaining a degree of sanity. It could get so grey somedays that I figured if I slugged a prof square in the nose I get to see some color ooze from his inflamed nostrils. Just saying. And since I was too broke or too afraid of melanoma I went back home to the sunny climes of Southeast PA, where there we fresh leaves on the trees and I could enjoy a Hershey’s Special Dark as a treat and not a K ration to ward off hypovitaminosis D. Did I mention that vital free laundry?

What I had to endure on MTV until my next fave video of the time came on (the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage,” natch) was a bunch of buzzed, well-tanned, gyrating co-eds wearing bikinis made of what appeared to be unwaxed dental floss. Again, not badmouthing. It just all seemed overrated. Vacations are a need now and again, and destination vacations can be something of an adventure. In the vein of The Way Way Back all that spring break had a lot of baggage to me. Besides escaping the drudgery of classes for a week, what’s the big deal? It’s akin to a girl’s Sweet 16 party; and the big deal is? Guys don’t get a sweet 16. You’re old enough to drive now, that’s good. Cotillions went out of fashion when Hitler was a struggling art student. You don’t always need a vacation, but they sure are welcome in times of stress. You don’t need a reason to party, nor do you have travel afar and snort up Euros to have an “adventure.”

Must be some status symbol. It ain’t cheap to hog an entire Caribbean idyll for 7 days, but since the ‘rents are footing the bill go hog wild. Whether a camera crew will be there to cover the whole wad…well, no. That’s what smartphones are for: to document dumb things. And onto Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook and the FBI fingerprint database we go go go. Must look good to all us yutzes with fresh sheets and nowhere else to go come springtime. Might make the underprivileged feel left out of the loop, all that sun and fun and…well, freedom! Freedom to get trashed with impunity. Free to sleep (or at least pass out) on the beach. Free to get into all kinds of mischief, proper and/or unhealthy. Maybe even if you get lucky, it could wind up criminal.

Criminally free!

So for instance, let’s consider Faith and her posse’s dilemma.


The Story…

Everyone needs some time to blow off steam. A break from the norm. A break period. This goes for overextended parents, overworked social media specialists, overtaxed teachers and their burnt out students alike. Especially students at the college level what with day in/day out lectures, papers, study groups, insomnia, too much Red Bull and not enough White Claw. That’s what spring break is for. To get away from it all, break from the norm and blow off billowing clouds of steam. At least, that’s what Faith’s friends are all about.

Faith (Gomez) is understood to be a “good girl.” Studious, spiritual and unremarkable. She always seems just outside of her social circle of Brit, Candy and Cotty (Benson, Hudgens and Korine, respectively), who are privately wild but are too broke—all are too broke—to cut loose escape their humdrum coed lives. Typical. The good life always just out of their reach, or simply some time in the sun.

As spring break approaches, Faith gets it stuck into her head that unless she and her BFFs get a spring break themselves, regardless of their lack of funding, something’s gotta give. Faith has always been, well, one of the faithful, but her code of conduct has kept her from breaking loose for the past three years. Whether under pressure from her crew or the Word, Faith gets a hot nut to tear off to Sodom by the sea in sunny Florida. But there still is the more issue. How to scare up some cash fast? Ask Grandma for more birthday money?

Nope. Let’s knock over the local taco joint. All four of us. Smash and grab. Whaddya say, girls?

To quote Elwood Blues: “We’re on a mission from God.” We need to get away with getting it all.

The four pull off their scheme, and now have enough dough for fun in the sun. However as we all should understand, power corrupts. The rush of being criminals have left the taste of wanting more in Faith’s friends, and Faith just wants to lie in. Nope. Not if demented, curious pusher “Alien” (Franco) has his way. And his way is very sketchy and very charismatic. These fresh pieces of chicken have had a taste of the wild life, and Alien wishes to utilize their “talents.”

Faith has had enough. Her ideal spring break has stretched beyond a week, and no one can say why we can’t all go home?

Power, corruption and lies. Like Cotty says, “Spring break forever, bitches…”


The Breakdown…

Oh. My Lord.

All right, let’s talk about trash films. I don’t mean “trashy” films, they all ramshackle, lo-fi and accidentally deviant. I’m talking about “trash films” as a genre. I’m talking (and bowing) to the likes of ugly auteurs—and their cinematic spawn—like Paul Morrissey, Andy Warhol and the godfather John Waters. Misfits who cooked up such bad taste to celluloid that you could never unsee them. And wouldn’t want to. “Deviant” as pejorative as a salute of respect. Such calculated garbage was both decried and embraced as art (not that they would ever agree). It was cohesive smut with a solid story, a keen acumen or purpose and actors willing themselves to be willing. The matter that the matter of their final product was about sh*t taking a sh*t and then consuming said sh*t cries…

Sh*t happens? Well, okay. Onto the next act. Wipe away any excess KY from your lobes. Smile!

Director Korine is a fanboy. Or as Warhol would utter, “a dilettante.” And trying too damned hard to offer up satire and trash as social commentary with all the nuance of a Karen Carpenter diet plan. My first hyper-judgmental reaction to Breakers that it was stupid, but maybe I might have been too soon to count it out. I mean, there was a bit of a hullabaloo when this thing got released, but as I watched and kept watching I learned that its content and story were the driving force behind all Breakers‘ reputation. Me? I found it trying very hard to pander to an audience that was sketchy at best versus Tarantino on estrogen.

No. The real deal squeal was that the sweet, little Disney darling Selena Gomez was in an R-rated movie about she and her friends doing bad, bad things. I’m not gonna expound on that…much. Look, the woman was 20 years old when she starred in Breakers, many, many miles away from Waverley Place. Deal. Even Shirley temple grew up to be an ambassador, a role even more mature that Selena cavorting about in a bikini for 90 minutes (all right, that and playing with illegal firearms). The whole shaming/blowback of Gomez’ script selection is akin to Nickelodeon’s Jennette McCurdy of iCarly infamy. Her spin-off show more or less hit the skids due to bad PR about the Internet leaking naughty images of McCurdy. What?!? On the Internet?!? That never happens, and she was only 21 at the time! For shame Sam fans, and quick! Clear your browsing history!

What is it about grown Disney actresses that they feel it necessary to star in a never subtle trashy flick to declare their independence as a “serious actor?” Not to mention crawling out from under the image of the House Of Mouse (EG: Lohan, Lovato and now Gomez and Hudgens)? I suppose it’s that years of portraying wholesome young Disney ingenues may result in typecasting. That and playing such roles can get pretty darn boring. Not challenging. What better way to cut all ties with a turn in a flick like Breakers? Or like Twisted Nerve? Or like The Canyons? All of these movies are a U-turn from their starlets Disney beginnings. Not all of those films are trashy, per se, but an extreme breakaway from family-friendly fodder. And a lot of those “grown-up” roles in “mature” films have a lot of creakiness and growing pains. You can take the girl out of the theme park, but…

That being said, in some respects Breakers is self-aware and anti-Disney…to a degree. We’re not busting on Herbie: Fully Loaded here, not trashing any Disney formula or legacy. Director Korine is (with a heavy hand) decrying all that is romanticized about spring break—if, based on my teen TV watching habits, there is such a theme—and plays the “very bad things” with the elan of an 80’s teen sex romp, complete with the jarring MTV editing and/or Tangerine Dream-esque soundtrack. It’s all been done before and a lot better. Subtly can go a very long way, rather than this ham-fisted cautionary tale.

Yes. Breakers is at its core a “trash film” with a conscious. There is nothing to glorify these nymphets criminal acts and hyper-sexed debauchery, but nothing beneath warning that Gomez and company are gonna get busted. No sense of retribution of any kind, which leaves the plot open-ended and rambling. Really, the whole wad got less interesting when Gomez—ostensibly the reason butts got into seats here—went up and REDACTED, and then the gyre began to widen. If there is a message Korine was reaching for here is a forced “say so long to your youth.” Trash film and social commentary don’t marry well. Unless they do, but they don’t here.

Overall, I had a difficult time understanding where director Korine was taking me. Granted I probably wasn’t the target audience; I dislike Meghan Trainor, find White Claw to be Kool-Aid for the Bukowski set, gave up on my Instagram account long ago and never saw any iteration of the High School Musical franchise. In short, didn’t really care that Gomez and Hudgens starring in this pastiche. Just wanted to see the fallout, and The Standard was screaming at my to obey. The pacing was languid—sluggish would be a better word—the girls had no personality (they call could be interchangeable) and the story didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. This was a PG T&A cakewalk with some T, rudderless story that dies in the second act and a short bus version of a John Waters trash film ethos. The difference there is snappy trash and morbid, moribund trash. Gloomy does not equal edgy here.

On a bright note, Franco stole the (small) show with his turn as Alien. He had fun with role, chewing scenery with a Shatner-like aplomb, only creepier. And is he ever creepy, right down to those nasty trailer park dreads and his garish grille. Beyond creepy, he sure as sh*t was committed to the role; you can barely recognize him here. Perhaps a similar motivation drove Franco to take the role after being cast as a lovable goofball ever since Whatever It Takes. Heck, the only sorta edgy role prior to Breakers is his PG-13 portrayal of Harry Osborn in Spider-Man 3If Franco was champing at the bit for a role of extreme makeover Breakers was it (and his play with Mane was delight, albeit dark but the most animation that came from this trifle). While Gomez accidentally stumbled onto edgy territory for just being herself (read: there), Franco threw the kitchen sink out of the window. He left a bad taste in my mouth, and that’s a good thing here.

The best description in the endgame I’d apply to Breakers is an attempt at Korine trying to be Michael Mann from the 80’s for the 21st Century. Grim, gritty and blurry with synths. But a lack of real substance in this trash film does not make it have substance. Granted, Devine eating doggie-doo does not have the cachet of Joe Pesci’s “how am I funny” improv rap, but both scenes are similar because they are both hard-to-take, kinda frightening and cannot be unseen. That, and they’re both relevant to the story writ large. Weak tantalizing does not a good trash film make, especially if making an obvious buck is sort overt with Breakers.

Look, truth be told, I didn’t want to watch Breakers. Yes, it fell under the aegis of The Standard and I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t curious about how Alex Russo/Beezus handled herself in a big girl role, but my cynicism demanded justification. It was justified and now I wanna watch that old ep of Walker: Texas Ranger when Gomez was just a glint in Disney’s cash register.

And remember, like RIORI Chuck Norris never sleeps. He waits. Hopefully for a better movie than Breakers.


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Relent it. A hoodwink. Not only Gomez is still just Gomez, but the story is a lame MTV weekend.


The Stray Observations…

  • “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
  • The opening montage perfectly illustrates why other countries hate America.
  • Is that an El Camino?
  • Alien: the “anti-Wooderson.” Alright?
  • Every sort of sexual perversion, and yet—and yet—no dick shots.
  • Alien: actually the “anti-Logic.”
  • Makes my tits look bigger.” That’s it. We’re done here.

The Next Time…

We go on The Road with Viggo Mortensen, looking for America and unable to find it anywhere.

No. Really. Literally anywhere.


 

RIORI Redux: Nicolas W Refn’s “Drive” Revisited


Image


The Players…

Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Oscar Isaac, Bryan Cranston, Christina Hendricks, Ron Perlman and Albert Brooks.


The Story…

Hollywood stuntman by day, getaway driver by night. Our man is the go-to guy, the all-purpose wheelman to get you the hell out of Dodge. No connections, and that’s how he likes it. It is, until his solitary life is disrupted by his cute neighbor and her young son. He quickly learns that, hey, maybe starting a friendship ain’t so bad after all. His newfound peace is shattered, however, when her violent husband is released from prison hell bent on a family reunion, whether mommy wants it or not. This reminds our man why it’s better to stay disconnected.


The Rant (2013)

In keeping up the general gist of this blog, I’m rambling through various recent movies of dubious reputation or had been lacking in box office mojo. Here’s the thing though: I already knew Drive was a noteworthy picture a few years ago, and had tallied up some relatively decent cheddar at the multiplex to boot—for a minor film. Of course, despite what Hollywood thinks, just cuz a movie makes a few ripples doesn’t mean it was any good. How else does that explain Rob Schneider having a career?

It’s was the critics’ responses to Drive that tweaked me, or at least what they didn’t say. The general public were up and down. The critics were all over the map. For example, good ol’ reliable Rotten Tomatoes gave Drive 93% while the audience gave it an average 78%. IMBD users, 7.9/10. Metascore, 78/100. Seems few can agree to disagree here.

Help is on the way.

That’s what I’m here for: to help people. Really. Or at least not to have you waste your hard-earned (or stolen) cash on the next stream. Well, that and give me a forum to spout my half-baked opinions about movies, shaking a fist into the air, railing like an angry shepherd under the black, starry sky, cursing Hollywood for inflicting the likes of Grown-Ups 2 and another useless remake/reboot because the folks in Tinsel Town are under the impression that we’re either all stupid, drooling inbreds or have memories the likes of retarded goldfish, slothfully dragging our popcorn-addled carcasses to the omegaplex devoid of any independent thought. Entertain us, o heathen warlords of the silver screen after our almighty, slippery ducat. Aye, there be yer zombie apocalypse.

Where was I? Right. Help. Here we go…

First and foremost, Drive is an homage to 80’s style thrillers, right down to the synth heavy score. To Live And Die in L.A. immediately comes to mind. From the metallic blue of the L.A. skyline to it’s sepia toned daytime desert climes. The pacing is as tight as the car chases. And the acting as wooden as the Sequoia National Forest. This pseudo-noir flick makes for neat cat and mouse antics through the City of Angels, but that novelty runs out of gas (ha!) pretty damned quick. Gosling’s performance as the Driver. Ugh. Where to begin? Is his portrayal supposed to be so stiff? I know he’s supposed to be this icy, introverted tough guy, but comes across as flat as the L.A. freeway and he never seems to blink. And when he does show emotion—a smile here, a tear there—it comes across as just plain creepy. Carey Mulligan is just vapid wallpaper. Why was Hendricks in this movie, other than to get offed? Her role was very pointless and was no more than a glorified cameo.

Cranston is criminally underused here and just comes off as some kind of caricature. The old mentor schtick doesn’t usually improve with age, and his staggering about the set came across as comical without being funny. On the bright side, Brooks and Perlman are just as amusing as ever, especially Brooks in a wiseguy role. However Brooks is so unconvincing as a killer mobster (even when does kill and do mobster things), that it’s unintentionally funny. I have a soft spot for Ron Perlman, so it’s tough to say rotten things about his acting, even though he was kinda goofy. Sorry.

You can’t talk about this movie without commenting on its violence. There’s a lot of it, and, yeah, it’s gratuitous. It’s also boring. You get numb to the Driver’s antics real quick. He’s not a fun date. And the motel scene; when did he become Rambo? What was that pledge earlier in the film that “I don’t use a gun”? Oops. He uses sharp implements and shoes a lot too. Cold-blooded and unconvincing.

Harsh, you say? Tough, My review. Nyah, nyah, nyah. I still haven’t figured out the disparity between the critics and the audience. I’m part of the audience here, not a professional critic. Let’s just put it this way: I didn’t fall for Drive‘s alleged art house pretensions. It was just a poorly acted, violent, rip-off of other motor n’ mobster movies that came before it, mostly in the cocaine-fueled 80’s. Kinda like the soundtrack.


Rant Redux (2019)

Okay. I’ll admit it. I was too harsh. I think I was too eager to gnash my teeth and get all Lewis Black on this film for two reasons: 1) I was all too quick to latch on, remora-like, to the inconsistencies in the plot and trumpet about them, and: 2) a neophyte to blogging I wanted to make a stink so readers would “notice me” by trashing a noteworthy film. In simpler terms, I was a snot and strutted about, Mr Movie Know-It-All, openly pissed about no being allowed at the cool kids table at lunch in 7th grade. Wah.

Before I go on with this stroll down memory lane I feel it proper to give a shout out to the “silent partner” in the creation of RIORI, one Jordan Harms. I told about the inspiration for this blog in Vol 3’s installment about Neill Blomkamp’s Elysium. Back then Jordan was hot to trot to see said film as how much he loved the director’s District 9. The day after he caught the movie I asked him about it. He shrugged. It was okay. Meh. He looked let down. That’s when I asked no one the apocryphal question, “There oughta be a website out there that warns about mediocre movies.” Boing. And here we are.

There’e more to that than that. I’ve understood that to truly enjoy another’s company, you gotta be down with their quirks. If you can get beyond others’ fears, concerns, ideologies and tastes no matter how warped you can find a cool friend amongst all their personal bouts with life. Another aspect of getting to know a person is sort of a silent matter; you don’t wanna bring it up in casual conversation because it it ultimately private and others Just. Won’t. Get it. And I ain’t talking sexual preferences or who your fave X-Man is. Sometimes that’s one and the same. Eeyew.

Jordan had a condition to compartmentalize social interactions to quick, smart conversations that overarched the need for him to hit the head. Often. A lot. Like go off the grid a lot. In and out of the kitchen was he, returning with a look of satori on his face; he had just realized something. Like a lot of us he did his best thinking in the bathroom, and would often return to work with a pithy thought or two to share. The man always had something on is mind. I liked that.

Once he laid it out thus: what makes a movie mediocre? Well, bad reviews for one, but that’s always subjective. Lousy acting? Sure, but sometime a good story can make lame acting tolerable. And the story? Of course, but one can run the acting thing in reverse. And there’s always the return on investment: the box office takeaway. That’s a key thing there, the almighty ducats. This became one of the Five Pillars of The Standard. If a movie walked away breaking even or scratched a surface then something mediocre was afoot. Just because most American audiences are dumb they’re not dumb. They knew when they get ripped off. I highlighted that on the start page. Jordan and I couldn’t ignore that factor, so I looked up Box Office Mojo and The Numbers to do the math for some movies’ budgets against what they actually earned.

That being said, smaller indie pictures don’t nestle easily into Avengers: Endgame territory. Budgets for smaller films tend to be modest, and if such an indie film catches fire, well the spread between the budget and the takeaway can be like David and Goliath, minus the head injuries. At least the literal ones.

Drive was such a film that caught fire. Kinda. We’re dealing with low numbers into not so low numbers, but all with critical praise, name actors and a hook that I completely missed with my first viewing. In fact, I got it after I send the disc back to Netflix (no, this caveman still doesn’t have streaming on his TV and I refuse to watch a movie on my iMac. It feels like homework). I had already written the installment above and posted it begrudgingly because I didn’t…I was lazy. Jordan was the one who suggested Drive, and was rather dismayed I didn’t like it. He told me so on Facebook, and if you can’t believe that then, well.

In hindsight the installment for Drive was sour grapes. I nitpicked. I groaned. I panned. And I totally missed the point until a day later after the post was in the can. I base the revelation after the time I caught The Blair Witch Project in theaters. Sure, the movie was spooky and weird but didn’t really stir the blood. The most I can say about that was dissecting the movie with my pals at the cafe across the street from the only theater in town that showed the darn thing. We mostly didn’t get it, but it sure was different.

It was only a day later, sitting on the edge of my bed before sleep (no, really) that I got it. There was a plot point about the Blair Witch allegedly making her potential victims to stand in the corner, like a bad pupil would. So when in the very last scene REDACTED. I froze, replaying the scene in my mind. Holeee sh*t. I got it. A day late and ten dollars short but I got it.

That’s kinda the delayed reaction I had from watching Drive. Understood there was a lot of melodrama and excessive violence that I carped about. I also bitched about other things that I did not immediately get a la Blair Witch. I even quacked about it in the original rant, rather snarky for my usual custom. I called Drive “pseudo-noir flick.” I was almost right. Drive is “neo-noir,” a good enough phrase to contain the style of a modern take of the 1980’s style thrillers. That stuff about To Live And Die In LA was not a swipe. Not now anyway. Drive takes its hints from half-forgotten 80s “classics” like Die In LA, as well as ThiefNight Hawks and Manhunter. Products of their time given a shave and a massage for the 21st Century with Drive.

Christ, I was so caviling. So smug. Look, I know it was just a movie critique, but it is the duty of the critic to broadcast their truth in an unbiased way at the outset. I think since it was Jordan’s recommendation I had a bias at the beginning to like it, so not to offend his bathroom wisdom. I guess I overanalyzed things. I finally figured out that with all its flaws, just go with it. We’re aiming for atmosphere here, not philosophy.

My biggest carp with Drive was the acting. I called it wooden. It was. But I later understood why: Drive is a tribute to the plastic nature of the 80s flicks and their artifice. If the only true drama laid out by flicks such as To Live And Die In LA as front-and-center a drug dealer getting a shotgun blast to the groin, you really couldn’t care less about how the actor screamed and screamed. The violence Gosling dispenses is a head nod, not a high five. The stereotypes, like Albert Brooks heavy Bernie work because the entire cast are ciphers channelling the soiled glam and glitz of those skeezy neo-noir flicks from the Reagan administration. Via such hamminess, it’s a love letter. I got it. I get that now, end of the bed or no.

I owe an apology to the bathroom sage Jordan. I credit him for helping to establish The Standard, and relent the crap I spewed about Drive out of spite. Hey, it was my third installment. Sue me. Again. My lawyer’s on retainer.


The Revision…

Rent it or relent it? Overruled: Rent it. I learned you must be in the right mindset to dig a film like Drive. In 2013 I was defiantly in the wrong mindset. And high. Did I mention that?


Next Installment…

We take an Uber around Midnight In Paris again. Woody Allen was the first esteemed filmmaker I tackled, and I hope I did a good job. I think I did. I also think I was a blowhard that farted pretension and took the edge off with metaphysical bumper cars.

Get it?


 

RIORI Redux: Zack Snyder’s “Watchmen” Revisited



The Players…

Jackie Earle Haley, Patrick Wilson, Malin Ackerman, Billy Crudup, Jeffery Dean Morgan and Matthew Goode.


The Story…

Adapted from comic laureate Alan Moore’s landmark miniseries, the events that transpire after a superhero is murdered in an alternate universe circa 1985 lead a band of once famed costumed avengers—now outlaws—to solve the mystery. However this is no mere murder, regardless of the victim. There are far more sinister forces at work shadowing this mystery, and very little of it has to do with some dead guy wearing a costume. And a smiley face button.


The Rant (2013)

When I was a pup, I picked up the first ish of Watchmen. Didn’t get it. I guess I was not the target audience. Sold the thing for five bucks. This was 1986 dollars. I was too young to know the oys and joys of beer, drugs and sex. I guess I was a wastrel when it came to comics as well. Who’s the latest X-Man? What’s Spidey up to? What’s sex? They do what? To each other? Eewww.

Ha. Since then, I’ve grown up. Sort of. Through waste and disgrace I now have all 12 issues of Watchmen hermetically sealed in a binder somewhere. First issues. Ugh, the geekiness of it all. Am I boasting? F*ck yeah I am.

So when the whirling dervish that is Zack Snyder got the green light to tackle a full-flung take on the mini-series (which had been languishing in production hell for lifetimes) and plaster it to the silver screen, a million comic geeks over were harping about either two things: this had better work or this ain’t gonna work.

And here I am to declare the results in a sober, reserved geeky mindset. Keep in mind, I’ve been a movie nut well before there were ever comic book movies…

Where to start?

Okay, the plot. It’s painfully simple, right? Painfully simple, which is all but this comic series and ensuing film is. Funny thing is it’s almost impossible to give too much away about the movie for how dense it is for its 2 hour 45 minute running time. I’m actually amazed the studio heads and/or editors allowed this length. Then again, I doubt a movie could do the comic book justice in only 90 minutes. The book and the film are that inscrutable.

My take on certain points of the film is cursory at best, because there is a sickening amount of details crammed into the near three-hour running time. I’ll try to make this work. Remember, I’m not a professional movie critic. Just a loudmouth with a blog.

At its core, Watchmen is a murder mystery. All the allegory and satire is just applesauce. Very good applesauce, mind you. But try telling a neophyte the plot of Watchmen without tying up your tongue and his mind. Right.

There is a lot more going on here than my perfunctory synopsis the story. I can’t explain it all, and that is what is the most damning about this film adaptation. There is too much going on. Props for Snyder trying his hand at it. He did what no other director managed to do thus far. He managed to do what Terry Gilliam, David Hayter, Darren Aronofsky and Paul Greengrass could not. He got it on film. Not only that, but he captured the spirit of the comic quite well, if not the complexity.

There is a holy host of touches that make this movie work. The fact things work at all is practically a miracle. It feels like Snyder got into most of the heads of the readers of the series and tried to make celluloid flesh out of what the mind’s ear heard and of what the imagination piqued.

First of all, the voices are important. It’s hard to believe that the dulcet voice of Billy Crudup (Dr. Manhattan) that assured us for everything else, there’s MasterCard would be such an eerie complement to the omnipotent Doctor. There’s a wistful innocence and dare I say pity in Crudup’s performance that marshals up emotions that we as the audience should have for him: pity and awe. On the flipside, Jackie Earle Haley’s Rorschach snarl was dead on for my mind’s ear. The voice of a demented, so-called hero. The monologue in the prison interview was especially effective. The dialogue was tight and didn’t seem forced or purple, which could be construed that way if delivered by a different actor.

Along with the voices was the music, especially the now-infamous Leonard Cohen romance scene. Some of these songs also appeared in the miniseries proper, also cued up and overlapped as scenes in the book as well as the screen translation. It’s nice to know the writers did their homework. Then again, all that homework might’ve hurt the film some. It’s always difficult to translate a book into a movie. Something’s always going to be either padded or jettisoned (for Watchmen it was the whole “Black Freighter” subplot, which was later and adapted for a straight-to-DVD release). But scenarists Hayter and Tse may have adhered too closely to the source material, not leaving a lot of room for cinematic interpretation. It’s one thing to see the images leap onto the screen. It’s another to have to keep turning the pages.

The sets reflect the hard, colorful angles of the nine panel pages of the original book. Everything sort of takes a kind of surrealist focus, as if to remind the audience that this is—was—not the 1985 you knew. You get the feeling that despite the heavy-handedness of the source material, Snyder’s having a lot of fun making the film. Granted the fun is dark and sometimes demented, but let’s face the truth: sometimes the best kind of fun is dangerous.

I gave up following the movie frame-by-frame along with the original comics I cracked out for the occasion by the third act. Biggest carp? The ending was racist Hollywood, and with that a lot of other stray thoughts clutter up my mind. Being beaten over the head with exacting efforts can leave one woozy.

Do any of these points sell the film for people who’ve never read the comics? Probably not. They are but touchstones of a valiant effort to bring one of the most complex, dense and literate comic books to the screen. So…


Rant Redux (2019)…

Again, I was surprised that I didn’t sound so bloated as I thought. Being a comic book fan I am one of a few individuals that are given a wide berth when it comes to their fetishes (eg: comic geeks, pro wrestling fans, CosPlayers, pedophiles, etc). Meaning I’m faced with a certain degrees of bemusement and “Sir, this an Arby’s” when it comes to my—and others—blathering on about their manic, fevered obsession over the machinations, codex and philosophy about a fictional universe that admittedly stinks to high Heaven of life arrest and taking up indefinite residence in their folks’ basement. Fantasy, exactly. Glad you’re following along.

One of the major achievements of Watchmen I glanced upon was that the dang film ever got made. With Zack Snyder at the helm, of all people. I say that based on past becomes prologue over the years here at RIORI. Snyder is the most scrutinized director here, which says something. Not that all his films are lame (Sucker Punch  was a fine exception), but most are in some way, bland, ethereal and…well, assuredly mediocre passing entertainment. Over the years here at RIORI Snyder’s aforementioned Sucker Punch, his take on Watchmen and Man Of Steel have gone under the microscope, and if The Standard doesn’t change (it won’t) we’re gonna see a lot of more of Snyder’s craft end up here unless his style changes (it won’t).

Still Snyder’s taste for spectacle over craftsmanship suited the abstract Watchmen well enough even I was surprised—surprised the comic series ever made the leap to cinema at all. In the endgame it was a herculean task to rescue Alan Moore’s magnum opus from infinite Production Hell. Watchmen was optioned back in 1986, the year the comic was released and didn’t hit the theaters until over 20 years later. The main reason why it took so long is because Fox failed to secure a director. Those names I mentioned above? All were qualified for the job as far as I was concerned; they could all tackle such a recondite, culty, socio-conscious detective story out of a comic book, before God. But I don’t think seeking the right director was what Fox (later Warner Brothers and later Paramount and even later Warner Brothers) found tricky.

It was the source material. Not so much it being sourced from a vital, however still obscure comic book, no. And not exactly what the plot of the comic book was, either. I feel that the source material’s sophistication and an execution would not have been taken seriously, or at least the studios defiantly did not understand the opportunity because—

*drum roll and drop the mic*

it came from a friggin’ comic book. Up until 1986, the only comic book hero to grace the silver screen was Superman, his cinematic exploits couched firmly in action and fantasy suitable for all ages. What Moore and Gibbons had cooked up was topical, complex, loaded with social commentary, satire and major head-scratching  in equal measures. This was a comic book? Where are the capes,? Joel Silver cried. Why, daddy why?

Yep, believe or not Hollywierd. And they shuffled the option around and around like a hot potato with tertiary syphiliis, too hot for any conventional studio at the time to touch. The aging powers that be deemed Watchmen unfilmable (not out loud) and down to the Seventh Level the script was laid dormant for over two decades. The party line goes that Watchmen was never picked up in a timely fashion for myriad of reasons: all the usual Hollywood folderol. Budget. Casting. Revolving door of perspective directors. Rewrites. Budget. “Creative differences,” and last of all budget.

To wit I say: hogwash. Zack Snyder made the impossible possible and got Watchmen to theaters. Better late than never, especially up against the dimwitted myopia studios have “unfilmable books” (read: return on investment) been regarded, and often incorrectly. If Kubrick could get A Clockwork Orange and Lolita—of all books—to film, one would be hard-pressed to ask, “Hey. What about that Miracle Man guy?” And for better or worse, master weird guy David Lynch got a crack at Dune (much to author Frank Herbert’s dismay. I think the fiasco contributed to his death a year after release. That and the cancer, but the cancer came after the movie, so hmmm). Naked Lunch got the movie treatment, ‘tho I’m still not sure why. Gonzo journalistic epic Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas by Hunter S Thompson directed by (once tapped, erstwhile director of Watchmen) Terry Gilliam to good effect. And for some other whacked out reason (other than a bet) Steve Coogan tried his hand a Tristam Shandy but shouldn’t have.

This brings me back to my point: my reluctant praise for Snyder full pulling off the greatest jewel heist in comic book movie history. It was Alan Moore’s K2, and Snyder planted a flag at the summit, for better to worse. I still only claim that because of course the final product could’ve been better, but most audiences’ attention spans with movies have been trained to be reliable only up to 100 minutes. Watchmen was almost three hours long and even within that “restricted” boundary Snyder still did  the best he could with the cards dealt him.

And Snyder did yeoman’s work. Watchmen the movie was acceptable and not uninteresting. All that made a good movie good were in place: good story, decent acting, cool action, pacing, what have you. It was serviceable to the masses and frustrating for the fanboys (like me). But one a final, honorable note Snyder made his mark with graphic spectacle. His version of Day Of The Dead and his breakthrough 300 (technically another epic culled from a graphic novel rather than historical record) with unabashed spectacle. That signature of spectacle sticks around in Watchmen, but this time out Snyder brought out the CGI fireworks and martial arts to accentuate plot points, not as wallpaper (think the birth of Dr Manhattan or the “foreplay” between Nite Owl and the Silk Spectre). I appreciated that; he let the story ride on without a lot of naive audience appealing conflagration for the sake of eyewash. How the studio must’ve hated him for it in a “basic comic book” movie.

Too bad the takeaway proved him wrong. Chin up, Zack. Later on you’ll be back on par soiling Superman’s cape and f*cking up the non-existent DC Cinematic Universe with such joie de vivre.


The Revision…

Rent it or relent it? Sustained: Rent it. It’s a good movie, even if it was only made against all odds. Will it please fanboys? Hells no. Is it a cool murder mystery? Yep. Erm…sue me.


Next Installment…

I take another Drive with Ryan Gosling as my murderous Uber. This was the first movie I watched based on someone’s recommendation. Said recommendation was from the unofficial co-founder of RIORI, the mischievous Jordan. He was upset that I didn’t like Drive. Maybe this time around I won’t be sippin’ on the sizzup for a less hazy judgment. Maybe.


 

RIORI Vol 3, Installment 98: David Gordon Green’s “Pineapple Express” (2008)



The Players…

Seth Rogen, James Franco, Danny McBride, Gary Cole and Rosie Perez, with Kevin Corrigan, Craig Robinson, and Amber Heard.


The Story…

Dale and Saul are the best of buds…so to speak. Dale relishes his unenviable job of a process server, throwing out subpoenas to unsuspecting catchers. Sure, it can stressful, but then there’s his pal Saul with the panacea: a veritable Eden of reefer.

But Saul doesn’t have the green thumb, no. He’s just Amazon. The distributor, and his reach is vast, is only as long as Saul’s supply line runs. And what funds the supply? Right, cold hard cash.

So what does Dale do when on the job? Right. Witness a murder at an alleged drug lord’s mansion. And then what does Dale do in a reefer-induced haze? Right. Seek out Saul and his product for solace. Right?

Nope. And now any hope of safety goes (wait for it) up in smoke.


The Rant

Let us speak frankly now about weed. And I ain’t talking gardening here. Blooms definitely not in the Burpee catalog.

My experiences with mary jane are few and far between. I’ve been partial to the legal, government sanctioned, actually dangerous drugs available at any SafeWay. Booze, caffeine and nicotine, the American Holy Trinity. Sure, I did have my fun with prescription abuse, but the worst that happened there was constant drowsiness and bitchin’ dreams about being awake. That and the patience to read dozens of books at a leisurely clip to which I have no recollection of reading. That sure as sh*t wasn’t amongst the microscopic warnings on the phial. Oh well.

(BTW: why are the risk warnings SO HUGE the legal drugs and f*cking cramped onto a postage stamp for the prescription drugs? Discuss)

I like beer. If you could see me now it shows. Moving on.

Weed. I is a decaf Cheech & Chong routine. For real, every time in my ancient, Phish-loving past I toked and fell fast asleep. Every. Damn. Time. I never felt the dopey joys and goofiness and chilling and ability to dissect every guitar chord on Santana’s self-titled debut along the curves of the Book of Psalms. Nope. Snore, snore and more. Wake up hours later with chili sauce slathering your nose enough times you figure out what a downer apparition you are under the influence of grass.

did sleep well though, complete with some bodacious dreams involving Heather Graham circa 1997.

Even in high school hanging with my stoner friends (I was the lone holdout) I got a metaphorical contact high. First and prob to no surprise I’m pretty liberal in my views about burning. Pot is a controlled substance nowadays, but back then I figured that it should’ve been treated as such. For booze and smokes? You gotta be of a certain age to partake, like 18 or so. You shouldn’t toke and drive, since it messes with your already flawed everyday judgment. You shouldn’t be high in public, because you are irritating and might shut down the local pizzeria. Control the substance. It’s not harmful, but too much weed may make you annoying.

Here’s a story. It’s from college. For those of you who went to one you’ll hear what I’m screaming. It’s one of those “there’s one in every crowd” story. Face it, you’ve been there.

Every solid dorm floor population at college is inhabited by a lot of stereotypes. The go-getter with his scholarship in finance. Some jock, an expert is some lesser-revered team sport (think lacrosse or cricket). The computer nerd with the pale complexion. The bando (raised hand), the artsy queer, the engineer, the etc.

And the burners. You know the kind. Two seconds behind the matter at hand. Their glow-in-the-dark Dead posters hung upside down. Facial tics like moss growing on the wrong side of the tree. Wake and bake. They’re like anti-KISS Army; unlike those manic fanatics who wake, wash and dress like Gene and Paul do everyday, the burners smirk and giggle since Gene don’t bow to the delights of their chosen high despite they snore “Detroit Rock City” in their sleep, sometime after lunch.

There is an argument I lean towards when those admonish the others for toking. Weed can be psychologically addictive. Y’know, like cigarettes, coffee, heroin and binge watching Game Of Thrones. Of which is the worst I cannot say, but when you firmly believe you need to maintain your habit on an hourly basis, then yeah, you have an addiction. My father watches BBC America every night on PBS. It’s an awful show, and he’s not British. What gives? Then again I a lot myself nightly bouts with Jeopardy! So who’s to say what?

We all have our addictions. It’s only when the habit supersedes getting on in the day that it may get troublesome. Especially that if such practices rub you raw, consider the others in your ever dwindling circle that find you increasingly annoying. So here comes the wake ‘n bake tale of grue. Not so much an after school special but an inevitable facepalm.

A room over from my freshman squat were the ideal Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Can’t remember their names, but it doesn’t matter. As I said, you know the type. Glazed eyes, snickering at nothing funny, reeking of patchouli, snickering at nothing funny. Study hall. Domino’s would call the floor asking when we’d like to place our order. Not kidding, there.

We’d have these dumb floor meetings. The RA would rally us every Friday to talk turkey. Mostly domestic 20th Century skills about keeping house. Cleaning up trash. No loud music after 10. Don’t use Canadian quarters in the Coke machine. Bring us together so that we may agree.

It was always eye rolls. But to Zig and Zag it was a circus. Giggling, impatience, odors of spoiled incense and Europe ’72 oozing from every pore. The funniest thing about a career pothead (besides his sidekick) is that they are convinced no one else figures that they are high. Pretty funny, and very annoying. Ain’t this as funny as ever? No, and nope. The joke’s on…whatever.

Like I said about these two jokers. They were in the room next to mine. Always with live recordings on their jambox, day and night and day. Going to actual classes ended…come to think of it, I don’t remember if the guys ever went to class, or if they ever registered. No matter. All I knew then was they bivouacked next door and really liked Santana. I know this for sure because said group invited my first and only convo with Tweedlewhomever. Like most white folks, they all look alike to me.

I had a substantial CD collection then. I was alternating between American Underground bands like the Replacements and Buffalo Tom against classic rockers like Hendrix and the Who. And Santana. This dope caught wind that I had the remastered disc of Carlos and Co’s debut album replete with live tracks from the original Woodstock concert. Trace element stuff back then. I was a feather in my cap, and I played those live tracks to death. Awesome.

I had the door to my room open one evening, that Santana album on repeat when Dee sauntered by. He poked his shaggy head in the doorway and used it to brace himself. I regarded him curiously.

“Hey man,” he drawled. “That Santana?”

I nodded. “Remaster. Got live tracks from Woodstock.”

“Cool, cool. Can I borrow it?”

I hesitated. Hey, at least give me that credit. “Yeah, sure.”

“Like now, man?”

Right now?”

“Yeah. Big study session. Carlos relaxes me. Is it cool?”

Without realizing what I was doing I turned off the stereo, ejected the disc and case and handed to him. At this point anything to make him leave. He smelled like a fart in a car, and was creeping me out. He was interrupting all the nothing I wasn’t working on.

“Thanks, man.” His tipped a salute with the case, leered and dragged himself down the hall. I closed the door.

Now I may know what you’re all thinking: and he never saw his blessed Santana CD ever again. Nope. It was in exile; even I had forgotten about it for some weeks. But one night I got to studying and felt peckish. I went next door with a keen awareness of what laid in wait: very odd, confused hospitality. I shoulda figured out the scene earlier. Once when the Domino’s delivery guy dropped off that evening’s feast it was my turn to pay. He sent me on my way with the pizzas and fistful of coupons. We were such good customers; he told me to spread the clippings around my floor. Sure, okay. Whatever. Save a few bucks next night.

So after the extra extra cheeses were demolished I passed around the coupons and took it on myself to drop the rest off at my dormmate’s rooms. Those who weren’t in I just slipped them under the door. Had to get rid of them somehow.

I met resistance at the door of my music critic’s room. I was surprised. I knew these guys were usually on something, but I couldn’t place what. I was too dumb then to fully understand what patchouli incense was really for, other than for attracting a bull yak in the time of the rut. I tried to shove the coupon under the door, but something was in the way. I poked around and figured it was some fabric. A towel. I gave up, looking quizzically at the piece of paper like one does when the Coke machine won’t accept that wrinkly dollar bill. I saw that the edge was discolored, wet. I raised and eyebrow, harrumphed and went back to my room. I tossed the coupon on the floor. One would figure two potheads would eagerly trudge at a chance for cheap pizza.

Many moons later and about the peckish order, I wanted my Santana album back. It had been weeks since I loaned it out and I was for wanting. I went around the corner and knocked on their door. No surprise a live Dead bootleg was warbling from within. And again with the yak bait. I knocked again.

A shuffle, then a stuffy, “Who’s that?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“Yeah. Can I have my Santana disc back?”

Silence. I knocked again.

“Who’s that?”

I rolled my eyes. Dave’s not here. “I want my Santana disc back. Please.” I’m nothing but polite.

The music went off and the door unlocked. I pushed against but it got stuck. I looked down. Lo and behold a wet towel, as well as a miasma of incense that could keep Dracula at bay. I saw the room was dim; the blinds were closed. Day-glo Henrdrix poster on the wall…as well as an elaborate hand painted mural of a Dead concert as if conjured up by Lewis Carroll. Pizza boxes piled by the closet. I guessed they found that coupon.

My fellow fanboy cursed the glare from the unforgiving halogens in the hallway. It was my turn to lean in the door. He looked at me perplexed.

“What’s up, man?”

“My Santana CD. May I have it back now?”

“That was yours?”

“…Yeah.”

“Hold on.” He kicked away the fallout and found the disc, handed it to me. “Sorry, man. I forgot about it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t even get a chance to hear it. But thanks, dude.”

“You’re welcome.” I let him slink back into his lair. Jerry and the guys kicked back into life. I went back to my stereo and kicked Carlos back into life. To this day the liner notes of that remastered disc still smell like spoiled oregano. Good times, good times.

Not long after that meet-and-greet, the Tweedles left campus. And no surprise, not of their own choosing. Not actively, at least. They were expelled, but not so much for getting caught schmokin’ than for never going to class. And vandalism. I will admit I embellished describing the Santana CD story, but the pothead’s room? Amazing. Decked out like an opium den minus the opium. In brighter light the mural was amazing, the stink was glorious and maintenance would’ve had to tear up the floor tiles for sanitation’s sake. All in all awesome, but what a waste.

On the whole, most burners are a kind, mellow lot. Casual and conversational, with a lot of cool stories and great jokes. Chill. It’s only when pot becomes their life and wife that stoners can become obnoxious, where everything is funny, including wreck, ruin and expulsion. Not even making casual use of weed legal could undo that. It’s like if a user, pot or otherwise, is making life troublesome for at least one other person then it becomes an issue. If one’s—pardon the pun—dopey antics, no matter how benign start to rankle someone (even if they’re high as sh*t) it might be time to say when.

Take Dale and Saul, for instance…


“You’ve been served!”

Sounds kinda like a superhero battle cry. But nope, it’s just pothead process server Dale Denton (Rogen) doing his ugly job. Hence the weed. You think you could remain sane being called a*shole on an hourly basis and not partake to remain calm? Right. Pass the Dutchie on the left hand side.

Saul (Franco) is Dale’s left hand. He’s the hookup, with a veritable forest of rare weed to cure every ill. Sure, Saul is just as—if not more—dopey than his numero uno customer Dale, but he’s a kindly, generous soul. No harm to anyone. He wants to invest his cut of sales to get his Grammy Faye into a better retirement community. Aw. See, kind?

Dale’s job ain’t as kind. He’s Saul’s remora. It’s symbiotic. Dale needs the weed to tolerate the job. Saul provides the balm to salve his wounds. Easy.

However, on night on the prowl, doped out of his mind on the latest breed o’ weed Pineapple Express—very new and very trace—Dale starts to get the paperwork ready to deliver to one Ted Jones (Cole) when shots ring out. Jones plugs a guy in the head and Dale sees it all, freaks and speeds off, dropping the tell-tale joint on the driveway. Not cool.

Not ever cooler is when Jones investigates the screeching and finds a spent roach on the ground. Sniff, sniff.

“Pineapple Express.”

See, Jones is a big deal drug dealer in weed, and Saul is his pusher as Dale is the mark. And eyewitness to a murder. Ted’s killing.

Uh, Dale better call Saul…and both get the f*ck out of town.

Who said pot was harmless…?


I may have mentioned this before (and probably have indeed), but doesn’t Rogen play the same guy in all his movies? I know it’s nice to find steady work, but as an actor with a solid schtick rather than a range you’re gonna close a lotta doors. Then again, no one has ever lost money in Hollywood underestimating audiences’ intelligence. Well, maybe once or twice.

Rogen has a good thing going over the past decade. His motormouth humor isn’t for everyone, and even gets a bit degrading for me sometimes, but does sell tickets. At the end of the day I find Rogen funny and sometimes approaching witty in a blend of “aw shucks/are you insane” repartee. His stuff’s usually good with the right co-star. You gotta have one for a buddy movie, right? In Superbad it was Bill Hader, and it was Joseph Gordon-Levitt in 50/50. Such pairings that didn’t work was Adam Sandler in Funny People and especially not Katherine Heigl in Knocked UpDefinitley not her, even if she weren’t a she. Vote’s still out on that, too.

Face it, buddy comedies are almost exclusively the man cave of the sprawling studio lots. So gotta get a good foil to your straight man. A Costello to his Abbott, a Spock to his Kirk, a Stimpy to his Ren (okay, not the best example there). If Rogen’s Dale is an immature, churlish goof with a weed habit. The Murtaugh is his Riggs is slacker, skittish (but still mellow) with a weed habit and business Franco’s Saul. I was pretty surprised how well the two got on together, especially since I never figured his usual yuk-yuks border on ribald. His and Rogen’s oddball, passive-aggressive, bird-pecking-croc-teeth is the centerpiece of this movie.

It also might’ve been the only thing of merit, also.

While watching Express (for the second time, mind you. Caught in theatrical release and wasn’t bowled over. Guess I should’ve smoked up first, but that sh*t’s harder to sneak in than a cold six. This precept has been tried an tested. Yer welcome) there came a nagging at me. And no, it wasn’t the kid yanking on my earlobe for her iPad so she can watch The Loud House (j/k, she’s a SpongeBob fan. watch The Loud House. Grew up with sisters. ‘Nuff said).

(note to self: cut back on parenthetical references)

Express felt a little lopsided, like more was going on elsewhere in film land than what I was immediately seeing. As metaphor, my car has a “dead bulb” warning glowing on my dash, but for the life of me I cannot locate it. Headlights are fine, blinkers re fine. I even asked the kid to check out the rear lights as I applied the brake. Nothing. But something is up. I guess Express cam across a little stilted because that director Green is better known for dramas than screwy stoner action-comedies. A shot in the dark, but hey. Throughout the whole movie there was this Sisyphus-like weight threatening to derail the whole story. I couldn’t figure if this was some proto-meta, Kaufman-esque gag about how too much weed can ruin your perception of the reality of your surroundings. Or maybe it was just shoddy camera work, I dunno. Still, cool to ponder, eh?

Wake up. I got Oreos.

So right, we got a really Laurel and Hardy action going on here. Despite the minor, but still smelling overarching pretentious of our director I must give credit to this dopefest—literally and figuratively—is that is does have a cool mystery vibe going on. It’s paper thin (Dale witnesses a murder, Ted is a bad dude, Carol’s a crooked cop. Saul is just Saul, etc) but enough to let Express survive. It’s a burner Sherlock mystery. Again maybe a metaphor for the Down syndrome goldfish memory of most stoners, but there’s enough silliness to keep things afloat. Barely.

My biggest carp with Express is there’s quite a bit of filler. Scenes that have no point, crammed into the lacy plot. I didn’t really see the point of Dale’s dating Angie in the movie; he’s already very immature and petulant. It’s also safe to assume that a lot of the banter between Rogen and Franco was improv, but too much of it jumps the shark. When that crap goes down, the decent chemistry between Rogen and Franco become stale Martin and Lewis (in a word, annoying, and gimme back my Santana CD). If any wit seems stilted sometimes blame bad directing or an editor asleep at the reel.

Come on. That is the greatest pun you will ever hear in this installment.

Anyway, this action/mystery/comedy flows at a leisurely pace. Perhaps another analogy. This film made me think too hard, because I wasn’t high at the time. Clever device? If there’s some precious direction at work in Express I must’ve been too lucid to find it funny. The movie was funny, but there was too much passive winking that I snuck up on and examined to much.

Let me put it this way: as of this post, the hot ticket at the multiplex is Avengers: Endgame. I haven’t watched a Marvel movie in the theatre since the first Iron Man film back in 2008 BC. Being a comic book collector, I had seen other adaptions before the MCU got revved up, to see what was “right” and what was “wrong.” It’s the only form of snobbery I have: if a movie is based on pre-existing material (Shakespeare’s plays, Stephen King’s novels and/or Stan Lee’s superhero stories) I will scour it rather than just sit back and enjoy it. I can’t help it. Entertainment takes a back seat for studying up for the Bar exam. I overanalyze things (it’s kinda what RIORI and The Standard is all about). I found myself picking apart Express with the lucidity required to strip the Thanksgiving turkey carcass of its oysters because most folks don’t know that turkeys have oysters.

Remember, oreos.

So exactly why does the wit seem stilted? Why was my mantra watching Express was, “Something is missing here?” Must’ve been my imagined device at work. Watched the flick too deeply that Corrigan and Robinson were secretly the real stars of the movie (or at least the yin to Dale and Saul’s yang). Then again I may spotted Green’s established, aforementioned artistic pretentions at full flow here, behind the scenes. Everything is kind until it’s not (the final scene was the best part, clear as a bell). The gauzy direction must’ve put off a lot of folks by The Standard’s stake. But chances are they weren’t high, like me, and missed the chucklefest for that very loss. I dunno.

Welp, that being said I’m gonna go watch One Crazy Summer for the umpteenth time and then try to solve Fermat’s last theorem. Again.

Dude, marvelous.


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? A mild rent it. A kind rent it. See it with a bud. Hey, where’s them oreos at?


Stray Observations…

  • “Dopest dope I ever smoked.” Dude, movie in a nutshell.
  • Where’d Saul get the pickles?
  • Why is every vehicle here a period car?
  • So. Many. Payphones.
  • “I used to use this little gun when I was a prostitute.” Shrug.
  • “Watch your head.”
  • Is all the bush supposed to look phallic?
  • “Yeeeah. If you could roll out those 18 bales of kush by 9:30 that would be greaaat (sorry, couldn’t resist).”
  • I never did test the high beams.
  • “Teamwork!” “Yes!”

Next Installment…

Adam Sandler has cooked up a few Bedtime Stories to share with his kid. What’s endearing about that is the tales were intended to be just stories.

Gumballs, anyone?


 

RIORI Vol 3, Installment 97: Taylor Hackford’s “Proof Of Life” (2000)



The Players…

Meg Ryan, Russell Crowe, David Morse, David Caruso and Pamela Reed, with Anthony Heald, Gottfried John and Michael Kitchen.


The Story…

When Alice’s architect husband Peter goes missing into the dense canopy of the Teclan jungle, it’s up to special agent Terry Thorn to get him back alive.

Funny thing is the revolutionaries who abducted Peter want him to remain alive. Good business sense, as all human trafficking blueprints flow.

Can Thorn locate the waylaid Peter in time and fend off advances from desperate housewife Alice?

Stay tuned!


The Rant…

There are a lot of ugly words in the English language. Dismemberment. Murder. Moist. A panoply of them. Being once an English major I too gathered words that would not be invited to my Friends list: Suture. Lonely. Lesion. Hangnail. Literally. All those words describe nasty ideas and poor grammar, and all describe harm in some fashion (including that overused and incorrectly applied adverb, Millennials). Stuff that bums us out an makes us cringe, images of suffering and pain and loss cloud our minds when we hear them.

On the flip side there is a more insidious nature of our emotions being triggered by hear the bad stuff above. Selfishness, another ugly word, crosses our minds:

“Glad it’s not me.”

That being said another nasty term that clouds my brain with fear and loathing (and not just relevant to this installment): kidnap. Separation anxiety in its fullest form. Stolen. Taken away from your life and loved ones, only to become an object, some poker chip by the guy who demands a ransom. It’s akin to slavery; people are not products, and therefore are not meant to be bought and sold. The 13th Amendment has something to say about that skin trade.

Humans dislike captivity. Scratch that. They f*cking hate it. That’s why cons pulling hard time are so grumpy. No Internet, no GrubHub but lots of potential sodomy (traveling tip: soap on a rope). Humans don’t want to feel caged, lost, helpless, alone and deal with pesky hangnails. It’s terrifying, and kidnapping is a bit more brutal than, oh, getting lost in the mall when you were 6, mom and dad seemingly evaporating from existence. No. When you are spirited away by some hooligan low on cash you become a thing. It doesn’t truly matter in such a circumstance that you have a family, you have friends, you have a mortgage and a kid and a dental plan and the next season of Stranger Things to binge on. You are now a commodity. Get used to it. Ugly.

Now you may be thinking, “Hey blogger, what do you know about kidnapping? Were you ever kidnapped? And what’s with all those hangnails? You been juggling potato peelers?”

Actually, yes. Had a lot of pomme gratin to fuss with at work. And shut up. No, I was never abducted. Getting lost driving when the reception kacks out and Google Maps takes a walk makes me worried. Zip ties around my wrists, gagged and a hood over my head sounds like no garden party to me. S&M party maybe, but there’s usually controlled substances involved. Cold oatmeal every noon while rotting in a bamboo cage doesn’t sound very fun.

But I know about getting lost, and I don’t just mean not knowing where you are. We’ve all been lost in that context at least once. Not knowing where you is part of that equation, but not unlike all those cancerous and cuticle terms I mentioned above, being lost is harmful. Like chain lightning all sorts of nasty feelings bombard your brain and push it into panic mode. The greatest fear is that of the unknown, and being yanked out of your comfortable routine into a dark world not of your making, well, the animal inside comes to the fore. Mainly pain and panic.

Consider any and all prominent kidnapping stories ever in the media. Do they ever end well? Even at rescue there is shock and awe and fear and what the crap? Elian Gonzalez in the iconic closet photo with the muzzle of a gun in his face. Patty Hearst—supposedly brainwashed—brandishing a gun during a bank robbery for the Symbianese (whoever they were) on security camera. And there’s that nasty ending to the Lindburgh baby abduction. Despite Argo got it mostly right, those American diplomats did not appear happy when they set foot back on American soil. They looked like foreigners.

Kidnap is a dirty word. Lost is a dirty word. As is alone, isolated and trapped. Rips humanity from you. Sounds dramatic, a bit too much? Maybe, but recall that “glad it’s not me” comment? Well, granted the topic of kidnapping is hardly water cooler conversation, but the notion of being marooned, emotionally and physically? Like when the reception craps out, how vulnerable common folks can be caught unawares by desperate forces can be felt and more often than not tap a basal fear. Glad it’s not me is a surface touch, not unlike one’s reaction to that last snap of Elian. In a breath later:

“That could have been me.”

Shudder. Then back to the cubicle.

We all love the car wreck, so long as we weren’t in the damned thing. And just like the traffic slowing to a dead crawl, gradually glancing at the scene you’re glad it wasn’t you. But there is a corollary to your relief: someone knew the person in that car, and won’t know the difference between a fatality or a trip to the ER.

That could be me. I could be gone. I could be there. I’m glad I’m here. Otherwise, just like lesions, hangnails and kidnappings you just as quickly—perhaps unbeknownst to your loved ones—could end up…gone.

Ugly…


The country of Tecala is in trouble, from within and without. If the ineffectual government is unable to quell the yelling of the ELT rebels, the country’s infrastructure is a mess, especially managing its natural resources. That’s where Peter (Morse) and Alice (Ryan) have moved to Tecala. It may prove to be another success story in Peter’s CV.

You see, the man has built up quite the reputation as an architect; a dambuilder that has trotted the globe (with his long-suffering wife in tow) coaxing wells and moving rivers so the local can have access to fresh water. Yes, he’s made quite a name for himself. However now residing in Tecala, his successes have made him marked man.

The ELT fund their little revolution via ransoms. Human trafficking. Kidnapping. They’ve found an ideal mark in Peter, someone who could be pawn in their game. He’s nabbed and spirited away to their camp, and the demands come rolling in.

Alice is at her wits end. Enter Terry Thorn (Crowe), a former Aussie special agent adept in these kind of circumstances. The Bowman’s new home becomes ground zero for fielding phonecall demands, going into the field and picking off the testy rebels. She sees Terry as the man Peter should be: take charge, not negotiate, let alone kiss ass and suck up to rules that demand snipping a lot of red tape.

Alice demands action. First to let Terry do his job, then maybe get Peter back alive.

Maybe, on both counts…


I read on AllMovie that Proof Of Life was a sort of return to form for director Hackford. The man made his name with films like An Officer And A Gentleman and Against All Odds portraying relationships in peril. Bad love, failing marriages, misguided coupling, etc. Desperation is his muse. Proof is classic Hackford, but don’t call it a comeback. Tension and anger and the futility of living is his stock in trade, with a coda of possible grace. His stuff keeps you rubbing your (emotional) sweaty palms. True, his stuff may come perilously close to soap opera territory, but a solid script often elevates the drama to cinematic satisfaction.

*crickets*

Yeah. Not here. Sorry.

You might have forgotten how preachy Hackford can get without a well fleshed-out script keeping his ire in check. I’ve seen a lot of Hackford’s films, and there’s always some message and/or social commentary lurking behind the clackboard. Usually such doggerel is kept in check by an aforementoned solid story, but when the story is too broad Hackford has a field day. Put Officer against Bound By Honor? We needed more Lou Gosset. And a kick to the crotch.

Metaphors aside Proof needed such a kick. In spite of Proof‘s dire content there’s a serious lack of necessary urgency demanded by stories like this one. Most of the second act, where Terry in full is introduced, is bookended by a lot of exposition. Proof was cut in 2000, back when Crowe was riding high from his lead in Gladiator, back when he was likable, bankable and not hurling phones. Crowe got labelled as an action hero, albeit a surly one, His presence as special agent dispatching the baddies with extremely extreme prejudice seemed a natural character extension of a desperate Roman general exiled to gladiatorial combat. A special ops guy? Skilled in hostage negotiation? How could that fail?

Plenty. Denude Crowe of his ballsy balls and his signature grimace and he’s a bureaucrat. With access to firearms. When he needs them. And when David Caruso goads him, like some bully’s toady, champing at the bit to get his old partner back into the fray.

To whit I ask: why? This is the primary problem I sniffed at in the first act. Sure, Terry was well-equipped to head the Bowman abduction case, but I never found it clear why he was the guy to spearhead the hunt. And with all dramas, the protag usually gets emotionally invested in his mission. For two thirds of the film Terry is rote. Apart from a skirmish scene in the second act, Terry is inert. Another hostage negotiation, another day at the office. What’s for dinner?

So there. We have weak tension here, despite the film’s plotting. At least by the second act, which became a crucial line of demarcation by my viewing; for such and intense story there is a surprising lack of urgency. And even after Proof grinds into second gear, Peter’s abduction seems even less urgent than Terry dicking around with his contacts. That and dealing with Meg Ryan making goo-goo eyes at him, and she comes across as all at sea with this drama (BTW, the romantic element was totally unnecessary and pointless). Ryan is a lead in a cameo role. I wished Oliver Reed had more unnecessary screen time.

I found the acting between the leads clumsy and without chemistry. Their banter was a slog, and muddied up an already muddy story. To be fair, Hackford’s best work has always been gratingly edgy, but his edges are all square here, like he was trying to “play it safe” against the then hot topic of exile and abduction in the shadow of the Gonzalez case. The kid was dragged back to Cuba in June of 2000. Proof dropped in December of the same year. I doubt one did not inform the other. Play on a fresh media storm that may be translated to film? Been done before. But why does everything in Proof seems rote, safe? Hackford has never been one to flinch, and his social commentary has always been naked. But never paint by numbers. I was bored and cheated here. We needed more boom with the subject matter, less bust.

Of course, all was not lost in Tecala. Besides the editing being very good, Morse was very engaging as captive Peter. He’s always had a stiff presence, Not really a bad thing; precious few actors can make bland so endearing. I’ve appreciated Morse all the way back to his salad days as Dr “Boomer” Morrison on St Elsewhere. He made being bland interesting, which makes him so protean. You’d never finger him  out as a perp in a police lineup. He’s everyman, minus leading male. That’s an asset, and why really good character actors succeed. As it’s been incorrectly said in writing, make your characters likable. Wrong. Make them interesting. Morse as Peter was interesting by being bland and relatable. True most of us have never tasted the hell of forced captivity, but Morse well-illustrated the “glad it’s not me” edict. Big ups to Morse.

This movie was all about distance. Kidnapping, captivity, wrenched out of the nest, distance. As Thorn is active, Peter is passive. And back and forth, never really connecting. That may be just a machination of the story, but what went down in the third act should’ve informed the first two acts: action. Swift and deliberate. There’s a worldbuilder gone asunder! Heavy stakes. Instead we get a smarmy Caruso (is there any other kind?) trying to prod uber-agent Thorn to pick up a rifle again and pick off brown people for the sake of picking off brown people. Sure, socio-politcal commentary. Sure, hostage negotiations. Sure, government intrigue. Sure, needless goo-goo eyes. If indeed Proof was Hackford’s return to form, he should’ve kept the box top in plain sight when assembling the jigsaw puzzle. Regarding Officer and Odds, Hackford seemed to opt to distance himself from his muse. Proof was rote, dull for too long and if any social commentary was to be made we could’ve all watched CNN for two-plus hours for far-removed storm and stress in small countries populated with subjugated brown people.

Might be more urgent. You might feel about all such stuff, “Glad…”

Ugly.


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Relent it. You want a solid kidnap flick? Watch Jack Lemmon sweat in Missing. Proof just lets you sweat in desperation to “get on with it!”


Stray Observations…

  • “I’m on my way to the airport.”
  • Morse’s dye job fools no one, especially since he’s been totally bald since 12 Monkeys. And that wig wasn’t any better. Just sayin’.
  • “I am not getting pregnant again in the Third World.” Wait, what?
  • You know, I’m getting real tired of seeing terrorists portrayed as fanatical savages…kinda like the Minutemen were. Ouch.
  • “What kind of stress are we talking about?”
  • Who’s really corrupted here?
  • “Your toilet.” Yes, yes indeed.
  • Oh sh*t. Claymore.
  • “You never get a pretty picture, okay?”
  • Why is Caruso so good at being slimy?
  • “These pigs are lucky to have you.” Zing!
  • A corollary: precious few “terrorists” have been portrayed as non-jokes in old Hollywierd. The Hurt Locker, Three Kings and Munich portray the other as adversaries, not enemies. Chew on that.
  • “Nothing.”
  • The 13th Amendment, Section 1: Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction. Since Tecala doesn’t exist, well…
  • “That was fun.” “Yeah!”

Next Installment…

All aboard the Pineapple Express! Next stop…uh…I fergot…


 

RIORI Vol 3, Installment 86: James McTiegue’s “V For Vendetta” (2006)

 



The Players…

Natalie Portman, Hugo Weaving, Stephen Rea, Stephen Fry and John Hurt, with Rupert Graves, Tim Pigott-Smith, Roger Allam and Sinéad Cusack.


The Story…

It’s been quoted that “a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”

That’s a misquote. It’s actually, “They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but it’s not one half so bad as a lot of ignorance.”

Terry Pratchett, a 20th Century English author of fantasy novels steeped in ribald comedy.

It’s now the mid-21st Century. 2027, to be exact. And it’s Britain, operating precisely as Pratchett warned society.

Evey, an intern at the State owned British Television News does her damndest to help keep propaganda running smooth and digestible via the inescapable airwaves. Then she gets assaulted by the Realm’s authorities she’s supposed to understand as upstanding and decent.

Her beliefs end when she is rescued by “V.” And his mission.

Woke.


The Rant…

Like with The Missing I caught V For Vendetta in its original theatrical run. It was 2006 and I was getting reacquainted with the comic book world, collecting again in earnest. After giving up comics for Lent—er, high school—I got bit again and found I had a lot to catch up on in the funny pages. Like what was this thing about Superman dying? The then recent issues made him look pretty healthy. Wolverine was cloned and now has a sister with his powers? And she was a hooker? Magneto joined the X-Men by masquerading as a REDACTED with a REDACTED for a REDACTED? I had a lotta catching up to do.

Like Nintendo and Legos, I retired my marvelous hobby in high school. Thought the stuff was “too childish” for a “mature” high schooler. Couldn’t score chicks carrying around MacFarlane’s silver ish of Spider-Man #1. At least not in my high school. So yeah, retired the comics in the name of becoming a big boy for the 90s. Hell, according to fellow collectors circa 2006 I was told I didn’t miss much, save something about Batman having back trouble and Marvel going bankrupt. Both properties got better it turned out. Just in time for me to pick up the cudgel again.

Into the 21st Century, back into the fray. Proceeded to get hip to what had been going on outside my personal comics gulag, making a jailbreak and frequenting my local comic shop and scouring eBay for what wasn’t available at the brick-and-mortar. Now I wasn’t that dense. I knew of some major milestones in the comics pantheon, high water marks of the medium that only the dilettanti would raise a brow at. Stuff like Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns, Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series and the book that elevated comics from mere kiddie entertainment to actual literature: Alan Moore’s superhero deconstructionist meditation on the nuclear arms race WatchmenWatchmen made Time‘s Top 100 greatest books of all time. I knew that from reading the rag in my self-imposed exile from comics, so there.

Here comes our quandary. How does a refreshed comic collector not get all slobbery over the magna mater of modernist comic books and yet still has a review to write that may require spittle?

Make it simple. Keep it that way.

That being said, I’m not gonna wax rhapsodic about Moore’s magnum opus (tho’ it is a great book); I’d just crow about what’s been crowed about a million times over by every terminally pimple-faced mouth breather. What I will say is that Watchmen made me a Moore fan…like every other comic book collector. It’s about the man’s literary quality. Most comic stories merely push the action along with script as skeleton. Moore’s style is the action. From what I’ve read of the man’s work, any comic book action is merely a bookend to the story. The story is the story. Moore gets this.

And that being said, the following is not a Watchman fanzine. Instead, it’ll go like this:

Comic movies in the early part of the century were odd ducks. Superhero films were either fun (Raimi’s Spider Man films) or grim (Hellboy, From Hell [another Moore vehicle]) but both dabbling the toes in the stream. Like I said in the Constatine installment Hollywood didn’t really know what they had on their hands. There was no Marvel Cinematic Universe. We were stuck with Affleck as Daredevil. This whole wad of Thomas Jane was like a sticky bomb slapped against the Hollywood machine. Big stars? Of course. Whiz-bang? Better have. Depth? This ain’t just a necessity for a submarine maneuver. Call Snipes. He be good at slicing and dicing vampires. Marv who?

This fumbling allowed precious few comic movies back then to make it to the silver screen. Again with the Constantine installment, Hollywood was slow to take the plunge into comic book as viable property. They were unsure what to do with funny books as movies back in the early aughts. Sure, the first two original Spider-Man flicks did well, enough so to resurrect Superman (to diminishing “returns.” Get it? I luv being funny and clever). Hollywood mostly played it safe, kept the tootsies in the shallow end. Barring the original Blade, Tinsel Town chose to option graphic novels. Guess they had more literary merit in their eyes. Probably more like they were self-contained without a massive continuity history that tapped an unlucky director to shoulder, as well as the wrath of hundreds of geeks for possibly f*cking it up, not getting it “right.” Pressure. Better make it work or else we revoke your rider. No more free Cheetos. Marker.

Most undertakings floundered. The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen, From Hell and Watchmen (at least by The Standard’s criteria). Not to mention V For Vendetta. All Alan Moore works, BTW. Guess he was the go-to guy for solid literary merit to make films from back in the Bush, Jr years. Nah. His name was the cachet for the geeks, and perhaps an entry drug for cinema doofus’ growing tired of watching Bruce Willis explode things yet get nary a cut. That’s a judgment call, but I’m making it.

As I intimated, a few of Moore’s adaptations have graced RIORI in the past, including the above Watchmen, From Hell and presently V For Vendetta. Here’s the rub against La-La Land’s scattershot yet best investment choices. Moore’s stuff is very esoteric, dense and not user friendly. Took me three reads through Watchmen to “get it,” and I was in my mid-30s at the time. I read Ulysses in a week and got it. Barring shipping time from eBay my initial foray into Watchmen took over a month. Twice as long years ago to fully scan this dense comic book serial. I’m not some snot-nosed middle schooler who desired access to tittie shots. Um, though even in my thirties I appreciated that. And plot, too. Can’t forget that. Moore’s works are like that: you expect the expected and get delightfully disappointed. LIke with Jimmy Joyce. Who needs a drink?

*klonk klonk*

Thanks.

Too bad Hollywood kinda missed the boat with that vital aspect of telling a dense, terse and ultimately rewarding story culled from Moore’s works, even after making some necessary concessions. I expected and couldn’t argue with Zack and Co excising the “Black Freighter” subplot from the Watchmen film. If included the movie would’ve ran into the 3-plus hour range, and that’s not good for filling theaters. Sometime common sense reigns, but when it threatens the story (and often it does) we get ugly fallout that reeks of ancient sneakers and smug Hollywood indifference. Namely commerce over art.

Moore’s oeuvre has a merit that doesn’t cow to Hollywood well. I’m willing to wager that his tough subject matter welcomes high drama in the studio’s eyes. Ka-ching. The literary merit? Folks don’t go to movies to read, unless it’s a foreign film. And who watches those (ahem, everyone outside of America)? So most Moore movies often get shaved to the bone. The nuance is stripped bare. The room to breathe is lost for the sake of pyrotechnics and the latest in CGI as well as dwindling audience attention spans. Not just that, but to do so is tossing a sop to bored movie goers to hopefully get all twitchy over drama first and story a distant third. Connery retired after League. When 007 throws in the towel, you can smell the frustration against story versus execution. And this was the guy who willingly starred in Zardoz, Meteor and Never Say Never Again. Jeez.

All that being said, V For Vendetta might, just might, be the Alan Moore adapt that bucked the trend, holding on to the literary quality—the “message”—the author was approaching. Screaming and kicking against the Hollywood machine maybe, with a sluggish response. However I’ll bet the royalty checks were welcome. Not that Moore would, nor should acknowledge that.

Precious few movies based on books, plays, TV shows, video games or comics get the letter of the law as well as the spirit. The message. The Godfather movies, Apocalypse Now, Zeferelli’s Romeo And Juliet, Polanski’s Macbeth, Kurosawa’s Ran, Donner’s first two Superman films (I’ll leave Lester on a hard day’s night. Funny and clever, remember?), A River Runs Through It, the original Straw Dogs and 2001: A Space Odyessy. All maintain a sort of faithful integrity to the source material. They all did a bang-up job at the box office, too. Even from across the North American continent. You know, the foreign market?

To the point, we’re going to fly under Moore’s hermetic radar across The Pond. To a microcosm of messages, if not outrage about too much forced, profitable drama and not enough message.

There, I kept my fanboy-ism in check. To a degree and you’re welcome. Anywho, there’s a movie to tend to.

Dateline: The United Kingdom, circa 2027 CE. It’s Rule Britannia under rule…


The United Kingdom was once a bastion of freedom, integrity, national pride an stable economic viability, both financial and social for a millennium.

That was then. This is now.

England is still a bastion, but of order, control and media manipulation. It’s the mid-21st Century, and for the rest of the world it’s all strife, shortages and civil war, including the once great United States. “The Colonies” the disdainful Voice Of Fate hammers over his state-sanctioned broadcasts have descended into lawlessness. An open warning against a liberal government.

So England prevails.

The UK has become a fascist dictatorship, determined to maintain order by any means possible. Be it censorship, surveillance or cultural suppression. It’s all in the best of the people, not to mention holding on to power as long as this new order breathes.

Enter Evey Hammond (Portman), an intern at the overly influential, state sanctioned BTN, the Voice Of Fate. The mouthpiece of media for High Chancellor Sutler’s (Hurt) vision of Britain. Evey serves coffee, delivers the post and barely tolerates the talking heads that give the public what they need—must—hear. The law of the land must be enforced, lest England descends into chaos like the other former First World nations.

Sick of it all, one eve Evey decides to get all dolled up, break curfew and get some social air. Much to the dismay of the Order’s secret police who nab her and intend to give her the action she was seeking elsewhere. Anywhere but here.

Enter a stranger, eloquent and doffed in a cloak wearing a Guy Fawkes mask. He calls himself “V” (Weaving) and proceeds to dispatch the Fingermen with extreme discretion. It’s all too much for Evey to digest.

When she finds herself captive in V’s underground lair, she discovers even more to digest. She learns from her benefactor he intends to bring down the New Order by all means possible. Being a fascist state does not suit Britian’s health, emotional and social. According to V’s diplomatic argument, Sutler’s England should not stand.

Evey soon understands that her captor has some sort of vendetta. Should she come along for the ride…?


V For Vendetta was the right film at the right time. And I ain’t talking the right time to make some comic book movie. That then was just a foot in the door. Some feet shoved said door open, but was the first to gain some traction as comic book as viable trade to make a dramatic action movie. In a weird way of a pissing contest did better than Superman Returns (also covered here) at the ticket taker. An obscure story in a dying British fantasy magazine—half-forgotten by the author himself—managed to steal the brass ring from the Man Of Steel’s “triumphant” return to the green screen.

How’d that go down? Story. At the right time.

dropped in the shadow of the 9/11 attacks, which invited a lot of “permitted” fear-mongering and militant xenophobia (BTW, water-boarding is torture and detainees are federal prisoners. Like Olestra is to potato chips as your ass is to being glued to a toilet seat). The Twin Towers collapsed? A plane crashed into the Pentagon? Let’s not assess the ugly situations, let’s point a finger. It’s always quicker and simpler to blame the other for the bad “they” inflicted on “you.” But who’s the other?

Let me pull the hood back. I know here at RIORI I tend to pontificate under the review proper. We all have our opinions, our beliefs, about movies and otherwise. After seeing V all those years back and being refreshed now, a tidewater surge of opinions are about to splash over the lot of you. And I expect, if not demand hostile feedback from the other side of the fourth wall. Ready?

*klonk*

Good.

Put simply, one cannot fell two 110-storey skyscrapers with airplane impacts alone. Especially since the impacts failed to alter the collapse “trajectory.” Read: straight down. That would’ve required strategically placed ordinances. Every demolished building I’ve seen taken down collapses in on itself. Strategic, physics-compliant explosives. They don’t drip like wax from candle without a few yellow X’s spray painted to say where the C4 charge should go.. And don’t get me started on the flashpoint of jet fuel on steel. That’s been done already. Or sympathetic vibrations from a collapse cannot fell a building unless a nuke was involved.

Done. Shutting up now. Though I could choose not to.

Was 9/11 tragic? Nothing else but. But what’s worse was all that bootin’ rally that happened in 9/11’s wake. God praise the first responders, naturally. They are now honored at the weir. Now saving grieving family members (who must relieve the nightmare via TV every September 11th), name one civvy survivor. Who wasn’t surviving by accident?

*(partial) crickets*

Does that inquiry support my theory? No, but it might make you think. All that destruction, and not enough media attention to the destroyed? Tell that to the crossed hands in front of all those TVs into the 12th. To quote sicko comic Doug Stanhope: “Did you pray on the 10th? Didn’t do dick, did it?” It’s an open response.

In short, 9/11 devolved into a blood-buttered publicity stunt designed to have W wave his prick at his ineffectual dad who couldn’t nail the dictator that had nothing to do with the attacks. In long, open up long-waiting Rothchild’s accounts and encourage the racism that got Trump elected. Hey, if you can trust a former reality show host who had a board game named after him who can you trust?

BTW, the Mideast War is the longest hot war in American history. And it will never end.

Kaboom!

*klonk klonk ricochet*

Crass? Sure, but unless you hear the other side, your side will either remain quiet or way too vocal about half-baked, ignorant, xenophobic hate speech. Dialogue always counts, despite the bile that may rise. Talk with the bile, and may another 9/11 never happen again. One can only dream, with heartburn. The price to pay over mulling details.

So anyway, fear-mongering. V was released at the right time despite its curious audience wasn’t exactly ready for it. It was released five years after the 9/11 tragedy, and the USA was polarized. Some kept weeping, others kept their stocks clean and ready to see action…somewhere. According to my myopic view, no one wanted to talk about the fallout into the future. Everyone was still too busy chewing on their nails.

Want to know the crushing part? Blocks upon blocks of prime real estate have been obliterated and rebuilt in Israel, Syria, Jordan, Iran and elsewhere in the Mid East over and over again. But once it hits home people snap awake. Takes a bit of time, but it inevitably goes down.

That’s kind of the message behind V: such deliberating can only go so far. And once it does, you missed the plot. The novel was already published; took months to finish the book. Too late to dog ear the page. Too late to pause. V‘s message is unfortunately timeless. Now don’t laugh, the tenor of is akin to a line from the original Star Trek.

“I’ve found that evil usually triumphs. Unless good it very, very careful.”

Thanks for the philosophy, Bones.

But really, that’s true. Malice creeps, and can be very insidious. That’s how Hitler took control of Germany and then most of Europe. People like Alexander The Great with his bravado haven’t existed for a long time. Nero did play the fiddle, but not while Rome burned. He ran from the city to the hills only to be strung up later. Creeps, seldom a supernova.

Yeah, V is a cautionary tale about how power corrupts and can also be embraced out of fear. Fear of order falling apart and all the First World luxuries falling along with it. is a 21st Century take on the classic “man on the white horse” theory. But with more knives and explosions. Dunno what Orwell would’ve made of this movie, but I doubt he’d sleep well after watching it.

An Interweb resource claims (better than I can eloquate) that in some cultures, white horses stand for the balance of wisdom and power. In others, like Christianity (“Strength Through Unity, Unity Through Faith”), the white horse is a symbol of death. The horse is a universal symbol of freedom without restraint, because riding a horse made people feel they could free themselves from their own bindings.

That is the world of V in a nutshell. Sutler’s reign is preferable to the crumbling of social order beyond Albion’s shores. Sure, British social structure sucks, but it sure beats civil war. Or not eating. Or being without the telly. Keep the public docile, so England may prevail. Ugly.

While watching V (for the second time, mind you. This time uder a microscope), my brain kept poking me about a short story I once read by sci-fi scribe extraordinare Harlan Ellison. “Asleep: With Still Hands.” To keep it quick, the plot illustrated that society cannot evolve without conflict. V is the fly in the ointment, hellbent on irritating Sutler’s England to devolve into revolt.

This is where V‘s story begins. Never have I seen a flick where the backstory is so vital to the active plot. Funny thing, though. The backstory creeps in the background just enough to make this audience glue its attention to the active action on the screen. As soon as Evey breaks curfew and encounters the “Fingermen…” That term alone alerts us all to that this is decidedly not Merry Ole England of history. We now have a UK with a secret police. It is to tremble, and now we know where we’re coming from. And into.

is a polite Orwellian nightmare. First we’ll hear your impotent case en toto. Then we’ll shoot you. This kind of arrangement smells preferable to Birkenau. Still, minus the overt allusions to totalitarianism, you get the edge that all is not right here. There is anxiety, a looming sense of “being caught.” The creeping fear that clouded the US public’s judgment back in 2001 became manifest in V‘s world. The populace lives in both fear an indifference. Hell, our way is better than the “other’s” way, but we’re wearier for it. A docile people does not a healthy society make. Like V says, “People should no be afraid of their government. The government should be afraid of the people.” Sutler and crew are indeed afraid of their people. All they need a voice to scream it as so. That’s why V is labeled a terrorist. Of course he’s not. He’s a revolutionary.

V toes a very thin line running the gamut as social commentator, heavy-handed naysayer and simple cinematic entertainment. It’s the anti-hero thing again. You’re not really sure you can get behind him, despite his motives. An odd twist of the movie is that it’s hard to see if V’s crusade is played out of a sense of justice or revenge. Since there is this blur it spins the mystery of his motives ever deeper. Makes for delicious conflict.

One must give respect for Weaving as our crusader. Best put: Agent Smith as an avenging hero? Yes. Yes indeed. I’m as surprised as you are. The sinister Smith as a gallant, Errol Flynn-esque hero fighting the good fight for freedom against a non-digital regime? You see it here.

Which is curious since Weaving was a last minute replacement for James Purefoy, who dropped out of the production after six weeks of filming. IMDB claims he quit due to issues wearing the Guy Fawkes mask. Whatever. Due to the Wachowski connection via V‘s script came on in a pinch, loaning his voice to parts of the first act and taking over for the remainder.

And “taking over” is a apt phrase. As scary as Agent Smith was, his V is just as charming. For a guy who wears a creepy, smiley-faced mask for the duration of the film, he sure can emote with nary a wink. Weaving’s body language impressively defines V in spite of or thanks to that mask. Weaving’s performance is like a dark mime. We learn to like him, but since the face is always masked we have  hard time trusting him. Until he physically emotes. Best example of this acting is in the final act when V is injured. We can hear and see his pain, and it is palpable, but we still don’t see his face. But we see his face.

And let’s not forget this: V’s monologues are elegant, and the flipside to the willfully unwitting and naive Evey’s screeching. Portman is Weaving’s ideal foil. A young woman entrenched in the System that “supports” her yet vaguely aware all is not well. Minus the studied histrionics, Portman plays everywoman rather well, with an acceptable English accent to boot. Evey portrays what I’ll call “guilty victim.” A strong but damaged woman who adheres to the power structure if only to put away the old one and all its pains. She knows Britain is f*cked, and tries to keep that notion in the back of her mind, no matter how appealing the opposite could be towards getting in touch with reality. No matter how nasty it is. Better to feel something than nothing at all. Think we’ve all been there, shaved head or no. We ride on Evey, we follow V.

On the other side…

Ironic casting Sir John Hurt as as the High Chancellor. Of course there are plenty of clever nods to the film version of 1984. And having Winston Smith cast as Sutler is delightfully on the nose. Hurt’s character only appears as a talking head on a giant screen for almost all of the film, hair closely stylized to resemble Hitler’s. Ultimately his rich voice is character, from is far but sinister, confident and authoritarian. It’s fear that Sutler screams as dogma, almost clownish. He’s not Big Brother. He’s more like the fear-mongering demagogues you see nightly on the cable news broadcasts. It sorta makes for the best kind of villain: more presence than flesh, even though Sutler is really nothing more than the monster under the bed. Look how his cabinet cowers before him; they’re more worried about their job security than their freedom. The voice of the republic, for the republic but merely a voice. Only Fox News is less scary as dictating what “must” be said. All weak spines from his chosen few. Disturbing, and all too plausible.

An aside, but maybe very telling. After seeing twice I harbored a belief that a great deal of V‘s cinematic world’s references of UK culture and history was lost on US test audiences. Guy Fawkes’ Day for instance. Or what the Old Bailey is. Or even Thatcherism. Of course liberties were taken with the source material (if only to grease the wheels in the name of Anglo/American cinematic entertainment). Then again, too much British in an American action film might’ve turned off the more culturally ignorant US audiences. Just sayin’.

Here’s what’s up. An essential piece of V‘s being is a twisted version of a near ancient society wrapped up in symbolism only third to the Chinese and Meso-American peoples. Sure, most Americans have a vague understanding of their country’s history, but it ain’t really based on bowing to symbolism and the rites that may ensue. Which I why I enjoyed the police procedural B-plot against the less drab but still rather formulaic A-plot “crusade.” V’s mission is not just one of revenge but of message. A rallying cry. That kind of motive has a certain hole. Like in the original Matrix, not everyone is ready to be freed. And since V’s most visible targets are symbols of an old, maybe better past, the rabble that grew up in this nightmare just might not give two sh*ts about his mission. Same could be said for American audiences who think that the Old Bailey is a pub and Parliament is just a cigarette with a wider margin. Not every mission earns a following, despite what the film dramatically points act come the end. There be a sinister creeping afoot…

That being said, Rea is the “absent” star here. His Finch’s empathy never wavers from feeling real, from duty to mystery to reality. He knows from day one something’s rotten in London, and had known it all the while. This V case provides the opportunity to sift through the dross and understand how he came to cow before that blowhard Sutler. He’s the yin to V’s yang. And an earthier choice against our flamboyant, swashbuckling, titular hero. If one considers it, Finch’s investigation parallels V’s terrorist acts. Both want to get to the meat of the matter. Both sacrifice life and limb over sworn duty. The only diff’ is that Finch’s path is one of direct intrigue, where V is nothing but intrigue. Who would you follow? Right, the beleaguered inspector. It’s his foil that make’s the story work. Comedy versus tragedy. It works every time. Kinda like Nair; strips it all away.

Sorry.

Another (and hopefully final) thing about that I really dug was the clever editing. There’s a lot to digest in the dystopian world full of bad food, corrupt cops, curfews and media saturation for the sake of all hail. It better look seamless, and it does. Big pat on the back to Martin Walsh, the editor. What could have been something out of 10-year old’s bedroom flowed. Those who are recurring readers here know that apart from pacing, crappy editing is my big bugaboo. Make stuff jarring, it f*cks with your attention span, as well as clouds the story. Not with V. Everything falls into place neatly, and sometimes often into sub-place. The trips to Larkhill. Valerie’s story. What V’s true motive is. Lotta grace there. Walsh allows just enough breathing room for the audience to take it all in.

Until the third act. Now it’s catch-up time.

I hate this. When a dense plot needs a resolution far too many directors do a cram session. Sadly, V spills out as no different. We got a bit too much exposition in the third act, explaining everything. Literally everything. It’s a Readers’ Digest version of their abominable Condensed Books (you Millennials should be grateful for not being exposed to these anomalies of soft literature. Praise Audible). This was where the story gets muddled. It all makes sense, but you better take notes to track it down. A flurry of lines try to wrap up and hour and 55 minutes of action and social commentary can be exhausting, if not distracting to follow. Felt like the SATs minus the blue book. Crap in a hat.

So that’s it. was overall a quality waste of a Saturday afternoon. We had action. We had drama. We had political intrigues. We had swords. We had a drop of mental science smudge the forehead of any thinking person still smelling the stink of spilt jet fuel on their tongues. More than all of that, we got a flick that toed the line between political statements and action/mystery tale in a quite satisfying way.

Back in 2006 when I caught V it charged me. It was like every time some bullying force tried to bludgeon me into submission a part of me screamed, “No! I’m right!” Naive? Yep. Unrealistic? Maybe, maybe not.

Fast forward to now. Does the sh*t stink? Yep. What can I do?

Write this blog. But don’t take any faith in it.

“The first duty of a man is to think for himself.” – José Marti


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. If you’re a thinking person, you will be stony in your viewing. If you’re not, you vote with crossed fingers.


Stray Observations…

  • “Fear got the best of you…”
  • Didja notice how heavily armed the law enforcement was here? No nightstick wielding bobbies in this London.
  • In the comic it was Chancellor Susan, not Sutler. Perhaps a swipe at Thatcher?
  • “Put the sword away.”
  • Books. Always the enemy.
  • Always, always, always cut the red wire. Unless you shouldn’t.
  • “You wear a mask for so long, you forget who you were beneath it.”
  • There appears to be an air about the vacant telly-watching rabble that habitually tunes in a drops out that is bored, dulled but also aware all is sh*te. Yet they won’t shut Big Brother off.
  • What is it about shorn heads that scream both subjugation and defiance at the same time?
  • “Are you a Muslim?” “No, I’m in television.”
  • A part of me feels that the best part of the movie is the “movie within the movie” regarding Valerie’s plight.
  • Despite  being the director’s debut film, he sure has confidence and a feeling of execution with purpose.
  • “God is in the rain.”

Next Installment…

Zack And Miri Make A Porno because food stamps only go so far.