Frances Ha

Upon first glance, it would seem that these two young ladies are happily in love. They are Frances (Greta Gerwig) and Sophie (Mickey Sumner), running around and playing in the New York jungle featured so beautifully in black and white, in Noah Baumbach's "Frances Ha." It might take a while, but it becomes more evident that they are not a couple, but instead two young women in love with each other only in the platonic sense. This is a story about friendship, and it's off to a nice start--the black and white, the energy, Bowie's "Modern Love" sprinkled about. But it quickly realizes that it doesn't have much else to offer.

Maybe it's in black and white because it knows there's not much else there. Frances asks Sophie early in the film to tell her "the story of us." That's essentially what this movie is--the story of two friends and "the story of them." Think of all the fine films there have been on such a profound topic--"Ferris Bueller's Day Off," "Stand by Me," "Au revoir les enfants," "Bridesmaids"--and compare them to this. How disappointing.

Frances is a character who always "feels bad," constantly apologizing for the most minuscule things. With Sophie, she has an intimate soul mate, one who shares her enormous aspirations--they even want honorary degrees. Frances is a dancer, but she struggles to find work even within the company she dances with. She's an old-fashioned individual, one who watches French movies, reads on the subway, and shuns modern obsessions with phones. This movie is so Woody Allen-esque but misuses the inspiration. At one point, she arbitrarily goes to France to...show us how quirky she is? To really show us that she makes poor choices? I don't know. All she does there is go to the cinema to watch "Puss in Boots," probably because the writers thought we would laugh if we heard the word "puss." It's a bit dangerous to make a movie about New York and Paris in black and white; whereas Woody Allen gave us a hopeless romantic roaming the streets in a pleasant time-travelling adventure through Paris, Baumbach has given us a woman watching a "Shrek" spin-off.

Frances' lack of success and unique personality continue. She finds herself in debt from her trip to France and doesn't find much opportunity in her dance company. She awkwardly makes her way through dinner conversations, in ulcer-inducing moments in this movie that dreadfully fall flat. What exactly is this movie trying to show us through this character? My only conclusion is how annoyed I was, and particularly at the words "I'm sorry." I don't think I've ever heard it so many times in one movie.

There aren't many other things to make up for it. Adam Driver might be a hit on HBO's "Girls," but his film performances have been mediocre or forgettable at best, and he was particularly annoying in the recent "What If." (Let's hope he'll be better in Martin Scorsese's "Silence" and J.J. Abram's "Star Wars: The Force Awakens.") Here, he's not much better. He does offer a humorous line at one point, teasing Frances that he was "pretending to be a liberated woman" in refusing to sleep with her. He plays Levi, one of the artists she moves in with. Another is Dan, played by Michael Esper, who continually says "un-dateable," thereby offering more examples of the awkwardness of the film's screenplay, written by both Gerwig and Baumbach. Such repetition and bad dialogue is the stuff of weak plays. The dialogue is pretty atrocious, particularly that given to Esper. His character claims to be writing a screenplay for "Gremlins 3." Why? Who cares. The so-called dialogue was probably improvised, as if, the filmmakers thought, to give it more legitimacy. So hip. At one point, we are told that "the only people who can afford to be artists are rich." That's deep.

So this "quirky" comedy is actually rather painful, the kind that folks will tell you you're supposed to like, and you must have inferior taste if you don't. It tries too hard to be clever and humorous and fails at both. Greta Gerwig is a remarkably talented actress who simply has chosen a bad role and given a sub-par performance. As the co-writer of this film, she deserves extra criticism. But I'm confident she'll be better next time.

   

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The Blair Witch Project

It's not quite reality. In one of the weaker scenes of “The Blair Witch Project,” the somewhat groundbreaking mockumentary horror film of 1999, a character teases his fellow documentarian about her never-ending use of the camera. He now understands why she's in love with it, why she continues to film even though some very strange and eerie things have been happening to them on their trek into haunted woods. This movie is not quite reality, but it sure as hell feels like it. We're told in the beginning that in October of 1994, “three student filmmakers disappeared in the woods near Burkittsville, Maryland while shooting a documentary. A year later their footage was found.” And thus, a genre changed.

I agree with them that the woods during Halloween are haunting enough. Burkittsville (a real-life town of about 150 people) according to our student filmmakers (Heather Donahue, Michael C. Williams, and Joshua Leonard), used to be known as Blair. A small cemetery contains an unusually high number of dead children. Some of them, we are told, were murdered by an insane man who kidnapped them and killed them two-by-two with an ax, with one looking away in the corner. He eventually entered the town and declared, “I'm finally finished.” His reason? A witch was torturing him and told him she would stop if he killed the children. There are several other scary stories like this sprinkled throughout the exposition. One of them is the story of the Blair Witch, a local legend grandparents used to tell their children to scare them to bed early. Mary Brown, an older woman the town has written off as crazy, tells our three protagonists a story of how when she was a young girl fishing with her father, a woman who appeared to be completely covered with hair approached her. Because the three filmmakers note that Mary Brown also claims to be a scientist doing research for the government, they ignore her ominous story and drive off for the woods. There, they meet two fisherman, one of whom describes the story of Robin Weaver, an unfortunate soul who vanished, apparently caused by an old woman--or witch--whose feet never touched the ground.

These stories are eerie enough and would make a fine film of their own, but they're not particularly scary. “The Blair Witch Project,” however, is truly scary. Influenced by other horror films (its utilization of both color and black-and-white is reminiscent of “Night of the Living Dead” and the more obvious similarity is to "Cannibal Holocaust") and obviously influential (with the most obvious influence being on “Paranormal Activity” and a host of other horror films), it might be considered one of the best of all time. While not as scary as "Paranormal Activity," it certainly is more real-looking. Perhaps the reason is that, like "Jaws" before it, our witch is never seen (or is it?). Instead, we are witness to our characters being woken at night to the sound of silent cackles. There are piles of rocks mysteriously placed outside their tent. Their map goes missing. One morning, there appears to be slime surrounding the tent. The camera can barely pick it up, but who cares? It's much scarier to simply take their word for it. In fact, hardly anything can often be seen, and this works mostly to the directors' (Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sanchez) favor. The movie is so simple yet brilliant because it rests on our shared phenomenon of being scared in the woods at night. Add a witch and I can't even imagine. 

    

While the three actors are not necessarily bad, the constant improvisation leads to overacting. There's an incessant amount of shouting at each other as they argue their way into madness, constantly being hunted by a witch seen, not heard. Josh teases Heather about the camera, telling her it's not quite reality. Well, for one, it's hardly realistic that a group of characters in such dire situations would continue filming, or that they would have moments of levity and laughter in their breaks from being hunted. The reality of things like witches I'm sure will be debated for centuries, but if such creatures do exist, it can be concluded that they probably lack any sense of compassion or mercy. If there are witches, they are probably more like the Blair Witch than Harry Potter. 

Hungry, cold and hunted, the three continue to do their best to crawl out of the vast woods, but to no avail. There is an absolutely terrifying climax in a house deep, deep in the woods. It's impossible to see what exactly is going on, but it's hauntingly eerie. Handprints everywhere and a silent scream somewhere in the foods. How I would hate to be alone in the woods, hunted by a witch. Terrifying. 

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Enemy

Chaos. So begins "Enemy," a film even darker than the previous movie Jake Gyllenhaal and director Denis Villeneuve did, last year's "Prisoners." (Perhaps there's some sort of Von Triers-like melancholy trilogy in the making.) There are genuinely few films quite like "Enemy," so bizarre, so rich, so likely to inspire nausea. It's not a perfect film--at times it becomes a bit full of itself, with upside cameras and bizarre dreams and that sort of thing. But it's quite a thought-provoking one, and one that's gorgeous to look at. The cinematography should elevate Nicolas Bolduc as the new "prince of darkness," and it's as if Villeneuve found the absolute creepiest areas in all of Canada for the scenery.

Gyllenhaal is Adam Bell, a history professor telling his students about dictators and control. Control and obsession. It's a pattern that repeats itself through history, he tells them. His life is fairly mundane. He has a beautiful girlfriend (played by Melanie Laurent) but there doesn't seem to be much in their love life. Upon the recommendation of a colleague, he decides to watch a "feel-good" movie called "When There's a Will There's a Way." He doesn't appear to enjoy it too much. But a bizarre dream (set to operatic music) suddenly shoots him awake and he immediately returns to the movie to find the scene which appeared in his dream. And here he finds himself, or at these someone who looks exactly like him, as if it's his twin brother or something. His twin is Anthony and also is played by Gyllenhaal (obviously). He is the complete antithesis to Adam. Whereas Adam is meak, Anthony is confident. Adam is sloppy, Anthony is neat. The only similarity other than their looks and sharing the same first-letter is the fact that they both have beautiful girlfriends.

Such an eerie movie. There's truly exceptional cinematography here. The whole thing looks so Kubrickesque, with the obvious comparison being "Eyes Wide Shut," as both share themes of obsession, golden cinematography, and eroticism. But "Enemy" is more than that (and superior to "Eyes Wide Shut"). The best analysis of the film has been from Forrest Whickman in Slate. He hints that this is a monster movie without explicitly stating so; Whickman points out several clues, including repeated images of spider webs, some of which are obvious, and some of which aren't. The image of the spider is everywhere, and serves as an interesting representative of totalitarianism. He also notes that while the novel "The Double," which serves as the film's inspiration, is not a story of authoritarianism, its author, Jose Saramago, lived under a fascist regime in Portugal and "his work frequently explores totalitarianism and his experiences under a fascist regime through metaphor and allegory."    

Spiders like patterns, don't they?

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Robin Williams

Thomas Brown once noted that death is the cure for all illnesses. This is a morbid way to start a tribute for one of our national treasures, Robin Williams, who died yesterday of an apparent suicide. But let me explain. In "What Dreams May Come," one of his most underrated films, Williams plays a grieving husband whose wife commits suicide. When he, too, later dies, he discovers that she is not in Heaven waiting for him. He is understandably angry, demanding to know why his wife is being punished simply because she ended her suffering. It's a powerful scene, one that could provoke thought and dialogue about suffering and dying.

It appears evident that Williams spent the last several years of his life suffering. He was in and out of rehab, battling drug and alcohol addiction for years. He recently divorced his second wife; his sitcom on CBS, "The Crazy Ones," was canceled after only one season; and the majority of his films in the past decade have been considered flops. Clearly, these were taking a toll. No one deserves suffering, and no one deserves to be blamed for attempting to end their suffering. I feel deeply sorry for Williams and his many family members and for the world, for we have truly lost a decent human being and a comedic genius. I cannot, though, but feel at least an ounce of satisfaction that he will no longer suffer. No one deserves such suffering.

About his acting, where to start? He first got America to adore him through his guest appearances on "Happy Days" as an eccentric alien in the era of sci-fi re-emergence. His character eventually got his own TV show, "Mork and Mindy." There were his dramatic roles, like playing the introverted doctor opposite Robert De Niro in Penny Marshall's "Awakenings," one of the best films of 1990. In his review of the film, Stanley Kauffmann in the New Republic called Williams a "unique maniacal treasure, part competent actor, part Jonathan Winters spin-off, part socio-political surgeon." Williams understood that there were essentially no laughs in the film, and that's how the role should be played. There wasn't even a slight hint of the screwball Tasmanian devil he so often became onscreen. In Mike Nichols' "The Birdcage," he understood that the humor there called for him to be the straight man (no pun intended), and while there were moments where Nichols let Williams be Williams, the actor understood that he often needed to cede the humor to Nathan Lane, Gene Hackman, Dianne Wiest and Hank Azaria. It is one of his very best works.

He knew how to play terrifying as well. 2002 was his Year of Hitchcock. The first pitted him against Al Pacino in Christopher Nolan's "Insomnia," taunting his opponent, an LA cop (Pacino) suffering from sleeplessness in Alaska while trying to solve a murder mystery. "Don't worry, Will," he whispers. "You can sleep when you're dead." That same year he played a terribly lonely photo developer who becomes dangerously obsessed with a family in "One Hour Photo." It was the dark characters that made Williams, an actor trained at Juilliard, the most interesting to watch. A perfect example is the last terrific film he made: "World's Greatest Dad," in 2009. I wrote at the time that it was the perfect visualization of the human need to provoke the sympathy of others, and that it was one of Williams' best films.

But Robin Williams will most likely be remembered for his outrageously funny performances: rapidly spitting out humor and slight diatribes in "Good Morning Vietnam," which earned him his first Oscar nomination (he was also nominated for "Dead Poets Society," "The Fisher King," and won for "Good Will Hunting"); being as equally funny to children as to adults in "Fern Gully: The Last Rainforest" and Disney's "Aladdin," in which he improvised 16 hours of material, so much that apparently the Academy turned down a request to be nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay because so much of it was ad-libbed; and of course, his role as a divorced father so desperate to spend time with his children that he disguises himself as a British nanny in "Mrs. Doubtfire." I cannot think of a funnier performance on film, and it was a shame that he was not nominated for Best Actor.

I'm very skeptical of alternative medicine, and yet I can't not be intrigued by laugh therapy. Here's how the Cancer Center's page of the remedy opens: "We were born with the gift of laughter. Laughter is a natural medicine. It lifts our spirits and makes us feel happy. Laughter is a contagious emotion. It can bring people together. It can help us feel more alive and empowered."

Empowered. We are at our lowest when we are not. There are three obvious examples of how Williams utilized laughter therapy to empower others. The first regards his dear friend and roommate from Julliard. Lauren Lapalater at Buzzfeed has written a great article titled "The Lifelong Friendship of Robin Williams and Christopher Reeve." Read it, and you will come across a passage from Reeve's memoirs describing his fear heading into a risky surgery after his accident left him paralyzed: He describes a man walking in dressed as a doctor and speaking in a Russian accent, announcing that he was to perform a rectal exam on Reeve. Reeve wrote: "For the first time since the accident, I laughed. My old friend had helped me know that somehow I was going to be okay."

The second story involves another friend, Steven Spielberg, who directed Williams in "Hook," in which Williams plays a grown-up Peter Pan who has forgotten Neverland and now is a stern lawyer who doesn't spend time with his kids. Spielberg was filming "Schindler's List," an immensely taxing project that left him drained and depressed. It was Williams who called Spielberg, filming in Poland, to crack jokes and cheer him up. Spielberg called these "comic care packages over the telephone." The third example is not a real-life one, but a film: "Patch Adams." It's not a particularly good film, but it celebrates his unique gift of helping others through humor. Sometimes, that humor could be a bit too potent, as was the time he appeared on "Inside the Actor's Studio" (in what was probably the show's best episode). Apparently, an audience member was rushed to the hospital for a hernia--she was laughing so hard during Williams' appearance.

I haven't even mentioned his charity work: He was involved in about 50 charities, including the Christopher & Dana Reeve Foundation. With Billy Crystal and Whoopi Goldberg, he hosted "Comic Relief," raising funds to help the homeless. Crystal responded to the news on Twitter with simply "No words." Goldberg seconded: "BillyCrytal is right. There are NO words."

While death might be a cure, so too is laughter. Steve Allen told us that our world would be intolerable without laughter; John Cleese called laughter a force for democracy; Stephen Colbert noted that one cannot be laughing and be afraid at the same time. "If you're laughing," he said, "I defy you to be angry." And I defy you to find someone who has made us laugh as much as Robin Williams did. What great comfort laughing is, and what a great comfort Robin Williams has been to us all.

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Noah

In his exhaustive anthology of the history of violence called "The Better Angels of Our Nature," Steven Pinker starts with the Bible, which "depicts a world that, seen through our modern eyes, is staggering in its savagery." He cites Matthew White, who estimates that through 600 passages that discuss violence, the number of deaths is around 1.2 million--genocidal numbers. The victims of the flood would increase the number to 20 million.

Incidentally, Pinker's thesis is that humans are, contrary to the "if-it-bleeds-it-leads" philosophy of the media, actually becoming more peaceful, not more violent. He humorously opens his work by reminding us of the Cain killing Abel story: "With a world population of exactly four, that works out to a homicide rate of 25 percent, which is about a thousand times higher than the equivalent rates in Western countries today."

Director Darren Aronofksy embraces this violence. His "Noah" is heavy on it. At one point, the title character, played by Russell Crowe, throws a spear at an adversary. I can't wait for the action figure; it will make Paramount Pictures a fortune. Is this really a Darren Aronofky film? It is, and "Noah" is the great disappointment of the year. It feels like an amateurish undertaking filled with fairy tale dialogue. There are scenes with the Watchers (?), sort of fallen angels who are punished by being rocks. They are conflicted about helping Noah build the ark. Some of them are voiced perfectly (like by Frank Langella); others, not so much (like by Nick Nolte). (You could complain about how these rock things are not in the Bible, but as Aronofsky points out, neither is an E.T. finger-to-finger touch between God and Adam.) There are some positives--the scenery (filmed in Iceland) is otherworldly, and Aronofsky and his team have colored the world with blue, orange and green. It's completely surreal. ILM's imagery of the Watchers and the ark sometimes look realistic and innovative, and sometimes it does not. It has a certain quality reminiscent of Ray Harryhausen's work, but it fits. There is a massive battle in rain just as the maelstrom begins. It's exciting, but it doesn't fit.

Typically, movie reviews are required to include a paragraph or several explaining the plot. Is it necessary here? Probably not. You likely know the plot. The fourth story in the Bible, God has become angry with humans and has decided to kill them. But a very select few (Noah and his family) will be saved by building an ark and putting two of every animal on it. Martin Scorsese has talked about how the movies that have stayed with him the longest were the ones that didn't focus on plot so much as character, mood, and style. But with "Noah," despite our familiarity with the story, the plot is more interesting than everything (and everyone) else.

Crowe is reunited with his co-star from "A Beautiful Mind," Jennifer Connelly. She's not particularly good here, but most of it's not her fault--she's given such poor dialogue and not much else to do other than try and decide if she wants to speak in an American or British accent. The same goes for Emma Watson, who can't seem to not raise an eyebrow in each of her scenes. Her co-star from "The Perks of Being a Wallflower," though, Logan Lerman, does a fine job. He plays Ham, Noah's middle son (the one who is eventually cursed by Noah), jealous and sexually frustrated. The reason for the curse has divided scholars for generations, and yet one is indirectly provided here (and actually, there's not much of a cursing so much as an inability to "fix something that is broken"). Anthony Hopkins plays Methuselah, Noah's grandfather. The saying "as old as Methuselah" comes from the idea that this Biblical character apparently lived the longest, dying at a ripe old age of 969 (which is surely possible). It's easy to see why this saying is accurate. In virtually every scene he's in, Methuselah just wants someone to bring him berries. He finally gets them, and how happy he becomes. Hopkins has never, to my knowledge, given us a bad performance, but he has made a handful of bad films, and this is one of them. Finally, Ray Winstone is an effective villain. He plays Tubal-cain, a descendant of Cain. Winstone does the expected hissing and such, but he reveals that this is a somewhat interesting character, for his (and Noah's) confusion and frustration have plagued humans for eternity. In essence, these two men must be saying to themselves, "I pray, and yet I hear nothing."

As for Crowe, he has always had an impressive presence on screen in a wide variety of films: "L.A. Confidential," "The Insider," "Gladiator," "Master and Commander: The Far Side of the Universe," "American Gangster," "Man of Steel." His presence is here as well in his characterization of Noah. Aronofsky has said that his depiction of Noah embraces a balance between justice and mercy. Noah, however, through much of this film, leans toward the former, succeeding in getting everyone to hate him. His son pleads with him as their fellow human beings drown. "They are just people," he says. Noah's reply is terse: "There is no room for them." When it is revealed that on board the ark, Ila (Watson) has miraculously become pregnant (she is barren), he is sure that this will infuriate the Creator and he promises to destroy the child if it is a girl. The accident of birth.

My expectations of this film were so high not because it's a Russell Crowe movie or because it's a movie about the ark or anything else other than the fact that it's directed by Darren Aronofsky. Think of his previous films--"Requiem for a Dream," "The Fountain," "The Wrestler," "Black Swan." I opened by asking if "Noah" really is an Aronofsky film. I'm still not sure. His theme of obsession, so prevalent in other movies--drugs in "Requiem for a Dream," lost love in "The Fountain," a comeback in "The Wrestler," and perfection in "Black Swan"--is somewhat noticeable here in that Noah is obsessed with obeying the Creator and not with helping his fellow humans. But everything else is so distracting that one couldn't possibly contemplate much on this theme. This is indeed an Aronofsky film, but unfortunately it's a bad one. Still, he's arguably the most exciting director around; certainly the most exciting younger director. I'm confident his next film will be better.

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Guardians of the Galaxy

I don't think I ever anticipated nodding my head along to "I Want You Back" while watching a Marvel Comics film set in space. But there I was, doing such a thing. In what is one of the most joyous scenes in the film, the audience seemed to be filled with happiness as...well, it's best left unexplained for now. Just watch it, and I hope you will smile.

The movie opens with the unearthly "I'm Not in Love." Then, we see a man in an "Iron Giant"-like mask, walking around a barren, rainy planet. When he reaches his destination, he removes the helmet--it's Chris Pratt, in our first scene with him. He puts on some headphones and starts dancing to "Come and Get Your Love." Pratt, who explained that "acting is already embarrassing," not only has pretty good moves but really seems to be enjoying himself.

This is a Marvel movie, right?

It is. I have disliked many of the other Marvel films (especially "Iron Man" and "The Avengers") so much that I had low expectations for "Guardians of the Galaxy." But it's a great summer film, and a great soundtrack certainly helps it. Director James Gunn has described his approach to the music of the film as "holistic," and he played them on set during film. But a great soundtrack only takes you so far--comedy can help tremendously, as well. At another point in the movie, our stars Pratt and Zoe Saldana are (about to) dance to Elvin Bishop's "Fooled Around and Fell in Love." In that scene, Gamora (Saldana) mentions that she is an assassin and therefore doesn't dance. "Really?" is his response. "Well, on my planet, we have a legend for people like you. It's called 'Footloose.' And in it, a great hero, named Kevin Bacon, teaches an entire city full of people with sticks up their butts that dancing, well, is the greatest thing there is." (Bacon was amused.) Dave Batista plays Drax the Destroyer, a chiseled prisoner who seeks revenge for the death of his family. Drax is of an alien species that, we are told, is a literal one--one that has no understanding of metaphors. But Drax disagrees. "Nothing goes over my head...My reflexes are too fast. I would catch it."

But the film's best comedy team is Bradley Cooper and Vin Diesel. Cooper has shown that he can do comedy just as easily as he can do drama (and sometimes, as is the case with "Silver Linings Playbook" and "American Hustle," he does both simultaneously). Here, he provides the majority of the film's laughs. He plays Rocket, the Han Solo character, but he's also a genetically altered, walking/talking/hissing raccoon. When we first meet him, he and his partner Groot are after a bounty for Peter Quill (Pratt), who incidentally prefers to be called Star-Lord (which is a corny name, but of course, so is Luke Skywalker). They try to catch Quill, who is being pursued by Gamora, and the four of them engage in a fairly exciting chase. Groot is voiced by Vin Diesel. What I was frequently reminding myself of while watching "Guardians of the Galaxy" was the famous story of how Bela Lugosi didn't want the title role of Frankenstein in 1931 because of the character's lack of dialogue. So the role went to Boris Karloff, who was then an unknown. So why would Diesel, who is a major star and has appeared in films as varied as "Saving Private Ryan" and the "Fast" series, want a role in which his only line is saying "I am Groot"? Well, think about it: Diesel has had quite the challenge before him. He has had to create arguably the most complex character in the film while only getting out three words consecutively. Diesel has also offered a much more interesting reason: his life since the death of his friend and co-star Paul Walker. Diesel appreciated how "Guardians of the Galaxy" allowed him to play a character who celebrates life in such a manner. Indeed, he is the spark of many of the most heartfelt moments in the movie. He's the only pure, innocent character. In one scene, he sacrifices, and in another, he gives a young girl a flower while smiling gently (and doesn't react in a similar fashion as Karloff did in a similar situation in "Frankenstein"), all while uttering in a simple fashion "I am Groot." So there's emotional weight here in the film. This is a story about friendship, camaraderie and reconciliation.

There's plenty to not like about "Guardians of the Galaxy." I'm not sure why some of the modern high-budget movies like the "Pirates of the Caribbean" series and the new "Planet of the Apes" movies look so fantastic but it's always the Marvel Studios movies that look like a mess. As Todd VanDerWerff pointed out in Vox, this movie is at its best when it's not a Marvel movie, calling it fun but frustratingly typical. But otherwise, it's quite a worthwhile movie-watching experience, especially to see such performances. Pratt really is a joy here. Rob Lowe was likely on to something when he called Pratt the "future of movie stars." Pratt will also appear in the new "Jurassic Park" film next year. Saldana now is the queen of franchises after also appearing in the "Star Trek" films and "Avatar." (She also appeared in the first "Pirates of the Caribbean" film but apparently had a miserable experience.) It's not simply our main cast who are exceptional in their roles. While Glenn Close and John C. Reilly, as a politician and police officer respectively, are disappointingly underused, Lee Pace (whom you might recognize--though he looks completely different--from "The Hobbit" films) and Karen Gill are quite good as the villains. For another entertaining scene, there's Benecio Del Toro in one of his best performances in years. Nearly stealing the show is Michael Rooker as Yondu, a blue-skinned bandit good-guy/bad-guy who can easily take out a host of adversaries while whistling.

I really don't think I've had so much fun at the movies in a long time. The audience applauded at the end. It's moments like those when I am reminded of what an experience the cinema is. And I got to watch space scoundrels dancing to the Jackson 5. Can't beat that.

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Boyhood

The joys of a young child can be ruined by the yelling of adults. This is how "Boyhood" starts. There's a young child (Ellar Coltrane) lying in the grass, unobtrusively staring at the sky. His mother (Patricia Arquette) picks him up and asks him how his day was, gently prodding him about negative progress reports she's receiving from his teacher. His mother mentions that the teacher claims Mason, the young boy, deliberately inserted rocks into the classroom's pencil sharpener. She keeps asking why he would do such a thing. His eventual response is he assumed that because the machines make pencils sharp, it would do the same of rocks. He is quite the curious young boy, as most children often are.

"Boyhood" is an epic story. A film like this--one that takes place over twelve years--would typically feature a young actor as Mason at age six, then another one in his early teen years, then perhaps a twenty-something actor as a college-bound young man. His parents would be played by Arquette and Ethan Hawke, but they would have makeup applied to them throughout the filming to at times make them look younger and other times to make them look older. Not so with "Boyhood."

"Boyhood," directed by Richard Linklater (who, with "Dazed and Confused," "Waking Life," "School of Rock" and the "Before" trilogy, has show that he is one of America's most versatile directors) is a most unusual movie-making experiment, one unlike just about any other American film before it. Unlike the traditional approach, it has literally been filmed over twelve years. Starting in 2002, Mason grows up before our eyes. "It's time for you to grow up!" could be the mantra of his story. His inquisitiveness shifts to cynicism but ultimately bends towards optimism. He's a "yeah, I guess" kind of kid who doesn't appear to excel as much as his sister (Lorelei Linklater); his eyebrows seem permanently arched, particularly in his preteen years. By the time he's an adult, he looks a bit like Peter Dinklage. But in every one of these twelve years, it seems to be that he is the brunt of every sort of lecture. Have you ever seen a more relaxed youth on the screen? I can't recall any scenes of tantrums or even fighting back. The film (and trailer) make excellent use of an exceptional song called "Hero" by Family of the Year. The lyrics "let me go; I don't want to be your hero" seem to exemplify Mason's persona.  

But ultimately, this movie is good, but not great. Hawke (Linklater's collaborator on the "Before" trilogy) overdoes it in a scene or two. The film goes on for about 40 minutes too long, and Linklater's dialogue is painful at many times in the film--virtually every line from a young person sounds incredibly artificial.

But what I do like most about "Boyhood" is the complexities, because such is life. You can find such complexities in the role of Mason's parents. Sarah Boxer in the Atlantic recently asked why all the mothers in Disney films die, arguing that the beneficiary of a dead mother in children's films is a good father. In "Boyhood," it's not so simple. Early on, the father certainly does, in the eyes of the two children, come across as "the nice one," giving away gifts liberally and taking his children out for bowling and French fries while their mother scolds them for not doing their homework. Hawke's character, we are told, has just returned from Alaska, where he worked. At various times in the story, he is unemployed. The mother, on the other hand, moves the kids around for better economic opportunities. Mason and his sister get to see their dad on the weekends, but their father is replaced by one alcoholic after the other. One of them is possibly suffering through post-traumatic stress disorder and the other has a frightening malicious disposition in his eyes. The latter is played by Marco Perella, and he's absolutely terrifying, even in his "normal" scenes. There haven't been scenes of childhood abuse this disturbing since "This Boy's Life" more than twenty years ago. Fortunately, Mason still has his two loving parents. This ultimately might be a story not necessarily of a young boy but of his relationship to his two loving parents; the parents might not love each other anymore, but they certainly love their children.

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Dawn of the Planet of the Apes

Et tu, Koba?

"Dawn of the Planet of the Apes" is the movie that has brought "Apes" to war. Oddly enough, this is one of the most anti-war films in years, with unmistakable allegories and warnings against unguarded militantism and vengeance. This has been observed by several others. Ari Siletz notes that audiences will surrender to the film's fatalism, that "when the forecast is war, peacemaking is as futile as raindancing in a drought." Here's what Rob Ryan has to say: "The central thesis of the second movie seems to be that despite the best intentions of good leaders, people (and apes) are innately paranoid, hateful creatures that are almost entirely incapable of getting along with each other." Three years ago, in my review of "Rise of the Planet of the Apes," the better than expected reboot of the series, I wrote that the horror of the film was that the "descent with modification" that is evolution is flipped and the hegemony of humans over their distant cousins is reversed. The horror of "Dawn of the Planet of the Apes" is that now both species have guns and will do anything to destroy each other. There exists here an embrace of the "killer ape theory," the idea that "war and interpersonal aggression was the driving force behind human evolution." War has found a way.

This is really evident in the fascinating performance that is Toby Kebbell as Koba. Koba (if I recall correctly) was the ape who was particularly mistreated in the previous film. Here, he is one of Caesar's (Andy Serkis) top lieutenants. In the opening hunt, it is Koba who saves Caesar's life. Koba recognizes that it was Caesar who saved his first, and so he is willing to follow him wherever Caesar takes the apes as their leader. But it's not so simple. The majority of Koba's scenes show him as a character of haunting mercilessness--an angry warrior charging into battle, willing to figuratively and literally jump through fire if he has to. I don't think I've ever seen something as uniquely frightening as an ape shooting assault rifles while charging on horseback into battle. Scars make you stronger, he believes--but they also make you more bitter. He has learned hate from humans, and that appears to be all he has learned, and so he grows impatient with Caesar's cautious pragmatism and pacifism. Koba is clever as he is vicious, making his humorous scenes, like how he "plays monkey" to distract his enemy humans, all the more unnerving. It isn't too surprising that he hates humans so much. His reflection, to some extent, is in Gary Oldman's character, Dreyfus. It's not fully explained, but we can assume that while it's unlikely the apes killed Dreyfus's family, he blames them. He's a man of war by necessity, he might argue, not by choice.

Caesar, our main protagonist, isn't nearly as interesting as Koba. But Andy Serkis is doing remarkable work with this trilogy. After watching the first film, I couldn't help but wonder if Serkis was getting tired playing these characters that require motion-capture technology. After all, he has done this for Peter Jackson's "Lord of the Rings" and "Hobbit" trilogies, "The Adventures of Tintin," and "King Kong." He is a part of the main cast of the upcoming "Star Wars" film, and while there are interesting, to say the least, theories as to what kind of character he will play (ranging from a Wookie to Yoda to Jar Jar Binks' son), I side with the argument that his character should not be one that requires computer generation. He has proven his ability and imagination with such acting, but now, I say, let him have an opportunity to prove he can do more traditional acting. Serkis knows this; here is what he told the Telegraph: "Caesar and all the other characters I have ever played are driven by one thing and that is acting. Audiences want to be moved by acting, not by visual effect." I still think that audiences don't quite understand the physicality of his work. Here's an great quote from an interesting article in Wired about his performance as Gollum: "He conceived Gollum as an addict whose inner struggle translated into an out-of-control, convulsive physicality. In his audition, he climbed up on a chair, his face contorted, and delivered his lines in a thin voice interspersed with a gurgling cough."

Serkis doesn't necessarily gurgle a cough and contort his face, but his Method acting approach and laborious study of ape movement is obvious. Remind yourself that the actors portraying humans are not seeing the actors portraying apes as we the audience see them, so the pressure is twofold on Serkis and others. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, the digital rendering of Caesar seems to look less realistic than that of Koba or Maurice (Karin Konoval), an orangutan who serves as an important adviser to Caesar and a school teacher. Most of the other characters aren't particularly interesting, though. Jason Clarke as Malcolm, the main human, is more of a man of peace (in stark contrast to Clarke's characters in "Lawless" and "Zero Dark Thirty") than Dreyfus. It's not a bad performance or character per se, just a rather flat one. Like Frida Pinto before her, Keri Russell isn't given much to do other than hand out antibiotics to dying apes. But while the movie doesn't have much to offer in terms of character development, the other elements are terrific. The music by the great Michael Giacchino manages to aid the film while seemingly paying homage to the original 1968 film and "2001: A Space Odyssey" (which was released the same year and also famously has apes). Its dialogue isn't exactly that of Shakespeare, but its impressive visuals, powerful imagines and obvious metaphors make it a movie you should see.

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Life Itself

I've made no secret of my admiration of Roger Ebert over the years. But allow me to keep on showing my adoration for the finest film critic we ever had: If there ever was an American treasure in film criticism, it was Ebert. The winner of the Pulitzer Prize and a recipient of a Hollywood Walk of Fame Star (the first in both categories for a film critic), and a prolific writer on a variety of subjects, he was the film critic. But I assure you--you don't have to know who Ebert was to enjoy this movie. Whether you know who he is or not, you really should see "Life Itself," the new documentary about his life and career. It's one of the year's best.

The country first came to know Roger Ebert through his incredibly influential partnership with Gene Siskel of the Chicago Tribune. They were Siskel and Ebert. But as we all know, it was a complicated relationship. An example of just how much they could truly hate each other is told by Marlene Iglitzen, wife of Gene Siskel. Siskel and Ebert were on a plane out of Chicago, and Siskel grew tired of Ebert (who is described as a raconteur by several individuals in the documentary) telling a story to another passenger. Siskel, annoyed as ever, gave a note to the flight attendant and asked if she would give it to Ebert. She did. The note said something along the lines of: "Mr. Ebert, we in the cockpit almost always agree with you over your reviewing partner. We would be delighted if you would join us in the cockpit." Ebert was ecstatic, sprang from his seat, and marched toward the cockpit (and keep in mind that because of his weight, it was rather awkward for him to move about the cabin). The flight attendants were shocked as he was about to knock on the door, before Siskel shouted up toward him and revealed himself as the true author of the note, much to Ebert's profound irritation and humiliation.

Ebert was an exceptional storyteller. If you don't believe me, listen to his story he told on Letterman's show involving Siskel and a Korean film about a lady and her dog. According to Ebert, the two of them were viewing the film with other Chicago film critics and were quite bored by it. Siskel decided to leave the cinema to make a phone call. In the time that he was gone, the movie (which featured nothing of any significance) suddenly took a bizarre turn by having the main protagonist have sex with her dog. Siskel returned, and the other critics broke out into laughter. Siskel demanded an explanation, Ebert told him, and Siskel refused to believe it. Trust me, it's much funnier listening to Ebert explain the situation.

The narrative over the years, especially after Siskel died in 1998 from brain cancer, has been that even though Siskel and Ebert seemed to frequently shout at each other, they really did like each other. But the documentary makes great use of the awesome--yet frightening--YouTube clip of repeated outtakes from their show. "Sound a little excited, Gene," Ebert lectures. "Sound less excited," is the terse response. Ebert continues to correct him--"It's called 'And the Moves,' not 'At the Movies,'" is the next interruption. Siskel keeps it together, then finishes: "That's this week on 'Siskel...and Ebert...and the Movies...and the asshole, and that's Roger!"

Don't worry: They really were a great partnership and seemed to do other outtakes simply roasting each other. "Do you know that for Gene, speech is a second language?" Ebert keeps winning, poking fun of Siskel's inability to not trip over his words. Then for another outtake, they team up, poking fun at Protestants, which, according to Ebert is a group of people who sort of want a religion. What a team. I mean, these two guys couldn't have been further apart in personality. One was tall and thin, the other was small and large. One studied Philosophy at Yale, the other journalism at Urbana. One wrote for the bourgeois Chicago Tribune, the other for the more working class Chicago Sun-Times. But they were quite the team. They came full-circle in the aftermath of Siskel's death. Consider Chris Jones' exceptional 2010 article, where Ebert describes how he and Gene were born to be Siskel and Ebert. In the following paragraph, we see just how much Ebert protected Siskel after his death:

Ebert keeps scrolling down. Below his journal he had embedded video of his first show alone, the balcony seat empty across the isle. It was a tribute, in three parts. He wants to watch them now, because he wants to remember, but at the bottom of the page are only three black squares. In the middle of the squares, white type reads: "Content deleted. This video is no longer available because it has been deleted." Ebert leans to the screen, trying to figure out what's happened. He looks across at Chaz. The top half of his face turns red, and his eyes well up again, but this time, it's not sadness surfacing. He's shaking. It's anger. 

But the heart of the movie--the team the film most wants to focus on--is Roger and Chaz. Those two additionally seemed different, the most obvious difference being their skin color. But the love they clearly had for each other, especially as Chaz cared for him during his battles and pushed him to keep going, makes this one of the great love stories of any documentary. She herself also has a talent for storytelling, but many of the stories involve pain. She tells us how at one point, the pain became so bad that he slipped her a note saying "kill me." She angrily refused--"That is not an option," she insisted. Ebert is terribly in pain throughout the filming. An obvious hole exists where his jaw used to. We see him struggle deeply as a nurse inserts a suction tube into his throat, and as a physical therapist coaches him to produce even a few steps at the hospital after he's broken his hip. Nobody deserves such suffering, especially Ebert. But he endured, as long as he could.

Ebert is described by a friend as being "nice--but not that nice." Indeed, his not-niceness shows, whether it's in heated conversations with Siskel or arrogant reminders of his Pulitzer Prize--he doesn't always come across in the best light. But as a champion of motion pictures, he was extraordinary. Errol Morris tells us of how a strike during the premiere of his documentary "Pet Cemetery" meant that it wouldn't be reviewed in New York, which essentially equated to doom for his film. But Siskel and Ebert, based in Chicago, were to review it, and they reviewed it not once but three times during the course of the show. Ava DuVernay describes her meeting with Ebert at the Oscars and his inspiring her. (He wrote about the encounter on his blog.) Ramin Bahrani explains how Ebert promised to attend a showing of his film "Man Push Cart" at the Sundance Film Festival. For the first two showings, Ebert was a no-show, but the third and final showing (at eight in the morning during the final day), Ebert was happily at the front of the line. Ebert would later give Bahraini a gift that had been given to him by Laura Dern, who was given it by Alfred Hitchcock. It was Bahraini's responsibility, Ebert told him, to give it to someone else. Martin Scorsese, who Ebert predicted in 1967 would be one of America's most important film directors, tells us how at one point in his career, his marriage had fallen apart and he became addicted to cocaine. He truly was at a low point, and begins to break down as he describes what kept him going: he was told that Siskel and Ebert were to pay tribute to him at a film event. When they gave a bad review to his "The Color of Money," Scorsese mentions that it felt more like a paternalistic warning, not a malicious bucket of venom.

Film critics are meant to be the unsung heroes of movie-watching. That is, we not only are long passed the days of Pauline Kael and Siskel and Ebert but we are also passed the point where people take film critics' opinions seriously. But if Ebert could have had some kind of totally objective viewing of such a documentary, I believe he would adore this movie. He would certainly be proud of director Steve James, one of Ebert's favorite directors. Ebert famously said that no good movie is too long but no bad movie is short enough. I've never found that particularly accurate, but it surely is here. I didn't want the film to end. But all good things must end; such is life itself.

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The Fault in Our Stars

"I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart. I simply can't build my hopes on a foundation of confusion, misery and death."
-Anne Frank

The only thing worse than cancer is kids with cancer. This is a fairly bold topic for a novel and film about young people in love to tackle. But tackle it does. This isn't a movie about sick kids but kids who are sick, and there is a subtle yet important difference between the two. It doesn't need to be elaborated but you'll understand as you watch.

"The Fault in Our Stars" is the story of a girl with cancer, not cancer itself. The girl is named Hazel, a sixteen-year-old, and is played by Shailene Woodley. Hazel has suffered from thyroid cancer for years, and, despite limited relief, surviving has helped convince her doctors that she is a miracle. No one in the audience would doubt her melancholy, however, as her doctors casually proscribe anti-depressants and pressure her to attend youth peer groups for those suffering from cancer. She reluctantly agrees. Here, she literally bumps into a young man named Augustus Waters (Ansel Elgort), whose own cancer cost him his leg but not his spirit. At one of the youth meetings, he proudly describes to the group that his only fear is oblivion. He intends to be around for a long time, and will reach legendary status. This understandably strikes Hazel the wrong way, and she tersely challenges him in front of the others.

Despite this defiance and rejection, Augustus develops quite a crush on Hazel, whom he flirtatiously keeps referring to as Hazel Grace. They swap books--she gives him "An Imperial Affliction," by a reclusive author who, despite his powerful writing, fled to the Netherlands never to return. Augustus gives Hazel Grace his copy of a graphic novel based on his favorite video game. They read the books and appear to enjoy the experience. The flirting continues and crescendos until they fall in love and battle their cancers together.

I liked this movie, and I was surprised by how much. It has a peculiar trajectory--it starts intriguing (though that's probably not an appropriate adjective to use), becomes annoying, then really annoying, then tolerable, then enjoyable, before becoming really enjoyable. And yet I couldn't help but feel much too manipulated. While it's strongest element is that it's a movie about kids who are sick and not sick kids, its weakest quality is that this is a movie that seems to objectify human beings just so I, the viewer (and one who is fortunate enough to not have cancer), can feel happier about my life. I wasn't sure how to react to that. There's a scene that takes place in the Anne Frank House, and there are obvious similarities between the two individuals, mainly being that they are both intellectual, brave young women. The problem is that when our two protagonists reach the top, where Frank and her family hid, it inspires them to kiss. Call me mature or realistic or cynical or whatever, but while it is a powerful and hopeful image, it still struck me as behavior more from Justin Bieber than those who are struggling and kept persevering. The scene might make you cry, but it also might make you internally debate the ethics of such actions.

Aside from being objectifying, it also at times feels clichéd. However, I can't say it's completely clichéd, because the characters' European fairy tale quickly turns into a nightmare in the film's most unpredictable moments. What starts with the pounding adrenaline of Charli XCX's music as their plane lifts off (and a lame attempt at humor as we discover that Mr. Confident Augustus is afraid of flying), the young ones finally get to meet this beloved author of theirs. I won't reveal who plays him, only that you'll likely agree with me that he's one of America's most talented actors. The scenes with him are uniquely but pleasantly absurd.

Woodley is exceptional. Fortunately, she's chosen a better project than last year's atrociously awful "The Spectacular Now." Even in the weaker moments of "The Fault in Our Stars," she still shines, and motivates us to stay interested. She should be considered for an Oscar nomination. Laura Dern and Sam Trammell are also terrific as Hazel's parents, Dern especially so, providing some of the movie's most touching moments. But I think the person who stands the most to gain from this movie is Nat Wolff, who is brilliant in just about all of his scenes (that don't involve trophies). Wolff plays Isaac. When we first meet Isaac, he tells us that his cancer caused him to lose one eye and another surgery could cause him to lose the other. Still, he's on top of the world, madly in love with his girlfriend. As the film progresses and changes, so too do his standing and perception of life. His unusual character and the notes he hits are the exact representation of the movie's dual nature. An issue I had, however, with the acting was about Elgort, who, while not terrible, could have used better direction. He simply overdoes many of his scenes.

You ought to see this film. It's a celebration of life, an acceptance of the banality yet grit of those who persevere. The best movies are coming-of-age stories. This is one, but uniquely different. We rarely see such characters in such extraordinary pain. Rarely do movies like this inspire such thought (and yes, hope and appreciation).


And finally, here's an important message by "The Fault in Our Stars" author and vlogger John Green:

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