So, it looks as though I'm going to be starting this year's 31 Days challenge in the same way that I start a lot of things: with an apology. Monday's entry definitely implied that The Cannonball Run was a 70s movie, and it was only when I checked last night that I realized it was, in fact, released in 1981. It should have been from the 70s, though, with all those wide, sunbleached shots of the open highway and the unapologetically colourful costumes - I've never quite worked out whether people didn't care so much about appearing cool back in those days or whether happiness itself simply wasn't so inherently uncool as more recent decades seem to have made it.
The film has a simple enough story - not even really a story, in fact, so much as a concept - an illegal race from one side of the US to the other, where everything is permitted and speed limits aren't even taken as a guideline. With the right cast of eccentric characters, a concept like this doesn't need a plot.
I loved Cannonball Run in my teens, if only because of the way the cast seemed to have such a great time, and to this day, the opening sequence still makes my heart sing. Times have changed, however, and political correctness has reared its dreaded head, and frankly, about bloody time. It has to be said, therefore, that I wasn't much looking forward to re-watching this one just because I was worried I might land up hating it.
Certainly, I'm no longer sure precisely why my younger self would have given up hard babysitting cash to watch a film like this in peace at home. Even leaving aside the question of changing social mores, it simply isn't that funny. The humour is largely of the slapstick/grossout variety, and while Dom DeLuise's schtick as Victor Prinzim/Captain Chaos has a certain charm, it definitely seems aimed at the under ten set. Farrah Fawcett's dead-eyed love interest, meanwhile, is so utterly dim and docile that she seems as though she'd be better off in a sheltered environment where she wouldn't be leered at by practically every other male in the film. When drugged against her will (a particularly shameful sequence), her behaviour scarcely changes at all, and I'm left wondering whether all of this doesn't serve to make her even more of an idealised fantasy figure for the target demographic.
Racial politics aren't really dealt with any more delicacy - Arab characters are in brownface, of course - although a young Jackie Chan comes out unscathed by dint of his screen presence and transcendent talent. Roger Moore, meanwhile, essentially plays himself with a nicely-judged mix of charm and smarm that means his eventual gentle comeuppance can't help but raise at least a small smile.
Even if I don't love Cannonball Run any more, though, I can't quite bring myself to hate it. These were less enlightened days, and while that isn't an excuse, I've seen just as bad or worse in films made since 2000, when we're all supposed to know better. Besides, all this was also before the days of CGI stuntwork, and all the onscreen action looks refreshingly honest without swirling balls of painted-on flames. At 95 minutes, it's a nice length for a lighthearted comedy, and never pulls that godawful trick a lot of modern films have of trying to make the audience feel sorry for characters they should be laughing at. The sole note of pathos, in fact, comes from realizing quite how many of the cast are no longer with us - if that's not a sobering reminder of the fact I'm getting old, I don't know what is.
Would I recommend this? Of course I wouldn't. If you ever felt like sneaking off and watching this one evening after a frenetic day, though, I wouldn't judge you - might just join you, in fact.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Monday, September 28, 2015
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (1978)
Today's lesson, kids: a little enthusiasm can be a dangerous thing.
It's misplaced enthusiasm which has led me to sign up again for Write 31 Days. True, it wasn't enthusiasm but pragmatism that led me to spend a couple of hours yesterday afternoon seeking out a bunch of suitable films, and, as I began running short of ideas, the urge to type worst musicals into the search bar was probably less enthusiasm and more outright masochism. I was feeling on a roll, though, and when I came upon a clip from the 1978 musical Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, I felt that sudden rush of blood that I always get when I feel as though I might have found something a little bit special.
This is not something that has ever ended well in the past. Stay apathetic, kids, and leave your sanity and your retinas intact.
I can count three Beatles-based musicals off the top of my head that haven't actually starred the Beatles. Yellow Submarine is an institution, of course, a trippy, slightly creepy joy from back in the days when animation was allowed to be properly weird and was all the better for it. Far later, in 2007, we have Julie Taymor's Across the Universe, which resides in an unmentionable spot somewhere on my list of films to watch when I'm actively in the mood to be irritated. In between, meanwhile, there was Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, whose sorry status as possibly the first jukebox musical somehow manages to be the very least of its crimes.
On the whole, I think the thing that I like the least about this particular atrocity is its tendency to linger. Where the likes of Xanadu and Rock of Ages are thankfully ephemeral in their awfulness, Sgt. Pepper lingers like the taste of a badly-barbecued sausage en route from bad decision to full-on food poisoning. Bits of it keep rising up like chunky burps and forcing themselves, unwanted, back into my consciousness - the robot gimps, for instance, or the rollerskating pantomime horse, or Frankie Howerd as a leering, gropey villain.
The story, such as it is, is saturated in a peculiarly 1970s sort of morality, the kind of mindlessly cheery energy that birthed the likes of The Brady Bunch. It's concerned with the small (Midwestern?) town of Heartland, which has been watched over by the spirit of Sergeant Pepper and his brass band since the first world war. When the Sergeant dies, a group of successors are sought, cheery of face and shaggy of perm - I can't recall the character names, but since any acting was purely nominal let's just refer to them as Peter Frampton and the Bee Gees. The first time they play, they're promptly recruited to a large, unscrupulous record label, which takes them off to Hollywood and leaves the town ripe for plunder by Howerd's thoroughly dodgy property developer and his sinister robot servants.
The aim seems to have been for the story to be carried in its entirety by Beatles songs - from Sgt. Pepper, Abbey Road and a couple from George Harrison's solo oeuvre. With such a broad variety of material and styles, however, this proved difficult, leaving George Burns' Mr. Kite to function as an uncomfortable narrator. It doesn't work, not entirely; the piece remains largely incoherent despite being a pretty standard rags-to-riches job. The sets and constumes all reek of kids' TV, which make the sex and drugs and rock'n'roll stuff look really weird. Oh, and as is frequently the case, it's only the evil female characters who wear visible makeup.
I'm probably making Sgt. Pepper sound irredeemable, and to be honest, it is. The film isn't without its moments, however, even if they don't compensate for everything else. While the Bee Gees' sound is mostly too anaemic for the material, for instance, their sharp but ethereal harmonies are perfect for the song Nowhere Man, while Aerosmith take Come Together and give it the nasty, sleazy patina of grime it didn't know it needed. Newcomer Sandy Farina, meanwhile, acquits herself well enough as the godawfully-named Strawberry Fields, playing it straight even when the lyrics she's asked to sing make zero narrative sense.
Tune in on Thursday for the first of my 31 Days entries, when I'll be examining another 70's "classic". You lucky, lucky people.
It's misplaced enthusiasm which has led me to sign up again for Write 31 Days. True, it wasn't enthusiasm but pragmatism that led me to spend a couple of hours yesterday afternoon seeking out a bunch of suitable films, and, as I began running short of ideas, the urge to type worst musicals into the search bar was probably less enthusiasm and more outright masochism. I was feeling on a roll, though, and when I came upon a clip from the 1978 musical Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, I felt that sudden rush of blood that I always get when I feel as though I might have found something a little bit special.
This is not something that has ever ended well in the past. Stay apathetic, kids, and leave your sanity and your retinas intact.
I can count three Beatles-based musicals off the top of my head that haven't actually starred the Beatles. Yellow Submarine is an institution, of course, a trippy, slightly creepy joy from back in the days when animation was allowed to be properly weird and was all the better for it. Far later, in 2007, we have Julie Taymor's Across the Universe, which resides in an unmentionable spot somewhere on my list of films to watch when I'm actively in the mood to be irritated. In between, meanwhile, there was Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, whose sorry status as possibly the first jukebox musical somehow manages to be the very least of its crimes.
On the whole, I think the thing that I like the least about this particular atrocity is its tendency to linger. Where the likes of Xanadu and Rock of Ages are thankfully ephemeral in their awfulness, Sgt. Pepper lingers like the taste of a badly-barbecued sausage en route from bad decision to full-on food poisoning. Bits of it keep rising up like chunky burps and forcing themselves, unwanted, back into my consciousness - the robot gimps, for instance, or the rollerskating pantomime horse, or Frankie Howerd as a leering, gropey villain.
The story, such as it is, is saturated in a peculiarly 1970s sort of morality, the kind of mindlessly cheery energy that birthed the likes of The Brady Bunch. It's concerned with the small (Midwestern?) town of Heartland, which has been watched over by the spirit of Sergeant Pepper and his brass band since the first world war. When the Sergeant dies, a group of successors are sought, cheery of face and shaggy of perm - I can't recall the character names, but since any acting was purely nominal let's just refer to them as Peter Frampton and the Bee Gees. The first time they play, they're promptly recruited to a large, unscrupulous record label, which takes them off to Hollywood and leaves the town ripe for plunder by Howerd's thoroughly dodgy property developer and his sinister robot servants.
The aim seems to have been for the story to be carried in its entirety by Beatles songs - from Sgt. Pepper, Abbey Road and a couple from George Harrison's solo oeuvre. With such a broad variety of material and styles, however, this proved difficult, leaving George Burns' Mr. Kite to function as an uncomfortable narrator. It doesn't work, not entirely; the piece remains largely incoherent despite being a pretty standard rags-to-riches job. The sets and constumes all reek of kids' TV, which make the sex and drugs and rock'n'roll stuff look really weird. Oh, and as is frequently the case, it's only the evil female characters who wear visible makeup.
I'm probably making Sgt. Pepper sound irredeemable, and to be honest, it is. The film isn't without its moments, however, even if they don't compensate for everything else. While the Bee Gees' sound is mostly too anaemic for the material, for instance, their sharp but ethereal harmonies are perfect for the song Nowhere Man, while Aerosmith take Come Together and give it the nasty, sleazy patina of grime it didn't know it needed. Newcomer Sandy Farina, meanwhile, acquits herself well enough as the godawfully-named Strawberry Fields, playing it straight even when the lyrics she's asked to sing make zero narrative sense.
Tune in on Thursday for the first of my 31 Days entries, when I'll be examining another 70's "classic". You lucky, lucky people.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Spy (2015)
I sat down to watch Spy last night with only my own preconceptions for company. I knew a lot of misogynistic assholes hated its star, Melissa McCarthy, but then, by definition, misogynistic assholes hate everything with an unapologetic female front and centre - in this case, I wasn't convinced that the enemy of my enemy would be my friend. There aren't a lot of roles for larger women in Hollywood, and those that exist tend to be either for grossout comic relief or glorchy sentiment. My expectations weren't high, but it was a Friday night after a tough week and for once, even bad comedy seemed like a more enjoyable option than something more serious and/or cerebral.
Which, long story short, is how I found myself a new hero. I'de seen McCarthy before in Bridesmaids, and was only moderately impressed - sure, she played her part with gusto and a certain amount of flair, but in the end, she was still playing a caricature rather than a character. In Spy, however, she captures the essence of how it feels to be fat and middle-aged in today's society with a grace and deftness that lifted me from the depressive funk I've been in for the past couple of weeks.
McCarthy plays Susan Cooper, a talented CIA analyst who provides information to Bond-style agent Bradley Fine (Jude Law, suitably slimy). When Fine is killed in the field by the vengeful daughter of a deceased arms dealer, Cooper, who's always nursed a crush, volunteers to go into the field to track her down and prevent the portable nuke she's carrying from getting into the wrong hands. It's not a complex plot, but then, it doesn't need to be, not in such a character-driven enterprise.
Instead of unlikely twists, therefore, we're given unlikely supporting characters, a fair few of which go to appealing British comics like Peter Serafinowicz as well as singularly unappealing ones like Miranda Hart. These two both acquit themselves admirably, but the gold medal has to go to Jason Statham, of all people, playing a hypermasculine idiot (what else?) barely distinguishable from every other hypermasculine idiot he plays except for one key trait - his humiliating failure at everything he touches. Statham is preternaturally game, turning a character who could have been an irritant into somebody oddly endearing, and I found myself grinning every time his potato-shaped head popped up on screen.
The comedy itself is occasionally crude without being boringly broad. Crucially, however (at least from my personal point of view as a fat woman with delicate sensibilities), Cooper never bears the brunt. The laughs are never derived from her size. Instead, they frequently come from the attitudes of those around her, who only see their own prejudices when they remain convinced that she has, say, a cupcake addiction or a houseful of cats. It's a perfect demonstration of the type of selective invisibility women attain around a certain age and size, where people's assumptions are so entrenched that they refuse to see the person in front of them, and I found it incredibly empowering to see it addressed head-on for once.
Highly recommended.
Which, long story short, is how I found myself a new hero. I'de seen McCarthy before in Bridesmaids, and was only moderately impressed - sure, she played her part with gusto and a certain amount of flair, but in the end, she was still playing a caricature rather than a character. In Spy, however, she captures the essence of how it feels to be fat and middle-aged in today's society with a grace and deftness that lifted me from the depressive funk I've been in for the past couple of weeks.
McCarthy plays Susan Cooper, a talented CIA analyst who provides information to Bond-style agent Bradley Fine (Jude Law, suitably slimy). When Fine is killed in the field by the vengeful daughter of a deceased arms dealer, Cooper, who's always nursed a crush, volunteers to go into the field to track her down and prevent the portable nuke she's carrying from getting into the wrong hands. It's not a complex plot, but then, it doesn't need to be, not in such a character-driven enterprise.
Instead of unlikely twists, therefore, we're given unlikely supporting characters, a fair few of which go to appealing British comics like Peter Serafinowicz as well as singularly unappealing ones like Miranda Hart. These two both acquit themselves admirably, but the gold medal has to go to Jason Statham, of all people, playing a hypermasculine idiot (what else?) barely distinguishable from every other hypermasculine idiot he plays except for one key trait - his humiliating failure at everything he touches. Statham is preternaturally game, turning a character who could have been an irritant into somebody oddly endearing, and I found myself grinning every time his potato-shaped head popped up on screen.
The comedy itself is occasionally crude without being boringly broad. Crucially, however (at least from my personal point of view as a fat woman with delicate sensibilities), Cooper never bears the brunt. The laughs are never derived from her size. Instead, they frequently come from the attitudes of those around her, who only see their own prejudices when they remain convinced that she has, say, a cupcake addiction or a houseful of cats. It's a perfect demonstration of the type of selective invisibility women attain around a certain age and size, where people's assumptions are so entrenched that they refuse to see the person in front of them, and I found it incredibly empowering to see it addressed head-on for once.
Highly recommended.
Monday, September 21, 2015
St. Trinian's (2007)
Screw what the IMDB thinks, this one's a gem - I saw it on the listings page yesterday morning and it felt like a get out of jail free card. I'm not a huge fan of mainstream comedies in general (does this even count as mainstream?), but the 2007 adaptation of Ronald Searle's iconic St. Trinian's comic strip never fails to raise a grin.
The basic premise hasn't changed much since the 40's; there's a girls' school somewhere in the southern half of England where the students and staff are all cheerful delinquents, and all each new iteration has done - all it needs to do - is offer a new setup for the general mayhem.
Prior to my first viewing of the film I had my worries, of course, given that in the UK at least, Searle's cartoons seem to have originated that whole sexy schoolgirl thing with the short skirts and artfully-tied tops. I soon discovered, however, that the St. Trinian's girls are more than a match for any man who crosses their path, and that their sexuality is a relatively minor weapon in their considerable arsenal.
The main reason I enjoy this one is that it's both a heist movie and an ensemble piece, each of which individually are more or less guaranteed to put me in a good mood. Here, we have a broad cast of clearly-delineated characters coming together to cheat in a TV quiz in order to steal a famous painting, and honestly, what could be more fun than that? The cast is populated by a wide variety of British talent, with twentysomethings taking the vast majority of the student roles. There's more than enough space for those who can no longer plausibly wear gymslips, though, with top-notch talent like Celia Imrie and Lena Headey serving as the staff. Rupert Everett takes the role of headmistress Camilla Fritton, turning a character who could have been utterly cringeworthy into a rounded individual just as loyal to her students as she is to them.
You could argue that the feminism present is firmly of the Spice Girls variety, I guess, but St. Trinian's feels far more empowering to me than Spiceworld ever did. The Spice Girls were all about marketing by ingratiation, I suppose, while it's abundantly clear that the St. Trinian's mob don't care what anybody thinks. The film sparkles with mischief, cheerfully tossing in throwaway lines that will leave parents of observant kids with some very awkward questions to answer. Little girls have the right to be awkward, though, and it's a shame more films don't acknowledge this.
The basic premise hasn't changed much since the 40's; there's a girls' school somewhere in the southern half of England where the students and staff are all cheerful delinquents, and all each new iteration has done - all it needs to do - is offer a new setup for the general mayhem.
Prior to my first viewing of the film I had my worries, of course, given that in the UK at least, Searle's cartoons seem to have originated that whole sexy schoolgirl thing with the short skirts and artfully-tied tops. I soon discovered, however, that the St. Trinian's girls are more than a match for any man who crosses their path, and that their sexuality is a relatively minor weapon in their considerable arsenal.
The main reason I enjoy this one is that it's both a heist movie and an ensemble piece, each of which individually are more or less guaranteed to put me in a good mood. Here, we have a broad cast of clearly-delineated characters coming together to cheat in a TV quiz in order to steal a famous painting, and honestly, what could be more fun than that? The cast is populated by a wide variety of British talent, with twentysomethings taking the vast majority of the student roles. There's more than enough space for those who can no longer plausibly wear gymslips, though, with top-notch talent like Celia Imrie and Lena Headey serving as the staff. Rupert Everett takes the role of headmistress Camilla Fritton, turning a character who could have been utterly cringeworthy into a rounded individual just as loyal to her students as she is to them.
You could argue that the feminism present is firmly of the Spice Girls variety, I guess, but St. Trinian's feels far more empowering to me than Spiceworld ever did. The Spice Girls were all about marketing by ingratiation, I suppose, while it's abundantly clear that the St. Trinian's mob don't care what anybody thinks. The film sparkles with mischief, cheerfully tossing in throwaway lines that will leave parents of observant kids with some very awkward questions to answer. Little girls have the right to be awkward, though, and it's a shame more films don't acknowledge this.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Blades of Glory (2007)
Okay, let's be blunt: I can't focus on a damned thing today because it's only about an hour before I head out to a local chilli festival, and all I can really think about is the diabolical, delicious pain that awaits me. It'll hopefully be a lovely end to a few very hard weeks at work, and I have firm plans to burn out both my tastebuds and my bank balance.
Today I'm tingling with anticipation, but last night I was flat-out exhausted. Moviewise, therefore, I needed something easy - nothing too emotionally demanding, and, since I didn't rate my chances of remaining awake, nothing I hadn't seen several times before.
Step forward Blades of Glory, then, which has become something of a personal favourite. The concept is high enough that it can be summarised in a sentence or so: two warring figure skaters are forced to compete as a pair. It's a classic odd couple movie, with a generous helping of sports movie tropes thrown in for good measure. Oh, and it's a complete and utter delight.
It shouldn't be, not with Jon Heder and Will Ferrell in the lead roles. I don't think anybody would argue that the world of figure skating, with its sequins and fake smiles and impenetrable jargon, is ripe for lampooning, but I'd never have thought these two were the ones to do it. As detail-obsessed Jimmy MacElroy and substance abuser Chazz Michael Michaels, however, they give us a pair of protagonists so endearingly awful that it's near-impossible not to cheer them on as they go for gold.
In the opposite corner, meanwhile, where one might reasonably expect a couple of icy Russians, we have pathological attention seekers Stranz and Fairchild Van Waldenberg, played with gleeful malice by Will Arnett and Amy Poehler, at the time a married couple. They're joyfully over the top, and as hissable a pair of villains as you could find outside of a traditional pantomime.
My favourite, however, is Craig T Nelson as Coach, embodying pretty much every cliche in the book except (spoiler) for the one where the mentor figure dies at the end. He's there as our heroes soar into the record books, smiling in delight.
Just like I do, every single time I watch.
Today I'm tingling with anticipation, but last night I was flat-out exhausted. Moviewise, therefore, I needed something easy - nothing too emotionally demanding, and, since I didn't rate my chances of remaining awake, nothing I hadn't seen several times before.
Step forward Blades of Glory, then, which has become something of a personal favourite. The concept is high enough that it can be summarised in a sentence or so: two warring figure skaters are forced to compete as a pair. It's a classic odd couple movie, with a generous helping of sports movie tropes thrown in for good measure. Oh, and it's a complete and utter delight.
It shouldn't be, not with Jon Heder and Will Ferrell in the lead roles. I don't think anybody would argue that the world of figure skating, with its sequins and fake smiles and impenetrable jargon, is ripe for lampooning, but I'd never have thought these two were the ones to do it. As detail-obsessed Jimmy MacElroy and substance abuser Chazz Michael Michaels, however, they give us a pair of protagonists so endearingly awful that it's near-impossible not to cheer them on as they go for gold.
In the opposite corner, meanwhile, where one might reasonably expect a couple of icy Russians, we have pathological attention seekers Stranz and Fairchild Van Waldenberg, played with gleeful malice by Will Arnett and Amy Poehler, at the time a married couple. They're joyfully over the top, and as hissable a pair of villains as you could find outside of a traditional pantomime.
My favourite, however, is Craig T Nelson as Coach, embodying pretty much every cliche in the book except (spoiler) for the one where the mentor figure dies at the end. He's there as our heroes soar into the record books, smiling in delight.
Just like I do, every single time I watch.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Dredd (2012)
I've never been much of a fan of your friendly neighbourhood fascist supercop, to be honest. I'm not much of a fan of fascists in general - even if they're only comic book characters, they tend to inhabit the sort of dark, nasty corners of the fictional multiverse that make me feel fundamentally grubby. I might be a cynic at heart, but I'm definitely the sparkly romantic kind of cynic who's secretly just a heartbroken idealist. Or something.
In any case, there's no way that something like Dredd would ever normally make it onto my viewing list. I was putzing around reading random movie news yesterday morning, though, and somebody happened to mention that Alex Garland had written the screenplay, and while I don't always like Garland's work, I seldom (if ever) fail to admire it.
Which was how I found myself sat on the sofa, watching through my fingers as Dredd (Karl Urban) and psychic rookie Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) took on the villainous Ma-Ma (Lena Headey) in a locked-down 200 storey apartment complex. There's honestly not much more to it than that. Having read a few reviews, the general concensus seems to be that it bears heavy similarities to 2011's The Raid, which is apparently also a far better movie.
I haven't seen it so I can't really comment, but I didn't have any real problems with Dredd that couldn't be accounted for by personal taste. I'm not heavily into gore, and to be honest, while I never particularly felt we were venturing into violence porn territory, it was all just that bit too much for me to be able to enjoy. I liked the lighting choices, however, and the decision to go for a bleached-out look rather than murky darkness, and I think the set design was pretty good for a movie allegedly made on a shoestring budget. Thirlby and Headey are both very good, too, while Urban is a suitably unapologetic Dredd with a truly impressive scowl.
As usual in cases like these, I do worry that a significant number of the target audience won't get the joke - that there'll be teenage boys out there getting off on the violence rather than feeling disgusted by the ideology behind it. It has to be said that any satirical elements within Dredd are pretty heavily hidden; it's a singularly humourless affair, and while I support director Pete Travis' decision not to soften the Dredd character by letting him spout one-liners, it does make things a bit of a slog if you're not into flayings or slow-motion bullet impact shots.
A solid piece of work, but one I'd rather not revisit, on the whole.
In any case, there's no way that something like Dredd would ever normally make it onto my viewing list. I was putzing around reading random movie news yesterday morning, though, and somebody happened to mention that Alex Garland had written the screenplay, and while I don't always like Garland's work, I seldom (if ever) fail to admire it.
Which was how I found myself sat on the sofa, watching through my fingers as Dredd (Karl Urban) and psychic rookie Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) took on the villainous Ma-Ma (Lena Headey) in a locked-down 200 storey apartment complex. There's honestly not much more to it than that. Having read a few reviews, the general concensus seems to be that it bears heavy similarities to 2011's The Raid, which is apparently also a far better movie.
I haven't seen it so I can't really comment, but I didn't have any real problems with Dredd that couldn't be accounted for by personal taste. I'm not heavily into gore, and to be honest, while I never particularly felt we were venturing into violence porn territory, it was all just that bit too much for me to be able to enjoy. I liked the lighting choices, however, and the decision to go for a bleached-out look rather than murky darkness, and I think the set design was pretty good for a movie allegedly made on a shoestring budget. Thirlby and Headey are both very good, too, while Urban is a suitably unapologetic Dredd with a truly impressive scowl.
As usual in cases like these, I do worry that a significant number of the target audience won't get the joke - that there'll be teenage boys out there getting off on the violence rather than feeling disgusted by the ideology behind it. It has to be said that any satirical elements within Dredd are pretty heavily hidden; it's a singularly humourless affair, and while I support director Pete Travis' decision not to soften the Dredd character by letting him spout one-liners, it does make things a bit of a slog if you're not into flayings or slow-motion bullet impact shots.
A solid piece of work, but one I'd rather not revisit, on the whole.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015)
So, going to start today by declaring a conflict of interests vis-a-vis Avengers: Age of Ultron: I'm a film blogger, yes, but I'm also a bona fide Marvel fangirl. Not the sort of fangirl who dresses up or goes to cons, maybe, but certainly the type who spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about the characters and examining their motivations, looking for any nuances of line delivery or facial expression to support my pet theories. Like most fangirls, of course, I'm also colossally entitled, so Heaven help the Avengers movie that doesn't manage to telepathically anticipate and cater to my every whim. Given that the franchise is broadly targeted towards male adolescents in body and/or mind, it's a fairly safe bet to say that this particular film was never, ever going to make me happy.
Mr. B says I haven't quit griping about it since I first saw it in April. Personally, I think he needs to get a sense of perspective.
Seriously, though, is Age of Ultron any good?
The truth is it's not half as bad as the Inner Fangirl thinks, despite how much she might stamp her feet or whine about character motivations. We'll deal with the obvious first - it's far too long and a little too loud, and I think around 20 minutes of fight footage could be dispensed of without it being any great loss to anything other than the effects team's wages. The same could arguably be said of the majority of big-budget action movies for the past half-decade or so, but that's small consolation when you're squinting sleepily at yet another hyperkinetic battle between the CGI goodies and baddies. After a while, it all starts looking a little like a video game and becomes depressingly uninvolving, which is a major problem in a franchise that trades on wit and personality.
Then there's a couple of very specific gripes, both of which concern Joss Whedon and his attitude to female characters. A subplot involving Black Widow's history seemed to strongly imply that a woman could never be truly fulfilled without children but would never excel in her field with them - this was something that really bothered me on my first viewing, but didn't seem quite so pronounced in my living room last night. More disturbing, however, is Wanda Maximoff, aka Scarlet Witch. Unfortunately, Whedon has a long history of writing superpowered females who look like beautiful girls in their late teens but who have been so badly damaged they behave like disturbed six-year-olds. It was creepy with Fred from Angel; arguably more so with River Tam from Firefly and then in Dollhouse he used it as the basis for an entire series. Here, with a broader audience to appeal to, we're given a Wanda who is at least capable of coherent speech, but she still has the same startled-deer eyes and the same tendency to hide behind the trousers of the nearest convenient male attachment figure. One word: ick.
None of which is to say there isn't a lot to like, however. Well, okay, there isn't that much to like, but there isn't that much to dislike either. There are, however, a few definite high spots, one of which is watching Chris Hemsworth blossom as Thor. I've got to admit, I'd more or less given up on him being anything other than embarrassingly stilted in the role. All of a sudden, though, he seems to have found his comedic timing (and make no mistake, Thor is a comedy character), exuding a genuinely appealing combination of charm and modesty that results in some serious scene-stealing. This is the Thor I'd been waiting for, and frankly, it's about bloody time.
Hanging over everything, however, is the nagging sense that what we're watching is less a fully-formed film in its own right and more a shifting of the game pieces to pave the way for later movies as outlined in Marvel's ten year plan. If you're aware of upcoming titles this becomes hard to ignore, as you watch lines being drawn and concepts being introduced. I'm torn on this; at times it feels exhilarating to be participating in such a huge cultural experience, but at times it feels as though the studio are less interested in creating decent, watchable movies than they are in milking the punters for as long a time as possible. I find myself wondering when we'll reach Peak Marvel, and I can't help thinking it won't be more than a couple of years until audiences have had enough and comic book movies are back to being a joke again.
Mr. B says I haven't quit griping about it since I first saw it in April. Personally, I think he needs to get a sense of perspective.
Seriously, though, is Age of Ultron any good?
The truth is it's not half as bad as the Inner Fangirl thinks, despite how much she might stamp her feet or whine about character motivations. We'll deal with the obvious first - it's far too long and a little too loud, and I think around 20 minutes of fight footage could be dispensed of without it being any great loss to anything other than the effects team's wages. The same could arguably be said of the majority of big-budget action movies for the past half-decade or so, but that's small consolation when you're squinting sleepily at yet another hyperkinetic battle between the CGI goodies and baddies. After a while, it all starts looking a little like a video game and becomes depressingly uninvolving, which is a major problem in a franchise that trades on wit and personality.
Then there's a couple of very specific gripes, both of which concern Joss Whedon and his attitude to female characters. A subplot involving Black Widow's history seemed to strongly imply that a woman could never be truly fulfilled without children but would never excel in her field with them - this was something that really bothered me on my first viewing, but didn't seem quite so pronounced in my living room last night. More disturbing, however, is Wanda Maximoff, aka Scarlet Witch. Unfortunately, Whedon has a long history of writing superpowered females who look like beautiful girls in their late teens but who have been so badly damaged they behave like disturbed six-year-olds. It was creepy with Fred from Angel; arguably more so with River Tam from Firefly and then in Dollhouse he used it as the basis for an entire series. Here, with a broader audience to appeal to, we're given a Wanda who is at least capable of coherent speech, but she still has the same startled-deer eyes and the same tendency to hide behind the trousers of the nearest convenient male attachment figure. One word: ick.
None of which is to say there isn't a lot to like, however. Well, okay, there isn't that much to like, but there isn't that much to dislike either. There are, however, a few definite high spots, one of which is watching Chris Hemsworth blossom as Thor. I've got to admit, I'd more or less given up on him being anything other than embarrassingly stilted in the role. All of a sudden, though, he seems to have found his comedic timing (and make no mistake, Thor is a comedy character), exuding a genuinely appealing combination of charm and modesty that results in some serious scene-stealing. This is the Thor I'd been waiting for, and frankly, it's about bloody time.
Hanging over everything, however, is the nagging sense that what we're watching is less a fully-formed film in its own right and more a shifting of the game pieces to pave the way for later movies as outlined in Marvel's ten year plan. If you're aware of upcoming titles this becomes hard to ignore, as you watch lines being drawn and concepts being introduced. I'm torn on this; at times it feels exhilarating to be participating in such a huge cultural experience, but at times it feels as though the studio are less interested in creating decent, watchable movies than they are in milking the punters for as long a time as possible. I find myself wondering when we'll reach Peak Marvel, and I can't help thinking it won't be more than a couple of years until audiences have had enough and comic book movies are back to being a joke again.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Looney Tunes: Back in Action (2003)
"Did you know that's Roger Corman playing the film director?" asked Mr. B, as we sat watching Looney Tunes: Back in Action, and that was how my world fell apart just a tiny bit. Don't get me wrong, I did know at one point that Joe Dante was behind this pile of unmitigated crap, but some small, helpful part of me had managed to repress the fact for years. I like Dante - like him a lot, in fact - for the joy he takes in anarchy; his nastiness scares me a little, but in the most delicious way. He's a Roger Corman alumnus, so Corman's presence in the film was all the reminder I needed to bring me down to earth with a bump. To make it absolutely clear: while I'm frequently guilty of describing films as headache-inducing, in almost a year of blogging, this is the first to make me physically reach for the packet of painkillers, an overlong, overloud mess that makes a mockery of the wit and grace of its source material.
I'm prepared to concede that on paper, Dante would be a fantastic candidate to bring the old Looney Tunes cartoons to life. He's used to mixing live action with animation, after all, in the likes of Gremlins and Small Soldiers, and he's always been good at nastiness without actual cruelty - his protagonists are generally pretty sympathetic, and he treats them accordingly. To be honest, he'd be exactly the sort of person I'd have thought of myself for a project like this.
So, what went wrong? Unfortunately, it's more a question of what didn't. We'll start with the plot, which is overly complex and muddled. Its sole purpose seems to be to provide a framework for the gags - no bad thing, particularly given the source - but with this being the case, there's no good reason to introduce such a confusing number of narrative elements. Then we have the performances, which range from the adequate (Timothy Dalton, Jenna Elfman) to the bad (Brendan Fraser) to the wince-inducingly awful - Steve Martin, I'm looking at you here.
The script, meanwhile, relies too heavily on dismemberment jokes, whilst blending casual sexism with a worrying dedication to the dark art of product placement. There's a whole bunch of digs at political correctness, too, which is really rather sad. True, the original cartoon shorts existed in another, darker time, but their joyous lunacy was never reliant on awkward sexual or racial stereotyping - it simply occurred alongside them because of the different social climate.
In the interests of full disclosure, I'll admit there were a couple of high spots, because Joan Cusack is always a high spot no matter what sort of a trainwreck she signs up for. There's one single, inspired segment, too, that takes place at the Louvre, with our animated heroes jumping from painting to painting and taking on the trademark traits of the styles involved. This particular sequence offers a single glimpse at what the movie could have been - a springboard to introduce these beloved characters to a whole new audience. Instead, however, it serves as a reminder that nothing is ever truly timeless.
I'm prepared to concede that on paper, Dante would be a fantastic candidate to bring the old Looney Tunes cartoons to life. He's used to mixing live action with animation, after all, in the likes of Gremlins and Small Soldiers, and he's always been good at nastiness without actual cruelty - his protagonists are generally pretty sympathetic, and he treats them accordingly. To be honest, he'd be exactly the sort of person I'd have thought of myself for a project like this.
So, what went wrong? Unfortunately, it's more a question of what didn't. We'll start with the plot, which is overly complex and muddled. Its sole purpose seems to be to provide a framework for the gags - no bad thing, particularly given the source - but with this being the case, there's no good reason to introduce such a confusing number of narrative elements. Then we have the performances, which range from the adequate (Timothy Dalton, Jenna Elfman) to the bad (Brendan Fraser) to the wince-inducingly awful - Steve Martin, I'm looking at you here.
The script, meanwhile, relies too heavily on dismemberment jokes, whilst blending casual sexism with a worrying dedication to the dark art of product placement. There's a whole bunch of digs at political correctness, too, which is really rather sad. True, the original cartoon shorts existed in another, darker time, but their joyous lunacy was never reliant on awkward sexual or racial stereotyping - it simply occurred alongside them because of the different social climate.
In the interests of full disclosure, I'll admit there were a couple of high spots, because Joan Cusack is always a high spot no matter what sort of a trainwreck she signs up for. There's one single, inspired segment, too, that takes place at the Louvre, with our animated heroes jumping from painting to painting and taking on the trademark traits of the styles involved. This particular sequence offers a single glimpse at what the movie could have been - a springboard to introduce these beloved characters to a whole new audience. Instead, however, it serves as a reminder that nothing is ever truly timeless.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Rollercoaster (1977)
I selected Rollercoaster as my Friday movie this week for a profound and important reason: I really, really wanted to watch footage of 1970s rollercoasters. As personal urges go, this wasn't a particularly unusual one for me, but then the other night I suddenly remembered somebody had done a movie about them and wow, wouldn't it be cool if I watched it and wrote about it? Besides, I still haven't quite regained my appetite for fantasy yet, and a seventies thriller seemed like a really nice way to unwind after one of the most thankless working weeks I've had in a while.
From what I've read, this one was originally marketed to cash in on the disaster movie fad of the time. It's not one, though; instead, it's more of a cat and mouse affair, with George Segal's ride inspector Harry Calder attempting to retain his professional integrity by thwarting Timothy Bottoms' nameless but youthful bomber. It marks the first screen appearance by Steve Guttenberg, and the second by Helen Hunt, and features a starring performance by the Great American Revolution, the world's first ever looping rollercoaster (but only by eight days).
There wasn't really any way I was ever not going to enjoy this particular movie - I love rollercoasters, I love watching rollercoasters, and a couple of minutes of coaster footage in a film will always guarantee it a place in my heart. Rollercoaster features considerably more than a couple of minutes, and the sunny locations and cheerful 70s fashions felt like a real tonic. What I hadn't realised before watching is that it also features a performance by Sparks, one of my favourite bands. In other words, the fact that I had a good time was very much a given. That said, if you look past the ludicrous premise of a mad blackmailer trying to bomb his way through America's theme parks, there's honestly not a lot here to fault. Granted, our anonymous villain is bland and unreadable, but in a lot of ways this only serves to increase the sense of mystery and cement our outrage at his acts.
The soundtrack leans towards the minimal, relying on a couple of distinctive, elegant violin hooks to remind us of who and what we're watching whilst making good use of the ambient sounds and music within the theme parks that form the greater part of its setting. Segal is good, too, as Calder, gently recalling Columbo in all his persistence and exasperation. It's a handsome, workmanlike piece of cinema in the way that many films of the period seem to have been, with measured pacing and a quiet sense of dignity that you hardly ever see any more.
Definitely going to start researching the films of this era to see what other little gems I can find.
From what I've read, this one was originally marketed to cash in on the disaster movie fad of the time. It's not one, though; instead, it's more of a cat and mouse affair, with George Segal's ride inspector Harry Calder attempting to retain his professional integrity by thwarting Timothy Bottoms' nameless but youthful bomber. It marks the first screen appearance by Steve Guttenberg, and the second by Helen Hunt, and features a starring performance by the Great American Revolution, the world's first ever looping rollercoaster (but only by eight days).
There wasn't really any way I was ever not going to enjoy this particular movie - I love rollercoasters, I love watching rollercoasters, and a couple of minutes of coaster footage in a film will always guarantee it a place in my heart. Rollercoaster features considerably more than a couple of minutes, and the sunny locations and cheerful 70s fashions felt like a real tonic. What I hadn't realised before watching is that it also features a performance by Sparks, one of my favourite bands. In other words, the fact that I had a good time was very much a given. That said, if you look past the ludicrous premise of a mad blackmailer trying to bomb his way through America's theme parks, there's honestly not a lot here to fault. Granted, our anonymous villain is bland and unreadable, but in a lot of ways this only serves to increase the sense of mystery and cement our outrage at his acts.
The soundtrack leans towards the minimal, relying on a couple of distinctive, elegant violin hooks to remind us of who and what we're watching whilst making good use of the ambient sounds and music within the theme parks that form the greater part of its setting. Segal is good, too, as Calder, gently recalling Columbo in all his persistence and exasperation. It's a handsome, workmanlike piece of cinema in the way that many films of the period seem to have been, with measured pacing and a quiet sense of dignity that you hardly ever see any more.
Definitely going to start researching the films of this era to see what other little gems I can find.
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