Quick, concise, sometimes entertaining critiques for the short-attention-span mind.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
The story, more or less, of how J.M. Barrie was inspired to create "Peter Pan," starring Johnny Depp, Kate Winslett and Julie Christie (the years have been kind to her, but still, them's a lot of years). Barrie was a struggling playwright who befriended the widow Sylvia Davies and her four boys in a Platonic-but-still scandalous manner (he was married), but the relationship bore fruit of another kind — the classic play.
This is the most gentle of melodramas (if it can be called that); despite the many conflicts created by Barrie's unusual relationship, the only shouting comes from the children. Barrie's imagination is integrated nicely into scenes, and Depp is naturalistic and affectation-free, which is almost a pity, since his affectations are usually pretty entertaining. And while I respect the restraint employed, I could have used a bit more edge — everyone's so terribly British, except for Barrie, who was a Scot, and he's pretty British, too.
Because of the subject matter and noble tone, this has "Oscar Nominee!" oozing from its pores.
Saturday, December 11, 2004
The Ocean's Eleven follow-on, with Catherine Zeta-Jones rounding out the dozen. Casino magnate Andy Garcia has found George Clooney, Brad Pitt and the rest of the boys, and wants his money back—with interest. OK, the States are still too hot, lets try Europe.
Where Eleven had a casual tautness, Twelve is looser and self-referencing. While Eleven was about competence, Twelve is about fallibility. Where Eleven was—OK, enough of that. Give credit to writer George Nolfi and director Steven Soderbergh for taking some different paths here, although one of them feels like a farcical detour (you'll know what I mean when you see it). Also, there's too much hidden from the viewer and the lesser characters get fairly short thrift (Bernie Mac's car-buying scene in Eleven is a classic). It even stood up to a second viewing (the first was marred by a poorly focused image), with a very pleased audience. Great score—I'm off to get the CD.
Comfortable, old-sneaker movie-going.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
National Treasure (IMDB) (Netflix)
A nephew pick, and a secular rip-off of the Da Vinci Code (am I telegraphing my judgment here?) Nicholas Cage is the youngest in a line of eccentric believers in a Free Masons + American Revolution = Buried Treasure story. To find it, he needs a trusty sidekick, a newfound nemesis (the only partially phonetic Sean Bean) and the best-looking archivist (Diane Kruger, straight from her Helen of Troy role) since they began wearing skirts.
Using the "one for show, one for dough" approach used by actors suffering both pretensions and a serious mortgage (and perfected by Michael Caine), Cage is clearly going for the money on this one. It's so formulaic that you can almost see the template on the screen ("initial sequence where the hero is humiliated — check ... girl initially hates him — check ... sympathetic detective—check" and grinds through the plot points with verveless precision. The nephew liked it, though so there’s a market for this movie—boys 10-13.
If you've heard of this movie, you know that actor Christian Bale lost sixty-three pounds for his role, and it's not like he had many of them to spare. He is beyond gaunt, completely unable to sleep, and yes, it's getting to him. As life becomes all-the-more bewildering, he finds partial solace in two women, a waitress with a heart of gold (Aitana Sanchez-Gijon) a similarly equipped hooker (Jennifer Jason Leigh, for at least the third time in her career). Even without the private detective, this could not be noir-er.
One thing about losing sixty-three pounds, the skeleton does all the acting for you. But Bale's specialty is the intense character study (American Psycho), which will serve him well as he becomes the next Batman, so it's a double treat. Yet the pacing calls for dragline buckets of patience as Bale tries to make sense of what's happening to him and why. Some similarities to Memento, but with less inventiveness and verve. Go for the performance, not the story.