MovieBabe Blog

Under discussion:

Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos  (2006)

By Tricia Olszewski 

If you spray paint it, they will come. Or at least that was the thinking of Warner Communications chair Steve Ross and his minions as they tried to get the United States on the soccer bandwagon in the ’70s. The critical moment came in 1975, when their New York Cosmos were trying to woo Pelé to the team’s home base: derelict, glass-strewn Downing Stadium. A helicopter ride and a few cans of green paint on the field later, the retired Brazilian superstar tripled attendances and, apparently, an entire city was theirs.

Paul Crowder and John Dower’s Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos offers a mostly glorious account of the team’s rise and fall. The narrative is exhilarating. The portrait of the unstoppably successful Ross—he also saw the multimillion-dollar potential in a company called Atari—is inspirational. But the doc is most interesting for its discrepancies. On the innocuous side, a montage of commentators and newspaper headlines give wildly differing reports on Pelé’s agreed-upon salary. More important, how certain situations played out become straight-up he said/he said battles between interview subjects—especially when the situations involved Giorgio Chinaglia, the detestable Italian hotshot who joined the Cosmos in 1976 and bought them in 1984. Even while stating quite clearly that he couldn’t care less about what people think of him, he disputes one assertion after another of his fellow talking heads, who include sportswriters, business partners, and other former players. (One anecdote Chinaglia doesn’t challenge is that he once demanded that Pelé bring him his hotel-room TV when his own didn’t work.)

With a string of otherwise endearing personalities and a compelling narrative, Once in a Lifetime is marred only by the filmmakers’ excessive desire to remind us that this was the freewheelin’ ’70s. There’s some funky music (fine), plenty of vintage stills (OK), and lots and lots of furious zooms, lightning pans, and ever-quickening halved and quartered screens (nauseating). The overstylization is a minor distraction, though. The film, which encompasses Studio 54, Son of Sam, and the blackout of ’77, entertains until the very end, intercutting the credits with a string of Cosmos-involved interviewees stamped with their current occupations. The guy who rode over Randall’s Island in a helicopter and left the Cosmos after playing three seasons and earning several million dollars? A note, accompanied by a ka-ching!, informs us that Pelé refused to participate.

Under discussion:

Superman Returns  (2006)

Click  (2006)

By Tricia Olszewski 

Development hell is a place that even Superman can’t get out of. Or so it seemed when it came to Superman Returns, Warner Bros.’ apparently damned attempt to resurrect the Man of Steel, last seen in 1987’s Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. Tim Burton, Nicolas Cage, Kevin Smith, Brett Ratner, Ashton Kutcher, Josh Hartnett, McG—at one time or another over the past 13 years, each of these names were attached to the project. So was a hero who didn’t wear the iconic duds, didn’t fly, and had some significant dealings with a giant robotic spider.

By 2004, the flux was over, with X-Men vet Bryan Singer firmly in charge. His pitch had all the right moves: He wanted to keep the outfit. He wanted to keep the flying. He even wanted to keep John Williams’ score. He wanted to ditch the spider, of course. But most wisely, he wanted to take a let’s-forget-III-and-IV approach and continue the story from the franchise’s only respectable sequel, Richard Lester’s 1981 Superman II. Of course, that didn’t stop the fanboys from going into a frenzy. After all, the guy Singer announced as his lead was known mainly for having won a Hollywood Halloween contest. And the director had been saying things about how he identifies with Superman because he was adopted, too.

The result is far from the disaster message-boarders feared. Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, Singer’s ace writers from X2, turn the plot on the sudden disappearance of Superman/Clark Kent (Brandon Routh). For five years, the Daily Planet has been without its pantywaist reporter, Lois Lane (Kate Bosworth) has been heartbroken/pissed over her crush who didn’t say goodbye, and the disaster-prone people of Metropolis have soldiered on without their savior. When the hero just as unexpectedly shows up again, he discovers a changed world: Sure, he still has released convict Lex Luther (Kevin Spacey, colder than Gene Hackman) to contend with, but Lois has both a fiancé, Richard (nonpresence James Marsden, once in contention for the tights), and a young asthmatic son, Jason (Tristan Lake Leabu, funny and not movie-cute). She also has a Pulitzer, for a piece entitled “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman.”

Superman Returns runs a potentially patience-testing 154 minutes, and it’s not without flaws. Routh and Bosworth’s eye colors are distractingly—and unforgivingly—inconsistent, for instance. And Frank Langella’s Perry White is quite possibly the blandest, most even-keeled editor-in-chief in film or reality. Most egregious, though, is the casting of Bosworth as Lois, who is supposed to be brash. And a bit pushy. And, well, a woman. With her angelic, wide-eyed face, the 23-year-old Bosworth comes across like a prom queen with a fake ID—which would mean that back when Lois and Superman fell in love, this now-award-winning wife and mother of one wasn’t already an intrepid, world-wise reporter but a phenom piece of jailbait. Her Lois is too damn nice, though she does make a cut-to-the-chase phone call while investigating a blackout—hanging up without even saying goodbye!—and not nearly as feisty as she should be, despite that escape attempt via surreptitious fax. For purists, it’s probably best to forget comparing her to Lanes gone by and accept the character as some soft-edged beaut whom S-man happens to be really into—and to enjoy her early demonstration of how serious an unbuckled seat belt can be when a plane loses control.

When Superman Returns is good, however, it’s very, very good. Singer builds anticipation—as if any more were needed—by training on the backs of heads and legs before revealing characters’ faces. His superhero can still fly faster than a speeding bullet, but in scenes that are nearly Spielberg-poetic, he glides and floats as well, ascending into the sky and occasionally just hanging out, gazing at his imperfect adopted planet as his cape flutters behind him. Routh is like Reeves reborn, not only resembling him physically but also re-creating the do-gooder grins and starched PSAs that come at the end of averted disasters. Even better is the actor’s goofy Clark Kent, whom Singer depicts at moments of peak social awkwardness—say, turning around to listen to breaking news still hunched over his lunch, with noodles hanging out of his mouth. The alter ego’s gigantic glasses are gone, but his more fashionable ones still serve as magical disguise. And contrary to rumor, guys and gals, Clark isn’t closeted, though Planet staffers do have their suspicions about another co-worker.

The script shines: romantic, funny, and occasionally aching, with a great twist near the end. Besides those eyes, the filmmakers’ attention to detail, too, is impressive. You’ll notice, for example, the hippie bike messenger, who offers realistic counterpoint to most superhero flicks’ generic big-city crowds. Even the toys include nice touches, such as the “Just Married” tag on the back of a tiny car crushed in Luther’s model of the havoc he intends to wreak.

OK, you’ve waited for it: the effects. The opening catastrophe, the near crash of a 777 carrying a space shuttle, is rife with fireballs and palpable inside-the-plane fear; after holding your breath, you’re rewarded with a nearly silent moment of passenger weightlessness and a unique landing that’s capped with a silly tension-cutting laugh. Singer also shows off his destructive range with earthquakes, a claustrophobic touch of Poseidon, and a spectacular Metropolis ball-dropping that’s a nightmare version of New Year’s Eve. Between the chaos, cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel, also from X2, drapes Lois and Superman’s world in a beautiful, gossamer gold.

That last bit of cinematic craft might not be what catches the attention of fans who were worried about how their beloved character might be brutalized, but they’d do well to notice it: It means reverence, and it’s admirably paid.

The word “hell” has also long been associated with watching a movie starring Adam Sandler. OK, not every movie starring Adam Sandler, but the Little Nickys have a way of making you forget all about the Punch-Drunk Loves. With Click, it seems as if we’ll be getting more of the same: weak premise, weaker writing, and Sandler’s sophomoric jackassery.

Thing is, sometimes a little sophomoric jackassery works. That’s not to say Click is a good movie. But parts of it are unexpectedly entertaining and, if you’re a perennial It’s a Wonderful Life weeper and prepared to forgive some heavy-handedness, even touching. The setup is typical Hollywood: Michael (Sandler) is a successful architect working overtime to make partner. Of course, that means he’s neglecting his fabulous personal life, which includes Donna (Kate Beckinsale), his gorgeous wife, and Samantha and Ben (Tatum McCann and Joseph Castanon), his adorable little kids. One night, tired of having trouble simply trying to turn on the TV, fer cryin’ out loud, Michael inexplicably drives past a Best Buy to shop for a universal remote at Bed Bath & Beyond.

Aha, that’s why scripters Steve Koren and Mark O’Keefe bend the rules of consumer logic: Michael finds the store’s Beyond section, a storage room/lab at the end of a long hallway, itself hidden behind a decidedly un-chain-store-looking door. Mad scientist Morty (Christopher Walken) appears to offer Michael what he’s looking for, but with the twist it’s not a universal remote—it’s a remote to control the universe! So now Michael can mute his dog, fast-forward through fights with Donna and dinners with his parents (Henry Winkler and Julie Kavner), revisit his childhood, and pause infuriating moments so he can, oh, slap the shit out of his smug boss (David Hasselhoff). It’s all dandy until, TiVo-like, the remote builds up a memory and begins to FF automatically through events it thinks Michael will want to skip. Koren and O’Keefe, who last worked together on the Jim Carrey vehicle Bruce Almighty, seem to have something of a line in mixing low comedy and highfalutin cosmology.

Like several Sandler characters of the recent past, Michael isn’t manic or obnoxious but a believable workaholic who’s so focused on career goals that he puts off his family just this once, just this once again, and he swears this time will be the last. Yeah, the comedy tends toward running gags about a dog humping a stuffed duck and Michael taunting the obnoxious kid next door. (“My father’s stereo is a Bose!” “Your father’s stereo blows? That’s too bad!”) But the film takes a tight swerve toward drama as the characters age (ignore the hideously orange mask Winkler appears to be wearing in a young-dad flashback) and tragedies unfold and lessons are learned.

Under discussion:

Autumn  (2004)

Stolen  (2005)

By Tricia Olszewski 

Rob a bank and you’re scum. Rob a museum and you’re scum with a dash of sophistication and an incredible amount of cunning. Yes, Rebecca Dreyfus’ Stolen joins The Thomas Crown Affairs, Entrapment, and even Oceans 12 on the long list of flicks that portray stealing works of art as an especially glamorous and elevated form of crime. Her freshman documentary explores the mystery of the 1990 robbery of Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The band of thieves who overtook the guards and made off with 13 masterworks on a mid-March morning have yet to be found. And the whereabouts of each painting, collectively believed to be worth hundreds of millions of dollars, is still unknown.

Gardner, a grande dame who loved all things Italian, established her museum in 1903 and designed it to evoke a Venetian palazzo. She meticulously laid out her collection and dictated that nothing about the museum should ever be changed—a result, some speculate in the film, of the death of Gardner’s 2-year-old son and her subsequent desire never to lose something she loved again. Dreyfus weaves a minibiography of Gardner throughout Stolen, focusing on her passionate disposition, magnetic personality, and allegedly impressive figure.

Dreyfus no doubt included this character study to help round out the 85-minute movie, but it’s also an effective way to make this particular heist seem personal. Who, for example, could remain unmoved watching Frank DiMaria, a Gardner gallery attendant, tell Dreyfus of when he first saw John Singer Sargent’s portrait of the founder at age 13—and then reveal that she telepathically told him, “You’re mine, and you’ll know me all your life”? OK, the guy’s a little wild-eyed, and he goes so far as to say Gardner “adopted” him, but it’s still touching.

Stolen also includes commentary from a variety of experts, including Tom Mashberg, a Boston Herald reporter who spent a year trying to chase down one of the Gardner’s missing Rembrandts, and Tracy Chevalier, a Vermeer enthusiast who wrote the novel Girl With a Pearl Earring. (The most valuable painting snatched was Vermeer’s The Concert, which gets significant explication here.) But it’s 75-year-old art detective Harold Smith who provides the documentary’s real narrative momentum as Dreyfus tails him dissecting the case that became his obsession. A genial, quick-witted man who’s rarely dressed in anything but a suit and bowler hat, Smith livens up a story that could have easily become torpid and pedantic.

The director allows a little of Smith’s personal life into the film, which was unavoidable: The gumshoe wears an eye patch, a prosthetic nose, and bandages that seem to be the only things holding together the patchy flesh of his face. Cancer is the cause; remarkably, Smith has battled the illness for decades, in the process undergoing an experimental dry-skin treatment as a young Marine.

Granted, this has nothing to do with the crime. But watching the disease-riddled, restlessly curious man in action is fascinating. When he’s talking with Stolen’s several notorious art thieves—one of whom, William Youngworth, is particularly brash in his declaration that, if the government guaranteed amnesty, it’d get the paintings within 30 minutes—his desire for knowledge and drive to solve puzzles beam as brightly as the sun. The film’s only distraction from the consistently compelling investigation is Dreyfus and Albert Maysles’ often annoying camerawork: Faces are zoomed in on so tightly that it can be Ed Wood–esque, and once in a while interviewees suddenly start bobbling. But the unnecessary stylization never approaches the level of that in Jessica Yu’s In the Realms of the Unreal, which animated Henry Darger’s already movement-filled illustrations.

Granted, the film can occasionally seem parodically snooty, especially when Blythe Danner delivers her arch readings of Gardner’s letters to her art procurer, Bernard Berenson (voiced by the excellently cast Campbell Scott). And eyes may roll when one interview subject pronounces the theft “unconscionable”—this is, after all, a world filled with rape, murder, and war—and another melodramatically claims that the museum is “now touched with evil.” (A more objective assessment comes from Mashberg, who simply says the heist was “rude.”) But between the parade of did-they-or-didn’t-they crooks and the wild directions the investigation takes—Smith finds fingers pointing to the IRA, Sen. Edward Kennedy, and the Catholic Church, among others—Stolen is about as philistine-pleasing as an art doc can be. CSI: Fine Art? Not quite. But it’s glamorously close.

Writer-director Ra’up McGee’s debut feature, Autumn, is also a crime story—supposedly. A repeated flashback shows a red leaf falling in slow motion as a blank-faced kid beats a drum. A bad guy rummaging through a trash bin somberly tells a startled street urchin, “Every day I wake up frightened. Like you.” The characters most often communicate not by dialogue but by gazing into each other’s eyes. In other words, this is a mystery trapped in an et cetera.

It’s a puzzle to be solved, certainly, but McGee provides few useful pieces. The flashback, which takes place in a forest, at least reveals that Jean-Pierre (Laurent Lucas); his girlfriend, Michelle (Irène Jacob); and his best friend, Andre (Benjamin Rolland), have known one another since they were kids. Beyond that, how most events and characters connect to each other is anybody’s guess.

Michelle delivers parts of explosives for Hugo (Jean-Claude Dreyfus), a slobbery dude who attacks her while giving her an English lesson. Jean-Pierre is apparently familiar with him, because he knows exactly where to go for retaliation after seeing Michelle’s black eye. Noël (Michel Aumont), a crime boss, hangs with the young and perpetually unsmiling Veronique (Dinara Droukarova), who is likely an assassin, though it’s hard to tell because she repeatedly backs out on killing anybody. There are also a couple of kids who rough up someone or other when necessary. Andre borrows money from everybody, which seems to be the impetus for a lot of violence.

There’s also a mysteriously important Pulp Fiction–esque briefcase involved; naturally, its contents and location are unknown to those who want it most. Noël seems to be the owner, but maybe not. Either way, a few case-seeking characters eventually turn from being merely criminally inclined to executing double- and triple-crosses, at which point the audience will probably be just about ready for a good old-fashioned art heist.

The actors are suitably intense, especially Lucas and Jacob, whose comely couple spend a lot of time in the bathtub together. And though Hugo and Noël are one-dimensional, Dreyfus and Aumont inarguably elicit, respectively, disgust and the fear of God. But the spare film’s images are more evocative than either its characterizations or its narrative. A warehouse that Michelle and Jean-Pierre find themselves in is stark contrast to her warm, light-filled apartment. And where better to have a showdown than in a dark Métro station? The problem with McGee’s twin homage to Bresson and Tarantino is that its characters look great on a deserted beach but tend to use guns only to smack or oh-so-briefly intimidate people, not to shoot them. Even the pacifists in the audience might grow impatient.