MovieBabe Blog

 

By Tricia Olszewski 

 

The mop top is gone, the torso is muscular, and the attitude is pissy. In Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, the fifth cinematic installment in the gargantuan Harry Potter franchise, the Boy Who Lived is now more like the Boy Who Didn’t Ask to Be Born, and You’re Not My Real Dad, So Shut Up and Leave Me Alone! When we last saw Harry, he was finishing another year at Hogwarts, mourning the accidental death of a fellow student he was competing against in the grueling Triwizard Tournament, and freaking out over his unexpected battle with Voldemort, the all-powerful dark lord who murdered his parents but failed to take out the infant Harry. Voldemort has been in hiding since the beginning of the series, making his sudden appearance a very big deal.

Not many of these nor other particulars are recapped in Order of the Phoenix, so newcomers should be ready to enter the bewitched world so meticulously (and successfully) crafted by J.K. Rowling without their hands held. The story opens before the start of the new school year. Harry (Daniel Radcliffe) is miserable living with his obnoxious Muggle guardians, the Dursleys (Richard Griffiths and Fiona Shaw), and he’s forever fighting with their lunkheaded son, Dudley (Harry Melling). Worse, Harry’s hardly heard from his best friends, Ron and Hermione (Rupert Grint and Emma Watson). It’s not merely a lack of pen pals that bothers Harry—he’s waiting to hear news about Voldemort, specifically whether he’s turned up again and what Hogwarts, particularly headmaster Dumbledore (Michael Gambon), is going to do about it.

The 138-minute Order of the Phoenix, written and directed by Potter neophytes Michael Goldenberg and David Yates, respectively, has been culled from Rowling’s nearly 900-page book. Yet the movie is not about a whole lot in and of itself; it feels more like the mere chapter in an epic series that it is. Harry is 15 now, and in addition to worrying about Voldemort—whose presence Harry feels in his dreams—he’s got a pile of typical teenage concerns as well. He’s nearly expelled for performing underage magic, he’s dealing with his first crush, and he can’t stand the fact that Dumbledore is trying to protect him by withholding information about Voldemort while everyone else knows what’s going on. But no one really believes that the evil wizard is back, so Harry, once revered, has also become the laughingstock of the school. He’s soon questioning his own motivations: “I just feel so angry all the time,” he says.

Behind much of this is the slow takeover of Hogwarts by the frilly yet stern Dolores Umbridge (Imelda Staunton, always grinning and puffed with self-satisfaction). An employee of the Ministry of Magic—essentially the wizarding government—Umbridge begins teaching at the school, implementing a “Ministry-approved” curriculum and devising fresh, Patriot Act–like policies faster than the students can figure out ways around the old ones. Her rules result in Harry teaching a defense class in secret to aid the kids who are now getting only theoretical lessons in the classroom.

The scenes of the students mastering new skills turn out to be the lightest and most enjoyable of this otherwise seriously minded sequel. Though Order of the Phoenix is continually absorbing and often exciting, much of the tiny magicians’ charm that dominated the start of the series has given way to workaday storytelling. (At least that’s true of the film. Rowling did stuff the book with her usual quaint, otherworldly details such as prickly house-elves or paintings whose subjects move and complain.) The new tone suits Radcliffe best, though: Now 18, he does troubled just fine, as he showed in his recent star turn in the London production of Equus. Ask him to act cheery or relieved, though, and you get the stiff expressions of an actor who might not have made it out of obscurity if it weren’t for his resemblance to a popular literary character.

The finer dramatic talents of Radcliffe and his co-stars, however, is nearly a nonissue—one of the joys of the Potter series is watching how they’ve grown since the first film in 2001, pretty much matching the development Rowling imagined for them. While each of them is capable, the star power comes from glimpses of the movies’ ace supporting actors such as Gambon, Maggie Smith, Alan Rickman, Gary Oldman, and now Staunton. All of them make their short screen times memorable, upholding the reputation that even though the Harry Potter stories are about kids, they aren’t exclusively for kids.

 

 

The title character of Joshua could school the Hogwarts students in a bit of evil Muggle magic. The debut feature of documentarian George Ratliff doesn’t exactly employ the supernatural in its story about a Manhattan boy who’s murderously jealous of his infant sister. After all, any 9-year-old can get his hands on some poison. But being able to psychologically torture your elders, say, or plant Crayola scribblings that any therapist right out of graduate school would recognize as the work of the abused? Now that’s a gift.

The trouble is that in this case, these bwah-ha-ha moves persistently feel like they were carefully spawned from a scripter’s imagination rather than a child’s cunning. Co-written by Ratliff and freshman screenwriter David Gilbert, Joshua is the latest twist on the increasingly tired spooky-precocious-kid thriller subgenre. This bad seed, played by Jacob Kogan, is a meticulously groomed private-school student and piano prodigy. He doesn’t care much for soccer or baseball, which gives him the sense that his racquetball-playing father, Brad (Sam Rockwell), might not be so crazy about him. Joshua relishes the attention he gets from his musically inclined uncle (Dallas Roberts), but it’s not enough to quell his insecurities. And when his mother, Abby (Vera Farmiga), brings home baby Lily, the family’s fawning stresses him out so much that one day he vomits. “Do you ever feel weird about me, your weird son?” Joshua asks his dad later. “You know, you don’t have to love me.”

Don’t worry, Josh—everyone will stop loving you soon enough. The filmmakers make this kid someone you eventually want to strangle. It’s partly Kogan’s irritating stare, which projects blankness just as often as menace. But mostly it’s the character’s, well, weirdness. Joshua doesn’t talk much, but when he does it’s random, wannabe-spooky statements such as “Are we safe, Mommy?” and “Someone died in this apartment.” He’s so stiff and unchildlike that any affection he does show his parents—and especially his little sister—comes off as patronizing. Instead of feeling frightened of Joshua, you’ll probably figure that a good slap could put an end to all the unfortunate things that start happening.

Yet until its absurd end, the film itself is fairly enjoyable. It’s just as much about postpartum depression as it is sibling jealousy, and it’s much more interesting when viewed as a story about a breakdown of a household. As Lily morphs from a gurgling angel to a sack of constant shrieks, Abby slowly begins to lose it. Brad is always working and when he isn’t, he’s of little help, leaving his evangelical mother (Celia Weston) to insist she knows what’s best. Meanwhile, construction on the apartment above the family’s combines with the noise already inside Abby’s head to drive her to popping pills. Farmiga’s fierce performance, with her increasingly mussed hair and vacant, disconnected eyes, is what’s truly unsettling, aided by a subtle, string-heavy score and creepy shots of the long, narrow hallways of the couple’s home. Abby’s eventual madness is deeply rooted and believable. But the Zen kid with one masterfully planned act of evil after another? Be grateful for the film’s scariest moments—which tend to happen whenever Joshua is offscreen.

 

 

By Tricia Olszewski

 

There’s a Herbie the Love Bug moment in Transformers. A high-school kid just got his first car. He’s crushing on a girl who looks 10 years older than he is and doesn’t tax her taut body by throwing on a lot of clothes. She needs a ride home; the vehicle flings its passenger door open and plays the Cars’ “Drive.” Once it’s got her inside, it further helps out its owner by motoring them to a remote spot—and switching the radio to “Sexual Healing.”

OK, so maybe it’s a scene that would make Herbie blush. But what do you expect from a movie based on…toys? Transformers is the latest directorial effort from Michael Bay, so you probably don’t need the PG-13 rating to tell you that despite its Hasbro origins, the movie’s not for the little ones. But unlike the rest of this summer’s something-for-most-of-the-­family fare—particularly other fanboy stuff like Spider-Man 3—the live-action Transformers has an unflattering vibe all its own: It’s not for kids, but it’s not quite for geeked-out adults, either. It’s for the stunted.

Bay and his screenwriters, Mission: Impossible III duo Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman, are betting that audiences will feel that a heap of CGI sophistication will make up for lack of depth elsewhere. (And they’re probably right, alas.) The story is a gibberish-laden shell that integrates the giant robots from another planet, who until now have been kept there in the animated TV series and 1986’s The Transformers: The Movie. Shia LaBeouf trains for his upcoming Indiana Jones role as Sam, the uncool student who ends up with the prying old Camaro that he eventually learns is Bumblebee—though Bumblebee was originally a Volkswagen Beetle—one of the good-guy Autobots. It (he?) and a few other bots are there to support their leader, Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen), as Optimus travels to Earth and hunts for the Allspark, something that’s ridiculously important for the Autobots to have.

Of course, the evil Decepticons also want it. And they almost had it: Megatron (Hugo Weaving), the baddest of the bad, came searching for the Allspark back in the 19th century, only to accidentally freeze and later be discovered by Sam’s great-great-grandfather, an explorer. Before he was paralyzed, though, Megatron etched out a map to the Allspark on Grandpa’s glasses, which are currently in Sam’s possession. Why did the Autobots wait until 2007 to gain control of the Allspark? Apparently it took that long for the Decepticons to figure out how to hack the government’s security system (and, uh, attack U.S. soldiers in the Middle East) and defrost Megatron—or something like that.

All you really need to know, though, is that the shape-shifting androids are in a battle of good vs. evil, and it’s just an excuse for a lot of explosions, gunfire, childish humor, and a couple of completely unnecessary hot women. (How important are the actresses’ looks compared to the movie’s logic? Sam’s love interest, played by Megan Fox, somehow gets a wardrobe change while everyone else is knee-deep in Armageddon.) The action is mind-numbing rather than stupidly invigorating, filmed primarily in Bay’s messy style of thrashing cameras and dizzying edits. What Bay and his technical crew do get right, on the other hand, is what most of the audience members probably came to see: the alien stars morphing from their disguises as helicopters, trucks—whatever each stealth situation calls for—into their badass (or goodass) robot selves. From machine to ’droid and back again, their transformations are quick and fluid, often seamlessly occurring midair. The bombs may not impress you, but at least this will.

If only the script weren’t unbearable. Despite a 144-­minute running time, the story gets choppy. (Days turn instantly into nights, while lines such as “I had fun” refer to nothing we’re privy to.) The characters are one-note: Sam’s immediately comfortable with his new world, rattling off details of the planet’s possible doom to others; Fox’s Mikaela is a function of her wardrobe. And the jokes are painfully adolescent. (Ha ha, that robot is peeing—­something—on a government official! That guy’s picking his nose!) The package would be passable for kids—if they were the movie’s intended audience. But our inner children deserve better.

 

 

Ratatouille’s hairy version of vermin isn’t anything like Mickey and Minnie. Which means that the latest animated Pixar offering has a similar, though much less significant, problem as Transformers. Adults may roll their eyes at a movie that turns their childhood heroes into urinating clowns, and grown-ups may not be thrilled about watching rats—even friendly ones with opposable thumbs—swarming buildings and getting their paws on restaurant food. But will children be interested in a 110-minute story of a rodentian Rachael Ray?

It’d be a dicey proposition if it weren’t for Mr. Incredibles. The newest creation of writer-­director Brad Bird, now officially the darling of Pixar, is Remy (Patton Oswalt), a French rat with a refined palate and desire to “add something to the world,” despite his family’s insistence that their kind was meant to take things from it. Neither Remy’s gruff father (Brian Dennehy) nor his dimwit brother, Emile (Peter Sohn), understand why he won’t just eat garbage like the rest of them. Remy wants to be a chef, but Dad tries to scare him straight, telling him that the human world is too dangerous and that he should abandon his dream of leaving the clan. Remy’s father does finally recognize his son’s talent for identifying the ingredients of a concoction by sniff—and puts him to work as a poison detector.

The family and their horde of friends are discovered in an old lady’s house—in a surprisingly violent scene, a carpet of them fall through the ceiling when she goes crazy with a rifle after spotting Remy among her seasonings—and they get separated while escaping. Remy negotiates gushing pipes (another frightening sequence, though the inky waters look damn good) and ends up safe beneath a once five-star-rated French restaurant. Since he assumes his family is dead, he takes the advice of his new companion, the ghost of his idol, rotund chef Gusteau (Brad Garrett), to sneak into the joint and spice up the kitchen.

Bird may not have created anything as exciting as superheroes or an iron giant when he developed Remy, but the rat’s culinary adventures are both sophisticated and kid-friendly—while mercifully avoiding the usual two-tiered paradigm of lots of face-plants and potty-humor for the little ones while grown-ups get assaulted with pop-culture references. Instead, the story is kept simple while the visuals are extraordinary. As Remy takes rather entertaining steps toward his goal, plenty of worthy life lessons are served as well: Not stealing is a big one, but there are more subtle messages about the importance of family (OK, that’s a yawner) and how not everyone can do whatever they want, but that those with talent need not feel inhibited by their circumstances to succeed (not only a wise teaching, but one that’s ingeniously woven).

Lifelike delicacies may be served in Gusteau’s place, but the eyes get a feast elsewhere as well, particularly in the amazingly realistic skyline views of Paris glowing at night. Bird also loads the film with clever passing details, such as the goings-on in apartments that Remy scampers above or the backstories of the more zestily painted minor characters, such as a severe cook named Horst (Will Arnett) who’s featured in a brief montage of the various reasons he gives for having spent time in prison. (“I killed a man with this thumb.”) Ratatouille is not a showcase of belly laughs, which is a bit of a disappointment if you compare it to its predecessor, The Incredibles. But it’s charming, original, and solid—not a description that will make your kids beg you to see it, but like the patrons eating Remy’s dishes, they never have to know.

 

 

By Tricia Olszewski

 

Forget everything that Cops has taught you—according to John Dahl’s You Kill Me, drinking and homicide actually don’t mix. At least not when you’re Frank Falenczyk, an alcoholic hit man who once prided himself on his murderly precision. When his Buffalo-based gangster family forces him to go to San Francisco and dry up, Frank resists, but he eventually takes the 12 steps to heart. Particularly the one about making amends: “I don’t regret killing them,” Frank tells his girlfriend of the victims he’s listing on paper. “Just killing them badly.” And so, the next of kin of the woman whose eye he sliced instead of her throat gets a $50 gift certificate to Macy’s.

The monster-with-a-sensitive-side premise has been done before, mined for laughs (Analyze This and That) or melodrama (The Sopranos). Here, the premise is spun as nearly intolerably cute. Ben Kingsley’s Frank isn’t a sexy beast—he’s a compact, well-dressed package of charming tics and few, funny words. He’s initially appalled by the AA meetings he attends, but he’s soon sharing ’n’ caring, and when he meets Laurel (Téa Leoni), a—naturally—beautiful Californian whose tongue is as sharp as his knives, she wants to love him. But, darn it, she’s got boundary issues. They meet, by the way, in a funeral home: Frank was strong-armed into taking a temporary job as an embalmer, and one day he was working on Laurel’s stepfather when she brought in bowling shoes for the deceased to wear. Now that’s a story to tell your grandkids.

Thanks to a delicately woven, genre-crossing script by Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely (who, in a departure, also worked together on The Chronicles of Narnia) and the strength of its leads, You Kill Me keeps its potential wackiness in check. (Though the Polishness—and drunkenness—of Buffalonians is emphasized so heavily that the city, represented by Winnipeg, Manitoba, becomes a caricatured character itself.) Much of its humor is culled from Frank’s AA experiences, whether it’s his introduction to the process (his look of subtle alarm every time someone introduces himself and is quickly accosted with “Hi, [Blank]” is terrific), his blossoming candor (“The only way I’m going to get to [kill] again is to stop drinking”), or the members who share their stories (“You know, it’s a whole lot easier fucking girls you don’t like when you’re drunk”). The film doesn’t just poke fun, however: There’s a quite uncomfortable scene where a merry family at the funeral home, laughing the whole time, is trying to force a drink on Frank, as well as heartbreaking consequences whenever he does give in.

Kingsley is a font of dryness as Frank, making his character bug-eyed and uncomfortable in his own skin when he’s sober. His exquisite comic timing and expressiveness is impressively matched by Leoni, who on more than one occasion makes too-sly jokes work with great physical follow-through. (Also notable is Bill Pullman as a real-estate agent/babysitter, schlubby in an ill-fitting raincoat and bad haircut—he’s tasked with watching Frank but looks like he can barely keep it together himself.) And just when their scenes together start to get too lovey, the filmmakers know how to cut the sugar: The expected new-couple montage, for example, features shots of them practicing knife-wielding on a head-shaped watermelon.

You Kill Me doesn’t completely abandon its gangster roots, though, while it’s vacationing as a romantic comedy. There’s tension and violence as Frank’s family deals with a rival that the hit man had failed to whack because he was drunk; Dahl, who also balanced similar moods in The Last Seduction, switches between locations and plotlines smoothly. The only surprise as the pieces come together is that you’ll likely have enjoyed the movie more than you might have thought.

 

 

The creators of Brooklyn Rules abided largely by only one: If anything mob-related was popular enough to become cliché, it was good enough for their movie. The film opens in a church as the main character narrates, talking about his boyhood in the titular borough and how it affected him and his two best buds as they grew up. Fast-forward to 1985, when one’s working in a butcher shop and going to college, one’s a bumbling, directionless innocent, and one’s flirting with the local family. Cue conversations about whether being feared is the same as being respected, as well as plenty of whatsamatta-you banter full of “da”s, “foockin’”s, and “douchebag”s.

Alarmingly, this amateurish story was written by Terence Winter, a veteran Sopranos scribe—apparently he’s saved his first-draft scraps for the big screen. Alec Baldwin is billed as a star, but his slightly over-the-top yet effective turn as the boss, Caesar, is minor—the kids are allowed to run the show. Freddie Prinze Jr. is Michael, the cartoonishly accented, responsible lead character who’s studying pre-law and adjusts his personality for his WASPy classmates and Brooklyn friends accordingly. Michael has big dreams but tries to keep his lives separate, confessing in voice-over that “in my neighborhood, it was better to keep ambitions like water polo to yourself” and acting reluctant when his buddies want to accompany him to a party in the city for Ellen (Mena Suvari), a fellow student Michael’s trying to date. (For good reason: The mixing doesn’t go so well.)

Meanwhile, baby-faced Bobby (Jerry Ferrara) is religious and good-natured, wanting nothing more than to start working for the post office so he and his squeeze can settle down. Carmine (Ocean’s Thirteen’s Scott Caan) is the troublemaker: Smart but vain—both about his looks and in feeling indestructible—he begins doing small jobs for Caesar, seeing it as the only agreeable way to make a good living in his ’hood. He dismisses Michael’s concerns. Of course, trouble is waiting, and Carmine’s antics start to involve his two friends as well.

The three young actors do have a likable presence onscreen, but Michael Corrente directs them to extreme Brooklyn-isms—such as those awful accents—that make the work at times skirt parody. The film is interesting mostly when it integrates the real-life rise of John Gotti with Carmine’s story, and its inevitable tragedy is heartbreaking, even if you see it coming from practically the start. But like the mob life, none of its perks is enough to make Brooklyn Rules worthwhile.