usesoap Blog

Working on the 'Knight' moves

usesoap — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 00:50:40 GMT

I am really struggling here.

I really don't feel like cracking open the thesaurus to out-hyperbolize what's already been said about “The Dark Knight” a dozen times over.

Simply put: A) It lives up to the hype, and B) Yes, Heath Ledger as The Joker is that good.

The only way to tackle this review and add anything new to what's already been said is by addressing your concerns as a moviegoer.

That's right, you.

Why do I do this? Well, I'm just a giver, I suppose.

So herein are ten reasons why you should either jump aboard the “Dark Knight” Love Train with the rest of us, or whether you should draw the blinds when you see that Bat Signal appear in the sky.

See it:

If you enjoy crime drama: The film begins with a crackerjack heist by Joker and his crew that not only ticks along like a timed explosive, it sets the stage for just how morally bankrupt the film's chief villain truly is. He is a character whose sole purpose is not singularly driven, but rather one who likes to conduct social experiments, regardless of their outcome. For Batman, who is considered a champion of justice, the Joker represents his ultimate foe.
If you balk at seeing a “superhero” movie: Too often dismissed by stuffier film-goers as guys running around in silly spandex pajamas, “Knight” sets its story in a very real world environment that echoes many fears and concerns where chaos reigns. Sure, there are acts of superhuman strength, but there are equal parts of superhuman suffering, as leads are forced to make choices in which one life's value possibly outweighs another.
If you eschew CGI for more tangible effects: Digital trickery has become a staple to the genre, especially those released in the heady days of summer blockbusters, but there are no wholly rendered CGI beasties on Batman's fight card here, and when it is used, like the charred, rotting side of the face on Batman's other nemesis Two-Face, it's both subtle and disturbing.
If you are a fan of iconic screen villainy: Confession time: When it comes to listing the top actors of this generation, Heath Ledger would probably not even make my long list. His turn in “Brokeback Mountain” was undoubtedly poignant, but the whole film's over-rated melodrama possibly kept it from making any impact on me. I found him decent, but rather nondescript. Until now. His role as a psychotic harbinger of destruction is seminal, plain and simple. And for those of you who showered Javier Bardem and Daniel Day Lewis with praise last year in “No Country for Old Men” and “There Will Be Blood,” respecticely, you owe it to yourself to witness this performance.
If you enjoy epic films: While staying primarily focused in Gotham City (after taking a brief detour to Hong Kong to round up some baddies), the story feels oceanic in its sprawl. “Dark Knight” analyzes a society ruled by fear and governed by disorder. It demonstrates not only how officials and denizens react in times of crisis, but takes the time to detail these reactions, as well as their repercussions, giving them motivation and purpose. It's a sizeable task in any film, but it builds to a crescendo that feels purposefully messy and frustrating. You know, kind of like life.
If you'd rather get drawn into a story than manipulated by a rousing score: Too often, we find ourselves moved because some guys in the string section of an orchestra tell us to. Not here. Never obtrusive, always lurking in the shadows (like its lead), the score (by James Newton Howard and Hans Zimmer) is as subtle as Danny Elfman's (between the Prince ditties) was bombastic in the 1989 version. Instead. “Knight” is propelled by such intrinsic theoretical absolutes as “good” and “evil” (Sometimes by the same character, sometimes by our hero), providing each member of its stellar cast – Gary Oldman as Commissioner Gordon, Morgan Freeman as inventor Lucious Fox, Michael Caine as heroic manservant Alfred, Maggie Gyllenhaal as Rachel Dawes, Aaron Eckhart as politician Harvey Dent – an opportunity to decide where his or her moral line in the sand is drawn. Which leads us to...
If you prefer your characters with moral ambiguity: There is not a second of flab in the film's 2.5-hours, and in that time each of its characters are tested. Similar to that memorable coin toss by Bardem's Anton Chigurh in “No Country” (and Harvey Dent here), the results are sometimes left to chance and the consequences are not pretty.
If you enjoy horror films: The discomforting truisms of human nature are the root of all classic horror films -- our primal urges, our basic instincts, those gravitational draws to the dark side that have yet to evolve from that primordial muck – are the foundation of scary stories, and have a home in “Dark Knight.” These are not perhaps the “gotcha!” scares that one closely associates with modern horror, but they are the nightmares that can keep one up at night when alone.
If you appreciate ensemble acting: I have already mentioned a number of the actors involved, but have yet to speak about Christian Bale, who plays Batman and his alter ego billionaire Bruce Wayne (sorry for the spoiler). It is perhaps because he is a cog in this machine. It is by no means a slight to his ability, for he once again demonstrates just why he is one of the finest actors working today. But he is only one “Knight” in this chess game.
If you enjoy sequels with more narrative meat on their bones: As opposed to taking the “Bigger! Stronger! Faster!” approach to sequels, writer/director Christopher Nolan's “Dark Knight” is much more interested in inhabiting and studying the world in which our heroes dwell. It could have been easily called “Gotham” and have been completely accurate. The last bit of praise that I can pile onto this film is by giving it the cinematic equivalent to “The Empire Strikes Back,” (considered by many, myself included, to be the best of the “Star Wars” franchise), in which storylines weave without a knot at its end. It can be disconcerting, but in the end, it feels more organic than any other film released so far this year.

And yes, it is based on a “comic book.”

Catching up: Hellboy II

usesoap — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 00:39:21 GMT

Been on vacay for a little while, but had plenty of time to soak in cinema as well as sun. So here are some observations (probably with random question marks throughout cuz I used a Mac notetype it).

It's hard to imagine there is any cinematic crime left to battle this summer, with the amount of superheroes combating evil-doers in theaters. And while all of them may be eclipsed by a certain dark knight this weekend, it's hard to imagine one that will feature a world as visually stunning as director Guillermo del Toro's brilliantly buoyant Hellboy II: The Golden Army.

While the new Batman may soar in its complexities, both in drama and dialogue, del Toro is such a stylistic master that he at the same time pays homage to past cinematic worlds while creating wholly unique ones.
The Golden Army could actually come across as the fun-loving, slightly intoxicated sibling of the director's masterpiece Pan's Labyrinth. And it's more than happy to share the buzz.

Freaky, fun and phantasmagorical, 'The Golden Army' gets to the goods early after precious little backstory and stays in its own warped universe, juggling humor and heft with gusto.
Creators of Hancock, take note. This is how you take a roguish, potty-mouthed ruffian, plug in some pathos and still have a heck of a lot of fun while you're at it.

Led by Ron Pearlman, who in addition to playing Helboy in the original also played the Beast in the cult favorite TV show Beauty and the Beast, again displays the patience of a Buddhist monk in his ability to withstand hours in the makeup chair to get caked in latex.

But he is well aware of his role's riches, attacking it with aplomb, and putting the 'demon' in demonstrative.

Since the original film, Hellboy has been attempting domesticated bliss with his (quite literal) flame Liz Sherman (played Selma Blair, whose ability to set herself ablaze as a character is really the only fire she brings to her performance, but is fine nonetheless). Typical he-said-she-said squabbles ensue, but they still answer the call of duty as part of the government's Bureau for Paranormal Research and Development, in which they team up with fellow fish-man freak Abe Sapien (play by frequent del Torro collaborator Doug Jones).

They are needed to battle a centuries-old underworld prince (played by Luke Goss) fed up with humans and prepared to unleash an indestructible robotic infantry to reclaim the Earth.

There is many a moment of panoramic panache, worlds of wonder, and witty rejoinders that fulfill the recommended daily allowance of summer blockbuster nutrition, but for anyone who has repeatedly feasted upon del Toro's 'Pan's Labyrinth' (guilty as charged), there are elements of Hellboy II that rise far above the formula for the genre. From surprising life-or-death choices made by its leads to its thoughtful study of family,

The Golden Army will stand up to repeated viewings where its intricacies can be more thoroughly examined and appreciated.
It also sets the stage for a rather interesting conundrum for a sequel, if del Toro get the opportunity to have it realized on screen.

Personally, I can't wait for another chance to go to Hell, boy.

'Hancock'-blocked

usesoap — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 02:49:03 GMT

It is all too fitting that the lead in “Hancock” is an amnesiac, for the film in which he is featured can't seem to comprehend just what the hell it is.

About halfway through, it suffers a cinematic concussion from which it never regains its former personality.

Both portions of this picture might have made an interesting feature given the chance to develop more thoroughly. As it stands, “Hancock” plays out like the most recent dark, brooding film incarnation of “Batman,” but starring Adam West in the form-fitting spandex suit from the TV version.

In a world where every summer superhero film is accompanied by Wal-Mart-ready action figure tie-ins, it's rather difficult to envision the kiddies clamoring to buy the “Hancock with Scotch-Swigging Action” in which you can push the button and hear one of eight colorful expletives!

Yes, Hancock is the most reluctant of heroes, approaching his duties like a list of household chores rather than an inherent responsibility.

His attempts at rescue wind up wrecking more real estate than leaving well enough alone and now he faces the scorn of a public fed up with his slovenly approach to fighting crime.

That is, until one day he rescues an altruistic PR man (yeah, that's about the funniest thing in the picture) played by Jason Bateman. Bateman's Ray Embry wants to repay the super-pariah by working with him on an image makeover, helping him transform from his hobo-chic aesthetic to Fantastic Four fabulousness.

And this is the world in which “Hancock” should have remained. Pointed social commentary on celebrity life under today's TMZ- and You Tube-controlled microscopic conditions, rejecting and denouncing any and all sorts of behavior or past transgression, and promises to reform and adhere to more “model” behavior are all hinted in a too-brief montage sequence. Witnessing Hancock stage a half-hearted press conference, admitting himself to a local prison and undergoing anger management and substance abuse classes are awkwardly amusing commentaries of today's lifestyles of the rich and infamous (not to mention the issue race plays in the whole affair). The only thing missing is his finding Jesus in the process.

It's not until Ray brings Hancock home to meet the family-- wife Mary (played by Charlize Theron) and son Aaron (played by Jae Head) – in which the tonal shifts of the film are stitched together like some thematic Frankenstein's monster.

It is during this portion in which we get a glimpse into Hancock's dark, mysterious origins which are a marked contrast to the promise of joviality and satire of the first half.

Smith seems to run out of steam for this part, too. Gamely playing against his squeaky-clean image, he relishes in ticking off the general public with foul language and laws of physics-defying bodily harm. Yet when things get dark, he barely registers, coasting on tired mannerisms and feigned interest.

Theron, who plays Bateman's adoring wife is also left with little. It's easy to see from her first encounter with Hancock that there was some sort of past connection between the two, but when it's revealed just what that is, the actress is swept up in the noisy chaos that marks the film's conclusion.

The only actor who leave an impression is Theron's one-time co-star Bateman (the two shared a storyline in the beloved, departed television show “Arrested Development”), whose deft comic abilities elicited some of the only laughs to be heard during my opening-day screening.

But even he is hindered by the questionable judgement of director Peter Berg (“The Kingdom,” “Friday Night Lights,” “Very Bad Things”). Berg obviously has potential, but has squandered it time and time again, as he does here with “Hancock.”

It's an unwritten blockbuster law that superhero films, even if they dabble in the emotional complexities of its leads, must widen their lens and give the film and expansive, almost global, perspective that shows a city in crises or a world in peril. Not so with Berg. He instead chooses to zoom in on his subjects close enough that you can almost smell the stale scotch on Hancock's breath.

When it finally comes to the epic confrontation at the finale, it's edited with such a slapdash manner that there is no sense of jeopardy, or wonderment, or even much of a pulse.

Contributing to this menace-free environment is the film's villain, whose comic book bad guy name would be “Dr. Minor Inconvenience” or perhaps “The Irritable Rash,” as little a threat as he poses.

And finally, lest you think that you are safely in the hands of audience-friendly Will Smith, not that the director was the same guy who based an entire film of a group of bachelor party participants trying to dispose of a dead hooker. In other words, bring the earmuffs and have hands ready to shield the eyes of the little ones brought into the theater to watch Mr. Man In Black battle baddies.

“Hancock” is a film that would have benefited from being either an all-out satire of the genre, or an intimate introspective drama of the isolation accompanying the job title of World Saver.

By combining the two, “Hancock” suffers from its own cinematic kryptonite, crippling it just when it should have soared into the stratosphere.

Assassin-ine fun

usesoap — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 03:51:02 GMT

This is the “Dilbert” panel I've always wanted to see.

A fed-up office drone, sick of the confines of his cubicle, unleashes holy hell on his condescending superiors and clocks a duplicitous colleague in the jaw with his keyboard and heads out for adventure with Angelina Jolie.

While “Wanted's” lead Wesley (played by James McAvoy) does just that, his character is taken from a different comic altogether. It's comic origins (based on one by Mark Millar and J. G. Jones) are felt throughout the film's reality-relinquishing first hour, until it turns on itself in the final act and decides to play things with a straight face.

If only Cat-bert could have sauntered in to slap some sense into him.

Let's start with the good.

Wesley's life is torn straight from the pages of “Office Space:” a patronizing supervisor takes special glee in the daily ass-chewing she gives the young man, a co-worker enjoys showing Wesley's girlfriend his “O” face (if that line makes no sense to you, please go rent the aforementioned comedy); and his anxiety level is suppressed only with the help of a bottomless prescription jar of medication.

On a particular day to refill said meds, Wesley's found himself in the middle of a pharmacy shootout, aided by a slinky Angelina Jolie.

One fabulously outrageous car chase later (in which Wesley is literally scooped up into her shiny red sports car), the young man is told that he is the son of a recently deceased world-famous assassin and who has been selected to step into his shoes.

It's a cinematic flip-of-the-bird to any and all potential “blockbusters” this summer and, for a while, it revs along at such a high rate of speed that it could mean business.

There are many reasons for this. Primarily, lead McAvoy (a British actor known best stateside in the original “Chronicles of Narnia” and “Atonement,” but whose range is best demonstrated in a little 80s-centric indie called “Starter for Ten”) is such an engaging host to this frenetic freak-out. As someone who starts off with as a whiny Zack Braff clone, he is heartily believable in his transformation into a hitman resembling a young Russel Crowe. In a film that defies all laws of physics, gravity and logic, his performance in an undercurrent of stability.

Jolie takes her second role this month as a tigress – first, quite literally in “Kung Fu Panda,” and here as a felonious feline known only (and quite accurately) as Fox. Sure, it's a role she can do in her sleep, but, honestly, I have no problem watching anything Jolie does in her sleep.

And, finally, step asideBorat. You are no longer the “it boy” of Kazakhstan.

Those honors go to one Timur Bekmambetov, director of this otherworldly fever-dream of an action film.

Lauded in his homeland for the candy-coated action vampire films “Night Watch” and “Day Watch” (and the upcoming “Twilight Watch”), Bekmambetov has come to the states to show that not all Kazakhstanis arrive in the summer sun sporting hideously green one-piece thongs. Very nice! High five-a!

Well, almost.

Once Wesley arrives for training, he's informed by the head assassin (played with the usual omnipotent solemnity by Morgan Freeman) that his pop was part of a group steeped in tradition handed down from ancient weavers. That's right, Wesley is a fruit of the loom. As part of his training, the young lad gets worked over by various other co-workers/thugs with names like “the Repairman” and “the Butcher,” (no sight of “the Candlestick-maker,” though), until he's ready for his first assignment – killing the man who toe-tagged his father.

And while there are some stunning sights of bullet bending, train-hopping and skull-piercing, Bekmambetov drops the pitch-black humor that elevated the first half and shifts the film into a dour-faced, dime-a-dozen climax that runs out of gas far before the carnage-heavy conclusion. (There are only so many different ways to film a bullet being deflected mid-air by another bullet, and the director tries them all, with diminishing results.)

Like all summer action sagas, it's best not to let the brain stew too long on the whole “moral” of the story, as it is one that takes Wesley from zero to hero by his creativity in killing random people for no reason other than being told to do so by an ancient weaving machine (somehow, that dog barking orders to the Son of Sam does not seem so unorthodox).

But for a short while, “Wanted” does engage in some contagious calamity that keeps us locked and loaded for the next round.

A world of his own

usesoap — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 00:19:02 GMT

Alright, Pixar. I've had it.

I am past the point of being tired trying to find new and creative ways to use superlatives that are as endlessly creative and fresh as your films.

Seriously, does everything you do have to be so superiorly textured and nuanced, inviting hours of “rewatchability?” (There, see? I now have to resort to making up words just to keep up. I hope you can sleep well at night in your money-lined pillows.)

“WALL*E” is not a film to watch, it is one to consume. Layered with more craft and care than any film released so far this year.

Readers of this paper's film column will no doubt attest to the fact that it is on rare occasion that I report to resoundingly glowing praise or hyperbole often (unless, of course, Adam Sandler is involved – kidding!). But time and time again, I find myself overwhelmed with Pixar's ability to take the most simple of concepts – the childhood love of toys (“Toy Story,” “Toy Story 2”) the bond between parent and child (“Finding Nemo” directed by WALL*E's Andrew Stanton, “The Incredibles”), the importance of teamwork (“Monsters Inc.,” “A Bug's Life,” “Ratatouille”) and here, the rudimentary necessity of tactile social interaction – and make it alternately fresh, nostalgic, exciting, comfortable and gloriously rendered both emotionally and graphically.

WALL*E is short for Waste Allocation Lift Loader Earth-class, a cuddly little bundle of microchips that is alone in its Earth-bound duty of cleaning up the mountainous waste left behind by a fleeing human race centuries prior. It seems a big conglomerate (imagine Wal-Mart injected with anabolic steroids) made a mess of things after it took over running (and ruining) the globe and jettisoned its population for a little while as it attempted to clean up its mess.

Seven hundred years later, WALL*E is the remaining inhabitant, dutifully filling his days with trash duty, but developed enough to find other, more meaningful diversions. For example, he has adopted a pet cockroach (naturally), collects miscellaneous scraps and parts, and settles in from time to time with a Betamax version of “Hello Dolly”).

Thematically, the first 40 minutes or so is very similar to last year's “I am Legend,” as a non-speaking WALL*E does just enough to occupy time, but is painfully lonely and just wants a hand (or synthetic replication thereof) to hold. Unlike “I am Legend,” “WALL*E” does not suck royally after that setup.

He is visited by an Extraterrestrial Vegitation Evaluator (EVE), which is a sleek new robot model sent to the planet in search of burgeoning life. EVE is like a new iPod to WALL*E's cassette player, but regardless of format, the song remains the same – WALL*E is immediately smitten.

After a coy courting period (with lasers), WALL*E tags along on EVE's spaceship, which is housed on a floating Earth, populated with gelatinous mounds of flesh that are the human race. No longer do people rely on such tired traditions as “walking,” they simply jet around their new home in personal Barc-o-loungers, communicate entirely through computer screens and happily subsist on whatever the Big Brother-like corporate owners of the ship (the same ones that spoiled the planet) tell them to.

To reveal more would spoil the wonder of “WALL*E.” It's clear that the filmmakers in that coveted Pixar house have a passion for film as well as storytelling. From silent-era slapstick that would make Buster Keaton proud, to space journeys capable of bringing a tear to George Lucas's eye, to nods of golden-age movie musicals, “WALL*E” serves as a loving, guided tour through the coveted vaults of cinematic history.

There are scenes within that will induce tears, but not because of maudlin plot contrivances that do everything but old an onion under your eyes. There are moments of ecstatic marvel and whimsy throughout that make this so much more than a just another celluloid babysitter for the kiddos.

And you can dispute or politicize the film's dyspeptic world view all you want (though does anyone else see the irony of a film featuring a society of computer-enslaved blobs of humanity created by a computer animation studio that works for years on one project?), but in this increasingly heated political climate, there is a reason the word “change” is bandied about so often. As over-simplified as it may sound, “Wall*E” serves as an animated testament to our ability to do just that.

But just as the morbidly obese captain of the human cargo ship in “WALL*E” proves, it is only accomplished by a innate willingness to do so. It may all sound trite, but as the best films in our short cinematic history, “WALL*E” makes you believe that anything is possible.

P.S. Don't arrive late or you will miss a wonderful Looney Tunes-era short called “Presto,” featuring a rabbit that could out-wascal Bugs Bunny

I'm all outta 'Love'

usesoap — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 23:36:58 GMT

Since Mike Myers latest abomina... I mean, character, “The Love Guru,” is rather fond of acronyms for followers in his self-help dynasty, let me sum up his film accordingly. Those expecting even the slightest twinkle of comedy from “Wayne's World” or “Austin Powers” are in for a lot of “Crotch References and Agonizing Puns.”

If you are a big fan of “Funnies from Anally Released Thunder” jokes or a focus on “Woefully Aggrandizing Narcissism Guffaws,” then “The Love Guru” is right down your darkened alley.

In fact, anything below the belt is the go-to source of snickers for Myers here. With the subtlety of a toddler discovering his genitalia for the first time, Myers seems fixated south of the equator, offering more crotch-centric comedy in 90 minutes than Adam Sandler's entire résumé.

Myers star as the eponymous self-help expert with aspirations on becoming America's next top spiritual advisor.

To do this, he must appear on Oprah like his rival, Deepak Chopra. And to do this, he must reunite a hockey player with his estranged wife. It should be noted that the athlete is played by Romany Malco, a black comedian, because, you know, a black man playing hockey is apparently hilarious in Myers comedy playbook.

The team is owned by one Jane Bullard (played with tapioca intensity by one Jessica Alba), who Pitka warms up to in a romantic way.

Pitka lives a comfortable life in his Los Angeles ashram. Pitka an American child raised (for no real apparent reason) by an Eastern guru (Ben Kingley, accepting another role that serves as steel brush to polish that Oscar of his). The master is cross eyed (for no real apparent reason) and his name is Tugginmypudha. If your knees are red from slapping them after reading that last name, again, run to the theater a get your ticket.

Pitka is given a chastity belt (for no real apparent reason) only to serve as a gag involving a clanging sound every time he achieves an erection.

He greets everyone with the mantra (for no real apparent reason) “Mariska Hartgitay.” By the way, you'll never guess who shows up for a cameo!

To Ms. Hargitay's parents' credit, at least her name has some thought behind it (it means “bitter” in Herbrew). Myers, who also co-wrote the film, litters it with less-inventive names such as Dick Pants and Coach Cherkov (seriously, Mike, were you even trying?).

The latter character is played by Myer's “Austin Powers” co-star, diminutive actor Verne Troyer. He's cast for no other reason than for Myers to squeeze out whatever little person jokes that didn't fit in the “Powers” films.

I have stated in my column before that I am no prude and do enjoy an occasional wallow into the muddy waters of crude humor. But, honestly, “The Love Guru” is one school grade away from using a comeback of “doody-head” as a punchline.

Myers' character is tested in that he has to learn to love himself before others, but that does not seem to be a problem for the actor himself. Shamelessly mugging, laughing at all his own jokes and flailing like a sleep-deprived child mid-tantrum, calling Myers a ham would be a disservice to the pork industry.

First-time director Marco Schnabel does little more than point and shoot, allowing scenes (and Myers) to go on much longer than necessary.

The other truly odd vibe of “Guru” is its presumption of intended audience members (boys under age of the PG-13 rating, or adults with an IQ of 13) have actually seen a Bollywood muscial, read a Deepak Chopra book or even fondly remember hair-metal band Extreme's music video to their power ballad “More Than Words” (it's better not to even ask about that last one).

This derision all comes from the saddened heart of a Myers fan — someone who found the original “Austin Powers” and “Wayne's World” hilarious and who still recalls with a smile several of the perfomer's “Saturday Night Live” skits.

But there is little to smile about in “Guru.” For even if you remove all the references to fetid bodily functions, you are still left with a “Totally Underwhelming and Rancid Diversion.”

Green, back

usesoap — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 03:43:02 GMT

Oh , Kermit T. Frog. What a sage you are.

For you have foretold the dilemma facing one similarly hued hero and his battle for acceptance among the masses. Let's take a look at his Magi-like prognostication on a more thorough level to unveil his astute observations concerning the current box office bind concerning one “Incredible Hulk”:

It's not that easy bein' green,
Having to spend each day the color of leaves.

For five years, the not-so-jolly, lime-colored character has been the target of many a nasty fan-boy rant, ever since director Ang Lee decided to saddle the comic book adaptation with Freudian subtext and layer his tale with psychoanalyses better left on the couch than in a mega-watt movie. The film was levelled by hoards of angry basement-dwellers who puffed up like the titular beast and smashed the best way they knew how – through anonymous postings on message boards.

In an attempt to rectify the situation, Hulk's owners, Marvel Comics, have opted to right the wrongs and deliver fans Hulk 2.0 (aka “The Incredible Hulk”), “Now with 50 percent more mayhem!” Truth be told, this version resembles the progression of comic-book-based adaptations hitting screens these days. It features a nuanced, serious actor (Edward Norton) in the title role of scientist Bruce Banner. And allow the depth and breadth of the character to be revealed not by laborious backstory, but by the lead actor's history (just as Robert Downey was pitch perfect to portray a womanizing, substance abusing millionaire, so is Norton at playing a deeply philosophical persona given to fits of confrontation and on-set anger).

When I think it could be nicer being red, or yellow or gold -
Or something much more colorful like that.

Hmmmm. Red? Gold? The exact same colors as one other Marvel comic superstar rocketing up the multiplex by the name of “Iron Man” (to date, grossing a hair under $300 million and on its way to becoming the biggest hit of the summer so far). The film opened to stellar receipts and glowing praise from fans and critics alike. Yes, it would be nice to be him, but baby steps are needed even when you are a column-sized slab of sinew and rage.

And people tend to pass you over
'cause you're not standing out like flashy sparkles in the water – or in the sky.

The early trailers for this “Hulk” reboot did not show much promise, demonstrating the typical CGI-enhanced transformation and a climactic battle on city streets that seemed to be swiped straight from “Jurassic Park II: The Lost World.” And while both may be true, there is much more than standard pixel-enhanced entertainment to be found in this version, due, in large part, to Norton as Dr. Banner, and Tim Roth as Hulk's main military man nemesis. Credit is also forwarded to director Louis Laterrier (“The Transporter”). Calling his film's revved-up action pieces “breakneck” would be a disservice to other body part being broken during the proceedings.

But green's the color of spring.
And green can be cool and friendly like.

Perhaps a bit too friendly, Kermie. For all its hurdle-hops over its predecessor, this “Hulk” is diminished only when it stops to smell the roses, or, in this case Betty Ross (played with gaspy solemnity by one Liv Tyler). While there is no doubt she can halt even an enraged 9-foot-tall ogre with her sultry smile, the minute those perfectly puffy lips part to deliver a line, she is as believable a scientist as Denise Richard is a nuclear chemist in the James Bond opus “The World is Not Enough.” Liv and let die, I say.

I am green and it'll do fine, it's beautiful!
And I think it's what I want to be.

Norton's convincing performance aside, “The Incredible Hulk” is at its best when it does not take itself too seriously. Bits of comic tchotchkes are sprinkled throughout (including an inspired comic performance by Tim Blake Nelson in the third act. It is also generous in dealing out hints of a future Marvel filmic universe (don't blink to catch who supplied the military equipment and who makes a brief cameo at the film's end).

“The Incredible Hulk” is not in the same stratosphere as this summer's “Iron Man” or 2005's “Batman Begins,” but it does manage to pick off the scabs left behind by its cinematic sibling of similar name. And that alone should have it seeing the most important shade of green it could hope for, all plastered with the faces of dead presidents.

Very little Night music

usesoap — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 01:29:19 GMT

M. Night Shyamalan, coming back from a critical and commercial pummeling for his fairy tale “Lady in the Water” that was nightmarish for all the wrong reasons, has attempted to trumpet his return to tension in a new film called...hmmm...what was that title again?

Perhaps I should look at some of the dialogue to help me remember:

“There is an event happening.”
“...whenever this is happening.”
“Whatever is happening is happening in smaller and smaller populations.”
“Why is this happening?”
“Nothing's happening yet.”
“There's something happening in a few states.”

Oh well, maybe it will come to me later.

Touting its R rating like a badge, the film promises to be a darker Night than we are accustomed to, but a few bloody deaths aside (most are shot at a distance), the proceedings are structurally similar to his 2002 outing “Signs.”

The film begins so promisingly creepy, with people committing random acts of suicide in rather horrific ways. Is it a terrorist attack using some strange nerve gas? Is it some cosmic thinning of the herd? Is it pissed-off plants? You won't find the answers in this column (though I long to reveal it to save you the agony).

We are only informed of its broader effects though news reports, as we are sequestered with a small group of survivors – high school science teacher Elliott Moore (played by Mark Wahlberg); his estranged wife Alma (played by Zooey Descheanel), whose range spans from lost to befuddled (or, in a small triumph of her limited abilities – both); and Elliott's fellow teach Julian (played by John Leguizamo) with his little girl in tow.

But even though they have names, walk, talk and furrow their brow, they are not characters. They are plot expositions and descriptions of characters. They are there to merely read the rather stoic, turgid prose penned by Shyamalan.

To wit, before Alma is handed a ticket for a train ride out of town, she proclaims “I'm going to get on the train.” And if you did not pick up that Julian was a math teacher, fear not, for he states “I'll give them percentages, people are comforted by percentages,” and tries to divert everyone's attention as the dead bodies start piling up by giving them equations to solve (given the choice, I say, “Death, where is thy sting?”).

Throughout their journey, the group meets up with various loonies reacting to impending doom with the poise and reserve of Chicken Little. One spoiler that I will provide (that is in no way consequential to the film's machinations) is that Alma is repeatedly interrupted by phone calls from a male friend eager to fan the flames of a one-time lunch date. The voice on the other end of the phone? Director/writer/producer Shyamalan, possibly trying to relay stage directions to her -- “Emote! Emote, dammit!”

Sadly, Deschanel never got the message.

But there is one particular scene in which Wahlberg attempts to earnestly converse with an inanimate object ( no, not Deschanel) that is the not only the film's true low point, but a career one for all involved.

Shyamalan has been branded with many a moniker in his short ten years as a director – a one-trick pony, a misunderstood genius, an egoist of the highest order. It may be possible that is is guilty on all accounts. I believe it is long overdue that Shyamalan the director fire Shyamalan the writer and begin to focus his gifts. For he has an obvious affection and understanding of the language of film, and while his films (with the exception of “Lady in the Water”) can be slapped with countless derogatory adjectives, they cannot be faulted for their staging and cinematography.

But like his leaden-handed efforts such as “The Village,” “Unbreakable” and “Signs,” his showmanship gets crushed by woefully inept storytelling.

And for all its pretty pictures, “The Happening,” his attempt at an environmental thriller, is nothing more than an inconvenient goof.

An Ode to Depression (via Adam Sandler)

usesoap — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 13:25:55 GMT

While scarping though yet another barrel’s bottom in attempting to drum up the words to encapsulate yet another Adam Sandler cinematic gastric bypass, I opted to take the higher road and rely on the pre-eminent wit of one Noel Coward for inspiration in slogging through “You Don’t Mess with the Zohan.”

His ode to depression, “The Bad Times are Just Around the Corner” accurately sums up just about every filmic experience I’ve had with one Adam Sandler. With the exception of some chuckles in “Happy Gilmore,” I have yet to find a redeeming quality to any of his films. But as each of his subsequent films continue to make box office dollars, I have now relinquished myself to the fact that there I am in the minority and that this comedic abomination is going nowhere soon. So I might as well embrace my disparity, just as the late, great Coward had more than 50 years ago.

Ode to Depression (via Adam Sandler)
with apologies to Noel Coward

His wackiness of ‘Waterboy’
His humor fails to ‘Click.’
From ‘Little Nicky’
On up to ‘Big Daddy,’
Featured humor light as a brick.
From the first scene in ‘Billy Madison,’
Where he first struck his man-child role,
It forced a grin
But deep within
It lacked a trace of soul.
Lady Comedy is going south, lads,
Slumming like a pan-handler.
Lady Comedy lost her voice, lads,
With the help of Adam Sandler.
Hurray, Hurray, Hurray!
Sandler is here to stay.

Refrain 1:

There are bad films just around the corner,
And laughs are never found.
It’s no good complaining,
For he’ll keep reigning
And we all know he’s sticking around.
With a scowl and a sigh,
Another film passes by
As we prepare for Sandler and doom and dread.
We critics unpack our grievances on pages of paper
And wait until we drop down dead.

And through these countless films,
There are many years between us.
His shtick unchanged,
Just rearranged,
With unhealthy focus on his own penis.
We went along on ’50 First Dates’
Though for a second ‘date’ we’re wary,
He pretended to care,
But we knew it’s not there,
When he “Pronounced” both “Chuck and Larry.”
While running “The Longest Yard”
(A title never more apt)
He went from crazy
To just plain lazy
And for two hours we just felt trapped.
Lady Comedy’s taken a rest, lads
We thought we couldn’t handle ‘er
Lady Comedy’s gone to rest,
But has awoken Adam Sandler.
Hurray, Hurray, hurray!
Sandler is here to stay.

So in this final verse, I suppose,
I’d be as spacey as Lindsay Lohan,
To mention here,
With little revere,
My thoughts on “Messin’ with the Zohan.”
He plays a tough-guy soldier,
Skilled from battles near his home.
But dream he dares
Of coiffing U.S. hair
Armed only with a comb.
Sight gags there are aplenty,
But most of them fall flat,
Unless you chuckle
At hairy knuckles
And playing hacky-sack with cats.
Lady Comedy is dead, lads.
In a most appalling manner.
Lady Comedy’s kicked the bucket, lads,
Make room for Adam Sandler.
Hurray, Hurray, hurray!
Sandler is here to stay.

Panda-monium

usesoap — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 14:43:11 GMT

It's a story as old as Confucius – an outcast finds his true purpose by just believing in himself.

The odds against “Kung Fu Panda” were stacked even higher when it announced that Jack Black was to take the lead role of a bear whose hopes are greater than his environment, for it required nuances of humility, humbleness and modesty – not exactly the top of the preening character actor's list of personality traits.

Somehow, beneath the mounds of digitized fur and flab, though, the animators managed to make Black's Po a sympathetic, even lovable, lead character.

Displeased with his life the noodle-slinging son of a restaurateur, Po pines for the action-packed life of a martial arts master, like his heroes The Furious Five.

Eager to catch a glimpse of the “Dragon Master” tournament (apparently the Super Bowl of karate), Po accidentally plops down in the center and is crowned its champion by the supreme elder.

The move comes as a surprise to all – including Po himself – and master Shifu (Dustin Hoffman, voicing what looks to be some sort of chinchilla or something), who vows to make Po's training so arduous, he will not make it past the first day.

The Furious Five are also furious, as Tigress (an indistinguishable Angelina Jolie), Monkey (an intelligible Jackie Chan), Viper (a slinky Lucy Liu), Crane (an underused David Cross) and Mantis (played with typical stoner glee by Seth Rogan) feel as though they have studied long enough under Shifu to rightfully claim the title.

Meanwhile, in a cavernous underground prison, the evil Tai Lung (played with jocular evil by Ian McShane) escapes and seeks to nab the honor for himself.

MAJOR SPOILER ALERT!

There are no spoilers in this entire film. You know exactly what's going to happen if you're even remotely familiar with any underdog (or panda) story ever.

END SPOILERS

But regardless of familiarity, “Kung Fu Panda,” earns its..er..spots with crackerjack pacing and its ability to rely on simplicity rather than stuffing it to the gills with pop-culture references like a certain green ogre that is also under the Dreamworks animation flag.

The first half of the film is filled with slapstick shenanigans of Po being placed through various training procedures, which undoubtedly will delight the kiddies. But the second half, while still entertaining, does involve many a fight scene (the title is “Kung Fu Panda,” duh!), and while it preaches violence as a last resort, characters still repeatedly slap the stuffing out of one another. Come to think of it, martial arts films would be a heck of a lot less interesting if leads actually did follow through on all that “violence as a last resort” mumbo jumbo.

Front and center of all the digitized destruction is Black, who provides his trademarked slacker-doofus delivery, but instead of seeing him shamelessly arching his eyebrow or flicking out his tongue and making devil horns, we get to watch a cuddly panda (note to Black's agent, have a panda suit ready for his next three live-action roles). It takes the edge off his more annoying aspects of his performances.

Hoffman, on the other hand, produces a full-fledged performance. His diminutive Shifu goes beyond the typical Yoda comparisons and turns his little animated puffball into an anguished-but-loving father figure to the group.

Sadly, the other big names in the cast are for marquee value only, used to lure in parents as if to say “Yes, it's got talking karate animals, but we also have enough hipster cred to cast David Cross!” “Kung Fu Panda” does not cash in on its secondary talent, but it really does not need to, as the direction from first-timers Mark Osborne and John Stevenson is paced with enough fits of fury, tender bonding and “Three Stooges-like” buffoonery to keep all engaged. (A minor beef – the first few slow motion shots are amusing, but after a dozen or so, it tends to wear out faster than a pair of Po’s trousers.)

Visually, “Panda” at times resembles the fluidity and subtlety a Jon J. Muth book (the Caldecott-Award-winning series that features a Zen panda by the name of Stillwater). Other times, it serves as a loving tribute to all those “wire fu” epics by The Shaw Brothers in the early 70s and the visual grace of “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.”

Most the time, it is happy to sit comfortably in the middle of the road, not reaching for the epic scale of a Pixar film, but putting more into it than your average VeggieTales adventure.

As Confucius said: “To go beyond is as wrong as to fall short.”