usesoap Blog

Review: President Barack Obama: The Man and His Journey

usesoap — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 21:43:20 GMT

President Barack Obama: The Man and His Journey

Director: Maria Arita Howard

CodeBlack Entertainment and Vivendient Films

I am always skeptical of what seem to be cash-grabs. You know, those books you see in the supermarket, promising to be a titillating expose on the flavor of the month, only to be duped by works that are at best cobbled together by random facts and stats easily revealed by a quick Google search?

When it comes to our latest historic presidential inauguration, I have my fair share of memorabilia (pins, posters, etc). But I am wary of documentaries that seem pre-packaged and ready to ride the coattails of the success for monetary gain, which is why when I sat down to review “President Barack Obama: The Man and His Journey,” I was, at the very least, dubious.

It is far from the overnight, stitched-together compilation that it could have been – with interview footage handsomely shot, subtly lit ,and including a wide-range of interviewees. But the film will perhaps serve better for classrooms of future generations as a cursory primer of Barack’s political life; for it is not really the “intimate portrait” we are promised on the back cover of the DVD box.

Director Maria Arita Howard keeps matters moving briskly for its 90-minute run time, but sometimes falls back on one too many shots of smiling children, flapping flags and amber waves of grain that were too much even for an Obama supporter.

She does populate it with a nice mix of supporters -- everyone from radio personality Tom Joyner, actor Blair Underwood (who also serves as narrator and who has not seemed to age at all since his “L.A. Law” days), Martin Luther King, III, journalist Roland Martin and actor Hill Harper, a Harvard classmate of Obama. The film rapidly covers his life’s journey, yet barely stays too long in any particular area for us to get a sense of its influence on Obama, or his on it.

Each fawns over the politician, from the grassroots campaign volunteer to his fellow senators. And while Obama’s story is quintessentially American, the viewer is never stirred to the goosebumps one can encounter by watching a speech given by the man himself.

Now, being a political beast myself, there was little included that I did not already know about our President’s political past, so for those who have only gleaned their Obama knowledge throughout the latest campaign, there may be many an interesting kernel of information of his personal and political past.

But there are also segments that seem rather superfluous to the man’s impact (do we really need to hear the entire song of “Fired Up”?). For someone with such a meteoric rise to power, some insight along the way would have certainly been advantageous. I would much rather have spent time learning about his childhood struggles as a bi-racial child and how they have strengthened his reserve and convictions than to see grainy footage of him waving to crowds that were played on endless loops during this past election season.

Of course, the biography of the man is still being written and will undoubtedly serve to inspire song, film and documentaries for years to come. As it stands, “President Barack Obama: The Man and His Journey” is a serviceable primer, filled with a nice range of articulate, interesting supporters from throughout his life. But as a probing, in-depth portrait of this inspirational figure and the motivating factors that led him to become the most powerful man on the planet, “President Barack Obama” only skims the surface.

The disc also includes seven motivational “Yes We Can” shorts, which depict several strife-ridden situations, all inspired by the words of our president, and each closing with the seminal will.i.am number, but sadly, no video of the song itself. Instead you can watch “Fired Up” again from the Bergevin Brothers, which is already played at length during the documentary, and a music video for Brian McKnight’s “Yes We Can!” There are also extended interviews from many of the interviewees that prove more entertaining than insightful.

A 'Bloody' good time, as long as it's in 3-D

usesoap — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 18:34:10 GMT

My Bloody Valentine 3-D is a film comfortable in its own skin... even if that skin is either impaled, gouged, filleted or otherwise decimated by its pickaxe-wielding killer.

Count me as one of the chorus members who bemoans each and every new "re-imagining" of old horror films. I found the latest Texas Chainsaws to be dull blades at best, the new Prom Night to be just as awkward and unfulfilling as my own, and I really have no real urge to see Jason arrive on his unlucky Friday in a few weeks (but I'm sure I'll still go).

But by dressing it with the novelty of 3-D, the creators of Valentine have taken a forgotten, otherwise expendable little slasher film from back in the day and gave it a William Castle-style jolt. For those unfamiliar, Castle was the legendary director who in the '50s resorted to gimmicks like buzzers in theater seats for some of his films to entice audience involvement.

The use of 3-D is certainly nothing new for horror films, as everyone from Jaws to Jason has at one time promised "a new dimension in terror" or some weak derivative. But it is only recently that the medium has been perfected, ditching the old school red-and-blue tinted glasses (called anaglyph) for the much more fluid "Real 3-D" and "Dolby 3-D"," in which patrons sports gray-tinted shades that reduce the risk of headaches often incurred by the former. It is no longer seen as a hokey gimmick and is becoming more and more commonplace for animated films to be released in this format (in theaters that can project this format) simultaneously with 2-D versions.

And Valentine certainly realizes that this added dimension is its biggest (perhaps only?) selling point. From the signature weapon of choice for the film's killer to various other objects (tree limbs, ham hocks, eyeballs), Valentine is not stingy with its device and hurls things at the audience at a brisk clip. It's even conveniently set in a mining shaft, whose cavernous walls allow for excellent scope. Fans of the genre will also be happy to note that it is quick to the bloodshed, punctuating the film with several inventive impaling, creative crushings and slick slaughters.

But perhaps even more surprising is the film's little Scooby-Doo-style mystery that had me and my viewing mates guessing until the end. It's not perfect and does bend the rules a bit, but for those seeking more accurate crime scene analysis, there's more than likely a procedural drama on television right now for you.

The original film was notable to young gore hounds such as myself in the pages of Fangoria magazine (imagine Entertainment Weekly, with more dismemberings), which previewed the film's deliciously bloody deaths in full color. As with most films of the era, the result was not the sum of its body parts. But the producers of the remake have apparently recognized its strengths (the gore) and realized its flaws (everything else), and have crafted an efficient little scary, fun date movie that claims to be nothing more.

The plot, if it matters, concerns an incident in a small Pennsylvania mining town in which an accident brought tragedy to the town. In it, a group of miners were trapped inside, all killed by a co-worker who was not all that into sharing the limited oxygen below. He emerges from his coma after a year and, muscle atrophy be damned, manages to massacre an entire hospital in a violent rage. A decade later, similar killings befall the same sleepy town.

The only actor worth mentioning is the elder cast member who serves as a shout-out to old school horror fans. Tom Atkins, veteran of such '80s-era horror flicks as Halloween III: Season of the Witch, The Fog, Creepshow, and Night of the Creeps plays a sheriff who supposedly originally disposed of the killer years ago, only to find that he may not have sealed the deal.

Director Patrick Lussier's prior credits include crappy direct-to-video fodder that would not suggest this film would have any mark of quality whatsoever. And while his skills here are not top tier, they are better than the average genre junk that pummels audiences into sensory overload.

My Bloody Valentine by no means redefines the genre or reinvigorates the device of an added dimension. But where it succeeds is in embracing both, accepting them for what they are and offering viewers a wholly entertaining diversion, filled with cheap, effective thrills and senseless mayhem that are the staples of the slasher film.

(Those who view the 2-D version, though: Enter at your own risk.)

Nothing 'Revolutionary' along the well-traveled 'Road'

usesoap — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 16:44:58 GMT

Director Sam Mendes does not seem to be a big fan of the suburbs. Between his latest film Revolutionary Road and 1999’s American Beauty, Mendes picks at the scabs of suburbia, allowing viewers to gaze at all that oozes from it.

Like Beauty, Road focuses on a couple whose relationship luster is fading fast, as youthful aspirations fall wayside to the compromises of adulthood. But where the former film dealt with the struggles of a modern day, middle-aged couple, Road focuses on a '50s-era husband and wife (played by Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet) at the earlier stages of their domesticity. And for those fans looking forward to the romantic pairing of the leads from a certain movie about a big boat, let's just say they had it easy with the iceberg compared to what they put themselves through here.

Frank (DiCaprio) and April's (Winslet) life certainly begins storybook enough – meeting at a social event, eyes locking across a crowded, smoky room and soon settling into cookie-cutter suburbia to raise a couple of rugrats. Frank, the breadwinner, dutifully goes to a job in which the only perk for him is that it allows him to “swim” in the secretarial pool from time to time. April, meanwhile, struggles with the fact that her acting dreams have been dashed and puts on a Douglas Sirk-sized smile as she attempts to conform to her role as Happy Housewife.

As April grabs at some sort of identity outside the home, Frank half-heartedly goes along for the ride, agreeing to flee to Paris, where she thinks they can start anew and she can be their sole support system. The vision is as childishly executed as it sounds, with no real plan or vision as to what will happen once they arrive (we never see the couple attempt to even learn the language). We spend more time with them telling everyone they're giving their American Dream lifestyle the big kiss-off, rather than actually preparing for their future life. When that dream dies on the vine, their world begins to implode.

Revolutionary Road is based on an acclaimed 1961 novel by Richard Yates, which, at the time, might have been seen as groundbreaking, as most domestic images of the time were that of the Cleaver clan. But today, the film seems already dated. Gone is the slightest trace of wit (albeit for one supporting character) that Yates infused in his novel, and it's pretty much a given now that the media-fueled visions of the perfect family were usually anything but. Viewers are thrust into their relationship mid-tempest, and there is hardly any trace of love that was ever shared between the two. Even their children are used as props, both figuratively and literally, as they vanish from the picture for conveniently long stretches.

The result is like being invited over to the neighborhood home of a querulous couple, as you sit awkwardly counting the minutes until you can excuse yourself to relieve the babysitter. Under Mendes' direction, the couple never becomes an actual “couple,” just sounding boards for each other's frustrations.

The only character who is halfway interesting is John (played by the excellent Michael Shannon), a neighbor's son, fresh from a mental institution, who delights in exposing the couple's flaws and hidden truths to their life together. Also to the film's credit is production designer Kristi Zea who captures the suburban sterility in almost every scene within the home.

But despite the effective histrionics of Leo and Kate – which feel more like Oscar-clip reels than part of a cohesive narrative – the film is never the deeply moving, personal character study it wants to by. Directors Douglas Sirk (Imitation of Life, All That Heaven Allows) and Nicholas Ray (Bigger Than Life, Rebel Without a Cause) covered the same dirt-under-the-astroturf territory decades ago, when it felt more dangerous to do so. Hell, even the Brady Bunch got in on it in their 1995 film.

Exposing the lack of conformity of '50s wedded bliss today carries none of the same impact. We are closing in on the second decade of the new millennium, and I think it's pretty well established that the image of the “perfect family” was a myth. Viewers can simply tune into AMC's expertly crafted Mad Men each week to witness a much more colorful, developed expose of the era's seamier side instead a dead-end drive down this Road.

Review: "Three Monkeys' (Uc Maymun)

usesoap — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 21:37:37 GMT

So often, when a film is described as 'deliberately paced,' it's can be read as being 'slow.' 'In the Bedroom' initially comes to mind off the top of my head.

And while the camera may stay statioary to soak in the scenery, the electrical undercurrent of 'Three Monkeys' (Uc Maymun in Turkish) is anything but lethargic.

Cinematographer Nuri Bilge Ceylan uses natural and man-made elements as supporting actors. A rolling storm cloud here, a thundering train there, all signify struggles the main characters face as they attempt to lie and cheat their way out of the dark corners in which they've found themselves.

A middle-aged politician (Ercan Kesal) drives down a desolate road, eyes heavy with sleep, when he is jolted awake by his car slamming into and killing a pedestrian.

In a panic, he bolts the scene and later persuades his longtime driver, Eyup (played by Yavuz Bingol), to take the fall and and serve the jail time in exchange for large chunks of change for him, Hacer his wife ( played by Hatice Aslan) and Ismael, his young son (played by Ahmet Rifts Sungar).

As often does happen with money, problems arise. Ismael is of limited motivation and feels that only if the money were spent on a new car, his dream career could be attained. Hacer, on the other hand, begins an affair with her hubby's boss -- yes, the man Eyuap's serving time for -- and is reluctant to let it go upon his prison release.

The film's title refers to those little chimps that cover their eyes, ears and mouth in order to "see no evil..." etc. And that is exactly what the characters do, they shut down the darker parts and sort of wish their troubles away.

And this often justifies the lingering, physically inert stretches, hoping that those dark clouds will just roll over eventually and sunny skies will soon follow. But just as director Ceylan cuts away, so does the hope for a cheerful conclusion.

It's not the prettiest portrait of human nature ( as evidenced by Eyup's violent reaction to his wife's affair, but indifference of his boss killing a man and covering it up), but may be more accurate than we're comfortable with. If it's pictures on the TV, we feel brief sadness before turning the channel; if it hits home, we're pissed.

The performances are uniformly believable, with Aslan as the true standout. She's the victim of a loveless marriage, and when her husband's jailed for the better part of a year, her flirtation with freedom is palpable.

And though Three Monkeys dabbles with excellence throughout, it never fully acheives it. Resolutions come a tad too easy in a film as emotionally messy as this, and while the cinematography enhances, it is too often used as a narrative crutch.

Still, Three Monkeys offers further progression of a filmmaker who is not afraid of a few risks, and with each film, Ceylan has been building a solid resume (with 2002's Distant and 2006's Climates) that will most likely reap future rewards

'The Wrestler': Rourke's emotional bodyslam

usesoap — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 02:16:13 GMT

Full disclosure: My love for Mickey Rourke is pretty boundless. In college, I devoted an entire expose that even lavished praise on such works as the little-seen underrated gem Homeboy (which Rourke wrote) and the misunderstood Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man. It is almost as though he has tried throughout the years to pummel away at his good looks, and prove to someone (himself?) that there was much more to the man than his Brando-esque visage suggested.

At a time in his career which many of his peers were bruising their bodies in an attempt to reverse time, he decided to step into the ring as a semi-pro boxer, subjecting himself to beatings no film critic could ever bestow upon him.

That personal history is quite possibly the reason why The Wrestler resonates with such humanity and humility, as Rourke does not portray so much as inhabits the character of Randy "The Ram" Robinson, a man hopelessly devoted to the '80s-era heights of his fame that have long passed him by. And yet he is still entering the ring in front of devoted, albeit fewer, fans. His entrance is still set to the solidly '80s metal of Quiet Riot's "Bang Your Head," and his van's stereo is often blasting tunes from other bygone acts such as The Scorpions and Cinderella.

You can almost hear his tendons stretching and snapping after each performance now. And still, he subjects himself to low-rent gigs, hitched onto memories of former glories and the nostalgia of what once was. Scene after scene aches with honesty, from the makeshift matches in which wrestling's washed up and wannabes mingle in high school cafeterias that double as changing rooms, to the quiet moments of Randy desperately extending a crippled hand to his estranged adult daughter.

The one ember of hope in Randy's life comes from Cassidy (played by Marisa Tomei), a stripper whose sympathy for the tough-but-tender wrassler blossoms into friendship. Her predicament is quite similar, in that her career is one defined by her body, and as time begins to erode its youthful elasticity, she can see her shelf-life is nearing its expiration date. As Cassidy, Tomei continues to set the screen ablaze as she did in last year's Before the Devil Knows You're Dead. The only criticism is that her role requires her to be rejected by some patrons who mock her age and request another stripper, and I cannot envision a rational person who would ever scoff at the chance for even one minute in the Champagne Room with her.

It's fitting that Bruce Springsteen closes the film, as the entire film unfolds like a dramatization of a character from the musician's catalogue. And the film is director Darren Aronofsky's Nebraska: honest, raw, stark and nakedly personal. The director, who is more known for his flashy, dramatically braided dramas (Pi, Requiem for a Dream, The Fountain), applied no technical wizardry here, even allowing passing migrating geese to populate the background sound (which, in itself takes on meaning of moving on, something the main character just can't do).

This is not to say that The Wrestler is without its moments of levity. During a shopping trip for Randy's daughter, Cassidy asks him what type of style the girl prefers in clothing: Goth, hippie, preppy? “I think she's a lesbian, does that make a difference?” he cluelessly responds.

Anchoring it all is Rourke, whose performance feels like his entire career has been working toward this role. Battered, bruised, but doggedly determined to stay relevant, Rourke's impassioned pleas for acceptance are heartbreaking and captivatingly honest. In one brief bit between Randy and his daughter (played by Evan Rachel Wood, whose career is littered with parts like this), it plays almost like an off-camera confessional from Rourke himself. The scene is vaguely similar to one in this year's JCVD, in which Jean Claude Van Damme places his muscular heart squarely on his sleeve.

The Wrestler explores no new ground thematically, but demonstrates that, in the right hands with the right actors, even time-tested tales can be polished off and presented anew with astounding results.

REview: 'Diary of a Bad Lad

usesoap — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 18:31:21 GMT

Who are these people?" is what I repeatedly asked myself when perusing the press release pages of accolades bestowed on the British thriller, Diary of a Bad Lad.

Chris Bernard called it “Absolutely superb...and completely inspiring” across the top of the promotional materials. Who is Chris Bernard? Good question, since the press packet did not attribute his name to anything. According to “the Google,” he's either a model from Lexington, Kentucky, a married software designer from Chicago, the author of Drop Shipping Sucks, or the founder of the Las Vegas Institute of Noetic Sciences Chapter.

And as insightful as any of those Chris Bernards may be about film, I am not sure how much I trust their and value their opinions. Perhaps it's time to rethink my credentials as a paid film critic, but color me bored. I just could not enter the groove that Diary of a Bad Lad was trying to create.

It unfurls as yet another 'found footage' pic, supposedly spliced together from more than 30 hours of "investigative footage". What I watched looked more like outtakes cobbled together from Guy Ritchie test reels.

The faux documentary format is often the blessing for the first-time filmmaker and the curse for the audience. To Bad Lad's credit, it was apparently completed a number of years ago, placing it pre-Cloverfield and Qurantine. But that does not excuse it from the sheer lack of narrative focus and complete slight of character development.

From what I am able to ascertain, Barry Lick (played by Jonathan Williams), a swarthy film professor, hires a gaggle of his students to help him film a drug deal that ultimately goes sour. Instead of high-tailing it out of Dodge, he claims that he wants to capture the gritty realism of the proceedings and demands they keep shooting — even as they dispose of a dead body and consume copious illegal substances themselves.

It's one thing to film an event as it unfolds; it's quite another when you yourself are committing said crime, implicating yourself in the process. It is exactly this little narrative nugget that kept me from investing my interest in any of the characters or events of Lad.

Then, there are artistic flourishes which completely remove the viewer from the documentary aesthetic it tries so hard to create. During more than one scene, the characters are seen snorting drugs and the director alters the film's soundtrack, which is supposed to emulate the character's high, but moves it completely out of the realm of documentary.

Then there is the dilemma of whacking through the thicket of accents, and I watch a lot of British TV and film. I am never one to protest reading subtitles, and I'll even take the time to look up cultural-specific witticisms, but Lad's amateur recording devices made it near impossible for the outsider to even decipher what was being said at times, much less extract any meaning from it.

Some scenes tended to go on forever, such as the amateur 'porn footage' that begins as amusingly playful, but drags on into tedium after five minutes or so.

It's commendable on a sheerly artistic level, thanks to director Michael Booth, but perhaps a little too impressed with itself, soaking in some of the bells and whistles of Apple's home filmmaking programs — a grainy filter here, a color drain there.

It does all this at the expense of character development. Too often, the film feels like outtakes from a film, with various seedy sorts mingling without purpose or direction. And while the actors involved are all first-timers, they fail to pull off the naturalism that is required for a film that is supposed to appear more real than a staged theatrical picture.

Director Booth has obviously paid attention in film class when they covered the chapter on visual effects, but must have dozed off during the lecture on character. This is one Diary that perhaps should have remained under lock and key.

The best and the rest in 2008 mainstream movies

usesoap — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 01:34:11 GMT

Make no mistake, 2008 was the year of the woman. From politics to multiplex, they were the most newsworthy.

At the box office, week after week brought about stories about how, mother of all shockers, women enjoy going to the movies too. From summer “event movies” (usually an exclusive boys tree house where "No Gurlz Allowd"), to record-breaking such as best opening for a female director, women were the new black at the box office.

In 2008:

Twilight was the highest-grossing film opening by a female director (at $70 million);
It received the second-largest advanced ticket sales, trailing only The Dark Knight;
Sex and the City was the best opening ever for an R-rated comedy;
The SATC gals also debuted as the fifth best R-rated film of all time;
The film also bested Mission Impossible as the best debut of a film based on a TV show.

Now, perhaps next year we can do the same with good movies.

Sex in the City was the female equivalent of Iron Man, replacing magical gadgetry with matching accessories and pyrotechnics for Prada. The other glass ceiling-shattering film, Twilight, featured a lead who thankfully did not have to resort to sex for empowerment, but she really didn't do much else, either. Twilight's accolades are deserved for what it accomplished behind the camera, not what was captured on it.

Though there were film aplenty that could populate both lists, I tried to limit this list to films that would have played in most major cities outside the metropolitan areas.

BEST

The Dark Knight: Let me join the chorus of hosannas for this little underrated indie gem, for I know it could use the help financially.

WALL·E: A family film with a virtually dialogue-free first half, a protagonist made of metal, an Earth barren of life and squelched by pollution, a cuddly cockroach sidekick, and a human cast that's a Dorito away from permanent bedrest. A film of staggering beauty from a company for which that is a trademark feature.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button: Director David Fincher's most accessible, polished film to date. While Zodiac and Fight Club may resonate longer, Button is the kind of marriage between theatrics, epic scope, and pure emotion that lands him in the top tier of working directors. Winning, tender performances by Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett only further cement the film's top 10 placement.

Burn After Reading: After bumming us out of us with last year's stark, desolate (but excellent) No Country for Old Men, the Brothers Coen demonstrate their sharp comic chops with this irreverent, all-star dissection of middle-age madness and frustration of lives lived that come nowhere close to youthful aspirations.

Milk: Sean Penn offers further proof of his necessity in cinema today with his ingratiating portrayal of slain politician Harvey Milk. Director Gus Van Sant lifts his vision from his navel (where it was focused during films such as Gerry and Last Days) to create a sensitive, intimate biopic that is saved from maudlin tendencies by Penn's presence.

Tropic Thunder: Bold, unexpected comedy that does not wear out its welcome by the third act, like so many other mainstream comedies. Ben Stiller directs Robert Downey Jr. to his second standout performance this summer.

Quantum of Solace: Some have decried the fact that Daniel Craig's Bond is just too mean. But Solace, which feels like a perfect extension of Casino Royale, feels as though it is taking its sweet time in creating the psyche of someone who has reason to be known as the greatest super-spy the world has ever known.

Let the Right One In: This is a bit of a cheat, since this may have only appeared on area screens as part of a film festival, but its effect is one that reverberates far outside its limited runs nationwide. In a year when Twilight has been garnering all the attention, The Right One has become the one true vampire (and adolescence) film whose bite leaves a mark and should be sought out on DVD before the inevitable US remake.

U2-3D: Demonstrating just why they are the world's biggest rock band, U2 raised the roof with this truly cinematic 3D spectacle that not only captured the feel of one of their concerts, but invited the audience on stage to jam with Bono and the boys.

Slumdog Millionaire: Danny Boyle never disappoints, even with his misfires (A Life Less Ordinary, Sunshine). But he nails it again with Slumdog, a rather pedestrian tale told with wit, undeniable humanity and delivered with uncompromising conviction.

WORST

The Happening: When wind is your chief villain, it's time to rethink the script.

The Love Guru: Mike Myers steps in Deepak doo-doo.

Sex and the City: Inside this film's Sax Fifth Avenue window dressing lies the the cold, calculated heart of an empty Wal-Mart.

88Minutes/Righteous Kill: Al Pacino should have known better after working with director Jon Avnet in 88, but instead enlisted fellow legend Robert DeNiro to further Kill both their careers.

X-Files: I Want to Believe: But now I no longer do.

Seven Pounds: Will Smith packed his bags for a guilt trip, and we're forced to ride along in the back seat.

An American Carol: Looks like Republicans were just as good at making films as they were winning elections in 2008.

Meet the Spartans/Disaster Movie: Cinematic parody: Born 1923, Died 2008.

Eastwood's motor still revs in 'Torino'

usesoap — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 00:25:55 GMT

Clint Eastwood directs two different types of films, both with a steady, sturdy hand and pinpoint focus. And while they may not all be million-dollar babies, they are reliable and marked with a love of the craft.

Occasionally he'll swing for the fences, such as with his epic, both-sides-of-the-coin World War II-fer, Flags of Our Father and Letters From Iwo Jima, and the sweeping Unforgiven. Other times, he seems to just want to get things off his chest, such as in Gran Torino, his second release in as many months.

For those who long for his Dirty Harry days, you've got it, punk. In Torino, he's Dirty Walt (Mr. Kowalski, as he likes to be addressed), a hardened veteran whose world is becoming increasingly smaller — squelched by his alienated sons, who connect with him only in times of need, and his neighborhood, with its increasing foreign population and gang violence.

Walt is first introduced to us at the funeral of his wife. Filled with pain and anger, Walt takes every opportunity to unleash his racist, bigoted aggression on anyone within earshot. In church, he growls "Jesus," which seems more of a swear than a prayer. He's like Archie Bunker without the laugh track.

His new neighbors, a Hmong family with two young adult children, are easy targets for his ire. The youngest, Thao (played by newcomer Bee Vang) runs afoul with some gangbangers who force him to steal Walt's prized titular vehicle. It results in Thao eyeing the losing end of Walt's rifle and the menacing thugs fleeing in frustrated failure. (Wily Walt, unwilling to pronounce his name, calls the boy 'Toad,' which is actually one of the more kind nicknames he bestows.) Thao's precocious older sister, Su (played with natural effervescence by Ahney Her), unfazed by Walt's forked tongue, wedges herself, Thao, and their family into Walt's life.

There is nary a moment in Torino when viewers would be surprised at what transpires, but the film rests on Eastwood's directorial foundation, which is as granite solid as his glare, and it's easy to invest in his character's plight, even if it is mostly self-induced. And even though this film hasn't a fraction of its scope, it does share Unforgiven's vision of an America that is slipping into a new era and one man's resistance to going quietly.

It is anchored by Eastwood the performer, who playfully tweaks his big screen tough guy persona without mocking it, like DeNiro and Brando did in their latter years. At 78, Eastwood still looks as though he could take down a small flock of thugs, but he also shows the folly of his character's eye-for-an-eye mentality.

Like Walt's Torino, the film is polished and purring. It motors along with muscle, but just as the Ford Torino was never quite as symbolic as, say, the Mustang, the film is modest and dependable, not a flashy award-worthy affair. In fact, were it not for Eastwood's involvement, it's hard not to think that this film would barely make it to the screen, most certainly not with the splash it's currently receiving.

But it is two more hours we get to spend on screen with an icon who, unlike the beleaguered American auto industry for which his character once worked, is still going strong.

Penn serves up warm 'Milk'

usesoap — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 13:15:18 GMT

I'm not sure what is more sad: politician Harvey Milk's life being cut short by an assassin's bullett, or the recent passing of the California's reprehensible Prop 8 Bill, making it seem this man's death may have been in vain.

Sean Penn inhabits the lead role in 'Milk', and through him we can see just how magnetic a man the San Francisco candidate was and how easy it must have been to warm to his cause.

But Penn does not lionize the man, unafraid to show his fears, doubts and flirtation with hubris as his voice begins to reverberate across the state and the nation. To see Penn, who often appears pensive and prickly on talk shows and in public of late, return to the type of performance that is sweet, sensitive and thoroughly endearing is rewarding enough. But he is surrounded by thoughtful, passionate performers who all seemed so moved by Milk's legacy, they were determined to do him justice.

Milk arrives in San Fran at the start of the swingin' 70s, frustrated and ready to start his life anew as he approaches his 40th birthday.

It is there he bumps into his partner Scott Smith (played by James Franco), and they embark on their journey from small camera shop owners to activist organizers helping to reshape the cultural landscape of California.

Where 'Milk' separates itself from other gay-themed mainstream films is that it presents its characters as peers. Films like 'Brokeback Mountain' and 'Jeffrey' were more about allowing the lifestyle to exist in its own little vacuum, if not truly accepting these individuals as equals in every sense of the word.

It's the difference between accpeting a gay person and accepting a person who happens to be gay.

Director Gus Van Sandt does this by presenting us with the leads' sexuality in the first few minutes of the film. Penn and Franco tango in an intimate encounter signifying the same electricity all relationships share in the first stage.

Soon after, it settles into the same banality and common day-to-day exchanges all couples shift into, except theirs is one that faces constant tumult outside their own happy domicile - fear, anger and hate await them at every public demonstration of their affection toward one another.

It's as if to say to skeptical, straight audience members, "see, this lifestyle you so fear can be just as mundane as yours, but contains no less love within it."

I, personally respected 'Brokeback' as a political statement more than a film. I felt it was oftentimes dramatically inert, but I admired what it set out to accomplish.

With 'Milk' and its engaging cast of underdogs, there's little downtime; in fact, there's always an underlying sense of urgency as they confront their fair share of injustices that meet their everyday existence, from indifferent police to angered citizens to downright spiteful politicians.

Josh Brolin continues his streak (starting with Planet Terror and leading to last month's W.) as the tortured fellow politician Dan White, who admires Milk's appeal as much as he despises his orientation. He is one of the film's few flaws, as descends into his own hell, we wish we were afforded mere glimpses into his life.

The other weak link is Milk's partner Jack Lira (played by Diego Luna) following a breakup with Scott. We understand he's a mess, but it remains unclear as to why Milk stays with this obvious basket case after repeated signs of an impending ugly meltdown.

Van Sandt seamlessly blends archival news footage of the era with his own , drained of just enough color to feel era-specific. This comes in handy when he includes clips of the self-righteous Anita Bryant sermonizing about Milk's deviant behavior.

Bryant looms heavily like a fog of hate and intolerance, donned in a frilly blouse and sensible pumps, and no actress is needed to shed further light on her moralistic monologues. Her damnation of gays over Proposition 6 ( which would allow the firing of teachers over sexual orientation ) is icily scary.

What was equally surprising was the film's minimalist, sweeping score by Danny Elfman, which enhances the picture without once intruding and making it seem melodramatic.

'Milk' does feel as though it sometimes smooths over the politician's rougher edges, yet it never feels less than authentic, courtesy of Penn's embrace of his character.

The only shame of 'Milk' is that its release is a few weeks too late to perhaps influence a recent stripping of civil rights. It would have made 'Milk's' ending more stirring and just.

Now, it's just heartbreakingly sad.

Actions speak louder than words in 'Frost/Nixon'

usesoap — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 22:59:40 GMT

There's a sad irony to Frost/Nixon as it parallels today's political landscape: A wartime president with incredibly low approval ratings, belligerently refusing to admit any fault in a conflict costing countless lives.

What's perhaps equally tragic is this sort of naked, no-holds-barred exchange, ratings-be-damned type of mainstream television, will most likely never happen in our lifetime; as we are already being treated to a "re-writing" of our sitting president's history by a cadre of his operatives.As both Frost (played by Michael Sheen) and Nixon (played ny Frank Langella) get top billing, there is a third headliner of the film and that is the role of the ol’ boob tube itself.

Not only are those days of televised journalism over, but the film demonstrated just how valuable it was politically. From Nixon's admission to his sweaty upper lip costing him a debate, to Frost's entire interview being all-but obsolete after no major network agrees to air it, Frost/Nixon demonstrated just how integral the tube had become in the American political landscape.

There is a workman-like structure to the film, which follows the waning days of both its leads careers - Frost, once an international talk show sensation, now resorting to stories on magicians in his British homeland, and Nixon, resigning his post in a web of paranoia-fueled corruption.

In a desperate move for legitimacy, Frost attempts to nab Nixon for a four-part interview, but soon realized how deep he's in it after the tv studios reject it and Nixon proves to be much more cunning and savvy a subject than his hangdog expression appears.

If possible, Langella should be nominated for his body language over his vocal delivery, which is more mockery than manifestation. While his harumphing and bluster can distract, the small, subtle shifts and physical tics are what makes him so imminently watchable.In his performance, we get more out of his long, uncomfortable stretches of silence, body adjustments and far-off inner reflection than we do from his line readings.

The dialogue, based on the award-winning Broadway production from Peter Morgan, does have its crackling moments , such as Nixon effortlessly burrowing under Frost's skin mere moments before they "go live" in order to knock him off balance.

(As a personal aside, those scenes reminded me of my own unnerving dalliances as a guest on live broadcast TV. On a local news program, I nervously tried to memorize all my responses, focusing on being calm, cool, relaxed and witty . This was made increasingly more difficult as the camera rolled threateningly closer to my face and its operator started the countdown: "and in five!...four! ... three!... *Remember, Rob, don't look directly into the camera*...two!...one! ...")

I think there are deer out there that did a better job not looking into headlights than I.

As David Frost, Sheen recalls the stiff, slightly befuddled Tony Blair he provided for The Queen. You can sense his desperation that, being a public TV personality he's not allowed to leak in the public eye.

Director Ron Howard is such an unobtrusive director, he's the perfect choice to helm a feature based on a stage play, where every move matters. He does not waste time with artistic flourishes, but punches it with just enough theatricality to make it appealing to large audiences.

Like JFK Howard understands the importance of a shiny supporting cast : think Ed Harris in Apollo 13, Robert DeNiro in Backdraft and Wilson in Cast Away.Here, Sam Rockwell, Oliver Platt, Kevin Bacon and Toby Jones all provide what is required from roles such as theirs, pithy, scene-grabbing deliveries within their respective minutes on screen.

I know Frost / Nixon is being floated as Oscar bait, and while both leads are worthy of some acknowledgement, I can't bring myself to wholly support this as a serious contender to the already strong list of potential candidates already making the rounds.

It's perhaped a bit too polished for one of the most tarnishined times in our nation's presidential history.