Haywire (2012)

Haywire (2012)
Dir. Steven Soderbergh

3.5 out of 5

Former mixed martial arts fighter (and American Gladiator) Gina Carano plays a private security contractor who uses her fists and feet (and thighs) of fury to exact revenge on her betrayers in Haywire, a sleek and straightforward action film from the ever-stylish Steven Soderbergh. After a nearly-botched hostage rescue in Barcelona, Carano's boss (Ewan McGregor) convinces the reluctant agent to take one more job overseas. But when the mission goes awry, Carano must disappear and evade the considerable forces mustered against her, slipping back into the United States and restoring her good name. It's typical off-the-grid intrigue interspersed with fight scenes that aim to mimic a brutal realism not unlike the fisticuffs of the Bourne franchise. Haywire is arguably better at achieving this goal, however - in many respects it's the un-Bourne, refusing to glamorize its violence with jittery editing or a pulse-pounding score. Most of the time it's just two people mercilessly whaling on each other in front of an almost motionless camera.

This is a keenly calculated decision, as Carano is very specifically cast as a blunt instrument first and a thespian second. Doing most - if not all - of her own stunts, she is highly convincing as an icy angel of retribution. Soderbergh goes out of his way to make the rest of film compliment her stark performance, cleverly framing her against the perpetually grey skies of Dublin and the wintry wilderness of upstate New York. It is in the latter location that she encounters civilian Michael Angarano, doing the best he can in a stock role as a bewildered bystander along for the ride. He's partially an audience proxy, as a great chunk of the film is told to him via flashback. But beyond allowing Carano to briefly break from hardass mode and exhibit some mothering tendencies, he lacks a greater purpose in the film. In fact, the supporting cast as a whole is underdeveloped, mostly functioning as a set of human bowling pins for Carano to eventually knock down in expected fashion.

There's a sense that Soderbergh is kind of messing around in Haywire, trying to prove (for reasons unknown) that he can produce a pleasingly economical action flick. He seems happily beholden to certain conventions of the genre - an epic row between Carano and Michael Fassbender ends up demolishing every single bit of a four-star hotel suite - but at the same time seems a bit bored by them, as the short running time and lack of character depth conceal a much sadder story about a woman obsessively molded into a emotionless human weapon by her paranoid, ex-vet single dad (Bill Paxton). But none of this detracts too much from the film's entertainment value. Haywire is a coolly efficient thriller, if not a terribly complex one, and like Carano it smartly uses the element of surprise to compensate for its lack of brawn. It may not be the biggest or baddest action movie on the block, but woe be to those who underestimate it.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Dir. Tomas Alfredson

3.5 out of 5

Watching Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Tomas Alfredson's hushed adaptation of the seminal John Le Carré spy novel, feels a lot like eavesdropping on a clandestine conversation spoken partly in code. The exchanges won't sound so labyrinthine to viewers familiar with Le Carré's book, but for the rest of us, there's Gary Oldman. The erstwhile chameleon effortlessly slouches into the rumpled suit and thick spectacles of George Smiley, a British intelligence lifer barely forced into retirement before he is recruited to sniff out a mole amongst the highest echelons of her majesty's spooks. As a spy, Oldman doesn't cut the most impressive profile. He's more like a cop on the beat as he tracks down former colleagues and informants who know the circumstances surrounding the shooting and capture of a British agent (Mark Strong) during a mission secretly designed to function as a Soviet trap. Oldman pursues each thread slowly and methodically, his weary countenance seemingly incapable of registering anything but a neutral pensiveness. His inscrutability turns out to be his greatest weapon. Sometimes it takes a tortoise to catch a hare.

Yet as deliberate as Tinker Tailor aims to be, its non-linear structure and dense plotting make connecting the dots quite challenging. It takes intense focus to decipher exactly what's going on, and even then most mortals (the author included) would benefit from a second viewing. This is a movie that requires you to be your own detective, and is perhaps best viewed with a notebook or maybe even a tape recorder. I don't think the director or the screenwriters are trying to be oblique - that's just the nature of the film. It's a hushed story of secrets and deception that has much in common with Alfredson's meditative vampire drama, Let the Right One In, rationing key information until it's finally delivered in furtive, frigid whispers. (Though the excellent ending montage is a crucial exception.)

That this isn't terminally boring speaks to Alfredson's skill as a visual stylist. His sensibility is (what else?) unassuming, but he's found a story where it fits like a glove. Alfredson immerses the audience in his gloomy vision of the early 1970s, with drab government buildings and cluttered flats creating lonely silhouettes for characters resigned to a lifetime of suspicion and malaise - even at the office Christmas party. The characters meet a similar standard of dowdiness - save for Tom Hardy's roguish agent who is the first to blow the whistle - but this is often even less appealing than it sounds. With so many misshapen intelligence men in dark suits, it's hard to tell who's a real player and who's just there to fill out the police lineup. Tinker Tailor may be too impassive for some tastes, and it's never going to be mistaken as a work of pure entertainment. But as cinematic homework assignments go, this is one that makes for some pretty fascinating research.

The Big Year (2011)

The Big Year (2011)
Dir. David Frankel

2.5 out of 5

As the kind of movie made for people complain that Hollywood used to make good movies, gosh darn it, the kind the whole family could enjoy, The Big Year takes no chances in establishing its aura of genial harmlessness. Doughy man-child Jack Black stars as an avid birdwatcher (or “birder” in official parlance) living with his parents when he decides to tackle the “big year” – an annual competition to spot the most species of birds in North America within a calendar year. To win, he must outmaneuver the current record holder, a paisley fedora-wearing asshole played by Owen Wilson, as well as retired businessman and friendly rival Steve Martin. This triumvirate of mellowness is complemented by the competition’s relatively low stakes, which are not much more than the respect of other birders and the thrill of seeing one’s name in print (curiously, the latter is the same honor that once made Martin’s simpleton character in The Jerk beside himself with glee).

Films like this must necessarily exaggerate the popularity and importance of a particular subculture, but this one is almost constantly on the defensive. Family members, co-workers, and the media pick on the birders like schoolyard bullies; the movie returns the favor with ill-conceived comedy punishing the uninitiated for their pitiful lack of ornithological knowledge. At least the film has a spry momentum that keeps the less-than-scintillating narrative in motion, as the characters travel to a variety of verdant and rustic locales from the topical climes of the Gulf Coast to the westernmost outpost of the Aleutian Islands. This nature-oriented footage has a breathtaking scope, successfully showing the appeal of birding for a few brief moments before returning the focus to the half-baked human drama.

There’s a problem when a narrative feature seems like it would be more appealing as a nature documentary. The film unwittingly presents a disconnect between its assertion of the big year as an ennobling, life-altering experience and the reality of its grueling routine of constant travel, dreary motels, and plaintive phone calls to lonely spouses/parents/paramours. It may build character, but that doesn’t seem worth the issues it creates in the main trio’s personal lives. Not that this matters so much. When all is said and done, most people will likely remember the pretty birds and forget the formulaic script. That’s about the worst thing that can be said about The Big Year – a movie as scenic as a picture postcard and only slightly more memorable.

Originally posted to Screen Invasion

Margaret (2011)

Margaret (2011)
Dir. Kenneth Lonergan

2 out of 5

A epic of sweeping mediocrity, Margaret is the cinematic version of the annoying prankster who pushes every button in the elevator before getting out at the top floor. Despite a promising beginning with Anna Paquin as a jejune New York high school student who inadvertantly causes a fatal bus crash, the film's meandering script follows far too many blind alleys in her struggle to make sense out of a truly senseless tragedy (and I mean "senseless" as in "dumb," as in a cowboy hat plays a critical role in a pedestrian's death). Some of these wanderings I can understand. Margaret was shot in 2006 and shelved until last year due to a lengthy post-production lawsuit that prevented writer-director Kenneth Lonergan from finishing his movie. Hollywood heavyweights like Scott Rudin and Sydney Pollack rushed to Lonergan's aid, and final cut was handled by some guy named Martin Scorsese and his longtime editor, Thelma Schoonmaker. With this much creative heat, how could Margaret be anything less than a masterpiece?

Well, there's an old saying about a horse designed by committee. There's also plenty of evidence, however, to suggest that Margaret was quite a homely creature to begin with. Paquin's guilt brushes up against enough adolescent angst to fill multiple movies. She bickers with her insecure mother (J. Smith-Cameron), plays Lolita to her handsome math teacher (a defiantly placid Matt Damon), loses her virginity to the class cad (Kieran Culkin), and on and on. Margaret feels like a entirely different film once the bus crash comes back into play, as Paquin and the victim's best friend (Jeannie Berlin) sue the MTA to fire the driver (Mark Ruffalo). Even at two and a half hours it's clearly too much plot for one movie, a fatal flaw that's extremely evident as seemingly important characters disappear completely and carefully crafted subplots are resolved in jarring bursts of tossed-off dialogue.

To be fair, Lonergan is a skilled writer. He's an emotional polyglot who maintains a high standard of authenticity as he shuttles between the minds of mewling lawyers, brassy old ladies, and sophomoric high school know-it-alls. But a little restraint might have been nice. It's as if Lonergan had three (somewhat clichéd) movies in mind, and decided to make them all. The result is a hot mess with many ideas that probably sounded good on the page (Lonergan casting himself as Paquin's hero-intellectual father; English teacher Matthew Broderick conveniently popping up whenever the film needs a forced literary allusion) but come across as phony and indulgent onscreen. Margaret is genuinely intriguing when it posits our need to grieve as a construct of our underdeveloped consciousness and our rejection of a cruel, random universe. It's just a shame that every other second is dedicated to the patently false notion that Margaret is a great work of art, waiting expectantly for us to pledge our respect and admiration for such a contrived, over-the-top display of shaky judgment and terrible self-editing.

Sleeping Beauty (2011)

Sleeping Beauty (2011)
Dir. Julia Leigh

3 out of 5

Despite its erotic inclinations, a clinical numbness permeates Sleeping Beauty, the debut film from Australian writer-director Julia Leigh about a financially insecure college student (Emily Browning) having trouble making ends meet on the meager income from her several part-time jobs. All that changes when she responds to a newspaper ad placed by a mysterious madam (Rachael Blake) who hires out young women as lingerie-clad waitresses for the formal dinner parties of the rich and bizarre. Until long, Browning accepts further assignment as a "sleeping beauty," lying naked and completely sedate in a bedroom where men pay handsomely to do whatever they wish with her, so long as it does not include any method of penetration.

Aside from the general recklessness and desperation that motivates Browning to endure such treatment, Sleeping Beauty is centered on her near-complete absence of identity. She seems to experience life as a series of larks and temporary pleasures, and nearly always subject to the whims of others. Her ambivalence only enhances the shock value of her sleep "sessions" with various grotesques that are the most controversial and memorable parts of the film. If nothing else, Sleeping Beauty is a loaded treatise on masculinity and on men's absurd expectations of women shown at their most extreme. That's interesting enough, but the effect is perhaps queasier than Leigh intends. When Browning eventually shakes her wan disaffection long enough to smuggle a hidden camera into her workplace, it feels like a halfhearted stab at transforming the film into a tale of feminist redemption.

Save for Browning's platonic ideal (Ewan Leslie) who serves as a sort of suicidal Prince Charming, Sleeping Beauty references the rich symbolism of folk storytelling in title only. From the lack of any non-diagetic music to the minimalist script, Leigh establishes an atmosphere of strict asceticism. Her flat, tuneless direction establishes a mood that's occasionally haunting but mostly just soporific. This approach does have its merits - the director builds great anticipation into every one of Browning's encounters, and her character projects a weary vulnerability that makes her behavior understandable, even sympathetic. It's a gloriously sad and knowing performance, as if she's accepted her objectification as the price of personal and professional advancement. But for a film that traffics in such heady ideas, it's all a bit too direct. Though commendable, Sleeping Beauty just never feels as deep as it's meant to be, a dry work of horror with stillborn philosophical aspirations.

Jump Cuts: 1980s Action-Fantasy Edition

Full reviews aren't right for all films - movies that seem past the point of timely comment, movies I can't find an interesting angle on, or movies I just don't feel like explicating. Some films are better off with bite-size opinionating. Let's call them "Jump Cuts." In this edition: three flights of fancy from the Reagan Era.



Subway (1985)
Dir. Luc Besson

2.5 out of 5

A lonely thief (Christopher Lambert) tries to romance a gangster's trophy wife (Isabelle Adjani) while hiding out in the tunnels of the Paris Metro in Subway, but the love story quickly becomes a sideshow when Lambert starts to ingratiate himself with the other bizarre denizens of the underground. His quirky odyssey takes him from alienated thug to unlikely concert promoter as he slowly assembles a band of fellow outcasts to play a climactic show for an audience of commuters and gutter punks. Unfortunately for director Luc Besson, the anarchic margins of Subway contain much more interesting material than his moody portrait of young star-crossed lovers. The film gets by with more than a little help from Lambert's friends (post-credit scenes and character introductions don't get much doper than this). That doesn't stop Besson from beating the drum for a relationship that never feels terribly convincing, seemingly overestimating the audience's desire to tolerate Lambert and Adjani's endless brooding.

Conan the Destroyer (1984)

Dir. Richard Fleischer

3 out of 5

A prime example of the narrative bloat imposed on Hollywood sequels, Conan the Destroyer gives Arnold Schwarzenegger's titular barbarian an unwieldy cohort of comrades - itself a lesson in stunt casting gone awry with the presence of Grace Jones and Wilt Chamberlain - as he pursues a magical jeweled horn prized by a deceptive queen (Sarah Douglas) willing to sacrifice her teenage daughter (Olivia d'Abo) to resurrect a vengeful god. The film attempts to broaden its audience by toning down the brutal violence of the first installment and replacing it with awkward comedy and creepy sexual innuendo - a subplot where the virginal d'Abo attempts to put the moves on an oblivious Schwarzenegger should've been left on the cutting room floor. Nonetheless, plenty of Destroyer is still given over to Conan doing awesome Conan things, resulting in a rating best described as a "hard" PG. It's a film with just enough chutzpah to work despite its many shortcomings and with exotic visuals lustily shot by the legendary Jack Cardiff, there's still a little sorcery in Conan yet.



Repo Man (1984)
Dir. Alex Cox

4 out of 5

With a frank and freaking hilarious script bearing all the marks of a cult classic, Alex Cox's Repo Man stars Emilio Estevez as a down-on-his-luck punk in Los Angeles who finds his niche in the repossession business. The film perfectly captures the gritty, grimy milieu of a stultifying metropolis (all the consumer products have generic labels like "Beer" and "Food - Meat Flavored") even as the story morphs into a sci-fi mystery involving a 1964 Chevy Malibu transporting a dangerous group of extraterrestrials. Nearly every ingredient Cox tosses into his strange brew enhances the formula, especially the livewire relationship between Estevez and his mentor in legalized theft, Harry Dean Stanton, a perpetually on-edge repo man with the rumpled suit of a used car salesman and a personal code that forbids damage to any vehicle but doesn't rule out speedballs. Repo Man doesn't soft-peddle any of its quirks, yet avoids feeling too insufferable thanks to Estevez's earnest performance and an unexpectedly operatic climax assuring us that anyone can eventually find their place in the big, bad, weird world - even if home sometimes feels like it's light years away.

Battle Royale (2000)

Battle Royale (2000)
Dir. Kinji Fukasaku

3.5 out of 5

This is what tough love looks like in the dystopian near-future of Battle Royale, a chaotic, brutally violent film with a premise that remains just as controversial as when it was conceived over a decade ago. With juvenile delinquency reaching epidemic levels among Japanese youth - and sky-high unemployment removing any kind of safety valve for directionless teens - the state is forced to enact extreme disciplinary measures. Entire junior high classes are to be periodically transported to an uninhabited island, equipped with a variety of weapons, and encouraged to slaughter their classmates. The last boy or girl standing at the end of three days is the winner of the "game" (all contestants are executed if there's more than one survivor). The prize is freedom. And you thought dodgeball was a cruel lesson in classroom hierarchy.

What makes Battle Royale so notable, however, is not its obvious intent to shock you, but its constant attempts to move you. It's like Lord of the Flies meets John Hughes, deriving much of its gonzo energy from the superheated emotions of teenagers with a conveniently dramatic backdrop for their declarations of undying love and bitter hatred. Adolescence isn't merely a developmental stage in Battle Royale - it's a primal state. Some kids are craven, some are cunning, and only a handful truly have the will to survive. The last group includes the timid Noriko (Aki Maeda) and the sentimental Shuya (Tatsuya Fujiwara), whose partnership is the main throughline in the film's observation of a volatile group dynamic. Upsetting the process of natural selection are two "transfers," the psychotic Kiriyama (Masanobu Ando) and the dour Kawada (Taro Yamamoto), a past "winner" who seeks revenge against the game's authorities and feels a duty to protect the weaker contestants.

Director Kinji Fukasaku is excellent at constructing tense situations that inevitably explode in a fountain of blood and hormones. More ponderous are recurring flashbacks and dream sequences that attempt to lend meaning to the carnage, but ultimately just muddle the film's message. Battle Royale is not a film that has much claim to gravitas, but that doesn't stop it from trying. Even the nihilistic former teacher-turned-warden played by Takeshi Kitano is dealing with family issues when he's not dispensing perfectly droll safety instructions to the doomed students. That the movie is thwarted from achieving its greater dramatic ambitions by its intrinsic dark humor is something of a blessing. Surely we aren't meant to take this shit seriously - that much is clear from the opening title cards - yet perhaps that misguided insistence on grounding an absurdly violent exploitation film in recognizable angst is what makes Battle Royale a singularly unsettling experience.