I was generally pleased with this review, and it wasn’t printed in the YJ (I also submitted a review of Stranger Than Fiction, and they went with that one instead of both, presumably due to space considerations). Enjoy the review that you may avoid not enjoying the movie. I probably wouldn’t hate it so much if it weren’t so satisfied with itself, as though it had actually proved something.

I would also like to note my appreciation of Brett’s role in allowing me to see the movie. Without him I wouldn’t have found anyone to go with, and consequently I wouldn’t have gone. He’s a great cognoscenti of low culture, my brother. That’s not necessarily an insult, mind you. Joe of “Joe Loves Crappy Movies” is also a great surveyor of the baser offerings of the entertainment industry, and he does great work.

Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan
starring Sacha Baron Cohen & Ken Davitian
Rated R for pervasive strong crude and sexual content including graphic nudity, and language.
20th Century Fox
Written by Sacha Baron Cohen & Anthony Hines and directed by Larry Charles

Summary: Borat Sagdiyev, a television celebrity from Kazakhstan, travels to New York City in order to learn from American culture to benefit his own. Seeing footage of Pamela Anderson on a rerun of “Baywatch,” he resolves to find her and marry her, and sets out for California in a used ice cream truck, discovering America along the way.

1 star

Disparaging a film that is intended to be satirical can open someone up to ridicule. Perhaps, some might suggest, you have no sense of humor. Clearly, they will assert, you just didn’t get it. Fear of such accusations is my only explanation for the near-unanimous critical acclaim that has greeted Sacha Baron Cohen’s leap to the big screen. Certainly, satire in any given medium has a propensity to escape a large portion of its audience, but there can be no doubt that in this case the emperor has no clothes (a fact which the film seems eager to parade all too literally throughout its excruciating 84-minute runtime).

In setting out to ostensibly lampoon, parody, satirize, and otherwise ridicule American bigotry and intolerance for the amusement (presumably) of a more enlightened public, Sacha Baron Cohen has succeeded in three things.

First, he has created a character and dragged him through situations that only an audience which is either bigoted or is callously unaffected by racism and discrimination will find consistently funny. The biggest racist (and, in fact, almost the only racist) is Borat himself. This is ostensibly a tool wielded skillfully by Cohen to expose the outrageous attitudes of many Americans. Many scenes, however, are filmed in isolation from reality. Borat is alone in a room, or surrounded by a staged event, but he’s still plying his schtick for self-serving laughs. We are expected to derive comedic joy from the outlandish bigotry with its offensive caricatures and hurtful misrepresentations.

This has nothing helpful to say about the realities of ridiculous prejudice because it’s all a put-on, and we are supposed to find the misogyny, the homophobia and the anti-semitism (to name just a few) funny on their own merits. Meanwhile, his reprehensible characterization of people from third-world countries could very well entrench harmful stereotypes.

Second, in his search for wanton bigots (of which I’m sure there are still more than a few left in our country) Cohen has somehow managed to find almost exclusively tolerant, hospitable, genuinely nice people who go far farther out of their way than I would to tolerate “Borat’s” belligerent, cruel attempts to offend them. The movie’s few bigots (Which could be counted on the fingers of one hand) range from an elderly redneck to a trio of drunken frat boys. Surprise, surprise.

When he is invited to dinner at the home of some upstanding members of a southern community, Cohen begins by pretending to assume that one of his fellow guests is mentally retarded (rather than “retired”). His hosts patiently correct him. He ups the ante by paying sexual compliments to a few of the (married) ladies around the table, and insults the appearance of another. Still,everyone accepts that this must be a difference in his culture, even saying as much when he excuses himself briefly from the table. Then he returns with some of his own excrement in a sack. His hostess rises to the occasion, tactfully pulling him to the side and graciously explaining the finer points of indoor plumbing. Finally, Borat invites a prostitute into their home, and even then everyone tries to find a delicate solution. Only when Cohen sadistically continues to feign ignorance of his continued egregious behavior (and refuses to leave) do things finally turn ugly.

Third, of the few outrageous reactions that Cohen manages to wrench forcefully from his victims (because, racists or not, everyone who has scenes with Cohen are victims themselves), almost all are the result of repeated actions by “Borat” which travel far beyond the boundaries of sanity and good taste (see above). In short, he has proved that, if pushed hard enough and long enough, most people do have a breaking point. Fascinating. In short, this is not a canny and scathing satire on the dark heart of American culture, it is “Jackass Three.”

Not every moment of this film is a complete failure. I can think of one scene (really only one) that succeeded rather well, when Borat visits a rodeo. After listening to a few remarks from the only genuine, sober bigot in the whole film, Borat plods out into the arena and dupes the crowd into cheering some rather outrageous statements about wiping out the population of Iraq before they catch on. It got me to laugh from time to time. But then, many of the situations are staged (all are manipulated heavily in some way) and some are not (with no differentiating between the two). The filmmakers are hardly playing fair at any point. If you can’t expose, ridicule or refute something that is as big of a no-brainer as racism on a level playing field, you have already failed. And that makes this is a tacky, sloppy and ultimately cataclysmic effort.

Posted in Reviews

“I decided if I was going to make the world a better place, I’d do it with cookies.” –Ana Pascal, Stranger Than Fiction

I decided I was going to go see Stranger Than Fiction as soon as I saw the trailer a few months back. It was the latest from the director of Finding Neverland (who, irrelevantly, is directing the movie version of The Kite Runner, due out next year), it had a more-than-competent-looking cast, and (most importantly) it seemed like a great idea for a movie.

The story, as the opening voice-over informs us, is about Harold Crick (Will Ferrell). Harold works for the IRS, and there is really very little else to say about him. He gets up. He goes to work. He comes home. He goes to bed. His only hobby is counting (or, more precisely, calculating). He counts the strokes of the toothbrush on each tooth. He counts the number of steps to the bus. His coffee breaks are precisely timed. He is constantly aware of the concrete values and amounts of his environment, but he has no appreciation for cool breezes or warm cookies . . . the pleasures that cannot be measured. Harold’s unique perspective is communicated visually by a clever graphical overlay which is vaguely reminscent of a cross between the mathematical epiphany scenes from A Beautiful Mind and an Excel spreadsheet.

At some point while all of this is being explained to us, the narrator breaks off abruptly and Harold glances around suspiciously. He has suddenly become aware of the narration the audience has been listening to, and he is confused. Is the voice coming from his toothbrush? Who is it? Why is it narrating (and sometimes almost controlling) his every action? Is he insane, or might there be some other explanation (since the voice keeps getting everything right)? Why does it sound so much like Emma Thompson? Okay, maybe not that last one.

At first, Harold just tries to go on as though it isn’t there, even as it distracts him from his work and his change in behavior begins to be noticed by co-workers. Soon, though, it starts to affect him in other ways. For one thing, he finds himself paying more attention to Ana Pascal (Maggie Gyllenhaal), the baker he is auditing, than he is comfortable with. And then there is the bombshell: “Little did he know that a chain of events had been set in motion which would lead to his imminent death.” Harold needs help.

He gets it from Jules Hilbert (Dustin Hoffman), a professor of literature at the local university who agrees to help Harold analyze the ongoing story of his life. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Meanwhile, we finally meet Kay Eiffel (Emma Thompson, in top form), an eccentric British author suffering from writer’s block (she can’t figure out how to knock off her main character). She’s taken so long to finish her latest book that her publisher has sent her an assistant (Queen Latifah) to move things along. And there’s the set-up.

All of the actors are very good and very comfortable in their roles. Emma Thompson, as I already hinted, is particularly fun to watch, but Gyllenhaal is excellent as well. Hoffman’s character was entertaining, but not quite right. A chuckle-worthy parody of a lit professor who doesn’t quite ring true all of the time. Plus, my eagle eyes spotted a copy of Left Behind in the midst of his wall of books, and I couldn’t keep away from it every time there was a scene in his office. What was that doing there? Ferrell is pretty good as well, but his character never really advances beyond straight-man for the movie’s premise and supporting cast.

The film is a great collection of elements which work very well together to produce something more. It is full of nice, memorable touches: the sentient wristwatch, Eiffel’s various imagined death scenes, Harold’s nerdy co-worker and his “Sleep Pod 2,” a hilarious montage of nature documentaries which produce unexpected tension . . . I could go on, but I don’t want to give too much away.

Stranger Than Fiction is a sort of reverse Big Fish: a quirky movie that is high on life, concerning a main character who is visibly controlled by the story someone else is writing about him (as opposed to visibly controlling the story he is writing about himself). It raises questions, both serious and frivolous, about free will vs. fate, the value of artistic integrity, the proper approach to literary analysis, and the power of the creative process. It is a movie that should perhaps have ended 10 minutes sooner, but knows it and, in a charmingly self-aware sort of way, doesn’t care.

Posted in Reviews

In turn-of-the-century London, two apprentice magicians, Robert Angier (Jackman) and Alfred Borden (Bale) become bitter rivals as their skill and notoriety make them both famous. A vengeful game of one-upmanship threatens their families, their careers and even their lives.

Christopher Nolan is rapidly establishing a reputation for dark, edgy and thought-provoking thrillers defined by complex narrative, ambiguous characters and startlingly original concepts. Nolan’s previous offerings include Memento (a film in which the scenes proceed in backwards order) and Batman Begins. Whether The Prestige is his best work to date is not for us to say, but it is certainly a top-notch effort. The film is somewhat difficult to write about because a great deal of its appeal is reliant on the various unexpected twists and turns which carry the story forward. It is the sort of film that will have you thinking back afterwards, remembering clues that you didn’t pick up on when they were dropped, checking to make sure the director played fair.

Nolan has assembled a formidable group of actors to portray an equally formidable group of characters. Bale and Jackman flawlessly change places as villain and hero and back again. Caine is solid, as always. Johansson’s star continues to rise, and Andy Serkis is well on his way to finding a place in movies beyond the voice-over work that made him famous. David Bowie surprises as the enigmatic and reclusive inventor, Nikolai Tesla, and the viewer is equally surprised to find historical details seamlessly interwoven with fictional material.

The Prestige is more than just good entertainment, though. It also explores many evocative themes. It slyly suggests that a successful magic act must leave room for healthy skepticism in its audience. If people believe they have seen real magic, they will be frightened, and the point is to entertain. Furthermore, we are shown that the ultimately shallow illusions of stage magic are nothing next to the awesome power of science and nature. Magicians are all well and good, but scientists are the true wizards of our world, and are held in a certain degree of awe. But men of science are still only human. The rivalry between Tesla and Edison (two of the greatest inventors of their time or any other) forms a shadowy background parallel to the rivalry between Borden and Angier.

Deception is another potent theme developed in the film. The very nature of a magic act requires complete secrecy. While the audience may not believe that the magician actually has supernatural powers, if they are not mystified by what they see, they will not be interested. But off-stage, the magicians also have a personal life; one where they form connections, start families, make friends. Lies and secrets are inherently destructive to such relationships, and this creates a great deal of tension. Nothing good can come of it. The audience experiences this deception first-hand with the characters as the truth is slowly revealed.

The filmmakers keep the audience guessing with a unique narrative structure (often employed by novelists during the period in which the movie is set). Borden and Angier learn a great deal from stolen notebooks and journals, and the stories-within-stories of the narrative match the wheels-within-wheels of the plot.

Nolan also has an excellent handle on the historical period that goes beyond mere historical facts. He has, in many ways, captured the spirit and the flavor of the time. In addition to the use of Victorian literary devices in the narrative structure, there is a strong feeling of innovation and progress infusing everything. The Prestige makes things that are a jejune part of our everyday lives now (things like electricity) seem new and exciting and perhaps a little scary. Finally, the way the story’s mysteries unfold, the interactions and personalities of the characters and the general darkness of the plot and its setting bring to mind vague images of sensational pulp magazine serials from the turn-of-the-century: foreboding, suspenseful and illustrated with a few carefully chosen black-and-white ink drawings.

The Prestige, like the magic acts it is all about, is an elaborate, carefully-staged illusion powered by a great deal of high-quality talent and a flair for showmanship. The entire structure is as fascinating as it is delicate, and (again, like a magic act) the measure of its success will likely rest on the audience’s capacity for wonder.

• Co-reviewed with Randy

Posted in Reviews

Every year, Four Star Cinema in Kilgore presents six “high-brow” films (foreign fare, documentaries and the like) which local audiences (distanced as we are from large cultural centers) might have missed during the past year. This year’s offerings appeared throughout the month of September, and we saw them all.

The Lost City
During the tumultuous years surrounding the Cuban Revolution, Fico Fellove (Garcia), struggles to maintain his popular Havana night club while his two brothers join different revolutionary movements. As Cuba’s stability unravels, the Fellove family begins to fracture with it. With Castro’s regime growing stronger, Fico must face the fact that the Havana he knows and loves may be gone forever.

This is undoubtedly a gorgeous, lovingly-crafted film. The filmmakers have obviously put a lot of themselves into it. Every second is carefully constructed and perfectly shot. Yes, all 8,580 of them. The movie seems to go on for several eternities, and ultimately the slow pacing will probably exhaust the stamina of most movie-goers. The gorgeous set pieces, authentic costumes and skillful interweaving of historical events with cultural flavor and symbolism make for a very moving viewing experience . . . that is really only tolerable one time.

Water
Chuyia was so young when she got married that she can’t even remember the wedding. Now she is eight years old, and a widow. Societal and religious traditions in 1930s India dictate that she must shave her head, don a white sari and spend the remainder of her long life scratching out a lowly existence in a home for widows. Chuyia befriends the beautiful Kalyani, a widow allowed to keep her hair so that she can earn money through prostitution to keep them all afloat. Soon, however, an unexpected romance between Kalyani and Narayan, a passionate follower of Gandhi, threatens the delicate balance at the home for widows as well as the very heart of their religious beliefs.

Third in Mehta’s critically-acclaimed Elemental Trilogy, Water took nearly eight years to film due to disruption by religious extremists. This is no surprise, for the movie contains a very powerful message. Fanatics are not generally known for their tolerance for new ideas. Part of what makes Mehta’s message so powerful is its simplicity. “One less mouth to feed, four less saris, and a free corner in the house. Disguised as religion, it’s just about money,” as Narayan says. Fantastic performances, an unpredictable story and a quiet but meticulous attention to detail strengthen a film that will haunt viewers long after they have exited the theater.

Thank You For Smoking
Nick Naylor (Eckhart) is the chief spokesman for Big Tobacco, a man who makes a living by the principle that, if you can spin an argument correctly, you’ll always be right. Now, Vermont Senator Ortolan Finistirre (Macy) is trying to pass a law requiring all packs of cigarettes to display a prominent skull-and-crossbones logo, aggressive journalist Heather Holloway (Holmes) seems willing to go to any lengths to get a big story on Nick, and Nick’s son Joey is developing a troubling interest in his father’s job. Beset on all sides, Nick may finally have run up against a situation he can’t talk his way out of.

Reitman unloads a devastating satirical broadside aimed at government, lobbyists, the media, Hollywood and the shallow American culture that allows them to exist. Thank You For Smoking is funny, offensive, cynical and really rather educational. The disappointing thing about the movie is that if you have seen the trailer, you have already been exposed to most of the film’s surprises and major punchlines. But not, surprisingly, the heart of its message. What begins as joke at the expense of America’s manipulative elite unexpectedly turns into a strong appeal to Americans to stop having their opinions spoon-fed to them and start exercising their brains and their freedom to make their own decisions.

Wordplay
The New York Times crossword, Holy Grail of puzzles for crossword enthusiasts across America, is the focus of this intriguing and fun documentary. Director Patrick Creadon reveals the secrets behind the creation of the puzzle, the origins of the crossword in America, and the vibrant, diverse community of crossword enthusiasts and experts who gather each year for the championship tournament at the crossword convention in Stamford. Along the way, Creadon visits several past (and future) crossword champions, interviews New York Times crossword editor Will Shortz, and chats with celebrities like Jon Stewart and Bill Clinton who enjoy the puzzle every day.

Yes, okay, this does sound incredibly boring. It truly is not. The filmmakers have managed to film some of the most entertaining people in the country doing and saying all sorts of truly quirky things and pieced everything together with the best editing we have ever seen in a documentary. It’s fun, it’s informative, it’s lively, it’s off-beat and every time it seems to be slipping into a rut, it suddenly changes directions. Combined with plenty of ad-libbed humor (both intentional and not) and some genuine suspense and the result is irresistible.

Scoop
Sondra Pransky (Johansson), an inexperienced reporter for a college paper, is visiting England when she steps into small-time magician Sid Waterman’s (Allen) box as part of his act. Instead of disappearing, however, she is confronted by the ghost of a recently-departed journalist. The spirit offers her the tip of a lifetime: the identity of the Tarot Card Murderer. Enlisting Sid’s help, Sondra investigates, but the object of her investigation turns out to be Peter Lyman (Jackman), a wealthy and charismatic nobleman. Soon, Sondra is falling in love with Lyman and having her doubts about whether he has actually committed foul play.

Woody Allen turns 71 this year, and his jokes and plots aren’t getting any younger either. Scoop is occasionally clever (usually far too clever), but mostly just abhorrently cute. The actors seem painfully aware that they are merely Allen’s straight-men in a 96-minute joke, not real people at all. The situation is painfully and laboriously contrived. The one-liners are flat, and even a first-time viewer can almost recite them with the characters. The ending is chuckle-worthy, nothing more. All in all, a disappointing effort which feels like it is simply coasting on the acclaim of the director’s previous efforts.

Kinky Boots
Charlie Price (Edgerton) has just inherited a failing shoe factory that has been in his family for generations, and the cancellation of a large order is forcing him to fire people he grew up with. Inspired by Lauren (Potts), one of the employees he has just laid off, and Lola (Ejiofor, Serenity), a drag queen who performs for a devoted fan base in a London night club, Charlie decides it is time to change the factory’s product. Together with Lola, Lauren, and the reluctant but loyal factory workers, Charlie sets out to get the family business “back on its feet” . . . with a line of fetishistic female footwear designed to withstand the weight of a man. Based on a true story.

How does one make a tasteful, sensitive and eminently watchable film about transvestites and their erotic footwear? Dry, British irreverence helps, and the right casting is crucial. Ejiofor is the life of the party, turning in an incredible performance which makes his character believable, sympathetic and very fun to watch. The film’s basis in fact (however tenuous) only adds to the appeal. It seems silly to say considering the subject, but the movie’s only flaw is in being a tad too formulaic. Disguised as an edgy, slightly naughty comedy, Kinky Boots is really little more than a paint-by-numbers triumphant underdog film. But it’s still a highly-enjoyable evening’s entertainment.

• Co-reviewed with Randy

Posted in Reviews

Little Miss Sunshine sounds like the title of a movie your parents rented when you were little, starring Shirley Temple in the title role. Really, nothing could be further from the truth. This is the latest in a recent spate of quirky independent films which have gained both critical praise and the attention of movie-going audiences. The opening minutes quickly introduce the Hoover family individually before bringing them together around a dinner table, and then launching them into the main thrust of the plot.

There’s Richard, the father, a motivational speaker who never breaks character, struggling to support his family off of the limited marketability of his “9 Steps to Becoming a Winner.” Sheryl, the mother, struggles to hold the family together and keep her cool while pretending that she’s kicked her smoking habit. Dwayne, the 15-year old son who dreams of going to the Air Force Academy, has taken a vow of silence after reading the nihilistic works of Nietzsche. Frank, Sheryl’s academic brother, has just attempted to kill himself after an unrequited crush on one of his male graduate students caused his life to spiral out of control. Grandpa, Richard’s father, has been kicked out of his nursing home for snorting heroin. And Olive, the bespectacled 7-year old whose dream is to win a beauty pageant.

When Olive becomes a contestant in the Little Miss Sunshine beauty pageant several hundred miles away, the whole family piles into their bright yellow Volkswagen van and head for California. On this trip from hell the Hoover family will move heaven and earth in order to get to their destination.

Really, there is nothing especially unique about the set-up. This film’s brilliance lies in its original execution. Each member of the Hoover family will be brought face to face with their weaknesses, fears and faltering dreams. But those moments of ultimate despair and loss, when each one has been emptied of hope or happiness, only serve to strengthen their damaged connections with each other. At the center of all of this is Olive. She is an almost perpetual ray of . . . well, sunshine. Her all but unshakeable joy and profound innocence holds the key to this family’s redemption.

If the movie thus far sounds overbearingly upbeat, that is simply a testament to the dichotomy it represents. Little Miss Sunshine is, without a doubt, a dark comedy. Its characters and situations are funny because they are so outrageously bleak. And yet, few dark comedies are so unashamedly heart-warming.

Perhaps the most thought-provoking aspect of the film, however, is the wry undercurrent of biting social commentary apparent in the premise. The entire concept of a child beauty pageant and the self-conscious, skin-deep self-image it promotes receives a long, hard look from the filmmakers. The contrast presented by the imperfect family seeking redemption amidst a crowd of freakishly perfect juvenile supermodels is nothing short of disturbing. And the statement made by Olive onstage during the movie’s climax provides an unflinching commentary on our superficial culture.

Little Miss Sunshine is one of the funniest movies we’ve seen in some time. It is original, exuberant, surprising and uplifting without being saccharine or trite. It acknowledges the realities of life without being cynical, and it is positive without ignoring the existence of painful and trying circumstances. That is a delicate balance to walk, and we can’t remember the last time we saw it done this well.

• Co-reviewed with Randy

Posted in Reviews