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dir. William Wellman
writ. Oliver H.P. Garrett (screenplay), Grace Perkins (novel as Dora Macy), Charles Kenyon (additional dialogue)
feat. Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Blondell, Ben Lyon, Clark Gable, Blanche Friderici, Charlotte Merriam, Charles Winninger
This uneven pre-code treat exposes the dangerous world of the pediatric night nurse like no other. And just in time too! Stanwyck and Blondell get the chance to do a little playful verbal sparring and even jump into bed together, albeit briefly. Other than that and a limited-range, tough guy performance by Gable as Nick, the chauffeur, the film zips along efficiently without leaving much of a mark. Stanwyck battles an evil doctor and that nasty Nick with the help of a heckuva pal bootlegger. Most amusing is a sudden and lightheartedly violent ending delivered as a punchline.
dir. Federico Fellini
writ. Federico Fellini, Ennio Flaiano, & Tullio Pinelli (story and screenplay), Brunello Rondi (contributing writer)
feat. Marcello Mastroianni, Anita Ekberg, Anouk Aimée, Yvonne Furneaux, Magali Noel, Alain Cuny, Annibale Ninchi
From the opening of La Dolce Vita, Marcello Rubini (Mastroainni) chases god, seeking ascencion at every turn. In an age of easy fame, where faith is easily doubted, the earnest religious variety most of all, Marcello manages to hang on to a hint of what he thinks really matters, idolizing a man he sees as a successful writer, philosopher and family man, clinging to the dream of emulating him. But Marcello lacks the conviction, or perhaps the inspiration to rise above his position as a tabloid reporter, too easily tempted to bask in the reflected glory of celebrity actress, Sylvia (Ekberg) or to hop into bed with similarly jaded society gal, Maddalena (Aimée).
One never discovers exactly why Marcello can't rouse himself to change his life, whether he is lazy, too easily distracted or simply fails to find concrete answers to his ambiguous, yearning questions. In a beautiful sequence and arguably the most poignant of the film, he comes closest to voicing these unspoken questions while watching his father, lively and sociable, more amiable and entertaining than himself, over the course of a night on the town. His father's ease, stamina and youthful exuberance are unsettling to Marcello, as is the shocking turn the night takes when something runs out on the older man, either his health or his own conviction, one can't be sure. This paired with the loss of his idol is enough to leave Marcello stranded, without meaningful guides or trustworthy companions.
Again, there is no telling the real reason behind Marcello's ultimate descent, but he almost seems determined to be his most loathesome, committing to the empty life of cheap thrills after all, joining the fray that he once documented, wishing to forget he ever had higher hopes at all. Naturally, he won't get that lucky.
dir. Alan Arkin
writ. Jules Feiffer (screenplay and play)
feat. Elliot Gould, Marcia Rodd, Vincent Gardenia, Jon Korkes, John Randolph, Doris Roberts, Lou Jacobi, Donald Sutherland, Alan Arkin
Someone should have sat Jules Feiffer down and forced him to give up the point of Little Murders, a mishmash of a film where the vignettes an't muster enough substance to form a valid whole. Maybe it's the cartoonist background and expertise of Feiffer that prevails, producing a number of effective and highly entertaining moments, bursts of inspiration that stand as satisfying moments that can't rally around a common cause.
And it's unfortunate since at times, Murders hints at an alternate universe both mundane and ridiculous, cultural caricatures colliding in a New York City made vaguely more threatening than usual (random shootings occurring around the city both at the time of writing and in the story). This world might even be bound by the extremes explored in Judge Stern's (Jacobi) diatribe about the persecuted immigrants and Reverend Dupas' (Sutherland) aggressively subversive version of a wedding ceremony, with the Newqists' ideas of family life and Alfred's (Gould) apathy holding the center. But too many extraneous (and often irritating - Rodd is no female Woody Allen) elements compete for screen time, tearing apart the little glue that is squeezed into the picture.
And while the finale brings a delightful lift to the film in its suggestion of a joyfully escapist descent into savagery as the only recourse in troubled times, it lacks the backing for such a conclusion to work, much less resonate.
dir. Alfred E. Green
writ. Gene Markey & Kathryn Scola (screenplay), Darryl F. Zanuck (story, as Mark Canfield)
feat. Barbara Stanwyck, George Brent, Donald Cook, Alphonse Ethier, Henry Kolker, Margaret Lindsay
For all of the hullabaloo surrounding its multiple versions and pre-code raciness, Baby Face is actually a rather sweet moral tale. Thankfully, it waits for the final moments to get around to the well-meaning message, giving Stanwyck time to exhibit unbridled greed and encourage lustful behavior. We witness the extremes of the morality play, beginning with a father who has pimped out his daughter (Stanwyck as Lily Powers) since she was 14, followed by his death in a raging fire that Lily watches with disinterest. Lost and confused, Lily turns to a philosophical friend who introduces her to the teachings of Nietzsche, encouraging her to be her own super woman, using her already well-developed feminine wiles to get what she wants.
Inspired, Lily heads to the big city, where she swaggers and sways up the corporate ladder, her progress amusingly tracked by a camera craning up the outside of the building to each successive floor and department. Lily's pressing greed and seductive prowess are a joy to behold as she lures each new department head only to ensare and leave him behind for the next. Naturally, she is unforgettable and irresistible, wreaking havoc along the way until the uncontrolled lust builds to tragedy. As the embarrassed firm attempts to lose her, Lily botches a buyout in her efforts to appear honest and hard-working, winding up in a new job and a new city.
Lily's old ways don't seem as satisfying anymore though and she sets her sights on the "good man" (Brent) who didn't let her off the hook so easily. Of course, he is just as easily smitten as the next guy, even if he sees her tricks. She, on the other hand, is unaccustomed to being so transparent and can't stomach her own manipulations with the big slob who truly loves her. His sincerity is more than she can handle, the chink in her armor through which she is pierced by (gasp) true love of her own.
dir. Roy Del Ruth
writ. Howard Green (screenplay), Manuel Self and Forrest Wilson (play)
feat. Lee Tracy, Mary Brian, Dick Powell, Allen Jenkins, Ruth Donnelly, Emma Dunn
Motor-mouthed weaselly reporter, Alvin Roberts (Tracy), takes tabloid reporting to the top, finding a deep sea of readers eager to devour his gossip, chief of which is the report of previously secret, unplanned pregnancies ("blessed events" according to his euphemism). Roberts' character is pitched low, a dope who has made it to the big time, no matter how despicable his methods, and plans to stay there. And Tracy is the perfect actor to knock it out of the park, slipping easily between a careening menace and a wounded idiot.
Roberts naturally abuses his position, hungry for greater wealth, fame and power, while a love interest (Brian) struggles to mend his ways. Thankfully, there is no stopping Roberts who tramples over a thug (Jenkins) sent to shut him up with a gruesomely vivid description of death by electric chair and pursues Bunny Harmon (Powell) as his arbitrarily chosen nemesis (a hilarious and satisfying vicarious pleasure for anyone who finds Powell's crooner characters painfully annoying).
A brilliant cast of supporting character actors fleshes out the story, particularly Ruth Donnelly as the snide secretary, Jenkins as the thug who can't get no respect, and Emma Dunn as Roberts' mother. But above all, it is Roberts as the embodiment of the American dream as realized by an overly-caffeinated, tantrum-throwing child that makes the picture a blessing.
dir. Henry Selick
writ. Henry Selick (screenplay), Neil Gaiman (book)
feat. Dakota Fanning, Teri Hatcher, Jennifer Saunders, Dawn French, Keith David, John Hodgman, Ian McShane
There seems to remain a missing bit of alchemy in successfully making films out of Neil Gaiman's ideas. The BBC budget constraints may be blamed for Neverwhere, a flawed story for MirrorMask, and I'll confess to having steered clear of Stardust. Beowulf sticks close to a heroic structure and muddles through enjoyably enough, carried by flying dragons when it sags elsewhere. On the surface, Coraline promises great things with Gaiman only writing the source material, not the screenplay and Henry Selick returning to stop-motion as director. Heck, they even throw in 3D, with promises to use it wisely. So it is unfortunate that Coraline still leaves the viewer wanting.
What goes wrong this time? I suppose it could begin with the rainy Oregon setting, the heavy handed children's story opener of the neglected child left to fend for herself while Mommy and Daddy toil away. Perhaps it's that child herself, Dakota Fanning, still screaming privileged and precious even under that lock of blue hair and preemie-hipster gear. Or maybe it's the best friend, a mutated boy version of Barrel from Selick's The Nightmare Before Christmas, but with less charisma than the source imp. (I suppose we should be glad Danny Elfman isn't around or we might have heard another round of musical plagiarism ala The Corpse Bride.)
But perhaps this is a case of too harsh too soon; such stories tend to lag at the outset, the establishing of the ordinary world often too ordinary. It is in the mysterious other realm that they really get to fly. Thankfully, this is true of Coraline, with several stunning set pieces that take full advantage of 3D and the animation style (as well as inspired performances by McShane, Saunders, and French), achieving one of the greatest aspirations of such films, a sense of soaring, weightless wonder, the story sailing to new heights, taking Coraline magical places with the audience in tow.
And there are commendably adult themes at work in the film, most subtly the way in which a child can mistakenly deem a parent careless when preoccupied by other responsibilities, and most unsettlingly the mother as head of the family, her demand for hegemony, and the threat she poses if challenged.
With high-flying moments bolstered by subversive undercurrents and the truly frightening threat (further enhanced by its casual announcement) of losing one's eyes to have buttons sewn into their place, the stage is set for an exciting climax. Sadly, a series of missteps follow as the story shifts into a completely menacing tone too suddenly, without a much needed ramp, and then settles for a video game conclusion, a final trio of tasks, too similar and predictable, squandering all that energy for a sputtering disappointing bumpy landing.
dir. Phil Victor, George White
writ. Mickey Spillane (novel), Richard Powell (story) Richard Powell & Richard Collins (screenplay)
feat. Robert Bray, Whitney Blake, Patricia Donahue, Donald Randolph, Pamela Duncan, Jan Chaney, Genie Coree
This forgettable Mike Hammer tale doesn't have much to offer other than a lively jazz titles sequence and Bray looking believably worn in the lead role.
With an uncharismatic Hammer, it would figure that the women provide the greatest entertainment. Velda (Duncan), Hammer's sly, sexy secretary, is always ready to mock him, ever jealous of the women he pursues. And Maria Teresa Garcia (Coree) arouses as both a stripper looking for love and the most plausible character in the film (even while not the best performance), attractive and easy going, accustomed to life kicking her around.
Other than that, the story stumbles along from one fight to the next, throwing a bunch of twists around to keep the viewer guessing. If you're paying attention, you'll figure out a thing or two but likely won't care about the rest.
dir. David Fincher
writ. John D. Brancato & Michael Ferris
feat. Michael Douglas, Sean Penn, Deborah Kara Unger, James Rebhorn
Fincher's followup to Seven maintains the high-concept storyline while subduing some of the tonal burden, shifting that weight into more substantive depth to the characters, particularly Douglas as Nicholas Van Orton, a stubborn, vain, friendless milliionaire businessman. Van Orton is served up perfectly, both despicable and sympathetic, a deserving mark for the troubles that beset him as he's drawn into the world of the game being played upon him thanks to a loving brother (Penn) and later an underdog to root for once the threats become too real.
The film itself is a game, keeping the viewer guessing at every turn, unsure of what is real and what a put-on, and if anyone (including the storyteller) may be trusted. And like the best prank, the ultimate revelation leaves the fool with the rush of discovery, the deep satisfaction of being tricked effectively and cleverly. While such stories suffer in repeat viewings, that rapturous sensation impossible to repeat, a closer look at The Game offers up several wonderfully quiet moments, the skill Fincher demonstrates in his patient story development, lending as much subtle weighty atmosphere to a short conversation in the kitchen between Van Orton and his housekeeper as he does tension in a gun-blasting chase scene.
dir. Edgar Selwyn
writ. Faith Baldwin (novel "Skyscraper"), C. Gardner Sullivan (adaptation), Elmer Harris (dialogue continuity)
feat. Warren William, Maureeen O'Sullivan, Gregory Ratoff, Anita Page, Verree Teasdale, Norman Foster, Jean Hersholt, Wallace Ford, Hedda Hopper
Warren William turns out another wonderfully venomous performance as David Dwight, captain of industry and lord of the manor at the Seacoast Building, towering over the nearby Empire State Building (in lovely matte shot). Naturally, the business suffers and his control is threatened, arousing the dominant worst aspects of his character, conniving to friends and partners alike to maintain his post at the top. Skyscraper is darker and more mean-spirited than the quite similar Employees' Entrance, the manipulative pursuit of success common to more of the characters than just William's.
Dwight's wife (Hopper) strolls in looking for her routine check, traveling money that keeps her well furnished while living on another continent, a setup that Dwight believe to be the best possible marriage, leaving him free to enjoy the added benefits of his private secretary while steering away form serious commitment to her. But above all, greed drives Dwight, wanting more at every turn whether power, money or women. Yet while his immorality may be simple enough, his techniques aren't always as such. When he first protects Lynn (O'Sullivan) from his amorous business associate (Foster), it appears that he's angling for her attentions when in fact he simply has bigger ideas, a seduce and conquer plan for his associate that involves another, better skilled woman.
Dwight is always two moves ahead, slickly defeating his opponents with nimble grace and twisted relish, arrogant and imperious in his tower in the sky. So it takes something beyond his calculations to challenge him, an insider uprising wrought by moral fire, his hubris ultimately his downfall.
dir. Roy Del Ruth
writ. Robert Presnell Sr. (screenplay), David Boehm (play)
feat. Warren William, Loretta Young, Wallace Ford, Alice White
"When a man outlives his usefulness, he ought to jump out a window."
Such is department store manager, Kurt Anderson's, philosophy of life in Employee's Entrance. Stellar in his usual role as the frequently cruel and occasionally charming tyrant, Warren William demands dedication and increased sales from his beleaguered employees despite a depression. His cutthroat attitude of "smash or be smashed" is not only prescient of today's accepted corporate culture, but is also the source of many laughs in this fine film, drawing bigger guffaws with the greater depths of each new crack.
But it's the contrast highlighted in the lighter side of Anderson that makes the film really shine, his suave seduction of Loretta Young's unemployed Madeleine as she pretends to play house in the homey department store set showing a contradictory side to his personality, not easily dismissed as a mere spider to the fly put-on. While largely a face shown only when he wishes to woo Madeleine, this side appears again as Anderson faces imminent disaster. His megalomania challenged, his downfall moments away, he flirts with store model and pawn, Polly (White), fantasizing about escaping to Europe for a dream adventure, leaving the store and worries behind. He even sends Polly off on a shopping spree, outfitting her for their promised departure. Naturally, plans change yet again, Anderson returning to his senses, his position at the top of the ladder secured.
The picture is full of delightfully human moments, a charmingly drunken Madeleine falling for the preying Anderson, a crushed businessman earning Anderson's respect only to find himself sucessful, and Polly's matter-of-fact approach to manipulating an old man with her physical wiles. And though overall, Anderson hinges on pure evil, attempting to crush whatever he can't possess himself, William transforms him into one of those most endearing of film characters, the charismatic, even lovable, villain.
dir. Frank Borzage
writ. Jo Swerling, play by Lawrence Hazard
feat. Spencer Tracy, Loretta Young, Marjorie Rambeau, Glenda Farrell, Walter Connolly, Arthur Hohl
Another gem from the early 30s that depicts an unexpected side of life. Bill (Tracy) and Trina (Young) meet on a park bench, Trina alone and not for sale though starving, while Bill wears a tux, tossing popcorn to pigeons. Abandon all presumptions as what follows tosses the audience on its collective ear. Bill is a wanderer, picking up odd jobs (I'll save you explanation of the tux for your own viewing pleasure), living in shantytowns, then moving on, a free spirit, untamed and alive. Trina has no such rambler ambitions, preferring some security, at least a roof over her head, and if possible, Bill to come home to her each night.
Bill is wary of the long-term relationship, quick to criticize Trina for being too skinny, too late now for her ever to look like a proper woman. He dishes out the criticism all too eagerly, the couple's own form of foreplay, Trina deftly parrying while Bill assures himself that he hasn't committed to anything permanent. But love is a patient suitor, and Bill finds himself smitten if conflicted, slowly sliding down the path to homebody, the gleaming white presence of a new stove a potent reminder of the life he might be giving up.
Ultimately, the film turns playful, finding a path so that Bill may have his cake and eat it too, perhaps unrealistic but fitting of the oddly enchanting dream that the picture weaves.
dir. Frank Capra (Allan Dwan and Roy William Neill - uncredited)
writ. Robert Riskin (story & dialogue)
feat. Walter Huston, Pat O'Brien, Kay Johnson, Constance Cummings, Gavin Gordon
There is such a thing as the perfect time to see a film, and right now (early 2009) is just that time for American Madness. Walter Huston plays Thomas Dickson, noble bank president, champion of the people. Sure, it's the depression and many banks (and Dickson's Board of Directors) want to hoard money for the sake of security, but not Dickson. He insists on investing in people, the backbone of America. The story makes for terrific early Capra fare, the everyman fighting the establishment for the good of all.
And it's wonderfully pre-code, allowing for a playful near seduction of a married woman and the grim, subtle suggestion of suicide as the only escape from failure in both work and marriage. Though it's not as risque as some of the pre-code treats of the early 30s, it manages a casual crack or two, including the following by Mrs. Dickson as she expresses her jealousy of the bank for its monopoly of her husband's time, "If it were some other woman, I could handle her, but after all, you can't scratch a bank's eyes out now, can you?"
The film stumbles at times, muddling it's way through a bank robbery, but then recovers famously, as the word gets out about the theft, sparking a mad run on the bank. An unsettling mob scene ensues, throngs of angry patrons storming the bank, desperate to pull their money out. This sustained charge in an age before special effects could multiply the crowd or fake the woman sucked down out of sight stands as a painfully claustrophobic scene, one that Capra permits to play to full effect. Naturally, not to leave us wanting, Dickson's more loyal and monied friends come to his aid, the air clears and there is hope for all Americans yet, not just for money but also for love.
writ and dir. by Darnell Martin
feat. Adrien Brody, Jeffrey Wright, Gabrielle Union, Columbus Short, Beyonce Knowles, Cedric the Entertainer, Mos Def, Eamonn Walker
For a fan of the Chicago blues, Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon, Little Walter, Howlin' Wolf, Chuck Berry, Etta James, it's hard not to be seduced by Cadillac Records, a film that understands that above all, it's about the music. And there's plenty of it, with terrific performances by all involved. Jeffrey Wright gets a much deserved role as the front man, and earns it, taking on Muddy's posture, swagger and upper lip. Mos Def runs with his glorified cameo as Chuck Berry, rambling through as though to match Berry's ripping guitar licks. And Eamonn Walker brings us the dark heart of the blues, an eerie, dangerous Howlin' Wolf.
Brody fares less evenly, convincing as a dreamer in the early portion of the film and a caring guardian for his boys, though feeling forced later as he oh so earnestly puts the moves on Beyonce as Etta James. This fabricated relationship is heavily leaned upon to provide a dramatic third act, lending some personal tragedy to the story, centering the focus on Chess and James for a life-threatening climax. But it fails miserably, uncovincingly faking a story of racial boundaries and giving Beyonce, the weakest of the performers in the film (eagerly bringing diva vibrato to James songs) an undeservedly bigger part (perhaps to accompany her producer credit).
Other than this misstep, if one can forget that there were two Chess brothers (Phil absent from the film) and forgive the alterations made to the various bluesmen's personalities and career histories in order to tell the central story of Muddy, then there are treasures to be found. The revelation of Muddy's baby from another woman plays like a traumatic blues song of a wife who knows she will stand by her man no matter what he may dole out. Questions of the relationship between musician and producer, perhaps another examploe of the white man making money off the hard work of the black man, are raised and left to simmer, acknowledging that there are no easy answers. But best of all, the film captures the ephemeral quality of music and fame, the thrill and the ache that comes when it's gone.
dir. Wesley Ruggles
writ. Mae West (story, screenplay & dialogue), Lowell Brentano (suggestions)
feat. Mae West, Cary Grant, Gregory Ratoff, Edward Arnold, Ralf Harolde
Mae West's character, Tira, may try to live by the motto, "take all you can get and give as little as possible," but thankfully West leans in the opposite direction, giving until the viewer risks bursting. I'll admit to never having had the pleasure before seeing this film, and my introduction to West leaves me feeling a little seedy. She is an otherworldly creature, unsettling more than seductive from this side of the screen, while overpowering any man who comes her way up there. She purrs her through one snide crack after another, a social creeper more than climber, never missing a beat or an opportunity, revelling in every minute. And she takes the ride in comfort, playing her body and voice like one synchronized instrument, occasionally dipping or drifting, a reminder that she's ever so alive and in control.
And while Cary Grant may seem a ridiculous match for West, and she's been manipulative and money-grubbing all the way, one can't help but feel happy for her eventual discovery of true love, her despicable charm earning her that much.
dir. Joseph H. Lewis
writ. Philip Yordan
feat. Cornel Wilde, Richard Conte, Brian Donlevy, Jean Wallace, Robert Middleton, Lee Van Cleef, Earl Holliman, Helene Stanton
"I treated her like a pair of gloves. I was cold, I'd call her up."
So states Lieutenant Diamond (Wilde), describing his relationship with a burlesque dancer after she has met a grim fate in this wonderfully gritty noir. Diamond is determined to bring down ruthless crime boss Mr. Brown (Conte), though he struggles to come up with any solid evidence. As his boss says, he's "fighting a swamp with a teaspoon." Conte is incomparable as the sharp-talking, venomously precise sociopath who prides himself on his vicious, take-no-prisoners approach to leading the syndicate. And to keep the sparring of these two from being simply a cold battle of icy wills, Diamond has fallen for Brown's girl over the course of his surveillance, his love adding fuel to his fire.
As Diamond seeks the evidence he needs, he encounters a host of supporting players on both sides of the fence, all turning out compelling, nuanced performances whether that burlesque dancer (Stanton), Brown's all-too-chummy couple of goons (Van Cleef and Holliman), or Brown's much maligned second in command (Donlevy). Along with these contributions, the gorgeously calculated cinematography of John Alton keeps the audience wading through the shadows of the oppressive uphill battle.
As in the best of noir, Combo lives and dies in the gray spaces between. While the moral message of the good guy ultimately winning (with love helping to save the day) may be drawn from the story, the excessive burden for the noble Diamond and the cost of his struggle throw the value of the quest into doubt, caught in the murky haze of the finale.
dir. Jon Avnet
writ. Gary Scott Thompson
feat. Al Pacino, Alicia Witt, Leelee Sobieski, Amy Brenneman, William Forsythe, Deborah Kara Unger
This filthy mess of a film isn't worth four minutes of writing. Desperate, clumsy screenwriting gives us multiple motorcyclist (in Seattle no less) red herring threats, several attractive yet pointless female characters (some of which will be threatened without the audience caring, one of which will be revealed as lesbian to weakly obscure a twist in the story), and a long-winded tragic history for our uncharismatic hero. Oh yeah, and most of the time Pacino will be on his cell phone. Without one effective element, the picture simply piles up into an increasingly stinking heap.
dir. Ben Stiller
writ. Ben Stiller, Justin Theroux & Etan Cohen, story by Stiller & Theroux
feat. Ben Stiller, Jack Black, Robert Downey Jr., Nick Nolte, Steve Coogan, Jay Baruchel...
Perhaps I'm just tired of the reign of the self-conscious comedy. Jim Carrey blew me away for a period of time and the introduction to the first Ace Ventura film still cracks me up as he beats the crap out of that package before duping its recipient upon delivery. But a boatload of very talented funnymen struggle against the many scenes in Tropic Thunder that demand you look and laugh, because clearly something funny is going on.
Stiller has been guilty of this for some time and his slipping from the public eye has been refreshing, a much needed respite from his routines grown tired (see Dodgeball). And though he plays a more likable, vaguely more complex character in Thunder, he still resorts to the long redundant gag, this time playing a mentally disabled misfit. It's a wonder that some are so slow to learn that mocking something annoying for a prolonged period will still become annoying. One runs the same risk as when making a leading character an idiot, eventually it may grow tired, the humor wearing thin, the substance transparent (see Napoleon Dynamite.)
And maybe give your supporting characters more than one or two jokes each as well. Surprisingly, the one that is most likely to be thinnest is the light of the film, as Downey blasts through his blackface, creating an inspired character, one that is challenging to follow with his machine-gun delivery and rewarding in the effort, particularly when he races through an explanation of how one can't go "full retard" if he wishes to cash in on an Academy award for a role. Kirk Lazarus (Downey's character) has the greatest arc in the film, bigger than the full story or any lesson Stiller's Speedman may learn, a fact that draws attention to the shortcomings of the picture.
Not that the movie isn't funny. There are a number of good laughs, and some delightfully playful gore (see Stiller drink from Coogan's jugular) to keep things rolling. And while McConaughey is believably and entertainingly underconfident as an agent and Cruise often hilarious and unnerving as the foul-mouthed, hairy-armed megalomaniacal producer, their jokes fire into a vacuum without a substantical supporting story, lacking the scrumptious cake on which they ought to be the icing.
dir. Ron Howard
writ. Peter Morgan (play and screenplay)
feat. Frank Langella, Michael Sheen, Sam Rockwell, Kevin Bacon, Matthew Macfadyen, Oliver Platt, Rebecca Hall
Frost/Nixon is a remarkable piece of affable entertainment so long as one doesn't think too hard. Both Sheen as Frost and Langella as Nixon create compelling characters, different yet equally attractive, arousing the viewer's curiosity even when frustrating one's hopes. And much of the movie is frustrating, with Frost seemingly ineffectual, perhaps disinterested in the project on some deeper level, and Nixon cleverly evasive, offering no meat in his interview responses. Throwing in some phony "modern-day" interview segments for framing, and adding a lovely Rebecca Hall to show off 70s fashion doesn't contribute to the slow pace or the lack of progress of the story.
However, a late-game series of scenes, including a gripping (yet sadly fictional) late night phone call by a drunken Nixon to Frost and the subsequent confession drawn out in the interview, help to turn the film around, bringing life and a sense of competition to the interaction, earning the picture's title and leaving the viewer far more satisfied than seemed possible a half hour earlier. Nevertheless, it's a bit of trickery, this "leaving them feeling good" approach, and it doesn't justify the long wait and the arbitrary characters, particularly if your best scene in a kind of biopic is pure fiction. While it may make for decent entertainment, one must wonder why bother with a feature dramatization that offers no notable insight when the meaningful substance can be found in the actual Frost-Nixon interviews, all readily available on DVD.
dir. Peter Segal
writ. Tom J. Astle & Matt Ember, characters by Mel Brooks & Buck Henry
feat. Steve Carell, Anne Hathaway, Dwayne Johnson, Alan Arkin
With a funny and inviting teaser trailer and the excellent casting of Carell in the Don Adams role, Get Smart offered a chance at a viable conversion from small to big screen, and even supported the notion for the first ten minutes. Sadly, it then dips deeply into overwrought love story development, half-assed action sequences (with a few pleasant gems), and the most obvious and predictable plot twist ever conceived. Rushing through that dubious moment in an effort to conceal the sleight of hand only broadcasts the presence of the "surprise" insider villain.
As talented an actress as Hathaway is, her slight, yet impossible to eradicate, waspy nasal tone is just off for Agent 99, never as dry as Barbara Feldon, losing some of the straight man power. Johnson's wonderful introduction as the hyper-sexy superagent is blown as the film goes on, and though Arkin remains brilliant, he can't save the picture even when he helps save the day.
