Knives Out: A cutting romp

Knives Out (2019) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for brief violence, profanity, sexual candor and drug references
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.6.19

I haven’t had this much fun since 2001’s Gosford Park.

From the opening scene — as two large dogs charge ominously across the grounds of a massive secluded estate, accompanied by an unsettling warble of violins from soundtrack composer Nathan Johnson — we’re obviously in good hands.

While Marta (Ana de Armas) watches uncomfortably, private investigator Benoit Blanc
(Daniel Craig) puzzles his way through one of the many inconsistencies in the
"suicide" that he increasingly believes was staged.

Writer/director Rian Johnson’s Knives Out is a droll, clever riff on classic, Agatha Christie-style drawing room murder mysteries. It’s not quite a spoof — the plot is powered by a devilishly twisty whodunit — but one nonetheless senses that all concerned had a great time in the process.

The top-flight cast is headed by Daniel Craig, resolutely solemn as debonair Benoit Blanc, a Southern-friend private investigator who channels Christie’s Hercule Poirot by way of Colonel Sanders. (Once again, British actors are surprisingly convincing with their Deep South accents.) Craig almost never cracks a smile — it wouldn’t suit Benoit’s character — but the more gravely earnest he remains, the funnier the performance.

And Benoit certainly has a puzzler for his little gray cells.

As the film opens, world-famous and wealthy mystery writer Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer) has been dead for a week, his passing written off as suicide: not an unusual a call, given that he was found with the knife that slashed his throat, his fingerprints all over the handle.

As far as local cops Lt. Elliott (LaKeith Stanfield) and Trooper Wagner (Noah Segan) are concerned, the case is closed. They’re therefore baffled when Benoit shows up, claiming to have been hired to investigate the “suspicious circumstances” of Harlan’s death; the gumshoe requests re-interviews with the entire Thrombey clan.

At first blush, they seem united in genuine grief … but after even minimal probing, they turn out to be quite the collection of grasping, spiteful, self-centered, back-biting misfits.

Frozen II: Shouldn't have been thawed

Frozen II (2019) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated PG, for no particular reason
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.22.19

I want to know what this film’s writers were smoking.

Granted, this sequel to 2013’s Frozen has its moments, almost exclusively those involving Josh Gad’s hilarious supporting performance as the relentlessly loquacious snowman, Olaf.

Having just penetrated the strange mist that conceals an enchanted forest, Elsa (foreground)
continues to hear a mysterious voice, although her companions — from left, Sven, Olaf,
Kristoff and Anna — do not.

The rest, however, is a mess.

Folks with a chronic aversion to musicals — and their numbers are legion — generally don’t shun classics such asThe Wizard of Oz, Singing in the Rain or West Side Story, or later genre refinements such as Cabaret and La La Land. No, such folks hate bad musicals: 1969’s Paint Your Wagon, 1975’s At Long Last Love, 1982’s Grease 2 and many others too numerous to mention.

Musicals with wafer-thin stories that usually make no sense, and which are interrupted constantly when the orchestra swells, an actor or two pauses in mid-sentence, stares heavenward, and we recoil with a sotto voce “Oh, gawd; they’re gonna sing again.”

Musicals with truly atrocious songs, not one of which is memorable enough to linger beyond the end credits.

Frozen II is a bad musical. A very bad musical, with genuinely awful, unmelodic and instantly forgotten tunes. Some of which are heard (endured?) more than once.

Songwriters Kristen Anderson-Lopez and Robert Lopez clearly felt they had to match the success of “Let It Go,” their inspirational, Academy Award-winning ballad from the first film. Ergo, most of these seven new tunes are similarly overcooked and overwrought power anthems, not one of which comes within shouting distance of “Let It Go.” The absence of musical variety — particularly during the film’s second half — becomes unbearable.

You could hear the clanking of eyeballs rolling in their sockets, during Monday evening’s preview screening, each time viewers muttered, “Oh, gawd; she’s gonna sing again.”

There’s such a thing as trying too hard.

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood: A bold, but failed experiment

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2019) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated PG, for dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang

This is so not the movie most folks likely are expecting.

Not even 10 minutes in, it feels like we’ve stumbled into the Twilight Zone.

When cynical journalist Lloyd Vogel (Matthew Rhys, right) arrives at the Pittsburgh studio
where Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood is filmed, he's surprised to be greeted effusively by
Fred Rogers (Tom Hanks), as if they were longtime friends.

A couple of clues signal this not-quite-rightness. The film’s aspect ratio is 4:3, as with old television set images (as opposed to any sort of wide-screen format). The visuals appear slightly out of focus, as if we’re watching a VHS tape; director of photography Jody Lee Lipes has re-created 20-year-old television-style cinematography. The result seems “blurry” because we’ve become so accustomed to pristine HD camerawork.

Lipes pans slowly over the familiar, scale-model neighborhood set, complete with toy vehicles — notably the Neighborhood Trolley — moving jerkily among the rows of houses, in the low-budget, pre-CGI fashion. The gentle, equally memorable piano melody rises — Nate Heller’s soundtrack sublimely mimicking the iconic Johnny Costa, whose improvised keyboard work was such an integral part of the show — and Mr. Rogers (Tom Hanks) enters in ritual fashion.

The jacket comes off, replaced by a red cardigan: zipped all the way up — and then halfway down — with a snap. He sits; the formal shoes yield to canvas boat sneakers. All the while, he softly croons the iconic opening song — “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” — without ever losing that gentle, inviting smile.

The replication is almost spooky: the stance, the voice, the welcoming expression. More than that, the aura that always radiated from Fred Rogers. The latter must’ve been a challenge: Either that, or Hanks has discovered a way to channel the dear departed.

Right about now, we wonder: Where the heck are we going?

At which point, the merely puzzling sails into the positively weird.

Mr. Rogers shares a picture-board, opening each of the little doors to reveal a photograph beneath. Some are familiar, as with the puppet King Friday the 13th. But the next door conceals a head shot — practically a police booking photo — of Mr. Rogers’ “good friend,” Lloyd Vogel. He looks quite worse for wear, with a black eye and bloodied nose.

Mr. Rogers softly laments the plight of those consumed by anger, unable to forgive the trespasses of others. Whereupon we slide into Lloyd’s life, to witness the events that brought him to this sorry state.

Ford V Ferrari: Turbo-charged!

Ford V Ferrari (2019) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and occasional profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.15.19

Christian Bale never ceases to amaze.

His performances are “all in” to a degree most actors couldn’t even contemplate, let alone accomplish. Nor is it merely the surface gimmick of his extreme weight losses and gains; Bale never appears to be “acting.” He simply becomesthat person, whether an industrial worker fearing for his sanity (The Machinist); a former boxer turned crack addict (The Fighter); or an ex-neurologist-turned-stock market savant suffering from Asperger syndrome (The Big Short).

Having made yet another series of adjustments, driver/engineer Ken Miles (Christian Bale,
left) prepares to test-drive their high-performance vehicle again, while designer
Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) waits apprehensively.

Or, in this case, feisty English sports car racing engineer and driver Ken Miles. Five minutes into this film, Bale ceases to exist. He is this guy. The mannerisms, posture, short temper and pugnacious attitude are wholly unlike any other character he has played, during a career that began when he was 12. 

That said, Bale’s Ken Miles is by no means defined solely by his truculence; the scenes he shares with Caitriona Balfe and Noah Jupe — also excellent, as Miles’ wife Mollie and their young son Peter — depict a kinder, gentler and loving man wholly at odds with the automotive genius who suffers fools not at all, let alone gladly.

(For the record, Bale dropped 70 pounds to play Miles, after having plumped up for Dick Cheney, in Vice.)

The notion that Bale has yet to win a Best Actor Oscar defies comprehension.

His sublime performance is far from the only high point in Ford V Ferrari, director James Mangold’s consistently absorbing, fascinating and suspenseful depiction of the American automobile company’s hare-brained, mid-1960s decision to challenge Italy’s boutique car-maker in the annual 24-hour Le Mans endurance race. Despite a running time of 152 minutes, Mangold’s film is never less than compelling … and the racing sequences are breathtaking. 

Cinematographer Phedon Papamichael and a trio of editors — Andrew Buckland, Michael McCusker and Dirk Westervelt — deserve considerable applause. Sound designer Jay Wilkinson deserves an Academy Award.

Kudos, as well, to scripters Jez Butterworth, John-Henry Butterworth and Jason Keller, for bravely tackling the corporate back-story and hijinks that led to this automotive clash. The narrative execution is never less than enthralling, to the same degree that 1976’s All the President’s Men turned plodding investigative journalism into a gripping suspense thriller.

Nor do the writers fill time with the soapy relationship melodrama relied upon by 1969’s Winning and 1971’s Le Mans. This film is cars, cars and nothing but cars … and that’s not a bad thing. If you’re not a racing fan prior to seeing Ford V Ferrari, you certainly will be 152 minutes later.

Charlie's Angels: Clip their wings. Please.

Charlie's Angels (2019) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for violence, profanity and suggestive content
By Derrick Bang

Director/co-scripter Elizabeth Banks deserves congratulations, of a sort: She has appropriately honored this franchise.

Which is to say, this film is every bit as dumb, dull and contrived as the late 1970s TV series on which it’s based.

Having tracked the bad guys to an industrial rock quarry, the resourceful Angel
operatives ‚ from left, Jane (Ella Balinska), Sabina (Kristen Stewart) and Elena (Naomi
Scott) — ponder their next move.

Oh, sure; the insufferable sexism has been upgraded (somewhat) to bad-ass gal power, but that’s not much of an improvement … particularly since this updated Charlie’s Angels still finds ample opportunity to pour its three stars into skin-tight outfits. (A third-act dance sequence is particularly eye-rolling.) Costume designer Kym Barrett certainly is kept busy, particularly with glitzy tube dresses.

Mostly, though, Banks has simply proven that she can deliver an action thriller every bit as mindless as those featuring male stars in equally ludicrous predicaments. Although her story — co-written with Evan Spiliotopoulos and David Auburn — ostensibly is fueled by the desperate effort to Keep A Nasty Device Out Of The Wrong Hands, it’s little more than an excuse for an increasingly tiresome series of chases, melees, absurdly drawn-out smackdowns and the usual physics-defying stunt work.

Most of the performances rarely rise above the smug and smirk that too frequently passes for “acting” in live-action comic books of this sort, and occasional efforts at more serious emoting — as when we lose a good guy, early on — are wincingly awful. The one exception is Kristen Stewart, whose sass and snark are a breath of fresh air. I can’t say she carries the film — that would be impossible — but she certainly makes it more bearable.

Having moved further into the 21st century, the Townsend Agency has expanded from its Southern California roots, with clandestine pockets of high-tech Angels now operating world-wide. A prologue escapade introduces the resourceful and athletic talents of Sabina (Stewart) and Jane (Ella Balinska), as they take down wealthy international criminal Johnny Smith (Chris Pang, suitably smarmy).

Meanwhile, back at the Townsend Agency, veteran Bosley (Patrick Stewart) is feted with a retirement party, having been instrumental in taking the Angels global during the past decades. He’s congratulated by his replacement Bosley (Banks) — the name being more of a company rank, like lieutenant — with other Bosleys wishing him well via international video links.

Last Christmas: An enchanting stocking-stuffer

Last Christmas (2019) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for sexual candor and profanity
By Derrick Bang

Emilia Clarke has the best eyebrows in town.

Mind you, her eyes are rather fetching as well: sparkling, seductive, laden with promise.

Kate (Emilia Clarke), a hopeless mess made even more tragic by the bright green elf
costume required during working hours, cannot understand why Tom (Henry Golding)
keeps pursuing her, despite her constant rejection.

But the eyebrows speak volumes, as skillfully manipulated by an actress who truly understands the power of expression. She’s a force of nature who carries this enchanting film through sheer presence and personality. With her merest glance — without a word — she’s mischievous, curious, crestfallen, hopeful or absolutely shattered. 

Or she smugly acknowledges a particularly tart bon mot.

Which is not to say that spoken words are superfluous here: far from it. Clarke is equally adept at tearful self-reproach and saucy one-liners, and this script — credited to Emma Thompson, Greg Wise and Bryony Kimmings — is laden with plenty of the latter. Indeed, this unapologetically sentimental holiday charmer has the wit, effervescence and cunningly sculpted characters we normally expect from Richard Curtis (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Love Actually and Pirate Radio, among others).

The even greater surprise is that director Paul Feig — known mostly for broad-stroke pratfall comedies such as Bridesmaids, Spy and the updated Ghostbusters — takes an appropriately restrained (dare I say British?) approach to this far gentler bon bon.

Kate (Clarke) harrumphs around London in a perpetual state of disarray, forever dragging a suitcase while exhausting the patience of friends who soon regret letting her sofa-surf. She’s erratic, undependable and persistently selfish: a bundle of bad decisions who never met a bar she couldn’t shut down, or a bloke she couldn’t tolerate during another ill-advised one-nighter.

The question is from whence these self-destructive tendencies spring; answers come in captivating fits and spurts.

Her presence inevitably is heralded by the jangle of bells on her shoes: an insufferable consequence of her job as a green-garbed elf in a year-round Covent Garden Christmas shop owned and managed by the imperious “Santa” (Michelle Yeoh). When not at work or getting soused, Kate hustles to music or theatrical auditions for which she’s inevitably late and ill-prepared: a fitful attempt to reclaim the vocal glory displayed as a young choir performer, when she and her family still lived in what used to be Yugoslavia.

Once upon a time, Santa saw potential in Kate: a radiant personality that pleased customers and enhanced sales. But that Kate has long been absent; the hopeless mess who replaced her is in serious danger of losing her job.

Doctor Sleep: Ultimately a yawn

Doctor Sleep (2019) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated R, for violence, dramatic intensity, profanity, disturbing images and nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.8.19

When asked how he can stand to have so many of his books and stories ruined by bad movie adaptations, Stephen King is fond of quoting James M. Cain, who faced the same question in the wake of his novels being sanitized — to the point of absurdity — by 1940s and ’50s Hollywood morality standards.

Against his better judgment, but forced by dire circumstance, Dan Torrance (Ewan
McGregor) once again finds himself in the malevolent hallways of the dread Overlook Hotel.

“They’re not ruined,” Cain growled, pointing to his bookshelf. “They’re all right there!”

King can point to a much larger shelf, and it would be overstating to claim that director/scripter Mike Flanagan completely botched his handling of Stephen King’s sequel to 1977’s enormously popular The Shining. The first two acts of this film adaptation are impressively faithful to the 2013 novel.

The third act is something else again. 

It destroys the good will Flanagan has built up to that point, while demonstrating the arrogant hubris of filmmakers who believe that all books — and plays, TV shows, whatever — are ripe for “improvement.”

I’m not referring to the judicious trimming required to condense (in this case) a 528-page novel into a 151-minute film. Flanagan skillfully removed a couple of supporting characters, nipped here and tucked there, and trimmed the extensive attention paid to a hopeless alcoholic not yet ready to become sober (while retaining the issue vividly enough to make its point).

No, I’m much more troubled by Flanagan’s decision to completely re-write the ending, while simultaneously indulging in a mean-spirited viciousness wholly at odds with the tone of King’s book. The result is simply wrong, although intriguing from an analytical point of view: Flanagan’s first two acts honor King’s text, but the ill-advised third act plays more like a clumsy sequel to Stanley Kubrick’s’ 1980 adaptation of The Shining … which also screwed up its source material.

(Flanagan should have learned from previous mistakes, given his equally failed 2017 handling of King’s Gerald’s Game.)

A prologue finds young Danny Torrance and his mother relocated to Florida, only a short time after the events in The Shining: as far removed as possible from the freezing, claustrophobic Colorado snows that surrounded the dread Overlook Hotel. But its phantasms still haunt Danny, until the kindly specter of Dick Hallorann (Carl Lumbly, regal as always) teaches the boy how to deal with such vengeful shades.

Flash-forward several decades. Dan Torrance (Ewan McGregor), long tortured by his “shine,” has succumbed to the alcoholism that helped transform his father into the monster so easily corrupted by the Overlook’s supernatural residents. Constantly fleeing from bad situations, Dan hops a bus and randomly steps out in bucolic Frazier, N.H. He soon encounters Billy Freeman (Cliff Curtis), who senses all is not right with this newcomer. Dan responds to this random act of kindness, late one night, by knocking on Billy’s door and saying the three magic words: “I need help.”

Jojo Rabbit: A cheeky masterpiece

Jojo Rabbit (2019) • View trailer 
Five stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, disturbing images and violence
By Derrick Bang

You’re unlikely to see a more audacious film this year.

The slightest misstep — the most minute mistake in tone — and director/scripter Taika Waititi’s adaptation of Christine Leunens’ Jojo Rabbit would slide into puerile bathos or unforgivably heinous poor taste.

Having just discovered that a young woman (Thomasin McKenzie, as Elsa) has been
concealed behind the wall of an upstairs bedroom for an unknown length of time,
impassioned Hitler Youth acolyte Jojo (Roman Griffin Davis) is uncertain how to
handle this potentially dangerous situation.

Such a delicate tightrope walk … which Waititi maneuvers with impressive grace, skill and cunning.

Along with his unerring handling of a note-perfect cast.

Satires about Adolf Hitler are rare, and for obvious reasons; the very notion is an artistic mine field. Charlie Chaplin pulled it off, with 1940’s The Great Dictator; so did Mel Brooks, with his Oscar-winning script for 1967’sThe Producers. And now we have an even more daring and impudent skewering of the dread Teppichfresser.

Ten-and-a-half-year-old Jojo Betzler (precocious Roman Griffin Davis, in a stunning acting debut) is introduced as he stares at his reflection in a mirror, dressed in Nazi finery. “Today you join the ranks of the Jungvolk!” he proudly tells himself. “You are in peak mental and physical condition. You have the body of a panther, and the mind of … a brainy panther. You are a shiny example of shiny perfection!”

The setting is the quaint (fictitious) town of Falkenheim, Austria, years into the repressive Nazi rule. Although all signs point to the war’s imminent conclusion, the naïve and credulously gullible Jojo has waited to be old enough to embrace the pervasive propaganda against which he has grown up, by joining the Hitler Youth. He and best friend Yorki (Archie Yates, endearingly cherubic) are tremendously excited by the weekend of “training” that will transform them into hard-charging Nazi warriors.

Except that things don’t quite work out that way. 

The training camp is overseen by the wearily cynical Capt. Klenzendorf (Sam Rockwell), who’d prefer to lead men to “glorious death” at the front, rather than shepherd “a bunch of little titty-grabbers.” He’s assisted by loyal acolyte Freddie Finkel (Alfie Allen, late of Game of Thrones), far more faithful than intelligent; and Fraulein Rahm (Rebel Wilson, whose deadpan slow takes are to die for), ever-willing to accept and spread the most absurd Nazi myths.

Trouble is, Jojo’s inherently sensitive nature is completely at odds with the Nazi “Aryan ideal” he’s so desperate to mimic. The crunch comes when, as the youngest and clearly most intimidated boy in the group, he’s ordered to demonstrate his ferocity … by killing a rabbit.

Motherless Brooklyn: The Big Apple's rotten core

Motherless Brooklyn (2019) • View trailer 
4.5 stars. Rated R, for violence, profanity and drug use
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.1.19

Fans of Jonathan Lethem’s award-winning 1999 crime fiction novel will be quite surprised by what director/scripter Edward Norton has done with it.

The spider and the fly: Thoroughly irritated by the persistent investigation mounted by
private detective Lionel Essrog (Edward Norton, right), rapacious New York City developer
Moses Randolph (Alec Baldwin) demands a face-to-face, hoping to make an offer his
pipsqueak tormentor dare not refuse.

Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn, although contemporary to its late 20th century arrival, has the attitude, atmosphere and plot stylings of 1940s and ’50s pulp detective thrillers. Revering that style as a jumping-off point, Norton has retained the primary character — and very little else — while bouncing him back to 1957, and dropping him into an entirely new story that blends fact, fiction and noir sensibilities in a manner we’ve not seen since 1974’s Chinatown.

In a word, the result is mesmerizing.

Chinatown scripter Robert Towne ingeniously employed a “simple” gumshoe case to illuminate the real-world corruption and power-mongering behind Los Angeles’ bureaucratic theft of Owens River water, as ruthlessly orchestrated by civil engineer William Mulholland (fictionalized by John Huston’s Noah Cross). 

Norton, in turn, dumps Lethem’s intriguing protagonist into the clandestine, Tammany Hall-style empire ruled by the even more powerful Robert Moses, the mid-20th century developer/builder who — by manipulating politicians behind the scenes — ruthlessly transformed New York City into his vision of a metropolis. It’s a fascinating slice of history, which Norton cleverly blends with the character that he also plays in this thoroughly absorbing drama … but it has absolutely nothing to do with Lethem’s novel.

The film opens at a sprint: Lionel Essrog (Norton) and colleague Gilbert Coney (Ethan Suplee), both operatives of a small-time detective agency run by Frank Minna (Bruce Willis), accompany their boss when he arranges a meeting with shadowy figures left unspecified. The acutely perceptive Lionel knows that Frank is up to something, and likely something dangerous; this hunch proves accurate in the worst possible way, when Minna winds up dead.

Frank was more than merely a boss to Lionel; he also was mentor, friend and protector. Indeed, all four agency operatives — including Tony (Bobby Cannavale) and Danny (Dallas Roberts) — emerged from the same Catholic orphanage, back in the day, where Minna became their father-figure. 

His murder therefore hits Lionel quite hard, particularly since he is far from “normal.” Lionel is obsessive/compulsive and also suffers from an uncontrollable tendency to erupt in nonsense speech: often punning, rhyming and “clanging” against what somebody else has just said. He’s constantly forced to apologize for the “glass in the brain” that prompts such spontaneous outbursts; we recognize this as Tourette Syndrome, a designation not at all familiar to the characters in this re-imagined 1950s version of Lethem’s novel.

Terminator: Dark Fate — Deserves termination

Terminator: Dark Fate (2019) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for profanity, relentless violence and fleeting nudity
By Derrick Bang

Seriously?

Bad enough that this film is little more than 128 minutes’ worth of increasingly daft chases, brawls, explosions and big guns making bigger holes, fleetingly interrupted by fitful — and unsuccessful — attempts at some semblance of story.

Enraged by the violent events that have turned her life upside-down, Dani (Natalia Reyes,
right) is prevented from foolish bravado by Grace (Mackenzie Davis), her mysterious
protector from the future.

The greater sin, however, is that this sixth entry in the Terminator series makes even worse hash of the time-travel elements so carefully established in the initial two films, and progressively screwed up by each subsequent entry. At this point, nothing makes any sense, particularly with respect to the fate of all-important John Connor.

Dark Fate apparently is intended as a re-boot of the entire series, but even that flimsy claim doesn’t withstand analysis, given the presence of Linda Hamilton’s Sarah Connor and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s venerable T-800. This is arbitrary, kitchen-sink mayhem at its most gratuitous.

I’ve observed, over the years, that the quality of a film decreases — often exponentially — in direct relation to the number of writers above two. This misbegotten screenplay has sixcredited writers, which is rather ironic. It can’t take that many people to type “She shoots him repeatedly. They beat each other to a pulp. Then stuff blows up.”

Granted, the reunion with Schwarzenegger’s T-800 is a crowd-pleasing thrill, although his presence centers around a heinous act from which the film never recovers … despite some (later) preposterous lip-service toward redemption. Ol’ Arnie, bless him, hasn’t anywhere near the acting chops to pull off that whopper.

We shouldn’t be surprised by this flick’s superficiality. Director Tim Miller’s sole previous big-screen feature was 2016’s Deadpool, which is nothing but exploitative, violently gory pandemonium. In fairness, that guilty pleasure benefited from its snarky attitude and cheerfully deplorable dark humor. Dark Fate has no humor whatsoever, despite Hamilton’s repeated efforts at thuddingly clunky one-liners.

Actually, the only genuinely funny moment comes when Schwarzenegger, deadpan as always, claims to be funny.