Wrath of Man: Dismay of viewer

Wrath of Man (2021) • View trailer

Two stars. Rated R, for profanity and relentless violence

By Derrick Bang

I miss Guy Ritchie.

 

I miss the British director who burst onto the scene with snarky crime thrillers such as Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch, populated by arch characters with improbable names such as Hatchet Harry, Barry the Baptist, Franky Four Fingers and Bullet-Tooth Tony, all bumping each other off in ways that would have been appalling, were they not so darkly hilarious.

 

As "H" (Jason Statham, second from left) begins his first day on the job, Bullet
(Holt McCallany, far left) introduces him to Hollow Bob (far right) and
Boy Sweat Dave (Josh Hartnett).

That Guy Ritchie attempted to go mainstream a decade ago, with uneven results, by tampering with pop-culture icons such as Sherlock Holmes and Napoleon Solo (The Man from U.N.C.L.E.)

 

Happily, the original Guy Ritchie returned with 2019’s The Gentleman, another cheeky crime thriller leavened by the writer/director’s caustic sense of humor.

 

Alas, that Guy Ritchie is AWOL in his new film. Wrath of Man hasn’t a single wry chuckle in its dreary 118 minutes; it’s nothing but a grim revenge saga with far too much collateral damage to be enjoyable on any level.

 

It’s not fun, merely tedious. No snark. No attitude.

 

It’s also a disappointing reunion with star Jason Statham, who was introduced — nay, detonated — in Lock, Stock and Snatch. Statham also isn’t fun here; he’s merely a grim rage machine, in an under-developed role that could’ve been played by any number of grade-C action stars.

 

The sole Ritchie touch evident — in a script co-written with Marn Davies and Ivan Atkinson, and adapted from the 2004 French thriller Le Convoyeur — is the clever, non-linear structure that teases us with partial details, until finally Revealing All during the third act.

 

But that’s hardly enough to hold our interest, when surrounded by so many one-dimensional characters.

 

Maybe the Los Angeles setting is to blame. Ritchie needs to operate in his native Merry Olde, where British wit is an institution. Everybody knows that Los Angeles has no sense of humor.

 

Anyway…

 

After a deadly ambush on one of its armored vehicles, L.A.-based Fortico Securities replaces one of its slain guards with tight-lipped Patrick Hill (Statham), who immediately is dubbed “H.” He barely passes the necessary driving, behavior and shooting tests administered by the veteran Bullet (Holt McCallany), who nonetheless speaks up for the new recruit, despite the doubts of depot manager Terry (Eddie Marsan).

 

Fortico handles the transport of major cash sums that — for one reason or another — can’t be processed via banks (a good option for marijuana dispensaries). 

 

Words on Bathroom Walls: Profound thoughts

Words on Bathroom Walls (2020) • View trailer 

Four stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, sexual candor and brief profanity

By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.11.20 

Films concerning mental illness generally rely on actors to convey the disease’s twitchy instability, erratic behavior and the often heartbreaking frustration that comes from self-awareness: Mary Stuart Masterson (1993’s Benny & Joon) and Bradley Cooper (2012’s Silver Linings Playbook) come to mind.

 

More than anything else, Adam (Charlie Plummer) wants to lead a "normal" life ...
which means that he insists on keeping  his mental instability secret from Maya
(Taylor Russell).

Our sense of such characters remains mostly external; we rarely experience the unreality of their shattered senses. Skillful authors can depict that in a novel, but it’s much harder to convey visually, without the result becoming silly … or, even worse, trivialized.

 

Director Thor Freudenthal and scripter Nick Naveda deftly avoid such pitfalls, with their sensitive, shattering — and, at times, even chilling — adaptation of Julia Walton’s 2017 novel. Thanks also to a strong cast, this saga of teenage schizophrenia is illuminating, sobering and, yes, heartwarming.

 

That said, the book’s fans will note that while Naveda retains the essential plot points, he has taken serious liberties with details. Numerous characters have been dropped, and key events have been altered. (Rather crucially, the significance of the book’s title has been tampered with.) It’s perhaps safer to say that this film is inspired by Walton’s novel, rather than faithfully adapted from it.

 

Much the way Walton presents her story as a series of journal entries, Adam (Charlie Plummer) narrates his saga during a series of sessions with an off-camera psychiatrist (never revealed). He’s a standard-issue high school kid with a doting single mother (Molly Parker, as Beth); the two of them have become a “team” after being abandoned by his father.

 

Charlie’s a bit on the nerdish end: mildly unkempt, with long, straggly hair that frequently obscures his eyes. Partly in an effort to cheer up his mother, following the breakup, he experimented with cooking, and has developed considerable culinary talents; he dreams of becoming a chef in a posh restaurant.

 

But Charlie has become increasingly dogged by often terrifying illusions, always triggered by black mists and a growling, disembodied voice emanating from open doorways. He and his mother pursue various drugs and therapies, none of which slows his frightening slide into mental instability.

 

The Mule: Quietly powerful

The Mule (2018) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for frequent profanity and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.4.19

Clint Eastwood isn’t merely a savvy judge of good material; he also has lucked into projects that required a bit of patience.

After being confronted by a highway patrol officer, Earl (Clint Eastwood, left) must think
quickly, having just realized that the unassuming satchel in the back of his truck contains
a considerable quantity of cocaine.

He famously waited years to make 1992’s Unforgiven, because he wanted to be old enough to take the lead character. Nobody could have expected him to pull that trick off twice, and yet here he is again: age-appropriate for the starring role in The Mule.

At 88 years young, he once again stepped both behind and in front of the camera; the result is a thoroughly engaging character study, leavened with occasional dollops of dry humor … which is unexpected, given the subject matter.

Screenwriter Nick Schenk previously worked with Eastwood a decade ago, on Gran Torino. It, too, concerned a feisty senior citizen betrayed by progress, and stubbornly stuck in a past that has drained between his fingers. It’s an archetype that Eastwood could play in his sleep at this point, and yet he brings freshness to his portrayal of Earl Stone, a 90-year-old horticulturalist-turned-unlikely courier (“mule”) for a Mexican drug cartel.

Schenk’s script is inspired by New York Times journalist Sam Dolnick’s lengthy — and mesmerizing — profile of Leo Sharp, who was 87 on Oct. 21, 2011, when he was arrested by Detroit DEA agents. The five duffel bags in the back of his pickup truck contained 104 kilos of cocaine. And this was very, very far from his first run for the Sinaloa cartel.

Eastwood and Schenk wisely embraced only the crucial details of Sharp’s saga, preferring to develop a more intimate fictitious subplot with poignant highs and lows (thereby avoiding tiresome accusations about the absence of 100 percent accuracy, which have dogged Green Book and other excellent films of the past few years).

We meet Earl during a brief flashback, at the peak of his career as a farmer and flower breeder: a horticultural rock star whose efforts are prized by attendees at daylily conventions, who cluster around his booth to obtain free samples. But this fame has come at a price: He has chosen the adulation of strangers over a meaningful family life.

Flash-forward to (more or less) the present day, as Earl reluctantly abandons the now-foreclosed farm that has been his primary love for so long. As with so many other business models, the Internet has destroyed individual breeders and suppliers; Earl lacked the willingness to adapt, and now stands destitute.

Worse yet, he’s been absent far too much to garner any sympathy from his long-estranged wife, Mary (Dianne Wiest), and their adult daughter, Iris (Alison Eastwood). His granddaughter Ginny (Taissa Farmiga) is more tolerant and sweetly loving, insisting on having a relationship with him, warts and all. But Ginny is about to marry, and Earl’s sudden appearance is more than unwelcome; it intensifies the fury of Mary and Iris, angered both by his long estrangement, and his failure to honor a promise to pay for the wedding.

Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again — Another treat for ABBA fans

Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again (2018) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for playful sensuality
By Derrick Bang

Playful summer sensuality couldn’t possibly look more enticing than it does in this delightful musical.

When Donna (Lily James, right) asks if she can get a job singing at a Greek café/bar, she's
challenged to prove her vocal chops, much to the delight of best friends Rosie (Alexa
Davies, left) and Tanya (Jessica Keenan Wynn).

The entire gang returns for another romantic roundelay in this sparkling sequel, which adds a few casting surprises to an ensemble already rich with tuneful joie de vivre. The story is typical “musical lite” — just enough plot on which to hang a bunch of song and dance numbers — but writers Ol Parker, Richard Curtis and Catherine Johnson add enough flirty banter and droll double entendres to keep everybody amused.

And yet, since we’re dealing with a finite songbook, one can’t help feeling that all the “good stuff” was used up during the first film. Reprises of the title song and “Dancing Queen” are inevitable, but many of the other tunes here — no matter how cleverly placed — are less familiar, and therefore don’t resonate nearly as much.

This sequel definitely suffers the comparative lack of power ballads that gave its predecessor so much effervescent momentum. No doubt recognizing this, the writers have shaped a more emotional story better suited to the quieter, more poignant songs at work here.

Even so, the first act is rather slow, and we get a sense that Parker — who also directs — is having trouble warming up.

Fortunately, things improve as the film proceeds.

Many years have passed, during which Sophie (Amanda Seyfried) and her maybe-father Sam (Pierce Brosnan), happily ensconced on the magical Greek island of Kalokairi, have worked hard to renovate the taverna that her mother Donna (Meryl Streep) always wished to transform into a luxury hotel. The grand opening is set for the following day: an occasion that has brought Donna’s lifelong friends Tanya (Christine Baranski) and Rosie (Julie Walters) to the island.

Alas, Sophie’s other maybe-dads — Harry (Colin Firth) and Bill (Stellan Skarsgård) — are tied up elsewhere in the world, and boyfriend Sky (Dominic Cooper) is in New York, learning the ins and outs of the hotel trade.

Worse yet — and there’s simply no getting around this, since the bomb drops almost immediately — Donna is absent, having died a year earlier. (What? I hear you scream. No kidding.) Not having her mother on hand to share this moment, is almost more than Sophie can bear.

This melancholia prompts Sophie to reflect on the circumstances that brought her mother to Kalokairi, so long ago: our entry to the extended flashback subsequently intercut with the present-day activities.

Book Club: A good read

Book Club (2018) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, and rather generously, for considerable sexual candor and some profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.18.18

Blend four accomplished actresses with a sharp script — particularly if laden with plenty of arch one-liners — and the results can’t help being delightful.

Sharon (Candice Bergen, left) is reluctant to take the "go for it" encouragement coming
from best friends Carol (Mary Steenbergen, center) and Vivian (Jane Fonda). At the same
time, all three are concerned about the romantic progress — or lack thereof — their
mutual friend Diane might be experiencing.

Such is the case with Book Club, a thoroughly entertaining showcase for stars Jane Fonda, Diane Keaton, Candice Bergen and Mary Steenburgen. The ribald premise invites — and delivers — a relentless stream of mischievously bawdy dialogue and clever double entendres, all courtesy of co-writers Erin Simms and Bill Holderman, the latter also making an accomplished directorial debut.

This film also is a game-changer for Simms, a once-busy actress making an equally noteworthy shift to writer/producer. (She shared behind-the-scenes credit with Holderman on 2015’s adaptation of Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods. This new film is much better.)

Book Club is another welcome entry in the Life Doesn’t End At 50 sub-genre of gentle romantic comedies, following in the recent footsteps of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and The Meddler. Simms and Holderman’s sweet and saucy script takes a perceptive poke at ill-advised expectations, unwarranted social conventions, and the silent resignation with which far too many people accept less than their fair slice of the romantic pie.

Diane (Keaton), recently widowed after 40 years of marriage, is regarded as just this side of a doddering invalid by her two well-meaning but insufferably condescending daughters (Alicia Silverstone and Katie Aselton). Vivian (Fonda), an enormously successful and wealthy hotel owner, has spent her life limiting male contact to short-term affairs with no strings attached.

Sharon (Bergen), a federal court judge, still hasn’t recovered from a decades-old divorce from ex-husband Tom (Ed Begley Jr.), who — twisting the knife even further — has just gotten engaged to a hotsy-totsy babe (Mircea Monroe, as Cheryl) who could be his granddaughter.

Carol (Steenburgen) hasn’t been able to rekindle the incandescent sexual spark that highlighted her 35-year marriage to Bruce (Craig T. Nelson), who has become withdrawn and aimless after his recent retirement.

Ghostbusters: Don't bother to call

Ghostbusters (2016) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for supernatural action and crude humor
By Derrick Bang 

It can be argued, with reasonable justification, that a film shouldn’t be remade unless one intends to deliver a new version that is superior to, or at least as good as, its predecessor.

The franchise busters behind this 21st century Ghostbusters failed in their mission.

With all of New York City under assault by legions of cranky phantasms, the Ghostbusters —
from left, Abby (Melissa McCarthy), Jillian (Kate McKinnon), Erin (Kristen Wiig) and Patty
(Leslie Jones) — suit up and ready their proton packs.

In every way that matters.

In theory, the gender switch is a delightful idea ... but only had it been accompanied by better material. It feels as if helmer Paul Feig and co-writer Katie Dippold believed that we’d be so charmed by the notion of women in those iconic uniforms, that we’d forgive the lackluster directing and clumsy, inadequate script. They didn’t even try.

The primary distinction involves tone. The 1984 original’s far-fetched premise notwithstanding, the guys took their work seriously; Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis and Ernie Hudson gave solemn, even stern, line readings. That contrast — their earnestness, in the face of crazed circumstances — made the film hilarious. The humor was arch, not infantile.

The Aykroyd/Ramis script also was constructed with some care, and with adults in mind. In a film laden with great one-liners, none was funnier than Murray’s response to the possessed Sigourney Weaver, when she tried to seduce him by moaning, “I want you inside me.”

“No,” he replied, after a beat. “It sounds like you’ve got at least two or three people in there already.”

Nothing in this new film comes close to that level of sly humor; Feig’s preferred approach is the lazy, vulgar slapstick we see all too frequently these days. His cast most often behaves like the participants in a Saturday Night Live sketch, delivering isolated bits of (not very funny) business, with no thought to narrative continuity.

The 1984 film catered to all ages. This one’s for snickering, arrested adolescents. Which shouldn’t surprise us, given that Feig is the guy who, with Melissa McCarthy, inflicted us with The Heat and Spy.

And, as is the case with the recently released Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates, too much of the dialogue here feels forced and ad-libbed; that’s particularly true of McCarthy, who frequently flails about as if she has forgotten her lines, and can’t come up with a reasonable substitute. She (and Feig?) apparently believe this to be “characterization.”

It feels like desperation.

Rio 2: Back to the jungle

Rio 2 (2014) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated G, and suitable for all ages
By Derrick Bang

Next to co-founder Chris Wedge, writer/director Carlos Saldanha clearly is one of Blue Sky Studios’ most treasured assets.

Jewel, center, feels right at home in the Amazon jungle; her mate Blu, left, is reasonably
secure, as long as he's got his cherished GPS device. Their music-loving daughter, Carla,
couldn't care less ... until she discovers that the jungle birds have their own wonderfully
vibrant approach to samba and bossa nova.

After sharing credit with Wedge on 2002’s Ice Age and 2005’s Robots, Saldanha soloed on the second Ice Age entry, shared credit once again on the third installment, and somehow found time for a couple of hilarious shorts featuring the acorn-challenged Scrat.

All the while, the Brazilian-born Saldanha must’ve been building up to his own pet project: 2011’s Rio, a thoroughly enchanting, bird’s-eye-view valentine to the city of Carnival, samba and a culture every bit as colorful as the film's eye-catching avian stars. In addition to being clever, witty and suspenseful — not to mention serving as an anchor for a gloriously celebratory soundtrack — that film’s script also worked in a mildly subversive, conservation-oriented subtext regarding the heinous black market trade in exotic birds and animals.

Saldanha kept all those plates spinning with the élan of a vaudeville pro. I was impressed three years ago, and equally captivated when I caught up with the film a second time last week, in anticipation of the subject at hand.

To cut to the chase, then, Rio 2 isn’t quite as fresh as its predecessor, but it's still quite entertaining. That said, I miss the greater involvement of Sergio Mendes. Although he returns once again as executive music producer, it’s to a noticeably lesser degree; nothing in this sequel matches the first film’s breathtaking paragliding scene, which took place against an updated rendition of the joyous Brasil ’66 hit, “Mas Que Nada.”

The songs and score in this sequel function more as they would in a stage musical — as story hooks to advance the plot — as opposed to augmenting the overall atmosphere with the rich, seductive sounds of samba and bossa nova. That’s an artistic modification, and not necessarily a bad one; I lament it only because there’s no shortage of animated musicals (I’m looking at you, Frozen), whereas Saldanha and Mendes were more creative and original with their use of songs in the first Rio.

A minor issue, granted, but it does affect this sequel’s tone.

Events pick up a bit after the first film’s conclusion, with our nerdy hero Blu (once again voiced by Jesse Eisenberg) enjoying domestic bliss with his mate, Jewel (Anne Hathaway) and their three offspring: Carla (Rachel Crow), Bia (Amandla Stenberg) and Tiago (Pierce Gagnon). They’re comfortably situated at the Rio de Janeiro animal sanctuary run by Blu’s BFF Linda (Leslie Mann) and Tulio (Rodrigo Santoro), newlyweds themselves, and partners in wildlife rescue and preservation.

While releasing one of their winged patients into the wild, Linda and Tulio spot a familiar cerulean feather: certain evidence that other blue macaws exist in this part of the Amazon. This is marvelous, breathtaking news, since Blu and Jewel were thought to be the last of their kind.

City Island: Family Affair

City Island (2010) • View trailer for City Island
Four stars (out of five). Rating: PG-13, for profanity and sexual content
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 4.30.10
Buy DVD: City Island • Buy Blu-Ray: City Island [Blu-ray]

This is what going to the movies is all about.

High-profile pictures like Alice in Wonderland and Iron Man 2 come freighted with their own baggage; the talents involved behind and in front of the camera always set up certain expectations. And because of theatrical previews and TV spots that reveal far too much ahead of time, we invariably have a pretty strong sense of the film before the lights even go down.

Vince (Andy Garcia, center rear) always hopes to have a nice, quiet family
meal ... but tempers invariably fly in the Rizzo household, and it seems that
everybody has a secret to hide.

No possible sense of discovery there.

Ah, but the smaller films that arrive on little-cat feet, absent the megabucks marketing campaigns ... they always offer the anticipation of the unknown, the hope of joyous surprise.

City Island is just such a film. And it delivers on such hopes.

Writer/director Raymond De Felitta's thoroughly delightful comedy-drama deserves to become the sort of sleeper hit that turned My Big Fat Greek Wedding and Little Miss Sunshine into box-office sensations. De Felitta's film is funny, touching, achingly poignant and perfectly acted by an ensemble company that puts the "dys" in this dysfunctional family.

We all know people like the Rizzos, in their noisy, combative and exasperated fury. God forbid any of us ever have the misfortune to live next door to a family like this, but in the event we do, one thing's certain: Life won't ever be dull.

Andy Garcia stars as "correctional officer" Vince Rizzo — never, ever call him a "prison guard" — who is introduced as he sneaks a cigarette in the master bathroom while studying up on Marlon Brando. Vince dreams of becoming an actor, and to that end has been clandestinely attending an evening acting class while claiming to be playing poker with friends.

(Alan Arkin pops up as the class' acting coach. I'm beginning to suspect that Arkin is under contract to appear in every misfit indie film.)

The Pink Panther 2: Pale pink

The Pink Panther 2 (2009) • View trailer for The Pink Panther 2
Two stars (out of five). Rating: PG, for cartoonish violence and mild vulgarity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.5.09
Buy DVD: The Pink Panther 2 • Buy Blu-Ray: The Pink Panther 2 [Blu-ray]


Following a theatrical run that stalled after two months in the spring of 2006, Steve Martin’s first stab at updating The Pink Panther tallied a rather unspectacular $82.2 million in the United States ... against an estimated cost of $80 million.

Hardly a result likely to make any reasonably savvy studio exec jump for joy.

The dim-witted Inspector Clouseau (Steve Martin, far right), believing that he
has "sol-vedd the case," attempts to apprehend the villain with a customary
lack of restraint; Clouseau's fellow detectives — from left, Pepperidge (Alfred
Molina), Vicenzo (Andy Garcia) and Kenji (Yuki Matsuzaki) — watch
helplessly and hope for the best. As do the rest of us...

Why, then, are we suffering through a sequel?

But yes indeed, Martin’s bumbling Inspector Clouseau is back on the case, this time in alliance with a “dream team” of detectives from various countries, all anxious to apprehend a criminal mastermind who has been stealing the world’s most priceless treasures.

It’s perhaps fair to admit that director Harald Zwart’s film is no worse than its predecessor, which was helmed by other hands; Zwart’s efforts on 2003’s Agent Cody Banks probably gave him all the experience he needed to stage-manage a similarly broad farce involving France’s most notoriously incompetent cop.

Besides, one rather doubts that Zwart controlled his star to any degree; this is Martin’s show — he also shares scripting credit with Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber — and he obviously wanted another crack at the character made much more famous by Peter Sellers, whose similarly slapstick antics were overseen by a far better filmmaker (Blake Edwards).

The trouble is, Pink Panther 2 also isn’t any better than Martin’s debut shot at this property. Sure, the family-friendly PG rating is valid; nothing here will annoy or offend, and younger viewers will adore the way Martin slams through — and gets slammed by — people, vehicles, buildings and assorted bits of stagecraft. This is elementary destruction-derby filmmaker: the broader the better.

For the old-timers in the audience, think Laurel and Hardy, but with a much bigger budget.

The frustrating part, though, is that at times this film hovers at the outer fringes of being better. Zwart and Martin simply don’t know when to let a potentially great gag exit the stage gracefully; they always push it three steps further, to the point of eye-rolling tedium.

When Clouseau insists on selecting a bottle of wine to match his dinner at a fancy restaurant, for example, the resulting chaos is brilliant: The large wine rack slowly tips, releasing bottle after bottle, which Martin adroitly fields and hurls to helpful waiters and patrons. It’s about a minute of impressively choreographed physical comedy. But then the gag’s giddy delights face, when Clouseau subsequent burns down the restaurant.

That’s not the icing on the cake; it’s a soufflé suddenly gone flat. And it happens again and again in this film.