Madame Web: Hopelessly tangled

Madame Web (2024) • View trailer

One star (out of five). Rated PG-13, for action violence and profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.16.24

This is the worst — and wholly failed — attempt at a high-profile superhero movie I’ve ever had the displeasure of enduring.

 

Cassie (Dakota Johnson, rear) and her three new companions — from left, Mattie
(Celeste O'Connor), Anya (Isabela Merced) and Julia (Sydney Sweeney) — are
terrified to discover they're being pursued by a powerful, costumed assassin who can
scuttle along ceilings.

I cannot imagine what prompted Sony/Marvel to green-light this pathetic excuse for a script by five credited hands: Matt Sazama, Burk Sharpless, Claire Parker, Kerem Sanga and director S.J. Clarkson. Nothing — not the premise, plot, characters or dialogue — works, or feels even remotely like how real-world people would behave or talk.

This filmmaking team clearly wished to create a franchise that would give teenage girl heroes an entry into Marvel’s Cinematic Universe, and that’s a noble goal.

 

To have squandered that opportunity so egregiously, however, is deplorable.

 

Why these writers chose to re-invent such an obscure Marvel Comics character also is bewildering.

 

Cassandra Webb — aka Madame Webb — has occasionally scuttled around the fringes of Spider-Man comics since her debut back in November 1980. She’s a “precognitive clairvoyant” who gets unexpected flashes of near-future events, and therefore is able to change them, ideally for better outcomes.

 

But this numb-nuts script by Clarkson et al ignores most of that, instead setting this story’s events in an alternate universe that apparently lacks Spider-Man and all the other familiar Marvel superheroes.

 

Instead, a brief prologue introduces the very pregnant Constance Webb (Kerry Bishé), as she searches the Peruvian jungle for a rare spider, whose venom is reputed to have powerful healing and enhancement properties. She’s accompanied by bodyguard Ezekiel Sims (Tahar Rahim), who may as well have the phrase “actually a murderous opportunist” tattooed on his forehead.

 

Rahim has done better work in other films, but Clarkson clearly couldn’t inspire him here.

 

Sure enough, Sims shows his true colors once Constance finds one of the spiders; she’s mortally wounded in the subsequent scuffle. Sims gets away, while Constance is scooped up by — I’m not making this up — a hitherto-only-rumored tribe of web-garbed individuals with superhuman strength and agility, courtesy of the multitude of those same spiders with whom they’re sympatico. 

 

These guys carry her off to an underground grotto, and successfully deliver her baby daughter; alas — despite a helpful bite by one of the spiders — Constance dies.

 

Honestly, it’s hard not to laugh. The webby costumes are just silly, and their tree- and vine-hopping swiftness is ridiculously overstated.

The Hunt: Deplorably tasteless

The Hunt (2020) • View trailer 
One star. Rated R, for relentless profanity, gore and strong bloody violence
By Derrick Bang

To coin a phrase — quite aptly, since a little porker figures in this grisly exercise in sadism — you can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.

The only thing worse than a gratuitously brutal horror flick, is one that attempts to “justify” its mayhem with a clunky political subtext.

Kidnapped and dumped in the wilderness for no apparent reason, a group of strangers —
from left, "Staten Island" (Ike Barinholz, back to camera), "Trucker" (Justin Hartley),
"Big Red" (Kate Nowlin), "Yoga Pants" (Emma Roberts) and Don (Wayne Duvall) —
wonder what they're supposed to do with an armory of weapons.

Rubbish is rubbish, no matter how it’s dressed.

In a better film, scripter Nick Cuse and Damon Lindelof’s jabs at “elites” versus “deplorables” could have been suspenseful and uneasily relevant: a cheeky update of Richard Connell’s classic 1924 short story, “The Most Dangerous Game,” most famously filmed in 1932 with Joel McCrea and Leslie Banks.

But director Craig Zobel’s horror-porn sensibilities are so gratuitously low-rent, that any semblance of social commentary is lost amid gore-laden blood, guts and entrails. Most of the so-called “characters” are too one-dimensional; the intended-to-be-astute remarks are too lame, obvious and random. This is filmmaking by arrested adolescents who enjoy pulling the wings off flies, and who delight in sharing the experience with us.

Let’s plunge in:

Eleven people, all with their mouths painfully collared, regain consciousness in random spots of a forest that surrounds an open meadow. They gradually assemble around a huge crate which, when opened, proves to contain a piglet in a T-shirt (don’t ask) and a weapons rack (a rather blatant swipe from The Hunger Games).

Alas, these hapless victims barely have time to contemplate whether they even know how to use such artillery, when they start getting picked off by explosive, high-powered rifle fire from a distant, well-stocked duck blind.

Not exactly sporting. Less “The Hunt,” and more “The Slaughter.”

Zobel and his scripters obviously enjoy toying with us, because in veryshort order, cinematographer Darran Tiernan’s systematic designation of such a film’s traditional survivors — the cute girl, the stalwart guy, etc. — is rent asunder. Within minutes, the group has been whittled down to just a few.

No surprise, since these poor souls aren’t even granted names, and instead are designated (but only in the press notes) as “Yoga Pants” (Emma Roberts), “Trucker” (Justin Hartley), “Big Red” (Kate Nowlin), “Vanilla Nice”(Sturgill Simpson) “Staten Island” (Ike Barinholtz) and “Dead Sexy” (Sylvia Grace Crim).

Considering what happens to the latter, her label is beyond offensive.

Nerve: Taut, timely little thriller

Nerve (2016) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for dangerous and risky behavior, sexual candor, violence, profanity, drug content and fleeting nudity, all involving teens
By Derrick Bang

Numerous psychological studies — most famously Stanley Milgram’s electro-shock obedience experiments, and Jane Elliott’s “Blue Eyes/Brown Eyes” exercise — have demonstrated the malleability of human judgment, particularly when peer pressure is involved.

Having heard once too often that she's timid and unwilling to do anything wild and
impetuous, Vee (Emma Roberts) impulsively signs up for an Internet social media game:
as a "player" who, during the course of a single evening, will be challenged by a series
of increasingly dangerous "dares."

Or, to put it more bluntly, Common sense ... isn’t.

Novelist Jeanne Ryan tapped into that vibe, and quite shrewdly, with her 2012 young adult novel Nerve. Co-directors Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman have turned the book into a thoughtful, absorbing and quite suspenseful little thriller. Jessica Sharzer’s script is spot-on, and the young stars are well cast. The result is one of the summer’s delightful surprises: a modest suspenser that also functions as a troubling cautionary tale.

Because, quite frankly, the premise feels all too probable. As Ryan notes, on her web site, “I write young adult stories that could take place next week — but let’s hope they don’t.”

Joost and Schulman mount their film cleverly, utilizing cutting-edge personal tech and on-screen graphics in a way that supports the narrative without calling too much attention to itself. Unlike so many of today’s “found footage” efforts, where the story runs a poor second to the technique, the various gimmicks here — CGI overlays, instant message “balloons,” visualized smart phone apps and more — feel necessary.

Best of all, the co-directors understand pacing. With a skilled assist from editors Madeleine Gavin and Jeff McEvoy, they briskly set up the premise, kick it into gear, ratchet up the suspense, and build to a stylish finale, all in an economical 96 minutes. It’s refreshing to see filmmakers who know when to get off the stage.

Shy, straight-arrow Staten Island high school senior Vee Delmonico (Emma Roberts) forever stands in the shadow of her outgoing, aggressively slutty best friend Sydney (Emily Meade). The latter is a school legend, always accompanied by an entourage led by Liv (Kimiko Glenn), who functions as Sydney’s de facto press agent.

Every waking moment of these teens’ lives is monitored and motivated by an imprudent desire to enhance the 15 minutes of faux fame seemingly promised by Facebook, Tinder, Instagram and their ilk. It’s a drug that requires ever-greater fixes: an addiction that Vee has managed to resist, thanks to the support of longtime best friend Tommy (Miles Heizer), who seems to understand the dangerous side effects of public recklessness.

But that’s of little consolation to Vee, who also chafes under the suffocating embrace of her mother, Nancy (Juliette Lewis). Mom has cause: Just a few years earlier, Vee’s older brother was killed tragically. As a result, Nancy expects her sole remaining child to continuing living at home while attending a local college, whereas Vee — of course — has her heart set on a distant arts school, where she could nurture her talents as a photographer.

(Sharzer’s script is good, but not perfect. Details regarding Vee’s brother’s death remain undisclosed, as does any information about her absent father. These lapses aren’t crippling, but they are noticeable.)

Celeste and Jesse Forever: Love lies bleeding

Celeste and Jesse Forever (2012) • View trailer
3.5 stars. Rating: R, for profanity, drug use and sexual candor
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.31.12

If art truly imitates life, then — based on the evidence of recent films such as this one, Lola Versus and Ruby Sparks — today’s self-absorbed thirtysomethings haven’t the faintest idea how to embrace and sustain a relationship.

Celeste (Rashida Jones) insists — to anybody willing to listen — that
she wants only the best for ex-hubbie Jesse (Andy Samberg). The
truth, though, is that their separation is strictly on her terms ... and
that little detail is about to get them both in trouble.

At first blush, however, the opposite seems true of the title characters in Celeste and Jesse Forever ... and that’s the clever twist in this arch and perceptive script from Rashida Jones and Will McCormack.

Celeste (Jones) and Jesse (Andy Samberg) are introduced on what seems an average day. They’re bubbly, effervescent and completely at ease with each other. They enjoy many of the same artful pursuits, while cheerfully tolerating each other’s varying tastes. They finish sentences together, dissect restaurant menus in mock German accents, and share little physical rituals, from air-hugs to hilariously vulgar acts with tubes of lip gloss.

In a word, they’re cute enough to be cloying.

Unfortunately, they aren’t a couple. At least ... not really.

Indeed, they’re long separated and in the final stages of divorce. But an inability to stay married hasn’t damaged their friendship, although this dichotomy falls outside the bounds of comfort for their respective best friends, Beth (Ari Graynor) and Tucker (Eric Christian Olsen), coincidentally engaged and soon to be wed.

We deduce that Celeste and Jesse once were perfectly matched, during the younger days that led to their own wedded bliss. But Celeste has matured beyond the giddy rush of carefree twentysomethingness; she has become the ambitious, workaholic co-owner of her own media consulting firm. She’s also a frequently quoted “trend analyzer” and the author of a book on same, provocatively titled Shitegeist.

The passive Jesse, alternatively, prefers the lackadaisical existence of an artist. He’ll blow off deadlines — even on projects for Celeste — in order to watch TV or get stoned with good buddy Skillz (McCormack), a casual pot dealer who is quite vexed by the medical marijuana clinics that are interfering with his business model.

When Beth confronts her best friend and wonders aloud, for the umpteenth time, why she and Jesse don’t get back together, Celeste rather waspishly replies that she can’t spend her life with a guy who won’t even get a checking account.

“The father of my child,” she insists, “will own a car.”

It’s a droll line, one of many in this frequently witty script. But Celeste’s facility for disdainful zingers is a defense mechanism: one that eventually fails to conceal the arrogance of a condescending control freak.

The Art of Getting By: Does just fine

The Art of Getting By (2011) • View trailer for The Art of Getting By
3.5 stars. Rating: PG-13, for sexual content, profanity, teen drinking and smoking, and thematic elements
By Derrick Bang


Motivation is an odd and elusive presence in our lives, and I often wonder why more people don’t suffer its absence.

Sure, we can cite personal drive and/or an awareness of responsibility — to family, friends and self — but what really makes us get up each morning with a willingness to tackle the new day?

The shy and withdrawn George (Freddie Highmore) doesn't understand why
Sally (Emma Roberts) suddenly is willing to hang out with him, but that's not
a bad thing. The trouble is, George hasn't the faintest notion of what to do next
with a pretty girl, just as he hasn't a clue how to handle life itself. And such
protracted inactivity can only lead to heartbreak...

George (Freddie Highmore), a New York high school senior, can’t find that intangible get-up-and-go. Part of the problem is fatalism: an awareness of overwhelmingly bad world events that render trigonometry homework rather insignificant by comparison. Additionally, George is crushingly lonely and has turned this isolation into a pose that rebuffs all meaningful contact, whether with peers at school or his mother and step-father at home.

In a word, George is the ultimate slacker, but with a twist: He clearly isn’t enjoying his indolence.

Writer/director Gavin Wiesen’s The Art of Getting By — which George has perfected — is a quiet, quirky little film: a sober character study of a lost soul who appears to have surrendered any willingness to seize his own self and give it a good shake. A diagnosis of clinical depression seems screamingly obvious, but Wiesen’s script never goes there; we simply wait for the moment when somewhere, somehow, George will experience the epiphany that will kick-start his enthusiasm for life, the universe and everything.

To be sure, at times Wiesen’s script plays like a lite version of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, and suffers a bit for the comparison. Salinger’s book, although focused on Holden Caulfield, offered shrewd observations on the human condition; Wiesen’s film doesn’t explore much further than George’s condition.

It’s an odd role that could be off-putting if not handled properly. Lucky for us, then, that Highmore delivers just the right blend of earnest sensitivity and contrite resignation. Although he can’t be bothered to do his schoolwork, much to the growing vexation of his various teachers, George is always polite about his refusals. He’s not a “bad” kid in the usual sense; he’s simply ... lost.

Highmore, now a mature 19 years old, will be remembered as the engaging young actor who delivered such memorable performances in Finding Neverland, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, August Rush and The Spiderwick Chronicles. Highmore grew up somewhere along the way; he still was a kid in 2008’s Spiderwick, yet here he is now, with the height and gangliness of near-adulthood.

With his acting chops quite intact, rest assured.

That’s crucial, because a single mis-step would transform George into an unlikable parasite: somebody wasting the very air he breathes. And yet this never happens; we sense an artistic soul waiting to burst forth, thanks to the complex and often provocative doodles with which he fills all his textbooks and classroom worksheets.

Cool, we think; art class must be a cathartic release each day. But even here, George can’t muster the enthusiasm to complete an actual assignment. His doodles may suggest talent — even his crusty art teacher senses this — but George hasn’t yet found his muse.