Heart of Stone: Sinks just like one

Heart of Stone (2023) • View trailer

2.5 stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for action violence and brief profanity

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang

An original thought would die of loneliness in this film’s derivative script.

 

Gal Gadot can’t be blamed for wanting to strike while her star wattage is bright, but she should choose her projects more carefully. 

 

The calm before the storm: This seasoned MI6 team — from left, Bailey (Paul Ready),
Rachel (Gal Gadot), Parker (Jamie Dornan) and Yang (Jing Lusi) — will encounter
serious trouble after arriving in Lisbon.

I’ve also long been wary of poor title credits, as it’s almost always a sign of equally bad things to come … and this film has truly terrible opening credits.

In fairness, it’s not the worst way to spend two hours, for undiscriminating fans of kick-ass spyjinks. But scripters Greg Rucka and Allison Schroeder begged, borrowed or stole everything here from superior predecessors … and director Tom Harper’s over-reliance on sub-par CGI doesn’t help.

 

Gadot stars as Rachel Stone, the “mousy” tech member of an MI6 team that includes experienced agents Parker (Jamie Dornan), Yang (Jing Lusi) and Bailey (Paul Ready). They’re introduced during a mission taking place at a ski resort atop a mountain in Italy’s Alpin Arena Senales, tasked with “extracting” Mulvaney (Enzo Cilenti), “Europe’s most wanted arms dealer,” who has surfaced for the first time in three years.

 

Careful planning goes slightly awry, so Rachel is forced to improvise in the field — much to her colleagues’ concern — by getting close enough to clone a baddie’s cell phone. Then things really go wrong, due to the intervention of a mysterious young woman (Alia Bhatt) who is following a different agenda.

 

Rachel therefore is forced to display her true talents as a seasoned member of The Charter, code-named Nine of Hearts: a hyper-capable agent embedded in this team without the knowledge of anybody in MI6. She saves the day — while taking care not to be seen doing so, by her three colleagues — thanks to off-site assistance by Jack of Hearts (Matthias Schweighöfer) and “The Heart,” an immersive, quantum computer AI interface capable of split-second judgment calls based on the highest probability of success.

 

Think Waze or any other satellite navigation system on steroids, able to alert Rachel to human hazards, in addition to feeding her geographical telemetry via special goggles. Suddenly need a snow bike or parachute? The Heart will guide Rachel appropriately.

 

The Charter, divided into four teams code-named for the 52 cards in a deck, is an off-books organization whose agents clandestinely step in “where governments fail.” (That’s a phrase we’ve heard before.)

 

The fact that Rachel has concealed her actual talents for four years — particularly from Parker, Yang and Bailey — seems a bit of a stretch, but we gotta roll with it. The greater good is paramount, as the King of Hearts (Sophie Okonedo) stiffly informs Rachel, during a subsequent de-briefing (a lecture we’ve also heard many times before).

Death on the Nile: Waterlogged

Death on the Nile (2022) • View trailer

Two stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for violence, bloody images and sexual candor

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.11.22

Vanity, thy name is Kenneth Branagh.

 

Bad enough that he dishonors Agatha Christie by turning her shrewdly stoic, sharp-as-a-tack Hercule Poirot, he of the “little gray cells,” into a despondent, uncertain, weeping snowflake with no emotional control: somebody to be scorned, not admired.

 

Newlyweds Simon (Armie Hammer) and Linnet (Gal Gadot) happily tour an Egyptian
bazaar, little realizing that the stalker they've hoped to elude, isn't very far away...

Worse yet, Michael Green’s laughably overcooked and overwrought script makes absolutely hash of Christie’s celebrated 1937 novel, and his efforts at dialogue are remarkably unpersuasive.

At one point, having just acknowledged dropping a massive chunk of stone onto an unwary victim below, one suspect then wails “But I never would have killed her,” despite having just admitted attempting to do that very thing: a statement that goes unchallenged by Poirot and everybody else, which makes them look like fools.

 

That’s probably the worst howler in this egregiously stupid script, but it has plenty of company.

 

And as if all this isn’t enough, Branagh — who also directs — tolerates (encourages?) overacting to such a ludicrous degree, that he telegraphs the plot’s most surprising twist.

 

This may well be the worst big-screen Christie adaptation ever unleashed on an unsuspecting public … and I’m quite mindful of 1965’s dreadful Alphabet Murders — Tony Randall being an equally appalling Poirot — while making this claim.

 

Dame Agatha must be spinning in her grave.

 

This brings us to the issue of assigning early 21st century attitudes on characters who inhabit the 1930s: an “enhancement” that must be handled with care, lest the disconnect become distracting. There certainly isn’t anything wrong — as a positive example — with making two of these suspects lesbian lovers; even if Christie never specifically addressed such a relationship, they certainly existed.

 

But completely changing numerous supporting characters — in name and behavior — is both unnecessary and irritating. 

 

This film also opens with a nightclub display of Miley Cyrus-style “dirty dancing” that is impressively salacious by today’s standards, let alone those of nearly a century ago: a sequence that Branagh allows to go on, and on — and on — long past the point of … well … having made its point.

 

And that’s far from the only sequence that feels wholly out of place.

 

Clearly, since 2017’s similarly “modified” Murder on the Orient Express was such a box office success — grossing more than $350 million worldwide — Branagh’s reprisal of Poirot was inevitable.

 

But good grief … couldn’t all concerned have tried a little harder?

 

Sigh.

Red Notice: Old-school thrills and spills

Red Notice (2021) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for violene, action, mild sensuality and fleeting profanity

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.19.21

This certainly is the epitome of dumb fun: a triumph of star wattage and slick filmmaking, over credibility and plot logic.

 

Just as Harley (Dwayne Johnson, left) and Booth (Ryan Reynolds) find one of Cleopatra's
fabled jeweled eggs, somebody else unexpectedly arrives ... and insists on taking it.

Writer/director Rawson Marshall Thurber’s newest collaboration with Dwayne Johnson — they previously worked together on Central Intelligence and Skyscraper — is a globe-trotting heist comedy that buries its narrative shortcomings with audacity and sheer momentum: a throwback to big, bold, swashbuckling “movie star movies.”

The result is surprisingly entertaining, even when things become ridiculous (which happens rather frequently).

 

One must admire the cheek of a scripter who stages his third act in a long-dormant Nazi lair in Argentina: a setting so strikingly reminiscent of Indiana Jones, that co-star Ryan Reynolds cements the moment by whistling a few bars of John Williams’ “Raiders March.”

 

(This is just one of Thurber’s cheeky nods to other movie moments.)

 

Events begin in Rome, at a posh museum bannering the display of one of Cleopatra’s three fabled jeweled eggs (akin to a Fabergé egg, but the size of a football). American FBI agent John Hartley (Johnson), on loan to assist Interpol Inspector Urvashi Das (Ritu Arya), has credible evidence that master thief Nolan Booth (Reynolds) will attempt to steal the treasure on this very day.

 

Hartley’s intel comes from a shadowy underworld figure known only as The Bishop, who tends to play both sides against the middle. Even so…

 

…the information proves accurate, which leads to a stunning foot-chase between Hartley and Booth, choreographed by supervising stunt coordinator George Cottle, and tightly edited for slam-bang intensity by Julian Clarke and Michael L. Sale. This sequence is worthy of Jackie Chan and James Bond, with parkour free-running, jumps, falls, kicks, punches and an ingenious melee on some metal scaffolding.

 

Alas, Booth escapes. With the egg.

 

But not for long. Hartley and Das find him at home in Bali (!), where the latter retrieves the egg and promises Booth a “special” sort of incarceration. 

Wonder Woman 1984: Far from wonder-ful

Wonder Woman 1984 (2020) • View trailer

2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for fantasy violence

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.15.21

The sophomore curse has struck again.

 

At 151 minutes, director Patty Jenkins’ second shot at the Amazing Amazon, exclusive to HBO MAX, overstays its welcome by at least half an hour. The script — by Jenkins, Geoff Johns and Dave Callaham — hasn’t anywhere near the depth to sustain such length.

 

While a dismayed Steve (Chris Pine) watches, Diana (Gal Gadot) learns something
quite sinister about the mysterious "Dreamstone" that is causing so much trouble.

On top of which, while Pedro Pascal may be a pop-culture sensation as The Mandalorian, he makes a truly terrible primary villain here. His Maxwell Lord is a burlesque Trumpian megalomaniac: absolutely not worth Wonder Woman’s time (or ours).

 

Kristen Wiig fares better as secondary villain Barbara Minerva, because she has a well-defined — and genuinely interesting — character arc. Lord, in contrast, starts out as a clownish goofball … and stays that way.

 

On the positive side, Jenkins’ overall approach remains better than usual for this genre. Far too many superhero films seem like relentless, landscape-leveling slugfests; Jenkins allows her characters plenty of quieter moments, and the judicious action sequences are much more organic to the story being told. 

 

Given that 99.9 percent of the Marvel and DC superhero epics are directed by guys, I’m obliged to credit Jenkins’ female touch.

 

But insisting on scripting involvement — which wasn’t the case, with the first film — clearly affected her judgment.

 

This sequel opens with a superfluous prologue set during Diana Prince’s childhood on Themyscira. Although Lilly Aspell is a crackerjack adolescent Diana during the running, climbing, jumping, riding and swimming climax of the Amazon Games — editor Richard Pearson paces this with verve — this sequence has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the film.

 

It clearly should have been included as part of the first film’s origin details. Here, it seems little more than an excuse for Connie Nielsen and Robin Wright to pop up again (albeit fleetingly) as, respectively, Diana’s mother Hippolyta, and Aunt Antiope.

 

Flash-forward to 1984, with the adult Diana (Gal Gadot) now firmly ensconced as an anthropologist and archaeologist, curating ancient artifacts at the Smithsonian. She leads a quiet life and keeps a low profile, even when donning her flamboyant “work togs” as Wonder Woman. (She seems to be keeping her super deed-doing something of a secret, which is puzzling.)

 

Justice League: And so it begins...

Justice League (2017) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for sci-fi action and violence
By Derrick Bang

Seeing director Zack Snyder’s name attached to this film was not happy news, given the degree to which he ruined both 2013’s Man of Steel and last year’s Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice.

Having responded to the bat-signal illuminated by Police Commissioner Gordon (J.K.
Simmons, far left), the newly formed Justice League — from left, Wonder Woman (Gal
Gadot), Cyborg (Ray Fisher), Batman (Ben Affleck) and The Flash (Ezra Miller) —
learn that Gotham City is, once again, in serious trouble.

Snyder has much in common with director Michael Bay, similarly notorious for the Transformers franchise. Both favor bloated, soulless, humorless slugfests that wreak havoc on landscapes and cityscapes, while casually snuffing hundreds (thousands?) of civilian bystanders. Their films are the very definition of mindless product over art.

On the other hand, I was cheered to note Joss Whedon as co-scripter on Justice League. As the writer/director of 2012’s The Avengers, Whedon established the template for solid, successful superhero epics. Fans have recognized Whedon’s gift since television’s Buffy slayed her first vampire, back in 1996: He has an unerring talent for blending action fantasy with a (frequently droll) human element, which eases our suspension of disbelief.

And is a helluva lot more fun.

It’s easy to spot Whedon’s touch in Justice League, which is most successful during its first and second acts, as the stage is set, and the players assembled. It’s equally easy to see that the third act belongs to Snyder ... but not entirely. Even here, we get the vicarious relief of the unmistakable Whedon touch.

Justice League picks up in the immediate wake of Batman v Superman. The latter is dead, having perished at the hands of a Kryptonian monster genetically engineered by the villainous Lex Luthor. The country (the world?) is sliding quickly into anarchy, humanity apparently having abandoned hope after losing its gallant symbol for truth, justice and the American way.

(Ah ... but is Big Blue really, truly dead?)

Bruce Wayne (Batman) and Diana Prince (the Amazon Wonder Woman) are doing their best to stem the lawless tide, but they operate in the shadows; they’re not “living symbols” in the manner of Superman. Worse yet, Batman has been encountering winged “parademons” — very hard to kill — that seem to be seeking something.

Mindful of the need for additional super-powered allies, in order to hold off whatever comes next, Bruce and Diana reach out to three promising individuals: Barry Allen (Ezra Miller), a twentysomething nerd transformed by a lightning strike into The Flash; Arthur Curry (Jason Momoa), dubbed Aquaman, and heir to the underwater kingdom of Atlantis; and Victor Stone (Ray Fisher), a once-promising college football player nearly killed in a horrific accident, and “saved” when his scientist father Silas (Joe Morton) employed alien tech to transform his son into the biomechanical Cyborg.

Wonder Woman: The Amazon goddess gets her due

Wonder Woman (2017) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for fantasy violence, dramatic intensity and mild sensuality
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 6.2.17

It’s darn well about time.

During the big-screen superhero eruption that began when Christopher Reeve first donned Superman’s iconic blue-and-red garb back in 1978, no super-heroine has been able to carry her own film.

Although Diana (Gal Gadot, center) reluctantly allows Steve (Chris Pine) and Etta (Lucy
Davis) to dress her in the fashion of the day, she's unwilling to abandon the sword and
shield that define her as an Amazon goddess ... which presents a bit of a problem.

Until now.

(Misfires such as 2004’s Catwoman and ’05’s Elektra are best left forgotten.)

We caught a glimpse of Gal Gadot’s interpretation of Wonder Woman in last year’s Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice, and there’s no question: The 5-foot-10 Israeli actress sold the outfit and the essential regal bearing. But that soulless film gave her no opportunity for anything approaching emotional gravitas, so the jury remained out.

Until now.

Director Patty Jenkins’ thoroughly engaging depiction of Diana — first daughter of the sheltered Amazonian island of Themyscira — owes its heart to both Gadot and a respectful script from Allan Heinberg, Zack Snyder and Jason Fuchs. The narrative honors the character’s origin, as laid down in October 1941, in issue No. 8 of DC’s All Star Comics.

Much more crucially, this film blends its myth-making and furious action with just the right touch of humor: a droll undertone that has been lamentably absent in recent Batman and Superman entries. Much of this wit derives from Diana’s fish-out-of-water reaction to so-called civilized society, which Gadot displays with a charming balance of innocence and sparkle. She definitely catches her character’s (ahem) sense of wonder.

But that’s getting ahead of things. Diana’s story begins on Themyscira, where — rather oddly — she’s the only child amid hundreds of Amazon warriors. She’s a precocious child (adorably played by Lilly Aspell), eager to battle-train, but her mother (Connie Nielsen, as Queen Hippolyta) rejects the very notion. Diana thus practices in secret, under the tutelage of champion warrior Antiope (Robin Wright).

The years pass; Diana achieves maturity. Fate places her on a high island cliff just as a strange object — a crippled plane — penetrates the invisible “cloak” that conceals Themyscira from the outer world. The craft crash-lands and sinks rapidly beneath the ocean waves; the quick-thinking Diana rescues the lone pilot just in time, thereby getting her first glimpse of a man.

Batman V Superman: Clash of titans

Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated PG-13, and somewhat generously, for brief sensuality and relentless, soul-crushing violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 3.25.16

A perceptive philosophical theme serves as this film’s beating heart, a tenet that — quite sadly — reflects these cynical and despondent times: that, just as we worship our heroes, we’re all too eager to tear them down.

Alexander Luthor (Jesse Eisenberg, center) is delighted to discover that the guests at his
high-society event include inquisitive Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent (Henry Cavill, left)
and fellow industrialist Bruce Wayne (Ben Affleck). But why are they present?

Because we’re also jealous, and more than a little fearful. Because such individuals are different than you and I.

The “Big Blue” standing as the moral centerpiece of Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice couldn’t be more different than the cheerful, easily admired boy scout played by Christopher Reeve in his quartet of films, several decades and a tidal shift of public sentiment ago. This 21st century Superman exists in a mutinous, resentful America that mirrors our own today, with a populous eager to be suspicious of any “alien” floating amongst us.

The resulting film is grim, its tone unrelentingly melancholy, its subtext downright depressing: We clearly don’t deserve a Superman.

For longtime comic book fans, the irony is palpable. Back in the early 1960s, DC Comics’ stable of heroes — Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman et al — were colorful but simplistic champions who routinely, almost casually, defeated equally flamboyant villains in self-contained storylines that mirrored popular TV dramas that did the same: all problems solved in one quick read (or one quick hour), and then on to the next adventure, perhaps with a quip or two. Nobody ever changed, because nobody had anything approaching an actual personality.

Upstart Marvel Comics upended this one-dimensional formula with its eye-opening roster of angst-laden superheroes. When out of their costumes, Spiderman, Iron Man, the Fantastic Four and their brethren felt like the folks next door, complete with anxieties and ground-level responsibilities. Their clashes with bad guys often occurred over multiple-issue story arcs: the outcomes less definitive, and often tinged with regret.

How interesting, then, that these two companies have switched roles en route to big-screen domination. Even at their most dire, Marvel movies are fun, their cataclysmic events leavened with an engaging layer of droll humor: a wink and nudge established the first time Robert Downey Jr. donned his Iron Man togs.

Fast & Furious 6: Still accelerating

Fast & Furious 6 (2013) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rating: PG-13, and somewhat generously, for intense and relentless violence, action and mayhem, along with occasional profanity and sensuality
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.24.13

Longest...

...airport...

...runway...

...ever.

The Fast & Furious series has long been known for physics-defying stunts that strain credibility, while nonetheless inspiring well-deserved admiration for the way so many of these crazy chases and assorted skirmishes look (somewhat) authentic, as opposed to the obvious fakery of computer-enhanced sweetening. (Make no mistake: CGI plays an important role in these films, but much of the driving is real.)

When a high-speed pursuit veers badly out of control, thanks to the bad guys wielding
a vehicle-crushing tank, Dom (Vin Diesel) realizes that one of his team is seconds
away from certain death. The only possible solution? An insane leap from his speeding
car, of course!

Even by those standards, however, Fast & Furious 6 boasts audacious, jaw-dropping set-pieces that are just plain nuts.

But they’re also tautly edited, reasonably suspenseful and quite entertaining. As comic book movies go, this series delivers ingenious thrills ... even if they are guaranteed to make mechanical and aerospace engineers snort with laughter.

Director Justin Lin and screenwriter Chris Morgan deserve considerable credit. They’ve collaborated on four of these films now — all but the first two — and they have the formula down cold. Take an ever-expanding “family” of familiar characters, grant them plenty of interactive banter, season with vehicular chases every 15 minutes or so, and blend with aggressive punching matches between good guys and bad guys, usually one on one, but sometimes two on two.

Toss in a James Bondian “head villain” with an equally malevolent sidekick, spice with babe shots — because under-dressed women are such an essential part of street-racing — and call it a movie.

And yes, before you ask: Morgan already is scripting Fast & Furious 7 for new director James Wan (Saw, Insidious), which will add Jason Statham to the mix when it roars into theaters next summer.

It’s all absolute and utter nonsense, but thrilling and adrenaline-pumping nonetheless. No doubt responding to demands for bigger and better, Lin and Morgan have customized 6 with road-rage chases involving all manner of souped-up cars, not to mention a tank and a massive Antonov 124 cargo plane (!). And yes, the latter eye-widening melee, during which half a dozen four-wheeled vehicles try to prevent said plane from lifting off, occupies 15 climactic minutes, during which the accelerating plane magically never runs out of runway.

Heck, even allowing for the cross-cutting needed to show simultaneous action on the ground and inside the plane, I figure that runway must’ve stretched at least 20 miles. Land must be cheap in Spain.