Jay Kelly: A sublime character study

Jay Kelly (2025) • View trailer

Five stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.14.25

The opening Sylvia Plath quote says it all:

 

“It’s a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It’s much easier to be somebody else, or nobody at all.”

 

Flanked by publicist Liz (Laura Dern, center left) and best friend/handler Ron (Adam
Sandler, center right), Jay Kelly (George Clooney) cheerful interrupts his morning to
sign autographs for adoring fans.

Jay Kelly (George Clooney) has it all: a long and successful film career; a devoted entourage, including best friend and handler Ron Sukenick (Adam Sandler); and the admiration and respect of fans, friends and professional colleagues.

 

He is one with Gary Cooper, Cary Grant and Robert De Niro: shapeshifters and chameleons of identity, with faces that represent something personal to millions.

 

But.

 

Jay’s nature, even when the cameras are off, remains a pose; he has no sense of self. His relationship with daughters Jessica (Riley Keough) and Daisy (Grace Edwards) is strained at best, estranged at worst. They’ve grown up seeing him repeatedly forsake them for the work: another movie, another months-long absence. Their mother and Jay’s other exes are distant memories.

 

He takes Ron for granted, failing to recognize the strain this keeps putting on his family.

 

Jay is selfish … and he’s so far gone, he’s incapable of recognizing this.

 

To be sure, he’s affable, suave and generous with the public; he’s also wheedling and persuasive, and knows how to get his way. After all, he has been doing it for decades. (This is George Clooney, after all; the man exudes charm and savoir faire the way the rest of us breathe.)

 

And yet …

 

Of late, Jay has begun to relive past choices: confronted by ghosts from his past, awakened to the shallowness of his present. And with this rising awareness comes a feeling he can’t quite identify:

 

Regret.

 

This plays out in director Noah Baumbach’s masterfully composed film, which enchants from its initial scene: cinematographer Linus Sandgren’s stunning, single-take tracking shot that follows the set-up and shooting of Jay’s final scene in his new movie, Eight Men from Now. Baumbach’s script, co-written with Emily Mortimer, is a masterful blend of drama, gentle humor, angst and character dynamics, brought to life by richly nuanced performances from Clooney and Sandler. Both are sure bets for Academy Award nominations.

 

(I understand the eyebrow lift. Adam Sandler, in a subtly shaded straight role? Hey, watch this film, then get back to me.)

Wolfs: Crime served wry

Wolfs (2024) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated R, for violence and frequent profanity

Available via: Apple TV+

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.6.24

This quietly sardonic crime thriller demonstrates anew the captivating power of star wattage.

 

Because — to be blunt — writer/director Jon Watts’ film wouldn’t be such a much, absent George Clooney and Brad Pitt.

 

Despite competitive wariness, two professional "fixers" — Brad Pitt, left, and George
Clooney — reluctantly admit that they'll need to work together, in order to clean up
what has become an increasingly troublesome mess.

They make it sparkle.

Watts clearly designed this project with them in mind, playing to their unruffled charisma, and the fact that both — along with their characters — gamely make the most of being in their early 60s. You’ll also detect a strong echo of the Danny & Rusty vibe from Ocean’s Eleven and its two sequels, including some familiar bits of dialogue: “What’s the play here?” (Clooney) and “I don’t work that way” (Pitt).

 

Or, for those with longer memories, the similarly well-bonded banter between Paul Newman and Robert Redford, in 1969’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

 

But it doesn’t begin that way here.

 

Watts opens his story with a bang, as ambitious New York politician Margaret (Amy Ryan), blood splattered all over her dress, finds herself in a fancy hotel suite with the body of a young stud. Panicked, knowing full well that this could destroy her career, she dials a number listed in her phone solely as a pair of brackets.

 

That reaches Clooney’s anonymous character — known solely, from this point forward, as “Margaret’s Man” — who shows up sporting a fashionable black turtleneck, leather coat ... and latex gloves, along with assorted other, um, tools of his trade. That would be “cleaner,” or “fixer,” or “calmly methodical fellow who makes problems go away.”

 

He has barely begun to work when his apparent twin (Pitt) shows up: similarly dressed, clearly in the same line of work, and equally irritated to discover that he has competition. He has been summoned by hotel owner Pam (Frances McDormand, making the most of her brief voice-only phone performance). She has all her rooms bugged and on camera, and wants this mess cleaned up for the same reason: to avoid bad publicity.

 

Pitt’s character, equally anonymous, is subsequently known as “Pam’s Man.” (Or perhaps we should just call them George and Brad, since Watts clearly wants us to identify with their signature screen presence.)

 

Clooney and Pitt make the most of the wry squabble over the “best way” to deal with this problem, how best to clean up the room and dispose of the body, and so forth ... while poor Margaret frets, gasps and blinks in wide-eyed helplessness.

 

(I suspect an actual seasoned politician would be more calm and self-assured, but Ryan had to play the cards that she was dealt.)

Ticket to Paradise: A bumpy trip

Ticket to Paradise (2022) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, and stupidly, for one wholly unnecessary blast of profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Old-style romantic comedies live or die on the basis of three essential ingredients:

 

• Stars with charisma and chemistry;

 

• A premise that’s either fresh or, if familiar, has some sort of novel twist; and

 

• Dialogue that sparkles with wit, flirty banter and just enough — but not too much — snark.

 

David (George Clooney, left) and Georgia (Julia Roberts) may look cheerful, as they
arrive in Bali and see their daughter waiting on the beach, but their ulterior motives
are far from noble.

It also doesn’t hurt if the setting is swooningly gorgeous.

Director Ol Parker’s Ticket to Paradise manages about 1.5 out of three, with bonus points for location-location-location.

 

George Clooney and Julia Roberts obviously have charisma to burn, and they’ve demonstrated delightfully flirty chemistry in earlier films such as Ocean’s Eleven. But this story — co-written by Parker and Daniel Pipski — finds them indulging far too long in spiteful bickering and bad behavior, to the detriment of a sweet parallel plot element that becomes far more endearing than anything involving our two stars.

 

David (Clooney) and Georgia (Roberts) married 25 years ago, enjoyed five years of wedded bliss, then divorced and have spent the past two decades sniping at each other from opposite ends of the country … much to the dismay of daughter Lily (Kaitlyn Dever), who has tried hard not to pick sides.

 

As the film begins, David and Georgia reluctantly re-unite — as briefly as possible — in order to celebrate Lily’s graduation from college, where she has worked hard toward an anticipated career as a lawyer. By way of reward and emotional release, Lily and BFF Wren (Billie Lourd) take off for a sun, sand and — in Wren’s case — soused vacation in Bali.

 

Slightly more than a month later, David and George receive a bombshell email: Lily has decided to abandon her law school plans, remain in Bali, and marry the just-met love of her life … a seaweed farmer named Gede (Maxime Bouttier).

 

Determined to prevent their daughter from making the same mistake they made a quarter-century ago, David and George reluctantly team up in order to make Lily come to her senses, by sabotaging the wedding.

 

A few problems here.

 

We’ve already watched Lily and Gede “meet cute,” and — even though she falls for him improbably quickly — Dever and Bouttier are totally endearing together. A match made in heaven. We also can’t help being charmed by a subsequent sequence when Gede explains his long-held family profession to Lily; he’s far more savvy entrepreneur than “mere seaweed farmer.”

 

Watching David and Georgia burst into this dazzlingly romantic scene, like bulls in a china shop, is wincingly painful.

The Midnight Sky: Oppressively cheerless

The Midnight Sky (2020) • View trailer

Two stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and fleeting profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.5.21 

Check a dictionary for the phrase “profoundly depressing,” and you’ll find this film.

 

There’s a tiny cinematic sub-genre that I’ll call “futility drama,” wherein a given premise is catastrophic from the onset … and then gets progressively worse. Heroic action is either inconsequential or useless; failure is inevitable. Recent examples include 2003’s Open Water and the 2009 adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

 

Sully (Felicity Jones) and Adewole (David Oyelowo) can't understand why they aren't
picking up any transmissions from Earth's numerous spacecraft support facilities.

The Midnight Sky — exclusive to Netflix — isn’t quite that bleak, but the distinction is so insignificant, that you’re unlikely to find it comforting.

 

The setting is February 2049, three weeks after “the event.” This incident never is specifically disclosed, but visible computer modeling screens reveal that it began in major metropolitan centers and then spread outward; the implication is the mutually assured destruction of war. The result is that Earth’s air has become radioactive and/or poisonous, killing everything: all plant and animal life forms.

 

The effect hasn’t yet reached the Arctic Circle’s Barbeau Observatory, which has been abandoned save for Augustine (George Clooney), a scientist who — alone among the facility’s sizeable staff and research team — chose not to return home, and to certain death. The irony is rich: Although he suffers from some undisclosed medical condition that requires frequent blood transfusions, he already has outlived everybody else on the planet. He’s literally the last man on Earth.

 

(Right away, the psychology feels totally daft in scripter Mark L. Smith’s adaptation of Lily Brooks-Dalton’s 2016 novel. Everybody else left? Nobody else remained with Augustine, in order to live a few more weeks? That’s ridiculous.)

 

Augustine has everything he needs, and — as flashbacks soon make clear — he’s a loner by nature anyway; his entire life has been consumed by his research. Clooney persuasively depicts the grinding struggle of a man in constant discomfort and pain, who nonetheless goes through the motions, valuing each fresh moment of survival. Even so, he’s spent: bone-weary and resigned to an inevitable fate.

 

On this particular day, he’s reminded of the spacecraft Aether, returning from a two-year mission to explore K-23, a previously undiscovered moon orbiting Jupiter. The five-person crew, commanded by Adewole (David Oyelowo), has no idea that they’re returning to a dead planet. They need to be warned, but the Aether still is too far away; the observatory’s antenna isn’t strong enough for a signal to reach them.

 

Thus, the challenge: Can Augustine figure out a way to contact the Aether, and — even if he does — would such information even be useful?

 

Suburbicon: It's a con, all right

Suburbicon (2017) • View trailer 
One star. Rated R, for violence, profanity and sexuality
By Derrick Bang

Bad movies prompt all manner of conversational snorts and giggles, while heading home and often well into the following day.

Gardner (Matt Damon) and his sister-in-law, Margaret (Julianne Moore), react in stunned
silence to the newest ludicrous indignity inflicted upon their family.

Really bad movies leave us in stunned silence, unable to process the why and how such a travesty could have survived the lengthy vetting process that must be endured by all major studio productions.

This is a really bad movie.

The Coen brothers have hit both extremes during a long and productive career, and of late they’ve been getting sloppier; A Serious Man, Hail, Caesar! and their misguided 2012 remake of Gambit are a far cry from Fargo and No Country for Old Men.

Suburbicon may be their worst stinker yet.

As a satire — and I admit, that’s speculation — this film’s message is too garbled, sloppy and tasteless. But it’s far too weird, random and exaggerated to be taken seriously, with almost every character an overblown burlesque. They may as well be wearing clown suits.

Co-scripters George Clooney (who also directs) and Grant Heslov appear to have been inspired by the post-WWII, postcard-perfect Levittown suburban communities: the sort of cheerful towns characterized in TV shows such as Father Knows Best and Leave It to Beaver. What’s often lost to history is the fact that Federal House Administration lenders restricted housing rental and sales agreements, in all Levittown developments, to (and I quote) “the Caucasian race.”

That issue came to boil in August 1957, when William and Daisy Myers moved their family into a section of Pennsylvania’s Levittown community, becoming the first African-Americans in the all-white enclave. The nasty results were captured by filmmakers Lee Bobker and Lester Becker in a documentary titled Crisis in Levittown, Pa., which remains jaw-dropping, cringe-worthy viewing (and is readily available online).

So: Part of Cooney’s film, set in the late 1950s in a Norman Rockwellian, Levittown-esque community, depicts — with impressive authenticity to actual events — what occurs during the first few weeks after an African-American family moves into a home that shares a back fence with the house belonging to Gardner Lodge (Matt Damon), his wife Rose (Julianne Moore) and their adolescent son Nicky (Noah Jupe).

The problem is that this concept has been married — by shotgun — to a shelved Coen brothers script called Suburbicon, populated by the usual Coen misanthropes and overwhelmed “regular folks” with poor judgment, and a proclivity for ill-advised decisions.

It’s not a good fit.

Money Monster: A beastly good time

Money Monster (2016) • View trailer 
4.5 stars. Rated R, for brief sexual content, violence and frequent profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.13.16

Between this new film, The Wolf of Wall Street, Margin Call and The Big Short, one gets the impression that people have become deeply concerned about corporate malfeasance and Wall Street shenanigans.

Gee, I can’t imagine why.

The calm before the storm: Unaware that this day is about to become anything but average,
TV financial advice guru Lee Gates (George Clooney) and his producer, Patty Fenn (Julia
Roberts), discuss the talking points for their upcoming live broadcast.

Director Jodie Foster’s Money Monster may not be as imaginatively brilliant as last year’s The Big Short, but it’s just as entertaining and pointedly audacious. Scripters Alan DiFiore, Jim Kouf and Jamie Linden set up a hair-trigger premise and then develop it with an unlikely — but quite successful — blend of suspenseful twists and scathing humor.

Along the way, they also skewer the 1 percent who’ve absolutely, completely — and without awareness or shame — abandoned any sense of comradeship with the rest of us ordinary mooks.

This is only Foster’s fourth big-screen feature as director, after having cut her teeth with 1991’s poignant Little Man Tate; she obviously chooses her projects carefully. “Money Monster” proves that the double Oscar-winning actress has matured into an equally capable shot-caller. This is the sort of endeavor that could have collapsed any number of times, in less skilled hands; she unerringly navigates the ship past all dangerous shoals.

With thoughtful, infuriating, hilarious and even unexpectedly poignant results.

George Clooney stars as high-profile financial TV guru Lee Gates, who has built a viewership on the strength of sideshow antics more befitting the local news clowns who used to dole out weather predictions while dressed in funny outfits. We get an extended view of Gates’ smirky, hyperactive — and insultingly patronizing — shtick as he begins one of his financial analysis/advice segments on an average day, under the much calmer guidance of longtime producer Patty Fenn (Julia Roberts).

It ain’t pretty.

It’s also a not very exaggerated jab at what a serious topic such as money management has become, in our cynical, bread-and-circuses era of cable/satellite infotainment. Any semblance of capably researched public service has been abandoned — goodness, that would be boring — in favor of keeping the gullible masses distracted. And hey: If Gates misstates, exaggerates or even lies today, he won’t even think about amending or retracting tomorrow; he’ll simply proceed with an all-new set of encouraging prevarications and half-truths.

Just like dozens of shrill, malicious and defiantly deceitful radio show hosts.

Hail, Caesar! — A block, a stone, a worse than senseless thing

Hail, Caesar! (2016) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated PG-13, and rather harshly, for mildly suggestive content
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.5.16

A new Coen brothers film usually is cause for celebration.

Not this time.

Capitol Pictures studio head Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin) has just learned that his
water ballet star, DeeAnna Moran (Scarlett Johansson), is pregnant. She's also
unmarried: a potentially juicy scandal waiting to be scooped up by hovering
Hollywood gossip columnists.

Hail, Caesar! is a classic study of wretched excess: a labored, overcooked, star-heavy production that isn’t nearly as funny as everybody seems to think.

I’m reminded of Steven Spielberg’s 1941, also a bloated period comedy made at a point when the then-young director thought he could do no wrong. It, too, is an overwrought mess that mostly wastes the talents of a cast that was impressive for its time.

Spielberg’s 1941 attempted to mine humor from a WWII-era storyline that proposed a Japanese submarine invasion off the California coast. Hail, Caesar!, set in Hollywood during the “nifty fifties” — when, terrified by the arrival of television, the motion picture industry’s glorious façade was beginning to show visible cracks — attempts to mine humor from (among other things) a Communist submarine invasion off the California coast.

A moment which, it must be mentioned, climaxes the film’s most protracted and thoroughly inane subplot.

At its core, though, the Coen brothers’ script is a day-in-the-life study of Hollywood studio chief Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin), who confronts various crises — large and small — during a typical 24 hours. His soundstages are laden with sets and stars for numerous films in various stages of production, and all are typical of the time period:

• A sophisticated drawing room melodrama, where disgruntled, mildly prissy director Laurence Laurentz (Ralph Fiennes) has just been saddled with corn-pone singing cowboy star Hobie Doyle (Alden Ehrenreich) as his new young protagonist;

• A sailors-at-sea musical, with song-and-dance superstar Burt Gurney (Channing Tatum) channeling Gene Kelly;

• A waterlogged, Busby Berkeley-style extravaganza, headlined by swimming sensation DeeAnna Moran (Scarlet Johansson); and, most particularly...

• A biblical epic featuring famed studio leading man Baird Whitlock (George Clooney), as a Roman centurion who undergoes a moral conversion after encountering no less than Jesus himself.

Tomorrowland: An unsatisfying ride

Tomorrowland (2015) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated PG, and a bit generously, for violence, dramatic intensity and sci-fi action
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.22.15

Nobody likes a lecture.

Disney’s Tomorrowland displays enough gee-whiz creativity and high-tech gloss for the next half-dozen films — and that’s a problem all by itself — but all the razzle-dazzle eventually boils down to A Message. A heartfelt and deeply necessary message, to be sure, but a disappointing anticlimax nonetheless.

Having penetrated the inner sanctum carefully guarded by the reclusive Frank Walker
(George Clooney), Casey (Britt Robertson) can't help wondering why he spends so much
time watching so many monitors.

I was reminded of Christopher Nolan’s Inception, with its mind-blowing dreams within dreams, all eventually leading to the inconsequential equivalent of Orson Welles’ Rosebud.

But whereas Citizen Kane built to that moment with well-established irony, Inception and Tomorrowland merely leave us with a vague sense of having been cheated. As in, Seriously? That’s what we’ve been building to?

With respect to the environmental undercurrent running throughout this new Disney release, 1971’s Silent Running made the same point far more profoundly — and effectively — without being so insufferably didactic.

But while the concluding let-down is indeed unsatisfying, Tomorrowland has a more glaring problem: a ludicrously overcooked script by too many chefs. Scripters Damon Lindelof, Jeff Jensen and Brad Bird (the latter also directing) can’t decide what type of movie they’re making — action epic, sci-fi comedy or cautionary tale — and subsequently fail at all three.

To be sure, the result is awesome to look at, with marvels a-plenty on the screen. But it’s almost as if Bird hopes to overwhelm us with the eye-popping imagery, as a means of concealing the story’s deficiencies and glaring plot holes. This is one of those scripts that doesn’t hold together during post-mortem scrutiny; you’ll exit the theater exchanging comments that begin with “Wait a minute...” and “But what about...” and, mostly, “Why did that happen?”

Why, indeed. Rarely has a surprise villain’s motive seemed so impenetrable, muddled and pointless.

All of which represents a heartbreaking result from the talented Bird, who until now could do no wrong. Few directors could boast of a consecutive record as strong as The Iron Giant, The Incredibles, Ratatouille and Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol. But not even he could stitch all these disparate fabric squares into a pleasing quilt.

Such a shame.

The Monuments Men: An unfinished sculpture

The Monuments Men (2014) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rating: PG-13, for relatively mild war violence, and fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.7.14

What a disappointment.

Despite the considerable charm of George Clooney and his fellow scene-stealers, this is a flat and uninvolving film.

Knowing that time is running out, Stokes (George Clooney, foreground) and Granger
(Matt Damon, right) scramble to protectively wrap artworks prior to moving them to
safety. They're assisted by, background from left, Epstein (Dimitri Leonidas), Garfield
(John Goodman) and Savitz (Bob Balaban).

The fault lies with the graceless script, which leaves the impression that we’re watching the Reader’s Digest condensed version of a much longer miniseries. This two-hour film dips only briefly into a dozen or so potentially fascinating incidents, any one of which could have been expanded into a taut, exciting narrative; as it is, we get only the “calm” bits, leaving the impression that all exciting scenes were confiscated and dumped elsewhere.

Clooney deserves the blame; aside from starring and producing, he also directed and co-wrote the script with longtime colleague Grant Heslov. They’ve done a poor job of adapting the 2010 nonfiction book by Robert M. Edsel and Bret Witter: The Monuments Men: Allied Heroes, Nazi Thieves and the Greatest Treasure Hunt in History.

Edsel also co-produced the 2006 documentary, The Rape of Europa, which covered the same territory in a vastly more satisfying manner.

Part of the problem is Clooney’s apparent desire to transplant the droll Ocean’s Eleven vibe into this grim World War II setting, while also conveying the barbaric behavior of Nazis who cheerfully practiced human and cultural genocide. It’s a bit jarring to smile at some witty banter between Bill Murray and Bob Balaban at one moment, and then, in the next, be confronted by barrels containing gold fillings extracted from the teeth of thousands of holocaust victims.

Mostly, though, I lament the utter absence of suspense. This is a fascinating, fact-based story that should have kept us at the edge of our seats. Clooney’s film, however, is a jokey affair that meanders throughout Western Europe: more travelogue than drama.

The saga begins in 1943, when Harvard art historian Frank Stokes (Clooney) briefs President Roosevelt on the pressing need for the Allies to avoid destroying European civilization, in their efforts to save it. By this, Stokes means that more care must be taken to preserve the cultural heritage of these various countries: their art and museums; their churches, cathedrals and synagogues; their architectural marvels.

As Edsel mentions, in the press notes, the Allies very nearly destroyed, entirely by accident, da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” in August 1943.

Gravity: Grim survival drama

Gravity (2013) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rating: PG-13, for dramatic intensity, disturbing images and fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.4.13

On Jan. 11, 2007, the Chinese military destroyed one of its orbiting satellites with a ground-based missile. Although China insisted that this was the best way to “retire” the aging satellite, visions of a surface-to-space missile race naturally alarmed more than a few nations around the world.

When things go wrong in space, they go very wrong, as Dr. Ryan Stone (Sandra
Bullock) quickly discovers. Situations that would be bad enough on the ground, with
gravity operating in one's favor, quickly turn catastrophic in an environment where a
small space suit puncture likely would mean instantaneous death.

Saber-rattling aside, the much more serious issue was the orbiting “debris cloud” of up to 300,000 bits of satellite that resulted, which still could pose serious danger to other satellites or spacecraft en route to the moon and beyond. (NASA, worried about this since 1978, has dubbed the frightening possibility of cascading collisions the Kessler Syndrome.) For this very reason, the U.S. and the Soviet Union halted such anti-satellite experiments in the 1980s.

Clearly, filmmaker Alfonso Cuarón smelled an opportunity. The result, which he directed and co-wrote with his son, Jonás, is Gravity: one of the very few feasible space-based dramas ever released via conventional channels. (I say this to distinguish Cuarón’s film from numerous sci-fi and fantasy entries, or jes’-plain-silly action epics such as Armageddon and Space Cowboys.)

Gravity is both a suspenseful nail-biter and an impressive visual achievement: a studio production that comes close to the on-screen authenticity of an IMAX space documentary. The special effects are stunning, from the gorgeously depicted EVA mission that opens the story, to the weightless activity that takes place within a space station.

When Sandra Bullock “swims” her way from one end of the station to another, passing all sorts of floating debris along the way — not to mention little globules of liquid, or zero-G electrical sparks — everything looks absolutely real. We can’t help a “how the heck did they do that?” sense of wonder, despite our frequent ho-hum reaction to what CGI effects have wrought these days.

Cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki and visual effects supervisor Tim Webber — and the latter’s company, Framestore — have done stunning work. Indeed, their efforts are almost too good; at times it’s hard to focus on the story, since we’re so frequently dazzled by the on-screen visuals.

But only at times. Cuarón has orchestrated a taut survival drama that masterfully exploits claustrophobic terrors, not to mention related fears of drowning, suffocating or simply being hurled, alone, into the depths of space, able to do nothing but count down the seconds before the oxygen runs out.

The Oscar Follies: Indulging once again in the predictive arts

By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.19.12


The Golden Globes may be more free-wheeling and snarky; the People’s Choice Awards may be more populist. For prestige and historical significance, though, nothing compares to the Academy Awards.

True, the show can be creaky, overlong and sycophantic. I sometimes worry that the folks onstage will break their arms, from patting each other — and themselves — on the back so much.

But the Oscar ceremony is what it is, and producers should stop trying to “improve” it with silly little adjustments. Last year’s attempt to attract younger viewers did nothing but embarrass co-hosts James Franco and Anne Hathaway, and the gushing, on-stage tributes to the acting nominees have got to stop.

On the other hand, a few of the Academy nominating branches really do need to get their acts together. How, for starters, could The Adventures of Tintin have been overlooked in the animated feature category?

One suspects that the voters regarded its motion-capture technology “suspect” in some manner, but that’s ludicrous. Way back in the day, Max and Dave Fleischer’s first Superman short cartoon garnered a 1941 Oscar nomination; its rotoscoped animation style is a direct forerunner of motion-capture.

Besides, if Andy Serkis can’t get an acting nomination — despite heavy lobbying — for his nuanced performance as the ape Caesar, in last year’s Rise of the Planet of the Apes, then clearly the motion-capture technique involved is regarded as CGI animation, rather than live action. And if it’s animation, then Tintin was robbed.

Although irritating, that hiccup pales in comparison to the behavior of the Academy’s music branch, which this year deemed only two (!) tunes worthy of a best song nomination. That’s absolutely daft, not to mention a gross insult to the many talented songwriters who fielded the 39 submissions initially considered.

Blame a 2009 voting rules change, which since then has required songs to score at least 8.25 (on a scale from 6 to 10) to earn a nomination. If fewer than five songs do that well, we get fewer than five nominees. If no song gets at least 8.25, then the category is eliminated.

Say what?!?!?

That’s clearly brainless, and it gets worse: Music branch members only watch clips that include the eligible songs, as opposed to viewing each entire film. How, then, are these voters able to evaluate — and now I’m quoting the actual music branch rules — a given song’s “effectiveness, craftsmanship, creative substance and relevance to the dramatic whole”?

I added the italics. Couldn’t help myself.

The Descendants: Doing the right thing

The Descendants (2011) • View trailer for The Descendants
4.5 stars. Rating: R, for profanity and coarse sexual references
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.2.11


One of Janis Ian’s typically insightful songs, released on a 1978 album, is called “Silly Habits.” In part, it goes:

I used to say “I love you,”
But one day I forgot.
Silly habits mean a lot.

Matt (George Clooney) and his daughters — Alexandra (Shailene Woodley,
left) and Scottie (Amara Miller) — take one final, lingering look at the
unspoiled family land soon to be turned into a beach resort by the
highest bidder.

Some relationships explode in passion and fury; many simply fade away. Small, thoughtful gestures — spontaneous acts, so lovingly granted in the early days — fall victim to increasingly busy schedules or diverging interests. Impulsive cards, flowers or teddy bears. The promise to always have breakfast together. A book or new CD recently commented upon: not on a birthday or some other holiday, but just because.

We initially register these missed opportunities: pangs of guilt, mental promises to do better. Eventually, though, even the regret and intent get lost in the shuffle.

Then, one day — a day seemingly like any other — we look across the dining table and see a stranger. In that moment, the revelation strikes: True intimacy has been lost.

The Descendants opens as Matt King (George Clooney) has just such an epiphany. It’s a wake-up call; he suddenly, genuinely understands that business affairs have pulled him away from his wife and family. In his own words, he acknowledges being the “back-up parent” to their two daughters. He resolves to change course: correct the heading and do better.

He makes this promise as his wife, Elizabeth (Patricia Hastie), lies in a hospital bed, submerged within a deep coma: the result of a boating accident.

Alexander Payne’s previous film, 2004’s warm, whimsical and bittersweet Sideways, probed and dissected friendship and courting rituals with the precision with which its protagonist extolled the similar complexities of his favorite wines. Payne and co-scripter Jim Taylor shared a well-deserved Academy Award for their effort; Payne also garnered a nomination as director.

Now, seven years later — apparently not one to be hurried — Payne has returned to the director’s chair for The Descendants. He shares scripting duties this time with Nat Faxon and Jim Rash; they have adapted the 2007 book by Hawaiian-born Kaui Hart Hemmings, who based this debut novel on her earlier short story, “The Minor Wars.”

The Hawaiian setting is as much a character as the fractured King family and their friends and relatives; Payne understands this, and many scenes — particularly many brittle exchanges of dialogue — are amplified or given counterpoint by cinematographer Phedon Papamichael’s lush vistas of (mostly) unspoiled Hawaiian land.

This land actually is a significant plot point. Matt’s missionary ancestors who came to the islands were financially and culturally progressive; one even married a Hawaiian princess, making Matt a royal descendant and one of the state’s largest landowners. Indeed, stewardship of this property, along with the responsibilities of his own legal profession, bear the blame for his absentee husbanding and parenting duties.

The Ides of March: Predictable political maneuvering

The Ides of March (2011) • View trailer for The Ides of March
3.5 stars. Rating: R, for profanity
By Derrick Bang


Despite some powerhouse acting and well-sculpted characters, The Ides of March ultimately delivers a message that hardly comes as a surprise: Politicians will lie, cheat and betray with impunity. Angel-eyed claims to the contrary, they’d toss their grandmothers under a bus in exchange for a few points in the polls.

Press spokesman Stephen Myers (Ryan Gosling, center) feeds some sample
questions to Democratic presidential primary candidate Mike Morris (George
Clooney, far left), while members of the campaign staff watch. Such rehearsals
are essential, since Morris must be able to deflect any question posed by the
public or members of the press ... and Myers must anticipate such questions.

No ... really?

The story — adapted by Beau Willimon, George Clooney and Grant Heslov from Willimon’s play, Farragut North — concerns one man’s loss of idealism, but even that isn’t news. Unchecked passion has been dangerous for centuries, because — particularly in the political animal — it inevitably allows one to believe that the end always justifies the means, no matter how ultimately misguided the latter.

The Ides of March is Clooney’s third time in the director’s chair, and it’s easy to see why he was drawn to Willimon’s play; Clooney never has been shy about his political activism. Perhaps the biggest surprise is the fact that he has chosen a narrative that speaks less to the homespun optimism of, say, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and more to the dirty-tricks cynicism running throughout All the President’s Men.

Ultimately, though, the significant plot points here — and particularly the resolution — aren’t nearly as captivating as Good Night and Good Luck, which Clooney also directed and co-scripted with Heslov. That film painted a far more intriguing picture of Edward R. Murrow and the tempestuous early days of television news: a time when it did seem possible for integrity and virtue to triumph.

No more, alas.

Ryan Gosling, enjoying a phenomenal year, stars as Stephen Myers, press spokesman to Democratic presidential primary candidate Mike Morris (Clooney, granting himself this deliberately — and misleadingly — superficial supporting role). Myers has the gifts of gab, finesse and sincerity; he works the media like a veteran conductor extracting the best from each member of an orchestra.

Myers has the added benefit, this time, of believing in his cause. He regards Morris as the real deal; as New York Times reporter Ida Horowicz (Marisa Tomei) notes, with more than a little surprise, Myers has “drunk the Kool-Aid.”

The story is set during the tempestuous week leading up to the Ohio primary, where Morris — coasting with a comfortable lead in delegates — is campaigning against underdog Sen. Pullman (Michael Mantell). The latter is a relatively clumsy Democratic candidate, since he insists on playing the Christianity card; Morris, thanks to his own good instincts and scripted answers fine-tuned by Myers and campaign manager Paul Zara (Philip Seymour Hoffman), has little trouble deflecting his opponent’s religiously loaded questions.