Father Stu: A partial contender

Father Stu (2022) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity and coarse behavior

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 4.15.22

Faith-based films always run the risk of becoming too sentimental, maudlin and sappy.

 

To her credit, writer/director Rosalind Ross doesn’t fall into that trap here … at least, not until the final act. But even those heart-tugging details are justified by what befell the actual Stuart Long, who endured — and surmounted — a series of setbacks akin to the trials of Job.

 

While trying hard to turn his life around, Stuart Long (Mark Wahlberg, foreground) tries
to make amends with his long-estranged father (Mel Gibson), with less than ideal results.

Although deeply steeped in Catholicism, Ross’ adaptation of Long’s life is more redemption saga than crisis of faith … because, as portrayed here, Stu Long (Mark Wahlberg) hasn’t a shred of faith to begin with.

 

This is more the saga of two hard-charging, unrepentant ruffians — father and son — who, initially against their will, are forced to confront and re-evaluate their many shortcomings.

 

Initially, then, Stu and his father Bill (Mel Gibson) have a great time boozing and brawling, showing little regard for fellow man (or woman), while spouting a relentless stream of self-serving, profanity-laden social and theological “observations” that are — in fairness — quite funny at times.

 

Assuming, of course, that one can get past the coarse, egotistical misogyny.

 

The story begins in a working-class Montana community, where Stu is on the last legs of a minor boxing career, which brought in just enough money to keep him and his mother, Kathleen (Jacki Weaver), modestly fed, clothed and sheltered. But the battering has taken its toll, and wrought enough damage to become life-threatening, should he return to the ring.

 

On impulse, without a scintilla of performance experience — and to the dismay of his mother — Stu heads to Los Angeles, with dreams of Hollywood stardom dancing in his eyes. This also happens to be where the long-estranged Bill landed, although Stu has no intention of looking up his old man. At least, not initially.

 

Casting calls go nowhere; Stu winds up working in a supermarket meat department. One day he chances to spot Carmen (Teresa Ruiz), a Catholic Sunday school teacher who easily — even curtly — rebuffs his efforts at bad-boy charm. Not one to take a hint, and determined to win her over, the longtime agnostic begins attending her church.

 

But it won’t be anywhere near that easy. Aside from having to navigate her rigid Catholic chastity, Stu has to deal with her equally strict parents, along with the church’s priest, Father Garcia (Carlos Leal). The latter hasn’t the faintest idea how to cope with this interloper, and Stu’s first clumsy attempt at confession becomes a profanity-laden failure.

 

Despite Stu’s smug appeal — Wahlberg never has been short on charisma — it’s difficult to like the guy thus far. His churchgoing is superficial and self-serving, as befits Stu’s inherent nature; we can’t help feeling he just wants to score with Carmen … after which, what?

Penguin Bloom: Truly soars

Penguin Bloom (2020) • View trailer

3.5 stars. Rated TV-14, for dramatic intensity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.19.21  

Never underestimate the healing power — or sensitivity — of an attentive animal.

 

Even an unlikely one.

 

Sam (Naomi Watts) cannot reconcile her current condition with the robust, physically
active woman she used to be: a past lovingly documented by dozens of photos
taken by her husband.

During a 2013 family holiday in Thailand, Sam Bloom leaned against a second-story balcony railing; the rotten wood shattered, and she fell to the concrete patio below. Although lucky to survive, the damage to her spinal cord left her paralyzed from the chest down.

 

Perhaps worse, the accident also crushed her spirit. As time passed, the previously active career nurse, and happily married mother of three rambunctious young boys — raising this family on Sydney’s Northern beaches, where she ran, swam, biked and surfed every chance she got — spiraled ever downward into a miasma of despair.

 

And then … a miracle.

 

Australian director Glendyn Ivin’s Penguin Bloom, based on the popular 2016 memoir co-written by Sam’s husband Cameron and Bradley Trevor Greive, is a charming adaptation of the unlikely incident that turned Sam’s life around. Shaun Grant and Harry Cripps’ script is quite faithful to actual events … as should be expected, given that Sam and Cameron “Cam” Bloom are co-executive producers.

 

But — and this is important — their involvement has not buried this film beneath an insufferably noble or sugar-coated patina. Ivin unerringly maintains a careful balance, blending heartbreaking anguish — a family in serious danger of unraveling at the seams — with, unexpectedly, hope and gentle humor. The film gets its power from two cast members: Naomi Watts, as the beleaguered Sam; and newcomer Griffin Murray-Johnston, making an impressive acting debut as eldest son Noah.

 

The story is told from their point of view, either individually, or as part of the shared family dynamic; as a result, Watts and/or Murray-Johnston are in pretty much every scene.

 

They easily hold our attention.

 

As does the third crucial cast member. Who has wings.

 

Ivin begins his film with Sam at low ebb, and sinking lower; details of her accident emerge later, via Noah’s tormented voice-over. He can’t understand why his mother has withdrawn into herself; she can’t understand why everybody else doesn’t acknowledge that she has become worse than a burden, but an entirely useless human being.

 

Magic in the Moonlight: A cute little trick

Magic in the Moonlight (2014) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, and much too harshly, for fleeting sexual candor
By Derrick Bang

Every year, like clockwork, Monarch butterflies return to Pacific Grove; Punxsutawney citizens await the arrival (or no-show) of their famed groundhog; surfers brave “the most dangerous waves in the world” during Half Moon Bay’s Mavericks Competition; and Woody Allen makes another movie.

Stanley (Colin Firth) doesn't believe in Sophie's (Emma Stone) claimed powers of
clairvoyance: not for a moment. But his debunking skills get nowhere with this charming
young American, and soon he begins to doubt: Could she be the completely genuine
spiritualist that the 1920s world has clamored to find?

The man is amazing; he hasn’t missed a year since 1981 ... and he compensated with two films in 1987.

An output that prodigious can’t help delivering mixed results, and even Allen’s staunchest fans will acknowledge that his crowd- and critic-pleasing smash hits — 2011’s Midnight in Paris being the most recent — are vastly outnumbered by quieter, smaller charmers (Scoop, To Rome with Love) and the occasional stinker (Anything Else).

Magic in the Moonlight belongs to the middle camp. It’s a modest little rom-com that feels like a mash-up of P.G. Wodehouse and Agatha Christie: a flapper-era bit of froth set in the south of France, replete with upper-class twits, social climbers and a central mystery that becomes more provocative by the minute.

Actually, Allen’s cheeky, dialogue-heavy script would make a marvelous play; aside from a few of cinematographer Darius Khondji’s luxurious overviews of the opulent Riviera, the action is confined to just a few locales that easily could be reproduced and/or conveyed on a theater stage. On top of which, the story’s second-act kicker would be a bravura delight, live and in person.

Not to mention how much more fun Allen’s razor-sharp verbal duels would be, delivered by actors declaiming mere yards in front of a rapt audience.

But I certainly don’t mean to downplay this project’s equally droll enticements on the big screen, many of which spring from the feisty banter between stars Colin Firth and Emma Stone.

Firth is all but unrecognized at first glimpse, in his “professional” persona as Chinese conjuror Wei Ling Soo, the most celebrated magician of his age. The film opens on a typical performance, highlighted by his famed vanishing elephant trick, and his eye-popping de-materialization from a closed sarcophagus to a chair, visible at all times, at the opposite end of the stage.

Off-stage, though, the magician strips off the robes and make-up to reveal Stanley Crawford, a grouchy, arrogant Englishman with the snooty, insulting manner of an aristocratic boor: a man with absolutely no friends — well, maybe one or two — and a cold-fish fiancée who seems to respect rather than love him.

Firth has a marvelous time with Stanley’s waspish put-downs and supercilious bearing; he’s so cheekily condescending that we can’t help admiring the man’s pompous elocution.

Stoker: A chilling family affair

Stoker (2013) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rating: R, for violence, disturbing sexual content, dramatic intensity and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 3.29.13

In Chan-wook Park’s corrosive view of the universe, blood isn’t merely thicker than water; it positively congeals the connective tissue of inherited moral putrescence.

And nurture doesn’t stand a chance against nature.

India (Mia Wasikowska) loves to play the piano; it's a great way to release tension.
Charles (Matthew Goode) also enjoys the instrument, but his fondness seems more
directed at playing with his niece ... and the resulting duets turn rather creepy.

Park, the South Korean director known for gorgeously stylized but grimly unsettling thrillers such as 2003’s Oldboy and 2009’s weirdly disturbing Thirst, has made an equally disconcerting American debut with Stoker. This new film is gorgeous to look at, with cinematographer Chung-hoon Chung creating captivating magic with every frame, but the on-screen beauty is at odds with the casual rot festering within our three primary characters.

That juxtaposition is intentional, of course, as is the undercurrent of amused detachment that laces every scene in Wentworth Miller’s gleefully nasty script. These characters taunt, torment and torture each other with an élan the Borgias would have admired, and Park orchestrates the mayhem in a manner that essentially dares us to enjoy the depravity right along with them.

Some of the humor is obvious, starting with the connotations raised by Miller’s choice of a family name — Stoker — or the affectionate nod toward Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt, by naming Matthew Goode’s unhinged interloper Uncle Charlie. But we also can’t help chuckling at the enthusiastically carnivorous manner in which Goode tears into his character; rarely has evil been this charming, tempting ... and forbidden.

The film opens as India Stoker (Mia Wasikowska), recently turned 18, stands at the edge of a field, staring intently at something within. She describes herself cryptically via off-camera narration, adding a layer of poetic eloquence to a tableau that already seems vaguely wrong.

The scene shifts to an India who seems slightly younger and significantly more withdrawn; we understand that we have retreated in time, but not too much. This is her 18^th birthday, and she’s indulging in her favorite annual treat: finding the “special” present from her beloved father, who always hides it in a cryptic manner. The gift itself doesn’t matter all that much, and in fact it’s the same every year: a fresh pair of saddle shoes (definitely not an accidental choice on Miller’s part, given the shoes’ striking contrast between black and white).

No, India anticipates the thrill of the hunt, and the knowledge that her father has gone to so much trouble to please her.

Silver Linings Playbook: A heart of gold

Silver Linings Playbook (2012) • View trailer
Four stars. Rating: R, for sexual candor, brief nudity and relentless profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.23.12

Mental illness isn’t funny, and — thankfully — Hollywood has matured past the point of believing otherwise; standard-issue “loony-bin comedies” have gone the way of lovable drunks. When cinema tackles the topic these days, it’s generally with warmth and compassion, as with (for example) Adam and The Soloist.

Although Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence) agrees to help Pat (Bradley Cooper) win back his
ex-wife, this assistance comes at a price: Pat must agree to train with Tiffany for an
upcoming dance competition. Needless to say, this is not an endeavor with which
Pat feels comfortable...

But every individual’s life is equal parts hilarity and heartbreak, which also goes for people battling emotional disorders. The key is to craft a story that acknowledges but doesn’t exploit the situation, at which point we can comfortably laugh with, and not at, the characters; the marvelous Benny & Joon is an excellent example.

All of which brings us to Silver Linings Playbook, directed and scripted by David O. Russell (The Fighter, Flirting with Disaster), and based on Matthew Quick’s debut 2008 novel. Russell’s cinematic approach can be quite eclectic, and he has a tendency to drift toward the heightened wackiness of Wes Anderson, but with lesser results; happily, Russell mostly eschews such tendencies here.

At first blush, his approach to Silver Linings Playbook is as tense, jittery and nervous as its badly damaged protagonist, Pat Solatano (Bradley Cooper), whom we meet as his mother (Jacki Weaver, as Dolores) checks him out of a state institution. The details emerge gradually; Pat’s eight-month stay resulted from a plea bargain that kept him out of jail after he came close to beating a man to death (with cause, it might be argued).

Pat has anger management issues, which is blindingly obvious from the moment we lay eyes on him. He grew up with undiagnosed bipolar mood swings, somehow holding things together long enough to finish school, obtain a teaching credential and marry ... but then the inner demons became too much.

Now, as we confront Pat’s manic ups and downs — Cooper so explosively forceful, so potential dangerous, that we can’t take our eyes off him — his mother’s optimistic decision to bring him home seems naïve, perhaps even hazardous. We sweat every scene, wondering if Pat will go off like a time bomb.

Pat is the worst-case scenario: perceptive enough to recognize that the meds that control his symptoms also diminish his ability to experience any joy. He’s required by law to take the meds — a condition of his release — but he doesn’t want to, because he knows that he loses himself. He prefers, as a result, to rely on a daily regimen of mental and physical exercise that seeks the “silver lining” in any given situation.