Haunted Mansion: Should be repossessed

Haunted Mansion (2023) • View trailer

Two stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for scary images and dramatic intensity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang 

Disney really needs to stop trying to transform this theme park attraction into anything resembling a coherent film.

 

The best that can be said about this second effort, is that it’s not quite as dreadful as its 2003 predecessor … but that’s damning with very faint praise.

 

Our reluctant heroes — from left, Harriet (Tiffany Haddish), Ben (LaKeith Stanfield),
Gabbie (Rosario Dawson) and Bruce (Danny DeVito) — have just discovered a trunk
in the mansion attic, which contains a book of incantations that'll prove useful.

If director Justin Simien and scripter Katie Dippold set out to make a movie for 5-year-olds, they definitely succeeded; I can’t imagine anybody else having the patience for this interminable dollop of random nonsense.

Indeed, one of the 2003 film’s major problems is equally true here, and the relevant paragraph from my two-decades-gone review can be repeated verbatim, updating only the name of the guilty party:

 

Rather than imaginatively spinning a wholly original yarn, Dippold instead includes everything from the namesake theme park attraction, while trying to cobble up a story after the fact: the ghostly hitchhikers, the dancing ballroom ghosts, the graveyard specters mixing it up with each other, the busts that watch as somebody turns a corner, the paintings that turn skeletal with a burst of lightning, and pretty much everything else.

 

The result isn’t anything approaching an actual story; it’s merely a two-hour commercial for Disneyland. Judging by the dreary manner in which Simien orchestrates this mess, and the lackluster performances by the entire cast, nobody even tried to turn this sow’s ear into a silk purse.

 

Needless to say, this is no way to make a movie.

 

The story, such as it is:

 

Single mom Gabbie (Rosario Dawson) and her 9-year-old son Travis (Chase Dillon), looking to make a fresh start, move to New Orleans and purchase an oddly affordable antebellum-style spread on the bayou, just outside the city. They don’t even make it through the first night, thanks to an unexpectedly ambulatory suit of armor.

 

“And … we’re out,” Gabbie quite reasonably says, with Travis right behind her.

 

Ah, but this mansion’s 999 ghosts don’t want them to leave. No matter where Gabbie and Travis go — hotel, B&B, whatever — they’re pursued by haints that emerge each evening, demanding their return. Which, eventually, they reluctantly do.

House of Gucci: Dressed to Kill

House of Gucci (2021) • View trailer

4.5 stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity, sexual content, brief nudity and violence

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.26.21

These folks would have been right at home in the 15th century, living next door to the Borgias.

 

Ridley Scott’s cheeky depiction of the Machiavellian treachery, manipulation, avarice and grasping ambition that roiled the fabled Italian fashion empire for two decades, is a showcase of bravura acting chops by five high-wattage stars. The narrative approach is simultaneously giddy, sordid and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny, the latter due to the often arch script by Becky Johnston and Roberto Bentivegna, adapting Sara Gay Forden’s 2000 non-fiction book.

 

Patrizia (Lady Gaga, second from right) listens intently as Aldo Gucci (Al Pacino, far
right) waxes enthusiastic about his plans for the fashion empire, while — from left —
Paolo Gucci (Jared Leto), his wife Jenny (Florence Andrews) and Maurizio Gucci
(Adam Driver) listen, with varying degrees of interest.

Ah, the obscenely rich. They truly are their own repugnant species.

At its core, this is the saga of two fathers, two sons, and the scheming woman who — with impressive success — maneuvers them against each other. The latter is played by Lady Gaga, with a mesmerizing blend of dramatic intensity and voluptuousness rarely seen on screen since Marilyn Monroe’s reign. We hang on her every word, deed and sinuous shimmy; cinematographer Dariusz Wolski ensures that she’s framed and lighted — and frequently shadowed, within sinister darkness — for maximum carnality.

 

The setting is the late 1970s. Patrizia Reggiani is introduced working for her adoptive father, Fernando (Vincent Riotta), who runs a successful Italian trucking empire. Scott opens his film as Patrizia saunters to the trailer office on an average morning, in a form-fitting va-va-voom dress, deliberately teasing the drivers hosing down their rigs. It’s an entrance, by Lady Gaga at her most vampish, that tells us everything necessary about this woman.

 

Her family’s success allows Patrizia to mingle with the jet set; during a discotheque party, she chances to meet Maurizio Gucci (Adam Driver). He’s shy and bookish, clearly uncomfortable in this raucous, libidinous environment; Driver is oddly endearing in this stammering nerd mode.

 

Patrizia seems unlikely to give him a second glance; indeed, her initial approach is mildly taunting, which embarrasses Maurizio even further. But her attitude abruptly shifts upon hearing his last name; we can practically hear the click of opportunistic hunger behind her eyes.

 

She subsequently stalks him. He’s surprised and flattered, and succumbs all too quickly. Really, he’s no match for her.

 

Maurizio takes her to meet his father, Rodolfo (Jeremy Irons), who with his bother Aldo (Al Pacino) controls the Gucci empire. But although Rodolfo carefully safeguards his 50 percent, wholly expecting Maurizio — studying to become a lawyer — to one day take his place, he has little to do with business operations. He’s distant, withdrawn and distracted by ghosts from his past.

 

Even so, Rodolfo is a shrewd, steely eyed judge of character, and he sizes up Patrizia in a heartbeat. “She is not the girl for you,” he cautions, in a stern tone that matches the gravitas Irons summons for the moment. But Maurizio, hopelessly in love, ignores this counsel.

 

The aftermath is severe.

The Little Things: A big mistake

The Little Things (2021) • View trailer

Two stars. Rated R, for violence, disturbing images, nudity and profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.26.21 

You don’t often see three Oscar winners starring in the same film.

 

Too bad they’re so ill-served by this inept crime drama.

 

Looking to show off in front of visiting veteran detective Joe "Deke" Deacon (Denzel
Washington, center rear), homicide Det. Jim Baxter (Rami Malek) browbeats a junior
officer, while Det. Jamie Estrada (Natalie Morales) watches nervously.

The Little Things, exclusive to HBO Max, benefits from the participation of Denzel Washington and Rami Malek, both of whom bring far more to the table than writer/director John Lee Hancock deserves.

 

In fairness, Hancock can be a talented director. He guided Sandra Bullock to an Academy Award in 2009’s The Blind Side, and I thoroughly enjoyed how he handled Kevin Costner and Woody Harrelson, in 2019’s The Highwaymen.

 

But as a writer, he record is spotty at best; his best efforts are adaptations of existing books, as with The Blind Side and 1997’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. He certainly has no flair for concocting a psychological crime thriller such as this one, which repeatedly screams for the superior touch of a seasoned mystery author.

 

As Clint Eastwood’s Harry Callahan observes, in 1973’s Magnum Force, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

 

Hancock obviously doesn’t.

 

The year is 1990, likely to avoid the intrusion of cell phones, social media and DNA evidence. Kern County Sheriff’s Deputy Joe “Deke” Deacon (Washington) is sent down to Los Angeles, for what should be a quick evidence-gathering assignment. He runs afoul of preppy L.A. County Sheriff’s Homicide Department Sgt. Jim Baxter (Malek), whose “college boy” condescension provokes little more than an amused smile from Deke.

 

Washington delivers it with quiet élan. Actually, pretty much everything Washington does, emerges with elegance and dignity.

 

Turns out Deke has “history” with this Los Angeles department, having departed under something of a cloud. (Hancock shares these details via maddeningly sparse and fleeting flashbacks, as the film proceeds.) Deke left behind a few friends — Det. Sal Rizoli (Chris Bauer), and L.A. coroner’s assistant Flo Dunigan (Michael Hyatt) — but most other department stalwarts were happy to see the back of him.

 

Baxter heads the task force charged with tracking down a serial killer who has been doing nasty things to attractive young women. Perhaps as a passive/aggressive means of showing up the old-timer, Baxter invites Deke along to a fresh crime scene, where the newest victim has just been discovered. This ploy fails, forcing Baxter to reluctantly admire Deke’s methodical analysis and careful eye for “the little things.”

 

The two men begin an initially prickly — but soon mutually respectful — partnership.

 

Because, as it turns out, the details of this current murder spree have uncanny similarities to the equally morbid serial killer case that Deke obsessively pursued, back in the day: to the cost of his health, his marriage and his job.

 

Blade Runner 2049: Future imperfect

Blade Runner 2049 (2017) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated R, for violence, profanity, nudity and sexuality
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.6.17

I suppose we should be grateful that things haven’t deteriorated nearly as much as the original Blade Runner suggested ... given that it was set in 2019.

That said, the film’s envisaged weather anomalies no longer seem as unlikely.

Los Angeles Police Department Officer Kay (Ryan Gosling), pausing for a quick meal,
little realizes that he's about to be approached by a trio of seductive "doxies"
interested solely in the photographs that he has been studying.

It’s also amusing to recall that Ridley Scott’s magnum opus was a critical and audience bomb upon release in 1982: wholly bewildering to viewers who couldn’t wrap their brains around retro sci-fi noir, and who were disturbed by the notion of Han Solo/Indiana Jones playing such a morally conflicted character.

Funny, how things can change. Blade Runner now is regarded as one of the all-time great sci-fi classics, praised for the same distinctive vision and thoughtful narrative complexity that originally baffled folks. Scott has tweaked and re-edited the film more times than I can remember, fine-tuning it to match his original vision (which was compromised by unwelcome eleventh-hour editing, prior to release).

While his film didn’t necessarily beg for a sequel, the setting and core premise certainly invite fresh examination. Few filmmakers are better equipped to do so than director Denis Villeneuve, who helmed last year’s marvelously meditative Arrival, and co-writer Hampton Fancher, who helped adapt Philip K. Dick’s source novel into the first film. Fancher is assisted this time by co-scripter Michael Green, and they’ve definitely retained the brooding atmosphere that makes the setting so compelling.

The setting’s persuasively chilling authenticity, in turn, comes courtesy of production designer Dennis Gassner and visual effects supervisor John Nelson, carrying forward the arresting tableaus designed for the first film by Douglas Trumbull and David Dryer. No other word suffices: This new film looks amazing.

And very, very unsettling.

The story is again based in Los Angeles, although the narrative expands to include the entire state. Every square inch of land in Central California has been covered by massive hydroponic facilities necessitated by a climate shift — nothing but furious rain, dust and snow storms — that has destroyed any semblance of a natural growing season. Such enhanced output also is required to feed an expanding population with an exponentially huge homeless faction: The disenfranchised no longer camp out merely on sidewalks; they also squat in apartment corridors, jeering at those fortunate enough to have their own residences.

Advertising has run even further amok, further amplified by a salacious element that suggests the complete absence of spiritual content. There’s a sense of society’s very fabric coming unstitched, with order barely maintained by officers working for the immense police department building that looms above all else.

Well ... almost all else.

Suicide Squad: Great premise, uneven execution

Suicide Squad (2016) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for violence, dramatic intensity, disturbing behavior, suggestive content and brief profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.5.16

E.M. Nathanson deserves the credit, and nobody has the faintest idea who he is.

He wrote the best-selling 1965 WWII thriller, The Dirty Dozen, which director Robert Aldrich turned into a crackling action film two years later. With the template firmly established — that of disgraced convict soldiers sent on a suicide mission, with the promise of commuted sentences for any survivors — numerous books and films have “borrowed” the premise, often to crowd-pleasing results.

Col. Rick Flag (Joel Kinnaman, center top) has his hands full, trying to control the behavior
of his misfit squad: clockwise from upper right, Deadshot (Will Smith), Captain Boomerang
(Jai Courtney), Katana (Karen Fukuhara), Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) and Killer Croc
(Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje)

Those crowds include comic book readers, particularly with the 2007 re-boot of this concept in DC’s Superman universe.

And why not? Bad guys always get the best lines, and there’s no questioning the vicarious thrill of watching villains allowed to behave reprehensibly.

As one of this new film’s characters impertinently explains, following a minor transgression: “We’re bad guys. It’s what we do.”

The audaciously irreverent big-screen adaptation of Suicide Squad has plenty of snarky allure, in great part thanks to Margot Robbie’s captivating star turn as the sexy, salacious and gleefully homicidal Harley Quinn. As any longtime comic book fan will attest, Robbie nails the character, with all of her cherubic, psychopathic charisma. Harley revels in her over-the-top awfulness, and Robbie embraces the role with lustful fury.

Comic book movies very rarely get remembered by Academy voters, but this one should; Robbie’s performance here makes the movie.

She gets a strong assist from Will Smith, doing an equally fine job with the more difficult role of Floyd Lawton, better known as ace assassin Deadshot. Most of the time, Lawton has no problem with killing at the behest of the highest bidder, but he hates being viewed in a negative light by his estranged but still devoted adolescent daughter, Zoe (Shailyn Pierre-Dixon, touching in a brief performance).

Smith, as a result, must navigate the more delicate waters of a conflicted soul: a bad guy who might possess a shred of nobility.

But we’re getting ahead of things. To the plot:

As the next installment in DC movie continuity, Suicide Squad — directed and scripted by David Ayer — takes place in the aftermath of early spring’s Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice, which concluded as Big Blue was dealt a mortal blow by a Kryptonite spear. The U.S. government, in something of a panic, worries how a world without Superman could defeat the next hyper-powered adversary.

Dallas Buyers Club: A smart investment

Dallas Buyers Club (2013) • View trailer 
4.5 stars. Rating: R, for pervasive profanity, strong sexual content, nudity and drug use
By Derrick Bang

Some heroes are born. Others are made.

Kicking, screaming, scratching and spitting every step of the way.

Ron Woodroof (Matthew McConaughey, right) initially reacts with knee-jerk contempt
when the cross-dressing Rayon (Jared Leto) offers to help establish a rather unusual
business model. Soon, though, "just business" grows into something a great deal
more profound.

Ron Woodroof’s unexpected saga wasn’t nearly as poetic or dramatically mesmerizing as is suggested in Jean-Marc Vallée’s new film, Dallas Buyers Club, but there’s no doubt that the real-life Woodroof was an unlikely champion for the disenfranchised, much the way Oskar Schindler found his calling during World War II.

Texas born-and-bred Woodroof was a hard-living, harder-drinking electrical contractor when he was blindsided by an HIV diagnosis in 1986, and given sixth months to live. (Vallée’s film shifts this life-changing moment to 1985, to tie the unfolding drama to Rock Hudson’s announcement, that July, that he had AIDS.)

Not one to blithely accept a death sentence, Woodroof went into the research tank and emerged a year later to found what became known as the Dallas Buyers Club: an underground source of drugs not approved by the FDA for use in the United States ... but, in many cases, legal in other countries and known to be helpful for HIV-positive patients, and those with full-blown AIDS.

Woodroof’s story, and the Dallas Buyers Club, were profiled in Bill Minutaglio’s compelling article in Dallas Life Magazine, published on Aug. 9, 1992. Woodroof died not quite a month later, on Sept. 12. During the seven years he ran his guerrilla drug network, there’s no question he helped prolong the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of desperately ill people ... just as he prolonged his own life.

Interesting, then, that we’ve waited two full decades for a film to be made about this feisty, foul-mouthed, oddly charismatic Texas renegade.

Vallée’s film is powered by a galvanic performance from Matthew McConaughey, who notoriously dropped 47 pounds in order to convincingly play the emaciated Woodroof. That’s obviously a drastic move, but it certainly lends considerable verisimilitude to what we see onscreen, just as Christian Bale’s similar weight-loss routine brought jaw-dropping realism to his portrayal of crack-addicted Dicky Eklund, in The Fighter.

But the intensity of McConaughey’s performance here derives from a great deal more than his painfully thin frame; he charges through this role with a level of desperation that matches his character’s angry struggle to stay alive. And anger is the right word, because Woodroof quickly comes to believe that the U.S. medical establishment is, at best, moving much too slowly to battle a disease primarily killing the nation’s “expendables”; or, at worst, actively conspiring with Big Pharma to develop and deliver piecemeal treatment in a manner designed solely to maximize profits.