The Holdovers: Acting, 10; story, 3

The Holdovers (2023) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity, drug use and sexual candor

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

The last time writer/director Alexander Payne and actor Paul Giamatti worked together, in 2004’s Sideways, the result was five Oscar nominations — including Best Picture — and a win for the film’s captivating script.

 

That won’t happen this time.

 

Angus (Dominic Sessa, left) and Professor Hunham (Paul Giamatti) are surprised to
discover that the school head cook, Mary (Da'Vine Joy Randolph) has prepared a
full-blown Christmas dinner.

Even so, there’s much to admire in this new film, which is based loosely on a 1935 French comedy called Merlusse. The always watchable Giamatti is well supported by co-stars Da’Vine Joy Randolph and Dominic Sessa, the latter a newcomer making an impressive acting debut. The chilly New England setting, time-capsuled in the early winter of 1970, is granted impeccable authenticity by cinematographer Eigil Bryld and production designer Ryan Warren Smith; it genuinely feels like we’ve stepped back half a century.

Indeed, the film even feels like a product of the early 1970s, in terms of tone and appearance.

 

The weak link is David Hemingson’s script.

 

Payne usually writes or co-writes his films, with memorable results that have included — in addition to Sideways — 2002’s About Schmidt and 2011’s The Descendants.

 

He should have done so this time.

 

The premise here, lifted mostly intact from Merlusse, is fine; the execution (alas!) is contrived, clumsy, lethargic and ultimately dull. The result does not deserve its protracted 133-minute length.

 

The setting is Barton Academy, a venerable boarding prep school that reeks of wealth and boorish entitlement. Giamatti stars as Paul Hunham, a veteran adjunct professor of ancient history. To call him misanthropic is the worst of understatements; Hunham regards his students with undisguised contempt. He isn’t merely stern; he’s downright nasty, routinely belittling his charges as philistines, reprobates, snarling Visigoths and (my favorite) “fetid layabouts” unfit to uphold Barton’s longstanding dedication to tradition and academic rigor.

 

That such descriptions are entirely accurate, with respect to many of the privileged little snots, is entirely beside the point. Hunham’s unceasing torrent of verbal abuse — delivered by Giamatti, it must be admitted, with considerable flourish — is an immediately insurmountable barrier that makes it impossible to sympathize with the man, as the story proceeds.

 

More to the point, although Hunham knows his field inside and out — and loves to hold forth with needlessly highbrow language — he apparently can’t communicate it. If everybody save one member of his class receives a grade of D or F on the semester final exam, then clearly Hunham is a terrible teacher. Bearing that in mind — as an adjunct professor lacking tenure, who can be fired at will — enraged wealthy parents would have demanded his departure long ago.

 

And they’d certainly have gained the support of Barton’s snootily officious headmaster (Andrew Garman, appropriately smarmy), who loathes Hunham.

Gunpowder Milkshake: Gleefully explosive

Gunpowder Milkshake (2021) • View trailer

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

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.23.21

A title such as this one practically screams “guilty pleasure.”

 

Indeed, it’s a pleasure.

 

Albeit extremely guilty.

 

With all manner of vicious thugs hot on their heels, Scarlet (Lena Heady, left) guides
Sam (Karen Gillan, right) and young Emily (Chloe Coleman) through a secret
escape route.

Director/co-scripter Navot Papushado’s opulently stylish revenge/survival thriller is a total kick: the sort of high-octane B-movie that’ll be adored by fans of Baby Driver and Guy Ritchie’s early-career crime flicks. Papushado, production designer David Scheunemann and cinematographer Michael Seresin give this violent romp all manner of atmosphere: way-cool settings, exaggerated and cleverly distinct color palettes, and a degree of intensity that threatens to burst from the screen.

These backdrops are populated by outré characters laden with ’tude: burlesques who couldn’t possibly exist in the real world (and thank God for that). Then there’s the most important element, which sets this film apart from grim, joyless cousins such as John Wick and its sequels: The script — by Papushado and Ehud Lavski — has heart.

 

The hyper-violence is mitigated by our lead character’s virtuous decision to Do The Right Thing.

 

Fifteen years ago, 12-year-old Sam (Freya Allan) learned — in the worst possible way — that her mother Scarlet (Lena Headey) worked as an assassin for a ruthless crime syndicate known as The Firm. That day also was the last time Sam saw Scarlet; the girl subsequently was raised by The Firm, and has followed in her mother’s lethal footsteps.

 

She has become coldly, mercilessly efficient: the go-to “handler” dispatched to clean up The Firm’s most dangerous messes.

 

As the film opens, Sam (now Karen Gillan) has been a little too thorough with her most recent assignment, much to the chagrin of Nathan (Paul Giamatti), her handler and surrogate parent figure. The blowback is likely to enrage the local Russian mob, with which The Firm has an uneasily cordial understanding.

 

While Nathan frets over how best to handle the repercussions, he sends Sam on an easier assignment: to kill a man (Samuel Anderson) and retrieve a bundle of cash that he stole from The Firm. During this confrontation, she learns that he took the money in order to ransom his 8-year-old daughter Emily (Chloe Coleman), who has been kidnapped by a quartet of mopes concealed behind monster masks.

 

This triggers Sam’s memory of her own younger self, orphaned under similarly dire circumstances. In the blink of an eye, Sam’s loyalty to The Firm evaporates; we see the shift in Gillan’s gaze. No matter the consequences, she intends to protect that little girl.

 

Consequences prove plentiful.

 

Jungle Cruise: A delightful voyage

Jungle Cruise (2021) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for adventure-type violence

Available via: Movie theaters and Disney+

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.30.21 

I know what you’re thinking.

 

Another movie based on a silly Disneyland ride?

 

Our heroes — counterclockwise, from top, Frank (Dwayne Johnson), Lily (Emily Blunt)
and MacGregor (Jack Whitehall) — cannot believe what has just popped out of the
water, in pursuit of their tiny boat.

OK, granted; the first few Pirates of the Caribbean entries were a hoot. But does anybody even remember 1997’s Tower of Terror? Worse yet, can anybody forget 2003’s Haunted Mansion, which almost finished Eddie Murphy’s career?

Yeah, well … scoff if you like, but this one is quite entertaining.

 

Granted, it borrows heavily from Pirates of the Caribbean, Raiders of the Lost Ark and 1999’s The Mummy; and granted, the third act gets needlessly chaotic; and granted, the film runs about 15 minutes too long. (Don’t they all, these days?)

 

No question: This is something of a kitchen sink endeavor, thanks to five credited screenwriters (and likely several more, behind the scenes).

 

But however familiar the wrapping, the contents make the package. And there’s no denying the combined charm of Dwayne Johnson and Emily Blunt, seasoned with the droll comic relief of Jack Whitehall. As ye olde peril-laden treasure hunts go, this one’s a corker.

 

The year is 1916, at the height of World War I. British researcher Lily Houghton (Blunt) and her brother MacGregor (Whitehall) are introduced while trying to persuade a roomful of stuffy academics to back an expedition to the Amazon jungle. She hopes to uncover the mystery behind an ancient tribal artifact, which is supposed to point the way to something reputed to have miraculous restorative powers.

 

The stuffy academics decline, of course. MacGregor looks and sounds like an aristocratic twit; as for Lily, she’s a woman, for goodness’ sake. Who’d pay attention to anything she believes?

 

Well, the stuffy academics should have clocked the fact that this quest also is of great interest to the Teutonic Prince Joachim (Jesse Plemons), whose malevolent bearing screams “sinister” so blatantly, that he may as well have the word tattooed on his forehead.

 

Indeed, it doesn’t take long for Joachim to reveal his stripes.

 

Elsewhere, we meet charismatic Frank Wolff (Johnson), head of the Jungle Navigation Company — just himself, of course — and skipper of the dilapidated La Quila. He leads unwitting visitors to this scruffy Brazilian harbor community on sightseeing cruises along the Amazon, which are low on substance but high on humor (so he insists). 

 

His “typical tour,” which we experience with his newest load of passengers, is this film’s direct nod to the eponymous Disneyland attraction. The homage is hilarious: same cheesy “special effects,” same awful jokes, same wincing puns, the latter delivered with a relentless lack of shame by Johnson.

Private Life: Painfully raw, deeply revealing

Private Life (2018) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for strong sexual content, nudity and profanity
By Derrick Bang

Obsession takes many forms.

Richard and Rachel Biegler (Paul Giamatti and Kathryn Hahn) want a child. The artsy Manhattan-based couple delayed starting a family because Rachel — an author — always had a fresh publishing deadline. Now, having slid into middle age, the “process” has become more complicated.

Richard (Paul Giamatti) and Rachel (Kathryn Hahn, center), obsessed with their desire to
"become pregnant," are delighted by the distraction offered by their niece, Sadie
(Kayli Carter), when she asks to crash in their apartment for awhile.

Or perhaps things always would have been complicated. Rachel’s eggs apparently aren’t top-quality, and Richard has only one testicle: a detail quickly tossed into any discussion of the topic — even with friends — much to his ongoing embarrassment. (And the first indication of the degree of “sharing” we’re in for.)

“Embarrassment” is plentiful in writer/director Tamara Jenkins’ intimate Private Life, much of it radiating from us viewers, who can’t help feeling like voyeurs. This is one of the most ferociously personal, deeply poignant dramedies I’ve ever seen, and also one of the most painfully, hilariously insightful. We laugh a lot, but often self-defensively: hoping that Jenkins — and her terrific cast — won’t go that one more private step further.

But they always do.

We meet Richard and Rachel well into what already must have been dozens (scores?) of sessions with their specialist, Dr. Dordick (Denis O’Hare, a stitch as the sort of tone-deaf male doctor who tries for humor at all the wrong moments). The film opens as Richard jabs his wife in the buttocks with another hormone shot, the actors bravely bared just as much physically, as emotionally.

We get a sense, as details emerge, that this process is being driven primarily by Rachel, and that Richard is doing everything he can to help and support. Both are weary after months on numerous emotional roller coasters. The hormones make her crazy, alternately bitchy or despondent; he’s exhausted, trying to anticipate and keep up with her moods, without saying or doing something that prompts an unexpected eruption of fury.

Rarely has the phrase “walking on eggshells” been more apt.

Unfortunately — unhappily — it quickly becomes clear that they’ve moved beyond “reasonable” options, and strayed deeply into the realm of fixation. Artificial insemination failed. An attempt to adopt went cruelly awry, as revealed during an absolutely heartbreaking flashback.

Love & Mercy: God only knows

Love & Mercy (2014) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, profanity and drug use
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 6.5.15

Brian Wilson’s life story is fascinating enough on its own merits, with enough drama, betrayal and crisis to fuel a lengthy and thoroughly fascinating TV miniseries.

During one of her first encounters with Dr. Eugene Landy (Paul Giamatti, left), during a
seemingly benign afternoon barbecue, Melinda (Elizabeth Banks) is about to discover
just how cruel this celebrity psychotherapist can be toward Brian Wilson (John Cusack).

That said, director Bill Pohlad and scripters Oren Moverman and Michael Alan Lerner deserve credit for the intriguing manner in which they’ve chosen to depict these events, in an engaging, economical two-hour film that charts the exuberant highs and heartbreaking lows of a musical genius who truly suffered for his art.

Rather than giving this tale an old-fashioned monaural spin, Pohlad and his writers have opted for a brighter, dual-track stereo treatment, with two actors playing Wilson during the strikingly distinct points of his life.

Paul Dano is spot-on as the cheerfully round-faced 1960s-era Brian, who married teenage sweetheart Marilyn Rovell and spearheaded the enormously popular pop/rock band that released an astonishing 10 albums in four short years. John Cusack, in turn, is equally compelling as the heartbreakingly subdued 1980s-era Brian, initially in thrall to control-freak celebrity psychotherapist Eugene Landy (a truly scary Paul Giamatti).

Artistically, this two-tone portrayal makes perfect sense; Brian became an entirely different person when, during the making of the albums “Pet Sounds” and “Smile,” he succumbed to artistic pressure, drug abuse and (probably) legitimate manic-depressive schizoaffective disorders. No surprise, then, that Pohlad should depict the musician’s before-and-after personas with different actors.

This gimmick isn’t new. Director Tim Fywell guided Ashley Judd and Mira Sorvino through the pre- and post-fame guises of Marilyn Monroe, in 1996’s intriguing “Norma Jean & Marilyn.” Not to be outdone, director Todd Haynes employed half a dozen actors — the most intriguing of whom was Cate Blanchett — to depict various aspects of Bob Dylan’s soul, in 2007’s “I’m Not There.”

Stunt casting for its own sake can be an eye-rolling distraction, of course, but the result is entirely different when the project warrants such treatment. In this case, Pohlad’s finished film is by turns fascinating, informative, tender and distressing; I’ve no doubt he and editor Dino Jonsäter fretted over every frame, and the timing of every sequence, with the same care that Wilson brought to his later albums.

Pohlad cross-cuts between the parallel storylines, enhancing our fascination by bouncing skillfully to the other time stream each time we settle into a given chapter. That can be jarring, even unsettling, but it also mirrors the increasing chaos into which Brian’s life descends.

San Andreas: No major faults here

San Andreas (2015) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, constant mayhem and fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.29.15

I had my doubts, but director Brad Peyton pulled it off: San Andreas deserves to become summer’s second surprise movie hit (following the utterly delightful Pitch Perfect 2).

The earthquakes and aftershocks are bad enough, but nobody is ready for the subsequent
tsunami. All the trouble our protagonists — from left, Ollie (Art Parkinson), Blake (Alexandra
Daddario) and Ben (Hugo Johnstone-Burt) — have taken, to avoid tall buildings ... and now
they must try to seek higher ground.

Peyton had help, starting with a reasonably intelligent script from Carlton Cuse, Andre Fabrizio and Jeremy Passmore — which, thankfully, eschews sudsy melodrama — along with a solid cast toplined by Dwayne Johnson.

Absolutely the guy I’d want by my side, during any sort of crisis.

But this isn’t a one-man show. Peyton draws equally persuasive performances from co-stars Paul Giamatti, Carla Gugino and Alexandra Daddario, and (slightly) lesser players Hugo Johnstone-Burt and Art Parkinson comport themselves equally well.

More crucially, Peyton is to be congratulated for successfully walking the razor’s-edge fine line of tone: a very difficult task in this particular genre.

The original Airport and Poseidon Adventure may have played their crisis-laden dramas straight, when they kick-started the whole “disasterpiece” franchise four decades ago, but things had turned eye-rollingly silly by the time Rollercoaster, The Swarm and When Time Ran Out came along. Fred MacMurray and Olivia de Havilland fleeing killer bees? Puh-leaze. Rarely have so many former A-list stars been subjected to so much puerile nonsense.

But the genre’s more recent revival, with a greater reliance on computer-generated calamity, offered an entirely different set of pitfalls. With soulless filmmakers eager to showcase all the catastrophe that money could throw onto a screen, the human element became second to gleefully orchestrated death and destruction ... much as slasher films earned their rep not for how plucky heroes survived, but instead for the way helpless victims got snuffed.

This tasteless sensibility reached its nadir a few years ago with director Roland Emmerich’s 2012, which played the end of the world as a spectator sport that invited giggles, as viewers watched untold millions perish in (sometimes) deliberately amusing ways. Truly reprehensible.

Peyton & Co. wisely avoided that blunder. While the earthquake-generated events here are undeniably grim — and rather close to home for those of us living in California, particularly in the wake of the recent tragedy in Nepal — cinematographer Steve Yedlin never lingers on the untold loss of life, nor does the film pander to baser instincts. Peyton and his writers simply concentrate on telling a saga of crisis, and the resourceful individuals who overcome one setback after another.

Besides which, you’ve gotta love a story that treats engineers with such respect, and makes champions of humble Caltech undergraduates. Not to mention getting not just one, but two impressively capable female characters in the bargain.

And hey ... if the heroics eventually become improbable, that’s the nature of the game. This film earns plenty of good will before unleashing its physics-defying stunts. So yes ... we’re treated to the world’s most resilient helicopter, quickly followed by the world’s sturdiest truck, and — without question — the world’s most amazing speedboat.

Go with it.

The Amazing Spider-Man 2: Diminishing returns

The Amazing Spider-Man 2 (2014) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated PG-13, for plenty of silly action violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.2.14

Spidey’s losing his snap.

I was no fan of Sony’s numb-nuts decision to re-boot this franchise, which the studio announced shortly after the 2007 release of the previous trilogy’s final installment; it seemed the height of lunacy. Our interest is such characters derives, in part, from the way in which they respond — positively or negatively — to an ever-expanding series of events and adventures; look at the brilliantly interwoven strands that have made all the other Marvel characters (Iron Man, Thor, Captain America) so much more interesting on the big screen.

Young gazillionaire Harry Osborn (Dane DeHaan), stricken with a hereditary disease
that will disfigure and then kill him, begs Spider-Man (Andrew Garfield) for a blood
transfusion. But although the man beneath the mask regards Harry as a longtime
friend, Peter genuinely believes that complying with this request could kill Harry
much faster ... or do something even worse.

It’s no fun to see a character taken only so far — adolescent steps into a developing superhero career — and then slammed back into infancy.

The folks behind James Bond waited 44 years before re-telling his origin story, in 2006’s Casino Royale. Even characters as venerable and popular as Dumas’ D’Artagnan and his fellow musketeers are gathered anew, with fresh young casts, only once per generation ... if that.

But only a decade later, as was the case between Tobey Maguire’s debut outing as Spidey in 2002, and Andrew Garfield’s introduction in 2012? Madness.

On top of which, Maguire set the bar VERY high with his second outing; I still rank 2004’s Spider-Man 2 as the best modern superhero epic yet made (yes, even better than The Avengers).

Granted, there’s an obvious problem when it comes to the way Peter Parker is time-locked somewhere between high school and college ... but if Sony had thought that one through, they wouldn’t have started with 27-year-old Maguire in the first place.

Come to think of it, starting anew with 29-year-old Garfield suggests that Sony hasn’t learned its lesson.

But OK; all this aside, individual films should be judged on their own merits, even when part of an ongoing series. And, in fairness, Garfield’s debut outing as the unwitting victim of a radioactive spider bite was quite entertaining. His take on the character is captivating in a slightly different way; he’s more of a klutzy nerd than Maguire’s insecure, angst-ridden nebbish.

Plus, Garfield had the benefit of an excellent supporting cast. Emma Stone’s blond and effervescent Gwen Stacy is a reasonable substitute for Kirsten Dunst’s red-headed Mary Jane Watson (although the latter will be immortalized forever, thanks to her sweet, sexy, rain-drenched, upside-down kiss with Spidey in that series’ first entry).

Sally Field was — and is — terrific as Peter’s Aunt May; Martin Sheen was just right as Uncle Ben, and Denis Leary was properly stern and intelligent as Gwen’s father. And while the Lizard wasn’t my idea of a proper origin-story villain, scripters James Vanderbilt, Alvin Sargent and Steve Kloves — the latter two being Hollywood veterans with plenty of intelligent screenplays between them — delivered a thoroughly engrossing tale.

Which, for the most part, director Marc Webb managed not to screw up.

The same cannot be said for his handling of this overblown sequel.

Saving Mr. Banks: Deplorably heartless

Saving Mr. Banks (2013) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rating: PG-13, and needlessly, for "unsettling images"
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.20.13

Pamela Lyndon Travers published Mary Poppins in 1934, and quickly followed it with Mary Poppins Comes Back. Shortly before the series’ third book arrived, she was approached by Walt Disney and his older brother, Roy, about bringing her character to the big screen.

As screenwriter Don DaGradi (Bradley Whitford) sinks ever further into his chair,
P.L. Travers (Emma Thompson) painstakingly nitpicks the proposed script for
Mary Poppins, questioning increasingly inane details such as the placement of
punctuation marks.

She declined.

Walt, never one to surrender easily, persisted. Indeed, he persisted for roughly two decades, at which point a crack appeared in Travers’ armor.

Director John Lee Hancock’s rather unusual film, Saving Mr. Banks, suggests that financial necessity drove Travers to contemplate Disney’s offer. This seems a reasonable assumption; Travers’ literary output inexplicably stopped in 1953, shortly after the series’ fourth entry, Mary Poppins in the Park. (Travers also wrote other books in between.)

Scripters Kelly Marcel and Sue Smith had at least four biographies from which to fashion their narrative, along with a 2002 Australian television documentary (The Shadow of Mary Poppins) and the voluminous recordings and internal documents made during Travers’ two-week visit to the Disney Studios, in the spring of 1961. We therefore can assume reasonable historical accuracy, although — this being a Disney production — the portrait can’t help being shaded in favor of Uncle Walt.

All that said, unknowing viewers are likely to be quite surprised by this film, and perhaps not in a good way. Everybody will bring iconic memories of the cheery 1964 musical, with its effervescent songs and marvelous star turns by Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke. Hancock’s film, in great contrast, is a serious downer: frequently depressing and, ultimately, unforgivably mean-spirited.

Emma Thompson is a precise, highly skilled performer who never wastes a word or gesture, and her take on Travers brings new meaning to the word “shrew.” The author depicted here is arrogant, boorish, condescending and hyper-critical to a degree that suggests mental illness. She demands polite behavior from others but gives none in return. One searches in vain for kindness.

This film’s split narrative — the other half taking place during a crucial year of Travers’ childhood, in rural Australia in 1906 — offers ample reason for the impregnable, emotionally withdrawn shell she’d construct, as an adult; it’s a saga of great sorrow, and we grieve for this little girl, played to apple-cheeked perfection by young Annie Rose Buckley.

12 Years a Slave: A brilliant, timeless drama

12 Years a Slave (2013) • View trailer 
Five stars. Rating: R, for grim violence, brutality, nudity and brief sexuality
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.15.13

Some films transcend their big-screen confines.

The story is so compelling, the direction so deft, the performances so persuasively real, that we cease to see the screen or the acting, and simply become immersed in the experience.

As Epps (Michael Fassbender, center) expresses far too much appreciation for the
cotton-picking skills of Patsey (Lupita Nyong'o), Solomon (Chiwetel Ejiofor) gradually
recognizes the unpalatable, one-sided "understanding" between this master and his
attractive slave ... but, of course, can neither do or say anything.

12 Years a Slave is such a film.

I remember, years back, getting wholly caught up in a stage production of Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie. At one point, the fragile Laura Wingfield stepped outside the front door and onto the porch of the simple but effective set, and I grew concerned; she wasn’t dressed warmly enough, and surely she’d get cold out there, late at night.

That’s how invested I was in British director Steve McQueen’s sensitive, unflinching and utterly mesmerizing handling of this film.

John Ridley’s note-perfect screenplay is adapted from Solomon Northup’s 12 Years a Slave, a rare 19th century memoir by a man who lived what he wrote — no, make that endured and survived — and what we now see on the screen. Northup’s saga is brutal, horrifying, even unbelievable at times. We civilized, 21st century citizens of the world cannot comprehend men — and women — behaving so callously, so cruelly to their fellow men and women.

Horrific times, we think, seeking solace. Nearly two centuries ago. Surely, we’ve become better in the meantime.

But then I reflect on the Nazi persecution of the Jews, with the often willing participation of “good Germans,” and I reflect on young Malala Yousafzai, nearly killed by Taliban thugs who’ve promised to keep trying, just as they bomb schoolchildren and continue to maim and behead others who’d encourage education, and I realize what McQueen clearly intends to demonstrate.

This film isn’t a portal to another time, another place. Sadly, it’s a mirror to the here and now.

The year is 1841, in pre-Civil War United States; we meet Solomon Northup (a simply astonishing performance by Chiwetel Ejiofor) as a dignified gentleman living with his family in Saratoga, N.Y. He walks assuredly among his white peers, treated with respect whether on the street or conducting business in a shop.

Although, even here, we get a flash of underlying tension: a flicker of ... something ... in the eyes of one white aristocrat who registers Solomon’s presence, his station, and says nothing, but silently speaks volumes.

Rock of Ages: Somewhat chipped

Rock of Ages (2012) • View trailer
3.5 stars. Rating: PG-13, and quite generously, for sexual content, lewd behavior, profanity, revealing clothing and nonstop alcohol abuse
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 6.15.12

This film is a shotgun wedding of Moulin Rouge and The Rocky Horror Picture Show, with a bit of Phantom of the Paradise (remember that one?) sneaking in from beneath the woodpile.

When club owner Dennis Dupree (Alec Baldwin, right) finds himself without an
opening act for the evening's big event, new waitress Sherrie (Julianne Hough)
suggests her boyfriend, Drew (Diego Boneta, background), and his band. Dennis'
assistant, Lonny (Russell Brand), thinks this is a great idea ... but Dennis isn't
as certain.

At its best, the result is raucous, exuberant and quite funny, notably when the tag-team of Alec Baldwin and Russell Brand take the screen. But all that cheeky energy aside, Rock of Ages sags badly at times; it’s much too long and self-indulgent. The third and final act, when we finally cruise into it, feels more like the fifth; the wafer-thin story isn’t strong enough to support all the glitter and musical bombast.

The film is adapted from Chris D’Arienzo’s rock/jukebox musical of the same name, which opened in Los Angeles in 2005. A short Off-Broadway run eventually followed in late 2008; the show transitioned to Broadway in the spring of 2009 and has remained a popular draw ever since.

Sadly, that happy fate probably doesn’t await this big-screen adaptation.

The time is 1987, a musical breakpoint in terms of both art and commerce: LPs are on their way out, rapidly being forced off store shelves in favor of new-fangled CD “longpacks.” Similarly, glam, heavy metal and power-rock are being threatened by the onset of grunge, rap and (God help us) boy bands.

Perky Sherrie Christian (country singer Julianne Hough), seeking fame and fortune, departs Tulsa, Okla., with a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. Her destination: the Bourbon Room, a landmark but now dilapidated rock ’n’ roll club (probably suggested by the Troubadour). Historically, the club is famed for having introduced many now-famous acts, none more celebrated than Stacee Jaxx (Tom Cruise), lead singer of the band Arsenal.

But the Bourbon Room is in trouble these days; owner Dennis Dupree (Baldwin) faces a whopping unpaid tax bill. And although Dennis’ right-hand man, Lonny Barnett (Brand), insists that rock ’n’ roll will never die, such pronouncements won’t keep the IRS at bay. And as if this weren’t bad enough, Dupree and his club have been targeted by Patricia Whitman (Catherine Zeta-Jones), the ultra-conservative wife of newly elected Mayor Mike Whitman (Bryan Cranston).

Sherrie’s barely off the bus when she loses her possessions to a mugger, but that’s all right; she’s just as quickly “rescued” by Drew Boley (Diego Boneta), an aspiring rocker who works behind the bar at the Bourbon Room. Just like that, Sherrie has a new job, a new boyfriend and close proximity to the music scene she loves so much.

Only in the movies, right?

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.

The Hangover Part II: A case of the staggers

The Hangover Part II (2011) • View trailer for The Hangover Part II
Three stars (out of five). Rating: R, for profanity, drug use, sexual content, graphic nudity and flashes of violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.27.11


While The Hangover Part II probably will satisfy most of the folks who turned its 2009 predecessor into such a surprise hit, even avid fans will have to admit that the bloom has worn off the rose.

Stu (Ed Helms, left) gets ready to snatch a capuchin monkey — which
unknowingly carries an important document within its little vest — while Mr.
Chow (Ken Jeong, center) distracts the little beast, and Phil (Bradley Cooper)
keeps a wary eye on the Russian gangsters across the street.

The original's core premise relied on surprise: the means by which three badly hung-over guys determined just how wretchedly they had behaved the previous evening. That gimmick really only works once; this time out, no matter how much returning director Todd Phillips tries to freshen the salad, the result can't shake a been there/done that familiarity that breeds, if not contempt, then certainly ennui.

We know what's coming this time. We may not know the humiliating details — and Phillips delivers at least one grand sequence of ghastly embarrassment — but the key character riffs are easily anticipated.

When our three protagonists here repeatedly exclaim, "I can't believe this is happening again," they do so in an effort to acknowledge the obvious, while tying this film to their previous escapades. Unfortunately, we're occasionally inclined to agree with them: We can't believe it either.

Eager as I always am to credit — or blame — the scripters for a film's success or failure, I couldn't help noting the absence of the first outing's writing team of Jon Lucas and Scott Moore. They'd been quietly building a respectable résumé of romantic comedies, including Four Christmases and Ghosts of Girlfriends Past — neither of them classics, to be sure, but nonetheless showing promise and (here's the key) some character depth — and The Hangover was their breakout hit.

Rather than continue with a winning team, though, Phillips turned instead to writers Craig Mazin and Scot Armstrong, both known for lowest-common-denominator moron comedies such as Superhero Movie, Road Trip, Scary Movie 4 and the wretched big-screen remake of Starsky and Hutch. Not an ounce of character development between them. Oh, and Phillips snatched a writing credit himself this time, no doubt because he collaborated with Armstrong on several of the above-mentioned misfires.

The difference is obvious. Lucas and Moore write funny movies for adults. Mazin, Armstrong and Phillips write tasteless movies for the sort of arrested adolescents lampooned so well by Zach Galifianakis in this very film. Draw your own conclusions.

While the results, in Hangover II, aren't as relentlessly vulgar as an average Farrelly brothers outing — no explosions of excrement, I'm happy to report — there's no doubt Phillips & Co. sacrifice basic plot logic on the altar of ongoing torment for these three schlubs. They also cross the sympathy line once, and quite badly. Despite the first film's antics, nobody was permanently affected; even Stu (Ed Helms) pops up with a full set of teeth, as this story kicks off.

This time, however, a major character gets maimed for life ... and, sorry guys, but that ain't funny. The mere fact that it happens is bad enough; the added fact that nobody seems to care makes it even worse. It's damn near impossible to sympathize with the three misfit members of this "wolf pack" if they're gonna be that callous.