F1: High-octane entertainment

F1 (2025) • View trailer

Five stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and occasional profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.13.25

This is, without question, the ne plus ultra of professional car racing movies.

 

Until now, depending upon one’s age, fans likely would point to 1966’s Grand Prix, 1971’s Le Mans, 2013’s Rush or 2019’s Ford V Ferrari.

 

Cocky young race car driver Joshua Pearce (Damson Idris, left) can't imagine why he
has been paired with — in his eyes — a washed-up senior citizen like Sonny Hayes
(Brad Pitt), and does nothing to conceal his contempt. The kid has much to learn...

(Sorry Tom, but 1990’s Days of Thunder sinks beneath its banal plot, stick-figure characters and jaw-droppingly dreadful dialogue.)

This one blows ’em all off the track.

 

Director Joseph Kosinski, co-scripter Ehren Kruger, cinematographer Claudio Miranda and editors Stephen Mirrione and Patrick J. Smith have done the seemingly impossible, by dropping their film right into the middle of actual Formula 1 racing competitions. The result is a level of unparallelled authenticity, which grants us edge-of-the-seat viewers an astonishing sense of being there: not merely on the track, in the design facilities and amid the pit crews, but also inside the cars during the heat of racing.

 

It's actually better than live-TV coverage of actual Formula 1 events, because Miranda employed state-of-the-art, pan-and-tilt portable cameras capable of providing multiple angles of drivers in the bay — essentially getting bolted into their vehicles, like the steering wheel and other components — and during the height of racing action on straightaways and G-force curves.

 

But all of this would be mere window-dressing, absent a solid story and relatable characters, played here by an impressively charismatic cast led by the always captivating Brad Pitt. Adept at strong dramatic scenes and graced with a quiet, laid-back calm that was made for a movie camera, Pitt also is blessed with one of cinema’s most radiant smiles. 

 

When it emerges — particularly during unexpected moments, as if Pitt were happily surprised by the appearance of an old friend — the emotional impact is to die for. He truly is the Baby Boomers’ Paul Newman.

 

Kosinski and Kruger essentially have revisited the formula that worked so well for them in 2022’s Top Gun: Maverick: another take on the redemption saga of Old Dog Teaches Young Pup New Tricks, in a highly charged dramatic environment.

 

And, just as Kosinski put us into a fighter jet’s cockpit like never before, he has done the same here with Formula 1 racing.

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.)

Bullet Train: One helluva ride!

Bullet Train (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for strong bloody violence, gore, relentless profanity and brief sexuality

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

The first 10-15 minutes of this film are remarkably off-putting.

 

We’re dumped into the midst of a story in progress, with numerous characters muttering sotto voce dialogue that gets buried beneath a shrieking pop score soundtrack. A gory and unpalatable flashback illuminates a running argument between two posh assassins over whether they’ve thus far killed 16 or 17 people.

 

Ladybug (Brad Pitt, left) believes that he has made an easy score, when he quickly
locates the metal briefcase he's been hired to snatch. Then he encounters Wolf
(Benito A Martinez Ocasio), merely the first of numerous assassins on this
bullet train run from Tokyo to Kyoto.

Elsewhere, Brad Pitt wanders amid the cacophony of late-night Tokyo — bewildered but purposeful — following instructions from a cool, soothing female “handler” at the other end of his phone.

Honestly, you’ll be tempted to bail …

 

… but that would be a mistake.

 

Once this film settles into its groove — and, more importantly, once viewers embrace that groove — this stylish, gleefully violent romp is a lot of fun.

 

Due in great part to Pitt’s increasingly amusing “Who, me?” performance.

 

Director David Leitch’s heavily stylized, unapologetically brutal thriller is a mash-up of Guy Ritchie-style crime romps and bloodthirsty Japanese yakuza epics, replete with wrathful assassins who go by code names, and have various scores to settle. Pitt’s character — dubbed “Ladybug” for the purposes of this snatch-and-grab assignment — swans not-quite-helplessly through this increasingly lethal chaos: the ultimate (comparative) innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

He has been tasked with retrieving a certain metal briefcase on the Töhoku Shinkansen Hayate bullet train run between Tokyo and Kyoto. It should be simple: Find the briefcase, depart the train at its next stop, liaise with his unseen handler.

 

What poor Ladybug doesn’t know — what we also don’t know, and learn only in fits and starts, as he does — is that the case is in the possession of the useless, wayward son (Logan Lerman) of White Death (Michael Shannon), a reclusive and much-feared Russian kingpin within the international crime scene.

 

White Wolf’s son is being chaperoned by professional killers Tangerine (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) and Lemon (Brian Tyree Henry). The former is a Savile dandy with slicked-back hair and a penchant for erudite, long-winded speeches; the latter has a guileless demeanor and an uncanny ability to “read” people honed from (I’m not making this up) a lifelong study of Thomas the Tank Engine.

 

Ah, but this is a very busy train. The passengers also include Kimura (Andrew Koji), an alcoholic, low-level Tokyo criminal who has hit rock-bottom after failing to stop the unknown culprit who shoved his young son off the roof of a tall building. With family honor at stake, Kimura has concocted a mad scheme that will put him face-to-face with his target.

 

Then there’s Wolf (Benito A Martinez Ocasio), a rage-fueled assassin with a score to settle against Ladybug; The Hornet (Zazie Beetz), a master of disguise with a lethal sting, who travels beneath the radar of every job she accepts; and Prince (Joey King), a seemingly angelic young woman whose sweet looks and tender voice conceal torturous tendencies.

 

Oh, and let’s not forget the boomslang, a highly dangerous snake stolen from the Tokyo Zoo, whose highly toxic venom causes victims to bleed out from every bodily orifice within 90 seconds.

 

And off we go…

The Lost City: Don't bother finding it

The Lost City (2022) • View trailer

Two stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for violence, profanity, sexual candor and partial nudity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

After catching up with several dour, dreary and downright discombobulated films in anticipation of the Oscars, I looked forward to something light and larkish.

 

Old saying: Be careful what you wish for.

 

Sporting the least-practical onesie in cinema history, Loretta (Sandra Bullock) suddenly
realizes that she and Alan (Channing Tatum) have stumbled upon key secrets
regarding the "Lost City of D."

The Lost City is impressively dumb, even by the loose standards of such star-driven adventure flicks. The lack of continuity in this script — by co-directors Aaron and Adam Nee, along with three other hands — is matched only by plot holes large enough to drive this story’s MRAP vehicle through.

Mostly, though, all the actors try much too hard: as if adding overwrought emphasis to their line readings will transform a given scene into something meaningful. Or even slightly credible.

 

One wonders why The Brothers Nee were entrusted with such a large project. Nothing in their résumé suggests the slightest affinity for this genre.

 

And goodness; they certainly didn’t rise to the occasion.

 

In fairness, the premise has promise: Insufferably erudite romance novelist Loretta Sage (Sandra Bullock) owes much of her popularity to hunky cover model Alan (Channing Tatum), who has dedicated his career to embodying her heroic character, “Dash.” Personal tragedy has made Loretta a recluse; a rising awareness of how Alan’s tail is wagging her dog, has made her jealous and unwilling to meet fans.

 

How droll, then, that Loretta and Alan should wind up in the midst of an actual exotic and perilous adventure, much like the swooningly melodramatic escapades in her novels.

 

Matters kick off when Loretta is kidnapped, following the first disastrous stop of a book tour, by eccentric billionaire Abigail Fairfax (Daniel Radcliffe). Possessing just enough archeological knowledge to make him dangerous, Fairfax has long pursued the legendary “Lost City of D,” where he hopes to find a rare diamond necklace supposedly hidden within.

 

Loretta and her late husband, both well-versed in archaeology, once explored the region; her newest novel includes some of its ancient pictograph language symbols … hence Fairfax’s determination that she can help him find the treasure. And her unwilling abduction to a remote, jungle-laden volcanic island.

 

So far, so good. 

 

Back in the States, Alan tracks her movements via her Smart watch; he recalls an association with former Navy SEAL Jack Trainer (Brad Pitt), who dabbles in yoga and hostage retrieval.

 

Pitt’s brief involvement with this saga is — by far — the film’s high point: a well choreographed and audaciously skilled bit of Bondian derring-do.

 

After which, the script turns bone-stupid, and The Brothers Nee completely lose control of their film.

Ad Astra: Voyage to nowhere

Ad Astra (2019) • View trailer 
No stars (turkey). Rated PG-13, for violence, brief dramatic intensity and fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.20.19

Put the ballots away; the contest for 2019’s worst big-budget Hollywood production has concluded.

Doesn’t matter what emerges between now and Dec. 31; nothing will be poorer than Ad Astra.

Having reached the Mars outpost, Major Roy McBride (Brad Pitt) is warned by Helen
Lantos (Ruth Negga), superintendent of the American sector, that his military superiors
have been less than candid with him.

This portentous, deadly dull and hopelessly self-indulgent train wreck is the most outrageously overblown sci-fi misfire since 2000’s Battlefield Earth. And that’s woeful company to keep.

Ad Astra is what happens when directors get too full of themselves. History is littered with similar studio miscalculations: Michael Cimino, and Heaven’s Gate; Steven Spielberg, and 1941; Warren Beatty, and Ishtar; Barry Levinson, and Toys. Mega-budget stinkers, every one of them.

James Gray — who co-scripted with Ethan Gross — and star/co-producer Brad Pitt have topped them all.

As I’ve observed before, when science-fiction goes bad, it goes very bad.

Rarely have 122 minutes passed with such agonizing sluggishness. This is the film for folks who thought 1968’s 2001: A Space Odyssey wasn’t slow enough.

It’s also the film to watch, for those who can’t get enough of Pitt. You’ll never again see so many tight close-ups and relentlessly slow takes on his face; cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema lingers on every dimple, blemish and wrinkle with the adoration of a reverential acolyte.

Nor is it a happy face. Ever. Pitt spends the entire film in mostly silent remorse and (supposedly) thoughtful brooding. His line deliveries are quiet, flat and emotionless: completely in contrast to his character’s hilariously overblown off-camera narration, where each sentence is separated by pauses so pregnant they could deliver. You’d think Gray and Gross believed their text had been lifted from Moses’ stone tablets.

I despise preachy, pompous science fiction. It’s the first refuge of so-called storytellers who believe that a futuristic setting is the only way they can impart Wisdom Relevant To Our Contemporary Lives. The result is invariably condescending and insufferably patronizing.

Beyond all that — aside from the relentless pomposity — Gray and Gross fail on the most primary level: They don’t tell a good story. The journey isn’t interesting, and the “resolution” leaves far too many key questions and issues unresolved … after which, we get a bewildering epilog that feels as though it has been yanked in from some other film.

Allied: Does love bind?

Allied (2016) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated R, for violence, profanity, fleeting nudity and brief drug use
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.25.16

At first blush, this feels like an old-style WWII espionage drama of the sort whose absence is lamented by longtime moviegoers — such as my parents — who often grouse that They Don’t Make ’Em Like This Anymore.

Shortly after adopting his cover identity as the devoted husband of Marianne (Marion
Cotillard), Max (Brad Pitt) fears that he may have been recognized by a Nazi officer: a
potential catastrophe that requires a quick solution...

Given the French Moroccan setting, stars with the wattage of Brad Pitt and Marion Cotillard, and a swooningly romantic script that even name-checks Casablanca, one almost expects Bogie and Bacall to come strolling in from the surrounding desert.

Steven Knight is a terrific screenwriter, with solid experience in the crime and espionage genres; his highlights include 2002’s Dirty Pretty Things and 2007’s Eastern Promises. No surprise, then: He delivers a corker of a first act for Allied, and then swings the plot into an unexpected direction that cranks up the suspense.

Unfortunately, things get messy during an contrived third act, which piles eye-rolling coincidence atop unrealistic behavior, the latter from characters who’ve previously been depicted as far too intelligent, to suddenly turn brainless. Cut to a positively eye-rolling epilogue, and the film squanders the considerable good will that it has built.

Seriously, Steven ... what were you thinking?

In fairness, such climactic, over-the-top melodrama also is old-school, so Knight and director Robert Zemeckis obviously knew precisely what they were doing. I’m simply not sure that today’s savvier viewers will be as willing to forgive such theatrical excess, as was the case back in the 1940s and ’50s.

And it’s a shame, because the first 90 minutes are thoroughly compelling, and — yes — luxuriously atmospheric.

The year is 1942, and the film opens as Canadian airman Max Vatan (Pitt) parachutes into the desert outside of Casablanca. His emergency mission, orchestrated by the British Special Operations Executive (BSOE): to assassinate Germany’s visiting ambassador. The groundwork for this mission has been established by undercover French resistance fighter Marianne Beauséjour (Cotillard), who has spent weeks among her Nazi “friends,” waxing eloquent about the beloved husband soon to visit from Paris.

The handsome and affable Max looks and sounds the part ... to a point. As Marianne immediately notices, his carefully rehearsed accent is more Québécois than Parisian, which is a problem: French Moroccans wouldn’t know the difference, but he’d never fool Nazi officials who had spent any time in France.

The Big Short: A grand romp

The Big Short (2015) • View trailer 
4.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity and nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.23.15

This is the mostly audaciously entertaining economics course you’ll ever take.

The Big Short isn’t merely a ferociously impudent adaptation of financial journalist Michael Lewis’ nonfiction 2010 book of the same title. Under the careful guidance of writer/director Adam McKay and co-scripter Charles Randolph, it’s a blistering primer that explains — precisely and unflinchingly — why the country fell off a cliff in 2007.

Mark Baum (Steve Carell, seated center) and his talented young financial analysts — from
left, Vinnie (Jeremy Strong), Danny (Rafe Spall) and Porter (Hamish Linklater) — react
with various degrees of concentration, disbelief and anger while Jared Vennett (Ryan
Gosling, seated far right) outlines his improbable scheme for making a fortune by
betting against the entire American financial institution. Jared's assistant Chris (Jeffry
Griffin) wisely keeps his mouth shut.

At the same time, it’s a raucous and yet tightly controlled showcase for a gaggle of unlikely antiheroes, played with whole-immersion glee by a top-flight cast of scene-stealers. McKay employs every trick in the filmmaking book, from Robert Altman-style overlapping dialog to characters who routinely emphasize a point by breaking the fourth wall and addressing us directly.

It sounds like total chaos, and in lesser hands that likely would have been the case. But McKay & Co. deliver the equivalent of the best, most savagely satirical Saturday Night Live sketch ever made ... and they keep it going for a full 130 minutes. True, the result sometimes feels like a series of self-contained scenes, but they’re strung together to build a cohesive narrative that is breathtaking, suspenseful and wildly entertaining.

And, ultimately, infuriating and unbelievable. Because it’s absolutely true.

Think we all got screwed by the 2007 housing bubble collapse? You have no idea how badly, or the degree to which the fat-cat, blithely indifferent — and, in many cases, reprehensibly ignorant — Wall Street and banking oligarchy danced on the ashes of your investments, retirement accounts and foreclosed homes.

McKay’s film reveals all, in torturous — and yet excruciatingly funny — detail, via the activities of a quintet of outliers and weirdoes, real people all, who smelled a rat early on and...

... wait for it ...

... still waiting? ...

... took a financial position against the supposedly rock-solid American housing industry.

Everybody else thought these guys were lunatics. Huge Wall Street corporations cheerfully took their wildcat investments, believing them the equivalent of going “all in” on the off-chance that a single number would come up on a colossal roulette wheel with 100,000 slots.

Because — and here’s the thing — most of the idiots pulling the country’s financial strings didn’t have the slightest idea what they were doing.

And the others were fully aware, but did it anyway, because a) they knew they’d never get caught; and b) knew that even if they did get caught, they’d undoubtedly be “punished” with a slap on the wrist and a fat bonus.

History — history that goes back only eight years — has proven them correct.

Fury: Much too angry

Fury (2014) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for profanity and relentless battlefield violence and gore
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.17.14

Classic World War II movies, absent the cynicism and despair that later infected so many big-screen depictions of the Vietnam quagmire, laced their stories with honor, chivalry, moral fortitude and an absolute respect for the chain of command.

Frightened and badly out of his depth, Norman (Logan Lerman, left) can't imagine that he'd
be of any use to the Sherman tank team led by Wardaddy (Brad Pitt). But this battle-weary
sergeant knows how to inspire his men, even a callow newcomer like Norman, and soon
the kid is executing Nazi scum with the enthusiasm of a seasoned warrior.

The Nazi enemy may have behaved like vicious, amoral swine, but our stalwart boys worked together with courage and righteousness, guided by the innovative strategies of battlefield stalwarts whose ingenuity helped trump sometimes superior forces.

This classic archetype continued for decades thereafter, building to modern classics such as Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan and HBO’s lavish miniseries, Band of Brothers, both of which gained their power from a rich tapestry of characters about whom we cared very, very deeply.

It would appear that this cinematic model has fallen out of favor.

Writer/director David Ayer’s Fury presents the latter days of the European campaign as the equivalent of an inner-city street fight between drug gangs, with the grunts on our side no better than the animals wearing the Nazi cross. The so-called “good guys” in this unpalatable story seem modeled on the thugs who tortured and humiliated Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib; early on, in fact, we’re granted a sequence of American GIs behaving just that badly with a captured German soldier.

It’s interesting — carrying this observation even further — that this story’s sole act of genuine kindness, of benevolent altruism, is offered by one of those aforementioned Nazi monsters. We could call it dramatic irony, but I’m not willing to give Ayer that much credit.

Three of the five primary characters in this film are one-dimensional brutes granted only a hiccup of actual characterization: superficial affectations implied solely by nicknames such as Gordo, Bible and Coon-Ass.

(Just in passing, I’d love to declare a moratorium on movies with characters who never seem to have real names, but instead are granted stupid monikers better suited to comic book villains. It has become a tiresome and frankly irritating cliché.)

Our other two protagonists, while graced with a bit more presence and personality, aren’t that much more likable ... but we eventually bond with them, to a degree, solely because we’ve gotta care about somebody in this mean-spirited mess.

And “mean-spirited” is this film’s prevailing tone: no surprise, since Ayer is the enraged scripter of nihilistic cop dramas such as Training Day and End of Watch, and earlier this year wrote and directed the offensively deplorable Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle, Sabotage. Ayer clearly doesn’t think much of his fellow man, and a little of that contemptuous vitriol goes a long way.

Given this new film’s 134-minute length, that’s a very long way.

The Counselor: Guilty as charged

The Counselor (2013) • View trailer 
No stars (turkey). Rating: R, for graphic violence, grisly images, profanity and strong sexual content
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.25.13

Cormac McCarthy apparently felt that 2009’s big-screen adaptation of his novel The Road wasn’t sufficiently bleak, violent or morally depraved, so he upped his game with the original screenplay for this glossy bit of rubbish.

Despite repeated, protracted and viciously descriptive warnings from Westray (Brad Pitt,
left), our imbecilic title character (Michael Fassbender) stubbornly insists on getting
involved with a massive shipment of illegal drugs. After all, what could go wrong?

Rarely have so many A-list stars been involved in such a lamentable waste of time.

The Counselor isn’t merely set in a world of abominable behavior; McCarthy’s characters are cheerfully pragmatic about it. No act too vile to contemplate? They don’t merely contemplate; they discuss barbarism with the thoughtful ease of two fellows comparing cigar brands in a gentlemen’s club. Then, having laboriously exhausted the subject, director Ridley Scott ensures that we’ll eventually get to watch each degenerate act.

McCarthy has a Pulitzer Prize to his credit, for the aforementioned The Road, and rumor suggests that he’s under consideration for a Nobel Prize for literature. The characters in his novels often struggle with moral ambiguity in an increasingly cynical world, although we’re generally able to sympathize with a well-meaning protagonist, whether John Grady Cole in All the Pretty Horses, or Sheriff Ed Tom Bell in the grimmer No Country for Old Men (adapted into a sensational 2007 film by Joel and Ethan Coen).

But there’s nobody to like in The Counselor; indeed, it’s difficult to even understand most of the characters who populate this deadly dull study of ill-advised acts and their horrible consequences. Everybody is morally compromised at best, or sociopathic, or indifferently brutal. Everybody except the token innocent, that is, who may as well be wearing a sign that reads “Sacrificial Lamb.”

Mind you, a roster of degenerates isn’t necessarily bad in and of itself; Quentin Tarantino has a way of extracting wonderfully dark entertainment from the vicious swine who inhabit, say, Pulp Fiction or Inglourious Basterds. But that’s precisely the point: Tarantino characters are engaging for the way they revel in their bad behavior, whereas the increasingly tiresome players in this drama give new meaning to the word “boring.”

Moneyball: Thoughtful slugger

Moneyball (2011) • View trailer for Moneyball
Four stars. Rating: PG-13, for occasional profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.23.11


You just can’t beat the romantic, almost spiritual atmosphere of a good baseball movie.

Other sports-themed dramas — football, basketball, tennis, whatever — simply don’t deliver the emotional oomph of The Natural, Field of Dreams, The Pride of the Yankees and many, many others. Baseball movies — like the sport itself — aren’t merely about the game; they’re more akin to a religious experience.

Forced to wait in the outer office like some no-account hired hand, Oakland
Athletics general manager Billy Beane (Brad Pitt) suspects that his efforts to
trade players with the Cleveland Indians will come to nothing ... but, at the
moment, he sees no other options. That view is about to change, as will
Beane's entire vision of how best to create a winning baseball team.

Moneyball belongs in their company: a rather unconventional entry, to be sure, but one suffused with its own type of magic.

Director Bennett Miller’s thoughtful drama, ostensibly a profile of Oakland Athletics general manager Billy Beane (Brad Pitt), actually concerns one man’s quixotic quest to re-write the fundamental principle that had driven baseball for decades: the notion that the best team could — would — be assembled by obtaining the best players money could buy.

And for “best,” insert “most expensive.” After all, a player commanding an eight-figure salary must be worth every penny, right?

Ah, but is a collection of ego-inflated prima donnas actually a team? Therein lies the question.

Scripters Aaron Sorkin (The Social Network) and Steven Zaillian (Schindler’s List), working from a story by Stan Chervin — who, in turn, adapted Michael Lewis’ book, Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game — have quite cleverly written the All the President’s Men of baseball, and made the result equally fascinating. Just as William Goldman spun espionage and intrigue from the grinding research and day-to-day fact-checking of newspaper reporters, Sorkin and Zaillian have made a rich, engrossing brew of economics, statistics and charts.

An impressive feat, to say the least.

Miller has made it even better with a well-cast collection of realistic characters: dreamers, pragmatists, visionaries and stubborn naysayers. Change doesn’t come without pain.

We meet Beane and his Oakland Athletics in the aftermath of the 2001 season, just as their best players are cherry-picked by other franchises with deeper pockets. The A’s are left gutted, with Beane nearly apoplectic over the realization that his team is little more than a candy store for the Yankees and other wealthier rivals. The playing field isn’t level, and he resents it.

A humiliating attempt to horse-trade with the Cleveland Indians draws Beane’s attention to somebody who seems out of place in that office: a quiet, couch-potato nebbish whose opinion inexplicably carries some weight. Beane tracks this individual to his desk — a delightful scene, well staged by Miller — and thus meets Peter Brand (Jonah Hill).

The Tree of Life: Utterly lifeless

The Tree of Life (2011) • View trailer for The Tree of Life
No stars (turkey). Rating: PG-13, for dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 6.3.11


At one point during writer/director Terrence Malick’s unforgivably tedious slog of a movie, Brad Pitt’s Mr. O’Brien — while listening to a favorite piece of classical music, and no doubt wanting to comment upon the elusive search for perfection — explains that the composer recorded it 65 times ... and still wasn’t satisfied.

Jack (Hunter McCracken, right) lacks the patience to pull weeds and tend a
garden in the exacting manner demanded by his overbearing, short-tempered
father (Brad Pitt), who invariably takes the boy's "failings" as a personal slight.

A dangerous bit of dialogue, to insert into this dull, dreary and disjointed mess.

At my most generous, I might imagine that Malick intends his film to be more tone poem than typical narrative: more mood piece than conventional drama.

But I’m not inclined to be generous. The notoriously fussy Malick filmed this yawner three years ago, then spent the intervening time fine-tuning the footage in the editing bay.

He should have fine-tuned further.

Frankly, he should have given up entirely, and done unsuspecting viewers a favor.

The Tree of Life isn’t just bad; it’s laughably, crushingly awful. Unwatchable. Dull beyond description. Incomprehensible. Self-indulgently ridiculous.

Having said that, I’ve no doubt this film will speak to New Agers who love dissecting every last syllable of every last word in overly pompous poetry. Or, to put it another way, Malick’s approach will be adored by those who found the “star gate” sequence of 2001: A Space Odyssey to be rich with theological grace.

As opposed to the rest of us, who kept checking our watches and wondering when Stanley Kubrick would get on with it, fercryinoutloud.

Kubrick actually is a good comparison, particularly later in his career, when he, too, was taking years and years to make a single film. Malick has made only five since his big-screen debut, with 1973’s Badlands. The second one, 1978’s Days of Heaven, remains his most mainstream work; two full decades would pass before the next one, 1998’s The Thin Red Line. Since then, he also unleashed 2005’s The New World.

Malick shares Kubrick’s desire to make every frame so gorgeous that it could be extracted, mounted and hung in a museum; in fairness, yes, the cinematography and composition are that gorgeous, often that powerful. But if I want to look at paintings, I visit a museum; motion pictures are so named because, well, they’re supposed to move.

Inglourious Basterds: Paths of Gloury

Inglourious Basterds (2009) • View trailer for Inglourious Basterds
3.5 stars (out of five). Rating: R, for profanity, brief sexuality and relentless violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.3.09
Buy DVD: Inglourious Basterds• Buy Blu-Ray: Inglourious Basterds (2-Disc Special Edition) [Blu-ray]

I don't often say this about films that already run well in excess of two hours, but Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds should have been longer.

Probably quite a bit longer.

This 152-minute crazy-quilt homage — echoing everything from The Dirty Dozen to Clint Eastwood's spaghetti Westerns — too frequently feels as if important stuff has been left out. Backstories and plot logic have been sacrificed for lengthy isolated scenes that are fascinating to watch, but really don't advance the story.

Donny Donowitz (ELi Roth, left) admires Aldo Raine's (Brad Pitt) handiwork,
after the latter carefully carves a swastika into a minor Nazi soldier's
forehead: a mark by which the young man will be recognized forever, should
he survive the war.

The always self-indulgent Tarantino has many strengths, starting with his enthusiastic affection for All Things Cinema, and the imaginative way he can construct a scene to be vibrantly fresh, while simultaneously a sly nod to some well-loved (and sometimes obscure) exploitation flick from days gone by.

Tarantino also is gangbusters with dialogue scenes, particularly in terms of the subtle power struggles that take place beneath the surface of even the most benign conversations. Although the climactic car chase was the best part of 2007's Death Proof, the lengthy session of filthy gal talk between Sydney Poitier and her BFFs was quite entertaining, and Kurt Russell's seductive come-hither wooing of Rose McGowan (poor, poor woman!) was deliciously unsettling.

Inglourious Basterds opens with an equally mesmerizing conversation between two characters: a prologue of sorts, set in 1941, that finds Nazi Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz) on what seems a purely routine visit with a rugged French farmer who, while wary of his guest, doesn't appear too worried about him.

The chat — which takes awhile, but isn't the slightest bit dull — evolves through numerous moods, the apparent "lead" passing from Landa to the farmer, as we wonder just where the scene is heading. (This is Tarantino, after all; we can be excused for imagining that the farmer's three nymphette daughters are quietly slaughtering the trio of Nazi soldiers outside, as this parley takes place in the farmhouse.)

But then the penny drops: Control of the conversation swings irrevocably to Landa — we realize, perhaps belatedly, that he dominated the encounter all along — and the scene's true purpose emerges: the introduction of Shosanna Dreyfus (Mélanie Laurent), who narrowly escapes Landa and his minions, and survives to become a key player in what follows.