Is This Thing On? — A captivating ensemble piece

Is This Thing On? (2025) • View trailer

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

Available via: Amazon Prime and other VOD options

By Derrick Bang

Relationships, like laptops, sometimes need to hit Reset.

 

Director Bradley Cooper’s thoughtful, unhurried character study opens on a close-up of Alex Novak (Will Arnett), present solely in body, as a parent at a school activity being thoroughly enjoyed by a gaggle of kids that includes adolescent sons Felix (Blake Kane) and Jude (Calvin Knegten).

 

At one point, as their marriage unravels, Alex (Will Arnett) is surprised by the intensity
with which Tess (Laura Dern) angrily laments missing the happier, more
spontaneous person that he once was.

Alex scarcely pays attention, his head leaning against a wall, eyes staring into nonethingness, expression a blend of disinterest, resignation and helplessness.

He knows — as we soon learn — that this is the last such event he and wife Tess (Laura Dern) will attend as a couple. “This isn’t working,” they’ve mutually agreed ... “this” being the American dream of a home, two kids, two lovably large dogs (Charlie and Lucy) and a successful career (his days occupied by something “in finance”).

 

The unspoken middle-age crossroads finds them flailing.

 

Alex soon will move into an apartment, as a “trial separation,” but they haven’t told anybody yet: not their friends, not his parents, and certainly not their sons. This school event, followed by a regular game night with friends — Christine (Andra Day) and the aptly nicknamed Balls (Cooper); and Stephen (Sean Hayes) and Geoffrey (Scott Icenogle) — will be Alex and Tess’ final hurrah.

 

The group conversation is lively; Alex occasionally smiles and nods, but he clearly isn’t paying attention. He isn’t present in the moment. Cinematographer Matthew Libatique favors tight close-ups, which amplify Arnett’s vacuous, forlorn expression.

 

Balls — typically late to arrive, typically stoned — trips on a carpet coming in, dumping an entire carton of milk.

 

“Don’t cry over spilt milk,” Tess says (a line that’s a bit too on the nose). It becomes clear that her cheerfulness is a pose that occasionally evaporates, exposing ... something. Disappointment? Anger? Certainly not relief.

 

All this aside, during the next few days Alex and Tess are sensitive to their sons’ reactions and needs; both boys, in their feature acting debuts, deliver heartfelt and refreshingly natural performances under Cooper’s careful guidance.

Maestro: Rhapsodic

Maestro (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity and drug use

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.5.24

This film’s title suggests that it’s about a man: acclaimed composer/conductor Leonard “Lenny” Bernstein.

 

But that’s not entirely true. Director Bradley Cooper’s thoughtful, lovingly crafted tone poem actually focuses on the lengthy, loving and tempestuous relationship between Bernstein and actress Felicia Montealegre Cohn.

 

When Felicia (Carey Mulligan) wants Lenny (Bradley Cooper) to slow down and truly
pay attention to her, they sit in a field, back to back: a sweet tableau laden with
quiet intimacy.

The result certainly is one of the year’s most visually sumptuous and imaginatively staged dramas. Cooper and cinematographer Matthew Libatique collaborated meticulously, almost intimately, in a manner rarely seen in today’s films; every setting, every frame, is a work of art.

Cooper and Libatique also worked together on 2018’s A Star Is Born, which earned the latter a well-deserved Academy Award nomination.

 

As was the case with that earlier film, Cooper again wears three hats: director, co-scripter — with Josh Singer — and star. Thanks to the finely crafted work of prosthetic makeup designer Kazu Hiro, Cooper’s transformation is uncanny: particularly during the onset of Bernstein’s career, in the 1940s. 

 

The performance goes much deeper than mere appearance. Cooper also nails the cadence of Lenny’s stiff, formal manner of speaking — adding emphasis with frequent pauses, as if ensuring his listeners are hanging onto every word — along with the man’s charismatic presence. He wasn’t merely the most interesting person in a given room; he consumed the very atmosphere.

 

He talks — and smokes — constantly. His running commentary is as relentless as the chained cigarettes.

 

Lenny also was his own, fiercest taskmaster. We get a sense that he rarely slowed down — perhaps didn’t even know how to do so — because he wanted to maximize the potential of each moment: whether composing, conducting, teaching, partying or indulging in a liberated sexual lifestyle that occasionally threatened his career.

 

The latter is a running undercurrent in Cooper and Singer’s script, which is drawn heavily from archival video footage, documentaries and interviews — notably those by TV newsman Edward R. Murrow and journalist John Gruen, briefly depicted in this film — and daughter Jamie Bernstein’s 2018 memoir, Famous Father Girl.

 

Following a brief color prologue that catches an aging Lenny during a solemn, meditative moment, the film stock shifts to monochrome as we bounce back to the World War II era, and the fortuitous event that launched his career. After having spent a few preceding years in Manhattan teaching piano and coaching singers, Lenny was appointed assistant conductor of the New York Philharmonic.

 

His lucky break came on November 14, 1943, when guest conductor Bruno Walter called in sick at the last moment. Lenny made his debut on short notice, without any rehearsal, facing an ambitious program that included works by Richard Strauss, Miklôs Rózsa and Richard Wagner.

 

Between the live national CBS Radio broadcast and the following day’s celebratory front-page story in The New York Times, Lenny became famous overnight.

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3: The fun is gone

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 (2023) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, and too generously, for nasty action violence, profanity and dramatic intensity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.5.23

Writer/director James Gunn has stamped his portion of the Marvel Cinematic Universe with a sense of playful chaos that sets it apart from its numerous superhero colleagues.

 

Star Lord (Chris Pratt, center) and his companions — from left, Mantis (Pom Klementieff),
Groot (Vin Diesel), Drax (Dave Bautista) and Nebula (Karen Gillan) — prepare to face
yet another megalomaniac who wants to re-shape the universe.

But while some of that snarky atmosphere remains present, it’s blemished this time. The character roster has grown too large to grant proper attention to all concerned, and — more crucially — far too much time is spent with the helpless furry victims of vivisection gone horribly awry.

That latter subplot is necessitated by this third entry’s primary focus on Rocket, and the back-story that explains his bio-mechanical enhancements. (I hope nobody thought the MCU includes a planet populated by hyper-intelligent warrior raccoons.) 

 

It’s a solid topic, and two or three brief flashbacks would have been sufficient. But spending great chunks of time as young Rocket befriends three similarly imprisoned but atrociously mutilated critters feels like audience abuse, and leaches the “fun” right outta this film.

 

(If Gunn and co-writers Dan Abnett and Andy Lanning intended to make a point, they didn’t need a sledge hammer.)

 

The individual responsible for this horror is a longtime Marvel Comics villain dubbed the High Evolutionary, whose deplorable efforts in genetic manipulation date all the way back to a 1966 issue of The Mighty Thor. He’s played with malevolent fury here by Chukwudi Iwuji, and is genuinely scary.

 

But that’s getting ahead a bit. Events actually kick off with the explosive arrival of another familiar Marvel Comics character: golden-hued Adam Warlock (Will Poulter), a Superman-gone-bad who flies into Knowhere spaceport, current base of operations for the Guardians, and damn near takes out the entire team.

 

They are, by way of reminder, gung-ho Starlord, aka Peter Quill (Chris Pratt); the genetically enhanced Nebula (Karen Gillan), adopted daughter of the slain Thanos; the powerful but somewhat dim-bulb Drax (Dave Bautista); Mantis (Pom Klementieff), an empath able to sense and alter another’s emotions; and Groot (voiced by Vin Diesel), the hyper-intelligent, tree-like organism.

 

Along with Rocket (voiced by Bradley Cooper), who is critically injured during this initial, landscape-leveling battle with Warlock.

Licorice Pizza: Quite warped

Licorice Pizza (2021) • View trailer

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

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Well, this one’s all over the map.

 

That’s no surprise, since we’re dealing with writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson; outré is his calling card. Who could forget the rain of frogs toward the end of 1999’s Magnolia, or the freakishly violent finale in 2007’s There Will Be Blood?

 

Alana (Alana Haim) surprises herself by agreeing to act as chaperone and driver for her
new "business partner," Gary (Cooper Hoffman), and his younger brother, Greg
(Milo Herschlag).

Anderson always is more concerned with atmosphere, attitude and location, than anything remotely approaching credible human behavior. And there’s no denying that Licorice Pizza nails its 1973 San Fernando Valley setting: the clothes, cars, strip malls, seedy pop-culture palaces, and the vibrant, awakening youth culture sense that anything was possible, and anything could happen.

Anderson also handles much of the cinematography here, alongside Michael Bauman; between them and production designer Florencia Martin, they’ve re-created the razzle-dazzle Valley vibe to a degree that’s almost spooky. That said, this is a heightened reality, laced with sidebar characters who usually are more burlesque than believable.

 

In fairness, though, this is a kinder, gentler Anderson: possibly because — in his typically outlandish way — he intends this film as a valentine to the area where he grew up. The on again/off again mutual crush that bonds this saga’s two primary characters is quite sweet at times … even as everything around them becomes aggressively weird.

 

(The film gets its title, by the way, from a once-famous chain of record stores that ruled Southern California from 1969 to ’85.)

 

Gary Valentine (Cooper Hoffman), a 15-year-old child star, meets cute with 25-year-old Alana Kane (Alana Haim) at his high school’s yearbook portrait day; she’s assisting the photographer. He boldly chats her up, much to her initially amused annoyance … but he’s so self-assured, so persistent, that she can’t help being curious.

 

Gary is an anomaly, in that all the adults in his orbit respect him as an equal (even if some roll their eyes when he leaves the room). He’s on familiar speaking terms with the manager at the iconic Tail o’ the Cock restaurant, who respectfully reserves Gary’s “special table” and also tolerates his presence at the bar (sipping only sodas, of course). Alana finds it hard to resist when he suggests that she meet him there, and it’s emotionally deeper than that; she surprises herself by accepting.

 

Although Hoffman’s Gary ostensibly dominates what subsequently transpires — frequently through sheer force of personality — this really is Alana’s story; she’s the character trying to figure out how to become a better version of herself, whereas Gary never really changes.

 

Alana is a failure-to-launch decades before that phrase became a thing, still living at home with her parents and two older sisters (Haim’s actual sisters, Danielle and Este), who also still are stuck with their parents. The high school photography gig obviously is just the latest in a long string of dead-end temp jobs that give Alana a reason to get up each morning.

 

Initially, she’s seduced more by Gary’s lifestyle and environment, than the boy himself. She agrees to become a combination chaperone/handler, leaving his mother Anita (Mary Elizabeth Ellis) more time to focus on the business side of his career. 

Nightmare Alley: Not worth a visit

Nightmare Alley (2021) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated R, for strong, bloody violence, sexual content, nudity and profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.17.21

Mid-20th century touring carnivals, by their very nature, seem … well … sordid.

 

Squalid. Uneasily unpleasant, as if something nasty is happening in the tent around the corner.

 

Although Molly (Rooney Mara) is instinctively wary around charismatic carnival newcomer
Stan (Bradley Cooper), his charm and aw-shucks persistence eventually wear her down.
Which isn't good news...

No surprise, such an environment proved alluring to director Guillermo del Toro.

Nightmare Alley began life as a 1946 novel by William Lindsay Gresham (who, rather disturbingly, in 1962 committed suicide — via sleeping pills — in the same hotel room where he had written the first draft). Dashing Hollywood star Tyrone Power, looking for something meatier than the romantic and adventure roles for which he had become famous, persuaded 20th Century Fox’s Darryl F. Zanuck to buy the rights for him.

 

The resulting film was rushed into production and hit theaters the following year; alas, nobody wanted to see Power play such a morally tainted character, and the movie also endured considerable bad publicity — and moral outrage — due to the story’s squalid elements (quite strong, for the time).

 

History has been much kinder; it’s now regarded as one of the era’s finest film noir entries … a reputation del Toro’s remake hasn’t a chance of attaining.

 

Granted, this new adaptation looks terrific; production designer Tamara Deverell and cinematographer Dan Lausten persuasively establish the late Depression era, down to the grime and foulness; and an atmosphere of impending dread hovers over the carnival setting like a shroud.

 

The performances are uniformly strong, and the characters are riveting, with most of them displaying various shades of corruption. It’s also nice to see del Toro and co-scripter Kim Morgan retain Gresham’s grim conclusion. (The 1947 version “softened” the ending, which is that film’s sole flaw.)

 

Alas, del Toro’s pacing is lethargic and ponderous to a degree that ruins everything.

 

The Los Angeles Times recently ran an article titled “Are movies too long?,” and this one’s a poster child for a resounding yes. The 1947 version knew when to get off the stage; it’s a just-right 111 minutes. Del Toro’s remake is a butt-numbing 150 minutes, with nothing to show for such expansion. Indeed, the additional length actually works against the story’s atmosphere and suspense.

 

That’s a shame, because all concerned otherwise do their best, and the classic elements are in place. Every true noirrequires a louse; a very, very, very bad gal; a second, usually trusting and naïve woman whose virtue will be compromised; and assorted sidebar characters of dubious moral quality.

The Mule: Quietly powerful

The Mule (2018) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for frequent profanity and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.4.19

Clint Eastwood isn’t merely a savvy judge of good material; he also has lucked into projects that required a bit of patience.

After being confronted by a highway patrol officer, Earl (Clint Eastwood, left) must think
quickly, having just realized that the unassuming satchel in the back of his truck contains
a considerable quantity of cocaine.

He famously waited years to make 1992’s Unforgiven, because he wanted to be old enough to take the lead character. Nobody could have expected him to pull that trick off twice, and yet here he is again: age-appropriate for the starring role in The Mule.

At 88 years young, he once again stepped both behind and in front of the camera; the result is a thoroughly engaging character study, leavened with occasional dollops of dry humor … which is unexpected, given the subject matter.

Screenwriter Nick Schenk previously worked with Eastwood a decade ago, on Gran Torino. It, too, concerned a feisty senior citizen betrayed by progress, and stubbornly stuck in a past that has drained between his fingers. It’s an archetype that Eastwood could play in his sleep at this point, and yet he brings freshness to his portrayal of Earl Stone, a 90-year-old horticulturalist-turned-unlikely courier (“mule”) for a Mexican drug cartel.

Schenk’s script is inspired by New York Times journalist Sam Dolnick’s lengthy — and mesmerizing — profile of Leo Sharp, who was 87 on Oct. 21, 2011, when he was arrested by Detroit DEA agents. The five duffel bags in the back of his pickup truck contained 104 kilos of cocaine. And this was very, very far from his first run for the Sinaloa cartel.

Eastwood and Schenk wisely embraced only the crucial details of Sharp’s saga, preferring to develop a more intimate fictitious subplot with poignant highs and lows (thereby avoiding tiresome accusations about the absence of 100 percent accuracy, which have dogged Green Book and other excellent films of the past few years).

We meet Earl during a brief flashback, at the peak of his career as a farmer and flower breeder: a horticultural rock star whose efforts are prized by attendees at daylily conventions, who cluster around his booth to obtain free samples. But this fame has come at a price: He has chosen the adulation of strangers over a meaningful family life.

Flash-forward to (more or less) the present day, as Earl reluctantly abandons the now-foreclosed farm that has been his primary love for so long. As with so many other business models, the Internet has destroyed individual breeders and suppliers; Earl lacked the willingness to adapt, and now stands destitute.

Worse yet, he’s been absent far too much to garner any sympathy from his long-estranged wife, Mary (Dianne Wiest), and their adult daughter, Iris (Alison Eastwood). His granddaughter Ginny (Taissa Farmiga) is more tolerant and sweetly loving, insisting on having a relationship with him, warts and all. But Ginny is about to marry, and Earl’s sudden appearance is more than unwelcome; it intensifies the fury of Mary and Iris, angered both by his long estrangement, and his failure to honor a promise to pay for the wedding.

A Star Is Born: Loses some sparkle

A Star Is Born (2018) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated R, for relentless profanity, sexuality and nudity, and substance abuse
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.5.18

This saga is as sure-fire as The Three Musketeers, and it has been brought to the big screen almost as many times.

Jackson (Bradley Cooper) is at his best when he stops drinking long enough to noodle
a new song on the piano. Unfortunately, as Ally (Lady Gaga) soon discovers, such
moments are becoming increasingly rare.

The original William A. Wellman/Robert Carson story set the template back in 1937, with Janet Gaynor and Fredric March starring in the alternately exhilarating and melancholy tale of a wannabe actress’ chance encounter with a sympathetic veteran: her star on the rise, and his on the wane. Ships passing in the night from opposite directions, their encounter incandescent and mutually beneficial … but all too brief.

Shifting the narrative to the music industry was a brilliant touch, as took place in subsequent remakes of this rock-solid story. That solidified the formula, because there’s always a new diva-to-be waiting in the wings, as musical taste evolves.

So yes, this 2018 edition of A Star Is Born has much to recommend it: most notably an impressive big-screen dramatic debut by Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, better known as Lady Gaga.

Definitely a (dare I say it?) star-making performance.

She’s a standout during this film’s first act, as her character reels from wary vulnerability to giddy enthusiasm, not quite willing to believe the opportunity that has dropped into her lap. She’s touching, bubbly, feisty and wholly convincing as a nervous neophyte singer/songwriter who’s terrified of exposing herself to public censure: quite remarkable, for somebody with Lady Gaga’s actual performance chops.

You’ll detect a definite echo of 1968’s Funny Girl, where — in its first act — the already quite accomplished Barbra Streisand similarly conveyed the panic of inexperience. (In a droll touch, Lady Gaga’s Ally also is self-conscious about the size of her nose.)

It’s difficult to ascertain if Lady Gaga’s acting ability is instinctive, or whether first-time director and co-star Bradley Cooper coaxed something magical from her; we won’t know until she has more film work under her belt. But there’s no denying the result: She’s equally powerful whether delivering a song, or during a particularly heartbreaking dramatic moment.

Too bad Cooper didn’t trust her more.

He makes several mistakes, as a first-time triple-threat hyphenate (also co-credited for scripting, alongside Eric Roth and Will Fetters, with a nod toward Wellman and Carson). The screenplay isn’t deep enough — sidebar characters are shamefully underused — to justify a running time of 135 minutes. He should have let editor Jay Cassidy do his job. 

(In fairness, the 1954 Judy Garland version is even longer, at 154 minutes.)

Cooper also is too self-indulgent. He favors slow reaction shots, particularly with his own character; it often feels like he’s struggling to remember his lines. And yes: Even for a quasi-musical, and even given the strength and appeal of the original songs by Lukas Nelson, Jason Isbell, Mark Ronson and Lady Gaga herself, there are too many of them. This is supposed to be a melodrama, not a concert documentary.

Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2: Just as awesome!

Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2 (2017) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for sci-fi action and violence, and mild profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.5.17

Overloading slapstick action and succumbing to an enhanced case of the “cutes” has doomed many a sequel; we need look no further than Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.

After crash-landing on a forest planet when their ship is damaged by a pursuing attack
fleet, our heroes — from left, Gamora (Zoe Saldana), the shackled Nebula (Karen
Gillan), Peter Quill (Chris Pratt), Drax (Dave Bautista) and Rocket Raccoon — prepare
to face yet another threat.

Happily, Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2 doesn’t fall victim to the dread sophomore curse. Granted, the concept isn’t quite as fresh this time, and the film does indulge in some wretched excess — at a bloated 136 minutes, it also overstays its welcome a bit — but there’s no denying the fun factor. These rag-tag characters are a hoot, and they’re well played by a savvy ensemble cast.

Most crucially, writer/director James Gunn — reprising both responsibilities from the first film — capably weaves a massive tapestry that includes half a dozen heroes; ongoing interpersonal squabbles; several new associates; bad characters who turn good; a good character who turns bad; an enemy who threatens no less than the entire universe; and a couple of large-scale armadas out for revenge because, well, the Guardians have a tendency to annoy people.

All that said, Gunn hasn’t overlooked the key elements that made the first film so entertaining, particularly expatriate Earth guy Peter Quill’s fixation on the retro 1980s. Indeed, the title’s “Vol. 2” refers not only to this film’s sequel status, but to the second “awesome mix tape” that Quill found at the end of the group’s previous adventure, and the link it provides to his deceased and still mourned mother, since he uses his prized Walkman to hear the songs that meant so much to both of them.

But this new saga’s 1980s, Earth-bound prologue focuses not on Peter, but on an unexpectedly youthful Kurt Russell, wooing Meredith Quill (Laura Haddock) during a larkish country drive, as their car radio blasts the iconic Looking Glass hit, “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl).”

This being a Marvel Universe story, Meredith seems untroubled by the notion of being courted by a “space man,” but perhaps she can be excused, given Russell’s charm. But wait: What’s that strange-looking shrub that he has planted in the woodsy glen bordering Meredith’s home town?

Flash-forward a quarter-century, and countless star systems away, as Peter (Chris Pratt) and his misfit comrades — the green-skinned Gamora (Zoe Saldana), the brutish Drax (Dave Bautista) and Rocket Raccoon (voiced by Bradley Cooper) — struggle to fulfill their latest commission: to repel a massive, tentacled, space-faring, energy-eating monster that wishes to devour the precious anulax batteries that power the planet inhabited by the xenophobic, perfection-minded, gold-skinned Sovereigns.

And even though their queen, Ayesha (Elizabeth Debicki), gets flirty with Peter — and he with her, much to Gamora’s disgust — that doesn’t save the group from her wrath, when she discovers that Rocket has swiped a few of said batteries.

Cue the first of several space-faring chases.

Joy: Not quite enough of it

Joy (2015) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.31.15

Few stories are more engaging than rags-to-riches empowerment sagas.

Particularly when they’re (somewhat) true.

Joy (Jennifer Lawrence, center) is astonished, and angered, when she discovers the
degree to which her half-sister Peggy (Elisabeth Röhn) has betrayed her ... a
transgression that their father, Rudy (Robert De Niro), blandly tolerates.

Writer/director David O. Russell’s third collaboration with star Jennifer Lawrence is based loosely on the astonishing life of American inventor/entrepreneur Joy Mangano, whose career arc is just about the best modern Horatio Alger story one could imagine.

Unfortunately, Russell has mucked it up a bit, by surrounding his leading lady with a motley crew of supporting characters, some of them just-plain-weird burlesques who belong in an entirely different film.

As was the case with Russell’s American Hustle — which sorta/kinda depicted what went down during the FBI’s late 1970s/early ’80s Abscam sting — the telling here is more “interpretive” than literal fact. Thanks to this wealth of oddly eccentric characters, at times the heightened tone feels like the off-kilter universe we’d expect in a Coen brothers movie (particularly Fargo).

But the key elements in Russell and co-plotter Annie Mumolo’s story are authentic, and the film is fueled by another powerhouse performance from Lawrence. If Joy ultimately lacks the exhilarating pizzazz of American Hustle and Silver Linings Playbook, it’s not for lack of effort on her part. It’s more a case of the various thematic elements not coalescing quite as successfully, and some of the characters being too off-balance.

I’m also not happy with the clumsy narrative device. The story is introduced and occasionally punctuated by off-camera commentary from our heroine’s grandmother Mimi (Diane Ladd), speaking from a not-too-distant remove. Although her remarks smooth a few of the flashback transitions, for the most part this gimmick is superfluous, even bothersome.

A brief prologue introduces Joy as a little girl (played here by Isabella Crovetti-Cramp), with imaginative sparkle; she’s the sort of kid who builds her own little worlds with scissors, tape and construction paper.

It’s likely part defense mechanism, as the home environment is tempestuous. Her father, Rudy (Robert De Niro), flits from one woman to the next; he also has anger-management issues, although his occasional rages never are directed at Joy or her half-sister Peggy (Madison Wolfe).

Burnt: Overly scorched

Burnt (2015) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated R, for profanity
By Derrick Bang

We’re supposed to root for this guy — and it shouldn’t be difficult; we are, after all, talking about Bradley Cooper — but his character is too damn mean.

Dragged against her will into joining Adam (Bradley Cooper) in the kitchen of his
restaurant-to-be, Helene (Sienna Miller) almost immediately is the target of a belittling
tirade by her new boss. Which she tolerates, thereby losing all of our respect for her.

Redemption stories get their juice from the intensity of atonement: The deeper the downward spiral, the more we cheer the dogged climb back to salvation and forgiveness.

That said, this story’s protagonist is such a temper tantrum-throwing bully — such a relentless prick — that viewers likely will write him off as unworthy, long before he tries to get his act together. Scripters Steven Knight and Michael Kalesniko give him too many unpalatable virtues, and — as directed by John Wells — Cooper obligingly delivers too many thoroughly persuasive rages.

Matters probably aren’t helped by the fact that this story takes place in the world of London and Paris’ haute cuisine restaurants, where screaming enfant terrible chefs browbeat their staffs into delivering the perfect artistic touch to dishes with portions so small they wouldn’t satisfy a mouse, which then are served to über-rich snots who smack their lips and roll their eyes over imagined sensory marvels.

We live in a post-Gordon Ramsey world, where — rather weirdly — boorish behavior by celebrity chefs has come to be synonymous with gastronomic perfection. I ain’t buyin’ it. Frankly, this film’s most interesting moments come during the occasional montages that find our hero (?) exploring food carts, back-alley stalls, bodegas, street markets and even fast-food restaurants, while searching for intriguing spices, sauces or seasonings.

Once back in his high-end kitchen, applying said discoveries to laughably over-decorated menu items ... not so much.

But maybe I’m just not enough of a foodie.

All that said...

We meet Adam Jones (Cooper) at an oyster shack in New Orleans, where he has spent the past few years doing self-prescribed penance for previous bad behavior. His path to spiritual salvation: the shucking of one million oysters, a task he has recorded meticulously in a pocket notebook. He reaches this goal as the story begins, and then he’s off to Paris, scene of his previous extremely bad behavior.

American Sniper: Well-focused drama

American Sniper (2014) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for strong and disturbing war violence, and frequent profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.16.15

What price a man’s soul?

Clint Eastwood’s American Sniper is the thoughtful study of Texas-born good ol’ boy Chris Kyle, who, sparked by a flash of patriotism, impulsively abandoned an amiably deadbeat lifestyle to train as a Navy SEAL. And not just any SEAL, as it turned out, but a deadly accurate sharpshooter eventually credited with 160 confirmed kills (out of 255 probables) during his service in the Iraqi war.

With Goat-Winston (Kyle Gallner, background) keeping an eye on the surrounding
buildings, Chris Kyle (Bradley Cooper) peers through the scope of his sniper rifle and
wonders what to do about the young woman and little boy who have just emerged from
a street-level doorway. Are they harmless ... or should they be taken out?

Eastwood — 84 years young, and still going strong — hasn’t helmed many straight biographies during his lengthy career; we can point to Bird and J. Edgar, along with White Hunter, Black Heart, the latter a thinly veiled account of director John Huston’s off-camera activities while making The African Queen.

Despite working with different scripters, each of these films focused on the emotional and spiritual toll exacted by a man’s career and lifestyle. It could be argued that Eastwood’s magnum opus, in this regard, is the wholly fictional Unforgiven, particularly when protagonist Bill Munny observes, “It’s a hell of a thing, killin’ a man. Take away all he’s got, and all he’s ever gonna have.”

Scripter Jason Hall emphasizes this notion throughout American Sniper, drawing heavily from the 2012 autobiography that Kyle wrote, assisted by Scott McEwen and Jim DeFelice. It’s a helluva story on numerous levels, starting with the fact that individuals really can make a massive difference, even within the military chain of command. Kyle couldn’t possibly know how many scores (hundreds?) of American soldiers he saved, during his career as — you have to love this eyebrow-lifting accolade — the most lethal sniper in U.S. military history.

And yet, on the surface, Bradley Cooper’s understated performance as Kyle eschews such celebrity; the man repeatedly insists that he abides by the simple ethos of God, country and family, and always in that order. On top of which, his responsibility as a childhood guardian to younger brother Jeff instilled the importance of looking after one’s own, and — later, on the battlefield — never leaving a man behind.

But Cooper’s work here is deceptive, as is the layering that Eastwood encourages from his star. At first blush, Kyle seems superficial and bland: determined solely to do a good job on behalf of his fellow soldiers, and seemingly unmoved by the consequences of his actions. But that’s a lie, of course, as becomes increasingly obvious during the course of a military career that runs from 1999 through 2009.

American Hustle: Delectable con job

American Hustle (2013) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rating: R, for pervasive profanity, sexual candor, fleeting nudity and brief violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.24.13

Why can’t more movies be this exhilarating?

Wait, I know ... we need bad movies to remind us just how much fun the good ones can be.

Knowing that their scheme has expanded to include the involvement of a particularly
nasty organized crime boss, Irving (Christian Bale, left) and Sydney (Amy Adams) try
to quell their nervous tension prior to a crucial meeting. Their FBI handler, Richie
(Bradley Cooper), on the other hand, isn't smart enough to realize how dangerous
their work is about to become.

David O. Russell has matured into an intoxicating director: one who plans and executes his films with the joie de vivre of a master choreographer. His flawed characters radiate the barely concealed desperation of people clinging to their own emotional wreckage, forever seeking the means to their salvation: some elusive Next Best Thing.

In The Fighter, it was a pro boxing title shot; in Silver Linings Playbook, a much more modest dance contest. In both cases, we rooted for these people despite their serious shortcomings; heck, celebrating the rise of the underdog is part of the American credo. Besides, how could one not adore Micky and Charlene (Mark Wahlberg and Amy Adams) in The Fighter, or Pat and Tiffany (Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence), in Silver Linings Playbook?

In each case, the combination of street savvy and emotional vulnerability was irresistible. That Pat and Tiffany also were mentally unstable just made them more worthy of redemption.

And so it is with the folks at the heart of American Hustle. They likely aren't worth redemption, at least not in the legal sense, but we can’t help admiring the moxie of these unrepentant criminals, larcenous chutzpah and all. And Russell imbues this film — every scene, every conversation, every frame — with the same exhilarating rush that these protagonists employ to con their marks into some very bad behavior.

American Hustle is loosely based on the real-world FBI Abscam sting that went down in the late 1970s and early ’80s. The movie began life as a script by Eric Singer that made the 2010 Hollywood “Black List” of best as-yet-unproduced screenplays. Singer’s much more factual approach focused on Mel Weinberg, the con artist employed by the FBI to orchestrate the sting that eventually resulted in the conviction of one U.S. senator, six members of the U.S. House of Representatives and a New Jersey state senator, along with other lesser officials.

Ben Affleck briefly considered Singer’s script as a follow-up to The Town, but Russell eventually brought the project to fruition. In the process, Russell modified Singer’s material in order to assemble a roster of fictionalized caricatures, no doubt feeling that an operation as wildly audacious as Abscam needed some equally colorful participants. And, so, the core details here remain accurate — the nature of the operation, the eventual convictions — but the players are, well, brazenly impudent social misfits. At best.