Greyhound: A suspenseful sprint

Greyhound (2020) • View trailer 

Four stars. Rated PG-13, for war-related action, dramatic intensity and fleeting profanity

By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.14.20

It’s a shame grim, real-world events kept this film from traditional theatrical release, because it would’ve been a breath-held, edge-of-the-seat nail-biter.

Krause (Tom Hanks) constantly worries that his inexperience as a wartime
 commander may not be up to the challenge of safeguarding the 37 convoy ships
 under his care.

Although certainly just as suspenseful when viewed at home — via its sole release on Apple TV — director Aaron Schneider’s Greyhound definitely isn’t as intense. Agitated viewers might even hit “pause” on occasion, to quell racing hearts, and you certainly can’t get such relief in a movie theater (which is as it should be).

 

Schneider’s approach is a clever blend of old-school “dire odds” war drama — in the mold of 1961’s The Guns of Navarone and 1968’s Where Eagles Dare — augmented by up-to-the-minute CGI effects. The pacing is taut; Schneider and editors Mark Czyzewski and Sidney Wolinsky don’t waste a second of this crisp 91-minute thriller, which gets the job done and then gets off the stage.

 

Schneider, a veteran cinematographer-turned-director, also has an unerring sense of camera placement, and the careful use of tight close-ups to heighten the drama. Star Tom Hanks has long been adept at taking advantage of such moments; he’s far better than most, at the nuance of wordless concern, flashes of doubt, and grim resolve.

 

Hanks also chooses his projects with care; he’s even more prudent with the ones he elects to script. This is only his third feature writing credit — after 1996’s That Thing You Do and 2011’s Larry Crowne — and his first adaptation. Greyhound is based on popular nautical author C.S. Forester’s 1955 naval thriller, The Good Shepherd, and Hanks’ approach is quite faithful (if unable to match, in such condensed form, the character depth found within the 322-page novel).

 

At the risk of stating the obvious, Forester’s title is far superior — and symbolically apt — than Greyhound. I cannot imagine what Hanks and Sony were thinking.

 

The year is early 1942, a few months after the United States has officially entered World War II. Allied UK forces and the Soviet Union are in constant need of supplies, which must be delivered by sea convoys via the Atlantic Ocean. But the route is patrolled constantly by German U-boats; the most dangerous region is the mid-Atlantic gap dubbed the “black pit,” where ships are out of range of protective air cover.

 

Death Wish: A fate this film deserves

Death Wish (2018) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for profanity, dramatic intensity, strong violence and gore
By Derrick Bang

If director Eli Roth is hoping for mainstream respectability, this isn’t the right path.

The original Charles Bronson Death Wish was a cultural flashpoint back in 1974 (its four progressively tawdry sequels, not so much). The political divide was incendiary, with mounting raucous protests ultimately helping to force a corrupt president from office; big-city crime and street violence were out of control; the older generation was dismayed by a younger generation that seemed not to care about much of anything.

While working his way up the bad guy food chain in pursuit of the creep who orchestrated
the invasion of his home, Paul Kersey (Bruce Willis, right) employs rather unsual tactics
to extract information from a thug.

Half the country viewed Bronson’s film as a fascist nightmare; the other half thought his character’s actions fell under the heading of Damn Well About Time.

Things change ... not so much.

There’s no question that Roth and scripter Joe Carnahan’s updated remake is well-timed, but — sadly — reaction to this film is likely to be even more polarized. Half the audience will regard it as an irresponsible NRA recruitment tool; the other half, once again, will smile in satisfaction and think, Hey, that’s a good way to solve some problems.

The third half, based on Wednesday evening’s preview screening, will chortle gleefully each time Bruce Willis dispatches a baddie. And that’s perhaps even more disturbing.

Granted, this updated Death Wish has some mild laugh lines; most, however, derive from the verbal skirmishes between Paul Kersey (Willis) and investigating detectives Kevin Raines (Dean Norris) and Leonore Jackson (Kimberly Elise).

I fail to see how watching some guy’s eyes pop out of his graphically crushed head warrants a chuckle, let alone rip-snortin’ peals of laughter. But that’s to be expected from Roth’s core fan base, which — let us recall — laps up the torture-porn trash for which he is best known: Cabin Fever, The Green Inferno, the Hostel series and others I’ve blissfully forgotten.

Roth may have attracted a solid cast for this outing, and the film may benefit from whatever name-brand recognition its predecessor still delivers ... but as the (original) saying goes, a hog in a silk waistcoat is still a hog.

The core story hasn’t changed much. Dedicated Chicago surgeon Paul Kersey has it all: a hospital practice at which he excels; a loving wife (Elisabeth Shue, as Lucy); a devoted daughter (Camila Morrone, as Jordan), who just got into the college of her choice; and a gorgeous home in an upscale neighborhood.

No sign of a dog. Seems like they should have a dog.

Battle of the Sexes: A match made in heaven

Battle of the Sexes (2017) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for sexual content and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.29.17

An estimated 90 million people around the world parked in front of TV sets on Sept. 20, 1973, in order to watch what became a defining moment in sports, American culture and — most particularly — the rising momentum for women’s equality.

When she agrees to the challenge issued by Bobby Riggs (Steve Carell), Billy Jean King
(Emma Stone) also gamely endures the media circus that precedes the historic event.

At the same time, the so-called “Battle of the Sexes” was pure circus.

On top of which, one of the participants was struggling with sexual identity, at a time when such matters scarcely were tolerated in this country, let alone allowed to go public.

That’s a lot of baggage for a single two-hour film to handle, and its success is a tribute to pedigree: Co-directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (Little Miss Sunshine, Ruby Sparks), along with Academy Award-winning scripter Simon Beaufoy (Slumdog Millionaire), have concocted a thoughtful, perceptive and thoroughly entertaining dramedy that blends tender romance, historical context and an undercurrent of sly outrage over the degree of unapologetic chauvinism that was fashionable a mere four decades ago.

Add two stars who skillfully adopt the identities of their real-world counterparts — to a frequently spooky degree — and the result is quite engaging.

The story begins in 1971, as Billie Jean King (Emma Stone) and good friend Gladys Heldman (Sarah Silverman) — a hard-nosed PR and tennis maven — confront longtime tennis promoter Jack Kramer (Bill Pullman) over the insulting disparity between the financial prizes earned by male and female champions. Kramer holds firm with the prevailing view that women aren’t “worth” parity.

In response, King and Heldman — with considerable assistance from King’s husband, Larry (Austin Stowell) — form their own nascent women’s league (which, within a few years, would become the Women’s Tennis Association). It’s a gutsy move, since Kramer immediately expels them from the U.S. Lawn Tennis Association. The players — which include King, Margaret Court (Jessica McNamee), Rosie Casals (Natalie Morales) and half a dozen others — nonetheless adopt a spunky guerrilla spirit, booking their own venues, posting promotional banners, and selling their own tickets.

Matters improve when the group receives full sponsorship from Philip Morris, for what becomes known as the Virginia Slims Tour.

Meanwhile, Bobby Riggs (Steve Carell), decades removed from his professional championships in the 1940s, frets over his own obsolescence. He chafes behind a useless desk job, supported by a wealthy wife, Priscilla (Elisabeth Shue), who is losing her tolerance for his chronic gambling habit. But as a longtime hustler and media-savvy opportunist, Riggs smells publicity after learning what King and her cohorts are up to.

And so comes the challenge, from the man who proudly promises to keep the “show” in chauvinism.

Chasing Mavericks: Catch a wave!

Chasing Mavericks (2012) • View trailer
3.5 stars. Rating: PG, for mild dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang

Chasing Mavericks, a sweet, earnest little film about following your passion, appears to have been dumped into theaters, with little fanfare, by 20th Century Fox.

That’s a shame, because it deserves better.

Jay Moriarity (Jonny Weston, right) wants only to surf, and he particularly wants to surf
the giant waves that crash to shore in California's Half Moon Bay. To his frustration,
mentor Frosty Hesson (Gerard Butler) insists that the teen first learn everything about
the surrounding ocean currents, along with building up his endurance and breath
control. Needless to say, 15-year-olds aren't big on patience!

Surfing movies are pretty rare to begin with; good ones are practically nonexistent. 1978’s Big Wednesday is one of the few to take the sport seriously; other dramas slide into the melodramatic silliness of 1991’s Point Break or 2002’s Blue Crush. For the most part, this sub-genre remains defined by documentaries such as Bruce Brown’s iconic The Endless Summer — despite dating back to 1966, still one of the best — and more recent efforts such as 2003’s Step into Liquid and 2004’s Riding Giants.

Even as a drama, Chasing Mavericks belongs in their company: both for its sensational cinematography and exquisite ocean footage, and for the respectful manner in which it depicts the life of legendary surfer Jay Moriarity, made famous by his iconic photo on the cover of the May 1995 issue of Surfer magazine.

Northern Californians will particularly love this film, since it takes place in Santa Cruz and nearby Half Moon Bay. Kario Salem’s screenplay — adapted from a story by Jim Meenaghan and Brandon Hooper — takes the usual Hollywood liberties with some elements of Moriarity’s life, but the essential elements feel authentic: most particularly the student/mentor relationship between Moriarity and veteran coach/surfer Frosty Hesson.

A lengthy prologue establishes Jay as a plucky kid (Cooper Timberline) who learns to gauge wave size by timing the seconds between swells, a skill that can’t help impressing Hesson (Gerard Butler), who happens to live in the beachside house just next door. Jay’s home life is scattered, to say the least: His father abandoned the family; his mother, Kristy (Elisabeth Shue), has just as much trouble holding onto a job, as holding herself together.

Jay naturally gravitates toward Frosty as a father figure, a dynamic noted with gentle amusement — and definite approval — by Brenda Hesson (Abigail Spencer), absolutely the world’s most patient, tolerant and understanding wife. Chasing Mavericks is an unabashed valentine to several things — Moriarity, Hesson, surfing in general —  but perhaps most to Brenda. Spencer plays her with almost angelic wisdom and devotion, yet somehow manages to make this woman feel authentic: no small feat.

Hope Springs: An acting storm in a narrative vacuum

Hope Springs (2012) • View trailer
Three stars. Rating: PG-13, and rather generously, despite blunt sexual candor and sexuality
By Derrick Bang

As a movie, this is an odd experience.

The ritual is the same every morning: Arnold (Tommy Lee Jones) comes
downstairs to a breakfast of two eggs and a single strip of bacon,
faithfully provided by his wife, Kay (Meryl Streep). He never talks to
her, instead burying his face in the daily newspaper. Her attempts at
actual conversation — forget about intimacy — are met with
bewildered indifference? And this is a marriage worth saving?

Vanessa Taylor’s plot is spare to the point of minimalism: Kay and Arnold, going through the motions of a loveless marriage, struggle to resurrect the original magic while seeing a celebrated couples’ counselor.

That’s it.

What this means, in practical terms, is that we spend nearly all of this 100-minute film watching Kay, reduced to almost helpless insecurity by years of neglect, as she attempts to survive her proximity to a grumpy, emotionally abusive husband. Not much fun.

But because these roles are played by Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones, both superbly adept at subtle gestures and expressions that speak volumes, the result certainly is more interesting than would be the case with lesser performers. When speaking of our finest actors, I’ve occasionally confessed that I’d pay to watch them shop for groceries, because even that would be fascinating.

Well, at one point Kay and Arnold do shop for groceries, and Streep and Jones do turn it into a fabulous scene. No argument.

But the overall result, in sum, still feels more like an extended acting exercise than a feature-length film. Matters aren’t helped by director David Frankel’s pacing, which is deliberate and sluggish. His scene compositions are lackluster to the point of monotony, and he favors tight-tight-tight close-ups that quickly become tiresome.

We really don’t need to see every crease in Jones’ craggy features, nor does he need that sort of “cheating” to help sell a scene.

The story is restricted, almost entirely, to Kay, Arnold and Dr. Feld (Steve Carell, effectively modulated). Elisabeth Shue gets one quick scene as a cheerful bartender; Becky Ann Baker scores twice, as a tart-tongued waitress in a small-town diner; Jean Smart has two similarly brief moments as Kay’s best friend. The performers who play Kay and Arnold’s son, daughter and son-in-law register not at all; they’re practically blank slates during their quick appearances.