Despicable Me 4: DiMinionshing returns

Despicable Me 4 (2024) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated PG, for silly action and mild rude humor

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.7.24

Producer/director Chris Renaud and the rest of the Illumination team need to be careful, lest they steer this franchise into treacherous waters.

 

Teenage Poppy Prescott (voice by Joey King), determined to become a super-villain,
blackmails Gru (Steve Carell) into helping her with a "big heist." They're accompanied
by Gru Jr. and faithful Minions Phil and Ralph.

Although the Minion-laden hijinks and rat-a-tat pacing are just as much fun in this sixth entry — a list which includes the two Minions films — the core storyline leaves much to be desired. Ken Daurio and Mike White’s script is sloppy; the primary plot seems an afterthought driven by Minion gags, rather than the other way around. That’s an important distinction ... and potentially fatal for the series, in the long run.

There’s also a strong sense of familiarity and “borrowing” from other sources, which suggests scarcity of original thought.

 

To cases, then:

 

Events begin as Gru (again voiced by Steve Carell) and his Anti-Villain League task force infiltrate a reunion party at his alma-mater, the Lycée Pas Bon School of Villainy, in order to arrest long-time nemesis Maxime Le Mal (Will Ferrell). The operation nearly goes awry, when Maxime transforms himself into a human cockroach — complete with six nasty, jagged limbs — but Gru and the AVL team win the day.

 

(Maxime’s makeover is this film’s first serious flaw. It isn’t maintained consistently, during what follows; more critically, Maxime never again is as ferociously strong and scary, particularly during the third act climax, as he is in this initial confrontation.)

 

With that assignment out of the way, Gru settles into new parenthood; alas, baby Gru Jr. prefers the company of his mother, Lucy (Kristen Wiig), and wants nothing to do with dear ol’ dad. Although these father/infant tussles are amusing — particularly with respect to Gru Jr.’s lightning-swift changes of expression — they feel an awful lot like the similar difficulties Bob Parr had with baby Jack-Jack, in The Incredibles.

 

Then, catastrophe: Maxime breaks out of AVL’s supposedly escape-proof cell, with the help of condescending girlfriend Valentina (Sofia Vergara) and his army of armored (regular-sized) cockroaches. Determined to avenge his capture, Maxime promises to kidnap what is most dear to Gru: his infant son.

 

AVL head Silas Ramsbottom (Steve Coogan, mirthfully stuffy) acts swiftly, and places Gru, Lucy and their family — including daughters Margo (Miranda Cosgrove), Edith (Dana Gaier) and Agnes (Madison Skyy Polan) — into a safe house in the picturesque community of Mayflower. They’re joined by Gru’s three most loyal Minions — Ron, Phil and Ralph — while all the others are taken to AVL Headquarters, where Ramsbottom has “special plans” for some of them.

Wonder Woman 1984: Far from wonder-ful

Wonder Woman 1984 (2020) • View trailer

2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for fantasy violence

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.15.21

The sophomore curse has struck again.

 

At 151 minutes, director Patty Jenkins’ second shot at the Amazing Amazon, exclusive to HBO MAX, overstays its welcome by at least half an hour. The script — by Jenkins, Geoff Johns and Dave Callaham — hasn’t anywhere near the depth to sustain such length.

 

While a dismayed Steve (Chris Pine) watches, Diana (Gal Gadot) learns something
quite sinister about the mysterious "Dreamstone" that is causing so much trouble.

On top of which, while Pedro Pascal may be a pop-culture sensation as The Mandalorian, he makes a truly terrible primary villain here. His Maxwell Lord is a burlesque Trumpian megalomaniac: absolutely not worth Wonder Woman’s time (or ours).

 

Kristen Wiig fares better as secondary villain Barbara Minerva, because she has a well-defined — and genuinely interesting — character arc. Lord, in contrast, starts out as a clownish goofball … and stays that way.

 

On the positive side, Jenkins’ overall approach remains better than usual for this genre. Far too many superhero films seem like relentless, landscape-leveling slugfests; Jenkins allows her characters plenty of quieter moments, and the judicious action sequences are much more organic to the story being told. 

 

Given that 99.9 percent of the Marvel and DC superhero epics are directed by guys, I’m obliged to credit Jenkins’ female touch.

 

But insisting on scripting involvement — which wasn’t the case, with the first film — clearly affected her judgment.

 

This sequel opens with a superfluous prologue set during Diana Prince’s childhood on Themyscira. Although Lilly Aspell is a crackerjack adolescent Diana during the running, climbing, jumping, riding and swimming climax of the Amazon Games — editor Richard Pearson paces this with verve — this sequence has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the film.

 

It clearly should have been included as part of the first film’s origin details. Here, it seems little more than an excuse for Connie Nielsen and Robin Wright to pop up again (albeit fleetingly) as, respectively, Diana’s mother Hippolyta, and Aunt Antiope.

 

Flash-forward to 1984, with the adult Diana (Gal Gadot) now firmly ensconced as an anthropologist and archaeologist, curating ancient artifacts at the Smithsonian. She leads a quiet life and keeps a low profile, even when donning her flamboyant “work togs” as Wonder Woman. (She seems to be keeping her super deed-doing something of a secret, which is puzzling.)

 

Where'd You Go, Bernadette (And can you stay there?)

Where'd You Go Bernadette (2019) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for profanity and fleeting drug content
By Derrick Bang

Cate Blanchett’s starring performance in this film is breathtaking: a constantly mesmerizing display of nuance and manic emotional swings, which rise to mischievous playfulness and fall to shattered despair, frequently fueled by a stream-of-consciousness volley of half-finished thoughts and hopes.

Bernadette (Cate Blanchett, left) feigns delight when her daughter Bee (Emma Nelson)
gets accepted to the college-prep boarding school Choate ... but actually is dismayed that
her only child — and best friend — is about to move all the way to Connecticut.

Spending two hours with her character, however, is torture on par with root canal surgery.

Ten minute into this sorta-kinda dramedy, we’re ready to strangle her. Ten more minutes, and we’re eyeing the exits.

Television screenwriter-turned-novelist Maria Semple’s 2012 best-seller is an epistolary novel told mostly via emails, memos, letters and other documents, with occasional first-person commentary by 15-year-old Bee, as she attempts to unravel the “mystery” of her mother. Given that format, our sense of Bernadette develops second-hand, at something of a remove; her bitchy, scattered, nasty, socially unacceptable and self-destructive antics are filtered through the lens of a loving daughter.

Director/co-scripter Richard Linklater, in great contrast, thrusts Bernadette into our faces in real time. Watching her interact with other people — doing and saying the things that took place off-camera (so to speak) in the book — will tax the patience of even Blanchett’s most devoted fans.

The point of the story is that there’s a reason for Bernadette’s narcissistic and frankly intolerable behavior; that’s the “enigma” to be sussed by anybody masochistic enough to endure these personality flaws en route to the film’s (admittedly more satisfying) third act. But boy, getting there is a struggle.

Bernadette Fox is a boldly inventive architect whose imaginative creations once garnered a MacArthur Genius Grant. But that was 20 years ago, before she fled Los Angeles for a reclusive life in Seattle, where she and husband Elgie (Billy Crudup) settled in the shambling wreck of Straight Gate, a “house” that looks like it began life as a sanatorium. Any thoughts of renovating the place apparently vanished when only child Bee (Emma Nelson) arrived, and became the sole focus of Bernadette’s more lucid moments.

Two decades on, the house is an unkempt monstrosity, its haphazard artistic touches overwhelmed by a leaking roof, peeling wallpaper, chunks of fallen plaster and blackberry runners growing up through the carpet. Bee finds this magical, thanks to the forbearance of a worshipful teenage daughter who delights in adult eccentricity. 

But the notion that Elgie puts up with it — has put up with it for years — is beyond comprehension. We’re led to believe that his work as a brilliant Microsoft innovator has made him an often preoccupied, frequently absent husband and father … but still.

Mother! — A nauseating miscarriage

Mother! (2017) • View trailer 
No stars (Turkey). Rated R, for strong and disturbing violent content, sexuality, nudity and profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.15.17

I never would have believed that the same calendar year could produce another mainstream film as self-indulgently loathsome as February’s A Cure for Wellness.

Actually, this one’s worse.

As her companion (Javier Bardem) inexplicably tolerates the intrusive presence of ever
more strangers in their huge home, our increasingly helpless heroine (Jennifer
Lawrence) wonders — and worries — where it'll all end.

Darren Aronofsky has pushed the borders of good taste — and any semblance of rational narrative structure — ever since 2000’s Requiem for a Dream. When tethered to somebody else’s (reasonably) coherent script — as with The Wrestler and Black Swan — his worst tendencies remain checked. He also can be a gifted actor’s director, having guided stars to Academy Award nominations and victories.

But when Aronofsky directs and writes ... look out.

Case in point: Mother!

Whether allegory, parable or primal scream, this blast of wretched excess is overwrought, insufferably distasteful and — once we reach the dog-nuts third act — vile beyond words. This abomination is guaranteed to enrage patrons into demanding refunds, after which they’ll stumble home, scarred for life, and in desperate need of a shower. And a means to sterilize their brains.

Alas, some things can’t be unseen.

On top of everything else, Aronofsky is guilty of stretching facile symbolism way past sustainability. Mother! might’ve made a decent 25-minute short subject; as a 121-minute assault on viewer sensibilities, it’s an exercise in mind-numbing overkill.

I carefully avoid spoilers, because even bad movies — well, most of them — deserve a chance to impress or surprise. But there’s simply no way to discuss Mother! without revealing Big Secrets. For which I apologize, in advance.

No characters are named. Our heroine (Jennifer Lawrence) shares an imposing mansion — isolated in a field, surrounded by a forest, far from any semblance of civilization — with her husband/lover/keeper (Javier Bardem). The place is a fixer-upper; she paints, plasters walls, handles plumbing and wood-working chores. She has been working thusly for quite some time, essentially re-building what had been a fire-gutted ruin.

He’s a poet, suffering the damnation of writer’s block. She’s patient, sympathetic, nurturing. She prepares his meals, encourages him to try, try again.

Despicable Me 3: Third time isn't the charm

Despicable Me 3 (2017) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated PG, for no particular reason
By Derrick Bang

One should avoid going to the well too often.

At first, Gru (left) is delighted to finally meet Dru, the long-estranged twin brother he never
knew existed. But Dru's wealth, charm and swooningly handsome good looks quickly
prove annoying, particularly since Gru's life and career have bottomed out.

The Despicable Me franchise is showing its age, and for a variety of reasons. Although Cinco Paul and Ken Daurio have scripted all three films — which should ensure continuity of tone and narrative style — they’re clearly running out of ideas. Yes, this third installment is funny (for the most part); and yes, it zips along quickly enough to prevent viewer restlessness.

I’m sure children will be entertained by its colorful wackiness.

But their parents ... not so much. And that’s a shift, because the first two films played far more successfully to all ages.

This film just feels tired, much like bad guy-turned-good guy Gru, referenced by the title. Poor Gru has a constant case of the mopes this time out. Let’s face it: He was a lot more captivating as a villain, when he was, yes, despicable.

Perhaps more insidiously, Gru has been overshadowed by his banana-hued, pint-size subordinates. The Minions are a more fun — and a lot funnier — than anything Gru offers here. And poor Gru seems to know it.

Over at Blue Sky, Chris Wedge and his team have been careful not to let Scrat take over their Ice Age series, instead keeping the prehistoric squirrel/rat on the sidelines, as occasional slapstick relief. Paul, Daurio and returning Despicable co-director Pierre Coffin haven’t been equally cautious, and the result is obvious: The Minions now control the franchise.

Leaving poor Gru a somewhat listless afterthought.

The “despicable” character this time out is Balthazar Bratt (voiced by Trey Parker), a former TV child star who peaked with an evil character his adolescent self played for several seasons in the 1980s. He came complete with signature phrase — “I’ve been a baaaaaad boy!” — and wreaked fictitious havoc on a weekly basis.

Masterminds: Wishful thinking

Masterminds (2016) • View trailer 
One star. Rated PG-13, for crude humor, cartoonish violence and brief profanity
By Derrick Bang

On the evening of October 4, 1997, the Charlotte, North Carolina, regional office of Loomis Fargo & Co. lost $17.3 million during a slapdash scheme orchestrated by vault supervisor David Scott Ghantt, his girlfriend Kelly Campbell, her friend Steve Chambers and his wife, Michelle, and four other participants.

After David (Zach Galifianakis, foreground left) fills the getaway van with countless stacks
of money, his confederates in crime — from left, Eric (Ross Kimball), Steve (Owen Wilson),
Kelly (Kristen Wiig) and Runny (David Ratray) — stare at the haul in utter disbelief.
Enduring this misbegotten comedy prompts an entirely different kind of disbelief.

In early March of 1998, all eight were arrested by the FBI, in large part because Steve and Michelle Chambers had spent so much of the loot quite brazenly. Subsequent prison sentences ranged from eight to 11 years, and the entire affair became known as the “hillbilly heist,” because of the blindingly stupid behavior of almost everybody involved.

Now, close to two decades later, what was the second-largest cash robbery on U.S. soil — at the time — has “inspired” a new comedy by director Jared Hess, best known for overly broad farces such as Napoleon Dynamite, Nacho Libre and an episode of the TV series The Last Man on Earth. Not to mention additional big-screen flops such as Gentlemen Broncos and Don Verdean.

It’s further telling that the scripting credits for this new film — which cite Chris Bowman, Hubbel Palmer and Emily Spivey — make absolutely no mention of the 2002 book Heist: The $17 Million Loomis Fargo Theft, written by Charlotte Observer investigative journalist Jeff Diamant. Why bother sourcing the official record of what obviously was an incredulously juicy saga to begin with, when hack film writers can deliver an inferior script instead?

Better still, why bother with the script, when Hess willingly tolerates a free-wheeling shoot that feels as if 90 percent of the dialog was ad-libbed?

After all, isn’t that why one hires comedic personalities such as Zach Galifianakis, Kristen Wiig, Owen Wilson and Jason Sudeikis?

Ah, but here’s the rub: Not one of those stars is anywhere near as spontaneously sharp, fast or funny as s/he seems to think. Every line in this film feels stiff, forced and tin-eared; very few earn laughter. Worse yet, Hess holds his camera far too long on each dialog exchange, exposing the noticeable pauses that occur when actors haven’t yet figured out their next line.

Or, alternatively, can’t remember a legitimately scripted riposte.

We also endure the usual flatulence jokes and exposed butt cracks that pass for humor these days, along with — the height of humor — a bout of diarrhea in a swimming pool. Seems awfully easy to write moron comedy movies.

To put it bluntly, Masterminds is a train wreck of near epic proportions: a 94-minute slog that absolutely butchers what could, should and would have been a great heist comedy in better, less narcissistic hands.

Ghostbusters: Don't bother to call

Ghostbusters (2016) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for supernatural action and crude humor
By Derrick Bang 

It can be argued, with reasonable justification, that a film shouldn’t be remade unless one intends to deliver a new version that is superior to, or at least as good as, its predecessor.

The franchise busters behind this 21st century Ghostbusters failed in their mission.

With all of New York City under assault by legions of cranky phantasms, the Ghostbusters —
from left, Abby (Melissa McCarthy), Jillian (Kate McKinnon), Erin (Kristen Wiig) and Patty
(Leslie Jones) — suit up and ready their proton packs.

In every way that matters.

In theory, the gender switch is a delightful idea ... but only had it been accompanied by better material. It feels as if helmer Paul Feig and co-writer Katie Dippold believed that we’d be so charmed by the notion of women in those iconic uniforms, that we’d forgive the lackluster directing and clumsy, inadequate script. They didn’t even try.

The primary distinction involves tone. The 1984 original’s far-fetched premise notwithstanding, the guys took their work seriously; Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis and Ernie Hudson gave solemn, even stern, line readings. That contrast — their earnestness, in the face of crazed circumstances — made the film hilarious. The humor was arch, not infantile.

The Aykroyd/Ramis script also was constructed with some care, and with adults in mind. In a film laden with great one-liners, none was funnier than Murray’s response to the possessed Sigourney Weaver, when she tried to seduce him by moaning, “I want you inside me.”

“No,” he replied, after a beat. “It sounds like you’ve got at least two or three people in there already.”

Nothing in this new film comes close to that level of sly humor; Feig’s preferred approach is the lazy, vulgar slapstick we see all too frequently these days. His cast most often behaves like the participants in a Saturday Night Live sketch, delivering isolated bits of (not very funny) business, with no thought to narrative continuity.

The 1984 film catered to all ages. This one’s for snickering, arrested adolescents. Which shouldn’t surprise us, given that Feig is the guy who, with Melissa McCarthy, inflicted us with The Heat and Spy.

And, as is the case with the recently released Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates, too much of the dialogue here feels forced and ad-libbed; that’s particularly true of McCarthy, who frequently flails about as if she has forgotten her lines, and can’t come up with a reasonable substitute. She (and Feig?) apparently believe this to be “characterization.”

It feels like desperation.

The Martian: Out-of-this-world suspense

The Martian (2015) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for profanity and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang

The most impressive aspect of 1995’s Apollo 13 lay in the tension that director Ron Howard generated, despite our certain awareness of the film’s outcome.

After all, history had spoken: Everybody knew that the astronauts got back safely. So, since Howard couldn’t concoct any suspense from the what, he concentrated on the how ... as in, how in the world did they survive?

Having realized that his only hope for survival involves the long-term rationing of his
supplies — along with figuring out some what of "creating" more food and water — Mark
(Matt Damon) begins a careful record of his days on Mars.

There’s something enticingly absorbing about watching engineers work a particularly difficult problem. In the realm of fiction, this is why caper thrillers and the Mission: Impossible franchise remain so popular: We love to see unworkable puzzles solved via triumphant bursts of ingenuity.

No surprise, then, that director Ridley Scott’s handling of The Martian is 141 minutes of nail-biting anxiety. Andy Weir’s 2011 novel (which has its own amazing history) is a crackerjack sci-fi thriller to begin with, and Scott and scripter Drew Goddard have pumped it up with an engaging blend of quiet agitation and gallows humor.

Best of all, this is smart science-fiction: a rigorously technical narrative that we rarely get from a Hollywood factory that equates the genre with the zap-gun antics of Star Wars and Guardians of the Galaxy (which, let’s face it, are — at best — equal parts sci-fi and fantasy). In the literary realm, Weir’s book is regarded as “hard” science of the sort written by Isaac Asimov, Larry Niven and Kim Stanley Robinson.

Such stories are harder to bring to the big screen, because they don’t grant actors many opportunities for showboating or melodramatic interpersonal dynamics. But exceptions do exist — 2009’s Moon comes to mind — and if Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman can generate unease from plodding investigative journalism, then surely talented filmmakers can do the same with a clever sci-fi premise. Right?

Indeed. To give further credit where due, Scott has packed his film with an impressive cast, assigning strong actors to even the smallest of roles. Top marks go to star Matt Damon, who anchors most of the film with a compelling, deeply expressive, one-man performance on par with what we’ve seen from Tom Hanks (Cast Away) and Robert Redford (All Is Lost).

The story, then:

The time is an unspecified point in the near future, after NASA has successfully sent a six-person mission to Mars. The Ares 3 crew has established a good-sized working habitat within the Acidalia Planitia plain, and has spent some number of days collecting samples and conducting experiments.

How to Train Your Dragon 2: Not as much spark

How to Train Your Dragon 2 (2014) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG, and needlessly, for fantasy action and mild rude humor
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 6.13.14

Catching dragon-discharged lightning in a bottle is hard enough just once; expecting to replicate such a feat is darn near impossible.

Although Hiccup's father wants him to assume the role of village chief, the young Viking
would much rather explore distant lands astride his beloved dragon, Toothless.
Unfortunately, one of those journeys reveals a very, very nasty villain who'd love to
destroy Hiccup and everybody else in his village.

2010’s How to Train Your Dragon was, to my taste, a perfect film: a clever and luxurious expansion of the first of Cressida Cowell’s series of children’s novels, with an engaging blend of well structured characters, rich vocal talent and — most crucially — a plot that focused quietly on a boy and his rather unusual “dog,” then built to a suspenseful, exciting and unexpectedly poignant conclusion.

One could not help being touched, as well, by the authentic behavior granted Toothless, our young hero’s rare Night Fury dragon: the ever-watchful gaze, the playful curiosity, the protective instincts and the pet-like eagerness to please. The animators did a rare and wondrous thing, by concocting an animated creature — and a mythical one, at that — far more lifelike than any others brought to the big screen, dating all the way back to the gentle woodland critters of 1937’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

All of which gave director/scripter Dean DeBlois very large reptilian shoes to fill, with this long-awaited sequel.

We can be saddened, then — although likely not surprised — that Dragon 2 doesn’t live up to its predecessor. DeBlois screwed up the formula, and he has nobody to blame but himself.

1992’s Home Alone 2 remains the textbook case of ill-advised sophomore slump. In an astonishing example of short-sightedness, everybody assumed that the key to success lay in enhancing the slapstick nonsense involving the “wet bandits” who bedeviled little Kevin McCallister, thereby overlooking all the poignant, gently tender kid-on-his-own moments that made the original’s high-comedy final act so funny in contrast. The sequel, essentially nothing but burlesque, fell completely flat.

Successful tone and pacing derive from highs and lows: a balance between the many, many elements that combine to produce an engaging narrative. As my grandmother often warned, not even ice cream sundaes could withstand becoming a steady diet; all too quickly, they’d become bland. And even, well, boring.

That’s more or less what has happened, with Dragon 2. As for why, I’m always suspicious when a filmmaker’s colleagues get jettisoned en route to a sequel. On the first Dragon, DeBlois shared directing and scripting credit with Chris Sanders (Lilo & Stitch, The Croods), with additional writing assists from William Davies and Adam F. Goldberg. Collaboratively, they fashioned a heartwarming tale that was long on interactions between our misfit Viking hero, Hiccup, and his gruff father, Stoick; along with Hiccup’s unlikely attraction to young Viking goddess Astrid; and of course the highs and lows that accompanied Hiccup’s efforts to win the trust of the wild, wounded Toothless.

Then, and only then, did that first film pull out all the stops for its exciting third act.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty: Bittersweet lament

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (2013) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rating: PG, for occasional crude language and mild profanity, and a bit of fantasy violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.3.14

James Thurber’s “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” originally appeared in The New Yorker on March 18, 1939, and subsequently went on to become one of the most frequently anthologized American short stories. It subsequently begat a charming 1947 Danny Kaye film, a 1960 stage adaptation — as part of the revue A Thurber Carnival — and a woefully underappreciated 1969-70 TV sitcom, My World and Welcome to It, that barely scraped along for a single season (and still hasn’t been released on home video, drat the luck!).

Walter (Ben Stiller), desperate to make an impression on Cheryl (Kristen Wiig), imagines
all sorts of adventurous meet-cute moments, as with this fantasy of appearing before her
as a suave and rugged Arctic explorer

Now, rather unexpectedly, Thurber’s whimsical day in the life of a mild-mannered nebbish has become a poignant lament on the demise of print journalism. From the wild ’n’ crazy Ben Stiller, no less. Who could have imagined?

Not I; that’s for certain.

Initially, though, Stiller’s film — he directed and co-scripted (with Steve Conrad), in addition to starring in the title role — lives down to my worst expectations. The opening half-hour slides clumsily into slapstick nonsense as we meet Walter, the “Negative Assets Manager” at Life Magazine. That droll job title actually refers to Walter’s selection and careful handling of the dynamic photographs that have characterized the publication.

He toils quietly in the Time Life Building’s sub-sub basement, helped only by a single assistant, Hernando (a disarmingly dry Adrian Martinez), while fantasizing about all the astonishingly brave and bold moments that have been captured on the images he has handled. Walter also imagines working up the courage to approach co-worker Cheryl Melhoff (Kristen Wiig), invariably concocting a scenario that involves saving her life, or otherwise impressing her greatly.

When back on earth, he can barely muster a morning greeting ... despite the fact, as we can tell, that she’s clearly interested.

Although set in the modern day, Stiller and Conrad have re-invented Life’s timeline in order to suit their purpose: to follow Walter on what becomes the worst day of his life, as the magazine’s corporate owners announce the termination of its print edition. Just as life has passed Walter by, life now is about to pass Life by.

Even his job has been rendered superfluous, since the advent of digital photography has wholly transformed the art and craft of photojournalism. But not for one lone hold-out: the dynamic Sean O’Connell (a cameo by Sean Penn), an old-school camera jockey who’ll still roar toward the heart of an exploding volcano, snapping pictures while standing on the wings of a biplane.

But on the boring ground, the magazine’s conversion to dot-com oblivion is being overseen by the new Managing Director in Charge of The Transition: the consummately arrogant, presumptuously inconsiderate and relentlessly intimidating Ted Hendricks (Adam Scott). Sensing a victim who won’t fight back, the bullying Hendricks wastes no opportunity to belittle Walter ... who simply makes matters worse with his tendency to drift into occasional fantasy fugues.

Despicable Me 2: Villainy lite

Despicable Me 2 (2013) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rating: PG, and quite needlessly, for mild rude humor
By Derrick Bang

Thank goodness for the minions.

2010’s Despicable Me got much of its hilarious edge from the personality transformation experienced by Gru, the vaguely Slavic super-villain who mellows out — but only somewhat — after encountering a trio of trusting little girls.

Sent undercover as the owner of a mega-mall's boutique cupcake emporium, Gru is
annoyed to discover that he has been saddled with an assisant: Lucy Wilde, an
aggressively eager agent of the Anti-Villian League. Their goal: to figure out which
neighboring shopkeeper actually is a dastardly criminal mastermind.

Gru’s introductory strut in that first film — to a deliciously snarky title song written and performed by Pharrell Williams — was the stuff of greatness. Here was a gleeful scoundrel who’d embrace badness big and small, whether stealing the Earth’s Moon, or stealing candy from a baby. And he wouldn’t merely snatch the sweet from the crestfallen tyke; he’d replace it with a cod liver oil sucker.

Watching this fellow struggle against the arrival of a hitherto buried good side — trying to stay wicked in the face of unconditional love from Agnes, the youngest of his new wards — was the stuff of classic character comedy.

This sequel’s Gru, alas, has completed this makeover, and has fully embraced his light side. As a result, he’s both less interesting and less funny. His inventive genius now reduced to concocting playful gadgets for Agnes’ birthday party, the low point arrives when — a paid actress having failed to show up — Gru dresses himself as the world’s most unlikely fairy princess.

Which, yes, results in a genuinely poignant moment between Agnes and her de facto daddy.

I don’t intend to suggest that Despicable Me 2 is either disappointing or unsatisfying: far from it. Returning directors Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaud maintain their engaging blend of character comedy, goofy slapstick and oddball peril, and returning scripters Ken Daurio and Cinco Paul certainly know the territory.

But the latter are on their own this time, whereas the first film derived from a story by Sergio Pablos ... and he may be the essential missing ingredient. Despicable Me 2 is a more conventional animated comedy, in terms of its standard-issue narrative and predictable plot hiccups. We never knew what would happen in the first film, which was much of its charm; this sequel, in contrast, lacks that element of uncertainty.

Fortunately, Daurio and Paul have the good sense to grant more screen time to the first film’s breakout stars: the mischievous, hapless and hilariously speech-challenged minions.

We can’t get enough of them, and this new film takes ample advantage of that fact.

(To be more precise, we certainly haven’t yet gotten enough of them. Let’s see what happens next year, when they get their own movie.)

Friends with Kids: The best-laid plans...

Friends with Kids (2011) • View trailer
3.5 stars. Rating: R, for pervasive profanity and sexual candor
By Derrick Bang


Most adult friendships face two crisis points.

Couples signing on for the long term — whether via the bond of marriage, or a less formal commitment — inevitably lose their single friends. All concerned may try to avoid this outcome, but the dynamic invariably fractures. The singletons don’t want to be third wheels; they’re also likely to feel lonely in the face of such love.

When longtime best friends Jason (Adam Scott) and Julie (Jennifer Westfeldt)
decide to have a baby together, they initially get hung up over how to handle
"the act" itself; after all, they're friends, not lovers. Finally, Julie hits the
perfect solution: "Let's just pretend that we're really into each other," she
suggests. Ah, but is it only pretense?

Then, too, I’ve always suspected that our (former) single friends, back in the day, decided that we just weren’t fun any more.

Okay, so couples make new friends, generally with other couples. The second rift occurs if all your new friends start having children ... but you choose not to take that path. Getting together —enjoying everybody’s company during a raucous night out — becomes impossible, in great part because new parents just can’t do that.

Fine, you think, then why not visit them at home? And yet — somehow — even that never seems to happen.

My suspicion, this time, is that the new parents now regard their childless friends with grim disapproval and jealousy, because they’re not suffering enough.

This is a rich dynamic, and one that writer/director Jennifer Westfeldt mines to excellent comic effect, in Friends with Kids. But while her first few acts are funny, snarky and hilariously vulgar — in the way we now must accept, post-Judd Apatow and Bridesmaids — Westfeldt’s film is far from frivolous. The core premise here comes with an unpleasant catch, and she doesn’t shy away from its consequences.

Although primarily an actress, Westfeldt pops up every so often with perceptive, sharp-edged scripts; she enjoys exploring relationships that involve unusual twists, and she remains well remembered for writing and starring in 2001’s charming Kissing Jessica Stein. Her sophomore writing effort, 2006’s Ira & Abby, wasn’t as successful; Friends with Kids — her third script, and her directorial debut — deserves to do much better.

Although Westfeldt always writes herself the starring role, she’s savvy enough to involve talented colleagues, each of whom is granted an equally rich character. Friends with Kids is no different in that respect, and Westfeldt is doubly lucky to have snagged Maya Rudolph, Kristen Wiig and Chris O’Dowd, all still riding high on the buzz of last year’s Bridesmaids.

Thirtysomething Manhantanites Julie (Westfeldt) and Jason (Adam Scott) have been best friends for years: each squarely in the other’s corner, come what may. Jason seems content to sail through a series of short-term relationships with well-endowed hotties; Julie hasn’t been able to make things click in the romance department. Despite their devoted bond, they’ve never considered dating each other, perhaps sensing that such an act might destroy their friendship.

Although not really a “couple” themselves, Julie and Jason are part of a convivial sextet that includes the married Ben and Missy (Jon Hamm and Wiig), and the equally hitched Alex and Leslie (O’Dowd and Rudolph). Outings are lively, profane and cheerfully vulgar: good friends having great times together.

Bridesmaids: Gals behaving badly

Bridesmaids (2011) • View trailer for Bridesmaids
3.5 stars (out of five). Rating: R, for profanity, sexuality and relentless vulgarity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.13.11


If Bridesmaids is intended to demonstrate that gal-pal comedies can be just as disgusting, loathsome and bereft of morals as their male counterparts, I’m afraid it fails.

Because in all the respects that matter, this film is superior to crude, bottom-of-the-barrel efforts such as the recent Hall Pass and most of what comes from the Farrelly brothers or Judd Apatow’s repertory company.

The atmosphere is fun, and the food is delicious ... but this convivial meal is
about to have dire consequences, much to the mortification of Annie (Kristen
Wiig, right), who once again will lose face in front of best friend Lillian (Maya
Rudolph, center) and new nemesis Helen (Rose Byrne).

Which is ironic, since Apatow co-produced Bridesmaids, as well.

Although occasionally clumsy and somewhat randomly directed, Bridesmaids nonetheless delivers something that the guys-behaving-badly sub-genre always overlooks: emotional depth. The women here aren’t merely one-liner delivery systems, debasing themselves at every turn and occasionally dropping skirt to defecate in public (although we get pretty close); they have reasonably credible relationships with each other, and — here’s the key — they evolve, during the course of the script written by Annie Mumolo and star Kristen Wiig.

The very core of the humor is entirely different. We laugh here because we do come to care about these women; the comic set-pieces derive from the character dynamics, rather than a ham-handed writer and/or director’s decision to be as vulgar as possible ... for no discernable reason.

Which is not to say that Bridesmaids never strays from its generally superior path. Apatow’s gross-’em-out touch can be felt at times, most notoriously during the aftermath of an ill-advised meal at a dive café, when everybody winds up with a case of food poisoning, and a desperately explosive need to, ah, relieve themselves from every available orifice.

Even here, though, director Paul Feig ultimately strikes a blow for restraint. While vile fluids flow freely from three characters, as they battle for the single commode in a public restroom, consider the different approach taken by Maya Rudolph’s Lillian, as she panics, heads outside and starts to cross the street, scrambling to reach ... well, it doesn’t really matter. Feig holds the camera as Lillian realizes she’s not going to make it, Rudolph’s face contorted in ghastly resignation, as she surrenders to the moment... the details of which are left to our imagination.

That’s much, much funnier that the excrement-laden free-for-all back in the bathroom.

A modern filmmaker’s ability to wallow in gratuitous filth doesn’t automatically require one to yield to such impulses. Whether in horror films or vulgar comedies, I’ve long argued that less is more ... although I cheerfully acknowledge that not everybody agrees.

But enough from the soapbox.

Annie (Wiig), her life in a mess, has a mixed reaction when BFF Lillian announces her engagement. Although delighted, Annie’s also worried that their own relationship will, of necessity, change ... and probably not for the better.

Lillian naturally asks Annie to be the maid of honor, but the latter’s efforts in that role are constantly undercut by Helen (Rose Byrne, a sly schemer), one of the other bridesmaids. Helen, a constant over-achiever, is determined to be the center of attention at all times ... while demonstrating that she is Lillian’s best friend. Poor Annie, insecure to begin with, finds herself playing catch-up at every turn.