Barbie: Far more than a plastic toy

Barbie (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, and needlessly, for suggestive references and fleeting profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.4.23

This must be one of the most unusual ideas ever pitched to a Hollywood film studio. 

 

I’d love to have been a bug on the wall during that concept meeting.

 

Total catastrophe! Barbie (Margot Robbie, center) is dismayed to discover that her
perfectly arched feet have become flat. Her fellow Barbies — from left, Ana Cruz Kayne,
Sharon Rooney, Alexandra Shipp, Hari Nef and Emma Mackey — are similarly
horrified.

And yet, defying expectations — of some silly, frilly bit of toy-themed fluff akin to 1986’s My Little Pony — this film is thoughtful, audaciously subversive, and one of the most insightful indictments of gender stereotypes ever unleashed.

It’s also quite funny.

 

And pink. Very, very pink.

 

Director/co-scripter Greta Gerwig — along with writing partner Noah Baumbach — have concocted an immersive “Barbie experience” that playfully honors the iconic Mattel doll’s 64-year legacy, while contrasting her idealized realm with the harsher truths of our real world.

 

Although such progressive thoughts certainly weren’t contemplated when the first Barbie hit store shelves on March 9, 1959 — your choice of blonde or brunette — Mattel soon employed the doll as a subtle means of girl empowerment. Barbie could be anything: a doctor, lawyer or scientist; tennis champ or ace baseball player; astronaut, Supreme Court justice or even president of the United States.

 

(Granted, this was primarily marketing savvy; the actual goal was to make money. But if a little idealism rubbed off along the way, so much the better.)

 

Thus — following a hilarious prologue that lampoons the opening sequence in 1968’s 2001: A Space Odyssey — we meet pert, perky “Stereotypical Barbie” (Margot Robbie), as she wakens to enjoy another in an impossibly long line of perfect days.

 

Identically perfect days.

 

She rises, greets the Barbies in adjacent dream houses, showers beneath invisible water, enjoys breakfast while drinking invisible milk, and opens her magic wardrobe to get her outfit for the day: a bit of spin, and poof, it’s on her body. Sarah Greenwood’s production design is as amazing and colorfully inventive as Jacqueline Durran’s costumes. (Who knew pink came in so many shades?)

 

Since Barbie’s dream house has no stairs, and is open at the front, she merely steps off the edge and floats to the ground below. (Newton’s laws don’t exist in Barbie Land, nor does wind, gravity or anything else that might interfere with this realm’s pink perfection.)

 

Amsterdam: A great place to visit

Amsterdam (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for violence and bloody images

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.7.22

“Some of what follows actually happened,” the initial title card promises.

 

And how.

 

Our heroes — from left, Burt (Christian Bale), Valerie (Margot Robbie) and Harold
(John David Woodman) — finally realize that Henry (Michael Shannon, far right) and
Paul (Mike Myers) haven't been entirely candid with them.

Writer/director David O. Russell’s audacious new film is a cheeky banquet of historical fact and fiction, served up as a comedic thriller about loyalty, love and the dogged determination to do the right thing, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

The impressive ensemble cast is highlighted by fascinating performances from leads Christian Bale (once again, almost unrecognizable), Margot Robbie and John David Washington.

 

Russell’s story hits the ground running and never lets up, its twisty plot unfolding against a slightly stylized tone that begins as mild burlesque, but soon turns increasingly, believably sinister.

 

And — let it be stated — there’s no question Russell also intends this as a strong cautionary parallel to our current times. 

 

As philosopher George Santayana famously observed, Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.

 

The setting is 1933 in uptown New York, where WWI comrades Dr. Burt Berendsen (Bale) and attorney Harold Woodman (Washington) have become “fixers of last resort” for those down on their luck or low on money, and particularly for the many physically and emotionally shattered veterans who’ve been ignored by the U.S. government.

 

(Although granted so-called “bonus certificates” with a face value equal to each soldier’s promised payment with compounded interest, these scripts could not be redeemed until 1945 … which hardly helped unemployed individuals during the height of the U.S. Depression. In July 1932, President Hoover ordered the U.S. Army to clear the campsites of 43,000 desperate demonstrators who had gathered in Washington, D.C. The soldiers, along with their wives and children, were driven out, after which their shelters and belongings were burned.

 

(Sound familiar?)

 

Burt is quite the flamboyant kook, forever “inventing” restorative and pain-relieving medicines that won’t be available for decades — if ever — and cheerfully testing them on himself. His dilapidated office is filled with suffering veterans hoping to feel better — and in some severe cases look better — while Burt does everything to help cheer them up.

 

Bale’s performance is sublime, starting with the unreliable — and persuasively realistic — glass eye that constantly pops out of its socket: the result of a war injury. Burt is unkempt, unshaven, seemingly flustered and reckless … and yet possessed of acute intelligence and sharp perception.

 

Bale appears to be channeling Peter Falk’s Detective Columbo, with a superficially harmless and disarming manner that conceals razor-sharp awareness.

The Suicide Squad: Totally deranged

The Suicide Squad (2021) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated R, for strong bloody violence and gore, relentless profanity, sexual references, drug use and fleeting graphic nudity

Available via: Movie theaters and HBO Max

By Derrick Bang

Fans of trash cinema — and their number is larger than you’d expect — fondly remember the 1980s glory days of Troma Studios, which brought us gleefully gruesome low-budget classics such as The Toxic Avenger, Surf Nazis Must Die, Rabid Grannies and Chopper Chicks in Zombietown, among many others. 

 

Having battled their way through most of an island nation, our "heroes" — from left,
Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie), Ratcatcher 2 (Daniela Melchior), Bloodsport (Idris Elba),
King Shark and Polka-Dot Man (David Dastmalchian) — simply cannot believe what
they now must deal with.

Writer/director James Gunn’s carnage-laden sequel to 2016’s Suicide Squad — this new one adds a crucial “The” — is like a Troma flick with a big-studio budget. That homage clearly is deliberate, since the voluminous end credits include an acknowledgment of The Toxic Avenger.

Which is to say, this is an unapologetically tasteless, offensive, gruesome and profane 132 minutes of hyper-violent gore, made (perhaps) a bit more palatable by equally relentless gallows humor. It’s The Dirty Dozen gone dog-nuts.

 

Gunn and visual effects supervisor Kelvin McIlwain include all possible means of torturing a human body, invariably amid gouts of splattered blood: decapitations, sliced limbs, craniotomies, gouged eyeballs, halfectomies (just what it sounds like), close-range shotgun blasts, and every other imaginable form of slicing and dicing. (Actually, they may have missed defenestration, but I’m not going back to double-check.)

 

Oh, yes: and being devoured by an enraged, land-based shark.

 

Gunn has no shortage of chutzpah. Recognizing that the 2016 film was a grim, joyless affair, he has doubled-down on this one’s unceasing snark. The most ridiculous lines, emerging at the most inappropriate moments, are uttered with straight-faced sincerity … which, of course, makes them even funnier (if your predilections run to such things).

 

And I do love the clever intertitles that bridge events and signal flashbacks (“Eight minutes earlier…”).

 

Gunn also earns geek cred for resurrecting some of the craziest characters ever introduced in DC comic book lore, such as the one updated here as TDK (and played by fan fave Nathan Fillion, although he’s hard to recognize beneath the mask); and the even more unlikely Starro the Conqueror, the first supervillain faced by the original Justice League of America, when that team debuted in early 1960.

 

Unlikely, to be sure … yet also quite creepy.

 

But that comes much later. Events kick off with the clandestine, late-night invasion of the island nation of Corto Maltese, which — thanks to a vicious regime change — suddenly has become a threat to the good ol’ US of A. Our assembled “mercenaries” are misfit, hyper-enhanced villains given this chance to shorten their sentences at Belle Reve, a prison with bragging rights for having the country’s highest mortality rate.

 

These degenerate delinquents are released to the care of Task Force X leader Col. Rick Flag (Joel Kinnaman), with their every move monitored back in the States by government techies supervised by the merciless Amanda Waller (Viola Davis). One false step, and she’ll activate the micro-bomb implanted in the base of each villain’s skull, thereby blowing his — or her — head off.

 

(Yes, of course we get to watch that happen.)

Birds of Prey: Claws for alarm

Birds of Prey (2020) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated R, for relentless profanity and violence, gore and brief drug use
By Derrick Bang

Margot Robbie’s mischievous grin, triple-dog-dare-ya gaze and pugnacious insolence are the main attraction in Birds of Prey, an unapologetically vulgar super-villain romp on par with Marvel’s Deadpool entries.

With the odds stacked impossibly against them, Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie, center)
persuades her companions — from left, ex-cop Renee Montoya (Rosie Perez), Mafia
princess Helena Bertinelli (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) and nightclub singer Dinah Lance
(Jurnee Smollett-Bell) — to band together, in order to protext young Cassandra Cain
(Ella Jay Basco, rear).

Fans of the latter will know precisely what they’re getting, with this similarly outré dip in the DC Comics universe.

During decades of myth-making, both comic book franchises occasionally have introduced villains who — thanks to reader enthusiasm for the character — have “reformed” and become forces of virtue. To a degree. 

Sometimes not much of a degree.

It’s hard to imagine Harley Quinn truly abandoning her bad-ass behavior; the best one could expect is that she becomes a lesser scoundrel while pursuing a much more heinous adversary (for her own reasons, of course, as opposed to anything having to do with the greater good).

Harley is, after all, the Joker’s equally homicidal girlfriend: firmly established, cinematically, in 2016’s Suicide Squad. But things change, and — as related during a droll animated prologue in this new film — Harley and her “Puddin’ ” have parted ways. (He threw her out.) Once past the initial heartbreak stage — Robbie camping it up as a pouting, alcohol-hazed, jilted lover — this “emancipation” initially seems like a good thing.

Ah, but absent the Joker’s protective embrace, Harley has become fair game for every thug and plug-ugly she once humiliated.

And that’s mere sidebar to Christina Hodson’s relentlessly snarky script. Robbie’s Harley narrates this saga in aggressively non-linear fashion, frequently backing up to fill in a key detail, and often breaking the fourth wall to address us directly in her delightfully sing-songy, working-class Brooklyn accent. This approach isn’t as confusing as it sounds, because the story isn’t that deep.

The nefariously narcissistic Roman Sionis (Ewan McGregor), mercurial owner of the popular Black Mask nightclub, is a bloodthirsty villain who has set his sights on the Bertinelli Diamond: not for the gem itself, but because it’s encrypted with essential information about that now-deceased Mafia family’s immense financial estate. Backed by such wealth, Sionis could rule Gotham City’s underworld.

The little bauble has been located, and Sionis sends his ghoulish right-hand-man, Victor Zsasz (Chris Messina), to fetch it. Alas, he falls victim to young pickpocket Cassandra “Cass” Cain (Ella Jay Basco), who — bad luck all around — is caught in the act by Gotham City Police Department Detective Renee Montoya (Rosie Perez). Result: One young felon in a GCPD jail cell.

Not wanting the gem to be found, she quite logically swallows it.

Bombshell: Provocatively outFoxed

Bombshell (2019) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated R, for profanity and (often unpleasant) sexual candor
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.3.20

It’s hard to be completely satisfied, when a disgraced sexual predator departs his high-profile corporate job with an eight-figure severance package.

Despite her ongoing spat with Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump having
become very public, Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly (Charlize Theron) is assured by
boss Roger Ailes (John Lithgow) that he still has her back.

Director Jay Roach’s new film, a scorching slice of recent history, depicts Fox News Chairman and CEO Roger Ailes’ fall from grace, following the brave revolt of numerous female employees who finally said enough is too much.

The frequently snarky script comes from Charles Randolph, who adopts an approach similar to that he took with his Academy Award-winning screenplay for 2015’s The Big Short. Thus, these events unfold against ongoing break-the-fourth-wall narration from Charlize Theron’s Megyn Kelly, who frequently addresses us viewers directly, in order to offer essential back-story. The resulting tone shifts wildly from dark humor to painful intimacy; we chuckle ruefully one moment, recoil in aghast consternation the next.

Stars Theron, Nicole Kidman and Margot Robbie are backed by equally compelling performances from a wealth of supporting players, some seen only fleetingly but no less memorably (as with Malcolm McDowell’s fleeting appearance as Rupert Murdoch). Theron and Kidman play real-world Fox News anchors Megyn Kelly and Gretchen Carlson; Robbie’s Kayla Pospisil is a composite character drawn from Ailes’ lesser-profile victims.

No surprise, then — since Pospisil is constructed for maximum dramatic impact — that Robbie has both of the film’s standout acting moments.

But they come later. Our introductory crash course in Fox News-style “journalism” comes from Kelly, when she trots us through the bullpen and newsroom, her observations peppered with deliciously acerbic remarks. Theron’s wholly immersive transformation is frankly startling; makeup designer Kazu Hiro and costume designer Colleen Atwood — both Oscar winners — have essentially turned their star into Kelly. Theron completes the illusion by flawlessly replicating Kelly’s walk, stance and manner of speech.

The first act is dominated by Kelly’s unexpected feud with then-Republican presidential contender Donald Trump, in the summer of 2015: a headline-generated spat that climaxed with the latter’s tasteless accusation that the Fox News host had “blood coming out of her wherever” during the early August Republican candidates’ debate. Conscious of not wanting to “become the story,” Kelly absents herself for a bit, with Ailes’ support.

John Lithgow, barely recognized beneath the makeup and padding required to convey Ailes’ massive weight, is almost fatherly and sympathetic here … but that’s part of the man’s two-faced abuse of power. Given that Lithgow is an inherently sympathetic actor, it’s easy to think of Ailes benevolently, in these early scenes.

Goodbye Christopher Robin: Farewell, this film

Goodbye Christopher Robin (2017) • View trailer 
2.5 stars. Rated PG, for fleeting but graphic war images
By Derrick Bang

Brief portions of this biographical drama are endearing: precisely what fans may have imagined, when wondering how Winnie the Pooh was created.

To the complete surprise of his parents (Domhnall Gleeson and Margot Robbie), their son
Christopher (Will Tilston) is furious when confronted with a toy shop's massive cache of
stuffed bears in the likeness of his bear. The notion that the public soon will be able to
own such faux copies is more than the boy can stand.

Alas, the rest feels like character assassination, akin to the hatchet job done on Walt Disney and P.L. Travers, in 2013’s Saving Mr. Banks.

One must be wary of film biographies that are “inspired” by actual events, since this often is code for exaggeration and “made-up stuff.” Scripters Frank Cottrell Boyce and Simon Vaughan have succumbed to this temptation, in one case rather egregiously (apparently in service of “dramatic tension”).

Such embellishment can be excused when little is known about the subject(s) in question, but Boyce and Vaughan had much from which to draw: Alan Alexander Milne’s numerous essays, along with Ann Thwaite’s sterling biography; and — most particularly — Christopher Robin Milne’s own memoirs, The Enchanted Places, The Path Through the Trees and Hollow on the Hill.

Director Simon Curtis’ film certainly looks and feels authentic. Production designer David Roger has done a masterful job of recreating the sparkle and sophistication of 1920s London, along with the rustic, cozy and sun-dappled East Sussex countryside that A.A. Milne found so comforting.

Curtis even used actual locations, most crucially “Pooh Bridge” and Ashdown Forest, the wilderness adjacent to Cotchford Farm, where Milne’s son — Christopher Robin, who went by the nickname “Billy Moon” — spent his childhood. (The actual Cotchford Farm still stands, but was unsuitable for filming; a similar property nearby was used for exterior shooting.)

The problem is that this film’s tone is relentlessly dreary, even mean-spirited. Milne’s wife Daphne is portrayed as a cold-hearted, mercilessly self-centered monster: an interpretation that Margot Robbie nails all too well. We hate her on sight, and our opinion only lowers with time. Daphne lacks even a whiff of motherly instinct, having apparently lost interest in her child when he turned out to be a boy, rather than the girl she wanted.

Nor did she abandon that hope gracefully, insisting that her son be garbed in smocks and dresses throughout his childhood.

Suicide Squad: Great premise, uneven execution

Suicide Squad (2016) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for violence, dramatic intensity, disturbing behavior, suggestive content and brief profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.5.16

E.M. Nathanson deserves the credit, and nobody has the faintest idea who he is.

He wrote the best-selling 1965 WWII thriller, The Dirty Dozen, which director Robert Aldrich turned into a crackling action film two years later. With the template firmly established — that of disgraced convict soldiers sent on a suicide mission, with the promise of commuted sentences for any survivors — numerous books and films have “borrowed” the premise, often to crowd-pleasing results.

Col. Rick Flag (Joel Kinnaman, center top) has his hands full, trying to control the behavior
of his misfit squad: clockwise from upper right, Deadshot (Will Smith), Captain Boomerang
(Jai Courtney), Katana (Karen Fukuhara), Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) and Killer Croc
(Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje)

Those crowds include comic book readers, particularly with the 2007 re-boot of this concept in DC’s Superman universe.

And why not? Bad guys always get the best lines, and there’s no questioning the vicarious thrill of watching villains allowed to behave reprehensibly.

As one of this new film’s characters impertinently explains, following a minor transgression: “We’re bad guys. It’s what we do.”

The audaciously irreverent big-screen adaptation of Suicide Squad has plenty of snarky allure, in great part thanks to Margot Robbie’s captivating star turn as the sexy, salacious and gleefully homicidal Harley Quinn. As any longtime comic book fan will attest, Robbie nails the character, with all of her cherubic, psychopathic charisma. Harley revels in her over-the-top awfulness, and Robbie embraces the role with lustful fury.

Comic book movies very rarely get remembered by Academy voters, but this one should; Robbie’s performance here makes the movie.

She gets a strong assist from Will Smith, doing an equally fine job with the more difficult role of Floyd Lawton, better known as ace assassin Deadshot. Most of the time, Lawton has no problem with killing at the behest of the highest bidder, but he hates being viewed in a negative light by his estranged but still devoted adolescent daughter, Zoe (Shailyn Pierre-Dixon, touching in a brief performance).

Smith, as a result, must navigate the more delicate waters of a conflicted soul: a bad guy who might possess a shred of nobility.

But we’re getting ahead of things. To the plot:

As the next installment in DC movie continuity, Suicide Squad — directed and scripted by David Ayer — takes place in the aftermath of early spring’s Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice, which concluded as Big Blue was dealt a mortal blow by a Kryptonite spear. The U.S. government, in something of a panic, worries how a world without Superman could defeat the next hyper-powered adversary.

The Legend of Tarzan: The original jungle swinger is back!

The Legend of Tarzan (2016) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, violent action and mild sensuality
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.3.16

The original Tarzan franchise ran an impressive five decades, starting during the silent era and continuing through the late 1960s, when Edgar Rice Burroughs’ famed character finally was silenced by the James Bond-influenced spy movie craze (which the final few Tarzan films attempted to emulate, with predictably awful results).

Having just returned to the African Congo that was his childhood home, John Clayton
(Alexander Skarsgård, right) and his wife Jane (Margot Robbie) take in long-unseen
familiar sights, while their new companion George Washington Williams (Samuel L.
Jackson) wonders what he's getting into.

No doubt hoping to revive what once had been a great thing, Hollywood subsequently mounted a fresh Tarzan roughly once per generation, with little success. Robert Towne’s highly anticipated Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes, with Christopher Lambert in the title role, wound up seriously compromised by behind-the-scenes squabbling, and died an ignominious death upon its 1984 release.

Even so, that was a better fate than that suffered by 1998’s dreadful Tarzan and the Lost City, Casper Van Dien’s stint in the loincloth not even a blip on the cinematic radar. Indeed, were it not for Disney’s wildly successful 1999 animated feature, I’m not sure the character would resonate in this 21st century, aside from the ongoing devotion shown by Burroughs fans.

How ironic, then — how pleasantly ironic — that just when the regal jungle lord seemed doomed to extinction, a fresh team has delivered a truly majestic Tarzan film.

We’ve not seen an entry this entertaining since Gordon Scott’s terrific double-header of Tarzan’s Greatest Adventure and Tarzan the Magnificent, back in 1959 and ’60.

Scripters Adam Cozad and Craig Brewer managed a truly impressive balancing act. On the one hand, they’ve faithfully honored the Burroughs template, acknowledging John Clayton as a feral child who grew up in the African wild, but later reclaimed his British roots as the fifth Earl of Greystoke, and a member of the English House of Lords. He’s a deeply moral and perceptively intelligent man (as greatly opposed to the monosyllabic dummy Johnny Weissmüller made him, in so many early films)

At the same time, Cozad and Brewer have addressed contemporary sensibilities, granting John and his wife Jane the enlightened awareness to recognize — and repudiate — the heinous late 19th century imperialism that arrogantly (and arbitrarily) “divided” great swaths of Africa between various European monarchs, who subsequently subjugated and/or enslaved the resident populations.

All that aside, this film also succeeds as an exhilarating adventure that pits the remarkable jungle lord against overwhelming odds orchestrated by a hissably evil villain. Everything builds to a (literally) smashing climax, which drew more than a few enthusiastic cheers from Monday evening’s preview audience.

This is a Tarzan to admire.

Focus: A sharply conceived caper

Focus (2015) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity, sensuality and brief violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.27.15

Heist flicks rely on two essential ingredients: a tight, logical script that holds together even as the narrative veers in unexpectedly twisty directions; and — just as important — a sharply constructed cast of characters, played by actors who approach this material with sincerity and conviction.

Having pulled off yet another successful con, Nicky (Will Smith) and Jess (Margot Robbie)
realize that they make a pretty good team. But their increasing fondness for each other, on
a personal level, threatens the objectivity that's essential in their nefarious line of work...

In other words, actors who don’t preen from one scene to the next, undercutting the tension and suspense we desire from the genre.

Ideal scripts, in turn, need to be clever on three levels: the core storyline — in other words, the actual caper(s) — which should be intriguing, unusual and introduced with zest; the inevitable “unexpected” glitch that complicates matters, and which the filmmakers usually expect us viewers to anticipate; and, finally, the genuinely surprising second twist, which nobody sees coming, and which leaves us nodding with admiration.

Hats off to the writing/directing team of Glenn Ficarra and John Requa, then, because Focus delivers on all counts. Heist thrillers are one of my favorite genres; I’ve seen scores of good ones, and therefore usually anticipate all manner of revelations, hiccups and gotchas.

And yet Ficarra and Requa startled me, with their devious, eleventh-hour eyebrow-raiser. Well done.

On top of which, they’ve assembled ideal talent, starting with smooth-as-silk Will Smith, whose every word, deed, gesture and wary expression denote career larceny. He’s perfectly cast as the sophisticated Nicky Spurgeon, a seasoned master of misdirection, who deploys and unerringly supervises a veritable squadron of sharps, pick-pockets and thieves at crowded, high-profile events such as conventions and parades.

Smith is well matched by Margot Robbie’s Jess Barrett, a frisky blonde with a sensual wiggle, who worms her way into Nicky’s crew with the sort of breathy admiration and flirty innocence that Marilyn Monroe perfected, back in the day. Robbie will be remembered as Leonaro DiCaprio’s seductively controlling wife in 2013’s The Wolf of Wall Street, and let’s just say that she’s equally alluring here.

And just as unpredictable. Indeed, Jess wears “devious” like the slinky, skin-tight dresses into which Robbie gets poured; we can’t help wondering about her end game, from the moment she catches Nicky’s attention.

But, then, we also don’t expect him to be candid with her, so the question revolves around who’s likely to get played, and how quickly.

Meanwhile, Smith and Robbie — both dripping with sensual savoir-faire — circle each other with a playfully erotic grace that wholly eluded the characters in Fifty Shades of Grey.

The Wolf of Wall Street: A howling disappointment

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rating: R, for strong sexual content, graphic nudity, pervasive profanity and drug use, and some violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.31.13

Boobs, blow and bad language.

That’s my takeaway, from the 180 minutes I wasted — nay, endured — while watching The Wolf of Wall Street.

This is where Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) feels the most comfortable, and the
most powerful: at the microphone in front of his troops at Stratton Oakmont, preparing
to deliver another do-or-die speech designed to encourage everybody to hit the
phones and fleece ever more working-class suckers out of their hard-earned savings.

Root-canal surgery would have been less painful.

Director Martin Scorsese and star Leonardo DiCaprio have made beautiful music on numerous occasions, but this symphony of wretched excess plays more like a botched rehearsal.

There isn’t more than 20 minutes’ worth of actual narrative in Terence Winter’s sloppy excuse for a screenplay. Indeed, this plays like the parody sketch Saturday Night Live might have made of a much better movie ... or, perhaps, the Mad Magazine take on far superior material.

Great, expansive chunks of this bewildering project could have come from the improvisational, goof-laden antics of a Seth Rogen/Judd Apatow farce. Pointless exchanges of inane, profanity-laden, frat boy “dialogue” go on and on and on and on. Our stars seem to make stuff up from one scene to the next, pretending that frenzied hysteria is some reasonable substitute for actual acting, with Scorsese apparently content to let the camera roll.

That sort of babbling slapstick nonsense wears thin very quickly ... and yet it continues for what seems an eternity.

I want those three hours of my life back.

Winter’s script is adapted from Jordan Belfort’s 2007 “memoir” of the same title, a book that can be called laughably unreliable at best, perniciously self-aggrandizing at worst. Belfort was yet another opportunistic Wall Street swindler who made the most of the high-flying 1990s, largely by defrauding investors with penny stocks via the “prestigious” brokerage firm front of Stratton Oakmont.

He was indicted for securities fraud and money laundering in 1998, investors having lost somewhere north of $200 million. Belfort served just shy of two years in federal prison, then re-invented himself as a “motivational speaker” and wrote the aforementioned book — and a sequel, Catching the Wolf of Wall Street — mostly to revel in the notoriously bad behavior he and his colleagues enjoyed while fleecing the unwary.

Actually, he’s the perfect egotistical show-off for the share-all Facebook generation.