Month: August 2015

For what it’s worth, I was a part-time club DJ from 1981until 2000. Although I hung up my headphones just before the advent of the laptop-era it was with more than passing interest I penciled in We Are Your Friends as a film to be checked out. Here was a movie purporting to cover the rave culture–replete with all the high-tech gadgetry that replaced my beloved Technics 1200 turntables. Hell, it even had Wes Bentley (American Beauty) in a supporting role. Granted, the title made no sense going in (that doesn’t change after seeing the film) and the usually annoying Zac Efton was playing the lead.

All told, I wish there had been a warning along the lines of “We are your friends. Don’t waste time on this flick.” Director Max Joseph (producer, MTV’s Catfish), who has made documentary shorts on EDM (for the uninitiated: electronic dance music) does an adequate if unspectacular job of conveying the buzz inherent in laying down a mix that shakes a crowd to its foundation. The problem is there’s a screamingly pedestrian story here populated with characters as thinly conceived and written as the plot.

Cole (Zefrin) hangs around with a bunch of loser roommates, one of whom is nicknamed “Squirrel.” Then he meets James (Bentley) a washed-up formerly big time L.A. DJ who for some inexplicable reason (plot facilitation?) lets Cole hang around his hotshot recording studio. Sophie (Emily Ratajkowski, the best thing about this film) is James’s younger, very appealing assistant/girlfriend. It doesn’t take much to figure out where this is going and with the help of some Ecstasy or some such, she and Cole make nasty.

In a nod to Bentley’s acting skill, it isn’t clear whether James will kill Cole or shrug his shoulders when he inevitable finds out. The film has it both ways, as it does seemingly glorifying drug use only to slip in an 11th hour scene abruptly condemning it. I wish I could say all is well as long as we stick to the DJ stuff but that would be as big a lie as screenwriters Joseph and Meaghan Openheimer’s credibility on telling a decent story.

An animated drug sequence, a few half-decent tracks and a heavy-handed script….1 star (out of 5)

Highly observant yet often annoyingly mannered, American Mistress takes director Noah Baumbach’s Frances Ha to the realm of farce. With casual dialogue as antic and fast-paced as a Marx Brothers movie, Baumbach, who again co-wrote with Greta Gerwig, explores another New York City fallen and frustrated, snarky character. Brooke (Gerwig) has a lot more audaciousness (and arrogance) going for her than Frances did, and unlike Frances, she at first seems like she has her life a whole lot more together.

Until it begins to dawn on the viewer that she’s a rock singer who we haven’t heard sing a lick, and an interior decorator whose only example we get to see is her own apartment. And until you stop and think of the prospects of her projected new business enterprise: a restaurant/convenience store/hair salon hybrid to be called “Mom’s.” Her partner: a Greek guy who’s conveniently out of the country. It’s later said to be her failure to “follow through” that is her Achilles Heel, but an overwrought imagination doesn’t help. Baumbach and Gerwig present Brooke as both having vision and simultaneously suffering the results of her own mean streak and skittishness.

Since things happen at the drop of a dime in this movie, Brooke’s high ambitions are suddenly thwarted. Before long Brooke’s Times Square apartment zoned for commercial use reverts to, shall we say, limited access. (Brooke explains she chose Times Square of all neighborhoods in part because that’s where she got off the bus). Tough times call for tough measures and Brooke looks up her “nemesis,” Mamie (Heather Lind), who stole both her boyfriend, Dylan (Mitchell Chernus) and business idea for t-shirts with flowers.

Brooke’s “sister to be” (her dad is set to marry her mom) is Tracy (Lola Kirke) a college freshman at Barnard who fancies herself a writer and serves as the movie’s point of view. Bored with college life (“it’s like when you are at a party and don’t know anyone–only it’s like that all the time”) Tracy becomes enamored with Brooke and seems very much in admiration of her. That all falls apart at the Connecticut mansion of Mamie and Dylan. Here’s where things accelerate to a fever pitch–and then promptly crash. A secret is revealed about Tracy amidst a whole lot of frenetic characters talking over one another, the short-term effect of which is sporadically invigorating comedy. Then it distressingly goes on extra innings. What starts off (and thankfully ends) as a pretty good relationship movie, goes off course in the middle.

When Brooke makes her pitch of the restaurant idea to millionaire Dylan and Mamie and Brooke’s posse (a couple college kids friends of Tracy) and other assorted hangers-on, the film quickly and irrevocably saunters off to Stupidville. Good farce needs to be believable. Here, when everyone swoons at Brooke’s pitch, it’s as bad as a Hollywood schlock piece. That scene serves as a sad reminder that the director of The Squid and the Whale, Greenburg, and Margot at the Wedding has seen better days even if stylistically he’s in a different time zone now. It’s a shame, too, because amidst the disjointed jumble, there are witticisms galore here.

Greta and Noah Take Manhattan (Again)….3 stars (out of 5)

The Diary of a Teenage Girl, a pedophile drama gussied up with non-judgmental
makeup, strikes one as more odd than innovative. Fifteen-year-old Minnie Goetze (a rather good Bel Powley) opens the film declaring, “I had sex today,” and you sure can tell it changed her. Set in the free-love 1970’s in San Francisco, Marielle Heller’s film goes the coy route while ostensibly digging underneath the surface for unplumbed emotions and gut reactions.

Animated sequences meant to jar in a quaint manner achieve annoyance as much as anything more profound. Just for good measure, Kristen Wiig and Alexander Skarsgard play Minnie’s mom and her mom’s 30-something boyfriend–the lothario who actually goes to bed with his girlfriend’s daughter. She thinks him “the handsomest man in the world.” The creep factor here is off the charts yet you definitely get the feeling we’re being asked not to moralize.

The acting is top-shelf all around in The Diary a Teenage Girl, the insight not so much. Wiig’s character is so self-absorbed she actually seems more pissed off that Minnie stole her boyfriend than that his seducing her may have caused her daughter any harm. Skarsgard’s character is so laid back he naturally begs the question, “Was the hippie generation so mellow they created a moral vacuum around themselves?” (oops, I forgot!)

Heller and co-screenwriter Phoebe Gloekner, on whose memoir the movie is based, only answer the question part-way. Had they written a few more hard-hitting scenes where they were so absolutely necessary rather than resorting to the animated tomfoolery and humdrum amorality, we might have had a real gem here. As it is, The a Diary of a Teenage Girl is certainly thought-provoking and engaging, but ultimately dull around its holier-than-thou edges.

Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged (or something like that)…3 (out of 5) stars

Christian Petzold’s Phoenix creates a bracing tension between rediscovery and denial, between traumatization and angst. Nina Hoss, one of the world’s finest film actresses, portrays Nelly Lenz, a concentration camp survivor who undergoes plastic surgery that essentially grants her a new face after her old one was shot up by Nazis.

At the film’s outset Nelly’s new persona gradually comes to life. She’s in Berlin, recovering from the procedure under the tutelage of her friend Lene (Nina Kunzendorf), who insists Nelly’s non-Jewish husband Johnny gave her up to the authorities to save himself. Lene offers Nelly refuge in either Haifa or Palestine, and informs her she is an heir to a considerable sum.

What follows is a non-thriller thriller of the highest order. Nelly, a former nightclub singer, ignores Lene’s cautions and finds Johnny (Ronald Zehrfeld) bussing tables in a Berlin club called Phoenix. He doesn’t recognize her yet upon meeting Nelly considers her close enough in looks to his presumed dead wife that he devises a scam to use her so he can collect her inheritance. Nelly’s attachment to Johnny is transfixing.

Hoss is so convincing, we feel her every pain and bewilderment. Not for a moment does her reluctance to reveal herself feel flimsy, or her obsession with him seem inauthentic. A longtime collaborator with Petzold, Hoss’s previous film with him was Barbara, an equally unorthodox yet sublime character study, in which Zehrfeld also co-stars.

The unique aspect of Phoenix is it somehow gets at significant truths regarding the aftermath of The Holocaust through means that seem outwardly sinuous. Any potential plot absurdity, however, fades into a stunning realization that against the backdrop of what a character like Nelly has endured and continues to endure–only in new manifestations–fantastical elements not only make sense but seem required. Phoenix has the effect of death by a thousand cuts. One moment merely following along an odd but captivating tale, then via the powerful sum effect of Hoss’s genius (and that of Bertold Brecht) culminating in the film’s amazing last scene, I, for one, left the theater totally devastated.

Atmosphere To Burn, A Lead Character to Savor….4.5 (out of 5) stars

A stoner comedy by nature relies on an undercurrent of paranoia. In American Ultra Mike Howell (Jesse Eisenberg) quickly loses the edge of thinking everyone is after him when–lo and behold–before long everyone is indeed after him. Also gone with the stoner conceit is the notion that this film is somehow a comedy. What looks in the film’s trailer like a promising ride replete with wit and surprise, results in pretty much a flat exercise in a not-so-hot action film. Once its couple of twists are revealed rather early on, it pretty much ceases to be funny. The viewer is left holding an increasingly preposterous plot. Eisenberg and co-star Kirsten Stewart do their best, but it’s not enough.

Six years ago the two starred together in Adventureland, a marvelous sleeper of a film. Here they merely induce sleep despite the presence of talented supporting players John Leuizamo (as Rose, a crazed drug dealer) and Tony Hale (Veep) and a fish out of water appearance by Bill Pullman as a CIA boss. Predictably lame is Topher Grace as a renegade CIA operative in over his head leading an operation too big for his britches and too lame to allow the viewer to buy into any of it.

What begins as a comedic look at an unorthodox relationship between Mike and Phoebe (Stewart) quickly heats up to a boiling-over mess. We know we’re in trouble when Victoria Lasseter (Connie Britton) show up at the convenience store where Mike works and spouts the lines, “Mandlebrot is set in motion, echo choir has been breached, we’re fielding the ball.”

Puh-lease!

Once her secret is revealed, Phoebe, resorts to a one-dimensional character–yet another hitch in Max Landis’ lazy screenplay. Stewart, fresh off an outstanding performance in Clouds of Sils Maria, deserves better. The low point of the film, however, are the far too many creepy scenes with Walter Goggins (Justified) as a former criminal mental patient-turned CIA killer.

When it comes to lame attempts at satire American Ultra is so disappointing it makes Southland Tales look like Dr. Strangelove.

American Doldrums…. 2 stars (out of 5)

A film consisting primarily of two writers talking to each other turns out to be The End of the Tour’s strength rather than its weakness. David Foster Wallace (an excellent Jason Segal) at one point says to Rolling Stone magazine profiler David Lipsky (Jesse Eiesenberg), “David, this is nice. This is not real.” As close as this film seems to come to capturing an authentic dialogue, we, of course, can’t be totally sure the film is real either. A book of these interviews may exist for referencing, but with Wallace’s demise, the best source for the accuracy of his portrayal isn’t talking. Given these limitations, The End of the Tour not only works, it’s positively enthralling.

Director James Ponsoldt (the very good The Spectacular Now), himself a former entertainment reporter, brings to life on-the-mark details of a reporter’s mindset and tactics. Lipsky (Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip With David Foster Wallace) presses his skeptical Rolling Stone editor to allow him to tag along at the end of Wallace’s 1996 book tour on behalf of his 1,000-plus-pages opus, The Infinite Jest. “We’ve never had a writer on the cover of the magazine,” Lipsky says. Wallace teaches at Illinois State in Bloomington and Lipsky arrives at Wallace’s house ready for what could be a hard time in getting the reclusive author to reveal himself.

What follows is a sharply-etched exposition on the tensions between fame and privacy. The many dangers of media over-worship and over-scrutinization are dealt with using laser-sharp precision. The two writers spar constantly, often reaching an equilibrium before stumbling on a seemingly insurmountable impasse. Wallace, who would commit suicide twelve years later, is often eloquent, never tedious, a regular guy who is anything but regular.

Lipsky, himself a flailing novelist, skitters back and forth between firm journalistic professionalism and a more personal need for acknowledgment from Wallace. A scene where Pinsky recoils with jealousy toward his girlfriend back home after she shares a long fan phone conversation with Wallace sums up his own ambivalence. Considering the men share a mere five days together, however, it’s a testament to Lipsky that the two men come to share a bond that appears strong, even bordering on friendship. Such feelings can be distracting and misleading, however, when it comes to achieving a proper interviewing distance.

Segal rises above the ranks of a solid comedic actor into the far rarer terrain of an insightful, sensitive dramatic one. In an outstanding performance, he nails the many demons lurking inside Wallace’s fragile psyche, while expressing Wallace’s strong sense of humor and uncanny ability to talk as well as he writes. Lipsky’s book was published in 2010 after Wallace’s death, and strangely, the interviews never appeared in Rolling Stone. Go figure. The basis for one of the best films of 2015 didn’t cut it in the viewpoint of editors from what used to be a leading counter-cultural periodical.

My Winner With David…..4 (out of 5) stars

Given the plethora of technical bells and whistles in Guy Richie’s The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (the extra punctuation is as wearying as much of this film so I will only reference the title once) the onus is on Richie to provide sufficient plot and character. He almost makes it on the character front but if you’re looking for a fresh plot, keep looking.

Oh, there’s razzle-dazzle style galore, and interesting costume and set design replicating the 60’s vibe. Richie throws in split screen, slow motion and loads of other special effects contrivance willy-nilly. The result may not be in the inane category of his Swept Away remake (2002) but neither does it achieve the bite of the refreshing Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels (1999) or Snatch (2001). There’s a sprinkling of panache here, unfortunately doubled by groan-eliciting scenes. Henry Cavil has flair as Napoleon Solo (Robert Vaughn in the original TV series ((1964-68)) if you’re old enough to remember it). Armie Hammer doesn’t come close to the wonderful David McCallum as Ilya Kuryakin. Hammer may have succeeded in portraying the Winklevoss twins in Social Network but in this film he’s mostly slumming his way through with character tics on endless repeat. Hugh Grant as Waverly won’t make you forget
Leo G. Carroll in the role.

Did you like Ex-Machina? Me, too, and a good part of its allure was the performance of Alicia Vikander as the robot. Here she’s a marginal cut above just another actress. It doesn’t help that her character is as much a cartoon as most of the other supporting characters. I know deadpan silliness is part of the game with this film but far too many scenes border on being stilted, which is quite another matter. I chuckled several times throughout but an action comedy also needs good action. If thrills in action scenes are important, this film comes up as short as Mickey Rooney.

I know it may sound like I’m always pushing independent art movies and I’m ready to say save your money here and catch Amy or The End of the Tour. That may be true, but if you haven’t seen Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation or
Spy, both far superior espionage efforts, you need to catch up before indulging Richie with your time. He may have graduated from his Madonna-era slump but he’s still a mere talented but flawed undergraduate when it comes to directing.

The Spy Who Stayed In The Same Old Mold…. 3(out of 5)

Still love old Tom Cruise
Yet it’s the Ferguson lass
Who thrills with much class

4 (out of 5) stars

Emma Stone, now firmly entrenched as Woody Allen’s actress of the moment, performs a rather difficult feat in Allen’s new film, Irrational Man. She manages to save a flawed if compelling production from potentially falling off the cliff. Allen’s tone here is one of almost seriousness. The subject: another rehashing of the Crimes and Misdemeanors/Match Point exploration of situational ethics and the question of chance versus consequence. Of his recent films, its certainly no Blue Jasmine or Midnight In Paris but much better than the current mostly critical disdain would indicate.

Its main character, Abe (Joachim Phoenix) plays a burned out, eternally pessimistic philosophy professor and there ‘s quite a slew of blowhard references to Kierkegaard, Dostoevsky, and Simone de Beauvoir. Whether you find this quasi-erudite jabber to be annoyingly wan mannerisms or requisite semi-amusing Allenisms to be tolerated, may depend on whether you’re still giving this guy a fair shake. Those deeming to be the cultural police have so eviscerated Allen’s reputation, many find it hard to be objective about the man’s art. Whether or not you agree with the likelihood of the truthfulness of Mia’s assertions may say more about how you view this film than anything within its frame.

Thus, even though there’s plenty in Irrational Man that isn’t perfect, I suggest sidestepping all the Woody hate and check out this, the 45th feature of the more than ever prolific 79-year-old director. You’ll be rewarded with Stone, a great young actress, fresh on the heels of her amazing turn in Birdman. Her non-verbal acting, a chamber piece of facial expressions, is a sight to behold. She portrays Jill, a student of Abe’s who gets caught up in his anti-charisma. As a rescuer at heart who wishes to save him from further descent into despair, she mines all the uncertainties prevalent in deciding whether to dump her straight laced boyfriend for Abe. Her assured yet careful manner lets her inner acting instincts come fully into play.

The indomitable Parker Posey, were it not for Stone, would have stolen this movie. Her self-described “slow” (when it comes to philosophical thinking) chemistry professor, Rita, who brazenly comes on to Abe, is quite an authentic character. As for Phoenix, are we getting so used to him in great roles (The Master, Inherent Vice) that here he just seems adequate until we look a little closer. His Abe may be a defeated man who awakens to the unbridled need to perform a heinous act, but he’s no caricature, and his philosophizing is never lugubrious. His scenes with Stone, though believable, pale next to those with Posey. The two come off like acting pros who don’t seem to be acting. As for Allen, in Irrational Man there may appear to be a bit too much of his always seeming to be directing. Paradoxically, that’s not a bad thing for one of the best film directors alive and where even a relatively middling effort still rewards.

Pull That Trigger (and hold the Kirkegaard)….3.5 (out of 5 stars)