Balcony Blues

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)

A well-known staple of Psych 101 textbooks, the 1971 exercise depicted in the film The Stanford Prison Experiment also has plenty of detractors in the field. As a docudrama, the film contains very good acting and, if you don’t bother to think about it too much, can seem quite the provocative conversation catalyst.

Philip Zambrano (a fine Billy Cruddup), a psychologist at Stanford, whips up a summer project using student applicants, who he paid $15 a day. Quickly screened to attempt to weed out the psychologically damaged, the 21 subjects are then randomly split into inmates and guards to simulate a real prison experience for two weeks. College corridors and classrooms, empty for the summer, we’re transfixed into cells and there was even a solitary confinement “hole.” The guards adopt uniforms including sunglasses and wield billy clubs; the inmates wear smocks containing their ID numbers, chains around their ankles, and stocking-like caps. Zimbardo gets local police to lend a hand by simulating actual arrests, and the inmates are handcuffed, searched, blindfolded, and then stripped and “de-loused” on their way to their cells.

Once interaction begins , the guards, especially a taunting self-described Cool Hand Luke-inspired Strother Martin-like Chris (Michael Angarano), begin to get nasty and abusive. Inmates at first endure it, but eventually rebel. The “no physical violence” rule instituted by Zimbrano is quickly ignored and the whole experiment threatens to spin out of control. Meanwhile, Zimbrano, who along with a couple of assistants maintains surveillance, expresses not wanting to intervene but to “let things play out.”

The problem with such an experiment is the variable of participants’ guessing which behaviors researchers are expecting. These expectations are known in the research field as “demand characteristics.” It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that subjects put into this environment would likely respond the way the guys in Zimbrano’s “prison” did. Thus, this wacky experiment may have a seemingly compelling and luridly dramatic arc to it, but it’s offset by flawed science. Zambrano’s experiment over time has become notorious as a classic example of how not to conduct such a study.

Furthermore, as good as Ezra Miller and Tye Sheridan are in portraying two of the inmates who begin to suffer trauma to the point of desperately wishing to opt out of the experiment, their characters suffer from existing largely on the surface. With no back stories and little self-contemplation depicted, next to nothing is known about the origin of their motivations. There’s plenty of gripping cheap thrills in The Stanford Prison Experiement, but little emotional bite–a so-so approach for a film about a psychological study. An ex-con (Nalson Ellis) hired by Zambrano as a “professional consultant” has an epiphany regarding his imitating the very behavior he had come to despise while a prisoner himself. It’s a jolting reminder that director Kyle Patrick Alvarez and screenwriter Tim Talbott have the rest of this film’s characters’ inner lives in lock-down.

Occasionally Sharp Drama, Dull Science…3 (out of 5) stars

There’s the “hot spring” that turns out to be raw sewage. Add a ravishing female sports car driver who pulls up next to Rusty Griswold (Ed Helms) and flirts herself all the way to a grotesque highway death. Then there’s the young brother (Steele Stebbins) who torments his far more delicate older brother (Skylar Grisondo) including using a hypodermic needle as a dart he throws at him in the fore-mentioned raw sewage lake.

Having fun yet?

The victimized mom in all of this is none other than Debbie (Christina Applegate of Married With Children fame). She must endure a husband who is as boring as Jeb Bush and Scott Walker combined. Rusty also is in way over his head since Debbie is basically looking to break out into far wilder libido terrain. She wouldn’t mind doing it with him but he’s clueless.

The family stops off at Debbie’s college so she can re-enact a frolicking, booze-driven sorority game. It’s unnervingly cliche-ridden but merely a prelude for what awaits Debbie once the family visits Rusty’s sister in Texas. There looms Rusty’s brother-in-law (Chris Hemsworth) his artificial prosthetic schlong recalling that of Jason Schwartzman in The Overnight, released a mere couple of weeks ago. Not for anything, but I’ve had quite enough of unfunny schlongs this month.

If you’re getting the idea Vacation feels obliged to push the envelope, you’d be right. However, in comedy, as in the stock market, it’s easy to keep score. Are there laughs here?….They’re frightfully few and far between. Helms, who reached a peak as the correspondent on the Daily Show many moons ago, then slid into The Hangover and Terrible Bosses franchises, is mostly irritating here.

By the time Rusty’s family hits San Francisco to visit his Dad (Chevy Chase in a monumentally insignificant appearance) the tally of groans is far more higher than that of guffaws. Even a bravely resilient Applegate can’t save this pile of deplorable rubbish. No matter how hard it tries to be on the edge of gross-out, Vacation exists merely in the throes of the hapless harebrained. The 1983 original, with Chase in the lead and Anthony Michael Hall as the teen son, while no prize itself, looks like a 4-star Billy Wilder comedy next to this paltry dreck.

Remake? Reboot? … Re-imagined Rot! … 1 (out of 5) stars

At no time will you mistake Southpaw for Rocky. Forget Raging Bull. It’s certainly no Nightcrawler, which contained a masterful Jake Gyllenhaal. Southpaw confounds, gives occasional reason for praise one minute, then slugs itself in the foot just as quickly. Gyllenhaal’s duke-it-out, hardscrabble performance here is the reason to see this movie. However, you’ll want to take on the chin director Antoine Fuqua’s cookie-cutter, toothless approach. If cliches were jabs, the punch count in Southpaw would be near record-setting.

Billy Hope (Gyllenhaal) is the kind of boxer known for taking a punch, or actually taking far too many punches. Nonetheless, he’s a light heavyweight champion, albeit one who can barely walk after his latest bout. Mentally, he’s not too well, either, although it’s not made clear whether that’s from brain damage, an innate condition, or a combination. His wife Maureen (Rachel McAdams) handles the important decisions and business details in the family. Billy’s close to his 10-year-old daughter Leila (Oona Laurence), seems to be an affectionate husband, and has a nasty temper, especially when a certain Latino contender, “Magic” Escobar (Miguel Gomez), incessantly taunts him.

It never once occurs to screenwriter Kurt Sutter to revisit let alone explain a misfortunate accident. The identity of its perpetrators remains fuzzy at best, the incident swept under the rug. One assumes more details would likely lead to even less plausibility. Oh well: here’s Forest Whitaker as some grumpy trainer named Tick, who shapes young kids at a boxing gym and professes never to train professionals. Since Billy by now has fallen on hard times he agrees to begin redeeming himself by scrubbing the place after hours.

Tick eventually agrees to train Billy, takes on his boxing style or the lack of it and drills Billy on a predominantly defensive style. There’s some mumbo jumbo about Billy confusing opponents by changing hands and thus the “Southpaw” title. A good James Horner score and a new Eminem track help things out and the fight scenes seem fairly real. Throughout Billy still has a tattoo with his daughter’s name and birthdate and a burning will to make good with not just her but also the gods of justice. After all, Latino Escobar represents nasty fate. Billy’s thirst for revenge might be all too obvious but Fuqua does us no favors by arriving at a predictable place. In the end, I felt suckerpunched by a lack of imagination.

Good Gyllenhaal, Shaky Drama … 2.5 (out of 5) stars