Cinema Hype

1. Jason Segel can, like, write stuff. Apparently all that time in Judd Apatow’s writers’ room paid off; his movie is genuinely funny and well-written, and pleasingly un-formulaic. Skeptical as I am of Apatow’s sudden desire to paste his name on every R-rated comedy out there, I did not see this coming. (More CH Fun Facts, courtesy of IMDB: Jason Segel is 28, which makes me…a complete loser at life; he’s been tapped to write and direct the next Muppet movie. Apparently he has a thing for puppets? Awesome. Whatever. He can do his Dracula voice for me anytime he wants. No lie.)

2. Mila Kunis is, as a wise woman once said, an intense kind of pretty. Almost so pretty she stops being pretty, actually. I didn’t know there was a strike zone for that kind of thing.

3. Maybe, in the land of the Apatow Romantic Comedy, the girl who dumps doesn’t have to be a complete wench. Relational complexity? Wha?

4. Dracula is totally a puppet rock opera waiting to happen. If and when this comes to my home city, somebody must take me. This would be the world’s most amazing first date–true love, dapper fashion (the good Count sure knows how to dress for dinner), and singing hand puppets? Do they also sing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight”?

5. HAWAII. Why are you so far awaaaaay? (Also, I wonder if the Lost folks realize that if they walk far enough south, they’d hit Waikiki Beach? You’d think Jack would’ve figured that out by now.)

Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Jason Segel, Judd Apatow, Mila Kunis, Dracula, Hawaii

To understand the newest rendition of The Incredible Hulk, you’d have to go back a few years. Not to 1962, when Stan Lee first premiered the character, but to 2003, when Ang Lee tried to bring him to the big screen and ended up with one of the biggest superhero-movie bombs in cinematic history. The Lee Hulk is long. It’s a thinker. It’s the worst thing a superhero movie can be: it’s boring. The Marvel Entertainment Hulk reboot, which opens today nationwide, is a clear reaction to the previous film—almost a point-by-point rebuttal—and it seems to accomplish the goal of amping up the Hulk franchise once again. However, if the further target is to create another thoughtful superhero film within the Marvel universe, something’s gone seriously off-course.

The Incredible Hulk’s success as an action flick is a relief, but it’s not surprising. Director Louis Leterrier keeps things speedy and simple, with a standard three action sequences—big, bigger, biggest—and a running time of less than two hours. It’s not very original, and it feels basic, but it works anyway; if anything, the Hulk-vs.-everybody-else scenes feel like a blend of modern CGI with a classic, pre-Michael-Bay eye for crafting complete stories within the action, without the nausea- and confusion-inducing close cuts we see in other action movies. Leterrier functions on a scale that’s appropriate for the Hulk, including plenty of story in his biggest, most elaborate sequences. Audiences looking for a good summer action movie should be pleased.

So the problem with The Incredible Hulk isn’t with the Hulk. The Hulk’s fine. Great, even. He does his crashing-around rage thing. But his poor alter ego, physicist Bruce Banner, gets short shrift, and the movie suffers because of it. Bruce’s backstory comes out in a vague kind of way during the opening credits—there’s a montage—and after that, nothing. We know how he feels about his girlfriend, Betty Ross, but then we know how most men would feel if they were dating a brilliant biologist in Liv Tyler’s body. Whether it’s a reaction to the overwrought backstory in Lee’s Hulk, this Bruce Banner never makes it into the third dimension. And what is a superhero without his or her alter ego? A superhero who’s only a superhero misses the point, doesn’t tell us anything about ourselves, and becomes vaguely resentable. Maybe nobody’s actively disliking Bruce Banner, but it’s difficult to connect with a character who won’t show his cards. It’s a shame, really. Why go to the trouble of hiring Edward Norton—arguably one of the best actors working onscreen today—and then give him so little to do? Norton’s a great choice for Bruce Banner; his regular-Joe looks and slight build make him a natural counterpoint to the alter ego he hates so much, and he’s the kind of actor who could easily lend added depth to a shallowly-written role. All he needs is a good line or two. Maybe a pensive look. We want to know this guy, and the movie never gets us there.

In the end, this reboot will probably be marked down as a success. Fans can heal from their disappointment over the Lee adaptation; it’ll do well at the box office; Marvel will keep up its winning streak, and maybe stretch it into a Hulk sequel. There’s plenty to enjoy here, in a spectacular, smash-and-grab kind of way. But if a contribution to the canon of complex, well-rounded superhero movies was Marvel’s intent, they seem to have overshot.

The Incredible Hulk, Edward Norton, Liv Tyler, Louis Leterrier, Marvel Entertainment, Ang Lee, Hulk

I’m pretty sure I can state the essence of Junebug in fifteen words or fewer, but I’m also pretty sure what I have to say is not the same as what writer Angus MacLachlan would say about his movie, or even want to hear about it. I’m also convinced that I speak for the people. Want to hear it?

Him, paraphrased: Junebug is about connection and lack of connection, about family, and about the fragmentation of modern life.

Me: Junebug is about Amy Adams and her enduring talent and general awesomeness.

If nothing else, I believe I have the Academy voters on my side: they nominated Adams’s performance for Best Supporting Actress in 2005, and not for nothing. Her performance is an early indication of what she does best: committing fully to being the sweetest (but not the brightest) girl in the world. For example:

I’m not going to lie: Junebug might have been called The Movie Where Amy Adams Makes Me Laugh and Cry, and Not Much Else Happens. She’s just that good, and the material works hard for her. To be fair, the rest of the cast also puts in a good effort. Embeth Davidtz goes above and beyond her usual cool-as-a-cucumber routine—she and Adams work some surprisingly good chemistry—and Ben McKenzie and Alessandro Nivola do what they can. But the script ultimately doesn’t help them out. Even if the performances are good, there’s not enough story articulated to include the viewer. It’s like trying to read MacLachlan’s mind, as if he had everything planned out but misjudged the amount of information the audience would need to stay connected, and the overall sense is more one of frustration than anything else—we want to know, but we’re left trying to follow threads that don’t really lead anywhere. If MacLachlan really was going for lack of connection, he got it. Too bad, too.

Amy Adams, Embeth Davidtz, Alessandro Nivola, Ben McKenzie, Junebug, Best Supporting Actress 2005, Angus MacLachlan

INT. CINEMA HYPE HEADQUARTERS

VOICE-OVER — LIZ
Back at my apartment, with my off-brand Red Vines my a stable of cheap, non-Manolo heels in the closet, I had to ask myself: How good was the Sex and the City movie?

(Hee. Sorry about that.)

First of all, I need to clarify something. Did I call Sex and the City a movie? Because I think I was mistaken. This is no three-hour tour; it’s a phenomenon. The Saturday late show at my local AMC was a madhouse—the line to get in snaked all around the front of the theater, though it was really more like packs of women in dresses and stiletto heels than an actual line. The theater sounded like someone’s (enormous) dorm room during a marathon of the show—I never support chatter during movies, but it’s hard to argue with the kinds of hooting, hollering, gasping, and “oh no he didn’t!”-ing going on here. This was a tide of chandelier earrings, lip gloss, and down-and-dirty fashion envy.

I think writer/director Michael Patrick King would have loved—or at least been flattered by—the scene. After all, these are his people. He gets these women, or at least a highly fictionalized, overpaid, underworked version of them. This last call for the Sex and the City world must have been a good feeling for him. Fortunately for all, it’s a pretty good feeling for the rest of us, too.

The only real glitch in the transition from series to movie—the hurdle that keeps the movie from all-time-favorite status—takes place somewhere in the super-sizing process. The genius of Sex and the City as a television show was that it dealt mainly in small moments—a lost necklace here, a Post-It breakup there. By necessity, the movie ups the ante, but some of the nuances get lost in the scaling-up process, so that a few major plot points hang on character decisions that don’t entirely make sense, or aren’t explained in a way that feels natural in the moment. That said, the transition works remarkably well: the screen size has changed, but the spirit is the same, and the level of detail and continuity should be satisfying for longtime fans (new viewers, maybe less so). The gang’s all here—whether you’re a Steve Brady fan or a Mr. Big aficionado (just try to call him by his real, full name), or just miss the fashion or going to brunch with the girls, we hit all the high points, and each of the four main characters gets plenty of spot-on character time. Yet there’s also forward motion—this isn’t just a rehash for old times’ sake. Without going into details, I’ll just say…things change, though in a way that’s consistent with the rest of the series. One added dimension comes with the Sex and the City world’s only truly new character, Carrie’s personal assistant, Louise (Jennifer Hudson). Louise represents the young women of New York, the women Our Heroines used to be, but she’s used judiciously—a pleasant reminder and celebration of being wiser, more experienced, and yes, older. It’s just what you’d want for one last session with the girls. Er, women.

The real gift of this movie—what makes it triumphant despite the slightly mushy storytelling— is King’s remarkable focus. The budget and time allowances of a movie sometimes pull TV adaptations off course. Sex and the City stays on point with impressive determination: this is a movie about Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha. Period. If it’s a story about love, it’s a story of platonic love first. If it’s a story about sex, it’s even more a story about battling loneliness—with the help of good friends. It’s a celebration of women, of friendship, and King never lets go of that vision. And for that, millions of women (in stiletto heels or not) should thank him.

Sex and the City, Sex and the City: The Movie, Sex and the City movie, Sarah Jessica Parker, Sarah-Jessica Parker, SJP, Carrie Bradshaw, Kristin Davis, Charlotte York, Cynthia Nixon, Miranda Hobbes, Miranda Hobbs, Kim Catrall, Samantha Jones, Mr. Big, Chris Noth, chick flicks

I had to wonder a little this weekend about the Best Picture nominee list in 1938. There must have been an intense historical epic in the running, right? A gut-wrenching war story? A too-long biopic? So how did a sweet little dramedy like You Can’t Take it With You end up with the golden statuette? Can you imagine if Juno had beaten out No Country for Old Men this last March? The 1938 ceremony must have been something like that.

You Can’t Take it With You is almost comical in its Capra-ness. This is right in the middle of his prime, after It Happened One Night and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, and before Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Arsenic and Old Lace, and It’s a Wonderful Life, and it combines some of his favorite things: the common man, David and Goliath, the desperation of true love, the joy of community. It even takes place in a house that looks suspiciously like the Baileys’ in It’s a Wonderful Life, and stars Jimmy Stewart.

This is a movie that, in a sense, hasn’t aged all that well. Audiences—and especially Oscar voters—like to think they’ve grown over the years, and You Can’t Take it With You is a fantastically simple story. Whether or not films have grown more emotionally complex since 1938, Capra’s world feels out of pace and out of place, like sincerity has no place in our moviegoing world. On the other hand, well, it’s delightful. Spoiler alert: the good guys win and the bad guys become good guys, and Jimmy Stewart is adorable, and there’s amateur ballet and a harmonica duet and a healthy dose of (literal) fireworks. Capra takes this funny, noisy, lovable family out of their own living room and into the audience’s, din and all. And seeing them so close up, it’s hard not to smile a little at their scrapes and their can-do attitude and the way everything works out. We get their snappy dialogue and the carefulness of their characterization along with the general hilarity of being part of the family—it turns out that behind the fun, somebody knew what they were doing all along, such that the Sycamore-Vanderhof household is not only more fun than the suits they’re up against, but than their competitors in other movies as well. And that is an accomplishment: something to smile about in the Best Picture slot. Slick, Capra. Real slick.

Next on Project 501: Gone with the Wind (1939)

For more on the origins of Project 501, click here. For all Project 501 posts, click here.

You Can’t Take It With You, Moss Hart, Frank Capra, Jimmy Stewart, James Stewart, It’s a Wonderful Life, Oscar Best Picture winners, Best Picture, 1938, classic movies

I wonder whether, given the option, Walden Media would have skipped out on making Prince Caspian and gone straight to The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. After all, let’s face it: Prince Caspian is not the most exciting Narnia book.

I think the Walden folks knew that, either in their minds or somewhere deeper down, in their hearts of hearts, which is why this movie is the way it is. It’s not bad–not boring, not badly written, not badly acted–but it feels less confident somehow. There’s a sense of compensation, like the source material isn’t quite interesting enough, so let’s intervene and make it interesting. And I think we can all predict what happens when we try to muddle with C.S. Lewis (automatic lightning bolt, obviously).

So somebody, somewhere along the line, messed with the novel. There’s a little more battling and a little less of some other things—my favorite part, Lucy partying in the woods all night, gone completely!—and a Susan/Caspian vibe that doesn’t ring a bell for me, but which I may just have forgotten. And it seems a little naive and curmudgeonly to even bring it up—because I know that sometimes (usually), screenplays don’t spring fully-formed from source material—except that The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was such a true, straight adaptation that any fudging in Prince Caspian is pretty readily apparent.

And then there’s the modernization element, which may be even more troubling (especially if you’re totally geriatric, like me. Get off my lawn!). One of the best things about The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was how straight it played everything, how little it took part in the dumbing-down or growing-up of family movies. Prince Caspian has plenty of moments that are true to the spirit of Lewis’s storytelling style, but it also makes use of more modern dialogue, more one-liners, and a CGI warrior-mouse who gets uncomfortably close to Shrekliness. And there are plenty of fine, casually-spoken family films out there—there’s a place for Shrek, surely—but it seems like, as a part of a series, the sensibility is just a little un-Narnian.

It’s not all bad. Not by far. One of the joys of the Narnia movie franchise is the casting, which has borne itself out well in this second film. Unlike a certain other much-loved fantasy film series we might name, all of the Pevensie-kid actors seem to be approaching (and/or leaving) adolescence with great grace. Georgie Henley, of Lucy fame, continues to be adorable and supremely un-annoying, but it’s Skandar Keynes as Edmund and especially Anna Popplewell as Susan who really distinguish themselves—both carry off brave, prickly, complicated characters convincingly and with a minimum of self-consciousness. (Somehow High King Peter is the least interesting, but I don’t think it’s William Moseley’s fault. Peter’s golden from the core, which we all know is boooring.) The issue of Susan and Peter’s fast-approaching adulthood plays out really well; Anna Popplewell in particular has grown up gorgeous, and the vague but present sense that Susan is Hot gets kind of uncomfortable. It’s satisfying to see the film work that out and deal with it in a way that makes sense. Well played, all.

And then there’s the rest of it, the things that come out in the trailers: assassination plot, gathering of various Narnian creatures, battle. WETA Studios—of Lord of the Rings special-effects fame—outdo themselves with all the creatures tunneling, running, riding, and flying to battle. Second-fiddle book or no, there’s plenty of (totally bloodless) mayhem to go around, plenty of excitement. It’s a summer family film doing what summer family films do best, and for that it’s worth a look.

Narnia, Narnia movies, Prince Caspian, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, C.S. Lewis, CS Lewis, William Mosley, Anna Popplewell, Skandar Keynes, Georgie Henley, WETA Studios, summer movies, movie reviews

I think I first knew I’d love Once when I watched the Oscars. “Falling Slowly” won for Best Song, and then there was that incident with Glen Hansard using all of Marketa Irglova’s talking time to give a wholly endearing victory speech, prompting Jon Stewart to let her come out and give her own adorable and inspirational remarks. I don’t have a ton of experience with low-budget Irish indie-music romantic dramas, but somehow this confluence of events—these people, rather—appealed to me.

Deep down, Once isn’t so far off the romance-movie track, complete with one especially improbably-lit scene involving a grand piano and an unfinished song. But then, if you can believe it, it’s also far simpler than most of what makes it to the theater: Boy meets girl, boy likes girl, girl likes boy, boy and girl record music together. Something like that. In fact, the straight-arrow plot is refreshing, considering the obvious and recitable formula we see in so many studio romances. Once lacks wacky friends, over-witty dialogue, and any kind of mid-wedding/pre-flight confrontation at the end—it turns that standard on its ear, actually—but instead, it has feeling and timing and a kind of quiet watchfulness that’s like a good, bittersweet folk song. (It’s also worth mentioning that this is a musical—not a massive dance-numbers-in-the-streets musical, but a story told through music. Be prepared.)

One of the best and most surprising parts of Once is how Hansard and Irglova—both professional musicians—wear the hat of “actor” so convincingly; neither comes across half as self-consciously as half the trained actors in Hollywood. If someone told me that Hansard—who looks, kind of hilariously, like a combination of Hugh Laurie and Dr. Cox from Scrubs—were the only lonely Irish musician in Dublin (or at least the loneliest Irish musician in Dublin), I’d probably believe it. Irglova sings and plays the piano beautifully, but even more importantly in this instance, she sparks. She’s the chemistry behind the movie; the light and warmth she brings to her onscreen relationship with Hansard isn’t far off from what she brings to their songs. This is a movie where the main characters don’t even have names (the credits call them “Boy” and “Girl”), but where character is built from the inside out and speaks without shouting, and the writing and acting mesh so that all the audience gets is ambience, in the best way.

Check out Once. You’ll get a song and a story stuck in your head, but you probably won’t mind too much.

Once, Glen Hansard, Marketa Irglova, The Frames, folk music, Dublin, Irish movies, Oscars, Best Song, Falling Slowly, Jon Stewart, Hugh Laurie, Scrubs

A friend of mine said recently of Michael Moore, “He’s one of those guys that you wish you disagreed with.”

It’s true. In Sicko, Moore’s reputation precedes him (one person in the film, when denied coverage by Cigna HMO, mentioned his name in a letter and mysteriously received treatment shortly afterwards). Ironically, Sicko is probably his least intrusive movie so far. Moore has done his homework and offers plenty of film and textual evidence to make his points, but stays away from the hounding and ambush tactics we’ve seen from him before. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t need to follow anybody around: plenty of people approached him with their stories.

That’s the thing about Michael Moore: he’s annoying personally, but like Moore himself, his movies don’t take no for an answer. The barrage of examples in Sicko, both of the failure of American health care and of the successes of national health care abroad, is constant, fascinating, and heartbreaking. Like any sensible and determined documentarian, Moore clearly edits footage to suit his own message, but what makes it into the movie (people whose children died after being refused care at an HMO emergency room; Ground Zero volunteers with respiratory problems who can’t get proper treatment; the elderly and indigent removed from Los Angeles hospitals and dumped on Skid Row wearing only hospital robes; the list goes on and on) is impossible to ignore, and it’s right there on film, as plain as day. It’s the audience’s job to be savvy and to make a decision: How much salt needs to go down with this movie?

Moore’s sensibility helps and hurts Sicko in equal-ish measure. His reputation for rousing rabbles certainly helped the movie at the box office, which is what Moore wants—increased attendance means increased money for him and an increased awareness of his message. In a sense, people are heading to the theater to see Moore himself, and he knows it, which is why his movies tend to be so determinedly first-person. On the other hand, watching Moore almost requires listening separately with each ear: one ear for the message of the film and one ear for Moore himself, his tactics and his (fairly shameless) editing tricks. The two cross paths in a sliver of combined sensitivity and common sense. That’s where, with any luck, the audience will end up as well.

It’s hard to say whether Sicko could have existed outside the realm of Moore’s body of work. Plenty of filmmakers could have taken an interest in the health-care industry; most probably couldn’t have made as a big a splash as he did. And for somebody who likes the splash, who thrives on the splash as much as he does, that’s what counts.

Sicko, Michael Moore, documentary

I tried not to put off watching The Great Ziegfeld, the Best Picture for 1936. After all, I’d just gotten back my momentum after quitting and starting again hiatus, and I do love a musical with large, expensive song-and-dance numbers. But then Pauline Kael had to go and say mean things about it—”It goes on for a whopping three hours, but through some insane editing decision Fanny Brice is cut off in the middle of singing ‘My Man’…a lavish, tedious musical biography,” she said—and it languished by the DVD player for a few weeks before I finally summoned the strength to watch it.

Kael gets the salient points right: lavish, musical biography, three hours, Fanny Brice cut off mid-song. As for the “tedious” comment…maybe, but to be fair, nothing here is either more or less compelling than any other overlong biopic. If anything, The Great Ziegfeld (the story of Broadway producer Florenz Ziegfeld, of The Ziegfeld Follies fame) is probably more the granddaddy of movies like Ali and The Aviator than anything else. Nothing really happens, per se, but then that’s sort of the problem with a lot of biopics: people with interesting lives don’t necessarily adhere to the kind of beginning-middle-end sequencing that we’re so used to. Aren’t all biopics at least a little boring?

Then there’s the catch-22 of the musical numbers. The Great Ziegfeld is three hours and six minutes long, and punctuated by examples of Ziegfeld’s famously extravagant musical numbers. By fast-forwarding, the impatient viewer can shorten the running time by twenty minutes, easy (by “musical numbers” we’re not talking “They’re Doing Choreography”; more like enormous, round parade floats rotating onstage). But fast-forwarding here is a little like munching on raisin bread and eating around the raisins. If you’re going to watch three hours of this guy’s life, shouldn’t the musical numbers sweeten the deal? I suppose it depends on the crowd and the crowd’s affinity for ladies singing under parasols. I’ll leave it up to you.

As for Kael and the Fanny Brice complaint, I’ve got to agree, and extend it to the supporting cast. William Powell doesn’t do much to distinguish himself here as Ziegfeld, but he’s surrounded by apparent geniuses doing what they do best. First, there’s Ray Bolger, who played the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz three years later, practically dancing holes in the stage; then there’s Luise Rainer, who won the award for Best Actress (and won again the next year), as Ziegfeld’s star-struck first wife. And finally there’s Brice, who’s like watching Gilda Radner’s grandmother, and who’s like a jolt of comic energy in the middle of all the languid chorus girls and their parasols. Fantastic.

With 82 years of hindsight since the 1936 Academy Awards, it’s fairly obvious that The Great Ziegfeld had to win Best Picture. It was MGM’s most expensive movie to date—production cost $2 million—and the investment paid off in terms of spectacle and later in terms of box office success. Maybe it wasn’t the best picture of the year (surely also-ran My Man Godfrey beats it for plot and dialogue?), but it sure was the biggest.

The Great Ziegfeld, Florenz Ziegfeld, 1936, Academy Awards, Project 501, William Powell, Luise Rainer, Ray Bolger, Fanny Brice

I like to listen to other people as I’m leaving movie theaters. The post-movie stroll back the lobby is one of those times in American life when people seem especially ready to stand up for something and pronounce a verdict—for even the least decisive moviegoer, there’s got to be some kind of summing-up. It’s entertaining. After Leatherheads, I heard one particular phrase repeated several times.

“Well, that was fun.”

My thoughts exactly.

It could have been better. This is a movie where the seams show, where all clues for the future come down like anvils, so there’s nothing to be surprised about. The climax is ridiculously slow and about as tense as a slack jump rope—and it seems like it’s on purpose. We’ll just say Leatherheads is not a well-oiled machine.

But it could have been SO MUCH WORSE. Consider the trailer: six months in the theater, at least, and not a single change. Not an extended version, not a different cut, not a single new joke to keep things fresh. It’s this last one that concerned me the most. That trailer had, what, three and a half jokes? (I’m considering “Some jobs will just always be done by men.” “Big strapping men?” a half-joke.) I so wanted it to be great and fast and hilarious, but after awhile I began to wonder: were they trying to save some of the funny for the actual movie, or did they just not have anything more to say?

Thankfully, I think we’re going with the former. It’s surprisingly funny—there are, in fact, more than three and a half jokes, and some of them are genuinely good. Noticeable rushes of energy in the middle of the somewhat meandering script don’t really excuse the meandering, but they’re exhilarating while they last. In fact, this is the kind of comedy that George Clooney is exceptionally good at (and for which he usually receives too little credit): fast, rhythmic, physical, and full of overlap. No wonder he hung onto the script for a decade—it’s made for him. As Carter “The Bullet” Rutherford, John Krasinski doesn’t really shake off his Jim Halpert persona, but he’s so good at being a cute, (semi-)stand-up guy that it doesn’t matter too much. If nothing else, watching him a) stumble around a hotel lobby, drunk, and b) book it down the football field are plenty entertaining. Between the two of them, there’s a definite sense of “we’re two funny, smart guys and we’re having a great time,” and sometimes that kind of chemistry and enthusiasm are enough.

I don’t know that Leatherheads is going to be an instant classic, or a classic of any kind, really. But it’s fun in the moment, which is more than I can say for lots of the supposed best. A good time was had by all. Really.

Leatherheads, George Clooney, John Krasinski, Renee Zellweger, Jim Halpert, movie review

A little background on Project 501: last year, I started watching and writing about all of the Academy Award Best Picture winners in chronological order and writing about them in this blog. After a prolonged break, I’ve resumed, making good time through the 1930s, and I’m well-intentioned towards (read: rewarding myself with) the 1940s. Anyone’s welcome to watch along—company on the road to theoretical good filmmaking is always appreciated.

Anyway.

In 1935, Mutiny on the Bounty must have been a blockbuster: an adventure on the high seas, packed with rough water, an even rougher villain (in theory), and Clark Gable steering the ship. The footage of the big ships rocking and rolling in the stormy seas is impressive, and it can only have cost a fortune. One might toss the word “epic” around.

For better or for worse, none of this can change the giggle factor. Historical correctness aside, Mutiny on the Bounty comes across as a dramedy at best, which might be insulting to the filmmakers, but it does make the movie go down smoother: the promise of upcoming hilarity makes the prospect of two hours of keel-hauling and swabbing the deck more palatable. Half of the actors, including Gable, flounce around in their Royal Navy uniforms sounding like they’re fresh out of Des Moines. Gable (who must have been self-conscious of his hippy figure, otherwise why did he always wear such enormous pants?) plays his usual charming good-guy self, except when he tries to play Master and Commander and gets all shouty and breathy. And don’t even get me started on the Tahiti love-interest sequences—cringe-worthy, and maybe the most entertaining parts of the movie. Who doesn’t love that soft-focus filter?

If there’s a take-away from Mutiny on the Bounty (besides “don’t enslave your crew”), it’s probably the transformation in villains over the last seventy years. Today, Bligh would be a mustache-stroker, and probably chewing on the scenery; as it is, he’s kind of a dope. A mean dope, certainly, but Charles Laughton’s big eyes and lips and his knobby nose make him look more bewildered than dangerous. His performance is fine, but by today’s standards it’s remarkably understated. Might the movie have aged better with a more ramped-up villain? Maybe, though overacting isn’t really what this cast needs.

Next up: The Great Ziegfeld and The Life of Emile Zola. Oh, you’re so jealous. Don’t lie.

Project 501, Oscar winners, Mutiny on the Bounty, Clark Gable, Charles Laughton, sailing, mutiny

When making an exciting but long-overdue comeback, is it best to sneak in the side door or to march up the front steps, flaunting one’s own late but eminent worth? We at CH are all for the latter—being occasionally late ourselves, not that we’d ever admit it—and so we say: Project 501 is back! It’s been a long vacation, but the chronological Oscar train is running once again, and so we’re starting up with the 1934 Best Picture winner, It Happened One Night. Like, now.

Feeling as I do about the current state of romantic comedies, my curmudgeonly little heart watched It Happened One Night and wondered why they don’t make ‘em like that anymore. In fact, I’ve decided that they do make ‘em like that anymore—or, in any case, they try. In fact, I’m testing the theory that all modern romantic comedies are the inheritance, or maybe imitators, of this one movie.

There are plenty of things in It Happened One Night that aren’t so common to the modern romantic comedy. Long, chatty scenes, for one thing. Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable spend a lot of time together, talking the whole time, and we’re there to see it all. No quick cuts here; just talk, talk, talk. These two are what the average therapist might call “verbal processors.” Indeed. There are also twin beds (how Pushing Daisies!), showing some leg to speed up the hitchhiking process, and—spoiler ahead—a total lack of kissing at the end, which generally doesn’t fly today.

But there are also lots of things that we see over and over again in romantic comedies generally, and maybe it’s a case of doing those things better rather than a case of doing them first—i.e. I’m not claiming these were new story elements, even in 1934—but it’s a little uncanny seeing a million other well-known and well-worn tropes played out in this one story. There’s the falling-asleep-on-the-other-person’s-shoulder bit, the pretend-marriage-to-distract-skeezy-stranger thing, and most importantly, the race to prevent a tragic misunderstanding and therefore save the relationship (Notting Hill, anyone?). Gable and Colbert are perfectly adorable—who knew pre-Rhett Butler misogyny Gable was so cute?—and they play all of these iconic scenes in such a way that imitation is inevitable. This may be the token romantic comedy, the Juno of its day, but it’s aged well and made its mark. Nicely done.

Next up: Mutiny on the Bounty! More Clark Gable!

It Happened One Night, Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert, Notting Hill, Juno, Oscar winner, Best Picture, 1934, Project 501

I wish Eagle vs. Shark had come along a few years ago. It just doesn’t seem fair: make a movie about love among the socially awkward and you’re always going to be trailing along behind Napoleon Dynamite, regardless of what you were aiming at in the first place.

In lots of ways, Eagle vs. Shark is a better movie than Napoleon Dynamite. Or maybe it’s just made of slightly stronger stuff: it’s heavier, sadder, funnier in parts, and it has a clearer plot arc. The leading man, Jarrod Jemaine Clement, now of Flight of the Conchords), is like Napoleon with trust issues and a post-high school blood vendetta, and his long-suffering love interest, Lily (Loren Horsley), is therefore required to be even more redemptive by the power of her love and devotion. So maybe it’s like Napoleon Dynamite for grown-ups.

So that’s the bad news: we’ve seen some of this before, and even when it’s funny, the recycled-air feeling doesn’t quite go away. The good news is that the parts we haven’t seen are really pretty good. Writer/director Taika Cohen does an impressive job of letting Jarrod be utterly off-putting and then using Lily’s lovability to make up for it: seen through her forgiving eyes, he becomes understandable, at least, even if he’s still being a complete twit. And he is a complete twit much of the time. But there’s something refreshing about a movie that doesn’t feel the need to prove that its characters are cool, or that they’ve somehow become cool over the course of the two hours you’ve spent with them, and Eagle vs. Shark doesn’t put itself out trying to convince us. Maybe that’s the point: these people were awkward when they met, and they’re still awkward, and yet here they are, trying to work things out. And trust me: if they can, anybody can.

Eagle vs. Shark, Flight of the Conchords, Jemaine Clement, Loren Horsley, Taika Cohen, DVD review

I had to know, going into Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, that it couldn’t possibly live up to the way I’d hyped it. All the ingredients were there—Amy Adams, silly period dialogue, and Lee Pace in a tux—but one can’t just go around proclaiming the rise of American cinema (which, okay, isn’t doing so badly in the first place) with one smallish-budget movie. And, you know? I was right. But I wasn’t (too) disappointed.

Miss Pettigrew is not the grand revival of American screwball comedy that I’d been hoping for; the structure is right, but the script is too loose and draping to capture the rhythm and preciseness of true screwballity—especially toward the beginning, there’s a strange sense that the audience is charging ahead and then waiting for the next joke. Whether rapid-fire laughs were the intent of the writers isn’t clear, but either way, they don’t quite get there.

What emerges instead is a film full of sweet moments and strong emotional values—gently funny and occasionally silly, with surprisingly deep emotional roots. The characters themselves are certainly earnest. Miss Pettigrew herself (Frances McDormand) is quick-thinking and consistent, with a distaste for frivolity; love interest Michael (Pace) only wishes everyone (his lady love especially) would take love as seriously as he does. Even flighty Delysia LaFosse (Adams), who juggles three men and the attendant chaos with a wink and a smile, is decidedly unsophisticated. In a way, Miss Pettigrew is a propaganda film in support of the very earnest and the very poor: nearly without exception, to be poor is to be noble and to rise above the petty games and deceptions of the upper class.

Part of what lifts Miss Pettigrew above the mild ungainliness of its script is its cast, which (unsurprisingly) doesn’t falter. McDormand has left us (”us” being “the movie-going public”) for far too long, and she is wonderfully subtle as Miss Pettigrew. If it’s possible, Adams threatens to overdo her wide-eyed ingenue act (though the contrast makes McDormand look even better), but tones herself down into a state of her standard loveability by the end of Act I, so that’s a relief. Ciaran Hinds is endearingly honest—there’s that word again!—as lingerie designer Joe, and Pace, it must be said, outdoes himself in the area of desperate, scruffy, musically-inclined suitors (he sings!, and I’ll leave it at that).

So maybe this movie isn’t going to be on the docket for Oscar 2009. Maybe the razor wit isn’t quite as hairsplitting as one might hope. Maybe another comedy this spring (ahem, Leatherheads) will give me what I’m looking for, or maybe we’ve simply moved away from comedies that drop and spin. But Miss Pettigrew can hang out with me whenever she wants.

(Extra fun fact, courtesy of IMDB: I’d completely forgotten that Frances McDormand used to narrate the show State of Grace, with Alia Shawkat and Mae Whitman—Maeby Funke and Ann Veal, respectively, on Arrested Development. Now there are two different, but excellent, shows. Heh.)

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, Miss Pettigrew, Frances McDormand, Amy Adams, Lee Pace, Ciaran Hinds, comedy, screwball comedy, movie review, State of Grace, Alia Shawkat, Mae Whitman, Arrested Development

I can hear it now: “If you see one black-and-white hand-animated film about Iran in the 1980s this year, make it Persepolis!”

What? Too on the nose?

Frankly, there are more than a few elements—key elements—to Persepolis that threaten to make it unpopular with the Friday-night blockbuster crowd. Animated, but made for adults? Check. War in the Middle East? Check. In French, with subtitles? Cheque. Based on a popular graphic novel? Check, check, check, check (one for each volume). It went up against Pixar’s Ratatouille at the Oscars—its opposite in every way, though also a good movie—and lost. So. Are you convinced yet?

The thing is, the mass of complications here doesn’t add up to an obscure or exclusive movie at all. Don’t speak French? If you can read English, you’re fine. Haven’t heard of the Islamic Revolution? You’re in luck; neither has the ten-year-old heroine! Think you’re over animated features? Enjoy the distinctive look of Marjane Satrapi’s art, and go from there. What we have here is a coming-of-age story, something that transcends culture: a girl who covers her hair because she has to, but sneaks downtown to buy Michael Jackson records, a girl who flees her home country because it’s necessary, but finds that political freedom only leaves her lonely. It’s interesting as a historical piece, but mostly it’s funny and sad, artistically fanciful and thematically realistic. It’s sweet and quirky, but never cutesy. In short, it’s a really, really good movie.

Don’t be nervous. Try it! You’ll like it!