Four Crazies and a Funeral: Review of THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU

The problem at the center of Shawn Levy's adaptation of Jonathan Tropper's novel This is Where I Leave You is a problem that seems to constantly happen with these types of dysfunctional family dramedies. You get a large ensemble where nearly every role down to the smallest parts are given to big name, incredibly talented actors and then you give most of them little or nothing to do. In the case of This is Where I Leave You, this is only worsened by the film's attempt to bandy itself  between broad, almost farcical comedy and restrained, meditative drama. It goes back and forth so frequently that it's almost a shock that the actors involved can even hold on. But again, though they're given little to do, even the smallest roles are played by the formidable likes of Connie Britton, Katherine Hahn, Timothy Olyphant and Debra Monk. So, even through all the fighting and yelling, a few tiny morsels of emotional resonance manage their way out.

Riffing on a classic setup, This is Where I Leave You tells the story of the Altman family who would typically prefer ignoring each other from long distances, but who are forced together after their father passes away. After the funeral, the lot of them are informed by their mother  Hilary (played by a surgically enhanced Jane Fonda) that although their father was an atheist, he was a Jewish atheist. As such, his dying wish was to have his family sit 'shiva' in his memory - or in other words, they're all confined to their childhood home for seven days. Judd (played by Jason Bateman) couldn't be more fine with this seeing as he just recently discovered that his wife (Abigail Spencer) has been cheating on him for over a year with his boss, a shock-jock named Wade (Dax Shepard). However, avoiding his soon-to-be ex-wife and former boss also means he has to deal with the various eccentricities and (often) loud crises of his sister Wendy (Tina Fey), younger brother Phillip (Adam Driver), older brother Paul (Corey Stoll), and their assorted spouses, lovers and missed opportunities (including Britton, Hahn, Olyphant and Rose Byrne). 

I think most of the issues I mentioned above are the products of another thing that I also mentioned above: this movie is directed by Shawn Levy. While This is Where I Leave You might have been better suited for some middle of the road director who could have simply stood back and watched the film's amazing cast (maybe the best cast of the year) do what they do best, it was given to a man who is known not for quiet, contemplative dramas, but for loudly obnoxious, joyless meh-fests (including, but not limited to Big Fat Liar, Just Married, both Night at the Museums, The Internship and Date Night). And whether it's cracks about Hilary's new boob-job, Paul and Annie's (Stoll and Hahn) pragmatically vulgar sex talk being broadcast via baby monitor to a group of mourners visiting the home or Wendy's son dropping a deuce in his potty trainer and throwing it on his workaholic father, Shawn Levy once again proves that everything comedy he touches turns to shit. What is surprising, however, is Levy's ability to handle the film's smaller, more resonant moments. It's interesting just how much the film's quality depends on how many people are on screen at the time. Face-to-face, one-on-one scenes between siblings or between parent and child or between lover and lover feel honest and heartfelt while scenes involving large groups of people too often devolve into something that is teeth-grittingly, cringe-inducingly bad.  

Ultimately, there's a lot of interesting things that could have been done in This is Where I Leave You but simply weren't. There's no real reflection here. It's beyond clear that these siblings revert to a childlike state the moment they're back in the home they grew up in - constantly rubbing each other the wrong way and referring to Hilary as "mommy" - but no one ever really stops and genuinely tries to figure out what's wrong with all of them even though there are two psychologists in the house. Seemingly the most fascinating story - the relationship between Wendy and Olyphant's Horry - is limited to a few quick, disconnected scenes that leads to a mildly emotional scene at the end, but that could have led to something that was nuanced and emotionally enthralling. Perhaps the most compelling character is also nearly swept under the rug. In a household where no one has a lick of self-awareness, the most admirable person ends up being Britton's Tracy. Yes, she is dating a far younger, emotionally unstable former patient in Phillip, but she holds no illusions that she's doing anything but that. She realizes what type of person Phillip is and has no false hope that this might be a long-term thing the two are sharing. Sure, she is rich and that makes things a little easier, but her refusal to become consumed by the black morass that is the Altman family's copious problems is not only commendable, it puts a spotlight on just how ridiculous and annoying these people can be. 

This is Where I Leave You ends up sadly being nothing more than a waste. Is the cast great? They're wonderful. But I neither need nor want to see Tina Fey playing someone who is guilt-ridden, constantly on the verge of tears and won't ever shut up. Those aren't her strengths. I also don't need or want to see Jane Fonda playing a character who the writer (which is Jonathan Tropp adapting his own work so there's no excuse) seems to think giving a big personality and a big brain will make her even bigger boobs that much more funny when Judd looks at them in disgust. Maybe it isn't extra seriousness that the film needs like I first suspected. Maybe it just needs to make some more damn sense. Maybe there just needs to be some more stuff that feels believable. Why does no one seem to really care that Judd is getting a divorce? On that note, why does no one really press Phillip on the fact that he brings home an older, psychologist lover to his older, psychologist mother? The things that happen don't hold any real tension or drama past the initial shock of the reveal. And why on Earth when a family is as rich as the Altmans do they not find Judd another place to sleep? Can he not sleep over at Hilary's friend and Horry's mother's house? Why can't he just, you know, sleep on one of the many couches in their gigantic house? These people are genuinely messed up and no one, including the movie itself, seems to really care. 

One of my favorite things in bad movies is when someone says the title. While no one actually says the line, "This is where I leave you," the closest we get is Britton's Tracy who realizes near the end of the movie that she's better off without Phillip and better off without his crazy family. When she does, it's hard to blame her. It's also hard not to follow right behind her. 

5 out of 10

"The Butter's Spread Too Thick!": Review of Kevin Smith's TUSK

Before anything can happen in Kevin Smith's latest film Tusk, there is laughter. Not from the audience, mind you, but from the screen. You see, Wallace (a mustachioed Justin Long) is a podcaster who travels around the country interviewing weird people in order to come home and describe their tales to his co-host Teddy (Haley Joel Osment. Yes, THAT Haley Joel Osment) who refuses to get on a plane and leave LA. They call their show 'The Not-See Party' because Teddy doesn't see what Wallace does. Do you get it? Wallace tells his story, Teddy laughs his ass off. Teddy makes some witty comment, Wallace takes a turn. Like most comedy podcasts it's 70% laughing, 30% actually talking. And for those first 30-45 minutes it truly felt like Smith might have been making a sharp, self-referential comment on what happens to people who treat everything like a never-ending joke. 

During the opening credits, after the initial laughing, Tusk also lets the audience know that it's based on a true story. That is, a true story in so far as the fact that the film is actually based on one of Smith's own podcast episodes in which he and his friend and co-host Scott Mosier had some fun riffing on an online ad that was soliciting for someone willing to wear a walrus costume for two hours a day in exchange for a free room. In the film, Wallace encounters a similar situation after he flies to Manitoba to interview the subject of a particularly brutal and humiliating viral video. When Wallace discovers his subject has committed suicide, he finds himself desperate for someone, anyone to make his five-hundred dollar plane ticket worthwhile. He finds such a person while taking a piss at a local bar. Posted on a cork board is a handwritten want ad offering free room and board to anyone willing to listen to the author's copious maritime stories. The flyer is signed Howard Howe. Jumping on the opportunity immediately, Wallace drives the two hour drive to meet with Mr. Howe (played by Michael Parks) who, upon Wallace's arrival, serves him tea made with brandy-soaked leaves and spins elaborate yarns about meeting Ernest Hemingway, becoming shipwrecked and eventually finding a savior in an unlikely source - a walrus he affectionately named 'Mr. Tusk.' Before Wallace knows it he is knocked unconscious by the tea only to wake up with one of his legs removed. And while Mr. Howe tells him that it was caused by a brown recluse bite, Wallace quickly realizes what the audience knows immediately - Howard Howe is mutilating Wallace's body in order to fit him into a grotesquely constructed walrus suit - Wallace's removed and sharpened femurs serving as tusks.

Tusk has a lot of stuff going for it. For one, the aforementioned Michael Parks has the magnificent ability to transform Smith's often overly written dialogue into something more akin to a beautiful spoken word performance. And Smith is smart enough to realize it - allowing Parks' lengthy, twisting stories act as the base of the film. There is also the fact that the Mr. Tusk costume is genuinely horrifying (complete with bloody scars, patches of skin with different pigments and faces of Mr. Howe's past victims) and is more than successful in its attempts to make the audience believe Wallace is in a considerable amount of physical and emotional pain and distress while trapped within it. There is a particular scene with Mr. Howe demands that Wallace - like any good walrus - learn to swim that is staged as well as any scene from a horror movie I've seen in quite some time. Wallace's immense panic combined with the discovery he makes after being submerged is legitimately bone-chilling. And there are a few subtle touches of Smith's brand of humor that are especially well done. There is the fact that Wallace continually discovers important details while urinating. And there is the use of the Canadian Big Gulp (the 'Chug-eh-Lug'), which is present in one form or fashion in nearly every scene at Howe's mansion. It's an exceptionally clever visual that highlights just how out of place Wallace is in Mr. Howe's depraved world.

Unfortunately, the 'Chug-eh-lug' and the 'Eh-2-Zed' convenience store from which it comes are both symbolic of Kevin Smith's own tendencies to really Wallace all over everything and constantly go for the cheap joke. What Smith has promised to be the first in his 'True North Trilogy,' Tusk is packed full of weak, Canada-centric word play (including the fictional restaurant Pouteenie-Weenie). But where Smith goes truly overboard is with the film's most egregious, disgustingly awful performance - Johnny Depp as Guy Lapointe, a nearly special needs French-Canadian homicide detective who has been hunting Howe for decades and who vows to help Teddy and Ally (Wallace's girlfriend, played by Genesis Rodriguez) track him down. Between his thick makeup, ridiculous wig and mustache, laughable accent and constantly moving left eye, Depp as Guy Lapointe feels like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon character from the 1950s or '60s who got transplanted into a horror movie just as it's beginning to become truly disturbing. It's unneeded comic relief that just keeps going and going and going and going. The tonal shifts that result are something from which Tusk never recovers. 

It also doesn't help that the film really doesn't have much of a plot - apart from Wallace going to see Mr. Howe and getting all walrus'd up for his troubles - and doesn't feel thought out or focused in the least, even for a low(er)-budget movie. There are weird subplots that go nowhere, random flashbacks for some of Wallace's and Mr. Howe's ramblings but not others, illogical character behaviors, no real character to connect with, the list goes on and on. At points during the first 30-45 minutes it seems like Kevin Smith is honestly trying to tell a story about two very different storytellers - the vulgar, unpalatable Wallace's and the courteous, mannered Howard Howe - who both exploit their audiences for their own sick, perverted aims. It would have been fascinating to see what would have happened had he decided to focus only on the relationship between Wallace and Howe (and Wallace's ultimate transformation). But Smith's inability to allow his own story to breath - needing to script every laugh and compliment himself on how good that last joke was - is what kills it. And while there may be something to admire in the sheer audacity it takes to make a film like Tusk, instead of a pitch black, pointed and ironic commentary, we get what ends up being an unfunny, tonally schizophrenic nothing of a movie that shows its cards far too early and becomes something totally unexpected in the worst possible way. 

I don't really know how to end this, so I'll leave you when an excerpt from a poem written by another storyteller with a similar subject:

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,

"To play them such a trick,

After we brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

"The butter's spread too thick!" 

3.5 out of 10

It's Not Just the Hair: Thoughts on Why Ephraim Goodweather is the Worst Thing About THE STRAIN

It's also the name. 

In all seriousness (pretending that his hair and his name aren't actually things that bother me), Ephraim Goodweather is the worst thing about FX's new series based on the trilogy of novels by one of my favorite directors Guillermo del Toro. The Strain was incredibly slow out of the gate - attempting to focus on multiple story lines that all felt like they were taking place in different shows rather than simply in different locations. As it made its way into the middle and now end of the first season, the show has improved. It has managed to remove some access, unimportant story lines and connect all of the major ones in a way that feels natural rather than forced. New pairings have cropped up, the action has steadily been increasing into all out panic (even though in the last few episodes things seem to be stuck in neutral) and it seems to finally be figuring out what kind of show it wants to be. Yet throughout all of those positive changes, one thing has remained constant: EPHRAIM GOODWEATHER IS TERRIBLE. Absolutely terrible.

From the moment Eph Goodweather (again, a name that can only exist in a world where there are parasitic worm-controlled vampires) is first introduced, I knew he was an awful character. Everything about him is a cliché. For starters, he's a genius which, if you've ever watched a TV show, you know means he has absolutely no grip on his personal life. He also, because he's so much smarter than everyone else, has to have at least one quirky trait that sets him apart from all the plebeians. In Eph's case, it's the mystifying reveal that he drinks milk at the scene of a major outbreak because of course he's an alcoholic and it's not like there are things like tea or coffee or soda or water to tide him over. (They just don't give you that sweet, sweet bovine buzz!) Maybe the worst part, however, is how as soon as he gets to work the entire arch of Eph being a control freak unable to accept and stop the dissolution of his marriage goes out the window. While he actually is the boss at the CDC, none of that controlling personality comes out in any of those scenes. All of his scenes with his family add up to a backstory that only matters when it's time to talk about it.

He's also the worst CDC worker in the entire history of the world (I hope). First off, let's talk about his family which "means the world to him." Look, I know the prospect of losing your wife and son is an unbearable feeling. I get that. But to completely forego all of your responsibilities at the CDC because you're too preoccupied with the custody hearing for your son? He himself mentions that this new "outbreak" is unlike anything they've seen before. If that's the case, how hard would it be for him to call and explain that he needs to reschedule the hearing BECAUSE THERE IS AN OUTBREAK THAT COULD WIPE OUT ALL OF NEW YORK! If he were just honest with them and said, "Look, I've never seen anything like this before. People could be in some really serious danger if I don't find out what's going on," I think they'd understand. But of course that doesn't happen and he goes to his custody hearing anyway. And of course his son requests that the judge give his mother full custody because it's what he thinks is the right thing for his dad. Did I mention that Eph's reignited the affair with his coworker Nora, the same coworker that helped break up his marriage in the first place? Because, yeah, he did that too. Even when he does finally do his job, he doesn't go out to the public with his findings or really tell anyone what is happening. Not to mention that when he is confronted by Setrakian (the resident vampire expert), Eph consistently refuses to believe anything he says even though the mysterious gentleman with the sword cane is proven right again and again. He won't even admit to the idea that these creatures are vampires or even call them that until well into the season (and even then he has reservations). Ephraim Goodweather's egotism and disillusionment are astounding. 

But perhaps the most egregious thing that happens on Eph's watch at the CDC is the time where HE KILLS A FREAKING VAMPIRE AND THEN JUST RUNS AWAY because everyone thinks it's a much bigger deal that he got caught moving the body on tape rather than, you know, THE FACT THAT THERE'S A FREAKING VAMPIRE CREATURE TRYING TO KILL EVERYBODY! And he can't take his cell phone with him, no way. They have the power to track that thing. Without it he'll be much harder to find when he goes straight to his wife's house to warn them to get out of town. Good thing he remembered to leave that baby behind. Otherwise he might have been caught somehow faster by the FBI than the milliseconds it took when he went off the grid. 

Eph's also one of the biggest dicks ever. I've already covered how he's constantly going on about his family and his son and how much he loves them while spending innumerable hours away from them and restarting his affair with Nora - having sex in his wife's bed while he's supposedly looking for his missing family and getting caught by his wife's best friend. But even more maddening is the fact that while Eph constantly talks about how he would do anything for his family and how they mean the world to him, when Jim or Fet do things because of their compassion and love for their own families or people they care about, Eph takes a huge dump all over them. He threatens to kill Fet multiple times either by his own hand or by banishing him into the vampire infested night and he punches Jim in the face and proclaims that Jim is dead to him after Jim does something morally reprehensible to save his wife's life. In the latest episode, this righteous indignation finds a target in the newest member to the crew - the British super hacker Dutch.  Simply because she helped Palmer (one of the main villains who is mostly responsible for the outbreak) shut down the city's mainframe after Palmer offered her an unbelievable sum of money, Eph finds the right response to be telling her to get the hell out even though she's now just trying to survive like the others and doing everything she can to help the group. "Who put you in charge?" asks Fet. "THE CDC!!!" Eph replies. Eph's messiah complex is through the roof. He believes he is better than everyone, that he is perfect and we are all the imperfect ones. He believes he is the chosen one. Our Neo. The only one who can stop what is happening. Even Setrakian, who is the one that actually DOES know everything about these vampires and is right about EVERYTHING when it comes to them, is treated with wary skepticism by Eph. Eph is incredibly self-centered, clueless and completely delusional. 

"Why does this make you so angry?" I hear you question through your computer. Well, friends, it doesn't make me angry so much as frustrated. And the reason Ephraim Goodweather is so frustrating to me is because he's the main character in The Strain and he makes it a worse show. He's doesn't feel like a real character. Let me clarify that. No character in The Strain feels like a real person. But Ephraim Goodweather doesn't feel like a real character in the universe of The Strain. He doesn't behave in the logical ways a real life person would behave, but he also doesn't behave in ways that are logical to characters in the show. Why is he repeatedly lashing out at these people who are only trying to survive and help him survive? Why is he still in a constant state of skepticism and mistrustfulness when he's experienced everything he's experienced? In addition to this, his character's relationships and interactions as the worst of any character's in the show. Unlike actually interesting relationships like the surrogate father/son bond between Setrakian and Fet and the budding friendship between Fet and Dutch, there is no growth or progression in Eph's relationships. No matter what happens with Eph, it's always a mix of "I love my son," "I have to find my wife," "Hold me close, Nora, I can't be alone tonight" or "I hate you, I'm going to kill you if you don't get out of here." He doesn't evolve, he doesn't change or do anything out of character. He's as clichéd and one-dimensional as a character can be. 

In a show where you're the main character and you are both the most unbelievable (that's including a Holocaust surviving, pawn shop owning, cane sword wielding geezer and a misunderstood, extremely intelligent Russian rat-catcher) and the most hated (that's including an ancient worm-like Dracula, a sadistic vampire Nazi and hordes of the mutated undead), there is a real problem.

That problem's name is (appropriately) Ephraim Goodweather. And he's the worst thing about The Strain. 

Just One of Those Movies: Review of Jim Jarmusch's ONLY LOVERS LEFT ALIVE

Indie legend Jim Jarmusch's latest film, Only Lovers Left Alive, is just one of those movies, man. Some people will tell you that it's a vampire movie, but those people are the type of zombie that the vampires in this movie would scoff at. To be honest, though, I'm not really sure what to call it. The best I can come up with is calling the film an extremely cool (both in body temp. and attitude) hang out flick. Only Lovers Left Alive is a film that is brilliant more for what it doesn't do than for what it does. In a time where the film market is overrun with vampire movies preoccupied with gory violence, sometimes even gorier sex, and immortal love acting as the ultimate metaphor for teenage infatuation (and sparkles, don't forget sparkles),  Jim Jarmusch emphatically questions, "Who cares?" 

Though Only Lovers Left Alive exhibits a deep undercurrent of emotion in subtle, often unexpected ways, the sentiment and violence aren't extravagant or in your face and the atmosphere is one thick with ennui rather than terror or dread.  What Jarmusch concerns himself with isn't supernatural horror. Rather, Jarmusch is interested in the simple fact that these creatures have been around for ages. And over these countless centuries, they have acquired a level of knowledge and perspective on such things as literature, philosophy, history and culture that humans, by definition, can never achieve. But along with this knowledge and understanding comes a cynicism and languor developed over the same timeless existence. These are beings with cognition and talent unmatched in the natural world, but who have developed, over the innumerable years of their lifetimes, habits and obsessions that by nature force them into lonely ways of life. 

The ironically named and "spookily entwined" Adam and Eve (Tom Hiddleston and real life vampire Tilda Swinton) are Jarmusch's sunglasses and gloves sporting outlet through which he channels the exhaustion of adults who have seen and done it all but who are tragically out of touch with the modern world.  The pair are literal creatures of habit. Adam - a reclusive musical genius - collects vintage guitars (which he acquires via his square, eager to be cool, long-haired lackey Ian (Anton Yelchin)) and layers experimental tracks in a dilapidated but gorgeous Detroit mansion cluttered with an opulent plethora of antique shop treasures. When he isn't making funeral music, he's tinkering with Tesla-inspired gadgets (including a setup that allows him to FaceTime on an ancient black and white CRT TV). Eve, on the other hand, spends her time in Tangiers feeding her insatiable appetite for literature and hanging out with vampire Christopher Marlowe (John Hurt) who, it turns out, actually did write all of that zombie Shakespeare's plays (no word on the sonnets). After a distressing phone call where Adam expounds upon his disdain for the world and the disgusting humans that populate it, Eve decides to make the trip to Detroit (only night flights please) in an attempt to bring him back from the brink. 

When Eve's reckless sister Ava (Mia Wasikowska) shows up halfway through the film bringing chaos and an almost primitive savagery with her, a bit of plot arrives along with her pressing the film into action. After a lot of pleading, Ava finally manages to convince Adam and Eve to spend a night out on the town (or at least, one that isn't filled with moody driving). As a buffer, Adam decides to bring along the still disturbingly uncool Ian to act as a buffer between himself and Ian's fellow zombies. It's a decision that ends in some very unfortunate happenings. 

But while Ava's appearance threatens to sneak some plot into the film, Only Lovers Left Alive is at its best when it's simply acting as a slice of life look into the night-to-night comings and goings of these age-old vampiric beings. It's a film that functions exquisitely well as a catalog of Jarmusch's cultural and philosophical tastes and as both an insightful observation on the madness that his human existence and more specifically as a comment about committed artists who operate and suffer at the fringes of society. The details on how Adam and Eve (and Marlowe) secure their supplies of blood - opting to bribe hospital workers for "the pure stuff" rather than taking it forcefully from the fetid garbage that are living hosts - are presented as candidly as how an addict would score his or her next hit. The euphoria they experience after sipping the blood from their elegant liqueur glasses is shot in full-on, slow motion junkie style as their incisors temporarily sharpen into (not-so-subtle) excited fangs. 

Really, when it comes down to it, it's not the actors who are the MVPs here (though the cast in uniformly terrific - especially Swinton who is absolutely perfect, throwing away lines that other actors would chomp hamily into). The real star of the film is its tone. It's the original music by Jozef van Wissem. It's all the inspirations that get both subtlety and frankly presented, figuratively and sometimes literally unpacked on screen. Shakespeare, Kafka, Joyce, David Foster Wallace, even Neil Young and Jack White show up from time to time. Jarmusch draws out every ounce of atmosphere from the wasteland-like streets of Detroit and the stunning cafes and winding streets of Tangiers. Rather than direction and progression, he seems much more interested in simply showing his audience how these two very unique individuals live.

Only Lovers Left Alive really is just one of those movies, man. Much like his 1996 classic, Dead Man, Jarmusch again shows his uncanny ability to reinvent and transcend genres. But, it's also a film where you can tell he's getting older - a man and director who, like his characters, is finding himself in the position of knowing a lot about the world but feeling cut off by its incomprehensibility. Yet underneath it all, there is a undeniable romanticism to the film. It's a romanticism that has to fight the overwhelming darkness that surrounds it, but that finally does so on the back of a central relationship that feels so worn in and familiar that little needs to be explained. Only Lovers Left Alive is a dream-like, foggy film that just kind of drifts along. It's not a film that speeds up or slows down to please its audience. It has its own pace - one that it's perfected over centuries - and if your down with it, feel free to come along for the ride. Just don't forget your sunglasses. 

9 out of 10

"A History of Violence": Thoughts on Jeremy Saulnier's BLUE RUIN

Hey, you remember that time where we all got excited for that new Superman movie and then it sucked? Yeah, me too. One of the (many) problems I had with that movie is a problem I have with a lot of movies. Blood and violence (and bloody violence) too often have no consequences. Superman battles General Zod throughout Metropolis killing and injuring thousands while causing millions, if not billions of dollars in damages and nothing happens. The city is quickly rebuilt and Clark Kent goes back to work at the Daily Planet like it's just another Monday. And this happens all the time. Protagonists shoot up streets, crash through storefront windows and generally stir up all kinds of shit and we never see any of the fallout other than the occasional, "...Hey!" from one of the unfortunate store owners. 

That's why it's so refreshing when a film actually deals with the less glamorous side of violence. In one of the best scenes in the Coen Brothers' debut feature Blood Simple - to which Blue Ruin has received a lot of comparisons - John Getz's character is trying to mop some blood that has pooled on the floor and is only succeeding in moving it around in a circle. Obviously it's a metaphor about violence and crime and how a person's sins cannot so easily be scrubbed away. But it's also a clear, visual representation of a simple idea: murder is not a business for amateurs. In Jeremy Saulnier's (Murder Party) brilliant entry into the revenge thriller genre, the director takes this basic principle and builds an entire movie around it - a man who is utterly unsuited to exact revenge exacts revenge to extreme repercussions.  It's a story than has been told many times before, but where Saulnier changes the formula is what makes Blue Ruin so special. This isn't a farce. This isn't a film focused solely on the revenger's ineptitude. Occasionally he is resourceful, other times he is incompetent, but the focus is always on how he is out of his depth. No matter what he does or how he does it, what's important is just how unequivocally ordinary he is.

When we're first introduced to Dwight (Macon Blair), he is a haggard mess, soaking his frayed beard in a bath. As soon as he hears the front door opening, he quickly grabs his clothes and slips out of a window. Soon, we find out Dwight is a vagrant "living" out of the backseat of his bullethole-ridden Pontiac in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. When he isn't sneaking dips in the locals' tubs, he can be found picking thrown away grilled cheese sandwiches and tickets to Funland out of dumpsters on the pier. One morning, he's woken up by a kind police officer who brings him to the station in order to "give him a safe place to process the news." William Cleland, the man who was convicted of murdering both of Dwight's parents in rural Virginia, is being scheduled for release after striking a plea bargain. To himself, Dwight resolves to seek retribution himself by murdering Cleland, but he lacks the necessary tools, know-how and experience to get the job done. He also doesn't have an end game. Dwight fails to realize that while killing Will Cleland may be an eye-for-an-eye situation to him, the other Clelands may not see it that way. He can't see that once he begins this cycle of violence, it won't be nearly as easy to stop.

Dwight may lack forethought and any sense of real planning, but the key to Blue Ruin is that he isn't stupid, just a weak and desperate man attempting to work within the narrow set of options he's been given. Ideally, he would use a gun to complete the deed. But even the pawn shops want too much for their firearms and while he manages to steal one by smashing the driver's side window of a pickup truck he finds in a bar's parking lot, his attempts to remove the gun's lock go hilariously awry. Eventually, Dwight has to settle on a everyday, run-of-the-mill steak knife. It's a decision that changes the nature of the crime tremendously. Now he has to get in close. The kill has to be personal. Intimate. Just as closely, Blue Ruin follows every decision Dwight makes and revolves around the consequences of his actions. And while the logic behind all of his short-term decisions is both understandable and clear-cut (pun mildly intended), the tragedy lies in the long-term fallout that trails just out of sight. 

It's clear that with Blue Ruin, Jeremy Saulnier is endeavoring to imbue a seemingly familiar genre flick with a decidedly art house aesthetic. It's a venture that is a magnificent success both in part because of his fantastically ominous compositions and because of his strong sense of editing which enables him to transform a number of misleadingly simple scenes into displays of taut, white-knuckle suspense. The film also benefits from Saulnier's adept skill at beautiful character moments like a diner scene between Dwight and his sister Sam (Amy Hargreaves). It's an incredibly quiet moment, but all of the years the two have spent apart and the duress and disappointment that hovers invisible above their heads is palpable. It's an important element that keeps Blue Ruin from being sucked too deeply in the conventions and pulp of its genre. The action is never allowed to become cartoonish to the point that it removes the audience from the flawed characters that are ultimately the cause of it. 

Much of this has to do with the film's star, Macon Blair. Once Dwight shaves his shaggy beard and trades in his fluid soaked v-neck (I'll leave you to guess what fluids have soaked it) for an oversized dress shirt and slacks, he morphs from street-savvy vagrant to a near-cherub - apple-cheeked and brutally out of his element, too depressed and resentful to stop himself from doing things that a person with a stronger will and stronger convictions would avoid. 

Though it arguably gets too pulpy for its own good near the end and though there are a few plot threads that can be nitpicked if you're so inclined to pick some nits, Blue Ruin is an impeccably shot, beautifully sharp and tightly structured thriller that both satisfies and transcends its genre status. In one of David Cronenberg's later films, the director argues that violence has a history. Blue Ruin argues that it also has a graphic and vigorous present. Like Blood Simple, it's a film that deals focusing on crimes of passion committed by people who are deeply flawed but disturbingly relatable in their mundanity. Blood Simple is about trying to clean up the blood left behind. Blue Ruin is about trying to restrict the blood that's still coming out. 

8.5 out of 10

"Like a Punch in the Gut": Why Voice-Over Killed HOUDINI

I'm going to start off by stating the obvious: biopics are hard to do. Typically, when someone or group of someones try to do one, what happens is that they find themselves being crunched for time. Logically, then, they resort to one of two options. Either they attempt to cram their subject's entire life into a series of hasty vignettes that wind up having the cumulative effect of a shitty episode of This is Your Life or they commit to focusing on a single, defining period in the subject's life and risk leaving out countless other important and formative moments. How lucky was it then that History Channel and director Uli Edel's latest project, Houdini, seemed to be in that mythical sweet spot with all the tools to strike that perfect balance between the two extremes. For one, they weren't crunched for time. While most movies and television biopics can maybe get two hours of running time if they're lucky, Houdini was given over three hours to tell the late magician's story. Equally were the blessings of a screenwriter (Nicholas Meyer, nominated for an Academy Award for his work on the Sherlock Holmes film The Seven-Per-Cent Solution) who seemed perfect for the job as well as an A-list, Academy Award winning actor (an accolade History Channel has never missed an opportunity to boast) in Adrien Brody. Yes, combine that with beautiful set and costume design, a wonderfully evocative John Debney score that beautifully blends old and new and strong performances across the board and History Channel seemed to have themselves a real winner! And then in comes Adrien Brody's voice-over and hits you in the gut worse than any punch.

That's not me being trying to be funny people. That's an actual line that Adrien Brody says in the miniseries. Houdini, the man who dies of a sucker punch-related burst appendix actually says the line "Some things can hit you in the gut worse than any punch." Really, Houdini? ANY punch? Any punch whatsoever?There's literally no punch that you could experience that would be worse than this heartbreak you're feeling right now? And just in case you didn't catch on to that subtle wink at things to come, they make sure to hammer the point home (yes, like a punch in the gut) by showing a Guy Ritchie-esque CGI closeup of the inside of Houdini's abdomen as the metaphorical blow is struck. Don't get me wrong, I'll admit that I found it pretty hilarious the first time they did it. But by the 5th or 6th reintroduction to the inside of Houdini's torso my laughs were replaced by a baffled "Wow, they're really doing this."

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have expected subtlety from the guy that directed The Little Vampire. And, for what it's worth, you can tell that Edel is clearly excited about telling this story. When it comes down to it, I guess there really isn't anything wrong with the miniseries' directness. I understand that any biopic about Harry Houdini, given the type of man he was, can't really be done without a lot of enthusiasm and a good sense of humor. Plus, even though things often get a little too dramatic and ostentatious, it is after all a story about one of the most famous showmen of all time. Really, despite all of those CGI gut-punches and cliche moments when women Houdini comes into contact with turn into his mother before his eyes, Edel does some interesting things. I love when a movie or television series shows how the sausage gets made, so to speak. Here, it creates an interesting dynamic any time Houdini steps on stage. There's a palpable tension, but its not because we're worried about whether or not he'll make it out alive, it's because we've seen him practice these stunts and know how they work. We know what he's in for when he gets submerged upside-down in that tank of water. It's a subtle twist on our typical experience with magic and it works really well. But that damn voice-over. That damn, omnipresent, ever intruding voice-over.

I have no problem with voice-over in theory and often have no problem with it in practice. I completely understand how it's oftentimes necessary in order to present information and insight that would either seem clumsy and/or out of place if explained in the physical world of the film or TV series or would simply take up too much time if the characters were to explain it themselves. I get that. It makes sense. What I don't understand is when it is used the way it is in Houdini. Adrien Brody's voice-over is such a constant and is so frequently over-the-top that it feels almost like something that might be done on Drunk History or SNL. It's like if Werner Herzog did a documentary on narration. Houdini and Houdini leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Whether you like it not, they're going to make sure you know damn well what's happening in front of you. Even the psychological isn't immune. Houdini makes sure you know exactly where his state of mind is at all times lest you forget "The one thing I can't seem to escape from... is me!" And it accomplishes nothing! There's no added dramatic weight. What's told to you isn't something that couldn't have been deduced through, I don't know, WATCHING WHAT WAS HAPPENING ON THE SCREEN. Not only does it make you feel stupid by insinuating that you can't decipher even the basest of symbolic elements, it makes it so that any modicum of emotional resonance or nuance has to bite and scratch and claw to get out. Anytime the series builds up any type of energy or momentum it's immediately snuffed out by an intruding voice saying, "Man, did you see that?! This is what I meant by that. Here's also what I'm feeling at this moment. Jeez, what a punch in the gut this all is." How are you supposed to connect to anything you're seeing on screen when something like that is happening every 30 seconds? Simply put, you can't.

What makes this such a shame is that apart from the maddening voice-over, Houdini is actually a pretty good biopic! Apart from the interesting work Uli Edel does, Nicholas Meyer's script is also pretty solid. Yes, there are the occasional and obligatory childhood flashbacks and the final half of the series feels rather hurried to make it to that all important set of sucker punches, but Meyer is able to neatly separate the two main eras of the late magician's life - his career as an illusionist and escape artist and his crusade against the world of spiritualism - and the revelation that Harry Houdini was actually James Bond without all the killing. Meyer's script also tackles (sometimes more successfully than others) Houdini's relationships with the two women that shaped his existence. While these elements are sometimes sidelined in favor of  showing the magician escaping a jail cell or making an elephant disappear, Houdini's complex and ever-changing interactions with his wife as well as his near-Oedipal fascination with his mother after repeatedly failing to win his father's affections are two of the most intriguing things that the miniseries has to offer. I've rarely heard anyone talk about Houdini's personal life and it's fascinating to see how his motivations to reconnect with his mother's spirit were so strong that they ended up destroying nearly all the immense joy he had for his profession and for his life.

Likewise, it's hard to pull off such an extensive range of emotions without incredibly strong leads. Adrien Brody for one is an absolutely brilliant choice.What I love about him is that he's not the classically good-looking Hollywood actor. He isn't big or loud and doesn't have this booming presence, but what he has is perfect for the role. His presence greatly comes from what's just underneath the surface. There is this magnetism in his soft-spoken demeanor that for whatever reason convinces you of Houdini's electric showmanship. He has this weird mixture of a relaxed nature and tremendous determination that makes him as commanding in the largest theaters as he is in the smallest parlors. The way Brody is able to portray how Houdini's endless enthusiasm eventually turned against him in his quest to make contact with his mother's spirit - how his victories only led to more and more grieving, systematically dimming the magician's once bright life force - is utterly fantastic. Kristen Connolly does an equally fine job as Houdini's wife Bess. She displays this balance of warmth and a strong, sarcastic wit that makes for the perfect foil for Brody's Houdini. And while she eventually gets unfortunately relegated to concerned and disgruntled spouse, the pair's early scenes on stage and behind the scenes have this wonderful, easy-going chemistry that makes it easy to understand how the duo found love and made it to the top as quickly as they did. There's this one amazing scene early on where they both get confronted after an act doesn't go the way they had hoped or planned. After the confrontation they share this brief moment of silence contemplating the life of performance they have chosen to share. It's one of the most powerful moments in the entire miniseries. And the main reason why it's so powerful? SILENCE.

It's during moments like that one that it feels like Houdini is trying to pull some bad trick on the audience. Nearly every single time the series appears like it may be ready to engage in some genuine reflection or nuance in comes some Brody noir-like voice-over to remind us all of how Houdini was an escape artist who could never really escape his inner demons. And, as a result, any and all instances of potential resonance are destroyed. Houdini had everything it needed to be a captivating deconstruction of a man whose life was an interesting, contradictory mix of self-aggrandizing myth and merciless devotion to practicality and what was "real." It's just so unfortunate that with all the talk of not being able to escape, Houdini is ultimately trapped by its devotion to an overwhelming and unnecessary voice-over that prevents its audience from ever truly connecting to it. There's this poignant and quiet scene at the end of the series where Bess is conducting a seance in an attempt to contact Houdini from beyond the grave. As the camera pulls out, the screen darkens into a title card that reads "Harry and Bess never made contact again."

I feel you, Bess. I feel you.

Remembering Robin Williams

When I was in high school, every year on my birthday my mom would take me or I would take myself and a few of my friends to a mall that was about an hour away from my house. I could never really think of anything I wanted so I always just ended up going to the mall's f.y.e. where I spent hours upon hours just hunting for new and used movies. Typically I never had in mind any particular movies that I wanted. I would just browse, pick some up, put some back and eventually end up with a large armful of plastic cases full of hours of entertainment. But one year was different. One year I vividly remember that no matter what movies I got, I told myself I had to get some Robin Williams movies. 

I remember realizing how much I enjoyed Robin Williams but how that enjoyment only stemmed from a very small number of movies. I had seen Mrs. Doubtfire and Flubber and Jumanji and The Birdcage dozens of times and his performance as the Genie in Aladdin is one of the first true memories I have of seeing something on screen that had me utterly captivated. So much so that when my mom bought me an action figure of the character (one whose facial expression you could change by swapping ends of the removable head) I carried it around with me wherever I went. I couldn't even take a bath without it. 

And so I carried out my usual birthday search: browsing, picking some movies up, putting some back  and I eventually ended up with my standard armful of plastic cases full of hours of entertainment. Among these were Hook, a two-pack including What Dreams May Come and Patch Adams, Death to Smoochy, Toys and The Fisher King. I watched them all in the course of one or two days and I loved them. There wasn't a single one I regretted purchasing. The only thing I did regret was that I had only bought these. But here's the thing. Look at Rotten Tomatoes. Go to Rotten Tomatoes and look up Robin Williams. Go ahead, I'll wait... Are you back? Okay, what did you see? That's right! All of those movies I listed (that's including Jumanji and Flubber from my childhood) except for one are certified rotten. Hell, Flubber and Patch Adams are at 23%! (For reference, the new Ninja Turtles movie sits only 3% behind them.) That's when I realized something. I didn't love all those movies I bought that one year on my birthday. I love Robin Williams. 

Thinking about him, I think that's what'll be my ultimate takeaway about Robin Williams the actor and the person: Robin Williams spent his career making a lot of terrible movies (nearly one or more for every good one he did) and yet we treat him as if they are all masterpieces. And sure, some people can't connect to him the way others do. And even I will admit that over the years his brand of free-floating, machine gun improv has worn on me from time to time. However, I think it's illustrative that despite this, the response across the internet to his untimely passing has been nearly uniform. There have been no "too soon" jokes that I've seen, no one is disparaging his memory and calling him selfish or a terrible human being (and those very few that have have been met with immense backlash). People are just mourning the loss of an incredibly talented man that brought joy into their lives in one form or another. No one that knew him has spoken up to say that he was cruel or making snide comments about him. Reading all of the posts by people who knew Robin Williams points to the same thing again and again: What a kind and loving and generous man he was to everyone; how he was like a ray of sunshine that lit up any room he was in. 

But all of this unfortunately begs the question: How could a man who brought so much happiness to so many people be so devastatingly miserable that he took his own life? 

It's a cruel irony in this world that the people who are the funniest, wittiest and nicest are often the ones with the most darkness within. With Robin Williams, like an unfortunate number of other standup comedians, the problem seemed to always be there. In his 1986 standup special, A Night at the Met (which is one of the best and you should find and watch it), Williams speaks candidly - and it should be noted hysterically - about his struggles with drugs and alcohol and his other demons. Similarly, on a 2010 edition of Marc Maron's WTF Podcast, he mentions that while he was drinking there was only one time where he contemplated suicide. But after that, he said, he never considered it again. And while he doesn't really talk about the connection between his depression and his abuse of drugs and alcohol (which came first hardly matters, it's a vicious cycle), just looking at his work tells the story. Someone on Twitter posted something that I think perfectly encapsulates the idea: When you grow up watching Robin Williams you only see him as a funny man that can play a litany of characters and can make you smile and laugh with every one. But as you grow older, you realize that the majority of performances involve a character trying to keep his inner darkness from destroying him.

In films like The Fisher King, Good Will Hunting, and Patch Adams, Williams plays a man who uses comedy and often manic behavior to cover up his immense sorrow. Granted, those are all dramas, but even in his full-on comedies you get something similar. In Mrs. Doubtfire as Daniel Hillard, Williams does something ridiculous and hilarious by dressing up as an old English nanny, but he does so because of how much pain his divorce has already caused him and to avoid any further pain caused from being unable to see his children. And in perhaps what is his most famous performance, as the Genie in Aladdin, though Williams plays a character who feels like the embodiment of manic joy - a character of 1000 voices and ruled by silliness - it's a character whose only wish is a deadly serious one created out of sadness: to be free.

To say that Robin Williams was a beloved entertainer would be putting it to criminally lightly. As I said earlier, the outpouring of fans describing their memories of Robin Williams and what those memories (and the performances that created them) have meant to them throughout their lives has been immense. But what I think is so special is how varied the performances cited are. There aren't a handful of movies that keep getting mentioned over and over. Instead it feels like his entire filmography has touched someone somewhere. Yes, there are some performances that stand above the others - Good Will Hunting, The Fisher King, Moscow on the Hudson, World's Greatest Dad and Dead Poets Society to name a few - but for all of those I've seen mentioned, I've also seen people saying how much movies like Toys and Jack and Hook and Bicentennial Man have meant to them. Hell, I even like his performances in Man of the Year and RV. Even if a movie was atrociously bad, it never reflected poorly on him. That's how great Robin Williams was. No matter how his death this past Monday came, it would have made your heart skip a beat.

But the fact that it happened in the manner it did, that he took his own life as a result of crippling depression, makes it all the more devastating. I have never suffered from depression in the way Robin Williams did, but I have people very close to me who have. And though I could never begin to fathom what sufferers of severe depression must feel on a day-to-day basis, knowing how much greater the pain must be than even what someone on the outside might see is staggering. And to realize how indescribably awful that feeling must be and then to think of how long someone like Robin Williams must have struggled with it until finally being unable to fight any longer makes me want to cry with sadness and with thankfulness that I am among those who haven't had to know that pain.  

To mourn for someone you have never met and to do so like you would one of your loved ones is a strange thing. I don't think it has to do solely with the fact that it is a brilliant light snuffed out far before its time. I don't think it has to do solely with thinking about how much power the demons inside him must have had to destroy the hope of such an inventive, extraordinarily talented and warm-hearted man. I don't even think it's solely from thinking about all the friends and family he left behind to grieve for him. It's all of those things certainly, but it's also just the simple, poignant fact that a man who brought so much joy and happiness to so many people could not keep himself from sinking into the darkness. And if the vibrant, almost mythical spirit of Robin Williams couldn't do it, how can anyone?

Depression is a heartless bastard and it steals what is most precious to us. It does not discriminate. It does not care if you are kind or good or funny or witty or beautiful or brilliant or a parent or a son or a daughter. It doesn't care if you're talented or if you're rich. It doesn't care how much joy you've brought to peoples lives or how many wonderful things you've done in this world. When depression takes someone from us, people are prone to saying, "If only they knew how much they were loved." But it wouldn't have mattered. Depression doesn't care who loves you or how many there are of them.  It doesn't count blessings and it certainly isn't warded off by them. In fact, another cruel irony in this world is that the more blessings a person has, the worse things may be. "How dare I be sick when I have all of this." 

All one can hope is that maybe this will make people more aware that there are places out there with people who want to help. The internet is a strange and often awful place, but there are also people there (and in the world proper) who are trying to shine a light on the dark areas where so many people live in shame and debilitation. There is nothing to be ashamed about, they are saying. This is an affliction, a condition as real and as painful as any wound or broken limb. You can't mend a broken arm with the power of thought or by willing it back into place. You can't walk start walking on your broken leg just by being happy or manning up. Don't be afraid to ask for help. Don't be afraid to reach out your hand because there are people out there who will grasp it and they will not let you go. No matter who you are, there are people out there who love you and who want to help. All around the world there are now ordinary people touched by an extraordinary man who are remembering that Walt Whitman poem and are beginning to stand on their desks ready to be remarkable, to make a difference. 

I never had the pleasure of meeting Robin Williams. I did not know the man. I cannot tell him what he has meant to me over the years or how many wonderful laughs I have experienced because of something he said or did. All I can do is cherish the memories I have and mourn the fact that we will no longer have the privilege to experience what a magnificent whirlwind he was. 

You're free now, Genie. I hope you have found peace. 

Unending Conflict: Thoughts on DAWN OF THE PLANET OF THE APES

Why does war exist? 

"Hey, now," I hear you say, "I didn't come here for some kind of philosophical debate! Just tell me if the movie with talking monkeys on horses with big ass spears and machine guns is as awesome as it sounds!" But that's the thing. The Planet of the Apes franchise has never been just about one thing. There has always been a dichotomy in its purpose. On one hand, you know, apes on horseback with guns and shit - the type of thing you'd find floating around the mind of any adolescent boy. On the other hand, every film in the Apes franchise (now in its second reboot) has had some form of social commentary, often going to incredibly dark and emotional places. Charlton Heston has damned everyone to hell, babies have been killed and the earth has been blown up. So, why does war exist? Surprisingly, Matt Reeves's Dawn of the Planet of the Apes provides one of the most compelling answers I've seen in a long time to that impossible question. It also has a set piece where two apes fight each other with scrap metal on top of a crumbling skyscraper. 

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes picks up where 2011's Rise of the Planet of the Apes credits ended (a graphic of criss-crossing planes representing the spread of the virus created by the biotech company Gen-Sys). In a short vignette, we learn that over the last 10 years the virus, dubbed "Simian Flu," has wiped out the majority of Earth's human population. There are a few groups of survivors huddled together in the ruins of their various cities unaware if they are the last ones out there. In a crumbling San Francisco we meet one of these groups led by Malcolm (Jason Clark), an ethical and decent human being, and Dreyfus (Gary Oldman), another good man but one who only wants to protect his people but who also seems to be more willing than Malcolm to do whatever it takes to ensure that safety. 

These (and the others that make up the colony) are not bad people people. In fact, they're sympathetic because of how easily we can identify with their lives before the apocalypse. But the group of human survivors are only part of the equation. Deep within the Muir Woods lives a far more interesting group. There, led by Caesar (an absolutely stunning and heartbreaking performance by a motion-captured Andy Serkis), is a sophisticated village full of hyper-intelligent apes. There are faces we came to know in the first film - whether it be the wise and affable Maurice (Karin Konoval), the loyal Rocket or the scar-covered, rage-fueled Koba (Toby Kebbell) - and there is a new generation of children both young and old.

Unlike the humans, this is a civilization that is thriving. They live in elaborate homes built into the trees, they hunt together using weapons they have crafted themselves and they have been instructed in the intricacies of the English language by Maurice. Most of all, however, they have come to learn and accept the credo that "Ape not kill ape." Caesar's son Blue Eyes (Nick Thurston) hunts beside him as his equal and Caesar's mate (Judy Greer) gives birth to another son. The apes want for nothing. Sure, they bicker from time to time, but it is a tribe of peace. 

Then the humans, in an attempt to find and repair a hydroelectric dam, enter the scene and an intense, violent encounter suggests that renewed relations being the two species will not end well. But Caesar allows the humans to leave. It's here that Dawn begins a back and forth that switches sympathy between humans and apes. The chimps had the misfortune to run into the most trigger happy and paranoid of an otherwise calm and reasonable group of humans. The humans also didn't enter the woods to kill any of the apes. Their goals were peaceful and solely motivated by necessity. And while the encounter ends with no further violence, it's an incident that puts both tribes on their toes, causing each group to become weary of the other from afar. Dreyfus tells his people to prepare their weapons, Caesar finds his actions and authority questioned by Koba who, unlike the most of the other apes, continues to harbor immense disdain for the species that experimented on him and took his eye. Caesar and Malcolm realize the need for peace, but the humans' fearfulness and anger and the apes' confidence and envy quickly turn things to violence once more. 

What's so spectacular about Dawn of the Planet of the Apes is that we're rooting for both sides. When the first major battle occurs, even though the action is visually stunning and viscerally exciting the overriding emotion is dread. The action is thrilling and remarkable and all we want is for it to STOP. When the humans finally restore the power and Malcolm and his family (Keri Russell and Kodi Smit-McPhee) are with Caesar and his family looking at the bright lights of a renewed San Francisco, the feeling isn't one of happiness. There's a tightness in our chests because we know things don't end like this. When we see the people in the city celebrating the return of their lights and their vitality, the realization that this type of peace and happiness cannot last is crushing. 

Like most real world conflicts, this isn't a war where one side is all right and the other is all wrong. Everyone has a point and everything the characters do is understandable from where they're standing. There are decent people coming at it from both sides attempting to find the most reasonable and peaceable end. But both sides also have their villains whose flaws spiral things into their inevitable and heartbreaking conclusion. Reeves's fantastic visual sense and beautiful choreography are matched by a Rick Jaffa and Amanda Silver script that expertly combines strong storytelling with nuance and ambiguity. Sure, this is a film where apes ride tanks and shoot sub-machine guns from the backs of horses, but it's also a film that forms and navigates a delicate political situation that echoes many of the global conflicts in the world today - a especially strong parallel being to the seemingly endless strife between Israel and Palestine where every small step towards peace is quickly erased, dragged down again and again by bloodshed. At the end of the day, the conflict in Dawn can be boiled down to same thing most of our real world conflicts can: two groups who are equally scared of one another. 

Yet for all of its important and philosophical ideas, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes remains a film of exhilaration - a visceral film constantly moving, full of amazing action, unexpected moments and captivating, often gun-wrenching poignancy. While Russell and many of the other humans don't have much to do, they are all able (particularly Oldman and Clark) to convey the gravity of the situations in which they find themselves. Like with Rise, the apes also have weight and an undeniable presence thanks to motion-capture work that is easily the most breathtaking I've ever witnessed. After Serkis, who brilliantly conveys in subtle gestures and looks the immense burden put upon Caesar by his own principles, Toby Kebbell as Koba is the standout. Whether it be in a particularly emotional scene where he points at all of scars repeating "Human! Work!" over and over again or in a scene where he engages in stereotypical primate behavior in order to outsmart and ultimately overtake a couple of idiotic humans guarding the armory, Kebbell manages to create one of the most layered villains of the year. When an ape is hurt or when they are pounding on one another or falling in battle, the impacts are physically and emotionally palpable. And that's what makes Dawn of the Planet of the Apes one of the best films I've seen so far in 2014. 

Like all of the best Planet of the Apes films, Dawn is able to create a sense that no matter how ridiculous and unbelievable the premise seems, what happens here matters. And as the film closes and we look into Caesar's weary eyes (forever changed from the warrior that began the film), we realize along with him that the fate of the world hangs on the choices that will be made by these characters, both human and ape alike, in their day-to-day struggle to survive. 

9 out of 10

"People Are Strange": Review of DELIVER US FROM EVIL

I read somewhere that audiences make their minds up about whether or not they like a film within the first 15 minutes. Now, I'm still dubious about that theory, but one thing I've noticed again and again is that if a film has serious problems, they will more often than not reveal themselves quickly (and hilariously a lot of the time). Sometimes it's something blatantly obvious like the actors are terrible or the sets/CGI looks cheap. Other times it can be a problem with the story or screenplay. Either the logic is flawed and nothing makes sense or the writing is just simply atrocious. And on the rare occasion, you get the impression that something is wrong before even seeing a single frame of the film. 

In Deliver Us from Evil, the latest horror film from director Scott Derrickson (Sinister, The Exorcism of Emily Rose), before anything gets started the film's creators want the audience to know that the film is based on the real-life accounts of New York police officer Ralph Sarchie. Like that means anything! Look, plenty of movies are based on true stories and are great. Hell, some of the best films of all time are based on true stores. But an exorcism movie "based on the accounts of New York police officer Ralph Sarchie"? That means nothing! That's like a horror movie about Bigfoot saying at the beginning that it's based on the accounts of this guy who was totally attacked and kidnapped by Bigfoot this one time. It means nothing. The only reason it's there is to try and provide some gravitas to the events on screen and hopefully elicit a reaction of, "Well, I would say this is pretty laughable, but if it actually happened... Man!" Audiences don't care if a movie is based on a true story. They just want to watch a good movie (and in this case, one that's scary and suspenseful). It's not only lazy storytelling, it's insulting to viewers. It's also the film's biggest problem.

Deliver Us from Evil constantly tries (and fails miserably) to add weight and meaning to the inevitable silliness of the exorcism subgenre. Nearly every scene seems shrouded in darkness. Ralph Sarchie and his partner Butler (Eric Bana and Joel McHale) constantly find themselves slowly tiptoeing through unlit, spooky New York City apartments and brownstones with only their flashlights (which constantly seem to be going out) to guide them until some kind of animal pops out to bark or hiss at them. The city is also constantly being assaulted with torrential downpours leaving our protagonists to sit moodily in their cars contemplating life and the urban decay around them. However, unlike the moral squalor of a film like David Fincher's Se7en, here it just feels like an attempt to add gravity to a film full of cliches. 

It's a film that somehow manages to be a generic exorcism movie AND a generic cop movie at the same time. The majority of the movie is populated with scenes of either Sarchie and Butler investigating various supernatural disturbances or examining evidence to track down a mysterious veteran turned painter (Sean Harris) who seems to be involved in the deaths of his military friends and their loved ones. When this isn't happening, Sarchie can mostly be found hearing things others can't and talking to Father Mendoza (Edgar Ramirez), a Spanish Jesuit priest and ward of one of the mysterious painter's supposed victims, about his past sins and all the weird stuff that's been going on. Sarchie also has a wife and daughter (Oliva Munn and Lulu Wilson), but they're mainly there to be terrorized by unseen and unexplained forces and to be the reservoir into which Sarchie pours all of his fetid memories of being on the force even though he "doesn't want to bring that stuff home." And all of this might have been tolerable if the exorcism/horror part of the film was actually any good. Unfortunately, what it boils down to is a few jump scares in darkened buildings or on darkened streets. Jump scares, mind you, where the thing that does the scaring isn't even frightening. Rarely is it a ghoul or a possessed human. More often than not it's a cat (Sarchie hates cats) or a dog or a dangling pipe that kind of looks like a snake. When it is something otherworldly, we never see it. Now, I don't have a problem with not seeing what is torturing Sarchie's family, but Derrickson just cuts away! Sarchie's daughter hears scratching in the walls, her stuffed owl Ha Ha Hoo's and rolls around, doors slam and then Olivia Munn rescues her and that's it. They don't even talk about it with Sarchie, A POLICE OFFICER THAT HAPPENS TO LIVE IN THE SAME HOUSE AS THEM. 

Then there's the final exorcism scene where things are finally going to come to a head. Sarchie and Mendoza find and arrest the mysterious painter and find themselves face to face with the demon in a locked interrogation room. As Mendoza prepares, he tells Sarchie the five steps to exorcising a demon and warns him to only read the responses to the bible verses Mendonza reads. As we're told, Sarchie has a type of ESP and may be vulnerable to the demon's tricks. And then they begin... the most generic and somehow boring exorcism in history. It's clear from the opening scene that the film wanted to be just like William Friedkin's 1973 classic The Exorcist. But where that film was able to find a sense of dread deep within the hearts of its audience, where it was able to create an exorcism that felt both terrifying and heartbreaking, Deliver Us from Evil fizzles out. For one, the exorcism goes off nearly without a hitch. Sarchie is only ever bothered once when the demon blasts loud noises directly into his brain. Most of the time, he's actually really helpful. It's even his ESP that allows the duo to find out that the demon's name is "The Jungler" (continuing the hilarious trope of demons with ridiculous names) which helps Mendoza cast it out. And while you would expect the priest to actually be the one who is nearly deceived by the demon, where Father Karras is both tortured and finally possessed himself by the demon in The Exorcist, all it takes for Father Mendoza to snap out of it is a quick pep talk from good ol' Sargent Sarchie. Finally, after 5 or so minutes, they cast the demon out. He blows a few windows out and yells really loud, but he leaves. His host, the weary solider/painter, looks confused and in shock but remembers and tells Sarchie where the demon locked his wife and daughter and there's a triumphant slow motion reunion. The end. 

Actually, not quite. We're informed through an ending paragraph that Ralph Sarchie retired shortly after these events and now works with Father Mendoza as a demonologist, which got me thinking - How good would this have been as a documentary?! Now, I'm not trying to take away from the actors themselves - they are easily the best and strongest aspect of the film and make poorly written dialogue and silly situations work as best they can. (Eric Bana and Edgar Ramirez are both fantastic and Joel McHale is a particularly surprising standout. The way he is able to combine his patented snarky humor with the seriousness and physicality that is also called for is terrific.) But this story would have worked so well as a documentary. Learning about the real Ralph Sarchie and hearing his direct accounts of his exploits would have been incredibly interesting. Plus, then being able to follow him in the present as he works with Father Mendoza and being able to decide for oneself if the things he says and does seem plausible or if he seems like a complete nutjob could have been fascinating. As it stands, however, Deliver Us from Evil is a derivative and tedious movie that constantly finds itself stuck in the conventions of two subgenres. It's a movie that's absurd while trying to be consequential. 

And for those of you who might think I'm being too hard on it, let me end with the only truly unique thing about the film: THE DOORS. The music of the Jim Morrison and The Doors plays a major role in this film. Why? I have no idea. Father Mendoza briefly mentions that one way for a demon to enter the physical plane and possess someone is through a door - one of these is how The Jungler finds his way inside Santino while the group of soldiers investigate a cave in Iraq. But that's it! Why does the demon play hit songs from Jim Morrison's band? Does he just have a weird sense of humor? Maybe he just assumes everyone hates the keyboard. I don't know, but there are at least 3 or 4 songs from The Doors catalog that play in various ways throughout the movie. Whether Sarchie is hearing "People Are Strange" in his head or possessed Jane Crenna is babbling "Break On Through (To the Other Side)" after dropping her baby into a lion enclosure, The Doors are everywhere. It's not clever or subtle (in case you don't get the connection, closeups of the words "door" and "The Doors" in Sarchie's notes are cut together dramatically) and no one really comments on it apart from a few jokes early on. It also certainly doesn't serve the plot whatsoever. Why it has to be The Doors and couldn't be some Latin phrases or blood-curdling screeches or any other music ever is beyond me. It's literally one of the most baffling elements in a film I have ever seen. 

I hesitate to say I hated Deliver Us from Evil simply because the inherent ridiculousness of the majority of it was enjoyable on some level. But the prophet himself, Jim Morrison, once said, "Hatred is a very underestimated emotion." And who am I to argue?

2 out of 10