Tuesday, May 30, 2017

No Leaving: Chilling "Berlin Syndrome" somehow avoids mere cheap thrills

Berlin Syndrome (2017)
116 min., rated R.

Having one foot in the anti-wanderlust thriller subgenre and the other in the "...from Hell" thriller subgenre, “Berlin Syndrome” cannot attest to being built on an original story. Its narrative trajectory, however, is perversely compelling in the ways it traverses “Stockholm syndrome” and narrowly avoids cheap thrills. With the title being a sly play on the aforementioned condition between captive and captor, the film only begins like another “Before Sunrise” before raising the tension beyond walking-and-talking scenes and delving a bit into the psychology of both parties. 

Having up and left Brisbane, Australia, backpacking photographer Clare (Teresa Palmer) arrives in Berlin, open to a new experience. While wandering around the city, snapping pictures and spending time in a bookstore, she runs into Andi (Max Riemelt), a handsome and charming English teacher from Germany. They meet cute when he drops a book on a street corner in front of Clare and offers her a strawberry; after they spend the rest of the day together, they go on their separate ways, thinking it will be the last time they see one another. By morning, Clare goes back to where they first met and, sure enough, finds Andi. They get to know each other some more and become more intimate when Clare goes with Andi back to his apartment. When she wakes up and Andi has already left for work, Clare realizes he took her post-coital words to heart about not wanting to leave. The windows are “reinforced” and there is a bar across the door that keeps it locked. Besides sinister, what are Andi’s intentions?

Based on the 2011 novel of the same name by Melanie Joosten, “Berlin Syndrome” is watchably chilling, effectively unpleasant, and much less ludicrous than its obsession-thriller trappings might suggest. Subtle-enough clues foreshadow the potential peril that could (and does) stem from this situation, like Andi asking Clare if anyone knows that she’s in Berlin to Andi assuring Clare that no one can hear her when she covers her mouth as he pleasures her. While the film doesn’t break any new ground on the surface, director Cate Shortland (2012's "Lore") and screenwriter Shaun Grant (2011's "The Snowtown Murders") do explore a fascinating dynamic as Andi holds Clare against her own will and she goes between challenging him and succumbing to him as time goes on. Shortland alternately gets right the displacement and excitement of Clare being in a foreign place, and when the scenario does turn nightmarish, she knows how to keep things taut and ensure that there will be blood, like in a sequence involving a screwdriver and another with Clare's only hope coming to the rescue.

Before and after Clare becomes a prisoner, Teresa Palmer (2016’s “Lights Out”) is riveting. She makes her yearning to not be lonely so achingly palpable that the viewer doesn’t need to call out the film for failing a plausibility test. It is fairly easy to understand Clare’s first impression of, attraction for, and trust in Andi because their encounter is something new and exciting and sexy. In depicting a young woman who changes a great deal as the seasons change, Palmer throws blood, sweat and tears into Clare. As the controlling Andi, Max Riemelt (Netflix's "Sense8") has rugged Charlie Hunnam-like good looks but also gives his seductive yet deranged character more nuance than one would expect (and not only from a subplot involving the complicated relationship between Andi and his professor father Erich, played by Matthias Habich). Riemelt comes off as a gentleman and not as a psychopath right away; even when he sheds the nice-guy act, he is sometimes still calm, and that demeanor is even more unnerving. There is catharsis by the end of “Berlin Syndrome,” as well as the thought of the age-old advice both Mom and Rick Springfield gave us — don’t talk to strangers.


Saturday, May 27, 2017

Expired Rum: "Dead Men Tell No Tales" still overstuffed but somewhat fleeter-paced and less complicated

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales (2017)
129 min., rated PG-13.

Left for dead after the dozy, bloated blurs that were 2007’s “Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End” and 2011’s “Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides,” Disney’s swashbuckling, water ride-inspired franchise has been resurrected six years later to give the people more of what they want. Be careful what you wish for, right? The fifth entry, “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales,” has turned the tide in small increments, possibly from the powers that be bringing in fresh talent with Norwegian directors Joachim Rønning and Espen Sandberg (2012’s “Kon-Tiki”). It is still too overstuffed and overlong for its own good but more lively and momentarily diverting to be closer to a shoot-the-works summer entertainment than an exhausting, plodding, obnoxiously convoluted slog. By Movie #5, audiences learn to take what they can get in terms of creative inspiration.

It certainly wouldn’t be a “Pirates of the Caribbean” film without the eccentric, rum-swilling Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) hamming, mincing, boozing and stumbling. This time, though, the focus is on Will Turner’s grown son Henry (Brenton Thwaites), who wants to lift the curse on his father, forever trapped as the immortal captain of the Flying Dutchman. Wanted for treason and on the run, he will need to find the mythical Trident of Poseidon the break the sea curse, so when he finds Jack Sparrow in hopes that he can help navigate the sea, they come to an accord. They also join forces with Carina (Kaya Scodelario), a young woman accused of being a witch for her love of astronomy, because she has the Poseidon map in her possession. Meanwhile, Jack possesses a compass that frees a crew of ghost pirates, led by Captain “Butcher of the Sea” Salazar (Javier Bardem), who desire revenge on Jack for sealing their fates in the Devil’s Triangle. When the peg-legged Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush) enters the picture, too, who doesn’t want a piece of the walking scabies that is Jack Sparrow?

“Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales” is both more of the same and an upgrade from the last two movies, and whether that is an exciting or dismal proposition depends on what each viewer thought of its predecessors. What screenwriter Jeff Nathanson (2011's "Tower Heist") comes up with in terms of story that needed to be told still doesn’t justify a continuation, but it is less complicated and more cogent. At two hours and nine minutes, it is the shortest in the long-in-the-tooth series and does move with a fleeter foot, and yet, it still takes a while to get where it’s going. For comparison, this moves more like a sprinting ostrich than a lumbering sloth. The film flourishes in the perilous spectacle of each individual action set-piece — they are, after all, the series’ bread and butter. Both a bank heist, where a safe is dragged through the streets of St. Martin, and a rescue from Carina’s hanging and Jack being decapitated by a guillotine are inventively staged with kinetic energy. And, if the last film added vicious mermaids, this one throws in zombie sharks—and why the hell not?—and for that, they are one of the highlights. 

Destined to play Captain Jack Sparrow until the day he dies, Johnny Depp sailed in his performance—no, shtick—a few movies ago, rendering the character nothing more than external trappings and quirks, but here, he does bring a little more spark with an uptick in bawdiness. With that said, though, Depp really needs to put this character to bed once and for all. Since a two-plus-hour film and actual emotional stakes can’t entirely be supported by the amusing-in-small-doses Jack Sparrow and his drunken, words-slurring shenanigans, Brenton Thwaites (2016’s “Gods of Egypt”) and Kaya Scodelario (2015’s “Maze Runner: The Scorch Trials”) are cast as substitutes for Orlando Bloom’s Will Turner and Keira Knightley’s Elizabeth Swann. Thwaites isn’t able to make the bland Henry very interesting like Scodelario can as the plucky, intelligent Carina; Javier Bardem, as the vengeful, wheezing Captain Salazar, adds menace to his floating CG hair as if submerged underwater; and Geoffrey Rush seems to press on without completely phoning in his Barbossa. Finally, instead of the musician stunt casting of Keith Richards, Paul McCartney blends in well with a cameo as Jack’s imprisoned uncle.

Too many subplots, too many characters, too many endings — this series has specialized in too-muchness and has done a lot of wheel-spinning, focusing so much on a new McGuffin that holds no consequence each time, but “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales” is marginally fun; that is, if you care enough to hear the tale. It’s still professionally made with actual time and care exhibited in every detail, and the visual effects, make-up and general supernatural atmosphere are still pretty dazzling. That is probably the best that can be said for the fifth but third-best entry in a series that went past the warning signs of overstaying its welcome and giving reason to forget what audiences liked about these movies in the first place. “If you liked the first four…” would be an appropriate blurb.


Friday, May 26, 2017

Buns in the Sun: Game, likable cast deserved less lame material in "Baywatch"

Baywatch (2017)
116 min., rated R.

Retrofitting a dopey, long-defunct TV show into an affectionate homage-cum-parody never goes out of style. The template of taking the general premise of the property and running with an R-rated, self-referential approach looked easy with the surprising success of 2012’s “21 Jump Street,” along with 2014’s sequel-that-knew-it-was-a-sequel “22 Jump Street.” It was only a matter of time before “Baywatch” went through the TV-to-movie machine, and now that it’s here and designed as an action-comedy, too, it is never goofily shrewd or knowingly ridiculous enough. Ripe for a send-up, the earnest, irresistibly cheesy syndicated TV show “Baywatch” (1989-2001) had swimsuit-clad eye candy, led by David Hasselhoff and Playboy centerfold Pamela Anderson; an admittedly catchy theme song with Jimi Jamison’s “I’m Always Here”; and a mildly attention-holding soap-opera storyline per episode. Now, asking if 2017's “Baywatch” is a “good movie” isn’t really the right question when it just plays like an overblown, overtly comedic remake of the show, now with male nudity, four-letter words, and more dick jokes and gay-panic jokes than any movie truly needs. One patiently waits for it to get funnier and sharper, as most of the one-liners land with the heaviness of a beached whale, but if anything in the film acts as a proverbial life preserver for this lame, slapdash material, it’s the game, spirited and likable cast of hard bodies and one soft body.

Head lifeguard on the South Florida beach of Emerald Bay, Lt. Mitch Buchannon (Dwayne Johnson) is beloved by all because he takes his job so seriously and keeps everyone safe. On the day of tryouts for those interested in joining Mitch’s elite Baywatch team, including C.J. Parker (Kelly Rohrbach) and Stephanie Holden (Ilfenesh Hadera), showboating gold-medal Olympic swimmer Matt Brody (Zac Efron) arrives as an affordable PR opportunity for Police Captain Thorpe (Rob Huebel). Mitch tries breaking the hotshot celebrity, who disgraced his swimming career from late-night recklessness, and busts his balls before Matt proves his abilities and makes the team, along with committed Summer Quinn (Alexandra Daddario) and tech-savvy Ronnie Greenbaum (Jon Bass). When a bag of flakka washes onshore and a councilman’s already-dead body turns up on a fiery yacht, Mitch suspects both could be linked to the operations of beautiful posh club owner Victoria Leeds (Priyanka Chopra). Perhaps they should leave it the police, but if Mitch wants to keep his beach clean, his team will have to be more than lifeguards.

From the film’s gleefully over-the-top opening involving Mitch’s first rescue and the title card rising out of the water with leaping dolphins, all cued up to “Hypnotize” by The Notorious B.I.G., “Baywatch” almost works itself into the audience’s good graces, getting them ready to have a riotously fun time. Director Seth Gordon (2013’s “Identity Thief”) and screenwriters Damian Shannon & Mark Swift—you know, the team who had audiences laughing with the 2009 “Friday the 13th” reboot and 2003’s “Freddy vs. Jason”—seemingly acknowledge that the cornball, shark-jumping show wasn’t exactly high art in the first place but don’t seem fully devoted to be the least bit subversive, cheeky, or satirical. The mostly flat attempts at being self-referential include a police captain bringing Matt Brody on board the team to "restore the Baywatch brand," characters winkingly commenting on C.J. running in slo-mo, and Matt equating Mitch’s police-like desire to uncover a conspiracy to “an entertaining but far-fetched TV show.”

The by-committee script just isn’t on the level of a smart “dumb movie,” and at some point, the makers seem to stop being in on the joke when they try to be sincere. Tonally adrift, the film keeps scratching its head on what it wants to be and never quite finds a successful balance that isn't unattainable with the right care and guidance. It either takes itself too seriously, with Matt Brody getting a coming-of-age redemption arc and the boring, straight-faced drug-dealing/real-estate/trail-of-bodies-leaving conspiracy plot dragging the energy and would-be comedy down, or just can't help itself to wedge in protracted, lazily raunchy R-rated gags that predominantly involve male genitalia. Even resorting to having a character get his erection stuck between the slats of a wooden beach chair—think a less-funny “There’s Something About Mary”—and Matt checking a dead man's penis in a morgue drawer, the film still doesn’t take advantage of its R-rating, either holding back or trying too hard. 

Collectively, the cast’s jovial enthusiasm goes a long way toward making their flimsy characters generally enjoyable to be around. Both built like brick shithouses and rivaling one another as hunks in trunks, Dwayne Johnson and Zac Efron amuse when they’re trading amiable insults, like Mitch always giving Matt a new nickname, such as “One Direction” and “High School Musical” (get it?). Individually, Johnson can’t help being anything but gregarious and charismatic as Mitch Buchannon, and it seems he can have chemistry with anyone on screen. Long establishing himself and no longer written off as just a pretty boy, Efron has come into his own. As cocky, Ryan Lochte-like dumbbell Matt Brody, he is in his element, poking fun at himself and his “Men’s Health” cover persona. The beefcake star is also game to cross-dress when Matt and Mitch need to go to one of Victoria’s parties in disguise.

Of the smart and appealing women in the cast, Alexandra Daddario (who played Dwayne Johnson’s daughter in 2015’s “San Andreas”) has the most screen time as Summer, and the actress admirably plays well with a one-liner and convincingly allows Summer to dish it out. Ilfenesh Hadera (Showtime's "Billions") is eye-catching and gets to talk smack at Matt Brody's expense, but she's still underutilized as the no-nonsense Stephanie Holden. Beyond her attractive looks, winning newcomer Kelly Rohrbach is a sweet, warm presence without looking dumb, embracing her role of C.J. Parker without being merely misused as a plaything through a smarmy male gaze. While Jon Bass (2016's "Loving") is more endearing than he is annoying as doughy trainee Ronnie who desperately pines for C.J. (and who wouldn't?), Yahya Abdul-Mateen II (Netflix's "The Get Down") easily walks away with the most laughs as Sgt. Ellerbee, who can’t get it into the lifeguards’ heads that they aren’t cops. “I’m not a Bond villain . . . well, yet,” is the closest gorgeous Bollywood actress Priyanka Chopra (ABC’s “Quantico”) comes to having any wicked fun with the villainous role of Victoria Leeds who gets to purse her lips and look va-va-voom in a lot of plunging-neckline dresses.

Deliberately tacky and easy-going, “Baywatch” is still never as much fun, funny, or clever as it ought to be. When director Seth Gordon isn’t stacking on the labored gross-outs, there is a cute running joke with an ever-changing figure of Mitch in his home aquarium that keeps an eye on Matt who needs a place to crash. There are obligatory cameos from two members of the original show, and only one of them vaguely works; the one that doesn’t work earns more of a groan than a chuckle and goes on much too long. And, it sounds silly to nitpick, but are the CGI and green screen effects supposed to look so third-rate? They’re not distractingly bad enough to seem intentional or ironic that they end up in an odd grey area and just suck most of the supposed peril out of the life-saving action sequences. “Baywatch” isn’t very good, but it doesn’t have a mean bone in its chiseled, albeit bloated, body. It’s honkingly dumb as silicone but cheerfully so, and too fleetingly likable for misery to set in, and it invokes a certain breezy, summery air when moviegoers seek escapism that isn't mentally taxing. However, whereas both “Jump Street” movies goofed on its source material and managed to make both projects their own, this half-hearted goof instead offers a steady diet of lameness. At least it's not entirely in slo-mo.


Flee and Observe: Cranston brings gravitas to bittersweet "Wakefield"

Wakefield (2017) 
109 min., rated R.

It’s not inhuman for an individual craving the ability to put his or her life on hold to recharge, and “Wakefield” taps into that bittersweet idea with a low-key absurdity. Based on the 2008 short story by E.L. Doctorow that was originally published in The New Yorker, the film is written for the screen and finely directed by Robin Swicord (2007’s “The Jane Austen Book Club”) with a quiet, human-sized touch, at least for a while, but this is really a one-man show by the man in the window. Howard Wakefield (Bryan Cranston) has all the trappings of a successful lawyer and happy family man, but one night after commuting home to the Connecticut suburbs from his law firm during a blackout, he decides to voluntarily place himself into exile. Instead of facing wife Diane (Jennifer Garner) and their twin daughters, he ends up chasing a raccoon into the attic of his garage and then holing up there. From the round window in the attic, Howard is able to watch his family while distancing himself from them and reflecting on his life. As Howard scavenges food leftovers from his and his neighbors’ garbage and scrounges up old blankets to stay warm once the weather changes, days turn to weeks and then months. As Howard tells us, “You see, I never left my family. I left myself.”

Literary to an extreme with wall-to-wall voice-over narration, “Wakefield” often sounds like Bryan Cranston reading an audiobook for the short story upon which the film is based. There is a purpose for it here, although that purpose doesn’t quite flesh itself out all the way. In the present, Howard is being selfish, irrational and even kind of despicable. Sure, he might be having a personal crisis, and the character doesn’t have to be a likable peach—it’s actually rather appreciated this way—but not enough groundwork is laid to make Howard sympathetic or even allow the viewer to understand where he's coming from. In flashbacks, Howard still comes across as an insecure prick to his wife, but what they were once like before he decided to live in the garage and watch his family with binoculars doesn’t help because he was always a prick, having stolen Diane from his best friend, Dirk (Jason O'Mara). He and his wife would play a game—or this is what he tells himself at least—where Diane would openly flirt with other men in order to make Howard jealous, which would then lead to the married couple having sex, and yet he would scold her for undressing in front of their open bedroom windows. What makes this character really tick and do what he does for so long?

“Wakefield” has an odd, fascinating hook ripe for a relatable and thoughtful musing on a human being's desire to hide from reality. This is decidedly tough material to work as a feature-length film, making one want to shake some sense into Howard, even if the character never changes his mind. Because he is an actor who commands the screen with gravitas, Bryan Cranston does bring a degree of vulnerability to the frustrating Howard Wakefield that an otherwise lesser actor couldn’t, so if anyone can make this character remotely believable and compelling, it is Cranston. The rest of the actors are only observed from afar and not actually heard in the present-day scenes; Beverly D’Angelo has no audible lines as Howard’s mother-in-law whom he despises, but Jennifer Garner does enough with very little as Diane.

When more time does pass and Howard grows bummy facial hair, lets all personal hygiene fall by the wayside, and then later ventures outside to a nearby park where he risks being recognized, it becomes harder to buy into the situation. There is a midstream attempt to sentimentalize and soften Howard when he claims finder’s keepers on some old clothes and shoes in his neighbor’s trash and gets chased by a couple of angry Russian dumpster divers, only to find temporary refuge in the basement of a house of special-needs kids, two of whom later bring him chocolate cake. It’s these dips into almost too-cutesy Capra-esque absurdism that nearly derail everything the film works toward. The scenarios Howard imagines for himself lend the film a good amount of humor, though, and while it could be seen as a cop-out, the ending lands with just the right punch and does hold an unexpected emotional resonance. Forcing the viewer to wait with bated breath, the final shot of “Wakefield” immediately gets one discussing.

Grade: B - 

Saturday, May 20, 2017

More Chest-Bursting: "Alien: Covenant" shifts between bigger goals and splatter but still solid

Alien: Covenant (2017)
120 min., rated R.

Ridley Scott is not being coy this time. “Alien: Covenant” is another prequel to his 1979 sci-fi horror masterpiece “Alien,” but it’s also a sequel to 2012’s “Prometheus,” connective tissue and a stand-alone organism that unfairly sparked a polarizing reaction within the fanboy community. This time out, director Scott and screenwriters John Logan (2015’s “Spectre”) and Dante Harper seem to have made sure to limit the philosophical discussions of creation and not to disappoint with plenty of Xenomorph iconography and gross-out body-horror spectacle. In the process, “Alien: Covenant” tries to satisfy two conflicting modes—the probing of big existential questions and the face-hugging, chest-bursting carnage—as if the claustrophobic, slow-burning “Alien” suddenly morphed into James Cameron’s more action-oriented “Aliens" midway through with ideas of "Prometheus" sprinkled in for good measure. The two halves are not always elegantly spliced together, but taken on a scene-to-scene basis, it hits the spot for one who’s always wanted to see Scott make a space-set “Friday the 13th” with aliens subbing for Mrs. Voorhees.

It’s 2104, fourteen years after Prometheus sole survivor Dr. Elizabeth Shaw (Noomi Rapace) and android David (Michael Fassbender) headed off to reach the home planet of mankind’s creators. The 15-person crew aboard the Covenant is on a colonization mission through space with over 2,000 colonists and embryos in tow, as well as the ship’s synthetic, Walter (Michael Fassbender), an advanced and unflappable 2.0 version. After an accidental fire inside the cryosleep pod of the captain (an uncredited James Franco) takes his life as the rest of the crew is already awakened, the faith-affirming Oram (Billy Crudup) assumes his place as captain to lead the crew, all of them couples, to a new habitable home. Once pilot Tennessee (Danny McBride) receives a rogue transmission from a planet, the acting captain decides they should land and investigate, against the wiser opinion of the former captain’s grieving widow, Daniels (Katherine Waterston). The planet looks like paradise, full of human-planted wheat and vegetation but without any other life in sight. Then, in case it needs to be said, the crew makes some horrific discoveries that lead them to realize the planet is not as hospitable as they’re hoping. Now, where are the acid-blooded aliens?

Right down to the line-by-line reveal of the title card and a prologue with David (Michael Fassbender) and creator Peter Weyland (Guy Pierce), “Alien: Covenant” is very much of a piece with both of its progenitors. With that said, this film almost seems like an apology to the “Prometheus” naysayers, as there’s a tug-of-war between delivering as a solidly icky genre picture and then sometimes aiming higher than that. One might have hoped for fewer half-measures, but director Ridley Scott still knows how to play his audience like a fiddle. Worth the price of admission alone, one pleasingly visceral and harrowing set-piece in which an infected crew member is quarantined by Tennessee’s wife, Maggie Faris (Amy Seimetz), before all hell breaks loose in a medical bay is a showstopper. It’s as vise-gripped and rattling as anything Scott has ever devised and directed, and for the most part, not many other sequences thereafter match this particular one’s heightened panic, anxiety and nasty splatter. The third act grows a bit erratic, with an over-the-top showdown that’s still awesome but seems lifted from a tonally different film, as well as a hurriedly paced shower sex scene with an ‘80s slasher-movie gore shot. The trajectory to the final scene may or may not be meant to be obvious and perversely toying with expectations (a devious and amusingly timed wind-blown hood points to "yes"), but the implication of the consequences to follow for mankind is deliciously bleak.

The idea that the Covenant crew is comprised of married couples theoretically enhances the emotional stakes, but the screenplay does not gain nearly enough mileage out of it; for example, there is a gay couple on board, although it wouldn’t be hard for viewers to miss the hint if they weren’t looking for it. Save for one or two crew members, it’s unfortunate that the characters on hand aren’t asked to be much more than reliably ill-fated fodder for the aliens to burst through and tear apart. An extended scene that more properly established the close-knit crew’s easy rapport was released as a promo clip but was apparently scrapped from the final cut, so it seems almost like a waste for such respectable performers as Billy Crudup, Demián Bichir, Carmen Ejogo, Callie Hernandez, Jussie Smollett, and James Franco (who gets one line in a video message) to show up in negligibly handled roles before getting picked off in gruesome fashion. When a character goes off alone to “take a leak” or “wash up,” the viewer knows he or she won’t be returning with a heartbeat. Even as the audience is steps ahead of them, the characters are at least reasonably unprepared when their fellow passengers are infected with alien spores through an ear canal and up the old nose. And, in order to advance this film’s ties to “Alien,” does someone make the forehead-smackingly foolish decision to put their face where they clearly should not? Of course. 

The closest the film comes to offering up an identifiable hero is Katherine Waterston’s Daniels, filling her niche as the film’s de facto Ellen Ripley figure and bringing enough weight with the loss of her husband with whom she planned to start a new life. There is actually even a place here for Danny McBride, who surprisingly brings gravitas as wisecracking, cowboy-wearing pilot Tennessee. On the other hand, Michael Fassbender (one of the key holdovers from “Prometheus”) is outstanding in dual roles as the upgraded Walter and the self-aware, Wagner-loving David. For an actor who’s essentially playing against (and, at one point, kisses) himself on screen, Fassbender navigates between playing two distinctly different androids who share one face but act as good and evil in their objectives. How these androids evolve will be kept a mystery, but Fassbender is mighty chilling with a sly touch of droll humor and brings to life two of the most compelling “people” on screen.

It’s something of a disappointment when a superior “Alien” knockoff called “Life” preceded “Alien: Covenant” two months ago and it didn’t even have Xenomorphs or the badass Ripley-like heroine. As a Ridley Scott-directed film with the “Alien” moniker, this one has too much taut, muscular filmmaking craft on display to complain too much, but it had the potential to be so much more. On a technical level, the film is mostly spectacular. With strains of Jerry Goldsmith’s original score and Marc Streitenfeld’s “Prometheus” score, Jed Kurzel’s piece is unsettling on its own. When cinematographer Dariusz Wolski doesn’t see fit to up the intensity by using a too-jittery shooting style for an attack in a field at night, the cinematography is forebodingly majestic and moody; that misstep is more of the exception than the rule, but it’s not a total deal-breaker. H.R. Giger’s creature design is also still beautiful and grotesque as ever, even if CGI is sometimes too apparent this time around, taking one momentarily out of the film. When all is said and done, “Alien: Covenant” firmly answers the question of whether or not a retread can get a pass and still be worthy of its legacy when it’s this effectively jolting and expertly made. For a franchise that was beginning to jump the shark by crossing over with the jungle-dwelling Predators, this isn’t a bad place to be.


Thursday, May 11, 2017

Amazon Women: Schumer and Hawn make inspired team in lightweight "Snatched"

Snatched (2017)
91 min., rated R.

When it was first announced that Amy Schumer and Goldie Hawn were pairing up to play daughter and mother in an upcoming film project, it seemed so right and pretty inspired. Even more exciting was the news that 71-year-old Hawn would finally be making her way back to the big screen in her first lead role in fifteen years since playing opposite Susan Sarandon in 2002’s “The Banger Sisters.” With such a can't-miss prospect to see these two generations of blonde funny women working together, R-rated adventure-comedy "Snatched" could have been even more, but it does carve out a worthwhile niche for itself not unlike many of Hawn's comedies from the '80s and '90s. As a chance to see the winning on-screen compatibility between these two leads, it's lightweight but loosely played and frequently funny, which for a comedy is all you really need it to be. Schumer and Hawn make effortless comedic foils and are clearly having such a ball that their fun becomes infectious even for those who weren't there on set. As long as one takes into account what the goals of the filmmakers were, "Snatched" is a minor summer-launching surprise.

Fired from her retail job and dumped by her musician boyfriend (Randall Park) all in the same day, directionless thirtysomething Emily Middleton (Amy Schumer) is in a state of flux. Her biggest problem now is finding a plus-one for the nonrefundable trip to Ecuador she booked as a romantic getaway. Heartbroken from her unforeseen break-up, Emily goes to visit divorced mother Linda (Goldie Hawn) and convinces Mom that she could use another adventure outside of staying home with her two cats and nerdy, agoraphobic adult son Jeffrey (Ike Barinholtz). Not long after arriving at the resort, while Linda stays back lounging with a good book, Emily meets a charming hunk named James (Tom Bateman), who shows interest at the bar and shows her a good night. In the morning, James offers to take both Emily and Linda on a day trip to see some local sights, but right before Linda’s guard goes back up, it’s too late. Mother and daughter have been kidnapped by a Colombian crime lord (Oscar Jaenada), who tries holding them for ransom before they escape and try to find their way through the jungle to the U.S. Embassy in Bogota. Along the way, too, Emily wishes her mother would stop insulting her for once and Linda wishes Emily would finally grow up. Maybe this will be the trip they needed to reconnect.

With the efforts of director Jonathan Levine (2015’s “The Night Before”) and screenwriter Katie Dippold (2016’s “Ghostbusters”), “Snatched” generally finds a smooth balance between a mismatched mother-daughter relationship, a palatable kidnapping farce in a foreign land, and Amy Schumer’s brand of raunchy, outspoken humor. On the page, Dippold’s script builds a believable enough foundation with Emily and Linda’s relationship, but Amy Schumer and Goldie Hawn are really the ones to ensure that their bond strikes a genuinely sweet and sincerely felt note. When Emily and Linda do spar and hash things out, even while they’re traipsing through the jungle and trying to stay alive, it doesn’t seem too disingenuous. It also helps that Linda is pretty knowing that they need to save the apologies and touch-feely stuff for later once they get out of peril. Although in reaching for an arc, Emily's redemption just kind of happens, as if a few key scenes making that transition more organic were axed for the sake of momentum. The particulars of the kidnapping chase-thriller plot are inconsequential, too, but director Levine finds the proper comic timing without the long-winded shagginess of overt ad-libbing that dominates a lot of contemporary comedies. He keeps the pacing breezy, averts expectations here and there by putting sneakily fresh spins on seemingly familiar joke setups, and lets planted gags pay off later instead of just making them throwaways (for instance, a dog whistle that Linda gives to Emily as a rape whistle follows the rule of Chekhov’s Gun).

In spite of Emily’s selfish nature and propensity to share everything on social media, Schumer is never less than a blowsy, fearless comedic force; in fact, this will be known as the movie where she gives herself a makeshift douche just as the restroom door swings open with her love interest getting an eyeful. The moments where Schumer has to emote are less convincing compared to the surprisingly natural range and thespian instincts the stand-up comedian impressively displayed in her breakout starring role in 2015’s “Trainwreck,” but she and her screen partner seem to bring out the best in one another. Making a delightful return to form as overly cautious mother Linda, Hawn is effervescent, as if no time has passed. Even if one wishes her individual comedic talents were tested more—she does get a good spit take after a “welcome” greeting that sounds like something else—Hawn is still such a bright screen presence that one misses the days when the perky comedy star was making movies more regularly. After all these years, she is still an adept comedian, never overplaying Linda or making her a caricature, and brings intelligence and wistfulness to a maternal character who’s never once treated as an annoying nag. Together, Emily and Linda will inevitably meet in the middle, the former learning a little responsibility and the latter venturing outside of her comfort zone. 

Beat for beat, Schumer and Hawn’s appealing chemistry is a match, and “Snatched” fires on all cylinders when it lets them be a duo. Although this is predominantly a two-person show, there is also no shortage of zany second bananas threatening to steal the attention off of its leads. Ike Barinholtz is endearingly oddball as mama's boy Jeffrey who tries to help his mother and sister from home and shares a testy, increasingly amusing on-the-phone dynamic with a fed-up State Department agent (Bashir Salahuddin). Practically off in his own movie, Christopher Meloni is a hilariously weird hoot as an American adventurer who helps Emily and Linda and serves as their Indiana Jones wannabe guide, and his backstory holds some off-kilter surprises. Wanda Sykes scores nearly every line reading of hers as Ruth, who’s staying at the same resort as Emily and Linda, while Joan Cusack is inspiredly loopy without even saying a word as Barb, Ruth’s “platonic” ex-Special Ops friend who’s unexpectedly physically nimble and prepared when the situation calls for it. Of the ridiculously silly and situational variety of comedy, Emily has a “nip slip” and accidentally kills a few henchmen, but that doesn’t mean every gag hits the mark. There is a broad, bizarre non-sequitur sequence involving a gross, slithery tapeworm that aims to up the wackiness factor but almost seems to dip into a wild creature feature for a minute. Overall, “Snatched” has no delusions of grandeur or pretensions, amounting to an undeniably enjoyable high-concept jaunt and doing well within those parameters. And, as all comedies should be, it’s 91 minutes and smarter than it is not. It’s nothing more but definitely nothing less.

Grade: B - 

Friday, May 5, 2017

The A-Holes Strike Back: “Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2” a satisfying sequel with more heart added to the jokes

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 (2017)
136 min., rated PG-13.

Three summers ago, 2014’s “Guardians of the Galaxy” was a breath of delightfully fresh air for Marvel. With subversive, independent-minded genre filmmaker James Gunn calling the shots, it was a distinctly funky work of pop art abuzz with brio and energy from a cheeky, tongue-in-cheek tone; a tuneful mixtape of '70s pop-rock favorites that served as an integral component; and engaging, affectionately written fringe comic-book characters. As undeniably enjoyable as it was, a minor issue that kept the sci-fi adventure comedy from completely breaking out was that it felt blithe and almost inconsequential after it was all over. Still infused with its predecessor’s goofy, irreverent spirit and shrewd brand of character-based wit that has yet to come off forced, “Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2” is a satisfying sequel in that the stakes feel slightly amplified and there’s a bit more heart and emotional weight added to the fun.

In media res of another mission, the Guardians—Peter Quill/Star-Lord (Chris Pratt), Gamora (Zoe Saldana), Drax (Dave Bautista), Rocket the raccoon (voice of Bradley Cooper) and tiny twig Baby Groot (voice of Vin Diesel)—are still making it work as a ragtag family. At the end of their mission of protecting the Sovereign planet’s interstellar batteries from a monster, they are able to leave with Gamora’s imprisoned sister Nebula (Karen Gillan) on board their Milano, but Rocket decides to leave with some of those batteries in his backpack. This leaves Sovereign’s gold-plated high priestess Ayesha (Elizabeth Debicki) out for their blood. As the Guardians are pursued by Sovereign’s remotely controlled pod ships and the renegades, led by ravager Yondu (Michael Rooker), they crashland on a planet, which turns out to be the home of Ego (Kurt Russell), Peter’s biological father, a “celestial” who fell in love with Peter’s human mother. While Rocket and Baby Groot stay behind to fix their ship and watch the handcuffed Nebula, Peter, Gamora, and Drax go off with Ego and his empathic assistant, Mantis (Pom Klementieff), only for Peter to learn what he has actually acquired from Dad, not to mention a lot of emotional baggage.

There is the impulse to accuse “Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2” for being just more of the same, and there might have been the pressure by returning writer-director James Gunn for the sequel to match the first film. Luckily, a great deal of the good will carries over, and Gunn keeps the banter flip and lively, but there had to be a few trade-offs. The diegetic use of the soundtrack as Meredith Quill’s “Awesome Mixtape #2” on Peter’s Walkman isn’t quite as inspired. The guardian gang gets split up for a while. For the better, Gunn has a different ambition this time and it’s to delve into familial bonds. With just as much of a family affair as “The Fate of the Furious,” this is the Guardians’ “The Empire Strikes Back.” Like its predecessor, the sequel is still more self-contained than other Marvel entries without the burden of being interconnected to the Marvel Cinematic Universe. It’s not interested in being a place-holder or connective tissue—save for one mention of the Infinity Stone and five, yes, five post-credits stingers that are more like cherries on top than a bridge for future films—and that’s still a refreshing draw for the “Guardians” movies. It works, first and foremost, as a comedy with a concentration on the group dynamic rather than action sequences, although Gunn and his production team never fail to bring a vibrant, psychedelic-colored visual style to every frame. 

Forming a bickering but ultimately loving familial unit, the ensemble cast returns for their return engagement without skipping a beat. Chris Pratt and Zoe Saldana are on their individual games as the wisecracking Peter and the more practical Gamora. Both are given even more meat to work with between their testy, albeit lovely, Sam-and-Diane interaction and their hang-ups with their own blood relatives. Dave Bautista, as dim-bulb Drax, is once again the film’s secret weapon; not only is his hearty cackle infectious every time, his line deliveries spot-on, and his inability to not take everything so literally made into an endearing quirk, but Bautista brings a certain warmth to this bruiser. It’s still a marvel that Bradley Cooper is the voice behind a raccoon with an attitude, but he brings even more rascally swagger as Rocket, who in turn gets taken for other species not his own. Again miraculously voiced by the deep-voiced Vin Diesel, Baby Groot is adorably funny, whether he’s bringing the wrong object to help Yondu and Rocket escape a prison cell or running through a cavern with a detonator. Cued to ELO’s “Mr. Blue Sky,” the film opens on an irresistible high note, Baby Groot boogying on down to the stereo tune in the foreground as his friends battle a tentacled space squid in the background; the attention isn’t really on the action but on a cute-as-a-button twig whom we hope doesn’t get squashed. As the blue-skinned Yondu who used to be a father figure to Peter, Michael Rooker is terrific and gets a layered arc this time.

New to this world, Pom Klementieff is a sweet, quirky delight as the socially inept Mantis and shares a winning rapport with Drax, and the inherently likable Kurt Russell is a perfect choice for Peter Quill’s long-lost father Ego, exuding just the right roguish vibe, and his 1980-set prologue shows another step up in the nearly seamless magic of CGI de-aging. Though there is a more central villain waiting in the wings, the statuesque Elizabeth Debicki is mesmerizing to watch, purring with menace and looking smooth as silk playing the regally golden Ayesha.

Loosey-goosey and meandering from a narrative perspective, “Vol. 2” initially lacks focus but not incident. Bordering on too-muchness, the film eventually finds a thematic cohesion with all of the space-opera plot strands—Peter and Gamora have an “unspoken thing” between them; Gamora and emotionally hard sister Nebula have daddy issues and continue their sibling rivalry; and the wrongfully accused Yondu wants to make things right—and each payoff feels earned and not strained. Looking Glass’ “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” is also purposefully used as a through-line to bring together Peter and Ego. Without being at the cost of narrative drive, the viewer is treated to shout-outs to “Cheers,” “Mary Poppins,” Pac-Man, and David Hasselhoff all in the same movie. There are also some crowd-pleasing gags, like Rocket booby-trapping trespassers and Peter asking the rest of his team, “Do you have any tape?” in the heat of battle. James Gunn and his entire ensemble take the material seriously enough for the viewer to be fully invested in what happens to them but still let their jokey side fly. Joyful, free-wheeling, breezy and surprisingly touching, “Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2” thrives as a quality blockbuster for the early-summer season.