Movie review by Greg Carlson

A beneath-the-underdog story that would be right at home as a produced-for-cable movie of the week, “The Wrestler” transcends its familiar structure by way of the title performance of previously washed up star Mickey Rourke, whose unsavory antics and questionable plastic surgery torpedoed his once healthy career.  The fourth feature from Darren Aronofsky, “The Wrestler” is easily the director’s most conventional movie to date.  Written by Robert D. Siegel, the film never strays from the formulaic hallmarks of weepy melodrama, but Rourke manages to apply his old charm where it is needed most, and the result will satiate moviegoers who might otherwise find the whole thing more than a little reheated.

Rourke plays Randy “The Ram” Robinson (birth certificate: Robin Ramzinski), a once famous professional wrestler whose long ago successes have been replaced by part time work at a grocery store and weekend bouts for small cash payouts that don’t quite cover the rent on the Ram’s dingy trailer.  Many will not care why the script fails to account for Robinson’s epic fall from the tower of fortune, but the filmmakers clearly have no intention of exploring that aspect of the character’s biography.  Instead, we take the guy at face value: he’s a seemingly decent, working stiff who roughhouses with the neighborhood kids in the daylight and frequents a strip club at night.

One of the screenplay’s many contrivances is the tenuous relationship that develops between Randy and Cassidy (Marisa Tomei), a veteran pole dancer who takes a shine to the grizzled grappler.  Tomei fills in the blanks in an underwritten part (although the scene in which the merits of the 1980s are discussed feels phony), and Aronofsky effectively parallels the routines of the two characters.  Both Randy and Cassidy depend on their bodies, and the eyes of spectators, for their livelihood, and both figures are, according the story, past their prime.  The difference seems to be that Randy only comes to life when he pulls on his tights, while Cassidy is numb to the requirements of her occupation.

The writing practically trips over itself manufacturing a good reason why Randy and Cassidy cannot date one another (it’s against the rules!), but it is the Ram’s failed relationship with his now grown daughter Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood) that chokes the hardest on cliché.  Desperately hoping to reestablish a connection, Randy reaches out to the young woman, despite her reluctance to let him in to her life.  The handful of scenes between father and daughter allow Rourke an opportunity to deliver some juicy, moist-eyed apologies.

Throughout the movie, Aronofsky’s camera lingers over Randy’s battered physique, leaving no scar unexamined, no physical trauma unexplored.  Like one of the characters in the dreadful “Seven Pounds,” Randy is the owner of a weak and strained ticker, and the metaphoric possibilities are applied in broad strokes.  The manipulation of the audience hides in plain sight, but Rourke plays his part with so much pride and dignity, only the most cynical will fail to identify with the Ram.  Somehow, most of “The Wrestler” works real magic – thanks to Rourke – who delivers what might be the portrayal of his life, in both senses of the phrase.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Gus Van Sant cleverly links past and present in “Milk,” a sturdy, carefully crafted biopic of the martyred gay rights activist. The past is represented by frequently integrated archival footage that the director combines with the fictionalized dramatizations of Harvey Milk’s political failures and triumphs. The present finds parallels between Milk’s 1978 campaign against Proposition 6 (an anti-gay California state ballot measure better known as the Briggs Initiative) and California’s 2008 Proposition 8, preventing same sex couples from marrying. Unlike several of Van Sant’s more lyrical, experimental features, including “Elephant,” “Last Days,” and “Paranoid Park,” “Milk” embraces a conventional storytelling approach that effectively serves the detailed screenplay by Dustin Lance Black.

Tracing the relatively short political career of the first openly gay non-incumbent politician elected to substantial office in the United States, “Milk” owes much to cinematographer Harris Savides’ beautiful imagery, Bill Groom’s evocative production design, and the understated costuming of Danny Glicker. Despite its 1960s and 1970s setting, the movie never gets bogged down in too much period specificity, and one suspects that the effect was consciously crafted. Van Sant also tempers the “highlights” approach so common in the movie biography with enough behind-the-scenes bonhomie that gay and straight viewers feel welcome in Milk’s company.

In the lead role, Sean Penn senses the grand opportunity before him and runs wild with it, infusing Milk with an almost bottomless wellspring of wit, charm, and warmth. By the time Milk has perfected his rallying refrain of “I’m Harvey Milk and I’m here to recruit you,” most audience members will be ready to join the colorful band of characters pulled in by Harvey’s gravitational field. Penn’s Milk tends to the idealized (see the Academy Award-winning documentary “The Times of Harvey Milk” as a valuable companion piece), and Van Sant ignores the suggestions that Milk could wield an ugly temper. Fortunately, the streamlining does not make Harvey Milk any less interesting.

Milk was murdered along with San Francisco mayor George Moscone on November 27, 1978 by Dan White, who had recently resigned his position on San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors. Josh Brolin plays White in the film, and largely avoids turning him into a bogeyman or a caricature. One of the movie’s most effective scenes sees an intoxicated White approach Milk
with almost gasping desperation. There is more than a hint that White wishes to explore some deeply submerged curiosities, but mostly, the audience witnesses White’s jealousy, frustration, and incredulity at Milk’s effortless popularity.

Many of the movie’s other supporting players register as memorably as Brolin. Emile Hirsch, as activist Cleve Jones, steals every scene in which he appears. James Franco plays Milk’s boyfriend Scott Smith, who grows weary at Harvey’s relentless self-promotion and quest to take center stage. Diego Luna, as Milk’s unstable lover Jack Lira, is not given as much screen time as the others and suffers as a result. The audience has little incentive to invest in the character, which negates any power Lira’s later scenes might otherwise project. In the end, however, the success of “Milk” rests mostly with Penn, who adds yet another impressive chapter to his storied acting career.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

From “The Village Voice” to “Variety,” reviews of Danny Boyle’s “Slumdog Millionaire” (co-directed with Loveleen Tandan) compare its inhabitants to the colorful street urchins and the cruel tormenters and exploiters of Charles Dickens. For anyone familiar with “Oliver Twist” or “David Copperfield,” the similarities are hard to ignore, and offer some idea of the film’s tone of triumph in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Simon Beaufoy’s screenplay, adapted from a novel by Vikas Swarup, channels Dickens in other ways as well, spinning coincidences so preposterous that one becomes nearly dizzy at the thought of how everything is sewn together. Boyle is certainly a talented filmmaker, and has been especially interesting because his body of work resists the kind of stylistic calling cards that define, and often confine, some of his peers.

Jamal (Dev Patel), a chai wallah from the slums of Mumbai, moves from one hot seat to another when he is suspected of cheating on his way to a fortune as a contestant on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” Underdog stories can be catnip, especially in tough times, and many of us have imagined what it might be like to attain fabulous wealth for being able to answer seemingly trivial questions. Relying on the painful memories of his patchwork childhood to provide the information he needs, Jamal navigates his way through the game to the astonishment of its cocky host – played by Anil Kapoor, whose growled refrain of “Who wants to be a mill-a-NAIRE?” is one of the movie’s curious pleasures. As Jamal climbs from one question to another, Boyle transports the viewer back to a corresponding anecdote from the character’s past.

While many have sung the praises of the film’s construction, calling it anything from ingenious to a metaphoric “river of life,” it is instead a liability for many viewers who will find themselves torn between an interest in filling in the blanks of Jamal’s past and the momentum of the much shorter scenes that take place on the set of the game show. Boyle uses three actors of different ages for each member of the trio of principal characters, and of those nine performers, some command more attention than others – always a risk when using this technique. Patel is certainly charming, and Freida Pinto is lovely as Latika, the young woman Jamal loves – even though they do not share much screen time.

Boyle practically taunts his audience with the range of events he chooses to show on camera. The film bounds wildly from a triumphant positivism that explains why the movie is constantly pasted with the dreaded “feel good” tag to the ghastly sight of a few nearly unspeakable horrors visited upon vulnerable orphans. Boyle does not flinch when staging scenes like an odious dunking in an excrement-filled latrine, which is played mostly for slapstick comedy, but some of the darker material will disturb sensitive viewers.

More stomach-churning is the depiction of a child being maimed, and it is certainly open to debate whether Boyle pushes too far to make his point. Perhaps the director would argue that the poverty of Mumbai demands a shockingly graphic treatment of the lives of its most destitute children, but so much of the film is calculating and manipulative in the direction of fantasy-come-true that the juxtaposition of the sweet and the heinous threatens to unravel the whole movie.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

An almost absurdly reductive outline that dramatizes the best-known highlights of the short life of Christopher Wallace (known better as the Notorious B.I.G.) while skipping over any real opportunity to explore the mind of one of hip hop’s greatest artists, “Notorious” will appeal to many viewers too young to have experienced the superb MC’s impact while he was alive. Essentially, the movie delivers exactly what most fans will want, even if it sidesteps the thornier dilemmas faced by a character as complex as Biggie. Much of the film tumbles by like a series of extended montages, and large sections of Wallace’s life become subplots with scenes so brief they appear unchanged from the soundbites and clips in the trailer.

Wallace’s mother Voletta and impresario Sean Combs, along with a pair of former managers, receive some type of producing credit, an instant indication that “Notorious” will not be as concerned with subtlety as it will with polishing the already sterling legend that routinely sees B.I.G.’s name at the top of many “greatest rapper of all time” lists. While there is nothing necessarily wrong with this – most biopics could be described as encomia – “Notorious” tackles only some of the largest conflicts faced by Wallace in his 24 years while completely ignoring others. The pair of 1996 arrests that included drug and weapons charges, for example, goes undocumented.

Watching “Notorious” replicates the odd sensation of attending a costume party in which facsimiles of 1990s hip hop personalities try on the clothes and mannerisms of those who made them famous. Although the script has little time to develop them as full-fledged characters, the romantic partners in Wallace’s life, including first serious girlfriend Jan (Julia Pace Mitchell), protégée Lil’ Kim (Naturi Naughton) and whirlwind spouse Faith Evans (Antonique Smith), all read as vibrant and persuasive in their hurt at being wronged by Biggie’s irresponsibility and lack of fidelity. Less convincing are the over-the-top portraits of Sean Combs and Tupac Shakur, played by Derek Luke and Anthony Mackie. Both actors have been outstanding in past movies, but in “Notorious” their work has the exaggerated quality associated with someone playing a game of charades.

At the film’s center, Jamal Woolard fashions a credible performance, although most of the time, his Biggie Smalls lacks edge in favor of too much innocence. Ultimately, what “Notorious” needs most is the presence of the genuine article. The screen B.I.G. tries to be too many things at once, so that when Faith Evans asks Biggie whether he is a bad guy trying to be good or a good guy trying to be bad, the audience wonders the same thing. “Notorious” never offers a satisfying answer to that question, as writers Reggie Rock Bythewood and Cheo Hodari Coker prefer to cram clichéd life lessons down the throats of audience members who deserve something less patronizing.

The feeling of doom that haunts “Notorious” from its first scene to its last speaks to the frustration and pain experienced by many hip hop fans. The contradictory intersection of entertainment and violence – that place where the fantasy of Hollywood crime films and mob boss monikers becomes confused with the impulse to do real harm to a media-constructed “rival” – is replicated at the beginning and end of “Notorious,” but that aspect of the narrative remains as murky and un(re)solved as Wallace’s 1997 murder.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

An occasionally stimulating, often perplexing treatment of the nature of guilt, redemption, and the responsibility taken (or not taken) for one’s actions, “The Reader” is the kind of film designed to entice award season kingmakers.  Two of the film’s producers – Anthony Minghella and Sydney Pollack – died prior to the movie’s release, and the fact that both men are Academy Award winners adds a measure of luster and sentimentality to the film’s pedigree.  Directed by Stephen Daldry from the novel by Bernhard Schlink, “The Reader” does not risk enough to distinguish it from some of last year’s other handsomely photographed period films.

Tinkering just a bit with the chronology but otherwise sticking close to the events described in Schlink’s text (available in an English translation by Carol Brown Janeway), Daldry’s film initially traces the sexual awakening of 15-year-old Michael Berg (David Kross), a schoolboy in post-World War II Germany who shares a brief but intense affair with a woman more than twice his age.  Kate Winslet, as Berg’s lover Hanna Schmitz, brings much more to the role than is offered by David Hare’s script, which never attempts, or dares, to peer inside the mind of a person intimately acquainted with the unthinkable power of decision-making over life and death.

It is no spoiler to reveal that Hanna was a concentration camp guard who served in the S.S., although Daldry plays the scene in which this information is revealed as one of the movie’s two essential surprises.  The challenge for someone attempting a critical assessment of the story is to account for Berg’s curious relationship with Hanna after he discovers her complicity in the horrors perpetrated under the reign of the Third Reich.  While a second examination of the title suggests more than one possible assignation, the movie’s point of view belongs decidedly to Berg, even though Hanna dominates his thoughts from the first frame to the last.

Following the publication of Schlink’s novel in 1995 (the translation debuted in 1997), some controversy was inspired by the sympathetic portrayal of Hanna.  Many of the arguments, however, missed the essence of the author’s questions related to the generations of Germans coming of age after the end of the Nazis: is everyone responsible?  Hanna often asks those who stand in judgment of her “What would you have done?” and the query can have a chilling effect.  Neither Schlink nor the filmmakers explicitly forgive Hanna for “merely” following orders, but there is no doubt that viewers are meant to sympathize with her.

While Berg is portrayed by both Kross and Ralph Fiennes to represent the character at different points in his life, Winslet attempts to handle the younger and older versions of Hanna.  The movie’s first major section, effectively and often erotically detailing the heavily heterosexual male fantasy of Berg’s carnal education, is the film’s strongest, as Kross and Winslet seem to spend as much time in the bed or bathtub as they do with their clothes on.  Winslet does not fare as well buried under old-age makeup, but the overall impact of her performance is on par with her strongest work to date.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

No.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

With the release of “Seven Pounds,” superstar Will Smith earns the distinction of appearing in two of the year’s worst films. Along with “Hancock,” “Seven Pounds” makes a strong case that the charismatic performer has been taking ego-inflation lessons from pal Tom Cruise. Even so, Smith did not attain his global entertainment clout by being stupid, and he has thus far managed to insulate his persona from harm even when the films in which he appears smell like sewage. Reunited with director Gabriele Muccino, who fared better with “The Pursuit of Happyness,” Smith assumes the monumental challenge of breathing likability into a passive-aggressive, guilt-ridden, suicidal Good Samaritan.

A minefield of potential spoilers awaits any conscientious reviewer who attempts to untangle the dubious plot of “Seven Pounds,” especially since the film’s climax depends on one’s lack of knowledge of key details. From a screenwriting standpoint, the movie’s fractured narrative is a masterstroke in protection against criticism, covering up holes in logic too massive to be addressed in any other fashion. The film opens with the 911 call in which Smith’s Ben Thomas reports his suicide. Audience members are then left with the unsettling task of spending the remainder of the running time building up to the melodramatic moment.

Ben’s distress call merely signals the beginning of a herky-jerky parade of disjointed scenes that make little sense even when the movie’s devastating dark secret is revealed. A weird prelude of seemingly unconnected incidents suggests that Ben has decided to change the lives of several strangers, some of whom he has culled from the delinquency column of the IRS database. Among the group are Woody Harrelson as a blind call-center operator and Rosario Dawson as a printmaker with an enlarged heart. Like a bizarre stalker, Ben insinuates himself into their lives in a creepy way, determining whether they might be worthy of something he can give. In addition to Harrelson and Dawson, he also harasses a negligent nursing home director and signs over his oceanfront vacation home to a battered mother.

Through all of this nonsense, the script withholds too much vital information, which has the deleterious effect of making the whole journey completely frustrating. Clever and impatient viewers will be able to discern the meaning of the movie’s enigmatic title long before a revelatory shot in the final reel explains it. A similar title and storytelling strategy was used in Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s superior if no less far-fetched “21 Grams,” but the poorly paced “Seven Pounds” lacks the directorial sophistication and thoughtfulness of the 2003 film.

Once Ben’s intentions are made known, “Seven Pounds” collapses like a beachcomber stung by a poisonous jellyfish. Simultaneously preposterous and grotesque, the entire enterprise feels something like a tasteless joke played on a naïve and trusting acquaintance. Perhaps not all of the blame rests with Smith, but Ben Thomas is a horrendous person, switching from self-effacement to vindictiveness as he passes judgment on others. In so doing, Thomas cultivates a smug, godlike status without addressing the possibility that he might be able to forgive himself. In the end, the real mystery of “Seven Pounds” is how it seemed like a good idea in the first place.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Robert Wise’s 1951 “The Day the Earth Stood Still” is a touchstone of the science fiction genre. A smart, well-paced movie that has managed to transcend the handful of elements that are now outdated (in particular, the “gee whiz” dialogue of Billy Gray’s precocious Bobby Benson), the film boasts solid pacing, a memorable, theremin-infused and oft-mimicked score by Bernard Herrmann, and a trove of images that have become iconic. From robot Gort’s solemn watchfulness to the eerie landing of the flying saucer in Washington, D.C., “The Day the Earth Stood Still” inspired generations of filmmakers and film fanatics. A remake seemed inevitable.

Unfortunately for movie lovers, the new version fails to better the original in any significant way. Instead of addressing what minor narrative deficiencies existed in Edmund North’s screenplay, director Scott Derrickson’s take cranks up the action and the special effects without retaining enough of the original’s thoughtfulness. Fans have debated the ending of the 1951 version for decades, arguing about Klaatu’s warning of the Old Testament-like fury that will be unleashed if the human race continues to misbehave. Does the threat of destruction undercut the free will necessary for global societies to want to change for the good of the planet?

Keanu Reeves, projecting his well-worn, emotion-free persona, is not a bad choice to play alien messenger Klaatu, but he never measures up to the calm dignity of Michael Rennie. Jennifer Connelly assumes the role played by Patricia Neal, although Helen Benson’s occupation has been upgraded from secretary to Princeton scientist. Additionally, Helen’s son Bobby has been replaced by a stepson named Jacob. Unlike the trusting, well-behaved Bobby, Jacob is skeptical of Klaatu, and his distrust of the interstellar emissary contributes to one of the script’s biggest complications.

The 2008 update hangs on to Professor Barnhardt and his blackboard, but John Cleese is given only one scene in which to make an impact. The change of spaceship landing location from D.C. to NYC’s Central Park erases some of the political impact of Wise’s telling, and the smooth disc is now presented as a pulsating, glowing orb. Some credit should be given to the filmmakers for retaining the basic cyclopean design of Gort, even if the new robot has been spending more hours in the gym sculpting his physique. Gort’s role and function parallels his classic raison d’etre, but now he is capable of disintegrating into millions of insectoid nanites that devour whatever crosses their path like a plague of locusts.

More unwelcome is the presence of Kathy Bates’ Secretary of Defense Regina Jackson. Representing the typical lack of sophistication required of the government’s “shoot first and ask questions later” mentality, her scenes are forced and rushed in equal measure, and it is easy to tell that Bates spent very little time on the shoot. Had David Scarpa’s script jettisoned Jackson in favor of spending some time exploring the idea of Klaatu’s fellow travelers (tantalizingly introduced in a clever scene with veteran actor James Hong), it might have opened up more of the planet-wide perspective so ahead of its time in 1951.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Longtime admirers comfortable with Baz Luhrmann’s “more is more” approach to filmmaking will roll with the sweeping pageantry of “Australia,” an expansive romance that wears its heart on its sleeve in every scene.  “Australia” is a long-winded pastiche of classic Hollywood cinema, aping significant chunks of revered titles from “The African Queen” to “Gone with the Wind” to “Red River.”  Infused with the director’s signature enthusiasm, “Australia” never quite finds a way to let its outsize comic earnestness live in harmony with a serious dearth of sophistication.  Of course, Luhrmann has never been on speaking terms with subtlety, but “Australia” sorely needs it, along with a pair of editing room scissors.

Clocking in at a button-popping 165 minutes, “Australia” is essentially two features glued together as one.  The movie’s first half, which focuses on the emotional transformation of a stuffy British aristocrat during a treacherous cattle drive, overshadows the second portion, which reconstructs the attack on Darwin by the Japanese in February of 1942.  The overall look and feel of the air raid echoes the worst of Michael Bay’s “Pearl Harbor,” and layers of digital compositing have a tendency to make the bombing resemble a cartoon.

Luhrmann has maintained a passionate love affair with movie culture, and “Australia” relies heavily on the filmmaker’s ardor for features of decades past.  “Over the Rainbow” from “The Wizard of Oz” is used like a mallet whenever a lump in the throat is needed, and the song’s inclusion as a motif feels a little mercenary.  The jukebox pillaging that worked in “Moulin Rouge” does not fly this time, and Luhrmann shouldn’t need to rely on the work done by someone else’s masterpiece to manipulate the emotions of his audience.

Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman generate plenty of steam as the mismatched lovers of the Charlie Allnut/Rose Sayer school of opposites attracting.  Jackman, as a rough and tumble horseman known by his professional moniker as “the Drover” fares slightly better than Kidman, who never quite transcends the brittle, porcelain veneer that has served her longer than necessary.  It is a given that Luhrmann will stack the familiar tropes sky high, and the obviousness of beauty-and-the-beast screwball proves far easier to stomach than the moustache-twirling of David Wenham’s flat, putrid, racist, murderous villain, whose plot is wrapped up in the most ridiculous manner possible.

The best epic storytelling finds a way to balance interpersonal relationships and romances with the weight of historical events swirling all around, but “Australia” lurches in several directions as Luhrmann attempts to reconcile the Australian government’s treatment of Aboriginals of the “Stolen Generations.”  The adorable Nullah (Brandon Walters), often referred to in the movie as a “creamy” or a “half caste,” gives the angles dealing with indigenous Australians a near overdose of cuteness, but other performers, especially the phenomenal David Gulpilil and David Ngoombujarra are better able to convey some of the pain the movie seeks to examine.  “Australia” is by no means a disaster, but Luhrmann could use a strong collaborator who might help reign in some of the bold fantasist’s tendencies toward excess.