MOONRISE KINGDOM: The Creepy Detail

"Moonrise Kingdom" is a charming tale of youngsters running away from 1906s home and blossoming into early adulthood. At one point, the preteen boy and girl swim in a cove in their underpants. They also gently wade into the waters of adolescent sexuality. Unique? Yes. Realistic? Sure. But this is where movies are different from real life.

Writer/direction Wes Anderson is stylistically a stickler for detail--specifically costumes and set design. His visual flare is always a unique, other-worldly combination of direct symmetry and vibrant colors. And so I don't think its unreasonable to say the movie "Moonrise Kingdom" came to a screeching halt around the beginning of Act II. In our world, Wes Anderson, at some point, certainly had discussions with his costume coordinator and set designer and whoever else about...children's underpants.

Uhhh...

Anderson, at some point, looked a row of who-knows-how-many children's underpants and picked the ones he wanted the child actors to wear because "they pop." Anderson, at some point, told the 12-year-olds to get in their underwear so that he could properly light them and make sure everything was in focus.

Was there concept art for those costumes, the underpants? Storyboards? What reasoning did Anderson have to make the choices he made--again, in regards to the children in their underpants?

Wes Anderson may be a wonderful director. He may have made a wonderful movie filled with wonderful performances. He may now have the strongest and most lucid understanding of his own ambitions in his entire career. He could make millions and win awards and inspire a legion of film students and film lovers.

But he should probably also be on some FBI watch lists.

Nothing personal, Wes.

BERNIE: Real Failings and Virtues

Small town, middle Americans are mocked as uncultured, uneducated, discriminatory and naïve. At the same time, many of the residents pride themselves on simple joys, practical know-how, camaraderie and displaying trust. Having grown up in Kansas and lived in other places, I’ve lived through interactions of both states of mind and saw each on display yet again in Richard Linklater’s refreshing and personable film, “Bernie.”

Linklater, while not quite worthy of household recognition, is essentially the Otto Graham of Mumblecore cinema and to a lesser extent, the indie film movement from the early nineties. In such a sense, Linklater is as condemnable (if not more so) as Quentin Tarantino for his legions of film school imitators who have far less to offer the world than their silver screen superstars. As he has for the last twenty years, Linklater’s newest movie can only knock at the door of mainstream cinema—which is a sad limitation given the quiet brilliance of “Bernie.”

While the movie is billed as a “true story,” I’m going to ignore the “true story” because sometimes a movie can be bigger than the facts.

Bernie Tiede (played by the periodically impressive Jack Black) is a funeral home director who achieves unrivalled popularity in the small town of Carthage, Texas—partially thanks to his seemingly endless loyalty to the quintessential craggy old bat: Marjorie Nugent (Shirley MacLaine).

Bernie has the perfect handshake, a warm smile, charming talents and, perhaps most importantly, gives away money as if it isn’t the ultimate collection in life. Generosity breeds popularity, begging the possibility that friends can be bought. At this point, it would seem that to not buy friends would be a rejection of the American Dream. That the money is rarely Bernie’s at all is a point nearly all townspeople are willing to overlook.

In the first of many points articulated by characters, albeit with a salt-of-the-earth drawl, the greater good is more than a defense, it’s a virtue. For nearly the entire film, Bernie is just as close to receiving the Key to the City as he is to getting jail time. Similarly, when people finally become concerned about the condition of little old Nugent, it is not without their own financial interests at stake. Their condemnation of Bernie reeks of hypocrisy as it becomes clear that nobody (friends, family, the D.A., etc.) is seeking “good” for its own sake but rather all pursue self-advancement and would swear on the Holy Bible that any benefits they receive are only coincidently correlated to what “is right.”

Linklater’s direction proves extraordinarily deft in this regard. With the quasi-documentary style popularized in network television, most characters are given explicit opportunities to defend their views yet seem, at the very least, overwhelmingly guilty by association.

How a community—that would likely consider John Boehner a liberal—came to cherish a gay, big city, theater-loving, funeral director is an exercise in cognitive dissonance.

The body baths say "friend";

the top-buttoned shirt says "mad man."

In shortest terms, it’s easy to hate the unknown and hard to hate what you understand. The townspeople purposefully overlooked Bernie’s obvious homosexuality because he did not confirm their expectation that all “the gays” do is march in parades, slap asses, mock the Bible, disregard children and consort with the President—you know, things meant to be left to professional athletes. Instead, Bernie was a kind, generous and fun person;  so gentle euphemisms and curious whispers replaced what were almost certainly cries of immortality and filth only one election prior. Basically, Bernie was just everybody’s “gay best friend”—a burgeoning stereotype that only feels like a slight improvement from the prostitution/AIDS stereotype flamed by “Midnight Cowboy” and others.

More than anything, Bernie’s earnest desire to be liked stops him from taking the role of a conman fleecing little old ladies and gullible townsfolk. Lyle Lanley, he is not and Jack Black makes sure of it when the script likely had such wiggle room. Black’s performance of the giddy/troubled newcomer is commanding in the most gentle sense. He doesn’t struggle to read, reconnect with a long lost daughter or give thunderous monologues, but rather sits back and smiles while listening and we love him all the more for it.

More than just a comedy, “Bernie” is a refreshing observation on reality and not afraid to play out scenes with more drama, animation or tension than a typical genre-comedy would permit. Characters are neither condemned nor applauded; each given a fair, and firm, shake. The movie strives for a moral equilibrium, and while not attained, the attempt is plenty entertaining and worthy of occupying far more movie theaters than “Bernie” will likely reach.

MEN IN BLACK 3: Political Gibberish Fun

I’ve put forth a theory before that the "Hollywood alien movie" is the most reflective genre of America’s military-industrial complex. In short terms: when the federal government nears a zenith of trust and efficiency (1960s, 1990s) alien movies are routinely about government employees saving the day. And when people are feeling rather low on their government (1970s, 2000s), alien movies are more personal, civilian and disaster-prone. This is the difference between “Independence Day” and “Men in Black” verses the post-9/11 counterparts, “War of the Worlds” and “Signs.” While the third “Men in Black”—in a rather inconsistent trilogy—offers nothing new cinematically, it at least hypothesizes that the nation has turned a corner in the last eight years.

Political polls be damned, “Men in Black 3” is about high-level government officials competently carrying out their duties with tact and professionalism. They are the good guys because they shoot the bad guys and clean up their own messes. Beyond that, in this newest edition to the MIB saga, our public service officials seek the solutions to modern problems by traveling back to the 1960s and involving themselves in one of the largest tax-payer projects of all-time: the moon landing. “States’ rights” nothing; I didn’t see Georgia land on the moon and plant one of the dumbest state flags there.

It’s not the laser guns blowing people’s minds, it's the political metaphors.

An injured, one armed alien ex-con demanding universal healthcare.

Do I need to draw you a map?

That the ringleader of the federal bureaucracy is played by Will Smith, baring a slight resemblance to President  Obama, and missing his father while searching the 1960s for solutions to save the world in 2012 is just gravy on top of all the (let’s just say unintended) symbolism. Ultimately, the world isn’t destroyed, but just stays on the verge of annihilation from the fade in to the ending credits.

Cultural significance aside, MIB3 is a safe two hours to waste. There’s nothing as surprising as the first film or anything as moronic as the second film. Granted, the trilogy--when taken as a whole--has gaps you could fly a spaceship through, but this third installment holds together well enough; not unlike that thinning “lazy Saturday” t-shirt still in your closet after all these years.

Because I don’t want to write a 500-word plot summary, it should suffice to say time-traveling is involved but not with any extraordinary explorations. It doesn’t completely avoid certain paradoxes, but it hurdles enough to keep clipping along. I’ll give it a 7 out of 10 on my paradox meter. Equally impressively, a four-dimensional being is represented in our three-dimensional world with clarity not far-removed from the likes of Futurama.

Josh Brolin does a fun Tommy Lee Jones impersonation. Tommy Lee Jones plays a bored man. Will Smith goes almost the entire length of the film without getting teary-eyed (a feat not pulled off since 2005’s “Hitch”). And Rip Torn is nowhere to be seen—thanks to his 2010 career-halting crime spree.

What’s left is a movie that has no more revelations than what can be pulled from the two-minute trailer. That is, unless you accept the political ideology of a movie that showcases the second breakout from a maximum security, Earth-orbiting, prison in as many months. I know I do.

THE AVENGERS: We Have Feelies

The novel “Brave New World” was written by Aldous Huxley in the 1932 and set in the year 2540. And unless a 3-D movie adaptation comes out of Hollywood within the next ten years, I fear the story will be lost. At this point, it would not be ironic for “Brave New World” to essentially become one of the ‘feeley’ movies the literary masterpiece dryly predicted and condemned—such a fate is inevitable. In the novel, citizens by the millions voluntarily sedate themselves with various drugs and conglomerate at entertainment megaplexes to witness visual and auditory sensory overload. It is an extraordinary future unlike any other hypothesized and one of such bleak mindlessness that it is nearly impossible to ever imagine happening in our real world.

Several stories set in some dystopian future (“V for Vendetta,” “1984,” “Fahrenheit 451,” etc.) often employ totalitarian governments that ban books. In Huxley’s chilling world, such censorship is largely unnecessary. Books are not feared in “Brave New World”; they are irrelevant. They are a relic of a simple and boring time. Indeed, just calling something “history” is as much an insult as a fact. The newest and shiniest things are best.

Books,unlike video games, are not interactive. In fact, they are not active at all. They are passive and when they are presented to a passive, futuristic, audience, books are disregarded. Trivial distractions and instant pleasure rule the world of “Brave New World.” Character work eight hours a day, sleep another eight hours a day and will damned if they have to waste their time learning or exhaust themselves thinking for those precious eight hours remaining. The characters want to be indifferent because that is the easiest way through life.

Nihilism. Egotism. Hedonism. Narcissism. 

The dream of every individual, in Huxley’s story, is to be stress-free. Unending bliss is the end goal of their lives. The shared experience of vacuous entertainment is the perpetual centerpiece of vacuous discussions and such interactions are strung together for an appropriate amount of time before blossoming into vacuous relationships.

In “Brave New World,” Alpha males pad their glamour muscles and boast their many sexual conquests. And the best women? Why, they can hold a glass of wine with those butt cheeks. These are the desirables for all other characters and if they were to deny such by pointing to more virtuous qualities, it would only be a deflection that has as much subtlety as the euphemisms of a 16-year-old boy.

If any part of this review dabbled in cynicism, I apologize; such reflection on “Brave New World” is only meant to sting of acceptance. The world is becoming more urban. With the internet, the world is becoming more connected. With planes and high-speed rails, traveling is becoming faster. Yet at no point in human history have more people lived alone than they do now.

We are losing a sense of each other and (like Huxley’s characters) we cling to easy stimuli in droves and defend ourselves as just trying to escape the rigors of life. If only everybody in the world could afford ten bucks a week and be subjected to the latest, greatest entertainment marvel; perhaps then, the world would be able to avenge those who have suffered pain, growth, loss and curiosity. And then, only then, we would all be able to achieve the dream of Huxley’s characters: bliss.

THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES: By People's Impatience

In 2001, film audiences were punished for various and egregious crimes against humanity with the release of American Outlaws. And for the twentieth time in about as many years, the Western film genre was declared dead. Alongside American Outlaws, films such as The Alamo and Shanghai Noon fried the public’s mind like an egg yet found the funding largely thanks to self-congratulatory patriotism. The American West is the largest reservoir of cultural identity and has been so over-filtered to appease advocates of national or individual exceptionalism that any semblance of reality is disregarded nearly out of habit.

Fortunately, in 2007 a film found peerless expression and swam harmoniously in a cove of brazen maturity. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford proved its theatrical and thematic merits thanks to the complex studies of the two title characters. Indeed, the film epitomizes the tragedy of humanizing the real people who are hidden by a cloak of cultural creation--especially with idols so propped up as asocial geniuses dependent on the air of individuality, as in the case of the “legendary” American outlaw Jesse James.

The movie starts off somewhat past the pinnacle of the notorious James Gang criminal spree and exploits to the point of where the victims are as numerous as they are forgotten. Robert Ford (Casey Affleck), a young man dreaming of becoming an icon on par with, or surpassing, Jesse James (Brad Pit), finds the gang in the woods preparing for yet another train robbery. Ford gains lukewarm acceptance into the gang on the coat tails of his own older brother Charley (Sam Rockwell), who may just have a room temperature IQ.

Robert Ford introduces himself, saying he knows he is "destined for great things" with such unflinching conviction that the self-spun prophecy leaves the year 1888 in the dust, finding more commonality in the 21st century. A recent study showed that the most popular dream job for grade school children is to be some "celebrity." Anymore, most young people muster the courage of Robert Ford and out-rightly boast that they'll "be famous" someday or they pride themselves with artificial modesty, only whispering, when nobody else is around, that they know it is actually they who "are destined for great things."

As the months go by in the film world, the individual gang members fall prey to the authorities, unfortunate luck and each other. To make matters worse, Ford begins to see Jesse James as an inwardly tortured sociopath and not the charming, dime novel outlaw hero Ford grew up reading about. Similarly, Jesse James finds himself uneasy about Ford’s personal fantasies and unrealistic expectations. At one point-blank moment, James asks Ford, “Do you want to be like me or do you want to be me?” Obviously posing the question reveals the impossibility of Ford’s aspirations.

That Robert Ford becomes so blindly disappointed with reality and shares a surname with classic-Western film director John Ford might deserve a wink from the astute. Don’t let the film’s title act as a spoiler, the journey is more important than the destination.

"Why don't you ever listen to anything I say?"--Ford

"It's down the hall and to the left."--James

After the deed, [Robert] Ford is pardoned and goes on to re-enact the story, blank-shooting his way through hundreds of stage performances. Unexpected to Ford though, public opinion quickly turns on him, for fame should never be the goal but rather a side effect. Jesse James, through his premature death, becomes more of a hero than ever before and especially more than had he become an old man or given a life-sentence. Simply, the public turned on Ford as they began to forget how dangerous Jesse James really had been but remembered that Ford had shot him in the back of the head; an act that was seemingly, though Ford would adamantly deny, cowardly. Again, don’t let the title act as a spoiler, cowardice is neither the film’s question nor the answer.

The most popular characteristic of Jesse James in the 1880s, as now, is his similarities to the occasionally real archer, Robin Hood. During the late 19th century, the gap between the rich and the poor was greatly widening. Many cities developed over-populated slums and many farmers and ranchers went bust in the West. Conversely, railroad tycoons, bankers and land speculators made vast fortunes. So when the James Gang robbed banks and railroads, people saw it as a form of striking back against the super-wealthy. Unfortunately the similarities with Robin Hood end at “stealing from the rich,” as the common misconception of Jesse “giving to the poor” is ill-found in history and appropriately derided in the film. Instead, he just robbed banks, trains, murdered unarmed people and tried to restart the Civil War.

Related to the time period, industrialization grew out from the East—specifically photography and book publishing—while the Old West, according to Fredrick Jackson Turner ("Freddie J Turn-master" to his friends), closed down and was reduced from a physical place to a collective memory. This combined to make Jesse James one of the first American celebrities. And with any celebrity, people came to admire, mock and spurn the mythology, not the person. The film diligently displays the assassination as the Ford brothers (Robert and Charley) repeatedly said how it went down, as they were the only two remaining witnesses. Seemingly the only reason their story is never questioned is the fact that neither claims any impressive feat of speed, grit or accuracy.

Contrary to the aforementioned, charming rule-bender status bestowed upon Jesse James in the public’s mind, the supposed Bart Simpson-esque outlaw in this film is quiet, vindictive and, at times, mule-ass crazy. He’s the kind of guy who decapitates snakes, the kind of guy who enthusiastically beats up a fourteen-year-old boy for information. He is playful with his family, yet never focused on them and perhaps even using them as a PR-shield, for retiring the guns would be worse than death. Staying an arms-length away from the authorities has taken its toll on James and each scene shows a (supporting) character fraying more than the scene before.

The filmmakers were able to give American audiences a new look at a character they had become so familiar with since the Western genre boom in the 1950s. While an outlaw was an outlaw, and therefore the villain in any movie prior to World War II, perceptions changed after the war as the public was willing to accept moral ambiguities, criminal camaraderie and authoritarian abuses of power. This mindset stayed with audiences through the decades, continually making Jesse James a young, rogue, handsome, gun-slinger that controlled his own, exciting destiny—much to the envy of millions of Snuggie-wearing Americans. Because of this habitual love affair with outlaws, especially Jesse James, this film deserves some credit for the risky attempt to deconstruct—nay disprove—what Americans want our history to be.

From the 1903 flick, The Great Train Robbery through last summer’s Cowboys and Aliens, Westerns are almost entirely cinematic funhouse mirrors; distortions so removed from reality that any mouth-breather can pepper a political speech with unfound, cowboy truisms and be thrown into office. The problem is that Jesse James was not fun to be around. And we need to understand what that means.

So far removed from the decade’s other cowboy films as to almost escape the entire genre itself, The Assassination of Jesse James is a dauntless tale of idolization, betrayal and fame surrounding one of the most recognized criminals in American history. The parallels of Robert Ford to any number of people in this relentless celebrity-obsessed culture is as timely, audacious and warranted as any history-based film can hope to achieve. Because of its multi-depth significance and methodical pacing, this film will likely be remembered as a greater movie in the years to come than it was blandly received some four years ago.

LOCKOUT: Oscar Wilde with a Shotgun

While this has been a personally disappointing year in cinema so far, I still find myself at the movie theater. Perhaps to escape the early nice weather, I don’t know. The string of disappointments started with “Tailor Tinker Soldier Spy” and at least continued through Guy Pierce’s bicep showcase, “Lockout.” In the interest of full-disclosure, shortly after leaving the theater, I must have been bludgeoned over the head as I cannot recall a startlingly large amount of the movie. Thankfully, the plot was neither a primary nor secondary nor even tertiary concern to the film production. I suspect the crews’ catering occupied more deliberations and concerns. Why some action movies cast themselves as so defiantly passive is beyond me but it makes for a nice exercise in viral criticism.

Basically “Lockout” is a throwback to dumb-downed, mid-concept action films of the 1990s. Ah yes, the 1990s. It was a post-beefcake time, where the barely articulate bodybuilders (Rainier Wolfcastle and the like) of the 1980s were being replaced by hyper-sarcastic, high-cheek-boned loose cannons. Indeed, Guy Pierce—whose real name is already a B-action movie hero name—is given exactly zero lines meant to be delivered in earnest. He is indifference, casual and genius. With a level of self-awareness that stops just short from looking at the camera and winking, Guy Everyman Piece is so in his element above the 20 or 30 intellectual peons in the movie that he just might has well have been Oscar Wilde with a shotgun.

Such witty retorts as “That’s not what your wife said last night” and “I guess that's why they call it the punch line” deliver Guy Pierce Stone into the pantheon of movie assholes, exactly one notch above most protagonists in modern, crime-based, video games. Surrounding the verbal sniping, the plot itself (President’s daughter taken hostage by convicts in an Earth-orbiting space station prison) was likely rejected by movie studios in the 1990s, only to be resurrected with the well of ideas 12 years dryer. Regrettably there is neither the intellectual social commentary of “Escape from New York” nor the political theorizing of “Air Force One.”

In fact, the lone cultural significance of the movie can be entirely credited to the absurdly lucky release date. On the exact weekend that “Lockout” was released, the real White House was slapped by a scandal involving 11 Secret Service agents and Columbian prostitutes. While the federal government is used to dealing with prostitutes of the media-variety, this debacle is a unique window into the rare arrogance and miscalculation of the Secret Service. Likewise, all the deaths in “Lockout” can be traced back to the arrogance and miscalculation of the Secret Service. Never before has the Secret Service screwed the pooch so hard and had the President live to tell about it.

The Secret Service looked awesome and President Reagan lived;

who can say which came first.

And had this movie made twice as much money, it might have satiated the outraged appetites of the pettiest racists. It’s hard to call these plot-twists—as only a person with a very specific kind of head wound could possibly be fooled—but in all unfortunate plot turns a black guy is entirely responsible. Conversely, all the educated leaders (good and bad) are white. And never before has the bureaucracy of government, and a collection of newly-liberated felons each, acted with such mutually-exclusive unity and clarity of command. In the end, few people who voiced outrage when, the infinitely entertaining, Donald Glover was rumored to play the next Spiderman will see “Lockout” and, for that matter, be trapped in the theater and gassed.

The most surprising failing of “Lockout,” though, might be the complete lack of fighting creativity. Action scenes are brisk and simple. The PG-13 deaths are numerous, inconsequential and redundant. There is no escalation of drama, significant movement or purpose. Continuing, the self-serving sarcasm of Joe Guy Pierce is decidedly absent when a pre-mortem one-liner would be at home. Despite, or possibly because of, the sponge-brained wit of the movie, a pair of drunk guys in the front row acted as the movie’s two-man laugh track.

Even for the guiltiest of pleasures in escapist cinema, “Lockout” is too constrained to be entertaining. Movies like these make me long for the days I could play with action figures and smash them together in a half-hearted attempt at narrative cohesion. Failing that, I could have at least spent two hours sitting on my porch, suffering mid-60s weather and awaiting the next local police-involving eventuality. Time wasted, indeed.

ADAM'S RIB: Everybody Wears Pants

The classic combo of Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn is an easy piece of appreciation for film nerds. It also ranges between an apathetic afterthought and complete unfamiliarity for just about anybody who saw “Transformers 3” or “Twilight: Breaking Wind”. Regardless of any real legacy, the real life couple filled the movie screen for more than a handful of films, perhaps none more explicitly than the 1949 romantic comedy, “Adam’s Rib.” More socially aware than most romantic comedies then or now, this film explicitly challenged the gender stereotypes of American society--in theory--while reinforcing them in presentation. Justifiably remembered or not, the film is a peculiar marker for how far our society has come/fallen.

Tracy plays Adam Bonner, an assistant D.A. in New York City (with the most hyper-masculine name this side of Gregory Peck) who is determined to enforce the law as completely and as often as possible. It is for this reason that he seeks an attempted murder conviction for a woman who shot and injured her adulterous husband while in the presence of his lover. However, Tracy (for he barely plays a character) didn’t reckon that the defense attorney would turn the courtroom into a battleground for feminism. Tracy also didn’t reckon that the defense attorney would be his wife, Amanda (played by Katherine Hepburn). In the courtroom and at home the married couple battle over the legal system, cultural perceptions and gender expectations. Unfortunately after each day and night of verbal sparring (and in one case, spanking), the couple becomes more hurt and discover both are in danger of losing more than a court case. Hilarious? I guess so, but I also think audience’s had a slightly different sense of humor in 1949 than I do in 2012.

They don't make trailers like they used to....thank God.

(This trailer literally boasts that the movie is "a swell show.")

As Hepburn’s defense is entirely circled around the idea that her defendant is being unfairly accused and characterized because of her gender, the film is obviously making some point on post-war gender relations. In fact, the casting of the fiery Hepburn would likely be enough cause to label this film as an early representation of Hollywood feminism, but the story enthusiastically pushes the concept into purposeful clarity.

Immediately into her defense, Hepburn argues that the accused shooter was metaphorically "defending her home" and had the three principle parties (injured husband, shooter wife and by-standing home wrecker) been reversed in gender, no jury would find the shooter guilty. Sitting in the audience/jury, I found this assertion lacking plenty. Hepburn gave no legal precedent for a man getting away with shooting an adulterous wife, nor was she challenging an unjust law. Indeed, a cursory memory of classic films set in the same time period recalls the conviction (of an innocent) Andy Dufresne in “Shawshank Redemption” for the exact situation Hepburn decried as impossible.

Hepburn claimed to fight for equal rights but at no point were her (or any woman’s) rights legally restricted. Unlike the African-Americans of 1949, white women weren’t legally forced to ride the back of the bus, drink out of different water fountains or go to different schools. Real sexism, like racism, isn’t about just being ‘uncomfortable’—it’s institutionalized. That’s not to contend women were (or are) treated entirely fair by all members of society, but that the film failed to question its own hypothetical argument and drive said argument to its paradoxical conclusion.

Another major part of Hepburn’s defense brings women with no direct baring on the trial to the witness stand. Legally unorthodox/preposterous, these women include a young biochemist and a heavyset weight lifter. These women demonstrate their own intelligence and physical strength to the jury/film audience, though any conclusions are ambiguous at best. Obviously the women were meant to display some sort of normalcy in their excellence, but the fact that they were exceptional seems to hinder, if not disprove, the point the defense grasps at. Not to mention the court room talent show highlighted Hepburn’s willingness, or even desperation, in manipulating the jury’s feelings outside of the cold, legal evidence.

But all of Hepburn’s prickly wit, bafflingly irrelevant witnesses and over-articulation couldn’t make me forget that the movie started off with a woman (the shooter) being pushed around on a city street and shoved into a subway. Clearly out of her element and surrounded by stone-faced men, this woman’s beginning montage did nothing but fuel the notion that a regular mother of three can’t handle city life. Rather, only the exceptionally bright, law school-educated, surprisingly-female Hepburn can somehow rise above her gender and match her male counterparts in the courtroom and on the streets. When somebody goes to extraordinary lengths to prove themselves normal, they have failed to do so.

Set in 1949, the year the movie was released, I have to imagine the film thought itself accurate to its depiction of American women. This film is undoubtedly some shade of feminism, but it doesn’t have the depth necessary for any audience member familiar with our post-nu-wave-chill re-modernism.

Nobody in the film or viewing audience is allowed to know what legal inequalities, restrictions or social prejudices Hepburn is ever referring to, but only told that Hepburn—if for no other reason than she is Katherine Hepburn—is in the right to make pathos arguments. By taking itself relentlessly serious, the comedy fails to be as fun as “Bringing Up Baby” (where Hepburn gets to be “the clown”) or as culturally balanced as “The African Queen” (where Hepburn’s screen authority is easily matched by Humphrey Bogart).

Most unfortunately, while the film is philosophically simplistic, it still has multi-dimensional characters and crackling dialogue--the likes of which have vanished from modern romantic comedies. Tragically, the same can be said for Katherine Hepburn, whose ghost invariably gags at the stench of cinematic, female-geared drivel such as “Bride Wars,” “When in Rome,” and “What’s Your Number.”

I suppose the armchair feminism displayed in “Adam’s Rib” might evoke clap-ter from the loudest womyn interested in marginalized cinema, but it’s just ultimately too willing to jump into constricting connotations—as hinted in the film’s title (i.e. the rib of Adam = a disposable part of man). Perhaps the better idea comes from the old joke that when God created woman, he gave her three breasts. However, the middle one got in the way and God took it back. The woman then asked what should they do with the useless boob…and so God created man.

THE HUNGER GAMES: Starved for Meaning

Before seeing the intended feature film, two movie previews juxtaposed together revealed that the most obvious, and perhaps best, trailer mash-up for this year will be “Twilight: Breaking Wind: Part Two” and “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.” That my computer-literacy tops out at around updating a blog stops me from creating the fan-trailer myself—well, that and I now I feel the joke has been acknowledged and drained of its comedy. Measurably more shocking, and for the first time in a long time, two hours later I found myself in a very, very small circle of dissenters and carping faultfinders holding an abysmally low opinion on the year’s first megahit: “The Hunger Games.”

It’s been several excursions to the movie theater since I’ve been subjected to a film trying to say so much so incoherently. As if floating in outer space, I could see the vastness of an idea yet it all seemed empty and for the longest two-hours suspended in existentialism since “Synecdoche, New York,” I never found my footing. Fantasy and sci-fi films can be wonderful with their ability to transplant the audience in a new universe that can tell us so much more about our own. Like tourists in a new country, movie audiences witness new customs and people—each of which can make us adapt to something better or at least force us to defend our own way of life. Alas, the world of “The Hunger Games” makes less sense than Candyland and swaggers with more pretension than Cranium.

Shot with the standard “dystopian future” camera lens, the universe is most prominently ruled by a massive, aimless, vindictive government. The government, seeking to punish its own people for a failed rebellion…unnecessary exposition…so now there’s an annual Death Sport event. Unlike “Gamer,” “Running Man,” “Battle Royale,” “Death Race 2000” and the aptly-named “Death Sport” among other movies, the TV-event of the future is not just allowed, but actually orchestrated, by the federal government. Is this a commentary on the shows featured on C-Span and their relation to Roman gladiators? Sure, why not. It’s not like you’ll find a stronger message.

More perplexing than the origins, the televised “Hunger Games” are mandatory viewing—so it can’t really be said that this society of the future itself is bloodthirsty. Nor can it be said that television has degenerated into the ultimate low of humanity—a slide that started with “Real World” or possibly “The Newlywed Game.” And since the young “tributes” are mostly a lottery bunch, it can’t be said that the society is obsessed with fame. So the kids aren’t psychopaths, they aren’t volunteers, they aren’t professionals, they aren’t confused or scared and we end up with no real point, theme, or motivation. It’s the kind of ideological mess that can really make one appreciate “EDtv.”

“The Hunger Games” is a conglomeration of half-articulated ideas. For every point the story makes about power, sacrifice, rebellion, morality, hope, love, violence and maturity, there are explicit lines, characters and moments interrupting, reversing or negating the reflection. Beyond that, no character is forced to confront any fear, desire, loneliness, guilt, jealousy or anger. Sadness is summed up with two-minutes of ‘the weepies’ and promptly forgotten.

Accepting morality? Comes quick, lingers and is ultimately unnecessary. While real teenagers, as bloated with angst as they may be, see themselves as 7-feet tall and bulletproof, “The Hunger Games” features the opposite: young people instantly accepting of death, yet not needing to. Everybody’s life is just beginning, yet the characters have no plans, desires or expectations at all. Basically, they have neither reason to do, nor opinion about, anything.

I suppose some book-reader will say something along the lines that the winner of the competition brings food to their town, but a fight for gluttony hardly seems worth appreciating. Frankly, I was disappointed that overweight adolescents were so under-represented, as they make up nearly 20% of the teenage population in this Pizza Bagel nation.

As a film, there are no visceral treats to be had. Costumes are hand-me-downs from “The Fifth Element.” Unexplainable technology comes late and abrupt. There are absurd coincidences. The characters do things because the plot calls for it. Woody Harrelson is pointless with a level of self-importance only Woody Harrelson can muster. There are more absurd coincidences. Action scenes are filmed with the schizophrenia of Paul Greengrass, where visuals are so blurred that only the stock “shink!” sound of a knife being unsheathed clues the audience into the idea that a weapon has entered the fray.

I spent most of 2007 wishing for a weapon to enter The Fray.

Again, though, there is no reality in “The Hunger Games.” There are no real people, many of whom are just explicitly given numbers for the virtues of narrative dehumanization. There are no real rules or direction. “Important” elements such as the much-sought sponsors are disregarded as little more than inconsistent deus ex machinas. Is this about commercialism? There’s not a brand to be seen. Is it about loyalty? Not a betrayal worth note. Is this a tale of wilderness survival? No, because they are murderous kids. Is this a tale of surviving high school? No, because there are conveniently-timed killer wasps, poison berries and monsters. Is this about losing innocence? No, the protagonist does nothing the least bit questionable. Does anything unexpected happen at any time at all? No.

And so in what is likely to be my most controversial review since that Justin Beiber movie, I can only remember disappointment, confusion and boredom while watching “The Hunger Games.” Here is a movie that could have been so much bigger if only it had more focus. Too serious to be fun and too simple to be smart. Too broad and too thin. Familiar ideas and bland characters. B-actors and D-dialogue. So despite the cerebral yearnings, “The Hunger Games” is still just candy, albeit with a different name.

KONY 2012: Historical Irrelevance

I haven’t seen many films lately—except repeated viewings of “Life in a Day”—so I feel justified enough in reviewing a short film, and that the online movie has achieved an unrivaled explosion of popularity only compounds my enthusiasm, with some false sense of superiority, to end several discussion points surrounding, after “Charlie Bit My Finger,” the second most viewed video involving child abuse: “Kony 2012.”

To me, the most amazing aspect of the documentary is that millions of people sat through an entire 30 minute video—about 10 times the length of the usual YouTube clip. If there wasn’t this movie, 80 million people would have just watched talking dogs, talking children and morons struggling to sing. To me, any documentary—mass-marketed as it may be—is the opposite of mindless escapism (YouTube videos or, to a larger extent, the Michael Bay Industrial Complex) that smug viewers deride at every opportunity. Factual imperfection can be forgiven, intellectual ambition can be appreciated.

Although it’s not even factual imperfections that raise the most repeated criticism: that “Kony 2012” simplifies a complex problem. That a 30-minute video, already a little stuffed with pathos filler material, can not detail the history, opinions, views and ramifications of an entire war, country or person should be obvious. More importantly, I don’t think the video makes such an assumption. There is never a message saying, “Congratulations! You watched a short documentary, you are now an expert on morality, legal codes, history, violence, politics and activism.” In fact, the video explicitly proclaims a modest ambition to only get Joseph Kony’s name “out there.” Further education is expected. Mission freaking accomplished.

Principles are what you believe in; politics are what you are willing to sacrifice for your principles.

Would you donate one hour of your life to save a child soldier? Would you donate twenty bucks to save a child soldier? Would you donate anything AT ALL just for the possibility that an innocent person might get to hug their family again?

As a variation on the original, common criticism, how can anyone insult another person learning anything? Sure, watching the “Kony 2012” doesn’t make anybody an expert on the entire situation. But neither would anybody be an expert after watching a 100-minute documentary. Or reading a book. Or reading two books. There will always be facts, nuances, technicalities and perspectives lost or sidelined for the sake of comprehension. No body of work on any subject can be all-inclusive.

So how is more people knowing ANYTHING about Joseph Kony, or any criminal, worse than people knowing absolutely nothing? The video isn’t exacting spreading a rumor or tarnishing some guy’s previously good name. Moreover, the video isn’t political or really even opinionated. The United Nations has a list of war criminals: fact. Joseph Kony tops the list: fact.

The second most common criticism of (the people who watched) the video I have heard is that just watching video doesn’t change anything. Again, I don’t see how it hurts anything either. And at least some benefits have to be acknowledged. If one in a hundred people donate any money to Invisible Children or other charities, isn’t it still better to reach more people? If any percentage (under 100) of the donated money is used for “administrative costs,” isn’t there still more money helping more people than when 80 million less people had watched “Kony 2012”? How is donating twenty dollars to a charity that might help other people in any capacity worse than using that same twenty dollars to get drunk on malt liquor during Spring Break? We are all selfish, just to different degrees.

No video will ever create world peace, in the sense that most people understand it. But what if “world peace” was understood to be a journey, not a destination? Then isn’t increased education, increased discussion and increased empathy an improvement upon the status quo? Noting the irrelevance of any single person in changing the course of the world is entirely inaccurate. A small group of people, even individuals, have changed the world as many times as the world has changed. A lot of people doing their own thing is the only way the world can change; indeed, it’s the only way the world ever has changed.

You don’t have to quit your day job, sell your TV and move to Africa to help your fellow humans. In fact, such neo-colonialism is exactly what modern Ugandans denounce, and emphatically remind Americans that Joseph Kony himself is not likely in Uganda at all anymore. We don't just need to crush monsters, we need to build up peace. The movie doesn't empower foreigners, it connects strangers.

Like being selfish, or any other aspect of the human condition, there are degrees. Doing anything to help anybody is still better than doing nothing and helping no one.

What I think really drives some critics is the fear of “the masses.” As seen in the video, the Kony 2012 movement has grown by the thousands of participants, and with Invisible Children’s new campaign increased many more times over. The large scale protests can honestly be described as hoards of people, yelling and chanting as passionately as they are unintelligibly. Basically, to the cynical eye, they look like zombies. And the smell of social crusaders doesn’t help. The videos of protesters and speakers also send the message that this is all they do because it’s all we see them do.

Fanaticism can be regrettable, as can misdiagnosing it.

We can’t end violence in the world, but how is the world worse for stopping just some violence? The controversy of ending witch burnings in America didn’t stop witch burnings in one day—but there was a last one. And after that last one, there were no more. It didn’t end violence, but it was a good step. Similarly, we won’t end war by the end of 2012, but we—as a world—can stop the specific occurrences and dissuade the future ones. We have before.

Modern society is complex, in America and Africa. History is equally so. It may be “fashionable” to support a cause against child soldiers or other atrocities, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t do some good. Again, it certainly does more than sedating millions with stimulus overload at the nearest multiplex. South Africa, Democratic Republic of Congo, Liberia, Mozambique, Rwanda, Somalia, Ethiopia, Algeria and Uganda have all suffered extraordinary bouts of violence in the last century, but they all involved different parties, tactics, consequences, people and motivations.

Intelligence is the toleration of ambiguity.

Understanding other viewpoints is not the same as justifying them. Understanding why terrorists attacked the World Trade Center is important to being able to stop future terrorism. Saying Adolf Hitler killed millions of people because “he was crazy” is not wrong, but it is not complete. Timothy McVeigh did not blow up a building because he hated the architecture, and to completely disregard his justification only keeps the door open for continued violence. Like almost all criminals, Joseph Kony acted in a way he almost certainly felt was justified. Yes, he has his own side of the story, but that does not excuse his actions.

Listening is not a weakness.

Fighting social issues is difficult when they remain in the abstract and easy when they can be personified. Fighting Joseph Kony is easier than fighting homelessness, but given the success of “Kony 2012,” shouldn’t other filmmakers and moral crusaders just be more inspired to pick up their own good fight? Success exists. Innovation is the antidote to apathy.

At the very, very least, I can appreciate Invisible Children for setting a couple of solid, protest tenets. Firstly, there is an end in sight. Any number of things can happen to Joseph Kony before now and 2013. What we know for sure, though, is that “Kony 2012” will end. Beyond that, the organization gives people specifics; perhaps not in information (that’s the individuals’ responsibility), but in action. Nobody is talking about the Tea Party, Occupy Wall Street, Westboro Baptist Church or Yippies—and all petered out of the news with no specific success. Calling your own demise is important, whether it’s setting a limit to your gambling losses in Las Vegas, protesting or promising “six seasons and a movie.”

It may seem odd to spend so much time defending an ultra-popular YouTube video, but I feel the critics need to be noticed, questioned and answered. This video is not controversial, controversial people just like condemning it. “Kony 2012,” flawed or not, did something right--that’s enough and anything else is just extra.

Sometimes we are 7 billion people with our individual histories; other times we are one world with one history. We need to appreciate both.

INGLORIOUS BASTERDS: Not That Much Scalping, Really

Originally published 2/8/2010. Republished here to represent my own disinterest in the 2011 Academy Awards. Also, I'll have something special lined-up next week:

Screw the ceremonies. The Best Picture of 2009 was Quentin Tarantino's “Inglorious Basterds.” While a movie about World War II being nominated for Best Picture is like the San Diego Chargers making the playoffs (always there, but never winning), “Inglorious Basterds” speaks volumes about the film medium as a form of art and commercial entity. It also casts a new light on the historical film genre, how stories are told and the cinematic joys we can look forward to as long as filmmakers try to make water-cooler talkers actually say something.

“Inglorious Basterds” is a period piece set during WWII that contains as much historical accuracy as this sentence. But within that freedom, the film tells a story that is more cinematic than history. While many historical movies aim for accuracy, they inevitably falter in some fashion--to then be criticized, or torn-apart, by historians (professional and amateur, alike). Conversely, other period pieces keep their stories so small that they don't dare ripple the waters of time. These films (ex. "Titanic") hide behind the possibility that “this story could have happened.” “Inglorious Basterds” enters a realm that is not only unapologetically fictional, but that it changes what you think to be fact. This provides contextual knowledge, yet throws the audience into a barrage of surprises.

Only two Nazis get scalped? That's more restraint than I expected.

But more than separating what we know and what we want from history-based movies, “Inglorious Basterds” also separates what we know and what we want from movies themselves. The film within the film is a highly violent and historically inaccurate depiction of a WWII battle (while WWII is still raging). And like the Basterds' audience, the audience in the film is entertained by war fantasies. In fact, while the audience on screen is cheering on their heroes, the audience (you!) is cheering for Taratino's heroes. Movies in both cases provide an escape for audiences until, go figure, the fictional audience can not escape their theater--forcing the real audience (you, again) to remain in their seats also. “Inglorious Basterds” isn't a self-serving bloodfest; it's a very serious--though quite funny--dissection on why we watch movies and the effects they have on us.

But the movie isn't a parody or critique on films; it purposefully branches away from audience expectations. Unlike most films, “Inglorious Basterds” can't be broke up into 40 separate 3-minute scenes (or in Michael Bay's case, 120 1-minute scenes). “Inglorious Bastereds” is an unusual and undeniable string of 5 separate segments. This may make every scene seem "long" to the untrained eye, but it's really quite more than that. Script scribes are taught at every film school and seminar to start a scene as late as possible and end it as soon as possible--the overly-practiced theory being that the movie's momentum will stay fast and increase drama. Tarantino, here, goes the exact opposite direction and treats each scene like a rubber band. He stretches and stretches each scene and conversation until every aspect has been covered, and then some. In every case, this works beautiful, especially when the audience knows on some level how the scene is going to end and goes nuts waiting to get there.

They say the best directors can control the emotions of the audience. But I only half-agree with that. I say, the best directors control the emotions of the audience in a way they haven't seen before (thus in a more invisible way). If a bad guy burns down innocent people's home, yet again, it's too easy to hate him (I'm looking at you, Avatar!); but if a bad guy is just really good at a card game, you may end up fearing him in a very new way. It's about trusting your audience. If you see the bad guy do the most evil thing imaginable, then you know how dangerous he is--he's as dangerous as the previous character that did that. If you see the bad guy do something uniquely impressive, your imagination runs wild with what he is capable of in any larger sense. The best directors manipulate their audiences AND trust their audiences.

Photographically speaking, “Inglorious Basterds” paints a beautiful portrait of French landscape and city life that would be more expected in a...well, French film. The deliberate framing often allows as much action to happen on screen as possible, not unlike staging a play and just putting a camera in the fifth row center. But while this is refreshingly tame, it also draws even more attention to the camera movements that do occur. All of a sudden, how the camera move sells a joke or stirs a new thought in the audience's collective mind. This isn't about cramming two thousand CG jungle warriors into a shot, it's about making the real world beautiful.

But perhaps most subtly, audiences can tell when a movie is personal to the creator(s). The movie contains within it learning experiences of the creator. The evolution of an artist is a fun thing to see because it inspires hope for what they are capable of in the future. Similarly, witnessing growth in others inspires us to look for grow within ourselves. Nobody can just sit down and write the script for “Inglorious Basterds.” Even Tarantino couldn't--and didn't. It took him nearly ten years and half-a-dozen previous films before he was capable of what he did. And he knows it! Brad Pitt is little more than a tongue-in-cheek mouthpiece for Tarantino when he ends the movie with, "You know, this just might be my masterpiece." Smash cut to: "written and directed by Quentin Tarantino.

Tarantino, like fellow writer-director Judd Apatow, has evolved past his numerous imitators and his former self. Cinematic habits and stagnation are criminally rampant in this year's crop of Best Picture nominees. More damning though, this year more than any other year in recent memory, proved such artistic ambivalence is widely profitable. Why doesn't Wal-Mart just make more movies and be done with this world?

The Future of America: Steve McQueen Democracy

Steve McQueen is somewhat of a myth. A legend that people are pretty sure once was true but has since eroded to fiction or, worse, irrelevance. At the relatively young age of 50, Steve McQueen quietly died in Mexico in 1980—about a month before fellow counter-culture icon John Lennon was killed. Nowadays, film audiences can only grasp at the name they think they once heard their fathers talk about. Well, that, a creepy 2005 Mustang commercial and an annoying Sheryl Crow song. With the late-actor’s birthday coming up, I want to do more than commemorate under-rated classics and bash over-rated classics. I need to articulate how a new Steve McQueen could not save us from ourselves, but rather the entire nation needs to become 300 million Steve McQueens—okay, maybe half can be “Stephanie” McQueen. I don’t give a damn, the point is this: Steve McQueen solves our biggest national problems.

This isn’t about social issues, gun laws, corporate finance or how the American primary system should be structured on a rotating, 10-week calendar (obviously!). This is about America. Nearly 250 years ago, the United States became the largest ideological experiment the world has ever seen. We became a nation founded by ideals, not bloodlines. A nation inherently adaptable, amendable and responsive to humanity itself.

We experimented with democracy and with the different tools and nuances such a government necessitates. As expected, democracy took some blows during any war, but held true enough. And more surprisingly, democracy clung to the threads of legitimacy through the media age, and for that, the Founding Fathers can be appreciated. But now it’s over. Consumer culture, from the light bulb to the Internet, has run the gamut on possible fears and we’ve become too educated and lazy to fall for the fabrication of old classics (anarchists, Russians, etc.). Now let’s re-imagine the world. Re-imagine the future we need, if not the future we deserve.

Discipline:

Steve McQueen was a former Marine and for the rest of his life spent two hours a day, every day, exercising. Not palates, yoga or mediation-style exercising, but full-on weight lifting and running several miles. Also, he was a heavy smoker. He didn’t need a trainer, he just went around lifting heavy things and running to the next heavy thing, stopping only to light his cigarette with the smoldering stub of his previous cigarette.

I’m not saying all Americans need to exercise more, or smoke more cigarettes, but we need to embrace a sense of duty and sacrifice if we want to count ourselves among the patriotic. This means public office (Congress, President, etc.) needs to be a tour of duty, potentially required of everyone. One tour of public duty, four years. Like jury duty, everybody’s responsible for the outcome then. People couldn’t campaign for themselves because of the lottery system, nor would critics castigate those in power knowing 1) the position wasn’t by choice and 2) the replacement could be at a lot worse.

Courage:

Steve McQueen had to go to Mexico for his cancer treatment because the FDA is a bunch of sissies who thought Mexican cancer treatments would kill McQueen. As is, McQueen died but nobody on either side of the border was really helping him so at least he experimented with every option.

We need to embrace this kind of courage to think outside the borders. To test the unknown even at a personal risk. Not just eat at that new “Indian restaurant” but actually consider the practices, policies and politics of other nations.

Sense of Humor:

When Bruce Lee bragged that he was becoming a bigger name than any American movie star, Steve McQueen sent him an autographed photo signed: “To Bruce, my biggest fan.”

We win by having fun. Nobody is jealous of a terrified, angry America. We become the best by living the most, not living the longest.

Modern Practicality:

McQueen once said, “When a horse learns to buy martinis, I'll learn to like horses.” Though he starred in “The Magnificent Seven,” “Tom Horn” and other Westerns, McQueen didn’t give a fart about tradition. He didn’t need a horse and didn’t want a horse. Instead, McQueen garnered over 200 motorcycles.

Nostalgia just isn't what it used to be. We need more motorcycles.

Animal Rights:

Like most bad ass men, Steve McQueen had a soft spot for dogs.

As a country, this means we should ban cats as pets so more people might get dogs. The increase in dog-ownership would make people happier and we would reduce the amount of homeless dogs in this country. But Nick, some counter, wouldn’t there been even more stray cats then? Absolutely not. Cats would become part of the wild; we don’t talk about stray raccoons. Plus, less cats eating fancy cat food means more cats eating more mice and that ain’t too bad either.

Patriotism:

Steve McQueen was one of the highest paid actors in the world by 1970. His tax rate was about twice that of modern millionaires.

Saluting the troops, worshiping the Founding Fathers and wearing a flag pin are the easy ways out of supporting the country. Silently, even proudly, inconveniencing ourselves for the sake of our neighbor is far more noble.

Proper Power Abuse:

On film sets, McQueen was notoriously difficult to work with, often instigating petty rivalries. From his trailer, he would also demand absurd things like dozens of electric razors, bottles of shampoo, pairs of jeans and numerous other “necessities.” He would then give all the free crap to boys in under-funded juvenile halls. Despite his unusual accommodations, the movie studios still made money.

We need to find similar ways to directly help people, and preferably over the Internet so that people can read this blog, watch YouTube videos and help save their fellow man. Forget raising money. Connect suppliers directly to those who need supplies.

Embracing an Expertise:

Steve McQueen designed and patented a race car seat, as he frequently found himself in dangerously normal cars for his many action films. Before that, the man was actually a professional race car driver.

What would you do to help the world if given millions of dollars and a few years? Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s something you care about and something you know about. People like feeling like experts and experts should be allowed to work in their chosen realms, if not for their expertise, at least for their passion. Specifically, we need to allow long-term repayment options on all our investments.

Humility:

Unable to emote on-screen, or much at all in real life, Steve McQueen turned down the starring role in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.” Director Steven Spielberg suggested cutting the most emotional scenes out of his future-classic, but McQueen turned him down flat, again. McQueen knew those scenes made the movie and he wasn’t the right man for the job.

If public officials, drafted into public service, knew that nobody expects them to be experts in every field, we can stop with the factory tour photo-ops and let them differ to others’ opinions. And if public officials didn't spend twenty years of their life trying to get to the highest offices, then they wouldn’t be so immovable once there and more compromise could be brokered.

Steve McQueen wasn’t a phenomenal actor, or really even much of a good one; nor was the man perfect or even routinely sober. But, boy, wouldn’t something new be fun? And wouldn’t it be appropriate if we could create a new, more total form of democracy by embracing the spirit of a man once known as “The King of Cool.”

CHRONICLE: The Biggest Waste of Money

Here is a little, short YouTube video:

Kind of funny. Kind of dark. Cheap, but in a necessary kind of way. It’s of little surprise that the director of that video went on to direct the year’s first and only (or not) superhero film: “Chronicle.” Like the light saber video above, the general premise is that young people obtain superpowers by way of ‘nobody-cares,’ and the end result demonstrates that young people—if not all people—can be impulsive, reckless, vain and destructive. With barely articulate/realistic dialogue (“DUUUUDE!”), inventive cinematography and enough moral ambiguity to fill the Superdome, “Chronicle”—a movie whose total production costs topped out around Hugh Jackman’s fee-per-film—stirred the regrettable realization that I blew way too much money over the years on 5 separate X-Men movies.

Like any standard superhero film, a handful of teenagers develop their unusual powers and immediate test them out, pushing one another as if playing with their dad’s gun—or, in my personal history, a grandfather’s katana. Expectantly, the former-high school prey, Andrew, finds the most meaning in his new begotten powers and becomes the vengeance-seeking antagonist. And so in the same vein as Magneto, Michael Corleone, the Wicked Witch of the West and any other proper villain, the audience must ask itself: when is revenge justified and when is too far?

As much as any fantastical element of the X-Men character Magneto, the audience had to believe that he’d still harbor resentment from his time in a WWII concentration camp. “Chronicle,” though, showcases something far more terrifying to modern audiences, a picked-on student rampaging against his classmates. Justified or not (moral answer: it’s not), Andrew’s anger, loneliness and desperation seem natural enough to attempt citywide destruction. Also, the angst is helped along by way of living in Seattle.

So he's going to play a young Leonardo Dicaprio at some point, right?

Counter-balancing Andrew, are two socially successful students: Matt and Steve. Presenting one of the thousands of paradoxes in actual high school life, Matt and Steve were admittedly not friends with Andrew in their pre-super power lives, yet they aren’t necessarily bad people for it. At any school (or workplace) with more than 150 people, acquaintances will form and never be anything more. By the same psychological inevitability, we characterize people we don’t know into stereotypes or caricatures but regard our friends and ourselves as unique and complex individuals. Everybody being friends with everybody is an unfair and impossible expectation.

While “Chronicle,” repeatedly strengthens the depths of Andrew’s characterization, not so much as a single line is tossed in to justify the actions of Andrew’s numerous tormentors, including drug dealers, pretty people and a drunk, abusive father. The high school “weirdo” is a real person, but apparently that distinction doesn’t cut both ways. An unusually strong emotional core is built up for Andrew, but the efforts of empathy are slightly undercut by the hypocrisy. Indeed, nerds are people, too. But in real life so are bullies. And so are cheerleaders, jocks, singers, drunks, housewives, convenience store clerks, and policemen.

Now the film probably had to follow Andrew, as his rise, fall, rise and fall (again) is the most dynamic of the characters. His life started out the worst and so escaping into the unimaginable was easiest for him. Conversely, Matt and Steve had lived their lives as perennial winners to the point that winning the jackpot of superpowers was barely more than another checkmark on their to-do lists. Matt and Steve need no further attention, praise or added promises of success in life and so they can use their new advantage in the most restrained and appropriate ways.

Unlike comic book movies, “Chronicle” gives minimum background to the supernatural origins but the ending teases with a half-baked sequel in mind. Rather than alien technology (ala “Animorphs”), I think there is more narrative and symbolic evidence to say The Whatever Device was government-run. Basically then, the movie becomes an allegory for the government giving away financial aid to high school students.

Wait. What?

Coming from an occasionally spiteful, generally snide, quasi-ironic, sub-excellent student, the way in which millions of dollars worth of high education is given away makes little sense. The best performing students, in academics or athletics or in their community service are already on a good path and only use their financial gifts to either fill coffers or jump start coffers that will be packed in a few years anyway. However, as I previously argued, “Chronicle” is entirely about the previously successful boys copping with new powers much better than the previously denigrated boy. In that way, the movie is showing that poor and/or lonely people should not receive outside help because they’re likely to try to use said powers to help their loved ones, seek revenge, bother the police and otherwise reek havoc.

I, of course, disagree with such a thesis and harbor a certain, specific sympathy for Andrew. In what would barely crack the Top 30 Most Embarrassing Moments of my high school career, I—like Andrew in the movie—filmed fellow 12th grade students like some kind of pimple-faced paparazzi, in a poorly-conceived ambition to wow them all with a revolutionary documentary. Few social designations stick and sting the 21st Century American like “creeper.” Trumping that, though, would be being called “racist.”

Speaking of which, the film commits one of the most tired cliches in regards to the order characters die. I complained of such months ago while watching “X-Men: First Class” and so felt the same laziness in “Chronicle” shan’t escape notice.

Racist slights aside, “Chronicle” is still a refreshing recovery from January’s numerous cinematic disappointments. In fact, it deserves more kudos than even that. “Chronicle” is the most stylized high school movie since “Brick” and the most thoughtful superhero film since “The Dark Knight” and the overall best young-people-with-real-superpowers film since I can remember. And to get all that entertainment with a four-dollar matinee is one of the best buys I've made in a while. Dude, bro, totally.

THE GREY: Getting Dark

The urge to stay alive is a peculiar one. Thousands of people kill themselves every day and millions more want to kill themselves to varying degrees of sincerity when the line at the grocery store moves too slow or when a former love announces on Facebook that they’re getting married to a drug dealer on April 20th. Hypothetical? Yes. Philosophical? Indeed. Depressing? You bet your meaty ass. Surviving is not enough; one needs a reason to live. Liam Neeson's latest romp in a string of ultra-masculine, brutal, inwardly driven films, is “The Grey” and never has a search for purpose come up so empty.

Neeson, to his credit, rages gravitas and does his best to teach the others how to act and survive. But with so few resources and so many survival-movie cliches, any hope to improve either condition is kept at a minimal. Really, I think the film’s virtues start and begin with Neeson being a vastly improved action hero over the Brickface Brothers: Sam Worthington and Channing Tatum.

I suppose some comparisons can be drawn between “The Grey” and “Deliverance,” but few work to the advantage of the former. For instance, while both wolves and hillbillies hunt the protagonists, the wolves do not rape anybody, preferring instead to just mercifully kill stragglers and the wounded. In between the attacks, the men of “The Grey” huddle around a couple of campfires and try their damnedest to make the audience give two farts by promising that off-screen female characters like them.

In what will remain one of this year’s worst red herrings, Liam Neeson tells the others/audience that simply running from the wolves would be suicidal and so they must improvise weaponry and hunt the wolves as they are being hunted. With 7 wolves vs. 7 of my friends, God knows I’d take my chances fighting over running (assuming one of my friends is Neeson). As already regretted, this battle does not come to pass and we are all subjected to an individual Armageddon. In short, Liam Neeson punches no wolves and PETA’s condemnation of the film is infuriatingly unfounded.

With less reason to live than any other character, it seems paradoxical that the Neeson character would so much as keep breathing after the first inconvenience, but such a paradox is the human condition. We want control. If we can’t have control in our life, we want it with our death. No force of nature, human error or gang-banger wolves are going to tell us to die. We decide went to go out and being told otherwise is the last, if not only, reason to live. This isn’t a movie about redemption or survival; it’s a movie about final acceptance.

"I don't even want to survive a whole movie anymore."

And so at its core, “The Grey” is a deeply angry and spiteful movie. Most of the characters work on an oil refinery, indirectly draining the Earth of beauty, stability and resources. Neeson, though, employs a more direct route: professionally executing wolves. These characters openly do nothing to improve the planet they live on and when the planet seeks a reckoning, they retaliate with even more desecration. It seems unfortunate that humans are on Earth at all, as we’d clearly be better fit to deal with the empty landscape of Mars—atmosphere aside.

Fortunately, the film refrains from diving into extended monologues on the human spirit or other Hollywood gargle but no less than five peaceful flashbacks to “a simpler time” eventually become refreshingly redundant. The terrain itself is a knee-deep hindrance rather than the full-fledged antagonist of the superior, 2010 film, “The Way Back.” Equally, the Alaskan forest seems uniform and even repetitive when juxtaposed with the North Asian taiga. Again unlike “The Way Back,” the characters do not have enough time to starve and have shaky (at best) reason to travel in their chosen direction. Disorientation is never admitted, though, so only the astute observer will understand just how meandering, aimless and doomed the snow bound trek really is.

Real insight is abandoned, like so many backpacks apparently filled with irrelevant supplies. That Neeson and the others abandon a perfectly visible crash site in favor of slugging through miles of ill-prepared, discombobulating situations is the first of many leaps of faith in an otherwise atheistic film. Before the halfway point, it becomes all too clear that the group cannot accomplish the difficult and that they aren’t so much fighting to survive as they are fighting to be miserable just a little bit longer. There is no guilt, regret, blame, democracy, vengeance or hope. There is just being alive. Rarely has life been so demoralizing.

There’s a quote in the 1977 rom-com, “Annie Hall” that goes: “Well, that's essentially how I feel about life: full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.” And it’s to my own disappointment that Woody Allen was not among the cast in “The Grey.”

The master of stoicism, Liam Neeson guides us to a resolution that is acceptable but hardly worth running to. Like the first character to die on-screen, we must be coaxed into accepting the inevitable. It seems impossible that we paid ten dollars to reach this point, but Neeson drills us with his pair of ol’ icy blues to the point that fighting his reassurances is more exhausting than drifting off with thoughts of a better time.

RED TAILS: Is It Racist?

A prominent executive producer publicly stated that financing and distributing the WWII-fighter pilot movie “Red Tails” was hindered primarily by movie studios’ racism. Or, to be more specific, the major movie studios feared that the rest of the world was too racist to go see a big-budget war movie starring a predominately black cast. Following through on the pessimism, 20th Century Fox dumped the movie in late January, when ticket numbers reach annual lows rivaled only by the month of September. This is a conversation worth having.

With the film starring Terrence Howard and Cuba Gooding, Jr, are we going to get some Oscar-caliber acting?

Nope. But Howard will chew on some scenery and Gooding will chew on his pipe in a distracting caricature of Black Douglas MacArthur. Also, both are given a smaller font than one George Lucas.

Wait. George Lucas? The Star Wars guy?

Lucas has an executive producer credit. Which is the same credit he had in “The Empire Strikes Back” and “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” However, it’s also the same credit he had in “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” and “Howard the Duck.” In short, “Red Tails” can not be chalked up as yet another Lucas tragedy but his finger prints are there.

Is this a metaphor for George Lucas's career?

Only if that plane can earn billions of dollars over the next fifteen years.

Fake-looking, colorful CGI backgrounds?

Bingo.

This is a historical movie, right? How’s the history?

This is a war movie and as historically accurate as any war movie. The facts are there, but the characters were created by precedents and focus groups. In WWII, the U.S. military was racially segregated and movies like “Captain America” throw the audience out of a story by forcibly demonstrating otherwise. There was no unit that had the genetic makeup of a 1940s-version Power Ranger team.

So what, this is like “Saving Black Private Ryan”?

The worst irony may be that while studios won’t support all-black cast movies (for rather dubious reasons), they also require racial diversity. To be historically accurate, “Saving Private Ryan” couldn’t have black characters. But then again, the film’s platoon had Vin Diesel…though I’m not sure if he counts. However, since he was the first character to die in that film, I suppose he was meant to be at least a stand-in for diversity incarnate.

But there was a Tuskegee Airmen fighter group?

Yeah, of course. And this film doesn’t bother to stray too much from historical accuracy to be a sequel to “Soul Plane.”

Thank God. I hate Tom Arnold.

Unfortunately, the Tom Arnold-character is this time played Bryan “Breaking Bad” Cranston. For painfully dull reasons, the character articulates the driest Southern accent and every other white, superior officer character joins along.

Okay, forget about “Soul Plane,” I can think of one other cinematic black pilot.

Will Smith in “Independence Day”? Yeah. But his blackness is offset by his clearly black, sidekick, best friend character played by Harry Connick, Jr. And don’t worry, it’s okay for me to say that--as I have several white friends.

Wow, strayed a bit from “Red Tails,” there.

Al Sharpton, renowned for his cinematic clarity and expertise, called “Red Tails” one of the best movies he’s ever seen. This should not act as a deterrent to white audiences though. The movie is meant for easy consumption; cheap entertainment with a slight sense of self-importance. Aerial action scenes occupy more screen time than reflections on racism. Furthermore, the inevitable discussions on race only range between bland and stereotypical, with nothing coming within a mile of the venom or mean-spirited nature of a Spike Lee joint.

How is this even remotely a movie review?

The movie itself is regrettably secondary to people’s pre-conceptions of the movie. The movie offers absolutely nothing new in terms of cinema iconography. And regrettably so. The movie has to be discussed entirely in terms of racism because ultimately the movie is just a collection of war-movie stereotypes. Beautiful European girl named Sophia. Comically religious guy. The "kid” character. Stoic, straight-laced leader. Hot shot renegade. Dumb explosions. Pointlessly evil German. Racist befriending a black guy. Insurmountable odds overcome. More dumb explosions. Jive-talking mechanic. Unnamed characters taking the place of narrators in the middle of a fight-scene in case blind people are watching the film. Characters overcoming language barriers. The alcoholic. The musician. Uncanny predictions of the future. Ending title cards listing the numerical medals and causalities. The real-life war veteran in the audience who gives the film a solitary standing ovation during the ending credits.

Wow. Sounds like every war movie ever.

And to think, if the movie had only been filmed entirely in black and white we could have been talking about the virtues of archival footage. Or perhaps government-controlled media or the evolution of cinematic realism. Instead we are subjected to regurgitated banalities and aimless patriotism.

Is this movie ending or extending racism?

Ending, easily. While offering something new in the world of cinema would have been preferable, we can at least come together as a society to denounce weak storytelling techniques. It’s almost as if the filmmakers wanted to demonstrate to the audiences that not only were black pilots as courageous as whites in a pre-Truman world, but that they, seventy years later, can create a movie as devoid of originality as any production team of white millionaires.

Was there a black guy in “Flyboys?”

If you thought of that movie before this point, I pity you. Aerial warfare in movies is sweet, but mostly just in theory. Few movies about pilots are even watchable. God knows “Stealth” wasn’t.

I don’t think I’ll see “Red Tails”…

Don’t like black and white stories, huh? Then you might be interested in this new movie coming out, starring Liam Neeson called “The Grey.”

Oh come on!

Nailed it!