By way of indicating just how terrible a year it’s been for movies, for the first time in I don’t know how long English language films outnumber foreign entries. Sequels, comic books, and young adult novels still lead the pack — this accounts for my once again managing to cold-shoulder half of this year’s top ten grossing movies — but at least quality blockbusters such as Dawn of the Planet of the Apes and Captain America: The Winter Soldier are outgrossing slick, impersonal reboots like Godzilla and The Amazing Spider-Man 2.
A relentless gallery of raillery aimed at introducing Steve Coogan and company’s Alan Partridge -the quick-witted and eminently inflated fictional radio and television host - to American multiplexes. The corporatization of a British radio station causes the recently axed overnight man (Colm Meany) to flip out: he ends up taking prisoners and second billing behind Alan as co-host of the live broadcast of the hostage negotiations. Capable of self-assured incivility measured with just enough obsequiousness to avoid getting punched in the nose, Coogan gives us his choicest work since playing real-life record exec Tony Wilson in Michael Winterbottom’s equally penetrating media mockery, <em>24 Hour Party People</em>. It’s one thing when audience guffaws “step on” dialogue, and another to sit alone, repeatedly hitting "pause" to play catch-up after a paroxysm of laughs made it impossible to catch your breath. Ten minutes of Partridge yields ten times the laughs of both Anchorman films combined.
Is this Steve Coogan’s way of paying reparations for his ill-at-ease semidramatic turn in Philomena? Capable of self-assured incivility, measured with just enough obsequiousness to avoid getting punched in the nose, Coogan brings his quick-witted and eminently inflated fictional radio and television host to American multiplexes. The result is the funniest film of 2014. Ten minutes of Partridge yields ten times the laughs of both Anchorman films combined.
A Chechen Muslim enters Hamburg in the guise of a homeless man seeking asylum and captures the attention of intelligence operative Philip Seymour Hoffman’s antiterror unit. Based on a John le Carré novel, this is the sharpest, most reasonable tale of espionage and intrigue since John Boorman’s <em>Tailor of Panama</em>. Those who find excitement in dry-as-a-crumpet-fart British spy snoozers like <em>Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy</em> will want to stay away; too much excitement is bad for the heart. The cast of international allstars — most notably Rachel McAdams holding her own with a determined Russian accent — is uniformly exquisite. Kudos to director Anton Corbijn for rebounding from his last effort, the unmitigated Clooney debacle, <em>The American</em>. This was to be Hoffman’s last role. If had to make an early exit, at least he did it with style. With Robin Wright, Nina Hoss, and Martin Wuttke.
A Chechen Muslim enters Hamburg in the guise of a homeless man seeking asylum and captures the attention of intelligence operative Philip Seymour Hoffman’s anti-terror unit. Those who find excitement in dry-as-a-crumpet-fart British spy snoozers like Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy will want to stay away; too much excitement is bad for the heart. Venturesome viewers will delight in Anton Corbijn’s intelligent adaptation of John Le Carre’s espionage best-seller.
This was to be Philip Seymour Hoffman’s last role. If had to make an early exit, at least he did it with style.
First came <em>Antichrist</em>, then <em>Melancholia</em>, and now Lars von Trier caps his so-called ‘Trilogy of Depression’ with the funniest movie of his career. Stellan Skarsgård stars as a book-learned hermit who hits the jackpot upon discovering a battered and bloodied sex addict (Charlotte Gainsbourg) — one who is eager to recount her multitudinous carnal encounters in vividly lurid detail — half-unconscious in the alley next to his house. “Love is lust with jealousy added,” reasons von Trier habitué Skarsgård in what amounts to an ingenious reversal on the emasculated oil driller he originated in the director’s breakthrough picture, <em>Breaking the Waves</em>. Not all of the episodes pan out — the sex tape Shia LaBeouf and his girlfriend allegedly submitted as an audition reel probably coaxed a more cogent performance. Volume 1 of LVT’s absurdist vision peaks with Uma Thurman taking her kids on an over-the top tour of “the children’s father’s” cuckold bedroom. In Part 2, the sex and … (to be continued).
...violence become one and the same as Gainsbourg, no longer reliant on Stacy Martin to play her in flashback, steps up to the plate with a stinging S&M relationship she consents to with Jamie Bell in hope of finding the recipe to rekindle her libido. Once our suspicions concerning Seligman’s virginity are confirmed, the pending curtain-act punch line becomes a hilarious, hotly anticipated, and foregone conclusion. It’s one of those cases where we know precisely how it’s going to end, but the director sets us up for the obvious in such a manner that we eagerly agree to stick around to see how he does it. Von Trier’s serrated take on a society so covetous and steeped in jaded lust that nothing short of a raw sexual encounter can get them off makes this the most darkly amusing satire of it’s kind since David Cronenberg’s <em>Crash</em>.
Lars von Trier caps his so-called “Trilogy of Depression” with the funniest movie of his career.
Stellan Skarsgård heads an all-star international cast as a book-learned virgin who hits the jackpot upon discovering a battered and bloodied sex addict (Charlotte Gainsbourg) — one who is eager to recount her multitudinous carnal encounters in vividly lurid detail — half-unconscious in the alley next to his house. Not all of the episodes pan out — the sex tape Shia LaBeouf and his girlfriend allegedly submitted as an audition reel probably coaxed a more cogent performance. But Von Trier’s serrated take on a society so covetous and steeped in jaded lust that nothing short of a raw sexual encounter can get them off makes this the most darkly amusing satire of its kind since David Cronenberg’s Crash.
Children switched at birth is both a parent's worst nightmare and the basis of untold movie-of-the-week melodramas. Happily, this nurturing, resoundingly contemplative family drama comes dealt with an open hand by master filmmaker Hirokazu Koreeda (<em>After Life, Still Walking</em>). Driven businessman Ryota Nonomiya (Masaharu Fukuyama) doesn’t have time for impromptu day trips to the zoo with his 6-year-old son, Keita (Keita Ninomiya). Success is the best teacher, and Ryota’s idea of mentoring is seven days a week spent at the office. When the boss puts in a rare Sunday appearance, he thanks Ryota and comments on how his employees’ dedication frees up time for him to spend with the family. It takes five reels and a family-splintering act of titanic proportions for Ryota to finally grasp the importance of his boss’ seemingly offhanded remark.
Children switched at birth is both a parent’s worst nightmare and the basis of untold movie-of-the-week melodramas.
Master filmmaker Hirokazu Koreeda spins this heartbreaking tale of Ryota Nonomiya (Masaharu Fukuyama), a businessman whose idea of mentoring his son is seven days a week spent at the office. When the boss puts in a rare Sunday appearance, he comments on how his employees’ dedication frees up time for him to spend with his family. It takes five reels and a family-splintering act of titanic proportions for Ryota to finally grasp the importance of his boss’s seemingly offhanded remark.
An ominous “controlled avalanche” at a Swiss resort sparks a tidal wave of emotion when Ebba (Lisa Loven Kongsli) discovers her work-addicted husband, Tomas (Johannes Kuhnke), places his own safety, and that of his smartphone, ahead of their two kids. It’s a conspicuous moment of indecision that plunges their marriage (and Thomas’ sense of manhood) into jeopardy. Unrest lurks beneath every one of director Ruben Östlund’s strikingly placid exterior shots. Arrhythmic editing patterns and crisp dialog further contribute to audience anxiety. Thomas’ failed test of bravery becomes Ebba’s prime topic of discussion. Her account of the story to a visiting couple is as harrowing (and economically staged) as the near-calamitous cascade. Most unexpected is the film’s dissident sense of humor, trading comedy for tragedy with the snap of a finger in this edged assault on the patriarchal system. One suggestion: leave 5 minutes before it ends and draw your own conclusion.
An ominous “controlled avalanche” at a Swiss resort sparks a tidal wave of emotion when Ebba (Lisa Loven Kongsli) discovers her work-addicted husband, Tomas (Johannes Kuhnke), places his own safety, and that of his smartphone, ahead of that of their two kids.
Unrest and tinges of black comedy lurk beneath every one of director Ruben Östlund’s strikingly placid exterior shots, with arrhythmic editing patterns and crisp dialog aimed at further contributing to audience anxiety. One suggestion: leave five minutes before it ends and draw your own conclusion.
Would it really have made that much difference had <em>Boyhood</em> been filmed over a period of three months with a range of actors playing the leads at various stages of their lives as opposed to a 12-year shoot that affords its cast the relatively unheard of luxury of literally aging before our eyes? Mason (Ellar Coltrane) and Samantha (Lorelei Linklater) are the product of good people (Patricia Arquette and Ethan Hawke) who couldn’t make their love work. Much of the film’s appeal stems from it’s structured commitment to chronicling growth without relying on improvisation as a crutch. Richard Linklater’s casual hand at storytelling, dealing out reel after reel of naggingly forthright enlightenment, turns this simple tale of a mother trying to do best for her kids into something worth every second of the time it took to produce. With Marco Perella, chilling as Dad #2, a Jekyll & Hyde type who tends bar in the laundry room.
Would it really have made that much difference had Boyhood been filmed over a period of three months with a range of actors playing the leads at various stages of their lives, as opposed to a 12-year shoot that affords its cast the relatively unheard-of luxury of literally aging before our eyes? Much of the picture’s appeal stems from its structured commitment to chronicling growth, without relying on improvisation as a crutch.
The film’s facile attempt at Republican-bashing and dull lead tend to make it drag a bit, but overall, Richard Linklater’s casual hand at storytelling — dealing out reel after reel of naggingly forthright enlightenment — turns this simple tale of a mother trying to do best for her kids into something much more than an exquisite gimmick film.
Here's what you know about the Italian city of Pompeii: it was buried in ash when a nearby volcano erupted with sudden fury in 79 AD. If you're plunking down $12 to watch a volcano erupt and destroy a city — first via earthquake, then via flaming boulder bombardment, then via tidal wave, and finally via superheated ash cloud — then you'll get that. But all that meaningless, computer-generated, natural-disaster carnage gets tedious, and quickly. What's much, much more fun is what comes before. You got yer enslaved "savage" (Kit Harrington, fit and fresh as a daisy) who's more civilized than his imperial overlords, gladiating his way across the Roman Empire. You got yer forbidden love across class lines set against the backdrop of spectacular disaster. You got yer political maneuvering, dominated by a dirty Roman senator (Kiefer Sutherland, having the time of his life) who's got his eye on the same girl as our hero. You even got yer arena combat narrated by Greek chorus! And hell if director Paul W.S. Anderson doesn't serve up some actually interesting overhead shots of the doomed city pre-destruction. With all this goodness, who needs a script or a compelling lead?
Slow to start, and the Orlando Bloom stand-in who stars should try his luck at modeling underwear. Still, the 3D effects are nothing short of spectacular, particularly the all-seeing and ever-present volcano’s-eye view aerial shots, complete with fireball vapor trails banding across the deep ’Scope foreground. Keifer Sutherland has fun vamping on Karloff, but God forbid he should get a period haircut: he looks like he just walked in off the Sunset Strip.
The climactic 40-minute spectacle of destruction is an absolute delight, with enough sweep and visual complexity to leave the standard issue CG video games Marvel pumps out in the ashes. Those quick to fawn over Grand Budapest Hotel clearly put their faith in the wrong Anderson.
P.S.: There will be no sequel. Everybody dies in the end. Amen!
<em>Nightcrawler</em> bolsters a fear that’s rattled my core since first it became clear that digital was here to stay: every schmuck with a video camera thinks they can direct. Jake Gyllenhaal stars as Louis Bloom, a determined drifter who taps his inner-video journalist to become a successful network news stringer. Don’t let his unblinking doe-eyes, hands-in-pockets demeanor, and proverbial gift of gab fool you. Within minutes of meeting Bloom, screenwriter and first-time director Dan Gilroy casts a purposeful light on his character’s basest instincts. What follows is a gritty urban comedy noir, a scathing, <em>Network</em>-worthy disembowelment of television newsgatherers that will leave you craving a shower. From its airtight script, seamless performances, and stunning night cinematography (praise be to Robert Elswit), no American film this year has reminded me why I fell in love with movies in the first place quite like this incandescent masterwork. With memorable supporting work by Renee Russo and Bill Paxton.
Jake Gyllenhaal stars as Louis Bloom, a determined drifter who taps his inner-video journalist to become a successful network news stringer. This scraggily effective modern-day noir deserves a bucket of best screenplay Oscars if for no other reason than coining the term “flirtationship.” (A dinner date in the Mexican diner yields a delightful serving of chutzpah and slime with a wedge of lime.)
From its airtight script, seamless performances, and stunning night cinematography (praise be to Robert Elswit), no American film this year has reminded me why I fell in love with movies in the first place quite like this incandescent masterwork.
From its bold opening long take – one of the most audaciously disconcerting and seductively executed lead-ins in many a moon — director Amat Escalante sends viewers hurtling downward on a topsy-turvy journey through his hellish depiction of Mexico’s war on drugs. Same familiar terrain, different cartel, you ask? Guess again. Escalante is fighting the good fight, and this is far from a hoodlum recruitment film. It's very much, "Do the crime, do the time." Heli (Armando Espitia) works in a Mexican automobile factory. He’s the kind of cocky kid capable of buying his girlfriend a cuddly pup and then, when called upon, wantonly pumping two rounds into a pit bull. But he's not your typical Fordian archetype; when his sister falls into the hands of volatile drug lords, there will be no search through a savage, corrupt world. It's not for the faint of heart, but then, brutal honesty seldom is.
“You’ll get to know God in the land of the damned,” mutters one of the vast array of scumbags on tap in Amat Escalante’s shocking crime drama Heli. From its bold opening long take — one of the most audaciously disconcerting and seductively executed lead-ins in many a moon — Escalante sends viewers hurtling downward on a topsy-turvy journey through his hellish depiction of Mexico’s war on drugs. Those quick to fault movies for glamorizing criminal behavior will be glad to learn that Heli is far from a hoodlum recruitment film. Some will find the film’s graphic “do the crime, do the time” tack difficult to brave. Not for the faint of heart, but then, brutal honesty seldom is.
Wanting to escape her bigoted, misogynistic small-town upbringing — and with little but four camels, a dog, and her wits to guide her — a young woman (Mia Wasikowska) embarks on a 2,000-mile trek across the Australian desert. It only sounds like Disneynature. Whatever you look for in a movie – action, adventure, drama, romance, integrity, spiritual and artistic enlightenment – is contained within these 112 minutes. Visually stunning, thanks to cinematographer Mandy Walker’s mahogany hues and production designer Melinda Doring’s dusty period recreation. We may never grasp the motivation behind the real-life Robyn Davidson’s harrowing journey, but as her surrogate “crazy camel lady,” the exceptional Ms. Wasikowska never gives cause to question veracity. An uplifting, profoundly moving experience that left me in tears, though not through any willful manipulation on the part of director John Curran. If your kids can stand two curse words, “brief partial nudity,” and a handful of “disturbing images,” there’s not a better film to take them to. 2014.
Whatever you look for in a movie — action, adventure, drama, romance, integrity, spiritual and artistic enlightenment — is contained within these 112 minutes. In what can only be called the thinking-person’s Wild, a young woman (Mia Wasikowska), wanting to escape her bigoted, misogynistic small-town upbringing — and with little but four camels, a dog, and her wits to guide her — embarks on a 2000-mile trek across the Australian desert. We may never grasp the motivation behind the real-life Robyn Davidson’s harrowing journey, but as her surrogate “crazy camel lady,” the exceptional Ms. Wasikowska never gives cause to question veracity.
An uplifting, profoundly moving experience that left me in tears, and though not through any willful manipulation on the part of director John Curran.
Dominga Sotomayor’s Thursday Till Sunday, Hirokazu Koreeda’s Like Father Like Son, Matt Reeves’s Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, Jill D’Agnenica’s Life Inside Out, Neto Villalobos’s All About the Feathers, Michael Cuesta’s Kill the Messenger, Gillian Robespierre’s Obvious Child, Dave Boyle’s Man From Reno, Joe Johnston’s Captain America: The Winter Soldier, and Will Eubank’s The Signal.
Laura Poitras’s Citizenfour, Jennifer Baichwal’s Watermark, Leslie Zemeckis’s Bound by Flesh, Matt Wolf’s Teenage, and David Salzberg and Christian Tureaud’s The Hornet’s Nest.
Reese Witherspoon will get the glory for her solo hike in Wild, but it’s Mia Wasikowska who steals the show in Tracks; Obvious Child’s Jenny Slate aka the future Mrs. Marks; Jake Gyllenhaal bleeding charm in Nightcrawler; Uma Thurman guiding her kids through an over-the top tour of “the children’s father’s” cuckold bedroom in Nymphomaniac: Volume 1; Rachel McAdams holding her own with a determined Russian accent in A Most Wanted Man; the whist dignity Pepe Serna brought to Man From Reno; Susan Sarandon handing in her best work in years playing stage mother to Errol Flynn’s child bride in The Last of Robin Hood; the rooted presence and boomerang-shaped grin of Shaina Vorspan in Gone Doggy Gone; Tom Hardy, as my partner Matthew Lickona so elegantly stated, “hunched and shuffling, folded in on himself both physically and otherwise” in The Drop; The November Man’s Bill Smitrovich, this year’s villain to beat; Imogen Poots, Addison Timlin, and particularly Mackenzie Davis for their trio of well-rounded secondary female characters played to perfection in the enjoyable That Awkward Moment.
Clive Owen, Juliette Binoche, and the sublime underplaying of Bruce Davison in Fred Schepisi’s Words and Pictures.
Robert Elswit’s Nightcrawler, Mandy Walker’s Tracks, Glen MacPherson’s Pompeii, Fredrik Wenzel’s Force Majeure, Ian Baker’s Words and Pictures, and Dick Pope, the only thing keeping me awake during Mr. Turner.
Marion Nelson’s Tracks, Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler, Richard Linklater’s Boyhood, Andrew Bovell, A Most Wanted Man, Peter Baynham’s Alan Partridge, Peter Landesman’s Kill the Messenger, and Gillian Robespierre’s Obvious Child.
By way of indicating just how terrible a year it’s been for movies, for the first time in I don’t know how long English language films outnumber foreign entries. Sequels, comic books, and young adult novels still lead the pack — this accounts for my once again managing to cold-shoulder half of this year’s top ten grossing movies — but at least quality blockbusters such as Dawn of the Planet of the Apes and Captain America: The Winter Soldier are outgrossing slick, impersonal reboots like Godzilla and The Amazing Spider-Man 2.
A relentless gallery of raillery aimed at introducing Steve Coogan and company’s Alan Partridge -the quick-witted and eminently inflated fictional radio and television host - to American multiplexes. The corporatization of a British radio station causes the recently axed overnight man (Colm Meany) to flip out: he ends up taking prisoners and second billing behind Alan as co-host of the live broadcast of the hostage negotiations. Capable of self-assured incivility measured with just enough obsequiousness to avoid getting punched in the nose, Coogan gives us his choicest work since playing real-life record exec Tony Wilson in Michael Winterbottom’s equally penetrating media mockery, <em>24 Hour Party People</em>. It’s one thing when audience guffaws “step on” dialogue, and another to sit alone, repeatedly hitting "pause" to play catch-up after a paroxysm of laughs made it impossible to catch your breath. Ten minutes of Partridge yields ten times the laughs of both Anchorman films combined.
Is this Steve Coogan’s way of paying reparations for his ill-at-ease semidramatic turn in Philomena? Capable of self-assured incivility, measured with just enough obsequiousness to avoid getting punched in the nose, Coogan brings his quick-witted and eminently inflated fictional radio and television host to American multiplexes. The result is the funniest film of 2014. Ten minutes of Partridge yields ten times the laughs of both Anchorman films combined.
A Chechen Muslim enters Hamburg in the guise of a homeless man seeking asylum and captures the attention of intelligence operative Philip Seymour Hoffman’s antiterror unit. Based on a John le Carré novel, this is the sharpest, most reasonable tale of espionage and intrigue since John Boorman’s <em>Tailor of Panama</em>. Those who find excitement in dry-as-a-crumpet-fart British spy snoozers like <em>Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy</em> will want to stay away; too much excitement is bad for the heart. The cast of international allstars — most notably Rachel McAdams holding her own with a determined Russian accent — is uniformly exquisite. Kudos to director Anton Corbijn for rebounding from his last effort, the unmitigated Clooney debacle, <em>The American</em>. This was to be Hoffman’s last role. If had to make an early exit, at least he did it with style. With Robin Wright, Nina Hoss, and Martin Wuttke.
A Chechen Muslim enters Hamburg in the guise of a homeless man seeking asylum and captures the attention of intelligence operative Philip Seymour Hoffman’s anti-terror unit. Those who find excitement in dry-as-a-crumpet-fart British spy snoozers like Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy will want to stay away; too much excitement is bad for the heart. Venturesome viewers will delight in Anton Corbijn’s intelligent adaptation of John Le Carre’s espionage best-seller.
This was to be Philip Seymour Hoffman’s last role. If had to make an early exit, at least he did it with style.
First came <em>Antichrist</em>, then <em>Melancholia</em>, and now Lars von Trier caps his so-called ‘Trilogy of Depression’ with the funniest movie of his career. Stellan Skarsgård stars as a book-learned hermit who hits the jackpot upon discovering a battered and bloodied sex addict (Charlotte Gainsbourg) — one who is eager to recount her multitudinous carnal encounters in vividly lurid detail — half-unconscious in the alley next to his house. “Love is lust with jealousy added,” reasons von Trier habitué Skarsgård in what amounts to an ingenious reversal on the emasculated oil driller he originated in the director’s breakthrough picture, <em>Breaking the Waves</em>. Not all of the episodes pan out — the sex tape Shia LaBeouf and his girlfriend allegedly submitted as an audition reel probably coaxed a more cogent performance. Volume 1 of LVT’s absurdist vision peaks with Uma Thurman taking her kids on an over-the top tour of “the children’s father’s” cuckold bedroom. In Part 2, the sex and … (to be continued).
...violence become one and the same as Gainsbourg, no longer reliant on Stacy Martin to play her in flashback, steps up to the plate with a stinging S&M relationship she consents to with Jamie Bell in hope of finding the recipe to rekindle her libido. Once our suspicions concerning Seligman’s virginity are confirmed, the pending curtain-act punch line becomes a hilarious, hotly anticipated, and foregone conclusion. It’s one of those cases where we know precisely how it’s going to end, but the director sets us up for the obvious in such a manner that we eagerly agree to stick around to see how he does it. Von Trier’s serrated take on a society so covetous and steeped in jaded lust that nothing short of a raw sexual encounter can get them off makes this the most darkly amusing satire of it’s kind since David Cronenberg’s <em>Crash</em>.
Lars von Trier caps his so-called “Trilogy of Depression” with the funniest movie of his career.
Stellan Skarsgård heads an all-star international cast as a book-learned virgin who hits the jackpot upon discovering a battered and bloodied sex addict (Charlotte Gainsbourg) — one who is eager to recount her multitudinous carnal encounters in vividly lurid detail — half-unconscious in the alley next to his house. Not all of the episodes pan out — the sex tape Shia LaBeouf and his girlfriend allegedly submitted as an audition reel probably coaxed a more cogent performance. But Von Trier’s serrated take on a society so covetous and steeped in jaded lust that nothing short of a raw sexual encounter can get them off makes this the most darkly amusing satire of its kind since David Cronenberg’s Crash.
Children switched at birth is both a parent's worst nightmare and the basis of untold movie-of-the-week melodramas. Happily, this nurturing, resoundingly contemplative family drama comes dealt with an open hand by master filmmaker Hirokazu Koreeda (<em>After Life, Still Walking</em>). Driven businessman Ryota Nonomiya (Masaharu Fukuyama) doesn’t have time for impromptu day trips to the zoo with his 6-year-old son, Keita (Keita Ninomiya). Success is the best teacher, and Ryota’s idea of mentoring is seven days a week spent at the office. When the boss puts in a rare Sunday appearance, he thanks Ryota and comments on how his employees’ dedication frees up time for him to spend with the family. It takes five reels and a family-splintering act of titanic proportions for Ryota to finally grasp the importance of his boss’ seemingly offhanded remark.
Children switched at birth is both a parent’s worst nightmare and the basis of untold movie-of-the-week melodramas.
Master filmmaker Hirokazu Koreeda spins this heartbreaking tale of Ryota Nonomiya (Masaharu Fukuyama), a businessman whose idea of mentoring his son is seven days a week spent at the office. When the boss puts in a rare Sunday appearance, he comments on how his employees’ dedication frees up time for him to spend with his family. It takes five reels and a family-splintering act of titanic proportions for Ryota to finally grasp the importance of his boss’s seemingly offhanded remark.
An ominous “controlled avalanche” at a Swiss resort sparks a tidal wave of emotion when Ebba (Lisa Loven Kongsli) discovers her work-addicted husband, Tomas (Johannes Kuhnke), places his own safety, and that of his smartphone, ahead of their two kids. It’s a conspicuous moment of indecision that plunges their marriage (and Thomas’ sense of manhood) into jeopardy. Unrest lurks beneath every one of director Ruben Östlund’s strikingly placid exterior shots. Arrhythmic editing patterns and crisp dialog further contribute to audience anxiety. Thomas’ failed test of bravery becomes Ebba’s prime topic of discussion. Her account of the story to a visiting couple is as harrowing (and economically staged) as the near-calamitous cascade. Most unexpected is the film’s dissident sense of humor, trading comedy for tragedy with the snap of a finger in this edged assault on the patriarchal system. One suggestion: leave 5 minutes before it ends and draw your own conclusion.
An ominous “controlled avalanche” at a Swiss resort sparks a tidal wave of emotion when Ebba (Lisa Loven Kongsli) discovers her work-addicted husband, Tomas (Johannes Kuhnke), places his own safety, and that of his smartphone, ahead of that of their two kids.
Unrest and tinges of black comedy lurk beneath every one of director Ruben Östlund’s strikingly placid exterior shots, with arrhythmic editing patterns and crisp dialog aimed at further contributing to audience anxiety. One suggestion: leave five minutes before it ends and draw your own conclusion.
Would it really have made that much difference had <em>Boyhood</em> been filmed over a period of three months with a range of actors playing the leads at various stages of their lives as opposed to a 12-year shoot that affords its cast the relatively unheard of luxury of literally aging before our eyes? Mason (Ellar Coltrane) and Samantha (Lorelei Linklater) are the product of good people (Patricia Arquette and Ethan Hawke) who couldn’t make their love work. Much of the film’s appeal stems from it’s structured commitment to chronicling growth without relying on improvisation as a crutch. Richard Linklater’s casual hand at storytelling, dealing out reel after reel of naggingly forthright enlightenment, turns this simple tale of a mother trying to do best for her kids into something worth every second of the time it took to produce. With Marco Perella, chilling as Dad #2, a Jekyll & Hyde type who tends bar in the laundry room.
Would it really have made that much difference had Boyhood been filmed over a period of three months with a range of actors playing the leads at various stages of their lives, as opposed to a 12-year shoot that affords its cast the relatively unheard-of luxury of literally aging before our eyes? Much of the picture’s appeal stems from its structured commitment to chronicling growth, without relying on improvisation as a crutch.
The film’s facile attempt at Republican-bashing and dull lead tend to make it drag a bit, but overall, Richard Linklater’s casual hand at storytelling — dealing out reel after reel of naggingly forthright enlightenment — turns this simple tale of a mother trying to do best for her kids into something much more than an exquisite gimmick film.
Here's what you know about the Italian city of Pompeii: it was buried in ash when a nearby volcano erupted with sudden fury in 79 AD. If you're plunking down $12 to watch a volcano erupt and destroy a city — first via earthquake, then via flaming boulder bombardment, then via tidal wave, and finally via superheated ash cloud — then you'll get that. But all that meaningless, computer-generated, natural-disaster carnage gets tedious, and quickly. What's much, much more fun is what comes before. You got yer enslaved "savage" (Kit Harrington, fit and fresh as a daisy) who's more civilized than his imperial overlords, gladiating his way across the Roman Empire. You got yer forbidden love across class lines set against the backdrop of spectacular disaster. You got yer political maneuvering, dominated by a dirty Roman senator (Kiefer Sutherland, having the time of his life) who's got his eye on the same girl as our hero. You even got yer arena combat narrated by Greek chorus! And hell if director Paul W.S. Anderson doesn't serve up some actually interesting overhead shots of the doomed city pre-destruction. With all this goodness, who needs a script or a compelling lead?
Slow to start, and the Orlando Bloom stand-in who stars should try his luck at modeling underwear. Still, the 3D effects are nothing short of spectacular, particularly the all-seeing and ever-present volcano’s-eye view aerial shots, complete with fireball vapor trails banding across the deep ’Scope foreground. Keifer Sutherland has fun vamping on Karloff, but God forbid he should get a period haircut: he looks like he just walked in off the Sunset Strip.
The climactic 40-minute spectacle of destruction is an absolute delight, with enough sweep and visual complexity to leave the standard issue CG video games Marvel pumps out in the ashes. Those quick to fawn over Grand Budapest Hotel clearly put their faith in the wrong Anderson.
P.S.: There will be no sequel. Everybody dies in the end. Amen!
<em>Nightcrawler</em> bolsters a fear that’s rattled my core since first it became clear that digital was here to stay: every schmuck with a video camera thinks they can direct. Jake Gyllenhaal stars as Louis Bloom, a determined drifter who taps his inner-video journalist to become a successful network news stringer. Don’t let his unblinking doe-eyes, hands-in-pockets demeanor, and proverbial gift of gab fool you. Within minutes of meeting Bloom, screenwriter and first-time director Dan Gilroy casts a purposeful light on his character’s basest instincts. What follows is a gritty urban comedy noir, a scathing, <em>Network</em>-worthy disembowelment of television newsgatherers that will leave you craving a shower. From its airtight script, seamless performances, and stunning night cinematography (praise be to Robert Elswit), no American film this year has reminded me why I fell in love with movies in the first place quite like this incandescent masterwork. With memorable supporting work by Renee Russo and Bill Paxton.
Jake Gyllenhaal stars as Louis Bloom, a determined drifter who taps his inner-video journalist to become a successful network news stringer. This scraggily effective modern-day noir deserves a bucket of best screenplay Oscars if for no other reason than coining the term “flirtationship.” (A dinner date in the Mexican diner yields a delightful serving of chutzpah and slime with a wedge of lime.)
From its airtight script, seamless performances, and stunning night cinematography (praise be to Robert Elswit), no American film this year has reminded me why I fell in love with movies in the first place quite like this incandescent masterwork.
From its bold opening long take – one of the most audaciously disconcerting and seductively executed lead-ins in many a moon — director Amat Escalante sends viewers hurtling downward on a topsy-turvy journey through his hellish depiction of Mexico’s war on drugs. Same familiar terrain, different cartel, you ask? Guess again. Escalante is fighting the good fight, and this is far from a hoodlum recruitment film. It's very much, "Do the crime, do the time." Heli (Armando Espitia) works in a Mexican automobile factory. He’s the kind of cocky kid capable of buying his girlfriend a cuddly pup and then, when called upon, wantonly pumping two rounds into a pit bull. But he's not your typical Fordian archetype; when his sister falls into the hands of volatile drug lords, there will be no search through a savage, corrupt world. It's not for the faint of heart, but then, brutal honesty seldom is.
“You’ll get to know God in the land of the damned,” mutters one of the vast array of scumbags on tap in Amat Escalante’s shocking crime drama Heli. From its bold opening long take — one of the most audaciously disconcerting and seductively executed lead-ins in many a moon — Escalante sends viewers hurtling downward on a topsy-turvy journey through his hellish depiction of Mexico’s war on drugs. Those quick to fault movies for glamorizing criminal behavior will be glad to learn that Heli is far from a hoodlum recruitment film. Some will find the film’s graphic “do the crime, do the time” tack difficult to brave. Not for the faint of heart, but then, brutal honesty seldom is.
Wanting to escape her bigoted, misogynistic small-town upbringing — and with little but four camels, a dog, and her wits to guide her — a young woman (Mia Wasikowska) embarks on a 2,000-mile trek across the Australian desert. It only sounds like Disneynature. Whatever you look for in a movie – action, adventure, drama, romance, integrity, spiritual and artistic enlightenment – is contained within these 112 minutes. Visually stunning, thanks to cinematographer Mandy Walker’s mahogany hues and production designer Melinda Doring’s dusty period recreation. We may never grasp the motivation behind the real-life Robyn Davidson’s harrowing journey, but as her surrogate “crazy camel lady,” the exceptional Ms. Wasikowska never gives cause to question veracity. An uplifting, profoundly moving experience that left me in tears, though not through any willful manipulation on the part of director John Curran. If your kids can stand two curse words, “brief partial nudity,” and a handful of “disturbing images,” there’s not a better film to take them to. 2014.
Whatever you look for in a movie — action, adventure, drama, romance, integrity, spiritual and artistic enlightenment — is contained within these 112 minutes. In what can only be called the thinking-person’s Wild, a young woman (Mia Wasikowska), wanting to escape her bigoted, misogynistic small-town upbringing — and with little but four camels, a dog, and her wits to guide her — embarks on a 2000-mile trek across the Australian desert. We may never grasp the motivation behind the real-life Robyn Davidson’s harrowing journey, but as her surrogate “crazy camel lady,” the exceptional Ms. Wasikowska never gives cause to question veracity.
An uplifting, profoundly moving experience that left me in tears, and though not through any willful manipulation on the part of director John Curran.
Dominga Sotomayor’s Thursday Till Sunday, Hirokazu Koreeda’s Like Father Like Son, Matt Reeves’s Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, Jill D’Agnenica’s Life Inside Out, Neto Villalobos’s All About the Feathers, Michael Cuesta’s Kill the Messenger, Gillian Robespierre’s Obvious Child, Dave Boyle’s Man From Reno, Joe Johnston’s Captain America: The Winter Soldier, and Will Eubank’s The Signal.
Laura Poitras’s Citizenfour, Jennifer Baichwal’s Watermark, Leslie Zemeckis’s Bound by Flesh, Matt Wolf’s Teenage, and David Salzberg and Christian Tureaud’s The Hornet’s Nest.
Reese Witherspoon will get the glory for her solo hike in Wild, but it’s Mia Wasikowska who steals the show in Tracks; Obvious Child’s Jenny Slate aka the future Mrs. Marks; Jake Gyllenhaal bleeding charm in Nightcrawler; Uma Thurman guiding her kids through an over-the top tour of “the children’s father’s” cuckold bedroom in Nymphomaniac: Volume 1; Rachel McAdams holding her own with a determined Russian accent in A Most Wanted Man; the whist dignity Pepe Serna brought to Man From Reno; Susan Sarandon handing in her best work in years playing stage mother to Errol Flynn’s child bride in The Last of Robin Hood; the rooted presence and boomerang-shaped grin of Shaina Vorspan in Gone Doggy Gone; Tom Hardy, as my partner Matthew Lickona so elegantly stated, “hunched and shuffling, folded in on himself both physically and otherwise” in The Drop; The November Man’s Bill Smitrovich, this year’s villain to beat; Imogen Poots, Addison Timlin, and particularly Mackenzie Davis for their trio of well-rounded secondary female characters played to perfection in the enjoyable That Awkward Moment.
Clive Owen, Juliette Binoche, and the sublime underplaying of Bruce Davison in Fred Schepisi’s Words and Pictures.
Robert Elswit’s Nightcrawler, Mandy Walker’s Tracks, Glen MacPherson’s Pompeii, Fredrik Wenzel’s Force Majeure, Ian Baker’s Words and Pictures, and Dick Pope, the only thing keeping me awake during Mr. Turner.
Marion Nelson’s Tracks, Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler, Richard Linklater’s Boyhood, Andrew Bovell, A Most Wanted Man, Peter Baynham’s Alan Partridge, Peter Landesman’s Kill the Messenger, and Gillian Robespierre’s Obvious Child.
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