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dir. Spike Jonze
writ. Maurice Sendak (book), Spike Jonze & Dave Eggers (screenplay)
feat. Max Records, Catherine Keener, James Gandolfini, Paul Dano, Catherine O'Hara, Forest Whitaker, Michael Berry Jr., Chris Cooper, Lauren Ambrose, Mark Ruffalo
Oftentimes, a great film adaptation requires transformation, perhaps never more so the case than with Where the Wild Things Are. Sendak's book is just a handful (or two) of pages, nowhere near the substance needed for a feature film. And substance is exactly what Spike Jonze and Dave Eggers bring to the story in their near miraculous production. Jonze must have some serious cache in Hollywood to have pulled off (and released) this murky, frightening tale that reminds the viewer of just how deeply children feel from a very young age.
The film bursts open with Max (Records) racing around the house, chaotically chasing and wrestling his dog, laughing and crashing like a wild child. In the subsequent scene, Max plays in the snow alone, yearning for companions, only to surge with excitement when he finds friends for a snowball fight, then plummet into loss and sadness when his igloo is carelessly destroyed, a scene that perfectly captures the mercurial nature of childhood joy. Jonze doesn't shy away from the difficult feelings, recognizing that loneliness and despair are intrinsically tied to hope and love. The young cling to simple ideals, notions of right and wrong that are self-centered, easily challenged and upset by the frequent disappointments of the real world. When things don't add up, distress arouses fury, and Max runs, eager to escape the pain, certain that a world exists where everything and everyone is fair and well-meaning all the time.
This foundation that Jonze establishes permits him to open the door to a fantasy realm where Max can explore his utopian hopes and dreams, even making them a reality for awhile, before he learns that no such place exists or can exist. By playing king, Max discovers that one cannot please everyone all the time, and that hard choices must be made, feelings sometimes hurt, and strength developed to deal with it all. Eventually, it is this lesson that brings him around to the realization he's just a visitor in this strange and wild domain and that his own patiently and lovingly awaits him at home.
dir. Neil Jordan
writ. Patrick McCabe (novel), Neil Jordan and Patrick McCabe (screenplay)
feat. Eamonn Owens, Stephen Rea, Alan Boyle, Brendan Gleeson, Aisling O'Sullivan, Sinead O'Connor
It's hard to determine where The Butcher Boy goes wrong. The film suffers for two equally important reasons, a child actor who shows no range and a story that has no notable arc. Francie Brady (Owens) springs forth as a devil child, not easily explained away as a result of a drunken, virtually absent (at least mentally) father. And while his terrorizing of the small Irish town is spirited, it lacks depth or more importantly charm. Rea's narration as the adult Francie manages a skillful bit of wit despite a deadpan tone that suggests a sense of humor for evil deeds done long before, but that doesn't translate to Owens' monotonous performance. Whether this is a result of asking too much of a young actor or that Francie has nowhere to go and nothing much to learn over the course of his young life is left an open question.
Not that Jordan doesn't make a sincere effort. His usual attention to detail is evident, particularly in the dark, claustrophobic rooms of the boy's home as contrasted by a fort hideaway along a lush stream bank to which Francie escapes with his best pal Joe (Boyle). And Rea's ever understated performance is beautifully rendered throughout. But other creative lunges fail, namely Francie's frequent conversations with the Virgin Mary (O'Connor,) a device that begins as a curious bit of faked revelation that develops into something more substantial, but then falters, quickly turning into a bland, implausible conscience for Francie. This external (and, in casting Sinead O'Connor, deliberately controversial) voice undercuts the chance for believable character development as a result of actions and consequences, as though the filmmakers don't have faith in the story itself without yet another narrator to help communicate their ideas.
dir. Martin Scorsese
writ. Robert Getchell
feat. Ellen Burstyn, Albert Lutter, Kris Kristofferson, Diane Ladd, Harvey Keitel, Vic Tayback
Scorsese draws on his influences in Italian neorealism in this stunningly human story of a single mother, Alice (Burstyn,) struggling to bring up her son, Tommy (Lutter,) after the sudden loss of her husband. Alice reenters the working world for the first time since her marriage, finding the challenge in making it as a lounge singer in her mid-30s and the risks of that world for an attractive woman who must protect herself and her child.
The stress of their meager existence, always just a few dollars shy of broke, tries both mother and son, cracks appearing in their fragile veneers. But it's the way in which the two deal with dire moments, when it all becomes too much, where the characters shine brightest. Alice doesn't sugar coat their troubles, instead occasionally snapping and subsequently pleading with Tommy to understand how hard she's working. And this isn't a new way of relating for the two, Tommy's foul mouth and worldly (or at least advanced for a boy of about 12 years) knowledge clear signs that Alice has treated him like an adult for quite some time. But he's still a boy after all, evident in his favorite endless and possibly pointless joke and the routine temper tantrum.
It is the love shared by Alice and Tommy that binds the two, keeping hope and joy alive in troubled times. And it is the security that this love provides that is threatened when well-meaning interloper David (Kristofferson) works his charms on both mother and son, upsetting their balance and ease. With so little in life to rely upon, employment and residence both tenuous at best, Alice could easily retreat from a chance that can't be guaranteed, a chance at a different kind of love. But that wouldn't be much of a life at all.
dir. Sam Mendes
writ. Dave Eggers & Vendela Vida
feat. John Krasinski, Maya Rudolph, Carmen Ejogo, Catherine O'Hara, Jeff Daniels, Allison Janney, Jim Gaffigan, Samantha Pryor, Conor Caroll, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Josh Hamilton
For a moment, Away We Go hints at a great movie idea, exploring the lives of a couple in their mid-thirties about to have a baby who haven't yet figured out their place in the world. When Burt (Krasinski) and Verona (Rudolph) discuss whether or not they are "fuck ups," there is a whiff of timely territory, the chance to tap into the hearts of a generation that has put off marriage and children for a decade longer than their parents, who arguably have lived more of their youth as individuals, or have simply extended adolescence. I know those people. They are my friends and myself. I haven't seen that movie.
Alas, no. Instead, we are driven roughshod through a weak road movie with implausible, unamusing characters and a badgering score, desperate to make the viewer feel deeply at appropriate times. Burt and Verona pass as real people, even if Burt falls a bit close to Krasinski's role on The Office and Verona comes up short of spirited, charismatic, or even interesting. But from there forward, a slew of cartoon characters fill the screen, from Burt's parents (Daniels and O'Hara) swiped from a Christopher Guest film to Verona's sister for a forced moment of nostalgia for their deceased parents to a series of good friends and old acquaintances jam-packed with quirks and "crazy" parenting techniques.
All of this would be fine if the film wasn't so eager, so needy in its pursuit of truth and answers to big questions. Every time the music swells, Alexi Murdoch's songs plead with the viewer to forget the trite conversation and gut-clenchingly false characters and just feel the pain and yearning of these good, pregnant people. And ultimately, therein lies the biggest crime of the picture. From the outset, it neglects the very basic idea of this visual medium of showing and not telling. Whether in the many supposedly philosophical conversations or the pushy soundtrack, no feeling is earned but instead demanded.
dir. Frank Capra
writ. Robert Riskin (screenplay), George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart (play)
feat. Jean Arthur, Lionel Barrymore, James Stewart, Edward Arnold
This particular Capra jab at a life of joyless greed starts like a fever dream, the world and company of Martin Vanderhof (Barrymore) both absurd and captivating, only to wheeze through exhausted lungs into a protracted illness that one begs to end. The charm and eccentricity of Vanderhof and his family hint at the Addams Family (coincedentally first a comic strip begun in '38,) slightly crazed and possibly dangerous yet successful and happy. All of these qualities are quickly conveyed, leaving no doubt in the viewer, nor anywhere to effectively go with the characters.
Of course, banker and patriarch, Anthony P. Kirby, has a long road to travel from his avaricious post to humble father and decent man, a painfully slow path to be eked along by his son, Tony, whose love for young Alice (Arthur,) granddaughter to Vanderhof, is only rivaled by his distaste for the family business. It's this journey that makes one yearn for the speed and efficiency of a dentist, the predictable ending playing out in slow motion for nearly the full final third of the film.
And it's unfortunate to lose the momentum generated so winsomely. Early scenes paint Tony as a clear mismatch for the fast-talking world of finance, his thoughts operating in a more circular manner, swirling slowly, while somehow not awkwardly, into a proposal of marriage to Alice. And Tony's abandoned dream simply and beautifully suggests a future in solar power technology, a small idea that might be nurtured into something important if not forced to live up to the immediate demands of a quick return. If these inklings could have been developed and sustained as themes, a resonance may have been achieved to surpass another story of a banker learning his lesson.
dir. Sam Raimi
writ. Ivan Raimi and Sam Raimi
feat. Alison Lohman, Justin Long, Lorna Raver, Dileep Rao, David Paymer
Sam Raimi's return to horror naturally arouses unfair expectations. This is the man behind two astonishingly inventive and frightening Evil Dead films, and a hilariously campy one. Granted, another spook-ride, The Gift, proved dissatisfying, showing a bit too much formula, a claim repeated by some for Raimi's Spider-Man movies. However, such blockbuster successes also seemed to promise an even deeper trove of resources for Drag Me to Hell.
On one hand, it's nice to have the old boy back, still committed to mechanical effects, both elaborate and simple, eager and able to evoke maximum squirms and subsequent laughs out of a propulsive bloody nose. He attends to detail and simple human problems amidst the hellfire and damnation with equal concern. And if those humans seem a bit shallow, Christine (if not Lohman) too much the dopey blonde and Clay (Long) too broadly drawn (the character telling us he's a geek doesn't pass as character development,) we're still in standard genre territory.
But that's where Drag disappoints the most. It all feels too easy, a mishmash of horror films we've seen before without that extra edge to top them. This is Raimi on autopilot, slapping together a topical setup (home loan foreclosure), a gypsy curse, a soul damned to Hell, disbelieving loved ones, and a couple experts to help chart the challenging, perhaps impossible, course back to safety. The gross-outs are appropriately timed and stomach-curdling, the scares reasonably seat-grabbing, and the laughs genuinely satisfying, but as a whole, the film only reaches middling. And while I'd like to write off this response to a touch of hero worship, it's not just a case of those expectations rearing their ugly, if well-made-up, heads.
dir. Peter Weir
writ. C.J. Koch (novel), C.J. Koch, Peter Weir, and David Williamson (screenplay)
feat. Mel Gibson, Sigourney Weaver, Linda Hunt, Michael Murphy
Mid-60s Indonesia, amidst the political turmoil under the regime of President Sukarno proves a challenging assignment for Guy Hamilton (Gibson,) in his first role as foreign correspondent. Eager and naive, Hamilton must adapt quickly to the politics, both governmental and interpersonal, of his new home. Photographer Billy Kwan (Hunt, in her Oscar-winning role as a man) guides him along, quickly introducing the dilemma of how one interacts with disastrous poverty and human suffering without offering a helping hand.
This question informs the film, whether in another reporter's patronage of cheap prostitutes, the way Hamilton colors the facts with melodrama, or his conflicted compulsion to use information gathered in bed with likely spy, Jill Bryant (Weaver). With depth and intelligence, Weir successfully explores such shady terrain without attempting to assert impossible and therefore deceptive clear answers. But, even above the thoughtful investigation into one's responsibility in the world is the film's sense of atmosphere. Dark rooms sweat with tropical heat and torrential rain drives people into cramped cars, arousing libidos and the cloying sense of discomfort of a strange land hostile to white Westerners.
