Catfish

I was originally going to write about This Film is Not Yet Rated, which is a documentary that consists of repeated jabs and uppercuts to the Motion Picture Association of America, the cloaked-in-secrecy board which controls the distribution of films in the United States through its omnipresent system of rating films for content.

I liked it because, in a lot of ways it was obliquely related to the topic we covered last week (why certain films rather than others enjoy more popular access) and its themes were eerily similar to those very well imparted by Dirty in This Filthy World and F@%k.

Basically, it was a compelling take on how the vocal minority of douchenozzle letter-writers and affluent, white, conservative, God-fearing housewives anonymously and effectively censor directors, with a little Magnum P.I. thrown in for good measure. It ends up being something akin to Religulous, without the comedy, and left me pissed off, but not pissed off enough render me incapable of making meatloaf that night. At the end of the day, is it really that important to the everyman and our nation’s youth that Kevin Smith got an R-rating for Jersey Girl instead of a PG-13? I think fucking not.

Instead, I got involved with Catfish, which was a far more enjoyable view and played nicely off The Social Network, which I watched the night before.

Catfish is a documentary in which filmmakers Rel Schulman and Henry Joost follow Rel’s brother, dance photographer Nev, into a blossoming technology-dependent relationship that unfolds primarily over Facebook. The progression of their journey is simply absorbing. The most intriguing portion of the film captures the transformation from virtual to reality and how blurred the line between the two has become for the vast majority of us.

There were only a couple of aspects of the movie that didn’t sit particularly well. As both the characters of the movie and the ones who are making it, it was weird that, even though I thoroughly liked the movie, there something very slightly and distractingly dislikable about the three. I couldn’t shake the feeling that to get to know them more personally would be to enter into a world of colored cocktails, pretentious art critique, and hipster grab-assing.

Also, although the trailer is what hooked me in the first place, it is completely misleading. I’m sure that desire to drum up interest is one of the major reasons why they presented it as a thriller (which it is most certainly not, in the traditional sense anyway). They weren’t aboveboard (unnecessarily so) and there is something off-putting about that. Of course, this marketing decision is their prerogative and I guess they get the last laugh because it worked on a sucker like me.*

Minor gripes aside, the story is cleverly portrayed and exceedingly relevant and relatable. The suspenseful plot twist that slowly takes hold mid-stream is as good as advertised, although one does get the sense that Nev, Rel, and Henry knew it was coming far in advance rather than in real time.

There is much meta-commentary that analyzes the innumerable complexities created by the juxtaposition of our technology and culture. For me, the film forces a step back to examine the jarring implications of this for interpersonal relationship.

The Internet is now the dominant outlet for our energies and has become a new medium for experiencing our lives. This is an obvious statement, but in surrounding ourselves with constant connectivity we are generally unaware of the extent to which this is true. To see the full consequences play out as an observer is certainly illuminating.

Catfish is well worth your while and is just plain delightful. Go.

*You see what I did there? Making a criticism and immediately backtracking, is one of my strengths as a person.

p.s. Green and yellow, bitches. (Lil’ Wayne, who knew?)

This Filthy World and F@%k - A Documentary

I give you a documentary week two-fer. One filmed night of the delightfully self-indulgent John Waters lecture series This Filthy World and the achingly political F@%k: A Documentary. At their heart, these are both pieces about limits, taboos, self-expression, and independence. Both tackle subjects which shock and inspire.

Waters took to stages nationwide, discussing his youthful delinquency, homosexuality, landmark films, and the little nuggets of autobiography which help chart his unique talents and joys. Even for those yet to sample the work of this self-proclaimed "Filth Elder", the delight he takes in his ability to shock is endearing. Whether discussing his favorite heroine, Divine, or the glee with which he took to the absurdity of Waters' obsession with cult cinema (or crapping in a box for shooting the next day), Waters' emotional response to all who made him feel comfortable with himself and his work moves and grounds the piece. Reknowned for popularizing "bad-taste cinema", the almost stand-up style suits his brand of stories, story-telling, and the hysterical underpinnings of each.

On the other end of the spectrum is the slightly aging, F@%k. A traditional, political documentary, F%$k pits hyper-conservative "pro-censorship" figureheads against the supposedly avant-garde "free speech is inherently uncensorable" liberals (Hunter S. Thompson appears, so does Ron Jeremy).
I say traditional documentary because it delves into the history, syntax, and social ramifications of the most infamous word. Fortunately, the range and views of the cast keeps the train rolling. There is some porn, there is creative editing, there is a cartoon by Bill Plympton, and there is an obvious agenda - to shock or illuminate. Again, traditional documentary. It is a bit dated, but for an interesting view of an increasingly popular word, it holds its own.

Two Go's for the price of one review.

Exit Through The Gift Shop

I wake up. I stand somewhere near the cabinets and grab at cereal and tea. I settle into my chair for the day and punch a clock. While most of us are suited for the daily grind, some are woefully ill-equipped and flounder. Others skip the grind altogether and create an alternate landscape in the streets, mining the contours of their imagination as they map out an entirely different route. Thanks to the internet and 21st century networking, their gallery literally becomes a global stage. Far be it for me to imagine what a street artist virtuoso feels, but I felt like for 90 minutes I had an honest look. Banksy, as a character and filmmaker, is mesmerizing. I found myself drifting between different thoughts:

The celebrity endorsed, cool branded power of the cosmopolitan art world. The price tags on modern street art have both everything and nothing to do with the social value of that work, everything that becomes important does so without qualification…it just happens. This movie deconstructs the artist and then just leaves him there in pieces.

Without a doubt, watch the bonus features. I would recommend the 14-minute LIFE REMOTE CONTROL (Lawyer’s Edit).

Banksy directed this Simpsons opening. Fox agreed that if they chose to run it, they could not edit one frame. This makes me like both Banksy and The Simpsons so much more.

Just remember as you watch the first 40 minutes of this movie that Banksy created this documentary. Banksy had final edit. Thierry shot all the street footage. Let that soak as Mr. Brainwash makes his first appearance. The characters change places and yet we never see a metamorphosis. It’s a tremendous, unfolding plot. I loved every turn.

Banksy and Thierry’s trip to Disneyland is CRAZY. Although, I was disappointed that the waterboard didn’t make an appearance.

I love quick, throwaway celebrity cameos. No lines, no real purpose, yet attached to the credits. Watch for Beck in the first five minutes. He’s trying on clothes in the vintage store. Then there is Pitt/Jolie and Jude Law posting up at Banksy’s London show. Christina pops in. It’s like quotational wallpaper.

Jay Leno makes stupid faces for a living. I like seeing him participating in a human moment with a (seemingly) crazy man who accosts him with a video camera outside a restaurant. When pressed, he smiles like a clown, then exits stage left. Just seemed fitting I suppose.

Be sure to read up on Shepard Fairey before you watch this. I think his poster got some play in 2008. Street Art as Commodity. Street Art as Expression. The scene with Wendy Asher is subtle, but I feel central to the film. She is a collector of notable art, some falling into the street art variety. Her musings on her collection shaded the “street art consumer” as a hollow, hoarding sort that used the creativity of others to fuel their own image. Money vs. Art. Hype vs. Art. Cluttering your hallway with blitzkrieg of famous outsiders. That really flipped the switch for Thierry’s final act. Fascinating journey from start to finish.

Come February 27th, Exit Through the Gift Shop

should get some hardware at the Oscars for Best Documentary.

:::Murmurs through the crowd:::

"Banksy is SO hot right now."

Go

City Island: Go

America simply cannot get enough of Kevin James and Jennifer Aniston. This validates the belief of film production companies that we are a nation of retards who are mesmerized by bright, shiny things and who gleefully buy into the hype we are force-fed ad nauseum.

Grown Ups (10% fresh on Rotten Tomatoes), 2010’s highest grossing comedy, and The Bounty Hunter (7%), which opened on March 19^th of the same year, combined for just about $230 million at the box office and netted over $100 million over their production budgets.

City Island, also a comedy, opened on the same day to somewhat less fanfare (using an average ticket price of $10, about 3,200 people saw it during its first weekend in theaters).

This movie initially appealed to me because of its setting in the Bronx. As a native New Yorker (FINE, Long Islander), I’ve always enjoyed viewing different takes on the world’s capital. City Island, a little known and even less-traveled fishing community of 4,000 surrounded by the East River, is the heart of this film.

City Island is one of those unique places that can enhance the thematic development of a film. As Molly muses, it is “New England via Washington Heights,” and the director and writer, Raymond De Felitta, expertly transforms the location into a pervasive, silent character.

At its core, however, the story is a familiar one in cinema: the consequences of a family’s abject failure to communicate with one another. The audience bears witness to the unraveling of their lives as the lies, half-truths, and words unspoken take their toll through crossed signals and misunderstandings. And hilarity does, in fact, ensue.

The 16-year old son has an obsessive fetish for feeding obese females (yes, you’ll have to read that back a couple more times). The overachieving daughter loses her college scholarship and resorts to blowies in the champagne room to pay tuition. The vitriolic, thin-skinned mother constantly feels attacked, scorned, and dismissed.

The cigarette-sneaking father, played by Andy Garcia, a corrections officer in Westchester, keeps the most damaging secrets of all. He constantly flees his family, purportedly for the poker table, but in actuality to nurture a pipe dream of becoming an actor. There is also the small matter of the convict son whom he sired and abandoned before his marriage.

De Felitta develops the humor of this deteriorating family dynamic in a very subtle, simple, and balanced way without shitting all over the serious and oftentimes all-too-real nature of the subject matter. The penultimate scene, in which the match is applied to the powder keg of their hidden lives, serves as the comedic pièce de résistance while managing one last ever-so-gentle tug at the heart strings.

As is befitting the blue collar atmosphere of its setting, the small cast, namely Garcia, Julianna Margulies, Steven Strait, Emily Mortimer, Ezra Miller, and Dominik Garcia-Lorido, turn in solid, workmanlike performances.


City Island was initially picked up for broadcast by Starz on the small screen and is currently heavy in their rotation. I anticipate that it will be eminently re-watchable with its digestible 104-minute run time and direct storyline.

It is truly lamentable that a well-done movie such as this, which gets the little things right and shuns the allure of excess, often never registers our collective consciousness and struggles to break even.

Cast and crew of City Island, I apologize on behalf of the citizens of our fine nation for not dropping our disposable income on your production. It is completely fucked out that Dear John will be considered a comparative success historically.

The King of Kong: Fistful of Quarters

In 2006, Seth Gordon was a little known commodity with a few short features under his belt. The King of Kong premiered January 22, 2007 at the Slamdance Film Festival and garnered much praise around the film festival circuit, including SXSW and TriBeCa. While the film only had a limited release nationwide on 39 screens, the paltry 675K grossed by this documentary is an indictment of what is wrong with the film promotion arm of American cinema. In a year when Norbit made 95 million domestic, the fact that a sterling example of storytelling such as The King of Kong goes unnoticed is indefensible.


While I concede that this is not a sexy film, it is a film of great emotional substance and resonance. Upon hearing some buzz about Billy Rodgers (the perfect antagonist) and spying a 97% score on Rotten Tomatoes, I decided to pull up Seth Gordon’s directorial credentials. I was emboldened to see episodes of The Office, Community, Parks and Recreation and Modern Family under his belt. However, the presence of Four Christmases on the resume was worrisome as I felt it was a clunky, paint-by-numbers holiday comedy with a misused cast. He also had lukewarm reviews for his contributions to a 2010 doc Freakanomics, but I can look past that as great toilet reads so rarely become successful motion pictures. I decided to dive into this video game realm and 82 minutes later I emerged elated. The King of Kong had become my second favorite documentary of the past two years (saving the first for next week).

I’m not apologizing for just discovering this movie now, but I would like to lament the collective process by which movies are disseminated in this country (to which we all play a part). The film studios and distributors approach all projects as investments which makes perfect sense, however that also places the power of perception in their hands alone. They determine what the current moviegoing population wants based on cold hard numbers. We vote with our dollars and they adjust accordingly. That’s why we have an impacted assful of vampire movies - the turnstiles have justified this glut of pasty teenagers with bloodlust and awkwardly worded monologues about purity. I blame myself for not seeking out quality at the multiplex. I blame the studios for not taking more chances on the intellect of the American public. At the end of the day, we all need to have a little more gamble in our film choices.


Some documentaries fascinate with stylistic editing, while others grip us with heart-wrenching truths about our fractured society just below the surface. With The King of Kong, we are treated to the lighter fare of documentary work, but the elemental heart and soul of this picture still seems to capture our imagination. Steve Wiebe is a likable main character who shares an eerie resemblance with Bill Simmons. The aforementioned Billy Mitchell is an alpha-nerd in the mold of Barry Bonds - smug, entitled, oddly terrified of his legacy. Brian Kuh is Billy’s obnoxious lapdog with absolutely no redemptive qualities. Head Referee Robert Mruczek provides the most unintentionally depressing scene in the film when he outliners the depth of his responsibilities in reviewing classic video game world records (“When I have to watch that pile of eight tapes over there for Dwayne Richards' two-day Nibbler performance, that's 48 straight hours of paying attention and making sure he's doing everything correctly.”) When you bundle all these characters and chronicle their divisions on something as simple as Donkey Kong, it makes for a truly special film. You can play this immediately on Netflix, I recommend you do just that. Go of the highest order. Seth Gordon, keep ‘em coming.

Whip It: With Apologies

This sweet little film stands on "high school outsider" comedy conventions, adept action sequences, and intuitive, likeable characters. Drew Barrymore, I am one of so many ignorati at first drawn to, then cautiously wary of, your directorial debut. What a fool I am. I'd like to think I waited so long to see this film because I was interested, but not in love with what seemed an exact copy of Juno, minus being preggers. More than likely, it was passive chauvanism regarding the female sport movie concept. I can be a real asshole. Despite small issues, Whip It is a resounding success, even if it grossed only $3 million more than it cost. I am sorry I wasn't there to help plug this film when it needed it, Shauna and Drew.

Leaning on the conventions of an underdog plot, screenwriter Shauna Cross adapted her slick Roller Derby novel into an equally hip film about a sport on the rise. With the help of acclaimed Director of Photography Robert Yeoman, Barrymore pursues pure realism in the action and dialogue sequences. Equally important, however, are the lovingly staged, character accenting, visually expansive locations and shots Yeoman has made famous. Balance appears in all facets of Whip It, thanks to Barrymore's ability to surround herself with all the right people.

The subtelty of Ellen Page's character, "Bliss Cavendar", and transformation of her demeanor - likewise all of her friends (Derby and non) - makes the role believable and testifies to Barrymore's work behind the scenes. Purposeful characters and moments carry the weight when the plots thin, and allow for unconventional twists amidst familiar conflicts. Dry, understated wit by the main characters sets them apart in a hyper-realistic realm, especially compared to the more bombastic, over-acting antagonism of the outsider film caricatures.

Again, balancing the two testifies to the prowess of the debutante director Barrymore. If a choice seems too predictable, she meta-critically comments on it, as when Bliss drops the famous, "We deserve better villains." She also doesn't dwell on those hollow antagonists - those conventional caricatures. She crafts them into spectres of Bliss's omniscience, making them seem narrated by the main character.

Except in Jimmy Fallon's case. Fallon, as "'Hot Tub' Johnny Rocket", plays with all the subtlety of a Vaudeville act. His game-calls, rules reminders, and one-liners display the insane energy required of an emcee reinforcing necessary information for an audience only mildly conscious of the sport, without sounding overly explicative.

These successes are as much a product of the casting, acting, and preparation for this film as they are of Barrymore's ability to elicit the most from each during the entire process.

My only complaint is the middle act. From about minute 45 (about the time Landon Pigg sings an appallingly stupid song and tries to act like he can be a sexy, brooding lead singer), a half hour is solely dedicated to Bliss's new relationships. I understand why, but some bits seemed too slow and transparent. It's the right time and space to explore Bliss, but the wrong moments are expanded. Here is where the Hurl Scouts' characters and roles in Bliss's development on and off the track could better serve the tempo of the film while also lending proof of the team's rapid improvement with their new teammate (and running Coach Razor McGee's plays). Instead, Barrymore hints at the action on the track in attempts to retain the early energy during slower scenes. Action sequences diminish to the level of conflict building segue. With that said, she addresses the predictable friction, but quickly shifts focus back to the stories of note.

Impressively, all of the actors did their own skating, with the only stunt doubles credited to Page and Barrymore's stand-ins. The action sequences are aggressive, fast, and unique (mostly because of the sport, but still), the tender scenes accented by that dry wit. The love story works less because of the chemistry, but the growth of the main character through it is essential. In the end, there is so much to like about the production itself: original score choices are outstanding, especially the recurring theme debuted when Bliss first glimpses Austin's Derby Girls. Andrew "Futureman" Wilson kills in his headband, cut-off jorts, roller-hockey blades, and knee brace, as "Coach Razor McGee". The entire cast of heavy hitters (literally in Zoe Bell's case) is spectacular in their own ways. Really, there's a great deal to enjoy in this one. I am sorry for being a sexist pig, Drew Barrymore. But at least I can admit my faults. Like Birdman says, "I mean, did anybody bother to think, 'Hey, Birdman might appreciate hot girls in fishnets and roller skates beating the crap out of each other?' No, they did not."

I almost missed out. GO.

Triage: Continuing Colin Farrell Week

Colin Farrell Week gave me war films galore on his CV. I love war movies (but hadn't seen one since the righteously acclaimed Hurt Locker)- purposeful execution of psychological and philosophical intensity, but nuanced, personalized. Kubrick was a master. Watch Paths of Glory and then Full Metal Jacket. It'll set you back 3-1/2 hours, but the contrast between similarly staged arcs (and endings) because of the difference in the men and the wars can be the basis of a college course. Triage, based on the novel, attempts the theme through the character study of a photojournalist.

Supposedly desensitized to warzones, how would Colin Farrell as Mark Walsh or Jamie Sives (magnificent in spite of his predictable character) as David react in the historically embattled Kurdistan region?

The first twenty minutes of this movie certainly piqued my interest. The enthralling Branko Djuric as front-lines triage doctor Talzani deserves mention. Witty, calculating, and deeply affected by his status in the makeshift outpost supplying the front, Dr. Talzani administers reality in a way Joacquin Morales will later attempt. Djuric steals every scene and even seems to elevate Farrell's performance.

Once Walsh returns, his girlfriend, Elena Morales (the lovely Paz Vega), is desperate to understand what caused his injuries. Here it slows. A glorious first act of brutal reality tempered by contextually suggestive performances, the last two-thirds is all exposition - how the decisions of warriors amidst conflict traumatizes and how communication of their experiences to loved ones can be unfathomable. Vega attempts alluding to her character's indefatigable drive (with personal motives) to understand what happened to Walsh, but achieves aloof nagging. So, Christopher Lee makes what could be the film-changing appearance as a relic from Spain's violent past, Joacquin Morales. But, he promptly ruins it by mucking around with an indistinguishably Spanish accent. With interesting psychological analysis of Walsh's experiences behind the lens, the humor of Morales's hardened sensitivities creates some movement in Walsh, who is disintegrating under the burden of his conscience. Again, however, the lead acting falls short of convincing, especially in the end.

I wanted to believe in Walsh, but never got a chance to because so little of the character gets exposed. Likewise, Elena and her love for Walsh and desire to see him unburdened, like herself, of guilt. But I never quite could. The book seems a more comprehensive study of the war-correspondent's existence. NO GO.

The New World: Meh

As one who considers himself a student of history, the most difficult aspect of watching fictionalized history for me is reconciling the plot with the accuracy of events that are portrayed. This constant tension has led me to two immutable conclusions.

1. In spite of how authentic it may seem, filmmakers inevitably always stray from the facts in order to craft a story that they feel will be more creative/entertaining/relevant. I suspect there is a great deal of ego involved here. After all, they do not view themselves as journalists. They are artistes.

2. There is no one else I know that could give a fuck about this. Whether I haughtily snicker at a minute imperfection or vociferously protest an absurdly wrong plot development, I always receive the same blank, sad stare and perhaps some sort of mumbled commiseration. Then some nozzle opines about how tight it was that Scorsese decided to fire cannons into downtown Manhattan while gangs of unlikable thugs beat each others’ brains out over a private blood-feud that coincidentally played out during the largest domestic riot in American history.

I have slowly come to accept that caring at all makes me a huge, dripping, nerdy douche. But every so often, a film comes along that shows why it may not be the wisest cinematic choice to dramatically alter the course of recorded human experience. The New World is one such example.

The main issue with this movie is that there is a massive dissonance between the predominant thematic elements: the Pocahontas-John Smith love story and the trials of native cohabitation/European settlement in North America. I feel that that this could have been an extremely well-done endeavor had it focused purely on the latter and that its potential was sacrificed due to the need to devote reel to the former.

The finished product demonstrates that the crew devoted a lot of effort to research indigenous languages, the implications of contact between the natives and the Jamestown colonists, and period garb. The film’s director, Terrence Malick, did an admirable job of depicting the stark privations and desperation of the settlers in their first trying seasons in Virginia. The cinematography expertly captures the aesthetic beauty of a land untouched by British-style civilization.

The problem, of course, is the purported relationship between John Smith and Pocahontas, which is so overly romanticized that it belongs in an Emily Brontë novel. This is a fable that has no basis in actual reality. One could argue that it handily provides Colin Farrell with a love interest and, if this fictional premise can be accepted, it would have been fine. HOWEVA (and ironically), Malick made the odd choice of honoring history in one significant facet. Take it away, John Smith (from his personal re-telling of the journey published in 1608):

"Powhatan, understanding we detaine certaine Salvages, sent his daughter, a child of tenne years old…"

Whoops.

You may faintly remember the controversy that arose when 14-year old Q'orianka Kilcher (who did a fantastic job, by the way) was selected to star opposite Farrell in intimate scenes (Smash-cut to the 2:30 mark).



This article details how the movie had to be edited in order to "comply with child pornography laws".

Sweet, sweet implied pedophilia.

So, other than being creepy and weird (in the parlance of our times), how did this week's star perform?

Farrell was generally adequate-to-slightly-better-than-adequate as the leader of the fledgling colony, but his greatest failing lies in the fact that roughly 50% of this role is acting without dialogue due to the language barrier with the natives. The part forces him to be expressive without speaking and, in doing so, he conveys the depth of a wood veneer. I submit that this part of his performance may have inspired Seth McFarlane's memorable diatribe.



Overall, I do think that The New World's merits outweigh its detriments. It's a very reluctant Go for the typical movie-viewer, who may find it draws out slowly yet skips around too frequently, and a green light for those having a particular interest in American history.



(This would've been a much better more authentic look for Mr. Farrell.)

Ask The Dust

I recall listening to Adam Carolla before his current podcast format, when he was doing his old radio show on terrestrial radio. Every few months there was a reoccurring guest that delighted Carolla to no end. They would muse upon the trials of growing up in the mid-1970’s which afforded them nary a peek at the naked female form. Both Carolla and this guest were in emphatic agreement that if they had Redtube growing up, they would never put down the Jergens or go outside. This guest was none other than Chicago’s own institution, that’s right, Mr. Skin from Knocked Up and Olivia Lavery fame.

Well, on one segment Mr. Skin breathlessly endorsed Ask the Dust (Salma Hayek) as Best Nude Scene of The Year. As fortune happened, Ask The Dust found it's way onto my Netflix queue. After all, I had to see what all the fuss was about... You know, for Art.

The Netflix envelope arrived, I took out the DVD, dropped it in the player, and promptly skipped directly ahead to the 33-minute mark. After watching Salma go commando in the waves, I started back to the beginning to actually watch the movie. To be honest, I expected to like this film based on the writer bum source material of John Fante. I watched the first 33 minutes, rewatched the artistically-vital-to-the-story Salma Hayek beach scene again and then nodded off at some point thereafter. I never made an effort to finish the film after that first truncated viewing. When Benny suggested Colin Farrell Week, I figured I might as well revisit Ask The Dust to see if I missed anything.

Very quickly into the second viewing, I realized that I did miss something. Namely, the horrible second and third acts of the film. The later scenes, which seemed to stack up against each other, left me confused about the love story, unclear on the central themes, completely turned off by the characters and ultimately longing for something more than a movie known for displaying Salma Hayek's sweater puppets (to borrow a phrase).

First, some positives: The set design is amazing and other era specific nuances are very well executed. Arturo Bandini (Colin Farrell) lives in a roominghouse that is pitched in a hilly area of L.A. such that his room is on ground level of the street below, causing him to come and go through the side window and never the front door. I thought that was an effective device to depict him as a writer, transient, impermanent to this world. I loved sparsely used Donald Sutherland and his performance as the drunk across the hall, his subtle alcoholic twitches and desperate eyes reinforced my high opinion of him as an actor.

The story jumps between novel vignettes from Arturo's writing and his mundane courtship of Camilla Lopez (Salma Hayek). Farrell's voiceover work is efficient, yet dulcet to the ear, exposing his inner thoughts, motives and insecurities, but the story itself is very slow to form.

Hayek is decent in this role, but her chemistry with Farrell is highly dubious. I never felt like I knew where their contentious cat-and-mouse game was supposed to lead. They never really stopped being hateful to each other long enough to form an attraction. In their third scene together, they get into another verbal spat, he then tells her "your shoes are not good enough for your legs" and she melts, does a complete 180 and gives him this smoldering look. The next scene is the 33 minute mark, time for the naked beach romp and cuddle time. Upon seeing his penis, she bellows, "You've got a pretty one! Relax!"

After this, they find more things to argue about. She claims she will "never forgive him" which will be a running theme throughout the movie. At this point, Vera Rivkin (Idina Menzel) shows up in Arturo's life to commence an extremely strange second act. Vera is a stalker who fell in love with Arturo's bravado and short story writing. She is an alcoholic, battered woman with terrible burns on her body who appears to have some fairly serious mental problems. She claims she came to L.A. to be discovered and loved, but now that she is disfigured at the hands of an abusive former lover, only an artist like Arturo can find the words to express her true inner beauty.

I always thought Barfly suffered from flat characters, but at least they had heart. Ask The Dust is a plodding, uninteresting meditation on the American Dream. Our main characters - Arturo, Camilla and Vera arrive in L.A. not just to dream, but to idealize their own existence. They hope their sheer proximity to other desperate, lovelorn people will somehow enrich their lives.

Auturo floats by on cheques received from a publisher who the audience never meets. The money always seems to arrive just when he is about to hit rock bottom. His fiscal standing fluctuates throughout the story and he usually blows through it quickly, but we don't care because we don't really understand what went into acquiring those cheques. When he's rich he's obtuse, when he's a starving writer he pines for a waitress and always combs his hair, not exactly the romanticised madness of Bukowski that I was expecting.

Here is the tagline for the movie:

Passion and ambition drive two dreamers in 1930s LA. Their love affair is ferocious and hot-blooded as they fight the city and themselves to make their dreams come true.

Let me do you a favor and rewrite this bullshit:

Boredom and mutual acrimony drive two dillusional transplants in 1930s LA. Their verbally abusive relationship is mind numbing and uninteresting as they learn very little about themselves, eventually the audiences' dreams of seeing Salma Hayek's boobies come true. No Go.

The A-Team: A Study in Turning Two Sentences of Introductory Narrative Into a Feature Film

My Papa (Mom's dad) and my Old Man were the biggest influences on my early movie viewings. Without cable, choices were limited (having only younger siblings). Things changed somehow. I've since reasoned that Papa and The Old Man convinced the cautious members of my family that sharing in my consumption of their favorites could justify watching sophisticated or bawdy comedies and "classics" despite my tender age. Television fell into this category too, and I always remember watching "The A-Team" re-runs sat by the foot of my Papa's favorite chair (where we would later watch Bulls playoff wins galore, but that's the other blog). It replayed constantly on his expanding cable networks, and he loved it. Seeing the "single concept" television series for what they were and why he loved them endowed a sense of relativity that has since shown itself in my movie collection. The subtlety of character development by actors doing what they love can sometimes make a show (or movie) more than the sum of its parts (i.e., James Roday and Dule Hill on procedural crime-comedy "Psych"). "The A-Team" franchise might always fit into this category for me.

A uniquely American series when it debuted, the non-injurious gun-play and hilariously fiery (and equally non-injurious) explosion sequences kept audiences attentive, but the characters and actor chemistry seem the most often cited reasons for the original series' popularity/consequent syndication. Witnessing the dissolution of "hollyweird" into the marketing executives' playground it is, blockbuster anythings rarely interest me. Star Trek (a holdover from my Grandpa and Grandma's (Dad's parents) love of sci-fi/fantasy books and movies) gave me pause. In light of this self-doubt, I figured watching a guaranteed awful "reimagining" of a sentimental favorite might keep me from ever wasting time or money on remakes again. Fortunately for all of us here at the Film Box!, it worked. NO GO!

If you choose to revisit the synopsis from the intro to the series, it basically lays out all of The A-Team movie plot. The film takes us from the first meeting of the individuals that will eventually comprise an elite military team which excels in modern warzones. They take on their famous nickname, and the infamous mission that will see them court-marshaled and imprisoned. Again, nothing the intro doesn't tell us to expect. Once they've escaped (again, wow), attempts to clear their wrongfully sullied reputations grow more grandiose and lead to a climactic conclusion (supposedly). Seriously.

In desperate need of chemistry from the leads, only Sharlto Copley manages to garner laughs from his character portrayal, proficiency with accents, and lines of dialogue (instead of the scornful guffaws levied at the rest of the leads). Ask Benny C about Liam Neeson, and you will probably get a cross-section of my issues. Even after the commercial success of The Hangover (I've seen it twice just in case, so we need never mention it again) I had my doubts about Bradley Cooper being the "it" leading man for anything. Well founded. He never quite escapes the level of oozing arrogant douchieness that got him noticed in The Wedding Crashers. Jessica Biel as the leading lady/love interest also never gathers any steam. There's supposed to be history, affection, between Cooper's "Face" and Biel's "Sosa". Because of their limitations (i.e. Jessica Biel resembles/has the range of a constipated salamander), there's really no plot worth following throughout. Minus the demise of the baddies.

Fortunately for the franchise, leads rarely stay on for more than one or two poorly received movies. The only redeeming quality of this movie was the work of the side characters/bad guys. Patrick Wilson, like Copley, gives depth and caricature forcing my attentiveness until the end. Without Wilson, Copley, or the Biel sidekicks in Maury Sterling and Terry Chen, I could have posted this review as it stood before I even viewed the film (NOTE: Because my mailperson/building manager "loses" a film every few weeks, I pre-wrote my review in the hopes I would only need up through the No Go recommendation anyway). However, their ability to make the film at least viewable in light of the absence of story and lead acting is what the theme of this post was supposed to be anyway.