Paper Street Cinema

“The Happening” may be the strangest and most detached studio horror film to come out since Paul Schrader’s version of “Exorcist: The Beginning.” It manages to touch upon genre films like “The Signal” and “The Day After Tomorrow” while down right stealing plot elements from the superlative Steven King novel “Cell.” Yet unlike those busy films, here is a vision where nothing happens-which is totally strange considering the title. Actions scenes go as such: People stop. People die. The wind blows. Mark Whalberg winces and looks constipated. scene

M. Night Shyamalan, as we all know, got lucky, er, I mean found success with “Six Sense.” Since then he has reverted deeper and deeper into a self absorbed realm of pseudospiritual dementia. Post “Unbreakable” (a film I love and the last time things worked out for the director), every “a film by…” title has suffered from Night’s myopia (here is a director that takes zero input from the industry… and fans) and his off-putting insistence that he’s brilliant and destined for greatness. This is storytelling, here. Except the stories suck. Be it straining too hard to throw in heady plot twists that everybody seems to expect of this one hit wonder plagued by his ghostly twist to end all twists (”The Village,” “Signs”), trying too hard to be profound (see also: every film he has ever made!), or trying too hard to be timeless, mythical and Jesus incarnate (”Lady in the Water”). A narrative throughline is that the antagonist in each and every picture is not the spooky supernatural happenings that linger, loiter (narratively speaking) and seem to manifest themselves through fate, but Night himself. The writer/director has become such an amateurish storyteller that he makes George Lucas look like a team player. Theses days, pen strokes hit Night’s pages like a knife strokes. And this knife has a nasty habit of hacking (emph. on hack) into the heart and integrity of whatever shit story he may be telling–pardon, crafting.

I’m getting off track. Oh well, no hurry, right? “The Happening” takes end-of-the-world tropes and mixes them with subtle elements of paranoid horror and environmental revenge. Is this wave of mutilation that befalls the east coast a result of Government experiments? Global warming? God punishing us for popularity of “The Hillz?” Either way, the “monster” or, more accurately speaking, force is as invisible as Night’s plot structure; this makes “The Happening” the first in the silent fart horror genre. I wont spoil the cause of this soon-to-be pandemic demise except to say that it’s NOT the monster from “Cloverfield.” I will however say that at one point in the film, the pervasively passive voiced protagonist stops and begs a house plant not to kill him. If ever there was an anti-twist in a movie, “The Happening” is it. Night does everything he can to resist expectations except, in the process, he also resists making anything interesting. Actually, I’m wrong, the most interesting thing about “The Happening” is how uninteresting and un-engaging it is (I’m 100% serious, too). Speaking of passive, I’m not sure if it’s interestingly atypical or deadening that no character in this film is in a rush. The supposedly ominous killer drifts through New York like a John Carpenter “Fog” or Frank Darabont “Mist” and causes a wide-scale evacuation in the first act. A subsequent scene takes place at train station and the vibe is as leisurely as the Apple Store on a slow day. It’s like Werner Hertzog got his hands on the actors and extras and told them to react to such events as if comatose.

Feeling the bad vibrations (get it?), high school science teacher Marl Whalaberg is introduced talking to a class about the phenomenon of missing bees. He says there is no known causes for such a cataclysmic bio-anomaly , except, uh dummy, there is and it’s cell phones. But if Night posited that theory then he would surely bee sued by Mr. Steven King’s estate. Instead, the film deviates from King’s cellphone-made-zombie premise and enters into a plot that’s far more standoffish and lackadaisical. As a protagonist, Whalberg is at his most infantile and whiny. And this is coming from a Marky Mark fan! When accused of thuggery by a crazy old lady he reacts in a stoner’s whisper, saying “heeeeey nooooo” like the old bag just stole his Flaming Hot Cheetos. Along for the countryside journey to nowhere is his self-described emotionally stunted wife (Zooey Deschanel, because, yeah, the one thing this film needs is less personality) and a mute little girl whose father (John Leguizamo) just abandoned her. A potential argument on behalf of the film is that this isn’t about the end of the world but, rather, the creation or birth of a new family bond. Except… no, the family in question here is so shallowly drawn that going with this argument would do more harm than good to the film in terms of intentionality and quality. So, where does the family go and what do they end up doing? Nothing and nothing. Okay, then how do they react to the constant sight of death? Well, let me just say that this is the first apocalyptic film in which the lead characters are more annoyed and put off by the turn of (non)events than horrified. That makes two of us.

grade: C

Note: it’s really more like a hard-D in terms of quality but I’m going kinda easy on the film because it stridently and stubbornly rejects any SIGNs of plot conflict and genre expectations. Also, the kid from The Kid makes a cameo. And finally, Mark Whalberg is so blitzed out that his performance is a (I Am Not) legend; watch for the jaw droppingly (more like droopingly) strange big emotional climax where he tries to make his wife jealous by describing an even in which he “almost” bought, like, a six dollar bottle of cough syrup from a pharmacist because she was hot.

More like Cassandra’s nightmare. This “Dream” marks the year’s biggest tragedy. You could say I’m talking about the plot that sees two brothers played by Ewan McGregor and Colin Farrell contemplating murder for personal profit but I’m actually talking about the film’s dismal reception and performance. Namely, it came, it went… and it died. Those who bothered to see and/or review the film received with a resounding meh. The reason?: same old story I’m afraid. Allen, a master in each and every decade he has worked in, is faulted for not making a “perfect” film every year. But not simply faulted, assaulted! Salon called the director out of touch (original) while Permiere accused Allen of “waisting his actor’s time” (what, like they could have better spent it on sequels to ”The Island” and “Miami Vice”?). Roger Ebert even noted that Lumet’s “Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead,” a film with a similar brother-centric plot, acts as ”a master class in how Allen goes wrong.” Well, I say perfection is boring and, if anything, Allen schools Lumet by showing him that a crime story can be simple and modest and still grab you. The filmmaker is out to explore avenues that interest him, not blow your mind with razor sharp tragety or comedy. Granted, Allen’s blade may have dulled a bit but it’s steadier than ever and still capable of inflicting deep wounds. 

• What’s Good: Fun! Family! Flying objects! Great cinematography too.
• What’s Not: Plot issues get in the was and Blanchett’s acting for the first time since “Shipping News” (and before that: ever) sucks. 
• Food Equivalent: Snickers tie-in “Adventure Bar.” Look, the Snicker bar is perfect but throw in some coconut and you got yourself a mouth party (ewwwww). Sooooo good it’s better than the movie. 

Da-da-duh-duh-da-da-duhhhh! Indy’s back and somehow I seem to care. The first is a classic and one of, oh, say the 100 best films ever crafted while the second also belongs to a list: that of the 20 worst. The third was rock and roll when it came out but tedious and old fashion from today’s perspective. So, then, by my calculations “Crystal Skull” gets the series back to a .500. It made me miss a series I didn’t know I missed.

Besides nostalgic window gazing I really wanted to see what Spielberg would do with a fourth “Indy.” A hard and maybe even harsh critic of Mr. Spielberg, I have been intrigued (if not always buying into) the director’s blue period that includes the Kubrickian “A.I.” and “Minority Report,” the apocalyptic “War of the Worlds” and the audacious “Munich” (Spielberg’s lone good film made in my lifetime). Another note is the fact that all the “Indy’s” were made pre synthetic CGI and, thus, retained the perfect pulpy adventure feel. How will (or, indeed, how can) the b-movie luster of the series’ tone hold up against the ultra crisp aura of prefab and, lets face it, plasticy Lucas Ltd. digital? Action set pieces such as whirling paranormal events and ant chases (WTF?!) may belong more to a “Mummy” movie but the technical crew strikes gold with near silent film chase sequences equipped with charming choreography (Indy jumps, falls and crashes from car to truck to car boat), sword fights, whip flashing (hehe) and good old fashion archeological death traps that include poison dart shooting natives (”savages” are so un-PC it’s funny) tumbling down waterfalls and even some vine swinging action. What more can you ask for?

… uh, how about a plot for one. The story is set some years later from the WWII setting that defined the previous two entries (chronologically speaking). Twenty years down the river, Indy seems to have grown up (and grown old) along with history. This film now locates the lovably atonal Dr. Jones smack dab in the Cold War. Evil, godless Russians fill in quite adeptly in place of godless Germans. Both do plenty of squinting and grinning and neither comes close to upstaging the heroes. The beauty of the series is that it is both set in its own hermetically sealed time and place and very much apart of real times and places of the past. In that sense, history clashes with fantasy in ways “The Da Vinci Code” and “National Treasure” could never pull off. When a character describes “not space, the space between spaces” he is referring to a key plot point but might as well be talking about the series its self.

That quote, by the way, occurs at the tail end of the film when the plot literally flies off the rails and into dimension X (I tried to forget it directly ripped off the final hilltop moments of the “X-Files” movie). But Spielberg’s idiosyncratic genre shifting surprise related to that crystal skull’s origins wins me over if for no other reason that I’m a sucker for goofy sci-fi pap (hope that’s not too much of a spoiler). All I’m saying is that “Indy 4” has a lot in common with “Close Encounters”/“E.T.”/ and “War of the Worlds.” The plot also weaves in a fare number of nods to past films as well as nice little family dynamic that sees *minor spoiler* Dr. Jones Jr. teaming up with and slapping some sense into what turns out to be Jones Jr. Jr. Spielberg’s crush, er, I mean ingénue, ack, I mean, uh, just Shia LeBeouf (side note: ribbing Speilberg’s unwholesome fondness for glistening young boys never gets old) comes across as a Fonzie version of Indiana Jones who wealds combs and switchblades instead of whips and guns. An arrogant but not altogether terrible performer, Shia’s douchebaggery burns only at 80% in this film. Also joining the reunion is Indy’s love interest from thirty something years ago. Karen Allen reprises her role and is so happy to be in a movie –any movie– that her enthusiasm damn near breaks the fourth wall. New characters include Ray Winstone as Indy’s cockney British cohort (god, I love that guy), the crazy Don Quixote-ish Oxley, John Hurt, who holds all the film’s secrets in his insane mind. The big bad Russian heavy is played by the small, sleek and chiseled Cate Blanchett who sports Javier Bardem’s haircut. She’s also a psychic soldier or something. Of course the Russian femme fetal stands in everyone’s way and rides Indy’s accomplishments all the way to the bank (damn near every treasure hunting sequence if followed by guns being pointed at Indy, then an escape, then more treasure nabbing etc.). Look, I’m not looking for logic but the screenplay errors big time when both good and evil characters ultimately end up in the same place, at the same time, and have the same goal. Isn’t Indy supposed to oppose the bad guy or something? The actress is of course one of my favs but she’s too broad and gimmicky here as a villain. 

Yes, this is a big dumb summer movie but Spielberg’s DP should be singled out. Perhaps one of the best visualists of our time, my theory is that anything good to be had in Spielberg’s post “Schindler’s List” films is thanks to Janusz Kaminski. Here he adds a retro gloss and glow that practically preserves the film in “Jurassic Park’s” golden amber. The jungle greens can practically be smelled while the signature earth tone pallet vibrates; as do Kaminski’s playful visual metaphors such as the way Indy is introduced by his shadow and, on the topic of shadows, the way a silhouette of Indy’s head bounces off a mosquito net and casts its image over his entire body. Okay, I suppose I should give Spielberg some credit too. It’s going to be short but here it goes: the director lightens up on or perhaps even transcends his erstwhile blend of cynicism subverted by schmaltz. But, even here, not entirely. There’s a buttload of schmaltz in this Indy, with the difference being that it seems almost… earned. Harrison Ford and Indiana Jones (is there a difference?) is so iconic and warm that to see him return is to want to give him a big ol’ hug. The film works better as a semi-sendoff to the character than a springboard for his son’s future adventures. If saying goodbye to this character is not schmaltz worthy than I don’t know what is. And, sure, he’s called “Gramps” this time around by that young greaser prick of a son (it’s interesting how Indiana Jones in this film is almost playing the Sean Connery part from the last film) but I got to hand it to the guy for silencing all those who counted him out.

 grade: B-

Odd that a film whose theme and central character is dedicated to eradicating the need for harmful weapons is simultaneously into such weapons to suit (suit, get it?) its needs. The film is one big shiny fetish piece that takes great pleasure in idolizing man’s mastery over his mind and body. From comic to screen, Iron Man and military ideology are, of course, inseparable (he’s the less dorky Capt. America) but, more than that, the film’s agenda is to allow us to gaze upon the breathtaking sight of a man flying around in a cool suit as bullets pow and ping off his steely panoply–the ultimate metaphor for the masculine guard we all put up. That the film goes ahead and makes the man under the suit compelling is why it soars and ultimately lands on a plateau alongside the best superhero films ever made.   

grade: b+ 

flame on to the rest 

 

G.M. Douglass

“One Missed Call” stars Shannyn Sossamon (”First Knight”), the erstwhile actress who was the next Sandra Bullock for about five minutes in the late 90s. Oh, and she resurfaced a few years ago because she named her child “Audio Science.” Playing a hot psych student (yawn) who teams up with a cop (Ed Burns) to figure out why all her friends are getting Final Destinationed to death via recording calls from their doomed future self, Sossamon sleepwalks her way through this desperate horror remake. I find it funny that, just last week, there was a gem of a scene in “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” where the gang makes fun of Kristen Bell for staring in a fictitious film where she finds herself tormented by “a haunted cell phone… ha, ha, ha.” “Just don’t answer the phone!” was the astute observation made. I know they were jabbing the real life actress’ participation in “Pulse” (grr) but this moronic film is way more deserving of that level of meta-mockery. “Pulse,” at least, had a relevant hook while this one, er, should get the hook. I know, I know, I promised to let off of the puns but, come on, this film had it coming.

flame on to the rest

An impressive collection/collage of songs made by the usually commercial (but always innovative) Nine Inch Nails. In terms of the multiple songs, what I love is how frontman Trent Reznor finds the basic concept or seed then moves on before allowing it to get bloated like many, oh so many, instrumental albums these days tend to do (ahem, Fuck Buttons). Tracks range from abrasive industrial razor blades to soft electronica suits to kick-ass rock samples to songs that are melodic and piano driven; all allowing the transcendent, trance-like (not to mention translucent) Ghosts experiment to branch off into one direction after another until, by the end, the result is a flourishing tree of goth(ish) sounds and ideas. Note: I’ve only listened once; I’ll try to listen a few more times before giving specifics as to specific tracks. Whatever.