What would life be like in the 21st Century if humans never evolved beyond apes? How would our human qualities, good and bad, play out? Are humans any different from other animals? Director/screenwriter/actor Steve Oram illustrates his answer to these deep questions with Aaaaaaaah!, a project that sounds fascinating on paper but turns out to be anything but.
Following a group of modern primates (Julian Barratt, Noel Fielding, Lucy Honigman, Tom Meeten, Oram, Julian Rhind-Tutt, and Toyah Willcox), Aaaaaaaah! is an hour and a half of grunting, fighting over food and mates, flashing body parts, openly masturbating and having sex, peeing and pooping on stuff, and generally establishing dominance with gratuitous gore peppered throughout. The plot, flimsy and hard to follow, isn’t funny, witty, engaging, interesting, or thought provoking. It’s terrible, like a bad inside joke I’m not a part of or an even worse art film. I couldn’t wait for this to end.
Aaaaaaaah! very well may be the worst movie I’ve ever seen. EVER. It fails on every single level. Waiting to enter the theater, I overheard someone in line behind me compare Oram to early John Waters and Andy Warhol. Um, no—those guys both had a wit that Oram lacks, at least from what I can tell here. A better title would have been Uuuuuuuugh!
Kudos to screenwriter and codirector Brian O’Donnell for his first film, Akron. After a great setup, he throws in a crazy plot twist and completely changes the trajectory of the story: what starts out as a sweet, almost too cute romance turns into something weird, dark, and potentially calamitous. The drama here slowly simmers to a boil and starts to bubble over. O’Donnell treats a gay relationship as incidental and not something strange; it’s a given from the outset. Plus, he makes the city of Akron a major character without becoming a cheerleader.
Benny (Matthew Frias), a student at the University of Akron, meets another student, Christopher (Edmund Donovan), at a pick up football game. They start dating, and Christopher invites Benny on a road trip to Florida to meet his mother (Amy da Luz) over sping break. While waiting for him on the morning they head out, Benny’s mother (Andrea Burns) mentions to Christopher that Benny had an older brother who died when they were both kids. Christopher realizes that he and his mother are connected to the tragedy.
As much as I liked Akron—and there is quite a bit here to like—it has problems. The opening scene, which takes place a decade or more before the story, is confusing; no hints are given to tip us off that we are in the past. The scene is shot in a grocery store parking lot with current cars and license plates. It threw me off, and it took me awhile to realize that this scene occurred a long time ago. It’s a critical piece of the story, so it should have been done more carefully. For the most part, the acting is good; however, Benny’s mother is a Latina-lite Stepford wife who ultimately comes off as one-dimensional caricature rather than a fully developed character. Burns overdoes the doting mom thing. Particularly annoying is her peppering her speech with basic Spanish words that everyone knows; it doesn’t ring authentic because she’s whiter than Christopher. Sadly, the story fizzles in the end; the resolution is too fast and too neat, and some of the characters—especially Benny’s father (Joseph Melendez) and sister (Isabel Rose Machado)—get lost in the melodrama. I could have done without the sensitive folky score.
Akron isn’t a bad film. It could’ve been a lot more interesting, though—it certainly has the elements. It ultimately doesn’t meet is potential.
The title evokes in my mind the song “My Name Is Jonas,” but even Weezer is probably too hip for Doris Miller (Sally Field), a sixty-something kooky cat lady who works in the fashion industry—not as a creative but a clerk in a cube, a job she’s held for decades. She develops a crush on the office’s new art director, thirty-something John Fremont (Max Greenfield), after a crowded ride in an elevator. When a self-help speaker (Peter Gallagher) convinces her that anything is possible, Doris decides to pursue John despite their age difference. Naturally, nothing pans out as she wants or expects—mostly because Doris misinterprets things and can’t quite deal with mixed signals. Her crush gets more intense as she gets closer to John. Is this really getting somewhere?
Written by Laura Terruso and director Michael Showalter, Hello, My Name is Doris is a cute if scattered “feel good” movie that really shouldn’t work. First, the story is not believable. I don’t mean an older woman falling for a younger man—the turns that the story takes are what ring fake. The situations are so far-fetched they’re downright inane. The business with electronic music star Baby Goya (Jack Antonoff), for example, is an eyeroller. The clothes Doris wears are out there, and not in a good way. Second, the film is loaded with one cliché after another—old people having problems with technology, silly hipsters being pretentious, superficial electronic dance music gags, Staten Island lacking culture, crazy cat lady hoarding stuff. The film’s biggest sin, though, is its predictability. From the outset, you know her cringeworthy actions are going to backfire on Doris. It doesn’t take much to see where this story is headed.
Despite a weak, aimless script that gives shallow treatment to its subject and its characters, Hello, My Name Is Doris works largely due to Field, who almost single-handedly elevates it to something meaningful. She pours a lot into Doris, giving her dimension: she’s eager, excited, nervous, vulnerable, even relatable. Field accomplishes this not so much through her lines but rather through her delivery, verbal and physical. She’s great to watch here. She and Greenfield create a chemistry that succeeds. The fantasy sequences are the best parts of the film, and there’s some great physical comedy here. Tyne Daley as gruff Roz brings pizzazz to every scene she’s in.
Hello, My Name Is Doris definitely has its problems. They’re not so severe that they ruin the film, though. I enjoyed it for what it is: an offbeat sort-of romantic comedy.
Emelie is the feature film debut of Michael Thelin, whose past work consists largely of concert films and documentaries for acts like Cee Lo Green, Stone Temple Pilots, Paramore, and Panic! at the Disco. Interestingly, he went with a thriller.
Emelie (Sarah Bolger), or “Anna,” is a sitter with a story that becomes evident over the course of her evening watching the Thompson kids, Jacob (Joshua Rush), Sally (Carly Adams), and Christopher (Thomas Blair). Emelie starts out cool enough, giving Jacob the video game his mother took from him earlier and playing dress up with Sally and Christopher. She turns dyspeptic, though, and things get ugly: she messes with their pets, shows them a porn, and leaves out a gun for them to play with. Oh yeah, and then there’s that scene with Jacob and the tampon. Emelie’s got issues, and one of the kids exposes why.
I really wanted to love this film. Clearly, a lot went into it: the plot is carefully constructed with no detail left unexplained. It looks professional, even if a bit made-for-TV. The acting, particularly the little ones, is pretty good. Bolger has a nice Saoirse Ronan (Brooklyn) thing going on. My issue is a technical one: ultimately Emelie is flat. Bolger is creepy and menacing but not scary or intense, and the plot fails to engage beyond a superficial level. In other words, it didn’t pull me into the action; it left me observing it passively from the audience. Disappointing for a midnight movie, I found myself not invested in the outcome. Perhaps Thelin’s next try will be better; I’d like to see more from him.
The title is misleading: Henry Gamble (Cole Doman), teenaged son of a preacher man, is definitely having a birthday party—a pool party, no less. It’s an all-day affair for an Evangelical crowd, and it continues into the night. A lot more than cake, ice cream, swimming, and Jesus is going on here, though. Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party is much more complex and interesting than it may appear at first blush.
The opening scene is brilliant even if it is weird, and it shows exactly what Henry is going through: he’s lusting after his buddy, Gabe (Joe Keery), who just slept over. Henry’s sister, Autumn (Nina Ganet), home from her freshman year at a Christian college, is dealing with her lost virginity and possibly unresolved feelings for and mixed signals from the guy she gave it to, Aaron (Tyler Ross). Henry’s parents, Bob (Pat Healy) and Kat (Elizabeth Laidlaw), are recovering from a disruptive event involving the deceased husband of neighbor and fellow churchgoer Rose Matthews (Meg Thalken) and contemplating a separation, something that probably doesn’t bode well for Bob’s career. Meanwhile, Rose, who clearly misses her husband, seems to have taken up drinking, and her son Ricky (Patrick Andrews) has other issues altogether.
Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party is not what I expected—a very good thing. It’s about the secret matters that go on in private, how we face or avoid them, and the facades we all put up to keep them private. It definitely gets at Henry’s queer longings and raises some gay issues, but it’s not what I would call a “queer” movie. Its subject matter is broader than that. It’s not even focused on Henry—his family members, friends, and even secondary characters are all going through one thing or another: Logan (Daniel Kyri) is black and “questioning” if not gay in a homophobic white world, pastor Larry Montgomery (Steppenwolf member Francis Guinan) is questioning his faith and looking for an escape, and his wife, Bonnie (Hanna Dworkin), is repeatedly disappointed by the sagging morals of those around her. This is a smartly culled ensemble of realistic characters, each discovering himself or herself—much like Henry.
I enjoyed this film a lot more than I thought I would. Laced with sexuality, it manages to maintain both an honesty and an innocence that work really well. The acting, mostly but not entirely by newcomers, is surprisingly good—particularly Doman and Kyri, who play their parts with a winning uneasiness. Laidlaw is awesome as Henry’s mother, and she subtly defies what one might expect an Evangelical Christian mother to be. Writer/director Stephen Cone creates relatable, memorable characters—they’re all flawed and inconsistent, yet he approaches each of them with tenderness and leaves their dignity intact. A killer new wave inspired soundtrack scores major cool points. Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party has the flavor of a John Hughes film—it was even filmed in Lake Forest on Chicago’s North Shore—but it stands on its own. Everyone here has a story, and each story makes for an absorbing film.
Mad Max: Fury Road is not a movie I would have bothered to see but for the fact that it was nominated for Best Picture. It’s a huge Hollywood blockbuster retooling of an earlier Hollywood blockbuster—totally not my thing.
Tom Hardy is Mad Max, and he’s taken captive by Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne) and his gang of warboys who look like an army of “Zero” era Billy Corgans. Max gets away and finds himself working with Furiosa (Charlize Theron), a rig driver liberating a gaggle of Joe’s “breeders”—young women he keeps for reproductive purposes. Loaded with fast cars, a badass woman, fox females, a rock band, and weapons, the first hour is nonstop noise and destruction. There’s some decent acting in the middle, but it doesn’t last. A final plan to take out Joe brings on another barrage of destruction.
Mad Max: Fury Road is exactly what it’s supposed to be: an action picture. The costumes and cars are imaginative even if derivative. John Seale’s cimenatography is snappy: he makes the desert look hot, colorful, and stunning with not all that much to work with. It’s easily the film’s most impressive element. Hardy is nice to look at, all rugged and filthy and with all his teeth (unlike many other characters). This is about all I can say that’s positive. Director George Miller’s cho-mo (my term for choppy motion) technique gives the film a cheesy, horror movie look. There are no big surprises here—we know how it ends.
Mad Max: Fury Road is an indulgent, guilty pleasure for those who dig this stuff. I’m just not one of them. Best Picture, my ass.
I watched this movie twice because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t unduly harsh on it. I really hated it the first time I saw it, but I must confess that I was drunk and really didn’t pay attention to it. Upon my second (and sober) viewing, I’ve reconsidered my position.
Let’s get this out up front right away: I can’t stand Tom Hanks, and Steven Spielberg hasn’t grabbed me with anything since maybe Schindler’s List. Both have done interesting things in the past, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen either of them put out anything interesting (they’re so soft now). For the last 20 years, their work has been exactly what deters me from most mainstream Hollywood movies: formulaic feel-good stuff with a tidy ending.
Bridge of Spies is all of that. Based on true events, it’s actually two stories in one movie. During the Cold War era, Brooklyn insurance defense attorney (egads!) James Donovan (Hanks) is asked—no, coerced—by his boss (Alan Alda) to defend a Russian spy, Rudolf Abel (Mark Rylance), in a pro bono criminal case. Donovan notices defects in the warrant that led to Abel’s arrest, but no one, including the judge (Dakin Matthews), wants to hear it. All hell breaks loose when Donovan goes full throttle on his defense—all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. He loses. Abel goes to jail.
Donovan is then asked by the CIA to negotiate a prisoner exchange of Abel for an American spy (Austin Stowell) captured by the Soviets. While in Berlin, Donovan learns of an American student (Will Rogers) held in East Germany. He unilaterally deals for the release of both Americans—much to the dismay of the CIA agents on the case.
Bridge of Spies might not be schmaltzy, but it’s got no edge to it: it’s a straightforward (though liberal with reality), standard-issue Law and Order type drama. The film is classified as a thriller, but it’s not really; it’s neither particularly intense nor suspenseful. It has its moments, and Rylance is easily the standout performance here. However, the pace is uneven and the story gets dull at points. Donovan’s need to do the right thing in the face of adversity drives the dramatic tension. His “argument” before the Supreme Court is an eyeroll-inducing pitch for an Oscar. Whatever. The ending is typical Spielberg. I didn’t love Bridge of Spies, but I’ve seen much worse.
Side note: I’m surprised to see the Coen brothers attached to this project; it’s not their speed.
Aside from Alien and Blade Runner, Ridley Scott’s films don’t excite me. So, it should come as no surprise that The Martian didn’t do it for me, either. I didn’t hate it, but I definitely found it lacking. It aims for blockbuster status, which it achieved—good for it. Like far too many blockbusters, though, The Martian is an average Hollywood film at best.
Matt Damon stars as botanist/astronaut Mark Watney, a member of the Ares III mission to Mars. To Scott’s credit, he gets right down to business from the very first scene: while the crew is collecting soil samples, a violent dust storm kicks up out of nowhere and knocks down a sattellite (or something). Watney is struck with debris and pushed out of sight. His crew mates take him for dead. He’s not, we learn once the dust settles (no pun intended) and Ares has already left Mars.
Based on Andy Weir’s 2011 novel of the same name—which I didn’t read—the story seems to lend itself naturally to drama, suspense, and action. Somehow, The Martian is oddly low on all three until the last half hour or so. The story moves along and Watney faces his share of obstacles, none of which are a surprise. He approaches them all with a MacGyver-like ingenuity (duct tape literally does fix anything). I won’t ruin the ending, but all it got out of me was a shrug. Eh.
Mars to Houston: what is Kristen Wiig doing in this movie? I laud her efforts to expand her horizons, but she’s not there yet. She can’t do drama. She sticks out like a sixth finger.
Notwithstanding the foregoing, The Martian has its positive aspects. The shots on Mars (actually Jordan) are realistic and downright stunning. Damon is excellent: he single-handedly saves The Martian from slipping into a black hole. Good thing, because the success of the entire script rests on his shoulders. He gives Watney sympathy and relatability. I like his character. His constant talking to himself to act as narrator easily could have gone south fast but he makes it work almost unnoticeably. To lighten the tone, he adds a believable sense of humor that I didn’t expect considering the plot. I now understand the Golden Globe “best actor in a comedy” thing. The disco hits are a nice touch that effectively augments this subtle comic relief. Overall, though, I expected something a lot more interesting.
The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines revenant as “one that returns after death or a long absence.” Citing the Random House Dictionary, Dictionary.com goes a step farther and calls it “a ghost.” The Revenant is certainly an appropriate title for Alejandro González Iñárritu’s latest film: its burly-man protagonist, Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio), literally comes back to life after a bear attack nearly kills him. His resurrection, however, is only the beginning of the story.
While hunting for pelts somewhere in the Northern Plains States, a crew of trappers is attacked by Native Americans. Most of the crew is killed—brutally—but a few survivors, including Glass and his half-native son, Hawk (Forrest Goodluck), escape on a boat. Glass knows the terrain better than anyone, and assumes the lead as the men abandon the boat and head back to camp on foot—an undertaking no one is thrilled about. Virulent crew member John Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy), who was scalped by Indians in the past, goes along with the plan but proves to be an adversary of Glass and a general pain in the ass. After a grizzly bear mauls Glass and leaves him essentially paralyzed on a makeshift stretcher at the mercy of the crew, Fitzgerald volunteers to stay behind with Hawk and Bridger (Will Poulter)—quite literally a babe in the woods—and either bring Glass to camp or bury him when he dies. See where this is going?
Based on Michael Punke’s 2002 novel, The Revenant is billed as a ‘revenge’ story. While revenge definitely drives the drama, the story is really about survival. The Revenant poses the age-old but ever interesting existential question: how are humans any different from other animals? Civilization and savagery are depicted here, often as the same thing. Glass and his son represent a dichotomy, occupying a middle ground between the two. Glass even looks like an animal as he walks through the snowy wilderness, furs piled high on top of him, and fights his way through various attacks, including his own sickness. A band of French trappers are neither mannerly nor enlightened in their conduct. The camp certainly is no model of humanity.
While God comes up many times, I see God as beside the point here; He (or She) is presented as a by-product of something more basic. The analogies to God—a tree, a squirrel that is shot and eaten, and a bombed out church—do not convey a sense of permanency or power. The answer I got as to what differentiates humans from other animals is our concept of justice, or karma: we all get what’s coming to us in the end.
The Revenant is long, deliberately slow, extremely violent, and very gory. In fact, it plays out like a big budget, artfully done video game: we are right there with Glass as we move through treacherous terrain and sudden attacks from man, beast, and the elements alike. We gather items—a gun, a canteen, a horse—for whatever comes next. The sound of arrows whizzing by and bullets hitting bodies is loud and clear. A large part of understanding The Revenant, though, is in its brutality. DiCaprio is good, but I thought Hardy stole the show.
Saul Auslander (Géza Röhrig) is a Jewish-Hungarian prisoner at Auschwitz. A worker with the Sonderkommando, he is part of a special group of prisoners charged with the grim job of disinfecting gas chambers after exterminations and burning the bodies (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonderkommando). While moving corpses after a particular gassing, he finds a young boy (Gergö Farkas) struggling to breathe. Saul notifies a guard and watches a doctor kill the boy. The event sets off something in Saul, prompting his mission to find a rabbi at the camp and give the boy a proper burial in the midst of a brewing prison uprising.
The plot is touching, and some of the story developments are even gripping; but the plot is secondary. Son of Saul is not about the story; it’s about the feeling of being a prisoner in a Nazi concentration camp. Director and cowriter Laszlo Nemes is successful—to say the least—and the result is fucking intense: noise and confusion dominate. What exactly is happening at the moment and what’s real are seldom clear. The mood is tense and things are volatile. The camera work, choppy and blurry and focused almost entirely on Saul, creates a claustrophobic, suffocating effect. At some points, body parts of the dead—a foot, a breast, a crotch—come in and out of focus in the background like unsettling scenery.
Son of Saul is a mindfuck, and parts of it teeter on being unwatchable. It throws out a lot to process; I left the theater frazzled. I never want to see it again, but I don’t need to: it’s going to stay with me. Nemes does an excellent job; it’s so powerful that it’s hard to believe this is his directorial debut.
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