quick review: my week with marilyn

Much ado is made of Sir Laurence Olivier’s surliness towards Marilyn in My Week With Marilyn, but the reading is unfair to Olivier (Kenneth Branagh) and symptomatic of the obsessive worship ladled on the actress. As portrayed by Michelle Williams in a script based on memoirs by Collin Clark, Marilyn is a talented but undisciplined actress whose work ethic consists of arriving late, flubbing scenes, and perpetually deferring to the acting coach who clings to her like a security blanket.


 It’s arguable whether or not we’re expected to side with those characters in such awe of Marilyn they excuse her unprofessional behaviour, using those moments when her talent is constructively unleased as a glossy rationale. The film’s directorial leanings, tethered to its character’s reverence for Marilyn, certainly strives to include viewers in the genuflections. But for my part I’m with Olivier in putting Marilyn’s star power in a critical perspective. That perspective is further supported by Michelle Williams’ performance, which is certainly evocative and possessed of greater power than Meryl Streep’s impersonation of Margaret Thatcher. Credible as a source of fascination, the portrait of Monroe that emerges from Williams is of a damaged and damaging woman who lacked control over her sexual charisma, and the persona that emerges from it, unless focused through the lens of a camera. Although too innocent to be intentionally malicious, this version of Monroe acts as libido’s wrecking ball. That the film is willing to excuse the collateral damage, whether in the way she ultimately leaves the film’s protagonist or her lack of professionalism, is a symptom of the film’s inability to maintain a biographical detachment from its subject. The result is a superficial film, compelling for its performances but glib in its psychology and narrative.

review - Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows

Director Geoff Ritchie’s first attempt to set afoot the game of re-tuning Sherlock Holmes as the protagonist of an action-buddy movie proved entertaining but unworthy of the Great Detective, an impression unchanged after a second viewing and the benefit of time. The effort to draw on previously marginalized aspects of the character, though interesting, presented a confused vision that indulged the worst tendencies of Hollywood spectacles: much loudness, little substance. Despite the undeniable chemistry of the film’s leads, Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law, and an attractive production, the film delivered not a compelling revision but an exaggerated blockbuster confection filled with overtorqued action, overcooked humour, and a plot better suited to an episode of Scooby Doo. That it was nevertheless more entertaining than it deserved to be speaks to how well-made the film was; the problem rested in translating Ritchie’s vision of the character into a faithful script.


Picking up where the first film left off, with Moriarty coming out of the shadows to become Holmes’ direct antagonist, A Game of Shadows achieves the successful tuning Ritchie aims for.  In part, that success is due to Jared Harris’ marvelous interpretation of Moriarty, a seemingly innocuous college professor who conveys a malicious criminal intelligence not through bombast but through softly spoken words. But the bulk of the credit goes to the script by Kieran Mulroney and Michele Mulroney, which successfully achieves in tone and balance what the previous film, written by Michael Robert Johnson, Anthony Peckham and Simon Kinberg, could only hint at. Action supplements rather than overwhelms intellect in this film, and genuine drama underlines the comical elements, resulting in a Sherlock Holmes we can credibly accept as both master detective and action hero, along with a Watson who is both an eminently worthy comrade-in-arms and a good bloke in his own right. The thrilling, high-stakes cat-and-mouse plot delivers on the intense struggle between two equal but opposing minds, while delivering fun little moments highlighting the enduring, though somewhat chafing, friendship between Holmes and Watson. 


A genuine and all-to-rare pleasure is how women in the film aren’t relegated to the status of distressed damsels, but are courageous, clever, and valuable participants in the narrative. Noomi Rapace, who memorably played Lisbeth Salander in the Swedish film adaptation of Stieg Larsson’s Millenium trilogy, plays a gypsy who, despite being relegated to a supporting role, nonetheless commands attention and displays a fierce streak of womanly independence that demonstrates that “supporting” need not be “subordinate.” Also refreshing is Watson’ wife Mary, smartly played by Kelly Reilly and presented as a sharp who stands her own ground. A valuable player as Holmes works the game against Moriarty, she is not given the thankless task of fretting over her husband, but allowed to contribute in the intellectual effort to defeat the criminal mastermind. Where the trend in Hollywood is to demonstrate gender parity by presenting women capable of violence equal to that of men, Ritchie and his screenwriters here offer a more functional equivalence. 


All in all, a superior effort…and a far more convincing perspective on the Great Detective than even Steven Moffat could achieve in his ill-conceived 21st Century Sherlock Holmes series, Sherlock.

thoughts on the bank of Apple's money problem

Pity poor Apple; the company has a $100 billion stockpile of cash that it only now has figured out what to do with now that Tim Cook is CEO - pay out dividends and buy back stocks over a three-year period. From the LA Times:

The company said it will pay shareholders $2.65 per share each quarter beginning in Apple's fiscal fourth quarter, which starts July 1. The company said it hopes the dividend will make Apple stock a more attractive investment to wider base of investors, including those looking to make regular income from owning the stock.
...
In a conference call with investors this morning, Apple Chief Executive Tim Cook and Chief Financial Officer Peter Oppenheimer said the company would spend $10 billion on a three-year stock repurchase program. Apple is buying back shares largely to be able to award more stock to its employees without diluting the value of existing shares, which happens when a company slices itself into a larger number of smaller shares.

The company said it would spend about $45 billion on the combined initiatives over the next three years.

Good news, then, for those people who want to make money without working for it - "those looking to make regular income from owning the stock." Apple's got your bank account covered. And what of the other $55 billion? No mention of that.


While the business news is abuzz with talk of dividends, the real issue goes unexamined; how did Apple amass such a large cash stockpile in the first place? Being stingy to investors is one answer. Apparently, Apple hasn't issued a dividend payment in more than a decade according to Yahoo!Finance. But let's consider alternative explanations, beginning with the following reminder:


profit = price - cost


Alternative 1: Apple's massive profits arise from a cost that is too low relative to what its products sell for, which means that the manufacturers are being short-changed ("exploited" in revolutionary-speak). Considering that Apple has succeeded in selling pricey products, it seems reasonable to conclude that customers at least tacitly accept that the high prices reflect the high value of the products. I'd argue that Apple depends, in part, on the high prices to drive the impression of a premium brand, raising the question of whether the market would rate Apple so highly if it offered dirt-cheap products.


Alternative 2: The manufacturers are reasonably paid, and it is the price that is too high relative to the cost. In this case, it means that Apple customers are being overcharged for the products they buy. Cue Steve Jobs real marketing genius; persuading people to dish out more money than they should for products they don't really need.


The overall conclusion is: whether Apple is scrooging investors, underpaying manufacturers, or overcharging customers, its $100 billion of stockpiled cash is the result of an exploitative business strategy, aided and abetted by an uncritical customer base susceptible to hype. Some would gush about how that makes Apple a capitalist success story. I'd argue that by extracting considerably more money from the economy than it puts in, it makes Apple the poster child of exactly what's wrong with our capitalist economy and consumerist culture.

The Lorax: Seuss, Speech, Marketing, and Orange as the New Green

The Lorax is not a great film, nor is it the best adaptation of Dr. Seuss’s book that one might envision. It is, however, as gently entertaining as it is unapologetic in its stance; a colourful, silly, melancholy, hopeful, stinging and, ultimately, accessible film.

Read my review of The Lorax at The Front Page Online.

The Punisher in Film – Part 2

Continuing from Part 1...

By contrast, the 1989 film begins with Dolph Lundren, whose darkly imposing physical presence and laconic demeanour are ideally suited to the role of Frank Castle. Unlike Jane, we believe Lundgren has the consitution of a tank, capable of enduring great amounts of abuse while able to serve up abuse of his own. And the minimally expressive but not unemotional aloofness Lundgren delivers seems pitch-perfect for a man mired in such uncompromising morality that killing has become effortless and common. We see in Lundgren the weary compulsion of a man whose self-imposed mission to punish the guilty has stripped him of his social identity and the human bonds that come with it. Yet, for all the psychopathy implied in his murderous vigilantism, the film offers an occasional glimpse of humanity, of which there is enough left to keep Castle from becoming a truly amoral monster. A scene in which he holds a little girl’s hand, one of many children he rescues from the clutches of the Yakuza, and tells her not to be afraid is delivered with all the tenderness of a father who remembers both his own children and the value of innocence. Granted, in the 2004 film Frank’s neighbours are similarly intended to demonstrate that Castle hasn’t completely unmoored himself from the most basic requirement of moral action. But the 1989 film is less insistent in driving home the point, preferring a subtle moment to a brash subplot that strives to excuse the ugliness that otherwise pervades the film.

Some fans, of course, latched on to the absence of the iconic skull on Lundgren’s person, as if the all-black cross between a combat uniform and biker wear was not sufficiently representative of the character’s persona of death. But I happen to find it more plausible that the skull motif would appear in Lundgren’s signature daggers – the skull is at the hilt ¬– then on the chest where it would draw undue attention. Wikipedia’s entry on Punisher, amusingly, mentions that Castle uses the skull to draw enemy fire towards the most heavily armoured portion of his body. Given how graphic design is used in urinals to help men’s aim, there is perhaps some sense to that. Nevertheless, the utilitarian costume design in partnership with Lundgren’s physique is more than sufficient to convey a tough, fearsome impression.

What makes the 1989 version of Castle so much more interesting, beyond casting Lundgren in the role, comes from a script structured to prevent multiple perspectives on the character. Screenwriter Boaz Yakin wisely foregoes turning the film into an origin story, recognizing that the Punisher’s origin is not a story but, rather, a moment – the moment his wife and children die in a car bomb. This frees the film to manage the character both as an individual and as a concept. To the media, he is a mysterious vigilante called the Punisher. To the police, his high body county and defiance of the legal system inspires aggravation and embarrassment. Of course, to mobsters the Punisher evokes fear and dread. Finally, there are the personal perspectives of the character through Frank himself, delivered through voice-over monologues, and through his former partner in the police Jake Berkowitz, played by Louis Gossett Jr. The latter is arguably the film’s true heart, as Jake desperately searches for his former friend, believed dead by just about everyone else, and bring him to safety from the alienating bloody battlefront of his perpetual war against the mob. Altogether, the various perspectives add up to a surprisingly robust portrayal that elevates the film’s presentation of the character from mere exploitation to social commentary. It helps immeasurably that, unlike Hensleigh’s film, the plot is not driven by excessively dominant villains. Instead, the plot doesn’t overcook the film. We get a gritty, almost depersonalized war between a man and the mob, with the Punisher having to confront the consequences of what happens when the mob is so weakened that the Yakuza start to move into the power gap.

Of course, it cannot go unmentioned that the film suffers from its low budget and director Mark Goldblatt’s lack of cinematic vision. The obvious casualties are the cast, which range from cringe-inducing bit parts to awful child actors, and action scenes that occasionally forget about the laws of physics. Even that classic gaffe, where the hero emerges unharmed from a hail of apparently badly aimed bullets, makes an appearance.

For all that, however, Goldblatt mostly stages effective action scenes. A welcome lack of frills or stylistic flourishes gives the gunfights and fisticuffs a gritty, street-brawl character. In fact, it’s a bit of a morally wishy-washy misnomer to call them “action scenes;” its violence, straight without a chaser. Despite the necessary brutality of garroting, gunshots, and stabbings, the film restrains itself from giving in to the gory impulse that afflicted other “action” movies of the 80s and their successors. And why shouldn’t it? It’s a questionable cultural defect, illustrated vividly by Hensleigh’s version, that requires the use of highly graphic depictions of violence to elicit a moral and visceral response. Goldblatt doesn’t sanitize the film’s violence to make it palatable, but does keep it at a clinically detached level that makes the violence all the more unsettling without playing into the manipulative revenge horror formula. To this version of the Punisher, and the gangsters he combats, the violence is matter-of-fact; The Punisher, at one point, machine guns a roomful of kendo-practicing Yakuza without so much of a twitch. Goldblatt’s honest presentation leaves room for audience involvement. Where some might be thrilled by such mechanical slaughter, it seems more fitting to be horrified, a reaction more in line with the Punisher’s ultimate status as anti-hero.

In a similar mix of the workable and the problematic, the cast is not universally low-grade. The major roles, at least, benefit from good performances that give the story enough heft to overcome the film’s weaknesses. Louis Gossett Jr. in particular is an asset, proving to be the film’s heart as a man with a motivation, driven by an abiding sense of loyalty and friendship, to rescue Frank Castle from his outlaw existence. Also noteworthy is Barry Otto as a homeless alcoholic actor named Shakes, presumably short for Shakespeare, who provides the Punisher with information while also, at a key moment, serving as surrogate conscience. Rounding out the cast of capables are Kim Miyori as the icy cruel Yakuza leaders Ms. Tanaka, and Jeroene Krabbe as the pragmatic but proud Gianni Franco, surviving head of the Franco crime family. Miyori is suitably sinister, without being garish, as the film’s prime antagonist. But it falls to Krabbe to put a human face on the gangsters the Punisher fights. More level-headed than his mob associates, Franco also calls into question the Punisher’s decision to appoint himself a distributor of capital punishment. Not because Franco is lacking in ruthlessness, which he isn’t, but because even he operates under moral code. Although not explicitly clear, the impression from Krabbe is that Gianni Franco would not have ordered a hit in which a child would be killed. That impression underlies a key scene that offers as much insight into what Castle has become as it does the mobster, a role reversal of sorts in which, while waiting for the moment to launch an assault on the Yakuza, Franco says in response to Castle’s high body count, “There’s a limit to revenge, you know.” Castle’s wry, deadpan answer: “I guess I haven’t reached mine.” How about that? The mobster has limits, whereas Castle is intent on continuing his war no matter the limit.
Steven Grant, writer of Marvel’s 19855-1986 Punisher mini-series and many other comics, offered a definite statement of Frank Castle’s character, one continued by writers like Garth Ennis:

Kierkegaard, called the father of existentialism, played up the absurdity of human existence, stating the only way to combat this was the total commitment of the individual to a life of his choosing, and though Kierkegaard, still a child of his time, ultimately fell back on the abject acceptance of Christianity (which he also seemed to feel was incomprehensible) as the only valid course of action, the "life of total commitment" certainly fits The Punisher. Heidegger, who took Kierkegaard's philosophy further, comes even closer to describing The Punisher: since we can never hope to understand why we're here, if there's even anything to understand, the individual should choose a goal and pursue it wholeheartedly, despite the certainty of death and the meaninglessness of action. That's sure the Punisher as I conceived him: a man who knows he's going to die and who knows in the big picture his actions will count for nothing, but who pursues his course because this is what he has chosen to do.

The film’s closing shot is of Jake desperately calling out his friend’s name. He receives no answer, of course, Frank having disappeared after killing both Ms. Tanaka and Franco and, ominously, leaving the mobster’s son with a warning to become a good man or find The Punisher waiting. The war goes on. For all the film’s shortcoming, we’re left with a film that, unlike Hensleigh’s, comes closest to depicting that Kierkegaardian mode of existence. Saying everything that really needs to be said about the character, the 1989 film stands as a faithful, albeit technically flawed, translation of the Punisher to a live-action medium.

So where does the Punisher go from here?

To be continued...

The Punisher in Film – Part 1

Frank Castle, the Punisher

Essentially Don Pendleton’s Mack “The Executioner” Bolan dressed up as Nedor Comics Golden Age superhero The Black Terror, Marvel’s derivative vigilante the Punisher is mostly nothing more or less than a quasi-archetypal avenging character. Like many before and since, Frank Castle sets off a violent crusade against crime after loved ones – in this case his wife and children – are killed by the mafia. Although Marvel has allowed the Punisher to co-exist in the same universe as its superpowered characters, rather nonsensically neutering the character concept in much the same way DC has with Batman, he does achieve a compelling, if grim, power on his own urban turf, mostly because of the compelling theatricality of his iconic costume; black with a stylized white skull on the chest. Only the PunisherMAX series, innovated by noted writer Garth Ennis, kept it real at the price of amping up the gruesome scenarios, violence, torture, and characters so morally deformed they’d fit into a horror movie. At least, so I gather from Wikipedia and comic book review sites.

The Black Terror in his first appearance in 1941.

From the various interpretations available to filmmakers, there’s an entire range of Punisher styles to choose from. Of the three attempts to bring the Punisher to film, the most recent, Punisher: War Zone starring Ray Stevenson, is hardly worth considering. Setting aside the contemptuous critical consensus, the red-band trailer was so gory and ultra-violent that pushing the film off the must-see radar seems eminently sensible. I skipped that one. That leaves the 2004 film starring Thomas Jane, and the much-maligned 1989 film starring Dolph Lundgren.

Of the 2004 film, one can say this; it is slickly produced, well-acted, and cinematic. But the story is trash without the good manners, or good humour, to acknowledge itself as such. Instead, director and co-writer Jonathan Hensleigh yields to Shakespearean pretensions without the ability to manage the scale. Hence, a few amplifications. Not content with the death of Frank’s wife and children, Hensleigh arranges it so that his entire extended family, roughly thirty in all, are slaughtered on the orders of gangster Howard Saint or, to be accurate, Howard’s wife Livia. The rationale is straightforward, if off-target in the usual villain’s way – retaliation for a police sting involving illegal weapons that results in the death of the eldest Saint son. But the motivation is flimsy given Livia’s near absence of character other than that of gangster moll with a predilection for shopping and an arbitrary mean-streak more or less equal to her husband’s. Looking to Howard Saint, played with sneering gusto by John Travolta, won’t yield more character than that of the usual nasty deranged by jealously and cruel vindictiveness.


The whole ordeal of the massacre plays out interminably, with Hensleigh extracting as much discomfort as possible in presenting the victims chased and gunned down. Frank’s wife and son are particularly subjected to the indignity of a vicious, sadistic death by pickup truck, culminating in Frank himself being captured, beaten, shot, shot again in the chest at point-blank range, then left to sizzle on a burning dock. From here, it becomes an exercise in Frank evading death at the hands of two bizarre assassins sent by Saint – one a reject from Robert Rodriguez’s Mariachi films who croons his murderous intentions before acting on them, the other a massive boss-type opponent borrowed from a video game – while making half-hearted attempts to set up his own revenge against the Saints. He slums around a decrepit apartment building shared with the film’s only nod towards tenderness, comedy, and characters with actual personalities – a nod exploited, inevitably, to further demonstrate the Saints’ sadism – until, finally, he unleashes his revenge in a scheme inspired by Othello and spiked with an excess of lurid, cruel brutality. In all this, the film’s structure is faithful to the revenge horror formula in which atrocities committed against the innocent become license to cheerlead monstrous payback.

If Hensleigh’s manipulative approach to the material isn’t bad enough, the film’s failure is compounded by its function as an origin story. Other than a t-shirt bearing the famous skull that Thomas Jane sports around – ridiculously contrived as a gift from Castle’s son – there’s little of the Punisher persona to be found in the film, to the point where the whole affair could have been delivered under a different moniker and no one would be at a loss. The most notable approximation is Castle’s manifesto delivered via voice over, in which he confidently proclaims that “Revenge is not a valid motive, it's an emotional response. No, not vengeance. Punishment.” Really? The whole film reeks of revenge and the exploitation of suffering…and audience-insulting intellectual dishonesty. As for Thomas Jane, he’s a fine enough actor but never achieves the physical menace and intimidating presence the character demands. Hensleigh’s characterization further hinders Jane, in that his interpretation of Castle is devoid not only of threat, but also the tactical cunning that makes him a fearsome opponent. If Castle survives the vicious assaults on his body, including the wounds suffered in a brawl with a giant Russian (the aforementioned boss-type) so tough he shrugs off a knife stabbed in his shoulder, it is only through sheer willpower…Hensleigh’s will, that is. Certainly Castle himself rarely lives up to his background as a special ops commando, being easily outmatched on a home turf rigged with all manners of defensive and offensive measure to counter attackers.

To be continued...

Note: images used under fair use for illustrative purposes only. If the copyright holder asks for the images to be removed from the 

social movements of conservation and evolution

If we were to distill society into a dichotomy of impulses, one that underlies not only cultural attitudes but the narrative structure that defines political discourse, the poles would have to be conservatism and progressivism. With each generation, both in terms of government and population, as well as paradigm shifts brought about by advances in science and technology, the fundamental challenge for any society is learning to adapt to changing circumstances without losing its core character. That is, without losing its core character in a sudden, cataclysmic change that can create social unrest – as opposed to the change in character that can occur gradually over the course of a society’s unfolding history. Although by no means the only possible or necessary dichotomy, it thus seems reasonable to interpret societal dynamics on the basis of the ideas and practices society conserves and those it changes in an effort to maintain stability.

Unfortunately, the discussion about these two inherent impulses is too often reduced to the simplistic all or nothing confrontation of Right vs Left, Conservative vs Liberal, and the straw tigers (the metaphor is deliberately mixed) that emerge from both. Although there are differences between how each “side” presents the other (to be partly glib, liberals rail against social injustice while conservatives rail against liberals), interprets policy, and governs in practice, it is the massing of partisan ideological forces that creates the problem.  

The point isn’t to call a plague on both these houses, however well deserved, or to repeat reasons why the partisan divide is antithetical to good reasoning, but to suggest that the rhetorical trappings of the Conservative vs Liberal distinction ultimately obscures the character of the conservative and progressive impulses by focusing on rigid idealistic categories. Dogma, in other words. And what is being obscured is not the product of a dialectic but the way in which conservation and progress essentially occupy the same space and time while simultaneously delineating opposing movements. Conservation and progress function as opposing forces that nevertheless come together in the end.

To understand what this means in practical terms, we can begin by sketching how the rhetorical manifestation of these impulses ultimately shares a similar set of assumptions. In the simplistic pundit terms, conservatives are right to be suspicious of government excess, to emphasize personal responsibility, and to value family and community. Interestingly, these are also liberal values albeit in a context rejected by conservatives, namely, the view that inequality is in itself a social problem. There is a risk, of course, in drawing that contrast. Definitions of conservatism and liberalism are all too easily adjusted for the sake of scoring rhetorical points. However, it seems sensible to enough to suggest that there is agreement when it comes to the basic human goals of safety, happiness, and social harmony – the difference is methodological, and ideological differences coagulate around differences in method.

Consequently, the idea of conservation, narrowly defined as preservative function, is necessary to keep within society those ideas and practices that work. To this is opposed progress, which strives to develop new ideas and practices as solutions to existing problems. Both serve as a counterpoint, in that conservation rejects change for its own sake, and thus the false positives of progress, while progressiveness rejects the movement from function to dysfunction when tradition is ossified into the status quo. What we are left with is something evolutionary, but not in the sense of “social Darwinism,” and certainly not in the misapplied conception of evolution as a kind of teleological process. Rather, it is a matter of adapting to circumstances that are sometimes variable, even volatile, and sometimes persistent. While I don’t want to suggest some sort of societal dynamic that is homeostatic in its effect – that would imply that a given society has a natural balance to which it returns to when disturbed, an implication that is upended by historic examples of large-scale upheavals (think French Revolution) – I do think we need a better conceptual framework to encapsulate the tension between conservation and progress that is necessary for society to exist.

As a point of clarification, it’s worth noting here that I define “society” narrowly, to some extent, as the numerical aggregate of individuals. Yet it is also necessary to account for the fact that the dynamics of the aggregate can in turn influence the individual. So while I would reject the idea of society as an emergent organism that is greater than its constituent individuals, I would suggest that insofar as individuals have common needs, shared cultures, and political/economic cohesion there is a construct we could refer to as “society.”

Returning to an organizing concept that brings together conservation and progress (or evolution) while also refuting the often vaguely articulated partisan distinction of conservative versus liberal, it might helpful to shed to idea of social engineering that is implicit in policy. Although the term is unpleasant, as it suggests an active and mechanistic manipulation of society towards a particular goal, that is nevertheless what goes on when governments pass laws. Certain behaviours are punished, others are rewarded or, at least, tacitly accepted simply by not being disallowed.

But what if instead of engineering, with all the rigidity that comes with the concept, we turned towards design as a conceptual model? As an active disciplines informed by give and take, a feedback loop between problem, solution, context, and the way in which the solution itself alters the context thereby altering the overall system, design offers a useful analogy to interpreting policy. To borrow a cliché, the concern is on figuring out how to fit society’s form to the various functions we want it to perform, recognizing that it’s not a question of function then form, or form vs function, but that good design is the result of function and form working through each other.

Thus, among the qualities of a desired conceptual framework are:

• Seeing society, its strengths and weaknesses, as it is.
• A focus on practical rather than ideologically pure solutions.
• Working with the fluidity inherent in social organization.

So: fact-based (“reality” based), practical, and adaptive, resulting in the wisdom to know what to conserve and maintain in society and what to reform or revolutionize. Is it even worth labeling this to distinguish it from the pop-punditry terms “liberal” and “conservative?” If so, what word would be suitable?

Ideas, comments, suggestions ?

review: green lantern and ghost rider spirit of vengeance

Whenever filmmakers attempt to take a story crafted in one medium, such as comic books, and tell it in another, the most common mistake is to transpose when they should translate. Of those attempts to lift a story wholesale from the pages of a comic book and film it straight, I can only think of two films, Sin City and Watchmen, that achieved a reasonably successfully transplant to a cinematic form, brimming with the Frankenstein-like proclamation that the final result is alive. Yet despite the earnest fidelity of their respective directors, even these films suffered the rejection that comes, paradoxically, with both an excess and a deficit of the literal. For Zack Snyder’s Watchmen, the excess comes in glacial pacing while the deficit comes from more or less subtle bending the structure of the film’s climax. In the inhumane Sin City, the objection comes from the way violence stylized on the page by necessity of the medium becomes sensationalized and celebratory when filmed for aesthetic effect. The sleaze with which Frank Miller coated his neo-noir stories hardly helped but, rightly or wrongly, hard-hitting sleaze has an unmistakable power to persuade as evidenced by the critical acclaim. (By comparison, Tim Burton and Christopher Nolan's take on Batman are successful examples of translation, as is Jon Favreau's first Iron Man endeavour.)

Green Lantern, based on the long-running DC comic, suffers in large part from a script overstuffed with plotlines condensed to clichés, and thinned-out characters salvaged, barely, by capable actors. As a result, the zero-to-hero formula, done with greater success and exuberance in the shamelessly fun The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, never takes off to giddy altitudes. Surely there should some flicker of exhilaration in the notion of a reckless test pilot inducted into a galactic police force and entrusted with a quasi-magical ring that can realize anything he imagines. Yet despite Martin Campbell’s prior success with the Bond franchise’s arguably best outings, he can’t coax much emotion or suspense out of the script, drowing what action scenes there are with yawning stretches of derivative exposition. The film’s primary villain, a billowing smoke Cthulu named Parallax, is massive not in menace but in special effects. And for the wonder we should experience at the multitude of alien races that make up the Green Lantern Corps, there is only a dulled sense of interest.


What sinks the film, however, is the fundamental hokeyness of the premise, which doesn’t lie in the premise of a galactic police force empowered with incredible alien technology, but in the cartoonish insistence of using emotions as sources of energy. Hence, the Green Lantern’s rings are powered by courage and willpower, while the film teases with a yellow ring powered by fear. A glimpse through Wikipedia reveals that, in the comics, there exist in the DC Universe other lantern corps with rings powered by various emotions. It’s silly and unscientific, highlighting Green Lantern as juvenile wish fulfillment instead of credible space operatics. In failing to either translate or transpose the comic to film, the result is curiously lifeless.

Lifeless, however, would not be an apt description of Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance. The film explodes with the life of a campy action film, chock-full of over-the-top performances and the unapologetic exploitation of the ghost rider’s magnificent character design, which is that of a fiery skull-headed biker wielding chains that burn evil-doers into puffs of ash. That the film lacks everything that makes a film good – a sensible script, credible drama, and coherent direction – certainly results in a missed opportunity. But every time Cieran Hinds, playing none other than the Devil, uses his marvelously expressive face to offer a sneering frown, or Nicholas Cage tries to outdo himself in his uniquely spastic brand of scenery-chewing, we are reminded about the virtue of a B-movie: the ability to have fun despite the lack of technical acumen. Of course, it’s no surprise to learn that the film’s messy character concept and ludicrous theology has its roots in a comic known for an inability to fit substance to style. Developed on its own, the comic’s imagery presented the epitome of bad-assery but, apparently, never succeed in generating a workable dramatic concept. We can forget, then, both transposition and translation, along with the notion of reinventing the care concept at the cost of fidelity. But we can enjoy a film that celebrates its goofiness and, consequently, delivers a more entertaining experience than dullards like The Green Lantern. 

quick review: The Iron Lady

Watching The Iron Lady is much like walking into a retirement home and finding realized one’s worst fear about growing old. Worse, however, is the condescension that comes from exploiting the dementia of a still-living historical figure to deliver a meet-cute fantasia on coming to terms with bereavement. Here, bluntly, is the point: as much as we can sympathize with Ms. Thatcher for her condition, that’s not what interests us most about her. Suffering from the same species of divided attention that cleaved Madonna’s lesser effort, W.E. , into two limp halves, The Iron Lady sets off Ms. Thatcher in her declining years against a PowerPoint presentation of her greatest moments. Neither the portrait of an influential figure at twilight nor the reenactments of her political/historical accomplishments achieve power. The filmmakers’ unwillingness to take a stance, either supportive or critical, along with an absence of analysis, results in a bland film that is provocative only in its lack of provocation. Insofar as Meryl Streep delivers a strong performance, hardly a revelation given her well-deserved stature, the film leaves her stranded in a vacuum, without the bracing context to boost her portrayal of Thatcher into greatness. The Iron Lady? Call it The Iron Maybe.

Nine Pillars; Few Legs to Stand On: THE FRONT PAGE ONLINE

A review of The Nine Pillars of History: An Anthropological Review of History, Five Religions, Sexuality and Modern Economics, All as a Guide for Peace, by Dr. Gunnar Sevelius.

Dr. Gunnar Sevelius’s effort with his book, The Nine Pillars of History, falls within the tradition of thinkers putting their ideas on paper in the hope of changing world paradigms. An ambitious hope, certainly, but a laudable one in an era increasingly dominated by technology-mediated rhetoric and hyperdata, the hyper-real information-neutralizing glut of data. Much like Buckminster Fuller and others, we need intellectuals willing to engage the broader philosophical and practical underpinnings of our social dysfunctions. Unfortunately, Dr. Sevelius’s ostensibly anthropological effort is diluted by methodological confusion that strands him in circular reasoning.


Read the rest of the review at The Front Page Online.

quick review: midnight in paris

Although the initial montage of Paris scenes sets the tone for an homage to the fabled City of Lights, Midnight in Paris is less about satisfying the Parisian tourism office then it is about celebrating the artistic impulse towards inspiration. Inhabiting the role of Woody Allen’s archetypal screen persona, mired in a familial situation of discord thanks to a controlling fiancée and disapproving in-laws, Owen Wilson feels right at home as a successful and self-aware Hollywood hack yearning to unleash his literary ambitions. Much of the film’s humour derives from how much he is unlike his fiancée, played as a superbly wound-up fussbudget by Rachael McAdams, and her friends – Martin Sheen as a pompous, preening pseudo-intellectual is hilariously grating. Very much a West Coast personality – no sign of neurosis here – we squirm and sympathize as Wilson strives to share his love of Paris and art with a woman, and in-laws, caught up in the superficial snobbery of material luxury. 


The surprise comes from a fantasy element that Allen introduces with such finesse and wonder it’s enough to forget the contrivances of his recent films and unfurl the welcome home banner. Wonder is a good word to describe the beautiful filmed Midnight in Paris. An effortless and magical blend of comedy, drama, nostalgia, cautionary tale, and nuanced social criticism, the film is peppered with a strong cast enjoying themselves, on-point dialogue, and a clever scenario that leads to an authentic lift of the spirit. It’s surely one of Allen’s best works.

ritual of attrition

With every presidential election comes a familiar spectacle we might call the Ritual of Attrition: the presidential primaries. As the marathon begins, a crowd of candidates hoping to reach the exalted status of presidential nominee presents primary votes with a buffet of choices. But the way in which the primary system is organized, with each state voting in its turn, means that as the campaigning sorts out the hard corns from the fluffy popped kernels the last states to vote have the least amount of choice. That’s certainly a complaint I’ve heard during the Democrat’s primary process in 2008, when the field was narrowed to Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. Progressive voters holding on to the hope of giving Dennis Kucinich or Mike Gravel a shot at the general election once again watched those hopes get tossed over the cliff.

And so it is with this year’s Republican primary process, which has been entertaining for its desperate flirtation with implausible candidates as an alternative to Mitt Romney. Although the argument could be made that the primary process is a good crucible from which only the least damaged candidates will emerge, its sequential nature presents a strangely comical irony: a process ostensibly linked to democracy is itself undemocratic. Nevermind that the process is in many respects unfair to the candidates, who are forced to amass and spend fortunes just to spin the wheel of voter preferences. The voters themselves have unequal opportunities to vote for their preferred candidates. One could even suggest that voters end up being manipulated by the party establishment into voting for the safe, mainstream, corporate-stamped candidates.

Given the absence of popular Republicans like Jeb Bush and the self-destruction of the potentially credible Rick Perry (credible to Republicans, that is), the only alternatives to Mitt Romney – a political chameleon who threw his state of Massachussets under the campaign bus in his bid to remake himself an orthodox conservative – flamed-out. The remains include Rick Santorum, who seems to be a more genuine conservative, and Ron Paul whose quirky libertarianism puts him at odds with establishment Republicans. Of course, there’s the volatile, luggage-heavy Newt Gingrich, whose prospective candidacy delights Democratic strategists looking for an exciting match-up. Certainly, the presidential race would be more interesting if President Obama was pitted against former Speaker of the House Gingrich. Mitt Romney, the John Kerry of the Republican party minus the reasonably consistent ideological stance, is bland enough to bring tears to the eyes.

But I digress: it seems that Romney – safe, wealthy Romney – or perhaps Gingrich, the so-called GOP icon – are the candidates Republican voters will be expected to choose from, just as Democrats had to choose between newcomer Obama and luggage-heavy icon Hillary Clinton.

It’s all enough to think that democracy is wasted on a republic.

A Raisin in the Sun Heats Up The Kirk Douglas Theatre

It always puzzles me when fellow critics take notes during a performance. I’ll notice them scribbling away on their note pads or in the margins of the press kit – sometimes sedately, sometimes madly – and wonder how they can possibly foster an osmotic relationship with the performance. Imagine my bafflement, then, on learning that the performance of A Raisin in the Sun I attended also happened to be an evening of experimentation by the Centre Theatre Group. 



What do tweets and a seminal American play have to with each other? Find out in my review of A Raisin in the Sun, currently on stage at the Kirk Douglas Theatre, at The Front Page Online. Click here.

A Raisin in the Sun, by Lorraine Hansberry. Directed by Phylicia Rashad. Performances by Kenya Alexander, Keith Arthur Bolden, Brandon David Brown, Kevin T. Carroll, Jason Dirden, Deidrie Henry,     Amad Jackson, Scott Mosenson, Kem Saunders, Kim Staunton, and Ellis E. Williams. On stage at the Kirk Douglas Theatre until February 19, 2012. For tickets and information, visit the Theatre's website.

W.E. Won't Rock You: THE FRONT PAGE ONLINE

Film Review - W.E.


It’s not a good sign when you suspect filmmakers are lying to you. W.E.’s credits list Abbie Cornish in the role of a maritally distraught New Yorker obsessed with the scandalous love affair between the Once and Never More King of England, Edward VIII, and American Wallis Simpson. But throughout the film I wondered what Charlize Theron was doing slumming around in the glassy lead role when surely there was a better film elsewhere for her to inhabit.


Read the full review at The Front Page Online

quick review: Toy Story 3

I was a late admission to the Toy Story appreciation club, and even then I never rose above a loose associate membership. The first outing, with all the heft that comes from establishing a foothold in the history of animated films, was sweet and amusing, and followed by an enjoyable, light-hearted adventure sequel. Yet neither achieved for me, either artistically or emotionally, the depths of Finding Nemo and Wall*E. 


This time around, the toys confront the fact that their owner, Andy, has outgrown them on his way to college. Faced with a dusty retirement in the attic or a horrible fate at a local daycare, the emotions of nostalgia, family, and the free spirit of imagination are eloquently. The drama is terrific, though often intense as it involves horrifying scenarios of imprisonment and potential death as much as it does bittersweet goodbyes and, yes, hope. It holds its own with grace and a strong heart, but ironically takes on a more resonant tone with foreknowledge of the characters and their relationships from the previous two movies. Of three films nominated for a Best Animated Feature Oscar in 2010, I still lean towards How to Train Your Dragon or L’Illusioniste as the better films both in terms of animation and narrative effect, but the distinction is fine and, ultimately, rather pointless. See them all, and enjoy.

quick review - Dylan Dog: Dead of Night

Fans are, as I understand it, profoundly affronted by this film adaptation of the beloved and long-running Italian comic about an idiosyncratic paranormal investigator with the unlikely name of Dylan Dog. And with a 6% fresh rating on the TomatoMeter, film critics aren’t feeling the warm and fuzzies either. Understandably; though handsomely filmed, the script is mostly cardboard and the performances are mostly wooden or, at least, thinner than even the film’s paltry plot. Brandon Routh, better known for putting on the cape left behind by Superman Christopher Reeve, makes for a stilted protagonist. His partner, energetically played by Sam Huntington, fares better in the role of comic relief. The plot involves an artifact with the power to resurrect an unkillable monster, with Dylan trying to sort out a murder victim’s daughter, a power-hungry vampire, and a clan of werewolves. In other words, nothing that hasn’t been seen elsewhere in the Whedonverse or other offerings in the occult genre.


Yet nothing about the film is really bad, per se; merely lacking in professional refinement. The mystery is engaging enough to stick with, and the cast eventually loosens up as the film progresses. Sympathy for the dead is the film’s greatest asset, presenting the world of vampires, werewolves, and zombies not as unequivocally evil but just as morally variable as humans. A zombie subculture of body shops and support groups offers a hilarious and surprisingly poignant look at people who retain their personalities but have become undead creatures with unique needs. Into this universe comes a role for Dylan beyond occult detective; he serves as mediator between the living and the dead, ensuring that paranormal crimes don’t destabilize the social order. An interesting idea, and a refreshing alternative to the death-fearing stance typical of the horror genre.


Whatever the relationship to the comic, I find myself agreeing with other critics who see in Dylan Dog not a successful feature film, but a seed that a television series format could mature into something worthwhile.

You Should Go See 'Hugo': THE FRONT PAGE ONLINE

The big picture of it all is that Hugo is, in detail and scope, a beautiful piece of filmmaking that illustrates in craft what it can only hint at through dialogue. Scorsese delivers so many details to please the cinephile – from a small but benevolent role for the ever-charismatic Christopher Lee, to a humane and top-form performance from Ben Kingsley that reminds us why he’s such a pleasure to watch, to period costumes and locations that dare the audience to resist the urge to crawl into the picture frame – that the film itself becomes testament to why we love letting the movies, and rhetoric about the movies, carry us away.


Read the rest of the review at THE FRONT PAGE ONLINE

quick review - Wild Target

If there’s any astonishment to be had from this little comedy, it lies in the way it manages to deliver some amusement despite employing all the clichés involved in the story of a hit man who falls for his intended target and subsequently turns on his client. Then again, when you have Bill Nighy as a well-mannered assassin in thrall to his mother and the family business, it’s not that surprising that Wild Target gets close to the bullseye every so often. Co-stars Rupert Gint, playing Ronald Weasly without the Potter character’s wit or pluck, and Emily Blunt as the erstwhile and rather obnoxious victim, are well-matched to Nighy in delivering the shenanigans, yet also unable to rescue the film from mediocrity. The trouble is that the film employs not only a lighter shade of black comedy but a morally superficial, even juvenile, sense of humour. At its best, black comedy highlights the absurdities in our human response to horror and tragedy. Wild Target relies on its cheapest manifestation, in which the tragic, horrific, or otherwise unpleasant is itself the punchline. Thus, the murder of an innocent woman mistaken for the intended victim is played as slapstick and then promptly forgotten. Only the film’s cheerfulness manages to compensate, in part, for these lapses although it might be more accurately described as glossing over. It’s enjoyable enough as a rental, but for a really funny and clever take on the hit man and his unwitting accomplice, The Matador starring Pierce Brosnan and Greg Kinnear would be a better option.

The Muppets: A Fresh Serving of Muppetational Spectacle: THE FRONT PAGE ONLINE

Just as hate might find the source of its progression in fear, despair might find its roots in nostalgia. No wonder, then, that Hollywood finds such a powerful figure in the aging star wilting without the sunlight of celebrity. The emotion is strong enough for any drama, but holds particular resonance for an industry in which fame is fleeting, prone to fickle public tastes and subjected to the never-ending parade of Next Big Things. Thus, films featuring characters reacting to the loss of a glorious present to the irrevocable past in ways ranging from the psychotic break of a Baby Jane Hudson (as memorably played by Bette Davis) and Gloria Swanson’s seminal Norma Desmond to the creeping melancholy of a waning magician in last year’s animated feature and reflective Jacques Tati tribute L’Illusioniste.

Find out what the above paragraph has to do with The Muppets in my film review at The Front Page Online.

who is yuyanapaq?

While waiting outside the International City Theatre in Long Beach earlier this year, I noticed a CD case resting innocuously on one of the concrete picnic tables. Curious, I picked it up and gleaned almost nothing from the abstracted, enigmatic covers other than “Yuyanapaq,” which I assumed was an artist’s name, and “Ccollanan Pachacamac”, which I assumed was the album name, and a track listing. The CD was numbered, indicating that it was a limited edition. Looking around, I didn’t see anyone rushing back to the table breathlessly claiming to have left it behind. So I took it in the belief that it had been deliberately left behind by the artist for a stranger to discover and, hopefully, enjoy.

But who is Yunapaq? What was on the CD he left behind? Find out in this two-part interview!

Interview with an Artist. Who is Yuyanapaq?

Interview with the Artist Yuyanapag, Part II.