Film review by: Witney Seibold

          A cartoonish lump of noisy, colorful, children’s war fantasies, Anthony Hemingway’s “Red Tails” is a bold stylistic leap of ridiculousness. Hemingway is, as I have learned through come cursory internet research, known for his gritty and raw hand in hit cult TV shows like the new “Battlestar Galactica,” “Tremé,” “The Wire,” and “Heroes.” His first proper feature film is more stylistically in tune with 2008’s “Speed Racer” than it is with any of those shows. “Red Tails” tells the story of a group of Negro pilots who fought in some notable skirmishes in WWII, and doesn’t seem to have any sort of relation with any actual reality; I’m sure the historical details were well-researched enough, but the actual impact of the film is less biopic and more Saturday morning cartoon. The planes, all created through CGI, have well-lit and clearly choreographed fight sequences that are exciting to watch. The characters are all personality-free archetypes that would have felt old and clichéd in a 1945 newsreel. The plot points are all predictable, screenwriting-101 laundry list requisites. And the film goes on for 135 minutes.  

          This is not to say the film is bad. I actually was rather entertained by the clunky drama and rock-stupid dialogue (example: “Look! Some Germans! Let’s get ‘em!”). I kind of liked the over-simplified version of history, in an object lesson sort of way. The characters may have been whitewashed and milquetoast types, but they were warm and familiar enough to be inoffensive. The film takes on such a boldly jingoistic, wholesome up-with-the-people approach, it almost feels like a propaganda film in itself. Like a hero film for 10-year-old black boys the world over.

          “Red Tails” contains some of the couthest soldiers in war film history. These men in uniform are all immaculately clean and shaven, all have peerless skin and well-maintained haircuts. They do not cuss. They do not sweat. They bleed only in the most aesthetically pleasing ways. One of them does drink, but his toothless alcoholism is seen as a negative (even though he doesn’t ever seem to be visibly drunk). They each have their G.I. Joe nicknames at the ready. Ray Gun, Smokey, Deacon, Lightning, Easy, and Joker. Ray Gun is the “kid.” Smoky (Ne-Yo) is the lisping music man. Deacon (Marcus T. Paulk) is the religious one (he carries a picture of Black Jesus). Lightning (David Oyelowo) is the cocky crackerjack. He has a bonus subplot in the form of the pretty Italian girl (Daniela Ruah) whom he plans to marry (That he even has a romantic subplot is a clear indicator that he will be dead before the film ends). Easy (Nate Parker) is the alcoholic leader of the gang. Cuba Gooding, Jr. plays their stalwart commanding officer, and allows his gigantic pip do most of the acting for him. Terrence Howard plays the CO who is fighting for his Negro pilots, making impassioned pleas to his white and mildly racist superiors (represented by Bryan Cranston).

          I said that the film was breezy enough to be inoffensive, but let’s look at that statement a little more closely. While the film is fun to watch, and unapologetically artificial and sentimental, I wonder if it might not actually be a little offensive. It does bring to light the accomplishments of an entire squadron of talented pilots and devoted soldiers who accomplished a lot of difficult and dangerous tasks during wartime. What the Tuskegee Airmen accomplished was a wonder of civil rights, fighting for black people 20 years before the civil rights revolution began in earnest. Seeing them fight and making their accomplishments visible can only be a service. But by turning these men into bland, cartoon heroes with no personality, a clearly simplified army life and a stylized action-movie version of combat, are we not robbing them of their vital humanity?

          What we have is Lucasfilm and a talented director teaming up to tell a very, very simple tale, based loosely on real history, and rubbing it of all its actual humanity in order to thrill us will some admittedly great special effects. If a pulp version of history is your bag, then dig in.

Film review by: Witney Seibold

          Steven Soderbergh’s films are, when you look over his career, all over the map. He is a director who does not seem happy unless he’s breaking some sort of ground.  He can be an efficient director-for-hire (as in his “Ocean’s” movies), he has experimented with mumblecore (“Bubble”), he has tried his hand at different kinds of ensemble dramas (“Full Frontal,” “Traffic”), and he’s even made biopics (“Kafka,” the upcoming “Magic Mike” and “Behind the Candelabra.”) and remakes (“Solaris”). I admire this tendency greatly. While his films may not always work, he’s willing to try new material, and adapt them to his idiom. It’s his habit of gleefully dipping his toes into new material that, no doubt, led to his conception of “Haywire,” a legitimate spy thriller with brutal fights, dumb dialogue, a typically oblique story, and a hot chick, all filtered through Soderbergh’s recognizable aesthetic. “Haywire” plays like an arty version of a long-forgotten ninja film from 1989.

          The hot chick in question is Gina “Crush” Carano, a former American Gladiator and MMA champion. The story goes that Soderbergh, trapped in a hotel room for the night, caught one of her fights on cable TV, and decided that she was talented and sexy enough to put in a movie. Since this “I’ll put you in pictures, kid” approach is a classic exploitation moviemaking formula, Soderbergh and his screenwriter Lem Dobbs (“Kafka,” “Dark City,” “The Limey”) seem to have intentionally constructed a kind of cheesy screenplay full of spy twists and turns that are orchestrated to be unrealistic and kind of oblique. The plot turns clearly exist as an excuse to feature Carano in some really amazing fight sequences.

The fights are – to use an overused word – awesome. They play like impressive dance numbers, but actually pack punch. People look like they’re getting hurt, and they employ the space around them. The edits are mercifully spare. Eye gouges, high kicks and bodily smashing all have real weight and power behind them. When someone goes flying into a glass bar in a ritzy hotel room, it looks like, well, they’re being smashed through glass. These are not the fights of untiring superbeings with steel fists who never get injured. Nor are these light-footed kung-fu dance sequences where people move at a sped-up pace. These are the fights of someone who actually, well, fights. I think I can safely say that “Haywire” features some of the best cinematic fighting I’ve seen in many years.

What’s more, Carano is gorgeous. She has a pretty face, a nice athletic body, and looks dynamite in a dress. It’s no wonder Soderbergh wanted to cast her. Carano is, however, clearly an athlete before she’s an actress, so her line readings are clunky, and her tougher-than-leather attitude is clearly an affect. But I’ve said this before: sometimes bad acting can be more charming than good acting. When athletes act, through their bad line readings, you at least get the sense of the real person underneath. Carano may not be much of an actress, but she doesn’t need to be. She’s a badass, and often that’s all you need.

The story is a lump of spy hokum that I could barely keep straight. Carano plays an elite-ops spy-type named Mallory who is called by her various shadowy bosses to various exotic locales in order to assassinate various shadowy politicians. Intelligence is miscommunicated, alliances are tested, and eventually it’s revealed that it was all part of an elaborate betrayal, for which Mallory must get an extended badass revenge for. Peppered throughout are about a dozen recognizable actors, all taking part in this backstabbing scheme at various levels. There’s Ewan McGregor (doing his adorable American accent), there’s Michael Douglas, there’s Antonio Banderas, there’s Michael Fassbender somewhere in there, and there’s the lunkhead stud du jour (and natal Soderbergh muse) Channing Tatum, complete with his big biceps and cylindrical head. Even Bill Paxton shows up.

I think that this was Soderbergh’s attempt to make a 1989 straight-to-video spy movie (with, say, Cynthia Rothrock or someone comparable). But it’s not an attempt to recapture the old style of such a movie (i.e. the “Grindhouse” approach), but more a way to update the material into a new aesthetic idiom. I’d say he was successful.

Film review by: Witney Seibold

          Alexander Payne’s strengths lie in deeply flawed people coming to the slow realization of their own flaws, all through a tragic or dramatic event. Yet he often delivers these tragic flaws through the lightened lens of carefully subdued comedy. We may be watching horrible events in peoples’ lives, but they always feel bright and chipper and oddly upbeat. This can work very well (as in “About Schmidt”) or fairly well (as in “Sideways”), but Payne’s work continues to stretch just how wrenching a comedy can be. He seems to want to outdo Woody Allen in his skill of affected and yet emotionally disarming tragicomedies. With “The Descendants,” Payne has continued to hone his storytelling acumen, and comes with a story that is his bitterest to date, his most atmospheric, and quite possibly his best. Indeed, “The Descendants” is one of the best films of the year.

          “The Descendants” is essentially a film about the philosophical strength of good humor. A man, over the course of less than a week, must re-unite with his recovering addict teenage daughter, cope with the indefinite coma of his recently injured wife, earn the trust and respect of his younger daughter, brave the familial pressure of his land-happy extended family (he owns a stretch of Hawai’ian land worth billions), and somehow make sense of the recently broken news that his comatose wife was cheating on him and fully intended to leave him.  What can a man do, but face all these things with as much good humor as he can muster? Matt (George Clooney), however, is constantly on the edge of fraying. He and his two daughters Alex and Scottie (Shailene Woodley and Amara Miller) seem to lean on one another like a tripod. Each two legs are unexpectedly dependent on one another.

          Alex is the one who breaks the bad news to her dad about mom’s infidelity, and she, subsequently, comes in support of Matt’s need to seek down the man she was seeing (Matthew Lillard). The family turns what could have been a petty act of attrition into a kind of twisted family adventure, mostly for vindication, but partly to move out from under the cloud of the ailing mother. It’s amazing how Payne made this film look and feel a lot like a sitcom in its setup, and ultimately made a penetrating family drama about the hurt family members can do to one another, and how the healing can be just as accidental. I’m sorry if I’m making this sound like a TV movie of the week, but it’s more certainly the genuine article.

          Some people have attacked this film as being another midlife crisis film about the incredibly wealthy. I always thought angsty dramas about wealthy people are meant to prove that wealth doesn’t solve angst. Yes, Matt is sitting on billions of dollars worth of Hawai-ian land. He’s also concerned with his birthright. That land will ultimately serve as his last connection to the world. His decision to sell it or to hang onto it is more than just high powered businessmen deciding how to spend their money. But enough of my defensive tone.

          Clooney gives one of his better performances as Matt. Matt is kind of a dopey dad, dressed in the usual Hawai’iam shirt and flipflops, and looking every bit a dip. He is clearly unprepared for the horrors in front of him, and often declares it aloud. We do get the sense of him floundering, and how his desperation easily trades places with an unexpected inner peace.

          Keep an eye on Nick Krause. He plays Alex’s dizty blonde would-be boyfriend, and comes across like a clueless version of Keanu Reeves. He is hilarious, and will be a big star someday.

          The final scene in the film is a quietly hopeful note. I don’t want to reveal what happens, except to say that it is a depiction of a small, quiet, warm moment at home, proving that incidental moments can be the strongest of all. “The Descendants” is a very, very good film.

Film review by: Witney Seibold

          There is a weird overlap between Goth and cuddly. Some of the women who pierce their nipples, wear standoffish leather outfits, and listen to aggressive heavy metal music sometimes tend to have a stuffed animal collection on their beds, or be really fond of Disney movies. Walk into a Hot Topic sometime if you doubt me.

          I think the a large part of the appeal of the original “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” (2009), which was a huge hit in book form and caused a stir in film form, was the bold strength of Lisbeth Salander, played then by Noomi Rapace. In the original film, Lisbeth was kind of a recluse who lived on junkfood, and resented that she was reliant on government handouts (handouts that would, ultimately, make her the target of a rapist). She was a strong punkrock superhero with computer hacking skills, weird friends, and the skills to aggressively pick up any man or woman she chose. She was a naturally badass kind of character. Her spiky outer shell was a shield of fuck-yous, gradually built up after a childhood of abuse, and a carefully cultivated disdain for society at large. She was mean and violent, but resolute. In this new version of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” remade only two years after the fact in English in what is, at least in my mind, a clear moneygrab for a larger American audience, Lisbeth (now played by relative newcomer Rooney Mara) is less of a strong violent punker, and more of a wounded puppy. Her spiky bisexual Goth exterior this time seems to mask a gentle lamb inside, a lamb that is only looking for cuddly comfort and the right man. There are only a few visual cues in the film to indicate this, but I think it’s definitely there. There is a scene, for example, late in the film, when Lisbeth has just bedded Mikael, and she happily accepts smooches and light touches from him in post-coital afterglow. In the first film, she wasn’t much of an afterglow kind of girl.

          So, yes, David Fincher, who has made some truly excellent films in his career, has now given us an unfortunately trite retread of a lot of what we have already seen in the 2009 film. The films’ stories are nearly identical, and a lot of the visuals are transposed directly. I hate to write a review that merely compares this film to the last, but the last was so fresh in my mind, and so present in the popular consciousness, that I feel it’s the only way to look at it.

          The story, just so I can do my critical duty: Mikael Blomqvist (Daniel Craig), recently disgraced by some bad journalism, has been hired by the aging patriarch (Christopher Plummer) of a remote wealthy family, to investigate the kidnapping-or-perhaps-murder of his niece some decades ago. Meanwhile, Lisbeth Salander secretly spies on Mikael and aids him in subtle ways. She is also on the government dole, causing her fat, unappealing government go-between to take sexual advantage of her in exchange for her rightful monies. Lisbeth is notably raped, and subsequently gets some rather graphic revenge.

          This bugged me a little: The film takes place in Sweden, all the characters are still Swedish, but they all speak English. Some have Swedish accents, but some don’t. When they read storefront signs, they are in Swedish, but when they read from books, it’s in English. The lack of continuity drove me a little crazy.

          The sex and violence in this film are no more or less graphic than they were in the last version, but they do seem a lot more lurid this time around. Fincher filmed the scenes in a particularly shocking fashion, adding perhaps a touch more blood, or a bit closer eye to sexual detail. Before, the sex and violence seem to spring a bit more naturally from the story. This time, they seem like intermissions from the story (as sex and violence typically do in American films). So rather than being caught up in the fact that Lisbeth is seducing Mikael, we are more focused on the way she styles her pubic hair. Oddly, in being bolder, the film feels more shy.

Niels Arden Oplev, the director of the original, seemed to have a better eye as to what (I imagine) the tone of the book to be; that is to say it was an airport novel. It was a lurid thriller with some awesome characters, a twist ending, and a serial killer to track down. The literal translation of Stieg Larsson’s book was Men Who Hate Women, so there was also a powerful feminist undercurrent. Fincher’s version, for all its literary fealty (I’ve been informed by my wife that this version cleaves closer to the events of the book) and attention to gore and sexual detail, feels more rote, less dynamic and oddly flat. What’s more, since Lisbeth was seen as someone trying to be invisible, rather than someone who was trying to give a big middle finger to all she met, the feminism was a bit weakened as well.

If you’ve never seen the original film, you may get caught up in the taut story and twists and turns. You’ll like the cobalt-blue photography, and Fincher’s usual panache. But this is not Fincher in high gear. This is his director-for-hire work, churning out a good but unremarkable thriller.

I apologize for the wry cynicism, but there you are.

Film review by: Witney Seibold

          This is the first animated film Stephen Spielberg has made, and it kind of shows. Let me explain what I mean by that. A live-action film director, even in the age of CGI, still has the limitations of reality. They must world with real actors, a real camera, and real props and sets. Cameras cannot, after all, be placed just anywhere. And while most creative directors use their technical limitations to grow aesthetically (art can’t exist without restraint, etc. etc. etc.), I imagine there are some who feel a bit stymied by the low level of technology available. Spielberg, then, by making an animated film, has granted himself the freedom to essentially put the camera wherever he wants, as there is, after all, no camera to speak of.

          The result is a non-stop, completely frenetic adventure film that breathlessly rushes from one spinning, speeding action set piece to the next with little time for exposition or even a brief rest. The “camera” never stops moving in this film; every single shot is a slow pan, a quick tracking shot, or an impossibly long zoom.

          This means that you will indeed be dazzled by the bright images and creative pulp conceits in the film, and you may even find yourself charmed by the boyish reporter Tintin, and his shallow-yet-intrepid need to solve a mystery. If you were like me, however, you’ll find the charm quickly worn down by a surfeit of action, swirling camera movements, and complicated plot machinations that speed by far too quickly to absorb in any sort of meaningful way; you won’t be lost, but you won’t much care (there is a scene wherein characters give vital lines of exposition during an action sequence). Spielberg is a master of a certain kind of adventure film (look at the chintzy fun of his “War Horse,” for instance), but when allowed to work unfettered in a completely CGI-animated environment, he seems to have stepped over a few important aesthetic lines. As a filmmaking experiment, “The Adventures of Tintin” is fascinating to look at, and may even be pretty entertaining for some people. As a film, though, it feels like it didn’t get the attention the material demanded. Had it been a 20-minute short film, perhaps it would have been perfect.

          The characters are, I should also mention, achieved through CGI motion capture. This means the usual thing that motion capture has implied in the past: that certain shots will be appealingly real, some will be uncannily strange, the caricatured facial design can come across as weird (realistic skin, but an oversized nose), and the eyes are a little dead. Motion capture can occasionally work to great effect, but in its history, it has only worked well a few times. I admire the armies of computer technicians and expressive motion capture actors that are continuing to try something new.

          The story is taken from a few of the books by world-famous cartoonist Hergé, whose work has sold millions in Europe, though he is something of a cult figure here in the U.S. The story follows Tintin (voice and movements of Jamie Bell) and his intelligent dog Snowy, already well-established adventurers, going after a hidden treasure as indicated by a secret map hidden inside a model ship. Also after the treasure is the evil Mr. Sakharine (voice and movements of Daniel Craig) who has more information on the matter. We also eventually meet the perpetually intoxicated comic relief sidekick Capt. Haddock (voice and movements of Andy Serkis) who, somewhere in his booze-damaged brain, holds the secret to the treasure’s final resting place. The various action-packed dealing between these three make for some spectacular chases and flashbacks, including an unedited take wherein the trio chase each other through the streets of a Moroccan Kasbah, firing guns and grabbing desperately at an eagle that holds a treasure map.

          Tintin is a Dickensian cipher at best. He has little to offer the story, and it’s only his bland sort of heroism that keeps the tale moving forward. As the film progresses, focus shifts to comic relief Capt. Haddock, and the film begins to drown in his CGI mugging and drunken tirades. It’s not insufferable, mind you, but it does occasionally come close.

          “The Adventures of Tintin” was written by “Doctor Who” guru Stephen Moffat, cult film hero Edgar Wright, and the director of “Attack the Block,” Joe Cornish. The second unit was directed by Peter Jackson. That such a dream team of geek icons would come together for any project probably had some audiences built in. But perhaps there were too many over-enthused hands in this one. “The Adventures of Tintin” is a wild ride that frays itself to the quick. You may be charmed for a span, but you’ll leave kind of exhausted.

Film review by: Witney Seibold

This is Steven Spielberg is full-tilt sentiment mode. Spielberg has, over the last decade, made a few rather adult and matured films, wherein he’s allowed himself to stretch aesthetically, and tell some more interesting stories. “War Horse,” however, is not a stretch. Indeed, it seems so typically Spielberg-ian, one could mistake it for a tribute project by a lesser director, were it not so soulfully made, and so slickly photographed. The story is so simple and episodic, I was actually reminded less of an epic war picture like “Saving Private Ryan,” and more of the boldly bright and straightforward family films of Disney’s early 1960s period. “The Three Lives of Thomasina” kept coming to my mind. Roger Ebert compared the film to the works of John Ford. However you look at it, “War Horse” is delightfully old-fashioned.

Not a single sunset is under-saturated. The young protagonist is not merely a hardworking farmboy, but an archetypal innocent. Indeed, at times he seems so innocent, you may suspect that he’s mildly developmentally disabled. The farms and settings and locations teeter on just this side of realism. And even though the film is rated PG-13, and features a number of rather violent scenes, the overall tone is far more kid-friendly than you’d expect. “War Horse” is a bold, melodramatic children’s opera of the highest order. I found it to be slight and delightful.

If “Private Ryan” and “Schindler’s List” were Spielberg’s hard-edged and visceral looks at the violent nature of WWII, “War Horse” is his relatively neutered look at WWI. Perhaps he felt, as so many nostalgic war buffs do, that WWI was a more civilized war. We do see soldiers being hurt by mustard gas, and there is a dramatic scene wherein English riders are picked off of their mounts by German machine guns (we see their rider-less horses running madly past the German front line), but the violence in this film is of the gentlest kind. People die only off-camera, and no horrible wounds are focused upon. There is a scene wherein the film’s title horse gets caught in a tangle of barbed wire, which is bloody and hurtful, but it’s one of the only painful scenes in the film. The subsequent episode where a British soldier and a German counterpart help to free the horse during a restful moment of the battle is one of the film’s best.

The entire film (written by Lee Hall and Richard Curtis after the novel by Michael Morpurgo) is told from the perspective of the horse, named Joey by a local 17-year-old country bumpkin Albert (proto-stud Jeremy Irvine, his mouth hanging perpetually open). Joey is scoffed at by all the locals, but Albert’s dad and mum (Peter Mullan and Emily Watson) put enough faith in the horse so that it can eventually plow fields, a task to which it has been previously denied. Joey is eventually sold to a solider in the war effort, and the story saunters onto a group of soldiers (amongst them Tom Hiddleston and Benedict Cumberbatch). Joey eventually passes through the hands of a German salve-driver with a heart of gold, a sweet innocent young French girl, out into a dangerous battlefield, into the trenches of both warring countries, and eventually back into the waiting arms of Albert. Everyone who comes into contact with this horse seems to love it to a near-unhealthy degree.

The horse, meanwhile, manages to have a little bit of personality. Like the animals in Call of the Wild, the horse has no agenda other than to be a horse, but still seems to possess an uncanny amount of loyalty, and even, get this, manages to make a horse friend. Yes, this is all very corny, but in an appealing sort of way.

Horses kind of scare me a little bit, so there were plenty of creepy scenes of people staring this enormous animal into its carefully-photographed eyeball, making pledges, or weeping promises. But when the camera kept its distance, I actually began to feel for this horse, and appreciated the sweet dog-like friendliness of the creature. By the end, my cynicism was gone, and I was kind of grinning to myself. I wasn’t immensely moved, but I suspect that Spielberg made this film for 13-year-old girls. For them, I encourage them to see this film several times. Hey, girls, it’s got some really pretty horsies in it.

Film review by: Witney Seibold

Tomas Alfredson‘s “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy,” based on the seminal spy novel by John le Carré, is one of the best-looking films this year. The cold, brown-shaded 1970s British spy interiors look like a library on overdrive. The atmosphere is thick with a kind of erudite, sophisticated, adult miasma that reminds us that this is no dumbed-down American spy thriller. This is going to be about the subtle emotional interplay and off-screen betrayals of intelligent working men who have known each other for years. This is a film about pencil-pushers who, only occasionally on work assigments, have to put themselves in harm’s way. There is the occasional assassination, but more than that, this is about the ins-and-outs of office wonks whose everyday job is rife with danger. The very look of the film (photographed by Hoyte van Hoytema) lends itself into the very story.

I have read an interview with Alfredson, and he expressed an open distaste in most American action films that iterate clearly, and then reiterate even more clearly, every single subtle emotional arc on screen. He is tried of films that rob themselves of drama by making the finer points too explicit. His own spy thriller, then, does not give you all the details, and does not spell everything out for you. The film assumes you’re sharp enough to pick up on the subtle emotional hints, small side plots, and little dialogue-free scenes that lend to the film as a whole, and offer myriad possibilities for where the plot will go.

Indeed, Alfredson was so determined to keep everything subdued and implied, that for long portions of the film, it becomes downright oblique. There were long portions of the film wherein I felt completely lost, and wasn’t sure why certain characters were doing what, and I started to get the feeling that I missed something. I typically like labyrinthine crime plots (1997′s “L.A. Confidential,” for instance, is still one of my favorites), but I also appreciate a strong character study, or something perhaps a bit more showboat-y to get me through. I wanted just a little bit more from the film to be confortable.

By the film’s end, we have figured everything out, pretty much, and one can easily start piecing together what happened over the course of the film, but it largely requires some hard work on your part. I do admire this approach, as I admire any film that openly assumes the audience isn’t stupid. But dammit, I was lost. I think I need to see it a second time.

Which may be fine. The actors are all superb, and I greatly admire the suits. The well-fit, subtly-color woolen suits on the talented British cast are a costumer’s wet dream. You can get a lot from the characters based solely on which shade of brown they wore that day.

The story setup: George Smiley (Gary Oldman) was ousted from the British intelligence agency last year, along with his aging boss (John Hurt). At the time, Hurt asked Smiley to keep an eye out for a mole that may have infiltrated the higher-ups, and is one of three people. It’s could be the rancorous Scot Percy (Toby Jones), the large and threatening Roy (Ciarán Hinds), or the charming Bill (Colin Firth). Working secretly for him is the hardworking assistant Guillam (Benedict Cumberbatch). He also has the inside track on the possible Russian defector (Amanda Fairkbank-Hynes), who is under the auspices of Ricki Tarr (Tom Hardy). There’s also a kidnapped-or-possibly-dead spy (Mark Strong) who has some vital information.

As the machinations of the plot become more and more complicated, there’s no chance to catch our breath, to recap, nor is there any outright expository dialogue. This is a film that requires some work from you. The metal heavy-lifting is all up to you. The assumptions are fine, and, like I said, I admire the approach, but – and call me a shallow American if you will – I would have appreciated more from the filmmakers. The acting was superb, and the photography was truly excellent. If I had read the book first, maybe I could have been more on board. Cliff’s Notes would have helped. 

Film review by: Witney Seibold

Your enjoyment of “The Muppets” will be directly proportional to your inherent and already-standing goodwill toward the Muppet characters. If you grew up watching “The Muppet Show” in the ’70s and ’80s, and if you have any sort of affection for 1979′s “The Muppet Movie,” then James Bobin‘s new film will be catnip for you. Seeing the characters in action is handled with just the right touch. There is little in the way of cheapness or feelings of crass exploitation. And while the film does have some shameless fan-service callbacks (the film offers a big-budget reprise of “The Rainbow Connection” from the 1979 film), and a lot of the gags are non-starters, there is something genuine about this film that will tap into the childhood enjoyment of the Muppets. This is a film made with love.

I think a lot of this has to do with an ineffable purity that hovers around the Muppet canon. Despite being owned by Disney at this point, The Muppets seem pure in themselves. Like Peanuts or the Olympic games, no amount crass commercialism or marketing overexposure you smear on the characters can mar them; they seem to come out feeling fresh as a daisy, and earnestly eager to bring magic into your life. I would include Bugs Bunny in that list, but thanks to the horrific glut of Warner Bros. In the mid 1990s, those characters became soured for decades to come.

“The Muppets” was created by fans, and it shows. The story is essentially about rewarding people for having fandom. But, unlike other films that seek to congratulate people for being hyperventilating, slightly-defensive new-generation geek fanboys (“Paul,” or “Rock Star”), “The Muppets” cleaves closer to a more classical feeling; the fans were clearly seeking to retrieve some sort of lost magic that The Muppets seem to have misplaced since their last feature film, the cloying “Muppets from Space” (1999). The film follows a puppet being named Walter (voice of Peter Linz) who is brothers with a human boy named Gary (as an adult, co-screenwriter Jason Segel). It’s never explained why a man and a three-foot-tall puppet man are related. I guess being born a puppet is kind of like being born left-handed; it just sort of happens occasionally. The two live in a small town, where Walter obsessively watches reruns of “The Muppet Show,” and dreams of meeting his heroes.

Jason Segel is celebrating his tenth unmarried year of dating Mary (Amy Adams), who is a bit chagrined at his unwillingness to commit. Their tenth anniversary trip to Hollywood involves visiting the Muppet studios with Walter in tow. The Muppet studio set is actually where Jim Henson studios is, although in this universe, it’s fallen into extreme disrepair and unpopularity. I’m not sure how comfortable I am with the conceit that the Muppets have fallen out of favor in the eyes of the world. Sure, they haven’t made a movie in over a decade, but they’ve hardly slipped from the public eye. I guess defending your object of affection, even when there’s nothing to defend, is one of the tentpoles of being a legitimate fanatic. Lord knows I’ve done it. And, on second thought, how much are The Muppets really relevant today? Is the old-time variety-show premise really even understood by the average 12-year-old today? Probably not. That “The Muppets” openly acknowledges the sort of old-school stodginess of the characters perhaps works in its favor.

But no matter. In order to save the studio from being demolished by an evil exec (a delightfully evil Chris Cooper), Walter, Gary and Mary must convince Kermit the Frog and the rest of the old troupe to reunite and put on a show to raise the $10,000,000 it would take to save the old buildings. The Let’s-Put-On-A-Show genre is as well-worn and as ancient as vaudeville. Kermit is living alone in a Hollywood mansion with his 1980s robot butler (in a hilarious reference to “Rocky IV”), and thinking gloomily about his ex-girlfriend Miss Piggy. The film then follows the old-fashioned (and only occasionally contrived) comedy plot of reuiting the old gang, overcoming talent obstacles, and resolving romantic crises.

Is the film solidly funny all the way through? Well, some of the gags fall flat, not all of the songs (by Bret McKenzie of “Flight of the Conchords”) really work, and the film drags a bit through its second act (the human story seems compulsory and tacked-on). Does any of this matter? Not for a second. The characters are still charming, and the film’s general tone is so earnest that it’s had not to get caught up in things. I laughed at “The Muppets” more than I’ve laughed at a film in a long time. By the time Chris Cooper raps about being evil (which he REALLY SELLS!), I was hooked. The celebrity cameos (by most of the current generation of hot comedians) were perfect, and the film almost made me cry near the end. Critics like me can intellectualize “The Muppets” all it wants, but the pure joy of the film manages to cut through any cynicism. This is a return to form, even if they weren’t gone. What a grand, fun movie. 

Film review by: Witney Seibold

Martin Scorsese‘s “Hugo” is a glorious and loving polemic about the magic of movies. We’ve heard plenty of marketing gurus chat endlessly about “capturing the imagination” and “making dreams come true,” but Scorsese seems to transcend the dry aphorisms be tapping into the actual process. This is a film about how movies really can seem like dreams. How the actual, physical mechanical processes of the film are just as magical as the images. How making movies can be an ecstatic experience. This is a film that film-lovers, film archivists, the people who obsess joyously about the very form of cinema will adore.

Scorsese, who notoriously built an entire city for his “Gangs of New York,” sticks with mostly brightly-lit and ultra-sharp CGI images for this film, making look unlike any other Scorsese movie. The rawness and immediacy are gone in favor of a shiny and slick fantasy landscape of oranges and blues. His Paris of the late 1920s does not seek, I think to offer a genuine verisimilitude of documentary fact, but a kind of cinema-heightened fictional version of the place. The fact that he shot in 3-D stresses the artificiality of the images. But then, Scorsese is making a movie about the glorious fantasy of movies, so it’s kind of fitting that it feels like a fable.

The story follows a young boy named Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield) who lives in the walls of Paris’ grand central station. His mother dies long ago, and his father (Jude Law) was recently killed in an explosion. His drunken uncle has gone missing, and he dutifully attends the station’s clocks (an important fixture in a train station), and ducks the Dickensian machinations of the vaguely evil station policeman (Sacha Baron-Cohen) who would take him away to an orphanage. Hugo is a master tinkerer, and is adept at fixing all manner of clockwork devices (his father was a clockmaker). His one passion is repairing a robot automaton that he salvaged from his father’s workshop. He steals the parts he needs from the cantankerous toymaker (Ben Kingsley) who keeps a shop at the station.

The toymaker, by the way, is actually Georges Méliès, a name that will have significance to film aficionados. Méliès is the creator of some of the earliest fantasy films, including the famed “A Trip to the Moon” (1902). His work in special effects and his passion for oddball material has begun some filmic trends that persist to this day. Little Hugo thinks of his as some cranky old man, and chooses instead to forge a friendship with his goddaughter Isabelle (an energetic Chloë Grace Moretz), who is rich, lively, and obsessed with books. How Hugo discovers George’s identity and what happened to his films is something I will leave for you to discover, to to research, if you’re into cinema history.

I was charmed by this film. I liked its weird energy, and I liked that Scorsese’s usual idiom of a somewhat chaotic story that goes in many directions at once was in tact. And, of course, I loved its unabashed, unashamed, untainted cinephilia. The handling of film and projectors, this movie seems to say, is a sacred act that unlocks dreams. Each film is a cog in your subconscious waiting to start turning. Only a long-time film director like Martin Scorsese, obsessed with film restoration and resuscitating classics, could have made a film like “Hugo.” The images of churning clockwork and ticking pendulums lend a kind of comforting metronome rhythm to the film, and the young actors never strayed into the obnoxious moppet-hood of so many Hollywood films. There were even some genuinely scary moments, including a terrifying dream sequence which I will not here describe.

I worry, though, that kids unfamiliar with the book on which the film is based will be kind of put off by the film. They might be alienated by the old-time setting, the reference to silent movies, and the scary threats of orphanhood. Something tells me that the film will be well-reviewed by film-loving critics (as this one did), but only passively absorbed by mainstream audiences. In its heart, it’s a grad celebr4ation of the movies. On the surface, it’s a weird period piece that some may find too strange. It’s destined, I think, to remain an oddity in Scorsese’s canon.

I suppose if one young child sees “Hugo” and suddenly becomes more interested in reading old book, watching old movies, and becomes drawn increasingly toward the machinations of the world of cinema, then Scorsese will have done his job. He’ll have introduced someone to the magic. I hope that kid is out there. 

Theater review by: Witney Seibold

So I got back from New York recently, and I was able to, thanks to a stroke of luck, get into see Julie Taymor’s new musical “Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark” for relatively cheap. I am now here, dazed, able to offer up to my loyal readers, a run-down on the experience. Strap in tight, though, ’cause things are about to get nutty.

For those of you who haven’t yet heard of this infamous Spider-Man musical, let me give you the rundown. Yes, it does exist. It opened on Broadway last year, and has, miraculously, stayed running. Julie Taymor, the director of films like “Titus” and “Across the Universe,” and the brilliant theater impresario behind Beckett plays, grand operas, and the stage version of “The Lion King,” was approached by Marvel studios to adapt Spider-Man for the stage. I mean, heck, the superhero boom was in full swing a few years back. Why not make a high-profile, big-budget musical? Taymor’s vision of Spider-Man was one of a classical bent. She kept him in his costume, but felt that the connection to spiders should be tied in with Arache, the character from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. She wrote in a Greek chorus to narrate the action, but in her case it was a geek chorus of nerdy guys. The Green Goblin was in it, but his origins differed from any other Spider-Man version of his we’ve seen. Even the Sinister Six appeared in the second act. Bono and The Edge from U2 were hired to write songs.

Taymor’s vision also included some of the most complicated stuntwork the stage has ever seen. Her complicated system of pullies and wires would have Spider-Man and the Green Goblin fighting in midair above the audience. Spider-Man would swing up to the balcony and back down again. The system was so complicated, however, that several of the show’s stuntmen would become seriously injured during the rehearsal process. One actor was accidentally left unhooked to his rig, causing him to jump unfettered into the orchestra pit. He was in a coma for days, and required surgery. When previews began, critics started panning the show for being too weird, the songs for being bland, and the entire concept of a Spider-Man musical too dumb to carry any weight. Even the weird subtitle “Turn Off the Dark” didn’t make any sense. Taymor was eventually fired from the production, and a new director was hired to rewrite and re-tinker the show. The show ended up costing about $75 million, the most expensive show in Broadway history. That means it will have to sell out every show for a solid two years in order to break even.

I have now seen this notorious show, and, to report to the geeks in the trenches, I will offer the following review.

For those familiar with Julie Taymor, you’ll know her bent for the surreal, and for the ancient. Her productions are partly inspired by ancient Greek theater traditions, and her own sense of bizarre modern art. Sometimes it can work: her stage production (what I’ve seen) of “The Tempest” is first rate, and I still feel her “Titus” is one of the best Shakespeare films ever made. Even when her films or shows don’t have a lot of emotional impact (her film version of “The Tempest” was flat and bland), her design is always gorgeous and her directorial choices are always fascinating. So “Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark” looks fascinating. Her sets bend and unfold in a weird way, forcing perspective, and keeping the visuals off-balance. She essentially tried to make an enormous set look like the forced-perspective drawing on a comic book page. She even added some printed dot-shading and shadows to people’s costumes, so they looked a bit more like comic book drawings. The bad guys’ costumes involved either some twisted masks, or gigantic inflatable prosthetics. Her entire idea was to mythologize Spider-Man into a dreamlike pop-culture explosion of surreal weirdness.

I think I kind of appreciate this approach. Rather than rehashing the Spider-Man mythology for the die-hard geeks, and merely transposing the object of their superhero affection into a new medium (which is what the lesser of the superhero films do), she tried to make the idea of a superhero make sense to her. She had no interest in the teenage-boy obsession with superheroes, and wanted to focus more on the more classical idea of the peerless god-like hero of legend. She wants to explore classical theatrical themes using modern-day modern art images. It’s like making Spider-Man more abstract. Her idea to turn Arachne (T.V. Carpio) into a character within the play may seem dumb to the comic book fan, but I can see where that need comes from. In Taymor’s original version, the spider that bit Peter Parker was actually Arachne reincarnated, and turned into something of a villain; an evil inside spider force that he must overcome.

But then the story was re-worked, and the newly re-worked story more closely resembles the tepid 2002 “Spider-Man” feature film. Spider-Man is no longer a boy coping with inner spider-like demons, but is following the story we all know: Nerd. Bitten by superspider. Gets superpowers. Loses uncle. Gains righteousness. Punches psychotics. Tries to get the girl. In this musical, the entire musical number where Peter (Reeve Carney) discovers he has superpowers is the first part of a montage that also includes the wrestling match, the death of Uncle Ben (offstage), and the decision to become Spider-Man. It’s called “Boucing Off the Walls,” and, while lively, feels rushed. The character from the film, Bonesaw McGraw makes an appearance in the show, but as a gigantic balloon that Peter wrestles to comic effect. It’s then immediately followed by the death of Uncle Ben. All rushed. All rushed. Oh yeah, Mary Jane is in it too (played by Jennifer Damiano), but she’s a prize to be won, and actually starts dating Peter in Act I. No ambiguity there.

Then there’s The Green Goblin. Patrick Page has been getting a lot of acclaim for his energetic and villainous performance, but the night I went, we had his understudy Jeb Brown who, lucky for him, made his Broadway debut that night. The Green Goblin is a geneticist who combines his body with animal DNA (or something) to gain powers, but who loses his wife in the process. Now, half mad and coated with weird Goblin makeup, he decides to capture his old scientist associates, and also make them into monsters by splicing their DNA with animals. There’s Kraven the Hunter (part lion), The Lizard (part lizard), Swarm (part bees), Electro (part, uh, electricity), Carnage (part, uh, blood), and a new character Swiss Miss (who is, uh, part knife). Again, the costumes are wonderful to behold, but I know a lot of you are currently shaking in your chairs, sputtering “But… THAT’S not what Kraven is!” Yes. There are a lot of liberties taken.

The music is actually kind of forgettable. Bono and The Edge may have a strength for rock ballads, but they clearly don’t really know how to write a musical. The songs have no logical ebb or flow, and don’t seem designed to showcase the talent of a singer on stage. It’s like an odd, forgettable rock opera that only sounds vaguely like U2. The songs I liked best were the Green Goblin’s song “A Freak Like Me,” and the “Turn Off the Dark” ballad that Peter sings with Arachne. Oh yes, Arachne is still in the show, but she’s been transformed into a kind of spiritual partner for Peter to pray to. The show’s big show-stopper, “Rise Above” is fine, I suppose, but sounds better with a chorus; I’ve heard Bono sing it, and it sounds perfectly dull.

The stunts are still amazing, and the flying actors really are impressive to watch. It may have injured many, but the wirework, when it works, it a lot of fun. The sets are still gorgeous, even though the gigantic cardboard cutout of Spider-Man catching a falling baby is enough to make anyone snicker.

The show entirely is an off-putting mash-up of three elements. 1) The classical surreal nightmare that Julie Taymor invented, 2) The bland rock opera, and 3) The good-looking and crass Universal stunt spectacular. It doesn’t really feel like a Broadway show. It feels like a theme park attraction at this point. As a show, it fails on a spectacular level. But, looking around the theater, I found that the bulk of the audience wasn’t the theater-loving, well-dressed New York Broadway crowd, but a mixture of teenagers from neighboring states who don’t go to shows often. I guess, for them, this was a unique theatrical experience.

And it was for me too. No other show will ever be like “Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark.” It’s rare to see such great ambition staged with such earnestness, and flop about so wildly. I just wish I could have seen Taymor’s unchanged version. I bet it was crazy to the point of being spectacularly bad, and, hence, hugely entertaining. As it was, even though I was kind of expecting it to be bad, I left disappointed.