Maurice Chevalier, 22 Jump Street and old boxing movies - Reviews #191

Hello dear reader. I am on my summer hols, so I finally have time to tack up all these reviews that have been hanging around on my computer for aeons. Lucky you. This is the first of three - yes, three - upcoming updates.



CINEMA: 22 Jump Street (Phil Lord and Chris Miller, 2014) - This sequel to one of the most cheering surprises of the past decade goes the Gremlins 2 route, sacrificing a bit of heart and any minor semblance of reality for a lot of jokes – the overwhelming majority of them extraordinarily good.

Picking up with a brief recap of the first film (with the addition of an Annie Hall reference that later pays off in considerable style), 22 Jump Street sends undercover cops Channing Tatum and Jonah Hill to college, and pitches them into a hyper-intelligent, deliriously stupid, homoerotically-mannered meta-textual subversion of/homage to the original movie, every bit as clever, idiotic, intensely gay and pop culturally astounding as that sounds.

The gags are simply legion and many surely soon to become legendary, from Hill’s beautiful contention that “it’s so refreshing to have a black victim” to the references to his advancing years, an insanely brilliant trip scene, Tatum losing it entirely outside Ice Cube’s new office (which is like “a big cube of ice”) and a post-credits sequence that’s frankly the last word in post-credits sequences.

It’s nothing new in plot terms, but it also keeps telling you it’s nothing new in plot terms, which is something new. And if the slightly repetitive, bleak and overzealous mirroring of marital breakup that forms its centrepoint is no substitute for the real human emotion at the core of the first film, the prison stuff is basically just revolting, and it has a fair few lulls to accompany its immense sense of invention, it is at least brilliantly, bracingly and blissfully funny.

“Are you going to strangle me with your liver-spotted hands?” (3)

... and I'd rewatched this to prepare myself:



"What kind of bullshit do they say about cov... coviolent bonds in this school?"
21 Jump Street (Phil Lord and Chris Miller, 2012) - One of the nicest surprises - and the funniest films - of the past few years, with the creators of Cloudy, and screenwriter Michael Bacall, sending cops and best buds Jonah Hill and Channing Tatum back to school to bust a drugs ring.

The results are imaginative, intensely funny and just the right side of laddish, mixing sentiment, comedy and action with a smart subversive streak that extends to both meta parodies of the action-comedy genre and a brilliant, incisive examination of changing youth culture.

The stars are sublime, that YouTube video incapacitates me, and while the first half is better than the second, which gets a little bogged down in peril, plot and cameo, the pay-off - starting with Hill having to front up and take the killer shot - is just extraordinarily good.

So obviously I'm excited about next week and 22 Jump Street, whilst praying that Lord, Miller and Bacall keep away from the fratboy bobbins with which they briefly flirt here. Praying to Korean Jesus, naturally. (3.5)

***



Love Me Tonight (Rouben Mamoulian, 1932) - Mamoulian's musical masterpiece was at least a decade ahead of its time in terms of imagination and innovation, and still looks sensational today. Poking fun at Lubitsch's films in which millionaires masquerade as paupers, Mamoulian casts Maurice Chevalier as a penniless tailor mistaken for a baron by princess Jeanette MacDonald.

From the ingenious opening number - which seems to have influenced everything from Once Upon a Time in the West to Dancer in the Dark - it's an unstinting barrage of joy and invention, full of dazzling shots, hummable tunes and classic Lorenz Hart lyrics, with a gorgeous Myrna Loy just about stealing the show in her breakout role as a witty, sex-hungry countess. (4)

***



Delicacy (David and Stéphane Foenkinos, 2011) - A few sitcomish elements sometimes intrude - not least the improbable event that commences the central relationship - but this romantic comedy still doubles as a deep and resonant study of grief, with several unforgettable scenes, some very well-drawn characters and a magnificent performance from Audrey Tautou.

It's a film in which the female lead's best friend cries in happiness at her emotional rebirth, then makes the boyfriend feel like dirt when he isn't the vicariously enjoyable heartthrob she'd envisaged, a film where people hold a loyalty to people and events long past - despite how it's tearing them to pieces - and a film in which being polite about some soup is a one-way ticket to Sexytown.

A very good film, in other words. (3.5)

See also: I wrote a longer review the first time I saw Delicacy. It's here.

***



Everyone Says I Love You (Woody Allen, 1996) - I finally got Woody's musical on DVD (my ancient pan-and-scan VHS was looking a bit peaky), so it seemed ripe for a rewatch not long after my last one. It was also a first viewing in widescreen, meaning that the choreography and visual composition of the dance scenes made a little more sense.

This time around, Allen's romance with Julia Roberts fell the wrong side of creepy and a few of the characters and numbers got on my nerves, but the film remains fine entertainment - and parts of it are just pure cinematic magic, particularly that climactic song and dance on the banks of the Seine. (3)

***



Gentleman Jim (Raoul Walsh, 1942) - Mark Kermode quite often reviews a movie with the rather vague phrase: "It's not a great film, but it has great things in it." Well, that's Gentleman Jim.

The great things, almost exclusively, are the intoxicating, invigorating fight sequences, strikingly conceived and stunningly executed, as the art of boxing graduates from two meatheads smacking each other on wasteground, to relative respectability, thanks in no small way to Gentleman Jim Corbett (Errol Flynn), a fleet-footed, working class bank clerk sponsored by an aristocratic club.

The pièce de resistance is an intense, brutal slugfest on a riverside platform, but every single scene in the ring is marked by stylish photography, credible choreography and no small amount of panache, whether in the extended set pieces or the flashes of freeze-framed, overlayed action in the various montages, which still look startlingly modern.

Taken as a whole, the film isn't quite a contender, let alone a champ. Flynn is fun but rather one note in his favourite role, the story has little dramatic tension outside the ring, and the film is full of extremely grating comic relief - which even intrudes on the fight scenes at times.

It all looks great, though, thanks to Walsh and cinematographer Sid Hickox's eye for detail, while Ward Bond gives surely his finest - and possibly his biggest - performance as legendary prizefighter John L. Sullivan. If his boxing style is perhaps a little cartoonish, he atones in the beautifully tender presentation sequence near the close, which is followed by Flynn and Alexis Smith's touching heart-to-heart as the film finally serves up two scenes away from the ring that can compare to those inside it. (3)

***



*MINOR SPOILERS*
Invisible Stripes (Lloyd Bacon, 1939) - This is a surprisingly effective mix of social drama and crime film, not because it's from Warner Bros - who specialised in both - but because it starts off so unpromisingly, and stars George Raft.

Raft, a genuine hood spotted by a talent scout while the future star was scouting land for the mob, has always been among my least favourite classic actors, along with Joan Crawford and Charlton Heston. He's good in Scarface and cleverly used in Some Like It Hot, but elsewhere he's simply a plank of wood with an almost immobile face and an inability to generate any emotion beyond intense dislike.

I may have to make one of my periodic about-faces, though, as Raft is very persuasive here, playing a parolee who struggles to get a job once he's out of the big house, then becomes re-acquainted with his old mobster mate (Humphrey Bogart) as he strives to keep his callow brother (William Holden) on the right path, and out of the pen.

After a promising opening scene, the film becomes waylaid by some syrupy, over-written domestic drama, featuring another of Holden's characteristically terrible early performances. Was there ever an actor who improved so much - or so suddenly - as Holden, who some time in the late '40s got some cynicism, some stubble and some meaty roles, and became one of the key American screen actors of the 20th century.

But as Raft gets brutalised, patronised and ostracised by a succession of employers and co-workers, the film starts to grab a hold of you, and doesn't let up or let go, even when he starts robbing banks, and all realism goes out the window. Though the ending is essentially dictated by censorship restrictions of the period, in which all wrong-doing must be punished, its fatalistic air works largely in its favour, even going so far as to anticipate film noir.

In support, Flora Robson has some fine moments in a rather clichéd part as Raft and Holden's saintly mother ("When they were little I could always help them. I could pick them up when they fell down...", sob), and Bogart enjoys perhaps his best role of the '30s: an agreeably nuanced part bridging the gap between his straight out villains and the anti-heroes he would play from High Sierra onwards.

Invisible Stripes is predictable and preachy, with a rather hackneyed backdrop and some weak sequences, but it's also compelling for much of its length, with fine work from Bogart and Raft, and a few enduring things to say about how society breeds and treats its criminals. (3)

***



Kid Galahad (Michael Curtiz, 1937) - It's in the standard studio fodder, rather than the prestige pictures tailored to her talents, that you can truly see what a special performer Bette Davis was.

In Kid Galahad, a boxing film made about a decade before Hollywood learnt how to do them properly - exploring the fighter's psyche in classics like Body and Soul, The Set-Up, and Champion - she injects middling, even hokey material with both a wit and an enrapturing sincerity, as a conflicted, selfless moll knocked out by the hand of fate.

While everyone else is in a slightly superior gangster movie; Davis's film is timeless, an arresting, heart-wrenching tale of mutual reliance cast to the wind, crippling self-sacrifice and unrequited passion. The scene in which she packs her bags and attempts to leave Robinson contains some of the finest acting I've ever seen: remarkably modern and naturalistic. As in The Man Who Came to Dinner, another film where she played a supporting part, there are no histrionics and there's no grandstanding, she's just real - and really brilliant.

Director Michael Curtiz (or more likely his studio paymasters) must have known Davis was on the cusp of greatness - and of superstardom - as she's afforded the final shot here, despite playing essentially a supporting character who doubles as a plot catalyst.

Robinson is a fight promoter who builds and manipulates the career of a naive farm boy (Wayne Morris) with a good right hook. Fresh-faced Jane Bryan is Robinson's sister, for whom he has somewhat Scarface-ish protective tendencies, and Humphrey Bogart plays Robinson's gangland rival, the actor still stuck in villainous parts that largely required him to wince and bare his teeth. Rounding out the cast is Harry Carey, John Ford's first leading man, playing the now familiar role of the weather-beaten old trainer.

The plot is both predictable and rather corny, but the film as a whole is slick and entertaining, with good performances and a memorably nauseating pugilistic climax, fuelled by what I think we can safely call homoerotic sadism, with Robinson at his absolute best, shifting between panting malice and chubby-faced encouragement.

Kid Galahad is more a gangster picture with a ringside seat than a real boxing film, while its fight scenes, though commendable, pale alongside its '40s rivals (let alone Raging Bull). It's also rife with contrivances, right down the line. But if you're an old movie nerd looking for solid studio product, with a top-notch presentation and a cracking cast - including Bette Davis at her best - then you'll find yourself very much in luck. (3)

***



Seven Ways from Sundown (Harry Keller, 1960) - Audie Murphy's character in this film is called Seven. I wish I was called Seven. And Seven Days from Sundown is just a great name for a film, if not for a man.

The movie as a whole is one of a slew of interesting Audie Murphy Westerns made in the '50s and '60s, forming a loose, cool gang with those offbeat, complex and mature Joel McCrea and Randolph Scott starring vehicles shot around the same time. Seven Ways from Sundown starts poorly, but just gets better and better.

The baby-faced Murphy - in real life the most decorated American soldier of World War Two - plays a dogged, baby-faced Texas Ranger who tracks and then babysits a charming, loquacious killer (Barry Sullivan), little imagining that the toothy, reptilian bastard just murdered his brother. (Incidentally, what the film does with that information creates a stunningly astute counterpoint to the overtly, often overly personalised approach taken by so-called "revenge Westerns".)

The studio-shot footage here is seriously garish and ugly, and the acting has regular recourse to woodenness (Murphy's love interest is simply terrible), but Sullivan delivers a fine spin on a familiar character, and the sensational game of psychological cat-and-mouse between hunter and quarry - as mutual antipathy turns to homoerotic admiration - keeps it afloat during some spells of dodgy dialogue, aided by a few punchy, cleverly-conceived action interludes.

There's also one early, almost iconic shot of the star: his foot resting on the stone grave he's just made, his titular figure framed against the mountains and the grey-blue sky. It's actually just a set-up for some uninspiring gunplay, but in hindsight a sign that the film is about to burst into rather glorious life. (3)

***



Son of Rambow (Garth Jennings, 2007) - Two lonely, fatherless kids - one a troublemaker, the other a God-fearing mummy's boy - bond over a shared love of First Blood, and decide to remake it, but with the addition of an evil scarecrow.

Garth Jennings' hymn to friendship, film and the 1980s is best when rooted in the real - and articulating the upbeat - less effective when opting for (amusing but incongruous) comedy interludes concerning a cool French kid, or serving up a good half-hour of authentic but excessive human misery.

It is original, though, within the constraints of its formulaic structure, while exhibiting an invention, a humanism and a heightened sense of humour that reminded me of Danny Boyle's Millions, right down to the third act wobble.

From the sporadic flights of visual fantasy to Jessica Stevenson's heartfelt performance as a protective, conflicted mother, it's a movie studded with admirable attributes, if not ultimately an entirely successful film.

It's basically like Super 8 but English and good and with a flying plastic dog that attacks Adam Buxton instead of aliens. (3)

***



Catfish (Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman, 2010) - A shy, improbably handsome photographer in his 20s befriends an eight-year-old painter and then begins a passionate online affair with her beautiful, artistic older sister - a relationship that seems too good to be true. And is.

This documentary is unquestionably seminal - having added the term "catfished" to the lexicon - and is by turns entertaining, disingenuous, tacky, poignant, sensationalist, exploitative, intrusive, funny and weird (that chat on the cable car - shudder).

Because while it has something to say about the way we create online personas (after all, I'm really an eight-year-old girl), it's really a story of extremes: extreme naïvete, extreme self-delusion and ultimately extremely dubious investigative journalism that's fuelled by a search for answers but completely fails to engage with the rather serious questions it raises about mental illness.

It's sustained as far as it is by the novelty value of its story and the way that tale was tracked every step of the way, rather than being a particularly proficient piece of filmmaking, though it's ultimately worth seeing, if only to engage with the enduring debate about its themes, its potential fakery and its undeniable rubbernecking. (2.5)

***

Thanks for reading.

Jagger, Judy and Jonah Hill - Reviews #137

Also, in this latest reviews update: Dragnet, drugs and lots of people in blackface. Just a short one this time.



Crossfire Hurricane (Brett Morgen, 1972) – Very watchable but shallow documentary about the Rolling Stones, executive-produced by the band, that begins (for no apparent reason) in 1972, flashes back (for no apparent reason) to 1965 and then provides the expected mix of anecdotes, rare clips and occasional insights across a couple of enjoyable hours. The Stones are my dad's favourite band, so I was brought up listening to them (and hearing that they were better than the Beatles), and their show at the Don Valley Stadium in 1995 was the first big gig I ever went to. But while I'm grounded in the music, and read a couple of biographies at an unsuitably young age, this is the first proper doc about them that I've seen. Beginning with a disingenuous disclaimer that "no cameras were alllowed in the room" while new interviews took place – true, but only because the director said so – the film overlays a wealth of archive footage (much of it culled from previous Stones films like Gimme Shelter) with voiceovers from the band. Charlie Watts proves as cool and dry as you'd expect and Richards is unexpectedly articulate (some of the time), offering the strong image of the Stones as a black-hatted Western baddie, while Mick Taylor explains why he quit the group, Wyman outlines their bluesical alchemy in technical terms, Ron Wood turns up briefly – accompanied by photos of him looking like a drug-crazed scarecrow – and Jagger, in the film's most moving moment, says he doesn't know "how many months" it was after Brian Jones was kicked out of the band that he turned up dead. "It was three weeks," says the interviewer. "Fuck," replies Jagger, as if someone has just kicked him in the ribs, his usual aloofness shattered for a fleeting moment. There are other telling details too: the rivers of piss flowing down the aisles as excitable teenage girls wet themselves in droves, Jagger describing his fear and abject helplessness at Altamont, and Watts revealing his embarrassment at being chased down the street by schoolgirls (them again). It's also interesting to hear how Jones would mercilessly mock the working man – the same sort of man you see claiming that the Stones are "like us; not like the Beatles, spending eight days in bed".

As with any film about '60s musicians, there are also lots of clips of clueless, middle-aged journalists asking these hip young upstarts completely idiotic questions (the only artist who ever came out of that situation badly was George Harrison, whose interrogation about his mystical beliefs, featured in the Scorsese doc, was hilariously incoherent). But while those parts are amusing, and do a fine job of articulating the yawning generation gap that the Stones understood, epitomised and exploited, watching a young Jagger being constantly if handsomely evasive palls after a while. The film is also oddly shapeless, with no clear dramatic narrative aside from an "everyone hated us, then everyone loved us" angle shoved in near the close, an over-reliance on unsatisfying musical montages (Morgen just isn't very good at them) and a rather slapdash approach to what should and shouldn't be included. Most disappointingly, the film fails to delve into the Jagger-Richards relationship, surely the most interesting thing about the band. I should add here that I find all the mythologising of Richards' life incredibly tiresome - so he took a load of drugs and didn't die, whoop-dee-fucking-doo - but the love-hate dynamic between the two, forged at a young age over a love of blues, and mutating and twisting ever since, while producing some glorious music, is fascinating. We're never really told who the Stones are, where they came from and how they came together, aside from Wyman's line that the others "met in jazz clubs". I'd also quibble with Morgen's idea that talking head interviews aren't worth seeing: seeing how someone says something, the range of emotion on their face, is often as intriguing and revealing as what they're saying. Sadly we'll never see Jagger's expression as he disclaims, "Fuck" (presumably one of dumbstruck horror), as, well, no cameras were allowed in the room.

There's no denying that Crossfire Hurricane is a fun watch. There are blistering versions of several key tracks, including the legendary take on Sympathy for the Devil from Rock and Roll Circus (which I have seen), Morgen does do a good job of finding film of events that at the time seemed minor, but echo through history (like Jones' last relevant contribution to the band), and with the volume of fine footage available - allied to a few interesting interviews - it would be hard not to make an entertaining film. But Crossfire Hurricane is also sanitised and slightly aimless, which isn't something you could say about the Stones themselves - or their best records. Still, I suppose you can't always get what you want. (3)

***



*SPOILERS FOR KILL LIST, BIZARRELY*

Dragnet (Tom Mankiewicz, 1987) - A flat, misguided homage to/spoof of the wildly popular '60s police procedural show, with Dan Aykroyd as Joe Friday, the uber-officious nephew of Jack Webb's character, and Tom Hanks playing his new partner, a relative loose cannon. Hanks is good, fans of the series may enjoy seeing Harry Morgan reprise his role, and a few of Aykroyd's lines - translating events into coldly and excessively factual police-speak - hit the target, but there are long, laughless stretches, an air of un-earned smugness pervades, and the intentionally far-fetched plot is unintentionally shit. I can't decide if Christopher Plummer's creepy, perma-laughing moral crusader is good or not. The funniest thing about the movie is that the encounter with the pagans and the subsequent tunnel escape - guns blazing - is virtually the same as the one in Kill List! Veteran character actress Kathleen Freeman also turns up to call Aykroyd a "jizzbucket", which is funny if you pretend that she's reprising her rosy-cheeked, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-Scandinavian-mouth role from Annie Was a Wonder. Just me then?

Trivia note: Director Mankiewicz is the son of Joseph L., and had worked as a writer on several Bond films and the Superman series. (2)

***


This seems fine.


Not sure about this.

Babes on Broadway (Busby Berkeley, 1941) - No, it might not be strictly necessary for Mickey and Judy to do quite so many impressions of deceased theatrical greats. No, I don't know why he's doing a weak take-off of Carmen Miranda. Yes, the plot about sending inner-city orphans to the country is unbelievably corny. And no, perhaps everybody shouldn't be in blackface. But this was 1941. And America. So, yes, this decent putting-on-a-show musical leans on plotting that's almost self-parodical, and features a climax that is simply baffling to modern audiences – while it's worth adding that the blackface finale is in the theatrical tradition of minstrel shows, which were hardly out of the ordinary in 1941, and it's naively celebratory rather than mean-spirited, the image of a blacked-up Rooney impersonating an African-American pensioner and mugging as if his life depended on it whilst playing the banjo makes his performance in Breakfast at Tiffany's look like a model of PC restraint. But the flabbiness is part of the fun, Garland is in terrific form (compensating for Rooney, who's very talented but just too OTT here) and there are some wonderful numbers. Especially How About You?, which has long been a favourite, is beautifully staged in a tenement flat and features a brief flash of Rooney-doing-John-Barrymore. Elsewhere, Busby Berkeley's direction utilises his beloved crane shots to impressive if unnecessary effect, and there's a top supporting cast that includes tap dancer Ray McDonald, future director Richard Quine, Fay Bainter and the talented Virginia Weidler, who's largely just asked to cry and pout. A tiny Margaret O'Brien also makes her debut here, playing a wannabe actress who greets theatrical impresario James Gleason with the words: "Please don't send my brother to the chair, warden." If you ever want to see a Mickey and Judy film – and they are resolutely NOT FOR ALL TASTES – Girl Crazy remains the one to go for. (3)

***



Accepted (Steve Pink, 2006) – Lazy smartarse Justin Long fails to get into college, so he invents one of his own - which soon becomes horribly real. This campus comedy starts off very funnily, goes nasty and offensive (the college is a former psychiatric hospital, resulting in a slew of mental illness gags), then settles into mediocrity, before turning oddly pious at the close, as Long launches an impassioned defence of his establishment's non-conformist method of learning, which as far as I can tell involves listening to broad if agreeable anti-corporate sentiments, and watching people ride motorbikes into swimming pools. Still, Long and especially Jonah Hill make the most of it. "This is awesome," Hill says as they enter the abandoned hospital for the first time, "'cause now I can finally get hepatitis!" (2)

Douglas Fairbanks, Dogtooth and lots and lots of pirates - Reviews #110

Swashbuckling - silent style - a couple of trips to the cinema and one of the most unsettling films I've ever seen. The odd rude word, so if that offends, skip this one.

*SPOILERS*
Robin Hood (Allan Dwan, 1922) – The Earl of Huntingdon (Douglas Fairbanks), who's ace at jousting but scared of girls, goes off to fight in the Crusades as Richard the Lionheart's (Wallace Beery) second-in-command. Then his new bird (Enid Bennett, who’s a perfect Marian) sends word that replacement monarch Prince John has turned into the most terrible tyrant, inspiring our hero to leg it back to Nottingham – though not before being shot and imprisoned in a tower. Once home, he reinvents himself as the bouncy, proclamatory, green-wearing outlaw of the title, robbing from the rich, giving to the poor, and generally running around imploring people to chase him. This lavish, wonderfully entertaining swashbuckler offers a different and arguably more realistic portrait of the hero than the more well-known talkie versions – not even introducing the "Robin" alter-ego until the 74-minute mark – but myth-makes through moments of spellbinding imagery. The film is set in “the time of faith” and its arresting visual sense draws memorably on Christian iconography, particularly when Robin and Marian are reunited in the grounds of a nunnery under shafts of light streaming through the trees and, later, when she cowers by an altar in Richard’s castle. Such artistry is complemented by a serious sense of fun, with Fairbanks in irresistible form and his usual fondness for a good stunt much in evidence – the scene where he leads John’s men on a merry dance around the castle is a delight, and the climax spotlights both his athleticism and his idiosyncratic swordsmanship. "Five-year-old in the back yard” – that’s all I’m going to say. The music by Victor Schertzinger might not quite match Erich von Korngold’s famous score for The Adventures of Robin Hood (the 1938 film, with Errol Flynn in the lead), but it’s pretty damn great. Old movie nerds will want to know that the costumes were made by cult ‘30s and '40s director Mitchell Leisen, while fellow helmer Robert Florey has a rare bit-part as a peasant. Alan Hale reprised his role as Little John in the 1938 film where, unlike here, he got to fight the hero while standing on a log. (4)

*MAJOR SPOILERS*
The Black Pirate (Albert Parker, 1926) – A mysterious black-clad stranger (Douglas Fairbanks) with a curious aversion to piratical pursuits joins the gang of plunderers who killed his father, planning to exact revenge. Then a sexy, virginal laydee (Billie Dove, let’s just say tastes have changed) enters the picture, and our hero is forced to think – and climb, and swim – very fast. This staggeringly ambitious silent, the first to be shot entirely in two-strip Technicolor, is gripping, visually opulent and full of devastating stuntwork: including the classic set-piece in which Doug takes a merchant ship single-handed. There's also a bit where he rides to the rescue on a massive fucking longboat. Donald Crisp, sporting some slightly unconvincing glued-on facial hair, is wonderful as his only ally. (4)

See also: I've also written an excited review of Fairbanks's first swashbuckler, The Mark of Zorro.

***

Dogtooth (Yorgos Lanthimos, 2009) – Audacious, unsettling, deadpan black comedy about a father “protecting” his three grown-up children by keeping them captive in the house, where he fills their heads with nonsense and their lives with bizarre rituals. This Greek film may be tough to like, and its subtext is truly alarming, but it’s disarmingly, outrageously funny – the only other film I’ve seen that walks the horrifying/hilarious high-wire so expertly is Todd Solondz’s Happiness. (4)

***

*SPOILERS*
CINEMA: 21 Jump Street (Phil Lord and Chris Miller, 2012) is a post-modern comic update of the ‘80s cop show, from the directors of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs – one of the best animated features of all time, and perhaps the only other film to employ YouTube to such hilarious ends. Fresh-faced officers Jonah Hill and Channing Tatum are sent undercover to a high school to bust a drug syndicate. There, Hill experiences for the first time what it’s like to be a popular kid, while Tatum gets a crash-course in being an outsider. The laughs are frequent and from unexpected sources (“Fuck you, science!”, eyebrows that snake around a man’s face, a Korean Jesus), Tatum gives an unexpectedly fine comic performance, the relationship between Hill and Brie Larson is nicely realised and there’s even an appearance from Ron Freakin’ Swanson – in perhaps the film’s funniest scene. The only real missteps were Ice Cube’s unfunny supporting part, which just consists of him swearing in various yawn-worthy ways, and the cameos near the end – which stop the film in its tracks. That’s perhaps why it’s not quite as good as The Other Guys. But hey, what is? (3.5)

***

CINEMA: The Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists (Peter Lord and Jeff Newitt, 2012) - An ineffectual pirate with a glossy beard, a pet dodo and an obsession with ham tries to win the coveted Pirate of the Year award - setting him on a collision course with rough, tough Queen Victoria. Also along for the ride is neurotic naturalist Charles Darwin - who just wants a girlfriend - and a Gromit-esque silent clown of a monkey, who delivers his dialogue by flicking through title cards, like Bob Dylan in Dont Look Back. Aardman has followed up last year’s Arthur Christmas with another minor classic, an animated gem so fast, so funny and so full of ingenious comic touches that you can forgive its rather slight story. As The Pirate Captain, Hugh Grant makes a seamless move into voicework, and he’s ably supported by Martin Freeman - who has become one of the best actors in the country - playing his second-his-command, and the heart and soul of the picture. Built around Grant’s gleeful performance, The Pirates! is genuinely hilarious, with a constant barrage of irressistible one-liners (“The friends you make after you become famous are so much better than the ones you have before”), quick-fire visual gags (the fish in a hat) and exuberant genre spoofery, like the silly way the characters mark their journey on a map. The pirates’ laborious explanations each time they slip into disguise are also breathtakingly funny. A few of the jokes are in questionable taste - one about leprosy was changed after complaints over the trailer - which is distracting and seems unnecessary given the boundless invention elsewhere, while the performances of Lenny Henry and Salma Hayek aren’t great, and there’s no denying that the narrative is a bit thin. But The Pirates! is such great fun I can’t imagine anyone would care. Fantastic title too. (3.5)

***

*SOME SPOILERS*
50/50 (Jonathan Levine, 2011) – Powerful comedy-drama about a 27-year-old radio journalist (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) who’s diagnosed with spinal cancer and muddles through the next few weeks with the varying support of his overbearing best friend (Seth Rogen), stressy mum (Anjelica Huston), sympathetic counsellor (Anna Kendrick) and fixed-smile girlfriend (Bryce Dallas Howard). It’s well-written, with some remarkable moments, if not without its flaws – particularly the subplot featuring Howard – but what really makes it are the beautifully-judged performances from Gordon-Levitt (arguably the best young actor on the planet), Rogen and Huston. The latter only gets two significant scenes, but boy does she make the most of them. (Just to clarify: yes she does.) The original ending was junked after negative test screenings, but it’s on the DVD and is seriously strong stuff. (3.5)

***

Girl Crazy (Norman Taurog, 1943) – One of the best musicals ever made, with femme-fixated Mickey Rooney sent to a college out west to get his mind off girls, only to meet steely, singing Judy Garland. The plot is strictly standard and the comic interludes are merely OK, but the leads are on top form and the music is simply sensational, including distinctive arrangements and stagings of numerous Gershwin classics. Busby Berkeley’s climactic, eight-minute I Got Rhythm is the most famous number – and that rootin’, tootin’, teeth-heavy Western-themed behemoth is admirably bonkers – but Judy’s tearful But Not for Me, slidey, glidey Embraceable You and unforgettable, laid-back Bidin’ My Time – complete with white guitar and close harmonies – are even better. There’s also a terrific version of Could You Use Me? with Rooney clambering all over a car, June Allyson does a rambunctious, mussed-up Treat Me Rough and, while Big Bands aren’t really my thing, Tommy Dorsey’s version of Fascinating Rhythm is pretty special. A jolt of pure joy. (4)

***

*MINOR SPOILERS*
Sunshine Cleaning (Christine Jeffs, 2008) - Unusual indie drama about two sisters - each with their fair share of problems - who establish a crime scene clean-up business and begin to appreciate one another's contrasting characters as their fortunes start to look up. It's a slow-burner, with an interesting story, memorable characters and an emotional pull that increases as it develops. Leads Amy Adams and Emily Blunt are both excellent in their well-scripted roles, and the film has an amusing, offbeat sense of humour - though that takes a back seat towards the end. It reminded me a little of Gas, Food, Lodging - one of the most interesting indies of the '90s - and it's actually somewhat more articulate and well-rounded than that film, if lacking in Fairuza Balk's emotional pyrotechnics. (3.5)

***

*MINOR POO-RELATED SPOILERS*
Hall Pass (Bobby and Peter Farrelly, 2011) is essentially the anti-Old School, as a pair of restless married men get permission to live the Frat Boy dream for a week... only to find out they're not very good at it. It's the usual Farrelly Bros cocktail of genuine sweetness and boring, gross-out excess, though at least the latter isn't quite as prevalent as usual: there is just the one instance of a drunk woman pooing up a wall. The story reminded me a bit of One Hour with You, the old Lubitsch musical, which deals neatly (if datedly) with the question of adultery - though I doubt that was intentional. There are some good jokes, appealing performances from Owen Wilson and Jason Sudeikis, and a more subversively mature outlook than you might expect from what looks like a typically laddish affair, with the leads' sexist bantering repeatedly undercut by their partners. Richard Jenkins - who gave one of my favourite ever performances in the superlative Thomas McCarthy drama The Visitor - is somewhat wasted as a wrinkly lothario with a Sherlock-like ability to read strangers. If you do see it, hold on for a post-credits sequences that's the funniest scene in the film, with Stephen Merchant imagining what would happen if he was given a hall pass. (2.5)

***

"Your body says 'no'/But your mind says 'sexy'..."
Semi-Pro (Kent Alterman, 2008) - This is a below-par Will Ferrell vehicle, set in the world of basketball: a strange mixture of silliness and sincerity, with his usual shouty schtick coupled to a story about bruiser Woody Harrelson enjoying a final shot at success. Harrelson is very good, but his segments really don't fit here. He is essentially just doing the film Invincible, starring Mark Wahlberg, and that's not terribly funny. There are plenty of minor pleasures: Ferrell telling a burnt-out druggie that he needs "a big bank" to cash his oversized cheque, or lying in a skip eating an old pancake, or performing the worst novelty song of all time: Love Me Sexy. The pay-offs to the caged animal-wrestling scene - a joke that's at least 67 years old, as it's in Road to Zanzibar - are nicely delivered ("Your refund is getting out of here alive") and he does that usual bit where he runs around in a circle, while the commentators, a nervy, weirdly-bantering host and an underused Will Arnett, are worth a few laughs. But the story is essentially uninteresting and there are long stretches between laughs, with entire scenes that add nothing: like an accidental shooting in a bar that seems like it's only there to pad out the running time. These Ferrell sports comedies have thrown up the odd classic of sorts - Blades of Glory is a very funny film - but they're a mixed bag and overly samey. This one's also quite a lot like Dodgeball, which is not a compliment. (2)

Love, Heathers and big blue heads - Reviews #79

I've spent much of the past few weeks with my eyes glued to wonderful, wonderful Veronica Mars. 'Seen a few films though, so here they are, beginning with a couple of my favourites back from when I was feckless and 15:



Il Postino (Michael Radford, 1994) is a sweet, low-key comedy-drama detailing the improbable friendship between famed Chilean poet Pablo Naruda (Philippe Noiret) and the simple Italian postman (Massimo Troisi) who wants his help romancing a girl. The pacing is a bit off and the film borrows too liberally from Cinema Paradiso, but the performances from Noiret and Troisi simply sparkle and the collision of genuinely funny character comedy and bleak, even tragic subject matter is wonderfully realised. (3.5)

***



*MINOR SPOILERS*
Heathers (Michael Lehmann, 1988) - A couple of high school rebels dress up a series of murders as cultish suicides in this dark comedy. Perhaps you have to be sufficiently youthful to buy into it (I'm a carefree 27), perhaps I've been spoiled by Ghost World and Veronica Mars, or perhaps Daniel Waters' last word on teen flicks is just paling with age. Because Heathers isn't as sharp, spiky or amusing as I've thought on a half-dozen previous viewings. The gallery of extreme characters is there, there are some brilliant jokes ("Let's kick his ass!") and one-liners ("My teen angst bullshit has a body count"), and the soot-black premise is inherently snicker-some, but those virtues and a couple of strong lead performances from Winona Ryder and Christian Slater can't fully compensate for a confused viewpoint and a cop-out ending. Someone better go and tell the teenage me to shut up about it. (3)

***



Megamind (Tom McGrath, 2010) - A supervillain with a big blue head (voiced by Will Ferrell) accidentally kills his superhero arch-enemy (Brad Pitt) and finds that he's now massively bored. So he decides to create a new nemesis, turning immature news cameraman Hal (Jonah Hill) into the formidable Titan. DreamWorks' spin on the Despicable Me template is unexceptional but very diverting, with decent animation, good jokes and notably effective voicework from Ferrell and Hill. A very pleasant surprise. (3)

***



*I'VE QUOTED A RUDE WORD - PLEASE SKIP IF IT'S LIKELY TO OFFEND*
Separate Lies (Julian Fellowes, 2005) - A middle-class couple's picture-perfect marriage is torn apart by a mysterious death, in Fellowes' directorial debut. The story is too familiar (adapted from a 1951 novel), the dialogue is positively riddled with cliche (odd for Fellowes) and as the other man Rupert Everett gives what may be the most nondescript performance I've ever seen, but Tom Wilkinson and the incomparable Emily Watson are both extremely good, producing moments of emotional clarity and intimidating rawness amidst much tritely-scripted tedium. The moment in which Watson smashes a plate, screams and then bursts into tears is deeply affecting on an instinctive level and a scene where Wilkinson's stiff upper lip evaporates on account of some booze and he repeatedly barks "Fuck off" at his wife feels unexpectedly insightful. Terry Gilliam's Baron Munchausen, John Neville, also shines in a small part as Everett's father. The scripting of his second and final scene is so universal as to be almost banal, but his barnstorming sense of conviction lights it up. The subject matter of crime and guilt, the way in which the film abandons its thriller-ish concerns in deference to human drama and the presence of Wilkinson unfortunately recall Woody Allen's later Cassandra's Dream, though this is nothing like the career apocalypse that was. It's just a frustrating little film, loaded with overbearing symbolism (get a load of the Fellowes-does-Blue-Velvet opening), but partially rescued by a trio of impressive turns. (2)