From Beauty and the Beast to a Beast of a different color, USA Today posts some stills from X3, including one of Kelsey Grammer in costume. I for one never imagined Beast as an irate leprechaun. Update: The brand-new teaser for Ratner’s X3: The Last Stand (Yep, that appears to be the title) is now online. Keep an eye out for Juggernaut and Callisto (also both in the official photo gallery), Dark Phoenix hangin’ with Magneto’s crew (the Brotherhood), and what looks to be a fastball special.
Tag: Cinema
Ape is Enough.
Big doings for a Monday morning: Through a fortuitous series of events and two hours of toe-freezing waiting outside, I just got back from a critic’s showing of Peter Jackson’s King Kong over at the Loews on 68th St. (As an aside, the screening was run terribly– From the color-coded seating to the random security lines, everything was organized just enough to unnecessarily complicate everything and to reward bad behavior.) But let’s get down to brass tacks here: How much for the ape? Well, in essence PJ’s King Kong is the Mother of All B-Films — the Skull Island action sequences are spectacular, Kong’s adventures in New York seem appropriately mythic, the special effects throughout (particularly the Great Ape himself) are mind-blowing…Without a doubt, Kong is one of the best movies I’ve seen this year. That being said, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the film has some serious pacing problems, particularly in the first hour, and at times I thought it seemed almost too reverent of its source material. At the very least, Kong, while definitely a Wonder of the World and no mistake, could have benefited from some minor grooming.
Fortunately, many of the most glaring missteps in Kong occur relatively early on. The film begins very auspiciously with a choice montage of Depression-Era New York, during which we’re introduced to beautiful young vaudevillian Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts) and, soon thereafter, director-on-the-make Carl Denham (Jack Black) and his long-suffering assistant (Colin Hanks). From here throughout, both Watts and Black are excellent — One would never think Watts was interacting with anything less than a grotesquely large primate in the scenes to come, and Black is surprisingly good and unobtrusive as Denham, even if there are a few too many shots of him…slowly…turning…to look at…something huge, amazing, and/or ghastly.
That being said, after the opening, the film slows to a crawl for a good 30-40 minutes, as Denham, Darrow, & co. wend their way to Skull Island about the S.S. Venture. Frankly, I was reminded a lot of the first hour of The Matrix Reloaded during this sequence — There’s nothing as flat-out embarrassing as the Bacardi Silver rave here, but there is a lot of hamfisted expository dialogue masking as character development. Particularly egregious in this regard is everything involving the ship’s First Mate (Evan Parke) and a young stowaway (Jamie Bell) he’s taken under his wing. Frankly, this whole subplot is a mistake — It’s laden with stilted groaners (the digression on Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, for example) and comes off as cliche-ridden as the tough general and his fresh-faced recruit in that other Matrix film.
Fortunately, right around the time the Venture loses steam, the film starts picking some up. The run-in with the natives is rather creepy in PJ fashion, although, once again, it could use some tightening — We only need one slo-mo Bad Taste-ish zoom to a human skull and one frightening Zombified Skull Islander in the throes of an epileptic seizure…but PJ gives us four or five of each. Still, when Kong first rumbles out of the jungle to acquire his new sacrificial plaything, the film starts to gather the hurtling momentum that’ll characterize most of the rest of its run.
And, indeed, the rollicking next hour of the film is, for the most part, Jurassic Park on ‘roids. Throughout the Skull Island tour (which includes many death-defying stops and Shelob-esque reveals), Peter Jackson and the WETA gang really let their freak flag fly, and the fun here is infectious. This is a monster movie maven at the top of his game, and some of the sequences here — most notably Kong vs three T-Rexes — are jaw-droppingly (or jaw-rippingly, as the case may be) spectacular. I don’t want to give away some of the twists and turns in this middle chapter…but, if you’re not really enjoying the heck out of this hour of the film (even despite some of the less-plausible deux-ex-machinas involved), I’m not sure why you went to see Kong in the first place.
Of course, the story returns to New York in the final hour, when Denham brings his newly-acquired Eighth Wonder of the World to the Great White Way. (Look for the now somewhat-unfortunate cameo by Howard Shore, doing what he might well have done best…To be honest, the James Newton Howard score sounded mostly like incidental music. If there was a “Kong theme,” I didn’t catch it on first viewing.) And, at this point, the film forsakes the mayhem of its middle hour to bask in the Gothic-in-Gotham resonance of the Kong mythos. There are some really beautiful moments here in the final act, although I do have some quibbles: The timing of night and day makes very little sense, and streets seem to clear of fear-stricken bystanders at the most opportune times for Kong and his ladyfriend. (Then again, we are talking about a 25-foot ape here, so perhaps I should just shut up and suspend the disbelief.) Also, there’s a scene in Central Park here that I expect will divide audiences — particularly fanboy audiences — down the middle. I found it somewhat touching, but I also couldn’t help imagining Kong & Ann visiting Coney Island and/or partaking of a Gray’s Papaya while they’re at it. “Something tells me I’m into something good…”
And, then, of course, we end atop the Empire State. At this point, you’re either with the movie or you’re not, and I was definitely moved by Kong’s last act. That being said, I can also see the argument that some folks made of Return of the King being made here…the last few scenes are exquisite and heartfelt, but they’re also just ever-so-slightly redundant. You can forgive PJ being a trifle indulgent here, I think — this is the big payoff, not only the culmination of a three-hour viewing experience but the most memorable moment in his favorite movie of all time. That being said, I have to admit that at a certain point, as the biplanes went around for yet another pass and Kong looked increasingly miserable, that the horrible cynic in me noted this was somewhat akin to watching a remake of Citizen Kane with a fifteen-minute sled scene.
I was also somewhat reminded of Old Yeller in the closing moments, which — it must be said — speaks for how amazing PJ, WETA, and Andy Serkis’ King Kong turned out to be. In fact, this even far outshines their amazing work on Gollum — At no point did I find myself questioning the reality of this Kong, even in the midst of some severe Tyrannosaurus Rex bashing. The Dian Fossey gloss on the relationship between Darrow & Kong helped too — In perhaps the cleverest update of the old Kong, Darrow utilizes a very unique set of skills to bond with the Great Ape. And it’s those scenes — and their other quiet moments together — that are the most memorable aspects of this Kong, which is no small feat given the action flourishes of the second act.
In sum, King Kong is an amazing film, and easily one of the best movies of this year. But, to be fair, it’s also undeniably too indulgent at times, and I think it ultimately fails to achieve the transcendent heights of the Rings trilogy. (But I’ll freely admit to having more of an emotional investment in Tolkien than I do in the original Kong.) At the very least, it’s definitely worth seeing, not only as a world-class monster movie but also as a worthy retelling of one of the cinema’s greatest stories.
Lying in a den in Bombay.
The consistently interesting Peter Weir chooses his next project: Shantaram, with Johnny Depp. “The story follows an Australian heroin addict who escapes a maximum-security prison and reinvents himself in India as a doctor in the slums of Bombay. His attempt to find medicine for his destitute patients leads him into counterfeiting, gunrunning and smuggling.” But will they be trying to tempt him, because he comes from the land of plenty?
A Troubled Sparrow.
Avast, ye scurvy dogs…The teaser for Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man’s Chest is now online, and it looks in keeping with the spirit of the first.
Narnia in Nine.
Warning: Here there be spoilers. From the Battle of Britain to the Battle for Narnia, this new nine minute supertrailer for The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe pretty much walks you through the entire movie. That being said, it does look right nice, and I’m looking forward to more of Tilda Swinton. (Liam Neeson, on the other hand, has done one too many mentor roles by this point.)
Apes in the News.
“‘A few people have already asked me why we’re taking twice as long to tell essentially the same story,’ says the director. ‘And I don’t really know. We’ve been asking that ourselves. I’m going to have to come up with a better answer.'” Newsweek‘s Devin Gordon sizes up PJ’s King Kong, and he seems to really like it: Jackson “proved once again that he might be the only guy whose films are worth getting on a plane and flying halfway around the planet to see.”
Suburban Warrior.
After Good Night & Good Luck and Syriana, how can George Clooney continue his hot streak? Easy…direct a Coen brothers script. Upon wrapping Stephen Soderbergh’s The Good German, Clooney will take a swing at Suburbicon, a Coen project that’s been in mothballs.
Ticket to Ride.
The new teaser for Cars is online. I’m not really feeling it, but after the Toy Storys, Finding Nemo, and The Incredibles, I’ll give Team Pixar the benefit of the doubt.
Silent Night, Deadly Night.
Coming as it does from the director of Caddyshack and Groundhog Day, Harold Ramis’ The Ice Harvest is a surprisingly mordant and misanthropic piece of work. If your tastes run along such lines (as mine do), it’s an enjoyable neo-noir reminiscent of Blood Simple, one that’s fitfully amusing but rarely laugh-out-loud funny. But, particularly after seeing Goblet and Syriana, The Ice Harvest also feels somewhat unrealized and, for the most part, instantly forgettable. As 2 Days in the Valley and Things to do in Denver When You’re Dead are to Pulp Fiction, this movie is to Fargo…at best, it’s the type of movie you might find yourself watching on cable one thoroughly miserable holiday evening.
In a nutshell, The Ice Harvest plays like Grand Theft Auto: Wichita. (Or, put another way, it answers the question, “What if Kansas were more like Oz?”) As the film begins, we meet up with the Pushing Tin duo of John Cusack and Billy Bob Thornton — here a mob lawyer and pornographer respectively — soon after they’ve acquired over $2 million of ill-gotten loot from the coffers of the local mafioso (Randy Quaid). All they have to do is wait out the night — Christmas Eve — on account of an ice storm (which doesn’t seem to prevent them from driving around much), before skipping town for warmer climes. So, Cusack decides to hit up various strip clubs and nightspots — including one run by Wichita femme fatale Connie Nielsen (as always, deserving of better roles) and another frequented by Cusack’s alcoholic buddy (and second husband to his ex-wife) Oliver Platt (doing a variation on his Huff character) — all the while evading the mob’s muscle (Mike Starr, playing to form).
The first half of The Ice Harvest moves languorously, but it feels like it’s building to something. But…unfortunately, it’s not. Around the midway point, right when we seem to be achieving narrative momentum, the movie instead starts somewhat remorselessly killing off many of the characters we’ve recently met. Indeed, entire plotlines seem jettisoned (Cusack’s ex-wife, the incriminating photograph) in favor of a high body count. And, frankly, by the time the last folks standing get to the final, bloody shootout, I had pretty much checked out. There are definitely some amusing episodes along the way, and special marks go to Oliver Platt’s comic lush and Billy Bob Thornton’s usual brand of weary resignation (particularly involving his wife). But as a whole, The Ice Harvest just doesn’t hang together. I’m as up for a Christmas dish served ice-cold as anyone, but this harvest, despite signs of early promise, comes up fallow.
The Oil Down the Desert Way.
While perhaps a bit too dry and convoluted for some tastes, Stephen Gaghan’s Syriana is, IMHO, a top-notch political thriller that’s easily one of the best films of the year. Admitedly, the movie is missing some of the Soderberghian visual flourishes that made the very similar Traffic so memorable, and the movie definitely can be tough to follow. But, in a way, that’s part of its charm — Like the film’s protagonists, we only occasionally glimpse the shadowy tendrils of the beast that is Big Oil, and come to share their despair that it can ever be subdued. In sum, like the other recent Clooney outing, Good Night, and Good Luck, Syriana is both an intelligent, compelling work of cinema and a enthralling piece of social commentary, one that not only feels pertinent but necessary.
As you probably know, the movie jetsets around the globe following several facets of the oil trade and its consequences. In Beirut, an aging, disgruntled CIA agent (a stout George Clooney, resembling in Stephanie Zacharek’s words a “depressed circus bear”) starts to ask questions above his pay-grade about the collateral damage from a recent operation. In Geneva, after a family tragedy, a fresh-faced energy analyst (Matt Damon) becomes consigliere to the ambitious heir (Alexander Siddig) of a Middle-Eastern emirate. In Washington DC, a resourceful lawyer (Jeffrey Wright) begins due diligence work on an merger between two oil firms (the smaller headed by Chris Cooper). And, on the oil fields themselves, an increasingly desperate Pakistani emigrant (Mazhar Munir) begins to contemplate drastic action to change his fortunes, and those of his family.
Along the way, Syriana‘s narrative is further fractured by the comings and goings of other famous faces, including Amanda Peet as Damon’s suffering wife, William Hurt as another grizzled agency vet, Tim Blake Nelson as the poster child for Abramoff‘s America, and Christopher Plummer as an insider among insiders. But, even though Plummer comes closest to being the Cigarette Smoking Man of this particular conspiracy tale, Syriana doesn’t offer any quick fixes or easy answers to the often grim story that unfolds. Some of our heroes find redemption or closure, true, but others become resigned to their fate, or even corrupted. And, ultimately, there is no Big Reveal or cathartic Speaking-Truth-To-Power scene to offer solace to the audience — Instead, we’re confronted with a system that, for better or worse, lumbers on, oblivious to either the machinations or the protests of mere individuals.
Depressing, indeed, even despairing at times, this film still feels like a story that must be told. And while viewers may quibble with some of the details of Gaghan’s Tarbell-esque expose of the political economy of oil, hopefully most will agree: We need more movies like Syriana.