Fracture

Here's my latest review. If any of you smart people out there know how to have a "jump" in a blog--you know, "Here's the first sentence of my review. The rest is after the jump."--so I wouldn't have to have these huge blocks of text, please tell me! I will give you a candy bar.

Fracture is a spiritless “thriller” that offers few thrills and fewer surprises, and demands major suspension of disbelief on the part of its audience. Even the clout of Academy Award-winner Anthony Hopkins cannot help this inconsistent movie rise above the commonplace.

Fracture is about a battle of wits and wills between two men. Ted Crawford (Hopkins) is a brilliant aeronautical engineer who investigates accidents with the National Transportation and Safety Board. Despite his impressive credentials and gorgeous home in the Hollywood Hills, all is not well with Crawford. His beautiful young wife, Jennifer (Embeth Davidtz), is having an anonymous affair with a married police crisis negotiator, Rob Nunnally (Billy Burke). So one day, Crawford comes home early from work, shoots Jennifer in the head, and sits tight, knowing Nunnally will be called to the scene and will eventually discover that the victim is his own lover, whom he has known only as “Mrs. Smith.”

The twisted dichotomy between these two men has great potential, but the film isn’t about their dealings with each other. In fact, Nunnally is a relatively minor character. Fracture is about Crawford’s relationship with another foe, assistant district attorney Willie Beachum (Ryan Gosling).

Beachum has worked the system in the D.A.’s office; taking on every case he thinks he can win and shunning all others, he has garnered an impossibly high conviction rate, which has earned him a job offer with an elite corporate law firm. He’s got one foot out the door, but he has one more case to work before he leaves for his swanky new job—the Crawford case.

It seems like a slam-dunk, since the police apparently have a smoking gun and a signed confession. But Crawford, a meticulous genius, has a few tricks up his sleeve.

Fracture is an entertaining-enough two hours spent in the theater, but there’s just nothing really special about it. Within a day or two after seeing it, you will have almost forgotten you ever saw it. And it’s really a shame, because it feels like there’s a really good story in there that just somehow didn’t quite make it to the screen.

For instance, as an NTSB engineer, Crawford would likely have a methodical, logical thought process and an extremely ordered life. He would have planned his crime to the last detail, and there would be a sick method to his madness. But the audience learns nothing about what makes him tick. Why does he go to such lengths to toy with the justice system? Why didn’t he hire someone to kill Jennifer, or make it look like an accident? Why does he choose Beachum as his adversary, as he apparently does? Why does he constantly address Beachum as “old sport?” Who knows?

I won’t reveal the “twist” ending, but it misses the mark in two major ways. First, it is as predictable as the dawn. Second, it doesn’t actually make much sense.

That's not to say there’s nothing good about Fracture. Ryan Gosling is a talented and exciting young actor, and there are a few crackling moments between him and Hopkins. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about his onscreen chemistry with his Fracture love interest.

Screenwriters Daniel Pyne and Glenn Gers add a little sex appeal by giving Beachum a glamorous (if totally unnecessary to the story) girlfriend in corporate lawyer—and Beachum’s boss-to-be—Nikki Gardner (Rosamund Pike). But Nikki’s scenes don’t go anywhere, and the gorgeous Pike gives an oddly icy, lifeless performance.

There is no denying that Hopkins is one of our greatest actors, but (dare I say it?) he seems to be phoning this performance in. Hopkins’ Crawford is Hannibal Lecter, minus half of Lecter’s creepiness and perverse likeability. Also, Hopkins adopts an Irish accent for no apparent reason at inconsistent intervals during the film, which is just confusing.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about the film is the very, very brief screen time given to the wonderful David Strathairn, who is wasted in a tiny and thankless role as Beachum’s boss, the district attorney.

Fracture is certainly entertaining enough to hold your interest. It’s the type of movie that’s great for renting some boring Friday night, or catching on cable on a rainy afternoon five years down the road. But if you’re looking for a brilliant summer thriller, keep on looking.

Disturbia

For my Disturbia review, click here.

Movie review--Blades of Glory

Blades of Glory is no foreign-language art-house flick about Rwandan refugees. It isn’t even an indie documentary about the exclusive Buenos Aires club scene. It’s a delightfully dumb hour and a half of mindless fun. If you’ve had a rough week (or even if you haven’t), Blades of Glory is a great way to unwind. No thinking required.

Jon Heder (Napoleon Dynamite) plays Jimmy MacElroy, a figure skating prodigy who was adopted at the age of four by an athletics impresario (the always-marvelous William Fichtner). Twenty-two years later, he is a superstar of men’s figure skating, world famous for his grace on the ice—especially his signature move, “The Galloping Peacock.” His archrival is Chazz Michael Michaels (played by Will Ferrell), a hard-rocking wild man who calls himself “sex on ice” and who got his start in Detroit’s underground sewer skating scene.

After a tie for the gold at the World Wintersport Games, Chazz and Jimmy engage in some mutual trash-talking that escalates into a major debacle resulting in both skaters being banned from men’s figure skating for life. But, as a deranged fan (Nick Swardson, Reno 911!) eventually points out, they haven’t been banned from pairs skating. That’s where the silliness becomes insanity—in a good way, of course—as Chazz and Jimmy lay their differences aside to resurrect their shattered careers by becoming the first male-male team in the history of pairs figure skating.

Blades of Glory doesn’t just, er, skate by on a funny premise. (Sorry.) It is peopled with wonderful comedians and character actors in quirky roles. Craig T. Nelson (TV’s Coach) re-enters familiar territory to play a character known only as “Coach.” Coach pushes Chazz and Jimmy to the very frontiers of their sport, teaching them a move called the Iron Lotus. At least one of the skaters crazy enough to attempt this daring trick met a sudden—and hilariously gruesome—demise, the revelation of which is one of the movie’s funniest moments.

Will Arnett (Arrested Development) and Amy Poehler (Saturday Night Live), who are married in real life, play twin skating duo Stranz and Fairchild Van Waldenberg, whose evil machinations to defeat Chazz and Jimmy are so deliciously over-the-top, they might as well grow handlebar mustaches and start tying people to railroad tracks. On the opposite end of the good-evil spectrum is their younger sister Katie (The Office’s Jenna Fischer), a goody-goody naïf whom Stranz and Fairchild emotionally manipulate into participating in their diabolical schemes.

Fischer, despite her dowdy appearance on The Office, is adorably fetching as Katie. She’s also funny, and participates in what might very well be the most painfully awkward kiss ever captured on film.

Ferrell and Heder may not be the most obvious pairing—Ferrell can do no wrong at the box office, while Heder has had a hard time ditching his Napoleon Dynamite image—but they play off each other perfectly in Blades of Glory. Will Ferrell can pull off hysterically zany comedy without ever resorting to Jim Carrey-style hamming. And Jon Heder’s timing and charm in Blades of Glory prove that he’s no one-trick pony. There’s more to him than Napoleon Dynamite.

It is pointless to attempt to engage in any serious criticism of Blades of Glory. There is nothing serious about this movie. It isn’t trying to change the world, win Academy Awards, or make a statement. It’s just a movie that will make you laugh—a lot. But in my opinion, that’s pretty important, too.

Tipping a sacred cow -- Theatre review: Inherit the Wind

“It might have been yesterday. It could be tomorrow.” So wrote playwrights Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee in the authors’ notes for their play Inherit the Wind—now playing at Waco Civic Theatre—when it was written in 1955. When they wrote those words, though, they weren’t exactly referring to the creationism/evolution debate—a milestone of which, the “Scopes monkey trial,” the play ostensibly depicts in a fictionalized account. They were obliquely referring to the aggressive anti-Communist investigations that rocked Washington and the entertainment industry during the 1950s. At the time, audiences recognized that Inherit the Wind, like The Crucible, was an allegory for the Red Scare.

But today, with the debate about what schoolchildren should be taught about the origins of humanity raging as fervently as ever, the play takes on a much more literal meaning in the minds of most playgoers. Should Darwin’s evolutionary theory be taught as scientific fact? Does the theory of creationism have any place in public schools? These questions are as relevant today as they were in 1955 or in 1925, when the Scopes trial took place. Inherit the Wind takes a rather one-sided approach to the issue, wherein lies the problem with this play: it is about as subtle as a punch on the nose.

The first half of Inherit the Wind sets up the debate: in the fictional town of Hillsboro, a biology teacher, Bertram Cates, awaits his trial for teaching evolution in the classroom, which is against the law. He is widely condemned by the townspeople, especially Rev. Jeremiah Brown, whose daughter Rachel is Cates’ girlfriend. Rachel is torn by her love of the two men. A cynical newsman, E. K. Hornbeck, comes to cover the trial, while two very prominent lawyers, prosecutor Matthew Harrison Brady and defense attorney Henry Drummond, descend on Hillsboro to argue the case. The trial takes on national significance, and the town becomes a carnival.

The townspeople of Hillsboro are portrayed as monolithic—an indistinguishable mass of brutish hicks. Unthinkingly, they damn Cates to hell because Brown tells them to. They are ignorant, mean-spirited and illiterate. (A couple of townspeople confess that they’ve never read The Origin of Species or the bible—because they can’t read. Yuk yuk!) Brady is a grandstanding buffoon, while his opponent, Drummond, is only interested in the cause of justice and the preservation of the “freedom to think.” Inherit the Wind is almost as bigoted as a minstrel show, with southern Christians as the butt of the joke. Its simplistic telling of a very complicated story does a disservice to both sides in the serious debate over what should be taught in schools about the origins of the earth and its inhabitants.

Waco Civic Theatre does an admirable job of capturing both the setting of the play and the big top atmosphere the town takes on during the trial. Designer/director George O’Connor makes the most of the theatre’s limited resources with an evocative set made primarily of white-painted wooden facades. The music is well-chosen, consisting mainly of pounding piano renditions of old Protestant hymns like “Standing on the Promises” and “The Lily of the Valley.”

The pace is brisk and sure-footed, and many of the actors are very good, particularly George Compton and James E. Johnson III as the twin towers of bombast, Brady and Drummond. However, there are some missteps that betray this production as community theater fare: inexperienced actors gesture stiffly like Vanna White presenting a vowel; picnickers eat with plastic spoons, an easily avoidable anachronism; and, strangely enough, an actor with a mostly-bald pate and a snow-white beard sports a forehead covered in thickly drawn-on black “wrinkles.”

Despite these deficiencies, in Inherit the Wind, Waco Civic Theatre has created an entertaining evening of theatre. Just don’t go expecting a nuanced look at an au courant debate. A play in which the only major female character utters the words “I haven’t ever really thought very much,” isn’t exactly progressive.

Film Review: Zodiac

This one's a little older, but, I think, a little better.

And I thought it couldn’t be done. If you’d asked me last week, I would have told you there’s no way to make a boring movie about one of the most notorious unsolved serial killer cases in U.S. history. But I would have been wrong; Zodiac is a major disappointment.

During the late 1960s and early 1970s, a serial killer crisscrossed California. He killed or maimed random victims, primarily teenagers parked in lovers’ lanes. But his real obsession was fame. The killer, who styled himself “Zodiac,” called police to report his murders and began sending letters and puzzles to major newspapers. Largely because of this successful public relations campaign, California took notice. Fear gripped the Bay area for nearly a decade, and the local police departments were made fools of as time ticked by and the killer wasn’t caught.

Zodiac is based on the book of the same name by Robert Graysmith, formerly a political cartoonist for the San Francisco Chronicle. As his newspaper is the recipient of several missives and cryptograms from the killer, Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal) gets to know the case intimately. Meanwhile, Inspectors David Toschi (Mark Ruffalo) and William Armstrong (Anthony Edwards) track down leads and several times seem to get close to solving the case, but are ultimately frustrated.

Zodiac is the long-awaited return of director David Fincher, whose most famous picture to date is Fight Club. He uses the same clipped direction and cool visual effects in Zodiac, but that’s where the similarities end. Unlike Fight Club, which is taut, clean, and suspenseful, Zodiac meanders. Subplots are brought up but never resolved. Characters are introduced for no apparent reason. One wonders whether Fincher ever watched his final cut.

Jake Gyllenhaal, who is a very competent actor, is hopelessly miscast as Graysmith. He is at least ten years too young for the part, and looks five years younger than he actually is. And, inexplicably, he spends the entire movie sporting a 2007 haircut and 1994 clothes.

During the second act of the movie, the filmmakers seem to forget about Graysmith. The action focuses on Toschi and Armstrong’s investigation. Did Gyllenhaal go on vacation? If so, would that he had stayed away. This part of the film is far more interesting than the scenes that focus on Graysmith’s fruitless obsession with Zodiac.

One of the most egregious problems with Zodiac is that we never identify with the victims. We are introduced to them only very briefly, and they come across as strange and unlikable. The young lovers seem not to particularly like each other. The audience doesn’t feel the victims’ panic and terror, which would have added a spark of humanity to an otherwise cold film. But everything about Zodiac is conducted at arm’s length.

When someone announces they’re going to make a film about an unsolved case, the natural question to ask is, “How will it end?” The answer, in this instance, is, “With a whimper.” When the Zodiac case goes cold, Graysmith’s obsession with it increases, to the detriment of his personal life. But it’s too late. The audience doesn’t really know Graysmith and has no reason to care about him. The final third of the film focuses on his personal investigation, which at some point turns into research for a nonfiction book. Watching someone conduct research for a book—now there’s fodder for absorbing cinema!

Ultimately, Zodiac is disappointing because it could have been so good. Mark Ruffalo gives a nuanced, quirky performance, as do Robert Downey Jr. as Paul Avery, the Chronicle’s lead crime reporter, and Brian Cox as Melvin Belli, an attorney who accidentally gets drawn into the case. It’s also nice to see the talented Anthony Edwards again.

Zodiac has good dialogue and great music, and its subject matter has fascinated people for nearly 40 years. But it lacks cohesiveness and, like so many movies today, is far too long. Fincher missed out on an opportunity to make a timeless thriller that captures the terror of a city held at gunpoint by a madman. Instead, he made a dull procedural about cops and newsmen who, at the end of the day, failed to get their man.

Film Review - 300

Hi, gang. I'm writing movie reviews now for one of my classes. Fun, huh? Why work when you can do this for no money? Let me know what you think. There was lots of stuff I could have gone into here, but I have a word limit...


It should come as no surprise that 300 is reaping box office gold. The film is a startlingly stylish, artfully crafted retelling of one of history’s really great stories. It’s based on Frank Miller’s popular graphic novels, but don’t go to 300 expecting a comic book. What you’ll see will more closely resemble a spoken-word opera.

Set in the Greek city-state of Sparta in 480 B.C., 300 is the story of King Leonidas’ personal battle--some might call it a suicide mission--against Xerxes, the powerful “god-king” of Persia.
Sparta has an intensely patriotic and heroic view of itself as a society. Strength and courage are its most highly prized virtues, and soldiers dream of dying valiantly on the battlefield at the hand of an honorable foe. Little boys are taken away from their families and put through brutal training regimes and, when they get older, terrifying initiations. The result is an uber-elite fighting force--these are not just soldiers, they are warriors.

Leonidas, the king, is as tough as any of them. When King Xerxes of Persia sends an envoy demanding Sparta pay a tribute, the money isn’t the issue. Self-respect is. Leonidas refuses to submit to the more powerful king, even though he knows it will mean war. Face is everything in Sparta.

But the king does not have absolute authority; he must work with a council of representatives. The council refuses to send troops for a war with Persia, so Leonidas acts on his own authority, taking his 300 personal bodyguards to meet the Persians at the Hot Gates (Thermopylae).

300 was written and directed by Zack Snyder, who has only a handful of credits to his name, the most recognizable being his 2004 Dawn of the Dead remake. After his masterful work on 300, it is likely we will be hearing his name a lot more often.

Shot in front of blue screens and worked on in post-production for over a year, 300 is a design showpiece from the opening logo to the end credits. Color is used to perfectly beautiful effect--armor and endless wheat fields gleam in a watery, grainy gold sunlight while deep crimson robes ripple and pop on the wind. And then there are the bodies. Loincloths and heavy trains seem mighty impractical for fighting, but they sure do highlight those eight-pack abs nicely.

But who cares what the Spartans really wore into battle? 300 is not about historical accuracy. It’s about history as we wish it had been: clear-cut, black-and-white, and wonderfully heroic. Our own times seem full of uncertainties and moral gray areas, so it is refreshingly empowering to imagine ourselves a past free of ambiguity and doubt, to immerse ourselves in a culture that can look death in the eye without flinching.

The genius of 300 is that it is something we haven’t seen before. The beautiful, unusual styling, heightened drama, and heroic storytelling make for an experience far more visceral than what one usually experiences at the movies. It’s more akin to theater, and the influence of the classical Greek tragedies can be clearly seen. But theater doesn’t have technology like this. 300 is Greek tragedy on steroids. Zack Snyder may have created a new genre--the video game opera.