Movie Review: "Godzilla" (Gareth Edwards, 2014)

KAIJU BLUE BALLS by Mo Shaunette

Above: Godzilla

 

I’m gonna be honest, I wasn’t terribly excited for this one. Don’t get me wrong, I have a fondness for Godzilla. A staple of my adolescence was renting Godzilla movies on VHS, suffering through the boring human drama, loving the goofy monster fights, then rewinding the whole darn thing and watching it again. However, the initial trailers for 2014’s American “Godzilla” were less than enticing, selling a movie where Bryan Cranston is trying to prove that the King of the Monsters is real. Don’t get me wrong, I love both of those elements; I just didn’t think they’d make for a satisfying Godzilla movie. 

            Then I saw a later trailer that had actual other monsters in it, and I was like, “Okay, I’m in.”

            Gareth Edwards’ “Godzilla” follows Aaron Taylor-Johnson as Lt. Ford Brody, a U.S. Navy bomb technician whose reunion with his wife Elle (Elizabeth Olsen) and son Sam (Carson Bolde) is cut short by the antics of his father, Joe (Bryan Cranston). Chiefly, those antics involve Joe searching a quarantined zone in Japan, trying to discover the real source of a nuclear meltdown that killed his wife fifteen years prior.

            Soon, said source is revealed to be a giant radiation-eating monster designated a MUTO (short for Massive Unidentified Terrestrial Organism), whom I have nicknamed Cletus. Coincidentally, Cletus reawakens in the present and cuts a new path of destruction across the Pacific Rim, putting the Brody boys and the rest of the planet in danger. However, monster expert Dr. Serizawa (Ken Watanabe) believes there’s one thing that can stop Cletus: Godzilla, an even bigger monster who seems to awaken for the sole purpose of killing MUTOs and restoring balance to the world.

            If there’s one thing Mr. Edwards gets right, it’s composing evocative shots (with the help of cinematographer Seamus McGarvey). The monsters are largely seen in synecdoche, with mere evidence of their destructive rampages standing in for proper shots of them. It’s a style that’s very effective in building tension and making you believe that monsters like Cletus exist and are a threat to the world.

            And then Godzilla shows up and reminds us why he’s the King.

            Make no mistake, everyone on this production has nothing but the highest reverence for the Big G. His appearances are framed as comparable to the Second Coming, and he looks like exactly what you’d want a 160 million dollar Toho Monster to look like—his every detail is brought to life lovingly by the effects, the cinematography, and Alexandre Desplat’s score. He is an icon, and Mr. Edwards makes sure that the audience knows it.

            Unfortunately, in between appearances from Godzilla, we have to spend time with the Brodys, who are terribly dull. Ford in particular just feels like a blank-slate audience surrogate. Which would be fine if he was surrounded by interesting characters, but we’re meant to idolize and pin our affections on this all-American soldier/family man played by a Brit, and the character just falls flat. What’s more, Aaron Taylor-Johnson seems to be on auto-pilot through the whole thing. At least Ms. Olsen looks like she showed up for work; Mr. Taylor-Johnson seems to have left whatever energy or personality he had on the set of “Kick-Ass”.

Also, the Brodys’ position isn’t helped by an uninspired screenplay (by Max Borenstein) that feels like it was borrowed from a million other disaster movies. And though the movie could’ve still worked since the monster fights are so spectacular, we spend over half the movie with the Brodys and it’s just a letdown every time we cut from intense kaiju-vs.-kaiju action to them.

            These problems make it more painful that there’s a good movie hanging around in the shadows of “Godzilla.” Dr. Serizawa in particular turns out to be a much more interesting character than our protagonist. That’s not a difficult feat, sure, but Mr. Watanabe breathes character into every moment of screen time he has. He takes a character who exists mostly for exposition and infuses him with simultaneous fear, awe, and reverence for Godzilla, as if he really is looking upon the scaly face of God. He could have made a compelling protagonist but no, instead we get a movie about Lt. Boring trying to get back to his wife, Mrs. Boring.

            And yet, I’d still give “Godzilla” a recommendation, if for no other reason than for the wonder and amazement of seeing the King of the Monsters come to life on the big screen. If you can suffer through the boring human parts to get to the kaiju clashes, then I recommend seeing this spectacle in cinemas. If plot and character are big deal breakers, however, maybe save this one for your home theatre.

Movie Review: "X-Men: Days of Future Past" (Bryan Singer, 2014)

SAVE THE WORLD, SAVE THE SERIES by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Nicholas Hoult and James McAvoy return as Hank McCoy and Charles Xavier

 

Logan.  Charles.  Erik.  Scott.  Hank.  Raven.  Jean.  Ever since I first fell in love with the “X-Men” movies, those names have been moored in my mind.  There are plenty of reasons to esteem these characters, not least of which is their coolly assorted superpowers (including, but not limited to, mind-reading and shape-shifting).  But it’s more than that.  In the comics and the films that have adapted them, the X-Men may have been referred to as mutants, but they’ve always been recognizably human—lonely, bickering, and ever in need of connection.

            At first, “X-Men: Days of Future Past” seems destined to further that dark disposition (in the film’s opening scene, we see a crowd of mutant prisoners, looking as tortured and desperate as Holocaust victims).  But quickly and somewhat disappointingly, the movie morphs into one of the series’ lighter affairs, complete with bright colors, goofy jokes, and an oddly jolly tone.

            As someone who prefers the “X-Men” movies when they’re at their darkest and most cerebral, I’m slightly miffed.  Yet if “Days of Future Past” is less substantial than some of its predecessors, it’s still the franchise’s finest adventure in half a decade.  Some of the rich subtext about persecution and prejudice may have vanished, but the artistry of director Bryan Singer hasn’t—aided by a fantastically nimble cast and crew (including composer-editor John Ottman and cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel), he has made a sleek and satisfying popcorn picture with emotional conviction to spare.

            Zipping along at top speed, “Days of Future Past” begins in the year 2023, in which Earth has been devastated by an army of mutant-hunting robots known as the Sentinels.  At first, the situation seems hopeless—in one battle alone, the Sentinels slaughter a group of mutant refugees and the clever Kitty Pryde (Ellen Page) just barely escapes (“Too late, assholes,” she grimaces as the Sentinels lose her trail).

            But not all is lost.  Soon, Kitty reunites with the other X-Men, who concoct a bizarre scheme for survival—sending the hairy, bad-tempered Logan (Hugh Jackman, playing the character to grumpy perfection for the seventh time) back to 1973 to stop the Sentinels from being created in the first place (according to the movie, evil-robot-building was quite popular during the Nixon administration).

            That bygone year is where “Days of Future Past” spends most of its running time and Mr. Singer clearly relishes playing with period details (particularly in the hair and makeup department).  Yet he’s more interested in Logan’s attempts to reunite the fractured friends Charles Xavier (James McAvoy) and Erik Lensherr (Michael Fassbender)—powerful mutants who parted company in a previous X-film (Matthew Vaughn’s “X-Men: First Class”). 

Charles and Erik are Logan’s only hope for precluding the ascension of the Sentinels and the film spotlights the high-minded squabbling between these (somewhat) friendly adversaries.  Charles rags on Erik’s genocidal impulses; Erik berates Charles right back for his failure to support his “mutant brothers.”  “We were supposed to protect them!” he roars, the force of his wrath literally shaking the room. 

            In that moment, the real heart of “Days of Future Past” bursts forth.  Erik’s outrage is cathartically appealing, but the scene still reminds us that even though Charles is a deadbeat (he’s addicted to some kind of strange, high-tech drug), his compassion will make him a better man than Erik once he chooses to use it.  And that’s what Logan wants—for Charles to emerge from his gloomy reverie and take his destined place as a leader and inspiration for oppressed mutants everywhere.

            I wish that “Days of Future Past” had handled his journey with more finesse.  Mr. Singer has a gift for saying more with beautiful pictures than words (as he did in his two masterpieces, “X2” and “Superman Returns”).  But here, he relies too heavily on Simon Kinberg’s screenplay which, though alive with zesty banter, feels blandly therapeutic at times.  A long take where the camera stares into Charles’ eyes makes for a meaningful moment, but there are too many scenes where the man grouses verbally about his failings, boring us with his obviousness.

            And yet…such flaws are as easy to forgive as the villainous and increasingly likable Erik (let Mr. Fassbender near a film set and he can’t help but make movie magic).  Because while Mr. Singer has journeyed far beyond his indie thriller roots, “Days of Future Past” still has the eloquence of his breakout feature (the Sundance prize-winner “Public Access”).

Just look at how Mr. Singer bookends the movie with scenes of Logan waking up and hearing “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” playing on the radio.  The first time, the song rings with giddy amusement because Logan is in bed with a gangster’s daughter.  But at the end, it’s different—Logan awakens alone, only to find his fellow X-Men, his friends, close by.  And it’s a sweet moment because he truly loves them, this messy group of heroes who are just trying to survive, like we all are.

Profile: Bryan Singer

THE ONCE AND FUTURE X-MAN by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Mr. Singer at the San Diego Comic-Con in 2013

In every respect, the director Bryan Singer looks approachable.  His blockbuster brothers-in-arms Sam Raimi and Christopher Nolan may love neat suits, but Mr. Singer is more casual—he has a penchant for flannel shirts and warm-up jackets.  And while the architect glasses he’s been wearing in recent years make him look a little imperious, they’re countered by the way words spew out of his mouth—quickly and nervously, as if his body can’t quite contain his boyish energy.

            Yet appearances can be deceiving.   And if Mr. Singer seems easygoing in interviews (he chooses his words less carefully than Mr. Nolan), his movies tells a different story.  Serious and poetic, they are the work of a visual mastermind, a man whose vision depends entirely on meticulous shots, whether they’re of a hand lighting a cigarette or a plane flopping down on a baseball field.  And behind those images is something less tangible but equally important—deep, unabiding passion and sincerity.  That is what Mr. Singer has sought and developed through his films, in an extraordinary career that is still astonishingly young.

            And it all started with war movies.

            Bryan Singer was born on September 17^TH 1965 in New York City and was adopted by Grace Sinden and Norbert David Singer (no information has ever been revealed about his biological parents).  He grew up, however, in West Windsor Township, New Jersey and from the start, it was clear that he was different.  He struggled in school, yet his zeal for film was obvious and was evidenced by the time he spent making World War II movies with his friends (one of whom, Christopher McQuarrie, would grow up to be one of Mr. Singer’s most faithful collaborators).

            Throughout his college years, Mr. Singer’s directorial devotion survived.  But two things in particular solidified his creative path.  First, he met and formed a partnership with the brilliant editor and composer John Ottman at USC; and second, he wrote and directed a scary and sad short called “Lion’s Den”—a project that inspired investors to back his first feature, the small-town chiller “Public Access.”

As it happened, “Public Access” won the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival in 1993 and Mr. Singer soon capitalized on its success by directing two star-studded thrillers, “The Usual Suspects” and “Apt Pupil.”  Yet while both were intriguing and entertaining (“The Usual Suspects” won Oscars for Kevin Spacey’s performance and Mr. McQuarrie’s screenplay), something was missing.  Yes, the two films were suspenseful, but they lacked emotion—there was a coldness that made them feel more clever than human.  And they raised the question—was Mr. Singer still capable of the artistic empathy he displayed in “Lion’s Den”?  Or had he become a cynical puppeteer, playing movies as if they were a dark game?

            In other words, it was time to try something new.

            Growing up, Mr. Singer loved fantastical entertainments like “Star Trek,” “Star Wars,” and “Jaws” (seeing an interview with Steven Spielberg on TV was what showed him, as he recently explained, that “a nerdy…kid could do this [filmmaking]”).  Yet despite a passionate love for Richard Donner’s 1978 movie “Superman,” Mr. Singer had never cared for superheroes.  So when Twentieth Century Fox approached him about directing the comic book adaptation “X-Men,” he declined the assignment.

            Yet the story didn’t end there.  One of Mr. Singer’s best friends, Tom DeSanto, happened to be a massive X-fan and tried to convince his friend that “X-Men” (a series about a race of mutant superheroes cast out of society) was a story worth telling.  The saga’s main characters, Professor X and Magneto, he explained, were like Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X—passionate leaders trying to fix the same problem (prejudice), but in very different ways. 

Transfixed by this notion, Mr. Singer began reading comics and preparing to direct the film—something that just barely helped him survive a brutally fast and torturous production schedule (with Mr. Ottman unavailable, Mr. Singer clashed with his new editors, at one point smashing a bottle against the editing room wall when they refused to follow his instructions).  Almost four years passed between his agreement to direct “X-Men” and the film’s opening day and for a while, he worried that it might be the last blockbuster he’d ever be allowed to direct.

In retrospect, the result of his efforts seems strangely modest.  Released on July 14^TH 2000, “X-Men” had few fight scenes and a relatively low-key idea of drama.  Yet the film’s smallness gave it a beautifully intimate scope and an intensity that made it deeply human.  And more to the point, it was filled with the emotion that had eluded Mr. Singer on “The Usual Suspects” and “Apt Pupil.”  Not only did the ideological battle between Professor X (Patrick Stewart) and Magneto (Ian McKellen) grant the film gravitas, but there was something especially tender in the scenes between Logan (Hugh Jackman) and Rogue (Anna Paquin), the movie’s surrogate father-daughter pair.

Needless to say, “X-Men” was an unconventional blockbuster, especially because of its bizarre visual eloquence (the film’s opening scene took place in a Nazi death camp so grimy and gray that it looked like it had been filmed in black and white).  Yet the movie was also a box office success—on a $75 million budget, it grossed over $296 million worldwide, setting a precedent for a new generation of serious-minded comic book adaptations (the “Spider-Man” and “Dark Knight” trilogies soon followed).  On some level, “X-Men” reached people and hence, Mr. Singer signed up for its sequel, “X2.”

Mr. Singer has already said plenty about the madness of making his second mutant movie (at one point, he and Mr. DeSanto got into an argument that put the entire production behind schedule).  And yet “X2” was in every way superior to its predecessor.  Longer (it was Mr. Singer’s first film to exceed two hours), larger, and more violent, it accrued unstoppable momentum by adopting a more complex storyline—that of a militaristic genocide and the X-Men on the run, desperate to survive.

In other words, the stakes had been raised.  But Mr. Singer didn’t just make his sequel bigger and better—he also made it more tragic and empathetic.  In the first film, Logan had scuffled with the shape-shifter Mystique (Rebecca Romijn) to non-fatal effect.  But in “X2” when Logan fights the brainwashed assassin Yuriko Oyama (Kelly Hu), it’s different—the showdown is grotesque and replete with the two warriors stabbing each other repeatedly.  And just when Logan seems to have won, Yuriko lunges out of a water tank, sinking her claws into her opponent’s skin like some vicious sea creature.

But then, something happens.  Desperate and barely breathing, Logan grasps a tube of liquid metal…and injects its contents into Yuriko’s body.  Then, he watches as trails of some silvery substance run out from under her eyelids, staining her smooth face like tears.  The finishing touch?  Mr. Ottman’s music on the soundtrack—a lone, mournful voice, crying out.

That moment is a crux of Mr. Singer’s legacy.  He never tells you anything about Yuriko—she only speaks a few words in the film doesn’t have anything resembling an “origin story.”  But through images and sounds alone, Mr. Singer and his team make you care about her as her body sinks back to the bottom of that tiny water tank, alone. 

            At the box office, “X2” was even more successful than “X-Men,” advancing well into the $400 million range worldwide.  Yet pre-production was anything but smooth on “X3.”  Mr. Singer wanted more money for the film’s budget than Fox was willing to allow and as a result of the disagreement, he began to doubt whether the movie could even be completed on time. 

Little did he know, however, that at the same time a planned Superman film was languishing at Warner Bros.  The studio had hired a series of filmmakers for the project, culminating in their latest disaster—director McG (“Charlie’s Angels”) effectively resigning by simply not showing up for a location scout.  As a result, the Warner execs were faced with the reality of having wasted millions on a film that hadn’t even gone before the cameras yet.

            The studio, however, had a backup plan to retrace their contractual footsteps.  Years ago, they had offered Mr. Singer the director’s chair, only to see him balk at the script (by soon-to-be “Star Trek”/”Star Wars” maven J.J. Abrams).  But this time, mired in pre-production difficulties at Fox, he accepted the challenge of resurrecting the most famous superhero of all time.

            Why, exactly, did Mr. Singer embrace a project that had flummoxed so many?  The financial disagreements on “X3” certainly provided a reason.  Yet mostly, I think the decision arose from his creative impulsiveness.  After all, he had always stuck to his own, brazenly individualistic path, even when it meant turning down high-profile projects like “The Devil’s Own” (a 1900s thriller starring Harrison Ford and Brad Pitt).  So while sticking with “X-Men,” a franchise that he already understood and connected with, might have been the smarter career choice, Mr. Singer couldn’t resist the call of his longtime love for Superman.

            Soon, the pieces of the production fell into place.  Actors like Brandon Routh, Kate Bosworth, and Kevin Spacey were recruited; longtime Singer collaborators like Mr. Ottman and Newton Thomas Sigel joined their friend in defecting from the X-Men universe; “X2” writers Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris penned a fresh screenplay for the movie (titled “Superman Returns”); and a $250 million budget (at the time, a record-setter) was doled out by the studio, allowing Mr. Singer to build a massive epic replete with icy vistas and lush scenes in outer space.

            It’s already history that despite this wondrous opulence, “Superman Returns” was a financial failure, a two-and-a-half hour opus that never connected with many moviegoers.  Yet it remains Mr. Singer’s second best film after “X2,” not least because of the lonely scenes of Mr. Routh’s Superman soaring sadly above the fictional city of Metropolis.  Through those moments and more, Mr. Singer made the movie not only an ode to Superman’s old-fashioned humor and romanticism, but an evocation of the character’s pain and longing.  To fly with this Superman was to feel his desperation, and the experience was not depressing, but heart-openingly cathartic.

            Such achievements make it painful to hear Mr. Singer’s apologies for the film (“I think I could lop the first quarter off and start the movie more aggressively,” he hedged in an interview with Empire magazine).  But did he ever consider that the world simply wasn’t ready for his movie?  After all, “Superman Returns” is more unconventional than many people realize.  Most blockbusters spoon-feed audiences the soul of their characters, packaging them neatly in slick one-liners.  But “Returns” is an often-silent visual poem that asks you to simply look into Superman’s eyes and understand everything he feels—his loneliness, his love, and his determination to be the chivalrous, peace-loving man he has always been, even if the world has changed around him.

            Last year, Mr. Singer took to the stage at Montreal’s Fantasia Film Festival for an interview presentation entitled “Rated X: An Evening With Bryan Singer.”  At the time, he was busy with his latest project (“X-Men: Days of Future Past,” his return engagement to the mutant universe), yet he hardly seemed tired.  Instead, he was jokey, self-deprecating, and eager to talk about his life and work.  “Where are you?” he would abruptly ask each time an audience member posed a question, as if compelled to look them in the eye.

            Perhaps he was glad to be back in the spotlight as well; after all, in recent years, he’d been in a strange kind of limbo.  In the wake of “Superman Returns,” he’d directed two more movies, one wonderful (the intricate WWII thriller “Valkyrie”) and one awful (the trashy fantasy “Jack the Giant Slayer”).  Like “Returns,” both films had underperformed financially, but life hadn’t slowed for Mr. Singer—he’d kept busy directing television pilots, overseeing the web series “H+,” and writing at his favorite spot, the Coffee Bean in Hawaii.  And, with “Days of Future Past,” he’d accepted the grandest and most expensive assignment of his career.

            Tomorrow when the movie is released, we’ll know if the gamble paid off.  But Mr. Singer has already skipped the pre-opening day blitz.  He didn’t really have a choice—a lawsuit against him alleging sexual abuse (his accuser is the actor Michael Egan) has made him a publicity liability.  But while a hearing on the case is scheduled for July, Mr. Singer has already spoken out.  “The allegations against me are outrageous, vicious, and completely false,” he said in a recent statement (this week, Mr. Singer’s lawyer filed for the case to be dismissed).

            Still, Mr. Singer has other things on his mind as well.  If “Days of Future Past” turns a profit, there’s a good chance he’ll be directing its sequel (“X-Men: Apocalypse,” slated for May 27^TH 2016).  And on a more personal note, he recently revealed to Out magazine that he’s bisexual (before adding, “I emotionally lean towards male relationships, so I’m happy to say I’m gay, too…."). 

Beyond that, little about Mr. Singer remains known.  He seems to have a core group of creative comrades, including Mr. Ottman and Jason Taylor (who runs his production company, Bad Hat Harry).  Yet his films are profoundly infused with isolation and sadness.  Do they reflect how Mr. Singer feels?  I wonder.  Just as with actors, it’s hard not to speculate about how directors are reflected in their movies, how their lives shape their work.

Then again, Mr. Singer’s films have plenty of power on their own.  And if you want meaning or feeling, you need only look to the very scenes he directs, whether they’re of Superman bathed in hopeful sunlight, or Logan on top of the Statue of Liberty, holding Rogue close to him, above the lights of New York. 

Movie Review: "Neighbors" (Nicholas Stoller, 2014)

GROWING UP (AND COMEDY) IS HARD TO DO by Mo Shaunette

Above: Zac Efron cooks up some trouble as a frat boy in "Neighbors"

 

You know what makes me feel old?  It’s not stuff like the fact “Mean Girls” is ten years old, or that Blockbuster Video no longer exists, or even that the Baskin-Robins near my house is out of business.  No, that one’s just sad.  What makes me feel old is the fact that Seth Rogen, the poster child (or man-child) for stoner comedies of the 21st Century, is playing a put-upon suburban dad in a movie.  The times, my friends, they are a’ changing.

To be fair, this dissonance is part of the point of “Neighbors.”  Growing up and accepting maturity is the theme of the movie, which may be the most surprising thing about it: that it’s an R-rated college comedy that has a consistent theme at all.  But it’s there and it works.  “Neighbors” stars Seth Rogen and Rose Byrne as parents living in peaceful suburbia with their infant daughter, quietly lamenting that their days of careless drinking and partying are now behind them.  Yet they see a shot at youthful fun again when a fraternity, led by Teddy (Zac Efron) and Pete (Dave Franco), moves in next door.  Unfortunately, a misunderstanding creates a rivalry between the two parties, escalating to harassment, sabotage, and pranks that threaten the sanctity of the fraternity and the sanity of the parents.

That said, it’s the audience’s sanity that really matters.  When a comedy is reviewed, there’s really only one question to ask: is it funny?  In the case of “Neighbors,” the answer is “Yeah, mostly.”  The hit/miss ratio for jokes is about 60/40.  Seth Rogen is still playing Seth Rogen and he brings his usual flavor of funny to the proceedings, while Ms. Byrne (who has only a few comedies to her credit) keeps pace with him surprisingly well.  In addition, Dave Franco and Ike Barinholtz (as Mr. Rogen’s friend) make good in supporting roles, but the show is ultimately stolen by Zac Efron as the fraternity president Teddy.  Frat movies are often about stereotypically hard-partying losers, but Mr. Efron makes Teddy into something more—a character who loves and buys into Greek life so fervently that he’s pained by the prospect of having to graduate and become a functioning member of society.

Beyond the performances of “Neighbors,” the only other thing left to talk about is the direction.  The movie comes to us from Nicholas Stoller, late of the surprisingly heartfelt “Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” the pretty okay “Get Him to the Greek,” and the fairly forgettable “The Five Year Engagement.”  In other words, he knows his way around a comedy.  Yet what’s surprising is the way frames the party scenes.  They provide the over-the-top fun you’d expect from frat bacchanals, but they sometimes turn on a dime into tense, unsettling peeks into a house where unnervingly bad behavior is completely routine.  As a result, the scenes become kinetic and interesting, without slowing down the story.  It's something unexpected but not unwelcome in the movie.

And that’s pretty much it.  Forgive the brevity, but at the end of it all, I don’t have much to say about “Neighbors” beyond that it’s a pretty good comedy.  It might promise new career prospects for Mr. Efron and the other Franco and it does let Mr. Stoller flex his directing muscles, but there’s not much else to say.  Give it a look-see if you want a few laughs.

Movie Review: "Son of Batman" (Ethan Spaulding, 2014)

UNWORTHY HEIR by Mo Shaunette

Above: father and son in the latest animated Batman adventure
 

The DC Universe Animated Original Movies have (for me, at least) been a steady source of entertainment, bringing beloved stories and quality animation to the small screen for years.  Entries like “Batman: Year One” and “Superman vs. the Elite” are outstanding features, in some cases better than their higher-profile live-action counterparts.  Sadly, the latest entry into the DCUAOM (weird acronym), “Son of Batman,” doesn’t live up to the legacy set by its predecessors.

Based on the recent “Batman and Son” comics by Grant Morrison and Andy Kubert, “Son of Batman,” if nothing else, lives up to its title.  The hook?  That the Caped Crusader (voiced here by Jason O’Mara) learns that he fathered an illegitimate son, Damian, with his on-again/off-again girlfriend/enemy Talia al-Ghul (Morena Baccarin).  But when a coup erupts within the notorious League of Assassins, Damian is forced to go into hiding with Daddy while Mommy sorts things out with the League’s new man in charge, Deathstroke (Thomas Gibson).

To be frank, this is where the film’s faults begin.  In the comics, Deathstoke was never affiliated with the League of Assassins; he was U.S. soldier-turned-mercenary.  So why use him?  There’s a million other assassins that could have acted as the villain. But I digress….

Beyond that, the meat of this story is Bruce Wayne’s relationship with his son, particularly in regards to how Damian has been raised to think like an assassin rather than a normal ten-year-old (and how he condones violence and murder because that’s what his teachers have raised him to believe in).  And this is one of the major failing points of the movie.  It’s not a fault of the voice acting (Stuart Allen does a fine job in the role of Damian), but rather of the writing.

See, there are two main facets to Damian.  The first is on the surface: that he is an aristocratic, spoiled brat who impulsively condescends to his elders.  The second is the fact that Damian secretly has the same insecurities that any ten-year-old has: he wants friends, he wants to have fun, and more than anything, he wants to make his dad proud.  Yet while “Son of Batman” gets the first facet down perfectly, the second feels underdeveloped, so much so that by the time Damian completes his character arc, it feels woefully unfinished.

That said, the film’s presentation of its villain is even worse.  Deathstroke may have wormed his way into being an A-List adversary in the DC Comics (which is likely the only reason he was included in this flick), but “Son of Batman” makes him seem bland and underwritten.  Instead of the quiet (and not-so-quiet) rage that Manu Bennett gave the character in the television series “Arrow” or the subtle but genuine menace of Ron Perlman’s Deathstroke in the animated “Teen Titans,” Thomas Gibson’s version in the new film feels like a high school bully—like Biff Tannen is doing his best impression of a Bond villain.  His dialogue is awkward and forced and Mr. Gibson fails to infuse the character with any personality.

Thankfully, the rest of the cast and characters are, at the very least, serviceable.  Jason O’Mara manages to make Caped Crusader his own (without imitating the once-and-future animated Batman, Kevin Conroy); Morena Baccarin makes an okay Talia when she’s given anything to do besides exposit; Giancarlo Esposito is a great Ra’s al-Ghul (for the ten minutes of screen time the character has); and Sean Maher and David McCallum make lasting impressions as Bat-allies Nightwing and Alfred (though that may be because their purpose is to insult the titular son of Batman when he needs it).

Alas, none of these talents are enough to save the movie.  Much as it pains me to say it, “Son of Batman” may be a bit too comic-booky.  I’m more than willing to suspend my disbelief for the sake of story, but there’s limits.  Yes, I’ll buy that the League of Assassins has an army of man-bats, that guys with swords can beat guys with guns, and even that Talia has to show off her cleavage all the time for some reason.  But some of the film’s fight scenes are just too much.  Case in point—a battle between Damian and a bodyguard built like "Predator"-era Schwarzenegger that bafflingly looks like someone shooting rubber bands at a brick wall to knock it down.

Thus, “Son of Batman” is one of the lesser entries into the DC Animated line-up.  And even if it does have some solid action to go with its mostly good animation, it mishandles the introduction of one popular character and botches the representation of another.  If you’re a diehard Bat-fan or someone looking for a window into Grant Morrison’s now-famous run on the character, I recommend you check it out.  But otherwise, I suggest you read the comics proper or watch one of the other great Batman stories DC has put to film.

10th Anniversary Review: "Mean Girls" (Mark Waters, 2004)

STILL MEAN, STILL CLEAN by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Lindsay Lohan and Amanda Seyfried in Mr. Waters' film

 

It’s been ten years since “Mean Girls,” Mark Waters’ pop ode to teenaged nastiness, splashed across movie scenes.  At the time, it was a hit; now, it’s a phenomenon.  According to The New York Times, people tweet about the film almost non-stop and there are several spin-offs in development. 

            And yet…I can’t help feeling uneasy.  I won’t deny that “Mean Girls” is a popular film (and also a well-reviewed one).  But in the rapturous anecdotes of cast members explaining how the movie positively affected people’s lives, I think there’s something incredibly disingenuous.  Perhaps Mr. Waters and his cast and crew really did intend to create a morally upright movie, but I think the result of their efforts really just celebrates noxious cruelty, without even the integrity to recognize its own depravity.

            Early in the story, the seeds of this poison are planted.  “Mean Girls” is about Cady Heron (Lindsay Lohan), a young girl who enters high school after being homeschooled most of her life.  Initially, she feels happy hanging out with a couple of outcasts (Lizzy Caplan and Daniel Franzesse).  Yet to her surprise, she’s scooped up by a ferociously popular clique lead by Regina George (Rachel McAdams) and thereby absorbed into the highest social stratosphere of the school.

            If “Mean Girls” were like any other movie, this premise might have popped like cheap bubble gum.  Yet instead, it turns into an almost gladiatorial battle.  Cady’s other friends hold a vendetta against Regina and so, they help Cady execute a meticulous plan to destroy Regina’s life by alienating her from her friends and (in what is perhaps the greatest insult to such a vain character) wrecking her perfect body.

            Needless to say, this is the best part of the film; watching it, I couldn’t help taking some savage glee in seeing someone as awful as Regina manipulated and humiliated.  Why?  Because Cady destroys Regina that way we all want to hurt the people who hurt us.  She doesn’t take the proverbial high road; she attacks Regina by playing Regina’s own game of lies and intimidation.  Except by now, Cady has become the real master, a skillful practitioner of intricate social sabotage and prank calls who spins everyone into her suffocating web.

            In other words, Cady goes from being an innocent heroine to a Vader-worthy monster.  And she is a complex character, one who makes you admire Tina Fey (who adapted the movie from Rosalind Wiseman’s book “Queen Bees and Wannabes”) for creating one of the rare truly depraved characters in mainstream youth cinema.  The really remarkable thing?  That she did it in an industry that usually only permits bad behavior from men.  Cady, after all, is no thoughtless teenager.  She’s a clever, confident young woman and if she resembles anyone, it’s Jordan Belfort in “The Wolf of Wall Street.”

            Which brings us to the crux of the matter.  One of the things that “Mean Girls” and “The Wolf of Wall Street” have in common is that both they turn rule-breaking cruelty into a garish, giddy spectacle.  Yet what makes “Wolf” such a deeply sincere film is that it doesn’t pretend to be wholesome; in the end, its “hero” is just as wretched as he was at the beginning.  Yet “Mean Girls” attempts to stage a sincere, noble reconciliation—as if to assure parents and their children that yes, this movie is good for you.

            For me, that’s what blows the film.  How can a movie truly make you believe in redemption when it spends so much of its running time dwelling on the opposite?  It can’t, which is why even the would-be climax of “Mean Girls” gets shattered by narrative idiocy.  It all starts in the gym, where all the girls at school air their grievances, culminating with a tearful Regina finding out about Cady’s long-running plan to sabotage her.  Then, she runs from the school…and gets hit by a bus.  “And that’s how Regina George died,” Cady tells us. 

Except she doesn’t.  Miraculously, Regina recovers in time to attend the school’s Spring Fling dance, where Cady is crowned queen.  And unlike Eve in “All About Eve,” Cady doesn’t revel monstrously in the honor of eclipsing her compatriots.  Having learned the error of her ways, she snaps her plastic crown into several pieces, tossing them out to her fellow students, including Regina. Apparently, we can all live in a boring, implausible utopia as long as good queen Lindsay Lohan rules over us all.

            On paper, the crown-breaking does sound poetic and moving (and I think a great director could have made it so).  But I still doubt the movie’s sincerity.  Who cares about Cady’s redemption?  Not me; the movie makes being bad look infinitely more fun.  And while Cady rediscovers her own goodness, I don’t believe that’s why anyone watches the film.  Above all, “Mean Girls” cares about the artful deviousness of its heroine and as a result, you do too.

Essay: Death and Superheroes

LOVE AFTER DEATH by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Gwen Stacy (Emma Stone) in "The Amazing Spider-Man 2"

 

Gwen Stacy is dead.  After loyally standing by her superhero in two films, the smart-beautiful girlfriend of Spider-Man finally met her end last week in “The Amazing Spider-Man 2.”  And it was painful to watch, not only because seeing her killed felt like losing a friend, but because the scene was so clumsily crafted.  Realized in ludicrous slow motion, the moment when Gwen fatally falls off the top of an ornate tower felt cheesy—something only amplified by the fact that it was barely reflected upon.  All it took was a montage of moping for Spidey to get over the loss and go back to slamming super-thugs.

            And yet, as anyone who has read the Spider-Man comic books knows, that’s not how it was meant to be.  In the original comic in which Gwen dies (1973’s “The Night Gwen Stacy Died,” by Gerry Conway and Gil Kane), her death is at once tragic and thought-provoking.  Why?  Because Mr. Conway and Mr. Kane made it more than just a loss—the used it as an opportunity to investigate the mixture of romantic love, gray morality, and total machismo that defines the best and most complicated examples of superhero fiction.

            Already, the details of their issue are worthily legendary (one of the reasons Spider-Man fails to save Gwen is that his reactions are dulled by a bout of the flu).  Yet it’s the aftermath (chronicled in the subsequent issue “The Goblin’s Last Stand”) and the superhero’s human alter ego, Peter Parker, that really counts.  Peter is a consummate shy man—a nervous fellow whose idea of chivalry is offering to buy his girlfriend a coke.  Yet the murder of Gwen unhinges him.  Hunting for her killer (the psychotic Green Goblin), he becomes utterly single-minded, ignoring his drug-addicted friend Harry’s cry for help, beating up a pair of cops, and bolting past every other obstacle blocking his path to vengeance.

            Of course, this is all a build-up to Peter’s confrontation with the Goblin.  And it doesn’t disappoint—after punching the man repeatedly, Peter pulls back, horrified at what he might have done to satisfy his anger (What am I doing?” he asks, hand on forehead).  Yet even after taking the high road, he exudes venom.  “You wouldn’t be sorry if your own mother died!” he shouts at his friend Mary Jane as she tries to comfort him. 

            Is it wrong to admit that it’s kind of thrilling to see Peter cut loose like that?  Yes, he’s cruel.  But like all superheroes, he adheres to a strict code of honor, determined to do the proverbial “right thing.”  In other words, he’s like many of us, and his outburst at Mary Jane is the kind of horrible thing we all often want to do when we’re sad and angry, but know we shouldn’t.

            Then again, in this and many other superhero stories, death isn’t just an excuse for a costumed crime fighter to throw a glorified tantrum—it’s also the key to how the superhero rediscovers their own goodness.  That’s certainly the case in the Spider-Man comics, though there’s an even more fascinating example in Frank Miller’s “Daredevil” series, in which attorney Matt Murdock (AKA the blind superhero Daredevil) deals with the murder of his college girlfriend, bounty hunter Elektra Natchios. 

At first, Matt seems hopeless.  In the wake of Elektra’s death, he’s creepily clinical, pouring over the facts of her death in the hope that she might have somehow survived.  He shocks his friends by obsessing over morbid details (“Did the corpse [the coroner] examined have clean lungs?” he asks.  “I know for a fact that Elektra’s lungs were filled with blood”).  Then, in a final act of relatable insanity, he calls up a judge in the middle of the night, asking him to sign and exhumation order so he can check Elektra’s grave for a corpse.

            Of course, the judge refuses.  But Matt goes to the graveyard himself, shovel in hand, becoming more and more convinced with each plunge into the dirt that Elektra is alive, that she has deceived him by faking her death.  “The hero failed,” he declares.  “The lawyer failed.  But the man will find you, Elektra.  Find you—and punish you for what you’ve done to me.”

            But then, something happens.  Matt’s best friend, fellow lawyer Foggy Nelson, enters the graveyard and finds his friend kneeling by an unmoving, clearly dead body.  And then, Matt says what no character could ever say in a shallow, meaningless movie like “The Amazing Spider-Man 2”:

            “I loved her, Foggy.   I loved her.”

Movie Review: "The Amazing Spider-Man 2" (Marc Webb, 2014)

WEB CRASH by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield return as Gwen Stacy and Spider-Man

 

“Who am I?  You sure you want to know?”  With those words, Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire) initiated the “Spider-Man” series.  And for many years, I answered his query with a resounding, “Yes!”  Not only did I want to see my favorite geek superhero triumph in battle; I also kept watching in the hope that he would find happiness and true love.  For the soul of the story lay not in Peter’s (exquisitely) death-defying acrobatics, but in the images of him hovering above New York City in his spider-suit, lost in his own isolation. 

            I wish I could say that “The Amazing Spider-Man 2” (the second installment in a new trilogy of Spidey adventures) mined some of that sweet sadness.  But watching the film unfold, I couldn’t help feeling that something had been irrevocably lost.  Much has changed, especially since Mr. Maguire has left the building and the swaggering Briton Andrew Garfield has (quite effectively) donned the mask.   But more importantly, the series no longer feels like Peter’s story.  Instead, it has turned into a color-drenched canvas of crashes, explosions, and finally, death so clumsily depicted that you’re left your grinding your teeth as well as clutching your heart.

            Fittingly, the new film begins with Peter/Spidey swooping into the midst of a car chase and trussing up an escaped convict (Paul Giamatti) up for the police’s pleasure—just in time to swing into his high school graduation and reunite with his girlfriend, Gwen Stacy (Emma Stone).  Yet it soon becomes clear that dangerous, Spidey-opposed forces are lurking.  To begin, one of Gwen’s deranged co-workers (Jamie Foxx) goes on an electrical rampage (don’t ask) and then, the wealthy young CEO Harry Osborn (Dane DeHaan) shows up, making literally bloodthirsty demands that Peter isn’t prepared to fulfill.

            Still, there’s something wonderfully lithe and human about the early scenes between Peter and Harry.  After an embarrassed reunion (they were friends as eight-year-olds), they take to the streets of Manhattan, sliding down metal railings and bantering about the increased presence of super-powered heroes and villains in the Big Apple.  “New York’s gotten weird!” Harry grouses.  It’s about time somebody said it. 

            Harry, of course, is a beacon of weirdness himself.  Burdened by a strange illness, he becomes increasingly jittery and violent, convinced that his only hope lies in obtaining a blood transfusion from Spider-Man.  But Peter, fearing for Harry’s safety, denies his request, thereby triggering Harry’s transformation into the psychotic killer known as “The Green Goblin.” 

            In other words, cue Spider-Man to the rescue.  Yet title notwithstanding, “The Amazing Spider-Man 2” doesn’t really belong to its hero.  While Harry and the rest of the characters make life-altering choices (Gwen even contemplates a move to England), Peter fiddles around, living in a post-graduate limbo where the only thing left to do is to contentedly bum around in his bedroom and beat up the occasional crook.  Part of that is certainly because the film serves as both a superhero story and an ensemble-toting conspiracy thriller (the screenplay’s web of treachery and deceit constitutes a lighter echo of “The Dark Knight”).  Yet even so, Peter’s trials (including his redundant attempts to break up and make up with Gwen) feel strangely trivial and beside the point.

            There is, of course, one moment when Peter does attempt to make a real decision.  At the end of the film, he whisks Gwen to the top of a suspension bridge, telling her that he wants to come with her to England.  “They have crime in England,” he deadpans.  “They still haven’t caught Jack the Ripper.” 

A sweetly witty exchange?  Absolutely, and one that reminds you of what the film could have been if it had been anchored more firmly to the tender chemistry between Mr. Garfield and Ms. Stone.  But in the end, “The Amazing Spider-Man 2” stretches itself so wide that it snaps, failing to delve into the heart and mind of its hero and, more importantly, the conflicted, good-hearted man behind the mask.

Movie Review: "The Amazing Spider-Man" (Marc Webb, 2012)

STILL SPIDEY by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield (left) star in "The Amazing Spider-Man"

 

 

Thin, slouched, and armed with a cynical smile made to melt hearts, Andrew Garfield plays a decidedly ignoble Peter Parker in "The Amazing Spider-Man."  Of course, in this 2012 screen retelling of the Marvel Comics hero’s adventures, the story is the same as ever—once more, Peter (a Queens-based teenager) gains the speed and agility of a spider and becomes a costumed vigilante.  Yet this time, he comes off as a snarky hooligan, rather than a shy outcast.

There’s also the fact that the original trilogy of Spider-Man movies (which was smashingly directed by Sam Raimi) played as a grand and tender saga of heroism and true love, whereas the newer film (under the direction of the less-experienced Marc Webb) feels timid.  Many of its images have the bright, flat look of sitcom shots and Mr. Webb appears unwilling (or perhaps forbidden) to take the kind of creative risks that could have made his film as exhilarating and heartfelt as Mr. Raimi's run.

And yet, despite all of that, there is much charm to be found in “The Amazing Spider-Man.”  I can't report that the film is truly worthy of its predecessors (which are three of my favorite movies of all time), but I'm happy to tell you that it is still wonderfully easy to like.  Boldness may make a great blockbuster, but so does attentiveness to the niceties of character development, something Mr. Webb (whose first film was the irritating but thought-provoking romantic comedy “(500) Days of Summer”) clearly understands. 

Moving at a pleasantly slow and even pace, “The Amazing Spider-Man” weaves increasingly delightful story threads into its web: a touching kid romance between Peter and his high school crush, Gwen Stacy (an adorable Emma Stone); some wild bits of action (including Peter's rooftop tussle with a pack of menacing alley thugs and a climactic twist involving several well-maneuvered cranes); and a few surprise moments worthy of remembrance in the Spidey cinema archives.

Among those gems, a surprisingly sincere encounter between Peter and the meathead bully Flash Thompson (Chris Zylka) stands out.  Yet a few others revise Spidey mythology in more surprising ways.  For example, watch Peter removing his contacts (who knew?) and donning his father's old glasses early in the film.  And better yet, keep an eye on him as weasels his way into his father's former workplace—the sleek Oscorp tower, which dwarfs every other skyscraper in New York (and just so happens to belong the man who will become Peter's greatest nemesis).

There's something spectacular about seeing the beat-up, rumpled-jacketed Peter coming up the Oscorp escalator, amidst a mass of immaculate adults immersed in their own concerns—they never notice our hero.  But this is still his movie and while some scenes in "The Amazing Spider-Man" are tepid and familiar, the sight of Peter literally ascending into the adult world feels just a little bit grand.