The Next Three Days

Written at the time of the film's release...

Thinking Outside the Cell-Block
or
"It Doesn't Matter What We Believe"

Director Paul Haggis, you either love or you hate. The haters find him manipulative and obvious (I'll buy the second charge, but movies, even documentaries, are—du-uh!—manipulative by their very nature) and will never forgive him for making Crash, which beat out Brokeback Mountain for the Best Picture Oscar.* The lovers, well, there aren't too many of them outside the movie industry—but Clint Eastwood and the Bond producers love him, and that's good enough for me.

His third film, The Next Three Days, which he wrote and directed,** tells the story of a couple (with child) who are separated, when she (Elizabeth Banks) is arrested, tried and convicted for murder. Her husband (Russell Crowe), a school teacher, exhausts their finances—selling two homes—and all legal recourse, trying to prove her innocence. After three years of incarceration, her child doesn't even acknowledge her (having lived half his life without her), and after her last appeal is turned down, she attempts suicide.

Time to think outside the box...the legal system, and the penal system. The civilized courses have failed...as a matter of course. It's time to take action, and matters...into one's own hands.

In a way, this is the same movie Haggis has been making all along, his thesis converted into an action plot device more positive in its usage than negative in its omission. Both Crash and In the Valley of Elah feature protagonists trying to do more than the expected by-the-book (or society) response, to subvert the easy knee-jerk "comfortable" reaction, and (I dunno) think a little deeper. He seeks the help of a multi-prison escapee (Liam Neeson, in a too-short cameo), who gives him a broad picture of the strategies of going over the wall, and more importantly, staying out. One of the first things he says may be what's written on the first page of Haggis' screenwriting notebook, as it informs so much of his work: "You have to do a lot of lookin'—things that disrupt the day-to-day routine." That semi-somnambulent day-to-day routine has been the loam Haggis has toiled in over the years, and in this film, he finds a protagonist who tries to take advantage of it, rather than subvert it.***

It's a heist film, basically, with human valuables. It is also, for a brief time, an "incredible mess" movie as Crowe's John Brennan must—painfully—learn the ropes of the outlaw life (and occasionally be beaten with them). This pays off later in the film—well, nearly everything pays off later in the film—as the "anything that could go wrong" scenarios start piling up in the film's nerve-rattling desperate finale, and one remembers how those early efforts only served to make matters worse.

The barriers that Brennan must overcome are represented by a filming scheme that places so much of the film behind screens and windows of various opacities—a traditional trope of prison films (it just doesn't happen so much out in the so-called open, as it does in here—Haggis wants us to know there are traps inside and outside prison).

Great cast. Crowe is nicely casual initially, then gradually turns into the ragged obsessive/compulsive he needs to be, Banks does drama as well as she does comedy (very), and, beyond Neeson, there are nice cameos by Daniel Stern, Olivia Wilde (as a divorcee...really?)...and particularly, Brian Dennehy, who, with the least amount of dialogue, makes the most of his scenes.

There will, no doubt, be an increase in interest in "bump"-keys, and breaking into vehicles with tennis-balls, and Haggis even throws a bone to his critics by purposely leaving a plot-thread frustratingly unresolved. It's a good film, professionally done, and with enough twists and turns to keep one engaged, while still taking the time—one of the critical elements the film focusses on—to keep things realistic, and not turning the down-to-earth perps into clairvoyant superheroes.

* A decision I've always agreed with: I think Crash was reaching for something to say—especially about the 7-10 split of a city that is Los Angeles, and the casualness of racism as the easy way out.  Brokeback Mountain, although I admired its photography and I thought Heath Ledger had the best cowboy voice in movie history (great work, that—Jake Gyllenhaal, not so much) felt too much like a Joan Crawford movie in reverse-drag.  Mellerdrama at its sawdustiest.

** After Crash and In the Valley of Elah, The Next Three Days is not original—it is based on the French film Pour Elle (Anything for Her, 2008)

*** Even a late-minute extreme act by one of the protagonists is an expression of trying to break out of the routine, to think outside the box (or in this case, the van) and break the lock-step the other is in.

W.

Written at the time of the film's release. I took out a long rant about the Bush Administration (when I wrote it Bush was still in office) and I wanted my prejudices out front. Here, the prejudices are for Oliver Stone's issues with film-making (for the most part).

Plus, the venom I spewed at that time, seems almost quaint considering what has come after him since. Bush has been heard to remark about Trump "He makes me look pretty good." Michelle Obama and he are "besties," insisting on sitting together whenever "the formers" must gather. And Clinton and he act like they're joshing brothers, after Clinton and his father became close friends, post-presidencies (Clinton BEAT Bush in in the 1992 presidential election, but it didn't matter...).

One must acknowledge grace in our leaders...when they lead...and show us the way.

"Somethin' 'Bout Bein' in the Barrel"

Oliver Stone is no one's idea of an objective film-maker, if there is such a thing. Once a screenwriter puts pen to paper, they've already started manipulating the movie to their point-of-view, whether it's from the left, right, center or upside-down (Why do you think they're called "directors?"). So, no one should be surprised that Stone has an ax to grind, with W..

Stone is a director of heart, but he frequently by-passes his brain when making his points. So, Platoon, still his best film, hi-jacks the gritty depiction of grunt jungle-fighting with Stone's own conflicted "Daddy" issues, his "Pvt. Chris Taylor" having to choose between two superiors with different moral ways of engaging the enemy. Lincoln and every fantasist depicting moral choice has put angels and devils on our shoulders. Stone burdens us with His Old Man. That same scenario was transferred to High Finance, with his very next film Wall Street. I haven't seen every film of Stone's, but most of them are concerned, in some capacity, with paternal conflicts. And because he's a better propagandist than scenarist, most Stone films stop dead whenever we get to each Stone "thesis," invariably a Message being presented by a single character who has center-stage and our undivided attention. JFK, a dazzling technical exercise of photography and editing, comes positively unglued in its presentation of conflicting conspiracy scenarios for Pres. Kennedy's assassination (Kennedy being another Stone father figure--"Our murdered King," as he's described in the screenplay (completely by-passing any thought that we might, you know, be living in a democracy with a representative government), until Kevin Costner's prosecutor Jim Garrison places in his summation a theory on military-industrial conspiracy behind the Vietnam War, a Stone obsession.* In W. Dick Cheney—Richard Dreyfuss clearly enjoys being given the opportunity to play him**—stops an Iraq War strategy session to pontificate on securing Middle East interests for oil exploitation for a hundred years. Give the man points for passion, but his movies become such a glut of emotion that the point becomes lost in the gnashing of teeth and the wringing of hands. His bio-pic of Nixon was such a slap-dash affair, it seemed like a badly-cast TV-movie gloss-over, skipping from high-light to low-light in time to shoe-horn the next commercial (A weirdly fictional conversation between Chairman Mao and Nixon was Stone's show-stopper there). By the end, with its End-Credits playing over a Mormon Tabernacle Choir-rendition of "Shenandoah," one almost felt some sympathy for the man. Nixon, not Stone.

W. (his too-early summation of the second Bush Administration) suffers the same problems. It's a gloss of recent events, interspersed with flash-backs to the wastrel days of the young George W. Bush (played throughout by Josh Brolin),*** drunk with entitlement and just about anything else he could find. Particular heed is paid to his relationship with "Pappy" George H.W. Bush (James Cromwell, though he seems nothing like Bush the Elder, displays quiet bluster and submerged weakness), in which the good-for-nothing son is particularly eaten up, not by his own failures, but by his father's view of them.

The best part of the film—oddly for Stone—is Bush's conversion to The Faith. Struggling with his alcoholism, determined to become a Public Figure (as private industry success constantly eludes him), he is converted by Pastor Earl Hudd (Stacy Keach, playing it straight, and doing some of the best work of his long career), introducing Bush to the second "Daddy," the Divine One, slotting this film into the standard Stone scenario. One knew, as soon as Bob Woodward revealed that Bush, prior to the invasion of Iraq, didn't consult his father/former President, but, instead, relied on the advice of a "Higher Father to appeal to," that Stone would obsess on it and exploit it. The film-maker takes the one relationship as far as it will go, creating a fantasy sequence where Bush 41 challenges Bush 43 to fisticuffs, but Stone doesn't have "the stones" to have W. duking it out with his Savior, J.C.

That battle's still to come.

Stone starts "W." with a Sergio Leone close-up of Bush's steely gaze, what impressionist Frank Caliendo says "like he's always got the sun in his eyes." It's another fantasy sequence, where W. acknowledges the cheers of an empty baseball stadium from center-field--what he'll later reveal as "his favorite place on Earth." The movie will end back on those eyes, searching, confused, disoriented--having lost a pop-fly "in the lights." Those distorted lights show up twice more in the movie--in that previously mentioned conversion scene, as well as when a hung-over Bush collapses while jogging. That's it? That's what we get? A half-assed light show? Is Stone saying he's abandoned by God, or that Bush is overwhelmed by his circumstances? The metaphor's too half-baked to communicate as solid concept clearly.

One could look at W.'s story in Shakespearean terms, as a modern day Prince Hal, whoring and wenching in his oats-sewing days to become the Monarch his father couldn't be. The difference is Hal had Falstaff as guide to the back-alleys of Agincourt. George W. Bush is his own King. And his own Fool.

But Oliver Stone is too busy making room for his "Daddy" theories to create a proper condemnation. As with Nixon, you start to actually sympathize with the man. Any illumination into the man or the effect of his Administration is lost in the lights. To Stone, he is just another Yalie "poor little lamb who has lost his way."

Bah. Bah...and Bah.

* Any judge would have gaveled the irrelevancy, but Stone's judge was played by the real-life Garrison.

** Dreyfuss had a lovely phrase about working with Stone on W. when he was on "The View:" "You can still be a fascist...even if you're on the left."

**Josh Brolin does fine work, but the performance feels a bit "one-note," having to nail the too-familiar Bush mannerisms and vocal tendencies.

Tomorrow—merely by coincidence, another "period" film.

Fred Claus

Written at the time after suffering the film's release...

Sibling Revelry 

I know what you're asking: Is this a Christmas Movie where someone has to SAVE CHRISTMAS and do they?

Short answer: Yes.

Come to think of it, just about every Christmas Movie is about SAVING Christmas. From the Martians, from the Grinch, from Tim Allen, from adults, from the Gubernator, from just about everything, except all the right-wing nutters who really DO think there's a War on Christmas. Excuse me, Xmas.

The "SAVING Christmas" movie is so prevalent, it could be a genre all to itself. As long as you threaten Christmas verbally, physically, psychically or by omission, in the real or fantasy-sense, that's all that's required. How many movies or stop-motion animation specials can you name? Swell, I just came up with dinner-table conversation for this Christmas. And believe me, I looked at this blog's budget, that's all you're getting (I need the lumps of coal to heat the house).

So, in Fred Claus it turns out that Clement Moore didn't know a thing about Santa Claus' older, dumber, bitter brother. That's right, the Clauses had another son, who after the birth of little Nicholas, was left parched of his parents' affections. I mean, c'mon, how can you compete against a really cute fat baby whose first words are "Ho Ho?" It doesn't take long before Fred has transitioned from Promising To Be The Best Big Brother In The Whole World to throwing things at the little saint's head.

Fred goes off to the Real World, while Nick becomes an icon with a Factory-town at the North Pole with an indentured population of elves. Guess the North Pole is outside the jurisdiction of fair and best practices law. Anyway, Santa has built up quite the little illegal monopoly up there, plus there's the stress of reading every kid's mail, producing the specifically-requested toys for delivery and then shipping them all in one night on a twelve hour turn-around. Add to that, this year there's an Efficiency Expert (played by Kevin Spacey--when did he stop knowing how to be funny?) prowling around who seems determined to Shut Santa Down, though "Why" and "For Whom" goes unanswered (and the possibilities dance like sugar-plums in my head--China? Wal-Mart?).**

Then, Fred calls out of the blue, wanting to borrow money, and Nick is SUCH a Nicely Overwhelming Holiday Icon that he can't say no. Well, he does attach a rider saying that Fred has to work it off at the North Pole determining who is "NAUGHTY" and who is "NICE" and then condemning the former children to an unhappy Christmas. Despite this, Santa still has the snow-balls to say to his wife "I'm a Saint, sweetheart. Tough love is a little difficult for me!"

Not for me, sweetheart. "Tough" love is the only love this flick will get.

It's all meant to be whimsical, but one walks out wanting to "clock" a bell-ringer. The North Pole seems to have all the charm of a Wal-Mart town, with exactly the same sort of benefit-policy for their work-force. To determine who will be stamped "Naughty" or "Nice" Santa and his pint-sized voyeurs in the "Judgmental" Department have a magic snow-globe that they use to spy on every child's behavior. You think Homeland Security is a threat to privacy--you've never ever thought about peeping Santa. Just the emphasis that Santy sees you when you're sleeping and knows when you're awake (just like the NSA!) is probably not too jolly an idea to bring up during these liberty-crushing times, but Fred Claus makes it a key plot-point.

The cast does what it can, in its best "Tim Allen/Chevy Chase-in-overdrive" way, but it all amounts to hanging tinsel on a dead tree. Vaughn pulls off some nicely ad-libbed fast-talk. Paul Giamatti as Santa has a bit more sand to it than you might expect--but you just know the rest of the cast said "Hey, Giamatti's in it--there's gotta be something to this," so you have Rachel Weisz (as "Girl-friend"), Miranda Richardson (as Mrs. Santa), Kathy Bates as "Mom" Claus, all vamping, waiting for the movie to become better. And it doesn't.

Maybe next Christmas, kids.* Maybe instead of saving Christmas, someone should try to save the Christmas Movie.

* Okay, there is one scene that works. Fred decides to go to a support group for "overshadowed" brothers, and among them is Frank Stallone, Roger Clinton, and Billy Baldwin. That scene is genuinely funny, as the 'brothers" gamely mock themselves.

** Doesn't all this turning of childhood fantasy into a corporate metaphor a little creepy? Saving Christmas, Pshaw! How about saving childhood?

Love & Mercy

Rock Me, Amadeus
or
Bravo Vibrato (Good and Bad, Heroes and Villains)

The other night I was casting around looking for something—anything—on television and landed on a PBS fund-raising version of "SoundStage" featuring "Brain Wilson and Friends," in conjunction with the release of his new album "No Pier Pressure" (heh...the promo is below) and the opening vocal harmony ("Our Prayer" from "Smile") raised the hairs on the back of my neck. It had the "Beach Boys" sound of blended harmonies, but had a melancholy, respectful air that moves the soul, a heady miasma of nostalgia and renewal. It's a revelation. Wilson, back in the time of "The Beach Boys," had far more "reach" than his fellow band-mates, who might have been content with surfing and car songs. But, while they were out on tour protecting the brand, recycling their hits over and over, Wilson moved beyond singer-songwriter and became what he was unofficially, anyway: producer. It was Wilson who came up with those "pet" sounds, odd combinations of instruments and timbres with their bizarre harmonics...that worked. It was revolutionary stuff, but had a childhood relatability that invited you in and imprinted themselves in your mind. His songs never go away...from the mind, from the heart, leavened with a look backwards, of nostalgia, upbeat still, but with grace-notes of regret.

Wilson is our Mozart—if Mozart had written about California beaches, girls and bikinis (which I'm sure he would have if he was ever made aware of them). Wilson's music was always several cuts above the standard "Beach Boys" fare, as his songs were fueled by serotonin, as opposed to testosterone. There was ambition in his songs, in the conception and production of them, ambitions that might not have been accepted in the pop marketplace of the '60's. But that is speculation. After the disappointing sales of his produced "Pet Sounds" album, (rebounded by the #1 hit status of the first release ("Good Vibrations") from their in-production album "Smile," band dissension, nervous record exec's and Wilson's own building insecurities scuttled what was to be the band's (and Wilson's) most ambitious album. For Brian Wilson, it led to creative roadblocks and a deep-ended wipe-out into a depression that he would not emerge from for years.

Wilson's story of his fall into and rise out of that depression is the make-up of Love & Mercy, directed by Bill Pohlad (he's only directed one other feature) and written by Oren Moverman, who also wrote I'm Not There, the episodic Todd Haynes film "about" Bob Dylan, where different actors played aspects of the singer. A simplified version of the same approach is done in Love & Mercy, where Paul Dano plays Wilson pre-breakdown and John Cusack plays him post-breakdown. The results are mixed. But, one thing that is for certain is the eerie way Dano nails Brian Wilson in the heady days of The Beach Boys' success in the 1960's and his subsequent troubles. Dano resembles Wilson, he sounds like him, and captures the puppy-dog optimism of Wilson that percolated through his early songs and melodies, that could easily be shattered in a family crisis, which was inevitable as most of his band-mates were brothers or cousins, his father was their manager and estranged from the boys' mother.  

Director Pohlad changes his style in the two movie sections, as well. The Dano segments switch from drama then zip to home-movie vignettes, like a Richard Lester movie. Cusack's segments are much more straight-forward and have far less energy, except from the fireworks provided by the actors—except Cusack. His Brian Wilson is a bit like a sad-eyed automaton, not entirely the actor's fault as Wilson at the time was being heavily medicated (more about that later), but it creates a fissure in the film that ultimately works against it—the segments post-"Smile" with Cusack just aren't as successful as the parts with Dano.

Evidently, there was a conscious decision between Dano and Cusack to not compare notes after their meetings with Wilson and their impressions of him; the actors playing Dylan in I'm Not There didn't confer, either, but the kaleidoscopic Dylan segments in that film aren't connected in any way—not in time, space, or (for that matter) dimension. Love & Mercy no matter its editing dynamic (in this case, going back and forth in time) is still a linear story—the artist went from here to there—so the two actors, so distinctive in look and style, make for an emotional disconnect. That they are two different stories in the same life—Brian's falling into depression, pre-"Smile"—and his rise out of it, offers no balm in that discomfort, it only enhances it. Having a different actor resolve the conflicts of the other leaves a feeling of a story only half-finished.

Cusack's part of the story is the one that is the most heroic, despite that Cusack is passive throughout (and you don't believe he could play, let alone compose, a lick of music). The purchase of a new car puts him in the orbit of car-dealer Melinda Ledbetter (Elizabeth Banks) who doesn't know he's "Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys" (as he will later be introduced)—of course not, he doesn't look a thing like Paul Dano. He's just a guy buying a car, albeit one who leaves a note on her business card saying "Lonely. Scared. Frightened." Before Banks can express her surprise by opening her mouth and blinking twice, into the showroom walks Brian's "minders," as well as Dr. Eugene Landy (played with a glowering malice by Paul Giamatti, acting on all thrusters), who smiles balefully through a tight smile, as he grills Melinda and Brian about what's going on, at the same time his eyes dart back and forth looking for signs of betrayal, his head lowered as if towering above people despite his small stature.

Giamatti's Landy is malevolent piece of work. Festooned in a toupee, he usually starts a conversation by apologizing for his previous behavior, like a bad father trying to retain your good side (and puts him in parallel with Brian's father Murry—played by Bill Camp—both self-important men who end up exploiting and resenting their meal ticket) Landy is Wilson's psychiatrist, life-coach, nutritionist, guru, and disciplinarian, as well as being the current tenant of his house (Brian's in another one and reveals his perpetual silver lining-search by saying "I got to pick my own room.") Landy sees the bond between Melinda and Brian and, in a requested meeting (by him), offers her "unprecedented access—but you've got to work with me." Landy's hold on Wilson is total, controlling what he eats and when, and hectoring Wilson into working at a piano (and taking co-writing credit). He's abusive, humiliating, while keeping his charge dosed on "allergy medications" that leave Wilson nearly catatonic. Landy has had him diagnosed a "paranoid schizophrenic" and while the singer-songwriter does hear voices in his head (usually in harmony), it's a wonder he's not paranoid what with the whole world against him, while lionizing him at the same time.

Except Melinda. For whatever reason, she decides to take on Landy—even when she is banned by him from seeing Wilson. For Brian, it's the end of a long line of using, usery authority figures, and, left alone, he is finally able to think for himself...and what he sees isn't too bad.

It's a great story and truly inspirational for anybody who has suffered clinical depression, as Wilson is an extreme case, crippled by his own need to achieve beyond his limitations and stalemated from being able to reach it, by forces without and within. Yet, there he is, now, in concert before thousands of enraptured fans, mixing old hits and new works (which are great, by the way—check out below) with a band of artists who manage to play his most complicated stuff...and do it live. Wilson finally cracked and completed "Smile" and performed it in concert before committing it to recording and posterity. Amazing. Heroic. He survived his second act and emerged triumphant for a third. His life, itself, is worth a standing ovation, and if Love & Mercy simplifies and homogenizes the depths of his despair for public consumption (as was done with A Beautiful Mind), at least it manages to capture some of the nuances that made the music so memorable the instant it went from Wilson's mind...to ours.

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire

Feeding the Beast
or
To Kill a Mocking-jay

I mocked The Hunger Games rather mercilessly when it came out (as if it would prevent a single sou from entering its coffers), because even though it was a hot publishing phenom' and a breathlessly anticipated movie, the original concept was a bit derivative without being very divergent (yeah, that's a snark for a future film there). So now, the second of The Hunger Games films (of four total) The Hunger Games: Catching Fire has come out (with a new director in Francis Lawrence, he of Water for Elephants and I Am Legend, as a bit of an improvement over Gary Ross, even if he did have Steve Soderbergh assisting) and this one's a slightly better film. For one thing, "this time it's political," and the easy targets of reality TV and the excesses of the rich (with an eye towards the Roman Empire and its parallels of bread and circuses) are a bit less strident, although they haven't completely disappeared. They're just presented a little better this time. And the politico's of the Capitol are being a bit more cagey than they were previously.

Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) now finds herself the most watched human in Panem. Her victory in the 74th Hunger Games along with Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) has earned her and her family a cushy residence in Victor's Village and the vulture-like scrutiny of Panem's leader, President Snow (Donald Sutherland, as creepily confident as if he were selling you orange juice). He sees the way that Katniss has reached out to Panem's people and now she's the centerpiece of a swelling revolutionary movement. A personal presidential visit amounts to a threat that she'd better be convincing in her devotion to the State. "I'll convince them." assures Katniss. "No." replies Snow slowly.  "Convince me."

And with that, the stakes are raised. A "Victory Tour" is planned for the remaining districts (the ones that haven't been nuked), but at each appearance of Katniss and Peeta something happens that brings out the riot police. At the suggestion of the Capitol's new gamesmaster (check out this name) Plutarch Heavensbee (Philip Seymour Hoffman, keeping a straight face), who comes up with a plan to put more pressure on Katniss and speeding the inevitable moment when the public turns against her. Then, with the next Hunger Games competition occurring (the 75th), it is decided that, rather than having a "Reaping" lottery among the populace, the competition will be between past Victors, considered by the State now to be potential inspirations and inciters to riot.

So now, the Games are between past champions (including Jeffrey Wright, Jena Malone, and Amanda Plummer), some of whom are just as determined to win, while others are angry at being targeted again, but there will be only one survivor. 

It's a better film with more tricks up its sleeve, and the media manipulation is played by all sides—it may be an illusion but Stanley Tucci's teeth actually look whiter this time—with a terrific set-up for the next films that comes out of left field...if you haven't read the books. It's an entertaining change-up from the situations of the original, and promises to be even more interesting next time out.