Suspensions of Disbelief —"Like, yeah-Huh!"

On my earlier film blog, I would sometimes pair up movies I'd seen recently if they had some slight connection. This is one of those. 

Juno became a smash hit, despite my reservations and Diablo Cody—and Jason Reitman—went on to do some stellar work. Both are working on things. Ellen Page is now Elliott Page, and is now identifying as a male. One thing that hasn't changed is his amazing talent. I don't change things when I move these posts from the old blog to the new blog, unless I find mistakes, so I've kept Elliott's name as it was at the time of the writing, which was at the time of the film's release. 

Director Craig Gillespie, who made Lars and the Real Girl, made I, Tonya, Cruella, and the min-series "Pam and Tommy", as well as directing Diablo Cody's mini-series "The United States of Tara."

 

--Sacred Vessels in the Land of Addictionary.org

Juno is a film so dominated by its script (by Diablo Cody*) and its actors (they're all television veterans with countless man-hours before the camera) that all director Jason Reitman has to do is get out of the way-though in the transitions he routinely cuts on the 1's of the pervasively twee-rock soundtrack to maintain the air of perkiness. The kids that dominate this film about lower-middle-class families making the most of a bad situation—well, bad in the timing—are so pervasively cute and clever in their articulation and word-play that one wonders if they hail from some part of the country where the main sport is Scrabble, and instead of MySpace they all hover around "Addictionary.org." 

Ultimately one has to ascribe to it the same rule that one applies to Bette Davis movies where everyone always has the perfect come-back: "They have better writers than we do."

But the same troubles. Juno MacGuff (Ellen Page) starts the movie pregnant and pissed. And pissing. She's buying the home-pregnancy tests out of the box one at a time from the convenience store and using their facilities to test it. "You better pay for that pee-stick when you're done with it," says the clerk (played by "The Office's Rainn Wilson). "Don't think it's yours just because you marked it with your urine!" She gets the unholy pink "x" and starts to puzzle out how to proceed: telling parents, telling sperm-donor, what to do with said spawn, yadda yadda yadda.

Juno skips along dealing with all these crises and quite a few more, and never slides into bathos, preaching or "after-school special" earnestness. The characters are all people for whom regrets are a waste-of-time, and are too busy doing their best to do too much navel-gazing. Well, almost all. One walks away charmed, and admiring the cleverness and the near-occasion of bravery the movie displays. And there are no bad performances. Anywhere. No actor lets this material touch the ground, whether its the stunningly decent work by vet-thesps like Alison Janney and J.K. Simmons, but also wise work by Michael Cera, Jason Bateman, and, yes, Jennifer Garner. But the big bouquet goes to Ellen Page who carries the movie on her slim shoulders and always finds a way to make the dialog sound like she's just saying it off the cuff. That's a tough trick to pull for an entire movie--an entire comic movie--this entire comic movie. Frankly, it would've been easier giving birth.

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It Takes a Sex Toy to Raise a Village 

 

 Everybody likes Lars (Ryan Gosling). Lars is 27, lives in the carriage-house of the family home. Keeps to himself. He goes to work, eats, attends church, chops wood.

And that's about it.

Lars is socially retarded to an alarming degree, so much so that he feels it hurts to be touched. His family worries about him. They feel guilty. They don't know what to do.

But Lars does. He's surrounded by people with relationships, so he decides to get one. But that touching thing...that's a problem.

Then one day, Bianca shows up, a mail-order girlfriend. Lars tells his brother and sister-in-law that he has a girl-friend and he'll bring her over for dinner. They're elated. Then they find they didn't need the extra setting. Bianca's a sex-doll. Fairly realistic looking, but she doesn't move. At all. Lars has to carry her, until he gets her a wheelchair. He cuts her food for her. Eats it, too.

In a case of intervention, all four go to the doctor (Patricia Clarkson, being warm but acting cold), who takes one look at Bianca and worries out loud that she needs weekly treatments for her alarmingly low blood pressure, and uses the opportunity to find out exactly what is going on with Lars. She advises that they should play along--"Bianca's in town for a reason," she says. "But, people will laugh at him!" says his harried brother, played by a note-perfect Paul Schneider. "You, too," says the doc.

Lars and the Real Girl could be perverse, and if Lars actually had relations with Bianca, people wouldn't be enjoying this movie nearly so much. Nor would it be as enjoyable if the entire town didn't, for the sake of Lars, go along with the story and accept Bianca. And that acceptance happens almost immediately. Sister-in-law Karin informs her coffee klatsch friends that Bianca is anatomically correct, and one of them says, "Soooo...she's just one of the girls, then..." The pastor of the church goes along with it. Everybody does. Ev-e-ry-bo-dy. Which set off some reality alarms for me. There aren't any disaffected youth, or jerks or morons in this town? Hell, if any of the kids from Juno lived there, Lars would be getting the "stink-eye," at least. And in a land where every inflatable Christmas lawn ornament is at risk, Bianca has it REALLY easy.

Still, it's an enjoyable film, full of heart in the right place, and offers lots of enjoyable surprises in screenplay, performance (it's hard to believe this is the same Ryan Gosling from Fracture) and overall tone. One wishes there was a second there where one could believe in it.

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* Diablo Cody has such a fresh, smart way with dialog that one hasn't been as excited by a screen author's work since Zach Helm, who wrote Stranger Than Fiction. Since Helm went on to create the lead balloon Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, one doesn't want to be too effusive in one's praise, lest one set oneself up for disappointment.

Horrible Bosses

Saturday is traditionally "Take Out the Trash" Day. Written at the time of the film's release.

"That 'Strangers on a Train' Shit"
or
"It's Like a Douchebag Museum...!"

Office politics can get mean. Office politics can make you crazy. Office politics can get very, very messy (now, we have a movie that has all three!) However, I don't know many offices (outside the Post Office) where the politics can make you homicidal. Not even Congress.

But that's the situation in Horrible Bosses, which given the tough economic times, the high unemployment rates, and the relative lack of power suffered by your disappearing middle class, almost seems plausible. Documentarian/director Seth Gordon (The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters) has made a film that follows three rather hapless worker-buddies (who seem competent at their jobs, the events of the movie notwithstanding), as their job situations drive them to considering murdering their higher-ups. All three are unmarried (although Charlie Day's dental technician is engaged), so we're talking some arrested development here, especially considering Jason Bateman is one of the three and SNL's Jason Sudeikis is the third).

Bateman's Nick is up for a promotion, so he's been tolerating some abusive grooming tactics by his boss Dave Harken (Kevin Spacey, recycling his role in Swimming with Sharks), but doesn't get it when Harken takes the position himself.

Sudeikis' Kurt is also expecting advancement as an account manager at the chemical factory run by Donald Sutherland, when Sutherland's character dies, and the company is taken over by his "Dipshit Cokehead Son", played by Colin Farrell (in a nicely over-the-top skeezeball performance, which seems to have been cut a bit—he's not in it much.

And Day's Dale is a tech for an extremely aggressive cougar of a dentist (Jennifer Aniston, bless her) who is determined to seduce him (for some reason), and is incapable of anything more complicated than single entendres. 

They decide that, rather than "Best Practices," going to "H.R.," or finding another situation, they'll merely cut through the red tape and go straight to the yellow—they're going to kill their bosses. So much for negotiating skills and being a "people person." This is what commiserating in a bar can lead to. The next bar leads them to Dean Jones (Jamie Foxx—playing it straight and dead-pan), an ex-con who goes by a common vulgarism, because "Dean Jones" reminds too many people of The Love Bug.  No wonder they want this guy to plan the executions.  Jones' suggestion is that each of the guys does the murder of someone else's boss (and dutifully, Alfred Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train is mentioned, as is Throw Momma From the Train, which is the red-headed step-child of the Hitchcock film...which reminds me that today is recycling day).

This cannot go well, and despite some laugh-out-loud moments, it does not, succumbing to "easy answers," and a "Deus ex machina." God's gotta be watching these guys, because they're so incompetent, they can't do anything right*...which leads us back to the recycling bin. Rummaging through, it is not too hard to see that this is The Hangover which itself is a new version of a Three Stooges movie, especially in the psychology of the three leads. Bateman plays Moe the strong one, Day is Larry the weak whiner, and Sudeikis is so meat-headed he can only be Curly. And while no eye-poking or face-slapping occurs, you just know that the insults and slow burns between the three are the passive-aggressive equivalent. And a lot less fun.

There are good moments—Aniston and Farrell are clearly having fun playing broad—and one of my favorite actor-characters shows up at the end (a little too briefly), but all in all, the face I wanted to slap was my own.

* This shoots down the premise of the movie: if these guys are so ham-fisted doing...everything...maybe they don't deserve the promotions they think they've been cheated out of. 

Air

If the Icon Fits (Based on a True Shoe)

or

Crossing That Ol' River Jordan

"Who wants to see a movie about a shoe?" cracked the guy taking his kids to see Super Mario Bros.

 

Parenting kills irony.

Air does seem to have an odd subject for a movie—the efforts by "footwear manufacturing company" Nike to obtain the endorsement of up-and-coming rookie Michael Jordan for their struggling basketball division ("We're a jogging company! Black people don't jog!") doesn't seem to be movie material. A documentary on ESPN, maybe.

 

But, the script for the film had shown up on that gold-mine of movie ideas, "The Black List"*, and its author Alex Convery** did, indeed, craft a smart, ironic, compelling film about something "that changed everything." And not just Nike's fortunes, but also a long-standing deficiency in how athletes were compensated for their exploitation. Maybe you don't give a rip about the fortunes of millionaires (I hear you), but it's something that is making its way down to amateur sports and the inequality of parity in women's sports. It is a big deal. And it started here, with the unlikeliest company—who were just the ones to think outside of the foot-print.

Meet Sonny Vaccaro (a rather doughy Matt Damon), an executive at Nike's basketball division (which, unfortunately is having a tough "go" at it, losing money, and there's been a lay-off of its employees recently). He's a go-getter, a gambler, and a pal of Nike's idiosyncratic CEO Phil Knight (Air director Ben Affleck), whose zen-Buddhist way of running things is often contradictory and sometimes unfathomable. But, there's something about Sonny that Knight finds valuable, even if he finds him frequently frustrating in how he gets along with his fellow employees.

 

Like now, for instance. The basketball sneaker division has a budget of $25k to sign a scrimmage of the new drafted NBA players to endorse their product—which is running third in reputation and sales to Adidas and Converse. At a board meeting, Nike marketing director Rob Strasser (Jason Bateman) chairs a meeting to determine who of the "rooks" they'll approach, and the pickings are slim. They're, at least, uninspiring. They're certainly uninspiring to Vaccaro, who does not mince words that the choices are not ones that will inspire sales and product loyalty. He has one guy in mind—this new kid, Michael Jordan. But, he's told to forget it, they can't get him. He's too expensive and he wears Adidas on the court. Don't go chasing a dream. And, especially, don't put all the budgeted eggs in one basketball player.

But, Sonny Vaccaro doesn't listen. He tells anybody in ear-shot of his harangues (even if they're rolling their eyes) that "Jordan" is the one they should get—for the whole budget—despite all the hurdles: Jordan's agent—played brilliantly by Chris Messina; Jordan's own hesitance, overseen by the protective Jordan family, mother Deloris (Viola Davis) and father James (Julius Tennon—for those people sensitive to "nepo-babies," he's Viola Davis' husband/business partner); the corporate mind-set of Nike in general and Knight, in particular—when times are tough is not the best time to go for broke; and the general consensus that it can't be done (so why try?)

All of which just makes Vaccaro work harder for it. He's not an athlete, but he's dogged, like one. He does his due diligence, talks to people who coached Michael, talks to his agent (for all the good it does), then starts breaking industry "rules" knowing full well that if he fails and Jordan doesn't sign it's business for Nike as usual...which is not good, and his job is probably on the line. But, he's of the mindset that if he can't sign Jordan, he probably shouldn't be there, anyway. It's a three-point shot at the buzzer.

First things first: go see it. It's brilliant (despite being "a movie about a shoe"). And you don't need to be a sports fan to appreciate it (although it might help). Like the brilliant Moneyball, it is a story steeped in the arcana of the sport, which is all throw-away stuff in the end, because it's about something else...something more primal and more important. And it's a movie that you can appreciate for the sheer mastery of the craft of good story-telling.

The script—by Convery***—has crackling dialog that bears repeating outside the theater, and it's smart about showing people, warts and and all, but not caring one jot. It already assumes that the people of the story have feet of clay and doesn't try to portray them as anything but ordinary people in an extraordinary moment in time.

And Affleck's direction is his most assured. His strength as a film-maker is montage and he begins Air with a deep-dive into 1980's culture, combining archive footage with his establishing shots (also steeped in 1980's culture, just to keep the through-line) of life at Nike, Inc. Plus, he's a disciplined editor, who uses the "cut" as an accelerant for scenes that are already delivered at Hawksian speed.

He's helped by the legendary photographer Robert Richardson (Criminy, he even made Portland look beautiful!), who is less eclectic than he has been in the past, but offers work that could earn him a "co-director" credit. In one scene where Vaccaro talks to coach George Raveling (Marlon Wayans) in a dimly-lit bar, it's done in a couple of long-held "takes" with the camera constantly snapping focus between the two participants, directing your attention. That it's done with such brio, without trying to disguise it, tickled me.

And in another little creative touch, the movie isn't scored, but its soundtrack is  scavenged from 80's scores by Tangerine Dream and Harold Faltermeyer, when there isn't an period rock tune under-laying the action.

It is a great show. One quibble that I know people have been talking about is that the film doesn't really show Michael Jordan (and, in fact, goes out of its way NOT to show him)—there is one line spoken by "him" (and that's over the phone) in the entire movie—but, that conceit is in the Convery script. Leave "the man" out of it. We're talking about potential. And Affleck and Damon's rewrites push the concept of not portraying him all the way.**** They might have extended it to the title, as well. Convery titled his script "Air Jordan". For months in development, it was known as "The Untitled Matt Damon-Ben Affleck Project." It hits theaters as Air. Simply Air. No Jordan. Not even in the title.

 

But, he's there...in archive footage.The "real" Michael Jordan. All the while, they're making a movie looking at a Master from the vantage point of the future. We know what he did. We know the story. All of it. And they show it in flashes in the best part of the movie. But, we're talking about portraying a time before all that happened, when they're talking about potential...and betting on a future. A future they can't even conceive of.

A future nobody could conceive of in their wildest dreams. 

 

Except, maybe, for Michael Jordan's.

* It was picked "the best un-produced screenplay of 2021".

 

**  It should be noted—even if the WGA doesn't—that Matt Damon and Ben Affleck did an extensive re-write. But, what makes the Convery script so good is still in there. And the good lines, too.

 

*** Convery's script is there, but Damon and Affleck did an extensive re-write, adding one person—Howard White (played brilliantly by Chris Tucker), who heads Jordan Brand now. His character seems essential to the story now. Dam-fleck also eliminated the character of the brilliant Tinker Hatfield, giving the dialog to Creative Director Peter Moore (Matthew Maher, who is terrific). Too many designers, I guess, would have confused people.

 

**** I amuse myself with the idea that it's along the same lines as not portraying Mohammad...or the way clerics worried about the "sacrilegious" idea of showing The God-head" on movie screens. Here, they're respectfully not showing The GOAT. 

Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium

What has happened to Zach Helm? Written at the time of the film's hapless release.

 Saturday is "Take Out the Trash" Day.

"...And Maybe Avoid the Slimy Girl!"

"Having myself endured the ignominy of watching the Technicolor train-wreck that is 'Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium' multiple times every day for over a year, I can attest to it being the perfect Kafka-esque Hell for a character of such moral ambiguity as Walter White." *

Writer/director Zach Helm about his film being featured in "Breaking Bad"

I loved Stranger Than Fiction. Marc Foster's direction gave depth and substance to the unique voice of Zach Helm's script. And every part was expertly cast and the peripherals presented in CGI gave a sprightly twist to the action on-screen. When I heard that Helm was directing his own script for Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, I thought "Great! Now we'll see what this Helm guy is capable of!"

Be careful what you wish for.

Magorium is such an insubstantial froth of a movie that before you get five minutes into it, you're saying "I'm not buying this!" And with good reason--it's Stranger Than Fiction all over again, but from another perspective and far more precious. When I say "far more" I'm saying "falling-into-a-vat-of-Krispy-Kreme-dough" precious. The kind of gooey sap that half an hour of scrubbing with Boraxo can't shake. The same way that cake frosting turns hard as a rock after five weeks in the desert sun. Despite some clever touches and the occasional funny line, it still makes you want to walk out and punch a nun.

What's it about? A magical toy store run by a 243-year old toy impresario, wonder aficionado (and avid shoe-wearer) Mr. Magorium who has decided that it's time to go. "You're dying?" wails Mahoney (Natalie Portman), the piano-prodigy, who at 23 has not lived up to her potential. "Light bulbs die, my sweet," he bubbles. "I will depart." 

To get his affairs in order, he hires an accountant ("Must be someone who counts and is a mutant," says Magorium, and thereafter Henry Weston (Jason Bateman) is referred to simply as "Mutant"), who is so button-downed he doesn't play one whit, not even checkers (exactly like Will Farrell's character in Stranger Than Fiction? you say, and you're awarded a gold star). 

What's worse, the toy store is starting to bubble underneath the velvet wall-paper and turn a tainted shade of gray.
It's all just icky—icky in the way a wet lollipop collects dog hair. Dustin Hoffman finds a pretty good balance for his twee little toy-maker, looking like he's been sticking his fingers in wall-sockets for years and elocuting like Bullwinkle. Natalie Portman is the film's biggest draw-back, tamping down any effervescence by screwing up her face and looking concerned. It's really bad when instead of carrying about what the character is going through, you wonder what kind of exfoliant the lead actress is using. Any glow she has is purely pharmaceutical. Jason Bateman plays the stick-up-his-sphincter accountant...like he has a real stick up his sphincter. He managed to make straight-laced funny in "Arrested Development" Wha' hoppened? And as the Narrator/Obligatory Little Kid, Zach Mills plays it with a seriousness and dignity that seems to say "I will rise above this." Attaway, kid. Hope you're not knocking over Winn-Dixies in ten years.

Now, see? This movie didn't enchant me or make me feel warm inside. It made me think bad thoughts. Cruel thoughts. There's a lot of surface detail to Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium,** but no depth. It needs some grit and sand beyond having the lead character kicking the Big Beach Bucket. As it stands, it's just a wad of cotton candy that you want to throw water on...just to see it disappear.

* The instance was in the second-to-last episode of BB where White is hiding in an abandoned cabin and the only distractions he has for entertainment are two DVD copies of Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. "That is exactly two more copies than are allowed in my house," said Helm.  The film is also mentioned rudely in Borat and I Love You, Man.

** Another thing: Who is the audience for this thing? Kids won't get it or be upset by it, and adults will find it just cloyingly annoying. But then a lot of kids won't get a lot of jokes. For example: there's a shot of a Buster Keaton marionette trying to untangle itslf from its own strings--a pretty funny reference, but little kids don't know Buster Keaton. The same goes for the bit where Zack starts buildings stuff out of Lincoln Logs and when he's finally finished, he's made...a life-size Lincoln! Funny, huh? But not if you don't know what the Lincoln Logs are, and nobody under 30 DOES!

Paul (2011)

Paul (Greg Mottola, 2011) The team of Simon Pegg and Nick Frost are an acquired taste...at least for me. Some of their stuff is iffy, marginal, borderline—good ideas stretched thin. 

Then, you get something like Paul, which I was late to, but managed to catch on cable and was ready to dismiss until it started to layer in concepts and in-jokes and do something that the two were spotty on when teamed with the brilliant Edgar Wright as their director-co-scriptwriter.

It has a lot of depth. It's a deep-dish dive into American obsession with pop-culture as witnessed by two guys across the pond who should be shaking their heads at the madness, but instead embrace it with the sense of wonder that used to be generated by such things before they got over-merchandised in the marketplace. It's also a neat little throw-back to the older films that inspired the writers

Two nerdy Brit's, Graeme Willy (Pegg) and Clive Gollings (Frost), are on a U.S. pilgrimage to the San Diego Comic-Con, driving an RV through the stark landscapes of the Southwest U.S., home of test-sites, nuclear landmarks, and fabled numbered Area's of Interest in UFO mythology. They have to deal with the denizens of the area, and one particular stranger with whom they have a close encounter of a vehicular accident kind.

This is Paul (voiced by Seth Rogen), an extraterrestrial whose most recent home has been Area 51, where he has been kept under house arrest and study, advising the government on advanced technology and, in return, being kept safe, even ensuring that alien information is leaked through back-channels, just in case his brethren return to find him.

It's a comedic version of E.T. with the lost voyager—but instead of being found by a kid in the suburbs, he's found by the government agencies that want to keep him under wraps. But Paul has outlived his usefulness as a live subject; the reason he's made his escape is that he has been due for vivisection. So, despite the qualms of Clive, the two take on the little alien as a passenger, taking a side-route to San Diego to get Paul to his designated meeting place with his people.

There are, of course, complications. Paul is being sought by government agents in the form of FBI Special Agent Zoyl (Jason Bateman), who is under orders from "The Big Guy"—his female boss communicating over the radio—to track down Paul and return him to Area 51 for disposal. When he is unable to make much progress (given his disappearance from the car that he stole in his escape), she adds to other FBI agents, Haggard (Bill Hader) and O'Reilly (Joe Lo Truglio)—who are a bit hapless—to assist, although the three seem to be under different assignments, working at cross-purposes. 

And if things weren't complicated enough, an overnight stay at a trailer park gains them another passenger, Ruth Buggs (Kristen Wiig), the one-eyed daughter of Moses Buggs (the wonderful John Carroll Lynch), the Christian fundamentalist owner of the park—she encounters Paul and the vagabonds have no choice but to take her with them, which worsens the stakes against them and adds one more dangerous element to the many people trying to track them down. Father Moses is determined to track the heathen down and shoot 'em and get his kidnapped daughter back, just like John Wayne in The Searchers or Melinda Dillon in Close Encounters.

It also adds a little nuance to that as he's completely religious and any evidence of there being extra-terrestrial life or hint that we might not have the full undivided attention of God's eye would completely toast his wafer, so to speak. But, he doesn't know about Paul. All he knows is that nerds stole his little girl and he's gonna get her back just as sure as the turnin' o' the Earth. That daughter Ruth is a bit more open to the idea of e.t.'s and wants to help him escape makes her a valuable ally (if risky) and she is rewarded for that by Paul giving her a new eye to replace the one that doesn't work.

Believe it or not, they resist playing "Amazing Grace" in the background of that scene.

There's enough laughs and something akin to warmth in the film to keep one intrigued and it manages to pay off expectations and keep surprising with what turns up and the film resolves itself. And with players like Pegg, Frost, Hader and Wiig on-board, the material will end up being served in the most creative ways possible.

Director Edgar Wright was not along for this fun little journey. In his stead, the director is Greg Mottola, who made Superbad and Adventureland, but, more importantly in my view, he was the director of the pilot for Aaron Sorkin's brilliant HBO series "The Newsroom"—one of those "perfect" examples of really good television wedded to smart ideas. Mottola did amazing work on that, juggling multiple story-lines and planes of view without "losing" any of the viewers. His work on Paul is more sedate, but there is a reverence to making sure that tribute is paid to past touchstones to make sure they have a maximum pay-off.

Plus, it's just funny as hell.

Thanks to Donavan for the suggestion

Up in the Air

The Economy and how it grinds up people has been on my mind of late. Here are some movies I've written about in that subject matter. 

Written at the time of the film's release.

"Passing Over"

Down in the lower right hand corner of this review (and every review on BXC) there's a space for meta-data to help readers find similar personnel, year of release, director, major stars—basically general stuff.

But I also like to put the genre of where the film would fit, say, at the video store—nothing too specific. Jason Reitman's new film Up in the Air is the first one to have me stumped. I lean towards "drama," but it's too clever and funny to meet that description. It's not a "comedy" as it deals with pain and contemporary issues that most comedies (most modern comedies, at least) steer clear of—although it's tempting to say that it's a "Judd Apatow comedy" for adults, taking on his basic "growing up" arc, but with a more mature, melancholy overtone. Yet it made me laugh out loud fairly regularly. And it made me think of what a sorry mess we're in.

Ryan Bingham (George Clooney) is a corporate hit-man for hire. His company (run by a tight-smiled cut-throat Jason Bateman) provides a termination service for struggling companies. Bingham flies to the home-offices and fires the people the weasley exec's are too cowardly to break the news to face-to-face. And business is booming.

"This is the biggest financial melt-down in our nation's history" crows Bateman's CEO. "This is our moment." And to make the most of it, he's hired a new 23 year old tyro named Natalie Keener (Anna Kendrick, who gets perpetually lost in the lunch-room in the "Twilight" movies*), who hopes to streamline the down-sizing process by doing it over the internet, rather than in person.

This throws the well-managed world of Bingham into a tizzy. No more frequent flier miles which he collects like office-absconded paper-clips. No more stipends and luxury cars for hire, and platinum service lounges. He'll be flying coach rather than first-class. Worse than that, he'll be stuck in a cubicle going nowhere, considerably worse than coach.

Not only will he have to get his own drinks, he may have to get a life. Bingham is in a groove, as personal and as transitory as the swipe of a card-reader. He is constantly between Point A and Point B and prides himself on finding the most efficient route. His life is reduced to a minimum of baggage—carry-on's with wheels that don't squeak, a packing ritual as choreographed as a Fosse number down to the split-second, and little contact with family. He knows the airport routine cold. And as a sideline, he gives lectures on travelling efficiently in the air and in life. "Our attachments weigh us down," he intones to his conference rooms of drones. "The slower we move, the faster we die. Make no mistake, moving is living. We are not monogamous swans. We are sharks."

Clooney's in full smug mode—a variation of his divorce attorney Miles Massey from Intolerable Cruelty played straight—he practically marches to the beat of "Come Fly With Me" and his smile is as practiced and measured as his patter...with everyone, business associates and family. His character has a part to play and when the show's over, it's "me" time, like the "James Bond" fantasy of living the high life while doing dirty jobs. Everything is first-class and preferred customer, his one goal being a targeted accumulation of miles over a life-time—his own personal best. He has an apartment, but he's never in it and it has the same empty utilitarian ambiance of a Ramada Suite. He's the personification of "fly-by-night" in slip-off shoes.

So are his relationships, such as they are. At the same time that he is forced to show Natalie "the ropes" of the "down-sizing" business, he's established a "ships that pass in the night" fling with fellow traveller Alex Goran (Vera Farmiga, finally getting a role that has more heft than "girlfriend"). Natalie, who probably has a Power-Point presentation for how her life is going to go ("I should be driving an Explorer by 23"), is horrified at the casualness of it all. She's just out of the starting blocks and doesn't know the pit-falls of the track ahead, with all the confidence and brashness of someone who doesn't know what she doesn't know, and how theory reacts when it collides with reality. It's a crash-course in transitioning, on the job and in real life, and the two veterans try to bring the kid down easy—at least to get her to remember to lock her wheels.

There'll I'll leave it, for to tell too much will ruin it. But I admire any movie that acknowledges the mature adult, that attempts to show that a life is segmented, complicated and compromised, where dreams could come true, but mostly don't, where decency is its own reward and the idea of "soul-mates" is a lot of hooey. A lot of hooey to sell soap.

And movies.

Jason Reitman grew up in movies—his father is Ivan Reitman—and with his first three films (the others being Thank You for Smoking and Juno) he has shown himself all too willing to throw sabo's into the gears of the Hollywood Dream Factory,** making contemporary movies of stylish form about tough choices and compromised principles in today's America, while still keeping them highly entertaining and unpretentious. One hopes he can sustain that promise and not flirt with issues of the elite, as so many of his peers have in the past, and buy into the fairy tale myth of mainstream Hollywood.

One hopes he can keep his feet on the ground.

* Kendrick is great, no doubt about it, but one hears a whine of feed-back in the false amplification of her performance. It is nuanced and studied, alright, and just a tinge robotic. The joy in the performance is watching the gears seize, the plugs mis-fire, and the LED's in her eyes dim. It's like watching a puppet turn into a real live girl. But she doesn't blow the other stars away, or "steal the movie." There's just a whiff of Dream Factory hype in this talk. As long as it stays in the publicity and stays off the screen, I'm all for it.

** If you do want an unequivocal happy ending and an example of dreams coming true, stay to the end of the movie. Reitman is a very generous man. And the song manages to perfectly distill the movie.