I find that the characters in the Sisterhood of Traveling Pants series inspire definite feelings, and they don't always match up from book to movie. For example, my friend Amy is a fan of the Bridget storyline, but I don't think it does as much for my mother. I lose my patience easily with Carmen, yet she's many reviewers' favorite. As a result, more than usual, this review reflects MY opinion.
P.S. While I don't say it below, the best part of my viewing experience was watching this with my Jersey "sisters," Brooklyn Jen and the aforementioned Amy.
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 (seen Aug. 22; 10th movie watched in August)
Three years after the first Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants movie adapted the initial novel of the four-part series, Carmen, Tibby, Lena, Bridget, and that pair of magical jeans return to charm us. Alas, in truncating books two through four into one sequel, director Sanaa Hamri and screenwriter Elizabeth Chandler cut back and forth more than a videogame, and the friendships don't linger as sweetly as in 2005.
While teenagers naturally grow apart as they age, Bridget (Blake Lively) seems to be in a different movie altogether than Carmen (America Ferrera), Tibby (Amber Tamblyn) and Lena (Alexis Bledel). Where the other three tackle boy problems of varying degrees of triteness (although Carmen also has a parallel Shakespeare camp story), Bridget searches for identities old (Turkish archeological dig) and personal (Southern grandmother), giving the film a needed level of maturity.
Our girls reunite in Greece for the last 15 minutes of Pants 2, providing us with the satisfying conclusion we desire - but not the overall blissful experience we so want.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
This Is Supposedly My Little Sister's Life?
Between The Wackness and now American Teen, I felt very old this summer, even though I could pass for the older sister of some of these teenagers. (Seriously. Twice in the past week, and four times in the past month, I've been asked what school I go to. Am I reverse aging?) The more I think about American Teen, the more disgruntled I become. Rarely do I agree with anything my partners at the New York Post have to say, but like them, I took pleasure in this documentary's poor performance at the box office.
American Teen (seen Aug. 10, third movie of August)
From the Breakfast Club-evoking poster to the Juno-esque soundtrack, American Teen director Nanette Burstein manipulates and blatantly edits her “characters” in this year-in-the-life high school documentary. Yes, I know the kids of Warsaw, Ind., are real, not screenwriter creations, but they seem scripted. Hannah’s ideas of “punk” and “rebel” feel as if they come out of 1990s grunge primer, and only Colin the basketball player transcends the “jock” storyline stereotype set up for him. A sense of adult irresponsibility pervades American Teen, from the lack of early intervention when breakup depression leads Hannah to miss weeks of school to Burstein seemingly standing by and shooting as Queen Bee Megan paints hateful graffiti on a student’s house. Watching American Teen is like viewing a marathon of MTV reality shows, and we all know how “authentic” those are.
American Teen (seen Aug. 10, third movie of August)
From the Breakfast Club-evoking poster to the Juno-esque soundtrack, American Teen director Nanette Burstein manipulates and blatantly edits her “characters” in this year-in-the-life high school documentary. Yes, I know the kids of Warsaw, Ind., are real, not screenwriter creations, but they seem scripted. Hannah’s ideas of “punk” and “rebel” feel as if they come out of 1990s grunge primer, and only Colin the basketball player transcends the “jock” storyline stereotype set up for him. A sense of adult irresponsibility pervades American Teen, from the lack of early intervention when breakup depression leads Hannah to miss weeks of school to Burstein seemingly standing by and shooting as Queen Bee Megan paints hateful graffiti on a student’s house. Watching American Teen is like viewing a marathon of MTV reality shows, and we all know how “authentic” those are.
A Lot Better Than Three-Buck Chuck
It's time to get back to reviewing August movies (even though I have three more from September - ack!). The flick I'm about to talk up was the one that made me want to start writing again. It's not that Bottle Shock was the greatest thing I've ever seen. However, it may have been the most fun I've had in some time.
Props to Brooklyn Jen for help with the lede.
Bottle Shock (seen Aug. 9; second movie I saw in August)
Like a glass of summer white, Bottle Shock refreshes the moviegoer’s palate after a season of Hulks and Dark Knights. Randall Miller directs and co-writes this messily engaging, shaggy dog of a flick, a delightful true story of a Napa Valley winery stunning the Parisian oenophiles in a blind taste test in 1976. The plot has problems (unbalanced screen time, characters introduced then dropped), the acting is uneven (Alan Rickman and an underused Freddy Rodriguez are great, the clichéd father/son Bill Pullman and Chris Pine less so), yet the film’s overall charm ultimately takes over. Rickman’s U.K. snob is as droll as you might expect (“You think I'm an asshole. [pause] “I'm just British and, well, you're not.”), yet he also takes pleasure in discovering that odd green concoction known as guacamole. In much the same way, allow yourself to accept Bottle Shock’s flaws and instead drink in the glorious California and French landscapes, the complementary 1970s rock soundtrack, and the joy of a little movie that could.
Props to Brooklyn Jen for help with the lede.
Bottle Shock (seen Aug. 9; second movie I saw in August)
Like a glass of summer white, Bottle Shock refreshes the moviegoer’s palate after a season of Hulks and Dark Knights. Randall Miller directs and co-writes this messily engaging, shaggy dog of a flick, a delightful true story of a Napa Valley winery stunning the Parisian oenophiles in a blind taste test in 1976. The plot has problems (unbalanced screen time, characters introduced then dropped), the acting is uneven (Alan Rickman and an underused Freddy Rodriguez are great, the clichéd father/son Bill Pullman and Chris Pine less so), yet the film’s overall charm ultimately takes over. Rickman’s U.K. snob is as droll as you might expect (“You think I'm an asshole. [pause] “I'm just British and, well, you're not.”), yet he also takes pleasure in discovering that odd green concoction known as guacamole. In much the same way, allow yourself to accept Bottle Shock’s flaws and instead drink in the glorious California and French landscapes, the complementary 1970s rock soundtrack, and the joy of a little movie that could.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Ladies First (And Second And Third And ...)
The first classic movie I saw when I moved to New York 11 years ago was the original version of The Women. It was fun, but I didn't think it was fabulous, nor did it cry out for the already-percolating remake. After more than a decade, that remake arrived last week.
For the record, I was the youngest person in the theater, and I think my 55-year-old mother also may have been on the youthful side of the audience.
Almost 60 years after Anita Loos uncollared the cattiness of The Women (based on a Clare Boothe Luce play), Murphy Brown creator Diane English brings a declawed remake to multiplexes. The basic framework remains: Banker’s wife Mary (Meg Ryan in the Norma Shearer role) learns her husband is cheating on her with a perfume girl at Saks (Eva Mendes, a poor Joan Crawford substitute). Instead of the 1930s biting and backstabbing, here Mary receives support from a flock of fellow femmes as she reclaims herself. Otherwise, we still see no men, not even among the extras on Fifth Avenue. While toned down, snarky comments remain, this time about looks and aging. (Meanwhile, we engage in our own plastic-surgery voyeurism.)
English may have moved the Ya-Ya Sisterhood to New York, yet she never explains how earth mother Edie (an exaggerated Debra Messing) and sassy lesbian author Alex (funny, underused Jada Pinkett Smith) fit with Mary and college pal Sylvie (Annette Bening). Perhaps as a result, English waters down Crystal Allen (Mendes) until she’s nothing more than a cubic zirconia sexpot, not someone to fear.
Then we arrive at the hypocritical fashion storyline. Mary’s preteen daughter has obvious body-image issues, calling herself “fat” when she’s slender, and already smokes. Magazine editor Sylvie tells Molly no one looks that glamorous, not even the models. Meanwhile, Mom becomes a clothing designer for stick-skinny women, and Molly thinks the whole scene rocks. In fact, it’s a breeding ground for her angst, but English long ago dropped this thread, unresolved.
In the midst of my griping comes the radiant, adult Annette Bening. She alone elevates The Women at least a half-grade. Her relatable character, a true lady, struggles with tradeoffs in a high-power career and nearly loses her friends for it. Sylvie thinks she’s non-maternal, yet the discussion about beauty and sex she and Molly share can come only from a place of love and warmth. “I’m the man I want to marry,” Sylvie says at one point. That's a positive, strong-female message to cheer.
For the record, I was the youngest person in the theater, and I think my 55-year-old mother also may have been on the youthful side of the audience.
Almost 60 years after Anita Loos uncollared the cattiness of The Women (based on a Clare Boothe Luce play), Murphy Brown creator Diane English brings a declawed remake to multiplexes. The basic framework remains: Banker’s wife Mary (Meg Ryan in the Norma Shearer role) learns her husband is cheating on her with a perfume girl at Saks (Eva Mendes, a poor Joan Crawford substitute). Instead of the 1930s biting and backstabbing, here Mary receives support from a flock of fellow femmes as she reclaims herself. Otherwise, we still see no men, not even among the extras on Fifth Avenue. While toned down, snarky comments remain, this time about looks and aging. (Meanwhile, we engage in our own plastic-surgery voyeurism.)
English may have moved the Ya-Ya Sisterhood to New York, yet she never explains how earth mother Edie (an exaggerated Debra Messing) and sassy lesbian author Alex (funny, underused Jada Pinkett Smith) fit with Mary and college pal Sylvie (Annette Bening). Perhaps as a result, English waters down Crystal Allen (Mendes) until she’s nothing more than a cubic zirconia sexpot, not someone to fear.
Then we arrive at the hypocritical fashion storyline. Mary’s preteen daughter has obvious body-image issues, calling herself “fat” when she’s slender, and already smokes. Magazine editor Sylvie tells Molly no one looks that glamorous, not even the models. Meanwhile, Mom becomes a clothing designer for stick-skinny women, and Molly thinks the whole scene rocks. In fact, it’s a breeding ground for her angst, but English long ago dropped this thread, unresolved.
In the midst of my griping comes the radiant, adult Annette Bening. She alone elevates The Women at least a half-grade. Her relatable character, a true lady, struggles with tradeoffs in a high-power career and nearly loses her friends for it. Sylvie thinks she’s non-maternal, yet the discussion about beauty and sex she and Molly share can come only from a place of love and warmth. “I’m the man I want to marry,” Sylvie says at one point. That's a positive, strong-female message to cheer.
Starry Nights
You may notice that I don't use a star system with my reviews. Most critics do, though, including my dearly beloved Roger Ebert. (See the bookmark on the side.) I have commented that he's more generous than I am, and I especially believe that since he came back from the worst of his cancer last year. He explains himself in this fascinating blog post.
P.S. This morning, my mother read Ebert's review of Hounddog (a.k.a. the Dakota Fanning Rape Movie) to me. While I still have no interest in seeing the movie, I declared Ebert's critique was by far the best piece of writing I'd heard/read on the film.
http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2008/09/you_give_out_too_many_stars.html
P.S. This morning, my mother read Ebert's review of Hounddog (a.k.a. the Dakota Fanning Rape Movie) to me. While I still have no interest in seeing the movie, I declared Ebert's critique was by far the best piece of writing I'd heard/read on the film.
http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2008/09/you_give_out_too_many_stars.html
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Fails To Score Either Goal
OK, I saw this one on ESPN, not in a movie theater. Kicking It was in and out of theaters in two weeks in July, though - that wasn't enough time! I didn't get to the documentary when it was at Tribeca, and you know I make a concerted effort to support my festival.
Kicking It (seen Sept. 9)
Jumbled composition and poorly focused direction dilute Kicking It, Susan Koch’s documentary about the 2006 Homeless World Cup. Storylines and audience attachments can’t develop with Koch still introducing critical characters almost halfway through the movie, when we don’t even have a firm grasp of the initial who’s who. Following the 48-country, multi-cup tournament becomes difficult; teams doing well in one segment are fighting to stay alive the next time we see them. The scattershot approach also muddles the heartbreaking impact of homelessness: In Russia, for example, one can’t obtain ID or work without an address. Alas, Kicking It falls short as both a gripping sports story and as an illuminating social commentary.
Kicking It (seen Sept. 9)
Jumbled composition and poorly focused direction dilute Kicking It, Susan Koch’s documentary about the 2006 Homeless World Cup. Storylines and audience attachments can’t develop with Koch still introducing critical characters almost halfway through the movie, when we don’t even have a firm grasp of the initial who’s who. Following the 48-country, multi-cup tournament becomes difficult; teams doing well in one segment are fighting to stay alive the next time we see them. The scattershot approach also muddles the heartbreaking impact of homelessness: In Russia, for example, one can’t obtain ID or work without an address. Alas, Kicking It falls short as both a gripping sports story and as an illuminating social commentary.
Cars. Blood. That British Diver.
I still have about 10 reviews to write for August, but my notes for half of them are in New Jersey. In the meantime, let's move to September.
Death Race (seen Sept. 2)
Death Race flaunts its B-movie roots before the opening credits finish rolling: the sound of screeching tires over a grayed-out Universal logo; a killer crash featuring a hockey-masked driver; executive producer Roger Corman, who made Death Race: 2000 in 1975. Director Paul W.S. Anderson (the Resident Evil franchise) strives to inject social realism with a floundering economy, laid-off factory workers, and bloodthirsty viewers paying $99 a pop to watch video of prison races that lead to such pleasant fatalities as decapitation. For the record, Death Race takes place in 2012, not 2008, and stars the yummy Jason Statham (returning to the fast cars of The Italian Job and the Transporter flicks) as our wrongly convicted, single-dad hero. It’s all noisy, bloody chaos, with hard bodies more important than dialogue, yet it has a most incongruous sight – two-time Academy-Award nominee Joan Allen, as a sadistic prison warden. The Bourne veteran is all clipped tones and high heels and pencil skirts, but her presence in this glorified videogame still mystifies me.
Death Race (seen Sept. 2)
Death Race flaunts its B-movie roots before the opening credits finish rolling: the sound of screeching tires over a grayed-out Universal logo; a killer crash featuring a hockey-masked driver; executive producer Roger Corman, who made Death Race: 2000 in 1975. Director Paul W.S. Anderson (the Resident Evil franchise) strives to inject social realism with a floundering economy, laid-off factory workers, and bloodthirsty viewers paying $99 a pop to watch video of prison races that lead to such pleasant fatalities as decapitation. For the record, Death Race takes place in 2012, not 2008, and stars the yummy Jason Statham (returning to the fast cars of The Italian Job and the Transporter flicks) as our wrongly convicted, single-dad hero. It’s all noisy, bloody chaos, with hard bodies more important than dialogue, yet it has a most incongruous sight – two-time Academy-Award nominee Joan Allen, as a sadistic prison warden. The Bourne veteran is all clipped tones and high heels and pencil skirts, but her presence in this glorified videogame still mystifies me.
Tell Everyone: Get Over the Subtitle Aversion
When other reviews for Tell No One referenced two of my favorite films of all time, I simply had to see it. This isn't quite as good (could anything be?), but it's pretty terrific all the same.
13) Tell No One (seen Aug. 30, 13th film of August)
The language of suspense is universal, as the French thriller Tell No One ably demonstrates. The film, based on a novel by American author Harlan Coben (Guillaume Canet adapts and directs), celebrates some of the genre’s classics: the doctor wrongly accused of murdering his wife (The Fugitive), albeit eight years later; our main character on the run (North by Northwest); a magnificent chase sequence that peaks as it crosses a busy, New Jersey Turnpike-esque highway (The French Connection). And Alex (Francois Cluzet) thinks he’s seen his still-beloved spouse, suddenly rendering her not so dead – shades of Laura, anyone? Only the too-pat ending disappoints, leaving Tell No One just short of modern-day mystery marvel status. Still, this doesn’t much detract from the twisty treat of summer fun, with stellar turns from the heart-wrenching, increasingly stretched Cluzet and a sexy and stunning Kristin Scott Thomas as Alex’s best friend.
13) Tell No One (seen Aug. 30, 13th film of August)
The language of suspense is universal, as the French thriller Tell No One ably demonstrates. The film, based on a novel by American author Harlan Coben (Guillaume Canet adapts and directs), celebrates some of the genre’s classics: the doctor wrongly accused of murdering his wife (The Fugitive), albeit eight years later; our main character on the run (North by Northwest); a magnificent chase sequence that peaks as it crosses a busy, New Jersey Turnpike-esque highway (The French Connection). And Alex (Francois Cluzet) thinks he’s seen his still-beloved spouse, suddenly rendering her not so dead – shades of Laura, anyone? Only the too-pat ending disappoints, leaving Tell No One just short of modern-day mystery marvel status. Still, this doesn’t much detract from the twisty treat of summer fun, with stellar turns from the heart-wrenching, increasingly stretched Cluzet and a sexy and stunning Kristin Scott Thomas as Alex’s best friend.
I Should Have Stayed Home to Watch The House Bunny
You know how some films play better on TV than they do in theaters? The following is one of them. At least I did the mall-matinee thing, and the target audience seemed to have a grand ol' time.
The House Bunny (seen Aug. 29, 12th movie of August)
The House Bunny wants to be a cinematic cousin to Legally Blonde, using the same female writing team (Karen McCullah Lutz and Kirsten Smith) and a likable actress (Anna Faris) seeking a breakout comedy. Instead of honoring Blonde’s canny mix of smarts and the color pink, though, Bunny settles for pedestrian dumb-blonde humor. Girl power comes in the form of makeovers and boy ogling: Evicted Playboy Bunny Shelley Darlington (Faris) must help a group of misfit sorority sisters (including Rumer Willis and American Idol wannabe Katharine McPhee!) save its house from their Plastics-like rivals. Faris plays her trademark wide-eyed, breathy-voiced naïf well, but the real surprise comes from Superbad’s Emma Stone, evoking a pre-scandal Lindsay Lohan as the most socially adept of the Zeta Alpha Zetas. Perhaps Lutz and Smith can build a franchise around the effortlessly cool Stone, one that honors Reese Witherspoon rather than the Girls Next Door.
The House Bunny (seen Aug. 29, 12th movie of August)
The House Bunny wants to be a cinematic cousin to Legally Blonde, using the same female writing team (Karen McCullah Lutz and Kirsten Smith) and a likable actress (Anna Faris) seeking a breakout comedy. Instead of honoring Blonde’s canny mix of smarts and the color pink, though, Bunny settles for pedestrian dumb-blonde humor. Girl power comes in the form of makeovers and boy ogling: Evicted Playboy Bunny Shelley Darlington (Faris) must help a group of misfit sorority sisters (including Rumer Willis and American Idol wannabe Katharine McPhee!) save its house from their Plastics-like rivals. Faris plays her trademark wide-eyed, breathy-voiced naïf well, but the real surprise comes from Superbad’s Emma Stone, evoking a pre-scandal Lindsay Lohan as the most socially adept of the Zeta Alpha Zetas. Perhaps Lutz and Smith can build a franchise around the effortlessly cool Stone, one that honors Reese Witherspoon rather than the Girls Next Door.
Bus Time Leads To Writing Time
I spent seven hours and 40 minutes on buses going to Framingham, MA, from New York City on Friday afternoon and evening. I wish someone could build a bridge over Connecticut. On the other hand, I had time to draft five reviews. Here we go!
Hamlet 2 (seen Aug. 23; the 11th movie of August)
Hamlet 2 represents the latest overpriced Sundance pickup (think Happy, Texas, The Spitfire Grill … yeah, I don’t remember them either) whose so-called charms evaporate once out of the thin Park City, Utah, air. Director Andrew Fleming and writer Pam Brady apparently used all their wit a decade ago (Dick and the South Park movie, respectively) as Hamlet 2 awkwardly spoofs inspirational teacher dramas and “let’s put on a show” spirit. Fleming and Brady build their comedy around an imitation Martin Short (Steve Coogan), a clueless high school drama coach with a failing program, a shrewish wife (Catherine Keener, once again brittle), an unpronounceable last name (an increasingly forced gag) and crush on Elisabeth Shue. The latter plays herself as a disgruntled actress turned satisfied fertility nurse in Tucson, Ariz., in a bit that’s an amusing trifle at first before becoming strained. The musical numbers are clever in their awfulness, but otherwise, Hamlet 2 should have stayed as dead as its titular character.
Hamlet 2 (seen Aug. 23; the 11th movie of August)
Hamlet 2 represents the latest overpriced Sundance pickup (think Happy, Texas, The Spitfire Grill … yeah, I don’t remember them either) whose so-called charms evaporate once out of the thin Park City, Utah, air. Director Andrew Fleming and writer Pam Brady apparently used all their wit a decade ago (Dick and the South Park movie, respectively) as Hamlet 2 awkwardly spoofs inspirational teacher dramas and “let’s put on a show” spirit. Fleming and Brady build their comedy around an imitation Martin Short (Steve Coogan), a clueless high school drama coach with a failing program, a shrewish wife (Catherine Keener, once again brittle), an unpronounceable last name (an increasingly forced gag) and crush on Elisabeth Shue. The latter plays herself as a disgruntled actress turned satisfied fertility nurse in Tucson, Ariz., in a bit that’s an amusing trifle at first before becoming strained. The musical numbers are clever in their awfulness, but otherwise, Hamlet 2 should have stayed as dead as its titular character.
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