Play On?

Brooklyn Jen knows her music. The tour guide in me appreciates a well-presented New York. We're both fans of the teen movie. In other words, our expectations for Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist were high.

Maybe too high?

Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist meanders and sputters more than a 90-minute comedy should. An After Hours for Millennials, Peter Sollett’s flick drives audiences through a Friday night mainly on the Lower East Side as our eponymous characters, their friends and frenemies come together over - what else? - songs. Sollett films a valentine to New York nightlife; Lorene Scafaria’s script, based on a young-adult novel, contains witty barbs; yet Nick and Norah isn’t consistently in tune.

Michael Cera plays Nick, the latest entry in the awkward-cute pantheon of Cera characters (Juno, Superbad). The mixtape artist and sole straight member of a queercore band recently was dumped by pouty flirt Tris (Alexis Dziena). Kat Dennings is Norah, smart, musically connected and in an unhappy “friends with benefits” situation with Tal (Jay Baruchel). Of course, Nick and Norah are meant to be. (The Thin Man comedies aren’t referenced - no hip indie rock in those.) Naturally, bumps and wrong turns, literal and figurative, occur before the music of like flows.

Norah poignantly explains her relationship to Tal: “You’re ignored long enough, sometimes you just want to feel special.” The Nick/Tris link, though, confounds. One can see why doubt-laden Nick would want Tris, but her interest in him makes far less sense. She certainly doesn’t know where Fluffy is (a running plot in the film).


One storyline that is infinite: a gross gum gag. I’ll say only this - Norah’s drunk best friend (Ari Graynor) and a Port Authority toilet are involved.

Go West, Young Woman?

I'm not much for Westerns, so I wasn't as up for Appaloosa as my former class cohort Patricia. Then she reminded me of a major selling point: Viggo. Ah, Viggo. Man who helped me survive the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Man who was so awesome in Eastern Promises. We also have Ed Harris, a man's man. With Paul Newman's recent passing, Harris may have the steeliest (is that a word?) pair of baby blues out there. OK, I'm more game.

Slightly weathered but still rugged, mesmerizing shades of blue and tan that captivate immediately - I’m describing the manly forms of Ed Harris and Viggo Mortensen in Appaloosa, although Dean Semler’s cinematography of Texas and New Mexico landscapes looks gorgeous, too!

Harris does just about everything except pick out curtains in this Western (and his character also has a chance to do that). He plays marshal-for-hire Virgil Cole, directs, produces, co-writes the screenplay adaptation of a Robert B. Parker novel and even sings a Johnny Cash-like ditty over the closing credits. Appaloosa has much to recommend, until a pesky woman mars the day.

Cole and his partner/best friend of 12 years, Everett Hitch (Mortensen), ride into Appaloosa, N.M., to clean up the town. Their main target: another colorfully named character, rancher Randall Bragg (oddly accented Jeremy Irons). Cole is the alpha male, Hitch the all-seeing, quietly correcting No. 2. (Virgil reads Emerson but trips on pronouncing such words as “sequestered” and “degrading.”) As zingy as Appaloosa’s dialogue is, Mortensen doesn’t speak much of it. Most of his acting comes from listening and observing, a performance of unexpected vitality. You can detect shades of the Russian gangster he played in last year’s Eastern Promises in this taciturn Western lawman.

A woman comes along, the widow Allison French (Renee Zellweger). Virgil rapidly becomes enamored of this Allie, who is not like the “whores and squaws” he is used to - “She likes to take a bath at night” - and they set up house. Despite her organ playing and high necklines, Allie isn’t exactly the simple frontier woman. Everett soon grasps this. So does Bragg.

Watching Harris and Mortensen interact in Appaloosa, doing something as simple as sitting on a bench, one recalls the easy connection between fellow blue-eyed wonder Paul Newman (who played Harris’ father in the 2005 miniseries Empire Falls) and his two-time co-star Robert Redford. Sometimes, the rich words don’t sound right for the time period - did men really discuss their feelings in 1882 as if on Oprah? Harris and Mortensen’s chemistry sells it anyway.

If only the male/female dynamic were even half as interesting. Allie first appears to be a rare multidimensional female part in a Western, until she devolves into the stereotype that women ultimately are power-hungry and, well, kind of easy. A miscast Zellweger (in Cold Mountain mode) doesn’t provide any shading that could have added nuance. From the start, Allie comes across as immature, her motives obvious.

Harris also may have taken on one task too many when he chose to make Appaloosa his directorial follow-up to 2000’s Pollock. Particularly during the latter half, the pacing lags, as storylines continue after their natural resolutions. The town scenes also have a soundstage feel; they need more soot and grit.

Let’s circle back to the central relationship in Appaloosa. “Allie, you’re with Virgil. So am I,” Everett explains when his best friend’s girl kisses him. Ed and Viggo - now that’s a love story to savor.

Burn, Baby, Burn

When I first became a more serious cinema student, I loathed the Coen brothers, especially their comedies. I softened in recent years, and like many other critics, I thought No Country for Old Men was the best movie of 2007. Alas, the next Joel/Ethan work has brought back old feelings.

“What did we learn from this?” a CIA supervisor says to an agent at the end of Burn After Reading, the latest screen adventure for brothers Joel and Ethan Coen. “Uh …,” the agent replies. “Not to do it again,” the superior answers.

That exchange also sums up my feelings for this so-called comedy.

The plot - in which goofy gym clerks Chad and Linda (Brad Pitt, Frances McDormand) stumble upon a CD they think includes secrets belonging to disgraced agent Osbourne Cox (John Malkovich) - has the potential for madcap, dizzy, screwball, a la the Coens’ 2003 Intolerable Cruelty. Instead, the brothers layer on an unpleasant divorcing couple (Malkovich and Tilda Swinton), a womanizing Treasury employee (George Clooney, on Round 3 with Joel and Ethan), a plastic-surgery-obsessed online dater (McDormand), and the exercise geek (Pitt); they draw some ludicrous connections; and they expect us to laugh. Nice try.

Oddly, the one person who offers consistent chuckles is Pitt, better known for ponderousness (Babel, Seven Years in Tibet) than popcorn. He understands what the role of Chad needs: gaping mouth, eyes that pop like a cartoon character’s, vigorous sucking of a Jamba Juice smoothie. Meanwhile, old Coen hands such as McDormand and Clooney come across as strident (her) or slimy (him).

I’d scorch this movie memory were it not for two things: Angelina’s other half and the promise of improved cinema. You see, before Burn After Reading began, I saw the trailers for Frost/Nixon and Doubt. Better days are ahead.

Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves (Thanks, Annie Lennox)

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.

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.

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.

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.