This was supposed to be the intro to my Slumdog Millionaire review. It became so long I decided it merited its own post. The Slumdog review will appear later Thursday, under separate cover.
I've seen Slumdog Millionaire twice. The first time was day before Thanksgiving, the week after the movie opened in Boston. I liked the structure, and I enjoyed it as a director's movie (which is odd - I'm more a written than visual kind of gal), although even then I remarked to my mother that I found Slumdog slightly overhyped.
Ten weeks later, Slumdog had won just about every award out there, and it seems to be on its way to an Oscar trouncing Sunday. My movie buddy Patricia had yet to see the film; meanwhile, I wondered if I'd missed a sprinkling of the fairy dust that would result in me salivating as much as many other critics.
My second viewing only enforced the feelings I had the first time around.
Will I be OK with the inevitable Slumdog victories Sunday, namely Best Picture? Yeah, I guess. I'm rooting for Danny Boyle to win Best Director. Slumdog is much better than The Reader and the endless inertia known as The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. (That review is coming Friday.) It isn't Frost/Nixon or Milk, though. Patricia's one-word description hits upon many of my Slumdog gripings: "contrived."
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Today's Highway-Robbery Reminder
I know I live in the most expensive place around to go to the movies. I know the Regal Cinemas seem to be especially pricey, even having the nerve to charge more for flicks on Fridays and Saturdays. Unlike the AMC chain, Regal doesn't offer a delightful $6-before-noon special on weekends. Still, I don't think I realized how absurd New York prices are until just now, as I was editing Regal Entertainment's earnings in my real-world job.
Please see the chart below. Note the bolded section:
Operating Data Quarter Ended
Jan. 1, Dec. 27
2009 2007
Theatres at period end 552 527
Screens at period end 6,801 6,388
Average screens 12.3 12.1
per theatre
Attendance 61,756 53,320
(in thousands)
Average ticket price $ 7.75 $ 7.58
Average concessions $ 3.13 $ 2.97
per patron
Excuse me: The average ticket price across Regal is $7.75? What??? In New York City, it costs almost $13 for a regular ticket! Where is it significantly less than $13 to give us this $7.75 average? And the average concession per patron is $3.13? I'm not kidding: I'm not even sure I can find anything for less than $3.13 at the Battery Park or Times Square concession stands!
Back to work and mulling a Slumdog Millionaire review ...
Please see the chart below. Note the bolded section:
Operating Data Quarter Ended
Jan. 1, Dec. 27
2009 2007
Theatres at period end 552 527
Screens at period end 6,801 6,388
Average screens 12.3 12.1
per theatre
Attendance 61,756 53,320
(in thousands)
Average ticket price $ 7.75 $ 7.58
Average concessions $ 3.13 $ 2.97
per patron
Excuse me: The average ticket price across Regal is $7.75? What??? In New York City, it costs almost $13 for a regular ticket! Where is it significantly less than $13 to give us this $7.75 average? And the average concession per patron is $3.13? I'm not kidding: I'm not even sure I can find anything for less than $3.13 at the Battery Park or Times Square concession stands!
Back to work and mulling a Slumdog Millionaire review ...
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Best Film of 2008
Frost/Nixon and Milk are two of the best movies of 2008. Rarely do films live up to their hype or even your own hopes. That it happened for me twice on Christmas week indicates that yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
I saw Frost/Nixon on Broadway in August 2007, and I've been awaiting its screen adaptation pretty much ever since. I saw Doubt a week beforehand, though, and given how shaky a move that made to celluloid, I began to worry.
Thank goodness I didn't have to worry here. My fellow Frost/Nixon fan Patricia accompanied me. We loved it. I can't wait to see this again.
Like the recent Doubt, Frost/Nixon transitions from stage to screen. Unlike Doubt's John Patrick Shanley, Frost/Nixon director Ron Howard and screenwriter Peter Morgan (who also wrote the play) allow their story - British talk-show host David Frost's somewhat fictionalized 1977 interviews with Richard Nixon - to breathe and even grow.
Michael Sheen and Frank Langella reprise their Broadway work as Frost and Nixon. Joining them onscreen: Kevin Bacon as Nixon loyalist Col. Jack Brennan, Matthew Macfayden as Frost producer John Birt, Oliver Platt as ABC journalist Bob Zelnick (looking nothing like his real-life counterpart) and Sam Rockwell as Nixon-hating professor James Reston.
It's easy to hate Nixon, yet the filmmakers and performers don't opt for this simplicity. Howard shoots the drama's opening moments, Nixon's resignation, from behind, giving the man respect and privacy; he echoes this with the film's last frame. Langella had Morgan include dialogue to illuminate Nixon's loneliness in office, and Howard features a scene of the consummate politician petting a dog - but in that uncomfortable, forced-jovial Nixon way.
When Anthony Hopkins played Nixon in Oliver Stone's 1995 biopic, it felt like a hammy imitation. Langella doesn't look like the 37th president - for one thing, he's several inches taller - but he captures the man's awkward essence. He's that socially backward soul who never learned how to make a joke, that brooder with a permanent chip on his shoulder. Morgan imagines a phone call where a drunken Nixon exposes his insecurities. It's the type of scene where an actor could chew scenery, but Langella plays it perfectly, giving us a portrait of alienation.
As Frost, Sheen shows he can play more than Tony Blair (The Deal and The Queen, other Morgan scripts), and he play this role well, too. Frost starts off a starry-eyed, "Insider"-like journalist, nowhere near as serious as he believes himself to be. Only when he's met someone more manipulative and savvy than himself in Nixon, outwardly his opposite, does the charmer slump and slouch. Like Nixon, Frost is desperate; unlike his adversary, Frost doesn't let desperation overwhelm him.
The newcomers to Frost/Nixon work wonders, too, notably Kevin Bacon, who personifies "steely gaze" and "stiff upper lip." When is this man ever going to receive recognition from the Academy?
Howard, Morgan and their cast have presented us with an engrossing cat-and-mouse game. Frost/Nixon makes for history at its most riveting.
I saw Frost/Nixon on Broadway in August 2007, and I've been awaiting its screen adaptation pretty much ever since. I saw Doubt a week beforehand, though, and given how shaky a move that made to celluloid, I began to worry.
Thank goodness I didn't have to worry here. My fellow Frost/Nixon fan Patricia accompanied me. We loved it. I can't wait to see this again.
Like the recent Doubt, Frost/Nixon transitions from stage to screen. Unlike Doubt's John Patrick Shanley, Frost/Nixon director Ron Howard and screenwriter Peter Morgan (who also wrote the play) allow their story - British talk-show host David Frost's somewhat fictionalized 1977 interviews with Richard Nixon - to breathe and even grow.
Michael Sheen and Frank Langella reprise their Broadway work as Frost and Nixon. Joining them onscreen: Kevin Bacon as Nixon loyalist Col. Jack Brennan, Matthew Macfayden as Frost producer John Birt, Oliver Platt as ABC journalist Bob Zelnick (looking nothing like his real-life counterpart) and Sam Rockwell as Nixon-hating professor James Reston.
It's easy to hate Nixon, yet the filmmakers and performers don't opt for this simplicity. Howard shoots the drama's opening moments, Nixon's resignation, from behind, giving the man respect and privacy; he echoes this with the film's last frame. Langella had Morgan include dialogue to illuminate Nixon's loneliness in office, and Howard features a scene of the consummate politician petting a dog - but in that uncomfortable, forced-jovial Nixon way.
When Anthony Hopkins played Nixon in Oliver Stone's 1995 biopic, it felt like a hammy imitation. Langella doesn't look like the 37th president - for one thing, he's several inches taller - but he captures the man's awkward essence. He's that socially backward soul who never learned how to make a joke, that brooder with a permanent chip on his shoulder. Morgan imagines a phone call where a drunken Nixon exposes his insecurities. It's the type of scene where an actor could chew scenery, but Langella plays it perfectly, giving us a portrait of alienation.
As Frost, Sheen shows he can play more than Tony Blair (The Deal and The Queen, other Morgan scripts), and he play this role well, too. Frost starts off a starry-eyed, "Insider"-like journalist, nowhere near as serious as he believes himself to be. Only when he's met someone more manipulative and savvy than himself in Nixon, outwardly his opposite, does the charmer slump and slouch. Like Nixon, Frost is desperate; unlike his adversary, Frost doesn't let desperation overwhelm him.
The newcomers to Frost/Nixon work wonders, too, notably Kevin Bacon, who personifies "steely gaze" and "stiff upper lip." When is this man ever going to receive recognition from the Academy?
Howard, Morgan and their cast have presented us with an engrossing cat-and-mouse game. Frost/Nixon makes for history at its most riveting.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Milking Good Acting for All It's Worth
I meant to do a combo review, but time is getting away from me. Take what I have so far.
A pioneering homosexual district supervisor and a disgraced Republican president make an unlikely duo. This winter, you'll find these 1970s icons, Harvey Milk and Richard Nixon, in some of the same multiplexes in two absorbing, Oscar-nominated dramas with towering lead performances.
Sean Penn smiles! Sean Penn can be ebullient! Sean Penn's immense range includes "joy!" Milk, Gus van Sant's biopic of the rise and death of America's first openly gay politician, is a marvel in casting; just about every portrayer is a ringer for his or her real-life counterpart. Although Milk ends with death, this tale of 1970s San Francisco oozes life.
Van Sant and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black do several things right. First, they present Harvey Milk not as a martyr (although they beat the death premonitions heavily) but as a funny, shrewd, distracted businessman, politician and lover.
"Politics is about theater. It isn't about winning; it's about making a statement," Harvey explains as he makes run after run before being elected supervisor of District 5. He's not a one-issue candidate: We see Harvey forging alliances with the unions over Coors and reaching out to the conservative Dan White (Josh Brolin). He's also caught up in his work, to the detriment of relationships with longtime lover Scott (James Franco) and unstable boyish Jack (Diego Luna, a love story not well-developed).
The filmmakers don't muffle Harvey's flamboyance. Three years after the chaste love scenes in Brokeback Mountain, Milk depicts Penn picking up Franco in a subway station and bringing him home the same night - within the first five minutes of the movie. Penn's speech pattern and body language are in your face, daring the Dan Whites of the audience to squirm. Yet Harvey is so charming and open it's easy to accept him.
Van Sant recreates the Castro of the 1970s and incorporates actual footage and newspaper articles of the era. Black engaged in meticulous research, speaking with 40 or so people from campaign manager Anne Kronenberg (Alison Pill) to Milk protege and AIDS-quilt founder Cleve Jones (a stunning Emile Hirsch). This makes Milk feel more documentary than biography.
In a stroke of good timing for distributor Focus Features, Milk parallels the Proposition 8 fight in California with the failure of Proposition 6, which would have mandated the firing of gay teachers. (Anita Bryant, who led the battle for Prop 6, is the one person Van Sant didn't cast: She appears only in television clips.) Milk also echoes the election of another minority hope-filled politician, the one occupying the White House. Harvey notes that hope can't be all one has, but "without hope, life's not worth living."
A pioneering homosexual district supervisor and a disgraced Republican president make an unlikely duo. This winter, you'll find these 1970s icons, Harvey Milk and Richard Nixon, in some of the same multiplexes in two absorbing, Oscar-nominated dramas with towering lead performances.
Sean Penn smiles! Sean Penn can be ebullient! Sean Penn's immense range includes "joy!" Milk, Gus van Sant's biopic of the rise and death of America's first openly gay politician, is a marvel in casting; just about every portrayer is a ringer for his or her real-life counterpart. Although Milk ends with death, this tale of 1970s San Francisco oozes life.
Van Sant and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black do several things right. First, they present Harvey Milk not as a martyr (although they beat the death premonitions heavily) but as a funny, shrewd, distracted businessman, politician and lover.
"Politics is about theater. It isn't about winning; it's about making a statement," Harvey explains as he makes run after run before being elected supervisor of District 5. He's not a one-issue candidate: We see Harvey forging alliances with the unions over Coors and reaching out to the conservative Dan White (Josh Brolin). He's also caught up in his work, to the detriment of relationships with longtime lover Scott (James Franco) and unstable boyish Jack (Diego Luna, a love story not well-developed).
The filmmakers don't muffle Harvey's flamboyance. Three years after the chaste love scenes in Brokeback Mountain, Milk depicts Penn picking up Franco in a subway station and bringing him home the same night - within the first five minutes of the movie. Penn's speech pattern and body language are in your face, daring the Dan Whites of the audience to squirm. Yet Harvey is so charming and open it's easy to accept him.
Van Sant recreates the Castro of the 1970s and incorporates actual footage and newspaper articles of the era. Black engaged in meticulous research, speaking with 40 or so people from campaign manager Anne Kronenberg (Alison Pill) to Milk protege and AIDS-quilt founder Cleve Jones (a stunning Emile Hirsch). This makes Milk feel more documentary than biography.
In a stroke of good timing for distributor Focus Features, Milk parallels the Proposition 8 fight in California with the failure of Proposition 6, which would have mandated the firing of gay teachers. (Anita Bryant, who led the battle for Prop 6, is the one person Van Sant didn't cast: She appears only in television clips.) Milk also echoes the election of another minority hope-filled politician, the one occupying the White House. Harvey notes that hope can't be all one has, but "without hope, life's not worth living."
Saturday, February 14, 2009
1967: In the Heat of the Night
I probably should have started the 1967 project with In the Heat of the Night, as it's the big winner of the year at the Oscars, but I wanted to get the first "Revisiting" post out. Now I can do this in a more proper order.
2) In the Heat of the Night (winner of five Oscars, including Best Picture, Actor, Adapted Screenplay). My first viewing
Based on what I read before Pictures at a Revolution, I viewed In the Heat of the Night as the "compromise" Best Picture: more daring than Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, not as edgy as Bonnie and Clyde or The Graduate. I also thought it was a typical black/white buddy movie, with saintly Sidney Poitier educating racist Rod Steiger (who won Best Actor).
My impressions were incorrect. In the Heat of the Night is a worthy winner, mostly eschewing sappy bonding moments in favor of biting dialogue - Stirling Silliphant adapted John Bell's novel - and uneasy relationships. Sometimes the words amuse: "What do you mean I have the wrong man? I have the motive which is money and the body which is dead!" Steiger's exasperated Chief Gillespie huffs. More often, the story sears, a murder mystery on the surface but at its core an honest look at racial interactions featuring an educated, “interloping” black detective, Virgil Tibbs (Poitier), and a long-established, wary white police chief (Steiger).
Poitier seethes in depicting the treatment Virgil receives in Sparta, Mississippi. "May I see the man I'm supposed to have killed?" the Philadelphia-based detective sneers at one point. When a white man, Endicott, bristles at being questioned and slaps him, Virgil slaps Endicott back. Poitier developed an ulcer during production, and it seems he decided Virgil had one, too. "They call me Mister Tibbs," Poitier hisses in his most famous line. The actor said Virgil is his favorite of his roles; it's an absurd oversight the Academy didn’t even nominate him.
Director Norman Jewison rarely lapses into stereotype, and he uses a great bluesy opening by Ray Charles and a Quincy Jones score a flavor to accompany the oppressive Southern summer heat. (The movie was shot in fall in Illinois, and the actors kept ice chips in their mouth so their breathe wouldn’t appear on camera.) Forty years later, In the Heat of the Night still crackles.
2) In the Heat of the Night (winner of five Oscars, including Best Picture, Actor, Adapted Screenplay). My first viewing
Based on what I read before Pictures at a Revolution, I viewed In the Heat of the Night as the "compromise" Best Picture: more daring than Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, not as edgy as Bonnie and Clyde or The Graduate. I also thought it was a typical black/white buddy movie, with saintly Sidney Poitier educating racist Rod Steiger (who won Best Actor).
My impressions were incorrect. In the Heat of the Night is a worthy winner, mostly eschewing sappy bonding moments in favor of biting dialogue - Stirling Silliphant adapted John Bell's novel - and uneasy relationships. Sometimes the words amuse: "What do you mean I have the wrong man? I have the motive which is money and the body which is dead!" Steiger's exasperated Chief Gillespie huffs. More often, the story sears, a murder mystery on the surface but at its core an honest look at racial interactions featuring an educated, “interloping” black detective, Virgil Tibbs (Poitier), and a long-established, wary white police chief (Steiger).
Poitier seethes in depicting the treatment Virgil receives in Sparta, Mississippi. "May I see the man I'm supposed to have killed?" the Philadelphia-based detective sneers at one point. When a white man, Endicott, bristles at being questioned and slaps him, Virgil slaps Endicott back. Poitier developed an ulcer during production, and it seems he decided Virgil had one, too. "They call me Mister Tibbs," Poitier hisses in his most famous line. The actor said Virgil is his favorite of his roles; it's an absurd oversight the Academy didn’t even nominate him.
Director Norman Jewison rarely lapses into stereotype, and he uses a great bluesy opening by Ray Charles and a Quincy Jones score a flavor to accompany the oppressive Southern summer heat. (The movie was shot in fall in Illinois, and the actors kept ice chips in their mouth so their breathe wouldn’t appear on camera.) Forty years later, In the Heat of the Night still crackles.
Revisiting ... The Graduate
Late last year, I told my cousin Mary that I wanted to start a monthly feature for the blog in which I watched a movie I hadn't seen in years. It could be something I adored when I first saw it or a flick I didn't care for even though many others do. I even watched The English Patient and took notes on it to prepare for this project. Then, of course, life interfered.
While cleaning out my 2008 notebook, I remembered another project I wanted to start. Therefore, this entry gives me the opportunity to do that and to start "Revisiting."
The 1960s were a turbulent decade, a furious energy reflected in Hollywood and many films of 1967. Mark Harris, a longtime presence at Entertainment Weekly, traces the evolution of the five movies nominated for Best Picture, four with social leanings and one old-fashioned big-budget song-and-dance epic. Inspired by Harris' book, Pictures at a Revolution, I decided to watch or re-watch the five flicks in question, looking at their quality overall and their relevance today. It's funny how time has changed opinions - including mine.
1) The Graduate (winner of Best Director Oscar). My second viewing; first was in 1996.
When I first watched The Graduate, I was 20 years old and, like our protagonist, a soon-to-be college graduate. I related to Benjamin's (Dustin Hoffman) anxiety and disaffect (although I always had too much ambition to be like him). The script by Calder Willingham and Buck Henry spoke to me, as it did to many people in their teens and 20s in the late 1960s: It was nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay. As for Anne Bancroft, I remember thinking her Mrs. Robinson a cold, bitter shrew. Otherwise, The Graduate held a place on my all-time Top 10 list for years.
Funny what a decade or so of life experience can do for you.
Today, I notice The Graduate more as a directorial achievement - that's a well-deserved Oscar for Mike Nichols - and less for its storyline, now so often copied. Nichols uses light and shadow for great dramatic effect, e.g., staging conversations between Benjamin and Mrs. Robinson in the dark. He sets up a heartbreaking moment when Robinson daughter Elaine (Katharine Ross) uncovers her mother's affair with her boyfriend: As the camera pans out, she's tinier and tinier, in a corner, face wet from tears and rain. Nichols' greatest act may be the ways he employed the oft-played Simon and Garfunkel tunes: sometimes whistled, sometimes heavy on the guitar, rarely played all the way through.
I also have an empathy for Mrs. Robinson I lacked before cynicism and disappointment entered my life. Through reading Harris' book, I learned the emotion Bancroft tapped into was anger, a discovery that illuminated her performance. Conversely, I now find Benjamin spoiled and lazy, one of those tired people forever trying to find themselves. Dude, stop flitting about. Join the Peace Corps if you're bored. Be grateful you aren't going to 'Nam.
While cleaning out my 2008 notebook, I remembered another project I wanted to start. Therefore, this entry gives me the opportunity to do that and to start "Revisiting."
The 1960s were a turbulent decade, a furious energy reflected in Hollywood and many films of 1967. Mark Harris, a longtime presence at Entertainment Weekly, traces the evolution of the five movies nominated for Best Picture, four with social leanings and one old-fashioned big-budget song-and-dance epic. Inspired by Harris' book, Pictures at a Revolution, I decided to watch or re-watch the five flicks in question, looking at their quality overall and their relevance today. It's funny how time has changed opinions - including mine.
1) The Graduate (winner of Best Director Oscar). My second viewing; first was in 1996.
When I first watched The Graduate, I was 20 years old and, like our protagonist, a soon-to-be college graduate. I related to Benjamin's (Dustin Hoffman) anxiety and disaffect (although I always had too much ambition to be like him). The script by Calder Willingham and Buck Henry spoke to me, as it did to many people in their teens and 20s in the late 1960s: It was nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay. As for Anne Bancroft, I remember thinking her Mrs. Robinson a cold, bitter shrew. Otherwise, The Graduate held a place on my all-time Top 10 list for years.
Funny what a decade or so of life experience can do for you.
Today, I notice The Graduate more as a directorial achievement - that's a well-deserved Oscar for Mike Nichols - and less for its storyline, now so often copied. Nichols uses light and shadow for great dramatic effect, e.g., staging conversations between Benjamin and Mrs. Robinson in the dark. He sets up a heartbreaking moment when Robinson daughter Elaine (Katharine Ross) uncovers her mother's affair with her boyfriend: As the camera pans out, she's tinier and tinier, in a corner, face wet from tears and rain. Nichols' greatest act may be the ways he employed the oft-played Simon and Garfunkel tunes: sometimes whistled, sometimes heavy on the guitar, rarely played all the way through.
I also have an empathy for Mrs. Robinson I lacked before cynicism and disappointment entered my life. Through reading Harris' book, I learned the emotion Bancroft tapped into was anger, a discovery that illuminated her performance. Conversely, I now find Benjamin spoiled and lazy, one of those tired people forever trying to find themselves. Dude, stop flitting about. Join the Peace Corps if you're bored. Be grateful you aren't going to 'Nam.
Monday, February 9, 2009
DVD Duo
No, these aren't Oscar movies. I saw them in the theaters in late summer and early fall, but it took me so long to write these reviews that I decided to save them up for their DVD releases in January.
Swing Vote wants to be political satire with a dash of Frank Capra. Igor aims for the Shrek crowd as well as fans of Tim Burton animation. Neither film hits its mark, although Igor comes closer to success.
Although only two hours, Swing Vote feels as long as one of star Kevin Costner’s epic production. Director/co-writer Joshua Michael Stern tries to present Bud Johnson (Costner) as an everyday factory-working single dad whose vote really counts. Political operatives Nathan Lane and Stanley Tucci reshape their respective platforms and candidates, Kelsey Grammer and Dennis Hopper, to cater to the random comments of one Texico, New Mexico, voter. Besides these repetitive scenes, which aren’t that funny to begin with, Swing Vote’s problem is that its good ol’ boy isn’t worth rooting for. Bud’s a drunk who barely raises daughter Molly (newcomer Madeline Carroll, a find); Swing Vote wouldn’t even exist had the plucky preteen not had to sneakily cast a ballot for her hung-over father.
Igor wants to be a European Madagascar, fast-talking lines littered with pop-culture references, but it’s pitched awkwardly between young’uns (who won’t get it) and their parents (who will be bored). John Cusack leads a hip vocal crew as the title character, a little Igor who dreams of winning the Evil Science Fair; instead, he creates an Annie-loving creature voiced by Molly Shannon who’s anything but mean. Igor scores most of its points on technical merit, not artistic interpretation. The quirky, stylized look of Anthony Leondis’ film recalls The Hunchback of Notre Dame crossed with Corpse Bride. If only the message of acceptance weren’t so generically pat: It doesn’t mesh with vocal talent as varied as Steve Buscemi, Jennifer Coolidge and Eddie Izzard as Dr. Schadenfreude.
Swing Vote wants to be political satire with a dash of Frank Capra. Igor aims for the Shrek crowd as well as fans of Tim Burton animation. Neither film hits its mark, although Igor comes closer to success.
Although only two hours, Swing Vote feels as long as one of star Kevin Costner’s epic production. Director/co-writer Joshua Michael Stern tries to present Bud Johnson (Costner) as an everyday factory-working single dad whose vote really counts. Political operatives Nathan Lane and Stanley Tucci reshape their respective platforms and candidates, Kelsey Grammer and Dennis Hopper, to cater to the random comments of one Texico, New Mexico, voter. Besides these repetitive scenes, which aren’t that funny to begin with, Swing Vote’s problem is that its good ol’ boy isn’t worth rooting for. Bud’s a drunk who barely raises daughter Molly (newcomer Madeline Carroll, a find); Swing Vote wouldn’t even exist had the plucky preteen not had to sneakily cast a ballot for her hung-over father.
Igor wants to be a European Madagascar, fast-talking lines littered with pop-culture references, but it’s pitched awkwardly between young’uns (who won’t get it) and their parents (who will be bored). John Cusack leads a hip vocal crew as the title character, a little Igor who dreams of winning the Evil Science Fair; instead, he creates an Annie-loving creature voiced by Molly Shannon who’s anything but mean. Igor scores most of its points on technical merit, not artistic interpretation. The quirky, stylized look of Anthony Leondis’ film recalls The Hunchback of Notre Dame crossed with Corpse Bride. If only the message of acceptance weren’t so generically pat: It doesn’t mesh with vocal talent as varied as Steve Buscemi, Jennifer Coolidge and Eddie Izzard as Dr. Schadenfreude.
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