In Noah Baumbach’s Margot at the Wedding, we aren’t just asked to be fascinated by Nicole Kidman’s emotional nakedness as the ugliest of emotional manipulators, but to be riveted by it. No small task, in theory. The titular character, Margot, is a towering persona; precariously pre-possessed but owner of a tongue sharp enough to cut diamonds, and an ego to match. She’s like Jeff Daniels, the lunatic-dragon from Baumbach’s last film The Squid and the Whale, meets statuesque beauty meets literary-genius pretension. As a character, it’s a hefty feat to pull off, and yet Kidman, stripped bare of most of the armaments most top-dollar movie stars demand these days, is pure unvarnished glory as a sister who comes, with her son (Zane Pais), to her estranged sister Pauline’s (Jennifer Jason Leigh) wedding to "support her," while really all she entends is a mess.
While there, what a mess she does create. For starters, she sets her sights on dressing down Pauline’s fiance Malcolm (Jack Black), an apathetic schlub who’s appealing by the sheer fact of his nuerotic-less agenda; in comparison to Margot’s kin, he’s downright sane. But problems she does find with him, and as a skilled short-story writer, Margot effectively manuevers in seeds of doubt about the courtship with as few lines (or rather, put-downs) as necesary. From there she succeeds in creating a mess of her own life, albeit more or less on her own terms. When she came to her sister’s wedding, she left behind her husband, but it wasn’t from sheer lack of interest (although, invariably with someone of her persona, that must occasionally arise). No, rather Margot has a lover, Dick (Ciaran Hinds), whom she’s quite interested in keeping...and passionately making love to. Thus, no husband. But things do get out, and in a family where the most common communication is a lacerating cocktail of accusations, withering observation, and passive-aggression, Margot inevitably must confront, in her own way, the price of her sleeping-around.
Both of these events, both of which are mostly strung-out for the majority of Wedding, propel what plot there is, but just as in Whale, far more of the attraction of the movie comes from the devastatingly intelligent manner in which Baumbach, as writer-director, probes the darkest crevices of relationships. The way in which he does so - both as a sparsely beautiful filmmaker (he turns the East Coast into a sprawling, decaying, weedy, and expansive forest-beach) and a writer of no small talents - innately challenges the viewer; the sting of his characters’ words strike the audience as much as the peoples of his fiction. Yet from that pain, he pulls no small amount of catharsis. And to create that pain, he whips up no small amount of great dialogue. In fact, on more than two or three occasions, there are conversations in Wedding that are so delightfully written you want to bottle them up for later. If ever there was a screenwriter who could turn speaking into an intricate rhythm of silence and sarcasm, it’s Baumbach, and his skillfully dry wit offsets the uncomfortable nature of his project.
And when I say uncomfortable, I mean it with a capital U. The camera crams in on the ugliness, the pain, and the dramatic confrontations when two very different people are thrown together for an extended period of time. But it isn’t just two incompatible people, our director is saying, it’s two sisters - and by their very definition, they love and hate in equal measure. This bedrock conceit is a tad difficult to swallow, but seeing as how it is central to such a beautifully wry portrait of characters simmering with nuerosis (rather than the far shallower, reverse philosophy), I’ll go along with it. And seeing as how this may just be Noah Baumbach’s most affecting film yet - and one that surely cements him among other great American writer-directors who specialize in the pitter-patter of talky psycho-drama (e.g. Richard Linklater, or more aptly: Woody Allen) - you may be inclined to take the journey as well. It’s a painful one, and it ends abruptly (if not as traumatically as Whale), but it is measured and observed in lovingly stringest doses that scald and delight in equal measure. Much as Pauline and Margot do each other.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
New Moon: B
There are two fundamental notions at work in New Moon that have, in the past, grounded two very different genres of pop culture. The first is the age-old adage that love can come in the most unexpected of places - the saying itself being the obvious harbinger of the romance novel - while the second is that eerily unclassifiable theory of the banality of evil - obviously the surface emblems of such wide-ranging works as American Psycho and The Talented Mr. Ripley. Together, the two flavors intermingle to varying degrees in New Moon, the story of Isabella "Bella" Swan’s love for a baroque and occasionally sullen family of vampires in small-town Forks, Washington. It needs to be mentioned that previous, far better written, mainstays of English literature have approximated the gothic overtone of star-crossed love (Wuthering Heights, Romeo & Juliet) but this second book in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series isn’t out to turn doomed love into a soaring, tragic metaphor - when it says it’s a "love story with bite," it means it. Literally.
Moon is, in so many obvious (and some very subtle) ways an improvement over Twilight. For starters, the affectations of a young writer attempting to capture an even younger world (rural high school) are dropped the majority of the time within the pages of the sequel - thankfully allowing a little more of Meyer’s bottled creation to sprawl and breathe. Also, and building upon the just previously-mentioned new amenity, the author brings in practically another whole dozen characters to give her dreary little town life. Yet, one wonders, why would Meyers need anyone to replace Edward Cullen - the youngest of the vampire clan and Bella’s professed true love? After all, both she and her heroine spends hundreds of pages oozing over his perfection, so why only seek to distract the reader from him? The answer is tied into directly what makes Moon a better book, both stylistically and conceptually: the Cullens, fascinating as they are, are removed from the equations. Well...from Forks, anyway.
See, Edward constantly worries about Bella’s safety within his household, and around his brothers and sisters (who all have big, old-fashioned names like Jasper, Rosalie, and Emmett). So when her eighteenth birthday party at the Cullen mansion spirals terribly out of control, he and the rest of his relatives leave town - to save the damsel in distress. See there, though, that’s the catch: in Meyers bewitching post-modern way, Bella would rather risk life & limb than be seperated from her soul mate. She is, though. And the subsequent 300+ pages of aftermath and turmoil give New Moon a healthy jolt. The occasionally oppresive repititions of the young romance at Twilight’s heart aren’t given time to blossom here - angst and heartache do instead - and the empty hole left by our entrancing supernatural family is filled by a couple of surprise guests. After some tricky manuevering, Stephenie Meyers guides her vision into an unforseen twist that’s so catchy, the reader almost forgets the pain of Edward’s absence.
Almost. That’s the second catch, and what will go on to power the final two volumes of the Bella-Edward love story. Since he is so tied to her, and since she is eventually so tied to certain people who despise him, when he returns, certain things do not go well. And though the expected last 100-pages of climax (Meyers does, if anything, structure her books in obsessively predictable patterns) have nothing to do with this animosity - and all to do with a vampiric "royal family" - the aftermath is all but fauning over it. This I can understand. After all, the saving grace of the series is that the muffled, lush, gothic atmosphere of Twilight was finally given room to take (some) flight in its follow-up - the sucess of which is due entirely to Bella’s emerging emotional conflicts between the Cullens, her own mortality, and...well...another pack of super-interesting creatures. So I can completely get behind any attempt by the author to play-up our hero’s turmoil. In fact I welcome it: turning away from these books is difficult to do, but I feel so much better afterwards when they’re actually of measurable, consistent, quality.
Moon is, in so many obvious (and some very subtle) ways an improvement over Twilight. For starters, the affectations of a young writer attempting to capture an even younger world (rural high school) are dropped the majority of the time within the pages of the sequel - thankfully allowing a little more of Meyer’s bottled creation to sprawl and breathe. Also, and building upon the just previously-mentioned new amenity, the author brings in practically another whole dozen characters to give her dreary little town life. Yet, one wonders, why would Meyers need anyone to replace Edward Cullen - the youngest of the vampire clan and Bella’s professed true love? After all, both she and her heroine spends hundreds of pages oozing over his perfection, so why only seek to distract the reader from him? The answer is tied into directly what makes Moon a better book, both stylistically and conceptually: the Cullens, fascinating as they are, are removed from the equations. Well...from Forks, anyway.
See, Edward constantly worries about Bella’s safety within his household, and around his brothers and sisters (who all have big, old-fashioned names like Jasper, Rosalie, and Emmett). So when her eighteenth birthday party at the Cullen mansion spirals terribly out of control, he and the rest of his relatives leave town - to save the damsel in distress. See there, though, that’s the catch: in Meyers bewitching post-modern way, Bella would rather risk life & limb than be seperated from her soul mate. She is, though. And the subsequent 300+ pages of aftermath and turmoil give New Moon a healthy jolt. The occasionally oppresive repititions of the young romance at Twilight’s heart aren’t given time to blossom here - angst and heartache do instead - and the empty hole left by our entrancing supernatural family is filled by a couple of surprise guests. After some tricky manuevering, Stephenie Meyers guides her vision into an unforseen twist that’s so catchy, the reader almost forgets the pain of Edward’s absence.
Almost. That’s the second catch, and what will go on to power the final two volumes of the Bella-Edward love story. Since he is so tied to her, and since she is eventually so tied to certain people who despise him, when he returns, certain things do not go well. And though the expected last 100-pages of climax (Meyers does, if anything, structure her books in obsessively predictable patterns) have nothing to do with this animosity - and all to do with a vampiric "royal family" - the aftermath is all but fauning over it. This I can understand. After all, the saving grace of the series is that the muffled, lush, gothic atmosphere of Twilight was finally given room to take (some) flight in its follow-up - the sucess of which is due entirely to Bella’s emerging emotional conflicts between the Cullens, her own mortality, and...well...another pack of super-interesting creatures. So I can completely get behind any attempt by the author to play-up our hero’s turmoil. In fact I welcome it: turning away from these books is difficult to do, but I feel so much better afterwards when they’re actually of measurable, consistent, quality.
The O.C.: The Complete Fourth Season: B+
In The O.C. nothing is what it seems. For the first season, that meant that creator Josh Schwartz’s soap-drama about a wealthy Newport Beach family who decides to adopt a street vagrant named Ryan Atwood (Benjamin McKenzie) was more intelligent and slyly entrancing than the generation of teen-oriented primtime shows - Beverly Hills, 90210 or Melrose Place - that had preceded it. It was entertaining, sincere, and witty where the viewer had only expected shallow mush. In the second season, this blossom of novelity turned fetid and mediocre; the arch over-lapping storylines (all of which inevitably found a main character the subject of some "salacious" or salacious lie or secret or misdeed) turned pulpy and madly over-imagined. Yet even that was lost for the third year: along with that faint glimmer of freshman glory went all semblance of a cohesive vision; the same set of second bananas that had trounced around, albeit glumly, Newport for season two were replaced by a veritable revolving door of tramps, schemers, businessman, and the like. But - surprise, surprise! - all that has changed. With Josh Schwartz back behind the wheel, The O.C.: The Complete Fourth Season has regained the largest share of its original sprightly bounce that is ever likely to occur.
When I say sprightly though, I don’t necesarily mean in a happy-go-lucky way. A huge plus for Schwartz and his team of writers is in a re-invigorated dramatic bent to the series. Its an easy thing to re-claim considering the last season ended with Marissa’s (Mischa Barton - she will not be missed) death in Ryan’s arms. Launching off from that comes "The Avengers," the season premiere, which finds each remaining member of the Cohen and Cooper families coping with life after the accident and high school. For some, the dislocation of long-distance relationships and dead-end summer jobs extending into the fall has stilted their personalities; others have taken the freedom as a re-ignition for a passion they never thought existed. And still others grapple with their grief by figuring out a way to actually grapple. Namely with Volchok (Cam Gigandet). For Seth (Adam Brody), Summer (Rachel Bilson), Ryan, and Julie (Melinda Clarke) respectively (among associated other parents and relatives), life seems a little different from where they had expected. But fear not! Come the next few episodes, the mad-antic highjinks of the gang will eventually re-ensnare them all...much to my delight.
Still, the dramatic subtleties don’t dissapear overnight, and seeing those first few episodes thrum with repression, betrayal, and depression - all embodied skillfully in the countenances of Clarke and McKenzie - gave off a satisfaction not felt since the first season finale. But eventually all good things come to an end, and this stands true even for The O.C. Except, the good persists. From "The Gringos" on towards "The Summer Bummer," the high-absurdist soap-factor skyrockets to levels of unimiginable glee. Thanks to the return of Taylor Townsend (Autumn Reeser, a geeky-comic vixen), Newport is again a place to party and have a good time. Bravo as well to the writing and the fellow cast. For the former, is there any greater proof of the resurgance of talent than witnessing "The Cold Turkey"’s dexterous balancing-act mixing tragedy and mania? For the latter, well, all I can say is watching the new Fab Four (that’s right: it’s Taylor-Ryan time) gives off a delirious, entertaining, charge.
So does most of The O.C. for its final season. Sure, there are a few flat spots ("The Metamorphosis") and just because a show can recognize that it has a tendency to wrap up plots in miliseconds doesn’t mean it gets a free pass on subsequent attempts to do so. But Josh Schwartz, who writes approximately a quarter of these sixteen episodes, keeps thing in fine form, never once lapsing too long into the dreck I’d become grudgingly accustomed to. What’s more, there are episodes that satisfy past the purely cerebral. The aforementioned season-openig arc are has a slow-burn pathos; and the penultimate "The Night Moves" isn’t just one of the most intricately suspenseful and riveting episodes of the whole series, but also writer Stephanie Savage’s best work. The surprise boils down to how, on not so infrequent occasions, the perfectly adequate fizz can give way to a deeper layer. Not only is the funny perfectly affected for this fourth season from the first, but so too is the underlying subtexts.
Of course, in the end, The O.C. is all about the soap. And there is plenty of crazy melodrama to sample (Chris Pratt, delightfully, as Che anyone?). Yet over ninety-two episodes and nearly five years, the audience has come to care about the Cohen family, and their affections are given due respect over the season. All the relationships that have been dragged out and showcased from Day One are finally resolved, with series finale "The End’s Not Near, It’s Here," and the flirty possibilities lately introduced aren’t entirely extinguished. For a writing-producing duo that would later move on to the far sillier Chuck and the far grittier, if less wholesome, Gossip Girl, to see them deliver on all the talent promised from those first twenty-seven episodes is, if not a dream come true, than a zany-fun experience that often leaves you laughing and touched, nary a Very Special Episode in sight. Say Welcome, or Goodbye, to The O.C. bitch.
When I say sprightly though, I don’t necesarily mean in a happy-go-lucky way. A huge plus for Schwartz and his team of writers is in a re-invigorated dramatic bent to the series. Its an easy thing to re-claim considering the last season ended with Marissa’s (Mischa Barton - she will not be missed) death in Ryan’s arms. Launching off from that comes "The Avengers," the season premiere, which finds each remaining member of the Cohen and Cooper families coping with life after the accident and high school. For some, the dislocation of long-distance relationships and dead-end summer jobs extending into the fall has stilted their personalities; others have taken the freedom as a re-ignition for a passion they never thought existed. And still others grapple with their grief by figuring out a way to actually grapple. Namely with Volchok (Cam Gigandet). For Seth (Adam Brody), Summer (Rachel Bilson), Ryan, and Julie (Melinda Clarke) respectively (among associated other parents and relatives), life seems a little different from where they had expected. But fear not! Come the next few episodes, the mad-antic highjinks of the gang will eventually re-ensnare them all...much to my delight.
Still, the dramatic subtleties don’t dissapear overnight, and seeing those first few episodes thrum with repression, betrayal, and depression - all embodied skillfully in the countenances of Clarke and McKenzie - gave off a satisfaction not felt since the first season finale. But eventually all good things come to an end, and this stands true even for The O.C. Except, the good persists. From "The Gringos" on towards "The Summer Bummer," the high-absurdist soap-factor skyrockets to levels of unimiginable glee. Thanks to the return of Taylor Townsend (Autumn Reeser, a geeky-comic vixen), Newport is again a place to party and have a good time. Bravo as well to the writing and the fellow cast. For the former, is there any greater proof of the resurgance of talent than witnessing "The Cold Turkey"’s dexterous balancing-act mixing tragedy and mania? For the latter, well, all I can say is watching the new Fab Four (that’s right: it’s Taylor-Ryan time) gives off a delirious, entertaining, charge.
So does most of The O.C. for its final season. Sure, there are a few flat spots ("The Metamorphosis") and just because a show can recognize that it has a tendency to wrap up plots in miliseconds doesn’t mean it gets a free pass on subsequent attempts to do so. But Josh Schwartz, who writes approximately a quarter of these sixteen episodes, keeps thing in fine form, never once lapsing too long into the dreck I’d become grudgingly accustomed to. What’s more, there are episodes that satisfy past the purely cerebral. The aforementioned season-openig arc are has a slow-burn pathos; and the penultimate "The Night Moves" isn’t just one of the most intricately suspenseful and riveting episodes of the whole series, but also writer Stephanie Savage’s best work. The surprise boils down to how, on not so infrequent occasions, the perfectly adequate fizz can give way to a deeper layer. Not only is the funny perfectly affected for this fourth season from the first, but so too is the underlying subtexts.
Of course, in the end, The O.C. is all about the soap. And there is plenty of crazy melodrama to sample (Chris Pratt, delightfully, as Che anyone?). Yet over ninety-two episodes and nearly five years, the audience has come to care about the Cohen family, and their affections are given due respect over the season. All the relationships that have been dragged out and showcased from Day One are finally resolved, with series finale "The End’s Not Near, It’s Here," and the flirty possibilities lately introduced aren’t entirely extinguished. For a writing-producing duo that would later move on to the far sillier Chuck and the far grittier, if less wholesome, Gossip Girl, to see them deliver on all the talent promised from those first twenty-seven episodes is, if not a dream come true, than a zany-fun experience that often leaves you laughing and touched, nary a Very Special Episode in sight. Say Welcome, or Goodbye, to The O.C. bitch.
Roswell: The Complete First Season: B
There are aliens in Roswell, New Mexico; and they come in the form of good-looking young actors. Oh, and while there they encounter an equally pretty group of human friends to bond and couple with. Such interactions can't happen however - what with the two groups being from two very different sides of the tracks - but we all know how young passion can be. And we certainly all know how zealous the FBI (and their shadowy secret projects) can be when its got ahold of a very interesting trail that may lead straight to our beautifully sweet "illegals." Such values are at the heart of Roswell: The Complete First Season; but just as Jason Behr, Brendan Fehr, and Katherine Heigl (!) mask certain depths as Max Evans, Michael Guerin, and Isabel Evans respectively, so too does Roswell. There are numerous moments of contrived soapiness created straight from the previously mentioned formula, but who's to say such contrivances are always awful - or that a sweet-souled little sci-fic teen-drama isn't allowed some improbabilities? Miraculously, the critic and the fan in me both agree that Roswell is worth the effort.
One element to reward a viewer's patience is in the occasional clever subversion of a central theme: how being part-alien can fuel the standard teenage angsts. Another is in, guiltily, watching these interesting teens come together and intertwine; which fuels directly into the pleasure of seeing creator Jason Katims (who pulled the idea from a young-adult novel series) work his hypnotically pure tone - something he would perfect all the more seven years later as show-runner for Friday Night Lights, which is like Roswell with less cliches...and UFOs.
If Katim's abilities as a writer aren't as developed or honed as he would later display for Lights, they have an admirable honesty and depth of compassion. Being sucked into the story of how Liz Parker (Shiri Appleby) and her two friends, Maria (Majandra Delfino) and Alex (Colin Hanks), cope with the knowledge that three of their fellow students - the aforementioned Evans siblings and Michael - are from another planet is a nearly effortless experience. And then later watching as the two groups come to intermingle can occasionally reach a nearly (albeit cheaply) euphoric high. This is the type of hour-long drama that would rather spend the majority of its first season investigatng the romantic and platonic implications of the two groups' match-up before sufficiently amping up the sci-fi suspense. Which is ok: because seeing how Liz & Max (the typical, anguishedly-thwarted pair), or Michael & Maria (a romance of atypical chemistry: a Seth & Summer before their time), or even Alex & Isabel (a surprisingly grounded relationship) eventually come together can be refreshingly entertaining; each couple having its own unique rhythm seperate and as a part of the collective six as a whole.
And as a group, they certainly have obstacles. For the narrative elements of Roswell that must inevitably stare-down the long barrel of Serialized Drama, there is luckily a happy answer to be found. Katims and his writers create a nutty little town out of Roswell, NM - but also one in which, when stuff starts hitting the fan, you aren't quite sure where to turn. Do you look toward Ms. Topolsky (Julie Benz, before she was Angel's delectably amoral vamp-lover Darla), a nosy "guidance counselor"? Or the local sheriff (William Sadler), whose alliances and ambiguities never seem to cease? Can you even trust yourself or your closest friends and family, with whom you share a history none of you know anything about? These are the sporadically-introduced, introspective quandries facing the sextet over the season, and most of the time (from "Crazy" up through "The White Room") the suspenseful arcs work. And for those that don't, you always have the good-natured relationship aspect ("Heat Wave," "The Balance," "Independence Day,"). Heck, once in a while they even intersect to fascinating effect ("Blood Brother," "Into the Woods").
But, and more than once in a while, the viewer realizes that there are problems in Roswell not so easy to spot; and it sure isn't the aliens. Nor could it quite be the actors (who are a rough, but able, group). Perhaps it is the sheer overload of heart occasionally on display (the friendships in this show are, to my guilty pleasure, hyper-protective and hyper-caring versions of their real selves); or maybe its that bits and pieces of the story can be discarded or picked up at random (i.e. Alex's band, or Max's boss) or maybe its that neither half of the show is permanently welded together: the sci-fi mystery is never as tight as it should be, and the character-driven drama could sprawl just a tad more. Maybe it's a bit of all of these that makes one realize that no matter how hyper-addictive an experience it is episode-to-episode, there is a level past which Roswell's unique blend cannot reach, cannot grow.
The season finale, "Destiny," ends on a curiously desolate note - taking, in my eyes, the Romeo & Juliet influences much too far - that would seem to set-up havoc for all the fragile, and beguilingly sincere, emotional connections we've spent 22 episodes watching and discovering. If this is the case, I can only hope it is for some conclusion, or some twining together, of the mystery with the soap; because if there is one thing we learn from Roswell it's that Teenage Alienation can actually be, you know, Alienation. And if there is one thing Roswell should learn from me, it's that such discovery is central to why I love it so: for its smart exploration of life in a brave new world...that may not just be high school.
One element to reward a viewer's patience is in the occasional clever subversion of a central theme: how being part-alien can fuel the standard teenage angsts. Another is in, guiltily, watching these interesting teens come together and intertwine; which fuels directly into the pleasure of seeing creator Jason Katims (who pulled the idea from a young-adult novel series) work his hypnotically pure tone - something he would perfect all the more seven years later as show-runner for Friday Night Lights, which is like Roswell with less cliches...and UFOs.
If Katim's abilities as a writer aren't as developed or honed as he would later display for Lights, they have an admirable honesty and depth of compassion. Being sucked into the story of how Liz Parker (Shiri Appleby) and her two friends, Maria (Majandra Delfino) and Alex (Colin Hanks), cope with the knowledge that three of their fellow students - the aforementioned Evans siblings and Michael - are from another planet is a nearly effortless experience. And then later watching as the two groups come to intermingle can occasionally reach a nearly (albeit cheaply) euphoric high. This is the type of hour-long drama that would rather spend the majority of its first season investigatng the romantic and platonic implications of the two groups' match-up before sufficiently amping up the sci-fi suspense. Which is ok: because seeing how Liz & Max (the typical, anguishedly-thwarted pair), or Michael & Maria (a romance of atypical chemistry: a Seth & Summer before their time), or even Alex & Isabel (a surprisingly grounded relationship) eventually come together can be refreshingly entertaining; each couple having its own unique rhythm seperate and as a part of the collective six as a whole.
And as a group, they certainly have obstacles. For the narrative elements of Roswell that must inevitably stare-down the long barrel of Serialized Drama, there is luckily a happy answer to be found. Katims and his writers create a nutty little town out of Roswell, NM - but also one in which, when stuff starts hitting the fan, you aren't quite sure where to turn. Do you look toward Ms. Topolsky (Julie Benz, before she was Angel's delectably amoral vamp-lover Darla), a nosy "guidance counselor"? Or the local sheriff (William Sadler), whose alliances and ambiguities never seem to cease? Can you even trust yourself or your closest friends and family, with whom you share a history none of you know anything about? These are the sporadically-introduced, introspective quandries facing the sextet over the season, and most of the time (from "Crazy" up through "The White Room") the suspenseful arcs work. And for those that don't, you always have the good-natured relationship aspect ("Heat Wave," "The Balance," "Independence Day,"). Heck, once in a while they even intersect to fascinating effect ("Blood Brother," "Into the Woods").
But, and more than once in a while, the viewer realizes that there are problems in Roswell not so easy to spot; and it sure isn't the aliens. Nor could it quite be the actors (who are a rough, but able, group). Perhaps it is the sheer overload of heart occasionally on display (the friendships in this show are, to my guilty pleasure, hyper-protective and hyper-caring versions of their real selves); or maybe its that bits and pieces of the story can be discarded or picked up at random (i.e. Alex's band, or Max's boss) or maybe its that neither half of the show is permanently welded together: the sci-fi mystery is never as tight as it should be, and the character-driven drama could sprawl just a tad more. Maybe it's a bit of all of these that makes one realize that no matter how hyper-addictive an experience it is episode-to-episode, there is a level past which Roswell's unique blend cannot reach, cannot grow.
The season finale, "Destiny," ends on a curiously desolate note - taking, in my eyes, the Romeo & Juliet influences much too far - that would seem to set-up havoc for all the fragile, and beguilingly sincere, emotional connections we've spent 22 episodes watching and discovering. If this is the case, I can only hope it is for some conclusion, or some twining together, of the mystery with the soap; because if there is one thing we learn from Roswell it's that Teenage Alienation can actually be, you know, Alienation. And if there is one thing Roswell should learn from me, it's that such discovery is central to why I love it so: for its smart exploration of life in a brave new world...that may not just be high school.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Angel: The Complete Fifth Season: B+
Joss Whedon has been quoted in interviews with the sentiment that the fifth season of Angel, just behind season three, is his favorite of the five years the show was on the air. It's easy to see why too: of all five years, Angel: The Complete Fifth Season has the most of each of the program's unique and far-flung elements; you've the mini-arcs of story first used in year two, the flawless jocularity of seasons three and four, and the nifty introduction of a whole new plot setup (a la the first season, because it - if anything - was new). Along with all of these is also the patented Angel atmosphere: claustrophobically gothic, a little screwball, ultimately poignant (but only in the service of tragedy), and with very nice production values. As such it's easy to see why series co-creator Whedon, that rapier wit-storyteller, adores this final installment in Angel's (David Boreanaz) quest for atonement. But is such worship deserved? Are these last 22 episodes some of the best Mutant Enemy ever produced? Not quite, but if Angel doesn't go out with a bang, at least it didn't sink to a whimper.
The hallmark of this season is that Angel Investigations, the constant home base for our rag-tag bunch of witty demon hunters, has been shut down. Permanently. Instead, the whole gang has been transplanted over to Wolfram & Hart (think The Exorcist with lawyers)...and given complete control of it. The idea of Angel as CEO was revealed in "Home," the fourth season finale, as Lilah (Stephanie Romanov) told the group that the Senior Partners - the group of super-planar demons that created W&H and who are, presumably, plotting the Apocalypse - were done with L.A. and, what's more, they wanted to reward Angel for having ended world peace by killing Jasmine (Gina Torres), a "Power That Was" (aka Goddess) who descended from the heavens to create a utopian slave state. To many's surprise, he agreed; the reprecussions of his decision (affecting some we have yet to know about) are the focus of season five.
Don't think that this means season five would follow much the same wholly-serialized pattern of storytelling that the masterfully entertaining fourth season did. No, in fact their newfound control of the hugely powerful law firm serves more as backdrop, dramatic and comedic foil, than Big Bad. Many episodes ("Life of the Party," "Just Rewards") follow the same design as season one: Monster of the Week re-done in the 21st century, and more nicely stylized. What makes Angel transcend such dissapointing backtracking is in the way the new sets of W&H make most episodes thrum with low-key dread, indecison (this tone is set by the season premiere, "Conviction," written and directed with crackerjack precision by Joss Whedon). The old-AI team aren't quite sure why they've been bestowed with such sudden power and money; and the addition of a few new supporting players, and the return of one or two old ones, keep them continually off-balance.
This anguish fuels straight into a motif I'm not quite sure I've found well-suited to be worn long-term by Angel: the tragedy, the suddeness, of death. But don't misunderstand; in "You're Welcome," (written and directed by newbie showrunner/long-time staff writer David Fury) "A Whole in the World," (again, written and directed by Joss Whedon) and "Shells," (written and directed by Steven S. DeKnight, who burst onto the scene as a major creative force behind last year's outrageously clever plot) the immediacy and skill with which death is manuevered into Angel's inner circle can bring a viewer to tears. Oddly enough, to counter-act that, are two of the series' most pricelessly funny episodes: "Smile Time" - in which, famously, our hero is turned into a felt puppet. Literally. - and "Harm's Way," a delightful showcase for new castmate Mercedes McNabb's deft timing as Harmony, Angel's secretary-vampire who subverts her soulessness by the sheer superficiality of her personality.
All these different elements, revealed in the beginning and now espoused at above, would never work if not for the cast. Boreanaz, along with J. August Richards (as newly-brilliant legal eagle Gunn), Alexis Denisof (Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, a bitterly indelible presence), and Amy Acker (grown into her own, killed, and then reborn in a year-long showstopper of a performance) make each new twist and turn - each one somehow cheaper, more incapsulated, than the last - felt and enthralling. Sure, one realizes that some of the Big Moments of the year (Cordelia's last episode; Fred's "infection") never reach fruition and reaction from the team - I would have loved a funeral, or even some group-mourning - but the season isn't completely devoid of serial drama...just a little lighter.
And generally this leaner look would favor Angel - as it did with season three - but there are definitely more down moments than I'd like, especially after the high that was year four. Instead, and much to my surprise, is this compact turn-of-events; a 22-episode roller coaster that obviously needed an additional year to sprawl and grow in depth. Such squeezing in then results in these little cracks, flaws, but the unique creations far outweigh the handful of dissapointments. Namely, Illyria (Amy Acker), a paranoid ancient demon-god, is worth every moment of Lindsey's (Christian Kane) speechifying. It's an odd thing to come to the end - depicted in series finale "Not Fade Away," characteristically remarkble from co-writers and directors Joss Whedon and Jeffrey Bell - and look back on all the quips and moments of horror; and how well at times that cocktail worked. In the end, Whedon's creation will stand as a fascinating five-year look at how forgiveness figures into a fluid moral compass, and how that in turn works into a richer and wider tapestry of good and evil. If that sounds heavy, Mutant Enemy never made it feel so. And Angel: The Complete Fifth Season did it one better; they made it interesting, once or twice heartfelt, startlingly funny, respectably finished, and true to the core truth of the series: redemption ends the moment you do, so never stop fighting.
The hallmark of this season is that Angel Investigations, the constant home base for our rag-tag bunch of witty demon hunters, has been shut down. Permanently. Instead, the whole gang has been transplanted over to Wolfram & Hart (think The Exorcist with lawyers)...and given complete control of it. The idea of Angel as CEO was revealed in "Home," the fourth season finale, as Lilah (Stephanie Romanov) told the group that the Senior Partners - the group of super-planar demons that created W&H and who are, presumably, plotting the Apocalypse - were done with L.A. and, what's more, they wanted to reward Angel for having ended world peace by killing Jasmine (Gina Torres), a "Power That Was" (aka Goddess) who descended from the heavens to create a utopian slave state. To many's surprise, he agreed; the reprecussions of his decision (affecting some we have yet to know about) are the focus of season five.
Don't think that this means season five would follow much the same wholly-serialized pattern of storytelling that the masterfully entertaining fourth season did. No, in fact their newfound control of the hugely powerful law firm serves more as backdrop, dramatic and comedic foil, than Big Bad. Many episodes ("Life of the Party," "Just Rewards") follow the same design as season one: Monster of the Week re-done in the 21st century, and more nicely stylized. What makes Angel transcend such dissapointing backtracking is in the way the new sets of W&H make most episodes thrum with low-key dread, indecison (this tone is set by the season premiere, "Conviction," written and directed with crackerjack precision by Joss Whedon). The old-AI team aren't quite sure why they've been bestowed with such sudden power and money; and the addition of a few new supporting players, and the return of one or two old ones, keep them continually off-balance.
This anguish fuels straight into a motif I'm not quite sure I've found well-suited to be worn long-term by Angel: the tragedy, the suddeness, of death. But don't misunderstand; in "You're Welcome," (written and directed by newbie showrunner/long-time staff writer David Fury) "A Whole in the World," (again, written and directed by Joss Whedon) and "Shells," (written and directed by Steven S. DeKnight, who burst onto the scene as a major creative force behind last year's outrageously clever plot) the immediacy and skill with which death is manuevered into Angel's inner circle can bring a viewer to tears. Oddly enough, to counter-act that, are two of the series' most pricelessly funny episodes: "Smile Time" - in which, famously, our hero is turned into a felt puppet. Literally. - and "Harm's Way," a delightful showcase for new castmate Mercedes McNabb's deft timing as Harmony, Angel's secretary-vampire who subverts her soulessness by the sheer superficiality of her personality.
All these different elements, revealed in the beginning and now espoused at above, would never work if not for the cast. Boreanaz, along with J. August Richards (as newly-brilliant legal eagle Gunn), Alexis Denisof (Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, a bitterly indelible presence), and Amy Acker (grown into her own, killed, and then reborn in a year-long showstopper of a performance) make each new twist and turn - each one somehow cheaper, more incapsulated, than the last - felt and enthralling. Sure, one realizes that some of the Big Moments of the year (Cordelia's last episode; Fred's "infection") never reach fruition and reaction from the team - I would have loved a funeral, or even some group-mourning - but the season isn't completely devoid of serial drama...just a little lighter.
And generally this leaner look would favor Angel - as it did with season three - but there are definitely more down moments than I'd like, especially after the high that was year four. Instead, and much to my surprise, is this compact turn-of-events; a 22-episode roller coaster that obviously needed an additional year to sprawl and grow in depth. Such squeezing in then results in these little cracks, flaws, but the unique creations far outweigh the handful of dissapointments. Namely, Illyria (Amy Acker), a paranoid ancient demon-god, is worth every moment of Lindsey's (Christian Kane) speechifying. It's an odd thing to come to the end - depicted in series finale "Not Fade Away," characteristically remarkble from co-writers and directors Joss Whedon and Jeffrey Bell - and look back on all the quips and moments of horror; and how well at times that cocktail worked. In the end, Whedon's creation will stand as a fascinating five-year look at how forgiveness figures into a fluid moral compass, and how that in turn works into a richer and wider tapestry of good and evil. If that sounds heavy, Mutant Enemy never made it feel so. And Angel: The Complete Fifth Season did it one better; they made it interesting, once or twice heartfelt, startlingly funny, respectably finished, and true to the core truth of the series: redemption ends the moment you do, so never stop fighting.
Oscar Predictions.
A show of hands please: who thought it wasn't coming? Ok, well - pipe down; if you've noticed that my perennial list of predictions and commentaries as award season goes into full-overdrive has been absent, blame only the WGA (or rather, the far more culpable producers) for making this early blur of Globes, SAG's, and little gold men even more limp and pointless...or worse, empty. Still, the strike is ended and I've done most of my pre-Oscar viewing. As such, I present who I predict will win what of the Big Eight awards, and more importantly: who should.
********************
Best Adapted Screenplay
Who Will Win: Joel & Ethan Coen are pretty much guaranteed another win here (it'll likely be their third or fourth of the evening) for No Country for Old Men but if the Academy waxes sentimental (or whatever the hell P.T. Anderson feels when he makes a movie) they could pull an upset by showering the love on Away from Her, Atonement, or There Will Be Blood.
Who Should Win: Christopher Hampton does admirably with Ian McEwan's devastating novel, scripting a film with almost exactly his same shard of heartbreak nestled in the center. But it's the movie stripped of nearly all sentiment that has me behind it: Mr. Anderson gives his early 20th-century schemers and crooks vicious dramatic oomph; what more could you ask?
Best Original Screenplay
Who Will Win: Diablo Cody is just a milimeter away from "shoe-in"...
Who Should Win: And rightly so; her Juno is a stunner: quick-witted but ultimately grounded in a revelatory modern compassion. For such a novice, her script has all the skill of a master.
Best Supporting Actor
Who Will Win: This is another category dominated by only one contender: Javier Bardem for his bone-chilling portrayal of a uniquely McCarthyian sociopath in Country. Far be it from the Academy to slow his winning streak (though, they do so love the geriatrics: a surprise win from Hal Holbrook, much like last year's victory for Alan Arkin, isn't out of the question).
Who Should Win: I'll admit it: I'm pre-disposed to Tom Wilkinson for his deftly graceful embodiment of a Champion of Sleaze seeing the light in Michael Clayton - seeing as how it was one of my favorite movies of the year - but such adoration doesn't make me blind. When Bardem picks up his Oscar, I'll cheer like the rest of 'em.
Best Supporting Actress
Who Will Win: Cate Blanchett faces a conundrum: she pulled away early from the starting gate as the clear favorite in the Supporting category for her acidically witty and frazzled Bob Dylan in I'm Not There; thus her reprisal of Elizabeth I got nil attention (though she still picked up a nod in Best Actress land). Now she'll have to duke it out with Tilda Swinton, as Clayton's nuerotic in-house counsel, for the prize. Who will emerge victorious? Lately the bets are on Swinton, but I'll still side with an old horse: my pick is Blanchett.
Who Should Win: I've long admired both Swinton and Blanchett and this year saw some of the best in their respective careers: the former all captivating collapse and insecurity; the latter all wounded genius. So, seeing as how I tend to wax generous in the week leading up to the big show, I'll compromise: either deserves the win.
Best Actor
Who Will Win: Daniel Day-Lewis, a famously "methodical" (that's putting it lightly) actor, is all the rage as the chief villain/hero of Blood. And history shows that monoliths such as he, having won nearly all the early-season awards, rarely stumble at the finish line.
Who Should Win: It's a year of easy picks for the Oscars - what with Cody, Bardem, and now Day-Lewis as both fan and critical favorites; and I count myself among both of the latter groups. I loved Johnny Depp in Tim Burton's sweepingly dark Sweeney Todd and my George Clooney-worship, for his lead in Clayton, knows no bounds. But I calls 'em how I sees 'em, and the craggy-voiced legend-in-the-making that is Daniel Day-Lewis clearly deserves the mother of all recognition for his startling performance as a man pulled inexorably into the dark tides of his own ambition.
Best Actress
Who Will Win: Julie Christie, long absent from the nominee list, has been gathering steam ever since her film, Away from Her, premiered last fall. Lately though she's been facing stiff competition: both Marion Cotillard, as Edith Piaf, and Ellen Page, as the titular character in Juno, will give her a good run come Feb. 24th. Still, it's doubtful the Academy will overlook a comeback of such poignant scale; they'll go with Christie.
Who Should Win: Page was the central piece of a very good puzzle in Juno, and I'm sure Laura Linney - in The Savages - and Cate Blanchett - in her second go round as Elizabeth I - turned in reliably solid work, but for me it will always be Cotillard: a sprightly French actress who didn't just embody Piaf, that famously fiery sparrow-diva, she possessed her.
Best Director
Who Will Win: Again, the Coen brothers have always been on Oscar's radar, and they've proven that when they concoct just the right amount of box-office and rave reviews (see: 1996's Fargo), they'll come out big on award night. Still, they've never been recognized for their directing and this year it'll be just another thing that will be recognized with their bloody neo-Western Country. That means that industry standard Paul Thomas Anderson, always a bridesmaid and never a bride, will go home empty; as will upstarts Jason Reitman, Tony Gilroy, and Julian Schnabel.
Who Should Win: Gilroy deserves accolades for making Clayton such a silky surprise: seductive and articulate; and Reitman was the third part of that golden trifecta in Juno that reaped such big returns. The big fight though is between Anderson and Joel & Ethan Coen. Truly, all three dive right into their work; and to all three, their filmographies stand as testaments to the wonders of 21st-century writing-directing. But if a better man (or men) must be chosen, then it's the Coen's, for turning a 180 with their latest film - a stark and desolate landscape - and never hitting a false note.
Best Picture
Who Will Win: Of the five - Juno, No Country for Old Men, Atonement, There WIll Be Blood, and Michael Clayton - each will reap something from the night's festivities...except Atonement; which is a shame because, though it has been positioned as a classic contender in a year that's anything but, the film has a true emotional wallop and its pedigree does good (or even great) work throughout. But enough of my laments; the only film that even comes close to nearing Country - a major player and winner in everything award-wise these last months - in hopes of a Best Picture win would be Juno and something tells me that the older voters of the Academy will favor the Cormac McCarthy adaptation over Diablo Cody's mad-cap dialogue.
Who Should Win: It's undeniable: 2007 was a dark year and its reflected in most of the nominees. Does that tempt me to favor the fifth, "lighter", film? Absolutely, but I also can't deny the that the four other films, while depressing and/or tragic, are also some great specimens. Thusly I choose There Will Be Blood as my favorite of the bunch. In P.T. Anderson's exploration of the trials of a devil-mogul, he employed some great actors (Day-Lewis, Paul Dano) in a thunderously unforgettable movie. The first viewing is like hypnotism tinged with dread; fascinating and inescapable.
********************
Well, there it is folks: who will and who should have been crowned victorious in the Kodak Theatre. Agree? Disagree? Let me hear why. Until then I'll be prepping my now-obligatory commentary on the events of the evening; something I'm sure my readers relish.
See you February 24th.
********************
Best Adapted Screenplay
Who Will Win: Joel & Ethan Coen are pretty much guaranteed another win here (it'll likely be their third or fourth of the evening) for No Country for Old Men but if the Academy waxes sentimental (or whatever the hell P.T. Anderson feels when he makes a movie) they could pull an upset by showering the love on Away from Her, Atonement, or There Will Be Blood.
Who Should Win: Christopher Hampton does admirably with Ian McEwan's devastating novel, scripting a film with almost exactly his same shard of heartbreak nestled in the center. But it's the movie stripped of nearly all sentiment that has me behind it: Mr. Anderson gives his early 20th-century schemers and crooks vicious dramatic oomph; what more could you ask?
Best Original Screenplay
Who Will Win: Diablo Cody is just a milimeter away from "shoe-in"...
Who Should Win: And rightly so; her Juno is a stunner: quick-witted but ultimately grounded in a revelatory modern compassion. For such a novice, her script has all the skill of a master.
Best Supporting Actor
Who Will Win: This is another category dominated by only one contender: Javier Bardem for his bone-chilling portrayal of a uniquely McCarthyian sociopath in Country. Far be it from the Academy to slow his winning streak (though, they do so love the geriatrics: a surprise win from Hal Holbrook, much like last year's victory for Alan Arkin, isn't out of the question).
Who Should Win: I'll admit it: I'm pre-disposed to Tom Wilkinson for his deftly graceful embodiment of a Champion of Sleaze seeing the light in Michael Clayton - seeing as how it was one of my favorite movies of the year - but such adoration doesn't make me blind. When Bardem picks up his Oscar, I'll cheer like the rest of 'em.
Best Supporting Actress
Who Will Win: Cate Blanchett faces a conundrum: she pulled away early from the starting gate as the clear favorite in the Supporting category for her acidically witty and frazzled Bob Dylan in I'm Not There; thus her reprisal of Elizabeth I got nil attention (though she still picked up a nod in Best Actress land). Now she'll have to duke it out with Tilda Swinton, as Clayton's nuerotic in-house counsel, for the prize. Who will emerge victorious? Lately the bets are on Swinton, but I'll still side with an old horse: my pick is Blanchett.
Who Should Win: I've long admired both Swinton and Blanchett and this year saw some of the best in their respective careers: the former all captivating collapse and insecurity; the latter all wounded genius. So, seeing as how I tend to wax generous in the week leading up to the big show, I'll compromise: either deserves the win.
Best Actor
Who Will Win: Daniel Day-Lewis, a famously "methodical" (that's putting it lightly) actor, is all the rage as the chief villain/hero of Blood. And history shows that monoliths such as he, having won nearly all the early-season awards, rarely stumble at the finish line.
Who Should Win: It's a year of easy picks for the Oscars - what with Cody, Bardem, and now Day-Lewis as both fan and critical favorites; and I count myself among both of the latter groups. I loved Johnny Depp in Tim Burton's sweepingly dark Sweeney Todd and my George Clooney-worship, for his lead in Clayton, knows no bounds. But I calls 'em how I sees 'em, and the craggy-voiced legend-in-the-making that is Daniel Day-Lewis clearly deserves the mother of all recognition for his startling performance as a man pulled inexorably into the dark tides of his own ambition.
Best Actress
Who Will Win: Julie Christie, long absent from the nominee list, has been gathering steam ever since her film, Away from Her, premiered last fall. Lately though she's been facing stiff competition: both Marion Cotillard, as Edith Piaf, and Ellen Page, as the titular character in Juno, will give her a good run come Feb. 24th. Still, it's doubtful the Academy will overlook a comeback of such poignant scale; they'll go with Christie.
Who Should Win: Page was the central piece of a very good puzzle in Juno, and I'm sure Laura Linney - in The Savages - and Cate Blanchett - in her second go round as Elizabeth I - turned in reliably solid work, but for me it will always be Cotillard: a sprightly French actress who didn't just embody Piaf, that famously fiery sparrow-diva, she possessed her.
Best Director
Who Will Win: Again, the Coen brothers have always been on Oscar's radar, and they've proven that when they concoct just the right amount of box-office and rave reviews (see: 1996's Fargo), they'll come out big on award night. Still, they've never been recognized for their directing and this year it'll be just another thing that will be recognized with their bloody neo-Western Country. That means that industry standard Paul Thomas Anderson, always a bridesmaid and never a bride, will go home empty; as will upstarts Jason Reitman, Tony Gilroy, and Julian Schnabel.
Who Should Win: Gilroy deserves accolades for making Clayton such a silky surprise: seductive and articulate; and Reitman was the third part of that golden trifecta in Juno that reaped such big returns. The big fight though is between Anderson and Joel & Ethan Coen. Truly, all three dive right into their work; and to all three, their filmographies stand as testaments to the wonders of 21st-century writing-directing. But if a better man (or men) must be chosen, then it's the Coen's, for turning a 180 with their latest film - a stark and desolate landscape - and never hitting a false note.
Best Picture
Who Will Win: Of the five - Juno, No Country for Old Men, Atonement, There WIll Be Blood, and Michael Clayton - each will reap something from the night's festivities...except Atonement; which is a shame because, though it has been positioned as a classic contender in a year that's anything but, the film has a true emotional wallop and its pedigree does good (or even great) work throughout. But enough of my laments; the only film that even comes close to nearing Country - a major player and winner in everything award-wise these last months - in hopes of a Best Picture win would be Juno and something tells me that the older voters of the Academy will favor the Cormac McCarthy adaptation over Diablo Cody's mad-cap dialogue.
Who Should Win: It's undeniable: 2007 was a dark year and its reflected in most of the nominees. Does that tempt me to favor the fifth, "lighter", film? Absolutely, but I also can't deny the that the four other films, while depressing and/or tragic, are also some great specimens. Thusly I choose There Will Be Blood as my favorite of the bunch. In P.T. Anderson's exploration of the trials of a devil-mogul, he employed some great actors (Day-Lewis, Paul Dano) in a thunderously unforgettable movie. The first viewing is like hypnotism tinged with dread; fascinating and inescapable.
********************
Well, there it is folks: who will and who should have been crowned victorious in the Kodak Theatre. Agree? Disagree? Let me hear why. Until then I'll be prepping my now-obligatory commentary on the events of the evening; something I'm sure my readers relish.
See you February 24th.
Jumper: C
Jumper is mindless, but it isn't mindless fun. That's a unique distinction that needs to be made because, over the course of 89 minutes, Doug Liman's latest film - marked very little by any sucessful cheeky wit (as seen in previous of his works: Swingers or Go or The O.C.) - continues to tease the viewer with what could have been; however it does so in such a vague, middling way that even that lust to see more will wane in audiences. What remains is one eye-poppingly constructed bore - mildly entertaining, but barely even there.
A hallmark of this treading-water style is obvious from the very first frame. We listen in on the (laughably unintentionally) disconnected voice-over of our hero, David Rice (Hayden Christensen), as he fills us in on his abilities to jump anywhere and everywhere in the span of a breath ("Paris...Egypt...the NBA Finals, courtside of course, and all before lunch," he quips). Moving away from that he attempts a limp "origin story" of how he first discovered his jumping abilities. The tale is rote on the surface, and worse, one can see the plot mechanics a mile before they even begin turning. That, coupled with the prologue-y speech, is purely emblematic of Liman's new style (first glimpsed in the second-half of Mr. and Mrs. Smith): to overload the audience from the word go; stuffing us with ever-increasingly less satisfying filler, junk.
But one could argue that not all of the film is so mediocre. Indeed, the effects sequences are exuberantly conceived, but they are served to no purpose, to no plot. The main narrative thread was concocted mainly from David S. Goyer, the co-writer of Batman Begins - a far more astute look at a loner with scary "leaps" of ambition. But then he worked with Christopher Nolan, a master of psychology (and better, solid entertainment) in the film medium; here his partner is Jim Uhls, he of Fight Club fame. Enough said. But even if the story was fully realized enough to merit the technical wonders, it couldn't sustain them. In fact, few movies imaginable could use so much mindless swoosh! and poof! before running out of breath and collapsing. So if the great ones wouldn't have been able to do it, guess what Jumper does? You guessed it: it pulls that whole DOA trick.
I wax optimistic though. There are perhaps one or two bright spots. Foremost is the length; then comes Rachel Bilson (that soulful ditz from The O.C.) who makes her indecision (and, heck, lack of character) sparkle. And third is Jamie Bell who, as Griffin - a daredevil fellow jumper - has all the fun that David should be having. Too bad Liman and Goyer leave him stranded in Bosnia...
Which brings me to the numerous dark spots. Foremost among them is the half-baked (and this I truly, really, mean) plot - full of at least two dozen loose ends - and all the elements that entails: character, purpose, audience interest. Such slap-dash work then leads to the mis-use, and mis-casting, of greats like Samuel L. Jackson who, as the head of the antagonistic "Paladin" cult out to cleanse Jumpers from the Earth, does just about all he can with a character who isn't even one-dimensional, he's one-line (and not even a good one, mind you). Finally in my list of complaints is the director himself, who should have had the sense to realize Jumper needed shaping up, or simply ditched the project all together. Instead we get this late-winter dud; a sci-fi adventure with a pathetically undershaped "mythos" (necesary to any enjoyable alternate, sci-fi, universe). Remember what I said about the whole thing being a "bore"? I'll add onto that: Jumper is the screen version of a still-life - lushly rendered in beautiful lighting with great technical skill, but lifeless and static. Pretty ironic for a film all about the ability to move, right?
A hallmark of this treading-water style is obvious from the very first frame. We listen in on the (laughably unintentionally) disconnected voice-over of our hero, David Rice (Hayden Christensen), as he fills us in on his abilities to jump anywhere and everywhere in the span of a breath ("Paris...Egypt...the NBA Finals, courtside of course, and all before lunch," he quips). Moving away from that he attempts a limp "origin story" of how he first discovered his jumping abilities. The tale is rote on the surface, and worse, one can see the plot mechanics a mile before they even begin turning. That, coupled with the prologue-y speech, is purely emblematic of Liman's new style (first glimpsed in the second-half of Mr. and Mrs. Smith): to overload the audience from the word go; stuffing us with ever-increasingly less satisfying filler, junk.
But one could argue that not all of the film is so mediocre. Indeed, the effects sequences are exuberantly conceived, but they are served to no purpose, to no plot. The main narrative thread was concocted mainly from David S. Goyer, the co-writer of Batman Begins - a far more astute look at a loner with scary "leaps" of ambition. But then he worked with Christopher Nolan, a master of psychology (and better, solid entertainment) in the film medium; here his partner is Jim Uhls, he of Fight Club fame. Enough said. But even if the story was fully realized enough to merit the technical wonders, it couldn't sustain them. In fact, few movies imaginable could use so much mindless swoosh! and poof! before running out of breath and collapsing. So if the great ones wouldn't have been able to do it, guess what Jumper does? You guessed it: it pulls that whole DOA trick.
I wax optimistic though. There are perhaps one or two bright spots. Foremost is the length; then comes Rachel Bilson (that soulful ditz from The O.C.) who makes her indecision (and, heck, lack of character) sparkle. And third is Jamie Bell who, as Griffin - a daredevil fellow jumper - has all the fun that David should be having. Too bad Liman and Goyer leave him stranded in Bosnia...
Which brings me to the numerous dark spots. Foremost among them is the half-baked (and this I truly, really, mean) plot - full of at least two dozen loose ends - and all the elements that entails: character, purpose, audience interest. Such slap-dash work then leads to the mis-use, and mis-casting, of greats like Samuel L. Jackson who, as the head of the antagonistic "Paladin" cult out to cleanse Jumpers from the Earth, does just about all he can with a character who isn't even one-dimensional, he's one-line (and not even a good one, mind you). Finally in my list of complaints is the director himself, who should have had the sense to realize Jumper needed shaping up, or simply ditched the project all together. Instead we get this late-winter dud; a sci-fi adventure with a pathetically undershaped "mythos" (necesary to any enjoyable alternate, sci-fi, universe). Remember what I said about the whole thing being a "bore"? I'll add onto that: Jumper is the screen version of a still-life - lushly rendered in beautiful lighting with great technical skill, but lifeless and static. Pretty ironic for a film all about the ability to move, right?
Angel: The Complete Fourth Season: A
It's not like I didn't think Angel had it in him; it's just...well...can this fourth season, this exemplary showcase for a daringly cohesive dramatic serial, really be the same show that once spun an entire episode from the pronounciation of the word "Shanshu"? The answer, it seems, is yes. And who am I to quibble when the end result is this: a thrilling drama with spiky jolts of comedy to keep you on your toes? After having viewed all 22 episodes (and in one marathon week-long sitting, too!) all I really know is this: I must be one big Angel addict, or Angel must be one heck of a show. Or both.
Narratively speaking, it doesn't pull any punches; the tag-line for the penultimate year might have been "Things Fall Apart: How to Structure a Fiendishly Clever Plot in Concentric Circles."
Everything kicks off with "Deep Down", the first of the season openers not to have been written by series creators Joss Whedon or David Greenwalt. The thought of whom then sets me on a rant full of pleasant surprise: it seems most of the Angel writing-producing staff was shuffled around this season. Greenwalt and Tim Minear are credited solely as Consulting Producers and Minear and Mere Smith, both of whom were some of the most prolific and talented of the staff writers, contribute a measley total of four eps this year; shockingly though, this fourth season was actually better without them - the new scribes (Steven S. DeKnight, Elizabeth Craft & Sarah Fain) are as gifted as any I've seen. Anywho, back to the original programming: with the season premiere firmly in place, the Angel Investigations team attempts to rebuild after Angel's (David Boreanaz, a better vamp with each season) dunk in the ocean and Cordelia's (Charisma Carpenter) ascendence to God-status. They need not look hard for long - the pieces practically start falling in their laps. Yet it may not portend all happiness and joy; just after the whole gang comes tentatively back together, they run smack up against The Beast (Vladimir Kulich).
This monolith of misery runs the gamut from invincible to apocalyptic but he's only the first in a series of whammies. His arc gives way to one even more surprising and then that falls back to reveal a third - the final of the season - that has got to be one of Joss Whedon's most cleverly constructed. And all along each installment crackles with dramatic power, each one rife more and more with mystery and suspense. Indeed, look no further than "Calvalry" or "Shiny Happy People" for just indications of plotlines that keep throwing you for a loop. Or, failing that, "Supersymmetry" and "Home" (the season finale, a one-night-only engagement by writer-director Tim Minear that has a sharpened, heart-in-your-throat, final sequence) are perfect examples of two stand-alone stories that hold their own in this serialized universe. But if you still need something to hit the spot "Spin the Bottle" and "Ground State" are just about the wittiest things you'll view.
Am I making my point? If what was so extraordinary about Angel's third season was its newly-found restraint and balance, than the wallop of a shock in its fourth year is the way that Angel keeps pushing the envelope, luring the audience into a plot as dense and tricky as any possible - full of villians and crossed schemes. Sprightly as ever, and all the more happy to oblidge the increasingly sadistic writers (and thus, the masochistic auidence) is the cast. Though Charisma Carpenter is, I'm almost certain, present on screen in true character for about 0.07 seconds of the year, she does perfect with what she has. And Vincent Kartheiser is a freak-puppet genius: he floats above and drowns below his emotions. Of the rest, Alexis Denisof, as Wesley (that most sardonically bitter of rogue hunters), and Amy Acker, as Fred, are standouts. But that doesn't mean the rest of Angel: The Complete Fourth Season doesn't shine. Or that such brilliance (in both meanings of the word) doesn't bode well for the final season, because - God help me - I'm addicted and I can't wait to find out.
Narratively speaking, it doesn't pull any punches; the tag-line for the penultimate year might have been "Things Fall Apart: How to Structure a Fiendishly Clever Plot in Concentric Circles."
Everything kicks off with "Deep Down", the first of the season openers not to have been written by series creators Joss Whedon or David Greenwalt. The thought of whom then sets me on a rant full of pleasant surprise: it seems most of the Angel writing-producing staff was shuffled around this season. Greenwalt and Tim Minear are credited solely as Consulting Producers and Minear and Mere Smith, both of whom were some of the most prolific and talented of the staff writers, contribute a measley total of four eps this year; shockingly though, this fourth season was actually better without them - the new scribes (Steven S. DeKnight, Elizabeth Craft & Sarah Fain) are as gifted as any I've seen. Anywho, back to the original programming: with the season premiere firmly in place, the Angel Investigations team attempts to rebuild after Angel's (David Boreanaz, a better vamp with each season) dunk in the ocean and Cordelia's (Charisma Carpenter) ascendence to God-status. They need not look hard for long - the pieces practically start falling in their laps. Yet it may not portend all happiness and joy; just after the whole gang comes tentatively back together, they run smack up against The Beast (Vladimir Kulich).
This monolith of misery runs the gamut from invincible to apocalyptic but he's only the first in a series of whammies. His arc gives way to one even more surprising and then that falls back to reveal a third - the final of the season - that has got to be one of Joss Whedon's most cleverly constructed. And all along each installment crackles with dramatic power, each one rife more and more with mystery and suspense. Indeed, look no further than "Calvalry" or "Shiny Happy People" for just indications of plotlines that keep throwing you for a loop. Or, failing that, "Supersymmetry" and "Home" (the season finale, a one-night-only engagement by writer-director Tim Minear that has a sharpened, heart-in-your-throat, final sequence) are perfect examples of two stand-alone stories that hold their own in this serialized universe. But if you still need something to hit the spot "Spin the Bottle" and "Ground State" are just about the wittiest things you'll view.
Am I making my point? If what was so extraordinary about Angel's third season was its newly-found restraint and balance, than the wallop of a shock in its fourth year is the way that Angel keeps pushing the envelope, luring the audience into a plot as dense and tricky as any possible - full of villians and crossed schemes. Sprightly as ever, and all the more happy to oblidge the increasingly sadistic writers (and thus, the masochistic auidence) is the cast. Though Charisma Carpenter is, I'm almost certain, present on screen in true character for about 0.07 seconds of the year, she does perfect with what she has. And Vincent Kartheiser is a freak-puppet genius: he floats above and drowns below his emotions. Of the rest, Alexis Denisof, as Wesley (that most sardonically bitter of rogue hunters), and Amy Acker, as Fred, are standouts. But that doesn't mean the rest of Angel: The Complete Fourth Season doesn't shine. Or that such brilliance (in both meanings of the word) doesn't bode well for the final season, because - God help me - I'm addicted and I can't wait to find out.
There Will Be Blood: A
There is actually very little of the titular red substance in There Will Be Blood, but that shouldn't trick you into believing that there aren't bashings, squishings, shootings, oomphings, and just a whole general host of violent actions to be found in Paul Thomas Anderson's latest film; a movie with structure and design clearly shaped by a title so foreboding and blunt. Yet if the movie lacks any spurting of substance (it is by no means an early American Sweeney Todd) it also possesses in spades everything else Anderson - that madly gifted, madly showy writer-director of Magnolia and Punch-Drunk Love - needs to craft an enterprising story about an enterprising man (Daniel Day-Lewis, drowning, spectacularly, in his own ambition) every bit as enthralling and ruthless as he is.
Still, the audience begins knowing very little about Day-Lewis, here named Daniel Plainview. In fact the catch of Blood is our general realizations of his character. How, in essence, the sequence that opens the film - the one that finds Plainview dragging himself up from a dank mining hole after a hard fall - finds itself replayed throughout the movie: that same ol' recurring theme of American ingenuity...only here, it gets the P.T. Anderson treatment, complete with a bold dramatic voice and revolutionary design.
And design is key to an audience's understanding of the dark themes pulsing behind the screen. Key among such elements is Jonny Greenwood, the Radiohead member who composed an entire body of original music for the story. The music he created is much of the reason I tossed around the word "revolutionary" so early in my review: the score leaps from the screen from the first second - a sharp wail that eventually directs the audience and its hero to the hills, to oil. From there, and after we are witness to the slow descent of the newly-made baron (who, with his adopted son H.W. - the naturally grounded Dillon Freasier - goes about scooping up land like candy), the music begins to possess a twinge of melancholia; the trademark rising aural tides that portended such disaster recede: that disaster has arrived.
But oh how it is captured on film! Anderson, abandoning everything I thought he had as a visionary stylist, has discovered in himself a new layer of his prowess; he crafts a meticulous, epic character study that finds at its core the pulsating heart of Greed, and the ways it corrupts all men (it would come as no surprise then to mention now that Blood was modeled on Upton Sinclair's Oil!). Taking center stage to hold the responsibility for communicating such rich material are Day-Lewis and Paul Dano, as Plainview's archnemesis: a faith healer named Eli Sunday. The the two of them do battle over the course of two-and-a-half hours, leaving the viewer gasping after the continuous string of overwhelmingly poignant (and beautiful) scenes. This is a movie, as is quite obvious, made from the very same dirt our tycoon spends his life digging up: rough and masking unseen glimmers of brilliance.
Ultimately the praise of the film must be spread over a number of people. The cast, of which Freasier, Dano, and Lewis are standouts, does extraordinarily well by their time period and their community - creating a world from minimal dialogue. The composer, Mr. Greenwood, must be renowned for his creation of such a wall of sound that I have rarely heard: it is the perfect companion to the driving plot. Which leads to Paul Thomas Anderson, who has written and directed with a furious passion; his words leap from the actors' mouths and his camera (aided by cinematographer Robert Elswit) is a stark and breath-taking observer. Missing the turns of fancy or ostentatious shows of imagination and technical skill that can be found in his earlier work, There Will Be Blood is still a stunner of a parred-down epic: bruising, dark, and - as only the title could alude to - all about the struggles between men, God, and nature. Come prepared for a fight.
Still, the audience begins knowing very little about Day-Lewis, here named Daniel Plainview. In fact the catch of Blood is our general realizations of his character. How, in essence, the sequence that opens the film - the one that finds Plainview dragging himself up from a dank mining hole after a hard fall - finds itself replayed throughout the movie: that same ol' recurring theme of American ingenuity...only here, it gets the P.T. Anderson treatment, complete with a bold dramatic voice and revolutionary design.
And design is key to an audience's understanding of the dark themes pulsing behind the screen. Key among such elements is Jonny Greenwood, the Radiohead member who composed an entire body of original music for the story. The music he created is much of the reason I tossed around the word "revolutionary" so early in my review: the score leaps from the screen from the first second - a sharp wail that eventually directs the audience and its hero to the hills, to oil. From there, and after we are witness to the slow descent of the newly-made baron (who, with his adopted son H.W. - the naturally grounded Dillon Freasier - goes about scooping up land like candy), the music begins to possess a twinge of melancholia; the trademark rising aural tides that portended such disaster recede: that disaster has arrived.
But oh how it is captured on film! Anderson, abandoning everything I thought he had as a visionary stylist, has discovered in himself a new layer of his prowess; he crafts a meticulous, epic character study that finds at its core the pulsating heart of Greed, and the ways it corrupts all men (it would come as no surprise then to mention now that Blood was modeled on Upton Sinclair's Oil!). Taking center stage to hold the responsibility for communicating such rich material are Day-Lewis and Paul Dano, as Plainview's archnemesis: a faith healer named Eli Sunday. The the two of them do battle over the course of two-and-a-half hours, leaving the viewer gasping after the continuous string of overwhelmingly poignant (and beautiful) scenes. This is a movie, as is quite obvious, made from the very same dirt our tycoon spends his life digging up: rough and masking unseen glimmers of brilliance.
Ultimately the praise of the film must be spread over a number of people. The cast, of which Freasier, Dano, and Lewis are standouts, does extraordinarily well by their time period and their community - creating a world from minimal dialogue. The composer, Mr. Greenwood, must be renowned for his creation of such a wall of sound that I have rarely heard: it is the perfect companion to the driving plot. Which leads to Paul Thomas Anderson, who has written and directed with a furious passion; his words leap from the actors' mouths and his camera (aided by cinematographer Robert Elswit) is a stark and breath-taking observer. Missing the turns of fancy or ostentatious shows of imagination and technical skill that can be found in his earlier work, There Will Be Blood is still a stunner of a parred-down epic: bruising, dark, and - as only the title could alude to - all about the struggles between men, God, and nature. Come prepared for a fight.
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