The Next Three Days

The Next Three Days is a very taut thriller from writer/director/freaky Scientologist Paul Haggis. Russell Crowe stars as John Brennan, a college professor married to Lara (Elizabeth Banks). The Brennan's are the happily married parents of Luke, an adorable little towhead who doesn't say much. At all. Throughout the entire movie. Lara gets accused, then convicted of a brutal murder for which she is serving life in prison. John, convinced of his wife's innocence, consults with a salty former criminal (Liam Neeson) to find out just how to bust wifey out of the clink. We watch as John becomes consumed with plotting the prison break and subsequent escape with his family. Haggis crafted the script from a previous version (Pour Elle) by writers Fred Cavaye and Guillaume Lemans. The dialogue is tolerable, but when a high-caliber actor isn't at the helm, some of the lines feel very Law and Order: Special Dipshits Unit.
In terms of acting, Russell Crowe is, as always, excellent. He is intense and focused as a man consumed by the singular purpose of saving his wife. Elizabeth Banks is the biggest surprise, as she has displayed serious comedic talent in films like Zack and Miri Make a Porno and The 40-Year-Old Virgin, but this marks the first time we get a sense of the depth she is truly capable of. Banks is also incredibly beautiful, insuring that if she keeps on keepin', she will have the gift of longevity that so many actors lust after. Both Liam Neeson and Brian Dennehy are far too sparse in their appearances. In fact, Dennehy doesn't have more than ten lines and is still able to convey more with those paltry ten than most actors can in entire careers.
While The Next Three Days is a fast-paced and well executed thriller, there is a a glaring issue that must be addressed. This film is part of a recent spate of movies that have asked the audience to root for a protagonist whose goal is, at its heart, fundamentally amoral. I felt this way about Inception, which while visually and psychologically arresting, was also centered around a premise that had less than lofty ends to its means. John Brennan remains stalwart in his belief that his wife Lara did not commit the murder for which she is convicted. He thus feels it is justifiable to break her out of prison (without consulting her), endangering both of their lives as well as the life of their son. When Brennan meets with Liam Neeson's Damon Pennington, Pennington warns that even worse than capture is the fear of capture. Pennington tells Brennan that though his own escapes were successful, he ultimately gave himself up because he couldn't take "worrying about who was coming through the bedroom door". We are left to think that if Brennan does succeed in freeing his wife and fleeing the country, he will be tormented by his own version of prison for the rest of his life.
My Comment strives to open up a discourse on this seemingly new facile and flexible moral message we are being fed lately. Even if Lara Brennan is innocent, it is still permissible for her husband to break her out of jail? Furthermore, why are we as an audience still rooting for someone who commits deplorable crimes in order to achieve said prison break. Unlike film noir, which paints a portrait of a flawed protagonist who commits questionable acts, this movie does not show its main character showing any sort of remorse for his transgressions. In addition, Paul Haggis doesn't give us any balance in terms of true and real sacrifice made on the part of John Brennan. We are left with questions about what will happen to Brennan from an emotional point of view, but in my opinion, it's not enough to level the ethical seesaw. Does this new Robin Hood prototype have to do with the economic crisis? Do writers feel that people struggling in this country will sympathize with characters who act without real consequences? If so, it is truly a perversion of the type of films that Charlie Chaplin made in order to appeal to the less fortunate masses. Chaplin knew that the lower and middle class filmgoer would always enjoy seeing the richies getting a kick in the pants. It made for good storytelling. But Chaplin never crossed the line by allowing his disadvantaged hero to veer into unethical territory without serious repercussions. I hope we haven't veered off course. Because what is Hollywood known for if not for being motivated by ethics?

Fair Game

Every time an annoyingly earnest screenwriter has pitched an anti-war film in the last five years, there was a collective groan heard round' the studios. Films like Lions For Lambs, Stop Loss, and In the Valley of Elah consistently proved that audiences did not want to see films that were critical of either the Iraq or Afghanistan wars. After 2003, the failure of these films was attributed to unwillingness of a patriotic America to bash the Bush administration, preferring instead to let things play out and give both conflicts a chance to succeed. After 2006, the collective thought was that the horrible casualties (and the no-end-in-sight feeling we were getting from the wars) the American people simply didn't want to be reminded of the horror, the horror. It's now 2010 and given the paltry box-office take (barely $700,000) of Fair Game over it's opening weekend, it's safe to conclude we still don't want to see movies that criticize the Bush administration. More on that later.
Fair Game is the story of CIA officer Valerie Plame (played by Naomi Watts), who was part of a team charged with finding out whether or not aluminum tubes purchased by Saddam Hussein were to be used in the manufacture of nuclear weapons. According to Plame, her bosses at CIA asked if her husband, former Ambassador Joe Wilson (Sean Penn), would be willing to go to Niger to ascertain the legitimacy of claims that Hussein had also purchased large amounts of uranium yellowcake from the African nation. Wilson obliged, and returned to the U.S. with a report claiming that he did not think it possible that Hussein had obtained said yellowcake. After George W. Bush made his 2003 State of the Union address claiming that Hussein had in fact purchased uranium, Wilson fired back with an op-ed piece in the New York Times, alleging that the Bush administration was simply cherry-picking information in order to make the case for war against Iraq. What followed was a full-on attack on both Wilson and Plame, culminating in the outing of Plame as a covert CIA officer by journalist Robert Novak. Wilson went on the defensive in the media against the administration, alleging that several of its members were responsible for leaking Plame's identity to Novak in retaliation against Wilson.
The film follows the harrowing effects of Plame's outing, both personal and professional. Plame and Wilson disagree about to handle the attacks, with Wilson choosing to fight Bush and Cheney et. al, in the press while Plame keeps decidedly quiet. After all, she is a woman whose entire career has been based upon secrecy and her ability to weather conflict silently. The toll the turmoil takes on the Wilson/Plame marriage is beautifully rendered, as is the difficulty of parenting in the midst of a shitstorm. Director Doug Liman (Mr. and Mrs. Smith) constructs a textured portrait of a normal looking family with everyday problems where both parents have extraordinary careers. As the firebrand Joe Wilson, Sean Penn stomps around unabashedly screaming at anyone who'll listen. It's brash and obnoxious, but like each role Penn inhabits, it works, damn near perfectly. He steals every scene from Naomi Watts, who does a lovely job of playing a woman hellbent on maintaining her composure. It's a thankless part compared to Penn's Wilson, but such is the nature of performance. Sam Shepherd plays Plame's father and is in only a single scene, serving to do nothing but piss me off that I don't get enough Sam Shepherd, ever.
So why, with good writing, great performances and excellent directing does America not want to see Fair Game? Do we still not want to dredge up the past, particularly when our nation is facing the worst economic crisis in years? Is it because we (as Fox News pundits claim) truly are a country that leans to the right? Does Sean Penn simply annoy us? I know that the politicization of the Wilson/Plame fiasco got so out of hand that most people tired of it the way they tire of all of the polarized discourse in this country. The right accused Wilson and Plame of being stooges for the left. This despite the fact that Wilson was born into a family of Republicans who viewed Barry Goldwater as "a bit liberal". Plame's record of service had been astoundingly impressive until she was outed, and yet her credibility was questioned in the media mercilessly. Any person who has been involved in a public fight can tell you that once the other side starts to attack you personally, they have nothing else to hit you with. Both political parties claimed each side as their own until the Plame/Wilson affair became just another Republican vs. Democrat slugfest. My Comment is more of a hypothesis that most people in this country are so sick of the polemical rhetoric on both sides, that they are choosing to opt out of politics altogether. This is obviously not a new argument, as evidenced by the number of attendees at Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert's Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. But even that event became a tool for the wackos on both sides to fight about. I'm just sad that a well done film won't be seen because it's message is viewed as simply political, and politics has gone from a fascinating civic discussion to an ugly sideshow that has no place for nuance, compromise or empathy for the opposing side.

Hereafter

So, my friend Fred says that Clint Eastwood's films are like broccoli; good for you, but the consumption of them is not a real hoot. I agree with him regarding Invictus and Gran Torino, and I see his point with Million Dollar Baby, though I felt that film was superior to the previous two. I was prepared to scowl through my fangs at Hereafter, given it's esoteric subject matter. The film tells the story of three main characters. The first, George Lonergan (Matt Damon) is a reluctant psychic who has forsaken a career mining his "gift". The second is Marie LeLay (Cecile De France), a French television journalist dealing with the aftermath of surviving a horrific tsunami. The last and most heart-wrenching, is a young English boy (Frankie and George McLaren) who tragically loses his twin brother in an accident.
George Lonergan leads a lonely existence working in a factory and rebuking his brother's attempts to get him back into doing readings for people who want contact with dead relatives. He feels that his gift is a curse that poisons every chance he has at living a normal life. Normal life is also in jeopardy for Marie, who, after viewing a glimpse of death, cannot get back into the now pedestrian grind of the successful single gal. For twins Marcus and Jason, existence is mere survival as the sons of a drug-addicted single mother who cannot take care of herself, let alone her boys. Marcus and Jason have developed that kind of sad, sweet symbiosis that siblings so often fall into when their parents are woefully neglectful. But Marcus is thrown a cruel curve when Jason (the more dominant and take-charge twin) is killed in a car wreck and social services take Marcus from his mother to live with foster parents. Desperate for answers, Marcus turns to the internet to find someone who can help him communicate with his dead brother.
All three characters have a profound relationship with death that they must reconcile before becoming whole again. Real-life twins Frankie and George McLaren are soul-stirring without pulling the sickly sentimental strings so many directors push child actors to exploit. Cecile De France expresses whole worlds of pain in her deep-set eyes and gives a perfect sense of a woman who almost drowned but feels like she's still drowning months after she's dried off. Screenwriter Peter Morgan, so artful in breathing dramatic life into real-life stories (The Queen, The Special Relationship), gives us a straightforward script to no doubt counteract the dreamy quality of the material. It's not Morgan's best effort, as some of the dialogue isn't worthy of an after-school special, but the movie is engaging nonetheless. Overall, Eastwood presents a compelling story, especially given the skepticism most people have towards the subject of the afterlife.
The biggest problem in Hereafter is Matt Damon. I never thought I'd say this; Damon conspires to ruin this film. As George Lonergan, he mopes pathetically without finding a single thing within the character to make us root for him. He is withdrawn, sullen, sad and sorry and I just couldn't give a shit anymore. Damon lets a tantalizing scene with an interested girl named Melanie (an overeager Bryce Dallas Howard) fall as flat as an ab-less reality star. After his intentionally bland performances in The Good Shepherd and the Bourne franchise I am starting to think the Damon is too much a puppet of directors he reveres. Damon talked at length about Robert De Niro urging him to be devoid of emotion as Edward Wilson during filming of The Good Shepherd. While it was perhaps appropriate for the type of character Damon played, it is not all that interesting to watch for two hours. Off duty, Matt Damon is highly intelligent, funny, spirited and even a little bit wicked. We are seeing none of that on screen of late. Will Hunting is one of the more complex and well-written characters brought to life since the 1970's. Damon embodied Will so wholly and completely we felt like we could help to fix him. Maybe Damon should get back to writing. He is smart enough to deliver fully-cooked stories with meaty roles he can do justice to.
My Comment is about taking control. The life of an actor is a constant waiting game where everybody seems to hold the reins but the actor herself. Some become successful by waiting for fame to hit, but most don't get anywhere unless they get off their asses and make it happen for themselves. Sadly, even those who do shun passivity usually don't make it, but such is the business. Beyond show business, times are particularly tough for the children of Baby Boomers who seem to have gotten none of the killer instinct their parents had. The collective malaise is so prevalent that one is forced to admit that maybe Morgan Freeman was right in Se7en when his character declared that all American's want is to "eat cheeseburgers, play the Lotto and watch t.v.". Even as I write this, I am more consumed with how exhausted I am than anything else. What is wrong with us? Pursuing the path of least resistance isn't going to get us out of this mess, yet we sit, inert and unable to motivate. While expecting the country's youth to get cracking might be a little lofty, I think I can demand as much from Matt Damon, who once had enough fire to set his own industry ablaze in the most inspiring way imaginable.

The Social Network

The Social Network has a very definable and clear thesis; while the aim of sites like Facebook is to bring people closer together, they have actually achieved the opposite by isolating and preventing us from making real human connections. This is no more apparent than in the character of Mark Zuckerberg (played by Jesse Eisenberg). I say "character" because it must be pointed out that both the film The Social Network (screenplay by Aaron Sorkin of West Wing fame) and the book The Accidental Billionaires (by Ben Mezrich of 21 fame) represent ideas of who the Facebook players really are. Director David Fincher (of Se7en fame), and producers Scott Rudin (of everything classy fame) and Mike DeLuca (of getting a hummer at a William Morris party in full view of all the guests fame) have served up a deliciously snarky sauce and served it over a salacious story. The details of the Facebook beginnings are as follows; Harvard sophomore Mark Zuckerberg gets dumped by his girlfriend after she declares him obsessed with getting into Harvard's hyper-elite "final clubs". In a lager-filled rage, he goes back to his dorm and blogs about wanting to start the next huge internet idea. Zuckerberg then hacks into Harvard dorm photo catalogs (called Face Books), and beams out thousands of pictures of women placed next to one another. The recipient of said photos is meant to rate the attractiveness of the women in comparison to one another. Zuckerberg gets 22,000 hits within the span of two hours, crashing the Harvard server. Zuck knows he's onto something big.
The film is told through the lens of two lawsuits leveled against Zuckerberg after Facebook began to achieve real success. The first is by Eduardo Saverin (played by Andrew Garfield), Zuckerberg's best friend at Harvard and co-founder of Facebook. The second is by twins Tyler and Cameron Winklevoss (played by Armie Hammer, great-grandson of billionaire industrialist Armand Hammer), who not only look like they were carved from chunks of shimmering plutonium, but their pedigrees do too. The twins (while simultaneously rowing crew and presumably having no problem getting ass) begin work on a social networking site exclusive to Harvard students. The Winklevosses contract Zuckerberg to be the site's programmer, then allege that he went on to steal the idea and turn it into what eventually became the monolithic Facebook.
Shortly after Zuckerberg and Saverin launch Facebook, its popularity catches viral fire and the two expand to other Ivy campuses. When it reaches Stanford, Facebook is discovered by the opportunistic Sean Parker (co-founder of Napster). Parker (played well by Justin Timberlake) meets with Zuckerberg and Saverin and nearly charms the nerd off of Zuckerberg, while Saverin develops an immediate repulsion towards the pseudo elder-statesman. Saverin's lawsuit claims that under the Svengali-like influence of Parker, Zuckerberg forced his co-founder out of the business by diluting his Facebook shares beyond recognition. While most of the details of the story can be corroborated by Mezrich's myriad sources and public court documents, the true nature of The Social Network's real-life cast of characters remain a mystery. Zuckerberg, Saverin and Parker are all famously private, and non-disclosure agreements assure no public shit-talking will take place anytime soon.
As usual, Aaron Sorkin delivers rapier-style dialogue with surgical precision, and nearly every actor delivers a spot-on performance, with Eisenberg being a standout. As Mark Zuckerberg, he portrays a genius with a social awkwardness bordering on Asperger's Syndrome. Angry and misogynistic, Sorkin's version of these baby titans are hell-bent on getting into the clubs (and women) who would never before deign to have them as members. On the surface, Sorkin delivers the aforementioned thesis; the crap about internet connectivity leading to isolation. But I would posit that the real thesis of the film lies within Sorkin himself. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip was Sorkin's last foray into television. At the onset, the ratings looked promising, with everyone in the business predicting the demise of the similarly-themed 30 Rock. Soon, however, online bloggers (just beginning to gain momentum) helped to create a negative buzz that Sorkin seemed to blame for the cancellation of his show. He railed against the online critics, and soon, at the internet itself. To quote Sorkin, "One of the things I find troubling about the Internet, as great a resource tool as it is, and as nice as it is that we can all communicate with each other, and that everybody has a voice - the thing is, everybody's voice oughtn't be equal".
While Sorkin theorizes that Zuckerberg invented Facebook to get back at those who he perceived did him wrong, I theorize that Sorkin wrote The Social Network for a similiar reason. He wants to somehow trivialize and thus level a blow (however inconsequential) to the technological vehicle that made Zuckerberg, et, al. the billionaires they are today. My Comment is about Sorkin's hypocrisy. It is a hypocrisy that can be easily found in the film's first scene. While arguing with his girlfriend Erica (Rooney Mara, weird and aloof and watchable), Zuckerberg reveals himself to be one of those brilliant minds so incapable of intimacy, that they must hide behind their considerable intellects and lob zingers at whoever stands in their way. Zuckerberg rails against his girl mercilessly, denigrating her sexuality, her intelligence and her background. Sorkin paints a picture of Zuckerberg as an intellectual elitist whose snobbery come across as pathetic and sad. But what of Sorkin using his considerable intellect to ream out internet bloggers who according to him, don't rank as high as New York Times television critics. I'm not negating his position, and Sorkin has every right to let his writing fight some battles for him. I'm just not sure the Mark Zuckerberg necessarily deserves every arrow that Sorkin slings his way. I also have a hard time believing that someone as psychologically savvy as Sorkin could miss this inherent irony. But, The Social Network is still an engaging and entertaining film, which is ultimately Sorkin's goal, right?

Eat, Pray, Love

I really didn't want to do this. I still want to pistol-whip Julia Roberts when I hear her utter that odious line from Erin Brockovich, "They're called boobs Ed". But I wanted to review a recent film, and if Roberts incites me to commit violence, Aniston makes me want to commit violence against myself. So, The Switch was out. Off to Eat, Pray, Love I went. Based on Elizabeth Gilbert's smash bestseller of the same name, the film chronicles the journey of one divorced woman looking for enlightenment. Roberts plays Gilbert, a writer who has just ended her marriage, drifted into another unhappy relationship, then decides to take an expansive year-long journey. Each place she visits signifies three different facets of Gilbert's search. Italy (Eat), where Gilbert eschews counting calories and gives in to her hungry id. India (Pray), where she lives in a humble communal ashram and assesses her spiritual well-being, and finally, Bali (Love), where she re-connects with a ninth-generation medicine man and meets Felipe (Javier Bardem) who helps her to believe in love again. I know what you're thinking. Or at least, I know what you should be thinking if you're not the kind of sappy mainstream dolt I avoid at all costs. You're thinking "Wow, the combination of that plot and Julia Roberts sounds like the kind of cloying crap that Hollywood spews at the Oprah crowd like it was a free key chain". In addition, you might be wondering what a snarky, cynical bitch like myself thought of this film. Well, it might be that I'm knocked up and all, but I liked this movie. I said it.
Eat, Pray, Love is thoroughly infused with Elizabeth Gilbert's voice as a writer, and she is good. Candid, unapologetic and blessed with an ability to make trite topics sound fresh, Gilbert possesses a unique quality lacking in most contemporary writers. Director Ryan Murphy and Jennifer Salt adapted Gilbert's book for the screen and held on to her style well while making the story more filmic. Murphy also makes the most of his lush locations by giving so many wide shots of Rome and Bali that you are practically able to smell the pasta and jasmine. Although, to be fair, during the India portion of the trip you can really only smell the cow shit.
There are three brilliant character actors in Eat, Pray, Love who threaten to take over every scene they share with Roberts. Billy Crudup (Almost Famous), Viola Davis (Doubt) and Richard Jenkins (The Visitor) play Gilbert's husband, editor and mentor respectively, and they are all excellent. James Franco (Spiderman) plays Gilbert's lover and he is disappointingly whiny and uncharismatic. Now, to Roberts herself. I know why it kills me to admit this. I'll get to that later. Roberts is worth every penny of her 20 million dollar salary. Seriously. She has not one false moment in this movie and she carries it expertly. As Elizabeth Gilbert, she is unafraid to be unlikeable at those moments when her character is experiencing a particularly self-involved episode. This is highly difficult for most actors, especially famous ones who have made entire careers from being likable. Roberts is vulnerable without the usual display of tears and knows how to take the audience along on her quest without being preachy. Don't get me wrong; there is a scene in Italy when Roberts and her cohorts practice the Italian style of gesticulation where I wanted to gnaw her face off, but...
The reason that I hate to admit the adroitness of Roberts' performance is that she is nearly universally loved. Most people love her, which is precisely why people like me (who never want to be lumped in the category of "most people") abhor her appeal. It is however, tough to ignore that in the last twenty years, Roberts has consistently delivered good and sometimes great work (Charlie Wilson's War being the notable exception). Roberts' attitude off-duty is always putting me off, and her having achieved the highest level of fame makes it difficult to separate Roberts from her characters. But within the first few frames of her films, Roberts manages to convince that she is not the broad who gushed on Oprah about her "remarkable, that is, he is to be remarked upon" husband. My Comment is about those of us who fancy ourselves non-conformists and how much we lose out on when we deliberately ignore certain entertainment simply because it is popular. When I was young, I'd sit in my bedroom listening to Morrissey and Elvis Costello, assuming that I was among a handful of like-minded souls who would never deign to get into the Top 40 scene. Later, I rejected all mainstream movies, feeling that independent directors and writers were the only ones who could speak for me and my ilk. A book or movie becoming a smash success was the ultimate insurance that I'd never read or see it, and it was pointless to try and convince me otherwise. This behavior is not unique, particularly for the precocious teen . But when that attitude stubbornly gets carried through to adulthood, some very real things begin to happen. First you become an asshole. Worse, a pretentious asshole, which is the worst kind. You become so concerned with not sounding like a Philistine, that you end up sounding like a, well, a pretentious asshole. Most importantly, you miss out on things that you might have loved, but wouldn't experience because you were so afraid of being ordinary. That's really the crux of it. PA's are so afraid of being ordinary that they start to say things like they won't go see music played in large venues, or cannot possibly read the new book by a bestselling author. But unless the PA is either a hermaphrodite or a billionaire, he is doubtless pretty ordinary. Guess who's not ordinary? The fucking bestselling author. So deal with it and go Netflix Forrest Gump. It's really good.

Dinner For Schmucks

Before I begin this review, I have to apologize for waiting so long in between posts. I have been under the weather for the past few months and haven't been able to write. I hope you'll continue to follow the blog and comment as you see fit. Now, on to Dinner For Schmucks. This movie should be re-titled Movie For Schmucks. Written by David Guion and Michael Handleman, Schmucks was adapted from the French film Le Diner de Cons written by Francis Veber. On paper, the movie seems wholly hysterical; Tim, a young analyst up for a promotion at a private equity firm (Paul Rudd) agrees to go to a dinner hosted by his arrogant and wealthy boss (Bruce Greenwood). The catch is, Tim and his co-workers must bring along the biggest idiot they can find. At the meal's commencement, the boss will judge who is in fact the "winner" of the idiots and present him/her with a trophy. Naturally, the employee whose schmuck wins will curry the most favor with the boss.
Tim runs into initial moral opposition from his girlfriend Julie, played by Stephanie Szostak. While very beautiful in that waifish European way, it is difficult to tell whether Szostak has a French accent or a speech impediment. Julie makes Tim promise not to attend the dinner, which Tim complies with, until he fortuitously meets Barry (Steve Carell). Barry is a windbreaker-clad IRS agent who in his (ample) spare time makes dioramas with stuffed mice. Sporting a bad red hairpiece and a set of novelty teeth, Carell plays another version of his reliably earnest and well-meaning fools (The Office, The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy and Get Smart have provided us with enough examples of this for you to know what I'm talking about). Tim decides that Barry is too good a prospect to pass up and plans to attend the dinner. Barry, however, comes to Tim's home a night early and not only derails his life, but the movie as well. The second act consists of place-filling slapstick and sight gags, with an introduction to four more characters trying desperately to be outrageous but managing only to annoy all but the 80-year-old sitting next to me. Jemaine Clement (of Flight of the Conchords fame) is the best of this bunch, giving us Kieran, a bizarre artist with a penchant for juxtaposing his own image with wild animals. It still isn't that great. The very talented Zach Galifinakis goes his typical overly intense, diet-averse, nebbish route. I adore Galifinakis, particularly on his Between Two Ferns sojourns, but this performance makes me wonder if I'll see anything new from him soon.
What should be both the culmination and the best part of Dinner For Schmucks is the actual dinner. It is far from the best part. The "idiots" are a veritable hodgepodge of childishly-conceived characters, so awash in hokey costuming that they look like vaudevillian porn stars. Paul Rudd, a truly gifted actor with a special talent for comedy, has literally nothing to add to the scene. I am not as embarrassed for him as I am for the actors at the end of Footloose (the glitter alone makes me cringe), but it's close. While the writing in this film isn't anything inspired, I think the real blame is on Roach. Lately a more prolific producer than director, Roach has helmed both the Austin Powers and the Focker franchises. While each series is highly bankable, I think there is a general agreement that as each progressed, the humor became more and more recycled. I am of course reserving judgment on Little Fockers, out later this year. Roach does not pull the best performances from any of his highly skilled actors, and relies way too heavily on the image of the characters rather than their development. The saddest example of this is Carell. Week after week, Carell delivers some of the finest comedy on television in The Office. His performances in films like Dan in Real Life proved him a good actor as well as a facile clown. But there is nothing new or fresh in Schmucks that surprises or delights us about Carell.
My Comment is about that point in a successful career when an artist plateaus. Most actors go through it simply because there is not enough good written material for them. Others experience it because their previous success makes them (0r their management team) too terrified to mess with the formula. Nicolas Cage, a bright and burning talent who was deserving of his Oscar for Leaving Las Vegas, seemed to fall back on the sarcastic action hero with an edge so many times that no one gives a shit anymore. Especially the IRS. Conversely, Johnny Depp has never hit the dreaded plateau. Depp made an early career of only taking the roles that everyone warned him to be career suicide. He always did something different but not just for different's sake. Whether it was to work with a certain director, or to show the world a side of himself that we didn't know existed, Depp chose parts he wanted, period. While it's easy to sight the Pirates movies as his sell-out payday extravaganza, remember that Depp fought the studio tooth and nail to play Jack Sparrow as a cross between Keith Richards and Pepe le Pew. Although it's rare to find an artist as uncompromising as Depp, Carell has a reputation for being incredibly hard-working and dedicated. I hope that Dinner For Schmucks isn't the death knell for Steve Carell's brilliantly original take on comedy, or the end of his growth as a performer. We would miss out too much.

Iron Man 2

I am always looking for the perfect word to describe certain actors. For Robert Downey Jr. the task becomes exponentially more difficult, because he is so many things. However, if pressed, "mercurial" just about does the trick. As an audience, we want to be told a story, taken on a journey. The actors have to make us feel as they are the captains of that ship, that they will take care of us. Downey says, screw taken care of, how bout' a trippy rock n' roll adventure the likes of which you haven't seen since college? Like Meryl Streep, Downey projects the magical mirth, the sheer joy of acting that transforms a character into a living, breathing entity. Iron Man 2 is no exception. As Tony Stark, Downey beats a scene like it's his bitch. Downey never hides who he is when he plays a character and that's a good thing, because he is one of today's more compelling personas. Jon Favreau directed the second installment of the Stan Lee's comic book creation, and once again, he proves a worthy talent. The pacing is nice, without too many "plot point here" moments that poison almost every action movie that has come out in the last few years. Iron Man 2 was written by Justin Theroux, usually seen in front of the camera in films like Miami Vice and Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. Theroux is one of those actors who bitches about the commercialism of film and the whore-like existence of the actor, however he has clearly gotten on board by being a part of one of the most successful franchises in recent history. Theroux is actually a good writer. He has an excellent feel for Downey's rhythm as a performer and he doesn't get disastrously carried away with one-liners.
The casting of Iron Man 2 is simply inspired. Sam Rockwell plays Stark's competitive fellow bazillionaire physicist (how many of these guys are there?). When Rockwell played the lead in Confessions of a Dangerous Mind I was struck by him. I felt then that Rockwell had a Downey-esque acting style, in that he brought his own intelligent quirkiness to his roles without too much Method added. He does a suitable job here but he is no Downey. He is loose and casual as Justin Hammer and doesn't really seem to be giving his all. Mickey Rourke (as the evil Ivan Vanko) is the polar opposite. Apparently, Rourke got into character by having a crew member hold up photos of his beloved dog, Loki, who passed away shortly before filming commenced. It's always easy for us actors who were trained post-Method to snicker at these tactics, but in the end, it's the performance that matters. Rourke is a badass of epic proportions who delivers a fantastic performance. Don Cheadle replaces Terrence Howard as military man James Rhodes and it is a welcome change. Cheadle always adds to every film he's in and he fits this role perfectly.
The role of Stark's Girl Friday Pepper Potts is reprised by Gwyneth Paltrow. Much is made of Miss Paltrow's high-brow 'tude off duty. I myself have always had a love-hate relationship with Gwynnie. I roll my eyes at her out-of-touch comments on Letterman and I feel that despite her fancy Spence education, she speaks like a bored mallrat. But, time and time again, I am forced to admit that Gwyneth Paltrow has the acting goods. She is natural and fluid, and with the Iron Man films, has found her comic timing. Also, full disclosure, I am a subscriber of her online newsletter, GOOP. Once you get past the Kabbalah promos, the recipes are surprisingly delicious. There were rampant rumors that Paltrow did not get along with Scarlett Johansson, who plays the luscious Natalie Rushman. The general thought was that Paltrow did not appreciate the decade-younger Johansson being the prettiest kitten in the litter. I have no idea whether this is true or not, but tales of this sort have followed Paltrow around since she made her debut on the Hollywood scene in the early 1990's. There is a story about Gwyneth and Madonna being so catty to Jennifer Lopez at a party, that Lopez almost cried. There is also the now-infamous anecdote about Gwyneth lobbying hard for the lead in Shakespeare in Love after spying the script on bestie Winona Ryder's coffee table. My Comment is about the piranha-style way in which women compete with one another, in Hollywood and beyond. In in the acting world women are set up to be competitive with each other because there is such a premium placed on appearance and youth. There is much talk of being supportive of fellow females in that town, but it is so rarely the case. Women vie for a small handful of (mostly crappy and exploitive) roles and are pressured look their thinnest, youngest and sexiest. Trainers are employed, as are starvation "cleanses", and Botox-wielding derm docs. All of this adds up to a gorgeous actress who has spent too much time and money on her looks and not enough on her craft. Jennifer Aniston is the paradigm here. Aniston displayed real talent on Friends week in, week out. Then she met Brad and appeared to be doing nothing but yoga and following the Zone diet to the letter. When Friends ended, Brad left and Aniston went loco with the grooming. Smash cut to 2010, where nobody can muster anything to say about Jen but that she "looks amazing for 40". We have lost the comic talent in the pursuit of youth and beauty. Aniston has beaten lots of other actresses in the cute wars, but the others are getting the good roles and the accolades for them. In the end, I predict that Aniston will fade away, a victim of too much exposure and too little substance. It really sucks that so much importance is placed on looks in our society. But we women have to do our part to not contribute to the problem. There will always be someone prettier, someone younger. But intelligence and talent are two things that will never get taken from us. How about we spend our time working on that?

Hot Tub Time Machine

I can't explain how welcome a breezy broad comedy is in the wake of reviewing the deep, dark Oscar nominees. Hot Tub Time Machine is just that, a breeze blown in from the minds of young writers Josh Heald, Sean Anders and John Morris. Ever since Judd Apatow mined the gold that is the ironic buddy comedy, Hollywood has been keen to crank out like material (The Hangover, Role Models). Hot Tub Time Machine capitalizes on this in a unique way. It takes a respected and veteran actor (John Cusack) and essentially puts his ass in the back seat. This film belongs to Rob Corddry (The Daily Show, W, and I'm digging, folks) and Craig Robinson (Knocked Up,The Office). I had begun to so woefully miss Corddry that I started watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip to have his brother Nate fill the void. Believe me, as much as I respect the brilliance of Aaron Sorkin, that hyper-intellectual tommy gun can be more than a little grating on the senses. But here we finally have a giant juicy bite of Corddry in all of his angry glory. As Lou, Hot Tub's resident jackass, Corddry is offensive and rude without losing any of the hapless charm he displayed as a Daily Show correspondent. When Lou questionably attempts suicide, his friends Adam and Nick (Cusack and Robinson respectively) decide to take him on a vacation. Along with Adam's young and nebbishy nephew Jacob (Clark Duke), the four return to a familiar ski town where they once raised Cain. The foursome come upon a hot tub, which they promptly jump into. With the help of an illegal Russian beverage and some serious drunken debauchery, they are transported back to the 1980's. I am going to stop relaying the plot now. Seriously. It would insult you as moviegoers if I were to continue describing the ludicrousness that is Hot Tub Time Machine. All I can say is: if you haven't seen it yet, go. Go now. Do a half-dozen shots of Jagermeister first, whatever gets you where you need to be in order to suspend that disbelief, babies. Craig Robinson's laid back delivery works perfectly in this continuous train of hilarity and newcomer Clark Duke provides both straight-man savvy and dirt-dry sarcasm. Cusack, while always a pleasure to watch in anything is really behind the eight ball here. We all know the plot is ridiculous, the motherfucking writers knew it was ridiculous when they took peyote and wrote it. But Cusack's character knows it and he can't stop indicating it to the audience. That is not acceptable from the ladies of Baywatch, let alone an uncommonly talented, highly intelligent, seriously seasoned pro like John Cusack. If you're going to do something light and unexpected, either just for the money or just for the fun of it, do it. But don't insult me by making a mockery of the acting process when all of your (much less compensated) co-stars give it their all and then some. Hot Tub Time Machine is hysterically funny despite John Cusack, not because of him. It deeply pains me to say this, as Cusack has always been the brainy girl's Mr. Right. Cusack tore up 80's and 90's hits like The Sure Thing and Say Anything with his angsty sarcasm and delightful vulnerability. His piece de resistance was absolutely 2000's High Fidelity. He took Nick Hornby's conception of Rob Gordon and made him every whiny music snob you were annoyed to know . His performance was nuanced and generous, allowing newer talents like Jack Black to shine a gorgeous light upon themselves. Cusack made all of us pretentious film and music mavens proud. The film also resonated with me personally, as it took place in a part of Chicago where I had honed some of those very pretensions. Cusack seemed to be gunning for more recognition in later years, particularly with the film Grace is Gone, about a father of two young girls trying to figure out how to tell them that their mother has just been killed in combat. The beautiful physicality he displayed in Being John Malkovich was on steroids in Grace is Gone, making it look like he was trying to grab an Oscar with his character's hunched shoulder blades.
Cusack has always been a study in incongruence; he maintains a home in Chicago because he claims to love it's people, but he is always extremely unapproachable and appears to want nothing to do with any of them. He bemoans the extra light shed upon celebrities and yet can usually be found dating them, a la Meg Ryan. But Cusack's work, either as an actor, or a writer and producer has always been excellent. In fact, Cusack can lend gravitas to a project that is lacking simply by adding his name to the marquee. But there is something about him in Hot Tub Time Machine that seems to be saying "I know this is a dumb movie. I did it for the money. A shit-ton of it. Please forgive me, and give me your money". He's almost mocking the audience that would come out in droves to see such a film. My Comment is really only about John Cusack, because he is a cultural icon. An icon that appears to have forgotten what a privilege it is to get to do something you love and make a (great) living from it. Director Steve Pink has worked with Cusack for a long time, and it's entirely possible that he has gotten burned out by show business and it's usual vapid players. But he needs to buck up, get down to writing again and show us the sharpness we first noticed in Sixteen Candles when he was still a gawky teen from Evanston, trying to break into the business that he seems so wary and tired of. If he doesn't, we will have lost one of film's truest talents.

Shutter Island

Martin Scorsese (arguably our greatest living filmmaker) has an unparalleled knowledge and reverence for film and it's history. To wit, earlier in his career Scorsese got accused of trying to cram too many different genres into his work. Then came Mean Streets, Taxi Driver and Raging Bull. These movies had the personal stamp of a filmmaker who had embraced where he came from; the immigrant-laden working-class streets of New York City. Although it took many years for Scorsese to get the plaudits he so richly deserved, most critics agreed that 1990's GoodFellas was one of best, if not the best, American movies ever made. Scorsese quickly became that rare kind of director who was a box-office draw unto himself, which did not prevent him from turning out several more excellent pictures (The Age of Innocence not withstanding, because as I'm sure everybody knows, Michelle Pfeiffer's hair alone was enough of a reason to hate that movie). In the last ten years, Scorsese has chosen to stretch his artistic talent to an almost catholic degree. He seems to be interested in so many genres and topics that it's become impossible to paint him with any one brush. There was the superb biopic The Aviator, The Departed, which was essentially a re-make of Hong Kong director Alan Mak's Infernal Affairs, and now Shutter Island. The film was adapted by Laeta Kalogridis from Dennis Lahane's (Mystic River) book. Shutter Island begins in 1954 with U.S. Marshal Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) on a Boston ferry bound for Shutter Island, a mental institution for criminals. Daniels meets his first-time partner Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) with whom he is tasked with investigating the disappearance of a female patient from the institution. There is a foreboding and ominous air about the island as the two men approach it, further solidified by their introduction to head psychiatrist Dr. Cawley (a suitably creepy Ben Kingsley).

As Daniels and Aule delve deeper into the mystery of the missing woman, Daniels slowly reveals traumas from his past that begin to wend their way into the present. We soon discover that Daniels is tormented by the death of his wife Delores (played weakly by the usually good Michelle Williams) and believes her killer may still be imprisoned on the island. As Daniels becomes more and more paranoid, Shutter Island takes on a panopticon-like prison atmosphere where he is always being watched and soon feels like a prisoner (or patient) himself. Soon Daniels realizes he cannot trust anyone, nor can he outrun his own demons, including his liberation of the Dachau concentration camp. These realizations produce some horrific images as Daniels attempts to unravel the enigma that is Shutter Island.

Shutter Island is interesting and is, like all Dennis Lahane stories, refreshingly original. But there is something missing from the film. Nearly all of Martin Scorsese's movies have one thing in common; a flawed male protagonist locked in a struggle against others. Jake LaMotta, Henry Hill, Travis Bickle, Howard Hughes and even J. Christ all fit that model. Teddy Daniels does too, but the story those characters find themselves in never became gimmicky the way that Shutter Island does. Leonardo DiCaprio does his usual excellent job of mining his emotions and coming up flush with dramatic gold, and while not much is asked of him, Mark Ruffalo is good as well. I would have liked to have seen more of the viscerally spooky Max von Sydow as Dr. Naering, but I can always re-watch Hannah and Her Sisters to catch him playing his best character ever, the dour Frederick. By the way, I feel that Scorsese's casting of von Sydow in this role seems like an homage to Woody Allen's homage to Ingmar Bergman. That might be just me though. Shutter Island is doing a brisk business, with some of the more positive reviews proclaiming it "the best thriller in years". Well it may be, but that doesn't mean it's great. I wonder if Scorsese ever allows himself to fear the feeling of not being able to live up to his past masterpieces. There's a bit of a catch-22 operating, in that people didn't respond to Scorsese's work until he began making his films intensely personal. But once an audience falls for your most personal work, it's a sonofabitch of a situation trying to get them to stay with you as you move away from that. My Comment in a nutshell is precisely that conundrum. How does an artist grow and evolve without losing the fans who fell in love with her original art? Humans usually hate change, and I am one of those humans. I think it's the brave and brilliant artists that say to hell with the change haters. I applaud Scorsese for always trying to branch out, to try different things with film. Although Shutter Island is no Taxi Driver, it is still a fine example of one of history's best directors staying relevant.

The Hurt Locker

The Hurt Locker is the best film ever made about the Iraq war and it's effect on our troops. Director Kathryn Bigelow and writer Mark Boal force us to look at the vast wounds (physical and otherwise) sustained by the soldiers with an unflinching eye. Jeremy Renner plays Staff Sergeant William James, newly appointed team leader of an elite EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) unit. James' job is to disarm the very unpredictable bombs scattered throughout the Iraqi war zone. He joins Sgt. JT Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Spc. Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty), who have just lost their previous leader to an IED explosion. The EOD unit has just thirty-nine days left in their tour and Sanborn and Eldridge are counting the hours. James, however, is a soldier addicted to the adrenaline high that comes with doing something that can cost one his life. James doesn't feel alive unless he's facing death, and he soon leads his team into perilous territory by taking risks with their lives. Outwardly, James displays a too-cool-for-school demeanor that belies his inner tumult. Renner does a beautiful job of conveying the duality within SSG James. When he is standing over the badly maimed body of a child, it only takes one seconds-long close-up to see the torment of war. Anthony Mackie as Sanborn gives an even and engrossing performance as a soldier who tolerates little bush-league bull in his unit. Brian Geraghty is overly angry as Eldridge, a part he could have finessed better. Both Ralph Fiennes and Guy Pearce appear in one short scene each, but they are both rays of light in this dark, dense world. Kathryn Bigelow is not a prolific writer/director, but she is very, very good. She is spartan with her direction, and never uses three camera angles when one will do. Although, with a budget of $15,000,000, it's possible she had little choice. The best thing Bigelow and Boal do is get across the psychological makings of a character. We see James in his home town after he has finished his tour. He cleans his gutters, chops vegetables with his girlfriend (Evangeline Lilly, looking like the hottest mom the suburbs has ever seen) and plays with his infant son. But as James stands in the grocery aisle, staring at the wall of cereals from which to choose, we know he is going back to war. Bigelow captures that realization so simply and easily, it makes me feel like many other filmmakers are somehow wasteful pollutants.
My Comment is about psychology and how some people choose to ignore it's existence. I'm not arguing that Freud is God. On the contrary, he was as flawed as any man (the cocaine and the misogyny prove that point). But nothing irritates me as much as someone discounting the effect the psyche has on one's behavior. I once read an interview with Mia Farrow, shortly after Woody Allen had left her for her adopted daught Soon-Yi Previn. Farrow was hurt and humiliated and proceeded to take out some that anger on Allen's psychiatrist, whom she felt had played a part in the betrayal. She announced that psychiatry was dangerous, and that every psychiatrist would have his license revoked when the public got wise. I'm not implying that Mia Farrow is viewed as an expert on anything, nor that anyone actually believed her. But statements like hers can be destructive, much like Tom Cruise's bimbo rant against psychotropic drugs used to treat depression. Psychology can be misused by all sorts of people, but that doesn't make it a bad science. The understanding that comes from exploring a person's psychology is tantamount to having the proverbial crystal ball, and that understand is magnified when applied to a character. The Hurt Locker gives us that understanding and wraps it in a violent, horrible package called war.

Up

After seeing Up, I remain completely convinced that the nomination of ten films is a ratings ploy. Writer/directors Pete Docter and Bob Peterson have created an original and charming animated film, but not a Best Picture nominee. Up begins in the 1940's with a shy boy named Carl Fredricksen (Ed Asner). Carl worships a swashbuckling adventurer named Charles Muntz, who pilots a blimp to exotic locales. Soon Carl meets a plucky tomboy named Ellie (also a Muntz fan), who immediately befriends him. We see the next seventy years as a montage wherein Carl and Ellie grow up, fall in love, then marry. Present day arrives bringing Ellie's death and Carl's inevitable loneliness. Now residing in the home he and Ellie shared for years, Carl decides to embark on the one adventure that Ellie would have loved. He ties thousands of balloons to his home and takes off towards the remote Paradise Falls in South America. Giddy at the prospect of fulfilling Ellie's lifelong dream, Carl soon realizes that he is not traveling alone. A young boy scout named Russell (Jordan Nagai) has remained on the porch of Carl's house while attempting to get his "Helping the Elderly" badge. Carl and Russell land in South America and come upon a rare bird, talking dogs and eventually, Charles Muntz himself.
The really successful animated films always contain elements that both children and their parents find entertaining. Up has both, but lacks the brilliant plot of Brad Bird's The Incredibles, or the ingenious writing of Shrek. The movie has raked in over $700,000,000 worldwide, which I think points to a serious dearth of animated films as opposed to the actual quality of Up. Ed Asner voicing the character of Carl is perfect casting, as Asner does crotchety old man like nobody else (except Jack Cafferty). Jordan Nagai delivers a run-of-the-mill child's character while voicing Russell, with every whine and giggle landing predictably where you imagine it might. Christopher Plummer as the voice of Charles Muntz is a delight, as Plummer rarely gets a role where he can play. The best parts of Up are the scenes with dogs that are able to speak with the aide of electronic collars. The collars translate the dogs' barking into human words. For any dog lover, the recognition of canine behavior will be palpable. My Comment is on the main message of Up, which seems to be: Don't Forget to Enjoy Life While You're Making Plans. I feel like everyone I know is always thinking of the next house, the next car, the next life. Do we actually believe that we'll start living in the present just as soon as we get the next thing? I think we don't even know how to live in the moment. I know I don't. For me, the most "in the moment" I am is when I'm watching a movie. Not at home, with my phone and television and pet kinkajou (I don't really own a pet kinkajou, he's dead). But in a theater, lights down and technology turned off. I allow everything to fade away and allow myself to swim in someone else's story. If it's a good story, then it's the best two hours of my life. If it's not, then I still get analyze it, hypothesize about it and criticize it. It's really a win-win. I wish that when I left the theater, I didn't jump back into my plan-making instead of leisurely enjoying the ride.

District 9

The fact that District 9 was is the first feature film of 31-year-old Neill Blomkamp is remarkable, but it also helps explain some of the film's flaws. Blomkamp uses the interesting (if slightly lazy) device of recounting the film's events through mock-documentary interviews. Several sociologists relate how in 1982, a large spacecraft arrived in the airspace over Johannesburg, South Africa. After a three-month period in which no movement is made, the South African authorities break into the craft and discover an alien species. The aliens are brought to terra firma and made to live in a shantytown-like area called District 9. After twenty years, both the white and black South African have become increasingly tired of the alien beings (or "prawns", the derogatory nickname they are given) and are desirous of their removal to a different, more remote area called, of course, District 10. The South African government outsources the removal of the prawns to a private company called Multi-National United, or the MNU. The MNU has a clear disregard for the aliens as well as public relations. The man tasked with the eviction is the colossally insensitive Wikus Van De Merwe (Sharlto Copley), a white Afrikaner. Wikus excitedly plays to the cameras as he bounces from one filth-laden shelter to the next, demanding the aliens signatures on their eviction notices. When he doesn't get the response he desires, Wikus directs his foot soldiers to callously beat or kill the alien in question. Wikus and his thugs soon encounter an intelligent prawn named Christopher Johnson and his small son. While ransacking Christopher's domicile, Wikus discovers a receptacle filled with black liquid which he accidentally sprays in his face. It soon becomes clear that he has been infected by the liquid which is the juice that powers all prawn technology, technology which only a prawn can operate. While at the hospital, Wikus realizes that he is transforming into a prawn. His higher-ups at MNU know that they can harvest Wikus' organs to gain control of prawn weaponry, representing billions of dollars to their corporation. As Wikus sees himself becoming an alien, he begins to empathize more and more with the plight of the prawns.
Director and writer Blomkamp is himself a white South African who immigrated to Canada at age eighteen. It is fair to say that Blomkamp knows a thing or two about being both oppressor and alien. He also brings his considerable 3-D animation and visual effects experience to District 9, and the film is the better for it. The story is interesting and engaging, but the blunt tool Blomkamp uses to get his point across is painfully transparent. MNU is a crude Blackwater substitute, and it's bosses and employees make obvious stand-in's for either Apartheid Afrikaners, or Coalition Forces in Iraq. Meanwhile the nickname "prawn", meant to conjure up any manner of racial epithets, did nothing but make me hungry. District 9 does not belong on the Best Picture list but it does belong on the box office toppers list as it has to date grossed over $204,000,000 worldwide. I can't help but think that the Academy must really want to pull more viewers by nominating popular films. Blomkamp has a bright future ahead of him, especially if he can refine his writing to match his competency in directing. I appreciated the transformation that Wikus undergoes and my Comment has to do with understanding someone once you walk a mile in their shoes. A few years back, an acquaintance told me that people without children simply didn't understand what life with a child meant. I did not have any children at that point and I wanted to brass knuckle his arrogant face. I have a daughter now and I absolutely get what he meant (don't get me wrong, the guy is still a jackass). I have always found it both easy and pleasurable to denigrate somebody I deemed stupid, vain, arrogant or rude. But lately I keep coming back to F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose Nick Carraway quotes his father as saying "Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had". When I read Gatsby in high school for the first time, I paid little if any attention to this sentiment. Later I paid attention, but chose to ignore it. Now I endeavor to abide by it because it's the right way in which to behave. Neill Blomkamp's message, if somewhat heavy-handed, seems to be a variation on this theme.

A Serious Man

Every so often a film comes out that would never have been made were it not for the fact that the director (or directors) was a heavyweight. Liberty Heights, written and directed by Barry Levinson comes to mind as do all of Woody Allen's films. A Serious Man, written, directed, produced and edited by Joel and Ethan Coen fits that bill exquisitely. Just imagine a little known writer giving this pitch; "Um, it's set in the Midwest in 1970 and a nebbishy Jewish college professor experiences a crisis which causes him to look to his religion for answers. Oh yeah, and I don't want any stars. At all. In the entire movie". But Oscar-winning Coen brothers, different story altogether. A Serious Man is a darkly comic look at the life of Professor Larry Gopnik whose wife Judith has fallen in love with another man and wants to divorce him. Larry is also up for tenure and is facing a lawsuit by a student who is blackmailing him for a passing grade. Larry's son Danny is studying for his looming bar mitzvah and likes to smoke the weed out whenever possible, and his daughter Sarah (Jessica McManus) has been stealing money from his wallet to save up for a much-needed nose-job. To round out the misery, brother Arthur (Richard Kind) has been sleeping on the family's couch as a result of his out-of-control gambling habit. While Larry feebly attempts navigate the series of shit storms coming his way, he turns to his community rabbi's for help. A junior rabbi offers Larry the typically ambiguous platitudes that come so easily to religious leaders, but that really only help the least imaginative of sheep.
Larry's competitor for his wife's emotions is the supercilious Sy Ableman, played brilliantly by Fred Melamed. Sy appears to be everything that Larry is not-confident, smooth, in short, an "Able Man". Michael Stuhlbarg plays Larry Gopnik as one of the worst stereotypes of the Jewish man. He is weak and shaky, unable to handle the most blatant of betrayals by a loved one. Larry cowers under his domineering wife's pronouncements, and he allows the odious Sy to embrace him even as Sy perpetrates the act of stealing Larry's wife. Sy is the other part of the negative Jewish stereotype: the cunning liar who sweetly whispers flattery into your ear while conning you behind your back and balling your lady. All this film needs is a wealthy money-changer and it's a Der Sturmer cartoon. As much as this unappetizing slice of life offends me in the abstract I have to admit that while I was watching it I felt differently. As you may have guessed, I am what Grammy Hall would call a "real Jew", and let me tell you something, we can smell our own. Many times during the viewing of A Serious Man I found myself cackling my high-pitched Jewie laugh, only to look over at my gorgeous goyish guy and see, NOTHING. Stone faced. No laughter. Not even a smirk (although in truth it could have been my cackling). I was a giggly mess because I recognized the Gopniks with sparkling clarity. I didn't want to, but I did. The point is, while I have been waiting all these years for two of my favorite filmmakers to acknowledge their Jewishness, suddenly they do, and I don't like what I see. Apparently, neither did most of America, because the film only did $9,000,000 in domestic box office. But the film is nominated for Best Picture which it does deserve, as the writing is excellent and the plot is authentically original, like all of the Coen brothers' films. But methinks the brothers did themselves a disservice by only casting unknowns, as that clearly hurt the movie's bottom line. My Comment is about our cultural differences and why we love it when we find out someone is the same religion we are. And Jews, don't bullshit me and say you didn't love it when you found out Gwyneth (or Shia or Natalie or Scarlett) was Jewish. I don't know who the Episcopalians get excited about, but you can't have a single conversation with an Irish Catholic without them invoking one Kennedy or another. It makes us feel so good to find someone we perceive as an ally, even if the only similarity they possess is a belief in the same Yahweh. Please don't think that my observation translates into criticism, because I am guiltier than most in this capacity. I usually don't enjoy meeting new people, and I'll grab a hold of anything that might bind me to someone. Ironically, what binds me most to a new person is their hatred of meeting new people, and this outweighs religious proclivities any day of the week. Joel and Ethan Coen have given us the ultimate self-hatred portrayal, with Judaism front and center. I don't really like how my people are being portrayed, but I think the Coens render it beautifully.

The Blind Side

Although it pains me more than a shiv from an inmate, I'm going to quote Jerry Maguire. We live in a cynical, cynical world. I am one one of it's eager little cynical beavers, and damn it if this movie didn't have me teary-eyed within the first frame. The Blind Side was adapted by writer/director John Lee Hancock from the book by Michael Lewis. It's based on the true story of Michael Oher, the 2009 first round draft pick of the Baltimore Ravens. The film details the difficult life of the young Oher who was born in the aptly named "Hurt Village" housing project in Memphis, Tennessee. Born to a crack-addicted mother, Oher was raised in a series of foster families that were not always filled with rainbows and Bugaboo strollers. In The Blind Side, Oher is played by Quinton Aaron who is so subtle in his performance, I almost didn't notice it. Sandra Bullock plays Leigh Ann Tuohy, a Southern steel magnolia who drives the entire film. Leigh Ann and her husband Sean (played by Tim McGraw, what?) live a privileged life of wealth, thanks to Sean's success as a franchise owner and Leigh Ann's booming decorating business. Both of their children (Jae Head and Lily Collins) attend a prestigious private Christian school in Memphis. Oher attends the school because a recent caretaker has lobbied to get him enrolled and things are not going well. Oher is one example of the thousands of disadvantaged children in this country who gets overlooked and passed through classes because he is an athlete and because he is part of the most shamefully broken system we have. Oher muddles through school, and soon becomes homeless until the Tuohy's invite him into their home. A tutor soon follows, helping Oher to raise his grades and become eligible for the school's football team. All the while, we see the impact that this damaged young boy has on the Tuohy family. They adopt Oher and lovingly guide him through high school, then college at Ole Miss. Quinton Aaron as Michael Oher seemed to me to be a poor choice and this was confirmed when I watched videos of the real Michael Oher, who is leaps and bounds more engaging than Aaron. Tim McGraw is no actor, I'll leave it at that. But Bullock carries this film. She is emotional and present, and shades Leigh Ann Tuohy with many different layers. She may be the tough Southern lady with the long nails and frosted hair, but we nearly smell her fear as she is led into the dangerous neighborhood where Michael used to live. Bullock has never been known for her acting ability, but has always possessed a very real and down-to-earth appeal that has kept her at the top of the heap. In 1998's Hope Floats, Bullock gave us glimpses of a talent that few knew she had. But, for every Crash, we received an onslaught of crap like Forces of Nature, Practical Magic, The Net, Miss Congeniality, Miss Congeniality 2, Speed 2: Cruise Control...please tell me I can stop. The point is, while this is a good performance, I believe that the Academy has bestowed the Best Actress nomination on Bullock because they have always liked her as a person and are thrilled that she has finally delivered. The Blind Side itself is a good film, but it is not a great one. The writing is solid, as is the ready-made plot. It also does it's job of making me cry in the dark. But it is not the Best Picture, nor will it win.
I do think it brings to light a serious problem we have in America, and that is what I am focused on in this highly Cultural Comment. I have heard from so many liberals that this film gives us the wrong message; namely, that all an impoverished African-American needs is a good, Christian white person (or family, in this case) to pull them out of their situation. I have also heard from many conservatives that this is all poppycock and there is nothing wrong with celebrating the generosity of lucky people who have helped those who are quite unlucky. In fact, the conservatives claim, isn't it just that generosity that makes this the greatest country in the world? Both of theses groups might do better to focus on the real problem at the hidden heart of The Blind Side; that the public education system is fucked. Highly, pitifully so. All anyone need do is pick up Jonathan Kozol's excellent book, Savage Inequalities to grasp the heartbreaking conditions of public schools unfortunate enough to be in poorer districts. Health care, abortion and yes, even terrorism seem to pale in comparison to how serious a national problem education is. And yet, it always seems to fall by the wayside in the national discourse. If we don't focus on improving our education system, we will fall behind. Period. I loved the improvement Michael Oher's learning in The Blind Side, hell, I even dug the montage. But that was one kid. We have our work cut out for us in trying to ameliorate this problem, and I don't think there are enough rich families to handle it. Well, not after Madoff, at least.

Up in the Air

Jason Reitman adapted the screenplay for Up in the Air from Walter Kirn's highly prescient novel, written long before the advent of the economic crisis we now find ourselves in. The film tells the story of Ryan Bingham (George Clooney), the hired gun of corporations who wish to outsource the icky business of firing it's employees. He flies from state to state and delivers the worst news an employee can get with compassion and understanding. Bingham crisscrosses the country with the frequency of a political candidate running for office, yet unlike the candidate, Bingham professes to love the travel and it's single-serving lifestyle. He maintains few familial ties, is unmarried and seems to revel in the isolation that drives so many of us to crave the sedentary pseudo-security of a nine-to-five. Soon, however, Bingham faces his industry's own form of downsizing when a young rookie named Natalie (Anna Kendrick) pitches the impersonal method of firing-by-computer. As Bingham faces a crises of self, he is forced to re-connect with people in myriad ways. He meets the sexy Alex Goran (played terrifically by Vera Farmiga), who, as his female mirror, proves more than a worthy adversary who has the potential to be a substantive mate. Bingham soon consents to return home for his sister's wedding, which is just the type of warm and fuzzy clusterfuck he's spent his life trying to avoid.
I've expressed my feelings about Clooney previously, and Up in the Air doesn't change my opinion. Clooney is as always, likeable and debonair, but never delivers the acting goods. Clooney has now reached A-level status by possessing extreme business savvy, and as a result gets the pick of the plummiest roles out there. This only serves to highlight his deficiencies, as he is usually surrounded by the best writing, acting and directing talent available. Jason Reitman is unequivocally in that category. He continuously gives us fresh and original films, whether written by him (Thank You For Smoking) or another writer (Juno). Reitman clearly inherited his father's feel for comedy, but has soared even higher with his ability to truly understand the poignancy of drama without schmaltz.
Jason Bateman, as Bingham's boss left me wanting more of him, while Anna Kendrick left me wanting both less of her and her irritating character. Kendrick plays Natalie as type-A neurotic to the core, with her angry typing and buttoned-up demeanor. I know Natalie is supposed to annoy me, but Kendrick's one-note whining results in a character with too little depth. Vera Farmiga though, has finally been given a role worthy of her talent. Her Alex is tough and sassy, but vulnerable and sensual as well. She takes her time, savoring each scene and we end up wishing we knew more women like her. Up in the Air is taut, topical and deeply touching, and given it's strength, I am not surprised it's been given the Best Picture nod. The themes it explores (human connection, isolation, how technology both bonds and separates us) are as relevant as it gets and Reitman simply captures these modern dilemmas better than most artists tackling the subject of late. Reitman subtly serves us the film's main paradox; that Ryan Bingham fervently opposes Natalie's idea of firing people as too cold and unconnected, yet he lives his life in an airplane specifically to cut himself off from human warmth and connection. My Comment is about this very conundrum we as humans face. In this hyper-advanced world of computer correspondence, it is so bloody easy to disconnect from the world. The Boomers and Gen-Xers are already having a difficult time dealing with the Paris Hilton generation that feels that it's completely acceptable to text during a meal at a restaurant (or a movie, or sex etc.). We exalt in new gadgets and how they make our lives easier and yet we want kick the teenager who cannot manage to say "thank you" when you hold a door open for him because he can't tear his eyes away from said gadget. All of us are guilty of it- we are grateful to be able to fire off an angry email rather than have an awkward confrontation. But we wonder why we can't sustain certain relationships, or why we can never truly mend the problems within ourselves. Well, it's because you can't have a real connection with someone via computers and listening to a Dr. Phil soundbite can never take the place of true one-to-one therapy. As much as we want to retreat behind the safety and comfort of the electronic walls we build up around ourselves, we can't. We can't because in end, the human connection is the only one really worth anything. Spoiler: Ryan Bingham figures that out.

Precious

I avoided seeing this film until the last possible moment. I did not want to face the pain and the horror that Clarice Precious Jones endures for her first sixteen years on earth. After having seen Lee Daniels' film based on the novel Push by the author known as Sapphire, I can say two things with certainty: 1) Mo'Nique will win the Best Supporting Actress award and 2) there are far more girls out there like Precious than I would like to admit. Daniels has created a gritty portrait of life in which Precious (played by newcomer Gabourey Sidibe), an obese illiterate girl in Harlem attempts to better her situation. A situation which feels like a train wreck in a poor town that just got hit with a hurricane. Precious lives with her mother in Harlem in 1987. She is pregnant for the second time by her own father, who has been sexually abusing her since the age of three. Her mother Mary, jealous of these interactions, is viciously physically, verbally and sexually abusive towards Precious. As if that weren't enough to engender your sympathy, Precious then gets expelled from school when the higher-ups glean that she is pregnant. It is then that Precious enrolls in an alternative education program and meets Miss Rain, played by Paula Patton. Miss Rain encourages Precious to write, which allows her to find a outlet for all the depravity she has been forced to stuff inside.
When Mary feels Precious gaining strength, she tries mightily to stomp her back down. Mary has been on welfare for years, which she tells Precious she should take advantage of, as she will never amount to anything. Precious then meets Ms. Weiss, a social worker played by Mariah Carey in the best (and certainly the least vain) performance she has ever given. Although I haven't seen Glitter so I can't say for sure. Sidibe is mesmerizing, particularly having never acted onscreen previously. She is so restrained in her pain that at first we're not sure if she even feels it anymore. But it soon becomes horribly clear that Precious has concocted an alternate universe in which she is rich, famous and adored. She swans about movie premieres and nightclub gigs while fawned over by her "light-skinned boyfriend". She is the belle of her own personal ball so that she can escape the grimness of her own reality. Sidibe straddles both of Precious' worlds perfectly, with a grace and poise that very few actors have, let alone novices. Paula Patton does a nice job as Miss Rain, trying valiantly not to let her class of misfit young women believe all the crap they've been told about themselves. But the most astonishing performance in this film or any other this year is Mo'Nique's. She is breathtaking as Mary. We see her seething hatred towards her daughter and we wonder how any mother could be such a monster. Then, while sobbing in the welfare office, Mary explains the derivation of Precious' abuse. We suddenly feel sorry for her, then disgust at ourselves that we could empathize with her. It is Mo'Nique's talent and ability to careen so easily within these extremes that makes her so watchable. That the woman from Soul Plane can deliver such a performance is astounding. Or maybe I rushed to judgment on Soul Plane.
Daniels is no stranger to intense and aching material as evidenced by both Monster's Ball and Shadowboxer. As a homosexual, Daniels claims to have always identified with the feelings of the outcast, allowing him special insight into many of his characters. With Precious, Daniels has opened a world for most of us to thankfully only gaze upon. He never panders to his audience with cloying tactics, he simply lets the story and the acting speak for itself. My Comment revolves around both Daniels and Sidibe. With the recent spate of award nominations tossed their way, both Daniels and Sidibe have achieved the familiar glow of "fresh new talent". They are lauded both on the talk show circuit and in the press. For Daniels, the typical praise celebrates his ability to conjure up cinematic magic on a shoestring budget. Sidibe seems to be less applauded for her acting ability than her "decision" to remain overweight in a business that applies tremendous pressure on actresses to be thin. Both director and actress seem to be handling their newfound fame with aplomb, something I hope they are able to continue to do. The thing that Sidibe and Daniels both share is the supreme and utter self-confidence in themselves. Think of how many people actually possess that quality. In show business? Actors, directors and writers are the least confident people I know. For these two, it seems to be a non-issue. I don't know how they got there, but I sure wouldn't mind some of that juju.

Academy Awards Special - Inglourious Basterds

Auteur thy name is Tarantino. There is no film student who matriculated in the early 90's who didn't want to be Quentin Tarantino. Ironically, Tarantino didn't go film school. Or college. Or most of high school. Yet the director has churned out some the most original, maniacally brilliant films in the American canon. Tarantino has always utilized non-linear story lines and stylized violence to tell his tales, and yet one aspect present in nearly all of his films is rarely discussed. Tarantino has some of the most uniquely realized feminine characters ever to grace the screen. They are so evolved that they have achieved post-feminist status. In True Romance (which Tarantino wrote but did not direct), Alabama is a beautiful hooker who has had only a handful of clients. She meets Clarence and falls deeply in love, forsaking her career in prostitution. Despite Alabama's penchant for animal prints and push-up bras, Tarantino never paints her as cheap or wanton. He presents a full-blown heroine whose one mission in life is to love her husband. In Natural Born Killers, Mallory Knox is a serial murderer who, after years of sexual abuse at the hand of her own father, is moved to kill indiscriminately with her beloved husband, Mickey. An ass-kicking beauty seems trite in the age of Angelina, but in 1994 those broads were few and far between. Finally, in Kill Bill; Volume I and II, Tarantino gave us Beatrix Kiddo. Kiddo is a martial-arts expert and killer-for-hire who undergoes a profound change once she becomes pregnant. She leaves both her lover Bill and her life of crime to pursue a quasi-Ozzie and Harriet-type life. Bill and his gang of female killers finds Beatrix and guns her and her wedding party down in cold blood. Beatrix awakes from a coma years later to find her in-utero cargo at large and the lady is pissed. Somehow, somehow, Tarantino (and of course, Uma Thurman) gives us an incredibly relatable character who avenges the loss of her baby by brutally murdering all complicit. Thurman becomes that virtually illusive woman who can both stomp ass and be touchingly vulnerable.

Which brings us to Basterds. In this rather imaginative (in Hollywood, what?) script. Tarantino places us in Nazi-occupied France. Christoph Waltz is the sociopathic Colonel Landa whose job it is to rid the French countryside of their pesky Jew problem. Landa and his thugs murder the entire Dreyfus family, save for their beautiful daughter Shoshanna, who escapes to Paris. Shoshanna hides in plain sight for years as the proprietor of a theater with her black lover Marcel. By this time, America has become aware of the genocidal evils of the Germany's National Socialist Party and has deployed a small band of Jewish soldiers to fight them. The crew call themselves the "Basterds" and are led by Lieutenant Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt, pulling off the year's most inexplicable feat by being the worst actor in the film and simultaneously the most watchable). The Basterds have one mission; kill and scalp as many Nazi's as they can. While the Basterds formulate a plan to get the biggest fish in the Nazi tank, Shoshanna is devising her own plan of remarkable similarity. Again, Tarantino makes his female lead the true heart of the story. Shoshanna is smart, tough and ravishing in the vein of Catherine Deneuve. She displays incredible fortitude in the face of unbearable fear. She is the character we long to return to, even as we salivate over the brutish Eli Roth's savage beating of a smarmy German officer. The talented Melanie Laurent is Shoshanna, and my one complaint about her acting is that she does not have the pathos needed to really make us cry for her. But Laurent is still young, and it is possible that she is just a bit too European in her approach for the emotional American movie-goer. The other actors in Basterds are top-notch, with Waltz being the standout. Michael Fassbender and Diane Kruger are both delicious, as is an unusually reserved Mike Myers as an English officer who desperately wants to partner with the Americans if it will only end the war. Inglorious Basterds is splashy, deeply colorful and touches lightly on camp, but it achieves the substantive feel with the rock and roll vibe that so defines all of Tarantino's films.

My Comment relates to the chick thing. There are very few stories that combine the duality of woman, particularly on film. In the last ten years, there has been a fascination with the angry, violent, cartoon-like images we see in action films. Angelina Jolie has always played these roles, because the studios realize the value in a feminine beauty who acts nothing like a woman. Jolie herself fed the frenzy by acting like a man in public. She was never the betrayed, always the betrayer, and she presented a black-leather clad package of testosterone wrapped in gorgeousness. More and more, I hear women say that they never want to get married or have children. It's as if they are warding off the inevitable label of desperate that so many men apply to women looking for a husband. These woman want to be seen as independent (read; not clingy), tough (not a silly girly girl), and interested in fun (able to pound non-faggoty drinks like tequila). But I offer up the theory that many of these women are actually using this act in order to impress men. In effect, they are acting like men so that men don't think they act like women, and then the men will want to date, marry and procreate with them. What is really so wrong with being independent and still wanting to fall in love with someone and have children? Why do we have to make a choice between the two? I submit that the post-modern feminist is the one who finds a way to be strong, self-reliant, able to play beer-pong with the boys and not be afraid to admit that her mate and baby make her sloppy with emotion. Come on ladies, if Angie can do it, why can't wait. Oh wait, because she's really hot and has nannies. Screw Angie, just do it.

Avatar-Academy Awards Special

This post is part of a series wherein I will review all of the Best Picture nominees. Given how many there on the docket this year, I will be doing nothing for the next four weeks but seeing movies and busting out of my Sansabelt pants from too much popcorn. I have already reviewed An Education, and you no doubt know that I feel it belongs nowhere near the Best Picture List. Now, to Avatar. Oh James Cameron, how you wend your way around my hyperactive, film geek sensibility. Nothing excites us Star Wars freaks like the promise of new, shiny technology. Cameron has more than delivered on that promise. He and long-time collaborator Vincent Pace have created a revolutionary new way of capturing 3-D images on screen. Using stereoscopic cameras, CGI and a "performance capture" stage, Cameron was able to literally change the way that modern films can be made. The result is a film that is beautiful to look at. It is visually stunning, prompting the viewer to question what is real and what is borne of a brilliant imagination. However, Cameron's dialogue is laughable, and the plot hits the viewer over the head with the bluntest of instruments. All of Avatar's actors are good, but it is very difficult for them to shine while having to say lines like "You are not in Kansas anymore!". Moreover, there is something perverse about having Zoe Saldana (one of the more beautiful actresses working today) looking the entire time like Rocky Dennis auditioning for Blue Man Group. Avatar's Utopian world is called Pandora, and it's race of inhabitants are the Na'vi. Lush and verdant, Pandora has myriad food sources and is chock-full of a valuable natural resource called (ready?) Unobtanium.
The message of the film is that we as humans, in our never ending quest for more (money, resources, stuff), have destroyed everything of real value on our planet. We have raped Mother Nature with a blow torch and one day she'll get up, take some jiu-jitsu classes and kick us in the balls. As a result of the movie, there have been several websites popping up that discuss "Avatar Depression Syndrome". The jist of it is that after witnessing the pristine wonders of Pandora, the affected viewer can no longer see Earth as anything but miserable. How these dipshits didn't figure that out after watching Jersey Shore, I'll never know.
The irritating part of all this is that James Cameron is capable of fantastic writing. When it was released, Titanic was technically cutting-edge in ways we had never seen before. But it was almost insignificant when compared with the beautiful fiction that he wove into the true story of Titanic-a story every American was thoroughly familiar with. That we remained engrossed for three hours enraptured by characters in a story that we already knew the ending to; that is the real testament to Cameron's genius.
My Comment isn't about how Avatar relates to society, it's about how it relates to film and the Academy. You might think that because of the way I feel about the film, I don't think it should be up for Best Picture. Well, you'd be wrong. I think Avatar does deserve to be up for Best Picture because filmmaking is not just about acting, or writing or editing. It is also about a movie's contribution to filmmaking in general. And Avatar's contribution to film itself cannot be argued. James Cameron has invented a newer, different and totally brilliant way to make a movie. For that, he should be honored, and millions of people obviously agree. I know I sound whiny, but I just wish I cared about the disturbingly feral avatars the way I cared about Jack and Rose.

The Lovely Bones

When I read Alice Sebold's novel in 2002, I had the child-like longing to see it made into a film. I wanted to see how the dreamy conceptualization of the afterlife would manifest on screen. With Peter Jackson's rampantly fantastical imagination, I was not disappointed. Jackson cast Saoirse Ronan (Atonement) as Susie Salmon, a young girl who gets brutally raped and murdered in a small Pennsylvania town in the early 1970's. Ronan is delicious as Susie, her cerulean eyes wider than ever. She is innocence personified, which a modern-day viewer might misinterpret as contrivance unless that viewer is old enough to remember just how different life was in the seventies. In the absence of 24-hour media, Amber-alerts and "To Catch a Predator", child abductions were not something parents feared. Susie watches her parents (Mark Wahlberg and Rachel Weisz) from the "in-between" world, not yet ready to let go of her rage towards her killer (creepily fleshed out by Stanley Tucci). She anxiously wills her family to discover that the man responsible for their pain lives just across the street. Susan Sarandon plays Susie's boozy broad of a grandmother, called to help the Salmon's get through the daily grind of life once they learn that Susie is gone. Sarandon is just about the sexiest, most earthy grandmother ever captured on film. She is a stark contrast to Weisz, who never really manages to convince as a mother dealing with the one thing no mother should ever have to deal with.
While Ronan, Sarandon and Tucci all act beautifully, the real standout is Wahlberg. Wahlberg's earlier work in films Boogie Nights and The Big Hit was so good because he was fervently committed to his characters. He had a sweet and innocent quality that seemed incongruous with his rough-and-tumble bad-boy persona. But Wahlberg later appeared in movies that felt like nothing more than big, showy paydays (Planet of the Apes, to name one) and he lost a bit of credibility. In The Lovely Bones, Wahlberg is achingly believable as the emotionally gutted Jack Salmon. He allows every emotion to bubble up to the surface as he falls apart, then realizes his only salvation is find Susie's murderer. Wahlberg captures the uniquely special magic that occurs when a father thinks the sun rises and sets upon his daughter.
Peter Jackson was tasked with the difficult job of directing a story where there is no hyped-up revenge scene. Susie's surreal afterlife is interspersed with the real-life reality of crime. People are brutalized every day, and more often than not, the perpetrator goes free. As humans, we want justice for the victims, and usually it's fine with us if that justice is as vicious (or more so) than the crime itself. I marvel at the parents of a slain child who forgive the child's murderer. How can they do it? More to the point, what the hell is wrong with these people? My Comment is about forgoing the thirst for revenge, and how hard it is. Throughout my life, I have always kept a secret chamber in my consciousness for those who have hurt me or my family. After a time has passed, I will always be cordial and polite to these people, but I will never forget their actions. Nor will I ever really forgive them. I also know that sub-consciously, I want bad things to happen to them. Lately I've felt that all of this latent anger is really getting me nowhere. I waste too much time on it and it prevents me from thinking about other things I'd rather be thinking about. However, no one in my family has ever befallen a fate so horrible as Susie Salmon's. So, I just don't know if I could ever get to a place of forgiveness were I to experience so heinous a crime. The Lovely Bones gives us that question to ponder and does a masterful job of it.