Seems like any hero worth his salt these days is getting a ‘reboot’ or an ‘origin story,’ a begin-from-before-the-beginning tale that tells us how they came to be who and what they are. We’ve seen it for comic-book heroes (Batman), secret agents (James Bond), and even sci-fi starship crews (namely that of the Enterprise). Now here’s Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood, which offers up an ‘origin story’ for British history’s most famous arrow-slinging bandit. And, indeed, what we have here is closer in tone to Batman Begins or Casino Royale than any given Errol Flynn offering. There’s not much merry about Robin Longstride and his men this go-‘round—this is Robin Hood by way of Braveheart or Scott’s own Gladiator—but there is plenty of epic action, decent acting, and sumptuous design to behold.
Robin Hood wants to tell us the story ‘before Sherwood Forest.’ And before he was a forest-dwelling highwayman, it seems that Robin Longstride (Russell Crowe) was a crack archer among the Crusaders of King Richard III (Danny Huston). Richard’s forays into the Holy Land have left him weary, cynical, and broke. He and his army are on the march home, but decide to take a swipe at perennial enemies the French along the way. Bad idea. Richard ends up on the wrong end of a French arrow. This puts his right-hand knight Sir Robert Loxley in the unpleasant situation of having to deliver bad news back to England along with Richard’s crown, and it puts Robin and his fellow soldiers out of a job. Meanwhile, back in England, Richard’s younger brother John (Oscar Isaac) has been ruling somewhat haphazardly, trying to recoup his elder brother’s defense-budget debts between sexual romps with French princesses. But John is not the only one in bed with the French (so to speak). His childhood friend Godfrey (Mark Strong) is a double agent, doing his best to foment unrest in England so that Philip II of France can invade the fractious country with ease. Godfrey and his thugs intercept Loxley on his return trip, but Robin and his friends (also returning) run off the assassins before they get the crown—but not before Sir Robert is mortally wounded. Recognizing Robin as a fellow Crusader, he asks him to deliver his sword back to his estranged father Sir Walter Loxley (Max von Sydow) in Nottingham. And so Robin, assuming Loxley’s upper-class identity to ensure safe passage, returns to England with a dead king’s crown and a dead man’s sword. But will crowning the inexperienced John king be enough to stop the French? And how, exactly, will the Loxleys—Sir Walter and Sir Robert’s widow Marion (Cate Blanchett)—feel about this archer claiming to be a part of the family?
There are many narrative strands to weave together here (did I mention there are questions about Robin’s past?) along with many, many characters. In addition to those already named, there are the usual ‘merry men’: excitable Will Scarlet (Scott Grimes), lute-strumming Alan A’Dayle (Alan Doyle) and towering brawler Little John (Kevin Durand); there’s the mead-distilling Friar Tuck (Mark Addy) and a sleazy Sheriff of Nottingham (Matthew Macfadyen); and, back at court, Richard and John’s formidable mother Eleanor of Aquitaine (Eileen Atkins) and her loyal friend Chancellor William Marshall (William Hurt). It’s to the credit of Scott and screenwriter Brian Helgeland that we largely know what is what and who is who most of the time. The plots and people are juggled effectively if not always thoroughly. I suspect some of Hurt’s part, as well as some of the John-Eleanor stuff, ended up on the cutting-room floor. And it also sometimes feels as if characters like Tuck and the Sheriff are there more because we expect them to be than because the story requires them. Still, a certain amount of complexity is true to the course of British history, if not to our usual summer movie narrative experience, and the actions and motivations of the principal characters remains clear. Scott tends to favor big over small in his productions, and, in a movie of about 2 ½ hours length, it’s probably better to have too many rich supporting characters around the edges than too few.
There’s little to complain about in the acting. Crowe (who is to Ridley Scott what Johnny Depp is to Tim Burton) gives a more layered performance than the movie probably deserves. One of Crowe’s trademarks as an actor is to always hint that there is more to a character than we see, and that serves him well here as a man who is in fact other than he pretends to be (or remembers). This role isn’t new ground for Crowe by any means, but his comfort in it is an asset. Blanchett is likewise on familiar footing as dignified/spunky/coy Marion Loxley, who is neither maid nor shrinking violet in this version (she even dons a suit of armor). There’s less romance between these two than some Robins and Marions, but how quickly do we really want Marion to kiss the man who brought news of her husband’s death? Danny Huston (whose agent has clearly been pulling some overtime lately) is a nice surprise as a burned-out but still somehow regal Richard the Lionheart, and Oscar Isaac, who seems to come from the Jonathan Rhys Myers school of petulant kingship, is equal parts naïve and Machiavellian as slippery King John. As Godfrey, Mark Strong (whose business cards surely have black hats emblazoned on them) adds yet another in his recent long line of arch and gleeful villains. It’s nice to have von Sydow, Atkins, and Hurt along to add some gravitas, even if two of the three feel vastly underused.
Robin Hood is meant to be an epic—Scott’s apparent genre of choice—and, like the same director’s Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven, looks every inch of it. There’s much of the current revisionist-accurate gray-stone-and-mud look, but there are also warm firelit rooms, lush forests, green rolling hills, and cliff-ringed beach landings. The landscape is dotted here and there with ruined towers and slowly eroding Roman and Celtic monuments, a nice depth-adding touch that is mercifully exploited less than it could be. The costumes are probably a bit more modern Renaissance Faire than true 12th Century, but everyone looks good enough in them that I didn’t really care. Scott has the chops and the resources to pull of a film of this scale. He especially seems to relish mass battle sequences, and the ones in Robin Hood don’t overstay their welcome. The same can not be said for his now-trademark stop-and-start approach to editing one-on-one combat. It was new and fresh in Gladiator; it’s now starting to feel like its own knock-off.
Much of the unfavorable reaction to this film stems, I’m willing to bet, from the fact that it is not what we think of as the Robin Hood story: jolly lads in a forest making fools of the authorities for a good cause. That’s where this ends, leaving ample room for more adventures of Longstride (as well as Scott, Crowe, Blanchett, et. al.) in the future. I have no problem with the movie wanting to show me new aspects of the Robin Hood character. I have more problems with the movie not really showing me new aspects of filmmaking. This feels like a comfortable outing by a director who knows a genre and actors playing the sorts of roles they know they can play well. Films don’t always have to innovate to succeed, of course, but Scott, Crowe, Blanchett, and Helgeland have all been groundbreakers in various ways in various other projects, and the juicy tale of Robin Hood would seem to be a great opportunity to really go somewhere. I’ll admit, however, that ‘origin’ movies are often a bit unsatisfying, and set up better sequels (X2, The Dark Knight). That may be the case here, as this world and these people are certainly rich enough to revisit. The legend itself teaches us that, in their time in Sherwood Forest, Robin and his men learn a number of new tricks. I hope that if this crowd elects to journey to Sherwood as well, that they learn a few, too.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Crazy Heart (2009)
Many a movie about musicians starts to feel like one of those old “Behind the Music” shows, a heavily-edited, moralized version of someone’s rags-to-riches-to-rags-and-maybe-back-again life. Crazy Heart has that narrative arc, but it doesn’t feel like a show. It doesn’t even feel like a documentary. It feels like one of those musicians’ home movies. Oh, it’s all fiction. There is no real country singer named Bad Blake. I know that. You know that. The movie doesn’t know that, and that—along with a deep performance by Jeff Bridges—is Crazy Heart’s strength.
Crazy Heart is one of those films that relies less on plot than on character, and the main character here is the aforementioned Bad Blake (Bridges). Bad (“My real name will be on my tombstone,” he says. “Until then, I’m Bad Blake.”) is an old school country singer. He had some big hits, once, years ago (he’s still regarded as a home-run songwriter, when he can be bothered to write), but lately he’s fallen on hard times. Bad tours the West, playing dive bars and bowling alleys, without even a permanent backup band. On gig nights, he hands kids he’s never met CDs and sheet music from the back of his truck: “Listen real good to this. I’ll show up in an hour.” Meanwhile, his own protégée, young Tommy Sweet (an understated Colin Farrell), packs arenas playing slick Nashville-produced covers of Blake’s songs. Bad Blake is on autopilot, and it’s not pretty. He drinks too much. He doesn’t care.
Turns out, though, one guy in one of his ‘pick-up bands’ isn’t a kid, but a seasoned, talented pianist. Blake likes him for that. Turns out the guy has a niece who’s a small-time music journalist. Turns out she wants to interview Bad Blake. Blake has nothing to lose, and time to kill. What the hell—he’ll meet the niece. And so into Bad’s motel room and into his life walks Jane Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal, effortlessly appealing). At first, Blake tries to put her off. But she knows more about country music—and him—than he suspected. She’s younger than him, by a lot, but they’ve both made mistakes and they’ve both lost. And so they connect on some level, the level on which many a classic country song operates. This could be the start, as the saying goes, of a beautiful…well, a beautiful something.
What that something is I will leave you, if you are so inclined, to discover. The movie plays itself out in ways that are sometimes expected and sometimes not, but which are always genuine. Crazy Heart takes Bad and Jane seriously, and neither romanticizes nor cheats them. We’ve seen this sort of hard luck, hard-drinking, love-of-a-good-woman story before, but rarely this richly presented. The movie has time for details. Bad is, well, bad. Not mean, but adrift. Alcoholic. Selfish. Cynical. But notice how, even drunk, he remembers the song he’d promised a fan. And notice how, when he calls Jane long distance, and her four-year-old son answers the phone, he has time for the kid, too. And notice how, to interview Bad after a show, Jane has to find a babysitter. And how the only rule she lays down about Bad’s drinking is “not in front of my son.” Too many movies are just about characters. This one feels like it’s actually about people.
It helps that the number of people the film focuses on is rather small. First, of course, is Bad Blake, and Bridges, with greasy hair and sunglasses from the Hank Williams Jr. collection, owns this role. Some performances jump out at you. Bridges’s turn here sneaks up on you. He is Bad Blake. Jeff Bridges is a busy guy. His is a familiar face. I forgot I was watching him. The role won Bridges a Best Actor Oscar, and justly so. He builds Bad Blake from the inside out, and wisely lets it show that the character, too, is an actor. The flashier turn as a guy named ‘Bad’ is by Blake himself, not Bridges. There are layers to this performance, all of them well-executed. Bridges also does his own singing, which adds authenticity. It’s often said that an actor “inhabits” a role; Jeff Bridges seems to have been living in Bad Blake for years. It pays off. Without a ringer in the Blake role, the film would fall apart. It doesn’t. Guess why not.
The other key player is Jane. Maggie Gyllenhaal does “likable” about as well as any actress working, but it’s to her and the script’s credit that Jane is more than a long-suffering pretty face. She is not a groupie, nor is she naive. Jane is interested in the guy, not the persona. Pay attention to the scene where she cries as Bad plays a new song, and why she cries when she does. Also notice how she reacts when Bad finally goes too far. There is no big shouting scene. After all, that only happens in the movies.
Filling in the edges are solid turns by Colin Farrell (also singing his own stuff) as the younger star who knows how lucky he has been in his timing—and his friends, and Robert Duvall as Blake’s old pal Wayne, the kind of guy who knows when not to serve Bad whiskey, and also when to take him fishing. Duvall himself gave an Oscar-winning performance as a hard-living country singer in Tender Mercies, and his presence here has a similar “seal of approval” feeling to Leonard Nimoy’s appearance in the Star Trek reboot.
This is a movie about music, among other things, and the music it features—written or chosen by T-Bone Burnett—is just right. The music attracted an Oscar as well, for “The Weary Kind,” the song that makes Jane cry. Blake’s material feels like it’s been around for a while, and sounds just as good played on one acoustic guitar as it does with Tommy’s full-strength band behind it. At some point in the film, I realized that, if Bad Blake was playing a bar near me, I’d probably go hear him. He’s not going to do that, of course, but it’s to the movie’s credit that I sort of hope he does.
“Character pieces” like this are not for everyone, but, then, neither is country music. For those interested, however, Crazy Heart offers both those things, both well-performed.
Crazy Heart is one of those films that relies less on plot than on character, and the main character here is the aforementioned Bad Blake (Bridges). Bad (“My real name will be on my tombstone,” he says. “Until then, I’m Bad Blake.”) is an old school country singer. He had some big hits, once, years ago (he’s still regarded as a home-run songwriter, when he can be bothered to write), but lately he’s fallen on hard times. Bad tours the West, playing dive bars and bowling alleys, without even a permanent backup band. On gig nights, he hands kids he’s never met CDs and sheet music from the back of his truck: “Listen real good to this. I’ll show up in an hour.” Meanwhile, his own protégée, young Tommy Sweet (an understated Colin Farrell), packs arenas playing slick Nashville-produced covers of Blake’s songs. Bad Blake is on autopilot, and it’s not pretty. He drinks too much. He doesn’t care.
Turns out, though, one guy in one of his ‘pick-up bands’ isn’t a kid, but a seasoned, talented pianist. Blake likes him for that. Turns out the guy has a niece who’s a small-time music journalist. Turns out she wants to interview Bad Blake. Blake has nothing to lose, and time to kill. What the hell—he’ll meet the niece. And so into Bad’s motel room and into his life walks Jane Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal, effortlessly appealing). At first, Blake tries to put her off. But she knows more about country music—and him—than he suspected. She’s younger than him, by a lot, but they’ve both made mistakes and they’ve both lost. And so they connect on some level, the level on which many a classic country song operates. This could be the start, as the saying goes, of a beautiful…well, a beautiful something.
What that something is I will leave you, if you are so inclined, to discover. The movie plays itself out in ways that are sometimes expected and sometimes not, but which are always genuine. Crazy Heart takes Bad and Jane seriously, and neither romanticizes nor cheats them. We’ve seen this sort of hard luck, hard-drinking, love-of-a-good-woman story before, but rarely this richly presented. The movie has time for details. Bad is, well, bad. Not mean, but adrift. Alcoholic. Selfish. Cynical. But notice how, even drunk, he remembers the song he’d promised a fan. And notice how, when he calls Jane long distance, and her four-year-old son answers the phone, he has time for the kid, too. And notice how, to interview Bad after a show, Jane has to find a babysitter. And how the only rule she lays down about Bad’s drinking is “not in front of my son.” Too many movies are just about characters. This one feels like it’s actually about people.
It helps that the number of people the film focuses on is rather small. First, of course, is Bad Blake, and Bridges, with greasy hair and sunglasses from the Hank Williams Jr. collection, owns this role. Some performances jump out at you. Bridges’s turn here sneaks up on you. He is Bad Blake. Jeff Bridges is a busy guy. His is a familiar face. I forgot I was watching him. The role won Bridges a Best Actor Oscar, and justly so. He builds Bad Blake from the inside out, and wisely lets it show that the character, too, is an actor. The flashier turn as a guy named ‘Bad’ is by Blake himself, not Bridges. There are layers to this performance, all of them well-executed. Bridges also does his own singing, which adds authenticity. It’s often said that an actor “inhabits” a role; Jeff Bridges seems to have been living in Bad Blake for years. It pays off. Without a ringer in the Blake role, the film would fall apart. It doesn’t. Guess why not.
The other key player is Jane. Maggie Gyllenhaal does “likable” about as well as any actress working, but it’s to her and the script’s credit that Jane is more than a long-suffering pretty face. She is not a groupie, nor is she naive. Jane is interested in the guy, not the persona. Pay attention to the scene where she cries as Bad plays a new song, and why she cries when she does. Also notice how she reacts when Bad finally goes too far. There is no big shouting scene. After all, that only happens in the movies.
Filling in the edges are solid turns by Colin Farrell (also singing his own stuff) as the younger star who knows how lucky he has been in his timing—and his friends, and Robert Duvall as Blake’s old pal Wayne, the kind of guy who knows when not to serve Bad whiskey, and also when to take him fishing. Duvall himself gave an Oscar-winning performance as a hard-living country singer in Tender Mercies, and his presence here has a similar “seal of approval” feeling to Leonard Nimoy’s appearance in the Star Trek reboot.
This is a movie about music, among other things, and the music it features—written or chosen by T-Bone Burnett—is just right. The music attracted an Oscar as well, for “The Weary Kind,” the song that makes Jane cry. Blake’s material feels like it’s been around for a while, and sounds just as good played on one acoustic guitar as it does with Tommy’s full-strength band behind it. At some point in the film, I realized that, if Bad Blake was playing a bar near me, I’d probably go hear him. He’s not going to do that, of course, but it’s to the movie’s credit that I sort of hope he does.
“Character pieces” like this are not for everyone, but, then, neither is country music. For those interested, however, Crazy Heart offers both those things, both well-performed.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Blind Side (2009)
The Blind Side is a pleasantly charming movie that’s a little about football, a little about race and class dynamics, a little about family, but really a lot about decent people trying to do the right thing. Given that it takes its title from a football term, I’ll use some here: this film is no Hail Mary Pass—it’s a solid, slow march down the field. No flash, no heroics, but good enough to score.
The Blind Side is based on the true story of Michael Oher. The outlines of his story are familiar: an African-American kid from the inner-city projects rises, through hard work and a talent for athletics to success in college and professional sports. Oher (Quinton Aaron) has many of the sadly usual problems against him: a disinterested, drug-addicted mother; lackluster support from foster homes; economic hardship (we meet Michael living on an uncle’s couch and owning just as many clothes as fit in a plastic shopping bag). In his favor, Michael is gifted with unusual size, an aptitude for auditory learning, and a strong tendency to display ‘protective instincts.’ The size gets him noticed. When his uncle (a mechanic who’s been saving) angles to get his own son, a basketball whiz, into a ritzy Christian school, the football coach notes the hulking nephew and starts salivating. ‘Big Mike’ is in. He’s now a private school kid.
And it’s here that Oher’s story takes an interesting turn. One cold night, Michael attracts the attention of well-to-do Leigh Anne Tuohy (Sandra Bullock) not for his size, but because he’s wandering around in the cold in only a polo shirt and shorts. He’s on his way to try to sleep in the school gym. Leigh Anne is having none of it, and invites Oher to spend the night at the house she shares with her entrepreneur husband Sean (Tim McGraw) and kids. Slowly, the Tuohys take Oher under their wing, giving him shelter, support, and something the young man has never had before: a loving family.
Yeah, there’s football involved. Turns out that Oher is just perfect to be a prize left tackle, guarding the all-important ‘blind side’ of the quarterback, and the Tuohys (a clan of sports fans) encourage Michael on and off the field to pursue sports as a vocation. This leads to some entertaining ‘training montages’ and gridiron exploits. This is not, however, a ‘football movie.’ The resolution does not depend on someone winning a big game, or on a small team defeating a scary cross-state rival, but instead depends on the decisions people make—on who Michael Oher decides to be, and why. This is a character piece, and wisely uses sports and people’s reactions to them as means to illustrate character. Consider the high-school football coach (Ray McKinnon): he’s neither a tyrant nor a dunce nor a manipulator—just a man who knows a good thing when he sees it, and who likes to win. There’s also a great scene where Sean Tuohy—himself a former basketball star—explains Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade” to Michael in sporting terms, and the young man completely gets it. Sure, lots of films make the connection between the athletic life and manhood and courage—but how many do it with poetry?
The film is helped along by winning performances—literally, in Bullock’s case: she won an Oscar. Her take on Leigh Anne is certainly memorable, even if she feels a little underserved by the screenplay. There are plenty of ways to go wrong with this sort of brassy Southern Belle, and Bullock manages to avoid most of them. Oscar-worthy is always a matter of opinion, but at least Bullock keeps Leigh Anne from sliding into caricature, and makes a woman who’s honestly quite pushy also honestly likable. Tim McGraw brings a delightful laid-back twinkle to Sean Tuohy, the husband who is, refreshingly for a movie spouse, allowed to be at least as decent as his wife. McGraw, a country music star, did a very different parental turn in the film version of Friday Night Lights. The guy has some range, and he doesn’t pale here next to Bullock. As the Tuohy kids, Lily Collins smiles sweetly as cheerleader daughter Collins (how’s that for name coincidence?) and as motormouth younger brother S. J., Jae Head gets to spout the usual slicker-than-his-years one-liners. Quinton Aaron, as Oher, has the hardest job, given that he has to play straight man to the Tuohy clan, suggest the inner depths of the quiet, troubled Michael, and play believable football. He acquits himself admirably in all three cases. It’s not a standout performance, but soul, not virtuosity, is required here, and Aaron has that. As for the real-life college coaches (including Nick Saban and Lou Holtz) who show up as their past selves on recruiting missions, they’re at least no more wooden than in post-game interviews. One imagines giving recruiting pitches is a sort of acting coaches are used to. Providing a spunkier sort of authority figure is the always-dependable Kathy Bates in a small role as Michael’s personal tutor.
What The Blind Side lacks is what many a pro bench also lacks: depth. In some cases, this is not a detraction. The movie hints at a number of complex issues—racial inequality, the exploitation of African-American young men by athletic programs, banal bigotry, the temptation of easy, drug-fueled living in the projects—but it mostly keeps these below the surface. Discretion is probably the better part of filmmaking here, as too much of this would lead to a darker tone. The movie is smart enough to acknowledge these things, but also smart enough to move on. The Blind Side wants to be about the bright side, not the dark side, and it wisely stays there (for those who want grit in this type of story, there’s Precious). Less wise, however, is the tendency to also keep the characters’ deeper emotions below the surface. At one point, when Leigh Anne’s country club friends patronizingly tell her how great it is that she’s changing Michael’s life, she responds, “No. He’s changing mine.” It’s the right sentiment, of course, and it’s the line convention trains us to expect. But she shouldn’t have to say it. The movie should show us Leigh Anne’s life changing, and it doesn’t. Bullock gamely closes her eyes from time to time and Considers Things Deeply, but that’s not enough. I liked these characters too much to believe they had such static inner lives.
As a whole, though, The Blind Side tells a charming story in a largely charming way. I appreciated that it didn’t make Michael’s struggle about conquering plain ignorance or bad attitude but rather about learning to trust others and himself. And I appreciated that the movie recognizes that the hardest hits often come off the football field, not on it. Most of all, I appreciated that the movie didn’t have much ambition beyond competently telling a story of plain old human kindness. These days, that’s a subject that often ends up (if you’ll excuse me) on Hollywood’s blind side. Michael Oher eventually went to the Baltimore Ravens, number 23 in the first round of the 2009 NFL draft. A respectable place for Oher: not top ten, but still first round. That’s about where this film belongs, too.
The Blind Side is based on the true story of Michael Oher. The outlines of his story are familiar: an African-American kid from the inner-city projects rises, through hard work and a talent for athletics to success in college and professional sports. Oher (Quinton Aaron) has many of the sadly usual problems against him: a disinterested, drug-addicted mother; lackluster support from foster homes; economic hardship (we meet Michael living on an uncle’s couch and owning just as many clothes as fit in a plastic shopping bag). In his favor, Michael is gifted with unusual size, an aptitude for auditory learning, and a strong tendency to display ‘protective instincts.’ The size gets him noticed. When his uncle (a mechanic who’s been saving) angles to get his own son, a basketball whiz, into a ritzy Christian school, the football coach notes the hulking nephew and starts salivating. ‘Big Mike’ is in. He’s now a private school kid.
And it’s here that Oher’s story takes an interesting turn. One cold night, Michael attracts the attention of well-to-do Leigh Anne Tuohy (Sandra Bullock) not for his size, but because he’s wandering around in the cold in only a polo shirt and shorts. He’s on his way to try to sleep in the school gym. Leigh Anne is having none of it, and invites Oher to spend the night at the house she shares with her entrepreneur husband Sean (Tim McGraw) and kids. Slowly, the Tuohys take Oher under their wing, giving him shelter, support, and something the young man has never had before: a loving family.
Yeah, there’s football involved. Turns out that Oher is just perfect to be a prize left tackle, guarding the all-important ‘blind side’ of the quarterback, and the Tuohys (a clan of sports fans) encourage Michael on and off the field to pursue sports as a vocation. This leads to some entertaining ‘training montages’ and gridiron exploits. This is not, however, a ‘football movie.’ The resolution does not depend on someone winning a big game, or on a small team defeating a scary cross-state rival, but instead depends on the decisions people make—on who Michael Oher decides to be, and why. This is a character piece, and wisely uses sports and people’s reactions to them as means to illustrate character. Consider the high-school football coach (Ray McKinnon): he’s neither a tyrant nor a dunce nor a manipulator—just a man who knows a good thing when he sees it, and who likes to win. There’s also a great scene where Sean Tuohy—himself a former basketball star—explains Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade” to Michael in sporting terms, and the young man completely gets it. Sure, lots of films make the connection between the athletic life and manhood and courage—but how many do it with poetry?
The film is helped along by winning performances—literally, in Bullock’s case: she won an Oscar. Her take on Leigh Anne is certainly memorable, even if she feels a little underserved by the screenplay. There are plenty of ways to go wrong with this sort of brassy Southern Belle, and Bullock manages to avoid most of them. Oscar-worthy is always a matter of opinion, but at least Bullock keeps Leigh Anne from sliding into caricature, and makes a woman who’s honestly quite pushy also honestly likable. Tim McGraw brings a delightful laid-back twinkle to Sean Tuohy, the husband who is, refreshingly for a movie spouse, allowed to be at least as decent as his wife. McGraw, a country music star, did a very different parental turn in the film version of Friday Night Lights. The guy has some range, and he doesn’t pale here next to Bullock. As the Tuohy kids, Lily Collins smiles sweetly as cheerleader daughter Collins (how’s that for name coincidence?) and as motormouth younger brother S. J., Jae Head gets to spout the usual slicker-than-his-years one-liners. Quinton Aaron, as Oher, has the hardest job, given that he has to play straight man to the Tuohy clan, suggest the inner depths of the quiet, troubled Michael, and play believable football. He acquits himself admirably in all three cases. It’s not a standout performance, but soul, not virtuosity, is required here, and Aaron has that. As for the real-life college coaches (including Nick Saban and Lou Holtz) who show up as their past selves on recruiting missions, they’re at least no more wooden than in post-game interviews. One imagines giving recruiting pitches is a sort of acting coaches are used to. Providing a spunkier sort of authority figure is the always-dependable Kathy Bates in a small role as Michael’s personal tutor.
What The Blind Side lacks is what many a pro bench also lacks: depth. In some cases, this is not a detraction. The movie hints at a number of complex issues—racial inequality, the exploitation of African-American young men by athletic programs, banal bigotry, the temptation of easy, drug-fueled living in the projects—but it mostly keeps these below the surface. Discretion is probably the better part of filmmaking here, as too much of this would lead to a darker tone. The movie is smart enough to acknowledge these things, but also smart enough to move on. The Blind Side wants to be about the bright side, not the dark side, and it wisely stays there (for those who want grit in this type of story, there’s Precious). Less wise, however, is the tendency to also keep the characters’ deeper emotions below the surface. At one point, when Leigh Anne’s country club friends patronizingly tell her how great it is that she’s changing Michael’s life, she responds, “No. He’s changing mine.” It’s the right sentiment, of course, and it’s the line convention trains us to expect. But she shouldn’t have to say it. The movie should show us Leigh Anne’s life changing, and it doesn’t. Bullock gamely closes her eyes from time to time and Considers Things Deeply, but that’s not enough. I liked these characters too much to believe they had such static inner lives.
As a whole, though, The Blind Side tells a charming story in a largely charming way. I appreciated that it didn’t make Michael’s struggle about conquering plain ignorance or bad attitude but rather about learning to trust others and himself. And I appreciated that the movie recognizes that the hardest hits often come off the football field, not on it. Most of all, I appreciated that the movie didn’t have much ambition beyond competently telling a story of plain old human kindness. These days, that’s a subject that often ends up (if you’ll excuse me) on Hollywood’s blind side. Michael Oher eventually went to the Baltimore Ravens, number 23 in the first round of the 2009 NFL draft. A respectable place for Oher: not top ten, but still first round. That’s about where this film belongs, too.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Iron Man 2 (2010)
Let’s get this over with right away: it’s not as cool as the first one. The first Iron Man movie came out of nowhere, harnessed a beloved but minor comic franchise to a loosey-goosey script, some nifty CGI, and a knockout performance from Robert Downey, Jr., and was good beyond all reason. That’s hard to sustain. The movies provide their own analogy, though: people are always trying to knock off Tony Stark’s Iron Man suit and its ‘arc-reactor’ power source but never quite get there. Iron Man 2 is the same way: it lacks the genius of the original, but it’s certainly powerful enough to do some (box-office) damage.
Iron Man 2 finds inventor-turned-superhero Tony Stark (Downey) facing troubling times. Yes, his high-powered robosuit is a smashing success, and, yes, he’s ditched that usual hero standby, the secret identity—so he gets, as it were, the power and the glory. But pressures are mounting. His company is floundering while Tony flies off to fight evil. A government panel led by Senator Stern (a pompous Garry Shandling) wants Stark to bring Iron Man under government control. Rival weapons-maker Justin Hammer (the always-welcome Sam Rockwell) is sniffing around for a piece of the Iron Pie. And those are just the obvious menaces: lurking in Russia is the embittered Ivan Vanko (Mickey Rourke), the son of a former colleague of Tony’s father, whose knack for physics is matched only by his drive for revenge. And lurking in Tony’s own blood are toxins leaking in from the nuclear element that powers his suit—being Iron Man is literally killing Mr. Stark.
He has a solution for the company problem: promoting his ever-practical assistant Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) to CEO of Stark Industries. And Stern and Hammer can be put off with some deft word-and-tech work. That only goes so far, though—and the hidden menaces are harder to manage. Fortunately, Tony has some help: there’s his good friend Lt. Col. James Rhodes (Don Cheadle) to back him up in the firepower department, and his own government friends at the secret ‘S.H.I.E.L.D.’ agency—headed by no-nonsense Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson)—to help Stark find his place in the world order. Also in Stark’s corner are faithful valet-cum-boxer Happy Hogan (director Jon Favreau, donning his actor hat) and new assistant Natalie Rushman (Scarlett Johansson), who seems to have a few more skills than are listed on her resume.
There’s a lot going on here, and perhaps because of that this movie takes itself a bit more seriously than its predecessor. Iron Man felt slightly subversive, but this sequel pretty firmly plants itself in conventional superhero movie territory. Events seem to matter more this time around, and the emotions are pitched a little higher. Director Favreau manages a deft enough touch to keep things from becoming too heavy, though (let’s not forget he helmed Swingers and Elf). And while I’m growing a bit weary of CGI-metal bodies clanking against each other, there are some real rushes to be had from some of the obligatory action sequences. The one in which Vanko, sporting arc-reactor-powered laser whips, ambushes Stark at a Monaco racetrack and a later sequence where Stark and Rhodes have a party quarrel while wearing robosuits each provide a different kind of genuine pleasure.
The strength of this movie, like its predecessor, is in the acting. Favreau and screenwriter Justin Theroux are themselves both actors, and so it’s no surprise that this is a superhero franchise that gives us real characters to get to know and not just weird names in suits. Downey is the human arc-reactor that powers the film, slipping easily back into the role of Tony Stark as if he never left it (to, for example, play Sherlock Holmes). Downey’s whipcrack verbal timing conveys Stark’s arrogance while the look in his big dark eyes suggests some of the inner demons at work in Tony’s psyche. Favreau apparently likes to let his actors improvise, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that more of Stark onscreen comes from Downey himself than from the script. The actor gets this guy, through and through, and that alone goes a long way toward selling the movie. It doesn’t hurt a bit that Downey is abetted by such an able supporting cast. Paltrow once again makes Pepper the sweet superego to Stark’s id, and, making the most of the rather thankless part of Stark’s other conscience, Don Cheadle ably replaces an equally underused Terrence Howard from the first film as ‘Rhodey.’ Jackson gets to try yet another version of his familiar bad-mutha-shut-yo-mouth persona as growly Nick Fury, though, honestly, he’s probably one of the few actors who can utter a phrase like “you can solve the riddle of your heart” onscreen without it turning to utter sap. John Slattery, of “Mad Men” fame, turns up as Tony’s father in flashbacks which establish Stark Industries as not far removed from Sterling Cooper. And if Johansson’s femme fatale is a little underwritten, hey—she at least looks good in those tight dresses and black bodysuits.
In true comic book movie tradition, though, the best additions are the villains. Never mind that Mickey Rourke is actually about as Russian as a fifth of Jameson’s; sporting enough metal teeth and tattoos to supply the next three Pirates of the Caribbean movies, his Ivan Vanko is a masterpiece of sly menace. This is a man who laughs off being hit head-on (repeatedly) by a car, and is equally capable of hacking Hammer’s company’s mainframe and lovingly feeding his pet cockatoo vodka. It’s a performance that succeeds on mere presence as much as anything (no mean feat in this ensemble), and seems to prove that the ‘comeback’ talk around Rourke is no fluke. A better verbal match for Downey is provided by Rockwell’s Justin Hammer, a silver-spoon motormouth who has vapid business-speak, money, and spray-on tanner all in seemingly endless supply. Slickness (think Matchstick Men), threat (think The Green Mile), and silliness (think Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy) are all veins Rockwell has richly tapped in the past, and this role allows him to combine all three. The script leaves space for Hammer to return, and I at least hope he will, if only so I can continue to see two veteran hams square off as the rival businessmen. Downey and Rockwell’s scenes together are a smarmy delight.
There’s been grumbling in some quarters that this movie, like the first, basically ends with versions of the Iron Man suit fighting each other. Comic books, however, trade on this type of mirroring (the colorful, brash Joker is dour, dark Batman flipped, etc.), and for now the metaphor of Stark fighting versions of himself works. Vanko personifies the drive to settle scores just as Obadiah Stane in the first film personified corporate greed. These are both men Stark might have been, and what keeps this franchise’s head above water, in terms of narrative, is that everything is basically a variation on Stark trying to save his own heart: literally from shrapnel or poison, but also figuratively from greed, dishonor, wrath, and a host of other sins. After all, you don’t hire a guy like Downey just to spout one-liners; he gives Tony Stark depth and real personality. But I think the movies can learn from their own metaphor: overusing the whiz-bang tech stuff will slowly kill you. Right now, like Stark himself, the Iron Man series looks to come out more or less alive. This sequel is fine summer fun, and a worthy follow-up to the original. But it’s the people, not the technological bells and whistles, that make it so. Without a human being inside, Iron Man is just a bunch of colorful metal. Let’s keep a real guy in there, OK?
Iron Man 2 finds inventor-turned-superhero Tony Stark (Downey) facing troubling times. Yes, his high-powered robosuit is a smashing success, and, yes, he’s ditched that usual hero standby, the secret identity—so he gets, as it were, the power and the glory. But pressures are mounting. His company is floundering while Tony flies off to fight evil. A government panel led by Senator Stern (a pompous Garry Shandling) wants Stark to bring Iron Man under government control. Rival weapons-maker Justin Hammer (the always-welcome Sam Rockwell) is sniffing around for a piece of the Iron Pie. And those are just the obvious menaces: lurking in Russia is the embittered Ivan Vanko (Mickey Rourke), the son of a former colleague of Tony’s father, whose knack for physics is matched only by his drive for revenge. And lurking in Tony’s own blood are toxins leaking in from the nuclear element that powers his suit—being Iron Man is literally killing Mr. Stark.
He has a solution for the company problem: promoting his ever-practical assistant Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) to CEO of Stark Industries. And Stern and Hammer can be put off with some deft word-and-tech work. That only goes so far, though—and the hidden menaces are harder to manage. Fortunately, Tony has some help: there’s his good friend Lt. Col. James Rhodes (Don Cheadle) to back him up in the firepower department, and his own government friends at the secret ‘S.H.I.E.L.D.’ agency—headed by no-nonsense Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson)—to help Stark find his place in the world order. Also in Stark’s corner are faithful valet-cum-boxer Happy Hogan (director Jon Favreau, donning his actor hat) and new assistant Natalie Rushman (Scarlett Johansson), who seems to have a few more skills than are listed on her resume.
There’s a lot going on here, and perhaps because of that this movie takes itself a bit more seriously than its predecessor. Iron Man felt slightly subversive, but this sequel pretty firmly plants itself in conventional superhero movie territory. Events seem to matter more this time around, and the emotions are pitched a little higher. Director Favreau manages a deft enough touch to keep things from becoming too heavy, though (let’s not forget he helmed Swingers and Elf). And while I’m growing a bit weary of CGI-metal bodies clanking against each other, there are some real rushes to be had from some of the obligatory action sequences. The one in which Vanko, sporting arc-reactor-powered laser whips, ambushes Stark at a Monaco racetrack and a later sequence where Stark and Rhodes have a party quarrel while wearing robosuits each provide a different kind of genuine pleasure.
The strength of this movie, like its predecessor, is in the acting. Favreau and screenwriter Justin Theroux are themselves both actors, and so it’s no surprise that this is a superhero franchise that gives us real characters to get to know and not just weird names in suits. Downey is the human arc-reactor that powers the film, slipping easily back into the role of Tony Stark as if he never left it (to, for example, play Sherlock Holmes). Downey’s whipcrack verbal timing conveys Stark’s arrogance while the look in his big dark eyes suggests some of the inner demons at work in Tony’s psyche. Favreau apparently likes to let his actors improvise, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that more of Stark onscreen comes from Downey himself than from the script. The actor gets this guy, through and through, and that alone goes a long way toward selling the movie. It doesn’t hurt a bit that Downey is abetted by such an able supporting cast. Paltrow once again makes Pepper the sweet superego to Stark’s id, and, making the most of the rather thankless part of Stark’s other conscience, Don Cheadle ably replaces an equally underused Terrence Howard from the first film as ‘Rhodey.’ Jackson gets to try yet another version of his familiar bad-mutha-shut-yo-mouth persona as growly Nick Fury, though, honestly, he’s probably one of the few actors who can utter a phrase like “you can solve the riddle of your heart” onscreen without it turning to utter sap. John Slattery, of “Mad Men” fame, turns up as Tony’s father in flashbacks which establish Stark Industries as not far removed from Sterling Cooper. And if Johansson’s femme fatale is a little underwritten, hey—she at least looks good in those tight dresses and black bodysuits.
In true comic book movie tradition, though, the best additions are the villains. Never mind that Mickey Rourke is actually about as Russian as a fifth of Jameson’s; sporting enough metal teeth and tattoos to supply the next three Pirates of the Caribbean movies, his Ivan Vanko is a masterpiece of sly menace. This is a man who laughs off being hit head-on (repeatedly) by a car, and is equally capable of hacking Hammer’s company’s mainframe and lovingly feeding his pet cockatoo vodka. It’s a performance that succeeds on mere presence as much as anything (no mean feat in this ensemble), and seems to prove that the ‘comeback’ talk around Rourke is no fluke. A better verbal match for Downey is provided by Rockwell’s Justin Hammer, a silver-spoon motormouth who has vapid business-speak, money, and spray-on tanner all in seemingly endless supply. Slickness (think Matchstick Men), threat (think The Green Mile), and silliness (think Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy) are all veins Rockwell has richly tapped in the past, and this role allows him to combine all three. The script leaves space for Hammer to return, and I at least hope he will, if only so I can continue to see two veteran hams square off as the rival businessmen. Downey and Rockwell’s scenes together are a smarmy delight.
There’s been grumbling in some quarters that this movie, like the first, basically ends with versions of the Iron Man suit fighting each other. Comic books, however, trade on this type of mirroring (the colorful, brash Joker is dour, dark Batman flipped, etc.), and for now the metaphor of Stark fighting versions of himself works. Vanko personifies the drive to settle scores just as Obadiah Stane in the first film personified corporate greed. These are both men Stark might have been, and what keeps this franchise’s head above water, in terms of narrative, is that everything is basically a variation on Stark trying to save his own heart: literally from shrapnel or poison, but also figuratively from greed, dishonor, wrath, and a host of other sins. After all, you don’t hire a guy like Downey just to spout one-liners; he gives Tony Stark depth and real personality. But I think the movies can learn from their own metaphor: overusing the whiz-bang tech stuff will slowly kill you. Right now, like Stark himself, the Iron Man series looks to come out more or less alive. This sequel is fine summer fun, and a worthy follow-up to the original. But it’s the people, not the technological bells and whistles, that make it so. Without a human being inside, Iron Man is just a bunch of colorful metal. Let’s keep a real guy in there, OK?
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