Westword July 29, 2010 : Page 30
short takes OPENING Charlie St. Cloud. (PG-13) In a go-nowhere Pacifi c Northwest town, dreamy high-school sailor Charlie (played mostly by Zac Efron’s abs and piercing gaze) puts his Stanford scholarship plans on indefi nite hold after he momentarily fl atlines in a car accident, which also takes his little brother, Sam (Charlie Tahan). Half a decade later, Charlie has sunk into a shy, brooding routine as a cemetery caretaker and meets his dead bro in the woods every sunset to toss around a baseball. Adapted from a 2005 novel by Ben Sherwood, this blatant heartstring-puller from director Burr Steers (Igby Goes Down) is more sentimental than subtle in depicting a grieving young man whose inability to let go has stunted him. But even FIND MANY MORE SHORT AND LONG REVIEWS ONLINE AT FILM WESTWORD.COM at its most maudlin (enter Ray Liotta as the St. Jude-praying, cancer-ridden paramedic who revived Charlie and has suddenly reconnected with him), this handsomely shot melodrama has a twist too peculiar to dismiss as some two-bit Nicholas Sparks weepie. Charlie’s way up from out of the drain is through the rousing fl irtations of saucy redhead Tess (Amanda Crew), and, simultaneously, the vaguely supernatural device for our pretty-boy hero’s coping becomes so literal that Charlie actually bangs a spirit halfway between life and death. (Aaron Hillis) Countdown to Zero. (PG) The title of Lucy Walker’s pro-nuclear-disarmament tract Countdown to Zero has two meanings: a paranoiac’s ticking off the last moments until the bomb goes off, and an exhortation to work for the cause until zero missiles and weapons remain. Synthesizing fear and optimism like that requires Walker to be incredibly ambitious in scope, and she offers up a history of the bomb and treaty talks, scientifi c explanations, a primer on how to smuggle uranium, and much, much more. Trying to touch, however briefl y, on everything related to The Bomb means that, inevitably, much of it gets short shrift: SALT I and II are barely mentioned, but the Reykjavík Summit’s failure is inexplicably highlighted. Walker runs the same old archival test footage we’ve seen before and interviews the big names — Mikhail Gorbachev and Valerie Plame Wilson both make appearances — to reiterate her already-obvious p.o.v. She’s also prone to very literal-minded exposition; to show that a tennis-ball-sized bomb could level a city, she just throws a tennis ball up against a black screen and has it rotate ominously. This is another well-intentioned but preaching-to-the-choir doc, and boring as well. Never trust a movie that ends with a moveon.org link. (Vadim Rizov) Standing Ovation. (PG) The fi ve Ovations are twelve-year-old Atlantic City girls chasing the American dream: belting awful pop songs at an audience. Standing Ovation focuses primarily on leader Brittany (Kayla Jackson), a plucky waif living in genteel poverty above a pizza and chicken restaurant, dream-ing of the father she never knew and singing on the boardwalk VISUALLY STUNNING! BRIMS WITH HEAT!” “FASCINATING, INTELLECTUALandSTIRRING!” “5555CRITIC'S PICK! -Ann Hornaday, WASHINGTON POST -Patrick Goldstein, LOSANGELESTIMES EXCELLENT!” “WEISZIS -David Edelstein, NEWYORKMAGAZINE 590 Downing Street FRI, JULY 30ONLY “Meatloaf again?” ...BRISTLINGWITHIDEAS ...VERYMOVING!” “ROUSING! -A.O. Scott, THENEWYORKTIMES -A.O. Scott, THENEWYORKTIMES ...A REMARKABLE FILM OF BEAUTYANDSTRENGTH!” “EPIC! -Mike Sargent, WBAIRADIO The high life never tasted so good! (303) 352-1992 at the and FLICK PICK While Hollywood has belatedly cooled on snarky, loud-quiet-loud proto-Tarantino gangster comedies, our English-speaking brethren across the Atlantic remain steadfast, pumping public money into spawns of Sexy Beastand maintain-ing full employment for slumming stage-trained thespians. By no means the worst of the lot, Gaelic import Per-rier’s Bountymight be the most rote, moving dutifully through the sta-tions of the genre without establishing or generating any motivational thrust. Melancholic mess Michael (Cillian Murphy) has just a few hours to repay an unexplained debt to the town heavy, Perrier (Brendan Gleeson), but his efforts at scoring cash only get him into deeper trouble. He goes on the lam with his tweaked, gun-happy pa (Jim Broadbent) but shows more concern for a heartbroken crush (Jodie Whittaker) than he does for the bounty on his head. Hollowed of plausibility, sincere characterization and any sense of real-life danger, what remains is a thin and damned spotty skin of situational humor. For every welcome gag — vindictive tow-truckers keep booting getaway cars — there’s a callous barrage of spit-take punch-lines involving bodies hacked, shot, and Foley thumped to death. Instead of inspir-ing discomfort — should welaugh or cringe? — such violence engenders only ambivalence, on screen and off. Ivan Fitzgibbon’s fi lm is so steadfastly blithe that one yearns for a fl icker of pretension, some small sign that there’s a guiding principle or purpose other than to takethe piss, tiredly. — ERICHYNES DENVER3.COM present when OTB-addict Granddad can’t meet the bills. Playing Misfi ts to the Ovations’ Holograms are rivals The Wiggies, well-funded daughters of local hairpiece magnate Mr. Wiggs (Sal Dupree, “the longest-running act in Atlantic City history,” also producing). Most of the cast seem to have spent time at Mr. Dupree’s Performing Arts Center of Linwood, N.J., and I think he must be considered the auteur here. (Stewart Raffi ll wrote and directed.) What measure of charm Standing Ovation has, though, is due to its slapdash shabbiness and regional-fare quality, with whiffs of South Jersey and quaintly old-school ethnic stereotyping (impractical Irish dreamers, Italian tough guys). Things come to a head as the Wiggies and Ovations set their sights on a televised tween-music video contest with a one-million-dollar grand prize. But my favorite scene involves the Ovations doing a commercial for a repulsive soft drink where the issue isn’t whether to walk out on principle, but how to choke it down on-camera. (Nick Pinkerton) ONGOING Agora. (Not Rated) Not lacking for conviction or cojones, Alejandro Amenábar’s Agora is a big, broad, stridently atheistic sword-and-sandals entertainment that recounts a tragic turning point in world history. Rachel Weisz plays Hypatia, a brilliant astronomer in fourth-century Alexandria whose life and work is increasingly threatened by a bloody societal shift toward reactionary, virulent Christianity. To its credit, the fi lm calls out Christianity’s ignominious imperialism and locates a valid historical analogue to the religious extremism of today. Yet good intentions shan’t save Amenábar from his own ham-fi sted methods. It’s one thing to depict crusaders hurling a cynic onto hot coals, ritually slaughtering pagans, stoning and massacring Jews, and enforcing total faith—but need they wear uniformly dark, ragged cloaks and snarl through unkempt faces, while pagans dress brightly, bathe frequently, and no doubt smell really good? Servant-boy-cum-wispy-indie-rocker-of-antiquity Max Minghella even comes to learn that slavery is far better than belief. Amenábar’s camera assumes extreme low and high angles, setting heroes against starry skies before freely zooming back to assume a celestial POV (praise be to Google Maps). What’s missing is a satisfying, plausible middle ground where heady ideas and metaphors coalesce into compelling drama. Amenábar (The Others, Open Your Eyes) has the ambition but not yet the skill of a Kubrick or Spielberg to make visual fl ourishes function emotionally. The music swells, characters glower and suffer in slow-mo, and Amenábar champions the life of the intellect by condescending to ours. (Eric Hynes) FRIDAY & SATURDAY, JULY 30 & 31 AT MIDNIGHT! ALL SEATS $7.25! STARTSFRIDAY JULY 30 30 LANDMARK THEATRES CHEZARTISTE 2800 S. Colorado BLVD. (At Amherst) 303-352-1992 www.landmarktheatres.com www.landmarktheatres.com Cyrus. (R) This freakishly engrossing black comedy about exces-sively mothered men and the women who enable them, stars John C. Reilly as a middle-aged lost soul who can’t believe his luck when he takes up with an enigmatic fox (the excellent Marisa Tomei). Until, that is, he runs afoul of her son the emotional terrorist, played by Jonah Hill, who cannily dials down the schoolboy hysteria that has defi ned his persona in the Judd Apatow oeuvre, into a lethally seditious calm. So begins a slow war of attrition as excruciatingly funny to watch as it is horrifying to be caught up in. Yet nothing is overplayed in a movie that wanders teasingly along the borders between sorrow and laughter. Directed by Jay and Mark Duplass, who come loosely associated with the mumblecore movement, Cyrus was made with Hollywood money (Ridley and Tony Scott, neither famous for the experimental method, are executive producers) and big-name stars. It still retains the meandering quality of the Duplass brothers’ The Puffy Chair, but also has a satisfying formal coherence. How you read the ending of this wickedly ambiguous, yet strangely tender parsing of modern JULY29-AUGUST4, 2010 WESTWORD | BACKBEAT | CAFE | ART | THEATER | MOVIES | NIGHT+DAY | CITY LIMITS | OFF LIMITS | ¡ASK A MEXICAN! | LETTERS | CONTENTS | WORST-CASE SCENARIO | westword.com
Flick Pick
Eric Hynes
While Hollywood has belatedly cooled on snarky, loud-quiet-loud proto-Tarantino gangster comedies, our English-speaking brethren across the Atlantic remain steadfast, pumping public money into spawns of Sexy Beast and maintaining full employment for slumming stagetrained thespians.
By no means the worst of the lot, Gaelic import Perrier’s Bounty might be the most rote, moving dutifully through the stations of the genre without establishing or generating any motivational thrust. Melancholic mess Michael (Cillian Murphy) has just a few hours to repay an unexplained debt to the town heavy, Perrier (Brendan Gleeson), but his efforts at scoring cash only get him into deeper trouble. He goes on the lam with his tweaked, gun-happy pa (Jim Broadbent) but shows more concern for a heartbroken crush (Jodie Whittaker) than he does for the bounty on his head.
Hollowed of plausibility, sincere characterization and any sense of real-life danger, what remains is a thin and damned spotty skin of situational humor.
For every welcome gag — vindictive tow-truckers keep booting getaway cars — there’s a callous barrage of spit-take punchlines involving bodies hacked, shot, and Foley thumped to death.
Instead of inspiring discomfort — should we laugh or cringe? — such violence engenders only ambivalence, on screen and off. Ivan Fitzgibbon’s film is so steadfastly blithe that one yearns for a flicker of pretension, some small sign that there’s a guiding principle or purpose other than to take the piss, tiredly.
Short Takes
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