kinopoisk.ru

from Indy Week 

Contrary to all the sexist noise online, remaking Ghostbusters with a female cast was not a bad idea. Of course not—with director Paul Feig behind the camera and Kristen Wiig and Melissa McCarthy in front of it, it was an empirically good idea.

Unfortunately, the result of that good idea is a pretty bad movie.

In fact, the new Ghostbusters is lazy, uninspired, and really close to insulting. Feig and the film’s four leads—Wiig, McCarthy, Leslie Jones, and Kate McKinnon—are all comedy professionals with strong track records. But this is a highly deficient comedy product. The script is so weak it should have never made it into production, and the performances aren’t good enough to save it.

The new Ghostbusters follows the same general story outline as the original. It’s an old-fashioned remake in that way, not a reboot or re-imagining or sequel or prequel. Wiig, McCarthy, and McKinnon play discredited parapsychologists who are kicked out of academia and make a break for the private sector. Jones comes on board later as hired help, like the character Winston in the original movie.

As a tech startup, the Ghostbusters’ timing is just right. Something sinister is brewing in New York City, and eldritch apparitions are popping up all over town. The team’s paranormal exterminator service is a success. They hire a ditzy receptionist—Chris Hemsworth, gender-switching the original role played by Annie Potts.

Many of the old story beats are resurrected: the remodeled hearse. The meeting with the mayor. The interdiction of federal authorities. The genuinely weird obsession with slime. The big showdown with a Godzilla-sized evil manifestation.

What’s missing is any playfulness, spontaneous fun, or consistent attitude toward the material. The movie’s very few comic sparks are generated almost by accident, in riffs that are clearly improvised, or by McKinnon, who brings her peculiar comic energy. I kept hoping that the camera might follow her out of frame, off the set, and into another, better movie.

In a way, the clumsy script reveals how flimsy the original storyline really was, with its proton streams and Sumerian mythology and portable ghost traps. Bill Murray and the gang worked some powerful movie mojo in the original. The comedy clicked in that weird and unknowable way that sometimes happens when parts add up to more than their sum.

Virtually nothing clicks in Feig’s remake. Individual scenes don’t begin or end; they meander in and peter out. The special-effects sequences are fine, but when Feig cuts away to our heroes, we don’t get crafted jokes or clever bits. We get standard-issue action dialogue at best, or stale one-liners that belong on Full House circa 1992. (“Boo-ya! Emphasis on the boo!”) Sometimes we get nothing at all, just McCarthy mugging—and that’s a huge waste, because she’s one of the funniest people on the planet.

Those terrific peripheral characters from the original—Louis Tully, Walter Peck—are replaced by inert stand-ins. The villain is a bore. The much-hyped cameos by Murray, Dan Aykroyd, and a few others fall flat—each and every one—in a rush of self-conscious awkwardness. Eventually, the film devolves into a frantic digital-effects showcase pretending to be a third act.

The initial misogynistic reaction to this remake was a genuine phenomenon, but I have never paid much attention to these knuckleheads who say women can’t be funny. It’s an opinion too dumb to engage, and life’s too short. Of course it’s idiotic to dismiss Ghostbusters because of the female casting—it seems amateurish to even comment on it. But it’s also wrong to give the movie a pass for the same reason. This is a big-budget studio tentpole movie, made by highly paid Hollywood professionals, and it’s a raw deal.

An interesting twist: There’s a rumor going around that studio marketing people deliberately fanned the flames of the hater debate to obscure the fact that they have a bad movie on their hands. That doesn’t mitigate the fact that there were flames to be fanned at all, but it’s just diabolical enough to be true. If you keep people talking about gender issues in Hollywood, maybe they’ll neglect to talk about how terrible this movie actually is.

 

 

dead island

from The News & Observer 

It’s weird to think that filmmaker George Romero, with his 1968 film “Night of the Living Dead,” essentially created an entire new genre of pop culture.

Romero’s film was the first zombie movie, as we know the term today, and zombie movies quickly begat zombie comic books, zombie TV shows and, of course, zombie video games.

One of the best zombie games in the last few years, “Dead Island” was originally released for PC, PlayStation 3 and Xbox 360 in 2011. The setup is pure Romero: A rapid virus outbreak at a tropical resort island unleashes waves of flesh-eating zombies. A small group of survivors move from shelter to shelter, fighting off the undead with improvised weapons and goofy dialogue.

For those who missed it the first time around, “Dead Island” has just been reissued as “Dead Island Definitive Collection” ($19.99 / rated M), souped up for PC and ported over to new consoles PlayStation 4 and Xbox One. The package also includes the expansion “Dead Island: Riptide” and the 16-bit sidescroller “Dead Island Retro Revenge.”

An old-school battle

For new players, the “Dead Island” vibe is decidedly old-school. This is a first-person open-world game with some action RPG elements, including limited weapon crafting and XP-based skill levels. The game puts a premium on melee combat, and you’ll do most of your fighting with make-do weapons. For the first few hours, you’ll be fending off zombies with canoe paddles, lead pipes, even frying pans. Firearms and explosives come later.

“Dead Island” is an ostensibly open-world game, but to further the story you’ll need to follow the main quest line. The designers find some interesting variations on the old zombie story tropes. Will you need to track down an experimental vaccine? Of course! There’s always an experimental vaccine.

The setting and characters in “Dead Island” are particularly fun. The island resort is depicted as a sort of debauched Eurotrash destination for shady characters from all nations. Players can choose between four initial survivors, plus a fifth character with his own unique story line and agenda. You might be an Australian ex-cop turned VIP bodyguard, or a Chinese spy, or a washed-up American hip-hop star.

Whatever you choose, don’t expect the hordes of walking dead to discriminate – they just want to eat your brains. “Dead Island” features different varieties of zombies: Shambling “Romero” zombies mix freely with fast-running ghouls in the style of director Danny Boyle’s neo-zombie classic “28 Days Later.” Other delightful sub-types include the Butcher, the Thug, the Floater and the alarming specimen known as the Suicider.

Players who enjoy first-person splatter fights will dig the game’s up-close-and-bloody combat system and over-the-top gore. Those who prefer a more stealthy style of play will need patience. Guns and other sniper weapons aren’t even available for the first portion of the game, and the zombies’ tendency to attack in swarms makes melee fighting a messy but necessary skill.

B-movie fun

For returning players, the new collection doesn’t add any additional content beyond the “Retro Revenge” game. But the designers have given everything a high-sheen polish, with upgraded textures, lighting and user interface elements. The visual upgrades are particularly noticeable on the beach, where the water ripples with bright gleams and, alas, the occasional severed head.

“Dead Island” never approaches the sophistication of the genre’s best endeavors – TV shows like “The Walking Dead” or video games like “The Last of Us” – but it’s not really aiming to provide that kind of experience. It’s a B-movie kind of game, good for quick-hit zombie fighting, a few hours at a time, when the mood strikes. Rumor has it that a new “Dead Island” installment is in development, maybe with a Hawaiian setting. The whole island paradise thing is kind of inspired, and provides a nice through line of grim humor: Worst. Vacation. Ever.

“Dead Island Definitive Collection” is available for PC, Playstation 4, Xbox One.

 

Alice

from Indy Week

Disney has been in the spectacle business for more than eighty years now, and its fantasy movies, both live action and animation, tend toward visual extravaganzas, especially in the modern summer blockbuster season. In this regard, Alice Through the Looking Glass does not disappoint. There are maybe half a dozen glorious set pieces designed to pop your eyeballs right out of your skull. That’s all you really need to know before springing for the 3-D version, which is the version to see if you’re going to see it at all.

Mia Wasikowska returns as Alice, reprising her role from director Tim Burton’s 2010 adaptation. The new film, directed by James Bobin (Muppets Most Wanted), includes a few visual nods to Lewis Carroll’s original book, but the script is largely the invention of rock-star Disney screenwriter Linda Woolverton (Beauty and the Beast, Maleficent). Alice returns to Wonderland via mirror to discover that the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp) is in crisis. It seems that his family needs rescuing, and the only way for Alice to save the day is to travel back in time.

Time is personified, by Sacha Baron Cohen, as a kind of extra-temporal clockwork deity who rules from a mansion of mechanical marvels. His realm is the first of several fantastical locales we visit, and it’s a triumph of inventive visual design. It’s so difficult to present genuinely new images on the silver screen these days, but Disney’s design team conjures fever-dream wonders: Constellations of stopwatches hang in a perpetual golden dawn. Colossal steampunk ironworks are tended by skittering mechanical imps.

Digital effects are stitched seamlessly into the Victorian-era costumes and sets, which incorporate location shooting and historical artifacts, including some scenes aboard amazing nineteenth-century seafaring vessels. Alice’s temporal adventures involve navigating the Ocean of Time, where the 3-D effects pay off. Sit back and enjoy.

Wasikowska and Depp anchor the film with lovely performances. Depp is especially compelling this time around, as Hatter spirals into a darker kind of madness and despair. Disney’s team of artisans mixes practical and digital effects with makeup design, and many of the film’s most arresting visual compositions involve extreme close-ups on Depp’s tortured visage, or on Helena Bonham Carter as the villainous Red Queen.

Alas, the story never achieves the mythic resonance of the imagery. The movie often feels choppy and episodic, rushing from one set piece to the next. It’s best enjoyed on a scene-by-scene, beat-by-beat basis. Depp and Baron Cohen find some very funny moments with their characters, and there’s a stealthy through-line of feminist thinking. I also very much liked the film’s central theme of unconditional loyalty. To help her friend, the Hatter, Alice is fierce and courageous and willing to put the entire time-space continuum at risk. She’s pure heroine, as Ms. Yelich-O’Connor might say.

Kids aren’t likely to register the sophisticated thematic and visual artistry on display, but they’ll like the swashbuckling adventure and aforementioned eyeball-popping elements. Anyway, this kind of storytelling is good for kids in a cultural-mythology, eat-your-vegetables kind of way. If you’re escorting wee ones this weekend, don’t let them talk you into that Angry Birds movie. Alice Through the Looking Glass is the healthier option, and besides, who’s paying for the popcorn?

everybody

from Indy Week 

Nature has wisely arranged things so that we live through our youth while we’re young. With the energy we expend in our teens and twenties, and the changes we must navigate, we’d never survive otherwise.

Richard Linklater’s new comedy, Everybody Wants Some!!, captures this sentiment nicely. Set in the fall of 1980, it follows a group of young, perpetually horny college baseball players in Texas. Like many of Linklater’s films, all the way back to Slacker, it meanders and drifts, less interested in plot than in characters, situations, and moments. Linklater has billed the movie as a spiritual successor to his seventies paean, Dazed and Confused. In another way, it continues 2014’s Boyhood, which ends where Everybody picks up: in the first days of college.

Incoming freshman Jake (Blake Jenner) is a promising pitcher. He’s been placed in off-campus housing with the baseball team, a dubious administrative decision that leads to the first of many Animal House-style parties. We gradually meet the rest of the team: Upperclassman Finn and McReynolds are dismissive of freshmen in general and pitchers in particular. California transfer student Willoughby brings the dope and surfer wisdom. Niles, from Detroit, is an alpha dog who’s wound several twists too tight.

It’s so nice to be in the hands of a talented filmmaker like Linklater, who refuses to let his characters devolve into stereotypes. Just as in Dazed, the weird specifics of each cast member bounce off one another, generating authentic ensemble comedy. Everything that happens in the house, from playing ping-pong to smoking pot, becomes a competition. Ballplayers—what are you gonna do?

If the movie has an arc, it’s about the boys’ relentless pursuit of sex, an impulse Linklater treats as entirely natural and healthy. Going wherever the girls are, they roam like pack animals to the disco, the country bar, the punk show, and the theater party. In a rare moment of self-reflection, one jock observes, “Whenever we’re around baseball, all we talk about is girls. But whenever we’re around girls, all we talk about is baseball.”

Moments like this suggest the film’s quiet cleverness. On the surface, Everybody looks like a college comedy jammed with eighties nostalgia—Space Invaders, Devo, terrible mustaches. But there’s no toxic irony curdling it into a That ’80s Show-style burlesque. The movie’s primary colors are laughter, enthusiasm, and joy, and the dialogue is funny and revealing.

“I actually don’t think at all,” Finn says. “I just talk a lot.” That’s the trick, isn’t it? These are not thoughtful guys, but they live in the moment, and so does the film, in which Linklater reaffirms his place as our best chronicler of American Zen. Alright, alright, alright.

This article appeared in print with the headline “American Zen”

from Indy Week

When he’s locked in, Don Cheadle has more raw wattage than any other screen actor I can think of. He broke into the business in 1995 via the criminally underrated Denzel Washington noir Devil in a Blue Dress with an audition tape that has since become Hollywood legend. (Google it.)

milesMiles Ahead, the Miles Davis biopic Cheadle’s been shepherding for more than a decade, is a fascinating bookend to that audition tape. It’s his baby all the way—he co-writes, directs, and plays the title role—and it’s as much a testament to his journey through the Hollywood system as it is a tribute to Davis.

Miles Ahead announces Cheadle as a formidable filmmaker who’s not afraid to break rules. In fact, his biopic of the great jazz innovator isn’t really a biopic at all. It’s an impressionistic caper movie, largely fabricated, set during Davis’s fallow period in the late seventies, when he got serious about his drugs and stopped making music altogether.

Ewan McGregor costars as a Rolling Stone journalist who accompanies Davis on a mad, entirely fictional crusade to recover stolen master tapes, a structure in which Cheadle can weave his impressions of the man and his music. Biographical details are inserted in flashbacks and carefully constructed scenes that illuminate Davis’s creative genius and chaotic personal life. The crucial moments come in the spaces between the plot points.

Cheadle’s bold storytelling crescendos in a frenzied finale. A shootout at a boxing match shifts into a concert scene, with Davis playing trumpet in the bloodied ring. Time bends and folds; past and present flicker until only the violent beauty of Davis’s music remains. Cheadle’s performance is, as usual, superb—he nails Davis’s sinister, throaty rasp—and Emayatzy Corinealdi provides a critical counterpoint of sanity as Frances Taylor, Davis’s wife and muse.

Miles Ahead opens with a quote from Davis: “If you’re going to tell a story, come with some attitude, man.” The same line pops up at the end, too: Cheadle is giving us the key to unlocking his thrilling, unconventional film essay.

This article appeared in print with the headline “American Zen”

deadpool

from Indy Week 

With the irreverent action comedy Deadpool, Marvel Entertainment jumps headfirst into the hard-R end of the comic-book movie spectrum. The results are mixed. The good news is that the film is better than the trailers suggest—largely because the best jokes are far too filthy to put in general-audience previews.

The bad news is that the movie isn’t as clever as it thinks it is, and the essential shabbiness of the concept can’t be obscured. Deadpool is basically a wisecracking superhero movie, like Spider-Man, but with extended nudity, extreme gore, and lots of wink-nudge meta irony. Beneath the attitude is a strictly conventional, surprisingly formulaic comic book movie.

Ryan Reynolds headlines as our antihero, Wade Wilson, an amoral mercenary given to grim sarcasm and psychotic inner monologues. The gimmick—in the movie and the comic book source material—is that Deadpool knows he’s a fictional character. He addresses the camera directly and keeps up a running commentary on the story, alongside other self-aware characters. (His sidekick, played by T.J. Miller, observes: “We just had a fourth wall break inside a fourth wall break—that’s, like, sixteen walls.”)

Morena Baccarin occupies the dark-side Mary Jane slot as Wade’s girlfriend, Vanessa, a proverbial hooker with a heart of gold and the mouth of a drunken sailor. Their sex scenes, kinky indeed, are home to some of the movie’s better laughs. Ed Skrein is the villainous mad scientist Ajax, whose medical experiments have left Deadpool disfigured and virtually indestructible.

For the first forty-five minutes or so, director Tim Miller toggles between scenes of sadistic violence and dialogue built on profane sprints of pop-culture riffing. It gets pretty tiresome. But around the halfway point, an interesting thing happens. The script’s accelerating jokes, sight gags, and one-liners achieve some kind of terminal velocity. The comedy starts to click.

Reynolds delivers his bits with likability and deftness. He’s given plenty of material to work. Screenwriters Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick have jammed this thing to the gills with smart-ass references to other comic book franchises, Reynolds’s superhero history (Green Lantern), and random detritus ranging from the Spin Doctors to Liam Neeson.

The relentless meta jabbering doesn’t work all of the time, but it works enough of the time. I particularly liked the scene where Deadpool wonders why only two X-Men show up in his spinoff: “It’s like the studio couldn’t afford another character license.” But by the time the climactic battle rolls around—the underwhelming CGI destruction of a dry-docked aircraft carrier—the  movie has pretty much drained its comic fuel tank and exhausted its premise. Stymied by a conventional structure, it never quite grasps the anarchy it’s reaching for. You can’t play by the rules and break them at the same time.

Finest Hours

from Indy Week 

On February 18, 1952, a massive nor’easter crashed upon the New England coastline with colossal waves and gale-force winds. The storm was so powerful that not one buttwo massive oil tankers split in half off the coast of Cape Cod.

With four separate floating husks in the water—and four potential rescue situations—the local Coast Guard was stretched dangerously thin. The circumstances ultimately led four very brave men to pilot a ridiculously small boat into a ridiculously big storm.

That’s the set-up for Disney’s real-life seagoing drama, which delivers astounding visuals wrapped in unapologetic hokeyness. The Finest Hours isn’t just set in 1952, it also feels like it was made in 1952. It’s corny and square and actually quite fun.

Chris Pine headlines as Coast Guard greenhorn Bernie Webber, a man so passionate about following rules that he asks his commanding officer for permission to get married. Bernie’s fiancée is Miriam (Holliday Grainger), and the first twenty minutes of the movie are dedicated to establishing their romantic framing story. These are the kinds of scenes that fast-forward buttons were made for.

The real action begins when Bernie and three other Coast Guard rookies steer a very small lifeboat into the maw of the storm to investigate the fate of the oil tanker Pendleton. The massive sea swells threaten to swallow the little boat, and this is where the film’s digital effects artisans start delivering the goods.

Hours is one of the very rare films where 3-D works the way it’s supposed to. We’re put in the middle of that terrible storm, pitching and yawing and looking up to see mountainous waves crashing down. It’s such a pleasure when digital wizardry is properly deployed.

Meanwhile, on the half of the Pendleton that’s still floating, chief engineer Ray Sybert (Casey Affleck) leads a group of survivors who are desperately trying to patch up the ship until help arrives. Affleck gives a smart, understated performance. He’s the most interesting guy in the picture.

Director Craig Gillespie crosscuts between the two crews, with occasional glimpses back to shore, until the big rescue scene arrives. He never manages to create anything truly cinematic, which is a shame, because he’s got a hell of a story to work with. Instead, he relies on the film’s insistent musical score to generate emotional effects he can’t conjure otherwise. If you’re unsure what you’re supposed to be feeling in a given scene, don’t worry. The music will beat it into you.

Overall, The Finest Hours is a slight bit of moviemaking, but those immersive digital effects really do lend some weight. The money shots of rogue waves and listing ships trump similar scenes from the film’s most obvious predecessor, The Perfect Storm. It’s fun, family-friendly and utterly inoffensive—Disneyfied disaster porn, with all the sharp parts sanded down.

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