Owsler's blog

That's Seven Pounds I'm Never Getting Back

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It’s not often you hate a film before even seeing a single frame of footage, but the trailers to ‘Seven Pounds’ have already done an impressive job of outlining its horrible pretensions. But then what can you expect from the director and star of the equally rote ‘Pursuit of Happyness’ (even the bloody title pukes cute into your eyes), the film operating on an emotional level normally occupied by people who would decorate a cubbyhole in old Hallmark cards big spaniel ear shaped tears rolling down their rosy cheeks as they recall the loving messages contained inside each one. In other words it’s abhorrent.

It would be wrong to spoil too much of the story’s plot and thereby prevent anyone from reveling in its emotional intricacy, suffice it to say, Will Smith plays Ben Thomas, once an engineer, now a man racked by some terrible guilt and working as an IRS officer cum Samaritan. He spends his days flicking between bouts of interior redesign, read, smashing chairs in fine displays of emotional paucity, and touching the lives of an impressively diverse cast of characters including the blind, vegan beef selling piano player Ezra (Woody Harrelson- wasted); the dialysis imprisoned steward of Latino ice hockey players George (Bill Smitrovich- wasted); Emily (Rosario Dawson- I’ll get to her), the woman whose heart is defective in more ways than one and a Latino woman suffering domestic violence and blessed with angelic children (I don’t care, but she’s wasted too).

Don’t get me wrong, he touches others as well, including his brother, the only blessing bestowed on him being playing the part of a plot device at a critical point in the movie. Yes, he’s annoying, ‘Ima gonna ruin a moment of happyness by throwing in a revelation that changes your perception of the main character irrevocably. That is, if you actually hadn’t already worked it out or b) had given up caring’ man. Finally, there’s Ben’s best friend Dan (Barry Pepper- you guessed it: wasted!), a lawyer who is entrusted with some cryptic task that causes him to repeatedly break down uncontrollably. Certainly someone you’d want to trust with that case that could put you away for life.

But fortunately, director Gabriele Muccino doesn’t want you spend too long with these fascinating people. Oh no, that’d just reveal the astonishing lack of depth to any of them, each a few, quick strokes of quirk, our interest in them driven by the amount of sorrow, pain or suffering the story has inflicted on them. Instead, Muccino seems to regress to student preoccupation in his craft. Where every single interesting camera flourish or remotely clever editing technique equals storytelling gold. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the slow pan past bathroom doorways that screams moody, the intriguing out of focus shot, audio distortion, dreams cut into dreams and windscreen wipers that sound like a heartbeat; each of these are in play to ensure the structure of the movie is all kooky and mysterious.

And honestly, for a few moments it’s almost intriguing. But just for those few moments because as soon as the dalliance between Ben and Emily gets a little serious, and they’re sharing bucolic moments in a golden field, swapping deliciously creaky platitudes about living life to the fullest, the film practically turns off that one vaguely interesting feature and comes out of the Hallmark closest like a juggernaut.

If it wasn’t bad enough that the extended scenes between the pair lets slip the absurd twist that caps the movie, they let you realise how bad an actor Will Smith can be. He’s emoting here on an infantile level, scrunching his face up and wrinkling his nose like a skinny teddy bear with allergies. Love me it says, I’m a tortured soul with an unbearable secret that’s only really painful to you, the audience, when you realise how implausible it all is. Comparatively, Rosario Dawson as Emily gives a beautifully measured performance, doing her best to elevate each of her lines and battling admirably against some bizarre handheld camera scenes she shares with Will.

Unfortunately, she too is wasted with the rest, and once the truth behind Ben’s trauma is revealed all the audience can do is wince as one of the most laughably awful sequences involving a bath of cold ice and a box jellyfish is unravels onscreen to the accompaniment of the hysterical soundtrack. Not only is it ridiculous and seemingly yet another quirk that seems to take the place of actual insight, it shows up the film for the vanity project it truly is.

It’s short it’s Oscar bait, and because it’s Oscar bait, and not a film made solely to enrapture and entertain, Will Smith and his cronies forget how to bring all the disconnected elements together to make all this sacrifice meaningful. It’s up to the director to act as frenzied shepherd, herding all the characters we’d forgotten about, Harrelson’s Ezra specifically, back into the story pen while Ben thrashes about like a beatific, yet Parkinson afflicted Muhammad Ali. And that’s what you’re left with really. A reminder of far better work from Will Smith rather than the sad trap of rampant egoism that he appears to have become snared by.

Defiance Falls to Its Own Worthiness

 

 

 

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Edward Zwick like most directors is a sculptor, paring down a story until, standing before him, is its essence.  Unfortunately, rather than the fine tools most artisans would have on their work bench, Zwick is swinging a sledgehammer and hoping like hell that he doesn’t lose anything important in the process. 

 

His latest film Defiance opens on grainy footage depicting the Nazi invasion of Belarus and the extermination that followed it; painting a familiar picture of the Jewish people as a harried, oppressed minority, beaten into submission by an unstoppable evil.

That is until we fade from black and white to colour and the reunion of the Bielski brothers, Tuvia (Daniel Craig), Zus (Liev Schreiber) and Asael (Jamie Bell) after the murder of their parents by an SS death squad. It is at this moment that we realize what attracted Zwick to the story in the first place.

While these brothers are sallow-skinned and hollow-eyed they are not like the cowering masses we saw in the footage. They are angry and committed to survival and after disappearing into the forest, set their minds to doing just that. It’s an interesting twist and so it’s almost a shame then that parallels can be drawn with the far superior ‘Glory’, Zwick’s Oscar winning tale of another oppressed minority fighting for their country in the face of great prejudice and seemingly for little reward.

What’s most disappointing about Defiance is that it takes a similar foundation, in this case, the solidarity of the Jewish community that forms around the Bielski brothers and their forest sanctuary, but ditches the potential central conflict for portentous symbolism and sledgehammer subtlety.

The Bielski’s are from rough, working class stock and yet for some inexplicable reason they not only protect and feed the first groups of fleeing Jews, they seek out more at Ghettos marked for liquidation. Though the heart strings are plucked by the procession shots of Jews being lead to relative freedom accompanied by a forlorn violin, a number of the people they save are such arrogant, preening individuals that you really wonder why they bothered. In fact Zwick litters the film with pointless moments for two intellectuals who are either berating Tuvia about God and his responsibility to his people or discussing topics of such mundanity that you’re literally willing them to get pegged by the Germans.

There’s an intriguing class issue here that is barely picked up on and while there is initial friction between Tuvia and Zus over why they should risk life and limb for those who would normally shun them, the scenes are so throwaway and repetitive to be insulting. It comes as little surprise when Zus joins up with the Russian partisan force shortly after, his character the only one with any semblance of depth and his criticism the one thing that shows how superficial the film really is.

And with his departure so goes the hero of the story; the increasingly mechanical script leaving us with the twin tediums of Tuvia and Asael, brought together by their refusal to commit to an accent and their one-dimensionality. Pity poor Daniel Craig as he’s saddled with upteen allusions to Moses and the Messiah either clutching a tree branch staff or sermonizing from a crisp white horse like a Belarusian Aragorn. Bell fares far worse as a wimpish marker for a crushingly unsubtle sequence juxtaposing a marriage in the seemingly Edenic forest with a partisan raid. They’re little more than mouthpieces for corny romance and stock character moments.

By the climax it’s almost as if Zwick realizes his mistake and after discovering the Germans have pinpointed the position of the camp, Zus and his comrades are brought back with a horribly inept moment of epiphany like a crusading Jewish A-Team. Not only does the proceeding action feel horribly underplayed and horribly scored, it serves to further undermine Tuvia as even Asael gets to do some soldiery and give yet another stirring speech.

As the film fades to black and fills in the remaining years of the Bielski brothers, you flash back to an earlier moment where Tuvia, stricken by typhus and facing insurrection in the camp, executes one of the ringleaders. It’s brutal, and shocking and hints at a far more complex character and film than this prosaic Robin Hood and His Not So Merry Men take on hokey heroism that chokes on its own worthiness and marks out Zwick as little more than Michael Bay on Valium.

Slumdog Almost Top Dog

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Slumdog Millionaire is in a rather interesting position coming as it does off a wave of rave reviews from the US press and ending the year not only at the top of many Best of Year lists, but with a slew of award nominations under its belt. It now moves to the UK, a new year and with such a burden of expectation on this underdog story about love, life and persecution in poverty stricken Mumbai that one might expect a chillier reception from this country’s more cynical critics.

Well with the popular home grown talent of such interesting oddities as dark comedy ‘Shallow Grave’, the cult film ‘Trainspotting’, zombie horror ’28 Days Later’ and recent apocalyptic sci-fi, ‘Sunshine’ it seems safe to say that the cup of praise will continue to overflow.

Danny Boyle is an intriguing director in that unlike many of his peers he’s not quite managed the success his talents so clearly deserve. He’s either continually underestimated or cursed by an almost X-Factorian nonchalance, with critics assuming his success will be ensured by someone else down the line.

Unfortunately this hasn’t quite been the case which is rather baffling when you consider the fact he shows with each film, as he does so brilliantly with this one, an almost prodigious grasp of genre; mixing it up like a new Howard Hawks and punctuating everything with his kinetic visuals and moments of violence that never feel gratuitous, only meaningful.

In fact with one caveat it’s easy to say that Slumdog is Boyle’s most accomplished film to date; taking all of the things that make him such an exciting director and pushing the envelope further. You can see him completely immersing himself in another culture and a city’s energy and it feels like a perfect match. In fact, there’s a sense that this is not the only one the film has to offer.

There are two scenes in the movie that are of such technical and sensory power that you could almost end the film there and herald its success with the rest. Both the police chase through the Mumbai slums and the hijinks on a train moving through the striking Indian landscape crush together adrenalised imagery as the camera careers past the colour popping of green moss on river walls, golden sands and head wraps, multicoloured trash mountains and the contrast of crisp sky blue uniforms against earthy dyed rags.

Along with the composer A.R. Rahman both of these are scored by the fusion artist M.I.A, another huge talent that plays with genre, but this time musically and it’s a version of her track ‘Paper Planes’ that most plays on the ears. It all looks so damn confident and cool that you wish everything that follows and mixes in with these moments could be as good, and it very nearly is.

Interestingly, the problem has already been noted by M.I.A herself. In a recent interview she comments on an initial wish that Boyle had kept greater distance from the more traditional Bollywood elements and while Boyle wanted to appeal to both East and West, it’s the ending where this wish proves possibly to be a mistake.

Up until this point he uses a flashback structure to juxtapose the gritty reality of our hero Jamal’s childhood with the more fairytale aspects of his current position on the Indian version of ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire’. How he got there is the thrust of the movie, suffice it to say that it takes memories as breadcrumbs approach with pivotal events like a song he is forced to sing when forced to work as a beggar giving him the answers to the show’s questions.

It’s a brilliant concept and it allows Boyle to parody some of the sentimental and more escapist parts of the Bollywood aesthetic like the movement of a hand that might have been made to do something vile or a dance of great joy and love that very nearly precedes a horrific scarring. Each of these moments are ably supported by the great casting, most especially by the child actors who while not having the recognition of the older Skins actor, Dev Patel, capture both the terror and exuberant spirit of life in Mumbai.

Unfortunately, while this balance between the fantasy and the reality is maintained so brilliantly for 99% of the film’s running time, the moment the fantasy slips into reality is where the film falls apart. While you have to admire the romance of a contest phone call being used to swap faltering words of love rather than to win a quiz, every moment after that is like a jarring hammer blow against the precision filmmaking.

Not only is the death of a key character hijacked with a horribly obvious metaphor about money being the root of evil, the actual reunion of the two main characters, the very bloody thing the audience has been hoping will happen throughout the film, is completely vomited on firstly by some turgid guff about destiny, a concept we’d already got in a far more subtle way earlier in the film, and then a dance sequence that just feels tacked on.

It’s everything terrible about Bollywood and while it doesn’t completely scupper it, and to some will be a clever riff on that genre, it feels like a horribly amateurish cap to a far cleverer and quite frankly, downright fantastic movie.

Quantum of Solace

Hey, wasn’t Casino Royale good. An accomplished reboot of a stale, campy franchise that managed to retain enough of the humour, sex, and spectacle from the classic Bonds while introducing a new, grittier, more grounded 007 in the crystal blue and granite shape of Daniel Craig.

I say again, wasn’t Casino Royale good. Yeah, keep reminding yourself of that because at no point in the 106 confused minutes of this now unsubtle homage to the infinitely better Bourne franchise will you find one iota of the fun you had with the previous film.

Now on the surface this isn’t particularly fair, the filmmakers clearly positioning Quantum as an extended, and very brutal epilogue to Casino and thematically the structure makes sense. In essence it’s a bloody final act of revenge, driven with blunt force trauma. In a perfect world this would all have worked. Unfortunately as two separate films, it doesn’t.

Ignoring the fact that some of the less cerebral audience members will have forgotten most of the important plot details and characters from the first film, there’s still a chance they could have made this work if they’d only carried across the template from the first film. The action heavy nature of the revenge theme could have supported the plot, suffusing the myriad sequences with the same clever character details and plot elements as in Casino, unfortunately the template isn’t and so it can’t.

Instead of unique twists on staid scenarios it’s opening car chase followed by rooftop chase, then boat chase and oh look there’s a plane and so on, as per the pattern; cue the yawns. Not that the action is terrible, a savage fight in a Haiti and a tussle on ropes helps ease the pain caused by some of the miserable editing in other sequences, it’s just firstly a crushing disappointment from what we’ve come to expect and secondly a major stumbling block to our understanding of the film.

Potentially the introduction of Spect..I mean Quantum is one of the better franchise conformities. Unfortunately it demands a more epic storytelling approach which the few minutes between action sequences can’t provide. Instead of building towards a dramatic and exhilarating clash between Bond and his nemesis, one worthy of the wonderfully malignant Mathieu Almaric, we get a rather limp encounter that has little substance because we’re too dizzy from all the ‘strang und durm’ that precedes it. The fact they name this villain Greene actually mars the first film because while before Mr White felt like a cute affectation, now it feels part of some kitschy reprise of older, less successful Bond villains. And if you’re going to incorporate a more mysterious, global spanning organisation, why burden it with an ostensibly pedestrian motivation about water. It’s like they took the more grounded approach of Casino and drove it right into the earth.

In fact while the first film felt like a near perfect balance of old and new, this new film feels like a lazy, arrhythmic back and forth between elements of classic Bond and a mishandling of the best parts of the reboot. And what’s worse, when one or two of these older homages are better than the new stuff, you know you’re in trouble.

The best example of this being the difference between the two Bond girls. Strawberry Fields (a surprisingly mature performance from Gemma Arterton) is classic Bond, both in name and persona. She evinces just the right amount of flirtation and fun, acting as a contrast to the harsh, unmalleable force that is Bond. And even with the rather cheesy Goldfinger homage she not only brings much needed humour, but in her demise, also provides some much needed characterisation for Bond. Kurylenko’s Camille is the exact opposite; ice cold, and like Bond, driven by revenge. She is in short Bond’s double, and because of that feels utterly superfluous, simply a lazy reversal of the misogyny of previous Bonds, needing little help from Bond to complete her own personal mission.

Craig on the other hand is the one true beacon in this schizophrenic mire. Battling against a script that attempts to turn him into a soulless terminator, ignorant of friendship and devoid of emotion; a terrible Bond theme, more a commercial cacophony by two mismatched artists than an ode to the character; and finally ill judged direction from Mark Forster, whose constant bizarre crosscutting nearly turns the film into a farcical melodrama, Craig survives pretty much unscathed. He ends the film with poise and an intense charisma, a perfect mix of Connery, Brosnan and Dalton without feeling mere composite. Unfortunately he also leaves it relatively unchanged, but again the fault lies with the writers who seem more concerned with filling Bond’s mouth with even more of the clunky dialogue he suffered through in parts of the last film.

The script is just one of the many signs of renewed producer interference and if Broccoli and Wilson aren’t careful, just as with the Brosnan era (through no fault of his own) they’ll come close to finally putting the nail in Commander Bond’s coffin and eradicate what little grace this once again faltering franchise has left.

Mongol

Sergei Bodrov’s Mongol is a strange film. While it would be remiss to describe it as a PR exercise by way of mythic reconstruction, there is a sense that in uncovering the little heard story of Ghengis Khan (Temudjin as he is known here) the Younger, the writer-director-producer seeks to reposition the legendary scourge of 13th Century Central Asia as loyal husband, loving father and most importantly, just leader of the united Mongol tribes.

What’s interesting about the film is its refusal to wallow in the usual hyperbole of Hollywood biopics and while no doubt thrilling representations of history, films like Braveheart and Alexander are often weighted down by the egoism and familiarity of their lead actor. Less the star disappearing into their character, and more a case of the character disappearing into them.

With Mongol, it is the essence of the great Khan that shines through, both Odnyam Odsuren (showing impressive maturity as the young Temudjin), and celebrated Japanese actor Tadanobu Asano (as Temudjin the elder) embodying the man with a quiet nobility that feels wholly believable.

In fact as much as this is a movie filled with mythic resonance from the lightning representing the Mongol God Tangri that punctuates critical points in Temudjin’s life, the selection of his bride Borte, the graceful heart of this story, to the union of blood brothers and the tragic fracturing of these ties in the final battle, this feels more of a documentary at times than structured movie, unfolding episodically, with a natural repetition and showing in impressive detail how this spiritual people lived, warred and loved on this unforgiving, yet beautiful landscape.

And what a world it must have been and still is, in part, today. With just the right amount of computer trickery and fantastically conceived cinematography, the filmmakers have painted a forbidding, alien world. With vistas that could make David Lean weep, all the grass plains, cracked river beds, deserts and chilly mountain crags are on full view here and for that alone this film deserves high recommendation.

Like the great Westerns, environment is fused with character, and unlike the films mentioned above, loyalty is not so easily found amongst the people of the steppe. To be Khan is to also know how easily it can be taken away and as Temudjin’s father realises early in the film, there is a harsh reality that tempers the warm glow of movie cliché that even the best biopic suffers from.

Fortunately, while similarly flawed, Mongol more than once rises above the simplicity of the Quest and thrills us with a spirituality, connection with nature and downright rousing battle scenes of scything horsemen, bait and switch tactics and blood that makes you long for the sequels this film sets up.

Lars and the Real Girl

One of the bravest films I’ve been in years. If you’re willing to suspend belief long enough, there’s a beautifully directed tale of repression, loss and community, for you to fall in love with.

Framed by a brilliantly nuanced central performance from Ryan Gosling (such an impressive trajectory since his break out role in The Believer) this is a relatively simple story of a kind natured, yet painfully withdrawn young man called Lars (Gosling) living in the garage of his brother and sister-in-law’s home. On a whim, he orders a sex doll off the internet, falls in love with it and in the process causes a ripple effect that runs through the whole community in many shocking, yet meaningful ways.

If you can read that synopsis without rolling an eye you’re a better man than I, and on the surface there seems little doubt that this is a film ready to be scuppered by it’s own inherent absurdity. And yet, there’s such a delicate touch to everything that not only does it sell the weirdness, it makes it almost as normal as any tale of the rekindling of the human spirit. In the hands of director Craig Gillespie, the doll becomes a device to play through the emotions of the various characters in the story. And rather than it remain an inanimate object of disgust it becomes as real as any friend, partner or family member.

For Lars she is a conflation of his own anxiety about love, his mother, who died in child birth (his own), his relationship with his brother and the community as a whole. And through the slow unraveling of his delusion with the local doctor, Dagmar (the almostly saintly Patricia Clarkson) we see that beneath the sweet innocence that has made him so well liked in the town, there is a bundle of emotions that are almost too much for him to bear. Thanks to Gosling we never feel frustrated with the unhurried pace at which the film unfolds. His slow, stooped gait and twitchy mannerisms tell us enough without becoming too cloying. Lars feels oppressed by the very thing he wants so badly to express, love in all its forms. The almost overbearing affections of his sister-in-law, Karin (the delightfully chipper Emily Mortimer), the modest attentions of Margo at work (Kelli Garner), the monosyllabic efforts from his brother, Gus, and the love of the community as a whole with its constant, unsolicited advice.

And the doll unburdens Lars of this long enough for him to help himself. Karin taps into her maternal spirit, washing and caring for Bianca (as the doll is known) as if she were her own, Margo sees her as a way to get closer to Lars and competition for his affections, Gus is finally able to express the guilt he felt over leaving him alone after their mother’s death, and the community eventually embraces her as a new visitor, even giving her a place on school board, and invitations to parties. It’s a testament to the world that Gillespie has constructed here that what eventually happens to Bianca feels less a final playing out of Lars’ delusion and more a deeply affecting tragedy.

It’s a very impressive debut for both writer Nancy Oliver, who walks the fine line between sincerity and melodrama brilliantly adding in a telling comedic line where necessary for levity, and director Gillespie who adds a subtle poetry to the film, as it plays out over the seasons with winter’s seclusion eventually giving over to the thaw of spring as Gosling’s Lars gives up his delusion, unstiffens and presents a more assured face, ready to accept life again. Highly recommended.

Feast

I’m going to preface this by saying that as a Project Greenlight film this is far better than it probably has any right to be. That brave attempt by Damon and Affleck to give a little insight into the filmmaking experience while offering hope to struggling or promising talent flopped pretty hard on its first two attempts, but on strike three, they’re hitting with the right low budget credentials.

Firstly, it’s a horror, and from experience low budget breeds creativity. Secondly, it’s got comedy offering a little twist on the possibly stale genre staples. Smash the two together and potentially you’ve got a little commercial gem in the making.

Potentially.

The problem with Feast is it’s far too ‘clever’ for its own good. The plot itself is matchbook thin, there simply to keep a load of knowing clichés barricaded in a bar where they can be attacked by disgusting looking redneck monsters. Consequently there needs to be something to the script, the characters or the direction to keep you interested.

Well there’s certainly energy, director John Gulager zipping his camera about in an attempt to keep up with the mach 5 movements of his monsters. Unfortunately it makes it very difficult to keep track on what’s going on to the point where you’re letting the admittedly copious amounts of gore wash over you, working out who’s been mutilated and finally considering whether you care or not.

Unfortunately you don’t; Gulager more interested in spoofing the usual characters that populate these kinds of films than giving us someone to really empathise with. And while we should give some credit to Gulager for riffing on those horror clichés and attempting to try something new in an overly saturated market, horror fans are so inured to these clichés that they’re already way ahead on any subversion of them.

Once the admittedly humorous title cards with life expectancy included are out the way, we’re left with a list of reversals: Heroes actually die first? Yawn. Kids aren’t safe? Yawn. Asshole survives? Yawn. The shrewish single mum is actually Sigourney Weaver in disguise? Ok, enough, we get it. Unfortunately, even in horror hybrids audiences demand something we like to call, ‘tension’, and this film leans far too heavily on the comedy, tossing us any number of scenes designed to amuse rather than scare: Monster sex; interspecies sex; blond hottie getting repeatedly covered in blood and goo; Henry Rollins being used as a battering ram; monster cock stuck in door. The list goes on. And while many of these moments are funny, it’s a shame Gulager couldn’t bring a bit more danger to balance things out.

But this is being overly critical and much like Peter Jackson’s ‘Bad Taste’, ‘Feast’ is a fun film with enough verve in its 90 plus minutes to keep all but the most cynical horror fan happy. It’s just a shame there’s not more ‘Dereks’ to make this a true cult classic. Oh, and any film that climaxes with a shot fit for a classic Western gets a thumbs up from me.

Gone Baby Gone

Gripping tale of child abduction that exposes the deception at the heart of a Southie community before cutting you in half with the bitter sting of moral judgement.

More than anything this should be heralded as a stunning debut from first time director Ben Affleck. While his Oscar winning screenplay Good Will Hunting gave a rough charm to the Southie community in Boston, here he tears it down, exposing the hypocrisy and contempt for family and religious values that lies stagnating beneath the surface. Not uncommon themes, but brought vividly to life by the surprisingly accomplished direction. In fact, at no point does it feel the work of a newcomer. The flash and gimmicks one might expect are nowhere to be seen. Instead Affleck shows impressive restraint, concentrating instead on the mood and the authentic details both in setting, look and local dialect.

He is ably supported by a beautifully pitched performance from his brother Casey who went on to cement the potential here with his Oscar nominated role in Assassination. But one could say it is with this that the true masterstroke is made. His Patrick is a fascinating dichotomy; bruised nobility reinforced by a strong moral code, crossed by a simmering rage that speaks of a possible misspent youth. Casey plays it subtle, hinting at a power that belies his wiry frame. It’s truly magnetic work and embellished by his interaction with the no less impressive Michelle Monaghan as his partner in love and business. She’s a calming and one senses, a maturing influence and there’s a natural charm shared by the two whenever they’re onscreen. While beautiful, it’s a beauty that never detracts from a performance that lingers even when Monaghan is sidelined later in the film.

What’s heartbreakingly perfect about the film is that, like the classic film noirs, the tragedy to come is wrapped transparently. There to be seen if you’re paying attention. It can be seen in the early intuition of Monaghan's Angie, but doomed to be ignored by the innocent moral fortitude of our baby faced, sportswear casual PI. The same silent look shared between them then as they consider whether to take the abduction case, and at the end of the film bear different results, but both hang on what Patrick sees as the right moral decision. The decision many in the audience would come to. Affleck has constructed the classic PI trap, fooling you into thinking that the snaky plot is unfolding with relative ease; that he is not really being seduced by the grotesquely unfit mother (a brilliantly believable Amy Ryan) and that his confrontations with the gnarly police vet, Remy Bressant (the punchy Ed Harris) are won because of moral superiority when in fact it’s the shade of grey that both Angie understands and that the police shows that could be the true way.

The film climaxes on a moral quandary that is devastating in its consequences, recalling the sombre tone of Eastwood’s Mystic River which should come as no surprise, being that they come from the same pen of writer Dennis Lehane. However this feels like the more potent work simply because in his imperfections and his possibly Van Sant inspired observational eye, Affleck brings the grit and reality that slams the message home. One must hope that the same courage he evinces here remains in his future efforts, and that in his development as a director he doesn’t lose the natural touch that makes this film so damn affecting.

Hellboy 2: The Golden Army

For movie audiences this summer has been a bounty of blockbuster entertainment. The comic movie genre has matured into a potent mix of high action entertainment and surprisingly complex storylines with The Dark Knight, Iron Man and even the Incredible Hulk surpassing their supposedly shallow origins. With Hellboy 2: The Golden Army rounding things off, the question is, how good can it possibly get?

Well, Guillermo Del Toro comes frustratingly close to going out with a fanfare. The film begins with a rather beautiful stop motion intro that sets up the stories of Prince Nuada (Luke Goss), his sister, Princess Nuala, the war between humans and the world of magic which precipitates the rise of the unstoppable Golden Army, the obvious crux of this film. It’s almost a sly dig at the excess of film, showing the power in simple fairytales, something that’s always been a major draw of Del Toro’s films.

In his Spanish fantasies he embellishes the quest or fable with an attention to detail that is truly remarkable. It’s almost impossible not to love his films irrespective of whether you’re a stickler for a watertight structure. He’s a man of rich, ornate ideas and idiosyncrasies over restrictive plot mechanics. The devil is most definitely in the detail and it’s certainly true with this film, an eco-drama that fuses gorgeous fantasy, wit and thrilling action to almost complete success. In fact the film has enough imaginative flair to fill twenty films, the short time we spend in the Troll Market, a carnival of grotesqueries, filled with a myriad characters that all seem fully formed rather than mere background dressing, a lavish expression of this. It’s a loving tribute to the Cantina sequence from Star Wars and matches the wild eyed innocent wonder of his best films.

Taking all that into account, Hellboy is like the young heroes of Del Toro’s Spanish films: an innocent adrift in a world of things he does not yet understand; desperate for attention and affection. Orphaned, and fatherless like the children of Devils Backbone and Pan’s Labyrinth, he still feels the loss of Professor Bruttenholm from the first film and he seeks acceptance from both humans and his outlandish colleagues in the BRPD. Perlman breathes new life into an already vibrant character, even handling with aplomb the rather awkward, Hallmark ‘outcast’ subplot that should have stayed implicit.

In fact there’s a sense Del Toro would be happier if he could ditch the more obvious, commercial elements of the film entirely, and keep this a character piece. The best moments coming from the various interactions between the members of this Paranormal CSI. While Hellboy’s relationship with pyrotechnic Liz is doomed by a combination of his immaturity and a rather unfortunate flat performance by actress Selma Blair, it leaves room to expand on the lesser known Abe Sapien, now voiced by the actual actor Doug Jones, and also introduce a new character in Germanic spook Johann Krauss.

Sapien is both brother in arms and spirit to Hellboy and there’s romanticism to his character that makes him a more interesting proposition. There’s a sense that Del Toro knows this and litters the film with perfectly formed character moments that mark him out as confidant, leader, fighter and even romantic lead. His awkward, yet sweet, courting of Princess Nuala, a true highlight of the film, and one that is beautifully sold by Jones in an excellently restrained performance, and though her connection to her brother is one of the parts of the film that seems almost too deus ex machina, it certainly adds a tragic, bittersweet finish to Sapien’s arc.

Johann Krauss on the other hand is anything but subtle, but is all the more wonderful for it. Less a character, more a pure spike of cinematic smack; a wild enigma like the Joker in ‘The Dark Knight’. Barring, a hilarious moment between Hellboy and Sapien where they drunkenly carouse and belt out Barry Manilow, nearly every single other comedic moment comes from Krauss and the brilliant voice work of ‘Family Guy’ creator Seth MacFarlane. While Hellboy goes broad, it’s Krauss who offers a surprisingly adult wit, moving from the profane mangling of, ‘focused!’, to the physical comedy genius of the locker scene and topped by the ‘Allo, ‘Allo stylings of his mincing walk, belting out a kitschy Germanic number. He’s a sublime addition to the cast and the film’s a must see for MacFarlane’s efforts alone.

Unfortunately, where the film truly falters is in the character of Prince Nuada. Not for any wrongdoing on the part of Luke Goss who has been a welcome surprise since he first united with Del Toro back in ‘Blade 2’. He injects an impressive athleticism into his admittedly great action sequences and provides the necessary gravitas, mixing both the dark and light parts of this sympathetic character well. Indeed, while it might seem hypocritical to praise the complexity of a film that tries to see both sides of the villains story, and then criticise it for doing just that, it’s something I regretfully must do.

In trying to improve on the by the numbers villainy of the first film, Del Toro has removed much of the danger that the first threat posed. With all the power Nuada accrues in the first act of the film, he seems very short on allies; one henchman with a fist on a chain and a stampede of bartered for tooth fairies (rather minor after the Lovecraftian horrors of the first Hellboy) do not a real menace make. And although he causes one of the major setpieces of the film in the Forest Elemental attack, a very nice combination of action and environmental concern as its blood breeds lush new life with every drop, it’s the task of a plot device rather than a major character. Whenever the momentum falters, bring in Nuada to kickstart things, even if one of his entrances will be slightly deflated by the fact that two of his opponents appear to be pissed.

In fact, instead of building steadily to what should be a climactic battle, we get diversion after diversion, be it the schmaltz of Hellboy’s rejection by humanity, the comedy stylings of downtime at the BPRD and finally the admittedly stunning sequence of ancient cityscape and another hideous beauty for Doug Jones to play with in the Angel of Death (give those production designers and artists an Oscar already). Yes, it infuses the film with more weight in its exploration of a prophecy involving Hellboy, but it rather distracts from the confrontation to come.

In fairness the film has clearly been hampered by budgetary concerns, with a much more modest price tag attached than other films of its kind. Where there should be a horde for Nuada there is a lone search for a mechanical army that only really impresses you when it’s rebuilding the damage done by Hellboy rather than when its actually working (again, detail, gorgeous detail). It does offer yet another moment for Krauss to shine, using his ectoplasmic power to body hop and bring some Hulk smash to the BRPD’s enemies, and there’s the sly kick at governments and the power they crave and wield, but without a single enemy to offer a real challenge the film is left with less exhilaration and more poignancy, Goss impressing with his delivery of the line, ‘We die, and the world will be poorer for it’.

In short, the film is more a nostalgic look to ones childhood when your world was infused with magic, with stories of gobins, elves, ogres and fairyfolk and any failings of action was down to your own lack of imagination. Taking it like that and Hellboy 2 does nothing less than it should, and in that, it’s a huge and mesmerising success.

The Pineapple Express

Comedies are actually funny again. Truly, laugh out loud, snort because you can’t help it, funny. Imagine that, having a sudden realisation about the world while watching a film about slackers getting high. Weed breeds wisdom and while ‘The Pineapple Express’ isn’t anything revolutionary, it’s further sign that Apatow, Rogen and their growing troupe are revitalising the genre to wonderful effect.

As the twin evils of the Farelly Brothers and Adam Sandler continue to cloud your mind with their insipid, infantile and overly sentimental dross, Rogen and his ‘Superbad’ writing partner, Evan Goldberg re-team to script a tale of Dale (Rogen), a process server who’s enjoying the simple pleasures of smoking pot and dating a high school chick. After witnessing a murder committed by the local drug kingpin (Cole), he goes on the lam with his wigged out dealer Saul (Franco). Meanwhile a pair of hit men (Corrigan and Robinson) uses a ditched roach to track them down through the eponymous Pineapple Express and Saul’s supplier Red (McBride).

What’s great about this movie is that while ostensibly a comedy, like ‘Superbad’, it fuses genres. While that film mixed coming of age angst with bawdy teen hijinks, Pineapple takes the baked humour of stoner flicks and cleverly integrates the elements of action cinema. Instead of simply paying homage to these genres, they actually manage to make a fully fledged entry, and what an entry it is. From that perspective it’s no surprise that David Gordon Green is at the helm, injecting a charming lyricism and observational weight to proceedings. He even pokes fun at his own work with an odd jaunt in the forest that ends up with Saul trying to get a caterpillar high.

While some might prefer a more restrained, tighter hand in charge, the unashamedly loose structure, full of amusing diversions is just as a satisfying smoking session should be. This is spliff-riff filmmaking with a hilarious high. It’s a real joy to count off the references to the ramped up movies of the 80s, with the overblown action and bromo-eroticism of the ‘Lethal Weapon’ series and the grit and snipe partnership from ‘Midnight Run’. Whether it’s the car chase with its inspired foot through the windscreen and sly nod to the fly-by in ‘Top Gun’, the inventive (dustbuster to the face) and surprisingly gritty fight at Red’s house or the McTiernan inspired hyper-violence of the final shoot-out this is a film that juggles the dramatic elements effortlessly and with mesmerising results.

As for the comedy, it’s all in the performances. Rogen as Dale is the ostensible lead, but he’s playing the straight man here. Still very funny and full of charm in a roly-poly kind of way, but happy to take a step back and push the true stars to the fore. It’s Franco as Saul and McBride as Red that steal the picture, Franco with a performance of such humanity that it raises the movie up even higher. Sure at first glance he's frustratingly addled, but it doesn't turn into a rote 'Cheech & Chong' interpretation of a stoner. Instead he embellishes the role with a dopey sweetness that’s never cloying, in fact it's endearing. There’s an almost Chaplin-esque nature to his work, seen most clearly in the physical comedy moments near the end of the film where, forgetting his hand should be securely tied behind his back, he brings it up to cover a cough. A natural actor, it’s great to see him return to the quality he showed in Apatow’s ‘Freaks and Geeks’.

McBride’s Red on the other hand is all out magnetism. Like Ferrell before he got diluted by fame, his expansive non-sequiturs, and superb improvisation bring an added charge to the film. He’s that chaos element that gives you a trifecta of comedy goodness. It’s also impressive that in a film brimful of sharp one-liners it’s McBride that has the best material, whether he’s pointing out the guns he owned as a male prostitute, “Thug life!”, or spitting out, “You just got killed by a Daewoo Lanos!” to a crushed bad guy. This is a star in ascendancy.

Wrapping up the film is a neat scene in a diner that not only pokes final fun at the join the dots mentality of filmmaking, it also recalls the fun of any post film pub discussion, as the trio summarises the best bits of their story, and proves, like Superbad, what a tremendous heart the film has. Because you’ve warmed to the convincing characters you’ve become more receptive to the laughs, a truth much overlooked in comedies, and in fact movies as a whole, today. Aren’t the best films the one where the actors are having the most fun?