The Good Graces of Miss Cleo’s Library: A Musical Foursome

Nothin’ more powerful than the collision of two awesome ladies, and I just happened to luck out by being the recipient of their collective choosins.  Because my intellectual curiosities can likely never be silenced or sated, I reached out for some musicals.  I’m sure I’ve said it before, but the genre has never really been my bag, aside from the animated romps Walt Disney used to feed us.  In order to edify myself, I reached out to Misses Cleo and Grace for their recommendations, and the result this time ’round was a set of four, all from Miss Cleo’s shelves, but two of them also came from the list compiled by the Good Miss Grace.  Gotta love it when the Venn center works so cleanly, eh?

We begin our tune-filled odyssey with Julie Taymor’s Across the Universe.

Staged as a jukebox musical comprised entirely of Beatles songs, the film tells the tale of a Liverpudlian expat (a reference to John Lennon) in the States looking for his father, finding love, and getting caught up in the craziness that was the late ’60s.

What surprised me most here was the singing acumen of pretty much everyone involved, especially leads Jim Sturgess (who I found out after watching actually has a professional singing career) and Evan Rachel Wood.  Unlike plenty of other cinematic musicals, there’s pretty much no spot where some unskilled singer mars the proceedings (*cough*RyanGosling*cough*), allowing the already classic songs to take proper flight.

Thing is, though, many of the songs seem even more shoe-horned-in than others (yeah, nearly all of them seem forced into the narrative for the sake of maintaining the musical aesthetic, but some actually work), occasionally killing the narrative flow.  The biggest offender here is “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!”, a surreal circus-based romp with an out-of-nowhere (and never-to-be-seen-again) Eddie Izzard that serves no purpose but to let Taymor cut loose a bit with her trademark stylistic flourishes.

And it’s Taymor that looks to have let me down the most here.  Quite a few sequences feature some flashy colors and interesting choreography, but many of them suffer from odd camera placement and framing that cut most of the visual aspects off, robbing the audience of any potential enjoyment therefrom.  For example, “I Want to Hold Your Hand” features some visually enticing moves from cheerleaders and athletes, but they’re almost completely wiped away by the camera’s focus on T. V. Carpio’s Prudence as she walks across a field and into the distance.  It made me wonder why they even bothered choreographing things so well if they weren’t gonna show us the end product.  Moreover, Taymor’s usual blending and injecting of styles (just watch Titus and you’ll get an idea) isn’t allowed to breathe as much as one might expect, with conventional staging and visuals usually taking precedence.  The few spots where her usual stylistics show up are relatively few and far between and often tend toward the overall meaningless.

Still, not everything is as dark as all that.  “With a Little Help from My Friends” includes not just the Beatles’ take, but also Joe Cocker’s, a nice little touch.  (Plus, Cocker shows up later to contribute to “Come Together”.)  Dana Fuchs, cast pretty much entirely due to Taymor taking a liking to her, works well as a Janis Joplin analog, letting her throaty voice rip in “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road” and “Helter Skelter”.  And two of the tracks feature some Taymor goodness and quality performances from Joe Anderson: “Happiness Is a Warm Gun” takes a song I was hitherto only marginally familiar with and made it one of the standouts of the whole show (complete with nurses played by Salma Hayek, who, being offered the role of a nurse, rejoined Taymor with “Only one?”), and “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” brings a full salvo of surrealism and cinematic visual appeal to smack us all in the face in the best way, while simultaneously communicating the oppressive nature of the draft and the harsh conformity of the military.

The acting was mostly solid (though I still don’t buy Sturgess as a leading man), the script is fine, and the overall feel just plain works.  Sure, there are spots where I felt the songs just showed up to be songs in a musical, but the atmosphere is fun, and it’s hard to fully miss when you hedge your bets with the Beatles.  Not a bad start to this quad-feature, really.

We move on to Evita.

Oh, we’ve got a doozy here.  Like Phantom way back when, this is an adaptation of an Andrew Lloyd Webber stage show, with lyrics by Lion King writer Tim Rice.  (Funnily enough, Oliver Stone is given a writing credit, as he had had his heart set on making a film on the same subject matter, but he didn’t actually contribute to the script at all.)  The story follows the rise of Eva Duarte, an aspiring actress who wound up marrying Juan Peron, soon-to-be president of Argentina.  Not just the ego-stroke I imagined it to be, the film actually lets some dirt remain on Eva’s shoulders, portraying her early days as a steady climb up the social and professional ladders, each rung corresponding to a romantic/sexual conquest with convenient perquisites.  When in power, she’s shown as a philanthropist, a socialist entrepreneur of sorts, backing charities and funds and whatnot, though she’s never above reproach: calls of “whore” and accusations of figureheading.  Still, there’s plenty of adulation to go around, especially following her untimely death at the merciless hands of uterine cancer, basically ensuring her martyric enshrinement amongst the Argentine masses.

So, I’m gonna dispense with any discussion of historical/historiographical accuracy, as my knowledge of twentieth-century South American politics is pretty damn shallow.  I will say that Eva Peron remains a cultural touchstone in Argentina, with enough belovedness to make Madonna’s casting cause a minor stir there.  In fact, Madonna had to persuade the filmmakers to cast her via a long letter comparing her rise to fame with Eva’s.  Her casting also resulted in the music’s keys being lowered to suit Madonna’s somewhat limited vocal range, thus altering the sound from its original state.

As far as acting goes, Madonna probably had by far her best role here and delivered a performance to match.  Her facial expressions are great, her moods appropriate, and her singing is mostly damn fine.  The strangely-cast Jonathan Pryce, not known for his pipes, actually holds his own here against the pop star, though he’s hardly memorable.  Antonio Banderas similarly rises to the occasion, the only lead performer to actually sport an accent close to Argentine.  His performance here makes me scoff at those who would later bemoan his initial casting as Erik in Phantom.

Despite these performances, though, the film as a whole didn’t do much for me.  Much of this stems from Webber’s influence, but we’ll get to that momentarily.  I think much of my problem here beside had to do with the cinematography.  Y’see, everything has this veneer of dust on it, a layer of gray-brown that never subsides, never lets the underlying colors reach the heights the sounds do.  This is Latin America, dammit, let the colors sing!  This is all the more unfathomable considering the DoP is Darius Khondji, a veteran who’s worked with David Fincher (Seven, Panic Room), Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Delicatessen, The City of Lost Children, Alien: Resurrection), and has done stunning work on My Blueberry Nights, The Lost City of Z, and even Lady GaGa’s video for “Marry the Night” (possibly my favorite song of hers, by the by).  All of this makes it all the more astonishing to me that, of all of his films, Evita was the one to net him quite a bit of hardware and nods, including an Oscar nomination.  The mind boggles.

But not as much as when it tries to rationalize the decisions made by Webber.  Like in Phantom, he begins things with a jarring blare, this time not with an organ but an electric guitar riff (kinda similar to the one that nearly made the song “The Phantom of the Opera” top over due to silliness).  This sonic boom, decidedly Guile-less (tee-hee), rolls into a sordid assortment of musical styles that just plain don’t work together.  There’s rock, tango, ballad, soft jazz, even generic showtunes; only occasionally do things actually reflect the Latin American surroundings.  Then there’s the decision to have nearly no spoken dialogue.  In other cases, this would be fine, but here, plenty of things just don’t work, like the line regarding Eva’s distaste for the middle classes (which is just a garbage line in general, but it’s made all the worse with the forced “tune”).  Sure, this is a remnant of the musical’s origins as a concept album in the ’70s, but still.  This also bleeds into another issue, that of repetition.  Quite a few melodies and themes are recycled throughout the show (namely that of “Oh, What a Circus” and “Buenos Aires”).  This isn’t always an issue, especially when motifs are linked in this manner, but here it just reeks of laziness and recycling.  And then there’s the little things:  Some spurts of bombastic instrumentation (a Webber hallmark, it would seem) drown out the singing, large choruses make lyrics hard to understand, and the perennial chant of “Peron!  Peron!” just kept reminding me of an impending Jaws attack in the choral sea.

If pressed, I’d have to say the highlight of the film for me was “Goodnight and Thank You”.  The song encapsulates Eva’s rise via romantic convenience by trotting out beau after beau and routinely kicking them to the curb in turn.  It’s jaunty, it fits the necessarily montage nature of the scene, and shows character without pausing action and over-expositing.  Take notes, other numbers, especially those featuring Banderas’ omnipresent Che, which wind up just telling us what’s happening flat out.

This film just wasn’t for me.  I can’t call it out-and-out bad, just underwhelming.  For better, slightly more insightful takes on it given their respective relative expertise with the genre and material, see the following videos from Paw Dugan and Todd in the Shadows:

From one staging of problematic history to another, we move along to Hairspray.  But, before I went into the musical version from 2007, I wanted to see where things began, so I first tackled John Waters’s original from 1988.

Set in 1962 Baltimore, the story follows “pleasantly plump” Tracy Turnblad as she endeavors to find happiness on a popular local dance show (think American Bandstand).  Once there, she finds true love, runs afoul of a rival dancer, and gets embroiled in the hotly-simmering race politics of the era.

It’s a surprisingly fun and breezy little picture, though the music is entirely done by real-life bands, not in-universe characters (save one number by a phony band).  Plenty of period dances populate the proceedings, including the Mashed Potato, the Twist, and Limbo Rock (gotta love that Chubby Checker, folks).  The signature brand of kitsch Waters is known for is dripping from the rafters here, with only minor smatterings of the surreality that underline Pink Flamingos and even Cry Baby.  Instead, this is a straighter take on the latter with a focus on race relations and acceptance through music.

The cast is superb: Ricki Lake shines as Tracy; her parents, played by Jerry Stiller and Divine (who also pulls double duty as the television exec), are surprisingly not all that obnoxious, but rather funny and even heartfelt; Colleen Fitzpatrick (you may know her better by her future sobriquet Vitamin C) pulls some heavy bitchy lifting as Tracy’s rival Amber von Tussle, and her parents, played by Sonny Bono and Debbie Harry, provide some comically mustache-twisting stage-mom-style support; hell even bit beatnik parts are well-delivered by Ric Ocasek and Pia Zadora.  Waters himself makes a cameo as a psychiatrist pulled in to “treat” Tracy’s best friend Penny’s affinity for black folks.

Things don’t stand quite as rosy nineteen years later, though…

Now, this isn’t just a musical remake of the Waters picture.  Like The Producers before it, Hairspray found itself adapted to the Broadway stage, by the same team that brought us the Catch Me If You Can adaptation.  From there, the show was then adapted to the screen under the direction of studio hack Adam Shankman, whose previous credits include Cheaper by the Dozen 2, The Pacifier, Bedtime Stories, and a few episodes of Glee.

On the surface, the casting seemed mostly spot-on: no problems with Michelle Pfeiffer replacing Debbie Harry, Christopher Walken replacing Jerry Stiller, Elijah Kelley replacing Clayton Prince as Penny’s beau Seaweed, Zac Efron replacing Michael St. Gerard (of course that’s his name!) as Tracy’s beau, or Allison Janney replacing Joann Havrilla as Penny’s overbearing mother.  Further, Brittany Snow seemed like the perfect replacement for Vitamin C, and ostensibly Amanda Bynes looked perfect for the new Penny.  James Marsden as the new Corny Collins, the host of the dance show, left me lukewarm, but that’s just me being generally lukewarm on the guy (I know, I should stop), and I knew nothing of Nicki Blonski, the new Tracy, so I just waited to see.  The biggest red flag was John Travolta replacing Divine, and, boy-howdy, did that red flag fly true!

Travolta is at his most obnoxious and least likeable here, even with Battlefield Earth and Moment by Moment entering into the calculus.  His nigh-Minnesotan affectation set amidst a poorly up-pitched voice grate with every line, and his attempts at being “womanly” make me wanna apologize to both the entire female gender and the entire drag community.  Divine brought some campy personality to the role; Travolta played up the drag joke without actually trying to be a good character.

Beyond that gaping black hole, the film suffers from a number of other setbacks.  First, it serves as an example of how not to write musical numbers, leaning on show-halting exposition or needless padding.  For example, like many musicals, this one chooses to begin with a setting-the-stage song, in this case “Good Morning Baltimore”, that serves no purpose but to kick things off with music.  It doesn’t tell us much of anything, save that Tracy is a sunny person and that she lives in Baltimore.  Similar pointlessness can be found in “It’s Hairspray” and “Ladies’ Choice”.  Second, there were some massive changes made to the original that don’t make much sense to me.  Amber’s father is written out altogether (take that, Sonny!), and, strangely, her mother is made producer of the Corny Collins Show (take that, Mink Stole…I guess…).  This needlessly expands the character’s antagonistic role, one that now even involves her trying to break up the Turnblads’ marriage in order to stick it to Tracy.  Penny, meanwhile, is robbed of any of her character, leaving her a strangely animate husk.  Granted, her character wasn’t much, relegated to a slightly ditzy sidekick for Tracy, but she had some personality.  You’d think casting Bynes for the role would continue this, what with her work on All That and The Amanda Show (not to mention the fact that she’s sorta/kinda actually crazy), but instead she’s pushed even further into the background.  Hell, even changing her candy of choice from fireball (or sourball, it’s hard to tell) to sucker doesn’t work, betraying her usual compulsive oral fixation for something rather mundane.  Her mother is also oddly kept quiet and boring, leaving Allison Janney with almost nothing to do, despite the fact that two decades ago she was trying to hypnotize and place her daughter into a straight jacket just for fraternizing with the black folks.  Events are shifted in the timeline or taken out altogether, and the overall feel of the piece is completely changed from the original, leaving behind the fun kitsch for an overblown schtick that just doesn’t work on-screen, much like the aforementioned screen adaptation of the Producers Broadway show.  Finally, the direction and choreography are dull and uninteresting, exactly what you’d expect from a hack like Shankman.  Sure, Waters cameos here, but his vision is far afield from what’s been done here, sadly.

For a bit of positivity, I liked “Welcome to the Sixties”, which took a minor line from the original and stretched it into a character-building musical number that actually worked.

Honestly, though, this film irked me throughout, and had I not been pulled away to do something I would’ve finished it, albeit in minor distress.  It hurt to watch, and I wasn’t even familiar with the source material until just before viewing it.  I can only imagine how die-hard fans of the Waters film felt about this one…

But we shan’t tarry on imagining long, ’cause we’ve gotta sing in the rain, kids!

I know, I know, how have I not yet seen Singin’ in the Rain?  I’ve seen the iconic scene from A Clockwork Orange, though I know that don’t count.  I’ve also seen plenty of documentaries and list shows dangle Gene Kelly from a lamppost, but the context has always eluded me.  Until now.

The story here centers on silent actors Gene Kelly and Jean Hagen, a team/item not unlike Bogie and Bacall back in the day.  It seems their industry is changing, shifting from silence to sound, and they need to adapt.  Aw gee, though, Hagen’s got a terrible voice and affectation, it just doesn’t go with the medium at all.  Luckily, Kelly has run afoul of Debbie Reynolds, a young actress looking to make it big with a strong voice and plenty of chutzpah.  They contrive a plan to sync Debbie’s voice with Hagen’s acting, but things don’t quite go according to plan.

Honestly, I don’t have much to say here.  This thing is just fun and entertaining in general.  Now, there’s the usual sappy song and overlong dance number, but I take those as hazards of the time and genre, and there aren’t too many here.  For me, the standout number – and the biggest potential missed opportunity for the production – is “Make ‘Em Laugh”, a mighty vaudeville-inspired number performed by Donald O’Connor.  It’s a majestic series of physical jokes, concluding with somersaults off of walls (a feat which left the chain-smoking O’Connor bed-ridden or even hospitalized (depending on the source) afterward…and he had to do it twice, as the original take was destroyed by fire).  It’s great, but the whole time I was thinking to myself, “Why not cast Danny Kaye here?”  Yeah, I know, I’m too much of a Danny Kaye fan, but that scene is so up his alley that it makes me wonder why is isn’t in the role.  O’Connor does very well, but Kaye’s speed and rubber face would have amped it up just enough to make it shine like Tori Vega.

This was a fun ride and a much-need palate-cleanser after Hairspray.  If you haven’t seen it, go and see it, it’s earned its reputation, believe you me.

Whew!  What a mouthful!  Though there was a good amount of stumbling here, I remain steadfast in my endeavor to delve deeper into the musical world.  I mean, my anime experiments have gone exceedingly well thus far, so there’s no reason that musicals should be any different, right?  And I don’t think Ma’am’selles Cleo and Grace will let me fail too spectacularly, anyway.  More to come…

Goodness Grace’s: Catch Me If You Can

The story of the younger Frank Abagnale in the ’60s is a wild one, replete with con artistry, forgeries, and a cross-country manhunt that eventually turned international before an end was seen.  The tale is depicted stylishly and impactfully in Spielberg’s 2002 film Catch Me If You Can, based, at least in part, on Abagnale’s own memoirs.  The film is spectacular, with Leonardo DiCaprio, just finally coming into his full acting powers at the time, and Tom Hanks working their respective magicks as foils on opposite sides of the law.  A ridiculous supporting cast helps buoy them, including Amy Adams, Christopher Walken, Martin Sheen, Ellen Pompeo, James Brolin, Jennifer Garner, and Elizabeth Banks, among others, together piling up statuettes from the Oscars, Emmies, Golden Globes, SAGs, Césars (the French Oscars, basically), Saturns, BAFTAs, et cetera, et cetera.  Hell, even the real Abagnale pops up as a French policeman, showing you can’t keep a good liar down.  It’s a fantastic bit of cinema, something Spielberg ought to be proud of.  But we’re not talking about this film.  Nope.  Rather, this was a draw from the Good Graces, so we’re gonna talk about the Broadway musical adaptation of the film.

Yup.

They made a musical out of Catch Me If You Can.

Such a statement tends to elicit a good deal of surprise from most, scorn and disdain from some.  Honestly, the news surprised me, too, but it shouldn’t have, as I’ve known this sort of thing happens all the time for some time:  Driving by the Lincolnshire Marriott Resort during one of my many cat-sitting sessions, I espied the marquee proclaiming a staging of October Sky: The Musical.  October Fucking Sky.  You know, that forgettable late-’90s film depicting the life of Homer Hickam, a West Virginia coal miner’s son who grew up to become a NASA engineer.  That one.  Definitely called for a musical adaptation, no?  I’m sure there have been even more bewildering film-to-stage adaptations, but at least Catch Me If You Can was an interesting story that could conceivably lend itself to song-and-dance numbers.

Directed by Jack O’Brien, choreographed by Jerry Mitchell, and written by Marc Shaiman and Scott Whitman, the creative team behind the Broadway adaptation of Hairspray, as it happens, the musical made an initial run at Seattle’s 5th Avenue Theatre (also the venue of Hairspray‘s debut) before heading to Broadway’s Neil Simon Theatre in 2011, the version I watched.  The cast included Aaron Tveit (of Gossip Girl and Les Miserables fame) as Abagnale, Norbert Leo Butz (who not only appeared in the afore-reviewed Dan in Real Life but also won the Tony for Best Leading Actor for Dirty Rotten Scoundrels and the work at hand) as FBI Agent Carl Hanratty, Tom Wopat (you know, Luke from Dukes of Hazzard) as Frank’s father, and Kerry Butler (who, alongside starring in plenty of other shows like Hairspray and Xanadu, appeared in Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life) as Brenda Strong.

The show takes an odd tack from the get-go, beginning the story in medias res near the ending, then jumping back to the beginning in a framing device taking the form of a television variety show.  I mean, it certainly allows for the songs and whatnot to make sense in some manner, but it’s a musical, after all: it’s expected as part of the medium.

The story is mostly the same as the film:  Frank’s parents fall on hard times, his parents split, he runs off to the Big City, he begins forging checks to get by, then proceeds to impersonate a pilot, a doctor, a lawyer; all the while he is hunted by Agent Hanratty.

Two huge differences are spotted (beside the lack of the film’s (and Abagnale’s actual life’s) coda, wherein he works with the FBI, thwarting would-be future Abagnales and their cons):  The first is a positive, the inclusion of a deeper backstory with Hanratty, one that actually winds up intertwining him with Frank’s father.  Indeed, one of the best songs of the whole production involves the two elder men bemoaning their poor paternal performances whilst also bemoaning that of their own respective fathers.  It’s a touching display, and the connection helps underline the role of fathers in both the story and in life.

The other difference ain’t so rosy.  Y’see, in the film, Brenda Strong (played by Amy Adams) starts out as a nurse in a Georgia hospital at which Frank becomes a supervising doctor.  The two start a bit of a romance, the young Brenda seeming more into it than Frank.  It’s revealed that she can’t return home, as she was disowned by her Lutheran parents following a forced abortion.  Frank takes pity/feels compassion (I think this is debatable) and offers to wed her, the union with a high-standing doctor sure to bridge the Strong family’s divide.  Brenda is portrayed the whole time with a sense of youthful innocence, naivete, and an underlying reservoir of pluck.

How does the musical handle her character?  They strip all of that backstory and character out, opting instead to make Brenda a strong, capable nurse, though one that is initially intimidated by Frank (something similar to Adams’s version, but at least the latter quickly overcomes this feeling, even making the first real move in the relationship), and one who Frank just plain can be himself around, y’know?  She basically becomes a stock love interest character that persists through the show (the film kinda sheds her after Hanratty closes in on Frank in N’awlins and it’s implied she betrays him).

What really irks me about this change is how the dynamic between Frank and Brenda alters the two stories:  In the film, Frank (arguably) is only going through with the engagement and whatnot in order to help Brenda out, but he seems to actually find a loving family setting in the Strongs.  The musical just makes the family a smooth transition, another stop on Frank’s road to potential happiness, no real emotion at stake, much less the psychological anchor effect family has in the film (and, in fact, elsewhere in the musical).  It’s a terrible change, one that weakens the story for me for much of the show.

That said, there’s plenty of entertainment to be found here.  The aforementioned “Little Boy Be a Man” is the standout number to me, though “Doctor’s Orders” was pretty catchy as well.  The production design is fairly well done, and the choreography provides plenty of sexy sauce (more than I expected, really), underlining the fact that one of Frank’s primary motivators for the cons was the promise of plenty of tail (he was, remember, in his late teens when he embarked on his manic journey).  The pacing is kinda start-stop, but it never really drags.

Still, several of the songs, including the oft-reprised “Live in Living Color” and Strong family number “(Our) Family Tree” don’t resonate all that well, and the framing device is too wonky to really work for me.  Moreover, the musical styles are too–I’m failing to put it any other way–Broadway, too throwback kitsch to fully hit home or even embrace the story itself.  The film dripped with a sort of neo-Art Deco aesthetic, based on the angular, minimalist cool of the ’60s it’s set in.  Such stylism is sorely lacking in the stage show, and any influence of early rock, which would have potentially aided the songs a bit, is strangely absent.

Overall, this show surprised me inasmuch as it wasn’t an absolute trainwreck of mangled narrative and clashing stylistic ideologies.  Hell, at worst it could have been a boring, watered-down, song-infused retread of the film.  Instead, it goes its own way, even if that way isn’t the strongest possible, and the actors surprisingly match the film’s cast’s charisma within their own stage-bound context.  I was never bored, often entertained, occasionally made to laugh.  For a guy not so well-versed in musical theatre, this was a successful sit, one that may actually make me think twice before instinctively biting my thumb at future stage adaptations.

Miss Cleo’s Library: Dirty Girl & Josie and the Pussycats

Like I said at the end of the last Library entry, much of the point of my scouring Miss Cleo’s boundless shelves has been to expand my horizons, see things vetted by a trusted source of opinion that likely would otherwise be missed.  Hell, if nothing else, I can experience a bit of female-centricity that was lacking in my viewing habits for quite some time.  Case in point: these two offerings.

Set in Norman, Oklahoma, in 1987, Dirty Girl follows young Danielle, a high schooler known to be a “dirty girl”, one who is up front with her attitude and sexuality.  Due to her transgressive deeds, though, she is placed in a remedial class.  There, she is paired up with gay outcast Clarke (seriously, though, who spells the first name with a trailing E?  Madness!) in one of those treat-this-bag-of-fucking-flour-like-a-child activities that’s supposed to teach young people about familial responsibility or some such bullshit.  During the course of this project, Danielle identifies her birth father, and the two of them set out on a road trip to California to find him.  Meanwhile, Clarke’s overbearing father is on their trail (I mean, they did steal his car for this, after all), along with Clarke’s mousy mother and Danielle’s own frazzled mother.  Shenanigans ensue, perspectives found, lessons learned.

Gotta say, I was pleasantly surprised by this one.  In tone and style it’s like a neo-John Waters joint mixed with a kick of Gregg Araki.  Juno Temple, about a half-step or so short of M’Lady status, is great as usual, with strong support from Milla Jovovich as her mother (a role that was originally cast with Lisa Kudrow), Dwight Yoakam as Clarke’s homophobic father, Mary Steenburgen as Clarke’s increasingly empowered mother (a role that was originally meant for Sally Hawkins), and newcomer Jeremy Dozier as the increasingly sure-of-himself Clarke.  There were times I questioned the pacing and the script, usually because certain things were skimmed over quickly or focused on too much, but the overall feel was breezy and fun.

The real star may actually be the soundtrack.  As it’s an ’80s period piece, things start out as you’d expect, with the bombastic “Shadows of the Night” from Pat Benatar, but then things verge into more deep-cut-style territory.  Sure, Bow Wow Wow’s famous cover of “I Want Candy” (one of the most overplayed and overused songs in history, in my own opinion) is there, but that’s the height of chart success.  “Delta Dawn” is there, but the Tanya Tucker cover, rather than the Helen Reddy original.  This choice can be grouped with a couple others for some healthy head-scratching:  We’re treated to The Outfield’s seminal “Your Love”, but a less well-known acoustic version that omits some of the awesome vocal harmonics of the original mix, as well as a jarring cover of “Whenever I Call You ‘Friend'” by Fyfe Dangerfield (from Guillemots (the band, not the birds)) and Inara George (from The Bird and the Bee) that immediately struck me as clearly not being from Kenny Loggins and Stevie Nicks.  And that last song is connected to the bulk of them, as it was co-written by singer Melissa Manchester (apparently she and Loggins have been trying for years to record a version with the two of them), one of Clarke’s favorites.  Manchester comes to the sonic fore several times, with “You Should Hear How She Talks About You”, “Midnight Blue”, “Still Myself”, “Rainbird”, and a capstone performance of “Don’t Cry Out Loud” (which also found itself lip-synched to in another Miss Cleo favorite, Drop Dead Gorgeous).

Sure, it’s all a touch sugary, a bit twisted, and decidedly stylistic, but it’s a damn hoot as well.  Maybe it was the flour-bag baby’s constantly shifting markered-on eyes, maybe it was Yoakam’s continued run as a cinematic sleaze, maybe it was the Sooner accent that somehow didn’t grate on my ears, I dunno.  I just know it was an entertaining romp and a joy to watch, a similar feeling that would envelop me with the next selection.

Let me first say here that I detest Archie comics.  Much like many newspaper comic strips, Archie and his Riverdale cronies have always just been too neat, too averse to real conflict for me.  So when a film adaptation of a cartoon adaptation of Josie and the Pussycats was released in 2001, in the time of terrible teen comedies and even worse adaptations, what was I to think?  ‘Twas written off quickly.  My mistake.

The story here follows Josie, Val, and Melody, the Pussycats, a young rock band hoping to hit it big one day.  An occasion for just such an advancement appears when a popular boy band’s plane goes down near Riverdale, leading their record executive sleazebag to search for new talent nearby.  He quickly signs the band and proceeds to package and merchandise them for wide distribution.  In so doing, Josie is made the focus, and subliminal advertising messages are embedded in the new songs.  The band gets wise to the executives’ machinations, though, and they turn the tables on corporate America.

Yeah, it’s kinda as bubblegum as it sounds, but that’s part of the point.  The whole affair is treated as a satire in the style of Horace, gleefully showing the perils of over-commodification and over-commercialization, all while also pushing a message of staying true to oneself and one’s true friend’s.  Not only is blatant product placement shown throughout, it’s done so with such abundance and such a camera-aimed wink that the effect works.  Even the commercial music, exemplified by fake boy band Dujour (made up of Donald Faison, Seth Green, Breckin Meyer, and Alexander Martin), sounds eerily close to actual hits from bands like BBMak, N*Sync, and other dreck artists.  Meanwhile, the Pussycats’ upbeat pop-punk is actually fairly good, surprisingly, especially the opening song “3 Small Words” (though the actresses didn’t actually lend their own voices to the tracks, that honor going to Letters to Cleo singer Kay Hanley).  References abound to previous films like Can’t Hardly Wait (which also featured Breckin Meyer and Donald Faison as feuding band members), Charlie’s Angels (at one point, a news crawl declares that Lucy Liu, Drew Barrymore, and Cameron Diaz would portray the Pussycats on screen), and Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion, as well as songs, like Cypress Hill’s “Rock Superstar”.

Were I to choose my favorite Pussycat, I gotta go with Rachel Leigh Cook.  No offense to Rosario Dawson or much to Tara Reid, but my brain’s fixated on RLC since Carpool.  That being said, Dawson was solid enough, even though her character isn’t given all that much to do, and Reid is at her least annoying, even though her character is set to straight-up bubble-headed throughout (though she did make me giggle a couple of times with this, like when she adds girlish flourishes to a menacing note written on a mirror).  Alan Cumming brings a proper amount of posh sleaze to his role as the producer, Parker Posey is at her Parker Posey-iest as the record company exec, and Missi Pyle works well as the attention-whoring sister of the band’s manager (a character usually relegated to only the comic pages, something the screenwriters joke about in the film).  Interesting cameos include Aries Spears as a pretend Carson Daly (“You sayin’ a brother can’t be Carson Daly?”), the actual Carson Daly (including a nod to his and Reid’s burgeoning romance that started on set), Shameless and Dragonball: Evolution alum Justin Chatwin in his first role, and Ginger Snaps alumna Katharine Isabelle (who met the Soska sisters, twins who would collaborate with Isabelle later on in American Mary, on set).

Admittedly, this is a dorky, light-hearted film, one that doesn’t demand to be taken all that seriously, but it’s definitely fun, and some serious messages can still be gleaned from it.  But it’s the genuine fun aspect that kept me invested and that has secured the film a firm place of positivity in my mind.

The Mummy

Unlike some out there, I remember when the 1999 The Mummy came out.  Saw it in theatres with the family, enjoyed it.  ‘Twas an entertaining adventure story, one that actually fit with the horror-rooted mummy concept.  Yeah, the first sequel was a bit of a CGI-induced fever dream, but it was relatively fun, and the second sequel was a pile of manure, despite the presence of my man Jet Li; still, the series was solid enough and represented what you could do with a different take on the mummy mythos.  When I first saw trailers for this offering, a new rebooted concept that will ostensibly launch Universal’s own shared-universe thing (dubbed, because they’re trying to look cool to the yutes, the “Dark Universe”), I thought it looked like it would be pretty good.  I mean, I’ve enjoyed Tom Cruise’s recent action outings (the last few Mission: Impossible sequels, the first Jack Reacher, and the like), and some of the action scenes they teased looked cool, so expectations were fairly high, especially for me.  Even when the bad reviews started rolling in.  I mean, they told me people were walking out of critics’ screenings, but that had to have been hyperbole, right?

NOOOOOPE!

Just to reassure those who think I just hate most everything, the sunny young lady I saw this with was also rather disappointed (I believe her reaction mostly consisted of exasperated cries of “White people…!  WHITE PEOPLE!”), so, yeah, trust me when I say this thing is awful traysh.

The story is basically the usual Mummy fare: a cursed tomb is discovered, the mummy uncovered, the finder is cursed to be the only one able to stop the creature, adventurous shenanigans ensue.  The twist is the inclusion of the Dark Universe tie-in shit, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

So, likely thanks to the absurd SIX writers, this film is an odd, off-putting mash-up of 1999’s The Mummy, An American Werewolf in London, Lifeforce, and something akin to Hot Fuzz.  In turn:  The links to the last reboot of the mummy franchise are obvious, especially the Indiana Jones-style adventure in the desert approach.  Then we come to the inclusion of Jake Johnson.  I had no idea he was even in this film, and his presence is mostly pointless.  He plays Cruise’s sidekick, mostly there to spout sarcastic one-liners and such until he’s taken out.  But he’s not gone, as he malingers about Cruise’s psyche, telling him about his curse and leading him to the titular mummy, much like Griffin Dunne did in Werewolf.  As the mummy is pursued, she, like Imhotep 18 years ago, drains the life out of unsuspecting mortals to reinvigorate herself.  The husks, though, don’t stay down as they did back then, instead opting to pop up and jerkily walk about to serve their mummified mistress, not unlike the husks from Lifeforce.  In fact, this could have been kinda creepy, as the zombies’ (let’s call ’em what they are, kids) movements are incredibly off-kilter and spooky, but they’re often accompanied by goofy scenes and inappropriate framing.

And that’s ultimately what killed the film for me, aside from the overtly derivative quality of the overdone script: the tone.  The tone is all over the fucking place here, jiggling from action-y to dramatic to needlessly comedic without ever stopping long enough to let anything sit and coagulate.  Instead, dumb one-liners are delivered snarkily during potentially (and ostensibly) tense scenes, action scenes are diluted with cartoonish effects and fight choreography (so many nut-shots to undead things…), and things that are likely meant to be funny are torpedoed by poor writing and pacing and usually something action-y beginning.  The resultant mess is tonally discordant, leaving you wondering why you should even care about trying to get invested in anything in any serious manner.  And this, in turn, leaves you bored, uninterested, and, likely, upset toward the film.

And then there’s the Dark Universe stuff.  Okay, so, remember when Iron Man came out about a decade ago?  Yeah, any connective tissue it shared with any future films was relegated to a small bit at the end (possibly in a post-credit sequence, but I can’t remember) with Nick Fury.  Here, things start out right the fuck away with the Universal logo flipping to show the Dark Universe logo.  Yup, they’re in this triple-hog, kids.  Then the beginning of the film sorta/kinda introduces us to another bit of DU crap, but it’s not fleshed out until later.  At that point, we get this universe’s Nick Fury analog: Dr. Jekyll.  Yup.  And they go exactly where you think they will with it.  Russell Crowe’s Jekyll isn’t bad, just a touch overly-theatrical, as though it were a Broadway character (yeah, yeah, I know, I’m just saying), and he doesn’t do much here plotwise, save introduce us to future installments of the shared universe franchise and delay the mummy in her doings.  It’s like we had a Mummy script and got it mixed with some Van Helsing or League of Extraordinary Gentlemen knock-off script.  And, thanks to some dodgy effects by some of the SEVEN effects houses involved in this film, there are times where those two bastions of crappy, CGI-laden mash-ups bubbled to mind while watching this one.  Note to Universal: this is NOT a good thing!

As for the acting, it’s hit or miss.  Cruise is mostly okay, but his attempts at a Brendan Fraser-style lovable rogue wind up coming across as straight-up asshattery, especially with the ego-stroking clearly on display for him (like his waking up in a body bag and doing things in the nude for a short bit, his pushing other characters out of the way so he can more coolly engage in action stuff, things like that).  Sofia Boutella is alright as the mummy, but she’s given nothing much to do beside strutting about “sexily” and being one of the most bafflingly ineffectual supernatural creatures I’ve ever seen.  Annabelle Wallis (a young Jane Seymour from The Tudors, I knew I recognized her from somewhere!) is similarly given little to do, often being brushed aside to let the guys handle things and having to be rescued in a strange shift in the script near the end (trust me, it was weird, as though Cruise was suddenly in love with her or something…?).  I don’t often notice things like that as much as I could and probably should, but the “sit tight, ladies, we guys will take care of everything” notes were face-slappingly obvious at times.

In the end, this things disappointed at every possible turn.  Sure, a couple of the action set pieces were kinda cool, especially the plane crash, but they seemed like things they came up with earlier and built up stupidity around them.  I don’t often hope for failure like this, but if this is what we can come to expect from future Dark Universe offerings, I hope this thing flops about as hard as many expect it to (I’ve heard estimates of $30 million this weekend…take that into account, along with a listed $125 million budget and a forceful advertising campaign that’s included TV spots, tie-ins, and so forth) and leaves this newest attempt at a Universal Monsters shared universe thing (remember Dracula Untold?  Or even the moribund Wolf Man?  Man, those look so much better after having watched this thing…) basically stillborn.  I mean, yeah, we’re prolly gonna see at least one or two more, given Universal’s seeming confidence and intense attachment to this idea, but, good lord, this was more than bad enough to kill a nascent franchise, and, frankly, it should be allowed to.

Skip this, kids, it ain’t worth your time or attention.

Pride Month: Freeheld

Y’know, I feel October and December get too much attention on here, what with Nightmare Fuel and X-Mas Horror and all that.  So, while June continues to bloom, we’re gonna be pandering to another demographic and celebrating Pride Month here on AoG, shining a spotlight on films with LGBTQ characters and issues.  Sound like a plan?  It’d better, ’cause it’s happenin’, kids!  We’re gettin’ the party van a-rollin’ in earnest with Freeheld.

The plot follows New Jersey policewoman Laurel Hester as she fights crime and whatnot (all while sporting some Fawcett-style locks…gotta love Jersey…) with her partner, played by Michael Shannon.  While on an R-and-R-style volleyball excursion, she meets and sparks with Stacie Andree, a mechanic.  Over time, the two fall in love and join in a domestic partnership (gay marriage not yet being legal in New Jersey).  Unfortunately, Hester develops lung cancer, which quickly proves terminal.  Under a recent law, state employee benefits could be passed on to domestic partners, as they would be in a heterosexual marriage, but, as a county officer, this rule would only apply in Hester’s case if the county’s board of chosen freeholders approved such an extension.  And, of course, they do not.  The bulk of the film depicts the fight to secure such rights for Hester and Andree.

As per usual, especially at this point in her career, Julianne Moore is fantastic as Hester, bringing quite a bit of emotion and drive to the role.  Shannon is solid as her partner, who goes from conflicted about discovering his longtime partner’s sexual identity (with an implication that he had hitherto harbored some romantic feelings for her, as well) to being her staunchest supporter within the department.  The pacing works pretty well, even with quite a bit skipped over (including a year spent in the development of the ladies’ relationship).

What hinders things is a slightly hackneyed script.  Much like with Patch Adams and other based-on-a-true-story works, certain things are left out of the story, others are added; some things are downplayed, others are enhanced.  Here, the struggle against the board of freeholders is the focus, which does indeed bring the issue to forefront of the discussion, thus furthering the message of the film, but it does so with two primary consequences: certain performances take a hit, and something major is lost.

To the first point, I submit the sad case of Ellen Page.  Page had been involved in getting the film made for several years, immediately intent on portraying Andree.  Unfortunately, since the script was more about the message than the events, her character is left with very little to do.  Page is a very talented actress and could have easily held her own against Moore (which she mostly does), but the script relegates her to mostly quiet indignation: toward being brushed off by Moore, toward being damagingly inundated with bills, toward the cancer itself.  Every now and again, it seems as though she’s going to be allowed a for-your-consideration moment, but such a moment never comes.  Even during her teary-eyed speech at the end, she’s not allowed much to work with, not much room to spread her wings.  It’s a shame, really.

But it’s symptomatic of the greater issue, that of the film’s focus.  Sure, the argument for equal rights is a noble one, but the whole foundation of this particular story is drowned out by that very argument.  At its core, the story is one of a loving couple trying to live like everyone else.  Sure, some time and a few lines are devoted to this idea, but once the fight starts, it’s pushed to the sidelines.  Basically, the human factor and the harsh struggles these women had to endure is largely taken for granted and given a back seat to faux-courtroom drama.  And in this area the film is at its most generic.  Of course the recalcitrant board is painted mostly as unflinching, uncaring villains for the most part; of course the leader of Hester’s supporting Garden State Equality is loud and nigh-angelic (leading to a just-short-of-obnoxious turn from Steve Carell, another victim of the script); of course the department turns its back on Hester’s plight, save for Shannon (despite the fact that the real Hester did indeed have the support of the department’s benefits association); and of course everything comes down to a moving flourish of a speech.  It’s far too paint-by-numbers to get fully invested in, even though we were given a fine jumping-off point with the characters to begin with.

Ultimately, I felt just as mixed as every other review I’ve seen of this film.  It clearly means well, and I thoroughly support its message, but I feel that a deeper story could have been told if the focus stayed on the women at its core, rather than straying toward the legal battle.  Whatever power could have been wielded is mostly wasted, salvaged only by the abilities of Moore and Page.  It’s certainly worth a watch, and some measure of inspiration is felt, but it’s not a rousing victory, to be sure.

Miss Cleo’s Library: The Bodyguard, Crazy/Beautiful, & America’s Sweethearts

She pushed the stack of three toward me.  As wont, I examined the spines, then the covers, then the backs, discovering in short time the vanity inherent in my search for a connection between them.  Insert look of confusion blended with failure, the verge of puppy dog eyes mirroring a prior inquisitive head tilt.  Turns out, her answer had a sort of elegant simplicity to it: love stories.  Fair nuff.  In the words of Big Brother winner Dan Gheesling, “Let’s goooooooo!”

Whitney Houston had quite the voice and stage presence, making even the chewing gum essence of “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” somehow pop.  And work.  Sure, other efforts weren’t quite as successful (see as the misplaced attemptedly-muted bombast of “I’m Your Baby Tonight”), but her career had far more bright points than dim.  At least when it came to singing.

Frankly, I didn’t think much of Ms. Houston’s performance here.  Make no mistake, that doesn’t mean I’m out-and-out condemning it, but also nowhere near praising it.  It’s just okay.  It wasn’t her fault that the film didn’t work for me.

No, it was the production as a whole.  Made in 1992, it reeks of its birth year:  Lawrence Kasdan’s script drips with early-90s melodrama and out-of-place thriller elements, Andrew Dunn’s cinematography revels in the slightly soft-focused images and almost smoky atmosphere (more Count of Monte Cristo and Effie Grey than Crazy. Stupid. Love. and Bridget Jones’s Baby), and the editing somewhat appropriately evokes the era’s music videos, especially Michael Bay’s work on Meatloaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)”.  Watching this propelled me back to ’92, both sitting in theatres for films like Batman Returns and Basic Instinct (okay, I didn’t actually see the later on the big screen, but the point stands) and rocking TV shows like Beakman’s World and Batman: The Animated Series.  You could just feel that special, early-90s something.  Even the plot is emblematic of the time:  Kevin Costner plays a hard-edged, straight-talking bodyguard/security expert who is hired by the entourage of a famous singer/actress to keep her safe from a crazy stalker.

What got to me, though, was how no one in her coterie seemed to take the situation all that seriously, save, like, one person.  Meanwhile, this crazy person has been sending several threatening letters, threatening via phone calls, even breaking into her mansion and jerking one out on a bed she used as a prop in a music video.  Worse, no one’s even bothered to tell her about all of this!  And she’s got a young son living with her!

There’s weird plot turns as Costner and Houston fall for each other (in one of the stranger ways, if I may judge), Houston’s sister is a crazy person, a benign stalker is mistaken for the more dangerous one, and Houston finds herself in various precarious situations (the scene at a club where the crowd basically looks to be trying to make her into Davs from Shaun of the Dead comes almost out of nowhere, but at least fits into the theme of the story and propels the plot, so it’s got that going for it).  As a romance, I just didn’t really buy Costner and Houston.  Sure, they had some decent chemistry in a few scenes, but the sister’s turn as romantic red herring and the tense relationship between the leads in most scenes make the ultimate together-getting ring mostly hollow and contrived for me.  Still, the film as a whole is pretty entertaining, just not something I’m likely to dive back into any time soon.

A bit rosier view comes from the next offering, despite a slightly darker subject matter (well, inasmuch as potential mental issues are darker than a ’90s-dripping assassination plot against an actress…).

Now this one and I have a minor bit o’ history.  See, back in the early days of the 21st century, I was in high school.  Plenty of that time saw me fawning over this or that actress, but one of the paramount one in my eyes was Kirsten Dunst.  I remember seeing trailers for Crazy/Beautiful and marveling at her hotness (…or is it heat?  Never really figured that out…).  The story told in those trailers, one of across-the-tracks love, didn’t really appeal to me, what with my being stuck in the world of Halo and Grand Theft Auto: Vice City and Tombstone at the time.  So my more hormonal impulses took a back seat to a prejudicial state of mind, and this status quo would be maintained for over a decade and a half.

And I find myself kinda pissed at my younger incarnation.  Not only would I have found plenty of material to lust over, but I also missed out on a fairly good movie.  The plot does indeed follow the romance between two high schoolers from opposite sides of the tracks — Dunst is the daughter of a senator, Jay Hernandez a hard-working but fairly poor student from the seedier part of L.A. — but the socioeconomic question is only half of the story, as Dunst’s mental state comes into the equation, as do issues of race, belonging, family, and responsibility.  See, due to her mother’s death years ago and her father’s inability to properly connect with her, Dunst suffers from a form of affluenza, constantly shirking responsibility, doing drugs, and engaging in the sexual act.  She’s seen as a drain on Hernandez’s shining potential, but he sees the true beauty in her.  The two try to find a way to maintain some level of mutual happiness without their respective families tearing them apart.

Sure, there’s some mild teenage melodrama here, but the emotion shines through well enough to forgive it.  Besides, who hasn’t been in a relationship, especially when they were older, that’s involved some major-league drama, eh?  The acting is pretty solid, the script mostly so as well, and I never really found myself getting bored, an achievement for high school-centered love stories these days.  The film has plenty to say about a variety of potentially touchy subjects, and it can be argued that many of them are too tiptoed-around, but it mostly paints an interesting and touching picture that studios usually shy away from, especially given the ages of the characters (if they were adults, they’d jump all over it, believe you me).

Studios have had no compunctions over the years, though, of dealing with the subject matter of the final film: celebrities and their romantic misadventures.

The story in America’s Sweethearts follows the on- and off-screen couple of John Cusack and Catherine Zeta-Jones (imagine a more fame-centric version of their tryst from High Fidelity) after their split.  Audiences can’t handle them separate, and the two are having issues as well while negotiating their divorce.  CZJ’s sister and assistant Julia Roberts (I will never call her Kiki…I can’t stand that moniker!) takes the brunt of things on her side, while Cusack wastes away on his own.  Meanwhile, publicist Billy Crystal is hired to get them back together, if only temporarily, in order to market their last feature together, which is currently being held by the manic director (I love you, Christopher Walken).  Over the course of the film’s collection of shenanigans, complications arise involving Roberts and Cusack, CZJ and her new beau, and the possibility of an actual reconciliation.

Parts of this film were kind to my brain.  I thought the bit parts played by Alan Arkin and the aforementioned Walken were as entertaining and enjoyable as one would expect said actors to deliver.  The soundtrack features some poppin’ tunes, including the Eagles’ “Witchy Woman” and Mark Knopfler’s “Gravy Train”.  And, yeah, Julia Roberts is fairly charming in her role as a more down-to-Earth character than her sister.  What kept me angry, though, was the script.

Apparently, the writers (including Billy Crystal!) had no idea what kind of comedy to go for: dialogue-driven wit, like Tarantino; character-driven story, like Bachelorette; or physical slapstick, like Jerry Lewis.  Unsure, they tried a blend of all three, resulting in a confused pile of not-as-funny-as-it-should-be.  For example, while Crystal is trying to coax CZJ into his plan, he is molested (no better word, trust me) by her Doberman; during this scene, Crystal tries to inject his signature one-liners to no avail, and goofy comedy music plays gleefully in the background, as though ’twere the damn ’50s.  The dog even returns, out of goddamn nowhere, at the end to further torment Crystal, a turn that was not only vaguely telegraphed by the camera, but was also called by Yours Truly during the initial encounter…as a sarcastic joke!  Other slapschtick pops up here or there, like with a bit with Cusack and a cactus (if you’ve seen a Warner Bros. cartoon, you likely know the punchline), a goofy codename bit between Crystal and assistant Seth Green, and a pratfall-style golf ball finding its way to Green’s head.  These oddball antics don’t really fit in anywhere, even with the uneven style and occasionally-interjected movie scenes between Cusack and CZJ.  Moreover, most of the jokes fall pretty flat, especially Crystal’s, which made me wonder every now and then whether or not Crystal was ever truly funny (something I shouldn’t be thinking, especially with the joy I found in City Slickers and When Harry Met Sally…).

Then there’s the acting.  Apparently Joe Roth’s direction usually settled on “Just act, I dunno, funny!”, resulting in some flat and painful performances.  As stated before, Crystal looks at his least funny ever, Stanley Tucci comes across as cartoonish as a studio executive, Hank Azaria is stuck in a watered-down version of his Birdcage mode as CZJ’s new beau, and Rainn Wilson’s reporter just comes across as awkwardly and mean-spiritedly sleazy.  Usually these people tend to be funny (Wilson stands as a slight exception for me, but still), but here they just flutter about and fail.

Overall, this movie didn’t do much of anything for me.  But I wanna use it as an example, if I may.  I occasionally get people asking me why I watch certain movies or even whole genres, despite how bad or unappealing they seem.  Well, it’s about horizon-expanding, really.  Back in the day, when I was a wee lad, I never would have thought to look toward what I considered “girlie” things like romantic comedies and female-centered character studies.  Nowadays, and sometimes with the help of people like Miss Cleo and her seemingly boundless collection, I see how close-minded that view was.  I was missing out on classics like the aforementioned When Harry Met Sally… and Kiki’s Delivery Service and newer fun like Bachelorette and Pride and Prejudice.  Without exploring, without testing the bounds of your personal taste, how do you know just how far they go?  How do you know you’re not missing out on something truly special?

So, no, I didn’t like America’s Sweethearts all that much, but it was given a chance.  It could have been something better.  Just like The Bodyguard and Crazy/Beautiful, I wasn’t sure if I’d like it or not, and there was only one way to find out.  We should all be so lucky to have resources like Miss Cleo and her ilk out there, willing to share their joys with the rest of us.  If you know of one, or even if your library has a decent collection of whatever you haven’t tried before, get in there and utilize, people!  See things beyond your self-made safety-entrenched blinders.  You never know what’s gonna pleasantly surprise you and thereby change the trajectory of your life.

(Oh, and no, Miyazaki can’t help in changing my view of the name Kiki.)

47 Meters Down

Apparently, Hollywood can’t get enough of sharks.  Despite the existence of plenty other terrifying animals and events that can take humans out (including other humans), sharks seem to have captured the world’s cinematic zeitgeist of fear in a way no other creature has or can even aspire to.  From true blockbusters like Jaws and Deep Blue Sea to blatant exploitation like Jaws 4: The Revenge and Jaws 5: Cruel Jaws to downright triteness like Ghost Shark and Shark Exorcist (I can’t wait to see that last one…), there are more than enough films with sharks in ’em out there.  But, fuck it, let’s make another one, eh?

Originally titled In the Deep and slated for a late-Summer 2016 VOD release, the film was picked up by a new company, retitled 47 Meters Down, and given a Summer 2017 theatrical release.  The film follows Mandy Moore and Claire Holt as a pair of sisters vacationing in Mexico who get trapped underwater in a shark cage surrounded by a pod of great whites.  They must battle the ticking clock of an ever-decreasing oxygen supply as well as the sharks themselves as they try to survive the experience.

So, let’s get some positivity out of the way first.  I actually really dig the look of the film.  The cinematography is pretty damn tasty, especially when it focuses on Holt’s SCUBA gear, which winds up glowing ethereally in a blaze of cobalt.    I also dig the general idea of the premise, which presents such a collision of terrible scenarios that there should be no end to suspense and whatnot.

Worry not, kids, they found a way to screw it up, mostly with the script.  Let’s take this slowly and methodically.  So the sisters have very little characterization before their predicament:  All we really know about them is that they’re vacationing, Moore’s beau has recently dumped her (and she’s not really taking it well) due to her being “too boring” for him, and the two are sisters.  That’s pretty much it.  They occasionally refer to Holt being the younger, more exciting sister, but aside from convincing her otherwise sulking sister to go out and party while vacationing in Mexico, there’s no evidence for this.  We do know they were written by dudes, as the Bechdel fail and constant references to Moore’s butt attest (’cause that’s how chicks talk, right?), exacerbating the issue.  Shit, Holt doesn’t give a damn that her sister is panicking in a shark cage, caring more that the sea around them is pretty.  Feel the love.

So these characterless characters are also pretty fucking stupid.  I mean, it’s a shark movie with some horror/thriller elements, so, yeah, I guess some amount of contrived stupidity is to be expected, but still.  For example, when they decide to go out in a shark cage, they’re not engaging in a resort-sponsored activity, but rather a lark introduced to them by a couple cute guys they met.  Moore even remarks “We don’t know anything about these people”, a glimmer of insightful truth that just gets waved off to keep the plot moving forward.  Gotta love going out into the sea accompanied by dudes we just met in foreign land whilst partying on a boat with people they know nothing about to do something potentially fucking deadly.  They even wave off the boat operators’ apparently illegal act of chumming the water.  Then there’s the little matter that they lie about their diving experience.  When asked, Holt declares they’ve been SCUBA diving before, but Moore’s ignorance of the basic safety gauges and such proves this to be a lie.  And the operator goes along with it.  Jesus.  (This is also further proof that the main engine of cinematic tension seems to be poor communication between people.)  At this point, these girls deserve to die.  Later, while languishing on the sea floor, they make a point of explaining that sharks only attack from below, so sticking to the floor should keep them safe.  Well, while sharks mostly do attack from below, they go against their own logic and have the sharks attack them while they’re skimming the floor!  And when they reach the surface at one point, they don’t try to swim to the nearby boat, but rather bob about and screech for help, an out-of-place depiction of helplessness following several minutes of dauntless survival.  Oh, and did you know Holt’s character’s name was Kate?  I did.  I heard “Kate” more times in this film than in the entirety of my life beforehand.

The film’s got some structural issues as well.  Considering it’s only 89 minutes long, it’s got some serious pacing issues.  There are two or three (depending on how you categorize things) unnecessary musical montages seemingly inserted to pad the runtime, but then they speed through other scenes.  Though the editing is mostly fine, there are a few examples of cuts that muddle the action, unnecessarily confusing the audience (ie. me).  Jump scares are too prevalent, with the first one comprising a shark eating a dropped camera (as they are obviously wont to do).  They also seem to have missed how difficult it is to emote for the camera while your face is nearly entirely obscured by a SCUBA mask.  And then there’s the biggest fail of all: the twist ending.  So, I’m not gonna really spoil the twist here, but suffice it to say that it is telegraphed from early on, but it negates several minutes of actual plot development and action for no earthly reason, save ostensibly to further pad the runtime.  Exacerbating this is the fact that the post-twist shots are slowed down.  I was so pissed as this turn that my notes kinda exploded:

And, finally, we come to the factual bullshit the film pulls.  Given the amount of air they say they have, the sisters should only have had about twenty or so minutes at the stated depth, but they see fit to expand this to well over twice that.  (This is all the more infuriating when they contract time later on with regard to a bends-preventing slow ascent.)  They use flares as active shark repellents, but I can’t find any evidence such a thing could work aside from the video game Stranded Deep.  A few other questionable things, like the speed at which the cage plummets to the floor and the inconsistent behavior of the sharks themselves, pepper the film as well.

Funny, though, I feel the film as a whole is generally pretty strong, especially when compared to other shark-centered fare.  Yeah, it’s kinda dumb, occasionally boring, and overly long (and, as I said several times before, fuck that twist), but it’s also a step above the inanity and goofiness of its peers.  It’s worth a view, and I’m sure plenty will glean some thrills from it.  Just fuck that twist, yo.