Me Before You, 2016
Directed by Thea Sherrock, 116 minutes
Emilia Clarke, Sam Claflin, Janet McTeer, Matthew Lewis, Brendan Coyle, Jenna Coleman, Charles Dance
Review by Katherine Scheetz
This is going to be a little different than my usual review. I have been ruminating how best to address the controversial Me Before You film that opened two weeks ago in the U.S. Should I approach it from an analytically technical standpoint and simply ignore the elephant in the room? No. That does oceans of injustice to the deeper message in this film and the lives that are affected by it. So, here we go.
The movie sets up what promises to be a heartwarming rom-com. Louisa isn’t present for any of the “messy bits” so neither are we. Gradually, Lou breaks through Will’s icy exterior. They take wildly expensive trips together, a fabulous red dress gets its feature moment at an oboe concert and Will seems to have found new purpose in widening Louisa’s horizons. But for one catch: it is, and always has been, Will’s decision to be euthanized in Switzerland through an organization called Dignitas. On that, let’s just say this: there’s a reason everyone is telling you to bring a box of tissues.
Because the audience is cut off from those “messy bits,” we don’t actually get a chance to see the moments when Will struggles with feeling like a burden. We don’t see getting out of bed, going to the bathroom, getting dressed – the struggles that ultimately lead to his decision in Switzerland. So we are left with assuming he’s committing suicide because his life has lost its value in becoming a quadriplegic.
Which simply isn’t true. Every life has value. A disability is not a pathology that needs to be “cured” in order to have meaning and find happiness. In fact, quite the opposite, those with disabilities bring a multitude of compassionate and convicted colors to the world as only they can. Not unlike Louisa’s own technicolor wardrobe (what a joy that must have been for the costuming department).
The avoidance of anything seemingly un-pretty makes it obvious that writer Jojo Moyes didn’t actually spend time getting to know the life of a quadriplegic beyond the physical complications.
Unsurprisingly, activist Michele Kaplan (Rebel Wheels NYC) stresses that becoming wheelchair bound later in life can have tremendous effects on mental health. In a situation like Will’s, a therapist or support group to work through the emotional well-being of the individual would be just as critical – if not more – than a physical therapist, which Will does have. It’s not as if money was an object in the film, as it so often is in reality.
Without giving away the specifics I’ll end with this: the final scene ultimately paints the thoroughly unromantic picture that Will’s life was worth more to Louisa dead. And that is an atrocious message to be sending out into the universe.
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The Nice Guys, 2016
Directed by Shane Black, 116 minutes
Ryan Gosling, Russell Crowe, Angourie Rice, Matt Bomer, Margaret Qualley
Review by Katherine Scheetz
From the pen behind the Lethal Weapon franchise comes a detective comedy with all the glam and funk of 1978.
Gosling is Holland March, a scotch-soaked PI who, despite his chain smoking, ambiguous moral code and the gun in his cookie jar, makes an endearing contestant for father-of-the-year to his 13-year-old daughter Holly (Rice). They are a pair still dealing from the death of Holly’s mother – in very different ways.
Enter Jackson Healy (Crowe), a voluminous enforcer who is “not in the yellow pages.” He’s after March for following the daughter of a prominent figure in the Department of Justice, Amelia Kuttner (Qualley). March has been hired by the aunt of a dead porn star – one Misty Mountains – who Amelia has a mysterious connection to.
The mob is trying to spread their porn operation to L.A. and Misty, Amelia and Amelia’s experimental-film-making boyfriend are involved somehow. The scruffy Healy, the squeamish March and a very Nancy-Drew like Holly team up to find out just how much, especially when hit-man John Boy (Bomer) is called in for clean-up.
The storytelling is complex – paying homage to the cinematic grandfather noir films – which risks isolating the audience that is there for pure entertainment value.
Never fear, though, Gosling is here. The physical comedy this guy pulls with his breathing, his arms, his gag reflex, his groaning, his shaking – it’s downright hilarious. As if we need more to laugh at, Shane Black and Anthony Bagarozzi have penned a script that barely leaves enough space for us to breathe in between dry, profanity-ridden jokes.
Production designer Richard Bridgland (American Ultra) and set decorator Danielle Berman (The Hangover) romance us with groovy mirror walls, mermaid aquariums, Yoohoo chocolate milk, rotating car shows and psychedelic lights. It’s a supersaturated delight.
There’s no denying that Black has made us work to follow the story. But with a script for the ages and a team that’s up for anything, it’s not all work and no play, I mean, it is the 70s after all.
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Captain America: Civil War, 2016
Directed by Anthony and Joe Russo, 147 minutes
Chris Evans, Robert Downey Jr., Scarlett Johansson, Sebastian Stan, Anthony Mackie, Elizabeth Olsen, Chadwick Boseman
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Marvel once again orchestrates a star-studded ensemble as only Marvel can. It’s the same rapport Joss Weedon brought to the Avengers franchise, this time, with both new and improved faces.
Bucky (Stan) returns as the Darryl Dixon of Marvel, Black Widow (Johansson) sports her best look yet, Black Panther (Boseman) debuts with reverberations throughout the fandom and Spider-Man (Tom Holland) seamlessly keeps pace with seasoned avengers whose balls have actually dropped.
Insert the pressure of the Cap’s longtime friend Bucky – the Winter Soldier – being caught up in an assassination plot, as well as a sneaky Slovakian psychiatrist (Daniel Brüel) holding onto video footage and an agenda of his own. The result is a snappy superhero plot peppered with quips among super-friends.
A now-displaced Wanda (Olsen) and synthetic Vision (Paul Bettany) share a few human moments that far surpass the forced-out kiss between Sharon Carter (Emily VanCamp) and Steve Rogers. Sorry Carter, no matter how good you think his biceps look holding a helicopter aground, you two have no chemistry.
The battle sequences are well shot with low camera angles that give it a grandeur equal to the scale of the film. It’s clear the choreographers had a blast putting the sequences together, testing the limits and creativity of each superpower present.
There is no way to prepare for what writers Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely have created from Mark Millar’s comic, but hang on through the exposition for some serious power-punching twists.
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Criminal, 2016
Directed by Ariel Vromen, 113 minutes
Kevin Costner, Ryan Reynolds, Tommy Lee Jones, Gary Oldman, Gal Gadot,
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Operative Bill Pope (Reynolds) winds up dead after an excruciating torture scene marked by electric shock to the teeth, with valuable anti-terrorist information in his head about asylum-seeking tech genius, “The Dutchman.” Experimental neurosurgeon Dr. Franks (Jones) is called to transplant Bill Pope into the head of Jericho (Costner) – who has a frontal lobe condition, making his brain the perfect blank slate to imprint Pope’s data onto. He also happens to be on death row.
Central Intelligence’s goal is to allow Jericho to get the anonymous “Dutchman” to safety, but both volatile characters go rogue and make more than a few uncalculated decisions. Jericho’s recall inevitably pulls Pope’s wife (Gadot) and daughter (newcomer Lara Decaro) into the race against time – and a nuclear deal with the Russians.
The CIA London office is HQ for this pseudo-sci-fi thriller, giving cinematographer Dana Gonzales the chance to paint a gritty picture of London with aerials of urban bustle.
However, this is a movie carried by its cast, particularly Costner’s enigmatic performance. He straddles the dichotomy of Pope and Jericho with gravelly grace, unadulterated rage against polished CIA training. Gadot is a willowy breath of emotion opposite him, haunted by her husband’s expressions that shadow Jericho’s face. It’s a moving duet of a performance, bulking up Gadot’s 2016 resumé of releases (Triple 9 and Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice).
The script is as accommodating as Costner’s fluidity – springing us from fluent French to ‘I’m speaking Spanish mother-effer’ in under 10 seconds. While Vromen’s thiller isn’t breaking any box office records, it’s a solid reminder that Costner hasn’t lost his touch.
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The Huntsman: Winter’s War, 2016
Directed by Cedric Nicolas-Troyan, 114 minutes
Chris Hemsworth, Jessica Chastain, Emily Blunt, Charlize Theron
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Universal’s prequel/sequel to Snow White and the Huntsman (2012) treads some fine lines with Disney and Walden Media’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (2005). Introduced with the warm voice of Liam Neeson as omniscient narrator, we already wonder whether we walked through the wrong door into Narnia when the opening credits roll.
Ravenna (Theron) and Freya (Blunt) are two sisters with power in their blood. After heartbreak unlocks Freya’s affinity to ice magic, she suddenly owns a spired palace situated between two hills with a courtyard full of creatures she’s frozen into statues. Maybe Freya and Jadis just have the same architectural consultant.
Grieving mother that she is, Freya outlaws love in her kingdom and claims the children of the land as her own, making them her army.
Naturally, her best huntsmen Erik (Hemsworth with a Scottish accent) and Sara (Chastain with an Irish one), fall in love. Erik is known for his skill with an axe. Sara’s skill with a bow is such that she “never misses.” Can we say Queen Susan’s trusty bow?
More tragedy ensues when they are discovered by Freya via ice owl NannyCam and they are separated, seemingly forever.
Then come the seven years where Snow White’s story takes place along with Ravenna’s supposed death.
When Aslan – wait, Neeson – stops narrating and we pick back up with a grieving Erik, he reluctantly agrees to a quest that takes far too long to find Ravenna’s stolen mirror, sandwiched by dwarves and goblins. With just enough time left to fit in an epic battle, Theron materializes from molten gold in the visual pinnacle of the film, gives us a deliciously evil laugh and causes a little chaos.
James Newton Howard’s resonant score dances with the elegantly choreographed fight sequences. And while all the actors have played their parts well, no one could save the film from innumerable plot holes, a sappy script and blatant plagiarism. Mostly we just praise the great lion for Chris Hemsworth’s smile.
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The Jungle Book, 2016
Directed by Jon Favreau, 105 minutes
Neel Sethi, Bill Murray, Ben Kingsley, Idris Elba, Lupita Nyong’o, Christopher Walken, Giancarlo Esposito, Scarlett Johansson
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Director Jon Favreau takes us into the Seoni jungle of central India, with music and camera movements evocative of the classic 1967 animation. Favreau enchants us with the verdant visuals of a “man-cub” among the vines and moss, raised to be part of the wolf pack by alpha Akela (Esposito), mother Raksha (Nyong’o) and the tough-loving black panther Bagheera (Kingsley).
With smartly integrated monsoon season weather patterns, we observe how drought affects The Law of the Jungle and that when Peace Rock emerges from beneath the river, a truce between the jungle inhabitants must be obeyed. Elba makes his terrifying debut as the Bengal tiger Shere Khan here at Peace Rock, face scarred from man’s “red flower” and thirsting for revenge. With the return of the tiger and the monsoon (thus Peace Rock disappearing) Mowgli’s life becomes forfeit, forcing him and Bagheera to leave for the man-village in search of protection.
Along the way Mowgli learns his backstory from hypnotic rock python Kaa (Johansson), Bagheera teaches him about the reverence of the elephants and a tweaked King Louie (Walken) – with an accent from Queens, NY – brings about an Indiana-Jones-worthy temple chase scene filled with thick, filtered lighting. Sloth bear Baloo, voiced by the lazily charming Murray, embraces Mowgli’s inherent talent for invention or “tricks,” using them to his own ends ie: harvesting honey and singing “about the good life” alongside a goofy cast of supporting animals.
Composed by John Debney (who has a list of credits as long as my leg packed with rom-coms and Disney channel), the score intertwines the deep, time-honored melodies with the lift a modern audience needs. “The Bare Necessities,” “I Wanna Be Like You” and “Trust In Me” get a jazzy, New Orleans revamp, that call for bowling hats, smoky dance clubs and vintage microphones.
Mowgli’s coming of age story takes a different shape in all this – it’s about embracing yourself and your own “tricks.” Newcomer Neel Sethi’s compassionate performance evolves the character of Mowgli, and when you realize the kid did all of that acting with a green screen and his imagination – well, my hat is off.
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Kingsman: The Secret Service, 2015
Directed by Matthew Vaughn , 129 minutes
Colin Firth, Samuel L. Jackson, Taron Egerton, Michael Caine, Mark Strong
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Get in line Deadpool (2016), you aren’t the first R-rated comic book movie.
Based on the story by Icon Comics writer Mark Millar, Kingsman: The Secret Service opens with Harry Hart (a badass Firth) as a gentleman spy - code name: Galahad - in the Kingsman, the modern-day knights. He’s mid-operation overseas when he loses a promising young Kingsman-in-training with a wife and child back in England.
Fast forward 17 years and that child, Gary “Eggsy” Unwin (Egerton, in his first film) is a brilliant plebe who has made a lot of bad calls. Hart bails him out of jail and recognizing his father’s inherent talent, recommends him for the Kingsman elite training program. Merlin (a sarcastic, Scottish Strong) serves as home base trainer to Eggsy and the other young Brits vying for the spot of “Lancelot” on the Kingsman.
Meanwhile, megalomaniac tech villain Valentine (Jackson, with a lisp) claims mankind is a virus creating the fever of global warming and plans to purge the overpopulated earth with a radical cure. The hero, the protégé, the villain, the henchman, the gadgets – it’s all there.
X-Men: First Class (2011) and Kick-Ass (2010) tongue-and-cheek director Matthew Vaughn smartly paces this packed-in story using three well-conceived waves – backstory, training and epic conclusion.
It reciprocates the bold and brassy Bond-esque action theme coined by composers Henry Jackman and Matthew Margeson. The team doesn’t disappoint with superb musical selections ranging from “Free Bird” during a Westboro-Baptist-meets-Tarantino-slaughter and “Pomp and Circumstance” while politicians’ head’s explode in satirical fireworks. Vaughn also plays with some clever little scene changes, from champagne bubbles to assembly line printing of Valentine’s evil SIM cards.
It’s an undeniably strong cast with Firth, Strong and Egerton at the helm, who have the salaciously cheeky script – co-written by Vaughn and Jane Goldman – wrapped around their fingers. We leave wanting a pocket-sized Colin Firth for those times when we need quotes like “Manners maketh man,” and with last week’s provocative sequel poster released, can we dare to hope?
I’m only sorry I didn’t I see this one sooner.
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Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, 2016
Directed by Zach Snyder, 151 minutes
Ben Affleck, Henry Cavill, Gal Gadot, Jesse Eisenberg, Amy Adams
by Hailey Dolan
Batman and Superman appear together for the first time in film history, but with Lois Lane (Adams), Lex Luthor (Eisenberg) and Kryptonians taking center stage, Batman’s presence feels more like a cameo than a leading role.
After half an hour of crammed-in backstory and constant jumps between storylines, our two (supposed) protagonists finally meet at a party held by Lex Luthor. Here, Bruce Wayne (Affleck) discovers Luthor has been creating a super weapon while keeping tabs on a handful of meta-humans – people with extraordinary powers. Superman (Cavill), under journalist alias Clark Kent, discovers Wayne is Gotham City’s Batman.
Affleck delivers the tortured Batman with a chronic solemn expression. Where is that switched-on charm we were expecting from billionaire Bruce Wayne? Instead, we’re stuck with a gullible Wayne who is the last to learn he is working for the villain.
Doesn’t really sound like Batman, does it?
In a robotic suit, Batman clunks around, unknowingly keeping Superman occupied while Luthor unrolls his devious plan. Our once dark knight is now merely a pawn.
For her part, Lois Lane pops up every time Superman is on the screen. Her presence is, however, more annoying than anything else. In the middle of the final battle, there she stands, somehow the only civilian to survive all of the destruction. She even figures out how to kill the Luthor-created monster before the super beings do. Just in time, of course, for Superman to grab a quick kiss.
Convenient.
Gadot’s Wonder Woman leaves us wondering why a bigger-than-life Amazonian fighter would be portrayed by one so lithe. Though we never learn why Wonder Woman is in Metropolis to begin with, the writers have utilized her well in the battle sequence as the sole proactive combatant against the monster, while Superman flies off, distracted, and Batman is nowhere to be seen.
The only eye-catching performance comes from our villainous mastermind. Though the Luthor character is typically cold and suave, Eisenberg gives him a childish twist with neurotic tendencies. It's certainly memorable, however, not even an Oscar-worthy performance would have saved this film. With countless plot holes, we’re left with more questions than answers. And disappointment. Lots of disappointment.
A battle meant to be this epic was probably best left to our imaginations.
Our guest blogger, Hailey Dolan, is the sassy brain behind the Blogspot Lift Your Leg, where she publishes snarky reviews of music, movies and television. She also uses her powers for good, by raising money through her blog for local animal shelters. Come back soon to hear about Pachyderm Reviews upcoming fundraiser for Elephants and Bees in Nairobi, Kenya.
The Divergent Series: Allegiant, 2016
Directed by Robert Schwentke, 121 minutes
Shailene Woodley, Theo James, Jeff Daniels, Naomi Watts, Ansel Elgort, Zoë Kravitz, Miles Teller, Octavia Spencer
Review by Katherine Scheetz
No need to buckle your seatbelt for the penultimate installment of the Divergent Series, it moves slower than Peter (Teller) catches onto the fact he’s being used…again. Splitting a book that already has a scanty plot, Allegiant is another victim to the money-grabbers of Hollywood. Names like Jeff Daniels, Octavia Spencer, Naomi Watts, Miles Teller and yes, even Shailene Woodley deserve better.
With the evil Jeanine (Kate Winslet) dead, Four’s (James) power-hungry mother, Evelyn (Watts) is in charge of a now factionless Chicago (for those just catching up the factions were Dauntless, Amity, Erudite, Abnegation and Candor).
In the only scene that is marginally creative with panning aerial camera shots, Four and Tris (Woodley) lead a rogue group over the wall surrounding Chicago to find the people who turned them into an experiment, the big reveal that concluded the previous film. They are picked up by the Bureau of Genetic Welfare, run by David (Daniels) out of the ruins of Chicago O’Hare airport. Even in his Hilter-reminiscent outfits, he convinces an irritatingly passive Tris that the only way to help the “genetically damaged” people of Chicago is to use her “genetically pure” DNA to appeal to some mysterious council for intervention.
Meanwhile, a furrowed-brow Four learns that the Bureau is involved in kidnapping and brainwashing children from the radioactive “Fringe,” or the outskirts of nuclear wasteland that surround the Bureau’s hub. Despite the preponderance of exposition, we never do get to the reason David is stealing kids. Miles Teller provides an entertaining, mercurial and punchline-driven performance as Peter, who still doesn’t know whose side he’s on.
All this adds up to is a generic and unimaginative story set to a predictable score. We can’t decide if the hokey technology or the bad CGI is more laughable. Maybe it’s the political themes of division that lost the pissing contest to animated mammals. And lost badly.
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Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, 2016
Directed by Glenn Ficarra, John Requa, 112 minutes
Tina Fey, Margot Robbie, Martin Freeman, Alfred Molina, Billy Bob Thornton
Review by Katherine Scheetz
It’s been a good couple of months for journalism in film. Robert Carlock’s adapted screenplay from Kim Barker’s “The Taliban Shuffle: Strange Days in Afghanistan and Pakistan” is another notch on the totem.
Kim Baker (Fey) is an unattached and bored desk journalist in 2003 when the war in Iraq takes off, who jumps at an assignment reporting in Afghanistan for three months and ends up staying three years.
Baker slides on her belly under fire toward explosions by day and knocks back shots, porn and men by night with fellow adrenaline junkie journalists in the Kabul bubble or “Kabubble.” Her normal is completely recalibrated through bizarre occurrences ranging from solicitations by the attorney general of Afghanistan (Molina) to pouring her drunk heart out to a Chinese whore after her first big break. Despite a job well done by Freeman as Baker’s love interest, Iain MacKelpie, it isn’t where the film should have ended. Spoiler alert: this is not a love story, at least not that kind.
Qualifications apply, for this is a largely different film from the recent success, Spotlight (2015). But both films do their journalist roots credit with ceaselessly excellent writing and gripping pace. For Whiskey, uncensored lines roll straight out of the gate from General Hollanek (Thornton) and Tanya Vanderpoel (Robbie). Carlock doesn’t coddle us by explaining the vernacular of the Kabubble – except for “wet hooch” – that one we needed help with.
Unfortunately, because of the chaos of Kabul, Ficarra’s attempt at shining a light on Baker’s women’s right stories took a back seat, which is damn shame. Between the burkas (Fey whips out a quippy “I’m so pretty I don’t even want to vote” from beneath the blue covering) in the film and the stories of education and lifestyle Baker uncovered, the platform was there for the taking.
In spite of the madness, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is a highly entertaining and highly educational swing at the unglamorous but exotic life journalism can bring down upon its unsuspecting victims.
Visit our Get Involved page to learn about our previous donations to Game Rangers International Elephant Orphanage Project and visit us again for our next opportunity to give to animal sanctuaries across the globe.
Zootopia, 2016
Directed by Byron Howard, Rich Moore, Jared Bush, 108 minutes
Ginnifer Goodwin, Jason Bateman, Idris Elba, J.K. Simmons, Jenny Slate, Shakira
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Judy Hopps (Goodwin) is the purple-eyed daughter of two carrot farmers in Bunnyburrow, where animals still speak in tongues and your prey/predator status defines your role in life. After graduating from the police academy as the only bunny officer, her parting gift from her parents (and her 275 brothers and sisters) is “Fox-Off” pepper spray.
Judy heads to assignment in Zootopia City Center, pink iPaw blasting the latest toe-tapping hit from pop-star Gazelle (Shakira), where she is the only prey animal in a precinct of predators under buffalo Chief Bogo (Elba).
So begins the parade of characters who reveal the harsh realities of animal relations in Judy’s Mecca, from elephant-only ice cream shops to Mafia shrews. Key among them is Nick Wilde (Bateman), a hustling fox with sleepy eyelids and hands perpetually in his pockets; nuances taken straight from Bateman’s own body language in the recording studio.
Flawless animation accompanies the captured characteristics, down to the edging of fur on Judy’s expressive ears. But it’s everyday life details, like the texting hamster who gets squashed exiting the “tube” and the DMV run by sloths, that ground Disney’s world-building.
Writers Jared Bush and Phil Johnston deliver a tight script (if carrot-heavy) with no lag in clever lines or honest moments of friendship meant for both children and adults alike.
In Zootopia, there are doors sized for all creatures; public transportation accommodates swimmers, fliers, and tunnelers; homes exist for Tundra-dwellers, rainforest-livers, and Sahara-sunbathers. Think New York City, but built so that autism, cerebral palsy, down syndrome, ADHD, dyslexia and the like could never be thought of as disabilities, but rather part of what makes you unique. Novel.
Disney doles out a timely message of tolerance when we need it most. Let no wife-beater-wearing sheep cooking nighthowler in his lab stop you from absorbing Zootopia.
Visit our Get Involved page to learn about our previous donations to Game RangersInternational Elephant Orphanage Project and visit us again for our next opportunity to give to animal sanctuaries across the globe.
Eddie the Eagle, 2016
Directed by Dexter Fletcher, 106 minutes
Taron Edgerton, Hugh Jackman
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Set in the age of Charles and Diana chinaware, Taron Edgerton is Eddie Edwards, the massively far-sighted son of a “plucky plasterer” and born with “dodgy knees.” But his ambition to become an Olympian – and his precious and supportive mother (Jo Hartley) – stop at nothing to get him to the 1988 Olympics.
From the time Edwards knocks the entire British ski team down domino style, to his scrunched up nose as he wipes the his fogged up glasses with his fingers, Edgerton is idiotically charming. His jowl-heavy frown before each jump is well studied.
Writers Sean Macaulay and Simon Kelton light the story with panache. Lines roll trippingly and with the exception of the excessive heart-to-hearts, there are no wipe-outs.
Among the over-abundance of training montages, the height of entertainment is reached when fallen-from-grace ski jumper Peary (Jackman), rolling his eyes, decides to help the determined “gum on his shoe,” aka Eddie. Talking Eddie through the art of bringing Bo Derek to her full as a method of approach for the 70-meter jump, Eddie leaps into Peary’s arms, Dirty Dancing-style, over and over until he lets out a little “wee” in – let’s be British about this – excitement.
Aided by a synthesizer driven soundtrack, the buoyancy of Eddie’s optimism leaks right out of the screen. And while the movie isn’t heavy on cinematic flair, the Alps make for beautiful establishing shots and the directorial symmetry of Peary’s aviator sunglasses is subtly appreciated.
The wardrobe department nails it by equipping the Edwards’ family with a badass collection of jumpers (we see what you did there, Fletcher). Points for reminding us of Mrs. Weasley’s Christmas sweaters.
Eddie’s biopic might be generic, but the witty writing comes to life through the bromance between Peary and Eddie and its undeniable charm is as technicolor as an 80s workout video.
Visit our Get Involved page to learn about our previous donations to Game Rangers International Elephant Orphanage Project and visit us again for our next opportunity to give to animal sanctuaries across the globe.
Risen, 2016
Directed by Kevin Reynolds, 107 minutes
Joseph Fiennes, Tom Felton, Peter Firth, Cliff Curtis
Review by Katherine Scheetz
The Bible epic Risen should not have been marketed as a manhunt, when the eloquence of the film only emerges after the man has been found.
Joseph Fiennes is Clavius, a Tribune on the rise for Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem, who witnesses the crucifixion and then is sent in search of a body, once the sealed (literally with red wax pressed by Roman seals) tomb is emptied. How doe-eyed sidekick Lucius (Felton) can even hear Fiennes’ commands though the husky, testosterone-filled whisper he’s suddenly acquired, is beyond us.
With more animated acting we might have been moved by Clavius’ transformation, but deadpan stares through dark eyelashes does nothing for us. By complete contrast, the comradery of Yeshua’s eleven remaining disciples is buoyant, introduced to us first through Bartholomew (Stephen Hagan), 33 A.D.’s dirty hippy, with a smile eternally slapped across his face. Simon Peter (Stewart Scudamore) also resonates by being presented as refreshingly candid. Curtis preserves the enigmatic character of the outlaw Yeshua with thoughtful lines and kind glances.
With filming locations like Spain and Malta, the arid, patchy landscapes and jagged, sun-bleached rock formations provide a majestic set. The lighting team used their surroundings well by letting firelight throw laughs and shadows against open rock faces. Other notable moments include the ethereal beams of light streaming into Clavius’ cross-examination room and candle light against the crown of thorns.
But the writing is stale and overemphasized, utilizing every synonym for zealot listed on thesaurus.com. The story itself however, takes a momentous turn 2/3 through when Clavius aids the disciples in a successful escape from Jerusalem. It is, ironically, in these imagined interactions, which follow their journey to the sea of Galilee, that the story finally becomes truthful. It’s not the “epic manhunt” the poster promised, and that may have just saved the film.
Visit our Get Involved page to learn about our previous donations to Game Rangers International Elephant Orphanage Project and visit us again for our next opportunity to give to animal sanctuaries across the globe.
Deadpool, 2016
Directed by Tim Miller, 108 minutes
Ryan Reynolds, Morena Baccarin, TJ Miller, Ed Skrein
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Ryan Reynolds’ self-deprecating brainchild, Deadpool, is a lesson in patience. Eleven years in the making, he can sleep easy after a $135M opening weekend.
In case you missed the marketing of Deadpool, which involved poop emojis on billboards and “touch yourself” campaigns for early detection of cancer, then settle back for the opening credits, where “produced by: some asshole,” and “written by: the real heroes here” are set to the sounds of Angel of the Morning by Juice Newton. At that point you understand what you just paid $11.50 for, plus a popcorn and two drinks is you’re a good Valentine’s date.
Miller has achieved something groundbreaking with Deadpool - he has preserved the history of a comic book without compromise. His use of slow-motion and 4th wall breaks are just a few of the risks that have paid off.
TJ Miller, as best friend Weasel, adlibs lines like “You are haunting. You look like an avocado had sex with an older avocado” and that is about as kosher as it gets. Cab driver Dopinder (Karan Soni) is as innocent as daffodil daydreams in his exchanges with Wilson. Rounding off the circle of misfits is Emmy winner Leslie Uggams as Blind Al, Wilson’s blind (no, shit, right?), cocaine-loving roommate who assembles IKEA furniture all day long.
Between fat Gandalf, Taken nightmares and the jabs at Marvel, it is a meta-movie reference climax. But do your research, this film is reinventing the R-rated comedy for a reason. If you’re looking for subtly, look elsewhere. That is not Deadpool’s MO.
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Hail, Caesar!, 2016
Directed by Ethan and Joel Coen, 106 minutes
Josh Brolin, George Clooney, Alden Ehrenreich, Ralph Fiennes, Scarlett Johansson, Channing Tatum, Tilda Swinton, Frances McDormand, Jonah Hill
Review by Katherine Scheetz
This much anticipated golden-age-of-Hollywood comedy exceeds expectations with all the complexity we adore in the Coen Brothers films. Their attention to detail from green milk glass salt and pepper shakers to the Thacker sisters’ (Swinton) moles and layered storytelling keeps our minds working on subtext throughout the film.
Intelligent casting by Ellen Chenoweth made Michael Gambon’s trusted voice our narrator, guiding us through a day in the life of Roman Catholic Capitol Pictures executive Eddie Mannix (Brolin) as he maneuvers the eccentric fires of the film industry. This does not exclude the damn Commies or chatting with the wife about their son’s soccer game.
If we need a reminder that the Coen Brother’s know their craft, they let us know with their nod at an Alfred Hitchcock-esque car follow out to the Malibu coast. Additionally, the intentional decision to begin all their scenes taking place on sound stages without the audience knowing it makes for smooth transitions between the various plot lines. Tight shots let us invest in the scene before pulling out to reveal the director, crew, lights and production team. It’s a devilish play at our reality. The brothers’ seamless writing in Mannix’ diverse religious consult on the depiction of Christ leaves us in stitches.
Meanwhile, the promised sexual prowess between DeeAnna Moran (Johansson) and Joseph Silverman (Hill) is everything Moran’s yankee “fish-ass” demeanor can dream of. McDormand is positively bat-like, tucked into the editing department with a cigarette hanging off her lip. And our hats are off for Ehrenreich as Hobie Doyle, who manages to pull off a tongue-twisting accent-on-top-of-an-accent with cowboy charm. Lest I be remiss to mention the Tatum tap-dancing South Pacific ode to dames. His tan features are contoured to match the suave swing of his voice and we swoon to see him dance again on screen.
Carter Burwell cannot escape the chord progression that is immortalized as Twilight (2008) but with the old school westerns, big band scenes and Latin mass requiems it is easier to disguise. It ends up being a score that reflects its delightfully colorful story.
This gregarious tribute to the real life Eddie Mannix (of MGM) is well done, memorializing the man as only the Coen Brothers can.
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Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, 2016
Directed by Burr Steers, 108 minutes
Lily James, Lena Headley, Sam Riley, Douglas Booth, Matt Smith, Jack Huston
Review by Katherine Scheetz
No, this isn’t a cinematic work of art, written with smooth perfection or breaking new ground. By way of parody’s this falls in step with Tucker and Dale vs. Evil (2010) glazed with a dose of Jane Austen’s perceptive and provocative prose. The focus of the film is more on the swirl of British insults, ironic propriety and grossly exaggerated characters, than the zombie gore, which might deter those looking for more R-rated entrails.
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies has retained the skeleton of the story easiest to mock: Darcy (Riley) still swims in the lake, Bingley (Booth) is still the more handsome of the two, Mr. Collins (Smith) still dances like the leprechaun, the proposal scene is still the most interesting part, Elizabeth (James) still speaks her mind and a double wedding rounds things off. There’s just…a little more going on. The main plot change is Wickham’s (Huston) reformed zombies at St. Lazarus’ Church outside London, curbing their appetite with pig brain instead of human – not unlike the Twilight (2008) vampires.
Of the ensemble of attempted caricatures, one performance is dead on. Matt Smith as Mister, excuse me, Parson Collins is just ridiculous. Bloody, bloody ridiculous.
The biggest blessing of this film is that it’s exposing Austen to those who would never have read her otherwise. Their reactions are delightful to Darcy fumbling out literatures most insulting marriage proposal and daggers being brandished at “barely tolerable” dance partners. For it is a truth universally acknowledged that watching Austen virgins become enthralled is bloody lovely.
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Jane Got a Gun, 2016
Directed by Gavin O’Connor, 98 minutes
Natalie Portman, Joel Edgerton, Ewan McGregor, Noah Emmerich
Review by Katherine Scheetz
True to its trailer, which displayed virtually no plot, Jane Got a Gun starts off with a lot of questions.
When Jane’s (Portman) husband Hamm (Emmerich) comes home littered with bullet holes and declaring that the Bishop Boys are coming for them, this inexplicably resilient woman rides off into the unrelenting New Mexico Territory to the house of sullen drunkard Dan (Edgerton) to get help. With so much action right out of the gate we have no reason to give a cow-pie for any of the characters.
It’s a risky, but decisive move for O’Connor, who uses predictably placed flashbacks to unfold Jane’s relations to all the key players in the story. As in classic western fashion, all the bad guys are bad and all the good guys are good, it just takes us a while to figure out who is who, because of the flashback technique. Another benefit to this model is the dimensionality it adds to Jane. Unfortunately, she and her dying husband are the only characters afforded that luxury.
The fictitious town of Lullaby, New Mexico is a classically colorful setting, with the whorehouse, butcher, saloon, gunsmith and coffin maker being the main attractions. There’s a tinkering piano that floats out the swinging doors onto the muddy strip, which compliments an unobtrusive score of trembling camp fire guitar underlain by soulful strings.
Peppered with phrases like “bone orchard” and “perdition” the script is a thesaurus of boomtown slang dropped like chaps in the local brothel. Between that and the heavy-handed attempt at making “story” a theme, very few lines stand out like Edgerton’s wry “Let us hope the Bishop Boys are all very big and fat.”
Storytelling aside, O’Connor has a few moments of visual strength against the cerulean western sky and dusty bonfire light through Jane’s bullet-ridden, one-room homestead.
But all’s well that ends well and with a merciful, Hail Mary ending, the people we eventually come to root for, all ride off into a covered-wagon sunset.
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The Finest Hours, 2016
Directed by Craig Gillespie, 117 minutes
Chris Pine, Casey Affleck, Ben Foster, Eric Bana, Holliday Granger
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Director Craig Gillespie (Million Dollar Arm) took the kind of story that reminds us there are good people out there and did to The Finest Hours what we all feared would happen when we saw who the producers were: he Disney-ified it. I would have preferred to see the version of this film directed by David Ayer (Training Day).
There are no illusions that this was a suicide mission. Pride caused people to make bad calls and men died. It’s a gritty story and Gillespie through a series of poor decisions that range from caricatured costuming to unimaginative shots, sanded it smooth.
The final straw however is Carter Burwell’s Twilight-esque score. With crashing waves, sleet and snow streaking howling winds and men shouting at each other as the fractured hull of the tanker fills with sea water, this is a loud film. The added sensory of Burwell’s full orchestrations and swells of strings is more headache than harmony.
Fortunately, the acting performances keep the film bobbing above the water by providing a glimpse at what the actual night might have been like, rather than the Disney night. It’s a very different role for Pine, especially coming from Into the Woods. There’s no charm to him, no glossy, flowing hair flips. When we meet Bernie he is quiet and follows orders. One of the redeeming parts of the film is watching Bernie come into his own, sans his will-not-take-no-for-an-answer woman Miriam (Granger), who seems injected into the story to play the role of figurehead for the for the town’s part in the rescue.
Another strength of the film is actively including the audience in the problem solving, especially on the tanker, which delays its inevitable sinking. Affleck is the initiative here, the morose, unlikable engine room lackey Ray Sybert, who’s quick analytics, keeps the ship in their control long enough to, well, you’ve seen the poster.
But the skeleton of the story is triumphant and if for no other reason than honoring those involved, it is good that this film was made. Maybe next time they’ll be more honest about it.
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The Hateful Eight, 2015
Directed by Quentin Tarantino, 187 minutes
Samuel L. Jackson, Kurt Russell, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Walton Goggins, Tim Roth
Review by Katherine Scheetz
With shots of vast, snow-covered Wyoming boonies and gunslinger style font, tribute to the mighty gods of Western film is paid in the opening credits. Whether you like his style or not, you respect Tarantino’s nod at his cinematic heritage.
Upon arrival at the cabin we wait patiently for each character to nail the door closed behind themselves and then, once a gloved hand slips poison into the coffee, settle in for what promises to be the bloodiest game of Whodunnit? we’ve ever seen. Tarantino does not disappoint.
With displayed scene titles and four walls keeping them in, the illusion of a stage-play is only lacking in red velvet curtains framing the screen.
Jennifer Jason Leigh is not the standard female of an old western, and boy, do the men want her to know it. She looks positively Carrie-like by the end of the film, though not without putting up a fight. Her groadie, seductive swagger earns her more than a few broken bones as does her sharp tongue. Watching the lit-stick-of-dynamite ensemble circle her, chained in place, is a testament to Leigh’s command of Daisy.
With his usual finesse, Tarantino overdoes all the stereotypes: southern, white supremacy racist in an office daddy bought him, black Civil War vet gone rogue out in the west, old school, southern general and stoic, soulful cowboy. Even the minor characters offer super-saturated Manifest Destiny enthusiasm. It is Tarantino’s way and he does it so very well against Ennio Morricone’s orchestral nail-biter of a score.
If you can stomach chunks of human in another person’s hair, then enjoy what Tarantino has offered up.
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The Revenant, 2015
Directed by Alejandro G. Iñárritu, 156 minutes
Leonardo DiCaprio, Tom Hardy, Domnhall Gleeson, Will Poulter, Forrest Goodluck
Review by Katherine Scheetz
In The Revenant, Director Iñárritu took the ass-end of the earth and with establishing shots that stop your heart, turns us into believers.
The film is based on frontiersman Hugh Glass (DiCaprio), who is known for surviving a grizzly bear attack and then crawling 200 miles through the unforgiving Dakota territory back to Fort Kiowa after being abandoned and left for dead.
At the time of the bear incident Glass’ fur-trading possé includes pretty boy Captain Henry (Gleeson), a crass, scalped Fitzgerald (Hardy), the naïve, smooth-faced Bridger (Poulter) and Glass’ half-Pawnee son, Hawk (Goodluck). For those that don’t know Gleeson’s name yet: he’s the ginger in any film you’ve seen since Harry Potter ended and he is one to watch. Meanwhile Hardy spits out his dialogue opposite a cool-headed DiCaprio. It’s blatant the two of them needed one another on set.
Yes, the mauling is rattling to watch but the virtue of the film is in how Iñárritu shows everything that follows. Glass sucks marrow out of snow covered animal skeletons. He cauterizes his own neck wound with gunpowder and flint. He cracks open the steaming carcass of a horse to survive yet another blizzard. In this role, DiCaprio tests the limits on the resilience of the human spirit.
Iñárritu doesn’t stop there. He threads in a narrative of the crumbling nations of Arikara and Pawnee, which include Glass’s Pawnee wife and son, giving unfiltered exposure to the festering flesh of how the west was really won. Fever-induced dreams unfold Glass’ backstory and the origin of his respect for the natural world. That reverence, learned from his time with his wife, is reinforced in a tender encounter with a weather-worn Pawnee man.
Settling like a fresh fallen snow atop the layers of story is the cinematography executed by Emmanuel Lubezki. He and Iñárritu romance us with amber firelight against blue-white birch bark. Just the panning landscapes and the minimal, hair-raising score by Ryûichi Sakamoto would make an excellent documentary. But it’s all done in natural lighting, it’s all done with the mud and sweat from the days before still caked on. The Revenant is a benchmark and with the audience's blessing, may Hollywood produce many more.
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The Good Dinosaur, 2015
Directed by Peter Sohn, 93 minutes
Jeffrey Wright, Frances McDormand, Raymond Ochoa, Jack Bright
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Review by Katherine Scheetz
With phenomenon Inside Out (2015) grossing $90 million in its opening weekend, The Good Dinosaur (2015), at a mere $39 million on its Thanksgiving day release, is the starving artist, still-discovering-myself sibling at the holiday table in a family of engineers. Which is a shame, really, because there are elements of The Good Dinosaur that are genuinely a pleasure.
Visually, it meets all the standards of an enigmatic Pixar piece: from pudding-like mud upon the silo and wind-swept fields, freckled with longhorns, to the effervescent moment of fireflies bubbling up around Arlo (Raymond Ochoa) and Spot (Jack Bright, ). It is a saturated with doe-eyed, pre-historic creatures and all their caricatured oddities. But it doesn’t exceed expectations, a grave that Disney-Pixar dug themselves into.
In terms of atmosphere, composing brothers Mychael and Jeff Danna deliver a deliciously wholesome score, full prairie fiddles, piping Mexican standoff hums and deep horns evocative of rolling Midwest hills. Danna and Danna are, as usual, not afraid of taking non-traditional instruments and non-traditional sounds whether that be steel drums, Gregorian chants or Middle Eastern mandolin, in order to create the desired effect. If nothing else, this film is a lesson in how music informs the entire mood of a film. What makes the story relatable is the good-ole-American Manifest Destiny feel of the score. Without that, this is just an updated Land Before Time (1988).
All these can be forgiven, as archetypes, caricatures and straightforward storytelling can be instructive and self-reflective. But the overabundance of morals leaves us bogged down with confusion. In between the mixed signals of advice from Poppa (Jeffrey Wright), lessons learned on the road and dream-induced flashbacks, the meanings of most of these messages gets lost. That being said, at the end of the film, one lesson does make it through the fog: when you are able to let go of judgment beautiful things can happen.
And I will say this: The longhorn droving T-Rex family nails it. Two words: bug harmonica.
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Spotlight, 2015
Directed by Tom McCarthy,
Mark Ruffalo, Michael Keaton, Rachel McAdams, Liev Schreiber, John Slattery, Stanley Tucci
Review by Katherine Scheetz
In the slew of iconic Bostonian movies, Spotlight sits among those that embody the grey-cloud intensity that is more than a movie set in Boston but one that is, in essence, Boston. Think Good Will Hunting (1997) and The Departed (2006).
The narrative takes us in, immediately, to the freshly wounded: small children coloring in a police station room, guarded closely by their mother. Enter well-dressed, overpaid, Catholic lawyer, swinging around the familiar terrain as green police officers mutter about arraignments and trials. Fast forward fifteen years and dart down the fluorescent hallways of the Boston Globe to the “Spotlight” special reporting team office, coffee brewing and desks peppered with papers to be piled and filed.
The catalyzing event is the entrance of Schreiber, quietly commanding as Marty Baron, the brand new, non-Catholic, Editor-in-Chief who assigns them the project of following up on a case of a child-molesting priest. One priest turns into three which turns into 14, which turns into, well you get the idea. It’s an investigative journalism avalanche.
Writers Josh Singer (The Fifth Estate) and Tom McCarthy (Up) have crafted a script with words chosen as meticulously as a newspaper article. Every character on the page matters. This intention is not lost on the glowing cast. Ruffalo is dynamite as Mike Rezendes, down to his parted hair, Neanderthal eating habits and slouch, determined under the weight of his shoulder bag. His interactions with Mitchell Garabedian played by the brilliant Stanley Tucci unfold with desperate grace. Tucci, as with all projects he touches, only enhances. Whether an enigmatic TV personality in a dystopian future, quirky husband to the colorful Julia Child or dry-humored liason to Anne Hathaway into the fashion world, Tucci lights up the characters around him. Spotlight is no exception. He nails Garabedian as the fed-up representation to the targeted victims with a nuanced and compassionate rage. McAdams slips out of her skin as Sasha Phieffer, particularly in her interviews with and connection to the survivors.
By way of costuming, the simplicity of the gender neutral, monochrome and functional early 2000s wardrobe is effective. It eliminates any distraction from the story the reporters are following. Except for the intentional smear of red adorning Cardinal Law’s garb. Nothing hints at villainy like costuming. McCarthy’s functional decisions are reflected throughout in minimal set design and glaring, artificial lighting. Every visual component has been considered carefully.
In a surprising score from Howard Shore we hear hints of the millennial music against a grey-rain piano canvas. Shore sprinkles the clacking of computer keystrokes in every once in a while to ground us again in the looming belly of the Boston Globe: the Spotlight team’s home base. The breath of a church pipe organ has a sobering effect in the score as well.
McCarthy has allowed the story to percolate through, playing the role of host to fast-paced, flawless writing and a strength that ripples through the cast in execution. It’s a film – and a story – that deserves the front page.
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Directed by Sam Mendes,
Daniel Craig, Christoph Waltz, Léa Seydoux
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Review by Katherine Scheetz
The screen is alight with all the elements that make it Bond. Endless well-tailored suits, massive explosions, cutting edge technology, Astin Martins, spy-equipped car chases, boat chases, plane chases, vodka martinis, torture scenes, evil pets, champagne, mirrored, naked women in the opening credits, weirdly flattering turtlenecks, visits to exotic countries, mid-air hand-to-hand combat, seduction, arrogance, glamour and glissandos as the sun sets, golden against yet another seamless Bond getaway. It’s only a tad chaotic.
We enter our plot at a tumultuous time in the “00” program as technological advancement is pushing to eliminate the human element: operatives. The new M (Ralph Fiennes), plays middleman between his agents and the seemingly inevitable change-of-times, reminding us that “a license to kill is also a license not to kill.” Then there’s Bond, still dealing, in his own way, with the loss of our dearest M (Judy Dench, Skyfall) by carrying out her final orders; killing the heart of an international terrorist organization. Using an octopus ring and “the pale king” he sniffs his way off the grid, pulling into the line of duty our beloved Q (Ben Whishaw, Cloud Atlas) and Moneypenny (Naomi Harris, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest), who are given long-overdue time to shine. The outcome is triumphant.
Technically, the camera was on point. Aerial shots flew by time and time again, tunnels and corridors and tree-lined drives that snatch the audiences breathe as much as Craig’s steely blue eyes. The lighting team nuanced every beam to manipulate our mood in seconds, especially helpful through several jarringly dramatic scene changes. The writers kept the smooth sass of Bond intact with quippy one-liners given to every cast member at one point or another, allowing the audience a moment to smirk and breathe in between the string of heart-attack inducing circumstances that make up Bond’s narrative. Craig especially delivers with a slippery tongue and a practiced poker face.
Overall the story is as predictable as the classic Bond villain they created for it, down to his pussycat and his make-up department dream of a battle wound, but that’s not what we came here to see. Craig’s final installment as 007 is a dirty martini; classic Bond vodka, shaken of course, but with just a hint of olive-flavored variation.
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Bridge of Spies, 2015
Directed by Steven Spielberg,
Tom Hanks, Mark Rylance, Alan Alda
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Bridge of Spies has all the quiet allure of Saving Private Ryan (1998) and all the brutal honesty of an older Daniel Brühl film. Seriously though, I waited through the entire film expecting his classic 90s haircut and refreshingly honest German accent. He never came.
The year is 1957 and whether it is in the detail of coattails in the courtroom, the pastel pink of the bathroom fixtures or the “Duck and Cover” nuclear preparations video, Spielberg’s detail-oriented teams have done a supremely subtle way of reminding us of that. Insurance lawyer Jim Donovan is tossed the job of representing one of the most hated men in America at the time, a known Soviet spy on trial for espionage and destined for the electric chair after the song and dance of justice is done. He approaches the situation without any thought but doing the right thing and it is sustained through every decision his character makes, whether that be calling his wife from a West Berlin payphone or getting drawing materials to the hated Soviet in his American prison. The audience can’t help but wonder why we are still paying Hanks to play this part after seeing him in it almost every year since 1992? If he wasn’t every millennials voice of plastic Wild West reason, we might be tired of throwing our paychecks at him by now.
Spielberg’s pacing is impeccable. It moves slowly, slower than the instant gratification of today but in a way that quiets your breathing and brings you back to life in the 1950s.
His intentional direction isn’t flagrant but rather the stuff of a practiced hand. His choices are made by robust experience, no ego required. The camera angles and the stylistic choices aren’t about showing off what Spielberg can do: they're about telling Donovan’s story the right way. The first meeting of Donovan and Rylance’s character, Rudolf Abel, was made memorable by luminescent back lighting from the prison windows rendering them to nearly full silhouette, shadow-like, as Donovon pronounces Abel’s harpist wife back in Moscow an “angel”. Employment of slightly-off-kilter angles used in and outside the Supreme Court in Washington D.C. also made the list of notable shots.
In the cinematography department, Spielberg demonstrated effective control of mirror symmetry. Using devices such as the cornerstone phone calls of the film and the time-honored handkerchief, both utilized first as they relate to Abel and then later to Donovon, as well as the human body jumping fences and the Wall, Spielberg gave us little clues to keep us actively engaged in his narrative.
Also to be noted, is the beautiful rhythm to Hanks and Rylance’s dialogue together, echoed throughout the film in the brilliantly scripted “Would it help?” which Rylance repeats several times. To hear Rylance’s subtext change throughout the course of the story and his relationship with Hank’s character, it gnaws at your stomach. The deep northern English accent that Rylance nuanced for Abel is hypnotic. He fades in and out with the rise and fall of the accent against the words, his voice scratches in prison, and becomes moist and phlegmy as he grows more confident. Watching Rylance refine Abel into a tall, nonchalant glass of Commie vodka throughout the course of the film was a privilege.
What truly makes this a film worth watching, and what separates this of Hank’s roles from his other, is Spielberg’s decision to utilize of his platform to make powerful moments at the Berlin Wall come to the fore front. Between the scenes shot at the building of the Wall, cement block by cement block, and Donovan’s witness of escapees from East Berlin in no man’s land, it’s a cinematic triumph in bringing people’s, especially the American people’s, attention to a brutal and not so distant history.
It is a film that brings you out of yourself. Donovan challenges you to be better, no matter your country, no matter your family, no matter what you have to do. Hanks’ delivery of this lesson is so gentle, and yet so firm, that of course we listen. It is on Hank’s good words, Spielberg’s faithful history lesson and the lull of life in cold times takes off. And it’s sure to make every historical bibliophile giddy to go home and read well into the wee morning hours (yes, I’m looking at you, Dad).
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Pan, 2015
Directed by Joe Wright, 111 minutes
Hugh Jackman, Garrett Hedlund, Rooney Mara and Levi Miller
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Review by Katherine Scheetz
In this would-be explicative Peter Pan origin story, we start off hopeful with a strong opening scene marked by an aerial shot of a single lit doorway casting a blue beam onto Peter’s abandoned baby basket in the midnight London streets. The lighting team sustains their clever choices throughout with smart lights against the bold make up on Jackman and Mara and lighting blues and pinks against the lush foliage to set an imaginative bioluminescent mood upon the native forest. Meanwhile, behind the lights a score of deep percussive drums and warpipes trills, but like all things in Pan it’s just busy music that sounds like it is rooted in Powell’s How To Train Your Dragon (2010) score. He does dazzle us again, although with less vigor, as his signature sound made its debut in Dragon and tastes more like a cheap knockoff in Pan.
The strongest lines are the ones crafted by J.M Barrie himself. “Death will be the greatest adventure” uttered by the aboriginal chief before exploding in a powder-ful puff of a colored cornstarch death and Hedlund’s fresh new take on “second to the right and straight on til morning!” puts butterflies in my little fan-girl belly. However the rest of the writing falls victim to dialogue so predictably scripted that we could mouth the words along.
It is an unnecessarily stimulated storyline for sure. Think along the lines of Wright’s Anna Karenina (2012). With such rich content to call upon from the myth of Peter Pan, as the audience we ask ourselves why repulsive nuns hiding war time rations, the American west mining town and explosive Holi powder deaths are needed to make the film more imaginative. Any of those settings independent from one another have promising vibrancy, but together, it overwhelms.
What the preponderance of plot does is take over. Instead of the characters being allowed to drive the story with their decisions and unfolding slowly, the complexities of their dimensions, the film is propelled forward by an unyielding plot. We audience members remain distanced, in a fishbowl that cuts off the accessibility of our childhood and the Peter Pan we know.
Through the density of plot the characters only ever become simple caricatures of adulthood: a grubby, amoral nun, an old man consumed by obsession, a guarded warrior woman, an adventure-seeking prospector, a boy who has to learn to believe in himself. Wright’s attempt to bring more dimension to the characters of this beloved story does exactly the opposite: portray overdone, singularly-willed individuals who are not strong enough to make their own decisions. The plot decides for them. In all of this however, the most compelling moments of acting come from newcomer Levi Miller, who reminds us that Peter Pan is not just Huck Finn on an other-worldly, never ending, swashbuckling thrill ride, but a boy with sadness, longing, empty spaces and desires.
By far, the best directorial decision that Wright made is his collaboration with Andrew Huang for several animated sequences, of which one stands out as strongest. “Memory Tree” is a scene of unique flashback storytelling. The animation of tree rings is the outlying a stroke of genius in the film. It follows threads of inspiration from the “Tale of Three Brothers” (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 (2010) animation, but with an appropriately naturalistic twang. It’s beautiful to watch, plain and simple. Huang is one to keep an eye on.
Pan had potential to join the list of origin stories that only enhance the myths they derive from, among recent ones like Robin Hood (2010), Star Trek (2009) and Casino Royale (2006). But Pan misses the mark by so much that it’s a wonder Peter managed to fly at all.
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Visit our Get Involved page or go directly to our GoFundMe to learn about and donate to the amazing people at Game Rangers International and all they are doing to help orphaned elephants.
The Martian, 2015
Directed by Ridley Scott, 141 minutes
Matt Damon, Jessica Chastain, Kirsten Wiig, Kate Mara, Jeff Daniels, Michael Peña, Sean Bean, Chiwetel Ejiofor
Review by Katherine Scheetz
Scott pulls us to a parallel world where missions to Mars are on regular rotation and televised space travel still binds people together. It is nostalgically reminiscent of the go-go-boots and gravity-defying-hair Space Race Era with the added sophistication of a lens flared Sci-Fi that can deny the laws of physics for a nod to the aesthetic. The final touch to this well-crafted story is the uncensored frankness of the script fed to us like good ole’ American apple pie.
The action begins on the Mars landing site with astronauts Watney (Damon), Lewis (Chastain), Johannsen (Mara), Martinez (Peña), Beck and Vogel throwing cheesy quips around through headsets before being caught off guard by an unsuspectingly powerful sand storm. In the mayhem of an impromptu “abort mission” Watney is hit by debris and presumed dead. The remaining crew, led by Captain Lewis, makes the impossible call through gritted teeth and back to earth they go. Leaving Watney alone.
Thanks to the directorial power of the webcam, audiences watch through Watney’s eyes as the abandoned botanist “science[s] the shit out of” starvation, suffocation, solidarity and disco. Approximately ¾ of the way through the movie you realize that duct tape really can fix everything.
Complication after complication, Damon’s performance as Watney is rhythmic, hiccupped only occasionally by a rightly placed “Fuck you, Mars.” It carries you, like Captain Lewis’ disco music, through his upbeat decision day after day to not die.
Away from those growing their own food on an inhospitable planet, we catch back up with Watney’s crew, en route for home, where we get a brief glimpse at their on-earth lives. Peña’s character in the crew functions as a similar bonding agent as his role in the brotherhood of Fury (2014), resolute in the mission, no matter the cost. Chastain is unblinking and unsentimental as Captain to the team of scientific masterminds. She talks straight through any bull in the inevitable “do we or don’t we” rescue mission mutiny to bring back Watney.
On earth, a wide-eyed, astrodymanic Donald Glover (Community) slips in and out of the film, garnishing the analytical and problem solving dialogue with coffee-driven-supergenious-geek ideas. Without Glover, J.R.R. Tolkien’s appearance in the film just wouldn’t have been the same (insert Sean Bean quote here). Jeff Daniels as a crusty, yet determined NASA director leads an innovative team on the home front, where Kristen Wiig surprises as PR Annie Montrose, dealing solemnly and rationally with the media gig of a lifetime. Chiwetel Ejiofor is seamless as Mars Mission director Vincent Kapoor, more chameleon than actor as he reacts to the problems set before him.
In spite of myself, to pull any of these performances out among the others is an injustice to the remaining team members because what this film did is bring everyone’s best to the foreground. And not just the actors, but across all departments: cinematography, costuming, writing, editorial, directorial and so on. There simply was no lull, no action that was extraneous and no link that was weak.
Helpless in Scott’s irresistible snare, we chuckle at Watney’s humanity, fist pump his triumphs and white knuckle through his struggles. And Damon, through it all, remains our annoyingly proactive liaison to colonizing the red planet. It is perhaps on this that we can call the largest flaw of the film; It’s just plain not realistic that Watney could be that good and still be human. But then, as the title suggest, he’s not human: he’s The Martian.
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