Welcome to the family, Nkala!

Nkala

Pachyderm Reviews is happy to announce that we are now the foster parent of sweet little orphan Nkala. Born in March of 2013 and rescued in June of 2013, he is named for the Game Management Area where he was rescued. A big thank you to everyone who helped us take this step. Those who contributed to our GoFundMe will each be mailed your very own copy of Nkala’s adoption certificate. We love you, Nkala!

“In June 2013 ‘Nkala’ was discovered as he wandered alone and distressed among cattle, after his family herd had been driven away from agricultural land and unfortunately they did not return for their lost calf. After hearing GRI’s community radio show (which featured the Elephant Orphanage Project) the people living near Nkala Game Management Area notified Zambia Wildlife Authority and GRI of this little elephant and a rescue team was rapidly deployed to his aid.

At that time Nkala was only three months old and so was in desperate need for milk. He was stabilized at the EOP Kafue Release Facility (only 1.5 hours away by road) before being flown to the EOP Lilayi Elephant Nursery where he received a high level of care around the clock, including milk feeds every three hours!

After losing his mother and herd he was initially traumatized and during his first month of care he often looked depressed and struggled to socialize with the other orphans. Over time, with consistent affections from his keepers and surrogate her, good nutrition and routine in his life (regular bush walks and mud baths) he settled into like at the Nursery and has fully integrated amongst the orphan herd.”

If you would like to get involved with Game Ranger International Elephant Orphanage Project or have an idea for Pachyderm Review’s next fundraiser email us at pachydermreviews@gmail.com

Risen

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

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 if you’re a good Valentine’s date.

             

Ex-special forces freelancer Wade Wilson (Reynolds) spends a year falling for equally-as-sardonic Vanessa (Baccarin) when, after proposing with a Ring Pop pulled out of his perfectly-formed ass, he collapses and is diagnosed with terminal cancer. In desperation, he agrees to undergo treatment that will cure the cancer and bonus: give him superhero powers. After months of torture that leave him horribly disfigured, Wilson breaks out of the facility and, thanks to Ajax’s (Skein) threshold mutation therapy, is virtually indestructible and out for revenge under his new pseudonym: Deadpool.

              Director 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.           

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

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

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.

             

Now for a couple complaints from an Austen purest: any self-respecting fan knows, no matter how the story changes, that Lady Catherine De Bourgh (Headley) would never reveal to Elizabeth Bennet that she admires her, even though we all know she does. The failing of writer/director Steers is most apparent however in the character of Mr. Bennet (Charles Dance), who being the instigator of so much of the lighthearted humor in the original, falls flat as a stoic head-of-the-house here. It is a much missed opportunity.

              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.

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

Jane Got a Gun

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.

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 Finest Hours

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).

             

In February of 1952, in the seaside town of Wellfleet, Massachusetts a blizzard turned and waves roiled up to 70 feet. A thirty-six-foot lifeboat manned by four and captained by Coast Guard skipper Bernie Webber (Pine) took off from shore, headed to the wreckage of an oil tanker that had been ripped in half by the storm, in search of survivors.

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, whose quick analytics keep 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

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.

             

         Bounty Hunter John Ruth (Russell) has hired out the last stagecoach to Red Rock transporting outlaw Daisy Domergue (Leigh) and outrunning a blizzard. After two cleverly written verbal shoot outs, he reluctantly ends up with strays, Major Warren (Jackson) and Sheriff Mannix (Goggins), en route to Minnie’s Haberdashery, their rest stop to wait out the snowstorm. In the post-Civil War upheaval there could not be a more gregarious coach ride.

              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 bleed with 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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Spotlight

Spotlight, 2015

Directed by Tom McCarthy, 128 minutes

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 15 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.

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.

Spectre

Spectre, 2015

Directed by Sam Mendes, 148 minutes

Daniel Craig, Christoph Waltz, Léa Seydoux

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.

             

Where else to start in a Bond epic, but with the opening credits? Sam Smith’s “Writings on the Wall” is full of swells, slides and drama that make it the stuff of archival Bond material. The women laying hands on 007 are on fire, sensually wrapped in octopus tentacles, utterly cheesy and a perfect 70s Bond credit replica. A visual treat for any honest fan.

              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 (Judi 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.

             

A-dork-able Q is fresh right down to his turned-out, academia shoes. His ability to stand next to Bond, looking very boy-genius like, and keep pace with him is impressive. Whishaw put a backbone into the young Q and then some, as we see his quick wits under pressure later in the film. Moneypenny sustains as Bond’s not surprising, but truly heartfelt constant through the trepidations that have plagued Daniel Craig’s Bond career. She calls him James when he is simply 007 to everyone else (and…insert 1967 The Prisoner quote here). Harris is lovely as James’ savvy home-front partner, providing just enough “will-they-wont-they” energy to keep the audience hoping.

              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.

               

It is definitely nostalgic to know that this is the end of Daniel Craig’s reign in MI6 but allows us to reflect on his performance as a full body of work. His contribution to the role has been well researched, without a doubt. Watching him in Spectre, it is apparent that Craig knows the role of 007 well enough to write his memoir. Which is some of what his films have been. Unlike the Bonds before him, Craig’s legacy is in the humanizing of an icon. No longer reduced to the womanizing license to kill, Craig has made him part spy and part man.

              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.

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.

Bridge of Spies

Bridge of Spies, 2015 

Directed by Steven Spielberg, 141 minutes

Tom Hanks, Mark Rylance, Alan Alda

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).

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.

Pan

Pan, 2015

Directed by Joe Wright, 111 minutes

Hugh Jackman, Garrett Hedlund, Rooney Mara and Levi Miller

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.

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

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.

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 forefront. 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. 

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.

Game Rangers International

As our name is "pachyderm" our first cycle of donations will be given to the

Game Rangers International for their Elephant Orphanage Project. Game Rangers International has been in operation since 2008 and was founded to assist communities surrounding Kafue National Park in Zambia. Kafue, at 22,400 km², is the second largest national park in Africa and the largest in Zambia. 

Their Elephant Orphanage Project begins at the Lilayi Elephant Nursery where abandoned elephant calves, victim to poaching and human conflict, are nursed and monitored around the clock. As soon as the calves can be weaned from milk they are moved to the Kafue National Park​, to join other older orphaned elephants at the EOP Kafue Release Facility. Here they are more independent of human support and move freely around the National Park. The Release Facility backs onto the Ngoma Teak Forest where there is a 1,000 strong local elephant population, which maximizes the opportunity for the orphans to eventually reintegrate with fellow elephants back in the wild.

For their elephant adoption program, it costs a mere $65 USD to adopt an elephant for a year. That adoption includes an adoption certificate with the profile and photos of our orphan’s story, quarterly updates highlighting events in the progress of our orphan including photos and a monthly newsletter from GRI about all of the projects and activities which we are helping to support.

There are a fair number of elephant rescue programs out there, not a huge amount of course, but enough to make the choice for the first cycle donations not an easy one. So the reasons behind this one being chosen are particularly important. They are specifically raising these beautiful creatures to return to life in the wild. No animal was made for captivity, even a blessed one in a sanctuary. If they can live independently, they should. It's true that like any other animal that is endangered, there are many that cannot survive independently anymore (read GRI's story of Suri here and about the memorial fund they have created for her here) and for them the sanctuaries are their best chance at happy lives. What I respect so greatly about Games Ranger International is their commitment to return the elephants to successful lives in the wild.

Double click the link below to visit our GoFundMe page and donate to GRI's Elephant Orphanage Project