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He’s Just Not That Into You (Movie Review)

By Andrew on April 26th, 2010

Originally written and posted on February 11, 2009.

He’s Just Not That Into You

The back wall of theatre 14 at the Kennedy Commons AMC Theatres is very poorly soundproofed, and since the movie I was watching was incredibly boring, the pleasant aural carnage from the adjacent theatre showing Taken offered a measure of comfort from the mind-numbing dross of He’s Just Not That Into You. Because I know what you’re all thinking, I’ll just address your question right off the bat so we can move on with the review: I’ve seen every bloody worthwhile movie that’s come out in the last little while. It boiled down to either this, or Paul Blart: Mall Cop, and I’m willing to accept that I probably made the wrong decision.

It’s almost Valentine’s Day, which obviously means that every store front is decked out in shades of red and pink, and Hollywood has to vomit a slurry of romantic comedies into my critical lap while I hold her hair back in the hopes of being rewarded for my kindness with decent summer blockbusters in a few months time. I understand the need for romantic comedies since they more or less operate as a means by which a person can break out a bottle of Vodka, edible underwear, and furry handcuffs with their significant other. I just wish there was a way for Hollywood to help couples score without taunting the socially gauche for their lack of action. I don’t feel too bad though, since no one in He’s Just Not That Into You seems to be getting any ass either. It’s a minor consolation the astute loner can take refuge in.

He’s Just Not The Into You is a story of nine American adults, all white and spunky, who have nothing better to do than date and dwell on the effects of modern technology on fairytale romance. All nine are either previously connected or introduced to each other, and they all impact each other’s love life in some way:

  • Jennifer Aniston, Ginnifer Goodwin, and Jennifer Connelly are all coworkers.
  • Ben Affleck and Jennifer Aniston have been living together for seven years, but are not married.
  • Jennifer Connelly and Bradley Cooper are trapped in a sexless marriage.
  • Ginnifer Goodwin is a neurotic wreck when it comes to dating, who gets pointers from Justin Long.
  • Bradley Cooper and Ben Affleck are friends.
  • Kevin Connolly and Justin Long are friends.
  • Kevin Connolly and Scarlett Johansson are a rather indecisive couple.
  • Bradley Cooper cheats on Jennifer Connelly with Scarlett Johansson.
  • Scarlett Johansson and Drew Barrymore are friends.
  • Drew Barrymore has a thing for Kevin Connolly.

    • Sure it’s not very professional to summarize a plot through bullet points, but this is the most effective way for a person to come to grips with the proceedings (I recommend printing the above out an using it as a reference guide should you end up watching the movie). You’ll also notice I used the actor’s names and not character names in the outline. This is because there are countless scattershot references to characters we’re never introduced to, so I honestly have no idea what the names of half the players are.

    For a film marketed as a “Romantic Comedy”, I can’t help but feel impressed by how deftly it fails at living up to either expectation. Apatow and Co. twisted genre conventions when The 40 Year Old Virgin offered more comedy than romance in 2005, and indeed the market has shifted to favour a greater emphasis on a good laugh. This is largely because producers could reliably milk multiple demographics successfully, and because men won’t feel cheated when the romantic film he’s watching tosses him a few ample bosoms to ogle. The material in He’s Just Not That Into You is strangely PG for a film that somehow merited a 14A rating. There’s no nudity, no risqué sex scenes, and only a few four letter words brandied about the +120 minute running time. I’m not asking for Kevin Smith levels of vulgarity, but you could at least give the audience something to sink their teeth into.

    Considering the convoluted nature of the bullet point plot above, it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out why the romantic aspect falters: there’s simply too much going on. A good romance is focused and emotionally driven. Nine characters each given equal chunks of screen time offers no room for depth or indeed any empathy at all. No one could possibly care about the lives on display seeing as how they’re all just trite clichés of romantic stereotypes. Cut half the cast, scale back the run time, at least try and push the envelope, and the film might’ve been a guilty pleasure. Instead, He’s Just Not That Into You smugly toys in pseudo philosophic glee as it considers love in the time of Facebook.

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    G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra (Movie Review)

    By Andrew on April 26th, 2010

    Originally written and posted on August 7, 2009.

    G. I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra

    Stephen Sommers, the man in the director’s chair behind G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, isn’t the greatest filmmaker in the world, or even a very well-known one. In fact, his most memorable film is 1999′s The Mummy, and even then it received only a middling reception. Sadly, in the movie-going public’s haste to dismiss The Mummy as being a thematic rip off of the Indiana Jones movies, Stephen Sommers was labelled as a hack director and lumped in with the likes of Brett Ratner and Michael Bay as merely being pop-corn cinema purveyors. I feel this is an unjust fate for Sommers to share, partly because I actually liked The Mummy quite a bit and partly because I appreciate the levity of his films. It’s easier to be remissive without seeming partial or generous when you appreciate the intent of the filmmaker, and it is with that thought in mind that I present a modestly positive review of G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra.

    G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra is a very simple movie about bad guys wanting to destroy the world and the plight of the good guys in preventing them from doing so. In the not too distant future, a weapons manufacturer has taken nanomites, a technology used in medicine to destroy cancerous tissue, and turned it into a weapon capable of devouring virtually all matter on earth. After a convoy transporting a shipment of the nanomites is ambushed, “Team G.I. Joe” sends their best men to retrieve it before it’s used for mass destruction. There are no surprises or lulls with this premise, save for the pedestrian love interest/betrayal twist plot points. It is merely an adequate means to the glorious end of hyperbolic nostalgia violence. Nothing more, nothing less.

    The critical success of G.I. Joe, and indeed the only success that matters for a film of this variety, is the remarkably well photographed action sequences. Violent explosions that obscure the screen and draw the eye’s attention away from the details are delightfully minimized, allowing for clarity in the confusion. Camera shots linger long enough to grant the audience an adequate sense of context for the mayhem, yet change with enough frequency to maintain a sense of urgency. The majority of the shots are well-framed, and the editors, for the most part, possess a fine sense of rhythm. In general, everything appears to flow seamlessly. The story never suffers because of excessive action, and the action itself never gets too carried away. The only occasion where the balance is thrown off is during the final act, but the surprisingly succinct epilogue does a great deal to restore this.

    It may startle you, then, to learn that G.I. Joe even bothers with a story at all. The movie certainly occupies the same narrow genre of over-budgeted testosterone fuelled nostalgia as Transformers, and perhaps even makes a few attempts at beating Transformers at its own game (Sienna Miller and Rachel Nichols vs. Megan Fox). However G.I. Joe easily surpasses Transformers for the simple fact that it uses a plot as a vehicle and not an encumbrance. G.I. Joe isn’t going to win any awards for outstanding story and narrative execution (unless, of course, it’s a Razzie), but what’s there is ideal for what the film aspires to achieve, and that is a rhythm between story and action. In many ways, G.I. Joe has a lot in common with any given James Bond film in that it recognizes how simple plotting absent of any unnecessary complications maximizes the thrill of the ride. It’s like how a good roller coaster designer is aware that too many corkscrews and loops will sooner make most people feel sick as opposed to invigorated.

    Still, the plot can only be praised for its function and not for its form. The core of the story involves a shady arms dealer (Christopher Eccleston) who has become bored with legitimate success and has instead opted to take over the world for no appreciable reason (a recurring theme in the film’s Washington war room is that the terrorists never once made any demands). Armed with super-soldiers and nanomite technology (the twin staples of eccentric megalomania), he aims to force the world to look to him for leadership after he’s done blowing everything up. This rubs what I believe is only referred to in the film as “Team G.I. Joe” the wrong way, and an elite force comprised of the world’s best soldiers with the silliest nicknames are sent into action by General Hawk (Dennis Quaid).

    As can be expected when one considers the poorly defined objective of the principal antagonist, the plot is executed in broad strokes only. Not much thought is given with regards to protocol, subtlety, discretion, or even common sense on either side of the conflict. If the observant moviegoer does not ponder the questions surrounding how gigantic military complexes are financed and constructed underneath the Egyptian deserts and Arctic seas without anyone noticing, they’ll probably consider the curious paradox of how life expectancy appears to drop in indirect proportion to the amount of armour a character is wearing instead. For the most part, the story meanders between serviceable and insipid, but chances are you won’t care until after the fact. Even then, you could just ignore it completely if it suits you.

    G.I. Joe goes to great lengths in order to adhere to its loopy mythology, though, and I’m hesitant to applaud the film for doing so. While having characters named Snake Eyes, The Baroness, Storm Shadow, Heavy Duty, Destro, Ripcord, etc. might have worked for a decidedly kiddie franchise, retaining those titles for a re-imagining aimed at an older audience does not. When Cobra Commander is formally introduced with a trace of smug self-satisfaction on the film’s behalf, I can’t help but feel that ignoring your birth name of Rex for such a moniker is a poor trade-off. The same logic applies to the ever inspirational General Hawk, who essentially impersonates Captain Pike from Star Trek without the benefit of a better script. It’s strange, really. Although many changes have been made to the fundamentals of the franchise, primarily “Team G.I. Joe” being an autonomous international agency instead of exclusively American, it seems as if a few superficial name changes would’ve been the straw to break the camel’s back.

    However the biggest flaw, and unfortunately the one that can’t be ignored, is the acting. What G.I. Joe desperately needed was charisma, and what little Marlon Wayans alone was able to bring just isn’t enough. For the majority of the movie, most of the characters simply appear to be thoroughly disinterested with what is going on. The novelty of imitating irrevocably patriotic toy soldiers amidst a fury of colour and sound is completely lost, and it seems as if hardly anyone was at all enthusiastic by the prospect. In this sense, there’s a discrepancy between the crew behind the camera and the cast in front of it. The wooden performances come dangerously close to undermining the vibrant direction when instead the two elements should gel perfectly. The sort of enthusiasm that Brendan Fraser brought to The Mummy, even if it’s only present in one character, would have elevated G.I. Joe from being an adequate summer blockbuster to being a memorable one.

    Yet if you’re willing to approach G.I. Joe with the correct disposition, you should find yourself at least satisfied with what ensues. The movie is not perfect, and indeed failures in script, plot, and acting abound. However G.I. Joe does enough right with regards to action set pieces and their staging that a considerable portion of the imperfections disappear. What G.I. Joe does, and is expected to do, is done well enough that it is certainly worth a look.

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    Frost/Nixon (Movie Review)

    By Andrew on April 26th, 2010

    Originally written and posted on February 23, 2009.

    Frost/Nixon

    There is a sort of apprehension that comes with purchasing a ticket for a film based on true events in that you more or less already know most of the plot points and the ending. A certain “what’s the point?” attitude tends to permeate your consciousness just as you’re about to enter your pin number, and this largely resides in the fact that many go to theatres for sensory and not intellectual entertainment. When you’re teetering on the edge of being a twenty something, a film just doesn’t seem worth it unless there are a few murders or copious amounts of bare breasts. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I learned a little something about filmmaking in general tonight because it’s a principle I’ve discovered long ago, but often choose to ignore when I sacrifice the highbrow for the low.

    Frost/Nixon is film that chronicles the efforts of David Frost as he pursues an interview with the infamous President “Tricky Dick” Nixon. Specifically, Frost/Nixon deals with time frame of January to April 1977, immediately before and during the intimate televised recordings that dealt with his presidency, policy, and Watergate. There’s also the prerequisite “life before/life after” scenes in order to establish a context, so really there is not all that much new in the construction of the film. Very linear, very straight forward, and largely by the numbers.

    Don’t devalue the project because I’ve simplified the process most films of the genre go through. It sounds like an easy film to make on paper since there is no high octane action sequences or spiralling deutsche cinematography to wrap your head around. At the risk of sounding a smidgeon too bright-eyed, compelling narratives are far more difficult to create with deft pacing and cutting skill than setting off fireworks every fourteen seconds. I have far more appreciation for the director who knows exactly how long and how evenly scenes and cuts need to be spaced in order to sculpt a tight picture. This is something ambitious directors of big budget films more interested in exciting explosions than effective exposition need to learn.

    As far as acting is concerned, Frank Langella as Nixon himself gives one of the most powerful performances I have ever seen. It’s just a few hairs shy of Mickey Rourke’s turn in “The Wrestler,” but the difference is split due to the material and style of their respective films. Langella carries the film on tone and expression alone, which is why it’s so remarkable. Michael Sheen does an admirable job as David Frost, but the success of his character lies in exceptionally strong characterization and not necessarily any unique touches. Sheen is good, but he lets Langella steal every scene towards the end of the film, to the point where he almost becomes a vehicle for his rival’s success (actually rather ironic when you consider the ending).

    The script is a strong, but suffers from a few minor incongruities. I anticipated a film about two fierce and intelligent figures, masters of the art of discourse, locked in a battle for public reputation. This is almost exactly the case, except David Frost is not a fierce journalist vying for a lucrative interview and the prestige that comes with success. He’s a playboy talk show host who loves women and parties, and doesn’t care all that much for politics. This certainly makes for compelling drama because the conflict is totally dissimilar from what’s expected, but a final musing towards the end raises a question of continuity that comes dangerously close to undermining the theme of the film.

    Never trick yourself into believing that visual flash is the only thing that creates engaging cinema. The film runs for two hours, but you’d never believe it. Frost/Nixon is the precise example of the type of tight and efficient filmmaking of which there needs to be more.

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    Fired Up! (Movie Review)

    By Andrew on April 26th, 2010

    Originally written and posted on March 11, 2009.

    Fired Up!

    I think there’s something wrong with me. Perhaps there’s something in my Altoids that’s making me nicer or more generous in reviews, but whatever the reason, I’ve seen a bunch of movies that by any standard should be deemed terrible, and yet I can’t bring myself to crucify them. Maybe the typical winter cinema drought has lowered my standards, or maybe I’m too obsessed with a crappy film’s silver linings that I’m deluding myself into thinking I don’t throw away $10 per week on celluloid dross. Whatever the reason is, I actually quite enjoyed Fired Up!, and that is reason enough to devote this introduction to some light introspection.

    Fired Up! is the story of two high school football jocks who suddenly discover there’s something homoerotic about a bunch of muscularly headstrong men climbing over each for sport. When they realize their summer football camp will be in a hotter, sweatier place than they had anticipated, they agree that cheer camp is a better idea instead. And who can blame them? Would you rather spend your summer with a pack of grunting knuckleheads or hundreds of the hottest, fittest girls you’ve ever seen? Exactly.

    Despite the title of the film being an obvious acronym for a common expletive phrase, Fired Up! is strictly PG13. The most offensive expletive is “shit,” and even then the word is used sparingly. Clothes get taken off frequently, but there’s never any nudity, any of the vulgar dialogue is often supplanted with weird gibberish that has a sort of bizarre charm to it, lewd behaviour is often implied and not overtly displayed, etc. Don’t misunderstand me, the core of Fired Up! might as well be a Tucker Max story adapted by Kevin Smith, but the vulgarity is toned down so much that it becomes strangely appealing. The reason for this is obvious: an R rating limits the potential audience which in turn cuts profit. Scale the content back far enough, secure the PG13 label, and you just tripled your potential sales.

    So the story is by the numbers and entirely predictable. The cheerleading squad that wears matching black totalitarian uniforms, yeah, those are the evil guys. How will our underdogs overcome their rivals? Why, by performing the impossibly difficult “Fountain of Troy” cheer manoeuvre that’s been explicitly forbade by the camp coaches, of course! Though it’s worth pointing out that our heroes aren’t looking for the gold so much as they just want to get out of last place, not at all unlike how the movie itself isn’t looking to be Citizen Kane (or even Bring It On) so much as it just wants to be a decent time. And you know what? I applaud that. The only ambition of Fired Up! is to kill time, and no other Winter release has done so as effectively as it has.

    What I did like about Fired Up! was the friendship between the two leads, Nick and Shawn (Eric Christian Olsen and Nicholas D’Agosto), starring in their very own 90 minute long “Axe” commercial. You know how in most buddy films there has to be a plot point that drives the two protagonists apart before they eventually reunite and triumph together? That never happens to Shawn and Nick. The friendship these two characters share is rock solid. They always have each others back in both success and failure, and I quite enjoyed that fact. It’s refreshing to see at least one novel idea present in what could otherwise be easily written off as midwinter tripe, so I’m at the very least thankful for that.

    But alas, in the end Fired Up! isn’t a good movie, let alone a great one. It gets a mild recommendation because it’s a success unto itself. Just don’t ask for much else, and you’ll be fine.

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    The Final Destination 3D (Movie Review)

    By Andrew on April 26th, 2010

    Originally written and posted on August 30, 2009.

    The Final Destination 3D

    While many film franchises are formulaic, few are as cut and dry as the Final Destination movies. After three instalments in a series built around the premise that “you can’t cheat death,” The Final Destination 3-D (emphasis on the definite article that allegedly indicates either a reboot or conclusion) becomes the fourth entry to follow the formula established in the first film with surgical precision. All four films begin with a vivid precognition of a horrific accident, feature broad sketches of characters from typical horror fare, and predictably hit every major plot point as set by the first movie from 2000. Although the cast and characters always change, continuity and clever scripting has never been the big draw for these films. What anyone in attendance for a Final Destination screening has ever been hoping to see are clever deathtraps dispatching human crash test dummies. Yet while death by twisted happenstance provides a nice change from the typical death by masked neglected golem, even the most creative of wells can run dry. After nine years and four films, the Final Destination franchise has sunk into a nadir that not even the 3-D rebirth can remedy.

    Nick and his friends are enjoying an idyllic day at the races when he begins to question the safety of where he is sitting. The benches crack and buckle, the concrete superstructure is beginning to crumble, and the fences protecting the spectators from errant scrap metal are fraught with loose screws. Before he has a chance to rise from his seat and take a breather, a screwdriver finds its way onto the racetrack and causes a catastrophic crash that sends tires, shrapnel, and even whole cars hurdling towards the audience in a firestorm of death and destruction. People are burned alive, sliced in half, crushed, decapitated, and poor Nick winds up impaled on a piece of pipe. Lucky for him, however, the entire ordeal was merely a premonition. When the circumstances leading up to how he imagined the disaster begin to occur, he heeds the warning and ferries his friends to safety. Having cheated death, Nick thinks he’s in the clear. But when survivors of the tragedy begin dying in freak accidents in the order Nick foresaw their demise at the race track, Nick worries that he and his friends could wind up dead at any moment and races to stay one step ahead of the deadly unforeseen malevolence.

    Believe it or not, what you’ve just read regarding the plot is far more than what The Final Destination ever cares to reveal. Four films into a franchise should be the milestone that sparks experimentation, whether it’s to prevent stagnation or to capture the attention that the previous movies failed to ensnare (more likely the latter reason for this particular franchise). Unfortunately, The Final Destination is more concerned with pursuing a new dimension rather than a new direction. Yes, The Final Destination stands alongside My Bloody Valentine in ushering in the 3-D horror renaissance. Both movies flaunt the sex and gore staples of the typical teen slasher, further amplified by the rendering of every startling jolt in pseudo-tangibility. But while My Bloody Valentine offered 3-D as a compensation for story, plot, and character deficiency, The Final Destination sees the gimmick worthy of a substitution. “We stayed up all night googling premonitions,” quips Lori (Nick’s girlfriend) as if that’s all that needed to be said on the subject. The obligation for all sequels to reference the Flight 180 disaster from the first instalment released in 2000 is loosely established in a later exchange, and that’s the extent of this film’s exposition.

    I’d normally consider such immediacy laudable, but the core theme of the franchise isn’t the only thing that’s glossed over. Even the characters are reduced to bland stock, a truly detestable decision since its entirely deliberate and not due to ineptitude with characterization. This film’s director and screenwriter, David R. Ellis and Jeffery Reddick respectively, also served on the first sequel released in 2003, at the time writing characters that are a cut above what’s expected in typical horror fare. In that film, relationships were established and the audience had a vested interest in who they’d like to see survive or die by means of falling construction equipment. With The Final Destination, however, every character is just one flat sour note. Nick is the well-to-do seer, Lori his peppy girlfriend, Janet her shrill best friend, and Hunt is Janet’s jock of a boyfriend. Also on the chopping block is the sage-like older black fellow, his racist tow-truck driving adversary, and the MILF (that’s exactly what actress Krista Allen’s character is referred to when the end credits roll). No character is memorable, well portrayed, rudimentarily fleshed out, or even likeable. There isn’t even a cynical undercurrent to writing such loathsome players in order to inspire the audience to cheer for ironic elimination. Just stick the boring lot in harm’s way and let the blood flow is the philosophy at play.

    It’s been remarked that the only character worthy of note in the Final Destination franchise is Death, who’s generally manifested as a trickster wind agitating precariously perched objects that turn an otherwise random collection of knickknacks into a Rube Goldberg like deathtrap. Considering this, the real appeal of the Final Destination was never so much the blood and gore as it was the fact that the character onscreen could wind up dead at any moment from anything. A relentless omnipresent malevolence playing the antagonist is far more effective at creating a thick atmosphere of dread than a cookie-cutter psychopath armed with a kitchen knife. And while I can admire the horror movie that is able to create a truly terrifying scenario in broad daylight, The Final Destination resolves to shoot itself in the foot by giving the audience clues as to how the next unlucky sap is going to bite the bullet. Whenever disaster is about to strike, Nick suffers a brief acid trip that lets us know exactly what to be wary of, be it a man with a cigarette or a shiny quarter. Where’s the terror in knowing what to expect next? There are times when the movie throws a curveball and tries to lead us astray, but in those instances one must wonder what’s being undermined more: the premise, or the terror.

    Barring the leading character’s dread sabotaging hot flashes, the worst part of The Final Destination is how uninspired the entire movie is. Truth be told, this instalment is more of a greatest hits collection than a brand new entry in a series. All the highest points of the movie are essentially slightly reworked sequences from the second and third instalments with a more loathsome cast in substitution. A couple of characters are cut into large chunks, an immobilized person dies in their hospital room, a nail-gun becomes self-aware, and the silent bus strikes again. The only remarkable thing is how it took only four horror films prominently featuring the “you can’t cheat death” motif, all within the same franchise, to wear out an otherwise novel concept. Has the Rube Goldberg deathtrap really been reduced to the careless storage of inflammables and combustibles that can tip and spill at the slightest provocation? Death just doesn’t seem into it anymore.

    In case you’re wondering, no, the 3-D does not add to the movie in any significant way. If all you’re going to use the technology for is throwing objects very suddenly at the camera, you might as well not bother.