Cinemascope

So I finally saw “Hancock”. A week after I posted this review by one of my readers, including a paragraph that foreshadowed (or perhaps influenced) “Variety”’s review, using the exact same analogy, I got a chance to see movie for myself. And I’ll say this out front: I was immensely entertained. This was one snappy ride.
Reviewers are focusing on what they call a “drop-dead awful third act“. The film’s trouble, I’d say, starts at the halfway mark, it is there that it shifts from being the one thing (a brilliant - brilliant! - loser superhero spoof) and going into doing something altogether different in tone.
First, let’s analyze the film’s structure (spoilers herein). The first act: inciting event - the train scene. Hancock and Ray meet. The first act ends when Hancock, heeding Ray’s advice, turns himself in. In this first act Hancock’s and Ray’s desire is made clear: to rehabilitate Hancock’s public image. The second act is made up of two parts - or sub-acts. The first half is “Hancock in Jail”. The second is “Hancock and Mary”. The film’s midpoint is a classic one-two punch: closing one story arc and opening another. At the midpoint Hancock and Ray’s plot is successful: Hancock learns how to be a hero - being civil, polite and wearing a clean superhero uniform, ultimately trading the usual boos for cheers (had the movie ended here, after 45 minutes, everyone would’ve been happy). At this point you may notice the film’s first screenplay flaw: there is no antagonist. No arch-enemy. Villain. The reason you didn’t seem to mind is that so far down, Hancock was his own antagonist. But you’d need a really brilliant screenwriter - think Chris Nolan or Steven Soderbergh - to carry the entire movie as an existential comedy with Hancock being his own worse enemy. Another Hollywood problem here: no romantic lead. Oh-oh, trouble.
Hancock’s band of writers thought up a brilliant premise - a sarcastic superhero for grown ups - but couldn’t carry it the entire distance. So this - the halfway mark - is where a villain is introduced (too late), and the second sub-act begins (we are still in the second act): Ray is now the drunk one (after celebrating his success), and Hancock makes a move on his wife (Charlize Theron) and learns that Ray’s angelic wife is… a superhero as well. And then: his own former wife for the past 3000 years. This is the head scratching twist that got the net buzzing. It’s not the third act twist, but the mid-point climax.
Structurally this plot turn is sound: after fulfilling his overt desire (to become a bone-fide hero) Hancock is now on track to realize that this was only a superficial need, and that something more internal - the solution to the entire riddle of his identity - is the itch he can’t scratch. This is where you get the sense that Hancock was actually quite dark from the get-go (and it would’ve been a finer movie as an R rated one, because Hancock’s problems are quite grown up). Think for a minute: the bit where Hancock is making a move on Charlize Theron - trying to fuck the wife of the guy who just saved you - is brilliant. This is where you know that it was not public congratulations and applause he was looking for and that his self-destruction runs deeper. Theron’s fridge-kicking response was brilliant as well.
But: whoa there. This is the main problem. This where your suspension of disbelief gets thrown out the window: of all the houses in the Valley, Hancock just happened to save the guy whose wife happens to be his millennial soulmate? Outside of comedies and farces, coincidences are the death kiss for believability. You can believe a guy is flying and is a drunk bastard, but having this coincidence is pushing it. This is “Hancock”’s major fault line.
Besides, it would’ve been a better story line for the sequel. Think “Superman 2″ with Charlize Theron’s character being both his fortress of solitude AND General Zod wrapped up in one. but apparently lost, “Hancock”’s writers tried to cram the sequel into the first film (thus killing the chance anyone would ever want a sequel).
The second act ends with Hancock returning to his old habit and going to the liquor store. There he faces a dilemma: buy the booze (and be the old Hancock) or save the Hindu shopkeeper (and be the new Hancock). He chooses the latter, but gets pays for it: he gets shot and realizes he is bleeding, no more bulletproof. The third act begins with Hancock in the hospital, the needle - we expect to break - now penetrates the vein. The third act ends with a witty move: the human saves the superhero.
Two problems arise here: the first is tonal - you ain’t laughing no more. The second is structural: you had a great character, Ray, and you lost him. Pity. “Hancock” would’ve been 87% better if Smith and his team gave it another afternoon’s brainstorming session and figured out a way NOT to make Hancock’s ex-wife and Ray’s wife the same woman (she could’ve seen him all clean up and shown up at his doorstep - it would’ve made more sense). With that solved, most of Hancock’s problems would’ve vanished.
But hey: “Hancock”’s third act is not all that weaker then the “Hulk vs. Abomination” act in “The Incredible Hulk”, or “Iron Man vs. Iron Monger” face-off in “Iron Man” or that dreadful “I am you’re father” twist in “Wanted”, so “Hancock”’s crime is not out-of-step with what’s going on around him this season. And just like the other films’ he overcomes this and remains on his groove, while boasting something of a quirk that gives him an edge.
It was witty of the movie to have a PR man - and not a shrink, social service worker, child or lover - initiate Hancock’s soul-search, and isn’t it ironic that a movie about PR, marketing and branding would itself become a public relations nightmare. “Hancock” is a fascinating car-wreck, and I’d love to read a Peter Biskind-y account of how this movie was so fucked over with. With a 90 minute running time you can bet there’s somewhere a 120 minute cut laying around that could be a whole lot better. I’d like to see that. And know what? I really want a “Hancock 2″.

“Oh Carrie, you are cracking us up with your stories of how Charlotte shat her pants in Mexico. Wish Ben Stiller was there to see it”

Oh My God, “Sex and the City”* is Horrible**.

(*) And I liked the series quite a lot, at least the first few seasons.
(**) I will keep this review brief, only 9 words long, as an antidote to the movie’s mammoth length (135 minutes) and dull pacing and its terminal lack of charm.

“Do you think he’s dead?”
“It doesn’t look good”
Sample dialog from “88 Minutes”

You may have heard that “88 Minutes” is a bad movie. That is correct. However, as bad movies go, this one’s pretty good. In an awful kind of way. The major disappointment from “88 Minutes” has to do with Al Pacino’s involvement with the flic. We’ve grown accustomed to seeing Pacino play his roles with integrity, intensity and at the very least superb craftsmanship. Seeing him sleepwalking his way in a movie, phoning it in, doing the job of the lowest class hack, is quite shocking. You can see the level of disrespect he has for the role by the way his hair is groomed. Hair is like a mask for actors, a tool they use to build the character physically. There’s no way a real man - who is rich, powerful, seductive and a pro in his field - will be so awfully coiffed. But Pacino must’ve insisted: this is his way to hide himself in the movie, distance himself from the character.

Hence the dire disappointment from “88 Minutes”. Digitally alter Pacino and replace him with either Rob Lowe or James Spader and you’ve got yourself an OK, bottom shelf straight to cable thriller, that’s done with some old-fashioned style and seriousness, but alas by folks who are tragically out-of-touch with modern film tastes and techniques. This one plays like a cheesy eighties sex-and-violence noir - think of “Saw” by way of “Bad Influence” - that’s lazily written and flaccidly directed. It’s got an OK story line, but the recipe is stale.

Over on my Hebrew blog I often bitch about how long it sometimes takes for a high-profile American movie to cross the Atlantic and reach screens over here. Sometimes it takes eternity (”Into the Wild” and “The Assassination of Jesse James”, as well as anything starring Will Farrel, were straight-to-DVD releases over here). But with “88 Minutes” roles are reversed: this one was released theatrically about a year ago, and is now already available on DVD. Only now it reaches American screens. Too bad for you guys. (Remeber that Avi Lerner and Danny Dimbort, the film’s producers, are Israeli ex-pats, and that Samuel Hadida, the film’s French co-financier, has a ownership stake at the megaplex owned by the film’s Israeli distributors).

This is an OK film to stare at on Cinemax at midnight, when you drowsily trying to figure out who those people are. Is that a young Julianne Moore? (no, it’s Alicia Witt). When did Helen Hunt grow so tall? (she didn’t, that’s Leelee Sobieski), and who’s that Russel Crowe dude downgraded to a mere extra (that’s that “OC” guy. kissing his career goodbye, learning not to jump for joy when his agent tells him they want him on the new Al Pacino movie). And hey, that’s William Forsythe there alongside Pacino. Quite the “Dick Tracy” reunion, isn’t it? I like Millenium/Nu Image pictures when they are at there sleaziest, making rough policier B-Movies, filled with dead strippers, but whenever they try to go legit (as in “”The Black Dahlia”) it just turns out way too cheesy.

So the true mystery of the movie remains: how did Pacino end up on it. Jeff Wells said on his site it must’ve been for the pay-check. But for the check you go do a Jon Turtletaub movie for Disney (think of Bruce Willis in “The Kid”), not a Jon Avnet movie for Millennium. How big a pay-check could they possibly offer, or how desperate must you be to accept? And these are the guys - producers and director - that are responsible for the upcoming Pacino/De Niro mash-up. It’s just too tragic.

“Let My People Go”, yelled the Stone-Age Moses

Rushing over to the cinema without reading anything about the movie you’re about to see can lead to some amusing, yet unfounded, expectations. In the weeks leading to “10,000 BC“’s opening weekend I was sure this was Roland Emmerich remaking Hammer Studio’s Ray Harryhausen (or Raquel Welch, depending on what kind of film geek you are) dinosaur flic, “One Million Years BC”. How shocked was I to realize I wasn’t even close. Instead, Emmerich remakes Mel Gibson’s “Apocalypto”, with a plot that is almost identical, though lacking in “Apocalypto”’s bravura filmmaking (plus off-shooting the time period in some 11,500 years). Though many expect “10,000 BC” to do big business stateside this weekend, I see this one tanking like a woolly mammoth with a spear through its heart. For anyone trying to compare “10,000 BC”’s commercial prospects to previous springtime hits such as “300″ (the CGI-laden historic adventure epic) or “Ice Age” (another woolly mammoth starrer), I have only two words to say: “Rapa Nui“.

In “10,000 BC” an Epipaleolithic era young warrior (Steven Strait) sets out to save his loved one (Camilla Bell) - looking like a de-freckled Lindsay Lohan who’s been outcast from ” The Village of the Damned” - who has been captured by slave traders. Before they part he quotes from Michael Mann’s “The Last of the Mohicans” to her, promising he will find her. By journey’s end our reluctant hero will discover he’s the star of three different prophecies for three different tribes and cultures. Although alarmingly, none of these prophecies warned him of how slow and boring his story would be, before getting into three or four decent set-pieces, that arrive too late to save the movie from crumbling under its own weight.

Warner Brothers would have you believe that “10,000 BC” is this year’s “300″. It’s not. I was enormously entertained by “300″’s vision of mythology, turned into a campy rock opera, that was as ironically filled with over the top tongue-in-cheek self referential humor as it was stunning to watch. But “10,000 BC” is completely devoid of any humor and takes itself way too seriously for its own good. And this coming from someone who had a blast with “The Day After Tomorrow”. It’s Emmerich’s The Day Before Yesterday that I found to be a grandiose bore.

As the film’s title establishes WHEN it is happening, there is still the mystery of the WHERE. Logic places the film’s plot in Africa. Starting at the lush south, traveling north then following the Nile into Egypt where the pyramids are built. This makes sense since Emmerich has even enlisted Egyptian born actor Omar Shariff to serve as the film’s narrator. But when our posse gets attacked by a flock of Phorusrhacids (aka terror birds) I lost track of time and place: not only were terror-birds (honestly, they should star in a movie of their own) found only in South America, but they were also extinct nearly 2 million years before the movie’s self proclaimed timeline. Which made me wonder whether our heroes crossed over Emmerich’s Stargate - another movie obsessed with Pharoas and Pyramids - and jumped back and forth continents and millenia.

I honestly don’t understand those upset with the ending of There Will Be Blood. The entire final sequence (1927) is extraordinary, and the last sentence blew me away.
PT Anderson dedicated the movie to Robert Altman in the film’s final title card, but the ending is vintage Kubrick. That maniacal delivery, that slam-cut, that baroque design of the final scene, and the use of Brahms over the credits. It’s The Godfather mixed with Barry Lyndon with the insanity of A Clockwork Orange. Anderson created a character that spirals out of control and the ending is justifiable with the beginning. Anyone who can’t see this is myopic.
That final sentence - “I’m done here” - will be regarded a classic soon enough. It’s not one of the year’s best, this is one of the best American films ever.

The Band’s Visit started a one-week Oscar qualifying run in New York and Los Angeles yesterday, before getting a wider release in February. In Israel the movie won eight Ophir awards The Israeli Academy award) and received a whole bunch of headlines when it got picked up by Sony Pictures Classics and then dumped by the the AMPAS and the the HFPA for having too much English dialog to compete as a foreign language film. Most recently the European Film Awards gave the movie two prizes, The Independent Spirit Awards nominated it for Best Foreign Film and the NBR included it as one of the top six foreign films of 2007. All in all, this seems to be on track to becoming the best reviewed Israeli film since the Seventies and is on track to be the best performing Israeli film at the American box office ever.
Over at GreenCine David Hudson compiled the reviews for The Band’s Visit, some of them overwhelmingly glowing, from the top critics on both coasts.

MANOHLA DARGIS for The New York Times:

Strangers in a Land That’s Not So Strange

Ms. Dargis, like many reviewers in the States as well in Israel, likes The Band’s Visit, even though it sometimes boasts a limited filmic vocabulary:

“The Band’s Visit,” the first feature by the Israeli writer and director Eran Kolirin, flirts recklessly with obviousness, cuteness too.

But then she falls for the film:

Mr. Kolirin wrings even more visual humor from this contrast by placing the men in the center of the image and ensuring that they don’t move for several beats, which locates them in spatial and existential isolation. It’s a facile, familiar movie trick, and Mr. Kolirin comes close to wearing it out before the band even leaves the airport, largely because massing the men in this fashion threatens to diminish their individuality. But it’s a clever stratagem too, because the comedy eases you into the story and obscures the currents of seriousness swirling under the film’s surface.
Mr. Kolirin, it emerges, is wrenching comedy out of intense melancholia.

And then, she tries to read political commentary into the movie (although, in my opinion, the filmmaker might be as aloof as his characters, at least politically-wise, and perhaps it’s political as well):

The terminal loneliness that haunts this scene may be universal, but Mr. Kolirin also seems to be saying that a specific loneliness haunts Israel as well.

And finally, a correction is in order: Mr. Sasson Gabai, the film’s lead, is not an Israeli-Arab. He is a Jew, and one of the most loved actors in Israel. The rest of his band-mates are indeed played by Israeli-Palestinians.

Michael Koresky for IndieWire

REVIEW | Grace Notes: Eran Kolirin’s “The Band’s Visit”

Koresky’s review is quite similar to my own, but at the same time the exact opposite. He too thought too many scenes are just “too cute” but he disliked what for me was the best scene of the movie: the one where a suave Egyptian trumpeter gives a clueless Israeli youth dating tips, a scene played out in pantomime to the sounds of a sappy but adorable Seventies Israeli pop song:

Of course, for every underplayed moment, there’s another that egregiously angles for audience ingratiation…
And an attenuated subplot involving handsome ladies’ man trumpeter Haled (Saleh Bakri) giving dating advice to a clueless local at a roller disco threatens to infect the entire film with a severe case of the cutes.

But he, like most, is ultimately fond of the film:

Yet overall “The Band’s Visit” remains an astute crowd-pleaser without sacrificing its core emotional honesty. It’s tempting to write it off as a precious and politically reductive metaphor for Arab-Israeli relations, yet Kolirin allows so many tender grace notes that the possibility of cross-cultural communication seems not only possible but essential.

Scott Foundas for The Village Voice and LA Weekly

Band of Brothers

In my opinion, the best written and most astute review of the bunch, as opposed to the others, Foundas has found the movie to be anti-cute:

In the hands of many another filmmaker, that same basic setup might have made for an overly earnest exercise in getting to know thy former enemy. But Eran Kolirin, the 34-year-old writer-director of The Band’s Visit, is too smart to bore us with ham-fisted humanistic bromides, and has a sense of humor as dry as Bet Hatikva’s arid desert wind.
…
Kolirin has the instincts of a popular entertainer and the disposition of an artist. He takes raw materials that could easily be rendered as kitsch—a fish-out-of-water story, the idea of music as a universal language—and he builds them into something unexpectedly lyrical and resonant.

Kenneth Turan for The Los Angeles Times

‘The Band’s Visit’: Orchestrating a poignant marvel

Kenny Turan gives Kolirin’s film its best review, and his observation of the film’s climate is amusing, to the eyes of the Israeli viewer:

“The Band’s Visit,” the Israeli film that’s become celebrated for what it lacks — enough Hebrew to contend for the best foreign language Oscar — can now be seen and appreciated for what it has in abundance: visual wit, verbal charm and a completely droll sense of humor.

Though its characters and situations make it quintessentially Israeli, “The Band’s Visit’s” sly, restrained sensibility also gives it an unexpected Scandinavian flavor. It’s as if the wonderful Norwegian “Kitchen Stories” was transplanted to the Middle East, with the endless desert substituting for frozen wilds.

I shall call it: The Olden Comp-Ass.
I tried to love it, I truly tried. And thus I adored Dakota Blue Richards, a charming gal with an unfortunate stripper’s name, and I thought the look of the movie and the designs were spectacular. Also, isn’t Alexandre Desplat the best composer out there right now?
But The Golden Compass was disastrous. I thought Narnia was mediocre but the Prince Caspian trailer that was tacked on to the beginning of the movie was the best thing in it. At least it had some groove to it.
The essence of a fantasy movie is to create an unbelievable world and then populate it with believable characters. They can be talking bears, but their mentality should be human, and their actions identifiable. And from the moment Nicole Kidman (doing for twice what Glenn Close could have done for half) persuades the girl to join her, the movie lost all credibility.
Worst of all: this isn’t even proper eye-candy. The Golden Compass is a snooze inducer. If I hadn’t known it’s based on much loved novels I would’ve thought this is a mega-buck exploitation flick, mixing it up with the worst from Pirates of the Caribbean, Narnia, Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings.
There was one tiny glimmer of hope at what seemed to be the 3/4 mark: after a climactic battle sequence (so-so) there was a sense of urgency to the plot, and I thought “here we go, the last act will be worthwhile”. But no last act: the kid gets on the air-ship, vows to rescue James Bond from who-knows-what and the movie fades out. Oh, you want a franchise? Well, I pray this one bombs bigger than Pearl Harbor and that a sequel will never be made, this might teach Hollywood a lesson that before you plan parts 2 & 3 try and get the first one right. This movie has no heart.