For a film about a foursome of millennials behaving badly, Jake Szymanski’s comedy Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates (B) gets high marks for laughs and even a heartfelt moment or two. Zac Efron and Adam DeVine play troublemaking brothers known for making other peoples’ weddings all about themselves with their stag antics. Their attempt to reform by bringing sensible dates to their sister’s Hawaii nuptials leads them to partner with Anna Kendrick and Aubrey Plaza, who prove to be an even more devious duo than the dudes. It’s a hoot to see Kendrick play against type, and all four lead comic actors hold their own with fast-paced lines and pratfalls. At times both profane and poignant, the film is often too much of a good thing. It’s sometimes tough to follow the film’s moral compass as it’s progressive in a few ways and a bit backwards in some others. The physical comedy is pretty hysterical throughout, and it gets its share of signature gross-out moments. A summer lark packed with pleasures, it’s a successful descendent to funny fare such as Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion and Wedding Crashers.
Steven Spielberg earns a C+ for The BFG (aka The Big Friendly Giant), and this family film is decidedly a GNAS (grower, not a shower), largely languid for nearly two thirds of its length and then unexpectedly rising like a wonder of Gulliver’s wanderlust to its rather lively and even mildly emotional climax. Child actor Ruby Barnhill is charming as a plucky orphan whose awkward custodial Brexit leads her into the hands of the titular tall man, a vegetarian loner charmingly played in unnecessary motion capture by Mark Rylance. Together their friendship blossoms and adventures ensue, complete with Roald Dahl-isms of gobbledegook dialogue that are alternatively delightful and laborious. After some tedious battles with nine unsavory carnivore giant villains and the dreariest depiction of dream-catching imaginable this side of James Cameron’s Pandora, the filmmakers endeavor to discover their stride late in the narrative. The bloated balloon of hideous production design, awkward effects and gloomy atmosphere is finally punctured in a comparatively brisk finale that almost redeems the film. There’s a really imaginative moment when the title character mixes up a dream from his nocturnal cannery, and the way it comes to life would make an inspired short film. This enterprise is closer to the Hook and Tintin side of Spielberg’s unusually uneven family film oeuvre, and one can’t help but remember that he and late screenwriter Melissa Mathison peaked in this genre 34 years ago with their collaboration on E.T. Unfortunately, despite flashes of grandeur, this lugubrious lark is far from his towering achievements.
Andrew Stanton’s animated aquatic sequel Finding Dory (B-) succeeds as a message movie about inclusion of characters with disabilities – showcasing a fish with short-term memory loss overcoming the odds – but stumbles in terms of its only mildly engaging protagonist, its flagging adherence to its own intrinsic logic and the lack of originality of its storyline. The film strives to deepen the Finding Nemo saga with Godfather II style flashbacks to back story while Dory searches for her parents but ends up closer to Evan Almighty territory with a minor character inexplicably nudged to the forefront. Despite noted objections, there are still imaginative touches involving the intricacies of a marine life refuge and an amputee octopus with clever camouflaging effects. We know we’re working in a talking animal universe, but there’s a jump-the-shark moment that might be termed invertebrate on the interstate or the mollusk motorcade and simply gets sloppy. Nemo and his dad are rendered rather ineffectual sidekicks while Ellen DeGeneres does what she can to squeeze out the waterworks of the film’s few poignant moments. The first film felt effortlessly entertaining, and this one more of a chore.
Cinephiles will delight in Noah Baumbach and Jake Paltrow’s documentary De Palma (A-) which is essentially a two-hour retrospective of director/screenwriter Brian De Palma’s film oeuvre told by the filmmaker himself. The auteur is lively and perceptive about his own works, with standouts and gorgeous sequences from all of his films including Sisters, Carrie, Dressed to Kill, The Untouchables and Mission: Impossible. He also shares observations about his famous flops such as Bonfire of the Vanities (he suggests the film is good if you don’t read the book). As an heir to the filmmaking style of Hitchcock, De Palma provides insights into his greatest magic tricks including continuous shots, forced perspectives, 360 captures, split screen drama and Steadicam action sequences. He addresses his controversies including accusations of misogyny and illuminates an independent filmmaking spirit from a group of iconoclasts who got their professional start in the ’70s in a way that may not ever happen again (his contemporaries are Scorsese, Coppola, Lucas and Spielberg). He also tells some fascinating stories about Sissy Spacek, John Travolta, Robert De Niro, Orson Welles, Al Pacino, Nancy Travis and a bunch of actors in his repertory. Although one might yearn for the documentary to have colored outside the lines of its rather straightforward format, it’s hard to argue with a solid story well told and with such stunning imagery and insights from a master filmmaker.
An absurdist sci-fi fantasy, a cunning comedy and a metaphorical meditation on the oddities of being a single person on the planet earth, Yorgos Lanthimos’ The Lobster (B) is a beguiling think piece that both advances the contention that Colin Farrell has become one of film’s great comic actors (a great companion piece to In Bruges) and the notion that a puzzle of a movie can still be a jigsaw short of its razor-sharp intentions. Farrell plays a sad-sack single who checks in to a rigorous retreat center where guests either pair up with a companion based on a very superficial physical trait or permanently transform into an animal. This droll, deadpan fable is largely able. Alas the episodic structure doesn’t provide much of a compass to guide viewers to where this is all heading (nor does the ending); but like Her, Gattaca or Dogville, it follows some intriguing internal logic. The dark comedy largely delivers; and even with some final act problems, it is a remarkable production that will stimulate discussion. Farrell’s fussy scruffiness, the craziness of his road to wellville and some fierce supporting characters (Ariane Labed as a hotel maid, Ben Whishaw and John C. Reilly as fellow guests at the recovery residence, Léa Seydoux as a freedom fighter and Rachel Weisz as a mystery woman) buoy this indie original.
See! Gee! Aye! There’s lots of razzle dazzle effects on view in Bryan Singer’s pre-fab spectacle X-Men: Apocalypse (C), but there’s very little of interest in terms of character or story. In what seems to be an endless multiyear slog of filmed origins, this installment introduces us to the beginnings of Cyclops and Storm. What next, Kitty Pride: How I Got My Stripes, Parts 1-3? The plot of this sluggish sixth entry hangs loosely on the earth-cleanding machinations of a resurrected Egyptian mutant played by Oscar Isaac pancaked under blue makeup and poor writing. The film is all over the map: when Evan Peters gets to freeze time as Quicksilver, it’s exhilarating; but when director Singer stretches time for an endless showdown involving Michael Fassbender’s Magneto extracting metal from the soil for a full reel, it’s just tedious. Jennifer Lawrence gets the most screen time, almost by default. Yay, paycheck! The lack of clear focus or central protagonist doesn’t give you much to root for. It’s the kind of water-treading CGI throwaway that neither embarrasses not delights. It’s not the end of the world or anything, but it’s a rather tepid start to the summer movie season.
The most fascinating thing about Josh Kriegman and Elyse Steinberg’s political documentary Weiner (B-) is that it exists at all. It’s not the filmmakers’ fault that their subject, New York Representative Anthony Weiner who resigned in the disgrace of a sexting scandal and embarked on an unsuccessful bid for redemption in the 2013 NYC mayoral race, proves to be so stupefyingly unsentimental. The whole story is about a man being unable to shake off a self-fulfilling narrative and the inability in the 24-7 internet news cycle to change the subject. The sunny first act presents a not completely absurd premise with spouse and supportive strategist Huma Abedin at the helm of giving her humiliated husband a second chance. Calls to donors go well, and it appears they’re turning a corner. But as soon as the words “Carlos Danger” and the real-life partner in cyber-hijinx Sydney Leathers come into the picture, it’s a battle to the bottom of the political barrel. An epic skirmish with a heckler and even a crying baby in the election booth are mounting symbols of the mayhem. The film isn’t funny or poignant enough to really stand on its own or convey any universal truths. Like its main character, it stumbles around a good bit. Huma and the political handlers all look like they were taken for a ride. The film certainly doesn’t separate the twin legacies of the man as lawmaker and lothario. It’s instructional, perhaps, about how not to live your life or to run a campaign. If the genre is cautionary tale, it gets high marks.
Balancing the enjoyable and the implausible, Shane Black’s The Nice Guys (B) is essentially a cartoon-like series of pratfalls and stunts, buoyed by Ryan Gosling’s funny, lived-in performance as a bumbling 1970’s L.A. private eye. The scruffy script and amusing set-ups in a sleazy stew of pleasant period detail are often quite entertaining, and many of the action sequences deliver the goods; but the film about mismatched mates on a case is built on a threadbare and generally preposterous plot line that doesn’t amount to much. Although Russell Crowe is billed as the “straight man” half of the central buddy comedy team, he rarely resonates. With all the strut and swagger on display, it’s instead Angourie Rice as Gosling’s character’s daughter who shines in her role and pulls off some of the shrewdest private dickery. Kim Basinger and Matt Bomer are wasted in throwaway roles. The filmmakers can’t decide if it’s supposed to be a straight-up thriller or a comedic counterpoint to noirish capers; either way the ambitions don’t much match the onscreen daring-do. The menace is minuscule, and the scope is silly. It falls together a little too easily.
Painfully predictable and uninspired, Jodie Foster’s Money Monster (D) begins with George Clooney on a toilet and essentially spirals downward from there. When Jack O’Connell’s gunman character holds the silver fox TV personality hostage on-air, it’s up to mild-mannered protagonist Julia Roberts in the production booth to help save the day. Tedium ensues. The theme that the stock market is corrupt is labored at best; and the acting from the central trio is quite disappointing. Foster fails at sustaining tension, seemingly rather oblivious to how obvious it all is. The film doesn’t take time to understand its characters or to have viewers delight in knowing them. Not one shot, not one set-up, not one line of dialogue, was interesting in the least. Despite the promise of an adult drama about the societal underpinnings of an investment community devoid of a moral compass, the film is pretty much what cashing a paycheck looks like. Instead of slaying the beast of Wall Street, the collaborators have created a banquet of bull that is difficult to bear. This formula has been executed many times much better.
Now this is a heist! Anthony and Joe Russo ostensibly entered the picture with the directing gig for a third Captain America film, but they have actually stolen the show by helming the third, most ambitious Avengers movie. Their Captain America: Civil War (A) is full of delightful surprises, spending its first hour tracing geopolitical machinations and espionage as the embattled heroes contemplate a global accords to put self-controls on their unbridled power. The film explores the consequences of compromise, the bounds of brotherhood and the limits of vengeance in what crescendos to some of the most artful fight choreography and breakneck stunt work to have been committed to screen in a major superhero film. To both Marvel stalwarts and casual fans alike, there is ample accessibility into the multilayered narrative. There are also enough great actors stuffed into the epic to populate an Altman film or a ’70s disaster ensemble. Robert Downey, Jr., Scarlett Johansson and Anthony Macke are among the most impressive veterans; and Tom Holland and Chadwick Boseman add to the embarrassment of riches as an amusing Spider-Man and noble Black Panther, respectively, who become embroiled in the splinter cells of the saga. The movie is very entertaining when it goes full fan-boy: I really liked the enthusiasm Ant-Man (Paul Rudd) embodies in meeting Chris Evans’ Captain America. If there’s any complaint, it’s the blandness of Evans’ snoozy character across the equivalent of two trilogies. The cap’n may be the wrong guy to match wits with the wry hybrid who is half Tony Stark/half Iron Man. But everything comes together so well: I nearly expected a full-cast singalong to an Aimee Mann song. Overall, there’s a natural elegance and specificity to each heroes’ personal powers as they jigsaw their way into the nooks and crannies of their physical and emotional brinkmanship. By the time they’ve been battered and bewildered by the events of the Russo Brothers’ deft spectacle, they will convince you that preserving unswerving power for good is worth the fight. It’s a comic book caper on the surface with rousing rumbles, but its grace and gravitas run more than spandex deep.
Despite clear technical craft in creating simulated forests and talking (sometimes singing) animals, Jon Favreau’s The Jungle Book (C) is dramatically inert. Swinging wildly in tone and staking the weight of its storyline on a pint-sized protagonist of limited range, the film falls flat in moving emotions while it swirls episodically through remake facsimiles of Disney’s own animated feature. It squanders most of its visual effects wizardry in the beastly congregations of the first reel only to be followed by a long wasteland of coasting on mildly amusing Bill Murray voice-over work as a lazy bear. I’m sure there will be a man cub fan club for the action of this Kipling claptrap, but it fell staggeringly short of surprises and wonder in my book.
Early review from the Atlanta Film Festival – debuted on HBO