Thor: Love and Thunder (2022)

There’s a point in Thor: Love and Thunder when Russell Crowe’s Zeus bemoans his circumstances, lamenting, “When did we become jokes?” I’m fairly certain that director and co-writer Taika Waititi didn’t intend for this line to be prescient – Zeus is meant to be both antagonist and figure of ridicule, to say nothing of Crowe’s outlandish attempt at a “Greek” accent – but it ends up being my chief complaint about Love and Thunder and about the current trend of insincere superhero movies writ large. Love and Thunder is all too disingenuous, at once lampooning the superhero genre while simultaneously begging us to accept its more outlandish trappings.

After defeating Thanos, Thor (Chris Hemsworth) has been traveling with the Guardians of the Galaxy (gang’s all here), blundering his way through heroic deeds until he learns that Gorr the God-Butcher (Christian Bale) has been slaughtering deities with his fearsome Necrosword. Thor sets off to defeat Gorr with Valkyrie (Tessa Thompson) by his side and, most improbably, his old love Jane Foster (Natalie Portman), who now wields the hammer Mjolnir as The Mighty Thor.

 

I rewatched Thor: Ragnarok the night before seeing Love and Thunder, even though the latter isn’t a direct sequel, and my estimation of Ragnarok had dropped in the intervening five years. Overly arch and ironic, Ragnarok is still entertaining enough, but it could do with about 25% less whimsy to be really successful. I’m not saying that superhero movies shouldn’t be fun, but the fun shouldn’t be at the expense of the characters, deflating tension or emotional weight with a self-referential one-liner. But Ragnarok made more than $850 million, and so the shackles are off; Waititi does his thing all over Love and Thunder, and now it’s about 65% too silly to be any good.

 

Color me old-fashioned, but I still prefer the straight-faced Shakespearean Thor (blond eyebrows notwithstanding). I’ve never been a big fan of the “himbo Thor” bequeathed to us by Waititi, and I still don’t buy that the character has changed personality so much just because he hangs out with wiseacres like Tony Stark. Indeed, if the upcoming Disney+ series Secret Invasion is to reveal that some familiar faces have been replaced by shape-shifting Skrulls, I vote we consign this Thor to history and get back to something a little more earnest. At least Chris Hemsworth seems to be having fun, even though he’s the butt of most of the jokes (and at one point, quite literally so). Though Thor is now, by default, the ersatz elder statesman of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, he’s treated like an abject buffoon, whose every scene might as well be subtitled, “Aren’t I an idiot?”

 

And yet Love and Thunder asks us to invest in the emotional depths of this demigod-child, presenting his long romantic history with Jane in the style of a montage that points a derisive finger at how silly it is to have feelings. “Muscle boy sad!” the film cries with all the grace of a schoolyard bully, yet then it tries to pivot into an unearned third act in which we’re suddenly asked to embrace the tragic pathos of Thor’s broken emotional core. Waititi wants to spoof his cake and eat it too, something that barely worked in Ragnarok before punting that subplot to the Russo Brothers in Avengers: Infinity War. If Thor has an arc in this film, I defy anyone to tell me what it is, because there’s a particular choice he makes at the end of the film that seems to come out of nowhere, teeing up a very bizarre status quo for the Asgardian corner of the MCU.

 

It might seem blasphemous to say, but there’s probably a much better version of this film that includes Hemsworth’s Thor not at all. Christian Bale is earning well-deserved accolades as one of the MCU’s better villains, with a solid backstory and bang-up visual design; one wishes, however, that his Gorr were a bit more ‘show’ and less ‘tell,’ since he doesn’t butcher all that many gods over the course of the film. Meanwhile, Natalie Portman is back after a brief hiatus, and her turn as Jane finally gets her in on the super-action. Her iteration of Thor positively sings, and the sequences reintroducing her are suitably effective, giving us the sense that Waititi can make a proper superhero film if he restrained himself. In fact, it’s a short putt to imagine a better Love and Thunder that only includes these two: Gorr the God-Butcher hunting the newly-minted Mighty Thor while Jane Foster reckons with what it means to be a god. (Keep the original Thor with the Guardians of the Galaxy, and let James Gunn deal with him.)

 

But instead of forging new territory in the heretofore directionless Phase Four of the MCU, Waititi is busy replaying his own greatest hits, dialing the idiocy up to eleven. There’s a reprise of the “Norse pageant” from Ragnarok, even though the joke doesn’t ring the same without a Loki to direct the reenactment; Korg turns up again and again, now lacking the novelty of a rock man with Waititi’s dulcet tones; and poor Tessa Thompson, such a bright light in Ragnarok, is relegated to a thankless turn as Asgard’s king until the movie nigh forgets about her. (Sign her up for a Disney+ series, please!) 

 

I wouldn’t go quite as far as Mark Kermode, who said of the fourth Thor film that it was “genuinely, properly terrible,” but let’s be honest: Marvel’s Phase Four hasn’t exactly shined with the brightness of its predecessors, and Love and Thunder continues a strain of adequate-to-mediocre outings that suggest Marvel may have lost the plot in trying to serve fans and fan-favorites alike. Perhaps a better title would have been Thor: Sound and Fury, because it’s told by (and stars) a band of idiots, ultimately signifying nothing beyond a director’s postmodern self-indulgence. Forgive me, but I think superhero stories ought to be a little bit more than a vanity project that overstays its welcome.

 

Thor: Love and Thunder is rated PG-13 for “intense sequences of sci-fi violence and action, language, some suggestive material, and partial nudity.” Directed by Taika Waititi. Written by Taika Waititi and Jennifer Kaytin Robinson. Based on the Marvel Comics. Starring Chris Hemsworth, Christian Bale, Tessa Thompson, Taika Waititi, Russell Crowe, and Natalie Portman.

The Mummy (2017)

Going to see The Mummy, ostensibly the first film in Universal’s monster mash-up “Dark Universe,” is a bit like going on a first date with an overeager suitor. After a number of headscratching decisions regarding the opening course, said suitor quickly begins planning out your entire future together, only for you to slam the breaks on and say, “Hang on a minute, we’ve only just met! What was your name again?” By the end of the date, you’re asked, “Shall we do this again for the next few years?” while you struggle to form a response that won’t insult by asking your suitor to change everything that brought you two to this moment.

Put another way, and I don’t imagine this has been said by too many people very recently, I would have rather spent the foregoing two hours with Brendan Fraser.

(Note: there’s some degree of disagreement about whether or not the identity of Russell Crowe’s character is a plot spoiler. I had thought Universal had long ago announced this, but I’ve seen critics be cagey about it. I’ll say that it’s not revealed until about halfway through the film, although Crowe appears here and there in the first half, and if you’d really rather not know, skip the plot summary and just imagine it says “Tom Cruise meets a mummy.”)

Tom Cruise stars as Nick Morton, soldier of fortune and antiquities looter in present-day Iraq who stumbles upon – or rather, quite literally falls headlong into – the hidden tomb of Ahmanet (Sofia Boutella), the forgotten princess of Egypt who was mummified after a string of wicked misdeeds. Morton falls in with Jenny Halsey (Annabelle Wallis) and her shadowy employer Dr. Henry Jekyll (Russell Crowe), who have their own designs on the unearthed sarcophagus.

I’ll not say that The Mummy is a travesty; I won’t get angry about it or inveigh against it. I’ll say, however, that The Mummy is clunky and mechanical and, like its eponymous villainess, more than a little bit lifeless. Perhaps it’s a case of over-trailer-itis, which seems to be going around these days, and indeed more than three-quarters of the plot of The Mummy, in precise chronological order, is contained in the trailers, such that the only real turns of the plot left for the film proper involve how exactly Tom Cruise gets himself out of this pickle. (The climax of the film, meanwhile, is its own little bundle of problems, about which I’ll say more later.)

Take for example the centerpiece action sequence, a plane crash that was done with a surprising amount of practical effects. And if you’d seen the trailers, you’d be forgiven for thinking this was a page out of the Mission: Impossible playbook, but where it’d be a rousing thrill over there, here it’s somewhat leaden, devoid of much suspense (again, partially because the trailers outright revealed who survives the crash, and how). At least one horror/thriller set piece ends up being just a product of a character’s imagination, while death itself becomes quite impermanent – par for the Mummy course, I grant you – resulting in a film that feels bereft of consequence and ultimately void of significance.

Unfortunately, the things in the film that feel of the most significance are the elements one senses are being introduced, with all the subtlety of a flashing “detour ahead” sign, to set up future films in the Dark Universe franchise. The director, Alex Kurtzman, had done the press rounds in December talking about making these aspects – including a secret organization, Prodigium, which is essentially a monster S.H.I.E.L.D. – organic to the story of The Mummy, and I have to say on that front the film fails spectacularly. It is, in fact, akin to entering another film entirely; Tom Cruise leaves the plot of The Mummy, enters the Prodigium plot, and then returns to The Mummy without that second act doing much more than introducing a plot-sized bottle of continuity glue to hold the franchise together. The worst of it is that the Prodigium plot is actually a little bit interesting, a bit unpredictable, and a bit audacious for a film that otherwise plays so safely by the numbers. That is not, however, to say that the Prodigium plot works particularly well as the second act of The Mummy, overladen as it is with exposition that continually reminds us of the inorganic, grafted-on quality of this subplot. Russell Crowe turns up, monologues a bit about the film we could have been watching, and then ushers us away to our regularly scheduled movie, already in progress.

Then the film ends – or rather, doesn’t end, because every plot thread that’s tied up gets unraveled almost immediately, and you can hear any one of the six screenwriters saying, “Hold up a second, we might want to use that in another film.” (Six screenwriters! No wonder this film feels more like a collection of bits than a singular narrative.) The film is trying to end, but the corporate demand for a franchise results in, appropriately enough, a Frankenstein’s corpse of a creature that isn’t permitted to fade away. Consequently, The Mummy ends up being more Iron Man 2 than Iron Man, forgetting that it was the insular success of the first film that allowed the series to bend toward franchise, in all its best and worst excesses. Then there’s a bit that feels unfinished and deferred to another film when you realize that one of the main characters closes the film in shadow and obscurity because something has very probably changed about that character’s face, but you’ll have to come back for another film to see what precisely that change looks like. In yet another way, then, this Mummy refuses to wrap up.

The Mummy would have been in a better place had it decided what it wanted to be. Is it a Tom Cruise action vehicle? Is it a horror film about ancient evil? Is it an espionage thriller about monster hunters? Or is it an origin story for a shared universe that, quite honestly, not many audiences were requesting in the first place? And although it shares next to nothing except a core concept with 1999’s The Mummy, starring Brendan Fraser, this Mummy emerges all the worse for the comparison because of how fluid, energetic, and frankly well-crafted the former Mummy flick was. I still carry fond memories of the 1999 Mummy and wish I’d been watching that film instead. It had a sequel, yes, but it also had a singular plot leading to a singular ending. Rick O’Connell, we hardly knew ye.

(And what does it tell you that, nearly 20 years later, I still remembered Rick’s name but had to look up the name of Tom Cruise’s character a scant day later?)

The Mummy is rated PG-13 for “violence, action and scary images, and for some suggestive content and partial nudity.” Directed by Alex Kurtzman. Written by David Koepp, Christopher McQuarrie, Dylan Kussman, John Spaihts, Alex Kurtzman, and Jenny Lumet. Starring Tom Cruise, Sofia Boutella, Annabelle Wallis, Jake Johnson, and Russell Crowe.

The Nice Guys (2016)

After two Iron Man films, Jon Favreau retired to a more personal film with Chef, which seems to have rejuvenated his creative batteries while remaining an entertaining movie in its own right. Likewise, three years after Iron Man 3 it’s Shane Black’s turn to scale back for a smaller film – misplaced, perhaps, in the summer blockbuster season (I can’t help thinking it’d have performed better financially in, say, October), but right up there with Hail, Caesar! in terms of laughs per minute.

Russell Crowe and Ryan Gosling star as errant private eyes whose paths cross on a missing persons case before the case turns into an apparent murder (or, as it turns out, murders) reaching as high as the head of the Department of Justice (Kim Basinger). It’s a 1970s extravaganza, from the music and locations to the politics and pornography; hat-tip to Angourie Rice as Gosling’s daughter, overeager and spirited despite her father’s protestations.

I’ve been a fan of Shane Black’s going as far back as my first viewing of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and his clever screenplay on The Monster Squad. Of course, the former had a lot to do with Robert Downey Jr. in a starring role, but that has a lot to do with the fact that RDJ is naturally adept at delivering the kind of lines that Black writers – quick-witted, dryly sarcastic, and unapologetically buffoonish when need be. Throw in the buddy cop element (lest we forget, Black screenwrote Lethal Weapon), and you’re well on your way to The Nice Guys.

Another way to put it would be to think of The Nice Guys as “Thomas Pynchon’s Big Lebowski,” juxtaposing the neo-noir aesthetics of the Coen Brothers with Pynchon’s penchant for the absurd, Inherent Vice if it starred a pair of detectives. Yet for all the twists and turns that analogy might lead you to expect, The Nice Guys is never less than straightforward, its mystery meandering but never straying while wrinkling in a nice bit of ambiguity just because the final reel (in brief, is someone lying about the truth of the case?).

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang was a success because of the unlikely chemistry between the extreme personalities of RDJ and Val Kilmer (the latter in an uproarious turn as Gay Perry), and The Nice Guys continues that pattern by joining Crowe and Gosling in a successful combination of thuggish straight man Crowe and waggish clown Gosling. While Crowe gets in his fair share of punchlines and confident one-liners, it’s Gosling who runs away with the film’s funniest moments (some playing off his daughter, in an entry for “World’s Nuttiest Approach to Parenting”).

Unfortunately, it seems that The Nice Guys is flying under the commercial radar, though critically it’s hovering around 90% on Rotten Tomatoes. Perhaps The Nice Guys will find its audience on DVD, and hopefully so because this is a film that is a guaranteed bad-mood-killer. Hail, Caesar! gave me an unending grin on my face, but The Nice Guys goes for the comedic jugular and left me wheezing with laughter throughout much of the picture.

The Nice Guys is rated R for “violence, sexuality, nudity, language and brief drug use.” Definitely a hard R between the violence (gunfights, fistfights, people getting hit with cars and falling off buildings), profanity (F-bombs aplenty), and nudity (topless and nude women in the opening scene and in an extended party scene).

Noah (2014)

Abandon all hope, ye who anticipate a Biblically accurate adaptation of the flood narrative.  This here’s Aronofsky territory.  The same uber-metaphorical lens through which Black Swan regards Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake” gets applied here to Genesis, resulting in a film that is often uncannily strange but never less than engaging.

Russell Crowe stars as the Scriptural patriarch who gathers his family and two-of-every-kind in a colossal ark after a vision from The Creator informs him that the world is about to perish in a flood.  As he gathers his family (wife Jennifer Connelly, sons including Logan Lerman, and daughter-in-law Emma Watson), Noah incurs the wrath of local warlord Tubal-cain (Ray Winstone), who refuses to believe that God has not spoken to him too.  Postscript – check out Anthony Hopkins as a berry-gathering Methuselah, doing that wise old man act he’s perfected by now.

Let’s set aside the religious debate right off the bat.  The film doesn’t purport Biblical accuracy; in fact, director Darren Aronofsky disavows any such intention.  Consequently, I think Noah ought to be measured by the same standards as any other film adaptation of a major mythic narrative, in the vein of superhero or Hercules movies.  And there’s nothing in Noah that constitutes an unequivocal betrayal of the source material, nothing incompatible with the core of the original story.

As an interpretive adaptation, then, Noah is mostly successful, though it borders every so often on the bizarre.  The film is fortunately anchored by a very compelling and very human performance from Crowe, who imbues Noah with a deeper humanity than most interpretations. Rather than present Noah as a stoic “true believer,” Crowe gives him his moments of doubt, his misinterpretations of the message, and his post-flood uncertainty.  (Plus, after this and Man of Steel, Crowe has the market cornered on “dads who put their sons in arks.”)

Aronofsky does some visually clever stuff when he introduces Noah’s visions from The Creator as slideshow dream sequences, working in a nifty sample of the overlap between creationism and evolution.  But then the film gets really weird, and by weird I mean “rock people help build the ark.”  There’s a bit of murky theology in these rock people being fallen angels who help mankind, and their bids for forgiveness play up a side of Old Testament God that isn’t seen too often.  In a movie that otherwise immerses you in a specific time period in antiquity, though, living rocks strain credulity.

The other major subplot Aronofsky introduces is the presence of a tribal chief who goes to war for a spot on the ark.  It’s a plausible addition that Noah’s neighbors might have been a bit jealous, and Winstone is wholly engaging as Noah’s foil.  Aronofsky uses these villains, though, to posit an underlying vegans-versus-carnivores message that ultimately confounds more than it proselytizes.  (Some are reading it as anti-industrialist, though that may be a bridge too far.)  It’s fine for establishing a contrast between Noah and the sinners, but it raises major ethical questions:  Noah kills three hunters to avenge their killing of an animal for food, but he turns a blind eye to the rape and pillage of actual humans next door.  I see what Aronofsky is doing, adding an earthy and spiritual element to Noah’s communion with The Creator, but it’s more distracting than it should be precisely because the logic doesn’t hold up.

All told, though, Noah ends up an engaging film, a successful spectacle – which is, at the end of the day, all I ask of a movie.  It’s far from patently offensive, and the parts in the film that work do work very well.  Aside from a few silly bits, Noah is big-budget pageantry at its most watchable, put forward by a powerful lead performance and directed by a man with an unmistakable (if punctuated by logical error) directorial vision.

Noah is rated PG-13 for “violence, disturbing images and brief suggestive content.”  Aside from the whole exterminating flood, there are a few scenes of bloody combat, other scenes of animals being killed in gory fashion, and a bit of bare-shouldered friskiness from the cast’s younger group.

Next week, something we haven’t done in a very long while – two reviews on the same day. Hint:  what’s the big release this Friday?  And when is the Double-Oh-Seventh of this month?  Put another way, when is an American icon like a British agent?  When they’re both reviewed here, that is!  See you next week!

Man of Steel (2013)

Tall order, Zack Snyder:  direct the heck out of a Superman movie so we can move toward a Justice League franchise while we forget entirely about Superman Returns.

Mission accomplished.

After a dynamite Krypton scene introducing the coolest Jor-El (Russell Crowe) this side of Brando, we catch up with Kal-El (Henry Cavill) on a journey of self-discovery – until star reporter Lois Lane (Amy Adams) finds him first.  But before the man who will become Superman can reveal himself to the world, the mad General Zod (Michael Shannon) arrives and demands to reclaim Kal-El and the Kryptonian race.

I always feel a bit starstruck writing these reviews for movies I went into expecting to like.  It’s a Superman movie godfathered by Christopher Nolan:  I’m admittedly biased here.  So if you like, take a grain of salt to go with this review.  But while I’m less agog than I was at The Dark Knight or its Rises successor, I’m prepared to say I liked Man of Steel better than Batman Begins, a “first film” with which it shares many similarities.

The first of these is the film’s smart emphasis on the man before the Superman.  As with Bruce Wayne in Begins, we care about Kal-El as a character caught between two worlds without feeling at home in either.  And it’s on Cavill’s able shoulders that the film rests; tasked with playing Kal-El (not heroic Superman, not geeky performance Clark Kent), Cavill gives us a compelling and engaging protagonist who we actually appreciate for his complexity.  Watch the moment when Kal confronts a belligerent trucker; the simmer is there, and the punchline reaction is pitch perfect.

The rest of the cast is stellar, too – no complaints about Adams or Shannon, who both turn in reliably solid work; Adams is spunky and darling as Lois Lane, and no one does crazy-angry like Michael Shannon, whose Zod is a megalomaniacal ball of fury who never descends into caricature.  The real surprises, though, are the gripping performances of Russell Crowe and Kevin Costner as Kal’s two fathers; Crowe makes Jor-El interesting beyond Brando’s stuffed shirt (seriously, can we get a Jor-El prequel?), and Costner is moving to the point of misty eyes as the weathered all-American Pa Kent.  Better still, we can see how these two parents informed the man Kal becomes, partly through the flashback structure of the film (again, Batman Begins) and also through Cavill’s interactions with them.  (As Ma Kent, Diane Lane gets just enough screentime, though one suspects she’ll have a larger role in the sequel.)

Finally, major major kudos go to Hans Zimmer, the stalwart composer of some of the best blockbusters of the past decade.  Zimmer manages to sidestep the issue of the iconic John Williams score by giving us a rousing and optimistic theme that soars with the protagonist, booms with Zod’s invasion, and actually – unlike his early Batman stuff – gets stuck in your head.  Equal parts Batman, Pirates, and Inception, Zimmer’s Man of Steel score sets the stage for what ought to be a stellar Justice League jam.

And yes, the build-up toward Justice League is acutely felt, even though the stage is entirely Superman’s (eyes open for nods to Wayne Enterprises and Lexcorp).  What we’ve got in the meantime is a thoroughly engaging cross between the fanboy fidelity of Zack Snyder (see Watchmen, slavishly so) and the relentless realism of Christopher Nolan.  The film does, as Eddie Izzard would say, do a bit of “pissing about with the myth” (too many people might know Superman’s secret identity, and Superman makes a controversial climactic decision which I suspect sets up a sequel), but this original take on the classic character ought to leave plenty of fans satisfied.  And from the box office receipts, mainstream moviegoers are pretty pleased, too.

Heck, Man of Steel doesn’t say it in the title, but it’s super.

Man of Steel is rated PG-13 for “intense sequences of sci-fi violence, action and destruction, and for some language.”  Some of the action/fight scenes are relentless, lasting dozens of minutes at a time.  They’re almost entirely bloodless (Kryptonians apparently don’t bleed), though some have been distressed by the apparent 9/11 allegory at work.  Lois Lane has a few mildly salty lines, but they’re more endearing than offensive.

Les Misérables (2012)

I’m of two minds regarding Tom Hooper’s Les Misérables, the Oscar-bait adaptation of the long-running musical.  There are good things to say about the film, but the delivery of the movie’s technical aspects is so distracting that I came away feeling a bit disappointed.

You know the story, adapted from Victor Hugo’s sprawling epic about French justice and revolution:  Former convict Jean Valjean (Hugh Jackman) is doggedly pursued by Inspector Javert (Russell Crowe) for breaking parole after serving 19 years for stealing a loaf of bread.  After experiencing God’s mercy, Valjean builds a new life for himself, raising the daughter of his late employee Fantine (Anne Hathaway).  The film reaches its third act when the daughter, Cosette (Amanda Seyfried), falls in love with brave young revolutionary Marius (Eddie Redmayne), embroiling Valjean and Javert in a conflict larger than themselves.

Preliminary disclaimer:  I’d never seen the musical version before, though I’ve read the novel and seen the mostly successful Liam Neeson/Geoffrey Rush film version.  I’m aware that the following “Why is there so much singing in a musical?” is a bit like bemoaning a Superman film for too much flying.

But the singing in the film doesn’t always work.  It’s been my custom to review musicals by musical number, of which there are two kinds in this sung-through musical:  full and distinct pieces, and interludes where the dialogue is sung.  Consequently, a movie where nearly every word is sung is difficult to break down in paragraph form.  There are some standout pieces, to be fair; Hathaway is heart-breaking with “I Dreamed a Dream,” a despairing ode that would drive even the stone-hearted Pharaoh to tears and will likely garner her an Oscar nod – if not a win – come February.

In the scene-stealer category, we have a surprisingly delightful “Master of the House,” featuring Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter as crooked innkeepers.  As the Thénardiers, Cohen and Carter recur throughout the film (always unexpectedly, always agreeably) but take center stage in this giddy revelry in corruption, reminiscent of their deliciously evil turns in Sweeney Todd.  Their enchanting abilities were never truly in question, but the unanticipated levity their presence brings helps to alleviate some of the grim and unsuccessful elements of the film.

The film’s bleakness isn’t inherently a fault; truth be told, Hugo’s novel is a depressing one.  Les Mis conveys that quite well; in spite of the distracting talk-singing, Jackman and Crowe are both quite good in their roles as tortured and torturer, conveying a wide range of subtle emotions and conveying characterization past the singing that would tell rather than show.  Indeed, the greatest success of the film is that Jackman and Crowe manage to emote past their distracting tendency to sing every word; it’s almost as though there’s a better movie in here somewhere, if only the singing were reined in or at least less operatic.  I wonder, for example, why you cast someone like Russell Crowe, who plainly can’t sing, opposite Hugh Jackman, whose musical theater pedigree is significant and self-evident.

What the film doesn’t do well is provide the counter to the tragedy; though Hooper isn’t wallowing in sadness, the purported ray of sunshine falls flat.  Yes, the Thénardiers are a delight each time they appear, but the film offers as its source of optimism the uncompelling relationship of Cosette and Marius.  Seyfried is squandered as Cosette, reduced to nothing more than a pretty face on which Marius pins his hopes – hopes which he quickly abandons in favor of his duty.  Marius, too, gives voice to the meaninglessness of his comrades’ deaths (a moment when less singing would have meant more emotional weight), but the saccharine wedding scene that follows feels forced and unconvincing.  Redmayne clearly has love in his eyes when he looks at Cosette – leading me to wonder when this actor’s “moment” will come – but Cosette doesn’t requite it as well as I’d like.

Which gets me back to the central problem of Les Mis – the sense of imbalance.  Hooper’s direction is quite distracting in moments, as when he rapidly zooms in on a soloist like the end of the line on a roller coaster.  These disorienting moments felt more at home in the grand guignol surrealism of Sweeney Todd but never quite fit in this mostly realistic piece.  In short, the movie is too theatrical, too operatic, to work within the confines of a film.  Like Danny Boyle with Frankenstein, perhaps Hooper would have been better served by moving his production to the stage.

I don’t like being the guy who pulls apart a multimillion-dollar movie from behind a hundred-dollar laptop, but there are things that work in this film and there are things that don’t.  Perhaps this film is not made for someone like me (buzz indicates it’s certain to clean up at the Oscars), but for my money the film does not succeed in the same way that Sweeney Todd did.

Les Misérables is rated PG-13 “for suggestive and sexual material, violence and thematic elements.”  Prostitution is implied during the story, and we see one exchange with no nudity.  The June Rebellion is depicted with several deaths by gunfire, some with bloody sprays (though nothing on the order of Django Unchained).  I have yet to know what “thematic elements” are.

Robin Hood (2010)

One can always count on Ridley Scott, Russell Crowe, and historical epics to combine for a reasonably solid summer blockbuster. And that's precisely what Robin Hood is: reasonably solid.

As a concept, the "truth behind the legend" genre is starting to limp on its last legs; King Arthur was a bit of a dud, and prequels in general are often a bad idea. But with Scott directing Crowe as the famous outlaw before he donned his famous hood and led a band of merry men in Sherwood Forest, something clicks. In this incarnation, Robin Longstride is an archer in the army of crusade-happy King Richard the Lionheart (Danny Huston). When things take a turn for the worse, Robin and his comrades return to England in time for Prince John's (Oscar Isaac) coronation as the new king. Posing as a knight, Robin meets Marion (Cate Blanchett) and her father-in-law Walter Loxley (Max von Sydow) before becoming embroiled in a French invasion scheme piloted by the nefarious Sir Godfrey (Mark Strong).

In a nutshell, Robin Hood can be boiled down to "Gladiator meets Braveheart." It's a facile comparison, and it's not particularly thorough, but you get the point. Robin Hood takes all the classic Ridley Scott themes and imagery - one man at the epicenter of national political crisis, with dazzling explosions and battles that encompass an entire populace - and throws in that Braveheart-esque battle cry of "FREEDOM!" There's nothing particularly surprising about the film - we know Marion and Robin will fall in love, even if they don't - but it's staged well, even if it doesn't play by the normal rules.

The film plays fast and loose with historical fact and with the legend itself, but it's all in good fun and none of it is too disconcerting. The Magna Carta plays a pivotal role as a kind of MacGuffin, though it gets a new backstory. There's a French invasion which doesn't quite jive with the history of Anglo-French conflict, but the only problematic creative liberty is Marion's presence on the battlefield during the climactic fight scene; it's in there to appease the PC crowd, to be sure, but it's distracting and feels incredibly forced. The film also casts Robin Hood as a kind of Jack Bauer figure - a perfect shot, always right, and distrusted by most authorities until he's proven to be always right. But for the most part the story is the one we know; Kevin Durand plays a streetwise Little John, and Mark Addy is perfectly and impeccably cast as Friar Tuck.

What's refreshing about Robin Hood is the presence of a new villain, Sir Godfrey. It's become almost a cliche to pit Robin Hood against the Sheriff of Nottingham, so it's a breath of fresh air when Matthew Macfadyen stumbles onto the screen as an inept Sheriff who is helpless in the face of farmers who won't pony up their (un)fair share of taxation. Enter Mark Strong, who's become awfully popular in the past few years - mostly as a villain, as in Kick-Ass, Sherlock Holmes, and RocknRolla, to name a few. His Sir Godfrey is menacing in the first degree, with a penchant for brutal sacking and a battle wound that gives him a perpetual sneer. As the climax hurtles toward us, it's impossible not to cheer for him to meet vicious vengeance.

There is a significant misstep, however, in the middle of the film. In true Ridley Scott style, the film opens and closes with knockout battle sequences, but the middle third of the film slows to what appears to be an actual halt in the narrative flow. As Robin is introduced to Nottingham, the film becomes an odd combination of Dark Ages domestic sitcom and bawdy soldiers-on-shore-leave humor, such that one almost expects Cyndi Lauper to come in on the soundtrack with "Archers Just Wanna Have Fun." All the while, the merriment is tempered by continued reminders that "The French are coming! The French are coming!" as personified by William Hurt's character William (easy name) Marshall, who seems to exist only to give an emotional tether for the audience to the political drama. But it doesn't quite work because we don't know who William is when we meet him, nor is his plotline particularly gripping. Of course, at this moment, Robin's plot isn't going anywhere at all, since he's nowhere near outlaw status in Nottingham just yet, and so the film falls into about a twenty-minute lull.

But the film rebounds nicely. Just as it opened with a bang, Robin Hood closes with an even bigger one. It won't be spoiling anything to say that the film closes with a (fairly obvious) nod toward a sequel, but the conclusion of the film wraps up all the major conflicts in an abundantly satisfying manner. Robin Hood is, I'm sure, the best new release out this weekend (really, competition from Letters to Juliet and Queen Latifah's Just Wright? Please.). A solid cast and crew turn out a solid production which might not be particularly memorable but at least is more than enjoyable.

At any rate, it's better than that 1991 Kevin Costner trainwreck Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, which could only boast the combined presence of Morgan Freeman and Alan Rickman.Robin Hood is, fortuitously for moviegoers with younger kinfolk, rated "PG-13 for violence including intense sequences of warfare, and some sexual content." The violence is standard stylized Ridley Scott fare, though most of it plays out bloodlessly and involves more clubbing than slicing; arrows fly quickly and almost never miss their fleshy targets. As for sexual content, bawdy dialogue (as is typical in most Middle Ages flicks) ensues but might fly over the heads of some young'uns.