Catwoman (2004)

I finally sat down to watch Catwoman because it was by my count the last comic book superhero movie I hadn’t yet seen (I've since been reminded of the existence of Shaquille O'Neal's Steel). And after watching it, I can confirm that Suicide Squad was actually the last comic book superhero movie I’d never seen, because Catwoman has absolutely nothing to do with the characters published by DC Comics beyond the overlapping imagery of leather, whips, and cats. But as much as it has a reputation for being one of the worst films ever made, I just can’t muster up the enthusiasm to tear it apart frame by frame, because the truth is that Catwoman is just appallingly uninspiring on every level.

Halle Berry stars as Patience Phillips, a graphic designer for a cosmetics company run by a couple (Lambert Wilson and Sharon Stone) who are more lazily written than they are evil. Patience discovers the shady truth about the company’s latest skin cream, falls victim to a corporate conspiracy, but is brought back to life by an ancient feline deity, and believe it or not the film continues to fall apart from there.

Let’s not mince words here – Catwoman is a terrible film. It’s almost entirely unwatchable, and it’s insulting how it lures in an audience with the promise of a story that doesn’t even get approximated in the film. But in spite of all the reasons I should be mad at Catwoman, I’m almost more disappointed – in the film, in Halle Berry, and in myself for going out of my way to borrow the movie and watch it. Throughout the film, I kept thinking to myself that I needed to cleanse my palate with either Batman Returns or The Dark Knight Rises, much more accurate representations of what Catwoman is supposed to be. Ultimately, I took a nap – a cat nap, if you will (maybe the only cat-related pun the film doesn’t trot out with all the subtlety of Harpo Marx’s bicycle horn) – largely because I couldn’t find the energy to do anything else.

Catwoman is a thoroughly enervating experience, and in spite of the grotesquely dizzying editing (the kind which would make even Paul Greengrass queasy), it’s incredibly boring to boot. That’s the worst thing a film can be, boring, and even at 104 minutes Catwoman feels agonizingly protracted. The script is predictable and wrought with clichés, the characters are the pinnacle of thinly drawn – so thin that Berry literally walks between prison bars – and the stakes of the film are so disjointed that you’re not sure if this is a romantic comedy between cops and criminals or a superhero film where the fate of the world rests in Catwoman’s claws.

To mirror the disjointed nature of the film, I have a series of disjointed criticisms – why establish that Catwoman stole a one-of-a-kind necklace if her identity is uncovered by a forensic analysis of lipstick? What movie did Alex Borstein’s randy friend character step out of, and can we put her back? How many times does the film need to have a “surprise reveal” that Sharon Stone is actually the villain? (I counted three.) Is this movie supposed to be in canon with Batman Returns, or does it merely plagiarize the “reanimated by cats” origin story? And has director Pitof ever actually seen a basketball game before?

Perhaps most importantly, how did this film cost $100 million to make? (For comparison, Deadpool had a reported budget of $58 million.) I can’t fathom where the money went – the special effects are dodgy, the acting is wooden, and the direction is purposeless. On top of the retrograde sexual politics and leery male gaze, Catwoman’s greatest sin is its intrinsic dullness.

Catwoman is rated PG-13 for “action violence and some sensuality.” Directed by Pitof. Written by Theresa Rebeck, John Brancato, Michael Ferris, and John Rogers. Starring Halle Berry, Sharon Stone, and Benjamin Bratt.

Casino (1995)

The Martin Scorsese showcase continues here at The Cinema King with 1995's Casino, Marty's second and final collaboration with writer Nicholas Pileggi, his third and final with Joe Pesci, and his eighth and (to date) final with Robert DeNiro.

In many ways, the idea of this film being a "final" film is brutally apparent, as the film is another rise-and-fall story - albeit heavy on the "fall." When the film begins, Sam "Ace" Rothstein (DeNiro) has it all: a foolproof way to beat the odds whenever he bets, a kingdom in the form of the Tangiers Hotel and Casino, and a beautiful wife Ginger (Sharon Stone). His childhood friend Nicky Santoro (Pesci) doesn't have quite as much, but he comes to Las Vegas in order to take what he doesn't have. Ginger, meanwhile, has her jewelry, her former pimp (James Woods), and her problems with substance abuse. These three, against which is set the ultimate fall of Las Vegas from the Mafia's hands into the hands of corporate American tourism, have everything to lose, and their own personal ambitions make sure of it.

I've always thought of this film as the unofficial sequel to Goodfellas, both because of the DeNiro/Pesci/Scorsese reunion and because of blatant thematic similarities that make these two almost impossible to watch or review separately. Viewed almost back-to-back, I'm prepared to say that Goodfellas is the better of the two, but only in the same way that The Beatles are better than The Rolling Stones; that is, though both have undeniably epic qualities to them, there's something a little more polished about the former that makes the coarser qualities of the latter more difficult to appreciate. While Goodfellas is a 10 in my book, Casino hits closer to a 7 or an 8, for reasons to be discussed below. [Be warned that I'm going to begin discussing the film's main themes, which in turn involves some reveal of the film's ending. Though it pains me to do this for any who haven't seen the film, a) you already know my take on Casino, and b) Scorsese movies are always best discussed like Shakespearean tragedies instead of conventional Hollywood films - with full view of the ending, which is less about surprise and more about revelation.]

The atmosphere of finality pervades the entire film, so much so that its ending is entirely gloomy and perhaps unsettling for many viewers. Where Goodfellas ended on a sadly poignant note, marking one man's fall and the very personal toll it took upon him, Casino represents the end of an era - and not just in a metafictional kind of way, though this being Scorsese's final Italian Mafia picture counts, too. Casino is all about the ways that personal vice destroy lives, which are in turn interconnected with other lives. Sam, Nicky, and Ginger represent a precarious pyramid perched atop an even larger pyramid, and the actions of one could topple the whole thing like a house of cards. Nowhere is this more apparent than in a key scene in which one mob underling's grumbles in his family's deli end up on an FBI wiretap, which subsequently leads to increased federal scrutiny, which then leads to the fall of the mob's control of Las Vegas. Yet within this issue is the microcosm of Sam Rothstein and his own personal trials - very few of which he passes in the long run.

Not to mention that almost everyone ends up dead at the film's conclusion. Where prison and ignominy awaited the Goodfellas, almost all the characters in Casino who don't go to prison wind up buried in a hole in the desert - a denouement composed in montages of operatic brutality which reflect none of the lighthearted sensibilities that governed Goodfellas. Perhaps, then, my comparative favoring of Goodfellas over Casino stems from the degree to which the respective endings leave me feeling fuzzy; there is very little joy in Casino, which plays out much more like an epic tragedy than a personal narrative about individual consequences.

The performances aren't quite as good as in Goodfellas, due in part to the conspicuous absence of the uber-talented but perenially underused Ray Liotta. DeNiro isn't as strong here as previously, though he's a few steps above phoning it in; his portrayal of Rothstein is believable but not layered enough to be abundantly interesting. His character is one-note and a little predictable, making the film overall less enjoyable. Pesci, though, steps his game up a notch; where Tommy DeVito was unpredictable in terms of his violence in Goodfellas to the point of being surprising each time he lashed out, Nicky Santoro is a con man of the first order, never telling anyone but the audience what he thinks and what his angle is. Scenes where he tries to play Sam and Ginger against each other mark high points in his deception, and his cognizance of his own culpability in their collective fall is sterling - not to mention the fact that he's angrier here than ever. Don Rickles and James Woods turn in small parts, with Rickles revealing he's actually a talented dramatic actor while Woods is perfectly sleazy and entirely loathsome. And major props to Ms. Stone for making Ginger out to be a wholly repulsive character; she's a few levels above merely irritating because her acting allows us to understand her character (though we certainly shouldn't agree with her).

The camerawork by Scorsese is as stylized and stunning as before, with quirky camera angles, inventive use of freeze-frame (although one moment freezes almost too long, to the point where I actually got up and walked over to my DVD player to check for scratches), and helpful employment of multiple narrators to enrich moments on screen; though DeNiro and Pesci provide the bulk of narration, the most useful voiceover comes from Frank Vincent as Frankie Marino, who complements his own performance by letting us know why he's lying to his boss and informing us about the kinds of emotions that are being concealed by a suspiciously stony exterior. If I had a complaint about the direction of the film, it's that Casino is three hours long. The story sprawls (but never stalls), making itself into an epic (there's that word again) that feels complete. Consequently, though I'm griping about length, I'm not sure what I'd cut; Scorsese has kept everything essential in the film, and so all I'm left to grumble about is an abbreviated attention span. Good work, Scorsese, but I as a viewer will take the heat for the film's runtime.

This is starting to sound like a bad review, but it's really not. Casino has less to immediately enjoy and more to savor in the long run. With the end in sight, multiple viewings help the perspective and the focus become clearer. What's more, I think this movie lends itself more to thoughtfulness than to appreciation. Where it's easier for me to gush about the things in Goodfellas that I love, Casino makes me pause and reflect a bit more. In the moment, there aren't as many gut-busters - though there's no shortage of moments where you'll say, "Rock on, Scorsese" - and so I encourage you to go thoughtfully to Casino, ready to think before you can fully enjoy the filmic bouquet.

Though not quite as magical as Goodfellas and perhaps a bit too long for some viewers, Casino is nevertheless a fine outing for Scorsese and a more than adequate swan song for many of his collaborators.
No surprise, Casino is rated R "for strong brutal violence, pervasive strong language, drug use and some sexuality." This one is even more violent than Goodfellas, with incredibly violent and gruesome moments littered with more than 400 F-bombs (and a few C-bombs tossed in for good measure), as well as substantive abuse of drugs, alcohol, and chain-smoking. and several characters are depicted having sex though brief rear nudity is shown once out of focus.