Kick-Ass 2 (2013)

I was a big fan of Matthew Vaughn’s film Kick-Ass, even going so far as to believe (even if I didn’t admit it in my own review) that it improved on the Millar/Romita, Jr. comic book in many ways.  Jeff Wadlow’s Kick-Ass 2, however, misses the bar set by both its filmic and comic predecessors, never failing outright but ending up as a disappointing break from real life.

After kickstarting the real-world superhero trend, Dave “Kick-Ass” Lizewski (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) joins a team of superheroes – Justice Forever – while trying to convince his fellow hero Hit-Girl (Chloe Moretz) to suit up once more to help protect their city.  Hit-Girl is no more, though; instead, Mindy Macready is trying to make a normal life for herself as a high school freshman.  Meanwhile, Chris D’Amico (Christopher Mintz-Plasse), the supervillain formerly known as Red Mist, rebrands himself in a quest to avenge his father and kill Kick-Ass.

Sometime before arriving in theaters, Kick-Ass 2 dropped its subtitle “Balls to the Wall,” and after viewing the film itself it isn’t hard to see why.  That subtitle promises a relentless go-for-broke mentality which strives to top the already-exuberant first film, but what you actually get with Kick-Ass 2 is a tennis match of tonal inconsistencies, volleying between grim-n-gritty and Frat Pack humor, between dark comedy and unironic maudlin melodrama.  Any one of these might have made for a decent film, but the movie’s confusion about its own tone leads to a film that distances more than diverts its audience.  Matthew Vaughn managed to pull off the tonal shifts in Kick-Ass, but it seems Wadlow isn’t as deft a filmmaker.

A quick word about the source material:  Kick-Ass 2, by Mark Millar and John Romita, Jr., is stomach-churning, revoltingly violent, and that’s entirely the point.  Millar’s work on Kick-Ass 2 is uncompromising in a way that makes most readers uncomfortable (his unsettling comments equating rape with decapitation notwithstanding), but again it’s not purposeless.  By softening many of the more brutal beats from the comic book, the film ends up feeling like it’s continually undercutting itself.  Case in point:  Chris D’Amico, reduced from a genuinely evil monster to a lame attempt at comic relief whose villainous pursuits are impossible to take seriously because of his nasal whines and myriad impotencies. It’s a shame; Mintz-Plasse pulls off a few great moments of real darkness, but it’s like the editors spliced in a whole other feature alongside the one where McLovin plays the villain.

Moretz still steals the show as the foul-mouthed juvenile vigilante Hit-Girl, her purple wig and one-liners bespeaking her inbred passion for the superhero game, but there’s something just a little bit off about her performance.  Maybe it’s that she’s noticeably aged from the pint-sized terror of the first film, maybe it’s the film’s clumsy attempt to shoehorn her into a Mean Girls subplot (which works better in the comic book without resorting to icky hormones and projectile vomiting), or maybe it’s just that her heart doesn’t seem as into the project as it did; ditto for Johnson-Taylor, who’s almost the very definition of phoning it in, even when his character is supposed to be devastated.

Indeed, the only actor in the film who doesn’t seem bored or confused is Jim Carrey, in a surprisingly fun turn as Colonel Stars and Stripes, Justice Forever’s ostensible chairman.  I didn’t recognize Carrey in the early trailers, and that level of immersion in the character persists in his small role here.  You’ll want more of the Colonel from the film, in part because he’s the only consistent character in the film and in part because he lives up to the film’s attempt at a motto:  “Try to have fun; otherwise, what’s the point?” 

But the biggest problem with the film isn’t the violence that led Carrey to disavow the film in public (though some of the CGI effects need disowning).  In the final analysis, Kick-Ass 2 just doesn’t work because it doesn’t allow itself to go for broke.  Instead, it holds back and undercuts itself at every turn until all that’s left standing is an unengaging experience that just doesn’t kick as much ass as it needs to.  Never thought I’d say this, but this film really needs Nicolas Cage (a shining light in the first, conspicuously absent here).

Kick-Ass 2 is rated R for “strong violence, pervasive language, crude and sexual content, and brief nudity.”  This film is as violent as the first one, blood sprays and amputations abounding.  There are plenty of F-, C-, and other bombs dropped by the characters (including one in his own name), two prostitutes are seen topless for a few seconds, and other characters talk about sexual acts in vulgar and unflinching detail.  Please don’t do what the people sitting a few rows behind me did: leave your three-year-old at home.

The Heat (2013)

Though she’d been around for a while, Melissa McCarthy was introduced to most filmgoers in 2011’s Bridesmaids.  Ostensibly the breakout star of the piece, it’s no surprise that McCarthy reteamed with director Paul Feig for a film that shows off her comedic talents, excelling in the delivery even if the film itself isn’t terribly innovative.

In pursuit of a drug kingpin and a promotion, fastidious FBI Agent Sarah Ashburn (Sandra Bullock) heads to Boston, where she falls in with the abrasive local police officer Shannon Mullins (McCarthy).  What follows is your standard polar-opposites comedy, juxtaposing the straight-laced Ashburn with Mullins’s more freeform approach, with value added by the fact that Mullins comes from the wrong side of the tracks (including her delightfully shouty mother, played by Jane Curtin).

Anyone who’s seen the trailers already knows whether this is their kind of movie or not, because the trailers do a really solid job capturing the spirit and the tone of this movie – a few explosions and gunfights here and there, with the emphasis instead on rapid-fire banter between Bullock’s civility and McCarthy’s profanity.  The film doesn’t give us much new material to appreciate; for example, once we learn that the top drug lord has never been photographed, you just know it’s someone in the film biding time for that third act reveal.

But what the film lacks in innovation, it makes up in execution.  Though Bullock gets top billing, the film is undeniably McCarthy’s – she speaks the title of the film, she holds your attention rapt, and (potential spoiler warning?) Ashburn becomes more Mullins by the end of the film in an inversion of our expectation that Ashburn will compel Mullins to become more professional.  McCarthy is loud, brash, and unapologetic, perhaps even what might happen to her Bridesmaids character after a life with the air marshal.  Symptomatic of the #yolo zeitgeist, The Heat explores the value in cutting loose and living dangerously, either by leftover cheese sandwich or by grenade (both of which Mullins keeps in her refrigerator).

The real treat in The Heat is the chemistry between Bullock and McCarthy, who pull off the opposing forces of their characters without feeling like they’ve been thrown together by a random plot generator.  Bullock has refined this hard-nosed sweet-yet-stern persona and brings all that to bear in Sarah Ashburn while still imbuing her with just enough pathos (or is the cat subplot even bathetic?).  Better, her epiphany at the end of the film develops organically out of her relationship with McCarthy, whose gentle-giant approach endears while it entertains.  Scenes like the Spanx encounter in a club bathroom or the third-story interrogation work because of how well Bullock and McCarthy play off each other.

Enough said about how funny McCarthy is in The Heat.  It’s a vehicle driven entirely by her, and if you’re looking for a few laughs you may as well go along for the ride.

The Heat is rated R for “pervasive language, strong crude content and some violence.”  F-bombs and actually quite brutal dialogue pervade the film, as do a surprising number of bloody gunshots to the head (I can recall two) and stabbings.  Additionally, the more PC moviegoers may be uncomfortable with the number of jokes at the expense of an albino character.

The Wolverine (2013)

Six times in the past thirteen years, Hugh Jackman has snikt’d his way into theaters as Wolverine, and now that he’s finally starred in an adaptation of a much-loved plotline from the comics – Logan goes to Japan – I feel even better about naming Jackman’s performance(s) as the #4 Comic Book Movie Moment.  The Wolverine is a film that takes a written-in-the-stars casting choice, throws it in a bold new direction, and still manages to appease Joe Popcorn.

After the events of X-Men: The Last Stand, Logan (Jackman) has gone into self-imposed exile, retiring his Wolverine identity out of fear and denial at the prospect of killing another loved one; as it is, he’s haunted by visions of Jean Grey (Famke Janssen), whom he killed to save the world.  But after the deadly clairvoyant Yukio (Rila Fukushima) tracks him down so that her employer Yashida can thank Logan for saving him at Nagasaki, Wolverine finds himself without his healing powers as he protects Yashida’s granddaughter Mariko (Tao Okamoto) from the assassins working for Viper (Svetlana Khodchenkova).

Most of the positive reviews for this film have already noted the compelling emphasis on character exploration over plot-driven mutant hijinks, so I’ll just add myself to that chorus and say that The Wolverine does well to stand on its star’s strapping shoulders.  Jackman handles Logan’s grief well, maintaining throughout some of the quintessential Wolverine characteristics (his berserker rage and his hunter’s humor, mostly).  Indeed, it’s to Jackman’s credit that the film can oscillate between moments of despair and the high-octane X-action we expect from the X-Men franchise.

It’s worth noting that Fukushima and Okamoto are both newcomers to the acting game, though both perform quite well – especially Fukushima who, despite a few unconvincing line readings, manages to hold her own opposite powerhouse Jackman and in the film’s more demanding action sequences.  The only piece that never quite fits is Khodchenkova’s Viper, whose theatrical villainy feels more at home in The Last Stand than The Wolverine; while she doesn’t do anything wrong per se, she’d be more appropriate in a Technicolor comic book film, and I would have appreciated a subtler villain in her place here.

Director James Mangold, of 3:10 to Yuma fame, earns some of the credit for the film’s success with his engaging cinematographic treatments of Japan, shots that would look beautiful in any context without pandering to preconceptions of what stereotypical Japan “ought to” look like.  Mangold creates an appealing topography, from bullet trains and “love hotels” to funeral pagodas and corporate bases.  Mangold keeps a methodical pace through the film, keeping the plot progressing forward while stepping through character moments like a Noh play – slowly but precisely.

Simultaneously, Mangold knows when to let The Wolverine off the leash and treat audiences to the action sequences without which this wouldn’t feel like a superhero movie.  The fight atop the bullet train recalls Spider-Man 2 by way of The Matrix, and the film’s third act – which some have critiqued as being inappropriately blockbuster in such a nuanced character-driven piece – manages to weave the family drama plot elements into the ongoing mutant tapestry quite well.

Be sure to stay through the credits for another nod to that aforementioned tapestry – with a few cameos that are too swell to spoil – but even taken as a standalone entity and not as an installment in an ongoing franchise, The Wolverine is a solid alternative superhero piece that places more emphasis on protagonist than on punching.  It’s almost Superman Returns done right, a more thoughtful take on the superhero’s place in the world without relying on the Donner formula of escalating super-feats.  It’s my hope that films The Wolverine become more frequent rather than novelty items in the genre – just as long as he gets to snikt his way out of a snafu or two.

The Wolverine is rated PG-13 for “sequences of intense sci-fi action and violence, some sexuality and language.”  There’s a fair bit of gunplay and a lot of hack-and-slash with Wolvie’s claws, though most of it is pulled off without much blood being shown.  Wolverine is shown in bed with two different women (only one of whom is real, though sex is implied in both cases) while another man parties with two underwear-clad ladies; finally, Jackman gets to drop his contractual one F-bomb near the end.

Live and Let Die (1973)

Replacing Sean Connery is a tall order; George Lazenby already tried it, with mostly successful results.  With Live and Let Die, Roger Moore – fresh off a comparable turn as Simon Templar in The Saint – steps into those big shoes in a Bond film that’s quite Seventies, quite American, and quite different from what we’ve seen thus far.  But is it any good?  The verdict in brief is that the film itself isn’t a fantastic first entry for Moore, though he acquits himself well in the role.

A series of mysterious murders puts Bond, James Bond (Moore) on the trail of Dr. Kananga (Yaphet Kotto) and the heroin kingpin Mr. Big from Harlem to the voodoo swamps of Louisiana.  When Bond falls in with the virginal fortuneteller Solitaire (Jane Seymour), he becomes enmeshed in the gang’s activities and must face a gauntlet of unusual henchmen before coming face-to-face with Mr. Big himself.

I’ve said that the best Bond films are the ones where Bond has to piece together clues in order to uncover the big mastermind behind the plot, but there’s something quite maddening about how long it takes for Bond to discover the big twist – (spoiler warning) that Dr. Kananga is Mr. Big.  It’s barely a revelation, concealed by some poor prosthetics and an unconvincing voice modulation, and the way in which the film quickly disposes of the big reveal makes me wonder why it’s even in the plot at all.  I’d much rather have spent more time on Mr. Big’s oddball henchmen – the hoarse-voiced Whisper, the prosthetic-clawed Tee Hee, and the voodoo Loa Baron Samedi (who may or may not be immortal).  These characters are reduced to window dressing by the film, which unfortunately never gives them the chance to shine as Goldfinger did for Oddjob.

As the resident Bond girl, Jane Seymour is naïve yet sexy, a compelling love interest for the sexually aggressive Bond (more on that later) with a wit about her that has more than a little something to do with her powers of clairvoyance (which, like Samedi’s resurrection, the film wisely accepts without question).  It’s entirely distracting, though, that Seymour is – like so many of her predecessors – dubbed over by Nikki van der Zyl; the result is that Seymour sounds just like Ursula Andress from Dr. No, and I can’t for the life of me understand this casting decision.  After all, Seymour can speak English relatively well.

But enough bandying about.  What to make of Roger Moore, the newest Bond in our rewatch (and, in hindsight, the longest serving 007)?  The good news is that he steps into the role rather seamlessly; his Bond has echoes of Connery and smartly so, while he picks up the sophistication of George Lazenby but without the milquetoast.  His sexual prowess is a bit more refined than Connery’s rougher edges, such that he doesn’t even use his hands to unzip one lady’s nightie, and his seduction of Solitaire is so calculated you can almost hear Connery mumbling, “Why didn’t I think of that?”  But even in the action sequences, amid the marring effect of too much comic relief, Moore seems at home as the world’s top secret agent – on foot, in a boat, in a car.

But ultimately the film wears its 1973 birthday on its sleeve with a bit too much pride as to how badly dated it is.  Forget Blaxploitation – this is Bondsploitation, and the two genres don’t mix as well as that shaken-not-stirred.  But with a promising new lead behind the wheel of the proverbial Aston Martin, perhaps the best is yet to be – let this one die so that Bond can live.

Live and Let Die is rated PG.  Quite tame by Bond standards thus far in the canon, the film depicts a fair bit of gunplay, sans blood, though one man explodes (again, without blood and with laughable special effects).  Bond courts three lasses, though none show anything immodest.

James Bond and The Cinema King will return in a review of The Man with the Golden Gun (1974) on September 7, 2013!

2 Guns (2013)

It’s hard to say just which of the many guns – both literal and colloquial – are referenced in the title of 2 Guns, but there should be no doubt that Denzel Washington accounts for at least one of them (and if only one, then at least a double-barreled one).  Indeed, without Denzel, I can safely say that 2 Guns would lose a lot of its fun and thereby expose its own flaws.

Posing as small-time crooks with big league connections, DEA Agent Bobby “Beans” Trench (Denzel Washington) and NCIS Agent Michael Stigman (Mark Wahlberg) pull off a surprisingly solid bank robbery and boost $40 million more than they were expecting.  But the two quickly learn that not only have they double-crossed each other by working for rival federal agencies but that they’ve also been double-crossed themselves by their own superiors.  Worse yet, the drug lord they thought they were robbing (Edward James Olmos) and the money’s true owner (Bill Paxton) are both gunning for our heroes.

I’ll say something I almost never say for a movie that I ultimately liked:  2 Guns is a little more complicated than it needs to be.  I know, I know; I’m almost always the guy who wants films to be more complex (cf. Pacific Rim).  But during the film there were moments where the intricate plot meanderings left me behind for a breath, even though the end results were a bit predictable.  Spoiler free translation:  I knew that certain characters would do things, but I wasn’t quite clear on why.  (It’s mostly a question of sequence, of when exactly in the past a few third-act revelations of past misdeeds actually occurred.  Again, without spoiling anything, when did people decide to do certain things?)

But the barest skeleton of the plot – double agents double-crossed – is enough on which to hang an otherwise engaging film, and 2 Guns is at its best when it shows Trench and Stigman putting their plans into action, in scenes that are as fun as they are explosive.  Director Baltasar Kormákur wisely keeps a sense of humor about the proceedings, allowing the elevated absurdity to come to life amid a series of incredibly charismatic performances.

As the villains of the piece, Olmos and Paxton are scenery-noshers in the highest degree, doing “comic book baddie” (yes, adapted from a graphic novel!) without the negative connotations of the term.  Olmos’s is the stronger of the two, in part because I’m already biased (loved him since Stand and Deliver) and also because I would have preferred something a little less showy than Paxton’s tough Texan turned up to eleven.  Peeking in as the handlers, Paula Patton and James Marsden do well enough, though the script doesn’t ask much from them; Marsden does, however, step far enough out of his squeaky-clean stereotype (literalized in both Hairspray and Enchanted) to impress.

But the film really and truly succeeds, even conceals some of its shortcomings that are visible more in retrospect than in the moment, by virtue of the exceptionally disarming performances of Wahlberg and especially Washington.  Wahlberg is still playing a strong mostly-wise guy (a la The Other Guys, minus the comedic broad strokes), though his greatest strength is in keeping pace with Washington, who’s made a career out of stealing movies through sheer power of ethos.  Washington remains fresh, fun, and fascinating, bringing new life to another version of the quintessential Denzel Washington character (that quick-talking guaranteeing charmer straddling the line of the law).

Look, I tried to write a review of this film but really all I wanted to do was write a love letter to Denzel Washington.  So I’ll close by saying that Denzel is, here as always, far and away worth the price of admission, elevating what might have been a C-grade film into at least a high B solely by his presence – which, unlike most actors with so-called “presence,” actually counts for a whole lot.

2 Guns is rated R for “violence throughout, language and brief nudity.”  There’s a lot of bloody gunplay and a generous amount of profanity which includes a good helping of F-bombs.  Additionally, we briefly see a topless woman early in the film (between this and Flight, is that a new rider in Denzel’s contract?).

Don’t change that dial, loyal readers, because Wednesday is the Double-Oh-Seventh of the month... and you all know what that means by now!

Monday at the Movies - July 29, 2013

Welcome to another edition of “Monday at the Movies” – this week, we backfill some of our missing Pixar coverage.

Monsters, Inc. (2001) – After A Bug’s Life didn’t inspire audiences the way Pixar might have hoped – although Toy Story 2 did – Pixar’s third original idea had a lot riding on its shoulders.  Aw, never mind, you know it worked; we’ve had Pixar movies galore since then, including a Monsters, Inc. prequel back in June.  But the one that started it all?  The original monster-buddy picture finds Sulley (John Goodman) and Mike (Billy Crystal) tearing up the Scare Floor, racking up the big screams in a private competition with slithery serpentine Randall (Steve Buscemi, in a wonderfully scummy villainous role).  The movie’s real soul, though, comes when an adorable toddler named Boo wanders into the monster world – a strict no-no for the creatures from our closets.  Though the animation isn’t as astounding as recent turns, the deliberately cartoonish nature of the characters engages us in an endearing way, especially (once again) the innocently chubby cheeks and spastic arm movements of Boo.  It’s not that she’s the only ray of light in a dismal feature film; Goodman and Crystal are perfect as the opposites-attract team of scarer and engineer, and Buscemi is a revelation as always as the antagonist.  But Boo is that one character in ten thousand who completely eclipses the rest of the movie; like Heath Ledger’s Joker or the monkey puppet Monk on HBO’s Family Ties, Boo steals not just the film but your very gaze in every one of her scenes.  She’ll make you laugh, and if she doesn’t make you cry that Randy Newman score almost certainly will.

Ratatouille (2007) – There comes a moment every time I rewatch Ratatouille where I sit back in my chair and think to myself, “My God, I really love this movie.”  It’s not always the same moment every time – usually it’s Remy’s silent plea not to be drowned or it’s Anton Ego’s big monologue evaluating whether or not anyone actually can cook (which, yes, still brings a tear or two of aesthetic sublimity) – but there’s something about Brad Bird’s second Pixar film that just hits you right square in the feels in a way that The Incredibles never did.  That’s not a slight to Incredibles, which I love, but Ratatouille manages to transcend a hokey conceit (talking mice?) and a clichéd message (follow your dreams) in one of my favorite Pixar movies.  Patton Oswalt voices Remy, a mouse with sensitive taste buds and a desire to cook, while Lou Romano plays Linguini, the clumsy but well-intentioned janitor-cum-chef who brokers a deal with Remy so that both can achieve their goals and feed Paris.  Naturally, the plan butts heads with Head Chef Skinner (Ian Holm), who resents both Linguini and the rat infestation, while top critic Anton Ego (Peter O’Toole, in a brilliant performance) fumes at the resurgence of a restaurant he once damned.  There’s so much this film does right – the friendship between Remy and Linguini, the familial bonds amongst the kitchen staff, the characterization of Ego – that makes Ratatouille an A-Number-One feature, topped with a score by Michael Giacchino (Pixar’s best, for my money) so perfect that you’ll be downloading recipes and wishing you had a “lil chef” to help you out.

That does it for this week’s edition of “Monday at the Movies.” We’ll see you here next week!

Top 10 Reasons Man of Steel Is Better Than Pacific Rim

I haven’t done a Top 10 list since Christmas, but I have to intervene at this moment in history.  As I write this, Pacific Rim (which, as you saw on Wednesday, really disappointed me) is tracking 15 points better on Rotten Tomatoes than Man of Steel (which, side by side with Iron Man 3, is a strong contender for “Best Summer Movie”), and I’ve read several reviews that agree with this consensus.  In fact, my first thought as the credits rolled on Pacific Rim was, “There are people in this world who liked that better than Man of Steel”?

My intention here isn’t to put Man of Steel on a pedestal or tear down Pacific Rim as the worst movie ever; I wouldn’t do either in any circumstance.  But I do think it bears further explanation why I preferred one over the other.  So without further ado, I give you:  “The Top 10 Reasons Man of Steel Is Better Than Pacific Rim”!

(Spoilers, definitely.)

Pacific Rim (2013)

If you’ve ever wanted to watch someone else play a video game, or if you’re one of those people who thought Transformers could have used a little more Godzilla, Guillermo del Toro’s Pacific Rim is exactly the movie for you.  As for me, I think I need a little more from a movie.

After the government decommissions the giant robot “Jaeger” program, Stacker Pentecost (Idris Elba) seeks out former Jaeger pilot Raleigh Becket (Charlie Hunnam) on the eve of the next big kaiju attack.  The kaiju, enormous monsters, have been rising from the ocean and attacking coastal cities for years, leaving humanity desperate to turn the tide.  As Becket is paired with skilled rookie Mako Mori (Rinko Kikuchi), the kaiju attacks increase in frequency, with multiple monsters rising at once.

Readers know that I’m always a bit uncomfortable dismantling expensive passion projects from behind my keyboard, so I’ll say this about Pacific Rim – it’s entirely unpretentious, inoffensive, and governed by an obvious sense of the creators’ enthusiasm.  And as far as big-dumb-loud movies go, Pacific Rim is undoubtedly the most earnest and the most triumphant.  The trailers promise big machines punching big monsters, and you get that promise fulfilled to the nth degree; once you surrender to them, the action sequences are fun and imaginative – at least, within the parameters of “How could one CGI thing beat up another?”

So for a film that had to have been storyboarded by playing with action figures and making sh-boom noises, Pacific Rim is about as diverting as the trailers make it out to be.  It passes that lower bar of “summer popcorn flick” but in a summer where we’ve seen action films that grapple with important issues alongside stellar beat-’em-up sequences Pacific Rim pales by comparison.  Upon leaving the theater, the one adjective that dove to mind was “distanced.”  At no point did Pacific Rim convince me to care about what was going on.  Instead, it relies on the assumption that the audience already thinks that the premise is cool and, by extension, worthwhile.  Yes, the premise is mind-numbingly cool, but the film never convinces the audience to invest in the concept.

For one, you can forget about character development beyond Michael Bay levels of cliché and central casting stock.  It’s a shame that the characterization in the film is so poor, because it’s almost a waste of Idris Elba.  Elba, an actor so good he convinced fans of The Wire that he wasn’t British, does the best he can with the script, even when lines like “I’m a fixed point” draw attention to the script’s dearth of personality.  I don’t begrudge the film its five minutes of introductory exposition; I do, however, shake my head at characters who make Ellen Page’s “exposition queen” in Inception look like Molly Bloom.  Charlie Day’s only plot function is to shout science at us, and Kikuchi – who is, like Elba, doing the best she can – actually yells her character’s motivation, even though the script’s already given intelligent audiences that answer.  (Hint:  she’s an orphan.)  Why do we root for the main character?  Because he’s the main character, duh (and total first-act trauma, duh).  We deserve compelling protagonists, and Hunnam ain’t it.  (Sidebar:  was Garrett Hedlund busy?)

Then there are the tonal inconsistencies, which make me wonder if this isn’t actually a Michael Bay film signed by Guillermo del Toro in some weird Howard Roark/Peter Keating pact.  The introductory montage sets up a grim future for mankind against the kaiju, while the first action sequence plays like a tragic buddy picture.  Enter the exposition scientists (Day and Torchwood’s Burn Gorman), a pair comprised of a Justin Hammer knockoff and a grotesque caricature of a foppish snob; as my father remarked, “What movie do these two really belong in?”  Finally, I’ve said nothing about Ron Perlman’s black marketer Hannibal Chau, in part because he’s another tonal inconsistency (included, I’m sure, because of Perlman’s Hellboy history with del Toro); Perlman has compelling screen presence, and his character is just the right amount of bizarrely-out-of-place, but Pacific Rim becomes an entirely different movie whenever he’s on screen.

It’s not that I went into Pacific Rim looking for brilliant character studies and subtle storytelling; I went in looking for characters and plots – y’know, the things we expect from a movie.  What I got was a big, dumb, loud movie about pixels punching pixels.  If that’s your thing, Pacific Rim is right up your alley.  Me?  I’ll pick substance over style any day of the week.

(Go ahead, take to the comments and tell me I’m missing the point.  Just be sure to tell me what the point of the movie actually was.  That’s not a joke.  What is the point of this film?)

(Also, if you know the point of tofu, that’d be helpful, too.)

Pacific Rim is rated PG-13 for “sequences of intense sci-fi action and violence throughout, and brief language.”  Giant monsters fighting giant robots:  the former bleeds fluorescent blue flubber, while the latter get torn apart like papier-mâché.  A few civilians get eaten (bloodless), and an F-bomb gets dropped amid other milder profanities.  Oh, and my eardrums hurt.

It turns out that there are people in this world who liked Pacific Rim better than Man of Steel.  I can’t fathom such a poor life decision, but be sure to click back here on Friday for my list of “The Top 10 Reasons Why Man of Steel Is Better Than Pacific Rim”!

Red 2 (2013)

Red 2, the closet comic book film of the summer, has been marketing itself as the antidote to the monster/superhero bombast of the summer season, and while that’s certainly true it might have been wiser to play up the film’s strengths – its exuberant sense of fun executed by professionals who aren’t afraid to take themselves a little less than seriously.

Enjoying retirement to the dismay of his girlfriend Sarah (Mary-Louise Parker), former special agent Frank Moses (Bruce Willis) is pulled back into the life by his old partner, the mentally dispossessed Marvin Boggs (John Malkovich).  While another old friend, Victoria Winters (Helen Mirren), takes a contract on their lives for MI6, these Retired/Extremely Dangerous agents scramble to find a nuclear device mislaid during the Cold War before engaging Edward Bailey (Anthony Hopkins), the criminally insane genius who built the bomb.

Let’s get the obligatory stuff out of the way.  Red 2 bears none of the gravitas of Skyfall and probably won’t be making any best-of lists come December (although it’s #1 on my list of “Top 10 Movies of 2013 Where Helen Mirren Blows Stuff Up”).  And while the concept demands aging actors, there are moments when an abler, more spry spy might have shaved about fifteen minutes off the plot; there are moments in Red 2 where Willis seems tired and not, I suspect, because his character needs a breather.  (I hesitate to say “phoning it in,” although it’s clear he’s not having as much fun as everyone else at all times.)

But even though the director’s seat has a new occupant this time (Dean Parisot replacing Robert Schwentke), screenwriters Jon & Erich Hoeber return to make sure that the Red franchise keeps its identity secure.  This is a film that knows itself well and in the end does right by itself.  The Hoebers don’t lose sight of what made the first film work – its melding of no-frills action and an infectious sense of fun.  But a movie premised just on being fun doesn’t quite cut it.  Fortunately, Red 2 is also deft at including the other elements – plot, character, acting – that a film needs to “work.”

The plot is, admittedly, a little thin – we’ve seen “ticking time bomb” plots before – but it succeeds at giving events a sense of significance rather than just a skeleton on which to graft special effects sequences.  That is, we care about the stakes, and the characters are compelling enough to bring it to life; we want to see them defuse the bomb not because they have to but because the narrative structure imbues importance on the issue.

Much of that work of significance comes from the acting cast, who are as resplendently entertaining as they were in the first outing.  Willis, Malkovich, and Mirren continue to do well in their roles (the latter practically demanding a spin-off with a near-cameo Brian Cox, whose infatuation with her never gets old), their taut chemistry losing none of its fizzle in the interim, but it’s Parker who’s the surprise hit, amping up her damsel-in-distress with a strong shot of thrill-seeking.  Parker’s everything you want in an unlikely action heroine – strong, sexy, hilarious, and just the right amount of clumsy-yet-capable.

New face Catherine Zeta-Jones is somewhat less inspiring as a Russian femme fatale, though her scenes with Willis allow the latter to play a stellar moonstruck.  The other big additions, however, are much more pleasant.  Byung Hun Lee is a treat as an assassin with a revenge plot for Frank Moses, and his fight scenes get the blood pumping where the older stars can’t.  But by far and to no one’s surprise, the best addition to the cast is Sir Anthony Hopkins as the insanity-addled scientist, who’s gone mental after years of solitary confinement.  If Red 2 is understood as a space where scenery chewing isn’t just permissible, it’s encouraged (cf. Malkovich), Hopkins goes to the head of the buffet line for an all-you-can-eat performance, greeting invisible cows while distractedly fidgeting with nerve gas.  It’s the kind of role that exudes entertainment, with Hopkins’s gleeful mania suggesting not just the depths of his character’s insanity but also the sheer enjoyment factor that must come from playing such a part.

At the end of the day, Red 2 doesn’t break much new ground, nor does it distinguish itself as mind-numbingly brilliant.  But what it does, it does quite well – entertain, distract, and divert for two hours with a serviceable plot, a solid ensemble cast, and a breathless sense of fun.  Count me in for Red 3 (especially if you get someone like Michael Caine in there)!

Red 2 is rated PG-13 for “pervasive action and violence including frenetic gunplay, and for some language and drug material.”  Yeah, that’s a weirdly specific rating... certainly lots of guns get fired and plenty of stuff blows up.  The profanity is pretty tame, and Marvin’s history with LSD is cited a few times.

Check back with us on Wednesday for another action film, Pacific Rim!

This Is The End (2013)

You can read it as a scathing critique of self-obsessed celebrity culture, or you can take it as the payoff to a decade-long string of actors playing the same character over and over until they give up and play themselves.  But whichever way you choose to take it, This Is The End proves to be childishly crude, incredibly narcissistic, entirely self-indulgent – and, in the end, more fun than it has any right to be.

Trapped at James Franco’s house when a block party turns apocalyptic, a team of Frat Packers – Seth Rogen, Jay Baruchel, Jonah Hill, Craig Robinson, Danny McBride, and Franco – struggle through the Biblical apocalypse while navigating their own petty differences and personal insecurities.  For example, with a demon at the door, the men argue about where to masturbate and whether anyone is entitled to a fifth of a Milky Way bar.  Satirizing the apoca-porn genre, which fetishizes death and destruction in disturbing ways (thank you, Roland Emmerich), This Is The End takes several surprisingly earnest turns, even while its leads are giggling about drinking urine.

Let’s be honest – taking This Is The End to task for its blatant and unapologetic immaturity is a little like scolding an infant for soiling himself.  Lest we forget, the writers – if indeed we can call “improvisation facilitators” such – were the savants (emphasis on the idiot) behind Superbad, a gleefully enjoyable movie that was quite obviously written by ten-year-olds.  So of course you’re going to get jokes about genitals and more weed gags than you can shake a joint at.  Of course.  And if that’s your thing, this movie has it in spades.

I’m of mixed feelings on this one.  It’s feel-good in the sense that you’ll probably end up laughing, even in spite of yourself if you go in deliberately trying not to have a good time (why you’d do that is anyone’s guess, but such people seem to exist).  Let’s be honest (the refrain of the day, it seems) – the earnest marijuana giggles Rogen delivers like a puttering engine are infectious, especially when it’s apparent that the rest of the cast are having as much fun making the film.  The cast are all fairly engaging as overblown caricatures of themselves (including an incisive turn by Jonah Hill as the “Hollywood fake” nice guy), though the standout performance award goes to Craig Robinson, who sells it to the back row with the same gregarious delight that made Hot Tub Time Machine more of a success.  There’s something about his mumbled confessions and oblivious non-sequiturs that gives him a fantastic screen presence.

But at the same time, I have trouble giving a good review to a film that contains a five-minute rape joke.  While the masturbation location conversation has a certain victimless immaturity to it, This Is The End takes on a very uncomfortable tone when Emma Watson becomes the subject of a hypothetical-rape conversation.  Though it’s played for laughs as a series of escalating misunderstandings, the scene is made all the more distasteful by McBride’s (admittedly) self-aware scummy self-caricature; and as the rape accusation is bounced around among buddies, the film’s brutal rejection of the Bechdel test is thrown into sharp relief.  I’m willing to excuse many of the film’s excesses  (including the bizarre detail that every demon has pronouncedly enormous genitals), but I’m at a loss as to why the film couldn’t have included Kristen Bell or Aubrey Plaza or – for God’s sake! – Melissa McCarthy among the survivors.

Perhaps I’m overthinking it.  There’s a certain ad hoc insanity to which you have to surrender in order to appreciate a film like this one, a go-along-for-the-ride resignation that carries with it a kind of intoxicating bliss while the lead actors bumble their way through arguments about the quotidian aspects of morning-after survival.  While certainly not for everyone, This Is The End has enough entertainment value that most people will find something worth enjoying – be it the catchy enthusiasm, the high stakes action-comedy, or even the exaggeration of excess (note the mild-mannered Michael Cera, rendered here as an oversexed addict).  A martini glass of urine never looked so funny.

This Is The End is rated R for “crude and sexual content throughout, brief graphic nudity, pervasive language, drug use and some violence.”  Every sexual and profane epithet you can imagine gets trotted out to excessive effect; alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine are abused throughout.  We see Cera’s rear end and the aforementioned demonic genitalia (twice), while many celebrities die in quick but intense fashion (played, you guessed it, for laughs).