Rendition is a political thriller about the use of torture to obtain information that may, in the long run, save innocent lives. Starring Reese Witherspoon, Jake Gyllenhaal, Meryl Streep, Peter Sarsgaard and Alan Arkin it is an even handed look at a sticky ideological question from Tsotsi director Gavin Hood.
American sweetheart Witherspoon plays Isabella El-Ibrahimi, the pregnant wife of an Egyptian-born chemical engineer who disappears while on a flight from South Africa, where he has been at a conference, to Washington, where he lives. Unbeknownst to Isabella her husband is suspected of involvement with an extremist group responsible for a Middle-Eastern suicide bombing and has been the subject of ‘extraordinary rendition,’ whereby suspected terrorists in the US can be sent, without the legal consent of their parent nations, to third country prisons to be clandestinely questioned and detained.
As she desperately tries to track her husband down with the help of her old friend Alan (Peter Sarsgaard), an aid of Senator Hawkins (Alan Arkin), on the other side of the world a sad-eyed CIA analyst (Gyllenhaal) is developing moral questions as he becomes personally involved in El-Ibrahimi’s torture. In the middle of this mess is Corinne Whitman (Meryl Streep), the powerful intelligence agent who ordered the rendition.
There are a few moments in Rendition when a lesser director may have allowed the material to go off the deep end, but Hood keeps everything on track. It is a well balanced film that does something that most Hollywood films don’t do—it allows the audience to make up its own mind. When Streep’s character argues that information obtained by torture has saved thousands of lives it acts as a counterbalance to Witherspoon’s anguish. Imagine Bill O’Reilly and Jon Stewart arguing the point and you get the idea of the divide between these two characters.
Unlike the recent terrorism movie The Kingdom, Rendition isn’t as interested in pointing fingers, but seems to be determined to present a story that will entertain, but also stimulate conversation.
Reservation Road opens with every parent’s nightmare. At a rest stop, while the mom and dad gas up the car, little Josh wanders away and is killed by a hit-and-run-driver along a rural Connecticut road. What follows is meant to be an examination of grief and the repercussions of loss, but is in fact, little more than a revenge drama tarted-up with an a-list cast
Joaquin Phoenix and Jennifer Connelly play Ethan and Grace, parents of the young boy. Behind the wheel of the deadly vehicle is Dwight Arno (Mark Ruffalo), a lawyer and father of Lucas, who he lost in a custody battle with his ex-wife Ruth (Mira Sorvino) and now only sees on the weekends.
Try as they might to cope with the death of their son, Ethan and Grace fray at the edges. Grace tries to move on, but Ethan, consumed with thoughts of revenge and retribution becomes obsessed with finding his son’s killer in lieu of finding inner peace. In the kind of twist that only happens in Hollywood movies Ethan hires Dwight to help him with his case.
A guilt-ridden Dwight—a recovering something—rage-a-holic, alcoholic—struggles with doing the right thing and turning himself in, but he knows that as soon as he speaks to the police he will likely never see his son again.
Reservation Road can boast good performances all round. Phoenix and Ruffalo hand in the kind of work that has made them both award magnets in the last few years, but for my money it is the quiet portrayal of a grieving mother from Jennifer Connelly that wins the movie. As Grace she seems to actually experience the steps of grief and work through her pain, and in doing so becomes a much more rounded character than Ethan, who simply retreats into a miasma of hate and revenge.
Based on the novel by John Burnham Schwartz Reservation Road is a serious minded, glum film for adults—a la 21 Grams or In the Bedroom—which may pick up a couple of nominations for acting, but despite its heartrending subject, falls flat. Perhaps a different director could have tightened up the pacing and really developed an emotional connection with the audience, but as it is this story of loss is missing something.
It’s been almost ten years since the original Rush Hour graced theatres. Today the third (and hopefully final installment) hits the circuit a full six years since part two. Has it been worth the wait? Nope, but it’s not like people have been holding their breath eagerly awaiting Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan to once again light up the screen.
It seems strange that this movie should be coming out now. The last two were successful movies, but why the gap? The years have not been kind to the franchise. Chan’s legendary athletic skills have clearly been diminished by time and Tucker’s appearance, it’s his first movie since Rush Hour 2, will undoubtedly make people wonder why we thought he was funny in the first place.
Chan and Tucker reprise their roles as LAPD Detective James Carter and Chinese Chief Inspector Lee. This time out the not-so-dynamic duo must travel to Paris to battle the Triads and save the life of a beautiful woman. Along the way they’ll tell jokes that were past their due date when Hope and Crosby used them, perform watered down stunts that were better and more exciting the first two times we saw them in Rush Hours 1 and 2 and waste the talents of legendary cinema icons Max Von Sydow and Roman Polanski, both of whom are seriously out of place in this mess.
Rush Hour 3 feels like a cynical money grab by people who should know better. They’ve had half a decade to write, produce and direct this sequel and this is the best they can do? It’s embarrassing.
My seatmate leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “This is the death of cinema” as Roman Polanski made his cameo. I don’t think cinema is dead, but if this movie represents the state of its health, it needs to book a check up immediately.
Ratatouille could do for rats what March of the Penguins did for tuxedo clad furry birds. An unusual cross between America’s Next Top Chef and Willard, the movie does something no other film has been able to, (not that a lot of have tried), it makes rats cute. Lovable even.
Remy (voiced by Patton Oswalt) is a sophisticated rodent with a highly developed sense of smell. While his rat brothers and sisters are happy to simply survive by scavenging through the garbage, Remy has loftier goals. Using a recipe book called Anyone Can Cook by the famous French television chef Gusteau (Brad Garrett) he teaches himself to read and realizes that he was born to cook saffron scented mushrooms, not eat rotten apple cores from the trash.
His love of food almost gets him and his nest killed when a kitchen raid goes horribly wrong. In the ensuing panic he gets separated from his flock, floating downriver on his beloved cookbook until he ends up in Paris. Stumbling across the restaurant of his idol, the recently departed Gusteau, he puts his refined nose to good use and secretly adds spices and ingredients to rescues a soup that had been ruined by a bumbling employee named Linguini (Lou Romano). The soup is a hit, and Remy partners-up with Linguini to create more dishes. To paraphrase UB40, “there’s a rat in then kitchen and Linguini don’t care.” Intrigue follows when it is discovered that Linguini may be a relative of the late great chef Gusteau.
Ratatouille is the most visually spectacular of all the Pixar (the people behind the Toy Story films, Finding Nemo and Cars) films. Saturated in rich colors the action scenes in the busy kitchen as Remy assists in the making of soups and such while trying to avoid detection are breathtakingly beautiful. Intricately choreographed and exquisitely detailed these kinetic kitchen scenes absolutely sparkle—large copper pots bubble over with delicious looking sauces, vegetables are chopped by expert hands, waiters move to and fro, while a team of chefs labor over hot stoves. It’s a frenzy of action that will make your eyeballs dance.
As usual Pixar pairs the visuals with a solid, funny story populated by interesting characters. Director Brad Bird has given Remy a real personality, giving the ‘lil chef an endearing and funny non-verbal vocabulary of nods and shrugs to communicate with Linguini. When he does speak to the other rats (in English, no one in this French restaurant actually speaks French) he actually has something to say. Bird and his co-writers avoid the trap of so many other animated films that mistake clever pop culture references for dialogue. As a result the movie has the classic, timeless feel of old school Disney family films.
The relationship between rat and man—Remy and Linguini—however unlikely, is nicely realized and offers up a family friendly messages about friendship and cooperation. The characters are aided by nice voice work from Janeane Garofalo as the smart and oh-so-French Colette, Ian Holm’s psychotic chef Skinner, and Peter O’Toole’s as the snotty food critic Anton Ego who is reduced to tears by food that reminds him of his mother’s cooking.
Ratatouille is Pixar working at the top of their game. It’s a delicious feast for the eyes mixed with a timeless, charming story.
Hilary Swank makes some strange career choices. I can’t think of any other two-time Best Actress winner who gets as much press as she does and yet still remains firmly planted on the b-list.
The Reaping, her new supernatural thriller set in Louisiana, isn’t going to be the career tonic she desperately needs. She’s a good enough actor to be making memorable, ambitious films, but every time she gets a head of steam on—in Million Dollar Baby for example—she follows it up with rubbish like The Black Dahlia, or forgettable genre pieces like The Core or the recent inspirational teacher movie Freedom Writers.
In The Reaping Swank plays a professional debunker who investigates alleged supernatural phenomenon and provides logical explanations for them. When a small southern town experiences biblical plagues—rivers of blood, boils, frog rainstorms, that kind of thing—she is called in. The bible-thumping townsfolk believe a young, blonde devil child who lives on the bayou is responsible for their woes. Swank, who sees a resemblance to her deceased daughter in the girl tries to protect her, even as a posse of men with shotguns heads to the swamp for a good old-fashioned exorcism, bayou style.
The Reaping won’t win Swank any acting awards, but it likely won’t affect her reputation one way or the other either. It’s just that forgettable. The plagues, meant to be terrifying, are actually kind of boring. It doesn’t actually rain frogs. I’d describe it more as a light scattered shower and I’ve seen worse cases of boils while sitting in the doctor’s waiting room that we do in the movie.
The Reaping is being sold as a horror film, but with its almost complete lack of thrills or terror it seems like false advertising. There are a couple of “gotcha” moments courtesy of a swelling soundtrack and some tricky editing, but they’re a cheat, like sneaking up behind someone and yelling boo. You don’t scare them as much as piss them off.
There is a good thriller hidden in there somewhere, but the feels like the filmmakers are holding back, trying to find the balance between making a horror film and making a movie that’ll garner a family friendly rating. In the end we’re not left with much except a distinguished two-time Best Actress winner slumming through another undistinguished movie.
It seems that every comedian really wants to be taken seriously. Everyone from Charlie Chaplin to Jim Carrey has tried to put the clown face in storage from time to time in favor of something more dramatic. I’m sure even The Three Stooges would have liked to have had a go at The Three Musketeers instead of The Three Sew and Sews if only typecasting hadn’t had it’s cruel way with them.
In Reign Over Me Adam Sandler leaves goofballs Happy Gilmour and Billy Madison behind, instead choosing to take on a serious role as a heartbroken man having trouble dealing with tragedy.
As Charlie Fineman Sandler (who is looking more like Bob Dylan every day) convincingly plays a man who developed post-traumatic stress syndrome after he lost his wife and three daughters in 9/11. He spends his days and nights in a fog, trying desperately to bury the memories of his lost family. A chance encounter with his old college roommate (Don Cheadle) begins his painful trip back to the real world.
The Wedding Singer this isn’t. This is Sandler’s first real adult role. As Fineman he displays the kind of mood swings and anger that is part of his comedic book of tricks, but here there is more depth than he’s ever offered up before. The way he slowly re-enters the normal world is subtle and effective.
Also effective is the relationship between Cheadle and Sandler. Cheadle’s character is also at a cross roads, although for exactly the opposite reasons that Sandler has withdrawn from life. The two actors play off one another with an unforced intimacy that really sells the idea that they have a history and therefore have a reason to be invested in one another.
Reign Over Me loses some of its momentum in its final moments. Director and writer Mike Binder seems intent in wrapping up all loose ends, making the third act seem a bit too pat. It’s a shame because up until the last ten minutes Reign Over Me doesn’t take the easy route. Tacking on a happy (or at least an implied happy) ending mars what up until then is one of the best films of the year.
Rocky Balboa is a career underdog. In one classic film and 4 not so classic sequels the Italian Stallion has battled the odds and some heavy hitters to emerge bloodied but unbowed. He never gives up and that temerity shaped him into one of the screen’s greatest characters. Whether battling a vicious six and a half foot Russian boxer in the ring or his own personal demons outside the squared circle, audiences always rooted for him.
The question remains will they still root for him 30 years after the original film won 3 Academy Awards and 16 years after he last stepped out of the ring? As unbelievable as it might sound Sylvestor Stallone is back once again as the title character in Rocky Balboa, the final chapter (so he says) in the Rocky saga. Just as the man himself might say, “Yo! It ain’t over till it’s over.”
The new film is to long by half an hour, takes too long to get going and has way too many speeches about “having heart” and believing in yourself, but despite those minuses it has one big plus.
One big 60-year-old lumbering, beefy plus—Stallone as Rocky.
There is something in his dimwitted, but well-intentioned presence that goes beyond nostalgic appeal. Stallone isn’t a versatile actor, but when he’s in the Rocky Zone it’s hard to deny his appeal.
Stallone, working both in front of, and behind the camera, pays homage to the past, working much of the original Rocky lore to the new film, but more importantly using the anthemic Bill Conti Gonna Fly Now music from the first Rocky. I defy you not to pump your fist in the air when Rocky runs up those library steps to the famous Dunna nah, dunna nah, dunna nah soundtrack.
What do the letters RV stand for? Most commonly they mean Recreational Vehicle, those gas-guzzling behemoths of the road that have come to represent the American Dream on wheels. In the case of the new Robin Williams movie, however, those letters could stand for Ridiculously Vacuous or maybe Really Vapid.
Robin Williams plays Bob Munro a mid-level executive with a psychotic boss. On the eve of a family vacation to Hawaii Bob is told by his boss that instead of taking time with his family he’ll have to report to Colorado for an important meeting. Torn between disappointing his family or getting fired, Bob tries to have it both ways. Rather than tell his family the truth he convinces them to take an RV “family” vacation to the Colorado Rockies—without telling them about the meeting.
Good comic premise, ripe with possibilities but instead we are treated to National Lampoon Vacation-Lite—twice the sweet stuff and only half the laughs. Like Chevy Chase in the National Lampoon series we are laughing at Robin Williams, not with him. The difference is Chase welcomed the laughs by arrogantly doing incredibly stupid things while Williams tries to be lovable as he bumbles his way through his vacation. He seems to be so desperate for approval that laughing at him just seems cruel.
After seeing The Rocket, the story of hockey hero Maurice ‘Rocket’ Richard, I have now seen more movies about hockey than actual hockey games. I’m not a hockey fan, and haven’t watched more than a handful of games since I was a teenager. Even though I don’t know my cross checkers from Chinese checkers, I was familiar with the story of Rocket Richard. I think all Canadians are—it’s part of our DNA. If you don’t believe me, here’s a personal story to illustrate how pervasive his legend is. I come from a long line of non-hockey fans, and despite my parent’s disinterest in the game, they named their little bundle of joy after Rocket Richard.
His life was the stuff of legends. During 18 seasons of professional play he set records, becoming the first person to score 50 goals in 50 games, and once skated down the ice and placed the puck in the net despite having a two hundred pound member of the opposing team on his back. He was a fiery competitor on the ice and off. For his agile playing style a famous folksong described him as “wind on skates;” for his commitment to establish French language rights on the hockey bench and in his home province the song called him “all of Quebec on its feet.”
With such a legacy it would have been easy to make a film that put the Rocket on a pedestal a la Lou Gehrig in The Pride of the Yankees, but the filmmakers resist that temptation and instead present The Rocket warts and all. His quick temper gets him into trouble more than once, and his teammates razz him about his lack of education and verbal skills. On the plus side the movie paints him as the people’s champion, someone who stood up to discrimination by English team owners and officials, and helped start Quebec’s Quiet Revolution.
Quebecois superstar Roy Dupuis plays Rocket Richard with a brooding intensity that shows the pent up rage boiling just under the surface of Richard’s character. He closely resembles the sport superstar—although he had to wear contacts to duplicate the Rocket’s famous green eyes—and has the skills to make the hockey scenes exciting and believable, but, on the whole I found his portrayal of the Rocket a little too dour.
Occasionally The Rocket looks and feels like a two-hour long Heritage Minute, but is also a rare animal. It’s a sports movie that doesn’t rely on the usual clichés of the inspirational coach, or the band of misfit players that band together to win the big game. Happily it aspires to capture not only the hockey history intrinsic to the piece but also the cultural history that shaped the man and the hockey legend.
