Over the course of eight films Wes Anderson has developed a style that is absolutely singular. He spins worlds out of the smallest details with an idiosyncratic style that some call twee and overly theatrical, but whatever you call it, one thing is clear: No one makes movies like Wes Anderson.
In his latest project, “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” he has once again created a movie that future film scholars will coin terms like Wesesque or Andersonian to describe.
Told in flashback, the movie is like a nesting doll, a story within a story, with in a story. Beginning in present day Tom Wilkinson plays The Author, an older man reflecting on one of his greatest books, the story of M. Gustave H (Ralph Fiennes), the legendary concierge at the Grand Budapest
Cut to the late 1960s. The Grand Budapest is no longer so grand, the home to a handful of tenants left over from the place’s glory days. One visitor is the Author, now a young writer played by Jude Law. One day in the steam bath he meets the hotel’s enigmatic owner Mr. Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham). Moustafa agrees to tell the writer the story of the hotel and the legendary Gustave H over dinner.
Flashback to 1932, the heyday of the glamorous hotel. Gustave H rules the place with an iron hand when he isn’t sleeping with the older female guests. A flamboyant gigolo he has a special connection with Madame D (Tilda Swinton), an insecure but impossibly wealthy woman who has fallen for his unctuous charms.
When she is found dead at her home, Gustave H and his most trusted employee, Lobby Boy Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori), visit to pay respects. At the reading of the will Gustave H is endowed with a priceless painting much to the displeasure of the deceased woman’s family. Angered, her son Dmitri (Adrien Brody) frames Gustave H for murder.
Amid a whirlwind of hired henchmen (Willem Dafoe), helpful concierges (Bill Murray and Bob Balaban), talented chocolatier (Saoirse Ronan), tattooed criminals (Harvey Keitel) and mounting war on the continent, Gustave H is captured and jailed. With the help of his trusted Lobby Boy, must escape and clear his name.
In keeping with Anderson’s style, the story of Gustave H and the hotel is rich with nuance and detail but never feels overwhelming or tiresome. It’s a wittily whimsical story that feels transported in from a bygone era. It’s funny and elegant, feeling like a throwback to the Ealing Comedies complete with social commentary, farce and laugh-out-loud situational comedy.
At its twee little heart is Ralph Fiennes in a strangely mannered performance that not only provides many of the film’s best moments—his Benny Hill style escape from the police is hysterical—but also it’s heart.
Like the movie itself, the performance is original, unexpected and oddly affecting.
With “The Grand Budapest Hotel” Wes Anderson has found a balance between his highly stylized artistic vision, story and heart.
“Predators” begins with a shot of an unconscious man plummeting to the ground from an airplane which is a suitable image to kick off a 106 minute movie which itself careens through every characteristic of the action / horror genre except one—excitement.
It should be noted that “Predators” is not a remake or reboot of the much loved Arnold Schwarzenegger film but an addition to the series which has now swelled to include six films about an extraterrestrial life form with a bad attitude an even worse teeth. In this new story Adrien Brody leads a team of misfits—is there any other kind in this type of movie—made up of a who’s who of bad guys and gals. There’s a merciless mercenary, a Yakuza assassin, a Sierra Leone death squad goon, a death row inmate, a tough Russian VDV commando, a black ops sniper and a “one of these things is not like the others” character, a doctor. None have any idea how they landed in this strange world but it soon becomes clear they are there to hunt. Or should I say to be hunted. Hunted by big ugly extraterrestrials. “This planet is a game reserve,” says Royce (Adrien Brody), “and we’re the game.”
“Predators” starts off promisingly. The opening shot of Brody plunging to the ground looks cool and is rather mysterious. How did this happen? Where did he come from? It’s a good set-up for a story that should take us to interesting and unexpected places, Unfortunately “Predators” never matches the exhilaration of that first sequence.
Brody, playing against type as an action star, sets the tone for the film. As the defacto leader of the group he has the most screen time and not just because he has the biggest role. No, he has the largest amount of on screen time because he pulls a John Wayne and leaves gaping lulls between every sentence. A monologue that would take any other actor thirty seconds takes him one minute. Doesn’t seem like much but when the pace of the movie is as slow as Brody’s dialogue, what should have been an exciting romp with some good action, the odd spinal cord rip and some ugly aliens becomes a drawn out campaign to combat insomnia.
If “Predators” had been made in the 1970s—the era of “Logan’s Run” and “Soylent Green”—it might have been about something other than just a group of killers—and a doctor character who is essentially The Professor from “Gilligan’s Island”—learning the difference between hunting and being hunted. Mind bending it ain’t, but what should we expect from a director whose name resembles a fifth grade insult? OK that was a cheap shot at Nimród Antal, but if he’s going to only dish up tepid action—and the worst samurai sword fight ever captured on film—he could at least have tried to insert some subtext or substance; anything rather than another s-l-o-w monologue from Brody.
“Predators” doesn’t feel like a summer movie. It seems more like a Farch film—something that would be released in that dead February – March stretch when the studios dump all their bad movies into theatres.
They grow up so quickly, don’t they? One day they are slimy bipedal creatures who look like a cross between Yul Brenner and a slug, the next they are flesh eating, underwater breathing alien looking supermodel types. At least that’s the way it is in “Splice,” a new sci fi thriller starring Sarah Polley and Oscar winner Adrien Brody, about a creature who goes from newborn to troubled teen in a matter of weeks.
Clive (Brody) and Elsa (Polley) are bio chemists (and boyfriend and girlfriend) who develop a splicing technology which binds the DNA from multiple animals to create new life and, possibly, cures for everything from Parkinson’s to cancer. It’s the medical breakthrough of the century. The next logical step is to fuse human and animal DNA but despite their success in the lab, their employers, the evil conglomerate Newstead Pharma, is wary of the publicity such a radical step would incur. Secretly the pair go rogue, continue their experiments, and give “birth” to a new life form they dub Dren (that’s “nerd” backwards), a tailed creature resembling a bald dinosaur. Clive, conflicted by the ethical and moral issues of cloning, wants to kill the creature but Elsa won’t have it. “Human cloning is illegal,” she says, “but this won’t be entirely human.” Dren develops at a rapid pace, changing from unrecognizable organism to something akin to a humanoid kangaroo. Soon though problems arise. The creature becomes Daddy’s little… whatever, leaving Elsa to deal with Dren’s difficult puberty.
Like the hybrid creature at the center of the action “Splice” is a cross of genres—part b-movie sci fi and part body horror à la David Cronenberg. Liberally mixing “The Island of Dr. Moreau,” “Frankenstein” and “The Brood,” “Splice” examines ideas of life and death, of playing God, of what is human (and what is not) and even touches on Woody Allen style relationships. There are plenty of moral concepts to chew on, many ruminations to be had on what it is to be human, but only if you look past the b-movie thrills director Vincenzo Natali slathers on with a trowel.
Splice goes places that bigger budget science fiction wouldn’t dare to tread. This isn’t the enviro-friendly sci fi of James Cameron or the space opera of George Lucas. No, this has more in common with the exploitation films of Roger Corman. There’s an icky creature, some scientist sexy time and loads of crazy science. Corman might not have been as successful at layering in the love, jealousy and real human emotions Natali heaps on his characters but I think the b-movie king would approve of “Splice’s” overall tone. It’s doesn’t skimp on the blood and guts but it’s funnier than you think it is going to be, wilder than expected—Sarah Polley’s maternal instincts towards Dren are right out of “Mommie Dearest”—and takes several unexpected twists and turns.
“Splice” is giddy good fun, the rare sci fi flick that revels in its b-movie roots while also offering up something to think about over a beaker of coffee afterward.
Director Rian Johnson’s two feature films, the underrated Brick and The Brothers Bloom, (in theatres this weekend) exist in the intersection of quirky and film noir. Brick saw Joseph Gordon-Levitt play a high school loner with a knack for hard boiled dialogue. “I’ve got all five senses and I slept last night; that puts me six up against the lot of you,” he says to a school yard bully, seemingly channeling Raymond Chandler. The Brothers Bloom is just as idiosyncratic but more accessibly so. Starring Mark Ruffalo and Adrien Brody as the titular Blooms it’s a story of deceit, love and finding the perfect con game.
The film begins with a bravura prologue detailing the rough and tumble upbringing of the orphan Bloom Brothers. Bounced from one foster home to the next—one ex-guardian puts down “larceny” as the reason for sending the kids away—they discover a talent for grifting. Cut to twenty years later. They are now seasoned con men. Steve (Ruffalo) loves the work and creates elaborate Dostefsky-esque plots for their swindles. Bloom (Brody) is less involved. He looks up to his older brother but is having a crisis. He feels he has only ever lived life as a character in his brother’s scams. He wants more—he wants an unwritten life. The classic “let’s get together for one last job” brings them in contact with Penelope Stamp (Rachel Weisz), an eccentric shut-in with lots of liquid assets, who will change their lives.
The Brothers Bloom is willfully anachronistic. That’s a fancy way of saying quirky. The con artists seem to have stepped out of a 1930s crime movie, both in dress and behavior. The movie is set in modern day, but like Brick, pays homage to the caper films of yesteryear.
The other characters are just as strange. Penelope is a chainsaw juggling femme fatale who lives alone in a giant New Jersey estate. Rinko Kikuchi is Bang Bang, a mostly mute demolitions expert. Robbie Coltrane plays The Curator, a man so mysterious the lights dim whenever he enters a room and Diamond Dog (Maximilian Schell) has a crystal dangling where his right eye should be. Oh, and did I mention that there’s a camel who drinks whiskey?
The set-up and execution feel very artificial, but luckily, the characters transcend the script’s quirks to bring the material alive. The first hour of its 109 minute running time is a wild ride, alive with humor, beautiful photography, interesting characters and many twists and turns. The last fifty minutes less so.
In its second half the story gets bogged down with too many cons and an unsatisfying pay-off. The Brothers Bloom is worth a look—the acting is great and it looks beautiful—but it feels more like an under developed Wes Anderson film than a fully realized Rian Johnson movie.
