I saw Quentin Tarantino’s “Pulp Fiction” on its opening day in Toronto. I sat through it once, transfixed and while everyone else stayed glued to their seats for the credits, discussing the movie and picking up their jaws from the floor, I rushed out and bought another ticket for the next screening and sat through it once more. Not sure how many times I’ve seen it since then, but I was reminded of that first screening when I looked at “Pulp Fiction: The Complete Story of Quentin Tarantino’s Masterpiece,” Jason Bailey’s book on the making of the film.
From amazon.ca: ”
When Pulp Fiction was released in theaters in 1994, it was immediately hailed as a masterpiece. The New York Times called it a “triumphant, cleverly disorienting journey,” and thirty-one-year-old Quentin Tarantino, with just three feature films to his name, became a sensation: the next great American director.
“Nearly twenty years later, those who proclaimed Pulp Fiction an instant classic have been proven irrefutably right. In Pulp Fiction: The Complete Story of Quentin Tarantino’s Masterpiece, film expert Jason Bailey explores why Pulp Fiction is such a brilliant and influential film. He discusses how the movie was revolutionary in its use of dialogue (“You can get a steak here, daddy-o,” “Correct-amundo”), time structure, and cinematography—and how it completely transformed the industry and artistry of independent cinema. He examines Tarantino’s influences, illuminates the film’s pop culture references, and describes its phenomenal legacy. Unforgettable characters like Jules Winnfield (Samuel L. Jackson), Vincent Vega (John Travolta), Butch Coolidge (Bruce Willis), and Mia Wallace (Uma Thurman) are scrutinized from all-new angles, and memorable scenes—Christopher Walken’s gold watch monologue, Vince’s explanation of French cuisine—are analyzed and celebrated.
“Much like the contents of Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase, Pulp Fiction is mysterious and spectacular. This book explains why. Illustrated throughout with original art inspired by the film, with sidebars and special features on everything from casting close calls to deleted scenes, this is the most comprehensive, in-depth book on Pulp Fiction ever published.”
If you don’t know who Channing Tatum is you’re probably older than sixteen. If you’re curious go look in your daughter’s bedroom right now. To the left of the Zac Efron shrine is very likely a poster of the buff young actor. Compared to Johnny Depp and Efron Tatum is a minor deity, a good looking guy whose main claim to fame has been a couple of teen dance movies and a guest spot on CSI: Miami. At twenty-nine-years-old the chiseled actor is now straddling the line between teen fare and adults roles. He’s had a couple of stabs at adult fame in films that failed, but his new one, Fighting, co-starring Terence Howard, is a good transitional movie for him; a film with enough action for the kids and enough grit for the adults.
Story wise Fighting doesn’t break any new ground. It’s a classic underdog story. It’s Billy Elliot with choke holds or Rocky without the gloves. Tatum is Shawn MacArthur a scrappy New York City street kid with a troubled past. When he crosses paths with small time hustler Harvey Boarden (Terrence Howard) the two go into bare knuckle fight business—Harvey has the contacts, Shawn has the fists of fury. Shawn becomes a street fighting champion but his success and money don’t ease his troubled mind.
Set in the down-and-dirty NYC unseen since movies like Across 110th Street, Fighting is the New York Rudy Giuliani tried so hard to sanitize. Hustlers are everywhere, underground fighting is big business and nothing good ever happens after 10 pm. It’s a nice, unsentimental backdrop to the story, and with handheld camera in hand director Dito Montiel takes pains to use the cityscape to create a volatile and exciting atmosphere.
In terms of volatile Fighting certainly lives up to its name. The ouch-inducing fight scenes are brutal in their realism, with every smack and punch lovingly recorded in bone splitting surround sound. They are the film’s center pieces, but the fight scenes don’t get in the way of the story or vice versa. There’s a nice balance between the action and narrative, although a love story slows the momentum in the second half.
The film is jam packed with naturalistic performances. Nicely cast supporting roles like Roger Guenveur Smith who seems to be channeling Christopher Walken as the sleazy bookie Jack Dancing and the scene stealing Alba Guzmán as the nosy grandmother are complimented by effective background actors (like Loud Club Wannabe and Flawless Woman Number 1) who effectively add to the film’s realistic mood.
Tatum isn’t likely to win any trophies for his work unless the Elliptical Trainers of America bring back their Buff Awards this year but he brings his character to life, even giving him a few unexpected dimensions. Who knew street fighters were so polite?
The one to watch is Terrence Howard, who after a disappointing run of average work in films like August Rush and even Iron Man, hands in an edgy performance that mixes street smarts with some effeminate mannerisms to create his most memorable character since Hustle and Flow.
Fighting is a better than expected drama, that, while somewhat predictable, hooks the viewer with interesting characters and UFC-style flying fists.
In a summer when it seems that no one in Hollywood has an original thought and are simply banking on sequels to fatten their bank accounts, along comes Hairspray. It’s not really a sequel, nor is it a remake, but in a way it’s both. The new movie starring John Travolta (in drag), Christopher Walken, Queen Latifah and newcomer Nikki Blonsky is based on the Broadway smash hit musical, which in turn was based on a 1988 movie by John Waters. Drawing on the best bits from both its inspirations the new Hairspray is completely original and a happy antidote to the dire sequelitis that has infected the multi-plexes this season.
Shot in Toronto, but set in Baltimore in 1962 Hairspray is the story of the elaborately coiffed Tracy Turnblad. Tracey’s a dance-crazy teen who rushes home from school every day to watch The Corny Collins Show, a cut-rate riff on American Bandstand, which features a cast of milky white teens who strut their bland perfectly groomed selves for the television cameras. At the helm of the show is Velma Von Tussel (Michelle Pfeiffer) the vicious mother of Amber (Brittany Snow), who will do anything to ensure that her daughter is front and center.
When Tracy is sent to detention (for “inappropriate hair height”) she learns a new kind of dancing from the African-American kids who pass their after school penalty time dancing to rockin’ R&B. There Tracy learns a hip-shaking dance that gets her a berth on the Collins show, despite the fact that the evil Von Tussels think she is too heavy and not pretty enough to be on television. She becomes a local sensation, much to the delight of her mom Edna (John Travolta) and father Wilbur (Christopher Walken), whose Har Har Hut is the Taj Mahal of joke shops, and even gets a gig endorsing clothes from Mr. Pink’s Hefty Hideaway.
When Von Tussel cancels “Negro Day,” the once-a-month celebration of black music hosted by record shop owner Motormouth Maybelle (Queen Latifah) Tracy hatches a plan to stage a protest in front of the television station. The movie takes on a more earnest tone as Tracy and her friends—both black and white—conspire to integrate The Corny Collins Show.
Hairspray is one of the more anticipated Broadway to screen adaptations of recent years, and it delivers. Director Adam Shankman is best known for making blandly formulaic family films like Cheaper by the Dozen and The Pacifier gives the proceedings a shimmering 1960s glow that is quite infectious. It’s colorful, noisy and so eager to please that it’s hard not to get sucked in.
The movie’s exuberant tone is maintained by the youthful cast, and while the older cast members try and keep up, they don’t always keep pace.
Tarvolta, in drag as Tracy’s overweight mother raises a laugh or two early on, but as the movie progresses the drag act becomes more an exercise in stunt casting—“Look John Travolta’s wearing a Muumuu!”—rather than a truly great comedic performance. Walken is reliably weird as the joke shop owning father, but the performance is strange rather than funny, which seems a bit at odds with the rest of the film. Pfeiffer, on the come back trail after a few years off, looks amazing and is suitably villainous as the racist, conniving station manager, but the part could have used a little less camp and a few more laughs. Queen Latifah brings her considerable charm to the movie but should have brought a bit more fire to the role of the rebel rousing Motormouth Maybelle.
Nikki Blonsky, however, the former ice cream scooper plucked from obscurity to play the lead role shines. Her beaming smile, strong singing voice and enthusiasm go a long way toward building good will for her character. She holds her own in her scenes opposite more experienced actors like Travolta and Walken. In a cast top heavy with vets, Blonsky and the young cast members—Amanda Bynes, Zac Efron and Elijah Kelley—really are the stars of this show.
Hairspray starts off strong, wanes a bit early and soft peddles the social commentary of the John Waters movie, but makes up for its shortcomings through sheer strength of the cast’s high-spirited will to entertain.
A movie called “Stand Up Guys” that contains the line, “They’re the kind of guys who take your kidneys and don’t even try to sell them,” sounds like maybe it’s about gangster comedians. Or witty wise-guys. Or hilarious hit men. Instead it’s an occasionally funny, but mostly heartfelt look at friendship disguised as a buddy movie starring Al Pacino and Christopher Walken.
Pacino is Val, a career criminal and “stand up guy” who did a twenty-eight year stretch in prison rather than implicate his partners in crime. He soon discovers, however, that his first day of freedom may become his last day on earth. His old boss Claphand (Mark Margolis) has hired Val’s best friend Doc (Walken) to kill him in revenge for the death of his son almost three decades ago.
Doc is conflicted about the job, even though Val seems to understand the twisted logic of the underworld vendetta. With just ten hours until the deadline (literally, Val must be dead by 10 am) the old friends go on a spree, breaking their friend Hirsch (Alan Arkin) out of his retirement home and going on a last caper or two.
“Stand Up Guys” is just slightly less than the sum of its parts. The leads—Pacino, Walken and Arkin—combined bring with them a century or two of screen work, and it shows. It’s a pleasure to see these three old pros cut through this material like a pizza cutter through tender dough.
It’s too bad then, that the material contains Viagara jokes that would seem more appropriate in a “Grumpy Old Men” movie. That and the long shadow of Tarantino that blankets almost every scene leaves the film feeling less than original despite the engaging performances.
It is, however, almost worth the price of admission to listen to Christopher Walken talk about watching television, or “cable teeVEE” as he pronounces it.
There have been many movies about writer’s block. Screenwriters love to write about the affliction that affects everyone who puts fingers to keyboard for a living. So Martin McDonagh, the writer director of “Seven Psychopaths,” isn’t treading new ground here, but he does it entertainingly and with way more guns than you usually find in movies about writers.
Colin Farrell is Marty, an alcoholic screenwriter whose mental state hovers somewhere between depression and suicide. Blocked, he can’t seem to get past the title of his latest screenplay, “Seven Psychopaths.” Trying to pull him out of his funk, his (not always) helpful friend Billy (Sam Rockwell) places an ad in the newspaper asking for certified psychopaths to contact Marty. In exchange for their stories, he might make them famous in the movie. Meantime Billy is working a side job with Hans (Christopher Walken), stealing dogs only to “rescue” them for the reward money. The scheme puts all of them in contact with Charlie (Woody Harrelson), a sensitive psychopath who cries at the thought of his lost dog, but doesn’t mind killing people to get it returned.
As you might imagine from a movie titled “Seven Psychopaths,” there is a great deal of antisocial behavior on display. It’s occasionally gruesome—heads are detached from their bodies, throats are cut—but it is the performance style that you’ll notice. Rockwell has rarely been this twitchy, but it mostly works, and Farrell and Harrelson bring considerable charisma to their roles, but it is Walken who is memorable.
Everybody loves Walken, and there’s no denying he fills the screen, but his idiosyncratic vocal mannerisms are so exaggerated here it’s almost as if you are watching someone do an impression of the actor, rather than the real thing. He’s entertaining, but his performance here is just inches away from self-parody.
In a way that’s appropriate for a film that is so inward looking. McDonagh has taken all the bits and pieces of thriller and turned them on their heads. Early on Marty says he doesn’t want his screenplay to be “about guys with guns in their hands,” sending an indication that the film-idea-within-the-film may be telegraphing the action (or lack thereof) that we’re about to see.
The film subverts its own story to make ironic comments on the collaborative nature of filmmaking when not all the creative agree on the story’s direction, plot structure and role of women in action movies, (“You can’t let the animals die in movies, just the women.”). It almost works except that the cleverness of the idea—making an anti-movie—feels a bit labored in the final third of the film.
“Seven Psychopaths” gets lost in its own idea, but only temporarily. What’s left is solid fun.
It’s every coach potatoes dream—a universal remote that not only works the television and x-box but also can control real life. Don’t want to have an argument with your spouse? Just fast-forward through it. Are your neighbors being too noisy? That’s what the mute button is for.
In the new movie Click Adam Sandler plays an overworked architect with a demanding boss whose job leaves him no time for his wife and two cute kids. When he buys a magical remote from an eccentric clerk in the Beyond section of Bed, Bath and Beyond he soon learns that he essentially can turn his life into the equivalent of a director’s cut DVD. He can pause the action, fast forward through the bad bits and there’s even a commentary track by . It’s a universal remote that controls his universe. When the remote starts making choices for him he loses not only control, but his whole life. Instead of fast forwarding through a few minutes here and there it zips through years. He becomes successful, but misses out on the important parts of life. When he finally realizes what is happening it’s too late. He has fast-forwarded his entire life away.
Like all Adam Sandler movies Click is chock full of toilet humor and his trademark angry episodes, but also has a sweet side. It’s a lesson in the need to really appreciate life’s little moments and close friends and family more.
Click is It’s A Wonderful Life with better technology.
Once again Sandler rides a story arc familiar to fans of his movies—a short-tempered guy learns about love and life after overcoming some hardship. Somehow Sandler has managed to merge the on-screen personas of Jimmy Stewart and Sam Kinison blending the best of both into one character that he recycles from movie to movie. It’s effective in Click, but it isn’t anything we haven’t seen before from him.
More fun is the supporting work by Christopher Walken as the slightly sinister store clerk / master of time. His frizzed out mad scientist hair and quirky speech steal every scene he is in and provide many of the film’s laughs.
Click is that rare movie with both a moral and flatulence jokes.
There was a time when Christopher Walken’s name on the marquee meant quality. Think The Deer Hunter, The Dead Zone or King of New York. Oh, how things have changed. He’s a great performer, but in recent years he has allowed his quirky personality and off beat vocal pattern to take precedence over real acting. In short, he has stopped acting and become a personality. His movie choices of late have been erratic. A supporting role as an existential TV repairman in Click, an idiosyncratic campaign manager in Man of the Year opposite Robin Williams and even a joke shop operator married to John Travolta in Hairspray. Eccentric roles all, but they all pale by comparison to his latest outing, a silly hybrid of Enter the Dragon and The Karate Kid with a dash of The Keystone Cops thrown in called Balls of Fury.
Walken plays the evil Feng, crime family boss and table tennis fanatic who bets heavily on child ping pong prodigy Randy Dakota (Dan Fogler) to win a major tournament. When the youngster suffers a humiliating defeat at that destroys his career Feng kills the youngster’s father to satisfy a gambling debt.
Cut to 19 years later. Dakota is a ping pong performer at a Las Vegas dive when he is recruited by a CIA agent (George Lopez) to infiltrate Feng’s super secret ping pong play-offs and help bring down Feng’s crime syndicate.
This is an extremely silly movie, and I don’t have no trouble with silly as long as it’s funny, but that’s where things go south in Balls of Fury. There are some laughs, but instead of the wall-to-wall guffaws the trailer promises, the jokes are few and far between. Walken, dressed in a series of outrageous Madame Butterfly inspired gowns, should be hilarious, but he settles for strange rather than funny. He really needs to be a bit more discerning when it comes to choosing scripts.
As Randy Dakota Tony Award winner Dan Fogler comes across as the poor man’s Jack Black. He has Black’s tubby-but-agile style down pat, but doesn’t deliver the charm or the grace of the School of Rock star. His resemblance to Black becomes distracting when it becomes obvious that this might have been a funnier movie if the filmmakers had just spent the money for the real Jack Black instead of settling for a pale, frizzy haired imitation.
Balls of Fury is the first table tennis movie to come out of Hollywood since Forrest Gump, but I don’t expect its modestly funny charms are going to spark a revival of this long-neglected genre.
Lately we’ve grown used to seeing Christopher Walken in comedic roles—almost veering into self-parody—so it is refreshing to see him not rely on tricks and produce a layered, heartfelt and emotionally rich work. In “A Late Quartet” he delivers his most poignant performance in years.
Walken is Peter Mitchell, cellist and senior member of The Fugue, a world famous string quartet. For twenty-fives years and 3000 performances he has helped to define chamber music with first violinist Daniel Lerner (Mark Ivanir), second violinist Robert Gelbart (Philip Seymour Hoffman) and Juliette Gelbart (Catherine Keener) on viola. When Peter is diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease and decides to hang up his cello, the Fugue friends are thrown into turmoil.
Walken’s illness and retirement are the catalyst for the film’s look at how people deal with change, but it also provides the heart. Many of the situations are melodramatic—an affair, an inappropriate romance among them—but it isn’t so much about the events themselves as it is about how change affects people.
Each of the three remaining musicians become different people once they have been cut loose from the watchful eye of their friend and mentor. The overall effect is more interesting than the mechanisms of it. The affair and the plot machinery that keeps the story going are there simply to serve great performances from a powerhouse cast.
Hoffman, Keener, Ivanir and Imogen Poots as Robert and Juliette’s college-age daughter Alexandra are uniformly strong, but the maestro here is Walken.
Subtle, nuanced and heartbreaking, his portrayal of a man confronting old age and an uncertain future is first class, a virtuoso turn.
“A Late Quartet” could have been a downer film about classical music and mortality, but instead it’s funny, melancholy and touching.
I saw Quentin Tarantino’s “Pulp Fiction” on its opening day in Toronto. I sat through it once, transfixed and while everyone else stayed glued to their seats for the credits, discussing the movie and picking up their jaws from the floor, I rushed out and bought another ticket for the next screening and sat through it once more. Not sure how many times I’ve seen it since then, but I was reminded of that first screening when I looked at “Pulp Fiction: The Complete Story of Quentin Tarantino’s Masterpiece,” Jason Bailey’s book on the making of the film.
