This Is Not a Brutality ... It's a Fatality!

(Wrong, Jarek!)


The Happening (2008)

Rating ... F (4)

M. Night Shyamalan hates science, believes in magic, and exploits domestic apprehension of airborne chemicals in his latest failed pot-boiler, The Happening. (RECYCLE ... or plants will kill you.) Originally scripted to have a magical guitar solve everybody's problems at the end (it's not the baseball bat from Signs, whoops) but eternally the movie about "killer plants," Shyamalan reaffirms the downward spiral of rampant egomania and ham-fisted storytelling his films have always touted yet suddenly veered toward in 2006's Lady in the Water. Listen, GUYS ... M. Night Shyamalan is bursting with great ideas the world simply must have preached to them, the most notable of which is a series of vague axioms delivered with suffocating pretension on how we should "treat the planet," because we've never heard these sentiments before. (Also, DRIVE HYBRID CARS ... or plants will kill you.) Where exactly this sermonizing fits into a horror movie is anyone's guess, but that might be more relevant if The Happening was remotely suspenseful, not unintentionally hilarious, or in any fashion a product that resembled Shyamalan's usual atmospheric intentions. While there's plenty terrifying about how Mark Wahlberg can scour a car in search of a map, turn on the radio for literally no reason, and listen placidly while an arbitrary dispatch spews out a suspiciously planted speech on how nuclear power plants are more widespread in the Northeast and pollutin' away, it's impossible to trump what The Happening indicates about Shyamalan's evolution as a director and how he's slipped even from cheap twists and fancy camerawork to his current nadir of contrived and amateurish filmmaking, in this case a story lifelessly conveyed through news broadcasts, malicious stereotypes, and mood rings. (BUY MOOD RINGS ... or plants will kill you.) Of course, it's not really about killer plants - and I suppose that's the twist here - but rather about how there are just some things science can't (yet) explain that must be classified as "acts of nature," hence why Shyamalan never actually owns up to any diegetic logic for the hooplah. (Though he's mighty keen on diegetic self-verification seeing as his bent on science / nature is spoken quite bluntly as dialogue ... twice, and when it's suggested that this outbreak could be explainable given the isolated geography - i.e. not an act of God, or should I say an act of M. Night Shyamalan? - he then has one of his abundant newscasters refute the notion by saying it in fact must be if the event occurred elsewhere, before proceeding to France and scripting the shit hit the fan.) How anybody could seriously swallow Shyamalan's pseudo-philosophical claptrap is beyond me, especially when his piss-poor writing earnestly uses slow motion "NO-OOOO!" scenes and "God help us" equivalents at regular intervals, in addition to the failure of a title like The Happening, which only suggests the monumental importance Shyamalan places on his own simplistic thesis. In retrospect, there's a reason science doesn't account for the supernatural; The Happening may be bad, but it's beyond even the great M. Night Shyamalan to make a film that's really and truly, magically and unexplainably bad. Like most films, his sucks for a reason.


Dragon Hunters (2008)

Rating ... D+ (20)

I don't intend to be irritably unremitting with Dragon Hunters, what with the rating and all, but animation for animation's sake, a cornucopia of visual worlds with meat and potatoes elements obligated into existence, flippantly along for the ride in a ho-hum narrative just doesn't seem so wondrous with Pixar on the loose, an entity whose efforts routinely scintillate with comparable graphical luster - and equivalent compassion to boot. Eye candy held null, Hunters comes across as medieval fantasy crossed with buddy cop, a combination I would have deemed completely unheralded had not my recent viewing of the equally vapid Dragonheart, whose baffling marriage of the sniggering, petulant knight Dennis "My-smile-is-oddly-triangular" Quaid and Sean Connery's jolly, farcical - ah yes - ancient dragon whose species is bordering on extinction, startlingly snatched the feat first. Of course, the pairing in Dragon Hunters is nowhere near as willfully arbitrary, opting instead for the noncommittal, Leguizamo-esque runt contrasted with the diffident brute that harbors Unexpressed Profundity for convenient third act discharge. The two habitually rout dragon spawns and viewer attention spans in their mundane quest to rid their inert, aerological homeland of not-from-Super Mario RPG Zombone, an undead dragon effortlessly defeated by a "pure heart," which in this case ostensibly refers to a status attained by sporting no other discernable characteristics. (Ironically, given the insufficiency of logical evidence to support the maneuver, it inevitably recalls Yu-Gi-Oh's favorite cop-out, the "heart of the cards.") As you might have expected, the end result involves prevailing over antagonists, and as balance returns you can't help but suspect the entire ordeal was basically caprice, a tenuous concoction designed for writer / director Arthur Qwak to gallavant around in his chimerical world of celestial landscapes and floating debris, none of which ever seems indicative of - well - anything. In other words, what we have here isn't magic, or even fantasy; it's merely whimsy.


Untraceable (2008)

Rating ... D+ (27)

Untraceable may be under the assumption its sleazy ogrish vid exposé is for the greater good, but like 2007's Battle Royale ripoff The Condemned, which argued the soullessness of reality TV by showing audiences a soulless reality TV reenactment, the film's central substitution device reveals itself to be a shallow and pointless - beyond notions of advocacy, of course - method of slumming it. "Don't do X, we'll explain why by showcasing X," is the formula to Untraceable, a Se7en descendent that castigates viewers who would derive pleasure from gruesome internet videos by assembling its own serial killer setpieces that conveniently mimic the form. Undeterred by elements that would diverge from this moral message (like fixing the film's severely underwritten characters - Diane Lane has a kid whose birthday she can't entirely attend when she's called to duty ... woah, deep), Untraceable only contains a single interesting idea to contribute to the serial killer subgenre. The film's antagonist doesn't outright slaughter his victims, but rather creates elaborate methods of dispatching them that exacerbate as more people tune into the website to watch. Unfortunately, the concept is dead wrong, literalizing the cyclical nature of the "problem" as a function of perpetually increasing supply and demand (one person supplies, viewers demand, more people supply, and more viewers demand) when in reality it's merely an issue of a minority of individuals of a niche subgroup proliferating the grisly vids amongst themselves for their own amusement (in other words, there's no market here), which invalidates the basis for film's overzealous sermonizing. Maybe the film has a point here and there - i.e. people enjoy watching the suffering others, a tenet seemingly substantiated by a whole slew of movies, from Requiem for a Dream to Hostel and the likes - but Untraceable fails to explore them, and it gives the film a rather high-and-mighty vantage point. Of course, one shouldn't rule out other possibilities at work here. "He hacked into my car's computer!" exclaims Diane Lane towards the finale; quite ostensibly, stupidity is why Untraceable fights fire with fire and expects not to get burned.


One Missed Call (2008)

Rating ... D (15)

The J-Horror remake One Missed Call is - quite literally - Ringu where protagonists fail to answer the phone. Future body bags aren't required to watch an avant-garde video to receive the call but they'd do well to avoid parental neglect in their subsequent lives, as is fast becoming a motif / cry for help from such Japanese horror offerings not entitled Pulse. Yes, more ghost boys and girls are out to wreak random havoc upon clueless yuppies and their electronic gadgets of soullessness. Random vengeance is king - today's ghost girl assaults victims via arbitrary cell phone contact-list surfing - and the only hope for survival is casing what's left of the joint where she died in a fire and enlisting her metaphysical mommy to pacify the brat. ("They've identified all the bodies!" exclaims the film's do-gooder cop when asked about the possibility that the mom's corpse is causing the slayings, after which he ventures to the crumbled hospital and discovers a body conveniently propped against the wall.) One Missed Call may be rooted in a distinctly Japanese narrative but it plays like a typical slasher, to the bewilderment of viewers everywhere who might easily wonder why their Final Destination rip-off is being interrupted by a hilariously inexplicable hand that grabs ahold of Meagan Good's face and pulls her underwater, before coming back for her tabby. The only heroine of any duration, since none of any significance exist, is Shannyn Sossamon who spearheads the search for Ghosty Mc-Possible-Victim-of-Parental-Abuse and along the way reveals exactly one thing about herself: namely, that after seeing her father hang himself through the peephole on her door, she's now afraid of the peephole - i.e. the medium she viewed this ghastly event through, rather than the ghastly event itself. By this asinine logic (perhaps the movie's only brand) viewers should now be afraid of film. In other words, audiences should be more afraid of this celluloid than the images contained in it. To somebody somewhere, evidently that's an achievement.


Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 (2008)

Rating ... B- (57)

Wipes, graphic matches, and cell phones inundate the continuing adventures of the Sisterhood (four college gals cozily conjoined by a pair of magically one-size-fits-all jeans) to acknowledge the ease of literal - if not figurative - connectivity in today's society, but still the unfortunate constant in the franchise is that all narratives aren't created equal. Soccer sensation Bridget once again dominates the plot department and coasts off the first film's classy debunking of trendy 2000's tomboyism as a poor substitute for estrogenic empathy, while the second installment finds her doing dirty work at an archaeological camp, uncomfortably juxtaposed against folks who would rather see enduring emotional problems go to the grave than confront them. ("At what point does death become scientific and cease to be emotional?" asks the dig leader.) However, for all the fearless trailblazing of Bridget's segment, the film noticeably struggles - that is to say, reverts to averageness regarding traditional troubles of heartbreak and intimacy - to provide similar heft out of dissimilar parts. In other news, Lena treads water with head/heart woes in identical fashion to the original and discernable rifts between the girls begin to develop as a result of the tug of separation. In addition to individual stories for each of the members there seems to be a subplot at every turn, and the film's blending tactics are often cloying, either employing overstepping narration or hazy writing. (Three instances find somone declaring a relationship or feeling to be "real," which hasn't changed from being a vague sentiment that doesn't really refer to anything in particular, the cinematic equivalent of labeling a burgeoning musical genre "progressive.") Still, fans of the original will want to tune in, not simply because Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 is a rare sequel that doesn't blatantly disappoint, but because it compassionately affirms that the complexities of womanhood (in a nice dovetailing of Lena's figure drawing classes, Bridget's missing letters, Carmen's musings on contemporary vernacular, and Tibby's unwriteable screenplay) are often beyond words.


Seven Pounds (2008)

Rating ... F (3)

Seven Pounds is a morally dubious melange of atypical roles for its lead actor, none more hilariously baffling than the simple realization that Will Smith actually plays Santa Claus. Bound and determined to end his own life via a laughably symbolic (spoiler) after committing an unspeakable offense that resulted in (spoiler, but you can check your Psych 101 textbook if you wish to know ahead of time), Smith's outspoken IRS agent Ben Thomas now wields his government connections in service of the greater good, using them to contact several individuals, offering "gifts" if they're "good people" and "deserving" while administering his own castigation if he deems them "bad" - an offensively reductive ethos the film whole-heartedly purports by simply scripting its major characters as blatantly good or bad. Of course, Seven Pounds doesn't stop at its childish naughty-and-nice antics; as the opening scene artlessly reveals, Ben succeeds in his suicide mission, forging himself a new position - from Father Christmas to Father Christ. Which vantage point is more detestable? That Hollywood drama wants it both ways - preciously uplifting and depressingly somber - on the shoulders of long-winded anecdotes and Will Smith's n'th martyr-bit? Or that the best way one human being can apologize to another is through self-induced blaze of glory? In other words, you're in deep shit when Will2K dons multiple roles, all of which are inferior to getting jiggy with it.


Hamlet 2 (2008)

Rating ... C (36)

"It doesn't matter if you're talented as long as you're enthusiastic!" While I might be prepared to overlook that this quote is the enunciated theme for a writer's strike-era production (on a related note, 2008 seems to be a banner year for proles to receive collective hand-jobs, what with this and the atrocious Slumdog Millionaire's flagrant genuflection at the altar of mediocrity), there's just no excuse for subpar filmmaking. Hamlet 2 aims to subvert the inspirational teacher genre by momentarily acknowledging inadequacy, limitations, and unwillingness before excusing these shortcomings - and implicitly, the need for bettering oneself - in the name of zeal. On the subject of limitations, it seems director Andrew Fleming is much too nice a fellow to helm a movie concerning the notion of failed artists writing sequels to Hamlet out of desperation. (Terry Zwigoff territory, anybody?) Fleming seemed comfy behind the camera of 2007's superb Nancy Drew - a relentlessly chipper romp whose final reel eloquently recognized the shades of self-delusion and futility of Nancy's problem-solving - but working with the complete opposite where a full-time loser finally makes it big he seems hesitant to commit, routinely undermining scenes that would reveal the sad incompetence behind Steve Coogan's dopey drama teacher as mere jokes. (Case in point, that Coogan genuinely thinks Hamlet is too much of a "downer" and wants to remove the tragic elements.) This lack of confidence even manages to spill over into whole scenes of Hamlet 2. When Coogan and his troupe forcibly perform the play to the consternation of the school and other such authorities, the film resorts to diegetic self-affirmation in order to justify the spectacle. Hamlet 2 is obviously a bastion of willingness over ability, but its repeated scenes of ousted hecklers and skeptical audience members joyously coming around to the play despite initial reservations (the play's audience are real-life audience stand-ins, geddit?) reek of insecurity. Needless to say the play is a smash and it hits Broadway as an afterthought - it also just so happens that this untalented, super-enthusiastic play is full of empty quirk, best illustrated by the "Rock Me Sexy Jesus" number, a piece of hollow not-quite-provocation for which the film offers a bogus explanation as to its presence in the play Hamlet 2, but no reasoning behind why it's important to the film Hamlet 2. "It doesn't matter if you're talented as long as you're enthusiastic!" Friend, watch Patch Adams and get back to me.


CJ7 (2008)

Rating ... B (66)

I am about to hook you up. Really and truly, an honest-to-God hook-up. Are you ready? Direct yourself to the nearest rental store / friend's collection / internet and procure Stephen Chow's three latest films - Shaolin Soccer, Kung Fu Hustle, and CJ7 for a rollicking good time and showcase for one of the most talented storytellers in the business.

... *elevator music* ...

Now that you've seen all three hopefully we harbor an identical viewpoint, sort of like looking through eyeglasses with one of those royally messed up / awesome jeweler's loupes attached. Technically there's nowhere to go but down after the incredible zenith of Kung Fu Hustle's jaw-dropping ending sequence but Chow plays damage control nicely, taking a breather from crafting probably the best scene ever to take aim at children's fairytale with CJ7, a dissection of parenthood and social responsibility disguised as an E.T. knockoff with poor folks. Chow makes clear his genuine interest in navigating class divisions rather than slumming it for exploitative purposes or simple turnabout a la Slumdog Millionaire in a single scene; taking a lyrical page from Zatoichi's book, the pounding of sledgehammers at a construction site syncs up with the beat of the music as a way of paying respects - an unspoken acknowledgement that artistic achievement and social wealth is made possible by the value created by all members of society regardless of economic designation. When the alien - dubbed CJ7 - finally arrives, the film walks a tightrope between a parent's role of entertaining and dispelling childhood fantasy; Chow refuses to accept delusion that would mask his characters' financial hardship but simultaneously understands that the blind optimism of hoping the classical values of his film (hard work, self-dignity) will pay off is itself a fantastical notion. CJ7's lack of kickass alien powers appropriately deflates children's unreasonably high expectations but his eventual sacrifice in service of Chow's character - who in turn has given everything he has to ensure his child won't remain uneducated like himself - is a testament to second chances and people's ability to better themselves. By the finale hundreds of the little guys storm the city, but rather than being overindulgence on Chow's part it's simply assurance that the tenets of his film aren't made exclusive to himself and his onscreen son/daughter. Say what you will about the film's odd melange of tones, but populism has never been so sincere.



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