Here's something you might be interested in.
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A welcome break from opera — super, space, or otherwise
A good week of new movie releases, including Jackie and Rogue One
Rogue One: Insert joke about how Storm Troopers’ need for a vacation is evidenced by their poor work performance here.
Movie
Rogue One: A Star Wars Story **
Disney spins the Wheel! Of! <em>Star Wars</em>! and gets “Gotta get that shield down!” as its Obligatory Plotline Rehash in director Gareth Edwards’ take on how exactly the rebellion got ahold of the plans for the original Death Star in <em>A New Hope</em>. (Answer: through some pretty dark dealings and considerable sacrifice.) The good news is that Edwards’ effort to make a storm-the-beach war film produces a tense third act that earns most of its big moments and also justifies much of what’s come before. The bad news is that what’s come before is a clunky attempt at a coldhearted espionage thriller, full of good characters saddled with bad dialogue, tense scenarios saddled with dumb action, and tolerable storyweaving saddled with bad fan service. (Blue milk! Walrus Man! A variant on "Never tell me the odds!" Etc.) Like the rebootish <em>The Force Awakens</em>, <em>Rogue One</em> features tweaks on the old standbys (leads Jyn and Cassian as Leia and Han, the politely snarky K-2SO as both C-3PO and RD-D2, etc.). Unlike <em>The Force Awakens</em>, it also features some genuine freshness: a reluctant collaborator with the Empire, a monk who can feel the Force but is nobody’s Jedi, and a frustrated baddie who just wants credit where it’s due.
The Wikipedia entry for Rogue One: A Star Wars Story calls it “a 2016 American epic space opera film.” There’s lots more after that, but let me pause for a moment.
“Space opera?” As in “soap opera”? As in “Captain America: Civil War”? (Hat tip to my friend Charlie for pointing that one out.) I’d argue that Rogue One is the first Star Wars film in ages — maybe ever — that didn’t feel like a soap opera in space. No forbidden love. No mysteries about who is whose father/mother/sister. No tortured emoting lent extra significance by ponderous talk about the cosmic power of said emotion (“Release your anger,” etc.)
Most importantly, while it’s clearly a prequel with oodles of ties to A New Hope, there’s no feeling of “tune in next time!” As David Edelstein notes over at New York Magazine, “The problem with these ‘franchise’ films is that because of the need for more, more, and yet more installments, nothing ever seems wrapped up. But this one arrives at a familiar place and things get pretty well-settled.” A-men.
Movie
Jackie ****
Were it not for the giant blood stain on the lower-half of her fabled pink dress – a moment director Pablo Larraín takes his sweet time revealing in a startling pullback – and constant juxtaposition next to her husband’s casket, Jackie Kennedy could have just as easily been mistaken for a stewardess aboard Air Force One. Imagine a documentary portrait of a passive character set during the four most intensely intolerable days of her life and you’ll get an idea of the kind of emotional (and cinematic) wallop Jackie packs. Larraín places his subject center frame – she’s present in just about every shot in the film – while his star, Natalie Portman, takes us through a cauterized grieving process that at times borders on the surreal. Together they trap the character on film, like a rose frozen in a block of ice. Quite unlike any biopic that’s come before, but that’s no big shock given the director’s proven track record of originality.
So much for the biggest movie of the week. Now on to the best. Scott would say it’s the unconventional First Widow biopic Jackie, but then Scott tends to be partial to director Pablo Larraín (No, Tony Manero, and even The Club). Me, I admired Jackie more than I liked it. I’d give the edge to La La Land, which is maybe not as great as a lot of critics are making it out to be but which remains a toe-tapping, grin-making ode to the artist’s struggle. (Scott liked it so much he didn’t even complain about the bad lip-sync during the otherwise delightful opening song!)
At the recent voting session for the San Diego Film Critics Society awards, there was a minor debate about whether or not you had to be able to sing to star in a musical. I say no — all you gotta do is sell it. And Emma Stone sells it.
Movie
La La Land ***
Billed as a movie lover’s dream for a reason: the eye hasn’t seen this much color on screen since Vincente Minnelli passed. The songs and musical numbers are lively, the cast attractive, all attempts to transform city streets into expressionistically lit studio backlots successful, and the ending decidedly downbeat. And there’s this five-and-a-half-minute long take that starts in search of a parked car and ends with a slow and deliberate pan over to the Hollywood Hills at twilight time that found me struggling to pick my jaw up from off the floor. Ditto a lovely romantic walking tour of the Warner Bros. lot. But, and it’s a big but, any number of the movie musicals that director Damien Chazelle references (The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, The Band Wagon, It’s Always Fair Weather, etc.) have more depth of characterization than either Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone’s comparative stick figures are assigned. But enough grouching. This is one crowd-pleaser worth getting behind.
As for the worst entry this week, the Will Smith weeper Collateral Beauty wins easily. (I didn’t ask Scott to review it — it’s Christmas, why be mean? — but the man is devoted to his craft.) The low-fi ’80s horror tribute Beyond the Gates wasn’t great, but at least it had heart (and guts, and brain matter, and you get the idea). Both Scott and I wanted to like that one more than we ultimately did.
In between the high and low were two solid smaller pictures. The Brand New Testament managed to give us a ten-year-old Little Miss God who was neither too precious nor too precocious, and a Daddy God who was a petty, mean-spirited delight. And in a bold move, it posited supernatural reality without the hope of an afterlife.
Evolution, meanwhile, eschewed the supernatural for super nature, the vivifying force that gave rise to what came before us, us, and what comes after us. And it upheld the saving power of human inspiration and artistic endeavor in the process!
Here's something you might be interested in.
A welcome break from opera — super, space, or otherwise
A good week of new movie releases, including Jackie and Rogue One
A welcome break from opera — super, space, or otherwise
A good week of new movie releases, including Jackie and Rogue One
Rogue One: Insert joke about how Storm Troopers’ need for a vacation is evidenced by their poor work performance here.
Movie
Rogue One: A Star Wars Story **
Disney spins the Wheel! Of! <em>Star Wars</em>! and gets “Gotta get that shield down!” as its Obligatory Plotline Rehash in director Gareth Edwards’ take on how exactly the rebellion got ahold of the plans for the original Death Star in <em>A New Hope</em>. (Answer: through some pretty dark dealings and considerable sacrifice.) The good news is that Edwards’ effort to make a storm-the-beach war film produces a tense third act that earns most of its big moments and also justifies much of what’s come before. The bad news is that what’s come before is a clunky attempt at a coldhearted espionage thriller, full of good characters saddled with bad dialogue, tense scenarios saddled with dumb action, and tolerable storyweaving saddled with bad fan service. (Blue milk! Walrus Man! A variant on "Never tell me the odds!" Etc.) Like the rebootish <em>The Force Awakens</em>, <em>Rogue One</em> features tweaks on the old standbys (leads Jyn and Cassian as Leia and Han, the politely snarky K-2SO as both C-3PO and RD-D2, etc.). Unlike <em>The Force Awakens</em>, it also features some genuine freshness: a reluctant collaborator with the Empire, a monk who can feel the Force but is nobody’s Jedi, and a frustrated baddie who just wants credit where it’s due.
The Wikipedia entry for Rogue One: A Star Wars Story calls it “a 2016 American epic space opera film.” There’s lots more after that, but let me pause for a moment.
“Space opera?” As in “soap opera”? As in “Captain America: Civil War”? (Hat tip to my friend Charlie for pointing that one out.) I’d argue that Rogue One is the first Star Wars film in ages — maybe ever — that didn’t feel like a soap opera in space. No forbidden love. No mysteries about who is whose father/mother/sister. No tortured emoting lent extra significance by ponderous talk about the cosmic power of said emotion (“Release your anger,” etc.)
Most importantly, while it’s clearly a prequel with oodles of ties to A New Hope, there’s no feeling of “tune in next time!” As David Edelstein notes over at New York Magazine, “The problem with these ‘franchise’ films is that because of the need for more, more, and yet more installments, nothing ever seems wrapped up. But this one arrives at a familiar place and things get pretty well-settled.” A-men.
Movie
Jackie ****
Were it not for the giant blood stain on the lower-half of her fabled pink dress – a moment director Pablo Larraín takes his sweet time revealing in a startling pullback – and constant juxtaposition next to her husband’s casket, Jackie Kennedy could have just as easily been mistaken for a stewardess aboard Air Force One. Imagine a documentary portrait of a passive character set during the four most intensely intolerable days of her life and you’ll get an idea of the kind of emotional (and cinematic) wallop Jackie packs. Larraín places his subject center frame – she’s present in just about every shot in the film – while his star, Natalie Portman, takes us through a cauterized grieving process that at times borders on the surreal. Together they trap the character on film, like a rose frozen in a block of ice. Quite unlike any biopic that’s come before, but that’s no big shock given the director’s proven track record of originality.
So much for the biggest movie of the week. Now on to the best. Scott would say it’s the unconventional First Widow biopic Jackie, but then Scott tends to be partial to director Pablo Larraín (No, Tony Manero, and even The Club). Me, I admired Jackie more than I liked it. I’d give the edge to La La Land, which is maybe not as great as a lot of critics are making it out to be but which remains a toe-tapping, grin-making ode to the artist’s struggle. (Scott liked it so much he didn’t even complain about the bad lip-sync during the otherwise delightful opening song!)
At the recent voting session for the San Diego Film Critics Society awards, there was a minor debate about whether or not you had to be able to sing to star in a musical. I say no — all you gotta do is sell it. And Emma Stone sells it.
Movie
La La Land ***
Billed as a movie lover’s dream for a reason: the eye hasn’t seen this much color on screen since Vincente Minnelli passed. The songs and musical numbers are lively, the cast attractive, all attempts to transform city streets into expressionistically lit studio backlots successful, and the ending decidedly downbeat. And there’s this five-and-a-half-minute long take that starts in search of a parked car and ends with a slow and deliberate pan over to the Hollywood Hills at twilight time that found me struggling to pick my jaw up from off the floor. Ditto a lovely romantic walking tour of the Warner Bros. lot. But, and it’s a big but, any number of the movie musicals that director Damien Chazelle references (The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, The Band Wagon, It’s Always Fair Weather, etc.) have more depth of characterization than either Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone’s comparative stick figures are assigned. But enough grouching. This is one crowd-pleaser worth getting behind.
As for the worst entry this week, the Will Smith weeper Collateral Beauty wins easily. (I didn’t ask Scott to review it — it’s Christmas, why be mean? — but the man is devoted to his craft.) The low-fi ’80s horror tribute Beyond the Gates wasn’t great, but at least it had heart (and guts, and brain matter, and you get the idea). Both Scott and I wanted to like that one more than we ultimately did.
In between the high and low were two solid smaller pictures. The Brand New Testament managed to give us a ten-year-old Little Miss God who was neither too precious nor too precocious, and a Daddy God who was a petty, mean-spirited delight. And in a bold move, it posited supernatural reality without the hope of an afterlife.
Evolution, meanwhile, eschewed the supernatural for super nature, the vivifying force that gave rise to what came before us, us, and what comes after us. And it upheld the saving power of human inspiration and artistic endeavor in the process!
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