Category: Film Features

Written by the same screenwriter, Simon Beaufoy, who received an Oscar
nomination for penning The Full Monty, Blow Dry is likewise a
wacky, working-class comedy set in a small British city. Miramax is obviously
hoping lightning will strike twice, but that isn t about to happen here.
The Full Monty may have been a little cloying, but it had some real
laughs and true grit courtesy of star Robert Carlyle. Blow Dry is a
collection of laugh lines that doesn t land and sentimentality that just
clunks.

Set in the milieu of competitive hair-dressing if such a thing actually
exists, it s news to me Blow Dry is achingly formulaic. The film
opens with a bit of crosscutting between a hair-cutting demonstration at the
British Hair Institute (the room filled with over-the-top caricatures of the
garish and effeminate) and a poorly attended press conference in the
struggling town of Keighley, whose mayor announces that the next National
British Hairdressing Championships will be held there. You can pretty much
guess the rest: The colorful participants are introduced, old rivalries are
reignited, vanquished warriors return from the shadows, hair is cut, tears are
shed, laughter erupts.

The film boasts an engaging cast that includes stellar British actors
Alan Rickman, Natasha Richardson, and Rachel Griffiths (with pixieish Yank
Rachael Leigh Cook and hunky American Josh Hartnett thrown in to lure American
teenagers and their immense disposable income), but it doesn t give them much
to work with. The questionable dialogue is often delivered so awkwardly that
you aren t sure if it s supposed to be taken as camp or not stuff like,
This competition is going to change this town and I m not asking you to
speak, I m asking you to cut. This is the kind of flick filled with
expository dialogue about the characters past the kind of only-in-the-
(bad)-movies talk where two people have a conversation about their own past
but still repeat the details to each other.

Blow Dry is essentially the more straight-arrow step-sibling of
bizarre-competition films like the ballroom-dancing-centered Strictly
Ballroom and the pet-show mockumentary Best in Show. But it has
neither the full-on tackiness of the former nor the occasionally biting wit of
the latter. If I were feeling charitable, I d call Blow Dry a barely
adequate trifle. Otherwise I d just say it blows.

The coupling of Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt in the romantic comedy The
Mexican is right on the money — that is, bags and bags of money that this
casting decision will most certainly bring in. The film’s coupling of cutesy
and killing, however, is less of a sure thing. At the same time, being off-
kilter is probably its best asset, a definite detour from the unbearable mush
of this film’s ilk.

But boy is The Mexican wobbly, as wobbly as Roberts trying to high-tail
it in a series of wedge sandals her character is made to wear throughout the
film. And it begins without promise in Roberts and Pitt’s first full-fledge
scene together as they act entirely with their hands. Sam (Roberts) and Jerry
(Pitt) are fighting. Sam wants to go to Vegas; Jerry has one last assignment
for a mob boss. Sam screams that Jerry promised to go to Vegas (hands up).
Jerry pleads for reason (arms outstretched) that if he doesn’t go to Mexico
and fetch a certain pistol he’ll end up dead. More limbs fly and they part
ways: Sam to Vegas, Jerry to Mexico.

Separated, both Roberts and Pitt get to work their not-
altogether-different shticks. Sam is a mess of curls and a mess of ideas that
has her highlighting self-help books searching for the answer to Jerry, while
she doesn’t have a clue about herself. Jerry, on the other hand, knows where
he stands, but he keeps tripping alot. The world, it seems, is his banana
peel, filled with fender-benders, disobedient animals, and errant bullets.
Both Jerry and Sam are adorable.

What happens to them isn’t so sweet. As Jerry makes his way to
the pistol, Sam is followed into an outlet-mall bathroom (FYI, bathrooms
figure heavily in this film) by a man with a gun. This man, in turn, is
followed by a man with a gun. Man #2 shoots Man #1 and takes Sam as collateral
to get to Jerry. Meanwhile, Jerry retrieves the pistol, loses the pistol, gets
it again, gets thrown into jail, rides a donkey, etc.

As romantic comedies go, the comedy in The Mexican is
light, the romance even lighter. Regarding the latter, Roberts and Pitt spend
the bulk of the film apart. When together, their chemistry abounds with
chumminess but lacks a true spark.

The comedy is chiefly trite and sometimes offensive. A bit that
runs throughout the film mocks the overtherapized couple. In that first fight
mentioned above, Sam and Jerry throw out phrases like “blame-
shifting.” The gag continues as Leroy (James Gandolfini), Sam’s
kidnapper, analyzes her and she him. Even south of the border, Jerry and
coworker search deep for the meanings of their actions. The joke is that even
tough guys have feelings, or maybe it’s just an extended tribute to The
Sopranos.

As Sam and Leroy grow closer, the light-hearted taking-it-as-it-
comes tone gets seriously strained. Before you can say Stockholm Syndrome, Sam
is resting her head on Leroy’s shoulder, wheedling out of him that he’s gay (a
gay hitman, what a hoot!) and encouraging him to love again. Sure, he’s a
cold-blooded killer, but besides that he’s not so bad. It’s around this time
of Sam and Leroy’s bonding that a bit about a rape is thrown in for comic
effect, proving that rape is never something to joke about.

And that’s about it for The Mexican — gentle laughs mixed
in with brutal situations with a few missteps here and there. As it happens,
the catchphrase of this film is the question, “When is enough
enough?” It refers to the screwed-up relationship of Jerry and Sam. But
in terms of this movie and the audience, The Mexican is just that —
enough.

Over the years I ve made it a point to play devil s advocate with hardcore Beatles fans, pointing out how embarrassing some of the band s late-Sixties hippie-drippy musings sound today and how fresh by comparison the music of the Rolling Stones and the Velvet Underground still sounds. Mostly this is just mischievousness on my part: I love the Beatles, love them because I love rock-and-roll, and I own every studio album they released. But lately, in cultural if not musical terms, I ve come to honestly find those oh-so-ubiquitous pop icons rather boring and oppressive. I m sick of seeing their work and image continually repackaged and resold, and I m sick of the never-ending cycle of baby-boomer nostalgia cluttering a culture that should be more concerned with the here and now. I gag when I see VH-1 claim that six of the 11 greatest rock-and-roll albums are Fab Four long-players, and I just get depressed when I see an obvious act of consumer fraud like the recent, already platinum, greatest-hits set One clogging space on the Billboard Top Ten.

But, man, is it hard to maintain your cynicism in the face of something as great as A Hard Day s Night. Who cares about nostalgia run rampant and cultural overexposure when it means we get a chance to see a film like this projected again on the big screen? Richard Lester s 1964 cinema veritÇ documentary about a day or so in the life of the world s most popular rock-and-roll band is back in circulation in a fully restored print and remastered soundtrack, and it is as wonderful as ever. I ve seen the film many times and it is always an exhilarating experience.

The film opens with a rush; the great, jarring chord that kicks off the title track leads directly into screaming teenagers erupting from the edges of sleepy London town. The entire film is essentially a light essay on Beatlemania, with John, Paul, George, and Ringo hopping through career hoops while constantly dodging handlers and rabid fans in their search for moments of normalcy yet even when they escape to go out dancing it s to their own music.

In addition to the group s effortless charm and still-stunning music (I may mock Sgt. Pepper s on occasion, but in 1964 it was all glorious), A Hard Day s Night lifts hearts because of the camaraderie on display. The critic Greil Marcus once wrote that a large part of the Beatles greatness was in how they showed the world how individuals could find their fullest expression through service to a community. It s as fine a definition of a great rock-and-roll band as I ve heard, and this film is the visual embodiment of the idea.

A Hard Day s Night is stuffed with magic moments: John sniffing a Coke bottle (actually Pepsi); a card game in the luggage compartment of a train which morphs into a performance of I Should Have Known Better, with girls trying to paw the boys through the compartment s cage-like grating (Handler: This place is surging with girls. John: Please sir, can I have one to surge with? ); the series of one-liners and exchanges during a press conference scene (Ringo s response to being asked whether he s a mod or a rocker I m a mocker ); the band s joyous escape to the tune of Can t Buy Me Love and that sequence s subsequent sackless sack race; and on and on.

It s a testament to A Hard Day s Night s significance that the film, essentially promotional product for a new pop act, is simultaneously an essential new-wave work it makes great sense alongside Godard s Breathless and Truffaut s Shoot the Piano Player and, with all due respect to The Harder They Come and The Last Waltz, the greatest rock-and-roll movie ever made.

If you re the type who likes to pay $7 to vomit in movie theater restrooms, sickened by a two-hour exposure to terrible acting, an unbelievable plot, a Hallmark script, and Keanu Reeves tubby, moon-white chest, then Sweet November has found its niche.

I thought about quitting my job when I was assigned to review this two-hour-plus Love Story rip-off. The synopsIis: Uptight career jerk meets free-spirited babe at the Department of Motor Vehicles. They strike up a deal to spend 30 days together. She teaches him how to smell the patchouli and he falls in bed, urgh, love with her. Improbable? Of course, but isn t love funny like that? Throw in a cute, nerdy kid, a bunch of fluffy dogs, a cross-dressing neighbor, and it s one silly sitcom moment after another. But the story is much deeper than that. The free spirit is ill like shelf-full-of-meds sick. Sweet November is a tragedy. It s sad. You ll cry.

This is no longer a subjective statement: Keanu Reeves cannot act. I m not sure if it was Stella Adler who taught actors that Bill and Ted s woah approach to the craft will win over audiences, but it has worked tremendously well for Mr. Point Break. Here, he is Nelson Moss, a conceited, power-hungry advertising executive who ridiculously mumbles possible catchphrases for his newest account with Diggity Hot Dogs. His apartment has the expected American Psycho-meets-Ikea decor, accented with a wall of televisions, a treadmill, laptop, lots of microbeers, and a girlfriend, whom, for the sake of delicacy, he touches with as much feeling as he does his remote control. He calls his boss chief.

In between the insipid commands Nelson barks at his Diggity Dog art team ( Make it pure sex! Red, blood red! ), he cheats on his DMV test and Sara Deever (Charlize Theron) gets blamed for it. She has to wait 30 days to retake the test. Without a license, she needs a ride. Inexplicably, in a city the size of San Francisco, Sara finds out where Nelson lives and makes him give her a ride across town to … rescue some puppies! Yes, it s odd that someone as cold as Nelson would agree to give a seemingly insane woman a ride across town in the middle of the night to conduct a dog heist, but again, love is about taking chances, embracing life, blah, blah.

It takes only a nightcap of cocoa at Sara s bohemian-chic apartment and a day from hell at work to turn Nelson into mush. He agrees to move in with her for 30 days while she teaches him to feel again. They play hide-and-seek, take long walks on the beach, play with cute dogs, eat ice cream, eat candle-lit dinners. He goes from Gianni to grunge in less than a week and helps the neighborhood nerd win a remote-control boat race. Unlikely transformation for a guy as unfeeling as Nelson? Well, two things: They only have 30 days and time s a wastin . And Theron as Sara is probably the most beautiful woman in all of Northern California.

But Nelson has his moments of yuppie weakness. He s still armed with a cell phone and when he flips that baby out, he walks like a stiff Old West cowboy through a saloon door. The Motorola remains his only connection to a world without vegan dinners and crocheted scarves. His slick business partner, played by the always amusing Ally McBeal star Greg Germann, is working on landing him a meeting with the industry s most wicked mogul, a perfectly sadistic Anthony Langella. Germann is the one to watch in this movie. Desperate to ride anyone s coattails to advertising fortune, Germann s character recalls the well-scripted Richard Fish on Ally. Though the role isn t a stretch for the actor, his transition from television to film is smooth and confident.

Not quite good enough to save this sap-fest is Jason Issacs, Sara s downstairs neighbor who informs Nelson that he is Mr. November, just like the guy before him was Mr. October, then Mr. September, etc. The Patriot s well-known villain is a more than capable actor, but he s wasted here with a poorly written role and sparse scene time. He can t lift this film out of its overall malaise.

Though it s Theron s character who s dying in Sweet November, it s Reeves who needs a resuscitation. Even if his lines were laden with cheese, he d still deliver them like a mechanical He-Man without one spark of natural acting talent. There s virtually nothing right with this waste of celluloid. So if the original Love Story, the uber tale of love and loss, left audiences believing that love means never having to say you re sorry, then audiences are due an apology from Sweet November s unrelenting sentimentality.

Like his only previous film, Basquiat, painter Julian Schnabel s
Before Night Falls is a biopic of a marginalized artist. The subject
this time is the late, gay, Cuban novelist and poet Reinaldo Arenas, played
beautifully by Spanish actor Javier Bardem. The story is a picaresque,
skipping through five segments of Arenas life: a glimpse of his poor, rural,
fatherless childhood in 1943; his status as a teenager in 1958 and his
decision to join Castro s revolution; his schooling and development in
Communist Cuba in 1964; his imprisonment for trumped-up molestation charges in
1974; and his escape to New York when Castro purges the country s undesirables
in 1980.

Schnabel dots his fictional canvas with archival footage of Castro s Cuba and
readings from Arenas work, and it s a heady brew. Schnabel s detailed,
luminous vision of mid-century Cuba (filmed in Mexico) eloquently communicates
the feel of the milieu. Bardem, who appears in almost every scene, is both
cuddly and fiery as Arenas, who grows as an artist by sampling men and
literature with equal fervor and feels betrayed when the revolution he
supported ignites a cultural and behavioral attack on artists and homosexuals.

There are some wonderful moments here: Johnny Depp delivers a breathtaking
cameo as a really fabulous-looking transvestite, smuggling Arenas writing out
of prison in a manner even the Marquis de Sade in Quills didn t
attempt. When Arenas gets out of prison he falls into a loose commune of like-
minded dissenters, who plan an escape via hot-air balloon. And Schnabel
communicates the excitement of Arenas early adulthood awakening by presenting
Cuba in the Sixties as a boys-on-the-beach bacchanalia of homoerotic play.

This is a vivid, accomplished film, but much of Before Night Falls
still feels too familiar the young artist in the city developing his craft,
his subsequent struggle against an oppressive regime, the slow decline from
the ravages of disease. It all may be true to Arenas life, but it also
conforms so closely to the genre that it feels like we ve seen it before.
Schnabel also does little, outside of a couple of brief voiceover readings, to
communicate much of Arenas as a writer. This isn t Dickens or Twain we re
dealing with here, and many in the audience may wonder why we should care so
much about the plight of this specific artist.