Movie Maven

Gah!!! Midterms! Deadlines! My laptop monitor's broken and I have three papers to write!! GAHHHHHHH!!!

Sorry folks, no Oscar coverage for a few days, until I can put my life back together. Read Salon and Newcritics (handily situated on the side blogroll for you.) Their coverage is better anyway.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to go bang my head against a wall until the major ideals of late-nineteenth century Republicanism pop out. I know they're in there somewhere....

Movie Maven is exhausted.

Between the fucked-up crazy blonde-athon that's really starting to disgust me, the start of the Yuletide FAFSA and tax time, college midterms and Michelle Malkin's comedy, I am in desperate need of a vacation. Preferably somewhere without a computer, or TV or.... people. But no matter. I have blogs to write.

In honor of it being Oscar weekend here at Movie Maven, I have decided to, *sigh* make my predictions for the Academy Awards. The only problem is.... I haven't seen a lot of these films. Yes, I know, I need to be more on the ball, but come on. Does anyone really want to see The Queen? Like, pay ten dollars for it and everything? I know I will eventually, but apparently I'm content right now spending my hard-earned cash on Catch and Release, God help me.

So instead of making my predictions of who will win the Oscars this year, I'm going to make a list of the films I have seen at least 10 minutes of, which shouldn't win anything. I mean, EVER. The worst, flattest, most boring, mind-numbing, disgusting and nauseating films and performances of the year. You'll notice that many of the actors and actresses seen here are actually very good performers. they're just misguided. Don't be too hard on them.

So, my darlings, let me present you with the first annual Dubious Honor Awards- the DOOBIES!!

I'm sorry, the joke was right there.

Best Supporting Actor:
Woody Allen: Scoop
Why can't he just DIE already?! Return to form, my ass.

Jeff Bridges: Stick It
Oh, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff. I am so sorry.

Timothy Olyphant: Catch and Release
Apparently after Deadwood got canceled, he lost his mind and decided to stalk Jennifer Garner.

Eugene Levy: American Pie 5: The Naked Mile
I don't know what Eugene Levy did in a past life to deserve these films, but the cosmic universe of karma is a cruel mistress.

Best Supporting Actress:
Jennifer Coolidge: For Your Consideration
I had to sneak For Your Consideration in somewhere, it was just too awful. Jennifer Coolidge just plucked the short straw.

Jacinda Barret: The Last Kiss
I had no idea that a woman screaming at her cheating man could be so boring.

Vanessa Lengies: Stick It
She made me want to pirouette to the door... and bang my head against it repeatedly.

Angelica Huston: Material Girls
Oh Angelica, Angelica, Angelica. I am so sorry.

Best Lead Actor:
Channing Tatum (aka The Chan-Man): Step Up
There aren't a lot of brains in that pretty little head of his. I'd still sleep with him, though.

Martin Lawrence: Big Momma's House 2
Stop it, Martin. Just, stop it. I mean it Martin. Knock it off, it's not funny! Mom, Martin Lawrence won't stop dressing up like fat black woman and he's bothering me!

Adam Campbell: Date Movie
I don't really remember which one Adam Campbell is. I just saw Date Movie on TV last night and hurled into my mozzarella sticks.

James Franco: Annapolis
Or Tristan +Isolde, it doesn't really matter which.

Best Lead Actress:
Allyson Hannigan: Date Movie
She was the fat one that got "pimped"- you know, like Pimp My Ride? There was a midget there. I have nothing else to say.

Scarlett Johannson: Scoop
She tried to do Woody Allen neurotic and just came off looking disarmingly slutty.

Sara Paxton: Aquamarine
I know, it's a kid's movie, I should lighten up. Then again, her blonde hair and perkiness almost blinded me. It was like looking at the sun for two hours with the Teletubbies going on in the background.

Hilary Duff: Material Girls
That brainwashing teenybopper got Angelica Huston to participate in this film. Show her no mercy.

Worst Film of the Year:
Date Movie
ugh
Step-Up
double ugh
Stick It
ughity-ugh ugh ugh
American Pie 5: The Naked Mile
Straight to video. No "ughs" can describe it.

"Why do we listen to Oscar when he has such crappy taste?"

Nevertheless, I'll be live-blogging the Oscars next week. There's nothing better than slogging back G and T's and making snide remarks about the endless blinding trail of Skeletors in Balenciaga gowns.

I'll see you there.

I’m intrigued by the media clusterfuck that’s surrounded Anna Nicole’s death.

Friends of mine have expressed derision of the media coverage surrounding her death. “People are dying in Iraq,” they say (or Haiti, or Darfur or any other number of hideous places strewn with bodies.) “And this is what people care about. It’s sickening. And indeed it is. It is a truly Western journalistic ideal to care more for the sexy death of a former porn star and meth freak more than, say, the UN’s fight to stop the spread of street gangs in Haiti. But one thing I’ve noticed about the media coverage is how full of contempt it is for Anna Nicole. The words “famous for being famous” crop up a lot, laughable at least for the irony that they’re denigrating the fame of a woman that they themselves helped to establish and hold in place.

Larry King’s interviewed her friends for God’s sake.

I myself could not help from making a bet with my boyfriend- that by next season, Law and Order will no doubt bear a “ripped from the headlines” about Anna Nicole.

I’m totally going to win, by the way. But I feel a bit guilty about poor Ms. Smith. The girl was so obviously miserable. Everyone who compared her to Marilyn Monroe was most correct, in that Monroe was also a mess of a person. And I always remember something Mother Maven usually says when someone of Anna Nicole’s caliber dies.

“Oh look at her.” she says. “She was just a baby once.”

Indeed she was. Her name was Vicki Lynn Hogan. She was born in Texas. She was undoubtedly a gorgeous little girl. I know next to nothing about her past, but I wouldn’t be surprised if her childhood was miserable. Would not be surprised if she lost her innocence in some irreparable way- a way that put her on the road to being a Playboy Bunny, a model, a porn star, and a reckless drug addict. But, at some point in her life, Vicki Lynn was a baby. A child. Someone who needed and deserved love. So perhaps that’s how I’ll remember her. She was a human being, not chum for the sharks. And if nothing else can be said about her, then man, she was a beautiful dame.

A quick post today, as I am all hopped-up on uppers and Mountain Dew and will be spending the night catching up on reading about anti-Whig politics in The Scarlet Letter. Any adult who dares tell me again about the days of wine and roses that is higher education can kiss my strung-out, sleep-deprived, painfully-indebted ass.

On a happier note, Sundance ended today with a bang, and several intriguing little indie morsels should be coming our way very soon (read coverage here and here, from people who are lucky enough to bask in the shameless self-absorption and absurd wind chill factor of Park City, UT). The film that has my canine-like ears pricked up is Black Snake Moan, with my beloved Samuel L., Christina Ricci and Justin Timberlake. Ricci plays a nymphomaniac who is chained to a radiator by Samuel L., who wants to save her soul.

It's southern, just go with it.

Anywho, Samuel L. sings the blues in it, and the few bits I've heard are raw and haunting to listen to, filled with Southern Gothic humidity and growling, wrenching sorrow. A little download provided for your listening pleasure is below.

Samuel L. Jackson- Stackolee

Enjoy!

Here is my list of the Top Ten Movies of 2006. Let it be known that I am only doing this because all the cool kids are doing it, and I want to be cool too. After this I'm going to go start smoking and doing whippets.

Let it also be known that I have not seen many of the films that have universally been considered to be the best this year including The Queen, Children of Men, Pan's Labyrinth, Shortbus, and Half Nelson. This is because that, unlike the other cool kids, I am not paid to do this. I do this because I have a big ego.

So here's the list. Those I have reviewed, I'll link to that review, and those I've been too lazy to review, I'll give a brief mention as to why I love them.

Now then.

The Top Ten Best Movies of 2006 (among those I have seen):

1. Little Miss Sunshine
2. Borat
I kept meaning to write a review of this little number, which is probably the funniest, most subversive movie of the year. But I got lazy, and then I got busy, and then I was otherwise occupied stuffing my face over Christmas. But, to keep things moving, let's just say it was filthy, offensive, exploiting and unbelievably hilarious. I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks and my stomach hurt from the workout. I also exited deeply ashamed at the preponderance of the greedy, hate-filled, racist, sexist, bastard Americans that are highlighted in the film (and who are now all suing for being portrayed as the loathsome creatures they are.)
3. Thank You for Smoking
4. Brick
5. The Science of Sleep
6. V for Vendetta
7. When the Levees Broke
While everyone else will mention one of the Iraq docs, and, of course, An Inconvenient Truth, as the best docs of the year, for me it was Spike Lees requiem for New Orleans that had the most value as a documentary. It's alternately captivating, enraging and reflective- an undulating serpent on the spectrum of human emotion. Rent the DVD immediately.
8. An Inconvenient Truth
9. The Notorious Bettie Page
10. Snakes on a Plane
Let me explain. While the film is, technically bad, it's also the most bloody entertaining movie of the year. It gives credence to the philosophy that sometimes a movie doesn't need to have a moral, or anything important to say. Sometimes you just want to see snakes devour people. And that's enough.

I do wish I had a legitimate reason for not blogging these past few weeks, but the truth is I've just been ghastly lazy. I just found this story though, which is an important one for my fellow bloggers to keep up with, and just sticks ever so annoyingly in my craw:

John McCain is a buzzkill.

McCain, always known as "the cool Republican" became significantly less awesome when he proposed a new bill in the Senate stating that blogs are legally and financially responsible for whatever bit of offensive twaddle lands on their site or in their comments box. They're also required to report any users who are registered sex offenders. How a blogger is supposed to know if a commenter is a sex offender I don't know- perhaps our blogger sense tingles when we sense dangerous politicians... ahem... pedophiles hanging around our sites.

This, of course, has nothing to do with film, the chosen topic of my little internet oasis, but it's an important issue that all who work within the web need to be aware of. I'll keep you posted as other interesting legislative tidbits tread before my hawk-like eyes.

Movie Maven will be off for a week to celebrate the holidays. But I'll be back very soon to finish the, uh, four posts I have mouldering in the blogger queue. Ah well.

This lovely time of year, where we celebrate our American superority by stuffing our arteries with turkey and pie with Cool Whip, always reminds me of a touching line from the comedic quaretet Firesign Theater. I'll leave you with these words immortalizing the true meaning of Thanksgiving:

My fellow settlers! We stand here at the edge of civilization, on the banks of the Mississippi river. Lookin west, at our Destiny! What may appear to the faint-hearted as a limitless expanse of God forsaken wilderness, is in reality a golden opportunity for humble, God fearin' people like ourselves and our families and our children and the generations a-comin' to carve a new life - out of the American Indian!

Baraka
Starring: Stern looking tribal people, the Himalayas, Western destruction
Treatment written and directed by: Ron Fricke

I was recommended Baraka by a friend, who when discussing the film said it would be better viewed if my mind was, ahem, somewhat altered by inhaled illegal substances. In the end, though, the film was trippy and mind-expanding enough on its own. I have a feeling that if I'd been hitting the Mary Jane while watching this, a fuse could very well have blown.

Baraka is a Sufi word meaning "breath of life," and the maxim was a muse of sorts for Ron Fricke's legendary, dialogue-less documentary. With cinematography befitting a National Geographic magazine, Fricke captures scenes of spirituality, naturalism and destruction with luscious grandeur. There are no statements made, no interviews, no real description of where, exactly, Fricke takes us. But in the end all of these things are unnecessary. It's a film entirely about the visual, about what we as an audience feel when we view the images.

There is the auditory as well, including haunting music composed by Michael Stearns as well as strictly non-verbal sounds of the world Fricke displays. They're carefully orchestrated together, whirling into a symphony between the diegetic and non-diegetic until it's almost impossible to tell which is which. I'm still ruminating over the uber-trippy scene in which a nameless tribe chants and dances before giant stone idols somewhere in the depths of a rain forest. Through their dance they merge as if into one being, an undulating creature in complete prostration before the god they're worshipping. I've never seen anything quite like it.

There's also a heavy component of environmentalism in Baraka; breathtaking scenes of mountains and happy furry woodland creatures are interspersed with acts of human destruction: rain forests are cut down, fires rage, and, in one famous scene, harmless male chicks are thrown down a bottomless funnel (only female chicks are needed for the industrial production of eggs.) You wouldn't be entirely wrong is saying it's a little heavy-handed, but it's effective nonetheless.

In the end, the film is about our connections, both to those around us, to the world at large, and to our god, whomever or whatever that may be. One affecting shot shows a city at rush hour, time-lapsed so both people and cars race along at super-human speeds. They look like ants, it occurred to me. Then I corrected myself. We looks like ants. We are not all that significant, in the end, and while we go about our busy, falsely important lives we often lose the big picture.

You don't need to be toking to get that.

And now, a quick message from Movie Maven:

Tomorrow are the mid-term elections, which may direct the course of our country for the next two years.

Vote, dumb-ass!

This is has been a message from Movie Maven. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Quick programming note:
Ok, so I'm a liar. I promised you posts last Wednesday, and was so far unable to deliver. I am a bad Movie Maven, and you should feel free to verbally spank me in the comments box. However, I seem to have gotten a burst of blogging mojo and will do what I can to make it up to you. I'm on a TV kick lately, so don't be surprised if I begin to wax poetic about tasty little morsels like Battlestar Galactica or The Office over the next few weeks. Below is some huffy, whiny commentary about Studio 60. Enjoy!

I am so tired of reading blog posts about Studio 60 and the Sunset Strip.

Seriously I am so bored with everything to do with this show. I was an avid fan of The West Wing, and Aaron Sorkin's beautiful, shroom-induced hallucination of the executive branch. I admit it I was this close to writing in Sheen's Jed Bartlett on my 2004 election ballot, before I sobered up and remembered I vote in the swing state to end all swing states. I wept when, on the show, Bartlett announced his re-election campaign as "Brothers in Arms" played victoriously in the background. So obviously I looked forward to Studio 60, loving Sorkin, Bradley Whitford and Matthew Perry, and the idea that the same wit, intelligence and social commentary could be translated to a fake sketch comedy show.

Unfortunately it looks like Sorkin was just on a bad trip. I was pretty disappointed with the couple of episodes I've seen, and honestly didn't really know what to make of it. It is funny and smart and the pacing is excellent. But the primary problem is that Sorkin's high-minded morality (some would say pretentiousness) that worked so well for government just doesn't sit as well in the world of television. Yes there is room to discuss censorship, the medium's ability to facilitate public discourse, blah blah blah, but in the end it's television and a sketch comedy show really doesn't hold that much political sway (Jon Stewart notwithstanding.) What could pass for moral authority inside a fictional Beltway just looks silly and self-righteous inside a fictional L.A.

So the show can be funny and smart, but in the end it's not that effective and hasn't really caught my eye. And I'm well aware that many online critics, from blogger Lance Mannion to Salon's Heather Havrilesky agree with me to a greater or lesser extent. They all don't really know what to make of this show, and the reviews have been decidedly mixed. So here's what I don't understand.

Why is Blogland so abuzz about it? Mannion's been live-blogging the show several times now, and every time he gives reasons why he doesn't really like it all that much. But he keeps live-blogging it, or ruminating on it between episodes. Wolcott's discussed it, as has Slate, Salon, and Shakespeare's Sister (my divine three S's.) Mind you, I'm not criticizing any of these people- God knows I have many passions close to my Movie Maven heart, and I understand very well the nature of television obsessions. But most of my obsessions are things that I enjoy watching, not things I feel ambivalent about. It would be different if it were some sort of love/hate relationship, but I don't think that's what's going on. It's like they so want to believe that Sorkin can create good TV (which he can) that they're ignoring their own instincts. My sister Shakespeare's Sister put it very well when she guest live-blogged on Mannion:

Why do I like this show? I ask the same question every week, because every week I gripe to Mr. Shakes about all the things I think are too much or too little, and everything seems to be one or the other. It's the characters I like. They're stuck inside this giant pendulum that's swinging way too wide, back and forth. But it's in rhythm...and I think its arc will narrow, and then everything will fit.

I do hope that in the end everything fits for Sorkin's show. I love him and his elitist, yet optimistic view of our so dreary state of America. But I'm not counting Studio 60's eggs before they hatch. My TV time is grossly limited, and I'm not going to waste it on a hope and a prayer.

As I have done so many times before, I wish to apologize for the absence of new posts. I'm sorry to say I've been cheating on you with a new blog- a small internship at boston.com I inexplicably snagged. You can check it out along the side (it's under the heading of More Shameless Self-Promotion,) and see both myself and two other fabulous mavens getting their blog on. It's basically a site devoted to under-paid, under-appreciated college interns, or would-be interns looking to gain advice and generally kvetch about their jobs. Subtle wit, wisdom and self-deprecation is guaranteed, or your money back.

I also promise (no lies!) that I will post a review by the end of the day today. We have many things still to accomplish, and just because I'm carrying on a torrid love affair to boost my resume, doesn't mean I still can't have a deep meaningful relationship with you.

The Last Kiss
Starring: Zach Braff, Jacinda Barrett, Rachel Bilson, Casey Affleck
Written by: Paul Haggis
Directed by: Tony Goldwyn
Official Website

Photo courtesy of Yahoo

Why is it always the man who has commitment issues?

Why does the woman always become an emotional shrew in the face of any perceived infidelity?

And why, God why, is stalker-logic (like breaking down the doors of your ex-girlfriends house, or sitting on her porch for three nights straight) considered heart-breakingly romantic?

These are just a few of the questions that plagued me throughout The Last Kiss, starring Zach Braff. Braff has been considered especially brave to play an adorable cad who loves his pregnant girlfriend (Jacinda Barrett,) but is "scared" and assuages his fears by having it off with a slutty yet naive co-ed (The OC's Rachel Bilson.) And as much as I do love Braff and his puppy-eyed vulnerability, I could not get myself into this movie. It's a cliched film in an "edgy" film's clothing; 30-year-old men are already having their mid-life crises, their eyes going all wide and fearful at the mention of marriage or buying a house. The wise old married man offers the sage advice of "Never give up hope"... even when you reasonably should. People wail and bemoan their love lives and failing marriages while Death Cab for Cutie plays gently in the background. Braff, as well as writer Paul Haggis (of Crash and Million Dollar Baby fame) and director Tony Goldwyn have been dutifully flogging their movie as "real," and "honest." But if cliches weren't true to life, they wouldn't be cliches. Their hast to be a middle ground where something "real" can be blended with something original... something like Garden State, maybe.

But the most tragic bit in this turn of events is Braff's seemingly unstoppable descent into Woody Allen-like self-absorption. It's suddenly all about Zach Braff and his music and his adorable nose. His major quandary in Last Kiss is "Hmmm, should I marry my hot girlfriend or leave her for the hot college student?" And his character is so stale and generic it becomes unclear why either woman would really want him. An adorable nose only gets you so far in life, and while Woody Allen had inexorable talent to back up his ego (at least in his heyday,) Braff's range is far more limited. And that's coming from a fan.

The film is however backed up by a decent supporting cast, including the deft Blythe Danner and Tom Wilkinson as Barrett's parents going through marital troubles. Casey Affleck is also striking as the buddy who's marriage is falling apart in the face of new parenthood, in a performance that's that's both subtle and memorable. But the biggest surprise is Bilson. I despised her on The OC and never thought much of her acting ability or emotional depth. But Bilson takes her slutty college girl beyond the stereotypes and really fleshes out a character that could have faded into the background. But even a good set of supporting roles can't save the film's inherent lack of originality. The movie plods along, helped admittedly by a fantastic soundtrack (I think Braff probably just attached his Ipod to the sound editing machine and let it roll.) And Braff and Barrett become so mind-numbingly dull after a while you don't even care if they get back together or not. I never thought a pregnant woman screaming hysterically at her cheating man could be boring, but there you go.

One of the most telling moments in Last Kiss is Danner's conversation about the nature of marriage. She tells her daughter "You think you know what goes into a 30-year marriage, but you don't have a clue. You don't have a clue." Besides being an astonishingly genuine moment of truth, it also says outright what The Last Kiss has demonstrated. The nature of relationships are mysterious, hard to quantify and nearly impossible to render artistically without seeming generic and 2-dimensional. This attempt to do it here was a valiant one. But, for the most part, Hollywood just doesn't have a clue.

The Science of Sleep (La Science des reves)
Starring: Gael Garcia Bernal, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Alain Chabat
Written and directed by: Michel Gondry
Official Website

I have no idea what happened in The Science of Sleep.

I've been staring at my computer screen for 20 minutes now, trying to come up with a coherent statement about this film, and drawing a complete and utter blank. My review, I think, can't be coherent because the movie itself isn't coherent at all. Departing from the usual narrative and plotlines, Gondry decided to rock it French New Wave style, with strange and fragmented events, a distorted sense of time and complex webs of dialogue. It's a frustrating movie to watch, indeed- one after which you leave the theater quietly, your mind positively buzzing as it tries to understand what it just saw.

It's also a fascinating, colorful work of art, one which stays with you long after you brain has abandoned its struggle for basic comprehension.

It tells the story of Stephane (Bernal,) a creative young man who was raised in Mexico but has agreed to come to France after his father's death to reconnect with his mother. He obtains a soul-killing job at a calendar design office and becomes infatuated with his next-door neighbor Stephanie (Gainsbourg.) Unfortunately Stephane's highly artistic mind also has trouble deciphering dreams from reality- sometimes he's dreaming when he thinks he's awake, and sometimes he's awake when he thinks he's dreaming. He becomes more and more confused as to what is truth and what is fantasy, risking his job and his relationships as time goes on. Bernal, a rising star for the past few years since his provocative role in Y Tu Mama Tambien, is astounding to watch. He shares both the restful, calm state of dreaming as well as the frenetic pace and sudden sense of panic of a nightmare. He also is able to exude a painful vulnerability, without losing the fact that as wonderful as Stephane may be, he can also be kind of a jerk. His addled mind hurts not just himself but those around him, and neither Bernal nor Gondry shy away from that.

We are, in a sense, meant to be just as confused as Stephane, and everything in the film serves to disorient. The dialogue shifts between English, French and Spanish, causing confusion and mixed messages. It's filled with glorious dream sequences of stop-motion animation, with cellophane clouds that float in the sky, and whole cities made from clay, cardboard and papier-mache. Stephane's dreams, which start out as fantastic, grandiose illusions, begin to look more and more like his waking life. And since we are watching through Stephane's eyes, all of the people in his life, from his love Stephanie to his mother to his horny co-worker Guy become skewed and fractured, until even we don't know what is reality and what is simply Stephane's reality. It's an astute exercise in subjectivity and although the banal meaning of "what happened" in the film becomes lost, the larger meaning of how our perception dictates our experience becomes much clearer.

It's also simply a love story, lovingly rendered and melancholy. I don't know what girl broke Michel Gondry's heart, but he understands unsure, tumultuous love better than anyone I know. It has an ambiguous ending, and an unsatisfying one in many ways, but one that's true to our reality. In our world, Gondry seems to say, nothing is certain. Only in dreams is the happy ending guaranteed.

The Descent
Starring: Shauna McDonald, Natalie Mendoza, Alex Reid
Written and Directed by: Neil Marshall
Official Website

I expected stupid, drunken, and mostly likely, half-naked teenagers.

This would be the likely cast of a bloody horror film about cave creatures. Stupid, drunken, half-naked teenagers venture into dangerous cave for a stupid, drunken, half-naked good time and are promptly ripped apart by Bat Boy from the Weekly World News. This is how most would have written it. So I went to The Descent after a colleague told me it "had a few good jumps," hoping to be scared, but not expecting to be surprised.

Turns out I was both.

Because the characters in Descent are not stupid, drunken teenagers. They instead are a bunch of British women- amateur spelunkers, friends and comrades. They gather in the woods of Appalachians to bond and help one of the group through her grief over the deaths of her husband and young daughter the year before. A surprising amount of the film is taken up with character development, and all of the women become more and more nuanced and complex- a rare thing in a genre that normally reverts all of its characters to "types."

But it's when they get lost that their real characters begin to show themselves. Some of them become heroes and Ripley-like superwomen. Some of them become cowards or reckless. And when the fearsome Bat Boys make their appearance (I'm sorry, but that's just what they look like) then you really see who they are as people.

It's a gruesome movie, but the repetitive attack scenes often make the movie lose its edge and originality (yes, spewing gore, yeah, he's eating her stomach, oh look, there's another throat being ripped out, blah blah blah.) And while the Bat Boys are terrifying as they unexpectedly pounce on the women, there's only so many times you can use that move as a scare tactic before it simply becomes cliched.

There is a pretty bad-ass scene involving a pool filled with blood though.

In the end, it is just another horror flick, but it's worth a viewing simply for the fact that it used living, breathing characters with a story. It wasn't just about blood and guts, it was also about the complexities of humanity. A little bit. Mostly blood and guts, though. Let's not get carried away.

Little Miss Sunshine
Starring: Greg Kinnear, Steve Carell, Toni Collette
Written by: Michael Arndt
Directed by: Jonathon Dayton and Valerie Faris
Official Website

Photo courtesy of cinema.com

I love this movie.

In fact, I heart it.

There's just no other way to say it.

Saying that you "heart" something is far more powerful than just saying you like it. In an obnoxious, adolescent way it's how one expresses deep abiding love and affection. You can feel it deep down in your chest, an intense relatablility and intimacy. Imagine your first crush, and writing over and over on a piece of paper I (heart) so-and-so. That giggly schoolyard infatuation.

That's the kind of love I feel for Little Miss Sunshine.

A favorite of the Sundance Film Festival, it tells the story of a highly dysfunctional family determined to get Olive, their young daughter, into the finals of the Little Miss Sunshine pageant in California. Included are father Richard (Greg Kinnear) a struggling motivational speaker, his long-suffering wife Sheryl (Toni Collette) their Nietzsche-obsessed teenaged son Dwayne (Paul Dano,) Sheryl's gay, suicidal brother Frank (Steve Carell) and Richard's heroin-addicted father (a sublime Alan Arkin.)

It's funny and strange, charming and absorbing, and sweet without being saccharine. Every moment, every shot of the film is captured perfectly. The cast is phenomenal, every last one of them. They play off of each other with impeccable timing, no one actor overshadowing the others. Indeed from Carell's inspired portrayal of Frank, the gay, suicidal Proust scholar, to twelve-year-old Abigail Breslin's wonderfully natural presence as Olive, everyone seems to be operating at their very best. It's the kind of smooth, unpretentious acting that's rarely seen anymore.

The acting and superb direction is matched by a wonderful script, with both fantastic one-liners and enchanting banter between the family members. But it's also refreshingly honest. Olive asks Frank if he likes boys and not girls. When Frank says yes, she simply says, "That's silly." No illuminating insights, no "wise beyond her years." She thinks the idea is silly and she says so.

Like a real kid would.

I wish I could speak more about the "dark humor" but I don't want to risk giving anything away. Needless to say, you'll be shocked and delighted and all that. But the interesting bit is that it's tinged with real sadness. Darkly funny things don't just happen in Little Miss Sunshine just to be shocking or edgy or whatever. They want us to feel that sadness. But they want us to laugh too.

The plot may be twisted and darkly humorous, but at the end of the day it's really a little film about the bonds of family. A group of people who've found refuge from the world with each other. The most iconic image, of course, are the members of the family pushing their yellow VW bus, which has broken down and will only run after getting a head start, and then jumping into the van after it gets going. It's hilarious, of course, watching them run after the ludicrous vehicle, especially Carell, who does the best funny sprint since Tom Cruise in, well, in every movie Tom Cruise has had to run in. But the inherent sweetness of it also comes through- they are a bunch of misfits, pushing their slightly shoddy lives up the road together, and then jumping in as a group to whatever end befalls them.

I am a girl with broad tastes in film, and there are many films, in many different genres and levels of talent that I can honestly say I liked. What can I say? I'm a flirt.

But there are very few that I heart. And I heart this movie. I'm infatuated. So go see it. I can guarantee you'll be crushing too.

Snakes on a Plane
Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, muthafucka!
Written by: John Heffernan and Sebastian Gutierrez
Directed by: David R. Ellis
Official Website
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*Caution: Many spoilers, primarily about what body parts are eaten and/or bitten by snakes. Also, just so you know, there is a happy ending. Try to act surprised.

It was a Friday night, a tad chilly for August, when five friends and I gathered to see it. After a hearty, pseudo-French spread of Au Bon Pain sandwiches and Diet Pepsi, we made our trek across the spooky wasteland of the Boston Fens, dodging broken glass, goose excrement, and stoned Northeastern co-eds. Fenway was aglow that night with the fated Red Sox/Yankees double-header, and as we passed onto Yawkey Way we were greeted with drunken, heraldic cries of "Go Sox!" and "Yankees Suck!"

But we were not here to deride the Yankees with venomous, Guinness-soaked tongues. No, our pilgrimage led us instead to the AMC Fenway theater, the air infused with popcorn butter and throbbing anticipation. Ticket stubs in hand, we walked to our screen.

We could hear them before we entered. The din of a determined mob, fueled by adrenaline and vodka hidden in Dasani bottles. They hooted, they threw popcorn, they laughed and cheered and hissed and shouted vile obscenities. But over it all, we could hear the slow, but powerful chant, a raging plea for what we had all come here to witness:

Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes!

So began my experience with Snakes on a Plane, the most anticipated movie of the summer, the darling of film bloggers and MySpace users everywhere, and the most entertaining bit of trash I've seen in a very, very long time.

So here's the "plot," as it is: Surfer Dude catches evil Asian Mobster (you can tell he's evil by the flashy white suit coat) killing a prosecutor in Hawaii. Asian Mobster puts out a hit on Surfer Dude, who is narrowly rescued from a Death Squad by Samuel L. Jackson. Samuel L. puts Surfer Dude on a plane to L.A. so Surfer Dude can testify against Asian Mobster and put Asian Mobster away for good. What Samuel L. doesn't know is that Asian Mobster has put a whole bunch of poisonous snakes on Surfer Dude's plane and has sprayed the Aloha leis with this pheromone that will make the snakes extra super-horny and go crazy and kill everyone. Plane takes off, snakes are released by an explosive, snakes... get extra super-horny and go crazy and kill everyone.

And there ya go.

But did you really want to know the plot of Snakes on a Plane? Of course not! All you want to know is how much blood, oozing pus, raunchy plane sex and hilarious one-liners David Ellis could fit into a two-hour movie. The answer is, um, a lot. Jesus, a lot. I mean the first two people killed are a couple smoking pot and joining the mile-high club in the bathroom. The snake bites the girl's naked breast. There's blood spurting everywhere. Later, another snake castrates a man. And another eats the Snobby British Passenger's head. And the audience roars in appreciation.

Because, of course, they had to die.

Samuel L., obviously, is the best thing in it. He becomes almost a parody of himself, a hard-assed, seasoned FBI agent. No non-sense around Samuel L., or he'll tear you a new one. Two new ones if you really piss him off. He's joined by ER-alum Julianna Margulies as Spunky Stewardess (the other flight attendant I've code named Slutty Stewardess), David Koechner as Horndog Pilot, and the inimitable Kenan Thompson as Fat Passenger with Courage. All are wonderfully bad, and I'm pretty sure they all meant to be. It's a return to those golden days of B-Movie Hollywood, a time of large, radioactive ants and UFOs made out of pie plates. Lines are delivered with complete dead-pan- one of my favorite moments has Horndog Pilot talking about keeping the plane from "going down faster than a Thai hooker." And Samuel L.'s inspirational speeches, as well as Surfer Dude and Fat Passenger's emergence as heroes are hysterically earnest, with all tongues placed squarely in cheek.

In the end, though, this film must be watched with an audience. Preferably a drunken audience, with lots of frat boys and people who aren't above hissing at pivotal moments, and hollering "Muthafucka!" every time Samuel L. appears on the screen. Because Snakes on a Plane isn't a movie; it's an event. It reminds us that in the end, movies are a communal experience- they're about having a good time with friends and strangers alike.

In fact, the worse the movie got, the louder we chanted. And the better we liked it.

So, darlings, hold your breath, pay that wretched $10 the box offices are gouging you out of nowadays, and see Snakes on a Plane. On a weekend. At night. With a large audience, in a multiplex, with the good stadium seating and those handy cupholders. And when the time comes, scatter your inhibitions to the wind, and chant along with the others for the one thing that in your primitive lizard brain you know you want to see:

Snakes, snakes, snakes.....

Apologies again for abandoning you all with such callous disregard. Movie Maven has a busy weekend ahead of her (birthday celebrations, plus moving in the wee hours of the morning this Saturday, ugh ugh ugh) and will return to her regularly scheduled programming Tuesday, August 22nd. I promise. Really, I do.

Superman Returns
Starring: Brandon Routh, Kevin Spacey, Kate Bosworth
Written by: Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris
Directed by: Bryan Singer
Official Website

I've always been more of a Batman girl. Superman was a little too clean-cut for me, too All-American boy, too morally unambiguous. But when I heard that Bryan Singer, the genius behind X-Men 1 and 2 was directing the new Superman, and that divine scenery-chewer Kevin Spacey was playing nemesis Lex Luthor, I knew this was something I had to see.

Superman Returns seems to pick up where the second Superman left off, with Clark Kent (Brandon Routh) going off in search of his home world. He returns much as he originally arrived- crashing in a meteor on his parents' farm in Iowa. He re-connects with his aging mother (a wonderful and under-used Eva Marie-Saint) before heading back to Metropolis in search of his old job and unrequited love, Lois Lane. But alas, Lois now has a son and a juicy live-in boyfriend, is still oblivious to Clark's identity and consistently out of reach. Plus Lex Luthor's planning to take over most of the United States by growing krypton-infused ice, so Superman's got a lot on his plate.

So what to make of it? Well, first off, I have a theory that newcomer Brandon Routh is actually a CGI. This is not a statement on his performance (which was nuanced and indeed very human) but due to the fact that in two and a half hours of watching him I could not detect a single flaw on his entire body. He is so perfect he looks inhuman, he looks... well, alien. He's also a dead ringer for the dearly departed Christopher Reeve, a fact I'm sure was not lost on the casting director. His performance likewise is based on Reeve's, and he is never more charming than as Clark Kent, fooling the world with glasses and stooped shoulders, and pining after his love who in turn has eyes only for his alter-ego.

The pining actually takes up quite a bit of the film (Singer actually called it his first romance film) and yet somehow it didn't annoy me. Perhaps it was Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane, thoroughly undetestable (unusual for Kate Bosworth,) balancing Lane's femininity and toughness with the skill of a tight-rope walker. Or perhaps it was James Marston as her live-in boyfriend, who they managed to not turn into a bad guy to make the love triangle easier. Or perhaps it's because that's what Superman is partly about, what has helped spur his legendary status and love by fan-boys everywhere. It's about a guy that desperately wants to fit in and can't. A being that has such love for humanity but can't find his own place within the spectrum. Besides the obvious Messiah reference, on a much simpler level it's just about plain old loneliness.
But enough of this deep philosophy- Kevin Spacey wants to take over vast amounts of real estate!! Real estate, you ask? Isn't that a little, well, lame? Yes, unfortunately it is a little lame, but Spacey does the best he can, which is pretty damn good, and infuses his performance as the Q-balled nemesis with a sly humor and grace. Add Parker Posey as his ditzy girlfriend Kitty Kowalski and suddenly the plot isn't nearly as important as watching these two glide over their scenes together.

Unlike Batman Begins, or even X-Men, Superman Returns is not a re-imagining or re-inventing of the Superman mythos, but a glorious act of homage to both the comic books and the first two films. Old footage of Marlon Brando as Superman's father Jor-El is used in one scene (Brando, still fantastic, even from the grave.) One gorgeous shot of Superman gently setting down a car that had spun out of control is a mimic of the original comic book's first cover. And John Williams' original score is played against a thoroughly retro opening credits scene. Done with less skilled hands than Singer's this would have come off as cheesy. As it was, it sent shivers down my spine.

I'm still more of a Batman girl, but Superman Returns helped me better understand the appeal of a home grown Iowa boy who found he could fly. He's the grand-daddy of iconic images, the 20th century version of the pantheon of Greek gods. Singer, his writers, and even Routh understood this concept, which above all is what made the movie successful. It's a tribute to a symbol. An ode to the man in red and blue.

*A few minor content changes since first posting- oh the magic of the edit button!

I am a bad Movie Maven. Recent pleasant distractions have kept me from you, my faithful public, and my keyboard has since grown rusty from abandonment. I swear to you, I have four summer flicks in the post queue and a whole rolodex of witty and insightful remarks to share and will do so very soon. Whilst I get my blogging ducks in a row, feel free to peruse my blogroll and take in the heartfelt prose of far more talented people than me. Enjoy!