Rio Rancho Film Reviews

Panic Room

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Panic Room is one of those films where the premise is better than the execution. That's not to say it's a bad film, certainly not, but it does suffer somewhat from a mediocre script, thin characterization and a lackluster ending.

The main problem I have with Panic Room is how dumb the three thieves are. They enter the film like The Three Stooges, immediately undermining the tension that their entrance generates. I mean, for the film to work as strongly as it could, they should be a major threat, but instead they enter the film while bickering like a bunch of numbskulls. And two of them even think they can break through concrete and three inch steel with a sledgehammer. You're dealing with mental midgets here.

Stupidest of the three is Leto's character. He doesn't know how escrow works, he puts his head against the wall when Foster is about to ignite the gas they're pumping into the panic room, he shouts at a PA system and he exposes his plan to screw over his fellow burglars simply by talking to himself. The extent of his stupidity is really too much to ask of an audience with any intelligence and his whole character smacks of lazy writing.

But thankfully Leto's character gets shot halfway through. And his killing is nicely done. It's quick, it's brutal and it allows the unhinged Raoul to step up to the plate as the main villain. And although Raoul is a knob and a bit of a rent-a-psycho, he does make for a suitably intimidating villain. And it's even more impressive considering that the actor who plays him, Dwight Yoakam, is a country music star. He may sing hick music, but he turns in a superb performance.

But although Yoakam is excellent, the film easily belongs to Foster. She's strong, she's resourceful and she's entirely believable as a mother who'll blow your head off if you mess around with her kid. After all, is there anything more dangerous than a mother backed into a corner? Personally I'd rather take on a 6-foot-4, 300-pound, bum-hungry redneck called Bubba than a 5-foot-4 woman who wants to defend her kid. The burglars should have left the second they realised they were dealing with a 'mom'.

However, while I can easily believe in Foster managing to wrestle a gun off of the psychotic Raoul (again illustrating how stupid the thieves are, Raoul at one point tells her to come out of hiding so he can shoot her and get things over. Didn't he ever have a mum?), her MacGyver routine stretches credibility – igniting the gas is fair enough, but there's one bit where she somehow hooks up the phone line. She even says, "I have no idea" when her daughter asks her what she's doing. It's obvious that Koepp (the writer) has written himself into a corner and this is the result: suddenly she's a phone expert. But I'm willing to overlook these sorts of things as Fincher gives us ample opportunity to stare at Foster's cleavage when things get silly. It was actually an excellent decision to have her spend virtually the whole film in a black vest, as you're never too far from jiggling breasts, which is fair compensation for gaps in logic.

All this shallowness has made me forget Foster's best moment, the bit when she sadistically kicks the door to torture Raoul after he gets his fingers trapped. Like I said before, don't mess with a mom. When you mess with a mom you enter a world of pain.

Back to the script problems…

The scene where the police turn up is poorly written. Not only does the main cop show far too much interest for a man in his line of work but he even asks Foster if she wants to communicate by blinking her eyes. Even movie cops shouldn't act this silly. Then there's the way that Foster's claustrophobia is disposed of. What's the point in establishing a problem if you're not going to use it?

You can even sense Fincher's disinterest in the script in his flashy direction. It's like he has to invent lots of complicated shots to keep him from getting bored. But I do have to say that visually the film is superb. There are some wonderful shots. Although I have to say that I prefer the simpler visuals. For example, I love the use of widescreen – there's one great shot when you have the lift going down on one side of the frame and Leto kicking the door on the other. And I also love Fincher's use of slow motion. The scene where Foster escapes the panic room to grab her phone is excellent, especially in the way that it builds tension by slowing everything down and removing the sound. But the flashier computer shots – the 'camera' flies into locks, torches and through chairs – smacks too much of empty grandstanding. Fincher should have worried more about the script.

But although the script is decidedly average and although in the end things get too silly – Raoul gets hit in the head with a sledgehammer and falls several floors but still survives to fight some more – I did enjoy the film. It's certainly helped by Fincher's visual sense and the amazing house (if I were a commie instead of a greedy capitalist, I'd say it was obscene to have two people live in such a huge place). Oh yeah, and of course, it's helped by Foster. She can do the strong woman thing in her sleep but she always does it well.

Directed by David Fincher
Written by David Koepp
Produced by Ceán Chaffin, Judy Hofflund, David Koepp and Gavin Polone
Original Music by Howard Shore
Cinematography by Conrad W. Hall and Darius Khondji
Starring Jodie Foster, Kristen Stewart, Forest Whitaker, Dwight Yoakam and Jared Leto

Running Time: 112 mins

Rated R for violence, language and unnecessarily flashy CGI

Catherine McCormack

28 Weeks Later

Saturday, August 18, 2007

First things first – 28 Weeks Later isn’t as good as the film that preceded it. Its narrative is a lot more flimsy, the characters aren’t as engaging and it relies more heavily on cheap shock tactics to provide thrills and chills. But that being said, it is a decent sequel. It certainly doesn’t embarrass itself.

One of the most unfortunate things about 28 Weeks Later is that its best scene happens right at the beginning. The film opens with a group of survivors holed up in an isolated cottage. They have little to do but eat and squabble amongst one another. But then the infected attack and all hell breaks loose. As is usual these days, the action is frantic and confusing. Sometimes you’re not really sure what’s going on. But then Don (played by Robert Carlyle), while being chased through the house, has to choose between saving his wife from the infected and saving himself. He chooses to save himself. And the scene where he leaps from the cottage and is pursued through a field by swarms of the infected is an outstanding moment. John Murphy’s magnificent score pounds from the speakers and more and more diseased individuals take pursuit. And then as he’s running Don looks up to the window and sees his wife begging for help. But it’s too late – she gets taken. And then with swooping aerial shots and with more infected oozing from every corner of the countryside, Don heads for the river and leaps into a boat. It’s heart-stopping stuff – wonderfully cinematic and strangely moving too. Can you really blame the guy for saving his own skin? How many of us wouldn't do the same?

And I like the scene later in the film (in a supposedly ‘safe’ London) where Don tells his kids what happened to their mother. He breaks down crying and says that she was killed in front of his eyes – there were was nothing he could do. Again, is it so harsh to judge him? Would the truth serve any purpose? It’s just a bit of a shame, then, that as the film is slowly building this morally ambiguous character that he becomes a fully-fledged monster.

One of the film’s twists is that Don’s wife isn’t really dead. Even though she was attacked by the infected, she’s immune to the virus – she’s a carrier. So then when she’s captured by the American troops who are now running the show in Blighty, Don goes to see her so that he can apologise. However, he makes the mistake of kissing her and gets infected. The scene that follows – Don’s brutal killing of his wife, is actually quite hard to watch. He beats her and claws at her and then sticks his fingers in her eyes. The film doesn’t pull any punches in terms of violence.

However, some of the gore is a bit silly at times. There’s a bit where a field full of infected get mown down by helicopter blades. Heads roll, limbs are torn from bodies and blood sprays everywhere, and while it’s quite amusing in a sick way, it feels slightly out of place in what is an otherwise deadly serious horror flick.

A much better scene is the one where the Americans lose control of the new community they’ve established. Infection spreads, and not being able to tell the infected from the normal, the soldiers are given orders to kill everyone. I guess it’s quite easy to draw parallels with the situation in Iraq. When you can’t tell the bad from the good, just kill everything. (In both 28 Weeks and 28 Days, normal humans are shown as the real monsters, although I actually think that point is better conveyed in Boyle’s film – the military terror in that film is more personal; here it’s more abstract.)

And then there’s the carpet bombing of London. The military goes to all this effort to set up a new community and then proceeds to destroy it once it becomes clear it can’t keep order. Again it seems to be inspired by the current political climate.

But back to the scene where the Americans have been given orders to kill everything that moves. There’s a wonderful bit where Don’s son is wandering the streets, civilians trying to escape and the infected pursuing them as bullets whiz by and as the same John Murphy cue, the one that was used in the scene where Carlyle escapes the cottage, plays on the soundtrack. It has a wonderfully chaotic feeling to it. The real terror in the film isn’t from people leaping out of the dark but of feeling completely helpless – all we want in life is safety and security, but in this film, like in Iraq, you’re never too far from chaos; everyone seems to be conspiring to kill you, even those who are supposed to be your saviours.

However, as good as all this stuff is, the film can’t claim to be a classic of the genre. For one thing most of the acting is decidedly average. And also the characterisation is pretty thin. Therefore it’s hard to care too much about the characters, as the film doesn’t seem to care that much about them either. The writing, too, is mediocre. There weren’t any lines that stood out as godawful, but by the same token there was nothing that stood out as outstanding. But as an action/horror film, 28 Weeks Later works well. It certainly gets the blood pumping. And although it hits you with a few cheap shots, for the most part it’s a pretty smart flick, which is always something to rejoice when it comes to modern horror films.

Gustav Hasford

Full Metal Jacket

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Most people see Full Metal Jacket as a film of two halves. They see the two different parts (before and after training) as pieces that don't fit. But they do, because the film is about how an ordinary person becomes a killer, and the film simply wouldn't function with either section missing.

One of the most telling things is that at the beginning Joker says that he wants to kill. Obviously, as his John Wayne impression illustrates, he's grown up on films and their idea of war and machismo. Therefore it's quite understandable that Joker wants a piece of the action. He even says that he wants to be the first kid on his block to get a confirmed kill. Well, through most of the film Joker is a relatively passive figure. He gets to see other people come apart at the seams and he gets to see other Marines kill, but he never really takes part. But then at the end he finally gets his wish to become a killer. He executes an enemy sniper. But as the film shows, it's not really that much fun. Joker even looks rather appalled as his fellow Marines make jokes. This in itself would be a dark ending, but instead the film ends with Joker happily singing the Mickey Mouse Club song with his fellow soldiers. It suggests that his revulsion is temporary and that now he's finally become part of the club. He's finally got his wish and become a killer. But at what price?

Even though I mentioned that Joker really doesn't take part in things until towards the end, there is one notable exception – the part where he beats Pyle. Up until this point, Joker has tried to be helpful. He's tried to educate the dim-witted Private. But when the platoon gets punished for Pyle's mistakes, Joker finally snaps. He lays into Pyle with more venom than anyone else. And then as Pyle screams in agony, Joker can only cover his ears. It's a great scene as it shows how split Joker is; how he's capable of violence but how he also abhors it. And it's the point at which Hartman finally turns Joker into a Marine. He's finally put a dent in Joker's humanity.

But that scene is also the point at which Pyle snaps. Before that he and Joker were friends; in Joker he had a person he trusted. In fact, Joker almost acts like Pyle's dad – he makes his bed and even dresses him. But once he's beaten by the one person he trusted, the feeble-minded but innocent kid is turned into a stone cold killer. And rather inevitably, he focuses his rage on the source of his pain: Gunnery Sergeant Hartman. And Pyle's final scene is rather chilling. Hartman finally succeeds in turning the kid into a killer, but the programming has gone haywire and he ends up getting killed along with the 'disgusting fat body'.

But even though Hartman is a rather dastardly figure, I can't help but feel sorry for him. As he says, his job is to turn these maggots into Marines and weed out non-hackers. Therefore there's no room for politeness and hugs and pats on the head. The whole act of training an ordinary person into a Marine is an act of violence (one probably just as violent as war) but it can't be any other way, and Hartman is just doing his job. So there's no feeling of joy when Hartman gets killed. It's just an unfortunate incident – some people just can't take the programming; these things happen.

Still on the subject of that scene, there's one little detail I like. Pyle turns the gun on Joker but he turns it away when Joker calls him by his real name (Leonard). It seems that all Pyle wants is to be recognised as a person – the person he really is. And there's a bit earlier on when Pyle ignores Hartman when he calls him by his adopted name. Then when he's asked a second time he screams "Sir, yes, sir!" at the top of his lungs. He's not going to take it anymore. He hates what he's been turned into.

But maybe Pyle does himself a favour by taking his own life, as none of the Marines in the field seem particularly happy with their lot. Joker is stuck with reporting on the war and he has to endure his government's rampant propaganda (like today there's a fixation on words and terms – 'drag marks', 'blood trails', 'sweep and clear' instead of 'search and destroy'), a gunner blows away civilians with a big grin on his face, a soldier dies for a hand-job and in a series of interviews the squad gets all their grievances off their chest. It's clear that these kids have been killed, maimed and destroyed for nothing. They've been sacrificed for some ridiculous political agenda.

There are quite a few scenes where the soldiers express the pointlessness and futility of the war. They realise that they're not fighting for freedom. But still, when death is always an immediate concern, the only outlet is in racism, sex and killing.

The scenes with the hookers (like the scenes with Hartman) are darkly comic, but they're also depressing affairs. The soldiers' only reprieve is in a joyless lay. And then there are all the racist jokes – both at the expense of the Vietnamese and the black soldiers. This is what all the programming has been for. All the humanity has been drained out of these kids and their basic instincts drawn out so that they can kill with greater efficiency. And it's telling that at the end the only thing that unites the formless squad is 'payback'. Only when they're killing do they act as one and only when they're killing do they feel contented. The training was a success.

Brad Pitt

Troy

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Troy is an incredibly mediocre film. It neither offends nor inspires. Instead it leaves you feeling like an opportunity's been wasted – the money is there, but the will and the talent are sadly missing.

Apart from the leaden script and nondescript direction, the film's main deficiency is Orlando Bloom. The man has always been a hopeless actor, but here he plumbs new depths, turning in a performance that is based entirely on puppy eyes, simpering looks and flat line delivery. The man is wholly incapable of emoting. Although, to be fair, he is lumbered with a near impossible part – the snivelling Paris. Even the most talented actor would have a hard time bringing such a wretched person to life. But seeing as Bloom is among the least talented actors in Hollywood, it makes the character all the more unbearable.

The most infuriating thing about Paris is the way he stumbles through the story, causing nothing but trouble, and yet he ends up killing the mighty Achilles and smelling of roses. Perhaps in more talented hands, this would have been fine, but here it makes you question why you watched the film. This pathetic loser condemns thousands of people to death (including his brother and father) so that a blonde strumpet can play with his winkie. Brilliant.

It's hard to pick a single scene that had me baying for Paris' blood (there are so many), but his most cowardly act comes during his fight with Menelaus (Brendan Gleeson). He's meant to fight to the death, ignorantly thinking that this skirmish will prevent further bloodshed. But even with his honour and the lives of his countrymen at stake, he runs away like a big baby and hides behind his brother. What a pathetic excuse for a human being. I share Menelaus' outrage when he exclaims to Helen that this is what she left him for.

And the scenes between Paris and Helen are nauseating. The two actors have zero chemistry and both have the screen presence of a couple of fruit flies. Do we care about their all-consuming love? Of course not. It's played like a couple of kids who have just discovered that their genitals are there for more than secreting waste material.

And speaking of Helen, isn't she supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the world? Instead we get your average foreign starlet with too much mascara and a larger than average schnoz. Sure any man in his right mind would tap it, but start a war over her? Forget about it.

In fact, a lot of the guys in the film are just as pretty as Helen. Just take the numerous ass shots we get of Brad Pitt. Then you have Achilles' cousin. He's your typical blonde-haired dreamboat. And is it any wonder that the only thing that truly enrages Achilles is the death of his beloved cousin, a cousin who he frequently engages in some light-hearted sword fighting with? But even though the film fetishes the male form (as well as a zillion shots of Pitt's toned butt, we also get to see an oiled Orlando Bloom – he's completely hairless of course), it's strictly a torso and arse film – no tits or willies.

But while the film fails spectacularly in terms of romance, character development and inter-personal relationships, it succeeds when it comes to action. The fight between Hector and Achilles, in particular, is superb. With lots of close contact and athleticism, it thankfully resists the urge to become overly fanciful. Instead you get something that feels pure and believable.

Another excellent fight scene is the one between Hector and Ajax. Again things are kept simple and the sequence benefits from it. I also enjoyed the fight between Paris and Menelaus – the camera in the helmet is an excellent way of generating fear and claustrophobia – but unfortunately its somewhat spoiled by Paris' cowardly actions. As is the final sequence where Achilles is slain. Here you have a character you're finally starting to like and he's cut down by a skinny imbecile with a bad curly haircut.

That reminds me, what's up with the haircuts in this film? All the men seem to have these weird semi-mullets – Sean Bean, Eric Bana and Orlando Bloom especially. And then you have Brian Cox and Brendan Gleeson who seem to have acquired Gary Oldman's bizarre tit-head hairstyle from Francis Ford Coppola's version of Dracula. It's actually rather distracting – I spent a lot of time looking at people's heads; the haircuts here are worse than the ones you see on the average football pitch.

But as bad as his haircut is, I did enjoy Brian Cox in this film. Sure he's hammier than a ham sandwich, but at least he seems to be having some fun with it. I also think that Eric Bana is pretty damn good – the film suffers badly when his character dies; Hector is the heart and soul of the movie. However, I think Pitt's performance is less successful. He's great in the action scenes, but everywhere else he seems out of place.

However, I like the idea of Achilles being a celebrity, a man who wants to further his own image at the expense of everything else. But as it is, this element of the story, like all the other ideas, isn't developed enough. The film aims low and scores small.

Jodie Foster

Taxi Driver

Sunday, August 12, 2007

It’s always a bit worrying when someone tells you that they deeply identify with Travis Bickle. What, so you enjoy taking women to porno films, have a gun fetish and enjoy befriending 12-year-old prostitutes? If you say so, mate.

But seriously, although it’s a bit disturbing when people tell you they agree wholeheartedly with Travis Bickle’s outlook on life (“someday a real rain will come”), I’m sure most people can relate to him to a certain extent. The loneliness is certainly something that most people have felt at some time. And really, even though you’re surrounded by millions of people, large cities can be the loneliest places on the planet. Everywhere you go you see people making connections while you can only peer at them from the outside.

This is certainly the case for Travis. He’s a perpetual outsider. He just doesn’t fit in anywhere. Just take the scenes with his fellow cabbies. Here are his work colleagues, people who go through the same shit as him, and yet he has nothing to say to them. They can’t understand him and vice versa. But despite this he does try and reach out. He tries to tell one of his colleagues the crazy thoughts that are going through his head. But just as you feel he’s going to reveal himself, he has to swallow some of the stupidest advice that’s ever been put forward. A chance to make a connection has been lost. And yet, even though this cabbie spouts random nonsense, one thing he says has a ring of truth. He tells Travis he should get laid.

And that’s what Travis really needs. He desperately needs a shag. He needs a proper release. But while Travis does try and meet someone, he goes about it in the wrong way. In one excruciating scene he tries to pick up a woman at a porno theatre. Yeah, that’s going to work. A woman who’s working in a porno theatre is really going to want to date one of the wankers she has to serve.

And then of course there’s the scene where he takes Betsy to see a movie. Fair play to Travis, though, he does ask this attractive woman out on a date and does a decent enough job of holding a conversation with her (although he’s rather intense and insults one of her work colleagues), but just when things may be going right, when he may have a chance to ease his crippling loneliness, he decides to take her to see something from his favourite genre – porn. Even though Travis is desperately trying to reach out to outside world he’s continually reinforcing his loneliness. And when Betsy’s response to this charming outing is overwhelmingly negative, and when she no longer wants to speak to him, he blames the world for his sorry situation. He’s completely unable to look within himself. The problem, apparently, is with everyone else, not him.

So in light of this failed attempt to get laid, Travis reverts to a form of masturbation. I mean, all the guns he buys and all the macho posturing before the mirror is pure onanism. He’s striking out against his impotence and the world that mocks him for it. And all the time when he sees sex or couples in love on TV he points his gun at them. He wants to destroy these people who have the audacity to pursue some sort of happiness.

And when you think about it, Travis’ whole idiotic attempt to kill Senator Palantine is the action of a jilted lover. Here’s a man that Betsy adores so therefore Travis is going to blow his brains out. But of course Travis can’t even do this. Again he’s impotent.

So with this act of vengeance a failure, the next best thing for Travis is to ‘rescue’ Iris, the 12-year-old prostitute played by Jodie Foster. I guess it’s a strange kind of delusion that affects the lonely man, but they often seem to think that they’re on some sort of righteous mission; that their pain and suffering is there to serve a greater good and that they’ll be worshipped when they’re finally understood.

And so finally Travis gets to strike out against this diseased society. He finally gets a chance to get his gun off. And he does it in the most vile, sickening way – blowing fingers off and blowing people’s brains out. This is the girl’s knight in shining armour. This is her hero – a man sporting a Mohawk and dripping with blood.

And so this begs the question as to whether the epilogue is some sort of pre-death fantasy on the part of Travis or whether it’s a satirical swipe at the way we sometimes make heroes out of monsters. I mean, we get to hear a letter from Iris’ parents where Travis is lauded as a hero. We get to see Travis with his work colleagues – now he’s one of the gang. And then finally we get to see Betsy. You get the feeling that maybe she wants to apologise to Travis and give their fledgling relationship another try. But instead Travis drives off. Surely this is precisely what Travis would want to happen. He’d want to become the righteous hero, he’d want to gain acceptance from those around him and he’d want a chance to stick it to that filthy whore who didn’t understand him. Surely in reality his bloodbath would be quickly forgotten. And surely, if he survived, he’d end up in jail.

But that ambiguity is one of the many things that makes Taxi Driver such an outstanding film. You’re presented with one of the most unflinching depictions of loneliness and how you respond to it is up to you. Hero or villain, saint or sinner – the choice is yours.

Adrien Brody

The Village

Saturday, August 11, 2007

M. Night Shyamalan is such a frustrating director. Here’s a man with a few of the skills necessary to be an exceptional filmmaker – he has a good eye, an ability to create mood and he usually comes up with interesting concepts – but he keeps pissing it away on pieces of crap. He just can’t seem to shake off The Sixth Sense – he goes to the well over and over and over again.

But what makes it even worse is Shyamalan’s inflated self-opinion. He really does think he’s making works of art rather than disposable fluff. He really does thinks he’s an auteur rather than a hack. He really does think he’s some sort of magician rather than a con artist. There really is nothing to his films. All he can do is try and attempt to pull the wool over your eyes.

Now I guess someone could look at The Village and say its some sort of comment on modern society – look at the way these people have isolated themselves and tried to revert back to a simpler way of life. Or they could argue that it’s a typical post 9/11 work. Those We Don’t Speak Of (the monsters who surround the woods) could represent a raised fear of outsiders. This is a community that fears it’s under constant threat of attack. But all of this would be to give Shyamalan far too much credit. He simply wants to try and give us a few scares and shout, Robot Chicken-like, ‘What a twist!’

I guess he also wants to pull our heartstrings, but the love story here is laboured and unconvincing. We have a blind girl (Bryce Dallas Howard – who actually is rather good) falling in love with Joaquin Phoenix (who seems to be comatose). But not only do they have little chemistry, but Phoenix is stabbed halfway through the film by a ridiculous retard (played by Adrien Brody), meaning that it’s almost impossible to invest in their relationship.

Having said this, the couple do get one enjoyable moment. There’s a scene early on where Those We Don’t Speak Of attack the village. Ivy (Howard) stands in the doorway, holding out her hand for Lucius (Phoenix). For an agonising amount of time her hand remains empty, and the monster outside is getting closer, but at the last moment Lucius appears and takes her to safety. It’s all shot in slow-motion and it has a poetry to it that the rest of the film sorely lacks. If only Shaymalan could create moments like this more consistently.

But when you think about it the film basically revolves around a resentful half-wit. Here we have a guy who has the hots for Ivy, but because he can’t have her, tries to kill her beau instead. So then Ivy has to scramble through the woods to find medicine for her love. And apart from the crap twist, that’s it. Therefore I think The Village should be retitled When a Retard Loves a Woman. It’s an instruction on not to let horny half-wits try and fall in love with you – the film shows us that the consequences are disastrous.

But such is Shaymalan’s pomposity that he tries to turn the half-wit’s demise into a tragedy. You see, after we’re told that the village is actually set in the here and now and that Those We Don’t Speak Of are really men in suits, the imbecile, seemingly by magic or lacklustre writing, appropriates one of these suits and follows Ivy into the woods. He terrifies her a little bit but the cunning lass leads him into a trap and kills him. In his final shot we see him lying broken on the floor, his face revealed and his body still covered by the costume. Shaymalan obviously wants to show us that he’s become half man half beast – look at how the horn has corrupted this poor imbecile – and asks us to feel pity, but I couldn’t care less. The moron got what he deserved.

However, I must point out that the village idiot is actually present in one the film’s other good scenes. The moment when he stabs Lucius is well filmed. I like the way the camera creeps up on Lucius as his back is turned to the moron. You know something is going to happen and you’re expecting a typical Shaymalan cheap shot. But instead there’s no attempt to make you jump. Simply the next thing you know Lucius has a knife in his belly. And it’s a bit of a surprise, when Lucius falls to the floor, that the idiot continues stabbing him. It’s quite brutal for a PG-13.

But although this is quite well done, everything else is poorly handled. The twist, for instance, comes far too early and lands with a dull thud. Plus, to find out that Those We Don’t Speak Of are men in suits at such an early juncture renders the final third without tension. Of course, Shaymalan tries to suggest that there actually might be real monsters in the woods, but it’s a feeble effort to try and keep our interest.

Then you have Shaymalan turning up himself in an acting role. Just hearing his squeaky, obnoxious voice is enough to bring me out in hives. You can feel the arrogance and the self-importance seeping from every poorly delivered line. When did this guy get it in his head that he can act? He can’t. He makes Roger Moore look like Robert De Niro.

Plus Shaymalan think he’s a talented writer. He’s not. Structurally the film’s a mess and all the dialogue is stilted and juvenile. And somehow he manages to wrest an awful performance from Sigourney Weaver – something I thought was impossible. If only Shaymalan left the writing to others and stopped being so precious he might make a serviceable hack.

Geoffrey Rush

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

It's a sad indictment of modern mainstream cinema when Pirates of the Caribbean becomes a smash hit. Now that's not to say it's a terrible film – it's entirely watchable. No, it's just that it's so mediocre.

What hurts the film most is the casting of its hero and heroine. Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley are just incredibly bland. They're two actors who although not entirely incompetent (thus denying us the opportunity to laugh our arses off as we point and jeer at the screen) have no serious acting chops. But worse than that they have no charisma. There's no charm, no allure and no sex appeal. I mean, sure Knighley is easy on the eye and I'm sure girls cream themselves silly at Bloom's squinty little eyes and paedophile moustache, but they're almost entirely lifeless – there's nothing going on behind the eyes. And Knightley's presence is made even more unwelcome by the fact that she plays a prissy, self-righteous, wholesome bore who squeals all her dialogue at a decibel level so great it explodes eardrums. Seriously, Will Turner deserves her. He can look forward to a lifetime of high-pitched nagging and refusal of sex.

But Knightley's worst moment (and the film's worst moment) is when she hits a pirate while uttering the following line, "You like pain? Try wearing a corset." You know, because men don't know pain. And because wearing a corset is far worse than having your arm lopped off with a sword; or having a leg blown to kingdom come from canon fire; or having a sweaty, leering, corpulent, well-endowed seadog make you his rear admiral with all the supplies of lubricant run dry. And that cheesy line is made even worse because it's spoken by a woman so weedy, so skinny, so under-nourished that it's debatable that she could pick up the plank she hits the pirate with without regurgitating in exhaustion the kiddie-sized bowl of muesli she gorged on for dinner. Yeah, she's an empowered woman. She's pretty, she can kick ass and she's got a waist thinner than a tube of Pringles. (The politically correct 'empowering' of women also extends to one of the ships being captained by a black woman. I know it's just a kid's film and the mores of today are shoehorned into an earlier time, but couldn't the 'empowered' women actually resemble real women and not be bland model types who either squeal like anorexic harridans or screech a 'talk to the hand' brand of sass that's more suited to Jerry Springer?)

But I shouldn't be too tough on Knightley. Bloom's equally culpable. Just take the way he scrunches his forehead and squints his eyes when he has to communicate thought; or when he makes a passionate speech that's about as rousing as a punch in the groin; or when he wetly communicates his love for Miss Swan. If Luke Skywalker is a limp piece of lettuce, Will Turner is a flaccid one-inch penis.

And exacerbating the blandness is the casting of Jack Davenport. He's meant to be the pencil-necked Poindexter that does everything by the rules, but he plays his role too well. It's like watching an invisible man. His character is totally devoid of…anything.

But if Bloom, Knightley and Davenport are the schmoly trinity, then Johnny Depp, Geoffrey Rush, Jonathan Pryce, Mackenzie Crook and Lee Arenberg are the quintet that makes the film worth watching (I also like the two dumb soldiers). Enough people have expounded the joys of Depp's Keith Richards-inspired performance, but Rush actually makes me laugh more anyway. There's a fantastic bit during a swordfight where he walks along shouting "Aaaaarrrr!" And he also does the same thing while chasing Knightley. It's a clichéd pirate played with absolute glee. And Pryce is great, too. Admittedly he doesn't get to do much, but he makes up for everything in a moment near the end. After the British defeat the pirates he emerges from the room he's locked himself in and he proceeds to finger wag and shadow box the marauders. It just shows what a good actor is capable of; how an actor with wit and personality can make a small moment memorable.

But contrary to popular opinion, the film actually belongs to the duo of Mackenzie Crook and Lee Arenberg as a pair of knuckleheaded pirates. Every time they're on the screen the film is suddenly about a million times more fun. And I like the way the two are portrayed as something of a married couple. They finish each other's sentences and get on each other's nerves. And I also like the way the film wryly questions their sexuality. Take the scene where they have to dress up as women as they act as a decoy in a rowing boat. Crook tells his pal that he looks nice and a scuffle ensues. Funny stuff.

Unfortunately, though, while some of the interplay between the supporting characters is fun to watch, the action is rather uninspired. And it's not helped by the fact that all the pirates (and Johnny Depp) are immortal. Therefore you have to endure swordfights that have zero tension because there's absolutely nothing at stake. And action seems to take up the entire final third of the film. As a consequence it becomes something of a snoozer. But fortunately the photography and production design is first rate. So at least you get something nice to look at while swords clatter ad nauseam.

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