by Dan Cohen
Frost/Nixon is first of all, stirring entertainment, provided you come to it with some knowledge of the period. I expected the predictable, but quickly found myself delighted by its multifaceted approach. The story and its many characters are revealed with intelligence, wit, and that most important of dramatic virtues, suspense.
Director Ron Howard, screenwriter/playwright Peter Morgan, and an outstanding cast have delivered two solid hours of high end drama. By adults and for adults. And they do it with an emphasis on complexity.
The movie, based on a play I did not see, begins with a whirlwind review of the events leading to Richard Nixon’s resignation in the middle of his second term. The bullet points will suffice for those who lived through the period, or studied it. Others may find it an overload, given the enormity of what occurred in this twilight of the Vietnam era. Still, the movie does an admirable job of sketching Nixon's rapid demise, after he was linked to a bungled break in of Democratic headquarters located in a Washington hotel. The most important things to know; he never admitted guilt or granted interviews.
David Frost, who first came to our attention on a satirical TV show called "That Was the Week That Was," (to some extent the precursor of "Saturday Night Live.") was Nixon's unlikely interviewer/opponent. Frost made his name in England, anchoring a show of the same name. He went on to enormous success helming a talk show that largely focused on entertainers. After that ran its course, (several years,) he held forth on Australian TV. In the movie’s view, chasing Nixon was the plum of his comeback plan.
The movie, somewhat miraculously, deals with Frost's problem getting the interview, financing it, and then facing one of the most enigmatic characters in modern history. But just as miraculously, it draws a sturdy portrait of the vilified and psychologically wounded Nixon without debasing or simplifying him.
This movie is a breathless high wire act, both intellectual and emotional. It’s rooted in a strong screenplay, but director Ron Howard shows unusual tact in keeping the film moving and open minded. It avoids the smug or pretentious, revealing both men for their strengths and weaknesses. Invariably, more questions are asked than answered.
As their champions prepare for battle both Nixon's and Frost's people understand full well what's at stake. Nixon was getting a public forum, through an entertainer he considered a lightweight, and yet someone with similar roots. Frost hungered for respect, and at least by the movie’s accounting, risked most of his own money trying to get it.
Kevin Bacon, Oliver Platt, Rebecca Hall, Sam Rockwell, Toby Jones and others tackle meaty supporting parts that play like quiet thunder. How much of the behind the scenes wrangling was made up, I can’t say, although the end results of the multi hour interview are as unquestionable as they were in 1977.
At first Frank Langella’s Nixon appears a skillful mimicry, but as the story becomes richer he reaches unexpected depths. The Academy will take note. Michael Sheen, a distinguished theater actor, little known here, gives us Frost simultaneously fearful and determined.
I’ll equivocate on one point; while I found "Frost Nixon" a constant stimulation it’s entire 2 hour running time, it will probably fail those uninterested in our recent past or the current Presidential flaps. For them, there’s always "Transporter 3."
Friday, December 5, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
A new Bond... And a great performance.
by Dan Cohen
The new James Bond is a let down. On the most basic level the movie lacks the suspense that made "Casino Royale," such an overheated romp. What we get in "Quantum of Solace," is a lot of furious action, but with little connecting tissue. And less heat.
As it begins we're told that Bond, the closed mouth Daniel Craig, is in a funk over the death of his latest love, the slinky, double dealing Vesper Lynd. And that he'll do anything to avenge her. This makes him unreliable in the eyes of his employer, the infallible Judi Dench, who barely escapes an assassination attempt herself. But the screenwriters keep Bond’s assignment and dialogue to a minimum as trips through the expected set pieces. The most vivid element becomes Dench's increasing irritation, such that we remain more interested in her reactions than his jeopardy.
Hitchcock, the master of suspense, even in comedy, always gave the audience as much information as possible, so it could get "Quantum of Solace," (a title I’m still not sure I understand,) is that the story line is so murky it's hard to figure out what’s really going on or why. As a result the tension is muted.
The action however, is fast and frenetic. A chase set in Siena, Italy, is a virtual symphony of elaborate camera moves. But when it ends, like the other set pieces, with a bad guy neutralized, the movie has to be jump started by another baddie. And finally, the central villain, played by Mathieu Amalric, who was so strong in "Diving Bell and the Butterfly," fails to summon either the menace or humor of others before him. Olga Kurylenko, this years Bond girl isn't much help: she’s a stunner, but much less an emotional threat than Eva Green’s "Vesper."
The writers, Paul Haggis, Neal Purvis, and Robert Wade, are largely to blame for the opaque story. They've substituted muscularity for the smug, knowing humor that punctuated the best Bonds. They took the same course, more successfully, with "Casino Royale." But that was drawn from a book with stronger elements. And director Marc Forster, the capable hand behind "Finding Neverland," and "Stranger than Fiction" cross cuts his action scenes with such rapidity, half the time there's no telling how Bond gets out of the trouble the writers have contrived for him.
Still, bland Bond is better than no Bond, especially in these troubled times. And the initial box office, was so huge, (both here and abroad,) that we needn't worry about Daniel Craig returning for the next installment. At a reported cost of 200 million "Quantum of Solace" has a certain "wow" factor, but after the roller coaster melodrama of "Casino Royale," our appetite was whetted for just a little more.
I’d bet anybody that Anne Hathaway will be an Academy Award nominee for her heart rending performance in "Rachel Getting Married." Released from a live in rehab program to attend her sister’s wedding, she becomes the focal point from which a complex, extended family is seen and felt. The movie is amusing, touching and not a little scary.
Jonathon Demme, who has directed nearly 40 films, everything from B movies, ("Crazy Mama,") to music docs, ("Stop Making Sense") to A movies, ("Philadelphia," "Silence of the Lambs") goes in a completely different direction this time, borrowing heavily from the master of American cinema verite, John Cassavettes. Working from a perceptive script by Jenny Lumet he’s found a near perfect means for getting under the characters’ skin, and ours.
Kim has a problem. She was responsible for a tragic event that scarred this likable, decent clan, and complicated their relationships no end. Since it's the sort of thing that never goes away, Kim remains the flash point for a recurring wild fire, that, when it flares, burns everybody.
What's initially seen as Kim’s raging narcissism is eventually revealed as part of a process she’s devised to cope. Hathaway, always likable in the sort of parts that made Julia Roberts a big star, here goes way deep. But she never strains for effect, and is most appealing at her most helpless, usually when the camera is most mercilessly at her throat.
There are a half dozen indelible performances here; from Bill Irwin as a concerned father, to Rosemarie DeWitt as the conflicted bride, to Debra Winger as their troubled mother. And others, all believable.
The movie winds down a little in its last act, as the wedding evolves into a multicultural, concert of sorts. But the nerves it's touched remain sensitive. These people, in spite of their best efforts, are never far from a dire crash, and we remain sensitive to that, and concerned for them, to the end credits.
The new James Bond is a let down. On the most basic level the movie lacks the suspense that made "Casino Royale," such an overheated romp. What we get in "Quantum of Solace," is a lot of furious action, but with little connecting tissue. And less heat.
As it begins we're told that Bond, the closed mouth Daniel Craig, is in a funk over the death of his latest love, the slinky, double dealing Vesper Lynd. And that he'll do anything to avenge her. This makes him unreliable in the eyes of his employer, the infallible Judi Dench, who barely escapes an assassination attempt herself. But the screenwriters keep Bond’s assignment and dialogue to a minimum as trips through the expected set pieces. The most vivid element becomes Dench's increasing irritation, such that we remain more interested in her reactions than his jeopardy.
Hitchcock, the master of suspense, even in comedy, always gave the audience as much information as possible, so it could get "Quantum of Solace," (a title I’m still not sure I understand,) is that the story line is so murky it's hard to figure out what’s really going on or why. As a result the tension is muted.
The action however, is fast and frenetic. A chase set in Siena, Italy, is a virtual symphony of elaborate camera moves. But when it ends, like the other set pieces, with a bad guy neutralized, the movie has to be jump started by another baddie. And finally, the central villain, played by Mathieu Amalric, who was so strong in "Diving Bell and the Butterfly," fails to summon either the menace or humor of others before him. Olga Kurylenko, this years Bond girl isn't much help: she’s a stunner, but much less an emotional threat than Eva Green’s "Vesper."
The writers, Paul Haggis, Neal Purvis, and Robert Wade, are largely to blame for the opaque story. They've substituted muscularity for the smug, knowing humor that punctuated the best Bonds. They took the same course, more successfully, with "Casino Royale." But that was drawn from a book with stronger elements. And director Marc Forster, the capable hand behind "Finding Neverland," and "Stranger than Fiction" cross cuts his action scenes with such rapidity, half the time there's no telling how Bond gets out of the trouble the writers have contrived for him.
Still, bland Bond is better than no Bond, especially in these troubled times. And the initial box office, was so huge, (both here and abroad,) that we needn't worry about Daniel Craig returning for the next installment. At a reported cost of 200 million "Quantum of Solace" has a certain "wow" factor, but after the roller coaster melodrama of "Casino Royale," our appetite was whetted for just a little more.
I’d bet anybody that Anne Hathaway will be an Academy Award nominee for her heart rending performance in "Rachel Getting Married." Released from a live in rehab program to attend her sister’s wedding, she becomes the focal point from which a complex, extended family is seen and felt. The movie is amusing, touching and not a little scary.
Jonathon Demme, who has directed nearly 40 films, everything from B movies, ("Crazy Mama,") to music docs, ("Stop Making Sense") to A movies, ("Philadelphia," "Silence of the Lambs") goes in a completely different direction this time, borrowing heavily from the master of American cinema verite, John Cassavettes. Working from a perceptive script by Jenny Lumet he’s found a near perfect means for getting under the characters’ skin, and ours.
Kim has a problem. She was responsible for a tragic event that scarred this likable, decent clan, and complicated their relationships no end. Since it's the sort of thing that never goes away, Kim remains the flash point for a recurring wild fire, that, when it flares, burns everybody.
What's initially seen as Kim’s raging narcissism is eventually revealed as part of a process she’s devised to cope. Hathaway, always likable in the sort of parts that made Julia Roberts a big star, here goes way deep. But she never strains for effect, and is most appealing at her most helpless, usually when the camera is most mercilessly at her throat.
There are a half dozen indelible performances here; from Bill Irwin as a concerned father, to Rosemarie DeWitt as the conflicted bride, to Debra Winger as their troubled mother. And others, all believable.
The movie winds down a little in its last act, as the wedding evolves into a multicultural, concert of sorts. But the nerves it's touched remain sensitive. These people, in spite of their best efforts, are never far from a dire crash, and we remain sensitive to that, and concerned for them, to the end credits.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
What’s going on with the movies this fall?
The autumn harvest has brought us a crop of worm ridden apples : "Lakeview Terrace," "Eagle Eye," "Bangkok Dangerous." The art cinemas have shown a lot of low hanging fruit: "Flash of Genius," "The Duchess," "What Just Happened," mostly main stream also rans that weren’t going to cut it in the suburban multiplexes. There isn’t a single title that’s really captured the public’s imagination, except for maybe "Beverly Hills Chihuahua."
But at the same time our plates have been filled with high drama. There’s the knock down drag 'em out battle of the titans, Obama and McCain, the edge of your seat disaster movie about our economy, the nearly surreal farce starring Sarah Palin. These are the media events of the moment, against which the movies are poor competition. Why? On a case by case comparison they’re more compelling stories.
And while the movies may be little more than distractions from the main events of the moment, people are going. The audience has been showing up in modest numbers for derivative thrillers, "Eagle Eye," predictable romance, "Nights in Rodanthe," and comfort food comedies, the aforementioned "Beverly Hills Chihuahua," which will probably turn out to be the biggest hit of the fall, given that Disney didn’t have to pay very much for the animated title character. Still these are studio productions, and hardly bargains to make.
The real winners of early fall are a few low budget features aimed at specific demographics, like the horror movie "Quarantine," Bill Maher’s religion bashing documentary, "Religulous," and its polar opposite, the Christian themed drama "Fireproof." These films have drawn audiences much larger than their costs, where "Righteous Kill," with De Niro and Pacino, will barely return a third of their budgets, at least in theaters.
"The Women" is another example of a modestly budgeted production that found it’s audience. The powers that be at first balked at releasing this remake of a classic from 1939. Word was, critics were going to hate it, which was right. But women went to see it, and it’ll probably be profitable before it goes to DVD. Ironically, had it not been for the box office smash that was "Sex and the City," "The Women," might have been sent straight to cable.
My point is that currently, the movies are performing like a slew of scruffy cable channels. The Networks appear to be out of favor; narrowcasting is in.
Still another example; "Nick and Norah’s Infinite Play list." Never heard of it? Well, your 15 year old daughter has. Budgeted at 10 million, the movie has grossed twice that in two weeks of release, and will probably gross 30 before a hugely successful video release, after which it will probably haunt TV forever.
"Nick and Norah" isn’t a great movie. Save for the requisite gross out jokes, (yes, vomiting is once again used for comic relief) and predictable car wrecks, it moves very slowly. For most of its running time the characters chase around late night Manhattan looking for a legendary band that plays hide and seek with its fans. The dialogue is sometimes insightful but more often labored. And yet the characters are lightning rounds for teenage aspirations and anxieties, remarkably divined from the ether of the moment. And for this, its creative team, and the novel they’ve mined, deserve credit.
Nick, (Michael Cera) is a middle class senior from Hoboken; a melancholic nerd/musician who pines after Tris, (Alexis Dzienza) a spoiled, prep school sexpot who thrives on refusing his affections. Norah, (Kat Denning,) a senior in the same prep school, and the daughter of a successful music entrepreneur, is similarly unlucky in love, but way better connected to the pop life they both thrive on. She comes from money, he drives the world’s oldest Yugo. They seem an unlikely match, but their taste in music makes them soul mates of sorts. As their Manhattan odyssey progresses, a clumsy and abrasive first meeting slowly turns into a mellow romance.
The casting doesn’t hurt. Michael Cera, who you may recall from "Juno," and "Superbad," is the reigning underdog of the moment. The camera loves his less is more style. Also he’s gifted with the sort of voice that adds just the right element of confidence to his retiring presence. Kat Denning, who played Robert Downey’s daughter in "Charlie Bartlett," has huge eyes and lips, and a fleshy quality that could turn her into a major movie diva. In any case they’re both square pegs in round holes, which serves the movie well.
"Nick and Norah" has none of the bruising realism of "One," or the sadly overlooked, "In Search of a Midnight Kiss," both of which are anchored by the unsentimental, almost casual heartbreak of every day life. "Kiss," and "One" are graced with well honed irony. Also their misaligned lovers are older, but not necessarily wiser. "Nick and Norah" as middle class teenagers, are so far, happily shielded from the hard knocks of the world beyond their i-pods. Most of their experience of heart ache has been channeled from the music they’re constantly referencing. They’re knowing, but sunny. And that’s probably why they’re so attractive to the teenagers packing multiplexes to hang with them.
But at the same time our plates have been filled with high drama. There’s the knock down drag 'em out battle of the titans, Obama and McCain, the edge of your seat disaster movie about our economy, the nearly surreal farce starring Sarah Palin. These are the media events of the moment, against which the movies are poor competition. Why? On a case by case comparison they’re more compelling stories.
And while the movies may be little more than distractions from the main events of the moment, people are going. The audience has been showing up in modest numbers for derivative thrillers, "Eagle Eye," predictable romance, "Nights in Rodanthe," and comfort food comedies, the aforementioned "Beverly Hills Chihuahua," which will probably turn out to be the biggest hit of the fall, given that Disney didn’t have to pay very much for the animated title character. Still these are studio productions, and hardly bargains to make.
The real winners of early fall are a few low budget features aimed at specific demographics, like the horror movie "Quarantine," Bill Maher’s religion bashing documentary, "Religulous," and its polar opposite, the Christian themed drama "Fireproof." These films have drawn audiences much larger than their costs, where "Righteous Kill," with De Niro and Pacino, will barely return a third of their budgets, at least in theaters.
"The Women" is another example of a modestly budgeted production that found it’s audience. The powers that be at first balked at releasing this remake of a classic from 1939. Word was, critics were going to hate it, which was right. But women went to see it, and it’ll probably be profitable before it goes to DVD. Ironically, had it not been for the box office smash that was "Sex and the City," "The Women," might have been sent straight to cable.
My point is that currently, the movies are performing like a slew of scruffy cable channels. The Networks appear to be out of favor; narrowcasting is in.
Still another example; "Nick and Norah’s Infinite Play list." Never heard of it? Well, your 15 year old daughter has. Budgeted at 10 million, the movie has grossed twice that in two weeks of release, and will probably gross 30 before a hugely successful video release, after which it will probably haunt TV forever.
"Nick and Norah" isn’t a great movie. Save for the requisite gross out jokes, (yes, vomiting is once again used for comic relief) and predictable car wrecks, it moves very slowly. For most of its running time the characters chase around late night Manhattan looking for a legendary band that plays hide and seek with its fans. The dialogue is sometimes insightful but more often labored. And yet the characters are lightning rounds for teenage aspirations and anxieties, remarkably divined from the ether of the moment. And for this, its creative team, and the novel they’ve mined, deserve credit.
Nick, (Michael Cera) is a middle class senior from Hoboken; a melancholic nerd/musician who pines after Tris, (Alexis Dzienza) a spoiled, prep school sexpot who thrives on refusing his affections. Norah, (Kat Denning,) a senior in the same prep school, and the daughter of a successful music entrepreneur, is similarly unlucky in love, but way better connected to the pop life they both thrive on. She comes from money, he drives the world’s oldest Yugo. They seem an unlikely match, but their taste in music makes them soul mates of sorts. As their Manhattan odyssey progresses, a clumsy and abrasive first meeting slowly turns into a mellow romance.
The casting doesn’t hurt. Michael Cera, who you may recall from "Juno," and "Superbad," is the reigning underdog of the moment. The camera loves his less is more style. Also he’s gifted with the sort of voice that adds just the right element of confidence to his retiring presence. Kat Denning, who played Robert Downey’s daughter in "Charlie Bartlett," has huge eyes and lips, and a fleshy quality that could turn her into a major movie diva. In any case they’re both square pegs in round holes, which serves the movie well.
"Nick and Norah" has none of the bruising realism of "One," or the sadly overlooked, "In Search of a Midnight Kiss," both of which are anchored by the unsentimental, almost casual heartbreak of every day life. "Kiss," and "One" are graced with well honed irony. Also their misaligned lovers are older, but not necessarily wiser. "Nick and Norah" as middle class teenagers, are so far, happily shielded from the hard knocks of the world beyond their i-pods. Most of their experience of heart ache has been channeled from the music they’re constantly referencing. They’re knowing, but sunny. And that’s probably why they’re so attractive to the teenagers packing multiplexes to hang with them.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Late Summer Indies
By Dan Cohen
As summer comes to a close it’s time to recognize a few small films that may not play the local theaters, but will make for a pleasant viewing on your DVD/flat screen set up. These aren't hits; they’re more like ground rule doubles. But none will insult your intelligence.
"Tell No One," is probably the surprise art house hit of the summer. Even after it won a number of French "Cesars," the larger American distributors passed on it, probably because some of it is unusually talky. At the same time there's much to recommend here. Finally a little company out of Chicago called Music Box picked it up and it’s playing to packed houses of the middle aged all across the country. Proving once again, adults like intelligent suspense films, and they don’t mind reading subtitles.
Written and directed by Guillame Canet, (from an American novel, "Tell No One" is an eclectic mix of styles and moods. Everybody in the insanely attractive cast has his or her quirks and the story takes us into every strata of current French society. It's a voyeur's treat.
A doctor's wife is murdered at her country home. Her husband is beat up and left for dead. Eight years later the still grieving spouse gets a message that she’s alive, but to "tell no one." Things get messy when the cops make him the number one suspect. Complications follow; a daring chase, striking reversals, and finally, a credibility gap. But along the way there's enough intrigue and color for three films.
"Frozen River" won the big award at Sundance. At the time critics fretted that it might not get a release. But here it is.
The movie's depiction of life just above the poverty line in a godforsaken, frozen hell just south of the Canadian border is truthful to a fault. But it wears its deliberate, almost witless tone like a badge of honor, and suffers as a consequence. Still, for its candor and compelling performances, the picture is an achievement.
Melissa Leo is a middle aged woman saddled with two kids, a dead end job and a gambler husband who takes off with all their money. As a last ditch effort to keep the family together she ties up with a similarly disadvantaged, native American, who uses the Indian lands and their immunity from the law to smuggle illegals across a perilously “frozen” river. The metaphors is worked for all its worth.
The movie is so lacking in sentimentality I hate to fault it, but Leo has trouble busting out of the constrictions of the material. You cringe as she moves closer and closer to disaster, but at the same time wonder how she got where she is, and more important, what’s keeping her there. She appears smart and resourceful but the best she can get is a part time job in a dismal dollar store. Is she in any way responsible for her circumstances? The movie doesn't tell us.
A lot of the explanation is fobbed off on a husband who never appears, but it isn’t enough. And yet the situation is entirely fresh, and some of the imagery striking.
Ben Kingsley stretches just south of credibility, in "The Wackness," a look back at a group of privileged but disoriented New Yorkers in the mid 90s. He plays a pot addled psychologist who’s just as confused as his patients, including a smart kid, played by Josh Peck, who, in spite of good looks and attitude, can’t seem to lose his virginity.
Olivia Thrilby, as Kingsley’s step daughter, stands out as a willful brat with more experience than Peck and probably most other boys her own age. Thrilby overwhelms everybody else in the cast, almost effortlessly. She also has the best lines.
"Wackness" is sexy and funny in fits and starts, but succeeds more at creating atmosphere than compelling drama. And when it ends we feel like we've spent the time pleasurably, but to little effect.
There are so many coming of age "dramadeys" every year that the bar has been set pretty high. Time and place are just not enough to compel us, especially when the characters are as privileged s they are here. And there are better examples of the genre. I think back to "Igby Goes Down," from 2002 (available on disc) for its skill in mixing incongruous elements while remaining thoroughly grounded. "Igby" found genuine loss in its protagonist, played by Kieran Culkin, without resorting to melodrama. It also required a little more than a passive viewing, and as a result, got lost in the shuffle in the same way that "Wackness" has. The two films would make for an interesting double feature on your home screen.
As summer comes to a close it’s time to recognize a few small films that may not play the local theaters, but will make for a pleasant viewing on your DVD/flat screen set up. These aren't hits; they’re more like ground rule doubles. But none will insult your intelligence.
"Tell No One," is probably the surprise art house hit of the summer. Even after it won a number of French "Cesars," the larger American distributors passed on it, probably because some of it is unusually talky. At the same time there's much to recommend here. Finally a little company out of Chicago called Music Box picked it up and it’s playing to packed houses of the middle aged all across the country. Proving once again, adults like intelligent suspense films, and they don’t mind reading subtitles.
Written and directed by Guillame Canet, (from an American novel, "Tell No One" is an eclectic mix of styles and moods. Everybody in the insanely attractive cast has his or her quirks and the story takes us into every strata of current French society. It's a voyeur's treat.
A doctor's wife is murdered at her country home. Her husband is beat up and left for dead. Eight years later the still grieving spouse gets a message that she’s alive, but to "tell no one." Things get messy when the cops make him the number one suspect. Complications follow; a daring chase, striking reversals, and finally, a credibility gap. But along the way there's enough intrigue and color for three films.
"Frozen River" won the big award at Sundance. At the time critics fretted that it might not get a release. But here it is.
The movie's depiction of life just above the poverty line in a godforsaken, frozen hell just south of the Canadian border is truthful to a fault. But it wears its deliberate, almost witless tone like a badge of honor, and suffers as a consequence. Still, for its candor and compelling performances, the picture is an achievement.
Melissa Leo is a middle aged woman saddled with two kids, a dead end job and a gambler husband who takes off with all their money. As a last ditch effort to keep the family together she ties up with a similarly disadvantaged, native American, who uses the Indian lands and their immunity from the law to smuggle illegals across a perilously “frozen” river. The metaphors is worked for all its worth.
The movie is so lacking in sentimentality I hate to fault it, but Leo has trouble busting out of the constrictions of the material. You cringe as she moves closer and closer to disaster, but at the same time wonder how she got where she is, and more important, what’s keeping her there. She appears smart and resourceful but the best she can get is a part time job in a dismal dollar store. Is she in any way responsible for her circumstances? The movie doesn't tell us.
A lot of the explanation is fobbed off on a husband who never appears, but it isn’t enough. And yet the situation is entirely fresh, and some of the imagery striking.
Ben Kingsley stretches just south of credibility, in "The Wackness," a look back at a group of privileged but disoriented New Yorkers in the mid 90s. He plays a pot addled psychologist who’s just as confused as his patients, including a smart kid, played by Josh Peck, who, in spite of good looks and attitude, can’t seem to lose his virginity.
Olivia Thrilby, as Kingsley’s step daughter, stands out as a willful brat with more experience than Peck and probably most other boys her own age. Thrilby overwhelms everybody else in the cast, almost effortlessly. She also has the best lines.
"Wackness" is sexy and funny in fits and starts, but succeeds more at creating atmosphere than compelling drama. And when it ends we feel like we've spent the time pleasurably, but to little effect.
There are so many coming of age "dramadeys" every year that the bar has been set pretty high. Time and place are just not enough to compel us, especially when the characters are as privileged s they are here. And there are better examples of the genre. I think back to "Igby Goes Down," from 2002 (available on disc) for its skill in mixing incongruous elements while remaining thoroughly grounded. "Igby" found genuine loss in its protagonist, played by Kieran Culkin, without resorting to melodrama. It also required a little more than a passive viewing, and as a result, got lost in the shuffle in the same way that "Wackness" has. The two films would make for an interesting double feature on your home screen.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Summer Refreshers
by Dan Cohen
We all know what comes with Summer; heat, humidity and studio blockbusters. School's out, so in theory at least, every night is Saturday night. Adults are expected to take the kids, and more importantly pay for, an endless array of bloated comic book fare fired at us in fusillades of media. So far we've seen the good, "Indiana Jones," "Ironman," the bad, "Zohan," "Love Guru," "What Happens in Vegas," and the ugly, "The Hulk." And there’s more to come.
But another species is blooming in the art house garden, propping up our expectations for adult entertainment this summer. I've seen two flat out winners, and several also rans. I recommend them to you with the hope that one of more will somehow find its way into the local multiplex. This week, the winners.
"Kabluey," (that’s right Kabluey) is more than a breath of fresh air, it's a blast; the sort of quirky comedy that puts the studio output to shame. It's superior in every department; writing, acting, even cinematography. And it’s a pipsqueak of a production.
Salman, the black sheep of a middle class family, is dispatched from virtual homelessness, to help his sister in law take care of two kids, while her husband, a national guardsman, is off on an extended stay in Iraq. The kids are monsters, the house a chaotic wreck and the mom, at her wits end. There's no way a simple recap of the story can do justice to the comic invention and hilarity that follows. Somehow Salman ends up spending half his stay in an oversized blue creature suit, the "mascot" of a failed internet company, trying to rent office space in the cash starved companies headquarters.
"Kabluey" depicts our uniquely American disarray, social and economic, without a moment of pretension. The story simply plops us down in the middle of our current mess, with no comment. In that regard alone it's a triumph. But there's a lot more; a pitch perfect performance from the divinely inspired Lisa Kudrow, and a host of dead on supporting players; Conchatta Ferrell, Terri Garr, Christine Taylor and more. Writer/director Scott Prendergrast even succeeds in casting himself as the unfortunate "Salman." Then there are a couple of truly mean little boys, another casting coup.
The movie borders on the absurd at times, but that's a minor caveat. And the emotions it calls upon are well grounded in the realities of our current dilemmas. The comic high points, both high and low, reduce you to helpless laughter. For much of its running time, Kabluey takes you over completely; you're helpless in its comic grasp, and all the better for it.
"Kabluey" is being released by Regent, a small LA based company. It will surely find theaters in the major cities, but whether it cracks the multiplex barrier is yet to be seen. And that's a shame, because it’s so much smarter and funnier than it's richer relations. That it wasn't snapped up by one of the mini majors points to the dysfunctional state of current distribution.
"Boy A," which is being released by the Weinstein Company, is almost the polar opposite of "Kabluey," a sober, tough minded drama about a young man facing an almost insurmountable challenge. This is a British film, in the tradition of the kitchen sink dramas born in the aftermath of the second world war, when Britain was crawling back to normalcy and birthing a new generation. "Boy A" is a worthy successor to films like "This Sporting Life," "A Taste of Honey," and "Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner," (all available on disk.)
"Boy A" spent most of his youth in jail. The crime, of which he was an unwilling accomplice, is the worst kind. (In order to maintain the story's integrity, I won't reveal it here.) But the young man who's released is an altogether different individual than the child who was put away. His tentative foray into the outside world is vivid, suspenseful and finally, unforgettable.
On paper this might seem like drudgery, or something we've seen too many times. Not in this case. Director John Crowley and screenwriter Mark O'Rowe, adapting a novel by Jonathon Trigell, deliver a harrowing movie experience.
Andrew Garfield, up to now a supporting player in television and movies, makes an indelible mark in the lead. Garfield was born in the USA, but educated in Britain. Watching this performance was like seeing Daniel Day Lewis reborn. He never seems to be reaching for effect; at all times he inhabits the character from the inside. The performance alone creates an unusual level of tension, but there’s able support from veterans Peter Mullan and Siobhan Finneran. Finneran, who I've never seen before, is especially effective as an adult woman with a thinking and feeling side.
"Boy A" won several BAFTAs (British academy awards) and a prize at the Berlin festival. It won't make a dent here commercially, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't see it, in the theater or on disk.
Next time: Several also rans worth noting.
We all know what comes with Summer; heat, humidity and studio blockbusters. School's out, so in theory at least, every night is Saturday night. Adults are expected to take the kids, and more importantly pay for, an endless array of bloated comic book fare fired at us in fusillades of media. So far we've seen the good, "Indiana Jones," "Ironman," the bad, "Zohan," "Love Guru," "What Happens in Vegas," and the ugly, "The Hulk." And there’s more to come.
But another species is blooming in the art house garden, propping up our expectations for adult entertainment this summer. I've seen two flat out winners, and several also rans. I recommend them to you with the hope that one of more will somehow find its way into the local multiplex. This week, the winners.
"Kabluey," (that’s right Kabluey) is more than a breath of fresh air, it's a blast; the sort of quirky comedy that puts the studio output to shame. It's superior in every department; writing, acting, even cinematography. And it’s a pipsqueak of a production.
Salman, the black sheep of a middle class family, is dispatched from virtual homelessness, to help his sister in law take care of two kids, while her husband, a national guardsman, is off on an extended stay in Iraq. The kids are monsters, the house a chaotic wreck and the mom, at her wits end. There's no way a simple recap of the story can do justice to the comic invention and hilarity that follows. Somehow Salman ends up spending half his stay in an oversized blue creature suit, the "mascot" of a failed internet company, trying to rent office space in the cash starved companies headquarters.
"Kabluey" depicts our uniquely American disarray, social and economic, without a moment of pretension. The story simply plops us down in the middle of our current mess, with no comment. In that regard alone it's a triumph. But there's a lot more; a pitch perfect performance from the divinely inspired Lisa Kudrow, and a host of dead on supporting players; Conchatta Ferrell, Terri Garr, Christine Taylor and more. Writer/director Scott Prendergrast even succeeds in casting himself as the unfortunate "Salman." Then there are a couple of truly mean little boys, another casting coup.
The movie borders on the absurd at times, but that's a minor caveat. And the emotions it calls upon are well grounded in the realities of our current dilemmas. The comic high points, both high and low, reduce you to helpless laughter. For much of its running time, Kabluey takes you over completely; you're helpless in its comic grasp, and all the better for it.
"Kabluey" is being released by Regent, a small LA based company. It will surely find theaters in the major cities, but whether it cracks the multiplex barrier is yet to be seen. And that's a shame, because it’s so much smarter and funnier than it's richer relations. That it wasn't snapped up by one of the mini majors points to the dysfunctional state of current distribution.
"Boy A," which is being released by the Weinstein Company, is almost the polar opposite of "Kabluey," a sober, tough minded drama about a young man facing an almost insurmountable challenge. This is a British film, in the tradition of the kitchen sink dramas born in the aftermath of the second world war, when Britain was crawling back to normalcy and birthing a new generation. "Boy A" is a worthy successor to films like "This Sporting Life," "A Taste of Honey," and "Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner," (all available on disk.)
"Boy A" spent most of his youth in jail. The crime, of which he was an unwilling accomplice, is the worst kind. (In order to maintain the story's integrity, I won't reveal it here.) But the young man who's released is an altogether different individual than the child who was put away. His tentative foray into the outside world is vivid, suspenseful and finally, unforgettable.
On paper this might seem like drudgery, or something we've seen too many times. Not in this case. Director John Crowley and screenwriter Mark O'Rowe, adapting a novel by Jonathon Trigell, deliver a harrowing movie experience.
Andrew Garfield, up to now a supporting player in television and movies, makes an indelible mark in the lead. Garfield was born in the USA, but educated in Britain. Watching this performance was like seeing Daniel Day Lewis reborn. He never seems to be reaching for effect; at all times he inhabits the character from the inside. The performance alone creates an unusual level of tension, but there’s able support from veterans Peter Mullan and Siobhan Finneran. Finneran, who I've never seen before, is especially effective as an adult woman with a thinking and feeling side.
"Boy A" won several BAFTAs (British academy awards) and a prize at the Berlin festival. It won't make a dent here commercially, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't see it, in the theater or on disk.
Next time: Several also rans worth noting.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Horrors! by Dan Cohen
One of the earliest public exhibitions of a "motion picture" was a static shot of a train moving towards the camera. That several seconds of film, projected on a big screen in Paris, in 1896, sent unsuspecting viewers running for the exits. Ever since, people have been going to cinemas in the hope of being scared out of their seats.
Horror films can be as diverse as comedies, although lately most have followed the by now tired formula of popular "torture porns" like "Saw," and "Hostel." Worldwide, horror movies sprout like weeds, sometimes choking their better bred relations, like last year's entry from Spain, "The Orphanage," which made you uneasy without the need for an air sickness bag. (Look for the DVD)
Now comes M. Night Shayamalan, a superstar director, who takes the high road with a refined chiller that, like "Sixth Sense" and "Signs," recalls other films at the same time it stakes territory of its own.
"The Happening" has its awkward moments, but it digs deep into your conscious and won't let go. The story, about a virus that erodes and then mutates human will, effectively exploits our fears about suicide and isolation. It's a thriller for those who have contemplated the potential effects of a neutron bomb, chemical warfare, or the breakdown of the global ecology. Cinematographer Tak Fujimoto renders the most pastoral settings with a taint of dread. Visual effects, used sparingly, subtly heighten reality, instead of trying to subvert it. Refreshingly, the most chilling moments occur in broad daylight. City streets and pristine forests suddenly turn imperceptibly lethal. Though you can't see the menace you sense it lurking from the first shot.
"The Happening" is at its most disturbing when showing ordinary people in quiet free-fall; nervous survivors stuffing themselves at a diner, the entire crew of a commuter train gathered in a knot of confusion, a woman standing alone in her yard as a breeze blows through her hair.
Mark Wahlberg turns in a nuanced performance as an ordinary high school science teacher utterly incapable of coming to grips with disaster – like you and me. Zooey Deschanel, as his childlike wife, is less compelling in an underwritten part. But she's physically right, and that helps. Shayamalan has been shrewd in the casting of many smaller parts.
There are false steps along the way. Some of the humor falls flat. The dialogue, at times purposely banal, comes close to alienating our affections for the characters. This is a function of the film's larger ambition to focus on the ordinary, for which I can't fault it. But as a writer Shayamalan has shown a firmer grasp of characters with broader pathologies, like the scared kid in "Sixth Sense," or Mel Gibson's lapsed preacher in "Signs." Here, the bald messages his characters deliver are a bit artless.
For the most part critics have turned on this movie, but I think a lot of them so despise the writer/director's well documented arrogance that they willfully slight his inspired filmmaking. This is ironic when just a month ago many of the same praised "The Strangers," a stale and glum thriller that outstayed its welcome by at least an hour.
It's no small achievement when a horror movie conjures palpable fear from thin air. Call "The Happening" a triumph of dis-ease.
Foreign film alert.
You won't see "Reprise" in the local multiplex, but it's worth a trip to the art theater or a place in your Netflix queue. It's the first film of a young Danish filmmaker, Joachim Trier, and for those who crave the spirit of Truffaut or Godard, this will be a great pleasure.
Two young men send their first novels off to be published, dreaming of literary fame, success, and girls. One makes it right away, the other doesn't. The movie follows their troubled friendship with gusto and energy. The filmmaking is so eclectic it may lose you from time to time, but there are enough pauses for you to regain your footing. Even when the characters take themselves too seriously the filmmaker knows better. Where so many films about being young sink in their own bathos, this one soars.
Horror films can be as diverse as comedies, although lately most have followed the by now tired formula of popular "torture porns" like "Saw," and "Hostel." Worldwide, horror movies sprout like weeds, sometimes choking their better bred relations, like last year's entry from Spain, "The Orphanage," which made you uneasy without the need for an air sickness bag. (Look for the DVD)
Now comes M. Night Shayamalan, a superstar director, who takes the high road with a refined chiller that, like "Sixth Sense" and "Signs," recalls other films at the same time it stakes territory of its own.
"The Happening" has its awkward moments, but it digs deep into your conscious and won't let go. The story, about a virus that erodes and then mutates human will, effectively exploits our fears about suicide and isolation. It's a thriller for those who have contemplated the potential effects of a neutron bomb, chemical warfare, or the breakdown of the global ecology. Cinematographer Tak Fujimoto renders the most pastoral settings with a taint of dread. Visual effects, used sparingly, subtly heighten reality, instead of trying to subvert it. Refreshingly, the most chilling moments occur in broad daylight. City streets and pristine forests suddenly turn imperceptibly lethal. Though you can't see the menace you sense it lurking from the first shot.
"The Happening" is at its most disturbing when showing ordinary people in quiet free-fall; nervous survivors stuffing themselves at a diner, the entire crew of a commuter train gathered in a knot of confusion, a woman standing alone in her yard as a breeze blows through her hair.
Mark Wahlberg turns in a nuanced performance as an ordinary high school science teacher utterly incapable of coming to grips with disaster – like you and me. Zooey Deschanel, as his childlike wife, is less compelling in an underwritten part. But she's physically right, and that helps. Shayamalan has been shrewd in the casting of many smaller parts.
There are false steps along the way. Some of the humor falls flat. The dialogue, at times purposely banal, comes close to alienating our affections for the characters. This is a function of the film's larger ambition to focus on the ordinary, for which I can't fault it. But as a writer Shayamalan has shown a firmer grasp of characters with broader pathologies, like the scared kid in "Sixth Sense," or Mel Gibson's lapsed preacher in "Signs." Here, the bald messages his characters deliver are a bit artless.
For the most part critics have turned on this movie, but I think a lot of them so despise the writer/director's well documented arrogance that they willfully slight his inspired filmmaking. This is ironic when just a month ago many of the same praised "The Strangers," a stale and glum thriller that outstayed its welcome by at least an hour.
It's no small achievement when a horror movie conjures palpable fear from thin air. Call "The Happening" a triumph of dis-ease.
Foreign film alert.
You won't see "Reprise" in the local multiplex, but it's worth a trip to the art theater or a place in your Netflix queue. It's the first film of a young Danish filmmaker, Joachim Trier, and for those who crave the spirit of Truffaut or Godard, this will be a great pleasure.
Two young men send their first novels off to be published, dreaming of literary fame, success, and girls. One makes it right away, the other doesn't. The movie follows their troubled friendship with gusto and energy. The filmmaking is so eclectic it may lose you from time to time, but there are enough pauses for you to regain your footing. Even when the characters take themselves too seriously the filmmaker knows better. Where so many films about being young sink in their own bathos, this one soars.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Late Spring Round Up: Comedy at the Crossroads
"Baby Mama," born of talent from "Saturday Night Live," and "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," the latest output from Judd Apatow's comedy factory, give us the opportunity to reflect on the state of funny in American movies.
First "Baby Mama." Here's a sharp and funny premise; infertile executive hires trailer trash to carry her baby. So, two women with nothing in common are forced to share one fertilized egg. Add two proven TV performers, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, along with a host of top notch supporting talent that includes Steve Martin. Pepper the stew with every plot element from an advanced seminar in screen writing. Top it off with a volley of drop dead jokes. Viola!
It made for a great trailer, but the movie is thin. Scenes flash by in a rush, perform their function and disintegrate. For the most part they exist as set ups for jokes. But when they don’t work, which is frequently, their transparency is almost embarrassing. The chemistry between the leads keeps the movie afloat, but the director, Michael McCullers, never finds and settles on a confident tone.
"Baby Mama" is the work of a first time director, and it shows. The box office, initially good, trailed off. For the studios this one's a ground rule double. The point is once again made, as it is over and over; there's a thirst in the market place for adult comedy. It's just that the film wasn't strong enough for those adults to entice their peers into seeing it.
A week after "Baby Mama," "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" arrived. Again, this is the work of a first time director, written and starring supporting players from producer Judd Apatow's well stocked stable of male nerds. The writer of the screenplay, Scott Segel, doubles as the lead, and he's an appealing sad sack. But "Sarah Marshall" is deliberately slow, close to slack at times. And most of the physical humor is haphazard and ineptly staged. What's new is an on screen appearance of Segel's sex organ and some fairly graphic screwing. Director Nick Stoller's touch for physical comedy is heavy handed, and yet the film's amiable candor about relationships keeps it from going completely awry.
Apatow is a shrewd producer. Each of his pictures exploits another aspect of sex, pushing the boundaries of the R rating. "Knocked Up," "Superbad," "40 Year Old Virgin"; the titles speak for themselves. "Knocked Up" is probably the smoothest of the bunch; it's fitfully funny and well cast. And despite the R rating, "Superbad" was last summer's want to see movie for teenagers.
But "Sarah Marshall," "Baby Mama" and so many others this Spring, have failed to truly take off at the box office, in spite of their inspired ad campaigns. They open well but then drop off. It took "PS I Love You," "Over Her Dead Body" and "Fools Gold" big names and saturation advertising just to return mediocre grosses. If a movie costs 30 million to make, 20 million to release, and then does 50 million at the box office (which has to be shared with the cinema owner), it barely recoups half it's cost. With DVD sales the title may break even, but it by no means supports huge studio overheads. (This is a problem for another column.)
My guess is that most adults, those who aren't addicted to the movie going habit, find what passes for comedy today boring and take a pass. Teens, who can be satisfied by a hail of jokes and familiar sentimentality, are more easily amused and a better target for the studios. Hence the studios aim their comedies at the post teen crowd and hope everyone else follows.
The most successful romantic comedy this year, "27 Wedding Dresses," did well, but that starred the indomitable Kathryn Heigel. "Made of Honor," with TV heart throb Patrick Dempsey, failed. "Fools Gold" and "PS I Love You," expensive movies that were heavily exploited, received horrible reviews and returned unexceptional grosses.
Two conspicuous box office smashes, "Juno," and "Little Miss Sunshine," made for a pittance by studio standards, point to the heart of the matter. Both movies are adult in concept. Both deal squarely with sexuality amid other domestic issues. Both portray middle class American lifestyles without exaggeration or condescension. And both are remarkably steadfast in tone. What I mean by that is that the films characters rarely deviate from their own truth for the sake of a joke or a shock. They deal a straight hand to the audience, much like comedies by Frank Capra, Howard Hawks, Preston Sturges etc. Both "Juno" and "Little Miss Sunshine" were huge popular successes.
Here's what set them apart from the studio output. The set up and the style are established in the first twenty minutes and then remain within their parameters. Credibility and consistency are honored. Surprises are delivered, they don't come out of left field; they're organic. When things resolve you think, yes, that's the way it should happen, only I wasn't aware of that while I was watching.
"Juno" is a terrific example. A high school girl with a unique voice introduces us to her problem. She's pregnant by a sweet, nerdy jock who she more or less seduced. She doesn't want a baby and she's not the least bit reluctant about giving hers up for adoption. But she does develop believable relationships with the couple she chooses to raise it. And as she gets to know them credible problems arise. Even better, these problems — and their tentative resolutions — become the film's most important assets. Other elements are doled out in credible perspective. The humor, in healthy dollops, is character based. The people are grounded in their settings. Nobody sprouts wings for the sake of a joke. The result: 160 million at the box office.
The same held true for "Little Miss Sunshine." And before that, "Sideways." Note that all three are lower budget Indies. You can add to that "Napoleon Dynamite."
It's a commonplace myth in the film community that romantic comedy has become impossible to pull off in the new millennium. Critics remark that today's world lacks the sort of obstacles that kept people apart in the 20s, 30s and 40s. The claim is that without economic tension there's no wedge between the protagonists. But it wasn't a cash crunch that kept Tracey and Hepburn at odds. It was their different natures. Most of the best screwball comedies were about the very rich, who hardly suffered the constraints of the pocket book.
Close attention to Turner Classics reveals the human heart as the greatest obstacle. The struggle to capture and hold that heart is what audiences have always responded to, and will continue to as long as movies are popular. The problem is that corporate Hollywood has lost the will or skill to seek it out.
An afterthought: The French seem to understand how to create romantic comedy without resorting to the absurd. For proof positive seek out "Happily Ever After" or the recent Audrey Tatou vehicle, "Priceless" on DVD.
First "Baby Mama." Here's a sharp and funny premise; infertile executive hires trailer trash to carry her baby. So, two women with nothing in common are forced to share one fertilized egg. Add two proven TV performers, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, along with a host of top notch supporting talent that includes Steve Martin. Pepper the stew with every plot element from an advanced seminar in screen writing. Top it off with a volley of drop dead jokes. Viola!
It made for a great trailer, but the movie is thin. Scenes flash by in a rush, perform their function and disintegrate. For the most part they exist as set ups for jokes. But when they don’t work, which is frequently, their transparency is almost embarrassing. The chemistry between the leads keeps the movie afloat, but the director, Michael McCullers, never finds and settles on a confident tone.
"Baby Mama" is the work of a first time director, and it shows. The box office, initially good, trailed off. For the studios this one's a ground rule double. The point is once again made, as it is over and over; there's a thirst in the market place for adult comedy. It's just that the film wasn't strong enough for those adults to entice their peers into seeing it.
A week after "Baby Mama," "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" arrived. Again, this is the work of a first time director, written and starring supporting players from producer Judd Apatow's well stocked stable of male nerds. The writer of the screenplay, Scott Segel, doubles as the lead, and he's an appealing sad sack. But "Sarah Marshall" is deliberately slow, close to slack at times. And most of the physical humor is haphazard and ineptly staged. What's new is an on screen appearance of Segel's sex organ and some fairly graphic screwing. Director Nick Stoller's touch for physical comedy is heavy handed, and yet the film's amiable candor about relationships keeps it from going completely awry.
Apatow is a shrewd producer. Each of his pictures exploits another aspect of sex, pushing the boundaries of the R rating. "Knocked Up," "Superbad," "40 Year Old Virgin"; the titles speak for themselves. "Knocked Up" is probably the smoothest of the bunch; it's fitfully funny and well cast. And despite the R rating, "Superbad" was last summer's want to see movie for teenagers.
But "Sarah Marshall," "Baby Mama" and so many others this Spring, have failed to truly take off at the box office, in spite of their inspired ad campaigns. They open well but then drop off. It took "PS I Love You," "Over Her Dead Body" and "Fools Gold" big names and saturation advertising just to return mediocre grosses. If a movie costs 30 million to make, 20 million to release, and then does 50 million at the box office (which has to be shared with the cinema owner), it barely recoups half it's cost. With DVD sales the title may break even, but it by no means supports huge studio overheads. (This is a problem for another column.)
My guess is that most adults, those who aren't addicted to the movie going habit, find what passes for comedy today boring and take a pass. Teens, who can be satisfied by a hail of jokes and familiar sentimentality, are more easily amused and a better target for the studios. Hence the studios aim their comedies at the post teen crowd and hope everyone else follows.
The most successful romantic comedy this year, "27 Wedding Dresses," did well, but that starred the indomitable Kathryn Heigel. "Made of Honor," with TV heart throb Patrick Dempsey, failed. "Fools Gold" and "PS I Love You," expensive movies that were heavily exploited, received horrible reviews and returned unexceptional grosses.
Two conspicuous box office smashes, "Juno," and "Little Miss Sunshine," made for a pittance by studio standards, point to the heart of the matter. Both movies are adult in concept. Both deal squarely with sexuality amid other domestic issues. Both portray middle class American lifestyles without exaggeration or condescension. And both are remarkably steadfast in tone. What I mean by that is that the films characters rarely deviate from their own truth for the sake of a joke or a shock. They deal a straight hand to the audience, much like comedies by Frank Capra, Howard Hawks, Preston Sturges etc. Both "Juno" and "Little Miss Sunshine" were huge popular successes.
Here's what set them apart from the studio output. The set up and the style are established in the first twenty minutes and then remain within their parameters. Credibility and consistency are honored. Surprises are delivered, they don't come out of left field; they're organic. When things resolve you think, yes, that's the way it should happen, only I wasn't aware of that while I was watching.
"Juno" is a terrific example. A high school girl with a unique voice introduces us to her problem. She's pregnant by a sweet, nerdy jock who she more or less seduced. She doesn't want a baby and she's not the least bit reluctant about giving hers up for adoption. But she does develop believable relationships with the couple she chooses to raise it. And as she gets to know them credible problems arise. Even better, these problems — and their tentative resolutions — become the film's most important assets. Other elements are doled out in credible perspective. The humor, in healthy dollops, is character based. The people are grounded in their settings. Nobody sprouts wings for the sake of a joke. The result: 160 million at the box office.
The same held true for "Little Miss Sunshine." And before that, "Sideways." Note that all three are lower budget Indies. You can add to that "Napoleon Dynamite."
It's a commonplace myth in the film community that romantic comedy has become impossible to pull off in the new millennium. Critics remark that today's world lacks the sort of obstacles that kept people apart in the 20s, 30s and 40s. The claim is that without economic tension there's no wedge between the protagonists. But it wasn't a cash crunch that kept Tracey and Hepburn at odds. It was their different natures. Most of the best screwball comedies were about the very rich, who hardly suffered the constraints of the pocket book.
Close attention to Turner Classics reveals the human heart as the greatest obstacle. The struggle to capture and hold that heart is what audiences have always responded to, and will continue to as long as movies are popular. The problem is that corporate Hollywood has lost the will or skill to seek it out.
An afterthought: The French seem to understand how to create romantic comedy without resorting to the absurd. For proof positive seek out "Happily Ever After" or the recent Audrey Tatou vehicle, "Priceless" on DVD.
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