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There’s a little bit of Hammer horror in Julie Taymor’s messy but thrilling adaptation of Shakespeare’s last play, and there’s more than a little turning-of-the-tables, all of which brings a new perspective on the play, and a new appreciation for it, which is the best we can ask for the umpteenth adaptation of a centuries-old work.
It keeps us on our intellectual and emotional toes as it blithely bounces us around thorny philosophical koans and lets us peek behind the scenes of the universe at the charming puppetmasters who pull the strings. But for the heaviness of the film’s metaphysics, there is something ineffably light and charming about it. If Frank Capra made The Matrix, it would be The Adjustment Bureau.
How can it be that a kiddie movie is wiser and funnier and more relevant than the Coens Brothers’ True Grit? This is, in fact, what a Coens’ animated flick might look like and sound like, if they got an assist from Terry Giliam: this is a deeply weird and deeply demented movie, and thrillingly so.
When Colin Firth wins the Oscar for Best Actor in a few hours for this role, it will be one of the rare happy concurrences of the actual best performance of the year being recognized by the industry’s highest honor as such.
I’d like to call Drive Angry Ghost Rider 2: Ghost Driver, except that a sequel to Cage’s previous awful example of cinematic demonic road rage is, in fact, already in production, for our sins. I might better call it Con Air Goes to Hell, because of the beautiful — and by beautiful, I mean, of course, vile and reprehensible — way it picks up the gauntlet thrown down by that violently misogynist film and slaps that gauntlet right at the viewer. In 3D!
This electrifying Australian crime drama sears all hint of the sentimental out of a harrowing tale of one Melbourne family’s felonious downfall, and — daringly — strips all sense of cinematic romance out of a genre that often idealizes the corrupt and the brutal.
High school is hard. High school is even harder when you’re a secret alien from another planet in hiding from big scary guys with enormous feet and weird tattoos on their bald heads who are after you for reasons no one really understands. Except maybe that you’re the last of your kind. Well, apart from your alien-warrior protector, who isn’t specially numbered like you are.
The ambiguity of it all is at least as frustrating as it is intriguing, but director Brad Anderson whips it into something gorgeously terrifying, creating a sense of menace out of shadow and darkness the likes of which I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on film before.
Is it any wonder that is always seems to be Jennifer Aniston, America’s It Girl, who gets screwed by spectacularly selfish men who embody this new American ideal of “Do whatever you want, to whomever you want, no matter how evil, no matter how wrong, and you will not only escape punishment, you will be richly rewarded for your antisocial behavior”? Poor Aniston: She is the foreclosure crisis of the modern Hollywood romantic comedy.
Big Momma is back, the question is: Why? In the name of all that is decent and thoughtful and pleasant, why?
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