Think of it as a holiday hangover. After last week’s laudatory reviews of such choice December fare as A Beautiful Mind, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring and Vanilla Sky, it was reasonable to expect more of the same. Instead, of the five titles reviewed this week (the year-end glut prevented me from pencilling in the pot comedy How High and the kid flick Jimmy Neutron: Boy Genius, so you’re on your own there), there’s only one gem in the bunch, a Manor offering sure to play deep into award season. As for the rest… say, where’s the Returns & Exchanges window?
A relentless downer cut from the same cloth as Affliction, The Sweet Hereafter and the upcoming Monster’s Ball, In the Bedroom (***1/2 out of four) doesn’t exactly seem like the sort of seasonal fare that would look comfortable snuggled up to such sentimental confections as Miracle on 34th Street and A Charlie Brown Christmas. But those with an iron disposition (or at least a fondness for alternative cinema) are sure to embrace this unflinching study of ordinary people coping with an unspeakable tragedy. Tom Wilkinson and Sissy Spacek headline as a Maine couple proud of their son (Nick Stahl), an only child making plans to go to graduate school. But the boy’s relationship with a single mom (Marisa Tomei) threatens to put his future aspirations on hold, and the lurking presence of her estranged, redneck husband (William Mapother) finally leads to a catastrophic incident. Actor Todd Field (Eyes Wide Shut, Ruby In Paradise) makes a sure-handed debut behind the camera, serving as director and adapting (with Rob Festinger) a short story by the late Andre Dubus. The result is about as raw and as real as anything that’s passed through theaters these past 12 months, a searing drama that never shies away from examining the wildly divergent reactions mustered by people in impossible situations (when one character unexpectedly slaps a woman who had been reaching out for comfort, we ourselves feel like we’ve been smacked with a toaster). The eye-for-an-eye climax feels a little pat, but overall, this is a remarkably clear-eyed exploration of suffering and sacrifice, and the performances by Spacek, Tomei and especially Wilkinson are above reproach.
When casting actors as instantly recognizable icons, it’s always best to either pick unknowns who can transform themselves into their subjects without having to contend with viewer baggage (e.g. then-anonymous Ben Kingsley in Gandhi) or choose widely respected performers known for their ability to get at the hearts of their characters (Anthony Hopkins in Nixon). In the case of Ali (**), Michael Mann’s look at the (larger-than-)life and turbulent times of boxing legend Muhammad Ali, Will Smith’s work in the role is ultimately about as convincing as that of a sixth-grader who dons a long coat and fake beard to play Abe Lincoln in the school play. Smith may have been placed in an impossible situation: Never once sinking into the role of Ali to the point where we forget it is Will Smith, the young actor faces a perpetual losing battle, as his own strain of charisma doesn’t come close to matching the volcanic intensity spewed forth by the real Ali. Still, let’s cut Smith some slack and go after the real criminal mastermind behind Ali: Director-cowriter Mann, who had the daunting task of condensing Ali’s life into a 158-minute running time. Forget about historical accuracy: The movie that unfolds on-screen is so imbalanced in what’s accorded screen time, so slipshod in its development of supporting characters, and so inefficient in penetrating the Ali mystique, its only saving graces are a handful of isolated scenes and an amusing turn by Jon Voight as a waxworks Howard Cosell. Skip this and rent the excellent documentary When We Were Kings, which provides precious footage of the real Ali in all his raging splendor.
Jim Carrey’s repeated attempts to score an Oscar nomination may ultimately be as futile as, say, an attempt by Danielle Steele to write a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel in under an hour, but as long as his self-fulfilling mission keeps providing some range in his roles, you won’t hear a peep out of me. His latest bid for respectability can be found in The Majestic (**), the latest effort from a filmmaker director Frank Darabont whose previous works (The Green Mile and The Shawshank Redemption) viewed prisons as feel-good enclaves full of civilized, misunderstood citizens. Darabont’s latest fantasy is set in the early 1950s, a period in which McCarthy and his zealots were sniffing Commies out of every corner of the country, particularly liberal Hollywood. Carrey, in a nicely understated turn, plays Pete Appleton, a screenwriter whose career gets ruined when he’s suspected of being a Red. But after drinking and driving leads to the inevitable car accident, he awakens with his memory wiped clean and with everyone in the small town of Lawson believing he’s one of their long-lost WWII vets finally returning home. The first part of the movie, which deals with Pete’s involvement with the town’s perpetually chipper residents (it’s no wonder the local movie house, the Majestic of the title, eventually shows Invasion of the Body Snatchers, since these citizens seem as artificial as that film’s pod people) will strike some viewers as inspiring and others as manipulative; at any rate, it’s clearly the better half, since the final act, which centers on Pete’s stand against the House Un-American Activities Committee, is patently false and a queer whitewash of a tragic chapter in US history.
If there’s one thing positive to be said about Not Another Teen Movie (**), it’s that its makers have managed to rape, pillage and plunder the source material even more thoroughly than the Wayans brothers did for the two Scary Movies. The ferocity with which director Joel Gallen and his five writers deconstruct and then devour the teen flick deserves a modicum of respect, as these guys manage to include letter-perfect take-offs on plot situations in everything from the John Hughes oeuvre of the 80s (The Breakfast Club, Pretty In Pink) right up to the student-skewering hits of today (She’s All That, American Pie). But since the follow-through is every bit as important as the pitch, it should be noted that NATM, for all its eager-beaver zeal to deliver the raunchy laughs, provides the gross-outs but not the gags or, at least, not enough good ones to make this anything more than a quickie toss-off. As Janey Briggs, the virginal outsider who’s transformed into prom queen material after she sheds her ponytail and glasses, Chyler Leigh earns the Good Sport Award by subjecting herself to every humiliation the filmmakers can think up for her character, while Randy Quaid, who seems to feed off debasing roles, gets cast as her dad, a pie-humping slob plagued by Vietnam flashbacks. You also get “The Token Black Guy,” “The Cocky Blonde Guy” (played by Eric Christian Olsen, who has got to be Doug McClure’s illegitimate son), “The Foreign Exchange Student” (who wears nothing but a backpack to school), and, as a Seal of Approval, a Molly Ringwald cameo.
His work as Buzz Lightyear aside, Tim Allen is the new Steve Guttenberg, a bland actor whose generic films keep getting bankrolled presumably because a studio has some weird quota to fill. After all, with multiplexes jam-packed with accomplished blockbusters featuring ring masters and Oscar winners, who in their right mind would make Joe Somebody (*) their top pick for a night out? The sort of smug, preachy anti-entertainment that usually stars Robin Williams, this turd of a title casts Allen as Joe Scheffer, a company employee who gets no respect from those around him. Matters get even more unpleasant when Joe gets punched out by a co-worker (Patrick Warburton) in front of his own daughter (Hayden Panettiere), but after wallowing in self-pity for a few days, he declares that he wants a rematch, an announcement that suddenly earns him the love and respect of everyone at the firm (is this a multi-million dollar corporation or an elementary school?). This reteams Allen with director John Pasquin for the third time, and on a math grid, their union would represent John Ford-John Wayne after a translation of (-1, -1). Still, they can’t be blamed for John Scott Shepherd’s script, which alternates between being illogical and merely annoying (my favorite bit: never having played squash before in his life, Joe’s whacking the ball like a pro halfway through his very first match!). Jim Belushi has some nice moments as a slovenly karate teacher who teaches Joe how to fight, but that also encapsulates the movie’s shortcomings: You know you’re in trouble when you’re actively waiting for Jim Belushi to make an appearance in a movie. *
This article appears in Dec 29, 2001 – Jan 4, 2002.
