The Chameleon

2010 // France // Jean-Paul Salomé // July 14, 2011 // Theatrical Print (Landmark Theaters Plaza Frontenac Cinema)

Jean-Paul Salomé's fictionalized tale of notorious French imposter Frédéric Bourdin might have been a more satisfactory and engaging film had the director and co-writer Natalie Carter allowed their bolder proclivities to run wild. Instead, The Chameleon is just graceless and drowsy, albeit oddly aware of the psychologically probative potential in Bourdin's attempt to pass himself off as missing American teenager Nicholas Randall. There are rumblings that the film was taken away from Salomé to be sliced-and-diced by the producers, a rumor supported by the often jarring editing. However, there are plenty of other factors working against the film: a thin budget revealed by visibly shoddy set design; a flat, indifferent movie-of-the-week visual aesthetic; and a meandering script peppered with sophomoric dialog. In places, the ugly, run-down quality to the film's look works in its favor, providing a dose of corroded and sun-faded verisimilitude to the Louisiana setting. (Shades of Bad Lieutenant - Port of Call: New Orleans there.) However, most of the time, the film's look is just dull.

The actors don't help the proceedings, as they all seem to exist in different films. Ellen Barkin and Nick Stahl go for Southern-fried grotesque, while Famke Janssen plays things straight as an FBI agent with a laughably hackneyed backstory. Emilie de Ravin is, well, Emilie de Ravin, which means most of her acting consists of grimacing so that the spot where her eyebrows meet crinkles in alleged confusion or anger. Marc-André Grondin's approach to Bourdin is to veer arbitrarily between cringing doofus--fanny-pack and all--and delinquent hothead, while throwing a creepy leer here and there to reassure the viewer that Bourdin is, in fact, a globe-trotting conman. This all-over-the-map aspect to the performances is fitting, given how much trouble Salomé has handling the vague narrative. He is clearly fascinated with Bourdin's craving for love (or, less charitably, attention), rather than the money or adrenaline that drives other imposters, and the script plainly wants to utilize the probable murder of the real Nicholas to wedge open Bourdin's mercurial mind and expose it for examination. Except that these two components--the con and the murder--just end up slipping past each other most of the time. What we get is an annoyingly bland story about an international conman, into which a Faulkner-tinted tale of wickedness and secrets frequently intrudes. It's a flimsy patchwork, and ultimately forgettable.

Inside Job

2010 // USA // Charles Ferguson // July 11, 2011 // DVD - Sony (2011)

Charles Ferguson's riveting No End in Sight is an excellent example of how a composed and agile presentation of facts can produce a tremendously potent documentary exposé, without resorting to stunts, gags, or clumsy emotional appeals.  It also happens to be one of the best films made to date about the Iraq War.  (Perhaps even the best, depending on whether one counts Standard Operating Procedure or In the Loop. ) Ferguson's debut feature demonstrated that he had the aptitude to convey a sprawling real-life tale with clarity, gravity, and discipline, and in doing so elevated him a notch above more renowned and gimmicky purveyors of agitprop such as Alex Gibney, Michael Moore, and Davis Guggenheim.

It's therefore gratifying to see Ferguson's talents brought to bear on the most critical public affairs story of the past decade, the ongoing Great Recession. It's a challenging tale to tackle, partly due to the intrinsic complexity of the subject matter, and partly due to the intense politicization of its elements. As a result, even the broad outlines of the recession have never been very effectively communicated in the mainstream press. Granted, NPR's This American Life won a Peabody award in 2008 with their impressive piece on the housing crisis, "The Giant Pool of Money," but the scope of Inside Job is much broader, stretching all the way back to the sweeping financial deregulation of the Reagan years and concluding with a finger pointed square at the Wall Street cronyism of the Obama administration.

The style of Ferguson's sophomore effort is similar to that of No End in Sight. The director interviews prominent figures from the financial industry, government, academia, and the media, piecing together their testimony to construct a narrative about the financial crisis' origins, structure, and effects.  Some of these interviewees are friendly to Ferguson's sublimated anger, and essentially become his proxies for a scathing rebuke of those alleged Masters of the Universe who heedlessly ushered in a global economic meltdown.  Ferguson also speaks with think-tank apologists for Wall Street malfeasance and a few of the perpetrators themselves, who betray not an iota of remorse, bristling at the suggestion that anyone is to blame for our current predicament.

The director intersperses these talking heads with gorgeous but anonymous photography of soaring skyscrapers and deserted subdivisions, and copious visual effects that present head-spinning financial topics with striking lucidity. Viewers still hazy about collateralized debt obligations or credit default swaps will find no clearer or more concise explanation of the role such dodgy financial products played in sinking the world's economy.

Inside Job is an admittedly handsome documentary, but ultimately one whose formal cinematic attributes are less significant than the facts that the film seeks to convey. There is little information in the film that is new, but it is indispensable to have that information presented in one slick package. The film is therefore less a work of art than an essential piece of top-notch explanatory journalism, the cinematic equivalent of a long-form work of reporting for a glossy magazine. In condensing a confounding subject with such vigor and livid focus, Ferguson reaffirms his status as America's grim professor of calamity.

Super 8

2011 // USA // J. J. Abrams // June 23, 2011 // Theatrical Projection (St. Louis Cinemas Moolah Theater)

On the surface, Super 8 strives--almost urgently, one might say--to position itself as the scary-yet-sweet successor to the 1970s and early 80s science fiction and fantasy films of Steven Spielberg. Both Close Encounters of the Third Kind and E.T. are the clearest antecedents for J.J. Abrams' tale of alien menace in the Heartland, although the film also draws from Jaws and an assortment of seminal blockbusters for which Spielberg served as writer and producer: Poltergeist, Gremlins, Back to the Future, and The Goonies. Abrams' film possesses a reverence for families (natural and surrogate) and a sentimental regard for childhood's joys and struggles that feels positively old school, in part because it approaches those elements sincerely, just as Spielberg did--and still does, on occasion.

The 1979 small-town setting has an undeniable charm as expressed through Martin Whist's rich production design, and Abrams himself capably blends realism and nostalgia in his portrayal of this bygone/never-was Middle America. The film's affectionate depiction of breakfast table chaos and summer vacation tomfoolery provides a substrate of normalcy for the otherworldly story, while also tipping its hat to the milieu of its cinematic predecessors. Of course, said depictions also tickle the wistful pangs of thirty-something moviegoers who are likely to respond positively to evocations of the influential blockbusters of their youth. Heck, I'm tempted to charge Super 8 with outright pandering to Spielberg himself, given that the pre-teen protagonists are aspiring 8 mm filmmakers who blow up a model train for their zombie-noir short. Gee, who does that sound like? And guess who has a producer credit on Super 8?

Abrams hasn't yet developed any distinguishing characteristics as a director, excepting his odd and distracting obsession with lens flare, but Super 8's creepshow theatrics are consistent with similar approaches in the Abrams-produced Lost and Cloverfield. Namely, the film does a maddeningly fine job of keeping its monster out of sight for as long as is practicable. Unlike Cloverfield's ghastly behemoth, however, the creature design of Super 8's alien isn't that distinctive from that of a thousand other science fiction critters. It's a bit of a letdown, therefore, when the film finally gives the viewer a good, long look: fearsome and appropriately unearthly, sure, but not particularly memorable.

The film admittedly pulls off some jaw-dropping set pieces, with the genuinely frightening train derailment that caps the first act serving as a high-water mark. Unfortunately, the screenplay, penned by the director, is riddled with modest but distracting blemishes. Several plot points vanish without even a nod of acknowledgement. Abrams still seems to have a meager grasp of the rhythms of cinematic storytelling, a flaw revealed in the capricious quality to the story's structure. (Why this scene then that scene?) The film shifts away from the viewpoint of its junior high heroes too frequently, which has the unfortunate effect of rendering their fumbling a little boring. I'm thinking particularly of a scene where the kids watch a secret government film that reveals little the viewer of Super 8 didn't already know or could safely assume.

These defects notwithstanding, there's a straightforward, good-natured quality to Super 8 that goes beyond the elementary appeal of its Our Gang Meets Alien premise. Despite a $45 million budget and cutting-edge special effects, the film has the confidence of a one-off entertainment without overfed ambitions. That used to be the norm even for summer blockbusters, but in this era of endless, lifeless franchise Hollywood filmmaking, there's a kind of noble simplicity to it. Super 8 has the refreshing tone of a feature-length episode of The Twilight Zone or Spielberg's own Amazing Stories, a creature feature bauble that is eagerly aware of its pedigree and yet also contently self-contained.

Red Cliff (International Version)

2008 // China // John Woo // June 21, 2011 // Blu-ray - Magnolia (2010)

The Battle of Red Cliffs is probably the most famous military conflict from one of the most celebrated and routinely sentimentalized eras of Chinese history, the Three Kingdoms Period. It's an event that has acquired a virtually legendary character since it unfolded in roughly A.D. 208-209. However, the battle remains relatively obscure in the West, save among two stripes of Sinophiles: the rare fan of Koei's never-ending Dynasty Warriors video game franchise, and the even rarer reader that has braved a translation of Luo Guanzhong's fourteenth-century novel, The Romance of the Three Kingdoms. (I count myself in the former category, for the record.)

For other Western viewers of John Woo's gargantuan, heavily fictionalized military epic Red Cliff, the vast cast of characters and unfamiliar political conflicts will likely be daunting. Fortunately, Woo ably preserves the elementary human threads that have made the Romance an enduring touchstone in China's national mythology, and in the process provides ample handholds for a non-Asian audience. The emotional and thematic terrain will be familiar to fans of Shakespeare and The Sopranos alike: ambition, pride, loyalty, lust, tradition, and free will. Oh, and it goes without saying that the film is hellzapoppin' with gigantic battle scenes, fantastic martial arts heroics, and fountains of blood.

The so-called International Version of Red Cliff--comprising two separate films that screened theatrically in Asia--clocks in at a staggering 288 minutes. Only a handful of living auteurs can pull off that kind of behemoth without the film in question risking bloat, and none of them are named John Woo. Accordingly, Red Cliff features several sequences that amount to little more than prosaic wheel-spinning, such as the limp romantic subplot and a maudlin (and rather cheap) storyline about a friendship across enemy lines. It's easy to single out these overstuffed points, but the lengthy running time also has its virtues. The size and scope of Red Cliff permits a full and evenhanded treatment of the numerous larger-than-life characters on all sides of the conflict, which is one of the distinctly modern strengths of the Romance. It also gives Woo license to to slow things down a little, showering loving attention on the action sequences, which rely mainly on practical effects at the smaller scale and go digital for the majestic panning shots of vast armies and navies. The director allows plot points to play out in a relatively measured manner, providing that much more gratification when the myriad schemes finally come to fruition. In the current era of Michael Bay-born hysterical ugliness, this kind of deliberate, byzantine historical epic almost feels quaint.

In keeping with the traditional portrayal in the Romance, the ruthless Prime Minister and Wei warlord Cao Cao (Fengyi Zhang) is the closest thing the film has to a villain, but even he is portrayed as a tragic figure rather than an amoral monster. On the other hand, Woo shakes up his Chinese audience's expectations by downplaying the normally heroic role of the Shu generals, especially the renowned Three Brothers of Liu Bei (Yong You), Guan Yu (Ba Sen Zha Bu), and Zhang Fei (Jinsheng Zang). Red Cliff shifts the focus to resolute Wu general Zhou Yu, a tweak telegraphed by the casting of Hong Kong mega-star Tony Leung in the role. In general, the depiction of the characters favors the mythical and archetypal over the nuanced, partly out of deference to established conceptions of these historical and pseudo-historical personalities, but also out of necessity, given the sweep of the thing. The film is assisted in this respect by a host of glowing, lively performances, especially from Takeshi Kaneshiro as serene tactician Zhunge Liang and Wei Zhao as the spirited warrior maiden Sun Shang Xiang. If those character names mean anything to you, the pleasures of Red Cliff will probably be that much more acute.

Midnight in Paris

2011 // Spain - USA // Director: Woody Allen // June 19, 2011 // Theatrical Print (Hi-Pointe Theater)

Vacationing in the City of Lights with his fiancé and her parents, an idealistic but adrift American writer wanders Paris' streets during the wee hours and unwittingly stumbles back in time to the 1920s. In short order, he is gleefully rubbing shoulders with his Lost Generation idols--F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Cole Porter, Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso--not to mention falling hard for a sultry beauty, all of which confirms his long-held suspicions that he was born too late. In the hands of another filmmaker, the wistful premise of Midnight in Paris would be the stuff of pleasurable but forgettable romantic fantasy fluff. In the hands of Woody Allen, it is a film that is shamefully luscious in its aesthetic and almost childlike in its gaping adoration of a bygone time and place. It is also bittersweet and conflicted in its heart, further affirming that even the gorgeous vistas of Europe's great cities--so prominent in the director's current period--are not enough to quell Allen's sheepish, sardonic rumblings.

To be sure, the venerable writer-director is unabashedly besotted with the delectable, airy qualities of this time-tripping fable. Allen's improbable romanticism still endures, and finds its expression in the glowing, picture-postcard cinematography of both present and past from Johanne Debas and Darius Khondji (their first collaboration with the director), and in the giddy enthusiasm of time traveler Gil (Owen Wilson) as he drinks wine and dances the Charleston with the likes of Salvador Dalí­ and T.S. Eliot. Needless to say, that enthusiasm doesn't last forever, and Midnight in Paris is in part an acidic refutation of the Golden Age fallacy. Lest there be any confusion on this point, a pompous intellectual (Michael Sheen) articulates the problem of said fallacy for Gil's (and, presumably, the audience's) edification.

Strictly speaking, Midnight isn't science fiction, or even a science fiction satire in the vein of Allen's own Sleeper, as it spends little time explicating the principles of Gil's almost effortless forays back and forth across the decades. Of course, even the best time travel films--Back to the Future, 12 Monkeys, Time After Time--aren't exactly doctoral dissertations on quantum physics, but Midnight elides almost everything except the trigger for our hero's temporal shifts. Gil must be standing at the foot of a particular staircase at midnight, whereupon a vintage Peugeot pull up to whisk him away to a night of Roaring Twenties pleasures. The film plays the actual mechanics of time travel for dry laughs, but the primary focus is on the characters' responses to this unlikely wrinkle in the fabric of reality. The effusive, faintly naïve Gil doesn't really care about the "why" or "how," but does what any writer would do in his situation: He pounces on the opportunity to ask Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates) to read and critique the manuscript of his first novel.

The dramatic arc of the film is straightforward to the point of predictability: Gil falls briefly, passionately in love with the 1920s, only to be disillusioned and return home with a new appreciation for the present. Interestingly, Allen elects to double-down on the strangeness in the third act, and in the process provides a tidy and gratifying rationale for a sudden about-face in his protagonist's worldview. Wilson is pitch-perfect in the lead, blending a gee-whiz affability with the wry, muttering prickliness that he favors in Wes Anderson's films. His presence sets the tone for the film--drunk on the richness of life, yet keenly aware of its maddening, necessary boundaries--and establishes Midnight as one of the the funniest Allen films in years. Perhaps the smartest and most vital component to the film's humor is that everyone else plays their roles utterly straight, from Rachel McAdams as Gil's annoyed fiance to Corey Stall as a swaggering, chiseled Hemingway who is prone to hilariously grave monologues. Allen manages a heartfelt genuflection to the cultural titans of the twentieth century, while also poking them square in the eye. It's a marvelous trick.

X-Men: First Class

2011 // USA // Matthew Vaughn // June 8, 2011 // Theatrical Print (St. Louis Cinemas Moolah Theater)

Now that a fifth (Really? Fifth?!) X-Men film is upon us, most fans of the long-running, perpetually evolving, multi-titled comic series have likely accepted that the appearance of their favorite mutant in the films amounts to little more than a shout-out intended to elicit squeals of delight. The characters and stories from the source material have now been so thoroughly scrambled in the films that the franchise can barely be regarded as an adaptation at all. (Not that fidelity to the comics is that salient when said comics are laden with reboots, relaunches, reimaginings, and parallel universes.) What's left is that tonal and thematic core that's often called "the spirit" of the comics, and although the quality of the X-Men films has swung about fairly wildly, they have at least been consistent in their evocation of that spirit.

Accordingly, I'm not especially interested in parsing exactly what X-Men: First Class gets "right" or "wrong," vis-à-vis the comic series. Nitpickers will doubtlessly hash it out ad nauseam somewhere on this Internet thing, as comic fanatics are wont to do. As a film, The First Class is a perfectly serviceable little actioner, one that pivots on its most simple, superficial components. These include the slick retro design by Chris Seagers, a criminally rousing score by Henry Jackman, and the charisma of a few lynchpin actors: Michael Fassbender, Rose Byrne, Jennifer Lawrence, January Jones, and an unexpected Kevin Bacon. Their agreeable presence is key, since the performances are nothing to write home about--even, lamentably, Fassbender's--hobbled as they are by the expected silliness of the dialog. Certainly, none of the principals have mastered the gratifying blend of credibility and camp that Ian McKellan and Hugh Jackman brought to earlier entries, a balancing act that allowed them to rattle off the goofiest lines with aplomb and still menace the ever loving hell out of a room.

This prequel of sorts to the filmic X-Men saga tells the secret history of a Cuban Missile Crisis packed with mutant meddlers, most prominently Sebastian Shaw (Bacon). Shaw is a cocky mastermind with the tastes of a Bond villain, who thinks World War III will make for an atom-smashing good time. Luckily for both the U.S.A. and the Evil Empire, Charles Xavier (James McAvoy) and Erik Lehnsherr (Fassbender) are on hand to stop him with a nascent team of young mutant heroes. Helming this chapter in the franchise is Matthew Vaughn, who last year delivered the incongruous and strangely overrated Kick-Ass. Vaughn at least conveys that X-Men spirit capably, and maintains a vigorous sense of momentum (often to the detriment of narrative clarity) that has thus far been lacking in the series. Unfortunately, four writing credits (including Vaughn) and two story credits (including original X-Men director Bryan Singer) is practically a recipe for committee-born tone-deafness. Hence the film's creaky aura of determinism; its typically overstuffed roster of ancillary, paper-thin characters; its suspect, should-goddamn-well-know-better treatment of minorities; and its sporadic corniness. (I counted two ironic gags about Professor X's future baldness. One is too many!)

Still, one five-second cameo and one F-bomb made the price of admission worthwhile.