Weekly Recap 8/19 - 8/25

8/19/12 Leaving Las Vegas (1995)

Click the drunk, psychologically-damaged lovers!

8/20/12 The Cabin in the Woods (2011)

It's piss poor how long it took me to finally see this, and what brand of praise hasn't already been heaped on its send-up of horror tropes? What about its... commentary on politics and infrastructure? Marty's paranoid stoner is the hyper-mindful eye of right-wing American Tea Partiers while Jenkins/Whitford are uniformed cogs of the Big Brother machine. But that means The Tea Party is backing Prop 215 and that big government mass slaughter is morally defensible. Lemme start over. 8/21/12 Goldfinger (1964) 

If From Russia With Love serves up countless touchstones in spy cinema, then Goldfinger is Guy Hamilton's return to Dr. No's pulpy shtick. It certainly hits the requisite checkmarks of Austin Powers fodder. Take its villain's ingenious scheme to irradiate the U.S. gold supply. It would've been much more enthralling if one were to discover it as it played out. Instead, the brutish entrepreneur divulges every detail to Bond and then we see all that explication unfold with the help of bumble bee-styled Korean henchmen and Ms. Pussy Galore. Goldfinger himself is a caricature. By comparison, the once over-the-top glimpses of Russia's Blofeld look subdued, so is it any wonder Fat Bastard spewed forth three decades later as Goldfinger's lampooning progeny? 8/22/12 Unbreakable (2000)

As I can attest, Sam Jackson's Mr. Glass nails the sad underpinnings of comic readers on the head -- begrudging devotees to a weekly cycle of rehashed storylines and characters. Elijah Price is a slave to the medium, fettered with vision of its potential against the monotony of DC's latest 'New 52' series. I'm hoping I wasn't alone in getting suckered to buy all those terrible "Blackest Night" tie-ins. God, this really does look dreadful but Batman torching zombies with a flame thrower? Fuck it. I probably wasn't spending that twelve dollars on anything important anyway. "We're on the same curve, just on opposite ends." To dub Shyamalan's second feature another gritty superhero flick would be dismissing a far greater message. Unbreakable,especially with a decade-plus of hindsight, tells a unique 'origin story' while digging at the impulses of our widespread obsession with caped crusaders. Its ending is, after a third viewing, less an expected "twist" so much as logical extension of two antithetical characters on the same wavelength. I've not seen The Sixth Sense in years, so one must forgive me if I rush to crown this Shyamalan's signature work.
8/23/12 The Hunger Games (2012)

Without mentioning that 'other film' this has been exhaustively compared to, The Hunger Games is an enjoyable piece of popcorn entertainment. No gun-to-my-head coercion is needed in choosing Suzanne Collins over Stephanie Meyer and her vampire baseball. That choice is reinforced by Woody Harrelson, Elizabeth Banks, Josh Hutcherson, and Jennifer Lawrence, all delivering solid performances. And yes, the premise of an annual gladiatorial reality competition le morte is interesting if still very disturbing even upon revisitation. To pose an honest question, does anyone have an inkling of what Collins is saying here through such a vague, crude metaphor? A critique of professional sports? A take-down of reality television? Stanley Tucci's blue-wigged Jacobin hairdo is fun to look at, but that the film never ventures even once to go beneath his Seacrest sycophancy is a problem. I refuse to believe after 74 years of tradition everyone in the authoritarian establishment finds this tournament morally sound. Maybe they do. If so, address that instead of giving me another thirty seconds of Donald Sutherland phoning it in. The Hunger Games could've been so much more if it weren't trying so hard to be more. From what I've heard, Collins' original book is meatier, but its adaptation has an air of undeserved importance. Hopefully, Gary Ross' departure allows that importance to come out, or I can't see these next two three going well. Does anyone else hear a cannon?
Jiro Dreams of Sushi (2011)

A single thought, that "man's reach exceeds his grasp," drives the ambition and intoxicating obsession in Christopher Nolan's The Prestige, and the phrase works, largely because its analogy rests on a simple physical assumption: arms do not grow. The eponymous chef in Jiro Dreams of Sushi defies that growth, at least mentally. He is a man, not striving for perfection so much as appreciative that striving in and of itself is a worthwhile venture. Often shot in Red One's crisp digital 4k, Jiro is visually filling if a bit lean in its substance. But judging from the chef's crash-course philosophy we receive on tuna (and life), Jiro would likely be just fine with that. Until tomorrow.
Deja Vu (2006)

Tony Scott is not a director I can express great familiarity with. I recall crowding around the glow of Top Gun at an elementary school sleepover, but even then the synths and silhouettes of "Take My Breath Away" hardly seem justified for such a posthumous outpouring of admiration. Of course, far be it from me to go with the flow in my reconciliation. Deja Vu holds its head high as a bold slice of action cinema that is too seldom attempted. While its central conceit -- a government guinea pig project that distorts time, allowing one to re-experience what's already happened -- is hokey, Scott gives a mechanical, precise delivery on the title's promise. Christoph Huber and Mark Peranson provide their own analysis on Deja Vu at Cinema Scope, and although their reading feels slightly unsupported, it's a fascinating one that doubles as a primer on a revolutionary action director's career. I think I've got more work to do.

Your one and only digital mecca to kneel and worship at the shrine of America's greatest thespian, Sir Nicolas Cage. "My Buddy is a Cage" is a weekly feature where we revisit his great and... even greater filmography, one scenery-chewing rant at a time.

Leaving Las Vegas (1995)

* * *

On my 22^nd birthday last year, I got a little cocky with the vodka tonics and had to cut myself off from the bars at a cool 10:15. I also yacked all over my jeans, which I then tossed in the shower and left under the running water as I passed out on my bed. Oh how we laugh.

Life hasn't been kind to Ben Sanderson (Cage), though he probably doesn't realize that sad fact to its fullest extent on account of his crippling alcoholism. A failed screenwriter, Ben drops everything (burns it) and departs the City of Angels for Las Vegas, where he plans to indulge in a weeks-long suicidal binge financed by hocking his remaining assets. Somewhere in the midst of his sloshed joy rides through Sin City, Ben nearly bowls over Elisabeth Shue's numbed hooker, Sera, with an 'e,' not an 'h' or an 'a.' Intrigued by his overflowing wallet and his refreshing hesitance towards intercourse, Sera takes Ben in and the pair begin an intimate, if a bit twisted, relationship. Of course, you can't pair a psychologically-damaged streetwalker with a self-destructive alcoholic and expect this to end like a Julia Roberts movie.

Until Leaving Las Vegas' final minutes, Ben is unaware of how just how deeply he’s fallen, yet he accepts what he is, maybe even relishes in it. Ben and Sera’s connection stems from that understanding, from accepting each other’s problems without taking fault. Passing no judgment. Their "twisted" relationship is also in many ways touching. Outside of a fictive space, ignoring a partner's addiction or trauma seems like a fairly terrible thing. Here, director Mike Figgis elevates (sinks?) the 'trust fall' of a relationship. I'll catch you, but I won't stop either of us from falling.

As is probably obvious, mutual ignorance never lasts, and whether by one too many vodka showers or by diminished patience, we know where this is going from its hazy inception. But that fits with every relationship Sera and Ben have. Yes, Sera hardly models a legitimate career path, but even Ben's sit-down with the big cheese plays out like a prescribed break-up scenario; I think we both knew this was coming. If there's a corporate guide to letting go of the office lush, it's probably laminated. Figgis shows us that a pair's relationship can be really, really fucked up, but that isn't so incomprehensible when their lives are really, really fucked up.



Even in my sad digital temple to Cage, I'd be remiss in ignoring that Elisabeth Shue anchors the crap out of this. Despite a life of violence and abuse, Shue sells it all with such simplicity, and that's just as well because I'm not sure I could take bear to witness two zombified man-children. Cage goes from a coolly complacent time bomb to a drooling, infantalized, semi-mobile cadaver. Ben Sanderson is more 'dead man coming' than 'dead man walking,' at least before his violent shakes of withdrawal really set in. Early on though, he's a pretty enrapturing sad sack:

I should be harsher on this film -- or at least funnier-- but Leaving Las Vegas is intoxicating in more ways than opening a window for a cliched pun. For one thing, the length of Ben's binge is scattershot in its definition since so much of him is externalized. Car rides and their jigsawed timespans go down as quickly as their driver can glug his way through another handle of Beefeater, and apologies to Kenny G, but the elevator smooth jazz might have driven me to some mechnical pencil-inspired seppuku had it not been such a clever companion. At one point, Ben's hums even directly match this banal muzack, because we're hearing what he's hearing, and if you dig what's playing, you may have a problem.

Weekly Recap 8/12 - 8/18

Blame the terseness of this week's recap on move-out week being the worst of things. I realize no influential policymakers frequent this site, but I'll say it anyway: For a city that relishes in the fact that it's so damn progressive, Madison's 'homeless day' is some seriously medieval bullshit.

8/16/12 The Bourne Supremacy (2004)

I hadn't watched this since it came out in theaters eight years ago. Maybe that explains why I forgot how great it is. Greengrass' shaky cam isn't nearly as nauseating as its parodies have conditioned me to believe, and Damon's a total BAMF, but the best part? That "Extreme Ways" exclamation point at the end. 'Get some rest, Pam. You look tired.' *CUE MOBY*

I'll be milking this for the foreseeable future, though I can see it going horribly wrong with my office's Executive Director:

-Hello, John.
-Who said that? Wh- what the hell are you doing behind my plants?
-No, don't turn around. Pretend like you don't see me.
-Give me my binoculars back. And what do you want?
-Get some rest, John. You look tired. *CUE iPHONE MOBY*
-You're fired.

Would still be worth it.

8/18/12 Lost Highway (1997)

To say a Lynch film is like a dream is akin to claiming a car accident is 'kind of like life in a way.' As impenetrable as his films tend to be, that strikes me as a pretty cheap cop out and missing the point of what he's trying to say. I'm sure there is a point here somewhere.

Lynch uses classical elements in non-traditional ways and it's pretty awesome: fades, dissolves, theatrical staging, out of body experiences, hallucinatory spats of lustful murder. Mulholland Dr. was enigmatic during my first time, so it's no surprise Lost Highway goes the same route on an initial viewing. Probably on a second one, too. And maybe a third.

8/18/12 ParaNorman (2012)

I might swear off anything that vaguely resembles Tim Burton altogether. Sorry, Neil Gaiman, but you're unfortunate collateral. ParaNorman, the adolescent chronicle of a zombie-obsessed social outcast who's actually cool with seeing dead people, has an awesome premise that it ignores after its first twenty minutes.

Laika's animation style still looks fantastic. In particular, there's some gorgeous witchery-induced clouds in the climax that resemble dyed pantyhose swirling in pools of water. I'm really struggling for praise here because I expected more from the same studio that made Coraline. Then again, that's a film whose third act bored the heck out of me. ParaNorman's got that going on, too. Just with like, all three acts.

Weekly Recap 8/5 - 8/11

A new, weekly (duh) addition to the site where I force myself to write down thoughts on my viewing habits from the past seven days. Let the great experiment begin!

8/6/12 La Haine

Fraught with tension, a fantastic Vincent Cassel performance and gorgeous black and white photography, think of La Haine as an improved version of Do The Right Thing. The film presents an objective look at the malaise of mid-90s France, but also the intricate divisions that separate us as people. Its final message, while not profound, feels organic to the story. It also helps that director Mathieu Kassovitz can distance himself from his films, a feat Spike Lee so rarely does. This steers through uneven terrain on an even keel, successfully balancing shock and humor in an experience that's not unlike holding a number two down a mile-long hallway. With La Haine, no clenching is required.

8/8/12 Gone in Sixty Seconds

Of course "My Buddy is a Cage" selections are included here. And of course you can't make me write about it twice.

8/8/12 Dr. No

A few summers ago at my grandparents' house, I came across an old shoebox filled with Polaroids and marveled at how preserved they were. Also, old people loved tight short-sleeve polos in 1956 apparently. Revisiting Dr. No felt a lot like opening up that old shoe box. As dull and stupid as the titular villain makes for both a mystery and a nemesis, it takes a great deal more to thwart Connery's charisma and charm. Its many flaws aside, Terence Young's first Bond entry remains a classy film, and that's coming from someone who tends to undervalue older cinema.

Regrettably very familiar with Austin Powers humor, I was surprised that Dr. No sets up so many iconic qualities the Mike Myers series would go on to lampoon. Mongoloid henchmen. Connery's puns and horn dog attitude. Or maybe Dr. No simply showed how little Dalton and Brosnan really contributed to the franchise. I said it, Pierce. Stick to run-by fruitings.

8/9/12 Hard Boiled

You know what? I'm glad I watched Gone in Sixty Seconds.

Maybe it's purely by comparison but Jolie and her stupid cocaine dread locks make John Woo's Hong Kong action film look like a masterpiece. I suspect had I not seen Gone, Hard Boiled would still look pretty damn great. It may sound counterintuitive for this genre, but the sound design in Woo's films always seems top notch. Action set pieces constantly one-up themselves, but the gun cocks, the shells pinging against pavement give the sequences their meat. Even the punch sound effects stand apart from the overused stock from Power Rangers episodes. You'll have to maybe just trust me on that comparison. 

8/11/12 From Russia With Love

If I had a time machine, after I became a millionaire betting on the '86 World Series, I'd slap the shit out of my thirteen year-old self that fell asleep watching From Russia With Love. 

Bond generally creates an expectation for new gadgets and hot babes, however those elements often drown out the potential intricacy and paranoia that a spy thriller can have. An invisible car is memorable because it's a pretty fucking stupid idea. Here, Q's suitcase -- with its gold sovereigns, spring-loaded throwing knife, and booby traps -- gets it right, as does the entirety of this film. One of the best Bond entries from the best Bond. Keep it simple, sweetheart.

NOTE: Now Playing Podcast's latest retrospective is in fact on none other than Agent 007, and they're doing two a week. I like to keep pace, so with multiple Bond films and the obligatory Nic Cage entry, my viewing habits have become increasingly dictated. What I mean to say is this recap might be a bumpy ride when they get to Roger Moore and I can't put off Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance any longer. Yeesh.

Your one and only digital mecca to kneel and worship at the shrine of America's greatest thespian, Sir Nicolas Cage. "My Buddy is a Cage" is a weekly feature where we revisit his great and... even greater filmography, one scenery-chewing rant at a time.

Gone in Sixty Seconds (2000)

* * *

Matchstick Men was my virginal entry into the Cage brand of heist films, and thank heavens I enjoyed it because what follows is an attempt to dissect banality in its rankest form.

When police stumble upon Christopher Eccleston's operation to jack fifty cars in three days, well-meaning fuck-up Kip Raines (Giovanni Ribisi) takes the fall, and his ex-con brother Memphis (Cage) has to pick up the slack, lest he risk his kid bro dying in some elaborate junkyard accident. With even less time and even more pressure, Memphis must corral his old posse together for one last heist, all the while evading the dopiest pair of cops (Delroy Lindo, Timothy Olyphant) this side of a Marvel sequel.

Underwhelming isn't the right word, and yet boring doesn't do justice to how contrived Gone in Sixty Seconds is. An action film with cars and one-liners was all I came in expecting, and director Dominic Sena fails to even deliver on those easily attainable checkpoints. The post-viewing ritualistic tango me and my VLC player have for each screen capture session quickly confirmed that. Gone is a film about stealing cars, but you couldn't find a noteworthy shot to steal from it. It's as if someone set out to make a genre piece, and then undercut the essential elements.

What Gone excels at is telling the viewer how to feel, mainly through what Classicists refer to as 'script bludgeoning'. Take Memphis' rag-tag squad of saps and burnouts, where the story devolves from an actual narrative into one of those audio headsets they hand out on cheap tours: This one's the tech guy. This one's the hacker guy. This one's the strong silent guy. This guy's really a tomboy who shares a forlorn love story with Nic Cage that we won't try to hamfist into the story for another forty-five minutes. If your high school TV production class remade Ocean's Eleven, it would rival the modicum of screen presence these mouthbreathing dipshits collectively muster up. Their sole purpose is as a Chino-bred Greek chorus: That ride is so sick! Jolie is so fine! I don't understand what any of you jagweeds are saying. Everyone is so impressed and astonished with each other, and precisely none of that admiration is earned. It's as if the screenwriters showed so little confidence in their characters that they anticipated viewers' similar reactions and crammed in emotional street signs to make sure we were watching this turd the right way.

Oh, and Angelina Jolie as "Sway." THE FUCK. From the oh-so-forced bad girl motorcycle to the oh-so-forced blonde dreads, Jolie is utter dreck. Only a twad pocket with a name like 'Memphis Raines' could have a thing for this woman. What is attractive about this character? More importantly, is it possible to be so laid back you topple over? The burnout look works for a select group of new age femme fatales, but "Sway" is no Marla Singer. The nappy hairstyle and oversized trench coat reek of an incoherent heroin addict who drinks water (?) out of gasoline jugs.

The stupidest.

With its endless buildup to a mega heist that is neither interesting or satisfying, Gone in Sixty Seconds is blue balls on cinema. Early on, Scott Caan's stupid character, whose stupid nickname I can't even remember, utters some pointless throwaway anecdote about his latest sex act, "The Stranger," where he sits on his hand until it numbs and then proceeds to nurk his throbber to climax. Someone's jerking me off here, and I'm not sure who.

As if to hammer its short-changing home, Gone doesn't even dispense with the Cage as I've now come to expect, or in this case, desperately crave. Early on, he hams it up in a dealership, sniffing out the whereabouts of a '67 Shelby Mustang GT, the heist's crown jewel, but excising the general blah of Memphis as a character, it's minor. I guess if the prospect of Cage pleading into a steering wheel sounds appetizing, bottom's up:

A suspension of disbelief is endemic to a large majority of narrative films. Gone in Sixty Seconds is a suspension of disinterest, and it does not succeed. I don't care about 'Memphis Raines,' his terrible pornstar moniker or his sloppily etched backstory. He's got a backstory with that '67 Ford MacGuffin. He's got a backstory with the local fuzz. He's got a backstory with a blonde-haired sewer rat. Everything in this is abbreviated and frustrating, melting together in a paradoxically lethargic 118 minutes. I care so very little.

A small rush of relief washed over me when Master P popped up onscreen, a sentence never before committed to the internet. 

Review Askewniverse

I picked up Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back last week, but before I blew a whopping $2.99 for the thing I wondered whether the two discs were really worth a low price. Of course, three bucks for any double-disc set is usually worth it. But I felt compelled by my own jabs at the director -- and their ensuing contradiction with my bargain purchase -- to revisit the less-than-savory side of Kevin Smith's View Askewniverse. After all, a guy with this rabid of a following has to be onto something. Right?

Jay and Silent Bob is an unapologetic 100 minute extension of two very entertaining, and very minor, ancillary characters from Smith's "Jersey Chronicles" of films. And I really do mean unapologetic. From its peppering of fart jokes to the smattering of stoner humor and the pillaging of Shannon Elizabeth's knockout status, Jay and Silent Bob should by all means be a one-note travesty that panders to the lowest common denominator. In a lot of ways it is, just not completely. If this film succeeds on any level, it is through its criticism of... well, everybody: Scream; Good Will Hunting, especially Ben Affleck and Matt Damon; Dawson's Creek; Star Wars; the ironic love-hate relationship of film criticism and sad movie bloggers. The film's best scene involves the stoner protagonists running into Affleck's Holden McNeil -- himself a callback to Smith's Chasing Amy -- where he unleashes a barrage of insults on the sheer stupidity behind the prospect of making a Jay and Silent Bob movie:

There's something to be admired about Kevin Smith in what I presume here is a handsome mouthpiece. Affleck's ability to rip himself a new one is always appreciated, however general self-deprecation grows in abundance, and nowhere is that more apparent than in the film's criticism of itself. If there's a sole target of Jay and Silent Bob's irreverent criticism, it is squarely of its own existence.

Despite its in-references and meta-nature though, Jay and Silent Bob is not a good film, in part from its boring second act. Normally, the injection of Will Ferrell -- here as a Federal Wildlife Marshal -- into anything ought to liven up the comedic factor, but the contrived presence of a orangutan dampens his impact, and much of the film is left to skirt on the titular characters' crude responses in awkward situations. There's no effort to separate in-jokes from the diegesis and for all its criticism, the film doesn't so much as mutter a definitive statement. If Smith has anything to say here, he's answering the glaring question of why a movie about two stoners and a monkey was made in the first place. For all involved, that answer is a very self-aware WHY THE FUCK NOT.

With all the schlock that Hollywood already churns out, the internal criticism comes as a relief, especially when paired with Smith's jabs at the industry. In a hauntingly spot-on observation, Mallrats' Brodie Bruce -- like Affleck, Jason Lee plays two separate characters -- postulates that after the success of X-Men, studios would inevitably purchase as many character rights as they could get their grubby little hands on. While early decade releases like Daredevil don't exactly constitute tentpole franchises, it's hard to look back at the past ten years and not see Smith as some overweight, niche version of a twenty-first century Nostradamus.

Bear with me as I wrestle with that observation.

"Clerks is drawn before a live studio audience."

While Jay and Silent Bob embraced the utter juvenalia of its two protagonist stoner heroes, 1994's Clerks sketched the disillusionment of an up and coming generation. So if you were to ask that same "glaring question of why" here, I'm not sure Smith would have an answer for you. As much as I laugh at the jokes in the unnecessary Clerks II, I certainly don't have one. Clerks: The Animated Series was an ill-fated spinoff attempt to port Smith's first film onto television, and its termination comes as no surprise. Once Smith made that first statement in 1994, there really wasn't anywhere else to go from there.

Or so one would think.

The series' first chapter-- no, the entire six-chapter series so far as I could discern from 10 minutes of internet scrounging -- is bereft of what the Hollywood squares would dub a 'title.' Dante, screwed once more out of his off day, and Randall, screwing with everyone on any day, bear witness to the return of Alec Baldwin's Leonardo Leonardo, a hometown golden boy and dead ringer for a Count Dooku/Bela Lugosi love child. Initially, Dante and Randall are relieved when the very customers they despise begin flocking away from the Quick Stop to Leonardo's upstart Quicker Stop. The premise is a clever example of wish fulfillment for our indifferent duo, but also a preservation of Clerks' criticism of American consumer culture.

Navigating the show's brief six-episode run length is still a programming morass, as ABC refused to air more than two of them, and even those were censored and shown out of production order. Clerks' second episode rehashes Dante's "day off" protestations, albeit to the nth degree. His room bathed in dirty laundry, Dante's dog is actually the one in bed, and his owner has begrudingly taken to the floor. This is familiar territory, but I think that's a good thing. Penned with Paul Dini of Batman: The Animated Series fame, Smith and Seinfeld's David Mandel really bare their teeth in this. Ushering in a string of cutaways and flashbacks, the second chapter tears into those Friends episodes that constructed flimsy narratives around past highlights. Unlike NBC programming however, having only one episode under your belt is plenty for the Askewniverse. They'll just make stuff up to throw in anyway:

The show's intentions seem well ahead of its time, using the sitcom format to comment on the genre itself, and with such a striking similarity to many of Community's quirks, it's worth wondering how an outlet like the A.V. Club would have received Clerks had it run today. Who am I kidding, would this ever succeed? Much of the material is too self-referential, and when it's not making in-jokes, Clerks is just plain blunt. Of course Dante and Randall thwart a masked agenda in that first twenty-two minute episode, but not because Leonardo's Frankenstein of a shopping center and its surplus of Matryoshka-styled coffee bars is driving the Quick Stop under. They don't want their customers back anymore than Dante wants to roll out from under his laundry every morning; Leonardo is just a pompous dick that needs to be taken down, and likably lazy our antiheroes remain.

You can blame my appreciation on Dini's involvement or the animation style's striking resemblance to Genndy Tartakovsky's Clone Wars miniseries, but there's a lot to appreciate about Smith's brief foray into television. Perhaps, it's because his cel-shaded characters never soapbox against online critics with that same ferocity of Holden McNeil.

Then again, why would that kind of a soapbox offend me?

Your one and only digital mecca to kneel and worship at the shrine of America's greatest thespian, Sir Nicolas Cage. "My Buddy is a Cage" is a weekly feature where we revisit his great and... even greater filmography, one scenery-chewing rant at a time.

Kick-Ass (2010)

* * *

I wasn't brave enough to make Ghost Rider my first foray into the world of Cage comic book films, however I must admit something. When I first saw Matthew Vaughn's Kick-Ass in theaters, I was severely underwhelmed. In hindsight, my lukewarm reaction was probably more due to the original comic, specifically its author: Mark Millar. Back when I religiously frequented Monroe Street's Capital City Comics (or maybe back when I didn't realize $4.00 an issue was one hell of a get poor quick scheme), I tried following Millar's work and just didn't get it. The edginess was trying too hard. The volcanic blood splatter felt excessive. The streams of curses seemed forced.

Two and a half years later? It's still Millar's fault.

High schooler Dave Lizewski (Aaron Johnson) has little in common with Peter Parker, but he certainly isn't Oliver Queen, either. He's just... another regular guy. What separates Dave from his apathetic classmates though is a single crazy idea, becoming local superhero Kick-Ass. Although his amateurish stunt-making secures him with an online fanbase, Dave's moonlighting also incurs the wrath of New York mobster Frank D'Amico (Mark Strong) and his criminal empire. Fortunately, Dave also gets the attention of ex-cop Big Daddy (Cage) and his sidekick daughter Hit-Girl (Chloe Moretz), and their new alliance seems like it will put D'Amico down once and for all. Too bad the kingpin's son, Chris (Christopher Mintz-Plasse), would do anything to get in his father's good graces. Chris poses as his own faux-hero, Red Mist, and in an undercover operation, hatches a plan to dispatch the masked usurpers once and for all. What follows is a lot of edginess, a lot of curses, and a lot of that blood splatter.

As I understand it, the source material's "Icon" imprint is owned by Marvel Comics, however all of Icon's creators have greater control over their original properties when compared to penning the latest Daredevil story arc. In the case of Kick-Ass, control is a good thing. Director Matthew Vaughn and Millar actually collaborated on both projects simultaneously, but where it gets interesting is the resonance of Vaughn's narrative changes: Dave's high school crush Katie Deauxma isn't a pain in the ass. Big Daddy's actions stem from relatable motivations. Red Mist becomes more sympathetic. Gone is much of the contrived cynicism in Millar's comics writing, and it's for the best.

That said, Kick-Ass remains a severely self-aware film, and it's quite proud of that, rejoicing in all its gory, edgy glory. Despite the garish color scheme -- and the brilliance of the juxaposed aesthetic --this is not a pretty film. It looks bad. Maybe that's because everything reeks of CGI, but I'd like to believe 2010 standards were higher than this. Computer-generated fire. Computer-generated blood. Computer-generated jetpacks. For a film that can feel so visceral and gritty, the penny-pinching and green screens were less of an uppercut and more of a tap to the nuts.

Fortunately, my 2010 standards didn't align here either, because Kick-Ass does a lot of things right. As much as I rip on the CGI'ed blood, Vaughn arrives at the splatter with inventive knife kills behind flashy punk rock stylization. Yes, this is a self-indulgent film, but it's mostly the good kind. What feels like a rarity for the genre, the action constantly one-ups itself. It's also abbreviated, but not like, say, Batman Begins, where it's impossible to see what's going on at times. The cuts in Kick-Ass, and I hate to draw the comparison, truncate events like a comic page layout.

Did I mention the subject matter complements the action? "With no power comes no responsibility. Except that wasn't true." Now there's a novel idea for a comic book movie. Dave Lizewski calls himself out. But he's also calling out all of us. You, and me, and those onlookers in our would-be hero's viral debut:

Rather than go out and do anything about the bad stuff, people prefer to shove culpability to some unknown other, shutting themselves in and writing on their sad, crappy blogs. It's a fascinating dissection of the belief that being power-less isn't synonymous with being powerless. Kick-Ass is actually more interesting when it’s not kicking ass, but rather when its characters are unmasked, or in this instance, when the concept itself ditches the theatricality.

Chloe Moretz, fantastic as Hit-Girl, is essential in elevating material that might be hammy in the hands of a less capable young actor. She pulls off dropping a few "cunts" as well as she pulls some real emotional heft in her moments with Cage, the latter of which one might consider an insult, provided they don't already obsess over the man on a weekly basis. This is a damn great Nicolas Cage performance. He guffaws and chuckles as Big Daddy, but those fleshed out motivations Vaughn adds stop this vengeful ex-cop from being simply that. Big Daddy is driven by retribution not escapism -- that's more of Dave's department anyway -- so there's a humanity behind every 'aww shucks' Cage delivers:

As we learn from his very first appearance, Cage plays a man warped from his own twisted ambition, but that doesn't remove his warmth as a father figure. Of course he has a sick relationship with his daughter, but that's a key ingredient in a film that is very much a discussion of paternal failure. In a surprise to precisely no one, many parents objected to the prospect of a child slicing baddies' throats in such a joyous presentation. But Kick-Ass isn't without its own internal conscience, much of which neuters the natural masculinity in the genre. Quite obviously, the biggest, ahem, ass kicker, is an eleven year-old girl, and she gets to be so bad ass because of her father's obssession. That's a problem, and it's pointed out. On the other hand, Mintz-Plasse's Red Mist is the bratty perversion of Bruce Wayne, using his resources not to do good or solve crimes, rather only to give the appearance of those things. Dave's own motivations are ultimately seeded in the superficial. It’s an interesting commentary on the hero aesthetic and the public persona as much as it is a wink at the inherent nature of the genre's built-in PR machine. That giant 'S' on Superman's cape? It's a symbol, but if you ask Kick-Ass, it's a flying billboard, too.

Side Note: On the subject of masks, it's worth mentioning the futility of the superhero costume in Kick-Ass. I don’t know if Hit-Girl and Big Daddy knew Kick-Ass was Dave Lizewski because of their reverse IP trace, from a background check or whatever, but such a grounded concept -- at least on paper, if not in the climax -- really shouldn't ignore this. As an example, Christian Bale's Bat-voice sounds absurd because he doesn’t want to sound like Christian Bale. If I lived in the same town as a kid who talked like Christopher Mintz-Plasse, as soon as Red Mist opened his stupid mouth on live television, I’d probably think Hey, that guy sounds a hell of a lot like Christopher Mintz-Plasse. For a story so concerned with the consequences of donning a cape and mask, it really took me out of the film. Now if you'll excuse me, I should probably lie down for a bit.

The Dark Knight Rises! Review! Cross-Promotion!

It wouldn't make much sense to not actually review the damn movie, right? 

Well, I did. Just not here. Click below and head over to the Off Duty Mime.

Three Batman Ideas You Don't Care About

It should go without saying, but SPOILERS BE AHEAD.

Ask half of the IGN Comics staff and they'll swear to you that Alex Pappademas of Grantland definitely wasn't the first to conceive of a Gotham Central weekly procedural, but if there's one way The CW will get my attention it's definitely with a Law & Order meets Batman television series:

In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by 

two separate yet equally important grops: the police, who 

investigate crimes; and the district attorneys, who prosecute the 

offenders. 

There's also a Batman.

If Mariska jumps on board, all the better. Take my money, Warner Bros. Here! Just take it already, dammit!

Alas, I fear the days of a live action Batman show are no more, and the most realistic options remain another animated incarnation and the -- dare I say dreaded? -- franchise reboot. This was inevitable, right? Nolan gives much more than an inch, and the universe promptly requests a mile in return. I don't think sticking the mask on Joseph Gordon-Levitt is the obvious choice here, though, and that's for several reasons:

They have very little. 


Let's face it; the future of DC Comics on film doesn't look so bright without Batman. Man of Steel is due out next summer and there's that Green Lantern sequel (?) waiting in the wings. Other than that, though... With its half-assed Justice League announcement, Warner Bros. is obviously looking to exploit DC's other comic properties before bringing out the caped crusader again. Creative could definitely make a filmic iteration work, too. For Aquaman you could play up the King of Atlantis stuff and th- pfft who am I kidding? This would never work. Remember how Twentieth Century Fox nixed Wolverine's bright yellow spandex for Hugh Jackman? Well, Warner Bros. has like, seven Wolverines to deal with. On that note...

They're already behind.


As in both financially and figuratively. Fortunately, the studio has little excuse not to slap that oh so pleasing 3D post-conversion stamp now that Mr. Nolan is moving on. That's a good thing, yes? No? And despite The Dark Knight Rises' impressive first week showings, even hyped IMAX demand can't compete with those damn 3D gla$$es. The Avengers are the box office overlords this summer, and they'll probably stay on top for a while. DC and Warner Bros. are going need to do some serious thinking if they want to stay relevant in this superhero genre with more than two properties. And let's not even consider the success of another Avengers movie in two years. By that point, if Stan Lee is still kicking, let's just throw the man on the next presidential ballot and pledge national servitude.

Closure.


Talk until you're blue in the face about how Joker is Batman's greatest enemy; for any comic book tent pole, the biggest baddie will always be Captain Closure. Despite that ending montage, it turns out The Dark Knight Rises ties everything up quite nicely. John Blake is there at the end, but he's a thematic thread, not an excuse for a sequel. I read his character as more in service to the idea of a symbol's power to inspire, to be "more than just a man." The "Robin" wink was either cool or groan-inducing, depending on who you talked to. Personally, I wish they would've said his legal name was "Nightwing."

More to the point, give me a story idea in this pre-constructed universe that wouldn't feel derivative. Can you think of one? Can any member of this courtroom today think of one? The prosecution rests, your honor. *cues Gotham Central theme*

We'll see another Batman movie before the end of this decade. That's a fact. While those 3D price hikes put Marvel in first place this year, Batman remains the most popular hero. Sure, Tony Stark has his snark, and you can't go wrong with your friendly neighborhood Spider-man, but Bats takes the cake. Hands down. Even my parents, grown adults in their mid-fifties, saw The Dark Knight in theaters. These are two people who normally think 100 minutes is "pushin it" for a 4 o'clock Sunday matinee. Joss Whedon's great and all, but Avengers is no cultural phenomenon. A cultural phenomenon happens when a baseball podcast gets sidetracked talking about The Dark Knight Rises. Which it did.

Maybe Twins fans just need all the entertainment they can get this summer, or maybe my ears are just pressed to the wrong channels. I doubt it, though. Batman rules, so here are three obligatory possibilities:

Blake-man Begins



Won't happen. Hit me up on PayPal if you really want to test this. Still, I enjoy these self-indulgent blog posts oh so much, and I've spoken with others who have seen it and suggested this route, so it wouldn't seem fair to breeze over such a huge possibility. 

I like Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Judging from the buzz about Rian Johnson's Looper, I think he would make a fine action lead. That said, I'll repeat my previous question: What story is there left to tell in this universe?

I don't think there is one, not one worth a $150 million investment. Judging from the hype/backlash machine Rises has spawned, Christopher Nolan was his own biggest threat to delivering on such high expectations. So really, what schmoe would have the balls to step into the Nolan-verse and add a fourth film to this much finality? Maybe Shyamalan. So like, we get Drew Barrymore for Poison Ivy right, but she's actually Bruce's mother because get this, his parents AREN'T dead. So when Mark Wahlberg comes back in the twist... 

These last three films are neither conclusive nor are they final, but they are pretty damn definitive. If you're trying to match Jordan's threepeats, switch to tennis. Obligatory sports analogy.

Introduce Robin

Not "that" one. The actual Robin. Or an actual one, I guess. If Rises proved one thing, it's that there are situations where Batman can't win by himself. But start with the team already intact. No more origin stories for the love of Jeebus. Make Batman and Robin already a thing before credits even roll. Give me a cold open where they tag team Killer Croc in the Gotham Sewers.

This is also an easy way to not stray too far from Nolan's films while still keeping the material fresh. Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely did just that and more. Not only did they put milquetoast Dick Grayson under the Batman cowl, but Robin was the badass little shit. They also upped the weird factor with their story arcs: one of Bruce's ex-girlfriends survives a gaping gunshot wound to the head and seeks revenge on the Dynamic Duo; Jason Todd, the lamest, deadest Robin, returns from the grave as Red Hood to tarnish Batman's standing in Gotham; Batman and Robin go up against Professor Pyg, a psychopath obsessed with body mutilation, and his Circus of the Strange, where Gothamites are controlled by psychic doll masks permanently glued to their faces. Awesome.

Morrison & Quitely even devised a "Batman VS. Robin" story arc where, well you get the idea.  Batman and Robin doesn't have to be this awkward, homoerotic codpiece thing either, especially if you were to mind the age gap between the two. But then maybe that would be too Greek.

Batman Beyond

Forget those other ideas. This is what Warner Bros. should do with the Batman property, because as far as I'm concerned, every board exec diligently follows me on Twitter. For an animated series, Batman Beyond is one dark and brooding meditation on its predecessor. 

It's hard to argue that the futuristic Matrix-steam punk thing wouldn't visually set this apart from the Nolan-verse. But if Warner Bros. gets antsy about straying too far, Beyond has the built-in convenience of staying grim in tone. It also gives the studio a chance to inject more humor into the franchise. I laugh out loud plenty watching The Dark Knight, but it's no Tony Stark Roasts The Avengers. Enter Terry McGinness, a smart ass punk who dons a futuristic upgrade of the Batsuit under the begrudging mentorship of, yup, bitter old Bruce Wayne. McGinness is much more Spidey with a cowl than he is Kevin Conroy's gloomy take on Wayne. A wise-cracking Batman with a crotchety veteran's limitless resources? I'm in.

You could even introduce all those villains that probably wouldn't work as well before like Clayface or a Mr. Freeze that doesn't blow ass. Not to mention the series has plenty of its own villains to mine ideas from. And for those clamoring for it, here's a chance for a different take on The Joker, and one that wouldn't be a slight on Ledger's performance. Hell, throw in Harley Quinn while you're at it. Give directorial control to District 9's Neil Blomkamp or Duncan Jones from Moon. Better yet, give it to Fincher and tell him to bring his Se7en sensibilities along.

When's this movie supposed to be coming out?

Your one and only digital mecca to kneel and worship at the shrine of America's greatest thespian, Sir Nicolas Cage. "My Buddy is a Cage" is a weekly feature where we revisit his great and... even greater filmography, one scenery-chewing rant at a time.

Matchstick Men (2003)

* * *

I'll watch anything with Sam Rockwell in it. Duncan Jones and Moon saw to that. It's through fortunate happenstance then that this week's film has Nic Cage in it, too. And yes, this is the form my delusion is taking.

On the subject of my many delusions, I feel I must admit to another one, for my prior understanding of Cage needs an addendum. Before I believed that nothing short of a gag and a commanding director were required to keep the hammy actor at bay. I was wrong:

Roy Waller (Cage) is a con man in a perpetual state of half-insanity, as he suffers from a series of nervous tics and a terrible bout of obsessive compulsive disorder; not the best combo for soloing a heist. Fortunately, his partner Frank Mercer (Rockwell) is a much better public face for this two-man operation. At the behest of Frank, Roy sees a new psychiatrist (Bruce Altman) who suggests the eccentric matchstick man come to terms with past mistakes, a process that leads him to connect with his now teenage daughter Angela (Alison Lohman).

I would divulge into more of the plot but it's really best if one goes into this film knowing as little as possible. Ridley Scott's adaptation of Eric Garcia's novel fancies itself a sleek, smart-assed heist film, and if you were to switch to Olympic basketball exhibition games after fifteen minutes, you'd probably agree. Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mercer, and Bobby Darin all saturate Matchstick Men, nearly to the point of watering it down as a derivative copycat hot on the heels of 2002's most excellent Catch Me If You Can. To its credit though, this is a film that works very well on two separate levels. 

As evidenced by that half-synopsis, there is a human element to the relationships explored here. Alison Lohman is convincing as all hell, playing a 14 year old girl despite being 22 at the time. With Cage's nervous tics and a sanitary penchant that would even rival Howard Hughes, this script faced a very real threat of devolving their bond into a clone of I Am Sam. Fortunately, it never goes there, and that's mainly thanks to that second level.


After all, it wouldn't be a heist film without a con. Rarely do I miss an opportunity to polish Christopher Nolan's cinematic shaft, but it's not a stretch to suggest that Matchstick Men is the 'grifter's equivalent' of The Prestige. The latter is a cerebral fable of obsession and dedication, specifically to magic illusions, and precisely because the film itself doubles as sleight of hand. Matchstick's story is a ruse, too, right from that slicked back opening credit sequence. You might think you have this film figured out, as did I, but probably only a portion of it. 

One of at least 150 "Best of Nic Cage" YouTube videos out there -- if I were making an educated guess -- features a scene from Matchstick Men, and while it is very Cage-y, it occurs when Roy is at a breaking point, so I buy it. Having just botched a pretty big con, Roy discovers that he's all out of the pink pills Bruce Altman's been handing him under the table. Of course, all those twitches and kicks eventually catch up to him. And of course, one can pass time by obsessively sterilizing apartment furniture for only so long. Thus, Roy Waller's trip to the pharmacy:

Spielberg will always have a sleak, polished feel that so rarely delves into the controversial. At first, I didn't understand what attracted to Scott to this project, but I think this might be part of it. Despite the easy listening soundtrack and its starched and collared presentation on the surface, Matchstick Men ain't afraid to get its hands dirty, so the sly touch of menace here separates it from Catch Me If You Can. This isn't a feel-good story so much as it is a balancing act, a temporary one of course, as all good heist films show the temptation of that EXIT sign. By the end, we know Roy's winking at us; it's just before then where those winks might be tics.