Jack Reacher

This film was pretty much Tom Cruise having a wank for 130 minutes.

And I paid to go see it.

Movie review:  Casino

Casino is a two hour film that runs for three. 

Directed by Martin Scorcese in 1995, with main characters De Niro as casino boss (Sam Rothstein), Joe Peschi as his partner in crime (Nicky Santoro), and Sharon Stone (as a whore).  It’s based on Rothstein’s shady rise to power in Vegas in the 80’s and documents his struggles throughout an unfortunate marriage to a harlot, coupled with an increasingly erratic and violent Santoro, whose gory methods culminate in the film’s climax.

The film set a Guiness world record for swearing, and managed to use the word “fuck” 2.4 times per minute.  By the time you’ve read up to here they’ve already said fuck twice. 

Sharon Stone plays a drugged-out strumpet, and very successfully.  On screen she could portray a desperation that’s not been rivalled since her career ended in the 90s.  I suspect she must have hated her life.

The movie was narrated throughout by Rothstein and Santoro.  It was a convenient, if not lazy, device by Scorcese in communicating the details he didn’t have the time or energy to convey in other ways.  And, of course, his characters were palpable copies of those he created in Goodfellas: Rothstein as a likeable and cognisant bloke whose obsession with money leads him unwillingly into a life of crime, and Santoro who plays a manic sociopath who pursues power in a path to self-destruction. 

De Niro produced an accomplished display in his typecast gangster facade. Curiously his wardrobe resembled a box of crayons as he wore a different coloured suit in every scene, matching coloured tie, shirt, pants, shoes.  His character was supposed to be Jewish, but in Goodfellas his character was Italian so all I saw was an Italian.  Despite the oversized glasses.

Pesci was brilliant as Santoro, and his role as a psychotic midget produced a juxtaposition that made his violence all the more...violent.  When he entered a scene the camera generally had to zoom out to get his head in the frame given his economic stature.  And yet I noted with amusement his Tyrannosaurus-Rex reach didn’t inhibit his capacity to maim: I thoroughly enjoyed watching him murder gangsters, in one scene jamming a fountain pen into a man’s neck a dozen times.  And he doesn’t have elbows - his little T-Rex forearms come straight out of the shoulders - so he had to get really close and personal with the man just to be able to stab his thorax.  Brilliant. 

Scorcese delivers a suitable fate for all the characters, if not a little harsh with Santoro.  I found this character to be a loyal, devoted bloke who got hoodwinked by a tart and copped a whack that eclipsed any inconvenience laid out to a villain that I can recall.

While about an hour too long, I guess Scorcese drew this film out as he knows the story, the characters and backdrop are winners, which they surely are.  While undeniably gratuitous, this film is a good time.   But Goodfellas deserved to own those blokes outright without some other film cheapening their genius.

But then again, it’s their genius and they’ll do whatever the fuck they like with it.  Four stars. 

Movie review: Prometheus.

I won’t go too far into the plot with this review because if you plan on watching this film, and I suggest you do, then you won’t want to know how it pans out.

Creator of the Alien franchise Ridley Scott directed this prequel to the series, documenting a group of scientists in their two year voyage across the universe to answer what they believe is a call from an alien life force.

This film stars Michael Fassbender from Xmen: First Class and Inglourious Basterds, as he plays a homosexual robot (like C-3P0 but not orange).  Fassbender manages to create a somehow humanised character out of this machine; an achievement not shared by all the actors in this film, most of which being played by actual humans.

Charlize Theron’s character is running the expedition, a dominatrix-type in spandex whose primary skill is in somehow... somehow... managing to appear in no way attractive at any point.  Her mouth is moving and she’s saying some pretty awesome things like “My room, ten minutes” but delivers as though she’s thinking about her grandparents being at the premiere.

She could take some tips from Noomi Rapace (playing Elizabeth Shaw) who, even though her face has been ravaged by a few run-ins with the ugly brush, managed to make a self-caesarean look sexy.  If you can picture the scene: lying on her back in an enclosed capsule, near naked with mere bandages covering her inexplicables and clearly fresh off a workout in the studio gym; a machine laser cuts open her stomach, pulling a squealing octopus-alien from between her pancreas and colon, dark placenta dumped on her chest as she rips the umbilical cord from her ruptured woman-ness, blackened blood spraying the walls of her enclosure, all the while slippy octopi is lunging and squirming and grappling to get back inside its mother to complete the lovingness of incubation; and if you can avoid the frames where the camera pans to her head – it’s actually quite a sexy scene. 

Charlize Theron, meanwhile, is staggering about in the background in her tight pants like a foal on stilts, as though she’s wearing heels for the first time, waving her arms in the air and pleading for the audience’s attentions.  Being on the wrong side of young, maybe she should give up the lie and take on more realistic roles; perhaps memoirs of a monarch, or she could play a banged up old lesbian-whore from Michigan, who, again, somehow manages the significant achievement of making a lesbian sex-scene with Christina Ricci absolutely and unequivocally unsexy.  It’s downright wrong if not plain rude.  We’ve all watched Monster and there’s no coming back from that.  Ever. 

So moving away from the gory acting; this film is wall to wall special effects that’s outdone everything that’s come before it.  As blogger Wordswithfriendz noted, this movie belonged in the 90s.  While that’s true, fuck it, the 90s was awesome and give me more of it.

We’re not here for the acting - which is ideal because outside Fassbender it’s largely absent - we’re here for an escape to another world.  And Ridley Scott delivers.  The man-aliens were awesome, and while I was a tad confused about what they were angry about it didn’t matter.  Watching them kill people was brilliant.

And if you’re one of those people who think it’s too far-fetched to consider alien worlds may exist, have a look outside your car window... ours is ludicrous.

Four stars. 

Movie Review:  Machine Gun Preacher

Never heard of this film?  Neither had I when I rented it.  Relativity Media lulled me in like one of those whores who pretends she’s not a whore until it’s too late and you’re $300 down and she’s one trick closer to her dreams coming true.

A brief shake-down on the plot, which is based on the true story of a drug-using bikie (Gerard Butler, Scottish guy from 300) who finds God somewhere in Pennsylvania and takes Him to Uganda to rescue a bunch of children from the clutches of Joseph Kony’s Lord’s Resistance Army.

The film opens with a chaotic scene in Africa, any country in Africa will do.  A village is burning to the ground, children are running about inefficiently and women are probably being raped.  

I could see where the director was going, and I tried to care, but if you’re going to dust off and repackage a classic “isn‘t it terrible over there” scene then you’d want to do better than a few wailing women and burning shacks.  Relativity Media please note we’re past 1999: viewers are desensitised to violence and more sensitive about low budgets.  I’m not saying people are getting smarter, stupidity is permanent, but I am suggesting if you can’t afford to make a movie, how about not making one?   Zombieland, Fast and Furious, Evan Almighty, Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang, Contraband (another of my favourites) to list but a few pearlers in an esteemed list of productions that stack chronologically on IMBD like a sick mongrel’s faecal expulsion, the last of which to be sprayed onto television screens throughout the Western world so that overweight white people can sit in their padded seats and pretend to feel sorry for Africans for an hour and twenty nine minutes.  

Gerard Butler fits awkwardly into the bad boy cliché: Harley Davidson singlet, queer tight leathers; the kind of bad guy your mum would hash up.  Butler struggles with an American accent throughout – in fact his only moments of acting plausibility is during those brief moments where he forgets his fumbling American facade and reverts to the mother tongue.  And let’s face it he’s the Scottish guy from 300.  His agent did him a massive disservice casting his first break-through film with a Scottish accent – it’s the quickest way to slap a glass roof on a young man’s acting career is to typecast him as British. 

Anyway, I can’t really comment on any other aspect of the film as I switched the bastard off after about 25 minutes.  I guess the intense empathy I had for the hero’s plight was too much for me.

1 star.

Movie Review: Contraband

Movie Review: Contraband

This film was directed by Baltasar Kormákur, the man responsible for The Amazing Truth About Queen Raquela, Brúðguminn, Summerland, and other movies you’ve never heard of.   His resume is not what brought me to watch this film; I was compelled by a faceless marketing team who managed to convince me to spend $36AUD, dragging myself and the Mrs’ sorry arse from the couch in doing so.

Upon leaving the cinema my post-purchase satisfaction ebbed at an all-time low.  I noted, with discomfort, the lack of legislative protection for a consumer in my position.  In failing to entertain me and keep the Mrs happy the product failed to comply with its implied job description, however you still can‘t get your money back (trust me, I’ve tried).

Despite having a Nordic director it’s actually an American remake of the Icelandic screenplay Reykjavik-Rotterdam, which sounds about as interesting as it probably was.  And without confusing you, I’ve just read that the director of Contraband, Baltasar Kormákur, played the main character in the original Icelandic version.  And if that doesn’t have bollocks written all over it, then I’m a Dutchman sporting a monkey’s arse as a hat.

So if you’re thinking of watching this film: awesome.  It’s about a career criminal gone straight, yet forced back into a life of crime to prevent his brother in law from being killed after a drug deal gone wrong.

The main character, Chris Farraday (played by Mark Wahlberg) is on the surface a bad guy we are supposed to think is actually a good guy.  The plot is therefore conveniently centred on this reformed career criminal who claims a lack of positive role models led him into a life of crime.  Of course for the benefit of the film we’re expected to buy this tott the scriptwriters are selling us - and let’s be honest the general calibre of moron either side of me in the dimly-lit cinema, mouths slightly open, sitting comfortable in the filthy seats while stuffing their faces and rustling bags with their incessant fiddling into over-priced packets of gluttony - these morons were probably soaking in the bullshit like a dry sponge, ready and willing to take the poison from the vile chalice.  Suck it in, suck it in deep.  For a person like me, and undoubtedly you, this weary explanation falls short of being convincing; probably only succeeding in contributing to the widely held belief that nothing is within a man’s control.  Not my fault, my parents were never there, I had no education; I’m poor, indigenous, etc.  It’s the last resort of the lazy, keeping their prospects firmly rooted in the ghettos. 

Video games don’t play themselves.

So anyway our hero is forced to ply his underworld skills, against his will, and with adventurous outcomes. Whalberg acted well enough, his character Not Departed from any other role he’s played out: a slightly petulant and misunderstood battler with a bad temper and a knack for getting away with things.  The hard-luck story America loves so much on screen and has zero time for in actuality.

The pace is good and a few anxious moments entertained, however there’s serious confusion as to whom we are supposed to hate, and not because the characters are complex or multifaceted, but because they are fractured, contradicting, inconsistent.  The early bad-guy - a drug dealer played by Giovanni Ribisi - by the end of the film his principal affront was of the hygenic nature.  As the plot developed the ‘real’ bad guy turned out to be Sebastian Abney, played by Ben Foster, AKA crazy skinny white drug addict from Alpha- Dog - no, not Justin Timberlake the other one.   Yet, and I'm sure this wasn't the filmmakers' intention, but he was more of a pseudo-psycho: not psycho enough to really hate the man and not psycho enough to validate his actions at the end of the film.  Both villains were a muted, slightly vacant version of a character we wanted to hate, preventing any meaningful connection with the story and robbing the film’s climax of its believability.

Perhaps the most disappointing outcome was the fact Reykjavik-Rotterdam flagrantly lifted the brilliant character from Alpha-Dog, actor and all, dumped him in this film, and set about having his way with it.  It would be an improvement if he did away with the falsities and dragged across the script, word for word.  No doubt this would add confusion and probably be illegal but at least we wouldn’t have to witness the vicious molestation of some other bloke’s genius.

One final gripe; there’s a lot of kissing between Wahlberg and his wife, Kate Beckingsale, which in itself was an outright lie as married people don’t pash, but it also served as a distraction from the plot.  I’m trying to get lost in the script however I’m otherwise employed reflecting on the previous scene where Wahlberg felt the need to kiss his wife like a 16 year old having his skanky way with his first.  His ‘goodbye I’m going off to try and save your brother and don’t know if I’ll be back’ scene was immense; I thought he was going to cop a feel, maybe sneak in a quick hickie on his wife’s neck before saying goodbye to the child who was blatantly standing there the whole time.

So yeah, watch this film it’s awesome.

Two stars.

Review: Unkle at the Opera House Monday 8th May 2011

A light rain blew across our bows as we ran up the steps of the Sydney Opera House for Unkle in concert, supported by a half dozen members of the philharmonic strings orchestra.

If you want a technical account of the evening, I’d stop reading this review immediately.  I’m not the guy who knows the names of the songs, and I’m not going to discuss the nuances in their performance.  What I will say, however, is that given Ice House died in the early 90’s I am very pleased to have Unkle in my life to fill the cavernous space left by the deceased.  If Fat Boy Slim exhumed Ice House’s remains, plucked some DNA and made sweet love to it, you would have Unkle. 

The glorious birthchild.

As said I shan’t attempt a technical dissection of any kind (as with all good reviews) however I shall at least try to define the type of music they play.  I’m thinking Ballardic Electro.  Pretty sure I just made up a new genre.  And if ballardic isn’t a word then it should be.

And so back to the evening which is on the chilly side of warm as the crowds file in a cordial manner to assume their position in the theatre-style seating.  At this point I wish I’d had more to drink as I hadn’t quite pushed through the sobriety barrier with the four beers I’d put away over the past two hours or so. 

Having settled in our seats the group from the UK wasted no time in joining the stage.  I guess they were paying by the hour for the venue.  A venue which, all things considered, is probably a tad over rated.  The Opera House is a lovely-looking bag of tiles, don’t get me wrong.  But if you’re singing in a bucket, I don’t care if that bucket has pretty frills and a nice fascinator on the handle... you’re still singing inside a bucket.  And the acoustics were suitably mashed up.

Immediately on taking the stage the light show begins.  High beams flashed through my retinas at such speed I had an epileptic fit for the sheer convenience of it.

But the twitching wasn’t the worst affliction from the light show.  Even worse, you could see everyone sitting, arms folded, and obviously more sober than I.  There was more judgement than a courtoom.  You could cut the scrutiny with a knife. 

If only they could have turned the bastards off; I wouldn’t have been gruesomely aware of ten thousand people staring at me, watching me fidget with the lining of my pockets.  I saw a guy standing next to me – which was ballsey, very ballsey –while almost everyone behind him was sitting down, burning into their seats and probably trying not to do anything that brought undue attention to them.  Of course, a few others stood every now and then throughout the evening.  Stood, burned, sat down.  Pity.  Stood.... a good bit of the song... lights come on....objection Your Honour and you’re on the stand.  Sits down again and discovers a new bit of lint in their pocket.  Awesome.

It was like having a party at your parents’ house but your parents are still there.  It’s just not ok.

To their credit, Unkle tried their damndest to get the crowd into it, even saying at one point “It’s ok to stand, I promise” but we were having none of it.  Having a good time was obviously less important than not looking like a tool.

If this gig were held anywhere else I get the sense it would have gone off.  It’s to Unkle’s credit that I enjoyed myself despite the conditions.  The band went hard, the songs were great, and I’ll go see them next time they’re in Sydney.   Assuming it’s not at the Opera House.

There’s my technical conclusion.

Movie Review: Scream 4

Back in the 90’s many good things happened.  Michael Jackson sang a duet with Britney Spears, the television series Party of Five came to an end, and Wes Craven gave us the horror movie Scream.  Tonight I was audience to the fourth edition of this franchise. 

If you’re planning on watching this film, don’t read this review.  Firstly, it will give away the plot, and secondly, well, just don’t read this review.

The film is based loosely around lead character Sidney Prescott (Neve Campbell) and her seemingly insatiable desire to return to the town of death where every summer a new kid from the local high school puts on a mask and becomes a knife-wielding maniac; which of course inevitably leaves Sidney embroiled in a new fight for her life etc etc. 

The plot structure ambled down the same trodden path, stabbing and slashing at whatever was left of the goodwill created by the original 15 years earlier.  There was plenty of blood, not all of it reserved for the victims of the movie, who, curiously, find it impossible to prevent a 13 year old girl from stabbing them repeatedly and at will (I mean - a simple slap in the face would surely have sorted her out?)

By now you will know the masked man is actually a 13 year old girl, who for some reason stands about 9 foot 13 inches when she's wearing her garb.  The scriptwriters perhaps wrote in the subtext she was wearing stilts - but she didnt appear that awkward when running up flights of stairs.  

Don’t worry though, if the villain doesn’t scare you, her motive will:  she decided to stabbity-stab stab due to discontent at her cousin Sidney getting more attention than she ever did.  Give you a moment to reflect on that...  Probably the poorest motive since the “Why not?” scriptwriters fall back on whenever their budget cannot extend to creative thinking.

While on script; it’s never a good sign when you’re 15 minutes into the film and genuinely anticipating the film’s first climax.  I mean, there’s only so many times the audience can watch a person get chased up the stairs and stabbed at the landing before it gets a little, well, boring?  The writers have sought to fix this malady by sending two victims up the stairs for twice as much stabbing.  Unfortunately the genius insight did not have the desired effect on this viewer.

Luckily however there was one moment when their attempt at shock cinematography paid off and my heart rate flirted with normal levels of activity; but for the most part the only tension was in Courtney Cox’s face.  Couldn’t tell if it was the plastic surgery or the fact that she was clearly uncomfortable acting with her ex husband David Arquette.  If you do end up watching this film, wait for the scene towards the end when Courtney Cox is in hospital and says to him “I love you too”.  It’s far more gruesome than preceding scenes.

To put a positive spin, no doubt this film has filled Craven’s coffers; meaning of course we won’t have to see it picked up, dusted off and re-sequenced for at least a decade (at which point the casting agent will probably have to dig up Courtney Cox and prop her into position).

And so, aside from the gruesome reality of Courtney Cox’s fight against ageing, there wasn’t anything in this film that interested me.  It was borderline cynical, and, frankly, I might have asked for my money back if I hadn’t been in the company of a lady.

I give this production a solid 1 star out of 5.  And it gets the star because it conforms to all the minimum requirements of being a film; in that it has a beginning (contentious), middle and an end.  If you like pain, pay to go see it.