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Out in Theaters: THE MUPPETS: MOST WANTED

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“The Muppets: Most Wanted”
Directed Sean Bobin
Starring Ricky Gervais, Ty Burrell, Tina Fey, Steve Whitmire, Eric Jacobson, Dave Goelz
Adventure, Comedy, Crime
112 Mins
PG 

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From the first musical number, The Muppets: Most Wanted admits what it’s up to. “We’re doing a sequel,” the beloved Jim Henson puppets croak and caw, “that’s what we do in Hollywood. Though everyone knows that a sequel’s never quite as good.” And even though Kermit might be spot on with his sentiment, starting things off with this kind of disclaimer doesn’t offer a ton of hope to an expecting audience. Following that mantra of mediocrity, director and writer James Bobin offers up a Muppets that’s fully tolerable but never exceptional.

Three years ago, the return of The Muppets was met with near universal praise. Its release marked a childhood mainstay returning to the spotlight. Co-written by and starring Jason Segel, The Muppets used his signature blend of awkward comedy and surprising heart to harness a comeback for the cherished characters born of the 70s. Its ‘getting the band back together’ framework excited nostalgia for older audiences while ushering in a new generation of Muppet fans, reminding us why we fell in love with the Muppets in the first place. All Most Wanted does is remind us that not every Muppet outing was gold, nor really worth getting excited for.

After the events of the first film, the finally banded together again Muppets see that the wave of success they might have expected is not in order after all. The general response they’re met with is more a brand of 21st century apathy.  So when Dominic Badguy (the obvious red herring is supposed to be funny but I think you can make that judgement for yourself) offers to launch the Muppets on a world tour, the group of fuzzy dolls are ecstatic. All but Kermit that is. As the levelheaded leader of the gang, Kermit sees shortcuts for what they are and urges the group that they need to rehearse and improve their act before unleashing on an unprecedented world tour.

Meanwhile, Kermit lookalike and criminal master-frog, Constantine, breaks free from the inhospitable Siberian Gulag (you know, those forced labor camps that were so popular in Stalin’s USSR) and makes his way across Europe to the touring Muppets. Set up by Badguy, Kermit is tricked into an back alley (populated by dirty bath water and the babucha-clad impoverished that feels straight from a Vittorio De Sica film) where Constantine pulls a devilish switch-a-roo. By gluing a Monroe-like mole onto Kermit’s amphibian cheek and covering his own with green makeup, Constantine assumes Kermit’s identity and leads everyone to believe that Kermit is in fact the famed outlaw. What follows is a trail of bad accents, calamitous Muppet acts and a string of increasingly news-worthy heists.

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As Badguy (pronounced Bad-gee), Ricky Gervais is on par with his resume of safe comedies, offering a few chuckles but nothing that originates from the depths of the belly. Ty Burrell, continuing a streak of big screen appearances, gets to try on his best Pink Panther impression as the pretentious, mustache-twirling French detective Jean Pierre Napoleon. He’s at the mercy of the writers but at least with their mockery of French culture, they’ve honed their satire, even if it feels a bit too much like personal jabs.  

Locked up in the Gulag with Kermit, Tina Fey sports a hammy Russian accent to not so great effect. Like the onslaught of celebrity cameos around her (from Lady Gaga to Danny Trejo), Fey is fine but nothing to write home about. With every human character relegated to a riff on some European populace or other, and when the caricatures feel this mocking, Most Wanted feels like it’s flirting a dangerous line of xenophobic. But then again, we are dealing with puppets so I expect international audiences may be more forgiving.

Most Wanted is ostensibly ironic but feels the pressure of a hurried studio’s pace, particularly in the story department. Its international heist plot is exhaustingly familiar fare and Bobbitts offers little in terms of breaking free of genre constraints. Instead, it’s all very procedural, very much what you would expect. Nevertheless, Kermit remains one of America’s greatest and most timeless creations; a beacon of reason, an icon of good. A little green Gandhi that the world could always use more of. Too bad then that we spend so much time with the imposter frog, Constantine, a character who ironically seems to sum up the pursuit of the film at large – a knock-off ringleader leading a shortcut effort to make off with a satchel of money.

Its predecessor had the savory flavors of a labor of love, this the stink of a cash grab. Like salt water, you can taste the thirst for profits in the air. Nothing sums it up better than Miss Piggy’s verse in that first tune, “The studio considers us a buyable franchise.” It’s just a shame that that’s all they saw in this.

C

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Out in Theaters: THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL

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Fiennes, Brody, Dafoe, Goldblum, Murray, Law, Swinton, Ronan, Norton, Keitel, Schwartzman, Seydoux, Wilson, Balaban, Amalric, Wilkinson. Wes Anderson‘s latest may have more big names working for it than ever before but their characters are more paper thin than they’ve been, more fizzle than tonic, more Frankenstein’s creations than humans. His company of regulars – joined by a vast scattering of newbies – are relegated to playing furniure-chomping bit roles, filling the shoes of cartoonish sketches, slinking in long shadows of characters. From Willem Dafoe‘s brutish, brass-knuckled Jopling to a caked-up and aged Tilda Swinton, gone are the brooding and calculated, flawed and angsty but always relatable characters of Wes yore. In their place, a series of dusty cardboard cutouts; fun but irrevocably inhuman. Read More

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Out in Theaters: NEED FOR SPEED

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“Need for Speed”
Directed by Scott Waugh
Starring Aaron Paul, Imogen Poots, Dominic Cooper, Rami Malek, Harrison Gilbertson, Ramon Rodriquez, Michael Keaton
Action, Crime, Drama
121 Mins
PG-13

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Need For Speed is the kind of movie that the descriptor “high octane” was conceived for. It’s dumb but technically competent enough to pander to the NASCAR hillbilly types and Formula One engine snobs at once. But with neck-breaking car stunts and tightrope tension, it’ll keep your posterior numb and your adrenaline glands humming. Promising that if you get up for a bathroom break, you’re sure to miss something, Need for Speed rockets forth at breakneck speeds, blasting past the roadblocks of story beats and into head-on collisions with nonsense. In the very least, Scott Waugh has seemed to eek past the first set of crash dummy drafts as the undeniably cinematic experience he presents seems more finely tuned than one might first expect. It’s no Chauser but, at the very least, it won’t require you to strap in for a crash course on idiocracy.  

Setting the events to a ticking clock is a bit of a stroke of genius on screenwriter George Gatin‘s behalf as this provides the perfect framework for a movie about fast cars driving fast that has little to offer outside of the temptation of increasingly sleeker, and more European, cars set against an Imogen Poots stripping down layers by the ten minute marker. It’s seduction 101 and it works wonders.

As a movie based on a video game, Speed hits all the marks of mainstream adaptation one would expect, complete with shameless product placement and leggy blondes to ogle at. But beneath the veneer of corporate construction, this is a movie that reaches slightly above the plastic wrappings of strict VG adaptations. There’s obvious fun taking place beyond the lens and, thankfully, it’s the kind of fun we can actually revel in.

Michael Keaton, for one, is having the time of his life and his hammy performance as the illusive Monarch is representative of Need for Speed at large. As he goofs into the mic, accessorized with gaudy, almost Elvis-esque, shades and a flashy wardrobe, he’s the ridiculous meta commentary this kind of movie needs. He’s the outlet for the film’s sarcastic self-mockery and only with his kind of wink-wink-nudge-nudge attitude is Need for Speed able to get away with all its gravity-defying shenanigans.

Piping hot off the untouchable success of Breaking Bad, Aaron Paul is given a chance to reinvent his image in this more mainstream, but still mostly antihero, personality. Moving away from his persona of forlorn but corruptible Jesse Pinkman and into a guy that we can feasibly buy as a studio action figure, Paul, like Jesse in his fleeting moments, has started down a long and windy road. Even though he’s been (mostly) shaved clean and (as far as we know) isn’t at any point addicted to meth, he shares the chiseled brand of intensity – raging yet dopey – that we’ve come to know spending time with Jesse. For his part though, Paul’s still immensely watchable. We see the gears work as Paul faces the canals of yet another moral trauma; the ticktock of a man on the edge of his rope. No one does wounded like Paul. He’s got haunted down pat.

But regardless of how many times Paul and Waugn try to push the idea that Need for Speed is nothing like Fast and the Furious, don’t believe a word of it. What we’ve got here is very much in the same wheelhouse and a good hair below in quality. Beyond the cars, crimes and carnage, the biggest similarity is the ensemble-driven cast. Speed, whether intentionally or not, seeks to recreate a familiar team of interracial, eclectic banditos. We’ve got the wisecracking black man, the reliable Latino, the standard cut white dude and a vaguely Middle Eastern mechanical genius. It is a surprise however that Scott Mescudi (or Kid Cudi as he’s known in hip hop circles) stands out most amongst a dudery that includes Dominic Cooper, Rami Malek, Harrison Gilbertson and Ramon Rodriquez. I guess there’s something behind the unadulterated charisma of rappers that translates well into onscreen supporting characters. Who knew?

C

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Out in Theaters: MR. PEABODY & SHERMAN

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“Mr. Peabody & Sherman”
Directed by Rob Minkoff
Starring Ty Burrell, Max Charles, Stephen Colbert, Ariel Winter, Leslie Mann, Allison Janney, Stanley Tucci, Mel Brooks, Lake Bell, Patrick Warburton
Animation, Adventure, Comedy
92 Mins
PG

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“If a boy can adopt a dog then I see no reason why a dog can’t adopt a boy,” goes the logic of Mr. Peabody and Sherman, a tale (tail?) of accomplished, anthropomorphic pooch, Mr. Peabody, and his adopted carrot-topped son, Sherman. With a time machine called the “Way Back” at their fingertips (pawtips?), Peabody and Sherman bound through time to learn history lessons first hand. From witnessing Marie Antoinette spout her infamous cake one-liner to rubbing elbows with an unmummified King Tut through getting up close and personal with Agamemnon and his Trojan horse, Mr. Peabody’s field trips really can’t be topped. Being along for the history-hopping ride makes for some quality, light-hearted entertainment and offers a chance for colorful characters and backdrops of various aesthetic quality. Although the magic comes apart in the third act, Mr. Peabody and Sherman is a mostly witty and endearing spectacle that will please kiddies and adults alike, with extra points for slipping in a few abridged history lessons.

Dating back to the late 1950s, Sherman and Mr. Peabody first appeared on the “Rocky and Bullwinkle Show,” becoming a bit of a cult sensation. Here in 2014 though, the dog imbued with human qualities is somewhat commonplace what with the cultural reach of Seth McFarlane. In many ways, Peabody is a less crude version of Family Guy‘s Brian. With Peabody’s witticism, his deadpan delivery and bottomless charm, he’s a PG concoction of sassy booze-hound Brian and literature-lovin’ Jack Russell Terrier, Wishbone. Though history makes the argument that Brian is a knowing riff on Peabody, many ignorant of his historical context won’t see it for that.

Director Rob Minkoff may be responsible for the dreadful likes of The Haunted Mansion and Stuart Little but he also has one of Disney’s greatest under his belt: The Lion King. And though we wonder how much of his time spent on such commercial dreck as the aforementioned may have rubbed off on Minkoff, his tenure with Disney during their animation Renaissance mostly shines through. Characteristically, the digitally animated visual landscape pops, the characters are inoffensive but never unbearably so and, in a way that only animation can really achieve, everything is larger-than-life. This is Minkoff’s gift and his curse. Accordingly, he’s never able to make the affairs feel quite real enough so even when the world’s end is threatened, we’re never really thinking that things could actually tip that way. As Peabody once comments to a pun-oblivious Sherman, you can’t have your cake and eat it too.

The voice acting, for one, is as hammy as Christmas leftovers. Work from Patrick Warburton, who you likely know as Elaine’s on-again-off-again beau Puddy on Seinfeld,  stands out as the symbolic ring leader of a band of actors goofing off in the sound booth. His take on Agamemnon is overbearing as his profound commerical work for M&M’s or Honda. His character, like the movie at large, would have worked better had he toned it down a little bit and found the character beyond the caricature.

Ty Burnell, the beloved patriarch of Modern Family, is suitable as the know-it-all Peabody (I would however have loved to see the original casting, Robert Downey Jr., in the role) but his stiff accent tends to keep him from ever feeling much deeper than a cartoon character. If there’s anyone who’s able to pull at our heartstrings through his casual voice work it’s little Max Charles, offering an earnest and rounded portrait of adoptee Sherman.

The unassuming duo manage to win over pretty much any historical figure their time machine lets them come across just as they manage to win over the goodwill of the audience. Their unorthodox father-son relationship is the anchor of the film but often dabbles in oft-tread territory. Take for example, the fact that many of the themes explored here are abundantly familiar to the genre – the challenges of parenting a maturing child, students adjusting to new roles at school, bureaucratic bullheadedness sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong, and trepidatiously relinquishing autonomy to your children. They do a fine job when treading the straight and narrow but it’s hardly groundbreaking stuff, which would have been more interesting to see them navigate.

A through line for the piece emerges as Sherman becomes the target of a full-blown tease assualt. Classmate and eventual crush, Penny, labels him a “dog”, with all the negative connotations that come along with such. Throughout the film, Sherman fights against this label, proving to himself and others that he’s more human than dog. It’s when Sherman finally realizes that maybe being a dog isn’t such a bad thing after all that we witness a sigh-worthy, ramble-rousing, Spartacus moment: “I’m a dog”,  “I’m a dog”,  “I’m a dog.” Typical. But within this third-act revelation comes cleverly disguised potent thematic elements that poke at xenophobic tolerance and breaking the inbred stigma of seeing the “other” as wolves in sheep’s clothing. And that’s at least something.

C+

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Out in Theaters: 300: RISE OF AN EMPIRE

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“300: Rise of an Empire”
Directed by Noam Murro
Starring Sullivan Stapleton, Eva Greene, Lena Headey, Rodrigo Santoro, Hans Matheson, Callan Mulvey, David Wenham
Action, Drama, War
102 Mins
R

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Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe society asked for a 300 sequel. I most certainly did not. No matter, here in all it’s dizzying glory, 300: Rise of an Empire, ushering forth a new generation of swords-and-sandals marked by flashy, gory viz effects and a total lack of narrative cohesion. Huzzah!

This somewhat of a sequel, somewhat of a prequel was to be based on Frank Miller‘s “Xerxes,” a followup to his popular graphic novel “300”. Accordingly, we’d expect Rise to hue closely to that eponymous figure. Alas, Xerxes is but a shadow of a character; his “origin story” a shameless reveal to be laughed away, his character development dumbed down to a wardrobe and makeup change. We’re left asking, “Why give Xerxes an origin story if this is all you can muster up?”

But upon looking at the Rise picture as a whole, the essence of it boils down to the artificial glitz, the impossible esthetic, the bloody glamor of it all. The story is always left simmering on the back burner, the script a collection of nerdy Dungeon and Dragon wet dream speeches, edited by runway models and funneled through the brutish cadence of a WWE wrestler. “This is Sparta!” may have had fanboys bouncing in their seats but there’s nothing here half as memorable and with amateur director Noam Murro behind the camera, the delivery is half as cared for.

All the narrative garbage that makes its way into Rise only makes sense after uncovering just how messy the infrastructure upon which it was based is. After penning the first two installments of “Xerxes,” Miller straight up abandoned the project, scrapping it to work on new “Sin City” ideas. The final product that is 300: Rise of an Empire is brazen evidence of an aborted story, the beginning of an idea discovered half-hanging out of a garbage bin and then blown up into something only Hollywood could lay claim to. Let’s just say screenwriters Zack Snyder and Kurt Johnstad didn’t do much of a clean up job before unloading it onto audiences.

Getting into Miller’s head, we can only assume that he knew there was no story left to be told. Rather, this takes the leftovers of the first 300 and spreads it thin over a sheet of investor Benjamins. In effect, it all winds up feeling like you’ve stumbled onto the “Play all” section of 300‘s deleted scenes. There’s no heart beneath the arduous speeches, no story beyond the effects. It’s the perfect example of telling but not showing, it’s style over substance at its most wanton. Like dissecting a frog and realizing that all its organs had already been removed, nothing exists inside Rise and there’s certainly no heartbeat.

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Worse yet, it depends entirely on the existence of the first installment. As a piece of digestible fiction, it’s bereft of meaning without knowledge of the events of the original. Nor does it add anything substantive that wasn’t already implied with that inaugural outing. In short, it’s utterly useless.

Inspired by greasy comic book pages though it may be, digitial cinematography from Simon Duggan looks pulled from a collection of rejected Lisa Frank art. For how stylized it desperately tries to be, every nook and cranny looks cheap and ugly. Second rate CGI is only emphasized by superfluous slow-mo, with redundant train tracks of blood that betray their post-production art team’s gluttonous need for excess.

And aside from Eva Greene‘s Artemisia, there are no actual characters, just vessels for wannabe badass one-liners. Sinewy though they may be, watching the brawny cast try to act is like watching an extra-padded gym rat stare at his economics exam. It’s hopeless.

For every instance that Greene is markedly mesmerizing, star of the show Sullivan Stapleton displays a knack for looking befuddled rarely witnessed in such embarrassing glory on the big screen. He always seems strained, like he’s trying to read something slightly too far off to make out clearly. It’s as if he wandered onto the wrong sound stage the first day of shooting and was feed cues scribbled in sharpie on poster board off-camera. His performance is a certified stinker from beginning to end and could just be the footnotes to his new found career.

Far be it for me to think that I would see myself pining for more Gerald Butler but his nominally epic presence is sorely missed. Having Stapleton as his replacement is like subbing Jamie Kennedy in for Jim Carrey (The Mask), Ben Affleck for Harrison Ford (Jack Ryan movies).

The most brutal example of Stapleton getting shown up comes whenever he’s facing down Greene, who acts circles around him like an Olympic ice skater around a traffic cone. It seems that even Murro was aware of this fact, as his camera is predominantly focused on Greene and away from Stapleton whenever the two share a room.

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As Stapleton and Greene’s unorthodox relationship becomes the only semblance of character dynamics the movie has, we get solitary respite from meaningless bloodshed when the two put down their swords to talk things out and end up banging like harebrained rabbits. Their sex scene as power brawl is the icing on King Excess’ cake. It’s Duggan’s glorified money shot, his pulp friction. It’s the perfect allegory for the film at large: people fucking around. Not one to balk at the sight of celebrity mammary glands, let’s say that it’s the one brand of excess this critic is willing to afford.

Coming full circle though, I still am wondering what prompted development of Rise in the first place. Financially, the first 300 was a measured success, earning over $200 million domestically and more than that overseas, all on a relatively tight production budget of $65 million. Blatant attempt to add to the coffers though this may be, the suits at Legendary forgot one important detail. As the idiom goes, strike while the iron is hot.

Eight years (the lengthy gestation period between that film and this new one) is a long cool down period. To say the result is lukewarm is an insult to the temperature. It sails in a chilly tempest and never manages to get our blood boiling, no matter how much viscus they spray across the screen. Then, before you know it, it’s gone again, leaving you wondering, “Why does this exist at all?”

We’ve come a long way since the visual effects of 300 were groundbreaking and eight years later, Rise looks like the same crew using the same computers and same effects. Nothing is more impressive than the first time around, even their Athenian pecs aren’t as inhuman.

D+

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Out in Theaters: STALINGRAD

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“Stalingrad”
Directed by Feder Bondarchuk
Starring Mariya Smolnikova, Yanina Studilina, Pyotr Fyodorov, Thomas Kretschmann, Sergey Bondarchuk, Dmitriy Lysenkov, Andrey Smolyakov, Aleksey Barabash, Oleg Volku
Russian, Action, War
131 Minutes
R

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Stalingrad, Russia’s first foray into 3D fare, is not without its problems but nonetheless offers an entirely visceral and well-balanced, if a touch patriotic, view of the bloodiest war in human history. Rather than speak in terms of us versus them, Feder Bondarchuk‘s film looks beyond the stars and stripes (er, hammers and sickles) of nationality and into the souls of a band of warriors, harrowed and hopeful anew as they were. Our ragtag team of note is no glorified troop of super soldiers, just a collection of tramps culled from all walks of life, as flawed and yet human as the enemy Nazi.

Bondarchuk’s fair hand gives credence to both sides of the war effort, allowing us the chance to meet a Nazi antagonist, Kaptain Kan (Thomas Kretschmann), who’s not the familiar shade of Nazi (a.k.a. unscrupulous evil without bound). Kan is far more a person than he is a villain. He doesn’t have a red skull. He doesn’t love throwing out down the ol’ sieg heil. His pupils aren’t made up of little flames. It’s even hinted that he’s ashamed of his party affiliation. He’s a man at the end reaches of humanity, living out the end of days in a foreign country, waking to the cacophony of explosions and commanding a stockade of troops to take down an enemy fortification where our Russian heroes have holed up.

Offering a painterly depiction of the Russian’s landing at Stalingrad that matches, and even eclipses, the visceral horror of Steven Spielberg‘s famed Normany Beach scene, Bondarchuk’s 3D war-ravaged cinemascape presents a view of Earth splitting open and hell spilling out. The cinematography is crisp and diabolical; a bleak canvas of greys accented with the stark pops of flaming color. It’s intensely cinematic and arguably makes for some of the best war sequences this side of Saving Private Ryan.

The 3D aspect works aptly, especially for a nation’s first outing, but the more notable technical wonder comes in the whopping sound design. In the belly of the PACCAR IMAX theater, the theater roared, splitting our sense of orientation with a bombastic soundtrack of fire lapping and rifles burping. With the scope of these sequences what they are, if given a choice, preference IMAX over 3D. With most of these early proceedings cloaked in a torrent of fire (even the troops duke it out set aflame), you’ll believe the “bloodiest” bit of hyperbole that’s come to define this Russian vs. Nazi war field and seeing it unfold on the big screen is a must if you’re the least bit interested in this story.

But rather than weave the tale over the explosive turns of war or the dramatic camaraderie discovered in fox holes, the script, penned by Sergey Snezhkin and Ilya Tilkin, takes an unexpected detour to uncover a narrative where loyalty is not to country, but to new found loved ones. On both sides of the fence, they’ve hung their horses to figures of salvation, unveiled in the beauty and soulful fortitude of women, those motherly creatures left behind in the scramble of warfare.

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To our Russian comrades, Katya (Mariya Smolnikova) is that maternal symbol of hope. To Kaptain Kan, it’s Masha (Yanina Studilina). Both women represent different sides of the same coin; one willing to endure at all costs, one too weak to take a stand. And though Masha’s eventual arc suggests a feverish descent into Stockholm Syndrome, both women form symbiotic relationships with their armed men. In a literal and eventually metaphorical sense, they keep each other alive; the men protect the women, the women preserve the men’s souls. These young women are the reminder of the good in the world; that which is worth saving. In this literal hellhole that rains ash like it’s Chernobyl or, dare I mention its name so soon, Pompeii, everyone needs a savior.

Since there’s no real central hero, save for maybe Pyotr Fyodorov‘s Kapitan Gromos, we get to know the Russian ensemble in fits and starts, often only slightly scratching the surface and yet getting just enough details in to care about them as characters. We know them mostly through their actions though and, as the saying goes, actions speak louder than words. But we’re never led to think of these men as infallible (except maybe Angel, he’s a pretty good dude). Rather, they’re normal men turned into machines of war. The product of man’s inclination towards warfare.

I’ll admit that it’s often more difficult to cross examine an actor’s performance in a foreign-language film and that’s somewhat the case here. Great work often transcends language but it’s hard for me to distinguish decent from dreadful. Admittedly not knowing Russian, I’d still be willing to put forth that these guys are all closer to the solid side of the fence. Still, having said that, it’s no actors showcase but neither will you be able to notice anything actively off about their thespian feats.

Having already caught a bit of early flack from critics stateside, I have a sneaking suspicion that one’s willingness to accept this will depend largely on demographics. Girls are somewhat more likely to fall for Stalingrad than your run-of-the-mill war movie since there’s such a strong female presence but I can’t help but feel that the normal military crowd that’s wont to fall for these kinds of movies will leave this one out of their rose ceremonies. (Ruskis and Nazis? and I don’t automatically hate all of them?!) Like Nazis, there’s a stigma built into our perception of Russians in cinema (particularly within this time period) so to sit on their side of the fence may prove too much a task for some. If you’re willing to turn the blinders off (or at least down) though, Stalingrad is an undeniably rock solid war film that aptly balances action set pieces with lofty drama.

B-

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Out in Theathers: SON OF GOD

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“Son of God”
Directed by Christopher Spencer 
Starring Diogo Morgado, Sebastian Knapp, Darwin Shaw, Greg Hicks, Roma Downey, Amber Rose Revah 
Drama 
138 Mins 
PG-13

In the beginning, there was a voice-over, and the voice-over was long, and the film was without thought.

So often, directors confuse narration for exposition, pontification for perspicacity. What initiates Son of God is irreverence. To unfurl the tale, John (Sebastian Knapp) begins by reciting his own gospel. But speaking his own verse doesn’t create depth, it barely brushes the surface. As the beginning goes, so the rest of the work follows. In a matter of seconds, director Christopher Spencer opens a box he never thinks to unpack.

There’s a mural in the heart of Minneapolis, painted on an old building that sits right on the I-35W highway exit. No one really knows how long it’s been there or who painted it, but it’s withstood time’s trying test and Minnesota’s endless winters. And, just like anything that can brave the cold, Minneapolis has taken it in as its own.

My mom and I used to drive past it when she would drop me off at school. I’d see it every day: that warm bearded face, the rainbow and those ominous words—”Love Power.” He always had his arms spread, asking “So, what?” as if I were missing something. The mural became a lost fragment of my childhood, a curious symbol I never understood. It never stopped smiling.

In Summer 2007, Bridge 9340—the I-35W Mississippi River Bridge my mom and I used to cross—collapsed, just blocks away from that damned mural. Fourteen people were killed, 145 more injured. My mom drove over it that day. Yet there was Jesus on the wall, still smiling in the faded light with his arms spread wide. “So, what?” 

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The Bible is a clamshell pack of questions just waiting to be cut open. Anyone can repeat the gospel, but what good does that do if nothing is being questioned or held in critical doubt? Who is John? Why is his word important? And who is this Jesus guy? All questions that need to explored. Spencer handles these inquiries as delicately as a UPS guy handles a package; his film delivers as much substance as a packing peanut.

Son of God’s main problem is that it never gives thought to anything. The film is being marketed as a powerful, compelling, epic retelling of Jesus’ life from birth to resurrection. Truly, truly I say to you, Spencer’s latest work is none of those things.

How this film was even made requires some kind of deep noetic exploration into Christopher Spencer’s mind. Confusion and incongruity are his tools, awful storytelling his trade. He’s the master of “tell, don’t show.” Even with the Bible as source material, he somehow manages to flummox everything. For someone whose name means “Christ-bearer,” all he does is trample Him and befuddle us.

Most scenes quote Jesus (played catastrophically by Diogo Morgado—we’ll get to him later) word-for-word, but their meaning doesn’t seem to matter or even fit into the narrative. We’re made to believe his every word is profound, but he just seems dazed and protean. Even for those who know the Bible it’s hard to follow Spencer’s vision as he sloppily slams ambiguous scenes together like pegs into round holes. As such, Son of God essentially becomes a cinematic SparkNotes for the Lord’s Word—the Jesus Storybook Bible of biblical films. Call it the Caption of the Christ. 

Spencer’s first feat in confusion comes early on and never relents. Everyone in this film is apparently veddy-veddy British, as if they were all cast at the local London Actors’ Studio. Whether this was intentional or Spencer just said “fuck it,” and gave up isn’t clear. For a story that tries to adhere to Biblical truth, this choice is so foolish and so absolutely bad so as to discredit the entire work on its own. Overall, the acting is putrid, especially given the whole British-accent-in-Jerusalem thing, which exacerbates the terribleness of it all. Roman governors and Jewish priests are more British than Emma Thompson, and Jesus’ cast of disciples seem taken out of a Monty Python skit. They’re certainly just as (unintentionally) funny.

There isn’t much to say about Jesus Himself. A Portuguese guy, Diogo Morgado, is dreadfully miscast as the bearded messiah. Morgado is to Jesus as Juan Pablo is to The Bachelor. His jumbled, mangled English locks him into a constant perplexed state whereby a prophet becomes a muddling fool. Frankly, he had some good moments, but he just wasn’t right for the part. Especially considering, well (Spoiler Alert for the Heaven-bound), that Jesus wasn’t white. 

Visually, this film looks as if it were filmed on sandpaper in place of 35mm film. Buildings look grimy, the “stunning locales” are butt-ugly, and the shot selection is atrocious. Credit to Spencer, I actually felt like I had sand in my pants. As if that weren’t enough, even the CGI is a special kind of awful. Which is cute until you realize that this film had a $22 million budget. Where that money went? No clue, but it definitely wasn’t spent on making the buildings look like they weren’t stolen from Journey of Jesus: The Calling. Son of God isn’t homily: it’s homely.

Spencer stamps his own dramatic flair on every moment. Clearly he’s a fan of the extreme close-up, as it was used almost half the time. After Jesus dies (SPOILER), we get an on-screen “3 Days Later” in Arabian font. Really. Nice. Touch. Not even Hans Zimmer (The Dark Knight, Inception) can save this piteously boring dreck; his doleful score peppers every moment with fallacious feeling. Boy, did that dulcimer’s minor chords communicate depth of emotion. Then, an eagle cry: GYAHHH. 

Look, Son of God didn’t need to be a hermeneutical Bible study, it just needed real emotion, real passion and real questions. Without thought, word is fallow. For a film that promises an epic, truthful retelling of the Bible, all it did was leave me hungry for actual answers. Give me the real Jesus.

We’ve all got a “Love Power:” our own figure in the light, our symbol for hope and security that we keep deep inside. Connecting with that figure in the light is religion; doubting it is faith. Ultimately, Son of God never cared to ask “so, what?” Yet, somehow, somewhere, Jesus is still smiling.

Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

D

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Out in Theaters: NON-STOP

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“Non-Stop”
Directed by Jaume Collet-Serra
Starring Liam Neeson, Julianne Moore, Scoot McNairy, Michelle Dockery, Nate Parker, Corey Stoll, Lupita Nyong’o, Omar Metwally
Action, Mystery, Thriller
106 Mins
PG-13

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Perfectly adequate entertainment, slyly primed to keep you guessing and anchored with deliciously smarmy stars, Non-Stop is exactly the kind of in-flight, mile-high thriller you’d expect attached to the name Liam Neeson. From Neeson and Julianne Moore to Corey Stoll and Scott McNairy, there’s a bevy of great performers lining the rows from business class to coach, each given their fair share of silliness to weave into stakes-laden seriousness. While the script may leak the occasional nonsense into the proceedings of this 3,300 mile Transatlantic trip, thankfully none of the performers are caught with their pants down. If the goal is to keep the ball up in the air as long as possible, they’ve done their jobs right, helping make Non-Stop a perfectly suitable one-and-done thrill ride sure to please the masses.

Non-Stop Neeson might as well be Brian Mills at some different stage in his life – a bizzaro version whose daughter never made it to France (…or out of grade school). Instead of honing his particular set of skills, he stooped into a depressive alcoholic state. Still preserved is his towering frame and inimitable Irish-American cadence, making him the kind of pensive brute that you’ll believe can snap a neck with his bare hands, the brand of machismo that you can easily muster up a scenario in which you’d submit to him like a field mouse to its prey. If Neeson’s new found persona as an action hero relies on him domineering opponents in a mental wrestling match, he’s the E. Honda of intimidation. With this half-drunk, gunslinger of the sky growling at you in meaty garbles, you’d find yourself cowering in the fuselage corner too.

To call it “Taken on a Plane” would be an oversimplification but it’s a easy distinction to make for people with about a half-second attention span; a quick soundbite to consume for the inattentive rabble, so let’s run with it. But while Taken steered Neeson’s career in wildly unexpected places, having him dash around France at neck break speeds to, uh, break necks, Non-Stop is a good step outside the same categorical genre. Where Taken is an all-out actioner, this is much more of a suspense-thriller; reserved, predatory and only sparsely violent. As Non-Stop rarely relies on action beats, it’s ability to skirt around said beats makes it all the more intriguing to our somewhat quelled intellect and, more importantly, the film’s internal sense of suspense.

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Confronted with the threat that an anonymous hijacker will kill someone on the plane every twenty minutes until $150 million is deposited in an account, Neeson’s Bill Marks stirs with questions of “How do you kill someone on a crowded plane and get away with it?” Indeed. Cleverly enough, writers John W. Richardson, Christopher Roach and Ryan Engle manage to dovetail the promise of in-flight demise with the need to keep the antagonist anonymous. As we get to know the crowded plane load of colorful potential suspects, our suspicions waver like a compass on a magnet, never quite showing us true north and sporadically pointing in new directions. At times, we’re worried that the threat may not even be on the actual plane but thankfully we’re never confronted with this “waking from a dream” cop out of a twist. No, everything is rather succinctly handled in the as-promised confines of the airplane, allowing this Chekov’s gun to be as tightly loaded as possible and ready to spring at any moment.

When (s)he inevitably comes out of the closet, the perfunctory villain’s explanation is undeniably underwhelming, but it’s nice to see something other than the one-trick pony that’s become the man “who wants to watch the world burn” or, even more boring, those who “are just in it for the money.” Even though the worldview-cocking, diatribe-spewing conclusion feels half-baked, at least our villain musters up an excuse for their passenger-offing dickishness. As convoluted and circumstantial as their plan may be, at least there is a plan and a semblance of an ideology.

Demanding a mention is the addition of soon to be Oscar-winner Lupita Nyong’o who is also onboard for no particular reason other than to rock a relic of the past by way of hairdo, a glib style only suitable for runway models or Bond girl May Day. For someone primed to add a trophy to her shelf by the end of the weekend, she’s barely juiced for more than a line, a reality that I lament for little more than the fact that I wanted to see her flex her acting chops outside the realm of slavery.

While most of the film’s logic can be punted through with the mention of a black box, it’s not one of those omnipresent nags that won’t allow you to enjoy watching the events unfold as they do. The circumstantial implications throughout are hazy though, delving into the increasingly present question of whether security is worth the cost of sacrificing one’s personal liberties. 9/11 anxiety or no, I think we can all safely agree that we don’t want random security checks in the midst of our commutes, be they on board an airplane or otherwise. Pushing those bits of moralistic ponderances aside, Neeson again shows a knack for straight-faced comedy and his couple of off-the-cuff jokes roped the audience into easy stitches. Undeniably ripe for a sequel (or even franchise), Non-Stop is exactly what it ought to be: fun, fizzy and forgettable.

C

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Out in Theaters: POMPEII

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“Pompeii”
Directed by Paul WS Anderson
Starring Kit Harrington, Emily Browning, Kiefer Sutherland, Jared Harris, Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, Jessica Lucas, Carrie-Anne Moss
Action, Adventure, “Drama”
98 Mins
PG-13

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If you’re willing to overlook an awful script, torpid acting and cheeseball direction, Pompeii packs the requisite fireworks and dimwitted gumption to glide through its 100 minute screen time. Told with the panache of an envious porno production assistant, Pompeii is the equivalent of a kid hopped up on candy trying to recount the events of Gladiator but getting a handful of plot points confused with Armageddon. It’s a disaster of wonderful proportion and, quite simply, a blunderous marvel to behold.

Director Paul WS Anderson‘s chutzpah is a blunted sword that he wields like it’s Excalibur, hacking through logic like Theon Greyjoy taking off Sir Rodrick’s head. (If that one went over your head, let’s just say it’s a mess.) There’s nothing necessarily redeeming about the self-serious way the material is approached except the beautiful irony of it all. It’s the perfect storm of narrative retardation unaware of the extent of its disability. At least the poor thing isn’t sentient enough to know it’s severe limitations. Rather than bring it out to pasture though, we’re stuck playing the schoolyard bullies who circle and laugh. At least pointing and mocking here is acceptable.

No one deserves our disapproving derision more than swooning stars Emily Browning and Kit Harrington who make use of their screen time ogling one another; eye fucking like its Jr. Prom all over again. Doe-eyed and bitterly boring, each takes their acting lessons from the book of Stares and Glares 101. Their chemistry is always overshadowed by the mountain in the distance, a spark to the raging conflagrations surrounding them. Their romance, a dog shit hue of puppy love.

Certifiable shame that it is, Harrington can’t survive outside the confines of Game of Thrones, a magical realm where he’s nothing short of awkwardly charming. Armed with a sword and shambling in sandals, Harrington’s Milo is the gladiator’s version of rebel without a cause. “Are you not entertained?” his character plagiarizes, but with the snarky attitude of a hipster teen. No John Snow, we’re not. Stick to your side of the Fire and Ice equation. No matter what ridiculous number of abdomen muscles you’ve packed on, things just work out better when you’re buried in furs and adventuring in a perma-snowstorm.

Browning on the other hand is all kinds of bad news bears. She’s supposed to be brave and rebellious as Cassia but comes off as a little girl playing princess. She’s a vacuum of talent, a worm hole of thespianism, a black thumb for film. Does everything she touches wilt into a bouquet of poison oak or does she just have an agent with a grudge against her? Seriously, the girl hasn’t touched a good project with a ten foot pole and Pompeii is no exception. Seeing her on the receiving end of a half-dozen bitch slaps is as magical as things get.

Dishing out those slaps is Kiefer Sutherland‘s General Corvus, a poorly acted douche of a man who we meet at the top of the story slicin’ and dicin’ through Milo mum’s windpipe who later, quite conveniently, stews a bit of a rapey crush on Cassia. Apparently suffering from a knack of amnesia, Anderson forget to include the bit where Corvus stumbles across the fountain of youth. How else can you explain the fact that Corvus hasn’t aged a day in 17 years? There’s no way the people making this behemoth could have just forgotten a detail like that. RIGHT?!!

Then again, the script does seem like the result of a late night session the writers spent with a bong, a bag of Doritos and a Gladiator DVD. Seriously, there are lengthy scenes airlifted directly from Gladiator. It’s one thing to homage and another entirely to play something off as your own work. Let me give you a particularly face-palming example: During a prominent gladiator showcase, the slavemaster attempts to recreate a Roman massacre from recent past where a slew of barbarians were slaughtered like caged chickens. Milo and friends are primed for the pointy end of a skewering stick, but wait! the enslaved gladiators band together to overcome momentous odds, defying the will of their superiors and winning the goodwill of the people. Sound familiar? I guess at the very least, they’re ripping off some solid stuff.

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The only other character of note, Atticus, is also the one we’re left pining for more time with. As a African gladiator brute, Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje is immensely watchable and the easy star of the show. His is the only character we don’t want swallowed up by a wall of lava, the only one we’re hoping won’t be sworded to death. Spoiler: both happen. 

Throughout the affairs, Mr. Anderson doesn’t ever let us forget that there’s a volcano involved and with CG technology what it is now, Mt. Vesuvius is clearly a main character (or at least the one we’re supposed to pay the most attention to). It must feel robbed then that it didn’t even get an IMDB billing. If CG characters were eligible for a share of their awards gold, old ‘Suv’ would be a clear early frontrunner.

Watching the computer generated Mt. Vesuvius blow is destruction porn at its most bukakesque. Gobs of moltenus rock spew from the hot top like a 12-year old Paul WS Anderson discovering his manhood. If this is his take on a pissing contest, he proudly strikes a pose and demeans your fifth grade science experience. Baking soda and vinegar ought to be ashamed.

Writer team Janet Scott Batchler (Batman Forever), Lee Batchler (Batman Forever) and Michael Robert Scott (Sherlock Holmes) are the lack of brains behind Anderson’s unwieldy brawn, the Tonto to his rebooted Lone Ranger, the brain dead Himmler to his logic-genociding Hitler. Theirs is the glory of this spirited romp through seven levels of screenwriting purgatory. “King logos is dead, long live computer graphics!” they collectively chant. Together, they have ushered in a nuclear meltdown of a story, ineffaceably half-witted and boldly dopey.

A hotpot of narrative no-no’s hyped up on its own garishness and blinded by the Hot Pocket consumerism driving the thing, Pompeii is a disaster of a disaster movie in the best of ways. The cart is miles before the horse as this movie is no more than an excuse to see a volcano go boom-boom. Like a toddler experimenting with an Easy Bake Oven, Pompeii is majorly overcooked, a hot mess of epic proportion. But Anderson’s is the rare and wonderful movie that transcends the expression “it’s so bad, it’s good”. It’s literally a masterclass on the topic. One could write a thesis on how Pompeii proves Paul WS Anderson is the new Ed Wood and likely walk away with a honors degree. Simply put, I loved and hated it in equal measure. It was so dumb that I applauded.

C-

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Out in Theaters: 3 DAYS TO KILL

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“3 Days to Kill”
Directed by McG
Starring Kevin Costner, Amber Heard, Richard Sammel, Tómas Lemarquis, Connie Nielsen
Action Crime, Drama
113 Mins
PG-13

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When 3 Days to Kill first rolled, I was convinced I’d mistakenly wandered into another Taken sequel. The premise is pretty much exactly the same save the kidnappings; instead, “dangerous” international spy Ethan Renner (Kevin Costner) only has three months to live. Just like in Taken, the protagonist has been separated from his wife and now wants to reconnect with his teenage daughter (Hailee Steinfeld, True Grit) whom he doesn’t spend much time with. 3 Days to Kill is even conveniently set in Paris, and director McG (Charlie’s Angels, We Are Marhsall) makes no attempt to conceal that fact. And, of course, just like Neeson’s bad-ass Bryan Mills, Costner’s Ethan tortures and/or kills everyone. The comparisons never stop.

Beyond that, exposition in this film is so hurried and obscure that any sort of motive or coherent plot is hard to follow. Along with Vivi, — a “sexy” CIA agent portrayed by Amber Heard — Ethan is assigned to hunt and kill two guys codenamed “The Wolf” (Richard Sammel) and “The Albino” (Tómas Lemarquis). In exchange, the CIA gives him an “experimental drug” to cure his brain cancer, which comes in an overly ominous 20ml syringe and has some nasty side-effects. Ethan is left to juggle his job (and life) while trying to keep a hold on his family.

A steam-rolling, no-frills killer, Ethan dresses like an off-duty World War I fighter pilot: he’s outfitted with a grey wool scarf, faded blue jeans and a brown bomber jacket. He’s everything a spy shouldn’t be: grizzled, garish, gasping and God-awful looking in a suit. Sweaty and paunch-bellied, Costner always looks like he needs a nap. He’s James Yawn, the Worn Identity.

Costner’s set of skills isn’t as particular as Neeson’s were, either. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be good at much other than murdering Frenchmen and blowing shit up in plain sight without anyone noticing. To top that off, his reaction to the experimental drug’s side-effects always kicks in right when he’s about to cap the baddies, leaving him woozy and wheezing before blacking out on the floor. As such, Ethan finishes missions like a nice guy with a vasectomy.

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His inability to get the job done doesn’t really matter though; it’s never quite clear what exactly his mission is even supposed to be except a way to conveniently draw the plot out long enough for Ethan to teach his daughter how to ride a bike and dance the waltz.

Why the bad guys even need to be killed in the first place is so poorly established that it’s preposterous. The Albino is presumed to be debauched due to his austere fetish for murder by eccentric decapitation — at one point he takes a female agent’s head off via descending elevator shaft — though why that makes him an enemy of the state is beyond me. Maybe his hairlessness presents an unknown challenge to the American livelihood.

As for The Wolf… Well, I have no clue what Sammel’s role even was. He only appears for the film’s first and last five to ten minutes, and by the end his character or importance is completely forgotten. The Wolf’s only crime in the entire film was ruining a nice dinner party. It’s never made clear why the CIA wants him dead. That’s never a good thing for a supposed main villain.

Most spy films these days are predictable and formulaic, and 3 Days to Kill was no exception. Apart from some original moments, the plot was stagnant, unoriginal and pretty much the concept Taken would have been if Neeson’s family had remained intact instead. At 100 minutes, McG seemed to feel like he had three days to fill. It certainly felt longer than that.  

All that said, everything besides the makeshift plot and confusing narrative was actually really well executed. In addition to the beautiful mise-en-scène — McG took every opportunity to show off the Eiffel Tower — this film was surprisingly French, which is probably the reason why it wasn’t all terrible.

With almost an entirely French cast and crew, including writers Luc Besson and Adi Hasak, cinematographer Thierry Arbogast, and a score by Guillaume Roussel, 3 Days to Kill had all the familiar elements found in famous French spy series such as Le Gendarme and OSS 117 (which starred Jean Dujardin before he was a Swedish bank mogul laundering Jordan Belfort’s money or a silent film superstar). For an action film, it’s got enough not to bore. Costner kills like the plague: his body-count hits the half-century mark about 20 minutes in and rises exponentially from there.

The comedy is decidedly Français: clumsy, maladroit, and filled with foolish situational and corporeal humor. McG probably banked a little too much on over-the-top sound effects and old-man-on-a-girl’s-bike humor, but there were plenty of funny moments. Costner is more of a comical figure than he ever is badass, so he milks it.

3 Days to Fill is well-acted and McG made certain to have a resolution for every character involved. No stone was left unturned, and the film wraps up the mangled plot as cleanly as possible. Costner as a poor man’s Liam Neeson works fairly well, and the father-daughter relationship between him and Steinfeld is heart-warming at times. The Wolf and The Albino are terrible villains, but they’re at least entertaining. There’s talent in nuggets here; McG does a good job of mining it.

When it comes down to it, 3 Days to Kill exceeds expectations like a 4th grader jumping hurdles at the district track meet. Costner has come a long way since his Ta Tanka and Two Socks chasing days with the Dakota Souix, but this Dance With Wolf just didn’t make me howl.

C-

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