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Sundance Review: THE STRONGEST MAN

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Socially awkward black comedy with occasionally explosive moments of understated humor, The Strongest Man is Kenny Riches‘ follow-up to Must Come Down and his first big festival debut. His surgically shrewd examination of two nobodies stewing in the melting pot of Miami presents a deep and thoughtful metaphysical exploration of life as alien experience with the stonerish tendencies of Jared Hess and the outlandish atmospheres of a dedicated daydreamer.

The Napoleon Dynamite similarities don’t stop here as Riches’ two middling heroes are one dance session away from the buddy-buddy comedy stylings of Hess’ bizarre seminal work. From sharing a bike to snorting unknown substances on the beachfront, Beef (newcomer Robert Lorie) and Conan (Paul Chamberlain) are an odd couple; as physically and mentally ill-matched as Pinkie and the Brain and yet palpably, enormously close to one another.

Their journey through Riches’ story – one that tells of Beef’s slip-and-slide into love, a stolen BMX bike, anxiety monsters and spirit animals – is one of a stunted stuntman. Early on in the film, Beef charges through a series of cement walls for no rhyme or reason. Probably to prove to himself that he could.

Ripples of angst and anguish, of miffed expectations of oneself, of stasis and change, of prevailing alienation, and of cultural misunderstanding rip through this impressionist fable, leaving behind a jumbled pile of thoughts with undeniable meaning and ringing with warranted vitriol. Riches’ shots are as much at art and pedigree as they are of high-rise heiresses and textbook narcissism. Some land better than others. More often than not, it’s his take on Miami that shines brightest.

A city that’s the modern day American equivalent of the Tower of Babel, the beach town setting is a breeding ground for multilingualism and yet everyone speaks a different language – both linguistically and emotionally. Strongman Beef is an island orbited by Conan and eventually Illi (Ashley Burch) and you feel his pain ripple from the screen, even when he’s not narrating his wandering stream of consciousness in his oh-so-much-more-elegant native tongue.

An emotionally resonant win for faux-cinéma vérité (with a surprise cameo from nerd prince Freddie Wong), The Strongest Man becomes occasionally untacked by amateur bits of visual collage work, the result of a first time DP throwing in the kitchen sink. But while slacking on the strongest cinematography, it excels on the quirky existential mood lighting that Riches is able to produce scene for scene. Don’t be mistaken, the weird, quirky and surrealistic vision quest that is The Strongest Man marks Riches as a talent to look out for down the line, once his technical marksmanship catches up with his creative core.

C+

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Sundance Review: JAMES WHITE

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James White
is a revealing ailment drama fastened by excellent performances and as smothered in bathos as cafeteria nachos are in fluorescent cheese. Marking the writing/directing debut for longtime Borderline Films producer Josh Mond, this nuclear family implosion bespeaks a turning point for the genre-leaning studio. In the wake of such cerebral thriller vibes of Martha Marcy May Marlene and Simon Killer, James White is the product of hawkish realism – an blemished, brave story that squares its audience in the midst of an emotional tornado.

Encouraged by the close circle of Borderline principals to “work on something personal”, the tragic development at the heart of the film is culled straight from Mond’s own experience of losing his mother to cancer. Says Mond, “James White isn’t my exact story – it wouldn’t be possible to tell my story in one movie – but it definitely came from a place of wanting to understand things that I was dealing with, things that I am still dealing with.”

And you can feel the verisimilitude bleed off the screen. Rather than sentimentalize and aggrandize the role of the mother and son struggling with the big C, Mond eulogizes in repentant waves. This is no story of heroism, it’s an account of needing an instruction manual when there is none available.
 
As the eponymous character, Christopher Abbot breaks out in the biggest way possible. Full of rage and anguish, he’s an impossible character but Abbot absolutely nails him. From his hard partying exploits to dealing with his grief in volatile salvos, Abbott rounds the character out without sanding him down. We’re privy to all the ugly, unflattering divots and bumps in his personality.  Combative detonations, emotional blusters and huge (but understandable) mood swings reveal a soul as lumpy and bruised as an overgrown tumor.

White’s best friend is played by Kid Cudi, who after a surprisingly impressive debut in Need for Speed (a fun performance trapped in a lagging film) is back showcasing a deft ability to handle drama. Cynthia Nixon is a heartbreaker as White’s fading matriarch, giving a performance soaked in fever sweat and unsentimentally sobering.

Mond keeps things simple in order to showcase the developing relationship arcs – the twentysomething deadbeat manning up, the caregiver role inevitably transplanted from one generation to the next – and for it is rewarded with a singularly affecting film that’s lamentably about as much fun as the death throes.

B

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Sundance Review: REVERSAL

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There’s a flicker of hope early on in Reversal. A scuzzy captive batters her captor, gaining the upper hand and chaining him in the very binds she was kept in for who knows how long. She scours the house for car keys, stumbling upon a folder filled with Polaroids of similarly imprisoned females. She rages downstairs, pistol cocked, face splattered with blood from their recent altercation. Tensions run high and the stage for a decent horror flick is set. And then she opens her mouth.

Reversal is a film that really isn’t horrible so long as no one’s talking. When they’re forced to peel through Rock Shaink Jr.‘s hacky script, it is. It really, really is. Cheap and stinking more of cheese than bleu basking in the sun, Shaink Jr.’s dialogue are first draft-worthy cliches shaped into an incoherent series of events likely to incur frustration (“Why doesn’t she just call the cops!”) and walk outs (nearly half my theater dumped out before the end).

José Manuel Cravioto‘s misplaced direction doesn’t help the matter. But it’s only fair to cut him a little bit of a break. English isn’t his first language and it shows. Thoroughly showcasing his foreign” director status, Cravioto tries on material he must not linguistically understand. How else can you account for the absolutely horrendous delivery of some of an already shoddy script?

A handful of his shots prove tempestuous, particularly when no one’s speaking. From blood-splattered slow-mo walks to explosive fits of violence, Cravioto has an eye for setting the scene but not the ear to discern performances.

It’s not that Tina Ivlev is terrible so much as her scenes seem rushed and “first take”. Richard Tyson gets out a hair better, but similarly fails to overcome the bargain bin script. Which is a true disappointment. Films of this nature – female-led revenge flicks – ought to empower. Rather, the whole thing feels discounted and inauthentic – the artifact of two men trying to capitalize on feminine rage.

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Sundance Review: THE OVERNIGHT

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Last year, Patrick Brice showed up to SXSW with Creep. Devilishly crafty and expertly focused, it fell in with the usual suspects of found footage horror, even though it was so much more than just another point and shoot, “gotcha!” scare effort. The natural tension that Brice was able to tease out of a scene – the inherent discomfort and overarching ambiguity of character relations – made for a plucky and generously bewitching offering of horror comedy.

Everything that Brice was able to achieve with Creep has been honed and amplified with The Overnight. Equally as reigned in character-wise – aside from a kiddy duo, there are only four principals – and pumped to the brim with laugh out loud comedy, it’s a singularly optimal amalgamation of talent in front of and behind the camera.

Adam Scott (Parks and Recreations) and Taylor Schilling (Orange is the New Black) are recent LA transplants, here from Seattle on untold business. Scott’s Alex is a stay-at-home-dad with a small penis (it’s literally the first thing brought up in the film and yes, we eventually behold his itty bitty guy in full prosthetic glory) while Schilling’s Emily is a working professional. In the midst of concern that they won’t be able to land new friends in the deep blue sea that is Los Angeles, Kurt (Jason Schwartzman) arrives on the scene barking about gummy worm health detriments and boasting of his child’s “all vegan” diet. He’s joking but Schwartzman’s native ability to be a stuck-up shmoozer loser could have sold this character the whole way through. In no time, he’s won over the rainy city couple, tempting them into meeting up later that night with promises of a pizza playdate for their boys that’ll doubles as their chance to make new friends.

In the garish fortress that is this mystery couple’s home, Alex and Emily find themselves cautiously seduced by Kurt and Charlotte’s (Judith Godrèche) breezy, Euro charm. The resulting tension courts thriller elements but never really pushes too close to the edge what with all its healthy dousing of eruptive comedy. Over the course of the evening, the players find themselves steadily breaking out of their comfort zones as the libations are poured, divulging deeper and darker secrets in conjunction with the increasing number of bong rips they slug. From Kurt and Charlotte going full frontal for a skinny dip to popping on an explicit (and niche) DVD, Brice flirts with the idea of crossing the line without ever drawing one definitively in the sand. With incriminating evidence piling up, the dial points to a strong likelihood of swinger-dom and Emily and Alex must decide how to proceed in this uncommonly racy situation.

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Brice plays it cool though, creating a rich thematic dichotomy by implying something that might or might not be there. We find ourselves siding with the increasing suspicions of Emily though are equally willing to fall in line with Alex’s assumptions of this just being the “freewheelin’ California lifestyle”. Even more so than in Creep, we can never be certain of who exactly these people are and how roguish their intentions.

To chalk the whole film up to a feeling of uncertainly though misses the forest for the trees as this is through and through a brash, hysterical comedy. It just so happens that it’s that rare comedy with layers.

Each member of the cast fires their comedy shots with dynamic aptitude with Scott breaking new territory as a low-key but totally game fidgeter and Schilling playing incredulous like a weary jailbird. The undersung Godrèche is perfectly difficult to read as Schwartzman in the pole comedy position absolutely steals the show. From his equestrian-like male member (another prosthetic) to his general nonchalant demeanor, he chomps through his scenes like a horse to a bit.

The final result is both articulate and insightful, an uncommonly honest look at adult sexuality and the bargaining chips that married couples exchange. It’s also f*cking hilarious. Working from a much more finalized script (Creep was predominately ad-libbed), Brice proves his talent as a writer as well as a director and if he continues to pound out such accomplished work, he’ll be amongst the foremost directors worth of our anticipation.

A-

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Sundance Review: Z FOR ZACHARIAH

There are so many pivot points in Z for Zachariah that it becomes hard to nail down exactly what director Craig Zobel intended for it. At one point, it seems decidedly about gender politics, at another about race relations, and eventually it boiled down to themes of suspicion, greed and jealousy. Spliced with a domineering amount of ambiguity. All this from a cast of three. To call it thematically rich may be overly generous – maybe thematically crowded would hit the nail on the head more – but nonetheless, it strives for something thoughtful and great, even when it comes up just short. Read More

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Sundance Review: THE WITCH

What do 1630, a silver cup, Christian fervor and a goat named Black Phillip have in common? The Witch. Unholy goodness through and through, Robert Egger‘s feature film debut is a horror masquerading as a costume drama that’s as beady, black and misshapen as the center of a goat’s eye. Beneath the dirt-stained, leather-bound waistcoats, the perfumed, toity language of the New World, the white bonnets and constrictive girdles, The Witch has a vicious, illict and suspicious center and though admittedly scaled back on “scares” is deeply atmospheric, deeply disturbing and deeply great. Read More

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Nick Nolte Talks A WALK IN THE WOODS

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Of all the issues I had with A Walk in the Woods (our review) – the telling of Bill Bryson’s failure to complete the Appalachian Trail – Nick Nolte was not amongst them. In fact, he was the solitary beacon of hope shining through a film that otherwise stank of mediocrity. After the screening, the infamously crazed actor looked older than ever, shambling to a chair with the help of friends and family. You see, following the filming of Woods, Nolte had a full hip replacement. His spirits, medium-high, he sat to ironic applause and answered a few ambling questions with surprising tact and clarity. For such a wild man, Nolte has an astute, somewhat rambling outlook on nature, film and the great American trail. And nothing can beat out that gruffalo growl of his.

Q: Did you do all your own stunts while filming A Walk in The Woods?

Nick Nolte: Yeah, I did everything, except the one fall. Bob did that. We didn’t think we could survive it, but we felt that we had an obligation to finish the film. It was truly amazing area. It was like an hour-and-a-half to the location, by car or van, and there were the camels, or donkeys, and a couple of horses, and four-wheeled vehicles. And Bob would ride up on a horse. I was going to try a camel – he spit a lot – but I went up on a four-wheeler instead. The trouble was that they wouldn’t let Bob hold the reins of the horse. I guess they felt questionable over insurance responsibilities. So Bob got upset, and walked up the hill, which was quite brave of him. I always admired him for that. We’d get up there, and there he’d be… and of course all the guys would be up there and they’d say, “Oh, this is a great part of the trail. We can shoot this and this and this.” He would go up to the edge of the cliff, “Oh, you can come up here.” Well, let’s look at it first. Look out over everywhere. I thought we would run into a lot of hikers; we didn’t. We had to use a lot of actors, you know, to be hikers. Not a lot of people ever finish the Appalachian Trail. There are people who have walked it, straight through. It’s not a one summer deal. There are people who walk it for years. The trail runs about two miles from my farm in New York. There’s just a stake stamped into the ground, you know, a metal stake. And it’s up to the states to take care of the trail. It’s an amazing trail, because it had Thomas Jefferson’s dad’s initials up there, because he always said about the Appalachians that it was the barrier of America. We didn’t know what was west of that. It was quite a discovery, when we came upon that.

Q: Would you say that this filming experience changed you in any way?

NN: Oh, yeah. Every film does. They all change you. With this one, there’s a broader perspective. First of all, I didn’t ever imagine I’d be playing a contemporary guy. I’m not necessarily an easy contemporary person. I have a lot of nervousness and anxiety, fear and such… It was very strange to be getting into that, when you’re at this moment, just now, this is it, this is what we play. And Bob, too, I know it’s a struggle with Bob. Originally it was supposed to be Paul Newman and Bob, and Paul died. Paul had offered me a role in a cowboy film he had, and it took a week for me to read, three or four times, and finally told Paul, “Look, it’s a deputy that has to transport ten hookers from his town to another town. I don’t quite understand the humor.” And Paul said, “That’s exactly what Redford says!” We did agree on that.

Q: You said that the third main character of the film was the trail. One of the threads that runs through is the exfoliation of the whole forest, the appreciation of the environment, the whole thing, the awe and wonder of the natural world. How do you see that, given the crises the natural world is in, and the responsibility of the society to see that?

NN: Awe is probably the quality that the artist tries to achieve. But nature itself achieves it. Any activity that goes beyond what we think can be done, and it goes beyond that, creates a state of awe. It’s a very important state, and it’s very hard to create that, on film, or athletics, or whatever. Nature is a great provider of that, and that’s why we’ve got to… we can’t let it become mundane to us. We can’t get egotistical about nature, and consider it secondary, and “Oh, I’ve seen that.” No, you haven’t seen that. You haven’t seen what nature can do. We do have to become partners with it.

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Sundance Review: THE END OF THE TOUR

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To put a pin in the beauty of The End of the Tour is a philosophical venture potentially as challenging as James Ponsoldt‘s latest accomplishment. Detailing a three-day exchange between Rolling Stones journalist David Lipsky and rock star author David Foster Wallace, Ponsoldt’s film is talky and emotionally whirling, thick with dry-mouthed moments and cemented with a kind of human earnestness that cannot be bought or bartered for. Read More

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Sundance Review: A WALK IN THE WOODS

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Robert Redford
‘s adaptation of Bill Bryson‘s popular 1998 memoir A Walk In the Woods is an unremarkable journey with a short sprinkling of low-key chuckles and a heaving dose of schmaltzy sentiment. As Redford’s travel companion, co-star Nick Nolte manages to give this low-percolating buddy comedy/road-movie-on-foot at least some minor footing, but its not enough to balance the overwrought equilibrium. Mining the material for all its geriatric sitcom worth, director Ken Kwapis‘ internal clock ticks with the fervor of a retiree, as he fails to charge the material with any sense of driving momentum. As much as Nolte’s character drags his feet, it’s Kwapis who lags most. For a film all about the journey forward, that presents a major problem.

There curtain opens on Bill Bryson (Redford) plopped in an interview chair and grilled by a Boston newscaster. Between high-browed snaps at travel journalism, this liberal-shmearing mockery of a media man criticizes Bryson for writing solely about experiences abroad. He questions, “Why have you never written about America?” Something twinkles in Bryson as a hit from this overcharged snark battleship appears to sink something within him. Seeing Redford seemed only half-full to begin with, his deflation fails to strike a nerve.

We’re lead to believe that that exchange – in addition to the death of a distant friend – inspires Bryson to reach outside the box and spring for that one final adventure. Now well over the hill, his spirit journey down the Appalachian is not one his wife (Emma Thompson) is willing to broad. Not unless Bill has a buddy in tow.

After a series of cold-called rejections, Bryson finds himself on the phone with a washed-up alcoholic friend of yore, Stephen Katz (Nolte), who he’d not seen since a calamitous Euro-trip some 40 years back. Desperate for company, he succumbs to this only option and sets out to take on the 2,179 mile trek with this “friend” of unenviable gait. Their journey brings them to head with annoying companions, bears and vengeful boyfriends but never fails to feel like more than a montage of mildly assuming moments.

Nolte’s gruff grumbles provide a sense of abject naturalism – an old half-bitter man quietly raging, forsaking himself of bad life choices – that is oddly lacking in this flick that’s surrounded by nature. He’s the only one on the border of bearing his soul as Redford seems to more or less ice-skate his way through his depiction of an aging, intellectual playboy. An uncomfortable amount of blame ought be laid at screenwriter Michael Arndt‘s (Toy Story 3, Little Miss Sunshine) feet as the script is flatter than the Georgia section of the trail. It doesn’t help when Kwapis can’t discern when to start and stop the camera. Or where to point it.

There’s a nice moment in A Walk in the Woods where a star-gazing Katz waxes on existence, speculating about just how many millions of stars they can see out here in the great nothing. Bryson matter-of-factly corrects him: only five thousand are visible to the naked eye. Katz shakes it off, “I’m a big picture kind of guy.” If only Kwapis could have learned this same lesson.

Unabashedly sentimental and overtly geared towards the elderly folks in the audience, the overly tender Kwapis filters his comic sensibility through an aggressively broad strainer. The outcome is the equivalent of cinematic baby food: mushy, flavorless and far too safe.

C-

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Out in Theaters: THE BOY NEXT DOOR

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Ugly, rapey stalker thriller The Boy Next Door doesn’t get the first thing right about stalking, nor does it care to. Starring the curve of J Lo‘s booty and an Oedipal whelp of man meat, Rob Cohen‘s delightfully crummy feature probes madcap, self-deprecating territory but squarely settles for a damning self-serious tone. Had Cohen (he of Fast and Furious, XXX, The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor and Alex Cross acclaim) just gone for intentionally laughable bombast, we could have been howling with him, not at him.

Wasting no time revealing how laughably bad it is, The Boy Next Door opens with exposition as information dump. J Lo’s husband cheated on her, divorce papers appeared but were never signed, forgiveness is on the horizon. All of this narrative hooey is communicated in a 30 second flashback/montage clip, making for one of the worst openings this side of Blackhat‘s “inside the computer” start. The only foil to J Lo’s marital reconciliation is the fact that hubby (John Corbett) is scheduled for a trip to San Francisco, hometown to his partner in infidelity.

Enter Noah Sandborn (Ryan Guzman), your garage-fixing, alternator-switching boy of the next door persuasion. The guy’s got an enviable six pack – which inexplicably occupies more camera minutes than J Lo’s most prized ASSets – and J Lo’s Claire Peterson isn’t afraid to peep at them from across the way. Spinning from dating woes and palpably seduced by Noah’s youthful magnetism, Claire winds up bedded by her high school neighbor in a scene that alternates between being sketchy, funny and sexy and is downright useless to the film. (Also: it shows zero boobs.)

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In amazingly little time, Noah begins an unhealthy obsession with his hot pepperoncini of a neighbor, even after she tries to put the kibosh to things. Bing, bang, boom, Noah starts showing his bad side as his whole rape fanta…I mean stalking escalate at neck-break speeds.

Pointing out all the little narrative infidelities of The Boy Next Door is like trying to pin down exactly how many men a porn star has slept with. It’s a film that features a race against the clock to discard ribbons on ribbons of smutty photocopies; that features a bully-target of a son with an allergy to…being nervous?; a film where you know the breaks are cut minutes before the car starts swerving. Apparently, it exists in a vacuum of cell communication as well, because aside from one or two instances, we never see our characters disclose critical details to one another. You have to count the instances in which near death experiences occur and then are never spoke of again.

Step Up‘s Guzman is awful in the leading man’s shoes, all kinds of ham and cheese in a role that might have even thrived in the hands of a Dan Stevens type. The parallels to Adam Winguard’s infinitely superior The Guest are so many and so obvious that a fellow film critic turned to me at the end, postulating that it might end in the exact same fashion. For what it’s worth, Jennifer Lopez is the best part of the film – managing to skimp her way through Barbara Curry‘s hackneyed script mostly unscathed – but she’s also the only one trying. Kristen Chenoweth playing a low-rent Cameron Diaz offers up miffed comedic relief while relative newcomer Ian Nelson is more breakfast cereal goody-two-shoes than Walt Jr.
 
The effort just isn’t there and the product shows it. There’s a late scene sequence – all engulfed in flames and shot to shit – in which Cohen seems to fully abandon the serious tone and go for broke, making for some absurdist, genuinely funny material. It’s not entirely clear if this is his throwing in the cards moment or a side-glancing wink at the audience but it’s exactly the kind of bonkers “what the hell is this crap?” moment that the movie needed much, much more of. Or could have done without entirely.

D-

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