’42’
Directed by Brian Helgeland
Starring Chadwick Boseman, Harrison Ford, Nicole Beharie, Christopher Meloni, Alan Tudyk, John C. McGinley, Ryan Merriman, Lucas Black and Andrew Holland
Biography/Drama/Sports
128 Mins
PG-13

An often-feckless biopic milking sentimentality at every turn, 42 may be an inspiring story but it is uninspired filmmaking. When you break through all the pure formula, there’s little to distinguish this from other, greater films that tackle the similar territory of an African-American underdog rising up in a sporting arena in race-intolerant America. Though a good story is embedded in here somewhere, you’d best bust out the knives because the sap is so thick you’ll have to cut deep to find it.

42 chronicles the true story of Jackie Robinson (the first African American major league baseball player) and his first year playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers in deeply segregated 1947. Dodgers GM Branch Rickey (Harrison Ford) spits in the face of tradition by selecting to draft an African-American ballplayer because Harrison Ford says so. Rickey finds the ideal candidate in Robinson (Chadwick Boseman), a thick-skinned rookie with a penchant for stealing bases. And where Robinson is truly a maestro at stealing those bases, filmmaker Brian Helgeland doesn’t make off with his blatant attempt to steal some tears.

From the get-go, the pandering score clues us in to the hopeless sentimentality that will dominate the feature. The faux-inspiring, melancholic score is deeply reminiscent of John Williams at his most indulgent, a symphonically situated somberness used to play up the audience’s sense of sympathy. But having played this card so early in the game, it’s impossible to miss the emotional manipulation oh so conspicuously taking place behind the curtain. Instead of building his house of cards carefully, Helgeland charges full forward into the sobbing mire, never even attempting to woo and court us before he takes us out back to the milk-machine.

The films strongest asset is surely its talented host of performers. Boseman offers a faithful portrayal of Robinson, balancing his callous and charm with a careful hand. However, for the star of the film, we occasionally get the impression that he seems a bit out of his league. A scene that involves a smashed bat in the shadows may be particularly stirring but it’s one of the few moments where the inner workings of Robinson actually come into the light.

Given the chance to work the comedic relief, Ford offers a fairly slight performance as Branch Rickey. We’re shown that Rickey is a good guy but he’s got very little depth beyond being a kindly subversive figure. His motivations are veiled until a big reveal that didn’t stir up the emotional value it thinks it did and as a result, the character suffers. He’s Moneyball‘s Billy Beanewithout the palpable, ticking sense of angst and fervent rebellion.

The real winning performances in 42 come from Alan Tudyk, who plays the epitome of a redneck racist and John C. McGinley, the strangely cadenced game day announcer. While most of his fellow actors in the film are playing in safe, Tudyk is tasked with spewing out the most offensive racial slurs he can get his hands on and boy is he effective. Within moments, you want to strangle this dopey-eyed son-of-a-bitch and yet he’s so pathetic and lost that you can’t help but pity the man.

Although the true story behind the man who wore the number 42 seems dutifully told here, it is all so glossed over that it gets difficult to see straight. The nitpicky details may be covered but the execution is a poor thatch job of benchmarks that settles with reporting the facts rather than weaving them into a thoughtful narrative. Anytime Helgeland attempts to edify us, it just seems like a cheap collage of scenes that hop from Robinson’s recruitment to his ultra-lame marriage proposal to his baby’s birth to his difficult transition into the majors. Since these stepping-stones are treated as random asides, they never feel like fundamental additions to the character or his story arc.

The best drama in the film is mined out on the ballfield where Robinson is in his element and the whole production seems at its most comfortable. Out here, there’s no attempt to pigeonhole in side narratives or elicit a false emotional response. Like Robinson so often says, they’re just here to play ball. It’s in these moments that the unspoken acts of racial violence seem the most present and disturbing.

While baseball after baseball are intentionally thrown at his head, Robinson can only summon the strength to be a better man than his ignorant colleagues and it makes it that much more powerful when he knocks one out of the park. In this study of race in baseball, 42 enjoys success. Even then, however, Helgeland can’t help himself but to slow things down to a slo-mo trot and pan across the audience to random, uplifted black folks and jeering whites again and again and again.
 

Every time the film looks like it’s going to rise to the occasion, it shoots itself in the foot, reading from the book o’ cliché. Instead of boldly going where no one has before, it settles with following tradition and leaving the mold as it is. Other films, such as Remember the Titans, have done this story before and hit all the weighty notes without the senseless pandering that takes place here.

Perhaps its greatest asset is also its greatest flaw: an eagerness to please the masses – as its appeal is unapologetically broad. This is drama for the moms and pops, not for the student of subtlety. While I’m sure some would claim that it takes its fair share of risks, those mostly gravitate around its copious use of the n-word: a tired-and-true mine for easy sympathy, a sweeping play for the ‘Awws’ and a cue for the white guilt to kick in. The real risks, however, are left for another day, for another movie, for another audience, as this one is happy picking up the crumbs from every other black-person-playing-sports-back-in-racist-times movie. 

At the center of the 42 is a stirring tale of resistance, will-power, personal triumph and character- a Jesus-esque tale of turning the other cheek and growing in spite of it all. Unfortunately, every time these earnest moments show their head, they are quickly degraded by a spewing geyser of soapy sentimentality. Even in the decadent little movements of intimacy, over-sensationalization takes hold and bucks the viewer into a fatiguing stronghold.

D+

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‘Trance’
Directed by Danny Boyle
Starring James McAvoy, Vincent Cassel, Rosario Dawson, Danny Sapani and Tuppence Middleton
Crime/Drama/Thriller
101 Mins
R

Anytime a Danny Boyle film is in the works, I can’t help but get my hopes up. The man who’s brought such great films as Trainspotting, 127 Hours, 28 Days Later and Slumdog Millionaire has truly earned the title of auteur chameleon as he drifts in and out of genres with faultless ease. With Trance, all the earmarks of a Boyle film are here: uncomfortably close digital shots, a rich, vibrant color palette, a pulsing sense of place and life, reversals of character, etc. This time, however, we find him playing with the notion of the power of suggestion. As Trance leaves little hints along the way, the twists and turns are admirable and calculated and there’s enough intrigue in the journey to set any accusations of bollocks by the wayside.

The film begins with a sly little musical ditty as Simon (James McAvoy) breaks the third wall and tells us the ins-and-outs of the fine art auctioneering business. After a century of robberies and hold-ups, the auctioneering society has developed a systematic method to safeguard their highly prized paintings. However precious these costly paintings may be, no art is worth a human life. At least this is the case for the snobbish art auctioneers society. We quickly find out that criminals may have a different take on the subject.

Whenever these attempted robberies take place, Simon is tasked with nabbing the painting and hustling them to a slide-away safe. This time though, he’s cut a deal with French mafioso-type Franck (Vincent Cassel) to steal Francisco Goya’s “Witches in Air”, worth a whooping 27 million British pounds. When things go awry, Simon suffers a blow to the head and forgets where he’s stashed the high-priced painting. Franck and Simon seek the help of Elizabeth (Rosario Dawson), a hypnotherapist, with hopes of cracking through Simon’s amnesia and discovering the lost canvas.

What plays out is a cat-and-mouse game of beating the psyche but as bits of Simon’s mind become unlocked the dynamics between these characters begin to shift and unfold a much deeper plot. There’s a bit of Inception taking place here as the troop attempts to crack into Simon’s mind to extract his lost memories but instead of big set pieces, Trance relies on crafty camera work and subverted expectations to keep our attention and earn our anticipation. Every shot seems framed by another frame, a reflection of a reflection – a thinly veiled metaphor for the character and yet another example of some damn fine camera work by Boyle regular, Anthony Dod Mantle.

While there are no award worthy performances per se, all of the players do a great job at fleshing out their characters and giving them the back-story needed to make the plot twists flourish. James McAvoy’s (X-Men: First Class) Simon is a bit of an enigma and as Boyle peels down the onion of his character, we see the crafty construction that he truly is. As always, McAvoy offers a tight little performance with an edgy air and scatterbrained coolness. At this point, he’s nailed down the apprehensive, panicky protagonist who dances with darkness. Once again, he’s right on cue here.

Vincent Cassel (Black Swan) lets the charisma flow and in the process, transforms a one-dimensional character into a more intriguing antihero. Suave to a fault, he channels the same seductive sporting that characterized Thomas from Black Swan. But as his secrecy melts away under the spell of Dawson’s Elizabeth, we see the man beneath the title and he’s more interesting than your cookie-cutter gangster.

Playing the fulcrum between her two leading men, Rosario Dawson (Sin City) plays Elizabeth in a similarly cryptic manner. While, at first, her decisions seem to be motivated by sympathy and greed, there is a primal sense of self-preservation to Elizabeth that grows throughout. I admire the fact that instead of using Elizabeth as a typical female playing third-fiddle, she is at the center of the action. She’s the Queen in this game of chess and without her everything is lost. Instead of a throwaway role, Dawson plays up this character’s complexity and dumps all over the boring love triangle formula that dominate similar films.

There’s a good measure of sex and gore with some hairy carnage – one half-headed scene in particular reminded me of a Cronenberg film – and even some hairless vajayjay. Boyle knows where to beef up his scenes with a healthy dose of these guilty pleasures and adds them in gleefully. This is hard-boiled pulp made for adults seeking an intelligent film that doesn’t pretend it’s anything more than it is. This isn’t some grand deconstruction of eternal themes; it’s an ample little thriller that keeps you guessing until the end and flips our expectations at every turn.

It takes a tested hand like Boyle’s to turn this relatively minor film into a genre flick buzzing along with tactful cinema purity and a life all its own. The sly little reveals peppered throughout the film keep it light and exciting, allowing it to zip along to a satisfying conclusion. Although some of the character beats seem hurried at times, once Trance plays its final hand, you’re sure to be left satisfied and not feeling conned out of your time and money.