As the 2011 baseball season approaches its 162^nd game, most eyes will be on the Boston Red Sox and the Tampa Bay Rays. The former has blown the nine game lead they held in the Wild Card race on September 9^th when they were a half-game back of the New York Yankees and on pace to win 98 games in the stacked American League East. The latter took advantage of Boston’s precarious pitching and drew even on the second-to-last day of the season. If both teams win against their respective opponents, Baltimore and New York, a one-game playoff will decide who polishes their golf clubs tomorrow morning.

As a Mets fan, the only interest I hold in this circumstance is to watch a team suffer a more epic collapse than New York did in 2007 when they decided that a consecutive division title and a playoff berth just wasn’t their thing. At the same time, there’s something eerie about the surging Rays and the plummeting Sox coinciding with the release of Moneyball, a film based on Michael Lewis’ 2003 novel of the same name that examines the actions of Oakland A’s general manager, Billy Beane, just after he loses a heartbreaking five-game series to the New York Yankees and, subsequently, loses three marquee players: Jason Giambi (Yankees), Johnny Damon (Boston), and Jason Isringhausen (St. Louis).

As the general manager, Beane (Brad Pitt) handles a small-market club that lies behind the “rich teams,” “poor teams,” and beneath “fifty feet of crap.” Plus, it’s “gutted” and unable to hold onto its centerpieces once they are allowed to test the waters of free agency. Therefore, they become less a perennial contender and more a “farm system” for other teams like the Yankees, Red Sox, and Mets with deeper pockets. Acknowledging the need for the ball club to “adapt or die,” Beane teams up with Peter Brandt (Jonah Hill), a baseball analyst with an economics degree from Yale, to build a team that is not based on marquee names or “five tool players” who look “ready to play the part,” but is cultivated from statistical success, focusing primarily on “on-base-percentage.” Here, like in Lewis’ book, the theory is sound: the more people on base, the more possible runs. The more runs scored, the more wins. This theory ultimately benefits Beane and his ball club because on-base-percentage doesn’t demand as much money as homeruns, stolen bases, and other crowd-drawing spectacles.

In Moneyball, the theory is sound and proven – at least in 2002 – as the A’s won one more games than they did in 2001 when they had big names in their line up and on the mound. And in terms of nostalgia, it was fun to relive the A’s strive for twenty wins in a row as they nearly blew an eleven run lead over the lowly Kansas City Royals, however, the movie lacks something – and that something seems to be a “so what?”

Admittedly, it’s impressive to see what Beane did in 2002, and in a sense, he is credited with disproving the operational strategies of the biggest spenders in baseball. At the same time, the movie itself is rather misleading. Yes, Oakland began in the basement of the AL West. Yes, there was tension between Beane and manager Art Howe (Philip Seymour Hoffman). Yes, there were questionable trades made around the forty-game mark in the season, and, yes, the A’s went on a huge winning streak and ended up finishing the season with 103 wins. However, there is very little credit given to their amazing pitching staff.  Statistically, Oakland followed its game plan and scored runs via on-base-percentage rather than the long ball. But, in order to ensure this plan works, the pitching staff needs to keep the other team off the board – something that is facilitated by the presence of Tim Hudson, Mark Mulder, and former Cy Young Award winner Barry Zito.

In 2002, the triad won a combined 57 games of Oakland’s 103 wins. In 2003, they won 45 games of Oakland’s 96 wins; in 2004, they won 40 games out of 91 wins, and by 2005 – when only Zito was left because the other two were poached by bigger market clubs – the team had won 88 games and finished second in the West. While the film focuses a lot on the building of an offense through statistical calculations, it also elides the blatant connection between big name pitching and success.

What’s also a bit wonky – from a fan’s perspective – is the notion that baseball has been forever altered by Beane’s use of statistics to build a ball club. Oakland is a small-market team, but it has yet to win a World Series under Beane  – and hasn’t been above the .500 mark for the past six seasons. At the same time, the movie dismisses the fact that the Arizona Diamondbacks won the World Series in 2001, the year in which the movie begins by documenting Oakland’s devastating loss to the New York Yankees. At that time, the Yankees were MLB’s top payroll at $110million while Arizona’s payroll was 8^th at $81million. Admittedly, the A’s were paying a mere $38million, but that’s only slightly less than the Marlin’s $48.7million payroll (25^th) when they won the Series (over the New York Yankees) in 2002  – the year that Moneyball documents. Likewise, with the exceptions of 2004 and 2007 when the Red Sox won the World Series, the other champs for the last ten years have been outside of the top ten in payroll.

In the end, Moneyball is a movie about a theory that portends to be successful but isn’t really. I also feels much like last year’s The Social Network – and even includes some of the same subdued score as Beane and Brandt tried to translate numbers into wins – but this is not necessarily a positive. The somber nature of the film and pitting of “haves” against “have nots” suggests a poignant allegory to capitalism and how the latter can “adapt.” To its credit, Moneyball is well-acted and well-written, but it stakes the claim that the little guy can win – when he doesn’t, despite the tongue-in-cheek metaphor at the end of the movie. More frustratingly, it imagines coincidence and a piece of success as the whole truth, which it’s not.

As the trailer for the film adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary makes its way around the internet and into the laps of Gonzo-followers, the premier looms and conjures previous imaginings of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson on the silver screen. Thompson – or more appropriately, his alter-ego Raoul Duke – has been portrayed in two films based on his 1971 account of debauchery and the chase of the American dream through the Las Vegas desert: Terry Gilliam’s 1998 adaptation Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Art Linson’s 1980 Where the Buffalo Roam. Given the same source material for both films, the question becomes whether or not there is a successful interpretation of the good doctor’s sardonic journey, replete with “two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline … a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, laughers, screamers,” and enough ether to saturate the floorboards and impel the “helpless, irresponsible and depraved” ether binge.

Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing is much more stylized, but this does not necessarily translate to success. At times, he captures the madness and confusion of drug binges, but, most often, these depictions often come across as cartoonish. Whereas a movie like Trainspotting married visceral images of drug use and despair with the abuser’s contradictory feeling of elation, this film often comedifies the entire situation with Duke’s (Johnny Depp) exaggerated bow-legged walk, his constantly googling eyes, and his tendency to jerk hyperbolically beyond his own description of an “Irish drunkard.”

The same stylistic flaws can be seen as Gilliam attempts to faithfully translate Thompson’s account of Duke’s hallucinations while he and his faithful lawyer Dr. Gonzo (Benicio Del Toro) find themselves in a “reptile bar” after “checking into a Federal hotel under a phony name and commit capital fraud on a headful of acid.” The way in which the “giant bats” appear only in reflections in Duke’s and Dr. Gonzo’a sunglasses, and woven vines in the carpet come to life and wind their way around the employees’ ankles is subtle, haunting and trippy, though the transmogrification of patrons into gila monsters and kimoda dragons foreshadows the fatal flaw in his most recent full-length feature, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. The ability to use special effects does not dictate that they must be used – or ensure that they will be used well. Here, their ubiquity often distracts from any poignancy being conveyed by the voice-over narration that has been taken from the original novel.

Aside from the overzealous use of CGI, Fear and Loathing translates well…I think. In one sense, this film embodies Thompson’s belief that art exists in the gray area of truth and fiction, a chiaroscuro that dismisses objective journalism in favor of braving beyond the politically correct recollection of certain histories. At the same time, Fear and Loathing could also be categorized as overly stylized schlock that embraces the ability to conjure obscure images but shows no temperament or restraint, choosing to sacrifice political and social satire for moments that might best define the film as a cult classic – not for its content, insight, or poignancy, but for lines that recall “two women fucking a polar bear.” If in fact the movie is geared to the former, then it speaks to Thompson’s belief that his journalistic beat was the “death of the American dream.” If it’s the latter, then the film becomes a wasted interpretation that hardly does the good Doctor Thompson justice.

At the same time, there is at least one glaring success in Gilliam’s film, namely the separation of the author Thompson from his character Duke. While the novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is supposed to be autobiographical, it’s no secret that Thompson builds much of his narration on shreds of truth and was once introduced as the “most accurate and least factual” journalist in America.

Perhaps this is why Thompson preferred Gilliam’s film to Linson’s – and even makes a cameo during one of Duke’s binges.  Perhaps it’s because Gilliam truly cartoonifies Duke, separating him from Thompson while keeping some of his basic mannerisms and inflections true to the inspiration. While Depp’s bow-legged stroll is hyperbolized – as if he’s constantly stepping ”giant bat” feces — there are still nuances that belong to Thompson. The same can be said for the chaotic attention paid to Duke’s cigarette holder, a fixture that follows nearly every image found of the real Thompson. Some might suggest that this exaggerated rendition bastardizes who Thompson was, but that’s the point, and, in fact, it appears it would be what Thompson would have wanted. Check out the video of the real-life Thompson’s rant on a BBC reporter who neglects to distinguish between him and Duke:

The frustration that lies beneath Thompson’s assertion that “I’m never sure which one people expect me to be … most often, with people I don’t know, I’m expected to be Duke, not Thompson” illustrates the obscured distinction between the character and the author, something that is doubly depicted in the movie as Duke receives a telegram addressed to Thompson c/o Duke. And maybe this speaks to the world of journalism in general where the visage of an author is far less important than the words he or she generates. In other words, Thompson’s name is well known, but his image could be transfered to various other personas.

The primary issue that I’ve found with the film is that, in the end, it lacks the mordant satire that Thompson offered in his novel. To its credit, one of the final voice-overs is poignant, but it’s a gauntlet getting to Duke’s – and I would venture Thompson’s — epiphany that the ideology of the sixties has ceased its death rattle and now lies rigor mortised and rotting, lamenting those people who followed Timothy Leary and the drug culture ideologically “without ever giving thought to the grim meat-hooks realities that were lying in wait for all those who took him seriously.”

In the end, the final ten minutes of the film are the cathartic apex that the novel built to. Unfortunately, the first hour and change takes itself and Thompson’s cultish following for granted.

Regarding Linson’s adaptation of the novel: it begins with Neil Young’s acoustic, nasally, sardonic rendition of “Where the Buffalo Roam,” but this clearly becomes the high point as everything after descends to a confused mixture of poorly written dialog, arbitrary moments that are loosely tethered to events in Thompson’s writings, and Bill Murray trying desperately not to be Bill Murray. To his credit, Murray mimics Thompson’s mannerisms and vocal inflections almost to a tee, but still, there are moments when Murray’s Wild Turkey-induced slurrings are more akin to Carl Spackler (from Caddyshack, a film also released in 1980) than Duke or Thompson. In what might be the penultimate flaw of Where the Buffalo Roam, it deviates from separating Duke and Thompson, rendering them one in the same character. The ultimate sin is its lack of poignancy and the confusion of whether or not it’s a campy biopic or a faithful adaptation of the novel that subtitles itself as a Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream.

A number of films employ an infidelity motif to frame, expand, or elaborate on a plot. Often, the third act of a film hinges on the act and steers the audience toward an interpretation of one character or another. Take a recent movie like the The Kids Are Alright, where infidelity attempts to vilify two characters – Ruffalo and Moore – while it presumes vindication for the third (Bening). The same might be said for Fatal Attraction and Indecent Proposal (both by Adrian Lyne), in which the female transgressors are ultimately seen as the antagonists – as are, to a lesser degree Dan Gallagher (Michael Douglas) and John Gage (Robert Redford), respectively. The reasons for this are more stereotypically stigmatized than anything else; however, the sexual interloping limns both arcs, creates conflict, and imagines the characters.

In a somewhat refreshing approach, Last Night avoids the focus on sexual relations – for the most part – and leads the audience through various cuts between a husband and wife who find themselves on separate paths to respective trysts. Of course, these paths are initially chartered by tension within the first five minutes of the movie: Joanna Reed (Keira Knightley) is running late to get dressed for a party for which her husband Michael (Sam Worthington) is already suited in black tie apparel. Not sure if this stereotypical conflict between man and woman should impel the desire for adultery, but, here, their mutual frustration carries over to the gathering at Michael’s firm, and Joanna’s paranoia is piqued by the attention Michael pays to his co-worker Laura (Eva Mendes).

As Joanna drinks wine and mingles with others, she spots Michael and Laura on a terrace. Nothing really happens between the two aside from Laura’s hand resting on his shoulder, but this visual is enough to prompt Joanna to go silent and offer the all-telling “nothing” as a rejoinder to Michael’s inquiry of “what’s wrong?” Joanna’s all-too-familiar inflection that bespeaks frustration and annoyance bordering on anger doubly confirms that something is amiss – as does her scowl-ridden dash from the elevator and the aggressive removal of her clothing as she prepares to sleep on the couch. Her reaction – along with Michael’s sincere disavowal of infidelity – begs the question as to whether or not she has some harbored guilt of her own, and this is the interesting part about Last Night: its break down of the minutia of a potential transgression, and moreover whether or not infidelity is defined by intent, deep-rooted desire, or a physical action.

To its credit, Last Night avoids the pedestrian discussion of whether or not a “break-up” permits transgressions. This has been tackled so readily by sitcoms that to see it in longer form would be less comical and more tedious; likewise, the film takes a look at temptation as an unpredictable human element, something that shies away from Puritan rhetoric and makes its characters flawed from the start, most notably Joanna, who – despite her aggression towards Michael’s conversation with Laura – buries a former flame’s phone number under the ambiguous, androgynous moniker “A” as opposed to Alex. While she hasn’t seen him for two years, and his residence is a fair distance from New York, his very presence on her phone could conjure questions within Michael – or, at least that’s what Joanna’s minor subterfuge suggests. And, with that last sentence, Last Night prompts the question “how does one rate subterfuge as a minor or major violation?”

At the same time, Last Night might also try to be too artsy for its own good. What I mean to suggest is that its constant mellow score juxtaposed with arguments that vacillate between jovial and tense does less to symbolize a natural balance and more to lull the viewer into believing the rather artificial interactions are organic. Likewise, the constant cuts from similar discussions between Joanna and Alex (Guillaume Canet)  – the “A” who mysteriously, and almost stalkerly, arrives outside of Joanna’s door – and Michael and Laura (who happen to be on a business trip in Philadelphia) are a bit wearisome in that the dialogs become mostly perfunctory and, most often, devolve to exposition. This is most apparent when Joanna and Alex go to dinner with two of Alex’s business associates. As Alex steps out for a smoke with his friend’s wife, Truman (Griffin Dunne) grills Joanna with prying questions like “How long have you been married … What does your husband do … Were you faithful …Would that stop you? … How long were you and Alex together? … Do you think you’ll tell your husband about tonight?” Disregard the fact that all Joanna is doing – and all Truman is aware of – is having dinner, so the assumption that she’s going to sleep with Alex seems rather unwarranted. That aside, this interrogation is much less relevant than it is a form of exposition. Ultimately, when pedestrian dialog masked as cleverness leads to exposition, the result is still exposition. And in this case, it is rather useless. The audience is aware of the tension between Joanna and Michael, something that’s doubly showcased as she ignores his first phone call and when their second phone call is riddled with banal chit chat like “how was your day? … the [phone] connection’s not very good” (which might be one of the more transparent metaphors found in the script). In the end, the pseudo philosophical jargon launched by Truman, and eventually by Laura when it’s Michael’s turn to be exposited, is time filler, not poignant or revelatory.

What Last Nighi does well is avoid the closure. The audience knows what each person has done when they’re reunited at home in the last scene. The question is “what happens next?” Since the movie ends on Joanna’s inhale, it’s unclear if she’s planning a confession or an accusation. Do her purple heels in the middle of the living room floor rat her out to Michael who would do best not to say anything incriminating? The end doesn’t save the movie or make it worth watching again, but it does offer a novel take on the infidelity motif, moving its existence from the source of conflict to an end result of a dozen other conflicts.

There is nothing like the future showing up late for a good cause. As per Uproxx.com, “The mythical shoe that originally captured the imagination of audiences in Back to the Future II is being released – and they’re here to help create a future without Parkinson’s disease.” Clearly, this is impressive. First, it exemplifies that whole “life imitating art” thing. Second, these shoes will be “auctioned on eBay with all net proceeds going directly to The Michael J. Fox Foundation. Each day for the duration of the ten-day auction, one hundred and fifty pairs of the 2011 NIKE MAG shoes will be made available via eBay’s Fashion Vault.” A sincere kudos is in order to the marriage of industry and philanthropy.

Since these shoes are priced at $1500 a piece, there’s a surefire bet that I will never wear them, but upon closer examination, there’s no reason for me to. The coolest part about these shoes when they were featured in Back to the Future II was their ability to “powerlace,” thus absolving the wearer of the nefarious and tiresome responsibility of having to tie his or her own shoes. Imagine a world where no one trips down the steps on account of loosely fastened laces! Insurance companies might go bankrupt, but emergency rooms will be empty of clumsy folk. It would be a win / win. However, according to random salesguy in the video (Bill Heder), this technology won’t be available until 2015. Not for nothing, but Velcro has been around since about 1948, and we’re expected to believe that in all that time – decades that included the creation of hair in a can, cheese in a can, the Opti-Grab, the Thighmaster, and the Slap Chop – that no one has been able to automate Velcro? This just seems unreasonable, improbable even.

It seems the biggest selling point for these shoes – aside from benefiting the fight against Parkinson’s – is that they light up and hold a charge for four hours. First off, are people aware of the energy crisis that looms at our door? Haven’t the last few years been filled with rhetoric on how to conserve energy and lower electric bills? Isn’t this why I got corkscrew light bulbs, unplug my toaster after each use, and keep my air conditioner on “energy saver”? At the same time, being able to afford $1500 for a shoe implies the means to pay a higher Con Ed bill. That aside, the world has already been privy to shoes that light up. Perhaps they don’t stay lit for four hours, but they light with each step, and if you walk a lot throughout the day, it’s conceivable that you’d accumulate four hours of illumination, no?

Given the attributes that these shoes showcase and the seemingly similar commodities that we already have access to, the shoes themselves serve as more of a placation than anything else. Where am I going with this? Well, I think it’s clear that these shoes are the government’s way of allaying our desire for the coolest feature in Back to the Future – next to the hoverboard of course, but in the same league: flying cars!

As a child of the eighties, I heard prophecies of flying cars and was further encouraged by the illustrated cover of a Boy’s Life magazine from 1990, on which two people playing chess say in a dome-shaped sedan that hovered a few feet off the ground but was completely self-operational. Eventually came Back to the Future II and the establishment of illuminated, elevated highways to allay the fears that flying cars would signal airborne tragedies. Doubts were dispelled and we all rejoiced at the possibility of never having to pay attention to the road again. Where we were going, we didn’t need roads.

But alas, we are ground bound to gas guzzlers that stall if their tailpipes and gas tanks are filled with vegetable scraps and household refuse. (What of Mr. Fusion?!) In the end, the Nike Mag is a wonderful fundraising tool for the fight against Parkinson’s disease, and those who can afford them should do so out of philanthropy; those who can’t are able to donate in other ways; however, for me, these shoes simply represent a dream of reckless flight that goes unfulfilled.

Some might suggest that a movie like The Usual Suspects is overrated and garners undue praise because its narrative is predicated on a lie, namely one that Verbal Kint (Kevin Spacey) weaves for the duration of the film. Perhaps the critics of this style are correct inasmuch as the final scene really amounts to a stylized “just kidding.” At the same time, what saves this film from ending up in the unwatchable pile is, first, the acting – by which Spacey became a household name and conjured no surprise when he took home a second Oscar only a few years later as Lester Burnam in American Beauty. Secondly, the movie doesn’t overtly establish its agenda as one that intends to fool the audience and reveal a twist at the end. The twist happens, but the film doesn’t begin as a whodunit. Rather, the arc of the film begins with a lone survivor whose physical disability keeps him from partaking in the heist but leaves him as the closest thing to a witness. In a sense, director Bryan Singer and writer Christopher McQuarrie present a heist-film-gone-awry. Moreover, they challenge the conventions of the first person narrator by exposing the narrative “I” for what it truly is: unreliable. In the way that Kint is trusted – by both U.S. Customs Agent Dave Kujan (Chazz Palminteri) and the audience – it seems that viewers have blurred the lines between first person narrator and omniscient narrator – one that provides an objective voiceover of events in order to frame a story: think Morgan Freeman in Million Dollar Baby or The Shawshank Redemption. Despite his obviously human existence in both films, his narration becomes unquestionably omniscient, when, realistically, the information he has can’t be obtained at his proximity from the action. The same could be said for Ninny Threadgoode (Jessica Tandy) in Fried Green Tomatoes or the Stranger (Sam Neil) in The Big Lebowski. Admittedly, none of these characters has as large a role as Kint, but they still embody the role of first-person omniscient narrator.

That being said, imagine how successful The Usual Suspects would have been if Kint’s fabrication had been exposed in the previews. Granted, the preview might tip its hand a bit too much by showing Keyser Soze’s functional left hand, which in effect tries overly hard to convince the audience that Kint and Soze are not the same man, but what if the preview had intentionally showcased Kint’s ultimate walk from the police station that begins as a foot-dragging hobble and ends with an elegant gait and the cracking of knuckles that had been meticulously held frozen for a prolonged period of time. Would it have drawn the same viewership or acclaim? Would it have put Bryan Singer on the map or made Spacey a relevant actor in the late nineties and early aughts? For those who object to the narrative trickery in The Usual Suspects, I would recommend that you check out Richard Gere’s new film The Double – or at least watch the trailer.

Gere plays Paul Shepherdson (was Shepherd too obvious of a name?), a retired CIA operative who, in his prime, “was responsible for tracking down Soviet assassins.” However, there was one that got away: Casius, a cold-blooded, stealthy assassin whose trademark weapon is wire produced from his wristwatch. With this garret, he is able to quickly eliminate his target and then blend back into a crowd without needing to dispose of an incriminating weapon. And, in Shepherdson’s absence from the field, it seems that Casius has emerged from the depths of human camouflage, only to prompt Paul out of retirement and the introduction of Ben Geary (Topher Grace), a young FBI agent who “knows more about [Casius] than anyone” else in the FBI.

Thus, the audience has its tag team to root for. The problem that arises in the trailer is its display of Richard Gere subduing a presumed prisoner and then producing an identical garret from his watch, at which point the victim’s hoarse and shaky voice declares, “Casius.” This clip leads the audience to Geary’s dumbfounded “Oh. My. God” before revealing “the entire time, [Shepherd’s] been hunting himself,” just in case it wasn’t clear from the visual exposition during the trailer.

Of course, the entire trailer could be a red herring and a fabrication. Perhaps the true Casius is Geary, and perhaps Shepherd’s theory that “it would seem [you have found the real Casius]” is a clever way to insinuate to Geary that Paul is aware of the ruse and Ben’s cover is blown. This is all possible, but it seems rather silly, no? It just doesn’t seem plausible that someone would want to spend thirteen dollars solely to find out if Grace, in fact, plays the actual killer. Is it really worth that much money? Is it worth ninety minutes? (On a separate not, if this is the case, Grace needs to find a new agent. He played the double agent in Predators and was none too convincing in that either, but I digress.) If Shepherdson happens to actually be the killer – as the trailer suggests – then the odds of someone paying the same thirteen dollars to find out what he or she already knows seems equally implausible and fiscally irresponsible.

In the end, showing your hand in poker draws a crowd. Doing the same in a movie trailer kills the luster and suspense.

As the latest addition to the “white altruist” genre of cinema, The Help is most effective in its deviation from how it is portrayed through its trailer. This is not to say that the film is a failure or falls short of any expectations. Rather, it exceeds them. However, it is depicted through previews as another incarnation of a film that allays nefarious social issues through comical rebellion. Prior to the my viewing of the film, the most relevant example of this is when Minny (Octavia Jackson) defiantly enters the bathroom of Hily Holbrook (Bryce Dallas Howard) who demands that she exit immediately. Minny doesn’t relieve herself, but does flush the toilet, an aural signal that she has soiled the restroom, to wit Hily screams, and the trailer then cuts to the smiling face of Skeeter Phelan (Emma Stone).

However, the preview’s comical clips do not do The Help justice. Rather than amusing, this scene is sad, appalling, and disturbing. The circumstance that drives Minny away from her designated outhouse to the Holbrook’s manicured toilet is a hurricane, God’s subtle reminder that death discerns not between races, regardless of the “Home Health Sanitation Initiative” – one penned by Hily, whose justification for such a proposition is based on her belief that “they carry different diseases than we do.” Despite the torrential downpour and permission granted from Missus Walters (Sissy Spacek) – Hily’s mother and a senile woman who is most lucid in her demented moments – Hily prohibits Minny from using their bathroom, leaving her with little recourse than to either go outside or sneak in unnoticed.

Clearly she chooses the latter, but as she squats to relieve her bladder, the knock on the door fails to evoke laughter; rather, the expression on Minny’s face bespeaks fear. Not that Hily will beat her, but that she will be fired, and, in turn, be blacklisted from the rest of the homes in Jackson. So, without going, Minny stands, contemplates, breathes, and shrugs amidst the sounds of a curt, condescending Hily. And then she flushes the toilet; but, there is no upbeat music that screams “triumph!” The white overlord doesn’t get her comeuppance — yet. Rather, her blood curdling scream suggests the earnest fear that Hily holds of catching “black” – despite the overriding, ironical theme within the film that imagines black maids entrusted to raise the young white children of the white elite, despite the fact that they are barred from using the same drinking fountains, bathrooms, etc. And, it is in this moment of defiance, and in the crux of this juxtaposition ,that the audience feels Minny’s despair and helplessness.

The Help is too earnest to be poverty porn or an alleviation of guilt. Instead, it’s a study in biopolitics, one that looks at the indentured servitude of African Americans as well as the subjugation of the wealthy, white, elite women whose positions as trophies and, ultimately, broodmares make them nearly as fungible as the labor they employ.

The similarities illustrated between the two do not absolve Hily of her racism or Jackson of its backwards ideologies. However, there is a sadness evinced through a hierarchical interaction that depicts the subjugated woman of the upper-class hegemony as rulers over the subjugated woman of the lower-class minority. What’s also glaring is the ignorance of both sects. It appears that, towards the end, Aibileen Clark (Viola Davis) understands this paradox more fully than anyone else, but there are subtleties throughout the movie that drive the point home, most notably the subtle cuts between Aibileen repairing and preparing her wig for the next day while Charlotte Phelan (Allison Janney) does the same. Granted, Charlotte suffers from cancer, so her wig has a different purpose, but the other woman within Jackson all don their coifs with such similar style that it’s hard to believe only she and Aibileen are wearing wigs.

In a sense, the crux within the film – the use of the indoor outhouse – exemplifies the tension that exists between the ruled ruling over the ruled. In other words, there needs to be some sort of separation – a dehumanizing edict – that prevents the confusion of black maid and white mother, particularly since the former is tasked with raising the progeny of the latter. The line between biological mother and employed caretaker is further blurred when the separation between husband and wife is seen within the Jackson community. Marriage, it seems, is an institution suitable for the posterity and the perpetuation of lineage rather than any other human connection; thus, the husbands’ repeated dismissal of their wives and seemingly non-existent conversation between the two. All interactions seem to occur at banquets and balls. Aside from then, the women play bridge with each other while exchanging pies and gossip. Meanwhile, the men are mostly absent. Perhaps at work, but not at home.

So, this is where the bathroom issue rears its head: the need to transform the most quotidian of human functions into something that designates one as an “other.” In other words, the construction of separate bathrooms for the help creates an illusion that degeneration – particularly black degeneration – does not occur within the confines of a white home. Moreover – and perhaps most importantly — regeneration, the byproduct of natural degeneration, via a black maid — is disallowed. In addition, the only degeneration that takes place, does so in a separate quarter that resides outside of the house. In effect, the “Home Health Sanitation Initiative” removes degenerating filth from the home itself by the removal of the black servant. Clearly, Hily’s theory is both fallacious and illogical, but the exclusion of degeneration conversely suggests that generation, or — in the case of procreation –occurs within the home. Therefore, Hily’s initiative is not merely cruel and racist, but a method by which she separates her household into regenerative and degenerative social spheres where the influence of the black maid on the white children is occluded. By further disenfranchising Minny, Hily attempts to justify her own existence as mother, progenitor, regenerator, and caregiver, despite the fact that she’s only accountable for two of the four.

Even though The Help is deeply political and moving, it avoids wielding an agenda through a fifty-pound metaphor stick. The symbolism, for the most part, is subtle, as is the exposition. One of the finest achievements of this film is the actresses, primarily Viola Davis and Octavia Jackson, both of who should receive Academy Award nominations, and as of today, I would give the overall edge to Davis, who had already been nominated for her brief but powerful turn in Doubt. Characteristically, Davis brings her strengths to this films as well. Reminiscent of Mo’Nique’s performance in Precious, Davis plays Aibileen as an internally bifurcated woman torn between pride and self-preservation, but it never veers into the hyperbolic. Rather, the most heart-rending, touching, and funny moments are when she tempers any external emotion, only allowing elation, sadness, depression, or despair to subtly crest through her face in the form of a momentarily trembling chin, a subtle tear, a smile that forces itself through the very corner of her mouth but soon recedes in the presence of her employers. Davis’ strengths in The Help reside in subtlety, something that makes the film so much the better.

As with any movie, there are a handful of flaws: Emma Stone does a fine job as Skeeter, but, as an actress, her facial expressions and mannerisms have become predictable. At times, the flared nostrils and shocked expression she dons are reminiscent of her memorable statement to Ryan Gosling that “It’s like you’ve been Photoshopped” in last summer’s Crazy, Stupid Love. She gave a fine performance in that film as well, but I found myself watching Emma Stone rather than Skeeter. In the same vein, the love story within the film feels forced and, honestly, unnecessary. It’s an issue; then it isn’t; then it’s over. Perhaps Kathryn Stockett’s book, from which The Help was adapted, frames the relationship better and gives it more depth, but, in the film, it only served to add fifteen minutes. In the end, those are pretty venial sins given that any hiccup is quickly remedied by Davis and Jackson.

If you’re looking for a heartwarming romp that empowers the never-ceasing power of love, perhaps The Sea Inside would not be the best bet. However, if you’re looking for a haunting discourse on euthanasia that chooses not to vilify an advocate or opposition, preferring to examine the various rationale and contradictions inherent in each, then this is a fine film to indulge in.

Javier Bardem portrays Ramon Sampedro, the real-life author who waged a twenty-eight year campaign to end his life through assisted suicide. As a quadriplegic, Sampedro is bed-ridden, living on his brother’s farm and is tended to each day by his nephew Javi (Tamar Novas) , his father, and his sister-in-law Manuela (Mabel Rivera), who thinks of him more as her “son” than brother-in-law. And, this is where the tension exists, though it is exposited subtly.

The genius behind The Sea Inside is the lack of rigidity. At the end, it’s clear that the film supports Sampedro’s cause, but prior to his final monologue, conflict between the right to die and the privilege to live is fought in a veritable tug of war that pits Sampredro as a catalyst of both sympathy and pity. Ostensibly, it is understandable why Ramon wishes to end his life. For twenty-eight years, his single pleasure has been to dream about rising from his bed and flying out of his window and across the mountains to the ocean. Likewise, people look at his condition “as if it were something contagious,” and moving five inches that separate his hand from the hand of the beautiful attorney Julia (Belen Rueda) is “a false hope…a dream.” Here, the film transcends tropes that center on the inability to have sexual relations with another person and digs a bit deeper by showing the pain in not being able to touch anyone or anything. Instead of solely wanting an erection, Sampedro wants to run his fingers along Julia’s soft skin, bury them in a mountain of curls, and hold them to his face. But, he can’t. Ever.

At the same time, his existence is an obvious strain financially and emotionally on his family. For the most part, they don’t support his wish to die, and they do everything possible to show him love and keep him comfortable. At the same time, their knowledge that he wishes to end his life kindles resentment and self-doubt within each member, prompting them to wonder what they could have done better, or how could they make him change his mind? In these moments, the film’s sympathetic light cast on Sampedro is dimmed slightly as one wonders if he realizes how his family reads his desires. However, the question of whether they understand his desires needs to be asked as well. Ramon’s father sums the family’s dilemma up beautifully when he asserts that “there’s only one thing worse than having a child die on you – for him to want to die.” And this is the complexity of The Sea Inside. As a viewer, you sympathize for Ramon. You see his quality of life, but you also see the pain in his family’s eyes when he repeats once again that he’s “married to death” and “life like this has no dignity.”

Perhaps it’s Bardem’s acting, which can only be described as magnificent, but the most haunting part of The Sea Inside comes after Ramon’s optimistic explanation that “you learn to cry by smiling.” As tacitly as this line is delivered, it reverberates throughout the rest of the movie, and every smile that crosses Ramon’s face is juxtaposed with awkward conversations that border on unintentional insults. One case in point would be when Ramon flirts with Gene (a Right to Die advocate), Rosa (a townswoman who needs someone to talk to) or Julia (his lawyer) by asking them some variation if they’re “in love with him,” to which each tersely responds some form of “imagine that” and shrugs it off with a chuckle as if they are simply responding to a witty comment, something that is merely interpreted such because of the accustomed smile that he wears. Because of the casualness, these moments are most painful to watch, and it’s not until Ramon can no longer hide his emotions with a smile that the true impact of everything said before reveals itself.

Obligatorily, The Sea Inside also ventures into the church dialectic on euthanasia and offers a quadriplegic priest as the spokesperson demagogue. The debate between the two body-bound men is fantastically shot and director Alejandro Amenabar manages to successfully inject a bit of comic relief in a scene that is seemingly far from comical. At the same time, the seriousness of both men’s arguments is not elided. It’s present and forceful, and it leads to yet more contradictions. Even though the priest gets his comeuppance for ignorantly slandering Ramon’s family on television, it’s difficult to vilify him for his beliefs or fully condone Ramon’s.

If there were a villain in this film, it would have to be the legal system, but even that’s tricky given that they are following procedure, so while their refusal to let Ramon is cinematically dramatic, Ramon wasn’t allowed to speak on his behalf in the non-fiction version either.

In the end, the blame is so diffuse that there is no clear cut hero or villain. Tears will flow, whether you sympathize with the family, Ramon, Julia, or Rosa. Regardless, it would be wise to remember that those tears haven’t welled for three decades behind a damming mask passing itself off as happiness.

Despite its title, The Boxer might be the antithetical pugilist-movie. There is a boxer, Danny Flynn (Daniel Day-Lewis), and he does box, a little. At the same time, Flynn’s boxing is less a profession, and more a metaphor for the waning but never dying conflict between Irish Catholics and Protestants. And, it feels as if this is where the film fell short on critical and audience acclaim. Characteristically, the boxing genre is beloved; perhaps because of the contradiction within sanctioned violence that allows rage to be articulated through a surrogate party who moves fluidly along confined canvas while marrying aggression and grace, or perhaps because boxing films provide the emersion and evolution of a solitary being from an underdog to a champion a la Rocky, The Fighter, or Million Dollar Baby.

Regardless of our reasons for indulging in this genre, The Boxer shies away from the carrot that tempts us. There is no montage. There is no emergence of an underdog. Rather, Flynn was the “best boxer in Ulster” before his incarceration for his involvement with the IRA in Belfast. As the film opens, it’s clear this desire has never faded: Flynn shadow boxes in the courtyard before being sardonically asked “fourteen years wasn’t enough time for you?” Initially, we’re led to believe that the entirety of his fourteen years was spent in training, and because of this, we’re looking for his assimilation into boxing clubs and a climb through the ranks until he claims boxing’s top prize as Heavyweight Champion of the World. But this doesn’t happen. Because The Boxer isn’t about boxing – not really. In other boxing films, the narrative arc demonstrates that a will is necessary to overcome the domineering, oppressive challenge. The Boxer avoids this rout. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about demonstrating courage by knowing the limits in a situation that is rife with physical harm. It doesn’t endorse acquiescing or giving up, but it encourages the recognition of the other fighter, something that is illustrated best when Flynn fights a Nigerian heavyweight, but refuses to finish the match when his opponent is bleeding profusely and dazed. As Flynn walks from the ring, the Nigerian is propped up by two trainers, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his hand raised in victory. The Boxer isn’t about the victory so much as it’s about knowing when the fight needs to end.

Heavy handed metaphor? Admittedly, and with a lesser actor than Lewis and a lesser actress than Emily Watson (Maggie), the film could have tanked beyond belief in that it often dances on a fine line between tempered restraint and hyperbole. Ironically, some of these precarious moments arise during scenes between Watson and Lewis.

Prior to his prison sentence, eighteen-year old Danny was in love with Maggie, the daughter of Joe Hamill (Brian Cox), the head of the Belfast IRA faction. When Danny goes to jail, Maggie naturally moves on and marries an unseen man who is also eventually incarcerated for his role in IRA activities. As Danny surfaces, the flame is rekindled and a forbidden love story blooms – not just because Maggie’s married (something that seems to be forgotten at the end of the movie), but because she has a teenage son, Liam, who is witness to his mother’s temptation with transgression and is none to please about it (something else that seems to be forgotten by the end).

However, the wonky narrative isn’t as troubling as the expository scenes between Danny and Maggie. While well-acted, they seem a bit forced and develop inorganically, as if a love story – or a repeated clarification of a love story — needed to be woven into the fabric. Granted, prison snuffed the progression of their love and makes Maggie a more “dangerous fucking woman,” but the redundant interjections and exclamations that they “can’t do this,” “this is fucking ridiculous,” and “all this talk…I love you” are a bit heavy-handed, particularly because they are delivered in three scenes over fifteen minutes as if the audience was oblivious to the forbidden love – or needed to be reminded of it.

Admittedly, the introduction of love makes sense in a genre that often tackles the “fight for what’s yours” trope; at the same time, The Boxer often ascribes to the theory that “you need to know when to stop fighting.” Perhaps this ascription is only applicable to physical or gun violence and not when it involves personal desire breaking up a family. Is Flynn’s interloping made acceptable by Maggie’s belief that “my marriage was over before Liam was even born?” I’m not so sure about this. Does Flynn’s refusal to name names make his time served more heroic than Maggie’s husband – who clearly also didn’t name names, given that he didn’t “get a fucking bullet in the head”? Not so sure about this either.

Either way, Lewis should be applauded for delivering yet another characteristically solid performance. He might be one of three actors who can believably emote anger and frustration through the line “just fucking tell me” without raising his voice to convey such emotions through volume. Director Jim Sheridan (In the Name of the Father) should also be credited with applying a different lens to a boxing film that imagines the bout between two men as both a symbol of peace and a lesson for the masses. If not the current generation then, ideally, the subsequent.

About six months ago, my block in Astoria was papered with pink NO PARKING signs vowing to tow anything that disrupted the filming of  a movie. Within the massive trailers, reclusive celebrities hid until it was time for their close-ups, and along the sidewalk, non-celebrities grazed on coffee and donuts, spoke into walkie talkies, and removed wandering residents from the sidewalk when someone farther down the street held up a hand. I never managed to catch a glimpse of anyone in the movie, and knew very little about the film aside from its title: Tower Heist.

There were thirty one movies filmed in New York City in 2010 and twenty-currently being filmed – neither of these totals includes the various television series and dramas also filmed. And, because there are so many, I hardly remember the titles I glimpse from the signs; however, it just so happens that the same block was shut down last weekend for touch-ups on the very same movie. Coincidentally, this happened the same week that I slogged through The Change-Up and caught a glimpse of Tower Heist during the coming attractions.

Admittedly, I was initially intrigued given the recentness with which I was reminded of the film, but the preview itself exemplifies the degeneration of a narrative arc from promising to ludicrously contrived. In another context, this preview would demonstrate the transition from sapiens to simians.

Should a film that stars Ben Stiller, Alan Alda, Eddie Murphy, Michael Pena, Tea Leoni, and Gabourey Sidibe be categorized as high art and set the bar above all other films in its genre? Certainly not. and I wouldn’t fault it for falling short. However, the preview starts out promisingly enough by playing on a contemporary scandal reminiscent of Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scam. Here, Alan Alda plays Arthur Shaw, a multimillionaire with his “own private island,” but whose congenial demeanor is torn asunder amidst the revelation that he defrauded all of his investors, and those that we are privy to happen to work in the luxury building where Shaw lives. In this co-existence of blue collar workers and Shaw, a discourse on the class-gap is established, primarily between JoshKovacs (Ben Stiller) and Shaw, where Shaw insists that “deepdown, I’m just an old Astoria boy,” much like Kovacs who responds with “That’s right. PS 104. Go lions.” But this is rendered fallacious once Shaw’s crimes are uncovered and he reminds Kovacs that he and his fellow employees are just “working stiffs, clock punchers, easily replaced.” Therefore, despite their childhood’s geographical proximity, they couldn’t be further apart. This topic is not one that is often tackled in comedy – dark or otherwise – so its introduction here suggested that various gaps between class, education, and maybe even race would be tackled.

Furthermore, the film aims at the proper demographic: the middle class workers, maybe those who were defrauded by Madoff, or, more broadly relevant, those who hold similar middle-class jobs, only knowing the wealthy from afar. The aim is taken further when the collective modus operandi of the scorned employees turns to revenge, but not in a Hard Candy sort of way. Here, Shaw won’t physically suffer, but his “twenty-million dollar safety net” will be found and distributed between this modern Robin Hood and his merry men.

But alas, there is one snag in their scheme: they’re “not criminals” and “don’t know how to steal.” But rest assured, Kovacs “knows someone”: Slide (Eddie Murphy). Cue the move from Homo Sapiens to Homo Erectus, our knuckles touching the ground, and our knowledge of the word ripe with confusion.

I have nothing against Eddie Murphy. In a way, I even admire his transition from wise-cracking Axl Foley to lead whip in deplorably written children’s films. Most of them evoke laughter through gross-out humor, are terrible, and treat kids like morons, but they are financially viable: “since 1995, “kids’ fiction” movies have been the highest average grossing of any genre, excepting the usually bigger-budget superhero films” (source). Who can fault him – or Adam Sandler for that matter?

The downside of the introduction of Slide is not just Murphy, who treats one of his first dialogs with Kovacs as if he were conjuring Donkey from Dreamwork’s animation heap. Using the same nasal, undulating inflection Murphy rattles in one extenuated breath, “You’re the little seizure boy whose been having seizures all the time, you’d be having seizures on a regular basis, you’re the little seizure boy, your eyes would be rolling back and a kids’d be crying, foam was coming out…it was very scary” that’s a nice boulder. Instead, the downside is the progression of narrative. Here, we’re led to believe that Kovacs, who works in a building in which the average tenant earns “5.6 million dollars” and who has to refer all the way back to their time with “Ms. Satlzburg” at “daycare” to jog Slide’s memory, has kept close enough tabs on this random playmate-turned-criminal to be able to use him at the most convenient disposal. Granted, in the age of Facebook, Peoplefinder, Classmates, Google Plus, and other .coms, it is a touch easier to find those who cut themselves loose from the tether of social networks, but how probable is this? And, on the chance that this is a writer’s scheme to introduce a twist wherein Kovacs — or someone else — is revealed to be in league with Shaw, then, boo.

Perhaps I should just suspend my disbelief – more so that could be warranted – and just go with it. Fine. I’ll do that for a moment, but I can’t overlook the comedic tone of the film that moves from clever to idiotic.

One example derives from Rick Malloy’s (Michael Pena) purchasing of ski hats as opposed to ski masks because “the guy said these would keep us the warmest.” Seriously? There’s always a wealth of comic relief in misunderstanding, but this is a heist film that mirrors decades of heist films, so his obliviousness, much like the connection forged between Kovacs and Slide is precarious at best.

Likewise, moments within the trailer point to Odessa Montero (Gabourey Sidibe), the maid who’s “gone rogue” and has an obvious attraction to Slide, something most notably shown through innuendo as they hunch near a safe: “You gotta find the entry point. gotta use the fingers when you find the entry point. You married?” To which Slide reposts, “No, I ain’t marries whas up?” There is nothing wrong with innuendo, crudeness, or transgression for that matter; however, the lines pave such a predictable course that they lose their humor. It’s forced, and it’s as if the film panders to an audience looking for the grotesque – in the most literal sense of the word: creating an unnatural or bizarre connection during a situation that calls for the opposite. Inherently, there’s nothing wrong with the grotesque or the absurd, but its deviation from the original tone transports this film to the age of Homo habilis.

In the end, a film that looks to be another rendition of Ocean’s Eleven confuses its audience with a cornucopia of clichés and snippets of various genres. Oh, and it’s directed by Brett Ratner: the turd placed atop asbestos whipped cream dolloped on a delicious looking sundae.

I can’t help but think that Inside Job won the 2010 Academy Award for Best Documentary on the basis that director Charles Ferguson should have won the Oscar three years prior for his debut No End in Sight, a documentary that takes an in depth look at the Bush Administration’s conduct prior to and during the Iraq occupation. At the same time, the Academy tends to shy away from endorsing politically-driven documentaries or overtly endorsing entertainers who do – for reference, see Michael Moore, whose eerie, eye-opening Bowling for Columbine deservedly snagged an Oscar, but whose acceptance speech blacklisted him from any future nominations.

In content, there is no problem with Inside Job, though it doesn’t offer any new information on the financial crisis that could not be found in various newspaper articles under a quick Google search. Like No End in Sight, this film, is haunting and disturbing in its depiction of evil corporate banks and their CEO’s and sympathetic in its relegation of the middle class (if there truly is such a thing any longer) to duped consumers who are victims of “predatory lenders” who twist their black mustaches betwixt long-nailed fingers and plan ways to take over the world. As a cynic, I can’t earnestly defend bankers, CEO’s, traders, or government officials who wield pejoratives like “socialism” and “communism” to avoid due criticism and scrutiny. However, I can’t fully sympathize with people who honestly believed they could afford a house that costs seven times their cost of living. So, even though Inside Job offers a fine view at the perfidious history of “massive private gains and public losses” through a “thirty-year period of deregulation” that ultimately led to a “global crisis” that “rendered 30 million people unemployed,” there is a lack of culpability placed on the middle class consumers who are searching for the American dream.

Perhaps the first thing that this documentary does very well is illustrate our general ignorance of financial matters within the country, positing that we, as tyro investors, rely too much on symbols and ratings like stars, number scales and variations of AAA (something that is rather relevant given the United States’ recent downgrading to AA+ after the debacle between the Republicans and Democrats over raising the debt ceiling). Essentially, these ratings (as suggested by Fergusson) are what allowed predatory lenders to take advantage of fledgling investors. At the same time, this also suggests that the consumers are immune from having to research their investments wisely to gauge whether or not their finances provide a backup plan. And in this sense, the banking industry and the people are quite a lot alike: neither foresaw a potential crash, and neither had a backup plan. The difference is that the Federal Government, under both Bush Jr. and Obama, were willing to bail out the banks.

Similar to the way in which customers blindly trusted others who “have  a duty to serve our clients prices on transactions they ask us to show prices for,” bankers and the like trusted the companies they worked for without questioning their methods, despite a warning from Raghuram Rajan, a former IMF Chief Economist, that incentive structures generating huge cash bonuses but impose no penalties for later losses encourage bankers to take huge risks that might destroy their own firms.

What Inside Job also does rather well is examine the incestuous, concubinal relationship between Wall Street and government, looking at Reagan, Bush Sr., Clinton, Bush Jr., and Obama through a bipartisan lens. None are indicted because of their party lines in that money seems unfazed by donkeys and elephants, something that is greatly apparent when the viewer understands that some of the main players like Timothy Geithner, Ben Bernanke, Allen Greenspan, Mary Shapiro, and Larry Summers have had their hands in the historical architecture of deregulation as well as their presence on Wall Street and with the government.

In the end, Fergusson’s exploration of the Wall Street, government, and the economy is worth checking out, if only to remind one’s self of the dangers of ignorance and falling for the bait of the American Dream. I don’t mean to suggest that the “Dream” is impossible, but rather that it should arrive organically as opposed to spontaneously in the form of a belief that says “I’m an American, so I can afford whatever I want.” It seems curious that such a belief is effused, but perhaps watching CEO’s and CFO’s of JP Morgan, Citigroup, and Merrill Lynch receive multi-million dollar bonuses after having aided the crash of financial institutions offers little in the way of demonstrating repercussions.