Lessons of Darkness

Hellboy II: The Golden Army (2008): A-

Fathers figure prominently in Hellboy II: The Golden Army – their sins, their legacies, and the responsibility that comes from turning into one. In this superlative sequel from Guillermo Del Toro, a cloud of parental duty hovers over Hellboy (Ron Perlman), who – having lost surrogate dad Trevor “Broom” Bruttenholm (John Hurt) in the 2004 original – grapples with issues of commitment, allegiance and sacrifice while oblivious to the fact that firestarter girlfriend Liz (Selma Blair) is pregnant. Maturation, though, isn’t quite what Del Toro is after for his horned protagonist in this rollicking, affecting comic book adaptation, as he continues to be the same crass, sarcastic and cantankerous secret government agent of his prior outing. That badass attitude, perfectly in tune with his muscular red-skinned physique, remains grafted to a surprisingly tender heart, with the hero still struggling to prove – to both himself and to the public from which his boss (Jeffrey Tambor) wants him hidden – that he’s more man than demon. His of-two-worlds nature becomes an especially pressing concern once ancient exiled Prince Nuada (Luke Goss) shatters his paterfamilias’ truce with the humans and pursues the key to the unstoppable Golden Army in order to incite war against mankind, a battle in which Hellboy, Liz, and psychic Abe Sapien (Doug Jones) – all supernatural creatures employed by mortal men – find themselves mired.

Del Toro’s baroquely bizarre imaginativeness has never been more mesmerizing than in Hellboy II, its cornucopia of extraordinary creatures (some beautifully melding flesh with metal) seemingly stolen from children’s nightmares, and its preponderance of metal gears intrinsically linked to the saga’s fascination with fate and free will. Tableaus of gorgeously disgusting majesty abound, such as one involving an angel of death whose eyes are situated in its wings, as well as two movies-worth of breathtaking action sequences, each notable for their distinctiveness, propulsive energy, and coherent visual dexterity, this last quality particularly present in Hellboy’s throwdown with the titular battalion. There’s a proficiency to each of the film’s set pieces – including Hellboy fighting a towering forest god while protectively cradling an infant – but, as importantly, a poignant center to the often-frenzied mayhem. Embodied by Perlman with a blustery gruffness that masks a sensitive soul, the rebellious Hellboy is a fountain of hilariously acerbic wisecracks. For all the humor, however, Del Toro consistently focuses his narrative on the crimson giant’s earnest, anguished desire to fit in, a yearning that stems from a conception of himself – formed during a childhood of watching Howdy Doody and clutching shiny toy six-shooters in bed – as fundamentally human.

The pain of outsiderdom and corresponding need for companionship course through Hellboy II’s heroes and villains, with Del Toro bestowing considerate complexity upon Prince Nuada by positioning him as a would-be destroyer driven by desperate self-preservation impulses. Empathy runs deep for these characters, providing the narrative with a sentimental spine that gives meaning and value to their rollercoaster-ride predicaments. Even more than in his much-heralded Pan’s Labyrinth, Del Toro wields outsized, seamless CG-animated fantasy to amplify internal turmoil, staging hectic, frenzied showstoppers that are emboldened by emotional and relationship dynamics. While the gaunt, acrobatic Nuada too closely resembles Blade II’s baddie (both portrayed by Goss), the director otherwise laces his mythic tale with shrewd cinematic allusions, be they an overt clip from Bride of Frankenstein (“We belong dead!”) or a sly, strange nod to Total Recall-via-Kindergarten Cop (a kid attached to a mutant adult’s torso states “I’m not a baby, I’m a tumor”). Yet abundant references aside, Hellboy II is about a man, a woman, and their attempts to achieve normalcy despite social alienation, identity confusion, and constantly intruding chaos, a story intensely rooted in that most essential of feelings – love – and the mad, selfish, destructive things people will do to both attain and retain it. Thrilling and touching in equal measure, it’s on the short list of great superhero films.

WALL·E (2008): A-

WALL·E is Pixar’s most overtly political film, but more impressive than its ecologically minded message is its modestly profound portrait of loneliness, obligation and the desire for reciprocated affection. On an abandoned future Earth – its skyscrapers standing alongside towers of garbage, its horizon mucked up by endless fast food billboards, and its dusty atmosphere cluttered by defunct satellite detritus – the clean-up job has been left to a series of small trash compactor robots, of which there remains only one operating model. His name is WALL·E, a 700-year-old invention that rolls about deserted streets performing his preprogrammed duty with his lone friend, a small bug, and collecting interesting debris from the society that long since abandoned its birthplace. In his home/shop, WALL·E repairs himself with spare parts from fellow ‘bots, organizes his stash of knickknacks, and watches Hello Dolly, dancing in time with the movie’s stars and pining, sorrowfully, for another sentient creature to romantically hold his hand. He’s an artificial mechanism with a beating heart, his bond to humanity and its world evidenced by his construction – he recycles man’s garbage by physically inserting it into his chest cavity – his nightly habit of rocking himself to sleep, and his droopy, soulful eyes.

WALL·E’s solitary existence is forever shattered by the appearance of Eve, a sleek white female robot with an iPod exterior – a nod, along with WALL·E’s “on” chime, to Apple – and a no-nonsense attitude backed up by a massive gun blaster. In its initial half-hour, encompassing WALL·E’s day-to-day routine and his life-changing encounter with Eve, Andrew Stanton’s film proves to be a largely silent affair marked by the type of graceful, expressive visual storytelling that hasn’t been seen in a children’s film since the days of Snow White. It’s a daring gambit in this age of bigger-faster-louder family entertainment, and though this approach will likely challenge very young viewers, WALL·E’s opening passages boast a warm, delicate artistry that’s simply masterful. Stanton’s gorgeously animated directorial follow-up to Finding Nemo compassionately and powerfully establishes its pint-sized protagonist’s circumstances and emotional longing, such that when the automaton braves a fierce lightening storm to hold an umbrella over an immobilized Eve – who enters a state of suspended shutdown after receiving, from WALL·E, a rare valuable living plant growing in a dingy shoe filled with soil – the film achieves a stunning measure of poignancy.

WALL·E is a receptacle and guardian of human history, a being who understands – despite its glaring failings – modern civilization’s unique beauty. And via his subsequent adventure aboard the intergalactic cruise ship The Axiom upon which people now reside, he also becomes its hero. In space, people have been reduced to fat, slothful idiots who are shuttled to and fro in hoverchairs (replete with projection screens used for communication and entertainment purposes) by computers designed by Earth’s big business-cum-government Buy-N-Large. Pointing the finger for man’s devolution at submission and obedience to corporate interests, and censuring our environmental neglect, WALL·E is stingingly critical. Its political consciousness, however, never morphs into a sermon, its argument in favor of individuality, of possessing a larger awareness about the world in which one resides, always intrinsically grafted to WALL·E’s relatable yearning for companionship. Requirements to provide last-act good-vs.-evil action set pieces – which come equipped with amusing 2001 allusions – are respectfully carried out. Yet this animated marvel is most epic when operating on a small, personal scale, ultimately earning its esteemed place in the Pixar canon not only through top-notch CG, expertly orchestrated chase sequences, and provocative pro-green viewpoints, but also through its depiction of love’s capacity for making us more than what we might otherwise be.

Get Smart (2008): C

TV’s Get Smart was a trifle hardly worthy of big-screen treatment, but given that Warner Bros. greenlit the project, couldn’t someone have actually put some effort into making it mildly entertaining? Peter Segal’s comedy concerns CONTROL rookie agent Maxwell Smart’s maiden mission against evil terrorist outfit KAOS, though the particulars of his assignment – something to do with stolen nukes in Russia – are tertiary to the raft of stale one-liners and middling action sequences that distend this comedy to a whopping 111 minutes. Perfectly cast as the bumbling secret agent made famous by Don Adams, Steve Carell has both the verbal wit and physical dexterity necessary to make such material work, but Tom J. Astle and Matt Ember’s script is so lethargic and lazy – its jokes telegraphed from a country away and its crash-boom-bang set pieces concocted with an absolute minimum of thrilling creativity – that the star is embarrassingly hung out to dry. A similar fate befalls Anne Hathaway (as love interest Agent 99), Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson (as super-suave Agent 23), and Alan Arkin (as the Chief), all of whom do their best to enliven what amounts to a succession of tepid gags tethered by a flimsy narrative. But there’s no saving Get Smart, a tepid mediocrity whose idea of a big, rousing climax involves heroic feats obviously performed by stuntmen and the limp appearance of Adams’ lame, signature shoe phone.

The Mother of Tears (2007): C

Dario Argento has been inadvertently parodying himself for years, and that trend unfortunately continues with The Mother of Tears, yet another of the horror maestro’s futile attempts to recapture the magic that made his seminal ‘70s giallos so bewitching. As with his contributions to Showtime’s Masters of Horror series, Argento’s latest feature functions as an anthology of familiar, egregious faux pas: horridly wooden acting, laughable soft-core nudity, graceless ADR, inexpert gore. Argento was never much of a writer – his clunky plotting and functional-at-best dialogue were always overshadowed by hypnotic, lush visuals laced with potent symbolism – but here, his story is awkward and ridiculous to the point of embarrassment. Working at Rome’s Museum of Ancient Sciences, Sarah Mandy (Asia Argento) foolishly opens an aged urn that houses the evil Third Mother (the other two were dealt with in Suspiria and Inferno), who it turns out is a silicon-enhanced stripper who exhorts her equally trashy goth-chic minions to create chaos from a catwalk-esque dungeon dais. Again starring for her father, Asia exhibits absolutely none of the unpredictable violence and deviant sexuality that have previously made her an interesting actress. Worse still, Argento is incapable of sustaining any sort of ominous apocalyptic mood, instead offering up narrative silliness like Sarah being aided by the ghost of her dead mother (who appears in Obi-One Kenobi fashion) and bumbling sights of shocking grisliness, highlighted by a crazed satanic skank chomping on an elongated Twizzler protruding from the rear end of a less-fortunate soul. Devoid of malevolent aesthetic splendor, and engaged in thoroughly unflattering thematic dialogue with its far-superior forbearers, The Mother of Tears is an ignominious mess, one that – for anyone who once prized Argento’s work – is apt to make one misty-eyed.

Bigger, Stronger, Faster* (2008): B+

Christopher Bell uses his family as a microcosm for America’s relationship with steroids in Bigger, Stronger, Faster*, an engaging pop-documentary about the myriad implications of our national love-hate affair with performance-enhancing drugs. Bell’s younger brother “Smelly” juices for powerlifting meets and his older bro “Mad Dog” does it to land a professional wrestling contract with the WWE. As the film makes clear, their habitual, largely guilt-free ‘roid use really stems from childhood body-image hang-ups and a cultural infusion of Hulk Hogan, Sylvester Stallone, and Arnold Schwarzenegger, hypocritical icons who preached clean living yet whose superhuman physiques taught kids that being bigger was not only better, but distinctly “American.” Rather than exclusively focusing on his compelling siblings, Bell – spurred by his own uncertain feelings about steroids, which he briefly tried – expands his investigation into the wider arena of athletics and health care, examining the ethicality of its usage in professional sports, the sensibleness of vilifying steroids and not alcohol or tobacco (when there’s little scientific proof that its negative effects are permanent or lethal), and what our fascination with bulging muscles and desire for competitive advantage at any cost reflects about societal priorities. Mirroring its director’s ambivalence about the subject, Bigger, Stronger, Faster* doesn’t preach, and aside from a cutesy diagrammatic “Steroids 101” sequence, addresses its complex topic with both humor and intelligence, deftly addressing various aspects via pertinent cultural examples (Rocky IV’s training montage, WWE storylines, Barry Bonds and the congressional hearings on MLB substance abuse, ‘roid-using Schwarzenegger’s position as chairman of the President’s Council on Physical Fitness). While the health risks of steroids remain somewhat open to debate (given the medical benefits they afford, such as for AIDS patients), Bell’s film astutely and convincingly pinpoints the means by which issues of beauty, power, potential, ego and success all fuel our supplement-and-steroid-ingesting obsession.

Reprise (2006): A-

That rare debut in which self-conscious formal daring proves exhilarating rather than excruciating, Joachim Trier’s Reprise is a constantly fracturing wonder that finds exuberant expressiveness in its splintered structure. Trier’s film, set in Oslo, commences by imagining a potential bright future for writer best friends Phillip ( befuddled, morose Anders Danielsen Lie) and Erik (smiling, adrift Espen Klouman-Hoiner) right before they mail publishers their first manuscripts. No sooner has that reverie played out, however, than the film reverts to the present to concentrate – albeit with many fanciful detours – on their lives’ actual, less glamorous paths after Phillip has a breakdown following his book’s well-received publication and Erik learns his work will soon make it into print. Phillip and Erik’s brotherly relationship, their close bond with a diverse group of pals, and Phillip’s affair with beguiling Kari (Viktoria Winge) – which helped spur his psychosis – are depicted in Reprise with absorbing elation and misery, the film, an ecstatically unconventional coming-of-age story, intimately capturing the scraggly, tortuous means by which friendships and romances are born, develop, and die. Throughout, genuine and alternate realities freely commingle via jump cuts, flashbacks, flash-fowards, and scenes featuring dialogue heard over images of the speaker’s silent faces, Trier’s narrative driven by an invigorating associative arrangement in which events spur memories spur dreams spur realizations. It’s a dynamic wherein the past holds constant sway over both the here and now and the future, whether it’s Erik recalling a buddy’s misogynistic opinions as he attempts to dump his girlfriend, or it’s Phillip trying to literally recreate the past through a return trip to Paris with Kari. Complementing its postmodern configuration with an authorial narrator and allusions galore (to literature, punk rock, and cinema) that flirt with pretentiousness, Reprise has the air of a psychologically incisive novel, its aesthetic “prose” attuned to the ups and downs and back-arounds of love and friendship in a way so authentic and affecting that it winds up burrowing deep into one’s marrow.

Baghead (2008): B-

When it pokes fun at itself – and the low-fi “mumblecore” movement from which it sprang – Baghead can be a minor lark. However, when this latest from Jay and Mark Duplass (The Puffy Chair) attempts to both scare and, to a lesser extent, deconstruct its own horror movie devices, it deflates rapidly. With considerable compassion, the directors focus on four struggling actors desperate to make it big but either untalented or unmotivated enough to actually accomplish their dreams. After attending a well-received screening of some indie hack’s black-and-white film (the filmmakers’ amusing jab at themselves and their mumbly brethren), the foursome retire to a forest cabin for the weekend with plans to write a movie in which they’ll star. Rather than professional productivity, though, the excursion results in romantic tension, as the getaway exposes each individual’s pent-up longing, desires and jealousies. As with The Puffy Chair, the Duplass Brothers, in terms of depicting the knotty emotions that spring from amorous entanglements, get some decent mileage from their Cassavetes-lite, semi-improvisatory filmmaking approach, capturing authenticity in their cast’s fumbling gestures, half-spoken lines, and stumbling advances. And their genuine interest in these screwy people is mildly contagious. However, while our concern for these struggling thespians should, in theory, heighten the subsequent tension once the group – having reluctantly decided to make a thriller about a guy with a bag on his head – finds itself actually stalked by a baghead, the directors botch most every attempt at terror. This is somewhat intentional, as the film often seems to be as much about cinema’s inherent manipulations as it is about straightforward genre chills. But a lackadaisical focus eventually proves debilitating, with the end result of its myriad intentions – character study, relationship drama, scary movie, meta-scary movie – being that Baghead spreads itself thin to the point of flimsiness.

Standard Operating Procedure (2008): B-

Errol Morris’ trademark aesthetic – a combination of free-reign confessional interviews, dramatic recreations, expressionistic interludes and a grandiose score (here by Danny Elfman) – does more harm than good in Standard Operating Procedure, the documentarian’s examination of the Abu Ghraib scandal. For his latest, Morris provides a forum for the thoughts of, among others, Lynndie England, Sabrina Harman and Megan Ambuhl (but not Charles Graner, whose ongoing prison stint prevented participation) regarding the photos that made them infamous, while simultaneously scrutinizing the snapshots themselves and restaging them in artful sequences. His well-argued point is that the real culprits behind the crimes committed weren’t the grunts doing the actual dirty work but the higher ups who encouraged and sanctioned such behavior. As those folks aren’t in the photos, Standard Operating Procedure becomes a semiotics-tinged investigation into the nature of images themselves: how the contents, arrangement, and manipulation of the frame (such as with the dog-leash photo, where Ambuhl was deliberately cropped out) all affect interpretation and help define meaning. This thematic preoccupation comes to an eye-opening head during a centerpiece sequence in which Morris reveals which of these distasteful photos contained behavior that was “illegal” and which contained actions that were merely “standard operating procedure,” forcefully highlighting the power (and subjectivity) of the visual image. Yet given the filmmaker’s subject matter, it’s exasperating (if, given his past history, not overly surprising) to find him distastefully fetishizing the images via a series of recreations shot with plenty of lavish, self-conscious attention to visual beauty. Epitomized by gorgeous close-ups of dripping blood and shadow-drenched men in hoods, these segments – disingenuously elegant and classy, and thus wholly devoid of the real photos’ raw, ugly power – don’t bring us any closer to a profound understanding of what happened or who’s to blame. Rather, they’re just examples of Morris’ own insistent desire to creatively embellish the central images for unseemly dramatic effect.

Leatherheads (2008): C

George Clooney loses the proverbial thread with his third directorial outing Leatherheads, a 1920s football saga that blends rusty screwball comedy and perfunctory romance under a period piece veneer. Clooney is Dodge Connelly, the leader of a ragamuffin pro football team during an era when the sport was played with few pads, no rules, and in fields of grazing cows. When he hears that his squad is about to fold, Dodge sets in motion a scheme to recruit legendary high school player and celebrated WWI hero Carter Rutherford (The Office’s John Krasinski), who’s accompanied by a devious agent (Jonathan Pryce) and a tough-cookie reporter named Lexie Littleton (Renée Zellweger) who’s secretly planning to expose Carter’s combat heroism as a charade. Clooney means to generate humor from the resultant romantic triangle between Dodge, Carter and Lexie, but his script delivers neither zippy dialogue nor dynamic scenarios, leaving his “screwball” sequences sluggish and limp. The rest of the film fares similarly, seeing as it charts Dodge and Lexie’s budding affair with a dewy earnestness undeserved by this chemistry-free pairing’s shrug-worthy amour. All the while, Clooney (working from a script by Duncan Brantley and Rick Reilly that he reportedly also had a hand in penning) perplexingly avoids concentrating on the quirky particulars of anything-goes ‘20s pigskin. Consequently, he thoroughly sabotages a climax in which Dodge is ordered to avoid using illegal trick plays during the big game, a directive that’s meant to spell monumental trouble but – because his team’s reliance on such chicanery hasn’t been previously established – just seems random and tacked-on.

Street Kings (2008): C

Los Angeles crime novelist extraordinaire James Ellroy is credited as one of Street Kings’ three screenwriters, though that doesn’t prevent David Ayers’ second directorial outing from being a lousy mediocrity. Ayers’ latest is, after 2006’s Harsh Times, his second straight overwrought and unfulfilling tale concerning a loco white boy knee-deep in the City of Angels’ criminal scene, albeit the primary focus here isn’t the metropolis’ underbelly but its halls of law enforcement. Tom Ludlow (Keanu Reeves) is a surly, boozing Dirty Harry lapdog to Captain Wander (Forest Whitaker), who has Tom do his dirty work and then cleans up the resultant mess. When Tom’s former partner (Terry Crews), who’s supposedly working with Internal Affairs to send Tom up the river, is gunned down in a convenience store in front of the roughneck cop’s eyes, he ignores his captain’s warnings to let the affair go and commences an investigation into the slayings. Shit, meet fan, though the nastiness Tom discovers – corruption, deception, betrayal – is so dreadfully unsurprising that it’s easy to believe in Tom’s oft-remarked-upon blindness to what’s going on around him. Ayers has a thing for L.A.’s seedy side yet little to say about it save for the fact that it’s a modern Wild West, and in Reeves, his protagonist seems only half-conceived, convincingly wrought with guilt and regret but lacking credibility as a kill-‘em-all vigilante. Reeves’ robotic monotony brings some welcome stillness to the surrounding whirlwind of blustery machismo. Too bad, then, that Street Kings goes nowhere except into clichéd revelations and trite epiphanies, merely another example of its maker’s over-the-top infatuation with tough guys talkin’ smack from behind raised pistols.