The Cineman ::: Redux

The musical ‘Nine‘, written and composed by Maury Yeston and Arthur Kopit, was adapted from Fellini’s ‘8½‘ – but the title is a misnomer. Yes, ‘Nine’ is supposed to represent the 9th film of fictional protagonist Guido Contini (Daniel Day-Lewis), who trods through the picture pulling at his hair, donning sunglasses like David Caruso, and speaking in a Romanian brogue – which is supposedly Italian. But ‘Nine’? It’s more ‘1/2′, because Rob Marshall’s flimsy film only has a fraction of Fellini’s charm despite its overwhelmingly talented cast. Guido’s supposed to have a script finished for his newest movie ‘Italia’ – starring screen vixen Claudia Jenssen (Nicole Kidman) – but writer’s block is holding him back. But as Marshall’s film trudges through its transparent story, Guido’s really dealing with all of the women in his life. His wife and former actress Luisa (Marion Cotillard) wants little to do with him, mistress Carla (Penelope Cruz) wants everything to do with him, costumer Lilli (Judi Dench) wants some script details, American journalist Stephanie (Kate Hudson) wants his style, and Guido’s deceased mother (Sophia Loren) wants her son to be happy.

These storylines are all revealed in time, through series of bombastic musical numbers coated in glitter and Italian faux pas. While the inner monologues through song worked in Marshall’s favor for ‘Chicago‘, the compositions of ‘Nine’ only further detail Guido’s vain personality and relationships. Day-Lewis doesn’t deliver a poor performance, but his chances of acclaim are hampered by Michael Tolkin and the late Anthony Minghella’s paltry screenplay. Cotillard walks away unharmed, yet even her performance is overwhelmed by the superfluity of Kate Hudson’s ‘Cinema Italiano’ (a hackneyed Webberesque number) and Judi Dench’s ‘Folies Bergère’ (which screams of a poor-man’s Cabaret). Fergie’s brief number (’Be Italian’) offers a touch of playful exhibition, where Dion Beebe’s bogus neo-realist cinematography actually works. ‘Nine’ has no closure, much less depth; Marshall’s production prefers bland internationality, similar to his ‘Memoirs of a Geisha‘. It prefers to amble, like Guido to his women.

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Guy Ritchie ratchets up the action in his adaptation of Arthur Conan Doyle’s astute sleuth ‘Sherlock Holmes‘, but also remembers what’s elementary to the character. Swashbuckling yet studious, living in apparent chaos yet delivering results of utter preciseness, the production falls together neatly – but there’s far too much Hollywood polish to accept this as Doyle’s vision. Anthony Peckham and Simon Kinberg’s script cobbles together much from Conan’s canon, including femme fatale Irene Adler of “Scandal in Bohemia” and Dr. Watson’s relationship with Mary Morstan – but never messily. Holmes (Robert Downey Jr.) and Watson (Jude Law) are put on the case of the recently deceased Lord Blackwood (Mark Strong) – who has supposedly risen from the dead and planned three murders that will lead a greater, darker plan. Holmes, who is also dealing with his ally’s plan to marry Morstan (Kelly Reilly), finds himself wrapped up in a nefarious plot to overtake the throne and lead a conquest of world domination.

Downey’s Holmes is a charmer – a jack-of-all-trades, and as the actor describes properly, “such a weirdo.” Yet his portrayal casually breaks down all stereotypes of the infamous detective, starting with his mannerisms to his hobbies (his analytical approach to boxing matches works well considering Ritchie’s trademark machismo) to his wardrobe. Law fleshes out Watson rather than succumbing to second fiddle, and his chemistry with Downey analogizes boyish roommates rather than bookish co-workers. The great Eddie Marsan and Kelly Reilly relish in supporting roles, while Rachel McAdams falls flat as the arcane Adler. Ritchie knows a good fight, but with ‘Holmes’, his gift to the audience is knowing when not to stage one. Holmes’ investigative behavior remains at the forefront, placing brains over brawn while keeping an audience on their toes. The cliffhanger ending comes across as vain to a movie whose performance might be worn by ‘Avatar’s B.O. proceedings, but the overall effort supports the case for a second installment.

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In Nancy Meyers’ ‘It’s Complicated‘, Meryl Streep plays Jane Adler – a successful restauranteur divorcee in her 50s, who lives in a palace off the coast of Santa Barbara. She’s cavorting with her successful Porsche-driving lawyer ex-husband Jake (Alec Baldwin), while fooling around with equally-successful recent divorcee and architect Adam (Steve Martin) on the side. Of course an architect can be handy, especially when you’re getting that kitchen extension you’ve always wanted. God knows two ovens aren’t enough in this economy. Jane’s children are blonde, blue-eyed wonders who throw exclusive parties where nobody vomits or spills wine on the pristine white carpets. She runs a glamourous pâtisserie that she’s rarely seen managing, and her family’s trips to New York City are frequented at the Plaza Hotel – at the simple swipe of a credit card. So what exactly is complicated? Nothing – Meyers has crafted a deluded excuse for a romantic-comedy, an excuse to cater to middle-aged demographics. Occasionally enlivened by Baldwin’s daffy performance and Martin’s unusual dry turn, ‘It’s Complicated’ is a shallow exposé of the rich and clueless, a ‘Philadelphia Story‘ without the Cukor touch.

Streep’s Jane is the epitome of overdramatization, since she can’t stop laughing at every little thing. It doesn’t help that her given material is dull as dishwater. Baldwin’s Jake works better as burlesque instead of full-fledged character work – hell, we never even see him enter a law firm. When he reverts to comic mode, busting his chops ‘30 Rock’ style, Baldwin can be a charm – but this isn’t his movie. Martin’s unwitting shy act as Adam is welcome, but employed mostly as a plot device instead of a character. And prettyboy John Krasinski makes sure to mug a few times for the camera and collect his paycheck. The problem is that Meyers doesn’t seem to believe in any of these characters, so it fails in the categories of romance and screwball comedy – there’s no discussion of class, money, or schedules. Love is blind, right? Because Cupid’s trajectory is far too planned to make ‘It’s Complicated’ remotely interesting. Streep’s character visits her shrink to beg the question of him: is having an affair a good thing? She begs him for a definitive answer, and he replies that it wouldn’t hurt to try. And that’s where the movie went wrong – misguidance.

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‘Avatar‘, former wunderkind James Cameron’s eighth feature-length, is a juggernaut of a production: it will not tolerate failure. Director/writer Cameron spent 11 years perfecting the 3D Fusion Camera System and motion-capture soundstage that gives the epic its soon-to-be trademark look. It’s a gorgeous film to sit and watch, especially in digital 3D – the gimmick becomes essential in the large scheme of things. Yes, mountains float, trees illuminate, and the battles waged would make DeMille shiver. But no one thanked Arch Oboler or André De Toth for introducing 3D into the mainstream with ‘Bwana Devil‘ or ‘House of Wax‘. It’s because they weren’t great movies (granted, De Toth was blind in one eye anyway), and neither is ‘Avatar’. Cameron delivers groundbreaking visual design and technique, as well as a dreadful mélange of Disney glurge and ‘Dances with Wolves‘ that masquerades as a story. Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) is a paralyzed Marine who has filled his twin brother’s shoes in the Avatar Program on the distant planet of Pandora, where a native alien tribe called the Na’vi cohabit. The program allows the paraplegic to control a remote Na’vi body, used to press negotiations for an industrial drilling company – a valuable mineral lies beneath a sacred tree on Pandora. Jake’s avatar is rescued by Na’vi princess Neytiri (Zoë Saldaña), whose indelible connection with her world inspires the former soldier to rise against the industrialism that threatens her land – even if that means facing the wrath of his superior Col. Miles Quarritch (Stephen Lang).

Worthington is pretty bland for such a (literally) colorful character, but his impetus is Cameron’s unimaginative screenplay. Saldaña rises above the script as Neytiri, considering she’s the only fleshed-out role digitally rendered – her expressions and emotions penetrate past the pixels, attesting to ‘Avatar’s keen ability to break barriers. Supporting roles from Sigourney Weaver and Michelle Rodriguez are too one-dimensional to discuss, and Cameron neglects their performances despite its excessive near-3-hour runtime. SFX and the use of 3D exceeds in spades, preferring a straightforward narrative instead of a barrage of objects purposely flying in our faces. A second viewing should be necessary for those wrapped up in Pandora’s majesties; give the king of the world some credit, he’s got a very vivid imagination. But with 11 years in production, why the lack of a creative script? Without deep and involving characters and scenarios, Cameron’s supposed masterwork falls short. No doubt ‘Avatar’ will change the way movies are made, just hopefully not how they’re written. I’ve heard some critics compare leaving the theatre after ‘Avatar’ akin to the feeling they had after seeing ’Star Wars‘ in 1977. For this generation, it might feel more like ’The Phantom Menace‘.

[***]

“How do we inspire ourselves to greatness, when nothing else will do?” asks Nelson Mandela of South African rugby captain Francois Pienaar in ‘Invictus‘. And what a question, but director Clint Eastwood seems to think it involves hammering his audience with the same pedestrian message over and over again. That isn’t to say Eastwood’s film is wasted; a spirited performance from Morgan Freeman as Mandela should be duly noted, and the story’s historical significance is rich with detail. Pienaar (Matt Damon) is captain of the Springboks, the underdogs of the rugby world and reviled by the black population of the recently anti-apartheid nation – after all, they only have one black team member. The new president Mandela mulls the possibility of reuniting the nation through the sport, collaborating with Pienaar to push for a spot in the 1995 Rugby World Cup.

Freeman’s Mandela is a constant refreshment, a cool glass of water to clear the dryness of ‘Invictus’ sports-related tedium. Combining both the activist’s appeal and austerity, the warmth of Freeman’s acting subtly drives the film’s message. Damon’s Pienaar is standard, but the audience never really gets far in understanding his character. The film is occassionally distracted with subplots involving the race relations of president’s bodyguards and Pienaar’s family, despite Eastwood’s valiant effort to display Mandela’s plan in effect. A few ham-fisted moments arise here and there (a laughable transition set to South African band Overtone’s ‘Colorblind’, the dragging final rugby match), but ‘Invictus’ never becomes disingenuous with its politics. Eastwood has moved from the lives of others to the life of a nation, but he can’t keep his eye on everything. Nevertheless, its universal charm and clear conscience is what keeps ‘Invictus’ buoyant in the sea of Oscar possibilities.

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