bradcheng

One of those overtly grotesque eastern European films that thinks tossing the viewer into a cesspool of muck and mire will result in a genuinely disturbing emotional experience when, in fact, all it does is highlight pretentious direction, garish set and costume design, and low production values. Ostensibly having horror as it's center attraction, this cheap hyper-"realism" only results in a queasy and phony viewing experience, like a faked rabbit-fur oddity in a carnival-freakshow glass jar. Unpleasant, tedious, and pointless.

I just got back from seeing "The Hateful Eight" and my head is spinning because it's such a weird movie I'm not sure if it's somewhat good or exceedingly awful. What's sad is that it starts off wonderfully -- I felt myself getting excited by the prospect of Tarantino returning to form for about a half hour -- then keeps getting sillier and sillier until it's nothing but a comedy -- and the comedy is so unsubtle, it might have been made by Mel Brooks or Jerry Lewis on acid. What's funny is the much touted, rich color of the Panavision stock and the fake cabin interior of "Minnies Haberdashery (not a hat in sight)" makes the film look like the over-saturated movies from the sixties like "Paint Your Wagon" which always looked vaguely fake to me -- a plastic universe cobbled together on a back lot and lit with huge overhead arc lights. Add big splashes of red blood and it started to look like the garish color of some the 60s Disney films, so there was this bizarre set of associations going through my head. When the finale of the film turns to grand guignol slapstick in these hyper-pumped colors, I felt like I was having a flashback to a bad 60s **** van Dyke comedy like "Fitzwilly" or "Cold Turkey," and, honestly, I left the theater stunned by the near absurdity of it all. It's as if someone unearthed an awful 60s comedy (Sergio Leone? Hah? That's a laugh) that was buried in the vaults by the studios. This "love letter to the cinema" is really a love letter to himself, as Tarantino riffs off elements of his own movies like "Reservoir Dogs" and throws in some steals from Paul Thomas Anderson (it almost sounds like Anderson doing the narration. Narration? Where the $%^& did that come from? Wow, talk about the weakest attempt I've ever seen to clue an audience when some sloppy structuring fails the film.) The dialogue is Tarantino-lite, like a second-rate writer trying to imitate him (Samuel Jackson's goading of Bruce Dern is probably the worst monologue Tarantino has written) and the story is Agatha Christie with a lobotomy. There are some good performances (Kurt Russell is great as John Wayne) and some awful ones (Tim Roth at his over-the-top worst) but the film itself unravels like a spoonful of spaghetti Western. And this isn't a spaghetti Western, it's a pizza and beer comedy. I'm sure it will be a big hit at frat houses across America. I'm amazed how some people (known critics, as well) even venture to justify the racial undercurrent as social commentary. Tarantino has never written symbolically or allegorically. He writes character, and that's that. "The Hateful Eight" is a "political statement" in the same way that "I Spit on Your Grave" is an indictment of contemporary religion. Please. How do I sum this movie up in one word? Well, the one that comes to the top of my head right now is: "Goofy." Maybe those big Panavision camera got to Tarantino because he subconsciously started to think he was making a bloody version of "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World." I need to have a drink. At this rate, I have to say "thank god there's only two more to go."

California, in the words of Steely Dan, tumbles into the sea and "San Andreas" somehow manages to make it boring. The inept script for "San Andreas" has less verbal fireworks than your average made for TV movie and possibly less than a tupperware party. In a nutshell, "San Andreas'" completely brain-dead script focuses on the "original" story of a steroid+collage infused couple -- who are "nearly" divorced --being swept together by massive catastrophe. That weary chestnut is complimented by a bevy of equally "original" characters like cowardly rich guys; moronic youngster who fall in love within 5 seconds, and knowing scientists who take hours to start shouting "Take cover": This movie has everything you want in an utterly cliched movie and more. One of the most laughably bad scripts I've had to sit though in a long time. And people around here poke fun at "Interstellar?" This is a reminder how we need to fall down on our knees and praise movies like "Interstellar" that at least try to say something smart. At least if the effects in "San Andreas" were worth waiting out the doldrums, it might have made sitting through the movie worthwhile, but they weren't even that good. Just average computer bits showering down all over the place. And you know the pace: SPFX -- talk -- SPFX -- talk --- and talk -- and talk. And what talk. Who writes scripts like "San Andreas" -- some rich producer's wife while she's having her nails done, chatting on the phone and watching a Lifetime movie? Once can only sit and scoff at the jello for lines the actors are given to work with. Even the mass of muscle known as The Rock looked weak and helpless about making this dog work. Even worse, it manages to make the smartest actor in Hollywood, Paul Giamatti look like an eyeball rolling puffin -- whose magical computer model predicts the end of the West Coast but doesn't tell him to at least put a call into a disaster agency to share the news. Word to director: When you're filming the apocalypse, next time try not to shoot the whole thing in medium closeup -- just ready for that leap to TV where it belongs. Poor TV.

There is nothing so grand as to speculate on than the infinite. In an infinite cosmos, everything falls within the realm of possibility, and that may be why science fiction is so enduring as an art form — it promises revelation. Science’s unfolding of the universe, freed from the morass of religious archetype, is the saga of modern spirituality that plays out in science fiction. Yet, there has always remained a quaint cautionary aspect to science fiction. Storytellers and audiences remain **** for parable. As much as we crave escape into the unknown, we crave guidance from above, Christopher Nolan’s epic sci-fi film, “Interstellar,” explores the foibles of seeking either. “Interstellar” is richly steeped in the classicism of science fiction, which is surprisingly hermetic as a genre. More often than not, science fiction stories are tales of apocalypse or transcendence, rocket-wreathed journeys of harrowing adventure. And like other sci-fi films before it, “Interstellar” walks familiar scorched earth. It is a cautionary tale, a vision of global apocalypse, in addition to being a Homeric journey of discovery. Yet “Interstellar” instantly defines itself as one of the landmarks of the genre. Transcendent and harrowing, it is probably the finest science fiction film produced in decades. What’s miraculous is how fresh Nolan makes his classically crafted sci-fiction film feel, shaping it with absolute modernity. “Interstellar” is Nolan’s best film to date and most certainly among the most beautiful science fiction films ever made. The screenplay, written by Nolan and his brother, Johnathan, is unabashedly intelligent. Not since Paddy Chayefsky’s “Altered States” has such high-functioning dialogue been chewed onscreen by geeks. And while its constructed as neatly as a pyramid, the layers of the story might seem confusing to some unwilling to invest at least a little thought at the movies. But for those who venture into “Interstellar” for intelligent sci-fi, the threads of the tale weave themselves deliciously back together by its conclusion. Even as it fulfills the sci-fi purist’s quest for substance,”Interstellar” is also a grandly orchestrated piece of popular entertainment, driven by family drama, suspense and moments of blazing action. It’s a complex film, ambitious in its artistry, yet a film that mainstream audiences won’t feel put off by. Clocking in at nearly three hours in length, “Interstellar” is also a marathon of a movie. It’s a movie for the bingeing generation. Yet its length is befitting the ambitions of its story and the stately verisimilitude of Nolan’s mise-en-scène. “Interstellar” is set in the not-so-far away future when a dust storm-whipped Earth teeters on extinction. It’s not greenhouse gases or oil reserves that have done in mankind, but a vegetative blight starving out nations and throwing the planet’s O2 levels into chaos. Nolan wisely does little finger-pointing (Monsanto, anyone?) or proselytizing in his story. It suffices to say that the world is quickly going out with a whimper, not a bang. The big moments of planetary splendor even outshine the seminal work Kubrick did in “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Jaw dropping images of tumbling spacecraft spinning through the rings of Saturn, helpless and dwarfed by the giant denizens of our solar system, are breathtaking. Those seeking a visual trip to space won’t be disappointed: planetary splendor is on plentiful display. And the special effects depicting where no man has gone before — through the mystery of worm holes and black holes — coupled with Han Zimmer’s blistering score that nearly renders you unconscious at times, are cosmic thrill rides that you won’t soon forget. Nolan lays down his particle physics and turns to his metaphysics in a storyline that suggests the greatest self-perpetuating force in the universe is our spiritual bond to each other. Unlike Kubrick’s orgasmic Nietzschean rendezvous at the finale of “2001” with the supreme being, Nolan turns to Jung’s animus and anima, the masculine and feminine archetypes of the subconscious mind, for his own unifying theory. Kubrick has always been accused of being an icy thinker, but it’s here that Nolan proves himself to be the man of science, at least psychology. And Cooper’s voyage to the edge of a black hole, where time bends like a willow front, is cleverly played out in context of the chasm of separation between father and daughter. Their love and loss transmitted over the years in melancholy, one-sided electronic messages, is perhaps another parable for our times. Nolan has always loved playing with the structure of his films, framing them like Chinese puzzles and “Interstellar” is no different. But he does it here with such subtlety and well-defined logic that there’s no overly clever feel to his devicing in “Interstellar” — the story feels natural and inevitable and works perfectly within the genre of science fiction.

I was anxious to see “Ex Machina” as soon as the trailer made it’s appearance on the Web. It seemed a dark film. Foreboding. The stuff of heady sci-fi. Would it deliver the kind of punch to the groin that the great cautionary tales of the past like “Colossus: The Forbin Project,” “1984,” “Metropolis,” “The Andromeda Strain,” and “2001” mustered? There’s always been a kind of thoughtfulness and restraint that accompanies classic science fiction. It’s both clinical as a white lab coat — asking that you listen intently to the theories being sermonized — and stodgily respectable as a tweed-fitted professor. I’ll admit I was anxious to sign up for the lecture “Ex Machina” promised, as it dangled the fascinating subject of AI and the singularity as its subject: the stuff of Golden Age dreams and worlds of wonder. But, alas, as the film rolled, the podium stood empty. In place of learned professor someone had rolled up a TV monitor and tired Betamax machine, apparently supplied with the wrong cassette, paper bagged and quietly pulled from beneath a counter. As “Ex Machina” played on, my heart sank as I realized the tale was to be less Asimov and more servo-driven de Sade. Despite occasional snippets of debate on what it means to be human, “Ex Machina’s” story is little more than damsel-with-pneumatic-limbs in distress melodrama. It’s more akin to a creaky gothic horror story than a glimpse into the future. The transcendence of artificial intelligence and it’s implications are hardly touched upon and instead “Ex Machina” focuses on a story as hoary as any bodice ripper that’s been penned. A slightly mad (and hungover) genius programmer with a Net tycoon’s ten-figure-bank account (Oscar Isaac reprising his tough-kid-from-Brooklyn persona from “Inside Llewyn Davis“) has secluded himself on an impossibly large piece of real estate, a surprisingly claustrophobic piece of architecture, despite a presumed love of the great outdoors. In his private bunker, Isaac’s has created a Bluebeard’s (the name of his company is Bluebook) high-tech boudoir of female automatons that he keeps prisoner in pursuit of — presumably — the perfect companion. The young visitor who knocks innocently at the imposing door of his castle (Irish-actor Domhnall Gleeson, mimicking the boyish lilt of Matthew Modine) — like a naive traveler from a Poe tale, or soon-to-be-drained Jonathan Harker — suddenly finds himself inexplicable drawn to an eerie, yet comely young maiden (Icelandic waif Alicia Vikander), who may or may not be a prisoner. The lord of the castle has tasked this young traveler with determining if the maiden is indeed worthy of human devotion, because she is, in fact, yet another mechanical sex toy he’s cobbled together. It’s almost like the set up to a dirty joke. And there’s a cloying tawdriness that permeates the film and its story of a sweet-faced robot held prisoner by her Google-Age Doctor Frankenstein. Gleeson’s and Vikander’s behind-glass-walls relationship — the centerpiece of the film — is half-Times Square peep show, half speed dating, and, unfortunately, where the science fiction gets swallowed by pulp fiction. For a young programmer with an interest in logic, Gleeson seems to soon abandon his. Despite being charged with administering a test of intelligence, Gleeson fails his own miserably. Even with the knowledge that she’s more Linux than Ligeia, he lets her chipset of charms fool him into thinking what she needs is a white knight and not a hard restart. Instead of probing the workings of Vicander’s mind, he spends most of the time talking to her like he’s in a slow dance at the high school prom. And speaking of dancing, the one of the film’s most remarked-on scenes is an impromptu, perfectly synched disco number between Isaacs and a lithe Asian android he’s put on mute. While undeniably fun, that fact that it’s about the only scene to raise”Ex Machina” out of its numbness, portends badly of the film having less of a real pulse than its heroine. Fresh ideas in are scant supply in “Ex Machina” and whether or not Garland was intentionally channeling his tale of lust for nuts and bolts from Olympia in “The Tales of Hoffman,” Maria in “Metropolis,” or the uber-sexbot Kris from “Bladerunner,” its lack of invention keeps the film badly grounded in its pseudo-grindhouse scenario. Garland’s locked-in-a-dungeon script, coupled with a plentiful tableaux of supple artificial flesh, eventually feels less and less like a exploration of the new millenium’s scariest possibility than a peek into a folder of inappropriate Victoriana. That’s why as I science fiction purist, I felt myself increasingly pulling away from “Ex Machina.” About 20 minutes into the movie my hopes sank for seeing a smart little sci-fi film, when realized I wasn’t going to be treated to speculation, but titillation. The mad doctor’s growing sadism toward his dolls makes the film feel increasingly like “Fifty Shades of Grey”written for the IT department

It’s been four years since “Dawn of the Planet of the Apes” director Matt Reeves last cinematic outing, “Let Me In” — an English-language remake of Swedish director Tomas Alfredson’s vampiric coming-of-age film. While there will always be film aficionados who insist the original take of a film presents its truest form, I felt Reeves’ reboot wrought a more kinetic, more universal telling of the tale and that Reeves had created an instant classic of the horror genre. My respect for “Let Me In” was immense. Unfortunately the material he’s been given to work with isn’t of the same quality as Alfredson’s wholly original horror concept or enough of a pure action-fest like “Cloverfield” to let one overlook the general mundanity of “Dawn of the Planet of the Apes'” story. How possibly mundane can a planet of talking apes be? Aside from the fact that these simians have now been performing their grunt-speak to audiences for over fifty years (Maurice Evans’ buttery, upper-class mannerisms notwithstanding — what planet was he from?), that novelty remains fairly fresh. But it’s “Dawn of the Planet of the Apes'” screenplay that comes across as flimsy as Linda Harrison-as-Nova’s” deliciously hung rags. If one were to take away the apes as players (which would be a waste as they are miraculously rendered CGI creations), stripped of tooth and fang, “Apes” would be left with an all-too-human and all-too-cliched story. The film revolves around the “stop the madness” efforts **** human survivor of the simian-virus apocalypse and the now imperially seated Ceasar of 2012’s “Rise of the Planet of the Apes.” These two suffer fools, villains and rebellious children as they toil haplessly to bring peace to opposite ends of an inter-species battlefield. The CGI action is exciting, but the behind-the-scenes powerplays of their shared struggle — however novel on the Darwin spectrum — feels too familiarly packaged. The screenplay, credited to Mark Bomback, Rick Jaffa and Amanda Sliver, makes the writers sound less like science fiction visionaries than a preachy team behind a Vietnam-era anti-war film. There’s a decidedly “retro” feel to the futuristic war film, with the camouflage-clad ghosts of Audie Murphy and Dennis Hopper lingering somewhere just out of sight. The story trudges along dredging up far too many plot points from Shakespearean-aspired royal dramas; I’d recite the litany of cliches but I don’t want to spoiler-ize anyone’s fun. Gary Olman, who once shone in the sun as a lean, English mad dog, now seems comfortably settled into playing roles of the flustered heavy (and I still think he applies the same touch to his American accent.) He’s ostensibly the leader of one of the last tribes of humans, but his nervous fidgeting makes it difficult to believe he would be put in charge of much more than a AA meeting. The cast of largely unknown actors doesn’t help either. Though capable, they never bring any real fire to the screen, although lead Jason Clarke works tirelessly at his angst. Unfortunately, the human cast is frequently emotionally upstaged by computer-generated apes, that in itself a scary accomplishment which may, indeed, portend the fall of mankind. Or at least the Actor Guild of America. On the other hand, I never know exactly what praise to lavish on human-marionette, actor Andy Serkis. Certainly dancing around in **** glued with styrofoam balls for the roving eye of a computer to map can’t be easy, but the question is how deep does one’s Stanislavsky have to run? But the film’s real problem is its script, and its by-the-numbers roll call of devices. Without the apes, I imagine the plethora of well-intentioned, but tired war movie cliches would have “Apes” garnering far less praise than it is receiving. And those hokey-ending lines gravely spoken by the defeated peace-makers … Where have I heard them before? “I thought we had a chance,” says Clarke. “So did I, my friend…so did I,” intones the moribund chimp. It’s almost a pity that all the battling that has come before falls into a pile with those oh-so heavy lines, which ring as outdated as a throw-away bit of hippy schtick from “Easy Rider.” Of course, the action fans may not notice these overwrought grarnishes, as they have been rewarded earlier to a fiery finale of two foes battling it out, swinging on an exploding ****, as the inevitable flames lick at their feet, er, paws. While “Dawn of the Planet of the Apes” will certainly please the action crowd with the most technologically advanced simian set pieces yet, it’s ultimately a pretty routine and not terribly clever affair. Invoking the film’s catchphrase, “Ape not kill Ape,” I would proffer, “Ape not make Sequel.” Though I’m sure “the heavies” will triumph again, man.

When Disney first announced it was paying a king’s ransom to purchase the complete Marvel Comics canon of characters, there was some skepticism that once the Golden Age had been mined and the Silver Age melted down, there wouldn’t be enough left to cast a decent superhero belt buckle. Happily, “Guardians of the Galaxy” proves that you don’t always need a bonafide costumed icon to produce a bit of save-the-world fun, even if the story is barely-there laser blast fare — Star Wars minus the mythology. As an action extravaganza, every penny of the film’s lofty budget appears on the screen. “Guardians” is a gorgeous-looking film filled with over-the-top makeup and sets, some of it quite stunning. It doesn’t strive for a moody, rain-washed authenticity like some other superhero films, but rather a garish cartoony reality, vaguely reminiscent of director Luc Bresson’s sci-fi work and those geniuses of perspective and four-color visual hyperbole: the Marvel artists. The story revolves around space scoundrel Peter Quill (played by actor Chris Pratt of the TV sitcom “Parks and Recreation,” on which he’s crafted a likable He-of-Light-Intelligence persona that he reprises here) and Quill’s attempt to recover a metallic orb containing an unworldly force just waiting to be harvested by half the baddies in the universe. Quill, abducted from earth while still a teen by pirate-like space mercenaries goes by the moniker “Star-Lord.” He’s grown into a punky rebel among these salty space dogs — prone to flipping off policemen, drop-kicking pesky space lizards and blasting his classic rock on a Walkman to liven up the soundtrack (a little too frequently, it’s a vaguely cheap trick). Pratt has described his character as “Hans Solo meets Marty McFly.” I would have preferred Hans Solo meets … someone further out of puberty. Pratt’s Quill is almost too much a boy-child to generate real gravity as the film’s lead. He wields a mean stun gun, but he makes an awkward leader and his moments of genuine heroics get lost behind the joking. The film ends, but he never matures. Still, he’s a likable lunk and the carry-over of his “Parks” persona gives Pratt cred as the Peter Pan of the Forbidden Zone. Zoe Saldana (Lt. Uhura in J.J. Abram’s rebooted “Star Trek” films) is his grudging new sidekick and presumed future love interest, a deadly assassin recently turned away from the darkside. Saldana works earnestly at her role and manages to provide some weight to the otherwise drama-light screenplay. Professional wrestler Dave Batista is another member of Quill’s team of misfits. Saddled with the rather defining moniker of “Drax the Destroyer,” Batista provides some of the film’s best laughs as a humorless yet utterly forthright hulk. He’s Mongo from “Blazing Saddles” decorated in a paisley of ritually applied scars atop real-life muscles that outshine the special effects for pure astonishment. The final members of the Guardians are two CGI-rendered concoctions voiced by Bradley Cooper and Vin Diesel. Cooper is Rocket Racoon, a genetically rewired Daniel Boone hat-in-the-making with an Einstein-like brilliance. Unfortunately, Cooper overplays him vocally, imparting a grating character that is less quasar than quasi-Bowery Boy. In a film that seldom abandons its video game pacing, Cooper’s racoon character is the one reeks most of a video game performance. On the other hand, Vin Diesel, whose part almost entirely consists of the same three words, “I am Groot,” sprouts the film’s most poignant moments as a tree-man whose heart is far less hardened than his bark. His completely other-worldly appearance brings a needed whimsy to the space fantasy, unlike the slight color variations of its humanoids and that earthly racoon whose presence defies any real rationality. It is Groot’s laconic presence and the gentle moments he creates that lets the film pause long enough to show the heart “Guardian” could have used more of. “Guardians” is certain to please audiences with its all-cylinders firing action, but Gunn would have been well-served to let his jets cool down more between sprints. His failing to tug more at the heartstrings and have us fall for his characters is odd, as I have a sneaking suspicion that Gunn was more concerned with cementing them into a franchise and less with crafting a fully realized film. Perhaps with the thought of sequel-to-come firmly in mind, the film’s timing feels off. A prison escape chews up far too much running time, while some major plot points are barely given a comic book frame’s worth of mention. The result is a story that feels penciled in, but not fully inked. But by the film’s finale, Gunn achieves his goal and his cast melds into a gang you’ll be willing to spend more time with in future installments, Awesome Mix Tape Part Deux, which is all any studio could hope for … in this galaxy or the next.