In Jim Jarmusch’s quirky “Only Lovers Left Alive,” vampires Skype, take selfies and book their midnight flights through priceline.com or the like – really getting at the complexities of being a vampire in the 21st century.
Going back to “Stranger Than Paradise” and “Mystery Train,” Jarmusch characters have always been victims of ennui and complacency. That holds true here as Adam (Tom Hiddleston, Loki in the “Thor” and ”Avengers” movies), is a “suicidal” vampire living on a desolate street on the fringe of Detroit, composingindustrial rock operas and nipping at vials of black-market blood he gets from a compliant lab worker (Jeffrey Wright). He also has a loyal gofer in Ian (Anton Yelchin, Chekov in the new “Star Trek” series) and a far-flung wife (Tilda Swinton) biding time in Tunisia.
Adam’s weary and bored. He’s lived hundreds of years, and the implication is that he’s had his hand in most major musical movements going back to Bach and Beethoven. Eve (Swinton) is a much livelier sort, hanging out in hookah bars with Christopher Marlowe (yes, the guy who went toe-to-toe with Shakespeare, played by a gaunt and game John Hurt). Even though it’s clear their love is palpable and eternal, their interests have them in sort of an undead long-distance relationship.
The arc of the story pretty much has one paying the other a visit. Troubles arise when the supply of platelets and plasma runs dry and Ava (Mia Wasikowska), an impish succubus who doesn’t play by the rules, shows up. Continue reading
Published in Pate Magazine
“The devil made me do it,” might be an apt response for some of the mayhem and mischief that goes on in 13 Sins, but greed and desperation are more to the point. The film, directed by Daniel Stamm and based on the Thai film, 13 Games of Death, rides a one-trick-pony for all it’s worth. It might not be original, or superbly cut together, but it does pay dividends as it the scale of sociopathic doings becomes ever more satanic.
After a baroque opener that has an elder gentleman in a suit and tie launch into a four-letter-word fit at a podium only to perform impromptu digit surgery on a beloved one once he’s arguably calmed down, we meet Elliot (Mark Webber) who’s having the day from hell. His mentally impaired brother (Devon Graye) needs expensive meds, he’s expecting a child with his fiancée (Rutina Wesley), and with all the downward financial pressure, he gets tossed from his job by a patronizing ass of a boss, and we haven’t even gotten to his drunk, racist dad (Tom Bower) who needs to move in with them, and drops a few N-bombs on his African-American daughter-in-law-to-be just to let everyone know exactly what he’s thinking.
So it’s fortuitous, or ominous, when Elliot gets a call from a random avuncular soul who tells him, that if he kills the annoying fly buzzing about in his car, he’ll get a thousand dollars. At first, Elliot looks around to see if he’s been punked, but then complies. Boom, the money lights up in his account. (Smart phones are such great plot accelerator for rote horror films) and then he’s told, that if he then eats the squashed bug he’ll get three thousand more.
“The Railway Man” is one long therapy session revolving around one veteran’s struggle with PTSD that has plagued him for years following his incarceration in a World War II Japanese prison camp. It casts shades of “The Bridge Over the River Kwai” and “The Deer Hunter.” It’s also a true story based on Eric Lomax’s memoir of coming to terms with the demons of war that tormented him for much of his adult life.
The film begins tranquilly enough in a sleepy little English shore town in the 1980s, where at a men’s club meeting over beers, the somewhat reluctant Eric (Colin Firth) wistfully recounts his affection for Patti (Nicole Kidman), a women he met recently on a train. Trains and railways happen to be an obsessive hobby for Eric (thus the title). He’s also a kind and engaging soul, and soon enough he and Patti are moving toward marriage in all the most maudlin and pat ways possible. It’s here the film begins to feel dangerously like a large, sugary gobstopper, all fluff and no fire, but then the closet door opens and the skeletons start to pour out. Eric erupts in night terrors, he’s fiscally a disaster and sometimes he mutters to people who aren’t there.
It turns out that men’s club is what’s left of a battery of British soldiers taken prisoner by the Japanese during the fall of Singapore. Continue reading
Much will be said about the women and their use of sex as a means to an end in Lars von Trier’s two part Nymphomaniac and Jonathan Glazer’s alluring new film,Under the Skin. Sex in both endeavors is a must; an addiction in the former and a tool for sustenance in the latter. But in both cases the women are driven by something beyond their control and as a result, they prey.
Joe (played by Charlotte Gainsbourg, with Stacy Martin as the young incarnation), the insatiable protagonist in von Trier’s pandering provocation, embarks on her first hunt aboard a train wearing gleefully self-described “fuck me” garb. She’s looking to achieve a series of bathroom conquests and baits the men, packed like sardines into cramped traveling compartments, with fluttering doe-like eyes as she requests help in finding the washroom, and later, for her crowing achievement, settles on a more stately married man in first class. He is so morally affixed and committed that to break that bond will yield the greatest conquest and the most points in an ongoing game of sexual one-upmanship with a fellow train cruiser. After swaying the reluctant mark, he passively empties himself into her mouth. The man is changed, drained, and emotionally shaken from the transgression he consciously wished no part of until mid-ejaculation. For Joe the act is simply a tally notch, a big bull buffalo on the savanna that her sleek apex feline sussed out, isolated, and brought down. How the man returns to his wife, or if his life is disrupted from the interlude, is of no concern.
In the wild, the act of predation is cold, calculating and necessary. There is nothing civil or remorseful about it. While Joe does it to feed her id or inner dysfunction, Scarlett Johansson’s intoxicating incarnation in Under the Skin, largely nameless but identified as Laura in the credits, does it out of rote need. She’s not of our world but something supernatural, a celestial traveler who has been transfigured to look like us, and on something of a farming mission to harvest human flesh for her ilk. The urgency of her assignment renders palpable and strong as she patrols the streets of Glasgow in an austere white van asking for directions (uncannily similar to Joe’s locomotive panderings). Continue reading
Here’s something new: Kevin Costner back in a sports movie. Okay, maybe not new, but this time it’s football and not baseball, and he’s traded his cleats for a front-office job. “Draft Day” is supposed to be a funny, quirky race against the clock-cum-romance like “Jerry Maguire,” but it’s not all that funny. Costner channels his signature assured nonchalance as Sonny Weaver Jr., general manager of the Cleveland Browns.
The film starts off on the morning of the big, titular day with Sonny going back and forth with his girlfriend Ali (Jennifer Garner) about who he might pick. And of course she has some big news to tell him, but his phone keeps ringing. Cleveland has the No. 1 pick in the draft and everyone wants it because there’s a QB out there who’s the next Tom Brady – interesting timing because the team that’s after him the most, the Seattle Seahawks, have Russell Wilson and just won the Super Bowl. It’s kind of the same post-shoot conundrum that afflicted “Fever Pitch” when the Red Sox won their first World Series in 86 years and the filmmakers had to scurry to stay with the times).
Sonny, who fired his beloved dad as head coach, seems to be a front office bonehead as he trades away the team’s next three No. 1 picks and appears to be on the verge of being shown the door by the team’s owner (Frank Langella), who’s just as concerned about flash and pomp as he is winning. It doesn’t help that Ali works for the Browns as well and they’re not out as a couple, even though everyone knows. Continue reading
Like Jude Law’s Dom Hemingway, Nicolas Cage’s Joe is an angry, feral mess, not to be tangled with. He’s also a puppy on the inside, should you catch him when he’s sober. That’s the blessing and the curse of “Joe,” a character study in which the character is so all over the road that each time you think you’re getting to know him, something knee-jerk and nonsensical comes out and throws you.
Director David Gordon Green’s been a bit all over the map himself, from the small indie gem “George Washington” (2000) to the raucous stoner mayhem in “Pineapple Express” (2008) and most recently, “Prince Avalanche” (2013). “Joe” begins on a promisingly sober note as Gary (Tye Sheridan, filling a role similar to one in “Mud”), a youth of poor means, takes up a hatchet on a brush-clearing gig for Joe, whose reputation as an explosive ex-con is known throughout the depressed Texas enclave. Gary’s amid a lot of people who look like they know Joe from his days behind bars, but they’re all hard-working now and focused.
Joe’s pretty focused too, until he drinks too much. The rub comes in Gary’s alcoholic father (Gary Poulter) who goes by the moniker G-Dawg. He’s both complex and a caricature, and perhaps the most alluring and annoying aspect of “Joe.” In one scene he’s so drunken he can’t stand up and in another he’s bashing in a vagrant’s head. It’s humorous too, to see the motley hillbilly with scraggly white beard and amoral ethic bust some rap moves, but to what end? Continue reading