the Holiday Round-Up : Doubt/Curious Case of Benjamin Button/Seven Pounds/Cadillac Records

Bu-bum, bu-bum, bu-bum...

Santa Baby, just slip some tickets under the tree, for me...

It's holiday film season and sadly I must have been pretty bad this year to deserve this star-studded, but talent-lacking cinematic coal. How could these films have gone wrong? Perhaps because they were so focused on the who? (Oscar thoroughbreds) that they lost track of the why? Why make these films? Why tell these stories? What message do they have to have offer modern audiences or add to the American social fabric? These filmmakers don't want us to pry, they want us to buy (tickets, tasteless popcorn). And apparently sit. For long periods of time. And absorb this crap. As Sister Aloysius would say, "I have my doubts. I have such doubts."

Rather than dwell on these problematic concoctions, I will focus on the best scenes from these flicks.

Doubt - Viola Davis stole the film from heavyweights Streep and Hoffman as Mrs. Miller, the working class mother of a troubled Catholic school boy. Her three minute emotional breakdown was the most captivating aspect. For Your Consideration Academy: Best Supporting Actress.

Curious Case of Benjamin Button - While I don't think I could be paid to see this film again, I could probably watch the 43 year old Button visiting Blanchett in Parisian hospital(Brad Pitt at his most attractive) read the phone book. The Manhattan phone book.

Seven Pounds - Difficult. I was charmed by that jellyfish and then it behaved badly. I may have enjoyed the printing press repair only because I find guys who solve tech problems to be very sexy.

Cadillac Records - There were several good moments in this movie, but not enough to recommend it. Beyonce was an excellent Etta James, but Mos Def stole the show as Chuck Berry. Favorite scene: his arrest for fraternizing with underage girls across state lines. Classic.

Paired with Red tea misto. Why? I have an answer! Less expensive and more delightful alternative to their Hollywood counterparts.

Milk (and Cookies)

Milk
Written by Dustin Lance Black
Directed by Gus Van Sant

Tis the Oscar season for self-indulgent biopics. Wouldn't an acting trophy fit nicely in your stocking oh Hollywood star/starlet?

This is not that film, but always good to understand what the expectations are when historical biographies are given the red carpet treatment in the month of December (Aviator, Hurricane, Ali, Ray, Pollock, etc). Milk, starring Sean Penn, among a highly-talented ensemble cast (Allison Pill, James Franco, Emile Hirsch, Josh Brolin, etc), is an excellent study in how to make a successful biopic. Hollywood take note:

1) There needs to be a story. It is not simply enough to stage "Oscar-winning moments," a few angst-ridden emotional meltdowns to be circulated on the "For your consideration" reel to Academy members. Milk has an arc. Harvey Milk begins the film as a closeted insurance salesman in New York. At 40, with no passion or truth to his lifestyle, he decides he needs a change and moves to the Castro, a gay-friendly neighborhood in San Francisco. As he and his partner (James Franco) quickly discover "gay-friendly" is not a term that came into common vernacular for thirty more years. Over the course of the film and Milk's life's many obstacles, the main character finds himself and his voice as the first openly gay elected official in a major public office. He was a tireless advocate for gay rights, as well as a charismatic politician, who by the end of the film, is compared to Boss Tweed or Mayor Daley.

2) There needs to be secondary characters and secondary sub-plots. As interesting as it is to watch Tom Hanks deteriorate on an island with a volleyball for 2 plus hours, it is also helpful to have a little external conflict. Milk is very successful at this. Through the secondary characters (Milk's political team and confidantes), we gain greater insight into him as a person--a politician, a friend, a businessman, and a lover. Sure Director Ron Howard uses the taped memoirs as a through device and the framing newsreels, but it isn't as cloying as it could be. I felt as invested in the secondary story lines as I was in Milk himself. Especially Emile Hirsch and Josh Brolin (an unlikely villain who effectively unravels throughout the film).

3)There needs to be contemporary significance. This is especially helpful so that everyone can gasp or sigh in the end credits as the "what are these characters doing now" news bites scroll. Given the fervor surrounding Prop 8, this is a film which raises pertinent social questions.

Paired well with Milk and Cookies on Commerce Street in the West Village. Don't wear your tightest jeans.

Frost/Nixon

Frost/Nixon
Written by Peter Morgan
Directed by Ron Howard

I like to wash down my egg nog latte with a little political history. Who am I kidding? I am lactose intolerant and Starbucks discontinued this beverage this year in favor of some highly-caloric espresso truffle-tini or something. Adding "truffle" to any menu item is a likely ploy to convince the consumer that it is worth the additional $2-10. Starbucks, do not think I am fooled by your faux-luxury confection additive which clearly comes from some powdery concentrate. I do not believe the Belgians would be okay with you taking their fine product in vain!

Okay, enough with my Starbucks tirade (still off the caffeine, very hard). Frost/Nixon, unlike Starbucks' new line of [Red] drinks, is worth your money. It is an interesting time capsule about a presidency not about change, but about lies and televised sweat beads. The script, transported from stage to screen, has a lot of great dramatic moments, which one imagines played expertly in a Broadway house. The actors understand the neurosis of their real-life alter egos and collaborate well together. You have the impression that everyone understands what film they are in, but could easily launch into their own subsequent biopic. Some great side stories spun by Kevin Bacon, Sam Rockwell, Oliver Platt, and the chick from Vicky Cristina Barcelona.

Should we be concerned that Tricky Dick comes off slightly sympathetic? A graying lecherous paranoid bigoted codger who has been given absurd power and grossly abuses it. Nah, his comeuppance is served, if not by Frost and the liberal gotcha media, but by the demons he so clearly wrestled with, ravaging his conscious. And like "W," the real idiots in the picture are the electorate. You voted this guy into power. You bought those truffles. You have to take some responsibility for the unpleasant aftertaste.

A holiday movie rundown: Australia/HSM3/Bolt/Slumdog Millionaire

Rather than expound on all the holiday movies released in the past week, I have decided to discuss them in haiku format.

Australia

Poor man's Titanic
Gone with the Wind in the Outback
Watch Baz count money

HSM3

Zac Efron sings, dances
All the gays come out in droves
Left script in closet

Bolt 3D

Dog, cat cross country
in search of Miley Cirus
Stay home, watch Disney

Slumdog Millionaire

Bollywood badass
slick Ritchie-like jump cuts, flashbacks
Strong Oscar karma

Quantum of Solace

Quantum of Solace
Written by Paul Haggis
Directed by Marc Forster

We are all familiar with the Bond cannon conventions on this the 22nd outing of the most successful film franchise of all time. With Quantum, our expectations begin with the sexy hallucinogenic opening credit sequence, introducing the title pop theme (this time featuring R&B siren Alicia Keyes and off-beat rocker Jack White) and remain until the final gun shot freeze frame, shadowing our dashing well-suited hero in crimson. For this reason, the creative team can't mess with the formula. They can change the villains to make their misdeeds more timely (in Solace, no more cold war tyrants, but rather environmentalists gone bad), the babes to make their ethnic backgrounds or hemlines more contemporary (Gemma Arterton's Molly Ringwald-look-alike Strawberry Fields sports a Prada party dress which is almost a dead ringer for Michelle Obama's Grant Park gown), and the locations/gadgets/cars to set a global standard.

But the trick to all this jiggering is an engaging thru-line, for which screenwriter Paul Haggis (Crash, Million Dollar Baby) has proved his expertise in other efforts. However, this Bond flick is a misstep: a recession-era Bond, which meets satisfactory standards and nothing more. Within the spy genre of glamorous excess, these cars seem painfully economical (dough-like Smart Cars). There are few of the legendary car chases. Perhaps gas prices have proved prohibitive?

We have entered a decade where we no longer request shaken, not stirred martinis, but rather we down tonight's drink special. If James Bond has abandoned his discriminating tastes, what hope does that offer the rest of us? Time to switch to one-ply.

However, Mr. Craig continues to make a case for the vitality of this series. One just wishes his well-defined muscles could be paired with an equally chiseled script.

Some items from my Netflix cue

The Visitor
Forgetting Sarah Marshall
The Motorcycle Diaries
Lars and the Real Girl
Billy Elliot

I swear I'll be a better blogger...Rachel Getting Married/Burn After Reading/W/Synecdoche New York

Okay, so I'm on a caffeine purge which is affecting my ability to beanscreen. Two weeks clean albeit a dc & rum once or twice.

Nonetheless, Hollywood keeps churning them out. Here's some of what I've seen in detox:

Rachel Getting Married---problem: do not see this film if you A) are forced to sit too close to the screen, B) have a tendency towards motion sickness, C) find loading a dishwasher uninteresting, D) already saw Girl, Interrupted and are over privileged upper middle class waif disorder flicks, E) had a large bag of popcorn and are sitting next to a woman from Long Island eating a smelly mustard hot dog, F) All of the above.

If you selected F, you are me. And in which case, this film is not for you. Though I respect Jonathan Demme's work and thought the wedding within the film was lovely (sucker for saris and New England homes), it was the exact time of fall flick fodder that I usually avoid. Overhyped because nothing else is coming out to compare it too. Except Saw V.

Burn After Reading--This got slammed by critics, who were expecting an all star cast and all star production team to deliver an all star black comedy strike. Not the case, but not completely a gutterball either. I loved Brad Pitt's character and the premise was pretty laugh out loud, sort of a poor man's Dr. Strangelove. Frances McDormand has the most expressive face. Lots of fun with that character's romantic pitfalls. But George Clooney's comic timing is underutilized and the film doesn't quite find its footing.

W--While I think it is important to see this film as an American voting in the upcoming election (if you are an American not voting in the upcoming election, we can no longer be friends and thus you must discontinue reading my blog right NOW!), it is hard to watch. Because this is not a work of fiction folks, but rather eight years of the shared experience of our nation, spin control from a moron. Oliver Stone does not send up W unfairly, instead he is given a partisan even hand. Best casting I've seen in a long while, if they offered Oscars for that. Too long, like the Bush presidency.

Synecdoche, New York--Charlie Kaufman's latest mindfuck, this time about a melancholy theatre professor who wins a MacArthur genius grant after a regional production of Death of A Salesman. He uses the grant to stage a twenty-year installation piece inside a midtown warehouse where reality and theatricality are blurred causing his personal relationships (with Catherine Keener, Samantha Morton, and Michelle Williams) to teeter and collapse. Sure there are moments of absurdist brilliance, but the whole thing is too ponderous and artsy to be truly captivating. Note: the indie movie audience of the upper west side couldn't even stand for it, half the theatre cleared out 1 hour into it (New Yorkers put up with little, including tedious self-indulgent filmmaking). If this whole piece was meta, a comment on life about a comment on life, I think I don't lead the life Kaufman subscribes to. Thank god, otherwise, I would walk out.

I have been playing blog-hooky: Vicky Christina Barcelona/Choke

Blame it on the unseasonably summer-like weather, my new addiction to unproductive insomnia, several weekend vacays to cote de jersey, but I have neglected my blog responsibilities. How are you fine folks going to know what movies to see, avoid, quote at the water cooler.

A few highlights from the break (and perhaps the most incongruent films yet):

Vicky, Christina, Barcelona---Woody Allen loves pretty girls in cosmopolitan landscapes. ScarJo seems to be his muse of choice (shh!!! don't tell mira sorvino) in this romance novella. At first I liked it, maybe for hottie Bardem and the hot chemistry with Penelope Cruz. But I have already forgotten the key moments. Haven't these women read Madame Bovary? Watched an ep or two of Desperate Housewives? Do they think they are the first dissatisfied modern American couples? Slash didn't ScarJo carry on the whole "Woe is my American expat alienation" in Lost in Translation?

Choke---Let me try to summarize, recovering sex addict, day worker at Colonial Williamsburg attempts to save his sociopath mother, currently wasting away in a mental hospital by faking choke incidents at restaurants and extorting his fellow restaurant patron rescuers. Somehow this movie worked for what it was, thanks to a perfect ensemble cast, and situations too strange to fail. I admit I struggled with the mother/son plotline--a little trite and honestly, Angelica Hueston is fierce. But she is essentially playing the same Wes Anderson "Royal Tenebaums" character which isn't as fierce as this character needs to be. Less fragility, more ferocity. Rentable.


I am lately into Iced Red Tea. Find it at your local bodega.

Working Girl

Working Girl

Director:

Mike Nichols

Writer:

Kevin Wade

Tonight I re-watched Working Girl from the 80s for the millionth time. However, in Central Park as part of the outdoor summer film festivals in all the Boroughs, the film truly came to life. A quintessential New York experience, which encapsulates the very soul of New Yorkers (or at least those passionate and hopeful types with whom I tend to associate). When this film was released in 1988, its tagline was: For anyone who's ever won. For anyone who's ever lost. And for everyone who's still in there trying.
I think that's pretty much sums up New Yorkers in our entirety. Meanwhile, young Harrison Ford...wow.

Monday poll: Worst movie ever and worst movie experience

On a slow day at the office, I like to engage the online community in what I call an afternoon poll.  Today I queried: "What is the worst movie you've ever seen and what is the worst movie experience?"  I was pleased with all the responses.  Highlights from the peanut gallery included for your own office amusement:

FILMS: 

*Mr. Bean's Vacation--I don't understand this comedy and thus question it being classified as such.

*The Net-- I quote "so I could make out with my sixth grade crush in the back row" (Could someone please tell me what happened to Sandra Bullock?  They've been showing Miss Congeniality on repeat for weeks...is this a search cry?).

*All the Pretty Horses--this is, in fact, a horrible movie...a hetero Brokeback is just not that interesting.

*A Cinderella Story---I am not sure how my friend was tricked into this film outing.

*Cats and Dogs--I was actually not aware of this movie.  I am not sure how such a cinematic achievement could have slid past my radar, but a quick imdb search solved that crisis.  WOW.  This may be the worst movie ever.  For further proof: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0239395/

*The Island--ewwww

And my own shortlist:

*Elizabethtown

*Garden State

*Gross Pointe Blank

*Hush

*Deep Impact

*Lost in Space

*Evening

(Okay, these are likely not the worst, but the ones I can think of off the top of my head).

EXPERIENCES:

These were not exactly what I had anticipated.  But I did enjoy my friends response re: Gangs of New York screening.  He and his friends got thrown out for mocking a woman in religious garb.  While I don't condone this kind of shenanigans, my question is why was a fundamentalist seeing Gangs of New York?  Isn't it a little too heretical?  Am I wrong, but isn't Cameron Diaz playing a prostitute?  And isn't Daniel Day Lewis impersonating a butcher?  The kind that doesn't pray to the meat before he filets it?  

My own worst film outing took place on the opening night of a film we like to call TITANIC. My best friend got violently ill and missed the second-half of the film.  AKA when it sinks.  Please remember the time in which every female under 18 had seen this film at least double their age number.  Not my friend.  She has yet to see that old woman drop the rock in the ocean ever.  

Alright, back to your livelihoods citizens.

Tropic Thunder and NYC ICY

Tropic Thunder

Written/directed by Ben Stiller (and Justin Theroux)

Tropic Thunder next to Louise Bourgeois...so bizarre, yet so in sync with my eclectic filmic tastes. This popcorn flick was one of the most anticipated of the past two months (blame that on who you would like).  The premise (the three biggest stars shooting the worst jungle action movie, come horrible reality show when drug lords take over the film shoot) is pretty funny, especially when you consider Jack Black, Ben Stiller, and Robert Downey Jr. as a black guy..but hilarity really ensures from all the odd cameos...Matthew McConaughey and Tom Cruise in his best role since Jerry Maguire (if not ever) as Les Grossman, meglomaniac studio executive.  Yes, there were many one-jokes, as I call them, carried out to 90 minutes.  However, if there are several interweaving one-jokes, it's okay.  Like lots of characters interacting, pushing each others' set of traits.  Pure situational comedy but nevertheless, entertaining in a teenage boy kind-of-way.  You sensed it was going to happen, it does, yet it is still funny because the actors are experts at this kind of humor.  Everyone is along for the ride.  

Maybe the cinema equivalent of NYC ICY...you know what you are in for when you step in the door.  Hell has frozen over.

Louise Bourgeois: The Spider, the Mistress, and the Tangerine and Levain Bakery

Louise Bourgeois: The Spider, the Mistress, and the Tangerine (and Ruby et Violette bakery)

Now at Film Forum

In tandem with the current Guggenheim retrospective, Film Forum on Houston presents a powerful documentary about the French sculptor, painter, and installation artist.  Bourgeois, a fierce, firecracker Frenchie is a fascinating subject material for such an expose.  Her work cries out for explanation and this film provides several unique perspectives: culturally, socially, and critically.  The Spider, the Mistress and the Tangerine, though not an Oscar contender (too small perhaps), is a model for what documentaries should be.  The subject is explored thoughtfully and unapologetically (she is, as we learn, a somewhat difficult and particular woman) with rare moments of performance.  There is a visual component other than talking heads (her art, situated in international museums and built in her studio).  There is sort of a mystery (her psychological unraveling, the dark undercurrents of her tortured work) and there are obstacles (being a female in a male-saturated art world, a perfectionist in a disordered society).  We see that we are both watching something real and something really well-done, composed and deliberate.  At times, like the key tangerine scene, even visceral.  

Though inconvenient to both museum and movie theatre, Ruby et Violette bakery on 50th prepares some excellent artisanal cookies.  For the Personage in your life.

American Teen and Buttercup Bake Shop

American Teen

Written/directed by Nanette Burnstein

I quote poet Walt Whitman, "I Celebrate myself, and sing myself/And what I assume you shall assume/
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you." For this displaced modern midwesterner, I assumed this latest fad documentary would be verse near and dear to my own upbringing. The sort of cinema which would bring to light a true depiction of today's teens, who are not cast members of Laguna Beach, the O.C., Gossip Girl, or High School Musical. But rather products of changing times, social pressures, hormones, and fast food consumption. Atoms of my own soul.

I quote my friend Gemma, "Whomp, whomp." This is not that film. Clever editing transforms five Indiana high school students into caricatures from a John Hughes movie (see the Breakfast Club-inspired poster) or "Heathers" without the irony. The jock, the outsider (she IS Ally Sheedy), the band geek, the rich girl, and a stereotype I've already forgotten. There are confessionals of teen angst, some animation sequence which express their inner turmoil with being middle-class white kids in suburban America (Juno did this with more flair), and a handful of typical awkward social situations (dates, proms, house parties).

As much as I am not recommending this film, I will admit that the band geek/freshman hottie romance of convenience scenes seemed pretty dead-on. Favored moments; when the hottie's mom is cutting the band geek's hair, attempting to make him look less like a Ninja Turtle, and the hottie looks into the camera "People still won't like him. He's weird." Wow, out of the mouths of babes. She later cheats on him at a neighborhood swimming pool. Maybe it is Laguna Beach?

The only thing more saccharine than the overall message of this film...frosting shots at Buttercup Bake Shop. Sort of like Soco and lime for the underage crowd.

Hancock and the Dark Knight (and Cupcake Cafe)

Hancock

Written by Vincent Ngo and Vince Gilligan

Directed by Peter Berg

The Dark Knight

Written/directed by Christopher Nolan













A friend wrote his undergraduate thesis on post-9-11 masculinity in American cinema. He focused on Brokeback Mountain and the Spiderman movies, the normalizing of exhibiting male emotion and what it means to be a hero in a world where evil is ambiguous.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist or an imaginative undergraduate to see that the main characters in Hancock and Dark Knight are not John Wayne. Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, Aaron Eckhart, and Will Smith, lead actors of my generation, embody characters who are flawed, frightening, and broken. These are not our parents' superheroes.
Though not an aficionado of the Batman canon (I dabble), I have seen all the films from Keaton to Kilmer to Clooney. I know all the words to Seal's "Kiss by a Rose" and I once came as Poison Ivy for Halloween. However, I doubt Jim Carrey's Riddler would have fared well in this new Batman narrative. His campy persona, neon jumpsuit and cacophonous giggle would be incongruent in the intensely dark storyline where death is a coin flip away.
Mr. Ledger, whose highly-publicized performance is worth every accolade, is hard to watch on screen. I felt as if I was watching the actor unravel. He takes every risk, manufactures every mannerism. There is no "acting;" there is only who he is. For this reason, it seems like dangerous voyeurism. As for the rest of the film, there are some good performances, some great chase scenes, but it is 45 minutes too long. I also find the character of Bruce Wayne too obnoxious and true to a growing class of entitled i-bankers, oblivious to our precarious economic situation. Count your hedgefunds now, hang onto your shirt soon. Maggie Gyllenhaal is too drab to be so coveted.
Mr. Smith portrays a drunk, volatile superhuman. But unlike Batman, Hancock seemed to have a positive message encouraging personal change for the betterment of all. For once this summer, we had some girl action star power (I won't give too much away) other than Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 (What? Alexis Bledel rides a camel). We also had a great ensemble with Bateman, Theron, and Smith. So why did this film concern me? I saw this film in Europe, where thanks to our flagging currency, a matinee ticket was $22. Forget about coffee at $7. Those horrible chocolate coated ice cream bites: $12! I'll take New York prices thanks.

Let's return to a simpler time at Cupcake Cafe, West 18th in Chelsea. Take a slice of carrot cake with colorful frosting, fruit juice, and a selection from the attached childrens' bookstore. I could go for some Dr. Seuss.

Mamma Mia and Pom Pom Diner

Mamma Mia 

Written by Catherine Johnson

Directed by Phyllida Lloyd

You have to be a few drinks in to tolerate this movie.  Or maybe just to buy into the whole campy cultish ABBA thing (sparkly Grecian water, dancing disco diva pajama parties, etc).  In the first five minutes, the audience is given a cue from the actors not to take this thing called a movie too seriously.  Pierce Brosnan's singing later confirms this.  I am not arguing with this choice.  Who's to say that her majesty Meryl Streep can't have her teenage years revisited on screen?  Why do we demand from her only Oscar-caliber performances?  Summer popcorn flicks also come in cotton candy flavor.  

I enjoyed this movie for several reasons:

1) I like ABBA music.  It is catchy, sort of the Swedish version of Bollywood (the simplistic woo of you+me, now!).  

2) I like watching actors have fun.  There was a lot of fun having on this bizarre movie set.  Doesn't Christine Baranski seem like a cool gal pal?

3) I like to believe in an alternate reality where three attractive men are fawning over talented Meryl vs. a brainless Kate Bosworth-type (insert Kate Hudson or the chick from Forgetting Sarah Marshall).  Note that in this alternate reality, Meryl has an amazing hair colorist.  Whatever, she's awesome.

4) It's sort of the film equivalent of really amazing 3 am drunk french fries.  You like them at 3 am, but you feel differently two days later on the elliptical.  

Thus, I recommend Pom Pom Diner french fries.  45th and 11th.  They deliver.  You can thank me later, and hate me following.  

You Don't Mess With the Zohan and Nanooush

You Don't Mess with the Zohan

Writers (WGA):

Adam Sandler &
Robert Smigel

Director:

Dennis Dugan

I don't like Adam Sandler or long, nonsensical movie titles. I also cringe when I see former SNL actors launching films based on one-joke characters a la Corky Romano (you can probably list thirteen more). For all those reasons, I would not be someone who you would expect to mess with the Zohan. However, there was something oddly intriguing about a counter-terrorist with a penchant for hummus and hairstyling.
And guess what? It worked. The pacing, the ethnic flavor, the Mariah Carey...I was laughing, out loud, at Adam Sandler. I was able to look beyond Billy Madison, Happy Gilmore, Big Daddy, The Waterboy, and the other films I aggressively avoided to see a seasoned comedian developing a new culturally relevant persona. Sure he borrows from the Ben Stiller/Vince Vaughn Dodgeball team and yes, you can spot Judd Apatow's handiwork, but it comes down to Sandler's special tahini seasoning. He has grown up. The teenage boy who laughs at paraplegics and imagines penguins in the bathtub is ready to commit.

Middle eastern counter terrorism hairstylist comedies go well with Nanooush wraps and mint iced tea.

Wall-E, Bucky, and Olafur

Wall-E
Written/directed by Andrew Stanton

Wall-E may be the best example thus far of what the Pixar machine can produce. The first 40 minutes: silent exploration of our vividly imagined future world by a tiny trash compactor are utterly brilliant and incredible. Through Wall-E's binoculars, we see a savaged earth, the result of humans' overconsumption and gross negligence. Humans have exhausted earth's resources and then catapulted themselves into space on a 700- year space cruise. Meanwhile Wall-E has been left to compress the pieces of a wasteful civilization (along with a cochroach and an endless supply of twinkies--the two things that can survive Armageddon as we learned in fifth grade).
Yet, in spite of its dystopic themes, Wall-E is not without hope. While year 2700 humans are now obese babies who slide around on space style Laz-E boys, suckling cupcake sodas and mindless television (sound painfully familiar?), they are not without conscious. But it requires the heart of a robot (or the heart chamber harboring a budding seedlet) to remind them of the world they have discarded.
There was something magical about this film. Yes, it was sort of simple and prescriptive, maybe a little dull for its target audience (the heavy-handed environmental undertones certainly aren't without cause, but hard for the hannah montana and younger set). But fundamentally it was universal love story which took common objects and made them spectacular and otherworldly through stunning animation. I see this as in line with the goal of any great art work, which is why I recommend this film in tandem with the new Buckminster Fuller show at the Whitney Museum (a genius and scholar of sustainability and eco-consciousness, not just those funny domes), as well as the Olafur Eliason public art tour de force, the NYC Waterfalls (now cascading water along the East River). Both artists strive to create beauty through environmental responsiveness.

I also loved the scene with the spork. Classic.

Kung Fu Panda and Ollie's

Kung Fu Panda

Written by Jonathan Aibel &

Glenn Berger

Directors: Mark Osborne
John Stevenson

While certainly not a lasting animated classic, a beautiful and entertaining summer flick with sophisticated animation in a new setting with new characters (a red panda? kung fu warriors?). I had the fortune to see this in an IMAX format, which further emphasized the lush scenery of northern China. I found myself struggling to see the lines of character drawings/gesture---the world was so vivid, vibrant, real. However, the kitch of the kung fu genre didn't hold up in this squeaky clean plot line. Jack Black's Panda wasn't free to be anything but dopey and pudgey. Unlike the animation, the movie had little edge. It's a heart-warmer expanded to a wider cultural context. To be paired with Ollie's on the west side...simple, palatable Chinese food. No promises about the soup.

Then She Found Me

Then She Found Me  

Written by Alice Arlen and Victor Levin

Directed by Helen Hunt

The less glamorous stepsister of the forty something female in New York flick...here comes Helen Hunt in a directorial debut (a student film with a high profile cast) relationship drama.  I became invested in some of the interpersonal dynamics (mostly because I find Bette and Colin so charming).  However, the film oscillated between The Savages and something a little bit more mournful, interrupted by boom mics hanging over actors' heads...multiple times, very tacky.  Would pair this with something like tea (perhaps Teany?) ...needs to steep a little more to become more potent.

The Tao of Carrie

Style and Sadness

Sex and the City 

Written/directed by Michael Patrick King

Midnight in a Manhattan multiplex: mini skirts and Marc Jacobs bags march up the escalator of the Lincoln Square Loews.  This is not your typical summer blockbuster crowd (Indy who?), but rather a cultish sorority of millennial mavens.  They are gathering to pay homage to the series that taught them how to shop, how to date, and how to live in the city of New York.  

As Carrie Bradshaw explained as soon as the clock struck 12:01, these are the twenty-somethings who came to the city in search of "love and labels. "  Tonight they are among their friends, real and imagined, wearing stilletos and slip dresses as a sign of solidarity to the sisterhood of Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda.  Mere teenagers when the show first aired on HBO on their neighbor's rec room television in northern New Jersey, southwestern Ohio, and the mitten of Michigan, these young girls are now young professionals pursuing the life promised by Carrie and co.  Certainly their suburban soccer moms didn't teach them to dress or hail a cab like that.  Each audience member can identify with one or more of the women (ex."I am a little Charlotte meets Miranda..." or some other combination of the four females).  Through that connection, the show has been instrumental in each audience member's urban upbringing.  The show was hope in the form of 30 minute serials.  You CAN "have it all, it declared--the clothes, the men, the city, the job, the friends.

After I left the movie theatre that night, some of that magic had vanished.  While the clothes are still fabulous and the friendships still solid, the society isn't.  With age (now the women are pushing or well into their forties) comes a desire for commitment that doesn't seem attainable in our consumer-driven culture.  Men shop now too.  And the return policy on single girls in this populous city is pretty loose (the principles of supply and demand seem to say hang on to what you've got--see Charlotte and Harry).  Watching SATC the movie was like watching the women who raised me beaten down by bad situations and weak scripts: adultery, cold feet, infertility, and monogamy (actually, I don't quite understand the whole Samantha side story).  These women are no longer free, they are trapped in a Lifetime movie.   Albeit with better clothes.  

SATC clocked in at 2.5 hours, too long for a comedy, which this was not.  Our glimpse into these womens' lives didn't offer moments of professional success (no Miranda trial lawyer scene), we only got to see the women at their most vulnerable (frail Carrie, dejected Miranda).  The superheroine sexpots shrank a little.  The world no longer seems like their oyster in the way it is presented to Charlotte's daughter (you can do anything, the white knight is waiting).  The women are more real, broken, and less fantastical.  Carrie's principal self-reflective narrative (her sex column, a popular motif in the tv show) is absent.  This frame story served an important purpose in linking the vignettes into some kind of positive moral.  Without this device, we are left to our own devices.  We find ourselves in this city that Carrie brought us to and we can't call home.  

But here we are, with our friends, our shoes, and our Magnolia Bakery cupcakes (now at 68th and Columbus as well as in the West Village) left to forge our own destiny.  Can you have your cupcake and eat it too?  Here's hoping.

The Summer Begins...Iron Man, Indiana Jones, and Harold and Kumar

Iron Man

Written by Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby

Directed by Jon Favreau


Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

Written by David Koepp and George Lucas

Directed by Steven Spielberg


Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay

Written/directed by Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg


I have firm beliefs in few things (an apple a day keeps the doctor away, always wear sunscreen, when all else fails, take a breath, go for a run and get a latte) but principal among them is the importance of seeing summer blockbusters immediately upon release. Why? Glutton for long-lines, packs of pre-pubescent patrons, overhyped explosions? Nah. It has to do with the nature of the film. To see it in a crammed opening night theatre is to fulfill the mission of the art--the perishable cultural references, the energetic audience reactions, the exponential box office weekend receipts. Three weeks from now, the watercooler kings will have moved onto other pop cultural fodder (the next sequel, the next celeb sex tape) and these films will be a faded memory. Sure, a few will be good, future rentals, airplane in-flight distractions, or Oscar visual effects nominations, but these are films that belong to the early summer months, sweet and fleeting like Mr. Softee's ice cream trucks on every Manhattan corner.

Iron Man is a Marvel comic adaptation done very well. Robert Downey Jr. as a weapons-mogul wunderkind turned self-created superhero in a protective shield/reactive iron suit makes for an interesting tale. A simple narrative where each thread is tied, if obviously, and action sequences with an easy through-line. The political message about the military industrial complex's responsibility to act in the interest of peace, not just war-profiteering was thoughtfully woven. I enjoyed Gwyneth Paltrow's smart exec asst character, skillful and trust-worthy. Downey Jr. and Paltrow had an interesting non-sexual chemistry, which made his Stark more likeable as a person. Definitely a blockbuster to kick things off right.

The latest installment of Indiana Jones is fun to watch, implausible perhaps, but ultimately enjoyable to see Harrison back on screen (like you are watching Bogart, our own modern movie star) fighting aliens and what have you. Shia is a good and necesary addition (watch aging Ford jump those jeeps and you know what I mean). While the plot is sort of clunky in places, the opening sequence is solid Spielberg, a blend of fifties paranoia and heroics expertly shot. If only Cate Blanchett's Russian could be meaner, the jungle natives less un-pc, and the stupid fire ants sequence stricken (Mummy's beetles anyone?)...still worth checking out.

Harold and Kumar's franchise has gone the way of American Pie sequels and gross-out humor of the Farrely brothers. Disappointing. What I loved about the first film was the undercurrent of minorities in a position of power, as modern male slackers, exceptionally bright, but refusing to accept the humdrum life as model minorities. Here we have way too stupid sideplots and blandness, catering to a lowest common denominator of audience member. It's hard to watch smart comedians, skilled writers and collaborators go this route. But isn't that what summer cinema is all about: instant gratification.

Until next time, enjoy your softee cone. It will be gone soon.

Bigger, Stronger and Faster

Bigger, Stronger, Faster
Written/directed by Chris Bell

I was fortunate to get to be a part of the Tribeca Film Fest this year and happened upon many excellent screenings (which hopefully find an audience beyond Union Square). One in particular, Bigger, Stronger, Faster, a doc by Chris Bell about steroids in American culture was simply spectacular. It was picked up by Magnolia Films in tandem with ESPN and will be released May 30th.
There were so many exciting things about this film--a controversial subject thoughtfully explored, subjects who you can identify and empathize with, documentary style which asks questions, does not demand responses, and most of all, a new turn in the traditional male picture--macho guys with internal conflict that doesn't correlate with shoot ups. Oh wait, well at least not the Transformers type.
Do not miss this film.

Son of Rambow and Starwich

Son of Rambow
Written/Directed by Garth Jennings

If Wes Anderson decided to adapt The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and The Goonies, the product would be the Son of Rambow, the latest indie about precocious kids unleashed with crayola crayons and magical realism animation.

There is a lot going on in this film thematically. You have religious conflict (ultra-conservative Brethren sect vs. mainstream anti-christ aka Hollywood action films). There is a dialogue about performing masculinity and gender identity politics (wow, did I just utter the most pretentious sentence ever...whoops) as we see a spectrum of male role models for young boys: Rambo (ultra-masculine warrior Sly Stallone), Lawrence (preppy, slick older brother of Lee Carter), Diddier (androgynous Frenchie metro exchange student). Which role are these boys supposed to emulate? Then you have a power chain. Who bullies who? Each character carries his/her own demons. Film, art, rave like dances, slugging each other are the release mechanisms.

So how to make sense of this cinematic/narrative hodgepodge...it's a think piece, a collage of modern adolescence presented in a 78 minute feature length film, take the images, assemble them together through your own lens. And revel in some of the most glorious panoramas (racing through the field, dancing at the psychedelic school lounge)

Meanwhile, taste the Fig, mango, apple, walnut, avocado salad at Starwich in midtown west. Once again, a lot of good ideas (colorful, tasty fruit) assembled without any culminating, unifying flavor. I don't know whether to eat it or make it into sangria. Either way I think it could use some mint.

4.08.08 What's Old is New Again

4.08.08...the start of something new at your neighborhood Starbucks, or at least so the ominous ads promise (the ones with the chalk outline of the to-go cup...like your latte has been the victim of a senseless crime).

Today across the nation, Starbucks introduces (or re-introduces) the Pike Place roast...named after the original store in Seattle. This is a blatant attempt by Starbucks CEO (Mr. Venti himself) Howard Schultz to recapture Starbucks followers who either because of cost or taste, are now veering to Dunkin or lesser alternatives to get their java fix.

I myself, am a loyal Starbucks junkie. If I wanted to drink straight from a cow's udder and wash it down with a hazelnut-flavored pixie stik, I would go to Dunkin. But I don't.

So as a afficionaddict, I tried this new brew this morning and found it delightful. Nutty, bold, but not bitter. And cheaper! Get that fiscal responsibility! If I wanted, I could downgrade to a "short." This may be an initiative to collect elementary children's milk money...get them when they are young. Further validating this theory, Starbucks is offering free short Pike's Place roast today at noon EST with the tagline, "Your first hit's free."

Since there are absolutely no worthwhile films in theatres right now to accompany my new beverage (Oh Harold and Kumar, when will you come my way, with Indiana Jones and a summer of popcorn flicks), I think the NCAA spirit calls for us to revisit another old favorite, Love and Basketball. Netflix cue it.

Horton Hears A Who and Chopt

Horton Hears A Who

Written by Ken Daurio and Cinco Paul
Directed by Jimmy Hayward and Steve Martino

In one of my favorite reviews by NY Times film critic A.O Scott, the wry reporter explained, "What distinguishes “Horton Hears a Who!” from the other recent Dr. Seuss film adaptations —“How the Grinch Stole Christmas” and “The Cat in the Hat,” in case you need reminding — is that it is not one of the worst movies ever made." I tend to agree with his sentiments.

While Horton does not belong in the line-up of serious kiddie film offenders (Think: Mr. Magorium's Magic Emporium, and don't kill me: Ratatoulle), it does violate many codes of quality cinema. The characters, in spite of their vivid animation and charming voices, are two dimensional stock types, likely the product of too many writers, too much focus on visuals, and too little creativity. I give you a treasure trove of tired sidekicks--the ditsy schoolgirl, the bickering politicians. The story with classic Seussian wisdom ("A person is a person no matter how small") should be rephrased---a plot is a plot no matter how puny.

For something more substantive: Try chopt salads...green like the Jungle of Nool.

The Band's Visit and Hummus Place

The Band's Visit ( Bikur Ha-Tizmoret)
Written and directed by Eran Kolirin

What seems like a screenwriting exercise for a class in a new genre of inter-cultural Christopher Guest movies (insert Arab police band into Israeli small town) turns out to be an endearing, quirky little art film (the sort that will hopefully end up on the radar of regional Jewish Film Festivals like the feuding falafel stand flick West Bank Story). This has some nice visuals: the powder blue uniformed police band, stoic and ill-suited to the arid Israeli landscape, the opening sequence in the bus station as the Egyptians try to acclimate to the language and social norms of their Israeli environs (they seem to not only be adapting to a new culture a la Lost in Translation, but maybe to a new time, like they have teleported from an era where they would not be familiar with telephones? Perhaps a comment on their conservative Arab backgrounds). It has some nice moments: Khaled, the band's pretty boy, wooing bus clerks with a take on Chet Baker's "Funny Valentine," advising a young Israeli boy on how to comfort/court a girl at a skating rink (this was perhaps the finest 30 seconds of the film), the bickering among the band, among the Israeli families whom the band imposes upon as the members find themselves stranded for the night due to a linguistic misunderstanding (there is no "P" in arabic, so they couldn't find the right Israeli town where their concert was to take place). But the European-style pacing (long shots, extended silences in conversations) will not appease American audiences accustomed to Michael Bay jump-cuts. There is nothing more American than cinematic ADD. Even clocking in at 90 minutes, The Band overstays its welcome. There is a denser film here, but this one wants to keep it light and political message-free. I kept waiting for things to happen, but there was just more talking. Sort of like the Palestinian conflict. Served best with a Mediterranean flavor--turkish coffee and baklava from Hummus Place.

A Vantage Point from JerzeyStyle

Exhausted from the last Oscar viewing push, I defer to my colleague JerzeyStyle for his wise Vantage Point ...could use some Jersey diner style coffee I suppose

We arrive at the latest installment of political commentary from Pete Travers, appropriately entitled Vantage Point. I tried desperately to hate it. It was trite – the East meets West, terrorism expo gone horribly wrong, apocalyptic cataclysm of assassination has been done before. And I will concede, there are major plot holes – not the least of which is Denis Quaid’s superhuman ability to kick a Xanax habit in literally 25 seconds (duty calls?). To start, the rewinding format seems more at home after the encore presentation of Armand Asante in The Odyssey. The film seems to forget that you get put through a background check if you apply for a job at the 7 11 let alone the American Secret Service. One man with undisclosed special ops training is able to kill roughly 30 Secret Service members coming away with little more than a scratch and no one has heard of Kevlar.

There were three elements of the movie that made me respect its critique. First, though subtle as the front end of a Volvo, the depiction of a suicide bomber in the moments of preparation is fascinatingly horrific. The role of the media (specifically cable news) is fascinating. At one moment, you hate them because of their unflinching resolve to broadcast through pipe bomb explosions and sniper shots. On the other, it is clear that the media plays an important role in the transmission of information. The last 30 seconds reveal an even greater truth… but I won’t spill the coffee beans on that one.

The American Studies lover in me relishes the third and final gem, and indeed it is this small but important character that ultimately swayed me. Forest Whitaker is Everyman is brilliant. Unlike the characters in the Nick Cage debacle World Trade Center, we’re not meant to understand that Whitaker is a hero because of the uniform he wears. Rather, we see that he will act heroically because he is capable of relinquishing himself to call of duty to his fellow man (err, 8 year old girl in this case). Though as far-fetched as the rest of the movie, it is impossible to deny that Whitaker’s heroism is inspiring and reminiscent. The things we want to remember most – that we cling to in the danger and tumult of a world where burqa-clad women strap bombs to babies and white men load fertilizer into rental trucks, where students shoot at teachers and peers for no explicable reason, where governments irrationally detain and torture suspected enemies without warrant or just cause, we find in Whitaker’s character – that which we hope we will choose in this of impending peril.

I realize that I have taken a sharp left at sentimental an continued on towards maudlin and I’m happy to the breaks before we cross that bridge. But I think we should give Vantage Point and perhaps its less than brilliant cousins a fighting chance. If for no other reason than it (and in some respects they) may force us all to examine things from a different perspective.

Charlie Bartlett and Amy's Bread

Charlie Bartlett
Written by Gustin Nash
Directed by Jon Poll




Raised on Ferris Bueller, Heathers, Rushmore, and Breakfast Club, I have always been a fan of the high school black comedy genre. What former smartypants doesn't enjoy a bit of a glee when the clever and resourceful millennial outwits the slow administrators? Meanwhile getting the girl/guy, spouting great one-liners, saving the day, or at least the Latin program.

Charlie Bartlett aims high, but doesn't have that John Hughes quality necessary to hold its place in a tightly-packed cannon of "greats." Richie Rich-come-prescription-drug-king-pin is a funny and relevant concept poorly executed. I think there was a real potential to make some larger social commentary about the state of over prescribed, over scheduled, over stimulated kids, but the script doesn't really give any answers. The sidekicks are two-dimensional (Hope Davis as mother is under-utilized as some sort of boozing socialite) and bizarre (Who let Robert Downey Jr. sign on as a gun-wielding principal?). Beyond the hyper cellphone texting, I had a hard time placing this story in time. I had a feeling we were back in the 80s? Or maybe my perception of high school students is off. Though I did find it funny that the druggies always turn to theatre producing...ha

Either way, Hollywood needs to find something to do with the months of February and March. Once we are done with Oscar season, it's like killing time before summer blockbusters. There needs to be some creative solutions. Perhaps Hollywood could offer those two months to up-and-coming filmmakers: "We've got nothing. Why don't you give it a shot?" Or maybe offer some kind of discount to movie-goers, "We know this is just shlock. Might as well not charge as much for it."

Either way, you need a kitchen sink cookie from Amy's Bread. Better and cheaper alternative to prescription drugs.

Definitely, Maybe and Cafe Lalo

Definitely, Maybe

Written/directed by Adam Brooks

I subscribe to film critic A.O Scott's cynicism about the death of the romantic comedy. I have seen a lot of cloying crap a la The Notebook. One shlocky rom-com trend as of late is the tendency to follow the Pygmalion archetype. Girl meets boy (or vice versa). Girl changes some aspect of herself to become more attractive to said boy. Boy falls in love with girl. We see girl develop higher self-esteem through love process. This is the Bridget Jones-era of self-development. These are not stories about relationships, but about self-betterment or overcoming personal insecurities.

Definitely, Maybe IS about relationships. I will save you the plot description (imagine something akin to Princess Bride meets Sleepless in Seattle set in NYC), but basically, a political consultant tries to explain his impending divorce and past three relationships to his 11-year-old daughter. The story is mediated as a bedtime story: a mystery as to which of these women turned out to be the girl's mother (the adorable Abigal Breslin of Little Miss Sunshine). As the stories unravel, we see why the relationships worked/failed when they did. We get three-dimensional people with goals, loves, and back stories. Not just one character arch, but four! (Take notes Nicholas Sparks!) We pick sides, we change our minds, we invest in people.

Meanwhile, New York has a pivotal role as the stage and the playground for these romances. Different neighborhoods suggest moods (murray hill--stiff corporate america, soho-trendy yuppies, central park-staged romance). Ultimately Brooklyn Heights becomes the step back, the last shot from across the Williamsburg Bridge, looking at the city as a chaotic symbol of the last 16 years.

Why else did I find this film refreshing? Because of its sincerity. It self-monitored the sentimental crap and never felt condescending (even with the presence of a child as audience in the scene of discourse). I sensed my heart strings were being plucked (Rachel Weisz performing cabaret in the park...this crossed the line into vomitously cute territory), but as much as I resisted the tug (the study abroad diary plot device?), I went with it. Maybe because it is Valentine's season, or because I am sucker for Clintonian democracy.

Chick flicks go well with Cafe Lalo (made famous as the cafe in You've Got Mail). Ditch the caffeine for a raspberry parfait.

Green tea and Golden guys

American Gangster and Transformers...If these films were not in Oscar contention (visual effects, supporting actors), I would not have granted them five minutes of my time. But they were/are, and so I did/am.

Here is the the low down:

They are both lengthy (2hr 40min+), hyper masculine (monster truck robots, drug kingpins) depictions of destructive underworlds ruled by a cube or packets of blue magic.

I am not the ideal audience demographic for either of these films. That being said, they are both engaging...car chases, good vs. evil, rapid dialogue, explosions.

I think Shia LeBouf might be the next Russell Crowe.

I'm Not There and Joe's: Art of Coffee

I'm Not There

Written/directed by Todd Haynes

Watching "I'm Not There" at the Film Forum (206 W. Houston) in the heart of Greenwich village, Dylan's old stomping ground (where hipsters, once roaming free, are now chained to $3000/mo studio walk-ups) was a perfect magical setting for a film that seems like a myth. I felt like a tourist in the land of "cool."

Bob Dylan is not my generation. I came in at the last gasp of his reign...where he looked more like craggly, grizzled Richard Gere than his stud reincarnations Heath Ledger and Christian Bale. Dylan might be a gap in my impressive pop cultural context (I know the lyrics to son Jakob Dylan's "One Headlight"--not quite the same). So can I still appreciate this film? The many ruminations of a storyteller whose stories I don't know?

"How can I answer that if you got the nerve to ask me?"

Empirically, a great soundtrack, terrific performances (Cate Blanchett is spot on!), bizarre art direction (the black outfits in a white room, the projection screens of Dylan), unique narrative weaving...

But ultimately, I am twenty years too late for this movie and this neighborhood.

Paired with a double shot espresso from Joe's: The Art of Coffee in Soho. Cause sleep's for dreamers.

Atoning for the Blood of Old Men (or Desperate Times Call For Desperate Movies)

This year's best picture nominees should not be accompanied by lattes or skim chais. These are whiskey-knocking, goat-milk-guzzling, tequila-shooting films about vengeance (minus the one with blue slushies). Having finally completed my Best Picture marathon, I am sad to report Hollywood's confirmation of our country's anxiety and despair.
We are presented with three films (Michael Clayton, Blood, and No Country) without character archs. The lead males begin as loners, outlaws, or psychotic villains and continue on that trajectory in spite of attempts to knock them out of inertia (the usually effective gravitational pull of women, children, and social obligation). Sure, there are twists on this theme. This year's best pic directors infuse their films with their own auteur style (the Coen brothers' penchant for throw-away scenes showcasing awkward and pathetic interaction with service professionals, Paul Thomas Anderson's passion for powerful scoring). But fundamentally, the symbolism is apparent, these films reveal that our world is in peril. Example: Daniel Plainview in Blood (Daniel Day Lewis) watching his oil rig blaze with flames, after his son has been knocked unconscious/with burst ear drums, cackling "There's a whole ocean of oil under our feet! No one can get at it except for me!" Oil, son, greed, machismo, bad health care...the parallels are oh so apparent.
So what film should win the golden guy?
-Not Michael Clayton--this is an extended plea for a Best Actor Oscar for Clooney (with a miraculous performance by corporate white witch Twilda Swinton)...not a lasting piece of American cinema.
-Not Atonement--a film which would usually be lost post-Golden Globe season, after the buzz wore off or better films surfaced...a good book, oddly adapted, and visually reminiscent of Pearl Harbor (maybe that's just me)
-Not Juno--though I loved it. It's a sitcom/stage play with a great soundtrack. If you are going to have a best picture that is a quirky character drama, it must have some epic quality (See American Beauty--magical realism in American suburbia). In addition to dynamic interpersonal relationships, it needs a dynamic relationship with the camera. You should not be able to watch this on your tiny iphone screen and feel satisfied.
-This leaves No Country and Blood. I think I might move to Canada.

Diving Bell and the Butterfly plus LPQ

Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Written by Ronald Harwood and Jean-Dominique Bauby
Directed by Julia Schnabel

Friends often complain that I drag them to "artsy films," the sort-of nonlinnear, nonwestern, nonHD imports not featured in multiplexes but rather in off-the-beaten track theatres (read: obstructed views, uncomfortable seats, limited snack options, and snooty ticket takers). It's true. I rarely throw money down the drain for movies starring Adam Sandler or CGI-enhanced mutants (Beowulf in 3D was a mistake!). I would not consider myself a movie snob (confession: I saw Armageddon 4 times in the theatre), just a cinematic connoisseur with a more complex palate.

Though JerzeyStyle may suggest otherwise, there are reasons to track down this year's Oscar nominations. One of these reasons is the Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the latest opus from Before Night Falls director Julian Schnabel. This is an art film because it is a piece of art. The premise: a true story of French Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby, who, in 1995 at the age of 43, suffered a stroke that paralyzed his entire body, except his left eye. Using that eye to blink out his memoir (he develops a language of blink-yes, no, letters become sentences), Bauby articulates the nature of his existence, his past, his desires. Incredibly French in its lyrical quality, emotionally-rich and raw, Diving Bell addresses the basics of human nature (when placed in perilous situations) through a unique perspective (literally). Bauby's relationship to the world around him (his health care providers, his estranged girlfriend, his television) is powerful because it is about personal survival, meanwhile applying every visual trick seamlessly. No Adam Sandler or CGI, but humor and clever camera work abound.

Sometimes the search is worth it.

Pairs with LPQ at 64th and Bway. For the faux-French quality.

Welcoming JerzeyStyle!

Over the river and through the Lincoln Tunnel to the Garden State we go. New Jersey: a bastion of cinematic excellence from Harold and Kumar to Kevin Smith to our newest foreign correspondent, JerzeyStyle. Here to report on the Oscar noms from a Wawa near you:

Ok. I'll admit it. I have gotten lazy. There was a time, way back when I had disposable income and disposable time, that I, like all my fellow film buffs, traipsed to the independent theaters and saw every move on the Oscar watch list. I made my little scorecard and patiently awaited the release that came with the envelope rip and announcement. I would get all hot and bothered when my favorite actor got snubbed (Jake Gyllenhaal's performance in Jarhead deserved a nomination at least) and gushed when the best film of the year actually took home the prize (the academy agreed that Chicago was "All That Jazz" despite its snub of Rob Marshall… we're here for you Rob).
But recently, I have felt… in a word… flaccid about the season's supposed masteripices. In fact, 2008 has left me feeling so limp that I fully stand behind the following statement: Transformers, Harry Potter and Enchanted are least more enjoyable and at best more relevant than the proto-violent, carnage-ridden no country, and socipathic, over-hyped Blood, which seem like little more than fodder to fill more xanax prescriptions. They are fun, exciting movies that look like they cost enough to warrant dropping a small fortune to see them . I don't want to talk about the walking train wreck of a performance that was supposedly Sweeney Todd. Where are the Chicagos, and Return of the Kings that used to make my little heart go pitter-pat? The listless offerings of this year's season stand as a reminder that rather than strike, the WGA should be poring over the next good screenplay.
I will say that there are some decent films. Juno is, if nothing else, a charming examination of life as a spunky pregnant teenaged post-millenial, though we're left wondering, why do casting directors think Jason Bateman is such a tool. The songs from Enchanted are gay enough to make the Pope don a tutu and dance the Macarena and worthy of their inclusion, albeit without the inclusions of its leading lady in the best actress category (her perforance was comparable if not better than both Zeta-Jones and Kidman in their respective musicals). Transformers is a shoe-in for best special effects considering half of the cast is entirely computer animated. I would love to see Bourne walk home with the editing award and am certain that the best reviewed film of the year – a story about rats cooking gourmet food (if you just dry-heaved, you aren't alone) will take home gold in February. I would love to see Michael Clayton before the ceremony and may actually try, but as for the rest, I say… go vote Academy. If you stand up to tradition it should be a fairly boring night: Daniel Day will beat Johnny Depp for "Wierdest MoFo in Hollywood", Juno will trounce The Coens and Anderson, because girls rule. And at the end of the night, we'll all roll over, have a cigarette and think, "God, this used to be a lot better…" And who knows, if the WGA is still on strike, it will all be over before we know it.
--JerzeyStyle

Rolling out the red carpet for our foreign correspondent

The Academy Awards: an event so big it calls for tongue-in-cheek reinforcement. I introduce "Lost Angel," one of my favorite Hollywood insiders, to comment on this year's noms from the city that always tans. Yes, now we even outsource blogs.

Greetings from this blog's foreign correspondent. Because to a New Yorker, Los Angeles is about as foreign as it gets. Our coffee is served ice blended and the pairing of uggs and a skirt is a completely respectable ensemble, but we do know our movies. This is Hollywood, baby, this is where movies are made! Or at least tabloid headlines, I guess most movies are made in Canada now? Either way, we do have the ability to see movies and lots of them. Any true Los Angeles resident
loves their movies, loves their fourteen dollar ticket to the Arclight that comes complete with an introduction from a pimply usher, a ginormous screen and the opportunity to buy overpriced yet delicious caramel popcorn. And we do love our award shows...or award press conferences as they are coming to be known. So in honor of our lovely Nouveau Yorker's birthday and the fact that I am writing this mere miles from where the nominations were just announced, my first column will discuss the Oscar nominations! The two lone surprises in the Big
Categories (read: the categories people actually care about, actors, directors, best picture) were Tommy Lee Jones and Laura Linney and I could not be happier. The lamest thing about the Oscars and, okay, granted, this industry, is that so much is often based on "buzz." IN
THE VALLEY OF ELAH and THE SAVAGES both lacked this elusive "buzz,"that "it quality," that "stardust," that myriad of lame catchphrases that must be put in quotes. Personally, I enjoyed both movies, particularly THE SAVAGES, which I found to be an under-rated and
upsettingly realistic black comedy and I had mourned the fact that neither of these stellar performances would get recognized because they weren't currently "in fashion." It's great to see the Academy proved me wrong. However, they didn't prove me wrong with another
complaint I have (I might maybe complain a lot) about how award shows are run: they're rarely reflective of a year's achievement in film. They're mostly reflective of the months of November and December and, in the case of lucky MICHAEL CLAYTON, October (George Clooney has the
ability to transcend calendars). It's a shame Judd Apatow wasn't recognized for the genius of KNOCKED UP and I loved WAITRESS too. I'm not sure who'd I'd boot from the Original Screenplay category to make room, but in a year with so much stellar writing, I wish they had just expanded the category. The writers should add that to their list of grievances, at least twenty screenplay nominees per Oscars. While there are a few locked-in categories, much of this year is up in air, so I'll refrain from making any predictions. What would make me happiest would be for the show to go on and the red carpet ridiculousness to resume. I can't very well judge the fashion choices of the news correspondents. Unless Nancy O'Dell decides to wear a swan dress.
Also, if you must accompany your award shows with a caffeinated
beverage, may I recommend Starbucks' new Skinny drinks. Because what
could be more Hollywood than a beverage named after the town's most
coveted trait? Or you could always caffe9nate a colonic.

Until next time,
Lost Angel

Morning buzz

What is more cinematic than New York in the morning?

Sure, the movie theatres aren't open yet. But the seasoned AM commuter, ipod tucked in jacket pocket, hand cradling to-go cup, can still have movie moments while clustering in cramped subway cars and traipsing trafficked streets. With the right playlist and venti of Joe, the world is your Bollywood production number.

Some soundtrack recommendations, to be accompanied with your neighborhood brew, Starbucks, Dunkin, or progressive alternative:

*Working Girl--Carly Simon welcomes huddled masses on the Staten Island Ferry to the big city
*Once--When Your Mind's Made Up: contemplative, empowering, groovy
*Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Me--Polyphonic Spree will pump you up without giving you a migraine (key track: "Light and Day")
*Almost Famous--Director Cameron Crowe makes movie soundtracks like fine wines. 70s rock.
*Magnolia--If I am sipping tea, I order up Aimee Mann
*Garden State--New Jersey transit or the Path train
*Austin Powers (1,2,3)-Try not to take yourself so seriously
*Shakespeare in Love-a suggestion from a friend.
*Amelie-best for cross-town bus rides through the park
*Devil Wears Prada--U2, Madonna, little Alanis...life is good

Charlie Wilson's War and Bis.Co. Latte

Charlie Wilson's War

Written by Aaron Sorkin
Directed by Mike Nichols

Starring: Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Amy Adams

"These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world... and then we fucked up the endgame." These are the last words of Charlie Wilson's War, the latest political comedy in the spirit of Wag the Dog and Thank You for Smoking. The difference: this one's true. Well sort of. This is government as I imagine it actually is: inept, sexualized, self-serving. But sometimes moderately well-intentioned and certainly charming.

Sorkin wrote the West Wing and doesn't let you forget it for a second. The dialogue is snappy, scenes are short, even side characters hold stories. Politics becomes a poker game. My grandmother would complain the actors talk too fast, conveying too much information in a single monologue. But as a product of sitcoms, music videos, and gchat, I dig it. In terms of pacing, it is nearly perfect.

This is maybe the first adult role I've ever seen Julia Roberts take on. She nails it. Most notably when she gives Hanks instructions on how he is going to stage a covert war, post-coital, reapplying mascara and plucking tarantula eyes with a sewing needle. She was, in that moment, Angela Lansbury in Manchurian Candidate. It was scary. Pretty woman is growing up.

Certainly Hanks and Seymour Hoffman also deserve a shout out for atypical leading men. I would have watched Seymour as the Greek maverick CIA agent for an entire film. Also Amy Adams as the administrative aide. There is another episode there.

I recommend this film with one of the many varieties of biscotti at Bis. Co. Latte in midtown west (oatmeal chocolate chip!). Light, flavorful, good for a few bites. But maybe not hardy sustenance.

Juno and The Coffee Shop

Juno

Written by Diablo Cody
Directed by Ivan Reitman

Starring: Ellen Page, Michael Cera, Jennifer Garner, Jason Bateman

So no one talks like her, few act like her, or share her ridiculous name, but Juno MacGuff is remarkably honest and three-dimensional.

But this movie isn't really her story. She starts as a sarcastic punk doing her thing in the small town midwest (mainly digesting convenient store junk food, listening to pre-hipster music, watching teenage boy carnage movies) and is pretty much the same at the end, plus child. There doesn't seem to be an arch in the plot and that's okay. It's a lot of fun to watch her. Ellen Page is a wonderful actress with boundless energy. Even when placed in challenging situations, she shines, jokes, charms.

Putting real world logic aside (would she really have gone through with it? would her parents have been that understanding? would her relationship with Michael Cera's character have ended so harmoniously--singing the 90s equivalent of Cher/Sonny's "I've got you babe" on porch steps?), I loved Juno. For the cameo-like performances from Alyson Janney and Dwight Shrute (Rainn Wilson), fresh faces, quick wit, and solid soundtrack. Could this be Garden State with a sense of humor? The movie Knocked Up aspired to but couldn't achieve with such a lackluster heroine?

I hope the precarious atmosphere caused by the writers' strike does not keep this movie from the writing/acting Oscars it deserves. Truly a sacred cinematic vessel.

Try it with Coffee Shop in Union Square. Unexpected, casual, quirky. I am sure you could order a blue slushie.

The Great Debaters and Muffin Shop

The Great Debaters

Written by Robert Eisele
Directed by Denzel Washington

Starring Denzel Washington and Forrest Whitaker

Even the charismatic young actors portraying Wiley College's first debate team couldn't save this formulaic movie.

Screenwriter Eisele knew when to conjure suspenseful moments, wrestle with adversity, pluck our heart strings, charm our inner soap box junkie. But I saw Remember the Titans (I remember them, sort of). I avoided We are Marshall. (I was put off by the syntax). This should not have been another sports movie in league with Mighty Ducks D2 or Varsity Blues with James Van der Bek. The angels are not winning the pennant and thus the film should not cinematically resemble this genre of films.

Denzel Washington is one of the finest actors of our generation. Training Day was one of the most powerful screen performances ever. But he was phoning this one in. The character work was only evident in costume choices (looking disheveled or deviant in key moments). I recognize his directorial debut, but wish he had been a little edgier. Less Hallmark, more gritty and realistic. It seemed to be all style and little substance.

On that note, the perfect pairing: The Muffin Shop on Columbus in the Upper West Side. So charming from its store front (perfect scones, frothy mugs). Wrong. Grainy pastries and bitter coffee. Plus they don't take cards.