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.