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.