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Daigo Kobayashi (Masahiro Motoki) is pathetic at best, and downright self-absorbed at worst. In these tough economic times, he’s naïve enough not to realize that his orchestra can’t continue playing for near-empty houses, and yet hard-headed enough to sell his cello and abandon doing what he loves. Like thousands of unemployed people, he returns to his hometown, and responds to a “help wanted, great pay, no experience needed” ad in the newspaper. But instead of working hard at a gritty job and being thankful just for making ends meet, he is greeted as the Chosen One by master undertaker Ikuei Sasaki (Tsutomo Yamakazi), whose idea of job training is providing extra pay and flattery. Daigo’s new job as a ritual caretaker for dead bodies gives him such a spiritual revelation that nothing else matters to him anymore, including his cello career, his wife (who’s carrying his future child), and his anguish toward the father who left him. Daigo has lots of problems in his life, but he’s so apathetic and self-absorbed that he doesn’t let any of them actually bother him, and they wind up fixing themselves anyway.

In a long montage of Daigo passionately playing a simple song from his childhood, we get the impression that he has discovered powerful new emotions within himself, and plays more passionately. Maybe he has had some sort of epiphany that’s allowed him to play better. He values this sense of fulfillment so much that he’d be willing to lose his wife over it.

While playing the grandest of symphonies before the thinnest of audiences, Daigo at least could have paid attention to the lyrics. In the second verse of the “Ode to Joy” (in internet-quality translation), Schiller writes: “Whoever has created An abiding friendship, Or has won A true and loving wife, All who can call at least one soul theirs, Join our song of praise; But those who cannot must creep tearfully Away from our circle.” Daigo loves his wife Mika (Ryoko Hirosue) dearly, as long as she does everything to accommodate his needs and he doesn’t have to go out of his way to accommodate hers. After his first tough day on the job, I’d expect Daigo to tell Mika something on the order of, “this job is tough but rewarding; I’m happy that we’re making it here in these tough times; working with dead people makes me appreciate you just for being alive, etc.” A loving silence could also convey such emotion. We do get a silence, but of the “I had a hard day—let’s have some quick sex in the kitchen” variety. To Daigo, his “true and loving wife” (carrying his unborn child) is nice to have around, but she is expendable. The pain and yearning for his father causes a little more of a problem, but nothing that a few pebbles can’t solve. Overall, Daigo pursues his mystical journey at the expense of his family.

Which brings us to Ikuei Yamakazi, the carnivorous cleric. I can understand having pride in one’s job and finding meaning in it even if it has a social stigma attached to it. But only an arrogant blowfish would interpret a reply to a “help wanted—good pay, no experience needed” ad as a sign of fate. Even the secretary (who merely answers phones, and does not engage in any of the holy rites) does this not as a decent 9-5 gig with some overtime, but because she also buys into the hokus-pokus. While I was certainly moved by how Daigo learns how to respect the dead and comfort the living (who are the only ones who really matter anyway), we only get to see the most extraordinary of cases, and never business as usual. Whenever the Chosen One performs a funeral, he either turns frowns into smiles and reconciles deep family conflicts or causes anguish by using the wrong kind of eyeliner. These types of extreme moments come in any career, but it is the less dramatic moments that are more interesting and more revealing. Take the office sequences of Ikiru, a great Japanese film that actually has something to say about death, as case in point. And by the way, the off-key song of a monophonic amateur can convey a lot more emotion than the choreographed song of the stereophonic professional.

-Robert Henderson

The opening title card informs us that Public Enemies takes place in 1933, which is apparently the golden age of bank robbery. After reading this note we know what we’re in for. Michael Mann is bringing us back to the Great Depression. Not to a time when hardworking families suffered and the honest man couldn’t get a break, but when bandits ruled America, robbing banks in style, wanting to rule the world. And if it wasn’t for the annoying antics of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, we might still be privileged to live in a world with great men like John Dillinger. As played by Johnny Depp, Dillinger is the essence of cool. He wears pinstriped suits, perfectly shaped fedoras, and rose tinted glasses. Behind those glasses is a pair of eyes that views the world as his for the taking. They fail to see the boundaries of right and wrong. Behind his eyes is a brain. Maybe. I’m never quite sure what Dillinger is thinking. I know he likes movies, fast cars, whisky, and the dopey hat check girl Billie Frechette. He states these pleasures to Billie in a spurt of dialogue that is delivered with confidence and fluidity. In fact, all of the dialogue is spoken this way. What are meant to be scenes of conversational dialogue, even intimate scenes between Dillinger and Frechette, come across as historical figures in a high school debate. It’s not that Dillinger isn’t thinking, it’s that he was written not to have or need a brain. He’s like the scarecrow without the admirable ambition. When he meets with his associate Frank Nitti (Bill Camp) who used to help him hide from those men with badges who keep chasing him for some reason or another, he finds that Nitti is now running a lucrative bookmaking organization. Nitti attempts to explain that what Dillinger makes from an entire bank heist, Nitti makes every day. Dillinger looks angry and confused. He doesn’t get it. He would realize that he doesn’t need to stick up bank tellers to steal money, if he only had a brain.

I’m not quite sure what director Michael Mann wants me to take away from this version of Dillinger’s story. There are various allusions to Dillinger as a folk hero. He robs from the bank, but makes sure that the civilians receive their money. Is Dillinger making some social statement against the corrupt powers of the government? Well if he is, he never admits as much. Perhaps he just likes being a celebrity and realizes that if he treats civilians with respect he’ll be better liked. He blatantly tells Billie, “I rob banks.” However, Dillinger is lacking the motivation or general purpose of that line as it was proclaimed twice in Bonnie and Clyde. The eponymous gangsters of that film declared that statement as if it were an honor. They were counter-revolutionary figures, living off youthful exuberance, fetching nervousness, and a distinctly proclaimed social conscience. Dillinger, instead, echoes a different gangster in his proclamation to want to be, “top of the world,” conjuring up the image of James Cagney screaming his lungs out, and about to be burnt to a crisp in White Heat. Mann is just referencing other gangster movies, bringing with him nothing new, besides the fact that this film is shot in a high definition video, and what we’re left with is a protagonist without any ambitions or purpose for existence.

Being a Michael Mann film, showing the gangsters in not enough, we also need a grotesque portrait of the FBI. Mann is obsessed by opposition, whether it be cops and robbers (Heat), Colonial and Native American (Last of the Mohicans), or professional boxers (Ali). Unfortunately, Mann doesn’t spend the time developing both stories as he did in Heat. Instead, we’re left with a portrayal of J. Edgar Hoover (Billy Crudup) as a neurotic mess. A man in a tight-fitted suit, with greasy hair, filled with nothing but rage. His star pupil is Melvin Purvis, who focuses all his efforts on capturing public enemy number one, John Dillinger. Christian Bale plays Melvin Purvis, or more appropriately delivers his lines forcefully. Bale, as previously shown in The Dark Knight, possesses the uncanny ability to diminish a co-leading role into a marginal supporting one. Little is revealed about Purvis besides that he wants to get Dillinger. Dillinger and Purvis first meet after Purvis initially catches Dillinger, who escapes from two prisons in this film, although Mann never shows him coordinating these plans. They say a few words; Dillinger gets the last laugh, end of story. The next time they meet is in the film’s centerpiece, an elaborate ambush on Dillinger and his associates in the woods. Among Dillinger’s associates include Baby Face Nelson (Stephen Graham), presented to justify the plurality of the title. Nelson is less developed here than he was in the Coen Brothers surrealistic musical, O Brother, Where Art Thou? At least in that feature Nelson was allowed to indulge his inner killer by shooting cows on the side of the road.  In this film he’s barely a presence; more talked about than seen. Overall, the shootout in the woods doesn’t work. The exterior scenes are too chaotic to follow, and the interior scenes in the cabin are just poorly photographed. Mann uses source lighting, allowing the room to be coated in orange, which makes these fearless gangsters look like oompa loompas.

One character, very drunk, makes just about the worst James Cagney impression I’ve ever heard. That’s what this movie is. It’s a Universal film pretending to be a revisionist rendition of the Warner Bros. Gangster films. It’s a bad impression of William Wellman’s film The Public Enemy, starring Cagney. If only it had been more homage than revision. This film could have used the other’s gritty realism, instead of the fantasy world in which Public Enemies comfortably resides. I also wouldn’t have minded if someone had shoved a grapefruit in Billie Frechette’s face when she began to cry.

-Jason Bardin

For those who loved Sacha Baron Cohen’s last film, Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, then I’m afraid you’re in for disappointment.  As with the aforementioned movie, Cohen uses Brüno as an opportunity to set up outrages situations with a brazen character.  Unfortunately, whereas Borat might have been fun to watch because of a simulated culture shock, Brüno’s “quirkiness” is completely inexcusable.  The few moments truly worth laughing at have nothing to do with the intricacies of the character as much as his pure moronity.  There’s a particular moment where he confuses the terrorist group “Hamas” with the chickpea based spread, “hummus.”  Couldn’t any character with a low IQ have made the same hilarious faux pas?  The only real purpose Brüno’s offensively exaggerated flamboyancy has is to fit in as many close-ups of penises waggling around as time would permit.

The movie opens up with a short ecstasy induced monologue where we first learn to hate Brüno.  He then treats us to a scene of him performing various sex acts with a pygmy named Diesel (convincingly played by Clifford Bañagale), which seems to be right out of an Austin Powers movie.  Shortly thereafter he is shunned by the Austrian fashion world he alleges to have belonged to, and is then shuttled off to the U.S. to shout unmarketable catchphrases at B-list celebrities.

The basic format of each vignette in the movie goes as follows: first Brüno says or does something inappropriate.  Then the affected party either yells at Brüno, ignores him, or runs away while also opting for one of the former two options.  Keep the camera pointlessly running for a few minutes after the punch line, then multiply this times a dozen and you have in essence, Brüno.   Even with this repetition withstanding, at an 88 minute running time, it is painfully obvious that the producers were scraping the bottom of the barrel to get enough viewable footage to consider this a “feature film.”  This film would have been more suited had it instead been released as a 45-minute HBO comedy special.

Littered throughout the mess are scenes between Brüno and his assistant that are meant to connect the dots, giving us a reason for the characters to move onto the next scene.  These moments feel like they were stripped right out of a Fiedberg and Seltzer movie (i.e. Date Movie, Epic Movie, Disaster Movie).  Need I say more?

After Brüno has played the pilot of his new talk show to a focus group, we are left with the comments made by some members of the test audience.  After watching Brüno interview clueless celebrities and wag his genitals at the camera, one man responds, “No logical person would ever consider a show like that unless they had some sort of moral defect.”  Let’s just say that I left with the same sentiment.

-Paul Brinnel

At first I thought that grotesque images, evil corporations, and harms to people’s and the planet’s health, perhaps with some high-fructose corn syrup added for good measure, would make the perfect ingredients for a medium liberal documentary with a hint of self-righteousness.  Instead, I had the rare feeling of being only somewhat manipulated, and thought that the film’s arguments were so well-done that no matter how long I ruminated on them, I couldn’t refute them. 

The documentary focuses its case on health and safety issues, and keeps raw emotion and nostalgia to a minimum.  While not everyone may think it cruel to grow chickens with breasts that are too large, not enough room to breathe, and often no sunlight, nearly everyone can agree that it’s cruel to ourselves to allow infected and unhealthy food to dominate our supermarkets.  Even when the mother of a child who died of  e. coli is shown, it’s not meant to generate easy tears, but to point out how much of an outrage it is for a developed nation to allow this to happen.  The problem is that in this country we are quite literally eating shit, and don’t care as long as we get to taste the sugar, salt, and fat that our species has always craved. 

How tempting it would be to pander to the liberal documentary crowd and demonize the big businesses that run the mass-poisoning operations.  The film does succumb to the usual temptation of presenting a few titles that say “we repeatedly contacted so and so but he didn’t respond” as fair representation of the corporate perspective.  I desperately want to know if as much effort was made to get an industry representative to give an interview as was put into finding the one farmer out of hundreds who agreed to show the inside of her chicken house.  But the film isn’t trying to make the case that corporations and technology are inherently evil, just that they shouldn’t trample individual freedom.  Monsanto can go ahead and produce its genetically engineered pesticide-resistant seed if that’s what sells.  What it should not be allowed to do is force its will upon farmers through corporate secret police and gag laws.  There’s nothing wrong with cheap fast food.  The problem is that it is made artificially cheap by subsidies written by those who benefit from them.  As a result, a poor, hardworking family has no choice but to eat themselves sick on the only food that they can afford.  If we are open-minded enough to criticize corporations for their actions rather than their existence, we find that Walmart (of all companies) is ready for change.  It is perfectly willing to buy all sorts of organic products—as long as they sell.

We then get the message that up until seeing the movie I had always thought was a bunch of hippiesh kumba ya.  YOU CAN CHANGE THE WORLD!  YOUR PURCHASES AT THE SUPERMARKET ARE VOTES!  Change our society so that health and environmental costs are reflected in food prices, making organic food much more competitive!  What’s stopping us from bringing back reforms as comprehensive as those made after the publication of The Jungle!  Hopelessly optimistic?  Perhaps.  But it’s much better than turning a blind eye and believing that your food is “natural” and “farm fresh” without acknowledging the realities of how it was made.

If you enjoyed the way Food, Inc. makes its case, I would highly recommend that you watch The Plow That Broke The Plains and The River, two short documentaries produced in 1936 as part of the New Deal that show how the environment was being destroyed by forces similar to those discussed in Food Inc., and how it was being re-built thanks to the efforts of the CCC and WPA.  Amazingly, all three films use similar visual contrasts between the popular fantasy of simple living and the reality of irresponsible use of technology (in both farms and factories) and the destruction it brings.  It becomes fascinating to compare the way similar documentaries were made in different eras, especially the treatment of issues of race and class and the sharp contrast between the 1930’s message of “together we are building huge dams and planting vast forests” and the 2000’s message of “you have the power to help change the world every time you buy groceries.”  I was fortunate enough to get a chance to see both The Plow That Broke The Plains and The River in a theater.  The two are available together on DVD, but since they’re in the public domain, you can also watch them for free at the Internet Archive (click on the names of films to get there).  If you do decide to watch one or both, be patient.  At first they may seem like hokey overdoses of Americana, but by the end you will have seen environmental documentaries with a persuasiveness that Al Gore can only dream of.

-Robert Henderson

Science fiction as a genre has pretty much been dead for the past eight years.  Duncan Jones has attempted to revive the genre with his directorial debut, Moon.  Unfortunately, this attempted reinvigoration quickly devolves into nothing more than a regurgitation of nearly every sci-fi movie since 1968.

The movie starts with Sam Bell (Sam Rockwell) alone, finishing up the last two weeks of a three-year stint with a lunar mining company.  His only companion is a computer, Gerty (voiced by Kevin Spacey).  Sam of course has the occasional hallucination, but such is moon-cabin fever.  After an atypical event interrupts his established routine, Sam ends up finding himself trapped inside his humble abode with a sickly doppelganger.

At this point in the story you’d really expect some twists.  Unfortunately, none ever come.  The conspiracy is figured out halfway through the film, and the rest is spent boringly pacing around the outpost trying to figure out what to do with the rest of the movie.  Interestingly, the biggest twist is when we find out that a single element isn’t ripped off from another movie.  (SPOILER: Gerty isn’t just HAL’s younger brother, he’s a boring, motiveless computer.)

I can only assume Duncan Jones’ original outline to his producer read something like: “Start with 2001, add a half cup Silent Running, a pint Wall•E, and a pinch of Alien.  Whisk until The Sixth Day starts to take form then just keep pouring in Solaris until you hit the 90 minute mark.  (And if you’re feeling particularly festive, you can even garnish it with a single leaf of Midnight Cowboy.)”

Sam Rockwell tries really hard to build two individually interesting characters that have an inherently conflicted dynamic.  Unfortunately, the movie just doesn’t give him an opportunity to build their relationship in anything more than staggered uninteresting dialogue.  There’s an elephant in the room as soon as the two characters meet, and it’s addressed with complete casualness.  If someone meets an identical version of himself, chances are, they aren’t going to treat them like the new kid on the playground.

In the end, Jones tries to tie everything together with a profound statement, an apparent conclusion we should all draw from this movie: (Sam to Gerty) “We’re not programmed.  We’re people.”  This attempt at dramatic social commentary falls flat.  This whole movie falls flat.  Moon is nothing more than a tepid retread through familiar yet emotionally devoid waters.

-Paul Brinnel

It’s sometimes the mark of a masterpiece to set up a fascinating plot and group of characters at the beginning of a film, only to throw them away for something even better.  The first half hour of Psycho could’ve been continued to make a good (who knows, maybe even great) movie about an alienated office worker on the run with $40,000.  Synecdoche, New York could’ve been a good family drama about a sick theater director with weird poop and a failing marriage whose life was turned around by Fluorostatin TR.  Hitchcock and Kaufman took huge risks by shifting their plots so drastically, and produced masterpieces.  Julia, however, takes a fatally wrong turn when it changes from an honest and extremely well-acted story of addiction to a drawn-out and clichéd thriller.

I want to know more about the daily lives of the destructively alcoholic Julia (Tilda Swinton), her mysterious neighbor Elena (Kate del Castillo), her saintly ex-boyfriend Mitch (Saul Rubinek), and Elena’s observant but still childish son Tom (Aidan Gould).  The performances of Swinton and the supporting players were so strong that there is no doubt in my mind that they were capable of making a movie as gritty and honest as The Wrestler, giving us a real window into Julia’s world rather than a cursory glance.

What is accomplished by denying us true character development, and instead taking the movie into the realm of the implausible?  We see a few cycles of Julia’s drinking binges and mornings after, one scene in her office, and one scene at an AA meeting, a few scenes with Elena, and a few scenes with Mitch, but this isn’t enough to really get a good idea of who any of them really are. I suppose you could make the case that we learn about Julia from when she takes off her mask, where she points her gun, and how she chooses to deal with the suitcase full of money.  But that’s the Julia who inhabits an implausibly exciting world, not the Julia who could be living down the street.  At first I thought that Elena would remain mysterious throughout much of the movie, and that I’d have the joy of trying to piece together who she really is.  Unfortunately, all of the mystery was resolved within fifteen minutes.  I’d rather see more of Mitch trying to save Julia by warning her in his living room than by negotiating with her in Tijuana.

As slow and clichéd as the last hour and a half (or so) of the movie becomes, a few parts of it made it a little closer to bearable than it otherwise would’ve been.  In a very impressive performance, Gould captures perfectly the phase of childhood when a kid understands what’s going on around him, but nonetheless is still a kid.  Though the whole movie collapses along with the border fence, that shot was an especially effective transition.  It was also nice to be reminded of Greed when the film took us to the California desert.  You know what? Why not just watch that instead?  Not only does it allow its characters to develop, but if you like gun-pointing and lots of cash, you can find them there too.  How horribly ironic it is that so many of the best parts of Greed were cut, and so many of the worst parts of Julia were allowed to stay.

-Robert Henderson

Woody Allen’s new film is called Whatever Works, which is supposed to be the lead character’s mantra. Although the title is perhaps more appropriate as Allen’s methodology concerning filmmaking than as a life philosophy. The character who utters those two words of wisdom is Boris Yellnikoff, a former physicist who sees the glass as empty and water as nothing more than a theoretical probability. However, Larry David plays Boris without a hint of intelligence. Boris’ dialogue is mainly comprised of loud spurts of pessimistic adjectives. The dialogue is more or less line reading as performed by David. Boris is more of a caricature than a character: neurotic, New York, intellectual, pessimistic Jew.

Speaking of New York, Whatever Works marks Woody Allen’s return to his city after a rather unsuccessful tryst in Europe. Allen’s back in Manhattan! Literally, as the plot for Whatever Works calls for Boris to fall in love with a woman nearly forty years younger than he is, in a relationship scenario eerily similar to that of Woody Allen’s own Manhattan. However, the young women in both films are different, to say the least. Melody (Evan Rachel Wood), the young ingénue of Whatever Works, is nothing like the Muriel Hemingway character in Manhattan. That character was an intellectual student who was more mature and self-confident than the protagonist played by Allen. Melody is a ditsy beauty pageant contestant from the South who is probably too stupid to know that people have ages and that Boris is older. And despite her name, she fails to appreciate the classical music that Boris attempts to expose her to, opting instead to attend concert performances by bands called Anal Sphincter. Meanwhile Allen once again provides a Dixieland jazz soundtrack, which is beginning to make it feel like he’s making a parody of his own films. If the relationship doesn’t appear to work on paper, that’s because Melody and Boris don’t exactly ignite sparks on the screen either. They have nothing to say to each other. No conversation, no common interests, and not even a few shared laughs. And then they’re married.

Allen doesn’t have much for these characters to do. Every scene is just the two of them eating in a different location in New York. Whatever Works hardly feels like a film at all. It’s more like a play. In fact, who needs these visuals at all? Although without the images as distraction, one might discover how vacuous the script is. And why does Woody Allen insist on working with the best contemporary cinematographers? This time Allen hired Harris Savides, whose work on films like Elephant, Zodiac, and Milk has established him as a craftsman of profound beauty and sensitivity. Here he does his best to make sure everyone is well lit and in focus.

Needless to say the characters run out of things to say, so halfway through a whole new crop of actors enter the picture. Patricia Clarkson comes in as Melody’s mother, who transforms into a Bohemian love goddess. Following her is Ed Bagley Jr. as Melody’s father. This character is so underdeveloped that it’s rather just a waste of time when we discover that he’s a closet homosexual. Allen’s point here is to provide further examples to justify his title, perhaps because Boris doesn’t really follow his own mantra. He says it to the camera every once in a while, but his life is really nothing more than being upset at everything, which really doesn’t work for him.

And in the end what are we left with? A happy ending that proposes that everyone can get along if we all do whatever works, which justifies Charles Manson’s existence, I suppose. There is a point when Boris talks to the audience and questions whether anyone is even in the theater. If he had addressed the audience as the suckers we are, members of a diminishing society, vainly hoping that Woody Allen will return to making films that deal with complex themes about the nature of life and realistic portrayals of relationships between men and women, then Allen would have made at least one insightful comment in this film. Anyone remember the days when Woody Allen made films concerning themes a bit deeper than a two word alliterated title?

-Jason Bardin

This movie opens up with Burt Farlander (John Krasinski) and Verona De Tessant (Maya Rudolph) in the act of coital foreplay.  With his discerning sense of smell, Burt realizes that his longtime girlfriend is pregnant.  Cut to the title card displaying the movie’s title.  Thus it has begun.

This quick opening sets the tone for a beautifully paced, skillfully developed character study artfully crafted by the great Sam Mendes.  Mendes’ last film, Revolutionary Road addressed a couple similarly surprised by a pregnancy, albeit strictly within a dramatic drama.  Within the aforementioned film, not even in the poignant moments were there ever any sense of joy, as much as the terrible anxiety of waiting for the next tragedy to strike.  Away We Go however, has a spectacular lightness in tone that is wholly uncharacteristic of the typically bleak Mendes.

The basic story is a series of vignettes where Burt and Verona travel around the country having encounters with a colorful cast of characters.  Each encounter with a new couple introduces a new perspective on becoming parents.  Each encounter is incredibly distinct with each new family introduced serving both as comic material and tragedies of misdirection.

Away We Go isn’t simply a comedy.  It isn’t simply a drama.  It is meant to depict life; it insightfully represents all of its ups and downs.  Through their humor, we see each characters’ true pathos revealed.  When Burt jokes with Verona, there’s always a wonderfully apparent motive, which is most of the time an attempt at cheering her up.  Conversely, when Lily (Allison Janney) jokes about her kids’ physical shortcomings we can tell that its her way of justifying the oration of her own shallowness.  With some of the more zany characters, such as LN (pronounced “Ellen”) (Maggie Gyllenhaal), all of their funny lines are meant to be reflections of their own misguidance, which sometimes can be just as funny as it is sad.  In an almost Freudian way (i.e.Wit and its Relation to the Unconscious) this movie reminds us that any need for humor is mostly used to compensate for feelings of sadness, anxiousness, awkwardness, or other feelings of discomfort.

As a whole, this movie is quite incredible, but this is certainly due to the tremendous strength lying within each of its parts.  I laughed harder than I have from any film this year, but I simultaneously felt extremely touched by the simple problems of the people on screen.  A level of poignancy is reached that can only be found in films that show life within the reality that there are both good and bad things going on, more than likely simultaneously.  The language in this movie is quite foul at times, but it never once feels offensive.  It is all used within such loving context, as a simple means of venting about other bigger problems within a given character’s life.  Together Krasinski and Rudolph create a magnificent chemistry on screen that manages to radiate warmth and the utmost Eros, even in the absence of all eroticism.  So much love is felt with only dialogue as a means of conveyance.  This script fit the actors with such fluidity that the entire movie feels like a series of completely spontaneous dialogues.

Most criticism for Away We Go has been at an alleged superiority complex within Burt and Verona.  These claims are truly baseless.  Both characters express doubts of their own lives, and don’t ever hint at any self-appointed eminence.  Burt’s charm and wit come from his pure benevolent compassion for Verona, and his inherent courtesy for all those around him.  He’s a smart, nice, likable guy.  Verona is possibly smarter than Burt, but not nearly as self-assured at times.  They have a great understanding between the two of them that isn’t seen in any other on-screen couple during the film.  Does this make them better than everyone?  If the issue is really that they are just a little bit better adjusted, or just a little bit luckier, or even just a lit bit more in love, than what’s there to be mad about?

My recommendation is that everyone should try to see this movie.  It’s an absolute joy to watch, as it manages to stay funny whilst building poignancy throughout.  I sincerely hope that Away We Go secures one of the ten Best Picture nominations this year.  Thankfully for the Academy, Juno has already proved to us that indie comedies with dramatic elements are still in contention.

As a final note: Dear Sam Mendes- Stay Upbeat.  It suits you.

-Paul Brinnel

It was recently announced that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has decided to expand the nominated films in the best picture category from five to ten. President Sid Ganis stated that this decision does not correlate to last year’s snubbing of such critical and popular films like Wall•E and The Dark Knight. Ganis insists that this decision was made in order to return the Oscar ceremony to its early roots.

Perhaps they should have gone all the way back to nineteen twenty nine, when there were three films nominated for best picture and three films nominated for best unique and artistic picture. F.W. Murnau’s expressionistic masterpiece Sunrise won the latter award. Apparently it met some criteria of being arty by using projection screens and innovative use of title cards, but wasn’t good enough to compete with best picture winner Wings. Needless to say the once popular Wings is now so aged and inauthentic in its representation of human emotions that it’s rather unbearable to watch. So you get three standard fan favorite films for best picture. Films like The Dark Knight and Titanic fill out this category. Then you get three art films for the other award. Films like Synecdoche, New York and The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford make up this category. Everyone is satisfied. The mass market movie audience gets their award and the cinephiles get theirs. Unfortunately in nineteen twenty nine winners were announced in advance. There’s so little suspense in the awards as it is, why spoil who wins best art direction.

Instead the academy could go back to the second year of the ceremony, nineteen thirty. The Great Depression had just occurred sixth months beforee, so it would be rather prescient to return to this form. Now this was the only year where only winners were announced. Who needs nominees anyway? This would prevent lobbying from the major studios along with their over-extended marketing campaigns. The telecast ratings would skyrocket. It would be the most star-studded event in Oscar history. Everyone would be there, because anyone might win. Hell, I’ll go. I might be nominated. Perhaps the academy got hold of that student film I starred in. I played a mute bi-sexual in a future world where true love is forbidden. They didn’t announce the nominees, so you never know. And I’d kick myself if I ended up winning and didn’t attend. Stranger things have happened. If Marisa Tomei can win for My Cousin Vinny then anything can happen. Then again, under that system The Broadway Melody won. Remember that musical? I didn’t think so.

Okay, how about nineteen thirty-one and thirty-two, when there were five nominees. Yes, there were five nominees before there were ten, Mr. Ganis. Perhaps you missed that day of Academy president training when you were producing Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigalo. Only in nineteen thirty-three did the Oscars expand the list of nominated films to ten. Then in nineteen forty-two it was shorted back to five. Perhaps that year’s president wanted to return to the Academy’s roots.

Whatever Sid Ganis would like the movie going public to believe, this decision is made with wholly populist intentions. The Dark Knight was not nominated; ratings were slightly up from two thousand seven’s record low, but nowhere near nineteen ninety-seven when Titanic received eleven awards. Unfortunately for Mr. Ganis, I believe that this will allow for even more smaller films to be nominated for best picture, and perhaps even some foreign films.

I admit that the Oscars are rather silly to begin with, but I’m sucked into the freak show every year. Its harmless fun, so I don’t see the expansion as sacrilegious, just making the freak show freakier.

-Jason Bardin

What’s the only thing worse than a comedy that doesn’t make you laugh?  The answer might be a comedy that’s so fixated on setting up the next joke that it forgets to establish any normal semblance of “story” or “character development.”  This movie is not just unfunny; it is downright boring.  I felt myself squirming with boredom far more than I’d be had I saved the trip to the theater, instead opting to sit on my back porch watching plants sway in the wind.  I’m sure some might be quick to peg me as someone who simply doesn’t “understand” the ever evolving genre of comedy.  The one so jam-packed with irreverent pop culture references that it only takes a break from those to flash you one of the main character’s asses.  Are these actually movies?

The film starts with four friends on their way to Vegas for a bachelor party.  Phil (Bradley Cooper), Stu (Ed Helms), Alan (Zach Galifianakis), and Doug (Justin Bartha) each have a rather one-dimensional problem in their respective lives: Phil is a dismissive and money-laundering school teacher who comically hates his wife and kids.  Stu is a dentist who has been dating a one-dimensionally evil woman, and is planning on marrying her when he gets back from the trip.  Alan is hilariously a registered sex offender.  And then there’s Doug: the character not on-screen long enough to have any established problems with his life.  It’s ironic that the least developed character is the one we’re expected to care so much about after he mysteriously goes missing.  The rest of the movie is a painfully witless odyssey while these three friends trace their steps (á la Dude, Where’s My Car?) to try to recover Doug in time for the wedding.  (For awhile, they even hypothesize he might be dead!  Boy howdy, wouldn’t that have been a riot?)

In good comedies, entertaining vignettes can exist, but characters must connect them if only with subtle expressions of growth or lack thereof (i.e. Fellini).  Instead of accepting this fundamental approach to storytelling, this movie sets up scene after scene as if it were a crappy MadTV sketch, where the only constraint in writing was the number of characters with which to alternate giving marketable catchphrases.  Take the story and the characters and put them in situations where their reactions fuel the humor (i.e. The Big Lebowski, Superbad).  Alternatively, lazy or ignorant comedy writers can instead take stock characters and put them in stock situations and throw in completely sophomoric clichés.  Don’t expect any more than the latter from this movie.

Continuing to spiral out of control, The Hangover runs around in circles until the writers simply run out of “ideas.”  At which point, the characters make a convenient realization, and all in the world is right again.  Sadly, after an hour and a half of alternating juvenile one-liners and men’s asses, the last thing I wanted to see was a feeble attempt to have all the characters learn a lesson.  What I thought was just a setup turned out to be an attempted frame story.  This movie never tries to be anything, yet still fails wholeheartedly.

My thoughts walking out of this movie turned to some simple math: The Hangover has already made over $150 million.  If we assume people are paying roughly $10 a ticket, then that works out to 15 million tickets sold.  At a running time of 100 minutes, mankind in general has lost 25 million hours on this movie.  That’s almost 3 millenia of time people have already spent watching The Hangover.  I pose to you the question: was it really worth it?

-Paul Brinnel