Source: The Wheezer Society.com
March 28, 2007
Amicarella Reviews: Something To Crowe About
by Jay Amicarella
I've thought for some time now that America has been losing its sense of humor. And romance. The reason I've come to believe that is the dearth of anything witty or funny or romantic on TV or in the movies. I can't remember the last time I saw a film whose comedy was uproarious, or a so-called romantic comedy (the new generation of producers, aiming square at the 14 to 25 age group, insist on calling them 'Date Movies') that was even charming, let alone romantic or funny.
No, that's not true. I can remember. The problem is, the movies were either old, "Some Like It Hot", or foreign, "Love Actually".
How and when did it happen?
Is it a consequence of 9/11? Did this horrific event cause us to collectively lose our sense of what's funny? Do we blame Osama for having to wade through tripe like "Failure to Launch"? Or is it because today's writers spent too much of their youth turning their brains to jelly on a steady diet of TV? Is Scooby-Do the culprit for us having to sit through messes like "How to Lose A Guy In 10 Days"? Have you seen this shit? Not only are they unfunny, but as far as how the main characters treat each other as they 'find love', they're downright callous and mean. My divorce was nicer than their courtships!
Nice isn't a problem in 1992's "Romper Stomper", an Aussie flick I've been meaning to watch for years, ever since I heard of the controversy it caused in its native country, and in the UK, where it was protested outside many theaters it played. It gave the rising star Russell Crowe to an international audience, and was the first film to open a window on the Skinhead Movement.
Director Geoffrey Wright, himself a former movie critic, makes all the right moves in his depiction of one of the creepiest groups in history. The pace is breakneck all the way, the violence, vicious and un-stylish, as it should be, the music, brutal and unforgettable. I've heard the budget was so low that Wright opted for a cheaper, smaller film grade, and even that choice of necessity turned out to pay dividends, as it gives the movie a gritty, claustrophobic look that is utterly authentic. And the cast and director refuse to mythologize the Skinheads themselves. Whereas "American History X" has white supremacists intelligently debating race issues over the dinner table, the thugs in 'Romper' are illiterate, and barely aware that they don't really give a shit about the Master Race. Most are in it for the Rush.
And don't get me wrong, I liked "American History X", and thought Edward Norton, beefed up for the part of a Skinhead leader, was very good. But he can't hold a candle to the brooding, glowering, hair-trigger-tempered Russell Crowe, who Wright wisely doesn't put in every scene. He's so powerful in his performance that he is used sparingly, and to full effect. Other screentime is given to his equally impressive main costars: Daniel Pollock, as Crowes' "Best Mate", and Jacqueline McKenzie, as a troubled pill-popper who stumbles upon the gang and becomes Crowes' squeeze. The three form a sick love triangle that has nothing to do with the romantic comedies I mentioned earlier, and everything to do with pathetic longings for human contact and affection, and repressed homosexuality. It is a shame we haven't seen more of McKenzie and Pollock since "Romper Stomper"s release, although Mckenzie has won many awards for her acting, both in and outside her native Australia. Daniel Pollock, who was a veteran actor of real talent, was also, unfortunately, a heroin addict who took his own life by throwing himself under a train.
I first saw Russell Crowe in the tongue-in-cheek Western, "The Quick and the Dead", but he didn't really hit me until his powerhouse, anti-hero performance in the superb "L.A. Confidential". Since then, it's been one triumph after another, from "Gladiator" and "The Insider" to "A Beautiful Mind" and "Master and Commander". He became my favorite leading male, owing much to the barely concealed danger lurking just beneath the surface.
All of this you've just read is a really, really long explanation for why I didn't see "A Good Year" when it hit the theaters in 2006.
When I saw the previews, my immediate reaction was of dismay. Russell Crowe in a romantic comedy? You're shittin' me! It's like using a great chef to whip up sandwiches, right?
I mean, I love romantic comedies, but as I explained before, I had lost faith in America's ability to make a good one. I needn't have worried, as England and France, in the person of director Ridley Scott, are responsible for this delightful surprise of a movie. The plot is almost laughable in how tired and overused is the premise: Wealthy, ruthless Crowe goes back to the simple, romantic place of his youth to deal with death and acquisition? Gee, you think sarcastically, I wonder how this will end? I haven't seen this a dozen times before, and have no idea that Crowe will find his lost heart upon returning to his rustic beginnings. Well, unroll your eyes, because Scott and company realize that it's not where you end up, it's how you get there. And the journey they take us on is so full of charm, devastating wit, droll performances, breathtaking sets, and genuine romance, that you will enjoy every step, as in a delicious walk through the vineyards alluded to in the movie's title. It is so refreshing for a modern film (especially one from actioner Ridley Scott) to abound with wit and many funny moments, but none at the expense of its characters. People in this story actually treat each other well, even when they are at odds. No cheap shots, no painful suspension of disbelief that we are subjected to in the usual "Boy Meets Girl" flick.
But still, Russell Crowe in a modern comedy of manners?
A resounding yea. As usual, Crowe is completely believable, and makes all the right choices in his acting and line-readings. He proves that he can play deft comedy and romance as convincingly as he can portray men of strength and conscience. Crowe doesn't make you forget Cary Grant, but he has shown that he can definitely rub shoulders with him. The film also features the gorgeous Marion Cotillard as the local woman who catches Crowe's eye, and with good reason. I'm sorry to say this is the first film I've had the pleasure of seeing her in, but fervently hope it won't be the last. Like many French actresses before her, Cotillard, with her ease with comedy, and effortless sexuality, shows just why the whole world has a thing for French Women.
An enjoyable supporting cast, including Albert Finney in another memorable role, and a great choice of modern and classic music, bolster this film and make it the most fun I've had looking at a screen in quite a while. If only the 'Ammedicans' could re-learn how to do this.
Source: Empire (UK)
March 28, 2009
State Of Play
Review
Reviewer: Dan Jolin
Philosophical principle Ockham's Razor states that the investigation into any phenomenon should involve as few assumptions as possible - in other words, the most likely explanation for any given mystery is the simplest one. So it's hardly surprising that it's a principle conveniently ignored by both conspiracy nuts and writers of political thrillers. From The Manchurian Candidate through JFK, right up to (wince) Eagle Eye, conspiracy has provided the scarlet juice that pumps through any hale, hardheaded thriller. The sense of the picture being bigger than the protagonist could ever have envisioned; the creep of encroaching paranoia as it's realised that nobody - not even your own mother, dammit - can be trusted; the numbing, comprehension that, my God, this goes all the way to the TOP!, now where is my rug and why is my ass on the floor? It can all make for great drama.
But just a few swings of that pesky Razor will snap asunder even the most robustly entwined plot threads. Rarely do conspiracy theories withstand the cold glare of scrutiny (apart from anything else, the more people involved in something, the harder it is to keep it secret), and the same applies to most conspiracy thrillers (hell, William Of Ockham, who first posited the principle, could fray apart Eagle Eye with a spork).
Not so State Of Play. As fans of the original BBC show from which it's been carefully adapted will know, this particular conspiracy thriller (if that is indeed the subgenre in which we should locate it) operates with one eye firmly on reality - on relationships, personal and professional - while its ears ring with the clash of agendas both between individuals and institutions. Which isn't to say it doesn't also have the nose to sniff out a good red herring, too. Ockham liked things simple, but even he would have agreed that things get confusing. Messy.
Rather like State Of Play's chief protagonist, Cal McCaffrey, an affable, whisky-quaffing slob of a crime reporter who likes the slap of shoe-leather on the sidewalk and the dark smudge of newsprint on his fingertips, and whose desk at fictional rag The Washington Globe creaks beneath Seussian towers of books and paperwork. Realised by Russell Crowe, Cal comes complete with an unflattering, unruly mane and a full-on middle-age spread. And if you think Crowe's rugged charms don't quite fit a fourth-estate professional, consider his place in the context of State Of Play - a film in which the first shot of his workplace has the ugly words "A Mediacorp Company" being mounted beneath The Washington Globe's proud logo on the office wall.
McCaffrey is old school, a dirty-pawed newshound to whom the D. C. 'tecs provide grudging respect. For him a good story is something to be worked over and scrubbed at until the truth shines through. As such, McCaffrey is like a frontiersman of the Old West, unwilling to accept that the frontier has gone (or at least turned digital) and it's now the New West, where churning out copy cheaply and the concern to please shareholders rather than readers outweigh the careful craftsmanship of good, old-fashioned, dedicated reporting. As the Globe's bolshy editor (played with acidic zest by Dame Helen Mirren) shrieks to Cal at the plot's crux: "The real story is the sinking of this newspaper!" The paper's new corporate owners are, she snaps, "interested in sales, not discretion!"
This is why Crowe - an actor at home in Westerns and historical pics - works so well in the part (indeed, he makes it hard to imagine Cal as Brad Pitt, who was originally cast), and he's the best we've seen him in years. He infuses McCaffrey with a glow of confidence in his own skills, while undercutting it with palpable discomfort as he's drawn into a situation in which his old-school professionalism places him at odds with old college buddy Stephen (Ben Affleck) - a crusading Congressman suddenly wracked by scandal - and Stephen's wife, Anne (Robin Wright Penn). Crowe is also adept at drawing his audience into the plot's deeper, murkier waters: at one point, Cal realises, with a gut-churning shock, that he's just rapped on the wrong door - well, the right one - and we witness the fear switch his smooth talk to stutters. It's an impressive moment, and a valuable reminder that Crowe's talents run far deeper than greying his hair and putting on a bit of flab.
However, one thing is beyond even his reach: convincing us that Stephen could ever have been an old college pal. It's not that Affleck is inherently bad in the part; he's just too young and fresh-faced to close the eight-year gap between him and Crowe. We're told that they go way back, we know that they're good friends, but we never feel it when they share the screen. All we see are two strangers going through the motions. (Which, to be fair, is arguably intentional, but it hardly aids the drama of Cal's ultimate personal/professional conflict, even if there's more to things than first meets the eye.) It's common knowledge that State Of Play had a rocky genesis; after director Kevin Macdonald replaced Pitt with Crowe, it turned out that the latter's only possible start date didn't coincide with co-star Edward Norton's availability. Exit Norton, enter 11th-hour replacement Affleck. The sense of rush-casting, in Affleck's case at least, is sadly unescapable, and it's a shame that the film's central relationship doesn't quite gel.
Thankfully, the female cast more than compensate for this flaw, and there's a wealth of chemistry between Crowe and his pal's wife (a sad-eyed Wright Penn), his partner-cum-professional rival, online journalist Della Frye (Rachel McAdams), and his profane boss Cameron (Mirren). The McAdams/Crowe interplay is particularly engaging, coming refreshingly free of romantic compulsion; Frye's sex is largely irrelevant - the point is, as an online journo she's the rival who becomes the pupil. Cal helps her realise there's far more to journalism than sitting in the office and blogging, a point symbolically rammed home when he first gives her one of his biros and later presents her with an entire necklace of pens.
The script has great pedigree, merging the talents of Matthew Michael Carnahan (Lions For Lambs), Billy Ray (Shattered Glass) and Tony Gilroy (the Bourne trilogy), and does a good job of condensing the Beeb series, maintaining a buzz of urgency throughout while not shying away from a bit of enjoyable Hollywood hokiness every now and again ("We got two dead bodies, one guy in a coma and us with a lead that nobody else has got," Cal puffs to Della at one point. Hell, yeah!). And visually, State Of Play represents yet another step-up from one-time documentarian Kevin Macdonald, whose last movie was The Last King Of Scotland. In his hands, D.C. becomes a city of shadows, a place where threat lies around every corner and dark intentions brew within every building. Although, to invoke Ockham one last time, things are never quite that complex.
Verdict
Once you get over the unlikelihood of Affleck and Crowe as buddies, State Of Play stands as a sterling thriller, benefiting from admirable convictions and an arguable return to form by Russell Crowe.
