Review - Magic Mike

Grade: B+

It's a wonder any of the kids these days would ever want to pursue a career as a performer who puts their body on the line to entertain a ravenous, fickle audience. The typical path of big dreams, punishing training, failure, success, corruption then redemption has been well worn by dozens of mainstream and independent flicks, with two of the best--Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler and The Black Swan--coming within the last few years. Between Aronofsky's one-two punch and any number of cautionary tales the detail the soul-stomping journey to the top of the music or movie industry, the prospect of becoming a performer, and negotiating the often devastating sacrifices that comes along with such aspirations, seems wholly unappealing.

Steven Soderbergh's Magic Mike joins that not-so-exclusive collection of glamorized cautionary tales, documenting the trials of male strippers in Tampa with more gravitas, humanity, and intelligence than any stripper film ever. That said, it is an unabashed fleshfest that will probably enjoy a long life as a key attraction at budget Bachelorette parties for years to come.

Magic Mike is supposedly, loosely based on star Channing Tatum's, the eponymous Magic Mike, days as Tampa-based male "entertainer". Magic Mike twists Tatum's life story into a narrative where Mike, entreprenuer by day and stripper by night, brings the aimless Adam (I am Number Four's Alex Pettyfer, continuing to stake his claim as the Hayden Christensen of the 10's) into the grimy yet "glamorous"world of disrobing suggestively for payment in small bills. Adam is lucky to find a mentor in Mike, the top draw at Xquisite, a dusty club on the edge of Tampa run by former stripper Dallas (Matthew McConaughey, playing himself as much as a far slimier and abrasive Stacee Jaxx than Tom Cruise would have possibly been comfortable with), and a generally good guy, as evidenced by a fairly chaste courtship of Adam's sister (Cody Horn, doing a bang-up Kirsten Stewart impression with minimal pouting and stargazing). Per usual, Mike has dreams of parlaying his earnings from exotic gyrating to a legit career as a business owner and custom furniture designer. His protege, on the other hand, quickly finds himself enamored with the fast money and high times that come with rocking the center stage and soon threatens the perpetually delicate balance of Mike's semi-charmed life.

In truth, Magic Mike is essentially a distaff counterpart to Ice Cube's late 90's "cult classic" The Player's Club, boasting a simple plot with turns that anybody who has suffered through Showgirls or Striptease could see coming a mile away. Despite a rote plot,  strong performances and Soderbergh's sober, grounded approach elevate Magic Mike beyond its trappings to make a something rather special that manages to simultaneously provide soft-core titillation and a comment on the dichotomy between entrepreneurship and exploitation in America. Channing Tatum, apparently on so much of a role now that his very presence can delay a movie almost a year, delivers what would be a star-making turn if he hadn't already received such a push years ago. While I certainly wasn't the target audience for his hard-charging grinding,  the former Step Up star is a ridiculously talented dancer, and I felt bad for the rest of the TV-star cast (including Matt Bomer, Joe Manganiello, and Adam Rodriguez, mostly just background eye candy with little bearing on the narrative) who had to take the stage in his wake. Beyond his crucial dance moves, Tatum displays an affability and earnest charm that makes rooting for his character far easier than it has ever been in any of his work prior to this spring's 21 Jumpstreet. Matthew McConaughey is a close second to Tatum in sheer presence, as his slimy, preening Dallas is a role that McConaughey has been building towards his entire career. Finally, McConaughey's rakish, sweaty appeal, and penchant for going topless, seems a perfect fit for such a pompous, self-aggrandizing dick. A bit of a treat for the WWF/E fans who will surely be skipping this flick is the presence of the Great Oz himself, Kevin "Diesel/Big Daddy Cool/Big Sexy" Nash, as towering dancer, Tarzan, a casting that is rife with irony consider Nash's well-known sluggishness and propensity for injury (he even sports a knee brace while on stage and makes it through each dance without actually dancing). Interestingly, Nash has wiggled into two major summer releases in as many weeks; if he keeps this up, he might catch up with the Rock in about a decade.

Outside of the performances, Soderbergh brings dignity to what has been a commonly undignified and melodramatic narrative by keeping the drama, based on a script by Reid Carolin, measured and grounded in down-to-earth humanity. Bringing the same hazy visual aesthetic he applied in January's Haywire, which also starred Tatum--who is becoming the DiCaprio to Soderbergh's Scorcese--Soderbergh employs a relaxed pace that allows the audience to just absorb the characters in their element, alternately empathizing with their very real struggles to survive and marveling at their skill. One thing Soderbergh has proven especially adept at with his recent films is showcasing skilled performers in a way that allows the audience to truly respect their mastery, and Magic Mike is no exception to that trend. Granted, a little less than half the population is going to be ardently disinterested in Magic Mike, and while understandable, it's a shame because the stripping is just window dressing for a solidly crafted tale about the less-than-desirable, yet often immediately gratifying, things we sometimes have to do to get where we want.  

The Yin and the Yang of It

Yang: Strong performances by Tatum and McConaughey highlight a tried cautionary tale about easy money and the price of independence in America; Soderbergh keeps the melodrama to a minimum and delivers a fairly down-to-earth take on what is typically a undercooked and over-the-top narrative.

Yin: Plot is rote and by the numbers for this type of narrative; the main draw is bound to alienate a good chunk of the potential audience, which is understandable yet unfortunate.

In-Between: Penis pumps. Apparently a real thing, and not just a pop-up ad gimmick. Who knew?

Review: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

Grade: B

There is a moment during the climax of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (ALVH) when Lincoln (Benjamin Walker) and his longtime friend, freed slave Will Johnson (Anthony Mackie), are fending off a small army of vampires. The camera swings around the scene in slow-mo, capturing perfect shots of the heroes standing tall against overwhelming odds with only one weapon, a tricked out axe, between them, just like the masterful montage at the climax of the Avengers.

That moment oozes cool in the way that half the shots in Zack Snyder’s 300 adaptation were meant to evoke awe rather than push the narrative forward. It is also a moment that typifies ALVH as an exercise in style over substance that works as the perfect big budget B-movie right up until director Timur Bekambetov and screenwriter Seth Graeme-Smith are forced to reign in the cool and build a narrative that manages to simultaneously trivialize Lincoln’s presidency while making it, and the Civil War, something that could only be born in the age of superhero movies and genre mashups.

Based on Graeme-Smith’s novel of the same name, ALVH traces the rise of Honest Abe, who Walker plays with the gawky earnestness and stoic gravitas that 6th graders may attribute to the 16th President, from his youth as an aspiring lawyer to his time as President during a war that threatened to tear the nation asunder, with one key difference: he spent his spare time in those days slaying hordes of the unholy undead, as he searched for the vampire who killed his mother. Trained by the mysteriously pale Henry Sturgess (Dominic Cooper, tempering a bit of the charm he brought to Howard Stark), Lincoln, armed only with his trust axe and the aid of his compatriots--the aforementioned Will Johnson (Mackie, reliably dignified and criminally underused) and slinky shopkeeper Joshua Speed (Jimmi Simpson, adding the faintest whiff of comic relief to the stoic proceedings)--Lincoln sets forth to rid America of a contingent of vampires, led by the unnaturally ageless, foppish Rufus Sewell’s Adam, who have built an empire of the backs and blood of African slaves. How clever. While clearly overextending himself with his studies, day job and night job, the future president also has time to romance the Mary Todd (Mary Elizabeth Winstead, smiling ) and chart a course as a politician who will change the direction of the nation. 

ALVH is at its best when Bekambetov lets the story’s freak flag fly and embraces its ridiculousness with a straight face. Bekambetov only falters with ALVH when he is forced to follow the biographical elements of the original novel and eschew the super slow-mo vampire killing that was advertised. Granted, the appeal of Graeme-Smith’s novel was based on the juxtaposition of Lincoln’s historical biography and his fictional escapades as a slayer, but this flick could have truly been a transcendent B-movie masterpiece if it embraced all the weirdness full bore. The best example of where this film detrimentally lets the historical overshadow the fantastic is Harriet Tubman’s (Jaqueline Fleming) appearance. Tubman arrives midway through the film as a “emissary” of the Underground Railroad, which is composed of slaves who have lived under vampire tyranny for centuries. Yet, Tubman is, underwhelmingly, played with near historical accuracy. Now, imagine if Tubman was also a vampire hunter who carried a silver chain to poison and kill her former vampire overlords. Over the top? Yes. Mildly disrespectful? But, an awesome revision of a historical figure that fits in the context of the narrative? Absolutely. 

Missed chances like Harriet Tubman, Vampire Slayer, as well as some notable omissions from the original novel that would have made this far more memorable, make ALVH more disappointing than it should have been. Despite Bekambetov’s attempts to reign in the eccentricities of the narrative, ALVH still easily falls into the “so insane it’s cool” camp. Much like the maligned adaptation of Alan Moore’s League of Extraordinary Gentleman, ALVH will not be everyone’s cup of tea, as many will find it too ridiculous to be cool while some ill find it purely disrespectful. But, for those in the audience who embrace the ridiculous and survive the slower biographical moments, ALVH is a damned fun time that could have been amazing if Bekamebetov and Graeme-Smith didn’t  try to hold back the insanity.

Yin: Attempt to balance biography and horror action leads flick to be a bit (incoming pun) toothless; a tad stoic for a such an over-the-top concept, yet not Dark Knight level grim, thankfully.

Yang: Action scenes are perfectly over-the-top and delivered with shameless slow mo that shows what this flick could have been if it didn’t have to adhere to its biographical leanings; respectably promotes ridiculousness with a straight face.

In-Between: Two men. one axe. At least a dozen vampires. Almost as awesome as the Avengers versus an army of aliens. Almost.

Review - Rock of Ages

Grade: D+

This is all David Chase’s fault.

When he ended The Sopranos channel-defining run on HBO, the last thing he gave viewers, aside from a headache over the perplexing smash cut to black, was the gift Journey’s catchy, frothy hit “Don’t Stop Believin’ ”. And, man, has that thing had legs ever since, becoming a sometimes earnest, but mostly ironic, staple of countless films, TV shows (looking directly at you, Glee), and Broadway shows, most notably as the closing number of the winking 80’s rock jukebox musical Rock of Ages, the latest pop Broadway hit to be adapted to the big screen. 

Filmed musicals have always been a tricky proposition, as most of the power of the form comes from the electricity of live performance. A musical with a terrible story or characters can often be redeemed with one well-placed, well-performed number. Live musicals also have the luxury of eschewing plot in favor of tossing out numbers that relate to a loosely defined theme. Movies don’t have that luxury. At least cohesive movies don’t have that luxury.

Apparently, director Adam Shankman didn’t quite digest that idea before filming the big-screen adaptation of Rock of Ages.

Rock of Ages is built around the thinnest of cliched plots about big dreams gone sour in the ravenous music industry of the late 80’s. Ryan Seacrest’s girl, Julianne Hough perks her way through a role as starry-eyed Oklahoma girl Sherrie, who journeys to the Sunset Strip with hopes of becoming a “star”. Of course, as soon as she lays foot to ground, her dreams are dashed by the “grim realities” of the strip, until she meets the similarly starry-eyed and sweet bar back, Drew (newcomer Diego Boneta, who is trying a bit harder to act like something resembling a human being than the rest of the cast), who is possessed with terrible stage fright despite dreams of becoming a bonafide rockstar. Drew just happens to work at Bourbon Room, a gaudy cathedral-esque bar/club run by rock romantic, Dennis Dupree (Alec Baldwin doing Jack Donaghy as a liberal, aging never-was) that is apparently the center of the rock universe. Threatening the sanctity of the Bourbon Room’s reign is the new mayor of L.A. (Bryan Cranston in a practically useless turn) and his puritanical wife, Patricia Whitmore (Catherine Zeta-Jones showing a fraction of the spark that earned her an Oscar for Chicago), who plans to picket until the Bourbon Room shuts down for good. The only thing that can save the Bourbon Room: a performance by mercurial, disaffected Axl Rose/Bon Jovi/Vince Neil pastiche, Stacee Jaxx (Tom Cruise, somehow outweirding his own innate weirdness), a rock god so lost under the control of a Svengali-esque manager (Paul Giamatti, back to playing his trademark secondhand sleazeball) that he may may never return to the greatness of his peak.

While I can’t comment on the accuracy of this adaptation in comparison to the original stage show, it is clear that Rock of Ages, in any form, was devised as an excuse to roll out a hair metal cover album writ large. The plot is maddeningly nonsensical, and the performances are so campy that they cross the line pass parody into the vague realm where they could be considered atrocious if Rock of Ages wasn’t meant to be some kind of parody, which is, perhaps, the most serious problem with Rock of Ages. Shankman and crew don’t seem clear on whether Rock of Ages is supposed to be a lovingly pandering tribute to the decadence of the 80's rock scene or a scathing, tongue-in-cheek camp-fest. Shankman clearly tries to make it both, but the errs on the side of camp to the degree that narrative cohesion goes right out the window. For example, in the average musical, the songs have purpose, if not to the characters then, at least, to the plot. In Rock of Ages, songs, much like plotlines and character arcs, are tossed in to the proceedings haphazardly with little narrative purpose other than to elicit some faint nostalgia or a cheap laugh. The only upside to this approach is when Mary J. Blige arrives halfway through the movie, sans character arc or narrative relevance, to belt out some stirring renditions of 80's hits. 

Sadly, only Blige and Zeta-Jones, to some degree, are strong enough singers to carry the dual weight of their roles. Tom Cruise, whose singing was a minor controversy lightning rod during the casting, is nowhere near strong enough of a singer for such a role, but that’s part of the joke, isn’t it? Julianne Hough, known far more for her dancing, is another odd choice, as there are probably a plethora of more accomplished and capable singer-actresses who could have filled her role. The fact that these stars are ill-equipped for their roles almost seems like part of a very elaborate joke to undermine a generation of music that has been made popular to audiences under the age of 25 through ironic placements and/or Guitar Hero and Rockband video games. As a narrative, Rock of Ages' identity crisis and campy flakiness make it an absolute mess not worth the price of admission; as a sing-along for show choirs or drunkards gearing up for a night of interactive peripheral entertainment, it barely qualifies as an experience worth making time for.

Yin: Narratively incoherent; campy to a fault; a cast where most of the actors seem unable to manage vocal and dramatic requirements; Crippling lack of identity: is it parody, tribute, both, or neither?

Yang: Mary J. Blige absolutely crushing the vocals on 80s rock hits; Zeta-Jones showing some of the fire she brought to Chicago, if only for a few moments.

In-Between: “Don’t Stop Believin’ ” is catchy as hell, but it’s time to retire it. Seriously.

Review - Brave

Grade: B

Before I devote 700 or so words to Brave, allow to me to talk about archery for a spell. 

So far, this year’s cinematic offerings have brought audiences four heroes with archery skills in as many months: Katniss Everdeen, Hawkeye, Snow White’s Prince William, and Brave’s Merida. This fall, the CW will air a new series featuring DC Comics’ Green Arrow, the creatively minimalist Arrow. Apparently, not long after The Hunger Games' Katniss drew her bow on the big screen, interest in archery increased across the country, and now, the sport is on a course to be destination viewing at the Olympics. I have nothing against archery, but I think the current zeitgeist around the art of manual projectile fire is the mostly the fault of one thing: the gun.

Sure, Hollywood always has a propensity to copy its own “creative” efforts and establish trends through dueling enterprises (see: Mirror Mirror and Snow White and the Huntsman), but the popularity of archery among this season’s heroes and heroines speaks to a rejection of the very thing many audiences and filmmakers have become: lazy. It’s easy for a hero to pick up a gun, but to draw a bow and let an arrow fly with great accuracy is a skill, albeit one that’s fairly useless as a pragmatic offensive strategy in age where most combatants would much rather pick up a gun. 

Ironically, that’s exactly what Pixar is doing with it’s latest, Mark Andrews’ Brave. Brave builds so heavily off of the Disney princess formula that, despite the obvious work devoted to developing a strong core built around a somewhat fascinating rumination on the mother-daughter relationship, it is clear that Disney's assimilation of Pixar is complete. Brave is just shy of being the quintessential Disney princess movie. It embodies the goal almost every Disney has been building to since Snow White: the independent princess as the feminist ideal. Brave, ostensibly, is the tale of Merida (Kelly McDonald, delivering a spritely brogue accent), a tomboyish Scottish princess with a skill for archery and absolutely no need for a prince to define her, who desperately wants to choose her fate/destiny/path in life, despite the protestations of her mother, the prim Queen Elinor (Emma Thompson).  

The struggle between Merida and Elinor simmered for years, apparently, and explodes when Merida is forced to marry one of the princes--including a dandy, a doofus, and a dope with a impassable accent--of the neighboring kingdoms. The conflict takes a unforeseen turn when Merida happens upon a witch and wishes to change her mother in a way that will allow her the freedom to do as she pleases. With that wish, the witch casts a spell that eventually turns Elinor into a bear. In the mold of Disney’s Freaky Friday, mother and daughter must work together to break the spell that can probably only be broken through mutual understanding and compassion.

The core of Brave is so solid that it makes the unnecessary complications of the plot seem unnecessary and slight. Brave works only because the characters and themes at its core are crafted with more care than the plot. If this was solely a character piece, not meant to capture the attention of young audiences for 90 minutes, then Brave would have been an unabashed success, but as it is Brave risks, which zags instead of zigging as soon as the witch is introduced, losing its core because it is so bent on jumping through hoops just to up the ante on a simple, powerful conflict. Now, I’m not advocating for indie sensibilities in a Disney tentpole, but a less is more approach would have prevented this movie from putting some of the kids in the screening audience to sleep.

That’s not to say that Brave is not entertaining; in fact, Merida’s brothers--three mischievous scamps always in search of a tasty pastry--her boisterous father, King Fergus (Billy Connolly), the fight-hungry lordss (Robbie Coltrane, Kevin McKidd, and Craig Ferguson), and their goofy sons are consistently chortle-worthy. However, the reason these characters are funny is due to a clear “men are mischievous, violent dopes” vibe that runs throughout. While I am all for presenting the positive female images that are desperately needed in modern fiction, the ascension of these images in Brave comes at the expense of every male character. So, what does that say to the young boys and girls in the audience?

I hate to bemoan Brave because there is obvious care and effort on display here, but there’s a bit of tone deafness and contrivance that wreaks havoc with the human story at the core of this flick; even the cute pre-movie short, La Luna, lacks a bit of spark despite an exceptional effort to be a mildly touching and comical reflection on generational discord. Bringing life to simple human stories is what Pixar does best, but it is something they do well because they devote skill and effort to building simple stories without relying heavily on formula and stereotyping. In the case of Brave, Pixar should have just dropped the gun and stuck with the arrow.

Yin: A contrived plot and feminist perspective that paints men as “dopes” weaken a slightly inspired spin on Freaky Friday with a solid core. Pre-movie short is cute but slight in comparison to previous Pixar shorts.

Yang: The central examination of the mother-daughter relationship is well-done, and the moments of levity provided by those dopey menfolk are fairly amusing. Visuals are as lush and gorgeous, as expected from the good people at Pixar

In-between: More butt shots than I thought would be allowable in a Disney flick. Times have indeed changed.