Review - Step Up Revolution

Grade: C-

Dance movies are an odd beast. Like musicals, there is always a sense that the stories told in dance movies should not be told onscreen but performed live in a theater, where the bombast and melodrama of the performances and the "performances" can exist with the visceral ferocity they deserve.  In a theater, an audience is far more likely to be enrapt in the immediate and unburdened by the downtime that would allow even the most distracted mind to unravel the stupid simplicity of the threadbare plots holding these "stories" together.

By that logic, the Step Up franchise would enjoy an understandably long life on Broadway. But, Step Up doesn't exist on or off Broadway, it survives as a middling, seemingly indestructible franchise that continues to pump sequels out with alarming regularity. Each sequel to the original that launched Channing Tatum's career has been remarkably consistent, sporting identical plots led by interchangeable charisma-less would be CW stars who can barely emote but move with a fluidity that would make Bruce Lee envious. In a way, it's a demoralizing tradeoff, the price to pay to witness some amazing routines by superb dancing talent is being forced to sit through some of the flattest acting ever committed to celluloid, or digital as the case may be.

Assuming that the narrative of the latest Step Up, Step Up Revolution--this time, revolving around a Miami flash mob crew, The Mob, attempting to win a YouTube competition while it's twinkle-toed leader (Ryan Guzman) woos an aspiring dancer (Kathryn McCormick) who happens to be the daughter of a development magnate (Peter Gallagher) threatening to gentrify the Mob's "hood"--and the acting performances are reliably thin and flat, respectively, it is more beneficial to look at what works and doesn't work with the alterations to the Step Up formula and the dancing, the real draw.

Based on the first half hour of Step Up Revolution, it appears that director Scott Speer may have had an ambitious plan for this entry in the franchise, framing the Mob's flash mobbing in terms of a heist, complete with specialist team members, escape plans, and wheelmen. I'll admit, as an absolute fan of the heist genre, this would have been an extremely interesting angle to follow, if it hadn't been abandoned after one scene. Disappointingly, and predictably, Speer prefers to go with the tried and tired power of dance narrative, which is built around the laughable conceit that a flash mob can bring a land developer to his knees simply by through their enthusiastic dancing. Despite the seeming conflict that could arise from such a heated issue, the narrative is generally low-stakes.The Mob faces little resistance from any form authority, aside from a few wagging fingers by pompous broadcasters. Even the love story attached to the main narrative lacks any sense of conflict with Guzman's Sean facing no competition in his courting of McCormick's Emily. All of which ultimately proves that for all of his ambition, Speer failed to ensure the fundamental core of any dramatic narrative was in place before attempting to bring something new and ambitious to the table.

Yet, Step Up is not, nor will it ever be unless something drastic happens, Oscar worthy--it's barely MTV movie awards worthy--and the audience hasn't come for the story since, maybe, the first entry. That said, Speer's ambition does lend itself to some interesting dance numbers that double as performance art. In particular, The Mob's invasion of Miami's Museum of Contemporary Art, which resembles Cirque Du Soleil more than America's Best Dance Crew, and the multi-stage final dance number are fairly impressive, if only because there are so many moving parts to manage. The final dance number even brings back franchise favorites like Adam Sevani's Moose for an all-out dance assault that gets credit for its combination of audacity and naivete. The rest of the routines are well -executed but not particularly memorable, unless you're taking notes for your own dance crew, but they are sure to appease Step Up's fan base, a fan base that has floated this series to four installments. As a cinematic narrative, Step Up Revolution fails, but as an alternative to pricey performances in stodgy venues  pricey theater tickets it should continue to do the trick for the dance fanatics; the rest of us can skip this without even missing a beat.

In-Between Observations:

• No cops try to stop a flash mob that stops traffic and hijacks public spaces...only in dance movies
• Poor Peter Gallagher and his eyebrows; even with a USA series in his pocket, times must be tough.
• If you ever wondered where your favorite dance show contestants went after they won or lost whichever dance show they were on, a likely bet is the background of a Step Up movie.

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.