Saturday, December 4, 2010


Tangled

Tangled
Why, for purposes of clarity and audience enthusiasm, wasn't Disney's latest animated feature, Tangled, given the more direct and identifiable moniker, Rapunzel? I'll give you a hint: it's not about creativity. After last year's straightforward, non-CG Disney Princess opus, The Princess and the Frogwas perceived as a box-office disappointment (after hauling in "only" $104 million domestic), pundits consistently pointed to the film's focus on the seemingly-antiquated notion of a Princess and its lack of appeal to young boys. Thus, Disney's Thanksgiving animated tentpole release is not Rapunzel, an updated take on the classic Grimm Fairy Tale, but rather Tangled, a reimagined version of the Grimm story featuring Rapunzel as a co-lead alongside brash masculine hero Flynn Rider, a smirking bandit with whom she meets cute and falls in love. So, a beautiful princess with the addition of a wise-cracking swashbuckler -- not to mention a little romance with a hulking dose of action heroics -- must equal box office gold in a shiny CG shell.

While its financial future is still up in the air, one thing that can be said is that this story, no matter how faithfully it skews to the classic tale, no matter what kinds of characters and themes were added to increase its appeal, is wonderfully, infectiously fun for nearly all of its 100 colorful minutes. While it is not a technological marvel like the standard-setting Pixar films, it's also not another hand-drawn epic like The Princess and the Frog or any of its famous forebears. Rather, Tangled is somewhat of a hybrid movie, blending the advanced technology of computer animation with the sassy charm of the traditional Disney animated classics. It is partially modern, partially timeless, and a completely joyous celebration of all that's great about the wit, whimsy, and wonder of the animated musical.

That's right -- I said "animated musical." One other note on Tangled's marketing campaign: it all but banished any musical elements from its trailers and TV spots, cleverly disguising what is simultaneously the film's strongest element and the one most likely to send those young male viewers into a different screening room. But yes, in fact, the film is bursting at the seams with musical numbers, with a lyric-to-dialogue ratio that might favor the former. The songs -- while not legendary like the music of The Lion King or Beauty and  the Beastand not spiked with the funk and flavor of New Orleans jazz like The Princess and the Frog -- are splendid emotional conduits through this very imaginative story, one that deftly blends various elements of the fairy tale's many iterations but never allows itself to stay closely tethered to silly notions of "accuracy" or "faithfulness." The surface changes allow the filmmakers some cinematic wiggle room, and their imagination is so bursting with energy and cleverness that this updated take on the timeless classic feels like a breath of fresh air.

So, too, does the casting, which bypasses a lot of the big names that consistently headline these computer animated spectacles to set each unique characterization at the perfect pitch. Mandy Moore voices Rapunzel with a refreshing combination of knowing spark and wide-eyed naivete. Originally recognized as a frothy teen pop star, Moore has shown legitimate acting chops before (see: Saved!), and is impressive here not merely for her spirited acting, but also her singing voice, once categorized as decidedly sub-par in the face of contemporaries like Britney or Christina, but which vibrates with the soaring boom of a Broadway star. Likewise, Zachary Levi (TV's Chuck) imbues the masculine parody Flynn Rider with goofball charm -- and yes, he can sing, too. Broadway veteran Donna Murphy is menacing in demeanor and brilliant in vocal performance as the dangerous Mother Gothel, who steals Rapunzel at birth and banishes her to a mythic tower, where she can forever utilize the restorative powers of the princess's famously lengthy locks. Smaller roles are filled by great characters actors -- from Ron Perlman to Jeffrey Tambor to Richard Kiel -- all of whom add great spice.

The story's essential framework is familiar -- born to a royal couple and blessed with the healing powers of a sought-after wildflower, Rapunzel is taken by Mother Gothel and lives the first 16 years of her life in a tower, banished from the outside world. From there the film begins taking liberties, each more clever and surprisingly interesting than one might expect. Flynn is not the straightforward prince of the original story, but a devious outlaw who adopts the overtly masculine persona to mask hidden insecurities. When he stumbles upon Rapunzel's tower, he doesn't simply ask for her hand in marriage, but engages in a sassy tête-à-tête with our imprisoned heroine that lays the ground for the film's most enchanting element: romance. It would seem like a no-brainer for the princess to fall for a dashing hero, but by refusing to follow the traditional Disney blueprint for pre-destined princess marriages, Tangled allows itself the freedom to craft an engaging romantic story between two characters who simultaneously embody and satirize stereotypical constructions.

Tangled was directed by Nathan Greno and Byron Howard, two members of the team behind another creative non-Pixar Disney film, Bolt. If their challenge was to create a Disney Princess film that also appealed to boys, then their triumph is that they don't allow the movie's action-adventure elements to distract from the core of its sweet romantic comedy. Yes, the comic swordplay and creative use of Rapunzel's hair as a means to swing from cliff to cliff will please young boys, but the remainder of the audience will likely be swept away by the clever humor, swooning romance, and fabulous music, combining a score penned by Disney master Alan Menken with songs that could be shipped off to Broadway at a moment's notice. PerhapsTangled, from its title to its content, was engineered as a savvy business decision. But the resulting film is such a bright, happy surprise that it makes one hope that business decision pays off, because the creative product is well worth it
  
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Love and Other Drugs

Love and Other Drugs
Writer-director Edward Zwick and one of his collaborators, Marshall Herskovitz, worked on, among other well-regarded television series, My So-Called Life, a small masterpiece of all-ages empathy, as well as a potent nineties time capsule. Life didn't feel particularly trend-baiting at the time, but watching it now functions as an easy guide to the era's flannel-centric fashions and alterna-bands that didn't quite make it.

Yet Zwick and Herskovitz's Love and Other Drugs, specifically set in 1996, just a few years after My So-Called Life went off the air, has no such casual affinity for the time. Yes, some nineties alt-rock numbers play on the soundtrack, and the Macarena is invoked to amusing effect. But these are superficial signposts, not well-considered period details. It starts in '96, and in the course of following Jamie Randall (Jake Gyllenhal) through the ranks as a pharmaceutical rep who eventually has the good luck to push a brand-new drug called Viagra, the movie smooshes together events from all over the latter half of the decade into a timeline that never becomes clear. (It seems to take place over the course of about a year, but a couple of montages muddle any strong chronology.)

Even those nineties rock chestnuts don't feel quite right: the movie opens with "Two Princes" by the Spin Doctors, which suggests 1992 or 1993, and Jamie's love interest Maggie Murdock (Anne Hathaway) can be heard blasting a Liz Phair classic from 1994. It's not quite Wedding Singer-level goofiness, but it's not very precise for some guys who were clearly paying attention at the time.

Nor, for that matter, does Love and Other Drugs possess the lovely writing and characterization of the Zwick/Herskovitz television ventures. Compared to other romantic comedies, it's a vast improvement: Jamie and Maggie have a real relationship, and their progression from semi-hostile sex partners to affectionate but hesitant partners has the rhythm of human beings, not soulless participants in a rom-sitcom.

Another touch setting the movie apart from its overlit, giggly genre siblings: Both stars get pretty naked, both physically and emotionally. Maggie, we learn soon after meeting her, has early-onset Parkinson's; she meets Jamie when he's shadowing Dr. Knight (Hank Azaria) in hopes of learning more about the pharmaceutical racket. Hathaway is touching, if not exactly revelatory, as this prickly, independent, but (it must be said) somewhat movie-quirky girl, while Gyllenhaal gives one of his best, most grown-up performances as a callow kid who bounces from sales job to sales job and bed to bed, until Maggie stops him dead in his tracks.

It's a shame, then, that Zwick and Herskovitz nonetheless make use of the romantic-comedy junkyard. Most unwieldy is Jamie's brother Josh (Josh Gad), who comes from that vulgar-best-friend template that's only gotten more use since Judd Apatow upped the ante in realistically guyish chatter. The trick, of course, is that Apatow (also a TV veteran) knows how to write funny, profane dialogue, and encourage improvisation of same. I'm not sure if it's bad writing or bad improv responsible for the dead-end comic-relief scenes of Gad yelling or sweating or yammering, but Zwick should've seen that not only does this character not work (Gad does his best/worst poor man's amalgam of Jack Black and Jonah Hill, nowhere near as funny as either), Josh has little to zero use in the movie's narrative. He barely talks to Jamie about Maggie; he just shows up for scenes that stop the movie dead in its tracks, the kind of character that never would've hacked it on My So-Called Life.

The movie recovers in the sense that we get plenty of scenes with just Gyllenhaal, Hathaway, and their chemistry, but it also fizzles out rather than sending you home with the best kind of love-story lift, the kind you might get from, say, a good Cameron Crowe movie. On television, Zwick and Herskovitz can sustain their characters and audience for hours and hours; Love and Other Drugs only manages some pleasant contact highs
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Sunday, November 21, 2010


White Material

White Material


If there is any genre that Claire Denis cannot bend towards completing a provocative concept, it has yet to be defined. From the great horror of Trouble Every Day to the more meditative traffic of Friday Night, Denis has a marvelous ability to create tremendously engaging stories that demand expansion of thought.  White Material adds to her impressive collection, balancing multiple political and social questions through its portrait of a white woman single-handedly trying to save the family plantation in a section of Africa experiencing the last gasps of apartheid.

Maria Vial (Isabelle Huppert) is calmly determined to find laborers to harvest the remaining coffee, amidst consistently blaring radio announcements claiming control of the land from oppression. People are leaving every moment despite her diplomatic cajoling that things have been worse and it's better in the long run to finish what will take less than a week.  Her father (Michel Subor) is relaxed about the idea of dying and provides little support while ex-husband Andre (Christopher Lambert), who has fathered a child with one of the workers, attempts to hand the land over to a local militia head in exchange for exit assistance.

In classic Denis-style (she co-wrote the script with Marie N'Diaye), White Material utilizes as little spoken interaction as possible, in this case conveying how much communication, and the country's condition, are based on economic transactions.  When something more cerebral is discussed, Maria is unable to digest those words, as if they are a foreign language and not just because of a her conscious denial of circumstances.  Maria's life becomes entirely comprised of completing one task at a time, clinging, though not desperately, to the life she's accustomed to.  She drives around, personally negotiating for help, getting supplies, looking over her crops, and gradually taking on more activities as her ability to rely on anyone diminishes.  With her simple indomitable resolve, through which she admirably never resorts to emotional outbursts or manipulations, the nature of impending change takes on a deeper meaning of crisis.

Though the crisp verite of following Maria's moves is simple, the cultural ramifications are far from it.  It is easy to judge Maria for the amount of privilege she exudes, but she's also the only person making an effort against the mounting hysteria perpetuating further violent situations.  It seems reprehensible to send the workers to rest in an unkempt shed after all the effort it took to get them there, but the treatment of citizens by their own community is no better once one of their peers has a gun.  Nobody retains "authority" for very long. As more people are trying leave the confusing turmoil, innocent people die for existing at the wrong place and time. There is no perfect protagonist or easy solution.

While taking its time to explore the personal tragedies taking place during the upheaval, White Material allows no room for pity as it jostles between how different groups cope and react to sudden power alterations. The actual fighting and competing for control were as far as anyone seems to have thought, not preparing for a world in which things would actually change.  As such, even as we're disgusted at one race's unjust hold over another, the results of quick equalization through force alone prove to be damaging to everyone, without consideration for class or connections.

Depicting the abhorrent nature of colonialism, and painfully critiquing the destruction involved in its fall, White Material reveals the inhumane conditions that arise when political maneuvering has no foresight.  It can be heartbreaking to watch, but it's worth the reflection on what happens when people insist on superiority that they don't deserve.