The Way, Way Back

Grade: B -

Directors: Nat Faxon and Jim Rash

Starring: Steve Carell, Toni Collette, Liam James, Sam Rockwell, AnnaSophia Robb, Rob Corddry, Amanda Peet and Maya Rudolph

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Running Time: 1 hr. 43 min.

The Hollywood assembly line is just as geared to churn out faux-indie dramatic comedies as another sight & sound show about fighting robots. Although (or Because) The Way, Way Back debuted at January’s Sundance Film Festival, even its late July release date is transparently strategic: late enough to avoid the summer box office behemoths, late enough in the year that it won’t be totally forgotten once awards time rolls around, but far enough removed from November and December that it won’t get capsized by higher quality film fare.

Still, just because something is mass-produced—whether it’s food, cars or movies—doesn’t mean it can’t also be enjoyable. And in the wake of a summer season filled with sequels of the week, superheroes, zombies and Johnny Depp wearing a freakin’ crow on his head, a serviceable coming-of-age dramedy, no matter how generic, is a welcome diversion.

It’s a tumultuous time for 14-year-old Duncan (Liam James), who is conscripted to spend the summer with his divorced mother Pam (Toni Collette) at the Massachusetts beach house of her new boyfriend, Trent (Steve Carrell), and Trent’s catty teenage daughter Stephanie. On the ride down, Trent rates Duncan’s current life worthiness at three on a 10-point scale, effectively establishing both Trent’s passive-aggressive churlishness and his strained relationship with Duncan.

It’s no small irony that the name of Trent’s cottage is “Riptide,” as a morass of conflicting psychological forces rules this roost. The mood gets no better once Trent’s circle of friends comes calling, including Betty (Allison Janney), the boozy flibbertigibbet neighbor, and Kip (Rob Corddry) and Joan (Amanda Peet), Trent’s equally shallow pals.

Isolated and ostracized at every turn, the dour Duncan finds solace in two places. First is Susanna (AnnaSophia Robb), Betty’s strikingly grounded daughter, who takes an instant liking to her newfound neighbor. The other is Water Wizz, an area aquatic park where Duncan takes furtive bike rides to work and hang out with Owen (Sam Rockwell), one of the park’s longtime employees and resident wiseacre.

Making their directorial debuts, writers Nat Faxon and North Carolina native Jim Rash—both last seen winning an Oscar for their screenplay for “The Descendants”—reportedly drew on their own childhood experiences to craft their latest script. But, there’s also a snapshot of This Boy’s Life, a morsel of Meatballs and a layover in Adventureland. Moreover, from the adult actors’ ages to the conspicuously 80s soundtrack, the film seems more fixated on the arrested development of this group of Generation Xers facing their midlife crossroads.

It’s a sledgehammer of a metaphor that Water Wizz serves as Duncan’s personal oasis away from the rest of his complicated life. Given the neuroses enveloping Duncan’s home life, it’s comforting that Owen’s friendship lacks any ulterior motive, and that Susanna’s fondness comes without strings or wavering.

Nevertheless, James plays the latest iteration of a young actor’s role familiarized by Anton Yelchin/Josh Peck/Logan Lerman/Reece Thompson/etc. (Jesse Eisenberg and Michael Cera are two of the few members of this club to separate themselves from the pack). However, Owen is a role tailor-made for Rockwell, who is given the meatiest dialogue and reciprocates with the one performance that awards voters are most likely to remember from way, way back in July.

*Orginally published at INDYWeek.com

Cowboys & Aliens

Blondie...James Blondie

Director: Jon Favreau

Starring: Daniel Craig, Harrison Ford, Olivia Wilde, Sam Rockwell, Keith Carradine, and Paul Dano

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Running Time: 1 hr. 58 min.

The titular juxtaposition of Cowboys & Aliens portends an unfortunate stylistic clash first born at the crowded writers table. As the last of a revolving door of contributors throughout the film’s gestation, “Lost” creator Damon Lindelof’s penchant for character development over narrative symmetry proves a toxic mix with Transformers/Star Trek scribes Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman’s outlook that characters are mere window dressing for visual razzle-dazzle.

The dissatisfying result is a rather passé alien invasion flick populated by Old West archetypes that you end up knowing/caring less about the longer you’re around them. Director Jon Favreau (Iron Man and Iron Man 2, spanning the spectrum) uses the opening half-hour to establish an engaging Western tableau. Amnesic Man With No Memory (Daniel Craig) awakens in the 1873 Arizona desert with a stab wound in his side and a laser gun mysteriously strapped to his wrist. He wanders into a town named Absolution, where the real power broker is gruff cattle baron and ex-Army colonel Woodrow Dolarhyde (gruff Harrison Ford).

Their mounting conflict, along with any plot intrigue, evaporates as soon as the alien abductions begin. From there, Cowboys & Aliens is a meandering rescue mission punctuated by the back-story of a doe-eyed mystery woman (Olivia Wilde) and action sequences that pause frequently mid-battle for cloying moments of redemption – e.g., Dolarhyde eventually grows to regard Injuns, including his noble ward (Adam Beach), as real people, too.

As the film lumbers along, it becomes alarmingly apparent that the story the audience is writing in its collective head is far more interesting and original than the one that ends up onscreen. Favreau gets trapped between embracing the story’s dark elements and preserving a popcorn-munching crowd-pleaser. He accomplishes neither, demonstrating he knows the paces of each genre but can’t find their rhyme. Even by the time it rides off into the sunset, Cowboys & Aliens still remains a title in search of a movie.

Neil Morris

Iron Man 2

Iron Man says 'Practice safe sex'

Grade: B –

Director: Jon Favreau

Starring: Robert Downey Jr., Don Cheadle, Gwyneth Paltrow, Scarlett Johansson, Sam Rockwell, Mickey Rourke, and Samuel L. Jackson

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Running Time: 2 hours, 5 minutes

If Iron Man was a phallic embodiment of the United States' single-minded crusade to impose a Pax Americana at the point of a spear, then the Tony Stark in Iron Man 2 is most aptly viewed as a metaphor of his own. The bajillionaire protector we meet in the sequel has fully assumed the qualities of the proverbial Ugly American, exuding the arrogance and entitlement of Uncle Sam as the world's unaccountable enforcer.

Here, Stark dons sunglasses and blows dismissive kisses at a Congressional committee bent on bullying him into relinquishing his ferrous-plated super suit. "I am Iron Man; Iron Man is me," he declares to the Senate subcommittee. It may as well be Robert Downey Jr. making that claim, for while multiple actors have capably portrayed Superman and Batman on the screen over the years, it is nearly impossible to imagine anyone other than Downey as Tony Stark.

Congress questions Stark out of concern for the country's increasing dependence on him to the exclusion of an increasingly irrelevant military industrial complex; not coincidentally, the politicos are also sniffing around for ways to exploit him before external enemies do. These are provocative issues, even if the notion of escalation in the face of an omnipotent superhero was explored to much greater effect in Christopher Nolan's Batman films. Problem is, they are all brought to bear inside the first 15 minutes of Iron Man 2. The remainder of its clunky, two-hour-plus running time is spent sidewinding through a series of bullets, bombs, babes and disjointed plot points.

Escalation begins before the opening credits in the form of tattooed, vodka-swilling Ivan Vanko (Mickey Rourke), a Russian stereotype who speaks in three-word sentences and whose unexplained rage against the Stark family leads him to construct a plasmatic lash he intends to lay to Iron Man. Rourke's two battle scenes bookend a performance that mostly features him furiously tapping on computer keyboards. More significantly, he is one of two barely realized baddies whose narrative impotence emphasizes Iron Man 2's violation of rule No. 1 for successful action films: the presence of a compelling, imposing villain.

Vanko's partner in evil is Justin Hammer (Sam Rockwell), a rival weapons contractor with aims on developing and outfitting the military with its own high-tech wardrobe. Rockwell, normally a durable actor, misplays Hammer with an exaggerated cartoonish affect that wears out its welcome after two scenes. Add to that mix Stark's encroaching mortality, daddy issues and Stark's increasingly erratic behavior and heavy drinking that prompts his military buddy, Rhoadey (Dan Cheadle, replacing Terrence Howard without the audience batting an eye), to commandeer one of Iron Man's suits, a precursor to his eventual transformation into the sidekick War Machine. Oh, and don't forget Scarlett Johansson's role as shapely Natasha, Stark's newest personal assistant and acrobatic woman of mystery. Even still, the series' backbone remains Downey's wiseacre high wire act, particularly his banter with his Girl Friday, Pepper Potts (a fine Gwyneth Paltrow).

The worst moment in Iron Man 2 finds a drunken, costumed Stark rampaging through his own birthday party. It's a scene worthy of a bad comic book-movie parody, and it underscores the film's fundamental problem—its excessive jokiness. The first Iron Man's levity rested with Downey's bravura performance and director Jon Favreau's fanboy sensibilities. What's different this time out is the screenwriting is handled by seemingly kindred spirit Justin Theroux (Tropic Thunder) rather than Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby (best known for Children of Men), a decision that enabled the sequel's flaws. Iron Man was a popcorn movie that dared to succeed during an era of brooding movie heroism. Its sequel suffers not only by comparison but also due to its strained efforts to please an audience now hip to its hipness.

Neil Morris

*Originally published at http://www.indyweek.com/indyweek/iron-man-ramps-up-the-camp-but-falls-flat/Content?oid=1411907

Everybody's Fine

Grade: C +

Director: Kirk Jones

Starring: Robert De Niro, Drew Barrymore, Kate Beckinsale, and Sam Rockwell

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Running Time: 1 hour, 40 minutes

Everybody’s Fine succeeds in evoking a spirit of family reconciliation and yuletide sentimentality. Outweighing all of that, however, is an overriding sense of déjà vu.

Robert De Niro plays Frank, a retiree trying to adjust to a life of menial solitude, unmoored from the outside world by his wife’s death eight months earlier. Disconnected from his grown children geographically and emotionally, Frank embarks on a road trip to visit and, hopefully, reconnect with them. Casual observers may note similarities to Alexander Payne’s About Schmidt, including De Niro and Jack Nicholson’s splendidly restrained performances. Officially, Everybody’s Fine is a remake of Giuseppe Tornatore’s 1990 Italian drama, Stanno Tutti Bene, starring Marcello Mastroianni.

This update from director Kirk Jones (Waking Ned Devine) amps the mawkishness to nearly oppressive levels, piling angst over growing old atop family dysfunction and the deaths of loved ones. Indeed, only the performances by the A-list cast keep this from dissolving into Hallmark Hall of Fame holiday-themed treacle.

Frank is the sort of everyman who shops for expensive wine at a supermarket and haggles over the price of everything from gas grills to Christmas trees. Clad and accessorized in nondescript browns, he also epitomizes certain men – especially older and working class – who are laden with tender feelings toward loved ones but unwilling or unsure how to express them. The way he greets his children is illuminating: His daughters with awkward hugs and his son with a handshake.

As the film opens, Frank is eagerly preparing for his four children’s first visit since his wife’s funeral: David the painter; Robert the musician (Sam Rockwell); Amy (Kate Beckinsale), a hard-charging Chicago ad executive; and Rosie (Drew Barrymore), a Las Vegas dancer. They all cancel at the last minute, however, prompting Frank’s cross-country odyssey.

Until the end, the script is furtive about the actual reason the children choose to stay away. But, it strongly implies throughout that they were far more connected to their late mother than their supportive but demanding father. In one affecting scene, Frank visits Robert during orchestra practice and, even in the midst of their reunion, is unable to stifle his disappointment that Robert has chosen to play percussion instead of pursuing a career as a conductor.

Each child carries skeletons and imperfections he or she is reluctant to share. But, one problem is that the children are not allowed to be honest with their father; instead, Jones utilizes a bizarre, clumsily dream sequence to help Frank – and the audience – finally puts the pieces together.

The actors carry out their roles well, and De Niro’s interaction with each costar is pitch-perfect. However, there is a disconnect between the children’s dismissive, sometimes callous treatment of their father and the onscreen Frank. We are merely informed about Frank’s domineering parenting without being provided any glimpse into that part of his persona (unlike, for example, Royal Tenenbaum). The result is an incomplete narrative that engenders a festering dislike for Frank’s children, who probably don’t really deserve our malice.

Of course, this lack of context is probably intentional since it tidily clears away emotional debris for an obvious, tear-jerking plot turn and a Norman Rockwell-esque denouement. Everybody’s Fine is supposed to be an ironic affirmation. Trouble is, by the time Christmas (and the closing credits) arrives, it’s hard to detect the irony.

Neil Morris

Choke

No, it's never too early for Halloween

Grade: C +
Director: Gregg Clark
Starring: Sam Rockwell, Anjelica Huston, Kelly Macdonald, Brad William Henke, Bijou Phillips, and Joel Grey
MPAA Rating: R
Running Time: 1 hour, 29 minutes

The emented yet strangely endearing Choke, screenwriter-director Gregg Clark’s adaptation of “Fight Club” author Chuck Palahniuk’s source novel, is the blackest of comedies, cobbling together the “lighter side” of sexual addiction, dementia, religion, and parental abandonment. When not deliberately choking in restaurants in hopes of being saved by wealthy, generous patrons, Victor (Sam Rockwell) sates his sexual cravings with fellow addicts in his weekly support group and the nurses at the assisted living facility housing his ailing, psychotic mother (Anjelica Huston).

Razor-sharp wit and several mordant sequences evoke Palahniuk’s subversive tone, including virtually every scene at Victor’s day-job working at a colonial America theme park and his encounter with a rape-fantasist with a few too many rules. Unfortunately, the production collapses under the weight of its diffuse subplots: Victor’s search for his father’s identity; his “wholesome” dalliance with a hospital doctor (Kelly Macdonald); allusions to Victor’s possible sacred lineage; and poorly conceived flashbacks to his childhood, just to name a few. Clark never establishes a consistent rhythm or cohesive focus for a satire that is ultimately as thematically hollow as its protagonist.

Neil Morris