Frank

It seems like covering up Michael Fassbender’s face for an entire movie is killing the golden goose. Aside from his devilish good looks, Fassbender’s control and precision in facial expression has made him one of the most premier and versatile actors in our generation.  So while a bold choice to hide Fassbender in mask, it does little hide this quirky gem of a film.  

Inspired by the comic persona Frank Sidebottom, the film documents the fictional band Soronprfbs, featuring a gaggle of off-beat characters including the deliciously abrasive Clara (Maggie Gyllenhall, White House Down, Crazy Heart) and of course the titular, charismatic, and paper-mache-head doning Frank (Michael Fassbender, X-Men Franchise, 12-Years A Slave). A musician wannabe Jon (Domhnall Gleeson, Harry Potter Franchise, Anna Karenina), becomes enthralled by the peculiar yet brilliant methods of Frank and Soronprfbs and joins the band.  

“Frank,” much like it’s titular character, is quite the oddball and sure to draw a polarizing reception. A general audience can find comfort in the film aligning itself pretty recognizably within the “I’m in the Band” genre. It’s that familiarity that is sure to tether its audience to the film as it take strange and bizarre turns along the way. But the true rewards of the film lies in it’s biting script doused in black comedy. For those who have that acquired taste will be charmed and be able to feel the heartbeat that lies underneath a rather peculiar exterior.

We look at the Soronprfbs as outsiders looking in and as the film hums along we become attached to this group of outcasts. Director Lenny Abrahamson (What Richard Did, Garage) is able to deconstruct the caricatures that we initially see in these characters and reveal painfully vulnerable elements. Maggie Gyllenhall and Michael Fassbender perfectly encapsulate this sentiment in their performances with Gyllenhall playing a prickly cynic masking a romantic and Fassbender playing genius masking a humble artist.

The biggest flaw of the film would have to be it’s focus on Jon rather than the rest of the band.  While Soronprfbs represents everything we love about musical expression, Jon is the complete opposite. His petty and selfish attempts at stardom make him unsympathetic at best and leave us with less emotional heft from the film than we would have hoped for.  

It’s a celebration of weirdness and a fresh change of pace that’ll keep your cinematic noggin sharp. “Frank” is a challenging film, but still maintains it’s charm for those who will appreciate it. I know I’ll be itching for another viewing down the line as I relish the the chance to laugh and grapple with it once more. It’s certainly not going to please everyone, but that’s just something you’re going to face for yourself.  

Sin City: A Dame to Kill For

Is there anything more heartbreaking than a gorgeous film that can’t live up to its graphics? Probably. But as we watch Joseph Gordon-Levitt (Looper, Brick) drive down into Sin City, it’s hard not to let the excitement build up beyond what the movie ends up fulfilling.

His chapter is just one of many in Robert Rodriguez and Frank Miller’s co-directed return to Sin City. “A Dame to Kill For” follows a pattern similar to the first one: three stories clenched together with dark scenes and stunning graphics in Basin City. Gordon-Levitt plays Johnny, the new kid on the block who’s set to take the spot of Sin City’s highest roller. Meanwhile Dwight (Josh Brolin, Guardians of the Galaxy, No Country for Old Men) chases after the dame broad that stole his heart, while elsewhere Nancy (Jessica Alba, Machete, Sin City) loses herself in life post John Hartigan (Bruce Willis, Moonrise Kingdom, Die Hard), who (nine-year-old spoilers) died protecting her in the first “Sin City.”

All three sagas are told in serial form, just like its prequel. Except where the former managed to glide — or at least distract — with its sleek graphics and creative storytelling, “Sin City: A Dame to Kill For” misses its mark. The movie is sluggish, weighed down by the amount of attempted grit that peeks through with every move. Though it picks up a bit in the middle, the film feels more like a parody than an homage — except nobody told Rodriguez and Miller.

Maybe it’s too much to expect from a film (or maybe, more accurately, Miller) that’s constantly harkening back to the gritty days of noir to have better treatment of women. But the film is irresponsible at best. Gone are the highlighted femme fatales of old, back are the damsels. They may not always be in distress, but they always need a man — either to sexualize or complete them. The first one at least felt it needed to justify when someone (a woman) dies; “A Dame to Kill For” practically keeps a score card.

Sure, it was all probably there in “Sin City.” But with “Sin City: A Dame to Kill For” the formula feels devoid of the energy that was there; stale in a way that feels more like trashy pulp than the slow-boiled noir of its predecessor.

Some say fans of the original “Sin City” flick won’t be disappointed, and certainly those hoping to return to the grungy city and its vivid visuals won’t be. But for anyone looking for the wit and artistry of the first “Sin City” keep looking. It may be “A Dame to Kill For,” but by the end it just feels like a two-hour exercise in male bravado.

Guardians of the Galaxy

It’s pretty Groot. 

Since Marvel released “Iron Man” in 2008, the studio has proved two things: first, that there was a place for humor amid the sordid lives of superheroes, and second, that it was about to weave one of the greatest cinematic universes of all time. So it may be surprising that “Guardians of the Galaxy” takes one giant leap away from that world to follow a group of 31st-century screwballs across the universe. But don’t fear: they’ve still got the same ol’ Marvel wisecracks. 

Peter Quill (Chris Pratt, The Lego Movie, TV’s Parks and Recreation) was abducted from Missouri as a child in the mid 1980s and never quite grew up. And after being raised by galactic smugglers and listening to the same old mix tape for 20 years, who could blame him? So when he finds himself in possession of an unusual orb being coveted by the genocidal radical Ronan (Lee Pace, Lincoln, TV’s Pushing Daisies), he’s far less concerned with potential war than he is with getting paid. 

It’s exactly the kind of protagonist that Marvel and Pratt rock. Caught somewhere between a Labrador and an action hero, Pratt gives Quill — or Starlord, as he’d like to be known — an idealistic dimension to his everyman role. His comedic timing is on point from start to finish as he dances his way through the film. In the hands of an actor who was not as downright charming, it might be obnoxious, but instead Starlord comes off as a less-damaged and more goofball version of Tony Stark.

He’s offset by Gamora (Zoe Saldana, Star Trek Into Darkness, Avatar), a ruthless alien assassin who’s dispatched by Ronan to get the orb and isn’t interested in Starlord’s tomfoolery. Her tactics hit a bit of a wall when she’s faced with the team of Rocket (voiced by Bradley Cooper, The Place Beyond the Pines, Silver Linings Playbook) and Groot (voiced by Vin Diesel, The Iron Giant, Fast and the Furious series), a CGI mercenary team who (except for all the gun play) look like they’ve wandered out of a fairy tale and are also trying to track down Quill. After all being sent to prison together, the ragtag group bands together with muscle man Drax the Destroyer (Dave Bautista, Riddick) to break out — and maybe even save the galaxy.

There really isn’t anything about the premise that isn’t slightly ridiculous, and the movie is keenly aware of that. But “Guardians of the Galaxy” manages to be the exact right amount of not taking itself seriously. While the jokes sling as freely as bullets, they all manage to land. And a stunning galactic backdrop makes a vibrant and dazzling setting for the effects, quips, and action that gives the film a swagger from the opening to closing credits. 

Its scope is not unlike the star system it portrays: simultaneously a vast epic that creates peril for whole planets and races, while also feeling grounded in the characters. Each “hero” gets their moment in the spotlight, and each does it with flair to boot. Between Gamora and Drax’s straight-faced, no-nonsense attitude that simultaneously makes for a great straight man and punchline to Groot and Rocket’s jibber jabber, there’s more than enough snark and heart to go around. Despite the fact that one repeats the same three words over again with different inflection, Cooper and Diesel deliver performances with just as much warmth as their non-animated counterparts. 

It’s definitely a departure from the established Marvel universe. The plot barely intersects with the Earth we know and love; coupled with the lack of teaser at the end of the credits (though there is a tag early on),* it seems like Marvel was prepared for this to be a one-off if it flopped. But with everything from a kickin’ soundtrack to sincere action heroes, Marvel fans will no doubt be hooked on a feeling from “Guardians of the Galaxy.”

The verdict: We may have a new Marvel favorite on our hands. 

*THIS JUST IN: apparently they cut out the end scene in the screening we were at. What the fuck, right? 

Divergent

In the age of the Buzzfeed quiz (as it’s seeming more and more likely archeologists will refer to now) it seems serendipitous that Divergent would be released. The premise lies in a future, dystopian Chicago, where survivors live behind a wall, and are divided into five factions to “prevent further fighting” based on their strengths and values.

When you turn 16, you are tested and then choose between Abnegation, for the selfless; Amity, for the peaceful; Candor, for the honest; Dauntless, for the brave; and Erudite for the intelligent. When Beatrice Prior (Shailene Woodley) goes to take her test, she’s shocked to learn she’s one of the few that’s coded as “divergent:” she could test successfully into three of the five factions.

She opts to leave her Abnegation home for Dauntless, which are like the police force, if the police force was an action hero raised as a lost boy from Hook. As she struggles to make the cut in Dauntless, Tris (as she comes to be known) uncovers a conspiracy, and gets close to the hulky and aloof Four (Theo James).

If the book wasn’t so young-adult-novel about its message, it would be more interesting. It spends so much time talking about the dangers of conformity that ultimately its a pretty nondescript dystopian imagining. Divergents won’t or don’t have to conform to the structure of the government’s thinking, but it’s never quite clear what that means, or to what extent they are “free.”

It’s indicative of a problem the film has overall: basing itself on the pacing of the young-adult series of the same name, it settles itself in all the wrong places. Hoping to keep a PG-13 rating the atrocities are minimized, end game downplayed to almost nothing, and the endless training montages of the Dauntless camp seem to drag on. Divergent really lets you feel the full weight of the 139 minutes.

I’m told that the long run time (and seemingly random plot pockets) is a symptom of its strict loyalty to the book, which may please the fans who are able to follow the inner-workings of Tris and her society that don’t make it into the dialogue.

Woodley, a talented standout in films like The Descendants and The Spectacular Now, does what she can with the character of Tris, but she ends up doing a lot of the screenwriters work for them. It’s a sort of Jon Snow principle: the inner-thoughts on page that make the character dynamic and a viable conduit for the reader. Those of us who favor big screen adaptations are left filling in the blanks.

Divergent won’t be the worst movie of the year, by a long shot. But the little it has going for it is ultimately squashed under the weight of scene upon scene of training. Which in the end yield a whole lot of message for very little pay off in the end. So when it comes to dystopian action you’ll find me browsing a different category, because it’s not nearly as different or dangerous as it asks its characters to be.

Fruitvale Station

A scratchy cell phone video captures a tragic yet familiar scene. Three young, African-American males are being detained on a subway platform. They angrily question why they are being detained. The patience of the cops runs thin and they begin to get physical with their detainees. The scene becomes a blur of shouting and confusion, and a gunshot from a cops gun rings out. Gasps and shock are heard as the screen cuts to black. This is the subject of Ryan Coogler’s Fruitvale Station.

The film chronicles the 24 hours of Oscar Grant’s (Michael B. Jordan, The Wire, Chronicle) life before his tragic death. After making a few wrong turns in his life, Oscar strives to start fresh and make amends to his mom Wanda (Octavia Spencer, The Help, Paradise) and build a better life for his girlfriend Sophina (Melonie Diaz, Hamlet 2, Be Kind Rewind) and daughter Tatiana.

Despite being his directorial and screenwriting debut, Coogler shows the cinematic care and precision of a seasoned veteran. The film is brilliantly edited; every shot contributing to a tightly woven narrative, absent of any excessive indulgences. The end result is succinct, yet potent; letting every frame pull harder and harder on your strings of humanity. Most ingeniously, Coogler blows up the activity on Oscar’s phone, both adding topical layer of narrative and acting as a foreboding reminder of the importance cellular technology in capturing Oscar’s story.  

The cast delivers a tremendous performance, building a strong communal spirit within the film. The chemistry between each character flows with warmth and passion, enforcing the depth of familial bonds. The cast manages to bring acting prowess to the roles of everyday people, making the performances all the more powerful.

Being the main subject of the film, Jordan’s performance as Oscar Grant is truly Oscar worthy. His apprehension of the future is countered by his fatherly devotion, giving his performance familiar quality. We can easily see Oscar being our neighbor, friend, or even father.

The movie’s release comes not a week after the controversial Trayvon Martin court decision, bridging the gap between Fruitvale station and Sanford, Florida, as well as movie and reality. We continue to see the persistence of a horrifying and disturbing narrative within the US: these stories become molded into a statistic, letting us neglect the real people behind these tragedies. Fruitvale Station grounds Oscar’s death in a celebration of his life; bringing him to life more than any dashed headline ever could.

Fruitvale Station is both a document of who Oscar was as well solemn vigil. The film is based off true events, so how much of the film was reconstructed, we will never know. The only immovable truth that matters is that Oscar Grant III is no longer with us. His potential and plans can never be realized as he was cut down in his prime at the young age of 22. The themes of community and family run deep through the film and that is how it ends.

The final images depict the city of Oakland mourning the loss one of their own; the community is scarred yet resolute their love for Oscar. Its final shot is of Oscar’s now teenage daughter. Her life is not a statistic. Her reality is that she will never will never forget the events New Years Day 2009, nor should any of we.      

Frances Ha

Summer movies usually equate to “popcorn” movies: these movies are easily digestible due to their very familiar themes and arcs, and can range from your run of the mill romantic comedy to your next comic book adaptation. It’s all a lot of fun, but as we roll into the end of July, these movies start to feel less cozy and just more mundane. However, as we still dwell in smash-hit summer and don’t want to quite plunge into arthouse autumn,  our appetites are wet for a change in perspective yet we still desire some easy watching. Finding that happy medium can be difficult, but it is perfectly balanced in Frances Ha.

The story follows an aspiring dancer Frances (Greta Gerwig, Damsels in Distress, To Rome with Love) desperately trying to get a grasp upon her life. As she sees her best friend Sophie (Mickey Sumner) begin to move on with her life, Frances scrambles to not be left in the dust.  

Much like other popcorn films, Frances Ha takes root in an already popular genre; quirkxplotation. With the success of shows like New Girl and the MPDG movement in general, Frances Ha fits into the mold of that jovial, off-beat personality that is so inviting to audiences. However, the film far from embodies the genre.

Co-written by Gerwig herself, Frances does live her life with whimsicality, but also carries much anxiety in her shoulders as the impending mortality of her youth hangs above her. Far from an MPDG, Frances graduates to a fully realized character with flying colors.

Director and co-writer Noah Baumbach (The Squid and the Whale, Greenberg) heavily borrows both narrative and aesthetics from Truffaut’s 400 Blows and Woody Allen’s Manhattan. The black and white cinematography perfectly encapsulates the romanticism of the urban landscape as well as a nostalgic flare. Frances Ha also does not tether itself so a strict narrative structure, seeming more like a modern art photo gallery. While Truffaut and Allen were both masters of their craft, their arthouse aesthetics and high culture laden dialogue can made them alienating to a wider audience. Frances Ha does not fall victim to this flaw.

Frances Ha has a bit of an arthouse exterior, but the inner core hits the heart of universal themes: evolution of friendships, anxiety of adulthood, aimless sense of identity, and pathways to self expression. The film is quick and precise; cutting through the fat of any exclusionary practices.

Ultimately, the inviting quality was carried through by Greta Gerwig’s electric performance. Her enthusiasm and charm create an enjoyable film for a movie lover’s summer diet and makes it impossible for a viewer not to become invested in the trials of Frances. For any naysayers, you can just say “ha” to their face.            

The To Do List

While Rush Limbaugh loudly grouses about his disbelief that women need birth control and our nation watches one bill after another restrict access to abortion, it’s been a particularly rough time for women’s sexuality.

So what’s Hollywood’s answer to conservative fears that women will start becoming more loose and free-wheeling with their naughty bits? By giving them a movie of exactly that.

Brandi Klark (Aubrey Plaza, Safety Not Guaranteed and TV’s Parks and Recreation) has just graduated from high school as valedictorian, and she’s ready for anything — except sex. Or anything in that ballpark, really. After a brush with opportunity at a kegger in the form of Rusty (Scott Porter TV’s Friday Night Lights), she decides enough is enough. With her usual academic vigor, Brandy creates a list of activities she intends to complete by the end of the summer with the closest willing subject.

The film is set in 1993, so it’s not like she can just Google what any of these “jobs” are. It manages to move past the nostalgic ’90s quaintness early on, abandoning obvious jabs at things like VHS tapes and Encyclopedia Britannicas in favor of smarter jests, with assistance from Brandy’s gaggle of informed female friends.

One of the best things about her advisers — and “The To Do List” in general — is the refreshing reality endued in every role. Writer-director Maggie Carey allegedly mined her own personal experiences for the film, and it pays off in sincerity. With this style comes the delightful awkwardness of adolescence and sexual exploration, filled with embarrassment, joy, and every learning curve in between.

Like most films focused on teen sex, “The To Do List” can prematurely jump to gross-out comedy, which makes for a slightly uneven feel. It’s dispiriting, sure, but not distracting. When “The To Do List” is at its best, it sits back and lets the cast work its comedic magic with various physical gags and sexual knowledge.

Any awkward wrinkles in the script are helped by the all-star cast, most notably Bill Hader (Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Superbad) as Brandy’s slacker boss and Connie Britton (TV’s Spin City, and American Horror Story) and Clark Gregg (Avengers, Much Ado About Nothing) as her parents (who don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on sexual experiences). And the cast is led, of course, by Plaza’s delightfully detached comedic style.

Plaza brings a deadpan innocence to Brandy as she sets out to take her V-card by storm like many a teen-romp hero in the past. She’s a novel heroine, whose sexual agency and decision making is purely her own, and Plaza makes her independence feel refreshingly true and youthful.

The film’s too uneven to be the best teen-sex comedy ever made. But clearly its heart — and at its best moments, its mind — are in the right place. Like Brandy’s sexual misadventures, it’s not going to please everyone. But there is surely fun to be had along the way.

Verdict: While a bit sophomoric, the cast’s performance and Carey’s direction more than make the grade.

Only God Forgives

Two years ago, Nicolas Winding Refn’s neo-noir film “Drive” roared onto the scene with as much ferocity as a cinematic grenade. The director was known for abrupt and stylized violence in all his films, and “Drive” blew away audiences with its elegant fusion of arthouse and action. So when Refn announced that he would again work with Ryan Gosling on his next film, “Only God Forgives,” critics and fans alike rejoiced.

The premise seems to lend itself well to Refn’s fondness for striking imagery: Julian (Gosling, Drive, The Place Beyond the Pines) runs a boxing club in Bangkok with his brother Billy (Tom Burke), which actually is a front for their ruthless mother’s (Kristin Scott Thomas) drug-smuggling operation. After Billy is killed, Julian is implored by his aggrieved mother to go after Chang (Vithaya Pansringarm), the deadly police officer responsible for Billy’s death.

But the plot is never so clearly presented on film. It’s the sort of movie that doesn’t attach itself to a strong plot structure, instead relying heavily on silent conversations communicated by a character’s eyes across striking shots of Thailand. It’s a dynamic that David Lynch would be fond of: silent but deadly arthouse violence, with heavy implications on uncomfortable, incestuous family relations.

Despite the beauty of every scene, each of which was clearly thought out in a very specific way, there’s just not enough structure to justify anything that happens in the movie. Refn fails to give context to actions or violence, and the 90 minute run-time passes far slower than it should. The elements of success are all there, but something about “Only God Forgives” prevents them from coming together.

Refn does capture the grime and vibrant Bangkok cityscape with his usual finesse; every frame is meticulously and aesthetically ravishing to watch. Similarly, Refn’s choice of electronic ambiance for the score (from Cliff Martinez, another “Drive” alumnus) accompanies and enhances the sense of dread and foreboding that underlies the underworld in “Only God Forgives.”

Martinez’s reserved,  withdrawn score is a perfect complement to the performances of “Only God Forgives.” As a typical Refn protagonist, stoically floating through a dreamy unreality, Gosling’s Julian is in his element, even if that element is stylized to the point of absurdity.

He’s the perfect paltry and pitiful son in the eyes of his domineering and disparaging mother. Scott Thomas is alarmingly adept in the role, landing every verbal blow and choice word. Her abusive blather is the flipside of characters like Julian and Chang, whose power lies in their minimized dialogue.

But the actors’ skill can’t make up for the lacking (or lack of) dialogue. What’s left is an attempt at a stylish arthouse film but ends up as more of a clunky logjam of violence and silence.

The Verdict: Refn has more than proved he has the makings of a great movie, but “Only God Forgives” feels like a splattered mix of blood and neon.