Roadie (2011)

Sex, drugs and rock n’ role never looked so bleak a destination for mid-life crises as in Michael Cuesta’s “Roadie” – an existential ode to aging rockers and man-child dreamers.  Written by Cuesta and his brother Gerald, “Roadie” focuses on the often overshadowed glory of the professional musician’s helper, you know, the guy who sets up the stage to unpack the gear, gets the instruments ready and then disappears for tears and pillow dreams of one day being on the other end of the stage.  It’s hard to know exactly what they do and even more difficult for them to tell you.  There’s no special bus or accommodations.  There’s no union, or maybe there is and there shouldn’t be.  They come and go just like that. “Roadie” tells the story of Jimmy Testagross (Ron Eldard) who was just fired by the Blue Oyster Cult rock band.  There’s no explanation or reason.  Jimmy’s just old at 40 and probably slower than when he started and that’s enough o get someone younger who’ll do it all for less money.  Unemployed and uncertain as what to do, Jimmy goes home only he knows what’s there waiting for him and it’s even less than when he left.

“Roadie” is not your usual biopic charting the humble beginnings of some soon-to-be rockstar followed by his immediate astronomical collision with excess, failure and recovery.  The rise and fall never happened for Jimmy, not really.  The closest he came to making it put him behind the scenes at every stadium filled show for what would become an internationally recognized rock band setting up and taking down, stringing guitars and arranging amps, speakers and cables.  As a roadie you might have dreams of playing music for a living but that’s about as far as dreams go.  There’s too much work to be done for that kind of dreaming.  At first it was everything he imagined it would be, maybe even more because he needed the fix to keep from thinking too much about what he was doing.  Traveling the world, surrounded by music he loved and a band he admired in stadiums and stages of all kinds, wall-to-wall clubs, packed houses full of people from every walk of life, it was easy for Jimmy to imagine he was much more than a baggage handler.  But the more time that went by the further he got from the music and when the band’s popularity waned and the stadiums gave way to country fairs and reunion tours, Jimmy woke up stepping off a bus into obscurity.  Broke and unemployed Jimmy knew he had to go home if for no other reason that to regroup – and maybe one of his mom’s famous pepper sandwiches.  That’s where the film starts somewhere in the middle of a middle-aged story about dreams and failures and to be honest that’s a hard place to convince people to spend 90 minutes.  That’s why character films like “Roadie” play well in festivals and small town theaters.  That’s why you should watch “Roadie” because it gets so much of living and dying right.  There’s always another comic book movie for getting away from it all.

“Roadie’s” success stems from Ron Eldard’s performance as the has-been middle-aged package handler Jimmy Testagross.  Eldard packs on the pounds to his otherwise good looks and charismatic long takes.  The camera likes Eldard and he knows it, can forget it and look wounded and needy and strong when we need him to do the things we’re not doing in our lives.  He’ll surely find bigger films after this.  These films are like calling cards, like the pictures you look back on and say see, that’s acting.  Eldard’s method work gives the character heart and complexity.  He makes us laugh and we feel bad when his world comes apart and there’s nothing that can be done.  He makes this our story as much as his.  Bobby Cannavale captures the perfect mood and air with perfect detail and it’s easy to chart his success since Thomas McCarthy’s “Station Agent (2003)” with Peter Dinklage and Patricia Clarkson.  Cannavale exceeds our worst nightmare caricature of the high school bully as he navigates his own broken dreams and realizations.  Jill Hennessy the lost lover, the high school crush gone wrong because it was never meant to be right, almost not quite forgotten, is at once convincing and perfectly connects the triangle.  While this is every bit Jimmy’s story it is only through these friends and their lasting connection that all of their life stories are realized.

“Roadie” will suffer for the heavy air and gloomy interiors of small town aspirations put in check.  We are all returning home through out our lives, to check in, to remind us where we’ve been and how far we’ve come.  Sometimes we don’t like remembering or we’ve done a poor job of hiding and films that take us there show us so much more about ourselves than we are often willing to see.  For all these things that work well this collective falling down will not connect with everyone.  The perfect soundtrack should ease the transitions from should have been to making it, living high before the fall then the scramble to pick it all up again.  “Roadie” features an emotional mix of rock n’ role soul with moody self discovery music, Pat Benatar to Alice Cooper, Styxx, Joe Ely and even some originals from Hennessy.  In a film fueled as much by music as for it, “Roadie” never relies on just one song.  This is blue-collar Americana-everywhere and nowhere, a daydream as much as a wakeup call.  Live your life while you’re living it or else it might just find you beside the road again having to start all over again, with less time to do it.

Ides Of March (2011)

The Ides Of March (2011) is a polished political drama that takes a snapshot look at what we all expect from the political world – corruption, scandal-shrouded dealings and underhanded shenanigans.  For the most part the film accomplishes its goal of poking the seething underbelly of political corruption with impressive results from a fine ensemble cast with George Clooney at the reins.  Clooney also co-stars and wrote the screenplay along with Grant Heslov and Beau Willimon from an adaptation of Willimon’s 2008 play Farragut North.  The film is beautifully succinct, every shot an economical patchwork of detail piecing together the final days of a hotly contested Ohio presidential primary race.  One might easily mistake this film for something mined from the daily newspaper or online media aggregator and in this day and age it’s hardly a stretch.  What may come across as thin to some, the convenience by which some tangles are quickly resolved over the course of the second act, is really just a smart filmmaker who knows when to narrow the lens on the important stuff because you can’t tell everyone’s story in a 90 minute feature.  Besides, it’s hard to criticize Clooney for making it all look so easy.

Clooney portrays the slick Politician with ease and his cunning portrayal of presidential hopeful Mike Morris is so engaging enough you could almost buy the rhetoric – it’s funny how believable Clooney looks on those campaign signs chopping air with applause.  Opposite Clooney’s career politician is up-and-coming hopeful boy next door campaign press secretary Stephen Meyers (Ryan Gosling) who muddies up the hectic last days of a messy Ohio presidential primary plenty when he uncovers a lot more to the governor than meets the press.  It’s unthinkable to miss this charged character piece with magnetic performances from Paul Giamatti, Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Marisa Tomei and Jeffrey Wright – though Wright is hardly more than background with a weak link that connects the plot with little room to do the great work we’ve come to expect from him.  I would have liked to see more from Tomei but she made an impression as usual with the charm of a cocktail waitress knowing her smile informs every conversation she’s ever had.

The Ides of March gives the overall aesthetics of the political arena the right mix of familiar and distinct.  It’s always so painful when ordinary is so ordinary.  The actors are well-played and Clooney gives everyone an opportunity to play off one another’s performance without feeling heavy-handed or grandstanding.  Clooney has a lot to say in his films, embracing a intertextuality that connects familiar themes and ideologies from films he’s made or been a part of or others that he feels lend themselves to the film he’s making at the time.  Ides reinforces Clooney’s talents that far exceed his star power alone – this is his fourth film since Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind (2002) and his prowess for character work is clear, distinct and effective.

The Ides of March is a fine and impressive ensemble of talent that makes everything look so effortless and polished as to suggest it was easy when no film can boast as such.  The stars work in front of the camera and behind it, attracting big names like Leonardo DiCaprio in the producers circle, Phedon Papamichael’s cinematography and editor Stephen Mirrione among others.  Clint Eastwood is also fond of working with the same people and it’s quite evident this sense of camaraderie and collective spirit works well.  If pressed for criticism one might say Ides gets off track because of the meticulous plot; the detailed points that connect all the players yet somehow feels a little too orderly – makes for convenience in the eye of happenstance.  For the political suspense drama junkie I am certain this is a moot point and for loyal fans and aficionados of Clooney the actor, producer, writer, et al., most likely there is no room for argument or any more than surface criticism; perhaps.  Ides Of March nevertheless is a topical jaunt into the seething fish tank of American politics where who you are is often who you stand with and what you do is not as important as what you can prove, leverage and nest egg to ensure a career that collects checkers and makes markers for the rainy day that never comes alone.

Take Shelter (2011)

Culpable, calculated storms and inference fuels an otherwise ordinary storm chaser who turns out to be right, mostly for all the wrong reasons.  Take Shelter reminds the viewer that mediocre has a place and that place is often brutally run-of-the-mill and crowded with low and no budget films struggling to tell bland stories.

It’s easy to fault a film that stumbles for lack of extravagance, which is forgivable but a film that purposefully mires itself in tiny revelations involving breakfast sausage and excavators is neither cinematic nor particularly engaging.  The fact so many have and had so much to say about such a dreary tale of forgettable nano seconds only further proves movie reviewers and two-minute bloggers are often smitten by their own deflowered expectations.  Take Shelter is hardly more than a microscope concentrated on the crumbling dreams and happenstance of small town Americana where madness runs in the family and odd behavior is just that – odd.  In a film that never quite produces remarkable in a story that makes no effort to prove otherwise, it is very nearly criminal the way in which a poster like this can entice you to watch almost anything only to count yourself victim of mediocrity.

If American Novelist and Poet Don Williams Jr. had it right that “our lessons come from the journey, not the destination” I suppose Take Shelter might actually have something interesting to say – like beware, verisimilitude can kill the senses.  It makes every effort to portray normal but can’t get beyond which crayon to use.  Where it ends up is lost somewhere between a thriller in the neighborhood of Falling Down and the over the top extravagance of a blockbuster like Twister but is too far from either to be anywhere near that interesting.  You would be hard pressed to find the kind of storms portrayed on the poster or anywhere for that matter.  Perhaps writer-director Jeff Nichols was simply playing off his own take on the idea and nature of storms – those both internal and external.  It is obvious Nichols has a very specific approach to story that takes a lot for granted – such as his obsession with the infinitesimal over a painstakingly slow crawl to and through the second act.  Maybe he wants us to think about the storms that live inside us as we wait for the film to get going.

Curtis (Michael Shannon) and his wife (Jessica Chastain) and their daughter eek out a living in a small Ohio town that could probably pass for just about anywhere no one wants to live.  For some reason these towns are always the same place where people live unremarkable lives until someone loses their mind.  Things go on until they begin to go wrong.  Curtis starts hearing things and that leads him to seeing stuff other people don’t.  He has a couple of bad dreams, visits his mom who got put in a hospital for the same things some years back and all that reveals something sinister brewing.  Imagine a tea kettle set on low, the slow rumbling of water, the fiery hiss to a whistle that never happens.  Everything rides on Shannon (Revolutionary Road) and Chastain (The Help) to fill in the blanks but it’s obvious there are far too many for the films own good.  The thing about snapshot ordinary, about character studies and films that set out to capture and magnify normal is how much we realize bleak Americana and social malaise is often too close to home to entertain much less distract us from how much it costs to fill up the station wagon.

There is an interesting place for storms in varying stages of unrest in movies and in our lives.  Sometimes for no reason at all we lose control of them and they threaten every thing and every one around us.  The trouble with this film is that it doesn’t live up to its potential.  Nichols is just not able to get at the slow determined evolution of Curtis’ break down in a visually interesting way and consequently his character never gets off the page.  I can’t help but wonder what competition this film had at all those film festivals or what color the Kool aid was so I can check the expiration date on the case I just bought at Costco.  Eventually the end draws near, thankfully but by then you’ve either gone off to make a peanut butter sandwich or busied yourself selecting popcorn kernels for projectiles you only think about throwing – away.  If you missed this one count yourself lucky – if not, count yourself consoled.

Miss Nobody (2010)

Miss Nobody makes the case for needless romance and tired clichés.

Miss Nobody (2011) is a crime comedy caught somewhere between almost funny and not quite criminally average.  There’s plenty of style about it, colorful overtones and expressive details fluttering about, though needlessly of the syrupy variety; a kind of broad stroke comic book wash commonplace with unpracticed directors with soft hands.  What looks polished slick is only magazine cover funny the way clicking channels makes B movies and A movies all look exceptionally the same.  The fact this film makes no effort to hide its similarities in the comfort of blatant clichés feels short-sighted if not intentionally convenient.  It will most likely appeal best to those interested in caricature over character and those looking for a laugh at the expense of clever.

The thing to notice about this film is perhaps the same thing that makes it one to miss – style over substance.  This is pretty and packaged as a driving force behind an otherwise run of the mill story that would fail without the heavy-handed schmaltz propping it up.  We see it all the time actually, from much bigger movies no less.  ”Date Night” comes to mind, the gimmick’s in the title for criminy sake and as soon as the gimmick rubs off so does the story.  Remember it’s the married couple going out on a date away from the drudgery of their lives and the reality of their hopeless boredom only to cross paths with big time inept criminals and the ensuring night of frivolous chase scenes and terrible writing.  This is about the time you remember that you’ve seen the best parts of Miss Nobody in more commercially successful films.  It doesn’t mean success or better quality only slightly different results.

Miss Nobody is part OK charm, part comedy of errors where the filmmakers seem most effective at tapping into our obsession with social deprecation than anything.  Other reviews of this film mentioned movies like “Heathers” in their reviews and I kept thinking about “Dexter” – though the similarities begin and end with people getting killed in unexpected ways.  This is mostly seeing the underdog finally getting her comeuppance even if it means by way of blood work and dastardly deeds.  It’s hard to peg a film like this, not really entertaining as such and definitely no lesson to learn – except maybe it doesn’t take a lot of brains to be a criminal.  Inevitably Miss Nobody fails at the most basic of story telling prerequisites – story plus character equals plot to pay off.

There’s nothing wrong with aiming low and churning out a Tuesday night movie but getting there is definitely half the battle and when the script doesn’t help it’s a long way to the finish line.  Filmmakers are wise to learn it’s getting harder to sneak flat movies that look good past movie-goers looking for payback of the price of admission.  Movie-goers are just as rewarded when we stop telling ourselves average is good enough and justify sitting through mediocre when you could be doing just about anything else should be motivation enough to demand more from the Hollywood machine.  Pretty soon it’s clear there’s just only so much you can do with murder and murderers, however absurd or ridiculous you pretend otherwise.  If you miss this one or it’s too late because it’s already in the mail on the way to your house, consider this – it’s never too late to send it back.

Drive (2011)

Calculated and precise, flawed, a vision with cojones and Albert Brooks kills someone.

Poster Art by Ken Taylor

Drive is a richly detailed and articulate film that goes slow, paints minutiae in Technicolor gouache landscapes of 1970s machismo, man and gun stuff where bravado and innuendo fuel action not insipid dialog or needless exposition.  You know you’re watching a Nicolas Winding Refn film in the subtle shadows and picture perfect vignettes where everything has something to say with just enough time to say it.  We’re introduced to this world carefully, a man shape at a window sized view of a bedded Los Angeles nightscape, his voice down low, commanding, instructing – there are no omniscient god voices or perfect narrators here, this is experiential, tactile.  That’s Refn, putting us in the tree outside to feel the limbs digging in so we know why we’re there.  ‘Stay there,’ you can almost hear him whisper.  You’d think by the way he sets us aside he’s making movies for himself until you realize – he does and we love him for it.

You don’t have to like Drive to admit how compelling it is, how simple – so simple you can’t help but wonder why filmmakers make it look so hard, why they spend so much money on light bulbs and effects for the sake of something to do with aerosol and tired comic books.  This is the kind of film that wakes you from a stupor, forces you down into a trench of our collective senses that cuts clean lines in our psyche, lives there, gives our hearts something to beat about.  You maybe don’t even realize how connected you are until the first scene ends, the first glimpse into this world holds your every second, turns you into the perfect hamster waiting at the cage door of your life for the next meal of gerbil bullets.  Refn holds the bag and then it dawns on you that you’re OK with waiting as long as he makes every movie for the rest of our lives.

Drive follows the moments of an enigmatic loner short on words with a damaged past and no future to speak of.  By day he drives cars for the movies but that’s only killing time as much as he whittles away at gas stained carburetors and oil bathed big blocks – see, he’s stuck in centuries gone by when cars roared through fat piped exhausts and telephones with those damn spiraling cords that never worked right were heavy in your hand, weight in your arm that made you want to touch the person on the other end instead of talk about it.  We know this guy, he’s Driver, concrete; he needs to feel things and working in a garage gives him smooth metal fenders and loud engines to drone out the city and people.  He holds a fat Holly 4-barrel carburetor like a baby in his arms or a skull – a Shakespearean everyman, the price of Denmark, a rogue with no pretense or false anything.  You know he would die for you, kill for you and deep down in the pit of your stomach you need him that way more than you’ve ever needed air or chocolate chip cookie dough.  Driver lives and breathes gasoline fumes and his lips taste like exhaust, leather gloves and sweat fused to steering wheels without airbags and plastic ding-dong boxes in the way of your gauges, his heart beating so fast the car seat throbs it and all you want to do is be near him.  But he can’t go on this way forever, he’s human or he was and inevitably his world slams into her, radiant, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and for a little while he thinks maybe he doesn’t have to be like this, this brokenness, this lifespan of seconds.  This movie is about that interlude, the moments between the moments but like it or not it’s over, it was a dream, he knew it all along.  Before he can taste tomorrow it’s snatched out of his mouth, torn from his taste buds – see, it wasn’t real, it never is.  The girl is the beginning and end of everything, we know it because Driver knows it and like Refn, he gives us heaping spoonfuls of the stuff until we’re choking on it the sickly sweet dream before he slams our face into sidewalk and asks us if we taste the back of our throats.

While Drive exceeds our expectations in almost every way, robbing us of our addiction to explosions and comic book worlds where nothing is what it could be and is often much less, it does slip up, stutter here and there, stumble over itself in Refn’s obsession with visceral hopelessness and used up people.  No film is perfect and neither is Drive but you can’t expect perfect from Refn, it wouldn’t work and besides, we can’t handle perfection it reminds us how flawed we are and we hate mirrors of our imperfections.  In this way Refn is like Aronofsky, relentless in his portraiture of damaged people and the brutality of our relationships in the way we make dead and dying by decision.  It’s in this kind of revelation that we always need our creators to hold back the darkness that lives in us, show us bits at a time instead of the sheer F.U. of it all.  It’s tough to lose everything, to know things can and do go out like this.  Refn knows this but he can’t help but push the rpm gauge in the red, the engine peaked out as the accelerator pedal burns into the floorboard.  We know the inevitable collision with the ground, with the physics of the universe and for as much as he takes us there we can’t help but go.  This is Refn’s fault, knowing when to say when and choosing instead to keep going, beyond the place of no return even when we don’t have enough fuel to get back home.

Refn’s movies are a voyage into outer space where you have to calculate every molecule of fuel in order to get back home again.  If you spend all your fuel getting there, well, you must be in a Refn film so be prepared to protect yourself from your comrades.  You know you’ve been in a Refn film when your legs feel like tree trunks and you can’t imagine ever going back to your job again, maybe home, maybe it’s time for your own movie about forlorn choices and the importance of seconds – if only Refn would make your life matter this much in a movie.

The devil is in the details they say and this film jabs a fork in your eye to make you see.  Not for the squeamish, not for superfluousness action junkies – this is a rollercoaster of calculated turns, twists and loops where ultra-violence and introspective sequences come together then burst apart.  For moments things are slowed down with golden sunlight and the perfect kiss you could ever imagine or remember – a tiny world come to life on a scroll with an out of tune player piano from some old forgotten saloon plucking a far away tune in a curio cabinet staged only for you.  You will remember this film and cherish the subtly, enjoy the moments and wish you were there whether or not you loved it knowing you have to admit you liked it a lot.