Archive for the 'Movies' Category

Somebody is smoking crack at the Museum of Modern Art. How else to explain exhibiting Dog Aitkin’s “Sleepwalkers”, an outdoor exhibition, in the middle of frigin’ WINTER! The night I ventured out into the breach was the first time in my life I could literally empathize with a witch’s tit, and not in a good way.

However, once my extremities got acclimated I was actually able to appreciate, if not fully enjoy, the sublimely unique New Yorkiness of what I was experiencing. The main stage of the exhibit was situated in the outdoor sculpture garden, which is barricaded on three sides by the glass walls of the museum itself.

Six separate films exposed themselves on the naked exterior of the buildings with only the cacophony of the city acting as their Philip Glass-esque soundtrack. At first sight it was a truly breathtaking nocturnal panorama.

The movies were 16 minute shorts each depicting a solitary soul slogging through the drudgery of their daily lives. The movies, though autonomous, flowed together as one through the use of perfectly timed edits that occurred simultaneously in all six pieces at exactly the same moment lending a soothingly mellow synchronization that was wicked cool.

Another super sweet aspect was that every so often each of the six films would flash the same image; such as a sunset, facial close up or high speed traffic scene, creating a multiplied mirror effect that I found quite trippy.

I took advantage of the audio commentary, which was cleverly accessed through a cell phone number. I learned that the artist told his actors to, “dissolve into the landscapes”. His belief is that a city is heat and energy without boundaries and that the city itself and the people in it are micro and macro reflections of each other. I dig that, but as my balls burrowed deeper into my belly I began to get increasingly disturbed.

NOBODY was smiling. None of the actors in the films, none of the hundred or so audience members, NOBODY! The movies themselves ,while gorgeous, were intense and bleak. Even the physical projection on the windows gave them a bleached out, spectral look.

The thing is: Mr. Aitken created this instillation to showcase the organic heat of life in our city, but what I experienced was not the city I know and love. To me it wasn’t so much a celebration of New York life as it was a depressing homage to the remorse and alienation one feels riding the L train at rush hour. Then again, that’s just one humble kid from Jersey’s opinion.

HIGHLIGHTS:

· It’s FREE
· They won’t bust your balls if you light up a smoke
· It truly is a unique piece of art
· The cell phone audio commentary is free and enlightening: 408-794-0886
· Connolly’s Irish Pub is right across the street on 54th, and a $6 shot of Jack goes a long way after freezing your ass off in the winter night for half an hour.

Despite their name, the Cool Kids’ Club is an event for uncool kids.

In a style popularized by Mystery Science Theatre 3000, the five hosts, Jeff, Matt, Kevin, Daniel and Steve show public domain educational films from the 50s (funny just by themselves) and add their own witty commentary. “Dating Do’s and Don’ts”, “Speaking of Rubber” and “Build Your Vocabulary” were some of the more benign films. They also showed “Boys Beware” in which young boys are warned about the evils of homosexuality and “Easy Does It” a film which illustrates that even though women are the weaker sex, their household chores can still be difficult. My personal favorite was “Soapy the Germ Fighter” (pictured), in which a young boy dreams of a giant bar of soap who teaches him the virtues of washing his hands.

If you’ve ever seen MST3K, then you have an idea of the commentary — responses to questions asked on-screen, pop-culture references thrown in where they don’t fit and speculations of the characters inner monologue. The hosts got a lot of laughs, abut they also got plenty of crickets. Just like uncoolkids, they were trying to be funny, but it didn’t always work. And even at their most clever, there is no way I would describe our hosts as “cool” (at least, not like Fonzi cool).

If you ever attend a meeting of the Cool Kids’ Club, you would be wise to bring along a six pack, like most of audience tonight did. This was the second meeting, and while only half the films were new, all the jokes were. This means that you can attend again and again.

Don’t let it blow your mind, but the UNCOOLKIDS whole-heartedly recommend the Cool Kids’ Club (but only because they really aren’t).

New Season of Gilmore Girls starts tonight!!!
Here’s a catch-up:

Recap of Seasons 1-5

Season Six started with Lorelai and Rory not speaking. . .which went on for a torturous nine episodes. In the meantime Luke and Lorelai celebrated their engagement and remodeled Lorelai’s house so they could both live in it. Rory turned into the daughter Emily and Richard Gilmore never had, even joining the DAR. Eventually she came to her senses and reconciled with her mother and agreed to go back to Yale.

Just when we thought everything was normal, we found out that Luke has a surprise 12-year-old daughter. This caused the postponement of the wedding we had been preparing for all season, and much tension between the happy couple when Luke refused to let Lorelai be a part of his daughter’s life.

Rory’s dad, Christopher came into a large amount of money and offered to pay for her education, much to the dismay of Emily, who was already worried she had blown her second chance to be a part of her daughter’s and granddaughter’s lives — this led to one of the funniest episodes in Gilmore Girl’s history, “Friday Night’s Alright For Fighting” in which all four Gilmore’s finally said what was on their minds.

Rory and Logan were on-again, off-again all over the place, and after finally convincing Rory that he loved her, he hit her with the news that he was being forced by his dad to move to London the day after graduation. Rory’s season six ended with her saying good-bye to him as he left for the airport.

Meanwhile, unable to be a part of Luke’s life, Lorelai reconciled with Christopher, even babysitting for him and taking him as her date to Lane’s wedding (while Luke was out of town chaperoning his daughter’s field trip). Finally realizing that she couldn’t take it anymore Lorelai confronts Luke and tells him that they have to elope right then, and figure out how his daughter fits into their lives later. Luke answers that he doesn’t like ultimatums, and she calls the whole thing off. Then she goes to seek solace with the only person she can think of Christopher. Season six ends with us finding a regretful looking Lorelai in Christopher’s bed. DAMN!!!!

So there ya go, you’re all set for tonight.

With 487 short film submissions from 39 different countries it makes sense that Nicholas Mason, the founder of the Manhattan Short Film Festival, wanted to make the final selections accessible through a variety of venues. In response to suggestions that he should have shown the films on television or the Internet, Mason said: “This is first and foremost a festival, and a festival to me conjures up images of people coming together.” So over the past few days, people came together at approximately 66 theatres around the globe.

The 12 final selections are all unique in their own ways, so impressive that they would appear to be cornerstones of great careers in features. It’s impossible to pick just one to win. But that’s the beauty of the Manhattan Short Film Fest, aside from the pleasing aesthetics on the big screen: audience members vote for their favorite short at the end of the fest.

“Lyra Lezana”, about a young Cuban girl’s U.S. visa lottery ticket, showcases the scenery of Cuba filmed mostly in natural light, and not without obstacle either. The Cuban government does not allow film production there, so Clayton Haskell’s crew had to keep a low profile. “The Third Parent” was written and directed by a USC film student who has a vested interested in the subject matter. Shot documentary-style, this raw short is about an 11-year-old girl as she cares for her autistic younger brother. She speaks candidly in a voice over, wavering between self-pity and guilt for all that she does and can’t do for her brother. Spain’s “Without Seeing” is a fusion of a strong story with a skilled filmmaker in Salvador Gomez Cuenca. Leave me a comment if you don’t cry for the characters of Martin and Pluto. “Off-Sides”, an Israeli short, sends a gut-wrenching message through a simple story of two soldiers and two insurgents as they face each other while listening to a World Cup soccer match on a hand-held radio. It’s high production quality like most war films, with the colors of heat and desert and fatigues and massacre bleeding through the screen, without the bravado.

These are just a few of the short films you can catch in Union Square next Sunday, September 24, during the final screening in the 2006 Manhattan Short Film Festival. The winner will be announced after the screening. Tickets are $10.00.

Often when I tell people about my love for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I am met with strange looks and people backing away. But on Friday night I was in good company when I went to the IFC for New York’s first Buffy the Vampire Slayer Sing-A-Long. Back in Season 6 creator Joss Whedon wrote a musical episode that has since become a favorite among fans.

Luckily I had bought my tickets in advance because when I showed up at 10pm to pick them up I was told the show was sold out and to come back early. I asked what time the theatre opened and was told “Not for an hour and a half; but because of the. . . uh. . .emotions. . . of the Buffy . . . people, the line will probably start any minute now.”

Here’s a tip I learned about the IFC: they let people drinking in the bar next door into the theatre first.

Everyone in the packed theatre started playing with their vampire teeth and little monsters from goodie bags being sold ($2 each). Clinton McClung (the organizer) came on stage and gave us our instructions - when to yell when to throw things (the goal is to make it like The Rocky Horror Picture Show). He then had people come up on stage to act along with a sad Buffy/Angel scene and do their best impressions of Cordelia and Anya.

When the movie finally started the crowd went crazy. For the entire length of the one-hour episode everyone in the theatre was singing, yelling, throwing things and sometimes even dancing in the aisles. Buffy fans may be considered weird in the real world, but inside the theatre we could embrace our inner dorks.

After the screening McClung joked about starting it over again, to which half the audiences members yelled “yes!”, but instead he showed us the original unaired pilot, which Buffy creator Joss Whedon himself says sucks-ass.

For anyone who couldn’t get tickets or just plain missed it, you’ll stll have your chance. The Sing-A-Long will be back in November and hopefully will become a regular staple after that.

My parents made me get an American Express Card when I was in college for emergencies. I always thought it was a really big pain because I had to pay a yearly charge to keep it. But here’s a chance to make some of that money back.

If you are an Amex cardholder starting today you can get 4 FREE movie tickets in NY to be used between September 18 - September 24. All you have to do is go to the website and give them your name and card number (for verification purposes) and they give you a fandango gift code, good for four. YAH! That pretty much covers my yearly charge right there.

And while you are there sign up for the ‘Dining‘ alert, which will remind you to sign up for a free dinner for (up to) five at select restaurants later in the month.

I know I sound like an Amex commercial, but I’m just really excited about free stuff.

Roger Ebert once described the perfect date movie as one that provokes the couple to talk to each other. And I’d have to agree with him. Bart Freundlich’s Trust the Man follows the more popular, unfortunate definition: A compromise for the ladies and the fellas that pleases no one, and usually sucks your will to live.

Oh, Trust the Man is meant to be high-end, intelligent enjoyment. It stars art house denizens Julianne Moore (Freundlich’s wife) and Billy Crudup (Jesus’ Son) and features more upscale NYC locales than season 5 of Seinfeld. It’s really a shallow, aimless affair that will lead to conversations I’m sure Ebert never imagined.

“Jesus Christ, why did you take me to this?”

“You like Julianne Moore!”

“When she’s naked!”

“I hate you! I’ll be in the car!”

The plot of Trust the Man follows two New York City couples grappling with issues. Tom (Duchovny) and Rebecca are married with kids, heading toward middle-age and a crisis. Between her busy life as a successful actress and his life as a “househusband,” their sex life is stagnant, which is a major concern for the always horny Tom. Tobey (Crudup) and Elaine (Maggie Gyllenhaal) have been dating for seven years, but his immaturity and reluctance to marry is vexing to the mommy-minded, level-headed Elaine.

From these characters we get endless scenes of relationship blather that never answer the most important question: How did these couples find such misery? When numerous scenes of female and male bonding aren’t unfolding, Freundlich ups the laugh factor, a disastrous decision. These scenes don’t happen in the flow of the main plot, so every time one pops up it’s distracting, never mind a bit desperate: Why address the problems of the romantically anguished when you can have a carb-craving Moore choke on a piece of cake or Duchovny punched in the balls not once, but twice? Even worse, few of these scenes are funny.

Of course, Freundlich’s script is a mess. He doesn’t succeed at either comedy or drama–his comedic observations are tired and broad; he lacks the attention to detail of a good dramatist–and he certainly can’t blend the two elements. Profiling two couples would be OK if there was a significant contrast, but not if they’re both vaguely unhappy. The movie’s large number of scenes shows a lack of conviction to the story and his characters. And he relies on New York locales as if the spell of Woody Allen will be cast, and shots of Sardi’s or Lincoln Center will make a shoddy plot authentic and poorly sketched characters brim with eloquent ennui.

The talented leads can’t do much here. You feel that they’re not acting as much as trying to find a grip on the material. Putting Moore, Duchovny, Gyllenhaal, and Crudup in this movie, is like putting Tiger Woods and Vijay Singh in a miniature golf tournament. It’s a waste of their time and those in attendance.

GRADE: **

MPAA RATING: R

Obligatory hack critic blurb: It takes the checkered flag…for laughs!

A movie like Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby can be troublesome to review, mostly because it’s so blissfully stupid that it’s hard to get 600 words out of it, unless you want a recap of funny scenes or the wonder of John C. Reilly’s facial hair. The movie is a reason why a lot of people hate movie reviewers: We’re too busy deconstructing and analyzing to realize how funny something is.

That’s not entirely true. There’s good stupid funny and bad stupid funny. Bad stupid funny is just plain stupid. To paraphrase ace movie critic Jeremiah Kipp, it takes a brain to be entertained. The atrocious Date Movie was a prime example of that not happening, an uncreative and painfully unfunny movie that wasn’t so much a parody as a thoughtless compilation of romantic comedy’s greatest hits. Instead of parodying a formula, the geniuses behind the movie took scenes from roughly 30 movies (I’m not kidding), upped the disgusting factor, looked for easy targets, and passed it off as something original. If Date Movie not the worst movie of 2006, whatever is will probably kill me.

Talladega Nights is good stupid funny for a few reasons. First, Will Ferrell is in it, who masterfully straddles the line between goofy and ironic. As the title character, a reckless NASCAR driver whose desire to win at all costs sends his career into a tailspin, Ferrell again proves his mettle as a comedic heavyweight. Second, like in Anchorman, he’s surrounded by a great supporting cast that doesn’t try to outdo him. Everyone gets to carve out their own country-fried niche, especially Reilly as Ricky’s best friend and teammate, who is so attached to his friend’s life, that Ricky’s family is his family. Literally. And Gary Cole, playing Ricky’s white trash daddy, lends the same sense of comedic restraint that made his Office Space bossman so damned funny.

The true sign of a good stupid movie like Talladega Nights is the screenplay, which spoofs the sweeping, inspirational tones of bad sports movies with gusto–witness the hyperbolic speech Ricky Bobby’s former assistant (Amy Adams, terrific in her brief screen time) gives her broken-down former employer. More importantly, you can quote the hell out of it. Have a discussion on movies with most guys in their twenties or early thirties these days and you won’t escape without hearing lines from Anchorman and The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Talladega Nights is going to have that same effect. Walk through bars and cafeterias over the next few months, and you’re bound to hear lines like: “I’m jacked up on Mountain Dew;” “Please don’t let the invisible fire burn my friend;” “You made that grace your bitch;” and my favorite exchange, which masquerades as a tender moment:

“I’m his lady. I painted the car and we had sex.”

“I wish I could have been there.”

Talladega Nights has a few flaws. Playing a lisping, gay Frenchman and Ricky Bobby’s racing rival, Sacha Baron Cohen (TV’s Ali G.) wastes his considerable comedic talents, which should be on better display in the upcoming Borat movie. And like Anchorman, which was also written by Ferrell and director Adam McKay, some bits (the rehabilitation of Ricky’s awful kids) just don’t work with repeat tries. That’s irrelevant critic talk. You’ll laugh, you’ll laugh hard, and you’ll never think of “Baby Jesus” in quite the same way again.

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Rating: *** (out of 4)

When I heard Woody Allen and Scarlett Johansson were teaming up for two movies, I was elated. Maybe using one of America’s best young actresses (with a downright charismatic screen presence to boot) would help revive Allen’s creaky filmmaking. So, two movies have come and gone. What’s the final score?

First, there was Match Point. Despite its staggering praise, it was a plodding retelling of the superior Crimes and Misdemeanors. Now we have Scoop starring Johansson as an American journalism student who investigates a murder in London, acting on the tip of a deceased journalist (Ian McShane, TV’s Deadwood). Allen plays a third-rate magician who helps Johansson get closer to the hunky British aristocrat (Hugh Jackman) she suspects of murdering numerous prostitutes.

Scoop resembles earlier Allen movies like Manhattan Murder Mystery and Small Time Crooks–breezy, amiable fare long on scenic urban locales but short on belly laughs. Allen still gives you a time-worn formula and expects you to be thrilled by association, whether it’s a brownstone crisis among uptown denizens or literate tomfoolery. (Forget about slapstick; that went out with disco.) Allen does nothing fresh with these scenarios, like how Oscar-winning screenwriter Charlie Kaufman and Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Richard Russo continually re-invent the plights of broken-hearted guys and small-town losers, respectively.

Johansson is the victim of bad timing and maybe bad advice. Her buoyant personality and smoky charm are bottled in favor of nervous mannerisms reminiscent of Allen’s former lover and co-star Mia Farrow, which wouldn’t be a bad thing if Farrow wasn’t in her late thirties when she began her long-running gig. Allen does his famous stammering routine, only here it’s so pronounced that it sounds like he’s having trouble recalling his lines. Also, his cheesy entertainer act runs very thin very quickly. Jackman, sans killer sideburns, and McShane, sans expletives and cool mustache, do provide able support.

Scoop is a pleasant diversion, but it’s an annoying one if you’ve seen Allen’s movies; it feels like more of the same thing only set in London. The constant presence of Johansson also makes you realize the squandered possibilities. She was born too late, while Allen’s last chance for cinematic rejuvenation may have passed him by.

Note: For those interested in finding out why Woody Allen is considered one of the best American directors ever, check out any of these movies:Annie Hall, Manhattan, Crimes and Misdemeanors, Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex, but Were Afraid to Ask, Bananas, Love and Death, Husbands and Wives, Hannah and Her Sisters.

Rating: **1/2 (out of four)

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Something’s In the Air Tonight…And it Stinks!

I don’t know why I keep watching Michael Mann movies. I see the well-edited previews and all-star casts and become convinced that this time will be different, that I’ll see something great instead of the lengty absurdity of Collateral, the bloated, pretentiousness of Heat, and the obnoxious film school flair of The Insider.

The previews for Miami Vice, Mann’s big screen adaptation of the hit 1980’s TV show he created, looked good. So like a moron, I was in the packed movie theater, waiting for that summer blockbuster rush that never arrived. I have no idea why studio executives think Mann is a go-to-guy for summer fare. He’s so serious and so concerned with setting a scene and establishing grit that his movies lack coherency or, far more important, fun. (If you want proof, the theatergoers and I walked out in silence afterwards. That’s great if the movie is United 93, not a movie expected to draw the young adult crowd for summer.)

The first action scene doesn’t come until an hour and a half into the two-hour affair. What preceeds that is sleep-inducing: Miami cops Sonny Crockett (Colin Farrell) and Ricardo Tubbs’ (Jamie Foxx) deep undercover activites as drug runners is dominated by set-up, meetings in humid rooms and parking garages, and drug jargon. Wow. The movie’s finale makes it apparent that there will be a sequel, which I can only hope will mean plenty of well-lit shots of staff meetings and filing.

Adding to the frustration, Crockett starts a fling with his boss’s right-hand lady (Gong Li, Memoirs of a Geisha and 2046). The romance is a failure on two fronts: it pads the movie, and the actors have zero chemistry. Gong Li’s English is choppy and sometimes inaudible; Farrell, in a lame attempt to add attitude, delivers his line in a rasp that sounds like he’s in constant need of a cough drop. And what’s with his look? Throughout the movie, Farrell sports long blondish hair and a droopy mustache that makes him look like Mike Piazza and George Michael’s love child.

Aside from Farrell and his outlandish attire, no one stands out here. Crockett and Tubbs might as well be accountants with weapons for all the charisma they show alone or together. And how come no one can create a good villian anymore? There are several of them in the movie and none are particularly notable. Perhaps it’s because everyone (good and bad guys) acts the same–intense and irritable.

I know the movie is covering cops on deep undercover, where one mistake could mean death. However, the lack of personality and fun in Miami Vice is downright palpable. Mann thinks the same serious attitude that has worked to some degree in previous films like The Insider is applicable in every other genre. Miami Vice shows the faultiness of that logic. I think I’ve finally learned my lesson.

Rating: ** (out of four)