The Week In Movies (7/09/09)

Adventureland

Dir. Greg Mottola

Marketing was heavy on the fact that this is from the director of Superbad. Anybody going to see that kind of movie will be disappointed. This isn't much of a comedy, but a coming of age story sprinkled with amusing moments and a unexpected dark outlook on all things life. Jessie Eisenberg might be a poor man's Michael Cera, but he pulls off this role, as a graduated teen who takes work at the local theme park (Can you guess the name?) to fund his future, rather nicely. Modest and a little underwhelming, you can't help wondering if there was an opportunity wasted somewhere around here. Still, for the most part this works fine. Even if it is only set in 1987 so the director had an excuse to compile a worthy soundtrack. (***)

(500) Days of Summer

Dir. Marc Webb

A relentlessly watchable outing from new director Marc Webb, this is one of the best romantic comedies of the last decade. Joseph Gordon-Levitt is Tom. He falls in love with Zooey Deschanel (the title's Summer), but she doesn't feel quite so strongly. We're warned this isn't a traditional romantic comedy from the very beginning. Good. We've had enough of those. Tom's plight is one heck of an emotional journey that we can all relate to. We take a whirl through a number of the fated 500 days that Tom knew Summer, for good or for worse, each told with the help of some brilliantly employed narrative gems, including a hilarious musical number and dozens of well-placed pop cultural nods. The performances are wonderful. Men will fall in love with Summer. Girls will want to know where they can find their own Tom. But the point is that we're all human, and that nobody's perfect. Don't miss it. (****)

The Hurt Locker

Dir. Katherine Bigelow

Talk about tense. Katherine Bigelow returns with a movie set in Iraq about the bomb squads who balance on the bridge between life and death disarming the things. No politics here, just excellent performances and nail-biting tension told with style. It's the psychological aspect that Bigelow is most interested in, and we're thrust into the action from the go. Specifically, we join James, a rebel with Mel Gibson/Lethal Weapon syndrome who has no regard for his safety within the field. Guy Pearce and Rhys Fiennes turn up, too. Either to show us that just about everyone is disposable, or to draw in audiences looking for big names. I hope it's for the first reason. (****)

Funny People

Dir. Judd Apatow

This offbeat "comedy" from popular laugh-guru Judd Apatow (Knocked Up, The 40-Year-Old Virgin) might miss the mark for most. Not that it's by any means a bad movie, it's just not very funny. Adam Sandler plays a washed-up movie star with a string of bad movies behind him and worse news to come. He has a rare form of cancer, and not long to live. Seth Rogen, in his usual persona, is at Sandler's side, and the two struggle to find meaning in their lives as stand-up comedians. This is Judd Apatow with Woody Allen in mind. There's some good stuff here, but it might be half an hour too long. Did I mention it's not very funny? (***)

District 9

Dir. Neill Blomkamp

South African science-fiction that blows recent Hollywood blockbusters out of the water (Yes, Transformers 2, I mean you). Inspired by short film Alive in Joberg, Neill Blomkamp's alien refugee extravaganza is the best sci-fi film of the year. Heck, it's the best action-thriller of the year full-stop. Funny, exciting and awfully violent, this is the way blockbusters should be put together - with care and affection and affinity for the subject matter. First-time actor Sharlto Copley is phenomenal as alien welfare agent Wikus Van de Mewre, who finds himself caught up in an extraterritrial eviction that goes horribly wrong. Peter Jackson produces. (****)

Film Review: Inglourious Basterds (2009)

Sgt. Donny Donowitz (Eli Roth) and Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) in Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds"

When Death Proof said farewell to its Grindhouse packaging and hit UK screens solo, a whole bunch of QT fans left the cinema feeling disappointed. The census: the world’s coolest director had lost it. He’d overindulged. Taken it too far this time. Nobody got what the heck he was talking about. But it might’ve been unfair that his car crash slasher was forcibly screened out of context – it had been created as one half of Grindhouse, a homage to those poorly-made, exploitation double-features that littered American screens throughout the 70s and 80s. Due to the box office failure of this project in the States (of which Sin City’s Robert Rodriguez directed one half), the UK received only Death Proof as a sort of punishment.

That it is his worst film is clear, but it’s definitely not a bad one. Misjudged, misguided and misunderstood are words that all spring to mind. That, and it was easy for a lot of people to miss the point. A handful of the dodgy exploitation touches were taken out, and it was presented in a way that avoided the marketing and presentation that it required. Tarantino’s next project, then, had to bring him back on form. It’s (misspelled) title? Inglourious Basterds.

A self-described western disguised as a war film, Inglourious Basterds takes setting in 1941 during a very Nazi-Occupied France. Brad Pitt is Lt. Aldo Raine, a hillbilly roughneck who enlists a group of Jewish-American soldiers with the intention of getting medieval on the Nazis. And they’re no ordinary unit: they hunt with Apache forcibility, scalping the heads of their enemies, leaving blood and destruction wherever they tred. And they’re soon to become something of legend amongst their enemies. One particular member, Sgt. Donowitz (Eli Roth), has been nicknamed “The Bear Jew” – he’s particularly renound for his trademark weapon, a baseball bat, which he brutally batters uncompromising Nazis to death with. All of this is done with no regard in hiding the violence.

Meanwhile, our parallel storyline – yes, you guessed it - sees Shosanna Dreyfuss (Mélanie Laurent), a young Jewish girl, escaping the clutches of sardonic Nazi Colonel Hans Landa (the exceptional Christopher Waltz), who has earned his own nickname – “The Jew Hunter” – from his remarkably honed skills in finding those who have gone into hiding. He orders the massacre of her family, but she escapes, and takes refuge in France as the proprietor of a movie house. That these stories will come together we are sure, but just how exactly is left until over halfway through.

But, actually, the storyline isn’t very complex: it’s all about the style, the dialogue and the characters (and of course, how many obscure movie references Tarantino can get in amongst the two and a half hour running time). The performances are knockout. The whole thing looks fantastic. The attention to detail is that of a seasoned professional. And to compare it to any of his other works, it’s most like Kill Bill (Tarantino himself says Pulp Fiction, but I can’t agree). Go in expecting that kind of film, and you’re going to have a blast.

We already know of Tarantino’s love affair with moving pictures. His passion for the cinema reaches so far that he pays respect to it at practically every moment. And it is respect. Here’s a man who is so immersed in movies that he cannot help but project his loves for everyone to see. We open with music from The Alamo over the credits (the beautiful “The Green Leaves of Summer”), hear snippets from a whole bunch of Ennio Morricone-scored films throughout, are treated with Samuel L. Jackson as our narrator, and a whole host of Kill Bill-esque flashbacks to give us lively explanations to his distinctive characters. Tarantino is right: It’s a western disguised as a WW2 flick. Take a look at the name of the first chapter for the proof: “Once Upon A Time… In Nazi-Occupied France.” A sure-fire nod to Tarantino’s man Sergio Leone.

What else? It’s funny. Tarantino’s sense of humour has always shined through, but here, given the context, it seems to work best. The violence, like always, is played for laughs, but the whole film rests on a tone that somehow transcends what it ought to be: you feel sad when you should feel sad, you laugh when you should laugh, you’re shocked when you should be shocked. Considering that it sounds so unbelievably haphazard, it’s surprising just how well it all comes together.

What we get a result of all this is a hugely imaginative affair, an ode to popular culture, to the cinema, and to Tarantino himself. Some moments are bordering the self-indulgent, but it’s always in the name of fun. If the dictionary were looking to replace their definition of “entertaining”, then I would happily suggest two words for the new explanation: “Inglourious Basterds.”

Then again, this might not work for some people at all. I understand. War? Nazis? Some people can barely take Tarantino as it is. All those lengthy speeches, the references to movies nobody has ever heard of, the no-holds take on violence, the treatment of an era that in many people’s opinion demands only respect. 

But there’s no message here. There’s no side taking. It’s just a playground for Tarantino to do with what he likes. It didn’t have to be Nazis, it just happens that it is. It gives him even more to play with. You can just see Tarantino in his glory writing this thing, making up the nicknames (“Aldo the Apache”), the backstories (one of the Basterds is a ex-Gestapo agent who murdered 13 fellow officers), and imaging the musical cues, reminiscent of moments from his favourite films. Really, like Kill Bill, it’s a movie geek’s wet dream.

What Tarantino has done here is completely typical of his style, yet it reeks of something else, something, dare I say, more adult. Of course, that comment may be ill judged, and I might have found myself tricked by the context and the abundance of historical iconography. That Pulp Fiction will probably remain his best-loved film for a long time is true. Still, something inside tells me that in thirty years, it’ll be Inglourious Basterds that film scholars look back on to see what was going on inside Tarantino’s head. “This might just be my masterpiece,” stands as the final line in the film. That this is the director addressing whoever wants to listen, I’m sure of. That he might be right? Hm. Ask me in thirty years. (*****)

Film Review: A Perfect Getaway (2009)

Milla Jovovich as honeymooner Cydney in "A Perfect Getaway"

A couple on their honeymoon in Honolulu have been murdered. Enter Cliff (Steve Zahn) and Cydney (Milla Jovovich), a couple on their honeymoon in Honolulu. See where this is going? Although the news of the murders originally panics them, they decide, quite daftly, to continue with arranged plans and hit the foothills for a backpacking expedition to remember. But things get spooky when they encounter another couple who leave them cold. Soon, they’ve teamed with thrill seeking duo Nick (Timothy Olyphant) and Gina (Kiele Sanchez) in an attempt to keep potential killers at bay.

Once in a while a film will come along that leaves you with nothing. That film is A Perfect Getaway, a thriller built around a single concept that keeps you guessing for an hour before anything actually happens. It’s not that I couldn’t handle the tension – Deliverance, a somewhat similar movie, took just about an hour to establish the central problem and was brilliant in its build-up. You felt unnerved, and the atmosphere was something horrible, looming and uneasy. Here, it doesn’t go down as well. But I doubt I will ever be satisfied with a movie that bases itself entirely around a lone revelation. The characters are dull and cardboard, the story treats you like an idiot, and the whole thing is goofy and terribly unspectacular.

A lot of critics seemed relatively warm to this one. I can’t agree. On rare occasion will I leave a movie feeling exactly as I did going in. A Perfect Getaway left me blank. It didn’t spur a single emotion. The only redeeming factor? That Hawaii looked beautiful. I wish I’d spent 97 minutes there instead of with this. (**)

Retro Review: Rashomon (1950)

A battle takes place in one account of the same story in Akira Kurosawa's "Rashomon"

It is Rashomon, a film that opens so beautifully and remains that way for its entire running time, which reminds us of how affecting simplicity in the movies can be. It is a film by Akira Kurosawa, of course, and the one that brought attention to the Japanese director in the West when it came to the surface in 1951. He would go on to become one of Japan’s most respected filmmakers. If this is where the rest of world got their first glimpse of Kurosawa, it rings true that this is still a good place to start.

Rain pours in torrents in the opening moments of Rashomon, and the instant appeal comes from the way the whole thing looks. It is magnificently shot, in black and white, each frame as fine-looking as the best photographs. The camera has been placed with such care that it is noticeable from the off. Kurosawa understands the importance of how we see something – it is, in fact, the theme of the film.

We are introduced to three characters, a woodsman, a priest and a drifter. The woodsman and the priest are amidst a personal crisis – a woman has been raped, and her husband murdered. The woodsman found the body. The drifter wants to know why the pair are so miserable. It turns out that they don’t understand the circumstances of the incident – “I just don’t understand,” is the first line of the film – and are trying to put the pieces together. And so a mystery begins, and we are invited to listen to various accounts of the tale from the perspectives of those involved. But who, we ask, is telling the truth?

That we might never know is actually the point. As simple stories are recounted (in this case, to an off-camera court), Kurosawa cleverly reveals everything but really says nothing. We hear from the raped woman, a bandit, and even the ghost of the dead husband who speaks to the court through a medium, but all the time we are never really sure of the true events that took place. The genius lies within the fact that the camera is stripped of its usual role - playing the neutral eye. Instead, it becomes subject to lies and perspective, and shows us only what the characters want us to see.

Rashomon influenced many modern contemporaries, the most famous of which is Bryan Singer’s The Usual Suspects. It was also remade as western The Outrage, which starred Paul Newman. But where most imitators rely on complex details and unforeseen twists, it is here that a now tired formula thrives. The story here is deeply poignant, tactically simple, and manages to be both riveting and distressing. It is also a masterpiece of mood, to be remembered not only for its story but for its use of cinematography. There is something deep and unexplainable about its power, and its willingness to explore multiple angles in such a direct way. To call it Kurosawa’s masterwork may not be far off. What can be said for sure? That Rashomon might be the most important film about perspective ever made. (*****)

Retro Review: Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse (1991)

Francis Ford Coppola on the set of "Apocalypse Now"

The documentary opens with a famous director addressing an audience. Without a hint of exaggeration, he says, “We were in the jungle, there were too many of us, we had access to too much money, too much equipment, and little by little… we went insane.” The lines are blurred: is he talking about the Vietnam War or the momentous film he made about it in 1979? The truth is, it doesn’t really matter. The fact is that they are a part of each other, and the beauty of the entire affair is that they are now wholly indistinguishable. “My film is Vietnam,” the director says, and he's right.

Francis Ford Coppola set out to create a film based on Joseph Conrad’s novel Heart of Darkness, a terrifying journey into the dark side of the human condition. The result was the masterpiece Apocalypse Now. But the reason the final product was so extraordinary was because, quite literally, Coppola lived the themes of the source novel during the time spent making his movie. The experience of making Apocalypse Now was what Apocalypse Now ended up as. It was as if it was all meant to be. Hearts of Darkness documents the making of the gargantuan project. It leaves nothing out.

Moments into the documentary, I was struck by a feeling of sickness. I had just heard Coppola confessing his feelings on the production to his wife, Eleanor. It is her footage and recordings that make up the bulk of the documentary. He mentions to her that he wants to shoot himself. That is how tired and incomprehensible the project had become. Then we see the sheer size of the sets and the extras, the constant building work, the unfinished script, and the unreliable military who Coppola cooperated with when making the movie. The feeling of sickness came from my imagining. Imagining the Hell that making this movie really was. Coppola would have been crazy not to have gone to such a dark place in his own head. That’s a human reaction, after all.

We’ve heard of the nightmare shoots concerning Spielberg and Jaws and Ridley Scott and Blade Runner, but neither of these come close to the chaos that Coppola encounters here. You’ll see it all. Marlon Brando turning up overweight, unfamiliar with the source material, threatening to leave the production with a $1 million advance. Martin Sheen replaces Harvey Keitel weeks into shooting. Later he suffers from a massive heart attack. Coppola argues with Dennis Hopper over the purpose of his character. The script is never really finished, leaving the director to force improvisation upon his actors. It’s a mess.

But Hearts of Darkness is a riveting piece of filmmaking in the sense that it is as engrossing and affecting as the very film it documents. We share interviews with the principal cast, writers, production assistants, and anybody and everybody that had a hand in the making. Some interviews are new, some from the set, but all are revealing and truthful. That is what separates it from almost every other making of documentary – it’s brutally honest. Most importantly, it’s essential, because understanding Hearts of Darkness is to understand Apocalypse Now itself. (*****)

Film Review: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2009)

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley discuss a forecoming game of Quidditch over breakfast with Hermione Granger

Adapting a well-loved novel to the big screen is always going to be a difficult process. No matter what anybody says, you can’t keep everybody happy – there’s just too much ground to cover. You have to please the fans, the newcomers, and the audience members who love the films but have never even picked up a copy of the book. In the past, the Harry Potter films have been adapted from J.K. Rowling’s source material fairly decently. Not badly enough so that hardcore fans were leaving the theatre in streams of tears, anyway. In terms of the novels that these crowd-summoning movies are based upon, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is the calm before the storm, the one where all the wheels are put into gear before the terrifying climax. Except it isn’t calm. It’s the storm before the storm. It’s a complicated, exciting web of discovery and urgency. If only the movie could have been something similar.

Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) is due to begin his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He spends his days riding trains and sitting in railway cafés, lost and confused in the aftermath of his encounter with Lord Voldemort. Soon enough, he is plucked out by his headmaster, the brilliant and enigmatic Albus Dumbledore (Michael Gambon), to carry a task before he returns. Dumbledore wants Harry to persuade Professor Slughorn (Jim Broadbent), who considers himself somewhat of a “collector” of brilliant and talent students, to return to Hogwarts. But Slughorn also holds a secret that is crucial in Harry’s quest to bring down Lord Voldemort. This is Harry’s mission for the sixth year: to discover it. By his side are best friends Ron (Rupert Grint) and Hermione (Emma Watson), who offer advice and support whilst trying to come to terms with whether or not they are more than fond of one another.

So begins a movie experience that is both entertaining and frustrating. Entertaining because, well, look, it’s Harry Potter, how can it be anything but entertaining? Yes, director David Yates offers us constantly appealing visuals and delivers a piece of filmmaking that is both confident and self-assured, but it’s frustrating because it doesn’t seem to utilize the opportunities that adapting this book give a filmmaker. It’s a film without energy, without perseverance, and worst of all, without love for its characters. Dark it may be, but Rowling’s novel found a balance between all the miserable and the magic. At the end of Half-Blood, I was asking, “Where’s the magic?”

It’s not that this is a completely bleak outing. There’s arguably more wit and humour in this one than in any of the previous five, but it’s displaced because there’s no connection between the characters. Yates seems to have succumbed to every aspect of the formula that Mike Newell brought to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – the modern, iPod and Converse trainers approach. Each scene is just a scene, only there to bring us to the next one. You don’t feel anything between them. They just exist. It’s this aspect of the movie that will rile serious moviegoers and lovers of the book. The tone stays neutral all the way through. Rarely are you given the chance to feel nervous, or excited, or sad, or tense. You’ll plunder through, because you should, right? You just have to see how they handled that part of the book.

Characters pop up just to deliver lines, usually lifelessly, and without emotion. And the acting has taken a turn for the worst. Watching the student extras is awkward and embarrassing, especially when they have that single expositional line to utter. The scenes with Harry, Ron and Hermione as their established “trio” are lifeless and dull. They seem eager to be the gang they’re supposed to be, but somewhere along the line they’ve lost the chemistry, like they’ve given up. I blame some of this on some rigid screenwriting, but a looming unenthusiasm weaves throughout this entire tale.

Hagrid (Robbie Coltrane) appears now and again (to deliver some baiting story point) but he and Harry share not a single moment of companionship. This goes for Harry and Dumbledore too, who are supposed to be master and apprentice, like father and son, but actually share a rather bland and uninviting relationship. Gambon plays Dumbledore with a harder edge than Richard Harris did, and I was never comfortable or sure that that was the right decision. Jim Broadbent arguably steals the movie with Slughorn and is consistently joyous to watch, and though Snape (Alan Rickman) has been reduced, like so many, to a tool for delivering exposition, he remains captivating thanks to Rickman’s edgy performance.

The film’s constant need to inform us that Harry and Ginny (Bonnie Wright) and Ron and Hermione have romantic interest in each other goes from sweet to annoying very quickly. Their advancing relationships and sudden foray into adolescence is a big theme in Rowling’s novel, but there it was subtle and uncertain. Here it appears awkward, especially between Harry and Ginny, who insists on talking to Harry in loud whispers, bringing us scenes that force us to clench our teeth and look away. I understand that teenage romances are awkward and bumbling, but the execution here isn’t innocent and naïve: it’s uncomfortable.

It’s also interesting to note that this outing is extremely low on action sequences. The best action sequence in the book has been cut. The ones that are included (or have been created for unexplainable purposes) are boring and never announce to anything. When wands are drawn, the results are slow and uninspiring – sparks fly, people dive and duck about, and it’s over before anything even began. One thing to appreciate, however, is the special effects, which have only improved as the series has gone on. The production design is magnificent, and the detail on Hogwarts itself, the costumes, classrooms and Diagon Alley should be particularly appreciated.

But the movie seems so concerned with getting everything right, that it never slows down to enjoy itself. What we get, therefore, is a rather rigid adaptation. Writing that, I cannot dismiss the fact that I was never bored, and for the length of its running time, I found not one moment of the film to be dragging. It’s entertaining, audience-pleasing filmmaking. It’s just disappointing that so many things that could have easily gone right have gone wrong. Is it that much to ask that we feel some emotional attachment for these characters? Is it that much to ask that they feel some emotional attachment for each other?

After several movies in this vein, I must confess that I miss Chris Columbus. Not that his Harry Potter tales were anything phenomenal, but they certainly encompassed the magic I felt reading the books. And the characters were well drawn, and caring, and held a definite affinity for the material. Hagrid’s return from Azkaban at the end of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets brought me to tears. The climax of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince should have done something similar, but I felt rushed along by the narrative, and the moment was wasted. I’ll liken the experience to one of watching rainbow-coloured paint dry. You watch it because it’s alluring and enticing, but ultimately, it’s actually a rather empty way to spend two and a half hours. (***)

Film Review: Public Enemies (2009)

A wounded John Dillinger (Johnny Depp) seeks solitude in Michael Mann's "Public Enemies"

John Dillinger is one of America’s great anti-heroes. Here is a man who robbed banks for a living. He even went as far as to say it was his “job” - if you think of Dillinger as a self-employed man, then he’s pretty much spot-on with that remark. A criminal he was, yet he became somewhat of an icon amongst America’s poorer folk, a sort of modern-day Robin Hood. Except he didn’t give any of the cash away. He kept it for himself. Michael Mann (of Heat fame) helms Public Enemies, which depicts Dillinger’s battle with the newly established FBI. Their intent is to stop him at any cost.

We open in a prison surrounded by walls so thick you could spend your lifetime chipping away at them and get nowhere close to anywhere inside. Here, Dillinger (Johnny Depp) and his partner John “Red” Hamilton (Jason Clarke) disguise themselves as guards. They get in. They rescue some of their own men. A few people are killed. Then we’re on the road with Dillinger as plans to take as many banks as possible, FBI agent Melvin Purvis (Christian Bale) hot on his tail.

Johnny Depp is chosen to play Dillinger. At first, this sounds like a first-rate decision. Depp, a skilled and extremely versatile actor, is capable of great performances both epic and subtle. Here, he fails. He plays Dillinger too quiet, too brooding, too distant. It’s no fun to watch. Of course, the film is part biopic, it is to base itself on facts, but from my understanding Dillinger was vibrant and vicious as much as he was icy and dry. The Dillinger we see is borderline boring. And the problem with Depp’s performance is the problem with the rest of the film itself – it’s all too cold.

There’s little drama in a movie that could have been rich with the stuff. We’re never given the opportunity to get inside Dillinger’s head. Save for a few broody shots of the man looking out of the window and thinking, there’s never a chance for us to connect with him. He’s an expensive canvas in a good suit with nothing painted on it. When it’s finally time to see Dillinger out, the experience is unemotional. We felt nothing for this man. Not hate, but no sympathy either. What did he stand for? What did he really want? These questions are never addressed.

The best performance comes from Stephen Graham, who plays Dillinger’s accomplice Baby Face Nelson – he gives his character some personally, some defiance that seems missing in everyone else. Christian Bale is rather underwhelming as Purvis. Not bad by any means, but just a tool here, an antagonist for Depp with no real face. Oscar-winner Marion Cotillard stars as Depp’s lover, Billie Frechette, lacing the performance with a nice air of tragedy, though it’s safe to say she won’t win her second Oscar for this.

What can be praised is the cinematography, but I’m not convinced by Mann’s decision to shoot in high definition. It’s an odd contrast to the 1930s setting, and proves to be only distracting. It wastes the spectacular production values in every shot, giving it the look of a television film. And your eyes might have a hard time focusing as the camera refuses to stay still. I’ll argue that this would have been better served on good old-fashioned film.

The main problem with Public Enemies is that is disappointing. It’s not a bad film, but it is not a great film either. The distance felt between the happenings on-screen and the audience makes sure of that. And the lack of dramatic energy is inexcusable – if Melvin Purvis can kill a man he never met in real life, then surely Dillinger can be gifted with an ounce of personality, true or otherwise. The real shame is this will probably always be viewed as the definitive Dillinger film. I will always view it as an opportunity wasted. Peter Travers wrote that Public Enemies is “movie dynamite.” Yes, alright. If the dynamite is never lit. (***)

Talking Point: Michael Jackson (1958-2009)

It’s become a cliché to say it, but Thriller was the first album I ever bought. It also happened to be the first album I ever loved. I remember talking about Michael Jackson with my best friend at the time, and in the spur of the moment, we went into town and purchased copies. They were £5 in a sale. It was 2003, and Thriller had been out for over twenty years. Why a fourteen-year-old kid would suddenly have an urge to buy an album from 1982 is beyond me, but I did, and I became obsessed – it was my life. I only ever listened to Thriller, refusing anything else, and learnt the tracks off by heart. I loved every moment of that 42 minute CD. Each song was a new experience on my untrained ears.

I didn’t even know it was the best selling album of all time. I didn’t know how loved it was. I find it amusing to think that it wasn’t part of my own era (I wasn’t even born when it came out), but it has had more of an effect on me than any album I love from the 90s. Somehow I'd ended up with the album that so many regard as their first and favourite. Now, I notice just how many people can be heard stating, "Yeah, Michael Jackson was my first album," when the topic comes up. Importantly, they state it with a nostalgic fondness.

So what does it mean? Well, it’s obvious – for a lot of people, Michael Jackson seems to have served as a starting point as they begun the incredible and life changing journey that is music. And it’s easy to see why. Thriller is an album that transcends everything. It’s so accessible, and not for reasons of simplicity. Just look at that track listing. Wanna Be Startin’ Something, Billie Jean, Beat It, Thriller, Human Nature, P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing).  Look at the genres. Is it pop, rock, funk, dance, R&B, soul? It speaks to everyone. The music is phenomenal. There’s nothing else like it. In writing this, I’ve suddenly realised something – I can’t even put it into words. Not words that will do it justice, anyway. Its power is unrivalled, and not since has there been an album so influential and funky and exciting and brilliant and treasured. It’s untouchable. It made me like music.

In the wake of Michael Jackson’s death, I decided to re-watch Living With Michael Jackson, the Martin Bashir documentary that aired in 2003 and was described afterwards “as a P.R.’s nightmare” because of the way Jackson came across. Essentially, it was credited with destroying the King of Pop. He was devastated at the way he was portrayed, and Bashir was picked up on his potential use of “yellow journalism.” The documentary was supposed to show the world the real Jackson. His own friend (celebrity psychic Uri Geller) suggested he do it with Bashir, passing on an offer from documentary maker Louis Theroux. This call of judgement ended their friendship.

Hearing the news of Jackson’s death, I was suddenly struck and frozen. Pah. It can’t be true. Michael Jackson can’t die. I didn’t know how to react. I’d always declared him one of my favourite artists, but he had become a joke over the years with increasing negative publicity, and the public’s opinion on him had shifted: they either thought of him as a child molester or they didn’t care. I decided to essentially have no opinion on it. I loved his music. I thought it was possible to separate the music from the man. My recent viewing of Living With Michael Jackson ended my period of indecisiveness and made me realise that the music and the man aren’t really all that separable after all.

What I see in the documentary, now I’m old enough to actually understand, is a fragile, lonely man who lost his childhood and could never find a way to get that part of his life back. Michael Jackson started his life on the stage – he was always famous, in the 70s, in the 80s, in the 90s, and up until his death. “I like to climb trees,” Jackson says in the first minutes of the documentary. This simple childhood pleasure is taken for granted by children (and us) every single day. They do it and nobody says a thing. It's normal. Most children get it out of their system. Michael didn’t. He wasn’t allowed that experience, so he tried to make up for lost time in his later years. He had work cut out for him when he was seven years old. So much was expected. He lived in fear of his father. He lived in fear of failing.

Whether or not the allegations that Michael faced were true or not, I want to look at the bigger picture. He wasn’t normal. He did odd things, and he acted strange. Do I think that was his fault? No, not at all. When you listen to him speak, he is a child. He’s never had time to grow up. At one particularly revealing point in Living With Michael Jackson, he tells Bashir about an encounter he had with his first girlfriend. He explains how she invited him to her home in Beverly Hills and asked him to make love to her. It would have been his first time. When she initiated the act, Michael froze. “I covered my eyes with my hands,” he says. “Like this.” He imitates his actions for Bashir. There’s so much innocence and naivety, and it remains, in a man in his forties.

So how do I feel? Finally, I know. I feel sad. He was an icon, and he changed the world. Nobody can argue that. There’s no doubt in my mind that he will live forever through his music, and will remain firmly tied to our popular culture for as far as I can think ahead. This pleases me. But more than feeling sad, I feel at unease. Not for me, but for Michael. His death was sudden and untimely. There’s always going to be unfinished business. I listen to “One Day In Your Life” and the mood is suddenly poignant. I think of Jackson at the time of the recording, with the world at his fingertips, not knowing what was to come, and not knowing what he had already missed. Yes, it is sadness I feel. I feel sad for Michael, who never had a chance to make peace with the world he gave so much to.

Film Review: Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs (3-D) (2009)

Saber-toothed squirrel Scrat finds himself facing the jurassic jaws of death

In an attempt to bring Jurassic characters to the ice age, the writers of Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs create a world beneath… well, uh, the ice. Below the surface of the frozen Earth our familiar mammal heroes inhabit, exists a forgotten Dinotopia. It’s a lush land of tropical jungles, dark, winding caverns and rivers of magma (if you’re lucky, all presented in glorious 3-D). It’s here that wooly mammoths Manny (Ray Romano) and Ellie (Queen Latifah), who are expecting a child, and saber-toothed tiger Diego (Dennis Leary), must journey in their search for Sid (John Leguizamo), the sloth, who has been taken by a ferocious T-Rex deep underground.

The set-up is simple, and expected, and we’re in familiar territory from the very beginning. Scrat, the franchise’s most iconic character, leads us into what turns out to be a satisfying adventure. The pacing is consistent and there are no dull moments anywhere. It’s mostly action and one-liners, with nearly all of the funny ones said by Buck (Simon Pegg), a bonkers weasel who assumes the role of guide for our heroes in the depths of the dinosaur world. The rest of the jokes are mediocre at best, and rarely worthy of a real laugh - they just fill the gap for the spectacle, which this film emphasizes on over its predecessors.

In 3-D, it looks good. Usually employed as a gimmick to draw moviegoers, Dawn of the Dinosaurs utilizes three dimensions with an offhand casualness that is refreshing. It never declares itself, “Look! This is 3-D! Have you noticed?”, and instead gets on with the film and lets you watch it without throwing annoying effects in your face that are useless to the story. Granted, there isn’t much of a story, but it’s nice. Assuming this film was meant for 3-D, it’s recommend. It didn’t distract.

The cast do a satisfactory job of reading their lines, but that’s all they really do - they don’t have much to work with. The atmosphere and the light-hearted gags will have you smiling, but nobody will be rolling in the aisles. It’s in no way a bad movie, it just relies a lot on nostalgia from the previous films to get through. You care because you already like Manny based on the other films, not because of his character in this one. In the case that this was the first film in a new franchise, it probably wouldn’t hold up too well – the characters are showing signs of thinness, and trying to imagine a further sequel won’t get anyone excited. After three films, this is a nice place to end it. (***)

Film Review: The Hangover (2009)

Hungover groomsmen Stu, Alan, and Phil take a break from their search in "The Hangover"

The premise is classic: four friends take a vacation of hilarious proportion. This time, it’s to Las Vegas, for Doug’s (Justin Bartha) stag night, and with him he brings his relatively fresh-faced cast of buddies - Phil, a school teacher bored with marriage, Stu, a dentist with a girlfriend from Hell, and his soon to be brother-in-law, Alan (Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms, & Zach Galifianakis). The twist? They have an unforgettable night, but we’re not invited to see it. Instead, the story really begins to morning after: Doug is lost, there’s a tiger in the hotel bathroom, and they can’t remember a thing.

What follows is their vacant quest to find the missing groom and figure out what the heck happened after all those shots on the roof of Caesars Palace. They trawl Las Vegas, searching for clues, trying to reacquaint themselves with the familiar. We get the clues as they do, which is a simple touch well played. Along the way, Heather Graham stars as a friendly romantic interest in a performance that is either pointless or underplayed, and Mike Tyson pops up in a turn that is both unnecessary and awkward. Everybody else is great, though, especially the main cast, who bicker and bitch throughout, but remain entirely watchable.

So is The Hangover the kind of film that will keep you in hysterics for the 100-minute runtime? No, probably not. You might not even find yourself laughing out loud once, depending on your taste. That doesn't mean to say that the film isn't funny - it is, and the gag rate is frequent and varied. It's just that the jokes can't seem to find a place between the subtle and the epic. They're blended of both. You’ll snigger to yourself a dozen times, and smile your way through the rest, but the movie seems to winder on an exclusive comedic tone that stops you from exploding with laughter, and dares you to even attempt anything more than a chuckle after the first ten minutes.

Perhaps it’s suggestible that The Hangover would do better under declaration as a comedy drama. No, maybe not. But that thought might pop into the heads of moviegoers. It doesn't have the hysterical factor of say, Apatow classics like Knocked Up or The 40-Year-Old Virgin, but is packed with clever jokes and a brilliant cast who grant you with the warmest feeling when they begin to bond and understand each other. That's the price we pay: we get sentiment instead of some of the smut. It just so happens that most of the sentiment is disguised beneath the smut, so you never really know whether you should be laughing or not. (***)

Film Review: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (2009)

Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox are chased down in Egypt by Decepticon forces

Imagine a world where everything explodes. People, cars, trees, houses, military bases, ships, helicopters, streets, garden ornaments, pyramids… yes, that last one was pyramids. If there’s one director renound for his love of everything fiery and combustible, it’s Michael Bay. If you know a little about film, chances are the first person you think of when you hear the world “explosion” is Michael Bay. To say he’s earned a reputation for that sort of thing is a bit of an understatement, then. For Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, the sequel to the rather good 2007 blockbuster Transformers, Bay has ordered enough pyrotechnics to bomb Europe. And that’s not all.

It’s a few years after the events of the first movie, and Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) is going away to college. His parents are finding it difficult to let go, and his super-model girlfriend (she isn’t actually a super-model, but she's made to look like one) Mikaela Banes (Megan Fox) isn’t sure the relationship isn’t going to work. Or so she says. Living in Sam’s garage is his guardian Bumblebee, one of many Transformers in the movie – these alien beings are able to shift and change shape to blend into life on Earth. They take form as cars, helicopters, trucks, and, uh, sometimes girls. Then Sam goes off to college, Mikaela stays home to work in an auto repair shop and the plot suddenly goes out of the window. It stays that way for 130 minutes.

The plot for the original film was ropey, but you could almost follow it. This film makes no attempt at a feasible plot. In fact, it just seems to trail through, not really sure whether or not there even is one. The characters aren’t even sure. They keep asking questions, and for answers, they get questions. For something without a story, 2 hours and 30 minutes is an awfully long time. There are so many snippets of useless information and unexplained plot points flying at you that eventually you have no choice but to stop thinking. You’re forced to actually tell yourself, “Alright, it’s time to stop trying to understand what’s going on.” You’re left with no choice but to zone out as you watch explosion after explosion, chase after chase, tragic gag after gag.

Then there’s the array of useless characters. Michael Bay seems a little obsessed with assigning characters for every single purpose, and this was noticeable in the first movie, where we could have had one computer hacker, but we got four or five. The sequel makes no intention to correct this. We get added sidekicks who serve no purpose. They’re not funny and they’re not likeable. They’re just nothing. It’s as if Bay took the criticisms he received for the first Transformers outing, laughed a big hearty laugh, and decided to times them by three for the sequel. That’ll show ‘em, he’d say.

Bay also seems to have indulged in the fanboy enthusiasm for Megan Fox. Every shot in the film makes her look like she’s in a music video. She is pretty, and she looks good, but it’s awkward and embarrassing to watch her being filmed like she’s being introduced as a love interest over and over again. You know, that sexy, slow motion thing, this time as she fixes a motorcycle in tight jean shorts. As if to add to the insult, her character is given hardly anything to do. The emotional spectrum is very thin. She alternates between moody and shocked. Kind of how you might feel watching this, actually.

The robots have gone from awesome to annoying. The inclusion of two robots, Mudflap and Skins, was a grave mistake. Their clunking, bickering antics are enough to drive even kids crazy. It’s somewhat of an indication that I wanted the movie to have more focus on the human characters. I wanted to see some weight to Sam and Mikaela’s relationship – by the end, I was wondering why they were even together. There didn’t seem to be much of a connection from what I could see, and any romantic moments were empty and used to fill the gaps between more explosions. Bay’s sense of humour has also hit a noticeable rock bottom. His favourite joke, the humping dog, is used on two occasions. How a man of 44 still finds that funny escapes me.

At least the CGI is good. Well, does it count as good if you can’t really see it? When the fighting starts, it’s impossible to actually catch a glimpse of the battle. It’s just a huge blur of metal and sparks sprinkled with the occasional explosion. You can’t cheer for your hero because you can’t see him. It’s impossible to see who is winning, so you have to just wait until it’s all over to respond. By that time, you probably won’t care anyway. Mr. Bay, pay attention to a movie like Peter Jackson’s King Kong to see how these large-scale battles should work. There was supposed to be a fight between Optimus Prime and Megatron in this movie, but I don’t feel like I’ve seen it.

So are there any redeeming factors to this cautionary tale of excessive over indulgence and a budget of $200 million? To be frank, it isn’t the worst film of all time, and if you can handle having no clear storyline and somehow possess eyes that can differentiate the good robots from the bad ones when they’re tangled up together and surrounded by explosions and falling debris, then you might find some enjoyment in this lengthy blockbuster. But Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is the first example of a movie that left me feeling exhausted from the sheer volume of explosions and fire and destruction. Yes, this is Michael Bay, the man who brought us Bad Boys II and Armageddon, we should have expected it, right? And, yes, it’s just a popcorn movie, right? Yes, it is, but it’s the worst of its kind. (**)