Jurassic World - The new batch

Jurassic World is an adventure 65 million and 14 years in the making, but it’s the 14 that’s the key figure. In the time that’s passed since Jurassic Park III underwhelmed, creatively and commercially, other franchises and shared universes - you know the ones, with fluttering capes, fast cars and giant robots - have come to the fore and made a series that once boasted the biggest film of all time seem like something of, well, a dinosaur.

Not anymore. Colin Trevorrow's assured blockbuster, which has at its core a caution about the dangers of trying to keep up with the Joneses by going bigger and better and faster, is comfortably the best dino-outing since Spielberg's unimpeachable original. Given the competition - The Lost World: Jurassic Park, which had the franchise’s most suspenseful set-piece but also a young girl drop-kicking a velociraptor, and Jurassic Park III, which didn't even have that - that may be the very dictionary definition of damning with faint praise. But Jurassic World is fresh and thrilling, and while it often tips its hat to the original, it’s not a slavish copy, introducing more than enough new wrinkles into the prehistoric playbook to launch a new wave of sequels.
Where both Avengers: Age Of Ultron and Fast & Furious 7 blasted off big this summer with pre-credits blowouts, Trevorrow resists the temptation to plunge us straight into carnivore carnage, opting instead for a Spielbergian slow build. We don’t actually see a full dinosaur until roughly 20 minutes in, with the introduction of Chris Pratt’s Hunk McStubble (not his actual name; that’s Owen Grady) and his band of trained raptors. But if anyone thought, following the money shot of Pratt riding with his fanged friends at the end of the first trailer, that the series’ most effective threats had been neutered, we’re very quickly reminded that they still have teeth and claws and big appetites. But for his Big Badosaurus, Trevorrow needed something new. Enter the Indominus Rex: a truly terrible lizard.
Genetically engineered by BD Wong’s Dr. Henry Wu (the only returning cast member, though watch out for nods to Ian Malcolm), the Indominus Rex – named by a focus group, naturally – is the spared-no-expense dinosaur to end all dinosaurs. Literally. It’s a giant, chameleonic mother with all kinds of nasty tricks up its scaly sleeve, and once it gets out into the wider World, chaos reigns. From the off, fuelled by Michael Crichton’s big brain, Jurassic Park has always been a debate about the boundaries of science, and here that’s explored further. The Indominus is a textbook example of scientists being so preoccupied with whether they could that they didn’t stop to think if they should. Silly scientists.
It’s at once a neat comment on our been-there-done-that generation, which so quickly gets bored with the new, and a genuinely menacing movie monster. Despite being the size of a Routemaster, it lends itself neatly to several suspense sequences dotted throughout the movie, notably an Aliens-esque moment when it makes mincemeat out of a platoon of Muldoons. Because it’s been engineered in a lab, and because it’s batshit loco, single-clawedly creating the series’ biggest body count, it’s the first Jurassic Park resident that can be treated as a villain, and not a living, breathing animal simply doing what living, breathing animals do, thus giving our heroes no qualms whatsoever about trying to blast it into oblivion.
Of those heroes, Pratt cements his reputation as cinema’s new go-to leading man, even if he’s not quite as quippy or charming here as Guardians Of The Galaxy’s Star-Lord. Like Indiana Jones, he’s an unyielding man of action, who’s pretty much the same at the picture’s end as he is at the beginning. Instead, the major character arcs go to other humans and, intriguingly, certain dinosaurs. Both Nick Robinson and Ty Simpkins, as the brothers who become embroiled in the turmoil, bring surprising notes and warmth to roles that could have been standard movie brats you can’t wait to see get munched.
In a way, neatly heading those accusations of '70s-era sexism at the pass, the biggest arc belongs to Bryce Dallas Howard. When we first meet her park supervisor, Brittle McButtonedup (not her actual name; that’s Claire Dearing), she’s not entirely cold-blooded, but she is more preoccupied with profit margins than looking after her visiting nephews (in a neat touch, she can’t even remember their ages), but by movie’s end has transformed into a flare-wielding furiosa. Life finds a way.
It’s not all plain sailing – InGen’s villainous agenda has a hazy, underdeveloped, fix-it-in-the-sequel vibe, while some of the supporting characters feel like mere sketches. Fans of Vincent D’Onofrio’s incredible turn in Daredevil will be disappointed to find him on one-note form here as arch villain, Evil McMoustachetwirlerson (not his actual name; that’s Vic Hoskins). And some professional pooh-poohers may also have a problem with the everything-but-the-genetically-modified-kitchen-sink climax.
But the joy here comes from watching a new director on the summer blockbuster scene make an impact. Trevorrow’s debut was the lo-sci-fi Safety Not Guaranteed, and this is a significant step up. He’s at ease with the oohs and the aahs as he is with the running and screaming, even if he knows full well that the impact of the original’s astonishing ‘you-will-believe-a-dinosaur-can-roar’ effects can’t be recreated (though ILM does sterling work here). And when the dino-shit really hits the fan, you can almost hear him cackling as he piles outrageous beat upon outrageous beat. After careful consideration, I've decided to endorse this park.

Grade - B

The most notorious theme park in movie history reopens in thrilling, terrific style. Enjoy the ride.

The Adventures of Tintin: The Secret of the Unicorn - Blistering blockbusters!

Belgian, contend that all art is finally self-portrait. This being the case, maybe we can catch a reflection of the animated double-act that is Tintin – globetrotting journalist of indeterminate age but with last-ditch gumption in spades – and Captain Archibald Haddock – semi-functioning, disaster-prone alcoholic salt of (nearly) unfailing positivity – in the budding partnership of Steven Spielberg (our Tintin) and producer Peter Jackson (our Haddock).

Heaven forfend we suggest The Hobbit director conceals jars of whiskey about his person or that his liquor-fumed belches might kick-start the engine of a crash-landing aircraft, but the Kiwi producer has cajoled a joie de cinema from his American director, who appeared so bogged down upholding the legacy of The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull. Animated or not, depending on your stance of this whole performance-capture game, Spielberg has brought a boy’s heart, an artist’s guile, and a movie-lover’s wit to computer generating Hergé’s immortal hero. Where Jackson was the Tintin geek, following the ageless Belgique Morrissey on his dashing but non-superheroic escapades as a kid, Spielberg only got the bug when a French critic (them again) likened Raiders to Europe’s all-time favourite comic-book idol. In effect, Spielberg landed the goofball sidekick with whom to traverse the globe, without leaving the studio.

From the Nouvelle Vague flourish of the opening credits, featuring Tintin in silhouette dashing past giant typewriters and former foes, recalling the Saul Bass-themed curtain raiser of Catch Me If You Can, set off by John Williams’ fleet-fingered piano score, the mood is set. Here is a joyful play of opposites: the romance of old-school cinema, conjured by the slick synthesis of CG wizardry.

Vitally, as near as can be, here too is the ardent, moules-frites aroma of Hergé’s rainbow-lovely world of high adventure and colloquial antics. Spielberg’s first venture into animation (we’ll stick with that) expands the Belgian’s formal elegance into a wonderland of digital detail without ever losing sight of the bubbly charm of the books. Encompassing the shovel chins and bobbled noses of the Hergéian caricatures, Weta pursues a whimsical variation on photoreal. But it’s not just about the flour-fine textures of sand or gunpowder, the flicker of firelight across a blade or a breeze ruffling Tintin’s unbendable forelock. This is also an expansion of the Spielbergian dream (with a tincture of Jackson’s boldness). Like a boy set free from the schoolroom of reality, he lets fly.

In an exalted midsection, in which Haddock, stricken by sobriety, relays his family history, we flow with unceasing movement between his telling and a titanic sea battle of old. Here, finally, is what the medium offers a filmmaker. Spielberg reaches a delirium of creativity through match cuts and dissolves: reflections in blades, bubbles, the bottom of a whiskey bottle transformed into a telescope, and a desert morphing into a squalling ocean. Across the film’s sunburst of entertainment, the director applies the rain-slicked atmosphere of Jules Dassin’s noir, Indy’s self-mocking awareness of genre, and the catapult-momentum of the Keystone Kops. The 3D, neither fish nor fowl, is simply part of whole immersive effect: Hergé by Spielberg.

We open in what might be Paris, in what might be the ’30s – as with Hergé, it is a mythical, timeless world: cobbled streets, shuttered windows, old ladies walking decadent dogs, and for the eagle-eyed cineaste a homage to Robert Bresson’s 1959 Franco-classic Pickpocket. The introduction of Tintin is a gag so good we can’t possibly spoil it here. There has been an understandable fretting over how Tintin would be depicted on film, a tricky task given his Belgian creator effectively made him a blank slate on which we project our dreams. Spielberg, with his writing trio of Anglo-nerds – Doctor Who’s Steven Moffat, Scott Pilgrim’s Edgar Wright and Adam & Joe’s Joe Cornish – has bravely kept faith with the author.

Jamie Bell gives him a neutral English accent and a boyish gait, but he remains lightly sketched: depending on the age of the viewer, translatable to 15 or 30. His face is blankly handsome, cheeks lightly blushed, eyes expressive and bright as light bulbs (not a hint of the dead-eye that plagued Robert Zemeckis). It is the jutting crest of hair that cuts a shadow as iconic as the brim of Indiana Jones’ fedora.

As we know Indy as an easily diverted archaeologist, Tintin’s job description is cleared up – he is the roving reporter who never files his copy! Although, as Harry Thompson reported in his excellent biography Hergé & His Creation, the writer-artist was drawing upon the ’20s fashion for adventurer-reporters, who created their own news. And this boy certainly has a nose for a story: he barely strolls through a French market, before he’s up to his jodhpurs in a conspiracy surrounding the Haddocks’ absconded heritage and Sakharine (Daniel Craig) of the perfectly Mephistophelean beard.

While Tintin is coolly abstract, his co-stars are a gang of Dickensian cranks and kooks. The potential mishap of Snowy, his faithful wire fox terrier, is rendered as the smartest dog in town regularly tugging his master from the brink of disaster, but not some preternatural Scooby-Doo. Although more fool those who leave a sandwich untended. In short, the kids will adore him. For all that the film plays the nostalgia card for the devoted Tintinologist (their hearts warmed by soprano Bianca Castafiore’s glass-shattering assault on Haddock’s eardrums) Snowy offers the unabashed charm of the heroic pooch.

Even the most Hergé-phobic will know that Haddock is the funny man, Tintin the straight guy. Andy Serkis, in a broad Scots brogue, again surpasses the limitations of not being physically there. The jury is still out on whether performance-capture attains something greater than animation, but Serkis gives the movie its rich, flawed, bountiful heart. In another bravura set-piece that amplifies like a wondrous Rube Goldberg contraption, Tintin picks his way between the swaying bunks of a cabin full of snoring Quints, as Haddock unhelpfully regales him with their distinctive traits. Reporting on the tragic loss of one particularly shifty crewman’s “eyelids”, we glimpse a pair of yawning lifeless(!) eyeballs. “That was one hell of a card game!” sighs Serkis with perfect timing, a faraway look momentarily in Haddock’s piercing blue eyes. For all the flurry of detail, the victory here, like Pixar, is of creating recognisable humanity.

Away from Haddock the script struggles to be out-and-out funny. Interpol’s worst, Thomson and Thompson, in the plumbed double-act of Pegg and Frost, provide slapstick and idiocy with a fifty per cent hit rate. The much funnier Professor Calculus remains on the back burner for a Peter Jackson-directed sequel.

No room is found for Hergé’s political satire, or his more becalmed, intuitive moments, to gaze, incredulous, at the world – an iconography so ingrained in the artist’s style it might be untranslatable. And, with performance capture, there is still that gravitational pull toward endless chase sequences. The pace throughout is rat-a-tat-tat quick, the plot tripping along, and the exposition breathless. You have a job keeping up, but never at the expense of the sheer goodwill. While luxuriating in its pre-existing universe, here is a film imploring you to join in. It would take a hard heart to resist.

Grade - A-

Action-packed, gorgeous, and faithfully whimsical: Hergé thought Spielberg the only director capable of filming Tintin. He was onto something.

Guardians Of The Galaxy - Banter Fodder

If you’re old enough to remember watching John-Boy from The Waltons fly a spaceship that looked like a massive pair of breasts on VHS, then there is plenty in Guardians Of The Galaxy for you. And if you’re young enough to accept without scoffing the sight of a talking raccoon wielding a heavy calibre weapon, then you’re in the right quadrant, too. No doubt keenly aware that this movie lacks even a smidgen of the brand awareness of its previous output, Marvel has savvily located its latest megabudget entertainment firmly in the Venn diagram overlap between Modern Innocence and ’80s Irony.

Battle Beyond The Stars, Flight Of The Navigator, Mike Hodges’ Flash Gordon, Back To The Future (2), Raiders Of The Lost Ark, Total Recall and a certain other space-based saga all donate their DNA, and Guardians isn’t about to apologise for replicating it. It’s proud of its heritage, dammit, right down its 1988-on-Earth prologue, “Awesome Mix” tape-cassette soundtrack, and scoundrel hero Peter Quill (Chris Pratt) describing the film’s spherical MacGuffin as having an “Ark Of The Covenant, Maltese Falcon vibe”.
Writer/director James Gunn (Slither, Super), true to his roots, even injects some fluoro-gungy Troma flavour making it all feel like Star Trek from a punked-up parallel reality where Gene Roddenberry was actually Lloyd Kaufman.
A good portion of the film is solid, set-based and (relatively speaking) grounded, avoiding the wispy daylight glow of pure-pixel backdrops. Gunn’s strengths are most evident during the central team-gathering sequence, where Quill, wiseacre raccoon-thing Rocket (voiced by Bradley Cooper), sentient tree Groot (voiced by Vin Diesel), green assassin Gamora (Saldana) and vengeful big baldie Drax (former pro-wrestler Dave Bautista) discover their synergistic power during a hugely enjoyable prison break, which somehow involves the removal of a prosthetic leg and its subsequent use as a weapon.
Gunn and co-writer Nicole Perlman keep things breezy and snappy (it’s the Marvel way now: snark over dark), importing the Avengers’ banter-bickering into the self-aware B-sci-fi setting; which, given the Joss Whedon connection, means this is also reminiscent of Firefly/Serenity. And Gunn’s cast appropriately, from reforming Parks And Recreation’s Andy as a buff galactic lothario to having the voice of Face come from the face of a raccoon — while the pair enjoyably vie for the position of this film’s Han Solo. You’ll hear much about how either Groot or Rocket steal it — the bark-and-bite pairing certainly have their moments — but the big surprise is Bautista’s Drax. Cursed with a genetic inability to understand metaphors, the movie’s apparent muscleman actually has many of the film’s wittiest lines. (“Nothing goes over my head. My reflexes are too fast. I would catch it.”)
The antagonistic contingent, however, is less successful. Lee Pace’s Ronan, Djimon Hounsou’s Korath and Karen Gillan’s Nebula feel barely written, although the one-time Who companion looks fantastic with blue skin and shark eyes and exhibits a tight-focused anti-charisma in a thinly sketched part. And ‘phantom menace’ Thanos (Josh Brolin) is an embarrassment: a lantern-jawed CG ’toon blessedly only given a minute or so of screentime.
As much as Guardians largely thrives through its lovably scuzzy style, it cannot avoid the immense tractor-beam pull of The Big Marvel Studios Final Act. Only a few months ago, reviewing Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Empire exhibited frustration at yet another climax which involved a frantic sky battle, culminating in a giant object crashing to the ground. Well here we have yet another. There is even a replay of Thor: The Dark World’s CG-drenched Infinity Stone struggle, although now it’s purple swirly stuff rather than red. For all the digital artistry on display, these Marvel final set-pieces are becoming suggestive of a climax-by-committee default mode.
Still, Gunn thankfully pulls the film back onto its own turf once the big fight’s over. And Guardians Of The Galaxy does expand the breadth and diversity of the Marvel Universe; we go beyond superheroes and threats to Earth. It also proves how even a kid raised by Troma in the filmmaking badlands can succeed in Blockbuster City.

Grade - A

Colourful, tongue-in-cheek fun, purpose-built for grown-up lovers of kitsch ’80s science-fiction. But the Marvel formula is starting to feel, well, a little too formulaic.

Dawn Of The Planet Of The Apes - Hail Caesar

The highest compliment you can pay Matt Reeves’ impressively uncompromising, propulsive and, yet, poignant sequel to the prequel that wasn’t quite a reboot of the Chuck Heston franchise (they supposedly still share narrative DNA) is how soon you take its achievements for granted. Before long, you stop being amazed by the mottled contours of Andy Serkis’ noble Caesar, troubled leader of a simian community in the arboreal heart of California. Your jaw remains in place at the ravaged visage of Toby Kebbell’s war-mongering Koba as his distrust of humankind stews into ravenous hatred. No awe is inspired as an army of nigh-on photo-real chimpanzees, gorillas and orangutans (one gentle orange giant going by the name of Maurice) swing, scramble and ride bareback into what remains of the streets of San Francisco.
You are far too wrapped up in the journey, indeed the fraught emotions of a set of characters — most of whom just happen to be very smart apes — to stop and gawp. Transformers’ ‘marvels’, jerking and rattling like fairground Twisters on overdrive, clamour for our attention. Reeves calls upon the multifarious talents of Weta Digital, who have taken hair follicles and tooth cavities from uncanny valley to the silvery mountaintops of the hyper-real, to simply meet his requirements, not define his storytelling. He wants you to pay attention to what is going on.

As you may have read, Reeves came on board the prequel-sequel following Rise-director Rupert Wyatt’s departure, unwilling to split hairs with the studio. His first act was to beat a slight retreat from Wyatt’s apparently more forward-looking set-up to a middle-film scenario where the apes still communicate in a caveman staccato (Serkis’ Caesar frequently slipping into a fine Brando-as-Vito Corleone) but have built a functioning proto-society in a wood-bound shanty town of huts, spiked walls and walkways like a particularly paranoid Ewok village.
We hasten to add that forest, apes’ enclave and rubble-strewn San Francisco are all actually there. Reeves determinedly places his ‘real’ apes in a physical landscape. Apart from a partial surrender to the spectacular for the necessity of the big finale, which falls back into a more obviously CG-supplied zone of disintegrating masonry and that old chestnut, the collapsing gantry, the film is a celebration of real-world aesthetics. The overall look and mood shoots for a brooding, overcast intensity, often drenched by downpours (one order for wet fur, please Weta) — Mark Bomback, Rick Jaffa and Amanda Silver’s script doesn’t go for funny. It is as bleak and sodden as Franklin J. Schaffner’s 1968 progenitor was sun-baked.

There is an irony in a film so reliant on computers to create its characters being set in a world where technology is effectively redundant. Moreover, events turn on the fact the apes’ hideaway happens to be in the vicinity of an abandoned hydroelectric dam — the opportunity for a troupe of human outliers, led by the warm-hearted engineer Malcolm (the always strong Jason Clarke), to return power to the Homo sapiens pack mustering amongst the bones of San Fran.
Despite the paw of friendship being shakily offered, a series of betrayals will mean both Caesar and Malcolm — who are deliberately matched as peaceable, family types — will have to swallow the hard lesson that prejudice and violence lurk on both sides of the species divide. Quick on the uptake, and poisoned by years in a research facility, Koba encourages his cadre of bad apes to get to grips with firearms. His human opposite is fraught human leader Dreyfus, played by Gary Oldman, who evokes post-apocalyptic ennui by reprising his effective trick of talking reasonably then SUDDENLY SHOUTING (and sounding a tiny bit like Heston as Taylor). In other words, the preordained battle for planetary dominance begins and all hell swiftly breaks loose.
Now officially credited as the leading man, Serkis’ performance as Caesar is another evolutionary bound forward for the art form begun with Gollum. Beyond the actor’s brilliant facsimile of animal gestures, he gives Caesar a complex personality: burdened leader, loving family ape and fierce warrior, short on trust and dangerously protective of his turf. It may just be us, but there is a Serkisness to Caesar’s eyes and body language, and yet he is a chimpanzee. Just as there is a discernable Kebbellness to the conniving, psychopathic Koba. On an almost meta level, the film challenges our own prejudices. Can digital effects become so good, so indistinguishable from real life, that you form a genuine emotional connection with them? And, given human actors and human artists are at the heart of that process, should we even think of them as special effects? It’s another thing that confounds the film’s blockbuster status — just how moving it is.
Reeves is a director who adapts to his environment. He was able to switch from the wobblecam hysteria of found-footage hit Cloverfield to the stillness and melancholy of vampire remake Let Me In. Quite who he is as director is a mystery, although he clearly has a keen desire to bed the fantastical in the commonplace (however ruined). At least with Dawn he has allowed himself to revel in the details. Not just in the spread of light within a simian eyeball or the lie of dampened fur, but in spicing up his turbulent action with flashes of high style.
For one bravura sequence, in which Koba hijacks a tank, Reeves fixes the camera to the turret madly revolving through 360 degrees, as the tank lurches forward, and the scene-spinning background teems with angry apes and terrified humans. Throughout its furious, thrilling skirmishes, Dawn honours the horse-bound world of Heston-era Apes movies (as does Michael Giacchino’s terrific percussion-crazed score).
With the technical ambitions equalled and bested, and beautifully married to story, it is in the story itself the film lacks a bit of ambition. The strident themes of the original series and even Rise — race, ecology, the hubris of science and the cage of instinct — allowed them to reflect their times. In its localised way, Dawn is preoccupied with more obvious concepts of family and belonging. There are few mysteries to unravel, no grand time-torturing twists. The overarching story doesn’t really move on that much at all. Aside from its emotional punch and action, the film is quite predictable in its moves. It has the marked moral ground of a B-Western: good hats and bad hats, carefully classified. Or, if you will, cowboys and Native Americans (take your pick which is which).
In fact, it feels more Western than science-fiction. Yet even if the scope is relatively narrow, within the tight, gritty confines of the story, Reeves and his team have excelled. So much so, you really don’t notice.

Grade - A-

A superbly mounted, powerfully performed, if slightly underfed Apes sequel. That Reeves is set to direct Untitled Of The Planet Of The Apes next is cause for much celebration. This guy’s fur real.

Ant-Man - Small-time crook

 

In a rare bid for the Honesty In Advertising Award, the most recent collected edition of Ant-Man comics is blurbed with, “Scott Lang has never exactly been the world’s best super hero. Shit, most people don’t even think he’s been the best Ant-Man!” In their ongoing attempt to populate a cinema-TV universe with iterations of the characters they wholly own, Marvel has understandably foregrounded heroes of stature and iconic crossover appeal: Iron Man, Thor, the Hulk, Captain America, Daredevil. But it’s always been a strength of the shared universe created (largely) by Jack Kirby and Stan Lee (and, in this case, Larry Lieber) that it’s populated not only by titans who can be teamed up in something called the All-Winners Squad but by a range of lesser, flawed, not always admirable or important or even successful characters.

When — lo, these many moons ago — it was announced that Edgar Wright was developing an Ant-Man movie for Marvel, most fans assumed it wouldn’t be about Scott Lang – a divorced ex-con trying to maintain a relationship with his daughter, created by John Byrne and David Michelinie in 1979 — but Marvel’s original Ant-Man, Hank Pym, a Lee-Kirby founding Avenger whose big plotline (he created Ultron) got reassigned to the higher-profile Tony Stark in the movies. Actually, this is typical of the way Ant-Men can’t get a break. Maybe it’s that downtrodden, easy-to-underestimate mighty mite quality that has made various iterations of the character — no-one likes to talk about the Irredeemable Ant-Man — stick around for 50 years, despite almost never having a comic title to call their own. Having set out its big guns in its first phase, Marvel shook things up last year with Guardians Of The Galaxy, extending its cinema superhero universe into another genre (roguish space opera) and highlighting second-string characters. Coming off Avengers: Age Of Ultron, the dice get thrown again in Ant-Man, in which perennial also-ran Scott Lang gets a decent introduction and perennially overlooked Hank Pym finally gets some dignity.

After some years in pre-production, Wright departed the project — although he and Joe Cornish get story and script credits, with another script draft by star Paul Rudd and his writing partner Adam McKay. Into the director’s spot stepped Peyton Reed, best known for Bring It On but without a feature credit since Yes Man and another of the run of directors Marvel has been preferring over auteurs like Ang Lee or Sam Raimi in putting together their overarching film franchise. In the process, we may have been rooked out of a spikier, stranger Edgar Wright movie — which isn’t to say that Reed’s Ant-Man doesn’t have its moments of ambition and inspiration, especially when exploring the brand of transcendental mysticism pioneered by The Incredible Shrinking Man (which inspired Kirby and Lee’s Tales To Astonish story in the first place). The Marvel Movie Method is now proven, and seems to guarantee that individual films will deliver solid, top-of-mid-range thrills with a side-order of emotional content. Here, look for the moment when Scott tells Pym’s daughter Hope (Evangeline Lilly, with a serious haircut) why her father didn’t put her in the shrinking suit. Also part of the package are self-deprecation (a good-humoured joke about the tendency of Marvel films to end with big objects falling from the sky), guest spots, bits of fill-in history (yes, a dangling plot-thread about Pym’s old partner, the Wasp) and a post-credits teaser for what’s coming next.

The set-up is that Darren Cross (Corey Stoll), another of Marvel’s one-use-only arch-nemeses, is close to replicating Pym’s shrinking technology for Evil Purposes, prompting the wry, regretful Pym (Michael Douglas, looking like he’s having the best fun in ages) to recruit Lang to steal back his tech. Superhero heist movies are thin on the ground so this has a relatively fresh — if basic — plot, with Scott learning how to use his size-changing powers (and how to get on with ants) then going into action (accompanied by Christophe Beck’s catchy theme) to infiltrate super-secure facilities. It’s odd that Scott is saddled with three ethnic stereotype crook buddies (“Not those wombats,” Pym complains) who tend to make an already light-hearted film a little too broad (Reed used to direct Disney TV stuff like remakes of The Love Bug and The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes, which have a similar tone). Rudd, like Chris Pratt in Guardians, is a fine straight leading man who can pull off sillier moments where he’s his own comic relief so he doesn’t need the likes of motormouth Michael Peña (a throwback Richard Pryor in Superman III) around to boost the laughs.

Besides being a breezy superhero heist movie, Ant-Man is the latest in a succession of shrinking-people movies which have shown off state-of-the-art effects at the time of production — worthy successor to the likes of The Devil-Doll, The Incredible Shrinking Man and Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. In brilliantly realised moments, Ant-Man clings to the grooves of a vinyl record, feeds a drop of water to his favourite ant, explores the infinitely small (a genuinely cool 3D trip) and has a climactic confrontation with an equally miniaturised baddie in an out-of-control Thomas The Tank Engine tabletop layout which seems huge and dangerous to them, though a witty shot pulls back to show the frenetic action-movie fireworks just boil down to a toy train falling over.

Grade - A+

A science-fiction, action-heist, superhero comedy soap opera, this straddles as many genres as the Avengers films have characters but manages to do most of them pretty well. Extremely likable, with a few moments of proper wonder.

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo - Rape, chrome dildos, emotional scars - Merry Christmas!

"F%&.k You You F%$king F#*ker." The T-shirt (briefly) worn by Rooney Mara’s Lisbeth Salander in David Fincher’s adaptation of Stieg Larsson’s bestselling novel speaks volumes. First of all, it addresses the nay-sayers who thought Niels Arden Oplev’s 2009 original should be left alone — not because it was any kind of cinematic masterpiece, but because the previously unknown Noomi Rapace’s centrepiece performance was deemed definitive. But it also deftly represents The Social Network director’s personality. While aspects of the media disparaged his awards-season chances against The King’s Speech last year, Fincher was already disengaged from the beauty contest and hard at work on this excellent, often pitch-dark but otherwise almost note-perfect thriller.

It was, it must be said, a weird thing to want to do: remake a European hit so soon after its original release. But Fincher’s effort is perhaps the film Larsson’s book deserved all along; it may largely be faithful to the main story, but Steven Zaillian’s economic, witty script compacts and tidies up the minor details that make the difference between a very good literary adaptation and a gripping cinematic thriller. And while Blomkvist’s labyrinthine travails reappear in the last half hour, Fincher’s film sensibly concentrates on the whodunnit element — most smartly of all, dispensing with the strange quirk of Swedish justice that allowed Blomkvist to go to jail at the very end of the original.

Instead, Blomkvist is a ruined man, and Craig is the perfect foil to the eventual, explosive arrival of The Girl. Even though everyone else seems to have a Swedish accent, however slight, Craig plays it with his own, but surprisingly the effect doesn’t jar. Bleary-eyed, stubbled and often seen in disturbingly unfashionable winceyette pyjama bottoms, Blomkvist is a low-key, effective everyman in what could easily be an overplayed, hokey story. The wonderful Christopher Plummer — excellent in Mike Mills’ Beginners too, and looking at an Oscar nomination either way — is especially delicious in this regard, inviting the writer into a story that involves “thieves, misers, bullies — the most detestable collection of people you will ever meet”. Then he adds the clincher: “My family.”

The Girl herself takes her time, and Lisbeth’s story takes a good while to bed down as Blomkvist gets to grips with the dysfunctional Vangers. And without wishing to get too caught up in comparisons with the other movie, Mara’s performance completely holds its own here. Where Rapace was aloof and flinty, Mara is more childlike and mercurial. Her actual age (withheld, for good reason, for most of the film’s running time) is hard to fathom. When she flips her hoodie she could be a 14 year-old boy; when being raped (rather graphically) by her legal guardian she could be any underage girl. But when she’s in control — which is much more satisfyingly shown here, given the age gap between herself and Blomkvist — she is most definitely a woman.

The main thing, however, is perhaps how much Fincher has grown into the role of auteur, without apparently trying or even wanting to. While it appears to be another one of Fincher’s five-finger exercises — like Panic Room or The Game — this is a film that could prove to be a key work when the big study book is written. The oily, exhilarating credit sequence suggests a knowing, Fight Club-style subversion of Craig’s 007 persona; the awkward parental bond between Blomkvist and his daughter recalls the wistful poetry of Benjamin Button; Vanger’s need for closure echoes that of Robert Graysmith in Zodiac; the film’s casual, slyly funny cyberpunk heroism makes a great counterpoint to the dry, sceptical satire of The Social Network, and the whole film is suffused with the harsh brutality of Seven.

Are there flaws? Well, arguably, in the decompressing final stretch, which relates back to the book and opens the door to the possibility/inevitability of a trilogy. But that also enables an ostensibly hard film to wind down to a surprisingly tender climax. Though Fincher professes to be a hard-ass both professionally and aesthetically — and with its not-to-be-underestimated moments of anal rape and torture, his film is not for the faint-hearted — The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo says more about broken hearts than broken people. Which, to address the nay-sayers, is where Fincher went right.

Grade - B+

A tough, post-punk Tintin-meets-Klute for the Occupy Wall Street set, this kinetic, hard-edged thriller is the perfect festive comedown for Fincher fans and dysfunctional families everywhere.

Skyfall

Skyfall, the latest installment in the long-running saga based on Ian Fleming’s James Bond character, forces the British action-hero to dig into his own past if he intends to overcome a dangerous new foe. Director Sam Mendes (American Beauty and Jarhead) ditches the inter-connected “Quantum” narrative of the last two Bond films, Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace, in favor of an entirely new storyline that plays on larger connections to the overarching character canon and sets the stage for a more “refined” version of 007.

Considering many fans have celebrated Craig’s rough and gritty interpretation of the iconic character (currently enjoying a big screen 50th anniversary), did Mendes successfully produce a James Bond film with all the essentials (a smart story, memorable villain, and beautiful women) – while at the same time successfully balancing the updated franchise direction with the re-introduction of a few “traditional” Bond elements?

In Skyfall, Mendes easily provides one of the more inspired James Bond installments to date, painfully digging into the backstories of both 007 and M (Judi Dench) in an attempt to say something meaningful about fallible people instead of simply showcasing iconic characters in motion. Apart from its franchise appeal, Skyfall would still be a sharp character-focused spy drama with plenty of intriguing as well as thrilling set pieces; however, interestingly, the film’s various attempts to fit Bond into a more “customary” mold (especially his womanizing ways) are ultimately the weakest aspects of the endeavor. That said, while the subtle course-corrections over-complicate a relatively straightforward story, without adding much to the well-established character mold, they shouldn’t distract too much from the quality of the larger Skyfall adventure.

After a botched MI6 operation leads to a scramble across Istanbul, M gambles with Bond’s life – in a desperate attempt to procure a stolen data disk containing the identities of undercover operatives around the globe. Unfortunately, she makes the wrong call and with Bond missing in action, the disk is lost. Months later, when news of a deadly attack on MI6 headquarters catches up to Bond, who has been hiding out in a seaside paradise “enjoying death,” the 00 agent is pulled out of his self-mandated retirement to investigate the looming threat and recover the disk. Unfortunately, the time away from his secret agent life has left Bond worn-down and physically broken. Can 007 get up to speed in time to stop terrorist leader Raoul Silva (Javier Bardem) – a dangerous man with an equally mysterious connection to M and the MI6 agency?

Despite an awkward pacing to the larger plot points and a core storyline that isn’t quite as unique (or smart) as its premise, in a franchise that rarely takes the time to consider Bond, the man, separate from his iconic characteristics (and numerous sexual conquests), Skyfall successfully digs deeper than most entries in the series – showcasing a version of the character that isn’t all polish and slick one-liners. Instead, Mendes offers a Bond that is actually capable of walking away from his responsibilities – drowning his anger and bitterness in the bottom of tequila glasses instead of chasing after evildoers. It’s an intriguing exploration of a familiar character’s limits (a subject that is rarely explored in the film franchise). It isn’t until Bond sees the flaming image of MI6 headquarters that he decides to put aside his grievances and get back to work.

Unsurprisingly, Craig revels in the chance to continue fleshing out Bond’s deep-seeded issues – instead of just hitting series action beats. As mentioned, the resurrected Bond presents a lot of fun opportunities for Craig to toe-the-line between his Casino Royale character, a man that would smash through walls to accost a fleeing bad guy, and a more “familiar” variation of 007 – basically, as Q (Ben Whinshaw) says while describing Bond’s new Walther PPK-S, “less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement.” Still, for moviegoers who crave hard-hitting action set pieces, Craig is afforded plenty of rough-and-tumble butt kicking – especially during the film’s opening and finale sequences.

While the last few Bond movies have delivered competent adventures, it’s been a while since a modern Bond film included a villain that could stand shoulder to shoulder with memorable rogues like Oddjob, Goldfinger, and Ernst Stavro Blofeld. However, in spite of his homicidal tendencies, Skyfall terrorist Silva is very fun to watch – relying on a smart juxtaposition of charm and ruthless bloodlust to mirror Bond’s own demons. Unlike recent 007 villains who, even with their own unique quirks, are little more than human faces superimposed onto malevolent organizations, an extremely shaded performance from Bardem will, for many, remind them of the “love to hate him” experience of Heath Ledger’s Joker in The Dark Knight – cementing the character as a worthy addition to the list of James Bond scoundrels.

A new batch of supporting players also help to make everyone on the MI6 team relevant in the moment, not just pre-mission exposition machines. For example, the interactions between Bond and Ben Whishaw’s Q are especially entertaining – but the character’s utility isn’t just limited to equipping 007 with gadgets, he’s also integral to the larger movie narrative. Similar to Bond, Q, along with characters like Gareth Mallory (Ralph Fiennes), and Eve (Naomie Harris), are developed human beings with their own personal arcs that interweave with 007’s secret agent antics. The result is a much richer world for Bond to inhabit – one that, subsequently, gives audiences an amusing collection of fleshed out personalities to enjoy.

Skyfall also makes a strong argument for the impact of practical effects – especially in an industry where eye-popping 3D visuals are increasingly becoming the go-to approach for blockbuster filmmakers. Few of the action set pieces rely on CGI fillers and the result is a grounded and immersive experience that, in lieu of over-the-top gimmicks, allows for a number of entertaining cat and mouse chases, hard-hitting hand-to-hand fisticuffs, and a surprisingly impactful finale that’s as big on emotion as it is explosives. Additionally, Mendes, and cinematographer Roger Deakins, convey a number of breathtaking images (especially in Shanghai) that rank among the most captivating visuals ever depicted in a Bond film (or quite possibly film in general).

Still, for all the film does right, Skyfall‘s attempt to bring 007 in harmony with Fleming’s iconic creation often work against the success of the experience – at times dropping nuanced character exploration in favor of showing Bond engaging in his usual “iconic” antics. There’s no shortage of sexual encounters in the film but one in particular, a mid-movie shower rendezvous, serves absolutely no purpose in developing the character or advancing the plot. Some viewers will no doubt defend the scene by saying, “Bond is a womanizer” but, given the insight that Mendes attempts to supply for the man behind the legend, it’s an abrupt shift when the director then subverts the man and recklessly glorifies the legend for no greater purpose.

Nevertheless, as mentioned, Skyfall‘s few shortcomings are not enough to derail enjoyment of the film. Scene to scene, moment to moment, the movie offers one of the richest and most interesting Bond adventures – even if the core premise isn’t quite as sharp as the various characters scrambling around the screen. For every awkward misstep in Skyfall, Mendes provides several standout moments – resulting in an especially entertaining and provocative 007 adventure. Great things are to be expected in Spectre.

Avengers Age Of Ultron

Following the events of The Avengers, Iron Man 3, Thor: The Dark World, and Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Age of Ultron finds the titular heroes on a campaign to apprehend Hydra loyalists and secure alien technologies (that have fallen into the wrong hands).

In spite of a solo-outing for Ant-Man, Joss Whedon’s Age of Ultron essentially closes the door on the Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase Two storyline, while opening a few windows to Phase Three. The latest Avengers team-up delivers everything that fans have come to expect from Marvel films: globe-trotting adventure, CGI battles, future shared universe setup, comic book easter eggs, concise character drama, and a Stan Lee cameo. As a result, the movie is a must-see for anyone, young and old, that has been following along with Marvel’s interconnected movie storyline. Though it is bigger, with refined special effects, a new central villain, and some enticing Phase Three “Civil War” groundwork, Age of Ultron will be less accessible for viewers who aren’t well-versed in the ongoing plot – and, much like its predecessor, gets bogged down in the balancing act of developing returning heroes, introducing new ones, and crafting a memorable central baddie.

Still, the core storyline successfully builds on the films, and the subsequent individual struggles, that have come before – supplying each avenging hero with their own obstacles (physical, intellectual, or emotional) to overcome. To that end, the addition of Scarlet Witch (Elizabeth Olsen) and her power to manipulate minds, galvanizes The Avengers into deeper and darker self-evaluation – revealing conflicting ideologies within the team. It’s a slightly more subtle and earnest approach to inter-Avengers conflict, where fear and insecurity drive disagreement – instead of the misunderstandings (“This is beyond you, metal man. Loki will face Asgardian justice.“) and superhero machismo (“You’re not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you.“) depicted in the first team-up movie.

The majority of the cast, especially the actors who have been given solo films, are par-for-the-course in their roles (Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor) – offering a mix of amusing one-liners, sincere personal drama, and badass superhero moments. That said, the most affecting scenes come from characters and cast members that have not headlined a Marvel solo movie. Building-off the ongoing thread of Bruce Banner’s struggle to keep “the other guy” in check, the Hulk (Mark Ruffalo) provides a surprisingly effective mirror for Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson) to reflect on her own troubled past – as well as ponder who she wants to become.

Nevertheless, the biggest surprise of the film is previously sidelined Avenger, Clint Barton (Hawkeye) – who enjoys the most nuanced and relatable role in Age of Ultron. Whereas Barton was a mindless drone in The Avengers, he becomes a powerful cipher for the moviegoing audience this round: a normal guy standing shoulder-to-shoulder with gods and enhanced super soldiers, risking everything, to protect innocent lives. The effect is made even stronger by Jeremy Renner’s work in the role – breathing more life and humanity into Hawkeye (as well as the entire team) than ever before.

Newcomers Quicksilver (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) and Scarlet Witch (Elizabeth Olsen) are rewarding anti-hero choices – and both performers are solid in their roles. In spite of a well-received depiction of Quicksilver (Evan Peters) in X-Men: Days of Future Past, Taylor-Johnson’s Quicksilver is differentiated enough to ensure his storyline and super powers are fresh – even if certain aspects are still very familiar. Olsen is a promising addition to the MCU, injecting colorful flair to Age of Ultron‘s action scenes; yet, just as the larger film hints at more exciting events down the line, a lot of viewers may be more interested in what Scarlet Witch’s inclusion will mean going forward – rather than relishing in this (brief) debut appearance.

That said, while “The Twins” are intriguing to watch, their backstory, as well as the origin of their powers, are glossed over – and, worst of all, their connection to Ultron is paper thin. The lack of narrative cohesion and believable world-building is symptomatic of an ongoing problem in Marvel movies (read: the villains), and Age of Ultron fails to escape the same pitfalls.

 After all the buildup to Ultron, the James Spader-voiced murderous A.I. is only a slight improvement upon prior evildoers that Avenger team members have faced (while his smashable CGI Ultron army is, similarly, only a slight improvement over the punchable horde of CGI Chitauri invaders). To Whedon’s credit, Ultron receives more development than his predecessors, in addition to some genuinely witty banter, but the sentient robot still gets short-shrift when compared to screen time of the film’s six-plus heroes. Like Quicksilver and Scarlet Witch, Ultron is more plot device than defined character, used to pull the Avengers is new directions and challenge them in unique ways, rather than present an enduring villain on his own.

It misses the bar of classic movie greatness but Avengers: Age of Ultron is one of the most exciting and entertaining Marvel entries so far – with some of the franchise’s best visuals. Like Iron Man 3, certain environments and effects appear green screened/CGI and Whedon is still fighting against TV-level techniques in the director’s chair, but the filmmaker successfully ups the ante in visual spectacle – producing bigger and more sophisticated action set-pieces, not to mention another impressive spinning team shot (this time in slow-motion)..

Despite a few narrative hiccups and clumsy sequences, The Avengers: Age of Ultron is solid popcorn entertainment and best experienced on the big screen. Long-running trappings of shared movie universe storytelling remain, and the novelty of seeing iconic comic book characters together onscreen isn’t as impressive as it was in The Avengers. Nonetheless, Age of Ultron offers an abundance of entertaining moments, clever banter, and eye-popping visuals to satisfy superhero lovers and causal filmgoers, alike. Again, it’s not as groundbreaking at The Avengers, or as impactful as Captain America: The Winter Soldier, but Age of Ultron is a solid penultimate entry in Phase Two – one that also lays the groundwork for some intriguing changeups in Phase Three.

Grade - B

Gone Girl

Gone Girl - Fantastically Suspenseful Thriller

Gone Girl is a movie about surprises and things not necessarily being what they seem, and as a result is hinged on a series of escalating complications and reality-altering plot twists -- not just a "surprise ending" (though it certainly has one of those) but a major upending of what you think you know that comes in right at the middle.

This has the effect of making the movie really, really good... but reviewing the movie in any sort of depth really, really tricky -- because it's a "twist" that actually makes the film worth talking about beyond "Yeah its good go see it." Imagine trying to review Braveheart without talking about Scotland, and you'd be about in that ballpark.

But! I know how people are about "spoilers," so I'll give you the basic version here and then we'll talk about spoiler-stuff (though not the ending) after a warning. Alright?

So, Gone Girl stars Ben Affleck as a seemingly ordinary upper middle-class suburban guy named Nick whose wife Amy disappears under highly suspicious circumstances that make him the prime suspect in what starts to look like a murder investigation almost immediately -- and while he swears he didn't do it, the investigation leads to revelations about their marriage and his behaviour therein that make him less and less sympathetic by the day. Since Amy's parents happen to be a pair of famous children's book authors whose popular character is based on her, the case gains national attention and places Nick under a media-microscope that threatens to convict him before there's even an arrest -- and that's before Nick begins to suspect that whoever took Amy is framing him.

It's a scathing, barn-burner deconstruction of everything from marriage to family to the sensationalist media to the legal system to a dozen other taboos, masterfully directed by David Fincher from the novel by Gillian Flynn. There's a great subtle turn from Ben Affleck and a career-redefining performance by Rosamund Pike as Amy. Hell, how good is this movie? Tyler Perry is in this movie... and he's actually awesome!

It's unquestionably going to end up being one of the year's most talked-about and insidiously excellent films, is an inarguable Fall must-see... and that's all I can say while being spoiler-free. Back in a bit...

SPOILERS FROM HERE ON OUT!

Rosamond Pike gone girl

...Okay! So here's why everybody was talking about this book and why they'll be talking about this movie: At the midpoint of the story, it turns out that not only is Amy not dead -- she's also not anything else either the audience or the other characters believed her to be.

What Amy is is a ruthless, highly-intelligent, cold-blooded psychopath -- who has gone to absurdly-detailed yet flawlessly-executed lengths to stage her own death and frame Nick for the murder as payback for... basically being a disappointment as a husband. Oh -- he's definitely unfaithful, a jerk and kind of a dumbass... but a lot of what we hear in the first half painting him as a potential monster turn out to be lies sprinkled into the narrative by the real monster he was married to.

Yeah.

The film then shifts gears into being Amy's story, as we watch her justify her behavior and power through the remainder of her scheme in a set of adventures that reveal her as human and not quite invincible... but still possessed of a superhuman survival instinct that makes her unimaginably dangerous to anything that gets in her way. It builds up to a finale where... well, you'll have to see for yourself.

Here's the thing: Yeah, "Amy is evil" is a great twist... but in a lesser movie that's all it would be -- a fun gotcha staged to turn a quintessential "airport book" potboiler into something resembling a deconstruction of its own genre. But Gone Girl -- like Fincher's other lurid, twisting thrillers before it -- is interested more in the ramifications of a plot-turn than the momentary shock it can produce. And in this case those ramifications are the questions it raises about the world around it: Amy is nuts, but is she really "that" nuts? In the context of the grim, nihilistic image the film paints of present-day upscale middle-American existence, does being psychotic necessarily make her that much of an "aberration?"

In one of the Pike's best moments in the film, a longform soliloquy detailing the insane lengths she's gone to to stage her murder segues seamlessly into a breakdown of the lengths she and other women go through in terms of grooming "public face" performance in order to be catch the eyes of even just a decent-looking lunkhead like Nick in a way that makes the two feel about equal in their respective absurdities. Hell, is there even that much difference Amy effectively pretending to be a human being and her and Nick both (along with thousands of other similarly-miserable couples) going through the motions of a "happy" small-town all-American nuclear-family marriage when they are so clearly not built for it?

After all: The key element to Amy's plan (and several other plans we either see her execute or learn she already pulled-off) being successful is the notion that Nick's very real failure to live up the ideal of a Perfect Husband adds to appearance of his guilt, and supporting characters like Tyler Perry's media-savvy defence attorney and Missi Pyle as a Nancy Grace-inspired tabloid television scumbag hammer home the film's bitter view of modern life as being based so much on performance and manipulation and false-faces to prop-up untenable ideals, crumbling superstitions and imploding, obsolete social-structures... that just the day-to-day routine of keeping up the ACT makes sociopaths of us all.

Gone Girl is dark, nasty, lurid, just a little bit trashy and -- when you start tugging at the seams of internal logic -- utterly preposterous thriller of the most ridiculous calibre. But put it in the hands of this director and these actors and what you get is something wickedly entertaining... especially in the way Pike digs so deeply into Amy's horrifying yet disturbingly relatable pathology that you might find yourself kind of rooting for her to get away with it; or the way Affleck never lets you feel that bad for Nick, or how Neil Patrick Harris turns a small but pivotal role into something instantly memorable.

This is a hell of a movie and a great start to the Fall Movie season. Don't miss it.

 

Grade - A-