AMELIA

Review: Amelia
2 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

The memory and mystique of an American hero is reduced to family-channel folly in “Amelia,” director Mira Nair's gutless, ham-fisted biopic of Amelia Earhart. Calling it conventional would be kind, and comparing it to Martin Scorsese's “The Aviator” – which many journalists have done – is insulting to a true piece of cinematic art. Watching it is like witnessing a tragedy, and I'm in no way referring to the legendary pilot's enigmatic fate. It's one thing for a dumb comedy or a delirious actioner to leave you scrambling for a refund; it's quite another for a potential Oscar contender pregnant with possibility to disappoint so fully. Nair, whose filmmaking prowess has been beautifully displayed in movies like “Monsoon Wedding” and “The Namesake,” guides this featherweight craft through impossibly sunny skies, dodging every dramatic storm cloud in favor of safe, smiley, old-school fluff. Hilary Swank, who many believed would be vying for her third Best Actress prize, has a better shot at landing a Razzie for her work in the title role. Truth be told, “Monsters vs. Aliens” was more gripping than this dud.


“Amelia” does begin with a clean little opening credit sequence, in which the titles appear on the screen and then dissolve into thin air just like the doomed aviatrix. It's a nice touch, but it also marks the extent of this movie's subtlety. Before long, we get the first of many cornball voice-overs, which have our heroine offering affirmations like, “flying lets me move in three dimensions” (as if walking didn't do the same). Are these silly sayings the actual words and thoughts of Amelia Earhart? It occurred to me as I queasily jotted them down verbatim. “Amelia” is based on the biographies, “The Sound of Wings” by Mary S. Lovell and “East to the Dawn” by Susan Butler, but Earhart did author at least two books of her own. As we learn in the movie, such is how she met her eventual husband, George Putnam (Richard Gere), a publishing giant who commissioned Earhart to write about her experience as the first female passenger on a transatlantic flight. She went on to write another book after becoming the first woman to take that same flight on her own, an achievement that also appears in the film. But even if trite lines like, “I want to be a vagabond of the air,” were lifted directly from Earhart's memoirs, the filmmakers and actors lay them on so agonizingly thick that there's no hope for sincerity.

I'm certainly not a Swank fan, but an actress doesn't win two Oscars for nothing, and when handed fertile, more masculine roles (like this one), she tends to deliver. And yet, her performance here suggests that her talents have degenerated. With her short-cropped hair, freckled face and bright blue eyes, she no doubt looks the part, but that credit goes to the makeup department. And, granted, she is working from a laughable mess of a script by Ronald Bass and Anna Hamilton Phelan (who've both penned a handful of screenplays over the last 20 years, but could've easily fooled me into believing they were previously employed by Hallmark). But Swank doesn't bring anything exciting to the table, and she reads all that clichéd nonsense – or “hooey,” to borrow a word from the film – with the flat, unconvincing strain of a novice. What I remember most about the performance are Swank's super-sized incisors, which she flashes so often you'd think someone was tickling her off-camera. Gere is no better, hamming it up big time and employing theatrical ticks and broad gestures reminiscent of an old Hollywood comedy. Together, the actors have very little chemistry, and intimate exchanges between their characters are embarrassingly banal.


Ewan McGregor appears in a supporting role as federal aviation administrator and TWA founder Gene Vidal (father of Gore), with whom Earhart had an affair. When this tidbit began to surface, I thought, “Finally! A little bit of juice!” But, alas, “Amelia” is so utterly devoted to keeping its characters and scenarios shiny and happy that anything even resembling negativity or actual tension is resolved or avoided in a snap. The affair ends as quickly as it begins, Putnam takes Earhart back without hesitation, and the couple even remains chummy with Vidal (which may have been the case, but I'm sure there was a lot more gray area, something this movie knows nothing about). Similarly, when Earhardt comes into a bit of trouble during that first solo flight across the Atlantic, there's the goofy diversion of an emotionally-forced flashback to her childhood in Kansas, followed by the wholly improbable, personal pep talk, “if Lindbergh could do it, you can do it!” And while it acts as an appropriate framing device, Earhart's final, 'round-the-world trek is equally innocuous (you can bet the filmmakers steer clear of addressing what may or may not have happened to the fallen icon).

Something tells me that if Earhart were alive today, this isn't the kind of movie she'd want to be telling her story. It doesn't play like a fascinating portrait of a life, but like an inauthentic, episodic, manufactured imitation of one. Save some poorly handled allusions to an alcoholic father, little is revealed about the woman, as the film hinges her identity on all that gooey “hooey.” Perhaps the only thing graceful about it is its cinematography (which, given the high altitudes and numerous exotic locations, is, of course, rather beautiful). Ultimately, “Amelia” commits the greatest sin a biopic possibly could: it dishonors its subject.

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

Review: Where the Wild Things Are
4 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

Unlike what certainly seems to be the rest of the world's population, I didn't grow up reading Maurice Sendak's immortal children's book, “Where the Wild Things Are.” So, I can't say if writer/director Spike Jonze and co-writer Dave Eggers have faithfully recreated the spirit of the beloved, 10-sentence tale in their new feature-length adaptation. I did, however, grow up building forts, playing in the woods, breaking rules, wanting to write my name on everything, creating new worlds in my imagination or with intricate miniature models, and desperately craving attention from my parents, my older sibling and her friends. It's these personal yet universal themes and cornerstones of childhood that Jonze and Eggers have so accurately and wildly captured, fleshing out Sendak's basic structure with an effervescent, heartfelt anarchy that seems to have sprung from the mind of a nine-year-old.

Such an approach is perhaps the best way this much-anticipated movie could have been made, since the bulk of the story is indeed a product of the imagination of nine-year-old Max (played by 12-year-old newcomer Max Records). We are almost always seeing the events from his point of view, and the filmmakers are savvy and sensitive enough to make that perspective relatable to anyone who remembers the competing feelings of wonder and frustration that come with being a kid. Max is introduced as someone who apparently has no friends, and who entertains himself by talking to imaginary playmates and constructing things like igloos in the snow. He's seen manipulating his older sister's friends into joining him in a snowball fight, but they're more amused than interested, and they take it too far, crushing Max's igloo and his feelings.


Max's mother (the always-welcome Catherine Keener) clearly loves her son, but she's a single mom with a presumably full-time job who can't give Max the amount of unconditional companionship he requires. On one particularly stressful night, Mom invites her boyfriend (Mark Ruffalo) over for a dinner date and entertains him instead of playing spaceship games with Max. Fed up with being ignored, Max – dressed in tailed and whiskered wolf pajamas, just like in the book – makes a raucous scene in the kitchen and storms out of the house, barreling down his suburban street as the highly original, jungle-like music by Carter Burwell and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Karen O. echoes in the background with rising vigor. When he reaches a dark, wooded area, Max begins growling and howling, and we're led to believe he's unleashing the feral creature within. He finds a boat, crosses an unnamed ocean and soon arrives at a mysterious island, the home of other untamed beasts – the tall, furry, big-headed and beclawed “Wild Things.” Feeling unthreatened and finally among kindred spirits, Max willingly introduces himself and declares himself their king – the king of a land where, at long last, carefree is the way to be.

I admired the way Jonze chose to visualize Max's journey to the island, forgoing the obvious, “Wizard of Oz”-like dream sequence and instead heading in a more seamless, natural and earthly direction. It's a style that seeps into the rest of the production, from the unvarnished, topographically diverse shooting locations of Melbourne, Australia, to the dazzling sets (which, interestingly, are built before our eyes), to the creatures themselves, which are exquisite mash-ups of minimal CGI and animatronic suits by Jim Henson's Creature Shop (another staple of my youth). How refreshing it is to see a modern, multi-million dollar fantasy film that employs old-school effects techniques and isn't bogged down by frantic, ostentatious spectacle. Even cinematographer Lance Acord's homespun, handheld camerawork – an aesthetic I've been growing tired of given its overuse in the industry – feels right, communicating Max's dreamlike state and no-rules reign over his newfound stomping grounds.


The voice actors who add life to the the surprisingly dimensional “Wild Things” are well cast, namely Catherine O'Hara as the hilariously cynical Judith, Paul Dano as the mild-mannered Alexander, and Lauren Ambrose as the aloof and free-spirited KW, who utters the highly advertised, climactic line, “Don't go. I'll eat you up I love you so.” Other voice talents include Chris Cooper, Forest Whitaker and James “Tony Soprano” Gandolfini, who grunts, grumbles and, eventually, even cries a bit as the beasts' temperamental and manic-depressive head honcho, Carol. Before his kingly powers are revealed as a sham, Max engages in plenty of uninhibited outdoor activities with his new friends, like the book's famous “Wild Rumpus” and an impromptu dirt fight. These scenes are perhaps the movies best because the characters approach the silly games with the sincere seriousness of playful children. And why shouldn't they? After all, we soon realize that the creatures are all manifestations of Max's own troubles and personality traits, each of which he must come to terms with if he is to grow and mature (psychologists will have a field day dissecting what each character represents).

If the film stumbles, it is over its insistence on being a little too somber, and there are also stretches where it's realized that the youthful frivolity, however insightfully depicted, can't really hold up to meaty drama and good, old-fashioned conflict. But the somberness is also a merit of the movie. This isn't a flashy flick for wide-eyed children, and while it probably won't scare them, it may leave them feeling pretty bored. This is, through and through, a movie for adults, many of whom will, like me, be touched by its rather heartbreaking ability to convey a believable nostalgia for the highs and lows of pre-adolescence. I found that the most remarkable thing about “Where the Wild Things Are” really has little to do with whether or not Jonze and Eggers have done Sendak's book justice (though I can only imagine that you, the rest of the known world, will be pleased). It's that both Jonze and Eggers somehow managed to tap into not only their inner children, but my inner child. Watching this movie, I often felt that what was on screen wasn't the product of the filmmakers' imaginations, but that of my own nine-year-old self. I don't think I've ever experienced that before.

LAW ABIDING CITIZEN

Review: Law Abiding Citizen
3.5 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

Moviegoers in and around Philadelphia will likely eat up “Law Abiding Citizen,” a fast-paced maniac-versus-the-system thriller that's set in the familiar metropolis, was shot on location, and could even be read as being celebratory of the city. Am I just reading it that way because I hail from a Philadelphia suburb? Perhaps. But I don't believe I've ever seen the City of Brotherly Love as handsomely or as expressly captured as I did in this film (no, not even in 1993's “Philadelphia”). No doubt attempting to emphasize the film's theme of justice (or lack thereof), City Hall, specifically, is painted as an imperial structure of Roman grandiosity, its limestone, granite and marble exterior scanned repeatedly by cinematographer Jonathan Sela with a kind of awestruck respect. Additional segments were filmed at the old Broadmeadows prison (a now-defunct facility in suburban Thornton that was built in the same panopticon style as Eastern State Penitentiary), Del Frisco's Double Eagle Steakhouse is incorporated, and even Mayor Michael Nutter makes a brief cameo in a pivotal scene. If I didn't know better, I'd think the movie was made specifically for Philadelphia audiences.


But what about those millions of viewers who dwell outside of the city and its surrounding areas? What will they make of it? I suspect they'll be highly entertained, though not exactly riveted, as “Law Abiding Citizen” is fine popcorn fare, but it isn't nearly as clever as it thinks it is. Since the man at the helm is superior action director F. Gary Gray (who made films like “Set It Off,” “The Negotiator” and “The Italian Job” far more virtuous than they would have been in less adept hands), the movie is a whoosh of a ride, packed with excitement and hard-edged fun (expect plenty of f-words, explosions, blood and dismemberments). But since much of the action is dependent on the mad genius of an idealistic criminal mastermind, the fact that we can anticipate many of his moves weakens not only the movie's tension, but its already shaky plausibility. It's a classic mistake, really: if the audience can see the twists coming, why can't the other characters? The predictable plotting of Kurt Wimmer's Hollywood-mainstream script is where the film takes the biggest hit, but Gray makes rounding those familiar bases a rather exhilarating blast.

I don't particularly care for Gerard Butler, the Scottish actor who rose to super-stardom after his lead performance in “300” was seen by every geek on the planet, and whose other film credits in 2009 – “The Ugly Truth,” “Gamer” – have been anything but stellar. But Butler is engaging and persuasive as Clyde Shelton, an engineer whose wife and daughter are brutally murdered in front of him by burglar Clarence Darby (Christian Stolte, greasy and gross) in the film's opening scene. Darby and his accomplice (Josh Stewart) are caught; however, the hotshot assistant D.A. on the case, Nick Rice (a superb Jamie Foxx), agrees to a plea bargain whereby Darby will serve a measly five years for testifying against his less-guilty partner, who'll suffer the death penalty. Consumed by grief, Clyde tearfully protests the decision, but Nick resolutely informs him that the deal is done (“some justice is better than no justice at all,” he says). The film then jarringly jumps ahead an entire decade in a flash, and soon shows Clyde taking justice into his own hands by tampering with the accomplice's execution device – to worsen the pain, not to stop the process – and gruesomely murdering Darby. Clyde turns himself in, but he's “just getting warmed up,” and from within prison walls, the “expert planner” and former spy initiates a deadly cat-and-mouse game that threatens the lives of everyone who worked on the case and ultimately holds the city under siege.


Clyde insists his actions aren't motivated by revenge, but by his unswerving belief that the justice system is corrupt beyond repair and needs to be upended. This stimulating notion is where “Law Abiding Citizen” finds its strongest narrative foothold, and it's the closest the movie comes to delivering a message deeper than “buckle up and hold on tight.” It's certainly an efficient means of inspiring audience involvement – challenging viewers' morals and causing them to perhaps question the ways of society. After all, Clyde's methods of seeking justice are beyond extreme, but what man wouldn't want to right the wrongs of a legal system that failed him after his family was slaughtered before his eyes? Right? These are the questions the film asks in obvious, yet resonant ways. There's a great courtroom scene in which Clyde, acting as his own legal counsel, insists that he's not a flight risk and that he should be allowed to post bail since the prosecution has no evidence of his guilt. When the judge (a dry, no-nonsense Annie Corley) agrees with Clyde's statements, he laughs and verbally assaults her for proving his point that killers can go free with scary, remarkable ease. It may just be the predominantly surface-level movie's harshest, truest moment.

Beyond that theme, what we've got is a sleek thriller that, for every eye-roll-prompting element – the predictability, the soon-to-be-dead characters' obligatory parting monologues, Butler's inexplicable nudity (isn't that what “300” was for?), and, yeah, Nutter's silly appearance – offers positives that rectify and satisfy. Usual-suspect side players Colm Meaney, Bruce McGill and Michael Kelly provide strong supporting work, as do the newly-dramatic Regina Hall (free from the “Scary Movie” series) and Oscar nominee Viola Davis (“Doubt”), who, as the city's mayor, boosts her budding career as a professional scene-stealer. The remote gadgets and gizmos that Clyde dreams up to wreak havoc from behind bars are nifty in a “Saw”/ “Final Destination” / how-else-can-we-creatively-kill-people kind of way, and they factor into some impressively-staged sequences. Though awash in those inescapable filter tones of cool blue and gun-metal grey, the photography is excellent – crisp, pristine and fluid, as the camera loops and swoops around the recognizable streets and landmarks. For Philadelphians, “Law Abiding Citizen” is enthusiastically recommended, and for everyone else, only somewhat less so.

THE BOYS ARE BACK

Review: The Boys are Back
3 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

In the right hands, movies about families in crisis-aftermath mode can be breeding grounds for captivating drama. There are countless examples of such, but the one I'll cite is last year's “Rachel Getting Married,” in which director Jonathan Demme found the harmonic heartbeat of a dysfunctional, emotionally-bruised brood and exposed their highs, lows and secrets with an organic, warts-and-all vitality. Though admittedly aiming for a slightly lighter tone, “The Boys are Back,” an Australian film about an oft-absent father who must buck up and embrace the challenges of single parenthood after his wife's sudden death, slips up considerably in this regard. There are no great truths revealed, no real profound lessons learned, and the meat of the story is rather flavorless. Therein lies the biggest problem: this movie isn't bad, or even boring, per say, just hopelessly bland.

One of the many elements that director Scott Hicks insists we soak up and then basically hangs out to dry is the literally messy, female-free living conditions of the father and his two sons, who inhabit a pigsty of a house in the Australian countryside that feels and is treated more like an elaborate, carefully cluttered set than an actual, increasingly yuck-ified man-cave (or “hog heaven,” as it is affectionately called). “The Boys are Back” could use more mess, in forms both literal and beyond, to spice it up.


The father is Joe Warr (Clive Owen), a hotshot sports writer who travels the world to report on the greatness of all-star athletes like Michael Phelps and the Williams sisters. When wielding his laptop in press boxes at major events, Joe is an ace, churning out his witty copy with the lickety-split speed of the pros he profiles. At home, however, Joe's stats are sub-par. Years ago, after his first marriage failed, he abandoned his son, Harry, in London, thinking it best that the boy stay with his mother. It was about that time when Joe met Katy (Laura Fraser), who he married and with whom he moved to Australia and had another boy, Artie, who Joe rarely sees given his hectic schedule. After Katy unexpectedly and rapidly falls ill and dies from a wicked form of cancer, Joe decides to hone his parenting skills his way: by loosening the leash and cutting back on rules. He lets six-year-old Artie (Nicholas McAnulty) do cannonballs in bathtubs and ride on the hood of an SUV. Eventually, at the request of his mother, the now-teenage Harry (Rupert Grint clone George MacKay), who carries grievances to match the other males' grief, flies Down Under and also crashes at “hog heaven.” And there, together, all three characters will presumably grow and heal.

While it doesn't dig deep enough or ring quite true enough to be all that moving, “The Boys are Back” – based on the 2001 memoir, “The Boys are Back in Town,” by Simon Carr – could have easily been a sticky sap-fest, and it's a credit to screenwriter Alan Cubitt that at least most of it isn't. On the whole, the dialogue, albeit pretty generic, isn't smothered in weepy sentimentality. And, in particular, there's an eerie, harsh reality to the way these people, specifically Artie, grieve over Katy's death: an initial disconnect that's too odd and unsettling to be read as false. There are some exchanges and passages that edge into mush (such as during the entirely unnecessary scenes in which Katy appears to Joe and counsels him from beyond the grave), and others that are simply awkward (such as when characters like Harry or Laura, Joe's potential new love interest played by Emma Booth, dish out bold, provocative statements and actions that ultimately lead nowhere). But, in general, I was just grateful that the filmmakers didn't try to forcefully syphon my tears from their ducts.


What's awfully overstated is the cinematography by Greig Fraser, who also shot Jane Campion's ravishing “Bright Star.” Captured on location in Hicks' homeland of South Australia, the imagery here is also gorgeous, but gratuitous, as the director uses every opportunity – transitions, you name it – to milk every glowing sunbeam, every crashing wave, every soaring bird, and every stretching horizon for all they're worth (which, of course, in effect, makes them worth much less). There is such a thing as too much beauty, especially if it detracts and distracts from the narrative. I found it impossible not to think that Hicks, an Oscar nominee for 1996's “Shine,” was overcompensating, or, perhaps, overindulging his affection for his stomping grounds. I also found myself wondering what I was missing while repeatedly gazing at the Australian landscape, and whether at least half of those shots could have been replaced with tidbits of juicy, gritty drama – because heaven knows this movie is in need of it.

The only real zing “The Boys are Back” boasts is that of Clive Owen, a fantastic actor of such hard-boiled emotional power, he could read off the items on a take-out menu and make it riveting. Joe is a different kind of role for Owen (one in which he smiles and laughs more than he runs and yells), but the 47-year-old Brit – who also executive-produced – brings to it his usual high level of intensity, yielding results that are better than the movie itself deserves. Owen, who always seems to be conflicted but confident, is one of the few film stars who can convey substantial character depth with only a look. Even as we're buzzing along with what too often feels like ho-hum happenings in “The Boys are Back,” we want to know Joe, what he's thinking, what he's feeling. And that's all courtesy of Owen's fine work.

The adage that Joe adopts as his new parenting slogan is “Just Say Yes,” a relatively carefree philosophy that, again, is underscored by Hicks and then isn't fully explored. My advice to you, reader, is, “Just Say No” to this film. Its heart may be in the right place, but it's only half open.

BRIGHT STAR

Review: Bright Star
5 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

Not familiar with the work of 19th century English poet John Keats? No matter. Let the great Jane Campion enlighten you and awaken your senses with her rapturous new film, “Bright Star,” which focuses on the last three years of Keats' tragically short life (he succumbed to tuberculosis at 25 in 1821) and his brief, yet earth-shaking affair with Fanny Brawne, the girl next door who became his muse and one and only love. After landing a screenplay Oscar and the Cannes Film Festival's Palme D'Or for “The Piano” in 1993, following that with less successful titles like 2003's “In the Cut,” and then remaining inactive until 2007, writer/director Campion returns with what is undoubtedly one of the finest movies of 2009. Romantic in every way, it beautifully captures a moment in time that, for two people, was momentous, and it contains more passion and feeling in its nuances than some films do in their entirety. I relished every moment and I long to see it again.


Ben Whishaw, whose impossibly chiseled face has popped up in recent titles like “Brideshead Revisited” and “I'm Not There,” is Keats, playing the poet as a scruffy, soulful blend of Johnny Depp and Keith Richards (perhaps someone should phone him for “Pirates 4”). Abbie Cornish, an Australian who was last seen playing an American in Kimberly Pierce's “Stop-Loss,” is Fanny, who's immediately established as headstrong, opinionated and also artistic – a fashion designer who creates all of her own stylish and colorful garments. The couple's initial interactions are not ones of instantaneous attraction. Misled by his meddling roommate and colleague, Charles Brown (the film's sleazy but pitiful villain, played tenaciously by Paul Schneider), Keats sees Fanny as a flirtatious fashionista, while she, by her own admission, has little knowledge of any poetry, let alone his. But both, we see, are curious, and Campion, exercising a restraint that's present in every component of this picture, lets the subtle sparks of their relationship slowly catch fire until the exhilaration of that first kiss is shared by the audience. Once the other characters – including Fanny's siblings and her mother, played with touching tenderness by Kerry Fox – are hip to the courtship, it has quietly ballooned into a fervid infatuation.

Inspired in part by the biography, “Keats,” by poet Andrew Motion, “Bright Star” – which gets its name from Keats' famous poem, presumably written about Fanny – claims that the affair, though peppered with roadblocks, lasted until Keats' untimely death. Campion shows the lovers in separate locations on that fateful day (she stayed in London while he fled to Rome for a healthier climate), but no less entwined, and, like all great love stories, tragedy aggrandizes their romance. So, too, do a number of additional, less conventional factors, such as Keats' actual letters to Fanny, which also inspired Campion and to which she had access throughout production. Simply knowing these documents – which surely do play a key role in the film – exist adds layers of appeal and validity to the pair's already captivating bond. Also, Keats and Fanny never consummated their love, giving it an uncommon, forever frozen innocence. And while the subject is brought up repeatedly, nor did they marry, for Keats, a penniless writer, lacked the means to support a wife even before he fell ill. Fanny, though fully encouraged, a la “Pride and Prejudice,” to marry into wealth, cares not about his empty pockets, and couldn't if she wanted to. “Bright Star” is a portrait of the truest kind of love: one that is inconvenient and insuppressible.


The beauty of this movie is often so great, it is chilling, which is to say I literally had chills while watching it. Lovingly photographed by Greig Fraser, it delivers a cool, continuous current of ravishing imagery, which Campion unfailingly clips or subdues in such a way that it never feels forced upon you. Her plain, lived-in interiors of white walls and dark wood, and gray-toned or sun-soaked exteriors of things like barren forests contrast wonderfully with the vibrant costumes (which are themselves especially meaningful since we watch Fanny make more than a few of them). And then there are the flowers, which on more than one occasion flood the bottom half of Campion's frame, and contribute to a scene with a purple dress that I'd call the film's best if it weren't preceded and followed by scenes that affected me just as deeply. Gorgeous visuals – a bedroom filled with butterflies, Keats resting atop a tree in bloom – fade into one another here with the smoothness of silk. All the while there is the alternately playful and heartbreaking original music by Mark Bradshaw, and, best of all, Keats' own words, which, whether spoken in voiceover or between the two lovers, are together perhaps one of the most beautiful soundtracks one could ask for.

Whishaw, his voice sharp and articulate, is mesmerizing when reciting these lines, as well as when giving life to Campion's own verse about the nature of poetry itself. That said, he does not speak unnecessarily or at great length, nor is he a wellspring of emotion. Played by Whishaw with an old-fashioned aura of mystery, inner demons and sly charm, his emotions are not written outright on his face or in his actions because they are reserved for things that matter most like his work and his woman. Though certainly reciprocating her feelings, he is presented, more or less, as the tall, dark and somewhat dangerous object of obsession for Fanny, who is the principal character, and who, as played by Cornish, steals the show with ease. In a recent interview, Campion said that Cornish's performance “puts her in a category with the top actors of her generation,” and that's no simple biased praise. There isn't a single identifiable falsity in Cornish's work, a perfect match for the film's unforced naturalism. There couldn't have been a more aptly-titled project in which to showcase the breakthrough of this 27-year-old actress, who is indeed its radiant epicenter. The intensity in her eyes alone speaks volumes, her smile will astound you, and a shattering scene in the film's conclusion all but cements her a place among this year's Best Actress nominees.

Of course, what Campion has done is translated Keats' work (and life, and inspiration) into the language of cinema, thus creating a film that is its own kind of poetry. “Bright Star” is lyrical in ways beyond the inclusion of Keats' sonnets in the script – there is a fresh and flowing immediacy to it that makes it honest and ageless. Keats and Fanny created their own private world. Campion re-envisioned it and now it is ours to experience. It is, as Keats says of poetry, “an experience beyond thought.” See it with someone you love, or, better still, someone you can't bear not to.

THE INFORMANT!

Review: The Informant!
3.5 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

The virtues of director Steven Soderbergh's “The Informant!” are plentiful and plainly recognizable: the script by Scott Z. Burns (“The Bourne Ultimatum”) is almost dizzyingly intelligent; the cinematography by Soderbergh himself (under his usual alias, Peter Andrews) is alluring and elegantly moody; the original music by Marvin Hamlisch is gleeful and ebullient; and the acting, specifically from lead star Matt Damon, has a certain wry brilliance that never lets up. So why, then, did I emerge from this kooky dark-comedy-meets-paranoid-thriller feeling more than a little unsatisfied? The ingredients of greatness are certainly in place. But for all its strengths, “The Informant!” still leaves some things to be desired, not the least of which is even a mild release from its adamantly bone-dry tone.

Based on the 2000 non-fiction book of the same name (sans exclamation point) by investigative journalist Kurt Eichenwald (who served as one of the film's producers), “The Informant!” tells the “tattle tale” of Mark Whitacre (Damon), a successful executive at the multinational, Decatur, Illinois-based food conglomerate, Archer Daniels Midland (ADM), who in the early '90s initiated a whistle-blowing campaign against his employers, aiming to expose their alleged price-fixing schemes. The real Whitacre is said to have been the highest-ranking corporate snitch in U.S. history. It was only after years of wire taps, secret meetings, video surveillance, and mountains of paperwork that FBI agents Brian Shepherd and Bob Herndon – who led the case and who are played here with great instincts by cunningly-cast TV favorites Scott Bakula (!) and Joel McHale (!!), respectively – discovered that Whitacre was a deranged, bipolar embezzler whose own crimes eclipsed those committed by ADM's higher-ups.


I'd be lying if I said I had no trouble keeping up with the movie during its first act, in which Damon's character, in a wild voiceover narration that continues throughout, breathlessly expounds the specifics of ADM and its operations. (His rants include, but are certainly not limited to, likening ADM's turning a profit to the digestion of corn, the company's hottest product.) The language is shrewdly complex, and I'd never condemn a script for sticking to its intricate guns, but the convoluted corporate jargon is merely the first way in which “The Informant!” keeps the viewer at arm's length. The narration lays the groundwork for what will transpire, and it definitely establishes the film's theme of comical duplicity, but there's an impenetrability to it that forbids us from fully plugging into the story.

What works wonderfully is Damon's performance, easily the best and most pronounced in a career filled with solid, impressive turns. Just as Whitacre is painted as a man who's as alarmingly delusional as he is articulate and astute (many of his scatterbrained speeches veer off into entertaining and wise sermons about the minutiae of everyday life), Damon's approach to the role seems both precisely rehearsed and madly improvised. He's funny, deceptively convincing, and he handles the challenging dialogue with a tireless, whirling dexterity that's thrilling to watch. We eventually find that we're never on solid ground with Whitacre, a sort of haphazard sociopath whose absurd behavior and uncertain motives go from laughable to intentionally infuriating, but we're always on board with Damon, if only for the joy of witnessing the great actor he's evolved into. (It helps that he packed on roughly 30 pounds and grew out a bush of a mustache, keeping the-boy-next-door, Sexiest-Man-Alive persona out of sight and out of mind.)

One may argue that the look of “The Informant!” clashes with its setting (what with the action taking place in the '90s and the film appearing to have crawled out of the '70s), but I was smitten with Soderbergh's design. His movie has an assured, laudable style, and he knows how to pique an audience's visual interest. The hazy lighting softly radiates white in the background, or, when necessary, drapes the characters in a sultry amber glow. The compositions are artful and eye-catching, and the camera movements are rhythmically, harmoniously fused with the events at hand. (Lest we forget, Soderbergh has, to great effect, photographed most of his own movies, including the exquisitely lensed “Traffic” and “The Good German.”)


What's lacking here is any shred of emotional catharsis. Watching “The Informant!,” I started to feel the slight sensation that I was being choked, not just by Whitacre's boundless lapses in judgment and imbecilic tendencies, but by the entire film's insistence on being so damned sardonic. Though chuckle-inducing at times, the sheer height of its relentless cynicism becomes taxing, and it kills any chance of genuine viewer attachment. Beyond Whitacre's paranoia and questionable self pity, the only true feelings ever presented are those of the FBI agents, who attempt to console Whitacre once it becomes clear that they can no longer remain in contact. But even their compassion is rooted in utter exhaustion, after having put up with Whitacre's mixed messages and volatile demeanor for what must have seemed like ages. (Even Whitacre's doting enabler of a wife, played by the dependably meek Melanie Lynskey, finally throws in the towel: “Why do you do this to yourself?” she pleads.) If we feel anything, it's their pain, coupled with a “D'oh!” and a palm-slap to the forehead.

Soderbergh seems fully aware of his movie's absence of humanity, as he's tried to enliven it from promotion to production: the goofy, lighthearted irony of the posters; the groovy, colorful intertitles; the boisterous, circus-like exuberance of the evocative music (think “Austin Powers” meets “Leave it to Beaver”). Fun as these finishing touches may be, they're only touches, and they can't save “The Informant!” from being a film that, however easy to like, is difficult to love.

9

Review: 9
3 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

The majority of films are driven toward, and at least somewhat dependent upon, a climactic plot twist that raises the stakes and brings greater depth and perspective to the events that precede it. “9,” an animated, post-apocalyptic fantasy-adventure directed and co-written by Shane Acker (who expands his 2005 Oscar-nominated short of the same name), has such a twist, but its effect is of little use. What's revealed doesn't just raise the stakes, it finally establishes them, after most of the movie has already passed. Prior to the revelation (which brings to light some heady stuff, indeed), we tag along with a gaggle of very thinly-written characters as they struggle through circumstances that only seem dire within the moments in which they're unfolding. The higher purpose is virtually nowhere in sight, the greater good doesn't appear to be all that great, and by the time we're privy to both, Acker no longer has our attention. It's a good thing his movie is a marvel to behold.


No doubt influenced by the macabre whimsy of Tim Burton (who, along with “Wanted” director Timur Bekmambetov, produced the picture), Acker inhabits a desolate, debris-ridden, post-war landscape with creatures who'd fit right in with Edward Scissorhands and Jack Skellington. Following an opening that's directly reminiscent of another Burton-esque creation (this year's “Coraline,” which also kicked off with a pair of hands carefully constructing a tattered-looking doll), we meet our hero, 9, a ragged amalgamation of a burlap sack and spare parts who awakens in the ransacked study of a crumbling, battle-ravaged residence. Carrying a curious talisman that he found beside him and stashed in a zipper pouch within his chest, 9 – who's ably voiced by Elijah Wood and whose number/name is etched on his back – ventures out into a world that looks like Ground Zero stretched as far as the eye can see. Stumbling over heaps of rubble, incinerated vehicles and the occasional human corpse, 9 soon comes in contact with another being like himself: 2 (voiced by Martin Landau), an inquisitive explorer who's similarly branded and has the same binocular-like eyes. Almost immediately, the pair is attacked by a cat-like beast made of bones and machinery that kidnaps 2, steals the talisman and darts off into the bleak horizon.

Once introduced to the evils of this world, 9 quickly falls in with the rest of his kind, who've been evading threats like the cat-beast since the earth fell to ruin. So typical are these characters that the numbers-as-names identification system is perfectly apt. Bearing the kingly accessories of cape, crown and staff, 1 (voiced with commanding coarseness by Christopher Plummer) is the group's stubborn, conservative leader who frowns on free-thinking; 6 (voiced by go-to weirdo Crispin Glover) is the resident nutjob whose feverish, ominous doodles will come in handy later; 8 (voiced by ubiquitous voice actor Fred Tatasciore) is 1's dim-witted, muscle-bound lug of an assistant; and 5 (voiced rather lazily by John C. Reilly) is the benevolent, yet easily-intimidated worrywart who eventually joins the noble and courageous 9 in attempting to rescue 2. Before long we also encounter 7 (voiced with little distinction by Jennifer Connelly), an adventurous feminist type who's separated herself from the rest along with the childlike, precocious twins, 3 and 4. Using the now-retrieved talisman, 9 unwittingly elevates the danger for everyone by awakening a super-machine that builds other killer machines and, as we discover, was responsible for the destruction of humanity.


Giving us only brief, sporadic tidbits of the backstory (which involves the familiar matter of artificial intelligence turning on its maker), “9” asks that we accept and be patient with this ragtag ennead's existential conundrum. Questions of why or how they exist are only slightly addressed by 9 and company because they're all faced with other, more pressing dilemmas. But from the standpoint of the audience, the characters are so one-dimensional that we cannot invest ourselves in them and only them. In order to feel the urgency of their conflicts (which for a long time seem to take place in a minuscule microcosm), we need that higher purpose, that greater good, as a foundation. Our endurance, curiosity and suspension of disbelief are swiftly trumped by our desire for clarity and connection, and, like 1, who repeatedly insists that 9 not ask so many questions, the movie is slow to oblige. Such is a fundamental flaw in the mechanics of Acker and co-writer Pamela Pettler's (“Corpse Bride”) already sub-par script. “9” is presented like a backwards banquet: we're served the meal before the appetizer, and when at last the first course arrives, we're full and ready for our check.

Though they are most certainly what distracts the narrative from being all that it could have been (Acker, after all, is not without some powerful and profound ideas), the visuals of “9” are superbly rendered. The protagonists, who are each given their own discernible traits, are an imaginative mishmash of the charming and the bizarre – they're like the distant, bedraggled cousins of WALL-E. The villains – which, in addition to the cat-beast, include a winged, bat-like monstrosity composed mostly of blades, and a frightening, caterpillar-type creature that slithers and shrieks – are even more impressive, calling to mind the misfit playthings of “Toy Story” crossed with the dreaded machines from “The Matrix.” The action is spectacular, and the editing and CGI are both tack-sharp. But a viewer can't live by eye candy alone, and, after a weak and non-redemptive conclusion, we leave wishing that the storytelling had been as inspired as the imagery.