In my capacity as Product Specialist and IT Trainer extraordinaire for POP-Market, I helped storyboard, write copy and do the voiceover for a video promoting our new iPad app. The V/O is a little more on the professional / corporate side, but if you’ve ever wanted to hear my voice, this is your first opportunity to do so. That and my hockey podcast.
I’m also available for used car lot commercials, corporate videos and adverts promoting hair loss prevention techniques.
Don’t let the flowers fool you. Strange moments are afoot.
When you hear the name Franklin D. Roosevelt, what comes to mind? The New Deal? Leading America out of the Great Depression? The only US president so beloved he was elected to office four terms in a row? Yeah, me too. In fact, FDR is one of my favorite American heroes. An inspiring figure who conquered a debilitating illness to dominate the political landscape of the 30’s and 40’s, Roosevelt is a shining example of strength in the face of adversity.
According to filmmaker Roger Michell and his latest endeavor, Hyde Park on the Hudson, FDR’s legacy is his alleged affair with his sixth cousin.
To put how ridiculous this focus is, let me offer the following perspective. Imagine if somebody made a movie about George Washington but focused on how he kept his wooden teeth clean while crossing the Delaware. What if I made a movie about Thomas Edison centered on the relationship between him and his barber. 120 minutes of hair clippings and banter about baseball’s Boston Red Caps. And to quote the great Patton Oswalt, imagine a film about the time Albert Einstein had really bad food poisoning for four straight hours. Hyde Park on Hudson not only tells a story nobody needed to hear, it does so in such a Lifetime movie fashion, its 94 minutes feels like an eternity.
Essentially an English tabloid wrapped in a historical event, Hyde Park is set in 1939. Roosevelt (Bill Murray) is spending more and more time at his country home and has invited his sixth cousin, Margaret “Daisy” Suckley (Laura Linney) to keep him company. They go on long drives, have painfully slow conversations in his study and do creepy things in fields of flowers. The first thirty minutes of the movie sets the stage for theatrical disaster. Rather than show us their blooming relationship, the film resorts to an every five minute voiceover, telling us how much she is falling for the Prez. This leaves Linney, who is generally a very reliable actor, free to do nothing on screen. The character is there for the ride and has no effect on FDR or his handling of the country. When you craft a film around a historical footnote, you get a great deal of dead space.
See Laura Linney. See Laura Linney make this face through 90% of the movie. See the audience yawn. Yawn, audience, yawn.
The other piece of the equation isn’t much better. Murray’s FDR is accurate and at times interesting, but he’s failed by a clumsy script. Instead of fulfilling the promises of the whimsical trailer, screenwriter Richard Nelson paints Roosevelt as a creepy old man looking to get his rocks off. I’m all for showing the darker side of American icons, but when you do so with no service to the story or thought of why your subject is looking for something on the side, it becomes exploitative.
Luckily, this tone doesn’t maintain all the way through. The center of the film is a visit to Hyde Park by King George VI (Samuel West) and his wife, Queen Elizabeth (Olivia Coleman). While Murray finally gets a chance to spread his presidential wings in his dealings with the English royalty, it’s too little too late. Issues with the film’s pacing, spiraling narrative threads and an OCD level of attention to the supposed sexual scandal, dooms the film to a big old helping of blah.
In the hands of the right filmmaker, any story can be told and told well. Unfortunately for Hyde Park on Hudson, none of the pieces properly fit. Bland artistic direction, a script without focus and some terrible performances by usually great actors sentence this movie to a lifetime in the bargain bin. Outside of one scene where FDR makes an impression on the young king of England, Hyde Park on Hudson does nothing to tell us more about the famed president other than a historically fuzzy tryst nobody cared about in the first place. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to write that biopic about Washington’s wooden teeth. I’m thinking about calling it Dentures Across the Delaware. Can’t be any worse than this.
Score – 40%
A story of growth and change along the Mighty Mississippi
Sometimes in the world of cinema, names are everything. Big time actors, directors of note and impressive, punctuation heavy movie titles help drive box office receipts. So what does the latest film from director Jeff Nicholas get to put on the movie poster?
Mud.
Just Mud.
As a result, many filmgoers may have passed this flick by in favor of flashier, more colon heavy offerings. When faced with a choice among Star Trek: Into Darkness (oooohh), The Great Gatsby(ahhhh) and topsoil mixed with water, it’s no wonder the film has gone relatively unnoticed. Luckily for those wiling to get their moviegoing hands dirty, Mud is a wonderfully paced film of growth and humanity. Like its predecessor Take Shelter, Mud is not only a must see, it’s bound to be included in my Top 10 of 2013.
Set in riverside Arkansas, Mud is the coming of age story of two local boys, Ellis (Tye Sheridan) and Neckbone (Jacob Lofland). While on one of their water bound adventures, the kids stumble across a small island and an odd sight: a boat suspended in the branches of a giant tree. Living in the boat is the strange Mud (Matthew McConaughey). Mud is waiting for the love of his life Juniper (Reese Witherspoon) and with help of his two young friends, they put a plan in motion to reunite the twosome.
While the synopsis has a bit more detail than I usually provide, the crux of the film has little to do with the initial set dressing. The central themes of Mud bare more than a striking resemblance to a modern Mark Twain, touching on the fragile innocence of young love, loyalty and the hardships of simple living. Nicholas also proves he’s fantastic at capturing nature and using setting as more than a pretty backdrop. Long pans of the ever flowing Mississippi River give the film a sense of constant motion, another theme woven into the story. With the entire film shot in Nichols’ home state, the film also has a very authentic feel, giving the excellent characters a real home base to work their magic.
And what a wonderful cast it is. McConaughey’s Mud is a complex and interesting character. Half rebel, half saint and just a little bit dumb, you’re never sure of his intentions. Opposite McConaughey are two young newcomers, Tye Sheridan and Jacob Lofland. Tye in particular is exceptional in a difficult lead role and the homegrown Lofland, selected from thousands of local kids, lends an authentic flavor to the pair. Supporting roles from Reese Witherspoon as the flighty Juniper, Sam Shepard as river bound hermit and a cameo by frequent Nichols collaborator Michael Shannon, round out an expertly selected cast.
If Shotgun Stories was his foundation and Take Shelter was the framing, Mud is the glue that cements Nichols as one of those aforementioned directors of note. While the picture may not have the movie poster bang of the other names in the marquee, if you care enough about film to be reading my reviews, this is a movie worth standing in line for. Besides, Star Trek will be out for at least another month. Catch this one while you can.
Score: 9/10
Where: Work, 20 minutes before I have to leave early for a 5:30 therapy session
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When the weird wind whistles through the graveyard, you listen. Doberman ears pinned back to the base of your scalp, the short hairs on the back of your neck pricked to attention. Any disturbance could be a thousand possibilities, each more interesting than the last. The scrape of a dead leaf on a granite slab. Far off tires on a country road. The clicking of bony fingers on the base of a gravestone.
It’s hard to tell exactly what’s what when the weird wind whistles. When you live a life of noisy twaddle, you become bad at quiet. Ringtones and message alerts all put to silent. The stillness tastes like sawdust. Dry. Crusty. In the midst of the cemetery, surrounded by markers, grave blankets and dime store bouquets, it’s hard to tell what’s lurking, what caused the swoosh to your back. If the howl in the distance was man-made or monster.
It’s mesmerizing. Caught in the stillness, it’s impossible to distinguish click from clack. You get wrapped up in the solitude, secure you’re alone when in reality, you’re not. Always something in the darkness, crawling along on all fours with tatters of old suits hanging from dirty ribs. A ragged creature with an always open eyeball, looking for a friend to drag into the darkness. That chomp. Was that an ancient bear trap snaring a rabbit or the jaws of a once dead clamping open and shut. Teeth ground to dagger points. Ready to rip think thigh meat from your femur.
The next time the weird wind whistles, be sure to listen. Listen well.
The boys of The Angel’s Share showing the local law enforcement their better halves.
Three years ago, spurred by a mutual love of film and cheeseburgers, my friend Regine and I started a tradition. Every month, we grab dinner at New York’s 5 Napkin Burger and then a flick. Our picks vary greatly. One month, we’ll catch the quiet loveliness of The Beginners, the next a raucous wide releaser like Bridesmaids or Hot Tub Time Machine. Our monthly movie is always an adventure, an opportunity for me to put away my critic hat and see something I’d never seek out alone.
So when this month’s movie night came ‘round, I had a rare request from Regine: Let’s see something funny. A quick glance at Rotten Tomatoes confirmed my fears. Every comedy out at the time looked dreadful. I could sit through the Burt Wonderstones of the world and write a bad review, but there had to be something special amongst the early April dreck. Luckily my prayers were answered in the form of The Angel’s Share, a wry, vulgar and wonderfully warming film that ranks high on my list of 2013’s pleasant surprises.
Directed by the prolific Ken Loach (The Wind Shakes the Barley), The Angel’s Share starts out with a rogues’ gallery of lightweight criminals getting sentenced for a variety of hilarious misdemeanors. Amongst their ranks is Robbie (Paul Brannigan), a small time hood trying to leave behind the thug life of his Glasgow upbringing for the sake of his pregnant wife. While doing his court ordered community service, he befriends Harry (John Henshaw), the head of the work program along with a band of malcontents also doing their time. As Harry and the boy get closer, Robbie begins to learn about the world of single malt Scotch and discovers his extensive palette. With some newfound skills and his merry band of misfits at his side, Robbie searches for redemption in the world of fine Scottish whisky.
But don’t think this is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas with kilts. The film pivots around Robbie not as a drunken mad man, but as a recipient of hard luck trying to break free from his hoodlum past. Paul Brannigan portrays Robbie in a stoic and serious manner, giving us an emotional pivot when things get a little gross or a little hilarious. Robbie’s hard yet soft demeanor provides a believable and easy to root for protagonist, nice when surrounded by a colorful supporting cast. The band of misfits Robbie hangs with include Mo, a sticky fingered shoplifter, Rhino, the most supportive of the group and Albert, a complete moron with giant ears. Despite their obvious roles in the plot, the actors all give it a strong go in their respective roles, creating an odd but endearing family.
The lads and one lass enjoying a laugh along with the audience.
Loach, director of almost 40 films nobody has heard of, directs the film with care and control. According to a dear friend of mine who grew up in Scotland, Glasgow is a dangerous place and Loach perfectly paints that picture in a tense opening third. But when the movie opens to the hills of the highlands, the tone relaxes, even as the team hatches a hard to believe plan. I’ll spare you the specifics in case you want to catch it yourself.
The film also has a very authentic feel to it. From the accents to the locations to the slang used by the gang, the movie uses the country as a character. This helps support the sometimes outlandish scenarios and schemes by providing a realistic anchor to the story and the comedy. Oh yeah. Regine wanted a comedy and the film absolutely delivers, especially if you’re a fan of the dryer variety. Albert is the source and butt of most of the jokes, but his light hearted demeanor never makes the humor come off mean. And, just in case the prospect of Trainspotting style accents has you worried, the film is being released in the US with subtitles. While they do ruin the timing of some of the jokes, the subtitles didn’t bother me in the least.
As I mentioned in my previous review, the end of April / early May is a time for the great bloodletting of American cinemas with the intention of clearing the way for the big boys. Like The Place Beyond the Pines earlier this month, another gem has emerged from the dirty coal mines of springtime cinema. With subtle humor, great characterization and a giant helping of heart, The Angel’s Share is a lovely time at the cinema, regardless if you’re looking for something funny or not.
Score – 85%
Listen to Diana Jones’ lovely version of the song here, buy the real deal here and while you’re at it, buy his latest album Sound here.
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“Darling when your worries are piling and the rent is overdue. When all we own is battered and worn that once was bright and new. I’m still away with the birds. I’m still wired to the moon. And I’m still in love, I’m still in love, I’m still in love with you”
Niall Connolly playing to a sold out Rockwood Music Hall at the record release party for his latest album, Sound.
New York City in the winter of 2010 was a Wild West of limitless opportunity and stifling terror. Every night was an explosion of fascinating, exciting and unnerving possibilities. For every reason I had to move there, there were two votes against. Self-doubt was my roommate that winter and his uncomfortable residence in my small one bedroom made for a tough winter. Not enough space for the both of us, but three months in, he refused to hit the bricks.
The day he started to pack was a chilly Tuesday night in February. Aiden texted me with a grand weeknight scheme: head to Kenny Castaways for a ten o’clock open mic and then nip ‘round the corner to the Red Lion. A local folk musician by the name of Niall Connolly was playing a one AM gig and according to Aiden he was a must listen.
The offer was enticing. Those days, I was a newborn rambler, a wanna-be Kerouac with an unlimited ride Metrocard. Three months into my New York residence and I wanted nothing more than to suck down giant gulps of my newfound liberation. Hanging with brother Aiden felt like a natural branching out of my internal rambler, even if that meant becoming a late night / early morning drifter who threw responsibility to the Bleecker Street breeze. There was magic in those wee hours and I wanted all of it.
The Lion was mostly empty that night. A smattering of West Village drunkards leaned against the dark wood bar tops while a couple necked in a corner booth. Small stage with red walls and a tired drum kit in the back right corner. The advantage of hanging with Aiden was his uncanny ability to make you feel like family and that night was no exception. Bouncers greeted us with a smile, the barkeep was quick with the liquor and the joint felt like home. That’s also the night I met Niall Connolly.
He was scruff and scrawny, a pleasant fellow with a quick wit and firm handshake. He sat on a small stool to the front of the stage, a music stand of albums for sale at his right. $10 for a CD, $15 for two. Niall played a sweet and somber set that night. The cab and night truck traffic provided a murmuring backdrop to the sad folk streaming from Niall’s guitar. Whenever somebody shouted a request for Danny Boy, Niall politely declined. When a half tanked waif in a tiny white dress offered him a twenty to play American Pie, he replied, “Sorry, dear. Can’t do that for you.”
Growing up in the cover heavy bars of northern New Jersey, I realized why New York had to be my home. Real artists playing genuine music. Beautiful moments shared with dear friends. The recklessness of enjoying it all on a school night. And the song that hit me hardest was Away With The Birds.
Simple songs telling simple stories often reap the deepest emotional rewards. Rather than tell you how to feel, the simple chords of Away With The Birds set the stage for your heart’s interpretation. Whether you’re pinning love lost or celebrating who you have, Niall’s final song on his under-appreciated Brother, The Fight Is Fixed, allows you to sink into the sweetness. The song is a quickie, a hair under two minutes, but in that space I had found a musical home in the chaotic carousel that’s New York City.
When I tiptoed into my new one bedroom after the show, I looked around the apartment. Boxes, still packed, sat in the corner against the arm of my tiny loveseat. Light from a York Avenue beer hall glowed soft through my naked windows as those lovely lyrics played in my head. Despite the daunting rent, the well-worn clothing and Self Doubt’s unwavering tenancy, I needed to be wired to the moon, coursing through an ocean of unknown. Way up high with only my instincts to guide me. Sometimes it’s best to be away with the birds.
If I can’t give my female readers a shirtless Ryan Gosling doing his best, “Ca$h Money” pose, than I am a terrible film critic.
Remember the saying, “April showers bring May flowers”? The same goes in cinema. April is the Hollywood awakening, a time when the occasional tulip creaks forth from the early year sludge to make room for the blockbusters of May. The dreck and discarded may make up January through March, but there’s always a couple of blooming roses at the start of spring. Derek Cianfrance’s follow-up to the critically acclaimed Blue Valentine is one of those shining sunflowers. A film of depth, complexity and emotional weight, The Place Beyond The Pines is an excellent way to say good-bye to the cinematic doldrums and ease your way into the madness of summer.
After the unexpected success of Blue Valentine, Ryan Gosling is again at the lead of the film playing roughneck motorcyclist Luke Glanton. When returning to a small town with a traveling circus, Luke discovers he has a son in town, courtesy of a one night stand with a working girl named Romina (Eva Mendes). Wanting to care for the boy, he stays in town to attempt a re-connection with his infant son, despite Romina’s relationship with another man. On the other side of tracks is Avery Cross (Bradley Cooper), a local police hero who learns the corrupt side of small town law enforcement. Throughout the course of fifteen years, Avery and Luke’s lives intertwine personally and in the outcomes of their respective sons with sometimes shocking results.
If there’s one thing Blue Valentine taught us, it’s Cianfrance has an uncanny knack for directing actors. Once again firing on all cylinders, Gosling portrays the bad boy with a heart with his signature quiet intensity. From Brick to Drive and now with Pines, Gosling is fast becoming one of the finest anti-hero actors of this generation. While we all know Gosling is superb in everything he’s in, its Cooper who shines the brightest. If you thought Silver Linings Playbook was a fluke, his performance in Pines will make you a believer. Cooper’s work is finely tuned and while the character leaves little room for range, it makes up for it in subtlety. Never thought I’d say this, but Bradley Cooper is the real deal. The rest of the cast fills out the world nicely, including a fantastic supporting role by Ray Liotta as the local crooked cop and Dane DeHaan (Chronicle) as Luke’s grown up son.
If I can’t give my male readers a pistol brandishing Bradley Cooper doing his best, “Police! Get On The Ground!” pose, then I am a terrible film critic.
Despite the excellent direction, Cianfrance broadens his filmmaking playbook with sometimes mixed results. The action scenes (yes, action scenes) are filled with headache inducing shaky-cam shots but due to some excellent editing by Jim Helton and Ron Patane, the ill effects are reduced. The director’s inexperience also comes out in some of the gear grinding required to make the twisting story work. There are many left turns and convenient coincidences in Pines and while good character work holds everything together, you need to stretch your disbelief a bit to stay in the picture.
In the end, there’s a lot for film fans to love here. Excellent performances and lovely direction mask some of the storytelling leaps of faith the movie takes to reach its satisfying conclusion. As the weather gets warmer, the din of Hollywood blockbusters can be seen on the horizon through internet trailers, gaudy billboards and the clacking of a thousand keyboards. If the coming tide is an inescapable wave of air conditioned noise, Derek Cianfrance’s The Place Beyond The Pines is a sound proof shelter against the coming storm. Even at its most intense, there’s a layer of quiet in this film that prepares you for coming summer season. Worth at least one watch, The Place Beyond The Pines is a lovely piece of filmmaking that perfectly bridges the Season of Schlock to the Season of Rock. Enjoy it while you can, film fans. Enjoy it while you can.
Score – 90%
Notebook Doodle Ming and Bill sit down to watch manly action movies.
Two years ago, I met an adorable Pekinese by name of Mr. Ming. Short beige hair, floppy ears and a pushed in face, Ming wormed his way into my heart. One night, while doing some dog sitting for Jamie, Ming and I started a tradition. With his mommy away, we sat down on the couch, I with a beer and he with a cookie, and watched “man movies”. The playlist included 80’s classics like Die Hard, Robocop and Lethal Weapon. By the time Ming fell asleep on my chest, I fell in love with him.
A year later, I fell in love with his mommy and our tradition became secure. Every year or so, Ming and I grab some snacks and watch loud, obnoxious and deliciously fun action flicks. With some help from the good people at weareallcritics, I had some great choices for this year’s ear buster but due to lack of availability, I went back to a classic. Commando is pure 80’s excess, full of gun battles, explosions and Arnie’s biceps. It’s not high art but it’s a great piece of low brow escapism that still manages to give you enough to actually care.
At first glance, there’s nothing in the story we haven’t seen a thousand times before. Schwarzenegger plays John Matrix, an ex-Army operative who lives in the mountains with his daughter, Jenny (a very young Alyssa Milano). After some senseless bloodletting, the opening montage shows the two fishing, laughing and having uncomfortable ice cream fights. The opening does two things perfectly: lets us know this is going to be an ass kicking action flick and gives us just enough back-story so we care about the protagonists. It’s not deep by any stretch but there’s just enough to keep the ridiculous plot within our suspension of disbelief.
Obviously, Mr. Ming is more of a Bruce Willis fan than he is of Arnold.
Of course, this wouldn’t be a Schwarzenegger movie without something going wrong. According to Matrix’s old commander, the bullet pillows of the opening are all of his old army buddies and wouldn’t you guess it, the large Austrian bodybuilder is next. The muscle of the operation is Bennett, Matrix’s old right hand man. The blaggard has teamed up with a South American dictator who’s working his way to his hidden retreat. Why? To recruit him for a devious “overthrow the government” plot. If Matrix fails to comply, the newly kidnapped Jenny gets the ax. Again, the setup provides just enough reason for us to follow Schwarzenegger through the bloodbath. A dad will do anything to save his daughter. Simple enough to get out of the way but not too simple where we cease to care.
And what a hilarious bloodbath it is. Commando isn’t the goriest of action films, but what it lacks in cadmium red, it makes up for with great action pacing. Some of the action scenes run long, especially the final assault on the compound, but the cheese ball James Horner score and well directed rhythm keep things interesting. The film is also filled to the brim with groan inducing one liners. Anywhere else, I’d smash these lines down with my Critic Stick but for some reason, they elevate the fun in Commando.
But there’s more to the success of this film than bullets and bombs. Plenty of movies have tried the same trick with diminishing returns. Commando not only gets the big set pieces right, it nails the details. Jenny is written as more than a damsel in distress which lends some reality to her being an army nut’s daughter. The baddies all wear outlandish outfits, allowing the audience to easily identify the enemy and freeing us up to focus on the fun. Arnold’s reluctant sidekick arcs from ear splitting annoying to somewhat useful throughout the course of the picture. All of these little touches and tricks help elevate the movie from a special effects demo to a movie we can rally around and care about
In fact, there’s a moral to this story if you look carefully enough. Action is really tough to do properly. Any fourteen year old with some explosives can blow things up but it takes real craft and skill to wrap up an audience in it. Commando does just that. A skillfully and well made film, Commando dials up the adrenaline with over the top action rooted in solid, old fashioned filmmaking. The movie isn’t perfect, but if you’re looking to have a boy’s night in with a furry friend of your own, you can’t have much more fun than this.
Score – 85%
Where – Walking home with a sickly stomach, playground outside the school on 60-something and 1st, 7:00 in the evening.
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The green painted concrete rolled slow below him. Grey sweatshirt, held tight to his elbows by protective gear. Dark grey sweatpants secured to his legs by matching knee pads. Each stumbling kick pushes him forward, his rollerblades making the sound of crumbling gravel as he goes back and forth. His voice is low amongst the kick flip skaters and bored teenagers.
“Looks so easy when she does it.”
His torso wobbles and pitches as he tries to pick up speed. The sound of wind blows past his ear and for a moment he feels right. Focused. In control. Thoughts of Mystery run through his mind and he dares a big stride. The coming twilight is his motivation. Now or never.
As his foot hits pavement, he hears a high sweep as the front wheel slips. His frictionless foot slides up in a Rockettes kick, gravity grabs and tosses him down in violent pull. The second his rear hits the ground, his lower back yelps and seizes. Off to the left, he can hear the sound of young chuckling.
Without a pause, he hoists himself back to his bladed feet. As he regains balance, a young woman speeds towards him from the group of teenage skaters. The wheels on her feet dance towards him as she skids to a stop.
“Dad! You OK?”
He looks at her, full of youth and power. She could fall a thousand times and continue to get back up. Would fall a thousand times. Would have to.
“Fine? I’m great, Mys. First fall of the day. See you next week?”
The wind from the approaching night blew frosty, Winter and Spring battling it out for March’s weather forecast. The sound of the 7:00 traffic ebbed away as Mystery took his hand. It felt like sandpaper, rough and gritty from weekends of fall, scrapes and near misses.
“Next week we’ll try the park, Dad. I think you’re ready.”
Just another day on the set of Les Miserables for Oscar winner Anne Hathaway.
Very few genres are as bi-polar as the movie musical. With few exceptions, films in this category are either awful or amazing, with very little room in the middle. For every Chicago, West Side Story or Sound of Music, you get The Phantom of the Opera, the film adaptation of Rent or even worse (shudder) Across the Universe. Despite the best intentions of talented artists and filmmakers, it’s a tough task to replicate stage productions on the silver screen. The biggest problem is the difference between film and stage acting. Stage musicals require actors to be theater filling big, filmmaking is about small, controlled intensity. Get the balance wrong, and your version of Miss Saigon is going to play loud and overpowering. Despite some of the expected pitfalls of the source material, Tom Hooper’s film adaptation of the Broadway sensation avoids many of these issues and the result is a satisfying success. This isn’t Catherine Zeta-Jones in thigh highs, but Les Miserables is a daring and stirring attempt to put a Broadway phenomenon on the silver screen.
Right off the bat, your enjoyment of Les Mis will largely depend on your tolerance for Broadway style music. Like the play, the film is completely sung from beginning to end, so my recommendation for novices would be to check out some of the tunes online. If you can’t get though three songs without switching to videos of talking cats, pick another movie for your Friday night. Another stumbling block is the melodramatic storyline. Encapsulating two decades of a criminal turned local leader (Hugh Jackman), the French captain looking to put him away (Russell Crowe) and a working girl turned concubine (Anne Hathaway), the subject matter is dour. Face it, friends. The movie’s title translates to, “The Miserable” and the poster features the saddest looking girl known to mankind. It’s no spoiler to say things aren’t going to be peaches and cream for the movie’s protagonists. Unless you’re courting a manic depressive or Grumpy Bear, this is not a date movie.
Grumpy Bear is cautiously apathetic about his Les Miserables date night.
Of course, it didn’t become a worldwide sensation for nothing. The music is achingly beautiful and the actors charged with delivering the tunes run from passable to phenomenal. Most musicals rely on studio overdubs for the final product, but Hooper took the brave route of using the set recordings for the final audio take. What you lose in vocal perfection, you gain in genuine performances and for the most part, the gamble works out. Anne Hathaway’s performance of the haunting I Dreamed A Dream is a cinematic highlight of the year, proof positive of the director’s decision. Hooper also injects the film with energy through sweeping camera work, and an eye for good pacing. Rather than fill the screen with grand theater style sets, Hooper’s Les Miserables focuses on the actors and the great performances delivered by the cast.
Without that, this movie would have sunk under the weight of its own melodrama and still may for many film fans. Like I said in the opening, this is not for everyone. The story is dour to the point of depressing, Russell Crowe simply can’t handle the vocal task of Schonberg’ sweeping score and it’s Broadway. Some viewers lack the stomach for the medium and that’s just fine. Those who like a good weepy soap opera backed with astounding music will find plenty to enjoy in the latest film version of Les Miserables. The movie contains some outstanding vocal performances, lively camera work and maintains much of the power from original stage presentation. It’s a rough road to 19th century Paris, but when it’s executed with this amount of skill and care, it all works out in the end. Grumpy Bear tested, film fan approved.
Score – 85%
thesurrealityproject 