Young Adult (Jason Reitman, 2011)

Jason Reitman's and Diablo Cody's Juno showed a self-consciously "quirky" high-school girl growing up quickly to deal with an adult problem, her cloyingly quirky lingo falling by the wayside as she matured into an empathetic, responsible person. Young Adult depicts the inverse of that story, of the prom queen who never outgrew that period of her life where she was some form of royalty, her preserved physical beauty akin to Dorian Gray's aesthetic mask. Soulless and resolutely conceited, Mavis Gary (Charlize Theron) is a profoundly unlikable character, a vile creature who despises anyone kind enough to spare her pity and insists on remolding the scariness of the real world back into the teenage years she ruled. Some may blanch at Mavis' sheer mean-spiritedness and unbending attitude, but whom do we see more in real life: the Junos who can quickly adapt and mature, or the Mavises?

Theron plays Mavis as if using the part as a screen test for her upcoming turn as the evil queen in Snow White and the Hunstman. She peers at the world with narrowed, confrontational eyes, perpetually disgusted by the normalcy of adult life but unable to see that she's encased herself in amber. Living in a high-rise tower in Minneapolis, Mavis ghostwrites young adult fiction that allows her to hang onto her perversely stretched youth, and her friend drips steel-melting acid as she sarcastically reassures Mavis that she's completely moved beyond the one-horse town she talks about incessantly. That fixation on her glory days compounds when her old flame sends her a birth announcement, inexplicably prompting a decision to return to her hometown to win him back. Cody and Reitman sell it like the starting point of a romantic comedy, but as Mavis obsessively replays Teenage Fanclub's "The Concept" from a mixtape that ex- made her in high school on the way home, her drive resembles Travis Bickle heading for the pimp instead of the usual chasing a lover at the airport. Reitman even zooms into the innards of the cassette, the meticulous overview of its parts visualizing just how completely Mavis has crawled inside her teenage shell to hide from adulthood.

That gutting of traditional romantic comedy mechanics extends through the whole film, which never fails to present Mavis' dream of breaking up the happy marriage of her beloved Buddy (Patrick Wilson) as predatory, not affectionate. As a director, Reitman wisely stays out of Cody's way, but he films everything in harsh, revealing terms, casting unwelcome light on the wrinkles forming on Theron's face to the dirty trackpad of her clearly well-used Macbook. Even wretchedly obvious shots that disdainfully linger on chains like Staples and KFC work by conveying Mavis' stuck-up, hypocritical POV, the immaturity of this film school-grade "commentary" reflecting a character, not the director. Rather than throwing an arm around a lazily superior audience to coddle them, the film practically sets itself against the crowd by mocking such holier-than-thou distaste of mass culture as childish.

And if that doesn't set you on edge, Mavis takes back over after this early montage to seize control of the rest of the movie, and her actions continuously the viewer's patience with her sheer nastiness. Greeting Mavis back in Mercury is not Buddy but Matt Freehauf (Patton Oswalt), a doughy nerd who was left crippled by a homophobic beating in high school. But Matt's bitterness soon crowds out any instant sympathy, and he proves as unable to move beyond his past as Mavis. Oswalt brings some of his buried aggression from Big Fan to the part, forming Matt into a mound of impotent fury so hell-bent on feeling sorry for himself that he even hates other disabled people for stealing attention from him. Oswalt essentially plays Mavis' unheeded conscience, but Matt is so unpleasant in his own right that his warnings about leaving Buddy seem to stem more from practical worry than moral concern. The comedian gets most of the film's outright punchlines, but he delivers them with an edge; when Mavis airily explains what a zombie is, Matt snaps, "I'm a fat geek, I know what a zombie is." On paper, that joke reads as mere banter, but Oswalt reads it as if barely keeping his temper in check, anxious to keep check of that myopic grasp on pop culture that constitutes the only territory he knows and controls.

Mavis and Matt make a hell of a misanthropic double act, sniping at everyone within eyesight, including each other. Both receive so much pity from those around them that the brutal takedowns they lob between them are perhaps the first honest assessments they've ever heard of themselves. Matt, who knows he would have no shot with someone like Mavis even at his best, can taunt her for failing book series and her emotional cocoon. Mavis, so unconcerned with hurting someone's feelings, can harangue Matt for being so unapproachable because of his personality, not his disability. (And as a YA writer, she naturally uses hacky, clichéd lines that play on his crutch to do so.)

But not even these confrontations can shake something loose in either character, and Young Adult routinely sets up the usual plot points designed to offer some kind of breakthrough—a drunken kiss, the aforementioned exchange of critical evaluations, even an almost painfully sad scene of shared grief—only to collapse back into self-delusion. I winced all during a party scene near the end, waiting for the explosion that had to come, which it did, albeit in a wholly unexpected manner that managed to sidestep the easy way out but revealed a clarifying piece of information that does nothing to alter one's opinion of Mavis.

This is not easy stuff, and even those who typically have no problem with unsympathetic characters have responded viscerally to the film's unrepentant pessimism. But Cody is no mere nihilist, and Young Adult is filled with good people living contented lives. But they are not the stars, and their lives are not glorious and remarkable in the way they need to be to counteract the two principal players, who view such prosaic happiness as beneath them yet can attain nothing better. One of my notes for Young Adult said it was a better horror film than Jennifer's Body, but upon further reflection, I cannot call it such because it all feels too real and unexaggerated. Some people will never learn, so close-minded that nothing will penetrate years of self-deception and insecurity manifested as perverse haughtiness. Those who dismiss Cody as someone writing what she thinks is teen slang have already had two demonstrations of her criticism of youth and all its inexperience and arrogance. If Young Adult cannot convince them of her rejection of such self-involved attitudes, then perhaps Mavis and Matt aren't the only ones clouded by shallow prejudices.

The A-Team

I don't know what it says about America's state of consciousness when a loopy blockbuster like the A-Team remake includes a severe scene that points out Gandhi's willingness to condone violence under certain circumstances. Plopped at the heart of dumb, intermittently fun film based on a dumb, intermittently fun television series, this moment represents everything wrong with what is otherwise the most enjoyable of the current slate of '80s throwbacks.

The A-Team starts pleasantly enough, with Army Ranger Col. John "Hannibal" Smith (Liam Neeson, who has apparently given up on intriguing films but has at least managed to reinvent himself into our collective ass-kicking elder uncle) pulling off an appropriately convoluted rescue of smooth-talking, gorgeous-faced con-man Templeton "Faceman" Peck (Bradley Cooper), a rescue based entirely upon the complete coincidence of running into yet another Ranger, Bosco "B.A." Baracus (Quinton Jackson) in the middle of the Mexican desert. Hannibal quickly establishes himself as a man who places stock in fate, because he'd have to in order to expect his absurd plans to work.

Of course, the plan does work, and the new trio incur the wrath of a corrupt Mexican general. To make good their escape and take care of the enemy, the men recruit a final Ranger, the mentally unstable, crackerjack pilot H.M. Murdock (Sharlto Copley). The A-Team assembled, the quartet becomes the best damn spec ops unit the Army has ever seen, to the point that, when the film cuts eight years into the future with the United States set to leave Iraq, the calm vibe and friendly rapport between Hannibal and some indigenous soldiers suggest that the conflict turned out much better for the A-Team's presence.

By this point, The A-Team is already lethargic, having spent most of its setup simply introducing the team and devoting only a few lines to the mercenary squad, Black Forest, and their leader, Pike (Brian Bloom, who also co-wrote the movie). The only reason the film even bothers to introduce Pike at all is so we have any clue who the villain is when the A-Team finally get burned 10 minutes later and find themselves falsely convicted and imprisoned.

Naturally, no prison can hold such super-soldiers, and, nearly 40 minutes into the film, the plot begins. The rest of The A-Team plays out in a series of sub-Rube Goldberg devices as Hannibal and co. seek revenge on Pike for their disgrace and the death of their beloved General Morrison (Gerald McRaney). It's interesting to see a character like Hannibal, who can anticipate his foes' actions three or four steps ahead, playing the role of the hero when his type more recalls the Joker and a different Hannibal; for all his grating talk about fate, Hannibal's intelligence offers a key grounding when the film gets ahead of itself.

Which it does, and often. DCIS officer Charisa Sosa (Jessica Biel, here mainly to provide a stable love interest for Cooper's character), always seeking to take down the A-Team for their supposed crimes and subsequent escape, notes that the four men "specialize in the ridiculous," which surely cannot be the way military personnel refer to covert ops missions. The A-Team survive a missile attack on their getaway plane by stowing away in a tank in the cargo hold (which conveniently has parachutes attached), Hannibal escapes prison with the help of a special cigar and the unlikely ability to kick the flame jets of a crematorium to save himself, and the final battle is so utterly stupid that the suspension cables holding up your disbelief will snap like licorice vines. Even Hannibal's intelligence crumbles after a point, forcing the collected colonel to turn to a plan even more absurd than his own schemes.

Yet the lunacy of some of these sequences is infinitely preferable to the obtuse attempt at seriousness. Blockbusters these days want to protect themselves against criticism by virtue of their over-the-top action, equating inanity with escapism, yet they also all play for a more grounded feel that not only fails to give them any resonance but undermines the attempt for pure, zany fun. When Hannibal voices his disgust toward the mercenaries of Black Forest or casts a wary eye at the mysterious CIA agent Lynch (Patrick Wilson, who's just too innately likable to keep acting through a series of douchebags with different names), the undercurrents of larger issues of military privatization and an unchecked intelligence branch begin to swirl before being diverted far, far away from the story, nothing more than facile hot buttons to lazily tap into contemporary concerns.

I had hoped that a movie featuring a parachuting tank firing machine gun rounds at unmanned drones and maneuvering in mid-air through the recoil of firing the main cannon might at least have acknowledged its lack of realism and thus spared the audience the dreaded shakycam. Sadly, 'twas not to be; The A-Team is one of the worst offenders of bad hand-held camera work and too-rapid editing in some time, needlessly trying to disorient in a film that does not want to place you in the roles of terrified soldiers just trying to survive. The A-Team are a pack of übermenschen who hoot and holler in the middle of the most dangerous situations; the aesthetic simply does not match their own unflappable bravery -- only when B.A. collapses at the sight of a flying vehicle does any one of them display pure fear.

B.A., in fact, is the crux of everything wrong with the film. Once played by that wonderfully outlandish madman, Mr T., B.A. should be the most ridiculous character here, and Jackson certainly uses the word "fool" enough to remind everyone who used to play the part. Yet Baracus' conversion to pacifism during incarceration becomes a disturbing subplot. It's not disturbing because of the actual aims of pacifism, of course, but because the execution of Baracus' decision not to kill fashions his choice into some grand joke, which is exactly what the writers intended it to be. The rest of his character arc involves his "recovery," as if the writers all watched Straw Dogs and mistook the devolution of Dustin Hoffman's character from a timid pacifist into a primal killing machine symbolized a positive change. This entire side of the film is so bizarre in its structuring that the idea of B.A. needing to return to a way of violence is less offensive than simply bewildering.

However, when The A-Team finally stops messing around -- which, at a bloated two hours, it does in several excruciating locations -- it stumbles into an idiot savant mentality, the meticulous planning of the team's missions rubbing against just how insane those missions are. Director Joe Carnahan makes the dubious decision to play the execution of the A-Team's plans in tandem with the team rehearsing them before each mission detracts from the enjoyment of watching those plans play out as, for all their complexity, none is so hard to follow that we need someone to tell us what's happening while the team's in action. Still, who doesn't get a kick out of watching a tank plummeting to Earth while firing its payload in one last measure of defiance? Who couldn't be pleased that District 9 breakout star Sharlto Copley makes the most of his big Hollywood opportunity and completely walks away with the film as a brain-fried redneck whose piloting skills are superior to the laws of physics? Hell, the ridiculousness of the film's action suddenly doesn't matter whenever Copley makes some random yet precise one-liner at its expense.

However, The A-Team, like so many of these movies, left me hollow. When did escapism stop grasping for wonder and start settling merely for trying to make everyone lose two hours? When did mainstream American cinema become a goddamn power nap? The A-Team's vast inconsistencies of tone, its blowhard anti-mercenary rhetoric preceding the protagonists' own re-emergence as soldiers for hire and the intermittent joy of its empty spectacles cancel out what could have been a damn fine comedy if everyone involved had just realized that Neeson, Cooper, Copley and Jackson made for a better comic gang than a convincing crack squad of super-soldiers. Still, with the recent influx of '80s nostalgia, this, the most literal of the set so far given its roots in an actual product of the decade, is by some measure the most fun and easygoing. The A-Team, protracted sugar high that it is, at least keeps its feelings of self-awareness in check, not trying too hard to convince us that this dumb stuff is actually clever. Only in a crap year like this could I respect that.

Watchmen

With 2007’s 300, Zack Snyder proved himself to be the fanboy’s dream: a director who would take a source and transpose it almost literally to the screen. He didn’t particularly care if the result was a good movie, but then neither do the hardcore fans. If you ask the average superfan whether he’d like to see a director take creative liberties with source material to make a unique product or just copy and paste the panels from a comic or the prose from a novel and he respond the latter 9 times out of 10.

Snyder heard the lament of the fanboy, and went about making what must surely be the closest adaptation of a comic book ever made. There are Shakespeare films that don’t come this close to the source material. Entire pages of the comic come to life as Snyder’s effects team and designers perfectly recreate settings, costumes, and even characters (nearly all of the actors look eerily like Dave Gibbons’ sketched heroes). The opening credits alone will fill the average fan with indescribable glee (or maybe that’s just me). Visually, this is one of the most beautiful, eye-popping movies ever made.

It is also one of the most poorly-paced, poorly-acted and poorly-directed films of recent years. Alan Moore’s dystopic, alternate universe 1985 gave us a world full of vigilantes, a king Nixon, and a superhero who sent that version of Earth off course from our own. Yet it was all scarily plausible, and remains so long after the end of the Soviet Union and the fear of nuclear holocaust, all because Moore filled the world with so many understated themes -- ranging from social commentary to an indictment of comics themselves – that it continues to fascinate readers decades later.

Snyder, to his credit, understands these themes, certainly more than the Wachowski brothers, who turned V For Vendetta from a slice of anarchist rebellion into a “Vote Democrat” PSA. But these themes are promptly glossed over as if they were part of the special effects. For all the political fears Moore conjured, the message at the heart of Watchmen is quite simple: anyone who would put on a gaudy spandex costume and dole out their notion of ‘justice’ is at the very least unbalanced. But this theme doesn’t hold much weight when married to Snyder’s love of ultra-violence. The biggest changes from the book – apart from the ending which still leads to the same result as the original one – are scenes of added gore that add nothing but shock value.

Snyder focuses so much on this gore and on the visuals as a whole that the lines (haphazardly lifted from the novel without care) come off as laughable and the pacing will put 75% of the audience to sleep. The actors look the part, but only Jeffery Dean Morgan and Jackie Earle Haley pull off their roles. Haley in particular proves that if Clint Eastwood really did retire from acting he should hire the man as his proxy, as he commands the role of Rorshach with a gravel voice and a steely exterior that belies the character’s madness.

But not even Haley can breathe life into this bloated, self-absorbed affair. Snyder crafted what basically amounts to 2-1/2 hours of exposition punctuated by action sequences that revel in the violence the comic condemned. He turned a complex character study and political statement into facile psychoanalysis of characters in whom he never bothers to invest. And he put together what may just be the worst soundtrack of all time; I’ve watched anywhere between 1600-2000 movies, and I’ve never heard a soundtrack more intrusive and ill-chosen as this.

When you review a movie, you have to know who the audience for the film will be. You don’t necessarily have to care, but you should know what that group will make of the film. I have no clue who the audience for Watchmen is. Those who haven’t read the book are going to feel mightily letdown by an ad campaign that suggested an action romp and not a political thriller, while despite Snyder’s direct translations a great many of the diehards will find some omissions outrageous. That kind of reverence deifies what it seeks to make entertaining, crafting a shrine, a museum reconstruction, instead of a film. When all the dust settles, Watchmen’s legacy will be the proof that “looking like the book” ultimately means little when it comes to entertainment value.

Lakeview Terrace

In 1989, Spike Lee made “Do The Right Thing,” a frank, witty, yet ultimately sad and shocking portrait of racial tensions in New York City. So masterful was the film that any subsequent depiction of racism has inevitably been compared to it. This may seem unfair, but given how many movies use it as a guideline it’s somewhat appropriate. Such is the case with this initially promising thriller, which steals a number of devices from Lee’s opus but delivers a clunky, stereotypical product.

Starring Samuel L. Jackson and Patrick Wilson, “Lakeview Terrace” pits an interracial couple, Chris and Lisa (played by Wilson and Kerry Washington), against their police officer neighbor, Abel Turner (Jackson). Chris and Lisa move in next door, and Abel wastes no time making them feel unwelcome. Turner is every bit Hollywood’s idea of the non-stereotypical “urban” black man: he prays every morning, hates rap, and ensures that his children use proper grammar. It’s like they ran down a checklist of black stereotypes, and just did the opposite thinking it would make a fleshed-out character. He’s also astonishingly racist - he makes offensive statements at parties and has nothing but disgust on his face when he sees the next-door couple.

Turner makes a nice foil for Chris, the rap loving, easygoing Berkeley grad who must have trouble standing up straight with all the white liberal guilt on his shoulders like a politically correct Atlas. Whenever he tries to confront his new neighbor, he quickly backs down and walks away with his tail between his legs. Even when he says to his wife that black men constantly disapprove of his their relationship, he whispers it as if telling an offensive joke in a crowded restaurant. Eventually he fights back, and the story escalates into from the tense to the ridiculous.

Most of the film’s positive aspects can be attributed to Jackson. He has what physicians refer to as “the crazy eyes.” His facial expressions run the gamut of craziness: he’s insanely happy, insanely angry, insanely contemplative, insanely surprised (often with a tinge of insanely angry), and - this is the best one - insanely crazy. He’s the kind of person you’d never want to hear the words “good night” from because coming from him they give off the strong implication that morning isn’t coming. Even if Chris wasn’t such a spineless wuss I doubt he could possibly stare Abel down.

Neil LaBute, an accomplished writer and playwright renowned for creating stories about misogynistic men who slowly reveal their sadistic tendencies, directed the film, but you’d never know it. Had LaBute written the script, “Lakeview Terrace” might have gently unfolded, gradually mounting tension until you suddenly found yourself in a horrific situation.

For a time, this film is interesting; the first two acts let Chris and Abel’s little turf war escalate as a forest fire inches nearer (a blatant nod to “Do The Right Thing’s” heat wave), but the final 45 minutes are pure B-movie nonsense. Abel’s motivation for his racial hate is absurd and harkens back to a time when racism was socially acceptable rather than the subtler way it still exists. Some of the things he does to mess with the couple are just plain ridiculous; for instance, he mails a video of a clearly-struggling Chris unwittingly receiving a lap dance from a stripper at a bachelor party to Lisa, as if seeing her husband pinned to the ground by three cops and forced to let a stripper dance for him will lead to a divorce or even sow doubt. Once Jackson starts yelling things like “I’m the police! You have to do what I say!” it’s all over.

This film was probably doomed from the start. Even its trailer veered so close to camp I didn’t know when I went in whether I’d get a black comedy or a thriller. After seeing it, I still don’t. The idea of being terrorized by a cop is interesting, as is a study of modern racism. However, the script is constantly at odds with the director; LaBute wants to take his time and let the hatred simmer, while the script thinks it’s adding a twist to race study by making the black person racist instead of the white guy. It strives to be a thriller version of “Do The Right Thing,” but instead has all the heavy-handedness of the last big racial drama, “Crash.” It’s a bad dissection of race relations because everyone conforms to some sort of stereotype, and it’s a bad thriller because all the lines got big laughs from the audience I was in when they should have been gripping their seats.