Team Alexander: World Police.

Alexander the Great. Seeker, despot, conqueror, legend…and who knew he anything to do with the Kennedy assassination? Ok, Oliver Stone’s Alexander doesn’t actually pin the events of November 22, 1963 on the Macedonian conqueror, but, to be honest, I kinda wish it had — it might have injected some much-needed energy into the film. Over the past two decades, Oliver Stone has made films that are stunning, controversial, wrongheaded, and unforgettable, but never before has he made one so flat-out dull.

To its credit, I guess, Alexander shows signs of being an absolute train wreck right from the first reel. After a very brief nod to Citizen Kane, which suggested we may at least be getting a gloriously over-the-top outing from Stone this time around, the film settles in to Anthony Hopkins wandering around the set of the “Losing My Religion” video and spitting out long, interminable chunks of Basil Exposition. (Speaking of which, Stone must have been watching his VH1-Classic…there’s a scene on a mountaintop later that seems lifted straight out of Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence.”) Then, we’ve got Mommy Dearest Angelina Jolie writhing around with snakes for a bit (women = serpents = temptresses = deceivers, get it? Don’t worry, in typical Stone fashion, the point will be beaten into the ground over the next three hours.) Twenty minutes in, by the time young Alexander is channeling the Horse Whisperer, it’s pretty clear we’ve got a real stinker on our hands.

From there on, it’s just a pile-up. Other than a neat camel charge or two, the battle setpieces are completely inscrutable, and not in a good “Fog of War” kinda way. For some reason, the men all speak with Irish brogues, while both women (Jolie and Rosario Dawson) sound like Brides of Dracula. Give them credit, though. Jolie, Dawson, and Val Kilmer (as Phillip of Macedon, by way of Dr. Moreau) seem to be the only three people involved with this project who saw it for what it was and racheted up the hamminess dial to 11.

Much has been made in some reviews of Stone’s decision not to shy away from Alexander’s bisexuality — namely his love affair with the doe-eyed Hephaistion (Jared Leto, who fulfilled close to the same function for Tyler Durden in Fight Club) — and I suppose he should be applauded for it, given the recent trends in Red State country. But, frankly, what with all the earnest looks and pre-established Freudian baggage, it all comes off as high camp, and not nearly as open-minded as it thinks it is. Not that heterosexual relations fare much better, mind you…when Colin Farrell and poor, lovely Rosario Dawson hiss, scratch, and wrestle naked on their wedding night (yes, you guessed it, snake flashbacks are involved), it’s just about the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen.

To sum up, Alexander is a flat-out disappointment and easily the worst Oliver Stone film I can think of offhand. This review notwithstanding, it’s not even fun-bad. Think of it more as Alexander And The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Movie.

Sex Education.

Hoo boy, the Red Staters obsessed with “moral values” out there are just gonna love Kinsey. With its unflinching recognition of myriad forms of human sexual behavior, its intimations of bisexuality and wife-swapping among team Kinsey, and its occasionally graphic (albeit antiseptic and not at all titillating) depictions of the act of coitus (to channel Maude Lebowski), Bill Condon’s biopic of Indiana’s famous sex statistician is the closest movie we have this year to a Passion of the Christ for science-minded free-thinkers. In fact, the film seems almost genetically designed to get under the skins of the abstinence-firsters and moralist types who’ve decried Kinsey’s studies for fifty years.

That being said, the strength of Kinsey, and what elevates it to being a better-then-average biopic, is the way it ultimately gets under everybody’s skin. Alfred Kinsey is not simply white-washed as a martyr to science and a hero of sexual enlightenment (although, in its most conventional moments, such as the last ten minutes, the movie hammers those particular points pretty hard.) Rather, Kinsey is portrayed as a man whose relentless pursuit of sexual knowledge often leads him down some troubling and morally ambiguous roads. Even the most open-minded libertines in the audience may find themselves feeling that things seem to have gotten a little out-of-control around the home office in Indiana by the end, and get extremely discomfited when Liam Neeson’s Kinsey sits down with an even creepier than usual Bill Sadler, a pedophile and sexual predator who’s taken some notes of his own.

Kinsey is at its best when it rides this razor’s edge, honoring the professor’s undeniable contributions to science and society while recognizing that his dispassionately treating sexual behavior as he earlier treated gall wasps ultimately opened the door to immense personal pitfalls, particularly for the men and women around him who had trouble maintaining such a scientific distance. Speaking of which, while Neeson is solid and Laura Linney is Laura Linney as usual, the supporting character work in Kinsey is particularly good. Special marks go to a fearless Peter Saarsgard as Kinsey’s #2 (Watch out, Ewan – you’ve got a competitor now for the full-frontal roles), John Lithgow for his bleary final scene as Kinsey’s father (which redeemed an otherwise one-note character), and Dylan Baker as the long-suffering Rockefeller Foundation point person (who must partly have been picked here for his memorable role in Happiness.)

In sum, although it ends with a rather bland huzzah for the march of science, Bill Condon’s Kinsey is for the most part an intelligent, nuanced, and multifaceted appreciation of one man’s probing (and occasionally perilous) quest to illuminate humankind’s most intimate frontier. (And as such, it’ll probably go over like a lead balloon in American Pie country.)

Incredible Journey.

Well, the folks making next summer’s Fantastic Four film must be having a really bad couple of weeks. ‘Cause it’s hard to see how they can even close to topping the energy and fun of Brad Bird’s The Incredibles, Pixar’s new gold standard (and here I thought Toy Story 2 was going to hold that honor for some time to come.) More a film for comic fans than for little kids, The Incredibles is an inventive, madcap romp through superhero tropes that gives Spiderman 2 a serious run for its money as the best comic book film of 2004.

I must say, I was surprised right off the bat at how PG the film turned out to be. This is a darker film than most previous Pixar forays, with a surprisingly high body count and some mordant sight gags in the mix (for example, the montage explaining the trouble with capes). Whatsmore, Mr. Incredible’s most potent villain turns out to be existential ennui at the workplace, which seems as if it might fly right over the heads of the Finding Nemo age demographic.

Their loss, our gain. The Incredibles is a consistently clever ride, right down to the details. The writers and production designers have not only designed robots, ships, and a evil fortress that breathe originality while still paying homage to classic icons (Not unlike Brad Bird’s The Iron Giant in that regard — so take that, Sky Captain.) They’ve also come up with unique applications and situations for some of the hoariest superpowers going (strength, elasticity, speed, etc…Elastigirl’s break-in to Syndrome’s lair stands out as a particular highlight.)

The only real misstep in the film, aside from it feeling maybe 10-15 minutes too long (and, arguably, the Ayn Randish subtext), is the Brad Bird-voiced Edna Mode, who seems like some unholy cross between Vera Wang and Joan Rivers and comes off as somewhat embarrassing and misconceived. Better thought out is Mr. Incredible’s McNamara-esque boss and the “Issue No. 2” villain, The Underminer, whom I very much look forward to in the sequel. But, look, here I am monologuing again…To sum up, as the sinister mime Bomb Voyage might put it, “C’est incroyable!”

Ghost in the Machinist.

Batman? Try the Scarecrow. Christian Bale purportedly lost 65 pounds for his role as The Machinist, and, boy, does it show. In a film that swims in unease, Bale is the creepiest special effect of all, jutting collarbones and vertebrae this way and that. If nothing else, he has done for eating disorders here what highway-gore films of the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s did for Driver’s Ed. And the movie itself? Well, I’m not sure if it (or any film, for that matter) would be worth Bale’s gruesome physical transformation, but The Machinist is a pretty solid foray into puzzle-movie territory, one that establishes a grim, unsettling mood early on and maintains it throughout.

Bale’s Trevor Reznick — Given the explicit nods to Dostoevsky throughout, the name resemblance to NIN’s frontman is probably also intentional — splits his time among his job, an airport cafe, and the bed of his favorite hooker (Jennifer Jason Leigh, less show-offy than usual.) He shambles through the world without food, sleep, or even much color (everything, other than the occasional flash of red, has that institutional-green Matrix cast to it.) And, as the film goes on, Reznick tries to make sense of the increasingly strange events that befall him…events which I can’t really talk about without giving the game away, but that may involve conspiracies, murders, impending madness, and/or all of the above.

I have to say I was a bit dismayed by the way the pieces ended up fitting together in the end, but The Machinist is more about the journey than the destination anyway, and as a sinister tone poem the film works quite well…not a masterpiece by any means, but definitely a respectable night at the movies. Now, Alfred, could you please bring Mr. Wayne here a few cheeseburgers?

Masters of Puppets.

So, just before the Sox took George Steinbrenner down a peg this past Wednesday, I got to witness an ornery Kim Jong Il marionette suffer a similar fate at the hands of Team America: World Police. Going in to said puppet show, I was expecting a gut-bustingly funny film a la the South Park movie (and most South Park episodes), despite David Edelstein’s warning about sloppy satire. Well, unfortunately, Edelstein was right: While Team America does have some really hilarious moments (the cyanide hammer, Kim’s attack panthers, Matt Damon, the Michael Bay song), as a whole it doesn’t really hold together.

I should say first off that, the humor notwithstanding, this is probably one of the most amazing (non-stop-motion) puppet shows ever put to film. There are a few extended sequences — Paris, the Panama Canal — where the scale and execution of this puppet world is breathtaking. But, sadly, this ambition and devotion to detail doesn’t carry over to the script. For the first two-thirds or so, Team America is a spot-on imitation of pretty much any Jerry Bruckheimer film…but, unfortunately, it lampoons the genre so closely that it’s easy to forget you’re watching a parody. Instead, half the time I felt like I’d stumbled onto one of the New Classics on TNT.

Then, the final third of the movie swings too far in the other direction, and ends up relying way too heavily on puppet entrails and cussing dolls to generate laughs. As for the politics of the piece, I just don’t get how the South Park guys, who usually craft some of the most devastating satire around, couldn’t mine anything more substantive out of the War on Terror than the notion that left-wing Hollywood activists coddle tyrants by speaking their mind. (And, Trey & Matt, if we’re not supposed to care what the likes of Tim Robbins and Alec Baldwin think, then why in Hell should we listen to you two?) In short, the puppetry in Team America is inspired, but the comedy is often lazy. Funny at times, sure, but I expected more than just an intermittently amusing anti-Hollywood screed from the creators of Cartman & co.

World Gone Wrong.

Well, admittedly writer-director Kerry Conran’s Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow — which I finally caught on Sunday afternoon — doesn’t look much like a film shot in a tiny blue room, but, lordy, it sure as heck feels like it. Jude Law, Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Michael Gambon…they’re all fine enough in other situations. But, alas, pretty much everyone here, with the possible exceptions of Giovanni Ribisi, Bai Ling (who doesn’t speak), and the dead Lawrence Olivier, have contracted Portmanitis, and what considerable acting chops they usually possess have been sucked into the CGI machines and spat back out as a deathly dull flatness.

I don’t blame the cast, though. Because, however pretty the movie looks on occasion, the upshot is Sky Captain is as terribly written as Stephen Sommer’s ghastly Van Helsing this past summer. Seriously, this film makes zero sense whatsoever – the scenes of robots, planes, flying carriers, etc. just pile up on each other with no underlying sense of plot or development. Meanwhile, Jude Law and Gwyneth Paltrow are forced to deliver C-movie boilerplate that would’ve seem dated in Buster Crabbe’s day. I know we’ve reached an age where visual effects technology can spruce up even the lamest of tales, but still…I just don’t understand how a script this bad makes it out of Quality Control.

Perhaps to compensate for the wooden script, Conran packs his film chock-full of genre homages and fanboy cues, and one would think these would help alleviate the boredom. But, to be honest, they came so thick and so hamhandedly that even I, who usually has a high tolerance for this type of in-joke, started to feel beaten down by them. Oh, look, Metropolis, The Iron Giant, Office 1138, the SS Venture, Indy, Dagobah, Shangri-La as Rivendell…no, wait, Naboo…by the end of it, Sky Captain seemed less a full-fledged film than a 120 minute attempt to impress Harry Knowles. (Apparently, it worked. Harry is producing Conran’s next film (sigh), A Princess of Mars.)

As with Van Helsing, arguing that Sky Captain is a nod to the serials of the 1930’s is really no excuse. So was Raiders of the Lost Ark or even a B-movie like Big Trouble in Little China, and they held together a lot better than this overstuffed claptrap. In sum, the view out Sky Captain’s cockpit may be oh-so-pretty and genrefied, but the story here is strictly World of Yesterday.

Watching the Detectives.

When I first heard that David Russell’s I Heart Huckabees was billing itself as an “existential comedy,” I cringed. At the very least it sounded pretentious, and the last Naomi Watts film I saw about interconnected nothingness — 21 Grams — turned out to be a dog’s breakfast. But, given the cast and David Russell, I remained intrigued, and gave it a go on Wednesday. As it turns out, Huckabees is actually pretty solid — fitful and a bit meandering, sure, but still a pleasant, funny, and decently thought-provoking night at the movies.

Russell gets special points for making both his bizarre tale and his philosophical digressions easy and entertaining to follow. — unlike, say, Waking Life, you never feel like you’re getting battered over the head with coffee-house theory. Albert (Jason Schwartzman) is an embattled young environmental activist who enlists the aid of “existential detectives” Bernard and Vivian (Dustin Hoffman and Lily Tomlin) to ascertain the cosmic reasons behind a seemingly random coincidence involving a tall Sudanese immigrant (Ger Duany). After further research, our detective duo discover Albert’s plight probably also involves Huckabees corporate cog Brad (Jude Law, with a lousy American accent) and Brad’s girlfriend and Huckabees spokesmodel Dawn (Naomi Watts, ditto.) All the while, Albert and his “Other” — petroleum-despising fireman Tommy (Mark Wahlberg) — have begun to doubt the meaning of it all and are inexorably falling under the sway of Caterine Vauban (Isabelle Huppert), a french nihilist to do Lebowski proud.

Got all that? Well, like I said, it makes more sense on the screen than it does on the page (or, um, computer screen, well you get it.) For the most part, particularly in the early going, Huckabees is jaunty and whimsical. Albert and Tommy’s visit to the god-fearing Hooten household (Jean Smart and Richard Jenkins) is particularly funny. (And, perhaps surprisingly given the cast here, Mark Wahlberg steals every scene he’s in.) But, I’ll admit, as the film wore on, there were times when I began to doubt its infinite nature. I thought some of the visual playfulness (“blanket-vision,” or the godawful-creepy Jude Madonna) fell flat, and I found my attention wandering during the final act. Still, all in all, I’d recommend the film with some reservations…You may not heart Huckabees by the end, but you’ll more than likely be entertained by it. I give it two-parts blanket, one-part void.

Love will be our strongest weapon.

“So am I with you or am I against? I don’t think it’s that easy, we’re lost in regret.” This line (from “The Outsiders,” featuring A Tribe Called Quest‘s Q-Tip) emerges as the central theme in Around the Sun — R.E.M.’s 13th album — which was released today. And, while it may take a few more listens than usual to differentiate among the many glum mid-tempo tracks on this album, I’d say Around the Sun is easily R.E.M.’s most cohesive album since Monster. Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and new drummer Bill Rieflin have finally emerged with a confident sound that incorporates the musical experimentation of Up and Reveal with the classic jingly-jangly R.E.M. we all remember from the Bill Berry era. In fact, I think Around the Sun compares favorably to the Automatic days, when the Athens boys enjoyed their widest popularity stateside with a similarly disconsolate set of songs.

Early word on Around the Sun was that we were in for a very political album, one swept up in and honed on progressive outrage over Dubya excess. And, while such sentiments appear explicitly on “Final Straw” (released in 2002 during the build-up to the war in Iraq) and “I Wanted to Be Wrong” (“We can’t approach the Allies because they seem a little peeved.“), Michael Stipe’s political sermonizing is never as overt as, on say, “Exhuming McCarthy,” “Cuyahoga,” or “Welcome to the Occupation” in the Life’s Rich Pageant/Document era.

Instead, for R.E.M. this time around, the political is personal. In fact, the band doesn’t seem angry so much as disheartened. From the opening track (and first single) “Leaving New York” (“It’s easier to leave than to be left behind“) a large majority of songs on Around the Sun dwell not on political causes but on the “Aftermath” (also the name of the second single) of shattered relationships…the turmoil, bitterness, conflict, and — eventually — grudging acceptance that accompanies a love run its course. On the cascading “Make it All Ok“: “So you worked out your excuses, turned away and shut the door. The world’s too vast for us now, and you wanted to explore.” On “High-Speed Train” (whose crunchy metallic drone makes the minor-key railroad rock of Driver 8 seem like a pleasure ride): “You’ve mirrored my best disguise and turned it back on me.” On “The Worst Joke Ever“: “Some things don’t hold up over the course of a lifetime.” On “The Ascent of Man“: “I’m so in love I won’t attract, and with my hands tied I won’t crack, ’cause in my mind I called you back.” This despondent cloud over the album reaches its apex — or nadir, actually — in the album’s relentlessly downbeat stand-out track, “Boy in the Well“: “It’s that sinking feeling, you know what it’s bringing on…I see it, I feel it, this town is going wrong.” Forget “Fall on Me“: On Around the Sun, the sky has already fallen, and it’s all about picking up the pieces.

To be sure, all this oppressive dwelling on lost loves can be tough to take, and I can see how some critics might feel like R.E.M. have hit a thematic rut here. Even “Wanderlust,” the only relatively peppy track on the disc, doesn’t avoid the album’s general gloom: “Looks like the world revolves around me. Looks like it’s falling down.” Simply put, it’s hard not to come out of a listen to Around the Sun feeling somewhat dejected. But the payoff is there, in a way, in the last track (strangely enough for R.E.M., also named “Around the Sun“): “Hold on world ’cause you don’t know what’s coming. Hold on world ’cause I’m not jumping off. Hold onto this boy a little longer, take another trip around the sun.” Soon thereafter, in the final moments, “Around the Sun” changes keys, a ray of light pierces the clouds, and the album floats away in a sort-of-Beach-Boys shimmer (done much more successfully than any of the attempts to do this on Reveal): “Let my dreams set me free. Believe. Believe. Now now now now now now…“

As with love, Around the Sun seems to argue by the end, so with America. R.E.M. could easily have hammered the anti-Dubya agenda much harder on this album, and judging from early reports on the Vote for Change tour, it sounds like they’ll be doing so extensively at their live shows. But, in a way, Around the Sun sets its goal at something broader. Don’t let Dubya’s travesty of an administration dishonor your admiration for the American ideal. And don’t let the pains, compromises, and betrayals of this world steal from you your heart. “Do I even dare to speak? To dream? Believe?,” asks “Around the Sun.” The answer is Yes, “Give me a voice so strong I can question what I have seen.” Hold on to the dream. Believe.

No Brains Please, We’re British.

Not to beat a dead horse, but Shaun (Simon Pegg of Spaced) is having a bad go of it. He’s a working stiff killing time at a dead-end job. His relationship with his long-term girlfriend — who has decided he’s a deathly bore — has given up the ghost. His patience with his deadbeat flatmate is on its last legs. And, just as all his hopes for this world seem to have gone six feet under, the rest of the neighborhood starts acting rather strangely…

A friend of mine saw the trailer for Shaun of the Dead and noted it looked like a zombie movie written by The Kinks. That’s actually a pretty good shorthand for this wry, witty film, although it eschews Ray Davies-like bitterness for a romantic comedy sweet that, for the most part, fits quite well. In fact, for the first hour or so, Shaun of the Dead is a total gas, particularly as Shaun and his couch-potato roommate Ed (Nick Frost) verrry slowly get wise to the shambling undead amidst them.

The only missteps in Shaun of the Dead occur in the last thirty minutes or so, right about the time Queen blares on the Winchester’s jukebox and, soon thereafter, when our heroes find themselves embroiled in an unlikely Mexican Standoff. For one, the film’s tone falls off its comic-horror razor’s edge and veers a little too abruptly into the standard zombie tropes. More problematic, all of the characters we’ve been following start making stupid decisions which can’t be explained by the duress of their situation. (Fortunately, the film finds its footing again in the closing scenes.)

Despite these small lapses, though, Shaun of the Dead is a fall fanboy film treat, filled to the brim with quality dry Brit humour. Whatsmore, Shaun is particularly fun for both Romero fans (“We’re coming to get you, Barbara!”) and Anglophiles (As Shaun and Ed try to decide which records to use as Zombie Decapitators: “The Stone Roses?” “No!” “Second Coming?” “I liked it!”) In fact, I was previously thinking of picking up a grey hoodie and channeling Donnie Darko this Halloween, but perhaps a Shaun-like goatee and nametag might be the way to go…

Return of the Jedi.

So while out yesterday evening to pick up some power converters, I managed to procure the Star Wars Original Trilogy DVDs through the NYC fanboy underground, and subsequently stayed up way too late in the night perusing the set. On the plus side, the transfers are really crisp and stunning, particularly A New Hope. Whatsmore, the 2.5 hour Empire of Dreams documentary on the supplemental disc includes quite a bit of fun material I’d never seen before, such as Kurt Russell and William Katt reading for Han and Luke respectively, Bill Moyers and Walter Cronkite assessing the trilogy’s cultural impact, and Harrison Ford and Lawrence Kasdan making the case for a dead Captain Solo to start off RotJ.

But as for the 2004 changes…well, they can be jarring to say the least. Alas, as feared, Greedo-shoots-first now looks even worse than it did in the 1997 iteration. For some reason, they tried to make it seem as if Han’s now-disembodied head dodges Greedo’s blast by floating to the left, and it just looks awful. Hayden Christiansen at the end of RotJ also seems bizarre, given that Alec Guinness and Yoda still look the same (I mean, why not throw in Samuel Jackson while you’re at it?) As for the other changes (the revised Emperor scene in ESB, Temuera Morrison’s voice replacing that of Jeremy Bulloch), they were off-putting last night, but I expect I could grow used to them. The CGI-Jabba in A New Hope is also much-improved, although he still seems a pretty distant cousin to his RotJ incarnation.

Regarding the Episode III teaser, it’s not much of a tease — mostly just footage of Christiansen and Ewan MacGregor practicing their climactic fight scene on a soundstage, intercut with ILM ugnaughts manufacturing a new Vader helmet. One of the ILM guys goes on at great length about how Vader’s mask wasn’t symmetrical in the OT, and how the new one they made is now perfectly symmetrical, which I thought encapsulated one of the central problems with the prequels. Who care if Vader’s mask was or wasn’t symmetrical, and why don’t you just make the mask he was wearing in the first films? It’s the Midichlorian Dilemma — If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

While I’m complaining, also included on Disc 4 is a documentary featuring other genre directors — PJ, Spielberg, Ridley Scott, James Cameron, the ID4 guys — explaining the contributions the original films made to their own work. And, while Lucas should be justifiably hailed for both the OT and his many FX contributions to the medium (ILM, THX, Skywalker Sound, etc.), the tone of this piece — and particularly its over-reliance on clips from Lord of the Rings — sadly comes off a bit smug and sour grapes-ish.

Still, despite the unnecessary tweaking and slightly tone-deaf docs, the set does include Star Wars and The Empire Strikes Back (and, ok, Return of the Jedi) in all their glory and, for long stretches — when Boba Fett isn’t speaking with a Kiwi accent or Gungans aren’t (sigh) proclaiming “Weesa free!” — it’s possible to remember a time not so long ago, in a galaxy actually not all that far away, when there were only three Star Wars films, and they were almost inarguably the most amazing, awe-inspiring, captivating and entertaining works of science fantasy ever put to film. Obi-Wan, Mos Eisley, Tarkin, Hammerhead, Yavin, AT-ATs, Cloud City, Ozzel, Veers, Needa, and Piett, Wedge, Lobot, Yoda’s discourses on the Force…they’re all here looking and sounding better than ever. For these and for countless other moments, this DVD set is worth picking up. But as for the tweaks and the prequels…well, best not to dwell any longer on them, I suppose. Once you start down the dark path, forever it will dominate your destiny.

Update: The Production Photo Gallery is definitely worth a look as, not only did the Lucasfilm wags have some fun with the captions, but there are a number of shots from deleted scenes (Toshi Station, the ESB Wampa Attack, etc.) that aren’t otherwise included in the set.