Broken Flowers

Grade: D+/DWR*

For a full fifty percent of this movie, absolutely
N O T H I N G happens. If you blink, you won’t miss a damn thing. If you look at your watch – as I did quite often – you won’t miss a damn thing. My partner went to the bathroom – he didn’t miss a damn thing.

Bill Murray sits on his sofa. The TV screen is blank. The stereo plays. He looks at a vase of pink flowers. They have started to droop since the last time he sat on the couch and stared at them. He looks at his glass of champagne. He looks at the stereo. He looks out the window. The scene fades to black.

Bill Murray is driving. He looks at his Mapquest directions. He looks in the rearview mirror. He drives some more. He turns a bend. He looks at the landscape. He picks some flowers, gets back in the car, drives some more. He asks for directions, sees a deer, drives some more and…

I wonder what color we’re going to pick when we buy new towels at Bed, Bath & Beyond. I still can’t believe our laundry service stained our towels with bleach. Maybe we can stop off at Tower Records to buy some of Lifehouse’s older cd’s…

Wow, must have zoned out for a minute there. Focus, gotta’ focus.

Bill Murray stands on his hotel veranda. He looks at the rain. He looks at the traffic. He looks at the traffic in the rain. Fade to black and…

Bill Murray waits in a doctor’s office. He looks at the books on the table. He looks at the receptionist. He looks at the wall hangings. He looks back at the receptionist. He sits. He waits.

I am really in the mood for some good diner food for dinner tonight. Like a turkey triple decker and a side of fries. I’ll have to work out again first though, or…

Oops, wait, did I miss anything? Relief – he’s still sitting in the reception area.

Most of this movie is Bill Murray sitting on a sofa, on an airplane, or in a rental car. During the rest of the movie, he visits a series of old flings after having received an anonymous letter on pink stationary telling him he is the father of a 19-year-old son. Each reunion is its own separate, partitioned, distinct void in time. Sharon Stone drinks white zinfandel (a clear sign of a lowlife – I know this, since I love white zinfandel) and has a slutty daughter named Lolita. Frances Conroy is sterile and vacant, makes dinner in geometric shapes (the chicken is a square, the rice in a circle). Jessica Lange is an “animal communicator,” flaky and one with her animals. Tilda Swinton is trailer trash with gap-toothed husband prone to violent outbreaks. The fifth is six feet under – no, not Frances Conroy. None of these women emanate any personality. We learn nothing about them. We learn nothing about Bill Murray. He brings them all pink flowers. He has a vacant scene with them. He drives. He gets on a plane. He has self-indulgent dreams about them during the flight. He looks at young men and ponders if he is their father. He drives some more. He is often shot from behind. This is supposed to carry some weighty import. It does not. Don’t count on a resolution. You won’t get one.

Filled with dramatic pauses and stilted dialogue, Bill Murray is nonetheless a very talented actor who manages to create a modicum of interest and sympathy when there is no particular reason for any. A role that calls upon a little more energy on his part would be helpful -- one “Lost in Translation” performance is plenty, especially when it’s in a far better film.

What some may call existentialism I call masturbation. One can only hope Director Jim Jarmusch had fun playing with himself.

As my partner said while leaving the movie, “It’s very rare a movie is so off-putting that halfway through you vow never to see anything by its director ever again.”

As for me, I strongly recommend bringing lots of No-Doze and coffee into the movie theater. No worries if you need to use the restroom – you won’t miss a damn thing.

*For those unfamiliar with this particular designation, DWR (which stands for “Danger, Will Robinson”) is used to indicate pretentious, self-congratulatory, holier-than-thou or otherwise self-important dreck that nevertheless manages to garner significant critical praise. I am considering changing this designation to IEFS for “Is Ebert Fu#king Serious?”

More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0412019/

Murderball

Grade: A

All the clichés about inspiration in the face of adversity don't begin to do justice to this wonderful documentary.

Don't be fooled – merely set against the backdrop of wheelchair rugby (formerly called Murderball until it became clear the name was off-putting to prospective sponsors) – athletic prowess and accomplishment barely scratch the surface of a film about a team of paraplegics whose individual stories and personalities are at once diverse, tragic, occasionally obnoxious and irritating, profoundly moving and spiritually uplifting.

As I said, the clichés don't do it justice.

No subject is verboten – from accident descriptions, to sexual function issues ("I got a modified doggie style I kind of perfected," extols one of the players) to cutthroat competition, to misplaced national fever, to pained memories of "phantom lives," to family strife having more to do with emotional than physical disability. A wife toasts her husband at their anniversary dinner, he toasts victory for his team. Graphic infomercials about adjusting to one's sex life in the face of disability, complete with monotone doctor devoid of all personality. Wheelchair bound fathers learn how to demonstrate pride in their able-bodied sons, able-bodied fathers learn how to demonstrate pride in their wheelchair-bound sons, best friends find the power of communication in the face of crippling guilt, newbies learn acceptance through the generous empathetic spirit of others, and teammates play terribly funny practical jokes on one another.

Surprisingly soft-spoken in the face of almost animalistic athletic intensity, there is a no-holds barred quality throughout that is both refreshing and bare. There is no pity apparent on screen – assh&les prior to injury remain assh&les after, players show team spirit and pettiness in equal measure, physical challenge spawns as many gifts as it does obstacles. Filmed from multiple camera angles that emphasize the genuine speed, intensity and power of these men – gladiators in their chariots as it were – who wins what seems far less important (to us, if not to them) than who these people are. Trophies come in all shapes and sizes.

When an injured motorcycle enthusiast returns home after a year in rehab, he looks around his now wheelchair-accessible bathroom and says with introspective simplicity, “this sucks.” His mother and girlfriend momentarily mistake reflection on his forever altered life for displeasure in their handiwork. It is one of many such instances of gut-level, transforming honesty. Final moments involving a timid young war veteran are heartbreaking in their tenderness and decency.

To the very last, this one is full of surprises. Do not miss this movie – it will both humble and elevate you to a different place.

More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0436613/

Junebug

Grade: A-

Rarely does a film strike such resonant chords without hitting a single sour or false note.

A family golden boy takes a side trip home to his southern roots after a multiyear absence. He has recreated himself in the big city, yet remains fixed in his family's perceptions and expectations. Despite the old adage, one can go home again, usually lapsing into comfortable old roles and responsibilities for good measure. His well-traveled, cosmopolitan bride is bemusedly charmed yet eminently surprised at how little she knows about her husband. Widely embraced by some arms and narrowly judged by others, she is quickly absorbed into familial love and pettiness.

Languidly paced, dripping with atmosphere, like 100% cotton on a sweltering summer day this is a film that breathes through its pores, taking frequent, quiet pauses and offbeat excursions that allow us to soak in the environs and reflect on the meaning of family in our own lives. Slapstick stereotypes of small town southern life here are replaced with great affection and grace. There is much to recommend this way of life, where humor, simplicity and sentiment flow naturally in equal measure. Saturday nights at fellowship dinners, checkered tablecloths and pot luck food with the saran wrap just barely exposed enough to permit the plastic tongs. Naps on den couches amidst fits of pique drifting down from the rooms above. Much cigarette smoking. Hidden resentments between neighbors juxtaposed with a heartfelt sense of community and caring largely unfelt in the big city.

And a whole heap of unresolved, unspoken yet firmly established family resentments, disappointments, faith and love.

Rarely since "Ordinary People" has the stillness in people's lives been so powerfully reflected - the yard, the rooms, the landscapes all seem to have their own stories to tell. An exquisite cast creates a quirky, complex yet often subdued family. Neither the country nor the city folk have a monopoly on values here, but the importance of family varies, shades, and distorts though multiple perspectives and circumstances. Sexuality explodes on the screen between newlyweds Alessandro Nivola and Embeth Davidtz, still learning to communicate verbally as well as they do in the bedroom. A wearied depth of understanding that comes only from well worn time emanates from overbearing mother Celia Weston and understated father Scott Wilson. And the sparkling Amy Adams gives heartwarming new meaning to the cockeyed optimist, a young woman intent on seeing the positive in everyone, including Ben McKenzie as an uncommunicatively pained husband who wants to show how much he cares yet can only crack a genuine smile in the unlikeliest of places.

If some links in the chain are found wanting, and a side story involving a savant artist feels a bit awkward and misplaced, novice director Phil Morrison and writer Angus MacLachlan have nonetheless created a subtle wonder that provides just enough information and undercurrent without giving the farm away. The audience becomes the unwritten final character. A funny, sweet, and surprisingly eloquent experience.

More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0418773/

Charlie & the Chocolate Factory

This one is destined to become a classic for children of all ages. Bubbling over with whimsy and fancy, eye-popping visuals, sweetness, charm, and just the right measure of sadistic cynicism, a confection it is indeed. Add the glorious score, bound to be co-opted by recording artists for decades, and a central performance by the bewitching Gene Wilder....

Oh, oops, wait a minute. Wrong movie. Sorry if you just ran to fandango your movie tickets.

The only question one has for the slightly arrogant Tim Burton is, well...

WHY?

This deadly dull and drearily plodding remake is effectively a scene by scene redo, with some animated special effects, occasional moments of pure disgusting grossness, and an oedipal-like father/son thing going that is neither convincing nor compelling. At the heart of it all is an inexplicably strange Johnny Depp, a twistedly maniacal puppy dog who is just trying way too hard for primo bizarreness. As always. Burton adds the occasional warped spark to his set design, but there is nothing to recommend this cold yawner over the sparkling original.

"Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew? Cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two, the candyman, the candyman can." Now that's whimsy.

Don't fu%k with my childhood fellas' unless you've got a really good reason.

Grade: A (Willy)
Grade: C (Charlie)

More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0367594/