Water

Grade: A-

Poetic storytelling of a cruelly unpoetic way of life. Political upheaval, religious dogma and financial expedience all merge in this plight of widows made virtual untouchables in filmmaker Deepa Mehta’s tale of 1930’s India. Cinematic, romantic and lyrical in the telling, it is a story nonetheless imbued with sexist brutality and anguished realism.

Sacred scrolls thousands of years old provide the rationale for families (wishing one less mouth to feed) to damn their widowed relations to lives of isolation, degradation, prostitution and poverty. Following the path of an eight year old widowed by a husband she may never have even met, we enter a monastical world of quiet humility and imposed shame, silenced longing and repressed desire, pathological control and terrorized subjugation. In a world of only the most minimalist pleasures, an aged woman clings to memories of a single day with sweets in her life, a forbidden puppy provides warmth and camaraderie between comrades, a treasured parrot provides a speck of humanity to a misery of a mother hen. The clash between antiquated oppression and new enlightenment is ignited by a “little man in a loin cloth,” who sparks idealism in those affluent enough to renounce their way of life and dismissive hostility from those who know no other way.

Seema Biswas leads a moving cast as a widow torn by conflicted perceptions of religious obligation and societal manipulation. Spiritual devotion and piety does not stop her from questioning the ethics and morality behind her lot in life, and it is at once an elegant and humble performance. Sarala plays the central child widow with incredulous defiance, and John Abraham is charismatic as a lothario who believes he can rescue a woman from her fate only to seal it instead.

Though occasionally melodramatic and slowly paced around the fringes, there is a quiet pathos in Mehta’s telling that adds sweep and weight to these women’s lives, incorporating the political upheaval of the times and the shining light of the Mahatma without overpowering the simplicity of the story. The grace of offering water to a new widow after her long journey, the holy experience of communal bathing in the river and the separation between the haves and have-nots this body of water represents engulf the film with both austerity and grandeur. Final moments sear hope and despair in equal measure.

Lest anyone leave the theater with a holier-than-thou sensibility as we discover this barbaric tradition continues to this day, it bears remembering that even in this country individuals are denied the right to pursue love and life because of the bastardizing of religion and financial protectionism. Everywhere it seems, persecution and intolerance is bathed and baptized in the name of God.

More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0240200/

Superman Returns

Grade: D+

He should have stayed away.

And the critics who raved about this film should have gone all the way back to Krypton with him. They truly belong in outer space.

John Williams’ majestic theme begins, the laser blue titles start soaring across the screen, and the heart begins to fly. You’ve been warned, the opening credits are the most exhilarating part of the movie.

Reverential to the point of mind-numbing, derivative to the point of thievery, this is a disappointingly dull, unimaginative, awkward, plodding soap opera of a comic book. Bryan Singer (of “X-Men” fame, until he left one clunker – “X-Men: The Last Stand” – to make this even bigger clunker) clearly has overwhelming affection for the man of steel, so much so that he dissed Superman’s III (remember Richard Pryor?) and IV: The Quest for Peace (did anyone actually see this movie?) and begins his film shortly after the second in the series ended. His bravado is so bold and daring one wonders how no one bothered to tell him he didn’t have an original screenplay.

Admittedly, I was never a huge fan of the original films – the first one spent what felt to this 15 year old (ever the critic) like f o r e v e r trapped in exposition until we finally got to see the guy in the leotard take flight, but Christopher Reeve had a tongue in cheek charisma (completely lacking in Brandon Routh’s lookalike but there the comparison ends performance), Gene Hackman was a giddily evil Lex Luthor (completely lacking in Kevin Spacey’s also has a bald head but otherwise coldly bland, occasionally screechy performance) and the entire film at least found the goofy, larger than life whimsy in it all (completely lacking in this heavy-handedly serious dissertation on how dearly the world needs a Superhero in these frightening and uncertain times). 9/11 imagery abounds, as shot after shot of the southern tip of Manhattan permeates and a man falling from a skyscraper (arms and legs flailing) is saved by Superman just before splattering on the pavement. We get it, Bryan, we get it.

We return time after time to the desolate “Fortress of Solitude,” hear Marlon Brando’s voice-overs, Clark and Lois take “Can You Read My Mind” flight all over again, Lex Luther pulls out the Kryptonite, until it becomes achingly clear all Singer has in his own bag of tricks is a geeky fondness for the movie of his youth, and a big bag of money someone gave him to recreate it. The stuff of dork dreams to be sure (I’m ready when you are, Mr. Lucas) but not all that entertaining for the rest of us.

The convoluted plot revolves around Lex stealing some of Superman’s crystals to create a landmass that will submerge the good old US of A, with a subplot involving the paternity of Lois Lane’s sickly kid. Neither is terribly compelling, but the latter literally dissolves into a hospital bed side confession whispered into a comatose ear – will oh will the heart monitor begin to perk up? Pure drivel. At 2 hours and 37 minutes, one keeps waiting (and waiting) (and waiting) for the payoff that never comes. Special effects range the gamut from occasionally thrilling to unusually pedestrian. Kate Bosworth is a miscast Lois Lane, Frank Langella is given nothing to do as Perry White (even his “Great Caesar’s Ghost” feels awkwardly inserted), James Marsden is most sympathetic in what is usually the least sympathetic “soon to be dumped” boyfriend role, and Parker Posey irritates beyond all explanation as Lex’s girl toy. But the greatest sin of all, especially for all of us who remember the “you’ll believe a man can fly” tagline of the original – you don’t. Routh looks so completely rubbery, animated and computer generated he, like the rest of the movie, remains stubbornly earthbound.

More Move Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0348150/

The Devil Wears Prada

Grade: B+

It is a great relief that no one I know suffers under the oppression of a boss who is demanding, arrogant, immature, moody, petulant, patronizing, needy, unappreciative or self-aggrandizing in any way, yet mysteriously the cult of the terrible boss is alive and well and – thanks to the divine Meryl Streep – a resplendent and gloriously bitchy thing to behold.

The boss who never says please or thank you. The boss who loathes voice mail. The boss we despise to distraction yet consistently apologize for. Smile a broad toothy smile at during the day and rail against to distraction when home at night. The boss who turns us into an addict for their abuse. There really oughta be a 12-step program.

Ms. Streep, who has recently been overacting up a storm in such unnecessary works as “The Manchurian Candidate” and “Prime,” here deserves an Oscar for devouring the scenery while never undermining her humanity. Able to induce chagrined waves of fear, knowing chuckles of recognition and pangs of sympathy with the mere lift of an eyebrow, tilt of a head or curl of a lip, she is a megalomaniacal tyrant with a heart of, well, stone who we nevertheless love to hate and can’t help but care for at least a little. It is a towering comedic performance, emblazoned with over-quaffed white hair and rather appalling designer eyewear. Make-up off it is also jaw-droppingly dramatic and vulnerable, and one cannot imagine another soul alive but Streep walking the “Norma Desmond” precipice without for a moment careening over the edge.

Meryl is the reason to see the film, but there are indeed other pleasures. Anne Hathaway is a plucky straightman to Streep’s top banana, and if her personal life is a bit too contrived to hold much interest, her descent up the ladder of success is entirely credible. Stanley Tucci may find himself with a nomination of his own as Streep’s flamboyantly arresting #2 guy, knowing how to manipulate the fray while never quite managing to rise above it – melancholic yet solid, not completely likable yet thoroughly sympathetic. As ace Fashionista assistant, Emily Blunt is harsh and hateful, neither friend nor colleague, yet sullenly captures the pathetic and comic longing of someone willing to sell their soul in the name of career and designer wear. While neither Adrian Grenier nor Simon Baker display much in the way of acting ability beyond puppy dog eyes and conniving smiles, they are both exceedingly pretty to look at, although Baker’s eyebrows are genuinely bushy to the point of distraction.

Director David Frankel returns to his HBO roots, directing with a slick, quick and clean “Sex in the City” meets “Entourage” sheen, making even the most jaded New Yorker appreciate the gloss and glamour of their surroundings. While the screenplay by Aline Brosh McKenna (based on the blockbuster book by Lauren Weisberger) is unoriginal around the edges and mildly jarring (if utterly anticipated) in its speedily upbeat resolution, its core is tart, smart and sure to induce mortified enthusiastic nods of “been there, done that.”

Sorry, no fashion allusions in this review – my fave designers are Eddie du Bauer and Monsieur Gap, footware provided by New Balance – de la Renta, Versace and Prada mean less than nothing to moi.

More Movie Info: http://imdb.com/title/tt0458352/