Craiger’s Cinema Corner

****  out of  ****

HAIRSPRAY is a bright, sugarcoated, candy colored, and robustly entertaining film musical that enveloped me within its first few minutes and never let go.  Its free- wheeling, toe-tapping energy is utterly infectious.  As an exercise in playful rambunctious energy, whimsicality, and unapologetic joviality, the film is a grand bit of crowd-pleasing spectacle.  It’s as sweet as a lollipop and as light as the mist from an aerosol can.

HAIRSPRAY pleasantly harkens back to some of the best musicals, which wisely embraced their carefree and sassy spirit.  I defy anyone’s humanity that does not have fun with HAIRSPRAY; only diehard cynics and cinematic Scrooges will not find it to be a snarky and mercilessly enjoyable time at the movies.  And - God help me for saying this - but the fact that it has John Travolta in drag dancing with Christopher Walken in a romantic duet should not dissuade you in the slightest. 

Of course John Travolta should be in this!  He did - after all - create a pop culture frenzy with his sizzling disco theatrics in SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER and later gave his fans more in GREASE, one of the most beloved of all musicals.  And - of course - Travolta in drag should not be the red herring of HAIRSPRAY that far, far too many critics would love to point out.  After all, his character of Edna has a proud and renowned history of being played by men in drag.  Sure, in HAIRSPRAY Travolta may not be the suave, debonair, and guilelessly macho figure that he showed of in GREASE and FEVER, but he nevertheless shows that he can still be a showstopper.  Like everything else in the film, Travolta’s refreshing spunk and pure cornball appeal is done with a tactful, note perfect moderation.  HAIRSPRAY is a camp-filled, unfussy riot that exudes childlike lightheadedness.  Travolta as a woman is not a detriment, but oddly an absolute necessity.

Much like 2005’s musical comedy, THE PRODUCERS, HAIRSPRAY is another in one of those remakes of a remake.  It first saw the light of day as a 1988 comedy made by the frequently inaccessible John Waters, who made a real notorious name for himself in the 1970’s by making transgressive cult films.  Movies likes PINK FLAMINGOES and DESPERATE LIVING lovingly pushed the boundaries of good movie taste.  FLAMINGOES alone represented Waters at his most esoteric and absurd, and by that I refer to its notorious closing moment, an unbroken shot of a dog defecating and one character eating its poo.  Yeah…that inaccessible.

So, in pure hindsight, when his HAIRSPRAY was released in 1988, it marked a clear departure for the flamboyant director.  It was his effort to go a bit more mainstream (it was his first feature to be rated PG, most of his other efforts were given a self-imposed X rating for their crude content).  However more innocent and simplistic HAIRSPRAY was, it still retained some of Waters’ trademark quirkiness and inventiveness.  Like Mel Brooks’ original 1968 comedy of THE PRODUCERS, HAIRSPRAY eventually saw the light of day as a Broadway musical and went on to sweep the 2003 Tony Awards. Now comes HAIRSPRAY the film musical which is, again, a remake of a remake, and in that highly rare genre of film, it’s categorical the best.

This new film musical has an astonishing forward momentum of musical energy and liveliness that does not waiver throughout.  The opening number sets the film’s joyous level of sassiness.  It’s 1962 in Baltimore and a plump, robustly cute and bubbly Tracy Turnblad (in a star making performance by newcomer Nikki Blonsky) wakes up from her bed and jubilantly declares to the world her yearning to be a big, big star.  Her enthusiasm and confidence is limitless and matched only by her boundless charm. 

She sings “Good Morning, Baltimore”, one of the many of a handful of the film’s great song and dance numbers, as a triumphant tribute to one girl’s love and admiration for her city and place in it.  This opening sequence rightfully sets the whole film’s uplifting and contagious vibe; this is not going to celebrate the nihilism and cynicism that too often permeates modern movies; this will be a commemoration of frivolous merriment.  Make no mistake about it - Blonsky is a real whipper-snapper that is impossible to hate.

Tracy has big plans.  She absolutely worships an American Bandstand clone named “The Corny Collins Show”, which in turn is named after its host, the very appropriately named Corny Collins (James Marsden, in a very funny and effective performance).  Tracy and her best friend in the whole world, Penny Pingleton (in a cute performance by Amanda Bynes, who seems to spend the film orally fixated to a sucker) slave away with time wasting monotony at high school everyday.  Each class is like an endurance test of fortitude and patience.  The real prize of spending a day at school is watching Corny Collins and his group of teenie-boppers dance away on his after-school dance program.  The swingers on that show represent a life that Tracy wants.

Unfortunately for her, she has some very large roadblocks along the way.  It’s not due to her lack of talent (she has the pipes and the dance moves that eclipses anyone else on the show), but she is not a slender bombshell that only appears to be on the show.  Also, Tracy faces a lot of opposition in the form of her equally pudgy and fiercely conservative mother, Edna (Travolta in drag, and unmitigated delight).

Edna is the kind of homemaker that prefers to stay at home…a lot…and does not like the public eye (when she finally makes it outside late in the film, she states, “There’s so much…air out here, can I not go back inside to a stuffy room?”).  She sees the spark in her daughter’s eyes, but she has her own plans for her.  “Dancing is not your future,” she tells her early on. “One day, you’re going to own Edna’s Oxidental Laundry.”  What she fails to comprehend is that - gee whiz - maybe Tracy does not want to carry on her mother’s business.  She passionately screams back to her mom, “I want to be famous!”  At least her dad, Wilbur (Christopher Walken, playing his part with characteristic Walkenian appeal and a geeky affability, minus his usual creepiness factor), supports his daughter.

Tracy faces other obstacles.  One day good ol’ Corny Collins has an open tryout.  Tracy cuts class to go, but all of her abilities are matter-of-factly dismissed by the show’s producer, Velma Von Tussle (played with a perfectly hateful vileness and lecherousness by Michelle Pfeiffer).  You see, she has big plans for her daughter, Amber (Brittany Snow), a miraculously untalented dancer, whom she wants to crown Miss Teen Hairspray.  To make her an even more spiteful creature of hate, Velma is also someone that is trying to boycott the show’s “Negro Tuesdays” that allows for blacks to come on the show and dance, albeit segregated from the white kids.  These Tuesdays are planned by Maybelle (Queen Latifah), the owner of a record shop.  She fears that her friends and family’s days are numbered on Corny’s show.

However, Tracy learns a lot of new - and risqué - dance moves from her school’s fellow black students, whom she hooks up with in detention.  One of them, played by Elijah Kelley, takes an instant liking to Tracy and begins to show her some slick moves, the kind that - in the 1950’s - Elvis was performing on live TV, much to the scorn of parents and moral conservatives (granted, Elvis never spanked himself in a stage performance like Tracy does).

Corny spots her one day a digs her moves so much that he gives her a shot, much to the disapproval of Velma.  Soon the cast iron witch takes a tougher control of the show, so much to the point that she cancels Negro Tuesdays. This, of course, makes Tracy look at herself and make some soul searching choices.  She can either shamelessly continue her overnight celebrity status on the show in attempts at trying to win the boy of her dreams, teen hot-throb Link Larkin (played by Zach Effron, looking like the bi-product of a three way between Superman, Elvis Presley, and Ray Liotta) or she can risk it all by supporting her black friends on a march and protest of the show.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect about HAIRSPRAY is that it contains noteworthy themes of racial injustice and intolerance, especially at a time when the Civil Rights movement was just started to break wide open.  The film deals with the issues of social unrest and it does a subtle job of even infusing the message within many of the song lyrics.  Of course, to criticize the film for glossing over the larger history of this delicate time misses the point.  A solemn and overtly serious handling of the film’s subtext would have buried the liveliness of the film.  A film like this walks the delicate balancing act between being a depressing and euphorically uplifting.  Without being too heavy-handed with the material, the film finds the right equilibrium between the two.  It never becomes pandering, nor a whitewashed, look at history.

However, this film will not be remembered for its legitimate civic lesson on equal rights and racial bigotry during a fragile time; rather, it should be appreciated for its exhilarating potency and delightful capriciousness.  The film has a plethora of fantastic song and dance numbers and most of the cast seems equal to the task.  An early sequence with the conniving Velma shows her cheerful wickedness (Pfeiffer really has redefined herself here; she plays a cold-hearted villain so well), and Elijah Kelley shows off his acrobatic and groovy dance moves to great appreciation.  He is a real talent.

Of course, every number that includes Blonsky is joyous and goofy.  However, my personal favourite has to be a love ballet between - yes - Walken and Travolta, where the two dance the night away proclaiming their admiration for one another.  Amazingly, the fact that it is performed by two men does not illicit instant groans of discomfort.  Walken, playing somewhat against type as a nerd, is such an innocently likeable presence and Travolta does such a virtuoso job of losing himself in the role of Edna that you kind of forget the male star baggage and buy the relationship between the two characters.  Seeing Walken gracefully strutting alongside the equally fluid and smooth Travolta (even in pounds of fat makeup) is one of the film’s sublime pleasures.  When Wilbur and Edna proclaim their mutual adoring of one another, it’s noble-hearted and sweet, not…how shall I say…icky.

Most important among HAIRSPRAY’s accomplishments is its amiable and bouncy fun factor.  As a fast paced, buoyant, and rousing throwback to the classic, primary colored musicals of the 50’s, HAIRSPRAY wallows in a refreshing sensation of its own unpretentiousness.  With fever pitched dance numbers, bright production design, a cast of immeasurable likeability, and a serious message of racial tolerance that is not hammered down too hard,  HAIRSPRAY is a wondrous blast and vivaciousness and shameless exuberance.  Newcomer Nikki Blonsky steals every scene (she’s a cauldron of happiness), but it’s also hard to overlook John Travolta’s very publicized part of playing a middle-aged and overweight female homemaker.  Although initially seeing him in a dress and silk stockings is jarring and momentarily cringe worthy, you quickly kind of loose yourself in the spirit of his performance.  It - much like the rest of the film - is a unapologetic hoot.  HAIRSPRAY is a wonderfully glossy and old-fashioned screen musical that relishes with its unthreatening level of warmheartedness.  It’s simply one of 2007’s most fun-filled entertainments.

www.craigerscinemacorner.com

1/2*  out of  ****

I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU CHUCK AND LARRY is a comedy of unapproachable, Herculean stupidity and awfulness.  It seems to go out of its way to straddle two fences: one is marked by juvenile and puerile laughs and sight gags and the other is characterized by a sanctimonious pontificating about gay and lesbian rights.

Films this cringe worthy and putrid are not ones that you simply dispose of and forget about.  They linger with you like some sort of sickening virus.  I left the screening feeling like the only doomed survivor of an airplane accident that was stranded alone on a desert island with no hope in sight.  Movies should not make one feel so worthless.  I want the 115 minutes of life that CHUCK AND LARRY unceremoniously robbed of me.

I am not sure what is more offensive about this train wreck.  Is it the fact that it’s another in long, long - sigh - long line of witless and banal Adam Sandler comedies that seem like they were written by five-year-olds?  Is it the fact that the film contains enough gay stereotypes and homophobic jokes to make one gag, but - in the end - wishes to be a staunch advocate of equal rights for all homosexuals?  Is it the fact that we get a barrage of horribly phony sentiment about the plight of gays in western society and that the film wants us to feel sympathy for one group while giving us inanely offensive caricatures of other ethnic cultures?

Or…how about the fact that the film’s second credited screenwriters are none other than Alexander Payne and Jim Taylor, the former that wrote and directed great films like ELECTION, ABOUT SCHMIDT, and SIDEWAYS, also winning a Screenwriting Oscar for the latter.  There is no doubt that after watching the film it is clear that either (a) Sandler and company kidnapped Payne at gun point and forced him to drain away and reduce himself down to amoral levels to write this fifth or (b) an evil, Bizarro-like clone of Payne was created to contribute to the screenplay.

I am not sure which I adhere to.

I did not buy this film’s flagrant preaching about its issues for one single second or frame.  Not at all.  C’mon, this is a dumb, juvenile Adam Sandler comedy that - in some scenes - has jokes about farting, pooping, and bums peeing their pants, but - for Heaven’s sake - it wants to tell us that gays are treated badly and that we should stop persecuting them. 

There is one moment in the film where Sandler, in a PATCH ADAMS-inspired moment of horrendously contrived melodrama, states that he “hates” the word “faggot” because it’s demeaning and uncalled for. He subsequently continues by saying that he used to speak the word far too much and that now - gosh darn it - he’s a better man because he realizes how badly he treated gays in the past.  This is the same Adam Sandler that, in his last comedy, stuck his ass in David Hasselhoff’s face and farted in it.  Asking me to buy Sandler’s epiphany here is one of the most incredulous straining of reality that I have ever seen in a commercial film.  For an actor that has made a career out of making fun of homosexuals, I find his efforts here to be earnest and noble shockingly insincere.

CHUCK AND LARRY is the kind of comedy that gets down on its hands and knees and begs for the talents of the Farrelly Brothers.  Those two have made a career of tackling politically incorrect subject matter by making it obscenely funny and simultaneously sincere with its characters.  Films like STUCK ON YOU and SHALLOW HAL come to mind, which had humor revolving around morbidly obese people and conjoined twins.  Yet, those films were funny because they had laughs with their handicapped personas; they never laughed at them at their expense.

Every joke and pratfall in CHUCK AND LARRY is so intolerably committed at the expense of the main leads and those around them.  This is a film that wants to serve up a lot of raunchy humor directed at gay lifestyles but - at the same time - it wants to stand up and proudly proclaim that people that make fun of gays are losers.  By the end of the film, when this sentiment of tolerance is spouted, I did not feel enlightened.  I felt like I wanted to vomit.  You can either go for broke and shock and offend with the subject matter or be a self-righteous, PC parable about respect and leniency.  Since CHUCK AND LARRY tries to do both, it inevitably becomes something altogether more distasteful.

All of this, of course, should come at no surmise whatsoever.  Sandler himself is back in full force as a inhumanly unstable and unlikeable hooligan, the kind that he played to irritating, finger-nails-on-a-chalkboard perfection in other moronic comedies like BIG DADDY and HAPPY GILMORE.  He also brought back his director of those two films to add further insult to injury.  Furthermore, he seems to continue to make the same awful missteps that those other comedies made: serve us up a grade-A degenerate, sexist, misogynist male pig and - through a series of silly events - allow him to see the light at the end of the tunnel so he can become a better man.  In BIG DADDY he lead us on to believe that his character should have custody of a child when it was proven that he in no way should raise a kid.  In CHUCK AND LARRY he inevitably learns that calling someone a fag is bad.

Well…laddie-frickin’-da.

This monumentally bad comedy also commits another sin: it’s a comedy with no laughs.  Nadda.  Zip.  Zero.  A smile here and there, perhaps the barest, most minute example of a snicker, but not one genuine display of hearty merriment.  The film suffers from a rigidly one note premise: two straight men marry and pretend to be gay so they can get pension rights from their jobs.  One of the men, Larry (Kevin James, a funny and appealing actor saddled with bad material) has an issue.  After his wife’s death he was so taken away with morning her that he forgot to change his beneficiary of his life insurance policy to his children.  He discovers that it is too late to do this based on a legal technicality.  He also works as a firefighter, which is a dangerous job that threatens his life, so if he were to perish then his cute little kids would have nothing.

Fearing the worse, Larry decides to take a desperate course of action.  He will go to his partner on the job, Chuck (Sandler, phoning in a comedic performance with the minimal of effort) and fake being gay so they can form a domestic partnership.  If they do so Larry will be able to name Chuck as his new beneficiary and - presto - kids looked after for life.  Of course, Chuck begrudgingly agrees, but neither of the two are smart enough to think about how anyone in their right minds would believe them.  After all, Larry was a happily married man and Chuck is an unmitigated man-whore that engages in wild and rough intercourse with multiple female partners.  Not only that, but what they are doing is insurance fraud.  But…Chuck’s kids are so cute, so it’s worth the risk.

Worried about being discovered, the two hapless “gays” decide to get some legal help, most likely because government stooges are beginning to snoop around their homes looking for clues to expose them for the frauds they are (one of the agents is played by Steve Buscemi, whose appearance in yet another Sandler comedy further appears to be the result of the existence of bad blackmail in Sandler’s hands against him).  They go to see a lawyer named Alex (Jessica Biel), who is red, smokin’ hot.  Of course, she tells them that they should legally get married to throw off the government. 

Well, the two do get hitched in Canada by an Asian justice of the peace played by Rob Schneider.  Why does Schneider play his part Asian? I dunno, maybe because this film feels thinks that horrendously offensive ethnic stereotypes are funny.  Then again, Schneider was in DEUCE BIGALOW: EUROPEAN GIGOLO, a movie that contained a scene where he danced with a woman that had a congenital birth defect that gave her a penis for a nose and when she sneezed the fluid that came out was…well…use your imagination.  Obviously, Sandler and Schneider thought that gag was a riot, so why not make the latter’s character in CHUCK AND LARRY have slanty eyes for big laughs?  Alongside this year’s NORBIT, CHUCK AND LARRY continues a recent deplorable tradition of non-Asians playing Asians in makeup to horrible effect.

Anyhoo’, problems arise when Chuck begins to form a bond with Alex.  She thinks Chuck is gay, so she warms up to him and becomes close.  Chuck starts to fall for her, but has to mask his feelings because he has to act gay.  We are then subject to gratuitously stupid sequences where we see the two of them partaking on a “girl’s” day out, which culminates with a scene back at Alex’s apartment where she strips down out of her rain-drenched clothes right in front of Chuck.  He, of course, is aroused and is made even more uncomfortable when Alex asks him to grab her breasts to see whether or not he can tell if their real.  Clearly, this scene exists for Sandler to engage in his typical masturbatory objectification of women in his films.  Not that there is anything wrong with seeing Beil in her underwear, mind you.

All of this builds up to - you guessed it - an impassioned court hearing that is presided over by none other than Richard Chamberlain.  Here the boys have to go through a series of questions to prove their gayness.  The results are unequivocally embarrassing.  We get not one, but two would-be audience cheering speeches, one by Sandler, saying how he now knows that gay slurs are bad and the other by Dan Aykroyd, playing Chuck and Larry’s boss, who gives a motivational speech that may go down as one of the most mortifying ever. 

Then, of course, we get all of the other former homophobic co-workers who inevitably show up to give their support of their buddies.  They have their SPARTACUS moment.  Oh wait, there’s a third speech provided by Ving Rhames, who also plays a fellow fire fighter that comes out of the closet and emerges as the second worst caricature next to Schneider’s Asian.  I don’t think it takes a rocket scientist to tell that the boys will get off, will reveal to the world that they’re not gay, and that Sandler will end up with Alex, despite the fact that a woman of her class and dignity would never, ever end up with a troglodyte like Chuck.

Is it possible for a film to be equal parts tasteless and offensive alongside being a total comic dead zone?  I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU CHUCK AND LARRY proves that you can.  I am not sure how to even conclude with describing my utter discomfort and misfortune while sitting through this regrettably disagreeable comedy.  The audience I was with - packed to capacity - laughed uproariously at nearly everything: the wretched homophobic jokes, the ghastly Schneider in yellow face, the preening Ving Rhames playing up to every homosexual stereotype, hell, even gags at the expense of the morbidly obese.  Well, I did not share in their enjoyment of the film, but I was the only one in the theatre laughing out loud during the final ten minutes where characters lecture on acceptance and respect of their fellow man...gay and straight.

Lacking in laughs, packed with an abundance of sexism and downright racism, and paradoxically making fun of the gay community while trying to lead the charge of the world respecting them, I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU CHUCK AND LARRY barely rises above the level of worthless, detestable trash.

www.craigerscinemacorner.com

***1/2  out of ****

I love Canada.

I can’t possibly think of another country that I would rather live.  Michael Moore’s new documentary, SICKO - a damning, oftentimes heart-breaking, occasionally hilarious, and thoroughly disturbing expose of the U.S. health care system – only reinforced my admiration for where I reside.  Few film going experiences have left me feeling as proud of my homeland as this one did.

Why?  Because the film uses the universal health care system that our citizens possess as a very effective counterpoint to the horrible and systemic inadequacies that afflict the American HMO system.  Certainly, health care is a a very important privilege, but it should also be a fundamental right, open to all citizens, regardless of economic status.  It gives me a certain amount of relief that if a day passes by where (for example) I accidentally chop off two of my fingers that I can securely walk into any hospital and be assured that I will not have to personably go bankrupt at the expense of putting my severed fingers back on my hand.

Oh Canada, indeed.

People like my mother would certainly be a destitute cripple in a wheel chair if it were not for Canada’s so-called “socialist” health care system.  After having gone through not one, but two knee replacement surgeries, she is able to stand on her own two feet.  My country’s health care system fit the bill.  Dear old mom did not pay a dime for her surgery.  Yes, she missed months of work as a direct result of the surgery and took a huge pay cut by being on employment insurance while in hospital, but the little she lost in salary was nothing compared to what she could have lost if she were a US citizen having the same procedures done south of the border.   That’s the subtle brilliance of SICKO; it’s ultimately a profoundly insightful and sobering look at why the US health care system is, in essence, a complete and utter shame.

No doubt, if my mother lived in America, there is no way she could have afforded to have her surgery without putting her in the poor house indefinitely.  What Moore does very effectively early on in his documentary is he presents a few cases of ordinary, US citizens and how their own health concerns and problems simply were given a blind eye by their insurance companies.  The true horror story of the film is that it shows how decent, law abiding, tax paying citizens have been denied care because of two unalterable - and disgusting - facts:

1. They had no health care insurance, hence, could not afford to pay their medical bills.

2. Their insurance companies that they pay their hard earned dollars into for “support” denied their medical claims.

One couple in particular - as an early moment in the film reveals - was forced to move into their twenty-something daughter’s home because of the father’s three heart attacks.  Their insurance simply was growing inadequate to cover the mounting expenses.  They were forced to sell their home and move into a small basement room in their daughter’s house. 

Also consider the insipidly frustrating story of one man who lopped off two of his fingers in a nasty carpentry accident.  His doctor - and insurance company - gave him a choice: he could have is middle finger sewn back together for $60,000 or his ring finger done for “the bargain price” of $12,000.  Being a romantic, the man said good-bye to flipping the bird effectively with his wedding band hand and paid twelve large to have his ring finger fixed.

One finger: $12K.  Hmmm…what would two knee replacement surgeries run?  That thought alone is scary.

The lists of health care atrocities continues to pile up as Moore matter-of-factly chronicles them in the film.  There is a ridiculous story of how a woman was stuck with the ambulance bill after she was hit head-on in a collision with her car and was taken, while unconscious, to the hospital. Why was she forced to pay?  Because her health care provider deemed that she needed to make arrangements before the accident with the ambulance service to be covered (this mentality is mind-boggling; was she supposed to call right before she was nailed by another vehicle?). Then there is the tale of one woman who had a surgery, was completely covered by her health care provider, but they later retroactively cancelled her surgery coverage. Why?  Because she failed to mention a simple yeast infection before the surgery.

These stories - however shocking and appalling - are nothing compared to those of families that suffered even greater losses as a result of the lack of universal health care.  Moore reveals examples of how some people have died because of lack of care and coverage.  Utterly lamentable is the story of widow Tracy Pierce, whose husband had life-threatening kidney cancer.  Doctors at the time suggested several courses of action to help save his life, one would have included a bone marrow transplant - supplied by the man’s brother - which could have easily saved his life.  Unfortunately, his health care insurance would not cover these types of actions because they astoundingly deemed as “experimental”.  Without any coverage, Tracey Pierce’s husband died a very preventable death.

The frightening stories continue.  Beyond the anecdotes of all of these ill-fated people that have suffered and made unalterable sacrifices,  Moore shows how the botched and decrepit US health care system deals with those that are at the lowest notch of the financial ladder.  Homeless people in particular seem to suffering the most.  More often than not, these disadvantage people are essentially booted out of hospitals, often while still wearing hospital gowns,  put in taxis and are eventually dumped off at homeless shelters.  One incomparably eerie moment in the film has an actual surveillance tape that shows one poor, old woman - still in nightgown - dropped off by a screeching taxi.  She is dazed and disturbed, not knowing where she really is.

It gets worse.

Perhaps the real icing on this distasteful cake is how Moore deals with the stories of those inside the insurance companies, who, in essence are told to do all that they can to ensure that claims never go through and that corporate CEO’s and the companies make huge profits.  Moore interviews Lee Einer, whose job it was at a very large - and unidentified - insurance company to examine claims retroactively in order to find loopholes in hopes of abruptly canceling them.  He was told to pursue large claims in hopes of scoring a huge financial savings for his company.  At the end of his segment, he muses on how much he does not regret leaving his job behind.  There is also another insurance worker that is interviewed that breaks down from the anxiety of relating one story of how she could not bring herself to tell a woefully optimistic elderly couple that they would never - under any circumstances - get health coverage.

One of the film’s most interesting - and potentially courageous - crusaders is a woman doctor, Linda Peeno, a former health insurance reviewer for a company named Humana.  Before a Congressional hearing in 1996, she tearfully recounted how she denied a man “a necessary operation” back in 1987 in order to save her company millions.  Her actions caused the patient’s death, but made her employer richer.  She’s been emotionally poorer ever since.

All of this begs Moore and, I guess, ourselves to ask one painfully inevitable question: What in the hell is wrong with the U.S.?  For a nation that is easily one of the richest and most productive in the free world, it stands number 37 on a list of the earth’s worst health care countries (right in front of Slovenia).  Why can’t this country - with its endless economic resources and infrastructure - look after its sick and dying? 

Perhaps this is why SICKO is one of Moore’s most curiously apolitical works of social advocacy.  Whereas his other documentaries pointed fingers squarely at political parties and figures,  SICKO is kind a refreshingly new rabble-rousing and button pushing Moore in the sense that there is undeniable universality to his themes and messages.  It does not matter if one is a Democrat or a Republican; both parties obviously would see the desperate need for US health care reform.  This film is a strong bit of propaganda for any party to seriously invest some time and energy into it.

There are people dying left in right in the US and clearly at the expense of health care providers that are royally screwing them.  So, why does the U.S. not have a prevailing universal health care system like…say…Canada?  Perhaps it’s the fact that is seems like a Socialist concept, which gives politicians a bad taste in the mouth.  Yet, American society is ripe with state funded programs (firemen, policeman, and teachers are, in most cases, free), yet with health care it’s an undeservedly different socio-political matter.

It simply boils down to the unlimited power of drug companies and insurance provides.  When bodies like this have the power - as the documentary rightfully and wisely points out - to topple high ranking people like former first lady, Hilary Clinton - who once championed massive health care reform - and tell her to “shut-up”, then you just know that health care problems seem almost unsolvable.  Clinton herself emerged as the second highest recipient of campaign contributions from - you guessed it - the health sector.

Moore does offer perceptive on the other “socialist” universal health care of countries by visiting Canada, France, the UK, and finally Cuba. Although I think he somewhat over-glorifies these nations’ health care infrastructures without probing much into their subtle inadequacies (it seems like Canadians, in the film, mostly wait under an hour for emergency room care, but my personal wait times of 4-5 hours prove otherwise), he nevertheless strikes the right note with pointing out why they are so strikingly superior.

Some of these trips emerge as the film’s most hilarious sequences, as is the case where Moore goes to UK hospital corridor where a sign that says “cashier” is revealed not to be a area to collect money from patients; it instead pays out to patient’s for their traveling expenses to the hospital.  There is also another funny montage where Moore rides shotgun with a 24-hour French house call service where a doctor with a company called SOS Méédecins visits patients.  The doctor takes calls all night like a taxi driver.  Finally, Moore visits some Americans now living in Paris and is shocked to see how good the standard of living is in the country when compared to the States.  What he inescapably learns is that these countries simply have a better standard of living and a longer mean life span for their people.

The film’s coup de grace is a grievous and appalling story of some 9/11 rescue workers.  Many of them risked their lives attempting to save victims at the Twin Towers, but since many of them were working outside of their jurisdictions, they were refused health care based on a lame technicality.  What’s even more obscene is how Moore discloses how members of the same terrorist-cells that plotted 9/11 are given better health care at the Guantanamo Bay detainment camps than the 9/11 rescue workers.

Curiously what Moore never mentions is the fact that all alleged enemies of the U/S. that are detained - in accordance with the terms of the Geneva and Hague Conventions - must be given health care.  Yet, this is a modest oversight in the sense that he uses this as another bullet to put in an already smoking gun.  What happens next is pure, vintage Moore.  He decides to take all of these neglected 9/11 rescuers, get them in a boat, sail to Guantanamo Bay in Cuba, and beg for the same treatment for them that the “evil doers” are receiving.

Predictably, no one answers Moore’s request.  However, after he rants  through a megaphone, a siren is heard which makes him and his entourage steer clear.  Since they have no chance to get help in the detainment camp, and since they are already in Cuba, Moore takes the crew to Havana where - to his utter astonishment - they receive free hospital stays and advanced treatment, all by simply given over their names and date of births.  That’s it. 

One woman in particular is greatly moved by her Cuban stay.  She has a $1000 per month disability, but her inhaler medication costs nearly $300 every four weeks.  In Cuba it costs pennies.  No doubt, it could be said that Moore exploits this woman’s grief and pain to its fullest, but he at least does so for an important and noteworthy cause.  And not only that, but the woman does get the help she needs…not to mention that she is given some of that inhaler medicine for nickels and dimes.

Moore has always maintained a reputation for being a showman and one that utilizes convenient facts to help his cause.  Yet, he’s less an objective documentarian than he is a highly subjective, emotionally invested, editorial journalist in his films.  Works like FAHRENHEIT 9/11, ROGER AND ME, and his finest hour, BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE, all revel in Moore’s predilection towards pushing bottoms with whatever means possible.  One can question his methodology and choices in his films, but there should be no denying the raw sentiment and evocativeness of his films’ messages.  Whether you love him or hate him, Moore is one of the eminent satirists and filmmakers of his generation and he daringly investigates polarizing issues that others fail to. 

SICKO is no exception.

Perhaps the most memorable aspect of Moore’s film is that it displays a bit more urgency, sincerity, and serenity than his other politicized, volatile, and oftentimes corrosive films.  Displaying a keenly sensitive voice and a uniquely off-camera - for the most part - presence, Moore is able to probe deep into the dilapidated health care system that permeates the United States and reveals all of its hellish paradoxes.  Yet, no one should mistake SICKO for a kinder, gentler Michael Moore documentary.  Despite the fact that it may not be the equal to BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE and ROGER AND ME, his blunt, not-so-subtle, and purposely one-sided investigation into SICKO’s underlining material is still as suggestive, alluring, and thought-provoking as ever.  Perhaps the one thing that this film does better than his others is that it shows how ordinary lives are devastated and ruined by a country’s incessantly cruel health care policy of “Do no harm…unless you have a big, fat check book.”  In a way, this makes SICKO Moore’s most bipartisan work.  It does not draw political lines.  It asks the parties to walk over them in an effort to heal a system that has been on critical life support for too long.

www.craigerscinemacorner.com

 

*  out of  ****

Because I deem myself to be fair, impartial, and level-headed, I decided to go into TRANSFORMERS with an open mind.  Before viewing this new action film – a live-action effort based on the popular 1980’s Hasbro toy line – I was more than willing to give its director, Michael Bay, one last chance to redeem himself. 

His last effort, one of 2005’s biggest box office duds, THE ISLAND, showed some promise, but it nevertheless lapsed back into some of Bay’s most annoying aesthetic tendencies.  His previous track record has been ever less stellar.  This is the same man that made films of such bombastic stylistic overkill and mind-numbing mediocrity like ARMAGEDDON, PEARL HARBOR, and BAD BOYS I and II.

Because of that, my only thoughts that prevailed my mind going into his latest offering were, “C’mon, how much worse can this guy get?  He can only get better, not worse…right?  Maybe he deserves me giving him another chance?”

Who am I kidding?

 

I went into TRANSFORMERS thinking that it would be another bloated, Bayian stink-bomb and I was definitely not disappointed.  I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault…honest.  Bay makes it too easy for me to chastise his work.  When films like this are flat, loud, and generically soulless, it almost goes out of its way to invite scorn.

 

Yet, I will not bore you with all of my long-winded pontificating about this film.  That seems like a waste of my time.  Instead, I have the next best thing.  I know a guy who knows a guy – no names – that has an exclusive secret source within the film industry that has uncovered tape recordings of a meeting between Bay and the film’s executive producer, Steven Spielberg.  I have transcribed it here for your reading pleasure, and their conversation does a fantastic job of embellishing my thoughts about the film:

 

**********************************************************************

 

Spielberg:  Hey Mike, I got a new film property for you to sink your teeth into.  After all…you need some redeeming.

 

Bay:  Okay.  Maybe you’re right.  After the box office thumping I got because of THE ISLAND, I need to get back on track.

 

Spielberg:  Great.  Okay…here it is: TRANSFORMERS…THE MOVIE.

 

Bay:  What the hell is a TRANSFORMER?

 

Spielberg:  Well…it’s a toy line that was popular in the 80’s and it was made into an animated film and…

 

Bay:  I hate toys…and cartoons.  They’re so inert and lifeless. 

 

Spielberg:  So are most of your films.

 

Bay: Good point.  Okay, tell me more.  Continue.

 

Spielberg:  Okay, well…we want to do it live action and be as faithful to the origins of the toys.  We could make a real kick ass family film.

 

Bay:  I don’t do family films.  I only believe in R-rated excess.

 

Spielberg:  Okay, but this could be a Michael Bay family film, done your way.  You call the shots.

 

Bay:  Okay…I call the shots.  Got it.  Go on.

 

Spielberg:  Okay, so TRANSFORMERS is basically about a race of robots  that can transform into any type of vehicle…like a Trans-Am or a semi truck.

 

Bay:  How about a Volvo…I like them.

 

Spielberg:  Sure…whatever.  Anyway, the bad robots are the Decepticons and they nearly destroyed the Autobots’ – the good guys – home world of Cybertron.  Basically, they’re at war.  Good robots led by Optimus Prime.  Bad ones ruled by Megatron.

 

Bay:  Hmmmm….so you want this to be a metaphorical take on Soviet/US relations during the Cold War?

 

Spielberg:  No…it’s a movie about robots fighting each other.

 

Bay: I was kidding, Stevie.  Go on.

 

Spielberg:  Okay, they end up on earth and duke it out here.

 

Bay:  Nice.  But why earth?  Why not Pluto or…maybe  Mars.  Mars looks cool.  It’s all red and stuff.

 

Spielberg:  Well…humans can’t breathe on Pluto or Mars…plus we need a human element in this film.  It just can’t be robots, robots, robots.

 

Bay:  Why not?  I’ve never relied on a plausibly realistic human element before in my movies.  That’s never been an issue before.

 

Spielberg:  Good point.  But we need actors.  Good ones.  And a good story.

 

Bay:  Well…I like Shia Labeouf…he is very good.  He could play a teenage kid.

 

Spielberg:  Nice.  He’d work.  I’d buy that.  He’s very likeable.

 

Bay:  Yeah.  Maybe he can have some sort of artifact that his…let’s say…great-grandfather uncovered.  Like…a pair of glasses.  They will be the key to the robots being on earth.  It will be my great Hitchcockian MacGuffin.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  But, the whole concept of the “MacGuffin” is that it was an item never shown in his movies.

 

Bay:  Whatever.  It’s my Mcguffin.  Okay?

 

Spielberg:  Fine.

 

Bay:  Okay…then we can have a sub-plot that details how the US government has secretly hidden Transformers from the world.  We can have a kooky government stooge that protects the public from this, but it will be revealed to the heroes during the course of the film.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay…war on earth…alien invasion…US cover-up…this sounds a lot like INDEPENDENCE DAY.

 

Bay:  Hey…my film-watching peeps are suckers for witless, regurgitated formulas.

 

Spielberg: Good point.  But I have an idea about how to present the Transformers.  I think it would be much more effective to shown them late in the film instead of too early, to build a sense of implied menace…like in JAWS.  Never saw the shark till late and that worked.  Build up audience expectations, and then when ya show ‘em, they’ll be wowed.

 

Bay:  No way.  Can’t do that.  If I’m doing this “my way” then I’m gonna start this movie with a kick ass, hyperactive action sequence that introduces the robots and really excites the audience.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  But, Mike, can you please tone down how you film the action sequences?  So many of them before in your other films are cobbled together and edited like they were designed to be viewed by people with Attention Deficit Disorder.  I mean…sometimes they are so migraine inducing that I get ill just watching them.  I mean…does every shot have to have a swirling, chaotic camera?

 

Bay:  Sorry, Stevie.  That’s my calling card.  This is “my film” and if I want to engage in cinematic overkill, I will make this film one that only I can make.  Big, bloated, and as extreme as possible.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  Any other thoughts, besides making the story derivative and the action sequences completely seizure-inducing eye candy that borders on being cringe worthy?

 

Bay:  Sure do.  I think that we need to make Shia’s character really unsympathetic.  I mean, let’s say that he sells the MacGuffin on eBay to make some cash so he can buy the car of his dreams so he can nail the woman of his dreams.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.

 

Bay:  Yeah…check this out…he does not give a hoot about his precious heirloom…the glasses…my MacGuffin…the key to the robot war on earth…so he tries to sell it.  That’s how the Decepticons find out about the glasses.  They’ll search eBay.

 

Spielberg:  The alien robots that want to wipe out humanity will search…eBay? 

 

Bay:  Yeah.

 

Spielberg:  But wouldn’t it make more sense to make Shia likeable, someone for us to root for?  With him selling his granddad’s stuff for a car…seems kind of lecherous.  Don’t ya think?  Why would I care for him?

 

Bay:  Well…you’ll care about him nailing the girl of his dreams when you see who I cast as the girl.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay…who?

 

Bay: Megan Fox.  Holy Hanna…she is a babe.  I foresee using her assets to the extreme.  For example, I see in my mind her playing a 17-year-old grade 11 student in a halter top and a very, very short skirt.  She’s also very good with cars.  When Shia’s ride breaks down, I think I should shoot her like an FHM magazine spread.  Close-ups of her cleavage…her exposed midriff…and then her bent over the car.  It’ll leave my peeps drooling.  I know I am just thinking about it.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay…but is that necessary?  Won’t that be just reducing her to a dumb sex object and make her less of a character.

 

Bay:  But she’s good with cars.  That’s her angle.  Her dad showed her that…before he went to prison.  Plus she’s hot.

 

Spielberg:  I dunno…

 

Bay:  Stevie…Stevie…I live for sexually objectifying women in my films.  And if I have a chick with a nice grill…get it…grill…man I kill me…than I am gonna show it off.  Plus…I want to make her scenes stick out like MTV music videos.  Plus, the car that LaBeouf drives is actually Optimus Prime.  Ya see…he befriends Shia and tries to help him score with Meagan by playing mood music.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  But why would an alien robot that is engaging in an interstellar war with a group of other robots want to waste time with helping Shia bed a teenage chick?

 

Bay:  Trust me.  Even a robot would want Shia to nail this girl.  I mean…look at her.  And she’s good with cars.  What an angle, eh?

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  What about the rest of the film?

 

Bay:  Oh…you mean the story.  Hee-hee.  That’s a good one, Stevie.  That’ll all come together eventually.  I think the best thing to do is to focus on the super fast and bad ass action scenes first, followed by hot chicks bending over cars and looking hot, and then the story will come together around those crucial elements.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  But don’t ya think a script is needed.

 

Bay:  Never needed one before.

 

Spielberg:  Good Point.

 

Bay:  Hey…maybe we could get Jon Voight to play the Secretary of Defence?

 

Spielberg:  Nice.  He could play things to campy effectiveness like in ANACONDA.  Might be fun.

 

Bay:  No…he’s playing things straight.  He was in MIDNIGHT COWBOY.  I think he was gay in that.  I always think gay humor works in my past films.  Yet, I want a serious actor to bring gravitas to the movie.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  But wouldn’t that be kind of even more laughably bad?  The movie sounds silly to begin with.

 

Bay:  Don’t worry.  I’m gonna get John Turturro to play humorously over-the-top as the leader of that secret government agency that has hidden the robots.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.

 

Bay:  Plus…we’ll use the Hoover Dam as part of a vast government conspiracy to cover up the robots’ existence.

 

Spielberg:  Geez, Mike.  It sounds like this film is gonna be on IDIOT auto-pilot all the way through.

 

Bay:  Why not?  My other films thrived with bad acting, even badder, ham-infested dialogue…and a genuine lack of a decent story.

 

Spielberg:  Good point.

 

Bay:  Plus this will have a hot babe that knows cars!

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.

 

Bay:  To make things even more juvenile…’cause this is a family movie…I’ll throw in two dumb parents…and a cute dog.  Don’t worry…I won’t kill the dog.  But, I foresee a scene where Optimus Prime sneaks into Shia’s parents’ backyard and…say…smashes the mother’s flower garden.  That would be a riot. 

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  But wouldn’t the parents be startled to see a robot in the backyard?  Would they not notice that?

 

Bay:  Nah.  They’ll think it’s something else…like an earthquake.  Yeah.  An earthquake.

 

Spielberg:  These parents sound like…blind fools.

 

Bay:  Well…if this film will subscribe to the ‘Idiot Plot Syndrome”…then they’ll have to be.

 

Spielberg:  Oooookay.

 

Bay:  Oh…maybe we can get Hugo Weaving to voice Megatron?

 

Spielberg:  Hugo Weaving?  But isn’t that a waste of his talent?  I mean…the voice will be so robotic that you’ll never once understand that it’s him.

 

Bay:  Doesn’t matter.  His name will be on the marquee.  That’s all that matters.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.

 

Bay:  Finally, I think we should end the film with a really, really long battle sequence with all of the robots, done with my characteristic flare for overkill: lots of inanely fast cuts, so fast that you can’t make out any idea as to what’s happening.  Then, when the smoke is cleared and a city is left devastated, the Autobots realize that they can secretly live on earth…in their transformed state.  So…good robots win…bad robot loose…world saved…and Shia gets to make out with the babe of his dreams on the hood of a car.  Plus she’s good with cars.  She’s the perfect woman.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  But it sounds like the amount of damage that the robots will cause would be like…ten 911’s combined…so how in the world could they keep their existence a secret afterwards?

 

Bay:  Oh…the government will bury the dead bad robots at sea.  No one will be none the wiser.  It’ll be another coverup.

 

Spielberg:  But not at Hoover Dam?

 

Bay:  No.  At sea.

 

Spielberg:  Buried at sea?  Ooookay.  But…wouldn’t the public not want to know what happened to the Autobots?

 

Bay:  Stevie…I said they will be disguised as cars in the end to hide their existence.  Like…maybe one could be a Volvo?

 

Spielberg:  Hmmmm…oookay.  Just so I am clear, you plan to make TRANSFORMERS with seizure-inducing action scenes and editing, dumb dialogue, a generic storyline, idiotic characters,  a lot of pin-up shots showing off Megan Fox’s assets, and a main character played by Shia Labeouf that likes to pawn off his family jewels on eBay to make money.  eBay will be the key to the robot war on earth, along with a Hoover Dam-conspiracy.

 

Bay:  Damn straight.  I mean…I am really pumped about this.  I think that if I do this the way I have done all of my films, then TRANSFORMERS will go down as my grand, action opus.  Ahhhh…my opus.

 

Spielberg:  Yeah…but doesn’t opus imply that the film needs to be…good?

 

Bay.  Aw…gee whiz, Stevie.  I think that I know what my intellectually stunted audience wants.

 

Spielberg:  Ooookay.  But I think that my two Oscars for being Best Director say otherwise.

 

Bay:  Good point. 

 

**********************************************************************

 

 

 

Okay.  I lied. 

 

That conversation was not taped, nor did it actually “happen”, nor do I have anyone on the inside.  But after watching TRANSFORMERS, I sincerely believed that a conversation like this one probably happened. 

 

I really do.

 

www.craigerscinemacorner.com

**  out of  ****

I have been waiting - oh, have I been waiting - for the HARRY POTTER films to build to some exciting plateau and become something truly grand.  In the newest entry, HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, young Harry is not quite so young anymore.  Gone is that cute, naive, bespectacled tyke that we saw in the first few films.  Now, he is an older, bulkier, brooding, darker, and hairier Potter.  Certainly, the character has definitely grown and matured before our eyes over the last seven years.

It’s just a pity that the stories he populates have not matured with him.

I have had unreservedly mix feelings about the entire HARRY POTTER film franchise.  I have fond memories of the first installment, 2001’s THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE, which had its rough edges, but nevertheless was a delightful, spirited, and pleasant introduction to the Potter universe.  Then came 2002’s THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS, the best of the entire series in the way it genuinely improved upon the original film.  Unfortunately, the franchise has been in a tailspin ever since.  2004’s THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN introduced us to an edgier and more ominous Potter universe (thanks largely to director Alfonso Cuarón). That was followed by 2005’s THE GOBLET OF FIRE, equally as bleak and dour as AZKABAN.

The last two Potter films were absolute triumphs of technical wizardry and top notch production values.  Certainly, the HARRY POTTER films are opulent eye candy that stir the imagination.  Yet, these last films lost much of the color and innocence that permeated the first two - and more successful - films in the series. THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE and THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS had a sense of fun with their stores.  AZKABAN and FIRE lacked a strong sensation of uplifting euphoria and wonderment that great escapist fantasies should elicit.

Perhaps even more noteworthy is the fact that these two films reveal their stubborn and slavish support of the source material.  Of course, you’d have to be living under a rock to not know that the HARRY POTTER series is the brainchild of English author J.K. Rowling.  She has written seven books based on the boy wizard - six have been released, the seventh is to due out in late July.  To say that these books have been gigantic international successes would be a grand understatement.  The six books have sold an astounding 325 million copies worldwide and they have been translated in 63 different languages.  Rowling herself has become the highest earning novelist in literary history.  These books have a following that go beyond the lazy definition of a “cult”; they have an obsessively loyal fan base that borders on dementia.

Yet, perhaps that’s why the last two films have not worked for me.  To all of the raging Harry-ites, these films obviously were enjoyable and entertaining (they are essentially critic proof when it comes to its legions of its fans), but what about the agnostic Harry-ite, like me?  Clearly, all of Rowling’s fanatic followers have read all of the books and have the somewhat unfair advantage of knowing precisely where each entry is heading.  Yet, what works for literature does not necessarily work for a successful, single filmgoing experience.  More than anything, I have found the last two POTTER films feel more like perfunctory placeholders for potentially more meaningful entries than worthwhile, standalone films.  If anything, the last two films felt curiously disposable.  Nothing much actually happens to the characters in them.  They build and build to achieve some sort of forward momentum, but they fail to payoff in any meaningful or satisfying way.

THE ORDER OR THE PHOENIX - the fifth film based on Rowling’s longest book in the series - sort of revels in these same sort of puzzling inadequacies.  Like the previous four films, it’s visually arresting and is filled with sights to behold, but there still remains a lack of a tight and taut storyline.  It once again - as did the last two films - feels more akin to providing viewers with overwritten plots and underdeveloped characters.

The film never really fosters a palpable level of intrigue or tension because it is nothing more than a series of awkwardly assembled vignettes that want to build towards a triumphant and rousing climax.  Regrettably, by the time the film slumbers to its action packed third act, I felt more restlessness than excitement.  When the credits rolled by you never once sense that anything  new has happened to Potter and his motley crew of teen magicians.  They start the film fearing that a war between them and Lord Voldemort is eminent, they prepare for battle, he appears in the final minutes of the film, disappears, and then they again realize that they will have to prepare even more for a larger battle.  Films like this should not feel so mechanical and mundane.

I know…I know…but PHOENIX is based on the book.  And…yes…I know that these books tell little snippets of a larger overall story.  But…maybe…just maybe…these films suffer because of their source material?  My job is to review what I see, not whether or not the film is a good adaptation of the source material.  What this series needs - and needs desperately - is a real jarring jolt of rejuvenating freshness to help it escape from its routine stories that lack urgency.  What’s sad to see is that PHOENIX (and the two previous films leading up to it) have such a episodic feeling that don’t really do anything to expand upon the Potter universe.  Again, maybe that has everything to do with Rowling’s books and the films’ staunch willingness to duplicate them.  But, the undermines each individual film and their effectiveness. 

These films could definitely benefit from some diversion away from the novels.  Instead of telling the stories of each one, maybe they could have been streamlined into one film.  Walking out of PHOENIX I categorically felt that the last three films could have been truncated into one stronger film.  They all have such a languishing sameness.  Honestly, has Potter himself changed all that much since THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS?  Yeah, he’s older, wiser, and more world-weary in a teen angst kind of way, but his issues remain the same.  New angles are required to make Potter a more thrilling and interesting protagonist.  Instead, PHOENIX is a film that simply does not stand well on its own feet.  It has no real beginning, middle, or an end. Instead, we get set pieces, a lot of flashbacks and references to previous episodes, and unless you are a Harry-ite drinking in every minute of this film’s posturing, then you will be squirming an awful lot.

At least this new film starts in an intriguing manner.  In its opening we see a much older Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe, still wooden and lacking strong charisma in the lead role, but nevertheless adequate) and his cousin Dudley have a family spat.  For reasons once again unexplained, Harry continues to live with his emotionally and physically abusive aunt and uncle during the Hogwarts off-season.  Why - oh why - does he continue to do so?  Where is social services?  Aw…never mind.  Anyway, during a particularly nasty argument both Harry and Dudley are attacked by Dementors, which look like rejected monster extras from the MUMMY films.  Just when it seems like they are going to suck the life energy out of both of them, Harry whips out his wand and before you can say “presto” he vanquishes them.

But…wait a tick…using magic in the normal world is explicitly forbidden by Hogwarts.  I am not altogether sure for the rationale behind this.  Why train at a school of witchcraft when you can only use you powers in and around the school?  What not use these otherworldly powers for good?  Certainly, the UN could use more peacekeepers.  Not only that, but why would the Hogwarts upper brass not want to use their collective might to stop violence, bloodshed, and strife in the world?  The Iraq War would be over in day in Harry and company could fly in, raise their wands, and charm the combatants into lowering their arms.  Maybe they could also locate those mysterious wmd’s with a spell or two?

Even so, Harry is threatened with expulsion from the school, despite the fact that he was defending the life of another boy and saved both of their lives in the process (Note to Hogwart superiors: If Dementors are coming to dement your ass, then a wizard has the right to use magic in defense).  Needless to say, Headmaster Dumbledore (Michael Gabon) comes to his defense and Potter is predictably vindicated, but his reputation is tarnished.  Potter himself has had a nasty upbringing to this point.  He was essentially chosen in childhood to become a wizard because of his special abilities and later discovers that his parents were killed by the vile and corrupt Lord Voldemort.  Voldemort’s return to the living world is imminent, and Harry knows this, which is perhaps why he now lives a bit on edge.  However, no one around him, except his closest friends, Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint) and Hermoine Granger (Emma Watson) believe him.  Oh, he still has support in the form of headmaster Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall (Maggie Smith), Professor Moody (Brendan Gleeson) and Sirus Black (Gary Oldman).

Yet, despite this star-studded faculty and their support of Potter, The Ministry of Magic senses a conspiracy (huh?).  As a result, they send Dolores Umbridge (Imelda Staunton, in the film’s only great and inspiring  performance) to Hogwarts to start an inquisition to find out what’s happening.  She is a real cauldron of introverted rage and animosity, who constantly hides her ferocity with a cute smile and a sunny disposition.  She, of course, sets her sights on discrediting Harry via any means necessary.  She eventually assumes power at Hogwarts to the point of placing herself as a dictator of sorts, drumming all sorts of ridiculous decrees regarding school policies (she obviously went to the same prep school as Nurse Ratchet from ONE FLEW OVER THE COOKOO’S’ NEST).

Alas, Voldemort lurks in the background and his return is around the corner, so Harry and his buddies secretly gather other Hogwarts students and begins to train them himself to wage a future war against the dark lord.  Meanwhile, Severus Snape (the always droll and fun-to-watch Alan Rickman) tries to train Harry to block out Voldemort from his mind.  Predictably, all of this culminates with a big final showdown between Harry’s squad and Voldermort, the latter who has some help on his side in the form of Bellatrix Lestrange (Helena Bonham Carter, terribly underused here).

THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX - like the previous entries in the series - has a new man behind the camera.  Mike Newell was offered the job after helming THE GOBLET OF FIRE, but he turned it down and in stepped David Yates, who previously directed the edgy and emotional TV drama SEX TRAFFIC.  The script was also written by a newcomer, Michael Goldenberg, who replaced Steve Knowles.  Like the other directors in the series, Yates seems equal to the task of giving PHOENIX a consummate professional sheen. The Potter films will be lovingly remembered as great visual odysseys. The art direction and effects remain top notch, as expected.

Yet, Yates and Goldenberg still have not found a way to make this material more compelling and intrinsically alluring.  As stated, PHOENIX feels more like transition film, which, to lay audience members, will make it feel more tedious than it should.  Yates certainly makes this Potter the darkest entry to date, but is so awash in dreariness that it all but forgoes any of the early films’ sense of spunk and whimsicality.  And then there is the film’s magnificent British cast, who - for the most part - are curiously left on the sidelines.  Only Imelda Staunton emerges as the film’s most conniving creation.  She plays her part with such a pitch-perfect level of audience-hating vindictiveness.  She steals the show.

She also makes for a much more scary and creepy villain than Lord Voldemort himself, who once again is reduced to more of a unsatisfying cameo.  He appeared all-to-briefly in THE GOBLET OF FIRE and is also misused in PHOENIX.  The great Ralph Fiennes steps in and returns to fill the dark lord’s shoes, but Voldemort is nothing more than a shadowy and enigmatic villain and not a full-blown and weighty presence in the film.  His character has been built and hyped during the series, but he curiously remains a non-entity.  When he finally makes an appearance and then quickly dissipates again into the shadows, it’s such a dramatic letdown.  These POTTER films deteriorate in some ways from their insistence on not making its main villain a real menacing figure in the foreground.  We are told endlessly about him and that he should be an antagonist to fear, but I think it’s high time the series really starts to explore and show the character more.

Granted, the film is based on the book, so I am certain the Rowling obviously has big plans for all of the characters.  However, there should reach a point where the escalating expectations of readers (and audience members) should be dealt with and gratified.  The Potter films started with great promise, but slowly began to get sidelined within their own cumbersome narrative shortcomings.  Too much time from the last few films have been squandered on repetitive and moot plot elements.  As I did with my review of GOBLET OF FIRE, I left PHOENIX asking for more out of this universe.  What it needs is a kick-start in new directions.  How about a film about what Harry does outside of Hogwarts during his summers off?  We know what happens during his school years.  What does he do in his spare time? Harry working at McDonald’s flipping hamburgers during his summer sabbatical to make end’s meat or him going to the beaches of Miami for spring break.  Okay, that sounds lame, but at least it would be new territory.

Instead, we get the same themes and story points pounded over our heads in PHOENIX: Potter is tormented by Voldemort, Voldermort pledges to return, Potter prepares for his return, Voldemort returns and leaves, Potter again is left with dealing with Voldemort possessing his thoughts and - in turn - must prepare for his return…again.  When a series is on its fifth outing, regurgitation of past stories is the last thing that needs to occur.  THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX is surprisingly banal because of this.

The longer I sit through the HARRY POTTER series the less and less patient I have grown for awaiting it to achieve the greatness that the first two films promised it would live up to.  Instead of projecting itself confidently forward, HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX seems inclined to repeat the same faults that beset THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN and the more recent THE GOBLET OF FIRE.  With a disjointed, meandering, and overly convoluted narrative that reeks of a repetitive sameness with previous entries, PHOENIX fails to take the characters and their stories to any new, refreshing levels.  By the time the film ends you gain an overwhelming sense that nothing noteworthy has transpired from throughout its 138 minutes.  As the credits roll by we feel like we are right back where it began.  More than any other film in the franchise, PHOENIX left me feeling like an outsider.  Whereas the great escapist fantasies lure your into their magical worlds, the last three HARRY POTTER films have been pushing me away.  Instead of inspiring endless wonder and amazement, HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX does a marvelous job of promoting restlessness.  With the thought of not one, but two more films on the horizon, I for one am starting to see these films more as cinematic endurance tests. Instead of ascending to higher levels and moving forward as great sequels should, the POTTER franchise seems lodged by its elephantine sluggishness.

What it needs is a touch of magic.

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