Films

The Other Boleyn Girl
Starring Natalie Portman, Scarlett Johansson, and Eric Bana
Directed by Justin Chadwick

      King Henry VIII is arguably the most famous monarch in English history, legendary for his many wives, his hearty appetite, and his decision to break with the Catholic Church and form the Church of England so that he could have the option of divorcing his wives. As has long been the case with historical figures who receive Hollywood attention, it is always in question how much of what is on screen is conjecture as opposed to fact.
This film opens with rumors that King Henry (Bana) has become totally disenchanted with his Spanish wife, Katharine of Aragon (Ana Torrent), for numerous reasons, the most important being that she failed to bear him a son. Henry decides to visit the home of the upper crust Boleyn family, whose patriarch, Sir Thomas (Mark Rylance), would love to have one of his daughters have an affair with King Henry so that his family’s wealth and political influence would grow. He has no moral qualms about pimping out either daughter.
The king takes a fancy to Mary Boleyn (Johansson) when she tends to him after he falls off a horse while hunting near the Boleyn estate. Even though Mary is happily married to William Stafford (Eddie Redmayne) and is content to live in the English countryside, she gives into Henry in order to please her father and her scheming uncle, the Duke of Norfolk (David Morrissey). Mary moves to London and bears the king a son out of wedlock. As soon as his son is born, Henry loses romantic interest in Mary, although he admires her gentle nature.
Mary’s older sister, Anne (Natalie Portman), has more of her family’s plotting nature in her DNA. Strong-willed Anne would like nothing more than to bed King Henry, and sure enough his majesty is very attracted to her. Anne though knows too well the fate that befell her younger sister and will not get intimate with King Henry until he marries her. The Catholic Church will not recognize divorce, so Henry decided to form his own religion in order to consummate relations with Anne. After an elaborate wedding, Anne and Henry embark on a tempestuous three years, to say the least. The scenes between them, especially Anne’s final moments, are not easy to watch.
The Other Boleyn Girl spends too much time exploring the complex relationship between all of the members of the Boleyn clan, especially the volatile bond between Anne and Mary, when the film ultimately revolves around the whims of Henry. That is a shame, since Bana smartly plays Henry as a tortured and depressed soul rather than a medieval verison of Idi Amin, usually the way he is depicted in pop culture. Portman and Johansson are terrific as the Boleyn siblings; they have believable English accents but they are wasted in what is little more than a costume drama of the sort featured on the Lifetime cable network.
The characters that leave the greatest impression are Sir Thomas Boleyn and his brother, the Duke of Norfolk. While it is easy to be repulsed by their self-centered behavior, the truth is that their obsession with their families marrying well is not much different than what goes on today. At a press conference promoting this film, Johansson talked about how debutante balls have long been a way for the upper crust of American society to meet and marry. A cursory look at the wedding announcements in the New York Times Sunday Styles section reaffirms her point.
This film is passable entertainment, but it could have been better. It was filmed in high definition, which means that it is worth catching if you have a Blu-ray DVD player and an LCD or plasma TV at home as opposed to seeing it at a movie theater.
– Lloyd Carroll

The Hottie And The Nottie
Starring Paris Hilton, Joel David Moore, Christine Lakin, and Johann Urb
Directed by Tom Putnam

      Lay about Nate Cooper (Moore) is a 20-ish guy who has only managed to learn how to half-heartedly play guitar and write immature and insipid songs. After his latest breakup – during which his girlfriend El Kabongs him with his guitar, literally takes “her drawer” from his apartment, and spray paints “loser” on his car – he receives a revelation: His life has been a series of failed relationships because he still pines for Christabel Abbott (Hilton), the perfect little angel he met in the first grade.
Convinced his life will not be complete until he lands the one that got away, Nate zips across country to find Christabel as perfect, and single, as ever. To his horror, Nate also finds that Christabel is still partnered with her elementary school pal June Phigg (Lakin), the ugly duckling that, in the intervening years, has developed the personality of an asp to go along with her bridge troll looks. Loyal to the core, Christabel has declared that she will neither date nor have sex until June finds a boyfriend. And so, to capture the girl of his dreams, Nate must find a stalwart young buck that can gaze upon the face of Medusa without turning to stone.
The Hottie And The Nottie refers to itself as a “comedy about opening your heart and closing your eyes.” Neither part of that statement is true. The film is simply not funny. The dialogue is juvenile, the characters selfish and shallow, and the gross out humor is just plain gross. As for “opening your heart and closing your eyes,” that’s just hooey. Nate experiences a conversion late in the film, but it is only because certain “opportunities” become more attractive along the way. Christabel’s relationship with June is in no way noble – it’s as self-serving as can be. A true friend would recognize how crippling June’s appearance is and help her to improve it. Instead, Christabel uses her as an ugly prop, a means of showing what an amazing friend she is. The only character in this film that exhibits any true heart is June, and how she could allow these repulsive creatures into it is beyond understanding.
Paris Hilton has clearly been working on her acting chops. That is not to say she can carry a movie, or even actually act. It is simply an acknowledgment that she is better than she was in House Of Wax (though nothing here can equal the thrill of seeing her get pole-axed in that film). There is something undeniably creepy about her. When she sticks out her bottom lip and narrows her already sleepy eyes, it is anything but flirtatious – it’s like watching a nine-year-old imitate the sexual posturing of an emotionally stunted adult. Even those living Hummels, the doe eyed Olsen twins, are less unsettling. Yet, Hilton is not the most annoying presence in this film. That distinction belongs to comedic sinkhole Joel David Moore, a cheap imitation who should be receiving a cease and desist order from Ben Stiller any day now. Only Christine Lakin manages to escape this blight of a vanity project with her dignity intact.
With her fashion lines, recording “career,” and television and publishing deals, Hilton herself has become a ubiquitous brand. Given her work in this film, perhaps she should find a way to extend her empire that might be more within her reach – maybe a line of drill bits, fragrant industrial lubricants, or a turn as a CDC Level 4 Biohazard Petri dish. Now, that would be hot.
– Michael Lee

Semi-Pro
Starring Will Ferrell, Woody Harrelson, and Andre Benjamin
Directed by Kent Alterman

      In the 1970s, pro basketball was a bootstrap operation rather than the billion-dollar industry it is now. The NBA was fairly well established, having been around approximately 30 years, but it was facing competition for talent from the under funded upstart known as the American Basketball Association (ABA). Will Ferrell’s latest vehicle pays tribute to the quintessential underdog sports league that survived nearly a decade and was able to see four of its franchises be absorbed by the NBA.
Ferrell plays Jackie Moon, the owner of the fictitious Flint Tropics. Moon is a Flint celebrity because he scored a novelty disco hit, “Love Me Sexy,” a few years earlier. Not only does he own the misnamed Tropics, but also he is the team’s starting power forward and head coach so that he can save some salary. Moon doesn’t care about making money; he just enjoys the adulation of being part of a professional sports team in a city that doesn’t have much else to offer. When he receives word from the ABA commissioner that his team will not be part of the merger with the NBA, Jackie throws a major temper tantrum, even though he would become wealthy by agreeing to the deal.
Even wins and losses do not matter much to Jackie as long as he is having fun. His lackadaisical attitude angers the team’s grizzled veteran, Ed Monix (Woody Harrelson), who was once part of a Boston Celtics’ championship team even though he rode the bench. Monix wants to be a coach, and is determined to show the Tropics players, particularly their lone legitimately talented player, Clarence “Downtown” Brown (Andre Benjamin from the hip hop duo Outkast), how basketball should be played.
To its credit, “Semi-Pro” has taken careful pains to recreate history as the films uses the red, white, and blue ABA basketball, and the players are wearing exact replicas of ABA uniforms. Even the radio stations that used to broadcast ABA games such as WOAI in San Antonio are represented with banners at the courtside press table. Ferrell even pays tribute to one of the ABA’s greatest players, Rick Barry, by shooting free throws underhanded.
Overall, the film works because it comes in at economical 90 minutes and the cast meshes well together. The film does borrow too many plot devices from one of the great sports comedies of all time, 1977's “Slap Shot,” which starred Paul Newman as a has been hockey player who is the player coach of a down-on-their-luck minor league hockey team. Harrelson and Maura Tierney try to recreate the rocky romance between Newman and Jennifer Warren, but it comes off as an afterthought here. Just as Andrew Duncan nearly stole “Slap Shot” as the radio announcer for the Johnstown Jets, so do Andrew Daly and Will Arnett here as they play the local yokels who call the action for the Flint Tropics. And, of course, there are the usual gratuitous fights between the opposing teams.
The soundtrack is outstanding as it showcases such 70s nuggets as War’s “Why Can’t We Be Friends,” The Blackbyrds’ “Walking In Rhythm,” Jean Knight’s “Mr. Big Stuff,” and Chairman Of The Board’s “Give Me Just A Little More Time.”
– Lloyd Carroll

The Eye
Starring Jessica Alba, Alessandro Nivola, and Parker Posey
Directed by David Moreau and Xavier Palud

Concert violinist Sydney Wells (Alba) has been blind since an accident at the age of five; she has been without sight so long that her visual memories have become lost. At the urging of a sister (Posey) who considers herself responsible for Sydney’s blindness, she agrees to undergo a second corneal transplant (her body having rejected the first). The operation is a complete success – physically. But almost immediately upon regaining sight, Sydney begins to experience dark visions – of fire, chaos, and angry wraiths that seem to presage death. As she works with Dr. Paul Faulkner (Nivola) to integrate her recovered vision into her perception of the world, they both become convinced that Sydney is receiving messages of the most ominous kind, and that she must decipher them before something terrible happens.
The Eye is unlike “J-horror” remakes such as The Ring, Dark Water, and The Grudge only in that the original came from Hong Kong and not Japan. It is part of a wave of knockoffs that makes one wonder if anyone ever takes an hour or so to thumb through the slush pile in search of something original. But why bother hunting when you can trade on someone else’s hard work and creativity to turn a quick buck? Why search for the next Blair Witch Project when you can just add a big monster to it and get a Cloverfield?
The premise of The Eye is rooted in the pseudoscientific notion of “cellular memory,” which suggests that our experiences, tastes, and other characteristics exist in every cell in our body and can thus be transferred to someone else. Though supported only by anecdotal evidence, it is an interesting prospect that suggests endless possibilities: If you receive the heart of a man from Philadelphia, will your new valves create a yearning for all the glorious fat and cholesterol of a cheesesteak? What if you fall off a motorcycle, slide on your dome, and require a skin graft from your own backside to replace your scalp? Consider that, butthead.
That anyone would spend time thinking about such malarkey is a testament to just how ponderous an experience is The Eye. It is the equivalent of the conduits and passageways in Star Trek that were labeled GNDN: “Goes Nowhere, Does Nothing.” No scares, no drama, a wafer-thin story, no atmosphere, and middling effects; sitting through its 97 minutes feels like an enforced viewing of the extended version of Dr. Zhivago, except that the latter is a fine film and you’re certain it will eventually end.
Jessica Alba, “actress,” is the equivalent of Marshmallow Fluff – marginally appealing, probably not good for you in even small doses, and clearly not as advertised (marshmallow being an inspiration rather than an ingredient for Fluff). She is simply an empty presence on the screen. Perhaps that’s unfair; Alba does, after all, spare us from having to watch Renee Zellweger, originally attached to the project, pretend as if she actually has eyes.
A film like The Eye is illustrative of how dry the horror wells in Hollywood have become. Our choices today consist of unnecessarily Americanized versions of superior Asian films, dull but bloody remakes of classics (Halloween), and torture porn (Saw, Hostel, Captivity, etc.). Perhaps the industry needs to draw on its own experience to stir the pot a bit – a dredging up of their own demons to help them create new ones for us. Maybe they should dwell on the Writer’s Guild strike cancelling the Oscars. That oughta scare the hell out of 'em.

­ Michael Lee

The Savages
Starring Philip Seymour Hoffman, Laura Linney, Philip Bosco,
and Peter Friedman
Written and directed by Tamara Jenkins

      When Lenny Savage’s (Bosco) life partner Doris Metzger (Rosemary Murphy) passes on, he faces a dilemma: Not only has he been diagnosed with dementia, but as a result of signing a cohabitation agreement that gives him no claim on her property, he must now find a new place to live. Enter his children Jon (Hoffman) and Wendy (Linney), a drama professor and a playwright whose specializations are almost as abstruse as their personal lives. When they move him to a nursing home in Buffalo and Wendy agrees to stay in town to assist with his care, they must cope not only with his deteriorating condition, but with a lifetime of unresolved issues that are brought to the fore by the pressure of the inevitable.
Tamara Jenkins’ first feature length film, 1998’s Slums Of Beverly Hills, was an indie darling, garnering eight nominations from various festivals and critics associations. What seemed to impress most was its authenticity; technically, it was not bravura filmmaking, but it certainly knew its characters (in service of full disclosure, it must be noted that the film was semi-autobiographical). Since then, Jenkins has been largely silent, with the IMDB website crediting her with but a single 15 minute short. And now we have The Savages, a film of great intimacy that is observant in a way that can only be learned by living a real life. If a nine-year wait was the price for this mature and accomplished work, it was well paid.
The Savages depicts real people struggling with real issues in very human and imperfect ways. How do you involve someone, particularly someone whose faculties are compromised, in planning the person's death? Jon and Wendy seem so fearful of asking the pertinent questions that they employ a strategy that is the fall back position of so many of us who desperately wish to avoid an emotional scene: They broach the subject in a diner, seemingly in hope that the presence of the public will prevent an outburst. Their approach fails. They are tormented by the ambivalence of having to care for a parent who didn’t do a particularly good job of caring for them, and the guilt they feel causes them to lash out at each other. And in a quietly poignant moment, Lenny switches off his hearing aid and pulls his hood over his head as Jon and Wendy tear into each other on a car trip. He may not know who he is with or where he is going, but he is certain he doesn’t want to listen to the vituperation around him. The film is full of such small, revealing moments.
Jenkins has coaxed marvelous performances from her entire cast. Hoffman once again displays his talent for expressing simultaneously a jumble of emotions, and Linney is a convincingly conflicted bundle of insecurity. Special mention goes to Philip Bosco for a brave and vanity free performance, and the city of Buffalo, where the grey landscapes provide the perfect backdrop for the film’s emotional core and dark humor.
Teachers of drama, film, and theatre have a unique opportunity right now. They can send students to see two films that tread similar territory with very different results. One is the hollow and soulless The Bucket List, a film which is compelling proof that Hollywood has achieved a new level of disconnect from reality. The other is The Savages, a small masterpiece which must be content with telling its audience truths about the human condition – and perhaps collecting a few of those winged statues they give out on IFC the day before the Oscars.

­ Michael Lee

The Orphanage
Starring Belen Rueda, Fernando Cayo, and Roger Princep
Directed by Juan Antonio Bayona

As an adult, Laura (Rueda) acquires with her husband Carlos (Cayo) the abandoned Good Sheppard Orphanage, the nurturing and picturesque home where she lived until her adoption. Situated on a bluff that overlooks a beautiful, rough-hewn beach, it is a place of fond memories which she intends to restore to both its former look and use. As work on the house progresses, Laura and Carlos’ adopted son Simon (Princep) begins to experience an increasingly disturbing attachment to a pair of invisible friends. He tells his mother that they have taught him a game in which successfully following clues will lead to whatever they have taken from you — and allow you to have a single wish granted. When Simon plays, he retrieves his special “coins” — but he also becomes privy for the first time to the knowledge that he is adopted and has a serious illness. It provokes in him a resentment that drives a wedge between child and parents, until a final explosive confrontation with Laura on the day that other children are finally visiting the house causes him to flee. As the day wanes and Simon is nowhere to be found, Laura frantically runs to the beach where she sees a fleeting vision of her son in a cave they explored together—and in which Simon claims to have met more of his invisible companions. After a series of strange occurrences and the inability of the police to produce a single clue as to Simon’s disappearance, Laura comes to a frightening conclusion: Perhaps Simon’s imaginary friends aren’t so imaginary after all.
It has been suggested that The Orphanage is this year’s Pan’s Labyrinth. It is not. That film was a study in magical realism, a sublime juxtaposition of the brutality of Falangist fanatic Captain Vidal and the fantasy realm discovered by Ofelia. The Orphanage is a straight up ghost story (or supernatural thriller if you prefer). The only real connection between the two films is the involvement of Guillermo del Toro—as writer/director of Pan’s Labyrinth and producer of The Orphanage. And that’s like saying 1999s The Mask of Zorro was that year’s Schindler’s List because of the participation in both of Steven Spielberg. Okay, that statement might be an actionable offense, but you get the idea.
There is much to admire about The Orphanage. Its Spanish sites are gorgeous and are beautifully captured, it has atmosphere to spare, and it is tremendously well acted. It is more creepy than scary (it gets tremendous mileage out of an eerie burlap hood), and thus needn’t rely on shock, gore, or screeching violins to elicit a response. And it is utterly and completely suspenseless. For all its stylishness, for all its ominous mood, as professional a production as it is, it simply isn’t compelling. Its fatal flaw lies in the storytelling: It tells us early, pointedly and without obfuscation, what the characters will—and must—be doing come story’s end. It is obvious within 20 minutes. As we sit through what becomes a pointless and flaccid second act, we begin to realize that we have always understood on some level the difference between foreshadowing and telegraphing—it is tedium, and it is here in abundance.
In some ways, The Orphanage is disappointing because of its failure to live up to its marketing. To be fair, it should be measured against films of similar theme and purpose rather than its genealogical relatives; for example, it compares favorably to the Nicole Kidman vehicle The Others. And that right there is what we call condemnation through faint praise.

­ Michael Lee