The Confession; dramatic web-series, 2011

A confessional discussion between a priest and an assassin may not seem like the ingredients for high drama, but thanks to a smart story and exemplary acting, The Confession ratchets the tension up from the moment the Confessor begins his story.

The Confession was originally a web series of 7-8 minute episodes. For the most part, they edit together seamlessly; but where they don’t, the awkward change serves as a reminder that this is a serial re-edited for Netflix. In spite of the intrusive moments, the story is so compelling that such momentary stutters are quickly forgotten.

Kiefer Sutherland, who also served as executive producer, channels a little bit of that ol’ Jack Bauer into his character. As listed in the credits, the Confessor is an unrepentant professional hit man without a name, who insists that the reluctant priest hear his confession or he will kill someone that night.

On the other side of the confessional is the weary and weathered John Hurt, a somber yet soiled soul himself. His creased face and priestly manners lend wisdom to his character that runs deeper than the devotion to the cloth. He maintains his cool through the beginning, fielding repeated threats from the agitated Confessor.

The series of almost philosophical discussions about life and death, murder, heaven and hell, and who deserves to be killed, all give tasty clues about the characters – not just their morality, but their reasons. It wasn’t chance that the Confessor chose this church and this priest. Carefully, the writers peel back each layer of the characters like an onion, until the revelations expose both characters to their raw core, building to a truly explosive ending.

As a side note, this film does an amazing job of keeping both the dialogue and scenery interesting. After all, most of the film takes place in a small wooden box. The “philosophical” conversations never get boring, as one would expect; the caliber of acting and camerawork on this project keep each moment interesting and relevant.

At just over an hour, it’s an easy show to watch. The violence, shown in flashbacks, is mostly implied. But the vexing question the Confessor asks about the worth of a person and whether murder can be the right thing just highlights the on-screen chess game between the professional killer and the priest with a hidden past.

Both performances deserve recognition as well. True, the Confessor isn’t too far removed from 24’s Jack Bauer, just with a looser set of morals, so even though the mold is tweaked, it still feels like a familiar coat. But Hurt’s turn as the troubled priest under duress that makes it nearly impossible to walk away once the film starts.

Spending an hour in this confessional is time well spent. It may not cleanse your sins, but it will stay with you long after it fades to black.

Rating: 8 of 10 Mach 3 razors

Pain Level: 3

Medication: 600 mg gabapentin, 10 mg oxycodone

TO WATCH THE CONFESSION RIGHT NOW ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

The Hunger Games: action, 2012

I approached The Hunger Games with great care, much like you would any archer with an arrow pulled tight to the cheek and aimed at your left eye.

Having never read the book and knowing only pieces of the story as seen from the trailers, I expected some gruesome Tim Burton-esque world with teenagers offing each other in maddeningly artistic ways. Not necessarily a mash-up for high expectations. The massive marketing blitz pre-release painted the experience as an art design journey, complete with masquerade-like couture and makeup. Although curious, I avoided it in the theaters, fearing style over substance.

My distaste of overbearing design was beaten down early. Fantasy films’ fatal flaw is flaunting style over substance, sacrificing storytelling in the process; design should contribute, but remain otherwise an invisible background. In the Hunger Games, the design is artfully used to express the worlds of the haves and the have-nots, of the poor outlying districts and the rich, powerful Capitol district where the games are played. It might have screamed, “look at me” in the commercials, but in whole only whispered “pay attention”.

The film begins in the depressed and dirty District 12, one of the poorest areas of the post-apocalyptic PanEm, featuring a dustbowl-era facade where smiles are few and food sources are fewer. After a brief introduction to Katniss (Jennifer Lawrence) hunting in the woods, the backstory of the games is discussed as Katniss, her young sister Primrose (Willow Shields) and friend Gale (Liam Hemsworth) prepare for the annual Reaping.

Once a year, as punishment for their participation on the wrong side of a long-past rebellion, every district choses one child of each sex as “tributes” for the Hunger Games, a cross between a modern reality show and an ancient gladiator match, where this bloodsport to the death is the big yearly spectacle; imagine the Superbowl, Olympics, Oscars and Grammys rolled into one.

The gathering of the children recalls haunting photo memories of WWII, as they line up, grungy in their Sunday best, praying not to be called. Delicate Primrose is chosen, and Katniss volunteers to be tribute in her place. And thus motions are set in action.

Katniss and the other tribute, Peeta (played by Josh Hutcherson, who harbors a crush for Katniss and once fed her bread when she was starving) are whisked away to the Games. Here the design begins to draw the viewer into a world of significant disparity, where the have-nots live in North Korean like squalor, while the haves live in a world that puts Rome to shame; a world where gladiator sport, using children, is the height of fashion.

Woody Harrelson as their Mentor, Haymitch, makes a marvelous turn as a drunk more enamored of his carousing life after winning the Hunger Games and escaping district 12, than in teaching his charges anything significant.

Before the games, the contestants compete in trials to gain sponsors – rich viewers who could send them helpful items in a pinch. Stanley Tuccii plays Ceasar Flickerman, the host of the Game and master of ceremonies for the ages, with an uncomfortable grace, decked out in outrageous costume and hair. The Games is his show. But behind him and show director Seneca Crane (Wes Bentley, played with the world’s strangest beard) lurks the quiet presence of President Snow. Donald Sutherland plays Snow quiet and contemplative throughout, but lets his displeasure at the games be known.

Once the action begins, there are minor battles, ambushes, one-on-one fights, chases, alliances, betrayals, love stories, heartbreaking deaths, life-saving moments, ferocious biomechanical creatures, rule changes, and even hallucinogenic bees. In the end the final two survivors are Peeta and Katniss, who find a way to outsmart the Game, forcing a new ending on the traditional sport.

There are several nods to Romeo and Juliette throughout – from the constant referral to them as “star-crossed lovers” (albeit from the same social order), to the poison berries that play such an important part of the film.

The story is well wound, tightly constructed and told in a way that keeps the audience engaged and on the edge of their seats. On the surface, it offers a very good film experience for the price of admission. Few people, other than maybe hardcore book fans, will be disappointed in this film. On a deeper side, a few hours after leaving the theater, the viewer might still be deconstructing the film, teasing apart the numerous themes of social and financial inequality at the root of the story.

The Hunger Games is one of those fun films that can be taken at face value and enjoyed for the successful roller-coaster ride, where others may find something deeper, more intriguing, and more meaningful than even the story itself.

Rating: 4 out of 5 Golden Eagle Bows

Pain level: 3

Medication: 200mg gabapentin

TO WATCH THE HUNGER GAMES ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

The Factory; Thriller, released 2013

It seems that John Cusack’s contractual wardrobe obligations took a small turn in 2013’s The Factory. Although attired in the appropriate black suit and black-accented tie, he forgoes the black shirt in favor of neutral gray for the film. The selection seems appropriate for the drab Buffalo, NY winter; but it’s also much easier to see blood splatter against a shade that’s lighter than midnight. The frigid, snowy weather also provides a perfect excuse for Cusack to brood his way through the film in a long black overcoat, even in the comfort of his own home, so his gothic silhouette remains consistent with the outfits throughout his more recent body of work.

Maybe the change in shirt color stems from playing a lesser hero – Mike Fletcher, a Buffalo Homicide detective, who has effectively burnt himself out pursuing a serial killer that preys on prostitutes. A new murder with the right M.O. saves the case from being put on the back burner, and Mike, an absentee father, sets out with his partner, Kelsey Walker (Jennifer Carpenter), to track down leads.

The story itself becomes a jumble of tired, lazy plot threads that weave the past and present of psychopath Gary (Dallas Roberts), into Mike’s angst-ridden teen-aged daughter Abby’s (Mae Whitman) uncanny ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time in a blizzard. Drugged and imprisoned, she becomes part of what is probably near the top of every woman’s greatest fear – being forced by torture to bear children for a twisted and misogynist maniac.

Mike, juggling old and new leads, drives pell-mell through the snow-packed streets of Buffalo, avoiding accidents by sheer will of rage alone. His SUV plows through massive drifts and skids across lanes of traffic, providing what little action graces the screen as time runs out for his non-compliant daughter.

I am a huge fan of surprise endings, stories that have a hook that opens one’s eyes to everything that was quietly going on in the background of the plot while the story distracted completely. It’s the trick that made films like The Crying Game and The Usual Suspects into critical successes. But when not done correctly, the big reveal is more like a slap in the face instead of the sudden, warm, revelatory feel. Much like this film, which ended in such a confused jumble of pick-up-sticks that the final minutes are little more than a denouement, much required.

It’s little surprise this disturbing and violent film stayed on the shelf for more than a year; no happy endings come from this tale. The beginning of The Factory starts out with a title, saying it was based on a true story, but little on the screen is a reflection of any notable abduction cases. Instead, it seems to just take the sensationalized and manufacture a nightmare that’s a hundred times worse.

Rating: 2 of 5 pairs of John Cusack's sunglasses

Pain level: 5

Medication: Gabapentin, 300mg x3

TO WATCH THE FACTORY ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

The Numbers Station; action, 2013

There is a rule in Hollywood – this may actually even be contractual – that John Cusack be dressed in nothing other than an all black suit, tie optional, throughout. His agent probably dictates he only play complex, conflicted, and complicated hit-men or government super secret black ops agency spies. With sunglasses.

With such an iconic, high-contrast look, well aged and practiced through one forgettable film after another (with the possible exception of Grosse Point Blank), it stands to reason that he would cut new fabric on the old tired action hero. But sadly, it seems his tailor is in control through The Numbers Station where, once again, Cusack is an Agency man with a black wardrobe and pasty face.

Emerson Kent is a CIA black ops lifer with “Grim Reaper” practically tattooed across his head. When a hit on a former agency man goes south and leaves loose ends, he refuses to kill the witnesses’ daughter. As punishment, he is sent to sweat out his time in a bare-bones, cold-war relic, a “Numbers Station” that broadcasts highly sophisticated numeric codes to spies via a bunker-like radio station. Kent’s full-time partner is the station operator and cryptographer Katherine, played by Malin Akerman.

Things are going swell on his job as the one-man security force for the expansive underground military bunker; until the day it doesn’t. A team of commandos penetrated the station and made a series of broadcasts before killing the earlier shift. Kent and Katherine arrive, get attacked, manage to slip past the sniper and lock themselves in the bunker. Once inside, they have to find a way to break the codes, recall the commands, and fight off the bad guys who show up with the same predictability as Cuasck’s wardrobe.

There are no real hooks or surprises in the story, or even much depth assigned to the characters. There’s not even enough excitement to generate a cheer when the last baddie dies. But as boring movies go, it’s put together well. The story, although not terribly original, is not as trite as expected – but there still isn’t enough substance to keep the still air of the secure bunker from becoming musty and old.

Numbers Station is one of those films that will eventually find a home on broadcast television, where it will play regularly as the weekend movie before regulated to those new extra digital channels that run old 70’s and 80’s movies. It does the job, and little else.

Ratings: five of ten brussel sprouts

Medication: 30 mg oxyxcodone, 300 mg gabapentin

Pain Level: 5

TO WATCH THE NUMBERS STATION ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Room 237; Documentary, 2012

I have two guilty pleasures.

The first is being an effervescent Kubrick fan. There are few masters of the art like him, auteurs who’s understanding of the language transcends simple on-screen storytelling; some spiritual part of his soul settles on the celluloid like emulsion itself. His films are not just a treat -- they are religious experiences. Without fail, since turning twenty, I have watched Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb on my birthday. And each year, I see new things.

My second is conspiracies. Just to be clear - I am not the guy in the dark green fatigue jacket with towering stacks of newspaper clips, video tape machines and photos with yarn connecting them to maps strung throughout my room. It’s a personal fascination I have with the nature of people who ascribe alternative realities to well-documented events; and how they can find these justifiable connections between imagined theories.

Some of my favorite theories involve movies.

My first Kubrick conspiracy was during the “Dark Side of the Wizard of Oz” phenom in the late 80s. Near the end of some article, the author mentioned that the last act of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey synched up with the Pink Floyd’s song Echoes (from the album Meddle). With my video gear I made a copy, and was subsequently blown away. Some online pages told of mythical meetings between Kubrick and the band to negotiate and soundtrack, and the song was put together in spite when Kubrick passed. It is a much better soundtrack in my opinion, and the copy I made may be found here.

Room 237, by director Rodney Ascher, should be the ultimate, tailor-made documentary for my discriminating taste; it’s a special dark room in a special dark place. The Shining, Stephen King’s novel, was purchased by Kubrick and then heavily edited from its original story, to the point that King disavowed his participation. In the end, the two were similar only in name, location, characters, and a few story points. In the novel, Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) had sexual trysts with witches or ghosts in room 217. Kubrick changed the number. Bring in the conspiracy theorists!

In one segment, Room 237 claims The Shining is about the Holocaust through allegory; another, Kubricks secret apology to the world for purportedly being the mastermind behind faked Apollo 11 footage; a third, a story of European’s near extinction of Native Americans; and one an expose on how the layout of the hotel was physically impossible.

Each suggestion is plausible, backed up by quotes and scenes from the movie. Other imagery from Kubrick films are brought in to emphasize style points -- in one notable case, demonstrating a Minotaur-like expression shared through Kubrick’s antagonists through the years, before dropping the clue that his production company name from his early film noir masterpiece The Killing was ‘Minotaur’. The threads are woven smartly, to the point the director needed to attach an ardent disclaimer at the head of the film.

Most of these ‘experts’ have their own cottage industry based on their theories – books, websites, and in at least one case, a documentary. As expected, many withhold the specific information in the confines of Room 237. In the end it makes it more interesting, almost a subversive study of these people – who are incidentally never seen, only heard as disembodied voice overs – than it is the study of The Shining itself.

The one piece that appealed to me the most had less to do with the meaning than the technical genius that was Kubrick. One web theorist, who declined to be interviewed for the film, makes a remark on his site that “The Shining is a film made to watched both forward and backward.” The director takes this to mean a compound projection of a forward and backward running film at the same time. The results, which he shows, go further to demonstrate the odd symmetry that is a hallmark of Kubrick’s style.

In the end, the film does little to enlighten us about the movie itself or the master who crafted it in a mysterious way. I found it interesting and thought-provoking, even though the soup was a little thin overall. But the stories it weaves and the very interesting importance that has attached itself to this classic film will certainly keep a few people up late at night. Again.

Rating: seven of ten Chairman Mao statuettes

Medication: 20 mg oxycodone, 300 mg gabapentin

Pain Level: 4

TO WATCH ROOM 237 ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Dredd; feature film, 2012

Dredd. Its how I felt by the time the film ended, albeit spelled correctly.

I’ll be blunt. This film is a celebration of special effects gore in a computer-generated world, meaning you can simulate the slow-motion effect of an explosions’ pressure wave molding flesh into an oceanscape before ripping it from the bone.

Violence does not make a movie, but it can serve a purpose in its use. Here, the justification for using such a graphic and disturbing effect is the introduction of a designer drug called Slo-Mo that is becoming the scourge of Mega-City One. The main source is the Peach-Trees mega-building now controlled from top to bottom of its 200 story massiveness by the heartless, bloodlusting ‘Ma-ma’ (Played with a massive scar on her face by Lena Heady). This drug causes the passing of time to slow down, so one second will feel like a few minutes to the intoxicated – giving the special effects team opportunities galore to spread the slo-mo gore thick and wide.

Judge Dredd (Karl Urban) lives in a futuristic, post-apocalyptic world where millions of people are packed into giant mega-cities with massive buildings that are cities unto themselves. The justice system relies on gun-toting judges who act like police and have the right to make lawful, on-the-spot executions. Dark and fraught with violence, the film does its best to capture the comic’s sensibilities (if you can call them that) right from the get go.

The plot is formulaic to a fault. Judge Dredd is assigned to put trainee Cassandra Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) through her final test run. A slo-mo related crime brings the two to the Peach Trees complex. Once inside, Ma-ma locks down the massive structure, preventing any communication in or out. The next hour is a relentless pursuit of the outgunned judges, with a collateral body count that climbs faster than the national debt.

Using their wits, their weapons, and Anderson’s spooky, mutant ESP powers, the two survive the onslaught until the requisite corrupt judges, under Ma-ma’s thumb, show up to ‘help out’ the two trapped judges. Subversion doesn’t work well against psychics, or exceptionally brutal judges like Dredd, so the ruse is up before it can even get a start -- but still becomes a great excuse to expend a few thousand rounds of ammo.

Once the smoke clears and the contractually obligated cheesy dialogue is recited, the audience can safely leave the theater. Or change channels on the telly.

To their credit, the filmmakers were able to accomplish a difficult goal – bring a comic book character to life in the spirit of the comic itself. The art design, CGI, and atmosphere all bring the illustrations of Dredd’s world to life. Dredd is arguably one of the more violent, constantly running comic books, which certainly carries over to the film.

But where the comic used the imagery to project a world of lost morality and humanity, the film instead glorifies and revels in it. Where one panel on a page of old-fashioned ink and newsprint would be a close-up of a bullet wound, the film loiters on it with reverence, using the excuse of the slo-mo to show the horror of fatally ripped and exploded flesh over a full minute, in agonizing slow motion.

Elevating graphic violence to such an unfortunate and gratuitous necessity is, to me, revolting. I can understand violence in movies like Fight Club, Se7en, anything written by Tarantino, and slasher films like Friday the 13th where its expected everyone will get chopped into fine pieces before being cooked and served as chili at a school fundraiser. But when violence masquerades as the only solution for problems, regardless of which side, there can no longer be true heroes. And without heroes, the art of telling stories will die.

Rating: 2 of 5 bagels with cream cheese, lightly toasted, no lox

Medication: 20 mg Oxycodone, 300 mg gabapentin

Pain Level: 4

TO WATCH DREDD ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Jiro Dreams of Sushi; Documentary, 2011

To some, the romanticized artisan is a study in enduring patience -- a lifetime engaged in servile devotion to the perfection of a single craft. It requires a passion that transcends knowledge into devotion, personal faith into devoted disciples, and skill into pure art. A lifetime devoted to the perfection of a single thing; doing it over, and over, and over, and over…

And, in study… it’s really fucking boring.

That is the most striking failure with Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a documentary about 85-year old, lifetime sushi master Jiro Ono, who’s $300 a plate Sukiyabashi Jiro in Tokyo earned a coveted 3 stars courtesy the Michelin guide. No other sushi restaurant has earned this recognition, and the film makes sure this fact is not lost.

Maybe it’s mentioned so often because there is little else of note. Sushi, the traditional Japanese meal of raw or cooked fish on vinegar-splashed rice is a simple dish. The chef has to ready the rice, the seaweed, a compliment of vegetables, a few sauces, and prepares the seafood. By comparison, a French chef must know a slew of sauces, how to butcher and prepare a number of proteins (from beef to rabbit to chicken to duck to any exotic animal you can name that existed in France at one point or another) and how to marry them with spices and cheeses and wine. Where a Cajun seafood dish may contain a dozen or more spices, sushi is prepared with ginger, wasabi, and sometimes sesame seeds.

Sushi may be tasty, but as a subject for a 90-minute expose, it’s fucking boring.

No amount of slow-motion photography following Jiro’s ancient hands delicately forming the perfect slab of sushi rice can rescue this documentary from a vacuum of story. The whole of traditional sushi preparation can be explained in one minute. Include seaweed wrapped rolls, two minutes. Three if you want to get fancy with inside-out rolls.

In Japanese culture, if you are dedicated to your art, you never embarrass your mentor; that would be career suicide. Considering Jiro’s standing, there is little surprise at the uneventful youth. The only stories develop within the successful family itself, with the filmmakers vainly trying to stretch the thin drama far enough to wrap an otherwise pointless film with a shred of story.

There are two sons. Takashi was encouraged by his father to start his own restaurant, a mirror image of Sukiyabashi Jiro. The other, Yoshikazu, remained by his father’s side for more than twenty-five years years, learning as an apprentice first, and eventually taking over the day-to-day operations. While he helped grow his father’s humble restaurant into the Tokyo equivalent of New York City’s Rao’s (Jiro seemed to enjoy hearing the phone conversations explaining that dinner reservations must be made months in advance), Takashi grew his own brand that tip-toed the fine line between riding his father’s coattails and blazing his own trail.

Although an interesting look into the family business, it is not enough to sustain a feature film. Jiro and his sons explain over and over how only the best fish are used in their restaurants, with the right balance of muscle and fat, with good texture and flavor. The filmmakers never learned that lesson, instead doling out bony, watery fish soup.

The one pause in the mundane expose was a look inside the famed Tsukiji fish market. The rice may be exceptional, the wasabi fresh and delicate in spite of its punch, but mere normal fish have no place on a Jiro masterpiece. Yoshikazu spends hours in the market, negotiating for only the choicest of fish, squid, octopus, and exotic sea life that tastes good with ginger and soy sauce. One look at the prices he pays at auction and the three-hundred dollar a plate price-tag at Sukiyabashi Jiro seems suddenly justified.

My favorite films usually have a good “gotcha” hook with an astounding reveal at the end, so I usually steer clear of mentioning any potential spoiler material. But in the case of this vanity roadtrip, I have no such reservations.

The big secret shared at the end is that the Michelin stars were awarded to Yoshikazu, not to Jiro. The father’s dedication and one-mindedness may serve as a great reminder of a bygone era of both lifestyle and occupations, but the revelation of his son’s irrevocable success speaks volumes to Jiro’s parenting and occupational training.

Even though a few select “foodies” may get sexually aroused at the photography, and some reviewers rave about the film, its still fucking boring. I can’t help but wonder if the rave reviews on certain sites reflects how badly some critics want to eat Jiro’s fish.

Rating: 3 out of 10 starfish

Medication: 10 mg oxycodone, 100 mg pregabalin

Pain level: 2-3

FOR YOUR OWN TASTE OF JIRO DREAMS OF SUSHI, CLICK HERE TO WATCH ON NETFLIX