The Whale; documentary, 2012

Imagine being – oh, maybe three to five years old – and abandoned. Fortunately, even though your family neglected to keep their eyes on you, you find yourself in a comfortable house, where there is always food and snacks lying around. But there is nobody around with whom to talk. You are young, eager to establish those social connections that enrich the lives of smart, hip young mammals everywhere. Your pod abandons you, so you make the most of it – calling the names of your relatives through the night, but in the day, playing with the apex predator that lives on the other side of seawater surface, living in the atmosphere.

That’s what may well have happened to Orca L98, later named Luna by a Seattle newspaper contest in 2000, before his sex was known. Possibly abandoned as early as late 2000, when up to 5 members of his pod died, Luna was also declared dead until his reappearance in July of 2001 in Nootka Sound, on Vancouver Island’s Northwest coast, where the whale took up residence. In spite of attempts to keep this apparently orphaned killer whale a secret, by the end of 2001 the story of Luna began to circulate.

The Whale, a documentary, chronicles Luna’s life; from his appearance as a lone animal that normally thrives in a highly social environment, to his reputation as a smart and friendly maritime friend who seemed to learn as much from us as we tried to learn from him. The story, as well as countless video of this lonely animal turning to humans for comfort, is something that should not be missed.

Ryan Reynolds narrates The Whale and, alongside Scarlett Johansson and Eric Destnik, is listed as executive producer. In short, it is an amazing documentary that might leave you questioning which species is truly smarter, more social, and potentially capable of forgiveness and love than ever expected.

The story follows Luna’s unusual history, with heaps of truly astounding footage gathered over years as the unique whale desperately seeks human companionship. At the same time, “experts” keep trying to prevent such interactions with crazy fines and stewardship. Something of a tourist attraction, a local legend, and revered by the local Native American tribes as a reincarnation of a former chief, Luna becomes an odd lynchpin for a number of efforts.

The state and Federal government want to move him and reunite him with his old pod. The local Native Americans want the spirit of their leader to stay where it seemed to want – in the local Nootka Sound area. It thrived in the sounds’ food-rich waters, so natural stresses never forced the orphan to leave the relative safety of his home. This battle – or difference of opinion, depending upon which side you take – becomes an important stand in the conversation about wildlife management. As in: how do you manage something that is wild, no matter how civilized, friendly and playful?

The film does an excellent job of exploring the difficulties in trying to keep to sentient, curious, friendly, 4 to 5 ton animal from playing and making friends where and when it wants. It’s nearly impossible to keep a straight face as one wildlife official, holding the two boats together by hand, explains that contact with Luna could result in a $100,000 fine; all the while Luna himself bobs up and down between the boats, playing with the ranger’s arm. It brings the ridiculousness, and difficulty of the situation, into some kind of focus. An animal like Luna should be in deep water, where they can fight with larger pray and play with their brothers, sisters, cousins; and here are humans, a poor substitute for play pals, but the only thing that approaches the magnificent animal’s intelligence for dozens of miles around.

All three angles are well covered in The Whale. One thing plainly obvious is that each group really cares about the health and well-being of Luna, even if they had different ideas on how help.

But it’s the footage collected over years that drive the most important point home – Luna was a lonely whale, craving the attention of the only creatures smart enough to see it. His playfulness and curiosity best compared to a kitten, swimming amongst the boats and docks of the Nootka Sound, bringing a sense of happiness and wonder to everybody whom he touched. But even beyond that, he seemed to take the whale equivalence joy with his interactions, sometimes mimicking human actions, like hosing down the side of a boat, holding the nozzle in his mouth. These were not trained behaviors, but learned through his observation. It was an animal that wanted to understand us, probably more than we wanted to understand him.

The different organizations and townspeople were concerned for his safety almost as one – the boat traffic in the sound was heavy. In many shots, Luna comes right up to boats’ propellers to play in the cavitation bubbles – a dangerous habit that caused lines of propeller scars to cover his young body. And then, one day it happened. Luna came too close to a familiar tugboat, the powerful engines were too much for the playful whale, and he was sucked into the propellers.

The Whale is a beautiful story in so many ways that it really deserves to be seen everybody, regardless of age. It’s one thing to talk about these majestic animals in captivity, but it’s another thing watching one lonely orphan befriending an entire community. It’s difficult to not project human-like qualities onto Luna when the whale, himself, tries so hard to communicate and befriend us. It’s the kind of tragic loss that is amplified by how much we could we could have learned, if we only gave him the chance.

Rating: 8 of 10 hugged trees

Pain level: 2-3

Medication: 10 mg cyclobenzeprene, 10 mg oxycodone

TO WATCH THE WHALE ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Lovelace; drama, 2013

“Blue films,” stag films, have been around almost as long as film itself. It wasn’t long before our more prurient interests were recorded, and played back at special occasions when (mostly) men gathered. At some point, explicit fare reached exhibition houses, shown in seedy, darkly-lit micro theaters with sticky floors. Even the Supreme Court tackled the issue of pornography on a number of occasions. And the floors of their chambers are much cleaner.

But nothing popularized pornography in our culture more than the movie Deep Throat, which thrust celebrity on Linda Lovelace (real name Linda Boreman) because of this breakthrough film. It was an X-rated movie with a story, some humor, and was “viral” before people had computers. It was a legitimate film with sex between plot points. Couples went to see the film in droves, with the movie entering public consciousness to the point the Washington Post named their Watergate source in a perverted homage. It was the film that legitimized pornography and paved the road to the multi-billion dollars industry it has become.

Lovelace is a not the “authorized” bio-pic of her life, if one is inclined to believe her autobiography “Ordeal.” But in the time since its release, 8-minute stag loops have been uncovered that challenge this film, and her autobiography, which both maintain was her first and only x-rated adventure. The true story of Linda Lovelace is buried somewhere in the backstory of the seedy, drug and crime-filled industry as it blossomed in the 70’s.

Lovelace gained had already gained infamy in pre-production, with multiple cast changes plaguing the start of filming, including a period when Lindsey Lohan was cast in the lead – a role which was eventually passed along to Amanda Seyfried. The cast includes a list of well-known character actors like Hank Azaria and Eric Roberts.

The film tries to tell the story by bouncing around from one time period to another, including multiple flashbacks, and refuses any sense of linear progression. Although difficult at times to follow, time is sequenced out of order in what appears to be an attempt to tell the story of from two perspectives - the fame, and the shame.

Lovelace starts with Linda Boreman, in her young 20’s and living with her parents, meeting up with Chuck Traynor (Peter Sarsgaard). His easy charm and deft people skills manage to win over her conservative and hyper-protective mother (played by an aging Sharon Stone; at first. But Linda’s late night out past curfew with Chuck was the last straw for Mrs. Boreman, who kicks her daughter out.

Naturally, she moves in with Chuck, whose go-go bar has a porno theater in the back. His controlling nature infiltrates their relationship, becoming increasingly violent and manipulative once they marry, forcing Linda into prostitution at gunpoint. Even in their bed, his controlling nature forced her develop an unnatural gag reflex, which he documented on 8mm film. At an audition he arranged with a few porn producers, which Linda seems to think was for a legit movie, he shows the film – the producers are not only amazed at her oral specialty, but immediately begin writing a script around her unusual talent.

The film gets finished; it’s an unprecedented hit. Linda gets invited to the Playboy mansion for a screening, where a young Hugh (James Franco) courts her (to put it politely). She became an unusual celebrity as the first adult film actress to become a household name. But in time, her career flounders at the hands of her increasingly volatile manager/husband/pimp. Her refusal to do any more films only brings forth more abuse.

Her first attempt to escape the trifecta of mental, physical and emotional abuse by running back to her parents is of no comfort. Her mother kicks her out for a second time, telling her to obey her husband. She is finally freed when Anthony Romano (Chris Noth), Deep Throat’s financier, is so offended by the abuse he squirrels her away to safety. Six years after, she is living a new life in New York, denouncing the porno industry, becoming a voice for abused spouses and eventually reconciling with her family.

This is an odd little film in many ways. The story is presented through dichromatic good side/bad side glasses from the moment Chuck has the wide-eyed Linda in his marital clutches. For a large chunk movie's first half, everything is rose-tinted good times as her relationship with Chuck develops, as she is introduced into pornography, makes the film, and becomes a minor celebrity.

There is almost an innocence of fun at first, in spite of strong hints of ugliness lurking under the surface. Perhaps its difficult to portray the 70’s party/porn atmosphere without chasing the ghosts of Boogie Nights’ faithful homage, but at times the comparison here just can’t be helped – both in terms of the subject matter, the characters, and of course, the set and costume design.

But then the film, through disjointed time juxtapositions and odd flashbacks, begins to re-tell the story, but including the abuse and beatings, of being forced into prostitution, forced into making the film, and being pimped out because of her celebrity. Only then do we learn of her struggles and fears, of her own helplessness in the face of Chuck’s manipulations and violence. In one touching scene, Linda and her father John (Robert Patrick) have a heartfelt phone call that leaves both in tears, which seems to be her motivation to quit.

But the effect falls flat for the most part, rendering the film almost schizophrenic. In a segment where Linda meets Harry Reems (Adam Brodie), her “co-actor” for her first scene, he comments on what a great job they have, almost waxing poetically about being an adult actor for a moment. By the time the dark turn comes, its onset is confusing and at times convoluted, forcing the audience to remember too many plot points without enough setup. Its as jarring as downing a cup of orange juice after brushing your teeth with toothpaste. On one hand there is a girl who appears on all accounts to be having a princess experience, and then, well... there is the unseemly underbelly of the rest of it. And nowhere do the two easily meet. It leaves audience distrusting what they watch, not quite sure what they are being asked to follow.

To both directors’ credit, it appears there was a deliberate decision to avoid titillation, which is surprising (but perhaps necessary) for a film dealing with the prurient topics of porn and fellatio. Even the simulated sex scenes feature no real nudity, and the rare peeks have more to do with establishing the characters than sex. In fact, sexuality seems completely stripped from the film after the brief pre-marital happiness, banished to the end sequences where the act itself represents nothing but violence and control, the very antithesis of “making love.”

But maybe that was the point in examining poor Lovelace’s life; that she was a victim in every sense of the world. Depersonalized, objectified, and denied any sense of self from her family and lover, forced to live a lie through violence and deception, it’s a wonder Linda Boreman was able to return to a regular life, let alone a self-empowered woman. But as a biopic, it leaves something to be desired, as if it once had a focus, but couldn’t quite decide which kind of a story it wanted to tell.

Rating: 4 of 10 VHS tapes

Pain level: 2-3

Medication 10 mg cyclobenzeprene, 10 mg oxycodone

TO WATCH LOVELACE ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Flight; Drama, 2012

The first time I saw Flight, I think it was on a 757 on my way to Miami. Thankfully, we had an uneventful trip, nary even a hint of turbulence. I love flying, but the three rum and cokes on a stomach of Chex Mix tends to turn any in-flight movie into an ADHD comedy experience.

The film made a splash with favorable reviews and plenty of unsolicited remarks touting a gripping tale. When Netflix announced it had the film, it was time for a second, slightly more sober look.

Pilot Whip Whittaker (Denzel Washingon), after a drug and booze-filled layover tryst with flight attendant Katerina (Nadine Velazquez), manages to keep a full commercial flight from nose-diving into the ground, pulling an unheard of move by rolling the plane inverted, limiting the death toll in the crash to six.

In the swarm of union reps, NTSB investigators and his own attorneys who visit the badly banged-up Whip, he learns Katrina was amongst the dead. As the slow chaos of the investigation begins while still in the hospital, Whip meets Nicole (Kelly Reilly) a heroine overdose patient who is trying to straighten herself out, and their lives quickly become intertwined – him, the unrepentant dependent, and her, free and sober.

In spite of the union and the best efforts of his attorney (played flawlessly by Don Cheedle, wearing his professional poker face throughout), Whip cannot seem to stay on the wagon for more than a lap or two, invariably breaking every rule and treating sobriety as an occasional distraction.

In a truly memorable cameo, John Goodman plays a Hunter-Thompson styled drug dealer Harling Mays, whose bag of goodies contains a treasure trove of uppers and downers for all occassions. There is something about Goodman that is larger than life with his characterizations, and like with all his recent cameos, his presence before the camera sucks the wind from all the other actors. He is the Babe Ruth of modern film, perhaps a big presence in person, but a gigantic presence in the spirit of his characters – whether pious, rapscallion, incorrigible or demure.

Mays is Whip’s devil, the pharmacist with the right blend of illegal potions to cure whatever ills our hero. When Whip wants to leave the hospital immediately after the crash, its Mays to the rescue, helping the injured pilot move to a private location. And in the end, it seems that Mays has set Whip right for a highly critical examination, the one thing standing in this way to freedom.

The entire time, the NTSB and the airline have slowly been setting up the deceased Katrina as a scapegoat; after spending the night with Whip, she had cocaine and alcohol in her blood as well. In the end, Whip is faced with choosing his freedom, or smearing Katrina’s name.

The film comes dangerously close to turning into a warm embrace of drug culture, elevating those who can manage a variety of substances without having their performance effected. After all, athletes got away with snorting coke before games for years, as did the older pilot culture that was known to party during layovers. Not all drugs interfere the same way. In my job, there was never a point where my use of heavy narcotics for pain management interfered with my exceptional job performance. (Other drugs that were designed for neurologic use, however, did).

Throughout the film, Whip’s drug use is never presented as an obstacle in anything but a bureaucratic wall. Once that’s bypassed, by a court order, its smooth sailing for Whip if he can tow the line. No matter how hard they tried, the powers that be were unable to prove anything interfered with his performance; in simulation, not a single pilot was ale to save the aircraft from nose-diving into a small, completely fatal hole. His choices and timing were unimpeachable.

This film is a play on conscience, on whether it’s right to buck the system or accept a grievous punishment for the consequences. When a man saves a hundred lives where no one else can, is it fair for his sins to be punished? That might be the crux of this modern fable of tragedy and salvation, the quietly criminal and heroic. Sometimes the line is so blurry, it’s difficult to know which side to root for. But being the true hero, the righteous takes what is his due.

The flight scenes are truly hair-raising, and worth the price of admission alone. And the performances throughout are consistent and cleverly excellent. But the film’s end doesn’t really feel true to everything that precedes it. In spite of the buildup, it reduces itself to a play on morality, ending with a lazy conclusion that whacks the suddenly apparent moral compass into place with an unnaturally large hammer.

Flight is not a bad film by any means. It is very entertaining, has a few funny bits to relieve the pressure of one of the most hair-raising crash sequences ever put on screen, and features a cast brimming with top-notch acting chops. What it doesn’t do is add up in the end. Preachy and self-indulgent, the coda adds nothing, but takes away all the fun.

Rating: 6 of 10 Oscar Nominations

Pain level: 3 to 4

Medication: 20 mg oxycodone; 10 mg flexeril; 7.5 mg Mobic

TO WATCH FLIGHT ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Red Dawn (remake); Action, 2013

This is one of the shortest review you will see here.

If you are a fan of the original Red Dawn, don't even bother. There is nothing in this CG-riddled gunfest that approaches that immediate feeling of dread and helplessness in the original as the Mexican Army are parachuting into the high school playing field. Few moments in film are as powerful or as hairs-on-back-of-neck-hello! as that original opening. And no amount of North Koreans appearing in the skies everywhere at once creates the same sense of horror. Originally, it started in school, far away from anything helpful. In this remake, they start in their homes, with enough moments to grab a handful of necessities.

There's also no Harry Dean Stanton shouting, "Sons! Avenge me!" before being executed. And that's a bonus no matter what movie.

The original was seemingly more plausible even than the remake, in terms of the actual military action. This revision cares less about creating a viable situation than using as much munitions and weaponry as possible.

In spite of shredding it against the original, overall it is better produced, tighter, and at times pushed the adrenaline factor significantly further. But the advances weren't enough to justify the remake, in my own opinion.

For fans of action films who have never seen he original, chances are you will enjoy this remake more. It's a story of the invasion of America, and the middle-America town where a group of teen-agers wage a guerilla warfare on the insurgents, calling themselves the Wolverines after the school logo. It stars good-looking guys and girls like Chris Hemworth (in a rare non-Thor appearance), Josh Hutcherson, Adrianne Palicki and Isabel Lucas. The rag-tag group manages to take on an entire North Korean division, making a difference as Americans slowly take the country back. There are plenty of explosions, neat military diversions, and excessive gunfighting for any action move, outdoing the original in the process.

But this version takes few risks overall, where the first movie was almost a risk unto itself. The remake even tries in some ways to distinguish itself from the original, but instead only burying it with modern cliches and troupes to the point it becomes irrelevant.

Another thing I find slightly unsavory in this edition is the decidedly "pro-2nd Amendment" messages that run throughout. In a few spots, it feels like the NRA was a silent partner. Where the former film was about using hunting rifles and home protection handguns, this version carries a very definite message about why Americans need guns. Obviously, we must be in danger from a North Korean takeover.

I have a better idea for those who have never seen either - skip the new one, and see the original Red Dawn. Ignore the silly montages and awful music, as well as some of the hairstyles. I promise, you will be seeing a much better film with the same basic plot.

Rating: 3 of 10 coffee beans if you have seen the original. 5 of 10 if you have seen neither.

Pain Level: 2-3

Medication: 10 mg oxycodone, 10mg flexeril

TO WATCH THE REMAKE OF RED DAWN, REVIEWED ABOVE, ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

TO WATCH THE ORIGINAL, YOU'LL HAVE TO GET THE DVD

Robot & Frank; Drama, 2012

It’s rare to find a “delightful” movie, like On Golden Pond or Driving Miss Daisy. Not a genre, or even an accurate description; it’s a term that’s bandied about when the story is about the elderly dealing with the struggles of an increasingly complex world, often mischievous, and maybe facing failing health. Paced deliberately and focused on the characters, these films often force us to question our lives as we age, the relationships fostered or lost, and the entirety of legacy. Because they are steeped in storytelling, and invariably lead to a thoughtful, yet uplifting ending of sorts, they are… delightful.

Robot & Frank is a film in the not-so-distant future, where an unusual relationship develops between Frank Weld (Frank Langella) and his caretaker robot. Although he has a family, his philanthropic daughter Madison (Liv Tyler) and earnest son Hunter (James Marsden) aren’t available to keep the increasingly Alzheimers-like dementia from getting Frank into trouble. Hunter decides to purchase a robot to clean, cook, shop, and help keep track of Frank.

Initially distrustful of the mechanical servant, and denied the ability to turn off or escape from the robot, Frank reluctantly begins to accept the new housekeeper into his life -- keeping the apartment clean, administering to Frank’s needs, and keeping him active. Frank often visits the library, where his relationship with librarian (Susan Sarandon) feels both warmly familiar yet uncomfortably formal. But like so many creatures of habit who suffer Alzheimer’s, he reverts to a long-past reality, such as visiting a long-closed restaurant and shoplifting from the boutique that replaced it.

But Frank led a secret life, having earned his way as a successful cat burglar, fooling his family until he finally got caught. Even as his memory fades, he practices the craft on an assortment of locks in his spare time, making mental notes of places he pretends to case. Hunter’s electronic babysitter, at first a sore spot for Frank, becomes a curiosity as his mechanical hands become expertly adept at picking locks. Slowly but surely, he begins to teach the amoral robot his tradecraft.

When a rich group of new-tech progressives take over the library and begin converting it for a digital media center, Frank and his robot plan a caper to ostensibly rescue a few extremely rare books from the library, such as a printing of Don Quixote that Frank wanted to quietly return to his sentimental librarian.

As they continue their spree, Frank’s eroding memory becomes as noticeable as the enthusiasm for returning to his old calling. As a known felon and burglar, the police come calling quickly, disrupting the quiet life. Although he is still sharp, Franks mental gymnastics can’t quite keep up, and he remains their prime suspect.

It is rare to find a movie based so completely around a character that a single actor makes the film. This is that exception, and Langella’s performance is so well thought out, so detailed even to the subtle shifts in expression when encountering a forgotten memory, that every beat is alive with a realism in performance that is rarely matched onscreen. This is not to be confused with presence, but rather the enchantment of watching a character evolve and change in quiet and particular ways.

Although Langella’s performance carries the film, the ensemble cast that supports his character are in no way slouches, flavored with realism crossed with the nuances that give each a chance to explore depth behind their lines. Whether it’s Madison fighting with Fran, only for her to be placated by lie, or Hunter’s exasperation with his father’s unchanging ways, the performances are grounded in truth and common reality.

The script, although thin at times, manages to keep the simple idea moving forward at a pace that lets the actors breathe without stagnating the plot. It’s also bare enough to act as a scaffold, encouraging the actors to fill in between the lines, and they all graciously rise to the occasion. But the subtleties of Langella’s characterization are key to keeping the audience engaged. A lesser actor, or a more grandiose one, would surely have let this fine soufflé fall.

Which leaves Robot & Frank a feel-good movie, in spite of the potential for an unsavory morality play. The kind of movie for a do-nothing Saturday afternoon, when the mind wants entertainment, but the eyes and ears don’t feel like being assaulted. The kind of film you can wrap around yourself like a warm, comfortable blanket for a few hours, without having to think too much.

Rating: 6 of 10 stone crabs

Pain Level: 2-3

Medication: 10 mg oxycodone, 10 mg flexeril, .5 mg alprazolam

TO WATCH ROBOT & FRANK ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Boondock Saints: Crime Drama, 1999

Perhaps some murders are sanctioned from on high. And by high, that’s not kings or presidents or superhero or intergalactic judge, but the big “He” with a capital H. If there were a god of sorts, meddling in the affairs of men, how might He anoint those charged with such a task? Through the ages, there have been countless murders and even wars in the name of the Lord, but what makes them right and just?

Boondock Saints throws that question to the screen, and their answer seems to be – it can be right and just when treated with equal parts exceptional violence, judicious humor, and deep spiritual resolve. And especially in the deepest, darkest Irish boroughs of Boston.

The film is somewhat of a cult phenom, having provoked a bidding war over writer/director Troy Duffy’s script long before the finished production went into limited release, earning all of $35,000 on 5 screens. However, the story found the anticipated audience in VHS and DVD sales, totaling more than $50 million, becoming an underground success in the process and giving birth to two sequels.

The story follows the brothers MacManus, two Irish lads (Connor, played by Sean Patrick Flanery, and Murphy, played by Norman Reedus) who seem to fill their life with work at butchery, praying at church and playing in a decidedly Irish pub. The film opens as the brothers, to nobody’s apparent surprise, walks past the priest as he gives his sermon, railing on about the evil inherent in the indifference of good men. They say communion alone, as the priest continues. Dressed in dark colors and with a decided menace to their gait, nobody reacts as they silently exit the cathedral, as if they are above mere mortals.

Their hangout, a local pub run by seemingly tourettes afflicted Doc (Gerard Parks), is being taken over by Russian thugs, who pick a bad time to visit. They raise the ire of the brothers and are disgraced before being forced out of the bar. The next morning, the mobsters surprise the brothers at their home in bed, and the two dispatch the Russians in self-defense.

The death of the Russian mobster brings FBI Agent Paul Smecker, played by Willam Dafoe as a flamboyant and well coiffed investigator with a character texture that feels faintly lifted from the likes of other well known and afflicted characters. He dances around the crime scene, listening to opera. In a nearly Sherlock delivery, Smecker leads the detectives through what happened, completely taking the piss out of a local homicide detective in what becomes a running joke. They even discover where the MacManus’ apparently squat.

The boys turn themselves in, dressed only in bathrobes, as local heroes. Even Agent Smecker likes their story and clears them of wrongdoing. They stay the night at the station to avoid the press, and that night receive their “calling”, where they are instructed to remove evil.

A number of scenarios develop as the fraternal twins set out to free the pub from the greedy arm of the incoming Russian mafia. In turn, they also become hunted, leading to a brilliant performance by Billy Connelly, as an Irish killer, Il Duce, held by the Russians to do their bidding. As with so many comedians, his characterization and on-screen presence is unexpectedly excellent, whether emptying six handguns in short order, or having a heart-to heart with the brothers MacManus.

Through all of these capers, the brothers come through mostly unscathed in spite of a number of things going wrong. And these seeming misteps, bad timings, and other uncanny devices that should cause their failure, instead cause complete success. So, in time, it does feel as if the brothers are indeed ordained by some greater spirit to carry out this judgment from above. At times, they do take stock of what they are doing, trying to find realistic boundaries for what constitutes an executable bad guy. But most time, the criminals come to them.

It is, overall, a satisfying film if you are looking for storylines of righteous vengeance. The violence is graphic and ever present through the film, whether needed or not, so it is not considered a family film. And the values may be considered questionable. But the snappy writing, well delivered dialogue and some good plot twists lead a film to what almost feels like an end, but never really finishing. The very ambiguity of a solid ending is reinforced by the last moments turning documentary style, asking strangers whether what the vigilantes did was right or wrong.

The two biggest failures are the gradual petering out of the plot until the movie uses the sad ending device, and the complete lack of character development in the MacManus brothers. They are interchangeable, with one performance blending into the other’s. They may be fraternal twins, but they appear more as a single personality with a split body.

Boondock Saints may ask the question about morality in killing, and may spend the ending trying to work it out with normal folk, but the entire middle is about justifying such killings in the eyes of the Lord, and in the eyes of society as the righteous vigilantes. If that’s the answer the film want to forward, why bother asking the question in the first place?

Ratings: 6 of 10 potatoes

Pain level: 3-4

Medication: 600 mg gabapentin, 10 mg oxymorphone

TO WATCH BOONDOCK SAINTS 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

Street Thief; faux-documentary, 2006

One of the best parts of this personal challenge is the element of randomness… In an effort to see films I normally wouldn’t bother with on Netflix, I find myself pushing the play button before reading a description of the title. This is one of those films.

The selection seemed potentially interesting – just shy of ninety minutes with content that well reflects the title. Street Thief seemed at first blush to be a documentary on a professional burglar. Kaspar Carr is a slick, groomed yet street-smart “breaking and entering” pro who allows a film crew yo follow his criminal exploits.

The first hour slinks into the shadowy underworld of the thief. Like all good documentaries, it slowly peels back the layers of both the man and his craft, but in the case of Kaspar very little is revealed. A patient professional, he leads the crew on a number of capers as he cases, and robs, cash-heavy businesses.

The painstaking attention to detail serves almost as a primer to felonious life, with Kaspar sharing detailed trade secrets from target selection to wiretapping. But the character remains an enigma throughout, a devious persona that comes off with the same brute force as the drills and saws he uses for safecracking -- but without as much depth or charm.

When the film takes a sudden turn with Kaspar’s disappearance, the remaining third fumbles awkwardly, tying his untimely death to the only ill-conceived job in a string of successful and lucrative burglaries. Like downshifting on the highway from fifth directly to first gear, Street Thief turns suddenly from documentary into “true-crime drama,” trailing parts and smoke in its wake. It became so improbable I had to stop it to read the Netflix description; all at once, it became painfully obvious….

“An inventive blend of fact and fiction, Street Thief is hardly a documentary, as its protagonist and story line are made up -- but the information it reveals about the criminal mind is shockingly real.”

Faux Doc. It’s back, and I should have paid attention when my very conscious “Blair Witch” red flags started waving. The moment a camera crew becomes an active part of the mise en scene, introduced for no apparent reason, I start to question the validity.

But they did get me at first. Having clicked play on a whim, I earnestly thought I was watching a documentary. It seemed odd a thief would boldly go on camera, but the style was so flawless and the misdirection so complete, I was drawn in with fascination for the first 20 minutes.

After the running start, the film falls short at every turn and fails in the final analysis. After all, it’s not a surprise that an unlikable character in an unforgiving business makes an unfortunate mistake and gets killed; the surprise is that they expected an audience to go along for the ride.

Rating: Three of ten shopping baskets

Medication: 4 mg dilaudid, 100 mg pregabalin

Pain Level: 4

TO WATCH STREET THIEF ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Her Masters Voice; Documentary, 2012

Some things defy categorizing or deft analysis no matter how deeply you peer inside. Perhaps these are the things best left alone and undisturbed to review. And sometimes it’s the film itself that wanders into uncomfortable spaces, but they are rarely personal enough to invade with such intimacy. By design, even documentaries remain safely outside, no matter how they try to pry the subject open and illuminate it with

klieg lights. Unless you add dummies.

Ventriloquists are an odd bunch, practicing the art of talking to themselves for the entertainment of others. Two voices, two personalities, two narratives; and that’s just onstage. Could this be a psychiatric fantasy? Her Master’s Voice, an autobiographical documentary by master ventriloquist Nina Conti gives an uncomfortably close examination of her own internal struggle, externalized through a variety of sentimentally important ventriloquist mannequins.

Nina is about to give up her lucrative stint and hang up Monk, her latex monkey hand-puppet, when she discovers her mentor and former lover, Ken Campbell (an eclectic figure in British theater), passed. He bequeathed his numerous dummies (including a likeness of himself) to her care, along with an old note telling her to visit the Venthaven International Ventriloquism Convention in Kentucky. After consulting with Monk, Nina decides to take the journey, and retire one of Ken’s dummies to the Venthaven collection. She and her right hand set off to America with a suitcase of characters.

On one hand, it is a study in the art and wit of the professional ventriloquism. It is rare that Nina appears without a foil of some sort on her arm. Whether it is her familiar Monk, or one of the various appendages from Ken’s exploits (which include an old man named Gertrude Stein, a crow, an owl, and Ken himself), there is always a “second character” in the room.

Her skills, as well those of other artists she interviews, is clearly astounding. The one-person, two-voice conversations she improvises are witty, smart, and smack of well learned timing that elevate her to that level of critical success. Whether in an interview panel with Monk, lying in bed with her bare hand, milling the crowd with Owl, or giving Gertrude Stein his first swimming experience (“you have to wring me dry!”), the art of ventriloquism is always on display. The characters come loose and easy, the quips fast, but the lips never move -- even when the most personal moments are brought up by her alter-egos.

But its these closer, more personal discussions, such as the relationship between Nina’s abortion and the appearance of Monk seven months later, that take us to an uncomfortable place of intimacy. At times, the comedy feels more like a desperate attempt to turn painful truths into a punchline as a means of hiding and escape. In a sense, ventriloquism is the ultimate adult make-believe, and here it often feels as if the artists have suspended their own disbelief.

Perhaps the art is a struggle between the ego and id, with the dummy an unconscious, psychological extension of the things we all want to say but dare not. Nina’s story is broken up by interviews with other ventriloquists, lending a threadbare masquerade of documentary patina above the personal dramas played out with puppets. To paraphrase Jay Johnson, the American ventriloquist known for his recurring role on the 80's sitcom Soap, “I can blame everything on the puppet.”

At an hour, it makes for a quick view in spite of the homemade “did it with a Handycam from Best Buy” look. I had no foreknowledge of Nina’s celebrity in Europe, but the story seemed too personal to escape the feelings of quiet discomfort, in spite of the clever funny bits, having crossed too far past that line to safely return. Even though Nina happily returns to ventriloquism, we are left a bit baffled and uncomfortable at the film. Its not so much a documentary as an homage mashed with a talk therapy session, wrapped gently is a comedy candy shell. With creepy mannequins.

Rating: Three of five Urban Assault Vehicles

Medication: 3 mg dilaudid, 100 mg pregabalin

Pain level: 4

TO WATCH HER MASTER'S VOICE ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

What its all about

The idea is pretty simple.

On Friday the thirteenth, some guy with a mask slashed my throat. Thankfully, his name was Dr. Verma, not Jason Voorhees, and the slicing was for an anterior approach to my c5/c6 cervical joint for an artifial disc replacement. Even better, I was under anesthesia the whole time.

It takes about 3 monhts for enough bone to grow into the implant to anchor it enough for normal, daily life. So even though I will feel better in a few weeks, it will take a few months of sitting quielty and resting until it's strong enough to return to work.

So what to do in the meantime? I turned to the modern-day best friend to the couch potato, the B-movie and TV proviso for the midnight bleary and meth head alike. I decided to turn my attention to Netflix.

Over the course of my recovery, I will watch and review as many films as I can on Netflix. The reviews will be posted in this blog. I think 100 is a very easy goal to set for this project, with the only limitiation my return to work. But who knows - I may have so much fun I keep going.

The reviews will not be typical, and I ascribe to no specific scale. But beware - they shall be judged on a whim.

And to make things more interesting, I'll be reporting the various post-surgical medications I'm taking at the time of the review, and each review gets a single markup and rewrite before posting. In spite of the modern miracles called auto spell and grammar check, expect to see unpolished pieces with errors of both kinds. I'm curious how different medications affect my writing.