House Of Card; original Netflix series, Season 2

Francis Underwood is back.

Just soak that up for a second… Speaker of the House and soon-to-be Vice President Underwood, the cagey, polished, and sinister Southern Democrat, returns in the second season of the Netflix original series. Played with distinction by the chameleon cum thespian Kevin Spacey, Underwood (heir to the typewriter’s fortune) is the king of serpents, slithering his way up the treacherous ladder of politics, his eyes set with certainty upon a power-thirsty agenda. What the first season hints at, the second delivers in terms of character development and evil politicking - but not much more.

House of Cards is based on three British series/miniseries, the first of which shares its name with the entire Netflix version, which themselves were based on a novel of the same name by Michael Dobbs. All three track the sensational rise to power of a fictional, old-school, smokey-room politicking member of Parliament, and were quite the hit on BBC. Fast-forward a few years, and the idea of an Americanized version, with Kevin Spacey attached as both actor and producer, was sold to Netflix as the video-streaming company began its venture into original programming.

The first season followed Underwood as he schemed and plotted his way from House Whip to being appointed Vice President, but wrapped before he was sworn in. There was, as expected in a political drama, stories of backstabbing, abuse of power, graft, collusion, and political mayhem in the underbelly of the Capitol. Nobody is spared a part in the orchestra that Underwood conducts; and when a flat note interrupts his well-crafted plan, that player pays dearly.

Sadly, the day-to-day drama of political shopping and constituent/client pandering becomes humdrum and repetitive no matter how exceptional the cast. Even the notable West Wing, which helped define a new school of political drama, eventually suffered from the same fate – politics just isn’t that interesting. It’s the side stories, whether personal corruptions deeper than a bank account, or acts of extraordinary nobility and humanity, that make the stories of politics interesting.

The first season avoided the trite by providing an exceptional foil to Underwood’s ambitions in the form of an unstoppable pixie, cub reporter Zoe Barnes (Kate Mara), whose off-the-record relationship with Underwood gives her an inside source; and him, a pawn with which to manipulate the press. They feed off each other, not just in terms of their symbiotic/parasitic relationship, but in their performances; each keeps raising the bar in their scenes together. Add other newsroom characters, including editors and jealous reporters, stir vigorously, and the entire fifth estate plays cat-and-mouse with Frank. But Zoe learns a little to late that Underwood is actually the cat.

With a deft performance as the aloof Claire Underwood, Robin Wright provides a dependable, nearly blank cypher in the series. Usually following in her husband’s wake, she steers afield with an urgent need for independence, which are slaked for reasons never fully explored. Their open, somewhat deviant marriage allows them to slip in and out of dalliances like so many overcoats, letting both use sex as another tool in the political arsenal.

The first season was a coup d'etat, attracting enough critical acclaim and popular appeal that the new and unorthodox demographic of streaming media consumers made a statement that has since frightened cable TV. Netflix confounded the establishment by releasing 12 hours of content at once. Binge viewers could digest an entire season if they had the stamina to spend an entire day in front of the television, and David Fincher’s exercise in using television as the medium gave rise to a highly anticipated second season.

And the season just didn’t deliver.

As seems so consistent with trilogies, be it JRR Tolkien adaptations or even the grand-daddy Star Wars trilogy, the middle episode languishes much like a second act left to stand on it own. Both are bereft of comparably interesting storylines, and instead serve as development vehicles between the opening and closing films/seasons. Ask die-hard Star Wars fans that list the Empire Strikes Back as their favorite why, and they usually profess to be fans of the character development.

It doesn’t take very long, but in short order, Vice President Underwood marginalizes the entire antagonistic game with the newspapers. Gone is the threat of press exposure; all of Frank’s problems now come from within the beltway political machine. Instead of worrying about scandal, the plot gets wrapped up in the tedium of playing petty, incestuous politics in the name of unbridled ambition.

Little by little, the characters who were once likable or sympathetic in the first season sprout a hard layer of callus, losing their appeal in the process. The second seasons presents few likable new characters in this fictional Washington. Even news reporters are more informed, and antagonistic, than realistically expected. Claire quickly loses her ambiguity, as do the West Wing players. Nobody is innocent, nobody is clean, and nobody can avoid the evil.

And that is the man in the center of the ring. Not Keyeser Soze, but a man far more ambitious and perhaps more cunning; in other words, a role tailored for Kevin Spacey. But to weave a story about an evil, unsympathetic character, the opposite needs to be supplied in abundance to both provide relief and to serve as a yardstick. It doesn’t matter how well a bad guy is played; an audience needs somebody to like for comparison.

That’s not to say there aren’t some wonderful scenes through the run of the second season. There are plenty of smart set pieces that give Spacey and the ensemble cast the chance to show their chops. But no performance can overcome a flawed season. The audience needs someone to cheer for; and even though Underwood is the smartest, craftiest, and most powerful player in the first person, there is nothing inherently attractive about his sinister character, except for a sophisticated classiness than separates him from the rest of scum in the pond.

In essence, the only force compelling anyone to watch Underwood’s antics is the unspoken question at the center of it all: why is Frank Underwood doing all of this? There is an undercurrent of something greater afoot than mere personal ambition in the political arena; a faint aroma of a quiet plot brewing through the first two seasons and readying an explosive final season. It’s much like how Empire Strikes Back bridged the gap between Star Wars and Return of the Jedi.

Although a significant letdown in my own peculiar opinion, I get the feeling this season, like politics, is a necessary evil. Not nearly as fun or easy to watch as the first season (but still much better than most weekend television), it’s still sprinkled with memorable moments and first-rate performances that outshine most network and premium cable channel offerings alike.

Better than any show about housewives, but not nearly as strong as its first season, its still a rewarding trip, whether seen on its own or in the context of the series as a whole. Just don’t expect to be quite as impressed, and be prepared to sit through some plodding storylines that just don’t move as seamlessly as in the first season. Were anyone but Spacey leading the charge, it would fall under its own heavy weight. But his presence and sheer talent keeps this ship afloat, so the political wrangling can continue for a third season.   

John Dies at the End; horror/comedy, 2012

Admittedly, there are movies just made for fun; plot, character, coherent stories all take a backseat in these jovial and “devil may care” movies, which often have extremely convoluted plots to make all the bizarre actions tie up in the end. Think along the lines of Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, or Shawn of the Dead.

John Dies at the End is one of the latest to fit into this odd little niche – films that are so fun to watch you don’t bother with the flaws or weird incidental sidetracks that make no sense to the story. This is a story involving an alien drug, zombies, other universes, time travel, and parallel planets preparing to take over the earth. Except that our two unsung heroes, along with a faithful pooch, are there to save the day.

The film is based on a comic horror novel by David Wong (who named the story protagonist after himself) that originated as an internet publication. Director Don Coscarelli optioned the book, and with Paul Giamatti on board as both executive producer and as the part of Artie Blondestone, an investigative reporter, the film went forward.

David Wong (Chase Williamson) is leading a strange, paranormal life, starting the film with a question – maybe real, maybe not. A Zombie is beheaded, requiring the replacing of an axe handle. Another use required replacing the blade. When the zombie returns, he can’t help but ask “is that really the same axe?”

This story is revealed to Artie in a restaurant. As well as tales of David and his best friend, John (Rob Mayes), saving a woman only to learn they perceive her differently – at which point she explodes into snakes, before turns into a demon created from frozen meats and searching for Marconi (Clancy Brown), a television spiritualist personality in impeccably tailored dark clothes. One phone call that David makes to Marconi dispatches the demon.

Unimpressed by these tales, Arnie is dismissive, until David begins showing off psychic ability. A side effect, he explains, from an odd, injected drug called Soy Sauce that “opens doors to new universes.” David was himself accidentally exposed by a needle prick while tending to John in the throws of an overdose, and can now see the future. As well, it seems as ghosts. And he keeps getting calls from John in some other parallel universe, invariably giving him clues.

After trying to understand the drug, and the effects, a pan-dimensional creature shows up in David’s car (Daniel Roebuck) throwing some kind of weird alien into his shirt to try and keep him at bay, from which David manages to escape. The film continues with more oddities and silliness, until it’s revealed that David and John are part of a plot to end an invasion from an alternative Earth that is run by some freaky organic computer that is planning the attack. A giant LSD bomb, provided by Marconi, does in the big ol’ freaky creature/computer, an all is well in the world. Until the future comes again, asking for the friends’ help.

The film is, at its most basic, funny. There is nothing great about it, or necessarily exceptional. There is no real reason to watch expecting a good story, or interesting characters with great acting (with the notable exceptions of one of Giomatti’s better performances, with less overacting than is his usual), or great camerawork. The writing, although funny overall, missed opportunities while trying to make all the time/dimension mechanics viable. Not lackluster by any means, it just seems to drift in quality as much as the story drifts in its attention.

This is at best a top-notch stoner film; at worst, a good concept wasted by trying to convert too much written material to script in order to tell a film-length story. It’s one of the reasons so many adaptations fail – the necessary omissions from print to film. It feels as if the writers wanted to hard to stay true to the print version than explore the other directions film could take them. But even at its worst, it entertains.

I enjoyed John Dies in the End and its consistent quirkiness, but I can’t say it is a good movie. Chances are most folks will have a good time, even though its difficult to give it a decent rating. I guess what I am trying to say is, even though I am giving it a poorer than normal rating for all the things it should have been, it is still very worth watching for what it is when you just want mindless fun for a change.

Ratings: 2 of 5 bleeding limbs

Pain Level: 2

Medication: 10 mg cyclobenzaprine, 10 mg oxycodone

TO WATCH JOHN DIES AT THE END, 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

God Bless America: Black Comedy, 2011

The simple review: Drop what you are doing, watch God Bless America, perhaps the most socially relevant black comedy since Dr. Strangelove or how I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, and be a better person for it. Put down the sandwich, close Facebook, don’t bother going out for that walk, turn on Netflix and watch God Bless America. Fido can hold it an extra hour.

In other news, the world is getting increasingly vacuous, ruled by obnoxious popularity contest winners and super spoiled sweet sixteen parties. Nobody thinks for himself, and instead regurgitates the latest pop (insert anything here: culture, star, show, politics, etc) news as if it has true gravity in a world built of mean superficiality. A place where the talentless are rewarded with celebrity simply because they stake a claim to it, and the passive sheep on the receiving end of consumer culture let them -- from reality and entertainment television to shock and sports radio personalities. A culture where courtesy and basic politeness are overrun by a mean-spirited race of self-indulgent righteousness, led by an increasingly soulless media.

This is the world of Frank Murdock (Joel Murray), an upstate New York insurance salesman burdened by a recent divorce, a bratty kid, unpleasantly dismissive neighbors and painful migraines. His insomniac nights are spent listlessly watching television to drown the neighbor’s cacophony, filling the void of his life with obnoxious reality programming, entertainment shows, an American Idol rip-off, and a Limbaugh-like right wing talk host. His emptiness is permeated by the trailer-trash society that the media embraces and exemplifies, slowly filling him with rage and contempt.

In short order, Frank is fired from his mundane job; his attempt to cheer up a female coworker by sending her flowers was taken as zero-tolerance sexual harassment. A visit to his foully egotistical neurologist (are there any other kind?) to solve his migraines reveals fatal brain cancer. Frank Murdock is about to break bad, minus the meth.

At home, once again rejected by his daughter by phone, Frank finds his service sidearm and prepares to swallow a bullet. Readying himself, a reality show featuring the pinnacle of spoiled children - “Chloe” - comes on the television. A dim bulb lights up in his sad eyes. Stealing his neighbor’s bright yellow Camero, Frank sets off with some kind of loose, drunken plan.

He ends parking up in the woods around Chloe’s (Maddie Hasson) school in Virginia. While spying with binoculars, a curious high school brunette, Roxanne “Roxy” Harmon (Tara Lynn Barr), calls him out for being a peeping pervert. But when Frank takes the opportunity to remove Chloe from the planet, Roxy, witnessing it, thinks it’s the coolest thing in the world.

Back in some nondescript hotel, Frank prepares for suicide as Roxy knocks on his door. Taking pause, he lets the exuberant high-schooler into the room, and she not only talks him out of blowing his brains out, but instead gives him a new mission: killing the rude, the devoutly mean-spirited, and people who take two parking spaces. They start with Chloe’s parents before taking off on a coast-to-coast spree. Of note is one set piece in a movie theater, where “thank you for not talking during the feature” takes on new meaning.

A secondary plotline follows the American Idol ripoff, “American Superstarz,” where a borderline mentally challenged competitor, Stephen Clarke (Aris Alverato) was first ripped apart by the panel, gained sympathy after attempting suicide, and was then invited back to perform in the finals in Hollywood. Stunned at how Stephen was being used to get ratings, Frank sets his sights on the Superstarz final.

But the plot is merely a thin structure upon which a deeply rich critique of modern ‘Murica is posited through a brilliant script. The joy of the movie is in the monologues – a lost art on the screen, given over only to courtroom scenes, churches, voice overs, and the Cohen brothers. But these 3-5 minute gems from Frank are sharply focused social commentary, deploring the change in society towards mass consumption of media, and ‘Murica’s embrace of meanness as a calculated way of life.

Sadly, although Joel Murray is good with the dog-eyed look of a broken man struggling with suicide, his acting tends towards the flat. Perhaps the actor, perhaps the director, but the performance sometimes feels too deadpan for the material, as if it would breathe a little more with a little animation.

Roxy gets into the act as well, delivering the single most impassioned expression of Alice Cooper devotional ever penned. Tara Lynne Barr gives Roxy a wide-eyed enthusiasm and unbridled courage that only a well-sheltered but evil-minded woman/child could produce. She brings an energy that is admittedly lacking through the first third of the film, where the majority of Frank’s speeches dominate the narrative landscape.

In spite of the gunplay, the often excessively violent and graphic imagery, this is at its roots the blackest of social comedies. In spite of his brilliant script, Bobcat Goldthwaite’ directing chops still leave a little to be desired. The deliberate pacing tastes vaguely like a Cohen brothers film, but without the same depth of direction; which may be the film’s weakest point. Since this was direct to DVD/cable, I suspect there might not have been the budget to accomplish more than they did, and if it was so constrained, the minimalist approach at times is understood. In contrast, the dialogue would make David Mamet proud in both its insight and rhythm.

Passing by God Bless America is a sin. This is a black comedy that helps illuminate the soulless vacuum that’s developed in this country. It’s a thinker’s film in a way, forcing the mirror on the culture we have all allowed to flourish for the last 20 years, and at the same time damning us for it. It wouldn’t be so funny if it weren’t so true, and in that way, Bobcat has used filmmaking as a social commentary in ways that hasn’t been successfully done in decades. The beginning may be slow, and the comedy may not resonate with everyone, but once Roxy takes Frank on his mission as the Robin Hood of cultural sanity, the film moves at a lightning speed.

Part buddy movie, part road-trip, part vengeance flick, and all social commentary, God Bless America may be very uneven at times, but it may also be the most subversive film of the century to date. And you may never be able to listen to “Do you know” the same way again.

Rating: 7 of 10 bullet-ridden teddy bears

Pain Level: 2

Medication: 10 mg flexural, 7.5 mg mobic

JUST STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND CLICK HERE TO WATCH GOD BLESS AMERICA ON NETFLIX RIGHT NOW

End of Watch: Drama, 2012

In an era of digital filmmaking, where “groundbreaking” means a step closer to eliminating the art of acting in real locations, and studio budgets are geared more and more towards CGI, its nice to see a film that goes back to the basics while taking enough risks to make it a more notable and long-lasting film than, say, any Mission Impossible movie. End Of Watch is transformative, and raised the bar for cop films with a kick in the gut.

Jake Gyllenhaal took a big risk on this film as both executive producer and lead, Officer Bryan Taylor of the Los Angeles Police Department. He and his partner, Miguel Zavala (Michael Peña) were so dedicated to the project, they spent months preparing with the LAPD, riding along with the officers in South Central and learning the trade.

The result is a phenomenal combination of filmmaking basics– camera work, writing, acting, and editing – that is powerful, imaginative, and inventive, without resorting to CGI.

The story can almost be framed as a 60’s Western. Officers Taylor and Zavala are cowboy cops, who have a reputation for getting into situations where bullets fly. An opening shootout meant administrative leave for the two. Following them on their first patrol back shows how depressed and dangerous their precinct is. South Central LA is an almost different world, with dilapidated neighborhoods, gutted houses, gang warfare and guns everywhere.

Taylor is a former marine who wants his detective badge, so he convinces Zavala to stake out a house where they discovered a Mexican gang hangout. His chosen path for advancement pits the two against a dangerous cartel that wants them dead.

Unlike so many cop movies, there is no threat from within. There are no dirty cops or shady politicians. The only threat are from the “Indians” on the streets they took an oath to protect, even in the face of gang warfare, drugs, human trafficking, and a changing urban ecology. In spite of ominous warnings that the cartel was hunting them, their “cowboy” bravado becomes their undoing.

The film is visually striking, right from the pulse-raising beginning; Taylor’s soft-spoken, gentle, almost poetic narration runs in perfect counterpoint to the hyper-edited chase that unfolds, leading to a shoot out, and killing the perps. The entire scene is told through the police car’s dash-cam.

This motif not only continues through the film, but much of the story is told through lapel-cams, dash-cams, and handheld cameras. This is woven into the story where we learn Officer Taylor is back at college, explaining that he needs to make a documentary film for a class. In the locker room, talking to the camera, he introduces the tools of the trade, such as guns and handcuffs, but also includes a small lapel-cam that officers wear.

Many of the scenes begin with footage that looks like a dash or lapel cam, or Taylor’s own handycam. Once a location is established, hand-held film cameras are employed, with a similar wide-angle look, to maintain that voyeuristic and loose feel. It’s seamless, putting the audience there for the ride – whether its in the patrol car as the two cruise the streets, or in a gangbanger’s car as they prepare to unleash a hail of bullets.

The story does a great job of justifying the technique by incorporating the practical cameras into the script.(on a personal note, I dislike cinema verite, but when the disorienting motion is relevant to the story, it makes sense to me). Another thing it does better than any other cop film in memory is the attention to realism. The time the leads spent researching served them well. The banter in the patrol car, often improvised, is said to impress real police with the representation. Curse filled to nearly record proportions, the dialogue is gritty and realistic, but also filled with the spirit of partnership and brotherhood; more often then not, the two are just talkin’ shit about their lives like a married couple.

The editing is truly frenetic at times, throwing manic pacing faster than the eye can manage; but the result is almost a subliminal experiment in montage, where the perceived ferocity of a fight is the result of speedy edits. It elevates the pulse and fosters almost sympathetic reactions from the audience.

This film doesn’t have a happy ending. It’s too real to stoop to that level. But even though it might be a little unexpected, ends on one of the single most emotionally driven sentences in film. To some, it might seem a little cheesy or contrived, especially if the fraternal camaraderie is lost on them; but if you ask a cop, chances are they’ll tell you that End of Watch finally got it right.

And without a blip of CGI.

Rating: 8 of 10 piñatas

Pain Level: 7

Medication: 200 mg Lyrica, 20 mg oxycodone

TO WATCH END OF WATCH ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE

Starbuck: Canadian comedy, 2011

Foreign films in foreign languages can be tricky to watch -- you have to follow the bouncing ball to keep up. The nuances of language, the subtleties of inflection and the complexity of discussion are a few key weapons in the actors’ arsenal, and all prove fairly worthless when watching a film in an alien tongue. The rest of the craft plays out on the face and in the eyes of the practitioner. Thankfully, expressions tend to be a universal trait, and a particularly important one for actors.

Patrick Huard has a particularly expressive face which serves him well – at least as far as this reviewer is concerned, hamstrung by the language barrier. His portrayal of David Wozniak in the Quebec, Canadian film Starbuck gives his mug ample opportunity to venture across the gamut of visualized emotion. But he excels most at shock and joy, one of which is pretty much the universal expression when learning you’ve fathered 533 children.

If this sounds familiar, it should. The American remake with Vince Vaughn, Delivery Man, is releasing on November 22. The original, Starbuck, released in 2011, is being remade in several other languages as well, which is a fair remark about the broad appeal of the emotionally engaging story. To a foreigner. Watching in subtitles.

The original story opens with David at the sperm bank, making a deposit. Flash forward to the present, where David has unwelcome visitors shaking him down for an eighty thousand dollar debt. Although he has a job in the family business driving the delivery truck, he started growing weed to try and make extra cash. To complicate matters further, his on-and-off girlfriend just learned she is pregnant.

He seeks counsel from his friend, attorney, and father of five, Avocat, (played by Antoine Bertrand, who earned the Canadian film award, a Genie, for Best Supporting Actor). He plays the larger-than-life, boisterous lawyer in opposition to David's character, who is more of an absent-minded and slightly starstruck mensch.

David arrives home to find a stranger in his house – an attorney, warning of an impending lawsuit. The fertility clinic from his youth used his sperm for 533 pregnancies, and 142 of his biological children joined a class action suit to reveal the identity of the father. He was known only as Starbuck, the identity used at the clinic, taken from the name of a famous racing horse stud.

While Avocat works on a defense, David quietly starts to take stock of this newfound family. The attorney left behind a list of the children, so he begins following them, at times acting as a guardian angel. At the same time, Avocet countersues the clinic for two-hundred thousand, and wins.

Even though David must remain anonymous to collect the money and clear his debt, each encounter with his children softens the resolve on his face. Huard has that uncanny ability, best compared to Robin Williams, when it comes to expressing glowing joy through the eyes alone. Each new child he meets, regardless of their status, health, ideology or orientation, brings a lighter step to his gait and a twinkle to his eye, all while David prepares for his “own” child.

This is, with certainty, a salute at fatherhood, with all its worries and missteps along the way parsed out through newfound children. Imagine a father’s greatest fears and hopes for his unborn child, all lived out in reality; these are meted out with each new meeting. It’s sending the message that being a father can be as rewarding as motherhood, and just as virtuous, regardless of the child.

Granted, David never had to change their diapers or their pukey clothes as they grew up, so on some level, the message rings a little hollow. But it's not the story of an absentee father in the least. And as a comedy, messages are not expected. But in this case, a little message goes a long way to helping the humor hit the mark.

As a foreigner reading subtitles, I might have a different read of Starbuck if I could understand Canadian French. Perhaps I wouldn’t have found it as funny, or felt just the right amount of heartstring tugging, to have enjoyed it as much. I am certainly curious to see what the American version, also directed by Ken Scott, has to offer in comparison. On camera, Patrick Huard seems to have a natural charisma in addition to comedy chops. When Delivery Man makes it to Netflix, I’ll have the chance to see whether Vince Vaughns’ grating charm makes for a better David Wozniak.

Rating: 7 of 10 slices Canadian bacon

Pain Level: 3-4

Medication: 200 mg gabapentin, 10 mg oxycodone

POUR REGARDER STARBUCK SUR NETFLIX, PRESSE ICI

Olympus Has Fallen: Action Thriller, 2013

The “action thriller” had been a long time in the making, even though parts of this combination genre paraded on the screen in different guises: westerns, late 60’s and 70's action/cop movies with never-ending car chases, and most notably, Kung-fu films. The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3 is one of the American grand-daddys of this formula, combining the non-stop pacing of an action movie with the less passive and typically “hooked” ending of a thriller.

And then came the Big Daddy of action thrillers, 1987’s Die Hard, which stole the mantle of “blockbuster film” from the more uplifting and less violent fare of science fiction (think of the Star Wars and Star Trek franchises, ET and Close Encounters). It has yet to relinquish the title, with studios continuing to pay top dollar for actors and effects. Even Spielberg’s more recent stab at aliens – remaking War of The Worlds – abandoned the science fiction genre for the action thriller formula. It’s why Gene Roddenberry’s vision of peaceful interstellar space has been challenged so bluntly with the reboot by JJ Abrams, camouflaging action thrillers in hollowed out sci-fi shells to pursue the $80 million opening weekend.

Personally, I enjoy finding where today’s action thrillers draw elements from Die Hard’s rich pastiche of now formulaic troupes. Die Hard is a film about a fish out of water, facing an existential threat by being heavily outgunned and outnumbered in a confined space – and that’s just the 20-word pitch.

Olympus Has Fallen is also a film about one man facing an existential threat by being heavily outgunned and outnumbered in a confined space. But in this case, Secret Service agent Mike Banning (Gerard Butler) is no stranger to the building under siege – it’s the White House, where he formerly protected President Benjamin Asher (Aaron Eckhart) and his family. His inability to save the first lady after a car accident meant a change in position, so on the day North Korean terrorists decide to attack the White House, execute the South Korean Prime minister (Keong Sim), and take the President and cabinet members hostage, Banning is next door in the Treasury building.

One of the great hallmarks of Die Hard was the German-like precision that enabled a dirty dozen to secure a world-class building and take a floor of hostages. The White House is a much harder target, requiring greater firepower. But with similar certainty, a heavily modified C-130 gunship, a few modified sanitation trucks, an armored car, and a number of Asian tourists (who are really terrorists with guns and explosives in their backpacks) successfully drive the President and other high-ranking officials into the sealed bunker. Which is exactly where the terrorist leader takes them hostage and makes his demands.

Banning manages to get on the White House grounds during the initial salvo, finding his way to the oval office where there are a whole bunch of secreted goodies guaranteed to help a top-notch action hero. Namely, weapons and a satellite communication system that lets him talk to the situation room in the Pentagon, where a statesmanlike Morgan Freeman plays the Speaker of the House and acting President.

Of course, there is a reason the terrorists had to get the President into one of the most sophisticated sealed bunkers in history, and it has to do with blowing up the U.S. Which is why noble, once shunned Banning is back in the White House. Or what’s left of it after 30-mm cannons rip its façade to shreds.

Armed, Banning is the prototypical action hero, kicking ass, taking names, and breezing through one-liners with more sass and alpha sarcasm than Bruce Willis asking “Who’s driving that car? Stevie Wonder?” A former Army Ranger, he’s just great at ducking bullets, killing guys with his hands, knives, and, of course, a variety of guns, and excels at being the only guy standing following scathing volleys of machine-gun fire.

There are a few obstacles first… the President’s son is somewhere in the building. But Banning dispatches that problem, along with a handful of bad guys, in a few tense minutes. And then he goes about trying to rescue POTUS.

Among the other Die Hard established troupes are the “assault-that-the-enemy-planned-for” which always has a catastrophic end for the assault team, whether in the LAPD SWAT’s “R.V.”, or the SEAL teams dispatched to take back the White House in multiple helicopters. By the time Banning eliminates the threat, much like McClane, it’s too late to save the cowboys.

And then there is the “heart-to-heart-with-the-enemy.” Remember when Hans Gruber pretends to be an American to fool John McClane? There’s a turncoat ex-Secret Serviceman (played by Dylan McDermott, who is playing an eerily similar character in this television season’s Hostages) who gets surprised by Banning in some cramped secret space and tries pulling the “hey buddy” shtick, with less-than satisfactory results.

And then there’s the “enemy-died-with-the-innocent” troupe shared by both movies; and both use helicopters. In all uses, this troupe is a red herring of the highest order.

There’s not much else to say about the film, except to acknowledge that it seems a hodgepodge of pieces from other movies, ranging from Mission Impossible films to every Die Hard in the franchise. That being said, and spoilers being revealed (like you don’t see them coming a mile away), the film does keep up a frenetic pace, features solid performances from a number of heavy hitters, and manages to be entertaining in spite of its own inherent pitfalls, doing everything it can to keep from stagnation.

This is just a symptom of a tired genre. Any respectable fan of action movies will read every play before it happens, simply because its all been done before, and better. Which makes me curious about a competing “Die Hard in the White House movie,” White House Down, released only a few months later. Hopefully, this will soon be on Netflix streaming as well.

There’s nothing inherently bad about Olympus Has Fallen. There’s just nothing new, in spite of good writing, excellent execution, solid direction, and all-around good performances. It feels like getting served a plate of leftover spaghetti and meatballs.

Don’t get me wrong. I love spaghetti, even leftovers (as long as its warmed up). It’s what you pull out, throw in the microwave and eat when you don’t want to bother cooking. Olympus Has Fallen is the kind of film to throw on when you can’t be bothered spending ten minutes deciding if there's anything better to watch.

Rating: 5 of 10 old rotary phones

Pain Level: 3-4

Medication: 600 mg gabapentin

TO WATCH OLYMPUS HAS FALLEN ON NETFLIX, CLICK HERE