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

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

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