Originally posted on RVANews.

Here's the review I wrote on Sunday evening:

Who'd have thought fifty years ago that there would be a day when a major film studio uses the bargain basement price tag of a film as a marketing tool? As special effects technology improves and all those ghosts and explosions and zombies look more and more "real," our ability to be shocked and impressed has changed dramatically.

But you knew that already. Remember when Jurassic Park hit the theaters and everyone went nuts? I remember hungrily reading a Newsweek article about computer animation, astounded that those lifelike beasts were simply drawn on a computer. For weeks afterwards, I imagined waking up to a giant T. rex eyeball at my window. Only 16 short years later, we sit through the trailer for 2012, (whose tagline should be "This can't possibly end well,") and don't bat an eyelash as we are shown real-as-hell images of our entire world literally falling apart. The other day, in fact, I'm pretty sure we spent our time during that trailer teaching our friends how to eat popcorn without using their hands.

Now that realistic looks false, we gotta move forwards by moving backwards, so the way to make things seem hyper-real is to make it look awful. Even as early as 1999, The Blair Witch Project scared the crap out of me and everyone else I knew. One of the reasons horror movies are satisfying is that you're able to remove yourself (hopefully) and appreciate your snug surroundings for what they are, i.e. cheerful, pleasant, and above all, not haunted. During Blair Witch, you're sitting there thinking, "I, too, have held a camcorder, and I, too, have gone camping, and I, too, will almost certainly meet a spooky and gruesome end the next time I set foot out of my house."

Instead of a camera in the woods, Paranormal Activity sets up shop in the average comfort of average couple Katie and Micah's average home. Katie's been relatively cheerfully dealing with some sort of demon in her life since she was eight years old. Lately, though, the bumps in the night have been getting a little more distressing, so Micah decides to bring in a camera and a microphone to try to catch evidence. His reasons aren't entirely clear -- he's either trying to prove her wrong or prove her right, and at some point, as evidence does begin to pile up, he seems to think that the more he films, the faster a solution will present itself.*

Katie has the opposite view. Supported by the recommendations of a psychic, she feels keenly that the entity whose noise-making shenanigans disturb their sleep most nights will only ramp up its efforts if they continue to try to toy with it. Considering what sorts of things they view on their own tapes in the morning (and I'm not going to elaborate - go see it for yourself), they are surprisingly cavalier about the fact that something supernatural and clearly malevolent is dogging Katie's steps. If Blair Witch tapped into our fear and guilt of wandering through the older, wilder parts of nature, Paranormal Activity attempts to top that by bringing evil into our own home.

And that's where the truly tense moments in this film lie -- the quiet hours in the middle of the night, hours in which we all have looked down that dark hallway between our bedroom and our bathroom and thought, "Do I really have to go that badly?" That snug sense of satisfaction other horror movies allow us evaporates as we realize that we are going home to that exact same house to have those same relationship arguments. As the tension builds with the couple's obvious terror night after night, we brace ourselves against the ending of all endings.

But luckily for me and my sleep patterns, it's the ending that doesn't come. Anti-climactic and disappointing, the film's ending wasn't even worth closing my eyes over (although I did admit I missed a little of it, squeezing my eyes shut and substituting a mental image of a cartoon demon strutting into the bedroom and doing a little dance -- a defense mechanism that I highly recommend). For I'm the sort of person that firmly and boringly believes in nothing. My only personal demon limits itself to putting on pinstripes and creaming the Phillies, yet I continue to be infuriated by the toll that horror movies take on my nerves. This movie, despite its claims of unprecedented fearmongering, failed to scare me. Sure, I was startled a little and generally creeped out, but the underwhelming resolution couldn't hack it for me. After my viewing, and this will mean something if you've seen the movie, I unabashedly charged up a ladder into our tiny attic to peer around at our hundred-year-old roof beams with their creepy old nails looking for a leak. I didn't even flinch when, alerted by my husband's screams, I ran into the hallway to see his legs dangling and flailing from said attic as if a demon were dragging him upwards. Nice try, buster, but I'm still pretty sure those thumps in our hallway at night are our cats.'

...And here is the review I wrote in my head this morning at 4:30am:

HOLY SHIT THERE IS DEFINITELY AN EFFING DEMON IN OUR HOUSE.

*This was pretty scary, actually. An asshole boyfriend who ignores your frantic pleas and instead invites the scariest thing you can imagine to torture you further.

My sister is one of the few people in the world* who could conceivably convince me to help her pick up blood and guts and bits of bone from crime scenes (but luckily our collaboration efforts have thus far not exceeded blogging together about an insane magazine). She'd have to try REALLY hard though, and we'd definitely need the "My kid needs money for school and both of us are getting nowhere with our current jobs" motivation that the adorable sisters Rose and Norah Lorkowski have in Megan Holley's first film, Sunshine Cleaning.

Holley's put together a pretty standard, no-frills, "my life hasn't quite turned out like I'd like it to be," boutique flick. It's at times charming and at times distressing, like The Savages, only replace Philip Seymour Hoffman with Amy Adams (which might be a good tactic to lighten up lots of other drab movies as well -- just stick Amy Adams in dark corners to provide a little cheer and you're done!). Everyone is sort of wrily pitiful and no one has it all figured out, but flaws are eventually embraced and family ties strengthened. I don't need to cover any of the plot in more detail.

The standout parts of Sunshine Cleaning are the distinct talents of Adams (who plays the older sister, Rose, who was something of a beauty queen in high school but now struggles to raise her kid alone) and Emily Blunt (younger sister Norah, who I'd describe as an excellent aunt but confusingly costumed). Of course, Alan Arkin is no slouch, and it was somehow comforting to see him in a heartwarming movie so soon after I'd seen Wait Until Dark. Unfortunately, he's a little typecast in his role of doting yet shady grandfather, but it's all right. What family relationship hasn't been done to death?

When I saw Waitress, which comes across similarly, I swore it was moving and fantastic, but I think it took me about a month to forget it existed. Sunshine Cleaning would run that same risk if it weren't for its particularly morbid setting, that, is the world of an aspiring crime scene cleanup crew. They do say "crime scene" in the film a lot, but what they really mean is "gory or disgusting death in fetid living spaces," which is what Rose and Norah seem to end up cleaning most of the time. The job pays well, they hear, so they start from the blood-soaked ground and work their way up, finding that, for Rose at least, cleaning up someone's terrible demise makes her feel a little more complete. Nora has other issues, which you'll discover, that also involve grisly endings that can't be cleaned up so easily, but in the meantime, we get to learn all sorts of things about a niche industry that are fascinating in a disgusting way.

Although, the main character in Waitress found her completeness in pies, which I find fascinating in a delicious way, and I still forgot about it a month later, so we'll see.

*Also, George Clooney.

I'm still convinced that biopics win Oscars a little too blindly because people tend to confuse not only good acting with a good impression but, even more inaccurately, they mistake an important life with an important film, but in recent years I'm less grumpy about these cinematic biographies. W this year was good and Milk was even better. Innovative, good-looking, and sharp, these films are breaking from the mold because (according to me) they are trying to prove a point, and that point is, of course, that Ray is a stupid film.*

So, I liked Milk, which is about the political career of "first openly gay elected official" Harvey Milk, who was assassinated in 1978 (no spoiler). I liked it a lot, in fact, as I think I've mentioned. Gus Van Sant does his normal interesting directing thing and Sean Penn, Josh Brolin, James Franco, and Emile Hirsch do their normal interesting acting thing. Sean Penn is Milk, and he grins his way aptly through multiple political defeats in San Francisco before finally landing the position of city supervisor.

The film is half about him, half about the gay movement across the nation and how 1970s America was slowly being awakened to the fact that homosexuality isn't going anywhere. It's cleverly topical, since the fight against Proposition 6 - the big ballot issue in California in 1978 that wanted to repeal a law that prohibited employment discrimination based on sexuality - was echoed this year with the fight against Proposition 8 - you know, the one about gay marriage. The difference of course is that Prop 6 was defeated, partly due to Harvey Milk's tireless work, and thirty years later Prop 8 passed. It's a little dispiriting at first glance to think that we are going backwards in what seemed like a consistently progressive journey towards granting other taxpaying Americans basic civil rights. However, what Milk accomplished in less than eight years of political activism is nothing less than inspiring. Of course, a 200-minute film can't help but make it look a little easy. There's no way we can really appreciate years of work in a couple of montages. I don't mean to say that Van Sant leaves out the parts where Milk's personal relationships, privacy, and, of course, old age, are sacrificed for the good of the cause. On the contrary, it's not lost on us that for all of his relentless optimism and perseverence, Harvey Milk the man suffered a great deal. This is all tied into the gay struggle, which Milk himself very consciously represents. If he has to give up his longterm partner, it's nothing compared to the persecution homosexuals have borne over the years.

In conclusion of the first part of this review, Milk is much more compelling and much less formulaic than most other biopics of this decade, and also uh it was neat how crazy old Dan White (Brolin) is always hanging out on the edge of the frame. And also James Franco was well-costumed. AND SOMETIMES NOT COSTUMED???

Anyway, I'm rushing through all of this fascinating stuff that you'll find out yourself when you go see this film (which you most definitely should) because I want to talk about what I didn't like. Namely, there is one woman in the entire movie.

I understand that this is probably a pretty accurate representation of the active gay movement at the time, at least what the public saw of it. There's a reason why "lesbian" is the "L-word." It's more taboo, more threatening. If lesbianism doesn't exist purely as a voyeuristic/participatory fantasy for heterosexual men, then what...it's a relationship in which men aren't needed?? Like...at all?? Unacceptable! In a scene in which Emile Hirsch is rallying the troops by putting into practice a grassroots phone tree, the screen splits into increasing numbers of squares, each one occupied by a guy on the other end of the phone call, agreeing to get all the dudes together in Wichita or wherever he's living, and voila, the call has been heard across the U.S. Is it seriously possible that men were entirely responsible for bringing about the gay rights movement? I kept scanning faces in many of the crowd/march/riot scenes, and I'd catch one or two women in a sea of men. Every time someone mentions some sort of sad anecdote about a discriminated-against homosexual, it's always a man. "This gay male teacher could be teaching your child!" "This gay guy could be living in your neighborhood!" "Get every queen out on the streets and registered to vote!" "I'll be the first cocksucking politician!"**

Finally, the film does what it probably thinks fills its lesbian quota and introduces Anne Kronenberg (Alison Pill), who strides into Milk's campaign office at his request and takes over management. Harvey good-naturedly chides the visibly uncomfortable guys who are confronted with this confident woman. I think she says a couple things like "Hi" or "I'm Anne" or "Here's an idea for your campaign," and within minutes, everyone is making jokes like "You have more balls than all of us put together!" or "Go talk to the papers, you'll sure scare them into submission!!"*** Anne asks the question, "Is there a place in this for us?" and no one really ever answers her. Maybe their reluctant acceptance of her is enough, they think. Look, you're here with us now, so don't push it.

Like I said, I'm not under any delusion that this just might be the way things were. But I think the film has a responsibility to comment on that instead of add to it. It's a shame too, because otherwise, Milk would be a near-perfect flick. But go see for yourself. One tired old cliche of a flaw doesn't mean it didn't nail everything else.

*My new year's resolution for 2009 is to drop that grudge and move on with my life, you'll be happy to know.
**This one even goes farther and excludes even straight women (who, I presume, could also embrace that term and who, I know for a fact, were already politicians).
***This scene also bears an unfortunate resemblance to a fateful night when I had been dating my husband for a few months and met a bunch of his friends at a low key birthday dinner for him. I remember thinking "I'm being so quiet tonight, but surely I will be my old self when I've known them for awhile and am not so nervous. I hope they don't think I'm boring." And then his report to me on Monday is that his friends all said that they liked me and that I "sure was a spitfire." They meant it affectionately, but come on. I arrived at the restaurant bearing a lemon layer cake that I had made in Richmond and driven to NYC. Spitfire!? I might as well have left the party early to go tuck in Wally and the Beav.

Australia, which clocks in at close to three hours, is a film in about 75 acts. You got your love story, your war story, your racism story, your mystical aboriginal story, your coming of age story...it's Last of the Mohicans, Braveheart, Dances with Wolves, Out of Africa, Empire of the Sun, and Titanic combined! Sarah, played by the predictably solid Nicole Kidman, is an English noblewoman who comes to rough ol' dry Australia to see about her husband's estate. Soon, a convenient conflict comes up, and she and the Drover, played by the predictably "solid" Hugh Jackman, have to team up despite their differences and persevere. Also, there's a little boy. Also, a wise old guy. Also, some stuff about pride and honor and tolerance and freedom. All it needs is a John Barry score and a time machine, and Australia would trounce all of its competitors.

Well, maybe. I said Luhrmann had toned down his stylizing, I didn't say he'd gotten rid of it entirely. There's some choppy camerawork and surprising timing in certain parts of the film that don't jive later on with its ethereal Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow quality. And there are some parts that you think are going to slip you the old-fashioned Baz whimsy but instead deliver bland epic-movie resolutions. But as inconsistent and irrelevant as the film is, it ends up nearly satisfying you.

Bear with me, here. The reason I say this is because it's seasonal! What's better than going to a nice big family Thanksgiving dinner and then escaping as quickly as you can, hauling off the cooler siblings and cousins, to get to the movies? Some of us have been doing this for years! And judging by the crowds at the movie theaters, we're not the only ones. Australia has obliged the turkey-laden crowd this year by coming out on a Wednesday, just in time for you to settle in a cushy seat, digest your huge dinner, and possibly fall asleep. Who cares! It's an easy to watch blockbuster that requires little thought, and if you snooze a little, it doesn't matter because you've predicted all of the events in the film anyway! Plus, its premise turns from "dated" to "nostalgic," with the help of a little holiday sentimentalism (provided by you), and in the end, you'll be glad you didn't see a thinkpiece. No one wants to be accosted with discussion about the film you just saw while you're having a midnight turkey sandwich snack (or by your (grown) sister climbing into your bed in the middle of the night because you've both just seen The Ring and can't sleep. Damn you, Gore Verbinski!).

So don't be afraid to climb out of your well and hang out with Baz Luhrmann this holiday weekend. I can promise you at least one chair-gripping moment and at least two glimpes of Hugh Jackman's muscles. And I don't know about you, but I can't get that sitting around my mom's house washing dishes.

*An adorable film that I used to think was the poor man's Dirty Dancing, but upon a recent rewatching of that undeniable 80s classic, I've realized it's the other way around. Rent it immediately. A life lived in fear is a life half lived!!

That is to say, "something" about Casino Royale elevated that Bond movie out of the recession of the Pierce Brosnan years. I mean, we all know what elevated it. Completely revamped writing style (finally getting rid of those jokes that were funny in the 60s but in the Nows just seem like Austin Powers references), a hot, angry Bond who leaps around like Indiana Jones and gets bruised and battered in the process (unlike the guy who used to sit in the corner, smirking, with a silenced gun), and an overall gritty quality that the previous Bond films didn't have (and didn't want to have).

But those blue trunks...here is a Bond who isn't afraid to be objectified.* What does he care? He's got kicking and punching to do and M to exasperate and steely expressions to make. In essence, he's not trying to smoothly go about his business with one of those devil-may-care attitudes. No way, man. Daniel Craig's James Bond is working hard at his job. So hard that occasionally he has to take off his shirt and let us survey the damage.**

Anyway, those who made batrillions of dollars with Casino Royale clearly got together and said something like "OK, give them a well-crafted, serious film and they will go crazy!! If a=b, then 2a=2b, right?? They will go double crazy! Let's GIVE THEM MORE!!"

As a result, you get a hotly anticipated film that ends up wearing the same outfit it did four years ago, only with way, way too many accessories. Confused? Me too! Quantum of Solace's plot was convoluted and unclear, probably because the (my) brain was too busy trying desperately to sort through the overly choppy Bourne-ish editing to figure out who was fighting who. There are some spots that appear to be purposefully vague, as if we aren't quite on Bond's level enough to get an explanation of his actions. And it's not that I don't appreciate the upgrade, but it's a BOND movie! Things don't need to be all crazy, plot-wise. We're accustomed to villains with dark, sinister names, often descriptive of their favorite Gruesome Thing. Guys whose intention it is to control this pipeline/industry/naval fleet/atom bomb so that they may, obviously, take over the world.

In Quantum of Solace, the enemy is...well, we're not sure exactly. Some sort of conglomeration that has something mysterious to do with Bond's previous girlfriend's untimely demise. We finish the movie knowing literally nothing more about this group of ne'er-do-wells other than that they meet at the opera. We don't even know their objective. Hey, maybe I didn't get it because there's nothing to get! Bad guy equals anyone who isn't James Bond or M. Too complicated or too simple...at any rate, it didn't satisfy, and the action scenes might have been able to carry it if director Marc Forster had been able to just take a step back and allow some space between us and the action. I know the idea is to make it seem like the viewer is within the fight, but it's possible that some of us might want to observe the fight and its impressive surroundings. Otherwise, a bunch of quickly edited shots of elbows and fists doesn't really impress.

I get that this is prequel number two (a la The Dark Knight, which clearly proves that a feverishly awaited prequel sequel can indeed stun and impress), and that we're supposed to be seeing Bond's transition into a lean, mean, sexing/killing/drinking machine, but one of the major reasons Casino Royale was so refreshing is that it showed us a new Bond - a Bond that changes his facial expression from time to time. Maybe we're not ready to give up that Bond just yet.

In sum, I have come up with a brief list of things that could have been removed from Quantum of Solace, things that weigh the film down and prevent it from hitting the bar that Casino Royale raised. Without these things, the beauty of the rest of the film would have been able to shine on through:

1. About 100 hours of editing
2. The handheld cameraman
3. The last scene
4. "Fields"

And some things that could have been added:

1. Dialogue that isn't just M saying "Damn him!! Yet...I trust him."
2. Q!!!!!!! (??)
3. Facial expressions
4. 

But, there were many, many things that I wouldn't change for the world. Namely, the opening credits, Judi Dench's bathroom, the fact that Bond didn't nail every chick in sight, the plane sequence, the Tosca sequence, Fields covered in oil, everything Bond wears, everything Bond doesn't wear, and the part where he tells Fields that he can't find the hotel stationery.

I have a feeling they'll learn from their mistakes and next time head down a different path. I have of course penned a very long letter re: this subject to Judi Dench, assuming she has some stake in the process, being a Dame and all. We'll see what happens.

*Which is lucky for me because I'm not afraid to objectify!
**Verdict, not too damaged.

I found myself in New York (for those of you who have a map on their basement wall with pins in it, following my progress around the world) this weekend, and I got pumped about seeing something different and special that we wouldn't get here until two weeks before it came out on DVD. And...nothing! I guess there is a lull right before Oscar contenders burst onto the scene, and it's possible the cinematic world could be holding its breath in desperate anticipation of this Friday's Beverly Hills Chihuahua, but whatever the case may be, my options were limited. So we escaped the rain and the crowds and ducked into Ghost Town.

If you haven't seen the BBC version of The Office, you haven't lived. Or, more accurately, you haven't experienced the uniquely soul-crushing mortification that Ricky Gervais's David Brent* can cause. Gervais is so associated with the character that it's difficult to separate him from David in other shows and movies (like HBO's Extras), yet somewhere along the line, Ricky clearly met and carefully studied a former roommate of mine. This dear fellow (you are close to my heart, dude), who eventually became a fine, upstanding, caring creature, was formerly quite content living life as a tidy little snot. Bertram Pincus, D.D.S. (Gervais) is not so misguided that he thinks he's happy this way, it's just that he thinks this is the way things have to be. People are obnoxious, everything is stupid, you live alone, you die alone, let's just get on with it.

Gosh, it even makes my heart break just to remember it. He gets better, of course, but at a slower, more realistic pace than you might expect from a film of this ilk. I mean, the rest of the movie is classic romantic comedy drivel that would be in danger of collapsing into an overly silly heap, but Bertram Pincus, D.D.S...he's the kind of character that can elevate even a horribly-titled film about ghosts living in New York City. Well, whatever, I guess some sort of device had to set the wheels of poignancy in motion so that Bertram can find the motivation to change his tune, and it might as well be ghosts who need closure or something. Greg Kinnear can phone it in all he wants, it doesn't matter. Everyone in this film is just a backdrop to the least glamorous person in it -- a dentist who becomes a tiny bit happier. Who says a horribly-titled romantic comedy can't be beautiful?** Turns out all you need to do is just provide it with an overdone framework, next to which an extraordinary talent looks even better. Maybe you keep a couple of other goals in mind too, like not casting the reigning starlet, or directing it with an elegant hand, but after that, you should be set.

I can't guarantee that if you see this film you'll be surprised or amazed or astounded, but chances are, you will wonder why it feels so different. 'Tis the long lost shadow of the everyman! And, except for the whole talking to ghosts thing, maybe it's OK to watch someone's life change in a more ordinary way. It can't be Stardust every year, right?***

*You may know the character as Steve Carell's Michael Scott.
**Answer: a lot of people.
***Ricky Gervais is actually in Stardust too! Totally coincidence, I swear.

[rating 3.5/5]

Let's be honest, though. The Apatow empire exists because of us -- because movie studio execs know that you and I are going to fork over cash to see a still somehow fresh brand of comedy with a little meat on its bones. It's true. These movies are damn funny. So damn funny that EVEN I am willing to ignore the occasional backslide into disturbing misogyny (depending on the circumstances, of course) and allow myself to just be entertained.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall has the benefit of this kind of script, the script that makes or breaks an otherwise ho-hum plot. Funny, inventive, full of characters, multi-dimensional, never boring, and only slightly flawed (Mila Kunis's character is dull and unconvincing, and it seems the filmmakers couldn't quite agree on whether or not to villainize Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell)), Jason Segel's screenplay is clearly a labor of love. And even more so than Knocked Up, maybe, Forgetting Sarah Marshall has the benefit of universality. We've all seen relationships wither, we've all felt like it was the end of the world, and we've all run into our ex and their current paramour frolicking in bathing suits in Hawaii.* That being said, though, heartbreak is not exactly the most unique subject for a film, but neither was Knocked Up's "unlikely people fall in love" theme.

The difference is in the details. Any of Russell Brand's lines - or even movements - could have singlehandedly saved this movie from disaster. As Albous Snow, Sarah's spidery, STDed British rock star new boyfriend, Brand manages to depart from the stereotype of pure pop idiocy and instead creates some sort of long-legged version of The (BBC) Office's David Brent, while also remaining affable, self-obsessed, and almost blase about his own sexual prowess -- all at once! Hardly anything he does is what's expected, and you find yourself on the same boat as Jason Segel's Peter, the main character, as he tries really hard to hate his rival but instead keeps having to admit to himself that the guy is pretty effing cool.

Director Nicholas Stoller did an admirable job with the quick, sharp flashbacks that pepper the film's forward motion. They make jokes jokier a la Family Guy, of course, but the fast-paced splicing also adds depth that helps Forgetting Sarah Marshall angle for a spot among the numerous "real" comedies that have proudly received acclaim in recent months. I can't promise that this film will hold its own in the pantheon of Apatow films for long (the Pineapple Express trailer is probably the best trailer ever). it's true that uneven editing and continuity plague this film throughout,** but it's almost a testament to the writing -- and a relief to the rest of you -- that I didn't dwell on it. I'm too busy repeating quotes from the movie and giggling like a freaking frat boy. I'm not too proud to reveal that we were doing this before we even left the theater.

*Figuratively.
**The boring Rachel (Mila Kunis) is retouched in some shots and not in others. Hair is one way, then another. We even saw some booms (but I think something may have been wrong with the alignment in our theater).