How Do You Know

A version of this review appeared in The Age, January 27, 2011.

The writer-director James L. Brooks is one of the most gifted artists in Hollywood, but appreciating this requires some tolerance for bumper-sticker wisdom. Lisa (Reese Witherspoon), the heroine of his latest romantic comedy How Do You Know, is a softball player who lives by inspirational maxims she recites to herself in times of trouble, or incorporates without warning into conversation. Axed from her team and unsure where she might be headed, she consults a therapist (Tony Shalhoub) who gives her yet another piece of potted advice: “Find out what you want, and learn how to ask for it.”

Many filmmakers would ridicule this brand of pop psychology, but Brooks takes a longer view: life is a matter of ongoing problem-solving, and no potential source of guidance should be dismissed out of hand. As it turns out, each character in How Do You Know has a particular technique of self-management, a design for living. Lisa's boyfriend Matty (Owen Wilson) is an easygoing, fun-loving guy, but his pursuit of pleasure is nothing if not systematic: as Lisa discovers the first night she stays over, he has dozens of toothbrushes stored away in a bathroom drawer, ready for each new conquest to use in the morning.

The other man in Lisa's life is George (Paul Rudd), whose existence, like hers, has recently fallen apart. Accused of corporate fraud, he loses his job at the company founded by his father (Jack Nicholson), while his busy girlfriend (Shelley Conn) suggests they “hit the pause button” on their relationship. In desperation, he too devises a plan to stay in control, keeping up his spirits by “denying a voice” to his panic.

Lisa's defining trait is her willingness to tackle situations head-on, and so she's flummoxed by George's habit of putting an ironic, self-conscious spin on every gesture. “I just touched your knee,” he announces, while she looks at him in disbelief: can this possibly be his idea of a seductive move? But if she can't quite work him out, she's constantly tickled by him – as she is by Matty, in a different way.

Brooks has had a long career in television, and even his fans sometimes view his films as sitcoms transferred to the big screen. But despite some difficulties getting from one scene to the next, How Do You Know is conceived throughout in visual, cinematic terms, with many plot moves and gags arising from the negotiation of personal space. Lisa agrees to move in with Matty, but has trouble squeezing her life into his apartment; in the meantime, George is literally cast adrift, former colleagues keeping a wary distance. Numerous crucial dialogue exchanges occur over the phone; a recurrent composition has one character gazing down on another from a balcony or a window, occupying the same frame while remaining physically out of reach.

As usual in Brooks' work, the approach is deliberately theatrical: the setting, Washington DC, is never more than a vague backdrop, and we hear few details about George's alleged crimes. Often framed in wide shot, the actors resemble figures on a stage, their entrances and exits carefully choreographed: Lisa keeps on storming off, then returning to make amends. Everything rests on the interplay between the central trio, and all three leads are phenomenal: Rudd runs the gamut from floppy euphoria to numb despair, Wilson turns a potentially obnoxious playboy into an affable delight, and Witherspoon's reactions to both are surprising and revelatory at every turn. Full of hammy bluster, Nicholson is the weak link in the ensemble – but he too has some terrific moments, particularly at the finale.

These days most romantic comedies are mundane, compromised affairs. Brooks is almost alone in continuing to take the rituals of the genre seriously; he's well aware of the lure of simplified, abstract fantasy, but tempers this with a modern, biting depiction of neurosis. The stretched-out scenes often resemble exercises in a drama workshop or a group therapy session: the characters are always second-guessing themselves, wishing they could erase a previous exchange and start anew. Endless, painful comedy springs from the struggle for self-realisation – but just as he refuses to dismiss even the corniest philosophies, Brooks finally manages to stage a convincing version of the dream of true love.

Burlesque

A version of this review appeared in The Age, January 13, 2011.

Burlesque, directed by Steve Antin, is meant to be glitzy camp – somewhere between Showgirls (1995) and Coyote Ugly (2000) with a touch of All About Eve (1951). Branching out from her singing career, Christina Aguliera stars as Ali Rose, a small-town girl drawn to the bright lights of Hollywood. Desperate for employment, she winds up strutting her stuff at a rundown burlesque club on Sunset Boulevard, managed by a former dancer (Cher) with a lifetime of worldly wisdom to impart. Usually the girls simply lip-synch during their bump-and-grind routines – but once Ali is allowed to use her own voice there's no holding her back, despite the mutterings of her bitchy rivals.

It might have been fun, for those who like this sort of thing, but the razzle-dazzle just isn't there. The images are murky and off-putting, the wisecracks fall flat, and the musical numbers aren't stylish or excessive enough to be memorable. Aguliera has no acting equipment beyond a sullen pout – accepting her as a fresh-faced newcomer is like asking Lindsay Lohan to play a nun. Cher deserves a bit more credit for keeping her legend alive, but at this point she's become a zombified parody of herself.

The Dilemma

A version of this review appeared in The Age, January 13, 2011.

The career of Vince Vaughn is one of the great puzzles of modern Hollywood: seemingly, he has everything he needs to be the successor to Jack Nicholson, except the right collaborators. Nowadays, he seems content to cruise through one film a year, usually a broad comedy that trades on his life-of-the-party persona; still, his higher ambitions are on show in The Dilemma – directed by Ron Howard, on vacation from “prestige” projects such as Frost/Nixon (2008). Vaughn plays Ronny Valentine, the chatty front-man for a electric motor business he runs with his friend Nick (Kevin James); the pair are on the verge of their big break when Ronny spies Nick's wife Geneva (Winona Ryder) in an embrace with her lover Zip (Channing Tatum).

It's a nicely counter-intuitive premise: a guy who can't stop talking has to grapple with a situation where it might be better to keep his mouth shut. Soon he's spiralling into an existential crisis: if Nick's happy marriage is not what it seems, how can anything or anyone be trusted? The plot thickens when it transpires that the wrongdoing may not be all on one side – and when Ronny's girlfriend Beth (Jennifer Connelly), perturbed by his erratic behaviour, starts to harbour suspicions of her own.

Often more painful than funny, The Dilemma is Vaughn's “darkest” film since The Break-Up (2006). Ronny spends half his time feeling depressed and unsure of himself, the other half boiling with rage. The malaise persists through all the film's plot contrivances, set-pieces where Vaughn does his blabbermouth act, and other ill-judged distractions (including the presence of Queen Latifah, another underused performer, in a role that might have been written for Jane Lynch). But it's no surprise when the film retreats from its troubling message about the mystery of human nature, and turns into a conventional celebration of male friendship. Vaughn is clearly prepared to push himself further, but Howard, of all directors, can be relied upon to play it safe.

The Ghost Writer (2)

Some further thoughts on Roman Polanski's The Ghost Writer appear in issue four of Kill Your Darlings and can be read online here.

Yogi Bear

A version of this review appeared in The Age, January 13, 2011.

Slapstick comedies are rare nowadays, especially ones that all ages can enjoy. So three cheers for this part-animated redo of the old Hanna-Barbera cartoon about a talking brown bear (voiced here by Dan Aykroyd) who walks on his hind legs, prides himself on his intellect, and devotes his time to stealing “pic-a-nic baskets” from the tourists at Jellystone National Park.

As with Wile E. Coyote's pursuit of the Road Runner, endless variations are possible on this single, simple idea – but just to be on the safe side, the film also has a plot, in which Jellystone is threatened by the machinations of a scheming local mayor (Andrew Daly, resembling a more jovial Kevin Rudd). It's up to Yogi to save the day, with help from his sidekick Boo-Boo (Justin Timberlake, no less) and the straight-arrow Ranger Smith (Tom Cavanagh). Rounding out the live-action cast is the ever-bubbly Anna Faris, as an enthusiastic wildlife filmmaker drawn to the park by Yogi's reputation (“You have a bear? One of those talking ones? Those are very rare”).

The digital animation is so detailed that in close-up it's possible to assess the stitching on Boo-Boo's bow tie. More to the point, the director Eric Brevig is a 3D specialist with uncommon skill at using the format to stage deep-focus sight gags. During an early dialogue exchange in Ranger Smith's cabin, Yogi is visible through a distant window trying to climb onto the roof. Brevig resists the temptation to take the camera outside – and from that moment on, you know you're in good hands.

Morning Glory

A version of this review appeared in The Age, January 8, 2011.

Can a woman fulfil herself in love and work at the same time? It's a question Hollywood has never tired of asking, and the latest equivocal answer is supplied in Morning Glory – directed by the British journeyman Roger Michel, best-known for Notting Hill (1999), and scripted by Aline Brosh McKenna, who also wrote The Devil Wears Prada (2006).

Where Prada purported to reveal the inner workings of a fashion magazine, Morning Glory leads us behind the scenes of the slightly less glamorous world of morning television. Rachel McAdams stars as the rising young producer Becky Newton, who's energetic and capable but also a bit of a ditz – traits which the equally hardworking McAdams conveys by pumping her elbows, clutching her forehead, and flicking her fringe out of her eyes. Pretty, clever and destined for big things, Becky is so committed to her TV career that she has trouble hanging onto men (an introductory scene sees her taking business calls on her mobile during a first date). When she loses her job in New Jersey due to budget cuts, she resolves to take Manhattan, pulling out all the stops as she pitches herself as the saviour of ailing national breakfast show DayBreak.

“Are you going to sing now?” demands the jaded executive (Jeff Goldblum) on the other side of the desk – but since he's running out of options, he reluctantly agrees to give the kid a shot. Viewed with initial scepticism by cast and crew, Becky proves her moxie by instantly firing DayBreak's moronic anchorman (Ty Burrell); after a frantic search for a replacement, she stumbles upon a seemingly ideal candidate in Mike Pomeroy (Harrison Ford), a largely inactive legend still under contract to the network.

Mike is the model of an in-depth reporter, a guy who's been everywhere and met everyone (“I once had lunch with Dick Cheney” is his proudest boast). Mostly, though, he's a grumpy old man – a role Ford assumes with expertise and relish, deploying an exhausted rasp and a small but effective range of disgusted scowls. Livid at being yanked from his cushy retirement, Mike is flatly rebellious when asked to try out recipes, conduct showbiz interviews or banter with his co-host (Diane Keaton) – activities he considers beneath his dignity as a newsman, much as the ambitious young journalist played by Anne Hathaway in Prada turned up her nose at the rulebook of high fashion.

Like Prada, Morning Glory is brightly acted, briskly paced, and witty enough to pass the time. It's also a film with a message, to the degree that it mounts a pragmatic defense of an oft-derided TV genre. In the face of Mike's contempt, Becky points out that the DayBreak blend of serious content and crowd-pleasing fluff is no different from standard newspaper practice – an argument that sounds reasonable even if her definition of “serious” is shaky at best. Michel and McKenna plainly share her point of view: breakfast TV may not quality as a popular art-form on par with the Broadway musical, but Morning Glory belongs to the tradition of a film like The Band Wagon (1953), where a group ethic of “entertainment” triumphs over the stuffy individualism of high culture.

Yet Becky's vision for DayBreak is distinctly her own. If “hard news” is coded as male, her efforts to soften Mike's image amount to an insistence that he reveal his feminine side – and the pair don't bond until they chastely spend the night together, giving him the chance to prove he can cook a mean frittata. In the end, the personal and the professional are one: Morning Glory may not match the intensity of the sado-masochistic dynamic between Meryl Streep and Hathaway in Prada, but once again McKenna successfully applies something like the romantic-comedy template to a fraught relationship between workmates who never look like becoming a couple.

Indeed, halfway through Becky acquires a boyfriend (Patrick Wilson) who seems like the perfect catch – handsome, level-headed and impressively tolerant of her type-A neuroses. Still, when the climax rolls around and her loyalty is tested, Mike is the opposite number she races to see. In a weird way, it all makes sense when her obsession with television is traced back to a childhood spent watching the heroes of broadcasting with her dear, departed dad: symbolically speaking, integrating Mike into DayBreak means reuniting her parents and recapturing this lost bliss. Who needs a private life, when your day job supplies an audience of millions for the ultimate family romance?

Tangled

A version of this review appeared in The Age, January 6, 2011.

It's odd that the Disney Corporation has taken till now to film the story of Rapunzel, a fairy tale heroine with a gimmick ideal for animation. In the event, Byron Howard and Nathan Greno's 3D musical is both a delight and a disappointment. Rapunzel (voiced by Mandy Moore) often uses her long hair as a lassoo or a whip, but other slapstick possibilities remain untouched.

Dan Fogelman's screenplay departs significantly from its Brothers Grimm source: Rapunzel is no longer a poor girl but a princess, kidnapped in infancy by a wicked witch called Mother Gothel (Donna Murphy). Unaware of her real identity, she grows up as a lonely prisoner in a tower in the woods – till her eighteenth birthday, when she receives an unexpected visit from the thief Flynn Ryder (Zachary Levi), who agrees to escort her to the city where her destiny awaits.

The characters may be computer-generated rather than hand-drawn, but otherwise Tangled follows the neo-classical formula of last year's The Princess and the Frog. Like any good Disney protagonist, Rapunzel has an animal confidant, a chameleon named Pascal who changes colour with her moods; there's also an appealingly angry white horse, who pursues Flynn with the determination of a bloodhound or Inspector Javert from Les Miserables. The score incorporates a full suite of show tunes, from a romantic duet to an upbeat comic number by a gang of roughnecks; the composer is Alan Menken, a Disney mainstay since The Little Mermaid (1989), and a welcome alternative to the dreary competence of Randy Newman.

It's true that Fogelman can't resist colouring the material with occasional modern ironies and hints of “depth”. Instead of using spells to keep Rapunzel under her thumb, Mother Gothel relies on veiled threats and smothering love. Likewise, the preening Flynn is far from a conventional hero: he consciously models himself on a figure in a storybook, and needs Rapunzel's help to discover his true self.

But the pop psychology eventually fades away; when Rapunzel finally has a close encounter with the “lights in the sky” she has dreamed about since childhood, we're meant to share her open-hearted sense of wonder. The resulting set-piece could be considered a highlight of the short history of 3D computer animation. It could also be considered a triumph of Disney schmaltz – but while it lasts, the magic works.

Life During Wartime

A version of this review appeared in The Age, December 24, 2010.

Few films of recent times have been as divisive as Happiness (1998), Todd Solondz's blackly comic assault on the American suburbs. I would once have placed myself among Solondz's detractors, but this unconventional sequel to his biggest hit has a stubborn oddity that demands respect.

Like its predecessor, Life During Wartime is an ensemble comedy-drama centred on three sisters, each saddled with their own brand of neurosis. Joy (Shirley Henderson) is the meek, masochistic one, Helen (Ally Sheedy) is a smug yet insecure Hollywood screenwriter, and Trish (Allison Janney) is a tightly smiling homemaker desperate to feel “normal”. The most significant male character is Trish's ex-husband Bill (Ciaran Hinds), a paedophile recently released from prison, and a broken man in every sense.

Bill is hardly recognisable as the prissy patriarch who appeared in Happiness – especially as he was played there by Dylan Baker, a very different actor. Indeed, Solondz has recast all the roles from the earlier film, a device which would pass without notice in the theatre, but which here has a distancing effect, making the characters seem more like abstractions than flesh-and-blood people. Bill might as well be a ghost of his former self, and it doesn't feel incongruous when a couple of more-or-less literal ghosts turn up – one of them played by Paul Reubens, better known as Pee-Wee Herman, who now has just the ghost of a career.

These visitors from beyond are incapable of change or growth, but the same applies to most of those who remain in the world of the living. Solondz has little interest in psychology or in any kind of realism; his men and women are grotesques who strive for humanity and fail. What they can do successfully is humiliate one another: much of Life During Wartime consists of encounters that begin with awkward chit-chat, then build to a point where one character spews anguished pleas or vengeful obscenities while the other tries to keep up appearances.

Rather like Woody Allen, Solondz structures each of his films around an explicitly announced theme. In this case it's the meaning of “forgiveness,” which for somebody like Bill may be neither possible nor desirable (there's a political dimension to this quandary, hinted at in the title and in such background details as a photo of an Israeli tank).

Solondz's stiff, airless style has the calculated naivety of a child bent on asking provoking questions, like Trish's son Timmy (Dylan Riley Snyder), who insists in an excruciating scene that his mother explain the mechanics of homosexual rape. If there's a glimmer of hope to be found here, it lies with the younger generation – though it's typical of the film's bleak vision that the most innocent actions have the most disastrous results.

Gulliver's Travels

A version of this review appeared in The Age, December 23, 2010.

Aimed mainly at families and stoners, Rob Letterman's updated 3D version of the Jonathan Swift classic casts Jack Black as Lemuel Gulliver, a lowly mail sorter in the basement of a New York skyscraper who wrangles the assignment of researching an travel article on the Bermuda Triangle. After his boat is wrecked in a storm, he's washed up on the shores of Lilliput, where he's duly trussed and imprisoned by an army of tiny men.

Magnifying the chasm between Gulliver and his captors, the 3D hinders rather than assists the illusion – but otherwise it's a pleasure to see this familiar scene brought to life with the aid of today's special effects. Indeed, from a range of angles the film begins with some promise. The screenwriters include Nicholas Stoller, lately responsible for the diverting Get Him To the Greek; the mainly British actors who play the Lilliputians are well-chosen, especially Emily Blunt as a princess who allows herself to be just a shade amused.

Nor is anything amiss with the casting of Black, a classic-yet-contemporary fool whose ironised bravado lends itself to the comedy of ideas: no currently popular Hollywood clown has a more interesting back catalogue, from Shallow Hal (2001) to Nacho Libre (2006), Be Kind Rewind (2008) and Year One (2009).

But Letterman and his writers remain at an impossible distance from their source material, even if the famous scene where Gulliver puts out a fire by emptying his bladder seems tailor-made for today's Hollywood. While Swift's satire was meant to underline the trivial vanity of human nature, here that moral is turned on its head: Gulliver realises that even little people can have big hearts, while the stuffy Lilliputians learn to loosen up with the aid of a few hints from current pop culture. Given the same source material and star, Terry Gilliam could have made an infinitely more interesting movie at a fraction of the price; Mike Judge's scathing Idiocracy (2006), set in a “dumbed-down” future America, was likewise far closer to Swift in spirit.

Little Fockers

A version of this review appeared in The Age, December 23, 2010.

Directed by Paul Weitz, the third chapter in the Meet the Parents saga is a mediocre sitcom with an A-list cast. As ever, the insecure Jewish hero Greg Focker (Ben Stiller) is at odds with his domineering WASP father-in-law Jack (Robert de Niro); this time round, Jack's starting to sense his own mortality, and needs to know if Greg has the right stuff to take over as head of the clan. Dustin Hoffman and Barbara Streisand return as Greg's own free-spirited parents, alongside Harvey Keitel as a construction worker and Jessica Alba as a sexy pharmaceutical representative; Laura Dern has a couple of good scenes as the principal of a progressive school, a kind of latter-day Joyce Grenfell.

But most of the life in the film comes from Owen Wilson, reprising his role as Greg's over-achieving romantic rival, who has morphed into a world traveller, Eastern medicine practitioner and soup kitchen volunteer (“I feed them food, but those drifters and vagrants feed my soul”). Wilson is starting to age interestingly, the crinkles deepening around his eyes; insincerity remains his trademark, but when his character is shut out of the final family reunion there's no mistaking the melancholy lurking behind his Zen cowboy persona.