Drag Me to Hell (2009, USA)

Drag Me to Hell is easily the Raimiest Sam Raimi movie since Army of Darkness. Animated corpses! Demonic possession! Popping eyeballs! Vomiting! Laffs! As much as I enjoyed the first two of his Spider-Man movies, this is the Raimi I really love. There are so few directors who know how to scare effectively and simultaneously go for cheesy laughs, and with another decade and a half of filmmaking experience under his belt, it’s great to see what he can do with a sharpened skill set and some extra money. One thing that hasn’t changed, however, is Raimi’s tendency to punish his lead. Poor Allison Lohman. I hope Bruce Campbell took her out for a beer before shooting started to let her know what she was in for.

Slightly off-topic, I’ve heard some rumblings about a supposed Raimi-helmed redo of The Evil Dead. Seriously? I could bitch and moan for a bit about what a weird and unnecessary idea this is, but essentially – when he (and Ivan) can still make a movie as scary, hilarious and awesome as Drag Me to Hell, what’s the point? If he’s jonesing for a return to horror comedy, I’m sure he and his brother aren’t short of fresh ideas. Then again, if the rumored Spider-Man 4 is any indication (not to mention the profusion of things that get vomited on Lohman in Hell), Raimi might not always know when to leave well enough alone.

The Hangover (2009, USA)

Despite some of the best sight gags being featured in the trailer (I hate when that happens), The Hangover is pretty damn funny. And while Bradley Cooper brings the smarm and Ed Helms blusters amusingly, most of the film rests on the pudgy shoulders of Zach Galifianakis. I love Zach Galifianakis. I watched Out Cold because he was in it. Seriously. As awkward man-child Alan, Galifianakis toes that same line that Steve Coogan does in movies like Hamlet 2 – so over-the-top that he’s simultaneously hilarious and disturbing. Galifianakis gets away with it more easily than Coogan, probably because he’s not so effeminate (As long as Seth stays out of it. Parts of Live at the Purple Onion get really, really weird.), and also because his delivery is generally so deadpan. Comedians like Coogan and Will Ferrell are hyperactive, pushing so hard that they make comedy look like work. Galifianakis, on the other hand, is at his best when he’s laconic, because unlike those other guys, he looks like he believes every single insane thing that comes out of his mouth.

The Brothers Bloom (2008, USA)

I’m a fan of Rian Johnson’s Brick – in fact, it may be the most recent theatrical release that I’ve bothered to pick up on DVD – so I was disappointed by how shallow I found The Brothers Bloom to be. For all its style, its rambling about stories and storytelling, and the cheeky visual cues, I felt that Bloom was, in essence, much ado about nothing. Everyone’s playing to type, too – Mark Ruffalo gets the best lines (with the best delivery – “That’s my new favorite camel” is a winner), Adrien Brody broods soulfully, Rachel Weisz is adorably madcap, and Rinko Kikuchi is, um . . . Japanese?

To be honest, the characters really started to bother me the more I thought about them. I’m used to, and rather tired of, the little boy lost routine, even when it looks as good as Brody does it here (the man should not be allowed to wear contemporary clothing. You’ve seen the internet. You know what I mean.), but it ended up being the ladies that really bugged. Weisz’s Penelope is essentially a mid-30s version of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl, a blank slate that Brody’s recovering con man can write his future on. I give Weisz credit for infusing Penelope with as much life and agency as she could, but on paper, the character is a mess. I kept hoping for a third-act reversal that would give Penelope some depth, but no such luck. And perhaps the less said about the eternally silent Bang Bang (Kikuchi), the better. She doesn’t even get to speak in her own language – rather, she sits around looking adorable in kooky couture, trading meaningful looks with the boys and occasionally blowing things up when called upon. Manic Pixie Dream Girl, killer geisha version 2.0.

I’m disappointed in Johnson. The females he wrote in Brick were certainly types, but they were types that he pulled out of the noir films and the high school movies he was toying with, and they rated a lot more attention and care than either Penelope or Bang Bang get. Bloom feels as if a newbie director got in a bit over his head. He wrote himself into a movie that he couldn’t quite figure a smart way out of, and he lost some of his strengths – language and plotting among them – along the way. Still, it’s a sophomore stumble, and I don’t doubt that Johnson has the skills to see his way back to more assured filmmaking.

Terminator: Salvation (2009, USA/Germany/UK)

It’s been almost a week since I’ve seen Terminator: Salvation, because I just haven’t been able to summon the will to write about it. What is there to say? Why does this movie exist? Apart from the generally-accepted awesomeness of giant killer robots, there is pretty much nothing about T:S to recommend it. Even the dependable Christian Bale phones it in, probably coasting off of his Batman cred to the point that he didn’t realize there wasn’t a script for this movie. When the tone shifts abruptly mid-film from action to plot, there are absolutely no characters to align with – even the now-mythic figure of John Connor is only barely sketched out. We’ve never seen him as an adult before, post-Skynet, so why not make it interesting? Never mind – Salvation doesn’t want to push the envelope, relying instead on middling special effects (with the notable exception of the Schwarzenegger bit), cute nods to the former films (wow, we’ve come a long way since Use Your Illusion II), pretty faces blustering through bad dialog (why does Bryce Dallas Howard get the only shower in the apocalypse?), and stock figures standing in for actual characters (cute black kid and kindly old grandma, I’m looking at you). And don’t even get me started on Helena Bonham Carter. The worst part of T:S is that it leaves the door wide open for yet another Terminator film. After the rapidly diminishing returns of the third and fourth movies, here’s hoping they leave the franchise for the history books. Or the bargain DVD bin.

Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist (2008, USA)

Nick and Norah is a pretty rote exercise, a pseudo-indie teen rom-com that lazily tries to hide its pedigree under a veneer of in-the-moment music scenesterism. It’s going to feel terribly dated in about a year, and seem a relic in two. What’s worse, Nick and Norah pretty much wastes the comedic talents of its stars, Michael Cera and Kat Dennings, with a lame script and ineffectual direction. The two have some chemistry, but no spark, and in this context, it was a really, really bad idea to name them after one of the most dynamite screen pairings of all time (at least as far as snarky banter is concerned), William Powell and Myrna Loy in the Thin Man movies.

That said, there are some funny bits here and there. Cera’s delivery, as always, works on lame lines that other actors just couldn’t pull off. I also liked his gay band friends, though I wasn’t quite sure why being the only straight guy in a gay band equals instant hilarity. (However, John Cho in suspenders and a t-shirt reading “Challah Back” absolutely equals instant hilarity.)

But mostly, I liked Ari Graynor as Norah’s party-girl friend, Caroline. Caroline’s that girl who arrives at the party at 10:00 and is totally wasted by 10:02. Playing the drunk must be a lot more fun than playing the prude, and Graynor rips into it, leading the crew around Manhattan in search of her dumb ass, and totally owning the best scene in the movie, a Port Authority bus-bench exchange with a mute Kevin Corrigan and a turkey sandwich. I’ve only ever seen Graynor in a secondary role on the T.V. series “Fringe” and a couple of short stints on other network shows, but it looks like her upcoming projects include Drew Barrymore’s roller derby movie, Whip It! and the long-gestating Youth in Revolt. My doubts about both projects aside, I hope they’ll give her the opportunity to do more comedy.

The Long Goodbye (1973, USA)

I’m a pretty big Robert Altman fan, but this was the first time I’d seen The Long Goodbye, one of the weirdest of his early films. Altman and Leigh Brackett take Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe out of the 1940s and plop him down in the middle of 1970s Los Angeles. In this, Marlowe could have become an obvious throwback – driving a vintage car, wearing a suit and tie, striking matches off any available surface – but in many ways, he fits right in. He doesn’t seem to mind the pseudo-lesbian topless convention having an eternal party in the apartment down the way (even going so far as to spot them for some brownie mix), but what’s more obvious is that his selective amorality seems to suit the scene almost perfectly. Sure, Marlowe makes a lot of noise about proving the innocence of a friend accused of murder, but mostly he lopes about with no clear direction or drive, becoming embroiled in another, only later related, case simply because there’s a pretty blonde at the center of it, and maybe no one else called that day. Even though the end of the film asks more questions than it answers, the whole thing just feels right, kind of like a shaggy dog story about a man who’s just . . . well, despite appearances (and aren’t they everything in L.A.?), maybe he IS the man for this time and place. Maybe L.A. has always been poison.

Stroke of genius, casting Elliott Gould as Marlowe – who could possibly seem more out of place in a free love L.A. than a crotchety Jew from Brooklyn? If it was Altman’s intention to make the inhabitants of greater Los Angeles look like assholes, well – he couldn’t have picked a better partner for the job. For all the mentions of his “nice face”, it’s obvious to everyone, even the super-weirdoes like Sterling Haydon’s alcoholic writer and Mark Rydell’s psycho mob boss, that Gould/Marlowe looks like he just doesn’t fit in around here. Stay out of Malibu, indeed.

The Limits of Control (2009, Spain/USA/Japan)

If Ghost Dog didn’t make it clear, Jim Jarmusch is pretty much obsessed with Le Samourai and the other gangster noirs of Jean-Pierre Melville. The Limits of Control takes all the markers of the gangster film – the stoic protagonist (who could possibly be more stoic than Issach De Bankole? I think the man changes expression precisely twice in 116 minutes), the shady dame, the secret messages, the empty city streets – and breaks them into the smallest pieces imaginable. Unfortunately, this structure ends up so attenuated that it's unable to support Jarmusch’s existential narrative, as the endless repetition of verbal and tactile cues starts to wind down the road to nowhere. There’s some good stuff here – I like how the majority of Control takes place in the sun-drenched streets of Spain, rather than midnight Paris or lonely L.A., and some of the monologues that De Bankole’s character solicits from his co-conspirators (including an awesomely-costumed Tilda Swinton, as well as John Hurt and Gael Garcia Bernal) are quite lovely. There’s also an exquisite flamenco sequence, so much so that it actually elicits a smile from De Bankole. But the film generally lacks the sense of humor and character that pull Ghost Dog and Dead Man out of monotony. With those elements reduced to nearly nothing, there’s not much else to do than sit back and watch Christopher Doyle’s gorgeous cinematography, which is aided by a Boris’ strong score. The material itself, at least in this form, might have been better served as a short film.

I’m Not There (2007, USA)

It doesn’t always make obvious sense why certain Netflixed movies linger on top of the T.V. console for weeks and weeks. I’m Not There is a perfect example – an unseen movie by one of my favorite directors, about one of my favorite musicians, featuring some pretty great actors. But it took me over a month to finally sit down and watch Todd Haynes’ Dylan flick. Sometimes, I don’t want a film to disappoint. Other movies just have to wait for a particular mood, and there are those that seem like they’ll demand a great deal of me as viewer. I’m pretty sure that I’m Not There speaks to each of these.

The closest analogue to I’m Not There in Haynes’ catalog is probably Poison. Maybe Poison mashed up with Velvet Goldmine. As in Poison, Haynes uses multiple types of filmic styles – and he’s a masterful stylist, as anyone who’s seen Far From Heaven would probably agree – to grasp at some particular themes. Like Goldmine, these themes include identity, fame, the creative spirit, and the public versus the private self. However, I’m Not There has a great deal more ambition than either of the prior films, probably more so than any film Haynes has made to date. This has its benefits and its drawbacks – he’s able to draw some fascinating performances from the likes of Cate Blanchett, Charlotte Gainsbourg, and the underused Ben Whitshaw, and he also creates a sensibility about the myth of Bob Dylan that feels quite real. On the other hand, the film often feels awfully heavy-handed, like the director is straining to make a point, and it also suffers from a length I don’t think it quite merits. I’ll also throw five somewhat bizarre and possibly terrifying words at you – David Cross as Allen Ginsberg. Yep.

In any case, even though I’m Not There didn’t always feel right to me, it was quite often hypnotic, and I can’t say that it does anything but enhance Haynes’ reputation as one of the most interesting contemporary American filmmakers. Every five years or so, I’m excited to see what’s come out of his brain this time around.

Star Trek (2009, USA)

I must admit that while I’m not a huge Trek fangirl, I do love pretty much anything Shatner-related, and I did watch a hell of a lot of TNG when I was young. So the idea of a J.J. Abram’s restart interested me a lot – I wasn’t particularly worried about the uber-franchise being ruined (more on that below), because I’m not terribly invested in it, and I thought that it might make for one of the better summer blockbusters, if handled well.

I’m so happy when I’m right. The Star Trek reboot is pretty damn rad. Abrams and screenwriters Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman are respectful of the mythology without being slaves to it, and the result is a well-thought-out origin story that might end up having legs of its own as a spin-off franchise. The casting is generally very good – Chris Pine impressed me by playing Kirk as Kirk, not as Shatner playing Kirk, and Zachary Quinto (in his very first film role) makes for a solid Spock. Less impressive was Karl Urban’s McCoy, who must have attended the Jack Nicholson School for Elocution, though the line readings seemed to smooth out as the movie got moving. Simon Pegg is a particular coup as Scotty, and I liked the beefing up of Zoe Saldana’s Uhura character, though I thought John Cho’s Sulu was given short shift. (Lots of Chekov, though. I liked Anton Yelchin, but wouldn’t it have been a bit more inspired to spin things completely around and make him Arab, or something? Just kidding.)

Less impressive was the big baddie – Eric Bana was almost completely lost in make-up, and his dialog was generally weak. He seemed created to serve the plot and to do little else. Also, I’ll be interested to see if there will be a J.J. Abrams project in the near future that doesn’t deal with A) time travel, or B) daddy issues. Quibbling aside, Trek is fun, gorgeous (all that money certainly ended up on the screen – dig the huge angry metal jellyfish!), blows things up real good without getting carried away, and doesn’t take itself too seriously. An excellent kickoff to the summer of 2009, and hopefully to a few more well-made movies.

Speaking of taking yourself way too seriously, about an hour into my screening, right after a pretty big plot point unfolds, a middle-aged woman in the row ahead of us started speaking in her outside voice about how the movie had just ruined the whole Trek universe, that things weren’t as they were in the original arc, blah, blah, blah. Annoyingness aside, I thought to myself – who cares? If a few things need to get rearranged or rethought in order to create interesting, propulsive filmmaking, well – I really doubt Roddenberry would care. The spirit of the series is intact, so what’s the point in getting bent out of shape over how things get from point A to point B? (However, I did like it how the film essentially told her to shut her trap a half hour later. Oh, J.J. – you and your space-time continuum wackiness.)