January 21, 2005
Happy 2005...
...to anyone who still happens to check out this corner of the site...
How You Play the Game
As they always say in sports, particularly on the grade school level, whether win or lose, it's how you play the game. The same can be applied to the formula-ridden genre of the sports movie, as Thomas Carter's high school basketball drama COACH CARTER goes through familiar motions yet does so with conviction.
But then it could be argued that the hoops action is almost incidental in this fact-based story, for the title character, Richmond High School (though actually filmed at my alma mater, Long Beach Polytechnic High School, which somehow became the go-to ghetto high school filming location after I graduated) basketball coach Ken Carter (Samuel L. Jackson), is less concerned with how his young charges fare on the court than they do in the classroom and, ultimately, in the game of adult life. If that sounds corny, you wouldn't be mistaken, as Carter and writers Mark Schwahn and John Gatins aren't immune to wallowing in sappy contrivance; for instance, one player's incredibly saccharine climactic monologue is enough to send non-diabetics into insulin shock. However, this is a refreshing angle for any sports film, particularly one set at the school level; not only is winning not everything to the coach, neither is the game itself.
And so the film takes time to illuminate the off-court and off-campus lives of the Richmond squad, or at least a few of its members. As is the nature of this particular genre, there are a few team members who are no more than glorified extras, which is especially jarring when those particular people suddenly appear in the middle of a scene and never make a sound, let alone utter a single word, let alone line. Those who do command Carter and the writers' focus, however, have the attention justified by performances that go beyond schematically-written types. Most notable are Rob Brown, making a most welcome return to the screen after a long post-FINDING FORRESTER hiatus as the hard-working, well-meaning, reluctant father-to-be (with girlfriend Ashanti, doing fine in her big-screen acting debut); Antwon Tanner as the cocky kid better known by his nickname (Worm); real-life college hoopster-turned-thesp Nana Gbewonyo as the athletically gifted but academically troubled big man; and Rick Gonzalez as the star player caught up in a wrong crowd (even if he's saddled with that thankless monologue). The writers do deserve some credit for not using the presence of Carter's son (Robert Ri'chard) on the team as an all-too-obvious source of conflict.
The performance that makes the strongest impression, of course, is that of Jackson. While Carter does a good job with the players' side stories and the numerous basketball sequences, Jackson's effortless authority and shaded portrayal of Coach Carter holds the film together. While there's no doubting the nobility of his intentions and actions, Jackson doesn't soften his stubborn, self-righteous qualities, which adds further flavor to the formula. Indeed, COACH CARTER offers little, if anything, that is new, but there's no small pleasure in seeing a well-worn tale told with class and style.
ELEKTRA-cution
ELEKTRA certainly appeared to be a can't-miss proposition: a spin-off of the financially successful 2003 screen adaptation of Marvel Comics superhero DAREDEVIL, focusing on what was considered one of the best things about the film; a headlining vehicle for rising star Jennifer Garner; a release date closely following the season premiere of Garner's cult/critics' fave television series ALIAS, which so happens to be enjoying a ratings upsurge of late. Rob Bowman's finished product, however, is a study in how such a "can't miss" project can go wrong in just about every conceivable way.
As with any film, it all starts with the writing, and the root of ELEKTRA's evil can be traced to scripter Zak Penn and co-story creators Stu Zicherman and Raven Metzner's efforts--or lack thereof. That the sai-wielding woman warrior Elektra Natchios (Garner) now sports her traditional red (after inexplicably wearing black in DAREDEVIL) appears to be the extent of their and Bowman's understanding of the character. After an interesting, if not terribly thrilling, action sequence in which we witness the now-resurrected Elektra on the job as a hired assassin, the film then dives into thirty minutes of this badass, blood-thirsty babe... sitting around, doing nothing. Literally. Her latest contract job puts her on a remote, picturesque island, and while awaiting further instructions, she reluctantly gets to know her neighbors, Mark Miller (the ever-boring George Clone-y, a.k.a. Goran Visnjic) and his thoroughly annoying young daughter Abby (Kristen Prout). No prizes for anyone who correctly guesses who Elektra's latest mark(s) turn(s) out to be.
Needless to say, Elektra suddenly feels pangs of a conscience and decides to instead protect the pair, irking the ninja syndicate The Hand, who are after the two for mysterious (and, as it turns out, thoroughly ludicrous) reasons. This should be the point where ELEKTRA takes off, but it's where the film completely falls to pieces. The whole "killer finds value in life" bit is nothing new and is actually rather expected; what is unexpected, however, is the degree to which the traditionally dark character of Elektra softens. While bouts with guilt do plague the character in comics, one would never see her goof around and engage in tickling sessions with kiddies, as she does with Abby here; she would always maintain some steely resolve. But not only is the portrayal of the character of Elektra problematic, so is her world. One major part of her appeal is that she is one of the more down-to-earth, down-and-dirty characters in the Marvel Universe; she's a deadly martial artist, and as such the opponents she generally faces were on that decidedly less fanciful level. Bowman and the writers, thinking that gritty action isn't enough for a comic-based blockbuster, go overboard with incredibly chintzy-looking visual effects that serve no discernible purpose other than to fill some type of unspoken CGI quota.
And it just gets worse from there. I can understand why the filmmakers would not want to heavily reference DAREDEVIL so as to make this film stand on its own, but it is baffling from a storytelling perspective; considering how Elektra's murderous rage is a key point, why is the incident that stoked the fire in the first place--her beloved father's death--not addressed at all? Granted, action, not story, is the main interest here, and even there ELEKTRA disappoints, as the stunningly few action sequences are unimpressive; the falling, billowing sheets accenting one swords-'n-sais faceoff may have been slightly interesting had we not already seen it done far more memorably in Zhang Yimou's HERO. Even other would-be "cool" touches clang: shoehorning Daredevil villainess Typhoid Mary into the proceedings makes little sense in a film centering on Elektra (after all, her split personality--which isn't even covered here--and twisted relationship with Matt Murdock is what makes her character really fascinating); and Terence Stamp, who initially seemed an inspired casting choice as Elektra's blind martial arts master (and, in the comic mythos, he also trained Matt Murdock) Stick, phones it in, apparently just content to cash a check and bolster his already-strong geek cred by turning up here.
"Phoning it in" applies to just about everyone involved in the making ELEKTRA, and as such it appears every bit the slapdash, cash-in rush job that it is. Even Garner is adrift here as Bowman seems at a complete loss as to how to make anything work: the story, any of the characters, just about every action scene (do we really need multiple slo-mo shots of Elektra merely leaping?)--or simply holding the audience's attention. Above being a bad movie, ELEKTRA is a boring one, and a horribly missed opportunity for making a viable screen franchise for one of the most compelling characters to grace the comic book page.
Are We Done Yet?
The noble intent behind ARE WE THERE YET? is to apparently show how child-hating bachelor Nick (Ice Cube) comes to see value beyond the playa lifestyle and has his paternal instincts awakened after a long road trip with the children of a comely divorcée (a completely wasted Nia Long), his latest object of lust. But any hope of the film successfully relating that message is shot completely to hell within two minutes when we witness the two little hellions (charmlessly played by Aleisha Allen and Philip Daniel Bolden) completely humiliate one of their mother's innocent, well-meaning suitors with an array of slapsticky, HOME ALONE-style booby traps. What a way to make the audience immediately wish painful, if not fatal, comeuppance upon these brats, and believe it or not, the four (!) credited writers and director Brian Levant spend most of the rest of the running time piling on even more reasons to completely loathe this terrible twosome, in essence justifying Nick's anti-kid stance as he's put through the wringer of would-be comic humiliation over and over again. As much as I felt bad for his character, though, I couldn't feel completely bad for Ice Cube. At first, I continually wondered why he would choose such a project to not only to star in, but to also produce; as the film went on, it became clear--this is a rigorous, if quite surprising, warm-up for his upcoming action hero duties on xXx: STATE OF THE UNION, for he gets to do many elaborate stunt sequences here, from a big chase/ramming session with big rig trucks (!) to chasing a running train while on horseback (!!). That said, this won't be a film Cube will want to highlight on his résumé, and Long will most certainly want to sweep this one under the rug, which begs the question: what does Levant have against the stars of BOYZ N THE HOOD? First Cuba Gooding Jr. in SNOW DOGS, now Cube and Long in one fell swoop; attention Laurence Fishburne, Angela Bassett, Regina King, Morris Chestnut--if Levant comes a-callin', run for the hills.
It Must Be January...
As if being the very first wide release of the movie wasteland known as January didn't already make it critical cannon fodder, not only does the title of WHITE NOISE provide more easy ammunition, so does the name of the director. Geoffrey Sax? Geoffrey sux. But there's no stronger ammunition than the film itself, a tedious and thrill-less thriller that does indeed, for lack of a better description, suck. At the center of the film is the purportedly real Electronic Voice Phenomenon (or "EVP"), in which messages from the dead can be received through electronic static on televisions or radios, and this intriguing concept could serve as foundation for a film that serves as both an insightful exploration of the phenomenon and a creepy chiller. However, Sax and writer Niall Johnson have somehow made a film attempting that yet making the two approaches feel mutually exclusive and pleasing just about no one, neither the viewers looking for a thoughtful supernatural enterprise nor those out for a good scare. Most of the film is one long slog in which widowed architect Michael Keaton (lending the silly proceedings more credibility than they deserve) watches and listens to tape upon tape of the titular white noise for some sign from his recently departed "international best selling author" (as is repeatedly drilled into our collective heads) wife (Chandra West). Despite all the time spent watching Keaton attempting to make use of EVP, Sax and Johnson make precious little effort to explain the basic logistics of the phenomenon--for example, on what channels/stations must one tune one's televisions and radios?--making for some truly boring viewing. Only by the final third do they remember that the film is also supposed to be a thriller, and Keaton suddenly receives ominous visual messages that reveal that the dead apparently speak in the language of movie one-sheet iconography: shadowy walking figures (DAWN OF THE DEAD); a silhouetted profile of a man's face (MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE); a frightened, ghostly looking-figure screaming with their hands reaching out (THE RELIC). But not even that prepares one for the head-slapping stupidity of the finale, which would only satify those who had a perverse desire to see those evil, hell-dragging spirits in GHOST open a few cans of whoop-ass.
BABE Meets SEABISCUIT
...that description pretty accurately describes RACING STRIPES in a nutshell. While I like both of those films, I wasn't so sure I'd want to see them morphed together, and this silly, strictly-for-kids, feel-good underdog talking animal sports movie (whew) just confirmed that suspicion. Bruce Greenwood and Hayden Panetierre, bless their talented and well-meaning hearts, bravely give committed performances as the token human leads, a widowed ex-horse trainer and his headstrong daughter, who adopt an abandoned baby zebra. Alas, that zebra named Stripes (voiced by Frankie Muniz), his colorful and equally chatty barnyard friends (including Dustin Hoffman's mentor-like pony and Whoopi Goldberg's mother hen of a goat) and, above all, his delusions of being a championship racehorse are the main course. Any perceived parallels with BABE end there, though, as that film's truly all-ages appeal is nowhere in evidence as director Frederik DuChau is all too eager to sink to cheap juvenalia, namely animal excrement and flatulence jokes courtesy a pair of painfully unfunny and badly CG'ed horseflies (voiced by Steve Harvey and David Spade).
Next time...
...a look at the Academy Award nominations on Tuesday. As always, check out my home site, Mr. Brown's Movie Site, for additional reviews.
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