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Review: 'Broken Flowers'

By Dan Vinson

As has been said countless times - even if many, like Oscar voters, choose to forget it - comedy is hard. But what is certainly harder, if you're good at comedy, is restraint. In writer-director Jim Jarmusch's fascinating and odd "Broken Flowers," Bill Murray has discovered a new level of restraint, this time so impassive his deadpan nearly registers as dead in a remarkable performance.

Don Johnston (yes, with a "T") is a wealthy man from computers, even though he doesn't have one in his house. His home is a spacious but ugly mid-century type, and at the beginning of the film, Sherry (Julie Delpy) is walking out of it, and out on him. Don gets a call, grabs his mail, and meanders next door to Winston's (Jeffrey Wright), chatting with Winston's wife and five vibrant kids on the way through to Winston's hideaway. Don fixes his computer problem and reads the pink letter first. It's anonymous, ostensibly from a former flame (in a long line of them), informing him that he has a son. Amateur sleuth Winston grabs the letter gingerly to look for clues. Don has already gone home.

After plenty of goading and planning (complete with hotels, rental cars and maps, all Don has to do is go) from Winston, Don finds himself on the first of several planes, touring his romantic past to hopefully solve the mystery. He lands, taking the first of several killer Ford Taurus rentals (thanks, Winston) to Laura's (Sharon Stone) painfully plain surroundings. She should be home soon, says her daughter Lolita (Alexis Dziena), wearing only a flimsy bathrobe. By the time Laura gets home, Don has seen more than he can handle, but they all have dinner, and in the morning he awakens in Laura's bed. This first visit, minus the sex part, sets the tone for the others. Dora (Frances Conroy), now an airy real estate agent, lives in an antiseptic development with husband Ron (Christopher McDonald). "Animal communicator" Carmen (Jessica Lange) communes with Don at work, once her assistant (Chlo‘ Sevigny) finally lets him in. And lastly, visiting Penny's (Tilda Swinton) middle-of-nowhere shack is the most painful, literally.

Besides scanning for clues - prominent pink, mantle photos, a typewriter - at Winston's behest (each time recalling "Rear Window's" opening moments), Don also nonchalantly asks probing questions. Each woman is curious, suspicious and standoffish about why Don has shown up with pink flowers after 20 years (he tries Winston's "just checking in" line only once), and each fine actress' scene and performance speaks volumes without overtures (like Don). That he doesn't find his son or incontrovertible evidence disappoints Winston more than Don, but once he's back, it isn't over.
Jarmusch's "Rashomon"-like ending leaves plenty to the imagination, thankfully.

Now, to the music, as ever one of Jarmusch's strongest points. Much like 1999's "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai," his main character here drives to mix CDs, amounting to "theme music." Perfectly complementing Don's discordant demeanor are the forgotten (if ever known) Ethiopian jazz/soul grooves of Mulatku Astatke, (a nod to Winston's Ethiopian wife). Also perfectly complementing the gray here is the nearly black-and-white palette of ace cinematographer Frederick Elmes.

So, is "Broken Flowers," as some have erroneously suggested, a "mainstream" Jim Jarmusch film because of Murray's presence? If it is, then Jarmusch's previous effort, last year's "Coffee & Cigarettes," featuring prominently the very-famous Cate Blanchett (and Murray), should have been mainstream, too. It certainly wasn't. CV

Review: 'The 40-Year-Old Virgin'

By Ben Spierenburg

Andy Stitzer (Steve Carell) is a lonely electronics store employee whose private life is carefully scheduled for maximum adolescent fun. In his vast swaths of spare time, he enjoys playing Halo II online, watching "Survivor" with elderly neighbors, and talking to his many collectible action figures - which are all still unopened and in mint condition. And while Andy still hasn't popped his cherry, it's certainly not from a lack of trying. Rather, his problem stems from a series of incredibly unlucky sexual experiences - none of which led to actual sex. Over the years this string of bad luck has hardened his fear into complacency and acceptance.

However, when news of his sexual purity slips out to uncouth co-workers (Paul Rudd, Seth Rogen and Romany Malco) during a poker game, they instantly befriend him and resolve to help him lose his virginity. While their meddling leads to some seriously funny moments, Andy's friends also serve to remind us how emotionally flawed modern males can be. Sexual experience, it seems, does not equal maturity. And left to his own devices, Stitzer quickly succeeds in establishing a healthy, nonphysical relationship with 40-something entrepreneur Trish (Catherine Keener).

Much like the virgin he portrays, Carell's time has come, and deservedly so, in the hysterically raunchy, yet romantically sensible, "The 40 Year Old Virgin." Here is a man so dedicated to comedic excellence that he actually endured a brutally painful chest-waxing treatment for our amusement. Carell earned his chance to shine as the lead in a film he co-wrote (with director Judd Apatow) by regularly upstaging comedy's biggest stars; a list which includes names like Jon Stewart, Jim Carrey and Will Ferrell. And as sensitive, naive, middle-aged virgin Stitzer, Carell masterfully demonstrates his knack for comic acting in a role he was born to play in the funniest movie of the year thus far. CV

Review: 'Red Eye'

By Joshua Tyler

Director Wes Craven surprised absolutely no one earlier this year with his sapless take on the werewolf genre, "Cursed." It's been pretty much par for the course with Wes, who's made his living pedaling monsters, villains and bloody slashers. And these days his name is still said with something resembling reverence, though after "Vampire in Brooklyn" it's a wonder as to why. Chock it up to residual love for Freddy Krueger. However, with "Red Eye," Craven actually seems to be trying something different, maybe even cerebral.

Lisa Reisert (Rachel McAdams) is on her way home to Miami from a funeral in Dallas. The Dallas airport is predictably a hellish mess. She's taking the red eye, and as usual the flight is delayed. While hanging around online she meets Jackson (Cillian Murphy), whose last name is Rippner. He uses his parents' unfortunate sense of humor as a punch line, but this is your first clue that maybe this guy isn't all there. They bond over airport nachos, and when their flight is called for boarding, they conveniently discover they're sitting next to each other. "Are you stalking me?" he wants to know.

After takeoff, Jackson leans over to tell Lisa a secret. He's the stalker and knows everything about her. Not to mention, if she doesn't do exactly what he tells her, her father (Brian Cox) will die, creating a battlefield at 35,000 feet of bottled-up emotion as Lisa stalls and searches for escape.

"Red Eye" is a thriller in confined spaces, two people sitting next to one another engaged in a life-or-death battle of wits. Or rather, that's what it is until the plane lands and Wes goes back to what he knows best - running and screaming. But hey, at least he tried. And though the final act is a letdown, most of "Red Eye" works well as a simple, creative thriller filled with resonance. No doubt for his next movie Wes will be back to his usual gore, but for 75 of 85 minutes he's taken a welcome side trip. CV

Review: 'Murderball'

By Lexi Feinberg

A Mexican revolutionary named Emiliano Zapata coined the phrase, "It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees." And while the metaphorical impact of the quote is resonant, there is something amazing about seeing people inspire hope and change without ever standing up.

"Murderball" is a documentary following two-plus years in the lives of intensely competitive rugby players. They slam into each other, spew obscenities and strive to score points with passionate fervor. What separates them from typical brutish NFL players or people like Mike Tyson who lunge at ears, is that they are confined indefinitely to wheelchairs. The sport is Quad Rugby, known also as Murderball, and their goal is to excel and win big at the Paralympics - which is not the same as the Special Olympics (although there's nothing wrong with that). "We're not going for a hug; we're going for the gold medal," says one player matter-of-factly.

The movie revolves around members of Team USA, who have dominated the field of Quad Rugby for the past 10 years. Former USA all-star Joe Soares, one of the best players in the world, was humiliated when he didn't make the cut for the 2000 team. He responds by jumping ship and coaching Team Canada, much to the dismay of his former American comrades, namely ringleader Mark Zupan. While they are both strong men with a commanding presence, at the core they are fighting their own personal demons. They mutually strive to make something great of themselves in spite of their physical shortcomings.

It makes for engrossing cinema.

In fact, "Murderball" is so very effective because it debunks just about every clichèd stereotype we are brainwashed with regarding the handicapped. These are predominantly young men in their 20s and 30s, but other than paralysis, they're exactly like everyone trying to make their mark and live life to its fullest. They are pranksters, laughing and drinking at poker night, and charmers, later putting their moves to the test by approaching the prettiest girls in the bar. And yes, they are able to have sex - an answer to the question everyone seems to want to ask.

But it's the personal relationships of the players that are especially memorable. Mark was paralyzed from a drunk driving accident caused by his best friend, Chris Igoe. They both want to reinstate their friendship but are too nervous to make the first move. Joe Soares, disabled from polio in childhood, is a family man, with a supportive wife and sensitive son, Robert. He sometimes puts them second to his coaching pursuits, but when illness strikes he is forced to re-evaluate his priorities. Keith Cavill had an affinity for extreme sports that unfortunately led to his accident.

"What was once normal will never be the same, and that's just setting in right now," he says wistfully when coming home for the first time after his accident. When he meets the Quad Rugby team at the hospital and learns that the sport can give him a second chance at athletic dreams, a future Team USA player is born.

Still, all of the individuals in "Murderball" are far from perfect, which makes them all the more relatable. These are not the saintly figures painted to us by too many movie-of-the-week specials. They are an extremely funny, intelligent, lively bunch of men, with the same flaws that plague the rest of humanity. While rugby is heavily focused on in the film, above all else it's about people overcoming great odds to embrace the vitality of life.

Directors Henry-Alex Rubin and Dana Adam Shapiro devoted years of their lives to this documentary, and their commitment has resulted in a rare cinematic gem - one not to be missed. Their quick editing and fast-paced musical background keeps the movie light and pleasant, while earning the film a much-deserved editing prize at the Sundance Film Festival. CV

Review: 'Happy Endings'

By Erin Randolph

As Mamie (Lisa Kudrow) gets plowed over by a moving car within the first minute of "Happy Endings," the screen splits and text appears: "She's not dead. Nobody dies in this movie. It's a comedy, sort of." This strange narrative device will show up occasionally, wisecracking, divulging information about the characters' complex personalities and relaying future events.

But this first commentary isn't really accurate. There really isn't much in the way of comedy in this dark film by writer-director Don Roos ("The Opposite of Sex"). Instead, the film weaves together several bleak storylines with situations so absurd in nature that it's hard to picture any of them truly having a happy ending. Yet with interesting twists of fate, each reaches something resembling that.

Though "Happy Endings" is something of an ensemble piece, the storyline that's given the most screen time belongs to Mamie, who as a teenager birthed a child with her stepbrother Charley (Steve Coogan) in secret in Arizona before giving it up for adoption. Mamie is now with a masseuse named Javier (Bobby Canavalle). Charley is a restaurant owner and is now gay, shacking up with partner Gil (David Sutcliffe), and is unflaggingly convinced the couples' lesbian friends' son was spawned from Gil's sperm. In the meantime, Nicky (Jesse Bradford) arrives, attempting to bribe Mamie into allowing him to film a documentary about a reunion with her and her son, whom Nicky claims to know.

Then there's Jude (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a replacement singer who goes to live with the band's closeted drummer Otis (Jason Ritter), who lives with his widower father, Frank (Tom Arnold). Upon arrival, she seduces Otis before swiftly swooping in on his father, as well.

Somehow, Roos manages to link all of these characters by the end of the film, however not as deftly as "Crash," a film similar in nature. And though his cast does wonders for these flawed but relatable and likeable characters - including an understated performance by Arnold in a much-needed comeback following "Soul Plane," and a scene-stealing Gyllenhaal - "Happy Endings" is the product of a writer-director too in love with his characters to make the necessary edits. CV

Review: 'Deuce Bigalow'

By Erin Randolph

That anyone would feel the need to make a sequel to a shitty movie six years after its release really is beyond explanation. But alas, here's "Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo," a raunchy sequel that will only appeal to the lowest common denominator of moviegoers, and one that's only real purpose is to provide synonyms for genitalia and gigolos (twatcicle, hepussy, mangina and prostidide, for example).

Bigalow (Rob Schneider), a fish enthusiast, lost his wife on their honeymoon when she was eaten by sharks while trying to feed the sea turtles. Now, Bigalow totes her wooden leg around with him everywhere, carrying on conversations and cuddling with it as he sleeps.

Bigalow receives a phone call from his old buddy T.J. (Eddie Griffin), who's pimping for man whores in Amsterdam. However, the Man Whore Murderer is on the loose, killing gigolos and making the leftovers too scared to render their services. When T.J. is mistaken for the murderer, as well as a gay man, Bigalow sets out to clear T.J's name by re-entering the world's oldest profession and visiting with clients in an attempt to find the killer.

Like the first "Deuce" movie, Bigalow ends up on dates with hideously deformed or disturbed women - one has a penis for a nose (I bet you can guess what happens when she sneezes), one has a humpback, etc. - trying to woo them without ever having to shed his pants.

The movie culminates at the awards show for Man Whore of the Year. Will Deuce win the Golden statuette? Will he have found the killer in time to save the other gigolos? Do we care? Let's hope not, as the thought of the potential for a third "Deuce Bigalow" should make one want to slit his or her wrists.

Clocking in at an excruciating 83 minutes, "Deuce Bigalow" provides nothing but genitalia guffaws (including a scene where two men quite literally play penis swords) with a few stereotypes - Asians have small dicks, blacks like chicken and waffles - thrown in. Adam Sandler's Happy Madison Productions produced "European Gigolo," and to paraphrase a line from "Billy Madison," we are all now dumber for having watched this crap. CV

Stock Footage

By Dan Vinson

Jm Jarmusch's auteur (meaning signature style) status owes much to collaborators like new cinematographer Frederick Elmes (after the influential Robby MŸller), and he knows this, likely why Elmes' name appears so early in the closing credits. Visionary directors have long paired up with like minds, or even created teams that work on film after film, fostering creative shorthand - and often greatness.

Classic director-cinematographer pairings include Ingmar Bergman and Sven Nykvist, Jean-Luc Godard and Raoul Coutard, Alfred Hitchcock and Robert Burks, and Woody Allen and Gordon Willis. (Allen is, famously, a Bergman fan.) More recent pairings have included Clint Eastwood and Tom Stern, Steven Spielberg and Janusz Kaminiski, Christopher Nolan and Wally Pfister, and the Coen brothers and Roger Deakins.

Younger filmmakers like Wes Anderson, emulating their heroes like the ones above, have ushered in a new generation of traveling creative teams. From "Bottle Rocket" to "The Life Aquatic," Anderson has relied heavily on Robert Yeoman's cinematography, Mark Mothersbaugh's music, along with the same editor, art director, set designers, and a few actors to realize his unique vision. It's impossible to imagine "Rushmore's" Max Fischer without that quaint, wistful Mothersbaugh score. Hearing it again recently, rarely has film music been so immediately identifiable. (Ditto Neil Young's gritty, haunting, reverb-laden score for Jarmusch's "Dead Man.")

So, why does any of this matter? The easier it is for filmmakers to create the films they - as opposed to producers or focus groups - intend, the better the finished product, the future of filmmaking, and audience satisfaction. CV

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