Thursday, June 14, 2007 Rant Archive
Ah, the phlegmatic Chris Cooper. Character actors are a dime a dozen in the City of Angels, and it’s a rare thespian who can reliably play so many shades in the moral spectrum; Cooper makes it look old hat. In the first few minutes of BREACH, freshly released unto the DVD masses, Cooper manages to squeeze a lifetime of hard work and frustration into an arched eyebrow, a pursed mouth and a sidelong glance at a parking space. Wait until he actually starts to talk.
BREACH is a throwback to an older movie style; despite its modern technology and setting, the storytelling tradition it evokes belongs to a more patient, pre-Bruckheimer and Bay era, where you could have a thriller without blowing crap up every five minutes or gutting someone with an array of tools that crosses the line into Home Depot porn. Based on the story of the hunt to catch the man behind the worst breach in U.S. intelligence history, the movie follows Eric O’Neill (Ryan Phillippe), who’s plucked from tracking duty to work closely with Robert Hanssen (Chris Cooper), who O’Neill is told is a card-carrying member of the freakin’ pervert nation. As time goes on, O’Neill’s observations of Hanssen and his suspicion that his boss, Agent Kate Burroughs (Laura Linney), isn’t telling him everything lands O’Neill in an operation of a different stripe: Hanssen, he discovers, is a suspected mole, and it’s O’Neill’s job to help flush him out.
I consider myself a pretty good judge of movie character. When I see a trailer or read a synopsis, I pretty much know if I’ll see the movie in a theater, at home, or catch it on cable one late night when I have nothing better to do. The first time I saw a preview for GHOST RIDER, I knew it was going to be a video movie. Little did I know that I should’ve considered it a TNT Saturday night triple feature instead.
Nicolas Cage plays Johnny Blaze, a stunt motorcyclist who makes a deal with the devil (Peter Fonda) to save his father from lung cancer. Many years into his overwhelmingly successful career, the Devil approaches Johnny with the task of returning Blackheart (Wes Bentley) and his three comrades to their rightful place in hell. For about 10 seconds, Johnny fights the idea of being a “ghost rider,” but sooner than is healthy, he accepts his task with fiery gusto. (Pun completely intended.)
For the most part, comic book movies register at cheesy goodness on my radar. Comic book movies starring Nicholas Cage get an extra bit of cheese, but GHOST RIDER can’t even be called good in any sense of the word.
In DADDY’S LITTLE GIRLS, Tyler Perry writes a story that’s easy to relate and simple to film. It’s a movie of hope; a family event that could have just as easily been an “Afterschool Special.” There's no cussing, no violence and no real John Singleton-style death-making.
The movie surrounds a single dad, Monty (Idris Elba), who loves his kids. He’d never hurt them, and only wants to protect them from the evils that lurk outside. But he’s only one man — a guy struggling to find his way and bank that his hopes and dreams will one day transpire to his children. His ex-wife, Jennifer (Tasha Smith), is a tattered soul who falls prey to the dark allures of a vicious world that sees no morality or righteousness. Smith — who is quite beautiful in real life and is a close friend of supermodel Tyra Banks — does a great job of appearing strung-out and disheveled throughout the film.
In the middle of all this are Monty’s three beautiful daughters. They fall into their mother’s custody as the result of a mishap that occurs while their dad is working late as a chauffeur. He can’t truly defend his case because he can’t afford a lawyer.
The problem with first episodes of reality shows is that all the contestants seem interchangeable; they are fresh-faced, eager and on their best behavior. This is especially true on Bravo reality shows like TOP CHEF, because only on Bravo would there be not one, but two contestants with mohawks. It doesn’t matter that one is a guy and one is a girl; I still can’t tell them apart. Or the two burly guys with New York accents — though one did make me laugh when he warned Michah that she better not boss him.
This year it seems as though the
cheftesants, as Bravo insists on calling them, truly have brought their A-game. Every contestant is a sous- or executive chef, a private chef, or runs a catering business. It is a pretty impressive bunch. No home cooks or weird vegan organic types. And the food looked good! I had a pretty big dinner, but by the end of the show, I kind of had a hankering for geoduck.
Poor, poor Tommy Gavin. The guy gets roofied, inadvertently commits insurance fraud and now, all of a sudden, he’s found some morals?
As the fourth season of RESCUE ME begins, Gavin is playing Mr. Mom to his newest son (which may or may not actually be his), lecturing his oldest daughter about the perils of drinking (talk about the pot calling the kettle black) and trying to be an all-around upstanding citizen.
What’s up with that? No blacking out? Hell, not even any drinking? No cavorting around like a wild man? No raping your ex-wife? It reminds me of the scene in THE DOORS, when Paul Rothchild (played by Michael Wincott, who, by the way, is a dead ringer for Denis Leary) says, “I see Jim, I hear Jim. But, you know what? I miss him.”
When most people say “I’ll get to the bottom of that,” they simply mean that they will — using proper investigative techniques — solve the mystery in question. When Amber on FOOTBALLERS WIVES says it, she means that: a) she will have her murdered husband, Conrad, cremated and turned into a honkingly huge diamond ring that she can use to communicate with him via meditation, a tacky gold Buddha and some weird makeup, and b) that she will drive the man she believes murdered him (who happens to be her lover, Bruno) nuts by pretending to haunt him; something Conrad has told her to do. How can you NOT watch this show?
In my second favorite plotline on tonight’s episode, the (amazingly, can’t-take-my-eyes-off-her) horrid Liberty sneaks away from her gorgeous, rich boyfriend, Tre, for a tryst with her vaguely Russian, female personal assistant, Svetlana. Actually, that’s not her name — it’s Urzsula — but it might as well be. I love that Liberty is supposed to be a supermodel — a sort of Naomi Campbell crossed with Kimora Lee Simmons — when she has the biggest bum known to man (in a good way). I wish designers would hire models that looked like her, instead of anorexic Croatian 16-year-olds. If all models looked like Liberty, people might actually care about fashion. Liberty is always in something like lingerie, which means when she’s on screen, you just can’t take your eyes off of her. And, her bad acting just enhances her character. (She rolls her eyes, indicates all over the place, and is American by way of Chertsey.) Screw THE SOPRANOS, this is entertainment.
LIL’ BUSH is nucular of a show. I mean it’s nuclar. Oh, heck, it’s explosive — and very funny.
I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that members of the Young Republicans won’t be the prime audience for LIL’ BUSH. Each half-hour episode of this new Comedy Central show (airs Wednesdays at 10:30 p.m.) is comprised of two animated shorts featuring the adventures of Lil’ Bush and his friends, Lil’ Condi, Lil’ Rummy and, of course, Lil’ Cheney. So, you probably get the idea that the producers won’t be advancing a conservative agenda.
Therefore, let me address the people who will watch: tree-hugging, welfare-giving, immigrant-loving, war-hating commies. You folks will love it.