Justin Strout’s Film Blog

I hate to speak ill of the stricken, but Roger Ebert got this one way wrong.

Ebert is by far my favorite film critic, after Pauline Kael, and I nearly always agree with him, but he praised this film for its “audacious confusion of ideas” and “can be read many different ways.” I’m afraid there is only one way to read this…utter nonsense.

From the opening scene, it lost me. A daring rescue from corrupt and horny policemen of the damsel. It’s a masked man who gloats over his save with annoying alliteration using the letter…wait for it…”V.” He’s the opposite of charming and when he whisks the girl to the rooftop to watch his terrorist destruction, he has her from the word go.
Normally I don’t mind a good story of an everyday citizen getting schooled in the ways of the revolution to become a freedom fighter. In fact, this film’s screenwriters nailed the best example of the 20th century: The Matrix. Complete with shaved symbolic head, Neo was an office drone who rose above the machine (literally) then even farther above and destroyed it all, becoming not only an enemy of the state, but a kind of Christ figure. And regardless of the hoopla about this hero being a terrorist “in this day and age”, the destruction of the infrastructure to free a people is just as pervasive, timeless, and valid a theme in storytelling as the orphan, the decline of society, or forbidden love, from Fight Club to Fahrenheit 451. That said, I cannot defend this pile of crap from overblown dialogue, cheesy acting (Natalie Portman has gone from possible next Meryl Streep to maybe a notch below Kirsten Dunst in the category of pseudo-acting), or a plot that promises a total act of revolution….IN A YEAR. 12 months from the opener. As far as ticking clocks go, this is a grandfather.
A half an hour in, I decided if I’d heard one more declaration that our hero’s “waited 20 years for this…” I would turn it off. The film’s one credit was that I heard it said at least eight more times, but didn’t reach for the remote. There is something morbidly fascinating about watching the egos on display behind and in front of the camera here, but when it was over, I couldn’t help wishing maybe just a few of V’s followers could have been in that building. Just for slapping on that goddamn mask and following such a poseur. As it is, however, the big blow-up is delivered as promised, but it’s safe, vanilla, utterly symbolic as an empty gesture, and comes only after a frankly timid and silly display of unity on the part of the city’s residents.
No actor comes out of this unscathed and the Wachowski brothers may have won themselves one more film (it did alright box office amidst lowered expectations due to the timing) but on a personal level, this one will be the last time I anticipate one of them solely because their name is attached. The love affair is over.

Ellen Degeneres steals this one.

In what’s probably the last truly great Pixar film, Nemo’s a heartbreaking story of an overprotective father who experiences immense tragedy, then a little more. His one remaining family member, son Nemo, is kidnapped by scuba divers and taken back to a fancy dentist’s office to live amongst other aquarium fish.
I was touched by the story, Albert Brooks as the father who learns to let go of his fear, Ellen Degeneres as a memory-inflicted optimist who finds her soul mate, and Willem Dafoe as a rugged but tender-hearted prisoner in a tank.
I never thought much about the wonders this film presents until my son started watching it religiously. The old, wise, but young at heart sea turtles, the intuitive whale, the conflicted sharks. A team of the most stimulated minds is surely at work here, and it pays off in the emotional end, when the father can finally say “goodbye, son” without tensing up. Just gorgeous.

Pirates 2 had a lot of things against it. Johnny Depp’s endearing performance as Capt. Jack Sparrow could’ve easily gotten old quick. Or gone over-the-top in a bad way. Keira Knightley could have become too big a star in between films to be believable anymore. The story behind the adventure, so thrilling in the first, could have gone stale. The audience could have suddenly been reminded that this is a movie based on a freaking DISNEY RIDE!
To be certain, there are critics who have said all those things. But the audience has spoken and they love the pirates.
I admit I was afraid of all those things as well, and while Jack Sparrow’s most doltish moments felt forced - after what he went through in the first film, a kind of maturing must take place - I was pleased to find added layers to his now quite capable pirate. He has become a true Captain and a valid romantic lead. When virtuous Elizabeth looks like she might flirt with the dark side, it’s fully engrossing, not because it would be so unthinkable but because in his current incarnation, it would be a leap many such girls would gladly make. Jack is morally ambivalent, but you tend to be safe in his hands, and our core group have benefitted in every way from his presence. They know this as well, and when the question is posed whether to rescue him at the beginning of the film, they don’t give it a second thought.
The set pieces are big in a sequel kind of way, but never let you take them too seriously. The fight on the spinning wheel is trailer-worthy and a marvel of originality, but even the other pirates fighting next to it must stop and scratch their heads for a moment. “What the–?” Writers Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio (the best and highest-paid screenwriters in the mainstream for years) and director Gore Verbinski (now that Lady in the Water has kerplunked, people have stopped looking at me crazy for saying Verbinski’s the true “next Spielberg”) never let you forget this is a Movie with a capital M. They expect your popcorn in your lap and a smile on your face and will accept nothing less.
There are already talks and essays about the many comparisons between this and the 2nd Star Wars - Empire - and they’re merited. Empire showed everyone how to do the middle child properly and the Pirates crew are the popcorn generation’s star pupils (the Wachowski brothers were unquestionably Lucas’s top students, but they kind of blew it. More on that later.) At 2 1/2 hours, there were characters (the vaguely hot Hoodoo witch) and subplots (the insanely boring redemption of Commodore Norrington) that could’ve been chopped off, but the Davey Jones/Kraken villains and imminent marriage of Elizabeth and…that other dude that’s not Capt Jack…made for great fodder, top of the line dialogue, and superb camerawork. It’s not Titanic, but it definitely deserves its unstoppable box-office.

If these aren’t just the two most gorgeous humans ever.

Setting aside the baby thing (I have an outlandish, half-baked theory about the fever over little Shiloh involving genetic flow and evolutionary interest but that’s not for public usage), Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie absolutely set fire to the screen as a married couple in this Doug Liman film. Liman’s a strange bird. I became a big fan of his after Swingers, that little indie film that gave birth to at least three enormous Hollywood careers (and counting), and his follow-up drug film Go - along with Lock, Stock among the best of the Tarantino clones. But his detour into action has been weird. The Bourne Identity, though likeable in a vanilla way, carried some of the most ridiculously unbelievable action sequences in my recent memory, and the timing of a bad joke gone even worse into uncomfortable territory. It certainly had its fans, though, and merited a sequel, not by Liman, which I liked much more. In this outing, however, he fully redeems himself as equally adept at action and comedy, which he combines both in this mix.
Brad Pitt is at his best at his wackiest. When he just doesn’t give a shit and goes for it, much in the same way Johnny Depp won millions of new fans for his Pirates performance. It’s an unconscious ability to ignore their good looks and have fun with it, instead of letting their gorgeousness be a burden. Nobody cares about that. Be the Greek. In Smith, Pitt brings his smoldering matter-of-fact poker face over from Fight Club, along with the gonzo comic timing of Mickey from Snatch. A great combo, as those are probably the two most pointed-to performances when a guy is defending his love of Brad Pitt.
Angelina Jolie, who certainly qualifies in my book as a real-life Wonder Woman, brings the sizzle of Gia and the comic book embodiment of Lara Croft together into an intriguing combo of foreplay and warplay (how Leonard Maltin was that?).
The result is the most fun I’ve had with an action film in a very long time and one of my favorites to repeat. Not much to go into here regarding plot, it’s just a really good time at the movies.

I figure what better film to announce my return to my film blog than this.

Superman Returns was an experience of a lifetime, just as waiting for it has taken nearly a lifetime. The original Superman movie was, for me, a life-defining event. My parents still tell of a little me at 2 years old running out of the theater yelling “dus-ta-da!” as that famous theme song indicates. Superman was the first experience I had of right and wrong, good and evil, a kind of secular God more real to me than any Sunday school could ever make their version be. They never had a chance.
I’m now a 28 year old father of a two-year old boy. He was introduced to Superman at 9 months old, at Christmas, in Los Angeles. We sat on the floor with my arms wrapped around him and let it sink in. He pointed to the screen whenever he’d fly, but mostly just sat, absorbed. It was the first film he ever sat through. A year and a half later, I was taking my 2-year old to the theater to see the adventures of Kal-El 26 years after the same had been done to me.
Of course I knew that now, as a hyperactive toddler, he would never sit through it all. He got through ten minutes of yelling at the screen everything he saw (”COW!” “ICE!” “SUPES!”) before the crowd was making full-body turnarounds. I carried him out, still yelling “Bye Supes!”
Luckily I had seen the film the week it opened beforehand. Here are my thoughts.
Christopher Reeve has pretty much been my hero all my life. First as the idea of Superman, later as a crusador for what’s right for our future and against the ideologues that embarass our once-great nation. When he passed I cried, which I never have for any other celebrity death, and it was strange to receive calls of condolensce. I never met the man, but anyone who has ever met me, knows how I feel about him.
After his death, ironically, the movie was full-steam ahead. I was so happy to hear Bryan Singer was on board. His X-Men movies have astounded me. And from the opening credits, listening to that John Williams score, I knew Supes was home again. This would be the proper tribute.
It was. Almost too much so. Parts of Superman Returns felt like a wake, not only for Christopher Reeve, but for the innocence of what we once knew Superman to represent. There has been so much unthinkable tragedy since the first film in our nation and in the hearts of Superman fans everywhere. How do you proceed with an inspiring film about a national hero?
Watching Superman, cape in full bloom behind him, presiding over our planet (in a sort of Google Earth comes to the screen shot), I was reminded of just how powerful an emotion security can be. He’s listening to the pleading voices of the world, taking it all in. When he shoots back into the atmosphere, you know all will be alright. It’s nearly an infantile feeling of safety, but it still works. Brandon Routh as Kal-El was just so ethereal, so empathetic yet detached in a God-like way, that by the end I was pleading for his nod that it’s okay. I was reduced to a toddler again. His massive boots thudding on the crashing plane, the flash of blue from the window at the moment of your death that tells you this will not be the time; his rescue of Lois and fam from the depths of the sea, when their air was just about gone, felt like an emotional rebirth. This wasn’t a figure who prevents bad things from happening. We could never believe that anymore as a nation. But he could - on your best day - rescue you from your own death. Set you on your feet again. Gives you another chance. It’s no surprise, given these feelings of primal patriarchy Brandon’s performance awakened, and considering my own new place in the world as a father, that the revelation of Superman’s son made me weep.
Let me explain. When my son was on the way, I thought about Marlon Brando’s (mostly improvised) speech in the first film to the baby he was sending away. “You will make my strength your own. The son becomes the father and the father the son.” I obsessed on that speech and when my son came into the world, I was there with red, yellow, and blue sheets to wrap him. I wanted desperately to give him that speech one of the nights I was up with him early in the morning, but always resisted for fear of going too far. But in this film, that speech is the bookend, it is the point. That baby that was cast away so long ago, who spent five disappointed years searching the stars for his home, only to find he was the only survivor, has a son to give the speech to. The entire time he was looking for another like him, it was in the same place he left.
This is a film of epic visuals, incredibly moving poetry, and themes that cut the core of who I am as a human being.

I’ve seen Wonder Boys many, many times with many different people. It tends to be one of those films people remember vaguely but never had an interest in seeing. But once I forcibly sit them down for a watch, it’s intriguing every time to see who identifies with what.
There’s so much offered in this little movie. I’ve seen it with one friend who remembered a professor from college he swore must’ve been the inspiration for Michael Douglas’ stoned and blocked lit professor. I saw it with one who identified Katie Holmes’ character not as a sex kitten, but simply a talented author with a slight case of hero worship. Her insightful comment began a night of conversation on the hero topic. I even saw it with a friend who identified with Q, Rip Torn’s prolific, slightly pompous author who hops along for the ride with Grady and his friends, but is all too aware he doesn’t belong and is not particularly wanted. He’s too middle-of-the-road for his own chosen profession, though he is ultra-successful at it.
There are many insanely talented people with hands on this film. First up is Curtis Hanson, who continues to prove himself the most adaptable director in Hollywood, from L.A. Confidential to 8 Mile. The film is based on a novel by Pulitzer-Prize-winning author Michael Chabon, a favorite of mine, and the adapted screenplay by Steven Kloves, a high-minded screenwriter who’s written all the Harry Potter scripts and recently was handed Curious Incident, a novel that made a huge splash last year. All of this, plus a top-notch cast, including a pre-Spiderman Tobey Maguire, a pre-insanity Katie Holmes, and a pre-Joss Alan Tudyk.

Somewhere along the line, in the last twenty years or so, the word “formula” in Hollywood became a bad word. That’s not to say there haven’t been “formula” movies (on the contrary, they seem to become more and more prevalent) but distributors have gone out of their way to convince audiences that word doesn’t apply to their new film.
Personally, I’m a big fan of a “formula” film done right. Or just slightly off. Consider the You Can Do It sports films of the eighties. Rocky started that formula. It’s a good formula. And The Karate Kid used the formula well.
The Replacements employs a cross between the Bad News Bears formula, wherein a “rag-tag team of outcasts” bond and conquer impossible odds together, and the Comeback Kid formula, which is always a reliable one to go to for the late-30’s, early 40’s actor to shine in. Enter Keanu Reeves.
Now, I’m an apologist for Keanu, and have been since the days of Bill & Ted. I truly believe there is no other generation other than mine that will ever understand what he means. His greater context. He belongs to the late-20-something guy in your office. He belongs to the 27-year old grocery store manager nearest you. He’s our Mark Hamill and no one can ever take that away from us.
Geez…that went a little far.
Anyway, I truly enjoy the “formula-y-ness” of this film. Yes, I’m making that a word. It’s not very original, but the theme of the piece (heart, in case you haven’t seen it or couldn’t guess from the premise…once again that’s heart) gel with the feel of it. One senses the actors participating, excluding Orlando Jones who probably needed the work, only took the roles to be a part of the fun. They didn’t need this. In fact, Gene Hackman performed the same year in Royal Tenenbaums, a masterwork in his portfolio. Keanu was only a year removed from the height of the Matrix hype, and I have my strong suspicions that Jon Favreau, who co-stars as a deaf linebacker (pictured above-left) took a pretty good shot at the screenplay. We’ll never know, unfortunately, as he is one of the only screenwriters left in Hollywood who doesn’t leak his “ghost” writings for studios.
In short, none of the players involved here made this film out of a sense of duty, or contract, or greed. In the spirit of the Washington Sentinels, they just wanted to have fun together for a little while.

“We’re all just floating.”

With those words, TV auteur Joss Whedon presented not only the theme of his new show, “Firefly,” but his entire view of the universe we live in. Through 14 episodes of space opera-y goodness, we followed Mal, Zoe, Wash, and the rest of the crew of the ship Serenity on their many adventures. They got shot, cut, captured, tortured, and in one instance, left naked in a desert, but for what? Why would they put themselves through this? What bigger life objective could drive them to push through and not just take nice Alliance jobs (probably with great bulletwound benefits)? The answer: no reason. They’re floating. We all are.
This philosophy may strike some as depressing, even existential, but Whedon’s point was that if you have no reason to fight, no reward in this life or any other, but you fight anyway, then you’re a hero. Now with Serenity, the feature film adaptation of the show, Joss leaps off the Nietzschian balcony and plunges into the unknowable world of belief. The films asks, what happens if you take these scrappy, petty thieves with no goal other than their own survival, and give them something bigger than themselves? Something to put their faith in. Not in the form of any God or deity, but in a 17-year old, tortured genius named River Tam. Even the Shepherd tells the captain, Mal, “I don’t care what you believe in. But believe whatever she says.”
The crew accepted River and her doctor brother, Simon, in the course of the original series. When they stowed away and essentially got stuck on the ship, they developed a bond with the crew and vice versa. Well, kind of. Mal decided it was better to have a doctor and an annoying, slightly dangerous girl on board than to leave them for dead and have that on his conscience.
In Serenity, the stakes couldn’t be higher. The Alliance, a government monolith that rules the galaxy, wants River dead. No surprise there. They knew as much in the pilot. But there’s something different this time. The Alliance is tired of chasing the Serenity. They want this over with. Every second they harbor the fugitive girl with a buried secret, the greater the chances the secret will be exposed. So they put the hard burn on and destroy everything the crew knows and loves, and nearly breaks the delicate spirit of the gang. The burden becomes heavy for them all, most importantly on River (”Please God, make me a stone.”)
The only way to fight is to decide you have to fight. You have to buy into it. You have to believe. It’s something Mal struggles with more than anything in the world. At one point, Shepherd Book flirts with giving Mal a sermon. Mal responds curtly:
“God? That’s a long wait for a train don’t come.”
But the religion of River becomes undeniable. She’s a weapon like never seen before (even trumping Buffy), she’s an unparalleled genius, and she’s a psychic. At one point, they take her along on a heist in the hopes her “reading” skills will assist in their mission, igniting an amazingly tense and exciting action sequence. When River reveals her secret (not before knocking out half the crew), it leads the gang headlong into a war they are not ready for. If you’re going to face certain death, you’d better know why and be okay with it.
That’s the struggle in Serenity. Can you find something to believe in enough to die for it? Can you be swayed that something is important in this world? Can you break the chains of the daily grind and be part of something great?
Wash, the pilot of the ship and probably the closest character to Joss Whedon’s heart, sums it up best:

“I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar.”

The Blade series started as a good idea in comic book form. Half-vampire, half-human fighting the forces of evil because…well, some kind of redemption I guess. Apparently, it had a large enough following to merit a clunker of a film that made vampires seem like Hot Topic goth kids who didn’t really buy into the “dark soul” bit, but sure bought into the corporate posturing of counterculture.
Then along came Guillermo del Toro, essentially a Mexican Peter Jackson, who approached the film as if he (gasp!) actually respected the characters. He gave Blade some substance, and upped the special effects ante to Spider-Man level. Fans rejoiced. All was well.
That should have been the happy ending for Blade, but the New Line bloodsuckers couldn’t resist going back to the evil well. So they threw some money at Wesley Snipes, hired a few WB actors to look pretty, and upchucked this terrible excuse for a film.
Wesley Snipes has settled back into that apathetic glaze he briefly lost in part 2, and Kris Kristofferson is typically apalling as Whistler. Honestly, these are quibbles the viewer must get past before going in. It’s a Blade flick. But what really blindsided me in this one was just how terrible the rest of it was.
In maybe the most unexplainable casting of the year, Parker Posey, the former reigning indie queen (before Chloe Sevigny bitch-slapped her out of place) now seems lost in the haze of mid-30’s actress no-man’s land. She slams her fist, shouts her lines, and she doesn’t walk down a hall, she storms. It’s not a commanding performance, it’s cheese. The saddest part is that she has at least another three or four years before she’s embraced as a Desperate Housewives-style, over 40-year old comeback queen. It’s gonna be a long few years, and in the meantime, her only job should be to not destroy every film she gets the chance at, most importantly Superman Returns.
Blade: Trinity is inexplicable, that’s the only way to put it. And as the studio who championed the Lord of the Rings trilogy, New Line should be ashamed of themselves, and hope they made enough money on their one gamble that paid off to phone it in for the next decade, because that’s the only way I see this studio going.

A couple of years ago, I was sitting at my crowded desk situated awkwardly at the entrance of a production company where I was interning. I would see familiar faces: the Xerox guy, the Propel guy, Adriana Trigiani (a highly successful and highly endearing author), the FedEx guy, and about once a week…the tall redhead with the cute assistant. For months, I had no idea what his occupation could possibly be around that office. I could’ve sworn I knew the inner workings of that place, but then this guy strolled in, said “Hey there,” and walked to the back, where I wouldn’t see him until the end of the day.
Finally, I saw him raiding the fridge. I took the opportunity.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name for the past few months.”
He chuckled. “Karey Kirkpatrick.”
We shook hands, and I clumsily introduced myself as “Justin Strout - Intern.”
After the formalities, and a brief synopsis on why Fiji water is somehow more “water-y” than other bottled waters, I got up the nerve to ask what he did. This guy could’ve been some higher-up I never knew about, or worse, an actor.
“I’m a writer. I go back with David [Friendly, a producer at the company] and he lets me use a spare office they have here.”
“Oh! That explains a lot.”
Anyway, long story longer, we chatted up every once in a while after that, and eventually I asked what he was writing back there all day. His answer contained 3 words more than it needed.
“Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
I was stunned. I asked who he had in mind, and he said the only person he knows of in advance is Mos Def as Ford Prefect. We exchanged sentiments regarding the genius/puzzlement of that casting choice, and went about our business. And like that, I made contact with someone who was truly doing something good. Something creative. Something. I really needed it at the time.
Oh, and the movie is pretty good, but the book is better.