Rants.
That whimsy is difficult to achieve in a movie is obvious, and also a massive, insulting understatement. It’s next to God damn impossible, particularly in our MySpace, four cell phone society. Filmmakers rarely even bother striving for whimsy, making any movie is a enough of an opportunity to show your nuts, much less a film with fairies, goblins, ghosts, etc., much much less a film that involves said creatures chasing after a personified star for varied reasons that aren’t worth recounting. That’s what Stardust is though (no fairies, or goblins I’m afraid, but lots of ghosts and witches) and it works. It’s not a classic, but the film flies, primarily because the love story between Tristan (Charlie Cox) and the star in question (Claire Danes) is believable and surprisingly poignant. Some had a hard time believing that director Matthew Vaughn was following his brutal gangster picture, Layer Cake with this, but that works in an unexpected way. Vaughn doesn’t try too hard, his experience with Cake and the overrated Guy Ritchie pictures has left him hesitant to peddle the sentimentality, and so he doesn’t. And, as a result, you actually believe the world of Stardust.
I also believed the world of Tom Tykwer’s Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. Tykwer conjures a fascinating eighteenth century Paris of almost laughable, Dickensian rot, and the story itself starts strongly, following a young man (Ben Whishaw, more recently of I’m Not There) and his animalistic sense of smell as he works his way out of a brutal tannery and into the shop of a once revered perfumer (Dustin Hoffman). Whishaw is our lead, but he and Tykwer are so committed to the story’s idea of him as a blunt cipher that the supporting actors are forced to do the heavy lifting. That’s fine while Hoffman is the supporter, but the film shifts halfway through, and takes Whishaw to a small town of supposedly splendid scents that, in his desperation to find a perfume that satisfies his advanced abilities, turns him into some sort of hybrid of Jack the Ripper and Dr. Frankenstein. The supporting actor of this half is Alan Rickman, usually more than able to elevate his material, but here he’s left without too much to do. It’s all Whishaw, Whishaw, Whishaw, and soon you find that you don’t much give a hoot whether he’s caught, finds his perfume, or jumps of a picturesque cliff. In terms of raw, surface craft, this is one of Tykwer’s most impressive pictures, but it’s all in the service of a boring shaggy dog story, with an ending that hints at satire that seems to be just out of reach.
The satire of Mike Nichols’ Charlie Wilson’s War is front and center. The film is an entry in a genre I rarely care for, the Not that Significant, Self-Absorbed Deviate Learns the Value of Life and Improves It in Some Way and That’s Why We’re Making this Movie genre (I swear, it appears in Wikepedia just like that) but War has a boozy, free floating charm that it never entirely compromises. Aaron Sorkin wrote the script and he’s masterful when he reins in the overwriting and the outrage and simply tells a story (see the underrated The American President or the even more underrated television show Sports Night). Sorkin is in control of his faculties here, perhaps too much control; the film should be even boozier, druggier, angrier and more aggressive. There should be more scenes like Philip Seymour Hoffman’s first, where he tells a superior to fuck off and breaks their window with a wrench. There should be more Philip Seymour Hoffman period. Can we approve some sort of grant that allows him to triple his already prodigious output? Hoffman is to War, what Kathy Bates was to Nichols’ Primary Colors, he’s the showstopper, the scene stealer, the charismatic, unattractive, blunt misfit in a group of stars who lends the picture an element of danger. Hoffman compensates for Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts’ just fine but overly self-congratulatory performances. The film also has a happy ending that’s refreshingly not that happy, and it seems to me to be one of the more convincing pictures about the secret handshake operations of global governing.
Stardust: ★★★
Perfume: The Story of a Murderer: ★★
Charlie Wilson’s War: ★★★
Election (2005); Triad Election (2006)
Election and its sequel, Triad Election, have been playing in various festivals over the last few years, the buzz around them and their director, the prolific Johnny To, being considerably strong. The buzz is justified. Both films are tight, mean little gangster movies, and the now obligatory Faustian morality of the genre (still so overwhelmingly powerful in the first two Godfathers) works here too, because To isn’t trying to outdo Coppola in the Shakespearean grandeur department. To, like David Chase of The Sopranos, sees things more matter of factly.
The characters sell their souls for money and power, but it’s seen here as part of an inevitable process, an organic governing of society that involves the actual government, the triad (like our mafia) and assorted big businesses. The extinguishing of morality is viewed as evolutionary rather than tragic. To paraphrase a masterpiece that also happens to deal in inescapable corruption, To sees the future, though his films are quick to point out that the future, the past, and the present are inseparable.
At around 90 minutes and change each, you should just go for it and watch the Election films in a double bill, the majority of the stuff I just mentioned doesn’t come into play until the second, better, deeper film. Election is, inescapably, concerned with character introduction, we meet our various organizations and figure out the lay of the land as the forthcoming election for the Chairman of the Wo Sing Triad reaches its conclusion.
The election is meant to prevent violent upheavals in leadership, but I imagine you know how effective that turns out to be. The election of this first film is a close race between Lam Lok (Simon Yam), cold, calm, middle class, suburban looking, and Big D (Tony Leung Ka Fai) a dangerous hot head who resents the likelihood of finishing in second place. If you know your gangster movies, then you know Lok is the more dangerous, and this is confirmed beyond a shadow in the film’s abrupt, savage ending.
Election is a bit too dense for its own good. I hate to penalize films that make you work for the plot but I feel that it ultimately doesn’t benefit this film, particularly when compared to Triad Election. Election has a middle act that bogs down in the hunt for a relic that you don’t really care about, with convoluted loyalties that don’t ultimately add up to a whole lot; Triad Election is almost a horror film, following Jimmy (Louis Koo), a secondary character from the first film, as he takes on Lok for control of the triad. Where the first film feels cluttered, Triad Election is confident and more personal, detailing one person’s disintegrating integrity at a hushed, haunting distance. I know “distance” and “personal” don’t normally go hand in hand, but such is the strange tone that To works so well here.
This second film is also more violent and over the top, the lurid set pieces contributing to an escalating sense of a society reaching the brink of collapse, and being reigned back in by a larger structure of deeper corruption. Tradition, again, still turns out to be about who has the biggest stick. Several scenes should be mentioned, but let’s leave it at just one, that of several gangsters, in bizarre animal and clown masks that recall Kubrick’s The Killing, burying someone alive, the steady hum of a vent the only soundtrack. The broad arcs of gangster films are usually the same, it’s the bits of “business” in between that make or break them. Triad Election has enough great little vignettes of inhumanity for five pictures, but I’m going to let you discover the others for yourself.
Election : ★★★
Triad Election : ★★★½
Day Two: The Descent (2006)
We know the structure of most horror films. They are, to borrow an unoriginal metaphor, like mousetraps. The first act or maybe two is the pulling back, the latching. The last act or maybe two is the snap of the spring-the explosion of the tension the filmmaker has, hopefully, artfully set up.
The latching, the snapping into place of the elements that will bite you in the ass later on, is, of course, the most fun part of a great horror movie, and the part the amateurs tend to take the least seriously. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974*) is as good as people say it is, but it set a bad example of the the two act exposition that goes nowhere, that’s almost literally just watching paint dry until the killer shows up, the recent Wolf Creek is an example of this, but there are plenty more.
Even great horror films though, have a bit of nearly unavoidable inevitability, and this can damper the scares (or at least the shock). I’ve never seen a horror film that has a true coitus interruptus, that represents a total invasion, an authentic break from another story that was going on before the horror set in. You never feel that lives are being entered upon and shattered.
Instead, you feel you’re watching a bunch of people waiting for the horror to show up. Imagine a romantic comedy with Meg Ryan, where she’s brutally murdered halfway through after a charming evening of miscommunication with Hugh Grant, that would get people talking. And that would be true horror. People who are murdered in real life, haven’t, normally, been politely advised beforehand.
The Descent is one of the greatest pure visceral boo movies ever made, and, while we know we’re going into a horror movie before the horror starts, it comes about as close to capturing the violation mentioned above of as any film I can recall. Two thirds of The Descent’s running time concerns a group of over-zealous British female adventurers who venture into a cave that’s unmarked and dangerous, and details the humbling that Mother Nature deals as a result. This isn’t marking time, this isn’t a goof. The Descent is a gripping, convincing, claustrophobic, adventure film, all up until minute 55 or so.
The last third?
The last third is possibly the scariest monster movie I’ve ever seen.
But, as effective as Act III is (and its a doozy), much of The Descent’s effect can be credited to that opening hour. Neil Marshall, the writer-director here (this is his second film, after the charming but dorky Dog Soldiers) has talent, but, equally important, he actually gives a shit. He’s steeped in this stuff, the more movie saavy people in the room can play spot the homage, but Marshall doesn’t let his love for horror films past block his desire to contribute to the genre himself.
There’s a scene, about ten minutes before the true menace appears, where the women, convinced they’re trapped, find a map on the wall. They should be slightly happy, or at least buzzing with hope, which has been on short supply. We, as the audience, indulge in a little hope too, and that’s exactly when Marshall allows the primary riff of the score (familiar to anyone who’s seen John Carpenter’s The Thing) to be heard for the first time. It’s one of the great “oh, they are truly fucked” moments the movies have given us.
Marshall’s script should also be commended, as its a bit lighter on its feet than most in the genre. The ladies don’t have a whole lot of individuality, and they tend to fall under the James Cameron Fetish-Macho school of screenwriting, but their inner-relationships are confidently, organically established, with a minimum of fussy, boring exposition. Marshall even works in a betrayal that is shocking and ironic.
The Descent, with its images of people wriggling around in a Hellish underground populated by old, forbidden things, also recalls Henry Kuttner’s short story “The Graveyard Rats”, as well as Stephen King’s “Graveyard Shift**”, which was probably inspired by Kuttner’s story. I remembering reading Kuttner’s story as a child and craving a film that truly captured that dank, terrifying clamminess. Neil Marshall made that movie fifteen years later. And its a classic.
*Damn all these remakes! A horror title can’t be listed without including a year of release anymore.
**The story, not the movie, which leans a bit on the goofy side, though its fun in the right frame of mind.
Review: Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon (2006)
I’m a bit over post-modernism in movies lately, I say commit to the cliche wholeheartedly or discard it, but
Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon is an appealing sleeper. For one, the film is actually funny, and for two, it doesn’t have the superiority that has become suffocating in certain films, particularly in the horror genre.
Vernon follows a film crew as they follow Leslie Vernon (Nathan Baesel), an amusingly well spoken and good looking guy in his upper twenties, who aspires to be the next great serial killer in the tradition of Freddy Krueger, Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers, who actually exist in the world of this film. The particulars aren’t lingered on, but it would seem, until the end at least, that there is nothing supernatural about these killing machines, they just have a flair for showbiz, and actually benefit society by acting as manifestations of our anxiety (you know, what every shrink says about horror movies.)
Vernon is an ambitious man, and we watch as he does cardio (useful for keeping up with the victims while seemingly never breaking into a run) and searches for just the right group to stalk to ensure that his legacy will continue. Leslie Vernon had me the moment the great character actor Scott Wilson popped in as a mentor, and it certainly kept me when Robert Englund appears as a Loomis (Halloween, not Psycho, though you can be forgiven for some confusion) like character intent on stopping Vernon. Vernon himself couldn’t be happier, because you see, he’s found his “Ahab.”
You’re either going to go for this sort of thing or you’re not. Leslie Vernon is charming and well executed, and Baesel exudes considerable charisma as the lead. The film is clever, and never really bores until it becomes an actual slasher movie (and its still much better than the norm.) There is definitely a bit of the “short film inflated to feature length” vibe, but the movie’s lack of pretension makes it damn near impossible to dislike. The director here is Scott Glosserman, and I imagine that we will see him again.
Review: The Marine (2006)
There are some among you that will rent the Vince McMahon produced “The Marine” on the off chance that it will rekindle the magic of the laughably super violent, macho, politically incorrect, racist, sexist 1980s action thrillers such as “Commando”. Don’t fall for it though. “The Marine” is the worst of both worlds, managing to combine the ineptitude of ’80s action with the defanged/PC/PG horeshit that plagues current wanna sell you a Happy Meal action. It’s soft core porn without the porn.
Review: Hostel (2006)
What’s it saying about American films, that sex: the pursuit, the promise of it, and ultimately the fulfillment of the act itself, is scarier than the violence that said sex inevitably conjures? Being kidnapped, tied up and, of course, etc. (there’s no horror film without the et cetera.) can’t hold a candle to the weird, creepy act of copulation in American horror films. If you haven’t seen Hostel, and I’m going to eventually, with only some reservation, recommend that you do, to reveal further, the et cettera, would kill the fun, would deflate what’s best about the film: a long, seductive, nearly forty minute slow burn that constitutes much more restraint in the realm of the American horror film than you are accustomed to.
Films that revel in large scenes of explicit, uninteruppted torture, your “Saw” movies, your “Wolf Creeks” and so forth, have been labeled as “torture porn” by better writers than myself. It’s glib, its one of those things a writer says hoping to be the first to have said it, but it fits something as mindless as the Saw series (which are basically the David Fincher movie “Seven” crossed with a game show of your choice, Wheel of Fortune perhaps, only in this case you would spin a wheel once to choose a body part, and again to specify which ironic instrument of torture be used to remove said body part). At this juncture, though he may eventually compell me to eat my words, I think its unfair to lump Eli Roth, director of Cabin Fever, and Hostel, in that group just yet. He’s a little too enthralled with crappy 1980s conventions that don’t work (cartoonish violence, intentionally un-PC jokes that aren’t funny anyway) but he has ambition, and when his indulgences are in check, something close to real style.
“Hostel” concerns three backpackers in Europe on a quest for great pot and even greater pussy. They are young, they are about to go to college and/or write the great American novel, and they, like everyone, want that last great drug binge/lay before they settle back in to more socially acceptable lives. Roth gets this right, he understands the conventions of a slasher film enough to know that at least a third of the slasher film’s running time is devoted to screwing with you, but he has the talent, and the sense, to make the opening act play like more than just marking time. The kids’ dialogue is right, they drop the f-word with a cadence that’s familiar to anyone who’s been to a kegger til five in the morning, and they aren’t burdened with leaden expository passages. Roth knows you know this part of the story already, so he slims it down, tweaks, and gives you something just a little bit off from your preconceptions of a film presented by Quentin Tarantino with a bloody chair on its poster.
The problem is, just as you drop your guard with “Hostel”, and begin to engage in the pleasures of the film’s dank, eerie atomsphere and cheerfully amoral, xenophobic characters (ripe for a lesson delivered via power drill), the film becomes exactly what it just covinced you it wasn’t: over the top, and eventually quite stupid. “Hostel” has cooked up a theme, the continual anxiety between the U.S. and every other country who resents our egotistical entitlement, that is worthy of a great, timely horror film. But Roth, backs off and slacks off, and provides the usual slasher jollies, better directed than most (its still leagues over the Saws and Wolf Creeks of the world) but still the same-o, same-o.
“Hostel” is not as violent as Roth is hoping you think it is, but I think it’s still probably too violent. I say this not as a concerned parent, but as someone who feels the forboding Roth works up in the first half (he even manages a visual cue or two from “Don’t Look Now”) should not, on any grounds be compromised. The tonal inconsistency of “Hostel” is epitomized in a scene an hour and change into the picture when the lead character (the one who hasn’t succumbed to the film’s evils) meets one of the predators face to face, and the predator, mistaking the hero as one of his own, begins to work himself up, to rant, about the pleasures of his circumstance. Roth has a great idea here, but unfortunately he makes the obvious choice, to portray the bad guy as a complete loony. A scarier possibility, and one that can be seen in the 1988 film “The Vanishing”, would have been a character pushed by a malignant curiosity, a nice guy rotting from within. The fact that this rot is acknowledged at all in “Hostel” marks it as a cut above the usual business, but Roth spoiled me, made me greedy for the possibility of a slasher film that actually cuts socially as well as literally.
-Bowen
Review: Brick (2006)
Brendan (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is a brooding high school student with problems that I imagine a majority of teenagers can relate to at some point or another. His girlfriend, Emily (Emilie De Raven) resenting him for being so closed of, has recently ditched him for another clique. To retaliate, Brendan rats Emily’s new boyfriend out to the VP (Richard Roundtree, welcome in any film), who as a result, now views him as his own personal stool pigeon and whipping boy.
Perhaps unavoidably, Emily’s new clique also hates him, he feels detached from everyone else and eats alone, and, at least over the course of the film, only converses with one character who doesn’t resent or want to hurt him, and that would be the Brain (Matt O’Leary), who’s more comfortable watching and reading than doing (screw being a teen I can relate to that now) but, fortunately, as a result can be depended on for dirt on just about everyone else, probably because nobody notices him, which is at least preferred to the more malicious attention that Brendan receives.
Brenden’s other major crisis, and one that I hope most teens can’t relate to, is that Emily, is, at the start of the film, dead. Her vitality and livelihood, as well as Brendan’s hopes of ever again having her, seemingly washing away in the drain pipe she was either killed or deposited in. This opening, with Brendan discovering Emily in the drain pipe, the most we see of her being the strange blue bracelet she wore, is jarringly beautiful and melancholy. It has an erotic dread that instantly recalls the dead Laura Palmer in Twin Peaks , the genre bending, culture defining noir TV series from the early 1990s. Brick is a genre bender too, a surprising hybrid of noir and high school melodrama, a film where dodging class, and solving the murder of your ex-girlfriend carry not entirely unequal weight.
Brendan, like many a P.I. and love lorn sucker before him, sets out to solve and avenge Emily’s murder, and over the course of his investigation, he brushes up against the kinds of oddballs and eccentrics that you can depend on a noir to provide. I won’t go through all of them, discovery is half the fun in a film like this, but I will say that, besides Levitt’s compelling, grounded lead performance (following his implosive, brilliant turn in last year’s under looked Mysterious Skin), the characters that most impressed me were “The Pin” (Lukas Haas) a slightly older drug dealing string puller who dresses like a German Expressionist’s version of a vampire bat, limps on a cane and lives with his mother, Tugger (Noah Fleiss), The Pin’s henchman, a hot head who engages (in one of Brick’s best scenes) Brendan in a game of chicken in a parking lot, and, the sirens of the film, Laura (Nora Zehetner), who’s playing one of the Pin’s best dealers, and Kara (Meagan Good), a drama guru who, as Brendan puts it, “picks her teeth with freshman.”
I loved parts of this film and the high school noir fusion is gimmicky but reinvigorates both genres in surprising, rewarding ways. High school is a perfect backdrop for the inherent paranoia of the noir genre, and the setting seems to heighten the stakes of everything involved. He may talk like it, but Brendan isn’t Bogart, and he’s never able to totally hide his vulnerability. (Though, truthfully, neither was Bogart, and that’s part of the secret to his everlasting appeal. “You think no one notices you eating lunch by yourself”, Laura tells him, in a wonderful scene that I’m paraphrasing, “but they do.” Brick is a stunt, but it’s a stunt with a surprisingly deep current of teenage ache.
The film’s writer-director Rian Johnson (in his debut, he previously edited the overlooked horror film May) displays an intimidating, dazzling control of atmosphere and mood, but his ambitions sabotage him toward the end. In the second half, Brick becomes more obviously a contraption, playing the old incomprehensible plot game that so famously served The Big Sleep many years ago. Here it’s a fizzle, and by the time Brendan finds Emily’s killer he’s lost in so many other double crosses that he didn’t seem to care any more than I did. All’s forgiven though in the quiet, knockout final scene that underlines just how much was at stake.
- Bowen
Review: “For Your Consideration” (2006)
For ten years and now four movies (Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show, A Mighty Wind being the prior three) director Christopher Guest, his co-writer Eugene Levy, and their inspired cast of improvisers have perfected a very personal, signature comedy. Let’s call it the 85 minute deflated sigh, the realization that you can’t have what you want, that the stars are most certainly NOT the limit. The luckiest characters in Guest’s universe never realize this, and continue to march along to their own inward tune of mediocrity.
Guest’s movies have become increasingly melancholy, culminating in “A Mighty Wind”, the most emotionally rounded, satisfying of the three. The comedy of the clueless was still present (though not as mean as Guffman) but there was, especially in Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara’s raw performances, a newfound empathy, a sense that this what Guest and Levy had been working toward all along.
“For Your Consideration”, a spoof of Oscar fever as seen through the cast and crew of a broadly inane movie, has the lamest premise of the four, and Guest himself covered similar ground in the non-improvised, not bad “The Big Picture” in the early 1990s. The first half of Consideration, detailing the making of said movie, is underwhelming. Guest’s routine, his rhythm, has gotten predictable, and, as talented as the cast is, they are disappointingly unstretched. Its especially disheartening to see Levy, so good in Wind, return to playing the clueless schmiel that he’s honed in paycheck pictures.
But then Oscar hope spreads through the project like insidious wildfire, and “For Your Consideration”, at that point a forgettable fourth trip to a familiar well, becomes the blackest, most unflinching thing Guest has ever made, epitomized in Catherine O’Hara’s brilliant, wax figure freak show variation of Gloria Swanson’s work in Sunset Blvd. O’Hara plays Marilyn Hack, the lead of the film, and the one most damaged by delusions of grandeur. Hack’s fall, and her chilling final line, bluntly brings to the forefront everything Guest has been up to for the last decade. Catherine O’Hara is worth seeing the movie for, and, while the film is largely uneven, this direction leaves one wondering what Guest and Levy will be up to next.
Review: Inland Empire (2006)
As prerequisite viewing for Inland Empire, I offer The Short Films of David Lynch and Eraserhead, and with those under your belt you’ll be best prepared for what Lynch is up to in his newest three hour, wildy non-linear fusion of Hollywood Babylon and women in peril picture. All of Lynch’s movies, even at their seemingly weirdest and most incomprehensible, have some sort of thematic through line, some emotional residue that connects the set pieces. Inland Empire, Lynch’s most ambitious and intentionally infuriating work, is no different, and it may be one of Lynch’s most compassionate films if you view it in a certain way. I had a very concrete view of what happens in Lynch’s prior film, Mulholland Dr., and most people I talked to had a similar theory.
This film will not be the same, it may intentionally be designed to have NO decoder ring. I’m not sure, I have a theory as to what it means personally, but you could view it in fifty other ways, or in no way at all. I will say, as some others have, that it is one of the very best, most convincing dream films ever made, and that it has one of the all time best Lynch performances in Laura Dern’s portryal of Nikki/Susan, a woman who either digs deep in herself to give the performance of a lifetime, or succumbs to insanity, or both, or neither.
Portions of this film are rapt and terrifying and beautiful as to be expected from Lynch but others are deeply tedious also, and it seems that the purpose of the running time is to intentionally make it an ordeal, a major thing that can’t be tossed off in between shopping and lunch. I didn’t love Inland Empire, the film may be unlovable, and I was mad walking out of it, but portions of it have stayed with me, and I admire the film’s stubborness, and its unshakable notion of an existence completely beyond one’s control.
Lynch’s decision to shoot in digital is jarring, but it rapidly becomes very integral to the work, and, as usual with Lynch, the sound design is astounding. If you can I suggest this be seen in a theatre, as I imagine most home systems will not do the film justice. I look forward to debating this film with Lynchheads over the coming years.
Review: Stranger Than Fiction (2006)
I’ve enjoyed Will Ferrell over the last several years in comedies such as Old School, Elf and (especially) Anchorman, but I think, like Jack Black (who intially interested me in High Fidelity and School of Rock) it’s time to maybe call it quits. It’s not you, its me. Ferrell is a likeable performer, and he has that thing important to a comic star in that you root for him even when he’s making a total horse’s ass out of himself, but that’s it. There’s no inner anything going on. It’s (more and more sporadically these days) funny, but it’s shallow, and nothing sticks. He doesn’t have that tightly coiled inner self loathing that seems to turn certain comics into wonderful actors (with the right director Robin Williams has it, and so does Jim Carrey, and so did John Candy).
And this is going to be a problem for Ferrell as he tries to do the “serious actor” bit, and it really hurts in “Stranger than Fiction”, a light, barely there to begin with Charlie Kauffmanish thingamagoo about a man, Harold Crick (sigh, played by Ferrell) who begins to hear his life narrated back to him by a successful Brtish writer (Emma Thompson), who’s planning on killing him at the end of the book (she’s known for tragedies.) The film never establishes its rules, (is Ferrell a fictional character? if so how does he talk to everyone else? Are they fiction?) so we never really understand what’s at stake. I champion ambiguity in movies, but this seems more of a case of writer laziness than any inherent dramatic necessity. Dustin Hoffman and Maggie Gyllenhaal add some life, but it’s not enough. It could have been cunning to cast Will Ferrell as a lost cipher (the sort of personality inside out that worked so well for Sandler in Punchdrunk Love), but the film doesn’t know what to do with that idea.
-Bowen
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