The Black Death (The Woman in Black - Film #6)

Figure One: Poor Daniel Radcliffe, seen here doing his best impersonation of John Stamos's sideburns.

The Woman in Black is a touching tale of the extremes some mothers will go to get revenge for the perceived mistreatment of their children. Or, more aptly, it is a cautionary tale on the poetic potency of promising never, ever to forgive anyone for anything. It begins, like most of these things begin, with a death. Actually, if you want to get all technical about it, it begins with the taking of imaginary toast and tea.

Figure Two: The Three Fisher Girls do their best impersonation of Ginny Weasley, as possessed by Tom Riddle

The opening sequence would have been so much scarier for me if the three barely pubescent teenaged girls next to me didn't provide this not-so-subtle running commentary:

Thing One: Why is there no tea coming out of the teapot?

Thing Two: Oh MY GOD! Why are they stepping on the doll's head!?!

Thing Three: SSSHHHHHH! HAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Thing One: That poor DOLL!

Thing Two: I don't get why they stepped on her head!

Thing Three: HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA.

It went on like that until my sister went to fetch an usher to properly shush the crap out of them.

By then, I'd missed the basic "set-up" of the tale, but, thanks to the girls next to me, managed to figure out that Harry Potter was, in fact, the star of the movie. I'm pretty sure, if they were asked to describe the plot of the movie they paid good money to see, the girls next to us would say something like this:

Harry Potter's wife dies and he gets, like, really sad but is happy when a baby crow delivers him a letter to go to Hogwarts (see Figure Three below).

Upon arriving to Hogmeade, Harry is mistreated by the suspicious townfolk who think he is a Muggle Warlord, and, like the Baby Jesus, tell him there is simply no room in the inn for his kind. He stays anyways, because, he's like, so totally badass.

Harry goes to Hogwarts, where he learns all kinds of cool spells! And tries to find this creepy old unnamed lady who is, like, totally killing all the little kids in Hogmeade. She really needs a butterbeer!

Figure Four: Expelliarmus, Woman in Black!

So, anyways, Harry isn't really observant, and he keeps "seeing" the Woman in Black, and kids keep dying, but his friend Hagrid and Professor Trelawney invite him over for dinner and help him avoid the townspeople. During dinner, Professor Trelawney totally has this vision and starts drawing pictures into the dining room table with the butter knife. She's, like, so not a good artist.

Figure Five: Harry and Professor Trelawney discuss the likelihood of this movie not having a happy ending.

Finally, Harry decides that in order for You Know Who to not kill his still living son, he'd better reunite the Dark Lord-ette with her "lost" child. He and Hagrid go into the moors at midnight, armed with a car and some very sturdy rope. Then, Harry's all like "Accio, muddy corpse!" and he and Hagrid reunite the Dark Lord-ette with her baby. They think they've totally crushed the last Horcrux...Of course, She Who Shall Not Be Named has other plans. The movie ends with Harry Potter and his son waiting at King's Cross Station on Platform 9 3/4 for the Hogwart's Express. To Heaven.

Sigh.

Sadly, they're not that far off.

This film's got plenty of scares - and WAY too many creepy antique toys. And I was with it for 99% of its journey (if you count, hiding behind my sophisticated grey sweater as "with it"). The end, well, the end is terrible. It was as if someone told the filmmakers that a "happy ending" was essential, that death cannot simply be a terrifying place where ladies in black and the much-maligned youth of whatever-town-they-lived-in all run free and torment the living. If you shave off the film's final three minutes, well, then it's a jolly good show ol' chap and I'm so very glad to have seen it during the daylight hours.

Now, rot in hell, xoxo, forever and ever and ever,

The Woman in Grey and Blue

X-Men: The Mutant Who Shagged Me ("film" #5)

Lauren Fidler

Professor Jennifer Fidler

FiftyFiftyMe 101: Film #5

February 21, 2012

I'll Make a Man of You: Gender Roles and the Cinematic 60s Weltanschauung

The world is a crazy place, that is, if we're meant to believe the trite vision espoused by Matthew Vaughn's X-Men: First Class. Predictably, we begin in the 40s, the dying embers of World War II, where most of these "films" draw so much of their seeming power. Moving from the vastly different upbringings of Charles Xavier and Eric Lehnsherr, one a lonely millionaire with a little blue friend and the other a Nazi test monkey with a German tormentor, we learn in brief of the tragic youths of three of the franchise's most potent and recognizable characters. Then, suddenly, it's 1960-whatever, and the times, they are a-changin'. The skirts get shorter, the men get sleazier, and the world is once more staring down a war of epic proportions. Amid the backdrop of sexual liberation, communist threat, and cultural shifting, mutants here rise to public cognizance, and, yet, for what should be a grandiose origin story,the film feels spectacularly hollow. The film sets back the feminist movement a solid fifty years, making the men from Mad Men look munificent in their treatment of women. To call this installment "first class" thus not only speaks to the blatant misogynistic irony of the title but also calls into question the integrity and intelligence of those involved in its construction.

Figure One: January Jones tackles the grueling task of playing a scantily clad female superhero/mutant.

Consulting a catalog of the female characters depicted in X-men: First Class, one will confront the following: an icy sexbot, a stripper, a would-be waitress, a much-maligned mother, a cute co-ed, and a CIA agent. Before you get all excited that one of those female's jobs seems highly forward thinking for the time period, let me assure you that in her first scenes on screen, she removes most of her clothing and parades around a gentleman's club dressed like an underfed, naughty orphan. Oh, how very far we've come. To pass this off simply as "it was the 60s" seems highly irresponsible, particularly considering that, historically speaking, women during this time period were curvy, not emaciated, and wore supportive, not suggestive undergarments. But I digress. The portrayal of female characters here leaves nothing to the imagination, and, by that, I don't mean merely visually. Mutants with powers like those belonging to Emma Frost or Mystique should not be lackeys of the men in their lives. Emma Frost is essentially Charles Xavier, only with the ability to turn into a deranged crystallized Barbie. Mystique can mimic anyone. Together, they could rule the world. Instead, Emma Frost serves the maniacal Sebastian Shaw, while the moon-pie faced Mystique wonders if anyone will ever really want to kiss her if she's sporting her mutant body. (spoiler: someone does!!!)

If the women here are maligned to suffer moodily through their half-naked scenes, the men here fare little better. Michael Fassbender is almost completely wasted as Magneto, a man whose own humanity cleansing proclivities render him on par with Stalin and Hitler and whose vendetta is never political, just personal. James McAvoy pulls off smarmy professor about as convincingly as someone who looks perpetually seventeen can. His early screen time consists, pathetically and predominantly, of him attempting to chat up gently mutated human girls in bars. The fact that he is a professor and they are undergrads is never mentioned. Hey, it was the 60s after all. If women are mainly objectified objet d'art in this weltanschauung, the men are gods of their little universes, wielding control and brandishing punishment to those who attempt to cross the lines. They seem preoccupied with 1. world domination 2. revenge 3. sex and 4. mutant cultivation. Oh, and wearing supersexy helmets to keep others out of their heads. A safe precaution and lesson in the dangers of making yourself emotionally vulnerable during a time when casual intercourse reigned supreme. Still, the image might have felt more poignant if it didn't not-so-subtly reinforce the notion that real men don't talk about their feelings.

Figure Two: Magneto sports a brain condom. Keep it secret, keep it safe.

The film's most disturbing parallel, however, doesn't stem from the battle of the sexes but from an uneasy correlation to fascism. Beginning with the Nazis and moving seamlessly into the Cold War relations with Russia, the film hits on some of the most difficult ideologies of the early part of the last century. Magneto/Eric's personal beliefs surrounding the dominance of mutants leaves then the viewer with no choice but to view him as the next societal devil. His murdering of Sebastian Shaw is, as I previously mentioned, distinctly personal - a "screw you" for killing his mother. He even admits that he shares a similar philosophy to Shaw, implying that, if things had been different, the two might have joined forces. Then, we normal humans really would have been screwed. Luckily, for all his mutant superpower, Sebastian Shaw is mortal, done in less than poetically by the same Nazi coin he gives young Magneto for unleashing his power in one of the film's earlier scenes. This is a mutant who internalized Havoc's man-magma and regurgitated it into an unfortunate Darwin; death by dime thus feels, like the rest of the film, more than a little forced.

X-men: First Class isn't unwatchable; it's just not very good. It purports to address the many questions unanswered by latter films, yet inevitably just leaves the viewer with more uncomfortable questions in their stead. The most pertinent being: would you watch it again? Well, in the immortal words of Professor Charles Xavier, I'll let you know tomorrow.

All for One and One for Money (The Three Musketeers - Movie #4)

my latest film is an homage to the french pulp writer alexandre dumas's seminal classic "the three musketeers" - the touching tale of how four men rid their country of conniving ladies, weak politicos, and overreaching cardinals.

or something.

here is the movie poster:

yes, orlando bloom totally insisted that his face get total precedence in this film's poster. and, yes, i'm going to use the word "film" here VERY loosely.

instead of reviewing this film, perhaps we could play a rollicking game of "count the gratuitous phallic symbols" on its poster instead and call it a day?

no?

pity.

here's the long and short of it: it's a kitschy "pirates of the caribbean"/"kill bill"/"goonies" spin on the classic tale of swordfightin' and womanizin'. athos is sad, aramis is a smoothsmoothie of a priest, and porthos is a bulldog masquerading as a pirate. d'artagnan has cockiness issues, daddy issues, and unsatisfied urges. he gets into duels with all the musketeers on the same day! which, if you've read the book OR seen the charlie sheen/kiefer sutherland/oliver platt/chris o'donnell version of the film, you already knew was coming. hijinx ensue.

i guess i just didn't get the point. i mean, i could see redoing the movie, if, perhaps, you were going to take it in a different direction. but nope. it was virtually a cliched hackjob of every other film in this genre. i'm fairly certain approximately 77% of the dialogue was ripped from other films (including the aforementioned charlie sheen opus). because you can't really pick apart this film's "art", the most logical course of reviewing would here seem to be to give awards. so, let's do this thing!

worst wig: d'artagnan - hands down his hair piece is the least sexy thing about this film. i thought chris o'donnell's 80s streisand wig from the disney musketeers movie was bad, but this, this was awful. he looked like liz lemon after she gets that talk show and cuts her hair. so bad.

scene stealer: the porkchop who played planchet. loved him.

most gratuitous use of a wife: paul w.s. anderson...dude, we get it. you married milla jovovich. but guess what? we've been over her since about 1998. stick a fork in her, she's done.

most likely to be mistaken as orlando bloom: luke evans. if you watch these things for eye candy, watch for this kid. he's like a moody, misanthropic orlando bloom, before bloom became the king of campy scenery chewing.

best bouffant: orlando bloom - hey, he had to win something. if not our hearts, well, then, something else. here's his hair really speaks for itself. maybe once he stops letting himself get typecast as a swashbuckling flamboyant pirate prince, he can go play an elf again or something.

saddest acceptance of a part/best voice: matthew macfadyen - this guy has so much potential and it's squandered here in a film that just blows the shofar. he should be reading chekov on tapes, lulling us to sleep with that deep, resonate voice. not spewing half-witted lines about having a woman to keep you warm at night being the most super-specialest thing ever about life.

most abused use of CGI: AIRSHIPS!!! WTF! no need. i'm sure mythbusters is already on this one, so i'll move on.

most blatant anachronism: this was a toss up for me between the mistakenly long life of james I (he was dead by the film's proposed setting date) and the hall of mirrors being alive, well, and functioning during the reign of louis xiii. there's some confusion regarding the completion of notre dame, but i'll magnanimously let that slide for more egregious errors.

most pathetic plea for a sequel/worst plot device resolution: the last scene. 'nuff said. although christoph waltz's richlieu being able to keep calm and carry on with no consequences also lacked satisfaction as well. there was no "gotchya!" here. just some lame dancing and the ominous hint of more mediocrity to come.

seriously, there were several scenes where the actors just gave looks to the camera as if to say "hey, it's a paycheck!" or "it's your fault for watching this shit!"...it went beyond a sly wink to the audience. it was a cheeky rebuff for wasting our time.

still, if you're looking for fluff, i suppose it could have been worse. it could have been longer.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - The Daniel Craig Edition (Film #3)

how did an agoraphobe with two small children and no inclination to procure a babysitter find herself watching david fincher's latest opus?

i'll never tell.

let's start off with the basics. i've read the book (SHOCKER), i've seen the swedish version (MANDATORY), and now i've watched the american version (NATURAL EXTENSION OF THE CYCLE). when i read the book, the ENTIRE time, i kept saying, "dude, if they don't get daniel craig to play this guy in the movie, they're off their rockers!"...

...which must have been annoying to the seven people who read my goodreads review on the subject.

so, imagine my bliss when i heard about wee danny craig getting cast over some less stellar choices - johnny depp (let's all remember how well he played a writer in "the secret window", shall we?), george clooney (who is too cary grant winky for the role), and brad pitt (who historically can't do accents, see "Snatch", "Troy," etc.). and i get it, some of you all had "misconceptions" about the casting because daniel craig is super-mc-dreamy as james bond and y'all want to double-o his seven. i get that. he's not the action star here; that job is up to lisbeth. and he lets her do her job, so that he can do his.

and he does it well.

even if you never see him look like this:

so, i guess the big question other reviewers struggle with is: was this film necessary? didn't the swedish picture kinda-sorta hit it out of the park on greatness of awkward rape/sex/attempted murder scenes?

and i guess my answer is: no.

yes, the swedish version is intense and amazing and noomi rapace is SO much better in that film than she is in the new "sherlock holmes" (review to come) BUT there's no daniel craig, no christopher plummer, no charles widmore, no robin wright (post-penn), and perhaps the greatest flaw, no stellan skarsgard.

can we just put this out there: the whole word needs to thank god for the existence of stellan skarsgard (who not only gives the CREEPIEST performance ever in this movie, thus totally redeeming himself for that whole "pirates of the caribbean" thing but also for giving us alexander skarsgard in all his viking-esque glory).

fincher is really successful at manipulating the creep factor. another horrifying score by trent reznor (worst shout out in the film: plague's NIN shirt) augments the pervasive terror. the sleek, austere scandinavian decor - all teak and glass and white and minimalist - also feed into the slow brewing horror. it's clinical and yet totally tweaked - exactly the tone of the book.

there are some changes here - most of which i agree with and none of which i'll spoil - the narrative feels less clunky than the book and therefore more successful. we never, for example, have to sit through an awkward intermission while blomkvist goes to prison to think about why it's wrong to libel someone for a month or three. the film partly succeeds because it edits down the novel so that stories open and close together without any lingering doubts or concerns. the end is heartbreaking.

3.5 stars. i really have no impulse to ever watch this movie again, but i'm curious to see the next one.