'Warm Bodies' Review

9/10

PG-13, 98 minutes, 2013

How ironic that a movie about the undead could bring so much life to a genre desperately in need of creativity and originality. Warm Bodies is one of the most surprisingly sweet romantic comedies made in the last decade, despite the presence of flesh-eating hordes, gun-toting teens, and John Malkovich. Made with a touch of indie-film flair, but with enough of the standard boy-meets-girl formula and zombie mayhem to appeal to the casual film-goer, this may be the most widely appealing zombie flick since Shaun of the Dead. Funny how both of said films are comedies. Maybe this is proof that zombie films should never be taken seriously. And yet, despite the humor and satire present, Bodies turns into what could be the most rewarding of zombie films on an emotional level, not just because of the Shakespearean romance, but because of the way the film calls us to reexamine our own lives, and what it means to be human.

R (Nicholas Hoult) is a zombie, and our semi-reliable narrator. After a zombie apocalypse, the world has been divided into three categories: surviving humans, brain-seeking zombies, and the dangerous "boneys," which are essentially walking black skeletons. R spends his days wandering around an airport overrun by his kind, trying to interact with other zombies and musing about who he was before the apocalypse happened. The film's humor sets in almost immediately, as we realize what these zombies represent: human beings who have lost their humanity, and are desperately searching for it, while the boneys are the ones who have given up hope entirely. The reason why the zombies eat brains is to feel a bit of the humanity they lost, if only for a moment (upon eating the brains, they see the memories of the brain-owner). R wants very badly to regain his old life, but this is hard when your body is decaying and conversations are limited to grunts. "Must have been a lot better before, when everyone could express themselves, communicate their feelings and just enjoy each other's company," R thinks to himself. This musing is immediately followed by a shot of the airport before the apocalypse, when everyone was still human, but plugged into their phones. You see the parallel, right? Yeah buddy, it was a lot better before.

But like all classic romances, a girl (Teresa Palmer) soon enters the picture. A human girl, no less. And suddenly, R is able to make more than one facial expression. He can now make his eyes widen like "whoa." The girl's name is Julie (that's right, R and Julie) and she and her friends are out retrieving medical supplies for Julie's father, who runs the human survival camp. The attraction is real, but many obstacles will have to be overcome to win her love, the first being that during the attack, he unknowingly killed her boyfriend and ate his brains. Darn. But once R rescues Julie from the hordes, he does his best not to kill her, or anyone else ever again. Soon, Julie begins to see something different about R. She recognizes the humanity he has deep down under all that rotting flesh and bone. Convincing her dad to allow such a relationship will be a challenge, especially since her dad is John Malkovich. Julie's bitter father has, in some ways, lost his humanity too, because he's allowed tragedy to harden his heart, and can no longer see the goodness in the world, let alone in zombies.

All this plays out like a star-crossed romance, but with a rom-com happy ending that works on both a comedy and romance level. If you're a cynic about love, you won't appreciate the way that love is used to make the zombies human again. But that's exactly why this is one of the most unexpectedly uplifting zombie movies of all time. Through the power of human affection, the zombies' blood starts pumping again, and they are able to rejoin society. Blessed Mother Teresa once said that "We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love." It's a simple message, but one that is often taken for granted and rarely shown on the screen in such a way that doesn't feel forced. In this way, Warm Bodies not only reinvigorates the romantic comedy, but also the age old message of love's healing power, a message that never really decays.

'Big Eyes' Review

7/10

PG-13, 106 minutes, 2014

It is perhaps fitting that Tim Burton, a director whose filmography defines kitsch, would choose to direct a biopic about a fellow artist from the 1960’s who helped make kitsch cool. Strange, then, that Big Eyes turns into what could be Tim Burton’s least kitschy film. This is not entirely a bad thing, as many of his recent directorial efforts were not as successful as his earlier pop-culture hits. However, by playing this one mostly straight, and less wacky, it loses some of that classic Burton feel that fans (myself included) have grown to love. That being said, one has to respect the man for branching out and trying his hand at something different, and coming up with mostly satisfying results.

Big Eyes is the crazy true story of artist Margaret Keane (Amy Adams) who became famous for her paintings of “doe-eyed” children, but not before her husband Walter (an evil-but-in-a-funny-way Christoph Waltz) takes credit for her paintings and forces her to keep producing them under his name. When the two first meet at a San Francisco art fair, he appears charming and even talented, presenting work that he claims to have painted himself. Margaret buys into his outward kindness and flattery, and the two are soon married. Not long after this, Margaret’s work catches the public eye when Walter is displaying their combined work, his being generally ignored. He then convinces his wife to put the paintings under his name since “women’s art isn’t taken seriously.” Confused and reluctant though she is, Margaret does what her husband says and the profits come rolling in. But despite her new-found prosperity, her life begins to feel like a cage, as she grows more and more uncomfortable lying to her friends, the press, and especially her daughter, Jane, whom she had from a previous marriage. She grows even more uncomfortable once she realizes just how sociopathic her husband really is.

Burton’s eye for visuals is on full display here, though in a more restrained manner than Edward Scissorhands or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He uses his tricks well to capture the period mood, and to convey Margaret’s inner turmoil about lying, which was often reflected in Margaret’s own paintings during her marriage to Walter. The most Burton-esque moment comes during a scene in the grocery store when Margaret begins seeing the customers and employees with big eyes like the ones in her paintings. The movie could have actually used more weird moments like this, especially towards the end when the film begins to drag a bit. But the final scene makes the drier parts worth it, when the court finally decides who the real artist is. While the trial seems outlandish and unbelievable, it just goes to show that truth can be stranger than fiction.

Faith plays an interesting role in this movie as well. Although there is a certain “try anything” attitude Margaret takes, which feels realistic for the decade, she comes off as a woman genuinely searching for what is good, and just never had anyone to show her the way. Experiencing intense guilt one day, she goes to a Catholic priest for confession, even though she was raised Methodist. (Not telling the priest the whole situation, he is unable to give her sound advice.) Later, she reads a pamphlet from Jehovah’s witnesses about the value of honesty, and has a conversion to their faith. (Again, true to the real story.) This conversion leads to her decision to come clean about who the real artist is. Rather than see this as a ‘make your own truth’ philosophy, I see it as a testament to universal truths, specifically honesty, that can be found in all faiths. All people are on different journeys, but real, lasting truth can always be found if you’re truly open to it. In Big Eyes, Margaret Keane discovers the value of honesty, and as a result, she is set free.

'Sicario' Review

R, 121 minutes, 2015

8/10

Crime films and political thrillers are a tricky business. There’s always a temptation for filmmakers to push a personal agenda and drown a potentially good story in heavy-handed critiques of society or government. This is far from the case in Sicario, a tense, tight, and often disturbing thriller set in the world of the Mexican drug trade. Films set in the criminal underworld usually commit one of two sins: they either completely demonize the people in the business, or glamorize them far too much. But director Denis Villeneuve does neither, choosing rather to paint a bleak portrait of normal people living in a hellish situation, with a main character (a brilliantly convincing Emily Blunt) who acts as us, the audience, viewing this dark world with confused and frightened eyes.

Blunt is Kate Macer, an FBI agent called to work with the CIA in order to uncover the leader of a notorious drug cartel. The CIA team is led by Matt Graver (Josh Brolin, in reliable Brolin mode) whose lax attitude towards the rules makes Kate uneasy, and she suspects he may not be telling her everything about the mission. This is especially true when she meets his Colombian partner (an effectively creepy Benicio del Toro), who seems to have an agenda all his own. Soon enough, Kate is at the center of a war where everything she was trained for no longer matters. This is a world where the law and the outlaw are sometimes one and the same.

The plot unravels slowly, but with each revelation, the tension mounts, all leading up to a shocking and unsettling climax. Though the answers to the plot are revealed, the answers to the moral questions raised by Kate and the viewer are left for discussion afterward. Where do we, as Americans, draw the line with the war on drugs? When do we stop being soldiers and become the monsters we claim to be fighting? Does keeping the violence down and our family safe justify cooperating with crime? Villeneuve ponders this last notion in a series of scenes showing a corrupt Mexican police officer at home with his wife and son. He acts the way any caring, compassionate father should towards his family, except for his participation in the drug trade that’s overtaken the country and affected the lives of so many. Is he wrong to do this for the sake of his family? None of the answers come easy, but that’s part of the genius of Sicario. Despite the unsettling ending (one might have wished for more closure for some characters), it leaves one staring in shock at the screen and with plenty to talk about. 

(Content warning: Plenty of language and some brief but grisly images of murder victims.)

The Problems of Pan.

A review of the movie Pan. 

3 out of 10 stars.

Pan could be viewed not just as a bad film, but as a commentary on the current state of Hollywood's severe lack of creativity and originality.  For every inventive touch the filmmaker's give this Peter Pan origin story, there are included alongside it at least three uninspired cliches.  No matter how much I wanted to like this film, I could not see past all the poor filmmaking decisions and the desire the studio had to follow the current trend of superhero-type stories and 'fulfilling my destiny' stories rather than tell a true Peter Pan tale.  In fact, they could have changed the title to 'Potter' and no one would have been able to tell the difference.  Not one bit of this movie, other than a few names and locations, bears the slightest resemblance to J.M. Barrie's timeless tale.  Instead, it just feels like another garish Hollywood moneymaking machine gone horribly wrong. 

The movie starts with a woman (Amanda Seyfried) who, in stealthy ninja mode, jumps over the gate of a bleak London orphanage to drop off her baby.  This baby's name is Harry, er, I mean Peter, and is destined to become "the chosen one."  Flash forward twelve years and we are in World War II era London.  No date, just "World War II" era London.  Why the filmmakers felt the need to shift the time period from the early 1900's (when Peter Pan was originally published) to 1940-something is beyond me, except deep down I think I know; it was an excuse for flying pirate ships to have an air-duel with WWII fighter planes.  But I digress.  Young Peter lives a dull, dreary life under the rule of some decidedly heinous nuns, but soon begins to suspect something foul whenever boys begin to go missing from the orphanage.  Pretty soon, the secret is revealed that Mother Barnabas and the sisters are selling boys to pirates, and due to his snooping around, Peter is next on the list.  That's right.  The nuns are greedy, stupid, and sell little boys to pirates.  I suppose it would have been offensive to the public if any other religious group was portrayed in such a negative light.  But Catholic shamming is just the start of this movie's problems. 

Once the pirates sweep Peter away to Neverland, he is forced to mine for pixum (pixie dust, for goodness sake) so that the notorious and flamboyant Captain Blackbeard can smoke it hookah-style and stay young forever.  Hugh Jackman does give a rather unusual and inspired performance as the over-the-top villain (He and Levi Miller, who plays Peter, are the best actors here).  His entrance has been the subject of much talk, since he comes onto the screen leading his kidnapped charges in a round of "Smells Like Teen Spirit", of all things.  This was actually a genuinely creative touch, if only for the fact that it was so random and anachronistic.  The problem is that Blackbeard has no depth of character, and as such, Jackman has nothing to do except lead a chase against Peter and all those who try to help the lad fulfill the prophecy.  The prophecy, I might add, speaks of a boy who could fly and will one day save Neverland from the rule of Blackbeard.  This "chosen one" narrative device has been used countless times and by now just feels downright lazy.

Along the way, he meets fellow miner James Hook (a horrifically over-acted Garrett Hedlund), and Tiger Lilly (Rooney Mara) who help him find the fairy kingdom and the secret of his mother.  James Hook is not yet Captain Hook, but a poor-man's Indiana Jones with a really bad voice.  Most of the anticipation leading up to this movie's release was seeing how Hook and Pan become enemies.  This is disappointingly never shown, but only hinted at for those sequels that are likely never going to happen.  Also, Tiger Lilly is no longer a Native American, but a white warrior leading a multi-cultural tribe of rainbow-colored, all-accepting "Native Neverlanders" who directly contrast the cruel, judgmental nuns he escaped from.  I could write a whole essay on the previous sentence, but we won't go there, because it's so stereotypical it's not even worth getting into.  Religion is bad, not having religion is freedom.  We've heard this song before.

Essentially, nothing in this movie feels like something that J.M. Barrie created.  Gone is the childlike sense of wonder Neverland should provide, and in its place are grim CGI battle scenes.  Also gone is Barrie's darker commentary on the nature of childhood, and in its place are...grim CGI battle scenes.  Any plot development is rushed through so they can get on to the next action set piece.  Yet despite the rushed plot, it still manages to feel slow because nothing happens that we want to happen.  In fact, we never even get to the part where Peter decides to not grow up.  This is once again just hinted at with less-than-subtle winks to the audience.

I can safely say that this is the most disappointing film I've seen all year.  As a lifelong fan of Pan, I had high hopes that it might be a fun prequel.  Sadly, fun does not enter into the scheme, and no amount of pixie dust can make this movie fly.  The animated Disney film is iconic and endearing, though perhaps not tonally faithful to Barrie.  The 2003 version with Jason Isaacs playing Hook beautifully captures the more complex themes of Neverland.  Even Spielberg's bloated Hook has its charms.  These three films will long outlast Pan, which like a lost boy, will undoubtedly be forgotten with the passage of time. 

Movie Reflection: The Village

Looking back at M. Night Shyamalan's misunderstood masterpiece.

Warning: This review contains major spoilers. If you have not seen “The Village”, go watch it now and come back later.

Out of all the films that M. Night Shyamalan has directed, “The Village” remains the most controversial among devoted M. Night fans and casual filmgoers alike. Some consider it the start of his descent from respected filmmaker to laughing stock of Hollywood, while others see it as his last good film before the descent began. When viewing the film in regard to its horror-themed advertising campaign, this controversy is understandable, since the film is not actually a horror, but a psychological drama and metaphorical love story. I’m sure Shyamalan regrets advertising the film this way because the audiences that first received it were largely unappreciative of the slower pacing and thoughtful storytelling. As you might have guessed, I stand firmly with the film’s fans and find the things that audiences originally disliked to be the greatest strengths of “The Village.” Whether or not it’s his best film, it’s undeniably his most provocative and thematically complex. The story of an isolated community at the mercy of demonic creatures in the surrounding woods shows M. Night at the top of his game, both as a visual artist and an insightful storyteller. Nearly every frame is shot with a deeper purpose in mind, creating a tour-de-force of visual poetry that evokes sorrow, madness, and hope. One might argue that the story is too far fetched, which is why it is best viewed as an allegory. Since most reviews (understandably) try to speak on the themes without giving away the trademark twists, I’m giving a disclaimer now that this review is rife with spoilers. It will allow me to further explore the symbolism and recurring motifs if I can speak about the entire plot.

To establish the story right away, the titular 19th century village is actually a haven designed to protect innocence. The village elders who first established the community experienced extreme sorrow and loss in the world and sought to escape heartache by running from it. They keep their children in the dark about the nature of their existence and nobody seems to question it. At least, not until Lucius Hunt, the young villager who serves as the first protagonist, wonders why they cannot go to "the towns” beyond the woods. What if there are medicines to prevent illness and death? What if there are ways for Noah, the mentally challenged young man, to learn and be skilled? His curiosity begins a chain of events that set the plot in motion, but also serves as the first sign that the villagers live incomplete lives. Innocence should be protected, but at what expense? The elders have given up many things to keep their children “safe”, but at the cost of living full lives. Lucius becomes M. Night’s symbol of what will make the village complete: a desire to go out and change the world out of completely selfless reasons. This selfless love Lucius has is not found in the elders, and therefore, not the driving force of the village. No, the driving force is fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of pain, and fear of death. Obviously, a community cannot thrive for long with this kind of rule, and the village soon learns this through a devastating turn of events.

This is not to say that the elders haven’t done some things right. In the Gospel of Matthew, Christ tells his disciples, “Amen I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. 18:3) The villagers are definitely children in the way they show everyone kindness without judgment. The elders' desire to shield innocence from evil has actually created something beautiful. Beautiful, yet very flawed. Earlier in the same gospel, Christ says, “Behold, I am sending you like sheep in the midst of wolves; so be shrewd as serpents and simple as doves.” (Matt. 10:16) But the elders were too cowardly to go out among the wolves, so they settled for children who were simple as doves but who also had no knowledge of how to live in the real world. With this theme of blindness, M. Night gives one of the best metaphors in the whole story when he introduces Ivy, the second protagonist, and daughter of the head elder. Throughout the course of the film, we come to realize that she is a symbol of the village itself: innocent, pure of heart, and completely blind to the reality of her existence. Her character is physically blind, which is where the metaphor is most obvious, and yet, she sees the world in a different way from everyone else. One might fear that a character on such a symbolic level would become just a symbol, but actress Bryce Dallas Howard infuses Ivy with enough personality and humor to make her the most real character in the film. No wonder she catches the eye of every young man in the place. Yet, interestingly enough, the man she chooses is Lucius, the person who wants to leave the village and the place she loves. Appropriately, he is deeply in love with her too. Many people forget what a touching love story this is, but it becomes even more beautiful when looking past the surface.

Why does Lucius care for Ivy so? Not just because she is beautiful and kind, but she, in a way, is his home. He wishes to provide something more complete for her, even if it means risking an encounter with “Those We Don’t Speak Of” in the woods. There are always risks involved with giving your heart to others, but Lucius knows that these risks are worth taking. His selflessness is once again a prevalent theme of the movie. In a subtly powerful scene, Ivy wakes up to find Lucius sitting outside her house. She bluntly asks him, “Why are you on this porch?”, and after speaking with each other for a while, Lucius finally confesses, “I fear for your safety above all others.” In one solitary scene, Shyamalan lays out a profound message: Man needs to cling to innocence in life, but innocence must be complemented with knowledge and understanding. Lucius clings to Ivy and desires to protect her, and she, in turn, realizes she yearns for a fuller understanding of life, which will be found with Lucius.

Of course, in the real world, such a relationship will naturally encounter not only beauty and love, but also sorrow and evil. This is the nature of man’s existence. In his fallen state of Original Sin, man must confront evil every day on this earth until the end of time. But the village elders are not content with this. Their frustration with evil’s existence in the world leads them to hide from it.  Here we have yet another metaphor, this time regarding the creatures in the woods. “Those We Don’t Speak Of” are attracted to the color red, the “bad color”, and as such, the villagers make sure there is no red to be found, burying everything with even a trace of it. The color red is an obvious parallel to evil, and evil attracts all manner of troublesome events, or, for this story, “Those We Don’t Speak Of”. Did the elders succeed in hiding from evil? Of course not, because doing so is not humanly possible. In a harrowing scene, Noah, a seemingly innocent man, commits the first crime the people have ever seen. Afterwards, he sits on his porch with blood-soaked hands muttering “bad color, bad color”. This time, the “bad color” literally comes from inside someone and...well, you can probably see where this metaphor is going. The elders failed to realize that evil arises not just from without, but from within. This theme can be seen in many other places throughout the movie. A particularly striking example comes when the villagers are seen walking outside while the camera films them through darkened windows and doorways. They walk quietly outside, oblivious to the dark lurking right inside their home. M Night never misses an opportunity to create visual cues for his story’s themes. Man cannot hide from evil because he has evil in his very soul.

The crime Noah commits could not have been more timely, either. It occurs right when Lucius and Ivy profess their intentions to wed. Noah, a man of literal and figurative ignorance, also clings to Ivy, just as Lucius does. The difference is that he cannot give her something beyond the village. He becomes a symbol of the village as well, but as the darker side of it. He cannot help his ignorance because of his handicap, but on another level, he can be viewed as what happens when the lies of the village completely destroy one’s ability for understanding. Since he cannot understand why Ivy would chose something beyond their blissful existence, he tries to murder the person pulling her away from him. He would rather destroy truth than have it take away his comfort. The elders are more responsible for this than anyone, but they could not see the monster they had created until it was too late.

Ivy must now undertake a journey to “the towns” to get medicine for Lucius before he dies. Before she does this, she learns about the nature of her existence and the lies the elders created to keep them in. Since Ivy pledges herself to Lucius, she gets everything that comes with him, including knowledge and fear. Her journey through the woods represents her first real confrontation with evil, a confrontation that has to be made. For the first time since the creation of this blind little community, someone has the tenacity to go out into the world for the sake of others. And as Ivy is afraid, so are we watching her. The scenes in the woods are tense and nerve-wracking, but this is what M. Night does so well; crafting frightening scenarios that make us sympathize with his characters as well as think a little more deeply. Watching Ivy make the courageous trek, we realize that this is the journey we are called to make every day. Our journey toward salvation comes when we live for Christ, and we do this in part by acting selflessly for our neighbor. The journey is frightening at times, but is rewarding when we let love lead us. Ivy is driven solely by love, and her unwavering courage in the face of evil shows this. Edward Walker, Ivy’s guilt-ridden father, comes to the following conclusion: “The world moves for love. It kneels before it in awe.”

The world indeed moves for Ivy, as she conquers the forest and reaches “the towns” where she finds the necessary items to heal Lucius. Just as M. Night saves his twists for the end, he also saves the most hopeful moments for the final act. Ivy meets a man from “the towns” who helps her complete her quest. Since she was led to believe the world outside the wood was full of wickedness and nothing more, she is surprised at this helpful young man. “There is kindness in your voice,” she says. “I did not expect that.” The elders are once again proven wrong. In hiding from the world, they not only hid from evil, but from much, much goodness. Even though man is prone to sin, he is inherently good. Lucius suspected as much, and Ivy witnesses it firsthand.

Whether or not the people discover the truth about their existence remains a mystery at the end, but the fact that Ivy now knows about the real world means that Lucius will likely know soon. The implication is that she makes it back in time to save him, while the elders wonder if they should continue hiding from the world. Perhaps Ivy and Lucius should keep up the lie with the elders because revealing such a thing would only create panic and confusion. Perhaps they should reveal the truth to all and slowly bring back this hidden community to the real world. What would be the better choice? M. Night leaves viewers to ponder this as the credits roll and James Newton Howard’s stirring music score floods our ears and hearts with emotion. Regardless of how the story actually ends, the film has left us with a powerful message of knowledge over ignorance, courage over fear, and love over evil. Christ tells us that “The Truth will set you free” (John 8:32), and at the end of this movie, the Truth about love and man's intrinsic goodness has been revealed. P.S. I hear Shyamalan's latest film, "The Visit" is a slight return to form for him after a string of failures. I hope this is true, though I doubt it will reach the same profound depth that "The Village" achieved.