Spy

by George Wolf

Man, I’m tired of actresses that I don’t find attractive trying to carry a movie, let alone a comedy! I mean, it’s okay for someone like Will Ferrell to be crude or maybe use his physique for some laughs, but women should keep in mind that it’s just not ladylike. And what about onscreen romances? They really should be believable, like Kevin James and Rosario Dawson, you know? What are those Hollywood elites thinking?

Well, Spy is thinking about pointing out what a steaming pile of double standard b.s. that argument is, and being solidly funny while doing it.

It’s the latest teamup for director Paul Feig and star Melissa McCarthy, who gave us the hilarity of Bridesmaids and its one-for-the-ages character of Megan. Feig also gets writing credit this time, and it’s hard to believe he didn’t craft the script especially for McCarthy.

She plays Susan Cooper, a “basement” employee at the CIA who spends most of her time as Girl Friday to super spy Bradley Fine (Jude Law). But when Fine is taken out and the identities of all current field agents are compromised, it’s up to Susan to go under cover across the globe, gain the trust of the villainous Rayna Boyanov (Rose Byrne) and rescue a rogue nuke before it can be sold to terrorists.

So yes, it’s a sendup of Bond-type capers, and a good one. Feig delivers surprisingly stable action sequences, and plenty of freedom for his stellar ensemble to create some infectious fun.

Byrne continues to show real comic flair, and Jason Statham practically kidnaps the film as Agent Rick Ford, a riotous parody of the to-the-extreme tough guy roles that made him famous. British favorite Miranda Hart also gets big laughs as Nancy, a fellow CIA desk jockey who follows Cooper into the fray and remains pleasantly clueless as to the danger at hand.

But this is McCarthy’s show, and a leading role tailor made for her powerhouse talent. As Cooper assumes various identities and becomes more confident in her role as a badass, the film lands some sly shots at the sexist barbs often thrown McCarthy’s way. Bravo.

Spy is not only really funny, it’s plenty smart, and just a damn good time.

San Andreas

by George Wolf

San Andreas is a film made with the utmost commitment to artistic vision. It is the work of a director fully invested in the task at hand, and confident enough to never waver from the mission. Director Brad Peyton knows what he wants and explores every opportunity to get it in on screen as often as possible.

He wants cleavage.

And if there’s time, some nifty earthquake effects.

He gets both, along with the gun show that is Dwayne Johnson starring as Ray Gaines, an LA firefighter who specializes in helicopter rescue. Ray’s already dealing with his daughter Blake’s (Alexandra Daddario) plan to move away, when he learns his soon-to-be ex-wife Emma (Carla Gugino) is moving in with her uber-rich, ultra douchy new boyfriend Daniel (Ioan Ruffud).

So Ray’s feeling blue, and as he drives away from Emma we see her framed squarely in his rear view mirror. That’s the level of subtlety you can expect from San Andreas:  zero.

Then the big quake hits, and there’s no more time for talk. Ray has to jump into the role of superhero, rescuing Emma from the top of a crumbling LA high rise, and then heading off to go get their daughter in San Francisco. We know this from the number of times one of them looks at the other, pauses, and says, “Let’s go get our daughter!”

The quake is presented in often spectacular fashion, and the effect it has on the buttons of Gugino’s blouse is not ignored, either. Of course, that’s only after she’s spent the required amount of time running in a super tight tank top.

From the opening (and admittedly effective) sequence showing a young girl rescued from a wrecked car, straight through to the rubble-strewn, flag waving finale, nearly every female with a speaking role (and Daddario especially) wears a tight, often wet shirt while being framed at an angle high enough for optimal oogling. Sure, the tight tank is old hat for PG-13 jollies, but even Michael Bay might find this excessive.

Johnson has become a charismatic star, Gugino is always a treat, and the film should get some credit for actually pairing two age-appropriate leads. Paul Giamatti even shows up as a seismologist, but that ultimately just solidifies the point that no amount of acting talent can raise San Andreas much above the mindless threshold of blowing stuff up and catcalling the babes.

Tomorrowland

by George Wolf

Long before the credits roll, Tomorrowland will have you craving a theme park turkey leg and planning a meet up at Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

To be fair, it’s hardly the first time Disney has gone meta at the multiplex. They’ve had recent success with films based on their rides, and films based on their films. Now they’re moved on to an entire section of the Magic Kingdom, so why does it feel like you never stop standing in line?

Mostly, because there’s so much talk and little action.

George Clooney brings his considerable star power to the role of Frank, a former boy genius who was accepted into the other-worldly community of “Tomorrowland” in 1964. Twenty years later, he was exiled, apparently for inventing something that opened an unwelcome Pandora’s Box.

Now, in present day, Frank is convinced to make a return trip after receiving a surprise visit from Casey (Britt Robertson, mugging frequently), a scientifically-gifted teenager who just might be the key to saving the future.

That’s the short version. There are plenty more convolutions, conversations and explanations involved that only mute the magic the film so desperately seeks.

Director/co-writer Brad Bird made his name in animation (The Iron Giant/The Incredibles), but the considerable visual flair he brought to Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol whet appetites for more live action ventures. Tomorrowland does sport plenty of cool-looking jet packs and rocket ships to-ing and fro-ing, but the film’s pace is slowed to a crawl from the heavy load of exposition. The fun just never has a chance to get airborne.

That’s not the only irony. Tomorrowland‘s message that children are our future is obvious and repetitive, but most likely lost on kids themselves. The little ones won’t keep up and the teens will roll their eyes at the pandering. Everybody else will just fight the boredom.