Too Much Movie, Too Little Time

Tommy’s Honour

by Christie Robb

I know zilch about golf, and was fascinated by the story of the father and son who pioneered the modern game, Thomas Morris and Thomas Morris Jr. But there was just too much story squeezed into this movie: class snobbery, ambition, shifts in morality, romance, father/son drama, the development of golfing as a profession, the innovations in technique, the designing of greens, death, grief, alcoholism…

The movie lacked clear focus and, thus, presented enough of the elements of the story to intrigue, but not enough to satisfy—often the case when a book is adapted. In this case, the screenplay was written by Pamela Marin and Kevin Cook, based on Cook’s own 2007 book Tommy’s Honor: The Story of Old Tom Morris and Young Tom Morris, Golf’s Founding Father and Son.

In Jason Connery’s film (yup, Sean’s son), the story is framed by the questions of a young reporter. He has traveled up to Scotland to interview Old Tom (Peter Mullan), who then launches into the tale of his son (Jack Lowden): a golf prodigy discontent with the way the gentlemen at the St. Andrews club treat his greenskeeper father. Young Tom is also unhappy that the toffs take the lion’s share of championship winnings and is determined to correct this, over the protestations of his father who is more at peace with the status quo.

Young Tom’s machinations to obtain more cash and to increase the prestige of the golf player come off a bit petulant and his disdain at his father’s lot in life undercuts the coolness of his father’s career. (Not only a greenskeeper—he was himself a champion—still the oldest winner of the Open Championship—who designed something like 70 golf courses and made equipment.)

It’d be enough, I think, to keep the focus on the golf, but at the same time, the movie tries to cover the relationship between Young Tom and the older woman he falls for (Ophelia Lovibond). She’d given birth to an illegitimate child and this causes a rift between Young Tom and his religious mum. Fine, certainly interesting. But there’s not enough time spent on the relationship to make the audience care about it and the romance takes focus off the golf. Then the woman’s death in a subsequent birth seems to be the catalyst for Young Tom’s decent into alcoholism and early “tragic” death. (Tragic in quotes as the movie seems to imply that Young Tom died from exposure—insisting he finish a golf match inexplicably held in Scotland on Christmas Eve, in a blizzard. A death’s not tragic if you can avoid it by going inside.)

To me, the best part of the movie was the credits sequence where the Connery flashes old photos of the real-life father and son with some simple accompanying text about their lives. So, ultimately, I’d have rather have been introduced to this story as a documentary. Or, if acted, as a BBC or Netflix series that would have allowed all the different facets of the story enough room to really shine.

Verdict-2-0-Stars

Drama Happens

Tales of a 4th Grade Psycho

by Hope Madden

I learned precious little in my 12 years of Catholic schooling. (That’s more on me than it is on the schools, to be honest.) But one lesson that did stick: nuns are judgey.

When I was a 4th grader in Tiffin St. Mary’s Catholic Elementary school, my teacher, Ms. Teill, was charged with generating some kind of skit to entertain at an upcoming PTO gathering.

I volunteered my services.

I would not act, oh no. I prepared to write and direct my first stage play. I called it, “When a Stranger Calls.”

If that title sounds familiar to you, it’s because it is. I stole it from the box of a VHS rental I coveted at the local video store.

As a child, I was fascinated by horror films.

I attribute this to inaccess (my parents only allowed G-rated films until I was about 12), and my abiding fear of all things.

As a preschooler I was afraid of Sesame Street – you must admit it is lousy with monsters. I found Boo Berry cereal equal parts delicious and frightening. Trees and the woods still terrify me – a handicap in rural Ohio.

Odd as it sounds, my ritual for overcoming my fear was to write scary stories.

Not just any scary stories – I would rewrite those tales I overheard that frightened me, allowing me a sort of ownership, I suppose.

I had notebooks full of them – tales crafted of what I could glean from a commercial I’d seen for Helter Skelter, or after eaves dropping on the babysitter as she summarized the film Carrie over the phone to a friend, or after poring over the box for the VHS tape of David Cronenberg’s Rabid. All these became inspiration to my 10-year-old self. Little did Miss Teill know.

I’m not sure how familiar you are with the 1979 slasher whose plot I attempted to plagiarize.

A babysitter receives creepy phone calls telling her to check the children. She ignores the message, the children are slaughtered, and eventually she finds that the calls are being made from inside the house.

“Have you checked the children?”

In the film, the babysitter survives – a fact I did not grasp from the VHS box, so in my play, she dies. And the children die. So do the parents, the police who investigate – actually, every character in my play died except the maniac, who lived to kill another day.

So my friends and I rehearsed during recess. We honed our tale until we were ready to share it with our parents – and everyone else’s – as well as most of St. Mary’s faculty at the PTO meeting.

Poor Miss Teill. Well, I suppose she should have paid more attention during rehearsal.

As it happens, it was Holy Week – those sacred days leading up to Easter.

Let’s be honest, though, there is a lot of blood shed in those days leading up to Easter. Is this really that different?

Where do you think Sister Cleofa landed with that argument?

It turns out, child slaughter doesn’t play that well with the nuns.

My parents were mortified, as was the whole of the audience. As I recall, Miss Teill was reprimanded. I was definitely reprimanded, and had to promise to stop writing anything at all.

And to stop being morbid.

There were several children I had to promise to stop playing with, also, at their parents’ request.

But otherwise, the performance went well, I think.

Maniac Baby on Board

Prevenge

by Hope Madden

Anybody with any sense at all is afraid of pregnant women.

I myself all but pushed a man down a flight of stairs while I was pregnant, and still don’t see the problem with it.

With unassuming mastery, Alice Lowe pushes that concept to its breaking point with her wickedly funny directorial debut, Prevenge.

Lowe plays Ruth. Grieving, single and pregnant, Ruth believes her unborn daughter rather insists that she kill a bunch of people.

With her characteristically dry, oh-so-British humor, Lowe exposes awkward moments of human interaction and then forces you to stare at them until they become gigglingly unbearable.

Why such bloodlust from Ruth’s baby? Lowe, who also wrote the script, divulges just as much as you need to know when the opportunity arises. At first, there’s just the macabre fun of watching the seemingly ordinary mum pick off an unsuspecting exotic pet salesman.

And then on to the saddest, most pathetic 70s-loving disco club DJ of all time.

With each new victim we learn a bit more backstory and a little more about Ruth, who’s on a path that’s funny, bloody and just touching enough to leave a mark.

Lowe’s blackly comic timing as an actor is well proven, particularly in Ben Wheatley’s 2012 gem Sightseers, which she also co-penned. Wheatley’s picture predicted Lowe’s ability to zero in on anxieties around social awkwardness and exploit them for all their squirm-worthy horror and comedic worth, as well.

She ably showcases these skills and more in Prevenge, this time mining larger themes of grief and pre-partum depression with a weary authenticity. (Lowe, like her character Ruth, was 7 months pregnant during filming.)

Rarely gory (DJ Dan does get it pretty good, though), the film barely registers as horror, but as a comedy it treads some dark territory. It does so with authority, good will, subversive insight and a laugh.

It’s a thin plot requiring the ability to suspend disbelief, but it also announces a very fresh voice in horror.

Verdict-3-5-Stars

Old Bandits Society

Going in Style

by George Wolf

More than once, Going In Style tells us “it is a culture’s duty to take care of its elderly.”

If only the film had a funny way of showing it.

Instead, director Zach Braff takes three screen legends on a caper full of obvious writing, cheap slapstick and dressed up sitcom filler.

An update on the 1979 George Burns/Art Carney/Lee Strasberg vehicle, this new version stars Michael Caine, Morgan Freeman, and Alan Arkin as Joe, Willie, and Al, three New York retirees who’ve just been screwed out of their pensions by corporate shenanigans. While Joe is fighting his home foreclosure notice with a smarmy bank manager, the bank gets robbed.

Joe’s impressed with the heist, and unimpressed with the detective (Matt Dillon) trying to track down the thieves, so why not give stickups a try? Let’s face it, even if the guys get life in prison, how long could that be? Because they’re so old! Man, those age jokes just get funnier the more they’re repeated, don’t they?

No, they don’t, and screenwriter Theodore Melfi, fresh off some fine work with Hidden Figures and St. Vincent, hits a major pothole on his road to straight up comedy. Seeing how these three veteran actors play off each other should be a treat in itself, but too much of the leadup to the actual bank job has the trio stuffing whole roasts down their pants at the grocery or sitting around watching The Bachelor. You know, because the thought of senior citizens watching that show is so outrageous!

Lazy.

It doesn’t help that Braff (Garden State, TV’s Scrubs) has all three actors overdoing the aches and pains of aging for most of the film, and only in the final few minutes, when the longtime friends are apparently rejuvenated by their crime spree, do you get the sense of any realistic characters with natural chemistry. The robbery itself, where Braff shows some stylistic flair and an instance or two of subtle visual comedy, seems stolen from another film entirely.

Perhaps even one that was interesting.

Verdict-2-0-Stars

 

 

Schwarzenegger’s Aftermath Premieres at Gateway

He said he would be back, and he is – onscreen, anyway. Open fan of Columbus Arnold Schwarzenegger stars in Aftermath, a movie filmed and set in central Ohio.

Based on the real-life mid-air collision of Danish airplanes in 2002, recast as an American disaster, the film follows the merging paths of a grieving father (Schwarzenegger) and the air traffic controller he holds responsible (Scoot McNairy).

Greater Columbus Film Commission and Gateway Film Center celebrate the release with a premier this Friday, April 7. Local cast and crewmembers will share the excitement, which begins with a mixer at the film center at 7:30 pm and a screening at 9.

Schwarzenegger delivers one of his best performances in a role that contrasts with the type that made him an icon. He’s thoughtful and understated in a film draped in a haze of sadness and regret.

He’s joined onscreen by Columbus native Maggie Grace in a film written by Javier Gullon (Enemy), produced by Darren Aronofsky (Black Swan, The Wrestler), and directed by Elliot Lester (Nightingale).

Add to that cameos by former Mayor Mike Coleman and shout outs to local media Sunny 95 and Channel 6 – not to mention locations you’re sure to recognize – and the whole thing feels just darn homey.

Tickets for this special opening night event are $15 each ($5 for myGFC members).

Standard showtimes and pricing also available at www.gatewayfilmcenter.org.

God Save the Queen

Queen of the Desert

by Hope Madden

How many period romances set against the crumbling of the Ottoman empire must I endure in one month?

Current tally: 2, and Werner Herzog’s Queen of the Desert is the least endurable.

I had been cautiously optimistic about Herzog’s biopic on Gertrude Bell. Nicole Kidman (rarely a bad idea) stars as Bell, a British writer/traveler/scientist/spy who helped shape British policy on the Middle East.

Herzog + Kidman = reason for optimism.

Unfortunately, that math doesn’t really work out.

I’m not going to lie, I had no idea who Gertrude Bell was before I saw this film. Ten seconds on google and I found out that she was an absolutely fascinating human being. It’s crazy. She explored everywhere, climbed everything, learned new languages, informed culture and politics, wrote about all of it, had torrid affairs, never married, and determined the boundaries of modern day Iraq. All in the early 1900s.

That should have been a hell of a movie.

Unfortunately, director Herzog cannot tell this woman’s wildly unconventional story without framing her in the most conventional way possible. She exists exclusively in terms of her relationships – or the absence of a relationship – with men.

We’ll lay that at the foot of Herzog the director, but this God-awful dialog? That’s on Herzog the writer.

Kidman, almost tragic in her earnest commitment to this part, manages to wrestle Herzog’s humorless and hackneyed prose into submission. But Lord, James Franco cannot.

The plotting is no better than the concept or dialog.

Scene after needless scene shows Kidman in the office of one man or another, announcing her plans to do something they don’t need to know about, only to suffer their indignant rebuffs. She responds with obstinate will. Cut to Kidman doing whatever it was those men told her she couldn’t do.

Repeat ad nauseum.

This woman hand-drew the border between Iraq and Jordan – in a time when women couldn’t vote in England. That alone could be unpacked and considered from about 30 different perspectives. There are so many things worth knowing about Gertrude Bell, but all I really learned from Queen of the Desert is that she was, “a woman without her man.”

That’s a real line of dialog. Good God.

Verdict-1-5-Stars

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdGKbxJHPkk

Getting to Know You

Frantz

by George Wolf

No matter how fierce the differences, war can quickly remind grieving families how much they have in common.  It is hardly a new sentiment, but one explored with fresh intimacy by writer/director Francois Ozon in the starkly compelling Frantz.

It is just after the close of World War I in a German town still full of prideful contempt for the victorious French. Fraulein Anna (Paula Beer) grieves for Frantz, the fiancee she lost in battle, living with his parents as the three cling desperately to Frantz’s memory.

Enter Adrien (Pierre Niney), a stranger known in town as “the Frenchman.” He visits Frantz’s grave to leave flowers and tears, naturally drawing Anna’s curiosity. Despite initial anger from Anna’s would be father-in-law, Adrien charms the family through stories of his friendship with Frantz, drawing closer to Anna while keeping crucial secrets from her.

Ozon, working with a more traditional narrative structure than in his Swimming Pool or 8 Women, isn’t shy with the metaphors, but has enough storytelling instinct to never overplay the hand. Through mirror images, shifting locales, even something as obvious as the film’s title, Ozon reinforces the emotional parallels while leaning on his stellar lead actors to fully exploit the subtle detours in where you think the film is headed.

Beer makes Anna a wounded soul in limbo, her piercing, curious eyes almost too daring for Adrien to confront. Niney provides the skittish affectations for Adrien’s tentative nature as a man both committed to and wary of his mission.

The film may tease with the promise of a climax more powerful than the one ultimately delivered, but  Ozon achieves an artful level of downsizing with his latest. Frantz has a grace and maturity in it’s arc, understated but emotionally satisfying.

Verdict-3-5-Stars

Know When to Fold ‘Em

Betting on Zero

by Rachel Willis

According to the Federal Trade Commission, a company is involved in a pyramid scheme if “the money you make is based on the number of people you recruit and your sales to them.” Bill Ackman, CEO of Pershing Square Capital Management, seeks to prove the multilevel marketing giant Herbalife is actually a pyramid scheme in writer/director Ted Braun’s documentary, Betting on Zero.

Ackman has risked billions of dollars shorting Herbalife stock. If you saw the movie The Big Short, the idea behind Ackman’s investment is the same. For Ackman’s clients to make money, Herbalife stock has to drop to zero. Though Ackman claims he has a moral obligation to prove Herbalife is a pyramid scheme, his investment can only lead to questions regarding his interest in the company’s failure. Herbalife stands firm that they are a legitimate multilevel marketing business.

As Braun watches the events unfold, he does a good job proving Ackman’s assertion. Over a dozen men and women tell their stories of being brought into the Herbalife fold, only to lose thousands of dollars trying to peddle an overpriced product while recruiting new distributors. For those with qualms about recruiting their friends and family, they find it’s impossible to make money selling the products. All but one of the former distributors featured in Braun’s documentary are Latino immigrants, highlighting Herbalife’s appeal to the Latino community and their desire to live the American dream. It’s heartbreaking to watch these former distributors talk about the “friends” who recruited them and the money they lost.

However, as the documentary proceeds, Ackman faces wall after wall trying to drive Herbalife stock to zero. First, investors don’t see the problem. A presentation Ackman gives is poorly attended and met with skepticism by those in the audience. Second, Carl Ichan, another Wall Street big wig, bets against Ackman; his purchase of Herbalife stock causes the share price to skyrocket. Based on Braun’s documentary, it seems investors don’t really care if Herbalife is a pyramid scheme as long as they make money.

The battle between Achman and Herbalife continues, so Betting on Zero doesn’t have a satisfactory conclusion, but the information presented makes for powerful viewing.

Verdict-4-0-Stars

So that happened…

Hypnosis Happens

by Hope Madden

Desperation encourages odd, sometimes uncharacteristic behavior. I, for example, once saw a hypnotist.

I clench my teeth, a habit that creates gigantic head pain. It’s the kind of debilitating headache that might send a person to bed. But if you clench your teeth when you sleep, relief is hard to come by.

Let’s just say I spend more money on Advil than many do on rent.

This is what has driven me to the heathen sciences. I did exhaust the regular sciences first, rest assured. No help. Hypnosis it is.

When I called the downtown office, I half-expected to let the idea die. But the therapist – he answered his own phone, which should have been a warning sign – was very lulling and informative. He spoke slowly and reassuringly, with rolling l’s. I think he may have hypnotized me over the phone into making an appointment, but I’m not sure. Still, it suggests a level of skill, doesn’t it?

Dr. Bob, a skinny older man with a flesh colored Abe Lincoln beard, believed he would solve my problem. He claimed to have helped a woman just that week heal herself of cancer.

Surely if he could do for this woman what medical doctors, hospitals and years of cancer research could not, he could do for me what a bite plate couldn’t.

My first concern was that Dr. Bob kept asking me if there was anything else I wanted him to fix while he was “in there.”

This whole idea put me ill-at-ease. He even asked my husband if there were any other things he should fix while I was “out.”

Wisely, George could find no faults needing attention. But still, how was I to know that they wouldn’t program me to do his bidding while I was under? God forbid I woke up an attentive wife who remembers to write down debit card uses.

So I was uncomfortable before we even began, but I was supposed to relax. Really relax, as I could tell by the number of times he sing-songed the word “re-lax-aaaaaaaaaaa-tion.”

But I couldn’t relax. For one thing, I had an issue with the fluffy clouds. I was meant to visualize myself bouncing safely through a series of ten fluffy clouds, relaxing more with each cloud. How do you visualize yourself in a cloud? They’re made of water vapor. No way that could support me. I’d fall to my death. This was not relaxing.

Alarmed that I was failing already, I alerted Dr. Bob to my issue. He switched to a different technique, but it may have worked too well.

I fall asleep easily and at one point, when I was mentally descending my set of ten safe, hypnotic stairs, I realized as I hit the bottom step that I was surrounded by zombies. Oops. Sleeping. Who knows how much hypnotherapy is missed while you’re battling zombies?

I explained about the zombie situation to Dr. Bob and he honestly seemed concerned that the zombies themselves were causing the teeth clenching. I know this because he said, “These buggers might be the cause of the whole problem.”

I’m open to a lot of ideas but I feel safe in saying that the living dead do not control my mandibles.

I was pretty sure they were just cartoon villains that had popped into a dream – they didn’t have to be zombies at all. It could have just as easily been Thundercats. It was a dream.

The doctor disagreed. He looked at me as one passing down wisdom to a Padawan and asked, “Have you noticed their eyes are only red if you look directly at them?”

What?

Unfazed by my skepticism – indeed, oblivious to it – Dr. Bob told me to relax and just say the first thing that came to mind as he asked me questions.

“What’s the first number that comes to your mind?”

“8.”

“OK, of the 8 of you inside Hope, how many of you have heads.”

“Um, what?”

“No, no, just relax and let me know the first thing that comes to mind. How many of you have heads.”

“I don’t know, 4?”

“OK, you four who have bodies, look into the light. You’ve never been punished in the light, have you?”

What the hell? Was this an exorcism? Because I’m Catholic and we don’t take exorcism lightly. You’ve seen the film.

He continued in this vein for the balance of our time together, but eventually I stopped paying any attention – an important part of hypnotism, truth be told, so it wasn’t like I was cheating. And anyway, my head really fucking hurt and trying to puzzle through this whole exorcism thing was more than my brain could process at the moment. One thought did keep recurring to me, though.

I just spent $300 on this shit.

Think of how much Advil that would buy.

Delicious Dish

Raw

by Hope Madden

Much has been made of barf bags and fainting during screenings of writer/director Julia Ducournau’s feature debut, Raw.

A festival favorite, the film has been plagued by rumors of aggressive audience nausea, let’s say, as well as ambulance calls. Several theaters recently have offered vomit bags with ticket purchases.

Don’t let that cloud your expectations. Raw is no Hostel, no Human Centipede.

What you’ll find instead of in-your-face viscera and nihilistic corporeal abuse is a thoughtful coming of age tale.

And meat.

Justine (Garance Marillier, impressive) is off to join her older sister (Ella Rumpf) at veterinary school – the very same school where their parents met. Justine may be a bit sheltered, a bit prudish to settle in immediately, but surely with her sister’s help, she’ll be fine.

The film often felt to me like a cross between Trouble Every Day and Anatomy. The latter, a German film from 2000, follows a prudish med student dealing with carnage and peer pressure. In the former, France’s Claire Denis directs a troubling parable combining sexual desire and cannibalism.

Ducournau has her cagey way with the same themes that populate any coming-of-age story – pressure to conform, peer pressure generally, societal order and sexual hysteria. Here all take on a sly, macabre humor that’s both refreshing and unsettling.

A vegetarian from a meat-free family, Justine objects to the freshman hazing ritual of eating a piece of raw meat. But once she submits to peer pressure and tastes that taboo, her appetite is awakened and it will take more and more dangerous, self-destructive acts to indulge her blood lust.

In a very obvious way, Raw is a metaphor for what can and often does happen to a sheltered girl when she leaves home for college. But as Ducournau looks at those excesses committed on the cusp of adulthood, she creates opportunities to explore and comment on so many upsetting realities, and does so with absolute fidelity to her core metaphor.

She immediately joins the ranks of Jennifer Kent (Babadook) and Ana Lily Amirpour (A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night) – all recent, first time horror filmmakers whose premier features predict boundless talent.

Verdict-4-0-Stars

Hope Madden and George Wolf … get it?