DEEP WATER [2006]

Herman Melville once wrote, "At sea a fellow comes out. Salt water is like wine, in that respect".     These lofty words perhaps explain what has driven some men since  the beginning of time to take to the ocean, making  desperate voyages against impossible odds.  Self-discovery aside, more realistic motivations have included greed, wild ambition, and simply escape.  For whatever reason, the adventurous spirit present in tales of the sea has long been fodder for the imaginations of us all.
So what do we make of Donald Crowhurst?  What posessed a soft-spoken middle aged British family man, with little or no sailing experience, to undertake a journey that at the very least was fraught with danger and at worst could prove deadly?  Was it a boyhood fantasy coming to fruition or the ill fated result of pride gone horribly awry?  These questions and more are examined in the enthralling  documentary on Crowhurst, Deep Water, by film makers Louise Osmond and Jerry Rothwell.
Britain in 1968 saw a public enamored of larger than life adventurerers.  Sir Francis Chichester had become a national hero by being the first man to circumnavigate the globe solo.  His accomplishment had also filled the coffers of many a backer.   It had also fattened the bank accounts of many a newspaper, that had followed his progress with people pleasing press releases filled with purple prose.  Sensing a good thing, the Sunday Times announced a daring contest, open to all comers.  Dubbed the Golden Globe Race, the Times was offering a then hefty sum of 5000 pounds to any sailor who could not only duplicate Chichester's feat, but do it "non-stop".  There would be a cash prize for both the first finisher and the sailor with the fastest time overall.  Contestants could set sail anytime after June 1st but no later than October 31st, the deadline for hitting the waves.
Eight seasoned risk takers signed up, including sea hardened Rodney Knox-Johnston, Nigel Tetley, and Bernard Moitessier.  The press and public were beside themselves with anticipation.  However, they went positively apopletic when out of nowhere everyman Donald Crowhurst quietly tossed his cap into the ring.  Working class Crowhurst, pale and slighty pudgy, was far from the picture of a mighty hero.  Having done unremarkable stints in both the Army and RAF, and trying and failing at many businesses, he bought nothing to the table save for "stiff upper lip" British can-do spirit.  This "common man"  was golden, and the media howled with excitement.
Enter millionaire businessman and armchair sailing enthusiast Stanley Best.  Quick to bankroll Crowhurst's quest he also signed a rather naive Crowhurst to a contract stating that Donald would be responsible for paying for the boat to be built should he withdraw from the race.  Thus a somewhat dodgy pipedream became a harsh reality of financial ruin for Crowhurst.  Adding to the pressure was ex Fleet Street reporter Rodney Halworth who was hired as press agent to hype Crowhurst's exploits.  The media machine was in motion.
Problems arose from the beginning.  The construction was slow and the end result was at best mediocre.  Imagine a toothpick raft with a paper sail tossed into an olympic sized swimming pool and you get the idea.  As all the other contestants had long ago set sail the deadline approached with Crowhurst seemingly dead in the water.  Details were skipped and corners were cut in order to meet the launch date.  The small boat was christened in late October, with the bad omen of the champagne bottle having to be broken by hand.
Thus on the eve of October 30th, after crying in his wife's arms for most of the night, Crowhurst sat on the beach with his best friend and decided to give up.  Best and Halworth, dollar signs for eyes, were having none of this quitting however, and with veiled threats forced Crowhurst to continue.  With thoughts of his own struggling father, and the shame of having his family left poor, an outwardly cheerful Crowhust was off.
Immediately leaks sprung and bolts popped, but Crowhurst's transmissions home remained upbeat.  His journals told a different story, however, showing a man already crumbling under the indifference of the mighy ocean, and barely two months out he hatched a desperate plan that sealed his tragic fate.  He decided to simply lie about his progress.  Radioing that he has sailed 243 miles in 24 hours, a new record, he was, in reality, languishing in the North Atlantic going nowhere near the dangerous Southern ocean.  Maintaining radio silence for 11 weeks, his plan was to rejoin the race after his fellow competitors round Cape Horn, coming in third or fourth, saving some face and hoping that his logs wouldn't be scrutinized too closely.  Twists of fate and creeping dementia intervene and the power of nature prepared to teach Crowhurst a lesson.
Narrated with a measured voice by actress Tilda Swinton, Deep Water reconstructs Crowhurst's fascinating story using his journals and interviewing those involved including Crowhurst's wife Clare and son Simon, whose guilt and sadness have not dimmed in almost forty years.

If nothing else, Deep Water shows that no one ever truly "conquers" the sea, and that sometimes there is a fine line between Cosmic awareness and insanity and only a hair's breadth between a fool and a hero.

                                                      RATING:  4 BANANAS

CHARLIE BARTLETT [2008]

I think I may have figured out what happened to writer Gustin Nash, the first time scribbler of the  film "Charle Bartlett".  Instead of playing classical music or reading great works of literature to him while in the womb, Mother Nash must have slapped the headphones on her belly and barraged poor baby with every teen misfit '80's movie ever made.  Nothing else would seem to explain the trite debacle that became "Charlie Bartlett".  That, coupled with producers who were possibly hungrily looking for the next indie charmer like "Little Miss Sunshine" or "Juno", makes "Bartlett" seem like yet another pale copycat where "quirkiness" substitutes for imagination and fails to carry a film.
A cliche stuffed creampuff filled with the John Hughes filmography and a dash of "Pump Up The Volume",  "Charlie Bartlett" follows the smart aleck adventures of the teen miscreant title character as his expulsions from various prep schools lands him in that Dante's Inferno known as public high school.  As rich kid Charlie saunters in that first day with his preppy blazer and tie we head down that well travelled teen film highway, falling into every trope filled pothole along the way.
We know Charlie will become an immediate target for abuse, but with that twinkle in his eye we also know that sassy Chuck will somehow prevail using his entrepreneur wits and smirky sense of humor.  He will win over the student body and wind up with the wise beyond her years hottest girl in school.  Anyone who ever suffered a beatdown in the school cafeteria for being "different" knows this happens all the time.
After a few anarchistic pranks, such as getting his bully to pass out Ritalin at a school dance (one of the few semi-funny moments), Charlie, who is no stranger to psychiatry, hits on the money-making idea of becoming the psuedo school psychologist to the students.  Evaluating their symptons, he goes to his own doctor exhibiting the same troubles and thus gets medication to dispense to his "patients".  Along the way he attracts the attention of the suspicious principal and also his comely daughter.  He becomes the most popular kid in school and heads for a showdown with the principal.
The basic premise of Charlie Bartlett could have been ripe ground for a pathos filled revisionist teen flick but instead collapses under its stale dialogue and groan inducing "emotional" moments.  You can rarely mix "wink,wink" with "tear,tear" and come up with anything but "retch, retch".
The cast also proves to be a hit or miss affair.  Young Anton Yelchin, promising enough in "Hearts in Atlantis", plays Charlie like Doogie Howser channeling Christian Slater.  He quickly becomes cloying and viewers will be hard pressed not to want to get their hands around his throat by films end.  Considering he has to carry the film, his annoying voice and mannerisms are deadly.
Hope Davis as Charlie's dippy mother and Robert Downey, Jr. as the principal with issues of his own turn in sincere performances much better than their paper thin characters deserve.
Editor turned director Jon Poll brings such a ham fist to the proceedings that he should probably not quit his day job just yet.
The most puzzling thing about Charlie Bartlett, however, is its R rating.  Though there is a flash of nudity and a few "F" words thrown about it's overall a relatively squeaky clean affair.  It seems the best audience for "Charle Bartlett" would be non-discriminating 14 year olds living under rocks.  Adults will find its mixed message drug themes and lackadasical view of teen sex troubling, while older teens will surely find it unrealistic and far too "precious".
In 2008, problem plagued teens and cash strapped moviegoers were owed something more than this hackneyed retro pyscho-babble waste of celluloid.

                                                    RATING:  2 BANANAS

CASSANDRA'S DREAM [2007]

With his effort "Cassandra's Dream", it's becoming alarmingly official.  Woody Allen is dangerously close to being the directorial equivalent of seventies Elvis.  Self important and self indulgent he's singing the same old songs over and over, albeit with some flair but very little substance.
Allen, who sometimes wears his filmic influences on his sleeve seems to be striving for a work that is one part Technicolor Hitchcock, one part talky French melodrama, and one part dire Eastern European tragedy,  The end result is a dreary dull mess that rarely rises above high-school play intensity.
You see this is a "serious" Woody Allen film, and seldom does a more pretentious beast stalk the silver screen.
The third installment in his current British oeuvre, and the first with a strictly European cast, "Cassandra's Dream" tries to recapture the old "Crimes And Misdemeanors" magic, but like the King slurring the words to "My Way" in his final days it comes off forced and sloppy.
The tale of two Cockney brothers whose lifestyles lead them into crime the film shoots for Dostoevskyian heights while wallowing in London lows.  Ewan McGregor plays Ian, the "flash" brother.  Overly ambitious and overly eager to impress he's a money hungry schemer who is constantly living way beyond his means.  When he meets vacuous actress Ashley Stark (Hayley Atwell), a girl with "wicked dreams", he must keep the cash flowing in order to breathe in her rareified air.
Colin Farell is Terry the "common" brother.  A grease-monkey gambler he has recently purchased a boat, the "Cassandra's Dream" of the title, with his dog track winnings.  Feeling as if he's on a sure thing winning streak, this melancholy mechanic proceeds to lose an obscene amount of money in a poker game.  With a wife to support and a life-threatening debt over his head he is in  trouble with a capital rubble.
Thus the stage is set for Woody's pseudo Greek tragedy to unfold.  Enter stage left Uncle Howard (Tom Wilkinson).  A mysterious icon of success within the family, Howard seems to be the answer to the hermanos con problemas prayers.  Alas, it becomes apparent that Howie is not exactly a paen of virtue himself, and stands to lose his own shirt due to nefarious business practices.  He offers the brothers a deal-  he will shower them with riches and all they have to do in return is a wee little favor...let's say ummm...murder a pesky colleague.  They are family after all and the only ones he can trust.  The way they deal with the situation and the aftermath of their actions form the moral crux of the film.  Blood turns to poison and the brothers fates are sealed.
The problem with Cassandra's Dream is that it is relentlessly tedious.  Particularly coming after Sidney Lumet's excellent "Before The Devil Knows You're Dead" the year before, which dealt much less heavy handed with the same themes.   Allen peppers his script with hints at philosophical depth but it rings as hollow as some pontificating poser who just read "Neitzsche For Dummies".
 Aside from Wilkinson who infuses Howard with equal parts menace and desperation, the performances are equally tiresome and troubling.  From their questionable Cockney accents to their nonexistent chemistry McGregor and Farrell are singulary awful.  McGregor plays Ian like some jolly orphan in an off-Broadway production of "Oliver!".  Apparently pleased as punch to be in an Allen film, one expects him to break into a little jig at any moment saying "sweep yer chimney guv'ner?"
Farrell playing the downtrodden Terry has too much of a twinkle in his smiling Irish eyes to be convincing.  Who knows, maybe he was blotto the whole time.
The only high points are the alternating luxurious and drab cinematography by the venerable Vilmos Zsigmond and the struggling electronic score by Philip Glass that vainly tries to heighten tension where there is none.

Cassandra's Dream is a film that literally talks itself to death.  This "dream" is an insignificant trifle masquerading as high drama- it's content forgotten once you wake up and leave the theatre.

                                                   RATING:  2  BANANAS

BEFORE THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD [2007]

Often when determining "great" directors, film scholars tend to lean toward the eccentric geniuses, the Coppolas, the Kubricks, the Fellinis.  This focus on directors that make visionary epics painted on broad canvases and who take years to finish a project sometime overshadow the lesser "greats".  The directors who consistently turn out a film every year or two just because they seemingly are truly in love with the craft of moviemaking.  Directors like Robert Altman, who we also lost so recently, who were not above tossing out a dud every so often and even God forbid, working in television.  Workaholics who couldn't stop making movies if their lives depended on it. Sidney Lumet was one "those" great directors.  He had his rough patches, particularly in the late '80's and through the '90's, (Stranger Among Us, anyone?), but  also gave us certifiable masterpieces like Dog Day Afternoon and Network, indelible portraits of people in crisis rushing headlong into the inevitability of their actions.
Though there are no iconic "mad as hell" or "Attica! Attica!" moments in Lumet's last film Before The Devil Knows You're Dead, the queasy intimacy of being privy to the most private of feelings has been rendered here perhaps more acutely than in even those more accomplished works.
  Ostensibly a best laid plans of mice and men tale, Before The Devil Knows You're Dead strips the caper film of it's flash and concentrates on  the pungent  emotions of it's execution and aftermath, slowly peeling the participants down to their raw essence.
The "mouse" in this melodrama is Hank played by Ethan Hawke, and the "man" is Andy played by Philip Seymour Hoffman.  Andy is a payroll accountant in a large real estate firm who besides supporting a high maintenance wife, is living way beyond his means, skimming from the company to also support  a drug habit and his visits to an expensive male prostitute.  Hank is beyond even knowing what his means are, and is a feckless loser everyman who owes his ex-wife thousands in back child support.  What binds these two characters together is not the fact that they are brothers, there is no sense of love here, but the fact that they are desperate men.  We are never shown how they got to this point but thrust full force into the immediacy of their situation.  Andy, the dominant big brother, has a plan for a robbery and recruits baby Hank to perform it.  This is no elaborate big-budget bank heist, but simply a mom and pop jewelry store that sits next to a Foot Locker in a strip mall. That mom and pop actually are mom and pop doesn't bother amoral Andy in the least, who assures Hank that their parents are covered by insurance and that it's a sure bet that it's the perfect crime.
To say that things go horribly awry is an understatement, and Lumet uses the botched robbery trope as an excuse to examine the nature of intimacy, or lack thereof, to propel the film into the primitive templates of a Biblical or Greek tragedy.  Rarely has a film been so "cold around the heart" as this one while still riveting the viewer to the characters.
It's no surprise that Lumet was known as the "actors director" as he coaxed award worthy performances out of the stars in these unlikable roles.  Hoffman who is fast becoming one of our greatest living actors infuses Andy with a perfect balance of pathos and control.  Hawke who can be a one-note performer, here does a masterful job as the weak and haggard Hank, doing the slow burn to a patented Lumet unravelling.  Marisa Tomei as Andy's wife and Albert Finney as their father are also at the top of their game.
Heady themes aside, the film is also a marvel in the way it's technical elements come together.  Lumet pretty much hauled the whole crew over from his cancelled highly under-rated TV show 100 Centre Street, and their harmony is evident from the stunning claustrophobic photography and editing to the effectively tense soundtrack.
Ultimately Before The Devil Knows You're Dead is the filmic equivalent of Eliot's poem The Hollow Men that states "between the idea and the reality...between the motion and the act...falls the Shadow"  And like the world in the poem the film ends "not with a bang but with a whimper" in a moment between a father and a son that is shocking in that it's probably the closest they have ever been.

Lumet parades these "hollow men" in front of us, showing their despair and emptiness, and yet seldom does a film seem this full.  It's to Lumet's credit that as one of the "greats" he gave us one last lesson in how it should be done.

                                                      RATING: 4  BANANAS

A MIGHTY HEART [2007]

Sadly, there are two huge factors that cast a pall over the  Michael Winterbottom film, A Mighty Heart, and render it perfunctory rather than powerful.
The first and foremost is the subject matter itself.   A Mighty Heart is based on the book of memoirs by Mariane Pearl, wife of slain Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl, and his ghost looms large over the proceedings.  Kidnapped while chasing a story in Pakistan on shoe-bomber Richard Reid, his barbaric and shocking death at the hands of Pakistani Islamic extremists brought the all too real horrors of the analog world into the digital landscape.  An execution viewed at the click of a mouse is both repulsively intimate and de-sensitizingly distancing at the same time.  Dramatising such  tragically true events is a questionable undertaking in anyone's hands, no matter how tastefully it's handled.  The reek of exploitation still escapes from the prettiest of boxes, even though Winterbottom has done his best to give us one fine looking box.  Focusing on the plight of Mariane Pearl in the days after Daniel's kidnapping, the film casts Angelina Jolie in the role of Mariane who was pregnant at the time the sad events unfolded.  She is shot positively Madonna like with soft lights and  a saintly glow.  The story is beautifully photographed to be sure, yet the mood of the film is so portentuous and reverent that it manages to undermine any real emotional impact.  We all know how this story ends and even though it's thankfully not shown, the uneasy anticipation of a snuff film remains.
The second distracting factor is the prescence of Jolie, herself.   Though she acquits herself admirably, her mega-celebrity follows her into the part.  Even though she's obviously had an excellent dialect coach and make-up man, one is always acutely aware that it's Angelina Jolie playing Mariane Pearl.  She just can't seem to truly inhabit the role.  It's not for lack of trying, though.  When she first hears of Daniel's death she literally howls and bangs around in a Method-acting frenzy that lasted so long it was squirm inducing, rather than moving.  Overall, though, her casting and mostly stoic performance further blunt any real feeling.
The film does have it's strong points. The frustrating web of suspects, alliances, and the subsequent confusion are effectively portrayed.  The editing is at times startling and immediate.  The streets of Kurachi are shot with a  claustrophobia that convey a disconcerting sense of literally searching for a needle in a haystack.  The supporting cast is admirable, particularly Bollywood star Irfan Khan as the Captain of the Pakastani investigators.  (However the normally fine Will Patton playing the sunglass and earring wearing US Embassy liason seems to think he's auditioning for the latest Die Hard movie.)
Winterbottom is fine when directing with a lighter touch see 24 Hour Party People and Tristam Shandy: A Cock And Bull Story, but not so good with politics see Welcome to Sarajevo. The many pertinent issues A Mighty Heart could have addressed are merely hinted at.  The way the media can be an agent for positive change or a tool of brutality, the complexities of fundamentalism and politics in the modern world, etc.  Also,  the disturbing question remains-was Jewish Pearl bravely pursuing a worthy story no matter the consequences, or unfortunately  naively placing himself and his family at risk by purposefully being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Ultimately the film leaves one wishing Pitt/Jolie would have bankrolled a comphrehensive documentary that not only focused on the real Pearls but the 200+ journalists that have been kidnapped since 2002.  Though in the right place, A Mighty Heart that should beat with sound and fury, simply flatlines.
                                                    RATING: 2  BANANAS

2 DAYS IN PARIS [2007]

Marketing ploys to the contrary, the Julie Delpy film by  2 Days In Paris is not a "romantic" comedy. Those expecting another Before Sunrise or Before Sunset are apt to be disappointed. However, those jaded few who would like some cynical laughs at love will find much to enjoy. Delpy and co-star Adam Goldberg play Jack and Marion, a fidgety couple on a European jaunt culminating in a visit to her family in the City Of Lights. What is supposed to be everyone's idea of a storybook recipe for passion turns into a nuerosis fueled sojourn that is more Annie Hall than Paris, Je T'aime. In fact 2 Days In Paris is the perfect film for those who miss the Woody Allen films of old, particularly with Goldberg channeling Woody's kvetching persona so effectively.

Though their relationship is only two years old, Jack and Marion's individual quirks are already exacting a toll on their possible future together. She's flighty,emotional and very French. He's a neurotic hypochondriac and very American. Marion wants him to experience the beauty of Paris as a series of bonding episodes while Jack experiences nothing but a series of migraines and nausea. Add an eccentric family and an escalating parade of ex-boyfriends to the mix and Jack's paranoia and neuroses deepen and darken.

Delpy directs 2 Days In Paris with a sure hand, making even the somewhat cliched storyline and fish out of water gags seem fresh again. She also wrote, produced, edited, and did the music. Her most original trick however, is in the casting. Again, like the Woody Allen classics she populates the film with friends and family that lends an easy familiarity to the proceedings. The ethereally beautiful Delphy paired with the dishevelled tattooed Goldberg provides a beauty and the beast chemistry that works amazingly well. The fact that they actually used to be a couple puts an extra sting to their banter, even though Delphy insists there is nothing auto-biographical about the film. She also casts her real parents (Marie Pillet and Albert Delpy), as Marion's folks, and they hilariously steal every scene they're in.

The most amusing aspect of the film, however, is Paris itself. After a spate of recent films celebrating it's virtues, Delpy posits the city as every Francophobe's nightmare. Disgusting food, snooty natives, and an endless parade of racist and or lascivious taxi drivers are ripe fodder for some of best comic moments. Though some of the jokes are delivered in broad strokes the overall mood is winning and more importantly laugh out loud funny. There's some dramatic insight to be had here, but the emphasis is on light, though decidely adult, comedy.

2 Days In Paris is a satisfying confection of l'amour that will have many of us chuckling knowingly. Here's hoping Delpy has more treats to come.

                                                     RATING: 3  BANANAS