Trouble with the Curve ***

Director: Robert Lorenz
Cast: Clint Eastwood, Amy Adams, Justin Timberlake
John Goodman, Matthew Lillard

Clint Eastwood is an American institution. Like all institutions, his importance seems to be inexplicable to some and unquestionable to others. Trouble with the Curve is the first movie in almost twenty years where he hasn't directed himself and his first starring role since what everyone thought would be his swan song, yet these facts will most likely be overlooked in light of the icon's recent "coming out" as a true political conservative. Therefore the film will most likely be examined, digested and analyzed as a representation of this "new" phase in Clint's career: the one where he came back to bite Hollywood in the ass. Impartial and objective as we may try to be, we are only human after all.

As humans, we might find ourselves rolling our eyes when veteran baseball scout Gus (played by Eastwood) grunts, mumbles and growls at every sign of modernity, delicateness or attempts by his daughter Mickey (Adams) to reach out to his "human" side. We might also find it preposterous to realize that Gus is nothing but a perpetuation of the Clint persona: a brutish cowboy from a long gone era who in the end has a real heart. Yet, despite the undeniable reactionary nature of this movie (essentially an antithesis to last year's Moneyball in how it defies the idea that computers are better at baseball than humans) there is something utterly charming and even pleasurable about how the movie shapes itself like old fashioned entertainment.

Unlike most recent movies that take place in the world of sports, this one realizes that not everyone will identify with balls and bats, so it allows its characters to take over and win the audience's love. Eastwood might be doing his usual shtick, but few actors are as selfless when they play a caricature like Clint is. Adams is of course enchanting as usual; watching her play off against Clint is a delight, particularly because he had the potential to eat her up onscreen. Rounding up the cast is Goodman in a best friend/jolly man role, Lillard as a douchy scout trying to steal Clint's throne and Timberlake as Adams' love interest.

The movie seems devoted to making us realize that nothing is as good as old fashioned American values, yet even within its delusion (there's a subplot about immigration that is both uplifting and offensive) it remains completely true to itself, to the point where we can't help but enjoy ourselves and embrace it despite our best knowledge. Almost everyone with half a brain will leave the theater thinking Eastwood is so reactionary he's scary, but the same people will probably want to have a beer with him and listen to his stories...and that's the trouble with institutions.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close ***

Director: Stephen Daldry
Cast: Tom Hanks, Sandra Bullock, Thomas Horn
Viola Davis, John Goodman, Max von Sydow
Jeffrey Wright, Zoe Caldwell

When did manipulation become such a dirty word? Art after all is designed after the very concept of manipulation; whether it is to manipulate elements that become art (concept which goes from painting to the precise position of frames while editing films) or to provoke a reaction from audiences, artists throughout the ages have attempted to manipulate us into thinking, feeling or seeing differently.
It results quite baffling then that people often find themselves so surprised to "discover" an art piece is trying to manipulate them. Isn't this after all what is expected? Even those artists whose entire oeuvre is meant to provoke indifference, are asking something from their audiences.
Throughout his career, Stephen Daldry has been accused of being a manipulator who relies on specifically engineered elements to elicit pre-fabricated praise, stick to the whims of his producers and more often than not rake in some awards.
This shouldn't speak about Daldry's work more than about the industry he's working in, one where he has proved himself to be a highly efficient worker whose mastery of the medium reminisces the work being done by countless filmmakers during the studio system era. Perhaps this is what bothers most people about Daldry's success: his kind of machine-like filmmaking seems like it's set itself out there to invalidate the concept of auterism.
If so, such is the case with Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close an adaptation of Jonathan Safran Foer's
eponymous novel in which Daldry makes a case for his precise taste and manipulation abilities without trying to create something that remotely resembles a personal signature.
His movie is composed of quirks and settings that have worked before and therefore work again (the frenetic editing of Amélie, a musical score that evokes Daldry's own The Hours, a beautiful work of cinematography etc.) Daldry even goes as far as to extend this seeming laziness to the casting, to play the roles of two every-men (and every-women) he went with two of America's most beloved actors: Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock.
That these two get together to tale a story about 9/11 seems even more appalling! How does Daldry dare make Sandra and Tom suffer? And yet that's precisely what he does and unsurprisingly makes it work.
Daldry is one of those directors who is at the service of story and he concentrates on delivering just that, a well told tale with elements that work, too much, like clockwork.
Hanks plays Thomas Schell, a beloved husband (Bullock plays his wife Linda) and father (Horn plays his son, Oskar) who dies during the NYC terrorist attacks leaving his family without any closure. Oskar is angered at the fact that his mother buried an empty casket, until he finds that his oedipal trauma might have a cure when he finds a mysterious key his father left behind.
Not questioning whether this is a secret message or not, little Oskar sets out on a magical journey across New York City, trying to find the lock that will be opened by the key. Along the way he meets several characters who, like him, have lost someone or are enduring emotional pain (Viola Davis and Jeffrey Wright are particularly touching as a married couple) one of them being a mysterious elderly man (Sydow) who for no specified reason refuses to speak.
Oskar's adventure has less in common with Don Quixote than it does with the little boy from The Tin Drum  whose story is similarly placed against an unsteady historical background. Leaving behind all subtleties for an impressive, if often obnoxious, performance, child-actor Horn grabs all of Oskar's quirks and turns them into elements that eventually become believable. That he is able to both irritate you and warm your heart speaks about the actor's ability to overcome superfluous character details (he seems autistic but in old school fashion this is never alluded to in clear medical terms) and Daldry makes sure that he has enough to do around the adult actors. Watching the little boy with Sydow could've had creepy implications but instead evokes the legendary actor's devotion to his child in Pelle the Conqueror, in similar fashion, Horn stands perfectly against Hank's jolly demeanor and an impressive Bullock who forgoes all her usual movie star charm for an endless longing.
Perhaps the movie feels shallow because it doesn't devote itself to observing the suffering of 9/11 victims; instead attempting to find the universal in the specific, but touching a subject of that magnitude would always mean that catharsis would be impossible. Curiously to try and find answers within the movie would mean that audiences were recreating Oskar's journey, aiming for something higher than they can accomplish. Whether they take this journey with predisposed anger or hoping for the best and preparing for the worst is up to each of them.

The Artist ***½

Director: Michel Hazanavicius
Cast: Jean Dujardin, Bérénice Bejo
John Goodman, James Cromwell, Missi Pyle, Penelope Ann Miller
Malcolm McDowell, Beth Grant

The one thing that was truly magical about movies when they first became popular was their immediacy. The fact that they had no spoken dialogues - and important lines were conveyed with title cards - meant that people the world over could digest them in the same way, regardless of what language they spoke and wherever they lived.
The movies values were never universal but at least everyone had the same chance of dissecting them without the undeniable effect language has on them and films had the same opportunity to be enjoyed by global audiences regardless of where they had been made. After sound was introduced, language became both the medium's most innovative technical achievement but also its greatest separator.
Except for that one genius who speaks every language in the world, the movies have lost their universality. Out of all the arts they are the one that perhaps are more affected by translation; whether its English subtitles determining that characters in an American production are speaking the language of Cervantes, or an Italian dubbing of a Japanese samurai movie, translation alters the way in which we decipher the conveyed messages. They challenge our perception of what the world we live in is actually like and more often they not they trick us into accepting societal and anthropological conventions that aren't our own.
We assume that if they're speaking in a way addressed to us, there must be some truth to what they're saying.
The Artist may not have these concepts behind its creation but it's a time appropriate reminder about the effects of globalization. This, almost entirely, silent film directed by Michel Hazanavicius was conveyed as a love letter to Hollywood's Golden Era and as such recurs to title cards and black and white to transport us to another place and time.
The film's story has shades of City Lights, A Star is Born and Singing in the Rain and centers on the life of movie star George Valentin (Dujardin), a silent era god who finds himself out of a job when he refuses to give in to the new "talking pictures". As his own star dims, George sees Peppy Miller's (Bejo) achieve blinding brightness. She becomes an overnight sensation doing the thing he refuses to do, even if the audience can't hear her talk either.
Directed with loving grace and style by Hazanavicius, the film isn't a strict silent film, it takes its visual cues from movies that range from Citizen Kane (look at the ceilings! Dark projection rooms lit by cigarette smoke!) to Sunset Boulevard (even if Cromwell makes a less creepy driver than Erich von Stroheim) and as such it isn't a silent movie as much as it's a greatest hits of the Golden Era flick.
However the film relies too much on the silent gimmick and refuses to create deeper characters; a flaw that must've been obvious from its screenplay, and one that sadly makes it difficult for audiences to connect with the characters because they don't even become archetypes.
To condemn the movie for its shallowness however would be to deny the pleasure that is watching Dujardin light up the screen with his Douglas Fairbanks smile or to surrender to Bejo's It Girl charm. It's no use to pretend you won't be enthralled by the tricks of Uggie the dog either, but upon its sparkly finale the film begs that we go and look out for the films it so meticulously homages.
Hazanavicius has proven to be a superb director of faux nostalgia films, for a less intimidating example check out his OSS 117 (also starring Dujardin) spy films which are James Bond by way of Serge Gainsbourg, and in The Artist he proves his worth as a cinephile with a great eye for symbols, references and masterful visuals.
He also has an adorable sense of humor, with several key moments in The Artist reminding audiences that they are in a silent film. "Why do you refuse to talk?" asks George's preoccupied wife and this elicits laughter in spite of its potential for eye-rolling.
The Artist is a harmless crowdpleaser that aims for the heart often forgetting about the brain. Its entire essence is conveyed in its very first scenes where we see George Valentin anxiously waiting behind the screen to see how the audience reacts to his latest picture. We see the title card announcing his movie had ended, this is followed by a haunting silence - what else could it be followed by - until the camera cuts to the audience who is enraptured and applauding incessantly. The movie selfconsciously invites you to love it or leave it and such sincerity should too be applauded.

The Princess and the Frog **

Director: Ron Clements, John Musker

The differences between "usual" Disney princesses and the new multi-cultural approach they want to take is expressed quite clearly to us in the first scene of "The Princess and the Frog".
New Orleans seamstress Eudora (voiced by Oprah Winfrey) works on a dress for little Charlotte La Bouff (Breanna Brooks) while she tells her and her daughter Tiana (Elizabeth M. Dampier) a fairy tale.
While the perky, and white, Charlotte glows at the idea of frogs that turn into magical princes, Tiana yuks and proclaims there's no way she would ever kiss a frog.
Her dreams involve opening her very own restaurant with her father (Terrence Howard) and Disney love is something foreign to her system.
Flash forward a few years and Tiana (voiced later by Anika Noni Rose) is working as a waitress while saving to make the first down payment on her restaurant. Charlotte (voiced as an adult by Jennifer Cody) is still the same and has set her eye on the upcoming arrival of Prince Naveen of Maldovia (voiced by Bruno Campos) to become the princess she always wanted to be.
The fact that during these first few scenes we're actually suggested to think of Charlotte as some sort of antagonist- making life impossible for girls who want to work hard like Tiana- is ironic considering how the whole plot turns against itself later on.
Free spirited Naveen is transformed into a frog by evil witch doctor Facilier (Keith David) A.K.A "the Shadow Man" who has a plan to get Charlotte's father (John Goodman) wealth.
Naveen, who obviously read the fairy tale, confuses Tiana for a princess and asks her to kiss him in exchange of being granted anything she wishes for.
She does, ending up a frog herself. It's impossible not to question here if she's being punished for going against her integrity (and expecting to make her wishes come true out of magic) or because she dared think of herself as a fairy tale princess.
Soon Naveen and Tiana find themselves crossing the bayou to find Mama Odie, a witch (Jenifer Lewis) that might know how to turn them back into humans.
Along the way they befriend anthropomorphic creatures that show us-by way of Randy Newman's catchy but repetivie songs- not all reptiles and insects are nasty creatures.
Large part of the plot is shaped around the idea that we shouldn't want to be something we're not. Giant alligator Louis (Michael-Leon Wooley) wishes he could be a jazz trumpet player, while Cajun firefly Ray (Jim Cummings) is in love with a star he calls Evangeline.
Half the movie we endure a debate going on between what the film is saying literally and what it's revealing in a sub-level.

We come to understand that dreams like the one Ray has not only are impossible to achieve but are slightly delusional and it might be said that by stressing out how these predominantly African American characters endure all kinds of trouble to reach things the heroine doesn't even believe in, the filmmakers are not evolving as they suppose, but retaining traditional characteristics to assure young audiences that maybe Disney's status quo isn't so bad as it seems.
The twists have more smug-self-indulgence than wonder and while handsomely drawn and animated the film never haves the magic of 2D classics the studio delivered so proficiently during its golden age.
"It serves me right for wishing on a star" sighs Tiana, when "the only way to get what you want in this world is to work hard for it".
This might come off as a positive message on Disney's part but the movie takes such great lengths to take us to Charlotte's side, that children might just assume old studio princesses who merely wait for a prince to solve their lives are better off than poor Tiana.

Confessions of a Shopaholic **1/2

Director: P.J. Hogan
Cast: Isla Fisher, Hugh Dancy, Krysten Ritter
John Goodman, Joan Cusack, John Lithgow, Leslie Bibb
Lynn Redgrave, Kristin Scott Thomas

Rebecca Bloomwood (Fisher) is a journalist with a problem: she is addicted to shopping. Her excessive spending is sinking her in debt and she must hide from a feared credit collector (Robert Stanton who almost steals the film) while trying to land a job in "Alette" a fashion magazine she's dreamed of working in since se was a child.
A strike of, odd, luck lands her a job in a financial magazine instead, where she becomes an overnight sensation with her savvy column that brings money issues down to Earth for the average reader (read people too lazy to care about what's going on in the world and teenagers) by using fashion/shopping metaphors.
The magazine blooms, she develops a crush on her editor Luke (Dancy) and must hide her fiscal secrets from those who admire her.
Out of the land of realism this film is not. Rebecca's optimistic irresponsibility would have her in a pretty bad situation nowadays and what for many people might be a nightmare, for this character becomes an obstacle to overcome in search of her fairy tale ending.
What's undeniable is that the movie makes for bubbly escapism that's ironically much needed in times like these.
Borrowing the snappy chick wisdom from "Sex and the City", irrationally cute fantasy sequences straight out of "Ally McBeal" and Fisher trying hard to be Reese Witherspoon in "Legally Blonde" it's obvious that nothing here is new.
Add to this some "The Devil Wears Prada" (with the delicious Scott Thomas channeling yet another version of Ms. Anna Wintour, but surprisingly less icy) and a cartoony sense of comedic timing and this will seem like time well spent.
The film suffers a bit from a feeling of haste and incompleteness, too many subplots, too little for us to care including Bibb as an "Alette" competitor and Rebecca's parents (Goodman and Cusack) trying to put some old-er age wisdom and heart into the vapidness.
And while Fisher has improved from her previous screen appearances (her comedic timing and slapstick skills are remarkable) she still lacks a little something to carry an entire movie on her back.
She's absolutely cute and you buy her (no pun intended) as someone who'd literally run from a debt collector, but she lacks presence, which becomes ironically obvious with her wardrobe.
While she narrates about how much she loves clothes and style, Fisher and consequentially Rebecca are sometimes so intimidated by Gucci, Prada, Fendi and all the others that they seem to drown in the clothes.
A particularly awkward piece of jewelry shaped as an anchor (which Rebecca wears to a convention in Miami) really does look heavy on her which proves that even if costume designer Patricia Field is a genius, she needs another genius to pull off her ideas.
Some people might feel offended by the shallowness displayed by most characters, but it's wise to think that those people would never even go see this for starters.
P.J. Hogan, an expert in chick-flicks and rom-coms, takes the wise side by turning this film into a farce that gets more outrageous by the scene (Lynn Redgrave practically has a cameo as a drunk lady who proclaims she loves Rebecca), perhaps only by stating Rebecca is a heroine, instead of judging her (like any normal person would) does he feel he can uplift people's spirits.
"Your mother and I think that if the American economy can be billions in debt and still survive, so can you" says Rebecca's father and while the theater lights are dimmed you actually believe this.