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Once Upon a Time... in
Hollywood
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
“That’s a bold statement.” |
My favorite line from
Quentin Tarantino’s landmark Pulp Fiction
is John Travolta delivering to Eric Stoltz, “That’s a
bold statement.” Well, here’s another bold statement:
Tarantino’s 9th film, Once Upon a Time...
in Hollywood, is his best, Brad Pitt’s
best, and possibly even the year’s best. That
Leonardo DiCaprio, as has-been western TV actor Rick
Dalton, turns-in another masterful performance goes
without saying.
Read More |
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The Lion King
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
I used to joke that I wondered if
Hanna-Barbera brought-in Jane Goodall to consult on
Magilla Gorilla. It was
funny because it was as obvious that they didn’t as
that they didn’t need to. Well,
it’s not funny anymore since a chorus of joyless
cavillers have labelled problematic The
Lion King, apparently because the
leadership model over at the imaginary Pride Rock is
a patriarchy rather than a matriarchy. I would
concede that the film takes a kind of Hakuna
Matata attitude towards zoological science were
it a documentary. But it’s not. Let me repeat that:
The Lion King is not a
documentary.
Read More |
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Stuber
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Disclaimer: I’ve not ridden Uber since
having a less than 5-star experience last year in an
Amish area when they sent me the confirmation
message, “Jedidiah is your driver, he will arrive in
a day and a half.” Part-time
rideshare driver Stu Prasad (The Big Sick’s Kumail
Nanjiani), on the other hand, will do whatever it
takes to elicit a top rating from his passengers —
from offering chocolates and cool water to taking a
bullet for them.
Read More |
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Yesterday
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
I’ve always imagined a scenario where I went
back in time to forestall atrocious pop songs like “Playground
in My Mind” and “Run Joey Run.” Danny
Boyle — the Oscar-winning director of 2008’s
Slumdog
Millionaire — went in another direction. He
envisioned a world devoid of the joy of the Beatles
and refused to let it be. (See what I did there?)
Read more
Yesterday has received the #CriticsChoice
Seal of Distinction from the BFCA! |
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Toy Story 4
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
You might think that when a franchise has
to dig to the bottom of a KFC bag to find a new
protagonist maybe, just maybe, it’s time to wrap
things up. But Pixar somehow managed to transform a
discarded spork into a quaint hero in the latest, and
reportedly last, chapter of “Toy Story.”
Read more
Toy Story 4 has received the #CriticsChoice
Seal of Distinction from the BFCA! |
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Men in Black: International
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
When it comes to the aliens-among-us
genre, you’re not gonna beat 2009’s District 9, a
tale of galactic alien refugees housed in a squalid
internment camp in South Africa. Only incidentally
science fiction, the Peter Jackson-produced film
posed a sociological conundrum. It was (and don’t let
this turn you off from watching it) a think piece.
Read More
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Unplanned
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Groups that value life have become
ubiquitous sights across the country, peacefully
praying in silence in front of every threat to
heartbeats from abortion clinics to prison death
houses. But no one would have ever guessed Abby
Johnson would be among their ranks.
Johnson was, for years, a fixture of Planned
Parenthood, her career there beginning when the
organization recruited her at a college job fair for
an unpaid position and peaking eight years later
heading a Texas clinic and being named PP’s employee
of the year. Then she, as the kids say, got “woke.”
Unplanned documents
Johnson’s experiences working for the controversial
organization and coming to terms with her own
complicity in what her mother consistently reminds
her are “immoral acts.” The film is an adaptation of
Johnson’s popular memoir of the same title and stars
Ashley Bratcher. The picture
Johnson paints of the organization is not a
flattering one and her experiences, supporters say,
have been the motive for concerted efforts to quash
the film: Twitter banned their account on the film’s
opening day, “mistakenly,” the social media giant
claimed; various TV stations refused to run ads for
it; and, the MPAA gave it an R-rating to limit teen
audiences. Yet the film proved an
unlikely success though it remains to be seen whether
this one will change minds.
Still, props for this brave movie that speaks frankly
and confronts a topic most films avoid. But be
forewarned, Unplanned is
uncomfortable to watch at times and hard to unsee —
specifically the sonogram images that were Johnson’s
revelation and the somber prayers over the plastic
waste barrels. Inspiring and/or
infuriating. |
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Green Book
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Walt Disney so obfuscated the core message
in 1964’s Mary Poppins that
it took another more recent telling to explain why
the titular character descended from the clouds,
communed with the children, performed miracles, and
returned to the heavens when the job here was done.
And in that film — 2013’s
Saving Mr.
Banks (Emma Thompson as author P. L.
Travers, Tom Hanks as Walt Disney) — we learn why
Travers was so protective of her characters that it
took Disney years to pry-away film rights. Her
apprehension was not unfounded for, lost in the
supercalifragalistic narrative of the original with
its atrocious cockney accents and dancing penguins,
was the essence of Travers’ tale: Poppins did not come
for the sake of little Jane an Michael but to save
George Banks who had lost himself in the tedious
grind of Dawes, Tomes, Mousley, Grubbs Fidelity
Fiduciary Bank. He needed redemption.
Cinematically, many protagonists have. Though in
recent decades, the theme seems to resonate less with
a demographic swath who see as the highest calling
raising awareness on Twitter. To such moviegoers, or
rather movie eschewers, the self-sacrifice
demonstrated, for instance, by Clint Eastwood’s
cantankerous marginally-racist Walt Kowalski in
Gran Torino was
inconceivable. Yet, ironically, misanthropists who
crap on the genre are most in need of its message of
hope that individuals can change, that conditions can
change. Cynics who don’t subscribe to that uplifting
theme will absolutely hate what was arguably the best
film of 2018, Green Book.
Named for the small printed pamphlet which listed
businesses that served African-American motorists in
the South a half-century ago, the Oscar winner is an
affirmation that the racial divide that infected
communities across America could be transcended,
admittedly an effort that remains a work in progress.
In New York City, at a time when the boundaries
between the Italian- and African-American communities
couldn’t be starker, club-bouncer Tony Vallelonga
(Viggo Mortenson) finds himself driving and
protecting brilliant pianist Don Shirley (Mahershala
Ali) on the musician’s tour of southern cities.
As the odometer turns, that which separates the
men breaks down and the pair predictably bond.
Shirley, who trudges under the weight of a
Baldwin-sized chip on his shoulder (his own identity
is ambiguous: his classical playing is not
appreciated by his people and social mores prevent
whites of the era from socially embracing him)
becomes less guarded while Vallelonga gets, as they
say, woke. [An unfortunate
distraction for some is just how right
Green Book gets the actual facts.
That, apparently, depends on which set of descendants
one believes. This one’s co-penned by Vallelonga’s
son though director Peter Farrelly never claims his
dramedy to be a documentary so I am OK taking the
entertainment at face value.] Both Viggo
Mortenson and Mahershala Ali turn-in impressive
performances (Mahershala Ali won both an Oscar and
Critics Choice Award) in this amazing journey filled
with dignity, fresh humor, and optimism.
Best of all is the comity and respect in the
storytelling: in the end, Shirley accepts himself,
Vallelonga finds redemption. In saner times, that
would be the classic Hollywood ending. Yet detractors
have dismissed this wonderful charmer as “just
another cliché white
savior film” ... a specious and uninformed claim.
Racism and the navigation of racial minefields
are complex, no doubt. But that’s no reason to avoid
them cinematically, or condemn success stories like
those of Tony and Doc.
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Bohemian Rhapsody
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
One of the fun moments in
Bohemian Rhapsody – the amazing biopic
focusing on Freddie Mercury, front man of the popular
70s band Queen – is when Mike Myers,
as a record executive, turns down the titular song.
As fictional exec Ray Foster, and behind a beard
that makes him almost, almost, unrecognizable, Myers
chides them that their operatic mash-up will not be
the kind of song “teenagers can crank up the volume
in their car and bang their heads to.”
Of course it is precisely that moment in Myers’
own 1992 comedy Wayne’s World
where he, Garth, and three friends do just that in
Garth’s 1976 AMC Pacer.
Before he was Freddie
Mercury in the amazing Bohemian
Rhapsody, Rami Malek was the Med
City Movie Guy’s table buddy at the 2016 Critics’
Choice Awards. |
It’s funny there and
it’s funny here. But it’s also a testament to the
timelessness of this song anthem that defies
categorization (“There’s no musical shell than can
contain us” Mercury says in the film) yet is part of
our pop culture spanning generations of fans. Go
ahead, pretend you don’t sing along when it pops up
on your mix tape.
Rhapsody basically follows the
mercurial (tee hee) Freddie Mercury from his
wannabe days through to the Queen reunion at the 1985
Live Aid performance (during which, BuzzFeed says,
“you are ugly-crying so hard”) delicately navigating
the performer’s AIDs struggle in a time when the
disease was relatively new to the world. Pressed to
out himself, Mercury maintains with dignity, “My
business is my business;” refusing to be reduced to
the face of a discease or lifestyle.
All that said, Bohemian Rhapsody
might otherwise be just another pro forma biopic were
it not for one thing: Rami Malek. The Mr. Robot
actor does for Mercury what Val Kilmer did for Jim
Morrison in Oliver Stone’s 1991 film, The Doors. He breathes
life into the character beyond merely eerily capturing his
ostensible essence. Malek lip-synchs, it is true, but
after watching the film, the moviegoer will find it
remarkable how irrelevant that is. Especially that
Malek so adeptly captures Mercury’s trademark
mannerisms. But Bohemian Rhapsody
is about more than just classic rock, obviously.
Like
many creative genii, Freddie Mercury lived a life
free of convention, a lifestyle we all might envy,
yet it was not free of consequences including, most
evidently, isolation; isolation from his mates and
from his family. Yet he persists because he must.
This one does right by the subject matter and
Rami Malek’s Oscar-bound performance will leave us
wondering if this is the real life [or] is this just
fantasy? |
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Gotti
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Rule #1 of the Seven Laws of Comedy
Writing goes like this: be willing to throw-away
your best joke. If you’ve written
creatively, you understand that an intrinsically
clever gag too often directs the effort rather than
merely peppering it. Yet this applies to so much more
than joke writing and it explains how
Gotti, John Travolta’s
ten-years-in-the-making biopic, came to be known as
the worst mob film in history. To
be fair, it’s not the worst. In fact, it’s solidly
mediocre (your HR department would say it meets
expectations) notwithstanding some ghastly dialog — Travolta’s Teflon
Don proclaims at one point, “I could steal from the
church and come out with the steeple sticking out of
my ass and I would deny it”). But somewhere along the
line, legions of reviewers settled on the hackneyed
“Fuggedaboudit” and tailored their coverage so as to
not to betray their clever lynchpin.
Travolta’s Gambino boss is serviceable,
essentially an aged Vinnie Barbarino, but more to the
point seems unnecessary with above-average versions
already out there like HBO’s 1996 Gotti:
The Rise and Fall of a Real Life Mafia Don
with Armand Assante as John Gotti and the 1997 TV
miniseries Witness to the Mob
with Nicholas Turturro as Underboss Sammy “The Bull”
Gravano to Tom Sizemore’s Gotti.
Still, even with worse films like The
Last Don, The Godson,
and, OMG Skidoo – films
that make Corky Romano and
Mickey Blue Eyes look like
the Godfather and the
Godfather: Part II,
respectively, I am still hard pressed to actually
recommend Travolta’s Gotti.
And that’s too bad. With a little better writing
and a better supporting cast, let’s just say it could
have been a contender. Oh!
If you love the genre, check out my
round-up of the best gangster films
here. |
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Won’t You Be My Neighbor?
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Back in 2003, the
Chicago Tribune ran a
contest, “Meow meow meow there goes the neighborhood,
Mister Rogers.” It invited readers to “play program
director and find a replacement — serious or
satirical — for the late Fred Rogers, beloved host of
the PBS children’s mainstay Mister Rogers’
Neighborhood.”
Yours truly skipped away with first
prize for this gem: Kids have lost a calm and
nurturing voice. Who better to help them feel secure
again than the head of the Department of Homeland
Security, Tom Ridge? There will be a few necessary
changes: The sweater’s not wool, it’s Kevlar; every
fifth person in line for the trolley gets a once-over
from the metal-detector wand; and King Friday is
lining up allies to support Neighborhood Resolution
1441. All in all, the show is comforting and
educational as Ridge introduces children to the
wonderful colors of the Homeland Security Advisory
System chart. “It’s an Elevated Risk day in the
neighborhood.” — Chris Miksanek, Rochester, Minn. (link) |
Halfway into Won’t You Be My
Neighbor? — the well-deserved documentary on
everyone’s favorite surrogate dad, Fred Rogers, whose
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood ran from 1963 to 2001
(with a regrettably necessary post-9/11
revival) — you realize that you’re watching what will
go on to win the top accolades for Best Documentary
of 2018.
Yes, it’s that good. It wins for
subject matter, for execution, and because it’s just
so damn pleasant, much like Rogers’ own persona.
If you grew-up with Rogers (I didn’t), watched
your kids grow-up with him (I did), or were only
peripherally aware of his impact (like Encino Man),
director Morgan Neville’s wonderfully engaging
treatment here will reacquaint or win you over. (Nevelle’s
equally-amazing
20 Feet from Stardom also earned critical acclaim
capturing an Oscar and the Critics Choice Award Best
Documentary Feature in 2004.)
Can you say
“this one’s special?” I knew you could.
Won’t
You Be My Neighbor? has received the #CriticsChoice
Seal of Distinction from the BFCA!
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Ocean’s 8
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Steven Soderbergh’s 2001 reboot of the Rat
Pack classic Ocean's Eleven
was a master class in stylized heists. Every
character from George Clooney’s Danny Ocean through
Bernie Mac’s Frank Catton was fleshed-out, well cast,
and so comfortable in their roles that their
relationships were genuine and their banter organic.
Fast forward to the unnecessary reimaging of the
franchise with the normally comically adept (though
not here) Sandra Bullock as Danny’s younger sister
Debbie, also just recently paroled, and you have what
is commonly called in the industry: screwing-up a
good thing. To be kind,
Ocean’s 8 is bland. Keystones
Bullock and Cate Blanchett are supposed to be
reminiscent of Clooney and Brad Pitt but they’re not.
The six other players are mostly one-dimensional
millennials condescendingly tossed-in to reflect
their target demographic. None have the cachet of the
archetypes. None seem comfortable-enough in their own
character skins to have fun. The
film’s only glimmer is James Corden who comes on the
scene in the 3rd act when the film finally gains
traction. Maybe if the cameos were better… Nah. |
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I Feel Pretty
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
When it comes to body image, our culture
is schizophrenic. On one side former First Lady
Michelle Obama incessantly rallied our youth with,
“Let’s move!” On the other end are the Twitterverse
trolls who claim it’s wrong to display concern for
obesity (for so-called social justice warriors
body-shaming is one of the 4000 deadly sins).
Thus Amy Schumer’s latest (and one of her finest)
comedy I Feel Pretty is “controversial” though it
isn’t really. If Hollywood and
our parents have taught us anything it’s that we
oughtn’t let anyone define us, good or bad. In both
1989’s Lean on Me and 1986’s
Stand and Deliver, for
example — both true stories, by the way — leads
Morgan Freeman as Principal Joe Clark and Edward
James Olmos as math teacher Jaime Escalante implored
students to have respect for themselves, eschew the
stereotypes our culture has inflicted on them and
recognize that self-confidence is an essential
ingredient in success. Now, two
decades later, Schumer brings a similar though
clumsier message in I Feel Pretty as Renee Bennett,
the webmaster for high-end cosmetics company Lily LeClair. Though she does not have the requisite
figure, which of course fuels her insecurities,
Bennett hasn’t given up the dream of moving up in the
glamor industry. But then she suffers a head injury
and everything changes. Suddenly she believes she’s
hot and there’s no stopping her. In short time, her
self-proclaimed beauty and condescension move her up
the ladder but alienate her longtime friends who’ve
always accepted each other the way they are.
The message of self-confidence and being
comfortable in one’s skin, though, is steady
throughout and one of the reasons I liked that this
one could reach a wider audience with its PG-13
rating. Unfortunately except for Schumer and SNLer
Aidy Bryant (who’s joy is always contagious) the cast
is a calamity. Both the normally adept Michelle
Williams who currently runs Lily LeClair and Lauren
Hutten as LeClair herself don’t seem to belong.
For me, this one conjured-up the image of
Vince Vaughn’s end-credits commercial in 2004’s
DodgeBall: A True Underdog Story:
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Hi. I’m Peter La Fleur, owner and operator of Average
Joe’s Gym. I’m here to tell you you’re perfect just the
way you are. But if you feel like losin’ a few pounds,
gettin’ healthier, and makin’ friends in the process,
Joe’s is the place for you. |
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Terms and Conditions May Apply
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
For me, at least a couple of times a week,
it goes something like this: As long as it doesn’t
cost anything, sure, what the hell, “I agree” and on
proceeds the download, app access or Wi-Fi
connection. I mean, it’s free, right?
It is. I suppose. The same way that the feed is
free to the chickens. The recent
Facebook scandals — that the social media behemoth’s
development partner sold user data to a Trump
campaign surrogate and that Zuckerberg’s team had
previously colluded, likely in violation of FEC
rules, to get “their guy” Barack Obama elected —
makes even more relevant this 2013 documentary from
investigative filmmaker Cullen Hoback. Not
surprisingly, then, as now, the devil is
in the 8-point Arial Narrow.
“Don’t talk to me about
contracts, Wonka; I use ’em myself. They’re
strictly for suckers.” |
And
of that there are tons. Facebook’s terms and
agreement (not including abundant external links)
runs more than 6,100 words and requires a 12.8
grade-level to comprehend. Google’s terms and
conditions: 4,700 words and a 12.1 grade level. And
get this: Do you check your email while you’re
waiting for an oil change at Walmart? Their
“agreement” is 4,300 words and clocks-in at a reading
level of grade 17.6 — that’s grad school! … at Walmart!
Have you seen the 3 a.m. pajama-pants crowd at
Walmart looking for hemp boating accessories? (To
put things into perspective, this review is 600 words
and a reading level of 8th grade.)
It’s a stretch to believe anyone reads, let alone
understands, the contract they are entering into.
One such agreement, Hoback’s documentary tells us, had for
more than a year the clause that the user was
agreeing to the “assignment of your immortal soul.”
No one noticed. Who has the time, anyway? To
read all of those that we routinely dismiss would
take 180 hours per year to read. Frankly, I was
nonplussed. Post-9/11 we gave up a lot of privacy but
what was stunning was the extent to which companies
have partnered with intelligence agencies and thanks
to the so-called “3rd party doctrine” we’ve all but
conceded our 4th amendment protections.
Municipalities have used data from our TomTom GPS to
develop speed traps, the CIA has replaced several
older data gathering sources with Facebook, thousands
of CCTV cameras dot the public landscape and where
whistleblowers have attempted to expose these privacy
invasions, governments have come down on them. For
instance, the Obama administration has filed more
charges against whistleblowers than all prior
presidents combined.
The film leaves little hope that things will improve.
Europe has stronger privacy laws, but the filmmaker
is quick to note the credo of the free services,
“anonymity is not profitable.” As
to how we got to this point, there’s a lot of blame
to go around but some masters of the universe make
themselves easy targets. For fun, though ostensibly
to make a point, Hoback tracks down Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg at his home, which he’s calculated based
on one of Zuck’s posts and catch him, it looks like,
bringing-in his trash bins from the curb (I guess
they have garbage day in Palo Alto, too.) “Please
don’t record me,” he stiffly tells the cameraman. But
when he thinks no one is watching he lets loose a
rare smile. But someone’s always watching; always
collecting our activity. Profiling. Monetizing.
And
it isn’t so much the atrocious things they do with our
information, but that we permit them to do so in the
smallest unreadable fonts possible.
Terms and
Conditions May Apply is definitely worth checking
out. But don’t watch it with one of those online
services where you have to click a bunch of
agreements to do so. That’s. just. wrong.
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Chappaquiddick
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Let’s cut to the chase here. Ted Kennedy,
the reluctant scion of the Kennedy clan, killed young
campaign worker Mary Jo Kopechne, one of several
so-called “Boiler Room Girls” (I don’t even want to
know what that means) the very week that a man first
walked on the moon.
Writer Joyce Carol Oates, who penned Black Water imagining the tragedy on the
small island in tony Martha’s Vineyard from Kopechne’s perspective, wrote: “Kennedy chose to flee
the scene, leaving the young woman to die an
agonizing death not of drowning but of suffocation
over a period of hours. Incredibly, it was 10 hours
before Kennedy reported the accident, by which time
he’d consulted a family lawyer.”
The diver recovering
her body would later say that had authorities been
notified, Kopechne could have handily been rescued.
Instead, here we are.
Director John Curran’s
Chappaquiddick is not the hit job the hard right
expected nor is it the vindication that a
left-leaning writer/director’s hagiology would have
invented (this tweet from former President Obama
hasn’t aged well but illustrates the latter point:
“What if we carried ourselves more like Ted Kennedy?
What if we worked to follow his example a little bit
harder?”) Still, Chappaquiddick is more evenhanded
than Ted Kennedy deserves.
Jason Clarke (The Great
Gatsby, Zero Dark Thirty) stars as the man
who would be
the Lion of the Senate. Kate Mara (whose Zoe Barnes
was similarly discarded for political convenience in
House of Cards) is Kopechne. Both turn-in perfunctory
performances, as do the curious castings of funny men
Ed Helms and Jim Gaffigan. Only Bruce Dern, as the
convalescing patriarch Joe Kennedy, stands out.
In the end, the
film is merely a manifestation of the larger social issue:
the divide between morals and politics and how for
too long and on too many occasions we’ve overlooked
one to achieve success in the other.
Chappaquiddick
is the reckoning then, not just for the storied
legacy of the Kennedys, but our tolerance, or worse,
the embrace of success at any cost.
The neck-brace
was a nice touch, though. |
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Black Panther
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Film reviewers who normally dismiss
superhero movies and columnists who don’t review
films at all are falling over
Superheroes of color
Heroes come in all hues. |
themselves to virtue
signal their love for Black
Panther, the latest Marvel
comic-to-screen blockbuster.
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The Polka King
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
I need more
accordion. Polka is
an acquired taste. Anyway, it’s one I acquired as a
kid, osmotically. A month didn’t go by that there
wasn’t some kind of Slovak celebration at Chicago’s
Polonia Grove. While the fossils were rolling out the
barrel in the pavilion, us kids were running around
the grounds but never far enough that Joe “Joe Pat”
Paterek’s upbeat music or a chorus of stomping feet
could not be heard. The men enjoyed beer, brats and
chest pains; mama and auntie would show off their new
wigs. Those were good times.
The Man Who
Would Be Polka King
The 2009 folksy
documentary, The Man Who Would Be Polka King —
also currently on NetFlix — is a good companion
piece. In it, Lewan’s son takes-on the “greedy”
victims who themselves say of Lewan’s prison
assault, “they should have finished the job.”
Together these two films paint a complete
picture. |
Eventually, we too would embrace
this music that was “so square it was hip” and even
today I am convinced that the Milwaukee Rascals
(arguably the U2 of Polka, by the way) hit, Don’t
Throw Beer Bottles at the Band was the inspiration
for the iconic Bob’s Country Bunker scene in
The Blue
Brothers (1980).
And just to make the lead-in to my
review of Jack Black’s The Polka King
even that much
more unnecessarly long, consider this: It’s not
possible to be unhappy listening to polka music. Cops
don’t hassle people, trailers don’t blow away in
tornados, spouses don’t do their significant others
wrong. It’s right there in band names like Jolly Joe
and Whoopee John. And in 1984’s
The Last Polka, SCTV’s John Candy and Eugene Levy brought their
Happy
Wanderers — Yosh and Stan Schmenge — to the big screen
(if you had a TV with dimensions that qualified, I
guess; otherwise they just brought it to HBO). Need
more proof: they don't do concerts, they do Polka
Parties. (Mic drop.) It’s with
that fondness that I approached NetFlix’s
The Polka
King with Black as the perpetually optimistic Jan Lewan, who, as it turns out, was quite the flim-flam
man even if his intentions were ostensibly noble.
Having struck-up the music for several years, the
Polish native had become something of a Pennsylvania
personality — he wed a one-time local beauty queen
(Jenny Slate), and earned himself a Grammy nom — but
it wasn’t enough. Lewan envisioned a Polka empire
beyond modestly-paid gigs and his tchotchke shop. To
fund it, and provide his band with a decent wage, Lewan began selling unregulated promissory notes
offering fans, most of them pensioners, the unheard
of return of 12%, and later 20%.
Among his
enterprises was a European tour the highlight of
which was a wangled private audience with
Pope John Paul II (because he’s y’know, Polish)
apparently facilitated by bribing a priest close to the Holy
Father. Alas, like all the best best Ponzi schemes,
this one came tumbling down and Lewan served time in
prison where an attempt on his life was made.
He
returned to music on his release and quickly sold-out
the Hazleton Philharmonic Hall (I am not familiar
with the venue so that may or may not be a big deal)
for his reunion tour.
Black’s Polish accent is at times wacky but he
otherwise sells Lewan’s optimism, charm, and
financial innocence as he pursues the Polish-American
dream. Moja droga
jacie kocham, I loved this one so. |
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The Post
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY It’s films like this (and 2015’s
Spotlight) that inspire some 15,000 fresh journalism
grads every year to aspire to the same
six seven
(Matt Lauer’s job just opened-up) available
positions. Of the
dozens that land entry-level positions, many will
find themselves writing obits, used car ads, or covering the occasional breaking local story
(“Soil Supervisor Neglects to Sign Requisition for
New Yardstick”). What they all
have in common is a calling to accept the great
responsibility of taking on the government (or
providing cover for it if they really, really, like the
president and he’s really cool). It’s a savoir complex and they see
themselves as heroes. Some of us see them that way too. After all,
the greatest superhero in the world was, for his day
job, a mild-mannered reporter. Steven
Spielberg plays on this image in the last few minutes
of The
Post which mimics every Marvel film with its sequel
set-up. Before that,
we’re treated to a rather bland tale that for classic
newsmen is the crack-cocaine of a breaking story but
for the rest of us was actually “Meh!” It all centers on the
Washington Post’s “daring” decision to print the
so-called Pentagon Papers, a secret study that
revealed the unwinability (yea, I know, my
spell-checker complained about that one too) of the
Vietnam War over several administrations both
Democrat and Republican. The
thing is, it wasn’t such a big deal. Long before the
1971 publication, Americans soured on the conflict.
Newspapers bucked White House persecution and in the case
of the Post, risked financial ruin for something most
everyone knew, anyway. Regrettably, this is doesn’t make
for riveting drama though I suspect there is a
message here about media’s role today that the fourth
estate will
seize on to herald this one rather than focus on the
squandered talents of Spielberg and principals Tom
Hanks and Merle Streep for whom in this ensemble
piece there is very little
meat.
Hardly the masterful riveting
storytelling we’d expect from the director of the
likes of Schindler’s List
and Saving Private Ryan.
The Post has received the #CriticsChoice
Seal of Distinction from the BFCA! |
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The Disaster Artist
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY Though I had seen
more than enough bad films over the years (for some
reason 2010’s The Last Airbender
comes to mind) I was unfamiliar with the 2003 gem
The Room (not to be
confused with Brie Larson’s remarkable
Room). The
preposterously bad The Room
starred and was written- and directed-by the
mysterious Tommy Wiseau who claimed to be from New
Orleans (mental flashback: Beldar Conehead, “We’re
from France”). The genesis of its ersatz popularity
goes like this: the self-financed and self-promoted
film was DOA but saw a resurgence as something so bad
it was/is entertaining (precisely my definition of Emo Philips, by the way). The
target audience for this one, evidently, are the
hipster mockers. But the magic of The
Disaster Artist is that you don’t have
to be even familiar with the calamity of a film on
whose development this one is based. Nor will you be
piqued to check it out afterwards. It is for all a
delicious examination of an enigmatic “auteur” and
for fans of The Room it is
that and a backstory. That is to
say you can appreciate Tim Burton’s Ed
Wood and Johnny Depp’s brilliant
portrayal of the cult filmmaker without having seen —
or succumbing to the urge of seeing —
Glen or Glenda or Orgy of
the Dead which this one eclipses
anyway. In the same way we can appreciate the
pathetic efforts of Norma Desmond to bring her
Salomé to the big screen. Sometimes the
backstory is the story. Here
James Franco channels the titular “Disaster Artist”
himself directing and starring as Wiseau. Franco’s brother
Dave (21 Jump Street, Neighbors)
is Wiseau’s protégé Greg Sestero (Sestero with Tom
Bissell wrote the book on which The
Disaster Artist is based).
For the typically comical James Franco this might
seem a stretch but he delivers a peculiarly
interesting introspective, handily his most
substantial performance, in one of the year’s best
and most engaging films. I think
that’s a fair assessment though Wiseau might tell me,
“Leave your stupid comments in your pocket!”
The Disaster Artist has received the #CriticsChoice
Seal of Distinction from the BFCA! |
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Darkest Hour
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY After watching
Critics’ Choice for Best Actor Gary Oldman in
Darkest Hour, you’ll understand
why former President
Obama’s first action was to remove the bust of Winston
Churchill from the Oval Office. Obama’s feckless foreign policy
of dithering and #hoping things would work
themselves out sans involvement stood in
stark contrast to Churchill’s mettle and
decisiveness. To wit: pressed when nearly
their entire military is pinned-down at Dunkirk (the
Christopher Nolan film of that same title, and
Their Finest, by the
way, are two
of 2017’s other finest hours),
the Brits are faced with a choice: continue the
failed policy of appeasement championed by Neville
Chamberlain or stand as the David to Hitler’s
Goliath. They choose wisely. But
soon after Churchill is elected, he finds that many of
his colleagues lack the stomach to do what it takes
to win as Chamberlain continues to insist that “Hitler will
be reasonable to negotiate with” and that
co-existence is possible. His predecessor’s reckless
naivety notwithstanding, the conflicted new PM
remains apprehensive. But a marvelous subway sequence
— ordinary Brits addressing his queries — removes all
doubt. The rest, as they say, is
history. Perhaps what is most
outstanding here is Gary Oldman’s performance. He is
the consummate actor having played everyone from Sid
Vicious to Lee Harvey Oswald. He elevates any film in
which he’s a part including this one which owes most
of its luster to him (and his prosthetist). |
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Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY
Man on the
Moon (1999)
In case you didn’t
know, Andy Kaufman was a hit-or-miss entertainer.
But when he hit it was amazing. “You're insane,”
Danny DeVito, as manager George Shapiro,
concludes, “but you might also be brilliant.”
In truth, Kaufman, who Jim Carrey masterfully
channels here, was both and this film, like the
similarly titled R.E.M. track, is a dignified
tribute. |
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Daddy’s Home 2
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CHRIS MIKSANEK - THE MED CITY
MOVIE GUY Not all the jokes
land in Daddy’s Home Two
but those that don’t I blame on Russian bots.
This sequel rejoins (see what I did
there?) irascible badass Mark Wahlberg and lovable
wuss Will Ferrell. Though, to be fair, Ferrell was
kind of a badass as his character’s former wilder
self Gator in The Other Guys,
another film that paired the same duo and shone their comic chemistry. 2015’s
Daddy’s Home left little
ground to cover. Ferrell, as Linda Cardellini’s
second husband, was so in touch with his and others’
feelings … I was going to make a Harvey Weinstein
joke but it’s all about timing and the moment passed.
Anyway, their new world collapsed when first-husband
Wahlberg returned. Laughs ensued. Really. They
ensued. It was a funny film. Two
years later, the co-dads are back and Wahlberg is now
as obnoxiously polite as Ferrell. Plot-writers need
to bring back the original magic which they do – in a
none-too-original Hollywood maneuver (refer to:
Meet the Fockers) – by
bringing in the parents so that the entire extended
family can celebrate (and, predictably, clash) for
the holidays. Wahlberg’s dad is…
wait for it … Mel Gibson. Sure there are a few others
I would have cast (Liam Neeson comes to mind), but
Gibson turns-in a convincing performance as a man’s
man to the inspired casting of Ferrell’s fussy and
fastidious begetter John Lithgow. Lithgow makes an
airport entrance to Barry Manilow before sloppily
kissing Ferrel like a crazy dog lover and their Bull
Terrier named “Bosco” (OK, it’s me I’m talking about
right now). What follows is
largely formulaic but not unsatisfying. Let’s just
leave it at that. |
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