R-rated comedies trade on sex, not scripts

New Line Cinema presents a David Dobkin film, starring Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson. Written by Steve Faber and Bob Fisher. 119m. R for sexual content/nudity and language.

1.5 stars

Like thousands of other hot-blooded, sex-addled 20-somethings, I’m supposed to wallow in the unadorned raunch of “Wedding Crashers” and praise it for titillating me with sex montages, double-entendred jokes and zany stunts. Otherwise, I’ll be grouped with the other neuters, who are condemned for having no sense of humor and being way too uptight about a piece of silly entertainment.

So let me make this clear: My disdain towards “Wedding Crashers” isn’t about the number of times I didn’t laugh, or the surgically-enhanced breasts I saw. It’s the fact that its staggering box office suggests a new trend is upon us: When the script sorely lacks, let’s just throw a bunch of gratuitous flesh on the screen and appeal to the lowest common denominator.

I thought the premise showed great promise. Many a dorm-room conversation was dominated by fantasies of rivers of booze liquoring up cute strangers looking for “Mr. Right (now)” in the wedding setting.

John Beckwith (Owen Wilson) and Jeremy Grey (Vince Vaughn) are fraternity-types who have taken an idea conjured somewhere between cans of Old Milwaukee and Natural Ice and made it into a 30-year-old’s reality. Their summer vacation is wedding season, where the two engage in a role-play that ensures them free drinks, free eats, free dance, and free, available women.

During the other 49 weeks, they’re court-appointed mediators - although if you believe the Butterscotch Stallion has even gone near a law book with that surf-ready hair, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.

Grey scores the invite of the year - to the prestigious wedding of Secretary Cleary’s (Christopher Walken) daughter at some Hamptons-esque destination. The two pose as venture capitalists from New Hampshire and intimidate doubting Thomas with citations like, “We’re Uncle Ned’s kids...you know Uncle Ned, right?”

It’s not all crashing weddings and beds, however. There’s rules to keep a modicum of safety for the uninvited guests. Positive attention, like dancing with the flower girl or instigating the house band to play “Shout,” is welcomed. Negative attention, like sulking in the corner because an apparent conquest brought her boy-toy, is a sure no-no.

But how could you not sulk when the main attraction is Cleary daughter, Claire (Rachel McAdams), who is not only a beauty but seems to think all this pandering around her father is just nonsense? But then again, isn’t she dating Zack (Bradley Cooper), whose life goal seems to be brown-nosing Secretary Cleary enough to unite his family’s DNA with theirs in some sort of Rockefeller/Vanderbilt-style mashup?

Aye, there’s the rub. These characters are a bundle of walking contradictions. Cooper, who showed flashes of promise as Sydney Bristow’s bud on “Alias,” is so adequately reduced to the meathead archetype that he has nothing to do but hurt people and insult his girlfriend into the arms of Wilson.

That, of course, won’t come until the film’s second or third denouement, after its audiences have been run through a “Meet the Fockers”-type ringer. It also won’t resolve itself without a completely unnecessary cameo by Will Ferrell, who just acts big and loud and, oh, I hate him now.

I’m not saying it all should be scrapped and sold for spare parts; hell, I did give the thing 1.5 stars for showing moments where it looked like it would tear off its tether and actually become its own film. But there’s a far more ominous beast awaiting us thanks to the movie’s unchecked success: the extreme, unrated, special collector’s edition DVD, chock full of scenes too putrid for even this film. Expect mounds of unabashed nudity from model starlets who are trying their hand at fleshing out their resume and at least one more scatological joke, if I’ve got this right.

While the R-rated comedy isn’t exactly taking the road never traveled, it has found favor as a production comedy’s newest cash cow. The “American Pie” trilogy, wherein the R-rated comedy found its recent renaissance, had become a DVD juggernaut thanks in part to its unrated cannon. You can expect similar receptions for next month’s R-rated features, “Deuce Bigelow: European Gigolo” and the Steve Carell-vehicle “The 40 Year-Old Virgin.” Even if they tank hard at the theaters - which is almost inevitable, given their August slates - the DVDs will undoubtedly recoup most losses.

I’d say it’s sad that this is what audiences expect out of comedy and mourn the death of true writing, but I’m sure that would ensure my membership in the land of Unhip-topia. So here’s what you’ve been waiting 13 paragraphs for me to say: If you loved “Old School,” boy, this is the movie for you!

It's wonderful!

Warner Bros. presents a Tim Burton film, starring Johnny Depp and Freddie Highmore. Written by John August and based on a book by Roald Dahl. 115m. PG for quirky situations, action and mild language.

5 stars

In the two and half years since I had dispensed my last five star rating, I had grown a bit despondent that films could no longer meet my heightened expectations. I looked inward first, then outwardly. Was it me, or had the pictures really become increasingly trite?

“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” teems with so much imagination that it will restore your faith in the pictures. In a calendar plagued by sequels, remakes and assorted half-baked ideas, “Charlie” shines above them all, offering a trove of delights for both the young and the young at heart.

Perhaps most importantly, it doesn’t trample on the original adaptation of Roald Dahl’s classic children’s book. “Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory,” created in 1971, was a vehicle for up and coming comedic talent Gene Wilder. It dropped the book’s primary focus – and, by extension, its heart - when it centralized Wonka, not Charlie Bucket.

It’s an oversight corrected by the partnership of director Tim Burton and actor Johnny Depp, perhaps the only two people who consistently defy expectations these days. Burton has appropriated the visual palette of his previous film, “Big Fish,” and injected it with fire engine reds and milky chocolate colors. It’s a hybrid pregnant with visual delights, making the candy inside Wonka’s factory look so good you think you just might be able to taste it.

Depp, meanwhile, is not only responsible for reimagining Wonka via Dahl, but for recruiting the film’s central protagonist. With his rather adult command deftly projecting a childlike naïveté, Freddie Highmore was a bit of a scene stealer in “Finding Neverland,” the bio-pic of “Peter Pan” creator J.M. Barrie.

But it takes two to steal a scene; the thief and his victim. Depp is the sort of an actor talented enough to allow another to upstage him. When the moment is right in this film, he nudges Highmore to lead a pivotal scene.

This is a story in which audiences glean the values of family, dreams, and unconditional love from an impoverished pre-teen living in a bowed, ramshackle shack. The chocolate factory is a welcome distraction, providing a backdrop for the parable.
It’s Wonka who decides, after 15 years, to open up his factory to five lucky children. I’ve never truly understood Wonka’s motivations, but I think Depp has him pegged right as a eccentric reclusive who has more than a few flashes of inspired genius.

The chocolatier tells us that the golden ticket contest was to find a suitable heir to his Wonka empire, but that always seemed a tad suspect. Children go after golden tickets like their parents did for Cabbage Patch Kids 10 years ago, exposing their id and eliciting a primal urge to win. The contest is, in a way, rigged against urchins like Charlie who can barely afford one Wonka bar a year. And I suppose that why we feel a sense of wonderment that, amongst a group of rapscallions, Charlie is the representative for human decency.

There’s Augustus Gloop (Philip Wiegratz), whose gluttony paves the way for his discovery of the first ticket. To call him slovenly would be to understate things.

And there’s Violet Beauregarde (Annasophia Robb), driven to some sort of insane quest to be the world’s foremost authority on gum chewing. She switched over to Wonka bars after hearing of the contest and is driven, by her underachieving mother, to win the Wonka grand prize.

The petulant Veruca Salt (Julia Winter) was third, demanding her daddy suspend his peanut shucking operation to have his workers unwrap candy bars instead. Her life is dominated by possessing things; her parents are one of her prized captures.
Finally, there’s Mike Teavee (Jordan Fry), a violent little boy whose predilections come from too much time in front of the video game console. He outthought Wonka, manipulating the system so that his golden ticket feels like a bit of cheat.

So if Wonka isn’t luring children to his factory as a recruitment tool, does he have other, more sinister, plans? He seems absent of any true sexuality, although the movie does provide a new backstory for his fear of true companionship. He is like the Grinch without the cruelty, needing someone to touch his heart in a way he didn’t know was possible.

It is Charlie who sees, if never suggests, the true correlation between his own life and Wonka’s. Living in a house that evokes equal parts of Lemony Snicket and German expressionism, one easily sees the extraordinary in the otherwise ordinary. Just as Wonka is driven by his creations - and kudos to production designer Alex McDowell for making them so alive - Charlie is encouraged to dream by his family who are spiritually rich, while financially poor.

For fans of the original, there’s much to still love. The Oompa Loompas still oversee production of every Wonka bar (but now all look strangely alike, in the guise of actor Deep Roy). And there’s new songs; those familiar with Dahl’s book will be delighted to hear his zany tunes receive a long overdue treatment.

It’s an delightfully satisfying, visceral experience, watering my once-wilting faith in the movies to inspire, provoke and delight all at the same time. “Charlie and Chocolate Factory” is a high - not from its caffeine-laced cocoa beans, but from the possibilities present in its production.

Some superheroes aren't so fantastic after all

Fantastic Four (2005)
20th Century Fox presents a Tim Story film, starring Jessica Alba and Michael Chiklis. Written by Michael France and Mark Frost. Based on characters by Jack Kirby and Stan Lee. 106m. PG-13 for sequences of intense action and some suggestive content.

2 stars

It’d be hard for anyone, let alone a group of ordinary astronauts, to live up to the implied expectations of a moniker like the “Fantastic Four.”

The quartet’s dirty little secret is that their superpowers aren’t actually that astounding. What’s always intrigued me, instead, is how those powers begin to expose the true nature of the person blessed - or cursed – with them.

After a miserable failure which practically bankrupted him, Reed Richards (Ioan Gruffudd) has to grouse for funding at the ankles of Dr. Victor Von Doom (Julian McMahon). He seeks funding for a space mission that could alter the way scientists understand human DNA. The vain Von Doom is happy to oblige, but only if he is allowed to fill out the crew with galpal Sue Storm (Jessica Alba) and her daredevil brother, Johnny (Chris Evans).

Richards’ request is like Einstein begging Hawking, with both being outfitted with Bill Gates-like capital, for assistance on a career-defining scientific discovery. I think Von Doom is secretly pleased, then, when Richards’ calculations go awry and the five - including Richards’ solider, Ben Grimm (Michael Chiklis) – are subjected to some sort of interstellar radiation.

The exposure outfits all five with superpowers, which are slowly revealed to the characters at the same time they are to the audience. Richards has the ability to contort his body like an out-of-control Stretch Armstrong. Sue Storm can turn invisible, but also employ self-containing force fields. Johnny Storm is combustible, turning into a ball of flame at the snap of a finger. Ben is the only one who undergoes a significant appearance change; his body mass quadruples and he becomes a rock monster.

Von Doom is furnished with a new origin story for his super-ability; he develops significant deposits of metal (think Wolverine in “X-Men”) underneath his epidermal layers, causing him to have a potentially indestructible armor. He isolates himself from the other four, consumed by the notion - now more than ever - that Richards has undermined him and intentionally destroyed his empire.

And while there is an ultimate stand-off between Von Doom and his new arch-nemesis, there’s also a very pointed suggestion that this is merely the beginning of the “Fantastic Four” on the silver screen. In fact, this film seems like a deliberately-paced introduction to the protagonists and their newly discovered abilities. It’s like a circus, where we see all the thrills, but never learn of the motivations of the performers.

In fact, there’s much disagreement between the four about their ultimate role. As a scientist who realizes the grave consequences of his superpowers, Richards works to construct a machine that will revert the quartet to their original states. But Johnny embraces his role as The Human Torch, seeing the exposure as a blessing that comes laden with fame and fortune.

Since he was permanently disfigured, Ben sees his evolution into The Thing as a curse which temporarily negates his abilities to interact unimpeded in the real world. We’re not really given a insight into how Sue is handling the transition, which is probably fine. I was already having a difficult enough time believing Jessica Alba was a genetic scientist, let alone accepting that she had a complete thought in her mind.

Just three weeks after “Batman Begins,” “Fantastic Four” adroitly demonstrates the schism that exists now in comic-book adaptations. “Batman Begins” opted to take a hard look at a character’s origin and motivations. It asked audiences to look inside themselves and find similarities; how would we have acted if we had set the wheels in motion that effectively killed our parents? Would we seek revenge, or opt for justice? Or would we ignore the frantic call of a citizenry in peril, opting to wallow in our own prescribed pain?

“Fantastic Four” doesn’t care much about what makes its characters tick. It wants to have very public displays of prowess, like an incident at the Brooklyn Bridge where all four are given the opportunity to strut their stuff. Its shot selection and emphasis on special effects over storytelling suggests that it’s here to entertain, not to provoke or inspire. Films that use digital magic as a crutch are sometimes enjoyed, but hardly ever remembered.

“Batman Begins” is littered with special effect shots, but they are used to create a mood or drive home a point. They accentuate the storytelling, not overwhelm it.

It will be interesting to see if audiences still support both factions of comic book adaptations in the coming years. I’d humbly suggest that as long as there is a movie about one of the indispensable icons - Spider-Man, Superman, Batman or the X-Men - there will probably be opportunity for the less impressive superheroes.

A ‘war’ worth supporting

War of the Worlds (2005)
Paramount Pictures presents a Steven Spielberg film, starring Tom Cruise. Written by Josh Friedman and David Koepp. Based on a novel by H.G. Wells. 116m. PG-13 for frightening sequences of sci-fi violence and disturbing images.

3 stars

There’s a tense scene near the end of “War of the Worlds” when Army soldiers have knocked down a foreign spacecraft. They approach the three-pronged vehicle slowly, while a hatch slowly reveals an alien breathing slowly inside.

And I’m happy to report that extraterrestrial looked nothing like Tom Cruise.

While it may be considered impossible to overshadow a big-budget, special-effects driven summer blockbuster, Cruise’s recent antics have us all wondering if he’s gone a little cuckoo-banana-pants or if this is all part of the hype.

Cruise’s fatal flaw is that he hasn’t proved himself to be an actor, deciding instead to be a star. And while that may mean little to a man who commands over $20 million per picture, it does have a tendency to make his presence a bit distracting.

Therefore, there’s a certain amount of irony that the true success of “War of the Worlds” is that Cruise, now at his most omnipresent, actually allows us to become emotionally involved with his character. Usually he keeps the viewer at arm’s length, jarring us out of our created reality with an array of trademark Cruise gestures.

He’s bad dad Ray Ferrier, a crane operator who seems to truly resent spending time with his progeny. Lost amidst his own self-centeredness, Ray oscillates between ruling over his children with an iron fist and trying to manipulate their love with false sentiment. Son Robbie (Justin Chatwin) resents that he’s a chip off the old block and pushes back when tested. The young Rachel (Dakota Fanning) is nonplused, waiting patiently for the true Ray persona to appear before committing.

Leave it to a cavalcade of aliens to make family strains seem inconsequential.

In a string of maneuvers that show indications of higher intelligence, the aliens knock out regional power grids before summoning spacecraft that were hidden for millions of years below the Earth’s crust.

The Bayonne, N.J. residents, including Ray, do what most curious individuals would do: They stand near the craters, hoping for a better look. It’s a commentary on our existence, even post-Sept. 11, that our inherent tendencies often get the best of us. When the aliens arise, Bayonners gawk at the interlopers.

And then the massive tripods start vaporizing Jerseyites.

Like most of the movie, the scene is shown exclusively with Ray as the central vantage point. And as he dodges the ray of death and others around him are reduced into ashes, I can’t think but help feel this was the summer blockbuster version of a terrorist attack.

Perhaps what’s most compelling is that the age gaps between Ray and his children allow for different responses to the invasion. Rachel is terrified, needing Ray to be her father figure for perhaps the first time. Robbie is defiant, feeling the call to arms that many felt after watching both planes slam into the sides of the World Trade Center. For Ray, it’s all about preservation. Sure the film is about a well orchestrated attack by aliens, but “Worlds” will only be truly successful if it can convince its audience that Ray has reformed from his self-centered mindset.

Director Steven Spielberg, not usually known for putting political chicanery in the what-isn’t-said, takes a swipe at America’s recent military involvement in Iraq. Robbie, emboldened by his anger, threatens to join the military immediately. Like a chess master summoning his knight to attack a pawn, Spielberg moves Ray against his son, telling him: “I know you want to fight. I know it seems like you have to, but you don’t. You don’t.”

Well, someone has got to do the dirty work. The aliens are prepared, equipped with some sort of deflector shield that limits their exposure to weapons. In an effort to find safe passage, Ray finds the only working car in the entire state of New Jersey and makes his way to Croton-on-Hudson, a New York harbor town that could provide a gateway to Massachusetts.

And in Croton is where the real drama begins. With the panic of people amplified by the morning’s attacks, Ray is swarmed by those on foot for his vehicle. It’s a startling look at the dog-eat-dog, survivalist mentality ingrained in all humans which is exposed during crisis. It’s reminiscent of that oft-quoted Nietzsche passage: “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process, he doesn’t become a monster.”

Ray and Rachel leave the mob to take refuge with a fellow passenger who has found solace in an abandoned cellar. Ogilvy (Tim Robbins) has obviously begun experiencing symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder, which heightens the intensity. Staying put is simply not a viable option and an alien probe of the household - which must last 10 solid minutes - cranks up the tension-meter to the film’s most remarkable output.

I’d be amiss if I didn’t mention Spielberg’s alleged faithfulness to the original source material by H.G. Wells (I only qualify it as alleged because I haven’t read the 1898 work myself). Wells is blamed for a rather pat ending, which will work for some but be diametrically opposed by others. The conflict over the resolution is partly Spielberg’s fault for making the aliens so convincingly oppressive. The ending doesn’t unravel what came before it; it just attempts to explain how the natural order subtly works to restore itself.

Besides, the ending won’t be the delineating factor when determining the film’s ultimate rewatchability. Instead, it’s the attention to sound design by Michael Babcock that will remain with audiences. Or, it will be the expressive score by John Williams that some may find appealing most the next time.

Whatever the final reason, “War of the Worlds” succeeds both on a popcorn summer movie level and as a legitimate action movie. And I must say, that happily surprised me.

A tale of good witches and bad scripts

Bewitched (2005)
Columbia Pictures presents a Nora Ephron film, starring Will Ferrell and Nicole Kidman. Written by Nora and Delia Ephron. 102m. PG-13 for some language, including sex and drug references and partial nudity.

1.5 stars

My biggest problem these days is that I don’t listen to my own good advice.

In last month’s review of “Kicking & Screaming,” I tried to break things off with comedian Will Ferrell. I longed to avoid a daunting queue of eight Ferrell films in 12 months. But I found his routines to be the weapons of a merciless temptress and I was unmistakably lured back by his promise not to let me down anymore.

I realize now that was only a mirage, a smoke-and-mirrors effort to booster my nostalgia for a 1970s television show and plant me firmly front and center for the retread-of-the-week, “Bewitched.”

If you caught any of the 254 episodes of the original television series, you’ll be sorely disappointed by the feature film adaptation. It does score points, however, for creating a universe where the original show is common knowledge.

How’s this for a metatextual nightmare? The original TV show, which existed in our non-fictional world, was of course fictional. It had real actors playing fictional roles. Now we have real actors playing fictional characters who take on fictional roles on a fictional television show that exists in their non-fictional realm, but what we know to be actually a fictional existence.

The retooled show will be a vehicle for Jack Wyatt (Will Ferrell), a once A-list actor who is considered box office poison after starring in a series of bombs (think Nick Nolte in 1994, when the once highly-regarded thespian churned out “I’ll Do Anything,” “I Love Trouble” and “Blue Chips”). Wyatt’s dream - with a bit of coercion from slimy manager Ritchie (Jason Schwartzman) - is for the new “Bewitched” to focus on Darren, not his witch wife, Samantha.

Of course, that idea - even by a fictional character - is extremely short-sighted. After all, Darren was embodied by two different actors during the original series’ eight year run and hardly any senses were offended by the abrupt change.
The true star always will be Samantha (in this version, Nicole Kidman), a mischievous, but good-hearted witch who liked to keep things interesting. The modern “Bewitched” chucks us another curveball about our 21st century Samantha: she’s actually a real, honest-to-goodness witch.

This revelation is made quite early in the film; the script could have then explored issues of predetermination and fate in a lighthearted way. But this script was trashed by the Ephron sisters, whose idea of modern romance - if boxed and sold - would come complete with a patented cookie cutter. What, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan weren’t available to go through the motions, Nora and Delia?

The only redeeming storyline, which is grossly undervalued, is that Samantha has begun a love/hate relationship with her powers of provocation. She has joined the real world to seek the truth and find true love, not something she manufactured by middling in others’ affairs.

Quitting the all-powerful attitude cold turkey is a bit of a challenge, no doubt made harder by doubting father, Nigel (Michael Caine). In the witch’s world, he tells us, shows like “Bewitched” are seen as the ultimate perversion. Wait, that means there’s another reality that runs parallel to this one...excuse me, my brain is full now.

Isabel is quite content playing Samantha, until she recognizes that Jack is haughtily trying to place himself as the center of attention. She vows revenge and, as only witches can do, transforms Jack into a love-sick freak whose new modus operandi is making Isabel the star of the show.

This is problematic, because Ferrell had been, until this point, quite understated in his role. Now the witchy hijinks have upped the ante so that he’s, in essence, cranked up to 11. Instead of amusing, I was annoyed by a Ferrell who cranks out 1980s arena rock power ballads off-key to express his infatuation with Isabel.

Of course what everyone seems to be overlooking is the fact that the ensemble approach was the main draw to the original series. We’ve got our own supporting characters, but they’re slammed together like misfit jigsaw pieces. A late addition of Uncle Arthur is merely an excuse to give “Daily Show” regular Steve Carell a little face time. And Shirley MacLaine is wasted in her first on-screen appearance in over two years, as a witch/actress who assumes the role of Endora for the show. I could almost see the mistake of casting a real witch for one part, but two?

Movie producers are shaking their heads at the lowest box office figures in two decades, wondering what exactly is going wrong. These fat cats have exploited us at every turn, churning out time-tested product that exploits our nostalgia.
Last week it was “Herbie: Fully Loaded” which hasn’t been a viable pitch in three decades and “Batman Begins” (which admittedly excellent), a franchise which was overexposed by a series of ho-hum efforts in the 1990s. Last month, we had another “Star Wars” film; the month before, another comic book adaptation. One more month previous, a sequel and a update/remake of a classic film.

The bottom line has been corrupted; no one wants to dare and lose their shirt. So people like Nora and Delia Ephron - who, yes, have written competent romantic comedies before - are continually employed to rehash anything that can have a $20 million opening.

You win, “Bewitched” producers. I guess the joke’s on us.