Date Movie (2006)

20th Century Fox presents a Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer film, starring Alyson Hannigan and Adam Campbell. Written by Friedberg and Seltzer. 83m. PG-13 for continuous crude and sexual humor, including language

1 star

It’s difficult to ascertain when precisely the romantic comedy entered its persistent formulaic state. But for every man subjected to another awkward Meet Cute in a woman’s weepy, there’s a small token of satisfaction in “Date Movie,” a lampoon of the genre’s most depraved offerings.

Make certain to savor each chuckle, however, because this film often confuses parody with verbatim recitations of scenes from the genre’s prime offenders. Oh, the irony. By taking dozens of the top grossing rom-coms and throwing them into a screenwriter’s blender, even this send-up of pre-fabricated movies plays out in the very same formula it claims to be worth ridicule.

Beware, also, those who don’t find funny animals conjugating with deceased grandmothers, fat people with copious amounts of back hair, cats with prolonged fits of diarrhea, and any discussion of Ben Affleck’s love life.

The bits where I laughed hardest are references to movies almost as old as the adolescent teen-agers the film is targeting. It begs the question: If Adam Campbell wears the same gaudy outfit worn by Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” will there be a 20-something in the audience to laugh at it? Or what if he fakes an orgasm at a dinner table as a nod to “When Harry Met Sally”? Or holds aloft a boom box ala “Say Anything”? Have teen-agers even seen a boom box, or did we skip directly to iPod with this generation? It’s hard to be certain about these things anymore.

And maybe we could give writer/directors Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer, two of the six brains behind “Scary Movie” franchise, a modicum of well-deserved kudos if they had just focused on the more obscure references. But they would rather prove there’s no romantic comedy we’ve seen in the last five years that’s not worth miserably reliving.

Julia Jones (Alyson Hannigan) is a decidedly obese woman living out a triad of Hell where “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” and “Shallow Hall” converge. It is love at first sight for Julia and Grant (Campbell), even though their prospects of a blissful union are decidedly dim.

That’s because Julia’s strait-laced father, Frank (Eddie Griffin), is so helplessly thrust into recreating Robert De Niro’s annoying alpha male from “Meet the Parents” that he can’t manufacture anything besides disappointment.

So it’s off to meet Grant’s parents, the…ooh, wait for it, wait for it…Fonckyerdoders (Fred Willard and Jennifer Coolidge), who manage an outstanding lampoon of Dustin Hoffman and Barbra Streisand (who, themselves, poked fun at their on-screen personas in “Meet the Fockers”). Don’t you love that sensation of endless meta-text?

Aye, it’s not meddling parents that ultimately threaten this on-screen romance; it’s Grant’s camera-ready ex-girlfriend, Andy (Sophie Monk), a model who looks and acts like she was conceived from the refrain of a Pussycat Dolls song.

As if to prove they’re not solely limited to denigrating Reese Witherspoon’s entire canon, “Date Movie” takes other pot shots at high-profile celebrities and troubled reality television programming. It doesn’t even shy away from showing open contempt for non-genre titles like “Kill Bill,” “The Wizard of Oz,” and perhaps most obscurely, last year’s urban dance documentary, “Rize.”

As a person who has found himself in the movie theater for many of the targeted films, I agree that many rom-coms were ripe for parody. But good spoofing takes a measure of creativity, and a surprising dose of originality; Friedberg and Seltzer offer little of either.

I’ll offer everyone a similar warning I gave in my last “Scary Movie” review. If people have seen the targeted films, most of which were better than this film, and want some mindless laughs, “Date Movie” could be an appropriate rental. But don’t tarry. The bevy of pop culture references is losing its relevance by the minute.

In “Capote,” seeing isn’t always believing

Capote (2005)
United Artists presents a Bennett Miller film, starring Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Catherine Keener. Written by Dan Futterman; based on a book by Gerald Clarke. 115m. R for some violent images and brief strong language.

3.5 stars

The words escape curiously, much like a balloon that is being pinched as it releases air. And the accompanying gestures are unquestionably flamboyant. It’s hard not to immediately judge New Yorker writer and bon vivant Truman Capote by his startling appearance.

But Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who himself has undergone a physical transformation to portray Capote, says as the celebrated author: “Ever since I was a child, folks have thought they had me pegged, because of the way I am, the way I talk. And they're always wrong.”

And herein lays the crux of the film’s intrigue. There’s a sort of schizophrenia going on here. The film, through its protagonist, implies that it’s wrong to assume the worst about Capote, all while depicting the author habitually manipulating his relationships for a better story.

The willing victims are residents of Holcumb, Kan., a small town rocked by a quadruple homicide at the Clutter family farm. In what is tantamount to a six-year obsession, Capote decides to make his long-awaited follow-up to “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” a novelized accounting of the murderers.

The film concentrates entirely on the Capote’s journey to create “In Cold Blood,” a work that brought him national prominence. The screenplay, by first time writer Dan Futterman, makes great pains to tell a tale of outsiders. But despite many promising attempts, it never fully grasps Capote’s maddening methods.

Capote, an unabashed socialite and acknowledged homosexual, wouldn’t have made inroads with Holcomb’s more tightlipped locals without the help of childhood friend and fellow author, Nelle Harper Lee (Catherine Keener). She softened their sensibilities, a move that proved essential for Capote, who feigned that he did not need inside information but often thrived on it.

The author’s saccharine charm leads to his first big break, when he is given time to speak with Clutter killer Perry Smith (Clifton Collins Jr.). While accomplice Richard Hickock (Mark Pellegrino) befits the designation of sociopath, Smith seems to be more mild mannered and soft spoken.

This is ultimately where the seduction begins. Capote, a man of great wit, offers the killer a modicum of friendship. He preys on the criminal’s lifelong lack of companionship to elicit material for the book. And his interview style, in which he engages in conversations without taking notes, disarms the killer.

The film’s strength is that is demonstrates Capote’s recklessness, first in choosing such an involved story and second, when realizing the story had no definitive end. It’s maddening, to both the protagonist and his audience, that the killer’s appeals receive favorable attention from the higher courts. As the ending to the story becoming increasingly vague, Capote begins his torrid descent into alcoholism.

It’s not that Capote is immoral, because the guilt of his manipulation is manifested through his alcohol and cigarette-laced routine. But he seems to detach from perhaps the cruelest suggestion, by Lee: that he helped the men stay alive when it suited him and then stood idly by when the book needed closure.

All this is portrayed frighteningly well by Hoffman, who deservedly received an Academy Award nomination recently. His role outshines the movie’s sometimes languishing forward progress, which seems idiosyncratic as Hoffman is its primary driving force. Perhaps we’re most impressed with the physical transformation, one that rivals a “Raging Bull”-era Robert De Niro or Christian Bale’s disappearance in “The Machinst.”

The film implicitly suggests that researching “In Cold Blood” was, in essence, Capote’s undoing. His obsessive need to catalogue the murder could have catalyzed his alcoholism and infidelity. Yet the booze seems to be a physical manifestation of his sorrow, never forgiving himself for being abandoned as a child or for exploiting that same idiosyncrasy in his subject.

Despite a myriad of ego trips and celebrity gatherings, “Capote” suggests its protagonist’s world was depressingly insular. The true Capote was not a martini-clad socialite, but a man so paralyzed by his inadequacies he couldn’t muster the strength to get out of bed. “Capote” excels because it takes a chance on an unflattering portrait of its subject.

A dropout amongst "Graduate" films

Rumor Has It... (2005)
Warner Bros. presents a Rob Reiner film, starring Jennifer Aniston and Kevin Costner. Written by Ted Griffin. 96m. PG-13 for mature thematic material, sexual content, crude humor and a drug reference.

2 stars

Benjamin Braddock and Elaine Robinson may have one-upped their brutish parents in “The Graduate,” but it is a singular shot that upends the film’s final scene. We watch as the smiles slip from their faces, as they solemnly contemplate: What next?

We may have guessed that Benjamin would capitalize on Mr. McGuire’s inside dope and built his own synthetic empire. But we would have never guessed he’d grow up to be Kevin Costner.

Ah, that’s a bit unfair. But what “Rumor Has It…” supposes is: What if Charles Webb, writer of the original novel, were talking about a real Pasadena love triangle between mother, daughter, and boy next door?

Enter Sarah Huttinger (Jennifer Aniston), a floundering New York Times obit writer who is entering her mid-life crisis a good two decades early. Weddings have a tendency to do this to people. In this case, the wife-to-be is not Sarah – currently in a self-imposed limbo with milquetoast, but dependable, Jeff (Mark Ruffalo) – but her bubbly sister, Annie (Mena Suvari).

It’s an otherwise innocent reception conversation between Sarah and her grandmother Katharine (Shirley MacLaine) that awakens the journalist’s lingering doubts about her place in the Huttinger family. In a dialogue loosened by an unimpeded serving of olive-adorned martinis, Katharine mentions that Sarah’s mother (now conveniently deceased) may have had a brief fling with another man before opting to return home and marry Earl Huttinger (Richard Jenkins).

And since her date of birth (unsurprisingly) aligns with this alleged dalliance, Sarah seeks out the book’s source of inspiration - a dot.com tycoon named Beau Burroughs (Kevin Costner) - and asks: Are you my dad?

Costner is a solid cast; his persona lends credence to the idea that he could be both the seducer and the seduced. When Sarah sleeps with Beau after finding out he’s not her father, we’re supposed to consider it part of her loss of life equilibrium.

But compared to Benjamin, Sarah is no one to be pitied. It’s the film’s major miscalculation: that all our goodwill about “The Graduate” would translate seamlessly here.

Benjamin was a recent college graduate, paralyzed by the decision of what to do with his life. He’s sucked in by a materialist society which admires his supposed intellectualism, but offers only perilous dalliances in return. He’s lured into Mrs. Robinson’s world by her sexuality and her flattery.

We can’t say the same for Sarah, who is aggressive in her courtship of Beau. Rudderless, Sarah doesn’t do anything to right her own sinking ship. She seeks out situations that unduly complicate her life, instead of reinvesting in the things that gave her balance.

The real loser here is, of course, Jeff, who is bound by the constrictions of a romantic comedy to accept being cuckolded before taking back his seriously deranged fiancée. But “Rumor Has It…” deals in few unpleasantries, especially angles that don’t service the idea that Sarah is somehow redeemable after all this nonsense.

Perhaps most disappointing, however, is that “Rumor Has It…” is another lackluster entry in Rob Reiner’s most recent oeuvre. The Bronx native directed three of the most smartly-written comedies in the last 20 years: “When Harry Met Sally…” “The American President” and “The Princess Bride.”

But lately, all we’ve received from Meathead is uninspired efforts like “Alex & Emma” and “The Story of Us.” His films have lost their spirit, and are usually treading water by their first hour. It’s a sad current chapter for a once inspired voice.

Allen back with an ace

Match Point (2005)
DreamWorks presents a Woody Allen film, starring Scarlett Johansson and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Written by Allen. 124m. R for sexuality.

4 stars

Are we completely subjugated to whims of luck and fate? Woody Allen asks rhetorically at the onset of “Match Point,” like he was introducing a 1940s film noir instead of one of his usual character-driven dramatic pieces.

But that’s not the only aspect we recognize as askew in the film, Allen’s 36th as writer and director. Immediately we’re certain that it won’t be another light-hearted addition to Allen’s recent spate, but rather one that evokes (and provokes) comparisons to his more intriguing classics.

In the heart of London, not the well-treaded sidewalks of Manhattan, former second-tier tennis star Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) has found employment as a teaching instructor at a restricted club. He encounters Tom Hewett (Matthew Goode), a good-natured, but directionless, heir to a large fortune who bides his time by indulging his most potent desires.

Much to the dismay of his doting mother, one of Tom’s carnal pleasures is Nola (Scarlett Johansson), a habitually out-of-work American actress lodging temporarily in London. In the noir world, Nola is the femme fatale whose unbridled sexuality inspires men to make decisions not guided by their brains.

In spite of her grand failures, Nola exudes passion in a way Tom’s sister, Chloe (Emily Mortimer) cannot. And while Chris, who desires greatly to move above his station, feels an instant attraction to Nola, he knows the path of less resistance runs through the Hewett household.

Infidelity is no stranger to Allen’s characters; he’s catalogued both the sardonic and the disheartening types in his films. Yet the depth of Chris and Nola’s alternating obsessions for each other is unrivaled (although it hinted of Michael Caine’s longing for Barbara Hershey in “Hannah and Her Sisters.”) It’s first exhilarating, when the two sneak off to steal a passionate kiss in the English countryside. But, like a noir, their relationship is getting bleaker by the moment.

There’s certain to be a messy collision, and we want to warn these interlopers, but we don’t. First, it’s because we’re aware it’s only a movie. Second, it’s because we honestly want to see what becomes of the wreckage.

Chris Wilton’s on-screen predecessor is not a typically redeemable Allen-type, but rather a man like Judah Rosenthal from “Crimes and Misdemeanors.”

Judah can’t leave his wife for his mistress because he’s worried about ruining his good standing as a respected ophthalmologist. But he claims he doesn’t break the marriage up because of what it would do to his wife, just as Chris says he can’t leave Chloe because the unhappy couple is trying so desperately to start a family.

Both are unquestionably spineless. While Judah considered God’s role in a seemingly godless world, Chris isn’t tethered to bigger questions of morality. In fact, he seems to exist outside conventional understandings of morality, which makes his character simultaneously alluring and unsettling.

Allen has rarely cow-towed to convention. His more mainstream efforts are still inexcusably presented on his terms. Each annual installment is like an adventure in genre-hopping: a bit of slapstick here, a dash of biopic there. He’s not obligated to present a pat ending, which makes the final half-hour of “Match Point” riveting.

If you’re drawn to Allen’s films each year, “Match Point” will provide a resurgence of spirit. Each Allen film of the 21st century has had at least a kernel of worth, but this film is more focused, tauter and more powerful than any work since “Crimes and Misdemeanors.”

“Match Point” is the first Allen film I can recall where there is no ideological stand-in for the director himself. Now 70 years old, he’s varied the size of his roles in more recent works. Sometimes, as in “Melinda and Melinda” and “Celebrity,” we’re offered other actors who bear his neuroses and provide his spiritual and philosophical meltdowns.

The truth is Allen films succeed almost every time because of the strength of the characters. He exists amongst an elite canon of male writers who can write an entire script around a believable and dynamic female character. I don’t mind if he decides to write a menschy lead into future installments; as long as they are well designed as “Match Point,” I’ll be there.

Short on animation, long on laughs

Hoodwinked (2006)
The Weinstein Company presents a Cory Edwards, Todd Edwards and Tony Leech film, featuring the voices of Glenn Close and Anne Hathaway. 80m. PG for some mild action and thematic elements.

2.5 stars

“Hoodwinked” appropriates the narrative structure of “Rashômon” not to discover murder most foul, but to find out which creature of the forest is trying to torpedo the cottage industry of goodie-making.

The film is a re-imagined telling of the classic Little Red Riding Hood tale, with drippings of cynicism and sarcasm humorously padding the short story. Its laughs far outweigh its simple animation, which makes this a rare January delight.

The tale starts in media res, as forest detective Nicky Flippers (voice of David Ogden Stiers) investigates an “intent to eat” complaint at the residence of Granny Puckett (voice of Glenn Close). Present are the Puckett granddaughter, Red (voice of Anne Hathaway), the (big bad) wolf (voice of Patrick Warburton) and a Paul Bunyon-esque woodsman (voice of Jim Belushi).

Like “Rashômon,” each eyewitness to the crimes committed – which also include breaking and entering but also the more uncanny charge of wielding an axe without a license – offers their limited perspective on the events as they unfolded.

Red’s tale offers an open and shut investigation. When she arrived at the house, she found the wolf poorly posing as her grandmother while the elderly lady stood bound in her own closet. The woodsman interrupted the fracas with a kamikaze jump through granny’s living room window.

But the modus operandi of “Hoodwinked” isn’t to re-present the Red Riding Hood tale we’ve cherished for centuries, but to turn the entire tale on its ear. Depending on how long we can suspend our disbelief – and for children’s animation, our threshold should be much higher – the screenwriters will weave extreme sports, animals with coffee addictions, sheep snitches, and schnitzel snack trucks into the fairy tale. Is nothing sacrosanct anymore?

The film works because the creative minds behind it – writer/directors Cory and Todd Edwards – are willing to take risks with their material. The film plays out like the “E! True Hollywood Story” of Granny’s forest, complete with a strangely uncuddly bunny (voice of Andy Dick, portrayed in the same high camp that has made the comedian infamous) which seems to be at the epicenter of every recounting.

At the same time, the creators of “Hoodwinked” didn’t produce anything that couldn’t be exhibited to small children. It may be irreverent to its source material, but it minds its tactful boundaries. And children will be more forgiving of the animation, which won’t compare to bigger budget efforts like “Shrek.”

As someone who enjoys his humor on the dark side, I enjoyed the snappy discourse between the high-brow investigator, a frog, and the simple-minded beat cops (among them – a bear, a stork and of course, the three no-longer-so-little pigs).

Consider this exchange. The cops argue that the Wolf (an investigative journalist in this re-imagined world) is the main suspect because of his insidious nature.

Flippers: “We don’t arrest people for being creepy.”
Cop (over walkie-talkie, in a low voice): “Hey, Bruce, you know that guy we have in the tank?”
Bruce (over walk-talkie): “The creepy one?”
Cop: “Better let him go.”

If you can’t manage a smile for this, or a myriad of other similarly-minded exchanges, this may not be your film. While I certainly acknowledge the writing wouldn’t hold water in the pantheon of great slapstick, “Hoodwinked” is still a nice, albeit temporary, reprieve from the doldrums of January.