X-Men: The Last Stand (2006)

20th Century Fox presents a Brett Ratner film, starring Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen. Written by Simon Kinberg and Zak Penn. 104m. PG-13 for intense sequences of action violence, some sexual content and language.

3 stars

If this truly is the last “X-Men” installment, then this trilogy should be considered the strongest comic book adaptation ever to grace the silver screen.

Where it lacks all the computer-generated euphoria of the “Spider-Man” series, it compensates with storylines that act as thinly veiled commentary on our current political climate.

In an age when our president wants to place parameters on the institution of marriage, is it difficult to imagine a private pharmaceutical company working overtime to find a “cure” for mutants? And with a military engaged in multiple countries under the guise of snuffing out terrorism, are we shocked to witness fictionalized forces attacking mutants unprovoked?

This metaphorical exploration of hot-button issues is routinely undercut by the copious action sequences which are, after all, the main attraction. We can’t fault audiences for wanting to see Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) launch into his berserk attack or for getting excited about a veritable buffet line of new characters, including Kitty Pryde (Ellen Page), Juggernaut (Vinnie Jones) and Callisto (Dania Ramirez). The film also maintains continuity with its returning characters like Storm (Halle Berry), Rogue (Anna Paquin), and Cyclops (James Marsden), although their prominence has intensified or waned as each installment’s plotline necessitated.

For his part, Brett Ratner acts as a comparable stand-in for Bryan Singer, who assumed directorial control over the first two films. Yet the film trumps any attempt at personalized touches, largely because its entire premise is to make simple tasks as flashy as possible. Who needs to catch a ferry to Alcatraz, for example, when you could just uproot the entire Golden Gate Bridge?

The most fascinating aspect of the “X-Men” series, however, has always been its inability to easily group mutant factions into inherently good and inherently evil.

Two decades ago, Professor Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart) and Eric Lensherr (Ian McKellen) were comrades-in-arms, like-minded idealists who provided a safe haven for mutants to develop their powers responsibly.

While Xavier hoped for mutual cohabitation with humans, Lensherr (nee Magneto) anticipated that the humans’ basic prejudices would never be quelled. Although he advocated a more violent, aggressive, approach to the mutant-human interaction, it’s hardly uncalled-for.

By the commencement of “The Last Stand,” humans serving in the government’s executive branch have largely set aside their xenophobic attitudes to extend diplomatic relations to the mutants. They’ve even appointed an ambassador, the furry blue mutant Hank McCoy (Kelsey Grammer), to improve communications between the two entities.

But all this perceived goodwill is erased by the actions of pharmaceutical magnate Warren Worthington II (Michael Murphy), who has just announced that he has found a way to chemically normalize mutants into ordinary humans. This discovery was catalyzed by Warren’s latent shame, breeding since the day he discovered his son (Ben Foster) was growing gigantic wings where his shoulder blades should be.

The liquid cure splits the mutants into two ideologically opposed factions: those who view their mutation as a curse and those who see nothing wrong with their genetic abnormality.

If cures approved by the Food & Drug Administration weren’t perilous enough, Xavier’s contingent is side-swiped by the recent re-emergence of Dr. Jean Grey (Famke Janssen), who was killed at the end of the second film.

Grey’s reincarnation, as well as eons of comic book mythos, should prove that we can’t believe this is actually “the last stand” for this uncanny brood. At the conclusion of the film, Xavier’s school has barely enough recruits for a boy band, let alone a functioning army. But that shouldn’t stop hungry producers, who’ve seen dollar signs light their eyes this Memorial Day weekend.

How to survive a disaster film

Poseidon (2006)
Warner Bros. presents a Wolfgang Peterson film, starring Josh Lucas and Kurt Russell. Written by Mark Protosevich, from a novel by Paul Gallico. 99m. PG-13 for intense prolonged sequences of disaster and peril.

2 stars

Undoubtedly, you are not green to the premise of a disaster movie, which elicits thrills from its audience by placing its potential pool of survivors in dicey circumstances. Screenwriters can intensify our trauma by creating connections between our personal mores and their characters’ ethics. “Poseidon” opts to bypass traditional character progression and fixate on its allotment of peril.

Since the film is only concerned with its dashing heroes cast asunder and its sterile computer-generated sets, I feel compelled to chastise its inherent predictability. With that, I bring you a quick reference guide on how not to perish in a disaster film.

Chapter 1: The bigger the name, the harder to kill.
Formula: Characters are killed one at a time, and usually from smallest payday to largest. See also: “The Core.”

Despite a two-year hiatus from the silver screen, Richard Dreyfuss has made a distinguished career out of a few unforgettable performances. While he may lack the nerdy resolve of Matt Hooper or Roy Neary, gay architect Richard Nelson is still astute enough to know that waiting out a catastrophe equals certain death. The businessman has boarded the Poseidon without his long-time companion, who apparently decided to use the pending New Year to make an early resolution.

More of a supporting actor than a marquee name, Dreyfuss is likely not the film’s feature attraction. With his star on the rise, Josh Lucas lends his “matinee idol meets roughneck” charm to the film’s ensemble cast. His Dylan Johns is Deel Munn (“Undertow”) without the chilling edge, a modern day riverboat gambler who relishes permanent bachelorhood.

But Lucas has yet to build the action resume of Kurt Russell, whose blue-collar tenacity has curried favor with audiences in films like “Tombstone” and “Escape From New York.”

The male triumvirate is buoyed by Emmy Rossum (“Mystic River”) – hardly a stranger to dying early; Jacinda Barrett, a “Real World” castoff who has established a small, but flourishing, film career; and Jimmy Bennet, a child actor perfect to play a pallid ankle biter.

Chapter 2: We care for proficiency or helplessness, but not mere competency.
Formula: The main characters are outfitted with specific skilled needed to survive; secondary characters either get hysterical or calmly wait to die. See also: “The Towering Inferno.”

In a nod to “Backdraft,” Russell’s character is a firefighter, which is a desirable occupation when you’re trying to figure out how to navigate quickly from room to room in an overturned luxury liner.

In a lifetime free of entanglements, Dylan has thrived by taking on adventure by himself. As a gambler, he’s highly attuned to detail, which makes him proficient at upside-down map reading.

Barrett’s Maggie James is likely a nurturing mother, but she invites trouble by being so attached to her young son, Conor. Rossum, who plays Russell’s daughter, Jennifer, is a coquette; instead of helping the cause, she’s recruited her own brawn, boyfriend Christian (Mike Vogel).

Chapter 3: Fall in love; it may save your life. Be a jerk, and you’ll die quicker.
Formula: As in romantic comedies, audiences root for couples. See also: “Deep Impact” for lovers, “Jurassic Park” and “Total Recall” for jerks.

The film establishes five characters in an otherwise tepid scene of poker: the Ramseys and Christian, Dylan and Lucky Larry (Kevin Dillon), whose narcissism trumps his outrageous sense of style. As soon as his sideswipes a waitress’s derriere with a lecherous hand, we know he’ll die violently.

Maggie’s greatest accomplishment may have been attracting the eye of Dylan in a pre-disaster encounter. Jennifer plans a romantic tryst onboard to seal her relationship’s permanency.

Chapter 4: If you’re a minority, you’re chances of survival are in the minority.
Formula: “Brothas always die first.” See also: The “Jurassic Park” franchise, almost every well-known Arnold Schwarzenegger thriller.

Elena Gonzalez (Mía Maestro) yearned for the American dream, and to be reunited with her brother in the United States. She exploited the ship’s unassuming kitchen help, Marco Valentin (Freddy Rodríguez) for her free pass.

Captain Michael Bradford (Andre Braugher) had created a lavish celebration for his elite clientele, complete with a sultry Mexican-American crooner, Gloria (Stacy Ferguson). When the ship was waylaid by a rogue wave, the black commander asked each ship patron to remain calm while he secured the bulkhead doors. Five patrons from the room, all Caucasians, disobeyed his command and sought higher ground; four survived.

I’m conflicted about the film’s sense of urgency with regards to the disaster sequences. I occasionally felt the growing tension when it seemed certain that our protagonists took a long turn. But I felt a far greater pressure for the film merely to roll credits, as I lacked the necessary stake in any character’s eventually well-being.

If the film had extended its run-time to more than two hours and still had characters I couldn’t stand, I’d be even more disappointed in its effort. But as it stands now, it feels largely incomplete.

Mission: Impossible III

Paramount Pictures presents a J.J. Abrams film, starring Tom Cruise. Written by Alex Kurtzman, Roberto Orci and Abrams. 126m. PG-13 for intense sequences of frenetic violence and menace, disturbing images and some sensuality.

3 stars

In the cinema, summer fun begins 45 days early with “Mission: Impossible III,” which contains all the high intensity thrills we’ve come to expect from the action franchise.

This series may be auteurism’s strongest argument, as each director has created a unique style to bolster a familiar plot. Just as Brian De Palma and John Woo stamped the two previous films with their personal trademarks, J.J. Abrams has treated “Mission: Impossible III” as an extended, $200 million episode of his television creation, “Alias.”

For fans of Abrams, who was also the creative genius behind “Lost,” this is not exactly a bad thing. For cinephiles, well, we’re now accustomed to big movies getting television-worthy direction.

The film’s pre-credits sequence is Abrams’s direct nod to his loyal “Alias” viewers. We’re dropped in medias res into a confrontation between our hero and his captor, with no discernible explanation for how we’ve arrived. Abrams often utilized this exact technique to manufacture suspense for “Alias,” which occasionally began with secret agents in peril before wedging in a “36 hours ago” intertitle and beginning properly.

Thanks to two previous “Mission: Impossible” films, an insatiable media blitz, and the occasional demonstration of trampoline technique on Oprah’s couch, we know why Tom Cruise is here. He’s IMF super-agent Ethan Hunt, who, in the film’s opening, finds himself handcuffed to a chair while a menacing villain named Davian (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) points a loaded gun at what appears to be Hunt’s love interest.

Davian keeps demanding the “rabbit’s foot,” a device which is of no consequence to us the viewer, but of utmost importance to the central characters and is therefore a maguffin. What is interesting to us is how Hunt will extricate himself from this precarious position, as we’ve assumed by now that the super-agent is too handsomely paid to die at the hands of a stooge.

Before we move forward, we’re forced to go backwards. Hunt, we learn, provides combat training for novice IMF agents; he’s relinquished field work since his budding romance with Julia (Michelle Monaghan) began.

Despite his new station, he’s contacted by his handler, John Musgrave (Billy Crudup), for a spontaneous rescue mission of IMF agent Lindsey Ferris (Keri Russell, who starred in Abrams’s breakthrough television series, “Felicity.”) Since Hunt trained Ferris, he feels obligated to take the mission.

Of course, there are more complications than your ordinary snatch and grab. For one, IMF may be unintentionally stowing a traitor in its ranks, and preliminary signs point to Hunt’s section director, John Brassel (Laurence Fishburne). If you’ve seen either of the previous two films, you know the true villain is at least two good false faces and several bad accents away from being exposed.

A blockbuster like “Mission: Impossible III” will always attract high-profile talent, but the series continues to obsess on Hunt’s character singularly.

Ving Rhames reprises his role as Hunt’s field operations associate Luther Stickell, only to be subjugated to a couple of throwaway lines and plot machinations. Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who plays a green field agent named Declan, and Maggie Q, an alluring Polish-Vietnamese American who composes the field team’s eye candy, fare no better. Certainly, the original television series had more opportunity to provide dynamic characterizations to supporting actors, but the films don’t even bother.

While “Mission: Impossible” films have often employed frustrating fortune-cookie plots, Abrams manages to keep the action understandable. Audiences would exhibit little patience for De Palma’s fascination into the inner workings of espionage; in the decade since the first film, we’ve become increasingly obsessed with style over substance.

I unabashedly admit I’m the first person to giggle with unadulterated glee when Abrams orchestrates a blown bridge or a needlessly intricate kill shot. I come to “Mission: Impossible” films to watch Tom Cruise kick butt and take names; it would be foolish of me to try and hold it to a more rigorous standard.

“Mission: Impossible” films are a necessary facet of the mainstream spectrum. My main gripe with big-budget productions is that they routinely overshadow more understated films worth our attention. But that doesn’t negate their importance, especially to people who utilize the movie theater as a portal to escapism.

In the following weeks, we’re going to be offered a multitude of big explosions and fantastical characters. This year, I must say I’m looking forward to most of it.

Time-guzzler

R.V.
Columbia Pictures presents a Barry Sonnenfeld film, starring Robin Williams. Written by Geoff Rodkey. 98m. PG for crude humor, innuendo and language.

1.5 stars

Once again proving that a seminal comedy can’t be rehashed into dozens of poor imitations, “R.V.” provides a modern, but ultimately unsatisfactory, update to “National Lampoon’s Vacation.”

Our new Griswolds are the Munros, a group of elitist, self-absorbed materialists whose family dynamic is so damaged, they’ve come to rely on their computers to communicate with each other.

The dialogue lines are so frayed that Bob (Robin Williams) doesn’t dare tell his family that his snooty boss (Will Arnett) is considering downsizing him for a cheaper, younger model. In fact, his big opportunity to stay in the company’s good graces is at merger talks in Colorado, which happens to conflict with the family’s Hawaiian getaway.

Bob’s plan, which was obviously hatched under duress, is to pack his family into a recreational vehicle and make the 30-hour odyssey to the pitch session, all under the guise of family bonding. His wife, Jamie (Cheryl Hines), balks at the revised itinerary; after all, renting an R.V. constitutes staying overnight in R.V. parks.

“We’re not friendly people,” she points out, as if her rampant nihilism wasn’t sufficient proof.

Their silver-spoon existences also don’t prepare them for a range of R.V.-related chores, like disposing raw sewage into a park’s holding vat. I can’t remember a single movie in which fetishizing the scatological has actually improved the film’s appeal, although I’ve written about it accomplishing the reverse several times before.

Writer Geoff Rodkey apparently can’t trump up the hick factor of recreational vehicles without dousing somebody in the fecal matter of a stranger, and apparently, Robin Williams wasn’t satisfied with disgracing himself in just “Death to Smoochy.”

That’s not to say Williams can’t be funny in the poo-free moments. His range of impressions and one-offs gives an otherwise humorless comedy an occasional glimpse of charm.

The comedian is even ably assisted by Jeff Daniels, who plays the patriarch of a full-time R.V. family which just can’t get enough of the Munros. They’re like friendly stalkers, trying to lull their new friends with group songs, obnoxiously friendly car horns, and homestyle cuisine.

In many ways, the Gornicke family is the more intriguing unit, perhaps because the film takes great pains to paint them in one certain light before revealing the exact opposite as the truth.

Naturally, the Munros’ faux vacation has to be discovered for what it really is, although Bob makes a good effort to conceal his ulterior motives. This culminates in a scene we find rarely in real life, but frequently in the movies. The family’s immediate ire at being deceived quickly fades, replaced with primal pangs to defend Bob the breadwinner.

Of course, Bob’s growing disillusionment about his callous corporation will lead to a predictable, yet appealing, detour when he considers how to solicit the homegrown juice company for his company’s soda-centric empire. These moments are Bob’s first real opportunities to be honest, which is more appealing than a million slapstick routines hemmed together.

I found enjoyment least in the places where the humor was painstakingly telegraphed and more during moments when the family recalled what they enjoyed about each other.

While Robin Williams thrives no matter the quality of the material, his on-screen wife Cheryl Hines doesn’t fare as well as his straight man. On “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” I find her continual disappointment thematically appropriate, because Larry David is unashamedly a jerk. But in “R.V.” it plays as unattractively arrogant. Ditto for Will Arnett, whose idiotic detachment from any semblance of altruism was the best reason to tune into the fledgling “Arrested Development.” But that same strain of narcissism comes off a bit too icy in “R.V.” for real laughs.

With the critical mass of spring entertainment on the near horizon and the frightening price of admission these days, I’d recommend waiting until its video release to fill up on this “R.V.”

Who watches the watchers?

The Sentinel (2006)
20th Century Fox presents a Clark Johnson film, starring Michael Douglas and Kiefer Sutherland. Written by George Nolfi, from a novel by Gerald Petievich. 108min. PG-13 for some intense action violence and a scene of sensuality.

2 stars

When a cinematic body someday honors Michael Douglas with a lifetime achievement award, they’ll undoubtedly recognize that he has defined, for two decades, the role of an otherwise likeable guy who is always in peril because of a troubled dame.

I’m certain our personal interactions, as viewers, with specific actors influence each subsequent film experience. Films like “Fatal Attraction,” “Basic Instinct,” and “Disclosure” become the building blocks for my expectations of Douglas’s character in “The Sentinel.”

Since I’m also one of the 13 million Americans who religiously tune in to watch Kiefer Sutherland continually save the world on “24,” I anticipated his “Sentinel” character to act aggressively – and sometimes illicitly – to root out the mole within the Secret Service who has murder on their mind.

Well, half right ain’t bad.

David Breckinridge (Sutherland) is the soft-pedaled Jack Bauer, a humorless agent who adheres to every protocol even though he knows the man he’s chasing – his mentor, Pete Garrison (Douglas) – knows them all.

Garrison has wedged himself into a hell of a predicament, flunking an agency-initiated polygraph because he can’t cop to diddling the First Lady (Kim Basinger) without completely destroying the credibility of the office.

This makes his suspect numero uno for the mole role, which means Garrison is going to have to go rogue and find out who has made him a patsy before Breckinridge executes the right protocol and stumbles upon the now-disgraced agent.

That plot contrivance gives screenwriter George Nolfi license to lead Douglas through a sequence of eye-rolling feats of derring do before he’s apprehended. Those of us willing to suspend our disbelief chuckle at the idea that Garrison can effortlessly outsmart his team with a couple of grab bag items from Radio Shack and a well-timed telephone call.

And oh, the melodrama of Garrison’s personal relationships! We’re told that Breckinridge and Garrison were once close friends, which means Breckinridge understands his ex-partner leading with his libido, even if he hotly surmised the target was his wife. And Garrison’s fling with the First Lady is so ill-advised, it’s no surprise the whole thing is tantamount to a couple of awkward fondles in between security sweeps. This guy is so downtrodden, he probably needs three scotches just to walk in the door and say hello.

Of course, this inordinate amount of attention on Garrison is all just window dressing until we’re given the one or two clues that incriminate the real mole. During the film’s climax, we’re not certain of our traitor’s real motives. Is it because terrorists are holding his family hostage? Or is it because he made a handshake pact with the now-defunct KGB two decades ago, then decided to effortlessly climb the ladder of one of the most security-conscious agencies in the world? Would you believe both?

I’ve said nothing of Eva Longoria, the “Desperate Housewives” honey who has been given a character with only the broadest strokes brushed in. She’s eye candy, exploited for moments in which the script inexplicably demands someone be sexually harassed by a gaggle of white-collar frat brothers or verbally assaulted by Breckinridge for being the doe-eyed rookie unfortunate enough to get “thwart presidential assassin” as her first day’s work.

Certainly, the whole affair is competently directed by Clark Johnson, who has acted in and directed enough police procedurals to make a film like this without breaking a sweat. Like his previous efforts, “The Sentinel” takes great pains to draw its viewers in with stylized shots of agents locked and loaded, traveling in security details that are, at the very least, aesthetically intimidating. But it’s only so long that we can feast on sweets and sugars without the necessity of meat and potatoes.

With a plot that would be vilified by even the most care-free “24” fans, “The Sentinel” is not a grand failure, but a disappointment nonetheless.

Stepping into the spin

Thank You For Smoking (2006)
Fox Searchlight Pictures presents a Jason Reitman film, starring Aaron Eckhart, Maria Bello and Cameron Bright. Written by Reitman, from a book by Christopher Buckley. 92m. Rated R for language and some sexual content.

3 stars

The day I heard Bill Clinton had deftly avoided impeachment by parsing the word “is,” I fully grasped the power of spin.

Since Clinton, several individuals have built entire careers around their penchant for spinning; some have even had the audacity to spin most voraciously while proclaiming they were above such connivery.

Nick Naylor (Aaron Eckhart) won’t be apologizing any time soon for his career choice; he relishes his role as lead spokesperson for the Academy of Tobacco Studies, Big Tobacco’s home base for misinformation. He holds the same charm as that philosophy major that you roomed with in college: great if he’s arguing your side, insanely frustrating if he’s not. Naylor can out-argue anyone, no matter how weak his central thesis.

Naturally, that makes him the perfect lobbyist for the tobacco companies, which have facilitated our addiction to poisons while feigning concern. Naylor embraces this apparent hypocrisy, bringing an uncanny charm sorely lacking during, say, the tobacco heads’ testimony before Congress.

Since his stance is almost universally reviled, Naylor finds solace in Polly Bailey (Mario Bello), a spokeswoman for the alcohol-friendly Moderation Council, and Bobby Jay Bliss, the gun-wielding lobbyist for the Society for the Advancement of Firearms and the Effective Training of Youth. Together, their boozy encounters are cheekily referred to as meetings of the Merchants of Death, a safe haven where they can brag about suckers killed without having to cow-tow to the politically correct sect.

Although we’re not privy to scenes of Bailey and Bliss in action – although there’s much afoot about a “fetal alcohol” expose – we’re certain that both have squeezed their way out of some big pickles.

They’re certainly not prepared, however, when Naylor briefly leaves his spin-centric orbit for a torrid dalliance with Heather Holloway (Katie Holmes), a Washington Probe journalist with a burning desire to expose the lobbyist’s inner machinations. In mid-coitus, he blabs about most everything: the MOD squad, the lip service often paid by tobacco conglomerates, and most interestingly, his own selfish reasons for leading the lies.

We’ve already experienced Nick’s humanity through several telling interactions with his son, Joey (Cameron Bright), so it’s easy to be disappointed during scenes when the satire isn’t biting as much as it’s barking.

In fact, the film purposely takes no position on smoking, instead advocating something we can all agree on: the freedom to puff. Writer/director Jason Reitman also takes some friendly jabs at another major killer, heart disease, in a subplot involving a Vermont senator (William H. Macy) who thinks cigarettes are poison but advocates the copious consumption of cheddar.

Since the satire guides the action, the supporting cast is rounded out with plenty of enchanting archetypes. J.K. Simmons (“Spider-Man”) reprises his role as cantankerous chief by barking orders at the plebeians trying desperately to stimulate teenage smoking while publicly creating the campaign that discourages it.

“Cigarettes are cool. They’re available. And they’re addictive,” he barks. “The job is almost done for us.”

Rob Lowe supports as a product placement guru who has learned how to capitalize on America’s obsession with imitating our stars. Like most satirical offerings, the joke is invariably aimed at us. If we only we were independent-minded people, and not sheeple, the film muses.

I expected “Thank You For Smoking” to illuminate my understanding of the daily complications of the tobacco lobbyist. As the credits rolled, I realized I misunderstood its aim. If you want to find films that bemoan the practices of the tobacco industry, there are a couple of excellent offerings (Personally, I’d start with “The Insider.”) But if you want something that holds a comical mirror to our collective face and takes needed pot-shots at our conglomerate-controlled businesses and media, then eureka! I think I’ve found the film for you.