"The International": Clive Owen's revenge?

Watching Tom Twyker's "The International" methodically unfold, I couldn't help but wonder if he pitched it to Clive Owen as the chance to show the James Bond producers just what they missed out on when they passed over Owen and went with Daniel Craig instead (a close call, but I'd have to now say the right one.)

Indeed, Twyker's flick, while not in the same league as "Casino Royale" or any of the best Bond flicks, is a darn sight better than "A Quantum of Solace" and - in my book (and quite possibly mine only) - a more satisfying thriller than any of the Bourne flicks except for maybe the first.

Beyond its natural charms, I think a big part of what made this one so surprisingly entertaining was that it's also much better than its trailer, one of the worst I've seen in years. Thankfully, Tykwer and crew avoid anything as obvious as that shot of the ATM with "murder" as one of the choices, and instead of seeking to make a much-too-broad (but surely well-deserved) indictment of the current state of the banking industry just focus on the rather shady dealings of one in particular.

That bank here is the IBCC (I can't remember exactly what that stands for, but you can probably guess), which is apparently modeled on a real, crooked bank with the same initials. Rather predictably, the IBCC is involved in arms dealing and other unsavory operations, and are being doggedly pursued by Interpol agent Louis Salinger (Owen, at his grizzled best) and a Manhattan assistant D.A. played by Naomi Watts. Actually, I should say pursued by Salinger, because Watts' character - in the movie's biggest flaw - is truly given just about nothing to do here.

But on the much bigger upside, it really stands as a litmus test for thrillers. If you like pulse-pounding action (which I'm really not putting down, though it may seem like it, since I have plenty of love for that kind of thing too), stay away from this one. Tykwer instead lets his flick unspool naturally, at a pace and with a style much closer to the '70s thrillers that clearly inspired it than many of the pretenders that have come since.

Also in its favor is that Tykwer and screenwriter Eric Singer have made their flick smarter than the average thriller, but only by a matter of degrees, never biting off more than it should (unlike, say, "Syriana," which tried to say so much but ended up amounting to not much at all.)

The signature scene of "The International," however, is clearly the one instance in which Tykwer amps up the action, a beautiful bullet ballet that takes place inside the Guggenheim museum (how in the world did they get the permission for that?) It's a marvel to behold, in large part thanks to cinematographer Frank Griebe, who here and elsewhere thankfully manages to hold his camera steady among all the chaos (I hope Paul Greengrass was watching this and taking notes!) He also allows the flick to take full advantage of its many scenic locales (which Christy LeMire of the AP rather unfortunately labeled "architecture porn" - what the hell does that mean?)

A final word (since this has clearly gone on long enough) about that seemingly climactic shot in the trailer of Clive Owen holding bank boss Jonas Skarssen (Ulrich Thomsen) at gunpoint. Even here, in what seemed to be (and in large part was) an unfortunate giveaway, the movie takes a twist (which you won't hear about from me) that steers it back to its biggest theme - futility.

In short, if you're in the mood for an old-fashioned thriller that's just smart enough to thoroughly entertain, take a chance on "The International." Peace out.

Bland, James Bland: The full report

Before anyone points out just how quixotic it is to rail against a movie that's already raked in more than $70 million domestic or call me some kind of elitist, don't bother. I love Bond movies and especially "Casino Royale," but this one simply didn't measure up on almost any front.

Since the movie clearly did, let's start with the theme song, which would be instantly forgettable if it weren't simply so awful. As someone who has just about every minute of "Icky Thump" seared onto my brain, I just can't imagine how Jack White, with vocals from Alicia Keys, could manage to come up with something so generic. Given the worldly appeal of the Bond franchise, I have to wonder if they even gave consideration to someone like M.I.A., a little rough for sure but much more interesting.

And after that, from the outset, you know there's gonna be problems with the action in "Quantum of Solace." I'm OK with the grand introductory set pieces being a thing of the past, especially since this one picks up immediately where "Casino Royale" left off and starts with a nifty enough car chase. But from there it just gets muddier and muddier, and giving full credit to my friend Chris Stanford for this line, I sure wish it hadn't delivered its camera work "shaken, not stirred."

Worst of all, it's just Bond imitating Bourne, and more specifically director Marc Forster imitating the apparently seizure-ridden camera antics of Paul Greengrass, and for such an iconic franchise that's just sad. Before I let this rant go, a challenge to anyone who liked this more than me (and I'm sure there a lot of you out there): Name one action sequence in "Solace" that sticks in your mind two days later (the opera house take was indeed pretty cool, but not enough to satisfy.)

All of which could be forgiven if the story from Paul Haggis and two others or the direction of Mr. Forster gave this latest Bond tale much urgency at all. I mean, we all know that Bond is out for revenge this time for the death of Vesper Lynd (the sorely missed Eva Green), but by the second (and not last) time we see Daniel Craig's Bond drop a body for no productive reason and Dame Judi Dench's M. chide him for it, it quickly gets little but old.

Much worse, the sinister plot being hatched by billionaire Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric) is as ludicrous as anything ever cooked up in a Bond flick, but with all the fun drained out it's also just extremely monotonous. I don't want to give anything away, but like just about every story nowadays it's "green." I'm all for saving the planet, but is putting eco-plots in movies (and on NBC all week, apparently just to annoy me as I try to watch my new favorite spy "Chuck") really gonna make any difference?

And the by-the-numbers approach of this Bond installment is hardly helped by director Forster, who has the distinction of making easily one of my least favorite movies ever in "Monster's Ball" but also one I really like quite a bit in "Stranger than Fiction." Here, however, he's clearly overmatched, and not just in the action scenes. At least twice early on - I guess in an effort to move the story along - he has M. simply mention a new lead, and the immediate next image is that new cityscape, with it name plastered on it in case we viewers are, like Robert Downey Jr. explained in "Tropic Thunder," "full retard."

OK, I've certainly gone on long enough about what's wrong with "Quantum of Solace," so was there anything good? Of course. Daniel Craig clearly has the soul to pull off the new Bond we saw unveiled in "Casino Royale," even if his character here is almost completely devoid of it. And what little wit there is in "Solace" - formerly a very welcome attribute of Bond himself - comes almost exclusively from Dench, who can just be wickedly funny in any circumstance (watch "Notes on a Scandal" if you're somehow still not convinced.)

Finally, what about the babes, a key component of any Bond movie? Well, Olga Kurlyenko is certainly leggy and pouty enough to make me at least consider destroying the world. But what she isn't, and I fault the rather poor excuse for a story here again, is particularly sultry, removing almost all the potential sparks from her encounter with Bond. And the secondary babe would have been much more memorable had she been played by Christina Hendricks of "Mad Men" - as I mistakenly thought when I saw the first pics of "Quantum of Solace" - instead of the rather forgettable Gemma Arterton.

So, almost a complete miss for me, but with more than $70 million in the U.S. vault alone, Daniel Craig and James Bond will certainly live (not "die," as that awful theme song says; sorry to harp on it, but it's really just tremendously bad) to see a 22nd (I think I have that right) installment, and I'll certainly give him another chance. Peace out.

"The Bank Job" is a caper well worth catching

First off, forgive me if I'm a bit rusty at this, because if I'm not mistaken, this is indeed the first movie I've made the effort to review this year.

The reasons for that, I would say, are three-fold: I'm still not paid to do this, the movies (for the most part) have just been remarkably bad, and, unless it's of a movie that I clearly expected more from, bad reviews simply aren't as fun to write. The lone exception to this flow of mediocre muck had been Michel Gondry's "Be Kind Rewind," an oddly endearing little movie that I passed on commenting on because, I'll confess, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around exactly what it was about. If you can still see it (which I doubt), I would encourage every one to do so, especially for the last half hour or so, which is pure magic.

But I certainly digress, because today's movie is "The Bank Job," luckily a much more straightforward kind of flick but, in its own way, just as enjoyable.

If you look at the poster for this one you know it's promising the kind of old-fashioned kind of heist flick we just don't see much of anymore, and I'm pleased to report that it delivers on that with spirit.

Roger Donaldson's flick tells the (mostly, I'd have to assume, though probably not entirely) true story of the biggest heist in U.K. history, which netted for those who survived it a share of $4 million pounds or so. Like with any great heist flick, however, it's about a lot more than money, and Donaldson, who, believe it or not, actually directed the movie "Cocktail" way back in the day (whatever happened to Brian Brown, anyway?), takes an approach that's at least as welcome for what it leaves out as for what it includes.

For me, heist movies work best, as Donaldson's flick does, when they focus on the crime itself and its consequences rather than a) gadgets that strain and crush credibility; b) a cast of characters that pile on quirk just for quirk's sake; c) slang that sounds like nothing anyone, in Britain or elsewhere, ever uses; or d) using a constantly moving (and shaking) camera as a substitute for any real urgency. Yes, I'm taking aim here at Stephen Soderbergh (for the Oceans that come after 11), Guy Ritchie (for "Snatch," not "Lock, Stock") and Paul Greengrass (for that last Bourne flick, which just left me with a huge headache.)

Donaldson is able to resist all that because he wisely understands that the true story he has here, transcribed for the screen by Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais, is as crazy as just about anything he or anyone else could have made up. I don't want to give too much away, but it involves, among other things, a black militant (named, funnily enough, Michael X) with incriminating photos of a royal with rather loose virtues, politicians who pay women for more than your most conventional kind of sex and, of course, MI5 or MI6 (I've never really mastered what exactly how many MI's there are or what each one really does, which I suppose is by design.)

And the flick almost, but not quite, falls apart in the third act as all these forces start to converge, but wisely wraps things up before you have time to think about it all too much. The flick is at its best when it simply focuses on the band of rather ordinary folks who pulled off this rather extraordinary heist and, for the most part, got away with it.

At the center of it all is Jason Statham, and be warned: Though he plays a fairly bad dude, fans who enjoy watching him kick ass (of which, in small doses, you can count me as one) will be rather sorely disappointed; he indeed doesn't throw many punches at all until he's kicking a prostate old man (you won't hear who from me) in the cojones. It's still a commanding enough performance to carry the flick, but just as much credit goes to Saffron Burrows, who up until now had really made little to no impression on me at all. As the femme (for some, at least) fatale who lures Statham and his mates into this crazy scheme, she not only has the look that would make men follow her just about anywhere, but for once in movies like this, gets to play an active role in the caper and makes the most of it.

As far as the many supporting players, I will reveal that that is indeed David Suchet (a k a Hercule Poirot) who plays a truly sleazy porn king (well, duke really) with relish, and that Colin Salmon (a k a almost-the-first-black-James-Bond and a familiar face to "Prime Suspect" fans) plays one of the "militants," though to tell you which one would just spoil the fun.

I hope more than a few people will turn out for this one, rather than (or maybe in addition to) Roland Emmerich's latest empty spectacle. Peace out.

"Once" upon a magical Oscar moment

For someone who watches as many movies as I do, I have a rather perilous confession to make: I often zone out in the middle of the Oscars.

I can't be the only person who usually watches the first hour or so, then turns it off for the middle third and then comes back for the big guns. Last night, however, it managed to hook me from start to finish.

I'm sure there's gonna be some carping from people (only the stars, really, I'd assume) that there weren't any bloated-beyond-belief acceptance speeches, but I thought it was a very brisk, mostly very enjoyable affair. And Jon Stewart deserves a lot of credit for that, even though he couldn't wait for more than about 10 minutes to tell the four people in America who might not have known already that Diablo Cody was once a stripper. (Yes, if I can digress for a moment, I did say stripper. Having worked briefly as a blackjack dealer in the back of a strip club [hey, a man's gotta eat] I can tell you there's nothing terribly "exotic" about any dancing that goes on there. So let's just retire that term, OK.)

OK, I'm back. It was a deservedly big night for the Coens (giving the Hollywood Reporter the chance to roll out this groaner of a headline: "No Country: Four Gold Men.") Some other thoughts that ran through my skittish mind were: I guess it's nice that the technicians behind "The Bourne Ultimatum" won at least three awards for giving me a throbbing headache, and wow, I guess they really didn't have to put much makeup at all on Tilda Swinton to make her so pale as the White Witch (beautiful woman, to be sure, but is she some kind of albino or what?)

But anyone who's been here before knows that, even more than seeing Helen Mirren break into a devilish grin when she says the word "cojones," one thing I truly love is the film "Once." Easily the most charming movie of 2007, it also provided the most charming moment of last night's Oscars ceremony.

After watching the three extremely elaborate set pieces for the songs from "Enchanted" (and man, can that Kristen Chenoweth belt out a tune), I was sure that one of them was going to prevail. But then, near the end of the night, Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, armed only with their instruments, performed their beautiful nominated song "Falling Slowly," and as everyone probably knows by now, came out as the big winners.

And the biggest victim of the rather brisk pace at first seemed to be the lovely Ms. Irglova, who, just as she opened her mouth, heard the music start to play and was ushered offstage. They probably could have let it at go at that and people would have just dismissed it and moved on, but after the commercial break, Stewart was nice enough to bring her back and give her 30 seconds to say something about the importance of indie artists (amen, sister!)

Perhaps I'm exaggerating the significance of this, but I almost never stay up until 11:45 on a Sunday night, so that's what's stuck in my mind at this early hour.

And yes, in case anyone's wondering, there is news out there today, and some pretty big stuff: Evidently set on giving me another massive migraine, Paul Greengrass and Matt Damon have both agreed to come back for a fourth "Bourne" flick. Bully to that, I suppose.

But I'll leave you today with just a bit more about "Once": The actual performance of "Falling Slowly" by Mr. Hansard and Ms. Irglova at last night's show. Once you get past the rather awful French voiceover of Colin Farrell's introduction (do they actually watch the whole show like that? what a nightmare!), the audio is great and the song is even better. Peace out.

Jane Austen's got the cure for your TV blues

I have to confess it's been years since I've tuned in regularly for PBS' Masterpiece Theater, but given the ongoing writers' strike and the show's revamped formula, I think I'll definitely be returning starting this Sunday.

What's new? Well, first of all, the programs will be hosted by "X-Files" and Masterpiece Theater ("Bleak House") alum Gillian Anderson, which I have to say is at least a slight improvement from previous host Russell Baker (and a definite improvement from the past few years, which, if I'm not mistaken, had no host at all.)

Secondly, for the first series of shows beginning Sunday, it will be all about Jane Austen, which is just fine by me. It's a bit hard to tell, but I believe the order goes like this: Emma, Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey, Persuasion (still my favorite Austen work), Pride and Prejudice and finally Sense and Sensibility. These aren't the Hollywood versions, but instead four new adaptations and two previously aired works (the only one I've seen is Pride and Prejudice, and though I know the ladies are rather devoted to Mr. Firth's Mr. Darcy, I just prefer Joe Wright's movie version instead.)

Check your local listings, of course, but in Georgia at least it airs at 9 p.m. Sundays (finally, a workout for my DVR, since I'll be watching "The Wire" whilst taping both that and Masterpiece.) Tune in for a definite alternative to the reality TV onslaught that's already started and will soon turn into a deluge.

Download Fox Searchlight scripts

I usually spend my brief lunch half-hour-or-so reading Chris Cillizza's fantastic The Fix political blog, but today I just might have another option.

Fox Searchlight has put the scripts for six (which may be all) of its 2007 releases up for download here, and it shows just how strong a year the studio had. Available for your perusal are the scripts for three movies that made my top 10 ("The Savages," "Once" and "Waitress"), two that just missed the cut ("Juno" and Mira Nair's charming "The Namesake"), and one I'd have to unfortunately call a failure, Wes Anderson's "Darjeeling Limited."

Speaking of "Juno," a quick visit to Variety, which somehow tracks daily box-office numbers, shows that Jason Reitman's little flick was actually at No. 1 for Tuesday, taking in $1,445,349 to National Treasure's $1,314,178. It has netted more than $54 million so far, and should approach the magical $100M with a few more weeks of wide release. Congrats! I think I'll be devouring Diablo Cody's script along with my soup this midday.

And kudos to Amy Ryan too

It was great to see Amy Ryan return on "The Wire" Sunday, even if it looks like her man McNulty may implode any day now.

If you haven't seen her performance in "Gone Baby Gone," do so as soon as you can. You can believe all the hype: If there is indeed an Oscars ceremony this year, there's no way in the world she shouldn't be taking home a Best Supporting Actress Oscar (unless it's main instead of supporting - I have trouble telling how they judge these things.)

And now she's joining the cast of Paul Greengrass' Iraq war thriller, which begins shooting today in Spain and is inspired by Rajiv Chandrasekaran's book "Imperial Life in the Emerald City: Inside Iraq's Green Zone".

Greengrass and Brian Helgeland turned that nonfiction work into a fictional thriller set in the "Green Zone," a walled and fortified area where U.S. troops stay during the Iraq occupation. Matt Damon plays an officer who teams with a senior CIA officer to search for evidence of weapons of mass destruction, Ryan will play a New York Times foreign correspondent sent to Iraq to investigate the U.S. government's WMD claims, and Greg Kinnear plays another CIA officer.

It seems like stars of "The Wire" are popping up everywhere on the big screen, which I don't see how I'll ever consider to be anything but a great development.

"Sweet Land" in Macon this Sunday

Given the mostly pathetic wide-release lineup this week (with Juan Antonio Bayona's "The Orphanage" a clear exception - go see that one if you like stylish and smart horror), the Macon Film Guild has a definitely welcome other option on the slate this weekend.

Director Ali Selim's "Sweet Land," based on a Will Weaver short story, tells the tale of a German mail-order bride who travels to Minnesota to marry a Norwegian man during World War I. Her nationality, naturally, is an issue for the assembled locals, but I'm sure everyone eventually learns to get along. Sounds a little sappy for my tastes, but both of my parents soundly endorse this one, and that's good enough for me.

It's showing this Sunday at 2, 4:30 and 7:30 p.m. at the Douglass Theatre in downtown Macon, and if you turn out for the 2 p.m. show I'll definitely see you there. Peace out.

The "Jackass" of romantic comedies?

Now, I can't take credit for that analogy, but I mention it as a defense of film critics, who are certainly a dying breed. Without it, I never would have given any time to "Hot Rod," and my weekend would have been all the worse for it.

The weekend box office, of course, was all about "Bourne," and why not? Greengrass' movie is a visceral experience and moviemaking much smarter than we usually get when the temperature hits 100 degrees (as it will today here in Macon.) I especially enjoyed the first big set piece in which he meets with the reporter played by Paddy Considine, but I have to confess, as it went on, I grew tired of Greengrass' constant need to shake the camera to boost his action sequences, simply leaving me with a headache.

But I'm not here to talk about Jason Bourne, who, with his record-setting $70 million opening certainly doesn't need my help. Instead, I'd like to do my small part to pitch Andy Samberg's thoroughly goofy "Hot Rod," which barely managed to beat out those "Bratz" to finish at ninth. As silly as this flick is, it certainly deserves better than this.

Now, I'm not saying this is a great movie. However, when we went to see it at 10:15 Sunday morning and ended up being the only two people there, we were able to laugh as loud as we wanted to, and often did.

I'm not sure because I can't find it now, but I think the critic who nailed the "Jackass" analogy was Colin Covert of McClatchy Newspapers. If so, he was dead right, and the movie never strives to be any more than that.

And, since apparently nobody saw this last weekend, I guess a bit of plot would be helpful. Samberg plays our hero, Rod Kimble, a goofball who just wants to be a stuntman, and his many disastrous attempts to become one give the movie most of its visual gags (even if, unlike the "Jackass" guys, he didn't do his own stunts.) In a plot twist that can kindly be called contrived, Rod's stepfather, played by the always-welcome Ian McShane, needs a heart transplant to stay alive, so Rod sets out to jump 15 buses and raise the $50,000 needed. Like I said, this movie had better be funny, because the premise is just about as dumb as it gets.

And how can I sell you on the funny? Well, most of the music is by Trevor Rabin, who with no apparent irony delivers the most gloriously bad Euro-metal you've heard in many years. Ian McShane, quickly becoming one of my favorite actors as I make my way through the first season of "Deadwood," is a bundle of beadied-eyed intensity as the stepfather who constantly batters our hero, to prove his love of course. And that scene in the commercial where the simply adorable Isla Fisher appears to eat Samberg's face also turns out to be as funny as it is sweet.

It's certainly uneven in stretches, but smartly keeping to 90 minutes, it manages to accomplish something few "Saturday Night Live" movies since the first "Wayne's World" have: It sustains its gag throughout the movie, and doesn't wear out its welcome. Samberg and his buds are more than a little geeky, and Akiva Shaffer directs the movie with little to no style at all. That's not a criticism, really. It gives the flick a deceptively raw appeal, pretty much the antithesis of Greengrass' flash.

In short, though this movie doesn't deserve much more than a rental, I'm hoping against hope for a week-two rebound. After all, it's got to be better than Ratboy's "Rush Hour 3" or, God forbid, "Daddy Day Camp" (which, by the way, was somehow directed by Fred Savage ... sheesh!)

A long-overdue tribute to Siskel

I wouldn't use the word hate, because that would imply I've actually thought about it enough to feel that strongly, but I just can't stand that dingbat Roeper (his first name escapes me at the moment) who has tried with no success to fill the big shoes of Gene Siskel. And now Ebert has finally offered proof of that to all who may have forgotten just how great his late partner in film criticism really was.

By visiting this site, you can find a video archive of Siskel and Ebert's best TV reviews, including "Hoop Dreams" and "Pulp Fiction," and if you really want to, watch some Ebert and Roeper too. This is a great tribute to one of my favorite critics, so please take some time out of your Monday to waste some time with this. Peace out.