movie review: Nothing But the Truth

“Though inspired by actual events, the following is a fictional film that does not depict any actual people or events.” So reads the disclaimer that precedes “Nothing But the Truth,” a political drama written and directed by Rod Lurie that draws heavily upon the 2005 saga of New York Times reporter Judith Miller and CIA agent Valerie Plame for its story. Those words practically beg you to draw comparisons between the film and its source material. It’s a dubious exercise.

Kate Beckinsdale plays journalist Rachel Armstrong, who goes to jail for refusing to reveal a source to a federal grand jury. The source in question has broken the law by revealing the identity of undercover CIA agent Erica Van Doren, played by Vera Farmiga. Sound familiar?

Lurie’s story echoes the Plame affair even as it diverges from it. A misguided war backdrops both stories, and different as they may sound, they serve much the same purpose. In the film, the Iraq war is a struggle with Venezuela; and the war’s antecedent is not the 9/11 attacks, but an assassination attempt on a fictitious U.S. President. But despite the many similarities, factually and thematically, between the stories of Rachel Armstrong and Judith Miller, the former cannot be seen simply as a screen version of the latter. Rachel Armstrong brings with her none of the experience – and none of the baggage – of her real-life counterpart. Not the Pulitzer Prize, not the bungled reporting on WMDs. Secondly, Rachel Armstrong provides next to no commentary on Judith Miller. They are two different women thrust into impossibly similar circumstances.

The story of “Nothing But the Truth” dances with that of the Plame affair in quite a complicated fashion; unfortunately, it does very little to inform it. If Rod Lurie has filmed the story of Judith Miller without saying anything about her, then what has he done? He’s given us a tale about the sacrifices that accompany journalistic integrity, if you’re into that sort of thing. More importantly, he’s provided a platform for Kate Beckinsdale to show some chops.

An up-and-coming journalist married to a burgeoning novelist, Rachel Armstrong is an icy opportunist; at the beginning of the film, she appears to be at least as interested in what breaking her story will do for her career as in its political implications. She’s cocky and cool and a pleasure to watch. After she’s thrown in jail, though, she’s revealed to be steadfast and brave, unwilling to jeopardize her journalistic principles under any circumstances. And while the quality of Beckinsdale’s performance never diminishes, her character does become less interesting after she goes all holier than thou.

The film throws a wrinkle into the mix in its use of Rachel’s husband and son, who show the effects that an incarcerated wife and mother can have on a family. Their pain opens the possibility that Rachel’s decision is perhaps not heroic; that her decision to withhold her source may not be selfless, but rather selfish.

A strong supporting cast features Angela Bassett as the ever-supportive newspaper editor, Alan Alda as the defense lawyer, and Matt Dillon as the unflappable federal prosecutor, the closest the film comes to a villain. David Schwimmer also appears, as Rachel’s husband. None of them leaves a lasting impression. There isn’t a whole lot for them to work with in the script.

This is all familiar terrain for Lurie, who directed the 2001 prison picture “The Last Castle,” and created the TV show “Commander in Chief,” which starred Geena Davis as the first female president. He’s attempted to punch up this story. There are some gunshots, a little sex, a jailhouse beat-down. And these efforts are, for the most part, appreciated. Also admirable is the modesty with which he infuses them; while alternately a political drama, a prison drama and a courthouse drama, the film never tries to be a thriller. It’s tempting to say that “Nothing But the Truth” fails to realize the potential of its premise. But then again, sometimes the facts are just more interesting than the fiction.

movie review: Adam Resurrected

The story of Adam Resurrected will be familiar to American audiences in so far as it resembles that classic of modern literature, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Israeli author Yoram Kaniuk’s 1968 novel, brought to the screen here by Paul Schrader, centers around the arrival of an unusual, energizing presence at a psychiatric hospital. The protagonist, Adam Stein, a fast-talking, charismatic charmer with a hearty appetite for women and drink, has much the same effect on his fellow patients as Randle Patrick McMurphy does in Ken Kesey’s tale, instilling confidence and hope, and stressing the importance of laughter. Both characters are emotionally unstable, possessing violent streaks just beneath the surface that reflect the severe psychological traumas in their respective pasts. The nature of those traumas and their depictions are what distinguishes these stories and their heroes: McMurphy escaped from a Chinese POW camp during the Korean War; Stein survived slavery at a Nazi concentration camp. And while McMurphy’s wartime experiences are represented hazily, occupying the forefront in neither the book nor Milos Forman’s film, the horrors of Stein’s past are always present in Adam Resurrected.

The film begins in 1961 as Stein (Jeff Goldblum), following an aggressive outburst in which he choked his landlady, returns to the Seizling Institute for Therapy and Rehab, a fictional facility in the Negev desert in southern Israel that specializes in the treatment of Holocaust survivors. Between scenes of him clowning with the other patients (familiar caricatures of the mentally ill) and titillating his fiery, compassionate nurse (Ayelet Zurer in a performance that commands attention), his past is revealed through a series of flashbacks.

A couple of lively sequences establish Stein as a popular entertainer who worked burlesque shows and cabarets in Berlin throughout the ‘20s and ‘30s until his Jewish heritage marked him for internment. The transitions from present to past might best be described as clunky; upon seeing a model train set at the hospital, Stein’s eyes open wide with terror, and suddenly the film cuts to a shot of him and his family standing huddled aboard a locomotive to the Nazi camp, in black and white, no less.

At the concentration camp, we watch as Stein is made to grovel at the feet, literally, of Commandant Klein (Willem Dafoe as evil incarnate), who forbids Stein to speak and instead trains him to crawl on all fours around his office and emulate the sounds and mannerisms of a domesticated dog. His job, says Klein, remains the same as it was onstage: “to comfort and entertain.” After the war, Stein is racked with guilt for having survived, albeit on a subhuman level, while his wife and daughter were dispatched to mass graves.

Back in the present, the Seizling Institute is run by Dr. Nathan Gross (Derek Jacobi), who is stuffy and irritable but smart enough to overlook Stein’s reckless sex and drinking habits because he knows the man can help his patients. Gross has marked one case in particular for Stein’s healing touch – a severely abused boy who has been raised to behave like a dog, barking, crawling, and rabid. The crux of the film lies in the interaction between Stein and this frightened, debased child.

Goldblum gives himself entirely to the role, spanning the gamut of emotions as a man that’s playful, impulsive, inspiring, damaged. He deserves credit for carrying the brunt of the workload and giving some coherence to a story and character that lack focus. As if Adam Stein wasn’t already complex enough to carry a film, he also reads minds, and bleeds suddenly from his feet, among other places. I mention these traits only in passing because that’s how the film treats them; breezed over, they function almost entirely as abstract religious symbols.

The picture stumbles most in its treatment of the relationship between Stein and the boy. Here, again, Goldblum’s effort is valiant, but the child is not so much a character as an idea. He embodies what Stein once was: a being in a state of degradation that, when reached, can never be forgotten, no matter how hard one tries. Their relationship embodies some of the film’s core ideas: that empathy is crucial to therapy; that the healing process is a struggle for both the doctor and the patient. But it’s frustrating that when the film finishes, for all his time on screen, we’re left with no clue as to who this boy is, or was, or will be. Randle McMurphy, too, inspired a mute to speak; but Chief Bromden was an individual in his own right.

An ambitious film, Adam Resurrected features a couple of genuinely humorous bits, courtesy of Goldblum, and a wealth of important messages, the most resonant being an obvious one that’s still worth repeating – that the suffering of the Holocaust lasted long after the defeat of Hitler and the Nazi party. Nevertheless, Adam Resurrected bites off more than it can chew. This is especially apparent in the film’s climax, if one can call it that, which arrives suddenly and fails to wrap anything up – and that might have been fine, except that the ending purports a degree of tidiness that’s unearned. It’s difficult to justify enduring the basest humiliations of grown men and children alike for a film that’s so uneven, whose effectiveness is so intermittent.

movie review: Four Nights with Anna

If a man stands and watches as a crime is committed, and chooses not to intervene, is he somehow culpable? What is the difference between someone who sins and someone who wants desperately to, but refrains out of fear? Where is the line between perverse fascination and romantic love?

These are just a few of the questions that arise when watching Four Nights with Anna, the first picture in over 15 years from Polish filmmaker Jerzy Skolimowski. The script, co-written by Skolimowski and first-timer Eva Piaskowska, is a gripping character study of Leon, a timid man approaching middle age who has voyeuristic tendencies (to put it mildly). An intriguing story in its own right, Leon’s tale is made all the more provocative by the unconventional structure of Skolimowski’s narrative, which complicates interpretation of the film in wonderful ways.

Leon lives with his ailing grandmother in a small community in the Polish countryside where the sky is always overcast. He works at a crematorium. At night he watches Anna, a nurse and the object of his longings, through her window. From what little we learn, she seems entirely normal and unremarkable. She is unaware of Leon’s existence though she lives in a house separated from his by only a small, muddy field. The story is put in motion when Leon devises a scheme to drug her so that he may sneak through a window into her room at night.

As if it wasn’t discomforting enough to watch him methodically execute this plan, the film cuts periodically to scenes in which Leon is being interrogated on charges of rape. Are they flashbacks or flash-forwards? It’s intentionally ambiguous. In any case, we’re set up for the worst. The camera assumes Leon’s point of view while he peeps, and it appears, initially, that this may just be a sick, exploitative fantasy – albeit, a gorgeous looking one. Throughout Four Nights with Anna, the low key lighting is perfectly ominous, the camerawork is smooth and efficient, and Skolimowski’s direction impresses in a manner that’s understated and unobtrusive.

Once Leon steps inside Anna’s room, however, things get a good deal more interesting, and it becomes clear that this craftsmanship has not all gone to waste. Leon stops short of molestation. So what does he do in there? He tiptoes around and examines her things. He covers her with a blanket; he mends her shirt with a needle and thread. Skolimowski renders Anna’s room a treasure chest when, in actuality, it’s quite cluttered and mundane. “Just like you wanted, Grandma,” Leon says later. “I’m seeing a woman.”

Leon is played by Artur Steranko, who performs the bedroom scenes with just the right mix of reverence and dread, shyness and desperation, trepidation and anticipation. His performance is vastly creepy and punctuated by moments of sweetness. In many ways, Leon is somewhat average. He is not particularly smart or slow. He fails in his attempts to be furtive (tumbling out of her window into the mud, and so on). He is disturbed, certainly, but he does not appear to be a complete psychopath – which, in turn, makes him that much scarier, his behavior that much more inexplicable. It should be noted that the film’s excellent score, composed by Michal Lorenc, also contributes greatly to the unnerving vibe and overall sense of suspense; though, naturally, a film about trespassing engenders a great deal of suspense.

The aforementioned flashback/forward device helps make Four Nights with Anna successful because it forces the viewer to constantly reevaluate what’s come before, and from multiple angles. Likewise, as the film progresses, earlier flashbacks and the assumptions that came with them require reconsideration. Whatever way you want to look at it, it’s Leon that’s being examined and reexamined, and this sentiment is echoed in the film’s interrogation and courtroom scenes. Skolimowski dares the audience to judge him again and again, and each time he reveals another twist. He never portrays Leon as a hero – it would be reckless, even dangerous, to condone such behavior, and with that in mind, Leon does pay for his misdeeds. But neither does he demonize him. Rather, Leon is shown as a human, flawed, capable of both good and bad, and ultimately his comeuppance is wrought not with retribution but with pathos.

movie review: The Yellow Handkerchief

The Yellow Handkerchief is that odd road trip movie that forgoes montages and a hip soundtrack in favor of quiet conversation and pregnant glances. Udayan Prasad’s film, loosely based on the 1971 Pete Hamill short story “Going Home,” follows an unlikely trio of outsiders cruising through rural Louisiana with little agenda and plenty of emotional baggage. These are lonely individuals, down on their luck, but they are decent folk, and good-natured. Unfortunately, for all its modest charms, the film mirrors its subjects in that it never goes much of anywhere.

At the heart of The Yellow Handkerchief is Brett (William Hurt), a laconic, middle-aged badass who sports a jean jacket, tattoos, and a moustache that demands respect. Hurt deftly captures the dual essence of Brett, a man simultaneously affable and intimidating; when he’s not wrangling gators or punching out windows, his speech is measured, his smile gentle and slight. As the movie begins, Brett steps out of prison following a six-year sentence and steps into an old convertible with Martine and Gordy, a couple of angsty, hormonal teenagers. It’s chance that brings these three strangers together one hot afternoon.

Kristen Stewart plays Martine, and much as she did in Twilight, she imbues her character with attitude and intrigue even when the script does not. Gordy (Eddie Redmayne) is nervous and spastic. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have unusually wide shoulders and a small, tapering waist,” he says, a goofy grin transfixed on his face, as he models a new coat.

As they set out on their journey to nowhere specific, the crew exhibits a comforting warmness. They are cute together, awkward, and their banter and bickering holds a tranquil allure, even as it turns to abandonment issues, which it often does. These characters are endearing; they’re well-meaning and well-acted enough to make them very attractive traveling partners.

One assumes, however, that something is eventually supposed to happen to them, and it’s the plot (and the way the plot’s conveyed) that gives the film trouble. The true meat of the storyline, involving Brett and a lost love named May (Maria Bello), takes place before he was incarcerated, and is relayed through a cumbersome flashback mechanism. The story of Brett and May – a beautiful, weathered woman – is a fine one, touching and sad. It is also quite straightforward. The flashbacks, however, which appear with increasing frequency until they become the primary source of action, needlessly convolute the saga of their relationship, perhaps in an effort to compensate for its simplicity.

Also of concern is the near total absence of action back in the present day. These characters do little more than talk and drive during their time together. Admittedly, some of their conversations are quite lovely. It’s enjoyable to watch as their bond of friendship forms and they grow to trust one another. But they have very few actual experiences on their trek – at least, very few that appear to impact them in a meaningful way. They stay at a roach motel; they hit a deer. The drama of the film seems better suited to the confinements of a stage set than to the lush, wide expanses of the Louisiana countryside.

I found myself wondering how the gang might react, were they to stop at some tacky roadside attraction; or how they’d be affected by a run-in with their version of Large Marge, that notorious truck driver, or George Hansen, the drunken ACLU lawyer. I admit, those may be the words of my inner road trip movie fan – but even so, these characters could’ve grown so much more if they’d had some significant interaction with people outside their little circle.

That said, the insulated nature of the narrative, frustrating as it is at times, does underscore the connection formed between the characters – this movie is very much about friendship. And if that sounds cutesy and light, well, it is. Although the film’s mood begins to shift from contemplative to melancholic around the midway point, the picture never becomes more serious than its story warrants. That was probably a wise decision on the part of Prasad and the screenwriter, Eric Dignam, because light as it may be at times, The Yellow Handkerchief is neither frivolous nor trivial.

movie review: Tropic Thunder

Ben Stiller has spoken: white guys in fat suits dancing to hip-hop are funny. Following the end credits of the 2004 Stiller vehicle Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, the actor sits shirtless in a grotesque fat suit singing “Milkshake,” a then-popular tune by the sultry singer Kelis. For his latest comedy, Tropic Thunder, Stiller hands the reigns to Tom Cruise, whose career has sunk so low that he dons a bald cap and fat suit to play a malicious movie exec named Les Grossman (he just might be Jewish) who constantly screams obscenities, and yes, dances to hip-hop in the film’s stirring finale. More miraculous is that for Cruise, this actually constitutes damage control.

Tropic Thunder is a better film that Dodgeball, mainly because of Robert Downey Jr.’s performance as Kirk Lazarus, a method actor who has undergone a pigment darkening surgery in order to portray a black man in the movie within the movie, also called Tropic Thunder. An action star (Ben Stiller), a comedian (Jack Black), and a rapper (Brandon T. Jackson) round out the cast, and Tropic Thunder follows their follies as they attempt to shoot an epic war film deep in the jungle.

Few actors could get away with wearing blackface through the whole of a major Hollywood movie, but if it’s anyone, it’s Downey Jr., who steals all his scenes and throws all his chops into creating a dedicated, misguided, and overextended thespian. Less interesting is watching a limited actor portray a talentless one, as is the case with Stiller and the action hero he plays, Tugg Speedman, a variation on the arrogant but well-meaning idiot he perfected in Zoolander. Downey Jr. also brings a low-key sense of humor to the film, which, aurally and visually, subscribes to the everything-louder-than- everything-else aesthetic.

The worst culprit in this regard is Jack Black, wasted here, who plays comedian Jeff Portnoy and is given little to do but scream “Yeah!” Black’s best scene is his first, a mock trailer for a Portnoy film called The Fatties: Fart 2, in which he wears (you guessed it) fat suits and plays a farting family in a spoof of crap like Eddie Murphy’s Nutty Professor sequel, The Klumps. Danny McBride, as a raucous redneck in the film crew, is also responsible for a lot of shouting; it’s debatable whether exclaiming “Big ass titties!” before detonating a bomb qualifies as comedy (though I found it hilarious).

The film has generated a great deal of hype, both good and bad, due to Downey Jr.’s character, and its treatment of “retards” (more unfunny than offensive), and its supposedly scathing indictment of the film industry. With regards to the final point, Tropic Thunder does have some good laughs at Hollywood’s expense, as in the mock trailers which open the film, and the clever entertainment news segments which dote endlessly on moronic actors. Matthew McConaughey, amiable as always, plays an agent (also a moron) responsible for managing prima donna movie star Tugg Speedman. And then, of course, there’s Cruise, whose Grossman represents all that’s immoral in Hollywood, like Ari Gold with none of the heart. But the satire is all surface deep. Ultimately, Cruise is just playing a fat guy that dances to hip-hop, and one can hardly think that would rile too many folks in the film industry.

game review: Grand Theft Auto IV

In Grand Theft Auto IV, the long-awaited new chapter in the wildly popular franchise from Rockstar Games, the player takes control of Niko Bellic, a sardonic badass and Serbian immigrant who steps off the boat and immediately becomes entangled in the criminal underworld of Liberty City. Niko, brilliantly voiced by Michael Hollick, is about as charming as stone cold killers come; his "What, me worry?" attitude and low-key sense of humor help him navigate the city's web of drug dealers and other sordid gangsters (as well as the dating scene) with ease.

As great as Niko is, though, he's never the star of the game. That honor is reserved for the city itself, Liberty, which is really an undisguised New York, and which is as close as a console game has ever come to a living, breathing, modern metropolis. In keeping with the game's tone, this New York is always presented with some degree of derision (Times Square, here called Star Junction, is "A great place to go if you love advertising" reads the guidebook, i.e. instruction manual). But the superb attention to detail--from the Cyclone at Coney Island, to the Unisphere at the old World's Fair grounds, to the Metropolitan Opera House--betrays a great deal of affection from the game's designers, as well.

There are literally hours of pleasure to be derived from driving around the city's four boroughs (Staten Island is omitted; instead we get a portion of suburban New Jersey) in search of your favorite landmarks. But the virtual world within Liberty, the media inside the game, is even more compelling.

Star Junction.

Back at Niko's apartment, you can watch television--for quite a long time. Choose from programming like "I'm Rich," a spoof of shows like VH1's "The Fabulous Life Of..." which is much more entertaining (and raw--apparently there's no FCC in this world) than its source material; an hysterical documentary on the history of Liberty City; and a cartoon called "Republican Space Rangers," which takes our nation's war on terror (the game's greatest source of comedic material) to other galaxies. When the shows pause for commercials, you'll see ads for the same mock products being hawked on billboards out in the street.

Hop online at an internet cafe and you can send emails that open up new missions and further your progress in the game. Stay online and surf through the boatloads of content that exist only because (1) they are hilarious, and (2) because the game creators went above and beyond with just about everything in GTA IV. Kill the head honcho at a high-profile law firm, and shortly thereafter you'll find a story about the murder on the Liberty Tree newspaper's website. Or check out one of the dozens of other sites, like CrapList.net (read: Craig's List), "an online forum where users can sell stolen bicycles and meet up at lunch to give each other head" (Thankfully you can't do either of those things in the game). In many ways, this is what GTA IV is all about: scathing, pointed satire mixed with sophomoric vulgarity.

The radio commercials and talk stations, which lampoon everything from reality T.V. ("Waning With The Stars") to Axe Body Spray, work in much the same way. While listening to the news, you'll hear updates which reflect the world around you, like bridge openings or closings, for example. The music stations introduce another impressive element. While driving through Liberty City, you can tune to stations (most feature between 10 and 20 songs apiece) dedicated to genres including funk, jazz, Latin, dancehall, hip-hop, indie rock, R&B, hardcore punk--even a station that exclusively plays Bob Marley and the Wailers (with one Stephen Marley track thrown in for good measure). It's an incredible cross-section of American and international popular (and not so popular) music.

Just don't call him Russian.

The true meat of the gameplay has not changed drastically from previous installments. As far as the missions go, one of the amusing caricatures for whom you work (the steroid nut, the Rasta) generally assigns you with the task of driving (or perhaps taking the subway) to a specific place in the sprawling city to pick up goods, or drop them off, or spy on someone. Regardless of what it is, you usually have to kill a guy, or lots of guys. The use of a cell phone for calling, texting, and even picture messaging (all essential, at times, in completing your tasks) is quite clever. Still, it feels pretty much the same as it did in the past few GTAs, only better: a better weapon aiming system, more nuanced assignments, and far superior graphics.

Powering through the missions and advancing the plot (Niko's backstory and his true motivations are gradually revealed) is great--when you feel like it. And that's always been the beauty of the Grand Theft Auto games: now more than ever, you play however you want. Don't feel like running guns for a thug? Snag a cop car, access the police computer, and hunt down criminals, vigilante style. Not in the mood for (that kind of) action? Hit up a strip club and get a lap dance. Hunt for ramps in deserted back alleys; rev up your engine and try a death defying jump. Try online dating. Go bowling with one of your homeboys, or hit up a pool hall, or throw darts at a dive bar. Or maybe just kick back at the crib and watch some television.

Thank God for Mickey's

It would be an understatement to say that our nation has hit a rough patch. From soaring gas prices, to the war in Iraq, to the subprime mortgage whatever, the U.S. of A is embroiled in tumultuous times. As the Dems continue to undercut themselves in an ugly, endless primary, and the Mets sleepwalk through game after game, the ruthless New York media censuring them at every turn, one thing is clear--it's time for some unity.

Enter the Golden Arches. Enter the Southern Style Chicken Sandwich.

Finally, something we can all agree upon. The debut of a new McDonald's sandwich is a major cultural event that may someday achieve federal holiday status. This particular sandwich is especially laudable, bringing together as it does the North and South in an act of true American solidarity. Moreover, the Southern Style Chicken Sandwich will rock your socks off, regardless of your gender, race, class or political affiliation. Let me break it down for you: juicy-ass white meat chicken, topped with--oh yes--butter and pickles. That's right--butter and pickles. And as if that wasn't enough, Mickey's has also introduced the Southern Style Chicken Biscuit for those ambitious enough to be up and out of the house before 10:30a.m. Hallelujah.

Thank you, Mickey's. Thank you for doing your part to help right the ship in these trying times. Thank you for providing a beacon of light and a moment of respite, however fleeting, during these days of turmoil. Thanks for giving us kickass chicken sandwiches. With butter. And pickles.