If we are being strictly rational, 3 Days to Kill is an abysmal film in almost every conceivable category. The plot is staggeringly basic and has been told countless times before; the characters are largely archetypal and two-dimensional—a critique that applies most heavily to the villains. The dialogue lacks any shred of credibility, the action fails to reach spectacular heights, and the melodrama isn't even sufficiently pathetic. Their combination isn't nearly as humorous as intended. As for the other jokes, they are mediocre at best, occasionally bordering on offensive, landing somewhere in the realm of low-brow patriotic humor and casual homophobia. However, 3 Days to Kill serves as a textbook example of what one calls a “guilty pleasure”: objectively terrible, yet subjectively quite endearing and entertaining. As I have previously noted, the action offers nothing novel, the violence is nearly bloodless and lacks elegance, and the melodrama is entirely formulaic. The characters are paper-thin, which results in lackluster performances; Connie Nielsen makes no real effort to elevate Tina beyond a nagging wife suspicious of her spy husband, while Amber Heard attempts to inject some femme fatale flair into Viva, though it comes across as more comical than intentional. Some of these scenes are quite foolish and absurd; her frequent wig changes and flirtatious overtures toward a decidedly unimpressive Kevin Costner never truly realize their potential. On top of that, the entire film functions as rather heavy-handed product placement for Ford (Besson has that habit), but at least that provides us with two spectacular chases through the streets of Paris. Add to that an impressive brawl in a sandwich shop, where a meat slicer and a toaster are elegantly utilized as improvised weapons. In those few moments, McG demonstrates that he is a technically skilled director, even if he is far from creative. (Then again, had he been creative, he might have devised an original artistic moniker instead of using that blatant abbreviation of his surname.) 3 Days to Kill is not merely a derivative offspring of the solid Taken franchise, borrowing its core premise and helping set the standard for Paramount’s brand of trashy B-movies for a global audience. Nor is it simply an untouchable blend of Taken and From Paris with Love, from which the inspiration was drawn to depict Paris like a twisted tourist postcard. It possesses that, certainly, but that isn't all. It is a story about times that changed while Ethan was busy killing villains around the world on the American taxpayer's dime, all while Costner transitioned into less ambitious roles following two back-to-back disasters known as Waterworld and The Postman. In the interim, Ethan’s little girl has grown up; purple is no longer her favorite color, as she is now preoccupied with guys and going out. Meanwhile, the world itself has shifted, and here we view it through the lens of a globalized Paris. In such a setting, Ethan, dressed in forty-year-old Parisian fashion (reminiscent of films starring Delon and Belmondo), looks like a total stranger and a poseur—something akin to an American hipster living out his Parisian fantasies while Parisians of all colors and races grind away at legal and illegal jobs, clad in corporate uniforms of black suits and ties.
more at: http://film-na-dan.blogspot.com/2014...s-to-kill.html
As far as I am aware, PSH filmed all of his scenes for Mockingjay – Part 1, leaving only a few remaining for Part 2, which suggests the crew will likely make some minor script adjustments. In short, there won't be a recast.
I must admit, I am hardly an expert on fairy tales, let alone their various adaptations and contextualizations; frankly, I tend to skip over such films most of the time. To be fair, I did watch Snow White, and I found it quite compelling due to its completely shifted, artistic interpretation of the classic tale. However, unlike Snow White or what many consider the finest cinematic version of that classic French fairy tale (Jean Cocteau, 1946), this latest variation on Beauty and the Beast lacks any real artistic ambition. Unlike Disney's version, this isn't merely a children's movie, nor was it primarily produced for young girls who enjoy princess stories. No, this is a commercial spectacle from start to finish—one of those films where tension is prioritized over narrative coherence, recontextualized to an extreme degree by stuffing in unnecessary backstories and even more magical elements, all while featuring two major stars under the direction of the well-known Christoph Gans (Wolf Pact). It is certainly commercial in nature; it hit theaters in French-speaking European markets this February, following a Berlin premiere, then an Italian premiere, and a debut at the Festival, managing to nearly recoup its budget in less than a month despite not yet appearing in most major markets. As far as spectacle is concerned, it delivers, and Gans excels at handling the racing, riding, hunting, and other action sequences. The issue arises with the dialogue; the screenplay is weak in that regard, perhaps due to excessive rewrites that no one bothered to manage properly. Gans has a solution for that as well: simply clutter the frame with attractive set designs and costumes, and who cares what anyone is actually saying?
more at: http://film-na-dan.blogspot.com/2014...and-beast.html
Well, you simply cannot fight physical appearance. Sure, you could opt for plastic surgery, but that’s just a foolish endeavor. There are moments when his vacant expression perfectly captures the essence of a film, though at other times, it works against him. In a movie like Million Dollar Baby, Nicolas Cage plays a dangerous sort of character despite his inherently melancholy look, and he pulls it off quite convincingly. Respect.
Nicolas Cage is either brilliant or desperate, there is absolutely no middle ground with him. His performances in Lord of War, Adaptation, Joe, and Raising Arizona are nothing short of spectacular.
Certain films present their entire trajectory from the opening frame to the credits with absolute clarity. They follow a conventional theme and a predictable development. Other films lack such grand aspirations; they are tailored for a specific audience, exploring themes that appeal to a niche group through a similarly specialized narrative structure. Then, there is a third category: films that desperately attempt to market an incredibly narrow subject matter to the widest possible demographic. Knights of Badassdom falls squarely into this final group. To be perfectly candid, the version currently available for viewing has been significantly altered, re-edited, and truncated compared to what director Joe Lynch originally envisioned. The director himself chose not to dwell on the specifics of his disputes with the studio executives, opting instead to simply distance himself publicly from the "final cut." Whether one chooses to take him at his word remains entirely up to the viewer. In all honesty, a film centered on the LARP (live action role play) subculture cannot, by its very nature, be intended for a general audience, given how niche and extreme that particular geek culture can be. For a film of this sort to hold interest, the spectator must either be familiar with that specific world or possess at least some level of affinity for it. Furthermore, a movie about something so trivial rarely possesses the ambition to change the world, innovate, or leave a lasting legacy. It is meant to be inexpensive, easy entertainment—for those who enjoy that sort of thing. Some might characterize this approach as lazy, while others might call it modest. As someone with a functional understanding of geeks, LARP, and metal culture, I find the latter description more accurate.
more at: http://film-na-dan.blogspot.com/2014...badassdom.html
The premise is palatable, and the direction remains steady and predictable, making Saving Mr. Banks the quintessential example of a genre we once assumed had been wiped out by high-budget filmmaking: the holiday movie. Whether we care to admit it or not, our society has become considerably more cynical than it was fifty years ago. In this current climate, films like Mary Poppins simply wouldn't be greenlit; nobody would sit through them. There are many reasons for this decline, primarily that children are now captivated by action figures and interactive consoles, rendering a nanny who flies via umbrella and explains life through song quite tedious—especially if it isn't presented in 3D. Consequently, Saving Mr. Banks serves as a film for adults and, I would argue, the nostalgic. What elevates this production above the mediocre is its polished execution and the abundance of clever little details scattered throughout, such as the map of Florida featuring a circled Orlando hanging in Disney's office, coupled with top-tier acting. Tom Hanks is a master at portraying warm, salt-of-the-earth characters and possesses an impeccable ear for accents, which makes his portrayal of Walt Disney nothing short of divine. Paul Giamatti delivers a brilliant performance in a role that is uncharacteristically cheerful for him, while Schwartzman is surprisingly grounded. However, the true star of the film is Emma Thompson, a woman who captures both the essence of Traverso's and the classic "old-school" Englishwoman stereotype. One must also acknowledge her softer side, which is masked by fears of a modern world that tends to trivialize and ridicule her deeply personal memories. It truly baffles me that she didn't receive an Oscar nomination, as she absolutely deserves one for this performance. I certainly cannot pull five superior performances out of my sleeve, but the Academy's paths are often strange indeed.
more at: http://film-na-dan.blogspot.com/2014...-mr-banks.html or subtitled in English:
To applies primarily to the United States, though it’s a universal truth: those preaching about "traditional values" either haven't the slightest clue what they are discussing or are simply peddling a narrative designed to deceive us. They prey on our innate desire to sell out—to pretend to be something we aren't and to force a veneer of authenticity upon ourselves and everyone else. Personally, among my top films of the year, I would count
I wouldn't frame it quite that way. Nebraska serves as a profound interrogation of those so-called traditional values, offering a remarkably clear expression of doubt regarding whether they ever truly existed in the first place.
Every so often, a film arrives that speaks the quiet language of indie cinema—telling the stories of ordinary, small-scale people—but does so with a certain grandiosity. It is a work that feels complete, stylistically polished, and coherent, yet remains elliptical. It poses profound questions without feeling the need to provide easy answers. It operates across multiple genre and thematic fronts without becoming a cluttered mess. Much of the narrative unfolds on the road, yet its core preoccupation is stasis. That is Nebraska, and it earns its reputation as a modern classic. Just when one expects a heavy social drama—given the elderly protagonist and the stark black-and-white cinematography—we discover his name is Woody Grant. This is a deliberate play on words referencing the painter Grant Wood, the creator of the legendary American Gothic. While the social commentary is present, we also anticipate a sense of detachment: a touch of hipster irony and humor aimed at Midwestern stereotypes regarding simple, hardworking rural folk who supposedly remain uncorrupted by urban decadence or suburban conformity. If you are looking for a feel-good buddy movie, you are looking in the wrong place. Woody, aged and senile, is not going to undergo some grand epiphany during this journey. He is perfectly aware that he hasn't exactly conquered life, though he either refuses to admit it or simply doesn't care. He is a man of few words, and perhaps even fewer thoughts (one of the hilariously blunt dialogues between him and David reveals that Woody never gave much thought to the nature of marriage to Kate); above all, he just wants to drink a few beers in peace and quiet. On the other hand, it is immediately clear that David is a decent man, harboring a deep (and entirely unrequited) respect and affection for his father. From the outset, David realizes this isn't about winning a million dollars in the lottery; it is about Woody’s need to live out what might be his final fantasy: buying a new truck and a paint compressor just for the sake of traveling. There is something indescribable about the depiction of provincial life through black-and-white film. Nebraska rightfully interrogates the American Dream as a concept, questioning whether it ever truly existed or if it was merely manufactured as a colorful lie for unfortunate people chasing happiness. It also questions those famous values associated with simple living and simple people—not just where they have gone or if they are still possible today, but whether they ever truly existed, or if they served merely as a mask for greed. Ultimately, the film's conclusion can be interpreted in two ways: as a tribute to the indestructibility of materialism and the performance of status symbols for relatives, or as a reflection of the universal human need to deceive ourselves into believing we are more successful and intelligent than we actually are. The only issue, if indeed there is one, is that Nebraska tackles unsolvable themes, and it attempts to juggle many of them simultaneously. Within a single film, we encounter aging, dementia, a sociological study of deep rural life, the psychology of provincialism, naivety, materialism, greed, the American Dream, and genuine, old-fashioned values. In this balancing act, Nebraska is as excellent a film as one of its kind can be. Not every aspect receives equal attention, nor is every theme given sufficient room to breathe. One could argue many things about Nebraska, but one could never claim it is anything less than an exceptionally ambitious film. It is, without question, one of the major cinematic events of the past year.
more at: http://film-na-dan.blogspot.com/2014/02/nebraska.html
While it draws inspiration from Van Ronk, the narrative maintains enough of a Coen film essence to avoid being labeled a mere biopic. The fact that Van Ronk actually made it through and eventually found success—even if it was just basic recognition on the scene rather than true mainstream stardom—doesn't necessarily carry any weight when examining the story of Llewyn Davis, particularly through the lens of the Coen brothers' style.
My apologies, perhaps I didn't articulate my point clearly enough. I was referring to Bob Dylan as a paradigm—exactly the concept you were touching upon—rather than discussing Bob Dylan as a specific individual or songwriter. I am speaking about the burgeoning scene during that era, just before the massive explosion of popularity. It is entirely possible that I simply missed the mark on Dylan himself back then; he might have been just another face among many in the folk revival, one of those relative losers searching for a break. Furthermore, it is quite plausible that the Coens intentionally placed him in the deep background of a club setting simply to sharpen the narrative arc of Llewyn Davis.
*Filth* is exactly what the title suggests: a filthy, loud, and utterly deranged piece of cinema. Set against the backdrop of Edinburgh, the story follows several chaotic days in the life of a corrupt, alcoholic, drug-addled, and manic police officer named Bruce Robertson (McAvoy) during the frantic pre-Christmas season. He is on an irreversible slide toward a complete nervous breakdown, all told through the lens of our unreliable narrator. Even more unreliable is his wife, Carol Macdonald, who appears to be the only sane person in his orbit, yet we never actually see them together on screen; instead, she exists as an ethereal presence within highly stylized sequences. Does that sound familiar to anyone else? I must extend a certain level of self-congratulation to myself, as I have successfully managed to compose this opening paragraph without once mentioning Trainspotting. If the two concepts you've presented seem sufficiently similar to warrant being discussed in the same breath, that is due entirely to the influence of Irvin Welsh, the author of both novels. Trainspotting essentially orchestrated a double revolution; as a novel, it dragged the unsightly underbelly of the United States out from under the rug that the Republicans were so desperately trying to sweep it under—exposing those drug-addled, intoxicated, and unemployed creatures who stand little chance in life. As a film, however, it became the definitive portrait of Blair’s version of "cool" America, likely serving as the first American mega-hit on a global scale that didn't rely on war movies, period costumes, or the aristocracy to find an audience. It isn't that American authors lacked social engagement; rather, those types of films simply struggled to reach a mainstream audience. Since the release of *Trainspotting*, the cinematic adaptations of Welsh’s novels have consistently struggled to meet even the most modest expectations. While projects like *Acid House* and *Ecstasy* failed to resonate with either critics or audiences, the adaptation of *porno* remains perpetually stalled in development. It seems that Welsh hasn't quite found his stride with original screenplays either. The true secret behind the success of *Filth* lies in its striking structural similarities to *Trainspotting*. After major studios passed on the project due to its relentlessly grim subject matter—content deemed too difficult to market to a mainstream audience—the film was ultimately produced on a shoestring budget. In a move that speaks to the project's grit, the cast agreed to take lower salaries in exchange for producer credits. Furthermore, Jon S. Baird arrived on set as a relatively fresh talent with only one previous credit—the hooligan drama *Cass*—placing him in a similar position to Danny Boyle when he first took the helm of *Trainspotting*. Ultimately, while *Filth* isn't a mere carbon copy of *Trainspotting*—it lacks that specific sense of youthful energy and effortless coolness—it is undeniably a product of the same creative mind. However, Welsh’s world here is significantly darker and more sordid; in comparison to the depravity of officer Robertson, even the local junkies and transients seem almost cheerful. The film opens as a pitch-black comedy before spiraling into that strange, uncomfortable territory between tragedy and farce. Toward the end, the director seems to lose his grip on the narrative—or perhaps he’s just masterfully faking it—as the initial fluidity dissolves into a clumsy attempt to justify the absolute wreck that is Bruce Robertson. In his eyes, both the bad lieutenant and characters like Ferrari or Herzog seem like lost, misguided sheep; conversely, Hunter Thompson and his "lawyer" come across as the only sober people in the room, while Patrick Bateman looks like a perfectly polite, conservative young man by comparison. These references aren't accidental; Filth is absolutely saturated with them. For many viewers, navigating this movie requires either a heavy dose of Google or an extensive, almost encyclopedic knowledge of American pop culture. Relying on such specific cultural shorthand is always a gamble, as it demands a certain level of prerequisite knowledge from the audience. That doesn't mean Filth isn't entertaining, of course; it simply means it likely lands more effectively with Americans than it does with us, as they’ll catch those subtle nods to actors they might have previously seen together in some random soap opera, now playing completely transformed roles. Jon S. Baird demonstrates a sophisticated ability to draw inspiration from cinematic predecessors, largely succeeding in bringing his specific vision to life. One cannot ignore the heavy presence of Kubrick; the comparison between Bruce Robertson and Alex DeLarge is almost unavoidable, particularly evident in those manic, sweat-soaked close-ups of McAvoy’s increasingly haggard face. There is also a distinct touch of Terry Gilliam to be found, especially during the more surreal sequences where Robertson has clearly lost his grip on reality. Furthermore, the influence of Danny Boyle and his kinetic energy in Trainspotting is palpable—the film starts with a frenetic pace only to seemingly lose its breath later, a shift mirrored in the soundtrack, which lacks the effortless coolness found in Trainspotting. The visual experimentation and manipulation of aspect ratios, such as the sequence in Hamburg that mimics the gritty aesthetic of home video, is quite engaging. If I were to offer a critique of Baird’s work, it would be that he occasionally underestimates the intellect of his audience, opting to over-explain plot points that are already perfectly obvious. Additionally, the decision to recap key moments using crude animated animals feels like a somewhat tired and dated stylistic choice. All things considered, *Filth* is a riotously good, chaotic ride from start to finish. The shadow cast by *Trainspotting* actually does more harm than good here, simply because any viewer is inevitably forced into a direct comparison. The irony lies in the fact that even if one were to argue that *Filth* is the superior film in every conceivable metric—which, let’s be honest, isn't really the case—it will never achieve the same cult status as its predecessor. This isn't due to a lack of quality, but rather a matter of timing; much of the legendary status surrounding *Trainspotting* is derived from its specific 90s zeitgeist. It is precisely that sense of cultural context that *Filth* lacks, preventing it from leaving a lasting mark on the collective memory. If there is any consolation to be found, however, it is that *Filth* stands as the first successful adaptation of an Irvin Welsh novel in seventeen years, particularly considering how much of the source material defies cinematic translation. That alone is quite an achievement.
More on this: Watching *Filth* is less like viewing a film and more like witnessing a slow-motion car crash involving a stolen ambulance and a bag of questionable substances. It is a visceral, grime-streaked descent into madness that refuses to offer the viewer any semblance of comfort or moral clarity. The narrative follows Bruce Robertson, played by James McAvoy with a manic, terrifyingly precise energy that borders on the supernatural. He isn't just a character; he is a walking disaster zone, a man whose internal landscape is as fractured and filthy as his external reality. As he navigates the hollowed-out corridors of his career and his crumbling psyche, you aren't just watching a man fall apart—you’re watching him dismantle himself with surgical, albeit chaotic, intent. McAvoy’s performance is nothing short of masterful. He manages to channel a specific kind of desperate, high-functioning nihilism that feels uncomfortably authentic. Even when the plot veers into the surreal or the outright grotesque, his portrayal remains the anchor. You find yourself both repulsed by and strangely tethered to his trajectory. The direction by Jon S. Baird ensures that the film never loses its edge. It captures a sense of urban decay and psychological rot that feels heavy, almost suffocating. There is an unapologetic grit here, a refusal to sanitize the ugliness of addiction, corruption, and mental collapse. It doesn't ask for your sympathy; it demands your attention through sheer, unfiltered force. While some might find the tonal shifts jarring, I would argue they are essential. The film moves between dark comedy and soul-crushing tragedy with a fluidity that mirrors the instability of its protagonist. It is uncomfortable, yes. It is often repulsive. But to dismiss it as mere shock value would be a profound misunderstanding of its depth. *Filth* is a jagged, brilliant exploration of a man losing his grip on everything, delivered with a cynical wit that lingers long after the credits roll. It is a singular experience that refuses to be ignored.
This is a true story, so much so that even the names remain unchanged. It follows the unfortunate fate of Philomena Lee, a woman who spent a significant portion of her youth in a convent for "wayward girls" in Ireland, and her subsequent search for her lost son decades later. Do not let the premise mislead you; this isn't some saccharine melodrama from Hallmark, but rather a meticulous and original film that interrogates one of the greatest scandals involving the Catholic Church in America. Philomena is a simple person—naive, straightforward, and surprisingly willing to forgive the nuns for how they treated her. She finds contentment in modest pleasures, such as simulated hospitality, romance novels, and mindless television, driven by a singular desire to discover what became of her son and whether he is alright. Martin, conversely, is an intellectual disillusioned with religion; he is deeply embittered, cynical, and perhaps even a bit snobbish. His motivation lies in exposing the shameful practices of the Church while simultaneously proving his own worth as a journalist—a reporter who, despite his claims, isn't particularly drawn to "small human stories." While Philomena's screenplay may not be spectacular, it is firmly structured and expertly written, easily holding its own in the race for an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay. The film offers a smooth, fluid journey through various genres, shifting seamlessly from class comedy to a search thriller, and finally into serious drama from one scene to the next. Steve Coogan, acting as both actor and screenwriter, has clearly made a concerted effort to temper the presence of his earlier, largely comedic roles. This does not mean the film lacks humor—there is plenty, ranging from the obvious to the lowbrow and occasionally the offensively sarcastic—but most of those lines are delivered by Martin, a character Coogan essentially wrote for himself. Ultimately, however, the film possesses only one true star: Judy Dench, who also earned an Oscar nomination. We are accustomed to seeing her portray formidable intellectuals or women in positions of absolute authority. She has played Queen Victoria and Elizabeth II, as well as the formidable M in the Bond franchise. The role of Philomena Lee is atypical for Dench, yet she approaches it with precision and respect, avoiding any cheap parody of a kind, simple, and naive older woman. Philomena doesn't stand much of a chance in the Oscar race; it serves primarily to fill the "international quota." Furthermore, it doesn't break new ground in the realm of cinematic art. None of this implies that the film is poor or derivative—quite the opposite. Philomena is one of the finest films of the year, offering a deeply sincere, intelligent narrative and a careful performance. It provides a proper treatment of a massive, uncomfortable, and grave subject. Philomena is a film with conviction; it does not pass judgment lightly, but it presents the naked truth and offers a commentary on it with full legitimacy.
more at: http://film-na-dan.blogspot.com/2014/02/philomena.html
Good grief, you really are a walking encyclopedia of chaos! That sensationalist tone is just classic. I’d say the New York Post has hit rock bottom, but honestly, there are plenty of other tabloids out there that make them look like the Wall Street Journal by comparison.
briskhound2 said:I’m not really going to go overboard with the praise here—I mean, let's be real, he had a few roles that were kind of meh... like *Twister* or *The Getaway*—but hey, we can forgive those since he was just starting out and finding his footing. Even later on, he did *Red Dragon*, which was solid, obviously. He was a top-tier talent, truly... it's just such a shame that it took him passing away for everyone on the forums to actually start talking about him...
I honestly can’t recall him at all. I’ve watched Twister exactly three times—the first, the last, and the only time—and as for The Getaway, all I really remember is Mads' manic energy and that incredibly dull married couple. As for the Hannibal sequels, I simply chose to ignore them.
He remains one of those rare actors who carries an undeniable sense of integrity in both his expression and his tone. Every single role he took on was executed with absolute perfection. Personally, I shall remember his performance in A Late Quartet for the rest of my life.