For the week of February 3rd, Lionsgate Home Entertainment is bringing John Wick to Blu-ray. Here's a case of a movie creating its own hype. Lionsgate's marketing campaign revealed very little of what makes this movie so special; the previews sold it as a typical revenge thriller, with Keanu Reeves' title character a fearsome former assassin who returns to his bloodletting ways after a group of idiot gangsters (personified by Alfie Allen's eminently punchable goon) break into his house, kill his dog, and leave him for dead. Minus the whole puppy-killing angle, this story looked not a million miles removed from the low-rent action programmers that Charles Bronson headlined in the 1980s, and that would have been enough, if not for a funny thing: co-directors Chad Stahelski and David Leitch take this setup more and less seriously than Bronson ever did. In the first ten minutes, they establish Wick's tortured inner life with understated gravity - as melodramatic as the situation could get (Wick is so connected to his beagle puppy because a) it's adorable and b) it taught him how to love again after the death of his wife, natch), they emphasize the silence and Wick's formidable stillness, which Reeves makes palpable. As action stars go, he's always been an expert minimalist, and so he's able to emphasize Wick's pain without resorting to excessive, hammy theatrics. It's surprising how involving this part of the movie is, and I'd be content to watch a low-key drama about Wick's reconnection to the world were it not for how skillfully Stahelski and Leitch handle his Roaring Rampage of Revenge. On a sensory level, the many, many shootings, stabbings, beatings, crashes, and explosions have a balletic grace mostly absent from contemporary actioners. Stahelski and Leitch also worked as stunt choreographers on Steven Soderbergh's beyond-underrated Haywire, and they've borrowed that film's fluid approach to chaos. The action unfolds in long takes where we see the combatants' full figures - DP Jonathan Sela frames the action the same way you might a Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers dance picture - and Reeves' insistence on doing most of his own stunts sells the realism of the violence more than the fireworks of actioners with far bigger budgets. There are two virtuoso setpieces in the movie, one in Wick's house shortly after the initial attack and another in a crowded club, that are instant action classics, and their impact comes from the premium Stahelski and Leitch place on clean movement, staging, and speed. Even better is the casual derangement of these sequences. If the first ten minutes were sober minded, the last ninety play like some insane meld of Jean-Pierre Melville, Luis Buñuel, and Super Mario. It isn't just that Wick's a former gunsels; no, the hired-gun world has its own distinct mythology, from rare gold coins that assassins use for goods and services to a midtown Manhattan hotel that serves as a veritable Rick's Cafe where killers can find respite from one another. There's a whole convoluted hierarchy to the assassin lifestyle that the film only hints at, and Stahelski and Leitch not only allow this madness - they embrace it, surrounding Reeves with a bang-up supporting cast that includes Willem Dafoe, Adrianne Palicki, John Leguizamo, Clarke Peters, Lance Reddick, Thomas Sadoski, David Patrick Kelly, Dean Winters, and Ian McShane, all of whom sketch full internal lives with little screen time and help the film sprawl past the confines of a simple revenge thriller. By the end, we've gotten something we weren't expecting: Keanu Reeves' best genre feature since the original The Matrix, and the best pure action movie of 2014. Highly recommended.
In his Blu-ray review, Jeffrey Kauffman wrote that "the fight choreography in John Wick is truly breathtaking, albeit agonizing in the extreme in several sequences. There are a number of rather graphic 'kill shots' (typically to the head) and of course the requisite amount of bone crunching and other injuries. Reeves moves through the film like a slightly possessed automaton, and the film is actually better when he's not trying to emote, as in that earlier crying scene. While there are some whimsical touches here, like the luxe hotel where assassins can relax, knowing no 'business' can be attended to on the premises, John Wick is a rather simple revenge story told without many frills or really that much fuss. The character of Wick has just enough 'reality' to ground the film, but ultimately this is an outing built out of fight scenes, interrupted occasionally for some supposed narrative elements. The good news is that the film, like John Wick himself, kicks serious butt when it's not moping about a little thing like a dead wife or dog."
From Warner Home Entertainment comes a host of long-awaited catalog releases that includes Diner, Love & Basketball, and About Schmidt. Of the three, Diner is the stone classic. The directorial debut of Barry Levinson, the film follows the lives of a group of best friends (Daniel Stern, Steve Guttenberg, Mickey Rourke, Kevin Bacon, Tim Daly, and an impossibly young Paul Reiser) in and around Baltimore, circa 1959. Little in the way of plot happens - Levinson's work recalls the intentionally aimless style of Fellini's I Vitelloni or Martin Scorsese's Mean Streets - but that's not a problem, considering how sharp the performances are and how funny Levinson's dialogue is. He was a famous comedy writer before he got into the movie business, and he's a whiz at establishing character through sharp comic vignettes, be it Guttenberg's insistence that his fiancée pass a football test before they get married, Reiser's hilariously passive-aggressive entreaties for a roast-beef sandwich, or Rourke's ill-advised attempt at flirtation that involves a body part from his nether regions and a tub of popcorn. That said, as funny as Diner is, Levinson allows for a vein of melancholy - his man-child protagonists can't seem to pull their lives together - that would come to full fruition in the other films in his Baltimore Quartet (Tin Men, Avalon, and Liberty Heights) and that, even in the reduced dose here, keeps Diner from becoming a sophomoric lark. 2000's Love & Basketball is definitely the most underappreciated of the three aforementioned titles. New Line marketed it as a sappy drama between two talented basketball players (Sanaa Lathan and Omar Epps) whose professional rivalry ends up sparking serious romantic fireworks, but the actual film is far wiser and more interesting than that setup. Writer-director Gina Prince-Bythewood (who just made the similarly destined-to-be-underrated Beyond the Lights) is as canny a handler of melodrama as Douglas Sirk, and she allows for romance between her two leads while never ignoring serious racial or gender issues. One wishes "fluff" could be as substantial as Love & Basketball is. However, it can't hold a candle in the substance department to About Schmidt, which is another one of Alexander Payne's wryly comic exercises in Heartland Miserablism. Payne's hero is Warren Schmidt (Jack Nicholson), a just-retired insurance salesman who attempts to reconnect with...something after the sudden death of his wife; eventually, Warren fixates on bonding with his estranged daughter (Hope Davis) even as he decides the best way to do so might be to sabotage her wedding to a beyond-stupid waterbed salesman (Dermot Mulroney). In many ways, this is a problematic movie: Payne creates such an oppressive air of existential crisis for Warren, yet he chooses to leaven it with stereotypes (Warren ends up sponsoring a starving Tanzanian child and uses his letters to the unseen lad as a conduit for all his frustrations; Mulroney has an aging hippie mom - Kathy Bates, natch - with a penchant for skinny-dipping and trying to seduce Warren) that, while amusing, feel like they've stumbled in from another movie. Nevertheless, About Schmidt manages a fairly bracing cumulative effect, thanks to the presence of Nicholson, who gives one of his best performances as a thoroughly unremarkable man trying - and failing - to lash out at a cruel and indifferent world.
Michael Reuben wrote that "Levinson came from a background in sketch comedy, writing for The Carol Burnett Show, then working with Mel Brooks on Silent Movie and High Anxiety (in which he memorably appeared as a crazed bellboy). Many of the scenes in Diner reflect a comic's skill at turning a phrase, but Levinson always resists the temptation to write punchlines. Instead, he skews the scenes toward letting the characters reveal themselves through the familiar rhythms of their routine interactions at a crucial time in their lives. The realization is slowly dawning - on some more than others, but on all of them together - that yes, indeed, their adult lives have really started. All the waiting is over, and for better or worse, this is how life is going to be. No doubt one of the reasons why MGM executives didn't 'get' the film is that Levinson didn't try to make a traditional 'coming of age' story. There are no grand revelations and, with one possible exception, no one's life is changed. No title cards appear at the end telling us where everyone ended up (as in, e.g., American Graffiti). Diner simply draws us completely into this world where friends are still most comfortable with the guys they've always known, and everyone else, including girls, is a little bit suspect. We spend two hours among them and leave feeling that we know them too. That's a neat trick for a first-time director and a cast of unknowns."
Of About Schmidt, Michael Reuben noted that "the first half of About Schmidt is the strongest, as Schmidt reviews his past, marveling (and tripping over) how much the world has changed while he wasn't looking and how much of life has passed him by. The film's tone changes, however, once the scene shifts to Denver for Jeannie's wedding and the crowd thickens with Schmidt's future in-laws, led by Randall's mother, Roberta Hertzel (Kathy Bates). Payne has always had a mean streak, which, in his best films (e.g., Sideways), is tempered by a recognition that even losers deserve compassion. In About Schmidt, though, he treats the Hertzel clan with condescension and contempt, and while they are often very funny, with a standout performance by Kathy Bates (like Nicholson, Oscar-nominated), they are all grotesques...When Schmidt tells his daughter that the Hertzels aren't 'up to snuff,' it's hard to disagree. For once Schmidt seems to be seeing clearly, even if Jeannie doesn't want to hear him. Though Schmidt survives the wedding, and even chokes out a toast at the reception, nothing about the event contributes to his self-discovery...The film's ending is too ambiguous, especially after the parade of horrors surrounding the wedding, to provide any resolution. One possible interpretation (summarized at Wikipedia for those who want to check) is so sentimental that it's hard to square with the satiric tone that runs through the previous two hours (and drowns out everything else in the Denver sequences). A more cynical view would be consistent with Payne's pessimistic take on both Schmidt and those he encounters, but it cuts against Nicholson's subtle portrayal of Schmidt's gradual acceptance of his life. Everyone struggles with regret, and everyone has to accept not only their own mortality but also the life they've lived, with all its limitations. Whether you call it a comedy or a drama, Nicholson understood the story he was telling, and if Payne hadn't gotten so distracted by his mockery of the Hertzels, About Schmidt might have been a great film."
Finally, Walt Disney Home Entertainment is putting out another round of Studio Ghibli animated films; this time, we get HD upgrades of Porco Rosso, Pom Poko, and Tales from Earthsea. Of the three, only Porco Rosso was directed and written by master animator Hayao Miyazaki, and unsurprisingly, it's the best of the Ghibli features streeting on Tuesday. It's also Miyazaki's most underrated picture, thanks to a truly offbeat command of tone. See, most of Miyazaki's ventures fall into one of two camps - his children's fantasies (Kiki's Delivery Service, Ponyo) and his more adult adventure epics (Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Howl's Moving Castle) - but Porco Rosso straddles the line between the two. The premise alone is inherently ridiculous; the title character (brilliantly voiced in the English dub by Michael Keaton) is a flying ace who, as the result of a mysterious curse, has been turned into a pig and vies for the love of a local hotelier (Susan Egan) with dashing-but-arrogant rival flyer Curtis (Cary Elwes). However, the film has a maturity that outstrips anything Miyazaki has ever concocted. And maturity doesn't equal on-screen violence, as it does in Princess Mononoke - Porco Rosso is relatively bloodless, and its aerial duels lack the intensity of his more kid-friendly Castle in the Sky. Rather, it's emotionally mature, with characters that behave like adults even in the midst of magical or melodramatic situations. At the risk of loosing minor spoilers, I'll say that Porco never regains his human form, but then again, the film isn't about his yearning to be human. Rather, it's about his yearning, of the sky, of the community of eccentrics that surrounds him, and the rich vein of regret that lies behind those passions. And he isn't the only one afforded such depth. Even the initially shallow Curtis is a fully realized character, as the things that make him most obnoxious stem from his own neuroses and fears. Happily, these "life lessons" don't feel too grating - Miyazaki is content to let his characters hang out with one another, and to have us learn about them through observing behavior. Much of the time, Porco Rosso feels like Miyazaki's ode to the great Hollywood filmmakers: its lived-in reverence for flying recalls Howard Hawks' great Only Angels Have Wings, while the knockdown, slapstick fight that ends the film owes much of its existence to the famous John Wayne-Victor McLaglan brawl from John Ford's The Quiet Man. Porco Rosso might be the outlier in Miyazaki's oeuvre, but for those viewers willing to give it a chance, it's as satisfying and engaging as his more celebrated projects.
Kenneth Brown commented that "Porco Rosso's story is a small one, but then that's never stopped Hayao Miyazaki, has it? Based on the director's own 1989 watercolor manga, 'Hikōtei Jidai,' the film is a stirring, high-flying adventure in eye-popping minimalism that blends light fantasy with post-WWI history without sacrificing humor, heart or dramatic heft. Porco is more than a cloud-splitting bounty hunter and infamous ace fighter too. He's a disgraced man in search of redemption he doesn't believe he deserves; haunted by a mistake from his past that cursed his appearance and left him swimming in regret. He's a fearless hero for hire, but only because he's so determined to pay penance for his wartime cowardice, a duality that makes him a far more intriguing lead and the film's script a more deceptively nuanced slice of historical fiction. The plot is essentially a long lead-up to a climactic dog fight, but it's the little touches of authenticity, combined with Porco's take-em-or-leave-em stoicism and occasional hot temper, that allows Miyazaki to work his magic (among the film's more compelling elements is Fio, Porco's new mechanic, and an enthusiastic team of crewwomen, through which Miyazaki explores gender issues and challenges of the era). If Porco Rosso falls short it's only in terms of ambition. Its a simple tale told simply, without the sweeping scale, fantastical vistas or epic qualities of more beloved Studio Ghibli productions. Any enjoyment is born in the characters and their relationships, not in the wonder of Miyazaki's world or the diving, rolling and machine-gunning dog fights that fill its skies. There's no real threat of death or sense of finality - in the film's opening scene, a group of young girls giggle, grin and play aboard a bullet-riddled plane, all while being kidnapped by a band of not-so-ruthless air pirates - and the ultimate duel between Porco and Curtis is as airy and harmless as everything that precedes it. But there isn't a need for much more, particularly realism, or even the hope that it will somehow worm its way into the story. Porco Rosso finds Miyazaki in something of a literal flight of fancy; a dream that, twenty-two years later, would give way to a more grounded masterpiece, 2014's The Wind Rises."
Now, while Pom Poko might not be a Miyazaki picture, it has a distinct charm that is, in its own way, as compelling as Porco Rosso, thanks to director Isao Takahata, who is just as important to the feature-animation world as Miyazaki is. The filmmaker behind My Neighbors the Yamadas and this year's Academy Award-nominated The Tale of The Princess Kaguya, Takahata is also responsible for the devastating Grave of the Fireflies, which stands as one of the three or four best animated films ever made and was one of Pom Poko's direct antecedents. At first glance, the two appear to share a director and nothing more. Whereas Grave of the Fireflies is a spare, brutally realistic tragedy about two young siblings trying to survive in WWII-era Japan, Pom Poko concerns itself with a group of tanuki (most accurately translated as "raccoon dogs"), a race of mythical creatures that can transform into anything they want. As the film begins, they are content to exist on the fringes of society, but mankind's encroaching ways force them to go on the offensive. Takahata conjures up some lovely images of the tanuki at work - and play - and long stretches play out like a more mischievous version of Miyazaki's classic My Neighbor Totoro. Yet the fun curdles, slowly but surely, as the tanuki end up resorting to ever more drastic actions in their efforts to preserve their community - in an ironic touch, many of these actions only divide the creatures into rival factions - and by its final moments, Pom Poko reveals itself to be just as political a work as Grave of the Fireflies. For some viewers, the shift into boldface moralizing might undercut what had, up to that point, been an expert fantasy. However, Takahata is just as uncompromising an auteur as Miyazaki, and for him, the message is the medium: repeat viewings reveal that he's done a canny, subtle job of weaving in anti-industrialization messages throughout the entire picture. The end's a bit of emphatic punctuation, and it lingers in the memory of this strange, wonderful film.
Kenneth Brown's Blu-ray review noted that "Pom Poko is about as unhinged as Ghibli comes. It holds fast to the studio's style, humor, heart and family friendly nature, but drifts so far into the untamed realms of anthropomorphism - breaking every rule, knocking on the fourth wall, throwing traditional animated storytelling to the wind, and indulging in zany flights of fancy (even by Ghibli standards) - that it takes Takahata's environmental fable to a whole new level; one that's both wildly inventive and fully aware of its own boldness. Surprises await around every corner, in every scene, and the imagination the filmmakers employ is as wonderfully peculiar as it is weirdly entertaining. More than a spirit of fun, Pom Poko embraces cheerful escapism, with its raccoon dogs often struggling to grasp the enormity of their predicament in the face of distractions as powerful as good food, parties, and all the little things in life. Yet as much as Takahata's raccoon dogs cling to their lighthearted frivolity, the destruction of their homes and culture is terribly sad, and that contrast gives the film its sway over its audience. These may be simple creatures, but their passions, devotion and sense of togetherness represents the best of humanity, and their story resonates."
Finally, we get Tales from Earthsea, which is one of the most controversial films in the Studio Ghibli catalog. A free adaptation of elements and themes from Ursula Le Guin's Earthsea series, the film carried more-than-a-little negative buzz even before its 2006 premiere. Although Hayao Miyazaki had originally planned to direct the film, he passed it along to his son Goro in preparation for what would become Miyazaki's (still continuing) road to retirement, and fans bristled at the decision; that the film ultimately received a pretty savage critical and commercial drubbing seemed less like an unfortunate response and more like the culmination of the collective frustration over Miyazaki ceding control to the (comparatively) less experienced Goro. It helps, then, to watch Tales from Earthsea almost ten years later. Without all that baggage, the film lives - and dies - on its own merits. Some of the character work is great, particularly the good wizard Sparrowhawk (Timothy Dalton) and the immortality-seeking madman Cob (Willem Dafoe), and visually, Goro's work is beautiful, if slightly reminiscent of Howl's Moving Castle. His rendering of Le Guin's Earthsea is a windswept paradise that combines elements from medieval, Roman, and tribal cultures, and it makes for a striking background to set the film's many action-adventure setpieces (some of which have flying dragons). About those: here's a Ghibli case where mature equals violent. Tales from Earthsea might be Ghibli's most brutal work, and I suspect its negative reception partially resulted from audiences who weren't able to reconcile the mix of fantasy thrills and - at times - graphic violence. And that point stands indicative of Tales from Earthsea's biggest problem: it's not Princess Mononoke, and it really wants to be. You can sense Goro and his team striving for that earlier film's near-perfect blend of magic and sober realism, but they get the mix wrong, going so far as to alter major thematic beats from Le Guin's source material in order to accommodate an environmentalist message that's way too similar to Princess Mononoke's, and so the serious themes underwhelm while the violence feels overblown. Tales from Earthsea is still essential for Ghibli fans, but more as a key development step in the career of Goro Miyazaki, who would rebound with his lovely Borrowers adaptation The Secret World of Arrietty.