For the week of August 4th, Warner is bringing the action-comedy Innerspace to Blu-ray. The film comes smack dab in the middle of director Joe Dante's phenomenal filmmaking run, which ran from 1981's The Howling to 1993's Matinee, and while Dante's best work outside of Gremlins is perpetually underrated (when, oh when, will The 'Burbs receive the critical reevaluation it so desperately deserves?), Innerspace deserves special recognition. It's a film that home media saved; critics and audiences largely ignored it during its theatrical run in 1987, and that should have been that, except people kept discovering it on VHS, to the point that Innerspace now has as robust a cult following as Gremlins or its even more gonzo sequel. And like those features, Innerspace traffics in some high-speed genre mashing. Dennis Quaid stars as Tuck Pendleton, a hotshot Air Force pilot who volunteers for a cutting-edge miniaturization project, but after a deliberate act of corporate espionage jeopardizes the project, Tuck finds himself doing his best Incredible Shrinking Man impression while on the run…inside the body of terrified hypochondriac Jack Putter (Martin Short). That's right, Virginia: Innerspace is a buddy-comedy where one of the buddies is literally inside the other buddy. This kind of high-concept noise shouldn't work at all, but Dante works wonders with such a ridiculous premise. Anyone familiar with his Mad Magazine sensibilities will find a lot to love here. As with all his films, Innerspace contains so many in-jokes and references to schlock and/or cult entertainment, including the presence of '50s sci-fi stalwarts like Bill Schallert, Kevin McCarthy, and Kenneth Tobey; visual nods to Looney Tunes and the New York Dolls; and cameos from Short's SCTV buddies Andrea Martin and Joe Flaherty (and yes, Dante's good-luck charm Dick Miller does make an appearance as well). However, as with Gremlins, these asides have more impact because the film surrounding them is so engaging. Dante might be subtly subverting buddy-comedy tropes, yet his puckish instincts don't get in the way of what might be his most polished studio picture, one filled with great use of San Francisco locations and some great action sequences – ILM's Oscar-winning miniaturization effects still hold up (Tuck's trip through Jack's bloodstream and his third-act battle against Vernon Wells' miniaturized psychopath are marvels of practical FX). That said, his biggest innovation was pairing (literally) Quaid and Short. They help elevate Innerspace to, as Dante has described it, a Martin and Lewis movie, albeit one where a tiny Dean Martin flies around inside Jerry Lewis' body (so, think a Martin and Lewis version of Fantastic Voyage). Quaid is all Right Stuff swagger and bravado, drinking and joking and needling Jack into unraveling this whole miniaturization conspiracy, and considering he spends most of the movie in medium insert shots, the decision to go big is a smart one. We need Tuck to feel like an equal partner in this relationship even though he's barely bigger than an atom, and Quaid's vibrant work achieves that goal. Plus, he's got to compete for laughs with Short, who definitely has the showier part, if only because he's not restricted for 85% of the shoot to a soundstage in Burbank. His Jack Putter is a mess of neuroses and phobias, both of which allow Short to indulge in his antic gifts for pratfalls (the scene where Jack first goes to the doctor after Tuck's "entrance" is a marvel of physical comedy), but whereas the Jerry Lewis version of this character would only be slapstick and funny voices, Short's less guarded, more emotionally open persona lets in real tenderness. We buy Jack's slow evolution into an action hero because Short conveys equal wonder and disbelief at overcoming his body's limitations, and this almost sheepish confidence sells the hell out of a most potentially galling subplot that finds Jack falling for Tuck's ex-girlfriend (Meg Ryan). Normally, we'd roll our eyes, but Short is so winsome we can't help but root for him as both unlikely hero and paramour. It's his finest big-screen performance, and it anchors Dante's finest, more accessible feature.
In his Blu-ray review, Michael Reuben wrote that the film "mixes elements from romantic comedy, sci-fi, espionage, and buddy movies, and Dante hops among them so nimbly that the blend is seamless...For the duration of their adventures, Tuck and Jack never share the screen, but Dennis Quaid and Martin Short create such a credible, if unlikely, relationship that their cooperation feels like the real thing - so real, in fact, that there's a nascent romantic triangle with Meg Ryan's Lydia. Joe Dante insisted on having Quaid and Short present for each other's scenes, so that the two could engage in a genuine dialogue, and the result is a spontaneity and mutual inspiration that can't be manufactured in the editing room. Quaid makes the most of the limited maneuvering room he has while strapped into a pilot's chair, but Short performs wildly physical moves in every possible direction, whether Jack is dancing to 'Twisting the Night Away,' straddling a freezer truck and a sports car during a high-speed chase or hyperventilating in his doctor's office. Meanwhile, ILM shows us Jack's heart, lungs, optic nerve, esophagus, and stomach from Tuck's point of view, in just enough detail to be realistic without being (as effects wizard Dennis Muren says) too disgusting."
From Fox Home Entertainment comes Thomas Vinterberg's new version of Far from the Madding Crowd. The film is Vinterberg's second completely English-language feature (he's better known for his work on the intense Danish dramas The Celebration and The Hunt), and it would first seem that his Dogme-esque intensity is ill-fitted to such an old standard. As written by Thomas Hardy, the source material is classic melodrama, the story of Bathsheba (Carey Mulligan), an independent young woman torn between her feelings for wealthy landowner Boldwood (Michael Sheen), haughty Sergeant Troy (Tom Sturridge), and earthy farmer Oak (Matthias Schoenaerts). However, Vinterberg galvanizes this content, both through his robust aesthetic (DP Charlotte Bruus Christensen's widescreen cinematography has captured some of the year's most indelible images) and through his acceptance of the book's emotional terrain. What made Hardy's original novel so quietly revolutionary at the time of its publication (1874) was the frankness with which Hardy gave the feminine psyche. He used Bathsheba's three suitors to reveal her libidinal complexities and emotional yearnings, how she found something attractive in all three men while still acknowledging their perceived faults and frailties (Oak is decent but common; Boldwood is supportive but needy; and Troy is sexually alluring but morally repugnant). That profound ambivalence was the strongest element of John Schlesinger's 1967 adaptation, and it touches the best moments of the Vinterberg iteration. There are few actors - male or female - who make the act of emotional uncertainty as visceral as Carey Mulligan does, and we can see her conflicting feelings as she wrestles with the attentions of Sheen and Sturridge's characters, both of whom give committed, vanity-free performances (Sheen, in particular, is heartbreakingly good as a man who knows that his wealth and influence can't overcome his social awkwardness and relative old age). The problem, however, lies with Schoenaerts, in one of the most curious examples of miscasting that I've ever seen. It isn't that he's bad as Oak - far from it. You can't take your eyes off him whenever he's on-screen: Schoenaerts has the charisma and raw sensuality of a Marlon Brando (think On the Waterfront, not The Island of Dr. Moreau) or James Dean...and that's exactly the problem. Hardy wrote a decent but average man (and Alan Bates embodied these qualities perfectly in the 1967 version), and he needs to be that way so that Oak won't seem any more attractive than the other two men. In casting Schoenaerts, Vinterberg undermines Bathsheba's emotional struggle because Oak is now the complete package - loyal and respectful and physically attractive - so much so that you never buy Bathsheba's reticence to commit to him over, say, Troy's preening rake. It's a creative decision that wholly undermines the text, yet Schoenaerts is so engaging and magnetic that you completely understand why Vinterberg went with him. What this new Oak does to the film logically almost pales in comparison to the movie-star intensity he brings with him. He turns Far from the Madding Crowd into a prototypical The Notebook, and if that kind of audience wish-fulfillment is what it takes to get people reading Hardy again (outside of high-school English classes, that is), then so be it. Sacrifices must be made.
Jeffrey Kauffman wrote that "with the 1967 John Schlesinger film version of Far from the Madding Crowd having been relatively released on both a domestic and a British Blu-ray, memories (if faint to begin with) have no doubt been refreshed as to the sylvan splendors if fairly turgid pace of the Julie Christie outing (there has been a fair amount of debate about which of these transfers is preferable, something else that may have increased general interest in the 1967 version). This newest reboot speeds things along quite smartly most of the time, even if certain elements are elided in the process. What's so surprising about this version is how easily it at least matches and perhaps even occasionally erases the memory of the earlier film. Mulligan is simply incredible as Bathsheba, detailing not just the character's steely spine, but her intermittent surprise that she is actually pulling off a business enterprise by herself. The supporting cast is generally excellent, with the three suitors each making an undeniable impression. The film is often unbelievably scenic, with the rolling hills and manicured hedgerows of rural Britain becoming another character."
Lionsgate is releasing Insurgent, the sequel to last year's YA hit Divergent, and if there's a more frustrating, high-profile, teen action-fantasy out there, I'd be very surprised. The problem with the Divergent series, as it were, is something that can only be best expressed as post-Hunger Games malaise. To wit: Suzanne Collins' popular YA novels (and the equally successful Jennifer Lawrence-starring films that followed) made such an impact that you can't blame the mainstream literary and cinematic communities for wanting to capitalize on the raw elements that have helped endear the Hunger Games to the public. It's that instinct that begot both Divergent tales as well as the Maze Runner chronicles; just take a charismatic young star (The Descendants' Shailene Woodley steps in for Divergent), put him/her in a situation fraught with teen-on-teen peril, add a healthy dollop of political commentary, and then watch the millions come rolling in. A solid plan, sure, but in Divergent's case, the source material (care of author Veronica Roth) is so inscrutable that I struggled to connect to the material. The Hunger Games is so clean - it's a 99%-vs-1% metaphor bonded to The Most Dangerous Game - but after Divergent, all I could tell you is that a bunch of upcoming young stars (besides Woodley, these films feature Theo James, Ansel Elgort, Jai Courtney, and Miles Teller, who seems openly contemptuous of both films) are caught in a post-apocalyptic future where people get segregated into five personality-based classes, and those classes are important for some reason, except that Woodley's character doesn't fit into any of them (or fits into all of them), and that makes Kate Winslet's Big Bad upset, or something. Narratively and thematically, it's all over the place, and Insurgent is even worse, with Woodley on the run from Winslet until accepting her destiny and facing all of her selves in the virtual arena that is The Box, and...you know what? Just rewatch The Empire Strikes Back. That 1980 masterpiece had Luke Skywalker face the same tests with more economy and grace. Insurgent is just incoherent fluff that has no visual snap or intrigue - with Neil Burger (director of The Illusionist and the silly-but-underrated Limitless) gone this time around, we're left with RED and R.I.P.D. helmer Robert Schwentke, and as anyone who's seen those two misfires can attest, Schwentke has neither the craft nor the intensity to boost this drivel to at least pleasingly preposterous levels. Some cursory research reveals that Roth has one more novel in the Divergent series awaiting a big-screen adaptation (the aptly titled Allegiant), and of course Lionsgate is splitting it into two movies, so I guess we've got to gird ourselves for that...
Jeffrey Kauffman had a more favorable impression of the film, noting that it "has a couple of standout set pieces, but it can't help but feel overly manipulative at times, especially as it attempts to wreak as much havoc in Tris' emotional life as possible. The film also has a tendency to lapse into completely predictable clichés at several given moments, including a ludicrous (if blessedly short) 'death' of a major character that (of course) turns out to not be entirely as it seems (are you sensing a pattern here?). While never offering anything remotely approaching a real surprise, Insurgent is at least buoyed by some quite effective performances. Woodley is forced to cope with some overly florid scenes in this installment, but still manages to make Tris a believably spunky if troubled heroine. Winslet is a lot of fun as the harridan and scheming Jeanine, all placid and calm exterior masking a very febrile interior life. Naomi Watts also is well modulated as a new character with a special relationship to an existing major character, and who becomes something of a fulcrum upon which some of the revolutionary fervor of the Dauntless and factionless brigades hinges."
Finally, the Criterion Collection is offering an HD upgrade of the 1950 film noir Night and the City. At the time, the picture earned greater notoriety for its behind the scenes travails; Night and the City marked the unintentional swan song of Dassin's American filmmaking career, as his troubles with the HUAC left him blacklisted during the film's production and persona non grata in the Hollywood community. This Kafkaesque nightmare would be bad enough on its own, but Dassin also had to suffer the indignity of not being able to finesse Night and the City during post-production - the film's British and American distributors each edited their own region-specific version, a recipe for artistic butchery if I've ever seen one. Had Night and the City turned out barely watchable, it would have been a small miracle, yet somehow, the finished film in either of its iterations is pretty much a masterpiece. Credit must go to Dassin, who used the picture as a refinement of the cynicism that popped up in the noir features he made in the 1940s (Brute Force, Thieves' Highway, The Naked City). The title is perfectly apt: in the world of con man Harry Fabian (Richard Widmark), there is nothing else but urban rot (in this case, London in the 1940s) surrounded by bottomless darkness. Fabian has, in his mind, a guaranteed no-fail scheme - he's going to "manage" an aging wrestler (Stanislaus Zbyszko) as an means of horning in on the licensing operations of the wrestler's fearsome gangster son (Herbert Lom) - but everyone knows better, and Dassin watches Fabian doom himself with a kind of heightened fatalism. Especially in the American cut, oddly enough - the current stereotype is that studio meddling leads only to softer edges, but producer Darryl F. Zanuck's editorial decisions turn Fabian into a viscerally unsettling sociopath, an inveterate opportunist looking to scam any and all connected to him, be it his soul-sick girlfriend (Gene Tierney) or Zbyszko's physically powerful-but-ethically naive sap. Everyone lauds Widmark's giggling psychotic from Kiss of Death as his best performance, but he brings something even more chilling to Fabian's desperation. In place of that earlier character's killer instinct is a raw, naked selfishness that manages to keep us invested in Fabian's actions even though they're good for absolutely no one. With Dassin's reputation now fully mended (if you haven't seen Rififi yet, please rectify that oversight with a quickness), this thriller now stands on its own bleak, uncompromising merits - it's as pure an example of the noir genre as Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity or Jacques Tourneur's Out of the Past.
Svet Atanasov called the film "one of the most cynical noir films ever made. There literally isn't a single character in it that one can side with and hope that at the end it will emerge victorious. Almost immediately after the opening credits roll, it becomes painfully obvious that they are either shady players ready to hurt anyone, even those that truly love them, or naïve souls who have chosen to suffer even though they could easily walk away from the misery that is plaguing their lives. Widmark is unquestionably the heart and soul of the film. When he appears in front of the camera, one can immediately feel that he is a desperate man who is running out of time. So the mistakes he makes aren't difficult to understand, what surprises is the fact that no one around him actually cares to help him out. Even his girlfriend, who sees him stealing her money and realizes that his lies will destroy him, effectively abandons him. The men and women around Widmark's character are also left to hang themselves. Initially they appear strong and level-headed, but a series of events expose their weaknesses and many get exactly what they deserve. Those who survive are left to ponder the consequences of their actions and suffer for the rest of their lives."