For the week of May 9th, Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment is bringing the hit action-comedy Deadpool to Blu-ray. Director Tim Miller's long-awaited actioner has become the sleeper hit of 2016, spinning a familiar origin story - a wisecracking mercenary (Ryan Reynolds) receives super powers that turn him into a near-unkillable assassin, and just in time to save his girlfriend (Morena Baccarin) from the power-mad sadist (Ed Skrein) who made Deadpool what he is - into the highest grossing R-rated film of all time. The reason behind Deadpool's success is simple: while it isn't perfect, Deadpool does a great job of taking the piss out of comic-book movies in a way that still feels part of that world. As the title character, Reynolds is less Wolverine than he is Bugs Bunny, cracking wise in the face of certain danger, referencing other comic-book movies with impunity (he even gets a few deserved shots in at Reynolds' other forays into superhero status: I'm surprised - but not upset - that Fox allowed the overt pot shots at Green Lantern and X-Men Origins: Wolverine), and breaking the fourth wall almost as much as he breaks other people's bones (*rim shot*), but he brings enough moviestar charisma (this is probably Reynolds' most successful mainstream blockbuster - you watch Deadpool, and you finally get why Hollywood's been trying to force him on audiences) so that the action scenes still have weight and impact. Furthermore, Deadpool isn't completely cut off from the Fox-Marvel universe - Colossus (Stefan Kapičić and the efforts of many digital performers) plays a bigger role than I was expecting, and his involvement establishes a clear precedent for Deadpool to jump into either of the X-Men or Fantastic 4 franchises (and god, what Fantastic 4 could have been with Reynolds leavening the almost interminably dour proceedings). Now, with all that said, I don't think Deadpool deserves a place among the best comic-book features of all time. Narratively, it's incredibly slight (boiled down, this movie is basically two scenes and a bunch of flashbacks), and the flip attitude grows wearying by the end: engaging as Reynolds is, it becomes a chore wading through all the irony, especially whenever Reynolds shares the screen with Silicon Valley's T.J. Miller. There's a reason Bugs Bunny cartoons are so short, I guess. But on the whole, Deadpool has a freshness that feels unique among comic-book adaptations. You can't blame audiences for gravitating towards this snarky weirdo instead of another pummeling grim-dark farrago (*coughBatman v Superman: Dawn of Justicecough*). Eventually, everyone wants a change.
Jeffrey Kauffman noted that "the humor…tends to keep Deadpool floating right past its genre conventions. There's nothing at all surprising about the overall plot arc of this film, something that may or may not disappoint some fans, but the tone of Deadpool is completely singular and (for certain types, anyway) inescapably hilarious. This is not a superhero flick for the younger kiddies by any stretch, and concerned parents are encouraged to check it out before letting any tots view it. But that very irreverence is what makes Deadpool such a bracing entertainment. Reynolds brings a perfect combination of snark and vulnerability to the role, and the large supporting cast provides ample color and spark to an admittedly somewhat rote storyline. Somewhat amazingly, Deadpool is director Tim Miller's first at bat helming a major feature film (he has a background in shorts, including an Oscar nomination, as well as video games and - wait for it - designing credits sequences). Miller manages the film's set pieces with goofy élan, and even coaxes a surprisingly effective performance out of Reynolds, who (as Deadpool) is forced to emote with a spandex mask covering his face."
From Magnolia and Magnet Pictures comes Synchronicity. Director Jacob Gentry first rose to cult prominence through his work on 2007's scrappy, no-budget apocalypse chiller The Signal (he was in charge of the "Jealousy Monster" sequence), and Synchronicity finds him hopping genres; he's left The Signal's largely horror trappings for a sci-fi romance about a brilliant, driven scientist (Chad McKnight) whose innovations in manipulating the space-time continuum lead him to discover what appears to be time-travel...and also puts him in the crosshairs of an unscrupulous venture capitalist (the great Michael Ironside) and a mysterious femme fatale (Brianne Davis). Low-budget genre filmmakers often gravitate towards time-travel adventures - think of Shane Carruth's Primer and Nacho Vigalondo's Timecrimes - and it makes sense. You don't need millions of dollars to convey the heady perils and contradictions of time-travel. In its broad strokes, Synchronicity often feels like an attempt to marry the cerebral intrigue of Primer with something a little pulpier, except Gentry doesn't quite pull off the mix. He steers Synchronicity into some twisty space-time paradoxes, and like Primer, the rate at which these complications pile up starts to strain the brain. That's where the pulp ends up crippling Synchronicity - it's hard to take the science seriously because all of Gentry's characters talk and behave like they're in bad dimestore novels. McKnight and Ironside fare best, but Davis and A.J. Bowen (as one of McKnight's partners) are awful, although in fairness, Gentry's script reads like it was written in another language and then translated awkwardly into English. That said, there is a silver lining here. For all the picture's narrative, screenplay, and performance flaws, it still announces Gentry as a filmmaker to watch. By all accounts, Synchronicity is a beyond-microbudget feature, but you wouldn't think it to look at the movie. Gentry wrings every cent from the budget and doesn't just get it all on screen - he damn well convinces you that Synchronicity is far more expensive than it actually is. Sure, he gets there by shamelessly aping the look/feel of Blade Runner, but all great artists copy their heroes, and Gentry's lifts show a keen understanding of how Ridley Scott's aesthetic mastery utilizes more than just fancy effects: Gentry creates a sense of scope through anamorphic lenses (big tip of the hat to DP Eric Maddison), a rigorously controlled color palette, and some judiciously employed special effects that gain weight through how Gentry lights and cuts around them. It also doesn't hurt that he has the benefit of Ben Lovett's moody, evocative electronica score, which plays like outtakes from a lost Vangelis or Tangerine Dream soundtrack. The end result makes for a unique experience. It's hard to recommend Synchronicity on the strength of its fundamentals, yet you still end up admiring and respecting the raw potential. With a great script and performers, Gentry might be able to change the world. We'll see.
Michael Reuben wrote that the film "vacillates between time travel mystery and film noir, and the two strands co-exist uneasily, like alternate versions of the same story being told simultaneously. While Gentry's layering of cinematic references doesn't quite add up to a coherent story, he sustains interest with inventive visuals and a creeping sense of paranoia that only grows as the film gradually reveals its secrets. Synchronicity was obviously designed for multiple viewings, but even a viewer who has meticulously cataloged Gentry's overlapping realities and replays of the same scene from alternate perspectives may find the film's ending a puzzlement."
Warner Archive is giving Vincente Minnelli's classic Father of the Bride a new Blu-ray edition. Minnelli is one of the great innovators from Hollywood's Golden Age, with his dynamic and fluid approach to staging and camerawork galvanizing such features as Meet Me In St. Louis, The Bad and the Beautiful, and The Band Wagon (seriously - watch Minnelli at his best, and you see where Martin Scorsese got so many of his best tricks). However, he's probably best known for this comparatively small-scale venture, a wry comedy about a beleaguered father (the great Spencer Tracy) trying to wrap his head around all the emotional and financial concerns that arise when his daughter (a very young Elizabeth Taylor) announces that she's getting married. This is hardly the stuff of high drama, and Minnelli certainly tamps down his customary virtuosity. But what makes the film unique is the genuine, lived-in warmth it affords all its characters. Unlike Father of the Bride's many imitators - including Charles Shyer and Nancy Meyers's 1991 remake and its 1995 sequel, Minnelli and his screenwriters Frances Goodrich, Albert Hackett, and Edward Streeter know that the whole process behind a complicated wedding is fodder enough for rich comedy, so they don't overdose on excess slapstick or needlessly "quirky" characters (I love Martin Short, but he does grate on the nerves in the Shyer-Meyers Father of the Brides). The closest we get to too labored is a dream sequence that Tracy has, and while it does briefly push the film into a more stylized realm, it also stands to make visceral all the anxieties that Tracy is feeling about his daughter's impending nuptials. What we're left with is the best kind of family film: one that's honest and telling about human relationships, that mines its humor from universal, gentle absurdities. In fairness, even Minnelli wasn't above selling out a little - how else do we explain the existence of his own (inferior) sequel Father's Little Dividend? That said, we'll always have the wonderful original.
Michael Reuben's Blu-ray review noted that "Minnelli stages intimate domestic scenes that would become much-imitated templates for the classic TV family comedies of the Fifties: gentle disagreements between husband and wife, tender but emotionally fraught encounters between father and daughter, sarcastic comments from the sons circulating around the fringes of the wedding maelstrom and, of course, the obligatory awkward first encounter with the future in-laws (Don Taylor and Billie Burke). But Father of the Bride's best scenes are those where Minnelli orchestrates crowd choreography so elaborate that even a static frame seems to vibrate with activity. An early example is the engagement party, where Stanley becomes trapped in his own kitchen mixing drinks for an endless parade of guests (and never even gets to make his speech). On the morning of the wedding, the house is invaded by Mr. Missoula's army of minions, colliding and arguing with the movers clearing the house of furniture so that it can accommodate the enormous guest list. Then there's the reception itself, which Minnelli covers in a fluid, unbroken overhead shot surveying the entirety of the Banks property, all of it overrun by partygoers. The external chaos mirrors Stanley's inner state, which doesn't begin to settle until everyone has gone and he's sitting exhausted in the aftermath, at which point the film returns to its beginning."
Finally, the Criterion Collection is giving a Blu-ray release to one of the greatest of all film noirs: Nicholas Ray's 1950 masterpiece In a Lonely Place. Like Billy Wilder's far more popular Sunset Boulevard, In a Lonely Place sees Ray turning on the Hollywood system with his story of screenwriter Dixon "Dix" Steele (Humphrey Bogart, in one of his greatest roles), whose anger and instability make him the number-one suspect in a series of murders and threaten to drive him away from Gloria Grahame's Laurel Gray, a young woman who, against all odds, insists on seeing the good in Dix. There's a little bit of, say, Suspicion here, too (even though In a Lonely Place is so much better), as Laurel struggles to believe in Dix as all the evidence begins to point towards his guilt. Still, calling In a Lonely Place just a "film noir" feels a little restrictive - for all its criminality and intimations of violence, the film yields deeper, more profound insights about nothing less than the human condition. Ray's riskiest, most satisfying gambit is the way he slowly phases out all traditional noir trappings until we focus exclusively on Dix and Laurel. Theirs is an ideal, passionate love, one that reinvigorates both parties...until it doesn't, just as soon as self-doubt and jealousy and resentment begin to poison the two against one another. Word has it that originally, the film was supposed to end on a far more overtly violent note (without divulging too many spoilers, the original ending would have ironically validated the serial-killer plot), but Ray restructured the narrative so that the lingering brutality follows Dix and Laurel's emotional break. This change feels like the thematic evolution Ray was moving towards after his other great noir romance They Live by Night (although They Live by Night traffics more freely in noir stereotypes), but in a way, what Ray has done here reminds me more of Blue Valentine than of The Big Sleep. Like that Ryan Gosling/Michelle Williams drama, In a Lonely Place is infinitely wise about relationships, especially the way bliss and anguish exist with a razor's edge separating them. But that was Nicholas Ray for you: only he could turn a teen melodrama into a surreal-comic distortion of 1950s stereotypes (Rebel Without a Cause) or cast a simple addiction story in the same gravely Biblical terms as the story of Abraham (Bigger Than Life). A masterful, wrenching piece of work.
In his Blu-ray review, Svet Atanasov wrote that "the script for this classic film from the great American director Nicholas Ray is really quite brilliant. The first act creates the impression that the film will follow closely a complicated murder case in which Dix's role will be crucial. As various bits of information begin to emerge the film essentially forces one in a guessing a mode, looking for signs that would help one reconstruct the events leading up to the murder before the detectives do so. The second act, however, shifts the story in a completely different direction. There is still a great deal of uncertainty as to whether Dix is indeed a man whose words can be trusted, but now the focus of attention is on his relationship with Laurel. As they become closer and begin making plans for the future, the murder case is slowly pushed aside. The third and final act brings a logical resolution, but it seems like the big puzzle and the exact manner in which its pieces are arranged are largely irrelevant. Now the film is a lot more interested in the reality in which its characters exist and the effect it has on their lives. The film is indescribably elegant but also incredibly bleak and dark. It has two very different protagonists whose romance looks right from afar, but impossible to tolerate once their true personalities are revealed...This sense of ambiguity enhanced with a solid dose of cynicism that emerges early on and does not disappear before the final sequence is what makes the film simply fascinating to behold. It is Ray's subtle but very effective rejection of the largely oversanitized and positive characterizations Hollywood promoted in its films during the postwar era."