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Seventeen years ago, Harrison Ford grumbled four simple words that defined a genre, a demographic, and a country: "Get off my plane." In a pre-9/11 world, there was no shortage of jingoistic glee in a movie like Air Force One, in which a man's man American president doled out justice to a militia of Russian loyalist terrorists who made the silly mistake of attempting to hijack his flight home from Moscow. In 2014, we don't have the luxury of facing a plotline like this with reckless merriment. There's a damp gravity to the premise behind movies like Non-Stop, which in another time would have been nothing more than Taken on a Plane. But rigidly conscious of the connotations that attach to a story about a hijacking of a civilian international flight into John F. Kennedy Airport in New York City, Non-Stop doesn't play too fast and loose. It still plays, and has some good fun doing so, but carefully.
From the getgo, we're anchored into the grim narrative of Liam Neeson's U.S. Air Marshall Bill Marks, who settles his demons with a healthy spoonful of whiskey. A dutiful officer even when liquored up, Marks eyeballs every nameless face in London's Heathrow Airport, silently introducing the bevvy of characters who'll come into play later on. After takeoff, Marks finds himself on the unwitting prowl for the anonymous party who's attempting to take down the red-eye through a series of manipulative text messages, well-timed threats, and clandestine killings. Chatty passenger Julianne Moore and flight attendant Michelle Dockery join Marks in his efforts to identify the mysterious criminal before the entire aircraft falls to his or her whims. So less Taken, more Murder, She Wrote.
Our roundup of suspects challenges our (and their) preconceived notions, and quite laughably — most vocal among Neeson's fellow passengers are a white beta-male school teacher (Scoot McNairy), a black computer engineer with an attitude of entitlement (Nate Parker), a softspoken Middle Eastern surgeon whose headwear gets more than a few focal shots (Omar Metwally), a middle-aged white businessman whose latest account landed him more than your house is worth (Frank Deal), an irate black youngster draped in irreverence (Corey Hawkins), and a white, bald, machismo-howling New York cop who secretly accepts his gay brother (Corey Stoll). Just a few talking heads short of Do the Right Thing, Non-Stop manages to goof on each man's (notice that they're all men — Moore, Dockery, and a barely-in-the-movie Lupita Nyong’o are kept shy of the action for most of the film) distaste for and distrust of one another as they each try to sidle up to, or undermine the harried Marks.
Non-Stop plays an interesting game with its characters and its audience, simultaneously painting the ignorance of its characters with a thick coat of comedy while pointing its finger straight out at us with accusations that we, too, thought it was whoever we just learned it wasn't, and for all the wrong reasons. "Shame on you!" Non-Stop chides, adding, "But let's keep going, this is fun!"
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It is fun — that's the miraculous thing. Without any "Get off my plane"s or "Yippee ki yay"s, Non-Stop keeps its action genre silliness in check (okay, there is a moment involving an airborne gun that'll institute some serious laugh-cheers), investing all of its good time in the game of claustrophobic Clue that we can't help but enjoy. It sacrifices some of its charm in a heavy-handed third act, tipping to one side of what was a pretty impressive balancing act up until that point. But its falter is not one that drags down the movie entirely. Fun and excitement are restored, sincerity is maintained, and even a few moments of sensitivity creep their way through. We might not live in a world of President Harrison Fords any longer, but Air Marshall Liam Neesons could actually be a step up.
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Spike Jonze doesn't waste any time introducing us to the technology at the center of Her. "An operating system that can mimic human sentience?" a dangerously lonely Joaquin Phoenix wonders after catching glimpse of an ad in a transit station. "Don't mind if I do!" (He doesn't actually say that, don't worry.) But by the time we're meant to believe that such a world can seamlessly integrate characters like Scarlett Johansson's automated voice Samantha into the lives of living, breathing men and women like Phoenix's Theodore, we're already established residents of this arresting, icy, quivering world the filmmaker has built. We meet Theodore midway through his recitation of a "handwritten letter" he penned on behalf of a woman to her husband of many years. That's his job — tapping into his own unique sensititivies to play ghostwriter for people hoping to adorn their spouses, boyfriends, girlfriends, parents, and children with personal notes of personal affection. Theodore is no independent contractor; he's part of a thriving company, and we almost get the feeling that the folks on the receiving end of these letters are in the know. Before we ever encounter Samantha, we're embedded in the central conceit of the movie: emotional surrogacy is an industry on the rise.
What makes Jonze's world so palatable is that, beneath its marvelously eerie aesthetic, this idea is barely science-fiction. Theodore, humbled and scarred by a recent divorce from lifelong love Catherine (Rooney Mara, who contrasts Johansson by giving a performance that, for a large sum of the movie, is all body and no voice), accesses the will to go on through interractions with video game characters and phone-sex hotlines. But the ante is upped with Samantha, the self-named operating system that Theodore purchases to stave off loneliness, deeming choice a far less contorting one than spending time with old pals like Amy (Amy Adams)... at first.
Samantha evolves rather quickly from an articulate Siri into a curious companion, who is fed and engaged by Theodore just as much as she feeds and engages him. Jonze paces his construction of what, exactly, Samantha is so carefully that we won't even catch the individual steps in her change — along with Theodore, we slowly grow more and more enamored and mystified by his computer/assistant/friend/lover before we can recognize that we're dealing with a different being altogether from the one we met at that inceptive self-aware "H-hello?" But Jonze lays tremendous groundwork to let us know this story is all for something: all the while, as the attractions build and the hearts beat faster for Samantha, we foster an unmistakable sense of doom. We can't help but dread the very same perils that instituted one infamous admission: "I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that."
But Jonze's sci-fi constructs are so cohesively intertwined with his love story that our dread doesn't exactly translate to an anticipation of HAL's hostile takeover. Her wedges us so tightly between Theodore and Samantha that our fears of the inevitable clash between man and machine apprehend a smaller, more intimate ruin. As Samantha's growth become more surprising and challenging to Theodore, to herself, and to us, the omens build for each.
And although all three parties know better, we cannot help but affix ourselves to the chemistry between Theodore and Samantha, and to the possibility that we're building toward something supreme. A good faction of this is due to the unbelievable performances of Phoenix — representing the cautious excitement that we all know so painfully well — and Johansson, who twists her disembodied voice so empathetically that we find ourselves, like Theodore, forgetting that we have yet to actually meet her. The one castigation that we can attach to the casting of Johansson is that such a recognizable face will, inevitably, work its way into our heads when we're listening to her performance. It almost feels like a cheat, although we can guarantee that a performance this good would render a figure just as vivid even if delivered by an unknown.
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In this way, Her is as effective a comment on the healthiest human relationships as it is on those that rope in third parties — be they of the living, automated, or greeting card variety. In fact, the movie has so many things to say that it occasionally steps on its own feet, opening up ideas so grand (and coloring them so brightly) that it sometimes has trouble capping them coherently. Admittedly, if Spike Jonze had an answer to some of the questions he's asking here, he'd probably be suspected of himself being a super-intelligent computer. But in telling the story of a man struggling to understand what it means to be in love, to an operating system or not, Jonze invites us to dissect all of the manic and trying and wonderful and terrifying and incomprehensible elements therein. Just like Samantha, Her doesn't always know what to do with all of its brilliance. But that might be part of why we're so crazy over the both of them.
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When we last left our heroes, they had conquered all opponents in the 74th Annual Hunger Games, returned home to their newly refurbished living quarters in District 12, and fallen haplessly to the cannibalism of PTSD. And now we're back! Hitching our wagons once again to laconic Katniss Everdeen and her sweet-natured, just-for-the-camera boyfriend Peeta Mellark as they gear up for a second go at the Capitol's killing fields.
But hold your horses — there's a good hour and a half before we step back into the arena. However, the time spent with Katniss and Peeta before the announcement that they'll be competing again for the ceremonial Quarter Quell does not drag. In fact, it's got some of the film franchise's most interesting commentary about celebrity, reality television, and the media so far, well outweighing the merit of The Hunger Games' satire on the subject matter by having Katniss struggle with her responsibilities as Panem's idol. Does she abide by the command of status quo, delighting in the public's applause for her and keeping them complacently saturated with her smiles and curtsies? Or does Katniss hold three fingers high in opposition to the machine into which she has been thrown? It's a quarrel that the real Jennifer Lawrence would handle with a castigation of the media and a joke about sandwiches, or something... but her stakes are, admittedly, much lower. Harvey Weinstein isn't threatening to kill her secret boyfriend.
Through this chapter, Katniss also grapples with a more personal warfare: her devotion to Gale (despite her inability to commit to the idea of love) and her family, her complicated, moralistic affection for Peeta, her remorse over losing Rue, and her agonizing desire to flee the eye of the public and the Capitol. Oftentimes, Katniss' depression and guilty conscience transcends the bounds of sappy. Her soap opera scenes with a soot-covered Gale really push the limits, saved if only by the undeniable grace and charisma of star Lawrence at every step along the way of this film. So it's sappy, but never too sappy.
In fact, Catching Fire is a masterpiece of pushing limits as far as they'll extend before the point of diminishing returns. Director Francis Lawrence maintains an ambiance that lends to emotional investment but never imposes too much realism as to drip into territories of grit. All of Catching Fire lives in a dreamlike state, a stark contrast to Hunger Games' guttural, grimacing quality that robbed it of the life force Suzanne Collins pumped into her first novel.
Once we get to the thunderdome, our engines are effectively revved for the "fun part." Katniss, Peeta, and their array of allies and enemies traverse a nightmare course that seems perfectly suited for a videogame spin-off. At this point, we've spent just enough time with the secondary characters to grow a bit fond of them — deliberately obnoxious Finnick, jarringly provocative Johanna, offbeat geeks Beedee and Wiress — but not quite enough to dissolve the mystery surrounding any of them or their true intentions (which become more and more enigmatic as the film progresses). We only need adhere to Katniss and Peeta once tossed in the pit of doom that is the 75th Hunger Games arena, but finding real characters in the other tributes makes for a far more fun round of extreme manhunt.
But Catching Fire doesn't vie for anything particularly grand. It entertains and engages, having fun with and anchoring weight to its characters and circumstances, but stays within the expected confines of what a Hunger Games movie can be. It's a good one, but without shooting for succinctly interesting or surprising work with Katniss and her relationships or taking a stab at anything but the obvious in terms of sending up the militant tyrannical autocracy, it never even closes in on the possibility of being a great one.
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This article contains major spoilers for Les Misérables.
If you're like me and grew up listening to and watching Les Misérables, you're likely bringing a lot baggage to this week's movie adaptation. Shedding expectations is key to watching something you treasure evolve into new media, and it's the same with the time-honored musical. Legend or not, to work as a movie, it had to be tinkered with, had to be pushed and challenged more than in any of its theatrical stagings.
So how did it fare? Prepare to geek out beat by beat to Les Misérables.
2012 will go down as a year of cinematic innovation, starting with Peter Jackson's divisive "48 frames per second" filming technique, used to make the fantasy worlds of The Hobbit more realistic. Tom Hooper attempted the same feat in Les Misérables, stripping away the expected glossy exteriors of a movie musical by recording all of the songs live on set. Like the high frame rate projection, the purposefully imperfect style is instantly noticeable and hard to swallow after decades of big screen musicals training our ears. In the film's opening number, "Look Down," we see the imprisoned Jean Valjean and his fellow chain gang inmates pulling ships into the docks. It doesn't get much worse. The number booms like the show, but in its strive for reality, the voices of the singers are overwhelmed by the orchestra. Turns out, it's not easy to sing when waves are splashing in your face and you're pulling an enormous ship to harbor. The number sets the stage for the rest of the picture: in the theatrical version, the instruments and voices work as one. Here, they're at battle. It's hard to fully enjoy "Look Down" because the number works as a testing ground for the style.
As is the case in the stage show, Les Mis works best when the focus is on Valjean. Every character gets a big, memorable song, but each one of Valjean's beats packs an especially emotional punch (which explains why the second half of nearly every incarnation tapers off until the final moments). My biggest fear going into the film was Hugh Jackman. The diehard Colm Wilkinsonian that I am worried that the Wolverine star was too young, too Hollywood, for the role. Unlike many of the men who have played Valjean on stage, Jackman's voice is airer and under strain from the harsh conditions (as he mentioned in Hollywood.com's interview, the scenes in the beginning of the film were shot at the top of a mountain in freezing weather — not exactly the ideal setting for a Broadway musical). Jackman makes the part of Valjean his own, and I fought my brain's urge to yearn for the phrasing established by the show. That's the whole point of on-set singing — let the actors perform the songs, not simply regurgitate them like they're on stage at the 10th Anniversary Concert. Jackman discovers a broken version of Valjean that's never been accomplished on stage in numbers like the prologue and "Valjean's Soliloquy." Plus, it's nice they threw Wilkinson a bone and brought him in to play the Bishop of Digne.
Floating with the ripped up parole papers eight years into the future, Tom Hooper's vision for the factory of Montreuil-sur-Mer is stunning and stark. "At the End of the Day" sticks mostly to the theatrical orchestration, albeit with fewer voices (logical, as there aren't that many people working at the factory). It's simultaneously fresh and familiar, the catty torturing of Fantine even more terrifying when depicted in the "real world." After the number, every Les Mis fan discovered a bit of a shocker: the blueprints had been tinkered with. Fantine's firing leads into new glimpses of Javert arriving to town, conversing with Valjean, the runaway cart that leads to a suspicious act of strength, and the raunchy "Lovely Ladies." These were necessary improvements — only in seeing the movie does one realize how silly it is to feature Fantine's big number, "I Dreamed a Dream," before her descent into hell. Beefing up Valjean and Javert's intertwined relationship is also key, although clunky, with the cacophonous spoken/sung dialogue written for the film never quite fitting in with the previously penned material. Though with the gentlemen out of the way, it's Anne Hathaway's show to steal. "Lovely Ladies" is less of a showstopper than it is on stage, but it paves the way for the tremendous "I Dreamed a Dream," a one-shot, close-up rendition that shatters any known recording. We've never seen a Fantine who had to sing through tears and a runny nose. It all adds to the impact of the song.
STORY: 'Les Mis' Movie Stars: Better Than Broadway?
Les Misérables lost me a bit around "Who Am I?," a number that needs just as much oomph as "I Dreamed a Dream." A song of redemption, Valjean's second introspective soliloquy ends with him closing his conversation with God and shouting to the masses. The film version plays it surprisingly one-note, once again featuring Valjean in one room, speak-singing until he finally walks over to the court to reveal his true identity. Hooper and Jackman side with realism over theatrical, but the number needed the boost. It needed a note that could resonate with the reveal of Valjean's scarlet letter, the "24601" prison tattoo. We didn't even get that reveal! Hooper has an amazing eye for bold framing, but where this number falls short — and where the movie does as a whole — is in innovative staging.
Though as soon as Les Mis inspires talk of lackluster blocking, then comes Fantine's death and "The Confrontation." What could have been rigid feels well-timed and organic, Valjean and Javert swordfighting during their musical duel. Russell Crowe's monotone speak-singing works when he's given meaty drama to tear apart, and "The Confrontation," a literal song fight scene, is magic.
The next chunk of Les Mis may have been the biggest surprise. After "Turning," young Cosette's whispy "Castle in the Cloud" is my least favorite song in the show. Forcefully sympathetic, the despairing tune is like nails on a chalkboard. In the film, it's actually quite lovely, with Isabelle Allen owning the song with the perfect touch of sadness. Her whisper of "Cosette, I love you very much," gave me chills — sorry every other girl who had to perform this on stage like a fifth grade recital. Allen was mesmerizing.
The other surprise: "Master of the House" as a low point of the film. A much needed injection of comedy falls flat in Hooper's version, with Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter delivering surprisingly low energy as the lovable scumbag pair, the Thénardiers. The number feels entirely rushed, skipping over the drunken debauchery choruses to get on with the rest. It's a causal affair, both Cohen and Bonham (two performers who know how to properly play big and wild) delivering a hushed rendition of the rowdy number; the editing turns it into a jumbled sausage fit for serving at the pair's inn. Like Crowe as Javert, both work better in the intermittent sing-speak pats (like the hilarious "The Bargain"), but in a moment when the film needs a boost, they fizzle out.
POLL: Does 'Les Mis' Need an Intermission?
As in the show, the random arrival of Javert into Valjean's life never really works, but I appreciate conjuring up a sequence in which our redemptive convict must flee from his pursuer. The chase scene answers the lingering question of how Javert continues to miss Valjean time after time, and how Cosette and her father figure end up in Paris. It also sets up the new number, "Suddenly," a sweet lullaby that fits nicely into Valjean's song book. While it's not a time in the show that needs beefing up (a new song in Act II for Valjean or anything for Older Cosette would have been appreciated), "Suddenly" isn't an egregious addition to the sacred text thanks to Jackman's gentle high range.
Thanks to the enhanced escape from Montfermeil, Javert's "Stars" receives the buildup it deserves. Unfortunately, it can't be devoured by Crowe's nasally singing voice. The actor lights up the speak-singing but flatly mumbles "Stars" — another rushed number. Maybe I can't shake memories of Philip Quast, but Javert's songs demand a soldier's ferocity and the gleam from a twitching eye that comes with years of obsession. Crowe looks like he just showed up for work.
Hooper and screenwriter William Nicholson take necessary liberties with the fragmented stretch of "Éponine's Errand," "ABC Cafe/ Red and Black," "In My Life," "A Heart Full of Love," "The Attack on Rue Plumet," and "On My Own." Let's face it: the show doesn't handle it smoothly either, Cosette and Marius only crossing paths for the first time in this chance meeting of Valjean, the Thénardiers, Éponine, and Javert. If the movie suffers from weaving all of these moments into one is that it feels as claustrophobic as in a theater. With a rotating stage with sets in motion, we end up traveling more in the stage version than in the movie — a mind-blogging feat.
What really works throughout all the confusion is Eddie Redmayne's Marius, Aaron Tevit's Enjolras, Daniel Huttlestone's Gavroche, and the students of the revolution. Truth: Marius never entirely works for me as a character in the stage productions, reduced to a heartthrob who dabbles in political mumbo jumbo in order to be put into the thick of danger when the time is right. Redmaybe brings him to life. He doesn't sound like a formal singer and it allows him to avoid placation by the material. He's a real person! He bonds with his buddies in the bar and it creates a warm atmosphere like real friendships do. And even though Cosette is still just arm candy in the film version of Les Misérables (and extra vibrato-y in the hands of Amanda Seyfried), Marius feels like a man who struggles with his rebellious agenda and love at first sight. "A Heart Full of Love" really plays.
I know Les Mis fans love them some Éponine, another latter half character that never amounts to more than a hamfisted emotional pawn. Samantha Barks does not help this matter in the big screen translation — a beautiful voice isn't the only requirement for Les Misérables. She packs one, coy and playful with Marius and cutting loose in her big number "On My Own." Sadly, she's still in stage mode and her style doesn't translate to the intentionally rusty tactics of on-set singing. It's too good, she's too bright. The production cranked up the rain on all of her numbers, and it feels like a tactic to mask her over-the-top crying.
The weirdest movie moment of 2012: Jackman's Valjean running to Seyfried's Cosette's aid, bare chest open and exuding sexual tension. The moment creeped me out so much, "One Day More" is a bit of a fuzzy memory. Okay, maybe the awkward scene wasn't that distracting, but Les Misérables' Act I finale is a wildly choppy experience, as loud as the stage version minus the unity. The movie had the impossible task of mimicking the play and the cross-cutting style doesn't bellow in the same way as a full ensemble number.