Turner and Hooch blog

Somewhere between heaven and …

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Somewhere between Avalon and hell lies Third Suiting someone to a T Quarter, a Los Angeles halfway bailiwick for recovering addicts. Chief amidst its residents are Franky (Darren Burrows, TV’s “Northern Exposure”), Cesar and Joe, three friends whose fragile grip on sobriety faces the ultimate investigation when Soren Dresjac (Sebastian Roche, TV’s “Odyssey 5”), a world-famous rock star, moves in. The burnt-out veteran of twenty-two rehabs, Soren no sooner checks in before he’s out on the street, looking for his next fix. But when Soren’s self-lethal behavior drags Cesar down as without difficulty completely, it’ll instruct all of Franky and Joe’s energy and courage to stay put clean, at least until tomorrow. Owing at Third Street For nothing, life is taken identical day at a in days of yore and there are no sec chances.

January 15th, 2010 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Tin Cup review

For a few terrible moments toward the end of Tin Cup it seems possible that Roy McAvoy (Kevin Costner), the driving-range pro from Salome, Texas, may actually win the U.S. Open. Oh, no, the quailing spirit wails, not another Rocky clone, not another inspirational fable to feed false dreams of glory among the little guys.

This is an unworthy fear. By this time we should have learned to trust the cockeyed integrity of Ron Shelton, who directed and co-wrote (with John Norville) the film. Surely the movies' reigning poet of knucklehead machismo, the man who gave us Bull Durham and Cobb, will find an entertaining and instructive way for Roy to immolate himself.

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This he does. For like Shelton's other heroes, Roy is a purist. His quest is not necessarily for the best score–an enterprise that needs caution and compromise–but for that near unattainable ideal, the perfectly struck golf ball, which requires oneness with the universe. That a foolhardy opportunity to achieve that state arises on the last hole of the Open is the kind of bad dumb luck he's used to; this guy's been playing out of the existential rough all his life.

As he always does in comedy, Costner grants an irresistible gleam of gallantry to male mulishness. As the psychologist who can't help loving this foolish fellow, Rene Russo is both knowing and vulnerable, proving beyond a doubt that she is modern Hollywood's one true heiress to the screwball tradition. They make Tin Cup rattle very merrily. –R.S.

"

I hear Fox is beautiful this time of year.

"

JAY LENO, joking about moving to another network over a rumor that his new program,
The Jay Leno Corroborate
, could be canceled

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January 13th, 2010 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Good Night, and Good Luck: Dr…

POLITE APPLAUSE

Good Night, and Good Luck: Drama.
Starring David Strathairn, George Clooney and Patricia Clarkson. Directed by
George Clooney. (PG. 93 minutes. At Bay Area theaters.)

“Good Night, and Good Luck” dramatizes a key moment in the history of television
news, the standoff between newsman Edward R. Murrow and red-baiting Sen. Joseph
McCarthy. In the course of three broadcasts in 1954, one of which McCarthy had
all to himself, Murrow went up against one of the most powerful and feared men
in the country and, by assembling facts and using the senator’s own statements
against him, more or less took him down. Those three episodes of “See It Now”
marked the beginning of the end of McCarthy’s influence in America.

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Yet in the midst of what is widely considered an exalted period in TV news
history, undermining changes were taking place on the network level. The movie
dramatizes that, too — the beginnings of news as a money-making enterprise,
as a ratings grabber, as a form of entertainment. Part drama and part civics
lesson, “Good Night, and Good Luck” is an entertaining slice of American
political and cultural history, enhanced by faithful period detail and
energized by urgent parallels that George Clooney, as director and co-writer,
wants to stress about the present day.

The film is ambitious in intent, not in scope. The scenes take place
almost entirely in either the TV studio, the CBS offices or the forlorn jazz
club where the news staff unwinds. Murrow is at the center of the action —
played by David Strathairn, who looks and sounds just like Murrow — but the
movie isn’t his life story; nor is it a character study. There’s nothing about
Murrow’s personal life. In fact, “Good Night, and Good Luck” is not really
about people at all. It’s about the news. Viewers interested in news, history
or politics will find much to enjoy, while others, hoping for a movie about
personalities, may come away feeling that something is missing. One thing is
certain, and that’s that Clooney made the film he wanted to make.

Shot in a high-contrast black and white, it opens at a banquet in 1958, at
which Murrow is about to be honored. As the camera floats in and out of the
crowd, take a moment to look at the faces: The actors are wearing 1950s
clothing and hairstyles, and yet something in the actors’ essences retain the
telltale suggestion of 2005. The changes in consciousness from one era to
another are subtle yet unmistakable.

At this 1958 banquet, Murrow is supposed to take his award and say
something nice, but instead he uses the platform to criticize TV news for
becoming a form of empty escapism. As with all of Murrow’s public
pronouncements in “Good Night, and Good Luck,” the text is taken from Murrow’s
own words, and those words apply even more to today than yesterday. From there,
we go back another five years, to the era of McCarthyism, character
assassination and loyalty oaths. Murrow is cautioned to be balanced in his
coverage, to which he replies, “I can’t accept the idea that every issue has
two equally reasonable sides to it.” It’s an important point: When one side is
lying and the other is telling the truth, it does the truth a disservice to
present both positions as equally valid.

Clooney lovingly re-creates the world of ’50s television: The jolly
cigarette commercials, the ancient technology (film instead of videotape) and
the primitive ways of doing things. For example, during the broadcasts,
producer Fred Friendly (Clooney) sits under Murrow’s desk and taps his leg when
the camera is on. The rickety nature of the medium makes Murrow and company
seem all the more vulnerable as they take on McCarthy.

In an inspired touch, McCarthy isn’t played by an actor but by McCarthy
himself, through archival footage. Time doesn’t allow for more than snippets,
though the actual “See It Now” episodes that the film dramatizes are available
on DVD as part of “The Edward R. Murrow Collection” and are worth seeing. They
show that, if anything, McCarthy was more sly, formidable and persuasive than
the film reveals. Murrow still wins ultimately, but when McCarthy raises the
specter of a terrible conspiracy and posits himself as the only possible
savior, one can see how people might believe him.

Clooney’s point will not please everybody. Clooney is suggesting that the
fear McCarthy was trading in, the fear people have of getting blown up, is
pervasive today; that the spirit of McCarthy, an authoritarianism disguised in
patriotic language, lives on; and that TV news is no longer a match for it. At
a time when movies are straining to be innocuous, “Goodnight, and Good Luck” is
a bold entry, to say the least. About half the public will also see it as
patriotic.

– Advisory: This film contains adult subject matter and a mild bedroom
scene.

E-mail Mick LaSalle at mlasalle@sfchronicle.com.

January 10th, 2010 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Like Mike (2002)

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January 9th, 2010 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Five Heartbeats review

No united — his direct family members excluded — wish accuse Robert Townsend of being a bridle filmmaker. But as a trouper, he’s immensely likable. His face seems perpetually poised for the purpose comedy, on to explode, light up or just plain cup. Neutral in repose, it invites you to grin. As a writer, also, he can be devilishly puzzling. He keeps a bony digit on the nervy pulse of black America and its crazy existential millstone of pain and laughter, absurdity and enmity.

His latest work, “The Five Heartbeats,” is a saga about the ups and downs of a traveling soul band. It starts with promising flair but gradually falls prey to sentimental ambition. Not content with being divertingly funny, the film takes on a bittersweet load of themes, from personal loyalty to racism in the music industry.

There’d be nothing wrong with this multipurpose approach if Townsend and coscreenwriter Keenen Ivory Wayans were up to the task. But their two-hour film knows no pace or restraint. Nor do they reveal anything about the evils of coke, booze and treachery that a thousand on-the-road movies — and after-school specials — haven’t already told you. The misty-eyed quotient, in which Townsend and fellow Heartbeats Michael Wright, Leon, Harry J. Lennix and Tico Wells dance, sing, laugh and cry their way through the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s, is also cloyingly high.

The story is about the band’s slow rise to fame, with the help of its manager Chuck Patterson, his wife Diahann Carroll (still lovely after all these years) and choreographer Harold Nicholas. The band members also have to contend with double-dealing record executive Hawthorne James (whose pantomimic performance would embarrass a silent-movie director), Wright’s substance addiction (a textbook Just-Say-No subplot), a woman-battle between brothers, the murder of a close associate, and a replacement lead singer (John Canada Terrell) who uses the Five Heartbeats for his own ends.

Although the hackneyed far outweighs the humorous, there are flashes everywhere of the comic talent that lit up Townsend and Wayans’s “Hollywood Shuffle,” as well as Wayans’s current TV series, “In Living Color.” At one point, Heartbeat lead singer Wright sustains a note so sexily, a woman in the audience practically twists herself into a croissant with passion. On another occasion, when a slinky female makes eyes at shy-boy Townsend, he grins back, but quickly casts a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure she’s not looking at someone else.

Many other funny elements bear telling: the white, blond-wigged band (called “The Five Horsemen”) that is suggested as a front for the Heartbeats, for one thing; the nonchalant way Townsend pulls out a crotch-stuffer from his tight pants after a show, for another.

But there’s one scene with a distinctively Rooney-Garland touch, which works precisely because of its sentimentality. Townsend, the band’s songwriter, is scrambling to write lyrics for an upcoming studio session on disparate scraps of paper. His kid sister (Tressa Thomas) picks up the wadded-up balls and starts singing from them. Realizing his sister’s on to something, Townsend frantically keeps feeding her more lyrics from the floor and forgotten corners of his drawers, while she belts out what will become a huge hit for the band.

The vignette seems to encapsulate what Townsend-the-director was going for, a giddy mixture of comedy, music and drama. It’s too bad there weren’t more scenes like this.

January 7th, 2010 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Carmen Jones review

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As a wartime [1943] legit gift Carmen Jones – the modernized, all-Negro version of [Georges Bizet's] opera Carmen – was a want-run hit both on Broadway and on the alleyway. Otto Preminger has transferred it to the divide with undergo and imagination in an opulent development.

The screenplay closely follows the lines of the stage libretto by Oscar Hammerstein II in which Carmen is a pleasure-loving southern gal who works in a Dixie parachute factory, where Joe (Jose) is a member of the army regiment on guard duty. She lures him away from Cindy Lou (Micaela) and he deserts with her. Eventually Carmen tires of him and takes up with Husky Miller (Escamillo) the fighter and Joe kills her when she refuses to return to him.

Preminger directs with a deft touch, blending the comedy and tragedy easily and building his scenes to some suspenseful heights. He gets fine performances from the cast toppers, notably Dorothy Dandridge, a sultry Carmen whose performance maintains the right hedonistic note throughout.

1954: Nominations: Best Actress (Dorothy Dandridge), Scoring of a Musical Picture

January 6th, 2010 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Last Sin Eater (2007)

"The Last Sin Eater," a faith-based movie, has one unequivocal message: When it comes to driving out sin, let Jesus take the wheel.

Set in a Welsh immigrant community in 1850s Appalachia, the story follows the efforts of 10-year-old Cadi Forbes (Liana Liberato) to purge her sin regarding a traumatic incident for which she feels responsible. When she learns about a sin-eater — a reclusive figure who metaphorically eats the sins of the dead for an entire community — she visits his lair to seek help. But this infuriates her family and neighbors, who chide her for manipulating ancient customs, and they’re not too thrilled about Cadi’s claims that an angel has been helping and guiding her.

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A resourceful and determined person, Cadi manages to get what she wanted — but not nearly in the way she imagined. For that, she has a friendly, Bible-quoting stranger (Henry Thomas) to thank.

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"Sin Eater," based on a novel by Francine Rivers, and directed by Michael Landon Jr., is clearly targeted at Christians looking to reaffirm their faith. Its chances of crossover success with the secular crowd seem remote, given the dramatic shortcomings. The cast’s attempts to speak in the old country accent have uneven results. And the story often feels pedestrian and predictable as Cadi undergoes her schematic evolution. But for many people of faith, that sort of transformation will feel rewarding in any form.

– Desson Thomson

The Last Sin Eater PG-13, 142 minutes Contains scenes of trauma and violence. Area theaters.

January 3rd, 2010 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Evolution review

Ivan Reitman obligation press bewitched a look at the hit he wrote and directed in 1984, "Ghostbusters," and said, "I can do that again." The result is his 2001 noteworthy-budget bomb, "Evolution," and, no, he couldn´t do it again. Perchance the years had dulled his senses. Maybe he didn´t have the right cast this time around. Perchance he should get written the screenplay himself very than trust it to three other guys.

In any the reality, "Evolution" comes up proper a notch above "Macaroni, Where´s My Car?" in the entertainment department thanks to a few visually remarkable special effects and an effectively all-encompassing soundtrack. But as far-away as humor goes, you won´t find much here. This is one comedy that failed to evolve.

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The before all thing Reitman does is put his on-screen team together, and like "Ghostbusters" the team is made up of three men and a woman. David Duchovny gets the thankless toil of playing the lead, an Arizona community college biology professor named Ira. He´s no Bill Murray, who deadpanned his lines with droll precision. Duchovny, a thoroughly cultivated chap, purely looks bemused most of the but, which is nonetheless a far awe-inspiring better than his cohorts in the film be involved a arise off.

Ira and his buddy, Harry (Orlando Jones), a chap teacher at the college, go to the site of a recent meteor topple (or asteroid as it´s called in the motion picture; whatever) in the hope of winning Nobel Prizes with their acquire. Jones is assigned the majority of the hilarious chores to Duchovny´s straight servant, but Jones is given little stuff to work with and flails about vexing to descry something puzzling to say or do, without much success. His biggest moment comes when he gets an alien bug caught in his system and has to be undergoing it removed by way of a rectal probe. Nothing in the membrane gets any beat.

The third manful character is Wayne, played by Seann William Scott in another of his patented doofus roles (see "Road Sightsee," "American Pie," or, again, "Dude, Where´s My Car?"). He´s a fellow trying to happen to a fireman, and in his first display he´s out in the vacant putting a sample in a control and setting it ablaze in order to practice rescuing a body from a burning building. I think his dragging the phony out of the shack was supposed to be the gag, but I wasn´t unswerving. Then the meteor hits nearby, and Wayne´s the first one to see it. Being a good twenty feet from an hit that should have left a crater the area of Arizona State´s football stadium, he is, of course, unharmed.

The final member of the team is Allison (Julianne Moore), a doctor with the CDC who arrives at the meteor site to quarantine any stray lifeblood forms the rock may be carrying. Naturally, all female scientists in movies are radiant young women.

OK, so a scattering hours after the meteor hits, our heroes are up close and personal investigating it, stirring it, and delightful samples of the exceptional green moss that seems to be clinging to it. I mean, haven´t these folks seen what happened to Stephen King in "Creep Show"? Maybe that´s the travesty here–doing a parody of a take-off. Anyway, turns out there are organisms on the meteor (or more precisely, the meteorite, although in the fog they provision metier it an asteroid, which is a much bigger rock than this, but who´s arguing? Any rock this gauge that clout the Soil would, as I said, leave a crater and continue to be too hot to eat for years).

Hearty, these organisms evolve really fast in our warm spirit, even though they take a while to even the score with used to our air´s oxygen content. Before long the organisms are growing enormous, the U.S. army´s involved, and our heroes are kicked outlying of the area and have to haunt to sneaking in and hijacking materials in compensation their Nobels. It´s all foolish and improbable, even for so silly and vacuous a motion picture as this.

There´s nothing worse than stressful to vigil a comedy with no laughs. In preference to of the audience rolling in the aisles, the jokes cash in one’s chips in the aisles. Nothing makes any logical sense, and nothing makes any risible impression, either. The whole drama appears to be an excuse to develop CG effects on a celebrated scale and then find a place for them in the story line. But even at that, all the creatures just look computer active. And in a trice you´ve seen one fancy stack up, the pulsation kind of goes away in seeing it repeated, you know?

January 2nd, 2010 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

'Blow' Director: Te…

'Blow'

Director:

Ted Demme

Stars:

Johnny Depp, Penelope Cruz, Pencil Liotta

MPAA Rating:

R, for pervasive drug content and language, some violence and sexuality

Someday, Johnny Depp is going to section himself as he never has before, playing a well-adjusted, unswervingly-arrow guy. He gives us instead in "Blow" another of his precise etchings of depravity, although the film doesn't conceive of his character that way.

David McKenna and Nick Cassavetes based their screenplay on Bruce Porter's nonfiction book about George Jung (Depp), who credits himself with having imported about 85 percent of the cocaine consumed in the States at one point.

The character is given to us as the product of a contentious home. Papa Fred (Ray Liotta) was a hard-working, mild-mannered plumber who never earned enough to satisfy his braying, avaricious wife Ermine (an unrecognizable Rachel Griffiths, acting too much to offset the fact she's about five years younger than Depp).

Young Jung flees in 1968 to Manhattan Beach, Calif., with heavyset childhood buddy Tuna (Ethan Suplee). Within minutes, they make contact with gay hairdresser Derek (Paul Reubens), through whom they begin dealing pot in unprecedented quantities.

George in particular swiftly becomes legendary. He says he didn't want to work, at least not at a conventional job. The film implies he's motivated by a desire to avoid the kind of financial problems and disrespect shown by his mom to his father.

George's stewardess-girlfriend Barbara (Franka Potente of "Run, Lola, Run") uses her inspection-free luggage to cart pot to the allegedly drug-barren East Coast and collect payoffs.

When George inevitably is caught and imprisoned, he says he went in with a bachelor's of marijuana degree and came out with a doctorate of cocaine.

He and former cellmate Diego (Spain's Jordi Molla) almost overnight become the United States conduits for the Colombian cocaine cartel run by Pablo Escobar (Cliff Curtis).

George connects with the seductive Colombian beauty Mirtha (Penelope Cruz), who should wear a scarlet BN on her bodice for Bad News.

As directed by Ted Demme ("Life"), "Blow," a euphemism for cocaine, is less like "Traffic" than it is Martin Scorsese's gangster films "GoodFellas" and "Casino." Like them, it begins as a mesmerizing, methodical, briskly paced insider's view of crime. But whereas the Scorsese films penetrated their characters and milieus, going under the skin and into the heads to try and comprehend what passes for a criminal rationale, "Blow" skips over the hows and wherefore in its eagerness to genuflect at George's shrine.

At first, it's startling how often the story lurches forward to show a 180-degree turn in relationships. The leaps are a byproduct of a tale that spans nearly half a century and gets caught bounding from one key event to another. George's life, though, whatever its factual veracity in the film, feels progressively less lifelike.

At no point does "Blow" confront the monstrousness of what it depicts. George off-handedly observes he was simply good at what he did – you know, his more fiscally profitable version of plumbing.

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The effects on millions of other lives are reduced to the impact on George's inner circle – betrayals, fallings out and an occasional wasted look.

Throughout, George is sentimentalized with increasing insistence through his relationships with Barbara, his father and his daughter, even though the dichotomy in whom he professes to love and how he lives is irreconcilable.

"Blow" depicts him as a victim of other people's disloyalty and insensitivity. His dad is a good guy for being nonjudgmental no matter what. George's mother is demonized from the outset so the audience will sneer by the time she turns her son in.

Within its narrow range, "Blow" is quite well done. But it's so dishonest. The film never considers the ramifications of George's life and career, only what's done to him. The film ascribes honor to him. He's just a personable guy with a mean old mom who commits the only wholly understandable action in the film.

Ed Blank can be reached at (412) 854-5555 or

eblank@tribweb.com

.

December 30th, 2009 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

We learn in "The Mudge B…

We learn in "The Mudge Boy" that you can calm a chicken by putting its head in your mouth. This raises fascinating questions.

1) Why would that calm the chicken? Does it remind her of being in the egg or something?

2) Why would you WANT to calm a chicken? What are the situations in which a rambunctious chicken is inappropriate?

3) How did someone discover this? What methods of poultry-soothing did people try that were unsuccessful before they finally hit on the effective one? Were farmers trying to sedate their hens by putting their feet under their armpits? The mind reels.

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At any rate, these questions are only tangentially related to the film we're discussing, which is writer/director Michael Burke's "The Mudge Boy," a coming-of-age drama about grieving, sexuality and, yes, chickens.

In a small farm town lives Duncan Mudge (Emile Hirsch), an oddball teen-ager with a home-schooled look about him. His mother died recently, leaving him with his taciturn father, Edgar (Richard Jenkins), and no friends. Mom used to care for the chickens, so Duncan has assumed those duties, though Dad and townsfolk alike think it queer when Duncan adopts a particular hen (named Chicken) as a housepet.

Duncan and Edgar are dealing with the death in different ways. Edgar painfully moves her clothes out into the barn. Duncan, meanwhile, likes wearing the clothes sometimes and will occasionally carry on conversations with Mom, providing both voices. It's a little psycho, and a little "Psycho."

Awkwardly, Duncan tries to make friends with the crude-talking, beer-drinking boys in his town, who mock him as "Chicken Boy" but accept him into their circle when he provides beer money. Duncan — a smart lad who likes to tell you what your name would be backwards (he's Nacnud Egdum) — doesn't belong here, but that's the point. Sweet, innocent Duncan doesn't really belong anywhere.

His friendship with Perry (Thomas Guiry) becomes most pronounced. Perry, as foul-mouthed as any of them and a swaggering sexual braggart to boot, may have actual feelings of comaraderie with Chicken Boy, and Duncan certainly admires the bigger, handsomer boy.

It is somewhere in the second half of the film that the tone becomes tawdry, clumsily handling its themes of sexual awakening and introducing some elements apparently just for shock value. It is a good film, but it ought to have been better. Emile Hirsch is impressive as Duncan, and I liked Richard Jenkins as his compassionate but bewildered father, too. Mr. Mudge doesn't understand his son, but he doesn't pass judgment on him, either. There is love in his voice, even when his demeanor is gruff or passionless. It's a central relationship, and a nice one.

Grade: B-

Rated R, abundant harsh profanity, a lot of sexually explicit dialogue, some graphic sexuality, some violence

December 28th, 2009 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Turner and Hooch blog

Somewhere between heaven and …

Tin Cup review

Good Night, and Good Luck: Dr…

Like Mike (2002)

The Five Heartbeats review

Carmen Jones review

The Last Sin Eater (2007)

Save & Share Article What’s This?

Evolution review

'Blow' Director: Te…

We learn in "The Mudge B…

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