Thursday, January 29, 2015

Tigerland (2000) ✭✭½


Produced in 2000, Tigerland appropriates the structures, styles and symbols of the great Vietnam War films, and in return delivers a safe, shallow popcorn flick with a distinct made-for-TV feel; a sort of grungy, profane Lifetime movie for guys. Set in 1971 at Fort Polk, Louisiana - the self proclaimed second worst place on Earth - the film follows a company of grunts, largely draftees, through the intense rigors of basic training, leading to a harrowing week of simulated combat in a backwoods jungle swamp. Along the way, the viewer is treated to a variety of war movie clichés, strangely shifting photographic styles, heavy handed manipulations and shaky rationalizations. Ironically, the movie has no shortage of conviction and, like Fort Polk, seems to exist in a universe of peculiar logic and trumped up rules and regulations, without regard for any real world beyond its own sprocket holes.


Directed by Joel Schumacher, known for brisk, engaging entertainments that flirt with the edges of serious social issues, Tigerland focuses on the insubordinate exploits of Private Bozz (Colin Farrell), a free spirited conscript from Texas who, thus far, appears to have spent the majority of his basic training in the stockade. His hunky sidekick Paxton (Matthew Davis), fellow grunt and aspiring writer – these types of movies always have an aspiring writer somewhere in the mix – serves as a gee whiz, awestruck foil.


And Farrell is worthy of awe. In the year 2000, fresh from the set of the popular BBC series Ballykissangel, Farrell stepped in front of Tigerland’s cameras for his American debut, and never looked back. His performance is taut and spare with every word, glance and movement sharply homed into Bozz’s rebellious soul. Farrell’s vocal evocation of Texas is credible and consistent, and overall the performance packs so much charisma that when the script asks us to believe Fort Polk’s hard-ass D.I.s put up with Bozz’s antics because he’s “a natural born leader”, it’s only moderately preposterous.


If only the same could be said for the balance of the proceedings. Early in the film, Farrell is released from the brig just in time to go AWOL for the weekend (what?), and follows his fellow maggots into town for some well earned debauchery. At a bar apparently decorated by voodoo practitioners, he and Paxton gain the attentions of two local “born and bred” sluts, but the girls’ Ohio-flat accents have not a trace of bayou drawl. After the inevitable schtupping – which Schumacher depicts with gratuitous sweaty, orgy-esque athleticism – Bozz and Paxton have a deep, tender – and quite homoerotic - discussion of Army life in the buff, while their dates clamor to be taken to breakfast.


Back at the base, Michael Shannon, proving that he could easily steal a movie even back then, instructs the trainees on methods of torturing Vietcong prisoners using radio batteries clamped to genitalia, and Bozz is so appalled he simply walks away from the lesson in favor of a woodland stroll. When confronted by the livid Sgt. Landers (Afemo Omilani), Bozz’s quiet demeanor diffuses the situation, and the men end up sharing Marlboros and civil discourse. After going to great lengths to establish Ft. Polk’s atmosphere of brutal discipline, Schumacher’s kumbayah moment seems outrageously contrived; something better suited to an episode of Hogan’s Heroes than any serious depiction of infantry training.


Race relations come to the fore when a tight-knit group of black draftees are constantly harassed by a stereotypical gung-ho bigot named Wilson (Shea Whigham). Schumacher is quick to use these incidents to establish the mentally unbalanced Wilson as the film’s villain, but never addresses this important issue in any meaningful way. None of the black soldiers are developed as memorable characters and their only narrative contributions consist of serving as victims. In a tacky addition of insult to injury, Schumacher includes them singing the film’s closing theme in a Boyz II Men style a cappella.


Tigerland, which until now had borne a passing resemblance to Full Metal Jacket, switches stylistic gears for the big finale – the week of simulated mud bog warfare – and becomes a sort of road company Apocalypse Now. Schumacher lays on the atmospherics with a trowel, with smoke, torrential rain and the ghostly shades of soldiers in ponchos adding to the forbidding gloom. Composer Nathan Larson breaks out the trusty Korg for creepy synth licks that are more than a mere homage to Coppola’s masterpiece; they’re virtually a sonic recreation. The film attempts to score some anti-war relevancy points in the late stages, as Paxton derisively mutters that a vicious training exercise is “just like My Lai”, but Schumacher’s heart isn’t in it. It’s clear he wanted to make a middlebrow war adventure with lots of sweat and dirt and guns and helmets and things and, like his assemblage of grunts, he largely achieved his objective.



Tigerland is one of those films that begs the question “why?” It treads familiar territory, adding nothing new to the impressive vault of Vietnam films already in existence. It is not in the league of the classics of the genre, and while it attempts to tell a smaller scale story than, say, Platoon, it doesn’t even achieve that in any memorable way. But there’s no such mystery about the reason for this blu-ray release; it’s clearly an attempt to cash in on the popularity of Colin Farrell. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Indeed, his American debut is a performance of charismatic splendor, and deserves every effort to rescue it from obscurity.

Tigerland (2000) ✭✭½


Produced in 2000, Tigerland appropriates the structures, styles and symbols of the great Vietnam War films, and in return delivers a safe, shallow popcorn flick with a distinct made-for-TV feel; a sort of grungy, profane Lifetime movie for guys. Set in 1971 at Fort Polk, Louisiana - the self proclaimed second worst place on Earth - the film follows a company of grunts, largely draftees, through the intense rigors of basic training, leading to a harrowing week of simulated combat in a backwoods jungle swamp. Along the way, the viewer is treated to a variety of war movie clichés, strangely shifting photographic styles, heavy handed manipulations and shaky rationalizations. Ironically, the movie has no shortage of conviction and, like Fort Polk, seems to exist in a universe of peculiar logic and trumped up rules and regulations, without regard for any real world beyond its own sprocket holes.


Directed by Joel Schumacher, known for brisk, engaging entertainments that flirt with the edges of serious social issues, Tigerland focuses on the insubordinate exploits of Private Bozz (Colin Farrell), a free spirited conscript from Texas who, thus far, appears to have spent the majority of his basic training in the stockade. His hunky sidekick Paxton (Matthew Davis), fellow grunt and aspiring writer – these types of movies always have an aspiring writer somewhere in the mix – serves as a gee whiz, awestruck foil.


And Farrell is worthy of awe. In the year 2000, fresh from the set of the popular BBC series Ballykissangel, Farrell stepped in front of Tigerland’s cameras for his American debut, and never looked back. His performance is taut and spare with every word, glance and movement sharply homed into Bozz’s rebellious soul. Farrell’s vocal evocation of Texas is credible and consistent, and overall the performance packs so much charisma that when the script asks us to believe Fort Polk’s hard-ass D.I.s put up with Bozz’s antics because he’s “a natural born leader”, it’s only moderately preposterous.


If only the same could be said for the balance of the proceedings. Early in the film, Farrell is released from the brig just in time to go AWOL for the weekend (what?), and follows his fellow maggots into town for some well earned debauchery. At a bar apparently decorated by voodoo practitioners, he and Paxton gain the attentions of two local “born and bred” sluts, but the girls’ Ohio-flat accents have not a trace of bayou drawl. After the inevitable schtupping – which Schumacher depicts with gratuitous sweaty, orgy-esque athleticism – Bozz and Paxton have a deep, tender – and quite homoerotic - discussion of Army life in the buff, while their dates clamor to be taken to breakfast.


Back at the base, Michael Shannon, proving that he could easily steal a movie even back then, instructs the trainees on methods of torturing Vietcong prisoners using radio batteries clamped to genitalia, and Bozz is so appalled he simply walks away from the lesson in favor of a woodland stroll. When confronted by the livid Sgt. Landers (Afemo Omilani), Bozz’s quiet demeanor diffuses the situation, and the men end up sharing Marlboros and civil discourse. After going to great lengths to establish Ft. Polk’s atmosphere of brutal discipline, Schumacher’s kumbayah moment seems outrageously contrived; something better suited to an episode of Hogan’s Heroes than any serious depiction of infantry training.


Race relations come to the fore when a tight-knit group of black draftees are constantly harassed by a stereotypical gung-ho bigot named Wilson (Shea Whigham). Schumacher is quick to use these incidents to establish the mentally unbalanced Wilson as the film’s villain, but never addresses this important issue in any meaningful way. None of the black soldiers are developed as memorable characters and their only narrative contributions consist of serving as victims. In a tacky addition of insult to injury, Schumacher includes them singing the film’s closing theme in a Boyz II Men style a cappella.


Tigerland, which until now had borne a passing resemblance to Full Metal Jacket, switches stylistic gears for the big finale – the week of simulated mud bog warfare – and becomes a sort of road company Apocalypse Now. Schumacher lays on the atmospherics with a trowel, with smoke, torrential rain and the ghostly shades of soldiers in ponchos adding to the forbidding gloom. Composer Nathan Larson breaks out the trusty Korg for creepy synth licks that are more than a mere homage to Coppola’s masterpiece; they’re virtually a sonic recreation. The film attempts to score some anti-war relevancy points in the late stages, as Paxton derisively mutters that a vicious training exercise is “just like My Lai”, but Schumacher’s heart isn’t in it. It’s clear he wanted to make a middlebrow war adventure with lots of sweat and dirt and guns and helmets and things and, like his assemblage of grunts, he largely achieved his objective.



Tigerland is one of those films that begs the question “why?” It treads familiar territory, adding nothing new to the impressive vault of Vietnam films already in existence. It is not in the league of the classics of the genre, and while it attempts to tell a smaller scale story than, say, Platoon, it doesn’t even achieve that in any memorable way. But there’s no such mystery about the reason for this blu-ray release; it’s clearly an attempt to cash in on the popularity of Colin Farrell. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Indeed, his American debut is a performance of charismatic splendor, and deserves every effort to rescue it from obscurity.

Friday, January 23, 2015

Gone With the Fuzzy-Wuzzys: The Four Feathers (1939)


The Four Feathers, produced in that seminal cinematic year of 1939, is a rousing adventure epic that, for better or worse, reflects the popular mentality of its times. Produced by Alex Korda’s London Films, a massive operation known for sprawling costume dramas that took themselves way too seriously, The Four Feathers is all about the British military’s colonialist escapades in North Africa circa 1898. Based on a best selling novel by A.E.W. Mason, the story has been committed to celluloid at least six times - most recently as a Heath Ledger vehicle in 2002 – with each incarnation taking degrees of narrative license. But this production, directed by Korda’s brother Zoltan, is generally considered the definitive version. While it’s inherently unfair to apply today’s standards to a screenplay of this vintage, even the most tolerant appraisal would have to conclude that, despite its historical basis, this Four Feathers is guilty of excessive condescension and aggressive pandering. The film’s storyline simply isn’t believable, and its three acts range from sentimental to melodramatic to outright preposterous.



The film reduces the African conflict to a tale of four newly-minted British lieutenants: Willoughby (Jack Allen), Burroughs (Donald Gray), Durrance (Ralph Richardson) and Harry Faversham (John Clements). All are from upper-class military families, and strut about with gung ho, stiff-upper-lipped propriety reminiscent of Graham Chapman’s twitty General from the Monty Python skits. All except Faversham, a quiet, reserved chap who spends his evenings reading poetry, much to the disgust of his father (Allen Jeayes), a flinty retired officer who loudly complains that all the young men of England, especially his son, are “turning soft”. But young Faversham has other things on his mind. Along with deep, nagging doubts about the virtue of Britain’s war efforts, he’s also set to announce his engagement to the fetching Ethne; an elegant lass who, by Victorian standards, is quite the hottie. This bit of news hits the crestfallen Durrance quite hard – he was also vying for Ethne’s attentions – and a bitter rivalry develops between the two men; a rivalry that will serve as a prime mover for the rest of the film.



These expository scenes rank among the film’s best, with some wonderful technique driven acting and sumptuous, colorful sets. The Four Feathers is an early Technicolor production but unlike many of its peers, it strikes a good balance between saturated hues and realistic production design. Zoltan Korda’s fine touch with actors is evident, as the older generation puff on cigars and amusingly recall – some could say exaggerate - their youthful heroics in the Crimea. Clements, often derided as a wooden performer, is convincing here as a sensitive man struggling in a privileged world devoid of nuance, while Richardson is excellent as the jilted lover who cunningly decides to wait it out. Act One reverberates with a solemn sense of duty enlivened by moments of jaunty esprit de corps, and serves up enough grim foreshadowing to make viewers giddily anticipate the coming splendors.



Unfortunately, it’s at this point the wheels begin to fall off. On the eve of his unit’s deployment to Africa, Faversham abruptly resigns his commission. His excuse is pressing business at home, but he is soon declared a coward, and receives an envelope in the mail containing four feathers (one each from his former friends and fiancée) as an unsubtle hint. Eventually Faversham grows to regret his decision, and embarks for Egypt where he hatches a scheme to disguise himself as a Sudanese peasant, and act as a sort of guardian angel and unofficial spy for the British; secretly returning the feathers to his estranged friends in the process.



All manner of political incorrectness, and just plain idiocy, ensues as Faversham meets a kindly doctor in Cairo who agrees to “darken his skin” – no mention of how this will be achieved – in order to affect the charade. Somehow, despite the millions of souls involved in this war, a disguised, somewhat less pasty Faversham makes his way on foot – over hundreds of sweltering desert miles - to the precise encampment he seeks. Meanwhile, his former army buddies have discovered that service in the Sudan is no weekend in Brighton, as one has been struck blind (Blind, I tell you!!) by the broiling sun while the others have fallen victim to the perfidious Fuzzy Wuzzys. Yep, the local rebels are called Fuzzy Wuzzys, and it’s sort of a catchall epithet that appears not just in the dialogue, but on the intertitles as well. One would expect more sensitivity from the Kordas; after all, they were a Jewish clan from Hungary who spent much of their lives keeping one step ahead of the Nazi genocide.



The Four Feathers includes a number of impressive battle scenes involving thousands of extras, an equally high number of charging camels, and a perpetual hailstorm of bullets. The results will please action junkies, but given the script’s massive absurdities, it all seems like wasted spectacle. Logic is abandoned entirely during the climactic Battle of Omdurman sequence, when an improbable plot device allows scores of prisoners to escape and immediately find a cache of carbines, complete with inexhaustible supplies of ammunition, at their disposal. The action becomes so incoherent that as Faversham desperately attempts to complete his sacred mission, viewers are left amid a smoldering pile of blowed up Fuzzy Wuzzys, wondering what the hell just happened.



The Four Feathers reflects the spirit of a hip-hip-cheerio age of expansionist entitlement; when Anglo-Saxons wrong-headedly assumed a divine right of world domination. This is not the fault of the film, as motion pictures, like people, cannot choose their date of birth. But the film can be taken to task for its implausible twists and unreasonable demands of belief-suspension. While The Four Feathers may have resonated deeply with the audiences of 1939, today’s viewer will find it little more than a diverting, at times appalling, antique. The short, almost mocking, shrift given to Harry Faversham’s anti-war impulses speaks volumes about the ugly prevailing thought of the era. Ultimately, the suspect Faversham can only prove his bravery by going out and killing Fuzzy Wuzzys. Fortunately, at least for the most part, the civilized world has said goodbye to all that.







Gone With the Fuzzy-Wuzzys: The Four Feathers (1939)


The Four Feathers, produced in that seminal cinematic year of 1939, is a rousing adventure epic that, for better or worse, reflects the popular mentality of its times. Produced by Alex Korda’s London Films, a massive operation known for sprawling costume dramas that took themselves way too seriously, The Four Feathers is all about the British military’s colonialist escapades in North Africa circa 1898. Based on a best selling novel by A.E.W. Mason, the story has been committed to celluloid at least six times - most recently as a Heath Ledger vehicle in 2002 – with each incarnation taking degrees of narrative license. But this production, directed by Korda’s brother Zoltan, is generally considered the definitive version. While it’s inherently unfair to apply today’s standards to a screenplay of this vintage, even the most tolerant appraisal would have to conclude that, despite its historical basis, this Four Feathers is guilty of excessive condescension and aggressive pandering. The film’s storyline simply isn’t believable, and its three acts range from sentimental to melodramatic to outright preposterous.



The film reduces the African conflict to a tale of four newly-minted British lieutenants: Willoughby (Jack Allen), Burroughs (Donald Gray), Durrance (Ralph Richardson) and Harry Faversham (John Clements). All are from upper-class military families, and strut about with gung ho, stiff-upper-lipped propriety reminiscent of Graham Chapman’s twitty General from the Monty Python skits. All except Faversham, a quiet, reserved chap who spends his evenings reading poetry, much to the disgust of his father (Allen Jeayes), a flinty retired officer who loudly complains that all the young men of England, especially his son, are “turning soft”. But young Faversham has other things on his mind. Along with deep, nagging doubts about the virtue of Britain’s war efforts, he’s also set to announce his engagement to the fetching Ethne; an elegant lass who, by Victorian standards, is quite the hottie. This bit of news hits the crestfallen Durrance quite hard – he was also vying for Ethne’s attentions – and a bitter rivalry develops between the two men; a rivalry that will serve as a prime mover for the rest of the film.



These expository scenes rank among the film’s best, with some wonderful technique driven acting and sumptuous, colorful sets. The Four Feathers is an early Technicolor production but unlike many of its peers, it strikes a good balance between saturated hues and realistic production design. Zoltan Korda’s fine touch with actors is evident, as the older generation puff on cigars and amusingly recall – some could say exaggerate - their youthful heroics in the Crimea. Clements, often derided as a wooden performer, is convincing here as a sensitive man struggling in a privileged world devoid of nuance, while Richardson is excellent as the jilted lover who cunningly decides to wait it out. Act One reverberates with a solemn sense of duty enlivened by moments of jaunty esprit de corps, and serves up enough grim foreshadowing to make viewers giddily anticipate the coming splendors.



Unfortunately, it’s at this point the wheels begin to fall off. On the eve of his unit’s deployment to Africa, Faversham abruptly resigns his commission. His excuse is pressing business at home, but he is soon declared a coward, and receives an envelope in the mail containing four feathers (one each from his former friends and fiancée) as an unsubtle hint. Eventually Faversham grows to regret his decision, and embarks for Egypt where he hatches a scheme to disguise himself as a Sudanese peasant, and act as a sort of guardian angel and unofficial spy for the British; secretly returning the feathers to his estranged friends in the process.



All manner of political incorrectness, and just plain idiocy, ensues as Faversham meets a kindly doctor in Cairo who agrees to “darken his skin” – no mention of how this will be achieved – in order to affect the charade. Somehow, despite the millions of souls involved in this war, a disguised, somewhat less pasty Faversham makes his way on foot – over hundreds of sweltering desert miles - to the precise encampment he seeks. Meanwhile, his former army buddies have discovered that service in the Sudan is no weekend in Brighton, as one has been struck blind (Blind, I tell you!!) by the broiling sun while the others have fallen victim to the perfidious Fuzzy Wuzzys. Yep, the local rebels are called Fuzzy Wuzzys, and it’s sort of a catchall epithet that appears not just in the dialogue, but on the intertitles as well. One would expect more sensitivity from the Kordas; after all, they were a Jewish clan from Hungary who spent much of their lives keeping one step ahead of the Nazi genocide.



The Four Feathers includes a number of impressive battle scenes involving thousands of extras, an equally high number of charging camels, and a perpetual hailstorm of bullets. The results will please action junkies, but given the script’s massive absurdities, it all seems like wasted spectacle. Logic is abandoned entirely during the climactic Battle of Omdurman sequence, when an improbable plot device allows scores of prisoners to escape and immediately find a cache of carbines, complete with inexhaustible supplies of ammunition, at their disposal. The action becomes so incoherent that as Faversham desperately attempts to complete his sacred mission, viewers are left amid a smoldering pile of blowed up Fuzzy Wuzzys, wondering what the hell just happened.



The Four Feathers reflects the spirit of a hip-hip-cheerio age of expansionist entitlement; when Anglo-Saxons wrong-headedly assumed a divine right of world domination. This is not the fault of the film, as motion pictures, like people, cannot choose their date of birth. But the film can be taken to task for its implausible twists and unreasonable demands of belief-suspension. While The Four Feathers may have resonated deeply with the audiences of 1939, today’s viewer will find it little more than a diverting, at times appalling, antique. The short, almost mocking, shrift given to Harry Faversham’s anti-war impulses speaks volumes about the ugly prevailing thought of the era. Ultimately, the suspect Faversham can only prove his bravery by going out and killing Fuzzy Wuzzys. Fortunately, at least for the most part, the civilized world has said goodbye to all that.







Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Sunlight Jr. (2013) ✭✭✭½



Sunlight Jr  is a grimy, unvarnished tale from the American underclass; a sort of anti-Downton. Set in a crumbling, un-touristy burg in Florida, the film stars Naomi Watts and Matt Dillion as a struggling couple living a hand to mouth existence in the minimum wage economy, one meager paycheck away from homelessness. When an unplanned pregnancy shines a harsh light on their paltry prospects, the couple’s emotional tether begins to unravel.


Writer/Director Laurie Collyer (Sherrybaby) has obviously studied the works of Haneke and the Dardennes and brings a similar gritty sensibility to this production. Some will also find the film reminiscent of Derek Cianfrance’s Blue Valentine from 2010, but Collyer’s approach is more assured and natural, rendering superior results. Sunlight Jr. never relies on jiggly cameras, overlapping muttering or other tropes of cinema verite to sell viewers on the film’s authenticity. Collyer tells her downtrodden tale with appropriate vigor, but refreshingly doesn’t feel the need to beat up her audience in the process.


By any honest appraisal, Watts and Dillion are each about 20 years too old these parts, but that concern ultimately seems like a nitpick for their scenes spark genuine heat. Watts spends her chaotic life as a cashier at a thinly disguised Circle K franchise, ringing up cigs and Lottos for a clientele coping with equally dire finances. Her one hope is to someday qualify for a gauzy sounding college scholarship program offered by corporate headquarters. When this mysterious perk is finally revealed as just another example of corporate feel-good hokum lacking in substance, Watts sees the last chance to better her life discarded like a worthless scratcher ticket.


Some of the film’s best moments are supplied by the supporting cast. Norman Reedus, who does inbred despicable better than just about anybody, weaves in and out of the narrative as an old boyfriend with a passion for causing trouble. He has recently inherited a moldy tract house from his mother, making him the closest thing to landed gentry in the scruffy world of Sunlight Jr.  He has leased the house to Watts’ mom, played by Tess Harper, who eeks out a clamorous living by taking in foster kids. While there’s certainly been a lot of water under the bridge since Harper’s heyday in the 1980s, she still retains the unpolished earth mother ethos that made her a star.




While the film’s overall rating barely nudges it above “worth seeing,” the aspects it does well it does very well, and its crafting of an impoverished human landscape gives a fascinating glimpse at the results of 30 years of economic trickle-down. It is one of the few recent films to look soberly at the plight of poor women facing unplanned pregnancy and the crucial safety net offered by those women’s health organizations red state politicians so despise. Sunlight Jr.  neither celebrates nor demeans the working poor, but paints an involving, unsentimental portrait of an American Dream gone off the rails.




Sunlight Jr. (2013) ✭✭✭½



Sunlight Jr  is a grimy, unvarnished tale from the American underclass; a sort of anti-Downton. Set in a crumbling, un-touristy burg in Florida, the film stars Naomi Watts and Matt Dillion as a struggling couple living a hand to mouth existence in the minimum wage economy, one meager paycheck away from homelessness. When an unplanned pregnancy shines a harsh light on their paltry prospects, the couple’s emotional tether begins to unravel.


Writer/Director Laurie Collyer (Sherrybaby) has obviously studied the works of Haneke and the Dardennes and brings a similar gritty sensibility to this production. Some will also find the film reminiscent of Derek Cianfrance’s Blue Valentine from 2010, but Collyer’s approach is more assured and natural, rendering superior results. Sunlight Jr. never relies on jiggly cameras, overlapping muttering or other tropes of cinema verite to sell viewers on the film’s authenticity. Collyer tells her downtrodden tale with appropriate vigor, but refreshingly doesn’t feel the need to beat up her audience in the process.


By any honest appraisal, Watts and Dillion are each about 20 years too old these parts, but that concern ultimately seems like a nitpick for their scenes spark genuine heat. Watts spends her chaotic life as a cashier at a thinly disguised Circle K franchise, ringing up cigs and Lottos for a clientele coping with equally dire finances. Her one hope is to someday qualify for a gauzy sounding college scholarship program offered by corporate headquarters. When this mysterious perk is finally revealed as just another example of corporate feel-good hokum lacking in substance, Watts sees the last chance to better her life discarded like a worthless scratcher ticket.


Some of the film’s best moments are supplied by the supporting cast. Norman Reedus, who does inbred despicable better than just about anybody, weaves in and out of the narrative as an old boyfriend with a passion for causing trouble. He has recently inherited a moldy tract house from his mother, making him the closest thing to landed gentry in the scruffy world of Sunlight Jr.  He has leased the house to Watts’ mom, played by Tess Harper, who eeks out a clamorous living by taking in foster kids. While there’s certainly been a lot of water under the bridge since Harper’s heyday in the 1980s, she still retains the unpolished earth mother ethos that made her a star.




While the film’s overall rating barely nudges it above “worth seeing,” the aspects it does well it does very well, and its crafting of an impoverished human landscape gives a fascinating glimpse at the results of 30 years of economic trickle-down. It is one of the few recent films to look soberly at the plight of poor women facing unplanned pregnancy and the crucial safety net offered by those women’s health organizations red state politicians so despise. Sunlight Jr.  neither celebrates nor demeans the working poor, but paints an involving, unsentimental portrait of an American Dream gone off the rails.




Sunday, January 18, 2015

New on TV - January 2015




Episodes ✭ 

Season Four Showtime

Yes, that's right, one star. Considering I could barely make it through a single 30 minute installment, I was stunned to learn that this show has been running for 4 years. Complete rubbish.  How can we miss Matt LeBlanc when he won't go away?





Togetherness ✭✭✭ 

Season One - HBO

This show was created and written by the Duplass Brothers and apparently some people consider that a good thing. It has some potential, namely the presence of Melanie Lynsky. The first episode was heavy on backstory and light on laughs, but hopefully that will get sorted as things progress.




Downton Abbey ✭✭✭✭½

Season Five - PBS

We're two episodes into the fifth season here in the States and so far not a lot has happened. The biggest deal is it looks like Lady Mary is about to do the wild thing with one of those indistinquishable fops that keep chasing her. However, you can tell much awkward unpleasantness is being set up for later in the year. And yes, a season six is in the works. I bet Dan Stevens is glad this show isn't holding him back anymore. (cough)



New on TV - January 2015




Episodes ✭ 

Season Four Showtime

Yes, that's right, one star. Considering I could barely make it through a single 30 minute installment, I was stunned to learn that this show has been running for 4 years. Complete rubbish.  How can we miss Matt LeBlanc when he won't go away?





Togetherness ✭✭✭ 

Season One - HBO

This show was created and written by the Duplass Brothers and apparently some people consider that a good thing. It has some potential, namely the presence of Melanie Lynsky. The first episode was heavy on backstory and light on laughs, but hopefully that will get sorted as things progress.




Downton Abbey ✭✭✭✭½

Season Five - PBS

We're two episodes into the fifth season here in the States and so far not a lot has happened. The biggest deal is it looks like Lady Mary is about to do the wild thing with one of those indistinquishable fops that keep chasing her. However, you can tell much awkward unpleasantness is being set up for later in the year. And yes, a season six is in the works. I bet Dan Stevens is glad this show isn't holding him back anymore. (cough)



80 Years at the Races

Most Marx Brothers aficionados agree that 1937’s A Day at the Races was the last truly great film featuring the zany siblings. Produced by ...