One blog. Two opinions. One zillion films.

[Note to readers: Tammy has been on the modern equivalent of a vision quest, traveling far from home without the guidance and succor of her computer. She sent me some copy to append to her Best of 2008 draft, which languishes as it ripens in a forbidden zone on our server. However, my time belongs to things like learning Guitar Hero and a secret home improvement, to be revealed shortly. We'll have to wait a couple more days for Tammy's return. ]

Tammy, last night we happened to watch Ghost Town (which you mention in your latent Best of 2008 post) and I agree: it’s fresh and funny. The story is not new — ghosts roam the earth, or at least New York, looking for a little closure — but the ensemble acting is topnotch.

Both leads are revolutionary for a Hollywood comedy. Téa Leoni is, as Hollywood beauties go, rangy, angular and unprepossessing. She’s confident enough to play a busy archaeologist as harried and distracted, like a real scientist.  None of that “I am a celebrity, you can tell by my perfect hair and makeup” stuff.

Ricky Gervais’ “The Office” persona remains, a pudgy fussbudget who over-explains everything. Maybe he’d better think of something else soon but . . . maybe not. In Ghost Town he keeps coming up with new variations on that theme. A lot of the scenes in Ghost Town have a breezy, improvised feel. When Téa Leoni uncorks joyous laughter, you don’t know if it’s her character or the moment. It scarcely matters.

Kristen Wiig and Aasif Mandvi, two sharp TV comedians, get to stretch out a bit. Wiig is on Saturday Night Live so here, for a change, she gets to work with funny material. Mandvi is on “The Daily Show”  where he gets nothing but hilarious material. Here he’s asked to get a tad serious. Win-win.

Wow, a lot of Christmas production going on over here, D.!

Still no good movies in town!   I see varying reviews on  Australia. Some call it a dead weight; some say it’s a sweeping epic!    I’m betting on dead weight.  Jackman captured “Sexiest Man Alive,” but I think that should have gone to…Obama! Or to Robert Downey Jr.!

My Santa bag of responsibilities feels huge.

You are working on a new look for our site!  How cute!

Bad boy to always contradict your Tammy!  Tammy needs last word every other post. We are getting circular.

I like House. But I don’t like House, I like…Wilson.   Wilson is Dr. House’s alter ego, his good conscience.  Wilson is played by Robert Sean Leonard, who starred in Dead Poets Society. I can’t remember him in that movie—can barely remember the movie, will have to rent it.  Robert Sean Leonard is so good.   He should be Sexiest Man Alive.

Art Gallery Walk awaits. Need shower!    T.

Tam,

Colorado trip did not happen. I still got to be a bit player in a wonderful story of impromptu rescue, as befitting the season. In short, life had suddenly turned nasty and risky for a family. A friend stepped in to orchestrate a rapid and effective turnaround of events. Within a matter of days things went from dire to secure. Many Jacksonites pitched in with eager cheer and generosity. I love Jackson Hole. 

There was time, then, for a little DVD catch-up, then. I gave Smart People a try. Tam, maybe you can help me here. These are not my people, these emotionally suffocated WASPs. How much truth is there to all these family sagas: Ordinary People, The Ice Storm, The Family Stone, The Squid and the Whale? Sure, life is tough all around. But doesn’t anyone ever crack a good-natured joke that everyone else enjoys, the way ordinary people do?

Smart People has its pleasures in its good actors acting well, gamely breathing traces of life into an obvious screenplay that has “heart” injected into it like so much Botox. Add Larry the Cable Guy to the cast and we have the perfect indie flick for Palin-Americans: academics are phonies; pure knowledge is inherently joyless; getting accidentally knocked up is totally awesome; only losers can teach us about real life. 

Appropriately, Thomas Haden Church plays the loser and he sparks every scene he’s in. 

There was an antidote in Joe Strummer: The Future is Unwritten, Julien Temple’s vital, explosive film bio about a vital, explosive artist. Joe Strummer was an enigma.  His native intellect was vast. The punk ethos brought focus to Strummer’s fire; he turned punk against itself — which is really punk — to become an engaged, populist preacher and funny-bitter leftist . . . with guitars.

Strummer instinctively hated stardom on pure principle. So it was a bit of a conundrum for Strummer when he and The Clash became international stars. As rock stars go, Strummer’s arc is unusual; his dramas aren’t in weakness of the flesh but rather in an elusive intellectual hunger. Did he hate the fact that ultimately he made great beer-and-bong music? Post-Clash, he wandered the desert — figuratively then literally — and re-emerged victorious as The Mescaleros. The film’s final cut is “Get Down Moses,” as perfect a song as there is:

Once I got to the mountain top, tell you what I could see,
Prairie full of lost souls running from the priests of iniquity
Where the hell was Elijah?
What do you do when the prophecy game was through?

Temple finesses the social history surrounding Strummer’s era with a sometimes mesmerizing mashup of archival footage, old photos, and didactic political films. The rhythm is stream-of-consciousness, always vivid. (The Future is Unwritten will be quite useful in college history courses.)

Then there are the interviewees. Strummer got to hang with with coolest of the cool: John Cusack, Steve Buscemi, Johnny Depp . . . Brigitte Bardot!

Tam,

Yes, I admit to rudeness. Forgiveness, please. (You have to. It’s The Season™!) It was not a brush-off, just the usual movie-snob malaise.  Ever get so hungry that nothing sounds appetizing? Lately — okay, for the last 35 years — I hunger for the bold, brash kooky question-all-you-believe-in movie. Now, especially, escapist cinema strikes me as wussy. These are trials that time men’s souls, and by men I also mean the ladies of course. Maybe just the ladies.

I want bold earthshaking massive brawling chunks of movie magic thrown at me, scenes that strip the veneer off our common facade to reveal the animalism that is truly what we are. Along with a really good tracking shot, something we can wedge into this.

Which does not explain why I popped Sky High into the DVD the other night. Sky High is easily mistaken for just another colorful, cheery Disney romp. It’s rather subversive, really. Never have so many child safety seats been marshaled into pure surrealism. Sky High is loaded with original jokes about superpowers, every bit as refreshing as The Incredibles. It’s the first movie to blow the lid off of the superhero community’s institutionalized sidekick abuse problem. Kurt Russell gets to play a superhero dad who is a tad shell-shocked and full of himself. His funniest performance ever, I bet. 

Frank Langella’s long and excellent career is hitting a nice high arc right now, what with Frost/Nixon getting a ton of PR. In clips, Langella appears to ace that distinctly Nixonian defensive slouch and beaten-dog glower. Langella — who was a topnotch Broadway talent when he burst into movies as the first overtly bed-able vampire in the 1979 Dracula — made a good grown-up movie last year, Starting Out in the Evening. It’s a strong character study — lots of characters — centered on the aging male writer’s favorite story: gorgeous female student barges into the life of an aging male writer. Why? Not for his bod, no. It’s because he’s so darned fascinating. Happens constantly. Good writing, great cast.

Finally, I Netflix’d Sean Penn’s directorial debut from 1991, The Indian Runner. Impressive, especially if you like family dramas of hope and heartbreak. David Morse and Viggo – Viggo! — Mortensen play farm-town brothers. One’s straight-up, the other is troubled, and there’s too many guns around considering all the stress. The Indian Runner is not light or fun but it’s honest and noble. After watching this and Into the Wild, I think Sean Penn captures everyday, unspectacular America better than any other filmmaker, ever.