Those old enough to remember the McMartin trial, the most expensive criminal prosecution in Los Angeles history (at the time), will understand the reality of Thomas Vinterberg’s The Hunt. Members of the McMartin family, falsely accused of sexually abusing students in their daycare, spent years in prison until finally exonerated. The Hunt transplants the American moral panic to a small Danish town, exploring in maddening detail how a few mistaken words from a child can turn a community upside down. Mads Mikkelsen plays Lucas, a soft spoken kindergarten teacher in his early 40’s, still recovering from a traumatic divorce. Students respond to him, attracted to the child-like manner he exudes. It’s not that Lucas isn’t able to relate to adults, his circle of friends is robust, it’s just that he’s starting over again. Klara, the imaginative five-year-old daughter of Lucas’ best friend, creates a strong bond with him in her head. He is the stable, kind alternative to her tumultuous family life. She falls in love with him in that confused, cute way children do and kisses him on the lips. Angered and embarrassed by Lucas’ rebuke of her gesture (he kindly explains to her the inappropriateness of her actions), Klara conflates an incident with her brother’s friend to insult Lucas – relating sensitive information to the principal about Lucas’ private parts. This misunderstanding sets in motion a series of devastating events that send Lucas’ life into a spiraling hell of alienation, contempt and eventually violence. The power of The Hunt is our knowledge of Lucas’ innocence and the empathy it creates within us. How should the principal react? Even if she’s prone to imagination, how could Klara know such sensitive information? As an adult and the head of a kindergarten, it’s her job to protect children from predators. Isn’t it prudent to believe the child first and foremost? It took psychologists a little too long in America to figure out that children will admit to almost anything if you lead them to the confession. Child witnesses corroborated absurd accusations in the McMartin trial because law enforcement filled in the details for them. There’s a wonderful scene with a specialist who, even after Klara denies anything happened, coerces her into implicating Lucas by directing her along the way. Klara just wants to go outside and play, the quicker she tells him what he wants, the quicker she can leave. Mads Mikkelsen (from Hannibal: The Series) won Best Actor at the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. His understated portrayal of Lucas is heartbreaking, we want him to lash out at his accusers, proclaim his innocence from the mountaintops but he holds it all inside. Until, I should say, he finally stands up for himself in a deeply satisfying scene at a grocery store he’s been banned from. The film rests on Mikkelsen’s shoulders and even though it gets bogged down in contrivance a little here and there, Mikkelsen never waivers. The ending of The Hunt, although satisfying in its own right, is a little too easy. It robs the story from a powerful climax, choosing instead to pay off a conspicuous character moment from earlier. Still, Vinterberg’s drama is an engrossing story, carefully constructed, well acted and worth your time if you can find it....

The documentary Blackfish, which takes its title from the Canadian Aboriginal term for orcas, chronicles the 2010 tragic death of Sea World trainer Dawn Brancheau by the troubled killer whale Tilikum. I remember the official story being that Tilikum, distracted by Dawn’s ponytail, pulled her underwater until she drawned but I didn’t follow the situation through to the end. It turns out that Sea World’s official account of the tragedy may not exactly be true. In fact, it’s a complete spin job blaming “trainer error” to make sure water park customers still see the orcas as safe, cuddly creatures worth purchasing in plush doll form. Unfortunately, they’re called killer whales for a reason. Gabriela Cowperthwaite’s documentary traces Tilikum from his brutal capture, to his inhumane treatment at a second-rate water park in Canada – where he was forced to spend the majority of his time floating in a small tank in complete darkness – and finally to Sea World. The incident in 2010 was hardly an isolated incident. Tilikum had a history of lashing out, whether out of frustration, aggression or psychosis no one can officially say. What can be shown is that Sea World was well aware of his history but put him on display anyway (and used his semen to breed a high percentage of their whales – due to international law against hunting them, the gene pool is drying up). According to former trainers (all but one of whom are now activists against orca captivity), no one was informed of Tilikum’s prior issues. The financial benefits outweighed their own personal safety. Blackfish makes the compelling case that not only is housing these animals in small tanks for human amusement wrong, but the organizations doing so continue regardless of the real dangers involved. Killer whale assaults on park trainers are a common occurrence. It should be noted, as the film does, that there isn’t a single report of a killer whale attacking humans in their natural habitat. In the wild, orcas are remarkably intelligent, highly social, emotional mammals with specific cultural constructs and possibly different languages. Snatching them from the water and cramming them into small tank causes a myriad of problems. Raking (where one literally rakes their teeth across the other), confused social orders, sun burns, diseases, etc. make performing at water parks a miserable experience for them. So much so that the average orca lives to be around 30-years-old in captivity, and despite what Sea World may say, in the wild they can live up to 100 years. I wondered when I was younger why the male killer whales I saw at Sea World had collapsed dorsel fins when pictures of them in the ocean always yielded erect ones. Science doesn’t know exactly but damned if it isn’t the perfect metaphor for the orcas’ broken spirit. Much of the live footage in Blackfish is devastating. If you’re not moved by a mother killer whale screaming in pain, desperately trying to communicate with its young as it’s being stolen or moved, it’s time to hit up the Wizard for a heart. The mark of a good documentary is its point-of-view and the knowledge, or at least the impression, that it’s playing fair with its facts. Showing video of Tilikum gushing blood after a female orca raked him is powerful in and of itself, but is Blackfish bending the truth to fit a preordained agenda? That doesn’t seem to be the case. The only real argument for maintaining the water park status quo is financial – Sea World makes too much damn money to knock it off. That this is the issue here is pretty straightforward and obvious because even if Tilikum pulled Brancheau – one of the best trainers around – underwater by her ponytail (he didn’t, he dragged her underwater by her arm, swallowing it whole and mauling her to death in the process) isn’t...

Based on the true story of a movie studio trying to make a buck, The Conjuring is one of the best made stupid movies I’ve ever seen.     BATMAN SCALE OF FILM...

I tossed and turned in bed all Saturday night wrestling with Ryan Coogler’s Fruitvale Station in my head. Perhaps I should recommend it for that alone. Isn’t that what art is supposed to do? I don’t remember losing any sleep over Pain & Gain. This is a very difficult movie to review because it’s impossible to seperate it from the real life incident it fictionalizes. That seems to be the intention of the filmmakers as Fruitvale Station opens with actual cell phone video footage of the event and closes with Oscar Grant III’s daughter Tatiana at a rally for her father in 2013. For those unaware, in the early morning hours of New Year’s Day 2009, Grant was shot in the back on a BART platform while lying face down by Oakland police officer Johannes Mehserle. Meserhle (whose name has been changed in the film) claims Grant was resisting arrest and when he saw Grant reaching for his waistband, Meserhle mistook his pistol for his taser. Grant was unarmed. The officer was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter and sentenced to two years minus time served. Upon the release of the verdict, protests and small riots broke out all over the greater Oakland area. Fruitvale Station is the dramatized account of that fateful New Year’s Eve, the last in Oscar Grant III’s life. As a keenly observed, brilliantly acted human tragedy it’s one of the best films of the year. As the socially poignant call for justice it strives to be, it feels slightly disingenuous. Or at least unsure of its statement. Maybe it’s the details of the case, or my personal perception, but the film diverges too heavily into polemic by the end. That’s part of the Catch 22 of embellishing or omitting key elements of a true story when creating a narrative account. I should report that the audience I saw it with – a packed house in West Los Angeles – probably disagrees. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house (including mine) when the lights came up. What I appreciate most about Frutvale Station is the filmmakers’ decision to present Oscar Grant III warts and all. This is not an angelic martyr of social injustice but a conflicted human being sorting through the beginning of adulthood. When we first meet Oscar and his girlfriend Sophina (played with subtle force by Melonie Diaz), they’re arguing over an affair Oscar claims to have ended. He promises to be there for her and their daughter Tatiana. Unfortunately, he’s lost his job for being late. While picking up seafood for his mother’s birthday, he begs his ex-boss for his job back – going so far as to borderline threaten him. It doesn’t work. His only real option to pay the rent now is to sell drugs to an old connection. Having already done a stint at San Quentin for possession, that’s not what he wants to do, but what else is there? Much of December 31st, 2008 is concerned with Oscar’s attempt to make amends for previous transgressions – to be better to his girlfriend, daughter and mother – even though the odds are against him. Michael B. Jordan plays Oscar with an admirable ease, fully convincing us that he’s the living, breathing contradiction most 22-year-olds are. What a revelation. Not that fans of The Wire or Friday Night Lights will be surprised. His performance never waivers and that’s precisely why the last act of Fruitvale Station is so devastating. When that gun goes off, it hurts. Deeply hurts. Few on-screen deaths are this affecting and that’s in spite of the fact we know it’s coming. As Oscar fights for life in the hospital and his family and friends pray for his survival, we’re emotionally right there with them – hoping in vain against the inevitable. There are a few scenes that skew into novice territory, specifically: a) some of...

Everything about Nat Faxon and Jim Rash’s The Way, Way Back wants to be set in the 80s. From the “vintage” cars, to the clothing, to the location, to Sam Rockwell’s exceptional mining of Bill Murray’s wise man-child mystique, we’re half expecting a boat race to solve the plot complication. That’s fine with me because I happen to have a warm feeling for coming-of-age summer flicks from the Reagan Administration and The Way, Way Back doesn’t require a nostalgic whimsy to be enjoyed. 14-year-old Duncan, played with the right amount of pathetic by Liam James, is stuck in hell – a family summer vacation at the beach house of his mother’s condescending louse of a boyfriend. Steve Carrell plays against type as the kind of insecure weasel that purposefully degrades Duncan to keep himself as “the man” in Duncan’s mother’s life. It doesn’t help that Duncan’s mother (Toni Collette) is basically lost. She’s still licking the wounds of a fresh divorce and too afraid to move on in life on her own. Duncan knows this but at 14, what is he supposed to do but bare it in silence? That’s exactly what he does, enduring one embarrassing situation after the next. The “adults” around him are children with wrinkles and the children his age are oblivious ego machines. The only saving grace might be the alcoholic neighbor’s daughter who seems to exist on a similar wave length but it’s not like he’s confident enough to approach her. It’s going to be a long summer. Well it was, until he stumbles into a water park run by Sam Rockwell. It’s here, in Act 2, where The Way, Way Back develops into a winning coming-of-age story. Prior to Rockwell’s introduction, the set-up is entertaining enough but feels a little too familiar, save for the scene-stealing presence of Alison Janney. Rockwell is no doubt familiar too (you know, Bill Murray in Meatballs and all) but his character is so enjoyable, so effortlessly endearing it doesn’t matter. Even though the plot, written by Faxon and Rash, follows a terribly predictable pattern (i.e. first love, standing up to his mom’s boyfriend, etc.) Rockwell’s presence elevates the material to that rare sublime state where we know where it’s going but it’s so much fun we don’t care. Rockwell could be, and probably should be, looking at a Best Supporting Actor nomination in February. He owns every frame like Robert Downey Jr. in Tropic Thunder or Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids. The only caveat here is that Carrell’s given a short shrift. His character has one note (douchebag in the key of me) and since the story wants to repair the fractured relationship between Duncan and his mother, he’s little more than a static villain. Other relationships are so well observed that the material feels like it should be a little more inclusive of the group as a whole. That being said, it’s a tiny regret that may be idiosyncratic to my taste. The Way, Way Back is a delightful, genuine effort that succeeds on almost every level. You could do a lot worse with your film-going dollar....

I haven’t read Max Brooks’ novel but I assume it had something the cinematic version doesn’t; an ending. Oh and a story. It probably has one of those too. The film adaptation, starring Brad Pitt and directed by Marc Forster has neither. What it does have is a few well constructed sequences of a mayhem, one or two nifty effects shots and a whole lot of unfocused meandering. If that’s enough to satiate your entertainment appetite then World War Z could be your movie. If you’re interested in character depth or competent plotting then I suggest you watch 28 Days Later again and save the price of admission. The movie starts out well enough. We’re given maybe five minutes before the excrement finds its way to the fan in the form of a zombie attack on Philadelphia. I kind of appreciated that. In fact, the first half an hour effectively grabs your attention. Part of that is the charismatic screen presences of Pitt and Mireille Enos of television’s The Killing fame. The two make a compelling duo for the little time they’re given. Pitt plays a former United Nations special agent who’s left his position to be a stay-at-home-dad. This information is adeptly given while fighting off an onslaught of computer generated undead warriors. Even though everything in World War Z is familiar to the point of exhaustion, the set-up is so expertly handled we don’t care. The problem is, by the middle we realize it’s taken so much time with zombie attacks, most of which are massive computer generated swarms of bodies, that there simply isn’t enough time to connect any complicated dots or develop a story with interesting twists. Zombie attack. Plot information. Zombie attack. Plot information. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. With the exception of an Israeli soldier, the secondary characters are introduced, give Pitt the necessary exposition to move him to another location and then die. There is virtually no character momentum at all. Even the massive displays of zombie carnage get tiresome after a while. The infected fodder never actually look real. They don’t feel like they occupy the same space as the flesh and blood actors. In the beginning, we’re willing to forgive them (much like the awful CG in the first Spider movie), but as the movie progresses they become animated annoyances. Ants circling a discarded crumb. David Morse is introduced in Korea as a former CIA something-er-rather. He gives Pitt a piece of information and then disappears – for good. He’s not part of a conspiracy. He doesn’t tie into the initial infection outbreak. He’s just toothless and bitter and in the mood to data dump some back story. How nice of him. I refuse to believe that Max Brooks spent no time on these details. World War Z‘s story makes Night of the Living Dead look complex. I understand the production was troubled and boy does it show on screen. Everyone involved is better than this. And then there’s the ending. Wow. Nothing pays off. Nothing you expect or want to come back around does. The final five minutes of World War Z is one of the all time great forfeits in film history. If you thought the last act of I Am Legend was bad, and it is, then wait until you get a load of World War Z. There isn’t a third act. The movie wraps things up at the end of the second act and calls it a night. The real problem here is the lack of a villain that isn’t the zombies themselves. That certainly can work, and there are many examples where it does, but World War Z wants to be a global event with a localized terror but doesn’t know how. 28 Days Later effectively turned human nature into the ultimate figurehead of evil, World War Z is more interested in showing computer generated masses than...

Years ago, I was privy to a certain network screening of a new “reality” show that thankfully never made it to air. The production only reached the pilot stage on the promise that Paris Hilton would occasionally guest star as an auxiliary personality, showing up just enough to warrant her presence in the marketing campaign. While the rest of the cast struggled to find even a vague semblance of believability, Hilton was a composed veteran. The caricature she’d created was so polished that everyone around her seemed laughable by comparison. In their defense, the premise, situations and relationships were absurd to begin with. Having spent very little attention on Ms. Hilton, I had naively chalked her up to another entry in the fame-whore, celebrity-for-the-sake-of-celebrity ethos. What I rather quickly realized during that dreadful screening is that not only is she adeptly playing a part, but she keeps an ironic distance from it. So too does Sofia Coppola in her new film The Bling Ring, based on a highly publicized group of teenagers that burglarized a series of celebrity homes in 2008. That Paris shows up briefly and allows herself to be satirized via her home, furthers my assertion that she’s been playing her part with a wink the whole time. The characters in The Bling Ring have yet to pick up on the wink. They’re consumed by the vapid Los Angeles culture of dance clubs, fancy cars, designer fashion and mountains of narcotics. It doesn’t help that their parents, seen sparingly, are self-absorbed creatures unto themselves. These kids come and go as they please, with whomever they want, with little to no interrogation. What do you expect? Emma Watson plays Nicki, a wannabe disciple of Paris, who’s mother home schools her and her sister based on the teachings of The Secret. She starts every morning with a prescribed dose of Adderall and rolls her eyes through self-help inspired lessons about being the best you. Though I assume this setup is penned by Coppolla as an addendum to the real events, I loved the skewering of ridiculous liberal religions. It’s so apropos of the “universe wants me to be successful” milieu that cultivates and justifies behavior like this. Nicki’s friends with Rebecca, a star-struck kleptomaniac who’s transfixed by the rush of thievery and the short term riches it facilitates. Both Rebecca and Marc, the new kid in town, attend a school dedicated to students with behavioral issues – she substance abuse, he anxiety-induced attendance issues brought on by a disappointment in his aesthetic worth. Rebecca talks Marc into breaking into Paris Hilton’s house as a lark, which he reluctantly agrees to. Thanks to the help of Google and blogs like Perez Hilton, the two soon find themselves trespassing on any celebrity’s home they know to be out of town that night. What started out as a whim of adventure, turns into the means of securing a lifestyle they’ve long envied but couldn’t create. It’s here where the movie loses much of its steam. It meanders through too many break-in sequences, repeating the same party scene and shopping spree. It becomes fairly clear by the middle that The Bling Ring lacks a strong narrative structure. It’s almost as if there wasn’t enough material to reach feature length so Coppola fills that dearth with mood, mood and more mood. This is a reoccurring element of Coppola’s work – of which, I’m an admirer. I adore Lost in Translation but I freely admit there’s very little story. I would argue that in the case of Translation, lengthy divergences into the Japanese nightlife compliment the picture. Here it feels like padding. Fortunately, once the gang is caught, the film finds its footing again and delivers a note-perfect resolution in the character of Nicki, and the performance of Emma Watson. The only lesson learned is how to turn her newfound celebrity status as a criminal...

Underwhelmed by Man of Steel like I was? Go to IHOP, Carl’s Jr or KFC instead. Buy a Gillette razor. Join the National Guard. Eat some Twizzlers. Do some laundry with Tide. The possibilities are endless!

What is there to say about a movie that features both a coked-up Michael Sera and a thousand foot demon with a swinging appendage the size of the Eiffel Tower except two points for audacity. This Is The End is a drug-fueled, man-child bromance as envisioned by John of Patmos and the head of the product placement department at Sony Pictures. An eschatological romp that, unlike the Left Behind series, has the presence of mind to take the evangelical holocaust of nonbelievers with its tongue planted firmly in cheek. Jay Bachurel is back in town to smoke weed, play video games and eat at Carl’s Jr with his childhood friend Seth Rogen. Bachurel isn’t much for the Los Angeles lifestyle, or the new show business friends he’s been replaced by. However, after a little cajoling, he tags along to a housewarming party at James Franco’s house where everyone from Rihanna to Emma Watson are in attendance. A 9.5 earthquake soon hits, sending the house guests into a hell pit outside and Rogen, Bachurel, Franco, Craig Robinson and Jonah Hill inside for refuge. With limited supplies, increasing chaos outside and the threat of internal collapse from Danny McBride, the stranded caricatures do their best to survive. With a movie like this, the only real question is whether it’s funny or not and barring equal amounts of tedium and hilarity, This Is The End is mostly amusing. It stutters when relying too heavily on tired pot jokes or bodily fluids but finds inspired silliness when dealing with the onslaught of earthquakes, demons and Danny McBride. I enjoyed its willingness to lampoon not only every actor involved (or their filmographies) but its gleeful descent into the absurd. It’s like a Kirk Cameron fever dream of what the end times will be like for the poor sinners of the thirty mile zone. Except that instead of a strict adherence to theological doctrine, the basic notions of human decency are required to gain access into heaven. Unfortunately, this being Hollywood, there’s little of that to go around. One of my favorite running jokes is the satirization of cinematic self-sacrifice as a shorthand for valor. Having been in so many movies, that’s the only way these actors can relate to the higher aspirations of the human spirit. A little indulgent to be sure, but very...

Now You See Me is pretty decent until the end. Rotten Tomatoes gives it 2.5 stars and a rating of 46%. I’ll give it this, it’s entertaining. I enjoyed myself while recognizing the entire time how bad it is. The tricks, as extravagant as they are, feel cheap in the way they propel forward a story we have to guess at. The subplot (that I can’t tell you about) is never actually explained so I felt a little cheated by the reveal. Four magicians are given tarot card invitations to enter into something like a secret pact. They don’t know who chose them, but they do know why – because they’re awesome. They spend a year preparing and then open a show in Vegas wherein they hypnotize, do card tricks, basic illusions, yadayada – until the first grand finale in which they “rob a bank” in Paris. Pretty cool. Mark Ruffalo and some French blonde from Interpol are brought in to solve the case. Ruffalo is PISSED about it. He never lets up from the grumpy pants attitude the entire time, to the point where I started to wish he’d Hulk out and be done with it. Enter Morgan Freeman as the guy that reveals magicians tricks via DVD to make money because he has some kind of grudge against magicians. They’ll explain that to you, kind of. Morgan takes The Hulk and the blonde through the entire sequence of how they did it. Which really makes the caper anticlimactic, but clever in how it’s pulled off. I was a little bummed to learn the trick, I have to admit. Maybe it’s in the way they did the reveal – a point by point lesson in straightforward deception. In one of the worst expository subplots I can remember, the blonde detective decides to do a little research on the history of magic so she can “get into their minds” (as if) and comes up with a “really clever” reason for their chicanery. Can’t they just be a bad group of magicians that want to steal and play Robin Hood? No, that can’t be the reason. Instead, there has to be some really ridiculous explanation that is in no way connected to anything plausible. And by golly if she isn’t right. Well The Hulk ain’t buying it because that’s just silly talk and he’s gonna get them for playing tricks on him! Like, he is really adamant about getting these guys at any cost. For someone who wanted nothing to do with the case to begin with, the whole thing feels kind of lazy. Let me tell you what else feels kind of lazy. Smashing a love story into the middle of this entire thing between two people that have zero chemistry on screen. I hate it when a movie has to add that element for the sake of, what? It didn’t help here, Summit Entertainment, knock it off. The story follows all the basics in screenwriting requirements (see above love story) and throws in as many twists and turns as possible (like who IS Morgan Freeman anyway and what side is he actually on?) whether they make sense to the storyline or not. Which is infuriating at times (read: the end). The acting is fine. If you hate Jesse Eisenberg on a regular day, you’ll extra hate him here. Woody Harrelson plays the likeable scuzball he always plays. Isla Fisher smiles a lot and is pretty. Mark Ruffalo squints through his dialed in grump fest. You know, the performances you would expect from each actor. It’s the implausible stupid freaking storyline they came up with to explain the reason we’re watching this movie to begin with that has me in a huff. It’s so lazy. And to top it off – that thing the blonde detective was right about – they NEVER explain what or why or how. We’re...

As a conflicted admirer of Woody Allen’s Manhattan, I feel compelled to begin this review admitting the obvious influence. Not because I delight in making the reference, but because I think director/writer Noah Baumbach and writer/star Greta Gerwig intend to remind us of it. How can they not? It’s shot in black and white, follows the lives of intellectuals (or a close proximity thereof) in New York and mirrors Allen’s classic so closely it’s as if they intended it as fan fiction. Frances Ha is certainly Manhattan‘s inferior when it comes to the visual palate, not that it’s trying to match it per se. Manhattan is a love letter to New York, but Frances Ha bests Allen’s classic, in my opinion, on the character and story level. Not just because I get skeezed out when seeing Allen and Hemmingway together, but because the relationships are more sympthathetic, focused and redeemable. Baumbach’s direction is strong, but the strength of Frances Ha is Gerwig’s performance. She’s proud but embarrassed, hopeful but afraid, charismatic enough to be one of your close friends but troubled enough to lovingly worry about her. She embodies the wayward post-grad, Millennial modern woman so effortlessly it’s weird to see her credited under a different name. I wouldn’t be surprised to see her rightfully nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actress. She’s that good. Though it is much more, Frances Ha is a tale about friendship and the stunted growth of one partner who bases too much of her adult life on a college relationship with her friend. How refreshing it is to see women at the center of this story, as opposed to men hopelessly sleeping around from one girl to the next, moping about meaning. Frances and Sophie are best friends, they share an apartment, platonically sleep together and spend the majority of their lives amongst each other’s company. When Sophie decides to move in with someone else because the place is closer to what she’s always wanted, Frances is forced to separate from her and discover who she is on her own. New York is both a foreboding and hopeful character here. The tiny bars and expensive apartments are a frightening necessity for Frances. Her friends may be able to afford lavish (to a point) living spaces but as a struggling dancer, she can barely make the rent. At the same time, the “if I can make it here, I can make it anywhere” refrain of Sinatra’s ode to the Big Apple resonates in the distance. If she can accept herself as an entity separate from her best friend, Frances has the potential to succeed – but can she? That’s the question here and I won’t spoil the answer, but suffice it to say, if you’re familiar with Baumbach’s other work, the resolution isn’t that simple. However, for the first time I can remember, it’s well defined. Frances Ha is one of the best movies of the...

Parties at Joss Whedon’s place must be an absolute pleasure. Intelligent, pretty people bantering about, dressed in finely tailored suits and gowns, drinking fine wine and basking in the serenity (no pun intended) of a glorious evening. The film Much Ado About Nothing however, based on the classic Shakespeare comedy and shot over a 12 day period at Whedon’s house, is a little more like your friend mangling a report about what a great time he had. You should’ve been there. There’s been much ado about Whedon modernizing the play and right off the bat we’re shown Benedick leaving Beatrice alone in bed. The implication diverges in an encouraging way but soon we realize that outside of location and costumes, not much else has will be updated. The characters speak the Bard’s words verbatim (with few exceptions), creating a strange juxtaposition between the modern visual context and the Renaissance sensibility of the source material. The blocking and dialogue exchanges feel more like actors practicing their lines at home before performing them theatrically at a later date. I wish the film had followed the lead of its opening scene. Outside of for the sake of doing it, I can’t figure out why the decision was made keep the original dialogue, references and themes intact. The characters presented don’t embody them in an way. Alexis Denisoff’s Benedick is about as much a war hero as Amy Acker’s Beatrice. Both are amiable enough in their roles, Acker especially. They’re not Branagh and Thompson, but if they were Branagh and Thompson, the same objections would apply. It’s not their fault. If you’re going to modernize Much Ado About Nothing, why not update it with more than revolvers, swimming pools and automobiles? It’s not like satirizing patriarchal double standards is more difficult in 2013 than it was 400 years ago. It may not be acceptable to strangle your daughter to death for an affair (in the Western world anyway), but the same hysteria exists. In the interest of fairness, I should point out that it’s a relatively harmless experience. The black and white is gorgeous, the actors are having a great time, the direction is slick and Nathan Fillion’s hilarious Dogberry is almost worth a recommendation on its own. I realize that, to many people, this review will come off as little more than me not getting it. That’s fair, but I wanted to like this, I really did. I’m a sucker for directors gathering friends to make passion projects over a weekend or two. I just wanted Much Ado About Nothing to establish itself as more than a whim. Rated PG-13 – Limited release in NY, LA and San...

A film directed by M. Night Shyamalan based on a story by Will Smith. It’s about as good as that sounds.