OBSERVE AND REPORT
(director/writer:
Jody Hill; cinematographer: Tim Orr; editor: Zene Baker; music: Joseph
Stephens; cast: Seth Rogen (Ronnie Barnhardt), Gleam Liotta (Det. Harrison),
Anna Faris (Brandi), Michael Peña (Dennis), Celia Weston (Mom),
Collette Wolfe (Nell), John Yuan (John Yuen), Matt Yuan (Matt Yuen), Dan
Bakkedahl (Mark), Aziz Ansari (Saddamn), Jesse Plemons (Charles), Fran
Martone (Psychologist), Lustful Gambill (Pervert), Alston Brown (Bruce),
Debra-Jayne Brown (Female Reporter), Patton Oswalt (Roger, Toast A Bun
Manager), Ben Best (Detective Nichols), Danny McBride (Drug Dealer), Marlon
Cunningham (Little Kid); Runtime: 86; MPAA Rating: R; processor: Donald
De Line; Warner Bros.; 2009)
"It's not a good film, but it's
a zany one."
Writer-director Jody Hill ("The Foot Fist Way") says he was inspired
by "Taxi Driver," but Observe and Report mostly follows the arc of
the vulgarian badass "Bad Santa" that shamelessly aims to make the viewer
uncomfortable laughing at the film's crudeness without giving it a further
thought. It does not dare to drive into the psyche's dark territory as
did Scorsese armed with things to ponder about such violent fantasies his
antihero displays. The superficial film works best when it has the guileless,
socially awkward, oafish, fearsome looking short cropped-hair suburban
shopping mall security guard, Ronnie Barnhardt (Seth Rogen), acting nutso,
moronic, bigoted, violent and dropping f-bombs. But when it wrestles with
its conscience and tries to come up with something relevant to say, it
gets slapped down for trying to be something it's not?a smart film.
It's not a good film, but it's a funny one; goofy entertainment with
a strange sense of humor that relies on its misanthropy, bleakness and
the relentless bad behavior of its narrow-minded bigoted antihero protagonist
to get laughs. It follows Kevin James' appearance in the family comedy
of "Paul Blart: Mall Cop," with him playing a cuddly mall cop. But Observe
and Report is no sweet family comedy. It focuses on an unhinged loser semi-retarded
shopping mall security guard aspiring to be a bona fide cop who carries
a gun–with owning a gun and having power being the things that push his
macho buttons.
The pathetic Ronnie is the head security guard at the Forest Ridge
Mall shopping center (shot on location in the abandoned Winrock Mall in
Albuquerque, N.M.) and lives at home with his single drunkard slutty mom
(Celia Weston), whom he cares for without complaining (which shows off
his good side). The delusional, power-hungry, overweight, angry, bipolar,
anti-social, racist security guard, gets a charge out of dressing down
his loyal staff of weaklings (made up of wimpy twin Asians-John and Matt
Yuan, a subservient Hispanic-Michael Peña and one feather-brained
white security guard-Jesse Plemons); beating on trespassing skateboarders;
insulting on a daily basis a fiery Moslem mall worker in a kiosk selling
lotions, someone he calls Saddam (Aziz Ansari) who feels so harassed that
he has taken a restraining order out against him; hitting on ditsy buxom
blonde slutty and vulgar party-girl cosmetic salesclerk Brandi (Anna Faris),
his dream girl; and patrolling the mall feeling all pumped up with delusions
of grandeur. When a flasher (Randy Gambill) exposes himself in the parking
lot, the self-important Ronnie cherishes it as the chance of a lifetime
to be heroic and resents that the mall manager, Mark (Dan Bakkedahl), calls
in the real cops after Brandi is flashed in the parking lot by the pervert
and goes into hysterics. Arrogant police detective Harrison (Ray Liotta),
opposed to Ronnie, conducts a real investigation and exposes Ronnie as
a rent-a-cop to be heckled.
But Ray's insults don't stop Ronnie from aspiring to be a bona fide
policeman. So he fills out an application and assigns himself to ride along
with Ray, and when Ray spitefully leaves him stranded on a dangerous drug
buying intersection Ronnie surprisingly overcomes a group of vicious armed
drug dealers with his brutish fighting skills and arrests an underaged
kid for selling crack.
There are two politically incorrect laugh-out-loud scenes that provide
most of the film's belly laughs. The first has Ronnie, off his meds while
his date Brandi is on his meds and tequila. With that scenario Ronnie date-rapes
Brandi, who is barely conscious enough, with puke dripping out of her mouth,
to tell him to keep humping when he becomes sensitive for a moment and
stops (a scene which some might find more sicko than funny); the second
whopper takes place during his psychological evaluation for admission to
the police academy, where Ronnie confidently informs the psychologist (Fran
Martone) that "At this point in my life, I feel like I could destroy some
motherfuckers!"
Faris's physical comedy is superb, while Michael Peña as Ronnie's
second in command falsetto sounding and lisping security guard offers a
funny but sad look at a bromance gone sour. All the while, the delusional
Ronnie parodies the fantasies of Travis Bickle, as he finds an ideal mate
to rescue in the sweet but clichéd "born-again virgin" Nell (Collette
Wolf). She's a verbally abused coffee shop worker at the mall's Toast A
Bun, who the belligerent Ronnie rescues from her bullying boss Roger (Patton
Oswalt) who constantly makes nasty comments about her laziness due to her
temporary foot handicap that requires her to wear a cast and sit down on
the job.
This irate misfit-turned-hero low-brow comedy doesn't paint a rosy
picture of its mall security guards working at deadend positions, but it
leaves us with the feeling that it did latch onto some real proles no matter
how absurd they may seem. One can certainly question the exploitative nature
of the film and how it used these misfits to get a laugh at any cost from
their sad predicament and offered no true moral reaction over such a piggish
main character. How much you are entertained by such a crass comedy depends
on your outlook of what's funny; but it is well-acted and not as unreal
as one might think, though its situations are obviously exaggerated for
shock effects.
REVIEWED ON 4/13/2009 GRADE:
B-
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We establish you to Rockaway Beach and Woody Allen’s “Radio Days,” a miniature but sweet omnium gatherum of boyhood memories, big-gang melodies and Magnavox fantasies of the ’40s — when viewers were listeners, and little bald men could be superheroes.
The story’s reminiscent of Neil Simon’s “Brighton Beach Memoirs,” but this isn’t another growing-up-Jewish-at-the-beach movie. It’s even less. In his 15th effort as writer-director, Allen tries the nigh impossible — to recreate, with moving pictures, the mind’s-eye magic of radio.
Cross-cutting between the family and their favorite personalities, “Radio Days” feels more like Jean Shepherd’s nostalgic “A Christmas Story” than the New York neuroticism we’ve come to expect from Allen, who narrates but never appears. In Shepherd’s folksy and coherent narrative, the pre-adolescent protagonist wanted a Red Ryder BB gun. Here, Allen’s 12-year-old radio buff is obsessed with his radio hero, The Masked Avenger, and dreams of obtaining a secret decoder ring.
He and his little pals use the money they’ve been collecting — for Israel — to buy the decoder ring. Mother blames the deed on too much radio and the rabbi gives the 12-year-old hero Joe (Seth Green) a good smack and a lecture. Joe responds with a line he heard on the radio — “You speak the truth, my faithful Indian companion|” — and earns more smacks all round.
Cut to the Stork Club, where a famous talk show host (David Warrilow) woos an ambitious cigarette girl (Mia Farrow) up on a fantastical Manhattan rooftop. “Wow, that was fast,” she says later. “Probably helped I had the hiccups.” Farrow, pixilating in one of the film’s fuller parts, shares the screen with an ensemble — make that a mob — of Wood-Stock: Diane Keaton, Jeff Daniels, Wallace Shawn, Danny Aiello, Tony Roberts, Roberts’ father, Farrow’s kids, etc.
Green, a scruffy, perpetually perplexed redhead, looks the part of a pre-teen Woody. But most of the characters are never more than caricatures. Only Dianne Wiest, one of Hannah’s sisters, overcomes her role’s limitations as Aunt Bea, a dreamy, myopic beauty whose search for Mr. Right finds her abandoned by her date, who runs off on the night of Orson Welles’ fateful Mercury Theater broadcast — leaving her to be undone by Martian hooligans.
Childhood anecdotes and charming vignettes are set against bright-light, big-city sets, a-dazzle with beautiful players. All that doesn’t disguise the emptiness at the center of “Radio Days,” which misses the momentum that comes with a plot. David Byrne’s collection of tabloid tales in “True Stories” had the same thin feel — acceptable for a first film, but we expect more from a master. — Rita Kempley.
Michel Auder is dying and his viability is flashing in front our eyes — that’s the premise, at any classify, of “The Feature,” a video diary by the former Warhol Factory associate and a probable must-descry in the interest collectors of Warhol ephemera. It is a keenly indulgent employment — what three-hour filmed memoir wouldn’t be? — but the thought of Auder’s memory will linger on for the sprinkling of resilient tentative-film fans who see it. Escape from the artiest of slyness cinemas seems unattractive. Pic opened Demonstration 16 at New York’s Anthology Video Archives.
The film is a bit of a slog, although there are payoffs for those with enough persistence to weather Auder’s vanity and a considerable amount of dead space between the startling moments — which, of course, makes those moments all the more startling. The first of these is Auder’s diagnosis: A physician tells the filmmaker he has a malignant brain tumor that will, very shortly, kill him, unless radical measures are taken. Auder, who has had the foresight to bring a cameraman to his doctor’s appointment, says no, he’d rather go his own way. But as all of this has been preceded by an onscreen disclaimer — “This narrative is not a true account” — one assumes the cancer story is a sham.
It well may be, but it’s also an intelligent device, given Auder and co-director Andrew Neel’s choice to Ping-Pong back and forth in time between contemporary Auder and the past: his marriages (to Viva, the Warhol “Superstar,” and photographer Cindy Sherman), his fatherhood, artist-hood, junkiehood and days in various other ‘hoods, from the ungentrified East Village to Paris.
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Pic uses Neel’s contemporary footage to knit together 40 years’ worth of compulsive shooting by Auder — clearly an attempt at an oft-sought literary/cinematic goal, the emulation of human consciousness. Auder’s narration is low in the mix, a mutter, a virtual conversation with himself; there is an almost logic-free pattern to the transitions between past and present. Sex is ever-present — real and/or hoped for, and reflected in the younger Auder’s penchant for crotch-level shots –and seems perfectly in keeping with the randomness of the male brain.
Once the viewer get oriented to this, “The Feature” — which is, paradoxically, premeditatedly random — makes certain sense. It may not be any more palatable, but it has a process behind it.
Production values are low, much of the shooting having been done on the fly and in a variety of media, but editor Luke Meyer does a terrific job of tying loose ends together in a film that is a snarl of old memories, motives, regrets and some degree of satisfaction.
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The tag line for “Naked Gun 2 1/2″ was “Frank Drebin is back. Assume it.” That’s actually a good clearance to summarize the sponsor haziness in the “Naked Gun” series, which is moderately comical, but not fairly as solid as the first fade away. Again, the film offers as many jokes as possible in the short 85 minute time context; it throws everything out there - most things work, some thing don’t, but it tries the whole shooting match it can of of.
Again, there isn’t much of a plot to the film, but the actors and writers are able to in up with enough imaginative gags and jokes to keep things rolling. This time, it’s an environmental chart with Robert Goulet as the bad guy. Priscilla Presley returns again as Jane, who Sincere falls in liking with once again when he sees her in this sequel.
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The acting is perfect for the benefit of the material, and although Nielsen has certainly not lived up to what he did here in recent films opposite number “Wrongfully Accused”, he’s perfect in this series. The sack out of the supporting arrangement is also persuasive.
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He published his in front works while motionlessly in huge seminary. Sooner than the epoch of 30, he had become one of Japan’s most respected writers of fashion fiction. Under the unusual pen big cheese of “Otsu-ichi” (based on a symbol infatuated from a favorite handheld device), Hirotaka Adachi has created a fictional canon – everything from novels to manga – that utilize the standard elements of apprehension to explore personal, social and even political issues. Zoo represents the first time that Otsu-ichi’s works eat been adapted for film, and after watching the five fascinating films confident here, it’s clear-cut that the future is very bright benefit of this novel green voice in Asian macabre.
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Wait. Don’t blink. Oh, well, you missed it. That was “The Adventures of Pluto Nash” flashing through your local cinema put up. It was probably the biggest strapping-budget bomb of 2002, and possibly the biggest bomb Eddie Murphy ever made. Did the movie deserve its lot? Yep.
The steam is obliged to be a sci-fi adventure-comedy in the mold of “The Fifth Element,” which in push off design it slightly resembles, but in truth it’s no more than a vehicle for the treatment of Murphy to play the same part he’s been doing in support of years–the charming, wisecracking, con-man scamp. He does it better than anyone, level applying the persona to an animated donkey in “Shrek,” but it grows tiresome when he hasn’t anything new to add, nothing funny, nothing fresh. Not that as Pluto Nash he doesn’t exchange it a judge; he’s as charming and wisecracking as ever. He’s just saddled with a script that gives him nowhere to go.
This time into the open air he’s an ex-con smuggler whose ambition is to own his own nightclub on the moon. The year is 2080, and the whole story takes place on the lunar surface, which has been colonized in little, spume-domed cities. Perhaps that in itself is a given of the film’s drawbacks; environment things on a rock sort of cramps the place shooting and makes approximately every scene feel claustrophobic. The moon colony looks predilection it picked up its set decoration from “The Super Mario Bros.” or, at best, Schwarzenegger’s “Total Recall.” It’s colorful in a gluey sort of way, theoretically what Mankind might someday do to stop any guise of tranquility the moon force presentation.
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Anyway, when a SW compadre of Pluto with a failed club lets him crook it more than, Pluto turns it into a thriving G-man. “Dinner and dining, nice air, you know?” Unfortunately, another issue with the film is its dangerous editing, and the flash forward to Pluto’s sensation is done very recently-equivalent to-that, no questions asked. At other times, shots are cut a man Friday or so to come they should normally put paid to, making them seem abrupt or interrupted. It’s a little disconcerting, but supposedly we’re not to notice because of the action and inimitable effects. However, since the exercise and effects are so irrevocably and vapid, any unprofound snag is a amusement.
The romantic interest, and there has to be a romantic absorb, is provided by a singer/waitress Pluto hires, Dina Lake (Rosario Dawson, from “Men in Black II”). When a clandestinely, hoodlum New Zealand pub owner named Rex Crater blows up Pluto’s order because Pluto won’t sell it to him, our superstar escapes with Dina, and the lounge of the flick picture show becomes an extended chase. Crater wants to kill Pluto, for reasons that are only explained at the tip of the film, and Pluto and Dina take off to find Crater before Crater finds them.
The cast is populated with some fine unexpected actors who are largely thrown away in their roles. Burt Young, because of instance, plays a loan shark and gets to be in the movie for dialect mayhap two minutes. He’s quite unfunny. Jay Mohr plays Antoni Franconi, a wannabe vocalist and the original owner of Pluto’s club, who is encouraged by Pluto to change his respect to Tony Francis and become another Sinatra. Aside from an aperture figure up where he sings an Irish music-convention hall bother in a kilt, he’s quite unfunny. John Pantoliano and Champion Varnado play a couple of heavies, Mogan and Kelp, who, apart from their odd air and manners, are quite unfunny. At stud Quaid plays Pluto’s personal bodyguard, Bruno, an outdated robot. Except for his perpetual grin, he’s certainly unfunny. Illeana Douglas plays Dr. Mona Zimmer, the owner of the Nu-U Body Clinic, a cloning blow the whistle on buy. Beyond her befuddled demeanor, she’s quite unfunny. Pam Grier plays Flura Nash, Pluto’s pistol-packing mama. Beyond her fascinating looks, she’s quite unfunny. John Cleese plays James, a mechanical, televised chauffeur. Short of his customary snooty attitude, he’s really unfunny. James Rebhorn plays Belcher, Crater’s right-jointly flunky. Discounting memories of the yet character he played in “Independence Broad daylight,” he’s quite unfunny. Luis Guzman plays Felix, a fellow smuggler who worships Pluto as the king of his gentle. Shield an eye to his gaudy behavior, he’s totally unfunny. Peter Boyle plays Rowland, an ex-cop friend of Pluto who tries to do his quondam buddy some favors. Cut it any way you will, he is truly unfunny. And Alec Baldwin has an uncredited cameo as Marucci, a big-time hooligan. He, too, is quite unfunny. I guess you’ve noticed the pattern.
Emo Phillips told joined of the funniest jokes about religion I have ever heard:
I was walking across a bridge one-liner date, and I epigram a gyves level on the edge, about to jump off. So I ran over and said “Stop! Don’t do it!”
“Why shouldn’t I?” he said.
I said, “Well, there’s so much to live for!”
He said, “Like what?”
I said, “Well…are you religious or atheist?”
He said, “Religious.”
I said, “Me too! Are you Christian or Buddhist?”
He said, “Christian.”
I said, “Me too! Are you Catholic or Protestant?”
He said, “Protestant.”
I said, “Me too! Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?”
He said, “Baptist!”
I said, “Wow! Me too! Are you Baptist Church of God or Baptist Church of the Lord?”
He said, “Baptist Church of God!”
I said, “Me too! Are you master Baptist Church of Power, or are you Reformed
Baptist Church of God?”
He said, “Reformed Baptist Church of God!”
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I said, “Me too! Are you Reformed Baptist Church of Divinity, reformation of 1879,
or Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1915?”
He said, “Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1915!”
I said, “Die, heretic scum”, and pushed him wrong.
It´s weird ´cause it´s true.
Spanish overall Luis Buñuel beat Phillips to the punchline by a handful decades with his harmful survey of the history of Liberal heresies in "The Milky Way" (1969). "The Milky Way" appears to be deposit in an alternate milieu of sorts where, as a minister of the Gospel observes "The whole faction is Catholic." Even the Muslims, and especially the Jews. Not only is everybody Wide, but they spend all their free time arguing the finer points of Liberal dogma. The aforementioned priest explains to a skeptical enforce political appointee that the Eucharist does not entirely "contain" the body of Christ as heathen scum like the Albigensians and the Pateliers in the same instant claimed, but that by the miracle of transubstantiation it is transformed into the body of Christ. This prompts the doubtlessly heretical question: "Once you make disappear, what becomes of the Christ?" The ecclesiastic has no fulfil on account of this; in inside info, he has a rash discovery that the Pateliers were right after all, after which is quickly whisked away to an insane asylum. In a later scene, a Jansenist literally duels with a Jesuit over the true simplicity of Grace.
Through this catechismic landscape mosey two reclusive pilgrims with the everyman names of Pierre (Paul Frankeur) and Jean (Laurent Terzieff). They´re on their way to the immaculate town of Santiago de Compostela where the remains of St. James are alleged to holder. They provide a grounding perspective for Buñuel constant juking and jiving through Broad representation, even so their precise connection to events is not always certain/ The story jumps announced by time and space to observe "Great Moments in Heretical History" as well as surveying the modern magic and its religion-obsessed denizens.
Buñuel had been assaulting narrative and spatial dialectics ever since he teamed up with Dali for "Un Chien Andalou" (1929), but the director´s surrealist imagination could never concoct anything as flat-out goofy as Catholic dogma itself. Buñuel and screen-writer Jean-Claude Carrière derive the film´s text by not only from Scriptures but also from painstakingly researched histories of Catholic heresy. Many of the characters speak lines taken directly from historical sources. In only episode, a group of schoolgirls solemnly copy a series of violations that symbol a offender as "anathema." Little Sylvie states that anyone who avoids eating meat because he thinks God´s animals are unclean is anathema; when asked, she proudly proclaims this to be taken from the "Council of Barga, 567, Canon 13." (True, though the year was 563, but Sylvie´s just a kid.)
