Tag: Jane Fonda

Fun with Dick and Jane (1977, Ted Kotcheff)

Every once in a while, Jane Fonda will say a line just right and Fun with Dick and Jane will be, well, fun for a moment. Not a long moment. Sometimes it approaches funny, sometimes it’s just fun. But it’s something. Because fun and funny are in short supply in Dick and Jane. Somehow the ability to do a ninety-five minute situation comedy escapes the collected creatives of Dick and Jane, mostly spectacularly the three writers—David Giler, Jerry Belson, Mordecai Richler, who want you to like lead George Segal for his racist, bigoted tendencies and to abhor the displays of humaneness around him—director Kotcheff, who can’t direct the simplest scene without screwing it up, editor Danford B. Greene, who manages not to have a single competent cut in the entire film.

I left cinematographer Fred J. Koenekamp and composer Ernest Gold off that initial list because they’re not glaringly inept like the writers, the director, and the editor. But the film would obviously be better if they’d replaced Gold with the generic Black funk they have during the minorities get together and slack-off while working third shift scene because it’s the seventies and it’s funny but not racist funny but, you know, if you want to read it that way, Dick and Jane will sell you your ticket too.

And Koenekamp’s not good but what’s he going to do, somehow miracle Kotcheff into being able to compose a shot. I mean, maybe it is Koenekamp’s fault, maybe he did tell Kotcheff the film was using a very special Panavision Panaflex where you couldn’t place it anywhere slightly interesting. Or maybe Kotcheff’s direction is just terrible.

Latter seems most likely.

But then it’s not like the acting is anything good either. Fonda’s far better than George Segal, whose comedic performance somehow gets lost because of how Kotcheff doesn’t shoot him and then however Greene ruins the edit. The script’s jokes are fairly simple; setup and punchline. Only Greene somehow fumbles every single punchline. Yes, he’s cutting between one terrible Kotcheff shot to another, but… I don’t know, cut more of the bad shots and make it move faster.

Because for ninety-five minutes… Dick and Jane is a sludge of a picture. The first act, which has Segal getting laid off and trying to navigate unemployment as an upwardly mobile White man—he momentarily teams up with Hank Garcia, who was also fired from Segal’s company; Garcia was the custodian, Segal a veep—is painfully unfunny, with Segal trying to be as elitist, racist, and bigoted as he can get away with because… privilege is good? I’m sure Dick and Jane thinks it’s making a statement about corporate America or something but it’s really just about entitled White people being terrible.

What else.

Oh, Ed McMahon. If you’ve never gotten to see Ed McMahon try to act, it’s a rare—what’s a good antonym of delight—it’s a rare agony. In some ways it’s like Kotcheff has directed the whole movie around McMahon, trying to force the movie to encompass his inept acting, which just drags everything else down with it.

Or, maybe, Kotcheff just does a really bad job directing and there’s no one around to save the day in post.

It’s not like there are any better subplots to rely on, as everything—including Sean Frye as Fonda and Segal’s kid—disappears. Though maybe it was a deal with the MPAA: the kid had to go once Fonda and Segal start robbing places for laughs.

I guess Fonda’s got some great outfits, courtesy Donfeld (did she get to keep them, I wonder) but James Hulsey’s production design is hideous. The movie’s an eyesore.

Fun with Dick and Jane is anything but.

Better Living Through Chemistry (2014, Geoff Moore and David Posamentier)

Given its ninety minute length and having Jane Fonda perform the comically explicit narration, it might be easy to dismiss–or just describe–Better Living Through Chemistry as a genial amusement. Certainly lead Sam Rockwell can do this role in his sleep. He's a small town pharmacist in a bad marriage (Michelle Monaghan is great as the controlling wife); his father-in-law runs his life, his teenage son is starting the awkward years, no one takes him seriously.

Except unhappily married trophy wife Olivia Wilde.

What actually makes Chemistry so different is how writers-directors Moore and Posamentier seem to have no idea what they're doing. There are all sorts of tangents the film goes on, all sorts of great little moments between Rockwell and Monaghan then later Rockwell and Harrison Holzer (as his son). It's all over the place, with the affair between Rockwell and Wilde ostensibly the foundation of the narrative.

Only it's not. It's a device to go into a series of rapid comic set pieces–as Rockwell tumbles out of control, only everything turns out to be regimented. All of these set pieces go well, thanks to Rockwell and his abilities in both physical comedy and just lovably obnoxious. There's no heavy lifting for the actors in Chemistry, except maybe Holzer, but strong, assured performances in a well-written, if unambitious picture, isn't a bad thing at all.

Nice supporting work from Norbert Leo Butz and Ken Howard rounds things off.

Chemistry is controlled and it's calculated and it pays off well.

2.5/4★★½

CREDITS

Written and directed by Geoff Moore and David Posamentier; director of photography, Tim Suhrstedt; edited by Jonathan Alberts; music by John Nau and Andrew Feltenstein; production designer, Heidi Adams; produced by Joe Neurauter and Felipe Marino; released by Samuel Goldwyn Films.

Starring Sam Rockwell (Doug Varney), Olivia Wilde (Elizabeth Roberts), Michelle Monaghan (Kara Varney), Norbert Leo Butz (Agent Andrew Carp), Ben Schwartz (Noah), Ken Howard (Walter Bishop), Jenn Harris (Janet), Peter Jacobson (Dr. Roth), Harrison Holzer (Ethan Varney), Ray Liotta (Jack Roberts) and Jane Fonda (Jane Fonda).

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Nine to Five (1980, Colin Higgins)

Besides being extremely funny and rather well-acted, Nine to Five has a lot of narrative problems. The story isn’t a mess exactly, because there’s not enough story for there to be a mess. Higgins and co-writer Patricia Resnick have an idea (Jane Fonda, Dolly Parton and Lily Tomlin are suffering secretaries) and not much else.

Fonda’s technically the star as her subplot has some drama and gets resolution with the son of a bitch ex-husband. Parton and Tomlin have lives outside the film’s main plot, but they aren’t part of the film. Parton gets two scenes, Tomlin only one. Higgins and Resnick get a lot of mileage out of those scenes–both for Chekhov’s gun or just texture for the characters.

Parton’s surprisingly appealing, Fonda’s good and Tomlin’s just great. But none of them are anywhere near as good as Dabney Coleman as their heinous boss. He manages to be equal parts familiar, odious and hilarious. Sadly, although the film’s thirty years old, workplace gender equalities haven’t really improved by leaps and bounds.

The narrative problems throw the film’s pacing off quite a bit. Getting through Fonda’s first day at the office takes twenty minutes, which sets the pace for a while, but the second half is summarized (if not abbreviated).

Under Higgins’s assured direction, Nine to Five shows a sitcom concept can work as a movie. More, it can be funny, insightful and rather well-acted.

About the only thing off is Charles Fox’s goofy score.

Barbarella (1968, Roger Vadim)

In terms of badness, Barbarella is phenomenal. One could spend his or her time on the gender politics–someone must have in the last forty years. The film takes place in a post-gender future, where Jane Fonda’s titular character is the most relied upon person in the galaxy. However, the president (Claude Dauphin) spends the entire time he’s giving her a mission ogling her.

A few costume changes later–director Vadim’s approach to the film is to undress Fonda, put her in something scanty, tear off those scanty closes, get her undressed and then repeat–there’s some exposition explaining future sexuality. Fonda, and the boring people of Earth, are also post-sex. Luckily, Fonda comes across a real man, Ugo Tognazzi, who shows her the way.

Those sociological aspects aside, Barbarella‘s a complete bore. While the sets are enormous, they’re ineptly realized. Claude Renoir’s photography contracts them even more. Vadim’s direction is atrocious–he has dead space at the sides of his Panavision frame, can’t direct the sci-fi aspects, can’t direct the conversations, can’t even figure out head room. Barbarella would be funnier in its badness if the writing weren’t so terrible.

As the lead, Fonda’s bad, but she’s nothing compared to the rest. Tognazzi’s laughable, but John Phillip Law and Anita Pallenberg are much worse. Milo O’Shea is rather funny, presumably intentionally. One just feels bad for David Hemmings though, especially in those tights.

Barbarella‘s only surprise is its last line, a sublime (albeit obvious), profound observation.

0/4ⓏⒺⓇⓄ

CREDITS

Directed by Roger Vadim; screenplay by Terry Southern and Vadim, based on the comic book by Jean-Claude Forest; director of photography, Claude Renoir; edited by Victoria Mercanton; music by Bob Crewe and Charles Fox; production designer, Mario Garbuglia; produced by Dino De Laurentiis; released by Paramount Pictures.

Starring Jane Fonda (Barbarella), John Phillip Law (Pygar), Anita Pallenberg (The Great Tyrant), Milo O’Shea (Concierge), Marcel Marceau (Professor Ping), Claude Dauphin (President of Earth), Véronique Vendell (Captain Moon), Serge Marquand (Captain Sun), Catherine Chevallier (Stomoxys), Marie Therese Chevallier (Glossina), David Hemmings (Dildano) and Ugo Tognazzi (Mark Hand).

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The Morning After (1986, Sidney Lumet)

The Morning After is an awkward combination of thriller and adult drama. As a thriller, with Paul Chihara’s enthusiastic and bombastic score, it’s frequently annoying. Jane Fonda can scrub a crime scene of every thread of evidence, but the simple things–like dropping a succeeding lie or leaving all her personal belongings for the police to find–escape her. Lumet’s direction, which makes full use of the frame in a somewhat unique three dimensional manner (Fonda hides on the right, out of sight from the pursuer on the left or hiding behind truck on the lower right, unseen by the pursuers above her), is competent while unsuccessful. It can’t surmount the script’s absurdities or that awful music.

There’s also the matter of the frequent extreme long shots, featuring Fonda walking from one side of the frame to the other, usually in front of a building. Those I can’t even begin to understand.

The adult drama angle of the film, alcoholic failed starlet Fonda finds the hint of a human connection with friendly bigot (he’s friendly in his bigotry) Jeff Bridges, works considerably better. Lumet’s direction of those scenes, when they aren’t doubling for suspense, is quite good and rather effective. I spent a lot of The Morning After marveling at Fonda’s ability to overcome the material. She and Bridges have a decent chemistry, but her drunk scenes are bleak and wonderful. One of the few things the script gets right is its detail to her (drinking-related) behaviors and the logic she operates under.

The script’s major conceptual problem (besides the wrong-headed–it’s got that L.A. corruption angle too–cobbling of two incompatible ideas) has to do with the script’s ambitions. The Morning After is practically a concept film–the opening titles only credit three actors, Fonda, Bridges and Raul Julia, and they aren’t kidding. It’s practically a stage play. It might even work better as a stage play, as the constraints would make it more interesting. But as a thriller, the constraints just make it weird. While the cops are after Fonda and she’s worried she’s a killer or there’s a killer after her, she takes the time to put on make-up and flirt with Bridges. The movie wastes about eleven minutes on this scene, which is only there for developing that adult drama aspect.

Another big problem is understanding what Fonda’s doing. The viewer can’t understand what she’s thinking because he or she is supposed to be considering the possibility Fonda killed someone, but it frequently gets to the point where her actions are baffling. Fonda’s character is a clumsy drunk; it’s always clear when she’s been drinking. So her relatively sober actions tend to make less sense than her drunk ones. A strange dichotomy.

But it’s worth watching for Fonda’s performance, even if Bridges is just along for the ride and Julia can’t make his poorly written character work. Fonda gets through all the absurdity, making it all palatable, and comes out great at the–similarly goofy–ending.

The China Syndrome (1979, James Bridges)

Silly attempt at a Pakula-style paranoid thriller collapses under its own importance. Michael Douglas stars in the film–probably one of his first high profile roles–and produces it too. China Syndrome proves who’s responsible for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (if it wasn’t Kesey) and it isn’t Douglas. Syndrome doesn’t have a firm protagonist, it starts focused on Jane Fonda’s reporter (who exists in a situation not dissimilar to Anchorman, down to the parties) and then moves over to Jack Lemmon. Lemmon does a good job, but he’s hardly got anything to work with. He eats sandwiches a lot. At least Fonda has a pet turtle.

Since the film’s so heavy–and not even in a misdirected way, it’s all about the evils of big business–that it needs some humanity and doesn’t have any. Why bother saving Southern California from a nuclear disaster if it’s only filled with corporate heels and terrible Michael Douglas performances. I should have had some idea, of course, since I’ve seen Bridges’ most famous film, The Paper Chase. It too is full of shit, but almost nothing can describe how full of shit The China Syndrome truly gets. The end is laugh out loud funny.

However, Wilford Brimley shows up and does a great job. It’s his first movie, actually. Or one of them. Wow, poor guy. He was only fifty-one in Cocoon. Talk about getting type-cast early.

Oh, reading on IMDb. Richard Dreyfuss was originally going to be in it, then common sense intruded. The China Syndrome is really a case of too many writers being involved in a project and none of them being good. Bridges is a decent enough director, just can’t write compelling human conflicts.