Tag: Michelle Pfeiffer

The Fabulous Baker Boys (1989, Steve Kloves)

The Fabulous Baker Boys opens with pseudo-protagonist Jeff Bridges saying goodbye to his latest cocktail waitress one-night stand (always his decision, never hers–Baker Boys is all about taking advantage of patriarchal privilege). Under the opening titles, he walks to work. Baker Boys takes place in Seattle and regularly features its skyline, but director Kloves is careful never to show the Space Needle. Much like its characters, the film exists on the edge of reality.

Bridges plays one half of the Fabulous. Beau Bridges play the other. Beau’s the responsible one who has a wife and kids in the suburbs. Jeff is the love-them-and-leave-them, hard-drinking jazz pianist with a heart of gold (he gives Ellie Raab, the tween who lives upstairs, a safe spot when her mom’s got a fellow over). They’ve been playing piano together for thirty-one years, starting as kids, turning it into a profession. They’ve played all over town for years, and they’re getting played out. No one’s going to clubs with pianomen.

After one particularly disheartening experience, Beau decides they’re going to need to have someone along to sing a song. Cue an amusing (albeit unkind) audition sequence, which starts with Jennifer Tilly’s off-key attempt. Baker Boys appreciates having Tilly (she even gets a special end credit), and she’s a lot of fun. She brings the first lightness to the film. While it’s never too dark, it does… wallow in melancholy at times. Tilly shakes up the momentum nicely.

The audition sequence ends with Michelle Pfeiffer, who can sing, and thus becomes the singer, even though she’s a little too brash for Beau’s tastes. She doesn’t even rate a blip on Jeff’s radar initially, but once they all get performing and realize they’ve found a good thing… he takes notice.

There are some fantastic scenes during this portion of the film. There’s a mix of dismay and exuberance–Pfeiffer’s new to the live entertainment business, excited at various potentials. Beau and Jeff have years of experience and are appropriately downtrodden about the whole thing. They think they’ve hit their peak, not realizing Pfeiffer’s contributions will change their lane. Jeff plays most of his scenes silent and sullen. He’s a tortured artisté (no one says he’s the best jazz pianist in the town, but it’s definitely the vibe, and he’s given that up for Beau, who’s just good). But when Pfeiffer and Beau clash, Jeff gets these twinkles in his eyes, and they add up to character development and chemistry.

Lots of Baker Boys is about chemistry. Jeff and Pfeiffer spend a solid portion of the second act circling each other, trying to find an angle where going for it isn’t a mistake. Beau sees what’s going on and tries to stop it. The sequence where he can’t is spectacular, where Kloves shows off he, cinematographer Michael Ballhaus (it’s such a gorgeous photography job, it’s never not stunning), and editor William Steinkamp’s abilities in an entirely new context. They’ve got light drama, light comedy, and sexy but not tawdry lounge singing down, but they can do so much more.

Baker Boys is a character study. It’s a strange one because despite spending the movie with Jeff, it’s not clear until he and Pfeiffer start alternating clashing and crashing; it’s all about him. The character’s distant from everyone; why would the audience be any different.

But Kloves doesn’t let the sub-genre dictate the format. Even as a straight drama–despite the hot and heavy, it’s not a romance or a romantic drama–there’s time for screwball, there’s time for laughs, for smiles. The first act sets up the Baker Boys, but there’s a lot more to say about them, it turns out, right into the third act. After an unevenly paced present action–the film takes place over any number of months, with New Year’s being around the center–the third act is a few days at most.

Because there’s not a lot to wrap up other than everyone acknowledging the state of their situations. One of the problems is the lack of communication (no one ever points out Jeff being smirking, smoking, or sullen is a significant contributor, unfortunately), and the way Kloves layers in those reveals is exquisite. The characters often argue about something the audience doesn’t know about or know how to contextualize, and Kloves has to get the reveals in just right. Even though the audience can’t know (with some exceptions) how things will hit, the film’s got to be ready to situation them on demand. The thing about the arguments and the character turmoils is they’re fast-paced. When Jeff lashes out to hurt people, he does it rapidly, and Kloves makes sure the audience is never behind.

The acting’s outstanding. Jeff really gets to come into it towards the end of the second act, while Beau plays sturdy support. Pfeiffer deserves those effusive “revelation” statements. There’s not really a cast besides them; hence Tilly is making such an impression.

Outstanding technicals, fantastic Dave Grusin score, The Fabulous Baker Boys is, obviously, fabulous, but it’s also a superb achievement from cast and crew. There’s a lot of exceptional work on display here.

This post is part of the It’s In the Name of the Title Blogathon hosted by Gill of Realweegiemidget Reviews and Rebecca of Taking Up Room.

Frankie and Johnny (1991, Garry Marshall)

Besides the sex scene, set to Rickie Lee Jones singing, “It Must Be Love” (which means Al Pacino sings it later as he gleefully reminisces), Frankie and Johnny avoids revealing too much about the private tenderness between Pacino and romantic interest Michelle Pfeiffer. At one point, he says something to her as their first date is wrapping up, and it convinces her to invite him back to her apartment. We don’t get to hear it; we just watch Pacino gesticulate exuberantly as the music swells, and Pfeiffer just can’t resist him any longer.

Pfeiffer is a New York City waitress who’s had only bad relationships, some very, very bad and others still pretty bad. Pacino’s the new grill cook who focuses on her after discovering she’s Frankie to his Johnny, finding more and more coincidences to suggest they should be together. Pfeiffer remains unconvinced. The film covers their courtship—with detours—before examining whether or not they can actually function as a couple, what with Pacino being obnoxiously extroverted at times and Pfeiffer being guarded.

The film’s got its share of problems. First and foremost, the film presents anything but married with children as abnormal. To some degree, it works as an exaggeration of the societal expectations on Pfeiffer, who starts the film back home visiting and standing up as godmother at a christening, with mom K Callan passive-aggressively whining about not having grandchildren. But it’s still reductive, especially for unmarried, ostensibly lonely waitress Jane Morris. Though that characterization also indicates another problem—director Marshall only knows how to direct so much of the film. When it comes time for Pfeiffer and Pacino to capital A act in close-ups and have hard talks, Marshall gets uncomfortable and either hurries away to montage or throws in a joke.

The jokes aren’t bad—they often involve Nathan Lane, who’s fantastic as Pfeiffer’s neighbor and best friend. He’s gay and has just started dating Sean O’Bryan, something Pfeiffer finds out when she gets back from her visit home, meaning we never get to see Pfeiffer and Lane as friends without him in her life less. Another thing Marshall could’ve leaned in on more.

But for the third act, the only time the stage adaptation (Terrence McNally wrote the screenplay from his play) gets to be stagy, as Pacino and Pfeiffer hash it all out, Marshall runs away from both actors. After opening with Pfeiffer (and a quick clip of Pacino getting out), the film’s heavy on him for the first two acts. After all, Pacino’s got the additional getting-out-of-prison story arc and Pfeiffer’s entirely reactive to him. But in the third act, Pfeiffer’s got to shut down his bravado and charm and stake out the space for her performance. McNally’s script makes the room for Pfeiffer, Pacino arguably makes the room for Pfeiffer, but Marshall doesn’t know how to do it. He doesn’t force more Pacino into the scenes, and avoiding him too makes it weirder.

There’s also the odd issue the only thing cinematographer Dante Spinotti doesn’t shoot brilliantly is sunrise in the city. Spinotti’s exterior street scenes, day and night, are fantastic. His interior restaurant scenes are extraordinary; the talking heads scenes between Pfeiffer and Pacino are gorgeously lighted. But he’s too saccharine in the finish. It’s a disconnect, with Marshall’s unsureness compounding the problem.

But the film’s problems don’t surmount the careful, deliberate, marvelous performances. While Pacino’s bombastic and naturally draws attention, Pfeiffer’s observation of the world around her is even more transfixing. Pacino gets to showboat; Pfeiffer just gets to watch and process that showboating for herself (and the film). It’s an incredible narrative device: even though Pacino’s new to the restaurant and the cast, making him the natural perspective, the film actually uses Pfeiffer’s experience of his arrival. We get to know the cast not through Pacino meeting them (well, except Kate Nelligan, sort of), but in Pfeiffer watching it.

It’s a really nice move, and Marshall does pull it off well. Outside the finale, Marshall mostly knows how to direct to showcase his stars, and, given their excellent performances, it works out.

Nelligan’s another waitress at the restaurant who decides she’s going to hook up with Pacino if Pfeiffer doesn’t get her dibs in soon. Nelligan’s also part of the problematic “married or die” aspect (I mean, so’s Lane), but she gets the time and space to act through it. The supporting cast at the restaurant is all good and often lovable. Besides Morris, there’s restaurant owner Hector Elizondo, Glenn Plummer, and Fernando López. In addition, there are some charming regular customers, like Phil Leeds—another layer of the film is how Pfeiffer, Nelligan, and Morris act as de facto part-time caretakers for their aging customer base.

Frankie and Johnny takes place in a nicer than not world, but it’s all very textured thanks to McNally’s script and Marshall’s enthusiasm for supporting actors.

Pfeiffer and Pacino are the show, though. The film’s about them, specifically their performances; everything else is just there to support them. Well, except in the third act when Marshall needs to step up and doesn’t. They’re great. Problems, potholes, and hiccups aside, it’s a wonderful job from them both (Pfeiffer’s better, just saying).

Lovely Marvin Hamlisch score too.

Scarface (1983, Brian De Palma)

Scarface is a film with a lot of problems. Most consequentially, there’s no character development for Al Pacino; any time there’s ostensibly character development, the film cuts ahead a month or three, or there’s a montage sequence. But the film is incredibly hands-off with Pacino’s character and arc. It leaves Pacino to vamp throughout to keep the energy up. He’s always doing something in the performance, which is simultaneously transfixing and tedious. He’s just making up for director De Palma and screenwriter Oliver Stone’s shortcomings.

It also means he never builds character relationships with the costars, like literal trophy wife, Michelle Pfeiffer (Pacino gets her as a reward for leveling up as a Miami drug kingpin), sister Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, or “best friend” Steve Bauer. Quotation marks because Pacino and Bauer have something like two scenes where Bauer’s not just an accessory. The film tries to bring it all together at the end when Pacino’s being performative about his relationship with Pfeiffer and then later feels regret for not supporting Bauer and Mastrantonio’s star-crossed romance. It’s already too little, too late, but De Palma ignores it so he can do a lackluster action finale. However, ignoring it means ignoring Pacino, whose performance is the only thing keeping Scarface afloat by the finale, so it dings the finish even more than the bad action does on its own.

But the other big problem with the film is De Palma runs out of ideas during the first act. He and cinematographer John A. Alonzo shoot some great crane shots. And then they repeat the same shots. They come up with a transition device. Then they use it over and over again. Except the first time they use the transition device and the crane shots, it’s during Scarface’s infamous chainsaw sequence and nothing else ever as intense. Though the chainsaw sequence isn’t particularly intense either, De Palma gets distracted by a girl in a bikini. Actually, wait, during the first act–when Bauer’s cruising for every girl in a bikini–De Palma’s far more interested in the film (albeit the girls in bikinis). Once the women are more or less dressed, De Palma checks out.

Though some of the problem is lousy cutting from Gerald B. Greenberg and David Ray. Outside the careful and through establishing shots—and De Palma and Alonzo do several great, long tracking shots—the editing is middling at best and sometimes much worse. Pacino’s got a scene where he’s bullshitting his way up the ladder with Bolivian cocaine playboy Paul Shenar and none of the cuts match. Pacino’s shoulders, hands, and body jump between every shot in a single conversation. It’s distractingly inept.

The film’s got three sections: Pacino and Bauer arriving from Cuba and getting established, Pacino working his way up the ladder (at boss Robert Loggia’s expense), then Pacino screwing everything up once he’s made it. The one time Pacino does something good, that single moment sets off his immediate downfall. There are three moments he shows any humanity, and one of them is something they kept in after De Palma called cut, and Pacino and Pfeiffer just had fun for a moment. Otherwise, they never have any fun.

No one has any fun, which the film might be able to do something with if it were willing to close that narrative distance on Pacino, but it never will. De Palma and Stone are incredibly noncommittal and superficial.

Something needs to be said about the soundtrack, particularly the terrible disco songs playing during the club sequences. Giorgio Moroder does the score and produced the songs. The score’s thin, but it’s got its moments, and it’s often at least adequate. If a single one of the disco songs isn’t the dregs of white disco… I must’ve missed it. The songs are really, really bad. So bad they seem like a judgment against the Miami club scene, which—like no one having fun—is definitely something the film could’ve done something with had there been a better screenplay.

Pacino’s acting’s technically superb. It’s all for naught, but he works his ass off. Ditto Bauer. Pfeiffer, Mastrantonio, and Miriam Colon are all fine in the lousy women’s roles. Mastrantonio gets the worst one. Loggia’s a little much but not bad. Shenar’s solid, but it’s a nothing part. Similarly, Harris Yulin and F. Murray Abraham have decent exaggerated cameos.

Excellent art direction and set design, Edward Richardson and Bruce Weintraub, respectively, though it never once seems like anything Pacino’s character would buy, covet, or install. By the final part of the film, when Pacino’s got his mansion—we don’t see his living situation when he’s on the way up because it’d be way too much insight into the character—De Palma’s just showcasing the interior decorating anyway (and showing off how well crane shots can work in mansions). Scarface at least embraces its excesses, for better and worse; it does commit. Just not as much or enough for Pacino’s performance to make the movie succeed.

Ant-Man and the Wasp (2018, Peyton Reed)

Despite being in the first scene in the movie and sharing most of Paul Rudd’s scenes with him, Evangeline Lilly is definitely second in Ant-Man and the Wasp. The film gives her her own action scenes–some truly phenomenal ones–but very little agency. She’s entirely in support of dad Michael Douglas; even after it’s clear Douglas–in the past–was an egomaniac who hurt lots of people, it’s not like Lilly has any reaction to it. Or the film for that matter. During the scene maybe, with Rudd laughing about what a dick Douglas has always been, someone getting very upset remembering how Douglas treated them, Douglas looking bemused, and Lilly looking vacant. There are a few of those scenes and they really define the film’s dramatic qualities.

It doesn’t have many.

It’s got a lot of humorous qualities and a lot of charming ones, but not dramatic. Nothing ever gets as emotionally intense as the first act, in flashback (either straight flashback or dream sequence). Even when there’s all the danger in the world, as Rudd, Lilly, and Douglas race against time to save Lilly’s mother (and Douglas’s wife), Michelle Pfeiffer, from being trapped in the Quantum Zone. Realm. Sorry, Quantum Realm. There’s a lot of quantum things in Ant-Man and the Wasp, it’s hard to keep track.

But the film isn’t about dramatic possibilities so much as good-natured, comedic special effects action ones. There’s this omnipresent theme about parents disappointing children–Douglas and Lilly, Rudd and his daughter (Abby Ryder Fortson), not to mention the villain (Hannah John-Kamen), who’s got her own father issues. But if the film never acknowledges it’s a theme, is it really a theme? The screenplay (by five screenwriters) never worries about it and director Reed really doesn’t narrative echoes. It’s not his thing. His thing is humor and pacing and the film excels at both of them.

Because, even with those five writers–including Rudd–it’s not like there’s much depth to characterizations. Walton Goggins is one of the villains and he’s basically doing a really broad caricature of Walton Goggins being in a Marvel movie as a Southern tech-gangster. Randall Park plays a goofy FBI agent who Rudd keeps on one-upping and it’s even broader. Michael Peña excels with similar treatment; he’s always played for obvious laughs and Peña plays through, fully, successfully embracing it. Goggins and Park act obviously to the joke. Not Peña.

None of the leads have much heavy lifting either. Rudd and Lilly are so adorable–and find each other so utterly adorable–it’s hard not to enjoy every minute they spend together. Douglas is one note, but the script doesn’t really ask for much more. Pfeiffer does more in her two scenes than Douglas does in the entire film. And she doesn’t even do a lot.

Meanwhile, Larry Fishburne–as one of the many people Douglas screwed over in the past–is able to bring some gravitas to his part. He takes it seriously, even when no one asks him to do so.

But none of it really matters because everyone’s really likable, including villain John-Kamen (far less Goggins, who’s nowhere near as funny as he needs to be to warrant so much plot import), and Ant-Man and the Wasp is full of delightful special effects action sequences. Whether it’s when Lilly is shrinking down and growing big to kick ass in fight scenes, flying all over the place, throwing people all over, or when it’s Rudd growing big instead of shrinking down and using a flatbed truck as a scooter. Reed and the screenwriters know where to find every laugh, every smile–it doesn’t hurt Rudd and daughter Fortson have such cute scenes. Opening on Lilly, making the movie about her missing mother, her lost childhood, it almost seems like it’s a movie about daughters. Oh, right, John-Kamen too. But it’s not. It’s about being cute and funny. It’s never even heartwarming when it’s not cute. There’s not much depth to it.

And, for a movie without much depth, it’s an awesome time. The special effects sequences alone–it isn’t just the fight scenes with awesome shrinking and growing effects, it’s sight gags and car chases and everything else (not to mention adorable giant ants). The film’s inventive as all hell. Except with John-Kamen’s villain, who’s not just occasionally invisible, but also immaterial. Her powers make narrative sense, Reed doesn’t visualize them as well as the rest.

By the end of Ant-Man and the Wasp, you want another one. It’s a delightful, thoroughly competent amusement. Even if Christophe Beck’s score is never as good as it seems to be.

Stardust (2007, Matthew Vaughn)

Stardust has a problem with overconfidence. The overconfidence in the CG is one thing, but would be easily excusable if director Vaughn didn’t double down and go through tedious effects sequences. Ben Davis’s photography keeps Stardust lush, whether in the magic world or the real world–but that lushness doesn’t help with the CG. The CG is excessive and exuberent–it’s always supposed to be obvious–it’s just not good enough. The CG, technically, isn’t there.

The other overconfidence is the stunt casting.

The film starts in a prologue setting things up. England. Nineteenth century. There’s a small English town with a nearby wall. No one can cross the wall. There’s a nonagenarian (David Kelly) who wields a staff to keep people away. One day, intrepid young man Ben Barnes crosses the wall and gets seduced by a mystery woman.

Nine months later, he gets a baby. Eighteen years later, the baby has grown into “protagonist” Charlie Cox. Stardust, from its narration (by Ian McKellen, natch), is going to be about Cox embracing his destiny as a hero. Until then, he’s just going to make a fool of himself for town beauty Sienna Miller. Cox wants to marry Miller, Miller wants to marry Henry Cavill. But then they see a falling star and Cox gets Miller to promise to through Cavill over for him if he gets her the star.

Except it’s not just a falling star, it’s also the ruby necklace of the King of the magic world, called Stormhold. Stardust doesn’t get into the nitty gritty, like how can this magical world exist across a wall in England and what would’ve happened to it in the hundred years between the movie’s present action and its release date. Because it’s just fantasy. Vaughn and co-writer Jane Goldman don’t have to take any responsility for character if they keep it just genre.

The scene setting up Stormhold is where the stunt casting starts. Peter O’Toole is the dying king, Rupert Everett is his presumed heir. Presumed because O’Toole’s sons have to kill one another for the throne. The ghosts of the defeated princes hang around and watch the film’s events, sometimes offering commentary. They’re fun ghosts, even if they were all trying to kill one another and the film’s heroes.

In the biggest of the prince roles is Mark Strong. He’s not stunt casting. He’s got Inigo Montoya’s hair and Count Rugen’s personality.

So the star falls. Except since it lands in magic land, it’s not a hunk of space metal, it’s Claire Danes. Stars are sentient and they watch the earth because human beings’ love is unique throughout the cosmos. Vaughn and Goldman’s dialogue, which is so entirely expository it’s an accomplishment, is about as obvious and artless as that sentence. Vaughn seems to think he can get away with it because of Davis’s photography, the CGI, and Ilan Eshkeri’s enthusiastic, original, and not great, not bad score. He’s wrong.

Anyway. Cox finds Danes and kidnaps her. He’s going to let her go after he brings her to Miller. Danes points out the questionable behavior of kidnapping someone for a gift, but Cox doesn’t care. His character to this point is: half-prince of magic land, personal failure (he wasn’t good in school at anything, including fencing), and just fired shop boy. Cox doesn’t even get to dwell on being half-magic. He’s too busy dragging Danes through the woods.

Oh, and Danes has the necklace.

So Strong and the other princes are looking for the necklace. Because O’Toole says they don’t just need to kill each other, they also have to get the necklace.

And then Michelle Pfeiffer is a witch looking for Danes to kill her and eat her heart to make herself young. Pfeiffer’s got two sisters, Joanna Scanlan and Sarah Alexander, who ought to be stunt casting and aren’t. The makeup on the witches is decrepit faces, but not overly so on the bodies. Like Vaughn didn’t want to be too gross. The witches get played for laughs occasionally, so they can’t be too visually unsettling.

Pfeiffer is terrible with Scanlan and Alexander. Maybe she can’t figure out how to act under the makeup. Once she gets out on her own (and out of the makeup), she slowly gets better. By the end of the movie, she’s almost good, even with some makeup back. She has zero chemistry with Scanlan and Alexander, which doesn’t help things.

Of course, Vaughn doesn’t direct for that sort of thing. Chemistry. Pah. Danes falls for Cox after he saves her from Pfeiffer’s inital trap and Danes decides to help him win Miller’s hand, delivering herself as a gift. Because she really, deep down, loves Cox. Danes, I mean. She’s sacrificing herself. It might make sense if Danes had her stars watch earth because of perfect human love monologue early on, but it’s end of the second act stuff. She’s just making poor choices as far as anyone knows until then.

She also has a unicorn for a while.

Eventually Danes and Cox end up on Robert De Niro’s sky pirate ship. De Niro should be Stardust’s stunt casting at its worst. He’s a closest, effeminate, aging, anglophile gay sky pirate. He has to hide everything from his crew of tough sky pirates. They mine lightning to sell to Ricky Gervais (who’s actually the worst stunting casting). They capture Danes and Cox and De Niro confides in the young couple.

He teaches them to dance, he teaches Cox how to sword fight, he does a makeover on Cox, giving him some romance novel cover hair. He also gives them new outfits.

So then they’re ready for the multiple showdowns–Strong and the princes, Pfeiffer and the witches, Melanie Hill’s traveling salesperson witch who has enslaved Cox’s mom (Kate Magowan). But Cox isn’t look for his mom, because he forgot about her once he kidnapped Danes and he never comes back to it.

Cox is a bad kid. No spoilers, but Nathaniel Parker (as the grown-up dad) gets a shockingly thankless part. You’d think being raised by a single dad in nineteenth century small village England would have an effect on Cox’s character, but since he doesn’t get a character until he gets the hair cut… you’d be wrong.

There’s also a thing where Vaughn’s “magical” direction of magic land is exactly the same as his idealized English village. Cox is just traveling through Disney movies, one without magic to one with magic.

Cox never gets to be the protagonist. Top-billed Danes doesn’t either. They both play second fiddle to the bigger name stars, Pfeiffer and De Niro. Where it’s unfair is how Strong gets to do his own thing without Pfeiffer or De Niro and isn’t even a serious antagonist.

Cox and Danes are fine. Their writing is often lousy. De Niro is not fine. It’s an insensitive, if enthusiastic, caricature. Vaughn’s poor direction of actors is most obvious with De Niro. De Niro’s vamping it up and Vaughn directs it all to beg for a laugh. Ha. Robert De Niro is a miserable, closest gay guy who’s worried his only friends will ostracize or kill him if they know he’s gay. But, hey, it’s De Niro in drag.

Then there’s how Danes is a simply damsel, even if she’s an anthropomorphized luminous spheroid of plasma. Cox is the hero prince, even if he’s been passive in every single one of his scenes. Vaughn needed some confidence in his leads.

Stardust is occasionally amusing, when the bad performances and bad writing aren’t too overwhelming. Danes and Cox are quite likable. The movie’s just got a weak script and lacking direction.

1/4★

CREDITS

Directed by Matthew Vaughn; screenplay by Jane Goldman and Vaughn, based on the novel by Neil Gaiman; director of photography, Ben Davis; edited by Jon Harris; music by Ilan Eshkeri; production designer, Gavin Bouquet; produced by Lorenzo di Bonaventura, Michael Dreyer, Gaiman, and Vaughn; released by Paramount Pictures.

Starring Charlie Cox (Tristan Thorn), Claire Danes (Yvaine), Robert De Niro (Captain Shakespeare of the Caspartine), Michelle Pfeiffer (Lamia), Mark Strong (Prince Septimus), Sienna Miller (Victoria Forester), Melanie Hill (Ditchwater Sal), Ricky Gervais (Ferdy), Kate Magowan (Princess Una), Joanna Scanlan (Mormo), Sarah Alexander (Empusa), Jason Flemyng (Prince Primus), Rupert Everett (Prince Secundus), Nathaniel Parker (Dunstan Thorn), Henry Cavill (Humphrey), David Kelly (the Wall Guard), and Peter O’Toole (the King); narrated by Ian McKellen.

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Ladyhawke (1985, Richard Donner)

Two things about Ladyhawke without getting to the script or some of the acting. First, Andrew Powell’s music. It’s godawful; it’s stunning to see a director as competent as Richard Donner put something so godawful in a film. Intentionally put it in a film. It’s silly. It sounds like a disco cover of the “Dallas” theme song at its best and it tends to get much, much worse from that low peak.

Second, Vittorio Storaro’s photography. Not all of it, but the day for night stuff is terrible. Again, it seems like Donner and Storaro should know better, especially since there’s actual fine nighttime photography in other parts. Just not when the film needs it to visually make sense.

Now for the script. The film’s about Rutger Hauer and Michelle Pfeiffer. They were carefree young lovers in Northern Italy after the Crusades, even though lots of people have French names, which gets confusing. I don’t think the location really matters. The evil bishop of this castle and settlement–John Wood in a really lame performance–curses them because he’s a Catholic bishop in the Middle Ages so he’s perving after Pfeiffer. By day, she lives as hawk. By night, he lives as a wolf. Both animals mate for life, something it seems unlikely anyone would know about in the Middle Ages, but the occasionally lamer than it needs to be script feels the need to point out.

But, Hauer’s not the lead and neither is Pfeiffer. Instead, it’s Matthew Broderick. He plays a young thief who escapes Wood’s prison and finds himself basically squiring for Hauer’s knight. He meets Pfeiffer and soon learns their tragic fate. The script doesn’t give anyone enough to do–except Wood and he’s got too much to do given his performance–but there’s a lot of trying. Broderick tries, Hauer tries, Pfeiffer tries. Pfeiffer’s the most successful, not because the writing is better for her, but because the plotting isn’t as bad for her scenes. Just the day for night photography. Hauer has it the worst. Any time he starts to show personality, it’s nightfall and he disappears for a bit.

The music and photography mess up quite a bit of what otherwise seems like a good production. There’s some wonky editing from Stuart Baird, like Donner didn’t get enough coverage, which isn’t a surprise, but it’s mostly fine. It’s not great, but it’s fine.

Leo McKern is all right as the disgraced priest who has the plan to reunite the lovers. Ken Hutchison’s kind of okay as Wood’s henchman. Better than Wood anyway, even if his part’s lame.

Even without the terrible music and the problematic photography, Ladyhawke would still have that script. All it’s got going for it is likability, which Broderick, Hauer and Pfeiffer all have; Donner just doesn’t utilize it. Instead, he relies on the script, the music, the photography and Ladyhawke’s… well, it’s too lukewarm to be a disaster. It should be a disappointment, but there’s not enough wasted potential to be one.

CREDITS

Directed by Richard Donner; screenplay by Edward Khmara, Michael Thomas and Tom Mankiewicz, based on a story by Khmara; director of photography, Vittorio Storaro; edited by Stuart Baird; music by Andrew Powell; production designer, Wolf Kroeger; produced by Donner and Lauren Shuler Donner; released by Warner Bros.

Starring Matthew Broderick (Gaston), Rutger Hauer (Navarre), Michelle Pfeiffer (Isabeau), Leo McKern (Imperius), Ken Hutchison (Marquet), Alfred Molina (Cezar) and John Wood (The Bishop).

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Wolf (1994, Mike Nichols)

Mike Nichols has a very peculiar technique in Wolf. He does these intense close-ups, sometimes zooming into them, sometimes zooming out of them. He fixates on his actors–usually Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer, but all of the actors get at least one intense close-up (except maybe Eileen Atkins). It’s like he’s drawing attention to the unreality of the film medium, which makes sense since there’s a lengthy conversation between Nicholson and Om Puri about mysticism and modern life.

Wolf is a strange monster movie because, even though it’s about Jack Nicholson turning into a werewolf–he gets bitten in the opening titles no less–it’s not a monster movie. For a while it’s a workplace drama, then it’s a marriage drama, finally it’s a romantic drama between Nicholson and Pfeiffer. The film’s present action is extremely limited. It takes place over a week or so (one could probably easily chart out the days), but the filmmakers sell the roller coaster romance between Nicholson and Pfeiffer.

On the topic of those close-ups of Nichols’s, they wouldn’t be possible without Giuseppe Rotunno’s photography. Wolf is a beautiful looking picture; Nichols and Rotunno have these wonderful reflections in the car windows. They’re stunning. And having Ennio Morricone’s score over them–just great.

All the acting’s good. Pfeiffer gets the third act to herself and is fabulous. Nice supporting work from Kate Nelligan, James Spader, Christopher Plummer.

I’m not even sure Wolf’s a horror movie; it’s more a supernatural drama.

The Family (2013, Luc Besson)

I don’t know if the best description for The Family is confused or confusing. Besson is doing a mob “comedy” with Robert De Niro ostensibly spoofing his more famous mob movie personas, only the film isn’t exactly funny. De Niro thinks the violence he enacts upon others is funny, but he’s a psychopath. I think Besson’s got to get it-he even goes so far to do an unbelievably big Goodfellas thing with that film’s audience clapping for De Niro after he talks about the good old days of being a mobster in New York.

Only Besson doesn’t really draw attention to it. He takes the time for it, he does the work, he just doesn’t help the viewer along. Such muted commentary just makes the film slightly hostile.

De Niro’s fine in the lead. Even though the cast is outstanding, Besson jumps around so much De Niro actually doesn’t get to spend a lot of time with the principals. He and Michelle Pfeiffer have a couple really nice moments; mostly De Niro just plays off Tommy Lee Jones as his FBI handler.

Pfeiffer’s awesome, she gets two subplots to herself. In one, her Catholic arc, Besson plays with how absurd humor works. He sort of breaks it apart and looks at it.

Dianna Agron and John D’Leo are both excellent as the kids. D’Leo’s got more fun stuff to do, with Agron having the film’s most dramatic arc.

Lovely Thierry Arbogast photography as always.

The Family‘s a surprise success.

2.5/4★★½

CREDITS

Directed by Luc Besson; screenplay by Besson and Michael Caleo, based on a novel by Tonino Benacquista; director of photography, Thierry Arbogast; edited by Julien Rey; music by Evgueni Galperine and Sacha Galperine; production designer, Hugues Tissandier; produced by Besson, Ryan Kavanaugh and Virginie Silla; released by Relativity Media.

Starring Robert De Niro (Fred Blake), Michelle Pfeiffer (Maggie Blake), Dianna Agron (Belle Blake), John D’Leo (Warren Blake), Jimmy Palumbo (Di Cicco), Domenick Lombardozzi (Caputo), Stan Carp (Don Luchese), Vincent Pastore (Fat Willy), Jon Freda (Rocco) and Tommy Lee Jones (Robert Stansfield).

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Batman Returns (1992, Tim Burton)

Batman Returns is one of those films I always hope will end a little differently. Tim Burton gets such wonderful performances out of Michael Keaton and Michelle Pfeiffer, their penultimate scene always has this glimmer of a different outcome. There’s so much energy between the two actors, such rich characters, it’s tragically unfair they don’t make it.

Keaton and Pfeiffer–actually, more Pfeiffer and Keaton–take up a quarter of Returns’s glorious mess. Burton and screenwriter Daniel Waters don’t have a natural way to tie all of the film’s plots together and they don’t bother trying to find one. Pfeiffer’s Catwoman is the connective tissue, in a lot of ways, to the villains, Christopher Walken and Danny DeVito. Keaton’s Batman just gets thrown in the mix from time to time. Trying to imagine a plot chart for Batman Returns… I think of spaghetti.

But, like I said, Burton doesn’t try to fix that problem. He just makes it the best spaghetti he can. For every plot problem, there’s some amazing visual or wonderful little moment or maybe just DeVito. DeVito’s performance is spellbinding. He creates a villain who’s without humanity and the lack is part of his performance’s appeal. It’s funny.

Great performances, wonderful music from Danny Elfman, beautiful Stefan Czapsky photography, Bo Welch’s amazing production design.

Burton creates a space for these grotesque, complicated, beautiful characters to play with one another. He loves them and doesn’t care if the viewer doesn’t.

Batman Returns is a singular motion picture.

Dark Shadows (2012, Tim Burton)

With Dark Shadows, director Burton and screenwriter Seth Grahame-Smith find a great formula for humor in the film, which has a lot of inherent humor in just taking place in 1972 and having vampire running around.

While it’s very much comedic, Burton infuses it with a surprisingly dark element. But Johnny Depp’s lead isn’t the evil, of course; instead, it’s Eva Green’s witch.

There’s a lot of good acting in Shadows, but Green’s the most impressive. She delights in the character’s evil, but never makes her unenjoyable to watch.

Depp gives a strong performance, making his vampire both tragic and comedic. He makes the character cute, even when he’s doing bad things. Jackie Earle Haley’s part is too small, but he’s very funny as Depp’s drunken sidekick. Bella Heathcote–who gets lost a little in the script (Shadows could go on quite a bit longer)–is good, as is Gulliver McGrath as her charge.

Both Michelle Pfeiffer and Helena Bonham Carter are excellent, playing to the humor in the film in different ways. They have a fantastic scene together. It’s short, but simply fantastic.

The only unimpressive performance is Chloë Grace Moretz. She’s adequate, but lackluster compared to her costars.

The Bruno Delbonnel photography is excellent; Burton’s got a great look for the film, though the CG is a tad shiny.

Oddly, Danny Elfman’s score is nowhere near as compelling as the seventies rock soundtrack.

Despite a couple third act missteps, Shadows is a very pleasant, extremely likable surprise.

2.5/4★★½

CREDITS

Directed by Tim Burton; screenplay by Seth Grahame-Smith, based on a story by John August and Grahame-Smith and the television series created by Dan Curtis; director of photography, Bruno Delbonnel; edited by Chris Lebenzon; music by Danny Elfman; production designer, Rick Heinrichs; produced by Graham King, Johnny Depp, Christi Dembrowski, David Kennedy and Richard D. Zanuck; released by Warner Bros.

Starring Johnny Depp (Barnabas Collins), Michelle Pfeiffer (Elizabeth Collins Stoddard), Helena Bonham Carter (Dr. Julia Hoffman), Eva Green (Angelique Bouchard), Jackie Earle Haley (Willie Loomis), Jonny Lee Miller (Roger Collins), Bella Heathcote (Victoria Winters / Josette DuPres), Chloë Grace Moretz (Carolyn Stoddard), Gulliver McGrath (David Collins), Ray Shirley (Mrs. Johnson), Christopher Lee (Clarney), William Hope (Sheriff) and Alice Cooper (Alice Cooper).

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