FILM REVIEW: ANOTHER YEAR

Mary (Lesley Manville) in Another Year.

Leigh light

By John Esther

In the latest film by esteemed British writer-director Mike Leigh (Naked; Vera Drake; Happy-Go-Lucky), the family unit is tight but woe to those surrounding it.

Gerri (Ruth Sheen) and Tom (Jim Broadbent) make for a happily married couple of many years. They have a son, Joe (Oliver Martman), who comes to visit mum and dad on occasion. He is not married and neither are Gerri and Tom's unstable friends, Mary (Lesley Manville) and Ken (Peter Wright), whose chronic imbibing only makes them less charming than when they are sober. Unmarried Mary and bachelor Ken are rather envious of Gerri and Tom, though Mary is far more obvious about it. She is so desperate to be a part of the family she flirts hard with Joe and when he brings an adorable girlfriend, Katie (Karina Fernandez), one autumn day – to the surprise of his parents -- Mary is rude to Katie. Fortunately, Katie can hold her own, which makes Mary look even stupider.

Broken into seasons, Another Year is marked by typical traits of a Mike Leigh film: solid direction, snappy dialogue, solid acting from many Leigh regulars, and characters who never know when to shut up. Unfortunately, this is nowhere as good as his other films. It might be Leigh's worst film. That is not the worst thing you can ever say about a film by a filmmaker as efficient and prolific as Leigh, but it is disappointing. Some of the dialogue is contrived, especially an exchange between Mary and Tom's brother, Ronnie (David Bradley), which is downright exasperating. And Manville's performance as ditzy, disheveled drunk is way over the top.

However, in a season full of films with distressed couples (Little Rose; Rabbit Hole; Blue Valentine; The Tourist)) and lonely people (Aftershock; Black Swan; Somewhere; Biutiful; True Grit) filmgoers searching for a happy family in a film – beyond those Hollywood Little Fockers films – do not need to wait another year.

FILM REVIEW: BLUE VALENTINE

Cindy (Michelle Williams) in Blue Valentine.

Love, rage and blood beneath the surface

By John Esther

Once upon a time in Super 16mm, 25mm lense, handheld camera land, Dean (Ryan Gosling) and Cindy (Michelle Williams) were sort of happy. Compelled by his unwavering belief that Cindy was the one, Dean courted her in quite the charming manner, took a beating because of her (if he only had a cell phone), assumed co-responsibility in raising a child not his own and married her. For her part, Cindy gave up her current boyfriend, Bobby (Mike Vogel), and any potential or real ambition she had because of Dean. While they had their moments of despair they each made each other so happy. How could Dean and Cindy ever go on without each other?

Six years later, housepainter Dean and nurse Cindy dwell in a dinghy Scranton, Pennsylvania house miles away from the happy times of The Office. Shot on HD with two cameras at a time, Cindy's love for Dean has all but burned out, yet he still loves her madly and their daughter, Frankie (Faith Wladyka), too. In response to their demise, Dean tries a few things to save their marriage, which includes staying at a hotel for the night.

This hotel stay is but a mere reprieve. The relationship is pretty much doomed, but Dean never gives up. On the surface Dean deserves our sympathies for the most part, especially when you consider what transpired earlier in their relationship, yet by the time he appears at Cindy's work the suspicion that Dean has been given a few chances, out of the film's time and space, seems solidified.

Expanding and contracting in space while moving back and forth in time over the six years, Blue Valentine offers a refreshing and raw look at holy matrimony coming undone a la Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1966), Revolutionary Road (2008) and this year's Rabbit Hole. Except Dean and Cindy are relatively poorer than those other clashing couples and co-writer and director Derek Cianfrance's film was made on a much tighter budget.

(In preparation for their roles, Gosling and Williams reportedly "lived" on house painter and nurse budgets, respectively, for two weeks.)

Seven years in the making, Cianfrance (Brother Tied; Cagefighter) went through many trials and tribulations to get this film made. And if it were not for Williams and Rosling's dedication to their craft it probably would have never been made. Not only did they support Cianfrance over many years – Williams was on board with the project since 2003, Gosling came on in 2005 -- they willingly accepted the physical changes required for the roles, including purposely gaining as much weight as they could in one month. Notably, Williams gained 15 pounds before they would shoot her nude scenes. Now how many actors would intentionally gain flesh before exposing her or his flesh?

Fortunately their hard work paid off. Blue Valentine oozes with so much honesty it might be hard for insecure couples to endure while garnering sympathy from those few couples out there who are fortunate enough to stay happy for many years. Perhaps more amusingly, parents with adolescent or young adult children believing they have already found the love of their life may want to take to their idealistic offspring to see Blue Valentine -- especially if you do not care for the object of your child's affections.

For their dedications, Williams and Gosling give two of the better performances of the year and they are gaining nominations – although, I like her performance more. Dean's accent sounds more Bostonian than Brooklyn, where he lived when they met, or from Florida, where he claims to hail from during a job interview.

Beyond the elocution of Gosling's character, the only other significant shortcoming is the pretty lame soundtrack to supplement the driving narrative. An underused and abused art form in film, Blue Valentine is no exception to the rule of sappy songs and mawkish melodies. However, Gosling/Dean's numbers are pretty amusing, including one very memorable scene where he plays the ukulele and Williams/Cindy does a tap dance.

(While shooting the film, Williams did not know Gosling was going to play the ukulele and Gosling did not know Williams was going to dance to his song until their cue: "Do you have any special talents?" Then they had to improvise the song and dance.)

Quality direction, excellent cinematography by Andrij Parekh (Half Nelson; Cold Souls) and featuring two very dedicated star actors, Blue Valentine offers an honest alternative to the fairy tale, love stories Hollywood offers throughout the year. A pyrotechnic display may go off at the end of Blue Valentine, but it is not at night, it is not romantic and it is not in anybody's head. That happens only in the movies (and in an episode of The Brady Bunch).

FILM REVIEW: TRUE GRIT

Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld) in True Grit.

Out to pasture/yes

By John Esther 

If you like old fashioned, orderly, ontological narratives punch drunk full of sympathetic brutes and iced with eth(n)ical insensitivity, your holiday movie gift arrives with co-writers/editors/directors/producers and brothers Joel and Ethan Coen's True Grit. The latest film adaptation of Charles Portis' novel, True Grit, is every bit as intellectually demanding and politically reactionary as director Henry Hathaway's 1969 version starring John Wayne in his only Oscar-winning role.  

Set somewhere in the Oklahoma Territory post-Civil War, 14-year-old Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld) is determined to get justice for her prosperous pa after a working man who is going by the name of Tom Chaney (Josh Brolin) robs and kills daddy in cold blood. As every bit smart, tough and misguided as the mythological adolescent male tough guy -- but still a girl who needs male help (Mattie is no Malpaso Man) -- Mattie uses her brains and bucks to recruit Rueben J. "Rooster" Cogburn (Jeff Bridges). An ornery U.S. Marshall known for killing first and asking questions, then drinking later and before, it is going to take all of Mattie's moxie and money to persuade the "true grit" law enforcement officer to take the job.

Fixed in the mix is le beefy Texas Ranger, LaBoeuf (Matt Damon), who is also after Tom Chaney. Ever since the desperado killed a U.S. Senator in Texas three years ago, LaBoeuf has been on the trail. Au Juyceian.

Moving beyond the pretense of western civilization into the back country, the three of them intertwine as the plot twists and turns until True Grit walks its predictable path without any attempts at deconstructing western myths, intriguing innovation or other worthwhile purpose. At its basic, True Grit is hardly more than a story about retribution from an adolescent viewpoint.

Since the film begins with 40-year-old Mattie (Elizabeth Marvel) telling her story, 14-year-old Mattie's survival throughout the narrative is never in question regardless of how many rough men she done gets herself mixed up wit'. Come hell and hi, high, hype hi, "what her?" slaughter, the filmmakers make it clear from the onset Mattie's destiny does not conclude at an early death.

Rooster's success is not in doubt, either. Like any one of countless traditional movie lawmen who operates by his own sets of rules, Rooster has killed so many men with immunity he cannot even keep track. He is just a good old boy who kills the bad guys, and if he makes a mistake every so now and then, True Grit repeatedly asserts we are suppose to forgive the loveable, filthy, old coot because things like habeas corpus and Magna Carta are just plain annoying (right, PATRIOTs). In fact, Mattie had the option of picking another man to track and capture her father's alleged killer, but that lawman values due process of law so forget him. The relatively clean, young lady is hungry for some hanging.

While on the subject of hanging, True Grit is filled with Freudian metaphors of adolescent angst toward sex. Mattie's recollections of her manhunt involves lots of hangings, dismembered fingers, a traumatic encounter with snakes – as a result of removing the clothes of a dead man, "Rooster," a spanking by "The Beef," an amputation as result of shooting a big gun -- which knocks her back down a big hole, stabbings, bullet holes, the metanarrative with the her horse (D.H. Lawrence) and all those guns that keep appearing then disappearing then reappearing again. Although rudimentary, viewing True Grit as a psychological coming-of-age story makes it more entertaining.

On another hand, in accordance with the film's dominat(e)-ion narrative, as far as non-whites go, they are essentially non-existent in a film whose heroes, in addition to everything else backwards in the film, fought on the Confederate side. There are two African Americans, both there to serve their white masters. While their general discard warrants little attention, the film's treatment of Native Americans is deplorable. Essentially there are three scenes with Native Americans, each time they are used as a comical ploy -- to considerable and uneasy effect at the screening I attended. The Condemned Indian (Jonathan Joss) is silenced and executed and the audience laughed. The second involves Indian Youth (Brandon Sanderson and Ruben Nakai Campana) being literally kicked around by Rooster and the audience laughed. The third... It seems it is Ok to wash away the Trail of Tears with laughter.

Conversely, the much more positive area of True Grit, there is plenty of that crisp dialogue -- here greatly aided by the film's rather faithful adaptation of the novel (so I am reliably informed) -- we can almost always expect from a Coen Bros. film. In particular, LaBoeuf, who is a more interesting, amiable and original character than Rooster, offers a humorous, often witty, proud way of looking at life as a Texas Ranger.

As far as acting, the accolades are slow in pouring for Bridges, Steinfeld and company. They were ignored at Golden Globes and only garnered two at the recent SAG nominations, including an absurd Best Supporting Actress nomination for Steinfeld whose character is present in well over 80 percent of the film. Last year's Oscar winner for Crazy Heart, Bridges performance as Rooster illustrates what a political charade it was when Wayne won Best Actor (who laughably beat out Jon Voigt and Dustin Hoffman for their performances in Midnight Cowboy). Steinfeld is definitely headed for some major roles after her feature film debut. Not only does she show dramatic range, Steinfeld can be funny. In a scene where Mattie haggles over horses, Steinfeld performs with an impressive amount of confidence and comic timing. Thanks to Steinfeld, Mattie is probably the funniest female character in the Coen Bros. oeuvre since Jennifer Jason Leigh's Amy Archer in The Hudsucker Proxy (1994).

No doubt many will favorably compare True Grit to the vastly overrated No Country for Old Men (2007) and rightfully so. They both share beautiful landscape cinematography by Richard Deakins (who also did this year's superior film, The Company Men), nostalgia for a mythical American past, violence, clever characters, some hilarious dialogue and a political ideology very much right of center. Add the female protagonist aspect and I see no reason why someone like Sarah Palin would not love this film.

IN CONCERT: KILLING JOKE

Killing Joke at Wiltern Theater. Photo by Miranda Inganni.

The Coming Race to the End

By John Esther

Finishing off their North American Tour 2010, London's Killing Joke played before a full, somewhat restrained, audience Saturday night at the Wiltern Theater in Los Angeles.

Executioners of throbbing beats, intellectual angst and a breathtaking belief that the end is nigh, Killing Joke have influence bands such as Nine Inch Nails, System of a Down, Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Tool, Metallica, Faith No More, Ministry, Nouvelle Vague and many others since the band's first eponymous record back in 1981. (A second one came in 2003). While the band has went through many lineup changes over the years, after the death of bassist Paul Raven in 2007 the original members of Killing Joke toured together for the first time in nearly 30 years.

Drummer Paul Ferguson, guitarist Kevin "Geordie" Walker, an unidentified bassist wearing a "Where's Youth" t-shirt (because he was replacing Martin "Youth" Glover who had to leave about a week ago -- boooot), and a unidentified keyboardist took to the stage before Killing Joke's legendary lead vocalist, Jaz Coleman, came on in a black jumpsuit (auto mechanic's uniform?), wearing black mascara and a few extra pounds.

The 100-minute show started with vicious versions of "Tomorrow's World" (dedicated to the former LA resident, Raven) and "Love Like Blood" (one of my favorites) before moving onto "Wardance" (a crowd favorite, but not mine), "Absolute Dissent," "Bloodsport," "European Super State," "The World Hell," "The Fall of Because," "Ghosts of Ladbroke Grove," "Madness," a wonderful version of "Requiem," "Primitive," "The Great Cull," and "Asteroid," then really digging in with the final two songs of the opening set, "The Wait," and "Pssyche."

Coleman shook things up on stage while everyone else, except Walker, was enthusiastic about his part. Distant and cold, the birthday boy Walker displayed very little emotion in what he was doing. He and the members were very tight, but Walker stood there like it was a rehearsal (and this is coming from someone who has seen a few Wire and Kraftwerk concerts). When they brought him a birthday cake and the audience sang "Happy Birthday" Walker just seemed annoyed. Writing of bad manners, Walker lit and smoked a cigarette while performing onstage inside the famous art deco building, which was not cool, but I did get a chuckle when he stared down the menacing photographer who had kept getting in the way of the audience's view and now had apparently gotten in the way of Walker.

(This last incident triggered a recollection, if my memory serves me well. There was once this inane 1980s-interview with Depeche Mode where one of the members was asked by some imbecile journalist that if there was ever a physical fight between all the rock & roll bands around who would win and someone from Depeche Mode said, "Killing Joke.")

As engaging as ever, in between songs Coleman weighed in on current political crises such as Korea, war, US/EU relations and other concerns he has not shed over the decades.

In lieu of the fact the band and the crowd were getting older and the end is closer – collectively or otherwise – the frenetic mosh pits of early Killing Joke concerts were greatly subdued. Only when Killing Joke played "Eighties" during the encore did there seem to be some mass trigger of youthful excitement, perhaps a subconscious pining for the days when we all believed "the coming race" was "not for sale no more." At any rate, for a concert ending with the song "Pandemonium," it was rather sedate.

FILM REVIEW: THE FIGHTER

Dicky Eklund (Christian Bale) and Micky Ward (Mark Wahlberg) in The Fighter.

Rocking bulls in Boston 

By John Esther

Based on a true story, "Irish" Mickey Ward (Mark Wahlberg) is a boxer living in the shadows of his older half brother, Dicky Eklund (Christian Bale), the first boxer to knock down Sugar Ray Leonard during a professional match. Eklund taught Ward everything he knows about fighting, but the time for a successful future in boxing for Ward runs against the successful past in boxing for Eklunds. 

Eklund is now trying to spank the monkey on his back known as crack. In fact he is the subject of an HBO documentary about crack. Eklund gets high, misses training sessions and breaks laws to feed the need. (Does anybody do "skinny" better than Bale?) Ward requires reliability in order to win.

Now in his early 30s, Ward may be taking his last shots in the ring. He might make it, but it could require severing ties from his half brother and his meddling mother, Alice Ward (Melissa Leo), plus her seven co-dependent daughters (Melissa McMeekin, Bianca Hunter, Erica McDermott, Jill Quigg, Dendrie Taylor, Kate O'Brien and Jenna Lamia). 

In contrast, Edwards' new girlfriend, Charlene Fleming (Amy Adams) -- an "MTV Girl" who is as independent, smart and attractive as the daughters are not -- and others insists he will have to cut the family ties if he is to have a fighting chance.  

The dilemma for Ward is nobody knows his strengths as well as Eklund and company yet they are also his biggest problem. With friends supporting him and family hindering him, The Fighter raises questions about choosing between family and friends, family and one's self, friends and one's self. In the tight white community of Lowell, MA. a man can only go so far if he chooses one over the other -- especially if he fails in the ring. Yet the decision is not so precise as George Ward (an excellent Jack McGee) supports the split from the family.

If you are familiar with boxing history you know how the story ends. If you do not, take a seat and find out for yourself. Either way The Fighter pays off.

Directed by David O. Russell (Flirting with Disaster; Three Kings), The Fighter has a tempo harking back to various boxing films of the late 1970s and early 1980s -- which the film is not afraid to acknowledge via homages vis-a-vis Rocky-esque montages and Raging Bull aesthetics. As the film is set in Lowell, MA. during the early 1990s on paper yet the people are mentally trapped in 1980s (e.g. the soundtrack), this comes off rather smoothly.

There are also some wonderful performances in The Fighter, in particular Leo and Bale, who will probably receive Oscar nominations, with both having a strong chance of winning in the supporting categories. 

FILM REVIEW: CASINO JACK

Jack Abramoff (Kevin Spacey) and Michael Scanlon (Barry Pepper) in Casino Jack.

Lopsided lobbyists

By John Esther

As President Obama and like minded Republicans agree to extend the Bush-era error taxes to the great detriment of most Americans in (taking an) order to appease their frontal and backdoor lobbyists working to maintain the country's oligarchy, Casino Jack arrives to take us behind the scenes of clandestine campaigns, pre-Wikileaks, to remind us why the country's democracy is constantly undermined and detonated for destruction by many of the powers-that-be at US.

Staunch big Republicans living large by the creed, stinking with greed, Jack "I Work Out Everyday" Abramoff (Kevin Spacey) and Michael Scanlon (Barry Pepper) kindled and swindled sweet deals with seemingly no end in sight. Political power brokers, they had brains, bank and the backdoor to some very influential people and nothing as small as integrity, ethics or friends would get in their way. 

In addition to assisting powerful American Native tribes receive preferential treatment at the expense of smaller and less cooperating (or less co-opted) ones, Abramoff and Scanlon successfully lobbied to get the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands exempted from American labor laws, fund fake grassroots organizations and abet corruption at Tyco, Inc. 

While you can find a greater overview of what eventually landed Abramoff and company in the slammer -- with former House Majority Leader Tom Delay (R-TX) the latest thug in the bunch headed for prison -- in Alex Gibney's documentary, Casino Jack and the United States of Money, which was released this year, the late director George Hickenlooper (Factory Girl) and screenwriter Norman Snider focus on the ego that drove Abramoff -- and, to a slighter degree, the libido that drove Scanlon -- to rip off Native American Casinos and purchase members of U.S. Government.

As they maneuvered their way into the pockets of politicians bought, they brought in Adam Kidan (Jon Lovitz), a longtime Republican operative, attorney and mattress kingpin who subsequently got in bed with Big Tony (the late Maury Chaykin), which led to a murder for hire. When that and other plans get away from their control, Abramoff and Scanlon began to scramble for cover-up. Yet they had run out of luck. Friends and partners distanced and disrespected them while foes seized on this most opportune chance for retribution -- served hot. 

Conceptually reminiscent of what Robert Altman did to skewer Hollywood in The Player, Hickenlooper adopts an anti-cleverly (clever in the George H.W. Bush, Karl Rove, Lee Atwater, Abramoff, etc., sense of the meaning) narrative by using a "cheesy" narrative to attack a cheese WIS/whiz-zzz-ed (on) America. That Abramoff -- a producer of a couple of anti-communist films featuring Dolph Lungren (like the awful yet homoerotic Red Scorpion) -- enjoys quoting other films, bubbles the cheesy crust to a boil. 

As a result, in what would be his last film after he unexpectedly died from heart complications at the age of 47 on October 30, 2010 (theories to the cause of his death have been rather tame considering the tone and liberties Hickenlooper takes with some very powerful people), Hickenlooper lays bare before an audience the systematic corruption by corrupt men whom felt no compunction for the mass herd of Americans living out loud lives and lies of desperation.

More than any fictionalized film in recent memory, the riveting, rolling Casino Jack magnificently exposes our corrupt era of lobbyists, special interests, the politicians for sale and the American people who not only refuse to change the system, but actually vote and campaign against their own interests (i.e. teabaggers) while lobbyists and corporations continually seize more power against the people -- a situation far worse now thanks to the U.S. Supreme Court's United Citizens vs. FEC decision earlier this year. 

Thanks to Hickenlooper's direction, a brilliant script by Snider and stellar performances by Spacey and others -- notably Spencer Garrett as Delay and Christian Campbell as "Christian" Ralph Reed -- Casino Jack is one of the more original, angriest, comical, satirical and best films of 2010.

The late George Hickenlooper.

FILM REVIEW: SOMEWHERE



Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff) in Somewhere. 

Lifeless at the top

By Don Simpson

The long and unmoving opening shot of a black Ferrari driving round and round in circles on a racetrack that appears to be in the middle of nowhere tells us a few things about writer-director Sofia Coppola’s Somewhere. Coppola has come here to test the patience of the audience, wilfully overstating the significance of this scene by allowing it to drag on with no action, dialogue or soundtrack to appease the senses. This scene also plays out as a study of sound -- we only see the black Ferrari when it happens to drive by the static camera lens, the other 75 percent of the time we are left with a barren landscape accompanied by the changing sounds of the Ferrari’s roaring engine as it approaches turns versus hitting the straightaways. We know nothing about the driver of the Ferrari, Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff), or his relationship to the remainder of the film; it is not until much later that we can piece together this visual metaphor: Johnny is pointlessly going around in circles in life, he is stuck in a rut.

Once Johnny arrives at the Chateau Marmont -- his West Hollywood “home” at 8221 Sunset Blvd. -- we realize that this scruffy, messy-haired guy dressed in a plain old t-shirt and jeans must actually be someone of significance. Johnny’s room party central, yet he never seems to know when the next party is going to be; he arrives at home, only to find his abode filled with people he barely knows. Other times he walks into his bedroom to find a half-naked woman waiting for him in bed. There is nary a female in Somewhere who does not lustfully ogle Johnny. This is a guy who has absolutely no problems getting laid. Johnny’s only problem is the occasional text message from presumably scorned lovers using private phone numbers. Upon suddenly being bedridden by painkillers after drunkenly breaking his arm, Johnny is greeted by blond twins (Playboy playmates Karissa Shannon and Kristina Shannon) pole-dancing at the end of his bed. The twins perform for Johnny on multiple occasions.

Johnny is not a race-car driver; he is an actor (and a self-proclaimed stunt man). Presumably, Johnny is an A-list actor, but the paparazzi are never around. Nonetheless, he seems to believe that people are always following him. Johnny is currently doing the publicity circuit for a soon-to-be-released film, so he receives wake-up calls from his personal assistant each morning with his agenda for the day. Sometimes there is a chauffeur waiting for him downstairs, other times he must drive the Italian sports car.

When Johnny’s 11-year-old daughter Cleo (Elle Fanning) pops into the picture, he begins to be shaken from the stupor he has been in for who knows how long. First, Johnny is just shuttling Cleo to her ice skating lessons and helping her pick up some last minute supplies for summer camp, but soon he is carting her along with him to do a press junket in Milan. With Cleo now on his hands full-time, Johnny learns that he should curtail his hedonistic lifestyle; she means more to him than sex and parties. Cleo represents a lifestyle that Johnny has not previously considered, but now she seems to be the one cure to break him from his current state of dislocation and aimlessness. This is especially interesting if you read Cleo as Sofia Coppola and Johnny as Francis Ford Coppola, director of The Godfather trilogy and Apocalypse Now.

In both substance and style, Somewhere is very clearly an anti-Hollywood film. Sofia's minimalist storytelling is quite purposefully understated -- vague even -- with very sparse dialogue. Very little happens; Dorff is all but a mannequin who is merely being shuttled along for the ride.

There is very little character development with Sofia implying everything she needs to say via deep and limitless subtext. Cinematographer Harris Savides’ camera lingers for what seems like an eternity with a patience that is usually only afforded to foreign films. This heady and meditative film is not intended for mainstream U.S. audiences.

Los Angeles is portrayed as a perpetually alienating city and appears to be the cause of Johnny’s existential angst. It is not Johnny’s fault that he has embodied this shell of a pampered celebrity living a superficial lifestyle, and his life is not quite as wonderful as one would assume. There is something dehumanizing about never having to do anything -- except posing for the occasional publicity photograph or answering mundane questions of the press. In theory, Johnny never needs to leave his room; parties come to him, as do an endless bounty of beautiful women -- his food, booze and cigarettes are even delivered to his door.

For her ambiguity, Sofia has opened Somewhere up to many interpretations. Some viewers will probably find an autobiographical connection between Fanning’s character and Sofia's own childhood as the daughter of the globetrotting celebrity filmmaker Francis Ford; just as some will be annoyed by this apparent ploy to have us sympathise with a wealthy Hollywood star who spends money just as easily as he abandons his Ferrari on the side of a rural road. In this current economic climate when red-blooded Americans seem to be more concerned about the well-being of Main Street and “Joe the Plumber”, Somewhere dwells on Johnny’s obscenely carefree financial status. Of course, Somewhere could be read as a harsh criticism of Johnny’s all-too-easy lifestyle -- his wealth and fame are the root of his existential crisis. But that too could easily be perceived as Sofia whining about her own existence. As much as I love her films, there is no denying that being the daughter of Francis Ford does have its privileges.

As far as my own interpretation of Somewhere, I am still teetering between enjoying some of my readings of the film’s message(s) while being annoyed by other interpretations. Somewhere is a drastic departure from the stunning cinematic eye candy of The Virgin Suicides, Lost in Translation and Marie Antoinette which I love so much. The soundtrack by Phoenix (featuring songs by The Strokes and Bryan Ferry, among others), though good, is also a letdown in comparison to the pitch-perfect soundtracks from Sofia's previous films.

Sofia was harshly criticized for Marie Antoinette because it was perceived as eye (and ear) candy and nothing more -- an opinion this critic does not share. Somewhere focuses on many of the same topics as Marie Antoinette but with a dramatically different visual and aural aesthetic, a minimalist one that is more akin to “mumblecore” than anything else. Will Somewhere appease the naysayers and haters of Marie Antoinette?

THEATER REVIEW: RIGOLETTO

Duke of Mantua (Gianluca Terranova) and Countess Ceprano (Valentina Fleer) in Rigoletto. Photo by Robert Millard.

The hunchback of Mantua’s dames and dukes 

By Ed Rampell

I had a hunch that L.A. Opera’s production of Rigoletto, the tale about the titular hunchbacked harlequin, would be hunky-dory. Indeed, composer Giuseppe Verdi called it “my best opera” and it is one of the most superb shows I’ve seen at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Verily, this vivid version of the 1851 classic about the comedian with a hump is a humdinger that will leave audiences humming Verdi’s virtuoso melodies.

Verdi’s sonorous score rendered under the commanding baton of James Conlon is, but of course, nothing short of superb. The colorful costumes designed by Constance Hoffman transport audiences back in time to 16^th century Italy. The sets of medieval Mantua wrought by skilled scenery designer Michael Yeargan on a slanted stage that enhances perspective bear a striking resemblance to the haunting paintings by Italian surrealist Giorgio De Chirico -- all that seems missing are the Greek-born painter’s trademark locomotives about to smash into brick walls. A canny choice: because if De Chirico’s canvases visualize frustration, Rigoletto is largely about thwarted love and lust.

Rigoletto was one of the social outcasts Verdi specialized in. Along with Porgy of the Gershwin Brothers’ Porgy and Bess, Rigoletto is one of opera-dom’s greatest physically deformed characters (although it should be duly noted that operas are full of mentally twisted dramatis personae). Baritone George Gagnidze of Georgia (Stalin’s, not Scarlett’s) brings down the opera house as the tortured court jester, those medieval stand-up comics whose comedy clubs were castles and palaces. The disabled comedian bridles at his lot in life, which is to amuse the Duke of Mantua (Italian tenor Gianluca Terranova depicts the raunchy royal) and his feckless, scheming, mean-spirited courtiers. Rigoletto is the archetypal clown laughing on the outside but crying on the inside.

However, the ribald Rigoletto is also a sultan of insults with a cutting Don Rickles rapier-like wit. He joins all the Duke’s men in belittling Count Ceprano (bass Matthew Anchel), who is cuckolded by the libertine (not so) nobleman, and Count Monterone (bass Daniel Sumegi), whose daughter is likewise seduced by the lady killer Duke. Incensed by Rigoletto’s barbs and mockery the count curses the jester.

The curse of Monterone apparently rewrites the Golden Rule, changing it to: “Do not do unto others what you don’t what others to do unto you.” Rigoletto learns this lesson the hard way, as the rapacious, deceptive Duke turns his sexual attentions towards Rigoletto’s own daughter, Gilda (soprano Sarah Coburn, who L.A. Opera aficionados may remember from 2009’s presentation of Giaochino Rossini’s The Barber of Seville). Stung once too often by Rigoletto’s jibes, the courtiers merrily and maliciously turn the tables on the humpbacked not-so funnyman.

Speaking of sopranos, Rigoletto solicits stiletto-wielding assassin Sparafucile (bassi profundi Andrea Silvestrelli) to do a hit on the fickle Duke, who plays with women’s emotions the way Niccolo Paganini played the violin. Sparafucile acts in league with his sister, the bawdy Maddalena (mezzo soprano Kendall Gladen, who previously appeared in L.A. Opera’s equally grand Carmen by Georges Bizet), to entrap and liquidate the randy Duke. But as male chauvinists have it, frailty, thy name is woman, and all hell breaks loose with one of opera’s most colossal disasters and backfires, as Rigoletto gets his “jest” desserts for ridiculing and humiliating so many for so long. The best laid plans of mice and men…

Back during the 1980s I saw a production of Rigoletto at the Metropolitan Opera, which rather strongly implied that the reason why the hunchback was so zealously overprotective of Gilda was that the deformed father had an incestuous desire to hump his daughter. But there’s none of that Oedipal-like theorizing in this production deftly directed by Mark Lamos. Although Verdi composed the music, the Italian libretto was written by Francesco Maria Piave, based on the play Le roi s’amuse by one of France’s greatest men of letters, none other than Victor Hugo –- who wrote that other masterpiece about a hunchback named Quasimodo.

This opera is a masterpiece and the poignant saga of the man with the hump will leave a lump in your throat.

Rigoletto runs through Dec. 18, L.A. Opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, 135 N. Grand Ave., Downtown Los Angeles. For more information: 213/972-8001; www.laopera.com

FILM REVIEW: RABBIT HOLE

Becca (Nicole Kidman) and Howie (Aaron Eckhart) in Rabbit Hole.

Emotional carrot

By Don Simpson

We are introduced to Becca (Nicole Kidman) and Howie Corbett (Aaron Eckhart) eight months after their young son Danny (Phoenix List) ran out into the street and was killed accidentally by a passing car. It does not take long for us to realize that Becca and Howie have dramatically different ways of grieving the loss of their child. Becca does not want to let go of Danny emotionally, though she has less of a problem letting go of physical reminders of him. Howie is the opposite; he is ready to move on emotionally, but wants to keep as many physical artifacts of Danny as possible. Hence, Becca and Howie’s emotional tug-of-war.

Howie continues to attend group therapy, even after Becca stops going with him. This is where Howie begins to bond with Gaby (Sandra Oh), a fellow grieving parent. Though he seems like a faithful and loving husband, we are constantly left wondering whether or not Howie will cross the line and cheat on his wife. His marriage with Becca has been atypical (and asexual) ever since the accident -- it has been eight very long months and a man does have his needs.

Becca no longer works and has chased away most of her friends. She spends most of her days gardening alone. She is still enraged at the world and her mental stability is questionable at best. Her passive-aggressive outbursts seem to explode out of nowhere. Becca discovers a strange sort of solace in a friendship with a high school boy, Jason (Miles Teller), who is developing a Richard Kelly-esque graphic novel titled Rabbit Hole which is about alternate realities. Becca and Jason begin to meet regularly at a park to discuss parallel universes, accidental deaths and forgiveness of oneself and others. It is not until Jason’s history is revealed that their friendship begins to make any sense at all.

There is a lot of uncertainty that drives Rabbit Hole. Carrots are dangled in front our faces, but we are left guessing as to when and where to bite. A drastic departure from John Cameron Mitchell’s previous films (Hedwig and the Angry Inch and Shortbus), he reveals the utmost amount of directorial patience and restraint. More about understatement than anything else, Rabbit Hole is a smoldering and quietly devastating mood piece that skillfully contemplates the nature of sorrow as well as the difficulties of letting go of the past and moving onward into the future.

Kidman and Eckhart bring their A-game to Rabbit Hole as they showcase an incredibly dramatic range of natural human emotions, from silent fluctuations in facial expressions to thundering eruptions of anger. Their performances are beyond raw and brutal. They wrench your heart from your chest and pry open the floodgates from your nasolacrimal ducts. Kidman and Eckhart are shoe-ins for Oscar nominations as Rabbit Hole promises to bring much sobbing and some bawling to a theater near you.

For some of you, Rabbit Hole probably sounds like sheer torture. Who wants to watch a film about two grieving parents whose marriage falls apart right before your very eyes? Other than the incredible performances, there is really nothing to enjoy about Rabbit Hole. It is a punishing and soul-crushing experience that promises to stick with you for a very long time.

Adapted for the screen by David Lindsay-Abaire, who also penned the source Pulitzer prize winning play, Rabbit Hole never feels staged or contrived. The scenes (shot by cinematographer Frank DeMarco) flow organically with an unbridled naturalism. Due to the incredibly intimate vantage point from which we observe the events and the seamless editing, we feel like we are intruding upon the most private moments of Becca and Howie’s life. It is practically impossible not to suffer through these most trying of times along with them.

As an admirer of Mitchell’s Hedwig and the Angry Inch, I kept waiting for a little playfulness or gayness to trickle into Rabbit Hole -- you know, maybe a musical number or two -- but that never happened. Rabbit Hole is a very curious choice for Mitchell’s third film. I respect Mitchell for taking a complete 180 degree turn by making such a depressingly dire film -- and I admit that he handles this grave material quite masterfully -- but I really want the man who created Hedwig and the Angry Inch back!!!

FILM REVIEW: NIGHT CATCHES US

Patricia (Kerry Washington) in Night Catches Us.

Rizzo’s racist reality

By Don Simpson

It is the summer of 1976 and Marcus (Anthony Mackie) rolls back into Philadelphia after having cut off all communication with his family and former Black Panther comrades since his hasty departure four years prior. Though it only seems natural that Marcus would return to his family’s home in the Germantown neighborhood of Philadelphia -- not for the Bicentennial celebrations but for his father’s funeral -- suspicions regarding his motives and agenda fester throughout the community nonetheless. The most displeased about Marcus's reappearance are his Muslim brother, Bostic (Tariq Trotter), and the local Panthers’ new leader, Dwayne (Jamie Hector). Then, there are the local police, led by Detective Gordon (Wendell Pierce), who tail and harass Marcus to no end. Someone even has the audacity to spray paint "SNITCH" on the side of the black Cadillac that Marcus just inherited from his father. No wonder Marcus left this place in such a hurry!

The one and only old friend and comrade who seems to be pleased with Marcus’ reemergence is Patricia (Kerry Washington). Considering it is Patricia’s husband, with whom she has one daughter, Iris (Jamara Griffin), who the local Panthers suspect Marcus of snitching on -- making Marcus responsible for his murder -- and running away immediately afterwards only made Marcus seem more guilty -- there is something unsettling about her kind and welcoming nature toward Marcus. Then again, Patricia has grown up to become a do-good lawyer and can afford to take care of her friends, neighbors and clients. Maybe this is just the way she is now? Or maybe she is in dire need of a good father figure for her daughter?

The Panthers, under the leadership of Dwayne, are sliding downward into the realm of petty criminality and senseless violence; while Patricia’s dim-witted cousin, Jimmy (Amari Cheatom), daydreams about being a cop-killer like the Black Panthers in the comic books. As the cycle of violence that Marcus escaped four years ago bubbles once again to the surface, we are left to ponder whether or not Marcus and Patricia will ever be able to shake their militant past. The image of the wallpaper -- which hides their violent past -- peeling from the wall might be a bit heavy-handed, but the metaphor works just the same.

The setting of writer-director Tanya Hamilton's Night Catches Us is Mayor Frank Rizzo’s racially polarized police state in Philadelphia. Rizzo has a very bitter and jaded history with black militant groups in Philadelphia, such as the Black Panthers and MOVE. While police commissioner Rizzo’s police force raided the Philadelphia offices of the Black Panther Party (one week before the Panthers’ "People's Revolutionary Convention" at Temple University); and while mayor, the Philadelphia police raided the MOVE house.

Then, there is Mumia Abu-Jamal, who was convicted and sentenced to death for the murder of Philadelphia police officer Daniel Faulkner. Abu-Jamal helped form the Philadelphia branch of the Black Panther Party and became their "Lieutenant of Information"; later, during his career as a radio journalist, Abu-Jamal gained notoriety for giving exposure to the trial of the "MOVE Nine" who were charged with the murder of police officer James Ramp (who was killed during Rizzo’s police raid of the MOVE house). Abu-Jamal was an archenemy to Rizzo, and he sits on death row because of it.

(Of course Rizzo’s police raid of the MOVE house, though quickly escalating to violence, pales in comparison to the 1985 police bombing -- while the African-American Wilson Goode was mayor -- of the MOVE house -- which resulted in 11 deaths, including five children, and the destruction of 65 homes.)

The archival footage from Black Panther rallies of yesteryear function as a reminder that things have probably become much worse by the time 1976 rolls around. The Panthers have become a mere shadow of what they used to be, descending into a self-destructive gang of no-good thugs and hoodlums. But don’t fret, we hear the hopeful soundbites of presidential candidate Jimmy Carter talking about the dawning of a new era...maybe Carter will fix everything!

My only criticism -- and it's nothing but personal -- is in the quality of the image. Shot on the Red One camera by cinematographer David Tumblety, the images are bright and crisp renderings of a quickly decaying neighborhood. Philadelphia circa 1976 appears in my mind, however, like something akin to Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep: 16mm black and white film stock and gritty as all hell. (Of course I was not quite four years old during the summer of 1976 -- as America was turning 200 -- and my family rarely ventured into Germantown, so what do I know?) I will say that the gorgeous soundtrack, courtesy of The Roots, makes up for any problems I have with the capturing of the image.

PRODUCT: HOLIDAY GIFT GUIDE FOR PETS

Bowls from Platinum Pets.

For the pawlidays

By Miranda Inganni

Are you looking for that special something for that special someone in your life with four legs or just a two-legged friend with a special furry four-legged friend? All four of these made-in-the-USA products make great holiday presents for one's dearest pets.

Chewber

What more can a dog ask for than a durable flying disc/chew toy/food bowl? Well, lots of love, of course, but the Chewber provides your pooch with the former three-in-one happiness (you will have to take care of the love part). This safe, strong, seemingly indistructable rubber toy is reinforced with nylon, providing your canine friend with hours of healthy fun. Because of its design, the Chewber springs back into shape, no matter how "ruff" your doggy plays with it. The fact that you can use simple hand and vocal cues (in addition to some dry food) to train your dog with Chewber makes it much more than just a toy. And you can easily clean the Chewber by hand or in the dishwasher. Chewber is available in three sizes (suggested retail price: $18.99-$20.99), so whether you have a new pup who needs lots of playtime and a few lessons, or a large well trained dog who loves to run in the open after moving objects, Chewber has something for everyone.

Pet-zzz-pad
We all know that dogs and cats (and iguanas too!) love to curl up in sunny spots throughout the house. Well, even on the cloudiest day, your four-legged (or three or two) friend can have a warm cozy place to sleep thanks to the Petzzzpad. This fleece-covered, circular heating pad warms up to a pet-friendly and veterinarian recommended 102 degrees. With a chew resistant cord and machine washable cover, the Pet-zzz-pad makes it easy for pets with joint or muscle pain to relax comfortably and safely. The niftiest aspect of this heating mat is that it warms up only when your pet is on it and, conversely, cools off as soon as the furry one has moved away. You can even insert the mat into any pet bedding, making it even more versatile. Branded by both the American Kennel Club and Cat Fancier Association, Pet-zzz-pad comes in two sizes: 12-inch  for smaller pets (suggested retail price: $19.99) and 16-inch (suggested retail price: $39.99) for medium to larger pets. My cats, who are known for their fierce love of both sleep and warm places, definitely approve of zzzis pad!

Platinum Pets
What Platinum Pets lacks in variety, they make up for in quality. Specializing in bowls, leashes and collars, these are no ordinary pet products. The coated, stainless steel, embossed bowls and chrome plated leashes and collars would make any pet (and said pet's owner) proud. The dishwasher-safe bowls (suggested retail price starts at $6.49) feature rubber edging along the bottom, so they won't skid on floors and some models have a pop-out bowl for easier filling. The leashes (suggested retail price: $19.95) feature either a nylon or leather handle strap, while the collars (suggested retail prices: 7.99 to $10.99) are available in five sizes, making them perfect for any dog. With rich, designer colors like Caribbean Teal and 24 Karat Gold any pet can live like royalty. And pet's parents can be both pleased and satisfied knowing that the products are eco-friendly, durable and elegant. Mix and match or stick to a color scheme and bring some razzmatazz to doggy's daily routine.


Swheat Scoop
This natural kitty litter is such a great idea! The wheat enzymes naturally neutralize order; it clumps nicely and has no chemicals; it's biodegradable and flushable. Swheat Scoop is made from non-food grade wheat, which is supposed to be safe for kittens (and small children) who might accidentally ingest it. Unfortunately, in my cats' case, Swheat Scoop turned into an oddly sweet-smelling sticky mess (not unlike cake batter). Additionally, Swheat Scoop ain't cheap (suggested retail price $13.99 to $43.19). That being said, my cats are allergic to pine-based litters, and I really don't like commercial, clay-based ones -- too dusty and bad for the environment. Swheat Scoop is a great alternative! But, please, don't try to bake it.


For more infomation on Chewber: www.chewber.com


For more information on Petzzzpad: www.petzzzpad.com


For more information on Platinum Pets: www.platinumpetsusa.com


For more information on Swheat Shop: www.swheatscoop.com

FILM REVIEW: SAINT MISBEHAVIN' THE WAVY GRAVY MOVIE



Hugh Nanton Romney in Saint Misbehavin': The Wavy Gravy Movie.

A man of many kind jesters

By Don Simpson

No, Michelle Esrick’s documentary is not about Ben & Jerry’s nutty ice cream, but it is about the namesake of its now defunct flavor. Wavy Gravy began his life as Hugh Nanton Romney. A beatnik poet in Greenwich Village in the early 1960s, Romney befriended and roomed with Bob Dylan and opened up for John Coltrane and Thelonious Monk. At the advice of Lenny Bruce, Romney headed west to California and was instantly immersed into the burgeoning hippie culture, becoming a merry prankster and hog farmer. Free from inhibitions and donning a court jester cap, Romney and his fellow "hog farmers" provided security (meaning: caring for and feeding 400,000 people) at Woodstock; he also functioned as the festival’s emcee. Soon thereafter, with a thirst for helping others, Romney and his friend, Dr. Larry Brilliant (along with a caravan of helpers), travelled through Asia providing free medical care to those in need. Brilliant and Romney subsequently founded SEVA, an independent organization that continues to provide thousands of free eye operations annually worldwide.

Esrick spent ten years documenting Romney’s life, including interviewing a vast number of his contemporaries like Bob Weir, Mickey Hart, Phil Lesh, Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne, Maria Muldaur, Steve Earle, Dr. John, Ramblin’ Jack Elliot, Odetta, Buffy Sainte Marie, Michael Franti, his wife Jahanara Romney, Brilliant, Patch Adams, Lisa Law, Denise Kaufman, Tom Law, and Steven Ben Israel and compiling archival footage. It is the archival footage that allows us to see the complete picture as Romney evolves from beat poet to court jester to clown; we see him as a merry prankster and living at the Hog Farm, we spend some time with him at Woodstock and during his journey across the Middle East and Asia. What a long strange trip it has been...

We first meet Romney at his Berkeley home, reciting his morning prayers to a near endless list of deities. Soon Romney is venturing out to buy enough hot dogs and ice cream -- redeeming his lifelong supply of unlimited free Ben and Jerry's ice cream -- to feed a small army. Romney still practices the refrain of his song “Basic Human Needs” with the lyrics: “Wouldn’t it be neat if the people that you meet had shoes upon their feet and something to eat? And wouldn’t it be fine if all humankind had shelter?” Like his song, Romney has a supreme knack for reducing complicated ideas and politics to their most simplest essence. His belief in the power of the human spirit to be a force for positive change is unwavering. Romney adamantly believes that if people are provided the right environment, they can improve the world and have fun doing it.

Grace and kindness can come in some unusual disguises, and Romney is no exception. Those who do not know Romney would probably write him off as a homeless burned out hippie still tripping on residual acid as he wanders the streets of Berkeley in his clown costume. Those are the people who need to watch Saint Misbehavin’: The Wavy Gravy Movie. Then they would learn that Romney is quite an extraordinary person who has selflessly devoted his life to helping others.

FILM NEWS: IDA AWARDS 2010

A scene from the winning Waste Land.

All over this Waste Land

By John Esther

Tonight at the Director Guild of America in West Hollywood, Ca., the International Documentary Association announced the Feature, Short and Series Award categories.

Hosted by Morgan Spurlock (IDA 2004 nominee director of Super Size Me) the 2010 IDA Documentary Awards saw Lucy Walker’s Waste Land take home its second IDA award after receiving the IDA's Pare Lorentz Award earlier this week. The documentary is based on the journey artist Vik Muniz takes from his current home in Brooklyn, New York, to the world's largest garbage dump in Brazil, Walker accepted the award along with producer Angus Aynsley.

The Distinguished Short Film Award went to Kiran Deol's Woman Rebel, a story of Uma Bhujel, a soldier and women's rights advocate who went from the Maoist Nepal’s People’s Liberation Army to a democratically elected government official.

In the Series Award Categories the Distinguished Continuing Series Award went to ESPN Films’ 30 for 30, the network’s documentary series about thirty stories from ESPN’s 30-year history. The Distinguished Limited Series Award went to Connie Field for her seven-film series Have You Heard from Johannesburg, a documentary looking at the global effort to end South Africa's 20th Century apartheid.

Other 2010 IDA Documentary Award Winners:

Honorable Mention for the IDA Pare Lorentz Award: Queen of the Sun: What Are the Bees Telling Us?;

Music Documentary Award: For Once In My Life;

ABCNews Videosource Award: Bhutto;

IDA Humanitas Award: A tie between Presumed Guilty and The Oath;

IDA David L. Wolper Student Documentary Award: Waiting for a Train: The Toshio Hirano Story;

Honorable Mention for the IDA David L. Wolper Student Documentary Award: The Stinking Ship;

Career Achievement Award: Barbara Kopple;

Pioneer Award: Alan Raymond and Susan Raymond;

Preservation and Scholarship Award: Mark Jonathan Harris.

FILM REVIEW: I LOVE YOU PHILLIP MORRIS



Steven Russell (Jim Carrey) in I Love You Phillip Morris.

Carrey on gayer sum

By John Esther

Repeatedly and ridiculously delayed since its successful premiere at Sundance Film Festival 2009, I Love You Phillip Morris finally arrives in theaters this Friday. Given its subject matter and matter of subject one may speculate why this funny, intelligent and consistent film co-written and directed by John Requa and Glenn Ficarra (co-screenwriters of Bad Santa) has been postponed for nearly two years.

In his best performance hitherto, Jim Carrey plays Steven Russell, a brilliant real life con artist who was able to fake friend and foe alike to such a degree that "fucking Texas" made sure he received an unprecedented 144-year prison sentence. (What, no death penalty?)

Life for Russell all starts innocently enough. He is a happily married husband and father, working for the local police force and playing organ in the local church. (The instrument.) He is living the American Dream, so they show, but after a blow to his sense of identity back when he was a 9-years-old (John Kennon Kepper) followed by one to his car as an adult resulting in an epiphany, Russell decides to come straight out of the closet and take the elevator non-straight up to the top of the penthouse, bamboozling everyone he comes across along the way. After all, when you live in a country, as well as in a particular subculture of a subculture (i.e. Noah's Arc; A-List: New York; An Ordinary Couple), where materialistic extravagance is a dominant virtue, a bad boy who happens to prefer boys has got to do what he has got to do in order to lavish his loved ones.

Russell may be a great conniver, but he is not invincible. His wild schemes eventually take him to prison. There he meets Phillip Morris (Ewan McGregor) a gentle, young man who has an unfortunate penchant for linking up with bad people, but not the kind of ruthless ones his namesake would suggest -- he has nothing to do with the tobacco behemoth. (Besides Morris' aggressive fellatio, there are no "smoking a fag" metaphors here). During their incarceration rowdy Russell and mild mannered Morris quickly fall in love, planning to set up home once they are both released...from prison.

As fine as their new life together may be, Russell is never content. He wants to live high on the "gay hog" and he is going to stick it to the ignorant and racist/anti-Semitic pigs at his latest job -- taking down Morris in the process. A natural risk taker, Russell's business schemes become more and more elaborate yet prove to be quite conventional in comparison to what he concocts when Morris and he are, again, incarcerated. Hilariously daring to do anything for freedom and love, one would not believe the things Russell accomplished were they not a matter of record.

Stranger danger than fiction, I Love You Phillip Morris has all the makings to be one of the year's most successful, certainly enjoyable, films. Possessing a strong cast, smart script, and outrageous humor/history, there is very little to dislike about the film. Although I did find the film funnier the first time I saw it at Sundance, it is still one of the funniest of 2010. Amongst films released this year, perhaps only Four Lions is funnier than I Love You Phillip Morris?

So what is with the theatrical release holdup? The film has already opened theatrically across Europe, Asia, South America and Mexico. Are there some handlers out there who feel the mainstream Jim Carrey fan may not accept Russell's sexual orientation? An actor who can green light just about any film of his choosing, Carrey takes an admirable career risk with the Russell role. Possibly even a greater risk than other A-list actors who have played complex "non-flamboyant" gay characters in the past.

As sort of a bourgeois anti-hero incarnation of a gay anti-hero a la writer Jean Genet (Our Lady of the Flowers; Querelle) or filmmaker Rainer Werner Fassbinder (In a Year of 13 Moons; Querelle), Carrey as Russell does not have the sympathetic character advantage of slowly dying yet fighting for justice as Tom Hanks did when he took on what would be the Academy-Award winning role of a dying-AIDS patient named Andrew Beckett in director Jonathan Demme's Philadelphia (1993) or Hilary Swank did when she took on what would be the Academy-Award winning role of Teena Brandon/Brandon Teena, a real-life person murdered by homophobes for her man-hoodwink-ing in director Kimberly Peirce's Boy's Don't Cry (1999) or Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhall for their eventual Academy-nominated roles as fictional star-crossed lovers in director Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain (2005) or Sean Penn did when he agreed to play the eventually Academy-Award winning role of assassinated gay rights politician Harvey Milk in director Gus Van Sant's 2008 film, Milk. (Granted, Swank was not A-List when she took her role, but her character was extremely sympathetic yet there was certainly a career risk.)

On another hand, Russell does have that American gumption many Amer-I-cans sure like to swill. He sees what he wants and he takes it -- all in the so-called name of love. And, considering the current climate, we may indeed be at a crossroads where massive audiences can watch a film with a major star playing a gay protagonist who is not a victim -- in particular, a victim of violence -- and see his humanity more than his or her homosexuality.

Yet what distinguishes I Love You Phillip Morris from the aforementioned films, plus other American films not mentioned here, is that the other films came with an expectation, which is usually fulfilled, of "art house" gravitas (like this year's enjoyable The Kids Are All Right and outstanding Howl) whereas a film starring Carrey comes with the expectation of a physical comedy -- a brand of entertainment infrequently demanding any discomfort whatsoever from its audience these days. In I Love You Phillip Morris Carrey relishes in the role. While incorporating his familiar comical shtick, Carrey takes this role further by not only refusing to hold back on the film's more human complexities, he is also unflinching when it comes to its homoeroticism (the latter being something the misdirected Philadelphia dodged). Often an exacerbating performer to watch -- such as last year's awful adaptation of Charles Dicken's A Christmas Carol wherein Carrey played multiple roles -- here Carrey dives deep down to get at the heart and mind of what motivates Russell and it pays off.

(During the post-Sundance screening someone in the audience asked the filmmakers, "Why didn't you get gay actors to play the leads?" Without missing a beat, Carrey replied, "What makes you think we didn't?" Nice.)

With a better chance of receiving award nominations this year and the country incrementally becoming nonchalant about homosexuality, perhaps the delay of I Love You Phillip Morris has been good fortune for the film. The film is very entertaining and Carrey's performance is certainly one of the better ones of the year. Award consideration for McGregor, Xavier Pérez Grobet's playful cinematography as well as the Requa and Ficarra's direction and screenplay, are nothing to eschew either. (Oh, come on, cinematography consideration for a comedy? Yes.) But more important than the potential denial of any forthcoming award nominations, it would be a shame to see a film of this caliber rejected, or delayed anymore, including the eyes and minds of some Carrey fans, for the wrong reasons.