I had some time to kill yesterday 🙂

This marks 2005’s second big attempt, following “Hustle & Flow,” to try and turn the thugs-to-riches creation mythology of gangsta rap into compelling cinema. It fails FAR more spectacularly than “Hustle” did, but for much the same reason: The hip-hop creation mythology is, at this point, played out to the extreme.

The film basically exists as a 2 hour and 14 minute infomercial for the music of Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson. His fans are known to refer to him as “Fiddy,” which is kind of remarkable in that it manages to celebrate idiocy on two levels: The idiocy of refering to a grown man by his teenaged street-thug nickname and the idiocy of intentionally mispronouncing common words in order to “keep it real.”

Just for the record here: Yes, I’m a 25 year-old white man. Yes, I was among that generation of suburban white kids who helped make gangsta rap such a phenomenon back in the early 90s during it’s brief initial brush with actually feeling like the “poetry of the streets” it can now only pretend to be. Yes, I like hip-hop. I’m NOT, however, a fan of Mr. Cent’s work. I’ve found his vocals flat, the beats derrivative and his lyrics trite… how many times can you hear one man praise himself in verse, honestly?

Mr. Cent appears here as Marcus, who leads a life more or less identical to the outline of the ballyhooed 50 Cent origin story. Sing along if you know the words: His mother was a murdered coke dealer. He became a crack dealer and went to jail. He got out and wanted to rap. He rapped about how much tougher he was than other rappers in his circle. He got shot nine times. He got better. He parlayed “I got shot nine times!” into the ultimate badge of street-cred “real”ness and became a star, despite his act never really improving.

“Fiddy” is, putting it mildly, a terrible actor. He mumbles his lines in monotone, has nothing in the way of facial expression and mainly just glowers at the camera. He has no distinct onscreen personality, and if not for providing the film’s narration he would be swallowed up entirely by his own movie.

But the script is a bigger problem. This character (and, apparently by extension, the man playing him) hasn’t really learned anything or gone through any great arc. In a way, “Fiddy’s” success stands more as the ultimate indictment of the rap genre as largely bankrupt, not as a triumph. But “Fiddy” seems convinced that his story is heroic, and so the film turns out scene after scene where the imagery is ordering us to be awed by this man’s journey while I’M stuck wondering why I’m supposed to care.

It’s also stuck with some utterly laughable dialogue. At one point, a drug gang kingpin has a hillariously awful speech about violence begetting more violence, not more money. And later, after Marcus complains that his gunshot wounds have changed his voice, his girlfriend sagely intones: “It’s better… there’s more pain in it.” Give me a break already.

The film jumps the shark full-bore for it’s final act, in which Marcus “beef” with another rapper escalates into a shooting war among the drug gangs he left behind. Villians are revealed and “twists” we’ve seen coming fully unfold, and at one point (I kid you not) we see a scene where the impending performance by Marcus at a concert inspires ghetto children to take to the streets in a candlelight march against crack. Seriously.

Most of the blame for this mess can be laid at the studio and “Fiddy’s” corporate masters, for churning out yet another bad commercial for what boils down to simply the latest “piss off your parents” overhyped music sensation. And some belongs to “Fiddy” himself, for reasons outlined above.

But sadly, a great deal of blame must be laid of Jim Sheridan, the excellent Irish filmmaker who for some reason thought directing this muck would be a good career move. Mr. Sheridan, we know you’re prior movies were good and we hope you’re next ones are again. But sir… you’ve made one hell of a bad movie here, and only SOME of it can be blamed on you’re leading man being unable to ennunciate in English.

FINAL RATING: 1/10

“The Weather Man” is catching a good deal of flack from audiences and critics for not being what they expected. Or, more accurately, what they felt it was marketed as. They aren’t entirely without a point.

While it would be an exaggeration to say that “The Weather Man” is using completely misleading advertisements, one can certainly be forgiven for expecting a different film. The trailers, through use of clever editing and music, have been selling the film as a “quirky” comedy about a loser putting his life back together. If you’ve seen said trailer, you’re doubtlessly pretty sure that you know the basic idea: Sad-sack local weather man David Spritz (Nicholas Cage) is losing his family and his sanity, but with some hard work, determination and a few pearls of sage wisdom from his wise father (Michael Caine) he’ll be able to set his life comedically back in order. It’ll be an offbeat Fall-style remix about growing up and achieving your dreams.

Yes, thats what most people are probably thinking when they buy tickets for “The Weather Man,” and so I suppose it’s within reason that they be dissapointed when the find it to be something else entirely. But it’s also within reason that others are glad about it, finding it to be something a bit more interesting than they had anticipated. You may gather that I fall into the later camp.

The film is not a quirky comedy about achieving your dreams, but David Spritz seems to think that it is… and thats the problem. He can’t get his act together, he can’t finish anything he starts, he’s the sort of local celebrity who has to frequently weigh whether or not the professional perk of bedding Oktoberfest dancing girls is worth the professional hardship of having fast food thrown at him from moving vehicles, etc.

Also, his famous-author father pities him, he’s divorced and his kids are heading down bad paths… but David is sure that if he shows some gumption, lands that big network job in New York, makes grand territorial gestures against his ex-wife’s new boyfriend and “figures it all out” he can win is family back, his father’s respect and the life he’s always wanted.

If Spritz was writing the movie, he’d probably cast Robin Williams or Jim Carrey as him before Nicholas Cage: He likely sees himself as quirky, but he’s actually closer to just plain pathetic. It’s easy to see why his wife left him, why his children don’t look up to him and why his father doesn’t respect him; he’s a dense and insensitive prick for the most part, he’s unreliable and doesn’t even really respect himself. So there’s you’re movie: It’s not about Spritz achieving all his goals, it’s about his slow realization that his striving for clearly unrealistic aims is hurting him and those around him. The eventual moral isn’t about reaching for the dream, but learning to accept that some dreams just can’t be reached… that life can be worth living even if it’s not turning out exactly the way you want it to. In that respect, the film plays like a much more even, mature variation on “Jersey Girl” from a few years back.

Which isn’t to say that the film is a total downer. On the way to his semi-epiphany are chances for him to set right some of the (relatively few) things wrong in his life that aren’t really his fault: Like turning his not-exactly-slender daughter on to the joys of non-form-fitting clothing, and intervening when his son’s guidance counselor turns out to be a sexual predator. To say that David aquits himself wonderfully in each situation would be pushing it… but he at least shows he’s getting the right idea.

This isn’t the movie I thought it was going to be. I happen to think I got a better one than I expected, you may feel differently. But I’d say it’s worth a look, just to see where you fall.

FINAL RATING: 8/10

I’m going to retreat into humility for a moment and remind myself that this blog is still waaaaaay down on everyone’s list of go-to review sites, and thus begin by presuming that most of you reading are already familiar with that reliable old film school trope that movie violence is usually serving as some kind of sexual metaphor. Jason Vorhees’ machete penetrates flesh of coital teens, thus standing in for the un-filmmable penetration of genitals? Jedi lightsabers buzzing out to their full length at the start of action scenes standing in for phallic erections at the start of “action” of an entirely different sort? Remember? “violence= sex” is one of the “everybody knows” nuggets of film theory, second in frequency only to “Citizen Kane just wanted his lost childhood back.”

Given this, it’s become a standard-issue parlor trick of film buff’s to divine the “sexuality” of action films: “Top Gun,” “Thelma & Louise” and “The Fast and the Furious” are “gay.” “Conan” and “Braveheart” are celebrations of the dominant power of the confident sword/penis. The collective action-filmography of Mel Gibson is, well… masochistic, to put it mildly. “Jarhead” strikes a unique position in this realm by removing all but the barest vestiges of actual copulation from the action/sex metaphor and focusing solely on erection and ejaculation… or lack thereof. It takes awhile, but eventually you come to the realization that what we have here is essentially a long meditation on jerking off, with Gulf War I standing in for the actual act (though we see our share of it anyway.)

The film has been criticized by many for it’s percieved lack of politics, which in most cases has meant it’s unwillingness to blossom into an antiwar parable for the new Gulf War. To my mind, this is an especially silly note of critique… The film, the subject matter nor the memoir by Desert Storm vet Anthony Swofford are in no way “inherently” anti-war/anti-current-war sources at their core, and to offer a nay-vote on this film for a lack of Bush-bashing makes about as much sense as if I were to give it a poor review based on it’s noticeable lack of irradiated giant dinosaurs.

In other words, what I suspect is causing so much consternation among some of my fellow reviewers is that they’d made up their minds that this was going to be one more anti-war parable for the reference pile, and have instead recieved a film that is aggressively hostile to politics and, in fact, approaches with 100% sympathy the “plight” of soldiers robbed of the chance to kill the enemy.

Jake Gyllenhall is Swofford, who heads to the Marines for reasons he outright refuses to share with us and finds himself promoted to the coveted rank of Scout Sniper. Paired with Marine-ethos-incarnate spotter Troy (Peter Sarsgaard, stealing yet another movie’s worth of scenes) under the command of a tough Sergeant (Jamie Foxx,) Swofford and his unit are deployed to the desert as part of Operation Desert Shield’s first wave. They’ve already gone through the “Full Metal Jacket” ride at boot camp, they’re tough, they’re excited, they’re ready and eager for their chance to kill the Iraqi enemy… and then nothing happens.

Nothing happens.

It was the push-button war, remember? The Jarheads are all ready and raring to fight, but they arrive into a war thats being fought by digital targeting systems and precision air strikes. Here, thusly, is why the film seems to be so problematic for some: “Jarhead” isn’t interested in waxing the philosophical about the futility of war, or having the lack of action lead it’s soldiers into realizations on the value of pacifism. It’s grounded completely in the perspective of the Marines themselves, and that perspective is one of impotent rage.

They came to Iraq for the joy and the rush of using their hard-earned skills to blow the brains out of the Iraqis, and that joy… that release is being denied them. There’s no attacks on the army for “making them this way,” or any serious question as to whether or not turning a man into an eager killer is morally right or wrong, or even a single attempt to “humanize” the Iraqi enemy. As far as the characters are concerned, the Iraqi soldiers represent nothing more than targets which should be theirs for the killing but are instead being shelled by the air force… and the film, as it stands, does not seem to find fault in this viewpoint.

And so, while they wait for their hoped-for chance at combat action, Swofford and the others do what all of us do when we’re all fired up and have nowhere to go: They start to go crazy. To describe the manner in which much of it occurs would be to spoil some great surprises and little moments. Take my word for it that, while you’ll find very little “war” in this particular war-movie; action, intesity and scenes of great darkness manage to abound anyway. And just wait until you see the visual knockout of the film’s entire final act, set in the surreal landscape of a desert turned black by the hellfire of burning oil wells on the horizon… and oil actually raining from the sky.

And there it is; a blunt, unashamedly phallicentric metaphor for sexual frustration doing double duty as a straight-faced lament for the soldier who’s not permitted to soldier. It may not be the war movie you were expecting, and it’s definately not the anti-war movie you might have been hoping for, but right now it’s the one you need to see.

FINAL RATING: 9/10

There’s a problem in trying to review “Saw II,” and it is this: Much like the first “Saw,” the film is a nasty little puzzle/trap of plot twists and character revelations, so one cannot go very deep into the “story” without giving away things that would impair a potential audience members enjoyment of the full film. Likewise, while one is just itching to sing the praises of the elaborate, gory ways in which various characters meet their demise… part of the fun of the traps in these movies is the “no way!” shock at their unveiling, and I wouldn’t think to deprive you of that. Let me just say that the film features one “trap” which tested my resolve to not flee the theater upon it’s unveiling alone.

So I’ll keep this as broad as possible: “Saw” was based around the mysterious “Jigsaw,” a master-planner serial killer who’d never actually killed anyone. Rather, he prefered to kidnap people of (in his eyes) dubious character and place them in horrifying torture-traps where they would only die if they failed to have the will to live through creatively gut-wrenching escape solutions. In this sequel, Jigsaw is up to his tricks once again; this time having locked a handful of (possibly) random people in a booby-trapped house with time-activated doors, cryptic “game” instructions, poisoned air and antidotes accesible only through grisly tests of will.

There’s more to it than that, but this is the kind of movie where a spoiler will literally kill many reasons to see it. So I’ll just skip to the point: It’s another solid mystery/horror entry in whats shaping into a promising franchise, with maddeningly intricate twists and gloriously twisted gore scenes. If that sort of thing lights your fire, then this is your movie. In other words, Happy Halloween.

FINAL RATING: 8/10

This one’s a keeper. A crime-movie about crime-movies obviously written for movie fans that manages without much visible straining to be honest and character driven even while it’s being profoundly cynical and veering into self-parody. See this immediately.

The writer/director is Shane Black, whom a good deal of critics and “serious” film buffs considered something close to the antichrist not long ago but has, in retrospect, been much missed. Black’s “crime” in the eyes of the PBS totebag set (oh calm down, my mother has one too) was that he wrote potently commercial, unappologetically male-slanted genre scripts (“Lethal Weapon” and “The Last Boy Scout” among them) and was paid handsomely for them. At the time, he was grouped frequently with Joe Esterhaz (“Basic Instinct” and “Showgirls”,) who’s work now seems as dated as Black’s now does clever.

According to Black, this negativity was enough to drive him into self-imposed exile. But now he’s back, making a strong directing debut using what is probably his strongest script to date. Yes, we’ve all begun to have our fill of cynical, self-aware crime comedies set in the movie business, but rarely are they ever this genuinely clever and flat-out hillarious. Based loosely on a Brett Halliday novel, the film is set up as part-parody, part-celebration of cheesy detective paperbacks, the movies based on them and the macho-bonding buddy films Black set the standard for.

Harry Lockhart (Robert Downey Jr.) is our lead and narrator, a petty thief from New York who darted into a movie audition to escape cops, got discovered and now finds himself in Hollywood being groomed by a pair of producers (Larry Miller and Corbin Bersen) for a private-eye role. Ordered to study-up on P.I. work with LA gumshoe/party-fixture Gay Perry (Val Kilmer, and the name is literal,) Harry finds himself rapidly immersed in a very Mike Hammer-ish murder mystery somehow involving himself, Perry, several bodies and a surprise renunion with his childhood crush (an appropriately “classy dame”-looking Michelle Monaghan) now a professional-partygoer.

The plot and mystery are suitably twisty, but the real meat of the film is in supplying this “hard boiled” plot through the less-than-dramatic narration of Lockhart. Not only does he often have to “rewind” his thoughts upon realizing he neglected some crucial information earlier, his mind goes off on tangents and he even pauses to offer stage direction to the actors (and extras) or to critique the movie-ness of his situation: “gee, wonder if that will come back up later?,” he chides as an obviously expository scene concludes. At one point, when the bad guys have gained the upper hand in an inconveniently un-movie-like way, all he can think to say is “no fair.”

Kilmer steals most of his scenes as Gay Perry, who at first seems to be a one-note joke (super-macho P.I. is gay) but turns out to be a sharply-written character of interesting depth. Black excells at investing tough-guy characters with unique forms of self-confident cool, and Perry approaches existance with what I would call a “devoted indifference” that makes him subtly different from the hundreds of other super-slick detective heroes of film or otherwise.

The mystery is good. The jokes are funny. The characters are a delight. The script is witty as hell and Black’s direction is more than solid. I love this movie.

FINAL RATING: 10/10

Finally did get a chance to see this recently. Just about everyone who’s written about this, one way or another, has said all I have to say much better than I probably could, so this’ll be a brief one:

It’s not good. I like Cameron Crowe and all his little recurring tics and hangups, but this just doesn’t work. In relating the story of a big-city failure who returns to his quirky small-town family roots for a funeral and is spiritually renewed by said quirkiness and a budding romance with a free-spirited girl, it reads a little too similar to “Garden State,” which was substantially superior.

The much-publicized “trimdown” from it’s original length supposedly has helped the film in the eyes of those who saw it in it’s “long” form, but for me it leaves the film a series of overly short would-be vignettes. Orlando Bloom, at least, proves he has the chops to work outside his so-far exclusive engagement in the realm of period fantasy, but Kirsten Dunst is eventually grating as a kind of full-throttle embodiment of Crowe’s idealized female form: A supernaturally-perky blonde Tinkerbell of limitless resources who throws herself joyfully into the job of forcing a hero to find himself and fall in love with her.

A MAJOR flaw, cut down but still held over from the “problem” cut, is that the film contains a kind of instant-sequel to itself framed as a clumsy 4th act: Following the resolution to the main story, Bloom’s character sets out on a road trip using a detour-laden map compiled by Dunst’s character… complete with narration, instructions on where to eat and who to meet and, naturally, a Cameron Crowe-issue pop soundtrack. It’s a cute idea, but it needs a movie of it’s own.

Bottom line: Continue to ignore the existance of this one until it hits DVD.

FINAL RATING: 4/10

Lost so far in the shuffle of a geekdom relieved that ONE video game inspired film doesn’t completely suck, action fans glad for something new to watch and elitist old-guard critics itching to kill the game-to-movie genre in the womb thats surrounded the release of “Doom” is the fact of why this franchise was so infamous in the first place.

Contrary to the hazy memories of many writing about the film, “Doom’s” initial fame did NOT come from being the original “first-person shooter” (that was “Wolfenstein 3D,” no?) or for being the first ultraviolent game (everything from “Chiller” to “Mortal Kombat” beat it to that punch.) Rather, “Doom’s” big infamy came first from being it’s generation’s designated punching-bag for censors, moralists and other enemies of freedom to assault in the name of restricting content and speech in entertainment.

Normally this kind of labeling by the censor hordes slips away once the public comes to their senses (no rational person can take these people seriously for very long,) but “Doom’s” branding stuck around much longer thanks to added pressure from the other side of the anti-freedom movement: The misguided child psychology profession of the 1990s, which took time out of it’s busy work turning the next generation of creative thinkers into Ritalin Zombies to manufacture data claiming to “prove” that the game’s immersive FPS play setup was responsible for making kids “aggressive.” (because when you think dangerous, overstimulating behavior, sitting in front of a keyboard is the first image that jumps to mind.)

Thus, the lable stuck so profoundly that “Doom” was even blamed as having inspired the Columbine massacre despite the fact that it took place almost a decade after the game itself had slipped into memory for most fans. So, then, it was only a matter of time before the pro-censor lobby decided to use the occasion of the movie to drum up their forces once again.

From Dr. Ted Baer over at “Movieguide.org:”
http://www.movieguide.org/index.php?s=reviews&id=6996&PHPSESSID=ae017f3919abe231959b9aea1ee8c35e

“Obsession with such murderous imagery is the kind of thing that helped instigate some of the school murders a few years ago.”

What I like about the above quote is that Baer, who often gives low marks to films dealing with the supernatural because of “unholy” scenes of communication with the dead, here essentially is claiming to be able to know the thoughts of the DEAD Columbine killers. Mr. Baer, a legion of professionals and law enforcement personel, the dumbest of them more intellectually honest than most of the reviews on your site, went over this case for years and are STILL unsure as to what actually “instigated” Harris and Klebold. If you’re going to place the blame on ANYTHING you’d better have proof… and we both know you do not.

Then there’s the Childcare Action Project, (capalert.com,) which can be consistently counted on to out-crazy even the craziest of the pro-censor armies:
http://www.capalert.com/now_playing.htm (select “Doom” from the list)

“If this film is a true representation of the video game, it is no wonder why so many have such low value for life and contempt for noble behavior and wholesome language”

“Maybe video games are even more corruptive than films or music. Music just lets you hear about killing. Films let you hear and see killing. Video games let you hear the killing, see the killing and DO the killing though it be fantasy. A bad influence does not have to be real to influence badly. God knew what He was talking about when He old us about bad influences.”

“God knew what He was talking about…” Read that part again. Here’s my question for you readers: Who’s super-power is more impressive? Movieguide’s ability to speak to the dead, or CAP having direct communicating with God?

Yes, once again “Doom” is newsworthy and, once again, people are lining up to blame it for whatever their pet cause to be against is. All of them hoping against hope that YOU won’t notice that they have an agenda beyond “looking out for the kids,” and certainly that you’ll never realize that that agenda is not only pro-censorship… but also anti-democracy, anti-American and, yes, anti-FREEDOM.

The battle continues.

I want you to go get a stopwatch. Or look at your regular watch. Or the clock on your toolbar. I want you to begin timing yourself as you read the following paragraph in boldface.

Begin timing… now. Sexual harrasment is a BAD thing. Submissive gender-roles set for women in prior generations were restrictive, hypocritical and harmful. Modern sexual harassment policies are a GOOD thing that helped working women greatly, even if it may sometimes be misused or overapplied today. End timing.

My time: 13 seconds. What’s your’s?

Now, consider the following: Whatever time you got is how long it took you to recieve and absorb every bit of meaning, message, moral, weight, worldview and overall worth as a film that “North Country” has to offer in 2 hours and 6 minutes.

The first question that needs to be answered about any piece of “issue” filmmaking is, put succintly: What is the purpose of this film? What does it set out to accomplish, in other words, in terms of “tackling” it’s issue? In regards to “North Country,” this must be asked especially sternly, as it seeks our attention for dramatizing a struggle that anyone who has held any kind of job anywhere in the last decade can tell you has been won rather decisively. Why, when all is said and done, do we need to be told this story now, in an age where the only group that has any regular fear of sexual harassment are men walking about the office on eggshells hoping to never be accused of it?

I’m aware, of course, that my question probably answers itself: That the filmmakers are aware that sexual harassment has gone from being a major issue to a punchline (“innocent guy accused of harassment via misunderstanding with workplace PC-police” is a common sitcom storyline these days) and “North Country” is meant to remind us that those endless forms we’re all required to read and fill out at work are, overall, a good thing that righted a longstanding wrong for working women.

The proper way to do this, in my view, would be to tell a story concentrating on characters and relationships and trust the audience to know that making lewd attacks on female coworkers, smearing vulgarities on walls in feces and sexual assaulting a whistleblowing woman are wrong on their own. I’d add that, at all costs, it would be wise to play to the basic rights and wrongs of such issues, rather than alienating a chunk of the audience by seeming to view the central conflict as a clash of political good guys and bad guys.

So guess what they don’t do?

I’ll concede that the film is trying it’s hardest to be more than it is, especially in the area of casting. Charlize Theron is once more called upon to immolate her near-supernatural beauty on the altar of working class grit as Josey Aimes, (the film is only loosely based on a real life case,) mother two out-of-wedlock moppets who flees an abusive husband for the home of her parents (Sissy Spacek and Richard Jenkins) and a job in the (begrudgingly) newly-integrated mines.

The men don’t like the presence of the women workers and let them know through violent, vulgar and cruel campaigns of bullying. Most of the women have learned to “live with it,” even the otherwise hard-nosed union rep Glory (Frances McDormand,) but Josey has put up with too much abuse to take any more. She complains, is accused of troublemaking, is eventually fired and then brings a historic class-action suit against the company. Cue scenes of anguished shouting, eeeeevil businessmen wring their eeeevil hands about how this “could change everything!!!!” and, yes, big Oscar Clip courtroom scenes with no semblance whatsoever to an actual legal proceeding. Be sure to leave room for a Shocking Twist that most of us will see coming waaaaay to early for it to matter.

I’ll give it an A for effort, at least. Niki Caro’s direction is fine, though the chosen cinematography is just a bit TOO reminiscient of every other post-“Fargo” invocation of northwestern sprawl. And the cast works it’s ass off to be earnest and truthful, often to varying degrees of success. Theron, for example, nails a flawless Minnesottan accent and a believable working-girl poise, but her efforts are undercut by a puzzling decision to have her looking distinctly more “made-up” than anyone else in the cast. It’s as though the film is hedging it’s bets that the pairing of Theron’s natural porceline-pixie glow with the violence visited on her is necessary to further sell the audience, which if true is another example of heavy-handedness.

And heavy-handedness is the film’s biggest flaw. It just won’t trust us to already know that this is all wrong, it has to stack the deck. Josey isn’t JUST a victim of workplace harassment, she’s ALSO a battered wife AND her own father treats her with callous disregard, having essentially disowned her for getting pregnant in High School… AND theres a too-easy-to-guess Dark Secret about THAT which doesn’t exactly reflect well on the male of species either. Thusly, before we even GET to the sexual harrassment storyline the film is already putting poor Josey through the Jim Caveziel gauntlet and beating the “men are pigs” drum. It’s too much too soon, and the film suffers.

A more disasterous flaw is it’s laughably blunt political posturing outside of it’s own story, as the film actually features a reccurring theme of Josey watching the Anita Hill testimony on TV and drawing some sort of strength from it. Movie… seriously… are you kidding me??

Despite being done no favors by the script, the film’s most real-feeling performance (I’m talking Best Supporting Actor calibre here) is by Jenkins as Josey’s father Hank. We can see Hank’s arc coming for miles; he must be bitter and cold for two acts only to see the light, abandon his puritanical hangups about Josey’s prior indescretion and rise to her defense for the third. But Jenkins is a seasoned character professional, and he turns in a subtle, understated and 100% real-feeling turnaround that feels organic and human in a way that puts the rest of the film’s “GIVE ME AN OSCAR!!!!!!!!!!!” hysterics to shame. The gradual succession of scenes visualizing Hank’s change in perspective, especially when they eventually place him onscreen with Josey, are the best stuff in the film, and was this relationship the central focus we’d be looking at a major awards contender here.

I don’t like having to give this film a negative review. It’s earnest, and it very much wants to be important and well-liked. And I’m DEFINATELY not looking to shoot down the cause it’s in support of… far from it. But the fact is, one of the reasons WHY sexual harassment has become such a punchline of an issue these last few years is that it’s so often defended only by heavy-handed Lifetime-esque pieces like this. These issues deserved a better movie back when they were fresh and more relevant, and these actors and filmmakers deserve a better movie now.

FINAL RATING: 5/10

THIS is how you do one of these.

The story of Edward R. Murrow’s confrontation with Senator Joseph McCarthy at the height of the HUAC hearings is, whatever your opinion of the events or your personal politics overall, unquestionably the central Creation Story of the modern media. Being as it is a story which, when told as it generally has been this past half-century, is overall damaging to “conservative” politicians and empowering to “liberal” journalists; one can be forgiven for expecting politically-outspoken actor/director George Clooney to deliver a hagiographical bit of mythmaking in crafting a film about it. All he would need to do is follow the standard, simplified version of the events as they are often recounted: That Murrow and his news team were benighted, wholly-unbiased “simple newsmen” who were merely “doing they’re job” when they set in motion the events that would bring down McCarthy. And he may even have made a decent film in doing so.

But instead, Clooney has chosen to go a more honest, less self-flattering and MUCH less “useful” (in the political-propaganda sense) route; and in doing so he has not made a decent film… he’s made a great one.

A small, enclosed film, “Good Night and Good Luck” exists as a series of brilliant choices. David Strathairn is a note-perfect Murrow, and Clooney makes a fine foil as his producer/ally Fred Friendly. Ray Winstone, Frank Langella and others shine in supporting roles. The choice to shoot in black and white is a winner as well, so too the (aparent) decision to stage the story in the manner of a television production of the era. And then there’s the masterstroke of essentially having McCarthy play himself, by limiting the “villain’s” role to archival footage.

But the real note of greatness here is in what the film chooses NOT to do, namely to use the “mythic” version of the tale as a way to answer the current accusations of “liberal media bias.” In fact, it rather brazenly takes the position that Murrow and his crew WERE “biased” against McCarthy, or at least his tactics, and that they DID conspire to damage the Senator and his mission. The film does, naturally, approach this truism as also be an entirely heroic act in it’s own right.

This SHOULD play as more incendiary (“damn right they were biased, and good for them!”) but somehow it doesn’t. This is largely thanks to Strathairn’s measured but commanding performance, which helps us understand the kind of trust that Murrow was able to inspire in his viewers, and also to a crackerjack screenplay which eventually leaves the questions of politics on the back-burner in favor of another purpose entirely: To hold up Murrow vs. McCarthy as an example of the power of journalism to accomplish great good or, at least, great importance; and to use this as a message from the past about the sorry state of news reporting today.

Let me be blunt about this: In my current opinion, this may well be the best film of the year. It’s honest where it could’ve been preachy, cutting where it could’ve been congratulatory. It’s a political film that manages not to politicize it’s audience, and it deserves your attention (along with a round of Oscars come that time.)

FINAL RATING: 10/10