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Killer Queen MMA fighter Gina Carano makes her film debut in Steven Soderbergh’s ass-kicking new yarn
Haywire *** Rated R • AMC Orange Park, AMC Regency Square, Carmike Fleming Island, Cinemark Tinseltown, Epic Theatre St. Augustine, Hollywood River City, Regal Avenues, Regal Beach Blvd. |
Silence is Golden “The Artist” is a contemporary cinematic treasure built on the techniques of the past
The Artist **** Rated PG-13 • AMC Orange Park, AMC Regency Square, Cinemark Tinseltown, Epic Theatre St. Augustine, Regal Avenues, Regal Beach Blvd. |
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You have to admire Steven Soderbergh’s work ethic. Since the filmmaker’s debut in 1989 with “Sex, Lies and Videotape,” he has averaged two films a year — sometimes writing and directing them, sometimes editing them, and often serving as his own cinematographer. Even when he’s not at his best, as in “Bubble” or “Schizopolis,” his work is still more interesting than most Cineplex fodder. His choice of material spans the genres: science-fiction (“Solaris”); comedy/mystery (“Out of Sight,” “Underneath”); biopics (“Che: Parts 1 & 2”); literary fantasy (“Kafka”) and however you want to classify “Ocean’s Eleven” and its sequels.
This year alone, Soderbergh has three films to his credit — the well-received bio-thriller “Contagion,” Australian comedy “The Last Time I Saw Michael Gregg” with Cate Blanchett and now the action/spy thriller “Haywire” with Gina Carano, an MMA fighter-turned-actress in her first starring role. “Huh?” you may be thinking, especially if you’ve seen its trailers, which look like a Jason Statham flick minus the scruffy bald badass. In fact, that’s exactly what “Haywire” turns out to be — an action film fueled by estrogen instead of testosterone, with a bit more smarts.
Employing a narrative style that starts near the end instead of the beginning, “Haywire” presents lovely but lethal Mallory (Gina Carano) on the run from some bad guys. We find this out when she exchanges punches, kicks and assorted body shots with a former boyfriend (Channing Tatum) in a rural diner, and then relates her tale to the perplexed and quaking young guy (Michael Angarano, “Gentlemen Broncos”) whose car she’s hijacked. That’s how we (and he) catch up on the action.
It’s a confusing, complicated story of espionage and betrayal involving stately Michael Douglas as a government official and Ewan McGregor as the head of an independent contract agency that specializes in “unofficial” undercover work, kind of like the “Mission: Impossible” squad. Instead of Tom Cruise, we’ve got tough chick Mallory, trying to stay alive while she sorts out the good guys from the bad. In the process, there’s considerable head-banging, shooting and chasing across rooftop. Trough it all, Mallory manages to stay in the dominant position. She’s one mean mother.
The impressive cast of supporting male actors includes French actor/director Mathieu Kassovitz (“Munich,” “Amelie”) as one of the international shady guys, Antonio Banderas as another, Michael Fassbender (Magneto in “X-Men: First Class”) as yet another, and finally kindly Bill Paxton as Mallory’s dad. If Soderbergh or Gina Carano felt the least bit intimidated by her seasoned co-stars, it doesn’t show on the screen. Carano isn’t ready for Shakespeare just yet, but “Haywire” doesn’t call for her to do much more than show off her considerable physical skills.
On the writing side, the bane of most brainless action flicks, Soderbergh employs his sometime collaborator Lem Dobbs, who provided the screenplay for one of the director’s best (“The Limey,” with Terence Stamp) as well as one of his most ambitious and provocative (“Kafka,” with Jeremy Irons). Dobbs also wrote “Dark City,” the mind-bending 1998 sci-fi film Roger Ebert dubbed the best movie that year. Despite the welcome contribution of Dobbs and his oblique story line, “Haywire” plays out much like the recent “Colombiana,” which featured Zoe Saldana as another impressive female wrecking machine, turning the tables on a bunch of swarthy thugs. Apart from the fact that the villains in “Haywire” are more elegant than their counterparts in “Colombiana,” the action-driven plots of the two films are more consistent than not. Soderbergh employs more editing tricks in terms of visuals and soundtrack, but the major appeals in both films are their female stars and the neat reversal of gender roles.
It’ll be interesting to see what 30-year-old Gina Carano does next with her new career. If the rumors are true and she does play the sultry sorceress Circe in the upcoming Percy Jackson sequel, she could just as easily beat the bejeezus out of the unwary guys as bewitch them.
Pat McLeod themail@folioweekly.com |
This must have been what it was like back in the golden age of silent cinema — to enter a darkened theater not knowing what to expect, only to be swept away in a moment of breathless delight. Thanks to director Michel Hazanavicius, we can share this experience once again, if we are willing to make the leap. Will audiences throw down a chunk of change to watch a black-and-white film shot in a 1:33:1 aspect ratio with no dialogue and a traditionally orchestrated soundtrack?
They damn well should.
Hazanavicius’ new film, “The Artist,” is so brilliantly crafted, so rich with metaphor and self-deprecation, so light and yet so full of emotional depth that anyone with a sense of adventure or an appreciation for the art — the art — of filmmaking will want to see it multiple times. A devotee of early cinema, Hazanavicius went to great pains to get the look of his film just right, shooting in the original aspect ratio and using an assortment of lenses, lighting and camera techniques to match the aesthetic of his favorite 1920s films. (“The Artist” was shot in color, then transferred to black-and-white during post production.)
The result is nothing short of astonishing.
The story of “The Artist” is equally engaging. It’s 1927, and silent film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is at the top of his game, having just attended the premiere of his latest film, “A Russian Affair.” Outside the theater, flashbulbs blazing and fans jockeying for position along the red carpet, Valentin has a chance encounter with Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), who bumps into him after dropping her purse. Following a tense moment during which he feigns anger for the intrusion, Valentin slides into his charming trademark grin and mugs with Peppy for the adoring crowd. The next day, Peppy is the new “It” girl when her photo with Valentin hits the cover of Variety magazine. It’s her stepping stone toward a career in the movies.
As Peppy ascends, thanks, in part, to the advent of the talkies, Valentin tanks. He, the titular “artist,” refuses to embrace new sound technology, preferring to keep making silent films. Kinograph Studios head Al Zimmer (John Goodman) finally shuts down all production of silent films, instead focusing on Peppy’s success. The prideful Valentin decides to squander his remaining fortune producing his final silent film, and ends up broke and lonely, deserted by his wife, Doris (Penelope Ann Miller) and his once-smitten fans.
With his loyal driver Clifton (James Cromwell) and faithful Jack Russell terrier as his only companions, Valentin drinks himself into oblivion in his skid-row apartment. Despite a friendly intervention by now-famous Peppy, Valentin considers suicide his only option. All of this melodrama, mind you, takes place with no dialogue and only a dozen spare title cards to convey any meaning that can’t be gleaned from the action.
Already nominated for — and winner of — a host of international awards, “The Artist” is a masterstroke of both artistry and entertainment. Dujardin and Hazanavicius’ wife, Bejo, are utterly convincing as 1920s film stars, he dashing and charismatic, she charming and absolutely gorgeous. Both strike the perfect balance of real acting chops and the hyperbolic theatrics of silent film legends like Chaplin and Gish. And Bejo’s work during “the coat rack” scene is worth the price of admission many times over. (Spoiler alert: Do not view the trailer, which uses a portion of this scene, if you want to be mesmerized by this brief but incandescent performance.)
Hazanavicius left no detail to chance here. From the sets and wardrobe to the jostling title cards and era-specific choreography, it all succeeds in spades. Even the oft-overlooked extras are fantastic. And the observant viewer is constantly rewarded with subtleties in foreshadowing, metaphor and irony. Even the obvious swipe that “The Artist” takes at Hollywood (“Hollywoodland” in the film) and the encroachment of new technology contributes to the film’s self-deprecating approach. Indeed, the movie was shot in Hollywood using advanced technology and distributed domestically by perhaps Tinseltown’s biggest egomaniacs, the Weinsteins.
But don’t let that dissuade you. See this movie, and see it soon. There won’t be another like it, well … ever.
John E. Citrone themail@folioweekly.com |
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