The wheels on the bus go round and round

A scene from yesterday's bus ride downtown:

I enter with a Ukrop's bag in my hand and take an empty seat. I'm puzzled because five people are standing. Then I learn.

MAN (seeing bag): Did you go to the supermarket?
ME (unused to people talking to me on the bus): Sorry?
MAN: The supermarket?
ME: Oh, yes. I did. (Note: Bag contains picnic blankets. Not important.)
MAN: Did you talk to Veronica?
ME: No. I didn't.

(Long pause.)

MAN: Did you go to Shaw's?
ME: Yes. I did.
MAN: Yeah, Shaw's. That's where Veronica works.

(Long pause. MAN leans over to HISPANIC MAN beside him.)

MAN: Do you like hombres or chicas?
HISPANIC MAN: What?
MAN: You like chicas?
HISPANIC MAN: Chicas. Sure...
MAN: Chicas. Man, they are great. (to a new passenger:) Hey. Are you Asian?
ASIAN MAN: ...

It was like an outtake from Crash. The Oscar winner, not the David Cronenberg freakshow of erotic auto accidents.

Double Double, Toil and Trouble

Review: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

The fire's burning, the cauldron's bubbling in this sixth of seven -- scratch that, eight! -- Harry Potter films (maybe it's better to just call them "movies"). It's refreshing that everyone takes them seriously, but not Too Seriously. Each installment has its pluses:

• The first visualized an enchanting, colorful new world.
• The second showed that new worlds also deserve good editing.
  
• The third began to feel "crafted," and had the advantage of Rowling's thrilling third act.
  
• The fourth was oh-so-British (even if I can't remember much of it).
• The fifth was surprisingly apt at streamlining a behemoth of a novel, then painting it all in dreamy crystalline blues.
  

Not to mention great work from Richard Harris, Maggie Smith, Alan Rickman, and Imelda Staunton. Mere highlights of the world's greatest acting ensemble.

So what does the penultimate (sort of) year at Hogwarts (again, I should qualify that) offer on the cinema screen? The book is one of J.K. Rowling's more mature entries into the canon; and Dumbledore blessedly plays a large role. I found Michael Gambon, for the first time, effective as the headmaster. He lends a gravitas to The Half-Blood Prince that keeps the film grounded. His leering gaze, slightly sinister, and his lack of warmth are odd but serve him well at this juncture, when his motives seem curious. Flashbacks to young Tim Riddle -- and there should be more -- play up the mystery and menace of their magical world.

Less elegant than The Order of the Phoenix, this sixth film can be choppy. The Ron-Hermione pinings are sweet but take up gratituous amounts of screentime. The entire beginning could be shortened to the eerie Diagon Alley sequence, perhaps to give Dumbledore and Harry's relationship more thrust. As it is, the ending speeds along too quickly, from the faux Horcrux in the cave to the confrontation with Snape.

At least most of the noble Brits get one good scene in The Half-Blood Prince. And some of the child actors are intriguing as always, especially Evanna Lynch as Luna Lovegood. Of the main three? Rupert Grint has been the most consistent. Emma Watson dominated The Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone but has fallen into generic teen-girl mode. Happily, Daniel Radcliffe has become something of an actor in the series; Phoenix showcased him better, but he's got loads of grist awaiting in The Deathly Hallows.

If it's not quite a cohesive movie, it's still entertaining. There's an artistry to the technical filmmaking, from the mists off the cliffs to the intoxicating swirls of memories. And coupled with Phoenix, The Half-Blood Prince has a welcome The Empire Strikes Back vibe going on.

Hogwarts through the Ages

Strongest books: The Prisoner of Azkaban, The Goblet of Fire.
Strongest films: The Prisoner of Azkaban, The Order of the Phoenix.
Best performance: Alan Rickman without contest.
Best character expansion: Helena Bonham Carter as Bellatrix.
Best cinematography: The Half-Blood Prince.
Box-office for #6 so far: $826 million.

My wishes for Book Seven on film:

1. Excise the Epilogue. Let's not have Radcliffe et al. dressed up like they're forty.
2. Add a little somber-ness into the (fairly) happy ending of the novel.
   
3. Only sacrifice characters who make legit appearances in the films. The Muggle Studies professor does not count.

Possible side effects include memory loss.

Review: The Hangover

Short version: Mike Tyson has a cameo.

In full: What happens in Vegas, like it or not, doesn't always stay in Vegas. "Like herpes," Jeffrey Tambor, who blesses The Hangover with two minutes of face time, admonishes. Like lashes across the neck from a tiger attack. Like sunburned skin the shade lobsters fantasize about. Yes, this is the residue of a bachelor party in Sin City, with four men who live to tell the tale.


Or the parts they recall. The intrigue of The Hangover is its Nevada-desert-noir plotting, where three buddies awaken to a ravaged room in Caesar's Palace, a tiger amid the detritus, and no recollection of their escapades the night before. An arthouse director would bathe the shots in swatches of gleaming, caustic light refracting across the glossy Strip and the desolate open roads. But this is not that film; nor is it a graduate from the Judd Apatow "Bromance" School of Thought. Like Las Vegas, it's a shiny bauble that's deceptively crass. Underneath, everything's pretty ordinary.

Even three of the Musketeers drowning in the Vegas sandstorm are regular guys: Bradley Cooper, Justin Bartha, and Ed Helms of The Office. In 2009, regular's become the new black. Such casting feels refreshing but overdone in recent man-focused comedies. Zach Galifianakis, on the other hand, plays the familiar schlubby sidekick like an alien tourist bemused by planet Earth. As he deadpans through a series of ludicrously unfortunate events, never breaking a straight face, the movie finds its zing. (To Helms' credit, he bravely plays an hour onscreen with a tooth missing; one of his incisors in real life is artificial.)

You're likely to laugh, even guffaw, at their insouciance. Imagine sitting in a crowded theater, your neighbors barreled over (scooping up renegade popcorn?). It must be funny, right? you ask, forcing yourself to compete through a gauntlet of thigh slaps and did-you-see-that-bro! exclamations. Better sneak in a six-pack and take a shot for every familiar Vegas sight: Wayne Newton, impromptu weddings, prostitutes with hearts of gold, stereotypical Asian gamblers. Then wake up the next morning and try to remember what went down.

Summer days, drifting away...

Review: (500) Days of Summer

Remember those commercials where a man waltzes outside and the sky, the leaves on the trees, the whole block bursts into cheerful abundance? Director Marc Webb returns again and again in (500) Days of Summer to a monochrome architectural sketch of a city expanse that, as the hero's mood brightens, fills out with greens and blues. The Smiths' mellow comfort rock gently nudges us toward indie Fantasyland with "There is a Light that Never Goes Out."

But the film's too smart for that platitude. When the relationship at the heart of this not-a-love-story wavers, the watercolors in the trees fade to gray. Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber's nonlinear screenplay covers the ebb and flow between Tom and Summer. Yes, it's the type of movie with two meanings for "Summer." This split carries throughout a film that examines distance; one clever vignette plays Tom's expectations in splitscreen with the reality of a dispiriting dinner party.

Just as Tom falls madly for Summer, the film can't resist lusting after the romantic comedies that have come before. A useless narrator is present for ironic distance. But the fragrant musk of Annie Hall and The Graduate scents each snatch of dialogue between the leads. Postmodern film, of course, almost demands cobbling together bits and pieces of pop culture that the audience can check off. Simon and Garfunkel, IKEA, sweater vests? Check. Ultimately the film surrenders to the witchcraft it tries to shirk. It is a love story. One that ends on an ambivalent chartreuse color, like Woody Allen did in the '70s.

The script keeps dialogue sharp, to the point. Not too cute or desperately indie. Though there can be a sour cherry, like Tom's overwrought anti-establishment breakdown over sappy greeting cards ("What is love?"), Joseph Gordon-Levitt takes each moment with honesty and underplayed humor. He anchors the film, keeping even self-destruction fresh by not succumbing to the zombie-robot emoting Zach Braff used in Garden State. Zooey Deschanel does have some of that Natalie Portman vibe. She's refreshing because she keeps quirky tics to a minimum. The camera seems enraptured by her wide eyes and cascading bangs. Their openness as actors goes a long way toward (500) Days' endurance. If we're lucky, its pleasures won't fade from our memories when fall comes.

Martin McDonagh Takes His Tea Black

Review: The Cripple of Inishmaan
Linda Gross Theater (Off-Broadway), New York
March 14, 2009

I never got around to discussing this play back in March. Maybe it was my excitement over being first in line and getting one of only two rush tickets. Maybe I wanted to read it on paper.

No matter. McDonagh's worth bragging about belatedly. He's a playwright that sticks with you. Sure, there's the call-response humor, based on repetition and day-by-day life in a country shop on the Irish island of Inishmaan:

BARTLEY: Do ya have any Mintios?
EILEEN: We have only what you see, Bartley McCormick.
BARTLEY: In America they do have Mintios.
EILEEN: Go to America so.
BARTLEY: Me Aunty Mary did send me seven Mintios in a package. [...] But you have none?
EILEEN: We have only what you see.
BARTLEY: You should get some Mintios really, because Mintios are nice sweeties. You should get somebody in America to go sending you some. In a package. [...] Do ya have any Yalla-mallows?
EILEEN: We have only what you see.
BARTLEY: They do have Yalla-mallows in America.
EILEEN: Oh aye. I suppose your Aunty Mary did send you some in a package.
BARTLEY: No. She sent me a photograph of some in a package. The only proper sweeties she sent me were the seven Mintios.

McDonagh is primarily a playwright who surprises, and not just in fleeting thrills. It's the goosepimpled, edge-of-your-seat back-and-forth in banter and conflict that pulses without a break. He's also unafraid to go anywhere, and without any apologies. The hero of The Cripple of Inishmaan is, as the characters call him, Cripple Billy, and McDonagh doesn't sentimentalize him. His aunts think he's helpless; the villagers josh and jostle him, none of which McDonagh spares:

BILLY: They say it was that Dad punched Mammy while she was heavy with me was why I turned out the way I did.
DOCTOR: Disease caused you to turn out the way you did, Billy. Not punching at all. Don't go romanticizing it.

McDonagh's black humor can be cruel. After reading The Pillowman and The Lieutenant of Inishmore, though, I was shocked this time. There's a great deal of humanity in Billy's misfortune. When a film crew comes to Ireland, he grabs his chance and hops on a boat to America for a screen test. Though he's not chosen for the film in the end, the odd one out as always, Billy sees equal amounts of joy and sadness in coming home to loved ones, even if they make fun of his hobbling and wheezing. McDonagh rewards his actors with solid characters. Off-Broadway, Aaron Monaghan as a conflicted, half-indecipherable Billy and Dearbhla Molloy as a sweet but stern Eileen were the highlights of a strong (mostly Irish) ensemble.

McDonagh specializes in bait and switch. We learn three different renderings of his parents' death, and whether they wanted Billy to live. Allegiances shift constantly. The ending rockets between utter despair and pot-o'-gold ebullience. This is tamer than his other plays: I expected blood-drenched violence, and nobody died! But McDonagh, though he often returns to his Irish homeland, sees the world for what it is, with all the laughter and horror built in. Nothing is sugar-coated except the Mintios.

KATE (about Billy's departure): After all the shame he brought on us, staring at cows, and this is how he repays us.
EILEEN: I hope the boat sinks before it ever gets him to America.
KATE: I hope he drowns like his mammy and daddy drowned before him.
EILEEN (pause): Or are we being too harsh on him?

Martin McDonagh himself.