Review - The Artist

Grade: A+

Yang: Outstanding performances by Dujardin and Bejo highlight a wonderfully charming and funny film that recalls the best of Hollywood’s silent and Golden Eras. Superb turns by supporting cast, especially James Cromwell and Uggie the Dog

Yin: Weaker in any scene where Dujardin and Bejo are off-screen; could prove baffling for audiences unfamiliar with the elements of silent film.

In-Between: Hopefully, the screening audience understands the value of “show don’t tell”. If not, prepare for more dialogue in the seats than on the screen.

Movie marketers are always in search of a film they can sell as a “feel good” experience. Outside of Pixar films and the occasional poignant indie, there are few films that truly qualify as “feel good”, and even fewer actually make audiences feel anything

The Artist is not one of those films.

A charming, moving, and inspiring recreation of the magic of old Hollywood, writer-director Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist is one of the very few cinematic experiences in recent years to legitimately make an audience feel good.

Filmed in the manner of silent films from the Hollywood’s Silent Era (1894-1929)—complete with title cards for occasional bits of important dialogue—The Artist tells the tale of Clark Gable-esque silent film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin), a charismatic triple threat performer on top of the world—with the exception of a clearly loveless marriage to Penelope Ann Miller’s Doris—thanks to his dashing good looks, charm, quick feet, and faithful sidekick, a scrappy Jack Russell terrier. At the premiere of George’s latest, he bumps into gorgeous, spunky aspiring starlet, Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), as she is caught among the throngs grasping for George’s autograph. George and Peppy’s meet-cute is rare in that it is actually funny and cute, especially when Peppy quickly turns on the spunk and reveals herself to have the ever-elusive ‘it’ factor. From there, Hollywood’s newest “it girl” lands a role as a dancing extra on George’s next film. The two share a brief scene and—for lack of a better cliché—figurative sparks fly. Everything’s coming up rosy for George until studio head Al Zimmer (John Goodman) introduces him to the next big thing in film: talkies. George laughs off the idea, believing that no audience would want to hear his voice. Meanwhile, Peppy is climbing her way through the ranks, from extra to supporting actress to star. While Peppy’s star rises astronomically, George sees his fall after Zimmer’s studio closes shop on the production of silent films. A proud man, George decides to produce, write and direct a silent film that will outdo any talkie Zimmer and his studio can produce. George quickly finds himself running out of money and headlong into a divorce and the 1929 stock market crash. Facing obscurity and destitution, George will find that the love and support of his “replacement” may be enough to help him shine again.

Hazanavicius did a simply amazing job constructing this heartfelt homage to the filmmakers and actors of Hollywood’s silent and golden eras. As much as The Artist is a film in love with films and filmmaking, it is one that equally cherishes actors and character. Dujardin’s George and Bejo’s Peppy are two of the most genuinely charming and likeable characters to grace a silver screen since the end of the Golden Era. Their burgeoning romance is palpable because neither character engages in the selfishness and deceit common to contemporary romantic leads. It is clear from their first meeting that these two artists have compatible personalities and, shockingly, actually like each other. With the exception of one scene that dips its toe in the pond of modern romantic comedy contrivance, neither character tries to actively outwit or harm the other in the name of love. Additionally, neither character falls into a paralyzing depression because of lost love, though George has a pretty rough time—to say the least—dealing with his diminishing relevance. The reason these characters work is as much the work of Hazanavicius writing and directing as it is the work of Dujardin and Bejo’s performances. In truth, these are Oscar-level performances, and it is hard to see how an academy that champions anything that honors Hollywood could avoid bestowing at least one of these fine actors with a nomination—and this is from someone who truly believes award shows are irrelevant. Dujardin, in particular, anchors the film with a winning performance as George, a dignified, proud, but eminently likeable star who seems to represent the best of what movie stars could be. Bejo is an equally luminous presence, radiating a beauty and liveliness that could outshine the sun. I don’t think there are many actresses today—maybe Anne Hathaway—who emulate the pure star power and personality that Bejo displays as Peppy, and that is a dreadful shame.

Bejo and Dujardin may carry the film, but they are not alone, as they are supported by superb cast. John Goodman does an able job delivering laughs as the beleaguered studio head, who, despite his best efforts, is frequently at the mercy of his stars. James Cromwell also makes an indelible mark as George’s loyal driver, Clifton. Cromwell’s Clifton is the Alfred to George’s Batman, and the, here’s that word again, dignity Cromwell brings to the role goes a long way to helping audiences understand why the two are so loyal to each other. Penelope Ann Miller is unfortunately submerged in the thankless role as the one mildly detestable character in the film, but her time on screen is fairly limited and does little to interfere with the proceedings. The only supporting star to outshine these other wonderful performers is Uggie, the animal performer who plays George’s Jack Russell terrier. Yeah, it’s kind of corny that this grown man’s sidekick is a dog, but it is another example of the loyal friendships George has fostered. Early in the film, George comes home to a cold wife who barely greets him, but his dog eagerly jumps into his open arms. The way is Uggie hits the perfect play dead or shame posture beats is wonderfully funny and will never fail to get a laugh from anyone with a warm heart.

The Artist is able to showcase this string of great performances thanks in large part to Hazanavicius central conceit of using silent film techniques throughout, with only two notable and necessary exceptions. The silence enables this film to do something few modern mainstream films do well, particularly in terms of developing character: show instead of tell. Spoken dialogue would only diminish the emotion of this film, as The Artist is the rare film that truly earns every laugh and near tear from the audience simply due to the clarity of character’s motivation and action. Additionally, Hazanavicius has faithfully recreated the dream of Hollywood in a manner almost completely devoid of cynicism. This is a film about decent people doing their best to adhere to their principles while being decent to each other. In a way, it reminds of this summer’s Captain America. Sure, life wasn’t a peachy in the early days of the twentieth century as both films would like their audiences to believe, but, for two hours, it’s nice to think it was, and that is the feeling that sticks with audiences. Very few contemporary films can create such a feeling, earn the emotions they aim for, and remain in the audience’s hearts and minds. The Artist is one of the few films this year that has easily accomplished all three feats.

Review - The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)

Grade: B-

Yin: Languid pacing and extensive length could put some folks to sleep. Material is far less shocking than advertised. A true late-90s vibe from music to visuals to narrative.

Yang: Great atmosphere. Strong performance by Rooney Mara as Goth hacker Lisbeth Salander. A true late-90s vibe from music to visuals.

In-Between: Pipes aren’t meant to fit into certain crevasses.

I often ask the women in my family, “What’s the appeal of Law & Order: SVU?” or “What’s the appeal of those Lifetime movies where the women are brutally assaulted and raped?” I rarely get a definitive answer outside a noncommittal, “It’s interesting,” but I continue to ask because I can’t wrap my head around the appeal of watching women be viciously abused and subsequently receive only a modicum of retribution.

I assume I could ask the same of fans of the film adaptation of the first book in Steig Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and receive roughly the same answer. The difference between Law & Order and a Lifetime movie and Dragon Tattoo is simple: you can watch L&O or a Lifetime movie and be bored and appalled at the same time for free; Dragon Tattoo will cost you at least $11 and three hours of your time.

Is it worth it? For die-hard fans of moody Goth hacker Lisbeth Salander, Sweden, and the 21st century equivalent of a dime store mystery, definitely. For anybody who has seen the original Swedish version or prefers to see gruesome, misogynist mysteries wrapped up in an hour, for free, maybe.

From the post-teaser opening—filled with discordant, abstract images of naked bodies drenched in oil or black paint that look like escapees from a Madonna or, shockingly, a Nine Inch Nails video from 1997—to the names on the credits—especially a score by the once ubiquitous alt-Goth rock king Trent Reznor—it is clear that director David Fincher’s remake of the 2009 Swedish adaptation of Dragon Tattoo is a product of a bygone era. Dragon Tattoo is almost a note for note remake of the 2009 version, with the exception of an extended epilogue that rivals the conclusion of the Return of the King in terms of length. Fincher’s Dragon Tattoo follows disgraced Swedish financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig), publisher of fictional Swedish expose rag, Millennium, after his falling from grace when he libels a powerful industrialist, Hans-Erik Wennerström. Having lost his life savings and forced to relinquish his title as publisher, Mikael is inches away from losing everything he holds dear—including his relationship with paramour and Millennium editor Erika Berger (Robin Wright) and his religious teenage daughter—when he receives a call from the reclusive, mysterious, and affable Henrik Vanger (Christopher Plummer), the former CEO of Swedish conglomerate Vanger Industries. Vanger needs Mikael’s keen investigative instinct to solve the case of Henrik’s great-niece, Harriet, who disappeared 40 years prior. In return, Vanger will provide Mikael with a substantial payment and enough information to bury Wennerström. The only impediments to Mikael’s investigation are the isolation of the Vanger’s hometown, an insular island community known as Hedestad, and Vanger’s duplicitous and reclusive relatives, including the accommodating Martin Freeman (Stellan Skarsgrard), current CEO of Vanger Industries.

Mid-way through his investigation, Mikael finds himself lacking options and access to information and enlists the aid of the “investigator” who helped discredit him in the Wennerström case, Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara). As with the original Swedish version, Lisbeth receives a significant amount of buildup and back story before she and Mikael ever cross paths. A freelance super-hacker with a preference for Macs, Lisbeth is a striking if rather conventional character. She dresses like a Numetal Goth from the early 00s, complete with stacked spike boots, leather jacket, and enough asymmetrical hairstyles that she could give Derek J and the Hair Battle Spectacular judges pause. She is cold, pragmatic, and frank about her flexible sexual interests. She uses this rigid exterior to mask a soul that has been deeply wounded by abusive men. Before hooking up with Mikael, Lisbeth found herself under the thumb of a cartoonishly sadistic guardian who forced her to perform “favors” for her weekly allowance. When said guardian forces himself on her, Lisbeth delivers an appropriately cruel amount of justice that will allow her to act freely and continue monitoring Mikael, who she believes is a good man despite the libel case. Soon after being freed from her guardian’s control, Lisbeth is hired by Mikael, and they begin their quest to find Harriet, which involves a string of montages where each stares pensively a computer screens and dusty tomes to uncover the Vanger family’s dark secrets.

Dragon Tattoo is a well-crafted, but generally unnecessary work that doesn’t offer any profound visual or textual twist on the original material, which isn’t as shocking as the hype would like audiences to think. Fincher does an able job recreating the cold and quiet atmosphere of Hedestad, but brings nothing new beyond the his personal style and the style of the original film, which mesh together so well that it almost works against Fincher’s version. As with the original Swedish version, Fincher’s Dragon Tattoo is sprawling and languid. Its slow pace and meticulousness will likely deter audiences with short attention spans, but, ironically, it is a fairly simple, if grim and cynical, narrative with a mystery at its core that seasoned cinephiles and television fans will likely be able to uncover by the midway point. The grimness of the proceedings is nothing particularly unique or revealing, especially for those familiar with Fincher’s Se7en, but it is masterfully rendered through Fincher’s steady vision and some decent performances.

As Mikael, Daniel Craig tones down the intensity that has marked his turn as James Bond in the recent 007 features, opting for a more Clark Kent-like mild mannered journalist persona. Craig’s Mikael is a bit of a cipher. The audience knows why he’s investigating Harriet’s disappearance, but the lack of shading and detail prevents the audience from achieving a strong connection to the character. This is less of a concern for Rooney Mara’s Lisbeth, who is fully developed and receives a full character arc despite having no direct connection to the main mystery until halfway through the film. Mara gives Lisbeth even more vulnerability than Noomi Rapace—whose role as a knife-wielding gypsy in this year’s Sherlock Holmes sequel coincidentally preceded the Dragon Tattoo remake by four days—did in the 2009 version. Lisbeth’s sadness is far more palpable in Fincher’s version whereas her aggression was the highlight of the Swedish version. That palpable melancholy lays the foundation for the extended epilogue, which, despite its length, provides even more insight into the pain that lies within Lisbeth. In presenting this vulnerability without sacrificing some of Lisbeth’s more idiosyncratic tendencies, Mara deserves a more than fair measure of acclaim. Stellan Skarsgard fares less favorably than Mara and Craig, emitting a smarmy eagerness in the early goings that telegraphs far too much. Plummer and Wright perform with dignity in their supporting roles, with Plummer offering some necessary heart to counter Dragon Tattoo's bleakness, but have little opportunity to truly make a mark.

While not every performance or visual decision is revelatory, Dragon Tattoo is a well-made film that qualifies as a true “love it or hate it” experience. Dragon Tattoo will not appeal to everyone, and fans of the original book and movie are surely to get a bigger kick out of this than those who are unfamiliar with the material. The length could also turn off some audiences—which it shouldn’t in light of gargantuan epics like Transformers—and it is very possible that despite the craft invested in this film, some folks will fall asleep. But, for those who hang in there, they will find a film that, while not as shocking as advertised, does a fair job remaking a film that didn’t need to be remade.

SPOILER ALERT: Review - Dark Knight Rises Prologue

Tell someone they’re smart enough for long enough and sooner or later they start to believe it.

Contrary to popular, and surely his personal belief, Christopher Nolan isn’t as smart as everyone thinks he is, himself included.

This is not to say Nolan isn’t an intelligent auteur with the rare gift of vision in an era where mainstream cinema is bewilderingly bereft of directors with a unique voice. It does, however, mean that his approach to storytelling can be rather sterile—which isn’t news to the mildly observant—and less dynamic than the throngs of Nolanites might suggest.

SPOILER ALERT

Two nights ago, I had the fortune of catching the 6-minute prologue to next summer’s The Dark Knight Rises. The clip, and make no mistake that’s all it is, opens with Gary Oldman’s Commissioner Gordon delivering a eulogy at Harvey Dent’s funeral. It is a quick scene punctuated by Gordon’s dignified remark, “I remember Harvey Dent.” From there, the clip jumps to what appears to be South America (a subtitle might help, just for the sake of geography and those who don’t know that big bad Bane is from the Caribbean).

On a desolate airstrip, Mayor Carcetti (Aiden Gillen, genre film and TV’s fastest rising go-to slimeball) is double dipping as a smarmy—shocking—CIA agent who is awaiting the delivery of three poor unfortunate souls (read: hooded prisoners) who are clearly on their way to the Nolanverse version of Abu Grahib. The requisite heavily armed paramilitary pseudo-spies flank Carcetti and exchange tales of the man called "Bane". “Why does he wear the mask?” they ask. Isn’t it obvious or do that not realize that eight years prior some damaged rich boy in a Kevlar gimp outfit “escalated” the war on crime to a point where a jacked mercenary from the South American Alcatraz has decided the best way to intimidate innocents is to wear a third of Darth Vader’s mask and talk through a vocoder?

The three prisoners are soon delivered along with a Dr. Exotic Name (Pavel, actually, and thanks to IMDB for that info because the sound was for crap.). Apparently, Dr. Pavel has some kind of MacGuffin, but since cryptic is the order of the day, it is not really clear if it’s a formula like the well-known Venom that turned comic book Bane into a supersized luchador or something more sinister. Carcetti is surprised to see the three prisoners, having only expected two, and begrudgingly brings them on the plane in hopes of learning about "Bane".

Once on the plane, Carcetti tries to pull some of that bull-in-a-china-shop shit that never flew in Baltimore and threatens to shoot the prisoners or throw them off the plane. Of course, no one talks after the first two threats. After the third threat, one of the prisoners speaks. In a voice that is virtually indistinguishable from a cashier speaking through a drive-thru microphone, the hooded prisoner says something. Whatever he says forces Carcetti to rip off the hood and….dun dun dun…reveal Bane, complete with a Darth Vader muzzle that covers his mouth with what look like metal teeth. From here, Bane (Tom Hardy, still sporting the muscles he earned on the MMA Rocky movie, Warrior) rambles some completely incomprehensible rhetoric that is enough to rattle Carcetti and spur Carcetti’s bodyguards to train their guns on Bane’s head.

While Carcetti and his crew are distracted, another plane, a longer black plane, flies above Carcetti’s plane. A squad of paratroopers drops from the rear of the black plane and attaches to Carcetti’s plane with suction cups. Through a ridiculously complicated process, the squad strings up the wings and tail of Carcetti’s plane, attaching it to the black plane, then shoots out the windows of Carcetti’s plane. The black plane pulls up just enough to rip the wings and tail of the plane off, turn the plane vertical, and throw it into freefall. Bane, Carcetti, the bodyguards, Dr. Exotic Name and the other prisoners flop around the plane like Joseph Gordon Levitt and Dream Soldier #695 did in level 2 of Fischer’s dream in Inception. With the tail nothing more than a gaping hole, the paratroopers drop in and, through another complicated series of actions, place harnesses on the doctor and Bane, while lowering a fresh corpse into the cabin. Bane administer a funky blood transfusion between the doctor and the fresh corpse in what appears to be a poorly planned attempt to convince the world that the doctor will die in the impending crash. As Bane, the doctor and the paratroopers prepare to be ejected from the falling plane, in a manner much like Batman and his ‘skyhook’ escape from Hong Kong in Dark Knight, one of the formerly masked prisoners asks Bane for a harness. Bane grumbles indecipherably again and the prisoner nods and slides into the seat that will carry him to his grave. The black plane then releases Carcetti’s plane, which nosedives into oblivion and a disgusting wreckage that will likely kill at least five unsuspecting innocent people, all while Bane and doctor are safely lifted into the black plane.

The scene cuts and a far more fascinating sizzle reel plays, showing in quick succession: Bane arriving in Gotham with a boss chinchilla down coat, an collision between two tumblers, Batman arriving in Batman-style, a collision between the tumbler and a dump truck, Anne Hathaway dressed up as a cat and sneaking around, Bane punching Batman, Batman punching Bane, the 99% finally fighting the 1%, Anne Hathaway frowning (because that’s what Catwoman would do), Bane dropping Batman’s broken mask, and—the coup de grace—a Tumbler-fied Batwing flying over a camo tumbler!

Without question, the sizzle reel was far more engaging than the prologue. Finally, Nolan and crew are showing something more than stills and, so far, it seems as impressive and morose as expected.

There’s no sense of the overarching theme, but, knowing Nolan, it will be stated early and often. The prologue itself truly pales compared to the Joker prologue from a few years ago. It’s not news that the Joker is a hard act to follow, and this prologue proves it. Bane is an average villain at best, despite being nudged into two Bat-films, and this prologue didn’t go a long way to making him any more memorable than KGBeast. The heist itself is needlessly convoluted, as movie heists often are, and lacks the slight innovation and personality of Joker’s heist. Also, the widely reported problems with understanding Bane prevent the audience getting any sense of his personality or purpose beyond being a plane-jacker with a muzzle.

Bane can be an interesting villain—think reverse Captain America. He was born in a South American Prison that is compared to hell and subjected to a super steroid treatment. He demonstrates gray morality yet orchestrated a plan that lead to Batman taking a year off to recover. He could be something. The fact that he was born in a prison, alone, presents an opportunity for a great short origin. In fact, I’d like to offer this idea as a better prologue:

Bane, wearing a simple black balaclava and a prison jumper, is restrained and being prepared to receive his treatment. For months, he has heard his doctors discuss “The Batman” from Gotham city. For months, someone has been planning Bane’s escape. Before receiving his first shot, Bane finds his restraints are looser than normal. He gets his first shot. His muscles bulge. He breaks the restraint. The doctors notice much too late. He advances on them. They sound the alarm. Five guards rush in. Bane lays waste to them in a manner reminiscent of the beatdowns from the Arkham game series, complete with swift counters, reversals and punishing finishing blows. He escapes the treatment room and makes his way from the bottom of the jail to the top, using his memory to beat the locks and his physical prowess to punish wave after wave of guards. He reaches the outside. He breathes in the fresh air for a moment then looks to the sky. A black plane flies above. He ponders for a moment then runs about five yards from the prison gate and starts digging. He retrieves a harness, a grappling gun, and a newspaper clipping that reads “Batman: Scourge or Savior?” He pockets the clipping, steps into the harness, and points the grapple gun to the sky. The black plane circles while opening its hatch. It closes in on Bane. Bane fires the grapple, shooting off a skyhook like Batman’s, and is lifted by the plane. He is reeled into the hatch as the plane changes trajectory, flying north towards Gotham city.

That’s for free, Nolan.

I'm Back

After a few quiet months, the reviews and insight are back!

I apologize for the disappearing act--it was for a good reason I promise--but I hope to bring you more valuable reviews in the coming weeks.

For starters, check out my review of the Dark Knight Rises Prologue. It's something...

Review - Supernatural 7x03: The Girl Next Door

Grade: B-

Wow, Dean. Really? After all you’ve learned and grown in the past few years, you’re still taking a hard line on monsters.

I generally have a lot of faith in Supernatural’s writers room, but it seems like years of development went out the window when Dean offed that pleasant Kitsune, a brain-eating monster with Catwoman’s fingernails. Yes, I know Dean has always taken a very black-white view of monsters, but he seemed to have grown a little over the years, gradually accepting that not all monsters are…well, monsters. Didn’t he?

I’m getting ahead of myself. The Girl Next Door opens with Sam and Dean trapped in Sioux Falls General and at the mercy of the LeviaDoc. Bobby, who is as not dead as originally thought, comes to the rescue, only to find Dean with a broken leg and Sam on his way to becoming dinner. After a half-escape, the three settle in at one of Bobby’s safehouse. With Dean on injured reserve, Sam picks up a case that seems connected one he investigated as a teen, which means…flashbacks!

As Sam starts tracking a mysterious Ice Pick Killer who drains its victims’ brains, he recalls a similar pattern from years ago. Colin Ford returns as young Sam, growing enough that we probably won’t see flashbacks before the boys’ teen years anymore. The young Sam flashbacks are interesting because, for what seems like the first time, Sam is hunting alone. I always assumed the boys stuck together when they were younger and didn’t separate until Sam went to college, so this is an interesting twist on their history. Of course, young Sam is a capable hunter but pretty inept with these young ladies. It’s pretty funny to see young Sam ask his big brother not for advice on hunt but for advice on talking to girls.

With a little advice from Dean and a timely thrashing of some bullies, Sam sparks a cute fledgling relationship with young Amy Pond (for the Doctor Who fans out there), and her mother just happen to be the objects of his and, to his surprise, Dean and John’s hunt. With Sam’s father and brother closing in, Amy’s mother outs Sam as a hunter, forcing young Sam to contemplate killing Amy and her mom. But, young Amy provides him an out by killing her own mother. Obviously, a sacrifice like that means Sam has to let Amy go, with the caveat that she never kills again.

Back in the present, Amy seems to be killing again. In actuality, she feeds on dead bodies, but her son needed live brains to fend off an illness. Amy, as Sam tells Dean, did what anyone would do to save their child and offed some criminals. This development puts this week’s story clearly in the gray area that works so well for Supernatural. It is also a return to the notion that monsters aren’t evil, which leads back to my problem with Dean’s actions. The show has always seen the world in gray terms despite Dean’s moral absolutism. Over the seasons, Dean’s gradual shift from a black/white view to a more balanced vision of the world and creatures in it has been one of Supernatural’s strengths. Yet, seeing Dean kill Amy, in front of her son no less, is either a bold step or a discouraging misstep. Dean’s actions are also going to cause a brand new rift between him and Sam, as Sam specifically asked Dean to let Amy go. Thus, we have another slight regression, as the brothers are back to hiding things from each other, something I thought they’d learned not to do, especially after Sam’s openness about his mental wall.

Thankfully, it looks like next episode will directly address Dean’s actions. How effectively it will address those issues remains to be seen, but Dean has to feel the pain for this, either by his own hand or others. If not, Supernatural’s writers will come off as painfully inept, and they’re better than that. Aren’t they?

On the side:

Besides the Amy Pond reference, this episode is stacked with easter eggs. Anybody else catch the ad for My Bloody Valentine, in 3D, or the Batman: Under the Red Hood t-shirt on the convenience store clerk?

Review - Real Steel

Grade: B

Yang: Awesome robot-on-robot violence that rivals Transformers; a surprisingly heartwarming story centered on human beings rather than CGI creations; a classic Speilbegian tale of a boy with daddy issues and his robot.

Yin: Jackman is playing Wolverine with a kid; the kid (Dakota Goyo) is a love-hate character; May insult Transformers fans with its ambitions to replicate over-the-top robot action; a classic Speilbegian tale of a boy with daddy issues and his (fill in the blank with fantastic creature).

In-Between: The main robot, Atom, learns to dance like Justin Bieber. Take that as you will.

Who watches boxing these days? Honestly. I occasionally hear people talking vaguely about organizing a fight party, but, outside of a few whispers from folks old enough to remember when Mike Tyson was actually a pugilist, I don’t hear much in the public consciousness about the sweet science. The media has, in particular, long left the sport behind, with the most recent kerfuffle over the Mayweather-Ortiz bout being the most significant ping on the cultural radar in years. So, when Hugh Jackman’s character, ex-prize fighter Charlie Kenton, in the new Rock’em Sock’em Robots movie (and make no mistake, this is Rock’em Sock’em Robots: The Movie), Real Steel, tells his son Max (the chipper, fey, Bieber-esque Dakota Goyo) that the fight game left humans behind decades ago, it’s a not-so-subtle commentary on the very real phenomenon of sports fandom abandoning boxing.

Despite sports fans generally ignoring the once-dominant spectacle of pro boxing in favor of MMA tourneys, moviegoers have not abandoned movies about boxers. In the past year, audiences have seen awards heaped on David O. Russell’s The Fighter while smaller pictures like the MMA drama Warrior draw consistently positive reviews. Why? My theory: America, despite being top dog for decades, has always loved an underdog story, even more so now that the country is sliding right into underdog status among world powers. Real Steel is the perfect flick to satiate that taste and it does so by combining the mainstream audience’s ‘love’ for a calculated combination of gloss and heart. Run Transformers into Rocky, add a dash of Over the Top and a pinch of The Iron Giant and witness the unsurprisingly fun, but shockingly heartfelt, Real Steel.

Real Steel follows Jackman’s Charlie Kenton as he scrapes out a living by fighting remote-controlled giant robots with jackhammers for fists and wicked names like Ambush, Zeus, Midas and Noisy Boy. Kenton is a bit of a deadbeat, a could’ve-been-contender with a propensity for welching on debts. When he loses two robots to separate hubris-inspired tragedies, he is forced to find something, anything, to keep him in the game. To complicate matters, the son he long abandoned, Max, has resurfaced after the death of his mother, one of Charlie’s old girlfriends. Forced to hold onto Max for the summer after making a deal with his son’s adoptive parents, Charlie is now backed into a corner where he just may have to bond with the son he never wanted to know. Things turn around for the Kenton boys when a trip to scrap yard leads them to discover Atom, a sparring robot with a smile carved into its faceplate and, maybe, a soul. Atom is special because he is the rare robot who doesn’t require remote control—he shadowboxes—and can, literally, take a licking and keep on ticking. With a new robot in tow, the three begin a journey to learn about each other—Charlie and Max teach Atom how to fight, and dance like Justin Bieber, while Max teaches Charlie how to be a father—and climb their way from unknowns to genuine contenders, in the ring and in life.

Real Steel seems terribly hokey at first glance. Nobody asked for a Rock’em Sock’em Robots movie, but now we have it, and it’s so much fun that it qualifies as something audiences didn’t know they wanted. This is a far better merging of the Speilbergian, an executive producer on the film, ethos with contemporary tastes than Super 8 ever was. The fights, alone, are amazing. Taking a note from Michael Bay’s Transformer epics and delivering ridiculous robot-on-robot violence in far clearer manner. Director Shawn Levy (Night at the Museum I and II, and Date Night) shows a much better command of an action scene with CGI ‘bots than Bay did on his first time out. While Steel doesn’t come anywhere close to the carnage of Transformers, particularly Dark of the Moon’s assault on Chi-town, it is still frenetic and colorful enough to match, and surpass, some of Transformers' lesser action scenes.

One thing Real Steel has over Transformers is the necessity of the human performances. Real Steel is about people first and that bodes well for the schmaltzier material, which keeps scenes between humans from appearing like a stopgap. Jackman is adequate as washed up ne’er-do-well, but much of what he brings to the table is just toned-down Wolverine. Dakota Goyo actually carries more of the movie as Max, building a makeshift father-son relationship with Atom that recall’s Brad Bird’s underrated animated classic The Iron Giant. While Goyo carries a lot more of the film than the trailers would lead one to believe, he can be grating. His character was obviously based of the kids from 80's blockbusters, either total enthusiasm or overwrought attitude and angst. There will be no in-between in how audiences respond to him. He’s either adorable or insufferable. Evangeline Lily shows up for a few scenes as the daughter of Charlie’s former trainer who probably, definitely is in love with Charlie, but offers little more than a voice of concern or support when necessary. The ever-reliable Anthony Mackie is also hanging around the edges of the proceedings as an underground fight promoter, being underutilized, as usual.

Thankfully, the story has enough heart to overrun the stock performances. The underdog fight plot and the father-son reconciliation threads are typically win-win scenarios, and those threads are even more effective when woven together. Audiences may not be moved to tears, but even the most jaded viewers will feel that weird warmth in their left ventricle, if only for a second. Between the solid action and legit amount of heartwarming, Real Steel proves to be a surprisingly entertaining, and slyly moving, summer flick stranded in the middle of Oscar season. It may not knock audiences out, but it will surely make them smile.

Review - Supernatural 7x02: Hello Cruel World

Grade: B

Cas is gone, but Dr. Sexy M.D. is still on the air. Somehow, the Winchester’s world just got a little bit darker.

I want to take a moment to lament what is, ostensibly, the last we’ll see of Cas for a while, hopefully. When Bobby asks Dean how he’s holding up in the face of Sam’s hallucinations, the rise of the Leviathans, and the “death” of Cas, he mentions that Dean just lost one of the best friends he’d ever had. Hindsight being 20/20, Bobby’s right. For the past couple of seasons, Cas and Dean were, at times, closer than Sam and Dean, despite Cas’ weak grasp of human emotion. So, when Dean fishes Cas’ trenchcoat out of a river after Cas explodes into an ink stain and releases the Leviathans into the local water supply, it’s a tough moment. Cas was a welcome counterpoint to the brother’s constant angst. His lack of any discernable emotion besides confusion was necessary in a series that saw its leads become more hopeless with every episode. Cas wasn’t the brightest sign of hope, but he was never trapped in his own despair like the Winchesters do.

Now, it seems like the fellas won’t be getting that break Dean was looking for last episode because the Leviathans are loose and they’ve already started wreaking havoc. The Leviathans are essentially a cross between Supernatural’s demons and vampires. They possess any unlucky souls who, in this case, ingested the polluted water then they maneuver themselves into positions and places where they can unlock their bottom jaw and become Pez-like people eaters. Like Supernatural’s demons, these new beasties have a pecking order. Apparently, there’s a Big Bad leviathan behind everything, but he/she/it is relaying its orders through a leviathan inhabiting the man who was once The Shield’s Capt. Aceveda (Benito Martinez). A few more leviathans have possessed a pair of teens from a local swim team and another inhabits an innocent young girl. In an effort to circumvent the pattern of Supernatural’s baddies being young women, the little lady leviathan quickly switches to the body of a cheeky surgeon.

The leviathans’ need to satiate themselves leaves a trail of bodies that hits the news, landing them right on the Winchesters’ radar. Normally, this is the point where Sam and Dean mount up for one of their DIY-style hunts, but our boys have learned from their past mistakes. Sam fesses up to his hallucinations, letting Dean and Bobby know exactly how bad it’s been. Dean is only shocked for a second before he benches Sam, and Sam agrees. All the while, Lucifer—Mark Pellegrino delivering finely-tuned villainy that tiptoes between unnerving and hammy—is poking at Sam—who is spending most of his time field stripping and cleaning his guns—urging the poor kid to kill himself and rejoin him in the cage. It occurs to me that Sam has been constantly besieged by mental torment since the first episode, and now, seven seasons deep, is no different. As much as Dean needed that break from hunting last season to live a normal life, I can’t help but think Sam needs it a lot more. While any Supernatural vet knows the boys will always face torment, with Sam more often than not getting the lion’s share, this feels like a retread of many of the Sam arcs from years past, but this time, at least, the brothers have learned enough to avoid avoidance and try to head the problem off.
With Sam benched, Dean on the hunt and Leviathans on the loose, everything seems totally disjointed until Bobby gets a call from Sheriff Jody Mills, last seen in Season Five’s Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid. See, Sheriff Mills was in the Sioux Falls, SD hospital for a routine appendectomy when she spotted LeviaDoc kidnapping his dinner. Bobby wisely leaves Sam by his lonesome and thus at the mercy of Lucifer, who lures Sam to an abandoned warehouse tailor made for suicides. Dean arrives just in time to pull Sam back, thanks to dropping a GPS on him earlier in the episode. This all sets up the standard Winchester heart-to-heart albeit with a lot more honesty than the average post-game wrap between these two. Of course the post-game wrap came about ten minutes early so there was more left to this fairly stuffed episode.

When the boys get back to Bobby’s, they run into Captain Leviathian who gives Sammy a pipe to the head before Dean manages to drop a car on him. Worse for the wear after their first run-in with the Leviathan, Dean and Sam end up in a ambulance on its way to Sioux Falls Hospital while, back at Bobby’s, Captain Leviathan proves that dropping a car on them isn’t enough to slow a leviathan.

This episode was mostly a place setting ep. Hello Cruel World merely put all the players in place and set the stage for the conflict between the Winchesters and the Leviathans that will form the spine of the season. Compared to last year, this is a much more serialized approach, which isn’t a bad route for a series as seasoned as Supernatural. I know and most longtime viewers know that eventually Supernatural will get around to the one-off episodes that are its bread and butter, but, for now, this is a solid way to build the season. Hopefully, the Leviathan arc won’t get buried, forgotten like some of the major arcs introduced early last season. As long as the writers keep with this momentum, we’re looking at the beginning of one of Supernatural’s most promising seasons.

Review - Ultimate Comics Spider-Man #2

Grade: A

Let me start this review by thanking Brian Michael Bendis for showing the comic-reading public that some African-American fathers do stick around to raise their children.

Conversely, I’m saddened that, by the same token, he also perpetuated the stereotype that most Black man are or have been incarcerated. But, since Bendis focuses more on showing a powerful father-son relationship, I’ll let him slide on the jailed Black man stereotype, no matter how unfortunate and uncomfortable its truth may be.

Ultimate Comics Spider-Man #2 continues the excellence of the first issue, this time focusing more intently on Miles. The last issue of UCSM ended with Miles being bitten by a genetically-engineered spider and then discovering he has the ability to become invisible. Issue #2 picks up right from that moment and follow Miles as he discovers some of his new abilities. While wandering towards home, Miles finds he has the ability to not only disappear but to jump and, when he runs afoul of some bullies, emit a shocking sting like a spider. Scared to death of being a mutant in a world where the remaining free mutants are quickly on their way to a days of future past scenario, Miles rushes to share his fears with his friend Ganke, a chubby, intelligent Asian with a passion for Legos (one stereotype out of two isn’t bad; kudos, again, Mr. Bendis). Not long after showing off some of his new-found powers, Miles’ father, last seen arguing with Miles’ uncle Aaron, arrives to reclaim his son.

The second half of the issue is dedicated to an awkward but moving conversation between Miles and his father, where his father reveals that he was once imprisoned—after running and robbing with Aaron—and how he hopes Miles will never have to face such a fate. This moment, which took at least three pages, is a pitch-perfect example of why decompression is a viable approach to comic storytelling. Allowing the conversation between Miles and his father to continue unburdened by a rushed gives the characters a chance to breath and enabled Bendis to employ some very human pauses and reactions. That scene single handedly shows that the best written and illustrated comics can easily match television or film in their ability to capture emotional truth.

But Bendis and his alone do not carry this issue, artist Sara Pichelli continues to deliver some of the best art of the year on this title. Pichelli is already well known for ability to add essential details to her illustration without overstuffing her panels (***coughJimLeecough***). Rather than rehash that praise, I’ll point to a couple of exemplary panels. Page 1, Panel 1 is an establishing shot of the hustle and bustle of Brooklyn focused on the varied faces of modern New Yorkers. The variety of faces in that panel is exemplary. There are no lookalikes or switched templates. Each face is unique and utterly human. The splash on page 14 is superb, delicately revealing the emotion on both Miles and his father’s face while showing that life goes on around them. Bendis is very lucky to have Pichelli on board with him because, despite the current praised heaped on writers, comics live and die based on the quality of their illustrations. As long as Pichelli continues to bring her gorgeous pencils to UCSM the comic should enjoy a long, prosperous existence.

While I’m hoping UCSM will enjoy a long run, this is just the beginning for Miles. By the end of this issue Ganke has reasoned that Miles is not a dreaded mutant but the survivor of a freak accident like the now-legendary Spider-Man, a conversation told completely through text. On that note, I’d like to heap some more praise on the writer, as many are wont to do these days. Bendis’ decision to eschew narration boxes in favor of a dialogue driven issue is not just inspired it’s a welcome. Today’s audiences, or at least those who Marvel and DC hope to court with initiatives like Ultimate Comics and the New 52, are used to entertainment, like television and film, that typically avoids narration. In using the non-narration approach, Bendis is delivering information in a more contemporary manner and delivering a product from the Big Two that is starting to look like it wants to shake off the shackles of tradition. To Bendis, again, I say kudos. Wisely, Bendis ends this issue where any story about Spider-Man should rightfully begin with Miles crawling the wall of his bedroom. Miles may be frightened of what comes next, but I, for one, am eager to see this kid ascend to the heights only spiders can reach.

Review - Machine Gun Preacher

Grade: C

Good: Brings much needed attention to a serious issue and offers heartwarming moments, in the most conventional of terms. Performance by Savane and Magale rise above the weaker efforts of more recognizable stars.

Bad: Another spin on the white-man-saves-the-savages narrative, that seems to willfully lack awareness of its inherent, potentially offensive redundancy. Butler fails to capture the fire behind the real-life Childers in favor of playing a super-cool tough guy who is in the wrong movie.

Ugly: The abject suffering the people of the Southern Sudan and Northern Uganda region face is deplorable.

One of dour comic Louis C.K.’s most popular bits is a rant on “white people problems”. White people problems, or first world problems as they are occasionally known, are those mundane problems that seems to cripple the well-fed, educated and housed people, generally Caucasian, of developed countries like the United States , the United Kingdom, and France. These problems can be anything from Starbucks running out of milk temporarily to upper middle class professionals being forced to devote a fraction of their $100,000 salary to pay for an electric bill that jumped from $150 to $250. All problems that cannot remotely compare to the suffering of people in developing countries like Uganda and Sudan, where children are routinely abducted while their families and villages are brutally destroyed by warlords and their subversive armies.

The majority of the population in developed countries knows little of the strife and suffering the people of these countries face on a daily basis. An even smaller number is aware and able to help, until they forget. Reformed biker and preacher Sam Childers has never forgotten the people, particularly the children, of Northern Uganda and Southern Sudan, and has devoted his life to defending their right to live in freedom and safety.

Marc Forster and screenwriter Jason Keller’s Machine Gun Preacher is solemn, if occasionally disconnected, testament to a man who will not quit and the seemingly-impossible mission has saved his life as much as it has threatened to destroy it. Gerard Butler stars as Sam Childers, founder of Angels of East Africa, a former biker, junkie, small-time hood who lived life beyond the wild side until a violent encounter with a hitchhiker forces him to rethink his way of life. Baptized and committed to Christ, Childers opens a construction company and begins to make a better life for his wife Lynn (Michelle Monaghan) and his daughter, Paige (Madeline Carroll). During a routine trip to Sunday service, Childers is moved by a missionary who spent many years working with the people, particularly the children, of war-ravaged the Southern Sudan-Northern Uganda region. Not long after, Childers visits the region as part of a Habitat-for-Humanity-style program and witnesses the shamefully high amount of suffering. Childers, inspired by a higher power, returns to build a church/orphanage in the region. When his church project is decimated by warlords, Childers takes a radical approach to saving the people on the border of the Sudan and Uganda, one that involves a many guns as it does gauze and one that may push Childers further from the family that saved him.

Gerard Butler does admirable work as Childers. Of course, the former-Leonidas excels when he’s called to be an action hero with a cause. A Rambo of Northern Africa, if you will. But, when forced to delve into the emotion and fire that lives within Childers, he’s a bit muted. Sure, the quiet, reflective man of action archetype fits well within this type narrative, but there seems to be a spark missing from Butler’s performance that would have made Butler’s interpretation of Childers as memorable as his mission. I know there’s a spark missing from Butler’s performance because Childers was present at the screening and to see the literal fire that emanates from this man is to see why Butler’s performance skews wide left of perfect. Childers is ferocious in his passion for his cause—this is a man who, in personal footage shown during the credits, is cocking a shotgun one-handed and firing in a smooth succession(top that, Ms. Connor)—and it bleeds through him. Butler, on the other hand, gives his interpretation of Childers as cool countenance that belies this intensity and his performance suffers for it. Despite the incongruity between real and movie Childers, Butler still owns the movie above and beyond all the supporting cast. Michelle Monaghan is adequate as Childers long-suffering wife, who deals patiently with her husband’s issues no matter what side of the law he’s on. Michael Shannon is sadly underutilized as Childer’s best friend, a recovering junkie who goes through the typical recovery arc, which gives less screen time to deliver the unsettling quality that Shannon typically brings to the big and small screen. Souleymane Sy Savane fares a little better than the rest of the supporting cast bringing a quiet dignity to his role as Childers right-hand man in Africa—jeez, that sounds bad—Deng. Young Junior Magale also deserves praise for his role as pre-teen who has lost all of his family and is desperately trying to find his lost brother, a plotline which probably would have made for a far more compelling narrative.

Forster does an able job of interpreting a script by impassioned screenwriter Jason Keller, who was also present at the screening—an oddity considering how quickly screenwriters are excused from the creative process. Unfortunately, Forster’s vision is serviceable and workmanlike rather than revelatory. Preacher is visually no different or unique than any meditative action film that Clint Eastwood may have made. There’s no visual signature or particular insight that elevates this above the material. Even worse, Forster, who doesn’t shy away from showing the horrors of the war in the region and its devastating impact on non-combatants, fails to present the region as something other than a catalyst for Childer’s redemption, and that’s the inherent problem with this story. No matter how you spin it, this is another “white man-saves-the-savages” narrative. Despite the honesty that I’m sure Keller and Forster infused Preacher with, it’s very hard to conquer that mental hurdle of “here we go again.” I wish Forster and Keller would have been able to introduce some awareness to film, considering that most cultures are cognizant if through visual or written literature that this is a common trope. That effort would have at least proven that the good people of the Sudan-Uganda region weren’t completely hopeless without a man like Childers. And, truthfully, at the rate Childers loses as many lives as he saves, one has to wonder how much good he is actually doing.

As it is, Preacher is an admirable effort, but it could have been so much more. From performances to direction, it seems like it’s going through the motions and hitting the exact same notes as similar stories have in years past. Preacher is a film that will surely make some members audience cringe, albeit for many different reasons, but it does make an effort, if not a particularly effective one, to bring attention to a cause that may go ignored in light of more popular issues. As Keller said during the Q&A that followed the film, this movie isn’t for those who know about the suffering in the Sudan and Uganda; it’s for those who don’t. While this may not be the optimal vehicle to enlighten those masses, you can’t fault Forster and co. for trying.

Review - Supernatural 7x01: Meet the New Boss

Grade: A

Dean’s right. The Winchesters never catch a break, do they?

Supernatural returned last night and started right where it left off with Castiel having become ‘God’ after absorbing all the souls in purgatory.

One of the most priceless moments of the premiere was Bobby’s reaction to GodCas. Upon realizing that he and the Winchesters are completely outmatched, he kneels. Dean and Sam promptly follow suit. It qualifies as maybe one the smarter things the guys have done and one that is slyly funny because, heck, that’s what most people would do.

After subduing Sam by poking at the walls Death erected to protect Sam’s mind from his memories of Hell, GodCas goes a mission from God to make things right in the world, a totally Cas thing to do. His first stop is at church where a fiery anti-gay preacher is whipping his flock into a frenzy against those ‘degenerates’. Cas arrives, announces he’s God and proceeds to smite the preacher in the way that only the God of the Old Testament would savor. Later, he forces the KKK to disband and restores sight to a blind man. You’ve got to love Cas for at least making an effort to do some good with the Power Cosmic.

Meanwhile, the Winchesters are, in a change of pace, resigned to their fate. Dean, clearly stumped at how to beat God despite their track record with taking on deities, is convinced they’re out of options, while Sam is haunted by visions of his time in the cage with Lucifer and Michael. Sam’s visions are quite reminiscent of those that plagued Dean after his stint in the eternal boiler room—all hooks, chains, and flame. At this point, it’s abundantly clear that Sera Gamble and the good people in the Supernatural writer’s room will never, ever let Sam go even half a season without excruciating torment. That said, it’s hard to blame Dean for feeling like giving up is the best option. No matter where the Winchesters go or what good they do, some higher power, real and/or fictional, has it out for them. But, there’d be no show if the Winchesters didn’t suffer, so here we are. As much as I love Supernatural and kind of wish it would never disappear, I’d like to see the guys catch a break and sometimes it seems like cancellation would be the only way they would get a reprieve.

As the Winchesters lick their wounds, Cas visits the we-always-think-he’s-dead-but he-never-is Crowley. He strikes a deal to restore Crowley as King of Hell with the condition that Cas gets to choose which souls go where. Sounds familiar. I love how the writers at Supernatural actually maneuvered Cas into striking the exact biblical deal the real ‘God’ enforced with Lucifer. Clever those writers are.

Cas obviously has a plan, but he has never been known to be particularly strategic or subtle. When word of Cas’ exploits spreads, the Winchesters finally stop their moping and devise a plan of their own, with some urging by Crowley, to ‘enlist’ the aid of the one force that can stop God, Death. Now, the Winchesters typically come up with some dumb plans—in the sense that their plans are often fly by the seat of their pants bold—but their plan to bind Death, with some old-fashioned spellcasting, and use him to kill Cas might not have been their wisest. Once Cas finds the boys and the recently bound Death, he is visibly disappointed that he’s going to have to kill his old ‘pets’. Cas promptly un-binds Death, but Death notices that Cas is physically falling apart. Apparently, Cas can’t control all the things in heaven, earth and purgatory that man never dreamt of. The worse of those beasties being the ominously named, vaguely–defined Leviathans, who apparently predate humanity. Dinosaurs on Supernatural? They’ve had dragons, so why not? Despite this demoralizing new knowledge, Cas promptly un-binds Death and disappears to enact more divine justice.

While I’m 50-50 on if the Leviathans are actually a reference to dinosaurs, it’s obvious from Death’s response that they’re not to be taken lightly. Cas’ struggle to control the souls inside culminates with him massacring an entire office of political staffers for a congressional candidate he deemed as evil. Cas has always been a moral absolutist—in fact, his struggle to see the gray in the world has been a source of some the series’ best examples of character development—but mass murder is beyond the pail. Thankfully, Death dropped a bit of knowledge that could help the Winchesters and Cas before he goes even further. All Cas has to do is release the souls back to Purgatory. No problem.

The Winchesters draw Cas back to the abandoned hospital where he absorbed the souls of Purgatory and open a portal—more spellcasting here than on The Secret Circle—for Cas to toss the souls into. Everything seems on track until Sam goes missing. The walls in his mind have completely collapsed and Lucifer appears to tell Sam that he’s still locked in the cage. Dun-dun-dun. On the other side of the hospital, Cas successfully releases the souls, dies and returns as everbody’s favorite simple-minded Cas. But, Cas didn’t get rid of all the souls. One of the Leviathans held on and now Cas is possessed, and he’s already starting to ham it up with classic madman villainy. Knowing Supernatural’s propensity to drag out the conflict between the boys and the big bad—and the fact that Misha Collins isn’t a regular this season—it’s likely the brothers won’t be going head-to-head with LeviathanCas anytime soon, which is sad because it would be nice to see a different side to Cas, even if he is at the Winchester’s throats.

And with that, the season is off to an impressive start, especially compared to the more deliberate opening of last season. Gamble and Co. really set the bar with this opening and managed to do a lot in 43 minutes. Not only have they established a viable opponent with a personal connection to the Winchesters, they accelerated the issue of Sam’s growing madness and set Crowley up as a potential thorn in everyone’s side. Sure, some of these beats are just continuations of arcs that could have, and probably should have, been wrapped last season, but the momentum these arcs have right now is pretty fascinating. Hopefully, Supernatural will avoid some of the feet-dragging and tonal swings that defined last season and embrace the madness. And, if they keep up the momentum from this episode, not only will our boys never get a break, but we might be staring down the barrel of season 8. But, that’s just wishful thinking...

Review - Ultimate Comics Spider-Man vol. 2 #1

Grade: A

Good: Amazing art, non-stereotypical characters, authentic dialogue and a plot that incorporates real-world phenomenon like lotteries for public charter schools are the highlights of the first chapter of the new Spidey’s story.

Bad: Bendis’ preference for decompression means no ‘Spider-Man’ action, at all.

Ugly: Me, after having to wait for the next issue. Thankfully, it’s less than two weeks away.

SPOILERS AHEAD

In the middle of DC Comics month-long stunt relaunch of its entire line, Marvel staged its own stunt: relaunching Ultimate Spider-Man sans Peter Parker (RIP) and leading with multi-racial teen Miles Morales as the face behind ol’ webhead.

The controversial response to Miles taking the Spider-Mantle has been “illuminating” to say the least. For as many fans who support and are genuinely enthused or proud of Marvel’s, and writer Brian Michael Bendis, in particular, decision there is a seemingly equal number who feel this change is an affront to the Comic Gods. In between are fans who are cautiously skeptical, aware that part of this is likely a stunt, but still relieved to see a measure of progress applied to one of the medium’s icons--albeit an alternate universe version, but. Count me as one of the fans in the middle. Yeah, I know it’s a timely stunt in light of increasing criticism of the whitewashed world of superhero comics, but I’ll be damned if I’m not the least bit proud to see someone who looks like me become one of my, and the world’s, favorite superheroes. Even more rewarding is seeing the story of Miles Morales begin with a level of quality and authenticity rarely given to superheroes of color.

Ultimate Comics Spider-Man opens its second volume with a fraction of a full story, but it is a fraction that is so replete with subtle charm and an attempt capturing the zeitgeist of the African-Latin-American experience in New York that it quickly and effectively rises above being a stunt. For the uninitiated, the Ultimate, now Ultimate Comics, imprint of Marvel comics is centered on an alternative Marvel Universe where Captain America swears, Samuel L. Jackson is Nick Fury and anyone can die, permanently. The Ultimate Universe was established by Marvel in the early 2000s as an initiative to entice readers with comics unhindered by Sisyphean continuity (sound familiar?). The imprint was fairly popular, boasting some of the top creators in industry for a number of years, until about 2005 when Marvel decided to reshape their main line, known as the 616 Universe, to align with the increasing popularity of movie releases like Spider-Man, X-Men, and, their first studio venture, Iron Man. With the 616 Universe returned to prominence, the Ultimate Universe fell by the waste side, culminating in a series of events where Ultimate versions of the X-Men and Avengers saw their ranks dwindle after a series of violent deaths by the hands of Magneto and his Brotherhood of Mutants. Earlier this year, the Ultimate version of Peter Parker met his own demise at the hands of a collection of his worst enemies—including the Green Goblin, Doctor Octopus and Kraven—popularly known as the Sinister Six. The tragically noble death of Peter Parker, who died protecting his beloved Aunt May and girlfriend Gwen Stacy, opened the door for Miles Morales to become the next Ultimate Spider-Man.

Miles’ story begins with the ultimate version of the Prowler, an African-American character who emerged in 1969 as a criminal-turned-hero dressed in a goofy purple and green ensemble. When the Prowler breaks into the ruins of Oscorp—the evil corporation run by Spidey’s archenemy Norman Osborn, the Green Goblin—to loot the one of its vaults, he leaves with a stowaway: a genetically engineered spider with remnants of Peter Parker’s DNA. From there, the story shifts to introducing Miles, an average thirteen-year old from Brooklyn, and his family as they make way to participate in one of those increasingly common and nerve-racking lotteries for students who wish to attend charter schools. At this point, it’s clear that not only has Bendis done his homework, or at least taken a passing glance at Madeline Sackler’s wonderful documentary The Lottery, but that he is aiming to incorporate some real-world authenticity into the realm of the fantastic. That's not to say that most comic writers don’t aim for such heights, but the world of superhero comics can at time seem so divorced from reality, and with good reason, that readers, and creators, forget to ensure their work is grounded in a world that at least reflects the real world.

Miles is lucky enough to win a spot at the Brooklyn Visions academy, which leads to his parents—something I also love about this comic: a minority child with TWO parents because that does actually happen—a moment that should ring true to any readers, of any race, who are parents and want more for their children. It is a touching, honest moment that is rare in the world of superhero comics, and I am absolutely pleased that Bendis had the sensitivity to include it. After the Lottery, Miles rushes to share the good news with his favorite uncle Aaron, a seeming ne’er-do-well who has a contentious relationship with Miles’ father. Aaron’s congratulatory words to Miles are colored by a tangible pride that echoes Miles’ parents’ response. Now, this may seems like a bit redundant in light of the earlier scene at the Lottery, but it is necessary to show how important the concept of hope is to people who have abandoned their own sense of hope. At this point Miles’ story intersects with Peter’s and starts to mimic the first Spider-Man’s origin. Miles’ uncle has the bag from the Prowler’s robbery sitting on his couch. When Miles plops down for a seat, he is bitten by the spider from Osborn’s lab. Miles collapses suddenly, waking just in time to see his father arrive and engage in a particularly heated argument with Miles’ uncle. Then, Miles disappears. Literally. He becomes invisible and the audience is left hanging on the edge of a cliff, not a very steep cliff, but a cliff nonetheless.

Now, decompression can be as much a bane to comics as overpricing and poor advertising, and the cliffhanger here, while peaking curiosity, isn’t all that welcome because the audience never sees Miles do anything remotely Spider-Man-like. For new readers, that will be beyond disappointing. But, for those familiar with Bendis’ style, this ending is par for the course. Luckily, there’s only a two-week wait until the next issue, and the issue was available for digital download, so that should help maintain interest. Hopefully.

As much as Bendis is on his game with this first issue, bringing his trademark ear for dialogue as well as sluggish pacing, Artist Sara Pichelli is the real draw (pun only partially intended). Pichelli’s rendition of Miles, his family and their fellow Brooklynites is positively sublime. Pichelli--best known for her work on the last volume of Ultimate Spider-Man, Runaways, and the similarly-themed NYX—illustrates with a keen eye for detail. Pichelli’s details are not superfluous exaggerations, as seen in Jim Lee’s art for the DCnU’s Justice League #1; rather, they are the details that make individuals unique. Her characters look like real people because they demonstrate idiosyncrasies in fashion, posture, and demeanor. Take a look at Page 13, Panel 4, when Miles get bitten by the Oscorp spider goes to his Uncle’s: he is rocking black and white Adidas shelltoes with untied wide red laces. That is an amazing, and contemporary, detail, and it is one of a dozen. Pichelli’s characters look alive and the world around them has true ‘lived-in’ quality. This is not a pristine, blue-sky version of New York; it is New York at its most grounded: endlessly cluttered and a just a wee bit dirty, even in the best parts of town. Perhaps the best example of the reality of Pichelli’s New York is Aaron’s ‘apartment’. For those who know, his apartment is housed within a ‘traditional’ apartment building; it’s in a housing project, which is obvious through design and color—a tip of the hat to colorist Justin Ponsor for making Pichelli’s work really pop—of the hall and the apartment’s interior, all without one hint of dialogue.

Between the art and the writing, Ultimate Comics Spider-Man vol. 2 is off to a superb, if slow-paced start. As a longtime fan, I know the drill: wait two to four weeks and there will be more story, but this is one of the few times I cannot wait for the next issue. Despite my enthusiasm, I am concerned about new readers because while I think this is a great starting point and generally solid, I know they may be discouraged about the value of picking up a fraction of a story, much less in a plastic bag that harkens back to the collector-inspired crash of the nineties and prevents them from flipping through before purchasing. Between Marvel’s collector-inspired polybagging and Bendis’ proclivity for sluggish pacing, trade-waiting may seem like the wisest option for both new and veteran readers. But, I promise this issue is well worth the money. Sure, it’s seems like a great start to a collection of negligible value, but it’s definitely a wonderful start to what seems like a great story.

Review - Warrior

Grade: A

Good: Amazing performances from Hardy, Edgerton and Nolte; Superbly filmed and choreographed MMA fights; Great dramatic restraint that prevents taxing melodrama.

Bad: Plot is a nakedly contrived.

Ugly: All of the submission moves used by Edgerton’s character.

Earlier this year, David O. Russell’s The Fighter won a few people some awards, and rightly so. Stars Melissa Leo and Christian Bale deserved to be recognized for their superb performances as the most co-dependent mother-son duo south of the Merrimack. As good as the performances in the Fighter were, it didn’t exactly re-invent the wheel that is the sports movie, but it did show how the traditional framework could amplify a narrative built around family drama. Now, a few months shy of a year later, Gavin O’Connor tries his hand at the family drama-sports movie hybrid with Warrior, a deceptively moving film that transcends a contrived plot and delivers a legitimate emotional gut punch.

The plot for Warrior sounds like it was copied straight out of a Street Fighter instruction manual. Former marine Tommy Reardon (Tom Hardy) has returned to the Pittsburgh home of his father, recovering alcoholic and ex-boxer Paddy Conlon (Nick Nolte), after years of estrangement. Tommy wants nothing to do with his father, who apparently spent most of Tommy’s formative years beating his wife and terrorizing his family, but he needs Paddy to train him for an upcoming Mixed Martial Arts tournament, cleverly named SPARTA, with a $5 million purse that he desperately needs to help the family of one of his lost squad mates. On the other side of Pennsylvania, the brother Tommy hasn't spoken to in years, former UFC competitor Brendan Conlon (Joel Edgerton), is family man who spends his days teaching high school physics and his nights competing in bush league MMA fights. His luck hits the skids when he is suspended from teaching for coming into work looking like Edward Norton after a night at Fight Club, and, adding to the misery, his bank threatens to foreclose on his family's home. With his world falling apart, Brendan decides to give it another go as a fighter. After getting the begrudging support of his wife (Jennifer Morrison), hooking up with ace trainer Frank Campana (Frank Grillo) and benefitting from a cruel, contrived twist of fate, Brendan finds himself in position to enter the SPARTA tourney. The two brothers arrive at SPARTA and set forth on a collision course that includes a litany of brutal beatdowns and moments of measured catharsis that threaten to tear the family apart as much as it may bring them together.

As the leads, it is implied that Warrior is a showcase for Hardy and Edgerton, but both truly own this film with superb performances that show a restraint and humanity that few films like this ever possess. Hardy does an outstanding job as Tommy, a literal caged animal haunted by the pain of his past. Hardy avoids making Tommy a moper and a whiner, and opts to present Tommy as reticent when outside the ring and frighteningly ferocious inside of it. If this is what audiences can expect from him as Bane in next year’s The Dark Knight Rises then Christian Bale better bring Mickey Ward’s kidney punch. Joel Edgerton may not play the flashier of the two brothers, but his performance as Brendan is noble and relatable in the way that classic underdog sports heroes should be. Brendan’s attempts to deal with very real issues motivating his pursuit is laudable for its avoidance of melodramatics and embrace of dignified control. Probably the most impressive part of both performances is how well both actors translate their characters personalities into physicality. As Tommy, Hardy is constantly moving and shifting in the cage, as if he cannot wait to knock his opponent on their back. Conversely, Edgerton gives Brendan a patience that manifests in superb timing and an aptitude for eschewing the knockout and making his opponents tap out in the most painful way possible. When these two bring their physicality and emotion to their respective final bouts, they do so in a way that tells a story better than any words on page ever could.

Hardy and Edgerton’s performance are only elevated by the strong work Nick Nolte does as their father, Paddy. Nolte carries the weight of past sins deep inside much like his sons do, but his quest for redemption balances exaggerated desperation with honest compassion. Nolte never lets Paddy devolve to the point where his love for his sons is questioned. As haunted and demolished as the man is, he carries on because the love of his sons is pretty much all he has, and Nolte plays that beat perfectly. The rest of the supporting cast is fairly marginalized with Morrison having a bit more impact than the rest, playing the beleaguered, reluctantly supportive wife that is required for any boxing/fighting drama. Pro wrestling fans will be interested to see that Olympic Gold medalist, TNA wrestler and all around all-American Kurt Angle has a fairly significant role as, ironically, Russian powerhouse Koba. Thankfully, he doesn’t speak; he just annihilates opponents, which is probably the wisest use of a wrestler who is untrained in more traditional acting.

Director Gavin O’Connor, best known for the underrated Miracle, does a superb job in keeping the affairs outside of the ring fairly low-key. By avoiding melodramatics and grounding the character’s motivations in relatable, contemporary issues, he allows Warrior to reach beyond the expectations of the average sports film. Admittedly, the plot is a bit contrived in the sense that the two brothers both enter the same tournament at the same time, but without it there’d be no movie. Ignoring the plot contrivances, audiences will find that O’Connor, who manages a cameo as SPARTA organizer J.J. Riley, has a strong hand for not only storytelling sans dialogue, as evident in the fights and the scenes of utter quiet, but also for atmosphere. As artificial as the plot may seem, the atmosphere is absolutely tangible, as the darkness and claustrophobia of the character’s lives at home provides a powerful contrast to the spectacle of MMA competition. O’Connor is also no slouch with filming the superbly choreographed MMA fights. The fights are appropriately brutal without being overly bloody and deliver an impact that should ring true to most fans of the sport. The balance of restrained drama, tangible atmosphere and solidly filmed and choreographed fights that O’Connor brings to the table is crucial to giving the film an authenticity and an insight that many may not find when watching a real MMA competition.

All things considered, Warrior is a remarkable achievement. It brings a new twist to the genre of boxing/fighting sports film and shines a light on the contemporary successor to the sweet science. Based on the cheap-ish commercials, Warrior seems like something better suited to a late-night run on FX or Spike TV, but make no mistake this is as good as a movie like this can be. Like its two leads, Warrior is much more than it appears and deserves to mentioned in the same breath as champions of fight films like Rocky, Raging Bull, and The Fighter.

Review - Colombiana

Grade: C

Good: Action and sexiness, as promised; Amandla Stenberg as young Cataleya shows intelligence, capability and range that outdoes her older counterpart.

Bad: Blatantly contrived plotting; clichéd, underdeveloped characters; stock performances by actors who have all played these roles before; uninspired action and cheap, old fashioned exploitation.

Ugly: The aping of Tony Scott’s visual style

Zoe Saldana has been prepping for her role as aggrieved cartel princess Cataleya in Colombiana for a few years now. She started way back in 2003 with a minor role in the first Pirates move then escalated as she became the go-to action girl with roles as Uhura in the Star Trek reboot, Neytiri the Na’vi in Avatar and, more recently, as the enigmatic Aisha in The Losers. Now, Saldana is essentially taking her role as Aisha and stretching it across an hour and a half feature. Sadly, the Losers aren't around to support her, and, boy, does she need them.

Oliver Megaton’s (seriously? Transformers are directing now?) Colombiana harkens back to the good old days of exploitation cinema with nonsensical plotting, an unequivocally badass heroine who is unafraid to deliver dirtnaps in her skivvies and, seemingly, copious amounts of bullets and explosions. Colombiana follows Cataleya Restrepo, the daughter of a Colombian cartel enforcer (Jesse Borrego) who turned state’s evidence on his employers and was promptly erased for his betrayal. Unfortunately, Cataleya witnessed her parent’s deaths firsthand—see Mr. Wayne, you're not the only one—as a child and is now possessed with a thirst for vengeance. After her parent’s death, Cataleya makes her way to Chicago, where her Uncle Emilio (Cliff Curtis) reluctantly schools her in the art of assassination. As an adult, Cataleya has become a proficient contract killer—22 kills to her name—who tags her killers with her namesake, a rare Colombian orchid. When Cataleya’s signature draws the attention of dogged FBI agent Ross (Lennie James), she finally gets close to drawing out the men who took her parents from her.

Colombiana is as much an exercise in exploitation as it is in inorganic plotting. Nothing in this movie, after the opening scenes, occurs without contrivance, and rarely is there an excuse for Saldana to do something while rocking a pair of pants. While I realize every piece of fiction is contrived, it’s incumbent on the creative talent to at least make it seem like it isn’t. On that point, Megaton and his team have failed. When ten-year old Cataleya starts free-running through the slums of Colombia—mind you, being pursued by Colombian freerunners, in 1992—the audience should know something’s amiss. Clearly, Megaton and crew thought they could splice together some loosely-connected action—filmed in the annoyingly hyperkinetic style of Tony Scott—over a toilet-paper-thin plot and sell it because the lead is hot. There’s no doubt in my mind this will sell, but it’s a shame nobody took the time to make this work because Colombiana could have been something more than just the sum of it's parts.

When the story isn’t following Cataleya as she exterminates random targets who are only tangentially attached to her main targets, it’s tracking her life as a cold detached assassin, which somehow both sucks and blows because it’s so boring and clichéd. Cataleya can’t have any attachments, not to her family or her “boyfriend”/sex buddy (Michael Vartan, as a clueless artist who is so bland and dense that it would be hard for anyone to be attached). All Cataleya does throughout the movie, is slither sexily—whether she’s randomly dancing in her apartment or showering or just walking down the block—and plan her hits, which are dishearteningly hands-off. There’s nothing about her that seems remotely human. That maybe Megaton and screenwriter Luc Besson’s—clearly trying to recapture the feel of his legendary La Femme Nikita, point—but it seems like they were trying to humanize her and couldn’t decide which way to go. As a result, Cataleya just doesn’t connect. It doesn’t help matters that her motivation is a bit tainted, as her father was clearly involved in the drug trade and probably wasn’t totally innocent. As such, there’s a degree of empathy that’s lost because how can an audience root for someone who is trying to avenge a cold-blooded killer. These types of questions will plague attentive audience members as they try to digest this hokum that looks like it was made on the same set as Tony Scott’s Domino back in ’05.

The performances in Colombiana barely help elevate the material because they’re so shallow and perfunctory. Saldana could likely play this role in her sleep, and to a degree it seems like she’s sleepwalking through this. If Cataleya had more depth there might be a challenge for Saldana to rise to, but as it stands all she does is saunter while either looking sad, sexy or angry. Conversely, Amandla Stenberg, who plays young Cataleya and looks like the one of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett's lost children, shows great restraint as a traumatized girl who is capable and smart while trying to deal with the shock without breaking down. The supporting cast, on the other hand, are vapors and cutouts. Lennie James’ Agent Ross is no revelation. He’s the same persistent soul who is smarter the average agent that has been done in every movie like this; however, those other agents didn’t have the added benefit of a magical supercomputer that can identify anybody in the world using a fraction of an image. Vartan again plays a dope with a taste for dangerous women who are clearly too good for him, doing so with his standard lack of emotion, charisma or charm. Cliff Curtis tries to throw some gravitas and humanity into his role as Cataleya’s uncle, but his moments are too short to register him as more than a dissenting, albeit concerned, voice. Cataleya’s chief target, Marco, is played by Jordi Molla who isn’t doing much more than rehashing his slimy drug dealer from Bad Boys II, leading me to believe that Hollywood doesn’t know what to do with this poor guy besides make him a drug lord. Curiously, there’s a dearth of female presence in this flick aside from Cataleya, which is odd in something that seemingly champions females as powerful and smart. I guess it would upset the balance to have this movie actually pass the Bechdel Test.

For all its faults, Colombiana succeeds on some level because it delivers what the trailers and ads promised. There’s a sexy, tough woman shooting suckers and blowing sh!* up. Truthfully, that’s probably all that’s expected of this, so on that level Megaton and his Decepticons have hit the mark. Unfortunately, the scenes of mass destruction are capped at the standard three per action movie and they're sandwiched between stretches of the aforementioned contrived plotting coupled with scant characterization. Sadly, everything about Colombiana is so uninspired that it’s hard to recommend this to anybody but an action movie virgin. So, for those who’ve never seen Saldana in an action flick and don’t mind a gaping disparity between weak plotting and some undercooked, over-edited action, Colombiana will deliver the basics, and nothing else.

Review - Drive

Grade: A-

Good: Refn’s striking visual style highlights an ultraviolent tale that blends the audio and visual into a killer cinematic experience. Gosling leads a cast of top-notch actors with reliable performers like Mulligan and Cranston deftly balancing the exaggerated and the restrained; unflinchingly, brutally violent.

Bad: A bit glacial in the early acts; romance subplot is a rehash of overused “monster becomes human through love plot; unflinchingly, brutally violent.

Ugly: The results of a shotgun blast to the face.

Anybody who drives stick knows that shifting is all about tension. Feeling the car strain under stress tells a good driver it’s time to shift gears and make a move. Ryan Gosling’s character, Driver—the second lead character, in a year’s time, named Driver since Dwayne Johnson’s turn in the thematically similar Faster—in Nicholas Winding Refn’s Drive is essentially shifting personified. Idling with unnerving calm, but displaying magnificent aggression when in motion.

Gosling shows a ridiculous amount of control as the possibly unhinged Driver, a preternaturally icy and fearless stuntman by day and a brutally efficient wheelman by night. Driver’s partner/mentor, Shannon (Bryan Cranston, again over his head in criminal activity), has dreams of making Driver a professional, ostensibly on the NASCAR circuit. Shannon’s dreams come, as they always do, with a heavy cost, which puts Shannon in debt with local producer turned heavy Bernie Rose (Albert Brooks, in a welcome diversion from his trademark L.A. neurotic) and his unstable partner, ironically Jewish Guido, Nino (Ron Perlman, extending his streak of playing unrepentant badasses). Meanwhile, Driver, who, for undisclosed reasons has found a way to live in relative isolation in the City of Angels, strikes up a friendship with single mother, Irene (an equally, amazingly restrained Carey Mulligan) who lives down the hall with her son Benicio—seriously, is Benicio Del Toro that popular that someone’s naming kids after him (which probably isn’t the case, but the name does stand out)? When Irene’s husband (Oscar Isaac) is released from prison and promptly forced to commit a stickup with the aid of the supple Blanche (Christina Hendricks), Driver is thrust into a tense web of ultraviolence and betrayal that may shift him completely out of gear (oh, the marketing folks should pay up for that one right now).

One thing Drive has that most mainstream films today lack, but indy and foreign films have in spades, is a wonderfully distinct visual style. Refn does an amazing job creating a palpable visual signature marked by a high contrast palette that gives L.A. a unsettling twilight glow after dark while days in the city are drenched with blinding white sunlight. Against this backdrop, Refn stagesa few—not enough for my tastes, especially in a movie about a wheelman—some simple, tense car chases and shockingly violent confrontations that occur with the sudden viciousness of a car accident. He combines these arresting visuals with a sublime aural experience, due mostly to a striking, if idiosyncratic score by Cliff Martinez that channels bubbly 80’s European electropop in a fascinating juxtaposition with savagery and vehicular aggression.

As overwhelming as Refn’s masterful marriage of sound and image is, Drive is blessed with a collection of top-notch talent delivering solid performances all around. Gosling’s performance as Driver is an intriguing experiment in restraint, as his nearly emotionless character rarely exhibits emotions beyond unsettling serenity and detached rage. Gosling’s, who is having such an amazing year that iTunes is hyping a collection of his most notable works, quality is well-known, and with Drive he only solidifies the validity of the acclaim despite being saddled with what is clearly a spin on the Dexter archetype (though Drive narrowly predates Dexter by about a year). Mulligan more than matches internalized intensity with her quietly suffering single mother. She gives Irene a shell-shocked quality that seems to mimic Driver’s detachment, but she grounds it with flashes of emotion, particularly when interacting with Driver or her son, that show she is not as lost as Driver. While reliable heavyweights like Cranston and Brooks perform with expected excellence, Perlman and Isaac sneak in to steal a few scenes as men at the end of their rope who are forced, like Driver, to make uncertain moves. Both make their character’s frustration and fear, respectively, so tangible in different ways—Perlman going more over the top and Isaac showing more reserve—that it's hard not to applaud their efforts. Hendricks role is, unfortunately, quite minor and never gives her a chance to show the charm that makes her such a draw on Mad Men.

Despite visuals, music and performance that are firing on all cylinders (I promise that will be the last car reference), Drive is weakened by glacial pacing in the first two acts and anchored by a clichéd human-love-heals-the-monster storyline that make it slightly less unique. The European influence is thick in Drive and some of the early acts are bound to lose viewers with weak attention spans, or at least those who are slavish to the rapid-fire movement of most modern mainstream cinema. The heavy focus on visuals, silence and atmosphere are candy for those who love the artistry of film, but those who are more riveted by a forceful story may feel a bit cold. Also, while Drive is an adaptation of James Sallis’ 2005 novel of the same name—which dug much deeper into Driver’s motivations—Refn’s choice to emphasize the dangerous-loner-falls-in-love-and-may-change-for-the-better angle is not particularly inspired. Anyone who has even seen at least one movie or show with that storyline as a central thread knows where Drive is headed. On a somewhat related note, Drive is brutal. The violence in this is shocking, sudden, and gory. To the faint of heart, you’ve been warned. To those who aren't, you've been prepped.

As a special treat, Refn’s was on hand after the credits rolled to hold a Q&A session, where he discussed the development process for Drive, the perils of the studio system and how he wooed Ryan Gosling while he was high on flu medicine. Refn offered some telling insights into his method and thematic focus for the film and the three—though I only counted two—car chases that served as Drive’s major set pieces. The session was valuable not only for the behind the scenes information, but for Refn’s insight on what he was trying to say with this intriguing piece of cinema. Suffice to say, without Refn’s comments, I would not have aligned my interpretation of the work with his. Take that as you will.

Overall, Drive is remarkable for being a fairly unique, yet undeniably effective cinematic experience, all without the aid of a third dimension and jacked ticket prices. It is indicative of a welcome trend where action movies are becoming more low-tech and simplistic in an era where such films can no longer compete with tentpoles that rest on CGI and built-in audiences. For those with the patience, appreciation for the visual artistry of cinema, and the stomach for brutality, Drive is definitely worth a ride (sorry, that's absolutely the last driving reference).