Review - Wanderlust

Grade: C-

Yin: Faux-clever rehash of yuppie out of water narrative. Rudd and Aniston do little more than play toothless versions of their trademark character types while Director David Waid squanders a bit of the good will he earned with Role Models.

Yang: A few well-earned chuckles from Joe Lo Truglio, Alan Alda, and Ken Marino aren’t enough to turn the tide.

In-Between: Grape smashing in the nude. ‘Nuff said.

It used to be a thing to make fun of yuppies, didn’t it?

At least it was until most of them went broke.

I suppose enough time has passed and since 2008 and 2009’s crippling economic crises that it’s okay to get back to plucking at those overeager paper-chasers because that is the bread and butter of 90% of the jokes in David Waid’s occasionally funny but mostly painful Wanderlust.

Jennifer Aniston and Paul Rudd star as George and Linda, a New York couple enamored with a high-speed Manhattan lifestyle they can barely afford. When they’re forced to sell their brand new “micro-loft” after Linda fails to sell a half-baked documentary on penguins to HBO and George loses his job in light of an FBI raid at his stock brokerage, the pair heads south to Atlanta, where George’s cartoonishly obnoxious brother (Ken Marino) is offering work and a room in his McMansion. Along the way, the pair stop at the writers-think-it’s-cleverly-named Elysium Bed and Breakfast. For one night, George and Linda are privy to a pure Woodstock experience—complete with weed and didgeridoos--when the encounter the calculatedly wacky residents of the “intentional community”—never a commune—that houses Elysium.

From spacy nudist Wayne (Joe Lo Troglio) to foul-mouthed former porn star Karen (Kathryn Hahn) to expecting Earth momma Almond (Lauren Ambrose), the denizens of Elysium never fail to fulfill old school hippie stereotypes, but none moreso than fellow New York escape and free love child Eva (Malin Akerman) and de facto leader Seth (Justin Theroux). Seth, in particular, challenges George and Linda to leave behind the rat race and embrace nature’s bosom. After a straw-breaks-the-camel’s-back moment with George’s brother, the two take a shot at living like 21st century hippies, but is that life really all it’s cracked up to be?

Aniston and Rudd do the best they can with the mostly limp material. While Rudd delivers another toothless variation on his trademark snarky smart-ass, Aniston continues to elevate herself above Kate Hudson and Katherine Heigl as queen shrew--how she managed to do that with a character who is supposed to be an aimless free spirit is a bit of a mystery. Theroux gives a heroic effort as the extra smarmy and self-righteous Seth, but like Rudd and Aniston’s, he is saddled with a trite character with a fairly telegraphed arc. Alan Alda--as the aging founder of the Elysium commune--Joe Lo Truglio, and Ken Marino, on the other hand, deliver some consistent humor with their off-kilter characters that contributes to a few of the flick’s more chuckle-worthy moments. The rest of the cast, unfortunately, fades into the background, barely able to do more than exist as hopelessly dated cartoons.

Director David Waid, who first collaborated with Rudd on the far superior Role Models, probably viewed Wanderlust as some sort of insightful commentary on Americans incessant desire live beyond their means, clearly ignoring the economic developments of the past four years, and the toll it takes on their ability to enjoy life. Despite Waid’s subpar effort, Wanderlust is probably not the best vehicle for such introspection. The fact that the humor is too broad and sparse to be considered anything other than remotely clever doesn’t help matters either. With a serious overall to the half-baked cliché of a premise and at least a pound of nuance, Wanderlust might have captured the zeitgeist of the moment to make a relatively profound statement on “keeping up with the jones” when the jones’ are broke. Instead, he settles for limp rehash of the yuppies out of water narrative that barely inspires more than a few errant chuckles.

Review - 21 Jumpstreet

Grade: B-

Yang: Relentlessly entertaining, sometimes sharp, and darn near uproarious. Tatum, Hill and Cube play versions of their typical archetypes with a solid degree of near-parody. Offers a few entertaining non-surprises.

Yin: Juvenile humor is unrelenting and will surely sour members of the audience expecting something more than a parody remake, but they should know better

In-Between: 21 Jumpstreet officially ends with a shot to the neck

There is no way this should have worked.

A hipper-than-thou self-aware remake of a three-decade old gimmick procedural with a scowling Ice Cube, Channing Tatum being Channing Tatum (and making jokes), a slim Jonah Hill playing the "straight man", and slight commentary on today’s over-aspiring teens should not work.

But, somehow—mostly through a deft combination of brash, relentless humor and affectionate parody—Phil Lord and Chris Miller’s big-screen remake of 21 Jumpstreet proves to be one of the most entertaining flicks of this young year.

21 Jumpstreet takes the 80’s Johnny Depp Vehicle and runs wide left, eschewing the original show’s earnestness and topicality for a, mostly, relentless stream of sight gags and penis jokes. As bad as that sounds, the approach brings 21 Jumpstreet closer to the off-the-wall loopiness of 2005’s Starsky and Hutch remake than 2002’s dour Mod Squad rehash.

Lord and Miller’s version follows rookie cops Jenko (Channing Tatum) Schmidt (Jonah Hill), two underachievers who are making a real go at being the worst cops ever to have been sworn in. Jenko can barely recite the Miranda Rights while Schmidt constantly chokes in the face of pressure. The root of these ne’er do wells’ abject failure is linked to their high school experience, where Schmidt was a shy nerd and Jenko was the dumbest of all of dumb jocks. Luckily, Jenko and Schmidt still look exactly like they did when they graduated from high school seven years prior—though Jenko’s full–grown frame would strain credulity--which makes them perfectly qualified for an undercover unit that sends youthful cops into high schools to uncover major crimes. Under the leadership of Ice Cube’s perpetually grouchy and abrasive Captain Dickson, Jenko and Schmidt are charged with infiltrating a group of teen dealers led by the younger Franco—Dave, looking every bit like older brother James from his Freaks and Geeks days--who are slinging a designer drug with probably the best name for an illicit substance, ever. The deeper Jenko and Schmidt fall into their roles, the more they learn that the high school landscape has changed significantly in half a decade.

What makes the 21 Jumpstreet work is a collection performances by a cast that plays precisely to type. Ice Cube scowls and makes edgy racial comments and slurs. Channing Tatum plays a red-blooded, hot-headed meathead with limited intelligence. Jonah Hill is the awkwardly sly nice guy who can sneak a burn in without missing a step. And…well, let’s just say everybody plays heavily on the archetypes that have defined most of their careers to a tee, and beyond. Thus, you don’t see a great deal of depth in the performances—and why should we—but it’s funny to see these character types played out to a humorous, if not logical, ends. By letting these archetypes loose in a narrative that doesn’t actually “respect” the archetypes, the characters and the performance actually become more effective for stepping squarely into the realm of near-parody.

By embracing the inherent ridiculousness of the characters and the premise, 21 Jumpstreet follows the path worn by remakes like the Brady Bunch and Starsky and Hutch. Not that any of the original shows couldn’t be translated into respectable dramatic fare; it’s just that the original premises are so ingrained in our cultural conscious as relics of a bygone era that treating them with any degree of earnestness would quickly lead to derision. 21 Jumpstreet sidesteps that problem by embracing the absurdity and letting the low-brow jokes flow fast and furious, with only a lull post-midpoint.

Granted, the humor isn’t always the sharpest, but it is relentless to the point that you’ll be hard pressed to not laugh at something. That said, 21 Jumpstreet is ribald and crude to a fault, and anyone expecting this to be a revelatory masterwork should try to measure their expectations a bit more carefully. The flick even manages a few surprises that may not be particularly shocking but are solidly. If anything, that’s what this flick does fairly well; it entertains, and how much more can one ask from a remake of an 80s teen cop procedural from a studio that has probably run out of new ideas.

Review - Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance

Grade: D

Yin: Cage’s wacky acting overshadows a tedious script. Neveldine/Taylor bring a style to the proceedings that remains a true acquired taste that few will ever understand.

Yang: More focused narrative and an earthier Ghost Rider give this a slight edge over the original, but neither is enough to save this flick.

In-Between: Pissing fire is kind of cool.

You will believe a demon stunt cyclist can piss fire. You just won't care.



Crank maestros Neveldine and Taylor's shot at the once thought dead Ghost Rider franchise, Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance, is a oddly frantic yet tedious exercise. 

Picking up some time after the first movie, Johnny Blaze (Nicolas Cage) has run to Europe in an effort to escape the clutches of the devil’s dealmaker, Roarke (Ciaran Hinds)--because there's no way a demon can travel across time and space without using his frequent flier miles. Resigned to remaining in hiding for fear of the rider overtaking his fragile soul, blaze is approached by French holy warrior Moreau (Idris Elba), who enlists the rider's aid in finding one--because there must be more--of the devils offspring. This offspring (Fergus Riordan) and his mother (Olga Kurylenko knock-off Violante Placido) just happen to be on the run from a rakish gun-runner Ray Carrigan (Johnny Whitworth) who has been hired to retrieve the boy for a mysterious benefactor with a vested interest in awakening the child's inner hellfire. Goaded on by the surefire promise of reclaiming his soul, blaze must try to control the rider and race against time to stop the boy from becoming some kind of Antichrist.



Neveldine and Taylor have found a perfect collaborator in Nicolas Cage; Ghost Rider just isn't the right project for either. I hate to call for more grim, gritty comic adaptations, but the story of a guy who sold his soul to the devil and is tormented by his decision probably isn't he best fit for Neveldine/Taylor's spastic stop and go vision. The mythology also doesn't Mach cage's unrestricted scenery chewing. Ghost Rider doesn't need to be dour and grim throughout but it deserves some reverence. In Spirit of Vengeance, Neveldine/Taylor, and cage seem to balance a minimum of reverence--they at least acknowledge the fact that ghost rider is actually an angel, per the current comic mythology--with a tongue in cheek outlook, which would be something if the flick was remotely funny or clever.

In lieu of legitimately intelligent or clever moments, Neveldine/ Taylor allow Cage to chomp down on scenery and tweak about like he just snorted three lines of primo white. Cage’s Rider doesn’t rein hellfire and brimstone down on the evil; he stutter steps and stares and jerks and schleps around, casting quizzical glares. This languid approach carries over to at least two of the three mediocre action scenes that populate this farce with only the climatic chase—curiously the only action scene shown in any length in the trailers—offering any significant energy.

The performances—actually, performance because nobody else really tracks in Cage’s shadow—don’t particularly help to elevate the proceedings. With Cage’s wackiness dominating nearly every scene, only Idris Elba makes a go at competing for attention, with his curiously accented Moreau. Johnny Whitworth’s Carrigan gets a character upgrade midway through the flick that gives him a chance to try to out ham Cage, but he is hopelessly outmatched. Hinds and Placido do little more than meet the bare minimum requirements of playing Rosemary and Rosemary’s baby’s daddy—to snatch a corny line that could only come from Cage’s Blaze.

Performances and vision aside, Spirit of Vengeance shows marked improvement over the first movie. The plot is far more streamlined and focused, as less time is spent on fleshing out Blaze’s backstory and more attention is given to thrusting the, admittedly thin, narrative forward. Also, the Rider is a much more authentic and visually threatening presence. Far less shiny, but no less cartoonish, the Rider is noticeably dingier and earthier than his previous incarnation—the fiery skull alone crackles with more authenticity than before. As mentioned earlier, the climatic chase is also a solid set piece that, while mediocre by modern standards, is leagues beyond the travesty that wrapped the original.

Despite these improvements, Spirit of Vengeance does little to improve the state of the franchise. Ghost Rider has always been one of Marvel’s most off-the-wall creations, and in the right hands an clever adaptation is surely possible, not related to the X-Men, Spider-Man, or the Avengers, and thus one if its red-headed stepchildren. Maybe be one day we’ll get a better Ghost Rider movie, but that day won’t come until Nicolas Cage becomes solvent.

Review - Project X

Grade: C

Yin: Narrative is thinner than the paper the script was printed on. Performances were ripped so thoroughly from 2007’s Superbad that they trot into parody. Rarely funny from a narrative or character perspective, but more for sheer audacity.

Yang: Audacious and over the top to a fault. Not the most shocking party ever committed to film, but pretty close. You’ll forget almost everything about this flick except for the sheer carnage—and that’s saying something.

In-Between: Anything you did wrong as a teen pales in comparison to this party.

Pop culture analysis-wiki TV Tropes defines the concept of "Refuge in Audacity" as an approach to storytelling in which characters in a narrative can display immoral, illogical, or impossible behavior of the highest most off-the-wall order simply due to the sheer implausibility of such behavior.

Rookie director Nima Nourizadeh’s found footage experience, Project X, takes more than refuge in audacity; it hunkers down in its bosom for the long haul.

Produced by frat pack ‘auteur’ Todd Phillips, Project X is not so much a narrative, but a, roughly, 90-minute spectacle that allows viewers to experience the sickest—I mean that in both connotations—party ever committed to film. Project X follows three friends pulled straight from the mold of proto-Project X, Superbad, as the plan an epic birthday bash for Michael Cera knock off Thomas (Thomas Mann) while his parents are out of town. While Thomas takes the central role as the awkward nice guy, he is flanked by his motor-mouthed, tragically unhip buddy, from Queens, Costa (Oliver Cooper)—our Jonah Hill substitute—and chubby, even more awkward J.B. (Jonathan Daniel Brown)—think Christopher Mintz-Plasse’s McLovin with Jonah Hill’s old waistline. The early going follows the three as they take the requisite steps of planning: invite girls, hire a DJ, invite girls, buy drugs, invite girls, warn the neighbors, invite girls. With everything in place, the boys are expecting about 50 heads to stroll through Thomas’ parents’ Pasadena McMansion, but thanks to Costa’s prodigious advertising efforts the guest list swells to over 1000. Chaos of the highest order, literally, ensues.

For anyone who fancies themselves a mature adult, the happenings in Project X are a nightmare. For anyone who is 18, or 18 at heart, this is the greatest party you never got to attend. Beer flows like water. Breasts are bared. Midgets are stuffed in ovens. Virgins are deflowered. Bones are broken. Blood is spilled. Cars are crashed. Fires rage. The amount of energy and time devoted to documenting this chaotic party essentially diminishes any sense of narrative, which, to be honest, is nothing more than a limp rehash of the same old high school losers try to get laid and become popular narrative—right up to Thomas being forced to choose between the girl next door and the hottest girl in school. Unwisely, Nourizadeh--through the mostly steady lens of suspiciously parent-less amateur documentarian, Dax (Dax Flame)—spends more time building the spectacle to an insane crescendo than building character or even consistent humor—there were significant stretches of time where the screening audience sat dead silent, more bemused than amused. It is apt that Project X is a found footage film because it is essentially a horror movie. We don’t care about the characters we just want to see how out of hand this party can get, and on that level, Nourizadeh does not disappoint.

With all the focus on the near-anarchy of the party, performances pretty much slip into sketches. The main three are essentially draft versions of the main characters from Superbad, lacking any of the slight—very slight—nuance that Cera, Hill and Mintz-Plasse brought to Superbad. Oliver Cooper’s Coasta was likely framed as the breakout character—what with his Pimp Cup and blisteringly foul tongue—but he is so hopelessly uncool and lacking in self-awareness that you have to wonder if this isn’t a calculated parody of those instigating horndogs from prior party movies. Mann and Brown, unfortunately, shrink in Cooper’s presence by being so relatively passive, leaving the audience with little reason to invest in either. The only performances that truly deserve highlighting belong to Nick Nervies and Brady Hender as two overeager pre-teen security guards for the party. Nervies and Hender sell their to dedication to the point of overselling, but their attempts to ‘safeguard’ the party from threats that are consistently bigger than them leads to some of the film’s few purely hysterical moments.

Performances aside, Project X is not really a bad movie because it is not really a movie; it is an experience. As the second found footage movie in as many month’s it lacks the narrative ambition of the much smarter and more focused Chronicle, but it comes thisclose to matching the destruction and carnage of Chronicle’s climax, only on a more grounded scale. Occasionally funny, narratively bankrupt, but shockingly, to a fault, audacious, Project X will never be confused as the touchstone of a generation, but it is undoubtedly a disturbingly magnificent, over-the-top encapsulation of the teen party fantasy writ large.

Review - Safe House

Grade: C+

Yin: Another spin on the Denzel+young actor formula. Generally unoriginal and uninspired all-around, from the plot to the performances to the aesthetic. Trust me; you’ve seen this movie a dozen times, just with less blood. Poor Denzel seems exhausted from doing the same movie over and over again.

Yang: Action beats are pretty solid despite bringing nothing particularly new to the table. Decent pacing keeps things moving with only a few signs of sluggishness in the middle. Bloodier than most movies of its ilk—if you enjoy that sort of thing (I do.)

In-Between: How many shanty towns in developing countries must be destroyed so Hollywood can make a buck? Just saying…

It’s been little more than ten years since Training Day was released, so Swedish director Daniel Espinosa must have thought it was high time that classic was remade.

He was wrong.

For what seems like the twelfth time in as many years, Denzel Washington teams with a rising, or falling as the case may be, young white star—this year’s model is the woefully beat-upon Ryan Reynolds—in a middle-of-the-road actioner that is besieged with jump-cut editing and barely comprehensible set pieces.

As another play on the disenchanted mentor/wide-eyed mentee narrative, Safe House tells the tale of legendary CIA operative turned rogue intelligence dealer Tobin Frost (Washington)—like out in the cold? How clever—who is captured by a CIA detail in Cape Town after violently eluding a cadre of scowling, ambiguously Middle Eastern and African assassins. Frost is promptly delivered to a CIA safe house monitored by the mild-mannered Matt Westin (Reynolds), a bored “housekeeper” who is bored out of his skull and constantly bugging his gruff superior (Brendan Gleeson) back in the states for an opportunity to become a case officer. When the CIA unit charged with “encouraging”—with the use of a towel and a gallon of water—Frost to reveal the extent of his treasonous actions is wiped out by the same assassins who thrust Frost into their hands, Westin is forced to keep his “houseguest” secure until an extraction team arrives, which, of course, proves far easier said than done.

Recalling a spate of genre thrillers from the aforementioned Training Day to 16 Blocks to Unstoppable, Safe House treads so much familiar ground and apes so much visual panache from better films that it barely registers as original. The through-line of the plot is fairly threadbare, but the implications that every player involved is more than meets the eye telegraphs the “twist” at the end before the first half-hour is up. The twist at the end is of course directly related to some crowd-pleasing anti-government, anti-CIA rhetoric that has been warmed over so much that one audience member stood up at the end of the screening and announced to all within earshot, “News flash: don’t trust the CIA.” Adding to the stale subtext and flimsy plot is Espinosa’s visual style, which rips off frequent Denzel Washington-collaborator Tony Scott so thoroughly—complete with grainyness, oversaturated palette, and spastic edits—that I had to triple check the credits and IMDb to ensure Scott’s lack of involvement. To those who haven’t seen a Denzel Washington movie in the past five years, this visual style may seem like an energetic revelation. The rest of us know better.

I hear you out there: “So, the plot’s weak and it kind of looks like crap, but Denzel is in it, so at least there’s some solid acting, right?” To which I would respond, “Sadly, no.” Poor Denzel looks tired in this flick. He’s not tired in the dismissive sense that his skill has been compromised, but he appears exhausted, as if he’s finally had enough of this charade. I get it. He wants to challenge himself. He wants to perform theater rather than hoisting up the flavor of the month. I understand completely, and it’s clear that this is his “one for them” movie, which will allow him to make some pocket change then go do whatever he wants for the rest of the year—meaning we should expect another variation on this formula in either January or November of 2013. While Denzel may not be putting his Oscar-winning best on display, his turn as a smirking trickster is saddled with enough weariness and resignation that his performance becomes a intriguing case of art imitating life. Reynolds, on the other hand, is pushed way out of his comfort zone into a role as a sad-eyed, tight-lipped action star that prevents Reynolds from playing the smart-ass joker he’s famous for playing. I suppose this was a bold decision, but it seems unwise to rein in Reynolds and keep him from adding his trademark humor to the flick’s generally dour proceedings, but what do I know. With Reynolds and Washington dominating the screen time with their redo of Washington and Ethan Hawke’s chemistry in Training Day, the rest of the notable cast is saddled with thankless roles as shady CIA spooks who forgot the Cold War ended. Brendan Gleeson does little with his role as Westin’s superior besides grumbling, placing his hands on his hips, and barking orders. Vera Farmiga is also forced to play below her ability as a stateside unit director desperately searching for Frost in a sour variation on Joan Allen’s role from the Bourne Trilogy. Sam Shepard shows up for a few scenes, as well playing a CIA deputy director who obviously believes in the Patriot Act a bit too deeply. Honestly, I would feel bad for all the actors involved if I wasn’t sure this was going to be at least a modest hit.

In fact, I have no doubt that audiences will eat this up. It’s ridiculously violent, generally well-placed, and not the least bit challenging or surprising--why ask for more? I will not deny that there are some solid action beats and some spectacular carnage that occurs between the opening and final frame, but so much of Safe House is nakedly unoriginal and rote that the weaknesses outweigh the occasional high notes. Personally, I think everybody involved—audience included--deserved better—except for Espinosa, and that’s only because I don’t know his work that well. That said, if you’re looking for some fairly muscular if unoriginal action, or you absolutely love Denzel, feel free to check out Safe House, but you would be better off just renting or downloading Training Day, Unstoppable, and Man on Fire.

Review - Chronicle

Grade: A

Yang: Strong performances by Dane DeHaan and Michael B. Jordan are the highlight of this clever spin on the people with powers narrative. Stunning practical effects and top-notch destruction don't hurt either.

Yin: Found footage format, shaky cam effect, and city-scale carnage recall less than fond memories of Cloverfield, but doesn’t diminish the effectiveness of

In Between: The feeling of having one’s teeth yanked out by telekinesis must be the most unpleasant experience imaginable.

Dear Warner Brothers,

Re: Live-action Akira remake

Authorize a ten-dollar per suit budget. See Josh Trank’s Chronicle. Drop this whitewashed Akira remake business and save your money for some other trite comic book movie or remake.

Thanks,
Fans of Common Sense and Good Taste

To say Chronicle is one of the best movies about superhumans of the current era of superhero blockbusters is probably the most hyperbolic of overstatements possible, but not by much. Not since M. Night Shyamalan’s Unbreakable—remember that movie from the brief period where Shyamalan was respectable—has there been a film about people with powers that is as believable and affecting as first-time feature director Josh Trank’s Chronicle. In short, Chronicle puts on a clinic in how to make super-powered beings relatable, believable, and interesting. Marvel, DC, and any other publisher or film studio in the business of selling the dreams superpowers in four colors or on the silver screen, take note. Take copious notes.

At first glance, Chronicle seems to be simply aping the current trend of found footage filmmaking—and, indeed, this does contribute to some of the few flaws in the film, which is the overly-expository nature of the narrative and the ever-irritating shaky-cam effect—but Trank uses this technique to great effect as it speaks directly to a generation that is beyond comfortable with documenting their every thought and footstep. In Chronicle, HD handycams follow three Seattle teens--the moody, abused Andrew Detmer (Dane DeHaan); his cousin, the philosophical, good-natured Matt Garetty (Alex Russell); and their new friend, goofy, easygoing political hopeful Steve Montgomery (Michael B. Jordan). After dragging the camera-happy Andrew to his first rave, Matt and Steve discover a gaping mile-deep hole in an empty field that just screams, “Come on in. It’s safe.” In a clear case of teens being brilliant, the three investigate and find a glowing structure inside that delivers nosebleeds and superpowers at no extra cost. The three emerge with burgeoning telekinetic powers that they promptly misuse for garden-variety mischief and tomfoolery. As their powers grow stronger than they imagined, evolving to include the ability for flight, the three are faced with the reality of Ben Parker’s famous adage about power and responsibility, particularly as the tortured Andrew discovers the upper limits of his power. What results is a clever examination of the corrupting influence of power, the effect of environment, and, oddly, the strength of friendship that is rivaled only by anime classic, Akira.

What makes Chronicle so effective is that it is not bound to any pre-existing material—aside from a climax that’s a almost note-for-note rip of Akira’s climax--or comic book dogma. Yes, the concept of “with great power comes great responsibility” surfaces, but there’s no wise man to guide Andrew, Matt, and Steve. There’s no higher purpose. 80% of the runtime is devoted to the characters engaging in full on wish fulfillment, and Chronicle is better for it because, truth be told, these characters react to getting powers the way most people would. Chronicle also isn’t handicapped by adherence to any current or past comic series, and, thus, is not required to hit any narrative predetermined narrative beats or ensure that characters look or act according to a decades-old character model. This freedom allows Trank and screenwriter Max Landis to craft a narrative with deeper characters and more tangible consequence than half of comic-based movies released in the last five years. Trank takes ample advantage of this freedom, as the film peels the layers back on a character who would rarely be the focus of a traditional superhero narrative, Andrew. Chronicle is unequivocally Andrew’s story, and his response to receiving powers is far more believable than the arc of similarly put-upon geek loner Peter Parker.

A character like Andrew could have descended into a cartoon if not for the grounded direction and Dane DeHaan’s strong performance. DeHaan gives Andrew an consistent sense of perpetual discomfort and anxiety rooted in the abuse Andrew suffers at home. This unease is well-layered thanks to DeHaan’s mostly restrained performance, as Andrew mostly avoids delving into the over-the-top megalomania that paints similar characters. DeHaan’s performance is ably balanced by, the ever-reliable, Michael B. Jordan and Alex Russell’s performances. Jordan brings an infectious exuberance to his role as the big man on campus who is constantly geeking about his new abilities. It’ a bit of a stretch to see his character become so close to Andrew and Matt so quick because no history is established, but damned if Jordan doesn’t sell it, especially in one crucial scene that packs a solid wallop. Russell flies under the radar, especially in the presence of Jordan and DeHaan, as Andrew’s concerned cousin and the anchor and moral compass of the group, but he too gets a true moment to shine in the film’s climax that proves that Chronicle should be mentioned in same breath as X-Men: First Class.

Where this film differs from something like First Class is that the friendship between Andrew, Matt and Steve seems real. When Charles and Erik met in First Class, there was a requisite tension between the two that prevented them from ever being close friends, even before their split. In Chronicle, there’s a similar tension, mostly based on Andrew’s home life, but it doesn’t dominate the interactions between the three. The tension doesn't truly surface significantly until late in the film because more time and care is spent developing these characters friendship—even when the three get a bit sappy, they are still believable close—a narrative approach far more common in manga and anime than western comics. That care really pays off in the end, and, thanks to the quality of Russell, Jordan, and DeHaan’s performances, there’s never a moment second that the payoffs don’t feel earned.

In addition to great performances and a solid narrative, Chronicle delivers some of the most “authentic” displays of superpowers on screen in sometime. Chronicle doesn’t have the benefit of the audience willingly suspending disbelief because they know the characters in advance. Instead, director Trank earns the suspension of disbelief with mostly practical effects and some exhilarating scenes of the guys in flight—logically, they dress in down coats and ski pants because, wouldn’t you know, it’s frigid in the upper layers of our atmosphere—that rival, and maybe surpass, flight scenes from Superman Returns. Admittedly, the action is occasionally obscured due to the found footage format, but generally, Trank uses the format skillfully to make the action far more realistic than the average superhero flick. Between the great action, strong performances, and affecting narrative, surely Hollywood and the comic industry will soon be clamoring to replicate the formula, but they’ll likely fail to match the sublime combination of narrative and character that makes Chronicle one of the best ‘real-world’ superhuman flicks to date.