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(Originally published by the Onion AV Club)

In 1997, Interplay published Fallout, a post-apocalyptic role-playing game noted for funny, challenging open-ended gameplay. A year earlier, Bethesda Softworks released The Elder Scrolls II, a fantasy RPG also praised for allowing players great freedom. Interplay is long gone, but in 2006, Bethesda released Oblivion, an Elder Scrolls entry with cutting-edge visuals. Great acclaim followed (for open-ended gameplay, natch) and Bethesda promptly purchased the Fallout franchise for an Oblivion-style makeover.

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(Originally posted on Chud.com)

“Bad play, Leo.” That’s Gabriel Byrne to Albert Finney in Miller’s Crossing after Finney’s fading crime lord chooses to blow up a situation rather than taking the smart, quiet path through it. Since then that line has stuck with me; it’s the first thing that comes to mind when I see anyone really blow it. So as the credits rolled on Changeling, and well before that moment in fact, there it was. Bad play, Clint. Read the rest of this entry →

(Originally published by the Onion AV Club)

Guitar Hero’s fourth chapter is in an unenviable position: trying to emulate but not flagrantly copy the mechanics of its rival, Rock Band. The solution: straddle party and hardcore appeal with a varied track list that includes Michael Jackson and Tool while adding new, unique details to the experience of miming music.

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(Originally posted at Paste)

The best thing that can be said for the third Mummy movie is that it is slightly better than the new Indiana Jones movie, though that’s more of a slap in the face to George Lucas than a kiss on the Mummy’s cheek. When Alex (Luke Ford), son of hero Rick O’Connell (Brendan Fraser), uncovers the dusty tomb of the Chinese Dragon Emperor, he triggers the sort of cascading traps often found in movieland burial sites. Sure, they’re all cribbed from the first three Indy movies, but they’re at least presented with the verve Crystal Skull lacked. Read the rest of this entry →

(Originally posted at Paste)

A seven-film series based on C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia must have once seemed like a great idea. Disney executives wanted something to compare to Warners’ Harry Potter films, and Narnia had the makings of a slam dunk. But lacking Potter’s clear storyline and well-chosen cast, this series is already struggling. Director Andrew Adamson returns for this second installment, but rather than extending the appeal of the first, he’s opted for a dark, dull tone inspired by the Lord of the Rings. Read the rest of this entry →

(Originally posted at Paste)

Given the popularity of 30 Rock and the pseudo-rebirth of Saturday Night Live, high expectations are inevitable for Tina Fey’s first big screen starring role. But while she and co-star Amy Poehler are certainly a likable pair of opposites, they’re stuck in the movie equivalent of a Top 40 pop song. Broad enough to appeal to everyone and with all offensive edges assiduously filed away, Baby Mama is a cute maternal comedy that might have been much more.

Kate Holbrook (Fey) is a fast-rising VP at an organic grocery chain, but she’s begun to pine for a baby more than a promotion. She’s infertile (”I just don’t like your uterus,” says her doctor) and liable to expire before she’s allowed to adopt. Luckily there’s the Chaffee Bicknell agency, which matches Kate with Angie Ostrwosiski (Poehler), a slightly trashy woman ready to act as a surrogate mom.

Angie’s junk-food binges unsettle the ultra-organic Kate, but the yearning for motherhood pushes most concerns out of mind. Meeting Rob (Greg Kinnear), a juice bar owner and potential boyfriend, doesn’t help matters. Soon Angie is pregnant and crashing at Kate’s posh pad after breaking up with her lazy, scheming common-law husband (Dax Shepard).

The movie breezes through the setup, deliberately hits a few bumps in the road to make sure we’re paying attention, pokes good-natured fun at a few parties (notably birthing coaches and paranoid expectant mothers) then wraps everything up in a pretty bow at the end. But hey, that’s been the mainstream comedy formula for decades.

The developing friendship between Kate and Angie seems forced and assumed, but that’s because the movie knows we expect that to happen and just gets on with it. And though Fey and Poehler let a few memorably ribald lines slip through, this primarily feels like the movie for family members that thought Knocked Up was too dirty.

If Baby Mama often feels more like a TV movie, thanks in part to Michael McCullers’ straight-arrow direction, at least it doesn’t fall into the classic SNL movie black hole. A capable supporting cast keeps things moving without desperately grabbing at the spotlight. SNL’s own Fred Armisen is given an unsatisfyingly brief moment, but Shepard and Romany Malco (as Kate’s doorman) deliver consistent comic bits, Sigourney Weaver grabs a few laughs and Steve Martin steals scenes with the best work he’s done in a decade.

The supporting cast serves as a nice bonus, but the brief flashes of cutting wit from Fey and Poehler suggest that this might have been more than a fluffy, friendly riff on motherhood. Baby Mama’s jokes are too broad to deliver any serious insight or memorable observation, though they’ll cause a lot of grins and a few big laughs. That’s enough to pass the time; just see how much of the film you can remember two hours later.

(Originally posted at Paste)

The heist film is a wonderful cinematic sub-genre. It’s a rigid one, with constant requirements (tension, temporal mastery, cleverness, humor), but combined with the right heist, the results are memorable—sublime, even. The great examples are serious (The Killing, Rififi), slightly cerebral (Bob le Flambeur and remake The Good Thief) or funny (Big Deal on Madonna Street, but not remake Welcome to Collinwood).

The Bank Job tries to reside in all three corners at once. Subsequently, it is neither great nor sublime. But much like a few other robbery exploits starring Jason Statham, it flies by in true popcorn movie fashion.

The complicated plot is based on a real sequence of events, for whatever that’s worth. Terry (Statham), a car dealer in hock to the mob, is approached by old friend Martine (Saffron Burrows) about robbing a bank. She’s in hock to a British intelligence agent aiming to recover incriminating photos of a Royal in compromising positions so he can put Michael X (Peter De Jersey), a black activist, behind bars. There’s also a subplot involving a ruthless pornographer and corrupt cops. Needless to say, it’s easy to see how the seams threaten to burst throughout.

“Protect the Royals” is the same impulse that gave us Jack the Ripper, but here, the result is considerably more mundane. Director Roger Donaldson (who seems to have peaked with Thirteen Days) barely keeps things under control in the first hour, but slowly teases the material into entertaining shape. Once the heist really begins it’s hard not to be hanging at least partially on the hook, even though you’ve probably seen most of this stuff before. And as the film builds to a three-way climax, it’s almost gripping.

Donaldson does struggle with racial text. Efforts by British Intelligence to suppress black activists seem justified as the film’s speaking black characters rally around an amoral psychopath. Any implied racism seems unintended, but no more palatable because of it.

Statham tries to make the jump to leading man that he failed at in Guy Ritchie’s Revolver, but with only slightly more success this time. He presents an empathetic figure even when engaged in dodgy dealings, but he’s also Statham, which makes his performance impossible to fully accept. Alongside him, Burrows is fine, though difficult to watch. If a nozzle appeared on the back of her neck, you’d feel obliged to attach an air hose and re-inflate her.

The rest of the supporting cast members frequently go a bit off the rails, but their goofy enthusiasm isn’t entirely out of place. The film is already recreating the swinging ’70s and offering the audience a chance to cheer when slightly perverse Members of Parliament are made to sweat. Weather a couple scenes of torture, enjoy the twists, don’t expect The Bank Job to end up on any year-end lists, and everything will be fine.

(Originally posted at Paste)

The best way to decide whether Will Ferrell’s latest vehicle (for his chest hair, of course) might be worth your time is to peruse the following list. These are things the film finds uproariously funny, especially in combination; those who disagree will likely find the movie barely more appealing than pet vomit. Here goes: the ’70s, afros, white guys with afros, goofy names, vintage clothes, bears, giant cardboard checks, men shouting, priests who referee sports, sports being played badly, the words “fuck” and “cock.”

This outing tells the story of Jackie Moon (Ferrell) and his Flint, Mich. Tropics, an American Basketball Association team that faces dissolution when the league merges with the NBA. Jackie’s a huckster and buffoon, but not much of a basketball player. He recruits the washed-up Monix (Woody Harrelson) to bolster a lineup with only one strength, the showboating Clarence ‘Coffee’ Black (André Benjamin).

Semi-Pro is very proudly R-rated, so for some there might be a thrill to watching this cast curse loudly and generally act like jerks, but haven’t we been down that road before? With the rating’s leeway, Ferrell & Co. often just go for the easy dick joke instead of reaching for the bizarre and subversive heights of Anchorman.

Will Arnett and Andrew Daly light up their scenes as a drunk commentator and his straight-laced professional partner respectively. And there is one fantastically funny scene involving Rob Corddry and voyeurism, but it would be a crime to spoil that one.

Otherwise, the movie is a mix of sloppy timing and jokes predicated on the delivery that made Anchorman’s “scotchy, scotch, scotch line” quotable for precisely 30 seconds. Semi-Pro is a broadly recycled piece of garbage that would be funnier if it didn’t repeat the same material that brought success to its predecessors. Maura Tierney often looks truly embarrassed to be caught up in this third-stringer, but she’s not the one that should be feeling the flush of shame. That’s reserved for Ferrell, who has been and still might be so much better than this.

(Originally posted at Paste)

Approaching films objectively is a difficult task, but as an Atlanta resident, The Signal is a more loaded prospect than most. The low-budget shocker opens with clips from The Hap Hapgood Story, a local short that did well at the 48 Film Festival several years back, and the film proudly displays telltale ATL locations obscured by other films shot in the city. Even “Terminus,” the city name used in the film, is fact rather than science fiction; Atlanta briefly used the name in the mid-19th century.

Often pegged (erroneously) as a neo-zombie flick, The Signal also takes inspiration from sci-fi nightmares like Videodrome. In a city analogous to modern America, citizens are subjected to a shifting digital signal via televisions, cell phones and radios. Results vary, but one effect is common: those exposed begin to act on their base impulses, with a severe tendency towards violence.

Mya (Anessa Ramsey) returns home from a night of infidelity with Ben (Justin Welborn) just as the tumult begins. Her suspicious husband Lewis (AJ Bowen) is already succumbing to the signal. He kills a friend, Mya flees and Lewis and Ben follow her with varying intent. As the situation worsens, the actual signal is much like the videotapes in Michael Haneke’s Cache; the origin is far less important than the effect.

A directorial trio (David Bruckner, Dan Bush and Jacob Gentry) splits the film into three “transmissions.” The result isn’t an anthology, but a single story divided into three basic perspectives, each with a distinct tonal flavor. The first is almost straightforward survival horror; the second black comedy; the third ambiguous terror.

The Signal is violent, grim and unrelenting, despite—and at moments, because of—the mid-section comic relief. Still, it’s a pleasure. As the antagonistic Lewis, Bowen makes horrific acts more unsettling with his composed, mad demeanor. And directors Bruckner, Bush and Gentry, while each technically responsible for their own section, keep the film squarely on track and the signal’s nature vague enough to stimulate conversation about the particulars.

There’s a compelling energy here unique to films that represent an unexpected shot at the big time. The Signal barrels along with little consideration for standard constraints of low-budget horror, steamrolling over the occasional technical shortcoming and moments of flawed performance, generally looking far more accomplished than the slim budget would lead you to expect. This is punk-rock cinema, thrilling and engrossing.

(Originally posted at Paste)

Time to damn a major motion picture with a single word of faint praise. Charlie Wilson’s War is…cute. That’s it. Two months ago, Oscar pundits supposed that Charlie Wilson, scripted by Aaron Sorkin from the novel by George Crile and directed by Mike Nichols, would be among the year’s best. Now, cut down to a paltry 97 minutes, the film feels neutered, a bit like an innocent puppy. This stripping has resulted in a movie that is insignificant and not even particularly meaningful.

Which isn’t to say this movie fails to entertain. Tom Hanks puts on his best Texas drawl to inhabit a Congressman more famous for attending Vegas parties than meaningful legislative sessions. Representing a congressional district with the fewest needs in the nation, the titular Wilson trades votes for IOUs. The film picks up as the representative is asked to use his stockpiled favors to enhance the CIA’s covert efforts to crush Russia’s intervention in Afghanistan.

Watching Wilson go to war is one hell of a good time. Through sex, drunkenness and innuendo, the decadence of early ’80s politicking certainly comes through. Hanks, perennially reliable, projects an evolving morality that starts out slippery, but becomes almost upright.

Wilson limps clumsily through a meeting with the leaders of Pakistan, beds Joanne Herring (Julia Roberts, portraying a prime mover in the covert war, not to mention the sixth richest woman in Texas) and has great fun with an army of gorgeous secretaries. Meanwhile, a cocaine scandal, which takes place largely in the background, is the biggest hint at the Congressman’s seedy side.

Nichols’ not-so-secret weapon, which he deploys with little caution, is Philip Seymour Hoffman, who plays rough-around-the-edges CIA bureaucrat Gust Avrakotos. The scene between Hanks and Hoffman’s characters introducing the coke scandal is pure, perfectly timed comedy. Hoffman can eke a laugh out of nearly anything, and his delivery makes the most of Sorkin’s dialogue. But he also makes one wonder about Nichols’ comfort level with the material, as Gust’s dialogue camouflages many of the film’s strongest political comments.

Sorely missing from the film’s war is a sense of import. We’re meant to mine rich parallels between the movie’s Middle East and its modern-day counterpart, and the potential for cutting satire is certainly rich. Far more difficult to ignore, however, is the realization that Nichols is pulling punches. His would-be knockout is a limp and obvious dig at current efforts to rebuild Iraq, leaving this particular War feeling more like a minor squabble.