A SOURCE OF HEDGE(S)D HAPPINESS

DIRECTED BY PETER HEDGES

STARRING: STEVE CARELL, ALISON PILL, JULIETTE BINOCHE, DANE COOK, MARLENE LOWSTON, BRITTANY ROBERTSON, NORBERT LEO BUTZ, AMY RYAN, JESSICA HECHT, FRANK WOOD, HENRY MILLER, ELLA MILLER with EMILY BLUNT, JOHN MAHONEY and DIANNE WIEST

The thing about Peter Hedges is how less he tries to stop you from classifying him. And how, as a result of that, you don’t want to. He’s a writer-director of independent films who doesn’t stick to routine and thus produces a stronger outcome. ‘Pieces of April’ was reflective of that. ‘About a Boy’ probably lesser so. You could credit him for inventing a unique blend of feel-good fiction with a relatable storyline that’s simple and straight as people can be. There’s something very wholesome about the experience, a strong sense of empathy that he inspires. With Hedges, it’s not your life on screen. It’s a life you like, idealized, where everything is in the perfect amount, neither amplified, nor diminished. The ups and downs. The contradictions. The resolutions. And best of all, Hedges doesn’t push his luck – he tweaks it.

‘Dan in Real Life’ is no different. It’s a Hedges film. It’s about Dan Burns (Steve Carell), a columnist who gives parenting advice and who, appropriately, is a widower raising three girls on his own. Is he doing a good job? Who knows? Parenting as such is a paradox of free will and enslavement as well as everything in between. Who knows what a good parent is? Lilly Burns (Dan’s youngest daughter, a proud fourth-grader) could probably have the best answer when she calls Dan ‘a good father but a bad dad.’ Dan’s skeptical about the fact that she coined it; he thinks it came from his oldest daughter Jane (Alison Pill) or the lovestruck and angsty Cara (Brittany Robertson) and is probably right about it. But then they have a point. He’s the strict father of great kids who don’t look at themselves and admire his work. They’re defiant, and at their ages, they’re justified. We know for sure that they’re bound to grow up and feel more affectionate. For Dan’s the kind of Dad who’s better looked-back upon than lived through.

The four of them head down to the Burns’ family home, a seaside bungalow that always has someone running around, kid or adult. It’s Thanksgiving and they can afford to miss school for that. I’m unclear about the number of siblings, but there are four couples in the house including Dan’s parents Poppy (John Mahoney) and Nana (the ever-delightful Dianne Wiest) Burns. It starts with three, initially, with Marie (Juliette Binoche, who is as Americanized a Frenchwoman as Julie Delpy in ‘Before Sunset’) being the last one in. She is the newly-found girlfriend of Dan’s younger brother named Mitch (Dane Cook) like all younger brothers are. Marie calls him ‘fun to be with’ in a gym-instructor sort of way. We understand. He’s the real-life rebound guy that’s great at his aerobics. You know at once that he isn’t going to come good on the longer run. Literally.

A darker drama might feature intrigue, but here Dan and Marie find each other by accident and in ignorance. He plays librarian to her book requests. She gets his jokes and commands his actions. They’re like the movie-definition of soul mates. She then excuses herself and leaves early saying she has a new boyfriend whom she has come to visit. She gives him her number though and asks him not to call. He is hesitant, but his brothers disagree. They deem it not unethical as long as she’s not engaged. Dan, on the other hand, knows that for family, those rules don’t apply.

Steve Carell is the perfect Dan Burns. Not just him, but everyone is at home with their characters. Alison Pill is convincing as a seventeen-year-old. Dianne Wiest hits an uncanny high as a romantic-comedy-Mom with her portrayal of Nana Burns. Juliette Binoche, John Mahoney; even Dane Cook is well-cast. Every side character has been written, not just filled. They’re all well-defined, the mark of a novelist. The household is integral, Dan sticks out. It’s a love-hate thing. He’s the columnist who speaks too soon, only to find that life’s problems aren’t solved by printing retractions. “Someone hasn’t been reading his own column”, he says. Haven’t you felt that? It’s not a moral dilemma as such. It’s the bane of nature. Like finding yourself driving on the wrong side of the road in Rhode Island – you can’t even have a police officer set you right. For Dan, however, there’s hope. There’s Marie.

Roger Ebert derided the film’s soundtrack (by Sondre Lerche) as it its only flaw. He says it gives too much away. I was surprised to find I felt that too. It rang a bell. Aren’t all indie scores like that? ‘There’s Something about Mary’ spoke too right too soon – we need a new reminder. But then, ‘Dan in Real Life’ is beyond such letdowns. It’s organic and concise at that. And I found that to be a deadly combination.

ON OVERCOOKED RECIPES: ONE SWEET, THE OTHER SOUR

DIRECTED BY RON HOWARD

STARRING: VINCE VAUGHN, KEVIN JAMES, WINONA RYDER, JENNIFER CONNELLY, CHANNING TATUM, AMY MORTON with CLINT HOWARD and QUEEN LATIFAH

Beth is the kind of girlfriend who’s around because she likes the guy and isn’t just morally obligated to be. I found her reminiscent of Emily Deschanel’s character from ‘Glory Road’ as well as one of Jennifer Connelly herself in the self-help kitsch called ‘He’s just not that into you.’ She’s the next generation. Women in romantic comedies leave their men only to return when proven against, to arms that always stay open no matter what. Beth is a progression from that stereotype. She’s the woman who has a hand in the resolution, not just reaping the benefits and signing her name on the ‘happily ever after’ charter. She’s organic, she’s more than that. And she’s played by the bankable Ms. Connelly who, I felt, dropped anchor and was completely at home with playing Beth.

But this story is not about her. It’s about everyone else. It’s about her boyfriend Ronny Valentine (Vince Vaughn) who faces ‘the Dilemma’ on whether or not he should tell his friend that his wife’s cheating on him. It’s about Nick Brannen (Kevin James), his friend, who spends too much time revving up car engines that he doesn’t see his wife texting as much as a tween. And of course, it’s about Geneva Brannen (Winona Ryder), Nick’s wife, who plays Diane Lane to Channing Tatum’s Olivier Martinez. The film in itself is like a comic ‘Unfaithful’ with two Richard Geres instead of one – one who isn’t aware of what’s going on and another who tries to put a stop to it. But then it’s not all that funny either because it can’t afford it. At one point responsibility kicks in and wants it to be honest to the emotions involved instead of coming out as a farce and then conveniently calling it ‘black.’

I thought the entire success of Ron Howard’s film rested on how well he treated the least common denominator. Beth, in this case (I leave out the sister, her husband and Queen Latifah’s frivolous little cameo citing irrelevance). Take her out and if the film survives, then it had better not been made. But then Connelly constitutes the entire acting credibility of this film. She, I thought, kept the whole film intact, as well as Nick, Ronny and the rest of the lot. On the writer’s part, I wished her more importance; to the director, I appealed for more time. It’s almost like a real husband-wife thing – the woman is so goddamn nice that you wish she were treated right. It’s not infuriating when she’s not. It’s plain wrong.

Overall, ‘the Dilemma’ is a film that has the ever-likeable Kevin James (though you wish he weren’t always cast as one among the money and hence the pretty wife), the successfully annoying Ms. Ryder and a deflated Vince Vaughn on a Jennifer Connelly platform. It’s a five on ten.

DIRECTED BY FRANK CORACI

STARRING: KEVIN JAMES, ROSARIO DAWSON, LESLIE BIBB, DONNIE WAHLBERG and KEN JEONG with the voices of SYLVESTER STALLONE, CHER, ADAM SANDLER, JUDD APATOW, JON FAVREAU, FAIZON LOVE with MAYA RUDOLPH and NICK NOLTE

I have always found it uncanny that the best things a person says go unheard of, lost inside his own head. In a sad way, of course. Griffin Keyes (Kevin James) speaks his mind out, but he does that only to zoo animals, the ones in his care. They eventually talk back. He finds they always could. One of them (a Capuchin Monkey) has Adam Sandler’s hoarsened and accented bawl. An alpha-male Gorilla has Nick Nolte’s deep-yet-friendly tone. Stallone does a Lion King while Cher plays his disapproving ‘better half.’ Them, and a dozen other animals, want to help Griffin get his girlfriend Stephanie (Leslie Bibb) back. Because she’s a supermodel. And because Rosario Dawson goes de-glam with gloves and boots.

The animals are a convincing assortment and an excellent platform for something amusing. In the end, only one of them gets the leg-up. The others just sit around and order in. Or well, almost. We have watched them talk in ‘Madagascar.’ There has also been ‘the Wild’ and ‘Open Season’ and sequels galore. What makes this film any different? There’s something inimitable about the delightfulness in watching talking animals in live-action. They bring out the child in you. That way, ‘Zookeeper’ is just about everything that was likeable about ‘Dr. Dolittle.’ In fact, it is everything that Dr. Dolittle ought to have been but never even tried. Plus, it has Kevin James at the centre. He makes better a fat man cartoon than live-action. ‘Zookeeper’ in itself is more like a cartoon that’s well-adapted, voiced by a kick-ass bunch of actors. It’s remarkable.

‘Zookeeper’ is THE talking-animal movie we have been waiting for, if there ever can be one. Sometimes you’d be so tired you wish you had a Gorilla that could drive for you. And you find you need a film like this for you to know that it’s a bad idea.

A WASTE OF SPACE THAT'S BRILLIANTLY NAMED

(this Film Review is filled to the brim with expletives, which I felt the film warranted. I thus caution the reader and recommend that he/she discontinue reading right now if unwilling to encounter the same. I hope you'd understand that it's that kind of a film)

DIRECTED BY KAUSHIK MUKHERJEE

STARRING: ANUBRATA, JOYRAJ, KAMALIKA, SHILAJIT and RITUPARNA

Kaushik Mukherjee’s ‘Gandu’ is not a film. But it is a revelation. It brings to our notice a bunch of people in India who would do a things on screen than anyone else within the country would even dream of. The actors. The music department. The director himself, for that matter. I find that very reassuring, as well as intimidating and questionably so. On the one hand, I think they would inspire writers to come up with meaningful films about meaningful characters in a meaningful plot that would warrant the explicitness that ‘Gandu’ messes around with. On the other, they could spawn faithful stereotypes. Like a ‘Chuthiya’, for instance (excuse me for my language). Or a regional equivalent. The question is how well an actress like Rituparna (who plays every object of fantasy of the protagonist) would respond outside of her boyfriend’s territory – probably the same question that an actress like Kalki Koechlin faced post ‘Dev D.’ It pertains to Anubrata (who plays the fairly likeable ‘Gandu’) as well. We shall have to wait and watch.

I would rather not give away the plot of ‘Gandu.’ I do not wish to romanticize it, and I find myself incapable of telling a story without doing so. Hence I don’t want to. A film like this doesn’t deserve that. It is crass. It is deliberate. It doesn’t feel what it shows. Sex for Mukherjee is perversion. Perversion is compulsive. Films break taboos and remain intact with themselves. ‘Gandu’, I thought, was lost. It is absolutely non-erotic, wherein we know it tries to be. Mukherjee blends Gaspar Noe hallucinations with a Wong Kar Wai style. The effort is shamelessly visible. The result: a semi-erotic mess of a scene that holds one’s attention but for the wrong reasons. It’s bad pornography; worse cinema.

I talk about that one scene in particular, shot in colour that was meant to steal the show. I would credit the scene with as much potential as the encounter between Renato and his fantasized version of Malena Scordia in Giuseppe Tornatore’s ‘Malena’ (2000). My expectations only made the drop steeper. Sure Anubrata was hooked with eagerness; sure Rituparna sets the screen on fire. That is perhaps the problem in itself. Because the scene is ugly. It comes out as exhibitionist than celebratory. You watch the scene, you aren’t into it. Which makes me repeat my statement – it is bad pornography. A sex scene is like a concert experience: You’ve got to be there. This scene is badly edited, uninterestingly pieced. It’s plastic. It’s like a game of ‘Doctor’ at best, minus the innocence. Which is a big letdown for the engaging Rituparna, who, I thought, was feeling it.

I was reminded of Bertolucci’s ‘the Dreamers’ (2004) as I drifted off in search of a better place. Matthew (Michael Pitt) in the film endears with his helplessness. His charm is in his submission and the wild-eyed eagerness with which he’s up for the experience in the earlier stages of the film. Isabelle (Eva Green) is a warm place to be. Rituparna, I felt, was quite close. But our Gandu is no Julio or Tenoch (from Alfonso Cuaron’s delightful ‘Y Tu Mama Tambien’), let alone being Matthew. He does a Rocco Sifredi. You expect him to do a ‘stand and carry’ next. Inexperience walks out the door.

But Gandu is capable of such innocence. He is, actually, innocent enough. The film, I felt, takes a likeable adolescent and distorts him for the heck of it. His thoughts are perverted, his music is too. But he isn’t. I found that hard to deal with. What do you think? Seth (Jonah Hill) from ‘Superbad’ had a very dirty mind. But then he was still likeable with it. Gandu, on the other hand, shoves it up his namesake. The music is mind-blowing, Mukherjee has talent with words. Rickshaw (Joyraj) is adorable. There are things that put a smile on your face. There are things that kill it for you. They make the film unacceptable. The good things stand no chance.

In all, I found ‘Gandu’ tastelessly bold and pointedly defiant. I didn’t think it needed to be. It’s cocky, no doubt. But then it’s like a 4-inch intrusion in an 8-inch business, too noisy to make up for lost pace. It’s like a bad dick-joke that I didn't want to hear; that I wish was told differently. Throughout 'Gandu', I wished for a different movie. So I stand repulsed.

THE 'LAUGH AT ME' POSTER THAT WORKS

DIRECTED BY MARTIN SCORSESE

STARRING: ROBERT DE NIRO, JERRY LEWIS, SANDRA BERNHARD, DIAHNNE ABBOTT, SHELLEY HACK with ED HERLIHY and TONY RANDALL

The funniest from Robert De Niro turns out to be his saddest as well. Martin Scorsese’s ‘the King of Comedy’ might not have any of the gags one would expect it to have, it has absolutely no stand-up save for Rupert Pupkin’s (De Niro) final monologue that comes as but a last gasp. But it’s funny. And cute as a button. You might have nothing to talk about once you’re done watching, you’d have no haul of memorabilia, no scenes or lines that you can tell a friend, but you absolutely devour what goes on when it’s on. It brings about the eagerness of the fan in you, never the disappointment. And when it’s over, you come to realize that Pupkin was no pity-bin where you could dump your sighs. He was just what he claimed he was – a really funny man.

Jerry Langford (played by Jerry Lewis) is a television star who has it big on his own show that features such names as Tony Randall, Richard Dreyfuss and Elizabeth Ashley. Everyone else plays himself or herself, name unchanged, but Lewis is victim of a filmmaker’s caution, the sort of thing Steve Coogan was to clear of in the variations he has played of himself in a bunch of Michael Winterbottom films. But then again, an actor like Lewis would have a lot more to lose. Plus, this film is not about him. The star is distanced from the viewer, it’s but the minnow who’s supposed to endear as has always been the custom. At least up until George Simmons came along.

As Langford, Lewis keeps his initials as well as his style. He has a characteristically twitchy, effeminate walk that looks out of place on a middle-aged man. He's grumpy. He looks like the sort of person you’d never attribute comedy to at sight, but then change your mind the moment he moves. He’s funny when he’s afraid, funnier when angry. Some of his expressions are gems on screen except they’re products of timing more than prowess. The role is convenient, the actor a good match. You could upturn your dinner table just to watch him frown than eat with him and have a talk. He’s that comedian.

Pupkin, on the other hand, is the fan who gets funnier with failure. De Niro would come to do another performance on similar lines in Tony Scott’s ‘the Fan’ (1996), one that would serve to destruct the niche he had carved for himself with this film. I’ve always thought that comedy came easy to De Niro ('Meet the Parents', 'Analyze This'); it’s his lighter side that has appealed to me than the angry young man or the sadistic prizefighter or the dozen odd mob bosses he’s played. There’s nothing specifically stupendous that he brings to this film. Neither is his portrayal a show of heart – the film came rounds after his tryst with stardom. What sells, however, is the fact that he doesn’t have to put on clothes for this role. He’s already wearing them, he’s got what he needs. Pupkin is second nature to De Niro. The sad wannabe with all bitterness scraped out leaves a caricature pretty close to the actor's personality. Or an amplification. De Niro is at home with his performance as the clown without make-up. They can save the cherry for another film.

By the way, I lied when I said there are no memorable sequences worth talking about after the film. The cue-card sequence is absolutely hilarious, both during and after. But it’s one of those scenes you’d rather watch than be told about. Because it’s one of those films.

Martin Scorsese directs a comedy that doesn't want the laughs it gets. It’s not a comedy that wants to be – it’s a comedy that is. A little more colour would have rendered this ‘dark’ comedy unrecognizable. A little less colour, on the other hand, would have turned it black. We find balance. Scorsese’s film is as dry as it’s lively, as cute as it’s in denial about it, as intense as it tries to steer clear. It’s as intimidating as it is leisurely. It’s good.

DO NOT WATCH THIS FILM

DIRECTED BY LARS VON TRIER

STARRING: KIRSTEN DUNST, CHARLOTTE GAINSBOURG, ALEXANDER SKARSGARD, KIEFER SUTHERLAND with STELLAN SKARSGARD and JOHN HURT

Lars Von Trier has successively won his lead actress an award at Cannes. In 2009, Charlotte Gainsbourg bagged the honour for her portrayal of a mother who retaliates with sexual aggression against the pain of having lost her infant child in ‘Antichrist’. This summer, Kirsten Dunst walked away with the same for ‘Melancholia’, where she plays a woman who’s crippled by her fear about the end of the world. Crippled, as in mentally/emotionally. The film is said to be based on Trier’s therapy sessions during a depressive episode in his life, and it features Gainsbourg who’s already proven her worth in grieving with grace. Here, she’s comparatively cheerful. Dunst herself has had a popular bout of depression for two years, breaking the ice with her 2010 release ‘All Good Things’. This film is part of her comeback, and could very well be her definitive, breakthrough act.

That’s as much trivia as is required to understand where this film comes from and what nurtures it to an organic and rotting whole. Its achievement, I felt, was in the semblance of home as well as the equally-incisive portrayal, both of which had firm roots in the people involved. In other words, it’s a depressing film from a depressed person about a depressed character played by an actor who has faced the worst herself. That, I think, would sum up what the viewer can/will expect even before the film opens.

There’s very little to speak about the film, which actually doesn’t come as a surprise. It’s in two parts, one named after Justine (Kirsten Dunst) the bride-to-be who destroys her own wedding in a sort of defeatist endeavor like in a move to make the end of the world more sufferable. The other is named ‘Claire’ after her sister (Charlotte Gainsbourg) whose consumption by fear is procedural and intensifies with time and event. Justine plays the aggressor, Claire is submissive in the broadest sense of the word. This is not the first time I’ve watched Trier situate the entire emotional crux of the film with his women, their men accessorized. But here, he polarizes it. Justine and Claire are on the opposite ends of the spectrum. They, in all essence, complete the picture that he breaks in the end.

Does this imply that Trier is the feminist of this generation? Perhaps. It’s complicated, actually. He relates his depression to the suffering of a woman; somehow, I felt that he feels something very feminine about it. His men are plastic. He associates them with science, with logic, with power; with humour that he derives little pleasure from. His women, on the other hand, are pinnacles of expression, chasms of depth. We see shades of the woman in ‘Antichrist’ in Justine. She corks her sadness with sexual aggression, and suffers more at the relapse she helps trigger with it. I imagined for a second how it would be if he were to centre his story upon a male equivalent – that is, if ever Trier decided to write himself in a story. I think the concept of a woman has such an inherent sense of pity it’s bound to incite, which a male character, in his sexual dominance, would only lead away from himself. Somehow, the idea of a woman predating and suffering from the same seems far more acceptable. Even artistic. Or else it’s a consequence of Trier’s craft that renders us to believe so. I can’t tell.

Accepting that it’s backed by exemplary craft and deft use of ideas in Trier’s impeccable quirk, I take the liberty to call the film pathetic. It’s unendurable. It’s not even a film that can be enjoyed by a depressed individual; it’s no key to suicide either. I felt that it was a film that be enjoyed only by those in it; those snared by commitment and self-propelled interest to carve a way out of their heads in form of this film. Trier HAD to make this film, Dunst HAD to act in it – it’s in convenience to help resurrect her fallen career as well. She fits like a glove and he wears her performance like a crown. Dunst is both actor and character for the film that Trier knew exactly how to make. It comes easy for him, he extracts performances effortlessly. He’s backed by a talented bunch of actors who are well-cast and devoted as well. It’s tailor-made.

But what about the viewer? There’s this one film that Willem Dafoe as Carson Clay writes, directs and stars in at the Cannes Film Festival in ‘Mr. Bean’s Holiday’. The man is ruthless. He eats screen-space and deletes other characters to facilitate his own. I was reminded of that film when I watched ‘Melancholia’. There are films which disrespect the viewer. This one disregards us. It doesn’t care. It prides in its depression and destroys the world to beat its gloom. I’ve always had this theory that one would miss life lesser in its absence if one lived lesser. The film destroyed that theory of mine simply by reveling in it. I felt tainted. It does not eat into your optimism. It leeches on it and comes out strong. 

Roger Ebert called Tinto Brass’ ‘Caligula’ (1979) a heinous excuse for sex in film. ‘Melancholia’, to me, is a depression equivalent. It's ejaculate. It's a 'burn after reading' that it warrants. Not a world-premiere. Or any premiere, for that matter.

BENEFITS? COME ON, SERIOUSLY?

DIRECTED BY WILL GLUCK

STARRING: JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE, MILA KUNIS, NOLAN GOULD, WOODY HARRELSON, PATRICIA CLARKSON, RICHARD JENKINS, ANDY SAMBERG with JASON SEGEL, RASHIDA JONES and EMMA STONE

The most engrossing aspect of Will Gluck’s ‘Friends with Benefits’, a boring self-advertisement of an overwrought product, I felt, were the sex scenes. Let me tell you why. Mila Kunis as Jamie, before she engages in intercourse (and a whole lot of other things) with Dylan (Justin Timberlake), tells him she has sensitive nipples. He, in turn, warns her of a similar situation on his chin. In the scenes that follow, we get to see his weak spot, but never hers. I was eagle-eyed about it. Not a trace. I felt cheated. It felt like such an ‘entertainer’ thing to do, you know? You hype a feature on a product that’s barely saleable otherwise (relating ‘Mila Kunis’ and ‘acting’), you make people wait for it even if only to counter-check or call for a contract-void, but then you never give it to them. The mystery is strenuous. For all you know, they might have used a body-double. I think they actually did. The girl in the long-range topless shot is not Kunis, but her voice distracts. Filmmakers these days are so full of tricks up places least expected. Like the one that Dylan seems particularly fond of.

What I said above is not an effort at undermining a well-packaged film that’s actually doing pretty well with critics and other audiences alike. It’s genuinely the only thing that I got to appreciate in the movie. And I actually called it a ‘movie’. That’s strange. I usually stick to ‘films’ – ‘Cinema’ for the rarer kind. This is one that chased cars in a guise of self-importance. I just sat down and counted them as they passed. One. Two. Three. Clichés. Pointy references for the heck of them. Supposed intelligence that’s but an abuse of ‘stupid’. Manipulation. Pretentiousness; it never stood for the stuff it preached. I mean the premise and the movie as the end product that plays in theatres and cineplexes and drive-ins and what not, didn’t go together. It’s like a bad lie that’s better untold.

I’m not going to discuss the plot outline of something that even a ten year old would get these days. It’s like what Roger Ebert once said about self-help books in his review of ‘He’s just not that into you’, as well as what Sam Elliott said about ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus’ in this film called ‘Did you hear about the Morgans?’ It’s that you don’t have to read the book to know what it’s about. Which means everything comes down to the other things – the surprise elements. Like in a sports film, where it’s about what happens off of the field than on it. The X-factors, so called.

So yeah, I thought this ‘movie’ had none whatsoever. I’ve never looked up to the abilities of either Mila Kunis or Justin Timberlake. They’ve been good in smaller roles, previously. Timberlake was alright in ‘Alpha Dog’ and as Sean Parker in ‘the Social Network’. Mila Kunis as Rachel Jansen in ‘Forgetting Sarah Marshall’ is a role I’d ascribe sensibility to. What didn’t make sense was the move to give them both a wider berth where there’s ten times the chance to blow their covers. Emma Stone (whose role in this film is sheer suicide) made this transition to game-changer from ‘good new find’ (‘Superbad’ to ‘Easy A’). One can give that credit to Seth Rogen (‘the 40-year-old Virgin’ to ‘Knocked Up’) or even Jonah Hill (‘Knocked Up’ to ‘Superbad’). Never to Kunis. Never to Timberlake.

What’s even more of a bother is to see how many good actors have been wasted at the wasteful expense of no-brainer eye-candy. Patricia Clarkson. Richard Jenkins (who plays someone with movie-Alzheimer's). Woody Harrelson. I might add Emma Stone to this list, but the girl is on a downtrend. Still, it’s demeaning to be assigned to play a gawky John Mayer fan. Sucks to say you like ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’ as opposed to something like ‘Gravity’ or the ‘Bold as Love’ cover. It’s like discussing Cohen and saying you like ‘Hallelujah’ the most. And that too because Jeff Buckley’s covered it.

I just plain-hated the movie, if that’s not evident by now. Maybe because it’s a John Mayer put-down by Timberlake who can’t spell music even on ‘Hollywood’ letters. Or maybe it’s because I think this film should never have been made. Not because ‘No Strings Attached’ got there first. It’s not even about that. And that’s what I figured from whatever little I paid attention to.

FEEL THE GREEK!

DIRECTED BY NICHOLAS STOLLER

STARRING: RUSSELL BRAND, JONAH HILL, ELISABETH MOSS, ROSE BYRNE, COLM MEANEY with T.J. MILLER, AZIZ ANSARI and SEAN COMBS

I think the most singular thing about Nicholas Stoller’s ‘Get him to the Greek’ is that in spite of the crassness of humour that the film did NOT sidestep, it turned out to be quite a likeable affair. How, I ask myself. Here is yet another film that rationalizes the eccentricities of a rock-n-roll musician, brands on him the ‘loneliness’ label that rockstars recline to as a convenient stereotype, that their lives are in actuality a sort of pitiable tragicomedy. Here is yet another film dealing with the disillusionment of the quintessential believer, and a reinvention in newfound belief. Cameron Crowe’s ‘Almost Famous’ is ‘almost’ the perfect cocktail recipe for this passive-aggressive music trip that every subsequent attempt has to be William Miller, but with differences. It’s inevitable.

And yet, I have to admit that ‘Get him to the Greek’ kept its charm. The weird thing is, I don’t know how. Not concretely. I think in Russell Brand (as the infamous Aldous Snow), we find a more convincing rock-n-roll star than Billy Crudup could ever be. Crudup had an image change, his Russell Hammond – a method acting venture. Brand, I felt, was playing himself or a very close version. He’s British, he’s fairly effeminate. He’s reminiscent of Keith Richards minus the guitar work. I mean, Johnny Depp had to act like him (Jack Sparrow, as we hear, is a Richards impression with improv) but Brand doesn’t find the need to. Russell Brand, the comedian, serves as a convincing template for Aldous Snow, the rockstar. For all we know, you could scratch the actual sexcapades (considering he’s married and it’s working) and you have him on your canvas, alive and breathing. Jackie Q (Rose Byrne) could be Katy Perry, although she’s more Madonna with the Karmic routine, but you get what I mean, right? They work.

Oh, do I have to tell you about the plot? I didn’t know what ‘the Greek’ was before I watched the film, so I don’t know if it’d be a ‘spoiler’ if I let you know. Or you may already know and it would be of no difference. Anyway, it’s about a man from a record label (an associate? I don’t know the jargon, so let me stick to that) who’s sanctioned to bring Aldous Snow down from Britain for a concert at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles. That’s ‘the Greek’ in the title. I’m sorry, I’m bad at America.

Anyway, this man Aaron Green (Jonah Hill) has problems. Probably the most serious of them. Him and his girlfriend Daphne (Elisabeth Moss) work opposite shifts in a live-in relationship. They brunch together. They watch ‘Gossip Girl’ together. It looks like it can’t get worse, but you don’t buy that. Not when there’s Aldous Snow in the picture. He’s just out of a 7 year relationship with a son to show, and is back to living with his Mother who feeds him biscuits than love. Or, considering mothers, they both go together and he doesn’t see it other than for a moment of truth. But anyway, Aaron is on a time-bomb routine. The clock ticks 72 hours and then Snow performs, whole or broken. That’s the deal.

Like I said, Jonah Hill is no William Miller. What’s good is that he doesn’t try. He looks overgrown to recommence on his ‘Superbad’ cuteness (for lack of a better word!), but beyond the unshaven look, the extra pounds and the tons of puke, there’s still a fair shade of the likeable kid left in him. To quote a friend again, he still rules in the ‘capital letters’ zone. The rest of them are stereotypes pretty much like in every chemistry-anti-chemistry flick, there’s no Jason Lee to step out and impress. But even for that, Colm Meaney looked overcooked. It’s not the first instance that he’s been badly used, but considering it’s Apatow, you’d expect better. Sean Combs has his moments as Sergio, head of ‘Pinnacle Records’ where Aaron works. He says the funniest thing in the whole film, which actually happens to be factually inconsistent, I felt. It’s neither the Zeppelins nor the Stones that live longest, Serge. Last time I checked, Chuck Berry was African-American. Be proud, bro.

Nicholas Stoller might lack the deftness of a music-ingrained Todd Haynes or a Cameron Crowe, but he’s good value. His film ate its own words, I felt, and then puked them back out. I’m sorry there’s too much puke in my review – in my defence, there was even more in the film. But then, there was Russell Brand as well. It’s amazing how electrifying he is on stage, how organic the concert(s) look. For a parody character, he gives us quite the experience. His music sucks, but you feel the Greek. Kind of puts Stoller in perspective – you think he’d make a great record producer, he just turned shit to gold. As Filmmaker, I’d say he gets a Bronze medal, tops. Or as a critic equivalent, the half-smile.