When I was a kid, I had a Ouija board, and I was an eager "player," because it is, as the box says, merely a game, right? I was also incredibly gullible, and friends and family took advantage of that gullibility more than once, and for a hot minute, I DID believe in ghosts.
Hasbro continues to sell Ouija boards to those who want to believe, though it's marketed, still, as a game. Which is why it's a little weird that Ouija is, essentially, a game tie-in, partially produced by Hasbro. It's kind of like doing a movie version of the board game Life, where everyone in that little car dies a horrible, violent death.
Ouija is a flat out dumb, predictable, and pointless horror movie. All the scares are telegraphed a mile ahead. The plot, about the ghosts of a dead medium, and a little girl with a sewn-shut mouth, doesn't make a lick of sense if you stop to think about it for even a second. It's rated PG-13, so perhaps younger audiences will flock to it, but all I know is by the time I was 13, I was over my gullible years, and watching much better, and scarier, movies than Ouija.
Brad Pitt is back fighting Nazis in another World War II movie that is just as preposterous as Inglourious Basterds, but not nearly as fun. Not that war is fun, of course. War is hell! And Fury spends two-plus hours illustrating just that, again and again and again.
Pitt plays a U.S. Army sergeant commanding a sherman tank nicknamed Fury. The four men in his crew include three who've been through plenty of battles with him, and one fresh-faced Army typist (Logan Lerman) assigned to be the assistant driver after their original driver loses his life (and half his face). It's nearing the end of the war, and Hitler has gone full throttle into battle, and the war-weary American troops are forging ahead, town by town, across Germany.
Of course the wet-behind-the-ears recruit has to learn to suck it up, shoot them Nazis, and BECOME A MAN through the course of the film, and there's no shortage of opportunity for him to do just that. He goes from pacifist to trigger happy pretty quickly, and even gets to spend an afternoon with a lovely, smalltown Fraulein. (Who, incidentally, is seen in a preposterously short and anachronistic dress; it's almost as anachronistic as Brad Pitt's naked pecs, also on view during the same scene).
But is there a purpose to this movie, aside from showing us the hell of war, again, some more? Not really. It's intensely graphic, often thrilling, and filled with impressive explosions and headshots. It's designed to make you cheer at the fury of battle. It's a World War II movie for the gamer generation.
I've gone to a lot of musicals in the past year or so, but the majority of them have had pretty simple stories, and songs I already knew: your standard "jukebox" musical, which seems to dominate the Broadway stage these days.Pippin is a "classic" musical: original songs; a story loosely based on history; and that sometimes uncomfortable mix of drama and flair that you can either accept, if you're a fan of musical theater, or have a hard time with, if you're not.
Pippin was first staged in 1972, with choreography by Bob Fosse, and songs by Stephen Schwartz, and if you look back at clips from that original run (which starred Ben Vereen) it just oozes 1970s theatricality, in all its tackiness. The version currently running at the Golden Gate Theater through October 19th ran on Broadway last year, and won a Tony for best musical revival. It hasn't been updated so much as brightened. Gone are the shabby monotone costumes of the rag tag group of "performers" from 1972, replaced by colorful circus clowns, acrobats, and contortionists, and the setting has been moved under a bright blue big top. Still in abundance, however? Jazz hands. Lots and lots of jazz hands.
Pippin's the hero of the story, a prince in a roughly medieval era, on a quest to find his ultimate fulfillment in life. Guiding him through this journey is the Lead Player--a kind of circus ring leader--and the players themselves, who often represent life's vices: play instead of work; hedonism above responsibility; sex without love. Pippin goes to war, becomes king, realizes that's a little too much work, and continues on his quest until he eventually meets a widow and her son, and settles in with them, still unfulfilled.
Matthew James Thomas, who played the role during its Broadway run, is Pippin, and he infuses the role with a loose-limbed nerdiness, his hair always in his face, and his jeans and long sleeved t-shirts hanging off him; his Pippin always looks appropriately out of place.
The Lead Player role originated by Ben Vereen is now played by a woman, and I was excited to see Sasha Allen in the part. I first noticed her in a little indie movie called Camp back in 2003. Her performance in that film always stuck with me, and I'm glad to say she's even better in Pippin. Her singing and dancing are terrific, and she has some surprisingly strong dramatic moments during the show's finale.
John Rubinstein, who originated the role of Pippin back in 1972 now plays the role of Pippin's father, Charles, in a nice bit of circular casting. Luci Arnaz has a showstopping number as Pippin's grandmother Berthe, singing "No Time at All," that almost brought the audience to their feet. (Starting October 6th, Tony-winner Andrea Martin replaces Arnaz in the role, while Arnaz joins the Broadway cast.)
This revival's circus theme has some San Francisco ties, as local Pickle Family Circus alum Gypsy Snider is behind that bit of magic. And to be sure, there are some great stunts, and awe-inspiring moments during the show's two-hour running time: fire; knife-throwing; balancing acts; lyrical performances on hoops over the stage. But there are also long bits where the story drags. Pippin, at times, comes off as a whiny rich boy, and the ultimate source of his happiness (if he can even call it that), doesn't feel genuine. There's an old moral being told, about how you can find happiness in your own back yard, but Pippin's choices feels like weighing drudgery over the creepy world of a circus: neither seems that great!
Fans of the original musical are unlikely to be disappointed with this version, though. There are no blasphemous changes, (the biggest comes at the show's very end, but even Schwartz has said he prefers the newer version), and the show's mix of anachronisms, fourth-wall-breaking, and Fosse-influenced dance remains. But if you aren't someone who enjoys the genre, don't look to Pippin to change your view on that front.
Sequel to 2010's The Trip, starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon as fictionalized versions of themselves taking a road trip through the Italian coast, sampling various hotels and gourmet meals. If you saw the first one, and liked it, you're going to like this one, too. In fact, I liked this one a bit more, but maybe that's just because I prefer Italian food and scenery over the offerings of the U.K.
The same might hold true for those who did not like that first movie (who are you?). This one features Coogan and Brydon dueling with their Michael Caine impressions right off the bat, and there are plenty more impressions and vocal shenanigans to follow. If you didn't find that funny the first time, you won't this time either. This one also kind of takes the roles of the two men and switches them, making Brydon a bit of a jerk, and Coogan the sympathetic one. (Some might not be able to forgive Brydon's transgressions.)
An argument can be made that since The Trip to Italy is, like The Trip, an edited version of the six episode series that aired in the U.K., it should be passed up in favor of a viewing of the series. However, the series isn't as of yet (legally) available here. Director Michael Winterbottom is responsible for all versions--it's not like it was taken by the studio and chopped beyond recognition. I prefer to think of the movie version as a nice little amuse bouche; something tasty to consume before the banquet of an eventual DVD release of the series.
Speaking of eating, don't see this hungry. Or, if you do see it hungry, have a firm plan to eat Italian food after the movie. I mean it. A firm plan--otherwise, out of desperation, you may find yourself at Fuzio across from the Embarcadero theater because you can't think of any other place to go and goddammit you need some pasta in your face ASAP, even if it is mediocre pasta (at best). The Embarcadero is walking distance from North Beach. Make a reservation at Tosca, or any of the other amazing Italian eateries out there, order four courses, some good wine, and savor every bite. (Michael Caine impersonations are optional.)
When I first heard of the movie Frank, back when it played the SFIFF, I thought it was a pretty insane concept for a movie: Michael Fassbender as the lead singer of an indie band who is always--always--wearing a giant paper mache head? I mean, ridiculous, right? Turns out, yes, it's still kind of ridiculous. But it's also partly based on fact! Writer Jon Ronson, (who is hilarious; read his books), was recruited in the 90's to join up with the band backing Chris Sievey, AKA Frank Sidebottom, a man with a giant paper mache head. Ronson later wrote about his experience, and that article has been adapted into the fictionalized Frank.
Alas, aside from the singer with the giant fake head, much of Frank is standard rags-to-near-riches-to-rags storytelling, with the indie band making terrible music, going viral, getting booked at SXSW, and then imploding. Michael Fassbender does a pretty good job of acting without a face, and Maggie Gyllenhaal is suitably pissed off and passionate as one of the band's keyboardists. And when you have a guy wearing a giant head, bits of slapstick are bound to happen; whether or not that counts as comedy depends on where you stand on the slapstick front, (I am vehemently pro). It's just too bad much of the music in the film, (aside from a great closing number), is entirely forgettable, and the answer behind the mystery of Frank and his head is a bit of a let-down.
