Suckers For Punishment: Fifty Shades of Grey

This review originally appeared on the San Francisco Appeal.

Let's be honest. It doesn't matter what any critic has to say about Fifty Shades of Grey, women are going to flock to it. It's not like the book was met with rave reviews, and still, millions read it! And yeah, I read the book too. The first one. Barely. I found it such a boring slog that towards the end, it was a chore just having to turn the pages. Clearly, I don't get its appeal. There are way hotter books out there, with heroines who don't forget to eat, say things much more emotive than "Oh my!" and "ARRGH!" during sex, and, most importantly, don't surrender themselves to abusive stalkers.

Let's get the plot, as thin as it is, out of the way. Anastasia Steele is a naive, virginal college student about to graduate with a degree in English literature. She helps out her journalism major roommate, who has the flu, by agreeing to fill in and interview rich, hot, single business sensation Christian Grey for a school newspaper article. (What's his line of business? "Telecommunications." Oh, and also feeding the entire continent of Africa, apparently).

Anastasia's introduction to Grey begins with her literally stumbling in the door and falling to the floor. See? Just like the innocent newborn fawn she is! Of course, this moment of humiliation is no doubt what immediately sets Mr. Grey's loins a-stirring.

So, he wants her because she's innocent, and...well, that's kind of the main thing. And she wants him because he's hot, rich, mysterious, and powerful. But what they both want most of all is to change each other, getting rid of the things that they are most drawn to in the process. Doomed romance!

And oh yeah, Christian Grey is a "dominant" who can't get off unless he's with a submissive woman whom he can shackle, spank, whip, and occasionally tickle with peacock feathers. Why is he like this? It's just the way he is, OK?!?!...Also, he was seduced by an older woman at age 15, and his birth mother was a crack whore. (The scene where he confesses the latter to a sleeping Ana reminded me so much of this scene from The Jerk, I couldn't help but laugh.)



The most that can be said about the casting here is they aren't terrible. Dakota Johnson, (daughter of Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson, and once you know that, you can't unsee it), is suitably innocent, and provides some wry line deliveries that help sell dialogue that would otherwise be ridiculous. And Jamie Dornan is just a solidly good actor; he's proven that with his work on the British series "The Fall." (I hope all the fans who come away from the movie seeking out his other work enjoy seeing the logical extension of where someone like Christian Grey would end up.)

And, yes, they both look good naked. She perhaps more than him, since his naked chest is marred by scars that remain a mystery. (Gotta save some things for the sequels!) Of course, you also get to see more of her than you do of him. There is no appearance by Jamie's Dornan herein, which just doesn't make any sense to me. I'm pretty sure the majority of the audience would prefer to see some penis than another look at Johnson's (or her body double's) naked breasts.

As for the sex scenes themselves, whatever. Beyonce is usually the soundtrack. There's lots of tying of knots, close-ups of whips and floggers, visions of Ana in ecstasy, and very little that hasn't been seen before on Cinemax or better movies. (A lot is owed to 9 1/2 Weeks, both the book and the movie. You've got a mysterious rich guy in a suit who's into domination and role playing, and a woman who's at first turned on by it, but then questions it. The big difference is the woman in 9 1/2 Weeks has an actual life and career, and when she walks away at the end, she doesn't come back for more.)

If women are able to watch this movie, and then go home and have terrific sex because they'd never even thought about being tied up before, that's not a bad thing. Rock on with your sexy self. But the MAIN thing I hope women come away with is this: If a guy tells you up front he's an asshole, believe him. Don't waste your time on a "project" that will, 99 PERCENT OF THE TIME, not turn out the way you hope it will. There are plenty of guys out there who are into sexy fun times, but aren't damaged narcissists you will have to center your life around.

And another thing. Guys? Just because you tell someone up front you're an asshole, it doesn't suddenly make being an asshole OK. The behavior is still wrong. You can't get away with murder just because you warned someone ahead of time that you're a murderer.

Throughout the movie Ana questions Christian. "Why are you like this? Why won't you sleep in the same bed as me? Why can't we have a real relationship? Why do like like to see me in pain?" His answers to almost all of her questions is usually, "It's just who I am," which, let's face it, just translates to, "Because I'm an asshole." (Ironically, the only question she asks that probably wouldn't have that answer is, "What's a butt plug?," a question she never does, ahem, get to the bottom of.)

Of course some kind of autonomy has to be given to Ana, or there would be no one to root for. So, spoiler alert, she does seem to ultimately leave Christian, in an abrupt ending that had half of the audience laughing, and the other half groaning. But we all know she, and the rest of the movie's fan base, are suckers for punishment. They'll be back for more.

And maybe then they'll all get an answer to that butt plug question.

A Fine Balance Between Dark And Light: Blithe Spirit

This review originally appeared on the San Francisco Appeal.

Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward's classic comedy about marriage, mortality, and spirits has landed in San Francisco for a brief twelve night run, featuring Angela Lansbury in the role that won her a fifth Tony award in 2009.

Let's be honest. This revival could co-star the cast of "Saved By the Bell" and it would still be worth seeing because that's Angela-Frickin'-Lansbury up there, she's 89 years old, and she's amazing. But, thankfully, the cast proves to be much better than a Screech and Slater production.

Lansbury's role is really a supporting one, but her character, Madame Arcati, is the comedic lead upon which everything else follows. The entire play takes places in the 1940s English countryside home of the Condomines. Charles is a mystery writer working on a new novel about a homicidal medium. Ruth is his proper English wife. Second wife, to be exact, and the play opens as they discuss the evening's upcoming dinner party/seance. Neither believes in the possibility of actual spiritual contact, but oh, won't it be a hoot to give it a shot?

The guests include another proper English couple--Dr. and Mrs. Bradman--and, of course, Madame Arcati, the medium who tools around town on a bicycle, and has a fondness for cucumber sandwiches and a dry martini.

While the evening is supposed to all be in good fun, it soon turns out Madame Arcati is no charlatan, and the ghost of the first Mrs. Condomine, Elvira, materializes...But only Charles can see her.

Lansbury is delightful in every scene she's in, but the highlight is certainly those times that Madam Arcati must go into a "trance." This trance usually accompanies a recording of Irving Berlin's "Always," and always involves a solo dance that...well, is a little hard to describe, but oh so perfectly executed.

Charles Edwards--perhaps best known in the States as Lady Edith's baby daddy on "Downtown Abbey"--plays Charles as both completely freaked out and helplessly entranced. Jemina Rooper is the ghostly Elvira. Rooper is no stranger to playing ghosts, having also played one on the British series "Hex." She's a small spitfire of a spirit, and you can tell why, if presented with a choice between her and the new Mrs. Condomine, Charles might go for the ghost.

Charlotte Parry's Ruth Condomine is ironically and appropriately icy as the living wife, and she gets to stretch and play a more comedic side of her character in the second act. And special mention must be made of Susan Louise O'Connor's excellent physical comedy in the role of the Condomines' ditsy and manic maid, Edith.

The play, at first glance, seems rather silly; uptight English, daft old ladies, and horny ghosts? But it is the genius of Noel Coward that pushes it into darker territory, with a hero that doesn't seem too concerned with the death of loved ones, and an ending that, viewed through modern eyes, is a tad misogynistic. But it's that fine balance between dark and light that makes the play the classic it is, worthy of revival, and worth seeing. And Angela Lansbury is that little extra icing on the cake.

Blithe Spirit plays the Golden Gate Theatre through February 1st.

Print The Legend: American Sniper

This review originally appeared on the San Francisco Appeal.

There's a famous quote in the classic Western The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, in which a reporter says, "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend." Clint Eastwood, who got his start in Westerns, has created a modern take on that classic American genre, while also doing his best to make sure that the legend of Christopher Kyle becomes fact.

American Sniper is based on the autobiography of Kyle, a Navy SEAL who went through four tours in Iraq as a sniper, ending up with more confirmed kills than any other sniper in American military history. He was such a legend in his own time that his nickname was, in fact, The Legend.

Kyle is played by Bradley Cooper, who transforms himself into a beefy, mumbling Texan with either an under bite or a gum perpetually filled with chaw. (Perhaps it's both.) At a young age, Kyle's father tells him and his brother that you are one of three things in life: a wolf, a sheep, or a sheep dog. After some shiftless years as a rodeo cowboy, Kyle sees a news report about the terrorist bombings in Nairobi, and decides to enlist in the Navy, to become that proverbial sheep dog, protecting his flock.

Soon after marrying his wife Taya (Sienna Miller), and following the 9/11 attacks, Kyle ships out to Iraq, and joins a war that, through Eastwood's steadfast eyes, is pretty devoid of any moral ambiguity, even when it comes to killing women and children. Oh sure, Kyle has some trepidation at times when pulling that trigger. But don't ever doubt that when he does, it's a righteous kill.

The majority of the movie focuses on Kyle's tours, his hours spent looking through that sniper rifle's eyesight, and his eventual move into more boots-on-the-ground combat. Meanwhile, Sienna Miller's role is reduced to screaming into cell phones "CHRIS!!! ARE YOU OK?" and then being sad and annoyed when Chris comes off a tour and is "changed."

I'll give Eastwood this: He films the action with a steady hand, avoiding the dreaded shaky cam too often utilized in modern action sequences, and he isn't afraid to leave some things literally murky and unclear. (For example, a pivotal shootout takes place during an impending sand storm.)

Eventually, Kyle decides to come home for good, and I would venture to say about 20 minutes of the two-hour-plus movie is devoted to his life as a veteran, his PTSD, and his eventual work helping fellow veterans cope with their own PTSD.

And then the movie ends with a title card and credit sequence that feels like a slap in the face.

I won't spoil it here, although this is a "true story," so the ending isn't that hard to stumble upon. But here's the thing: what happens right before the ending? THAT'S a movie I'd want to see; THAT'S a story that's worth telling--not the aggrandizing of a "legend" and war-as-first-person-shooter that American Sniper turned out to be.

As Close As You Can Get To Watching A Movie Stoned Without Actually Getting Stoned: Inherent Vice

This review originally appeared on the San Francisco Appeal.

Paul Thomas Anderson won me over with his first four movies, (Hard Eight; Boogie Nights; Magnolia; Punch Drunk Love), so much so that I've been able to give a pass to the subsequent movies that didn't win me over as much, (mainly, The Master, and to a lesser extent, There Will Be Blood). As a result, I'll always go into any P.T. Anderson movie willingly and excitedly. And I'm happy to say Inherent Vice joins the list of movies I don't have to give a begrudging pass to.

Based on the novel by Thomas Pynchon, (an author as notoriously difficult to adapt as he is to actually meet, although rumor has it he has a cameo in the movie), Inherent Vice is a film noir on pot. If you come out of it a little confused about the intricacies of the mystery, the plot, or basically, all of it, that's probably the exact reaction you should have. It's as close as you can get to watching a movie stoned without actually getting stoned.

Set in 1970 Southern California, in the fictional town of Gordita Beach, the story centers on "Doc" Sportello, (Joaquin Phoenix), an unlikely private detective who spends most of his day partially, if not completely high. He's full-on hippie, or "hippie scum" as his frequent nemesis "Bigfoot" Bjornsen (Josh Brolin), an ultra straight-laced LA cop, calls him.

As is the case in many a film noir tale, the story opens with a woman in need of some detective work. This particular woman turns out to be Doc's ex, Shasta, (Katherine Waterson), and she's involved in a scheme to get her current boyfriend, a rich real estate mogul named Mickey Wolfmann, (Eric Roberts) locked up in a looney bin, in order to snag his money, all in cahoots with Wolfmann's wife and her boyfriend. She wants Doc's help to get her out of it.

That part's pretty clear. But from then on, the mystery get weird, and then weirder. There's also a Nazi motorcycle gang; a saxophone player for a series of surf bands who may or may not be dead; a drug conglomerate called the Golden Fang, which is also the name of a boat that may have floated off with Shasta; and some very corrupt dentists.

The 60's are over, and hippies have had their heyday. Now every last one of them could just as easily be the next Manson or one of his minions, at least according to the cops and the feds that are constantly floating around Doc. Some of Inherent Vice may seem familiar. There are definitely apt comparisons to be made to Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye and the Coen Brothers' The Big Lebowski. But I think the main similarity in all three is lead characters who are clearly not made for their respective times. And poor Doc hasn't quit fully grasped that his time has ended yet.

As funny and weird and memorable as the plot, setting, and supporting cast may be, (and they include Owen Wilson, Martin Short, Reese Witherspoon, Benicio del Toro, Jean Malone, Maya Rudolph, Martin Donovan, former porn star Belladonna, and Joanna Newsom, who also narrates), the movie has to succeed or fail based on the strength of Joaquin Phoenix's performance. And he…is…stupendous. He plays stoned better than any actor I've ever seen. There are moments in the film that just hold on his face, as he's looking at someone, doing his best to comprehend what he's seeing, not getting it, and then trying again, that are so on point, and funny, and perfect, that I'm sure a lot of people will be convinced it's not acting at all. While the movie itself isn't perfect--there are times when the plot really needs to make sense, but doesn't, and the ending is both drawn out and abrupt--I'd have no problem watching it again, just to get another chance to look at Joaquin looking.

The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies

This review originally appeared on the San Francisco Appeal.

The Hobbit did not need to be three movies. I suspected as much when the trilogy was first announced, and the third movie just hammers home that fact. The Hobbit would have been an amazing, thrilling, emotional, action-packed set-up to the Lord of the Rings. Instead it's a bloated, boring, and contrived mess.

Story wise, it probably makes more sense to end the second movie with the awakening of Smaug and his subsequent rampage. But methinks they realized saving that bit for the beginning of movie number three would guarantee more butts in seats. It's certainly the best part of the The Battle of the Five Armies. Too bad it only lasts about 10 minutes.

Everything after is a long slog towards Lonely Mountain, where the dwarves are walled up with an ever-increasingly crazy Thorin, who refuses to relinquish the gold. But where there lies gold, there comes those who want a little/some/all of that gold, and thus the five armies of the title gather to battle.

And really, that's the majority of the movie. An ever-increasing war of thousands, that becomes ever-increasingly boring. The ridiculous subplot about star-crossed lovers, the elf Tauriel (Evangeline Lily) and dwarf Kili (Aidan Turner), which feels nothing but contrived and pandering, (let's give the ladies something to cry about!), finds its conclusion, and includes some of the most ridiculous dialogue in a genre that has its fair share of it.

Which brings me back to the magic that was the original trilogy. If it could keep someone like me, who has no interest in the fantasy genre at all, enraptured for over 10 hours, it just doubly proves that The Hobbit--which was the only book in the Middle Earth series that I read as a kid, and whose animated version I then watched dozens of times--is nothing but a failure. At 48 frames per second.