Sexy Beast is about a retired bank robber named Gal (Ray Winstone) who is asked to return to the UK and help with another job. Asked isn't quite the correct term. Persuaded perhaps? No. How about bludgeoned psychologically into returning to his old profession. An old acquaintance named Don (Ben Kinglsey) comes to Gal's Spanish home and proceeds to verbally abuse everyone in the general area, wired beyond belief. Don can not shut up and everything out of his mouth is exactly what everyone doesn't want to hear. Sent by his boss (Ian McShane) Don will not take no for an answer. Hell, Don won't shut the hell up long enough to listen to anyone tell him no.
Sexy Beast is an entertaining crime drama, pseudo comedy. It had an interesting plot that is a bit interesting. Nothing monumental, just interesting. The problem with the film is Ben Kingsley's performance. No, I haven't gone nutty and decided to bash one if his best roles. He's great as Don Logan. The problem is he's too great. Way to great in the role and it's this greatness that changes the third act from typical resolution of the problem into a long meandering path because we're sitting there marveling at the Kingsley role (which is relatively short lived in the film). There's no real pay off to end the film with- it's in the middle.
Besides Kingsley, Winstone turns in a good performance and you'll forget McShane is even in the thing. What Sexy Beast represents is a film that would have been buried long ago had it not been for Ben Kingsley going bat shit on screen. He's the pulse of the film and when he's removed it dies on the table.
There's a line in Crazy Heart where Jean (Maggie Gyllenhaal) asks Bad Blake (Jeff Bridges) who is "real" country with Bad only listing his protege who has had to adapt to the changing times and watering down of country music to survive in a recording industry ran by suits. Not that country music is the only genre that's being hit with an identity problem. Look at rock n' roll. Now let's be honest with ourselves- does anyone see an album from the last fifteen years that even comes close to being a Led Zeppelin IV, an Abbey Road, a Dark Side of the Moon, or a Sticky Fingers?
I grew up in a household that thrived on Conway Twitty (sleazy bedroom music), Lorretta Lynn, George Jones, and Johnny Cash. What does Jean mean when she says "real country"? My answer is do you see Johnny Cash having his own brand of cologne and being a GQ model? Didn't think so.
That's what Bad Blake represents. He's the last of the old guard, a performer that thrives on hits two decades gone and the fans that still come out to see him. He's the last stereotypical country star, driving to gigs in a 1978 Suburban and getting drunk on stage. That's real country.
Crazy Heart follows the basic structure of The Wrestler with Bridges delivering a performance that is beyond belief. He is immersed in the role of Bad, letting us forget that he was The Dude. He's the rug that pulls the film together. If for no other reason in the world, see this film for Bridges' performance.
The problem with following The Wrestler storyline is that you get the feeling that you've seen it all before and it becomes a bit cliched. There's the disinterested love interest. The long, lost child. The one chance for the comeback. it's all in there, but as I said- even if the story is a bit so-so Jeff Bridges molds the film into something much, much more than it would have been otherwise.
So I guess what I'm saying is that "real country" is a drunken, puking, dirty old guy driving to gigs in a 1978 Suburban. Of course you're going to get better tunes from the guy drinking whiskey in a Suburban than a prima dona drinking Perrier on a tour bus.
Alvin 2 is a remake of the first film, except Jason Lee was smart enough to make a contract fulfilment appearance. Dave gets hurt. the boys go to school. They meet girls. there's a sing off. Evil Ian (David Cross) is trying to be the white, no talent Barry Gordy. Oh, and Alvin plays football.
Once again, the kids will like it. I have to wonder a few things about this film. The first is that if an area produced sic talking chipmunks I would be looking for the leaking toxic waste bins. Second, instead of competing to save the schools music program why not have the two groups become one big super group like Blind Faith or Menudo.
Of course there are no answers to these burning questions. This is an empty, hallow film that just fails on all levels. It's CGI garbage, pure and simple. Made quickly to strike while the iron is hot. Nothing in this one unless you want the kids entertained for 90 minutes.
To say that Saturday Night Fever is dated is an understatement. It was dated by the 1980 and it's this expiration date that has really held the movie down to a lower standard than it really deserves. I've seen this movie close to half a dozen times and when the DJ says "I love that polyester look" I still bust out in laughter. Unintentional, yes, but it's still funny.
Getting past the polyester look and the Bee Gees soundtrack, Saturday Night Fever is about a young Brooklyn named Tony Manero (John Travolta) who is your typical twenty something working a dead end job at a hardware store and supporting his family with his wages. Of course all of this plays second fiddle to Tony whose really passion isn't paint swatches and hammers, but dancing. An example would be Paul Newman having pool in The Hustler, Tony has dancing. He thrives on it. It is his life, no matter what everyone else says.
Of course Tony's life is full of problems. His family doesn't understand him with his blown dry hair, Bruce Lee posters, and that damn polyester look. They're more concerned with his brother the priests. His friends are perpetually going to be exactly the same, cruising bars and clubs through out the non-glamorous end of the George Washington bridge. And of course there's women. Tony doesn't have a problem getting a little action, but it's one girl in particular (Karen Lynn Gorney) that Tony has to work on, not for a booty call but for a dance partner.
The thing that really sets Saturday Night Fever apart is the idea of Tony wanting to aspire to more than his life of shaking paint during the day and shaking his ass at night. He wants it. He knows dance is the way to get it, but he doesn't bludgeon everyone (including the audience) with his need to claw out of Brooklyn for the greener grass in Manhattan. You never really know what he's thinking even when he says something that can lead us to believe his true feelings. He's the classic example of the repressed Italian-American male. Don't rock the boat.
Directed by John Badham, Saturday Night Fever is probably one of the defining films of the 1970's. It's a pure time capsule that can be seen as a punchline to most with it's rainbow colored floors, Brothers Gibb sound and that polyester look. It's really much more than that. It's a basic tale of a guy that doesn't know what the hell he wants to do. It's a fine film that's been scorched into our memory because of that white suit and the arm in the air. It's a lot better than that.
