"Hunt for the Wilderpeople" Review

Hunt for the Wilderpeople is what you would get if Up took place in the world of The Goonies. It's a blast of pure imagination, the kind that turns sticks into swords and frogs into dragons. The kind that takes a story about a grumpy woodsman and a chubby ne'er-do-well, and gives it a never-ending thirst for adventure.

Julian Dennison plays Ricky Baker, an orphan with a penchant for trouble and hopes for becoming a "gangster." In and out of foster homes, Ricky's last chance comes in the form of the bubbly Bella (Rima Te Wiata) and her gruff husband Hec (Sam Neill) who live in the middle of the New Zealand bush. Ricky's at odds with the arrangement (Hec's not really a fan, either), but when shenanigans leave the duo stuck in the middle of the bush - millions of hectares wide, Bella says - they have to learn to get along. 

Little do they know that a manic CPS agent (Rachel House) is after them, and will not rest until she finds Ricky. You don't understand. I'm pretty sure this woman doesn't sleep nor eat. She single-handedly corrals every resource in the country to find this kid: flyers, TV stations, police, the ENTIRE ARMY. You thought Trunchbull from Matilda was bad? Think again.

Taika Waititi (What We Do in the Shadows, Boy, Thor 3 next year) directs, bringing his trademark silliness along. Not a minute goes by without a joke and even more surprising, they all work. Whether it's Ricky spitting out a dope haiku or Hec reacting with an eye roll - the movie might as well be called "Sam Neill Has Had Enough of Your Shit" - every joke gets a laugh, and I laugh hard.

There's a bit of Mad Max, a bit of Tarantino, a bit of Monty Python and Blues Brothers all scrambled together. Draped in the foilage of the bush, the movie binds it all together in the boundless spirit of youth. 

How does one stay original in film?

It's not in the plot. If influences are everywhere, everything is derivative.

The trick is to be authentic. When a director embraces a movie so hard that they infuse themselves in it, the thumbprint's on the reel. There are few movies I can feel like I'm watching something familiar for the first time.

Hunt for the Wilderpeople is one of those films.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"The Infiltrator" Review

I'm feeling a weird sense of legacy. One of my first reviews was Runner Runner, the gambling thriller with Justin Timberlake and Ben Affleck. That movie, directed by Brad Furman, was dumb but unfortunately took itself too seriously. 

Almost three years later (Jesus, I've been writing this long?), I've seen Hollywood fail to innovate, content with repeating artistically (but not financially) bankrupt moves. So, alas, who better to bring me a glimmer of progress than one of the men who brought me to the party? Furman directs The Infiltrator, a thriller that's dumb, but loves every minute of it.

In the 1980's, Robert "Bob" Mazur (Bryan Cranston) is an FBI agent whose "particular set of skills" lands him as an undercover money launderer for Colombian drug lords.

Bryan Cranston will be haunted by Breaking Bad until he dies, but typecasting (for once) produced the best candidate for the job. There's almost too much Walter White in Bob Mazur - the duality of family life and a life of crime; the personality shifts between meek and menacing; even Bob's partner Emir (an equally typecast John Leguizamo) brings to mind Jesse Pinkman.

Bob says in this job, one word out of place can equal death. The first half is tense, as Bob gets close to breaking cover on multiple occasions, most memorably in a restaurant with his wife on their anniversary.

This half is more fast-paced, featuring what you'd expect from an undercover thriller. Agents argue with their informants, listen in on intimate conversations; there's even a Bond-esque scene where Bob receives a state-of-the-art briefcase that can record with a turn of an eagle emblem.

For most of the film, Bob is establishing his cover, building trust with the drug execs, and that's where most of the tension and excitement lies. But there's a substantial chunk of the second act where the movie grinds to a halt and at that point, we're waiting on a climax. It'd be tougher to grind through if not for Roberto Alcaino (Benjamin Bratt), whose connections reach all the way to Pablo Escobar. Bratt is suave, and commanding but brings an element of heart that gives Bob the dilemma of potentially snitching on his friend. Unfortunately, the film sticks too close to its genre predecessors to convincingly suggest that struggle. 

The movie follows in the tradition of grimy '80s thrillers in the vein of Michael Mann or Brian De Palma. This is the kind of movie where the only thing greasier than men's hairstyles is the body paint on go-go dancers. There's an F-bomb a minute and a lap dance in between. The film is grainy, the car crashes practical, and the suits made with the expense only cocaine can buy.

The cinematography, like in Runner Runner, is stylish but overwrought. The grainy film works as a throwback and there are some fun tracking shots lifted straight from Scorsese. Speaking of the Brat Pack, Furman borrows the worst of Spielberg, keeping scenes so back-lit, it makes me think less glamour and more "Shut it off!"

The Infiltrator is not a bad film, and due to its strengths - namely Cranston, Bratt, a goofy Leguizamo and some vintage dirty '80s cheese - I recommend it. Anything to give an alternative to The Purge: Election Year.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"Nerve" ADVANCE Review

In Nerve, the newest social media app has teens scrambling to perform crowd-elected dares for money. These dares range from kissing a stranger to jumping into fires - the harder the dare, the bigger the payout. Emma Roberts plays Vee, a shy high-school senior whose wild-child best friend Sydney (Emily Meade) is growing her Nerve following. Tired of living in Syd's shadow, Vee decides to play, and when she teams up with another mysterious Player named Ian (Dave Franco), they embark on the wildest PG-13 rated night of their lives.

The movie's a neon-blasted amalgamation of The Matrix, The Brass Teapot, and The Hunger Games. Really, the problem is, this is too familiar. I've seen 20-somethings pose as teens; I've seen the shy girl "go bad" when she meets the cool guy; I've seen the boy friend (note the space) get jealous of said cool guy. Add this to technophobic portrayals of voyeuristic teens celebrating idiocy and borderline sadism, and you've got a DOOMSday scenario from the old whining about these long-haired hippies and their Livestreams.

Once logged in, the app combs through every piece of Vee's information: social media, college applications, even bank accounts. As Vee completes dares, the money's instantly hardwired into her account, something that raises suspicions in her mom (Juliette Lewis in a post-Jem and the Holograms world). The fear of no privacy is easy to establish. We never know the identity of the game's creator - I want the alternate ending to be Bugs Bunny saying "Ain't I a stinker?!" The movie goes so far as to debunk the "Shut down the server!" complaint by saying since the game is open source, everyone's phone is a server. Add in a subplot about the "Dark Web," which in a PG-13 movie, consists of an unfinished webpage with pictures of butts and random pills, and there's just enough to shut a 13-year-old up and make yours truly, at 23, laugh his ass off.

The actors do well with the material, though the difference between the leads and supporting cast is apparent. There's a sitcom's cadence to many in the later camp. I don't worry for the fate of the characters because this is PG-13 danger, but if they were written more three-dimensionally, I'd be sucked in. Not the case here. Like many teen ensembles, they're written only thin enough to set up each stereotype.

Forgive an aside: there's a scene right before the climax where Vee does a difficult, but doable dare that lands her in the top of the Nerve scoreboard, even when another player undergoes a potentially bloody and violent affair. I'm not entirely sure if the amount of money one receives for a dare is decided on by the Watchers or Hacker Supreme/God/Agent Smith, but they need to get their properties straight.

Nerve has an audience; if you skew younger on the "young adult" scale, and you're not as familiar with teen movie plots, you'll find stuff to like here. The New York skyline is as beautiful as ever, and I'm always a sucker for neon. But there's little brains to the scenario and when we eventually get the message (literally) preached to us, I burst into laughter. An after-school special this doesn't need to be. 

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.

"The Purge: Election Year" Review

The Purge: Election Year is the worst movie of the decade. This combines the worst traits of American filmmaking - the excess, the preaching, racism, sexism, and uncontrollable need to dress up trash as satire - to make a depraved, incoherent stain on decency. And I'm ashamed to have watched it.

The Presidential election is between NFFA (New Founding Fathers of America) candidate The Minister/Donald Trump (Kyle Secor) and Senator Charlie Roan/Bernie Sanders (Elizabeth Mitchell), who's promised to abolish the Purge. She claims the one-night endorsement of crime is a mass execution of minorities and the poor disguised as moral cleansing. 

On Purge Night, Roan is attacked by NFFA-hired mercenaries (sporting Nazi, Confederate, and probably "I always park in two spaces" patches). She escapes with the help of bodyguard Leo Barnes (Frank Grillo) and together, they have to survive the night, fighting off mercenaries, Purgers, and the NFAA. Along the way, they befriend a deli owner (Mykelti Williamson) and his employee (Joseph Julian Soria), a doctor who drives around caring for victims (Betty Gabriel), and a band of revolutionaries whose leader (Edwin Hodge) wants to take out the NFFA in a less diplomatic fashion.

To this franchise's one credit, the world continues to grow and explore new possibilities. This comes at the detriment of not explaining the details from previous movies. In a Hunger Games-style snafu, we know nothing of the NFFA - who started it; why The Purge and not any other idea was approved; why the American public got on-board; what catastrophe led people to such desperation to accept it; how businesses function with the annual steep, sudden loss of labor. This is the third movie of the franchise, and writer/director James DeMonaco (who's helmed all the movies) continues to dance around these essential world-building questions.

DeMonaco puts the same care into the characters. When not spewing such cringe-worthy lines as "Is the c--t close?" and "I've come for my candy bar!," they decide to commit every stupid thing possible. They stay outdoors in the middle of the street, just watching an old woman burn her husband to death or a young woman in a pig costume take a chainsaw to a door. Did I mention that Roan refuses to barricade herself, despite being a highly controversial presidential candidate and having the security to do so? It's all in the name of experiencing what most people do, she says. Personally, I want a president who appreciates the value of self-preservation.

Grillo and Mitchell do what they can with the material, looking defeated. Others, such as Williamson, have more confidence, but loathsome dialogue. As the deli owner, Williamson delivers such enlightening comic nuggets as "There are a whole bunch of Negros coming this way. and we're looking like a big ol' bucket of fried chicken!"

I'm writing this a few days after the cop shooting here in Dallas. A veteran took to the streets and murdered, fueled by a twisted sense of vengeance. The movie would have you consider this an unfortunate parallel, a real-life example of the psychopathic violence it seemingly rails against. But here's the difference. Thursday night, I read stories of grief, pain, and anger, but just as many of resolve, healing, and above all, hope. In Election Year, there is no hope.

You may say "Well, this America is supposed to be too far gone!" To that, I ask "Do we want it to be?" Should we blindly accept, with the film's hedonistic celebration, the worldview that America is destined for a self-destructive class war? I'd be more accepting if DeMonaco took his subject seriously. But the killer in a George Washington mask gives me room for pause.

This is grisly and sensational, without the charisma, style, intelligence, or substance that can make it permissible. When there's innocent blood on the streets, this gleeful brand of nihilism is irresponsible. Don't jump the gun and think I'm calling for a ban. But for those calling this simple, crazy escapism, don't kid yourselves. Call it what it is: TRASH.

Thank you all for reading. I'm the Man Without a Plan, signing off.