The embodiment of pedantry

Marvel has a checkered past with film adaptations of its back catalogue, often adding nothing new to characters beloved by its existing fanbase. While one can reason that extending their scope to those outside of that class would ultimately help their viability and continual evolution, Ghost Rider has nothing to distinctly define itself from other characters or movies. Either in its class or as a film in general, this adaptation lacks a voice of its own, a vision by which the audience can form a bond with it.

After trading his soul to Mephistopheles (Peter Fonda) in exchange for a rather unspectacular saving of his father’s life, Johnny Blaze (Nicholas Cage) a now famous stunt rider is called upon to assume the mantle of the Ghost Rider. A century and a half earlier the last soul damned to carry out this duty fled from the devil and hid a contract for a thousand souls he thought too powerful for anyone to possess but now Blaze must stop Blackheart (Wes Bentley) from doing the very same.

Every point essential to the mythos of the character is portrayed, allowing us to see what makes the character unique but this writer/director portrays it in such a structural manner, it never appears so everything is merely another item to be crossed off the checklist of background traits and abilities. Anyone that can make a character such as this uninteresting or even outwardly boring is worthy of distain and such is the man at the helm.

More so, this inorganic quality to the writing not only leads to monotony but an overall reliance on cliche and poorly crafted humour, hoping to point the inherent cool of the Rider, whilst making it seem completely farfetched.

But could this be another adaptation hoping to cash in at the box office? As a once off it is easy to believe and it is open to a sequel (one already being in the works) but the supreme lack of action sequences eats at its profitability in any long-term sense. We see an occasion setpiece, well shot and animated but again lacking any magnetism. If you can’t keep those of the lowest demographic who merely want to see explosions and buses going really fast then you have a sizeable problem.
Worse still, Cage personally took it upon himself to water down the harder edge already provided within the source material, leaving him a teetotaller who listens to The Carpenters which might set him apart from the gruff men engaged in his line of work but doesn’t make for an interesting lead.

Another director might have realised such faults and corrected them but writer/director Mark Steven Johnson (of Grumpy Old Men and Daredevil) is not known for his edge or talent for that matter. Any element of the B-Movie spaghetti western genre is killed by an overall gloss on the look and feel of every scene, constantly betraying its Hollywood sensibility. Plot holes about throughout, glaring in their simplicity and lack of thought, positing a calculated feel to the endeavour.

Cage attempts yet again to be charismatic but cannot find his footing for most of the picture, floundering in an uncomfortable void of awkward moments. Mendes also puts her best foot forward yet attracts our view on more than a physical level. Ironically in casting the earlier versions of both leads Mendes has a near double of herself whereas Cage has a disproportionately attractive beginning, making his some of the worst ageing done outside of a Fincher movie or Industrial Light and Magic. If anything, the best attempt at acting comes from his hairpiece.
Suffering from a distinctly visual problem, the villains of the piece overact in comparison to their desensitised presentation. Through this and the ease with which they’re dismissed, they never present a lasting threat, adding little tension to the development of the story.

There’s not much I can say in favour of this film, with it’s generally bland delivery and lack of any real defining moments, it’s innocuous but never exciting.

There’s an inherent irony to someone such as myself who writes movie reviews as a hobby to even contemplate saying this but often it’s impossible to reconcile what one reads about a film with what one sees personally. Not even on an artistic interpretation level but simply the buzz surrounding a project.
Take Inception for example, which despite being superior in quality in no way matched up to the praise being heaped upon it by others, at least in my mind. On a much greater scale exists “Spider-Man 2″ with an approval rating rarely matched by anything else and yet I found to be distinctly average.

But I ramble, so best get to hacking and slashing.

Assuming the mantle of Spider-man has weighed heavily on Peter Parker (Toby Maguire), his grades plummeting along with his personal and professional life taking a substantial hit. Terrified to risk Mary Jane’s (Kirsten Dunst) safety by becoming involved with her, Parker instead question whether or not he should return to his normal life, however his very ability to do so with a new criminal Doc Ock (Alfred Molina) running amok will be called into question as the once respected scientist threatens the safety of Manhattan.

Maguire still lacks the charisma to sustain the role or even our attentions for long. Despite the possibility that he’s a wonderful person to know, his incarnation of Peter Parker is devoid of any distinguishable personality traits resulting in a movie hinged upon very little. “Cute” techniques and story elements are constantly employed to breathe life into the character but are gimmicks and little else, not only damaging the story progression but general consistency.

Even with both Franco (as best friend Harry Osborne Jr) and Dunst having their own distinct subplots, the characterisations border on crass, if not outwardly hollow. The first, overacts a terribly contrived obsession with the later stifled entirely by the narrow re,it given to her, other than to appear fickle and at times needlessly romantic.

Molina, repeatedly praised elsewhere for the supposed life brought by his performance in actuality has the same issues with writing, initially being granted a reasonably comfortable framework for his character to develop within before being reduced into a garish threat for a man of his apparent intellect.

Specialising in the B-movie genre before helming the first installment, Raimi has obviously been allowed more input as to the style and feel of the piece due to the original’s success. Unfortunately, most of the changes have done it a disservice. His sense of humour in particular leads to a significant lag where it is not needed such as Octavious’ violent awakening in the hospital and his capture of Aunt May not soon after. Both are so preposterous, so infantile and derivative in execution, it’s impossible for me to think how anyone would accept this as genuine talent. Absurdism is to be commended due to implied difficulties it carries with it but never for the sake of it or to simply sate the director’s personal appetite.

More importantly, a generic trait of any superhero movie is the idea of a secret identity, a fact that no one here is prepared to respect. Yes there are exceptions and instances where the hero may be unmasked but the sheer frequency under Raimi’s direction begs the question of how much respect they have for the project as a whole.

Visually the movie is passable. Far from exuding the most seamless of CGI (evenly the standards of the time), this shiny, desensitised metropolis serves as enough of a distraction to make up for the subpar story and direction. In most action scenes, there is an overall slickness seen nowhere else.

Focusing on a poorly-painted hero and juvenile direction, this sequel only redeeming trait is the CGI and action present enough to make it watchable.

Never content with merely damaging his own reputation, M. Night Shyamalan has expanded from ruining franchises to mentoring those he considers innovators In their field.

Yet the only truly ominous moment comes with the realisation that this is merely the first instalment in his “Night Chronicles” trilogy, attempting to best well established series such as the “Twilight Zone”.
Regardless of Night’s position as producer it simply falls upon someone else to expand a paper thin plot into an 80 minute B-Movie hopeful. Director John Erick Dowdle may resort to slightly differing visual styles to the self-appointed auteur, the signature is inescapably Shyamalan.

A shortness of scale as regards time does however invariably save the piece from descending into the lunacy that accompanies a typical Shyamalan directed picture.

Investigating the suicide of an office worker, Detective Bowden (Chris Messina), a man already reeling from the loss of his wife and daughter, discovers five strangers trapped inside an elevator in the very same building. However Ramirez (Jacob Vargas), a security officer at the scene points out that amongst the five: the temp (Brokeem Woodbine); the elderly woman (Jenny O’Hara); the salesman (Geoffrey Arend); the mechanic (Logan Marshall-Green); and the heiress (Bojana Novakovic), one of them is the devil in disguise sent to test the other four who are far from innocent.

Ramirez is perhaps the embodiment of the needless seriousness granted to the project, laying a heavy hand over the action in such a way as to remove any real suspense. He is however constantly aided by the crew’s inability to turn their limited environment to their advantage, believing that a constant fade to black will somehow spare us form discovering the obvious and inevitable twist when in fact it serves only as a means to sanitise a potential thriller.

This could have been alleviated through the audience forming emotional attachments with the denizens of the plot but their characterisations leave little room for the same, meaning we care little for their ultimate fate. Each are one-dimensional to the point that they may satisfy the need for delineation but never genuine humanity.

Ironically most of these issues could have been solved or at least addressed with more time to establish Itself, to create a real sense of foreboding and attachment. More importantly, that would have required a more proficient team (something “Devil” lacks); the constant flow of time towards its extremely concise running time instead makes it admittedly watchable.
Ever so slightly camp, predictable and with a script that reeks of being borrowe, it’s nothing short of astounding in its mediocrity coming from the man that gave us “The Last Airbender”.

Imitation is supposedly the sincerest form of flattery and with Robert Schwentke’s directorial debut the similarities to David Fincher’s “Se7en” are glaring. When any such movie garners such critical acclaim there will inevitably follow a series of copycats, attempting to evoke the same style and feel yet after such a masterful production from the American director, the German offering falls flat.

Marc Schrader (August Diehl) is a newly graduated police recruit, enlisted by veteran crime detective Minks (Christian Redl) to solve a mounting list of murders involving the flaying of skin, or more specifically tattoos. As the investigation unfolds, both find an elaborate plot involving “skin traders” involving often unwilling donors.

Schwentke attempts to cajole and disturb the viewer with continually disheartening and gratuitous visuals. Although these initially add to the intensity of the plot, the overriding focus on the same lead to an inevitable lull in the plot meaning the story evolves in such a way as to leave us with as few surprises as possible. It’s commendable for a director to go so far but without the backing of a nuanced story, often the frank visuals are too jarring or simply do not fit contextually into the overall narrative arc. In the age of “Saw” and “Hostel”, now more than ever such choices are not enough to sustain an audience’s attention for long.

With cinematography for all intensive purposes taken directly from Fincher’s playbook, the writer/director abandons realism. Pushing it further into bleak modernism, the feel of the piece cannot surpass stifling self-consciousness for long. Drained of almost any vibrancy, the colour palette is never warm or engaging, matched only by the over-use of panoramic or widescreen shots. Even those that attempt to illustrate and capture the emotion felt by the characters at key moments are too despondent, too detached to maintain our sympathies for very long. The result is often closer to a selective viewing of the original “Blade” than a modern crime drama.

Redl and Diehl act admirably within the confines of their character but never break free from the conventions forced up them. Not once do they appear distinct or relatable, even in their differences from us to demand our attention.

Innocuous in every sense of the word, “Tattoo” is an average re-imagining of a far superior movie, never carving out a niche for itself sufficient enough to bring it beyond what is merely adequate.

More than a simple exercise in ineffective writing, Tyler Perry’s latest outing amounts to a lesson in quantum physics and mirror universes that would make Marvel Comics jealous.

Case in point is Terry (Tyler Perry) and Diane’s (Sharon Leal) son, who despite supposedly being born in the interim year between both movies looks and acts like a 4 year old. Is he the real world answer to a young Franklin Richards?

Arriving for their annual couples retreat, four relatively affluent African-American couples must confront the issues they otherwise keep hidden. For Sheila (Jill Scott) and Troy (Lamman Rucker), they are haunted by her ex-husband Mike (Richard T. Jones); Terry believes Diane is cheating due to a recent change in her mood for the better; Patricia (Janet Jackson) and Gavin (Malik Yoba) are unable to recover from the loss of their child and Patricia’s inability to open up emotionally; and Angela (Tasha Smith) believes Marcus (Michael Jai White) is incapable of fidelity with female fans flocking to the fledgling sportscaster. One couple’s troubles will be too much for them to continue.

Perry’s understanding of story and character development appear even worse than his sense of time. Each couple struggles with such banalities, often recycled entirely from the original, it’s impossible not to wonder how they’ve managed to survive this long. Subtleties are of little importance, leading to each conflict being introduced almost immediately after they gather together, also raising the question of whether or not they’re each other’s worst omens.
How a meaningful and lasting catharsis can be achieved with any degree of impact in the concluding chapters is never a consideration. Despite being store-bought in sentimentality, Perry honestly believes they carry significant gravitas to maintain the audience’s interest, something far from the truth. So much so that when the promised marital breakdown materializes, it is neither interesting nor a surprise, simply because one has to wonder how any of them have made it this far other than through blind ignorance of the realities before them.

None of the cast interact with each other as real friends or beyond their annual vacation, communicate, based at least upon how little the most recent addition Troy knows the rest of the travel party and the children’s lack of knowledge about his very existence.
Each looks at one another with a smile, giggling uncomfortably at jokes
without any punchline before retreating to their own inner demons. Yes they band together at appropriate moments but it is far too transparent and structural, plodding methodically even further through tired conventions.

Angela specifically as a character harks back to the stereotype of the angry black woman which Perry attempts to subvert. So salient is she in her writing and portrayal, there is nothing new added to the conversation except for an ever constant irritation. In spite of Smith’s attempts to humanise her as a character , the time devoted to demonising and belittling her is far too lasting to be overcome so quickly. Her problems are indicative of the entire project, literally ported from one edition to another, ironically for the most part a fact Perry makes light of for as long as possible, missing that he is in reality highlighting a major shortcoming of his “style”.

Credit must however go to Scott, who continues to grow as an actress, illustrating a quiet strength and breathy confidence in every word she utters, even at her most vulnerable.

Aimed at the average Oprah viewer, the only saving grace is Scott, otherwise adrift in a sea of nausea-inducing mediocrity.