American Neo-Noir: The Movie Never Ends

americanneonoirAuthors of more books on film noir than you have pairs of underwear, Alain Silver and James Ursini now turn their attention to American Neo-Noir in their latest trade-paperback collaboration for Applause Theatre & Cinema Books.

Following the close of the “classic noir” period with Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil in 1958, neo-noir is loosely defined as the next step of the genre — one that embraces the motions of and comments upon its preceding movement. Silver and Ursini weave their way through its history, right up to today, nimbly moving from one title to the next with sheer unpredictability.

They tackle their subject here not chronologically, but thematically, with chapters devoted to fugitive couples, director duos, the femme fatale and so on. Along the way, they codify such sub-subgenres as “rap noir,” “kid noir” and “Native American noir,” somehow without sounding silly.

Their style always has been a delicate balance between the academic and the accessible, and here, that means Fyodor Dostoyevsky is as likely to pop up as a reference as Alfred Hitchcock, that Stakeout and Stripped to Kill merit as much consideration as Taxi Driver and Thief. As you wonder what something like Spring Breakers or, God forbid, Cyborg 2 is doing here, the authors will tell you and make it seem perfectly natural. While Silver and Ursini are not about to turn in their scholar-credibility cards by placing ’80s action-movie he-man Chuck Norris on a pedestal as a paragon of neo-noir, they will tell you the film in which he gets closest to it.

Roughly the final fourth of the book is an exhaustive filmography of some 500 titles — a helpful feature carried over from their previous (and also recommended) Applause genre surveys, including The Zombie Film and The Vampire Film. Design of this volume is also similar, in that the text (in a sans serif typeface I find too primitive) is supplemented by a wealth of still photos.

Incidentally, captions for those pics contain many innocent typos and outright factual errors, from misidentifying 1997’s forgotten David Duchovny vehicle Playing God as Playing Code to confusing Robert Mitchum with the comparatively towering Jack O’Halloran (and dropping the “O’” from the latter’s surname). Although the main text itself doesn’t sport as many boo-boos, the book overall could have used another eagle-eye to ensure the fifth Dirty Harry movie, The Dead Pool, didn’t appear as The Drowning Pool (being the true title of a Paul Newman film also covered within).

Since American Neo-Noir discusses a few titles as recent as January’s Jennifer Lopez thriller The Boy Next Door, I wonder if perhaps the book’s production cycle were rushed, which could account for such flubs. Ultimately, it matters not, because once more, Silver and Ursini have delivered yet another wholly readable, instantly addictive long-form essay on a genre beloved by moviegoers who may not know it’s a genre at all. They can now, emerging with a greater understanding … and an overbrimming Netflix queue. —Rod Lott

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Firestorm (1998)

firestormIn what has to be the orangest movie ever made, former NFL defensive end turned Radio Shack pitchman Howie Long has his first — and thankfully only — vehicle as an action hero. He’s Jesse Graves, one of an elite crack team of “smokejumpers,” those specially trained firefighters who parachute into raging blazes in forests and other wildlife sites.

He and Wynt (Scott Glenn, The Right Stuff) find themselves battling sniveling bad guy Shaye (Stone Cold’s William Forsythe, at first looking like Gregg Allman) while flames shoot up all around them. Jesse even finds time to romance a cute redhead (Suzy Amis, Titanic), who’s hauling around two screaming bird fetuses in her fanny pack. Together, they have even less chemistry than Long and Teri Hatcher did in those Radio Shack commercials.

firestorm1As an action film, Firestorm is as mediocre as it is rote as it is orange. (At least it’s a great-looking orange, being directed by Dean Semler, Oscar-winning cinematographer of Dances with Wolves.) As an action hero, the amiable but insignificant Long is … well, not. In fact, every time he turns toward the camera, you expect to be pitched a cell phone. —Rod Lott

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Hot Tub Time Machine 2 (2015)

hottub2Rob Corddry does a good job of playing a total jerk. Too good, in fact — like, the Laurence Olivier of assholes — and it makes Hot Tub Time Machine 2 an oppressive experience. Without John Cusack returning to anchor the ensemble, the group dynamic that worked well (enough) in 2010’s original Hot Tub Time Machine is thrown off — way off — and not even the addition of Adam Scott (TV’s Parks and Recreation) can save it.

Ideally, characters should interact with one another in a way that achieves balance, so that those best in small doses remain in small doses. Here, it’s like that jerk kid on the school playground who would jump off the teeter-totter while you were at the highest point in the air, so you would come crashing to the ground with too little notice to do anything about it.

hottub21As HTTM2 opens, fatuous Lou (Corddry, Sex Tape) is swimming in millions from co-opting the best business ideas since the first film’s time trip. Nick (Craig Robinson, This Is the End) is swimming in millions from co-opting all the hit songs since. And Lou’s loser son, Jacob (Clark Duke, Kick-Ass 2), is still a loser, having co-opted nothing. Success-to-excess turns to tragedy when Lou is shot in the penis (ha) by an unknown assailant at his own shindig. To save him and his junk, the trio leaps into the titular dimension-trippin’ Jacuzzi for another rollicking adventure in history.

Immediately, two things go wrong:
1. Instead of going back in time to prevent the violent act, they accidentally jettison 10 years forward.
2. Comedy does not travel with them.

Not everything should be sequelized. The original HTTM was just clever enough in tweaking the collective nipple of 80s sex comedies to surpass being a one-joke movie — with its title being that joke, of course. By contrast, HTTM2 actually is a one-joke movie — one good joke, at least; featured prominently in the trailer, it involves the TV series Fringe.

What returning director Steve Pink and lone credited screenwriter Josh Heald (one of three during the first dip) consider to be jokes simply do not translate as humorous, no matter how many times they trot them out. All of them lazy and low-hanging, these gags fall into three categories:
1. saying “fuck” simply for the sake of saying “fuck”: 145 times in 93 minutes.
2. gay panic and/or fear of anal rape to the point of homophobia.
3. stoner references that assume their mere mention is the setup, delivery and punch line, all in one. —Rod Lott

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Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)

kingsmanAfter graduating from X-Men: First Class, director Matthew Vaughn returns to Kick-Ass territory — that is, adapting the gleefully profane work of comics’ enfant terrible Mark Millar — with Kingsman: The Secret Service. In theme and structure, it bears the buttoned-up look of TV’s The Avengers and the well-tailored derring-do of 007’s adventures … if John Steed and James Bond were keen on shooting puppies and penetrating anuses. (Caught off-guard? You had to be there.)

Looking like co-star Michael Caine in his Harry Palmer heyday, never-more-likable Colin Firth (2011’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy) stands front and center as Harry Hart, a “knight” in the London-based spy organization Kingsman. Its gentleman operatives wear bulletproof suits and oxford shoes concealing poison-tipped blades, and they carry umbrellas that double as gun and shield. While on assignment in the Middle East in 1997, Hart makes a mistake that gets a colleague killed, so he vows to repay that debt to the dead man’s son.

kingsman1Seventeen years later, that happens with the reformation of Eggsy Unwin (newcomer Taron Egerton), a hot-tempered juvenile delinquent whose street smarts Hart manipulates into secret-agent material, taking him from loser (his surname suggests as much: Unwin) to veritable princess magnet. Coinciding with the recruiting process is the nefarious rise of lisping tech entrepreneur Valentine Richmond (Samuel L. Jackson, Avengers: Age of Ultron), who with rapidity moves forward with his plan for world domination via mind control via SIM cards via free WiFi for life. (Looking at my most recent AT&T bill, I fully understand why the public would flock to such a strings-attached ruse.)

This being the start of an intended franchise, Vaughn spends much of the first hour laying the groundwork through the Kingsman org’s training sequences and unconventional tests of feats both physical and psychological. It’s not until hour two that the true plot kicks into gear. At 128 minutes, Kingsman is too long by a quarter, yet curiously, the movie is back-loaded with slam-bang. Until then, it cruises along on roguish charm without fully committing to tone; it failed to make much of an impression beyond my marveling at tailored clothing I can ill afford.

Not unexpectedly for viewers of Vaughn’s previous work — in particular, his 2004 debut, Layer Cake — the best scenes depend upon the jolt of pop music on the soundtrack; they even may have been built around the cuts. Although not necessarily for the right reasons, the showstopper is a church shootout in which nearly 100 God-fearing Kentuckians die graphically at Harry’s lightning-quick hands while Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” wails away. The intended effect is laughs — and they do come — but like that iconic Southern-rock tune, it just doesn’t know when to quit, thereby giving you time to recall real-life church massacres that aren’t funny at all. That somewhat sours one’s enjoyment of what essentially is a spoof of itself, but should we really be surprised? For all who have collaborated with Millar in his career thus far, restraint has not been among them. —Rod Lott

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Stephen King’s Sleepwalkers (1992)

sleepwalkersWhere, oh, where would Mick Garris be without Stephen King? The unemployment line? (I’m asking for a friend.) The number could change between the time I hit the “publish” button and this sentence hits your eyes, but Garris has directed seven movies scripted by and/or adapted from the superstar horror author’s work. Although Garris already had achieved mild acclaim with his two first features, 1988’s Critters 2 and 1990’s Psycho IV: The Beginning, once he brought King’s first original screenplay to theaters in 1992, it’s as if he never looked back.

He should, because sorry to say, he’s just not very good at it. The slumber-inducing Stephen King’s Sleepwalkers is stunningly awful, in part because it exudes that bush-league feel of made-for-television pictures, but mostly because Garris clearly enables King’s worst inclinations as a screenwriter, including a reliance on jukebox rock, cringe-worthy quips (“Cop kabob!”) and King’s own cameos.

sleepwalkers1High schooler Charles Brady (Brian Krause, Naked Souls) moves with his mother (Alice Krige, Ghost Story) to a small town in Indiana, where he immediately sets his hormonal sights on a classmate who happens to be a virgin (Mädchen Amick, TV’s Twin Peaks, forever biting her bottom lip). Her inexperience is A-OK with him, because his mom loves virgins. In fact, she feeds upon them.

See, the Bradys are vampiric shape-shifters — half-human, half-feline and all-silly — and Charles’ job is to procure fresh meat for Mama … when he’s not serving up some of his own. (Translation: Incest. We mean incest. These two cannot keep their paws off one another.)

If scares were top among Garris and King’s goals — and they were — the hokey effects ensure that goal would go unreached. The catchpenny-CGI morphs from human form to were-kitties or whatever are wretched enough; Krause and Krige are forced to don makeup appliances that look like ThunderCats characters short a single chromosome. As a viewer, you can’t help but laugh at it — all of it — and if Garris and King intended chuckles, too, they don’t let you know they are in on their own joke. And Stephen King’s Sleepwalkers is nothing if not a joke. —Rod Lott

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