American Ultra
by George Wolf
Here’s the pitch: what if Brad Pitt’s Flintstones-watching stoner from True Romance was actually a highly trained government operative who can kill you with nothing but a spoon and a cup of soup?
Intrigued? Me, too.
So why can’t American Ultra fully capitalize on that promise?
Okay, its not really Floyd from True Romance – he’s baking comfortably in the stoner Hall of Fame – it’s Mike (Jesse Eisenberg) from the Cash and Carry mini-mart in Liman, West Virginia. Mike plans to propose to his live-in girlfriend Phoebe (Kristen Stewart) during a romantic trip to Hawaii, but they never make it on the plane.
Mike suffers strange panic attacks anytime he’s about to leave town, but that seems like a minor problem once CIA agent Victoria Lasseter (Connie Britton) visits Mike at work and keeps repeating a strange phrase. Turns out Mike is really a sleeper agent who’s been suddenly branded a liability, and Victoria needs Mike to wake up before he’s taken out.
Writer Max Landis, much as he did with Chronicle, pieces together a winning premise from parts of differing genres. We think we know what to expect from weed-soaked characters, but breaking out the MacGyver tricks to bust open some heads is not on the list. Throw in plenty of spy game skullduggery, and there’s ample opportunity for black comedy that the film only partially explores.
Director Nima Nourizadeh (Project X) seems equally caught in a pattern of two steps up and one back. He unleashes stylish, well-paced bursts of action, followed by slow-moving exposition and then back again, sometimes punctuated by isolated bits of sharp comedy just looking for a home.
On paper, Eisenberg seems miscast, but he’s able to make both extremes of Mike’s character blend surprisingly well. Stewart continues her recent winning streak in the film’s early going, excelling as Mike’s sweetly sympathetic love. Once Phoebe’s true motives come to light, though, it’s back to the well worn K-Stew pained expression once too often.
A little too slow to be action packed, a bit too nasty to be fun-filled, American Ultra seems held back in a familiar haze. It’s got plenty of good ideas, but just when they really start to gel, it decides to just watch some cartoons instead.
Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet
by Christie Robb
Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran’s 1923 classic volume The Prophet has been turned into a tranquil animated feature by writer/director Roger Allers (The Lion King) and producer Salma Hayek. Suggested viewing for those who require a respite from the routine and petty frustrations of life.
The movie frames Gibran’s poems with the story of a little girl, Almitra (voiced by Quvenzhane Wallis), mute since the death of her father. Her mother (Salma Hayek) works as a housekeeper for the imprisoned artist/poet Mustafa (Liam Neeson) and takes her to work one day.
It happens to be the day that Mustafa is released from his confinement and promised safe passage to a ship that will take him back to his homeland. But all is not what it seems. Almitra discovers that authorities have ulterior plans for Mustafa and his supposedly treasonous writing.
As Mustafa is marched from the house where he has been confined for seven years, his jailors (Alfred Molina and John Krasinski) allow him the occasional break to visit with the community he loves. Each communion becomes the occasion for a poem meditating on a theme: freedom, children, marriage, work, nature, love, compassion, the nature of good and evil, life and death.
Each of these meditations is illustrated by a different animator: Tomm Moore (The Secret of Kells), Nina Paley (Sita Sings the Blues), Bill Plympton (Guide Dog), and others. In their work you can see the echoes of Escher, Indian shadow puppetry, van Gogh, Klimt, Matisse, and Chagall.
Although the frame story of Mustafa and Almitra is a bit weak, the poems—featuring music from Glen Hansard (Once), Damien Rice, and Yo-Yo Ma; and the buttery, lilting voice of Neeson—make the majority of the film a serene delight for the eyes, ears, mind, and heart.
Being Evel
by George Wolf
What would possess a bunch of kids in the 1970s (myself included) to build two makeshift ramps, hop on their bikes and try to jump over a row of their friends lying on the ground?
All the answers can be found in Being Evel.
Before Robert Craig Knievel became the motorcycle daredevil named “Evel,” he was a hell raiser/insurance salesman/huckster in Butte, Montana. Blessed with a gift for self promotion, he rode it and a slew of Harley Davidsons on a path to fame, fortune, and inevitable burnout.
If you didn’t grow up in the 70s, believe Johnny Knoxville (one of the film’s producers) when he says, “Evel Knievel was the 70s. I thought of him as a superhero.”
Regardless, director Daniel Junge (Oscar winner for the 2012 documentary short Saving Face) gets behind the myth in fascinating, informative and entertaining fashion. Knievel’s life truly is a classic American success story, and Junge gives us a wide-angled look.
From setting sales records at his insurance company, to actually convincing the Czech national hockey team to come play his semi-pro squad in Montana, Knievel moved through life with an intentional swagger a good-sized shoulder chip. After conning his way into a Vegas motorcycle jump, he caught the eye of ABC’s Wide World of Sports, and a legend was born (along with a line of some of the greatest action figures ever made).
Back in the ancient time of only 3 TV networks, Knievel’s “you don’t want to miss it if I kill myself” act was a perfect fit for ABC, and vice versa. Still today, Knievel owns seven of the top ten most-watched episodes in the history of the show that defined “the thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat.”
Junge’s presentation is stylish, and his archival footage enlightening, getting us close to team Knievel as he bought into the immense hype leading to a 1974 attempt at jumping over Utah’s Snake River Canyon in his custom-made rocket powered “Skycycle.” In short, Knievel became a world class SOB, a horrible husband and a distant father, all while representing true American freedom to legions of fans.
Knoxville’s frequent presence does become a bit tiresome, though Knievel’s weighty influence on his Jackass antics, as well as today’s entire action sports industry, is rightly noted.
Fascinating not just for the well-rounded treatment of its subject, but also a glimpse into the disillusioned era that created him, Being Evel is a satisfying flight.
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