Sisters / **1/2 (2015)

Siblings are frequently at each other’s throats in the premises of mainstream adult comedies, but when you cast Tina Fey and Amy Poehler in the roles, it’s almost impossible to bow to those conventional pressures; they are too likable to be seen in any capacity beyond lighthearted antics. That’s exactly what one can come to expect of “Sisters,” their newest film, which tells the story of a pair of 30-something women – one slutty and irresponsible, the other accomplished and pathetic – who are asked to unite in order say goodbye to a lifetime’s worth of old memories, and wind up creating a slew of chaotic new ones in the process at their childhood home. Because their individual – and mutual – dexterity is so well-known, one could hardly expect anything less. That is just as much of a routine as it is a platform for wild and crazy gags, of course, but the virtue of theirs is that they bring a certain infectious edge to the table, inspiring just as many smiles as chuckles. They are also consistently funny without forcing the attempt, and nearly every moment that they are on screen is one of blissful delight.

Home Alone / *** (1990)

A holiday movie that encourages us to recognize details as nostalgic projections is a priceless commodity, but an endeavor that embellishes them into blatant absurdity can carry a charm all its own. One could charge Chris Columbus of understanding that prospect with clairvoyant accuracy when he made the notorious “Home Alone,” especially considering how it has endured for so long in public favor. Though it was clearly made and released with cynical intentions on part of a money hungry movie studio, the eyes of overzealous young dreamers are drawn incessantly to its simplistic values even now, and as one generation of mischievous kids grows beyond the cartoonish frame of reference of the material, another simply arrives to replace them. Two decades after it dominated the international box office, the idea continues to carry an almost parasitic charm, as if the underlying subtext of young Kevin McCallister’s military-style antics are like narrative devices of adamant rebellion that refuse to fade quietly into the night. That doesn’t place it beyond the restriction of its narrow intentions, but it does give it an edge that holds certain nostalgia over us today, especially as the awareness becomes clearer that good holiday films tend to have no meaningful shelf life.

Krampus / *** (2015)

“Krampus” begins with a potent shot of irony, in a slow-motion sequence where cheerful holiday music plays over the questionable antics of angry retail shoppers stampeding through a sale. Their faces divulge the intoxicating dangers of commercialism, and the employees exhibit fear and injury with almost comical severity. To the director, this is what Christmas time has become – a display of extreme contradictions, in which the implication that good tidings must come in the form of expensive material possessions has changed our outlook to one of abundant pessimism. You wouldn’t ordinarily suspect that kind of forethought to worm its way through any sort of holiday movie in this day and age, but it is there, I am sure, to underline his more sensational motives. The characters in this movie are ready to drop the formalities of tradition and come out swinging against one another – even in the context of Christmas get-togethers – but a listening ear from beyond has picked up on that frequency, and is ready to unleash an arsenal of its own horrifying doing. Nothing is worse during the holidays then one’s loss of hope, because it brings out the shadows of devious energies ready to unravel all that we take for granted.

Saving Christmas / zero stars (2014)

He begins his diatribe as most do in the precursors to holiday yarns: seated at the front of a crackling fire, a Christmas tree in the backdrop and stockings hanging from an elaborate mantle façade. His smug, unsavory smile cloaks a disgust for inclusive perspectives, and his words – clearly improvised – rattle on about the contemptuous nature of differing opinions. No, these are not the joyful invites into a world of good cheer and worldly connections; they are the damning indictment against any person in the audience who has ever shared a more broad view of the holiday meaning, especially one that includes considering anything beyond fundamental Christian values. If these warnings had come from anyone less devoted to the cause than Kirk Cameron, we might have just assumed innocence, or even irony. But knowing that they belong to this, a self-proclaimed authority of the teachings of Christ, is to find oneself trapped in the embrace of a self-indulgent ideology. The concept itself would be dimwitted if it weren’t so dangerous.

Disturbia / *** (2007)

The main character in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rear Window,” a photographer with voyeuristic curiosity, was by many measures the most sophisticated of modern movie heroes. An everyday observer whose intrusive behaviors mirrored the sentiment of curious moviegoers, he made the sorts of discoveries that have become the anticipation of the audience, and countered the reveals with a clever brand of wisdom, caution and investigative proficiency; by all reasoning, he seemed to follow a routine that is as ideal as it is effective. So potent was his prowess for studying the full disclosure of others that when it came to building the chutzpah of protagonists in similar stories over the years, most filmmakers turned to him as their primary source of inspiration. But seldom before – save for fringe endeavors and television remakes – has anyone made an active attempt to retell the entire underlying experience of L.B. Jefferies in any implicit detail. There simply has been no need for it. And in the age where his initial discoveries play like minor offenses compared to what is possible, why would anyone spare the time to reach that far into the standards of old for anything, least of all a mere characterization?

Horrible Bosses / *1/2 (2011)

“Horrible Bosses” begins with a smart premise about a group of friends exacting revenge on a slew of corrupt professional supervisors, and then slowly but gradually descends into the meandering embrace of excess, stupidity and tragic comic timing. By this point, you recognize the trend more than you should: it has almost become customary in movies like this for friends who are down on their luck to get involved in some kind of conflict that causes them to react with eccentric flair (not to mention dialogue that could be uttered by any simpleton standing in line at a convenience store). What provokes filmmakers to still find those generic quirks amusing is its own issue – but why did actors like Jason Bateman, Colin Farrell and Kevin Spacey, so clearly in a league of their own, agree to partake in such a shoddy exercise of those qualities? Did story conferences leave anyone optimistic that they were dealing with material that was funny, or did they just assume that the charisma of their co-stars would be enough to offset the reality that the jokes were trying way too hard?

Nine to Five / ***1/2 (1980)

Audiences leap at the chance to share a bond with characters that mirror their everyday struggles, but few have been quite as focused (or resonating) as those that occur in the workplace. Colin Higgins’s “Nine to Five,” one of the more popular films set in office culture, is as relevant in that sentiment as it is funny. Many ought to have expected it to fade into oblivion following a mildly successful response back during its initial theatrical run, but like a stampede of epiphanies it carries on even now, rousing its viewers to assertive cognizance and inspiring a plethora of filmmakers to mirror the perspective (one of the more famous, Mike Judge’s “Office Space,” can probably be seen as an indirect remake). To the audiences of the time, the three central figures were the informed embodiment of feministic measurement; today; their situations and dialogue are reflections of the tiresome grind that has become the average American workforce, a routine of artifice and pleasantries that mask an inner disgust for corporate politics. It is one of those rare movies that goes beyond judgment because of how accurately it forecasts the nihilism in our collective professional morale.

The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 2 / *** (2015)

13 poverty-stricken districts stand united against the fascist endeavors of their totalitarian government, but only one face among them rouses the populace to the pinnacle of rebellious enthusiasm. Her name is Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence), and over the course of two years of dangerous encounters with manipulative politicians and blood-hungry tributes, she has stood firm and defiant against a system that sought to dispose of her, and after besting her superiors in an elaborate game of slaughter they helped to create, her survival is a testament to the buried courage of a circumscribed class system. Did she open their eyes to the possibilities of hope, or were her actions merely a reminder that they had become submissive to the trials of their oppressors? Both thoughts consider the sources without identifying the certainty, but no bother: they have now come to a moment of strategy that insists they must march against the Capital in violent protest, otherwise they are doomed to a slow and painful fate that upper class sensationalists would only be too eager to exploit in front of the cameras.

Brooklyn / **** (2015)

The gulfs between the comforts of home and strange new adventures in the outside world are often the most paralyzing on our emotional well-being, but underneath those uncertainties are the chances to discover who we are meant to be. John Crowley’s “Brooklyn,” a movie as moving as it is well-made, regards those gestures in the embrace of something rare: an impulse of simplicity. If the trend of the times is projected by the entertainment it yields, then it is no wonder such an idea seems so foreign to us right now; it is no longer just enough to tell a basic story about the inner challenges of mere characters, because audiences would rather rest in the embrace of more complicated – and action-driven -- endeavors. Perhaps that suggestion lends credence to the necessity of an arrival like this, though. At the core of all the worldly nonsense that fills our vision, we embody an existence where we must love, experience and find happiness amongst the noise. Here is a precious little movie that removes all those outer distractions, and recalls the resonance of basic faces that have no greater goals other than to, you know, find their place in a world where it is hard to hold onto grand aspirations.

Dial M for Murder / *** (1954)

Dubious agendas populate the fabric of Alfred Hitchcock’s “Dial M for Murder,” but not all of them are stirred from reactionary impulses. One would believe otherwise in the film’s earliest scenes, which offer a certain scandalous insight; in them, dialogue between a ravishing beauty (Grace Kelly) and a dapper gentleman (Robert Cummings) implicates them in a mutual affair of intellect and romance, a reality that may or may not be directly obvious to her husband, the distinguished but smarmy Tony (Ray Milland). Ambivalent of any potential awareness, they play it cagey through the entire masquerade, and even exchange banter with Tony as if to imply there is little more than just social commonalities that exist between them. But all the same there are cracks in the façade, because some unknown person is writing mysterious letters to poor Margo, threatening to reveal her infidelity to her husband. The identity of that enigmatic figure is little more than a blip in the thought process of the audience, because they know better; their director, the grand master of manipulators, will inevitably double back on this observation in a subsequent scene, in which Tony meets with an old friend to discuss the elaborate murder of his wife, to occur the following night of their interaction. Is he just reacting to the illicit deception occurring right in front of him? Of course he isn’t, because that would undercut the broadened sensibility of Alfred’s characterizations. Later movies may have made the act of murder much more incidental, but in this time and perspective, men were always in full possession of their homicidal tendencies.

Ruthless People / ***1/2 (1986)

The gift of perverse curiosity was the tool from which a broad supply of ‘80s entertainments acquired their creative wings, and “Ruthless People,” about a kidnapping gone completely bonkers, is one of the unspoken benchmarks of that notion. So little of the movie is actively recognized in today’s conversations about the good old days of film slapstick, but in recognizing its core values in modern contexts, we discover many of the critical origins of what can now be looked at as dark comedy. That’s because unlike the movies of the time, it was a picture that reached far beyond the thrust of mere misunderstandings or embarrassing situations, and actively involved us in the lives of unpleasant sorts who created havoc and had to, rightfully, endure their disruptive (and often hilarious) consequences. But what nerve did we have finding any of it funny, much less watchable? It’s because the screenplay implored the use of individuals who could handle their plight with savage responses, and maintained a certain sense of shrewd likeability even as the world around them was collapsing in an ambitious display of illegal trickery. No person who saw it all those years ago could deny it contained some audacious and gargantuan laughs, and few today would be able to make it through without at least volunteering a few lighthearted chuckles, even in the face of immense modern desensitization.

Lessons from Criterion:"The Magician" by Ingmar Bergman

A fair selection of identities in the Ingmar Bergman canon serve as metaphorical projections of the director’s own inner workings, but none confront his thinking as directly as Dr. Vogler does in his mysterious “The Magician.” The great French filmmaker Olivier Assayas, a champion of those cathartic sensibilities, once referred to it as his “first self-portrait,” and perhaps in that statement it is apropos to consider the central implication in greater context. While the emerging artists of international cinema were still discovering their identity in the 1950s, their endeavors reflected a negation of the melodramatic tendencies of Hollywood, and instead sought to challenge the sweeping deceptions by telling stories that existed close to their eager (and often weathered) hearts. The examples left behind by Ozu, Clouzot, Kurosawa, Goddard, Fellini and even Truffaut were the embodiment of that sentiment, an anchoring dose of evidence in perpetuating the concept of auteur theory. But by the time Bergman got involved in the movement, it was no longer just a matter of recognizing those sentiments in a mere yarn; to him, they had to be visualized in the sincere faces of his actors, all of whom didn’t so much occupy space in a narrative as they exemplified a personal thesis within the framework of his meditative thought process.

The Peanuts Movie / *** (2015)

Despite the reality of our times to sensationalize family entertainment in massive amounts of color and whimsy, some tiny part of us longs for the days of simpler values. They allowed us to get to the center of narrative philosophies, in which storytellers had something compelling to say, and pitched them home in the hearts of characters we found great commonality with. Those possibilities are at their most precious, I feel, in cartoons; made within the milieu of childhood considerations, they gave young adventurous eyes the chance to comprehend the imaginative depth of the world around them, how to deal with tragedy or danger, and what they could do to instill joy in themselves and others. It is, by all measures, the medium where experienced voices come alive and new ones can be made, usually without the unrelenting nihilism that is prevalent among the modern masses. Only recently did those ideas begin losing their shape in the rush of new technology; as computers improved the dexterity of the images, such yarns lost the nerve to get beneath the surface. The long term consequences are, unfortunately, running silent; as such endeavors continue to drive home box office business, movie studios are exacerbating a growing problem among young minds, which have been taught to be won over by pomp and circumstance instead of plots that might speak to their emotional development.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre / **1/2 (1974)

Though it was invented for distinctly opposing purposes, the chainsaw has been the central breakpoint in the eras of horror filmmaking. Before it came to pass as an instrument of chaos in Tobe Hooper’s violent and disturbing “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” movies about frightening situations were usually filled with supernatural jolts or ominous forces in the shadows, usually as a means for inspiring nervous fun; on rare instances, some of them rose above the confines of lurid fantasy in order to regard their situations with certain realism. But the introduction of this single tool into the mix, a weapon of brutal force and ridiculous overkill, indirectly gave birth to the modern customs of the genre’s more masochistic voices, and within a decade it created what we now refer to as the “slasher” picture, in which all of the outlying terror is marginalized to situations in which ambivalent victims – usually teenagers – are lined up and knocked off in very bloody ways. Over time the popularity of those values gave added rise to an underlying beast in more creative overachievers, and today it’s virtually impossible to see any movie about murderous rampages without squirming somewhere in the process. So much has been visualized in the sadistic torture of the human body that the imagination has no room for interpretation, and our nerves have been deadened from the impact of repetitively harsh sensations.

The New Revolution

We are both blessed and befuddled to be part of the growing accessibility of knowledge. What once must have been sought out in the corners of obscurity is now constantly at our fingertips, and our incessant thirst for information has been quenched by a rush of new devices plugged into the outer-reaches of cyberspace. The advancement of modern technology is, by all measures, the new frontier of the human existence. Fifteen years ago it was seen as remarkable that anyone with a home computer could plug into a worldwide network to exchange ideas and communication; now, even those realities seem primitive, and with the advent of tablets and smart phones people can now swap data while constantly on the move, never losing sight of their busy lives even while the Internet stretches their conscious focus.