The Hangover: Too Old To Really Care

I'm going to make this one a quick one I think...such is my mindset today and the extent to which I care to comment on the latest comedy that proves that comedy is not a one-man show (cough, cough, Judd Apatow, cough), THE HANGOVER.

Now the hangover is, oh my god, like, so an American road-movie-cum-mancom, it's, like, so weird. Directed by a Todd (dude), written by a Jon (rad) and a Scott (gnarly), and starring Brad, Ed, Zach and Justin (yeah...way), it might as well be screened on the back of a Yankees jersey and open for Lynyrd Skynard.

But it isn't. It is, hold thy breath, a movie. Not a frat party, a movie, and a decent enough one at that. It isn't, I don't think, deserving of the four stars it has received widely across the board, more like a three or three and a half, but it is certainly watchable, and preferable definitely to a lot of the other run-of-the-mill high-jinks comedies released so far this year (see 'Paul Blart: Mall Cop', 'Observe and Report', 'Bride Wars' etc...).

It is a very bright, very beautiful film, helped greatly by the natural Nevada sunlight that makes everything and everyone look unbearably attractive, and features some very funny moments, as well as some less funny and far more predictable ones.

You probably know the story already; three incredibly hungover men scour Las Vegas for their missing best friend, and the groom, the day after a triumphant bachelor party. What stands in their way, though, is there own amnesia, as none of them can recall anything from the night before.

The themes (self-realisation, coming-of-age, proving of worth etc...) are familiar, and the crass and slapstick humour reminiscent of every stoner or teen film ever made. Men fall over, men get hit in the balls, men with silly accents call people "mother-fuckers" and tell them to "lick my Chinese balls". And notice the prevalence of the word "men" in these sentences. What role do women play in this film? None whatsoever I'm afraid. The only female part with more than a handful of lines is Jade, played by Heather Graham; a stripper with a heart of gold and who opens the eyes of the straight-laced and under-the-thumb Stu. Of course she does.

So be under no illusions that this is a man's film; made by men for men. Well, boys. It's not really for men, it's for teenage boys and stoned students, and I don't care who says otherwise, it's still not as good as Knocked Up or Superbad, or even I Love You, Man. It doesn't have the heart, the crushingly sharp dialogue, the charisma of most of these films. Not close. It harks back a little to Swingers, my favourite film of all time and a truly original piece of work, in its male camaraderie and love of Vegas. But it lacks so much of what made Swingers great; the romance, the emotional development, the satire.

To summarise, The Hangover is a film that is watchable, yes, but not memorable. One that has the strength to push forwards, but not the guts. I, for one, need not a scene in which the film's heroes steal Mike Tyson's tiger, pretend to hump it, and then vomit on a stolen police car's bonnet. That, for me is a step too far...backwards.

Rudo y Cursi

It is the day after the film before, and I am alive. I have survived the 'Transformers effect'. As I put my head down last night I was awash with fear that I might be plagued in my dreams by Optimus Prime's intergalactic motivational rhetoric or choked alive by Megan Fox's bulbous, alien lips. Fortunately though, it was not to be. I have emerged unscathed, and live to write another day.

And write I will...

In the glory of my new lease of cinematic life, I took myself to the picturehouse again, and this time I was determined to gorge myself on something healthier, something cleaner. That something was RUDO Y CURSI, an exciting new feature written and directed by Carlos Cuaron, Mexican screenwriter and novice director, brother of brilliant director Alfonso.

It had stirred a thrilling anticipation in me for numerous reasons. Cuaron was, first of all, the principal author of 'Y Tu Mama Tambien', one of the best foreign language movies of recent times. What's more he had reunited with Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna, a superb pair of actors whose onscreen chemistry was the driving force behind the original hit. If this wasn't enough, the project is produced by three godfathers of modern Mexican cinema; Alfonso Cuaron himself, Jose Gonzalez Inarritu and Guillermo Del Toro.

There is little chance then, I thought, that 'Rudo y Cursi' could fail to emerge as another worthy addition to the already brilliant canon of Mexican film-making, bristling with proven talent as it was. And I was right, to an extent...

The film is actually somewhat of an enigma. A powerful display of acting and design, it is beautifully shot and contains some wonderfully odd moments worthy of Almodovar or Gondry. There is also a great pace to the story, in which two brothers, Beto (Luna) and Tato (Bernal) emerge as footballing superstars on opposing Mexican teams, later to be renamed Rudo and Cursi by their adoring fans, and struggle to fend off the trappings of their sudden success. Luna in particular delivers an exciting performance that balances the quirky, almost caricature humour typical of modern Latino cinema with the harder hitting emotional changes that draw us into the story, yet it is not enough to prevent the film from falling victim to the infectious cinematic ailment known as "style-over-substance-itis".

Though Cuaron's talents as a visual director are clear, his ability to handle thematic devices and genre are still to develop, and are apparent in his neglection of the more engaging human issues of family, responsibility and pride in favour of overblown footballing metaphors and one-dimensional sub-plots. As such, too many opportunities to develop interesting characters and conflicts are missed, too many questions left unanswered, and the emotional punch of the story is neutered from an early stage. The brothers' home, where Beto has a young wife and the boys' mother has recently engaged in another abusive relationship, is sadly left behind at the end of the first act as we follow the boys to Mexico City, never to be given enough attention, either from the brothers or from the director. Likewise, the boys' mentor and enigmatic playboy Batuta has an intriguing past that is revealed only to the point of frustration, never satisfaction.

As I left the cinema at the end of Rudo y Cursi I was strangely affected. I had enjoyed the film, oddly gripping footballing finale than for the emotional epilogue that followed, but was still disappointed. I had expected more from the story with Cuaron in control, so brilliantly nuanced and moving was 'Y Tu Mama Tambien', and felt that he had ignored his instincts in favouring the superficial over the substantial, much like Rudo and Cursi themselves.

Star Trek/Transformers 2/Angels and Demons (or The Good, The Very Bad, And The Suicidal)

I haven't written on here for a while now. I've been busy, okay? I've managed to make a few trips to the cinema, but unfortunately I have let myself go, and have been unable to resist the sparkly charms of the summer blockbusters. The cinematic equivalent of a playboy bunny, they strut through the room, thong out and boobs up, leaning over the bar to rub an ice cube on their glistening forehead. For the life of me, I try to keep my eyes on the girl I'm talking to, the intelligent care-worker who'd be pretty in a nice dress, but my will is just not strong enough, and alas I fail, and that's when it happens, my spine snaps in two and I mumble the words from my drool-covered lips; "one ticket for Transformers please."

And so it was today. And so it has been for the past few weeks. First, there was STAR TREK, a very decent sci-fi adventure (god save me for uttering those words) made better by some superb performances, clever plotting and pitch-perfect self-awareness. What Star Trek did, it seemed to me, was take a franchise that was beloved but flawed, and keep the love whilst carefully showing that this was no continuation, instead a timely rebirth. It was exhilarating, funny, moving, but most of all very human, and was a triumphant success.

The same cannot, I repeat, CANNOT be said for ANGELS AND DEMONS, a torrid and ludicrous attempt at entertainment borne from the sceptic womb of Dan Brown and helmed by the usually reliable Ron Howard. Now, if Star Trek was the playboy bunny who turned out to have a PhD in particle science, Angels is the cocaine-riddled stripper who takes your money and then takes a piss on the stage, because that's what she thinks you like. It is an almighty guff of a movie, a tour de force of bad acting, bad writing, bad editing and overall bad movie-making. It makes The Da Vinci Code look like Schindler's List, it is that nonsensical, that meaningless.

And so we come to TRANSFORMERS: REVENGE OF THE FALLEN, the big swollen testicle of a cherry atop the summer's Hollywood bakewell...

It is a nail-bitingly awful thing to have to write but the second film of the Transformers franchise is not as bad as Angles and Demons. It isn't. It should be, and god knows it tries, but it can't quite get there, Angels is really that bad. What Transformers is though, is a huge festering pile of failure; failed in almost everything that it tries. It is crammed to the brim with gags, but never really funny. It is relentlessly fast and action-packed, yet one of the most boring films I have ever seen. And for all of the never-ending exposition and explanation, scene after scene after scene of "we need to find this" and "you have to destroy that", it is utterly and overwhelmingly baffling.

It cannot even be argued that those responsible for this film have tried anything new, that they have been in any way daring. If anything it is even more cliche-ridden than the first outing. From the very start, the movie is devoid of ambition, (apparently uninspired by recent ground-breaking summer successes such as The Dark Knight and Star Trek, even Pirates of the Caribbean) and delivers a tiresome, pain-staking montage/voiceover sequence that does nothing but suggest that there is more of the same inane story-telling to come. It is not a tool that should be needed in modern film-making, let alone in a sequel. A sequel is a continuation, and shouldn't need setting up. That is the job of the prequel. It boggles the mind.

And trust me, it continues to boggle the mind. The story is so dense, so layered with ludicrous notions of space battles and mind-altering metal, that the effect of every new revelation, every obvious explanation and seminar, feels more like a man on a beach, desperately trying to dig himself out of a pit of sand as the water comes flooding in. It is a tiring process, and it got the best of me. I confess that during the final, super-swollen sequence of tumbling and shouting, of explosive heroics, I nodded off. Just for a few moments, mind, but still, it was first time, I think, that this has ever happened to me. And I've seen The Interpreter...

There are some things that I would keep in this film, and if it were up to me to remake it entirely, then I would keep a tight grip on little Shia LeBeouf. I think he's incredibly charming, a very funny and absorbing actor, and I sympathise with him greatly for having to act opposite the utterly talentless and soulless Megan Fox. With every trouty pout, every squinting of her bizarrely thin eyes, she did nothing but convince me that she had been cast purely on her looks. And she's not even as attractive as she was in the first film. Her lips have almost doubled in size! She looks like she's had her chin trapped in a vase for the past two years.

Apart from LeBeouf, there is some relief in the form of Julie White and Kevin Dunn, who play LeBeouf's parents, Judy and Ron, and who make a brilliant onscreen couple and provide enough laughs to get us through the opening hour or so. But when they leave it is straight back into the silliness, and slapstick takes over. Sam (LeBeouf), goes to college, where everyone is beautiful, and apparently all study astrology, and his room-mate, Leo, is insufferable, a hideous buffoon from beginning to end, and due to be the centrepiece of my nightmares for months to come (or at least until the new Jim Carrey film).

I feel as though I could go on forever, there are so many bad things I would like to say about "Revenge...". However, I feel it would be appropriate to leave you with my all-time favourite example of how not to make films:

As the movie draws to a close, and everything has been redeemed, LeBeouf is standing on the tip of an all-American aircraft carrier, when Optimus Prime approaches him across the tarmac (how his colossal weight doesn't pull him through the deck is my first question...). "Thank you, Sam, for saving my life." Optimus growls, as if he were doing an impression of a stoned Batman. "Thank you for believing in me" says LeBeouf, somehow with a straight face. And they stand, staring out over the ocean, man and robot in perfect harmony. It was a beautiful moment, but all I could think of was how much I wouldn't to leap into the screen, stroll up behind the two of them and cough into my hand. "Sorry to interrupt," I would say, "but I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for reminding me just how much I hate you. I was blind but now I see. Thank you. Anyway, as you were..."