Review: "Gone Girl"

Director: David Fincher
Runtime: 149 minutes

When I first heard that director David Fincher was attached to direct Gone Girl, I have to admit that my reaction was an elitist wrinkling of the nose. Why, after already directing the US version of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, was the master behind The Social Network and Zodiac adapting another flavor-of-the-month page turner? Isn't it time he started setting his sights a little higher? But then I remembered that I had been none too keen about Fincher's decision to direct "that Facebook movie," and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I even gave Gillian Flynn's novel a chance, and despite some resistance on my part, I ended up going along for the twisted little ride that it was. And now that I've seen Mr. Fincher's adaptation - written by Ms. Flynn herself - I can once again rest easy. Gone Girl is not quite an instant classic or a masterpiece, but it's a damn good piece of filmmaking that represents a perfect pairing of material and artist. 

For those not familiar with or rusty on the plot, the basics are the sort of thing you could find in the average TV movie about spousal abuse. Nick and Amy Dunne (the brilliantly cast duo of Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike) have been married for five years, yet both have fallen on financial hardships in the recession. Somewhat against her will, Amy lets Nick drag her back to his home town in Missouri to care for his sick mother and rebuild his life. Yet Amy is very much a Manhattan kind of gal, and the move to Missouri is the equivalent of being fired from Vogue and being forced to take a job at People Magazine. Regardless, there's an anniversary to celebrate, so it's time to get ready.

And then, as the title indicates, she's gone. Has she been killed? Kidnapped? What does Nick know, and where was he the morning of her disappearance? With the details that surface, the situation increasingly points toward one person: Nick. At one point, investigating office Gilpin (Patrick Fugit) sardonically remarks to lead investigator Rhonda Boney (Kim Dickens), "The simplest answer is often the correct one." Yet Boney counters with, "Actually, I've never found that to be true." This brief exchange is the perfect encapsulation of Gone Girl as a novel and film, where events and people are rarely quite what they seem to be, regardless of actual innocence or guilt.

What's most impressive about Flynn's screenplay is her sharp ability to condense her own work. Novels and screenplays are drastically different forms, yet Flynn has adapted to the new medium rather effortlessly. Unlike Mr. Fincher's Dragon Tattoo, which occasionally suffered from laborious slavishness to the source material, Gone Girl feels as complete as the novel, even with the handful of abbreviated or missing passages. Every scene is crucial, and every minute is earned, and the finale - far too good to spoil - leaves one demanding more. Emotional depravity, which seeps into the film's very soul, can grow tiring if stretched out for a long period of time (the film is nearly 2 and a half hours), but Flynn and Fincher have concocted a potent and addictive mix. 

Fincher has always been an immaculate visual storyteller, and his perfectionism serves the material well. Working with a band of recent collaborators behind the camera, he as given the story a polish that elevates the material and demands that it been brought out of the imaginations of readers, and definitively imagined on screen. Cinematographer Jeff Cronenweth keeps the lighting and color palette firmly in Fincher's wheelhouse of sleek greens, whites, and browns, lushly accentuating even the grimiest of locations with cinematic flair. Editor Kirk Baxter (working solo after doing Fincher's last two films with Angus Wall) keeps the story clipping along with sharp, unobtrusive cuts that add another layer of crisp precision to the plotting. And returning composers Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross have, against the odds, contributed another icy, ambient electronnic score to add momentum or dramatic heft when needed. Rather than strain to create memorable themes, Gone Girl's score provides a near-constant sonic backdrop that adds a creeping sense of urgent malice to this increasingly warped story of abuse and deceit.

And while Fincher has long been regarded as a extremely confident visual storyteller, his skill with actors has often been overlooked, even after the Oscar nominations for Jesse Eisenberg and Rooney Mara. Fincher's directing remains the biggest star of Gone Girl - the man is hardly one to his actors own the screen entirely by themselves - but to dismiss Affleck and Pike's performances as merely following their leader does them (and the rest of the ensemble) a huge disservice.

Even without his experience under ridiculous amounts of media hassling, Affleck is a strong choice for Nick. The slightly glazed over look of his eyes and lack of tension in his jaw subtly and immediately gives life to a man in an insane predicament. His relationship with Amy may have soured a bit, but there's still the need to pretend for the cameras (and, to a lesser extent, the audience) that he adores his wife and wants nothing more than to see her again. Lending Mr. Affleck able support is Carrie Coon as his twin sister Margo, a character I often found unconvincing on the page, yet totally at ease with here. With her acerbic, no-bullshit attitude and her genuine fear about what Nick may or may not have done, Coon is an invaluable asset in the film's first act, which traces the early days of the investigation. Fellow supporting players Tyler Perry (yes, that Tyler Perry) and Neil Patrick Harris play against type with effective results, while Fugit and Dickens are similarly effective as the key investigators. 

As in Dragon Tattoo, there's quite a bit of set up before the the full narrative truly gets going, but thanks to Flynn's self edits, the film's first act is efficient at setting the stage without dragging on and on with exposition for those who know what's in store. Because when it comes to revelations and playing with versions of reality, Gone Girl moves from its strong beginning to its deliciously nasty middle and end. 

This is largely due to how - I'll refrain from spoilers - Flynn's story is able to work in Amy's perspective, despite her absence and possible death. When we're seeing Amy on screen in flashback, or merely hearing her voice reading excerpts from her diary, she is easily the most compelling thing in all of Gone Girl. Pike, an accomplished actress in England who has yet to really break out Stateside, is totally arresting in the role. Though I periodically wished that Flynn would have lingered on certain moments longer (despite the length, I never found that the film was dragging) that would have given Amy room to leave an even more striking impression with the viewer. Even so, what Pike has pulled off here is still wonderfully diverse, weaving together different ideas who Amy is (was?), depending on whose version of the story is being told. Her casting was already a great idea, but she has done more than simply coast on her physical attributes. We can debate whether Noomi Rapace or Rooney Mara made a better Lisbeth Salander, but it'll be hard for anyone else to fill Pike's shoes for Amy Dunne. 

In its own unconventional way, Gone Girl eventually emerges as a two-hander, despite the supporting characters in both Nick and Amy's lives. It's a story of marriage, after all, even if one spouse might be a murder victim. "People told us and told us and told us - marriage is hard work," goes an entry in Amy's diary, and the ways in which Gone Girl takes this notion to such darkly funny conclusions, are an critical part of why the film succeeds as well as it does. For all of the mystery and salacious details, Flynn and Fincher - without becoming glib - inject enough shots of humor into the proceedings to keep the film from descending into a state of perpetual gloom and tragedy.

There's been talk of Gone Girl as a devilish satire of modern media sensationalism, although I found the film to be a bit more straightforward. A sense of humor does not automatically classify a dark genre picture as a satire, just as a few funny lines now and then don't make Mad Men a comedy. There are subversive, even mocking, elements to Flynn's tale (the Nancy Grace figure played by Missi Pyle), but Gone Girl is still a mystery at its core. The darkest depths of relationships are also so present, and such wide-reaching satire seems like a tertiary goal at best. However, the "devilish" part is absolutely true. No matter what comes to light in Gone Girl, there's always one more little dig, one more little twist of the knife. We think there has to be a bottom that brings the pit of human filth to an end. Gone Girl, however, suggests that there is no such end, and in such a way that the very notion will leave a sick grin etched on your face, whether you like it or not.

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "Men, Women & Children"

Director: Jason Reitman
Runtime: 119 minutes

Within minutes, Men Women & Children takes the honor for the year's worst and least necessary framing device. This story about relationships in the era of social media, texting, and webcams, opens in space. Yes, out space. Specifically, on the Voyager 1 space craft as it approaches Jupiter, presumably on its way to the Great Infinite Beyond to be reborn as a star child a la Keir Dullea in 2001 (as you do). There is nothing inherently wrong with the footage. In fact, it looks quite seamless and epic. But then Emma Thompson starts narrating (is she the Voyager 1? the universe? God??) and takes us from the magnificent expanses of the cosmos (don't worry, we'll get to go back there in a few months with Interstellar) down to Austin, Texas. Or at least, some pale imitation of Austin (if the film was shot there, it had this Texas native fooled). Regardless, this is where we'll find out what Reitman's latest has to say.

Because when you open with the stars and the largest planet of the solar system, it seems rather clear that you're positioning your film to really be about something. Men Women & Children does quite a bit of trying, but it the fruits of its labor are rotten. Worse, it gives off the impression that Reitman is secretly a bitter old man who thinks modern technology is nothing but bad news, despite opening with imagined footage of the Voyager 1 spacecraft. Above all, Children is a cautionary tale, though it ultimately provokes more eye-rolls than legitimate reflection about modern communication. 

As in Crash and Babel (there's the first red flag), the goal is contrive drama, sorry, weave a tapestry of multiple narratives that intersect in various ways. First, there's Don and Helen Truby (Adam Sandler and Rosemarie DeWitt), a married couple who lost the spark in their marriage because they were having sex while 9/11 was happening (no, really). While they both have affairs, their 15 year-old son Chris (Travis Tope) has looked at so much next level porn that he can't get an erection from anything vanilla (including an actual girl). 

Somewhere else in town is Joan Clint (Judy Greer), a single mom who also spends a lot of time taking semi-racy pictures of her daughter for her modeling/acting website. Then, there's Tim Mooney (Ansel Elgort, shot so poorly that he often looks like a toad), the former star quarterback (did you know that football is a big deal in Texas? DID YOU?) who left the team after his mom ran off to California to the shock of Tim and his stern father (Dean Norris). Come to think of it, Joan's ex-husband/baby daddy was also based in California. I think California might represent hell or modernity or something (unless you live in the San Fernando Valley, in which case you're quite literally in hell). 

Finally (not really, but enough already), there's Brady Beltmayer (Kaitlyn Dever, so excellent in last year's Short Term 12) and her mother Patricia (Jennifer Garner). I'm sorry, that's incorrect. What I meant to say was, "and her mother Patricia, a human embodiment of the NSA and Lifetime Movie White Mom paranoia." Patricia can access Brandy's phone remotely, deleting innocent texts from boys like Tim before Brandy even has a chance to see them. In her spare time, Patricia hosts informational meetings about the tribulations of the web (Guild Wars and World of Warcraft? As dangerous as pedophiles, clearly.), and probably knits scarves and tea cozies with sanitized images of Christ's crucifixion on them. Ms. Garner does her best with what she's given, God bless her, but the deck is stacked overwhelmingly against her.

Yet Patricia is also responsible for the best and worst things to come out of the script by Mr. Reitman and Erin Cressida Wilson (adapting the novel by Chad Kultgen, who I'm sure must be a riot at PTA meetings). St. Patricia is truly a woman of many talents. The first of her miracles is to get Ms. Greer and Mr. Norris' characters into a budding relationship. A Judy Green/Dean Norris romance is not something that makes sense at all on paper, but as performed by these two highly underrated actors, it works. Their interactions constitute the only moments when Men Women & Children comes to life as an engaging study of modern socialization. Amid all the nauseatingly simplistic writing in the film, at least Children has shown me something that I never knew I wanted and now must absolutely have. Throw in Ms. Dever, and you can consider my hypothetical ticket bought.

Alas, while St. Patricia giveth, she also taketh away. Various and sundry connections occur, relationships are tested, and next thing you know Patricia's actions lead to a suicide attempt that's punctuated by some of the most howlingly pretentious details imaginable. How I longed for the good old days when Sandra Bullock could be cured of racism by falling down a flight of stairs. They don't make 'em like they used to.

Beyond the attempted suicide, there are a littany of other sins in which St. Patricia is unable to intercede. By far the biggest offender is the handling of DeWitt and Sandler's storyline. Reitman, who has previously explored adulterous characters with such snappy humanity, has completely missed the mark here. The half baked resolution of these scenes from a marriage tries to take both sides into account, but ends up shaking a finger at DeWitt and somehow leaving Sandler the "victim." So if double standards and misogyny are your cup of tea, they boy, is Men Women & Children the film for you (to the man who cheered at one particular moment: this is not a good thing). While the film's structure practically ensured that we wouldn't get a lengthy resolution to any strand of the narrative, DeWitt and Sandler's is the one that most desperately needs it. The deprivation of such a conclusion is both narratively weak and thematically reprehensible. 

In Mr. Reitman's first four films, he established himself as a darkly funny examiner of modern American/Canadian life. Despite characters who did ugly things (Thank You For Smoking, Young Adult), there remained something illuminating a vital in Reitman's nuances and narrative juxtapositions. In comedy (and tragicomedy) he blossomed as both a storyteller and a remarkable director of actors. Those first four films, then, are precisely why his two forays into straight-faced drama are so disheartening. Without an edge or a kick, Reitman's voice becomes mealy mouthed and aimless. Compare the beautiful work the director got from Charlize Theron and Patton Oswalt in Young Adult to the performances in his past two films. The difference is frightening.

Of course, it's expected that artists will at some point venture outside of their comfort zone(s). Despite some growing pains, these ventures can often leave an artist reinvigorated. Unfortunately, Reitman's recent career choices call to mind an fellow director (and a fellow Canadian) who keeps trying the same old something new: David Cronenberg. Yet the gap between Reitman's genres is so much smaller than Cronenberg, which makes it so much for frustrating to seem him veer even further off course. Everyone blunders, even the greats. Hell, sometimes it's the towering icons who make the biggest mess when they screw up. That's part of artistic evolution. 

Yet that same evolution turns into regression if the same mistake is repeated too many times. There's still plenty of time for Reitman to put himself on a better path, or find some purely dramatic material that's actually worthy of him. But right now, he, like Men Women & Children, seems to have run out of fresh things to say. I really did envy the Voyager by the end of Men Women and Children. It gets to move further away from our world with each passing minute.

Grade: D-/F

Review: "Tracks"

Director: John Curran
Runtime: 112 minutes

To watch Mia Wasikowska in Tracks is to witness a rare feat of acting, one that combines physical exertion and quietly suggestive character detailing. In tackling the real-life expedition of Robyn Davidson across nearly 2000 miles of the Outback, director John Curran (The Painted Veil) couldn't have picked a better actress for the part. Wasikowska wears the role with integrity, allowing the marks of Davidson's journey to slowly, but surely, leave their marks on her mind, body, and memory. Even with a somewhat spotty script, Curran's fifth film is a rewarding return to form, bolstered by Wasikowska's beautiful performance and some outstanding cinematography courtesy of Mandy Walker (Australia).

Earlier this summer, The Rover portrayed the Outback as a dry, empty, unforgiving landscape. Tracks' vision, though formidable in its own right, is a much more inhabitable place, albeit for a chosen few. Among those few is Robyn Davidson, who - for reasons not immediately given - always preferred living in the company of mother nature than in the company of other people. She's not on a journey to "find herself." Instead, she already knows who she is and what she wants, and her response to the obvious question of "why?" is simply "why not?" 

Despite no clear angle for the journey other than "because I like being alone and am capable," Curran and writer Marion Nelson have fashioned a steadily paced, gradually involving exploration of Davidson's journey and its connections to her childhood. Despite a handful of friends and seemingly decent relationships with her father and sister, Robyn is determined to make as much of the trek on her own, with her only companions being her dog and four uppity camels. 

With so many shots of Davidson and her four-legged friends trudging through the sun-blasted Australian desert, it's a bit of a miracle that Tracks and Wasikowska never settle into empty, repetitive rhythms. Wasikowska - along with some truly stellar make up - is calm and determined, yet she finds ways of pushing beyond one or two default expressions along the way. Not once does it feel like the actress is coasting simply because a shot doesn't require obvious emoting. She sells the big, teary-eyed moments effortlessly, in part because she earns them through the dignity she brings to so many dialogue-free scenes covering Davidson's epic journey. The young actress has been on a roll this year in a handful of (sometimes underwritten) supporting roles, and she doesn't disappoint when her time in the spotlight finally arrives. Tracks is rarely, if ever, and exciting film, but it holds one's attention thanks to Wasikowska's sensitive portrayal of Davidson's physical and emotional struggle to endure nature at its harshest.

The only thing more important to the success of Tracks are Robyn's surroundings, and the film certainly disappoint here either. Cinematographer Mandy Walker (who, as a woman, is an unfortunate rarity in the field) turns in some truly gorgeous work capturing the Outback's harsh beauty. Her imagery - like Wasikowska's performance - never grows repetitive, even though it may seem like there's only so many ways to capture reddish sand and dried out plant life. Tracks is aces all around on the technical front, but it's hard to over state just how crucial Walker's work is making Davidson's journey look convincing. 

Additional departments like the aforementioned make up also contribute greatly to making Tracks work as well as it does. Garth Stevenson's lush, yet unobtrusive, score works wonders without threatening to overtake the images and emotions. With so much wordless traveling to be done, montages inevitably pop up (smoothly handled by editor Alexandre de Franceschi), and Stevenson's music keeps everything flowing along with understated elegance. That understated elegance is shared by Curran's directing which takes on the considerable task of balancing Davidson's literal and metaphorical journeys with smooth results.

The lone disappointment of Tracks comes from Nelson's screenplay, which doesn't always hit its mark when it comes to pacing or timing. National Geographic photog Rick Smolan (Adam Driver) shows up multiple times early on, and as a result it feels like it takes far too long for Davidson's real journey to get going (kudos, though, for not simply starting the film off with her already in the desert). Certain elements, like a compass with deep ties to Robyn's past, are introduced only moments before they become important viewer, which drains the film of some tension. Thankfully, Wasikowska and company are usually enough to counterbalance Nelson's structural missteps, even as they still keep Tracks from being an across-the-board triumph.

Tracks will, with good reason, not be everyone's cup of tea. Its treatment of Robyn's past and her mental state will strike some as lazy or shallow, and will leave them with almost nothing to connect to, even as Wasikowska tries her hardest. For all of the epic visual moments, it's the tiniest of details that will separate Tracks' admirers and detractors. Like Davidson's preference for limited human interaction, Curran's film is understandably not for everyone. Yet if there is a connection, what transpires over roughly two hours will prove to be a gradually-involving work of tremendous scope and delicately beautiful human strength.

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "The Guest"

Director: Adam Wingard
Runtime: 100 minutes

Trading in meta-horror for more traditional thriller fare, You're Next duo Adam Wingard and Simon Barrett are back with The Guest. Though sincerity isn't a trait that runs through Wingard and Barrett's films thus far, The Guest does see them paying straightforward homage to a genre, rather than deconstructing it. In their latest, they have conjured up a gloriously dumb throwback to the John Carpenter-esque horror/thrillers of the 80s, complete with a delightfully charming and menacing turn from former Downton Abbey star Dan Stevens. It lacks the winking smarts of You're Next, but The Guest proves that when it comes to B-movie thriller fare, Wingard and Barrett know how to stay true to a genre's roots while tweaking it just enough for the 21st century.

The Guest certainly doesn't waste any time in putting things in motion. Opening with Stevens' David running along a dusty Midwestern road, only moments later he's at the door of the Peterson family. With his aw-shucks charm and his piercing blue eyes, David has no trouble convincing parents Laura and Spencer (Sheila Kelley and Leland Orser), that he served with their recently deceased son in Iraq, and became his closest friend. He's even in a photo of the dead son's platoon, smiling with a machine gun on his shoulder.

Naturally, David has no trouble cozying up to the family and making himself useful in unexpected ways. He helps the Peterson's youngest child Luke (Brendan Meyer) deal with some high school bullies, and even manages to bond with suspicious daughter Anna (Maika Monroe) after a stressful night at a party.

As with similar charming mystery figures, the role of David requires a certain unassuming, placid confidence, and Stevens proves to be ideal casting. The posh accent and dapper clothes are gone, replaced by the look of boy-next-door who may or may not be capable of snapping someone's neck in the blink of an eye. Stevens admitted that he eventually grew somewhat bored of his character on Downton Abbey, and at times it showed rather painfully. Here, however, he seems reinvigorated as a performer, capturing David's vaguely sinister sense of optimism with just the right touches of camp.

And while most of the Peterson clan (as well as their friends and neighbors) may be total saps, Maika Monroe does quite well distinguishing herself as the only person to never fully believe in David's story (even when she catches a glimpse of David's physique fresh out of the shower).With a look that falls somewhere between Greta Gerwig and Dakota Fanning, Monroe's low-key flippancy is an added gift, and further solidifies The Guest's success as an effective homage.

However, with so many expected developments obvious from the outset (of course David isn't going to be entirely who he appears to be), Wingard and Barrett sometimes get a little too high on channeling certain styles, and let the plot stagnate. At 100 minutes, The Guest does outstay its welcome a bit, especially since it gets everything set up so quickly. Wingard and Barrett make the whole adventure knowingly dumb fun, but they also take too long to get to the real turning point of the narrative. 

So when it comes time for the explanation of exactly who David is, The Guest comes uncomfortably close to tripping over its own shoe laces as it crosses the finish line. By now, the particulars of David's backstory have been so overdone that it's underwhelming to see Wingard and Barrett not add anything into the mix. Though Barrett's script refrains from coming to a halt solely for exposition, a little more than the basic motivations would have cemented The Guest as an even more admirably loopy piece of work. Thankfully, the actual finale is mostly a success, with the climactic set piece moving from action-thriller into firm horror territory, complete with a perfectly designed maze of sorts for folks to run around in while avoiding death. 

Stylistically, Wingard and his technical collaborators have upped their game, with the photography and set design being standouts. Faded neons add a off-kilter glow to the otherwise plain desert setting, and the color variety expands nicely once all hell starts to break loose. The throbbing electronic score is another plus, and makes The Guest feel like a perfect mix of modern and retro thriller atmospherics. Like David, The Guest looks the part entirely, even though it has a few glaring red flags. It may not have the meta smarts of You're Next, but The Guest - in large part thanks to Stevens' chilly and charismatic work - succeeds as a mindless little slice of empty calorie cinema.

Grade: B-

Review: "Maps to the Stars"

Director: David Cronenberg

Runtime: 111 minutes

There's quite a bit of talk about fires and burns in Maps to the Stars, yet precious little actual heat. The latest from David Cronenberg sees him taking a knife to the squishy, slimy underbelly of Hollywood, with results that are more likely to induce shrugs than gasps of horror or outrage. Maps is something of a companion piece to Cronenberg's last film, 2012's Cosmopolis, tackling a different sort of elitist American culture, albeit with drastically different tones. The iciness of Cronenberg's approach in Cosmopolis was off-putting at first, yet gradually became an effective choice before making a gripping hard left turn into fire and brimstone condemnation. Unfortunately, the director isn't able to bring even a small fraction of Cosmopolis' concluding fire to Maps. Despite scenes that are, on paper, stomach-churning, Cronenberg's latest is ultimately a lukewarm stab at cutting satire.

Hollywood has always provided multiple angles for satirization, and Cronenberg and writer Bruce Wagner have at least assembled a good host of targets. There's fading star Havana Segrand (Julianne Moore), trying to revitalize her career in the shadow of her dead mother (Sarah Gadon), and her new assistant Agatha (Mia Wasikowska), who happens to be a burn victim. Then there's Agatha's possible boyfriend Jerome (Robert Pattinson, now at the front of the limo), a limo driver who really wants to be a writer and actor. And then, of course, there's the screwed up child star Benjie Weiss (Evan Bird) and his vaguely creepy parents (John Cusack and Olivia Williams). All good ingredients to have for an expansive satire of the entertainment industry's vanity, misplaced priorities, and closets stuffed full of skeletons.

Where Maps to the Stars veers of course starts with Wagner's screenplay, which spreads the screen time around so much that all the plot lines feel half baked. The most compelling part of Maps is Havana's story - in no small part thanks to Moore's Cannes-winning performance - yet Wagner spends so much time with the rest of his Hollyweridos that her story comes off as pointless by the time the credits roll. In Havana, Wagner is able to tackle issues such as celebrity status, aging, Hollywood's standards for women, and the trauma of childhood abuse, yet he refuses to fully engage with Havana's mindset. During the first hour or so of the film, Gadon pops up as the ghost of Havana's mother (a famous actress who died young in a fire), presumably to torment her struggling daughter. 

Yet as Wasikowska's own story starts to move independently, Havana's hallucinations cease and her mental strain is washed completely away. Gadon and Moore play off of each other well, and their casting taps into some interesting notions about age and talent, but every scene they have together is exactly the same. Havana asks what Gadon's Clarice wants, and by the end of Maps to the Stars, you'll neither know nor care (Havana seems to forget about her as well).

This is made even more frustrating because of how much fun Moore is having sinking her teeth into a role like this. She alone seems to understand what Cronenberg and Wagner are trying (and failing) to accomplish. She is constantly on edge, even when trying to meditate her way through receiving bad news, which enlivens Cronenberg's otherwise staid atmosphere. The biggest crime of the film is that Moore is a member of an ensemble cast, and not a definitive lead. With her at the center, Maps would have had a infinitely stronger foundation. 

Only Wasikowska comes close to Moore's understanding of the film's aims, even as she's saddled with an underwritten character. Though Moore dominates the scenes with Havana and Agatha, Wasikowska is able to effectively hold her own as a sounding board for Havana's histrionics. And when facing off against other cast members, Wasikowska is really able to shine, giving careful hints about Agatha's damaged psyche and doing her best to fill in the gaps of Wagner's writing. 

The rest of the main cast, however, look as though they've been directed into comatose submission. Bird has the looks to play a royally messed up Bieber-esque child star, but he's never given the room to truly dig into the character's excessive lifestyle and increasingly erratic mindset. Cusack, meanwhile, is unable to lend a spark to what should be a juicy role: a classic puffed-up Hollywood life coach/guru. Yet rather than inflate himself to fit the role, the actor shrinks and goes through the motions. As for Pattinson, he's only got a handful of scenes, and they're all of the sort that really don't require a name actor at all. The exception, and not in a good way, is Olivia Williams, who - perhaps because of the editing - appears to be giving two performances at once. One minute she's a domineering stage mother, and the next she's falling apart and weeping over a past trauma. There's no in between, and the shifts feel completely forced. 

Though Cronenberg knows how to direct freakish madness on screen (Videodrome, Naked Lunch, The Fly, etc etc etc), his forays into psychological dramas over the past decade have largely proven to be stillborn. Cosmopolis and Spider had some effective moments and ideas, yet films like A Dangerous Method were often just sluggish and hollow. Maps to the Stars presents the best opportunity for Cronenberg to use his gifts as a director of nightmares, yet those nightmares never come. Even with the ghosts, different forms of incest, burning bodies, and three dead children, nothing about Maps to the Stars resonates. The visuals are flat, the production design passable, and the music barely notable. The content on page is so scattered that it can't really work without a strong atmosphere to heighten to horror of what it depicts, and Cronenberg and his collaborators never supply it.

One can't blame the director for trying to branch outside of his body horror roots, but you'd think by now he'd have seen that films like Maps to the Stars really don't fit his skill set at all. I have no doubt that he has some genuine contempt for the seedier aspects of Hollywood, but Maps to the Stars ultimately gives the impression that he's just indifferent towards it. Were this his first foray into this sort of satire, it would be easy enough to lay most of the blame at Wagner's feet. Yet even though Wagner's script is heavily flawed, Cronenberg's directorial choices (or lack thereof) are equally lackluster. There is so much bark in what Maps to the Stars wants to say, but when it comes to bite, the film has forgotten to put its dentures in. 

Grade: C

Review: "The Skeleton Twins"

Director: Craig Johnson
Runtime: 93 minutes

In their tenure on Saturday Night Live, Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig were two of the show's most consistently exciting, vibrant performers, even when they fell back on reliable characters to generate a laugh. Yet, beyond SNL, the two have also proven themselves capable of finding consistent work on the big screen, although in Hader's case it's mostly meant supporting roles in ensemble comedies. And, ever since Bridesmaids, Wiig has struggled to find a comic or dramatic (or tragicomic) vehicle with a strong enough script to show off some potential hidden range. For those who have been following the two actors since their respective departures from late night, the wait is now over. In Craig Johnson's debut film The Skeleton Twins, Hader and Wiig have finally found roles that play perfectly to their strengths as comedians, while simultaneously allowing them to flex their heretofore unseen dramatic muscles. 

Though pushed mostly as a dark comedy, Twins' opening gets off to a particularly heavy start. In Los Angeles, failed actor Milo (Hader) attempts suicide. Back in New York, dental associate Maggie (Wiig) is just about to swallow a handful of pills, only to be interrupted by a phone call informing her of Milo's near brush with death. Going from coast to coast, Maggie comes to take Milo back home with her for the time being, even though the pair haven't seen or spoken to each other in a decade. 

Once the basic relationships and plot mechanisms are in place, Johnson and co-writer Mark Heyman (Black Swan, of all things) let the rest of Twins unfold in tightly controlled emotional swings. Maggie and Milo's is left to go through long-delayed growing pains on its own, without any overly complicated story elements to get in the way. From a structural point of view, this can leave the shifts in tone feeling a bit abrupt. A truly joyous scene involving lip syncing is followed almost immediately by a setback in the relationship. While the back and forth does a solid job of capturing the touch and go relationship between the siblings, it can make for a somewhat jarring viewing experience (one that makes the slim runtime feel a bit longer than it is). 

At worst, however, all that The Skeleton Twins really needed was a little bit of restructuring. Otherwise, Johnson and Heyman's writing creates an authentic and compelling sibling bond. Their work, highlighted by Johnson's deft, unfussy directing, touches on myriad emotional issues, and never goes too deep or too light in execution. For a film that nearly begins with both protagonists offing themselves, The Skeleton Twins is often quite buoyant, even in its most unpleasant moments. 

The main attraction here, however, is to see Wiig and Hader do something genuinely new as performers, even as they engage in some purely goofy behavior. Their years as SNL co-stars serves them well when it comes to chemistry, as the two are instantly believable as siblings. They joke, tease, bicker, and even explode at each other, and every bit of it rings true. Both faces are so recognizable as those belonging to comedians, yet both are equally capable of communicating frustration, guilt, and sorrow. Wiig is especially impressive as the conflicted Maggie, juggling Milo's arrival along with her goodie two shoes husband Lance (Luke Wilson, charming and low key), with a quiet effortlessness. 

Even at its most grim, The Skeleton Twins retains a vague sense of hope (albeit without an ounce of gooey sentimentality). Johnson isn't afraid to get to some uncomfortable issues, as well as conflicts that don't come to an easy or pleasant resolution. Much like Boyhood (on a much, much smaller scale), Twins is a study of life's messiness at all ages. Its scope may not be as broad, nor its impact as profound, yet it's still a rewarding (and hugely promising) debut with a beating - albeit acid-tinged - heart at its core.

Grade: B/B+

Review: "The Two Faces of January"

Director: Hossein Amini
Runtime: 96 minutes

When source material is too highly regarded and too indebted to the specifics of prose, cinematic translations often stumble. For Patricia Highsmith, however, that's often not been the case. Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train and Anthony Minghella's The Talented Mr. Ripley are both exemplary adaptations that retain the voice of the original text, all while standing as separate cinematic entities. Because Highsmith's stories have translated to the big screen with such stellar results before, however, it's disappointing that the latest adaptation of her work is such a middling piece of filmmaking. Making his feature debut as a director, Oscar-nominated writer Hossein Amini (The Wings of the Dove) has turned Highsmith's The Two Faces of January into a moderately engaging, yet wholly unmemorable film that plays like a half-hearted attempt capturing what made something like Ripley work so well. 

The Ripley-esque figure (minus the capability for downright evil) this time around is American ex-pat Rydal (Oscar Isaac), a tour guide in Greece who has a habit of getting extra money out of gullible tourists. When Rydal spots wealthy-looking couple Chester and Colette MacFarland (Viggo Mortensen and Kirsten Dunst), he immediately sets them as his next mark, and starts encroaching on their carefree vacation. In part, Rydal is drawn to the MacFarlands because Chester reminds the former of his recently-deceased father. Yet the MacFarlands have ulterior motives of their own, and one accidental death later the trio find themselves bound by a dark secret. 

There are so many themes that Ripley and January share, yet there's a sizable gulf in quality when it comes to the actual results. Isaac has what should be a juicy role, yet his mild duplicity and parental estrangement issues are quickly thrown overboard in favor of getting the plot moving. The film's focus is in constant flux, leaving neither Rydal nor Chester particularly well-rounded by the time everything wraps up in the admittedly tense finale. To their credit, Isaac and Mortensen play off of each other well, although the latter sometimes struggles to convince as the sort of man who's not terribly sharp on his feet. Mortensen has a reserved intensity about him, and it doesn't lend itself well to a character who's occasionally written as, as one minor character puts it, "without a clue." Isaac, meanwhile, does his best to create a convincing portrait of a man being pulled in multiple directions, yet he's ultimately unable to overcome the crushingly superficial and unfocused writing. 

As for Colette/Dunst, she's left in a majorly watered-down version of Gwyneth Paltrow's Ripley character, with hardly any legitimately compelling material left over for her to work with. At the outset, it seems like Dunst is either miscast or simply not trying. The actress does prove her commitment in her one big emotional scene, revealing that the rest of her material gave her almost nothing to do.  

Though Amini has proven himself as a capable screenwriter, his first stab at directing finds him putting not enough effort into, well, the writing. Character-building is abandoned in favor of either moving the plot forward or spilling exposition. This leaves little room for a little thing called subtext, meaning that the underlying issues are hammered home in the exciting, yet far too hurried final act. Amini has done well when it comes to the visual and sonic aspects of directing, yet his handling of actors and underlying emotions tends to be rather wobbly. 

Foundational flaws aside, Amini has at least assembled a handsome looking production. Though the visuals have limited variety, January does for Athens and Crete what Ripley did for San Remo and Venice. Ancient ruins, seaside towns, and rugged coastal terrain all contribute nicely to the atmosphere (certainly more than the writing), with the photography, art direction, and costume design all working perfectly in sync. Composer Alberto Iglesias contributes an effective score to help move things along, even though some of it sounds like rejects from his work on Almodovar's Broken Embraces. 

So even though The Two Faces of January isn't a complete failure as far as Highsmith adaptations go, it's still a rather underwhelming effort, despite a handful of strengths. Yet in focusing so heavily on his duties as a director, Amini has left his debut without much emotional heft. Minor plot developments take precedence over authentic relationships among characters, robbing the narrative of a consistent sense of danger. January looks and sounds the part, and it never drags, but it's also too light on its feet to leave its own mark. 

Grade: B-/C+