Spy Another Day

Year: 2015

Director: Sam Mendes

Cast: Daniel Craig, Léa Seydoux, Christoph Waltz

Run Time:  2 hours 28 minutes

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Now, please keep in mind that I haven’t watched a James Bond movie since I was 14, so maybe they’re all brainless and repetitive and I had too much in common with them to notice. But considering that Goldfinger flits by at 1 hour and 50 minutes and the superspy’s latest effort – Spectre – rolls in creaking and groaning at 2 ½ hours, I daresay the original films didn’t take themselves quite so seriously.

Alas, I’m getting ahead of myself. Spectre is the 24th entry in the James Bond franchise, the fourth for Daniel Craig since Casino Royale rejuvenated the series back in 2006. It’s also the first to appear on the pages of this blog, and it makes a game attempt to ensure that it’s the last. I have enough fondness for the previous entries that I look forward to reviewing them one day, but Spectre’s strip-mining of Bond’s past glories is a recipe for half-baked rehash that leaves a sour taste in the mouth.

Coming soon: the Popcorn Culture Cookbook.

I’m going to streamline the plot as much as possible, because to go into detail would require an atlas, unflagging interest in the high-end car industry, and several gallons of Absolut. Here goes: James Bond (Daniel Craig) is an MI6 agent investigating an evil syndicate known as Spectre led by the shadowy Hans Oberhauser (Christoph Waltz), based on a clue left for him by the late M (Dame Judi Dench, in a cameo that she could have done from her living room).

Meanwhile, the current M (Ralph Fiennes, who I do believe was just trying to tear England apart with a group of wizard Nazis, so this is awkward) is battling through tangles of red tape thanks to C (Andrew Scott), a government official who wants to shut down MI6 and commence surveillance of the world’s digital traffic in alliance with several major world powers, bringing espionage into the 21st century. It is up to M, his secretary Moneypenny (Naomie Harris), and gadget guru Q (Ben Whishaw) to preserve the old ways and avoid going the way of the Walkman.

Oh, also Bond hooks up with Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux), the daughter of a previous bad guy who we’re expected to remember. They scoot across the globe, sticking together even though they have the chemistry of Elton John and a pair of sensible slacks.

I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is now you’re – eh, who are you again?

Spectre is a dense amalgamation of previous Bond films, both within the Craig tetralogy and the franchise as a whole, coming full circle within the reboot continuity while reintroducing classic characters and concepts. But as much as it’s beholden to the letter of the James Bond traditions, it fundamentally fails to capture the spirit, which flits away like a butterfly, always in sight but just out of reach.

Take the opening pre-credits scene. Bond takes a woman into his Mexico City hotel room, tells her he’ll be right back, and slips out the window. Thus ensues an explosive action sequence, taking Bond through crumbling mortar, the thrumming Dia de Los Muertos parade, and into the air over a teeming mass of bodies while a percussive drum beat smashes into and merges with the classic James Bond theme.

It’s stylish, high octane perfection, but instead of Bond dusting off, casually adjusting his tie, and returning triumphantly to his lady, we cut immediately into Sam Smith warbling “Writing’s on the Wall” over a singularly uninspired credits sequence. Look, as much as Bond’s I Love Lucy chocolate conveyor belt of conquests is haphazardly misogynistic, it’s all part of the came charm of his character, and the missing button from that scene cuts Spectre off at the knees.

Plus, that lady probably racked up thousands in minibar charges while abandoned in that room for hours.

Admittedly there are a handful of moments that embrace the campy appeal of the character, many of which are pretty unequivocally the best moments in the film. However, the degree to which you are asked to turn your brain off is in direct conflict with the length and girth of the stick up Spectre’s ass. In grand Christopher Nolan tradition, Spectre shrouds itself in dark, gritty realism that blocks out the fun factor as effectively as a smothering layer of gold paint. In fact, the Dark Knight gloomsmith was actually approached to direct this film, so that should tell you where returning director Sam Mendes’ (of American Beauty, somehow) ambitions lay.

The amount of time Spectre spends on its knees kissing your boots, begging, groveling for you to take it seriously is its very downfall. It’s never a good idea to approach a Bond flick with an eye for realism, but with this particular entry – and its plot holes big enough to host bar mitzvahs in – it’s cinematic suicide. The second you boot up your brain, the threadbare patchwork of the plot unravels in your hands, leaving you to stare in perplexion at a disheveled mass of thread.

Of course, this is a spy movie, so a certain amount of narrative tomfoolery is permitted (arbitrary countdowns, Rube Goldberg death traps that permit the hero ample time to escape, and the like). It’s all in good fun, but Spectre’s deficiencies sink much deeper than the average espionage flick. Characters mysteriously vanish never to be heard from again, plot points are introduced but never followed up on, and many of the blistering actions sequences take place in preternaturally empty environs. Spectre’s Ghost Train rivals even Halloween II’s Silent Hospital in terms of normally bustling locations that appear to have been abruptly abandoned, leaving only the core cast and maybe a handsome porter for decoration. It’s like they filmed on the Bermuda Triangle or something.

Or maybe the European extras were just all on vacation.

There’s a lot wrong with Spectre, nearly all of which is showcased in the interminable third act (when only two trailers played before this film, I knew it was a portent of doom for my bladder). A vast majority of the plot is pointless wheel spinning and wearisome monologues that leave your adrenal glands parched and shriveled. 

Perhaps it would work better if it balanced on a different central couple, because the crude archetype that Madeleine is brutally crammed into during the finale is hardly appropriate for her character or her shallow relationship with Bond. Watching her blankly go through the motions of a more developed plot only draws attention to the anemic characterizations that populate the film.

Christoph Waltz gives a game attempt at overcoming the peculiar inadequacies of his character, who is rejected from the plot like a bad skin graft. But there is only so much menace he can breathe into the banal, chinos-clad villain with sharply defined motivation but a wicked plan so vague that one can only assume he’s working from a first draft.

But there’s one thing I haven’t talked about: the action. It isn’t particularly original, but it’s as dazzling as altogether too much money can buy. There’s only so many times I can watch a secret agent discover a hidden door or punch an indestructible henchman (this time a totally wasted Dave Bautista) in the face, but this is the one element where Spectre totally embraces its over-the-top pedigree. Armed with his pistol that has the range of a rifle and the delicacy of a dart, Bond sweeps through the massive, inexplicably varied setpieces with relative aplomb.

It’s not enough to fully redeem the film form its monotonous, triumphantly silly depths, but it’s a totally adequate night at the movies. It will hold your attention more often than not, and in today’s climate sometimes that’s the best you can get. If you come into Spectre with an open mind, it does give you some bang for its buck. While 300 million bangs can be exhausting, it’s still quite a spectacle to behold.

TL;DR: Spectre is an acceptable trifle, but a plodding, unsatisfying James Bond movie.

Rating: 6/10

Word Count: 1367

Do You Ever Feel Like A Plastic Bag?

Year: 1999

Director: Sam Mendes

Cast: Kevin Spacey, Thora Birch, Annette Bening

Run Time: 2 hours 2 minutes

MPAA Rating: R

Happy families are all alike. But unhappy family movies are even more alike.

The meltdown of the nuclear family is perhaps the most commonly explored theme in contemporary American filmmaking. To stand out, one's film must have something more to offer than a mere subversion of the American Dream. After all, nothing is worse than being ordinary.

In its way, American Beauty does accomplish this, mainly by being one of the most technically flawless films to come out of the 1990's. As an example of textbook-precise filmmaking, look no further than Sam Mendes' directorial debut, for which he must have carefully studied every popular filmmaking technique in the industry, tossing in a few creative strokes of his own for good measure.

But a perfect machine only runs perfectly on the right fuel, and in filmmaking this means a proper script. American Beauty's screenplay is far from being an Uwe Boll napkin scribble, but at times it indulges itself in layers of pretention that would make even Richard Kelly weep with jealousy.

Although in a Richard Kelly movie, this bath would be a portal to the sub-universe of forgotten names or something.

American Beauty, as if you weren't already aware, is about Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey), a middle-aged father who works at a thankless job and lives in a quiet suburban neighborhood with his unsuccessful realtor wife Carolyn (Annette Bening) and his surly teen daughter Jane (Thora Birch). His boring, plodding life begins to change when he develops a crush on his daughter's friend Angela (Mena Suvari). His ichor burning bright, he lets loose and begins pursuing his wildest desires like quitting his job, working out, smoking pot, getting a sports car, and mid-life crisising all the way to the bank.

American Beauty (which is named for a beautiful variety of rose that is prone to rot at the roots - ooh, portentous) is a film all about the strict rules we manage ourselves by in order to maintain our own superficial feelings of success, and what happens when those rules are exposed for the intangible artifice that they are. As Lester breaks free from those bonds, his acting out has a ripple effect, distorting the rules for everyone in his vicinity.

It's interesting, to say the least. Exposing the dark underbelly of suburbia is something that many of my favorite horror films do, and it's a treat to see it play out in a more comedic context. Unfortunately, the far more interesting story that revolves around Lester is frequently impeded upon by a dire subplot, in which Jane strikes up a youthful romance with the neighbor's son Ricky (Wes Bentley), whose every line of dialogue is filled to the brim with Important and Meaningful pseudo-philosophy.

In my notes, I took to calling his character Donnie Dorko.

As Ricky tools around with his camcorder, making Intense, Significant Statements about how plastic bags and dead birds are metaphors for life, Lester's plot falters, devolving temporarily into an absurd sitcom plot  that turns him into a sputtering cartoon figure, while Angela herself vanishes completely for over a third of the running time, sucked into a black hole of self-congratulation. Of all of the insight and commentary on the American family that American Beauty attempts to cram into its two hours, only about 60% is presented in a manner that doesn't make me want to eject bile directly onto a teenager's face.

However, despite a grossly inflated sense of its own importance, American Beauty is a rather remarkable film. Nearly every aspect of its production is a finely tuned instrument of emotional evocation, from the production design on up. Now, it's probably obvious that the color red appears in the film in profusion to reflect the passion and vigor of various characters, but every little detail from the placement of a kitchen island to the leaves on the trees lining the street play a small part of making the film's universe a complete, visual whole.

Likewise, the cinematography is mathematically precise, freely giving and taking power, shifting the dynamics between characters with breathless ease, all compounded with the alternately jangling and peanut butter smooth score. Every moment is picturesque and precise, but where American Beauty truly comes alive is in its fantasy sequences, which are shot with reckless abandon with an absurdly generous wealth of vivacious color, providing instantly iconic imagery left and right.

There's a few unfortunate bits of gummy-looking CGI which only a mother could love, and Mena Suvari's performance degrades every time she is called upon to say another line (though, to be fair, Angela is more of a distillation of virtues than an actual character), but technical flaws are few and far between.

Just like Thora Birch's future movie roles. Zing!

Kevin Spacey and his co-stars are terrific, but the real standout of the film is Annette Bening, whose glacier-like features and perpetually frozen smile begin to crack and thaw under the pressure. She lets us snatch glimpses of the true Carolyn through an impeccable physical and vocal performance.

So, all things considered, American Beauty is a terrifically professional example of creative filmmaking. Its lofty artistic goals are only partially met, and it would be much improved if someone took a scalpel to any scenes that attempt to understand high schoolers, but as a cinematic machine it's a damn Rolls Royce.

As if I could dislike any film that name drops Re-Animator.

TL;DR: American Beauty is a tad pretentious, but it's a well-oiled machine of a film.

Rating: 7/10

Word Count: 941