A Frank Review of "The Brothers Bloom" (2009)

The Short Version? Romantic con men vs. ennui
What Is It? Caper Comedy.
Who Is In It? Rachel Weisz, Adrien Brody and Mark Ruffalo
Should I See It? Yes.



I would have let writer/director Rian Johnson's debut, Brick, sail right past me, had it not been for a few well-placed glowing reviews. I adored the neo-noir, and it's a film that still leaves me feeling tipsy whenever I bask in its cool blue glow. However, this left Johnson's sophomore effort, The Brothers Bloom, with the weight of expectation upon it. Luckily, within minutes it became clear that this film was so completely different from Brick in almost every way that comparison was futile. Aside from the intelligence of the script, you would be forgiven for assuming there was no common creative ancestry, and even there Brick's sometimes impenetrable slang was replaced by very clear and considered dialogue here. Bloom actually feels more like early, zany Coen Brothers as processed through the more twee sensibilities of Wes Anderson. By the end of the first reel, I was ready to proclaim Johnson's brilliance. Sadly, that feeling evaporated in the third reel, but the journey was well worth taking.

As orphan boys, Stephen and Bloom learned how to run elaborate confidence games designed to benefit all concerned. Now in their thirties, Stephen relishes crafting cons with the intricacy of Russian novels, while Bloom has lost any sense of his own personal identity and wants out. To serve both of their demands, Stephen directs Bloom to one last mark, eccentric heiress Penelope Stamp, who doggedly refuses to follow either of the brothers' expectations.

Now that's the text. The subtext involves the ways in which humans motivate themselves, and even more pointedly, how writers choose to direct their characters and plots. Johnson tips this hand early, and illuminating the illusion behind motion pictures is always a dangerous game to play. I found myself distracted by following both texts on first viewing, taking in the artistry of the screenplay while recognizing its flashiness had betrayed the actual narration. Johnson began a dialogue about the movie in progress that had taken me out of it as a passive audience member, so that I never connected to any of his characters as more than symbols.

Setting that aside for now, Brothers opens with the delightful prologue, then barrels headfirst into the kind of classic capers everyone loves. The humor in the early going is clever, especially the earliest interactions between Bloom and Penelope. Every now and again a character would dash off some profundity or revealing bit, but the movie was at its best when it kept things light, quirky and playful. Unfortunately, the con just isn't as intricate as it needs to be to validate the brothers as world class, and there are too many arbitrary "indie" elements that without the benefit of goodwill would be considered plot holes. In the second reel, the angst and indecision of Bloom seems to translate into that of the screenwriter, agonizing over his inability to compete with the films that inspired him. The tone of the movie breaks down, becoming erratic and uncommitted to any specific direction. The movie seemed to work when it veered toward comforting familiarity, but its ambitions wouldn't allow it to simply serve as a crowdpleaser. Its grasp outstripped its reach, and just as I thought things were wrapping up in a predictable manner, it continued down an ill-considered and poorly realized path toward its final overdue resolution. By the end, I felt like I would rather revisit the similar but more satisfying Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.

All of this is through no fault of the cast, and as has become a theme in this post-WGA strike year of cinema, actors are doing most of the heavy lifting lately. Rachel Weisz is presented the very difficult task of playing Penelope as both space case and sage, along with flexing her comedic muscles after years of dramas, and she comes through like a champ. Adrien Brody didn't have to work nearly as hard as Bloom, dealing in his typical gloom, but capable nonetheless. Complementing Mark Ruffalo as Stephen is trickier, as on the one hand his vibrant presence shines through many scenes. On the other, it gives him such an air of benevolence that it removes any doubt about trusting his judgment in manipulating everyone around him. Johnson named Stephen after a James Joyce character, but especially through Ruffalo's representation, a more truthful moniker would have been Gary Stu.

Lending support is Rinko Kikuchi as Bang Bang, the brothers' typically mum partner and demolitions expert, as well as a consistent source of funny bits. Robbie Coltrane and Maximilian Schell play fellow grifters of more questionable alignment, and are each too broad in the task for my taste. A source soundtrack album is very necessary, as there are some fantastic musical selections here I'd love to own. Finally, the visited cities of the globetrotting crooks must be spoken of, as the sights here are glorious.

The Brothers Bloom is at the very least an entertaining failure. Brick aside, the first half of Brothers builds its own good will that allows it to coast through some rough patches in the second half. Things don't really go awry until the story seem to come to a head, only to limp on and lead into the "twist" ending, which really pisses on common sense and probability. Worse, it fairly rub your nose in that nasty pile of subtext I mentioned earlier. With any luck, there'll be an alternate version on the DVD I can pretend was the actual ending, as I did when Oliver Platt wouldn't go away in The Ice Harvest, or how part of me is still waiting for the first Matrix sequel.

A Frank Review of "Drag Me To Hell" (2009)

The Short Version? See title, add "...but I don't wanna go."
What Is It? Horror Comedy.
Who Is In It? The Mac guy and other people you hardly know.
Should I See It? Yes.



Imagine a PG-13 remake of The Evil Dead. Once you've stopped vomiting, let me explain that isn't inherently a bad thing, especially when you've got the same director working in top form with a superior budget (after earning his keep with all those Spider-Man movies.) Also, remember that we've come a long way from 1987, when things like a girl accidentally swallowing a rotting projectile eyeball forced Evil Dead II: Dead By Dawn to be released unrated rather than receive an "X" from the MPAA. Today, the exact same gag passed just under an "R" rating, and it isn't alone in the gore and gross-out departments. Let's just say there's a reason I assigned you vomiting as a reaction to this flick. What is lost in the near thirty years since the first Evil Dead is nudity, rape by tree, Bruce Campbell, severe mutilation, and the disturbingly gloriously stop-motion. What is gained includes a pretty young thing in the lead, a greater emphasis on character and comedy, way more daylight and cultural diversity, CGI, and gallons of fluids with greater viscosity than blood. Objectively, Drag is a better film than the first Dead, but all in all, still a lighthearted retread.

Alison Lohman plays the reformed redneck loan officer who makes the mistake of turning down a third mortgage extension on the home of the pissiest gypsy bitch in screen history, all in hopes of landing an assistant manager position at the bank. Her ambition earns a violent stalker, first in the form of the gypsy, then a demonic lamia intent on escorting her directly to Hell after three days of sadistic "grace" on Earth. Lohman does a fine job of straddling the line between sweet-natured country girl and career woman, making her a perfect identification heroine for the ladies in the audience. Ellen Page of Juno fame was originally given the part, but it was a boon that outside issues rendered her unavailable. Lohman lends her character a much needed vulnerability to smooth out the character's more aggressive plays and retain audience sympathy.

Justin Long overcomes the usual trap of portraying the disbelieving but supportive boyfriend by not sleepwalking, as most actors would, and just damned well playing the shit out of a part that's obviously slight on paper. Lorna Raver is an unholy force of nature as the gypsy. Dileep Rao is fun as a helpful psychic who likes to see to it the coin reaches his purse.

Once everything is set up, the movie coasts from one episodic scenario after another, thumbing through the horror movie rolodex to pull everyone's number to elicit squirms, yelps, and starts. There's an over reliance on loud noises and jump scares, but at least Raimi winks at the audience, acknowledging their awareness of the troupes and daring them not to be impacted regardless. There's nothing at all deep about Drag Me To Hell, but it showcases a capable protagonist and rarely insults the audiences' intelligence, which is commendable in this genre. In fact, its likely that you may for once go through a screening of one of these things without second-guessing the players, since everyone typically does what you yourself would consider under the circumstances. Aside from younger or less intestinally fortified viewers, this is a respectable horror flick that can be viewed by the whole family as a, dare I speak it, "thrill ride."

Bad Covers: "Careless Whisper" by Seether

I think George Michael was a great songwriter whose pretenses got in the way of his talent, but I have no problem with people covering his work. On the other hand, does anyone believe Shaun Morgan's drunk ass has been taking anyone's hand and leading them to a dance floor? People do not waltz to grunge, for fuck's sake. Anyway, I'm not a big fan of deeply faithful covers, as is the case here, where the main differences are guitar in place of sax and the vocals being less polished. The lyrics don't suit the band, so the whole affair reeks of phony sentiment in pursuit of sales. Besides, I really like well placed horns in pop music, so regressing to the omnipresent guitar just me sad.

1990 James O'Barr's The Crow against barbed wire

Back in the early '90s, my access to comic shops was limited, so I got a lot out of my brother's keeping copies of CSN around his house for me to peruse. For instance, my first exposure to the Eric Draven Crow character was on the cover of the 1990 Comic Shop News Winter Preview!, pictured here. I think this is a fantastic image, which inspired all sorts of fevered dreams and imitations from my own mind based on my imagining of who or what this guy was. I didn't manage to read an actual Crow comic for another couple of years, when Tundra released the complete series in three prestige editions. You can imagine my sitting down to finally read the graphic novel after all that build-up, and being utterly disappointed by it. I saw the film at the theater in 1994, and haven't bothered with it again since. I sold the Kitchen Sink, London Night, and Image Comics series in my shops at an erratic trickle, even factoring in subscribers, of which there were few. I've known of many idiots who've dressed as the Crow for pretty much every Halloween for fifteen friggin' years now. All that devotion, based on a turgid comic, a tepid movie, a dubious "curse" and some admittedly wicked soundtracks. Oh, and cool as shit images like this, which explains why the Crow remains one of the only great comic book creations since the Silver Age, even if Jim O'Barr makes more money off licensing than anybody ever did off the actual comic books. Someone should really look into that.

Meanwhile, I couldn't find this exact image anywhere else on the internet, in part due to O'Barr's having drawn almost nothing but Crow pin-ups since 1989. I scanned and cleaned up the above from that old copy of CSN I've had in a box for decades, so sorry for the extraneous crap at the bottom.

Sylvia Kristel Emmanuelle Custom Barbie Doll

Here's one of those outrageous things you only stumble across through hard core web surfing: a custom made Emmanuelle doll as modeled by Sylvia Kristel for one of the 1974 film's best remembered movie posters. Juan Albuerne, Asun Merino and Vince Tibavido obviously did an incredible job with their recreation. Kristel was of course topless for the original image (and about half of the flick,) so Albuerne had to sculpt nipples (censored here) with Milliput paste. You can see the full size, uncensored images here, or be amazed by the complete catalog at JUAN ALBUERNE'S MOVIE STARS site. They're almost all female, and many are impossibly spot on. I particularly liked Diana Ross, Penelope Cruz, Whoopi Goldberg and especially Brandy.

A Frank Review of "Terminator Salvation" (2009)

The Short Version? "Come with me if you want to run from a killer cyborg for a couple of hours for the forth time!"
What Is It? Action/Sci-Fi
Who Is In It? Christian Bale, Marla from Fight Club, Gwen Stacy, Chekov, Ham Tyler
Should I See It? Maybe.



I saw the first Terminator on VHS around 1986 or 87, and as James Cameron was wont to do, it rocked my fuckin' socks off. It wasn't at all like seeing Aliens at the bijou, but definitely in the Beastmaster realm of bossness. I was certainly primed for Terminator 2: Judgment Day, which molested my senses as never before, and during those awkward teenage years when you need those sorts of experiences. However, I revisited both films throughout the '90s, and found myself increasingly aware of diminishing returns, as I grew more sophisticated and action cinema played catch-up. Sans the newness and spectacle, the Terminator franchise was left with perplexing temporal paradox and endless repetitive scenes of cyborgs running and getting hit without falling down.

By the time Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines limped onto screens six years ago, my enthusiasm was already about dissipated. On the plus side, this allowed me to be entertained by a middling feature with miscast leads and an entirely too old Arnold Schwarzenegger. I got a lot more out of Kristanna Loken's nude scenes than Michael Biehn's, but a Terminator without Linda Hamilton's milestone performance as Sarah Connor was about as welcome as a remake of Pulp Fiction. The only really money moment (besides the fire truck sequence) was seeing that the film at least had the balls to finally nuke the world already. Sure it's fatalistic, but the only way up for the franchise was to get down with the robotic Armageddon.

Which brings us to the latest, and most likely last, installment of the original Terminator series. The is "Battle for the Planet of the Terminators." This is the one where the concept has completely been exhausted, paving the way for a wholly unnecessary reboot attempt in a decade or so that everyone will hate. All logic is tossed to the wind, so distastefully Shyamalanian that even the biggest dopes in the audience will cry foul. Everything that should be cool is limp, and all promises are whelched upon.

This time, a death row inmate in the near present named Marcus Wright (Sam Worthington) signs his body away to the science of Skynet, specifically to the terminally cancerous Dr. Serena Kogan (Helena Bonham Carter, allowing Marla to finally earn her place in group therapy alongside Chloe, and just as hard up.) Wright wakes up in the cybernetic future, meets a young Kyle Reese (Anton Yelchin,) and takes every opportunity to swagger like a badass. Meanwhile, the finally grown up and decently cast messianic human resistance leader John Connor (Christian Bale) does random shit that doesn't amount to much because Batman wanted to inflate his bit part (as originally scripted.) A very spoilery recap by Devin Faraci of the original script can be found at CHUD, if you're curious. From here, the movie builds stupidity to the utmost human tolerance until its retardation reaches the maximum allowable degree of are-you-fucking-kidding-me?

This is one of those movies where every single audience member rightly points out the cavernous plot holes and offers their own far superior revisions to the shitstorm on screen. Despite a several hundred million dollar budget, the majority of the props, sets, costumes and digital effects look low rent. For instance, I've been waiting decades for armies of T-600s to get fired upon by pulse rifles. Instead, many of the Terminators here look like cheaply made-up extras from Jean-Claude Van Damme's 1989 knock-off Cyborg, and the human's weapons are all modern military standard. Where I want to see tanks and crushed skulls, I get PG-13 visions that recall the Matrix sequels, Transformers, and of all things, Will Smith's The Wild, Wild West. Notably crappy director McG does a better Cameron impression than Jonathan Mostow, but the script is such absolute garbage that everything comes off as a mongoloid retread of past Terminator sequences.

Having already shat upon the movie at length, you may wonder why my recommendation to see it is set at "maybe" instead of "hell no." Like the also rather stupid new Star Trek, this movie's salvation is in its cast. These actors deliver the worst dialogue with such conviction and weight, you almost forgive them. Christian Bale isn't spectacular, but he sells himself as John Connor reasonably well. Despite slipping from a Southern drawl to his native Australian constantly, and being given no believable motivation, Sam Worthington has solid actioner chops. Anton Yelchin is fantastic as Kyle Reece, invoking Biehn while making the part his own in a manner not unlike Chris Pine's Captain Kirk. Bryce Dallas Howard takes a role with absolutely nothing on the page, and creates a more sympathetic and humanistic Kate Connor than Claire Danes managed with an entire film. Arnie's "appearance" is outstanding. And Michael Motherfucking Ironside is in this thing. Sure he's fat, old, and only in a few brief scenes, but we're talking General Katana here! Darryl Revok! Richter! Jester! Ham Tyler! Overdog! Darkseid!

Less worthy is Moon Bloodgood as Blair Williams, a creature that serves every inanity the script throws her way without the slightest hint of forethought or credibility. Bloodgood is pretty, but she comes off like she stepped out of an episode of Lorenzo Lamas's 1990s syndicated Renegade television series, and she actually did come off the starring role in the soon-to-be-notorious Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li. Jadagrace is alright as Lil' Black Newt/the Not-So-Feral Kid, a.k.a. Star, but she stays mute throughout. Helena Bonham Carter is a soulless machine that absolutely will not stop, ever, until you hear every ream of exposition.

So you take the goodish, you take the lousy, and there you have a barely passable "maybe" pseudo-recommendation. Still, as a helicopter flies away from a massive explosion in the last reel, accompanied by voiceover narration, I almost heard a vow to continue the fight against the sinister Umbrella Corporation after the cleansing of Racoon City. Literally, there's a sequence in this film right out of Resident Evil: Extinction, and I wouldn't hesitate to declare the very similar third Milla Jovovich outing in the video game-inspired film series as preferable in almost every way to Terminator Salvation, though Rotten Tomatoes currently places the critical divide between each's foulness at just 12%. Read into that what you will.

1981 Nautilus Dreams The Sorcerer Graphic Novel Ad

In 1980, after their acclaimed run on Iron Man, David Michelinie and Bob Layton decided to turn their attentions toward a creator-owned work. However, this was in the early days of the "graphic novel." Coming from Marvel Comics as they did, the creators' interpretation of the term was less Will Eisner and more "overlong super-hero comic book with profanity and excessive violence." The basic premise was "The Spectre meets the Executioner by way of Mandrake the Magician." As Layton himself would more charitably put it, "Our concept revolved around the story of Seneca St. Synn, a stage magician who had been disfigured by the Mob, after refusing to knuckle under to their demands. What was born of that botched assassination became the hooded and black garbed creature of the night called-The Sorcerer. The Sorcerer, using the magics taught to him by his Native American Grandfather, began a trail of vengeance against the mob that was ghastly, even by today's more accepting standards."

The intended publisher, Nautilus Dreams, fell apart before the graphic novel actually saw print. The creators shopped the property around for years unsuccessfully. I imagine it would have been right at home amidst the second wave of Image Comics like Trencher and Shaman's Tears, were the creators not themselves entrenched at Valiant Comics at the time. Eventually, Layton and company began a short-lived company of their own called Future Comics, where they reworked the Sorcerer into Deathmask.

Anyway, Layton presented the complete unpublished graphic novel on his web site a few years ago. The story itself is juvenile, featuring dialogue no human being would ever speak. The characters were all types, stereotypes or both: the grim "Indian" with Shamanistic powers, the flamboyantly gay master criminal, the driven investigator filled with personal integrity, the two Mex-i-cans with accents thicker than their mustaches, and so on. If you like your action extravaganzas heavily flavored with Gouda and not weighed down by reason, you could do worse than the Sorcerer. If you're averse to topless whores getting their faces blown off at close range, then maybe you should reconsider following the below links to the free content...

Unpublished Sorcerer #1 Wraparound Cover

Bob Layton.com's The Sorcerer Archive Part One (Pages 1-12)

Bob Layton.com's The Sorcerer Archive Part Two (Pages 13-24)

Bob Layton.com's The Sorcerer Archive Part Three (Pages 25-36)