Death Race HH
Written and directed by Paul W.S. Anderson. With Jason Statham, Joan Allen, Ian McShane, Tyrese Gibson, and Natalie Martinez. (R)
There's something about British actor and Death Race star Jason Statham that's hard not to like. There's also much about him that's simply hard: he has the squat, chiseled physique of a coal miner who boxes on the weekends. But unlike a lot of strongmen, whose bodies are their only asset, Statham—like his fellow muscle-bound action hero Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson—has something going on underneath the skin. Charm, charisma, whatever you want to call it—it could be as simple as having a sense of humor—it's there, mostly in his eyes, which reflect the pleading yet wary look of a stray dog.
Perhaps it's a reflection of a life lived mostly outside the limelight—it was the actor's firsthand knowledge of selling goods on the black market that landed him a breakout role in Guy Ritchie's Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. Since then, he's mostly been cast in cardboard cutout roles, with the notable exception of this spring's The Bank Job, where he was actually allowed to act now and again (as opposed to The Italian Job, and, presumably, its announced sequel The Brazilian Job—another heist film, and not, as its title suggests, about a waxing). It's a shame he isn't allowed to stretch more often; he may not be Laurence Olivier, but it's the glimmer of humanity he brings to an absurd role that lifts Death Race so slightly above its own muck of engine oil and blood.
Here he stars as Jensen Ames, an ex-race car driver who lost his license and ended up working at the local steel mill. But the mill closes down without warning, leaving frustrated workers with a slim severance package and a collection of welts from the riot police called in to herd them off plant property. It could be worse; he's still got a loving wife and daughter waiting at home, at least for a few hours more, before his wife is murdered and he's framed for the crime.
Sentenced to life, he's packed off to Terminal Island, where Warden Hennessey (Joan Allen) stages the NASCAR-meets-snuff-film races that are the country's biggest draw in the 2012 world of pay-per-view. Win five and you're granted freedom. Should you lose, it's most likely because one of your fellow drivers left you dead on—or, more likely, all over—the track; the tricked out cars feature any number of weapons, including the churning .50 caliber guns whose firing provides much of the movie's soundtrack.
It turns out that fan favorite Frankenstein died after winning four races, and Hennessey needs Ames to boost ratings by taking on his identity, hiding behind the mask "Frank" wore to cover the disfigurement born of a thousand crashes. He'll have help from his pit crew: the nerdy, stammering Lists, artillery specialist Gunner, and the patriarchal Coach. The last, played by Ian McShane (Deadwood) in a set of Ben Franklin glasses, is one of the film's few other enjoyable turns—it feels like McShane is having fun, even if it's only because the patently ridiculous role just paid for a yacht. Less interesting is the banal sexism displayed when Ames' female "navigator" arrives.Played by the admittedly gorgeous Natalie Martinez, her every appearance is heralded by so much slow-motion bump and grind that the film resembles nothing as much as a pin-up calendar. One fully expects her to begin soaping up a car in her bikini.
At any rate, it quickly becomes clear to Ames that the warden has no intention of freeing him, and that finding his daughter means forging a partnership with his rival on the track. It's all pretty pat and all patently ridiculous, from the napalm-spewing cars to the warm family scene with a homicidal ex-con. Perhaps, though, we shouldn't expect anything else from a film produced by B-movie maestro Roger Corman, the man behind almost 400 schlock-fests, including The Brain Eaters, Attack of the Giant Leeches and any number of women-in-prison films (though he also helped produce the Oscar-nominated I Never Promised You a Rose Garden).
It was Corman who was behind the 1975 Death Race 2000, on which this incarnation is based; amazingly, it could be said that the newer version is a kinder, gentler iteration, despite the copious amount of blood splashing across the lens. In the original, the racers scored points by mowing down innocent pedestrians; at least here the criminals are going after each other. Still, it's all little more than a video game in the end: fast cars, thumping music and a lot of firepower, but no danger of feeling real.
The Rocker HH
Directed by Peter Cattaneo. Written by Maya Forbes and Wallace Wolodarsky. With Rainn Wilson, Christina Applegate, Teddy Geiger, Emma Stone, Jeff Garlin, and Jason Sudeikis. (PG-13)
When you go to the movies three or four times a week, you start to pick up on trends in film. Some are broad and constant, forming the backbone of cinema since the days of Chaplin—boy meets girl, mistaken identity, hauntings, and adventure pictures are all familiar enough. Others, though, form on a smaller scale, floating to the forefront of the zeitgeist to wield influence for a summer or a year before retreating into a long hibernation: pot comedies, summer camp movies, and asteroids-about-to-hit-the-Earth flicks. When some future generation looks back at the comedic legacy of 2008, it can only be one thing: The Year of the Jiggling Man-Flesh.
Pasty, doughy and white as a tuna's belly, the love handles, sagging guts and much more of some of our highest-paid actors have been showing up onscreen this year with the regularity of Capistrano's swallows. The high priest of the movement is, of course, Will Ferrell, who rarely gets more than a few minutes into a film before appearing at least half naked, sweaty, or both, but others have gotten in on the act as well, perhaps smelling the bundles of cash Ferrell uses to towel off.
In The Rocker, Rainn Wilson (company tool Dwight Schrute on TV's The Office) gets in on the act. His Robert "Fish" Fishman is a has-been rock drummer who was kicked out of '80s hair band Vesuvius just as they hit it big—think Van Halen, only still popular. Twenty years later, Fish is still working a series of "soul-crushing" jobs and nursing a little nugget of hate while his old bandmates are about to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
When an ill-conceived prank (hash brownies, permanent marker) gets one of his nephew's friends suspended from school, Fish is pressed into service to play drums for their band's gig at the prom. Here's where the jiggle comes in: Fish likes to rehearse naked. When his niece stumbles upon their webcam rehearsal and uploads it to YouTube, the "Naked Drummer" becomes a smash, and, in a moment you may miss as your eyes begin rolling, record labels come calling, eager to sign the band.
As the band begins to tour, you can feel the inevitable coming—a clash with Fish's old band, a revelation, lessons learned. What's so awful is not just the obvious, clich?d, and wholly unbelievable rising fame of the band, but how it flies in the face of the movie's own statements about believing in something and being true to oneself. The supposedly earnest, honest band (the singer, played by musician Teddy Geiger, writes songs because his father abandoned him) is given the full Disney treatment, with plenty of poppy musical interludes that feel like an attempt to get High School Musical fans to start pestering their parents for the soundtrack album. It's as prepackaged and predictable as the music it claims to be against.
The few good things here are tangential: Jason Sudeikis' asinine record label representative gets every one of the film's better lines, most of them wildly inappropriate. Christina Applegate, as band den mother and possible love interest Kim, is a mix of adult stability and leftover youthful rebellion that feels familiar, even common in an era of extended adolescence. But if they and a handful of cameos—notably "fifth Beatle" Pete Best commiserating with Fish—offer passing interest, it's not enough to sustain a movie built so baldly by the numbers.
So when the ridiculous final showdown comes with Vesuvius—who have adopted British accents since their days with Fish—there's nobody left to root for. Whatever we've been told, it's plain that one band is as phony as the other.
Also this week: Live music returns to the Academy of Music—in a way. Wrapping up its current film series at the august Northampton venue, Main Street Motion Media brings two concert films to the town's biggest screen. First up is Martin Scorsese's Shine a Light, his documentary look at the Rolling Stones. Shine the Light was filmed with a full camera crew during a two-night residency at the legendary Beacon Theatre in New York, and the sheer amount of coverage makes it much more than a mere concert film; Scorsese—himself a longtime fan who has often used Stones songs in his films—is able to stitch together an intimate look at the personalities that make up the band.
Following Mick and his mates is Portishead: Live at Roseland, an entrancing set of songs from the British band whose flair for mixing melodrama and electronica with hints of a downbeat jazz helped usher in a new and hypnotic music. For the 1997 show documented here, they teamed up with the string section of the New York Philharmonic, deepening the band's already evocative sound."
Jack Brown can be reached at cinemadope@gmail.com.
