Eurovision Song Contest:
The Story Of Fire Saga Cert: TBC / 123 mins / Dir. David Dobkin / Trailer
We live in interesting times of course*1, and the movie distribution business is in something of a state of flux. Cinema releases are being either delayed or hurried forward to VOD, while streaming platforms find their original content presented to a larger audience than probably imagined during each title's production. Sticking its head above the parapet is David (Wedding Crashers) Dobkin's Eurovision Song Contest: The Story Of Fire Saga, a comedy co-written by Andrew (Saturday Night Live) Steele.
Will Ferrell and Rachel McAdams star as Lars Erickssong and Sigrit Ericksdottir. A pair of aspiring, if flawed, musicians from a small fishing community in Iceland, they enter the famed eponymous competition and find themselves at previously unimagined heights when a terrible accident befalls the other competitors. Pierce Brosnan plays Ferrell's gruff father Erick, Dan Stevens appears as the wolfishly flamboyant Russian entrant Alexander Lemtov, with supporting roles from Melissanthi Mahut, Demi Lovato and even Graham Norton, as well as a swathe of cameo appearances from Eurovision stars of recent years.
KITSCH Let's keep this brief. What should be an kitsch, undemanding, underdog comedy quickly becomes a tactless, lumbering farce played out by a cast who resort to yelling louder the more unfunny the dialogue becomes; a series of badly improvised sketches edited together by someone who spent half of the story-meetings asleep*2. Fans of dodgy accents, dodgy wigs and levels of innuendo that a five year old would find a bit too on-the-nose will find much to enjoy.
The rest of us, meanwhile, have our endurance tested with an 85-minute straight-to-video movie which runs, somehow, at just over two gruelling hours. From a story point of view, this is that episode of Father Ted meets Spinal Tap, but with the charm and wit of neither. In fact, you could just watch those two back to back and save yourself 16 minutes.
SWIFT As is always the case, I deliberately haven't read much in the way of reaction to this movie prior to watching. But I have heard that the more a viewer enjoys actual Eurovision, the more they'll get out of this. Now I'm not particularly a fan of the annual song competition myself, but I don't dislike it anywhere near as much as I roundly despised The Story Of Fire Saga. Mrs Blackout, however, is a huge fan, and she also struggled with the film. This isn't terrible because of its subject matter; it's terrible because it's just sloppily made.
It isn't a celebration of Eurovision, it's not even a celebration of its own cast. Dan Stevens and Rachel McAdams are better than this. Will Ferrell is not. Because of course he co-wrote it. In fact, this is the mortifying, bellowing, mid-life crisis equivalent of Ben Stiller skateboarding past a volcano*3, like we're getting a glimpse into Will's psyche and it's even more laboured and self-indulgently cack handed than anyone could have imagined. Well now that's out in the world and it can't be denied or un-seen. More's the pity.
Credit where it's due, David Dobkin has delivered precisely what Netflix ordered; a music-based comedy which is perfect for people who like neither music nor comedy.
Will Ferrell is the new Adam Sandler. Fuck this movie.
*1 It has of course been more than a little quiet round Blackout Towers of late. Since the cinema closed its doors, it's not so much that I've had nothing to watch, more that I've found myself with an absolute dearth of concentration with which to analyse and properly enjoy new content. Working-from-home has meant I haven't suddenly discovered a new burst of downtime (quite the opposite, if anything), and my main source of therapy from the raging trashfire which is 2020 has come in the form of the vintage TV review podcast which I've recorded with my partner in audiophonic crime. And which you should definitely listen to.
But as I look towards my local opening its doors at the end of the month (which is still subject to change of course), I figure I'd better try and get back in the swing of things. So here we are, and what a way to begin... [ BACK ]
*2 And bonus minus-points for the sheer number of conversation scenes where we cut to an angle with the camera behind the actor who's still speaking, while their jaw resolutely fails to move because this was an extended reaction-shot dropped into the edit at the last minute after what one can only assume was "extensive ADR work to try and beef up what passes for a script".
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*3 And bear in mind I say this as a man in his forties who's currently growing his hair long. [ BACK ]
*4 Because of course I don't "do" zero points, on account of the filmmakers at least having finished a product and got it out there, however dreadful the end result is. And that's sort of a shame as the Eurovision setting would have been perfect for a "nul points" gag, but that would have meant me making a new card-insert just for this review and quite frankly The Story Of Fire Saga isn't worth the effort. Besides, as much as I loathe this, it's still nowhere near as hateful as C.H.i.P.s, and that got 1/7.
[ BACK ]
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
The Call Of The Wild Cert: PG / 100 mins / Dir. Chris Sanders / Trailer
Regular readers will know I don't like to paint my colours too boldly upon this platform, yet I do have colours. And when the latest version of Jack London's The Call Of The Wild opened bearing the new "20th Century Studios" ident, I must confess to sporting a wry, satisfied grin in that darkened auditorium. Let's make things better. Curiously enough, the 1935 screen adaptation also opened during a time of flux at Fox, so there's at least some odd level of synchronicity outside of the studio-drama, too.
And so in short order we're transported to America's northern states in the 1890s and introduced to our hero, a St.Bernard/Collie cross by the name of Buck (performed through the motion-capture of Terry Notary). Playful, intelligent and more than a little clumsy, Buck is abducted by a gang selling dogs to pull sleds as part of the infamous gold-rush*1. But fate and opportunity intervene in these tumultuous times, and Buck finds himself a wanderer, forging meaningful but temporary relationships with humans and dogs alike. One recurring face is that of John Thornton (Harrison Ford), a reclusive prospector looking to find more (yet less) than precious metal in the hills. The two form a bond beyond language, of companionship and understanding, against the backdrop of a society scrabbling for excess.
DOG So as noted above, Buck is mo-capped here. Which is to say, he's a CGI dog. Precisely why is unclear, as Buck doesn't speak or get up to any particularly unrealistic antics, but after an initial swoop through the canine region of the Uncanny Valley things even out and we're treated to an intricate - if enthusiastic - performance. Ultimately this is probably more about creative precision and control than putting dog-trainers out of business. The story has been previously adapted into five movies, so director Chris Sanders' iteration represents a firm half-way house between its live-action and animated past.
Once the action moves out into the open wilderness, Janusz Kaminski's cinematography has room to shine. The landscapes here are gorgeous, and while the four-legged aspects of the movie raise the question of how much of this scenery is digital, the bottom line is that great aesthetics are still great aesthetics.
JOHN B And despite the cynicism I forgot to check at the foyer, The Call Of The Wild won me over in fairly short order. As accomplished as the animation of the dogs is (there are many in this), it's much like Luke Skywalker in Yoda's cave on Dagobah: the technical artistry is only fully sold to the audience by the emotional reaction of the human characters. Harrison Ford, Omar Sy and Cara Gee are outstanding in this regard, while even the more pantomime-like performances of Bradley Whitford and Dan Stevens carry over the energy of the piece.
Ford's role is particularly interesting since the movie almost acts as a round-robin retrospective of his career. We get the red-line map journeys and seat-of-your-pants thrill rides on the search for treasure calling back to Indiana Jones; the soundtrack is punctuated with Ford's best laconic narration since Rick Deckard; and of course he's playing a loner on the run from his estranged wife after the loss of their son, who then teams up with a giant hairy companion that he treats unequivocally as an equal. Okay there's no Millennium Falcon here, but if the pair of them had to hide out in an Amish community at some point then we'd have a full set.
OF THE DAY
Pick your favourite seat if you can, because the episodic structure makes this seem longer than its 100 minutes. Things never drag, but they do feel like a saga. And although it depicts the nurture/nature transition in the opposite direction, the spirit of Buck is what Alpha should have channelled. Not so much a study of humanity's bond with dogs but with nature itself. The peaks and troughs of emotion on display while still being wholly PG-friendly is a solid achievement.
The Call Of The Wild is far better than it has any real right to be in 2020. The film could easily have resorted to outdated, mawkish button-pushing, and while there are still some pointers in that direction, it's saved by the commitment of all involved. Ultimately, you will believe that Buck is a real character, and that's what's important.
But then I would say that, I'm a dog-person...
Not entirely sure in all honesty, as I usually avoid what I perceive to be 'this type of thing' like the plague. Even though (and in all likelihood because) I'm a dog-person.
It is.
It is.
No, although I think the film will be forgotten more quickly than it deserves.
*1 Bit of a heavy-handed metaphor for the slave-trade, but London's book was only published around forty years after its abolition in the US, so that's fair enough. [ BACK ]
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
And, relax. After the pleasant surprise that was Disney's retelling of Cinderella, but followed the next year by a rendition of The Jungle Book which left me blank-faced, I wasn't exactly a quivering bundle of excitement for Beauty And The Beast being given the same live-action treatment. Which would partly explain why it took me a week to set aside the time to go see it.
But the Friday-night performance of the film (and in my local's largest auditorium) was veritably packed. Considering there are still five-showings a day and it's been out for a week, this is an excellent turn and good news for everybody. Speaking of which, let's cut to the chase: Beauty And The Beast is marvellous. I see no reason to build up to praise, here. Following the framework of the classic story, it's primarily a remake of the 1991 animated film, with branches of the 1994 Broadway musical grafted on. And it is, to be blunt, perfect Disney.
Emma Watson and Dan Stevens bring equally bold performances, with subtle character-development on each side which could easily be overlooked by many another director. They're reliably supported by an ensemble cast of established character actors*1 and near-flawless visuals. There are enough songs to make the film A Musical™, but still plenty of gaps in between to allow for actual storytelling to occur. Although speaking of the cast, I can't help but feel that the Scottish Ewan McGregor's vocal performance as the French candelabra Lumiere is a calculated, 30-year payback for Christopher Lambert's work in Highlander. Never entirely comfortable with anything other than his native-brogue or Kenobi British, the actor's nowhere near 'bad' here but always just sounds like Ewan McGregor putting on an arch, comedy-French accent.
And speaking of retribution, there's been much (and needless) controversy about Josh Gad's LeFou being depicted as gay in the film, of course. While his moments are certainly played up for comic relief, he is nonetheless one of the film's character high-points. But the cynic in me couldn't help but wonder if this more sympathetic turn is Gad showing some form of penitence for his borderline homophobic character in PIxels. I actually hope it is.
But all in all, there's really very little for me to say about Beauty And The Beast. The audience know what they're going in for, and the film delivers. Although more eager to see the film that I was, Mrs Blackout actually found the film's finale to be a bit over the top. I, on the other hand, think that by that point, the film has earned every second of its self-indulgent and boisterous crescendo.
With a cast this strong, probably not, to be fair.
Nope.
I didn't hear one.
Which is ridiculous, because there's a five-minute segment just crying out for it.
Level 1: This film's got the voice of Obi-Wan Kenobi in it.
*1 With the unsurprising exception of Luke Evans, who seems to think he's starring in an am-dram pantomime version of the tale. It's perhaps not his fault as he's a) almost uniformly awful in everything, and b) been mis-cast terribly to begin with. While Gaston is certainly a deplorable archetype, part of that is his deceptively-dashing exterior. It's never a 'reveal' that the character's actually an arsehole, but you're supposed to come to the conclusion gradually. Evans' version just looks like a wrong'un from the moment he steps onto set, barking like Peter Kay auditioning for The Pirates Of Penzance… [ BACK ]
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
Shawn Levy 's trilogy-closer certainly seems to have had the requisite number of stops pulled out when it comes to the visual effects, and it's never less than watchable. Frequently amusing, with a couple of guffaws (Dan Stevens is particularly good as Sir Lancelot), the combination of action and slapstick ticks the boxes on the list of what you'd want from a family adventure movie. It's just a shame that Night At The Museum: Secret Of The Tomb feels like it's got nothing to say...
Not that I expect the third entry in a Ben Stiller-fuelled PG-adventure franchise to reveal new depths to the human soul or finally perfect the scientific formula for guaranteed comedy, but at times there's almost an air of contractual obligation as the returning characters rehash their previous performances, and the few new ones offer nothing that you weren't imagining anyway.
I know that I'm expecting too much, but I have quite fond memories of the first two films, and I'd just hoped for something a little more satisfying from a screenplay which has all the hallmarks of a final chapter with a wind-down to beginning rival Peter Jackson's Return Of The King at one point. For all the misty-eyed farewells the film has to offer, it's Robin Williams' scenes which hold the most weight here, from a purely retrospective view of course. NatM isn't Williams' greatest work of course, but then it doesn't have to be; it's just a nice cinematic hug goodbye.
While it brings little new to the table, Night At The Museum: Secret Of The Tomb is amiable enough entertainment for the holiday season, but it struggles to compete with its own previous iterations, never mind the current fare at the box office...
Close enough.
Sort of snorted and giggled, but that's not really enough, is it?
If that is "extend/complete the franchise" then not really, if I'm being honest.
That all depends on how much you want to see this movie, really.
Probably not.
…probably not.
There isn't.
Why are the museum-characters that are introduced in this film so inconsistently self-aware? Not realising they're waxworks one minute, complaining about families gawping at them during the day the next. Were the previous films as bad as this? (I don't remember, and I'm not going to go back and watch them right now to find out)
Oh, and another thing (SPOILERS): When the magic-tablet is revealed by Ahkmenrah's father to be a device he had made so that his family could stay together in this world after death, surely that'd mean they'd each be hanging around in various advancing states of decay before eventually being sentient dust? Can we have even just a little logical consistency in a fantasy environment, please?
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
If I were running my local branch of HMV (I'm not. It's closed), I'd be scratching my chin in about three months time, wondering which section Adam Wingard's The Guest should be placed in. More worryingly, I'm not entirely sure Mr Wingard would be able to tell me, either. Ostensibly a sassy, visceral thriller, the film has the aesthetic and cast-list of one of those young-adult novel adaptations, but with more head-shots, neck-shots and stabbings than I think I've seen in a 15-Cert movie before (and wet ones, too).
When an enigmatic (and crucially, good looking) young man arrives at the home of a US soldier killed in action claiming he served with the family's son, a mysterious chain of events is set in motion as David sets about 'helping' the family with their individual problems; whether they want (or even know) it, or not…
Praise where it's due, The Guest is a ridiculous amount of fun, with the soundtrack of Drive, the violence of Lock Stock, and a plot reminiscent slightly of I Am Number Four. Unfortunately, the buildup of goodwill comes undone in the third act with a plethora of unanswered questions and unabashed silliness. As bonkers as the screenplay has been up to that point, the audience accepts this in lieu of the explanation which is promised for later. That explanation arrives in the form of more questions which appear to be holding the door open for a sequel, but it feels like a hastily assembled patch over an unfinished idea (or, more infuriatingly, an ending which was changed due to budgetary or practicality issues).
Because at least some of the 'mysterious events' take place off-screen, the film doesn't bother to explain them and only mentions that they've happened, adhering to the tenets of neither show, nor tell. The first two acts build the tension and intrigue well, although I don't think Dan Stevens has quite got the gravitas required for his role (you get the impression they didn't have the budget for Bradley Cooper). He does the charm and furtive looks like a natural, but the screenplay doesn't let his brooding-face play those traits out to their natural conclusion, and instead goes full pantomime in its finale with gunfire and garbled exposition (not from Stevens; he says less and less as the film goes on).
For all the shooting, the open-ended character motivation is the real killer here, because without a clear picture of what David hopes to achieve ('gone nuts' doesn't cut it, I'm afraid), there's no reason for the story to have taken place. It feels like that in different hands (and with another draft of the screenplay), this could have been a darker and more effective thriller. The script even throws up the suggestion of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at one point, instantly nullifying the notion that that's what the film's really about. Unless it really is the kind of cack-handed metaphor which needs to literally introduce itself, of course.
The action's there; the gags are there; the plot is batshit-crazy and unfinished. The Guest is entertaining enough, but neither as original nor adrenalised as it'd like you to think.
Don't expect too much, you won't be let down.
Largely.
Well, for the first 70 minutes, or so.
I don't think it does.
This has had a very limited cinema release in the UK, but catch it there if you like your silliness BIG.
Nah.
I will, but it'll probably be on Netflix or similar.
There isn't.
Did anyone else watch the climactic fight-scene in a maze of mirrors, and picture the Director Of Photography rubbing his temples as the writer gleefully explained what he wanted?
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
We live in interesting times of course*1, and the movie distribution business is in something of a state of flux. Cinema releases are being either delayed or hurried forward to VOD, while streaming platforms find their original content presented to a larger audience than probably imagined during each title's production. Sticking its head above the parapet is David (Wedding Crashers) Dobkin's Eurovision Song Contest: The Story Of Fire Saga, a comedy co-written by Andrew (Saturday Night Live) Steele.
*4
Regular readers will know I don't like to paint my colours too boldly upon this platform, yet I do have colours. And when the latest version of Jack London's The Call Of The Wild opened bearing 
