Fair play to Armstrong though, he won those races not only when he was off his box on steroids, but also riding what's essentially a girl's bike. I imagine the bullying he sustained for having a racer instead of a proper BMX is what spurred him on to cheat, and there's a lesson in there for us all; play nice, kids.
Anyway, the Stephen Frears biopic of Lance Armstrong's rise and fall is well-paced and affecting, given that the audience already knows the outcome of the story. That said, I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one expecting to see more of 'the fallout' once Armstrong's cheating was brought to light at the end, considering up until that point, the film paints Lance as a cheat, liar and chronically insecure narcissist. If anything, the screenplay almost undermines its own point, not kicking the cyclist further once he's completely fallen, but also failing to sufficiently vindicate Walsh, the journalist who helped expose him. While I can well imagine Walsh took no great glee in being proved right, the film seems to take even less.
(Although am I the only one who finds it fascinating that Armstrong successfully sued the Sunday Times*1 for claiming he cheated in much the same way that Liberace successfully sued the Daily Mirror for implying he was gay?)
Portraying everyone's favourite two-wheeled cheat, Ben Foster is quite-remarkable in a film which is only ever quite-good. Even Chris O'Dowd is great, demonstrating that he actually has a far better hand for drama than comedy. There's a delightfully meta scene in which Foster's Armstrong runs through a list of acting candidates being touted to play him in the movie of his life. Naturally, Foster's name was nowhere to be seen, yet he's probably given a far better performance than any of those mentioned would have (although they weren't being touted for this version of the story, obviously). Understated plays from the supporting cast work in the film's favour, although Guillaume Canet is one step away from Going Full Frankenstein™ in his portrayal as the dope-endorsing sports doctor Michele Ferrari, and his heated, ethical discussion on the subject gets a bit pantomime when he's let loose.
It's not a point which is played upon for too long, but I liked that The Program pokes into the science and biology of sports performance, to at least explain how the drugs were helping the team win races, even if the why is left as 'because they're cheating dicks coerced by their lead cyclist'. On a more technical level, what's going on with the camera-focus in the post-mountain-leg restaurant scene? It's almost as if Cinematographer Danny Cohen is trying to blur out people mid-frame who don't want to appear in the film. Except they're, y'know, the extras. It doesn't de-rail the film (obviously), but in a dialogue-heavy scene it's very distracting.
Although I had no interest in cycling (and still don't, to be fair), The Program is a fascinating movie dramatising human psychology more than sportsmanship. That said, it's debatable whether viewers who are familiar with the proceedings will get more or less out of the film…
As engaging as it is, probably not.
Rental.
This film should open the door for both Foster and O'Dowd to take on more challenging roles, yes.
Up to a point, absolutely.
Nah.
Not a one.
The Program stars none other than Lee Pace, aka Ronan The Accuser from Guardians Of The Galaxy, a movie which starred Peter 'the voice of Darth Maul' Serafinowicz.
[All roads lead to Darth Maul, today.]
*1 *It also wasn't lost on me that since The Times has been under the Murdoch banner, their institutional approach to journalistic integrity bears a striking similarity to Armstrong's sportsmanship ethos. It's been noted that way, at least.
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.
Rain Man (1988)
Cert: 15 / 128 mins / Dir. Barry Levinson / Trailer
Well as road-movies go, this can be a slow journey at times, and occasionally quite a patronising one (to the audience, not the characters). But director Barry Levinson has the map memorised and both hands on the wheel, and Rain Man is meticulously executed.
By this point in time, it goes without saying (although it'd be remiss of me to omit it) that Dustin Hoffman is quietly brilliant, here. Young Tom Cruise, on the other hand, is more of a mixed bag. Cocky and abrasive as the script requires in the first act and patient and empathic as needed by the second, he stumbles slightly where the real emotion's required and didn't quite gain the sympathy from me that he was meant to. In the intervening years, Cruise has grown to embrace his faintly wooden emoting, but it's an ill-fit for his younger self. That didn't spoil the film of course, although Hans Zimmer's autopilot soundtrack irked me more.
An enjoyable enough film with plenty to love, I wasn't left the blubbering wreck that the Rain Man reveal scene suggested I would.
I'd like to see a more delicate version/remake of the film (ie one without Tom), but I'm fairly sure it would descend into mawkishness in no time at all, a trap which Levinson's movie avoids with skill…
Really, never.
I am, but not to the point where it's overwhelmed me.
With caveats, yes.
There isn't.
Well, Rain Man stars Dustin Hoffman, who's been keeping himself busy recently slagging off other people's films and complaining about the soulless homogenisation of Hollywood, despite having starred himself in two Meet The Parents sequels (but not the original) and loaned his voice to three Kung-Fu Panda movies. He also, however, starred in a little-known film called The Graduate (he'll probably mention that, if you find yourself talking to him), which featured an uncredited cameo from Donald F. Glut, the author of the 1980 The Empire Strikes Back novelisation.
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.
Chef (PLOT SPOILERS)
Cert: 15 / 112 mins / Dir. Jon Favreau
Firstly, here are the two new additions to the movie-goer's list of advice, rules and etiquette…
1) Don't go to the cinema straight from work without eating to watch a film which - even to a card-carrying non-foodie like me - contains some admittedly awesome looking sandwiches.
2) If you do have to go to the cinema straight from work without eating to watch a film which contains some admittedly awesome looking sandwiches, try not to sit directly behind the guy with the worst B.O. in living memory, who for some reason places his drink of the floor in the aisle rather than in the cupholder provided, so who spends the film continually reaching down to his side and wafting his essence in a five-foot radius.
Because watching the first one whilst smelling the second makes for a very unsettling two hours.
So, beneath the surface (and really not that far beneath) of Jon Favreau's quirky indie-adventure Chef is a heartfelt, if slightly petulant, swipe at movie critics and even at criticism itself. In fact, it wouldn't be entirely unfair to say that the film barely bothers with this artifice at all, since it deals so directly with the creative parallels between culinary and cinematographic expression, that it may as well just be about a stroppy movie director.
But y'know, if you were going to write, direct and star in a film where the hero throws his toys out of the pram after what in reality is an everyday occurrence, and is then basically adored and supported by all the other characters for the rest of the running time (including his original detractor, embarrassingly), would you really leave in all those ad-libbed exchanges with awkward pauses, not knowing when to cut to another scene, and with you and the stars of Iron Man 2 talking over each other? Because quite frankly, it seems that rather than scolding the critics, Chef just hands them more ammunition.
The annoying part is that the story about the disgruntled sandwich maker, Carl, bonding with his son Percy over the course of the Summer works really well, with Favreau and Emjay Anthony sharing a great chemistry. But that pan's left on the back burner and only stirred occasionally while the main course has no real progression. Carl quits his job to do something more stripped-down and real, then he goes and does it. That's it. There's no third-act obstacle or reveal, everything just goes smoothly and everyone tells him how great he is. Then Oliver Platt's critic, Ramsey Michel turns up to offer Carl a metaphorical hand-job, whereby Favreau's self-penned character shows he has the courage of his convictions by immediately going into business with him. The end.
But the absolute worst moment comes at the end of the film, where we see Jon Favreau smiling, teary-eyed, at a greatest-hits compilation montage of scenes from his own film which we're still watching. And if you think I'm being hard on it, you should read Michael Legge's summary, because while I didn't actively dislike Chef, I also can't disagree with a single word Michael's written, either.
Mr Favreau, if you want to send a snarky fuck-you to the people who've trashed your earlier work, please do it by simply making better films. And I say that as someone who loved Iron Man 2.
Despite its pretensions at both ends of the scale, this film isn't soul food; it's a quick sandwich grabbed from M&S on your way through town. If you thoroughly enjoyed Begin Again, Chef is aimed directly at you.
On the surface, the film features a gourmet chef trying to convince the world that there's spiritual value in fast food. And handily, that's also what the film is about, too.
Almost exactly, yes.
I smirked, but nowhere near enough.
Almost exactly, yes.
Whatever.
I will a bit. Not much, but a bit.
Unlikely.
There is not.
During the scenes set in Little Havana and South Beach in Miami, was I the only Scarface-obsessed viewer waiting for it all to kick the fuck off?
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.
