Ironic that Adam Sandler makes a GOOD movie about items that people usually use
to beat him across the head for his BAD movies.

These Boots are Made for Transmogrifying.

THE COBBLER is a modern day fairytale, a parable of what it might feel like “walking a mile in another man’s shoes.” If that man was Adam Sandler. Uh-oh.

But wait! The intriguing story (by Paul Sado and Tom McCarthy, who also directed) is written well, and Sandler eschews his usual lowbrow shtick, comporting himself commendably in a tragicomic role, about a lonely cobbler named Max who discovers he can literally become other people when he puts on their shoes. (McCarthy would go on to co-write and direct the Oscar-winning SPOTLIGHT directly after this film.)

His regular shoe-stitching machine breaks down one night, so Max (Sandler), in desperation, is forced to finish a thug’s shoes (Method Man as Leon) on an old-fashioned spindle bequeathed to his father decades ago (by an angel? devil? phantom?), abandoned in the basement.

Max puts on the finished shoes out of curiosity – and sees Leon looking back at him in the mirror! He slips them off. He’s Max again. In these first scenes, we take it for granted that Method Man is Sandler – which is a testament to how good Method Man really is. In his thug character, he oozes gangsta, but when he is supposedly Sandler wearing Method Man’s shoes, he loses all his swagger and menace – an astonishing transformation, physically and psychologically.

Seems that any client’s shoes that Max runs through the old spindle take on those magical properties – of making the wearer look like the person who owns the shoes. And that compliment to Method Man should be extended to all the actors who take on the role of Sandler-in-their-shoes. The thought doesn’t even cross our minds that they are actually other human beings who are Not Sandler!

Now the movie follows that flow chart of first treating this discovery as comedic, then dangerous, and eventually arcing to Max using the machine for something charitable.

Steve Buscemi is the barbershop store owner next door to Max’s shoe repair shop, who offers sage advice when Max is hardly listening. Ellen Barkin, with fakes that enter a room before she does, is a ferocious gangster boss. Melonie Diaz is a community worker, who will become Max’s love interest.

Needless to say, with his newfound metamorphosis power, Max unwittingly intrudes into other people’s lives, with results that are funny (when he tracks Leon while wearing the shoes of a transvestite), quirky (when he is invited into the shower by a girl who thinks he is her boyfriend – soon realizing that he can’t take off his shoes to join her, because he would revert back to himself!), or fatal – dabbling in Leon’s underworld business.

The last time I cried during an Adam Sandler movie (not counting all the tears of pain suffered throughout his catalogue) was CLICK (2006), when the main character realized he had lost his family. Here, Sandler once again coaxes tears of empathy when he performs his charitable deed – for family. Max’s old mother (Lynn Cohen) is lonely and forlorn without her deceased husband, so Max finds a pair of his father’s shoes and appears to her one night as his father – her husband (Dustin Hoffman in a superb cameo) – in a poignant dinner date… that nonetheless edges towards creepy as the night wears on… I mean, is mum gonna put the hard word on “dad”?

THE COBBLER makes us believe in the power of storytelling again; makes us believe in the power of empathy; and makes us believe in the power of Adam Sandler.

Now I really am in a modern-day fairy tale…

END

Michael B. Jordan: shooting star.

An Underprivileged Life Against Cowards With Guns.

Unarmed black man shot fatally in the back by cop. It’s not just a movie. It’s reality. Over and over again. This injustice has become so common in United States culture that there is an undeclared war between African-American men (who continue to be black) and cops (who continue to be cowards).

FRUITVALE STATION recounts the last hours of Oscar Grant, a 22-year-old African-American who was shot to death in the early hours of January 1, 2009, on a Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) platform at Fruitvale, Oakland California by a 33-year-old transit cop named Johannes Mehserle. Mehserle first claimed he thought his gun was his taser, and then that he “feared for his life” that Grant – who was pinned to the ground by Mehserle himself leaning on Grant’s back, and another cop with his boot on Grant’s neck – was “going for a weapon.”

We can tell from the numerous cellphone videos of the incident that Mehserle is lying his ass off.

Exactly how gutless ARE you, Mehserle, you low-browed incompetent? You’re a loser either way: If you planned to shoot him, you’re a coward; if you thought it was a taser, you’re an untrained coward.

But FRUITVALE STATION contains none of that mitigating information on Mehserle; matter of fact, Mehserle is never mentioned, and there is no character by that name. The movie does not exist to absolve the cops or castigate them; nor does it re-litigate the case of Oscar’s unnecessary murder. It simply shows us the events. We all know who’s right and who’s wrong. The true horror of this story is not addressed: the sociological disparity that pits these two factions against each other. Not white against black, but rich against poor. (The police are, after all, instruments of the rich, supposedly “protecting and serving” everyone equally, but in practice, affording the wealthy a pass on every sin, including murder, and bringing the hammer down on petty crime, to wipe it from the sensibilities of the high-end criminals they work for.) The further down the social scale you are, the harder it is for police to treat you with the respect they afford their pimp funders.

FRUITVALE avoids this intrinsic societal disease, and focuses on humanizing Oscar Grant (played by a magnificent Michael B. Jordan (CHRONICLE), underplaying like there is no camera on him at all). Like Darren Aronofsky, writer-director Ryan Coogler’s Steadicam perches on Oscar’s shoulder as he goes about his underprivileged life. On this last day of 2008, Oscar has decided to turn over a new leaf, trying to better himself for his mother (Octavia Spencer, THE HELP), his girlfriend Sophina (Melonie Diaz, HAMLET 2) and his little girl, Tatiana (Ariana Neal). He’s also trying to plead back the grocery store job he just lost, and he’s cutting off his dope-dealing contacts, actually throwing away a stash instead of selling it. There is even a moment that seems to illustrate how futile all his efforts might prove to be, as he saves a run-over dog in the street, only to watch it die slowly as there is nowhere to take it for aid.

Is it true? Is this how Oscar actually spent his last day on Earth, or is Coogler simply stacking the deck? And why does he need to humanize the victim? Simple: Oscar Grant is made to look like a saint because to admit even the tiniest flaw would make it seem like the aggression toward him was justified. (Witness how every unarmed young black man shot dead by cops suddenly has his rap sheet splayed all over the evening news, to justify his illegal death at the hands of untrained and/or racist cowards.) Grant was a small-time thief, a drug-dealer, a guy who cheated on his girlfriend… you know, a normal human being. I do not cite these traits to condemn him, but to – ironically – actually humanize him. Yet even if Oscar Grant was a felon, ethics and morality and justice all denote that you don’t shoot to death an unarmed man who is down on the ground with another cop’s knee on his neck.

Would the cops treat a Caucasian congressman that way after it is discovered the congressman wrote and passed laws that indirectly killed low income citizens by denying them food stamps, housing, healthcare and the right to vote? And that’s happening every day in Whitey Republican Congress.

So we know that Coogler is playing fast and loose with facts about Oscar’s ethos, his actions and his background. A piece in Forbes delves into details. And the MintPress News goes in the opposite direction, interviewing a cop who takes an apologist stance for the police (no surprise).

But look at it this way: even Coogler’s smoothing of Oscar’s rough edges is unwittingly a straw man argument – because the pertinent fact remains that Oscar was shot to death during a routine apprehension. And even if it was totally an accident on the part of the cop, even if it was not about Mehserle’s probable racist upbringing (they put the clearly-heard racial slurs from the videos – “bitch-ass nigger!” – in the mouth of the biggest “name” actor in the cop cast – Kevin Durand), even if it was not about what transpired on Mehserle’s shift that day to lead him to that level of discombobulation – even if all that was justifiable! – the fact remains: Oscar still lies dead. Shot in the back.

It might not contain any solutions on rectifying social disparity, but FRUITVALE does show us the results of being so poor. Everything is about money – that Oscar doesn’t have and cannot get. Browbeaten by his girl to provide for his family and be a good father, yet no idea where his next income will materialize, living in a neighborhood with sirens always in the distance, having done jail time 2 years ago, and trying to make his mother proud by following the straight and narrow, we feel Oscar’s pain, sharp as a stab every time he must buy some small item, money going, going… And seemingly no way he can earn money without doing something illegal or unethical. His end of society is just not structured to provide enough legal income to support a family and enjoy a quality of life.

Amazing that FRUITVALE STATION is Ryan Coogler’s debut feature film (reaping awards at Sundance and Cannes), tackling such a loaded subject and then displaying such finesse in unpacking it. His unobtrusive cameras allow for great naturalistic performances, especially by the three principals; Jordan is in a league of his own, ably supported by Diaz. Then there is Octavia Spencer, whose poignant performance is made all the more heartbreaking by her blaming herself for her son Oscar’s death, having told him to “take the train” into the city, so as not to drink and drive, and he – surprisingly – heeding her advice. “I thought he would be safe…” Turns out he was least safe from the people who are supposedly sworn to protect and serve him. It’s just a slogan on the side of police cars; it’s not a directive or a law…

Responding to a report of a disturbance on the BART station, the cops haul Oscar and his friends off the train and line them up sitting on the ground, amidst racial epithets, confusion, abusive manhandling – and innumerable passengers rolling their cellphones and protesting the cops’ small-dicked aggression towards Oscar’s party.

The altercation is so well-staged, when the shooting happens, it is almost incidental. Like Stone in JFK reconstructing the Zapruder footage and adding other angles, Coogler reconstructs the scene from all the cellphone footage made public. We see the cop with his bodyweight on Oscar’s back (we presume this is Mehserle, who is unnamed and unfeatured, just a canary blonde), and Kevin Durand’s cop with his knee on Oscar’s neck. When the gun goes off, there is a sickening second of silence (if we believe this is cinematic license, it is not – we also witness this silence in the videos! I guess it’s how humans react to a gunshot during heightened aggressive situations), and Oscar cranes his neck back in stunned disbelief, as his life bleeds through his teeth, “– the fuck? You shot– You shot me brah…”

The end title cards:

“After firing the officers involved, the general manager and chief of BART stepped down.”

“The officer who shot Oscar was arrested and charged with first-degree murder. After claiming he mistook his gun for his taser the jury found him guilty of involuntary manslaughter. He was sentenced to two years at state penitentiary and released after 11 months.”

Not a bad sentence for a first degree murder. Musta had a good white lawyer. You know that phrase “criminals walking the streets”? Well…  And you also know that line from that Rolling Stones song, “Just as every cop is a criminal…”

END

Be Kind – Put this movie out of its misery.

BE KIND REWIND looks great in the trailers. In long form, not so hot.

Mos Def is an excellent actor. Jack Black is an even better comedy tornado. So putting them together in BE KIND REWIND should have begat gold – instead, a debacle as unfunny as your VHS tape getting caught in the damned video player.

Jerry (Jack Black) gets magnetized and accidentally erases all the VHS video tapes in his friend, Mike’s (Mos Def), store. Instead of doing anything remotely sensible – like re-purchasing all the videos in their catalog, or – how about this wacky outlaw idea? – purchasing DVDs (welcome to the twentieth century, Luddites)! – Jerry and Mike hit on the insensate idea to re-film all the video titles in their own inimitable, no-budget format.

This is one of those films where you prime yourself to laugh because you love the comedians involved, and then that fake smile kinda freezes on your face after the first few stillborn non-jokes. By the time you realize you’ve been gypped by the funny trailers, you’ve already paid for the parking.

Suspending our disbelief is way beyond this movie’s ken, as writer-director Michel Gondry (ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND, 2004) cannot even deliver plausible reasons for these characters to cling so ignorantly to outmoded technology at the outset. Maybe REWIND flopped at the box office because not enough people could relate to the VHS format. (Kids who hire this DVD will probably wonder what the title actually means!)

The ludicrous, mildly funny concept of re-making iconic movies badly is not supported by the reality of the world we live in, because Jerry and Mike remake these movies banking on their poverty-stricken clientele (who still own VHS machines) to hold them up financially by hiring the re-made videos – but in this world where DVD technology (and now Blu-Ray) has superseded VHS outright, their base would dwindle exponentially, making their scheme a losing battle from the outset.

There is a subplot about Fats Waller being born at the video store; another subplot about the store being closed down to make way for a hyperspace bypass; and yet other subplots that came and went as wistfully as the silly device that made Jerry magnetized. Danny Glover is still lisping badly through those dentures, Sigourney Weaver makes an imperious appearance as a government agent (or something) who brings her judicial clout to destroy all the illegal videos (thank you, Ripley!), the great Paul Dinello is criminally misused as Weaver’s assistant, and Mia Farrow makes an absolute assface of herself as a store customer who declares “The past belongs to us, and we can change it!” (Er… you working for the Bush Administration, honey?)

There is potential galore for the plot to be an ingenious, inventive affair, but the film tries so hard to make us laugh that even Jack Black is floundering and unconvincing.

And the ending is syrup times cliché times embarrassing, as the whole neighborhood joins in to make and watch a home-made movie about Fats Waller supposedly living his life in the neighborhood, thereby “proving” the video store building is sacrosanct and shouldn’t be torn down to make way for a mall. Of course, all the demolition guys waiting on the sidelines (who are being paid by the county to do their job without discernment) watch the movie as well and are moved to stay their hand. Even though that hand will now be lopped off by the congloms who are paying their medical bills and salaries…

Movie hits one salient point: Jerry’s and Mike’s remade films (which they call “sweded” – pertaining to some weak gag about Sweden) are only 20 minutes long, and they realize shorter films means more hires, means more income. Which is exactly the reasoning behind big studios supporting the “accepted” movie running time of 90 minutes. Longer running time means less screenings, means less income. It’s got nothing to do with integrity of the story or art or customers’ enjoyment. Only A-List directors even GET the budget to go “overtime,” so to speak, because their “brand” can still pull in that same amount of income that shorter movies do (and those movies are generally of better quality as a by-product of the funding). It’s a vicious, ornery circle of greed and filth.

Under the illogical and inept storyline, there is an allusion to this YouTube generation; this coterie of losers will accept the lowest quality film-making as long as they are in it.

Only for Jack Black completists, Mos Def fans, indie aficionados and people who can stand Danny Glover’s lisping without scratching their eyes out.

Painfully long for a one-note idea, this movie would’ve worked better if Gondry had re-made it for no budget and with a running time of 20 minutes – SWEDED!

END